LOOKING OUT FROM A LUSH OASIS, RAYMEE SEES A SHIMMERING MIRAGE . From a palatial tent, Arabian musical tones float up the scale: e f g# a b c d# e and back down, caressing her ears.
She has seen mirages before, but this one captures her imagination.
Raymee swings between two gnarled trees, and she plucks a plump, sugary date from one of them, popping it into her mouth. A rare cloud begins to gather over the mirage, which slowly takes the shape of a man riding on a camel and steadily grows to the size of a mountain.
“Now what are you dreaming about, Raymee?” asks her cousin, Mumad.
Surprised, Raymee says, “My rescuer,” pointing to the mirage. “I see him riding across the dunes to take me away from this place, and make me his queen.”
“That is no savior, Raymee, you foolish girl; that is a treacherous sandstorm!” Mumad shouts.
Grabbing her hand, he quickly drags her to her father Abram’s tent. She pulls away, smacking at his hand, and instead runs toward the makeshift pen, where her horse whinnies in fear.
“No time to lose!” shouts Mumad. “A monstrous fury is fast upon us.” Mumad whirls around and chases the swift Raymee.
Abram shuffles to his ram’s horn and blows the warning as loud as he can. He wastes no time; he knows the dangers of a sandstorm, and that the fiercest winds can flay the skin from a man. His seven wives, forty-three children, nephew, and servants all head for the underground shelter. “Where’s Raymee?” shouts Abram. His gravelly voice is strained with panic — she is not only his loveliest daughter, but also his favorite.
“She is with Mumad, saving the animals,” replies Rayada, Raymee’s mother.
“Foolish child!” Abram swears. “You there,” he points at a servant, “bring her here. Your life is worthless — her life is precious as gold. Save her, or it’s your head on the morrow.” The servant he had commanded glares and takes off after Raymee, though his steps are not filled with urgency.
“My servants disappoint me,” Abram mutters, as he stands at the edge of their shelter and uneasily watches the sandstorm draw closer. His heart is pounding wildly by the time the servant finally drags Raymee to him; the first grains of sand are stinging Abram’s face as he pulls her below ground, Mumad at their heels.
“My child,” he lectures, “do not risk your life like that again. If the goats and ponies perish in the storm, I will buy you two more for every one that falls. You are far more precious than a bag of bones!”
As he lights a torch to illuminate the shadowy chamber, he sees scores of scorpions scurry into the four corners. He gestures again at the servant who had brought Raymee from the stables. “Spear those and roast them,” he says. “These storms sometimes last for days — I won’t have us using our stores before it’s necessary.” Once the scorpions are roasted, and crunching fills the chamber, Abram picks up where he had left off during the last storm, reading the famous tale of One Thousand and One Arabian Nights. Abram breaks off from the text about the genie and says, “We have our own Genie! Does anyone know who?”
“Raymee is the only girl with eyes like dewy violet flowers,” Mumad speculates.
“Yes, she is our Genie, because the Caliph of Mecca will grant us three wishes of our hearts’ desire, for her hand in marriage.”
“Hooey! How can that be,” asks Raymee, “since he has not seen me, and I do not wish to marry him? Does he know that I eat scorpions?”
Mumad, ignoring Raymee’s sarcasm, says, “I overheard that merchant, Danglars, tell Uncle that he has travelled the world over, and has never seen eyes the color of violets — like wet flowers. The ugly merchant said that the Caliph of Mecca would probably give half his kingdom, once he laid his own eyes on such a rare beauty. If you have to marry him, make your three wishes thus: ‘Grant me unlimited wishes; free me to choose my own husband (yours truly); and recognize the Bedouin as tax free and sovereign.’ ”
“Those are noble wishes, Mumad, but I will marry neither that Caliph nor you,” says Raymee. “I will marry only for love.”
“Danglars will be back here with the Caliph’s advisor tonight, to give his opinion,” says Abram. “If the sandstorm has blown its course and they do arrive, we must give our answer. They will come bearing gifts and supplies, and they will not want to be kept waiting.”
