by Judith Tarr
oOo
In the end they left Faranghi’s. They had drunk all the wine he would let them drink. Faranghi the miser, Faranghi the fool. They found a more generous seller. His wine was stronger. It made them wild. Hasan had lost his embroidered coat, his belt of gold set with lapis and silver, his dagger with the emerald hilt. His purse was thin and frail. They were drinking it dry, his fine friends, his brothers in the blood of the vine. Their faces blurred. Their names were all one. “Thirst,” he said to them. “I name you Thirst.” They laughed. Good fellows. They always laughed at a prince’s jest. Even a prince whom luck had made its fool. “Sharif, I am,” he sang. “Sharif, sharif, blessed and beloved, scion of the Prophet’s tree. A sharif should be above reproach. A sharif should be a perfect saint. A sharif should be—should be—”
“Generous!” they cried.
His hand was full of silver. He cast it into the air. It fell like rain. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tomorrow, no more. No more rain. No more silver. No more anything.”
They were sad with him. They wept with him. They drank the wine he bought for them to make them sadder still. Weeping, groaning dirges, they wove out into the night. More wine; they needed more wine. They looked at Hasan. His hand delved into his purse. It came up empty. “No more,” he said. “All gone.” He giggled through his tears. “All gone.”
All. Silver, wine, friends. All gone. He stood alone under a shopkeeper’s torch and laughed and wept. His feet carried him somewhere. Not home. There was no more home. His head floated among the stars. He sang in his voice that had broken into sweetness. “O my gazelle, O my fawn…”
No gazelles in the street tonight. No fawns with painted eyes. They were all gone away. But shadows there were in plenty. He smiled at them. “Come,” he sang to them. “Come into my embrace.”
They smiled back. They came. They circled. They closed.
2
It was most uncomfortable, this bed. Hard. Cold. Fetid. Foul, for a surety. Hasan shifted, gasped. White agony pierced him. His arm. His right arm. His face. His eyes—his—
He whimpered. It bubbled. He choked. Blood. His mouth was full of blood.
His mind was bitterly, mercilessly clear. The wine had abandoned it. It remembered little, but it could guess. He had been taken, stripped of all that his foolishness had left him, and beaten for that it was so little. Beaten badly. His arm was broken, perhaps. His face felt like nothing he knew. He could not see.
Allah! he wailed in the prison of his self. Take anything, take anything You please, but O Allah, I beg of You, leave me my eyes!
He could stand, though he keened with the pain of it. He could walk, after a fashion. Hobbling, staggering, clinging to walls. A grey light grew. He wept for joy. God had heard him. He could see.
He did not know where he was. He could not speak, to ask. Passers fled him. Beggars spat and kicked him, driving him away from them. Gates would not open to his feeble hammering. Sometimes he fell. He did something to his foot. He could not get up. He began to crawl. Forward. Into the waxing dawn. How strange: there was darkness in the heart of it. It opened to embrace him.
“Come,” a voice said. A warm voice, a beautiful voice, sweet as honey. “Come, poor child. Drink.”
He opened his eyes on paradise. Light supernal, heavenly sweetness, a houri’s face. A dark-eyed maiden, beautiful as the moon: angelic, perfect. She smiled. He died anew for love of her. “Drink,” she bade him.
The cup was silver. It brimmed with milk of paradise. He smiled, lost in bliss, and drank, and went down joyfully into the night.
oOo
“Come.” This voice was deep. It was, he supposed, not unbeautiful. It was nothing like an angel’s. “Drink,” it commanded him.
He heard; he obeyed. He gagged and choked and plummeted into wakefulness.
A man bent over him, a very human man. His beard was long and shot with grey; his face was thin, keen-nosed, with eyes both dark and deep; his turban was the green turban of a holy man, a Hajji, a pilgrim to Mecca. He met Hasan’s outraged stare with great serenity and said, “Ah, sir, my apologies. My medicines are not always as sweet to the taste as I could wish. Drink, I pray you, and be comforted. The bitterness bears healing in it.”
