Pearls on a Branch

by Najla Jraissaty Khoury

  “Lady Tanaqeesh, don’t worry about your lunch. We’ll bring the food up to you. Just watch the wheat so the birds don’t get it.”

  The girl climbed up to the roof and sat down cross-legged to keep watch. All at once she saw two doves come flying towards her. She picked up a few grains of the wheat and offered them to the birds with outstretched palm. The doves pecked the wheat out of her hand and flew away.

  Meanwhile Dolaban and Shamlakan were busy preparing the peacock eggs for their sister. They carried them, still steaming in the frying pan, up to the roof with a round of bread.

  “Here is your lunch, Lady Tanaqeesh,” they said. “Eat it in good health.”

  The girl thanked them and began to eat while her two sisters observed her closely. After one or two mouthfuls her belly began to swell. With the third mouthful it bulged even more. With each bite her belly grew bigger and by the time she had finished it had rounded out like a ball. The girl stood up and looked at herself in shock while her sisters screamed:

  “What have you done to yourself?

  What shall we tell your father?

  ‘Our sister ate the eggs of a peacock,

  Now she is pregnant out of wedlock?’”

  The girl sat alone on the rooftop, asking herself: What had befallen her? How could she face her father? What was she to do?

  One after another, the days passed until the father returned from his travels. He gave Dolaban the wooden chest and Shamlakan the woolen vest. Then he asked. “Where is Lady Tanaqeesh?”

  “She is on the roof for the wheat that’s out to dry,”

  they said. He repeated his question in the evening and they told him she was still with the wheat. When he asked for her the next morning, they broke the news to him that his daughter was pregnant and that she was living on the roof:

  “Lady Tanaqeesh is pregnant, Father. She refuses to come down from the rooftop. We have to carry her food up to her!”

  The father ran up the steps to the roof and with his own eyes he saw his daughter’s swollen belly. She tried to explain but he would not listen to one word out of her. He had decided that she must pay with her life. He intended to kill her but found he could not do it. So he called one of the huntsmen he knew and asked him to do the deed for him because he himself was unable to kill his daughter.

  “Kill her and bring me her blood,” he said.

  The huntsman set off to carry out his task taking Lady Tanaqeesh with him. He led the way and she followed behind. They walked and walked until she was tired and had to stop for a rest. Exhausted, she leaned her head against a tree and instantly fell asleep. The huntsman raised his gun and aimed at the girl but he could not bring himself to kill her. Deciding that telling a lie was a lesser sin than taking a life, he said to himself:

  “I’ll give her father the blood of some small creature and tell him it is his daughter’s blood.”

  The huntsman left the girl asleep and returned to her father with animal’s blood as he had planned. He said:

  “I have killed her. Here is her blood.”

  And Lady Tanaqeesh? She opened her eyes with the breaking light of dawn and found she was in a barren landscape with no idea in which direction she should go. She began to cry and went on crying until she heard a fluttering overhead. Looking up she saw a flock of pigeons circling above her. They seemed to be signaling that she should follow them. She began to walk, the birds flying ahead of her in the air while she ran after them on the ground, until she arrived in front of a small hut.

  It was dirty inside so she cleaned it; it was untidy so she set it in order. She made everything ready to receive the child she was bearing. Finally, when the time came she gave birth to her infant in the hut. And after regaining her strength she went on living there with her little son.

  One day she climbed onto the roof of the hut. From there she was able to see, in the distance, the top of her father’s house. She saw that the wheat was still spread out on the roof. So she pointed the doves to the house and said:

  “O my doves, my dear ones,

  Look far away, over there, and see

  My father’s house by the poplar tree

  A round window above the terrace on one side

  On the rooftop wheat and barley spread out wide

  Fly, my darlings, fly there and land on the wheat.

  Eat all you can eat,

  Scatter all you can scatter,

  Spill all you can spill,

  Carry off all you can carry

  And be sure to sing your song.”

