Dunya still was not peaceful. She began to wonder about who Zahra really was, and why she had been sent to help her. When Zahra returned, she did not hurry to the brazier, as she had done before. Instead she went to the ewer of cold water, and began to wash something.
Dunya, when she approached, found another baby, a second boy, who smelled strongly of smoke and coughed up a storm. Dunya observed, “I see you have given the Sultan another son.”
Zahra smiled.
“Another son of the steppes?” Dunya asked.
“This boy comes from the seaside. But even cities by water must beware fire.” Zahra continued to wash the boy.
“Does he come from the same city as Morgiana?” Dunya asked.
“That matters no longer. Now, he is a Prince.”
The Sultan was equally pleased with the gift of a second son. Another feast was announced, another celebration held throughout the land, for the succession was doubly secure.
All this time, Zahra’s stories spun out, linking each night to the next one with magic and poetry.
The seasons turned and the round of festivals never ceased. Soon it was the Feast of the Sacrifice once again, three years to the day that Dunya and Zahra had wed the Sultan.
Dunya arranged the festivities, from the feast to be shared with the poor, to the fireworks imported from China, to dance in the night sky. On the day of the festival itself, the Sultan’s two sons were presented to him, in his wives’ presence. Dunya was glad to see how they thrived. The Sultan, for his part, greeted them stiffly.
After midnight, when they retired to the bedchamber, the Sultan spoke of the little boys, but not with affection.
“I looked for sons and found milksops,” he said to his wife. “I’ll see them become soldiers, mark my words, not boys clinging to their nurse’s skirts.”
Dunya could not keep silent at this. She interrupted, saying, “All of their maids and tutors say that they’re both clever and loving. Surely, my lord, you can let them remain children for a little time?”
He dismissed her with a wave of his hand, still scowling. Gracefully Zahra changed the subject.
“My lord,” she said, “by my tally, today is a great anniversary. The moon sees the one thousand and first night since we were wed, and I began my tales. Excluding, of course, your excursions to hunt lions.” She drew out, from an ebony chest, a bottle of green glass, and showed it to the Sultan.
“I presume to offer,” she said, “A vintage that I laid down the night that we were wed.”
The Sultan laughed darkly. “You thought you should live to see another day? Not one in a hundred of my Sultanas had such happy odds.”
Zahra quietly said, “I do not forget. Not even one of them. I clung to hope, my lord. As I do now.”
The Sultan laughed and bade her never run out of tricks.
Zahra poured two glasses of wine, and sipped at hers. As the Sultan drank, Zahra finished the tale that she had begun a week prior, a strange and dream-like tale of a woman who escaped the gaze of a basilisk by smoking powdered poppy seed and looking into a black mirror.
Then, Zahra proposed another tale.
“Tell it, by all means,” said the Sultan, “If your head likes the neck on which it sits.”
“Once,” Zahra began, “there was a princess whose hair was like gold and silver as it cascaded down her back. Her smile was the smile of the rose, and her heart was as a lotus, overflowing and offering to all. Her name was Farizad.”
The Sultan almost choked on his wine.
Dunya kept her composure, despite her fear. For Farizad was the name of the Sultan’s first wife, the wife who had betrayed him, the wife who had always been kind to Dunya when she was nothing but a neglected daughter.
“Farizad had all the learning that befits a princess, she had all the graces that befit a woman, but she lacked one thing: parents who loved her. Her parents instead had a mind for fortunes, and for titles, and for how much gold they could amass to line their coffins when they died. They sought to acquire more, unaware of the gift they already possessed.
“One day, a terrible creature came to their house. This creature promised the parents precious metals and as many titles as they could wish, if they would give him their daughter, with gold and silver hair.
“I am sad to say, the parents did not hesitate an instant before handing her over. Farizad’s mother told her to bear the creature’s wrath with grace; her father told her to bear sons.