This was not the sort of man whom one disobeyed. Hasan drank, grimacing at the taste. The Hajji smiled. “Peace be upon you,” he said.
“Peace,” Hasan responded without thinking. It hurt, but he could speak. He was one great bruise. His arm was bound and aching fiercely. He was all too painfully alive. “Where—” he tried to say. “What—”
“You are in my house,” the Hajji said, “and you are not as sorely wounded as perhaps you fear. Your arm is badly bruised but not broken; the rest is but an ache or ten.”
Hasan’s hand went to his face. He did not want to ask for a mirror. The Hajji did not offer one.
“Bruises,” the old man said. “Your beauty is marred for a little while, but it will recover.”
Hasan sighed and closed his eyes. After a moment they opened again. The Hajji had not moved. “I owe you much,” said Hasan. “My—father—” He stumbled and stopped. He struggled to sit up. “How long have I been here?”
“Not long,” said the Hajji. “A day and a night have passed since Allah’s mercy brought you to our door.”
Hasan struggled harder, tangling in the bedclothes. The Hajji caught him with startling strength. He found himself flat again, motionless, well wrapped in blankets. “I shall send him word,” the Hajji said.
Hasan stilled in more than body. “No.” He had spoken before he thought. He said it again, with his mind behind it. “No. My thanks, but no. I dreamed—I had forgotten. I have no father.” The tears came of their own accord. “I have nothing. I am alone.”
Perhaps the Hajji would have spoken. Hasan turned his face away, squeezed his eyes shut. The man left him to weep in solitude.
He did not weep long. With no one to watch, there was no profit in it. Perhaps this was best. Let his father think he had run away. He could linger here, mend, and when he was mended, take his leave. Join a caravan. Wander far away. Redeem his sins, make a man of himself with no help from any bandit of a Bedouin; and come back at last, wealthy and strong, and show his father what in truth he was made of.
He slept fitfully. Once, when he woke, there was food beside him. He ate it.
He dreamed again of his houri. She was even more beautiful than before. She moved about him, tending him. Her hands were soft and light and very real. Her scent was musk and sandalwood.
Slowly it came to him. No houri, she. She was a living woman, but beautiful as any spirit of heaven. She was deft with him; she had no shyness. Drugged, half dreaming, he let her do as she would. Which was to tend his most intimate needs, and bathe him from head to foot, and change his bandages. She clothed him in a fresh bedgown; she drew up the coverlet. He smiled drowsily. She returned the smile. He caught her hand. That startled her, but she eased quickly.
“Stay,” he beseeched her. “Until I sleep.”
She stayed. She let him hold her hand, though it was cool in his own, neither responding nor resisting. He held it to his cheek. So comforted, he slept.
This, he knew, was morning. His body sang with it. His hurts were fading with miraculous swiftness. His head was clear. He sat up, and he was briefly dizzy, but he was strong. He stretched his good arm, arched his back. He yawned until his jaw cracked.
Somewhat gingerly he edged from the sleeping mat to the cool stone of the floor, gathered himself, rose. He reeled, steadied. He essayed a step; then another, growing stronger as he moved.
He circled the small room. He relieved himself in the basin that lay discreetly covered in a niche near the mat; he washed with water from the basin beside it. He counted bruises. They were hideous to see, greening as they healed, but the worst of the pain had passed.
He lay down again, light-headed with all he had done, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, she was there.
She had food for him. He let her feed him. His eyes feasted on her, but discreetly, through his long lashes. She was lightly clad: a chemise of fine linen, and under it thin drawers, and her drift of veil. None of it hid anything that mattered. She was a perfect beauty, deep-breasted, great-hipped, but slender between; her thighs were richly rounded, her calves a flawless curve, her feet slender and touched lightly with henna.
His blood was rising. Her eyes were bold, level as a man’s; they did not lower when he met them. He smiled. She blushed a little, charmingly, but she smiled in return. He drew a breath that caught. He was in love. He choked on a mouthful of gruel; she rose swiftly, bending. She was in his arms.
