Batel pulled the unicorn down to the sea, but it fought her the entire way. It took a long time, but the sight of the sea frightened the fiery beast, and made it more obedient.
Calmer and with a clear conscience, Batel pulled the unicorn along the coast, and walked inland with it. As soon as the quenching sea slipped from view, the unicorn grew wild again, and she pulled and fought and yanked until her hands were bloody and blistered and she came into view of the glittering camp of the eldest prince.
This prince and his retinue were shocked at the sight of the unicorn, but gladly welcomed Batel when they saw she had it under control. The prince gave her a gold purse and promised more upon their safe return to the palace. Batel was happy.
Night fell, and the camp gradually went to bed, but Batel, who was still holding the unicorn’s cord, could not let go of it, even tie it to a stake in the ground, because the unicorn would escape otherwise. Batel therefore stayed awake even when most of the camp fell asleep. At midnight, the unicorn spoke to her.
“Did you not see the jewels glittering on the prince’s armor? Did you not see the stuffed peacock and quail he served to his guests? I saw. This prince would bankrupt your city to feed his own appetite for glamour. He would make a poor king.”
Batel thought it over, and, to her frustration, had to admit that the unicorn was right. She got to her feet, though she swayed with tiredness. The unicorn bewitched the guards to fall asleep, and the unicorn and Batel walked out of the camp.
The next day, they reached the second prince’s camp. This time, armed guards surrounded them before they had a chance even to see the middle prince. He rode up to them on a thoroughbred, his sword out and his helm raised. When he saw that Batel had brought him a unicorn, he welcomed her into the camp and gave her a gold purse. She was happy, again, until night fell. She could not sleep, for she did not trust the armed guard that the prince placed the unicorn under.
The unicorn bewitched the guards to sleep again, and said to Batel, “You see the blades and swords glinting in this prince’s company? He will use me as a weapon. He will be a king of warfare.”
Batel thought it over, and decided she would not consign the unicorn to that fate. She got to her feet, and again she and unicorn walked out of the camp.
The next day, Batel was so tired she thought she was hallucinating when they arrived at the youngest prince’s camp. Again, he was delighted to see a unicorn, and again, he gave Batel a purse of gold. Batel did not like this prince, and when night fell, she only listened to the unicorn out of politeness, for she had made up her mind.
“You saw the look in the prince’s eye when he saw me, tied with a filthy leather cord? He likes to know that something so precious and rare is his to hoard. He likes to keep me a prisoner. He will be the worst king of all: one cruel to his own people.”
Batel said, “I know that, and I resolved as soon as I saw him to let you go. And so I will.”
She untied the cord from around the unicorn’s neck, and was not sad when it reared and galloped away without saying good-bye. She set out in the opposite direction of the unicorn, hoping her three gold purses would take her far in the world.
But it was not to be. Batel had fallen asleep with exhaustion before the sun rose, and the youngest prince’s company found her, and held her prisoner, as punishment for setting the unicorn free.
But when night fell, the ropes around Batel’s wrists caught fire and burned off, leaving no harm to her. They tried to clap her in irons, but the iron burned the blacksmith, and not her. And when her prison tent turned to ashes around her, they finally regarded her as cursed and set her loose in the desert. Batel did not look back as she walked away from them.
When she returned to the city, she used her gold coins to purchase the wineskins and commission the waterproof sacks that she had promised to the merfolk. She delivered these items personally.
She gave the gold away to her brother’s family and walked into the desert. Years later, two unicorns were seen there.
The Singing Tree
A year after the mermaids took up residence in Al-Rayyan, they left. They requested of Dunya garlands of water lilies from the Palace, as symbols of peace and friendship. Dunya complied, but her heart was heavy when she and Upalu brought the flowers to Second Gate.
“I thought that you were happy here,” she told Strength.
“It is not a bad life,” Strength replied. “Our clan has never lived in a city before, and there is much to be said for it. The amount of garbage that comes through this river—mmm!” he smacked his lips, and his whiskers wriggled. When Dunya laughed, his smile disappeared. “But there is something in the water here that we do not like.”
“Is it that sickness that you spoke of? I mean, that your leaders spoke of?”
Strength shook his head. “It is not only that. There is another spirit living in the river water, and it does not like our company.”
“What sort of spirit?”
Strength gave a little wince. “We don’t know. Even Rippleside, our wisest, can’t knot up the nature of it in a few words. But we do know it’s a spirit of death.”
“You don’t like death?” Upalu asked, over Dunya’s shoulder. “But you eat all kinds of dead things.”
“Excuse you!” Strength drew himself up haughtily. “So do you!”
“We do,” Dunya agreed quickly.
“Death and decay are natural parts of the order of things, we know this better than anyone. But there is death, and then there is life-in-death, and that is what lurks in the Palace. That is what frightens us.”
“And that is what lives in the Palace?” Dunya asked. Strength nodded, and would not say more on the subject. Dunya and Upalu bade him and his cohort goodbye, and watched as the mermaids swam away from Al-Rayyan, holding up the water lilies with pride.