“There was a grand wedding, but Farizad quaked when she sat beside her new husband, for he could…”
“Halt, halt!” the Sultan said. “I know this tale. She came to love the creature after seeing the way he tended to his garden of roses. With her love the spell came undone, and the creature was revealed to be a handsome prince. I am grown wise to your tricks, wife—you’ve told this story before!”
“This is not that kind of story,” Zahra replied, her voice flat. Her eyes dared the Sultan to interrupt again.
The Sultan, taken aback, said nothing. Finally it was Dunya who asked Zahra to continue.
“The creature that had claimed Farizad for his bride was most terrifying, for only she could see his true shape. He had the power to disguise himself and take human form. To all others, he appeared the very zenith of courtly manners and valiant courage. He appeared, in fact, as a Sultan.”
“What filth are you uttering?” the Sultan demanded. But Zahra did not stop.
“Farizad toiled, day and night, to be kind, to be patient, to be obedient, as her mother had told her. She tried to calm her husband, to nurture some seed of goodness within him, but she met with nothing but wrath and greed, and a delight in the pain of others. The people loved her, for she was kind to all, even to unwanted step-daughters, but the walls of her bedchamber echoed with weeping, more nights than I care to tell.
“One day an embassy arrived from an African empire. The empire was rich with gold, and its emperor was eager to forge alliances with other nations, especially those that heed the word of our beloved Prophet. To this end, he gifted a squadron of soldiers to the monster-Sultan as a token of friendship, delivering men as though they were animals. Twelve soldiers, drilled to perfection, and brave as steel, became part of the Sultan’s household. Proud of them, the monster made half of them his own bodyguards, and half of them his wife’s.
“These soldiers were each well-favored, with skin like flawless ebony and eyes keen with intelligence. But one soldier, assigned to Farizad’s protection, was kind-hearted as well. Over time, Farizad began to welcome him as a friend, and then fell in love with him.
“Despite their wisdom, the worries of Farizad’s ladies-in-waiting, and the warnings of the man’s brothers-in-arms, the two indulged in their love, seeing it as a gift from Allah, sent to relieve their sorrow. The exiled soldier, the miserable Sultana. But they were careless, and one night Farizad’s husband, the monster, found them making love. He raised his claw and—”
“Slew them!” the Sultan cried, getting to his feet. “He slew them like the animals that they were, the ungrateful swine, the scum of the earth! He granted her a clean death, better than she deserved! How dare you speak that woman’s name in my presence? How dare you?”
“I only tell the tale, your Majesty,” Zahra replied.
“You understand nothing, you feeble-minded, simpering woman. Your bag of tricks is emptied at the last. See me as a monster…” The Sultan strode across the room, pacing it like a caged animal, glaring at Zahra with eyes full of fury. “I am merciful to you, am I not? I stay my hand, I spare your life. From one border to another my subjects proclaim my piety!”
For the first time, Dunya raised her voice to the Sultan. She said to him, “Your name is uttered in fear and hatred by your subjects. Be quiet again, and let Zahra finish.” She turned to Zahra, and asked, “What happened to them? To Farizad and the soldier?”
Zahra waited a few moments before answering as sh
e re-arranged her veils around her. Finally she said, “I took them.”
Dunya was nearly as confused as the Sultan was. When asked to explain, Zahra said, “I took them. You cut Farizad through her heart, and you beheaded the soldier, Chemharu, on the spot, and I took them away to where you could never hurt them again. That is as far as their story goes; I can tell no more. Sultan, why not have more wine?”
In the silence that followed, Dunya asked, “Zahra, who are you?”
The Sultan said, “The Sultana must not utter blasphemies.”
Zahra looked up at him and said, “What blasphemy?”
“What blasphemy? It must be blasphemy, to lie to a Sultan, to tell him one distracting story after another, and for what? To save your head? And what do you mean, you took them away?”