  The birds took off. They flew to the house of Lady Tanaqeesh’s father and dropped down onto the roof. It was Dolaban, the eldest sister’s turn to guard the wheat. “Shoo, birds, Shoo!” she shouted. But the doves pecked at the wheat and scattered it and spilled it and carried it off singing:

  “We won’t be shooed, we won’t be chased

  We are the doves of Lady Tanaqeesh

  The one you shamed and you disgraced

  Feeding her the eggs of the tawawees.”

  The eldest sister Dolaban ran to the middle sister, Shamlakan, asking her to help drive away the birds and keep them off the wheat. Shamlakan waved her hands, “Shoo, Birds! Shoo!” But the birds went on eating the wheat and scattering it and spilling it and carrying it off and singing:

  “We won’t be shooed, we won’t be chased

  We are the doves of Lady Tanaqeesh

  The one you shamed and you disgraced

  Feeding her the eggs of the tawawees.”

  The father inside the house could hear the noise and fuss on the roof and he saw grains of wheat falling outside. He called out:

  “Dolaban, what are you saying?”

  “Nothing, nothing!” she called back.

  Then he shouted:

  “Shamlakan, what are you saying?”

  “Nothing, nothing!” she answered.

  The father went up to the roof. He saw the girls, their hair in disarray, surrounded by the birds that were scattering wheat in all directions. So he too tried to chase them off crying:

  “Shoo, pigeons! Shoo!”

  The birds quieted down and said:

  “We won’t be shooed, we won’t be chased

  We are the doves of Lady Tanaqeesh

  The one you shamed and you disgraced

  Feeding her the eggs of the tawawees.”

  The father froze where he stood. But when the doves flapped their wings and began to fly up into the sky, he ran down, threw himself onto his horse and rode after them. The birds flew above while the horse followed below until the doves reached the hut where Lady Tanaqeesh was living with her child. The young woman had been looking out of the window so she saw the birds arriving and her father on horseback stopping in front of the hut and dismounting. Before he knocked at the door Lady Tanaqeesh quickly hid her son out of sight. The father knocked and called her name and when she opened the door he kissed her on her brow. After drinking some water and watering his horse and resting himself and his horse, he told her that he had learned the truth and said:

  “I have come to take you home. Bundle up your clothes and come with me.”

  Lady Tanaqeesh tied up her clothes and rode with her father. When they had gone a little way she turned towards the hut behind her and said:

  “Father, please! I have to go back. I have forgotten my thimble.”

  He said: “But you have a thimble at home.”

  She said that she liked this thimble, it fitted her finger perfectly, and she did not want to part with it.

  So they turned back. The girl dismounted while her father waited outside. As soon as she entered the hut, Lady Tanaqeesh ran to her child, and lifted him into her arms. She nursed him, singing as she rocked:

  “Nurse, nurse, my dear little son

  Soon, soon your mother will be gone.”

  The child began to cry, his mother wept with him and so did the doves that had gathered around her. Then she kissed her son and charged the doves to take good
care of him. She took the thimble and mounted the horse behind her father.

  They had not gone very far when again she turned to look back at the hut and said:

  “I beg you, Father, please stop. I left my spool of thread behind.”

  “But we have plenty of thread at home,” he told her.

  She said that this was strong thread, dyed a beautiful color; she liked it and did not want to part with it.

  Back they went again. She dismounted and her father waited for her while she went into the hut. She picked up her son and kissed him. She nursed him, rocking and singing:

  “Nurse, nurse, my dear little son

  Soon, soon your mother will be gone.”

  The boy cried and his mother wept and so did the birds. Lady Tanaqeesh kissed her son and repeated her recommendations to the doves. Then she took the spool of thread and climbed onto her father’s horse.

  When she turned for the third time to look behind her at the hut, all she could see was part of the roof because by then they had traveled a little farther.

