The Ninety-Ninth Bride

by Catherine F. King

  Munir smiled again, and this time there was certainly something rueful in his expression. “I’ll explain another time. How about we get back to the Palace?”

  That night, Dunya dreamed of the water again.

  She dreamed only briefly of the river, drenched in the early morning sunlight, and Munir, reaching for her hand but not looking in her eyes. Then her dream turned to the Palace, the lake below the Palace, and once again, she heard that wretched sobbing in the darkness.

  She wanted to go down and see who was crying. “I want to go down,” she said out loud, and her dream obeyed her. She descended through the water and could see, though there was no light. She saw a woman, bent with grief, on the bottom of the cistern, with strange jewelry—bangles and bracelets of a far Northern style—littering the water around her. The woman began to cry, and then to scream, and her piercing shriek woke Dunya up with a start.

  She gasped, bewildered to find herself in dry air instead of deep underwater. She clambered out of bed, dressed hurriedly, and ran to find Zahra. She was easy to find this morning, in her own chamber, entertaining the baby Prince. Two Palace nursemaids were answering her questions about the baby’s welfare. Dunya interrupted all this.

  “Zahra,” said Dunya, “Zahra?”

  “I’m busy right now,” said Zahra, barely sparing a glance from the baby.

  “I need to talk to someone.” She felt peevish and still agitated from her dream.

  “This Palace is full of people. You don’t need to talk to me¸ do you? If you do, then all you need to do is wait.”

  Dunya seethed. She went and got dressed with her blue headscarf, and ate a hurried breakfast, but she did not return to the Sultan’s chambers. She stalked the Lotus Garden for a while, but Munir did not appear. She went to the harem, but Upalu still slept in her brazier. Cursing the infidelity of men and djinn, Dunya wound her way to the kitchen, grabbed a pita full of lamb for lunch, and went into the city.

  She walked along the streets going directly for the neighborhoods she usually avoided. She eyed ruffians and unsavory-looking characters, who let her go by without so much as a glance. She felt secure in the power of the blue headscarf, but thinking of that only reminded her of the older woman, and every time that she had hid, or deflected, or condescended, or merely smiled instead of giving a proper answer. So Dunya wrenched her thoughts from these musings, and tried to focus on what was around her. But it did not go very well.

  She stopped at a small well to eat her lamb pita and have a sip of water. The well was situated in a square, where old women chattered in the shade and old men played at checkers. Dunya spotted another girl, about her own age, coming to draw water for her family.

  “Peace upon you,” Dunya said to her.

  “And upon you,” replied the girl. She leaned on her pitcher, evidently glad for a little conversation. “I haven’t seen you in this neighborhood before.”

  “I’m passing through. I have a question.”

  “You think I may have an answer?”

  “Well, maybe. This may be an answer found before a spinning wheel, not in a book.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “If one wanted to contact the spirit of the river, the spirit that was here before Al-Rayyan was founded, where would one have to go?”

  The girl’s smile vanished. “You would have to be very desperate to do that. I heard a story that, before I was born, my grandfather’s younger brother wanted to talk to the river. He failed, and it claimed his life.”

  “But how did he go about it?”

  “He worked in the Palace… ”

  “I work in the Palace,” Dunya offered.

  “It must have been some way in there. Our Lord knows, the river in the daylight would never hear you over all the boats and shouting.”

  “Then you mean it was the cistern? There’s a lake underneath the Palace… ”

  Now the girl looked frightened. “I wouldn’t go to the Palace if you paid my dowry in gold and diamonds.”

  “Why not?” Dunya asked.

  “What, do you mean you don’t know? You work there, don’t you?”

  Dunya’s mind worked terribly fast. “Do you mean the Sultan?”

  As soon as she said that, the clattering of game pieces ceased, and the old women’s voices stopped. Dunya was aware of every eye in the square resting on her, and of a horror that chilled the stifling air.

  “You work in the Palace,” murmured the girl that she had been talking to. She hastily pulled up her ewer and said, “Allowances must be made.” Then she left without a formal goodbye.

  Dunya, still thirsty, stared after her bewildered. Then she ate her lamb pita and left almost as quickly, still feeling the stares of the neighborhood behind her.

  While she had been walking by herself, she had never yet crossed a bridge. She had wandered quite far south by this time, and she decided she would cross to the eastern portion of the city to see what she could see there. But, unbeknownst to Dunya, she crossed by the headquarters of the Beggar’s Guild. She was walking down the street, observing that this street had much more litter and piles of old clothes than other streets had. Then, suddenly, one of the piles of old clothes—or what she had mistaken for a pile of old clothes—sat up and asked her for money.

  Dunya leapt back and shrieked with shock; other beggars appeared, and all they did was ask for pennies, but Dunya felt besieged on all sides. She ran for it—ran for the one building that she knew would have an open door for her: a small, whitewashed mosque.

  She caught her breath once she was in the cool shade. She heard voices and the shuffling of bodies in the space beyond. She had almost forgotten what time it was.

  “I shall stay for afternoon prayer,” she whispered to herself.