“Father, will you allow me to become his prisoner? A Caliph’s harem is a prison. I love this nomadic life, and I want to find my own husband, or perhaps never marry. Will Caliph Saad allow me to hunt rabbit and quail with my falcon? No! But this is what I love to do. I refuse to be trapped, to be nothing more than an ornament!”
“Daughter, will you marry the Caliph for the welfare of your family?”
“Yes, Father, I will — I will take his hands and say the vow that binds us for eternity. Just know that before he can force himself on me, I will escape the nuptial bed and travel to a land where women are free.”
“That is not the way of our people, and you will dishonor us,” says Abram. It pains him to think of his daughter being unhappy, but there is the good of the family to think of.
“Father, you dishonor me by selling me for supplies and presents. Do gold and silk so harden your heart against me? Are material possessions more important than my happiness?”
“Sell you! God forbid”
“Call it what you like, but to me the marriage contract will be a sales contract and me, your property, being sold.”
“Daughter, you are very young, so you do not yet understand. After you are married with children of your own, you will realize that I have done this to bless you, and you will be a joyous queen.”
“No, Father! An imprisoned queen is neither full of joy, nor sovereign. She is little better than an animal, for she has no more rights than one.”
“Where do you get these strange ideas?” asks Abram.
“From the books you have read to us, Father. And from being an intelligent woman. As Hamlet says, ‘I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.’ My nightmare is being a queen, Father! A trapped, powerless woman.”
“O daughter, your rare eyes are surpassed only by the rareness of your intellect. Nevertheless, you overreact. Your sisters would love to trade places with you and become the wives of sovereigns.”
“Then tell the Caliph he may have my twenty-one sisters,” says Raymee. “And let me be.”
Abram responds, “They will all dance for his advisor tonight, as will you; and then he will pick the one who most pleases him. If it is you, then you must marry him.”
“I will not dance for just anyone,” retorts Raymee.
The sounds of the wailing winds slowly die down over the next few hours, and finally Abram, his family, and his servants emerge from their shelter. The sandstorm has inflicted only minor damage, and the livestock is unharmed. Joyous at having escaped the devilish storm largely unscathed, all begin preparations for the evening entertainment.
At dusk, the Caliph’s advisor arrives with Danglars. After exchanging Salem-a-lakems, Abram introduces the travelers to his favorite daughter. Holding his hand open toward the gentlemen, he says, “This is the Caliph’s advisor, Dr. Omar, and the merchant, Mr. Danglars.”
Abram motions to Raymee to remove her veil, and she reluctantly does so, revealing glowing golden skin, a cupid’s pout, and astoundingly violet eyes. “Excellencies, I’m proud to introduce to you my beautiful daughter, Raymee. Are her eyes not as dazzling as you could have imagined?”
Omar says, “Seeing is believing; Danglars impressed upon us the otherworldliness of her beauty; but never having seen a violet flower, it was hard to visualize the color he described. Danglars, I must say, you did not exaggerate her beauty, and you will be rewarded generously.”
“As I predicted,” says Danglars, thanking Omar for his appreciation.
Abram smiles, pleased with how the conversation is proceeding, but his smile fades as Raymee speaks out of turn. “Can you place a value on me now? How mu
ch am I worth?” she demands.
The three men look at each other, dumbfounded. None can look Raymee in the eye.
“The Caliph could have my twenty-one sisters for the same price you set on me. Am I truly worth so much? And Mr. Danglars, what is your commission for finding me?”
Abram, embarrassed, responds, “You may judge the talents of my other daughters, who are ready to dance for you after the feast. One of them may please the Caliph as well.”
“Are you sure this girl is a virgin?” Dr. Omar whispers to Danglars, his voice filled with embarrassment at broaching such a delicate subject. “I’ve never heard any girl so outspoken.”
“If the Caliph wants to unravel the mystery of my virginity, he will have to first win my heart; but he shall have my love only after I turn his heart into my slave,” proclaims Raymee.
