Shadow Spinner

by Susan Fletcher

  Ayaz was far ahead now, weaving in and out among porters and mule drivers and shoppers. Soon he vanished altogether.

  “He’s . . . gone!” Dunyazad said, and now she sounded sorry.

  We stood there in the street while people flowed around us. I searched for Ayaz, avoiding Dunyazad’s eyes. Then, “Look, Marjan! There he is!” She pointed up a small flight of stairs, beneath a carved stone arch. He was motioning us to come.

  It seemed longer this time until we came to the place where he had blindfolded me before. The pigeons grew heavier with every step. Ayaz disappeared and returned with two kerchiefs, apologizing profusely to Dunyazad for having to blindfold her. He had never apologized to me, I thought bitterly. Dunyazad looked worried, but I reassured her. “He did this before,” I said. “Remember, I told you?” Still, it was scary. If anyone found out who she was . . . More than ever, I questioned the wisdom of having her along.

  “Lady, you hold on to her veil,” Ayaz told Dunyazad, nodding at me. “I’ll carry your basket, so you’ll have a hand free.”

  “I won’t have a hand free,” I said.

  “I’ll guide you like this.” Ayaz hooked one finger through the ring at the top of my pigeon basket.

  Dunyazad held my veil as Ayaz blindfolded us. Then he led us to the storyteller’s house. Inside, I set down my pigeons and pulled off the kerchief.

  “You brought a friend,” the storyteller said.

  I looked at Dunyazad. Ayaz had removed her blindfold, but she kept her veil taut about the moon of her face and her eyes turned down toward the carpet. For once, she was silent.

  The storyteller raised his shaggy brows, waiting, I thought, for me to introduce her. I didn’t. “And you brought pigeons,” he said at last.

  “You said the story was long. And we have to leave before noon. The pigeons are trained to return . . . to where we live. You can send whatever’s left of the story with them. If you can’t write, we’ll give you coins to pay a scribe.”

  “So they’re Zaynab’s birds,” he said. It stopped me cold.

  He was far ahead of me. I had so carefully not told him anything about us—who we were and where we had come from—yet he knew, somehow, that we had come from the harem. And he knew of Zaynab. How did he know of Zaynab? I had never heard of Zaynab until a week ago.

  I had the feeling again that he was something other than what he seemed—and that it went far beyond the fact that he could see while he had pretended to be blind.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “How do you know of Zaynab?”

  “We’ll trade,” he said. “I’ll tell you who I am if you’ll tell me who your friend is.”

  “She’s just a friend,” I said.

  Long silence. At last the storyteller said, “Well. Then I’ll tell you more of the story; you have a little time. Sit down before me and listen.”

  Chapter 16

  No Way İn

  LESSONS FOR LIFE AND STORYTELLING

  If you want to send a message with a pigeon, here is what to do:

  Use the thinnest paper you can find. And write very, very small—as small as you can and still be able to read it. Then fold the paper into a long, narrow strip, roll it up tight, and slip it into the tiny wooden capsule.

  Now, hold the pigeon in one hand, with its legs between your first and middle fingers. Press the bird’s breast against your body. Gently. Do this all very gently. Like a caress.

  You’ll have to tie on the capsule mostly with only one hand. The bird-holding hand can help a little, but not much. Like storytelling, this takes practice.

  The most important thing: Be gentle!

  The storyteller told how Badar Basim was swept by the sea onto a bewitched land, where he met a grocer who wasn’t really a grocer, but a magician in disguise. Meanwhile, Badar Basim fell into the clutches of the evil Queen Lab. She turned him into a Stinking Bird and put him in a cage and denied him food and water.

  Then it was time for us to go.

  Though the tale kept me interested the whole time, some parts of it made me uneasy. The Sultan already had a bad enough opinion of women without making it worse by telling about Queen Lab. And, while I understood what Shahrazad had said, that you have to have all kinds of women in your tales, it didn’t seem wise to ask for trouble by telling about a woman who was evil through and through.

  But there was no help for it. This was the tale the Sultan wanted, so this was what Shahrazad would have to tell.