“I was sent here,” Zahra answered. “I was sent here by the Judge. I hovered long over this Kingdom, taking bride after bride. I took women who wept, women who forgave the men ordered to kill them, brides who dared Allah to claim their fiery souls. On and on, until the Merciful One sent me to you in this form, to stop the sacrifice, and see if my wisdom could calm your heart. One thousand and one chances have you had. I hoped for your salvation; if your heart softened, my eyes would be keenest to find it. But, I grieve to say, your heart is not calmed. I have been to you a loving, faithful wife, yet still you hold the sword above my head.”
“But who are you?” the Sultan cried. Dunya, her soul filled with awe, had already guessed. She knelt, silent, and watched.
Zahra’s black veils lifted around her, carried up as if in a great wind, until they seemed to flap and stretch of their own volition. And the threads of silver in the black glinted, and the glints widened until they became eyes, blinking in the smoke of the brazier. Zahra seemed to grow taller and lovelier still, until the eye hurt to behold her.
“I am an Angel of Allah, the Watchful, the Judge,” she said, “I am the Angel of Death. And I pass sentence upon you.”
Dunya bowed to the floor, hiding her eyes. There was a roaring like a mighty wind, and a feeling of terror and awe and wonder… and then silence. When Dunya raised her head, Zahra was gone. The Sultan lay stretched on the bed. His body was unmarked but completely still. His eyes, open, stared at nothing, with no anger or life.
Dunya reached over and closed his eyes, and then, not having a better choice, called for the guards.
She knew that it looked irredeemable, herself standing alone over the Sultan’s dead body, but this was her place in the world. If she must die for it, then she would, and hope the Kingdom did not suffer.
But when the bodyguards entered, they saw that the Sultan’s body had no markings, and Dunya had no weapons. They were, she realized, the same black men that had frightened her when she arrived; the men who had lost a brother-in-arms to the Sultan’s wrath.
Perhaps that explained their reluctance to find a murderer, or a weapon, or a cause. The next morning the captain of the guard declared, to the viziers, that the wine must have been poisoned. While the rest of the palace awoke to panic, the captain of the guard knelt before Dunya. His men followed.
“Lady,” the captain said, “we do not presume to know the workings of the Most High, but you have been given to us as a Sultana, delivering our lives from the horror of that man. We pledge our loyalty to you, Dunya-zhade, she who delivers the world.”
Dunya, accepted their fealty, with grace.
Now that the sun rose, she faced Mecca and said her prayers.
She then went to the nursery, where she found the two little Princes, and played with them for a while. Their liveliness relieved her mind of the terrible burden, the memory of the brightness and terror that Zahra had revealed in those last few moments. Dunya was full of wonder, and fear, but being with the two little boys put her at peace.
The nursery door opened, and Dunya’s father entered. She had only seen him look so worried on the night before he had brought her to the palace harem.
“Dunya,” he said to her, “the Sultan is dead, and his other wife—that Zahra—has fled. What do you know of this matter?”
Dunya looked at him, and felt no fear. “I know that she took him.”
“She took him? Talk sense! His body is lying there stinking up the bedroom. Where did she go?”
“Honored father,” Dunya said, “You would not believe me even if I told you.”
The Vizier bowed his head, and Dunya realized, for the first time, how old he was. “The death of the Sultan,” he said to her, “does not grieve me… the succession is clear, there will be no war, and the man was mad. But I am afraid that that woman who murdered him will return, to kill you. And the Kingdom needs you.”
Dunya got to her feet, guided him to look at her, and said to him, “Do not be afraid. Zahra will not return to this palace again.”
Her father wavered, then nodded, accepting her word. He invited her to a meeting of the viziers. Dunya said she would attend as soon as the little princes were bedded for their naps.
When she arrived at the throne room, she found the viziers waiting for her in respectful silence. They discussed the situation of the Sultanate, but not for long. The succession was clear: the throne would pass to the eldest son, with Dunya ruling as his Regent until he came of age. And the viziers followed the oaths of the Mali Empire soldiers with pledges of their own, of loyalty and of peace.
