Limbo

by Thiago d'Evecque

  My mind was elsewhere. Roland’s justice and Veillantif’s gaze took me to fragments of the past. Because I remembered injustice. Injustice for not being allowed to live how I wanted and with whom I loved. With those I once called friends and with whom I once called lover. Injustice for losing what they had no right to take. For coming up with a law that suited a powerful little retinue. For caring more about an idea of non-existent order than well-being and happiness.

  I clenched my hands tight and indignation washed over me. The dark wounds burned my body. When I woke up, I had thought of completing my work to redeem myself from past mistakes. I remembered Azazel’s fiery resentment and now I sympathized with him. Now I understood. There were no mistakes—there was just injustice.

  My arms grew more human-like, losing luminescence. I could already make out my fingernails.

  I still had a role to play, and I would do it to the end. Then, there would be reckoning.

  Roncesvalles dismantled itself as I strode. Pieces flew up and down until they were out of sight, leaving us alone in the darkness of Limbo. I set my next goal.

  What now? asked the abyssal god.

  “I want a diplomatic soul,” I explained to him. “Someone who uses words to cool nervous hearts. Someone who negotiates, pacifies, and converts.”

  Too much for a sword to do.

  “Not everything is settled with steel.”

  I suppose you have someone in mind.

  Yes, I had. Someone who survived for a thousand and one nights using her voice, someone who told stories until she melted a block of rancor to bring a rain of love, someone who reclaimed freedom resorting to her imagination. With a hypnotic speech she captivated her listener and captor with every word, becoming the utopia of writers and storytellers throughout the Earth.

  I chose the sultana Scheherazade.

  5

  THE VELVET COMMANDER

  More than a hundred virgins? There were never so many sacrificed in my name!

  Chuck was surprised and apparently jealous of Sultan Shahryar. The Persian loved his wife more than anything in the world and, probably for lack of self-confidence and excessive pride, was afraid of losing her. Men like that treat women as one of their possessions. And because men like that consider love a commodity, he filled her with expensive jewels, fine dresses, perfumes from faraway lands, and anything his wife might think of one day she might want. Her unconscious wish was an order.

  Until one day he found his beloved betrayed him. Deceived, with a wounded pride and an uncomfortable barb in his vast ego, Shahryar saw no alternative: he called his Grand Vizier—minister and counselor—and ordered the trollop executed. The next day, her head rolled, but that wasn’t enough.

  Disturbed by the betrayal, the man’s logical conclusion was that all women were unfaithful demons that could only be honest with their heads away from their bodies. So, he had a brilliant plan—to marry a virgin every day and have her beheaded the next morning, ridding the world of these wicked beings and appeasing his own desire for revenge all at once.

  The reluctant, but powerless, Grand Vizier obeyed the madman’s orders. So that kingdom met the greatest horror in its history, for every night was corrupted by the screams, weeping, and lamentation of virgins, and every morning was stained by the blood of innocent women. The population overcome with fear stood down and accepted their macabre fate. Fathers mourned the death of their daughters. Mothers trembled inconsolably. The prosperous kingdom deteriorated until it sunk into a cursed unhappiness.

  Fear is powerful. It controls the body, freezes the mind, poisons the heart, erodes the steel and shrinks giants. It is a delicious addiction.

  “But it also gives unlikely life where once was thought sterile. And it creates blessings and curses that rise to destroy it.”

  And out of fear rose Scheherazade, daughter of the Grand Vizier. The intrepid girl devised a plan to end Shahryar’s reign of insanity and begged her father to let her marry the sultan. Knowing that if his daughter failed, he would have to cut her head off himself, the Grand Vizier despaired. But Scheherazade was determined to rid her people of the chains of insanity or die trying. Her long record of using her cunning talk to get what she wanted began with her father, because, despite the many warnings and refusals of a poor old man worried about the blood of his blood, she convinced him.