Abram’s face turns bright red as he says, “Noble gentlemen, please don’t be dismayed at my daughter. I have indulged her mind far too much, and filled her brain with fairy tales. Let’s now enjoy the entertainment and refreshments, and we will discuss our true business at a later hour.”
After the dancing begins, Raymee crawls into her hiding place behind the tent, a habit she began twelve years earlier at the age of five, and one that allows her to hear all of her father’s conversations.
Raymee almost breaks out laughing when she hears the men discussing how shocked they are at her feisty words, and she giggles at their attempts to repeat them verbatim.
Her attention is caught by Danglars’ stories about the Count of Monte Cristo; she has heard of the book and been eager to read it. She hears him say, “And I know ’tis true, because I was a part of it. It happened just as Dumas says. Since the book was written, this Monte Cristo has emerged as the Sultan of Albania; but he isn’t any ordinary sultan, as he lets Haydee, his sultana, run the country while he travels the world, up and down the silk routes, from there to China, where he feasts upon exotic delicacies, such as bird nests. I’ve heard he is currently staying at a caravanserais in Turkey, headed in this direction to meet his Majesty, King Saad. His second wife, Mercedes, who I met when they were children, demanded and was granted a monopoly on growing and producing hemp, which I have samples of here.” Then Danglars hands the samples and a copy of that famous book to Abram and says, “Please accept these gifts, although I wonder if you should read that book to your daughter, Raymee. It seems she has enough ideas for a woman; don’t fill her head with any more.”
“Thank you,” says Abram, “I will read it with great interest, knowing that you are a part of the story. And I will be sure to keep it from Raymee. You are right, she knows too much for a young woman.”
“What is this delicious, fatty meat?” asks Danglars, who has by now dug into his plate with enthusiasm.
“I am pleased you like it,” says Abram. “It is a specialty of ours — the hump of the camel.”
Danglars chokes, as if he is trying to keep his food down.
“Would you like to try our roasted scorpions?” Abram asks. “They are quite tasty, as well.”
“No, thank you,” says Danglars firmly, “I'm quite full now. Let’s discuss Raymee’s bridal price. We want to be fair.”
“Gentlemen, there appears to be a complication,” says Abram. “My daughter has solemnly requested that she be given a year to decide; and she would like the Caliph to visit her here before that year is up.”
Raymee gasps, and then covers her mouth with her hand, hoping they have not heard her. She has requested no such thing — her heart warms, as she realizes her father is trying to delay her marriage day to preserve her happiness, even if for only a short time.
“This is unheard of,” says Dr. Omar, “and a great insult. The Caliph will not be treated like this.”
“Please do not make any decision in haste,” Danglars says. “We can do this the way it is done in France, with Abram signing a contract betrothing Raymee to the Caliph, with the terms of the contract and the date of the wedding set for one year. What are your demands for the dowry?”
“I’m thinking fifty of each of the following: camels, bags of salt, and bushels of dried fruits, grain, spices, and coffee.”
“Is that all?” asks Danglars.
“Not in one day, but spread out over ten years,” answers Abram. “To provide prosperity for my family, should something happen to me.”
Omar says to Danglars, “Draft the agreement,” and adds, “I believe his Majesty will sign that contract.”
As he is preparing to leave the next morning, Dr. Omar is approached by Raymee, who requests that her private letter be delivered to Caliph Saad. Inside, it reads: “If you really want to take my hand in marriage, and for me to become a willing bride, you must write to me a letter, stating why you would be a good husband, and how you can make me happy. I understand the advantages of being a queen, but for me, that is not enough — you must persuade me in a different manner.”
“O clever daughter, what did you write?” asks Abram.
Answering his question with her own, Raymee says, “Do you think that charlatan will open my letter?”
“Why would he invade your privacy? He seems an honorable man.”
“He is a poor man pretending to be rich. Can’t you see how desperate he is to sell me, to earn his finder’s fee? You have to admit, though, that he has shown himself to be a shrewd man by creating imaginary value out of the color of my eyes,” replies Raymee.
“I have a surprise that I know you will love, Raymee.”