  It had been a long and strange day already. Although the setting was foreign, it was soothing to go through the rituals of washing and preparation. She sat on the woman’s side of the congregation; there were a few other women present, all mothers or grandmothers of the neighborhood. She faced Mecca, bowed, and prayed, paying attention to the imam’s words, and uttering her responses in a soft voice.

  Goodness. When had been the last time she had meaningfully prayed, paying attention and everything? She thought with a wince of how often she had knelt and bowed, but her mind had been occupied with Zahra’s wonderful stories. She put away her own shame and bowed, thinking of silence, of God, and of how she could live His Word.

  She had been living for herself, mostly. And by herself. She interacted with Munir, with Upalu, and with Zahra, but did she really forge a meaningful bond with any of them?

  Had she ever forged such a bond?

  She was no longer sure, and her thoughts turned to Morgiana, who had been kind to her, and Shirin, who had taught her, and the vanished Sultana, who had had a smile like a rose.

  Ninety-eight women had died before she had married the Sultan. Her life was spared, as if by a miracle, but it was so dearly bought. And how did she spend that life?

  She prayed to God, who created man from a blood clot. Please, God, the Brilliant, the Strong, the Merciful, show me the way.

  When the prayer was over, Dunya did not yet feel ready to join the city of Al-Rayyan. She lingered in the mosque, thinking and trying to reach God.

  When she left the prayer hall, there were men sitting and talking in the foyer. One of them she recognized as the imam, who had led the daily prayer. He stood up and greeted her. She bowed to him and, without looking in his eyes, said, “Thank you for the prayer. It was very good.”

  What else could you say to an imam? But he continued the conversation, saying, “Thank you. I have not seen you in our congregation before.”

  “I am wandering through the city,” she said, this time resolving to bite her tongue before she made any mention of the Palace.

  “And why a
re you wandering?”

  That was rather forward of him to ask, but he had led such a good prayer, Dunya felt he deserved an answer. “Because I want to understand the people, and how they live and think.” She bowed her head further. “It was in a story I heard once.” That excuse for all her wanderings sounded flimsy and hollow now.

  “You have freedom,” said the imam, “and an abundance of time to call your own. Seeking to understand others is a good use of those gifts.”

  “What do you know of people?” Dunya asked, looking up at him. “What’s your story?”

  The imam, a man in his sixties with hollows under his grey beard, was visibly surprised by this. “That is quite a question to ask a strange man you have just met.”

  “I ask as a student,” Dunya said, hurriedly, hoping she had not given offense, “I want to understand, and praying here has only revealed to me how little I know. It seems that all I can gain is what I learn in stories. And so, in humility, I ask to learn something from you.”

  The man stroked his beard. “Are you on pilgrimage? It is quite traditional to trade stories on a pilgrimage.”

  “I don’t think I am.”

  “But you say you are a wanderer. What do you wish to learn? Asking good questions is an important step to wisdom.”

  Dunya paused before answering. “When you look out at Al-Rayyan, what do you see?”

  “I can answer that,” said the imam, addressing his shoes. He sat and gestured to Dunya to do the same. “When I look at Al-Rayyan, I see much suffering. I see people who are afraid, because the officials are unjust. I know there must be a reason for it, but my eyes are turned to the people. And there, although I see fear, I do not see despair. I see wives getting up early to spin flax and make bread, and I see husbands working hard to bring home food and smiles for their children. I see people, not particularly learned, not particularly good, nor particularly bad.” The imam sighed and spread his hands. “I see a world created by God—but a world fallen with human sin. I see a world that needs care. That is what I see.”

  Dunya listened, and could not think of a worthy response, so she got to her feet and said, “I have to leave now. My sister will be waiting for me. Thank you so much for your answer.”

  “I hope it proved helpful.”

  “You have given me much to think about,” Dunya said. And then she left, pointing her shoes towards the Palace again. She did not cross the river that day, but returned to the Palace well before sundown. She went to the harem and took out a chess set. She arranged its pieces on the carpet and thought about Al-Rayyan.

  “What is a city?” she wondered. “A city is a gathering of people all living together.”

  She went to the dining hall, ate supper, and returned to the Sultan’s chambers. It seemed to her that the stories drew her like a magnet pointing to true north, and for the first time she wondered if that tyranny was worth the wonderful stories.

  She was glad to find Zahra there, alone. “Hello,” Dunya said in a small voice. “I’m sorry for speaking brusquely to you.”

  Zahra smiled, and it was equal parts maddening and comforting. Dunya climbed onto the bed beside Zahra, and took off her headscarf. “I wanted to thank you for this gift. I’ve taken great advantage of it.”

  “Tell me,” Zahra said.

  “I’ve been wearing it when I go out into the city, and I swear there is magic in it. I always find my way right back to the Palace when I wear it, and nobody notices me unless I wish to be noticed. I have learned much, going out into the city, especially today.” She paused and looked down at the bedspread, embroidered with pomegranates and turtledoves. “There are people in the city who won’t refer to the Sultan out loud. They treat his very title like a curse.”

  “And you treat his name like a curse,” Zahra added gently. “His name is ‘Sayyid.’ Not ‘the Sultan.’”

  “Well, I—I—he’s not well-known to me. I meant, I don’t know him, so why should I call him by his real name?”