  Scheherazade and Shahryar got married. After the brief wedding night, held out of obligation, the plan advanced. Scheherazade asked her husband—since it was her last night alive, after all—if she could tell a last bedtime story to her younger sister, Dunyazad. The sultan granted this final wish to his practically dead wife.

  Shahryar would discover that his new sultana was not an ordinary person. Scheherazade was not only beautiful—she had an extraordinary mind. She read books, chronicles, and legends of ancient kings, studied the documents of men and their past deeds, collected hundreds of texts on civilizations and governors of old, examined and memorized the works of poets and philosophers, had an interest in many sciences and all arts. She was polite, smart, intelligent and witty.

  And Scheherazade told her story to her sister next to an indifferent Shahryar. Her voice had melody, her narrative had rhythm, her gestures had magic. A haze of charisma engulfed the sultan and also piqued his curiosity.

  In that first night, the sultana left the story incomplete and her husband ordered her to continue, unable to mask his interest. But Dunyazad was already asleep, so the storyteller earned another day to live—she would resume the story the next night.

  That was Scheherazade’s strategy. To tell an incomplete narrative intending to finish it the next day. Scheherazade told of Aladdin’s magic lamp, Ali Baba and the forty thieves, the merchant and the genius, the seven voyages of the sailor Sindbad. She told the story of a fisherman who told the story of a genius who told the story of a king, playing with metalanguage since ancient times. Tales of love and lust, courage and strength, tragedies and defeats, triumphs and victories, thieves and emperors, kings and fools, the poor and the rich.

  For a thousand and one nights, the sultana held Shahryar’s attention.

  A thousand and one? Not just twelve? Chuck asked with violent sarcasm.

  “No, sweet Chuck,” I said vengefully. “Twelve isn’t the only symbolic number. In Islamic culture, a thousand and one represents a new era. The turn of the millennium appeals because it means the redeemer’s return, a new age of peace and benevolence. Scheherazade’s thousand-first day became known as the triumph of good over evil.” He did not reply. “And if you must know, her story was written in twelve volumes.”

  Coffin nailed shut.

  Anyway, as extraordinary as the sultana’s imagination was, and even though it appeared endless—like that last hour before humans leave their offices—, most cycles come to an end. By the thousand-first night, Scheherazade’s well of creativity dried up. And her plan had been a success.

  For the sultan had rediscovered love. He realized he was in love with his wife after absorbing every word and emotion conveyed by her. In those three story-filled years, they also had three children together, and Shahryar came to love his family.

  Scheherazade loved him back. But she loved her people, her family, and her kingdom even more, and realized that she could never leave it all to the whims of an unstable governor.

  With a knife, the sultana killed Shahryar in his sleep.

  I wasn’t looking for saints. I wanted people who did the best with what they had.

  Scheherazade reigned with justice, wisdom, and love. Her land refound prosperity and abundance, the women smiled once again, and its people respected their sultana.

  But this cycle also came to an end.

  The environment took shape as in a film production. Blocks fell into place until I found myself in a huge garden, divided in half by a path of stones. Leafy trees proudly displayed their large fruits. Colorful plants and flowers brightened that verdant place. The lawn was eternally low and level. The sun s
hone in a clear sky, but unlike in the Dudael, it granted a pleasant temperature.

  At the end of the stone path rose an imposing building. Marble columns and statues marked the entrance to the gargantuan building, so tall as to toy with the eyes. It was impossible to specify its actual size. The walls reflected an impeccable pearly tone. The Mediterranean sea, or at least its equivalent in the Limbo, bathed the patch of land beyond it.

  Even Chuck was impressed.

  By the Deep! What… what colossus is this? What god was this temple built for?

  “None. This too is a spirit, one in constant expansion. A soul not even I can interact with. This is the Wonder of the Limbo, and knowledge manifested.”

  The Library of Alexandria.