  While Ayaz was tying Dunyazad’s blindfold, I turned to the storyteller. “You will send the birds with the rest of the tale, won’t you? Send them soon? Be sure to use thin paper, and write small. I can show you how to tie on a message—”

  “Don’t worry, Little Pigeon.” His voice was gentle, warm, the way it sometimes sounded in his story. Though he didn’t smile, his eyes crinkled at their edges, as if I had amused him. “Go along home, now. You can rely on me.”

  I felt better then. A little. But I still didn’t like leaving so much to trust and hope. While Ayaz blindfolded me, I pretended to scratch the bridge of my nose and pushed up the kerchief until I could see a little bit—the floor and the bottoms of walls. I hoped never to come to this place again. And yet, if the pigeons never arrived . . . It would be best to be able to find the storyteller again.

  Ayaz took me by the elbow, and Dunyazad gripped my free hand. Looking down beneath the blindfold, I saw the bottom of a rough wooden door. Down three stone steps, turn right along a blackened mud wall, turn left, turn right and then right again, turn left to walk along a wall with three branching cracks in a row. Ayaz took off our blindfolds at the same place as before, then led us back to the fountain. He stood there a moment, waiting. I thought he wanted more money and was about to argue, but then he nodded and said, “I take my leave of you, Ladies. Allah grant you good fortune.”

  We watched until he was out of sight, then went searching for the stall of the carpet merchant Shahrazad had told us about. It was not far from the fountain, she had said. The merchant would be sitting in front, on a scarlet-and-blue carpet, and wearing an orange turban with a purple feather. We were to approach him and say, “Were here for the small round carpets.”

  We found him right away—a skinny man with a scraggly beard. No sooner had I opened my mouth and said, “Were here for—” than he leaped to his feet and, motioning us to follow, led us around a corner and into a narrow alley to a cart that was harnessed to a mule. The man jabbed a finger at the cart. “Get in,” he said. Then he squeezed himself through the gap between the cart and a wall, turned a corner, and was gone.

  I looked about me. Ahead, where the alley met with the street, the sun streamed down, lighting up a moving stream of people. Behind, the alley made a sharp bend, and I couldn’t see beyond it. From the bend to the street, the alley was deserted. Except for the mule—and us.

  The cart’s back gate hung open; two loosely rolled carpets lay within. Dunyazad glanced at me, took a deep breath and, pushing with her feet, burrowed into one of the carpets up to her waist. But now she was having trouble. She kicked at the air; I heard little sighs and oofs. I grasped her ankles and pushed. She scooted forward, all the way into the carpet, until I really had to look to see her feet.

  My turn now. And no one to help. I scrunched my shoulders together, pushed myself into the dark tunnel of carpet. It was a tight fit. Dust filled my nose; I wanted to sneeze. Weren’t these carpets supposed to have been cleaned? Lying on my forearms with the carpet pressing against the back of my head and shoulders and back, I shoved off with my feet and squirmed forward on my elbows, wriggling like a worm. The carpet grabbed at me, pulled my veil back. My head was bare now, and everything below my waist was poking out behind. Then . . . footsteps. Someone took hold of my ankles; I shot forward, then abruptly stopped.

  Moving my feet, I could tell that they were surrounded by carpet.

  Now the cart gate creaked and thudded behind me. A sudden lurch: we were moving. Rumbling filled my ears, fil
led my body. I took shallow breaths of the dusty air—through my mouth, so I wouldn’t sneeze. Sweat trickled down into the outer corners of my eyes, but my hands were pinned beneath me and I couldn’t reach to wipe it away.

  This was worse than the chest and the jar. Much worse.

  At last the cart halted. I heard voices nearby. They grew louder. Arguing. I couldn’t make out all of the words. But I thought I heard the higher voices saying, “Unroll them,” and the low voice kept saying no.

  Something was wrong.

  The air in the carpet grew hotter, thicker, dustier. I couldn’t bear it much longer. Sweat poured off my body; my eyes stung with it. My forearms and hands were going numb. I wanted to thrash about, push my way out to fresh air. A sudden thud. The cart was moving again—fast—squeaking, rattling, jolting. What had happened?

