Pearls on a Branch

by Najla Jraissaty Khoury

  While rebellious daughters venture bravely into the world, there are quieter girls who realize their hopes through patience and endurance. This too takes courage. In a number of stories the girls are subjected to what amounts to a trial by silence. A young bride is advised not to speak until her husband utters a certain phrase. She maintains her silence even under threat of divorce and after the husband acquires a second wife, a co-wife. (Islam permits a man to marry up to four wives with the proviso that he maintain and love them equally.) Accepting hardship and heartbreak without complaint, these girls also succeed at the last. One device for unraveling their mounting woes is a “stone of patience.” Chipping away at it with a knife, a girl unburdens herself by listing her sorrows in sing-song. Talking aloud to the stone, a form of folk therapy perhaps, also allows the girl to be overheard by her husband or her oppressor. And so the truth is learned, innocence is proven and all ends well.

  As they thread their way through the challenge of family relations – including the usual jealous sisters, overbearing husbands and wicked stepmothers – the young men and women of the stories are lured or stray into realms of magic and the supernatural. Here are palaces with rooms through which run rivers of silver and gold and gardens with flowers that talk in rhymes. Peacocks lay eggs that make girls pregnant; combs can turn into dense forests in an emergency and mirrors into lakes.

  Inhabiting this parallel world are the Jinn, and they take many spirit forms. Hairy ghouls with sharp fangs and a taste for human flesh are the monsters most frequently met with. Unlike the ogres of other cultures, they can be good as well as evil. A few respectful words or some personal service, barbering or bathing, will win a ghoul over. No longer a threat, he becomes a kindly father figure and a source of helpful information. A female ghoul will be mollified by some volunteer house cleaning. There are Jinn in the shape of bearded old men, some benign and some malicious. One demon demands the right to suck at will the blood from a young girl’s finger; another dresses the tips of a woman’s fingers with gold after every encounter. One spirit adopts a runaway girl and raises her to be fit to marry the king’s son; another hounds the girl who disobeys him and transforms her into a mangy dog.

  A story about spirits gives free rein to the imagination to recount what in real life is impossible and invisible. A story also gives the woman storyteller the freedom to speak of what in real life would be unacceptable. Adultery and illegitimate birth, cultural taboos, seem to be treated fairly casually. Sexual innuendo, sometimes quite broad, is permitted for amusement, especially when the joke is on the men.

  Underlying each plot there usually hides some didactic message. No need to spell out a moral at the end of the story. As elsewhere, compassion is rewarded and evil always punished. A cardinal virtue in Arab culture is hospitality: the penniless goatherd, who slaughters his only animal to feed a guest, later happens upon a chest filled with gold. Acceptance of fate is wisdom. “What is written on the brow will be seen by the eye,” goes one saying. Contentment is touted and plain folk living in tents are shown to be happier than princes.

  Even the handful of children’s tales in this collection reflects the customs of the culture and the tenor of the stories. The little mouse that wants to be married gets her mother’s consent only when her suitor is another mouse and a first cousin. Like women in the stories, the little mouse is boss; she makes every decision for her husband. This is true of the frog’s wife also: she calls the shots from the moment she leaves in a huff to take refuge in her paternal home, until she deigns to rejoin her distraught husband at the very end.

  In addition to the adventures of the characters in the folktales, ranging from royal princes to orphan girls spinning wool for their living, the modern reader may appreciate the unexpected glimpses into a simpler way of life that is rapidly becoming “once upon a time and long ago.” The jealous sisters in one story conspire on the flat roof of their house where they are stationed to keep away the birds from the family’s wheat, spread out to dry in the sun. A fond village bridegroom, proud of his wife, places nails where they will catch her veil so everyone attending the wedding feast may see the beauty of her uncovered face.

  Growing out of almost every flat rooftop nowadays are television aerials thick as a crop of barley and satellite dishes fat as prize melons. The gentle pleasure of hearing a story from a parent or grandparent is being eclipsed by the light shining from the television. Najla Jraissaty Khoury’s painstaking rescue mission to preserve the oral tradition gives the age-old tales another life, in print, that will prevent them from being forgotten altogether.

  THE FARSHEH

  An old woman,

  Who looks like a hag

  With grey hairs that sag

  And a comb in her bag,

  Walks with a limp and a hop

  Till she comes to a grocer’s shop.

  “Young man, what is your name?

  You set my soul aflame.”

  Says the young man:

  “They call me Taktakan.”

  “Do you sell cream and do you sell wine?” she asks.

  “And perfume in crystal flasks?

  It is for a girl, radiant as the sun at noon,

  A full-bodied young woman with a beautiful face,

  She can say to the mid-month moon,

  ‘Set! Let me shine in your place.’

  Her hair? Ropes fit to tether camels!

  Her cheeks? Two Damascene apples!

  Her lips? Neat and thin,

  A coffee cup’s rim!

  Her forehead? The morning star!

  Her nostril? A curved scimitar!

  Her eyes? Eyes of a gazelle grazing on the hill!