And so, Dunya, the unwanted stepdaughter, became the ruler of the great Arabian Kingdom. As Regent, she took on the name of Dunyazade, given to her by the guardsmen, who remembered their fallen brother, their slain Sultana, and each woman condemned to death.
One night, a few months after the Sultan’s passing, Dunya was reading late into the night, alone in her bedchamber. She enjoyed being alone, away from the courtiers and the never-ending demands of the Kingdom. One day she might invite someone to share her bedchamber, but she was yet young, and her life was long. She could allow herself to enjoy solitude.
A cold wind blew in the window, extinguishing the candles. Dunya took the nearest one to the brazier to re-light it, but there was already someone there.
The dark veils moved away, and Dunya saw Zahra, the Angel of Death. Almost as marvelous were the snowflakes that spiraled off of her veils as she shook them off.
Then, Dunya remembered her courtesy. “It is lovely to see you,” she said. “I did not think we would meet again.”
“Oh, little sister, you should not have lost faith.” Zahra answered, sitting closer to the brazier. “It is lovely to see you, too.”
Dunya thought of all the questions she had, and how many of them were not exactly fitting questions for a mere mortal to ask. But she did have one. “Are you really the Angel of Death?”
Zahra smiled. “I am an Angel of Death. There are many—the world is wide, after all.”
“You’ve really been watching over me since I was born?”
“Since the day I took your mother away.”
After hesitating, Dunya asked, “Do you know what my mother meant, when she named me Dunya?”
Zahra’s smile faded. “The world is a complicated place. It is a complicated name. I hope you know that your mother loved you very much. She was also wise, for her age. She knew that you might not travel far. That your world would be restricted to the men you would marry, and the sons you would bear. But she hoped that, despite the place you were given, your heart and your mind would expand to welcome all, and to be as rich as the world.”
Dunya did not trust herself to speak. Then she remembered something.
“What do you have in your cloak?”
“You are not the only one I watch over.” Zahra drew aside the veils from the bundle she was holding, and Dunya gasped. The Angel of Death carried a living baby, a tiny girl with snowflakes on her hair. She stirred as the angel drew her nearer to the fire.
“Do you think you are ready to be a mother a third time over?” Zahra asked.
“I a
m not sure I have been a wonderful mother to the first two boys…” Dunya answered. Then the little girl began to cry, and Zahra handed her to Dunya.
“Just calm the child,” Zahra said. Dunya obeyed her, hesitantly but warming to the baby in her arms. “She is a daughter of the mountains. The wind carries stories from all over the world to the peaks; she will crave stories, when she gets a little older. Tell them the stories you hold in your heart.”
“Them?” Dunya asked.
“Yes. Her, and her brothers.”
“Alone?”
“Only if you wish.” Zahra sat back and looked at Dunya’s face, with fondness and pride, and then said, “We will meet again.” And she vanished.
Dunya lay the baby on her bed, and re-lit the candles. She held the girl-child in her arms, and wondered whether to name her after her own mother, or after her kind grandmother, or after Morgiana or Shirin or poor Farizad.
First would come the issue of how to explain to the viziers that she had, to the surprise of all, given the little Sultan a sister…
But then, when the children were old enough, to listen and to gain wisdom, she would tell them the stories of her elder sister, Zahrazhade, the clever, the beautiful, the irresistible.
In the meantime… she had to care for her family, her city, and her world.
Inspirations & Influences
My first encounter with the tale of Scheherazade came in the book Play Me a Story: A Child’s Introduction to Ballet by Jane Rosenberg. Rosenberg wrote the book to introduce children to classical music, in the form of rich illustrations and evocative poems. Her poem and illustration of Scheherazade was inspired by a symphonic poem written by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov in 1888, right at the height of Orientalism in Europe. I, as a little reader, didn’t know any of this, of course. All that I knew about Scheherazade was that Rosenberg’s short poem enchanted me.
This is an excerpt:
On the one thousand and first night,
Scheherazade said,
“My King, I have no more tales to tell.
“I am ready to die.”
The Ninety-Ninth Bride Page 3