Despite the calamities this improperly posed equestrienne claimed to have suffered at the hands of the now-absent wizard, the master of this misty landscape was unable to concentrate on the torrent of words tumbling like a waterfall from her lips. For his attention had been claimed by what lay beneath the uplifted hem of the foreign Shahzadi’s nightdress—as had been the attention of every man in his riding party, save for the slender, falsetto-voiced one who was summoned nightly to entertain the royal sons in their private apartments. It must surely be more fragrant than any flower in this meadow! mused the ruler, a powerful shiver shaking his stalwart form. In a strangled tone, he commanded his followers to locate the fiendish sorcerer and escort him to the palace dungeon. Clearly disgruntled, the men galloped off to carry out their detested orders, leaving their leader and the provocatively tethered horsewoman alone.
Without the watchful presences of others upon him, the ruler had taken to drifting with subtle stealth nearer and nearer the ebony horse and its solitary female rider, whereupon Shams al-Nahar began to writhe against the hard surface of the saddle with renewed excitement. Indeed, it appeared that her royal liberator did not act with any particular haste toward releasing her from her bonds. Although propriety demanded that she bid him to let down the hem of her garment, the Shahzadi held her tongue.
“And what might you have there to show me, my lady?” inquired the ruler, the intensity of his gaze making his point of reference unmistakable.
The Shahzadi flushed hotly, as did the object of his interest, which actually seemed to flourish with the ruler’s attentions, putting forth a series of come-hither twitches—a phenomenon Shams al-Nahar had yet to experience even under the dutiful ministrations of her two slaves. Of course, she did not consider it at all appropriate to respond to such an inquiry, therefore she continued to remain silent, hoping that this seeming rescuer would accept her reticence as a sign of acquiescence.
Thusly encouraged, the ruler inclined his turbaned head toward the exaggerated junction of the Shahzadi’s thighs, the discerning tip of his nose grazing the velvety tip that thrust boldly upward to meet him. His stiff black mustache tickled the shell-like surroundings, whose lustrous pink had been forced into the open by a pair of outstretched knees. As he embarked upon a leisurely nuzzle of this distinctly foreign terrain, several droplets of moisture adhered to the waxed hairs on his upper lip, and he licked them furtively away, reveling in their nectarous sweetness.
Shams could feel the twin breaths from the ruler’s nostrils blowing warmly upon her, followed by their sudden reversal as they drew in the surrounding air, taking with it the fragrance of her arousal. “Please, your Majesty, I am already promised to the Sultan’s son,” she appealed shakily, the sensation of those stiff black hairs on his upper lip stealing away what little remained of her composure. For the ruler’s nose was significantly larger than that of her dear Kamar.
Without warning, the mustachioed ruler drew forth his golden saber and sliced cleanly through the belt keeping the Shahzadi bound to the ebony horse. Rather than allowing her to go free, he seized her bodily and heaved her atop the saddle of his steed, taking care that the hem of her garment remained as before—rolled up to her waist. “And now you are promised to me!” he bellowed, roaring with laughter as wicked as that of the sorcerer who had stolen Shams al-Nahar from the young Shahzada. Holding her imprisoned within one powerful arm, the ruler brought his great thighs down over hers so that they were kept as deliciously parted as when he had first encountered her. Their pale inner flesh had already forgotten the luxurious memory of her slave girls’ diligently laving tongues. Now they only experienced the coarse licking of the wind.
In this manner they galloped off, followed by two trusted members of the riding party who had returned to the meadow to fetch the magic horse. Approaching the fortified walls encircling the palace, the ruler shouted out orders for the household to commence wedding preparations. Indeed, the land would rapidly be abuzz with comment, a good many people having witnessed the shocking spectacle of the beautiful Shahzadi being paraded through the streets with her thighs held open and the lusty emblem of pink at their crossroads pointing the way like a defiant finger. With the eyes of hundreds of men and women burning between them, Shams al-Nahar experienced a deep thrumming in the place that had attracted so much public interest—a thrumming that reached all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes, curling them tightly into themselves. Within moments the Shahzadi would be bucking wildly about on the saddle. A tiny vermilion pearl formed on her lower lip as she bit through the flesh, the tooled red hide beneath her becoming hot and slippery with her private pleasure as her ears devoured the ruler’s crude words. If only her beloved Kamar could have spoken to her like that!