  It guarded a copy of every book in the universe, every scroll, every document ever written by mankind. Each new creation was archived in there. But it was not just that. Every thought, every poetry ever told, every story considered, every seed of idea ever conceived could be found within its walls. And as time wasn’t a constraint, all ideas that would still be imagined millennia later, all thoughts of all eras resided there. Every wish, every lie, every curse or grace uttered, dreamed, or imagined.

  And at each second the multiverse timeline shifted, twisted, and readjusted with each action performed, with each word spoken or unspoken, with each birth and death. The parallel universes multiplied, and so did the creations inside the Wonder.

  The Library was infinite, and its spirit grew.

  I stood admiring that sacred avatar of the conscience of everything.

  Go in, you wretch, just go in! I must witness it.

  I faced a closed double door three times my size, with a half-moon carved on each side. There was no lock, knob, or bell. If the Moon Gate was closed, no one would enter.

  “I cannot. Only those invited are allowed inside.”

  May I interest you in the concept of knocking?

  “That’s not how it works.”

  Fantastic. Let’s stand here then, you lazy nipple. Good plan. It’s not like you are in a hurry or anything, is it? What do I care. We have eternity on our side, right, however the blazes time works in this—

  “Fine, just shut it.”

  I had nothing to lose. I approached the door and raised my hand.

  The Moon Gate opened inward, creaking softly. I pulled back and braced myself for the worst.

  A naked young woman came out, wearing only an ivy wreath on her curly mustard hair. Her expression was amused but withdrawn. She swayed her plump, sensual body until she leaned on a marble column. She looked down at me with an arched eyebrow and her hands on her hips.

  That was Calliope, one of the nine Muses that inhabited the Library.

  What debauchery is this? Have you brought me to a den of iniquity?

  Calliope sang.

  “Your place is not here,

  Warrior soul long ignored.

  What do you look for in our dwelling,

  With this perverted black sword?”

  I had never heard such a voice in any creature or spirit. It was low and soft, and I could swear that a choir of angels accompanied it. It warmed me like hot chocolate and a blanket on a harsh winter day. The Muse stared at me with emerald eyes.

  I dropped to one knee and lowered my head.

  “Beautiful Calliope, Muse of Muses, solace of the afflicted and mother of inspiration,” I said, “I’m looking for one of your guests. I would like to confer with Scheherazade. I beg for just a few moments inside your dwelling, beloved and lovely goddess.”

  This is an outrage! There are no virgins here. That minx there, not even her forehead is. I refuse the blood of used tarts!

  “For your entrance is forbidden, immortal soul,

  As long as you have this abyssal being in tow.

  However, fret not,

  I understand your mission and your need.

  Wait outside.

  I shall bring Scheherazade to hear your plead.”

  “Thank you kindly for your compassion, Muse of Muses.” I put my left hand on my chest and bowed even further.

  Calliope let out a mischievous schoolgirl giggle and ran into the Library. The Moon Gate closed after her.

  She’ll get ideas with this sword shape of mine and—

  I started kicking Chuck while I waited for Scheherazade.

  Who was that fornicatress? Chuck asked after recovering from the dizziness.

  “Calliope, one of nine inspiring Muses, daughters of Zeus. They organize all the Library contents. Sometimes, when reading a thought, the echo of their voices cuts across the dimensions and humans can hear them.”

  Before he asked any more questions, the doors opened again. Who came out this time was a slender woman dressed in vibrant colors, with dark wavy hair that almost touched the floor. She wore an orange veil thrown back, a blue pleated shirt with intricate embroidery and a pleated long orange skirt. Hoop earrings, gold cord with figurines, anklets, and pendant bracelets completed her attire.

  She flashed a big affectionate smile, showing perfect white teeth, and her large black eyes squinted at us.

  “Hello, you two!” she said, hands back and head tilted to the side.

  I swallowed hard. She was stunning.

  “Hello, Scheherazade. It’s an honor,” I said, bowing.

  “Oh, come, stop it.” She raised me, laughing. A sweet fragrance of jasmine flew in with her.