  And now, beyond the muffled street sounds, I heard the call of a moazzen for noon prayers. I felt terrible, missing prayers for the second time.

  The cart jerked to a halt. Footfalls, coming round behind. The creak of the back gate. Then a voice, a loud whisper: “Get out!”

  This was not right. We were supposed to be taken to Shahrazad and only come out when she said to.

  “Get out of my cart, I tell you! Are you deaf! They won’t let the carpets into the harem!”

  Then footfalls, running, growing fainter.

  I lay there sucking in the dusty, suffocating air, not knowing what to do. My clothes were damp and clung to me; I lay in a pool of my own sweat. More than anything, I wanted to get out of this stifling carpet!

  But was it safe?

  Quiet. The city sounds had stilled, except for the distant rumbling voices of men at prayer.

  I began to scoot backward. The carpet shoved my clothes forward as I moved, until everything but my under trousers was clumped in a damp wad about my head. I prayed there was no one there to see. But I had to get out. With all the cloth around my face, I could hardly breathe. At last I could bend at my hips; my feet hit ground. I backed all the way out, then pulled my gown and robes and veil from the carpet roll and hastily rearranged everything until I was decently covered.

  The cart stood in a deserted alley—a different alley from before. The mule turned, looked at me, then snorted and stomped its foot.

  The driver was nowhere in sight.

  “Lady?” I said. I peered through the tunnel of Dunyazad’s carpet at the bottoms of her sandals. “I think you’d better get out. There’s no one here.”

  The carpet thrashed around, but the sandals didn’t come any nearer. Then a muffled voice. It sounded like, “I can’t!”

  Dunyazad wasn’t as skinny as me. I took hold of her ankles and pulled. When she was out to her waist, I stopped pulling and turned away to let her compose herself. Rustling sounds. Then, “What are we doing here? Why aren’t we home? Where is the driver?” She sounded irritated, demanding, the way she sometimes did in the harem.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Did you hear that argument? With the palace guards? I think they wanted to unroll the carpets and the driver got scared.”

  “But he can’t just leave us here,” Dunyazad said. “He wouldn’t dare!”

  I didn’t say anything. He clearly could leave us here. He clearly had dared.

  “What are we going to do now?” she asked, and I thought I heard the tiniest bit of a whine.

  I swallowed. She was afraid. Brave Dunyazad was afraid. I was afraid, too. But . . . She was counting on me now. I was responsible for her.

  We couldn’t just walk up to the palace guards and ask them to let us back in. If it were only a matter of a lashing, I would do it. I would tell Dunyazad to do it. But. . . sneaking out of the Sultans harem, without permission . . . He’d probably have us killed.

  “What about the friend . . . who helped us get out?” I asked. “Couldn’t that person—whoever it is—couldn’t that person help?”

  “No! The Khatun would . . . No. Anyway, how could we reach . . . that person . . . without getting caught ourselves?”

  I didn’t know.

  “Shahrazad . . .” Her voice broke; she turned away from me.

  This was bad, very bad. Though the Khatun always slept late, she would be up by now. She’d know that I’d slipped away from Soraya; they were probably searching for me. Maybe it would take longer for them to miss Dunyazad. She often disappeared into the long passageways for hours and nobody thought anything of it. But if she didn’t return for the story tonight. . .

  What could we do? Marjan, think!

  A flapping of wings: a pigeon flew overhead. Then it came to me. A message! We could send a message to Zaynab—a message for Shahrazad.

  * * *

  We set off for the storyteller’s house. The crowd had thinned in the midday heat; soon, I knew, the streets would be nearly deserted. I found my way to the fountain and from there tried to retrace our route. We passed by the carved stone arch where we had waited for Ayaz. We went down a flight of seven steps followed by a flight of five. I remembered that. We lost our way once, so we doubled back and tried one street after another until we happened upon one that looked familiar. Finally, we reached the last poor street, the one where Ayaz had blindfolded us. Before he had taken off my blindfold, I had seen, peering down, the bottom of a mud wall with three branching cracks in a row. And there were three branching cracks a little way down an alley. I moved in that direction. “Are you certain you know the right way?” Dunyazad asked. “You truly could see?”