  “To help you. You should not be so afraid of him.”

  Dunya had nothing to say to that. “My scarf—I mean, your scarf—it allows me to see what is hurt in the city and needs help.”

  “And what do you intend to do about that?”

  “My life has been spared as though by a miracle—and more than that, I am now highly placed in the world. I intend to make a better use of these gifts.”

  Once upon a time, in India, there lived two sisters. The elder of the sisters married a woodworker, whom she loved deeply. The younger dedicated herself to caring for their parents. In time, the elder sister, named Shashi, grew heartsick and sad, for she wanted a child.

  One day, the younger sister, named Priya, heard a woman in the marketplace hawking dates that could cure any sickness. Priya went to the street and asked the date-seller if her fruits could cure a longing for a child.

  “Not my fruits, no,” said the woman, “but I’ve heard that far to the east, between a green mountain and a white one, there is a valley where plenty of ginseng grows, and that root, harvested from that soil, has the power to make a woman conceive a child. But Allah alone knows.”

  Priya told her sister, Shashi, of this miraculous root and then she told her parents. With their blessing, she arrayed herself with three bracelets and journeyed to the east, searching for a valley between a green mountain and a white one.

  When she crossed into the land of high mountains, she heard of war in the countries beyond. She sold one of her bracelets and purchased men’s clothes, and, braiding up her hair, she disguised herself as a man. It was ill fate that she did this, for within three days of her disguise, she was assaulted while leaving a house of prayer. She awoke to find herself in barracks, among soldiers, and Priya grew afraid and prayed to God to protect and preserve her.

  Her disguise as a boy grew more difficult to maintain, but maintain it she did as the army marched east. Rumors grew that they were approaching a valley of magic, and that kings and rajas of surrounding kingdoms wanted to take that magic for themselves.

  Priya learned to fight, but took no joy in it. Her regiment came to a skirmish, and she survived only by the grace of God. Little joy she took in the bloodshed. In a fog of weariness she buried her slain comrades, while her commander spoke of glory.

  The regiment came to a village of farmers, and stole and looted them at sword-point, even on the very doorstep of winter. As they left the city, Priya dropped one of her gold bracelets in the sand, hoping that a farmer’s child might find it, that it might make the least amend.

  They entered the country of China. In the distance Priya could spy a green mountain and a mountain that might have been white, or merely covered in snow.

  The winter grew worse, and the regiment had no food and no money to buy any. Priya ventured out of the warm camp and to the nearest village, where she sold her last bracelet for some rice and onions. She was hailed as a hero when she returned to camp, but she was sorrowful, for now she had no way back home.

  Spring came, and the armies moved to take the magic valley. The night they made camp, Priya crept out into the dark to search for the ginseng root, for she had every fear that it would be crushed in the battle which was to come.

  The moon was full. She searched and searched, and prayed, and searched some more.

  The earth shook and stirred under her feet. A dragon rose from the earth, glimmering silver in the moonlight, and it said to her, “I am the guardian of the river that runs beneath this valley. What do you seek?”

  Priya spoke in her own voice, then, for the first time in many months: “I seek the ginseng root that will let a woman have a child.”

  “I can show you to that root,” said the dragon, “but I will require payment.”

  “I have given all of my bracelets away,” Priya protested, but she calmed herself. She had the measure of this dragon at once, and knew that
he would not be swayed by pity. She said, “My first bracelet I sold to buy men’s clothes. Without it, I would never have become a soldier. My second bracelet I gave away to feed hungry strangers, and my third I sold to feed my comrades-in-arms. Would you take the blood from my heart?”

  “That would be an acceptable payment,” responded the river guardian.

  Priya took out a knife and cut the spot on her arm where her bracelets once hung. She cut only a little, without flinching, and the dragon drank up the blood and declared it satisfactory. A ginseng plant sprouted at Priya’s feet, and she dug it up with her bare hands.

  Then she hesitated.

  Should she leave now, before the battle started, and head west, towards home and Shashi? Or should she stay with her comrades in arms, who did not know her true name but knew her courage? Could she leave them to fight without her? But could she abandon her quest for her sister?

  “What do you think she did, my Lord Sultan?” Zahra interrupted her own story to ask.

  “I think she turned around and left. She couldn’t help it, it would be her nature as a woman to flee,” the Sultan said without hesitation.

  “As it so happens, my Sultan, she stayed.”

  Priya kept the ginseng root close to her heart, but she fought alongside her brothers-in-arms, and watched while the peaceful valley was covered in ruin. Her commander won the day and bragged that his name would live forever. Priya knew that the dragon below the valley would drink richly in the nights to come.

  She stayed to help bury the dead, and then she turned her boots west, to cross the mountains again and go back into India. With her soldier’s training and grim eyes, she had a safe crossing of it.

  When she again crossed the threshold of Shashi’s house, her sister did not recognize her until Priya pressed the ginseng root into her hands. Then Shashi cried aloud, wept, and hugged her sister around the neck. Priya had been gone for over a year.

  Less than a year after Priya’s return, Shashi delivered twins, a boy and a girl, and she named her daughter Priya.