  Her brows? Lines drawn with a fine-cut quill!

  She is sweeter than Turkish delight

  All of Istanbul has no fairer sight.”

  The young man felt faint and said with a cry:

  “Stop, Old Woman, stop or I’ll die!

  Tell me what I must do,

  I’ll give my life and treasure too

  If only I could find her!”

  She said:

  “You’ll need a turban, Indian cashmere, for your head,

  For your back, a shawl of woven mohair thread.

  Ride a pedigree horse with a lively trot

  Fill your purse with all the gold you’ve got.

  You’ll come to where three mansions stand

  The finest in the land

  One richly furnished

  One lately varnished

  One notched with gold untarnished.

  Pull the bell

  Hear the knell

  A young girl will bid you welcome…

  The young man wept:

  “Enough! Old Woman, say no more!

  My head is lost, my heart is sore!”

  HE WENT TO HIS STOREHOUSE and put up for sale all the goods he owned. When the store was empty, with nothing left to sell, his purse was filled with one thousand, one hundred dinars of gold. So the young man went to the cloth merchant:

  “O Hajj, do you sell cashmere?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said the merchant, unrolling the cloth along his arm. One arm’s length then another, the merchant began to measure and the youth to wind until they had a turban fit for a sheikh.

  Next the youth went to visit a man who owned a horse.

  “O Hajj, will you lend me your horse for an hour or so?” he asked.

  “Anything you want, dear fellow, take it and welcome!” said the man. This was the pedigree horse. The young man jumped into saddle, put the turban on his head, and went to his friend old Hajj Hassan.

  “O Hajj,” he said, “Will you let me borrow your shawl for an hour or so?”

  “Gladly,” said Hajj Hassan, “Take it.”

  It was a mohair shawl that people wore in bygone days and used as a cloak. The young man threw it round his shoulders and rode to the place the old woman described.

  He arrived where three mansions stood,

  The finest
of the neighborhood:

  One richly furnished,

  One lately varnished,

  One notched with gold untarnished.

  He pulled the bell

  He heard the knell

  A young woman with a tray,

  Came out to say

  “Welcome to you, Taktakan!”

  * * *

  She offered him coffee and he drank it. When he put back the cup, she said:

  “Now lay your purse, one thousand, one hundred dinars of gold, on the tray and stay. Sit here and wait, we’ll not be late.”

  “Your wish, my command,” said the youth.

  She took the gold and he sat down. One hour, two hours passed. Waiting is hard and he was bored. He looked out the window. There, as far as the eye could see, was a garden and in it grew all that lip or tongue might crave: every kind of fruit and plant.

  “I need some air,” he thought. “I’ll take a turn outside.”

  As he paced the garden he saw a henna shrub, tall and luxuriant – exalted be the Creator! From here to there, its scent hung heavy on the air. The young man found it pleasing.

  “By God, I’ll pick me a flower and sniff it as I go,” he said. He reached up to snatch the bloom but the plant rebuked him:

  “Hands off, or I will call a curse on you!

  My mistress mocks: she neither loves nor likes you.”

  “O God’s wonder, you can talk?” he asked.

  “I am Henna,” said the plant,

  “I can speak and also sing,

  I’m a guest at all weddings.

  My deep red henna dye

  Adorns each and every bride.”

  The young man left and continued walking. On his path there was an apple tree its branches bending, weighed down with fruit. From each stem hung two apples – one red, one green – praised be the Creator!

  “I think I’ll pick me an apple,” said the youth. But as he stretched his hand towards the tree it said:

  “Hands off, or I will call a curse on you!

  My mistress mocks: she neither loves nor likes you.”

  “O God’s wonder, you can talk?” asked the young man. The tree said:

  “Of course I have the gift of speech!

  I am the one whose fruit tastes best,

  I keep my apples out of reach

  For he who picks one knows no rest.”

  The young man left. Around him grew fruits and flowers of every kind that he dared not touch. Then he glimpsed a shimmer far ahead. He ran to see and found a pavilion – a glittering wonder to behold! Four gold pillars were the base; the walls inlaid with pearls and gems; diamonds and rubies, faceted in varying ways. He saw a young woman walking towards him with roses preceding her and jasmine following as she came. Beautiful she was as the old woman had said. One look and the young man fell apart! Every bone in his spine was loosened and all his strength deserted him. He sank to the ground unable to move either arm or leg.

  “Get up!” the young woman said, giving him a push with her foot. “He who seeks women that are fair, must not groan and cry despair. Get yourself up!”

  She pushed and pulled and made the young man sit upright. “O Taktakan,” she said, “Will you let me rest on your knee a while?”

  She placed her head upon his lap and closed those gazelle eyes. In her sleep, now she blushed and then was pale. O Lord, the tints in her face! Roses and lilies! They maddened the young man till he began to sob. One hot tear fell on the young woman’s cheek. She awoke and said:

  “What is this, O Taktakan, burning coal or a tear of woe?”

  “A tear, dear Lady,” said the youth.

  “What makes you cry?” she asked.