“You know,” Dunya said some time later, “I thought I was doing all right.”
She had ordered coffee and pastries, and she and Upalu were sitting in the harem, talking about their place in the world.
“I thought,” Dunya went on, “that, all right, the Sultan is a very bad man. Yes, he might kill my friend Zahra and then myself any day now, but I was getting used to it. He—you know, he annoys me more than anything else these days. He barely has patience for his own children, and every day he snaps over some petty little offense. But I thought that the terrible illness that the mermaids Winterborn and Waterfall-Climber mentioned—I thought maybe I had managed that illness all right. And now along comes Strength to tell me there is some kind of cursed thing in the water of my Palace. And it’s as though all the work I’ve done doesn’t matter at all.”
“It matters,” said Upalu. “The people in the city seem better off with a few of your reforms in place.”
“But not enough.”
“You sound ambitious.”
“Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am a little ambitious. I was never made out to be a wife, after all.” Dunya twisted the cloth of her robes in her hands, “But I am a politician’s daughter. But what do my reforms matter if the Palace’s water is poisoned?” She sighed. And she thought. And finally she said, “Maybe it’s the river spirit.”
“The who?” Upalu asked.
“The spirit of the river Rayyan, the one who made the contract with the people of the city years ago. It was a story my grandmother told me… and I told the merfolk… the point of it is, the river promised to be gentle and strong for as long as the people on the river were generous, giving shelter to the stranger and stories to the wind.”
“And garbage to the river, I assume.” Upalu’s voice was dry.
“Well… the mermaids liked the garbage, didn’t they?”
“They sure did.”
“But that wasn’t enough to keep them here. Maybe it’s… oh, I don’t know! But the spirit of the river may know what the life-in-death spirit is
. I need to find it and talk to it. But how?”
“Leave Al-Rayyan.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Leave the city. Travel to the source of the river. The spirit of the spring water should do.”
“I can’t leave Al-Rayyan. I can’t leave Zahra’s stories. Don’t narrow your eyes like that!”
“Just how wonderful are these stories? They never seem that special when you try and tell them.”
“That’s because I’m not the storyteller that Zahra is.”
“She’s a mystery.”
“I know, I know. But—can it really be that the spirit of the river Rayyan lives in the spring, in its source? Then how could she make a contract to form a city here?”
“I don’t know.” Upalu shrugged. “I avoid water whenever I can. But don’t rivers usually have more than one spring that feeds them?”
“That makes sense… ” Dunya stared out the window. Upalu went on.
“I know this will be hard for a girl like yourself to hear, but, well, when you live as long as a djinni does, you realize that very little that a human does really lasts. Even the wildest wish granted by the strongest djinni will only last for so long. Human beings are like bits of wood, eaten up in the fire of time. But the history that they make, that is like a river. Many little springs, flowing together to make one great course. And that course itself can be altered by mountains, by stones, or by people themselves. Oh, this is a poor metaphor. Dunya, do you understand? You must not try to carry the world upon your shoulders. Dunya… you’re not even listening to me!”
“A spring,” said Dunya. “Maybe there is a spring in the city that feeds the river—and maybe the spirit of that is what struck the bargain, long ago. And maybe, a spirit so old and knowing, maybe she will know how to heal the city.” Dunya got to her feet. “I have to go. It’s time for Zahra’s stories.”
“Oh, resist their call for one night!” cried Upalu. “Just so you know your life doesn’t depend upon them!”
“But Upalu,” Dunya paused by the door of the harem, “as far as the Sultan’s concerned, my life does depend on them.” As she left, Dunya heard Upalu mutter, “Always have to have the last word.”
She hurried up to see Zahra, and was relieved to find the older woman alone—that is, without the Sultan present. The two little princes and their nursemaids were there, and Zahra laughed and played with the children. Dunya hung in the doorway and watched them.
She is not their true mother, thought one side of her.
But she rescued them from death. Didn’t she? thought the other.
It’s clear to be seen that she loves them. Loves them more than the Sultan does. Look at her smile. That makes her a true enough mother for me, thought a third part. And presently Zahra dismissed the attendants, saying it was time for the Sultan to arrive. She gave little Hashim’s foot a last tickle, and then when they left, she stared after them.
“What are you wondering?” Zahra asked aloud.
“I’m wondering how much you care for the children,” Dunya answered.
“I care for them very much. They’re darling, aren’t they? But what are you really wondering?”
In brief, Dunya explained her concern about the river, the river spirit, and the possibility of a spring somewhere in Al-Rayyan—possibly several springs, she added, considering the number of little neighborhood wells.
Zahra listened to her, and when Dunya had done talking, she closed her eyes. “Before the door to the baths, but beyond the garden of spices, there is a door of dark wood. This door leads to the wine cellar, where things that must be kept dark and cool lie. Within this cellar is another door, and beyond that door there are steps that lead down, and down, and down below the castle, to a reservoir that holds a spring that feeds the river.” She opened her eyes. “There is a spirit that lives there. But beyond that, I cannot tell you.”