  “A little,” I said.

  The alley was narrow and dingy. I turned right, then left twice, and then forgot which way I was supposed to go until I saw, ahead, the alley with the blackened wall. Three stone steps had led up to the gate. “This way!” I said. But all the gates—four of them—had three stone steps in front. I stopped, not knowing which door to knock on, not certain at all that this was the right place.

  Suddenly, one of the doors flew open and a boy came out, ran away from us down the alley. “Ayaz!” I called.

  He stopped, whirled round, gaped at us. “How did you get here?” he demanded. “You re supposed to be back with her sister! With . . . Shahrazad!”

  Chapter 17

  Like Princess Budur

  LESSONS FOR LIFE AND STORYTELLING

  The tale of Princess Budur isn’t the only one where women dress up as men and nobody knows the difference. This happens a lot in the old stories. Sometimes women disguised as men even rule entire countries and do a good job.

  Dunyazad was right about Princess Budur—and all the rest of those story women who dress up as men and do man things perfectly well. One thing those tales are saying underneath is that women aren’t inferior. They’re equal to men.

  Still, there’s more to disguise than changing your clothes. The best disguise can be just a look.

  I caught my breath. It was one thing for Ayaz to know that we were from the Sultan’s harem—but quite another for him to know that Shahrazad’s very own sister was standing before him in the alley.

  “Come in! Quickly! Come!” The storyteller stood inside the gate, motioning furiously.

  We hurried across the courtyard and into the house. The storyteller fixed Ayaz with his keen gaze. “Did anyone hear them? Did anyone see?”

  “No, Aga,” Ayaz said. “There was no one in the alley.”

  “You need to be discreet, Ayaz! You need to watch your tongue! And—” He glanced at me and Dunyazad; I caught that crinkle at the edges of his eyes. “When you lead a blindfolded person, make sure she isn’t peeking!”

  Ayaz looked down at the floor. “Yes, Aga. I’m sorry.”

  Now the storyteller’s eyes turned grave. “Could anyone have followed you?” he asked me.

  “I ... I don’t know,” I said, feeling foolish. I hadn’t thought to look.

  The storyteller said something in a low voice to Ayaz; the boy slipped out the front door. “We’ll try to get you back in the harem,” the storyteller said, “but I don’t know if we ca
n do it today. You may have to spend the night—”

  “We can’t!” Dunyazad said. “Or I can’t. I’m—”

  “Your . . . sister would miss you?”

  Dunyazad looked at me; I nodded. Our secret was out. No use trying to hide it. The storyteller had tossed out his guess about Zaynab, and we had confirmed it, and he had surmised the rest. We had to trust him now.

  “She still keeps up the pretense that the stories are for me,” Dunyazad told him. “Without the pretense . . . I don’t know what the Sultan would do.”

  The storyteller didn’t seem surprised. “Very well, then,” he said grimly. “We’ll get you back by tonight. One way or another.”

  Tonight? My insides went liquid with fear. What about the Khatun? The longer we were gone, the more certain she was to miss me. And last time, she had been furious. What she would do if she caught me out again . . . “It would be best to return before tonight,” I said. “We could send one of Zaynab’s birds—”

  “And how would that work, Little Pigeon? Shahrazad would have to send someone to fetch you here, or you’d have to wait someplace else for them to fetch you. And then . . . Does she have another way of smuggling you into the harem? Or are enough of the palace guards your . . . friends?”

  I didn’t know. I turned to Dunyazad. She shook her head.

  The storyteller looked thoughtful. “Well,” he said, “then we’ll have to do something else. When Ayaz returns, we’ll know how things stand.”

  He had an air of confidence that gave me hope. And yet it frightened me to think how much he knew. Everything. And we knew nothing about him. I wondered again who he was, and why he knew this story that only the Sultan seemed to have heard. I suddenly thought of that grocer, that grocer in the tale who wasn’t really a grocer but a magician in disguise.

  “Since you left, I’ve sent seven birds with bits of the story to Zaynab,” the storyteller said now. “I was about to send the eighth when you came. But perhaps I should tell as much as I can to the both of you, in case something should happen to the pigeons.”