Pretending not to know, Raymee shows great excitement when Abram presents a book larger than the Koran.
“Will you start reading this book to us tonight, Abba? We don’t need to finish Arabian Nights for the umpteenth time, do we?” Raymee asks.
“Yes, tonight, my bold and fearless daughter, we will begin.”
“Are you sure it is good for a girl like me?” Raymee asks slyly. “It may give me ideas.”
Abram smiles and winks at her, acknowledging that the two of them now share a secret.
Night by night they work their way through the new book, until finally a messenger arrives with a letter from Caliph Saad.
Raymee grabs the letter and runs to read it in private. It starts: “Greetings of Peace and Joy, dear Raymee. Like you, I love stories, and those stories have enabled me to travel the world without leaving my palace here in Mecca. I wrote a poem for you about how melancholy this autumn is, as I wait to meet you; and although you have never experienced it, I trust you have heard stories of how leaves turn from green to hues of gold, brown, tan, yellow, and red, as the year draws to a close. Have you imagined how strange and beautiful that metamorphosis must be to behold? The poem I wrote for you is entitled ‘Melancholic Autumn,’ and is dedicated to my love for you.
‘Good morning sadness
Sadness is a friend of melancholy
You know the road that will take you to happiness
So that you will not be sad or melancholic anymore
November — the month colorful autumn leaves are all around
The first snow falls fresh and light
Like your soft face
Your cheeks on the first cold morning
Red like the roses in May
The description of your visage is always near my heart
You are still a young suave girl
With eyes like wet violets
Your hair is autumn red
But your visage is not melancholic like autumn
Yet like the smile of paradise
Sweet and suave like Venus of the ocean
A sweet divine creature
Made of strawberry milk and petals of rose flowers
Perfumed with spring air
As autumn returns every year
It seems less melancholic with you on my horizon
Yet calmer and happier
The winter, spring time and summer are good friends of autumn
The other seasons will be happy to welcome aut
umn’s smile again
No more melancholic autumns for me.’ ”
Raymee looks up from her letter, exuberant, as she hears a messenger telling of the Albanian Sultan’s famous caravan heading for Mecca, expected to pass by Abram’s oasis.
“Have you met this Sultan of Albania?” asks Raymee, tossing her letter aside.
“Yes!” exclaims the messenger. “You can’t believe his inventions, or the dramatic performances his entourage puts on nightly. It is the very height of entertainment.”
An idea takes root in her mind, and taking her father aside, Raymee says, “Father, I have already begun to make the Caliph’s heart my slave.” She retrieves her letter and hands it to her father.
Abram reads the letter and is astonished at how Raymee has been able to bend the powerful Caliph to her will; and he is further astonished when Raymee drops her next great idea.
“I think I’d rather marry the Sultan of Albania. If he comes here, can you make that proposal?”
“How can I?” Abram asks. “I already signed the contract for your betrothal.”
“But Father, can’t you find an excuse? Maybe the Sultan will give a better dowry, and make a better husband. With this Sultan of Albania, Sinbad the Sailor, I will not be a prisoner. I have heard how he treats his women, and they have their own sovereignty.”
Abram replies, “You may not like him; and I may never see you again, if you go all the way off into that foreign land. Besides, he might not be greedy like the Caliph, and may be quite happy enough with his current wives. We have no Danglars to sell him on the rareness of your beauty.”
“Leave it to me, Father, my intuition will know the way to his heart.”
“Daughter, the book might not be true, or the man may have changed.”
Raymee ignores his warning, as is her headstrong way. “Father, please send out scouts to make sure he doesn’t avoid us on his way to Mecca. Did you hear that Sultan Sinbad has a floating city waiting for him at Jappa? That is the Iblis ship he is said to have commandeered from the famous pirate, Medusalocks; and he has turned it into a luxurious yacht so big that it is like a small city. I’m dying to see it.”
Book II Count IX:
DESERT OASIS HOT SPRINGS
The Sultan of Monte Cristo: First Sequel to The Count of Monte Cristo Page 9