“It must be the river spirit,” said Dunya. Behind her, she heard the door open and the Sultan step in. Dunya slid to the floor, by Zahra’s knee, and without looking behind her she said, “Sister, would you please continue the story you started last night?”
Now she felt the pull, between the part of her that sat still and listened to the stories, and the part that wanted to follow Zahra’s directions and seek the river spirit in the dark.
That morning, when the story ended on another unbearable ending, Dunya went to bed and dreamed again of the space below the Palace, where the water was littered with jewels and someone was crying.
The next day, she found Upalu and told her where they were to go.
With that, they dressed for an adventure, with hardy, practical trousers and shoes and blouses. Dunya brought a torch, which Upalu lit when they descended into the first cellar. It was easy to find the first door, harder to find the second. But when they reached the third door, Upalu stopped, and when Dunya looked at her, the djinni shook her head.
Upalu was very pale. “I can’t go down there,” she said, in response to Dunya’s unasked question. “I can’t. You know what water does to fire.”
Dunya finally nodded. “Very well, then.” She turned.
“But I’ll be here when you come back,” Upalu blurted out.
“I’m glad to hear that,” Dunya said. Her hand pressed the threshold of the doorway, and she passed through.
The steps were straight, at least; Dunya gave thanks for that. Her little torchlight illuminated the stone walls. The passage was narrow and every so often, Dunya’s feet slipped on a puddle. She never fell, but her heart pounded in fear that she would.
Finally, the steps widened out, and the passageway opened.
Something was there before her. Dunya lifted her torch, but couldn’t make anything out beyond a shadow. A man’s shape, taller than her.
“Who’s there?” she asked, at the same time that a lower voice asked, “Who goes there?”
Dunya was silent, dearly tempted to say, “I asked first,” but also aware that it would be a bad idea.
“Who goes there?” the shadow said again.
“Dunya,” she said. “Princess of Al-Rayyan.”
The shape came a little clearer—the shadow-man was holding a spear. He looked, Dunya thought, very like one of the Palace guards. Maybe he was some kind of magical protection. He said, “Hold out your hand.”
Dunya held out her hand, trying not to wince. She expected a blade across her palm at any minute, but instead the shadow said, “Your hand is clean. You may pass,” and stepped aside.
Dunya passed by him, cautiously, and was almost overwhelmed by the sense of sorrow that radiated from him. But the man had vanished out of sight when she looked again—she didn’t get to ask him anything.
Finally, the reservoir appeared before her, a flickering floor of water. Dunya found it fascinating. She had never seen so much still water in her life. She lowered her torch.
A cry broke the silence, and Dunya jumped, almost dropping her torch.
“What are you doing here?” demanded a strident voice.
“Who is it?” asked another, at the same time.
“It’s not safe here! Leave! Leave!” cried a third.
“I wish—I wish you no harm!” Dunya cried as the water sloshed about her feet. “I wish to talk to the spirit of the Rayyan River!”
Another cry, a gasp, and laughter. “The Rayyan River!” One voice repeated. “Why are you seeking it here?” Asked the second, as the third wailed, “It is long since gone, gone, gone.”
Dunya lifted her torch. “I wish you no harm,” she repeated, “But if you are not the Rayyan River, then who are you?” She listened as hard as she could. There was something very familiar about the voice’s accents, if she could only place it through the echoes…
“I have no name,” said the first voice, “and I have no home here.”
“Coming h
ere may have been your death,” said the third voice.
“Who are you?” Dunya cried.
“I am—” And what followed was a cacophony, a chorus of voices speaking all at once, different words, and Dunya couldn’t make any sense of them.
After the echoes had died away, Dunya said, “I don’t understand.”
The voice wailed at that, wailed so terribly that Dunya almost dropped the torch to cover her ears. “I don’t understand!” Dunya screamed over the wailing. “Are you a ghost? Are you a water spirit? Tell me!” she hollered at the top of her voice.
Was it her imagination, or was the noise in the chamber softer just a bit? The wailing stopped, but the echoes went on, and when the echoes finally died away, Dunya’s ears rang so hard that she almost didn’t hear the spirit say, in a chorus of three voices, “You mock us. ”
Something was in the water. Was it moving, or—no, that was just the firelight. Dunya raised her torch, and the changing light gave clarity: it was a root system. Roots were spreading through the water. Little ones like capillaries at the water’s edge, growing bigger and thicker as the water grew deeper. And they grew out from something to her left.
Dunya stepped to her left, and when the tree came into the light she jumped—it almost looked like a person. But it was a tree, a stunted little tree, hardly her own size, with a smattering of leaves. “How did a tree grow down here, so far from the sun?” Dunya asked.
“We don’t need sunlight,” said the ghostly voice. The first voice.
“We have other food,” said the second.
“Please, leave, it’s not safe for you here,” the third said.
“You’re the tree?” Dunya asked.
For a moment there was silence, then a keening wail, joined by another, and another. The leaves of the tree began to shake. Dunya brought her torch closer.
The Ninety-Ninth Bride Page 16