Despite her present abductor’s apparent gift for verbiage, it did not take long for Shams to realize just how tedious life would be to find herself wedded to this hulking tyrant upon whose horse she had ridden and in whose household his slave girls possessed the faces of boars. Therefore she devised a scheme in which to delay the taking of vows and, in the process, spare herself from being subjected to the daily, if not hourly, interrogation of the ruler’s great hair-fringed nose. Thus it happened that the Shahzadi refused all food and drink, preferring to spend her days hurling about in a maddened fit until the ruler would at last be forced to release her. So successful was this performance that not only did he postpone the marriage ceremony, he refused to permit his dejected nostrils to graze anywhere near his stolen betrothed’s fragrant attributes. Not even the household’s finest slave girls could calm the feral Shahzadi. No sooner did they enter her room than she bit them, taking pleasure in the shrieks of terror she inspired. Determined not to become a topic of ridicule for his people, the ruler next summoned a succession of doctors, although he feared her condition to be beyond cure.
All the while, a grief-stricken Kamar al-Akmar had been wandering far and wide in search of his beloved Shams. Everywhere he went, he made inquiries, hoping that someone might have seen her riding the ebony horse with the old sage. Why, he dared not ponder what evils might have befallen her at the sorcerer’s filthy hands. Stopping briefly to partake of food and drink at a small inn, he heard talk of the sudden and inexplicable illness of the ruler’s recent betrothed—a beautiful young Shahzadi who had the petal of a rose growing out from the meeting place of her thighs. All who had been out and about on the afternoon the ruler had ridden through the streets with her had viewed it, the gentleman having gone to great pains to keep the hem of her garment raised. One might imagine that he should have desired to keep such matters a secret lest a competitor throw down his glove in challenge. But, being of a rather advanced age, the ruler wished to flaunt his good fortune by offering conspicuous evidence of his youthfulness and virility.
Hearing this strange and remarkable tale, Kamar knew at once that the demented Shahzadi was none other than Shams al-Nahar. Filled with renewed hope, he hastened to the ruler’s palace and presented himself as a doctor who could cure the Shahzadi’s mysterious illness. “I have repaired the broken minds of many,” boasted the Shahzada, his newly sharpened saber twitching in its sheath with the desire to pierce the heart of this recent thief who had stolen his near-bride.
Overjoyed at the appearance of this specialist in madness, the ruler explained in some detail the unusual circumstances in which he had encountered the Shahzadi and the old sage, the latter of whom was at this very moment hanging from his toes in the palace dungeon. Naturally, he intentionally omitted the Shahzadi’s more intimate specifics, the ruler not wanting to draw the handsome young physician’s attention to those things of which he himself had been so sadly deprived. Kamar al-Akmar was next escorted to the room of the afflicted one, who, hearing the approach of footsteps, threw herself to the floor and snarled like a demon, her hands clawing at her much-tampered-with nightdress. As the disguised son of the Sultan stepped forward, the ruler took several steps back, unable to mask his fear. It appeared that hi
s sons had been correct when they had advised him so strongly against taking a foreigner for a bride.
Kamar squatted beside this wild she-beast whom he believed to be his beloved Shams. As she continued to thrash about, her garment became even further torn and upset, when suddenly the disconsolate Shahzada spied something familiar in the place where the young woman’s thighs came together. With the hovering figure of the ruler only a saber’s distance away, Kamar al-Akmar placed his flushed face as close as he dared, his sick heart soaring with happiness. For not only was this tattered madwoman Shams al-Nahar, but she had been feigning her illness all along. How extraordinarily clever of her to have devised such a plan to save herself for me, Kamar thought with pride, confident in the knowledge that his virtuous Shams would not have allowed the ruler to so much as wash her feet. Now he, too, needed to be clever. “Your Majesty, has the Shahzadi been in contact with a wooden figure of any kind?”