It was a torrent in him. It bore him all unresisting; it swept her with him. She struggled, startled: a gazelle, a fawn. She was no match for his lion’s strength. He laughed and set his lips on hers. She bit. He bit harder, Her hands clawed, raked. He snatched at her drawers. She twisted. Wondrous passionate, this slave of the Hajji. He took high delight in proving himself her master.
He paused only once. Astonished. He was the first ever to pass her gate. He broke it in exultation and cast it down. He made a woman of her.
He dropped from her at last, exhausted. She lay beside him. There was no fire left in her. He stroked her. She quivered. He smiled. “My beauty,” he said tenderly. “My beloved.”
White pain seared his cheek. He surged up in shock. She was out of his reach, pausing once in her swift flight, turning. Her eyes struck him more terribly than any slash of her nails. Black, burning, relentless hatred. But worse than that: contempt. She spat in his face.
oOo
He was up when the Hajji came, pacing, brooding on the incomprehensibility of women. Had he not offered her the greatest gift which he could offer? Had she not begged him in all but words to take her and be her lord? And what had she given him in return? Hate. Scorn. Bitter ingratitude.
“Allah be thanked,” he said, “that I was not born a woman.”
“It is a pity you were not.”
Hasan spun. He bowed as low as his hurts would allow, but his mind was not on it. His heart had shrunk and chilled. The Hajji’s face was ice and stone. “I regret,” said Hasan. “Honored master, I regret my error. I thought she loved me.”
“You thought nothing but that you lusted after her.”
“She is so beautiful,” Hasan said. “How could I help it?” The Hajji’s eyes were as coldly contemptuous as the woman’s had been. Hasan cried out in anger and in hurt. “Why do you look at me so? She’s only a slave!”
“She is not,” said the Hajji, harsh and cold. “She is my daughter.”
Hasan was struck dumb.
“Your name is known to me, Hasan al-Fahl. Hasan the Stallion, Hasan to whom all the laws of God and man are as nothing, whose only law is his own desire. You care not whom you destroy, if only you are sated.”
“She tempted me! She was alone with me. She touched me. She laid hands on my naked body.”
“We trusted you. Even you,” said the Hajji. “We thought that you were a man.”
“I am a man,” said Hasan. “Not a child or a eunuch or a stone.”
“A man rules his lusts. Only a beast would do as you have done: rise up in the mere presence of a female, and seize her, and rape her.”
“I am a man,” Hasan insisted. “A man.”
“A beast,” the Hajji said, immovable. “But a beast in human form, who knows the laws of hospitality, who breaks them with utter disregard for the consequences.”
“I thought she was a slave.”
“A man will touch nothing that is another’s, without his master’s leave. A man will ask at least a woman’s name before he forces himself upon her.” The Hajji’s mouth twisted in his beard, as if he choked on bile. “Why do I speak to you of humanity? You have none. I would destroy you like the dog you are, but you have eaten my bread and salt; and I, at the least, am a man. I cannot take the life of a guest. But you must pay for what you have done.”
Hasan humbled himself utterly: he bowed at the Hajji’s feet. He said, “I will serve you for as long as you ask it. I will take your daughter as my wife; I will labor to atone for my fault.”
“Indeed you shall labor, but never so lightly as you many hope. As for your wedding my daughter…” The Hajji laughed. Hasan shuddered at the sound of it. There was no mirth in it, no mercy. “Even if I would bestow my sole beloved jewel upon such a creature as you are, she will not have it. Unless,” he said, “she has you as her slave.”
“But a Muslim may not—”
“And a man entire most certainly may not.” The Hajji smiled at Hasan’s horrified comprehension. “No, young stallion; I think you do not wish to give yourself to my daughter.”
“Then—you will not—you will not—” Hasan was almost weeping in relief.
“I will not,” said the Hajji, “precisely.” He drew from his robe a thing most terrifying in its ordinariness: a string of beads such as the pious prayed on, ninety-nine amber droplets for the ninety-nine Names of God, and for the hundredth, the hidden Name, a bead of jade carved with the Seal of Suleiman.