  “Please, Father,” she shrieked, “Father, I beg you, let me go back! I have forgotten my needle.”

  “But we have many needles at home,” said her father.

  She stressed that this particular needle was sharp and easy to thread because it had a large eye.

  For the third time they returned to the hut. The girl went inside. This time her father did not stay on his horse but dismounted and, keeping out of his daughter’s sight, he walked carefully to window and peered through the opening. He saw everything! He saw Lady Tanaqeesh picking up her son to nurse him, rocking and singing:

  “Nurse, nurse, my dear little son

  Soon, soon your mother will be gone.”

  He saw how she wept and the child cried and how the doves around her also cried. He saw her kiss her son telling the birds to look after him.

  The father retraced his steps and mounted his horse and waited for his daughter.

  Lady Tanaqeesh came out with her needle and climbed behind her father ready to go. But the horse did not move. The girl wondered why and her father said,

  “A thimble, a spool of thread, and a needle: are you sure you have not left something else in the hut that you love and cannot be parted from?”

  Lady Tanaqeesh made no reply. She remained silent, but tears were running down her cheeks. Her father said:

  “Go, dear daughter! Go and bring the child you love and can’t be parted from!”

  The girl jumped off the horse, ran into the hut, and came out carrying the child in her arms. They rode home with the doves circling above their heads, keeping them company all the way.

  Dolaban and Shamlakan both happened to be standing on the rooftop. When they saw Lady Tanaqeesh and her child riding home with their father, they were alarmed and went into hiding. But the father summoned all three daughters to come before him. Dolaban and Shamlakan were trembling with fright. The father said he wanted to hear from each of them what had happened. When he had listened to their stories from beginning to end, he said:

  “Lady Tanaqeesh, how do you want to repay your sisters for what they have done?”

  “I was waiting for my revenge,” she replied, “I was wanting to say:

  ‘Father, seize them by the hair and kill them one by one

  Their guts will serve as ropes to hang my washing on,

  Their skulls two bowls in which to keep the chicken’s feed.

  Then tear them limb from limb, their arms, their legs, their feet.

  With their bones I’ll build a ladder to reach the roof

  Of their punishment it will be a solid proof.

  Stepping on the ladder’s rungs I’ll hear their groans

  Climbing up at every step I’ll tell the bones:

  ‘Creak! Creak!

  Who started with these horrors?

  Creak! Creak!

  You and you were the aggressors!

  Creak! Creak!

  You and you were the oppressors!

  Going down I’d tread hard on every rung and cry:

  Creak! Creak!

  Have I harmed you? No not I!

  Creak! Creak!

  Was I cruel to you? No not I!

  Creak! Creak!

  You were the evil ones and not I!

  Yes, you both deserve to die!’”

  Then she added:

  “Now that I hold this darling boy in my arms I wish Dolaban and Shamlakan to suffer only as I have suffered. Let them live in dishonor and disgrace, alone and far from the human race.” After that Lady Tanaqeesh married the huntsman who had spared her life and they lived peacefully without cares and had many children, both boys and girls.

  THE OLIVE PIT

  I do not dare to tell a lie

  A lie could trip me by and by.

  I can throw a saddle on a flea

  I can ride it everywhere I please.

  And when my flea swims in the sea

  The water barely wets its knees.

  I never want to tell a lie

  A lie could trip me by and by.

  I can pasture camels

  Two thousand at a time

  On one broad bean

  That’s fresh and green.

  We cooked and filled a thousand pots

  With half a bird, that’s all that we’d got.

  We fed Aleppo, Damascus, and Istanbul,

  And still had meat enough to keep and cool.

  I do not know how to tell a lie.

  THERE WAS THIS WOMAN who was barren. She was unable to conceive or carry a child.

  On the blessed night at the end of Ramadan, the month of fasting, when wishes are granted, the woman prayed and prayed:

  “Grant me the taste of motherhood, O Lord! Grant me an infant, a daughter that I can raise and love. Grant me a child, O Lord, even if it is a mere olive pit.”