“To be sure, she has!” cried the ruler, thrilled to be of assistance to the gifted young physician. If all went well, perhaps he would soon be spending his days and nights in some delightfully fragrant company. “She was found with an ebony horse.”
“Then this horse must be brought here at once so that I can break the spell of evil it has cast, for its spirit has entered the Shahzadi’s head.”
The ruler summoned his most trusted servants, who fetched the magic horse. Kamar al-Akmar next requested to be left alone with the Shahzadi so that he might begin the difficult and dangerous process of curing her. The ruler’s thundering footsteps had not even receded down the corridor before a laughing Shams al-Nahar leapt up onto the tooled red hide of the saddle, with Kamar buttressing her from behind. With a twist of a peg, the ebony horse raised its front hooves into the air and leapt out through the window, taking its two runaway riders.
Hearing the commotion, the ruler raced out into the courtyard, shaking his large fists threateningly at the sky. “Come back here, you foreign horse thief!” he bellowed. “I demand you return to me my rose-petaled bride!” A storm of arrows from the palace guards lanced the air, but not a single one managed to touch the horse’s wooden flanks. By now it had soared so high that even the most courageous of hawks could not have reached it.
Kamar al-Akmar and Shams al-Nahar returned in victory to the sultanate of the great Sabur. Celebrations were held throughout the land as their wedding took place, yet no celebration would be as full of joy as the one that took place when the Shahzada came to be reunited in private with his bride. Although never to be parted from her again, Kamar quickly discovered that his newfound felicity would have to be shared with his people. For Shams required her husband to secure her daily to the saddle of the ebony horse, where she rode writhing through the streets, her cries of shameful rapture resounding over the rooftops.
Word eventually got around, and the city of the Sultan became a much-sought-after destination for visitors, who journeyed from far and wide to see the famous Shahzadi riding on her magic horse. As for the old sage, he knew an opportunity when he saw one. Having managed to escape from the foreign dungeon in which he had been imprisoned and tortured, he made his way home, where he set up shop outside his cave by selling tickets to tourists foolish enough to pay for what they could have enjoyed for free.
MICHEL MICHELKLEINER’S GOOD LUCK
Undoubtedly one of the most obscure folktales in all of Europe, “Michel Michelkleiner’s Good Luck” comes from the tiny country of Luxembourg. However, the tale was formally collected only in 1960. Had it not been for a decision by the Committee of Ministers of the Council of Europe to sponsor the publication of a collection of works on European folklore, Michel Michelkleiner’s auspicious adventure might never have become known beyond its oral form.
When compared with the other countries of Europe, Luxembourg has not enjoyed a great deal of study of its folktales, let alone their historical foundation. Nevertheless, folktales help determine a people’s unique character and outlook, and in Luxembourg one particular theme seems to crop up quite frequently—that of the poor man who turns out to be much cleverer than the rich man. Such a cleverness might come upon him in an uncontrived way; like Michel Michelkleiner, these folktale heroes are usually far too simpleminded to be calculating. Indeed, this motif of the naïve character or simpleton can be found worldwide, for he (rarely if ever does one encounter a female incarnation) symbolizes the basic genuineness and integrity of the personality. Perhaps such traits are what have made this character so popular in folktales. By pitting protagonists like Michel Michelkleiner against what is bad and having it all come to rights, these tales offer hope by demonstrating that even a simpleton can win in the end.
Despite its lack of written history, evidence can be found to indicate that “Michel Michelkleiner’s Good Luck” has experienced a fair amount of diffusion. In fact, an almost identical folktale exists in Costa Rica. In “The Witches Ride,” a bobo (simpleton) who beds down in a hut for the night ends up taking a wild and uncontrollable ride on a broom left behind by some witches, only to find himself plunging toward a group of robbers. Believing him to be a devil, they run off, leaving behind their booty—which is then confiscated by the broom-riding bobo, whose earlier misfortunes have now left him a very rich man.