  Chuck’s tentacles looked nervous.

  Is she a goddess?

  Scheherazade hid a laugh with her hand. Her manner made me want to keep her happy at all costs.

  “Your weapon is cute.”

  I opened my mouth but found no words. She was the only one so far who could hear Chuck, besides me. He didn’t answer either.

  “Shall we go for a walk?” Scheherazade invited, and we strolled through the garden.

  “What’s it like in there?” I asked, not sure how to start the conversation.

  “Truly wonderful!” She replied, giving a little jump. “All the mysteries of the universe, all stories told or imagined, I have access to everything. It is a privilege to spend eternity there.”

  “Many guests?”

  “Many, one more captivating than the other! I don’t know what I like best, talking or reading.”

  We continued strolling.

  “And what you do?” she asked me.

  I shrugged. “I walk around with Chuck, meeting new people.”

  She laughed, wrinkling her little curved nose.

  “And you, Mr. Chuck? Why are you on this sword?”

  He didn’t even care about the nickname. Because you can’t trust demons, even when you’re a god.

  “How interesting, a god!” And she did look interested. “Can I hold him?” She asked me, and her eyes sparkled with charming curiosity. But there was also malice there. A fun, irresistible malice.

  Hand me over at once, disgusting creature!

  She laughed, and I held Chuck by the black blade, offering her the hilt.

  We stopped. Scheherazade took him and concentrated. She absorbed every detail, every carved rune, every shadow. Her fingers slowly fondled the blade.

  “Yes, you are a god, even though forgotten. I can feel the insanity you project, and I think it shall always be with you,” she said, as if talking to herself. Chuck’s energy stirred uncomfortably. “But I also feel gratitude. Generosity, even? Buried away, hidden and distant, but it’s there. Maybe one day you will set it free.”

  I am fear! There are no such fragile and useless things in me! he gurgled, almost incomprehensible.

  “I believe the time will come when you will give your all, even what you didn’t know you had—that’s generosity.”

  And I believe you’ve held me long enough, he growled, but he was more embarrassed than furious.

  She shared another tender laugh and returned Chuck.

  I took him and stared at him. The sultana got a shred of affection from the nameless god, in additio
n to making him disconcerted. That was incredible.

  We resumed walking. “Listen… do you know why I came to see you?”

  She looked me up and down. “Well, judging by your ghostly body, you’re an entity here,” she said, meeting my eyes. “You need some favor, a big one.”

  I took a deep breath and dove headfirst into the freezing water. “I need you to go back.”

  Scheherazade halted. I stood in front of her.

  “Can’t say I’m surprised. Their thoughts come to here. How bad is it?”

  “They’re close to the end.”

  With her hands behind her back, she brooded. The smile was gone.

  “I’m curious by you choosing me.” She turned the sentence into a question.

  “You can win without a fight. Conquer without strength. You don’t demand, impose, or attack. At least, not in the usual way. If you were a commander, you would never have to besiege, gather armies, or sharpen swords. You would make the enemy see that it was best for everyone for them to surrender and let you conquer them. Your will is irresistible. You are a velvet glove that hides the hand of strength.”

  Her mouth grew into a smile. As a child who has their ridiculous drawing on the fridge door, I was all proud of myself.

  “Well, I’ll have to give up knowledge, but I guess eternity will wait for me, right?”

  I nodded. “I don’t think it has anywhere to go. Or anywhen.”

  Scheherazade agreed, amused. “Who are you, exactly?”

  My eyebrows shot up, and I squeezed Chuck’s handle. “I can’t remember. Some kind of angel, or demon, perhaps.”

  She squinted and shook her head. “No, I don’t sense that. You have a divine spark, but I can also smell clay.”

  A shiver ran up from my heels to the top of my head, leaving a trail of ice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are closer to humans than to angels. Possibly somewhere in between.” She held my elbow. “Do not doubt yourself. Your work is needed.”