The string fell upon Hasan’s shoulders. It was light, as amber always was: startling to one accustomed to the weight of simpler stones. And yet it held him as with chains. His eyes could move, but no more. They looked upon a face transformed. Humble no longer, nor simple, nor ever serene.
Oh, he had erred; erred beyond hope or help. This was no mere holy pilgrim, no poor saint scraping his austere living in the City of Victories. This was a great lord of the hidden arts. A sorcerer. A magus. A master of power.
He rose up in the mantle of it, august, suddenly terrible. He spoke names not meant for mortal ears to hear. He summoned beings whose very presence was madness. He wielded powers such as Hasan had never dared to dream of. He raised a tower of light above Hasan’s shrinking soul, and he called a mighty tribunal to judge this one who had sinned so grievously against him. Hasan’s eyelids were no defense. Faces out of dream and out of blackest nightmare branded themselves upon his brain. They were above even scorn. They were justice wholly, untempered with human weakness. They judged, they deliberated, they pronounced sentence.
“What your soul is,” the Hajji said, “what your deeds have made you, be.” He laid his hand on Hasan’s head. Light as air, weighty as worlds. “But lest you find contentment in the shape which is your soul, let this geas lie upon you. As all your life women have submitted to you, now shall you be fated to submit your inmost self to the will of a woman. Mute you must be, as a beast is mute, but once and only once, in true and potent need, may you speak with the voice of a man; and you shall die before you live again in that form in which you were born. In the Name of Allah, in the name of Muhammad who is His Prophet, in the name of Suleiman who ruled the races of men and Jinn, by all the power that has been granted me, so let it be. Inshallah!”
3
Every teller of tales in the bazaar told of magics such as this. None had ever warned that there was pain. He was torn asunder down to the very soul and made anew, and every bone that was reforged, he traced in lines of fire. He burned, he itched, he throbbed like one drawn on a rack. And he could not even scream. He had no mouth. His voice was air and agony.
Light smote him. He reeled, slipping, staggering. His feet clattered on tiles. He struggled to rise. His head struck stone. He toppled, crying out in fear that touched the edge of madness. No human voice smote his ears, but the scream of a stallion.
He lay gasping. The world was dim, distorted; there was too much of it all around him, and yet not quite enough. Twilight sight: flat, indistinct, such colors as there were muted or gone strange. But ears and nose took in wonders. He could hear
the very rush of blood in his veins; drink scents for which there was no human name. The stone of the floor breathed an air of…red, with brown, a little gold. The wall was silvered gold, with earth and lead and something dusty-sweet. The carpet…
Again he staggered. He was erect, but not erect. His hand stretched. A hoof pawed the carpet. His eyes peered down a long nose, a stream of white in dark-but-not-black. Red. Its scent was red. Like cedarwood: the color that was half of its essence. His head swung as no man’s could ever swing. Long mane, long body, red, all red. Horse, said the scent of it. Stallion. Stark and screaming terror. He fled. It followed, stumbling, tangling slender legs, skidding on stone, crashing into the wall. He leaned against it and trembled.
The man was sound and scent far more than sight. Soft tread, the whisper of a robe, the acrid catch in the throat that was humanity. To the eye he was a shadow filled with light, shimmering with magery.
Rage boiled. Hasan lunged.
He struck a wall of light. Bonds of light fell upon him. A hand settled burning between his eyes. “Peace,” said the Hajji in a voice as soft as wind in grass. Hasan’s wrath sank down. His body bowed to the will of the magus. To halter and lead that bade him follow; to magic that granted him grace to walk as a stallion should walk, and not to stumble like a newborn foal.
Enchanted, he could only accept. He could not marvel; no more could he rebel. The Hajji led him through the streets of his own city, and he found in them nothing that he knew. Something brushed his haunches; he had lashed out before he thought. The magus’ touch deepened the spell upon him. He drifted all but witless through a world of shadow and of sudden light.
His nostrils flared. Horses. A fragrance of paradise: mares. Far below thought where no spell could reach, he began to be afraid. This place at least he knew. The long lines of tethered horses; the awnings spread to shelter the elect of men and beasts. The horse-market of Cairo.