The theme of the naïve young lad going out into the world and, after being repeatedly taken advantage of because of his guileless nature, finally encountering good fortune, can be seen in somewhat different form in Grimms’ “Hans in Luck” from their Kinder- und Hausmärchen. Like the highwaymen in “Michel Michelkleiner’s Good Luck,” an endless string of opportunists strike bargains with the trusting Hans, each being analogous to thievery. For, having initially given up his lump of gold, Hans discovers himself saddled with a series of animals—none of which proves in any way useful to him. However, unlike his counterpart in Luxembourg, Hans has willingly (albeit stupidly) parted with his possessions.
My version of “Michel Michelkleiner’s Good Luck” parallels the folktale from Luxembourg, except that I have continued young Michel’s journey as a man of means. Alas, he seems to be no wiser for having found his fortune. Indeed, he, too, is willingly made to part with portions of it—only to be even more willingly made to part with a good deal more.
ON THE DAY MICHEL MICHELKLEINER turned the age of eighteen, he was taken aside by his father, who told his son that he had now become a man and must go out to try his luck in the world. With a bundle containing all he needed to start him on his journey slung across one shoulder, Michel bid tearful leave of his father, grateful for the confidence that had been shown in him and excited about the adventures that lay ahead.
Alas, Michel’s bundle would grow to be as heavy as his heart as he walked the whole day long, the distance separating him from all he had ever known increasing with every footfall. As darkness drew close, the woeful lad realized from the rumblings inside his belly that he was hungry. He had not eaten so much as a crust of bread since sunrise. Eager to put still more miles beneath his feet, he ignored the desirous pangs in his gut and continued on his way long past the last saffron glow of the sun, until he reached a dense woodland. Most would have elected not to enter so perilous a place in total blackness, but Michel was certain that he had seen a fire burning not too far distant. And where there was fire, there must surely be friends—and perchance some nourishment for his hollow belly. “Why, they might be travelers like myself,” he mused as he made his hopeful way through the fragrant pillars of pine and camphor toward the nucleus of light.
Only Michel Michelkleiner met neither trekker nor tramp nor even a caravan of motley tinkers. Indeed, those he had desired as friends turned out to be a raucous band of highwaymen, all of whom were being sought by the authorities. Each brutish fellow held a stick out toward the snapping and popping flames upon which a chunk of bloodied meat had been haphazardly skewered. The smell of grilling flesh prompted Michel to groan with hunger. Why, he would have kept company with the Devil himself if it meant that he migh
t be given something to eat. Tipping his trusty cap, he bade the party a polite good evening and humbly inquired if they had anything to spare a poor traveler who had only that morning left behind the safe embrace of his family to seek his fortune in the world.
Upon seeing the young stranger, the robbers pounced on him en masse, wrenching from his slender arms his precious bundle and stripping from his travel-weary body every item of clothing he wore, including his woolen socks, which were in need of a good mending—and, after so many hours of walking, a good wash as well. Not even Michel’s old felt cap was sacrosanct as it made its way onto the laughing heads of his hecklers, eventually being settled atop the cabbage-shaped specimen of the fellow who appeared to be the group’s leader. Suffice it to say, a purloining of possessions would not be the worst of the lad’s troubles on this eve.
Having been so rudely divested of his garments, a naked Michel Michelkleiner next found himself being passed around the cooking fire so that each of these larcenous brigands could have his illicit way with him, for the young fortune-seeker was of a highly agreeable countenance with eyes that sparkled like the blue of the sea and hair that shone like the finest gold. Indeed, the highwaymen chose to weave their calloused fingers into these glossy, sweet-smelling strands, making use of them to anchor young Michel more solidly against their stout, hairy thighs as they fitted themselves against his slight backside, seemingly determined to both take from him and give to him at the same time.
In Sleeping Beauty's Bed Page 12