  “I lament love unrequited,” he said.

  “Love unrequited?” She screamed. “What did you hope for, Cur? What more, Son of a Cur?”

  She slapped him once on this side of his head and once on that. Suddenly, without knowing how it happened, there he was, back in his grocer’s store, buying and selling as before!

  AHAA

  There was this Bedouin. He met a young woman. He was thirsty. She was carrying a sheepskin full of milk.

  He said, “Will you let me have a sip?”

  “Be my guest,” she said and offered him the leather sack.

  When he was done, she said:

  “If I knew your name I would wish you good health!”

  “My name is hidden in your face,” he said.

  “It must be Hassan, as in beautiful?” she asked. “Good health to you, O Hassan!”

  “Had I known your name,” he said, “I would have said, ‘Thank you!’”

  “You can find my name in your amulet.”

  “My amulet contains a charm so you must be Fitna,” he cried, “Your beauty, O charming Fitna, holds Hassan captive!”

  THERE WAS OR THERE WAS NOT, in a former time, in an age long past, an Emir, a prince of the Arab tribes.

  Every year he would travel through the villages of his territory to collect taxes and rent. One day, while he was on his rounds, he felt thirsty, very thirsty. So he headed to the nearest spring. From a distance he could see someone standing by the water, a figure slender as a poplar: a tree with a trunk straight as a column, topped by a full crown of leaves. It was a young woman filling her water jar. Her waist was like the waist of a gazelle. He went up to her and said:

  “Will you let me drink from the mouth of your jar?”

  She lifted the jar onto her shoulder and leaned towards him. He went up close and drank.

  “Honey!” he said.

  The girl smiled. He asked her what she was called and who was her father.

  “Aaha,” was all she said.

  He thought she was sighing. He promised himself that he would find her the following year. He would be ready then to ask for her hand in marriage.

  One day goes and another comes. Day in, day out, the prince kept thinking about the girl by the water. When a year had passed he mounted his horse and rode back to that same village. He could see that the place was preparing for a wedding: there was finery and music and a feast spread out. When he reached the village spring he found an old woman getting water. So he asked her about the celebration.

  “Today is the wedding of the most beautiful of all the girls in the village,” she said. “She is marrying her uncle’s son, her first cousin. You are welcome, if you would like to come.”

  He asked the name of the bride.

  “Aaha,” she said.

  He realized that Aaha was her name and this was her wedding day. So how could he ask for her hand in marriage? He sat by the side of the spring with his head in his hands. The old woman could see that he was distressed. She asked him what the matter was.

  “Can you keep a secret, Granny?” he asked. “Can you hold a confidence?”

  “Like a bottomless well,” she said.

  So he told her what had happened the year before: how he had felt a great love for Aaha and that, night and day, he could think only of her.

  “How can I help you?” she asked, “Today is her wedding, they are celebrating even now.”

  He asked the old woman to empty the water out of her jar – which she did. Then he filled it with honey. The old woman placed the jar on her shoulder and joined the revelers. People ran to help her with the heavy load but she refused. She circled round the wedding party three times, then she stopped in front of Aaha. Everyone present looked on, curious about her strange behavior.

  The old woman tilted the jar so that Aaha could have a taste of the honey. Then she spoke in a voice loud enough for all to hear:

  “Aaha,

  Take a taste from the mouth of this jar.

  Take a look, he who filled it is not far.

  If a man lost something dear

  Can he find it after a year?”

  “Need you ask?” Aaha replied,

  “If the thing he lost is truly dear

  Yes, he will find it after a year!”

  Now the bridegroom
, who was her cousin, her uncle’s son, was standing close by. He saw the look in Aaha’s eyes. He saw how she was transformed once she tasted the honey and heard the old woman’s words. So he said to his uncle, Aaha’s father:

  “O my Uncle,

  Listen to your daughter.

  Understand what she means!

  I cannot be groom or suitor

  Where a heart to another leans!”

  So, in the midst of the wedding, the bridegroom gave up his right to his first cousin so that she might live and be happy with the one she preferred.

  She had chosen the Emir of the Arabs and the Emir of the Arabs had chosen her.

  The wedding guests dispersed to hill and dale

  And I traveled here to tell you the tale.

  ABU ALI THE FOX

  There was or maybe there was not,

  But listen to this tale that I have got…

  THERE WAS A FOX. His name was Abu Ali al-Wawi, Abu Ali the Fox. He loved to eat red meat and chicken too. And, of course, he loved his wife and his two young cubs. But he felt hungry, hungry all the time.

  One day, Abu Ali the Fox went out of his den, leaving his wife behind with his son Daybess and his daughter Daybessa. He had decided that he would become a devout ascetic and abstain from eating all flesh whether meat or chicken. He gathered some olive pits that he strung together like prayer beads and hung them from his neck. Then he wrapped a turban round his head. In short, he turned himself into a Dervish.

  With shoulders bent and head bowed to the ground, he shuffled along slowly, praising God and mumbling prayers. Only his eyes were quick, glancing right and left, taking note of everything in sight.