  God heard the woman’s prayer. She became pregnant and gave birth to an olive pit. With her olive pit in her hand she walked until she was outside the town. There, on the rise of a hill, she planted her olive pit and lovingly tended her. Every day she would go to visit her and recite nursery rhymes, sing children’s songs, and tell her stories. Soon the olive pit grew into a tree. A child in a story grows fast. And one day, out of the trunk of the olive tree, there appeared such a girl…praise be to her Creator! The mother’s heart swelled when she saw her. Now she was able to instruct and guide her. In time the woman grew old and died, but she was at peace knowing that she had done for her daughter all that was necessary.

  The olive tree flourished and spread its branches thick and wide. People came and sat under it to cool off and enjoy the shade. When no one was about, Olive Pit emerged to gather the food that people left behind, drink some water from the river, pick flowers, and listen to the birds before returning to her tree.

  One day the king’s son passed by the hill and rested under Olive Pit’s tree. He liked the spot. So his men pitched the tents and gathered in the leafy shade. The prince said to his cook:

  “We are going hunting. Be sure to prepare a meal for us while we are away and have it ready for our return.”

  The royal cook prepared the food and spread it under the tree. As soon as he had gone to the tents, Olive Pit came out. From every dish she took one mouthful then quickly went back to her place inside the trunk of the olive tree.

  When the King’s son returned from the hunt, he saw that food was missing off every plate. He questioned the cook:

  “Did you set out the dishes without filling them? Or did one of you taste my food before I did?”

  “No! Never! God keep you, O Ruler of Our Time!”

  The same thing happened on the second day of the hunt and on the third. So the king’s son decided to hide and secretly spy on what was going on in his absence.

  He saw how the trunk of the olive tree split open and that a graceful, slender girl stepped out to eat a mouthful off every plate. Just as she was about to disappear into the tree again, the princ
e stopped her, seizing her by the arm. He told her that he was the king’s son and that he had been watching her. Who was she? What was her name? She said that she was Olive Pit, that her mother had died and she was living inside the tree.

  The prince invited Olive Pit to dine with him. Food was brought and laid before them. They supped together that night and every night that followed. During the day Olive Pit hid in the tree and after sunset she spent her time with the prince. One evening the prince brought the young woman a gift: a bracelet of gold. He placed it on her wrist then kissed her arm. He invited her to dine as before, but this time, instead of returning to her tree after the meal, Olive Pit fell fast asleep where she sat. The prince decided this was the moment to slip away quietly with all his men. They did not wake the girl and left her sleeping.

  Olive Pit woke up to find she was alone on the bare hillside. What had happened to the tents and pavilions? Where were the men? And where was the prince? Maybe she had dreamt it all. But there on her arm was the golden bracelet. “If only it was just a dream,” she said to herself, “of tents and moonlit evenings and only a dream that my love has abandoned me and left!”

  The girl was too unhappy to live as before. She started walking away from her tree and down the hill. She kept on walking until she came to a traveled path where she met a Bedouin riding his donkey. She stopped him and said:

  “O Bedouin, Brother! Will you give me your clothes and your donkey in exchange for my bracelet of gold?” She thought to herself, “He can have the bracelet. I will keep the kiss.”

  The Bedouin agreed. So she dressed herself in the man’s clothes and rode his donkey following the traces of the prince’s party. When she caught up with the prince’s men none of them recognized her. Even when she rode abreast of the prince’s horse he did not know who she was. He said:

  “Tell me about your adventures on the road, O Bedouin, our brother!”

  She replied:

  “I saw a young woman, not very old,

  Her beauty a wonder to behold,

  On her wrist a bangle of purest gold.

  She was calling:

  ‘O my love, O people’s darling!

  Lover of wine and glasses clinking

  You left while I was sleeping.