The day went on. The night came. Fireworks crackled and rumpled, rippling down the slopes of the mountains. The whole of the centre of Al Jamb was transformed unrecognisably into the set of a play. Young Joanne herself walked the vast avenues of Ghezirah, the island city which lies at the centre of all the Ten Thousand and One Worlds, but which grows in much the same way as Pavo’s crystal scaffoldings but on an inconceivable scale; filled with azure skies, glinting in the dark heavens like a vast diamond. The Blessed Joanne, she was supposedly thinking of a planet which had come to her in a vision as she wandered beside Ghezirah’s palaces; it was a place of fine seas, lost giants and mysterious natural castles, although Jalila, as she followed in the buffeting, cheering procession, and glanced around at the scale of the projections which briefly covered of Al Janb’s ordinary buildings, wondered why, even if this version Ghezirah was fake and thin, Joanne would ever have wanted to leave that city to come to a place such as this.
There were more fireworks. As they rattled, a deeper sound swept over them in a moan from the sea, and everyone looked up as sunglow poured through the gaudy images of Ghezirah which still clad Al Janb’s buildings. Not one rocket, or two, but three, were all climbing up from the spaceport simultaneously, the vast white plumes of their energies fanning out across half the sky to form a billowy fleurs de lys. At last, as she craned her neck and watched the last of those blazing tails diminish, Jalila felt exulted by this moulid. In the main square, the play continued. When she found a place on a bench and began to watch the more intimate parts of the drama unfold as Joanne’s lover Pia pleaded with her to remain amid the cerulean towers of Ghezirah, a figure moved to sit beside her. To Jalila’s astonishment, it was Nayra.
“That’s a lovely flower. I’ve been meaning to ask you all day…” Her fingers moved across Jalila’s shoulder. There was a tug at her skin as she touched the petals.
“I got it from Kalal.”
“Oh…” Nayra sought the right word. “Him. Can I smell it…” She was already bending down, her face close to Jalila’s breast, the golden fall of her hair brushing her forearm, enclosing her in sweet, slightly vanilla scent of her body. “That’s nice. It smells like the sea—on a clear day, when you climb up and look down at it from the mountains…”
The play continued. Would Joanne really go to this planet which kept appearing to her in these visions? Jalila didn’t know. She didn’t care. Nayra’s hand slipped into her own and lay there upon her thigh with a weight and presence which seemed far heavier than the entire universe. She felt like that doll again. Her breath was pulling, dragging. The play continued, and then, somewhere, somehow, it came to an end. Jalila felt an aching sadness. She’d have been happy for Joanne to continue her will-I-won’t-I agonisings and prayers throughout all of human history, just so that she and Nayra could continue to sit together like this, hand in hand, thigh to thigh, on this hard bench.
The projections flickered and faded. She stood up in wordless disappointment. The whole square suddenly looked like a wastetip, and she felt crumpled and used-up in these sweaty and ridiculous clothes. It was hardly worth looking back towards Nayra to say goodbye. She would, Jalila was sure, have already vanished to rejoin those clucking, chattering friends who surrounded her like a wall.
“Wait!” A hand on her arm. That same vanilla scent. “I’ve heard your mother Pavo’s displays along the south road are something quite fabulous…” For once, Nayra’s golden gaze as Jalila looked back at her was almost coy, nearly averted. “I was rather hoping you might show me…”
The two of them. Walking hand in hand just all lovers throughout history. Like Pia and Joanna. Like Romana and Juliet. Like Isabel and Genya. Ghosts of smoke from the rocket plumes which had buttressed the sky hung around them, and the world seemed half-dissolved in the scent of sulphur and roses. An old woman they passed who was sweeping up discarded kebab sticks and wrappers made a sign as they passed, and gave them a weary, sad-happy smile. Jalila wasn’t sure what had happened to her slippers, but they and her feet both seemed to have become weightless. If it hadn’t been for the soft sway and pull of Nayra’s arm, Jalila wouldn’t even have been sure that she was moving. People’s feet really don’t touch the ground when they were in love! Here was something else that her dreamtent and her mothers hadn’t told her.
Pavo’s confections of plant and crystal looked marvellous in the hazed and doubled silver shadows of the rising moons. Jalila and Nayra wandered amid them, and the rest of the world felt withdrawn and empty. A breeze was still playing over the rocks and the waves, but the fluting sound had changed. It was one soft pitch, rising, falling. They kissed. Jalila closed her eyes—she couldn’t help it—and trembled. Then they held both hands together and stared at each other, unflinching. Nayra’s bare arms in the moonlight, the curve inside her elbow and the blue trace of a vein: Jalila had never seen anything as beautiful, here in this magical place.
The stables, where the hayawans were breathing. Jalila spoke to Robin, to Abu. The beasts were sleepy. Their flesh felt cold, their plates were warm, and Nayra seemed a little afraid. There, in the sighing darkness, the clean scent of feed and straw was overlaid with the heat of the hayawans’ bodies and their dung. The place was no longer a ramshackle tent, but solid and dark, another of Pavo’s creations; the stony catacombs of ages. Jalila led Nayra through it, her shoulders brushing pillars, her heart pounding, her slippered feet whispering through spills of straw. To the far corner, where the fine new white bedding lay like depths of cloud. They threw themselves onto it, half-expecting to fall through. But they were floating in straggles of windsilk, held in tangles of their own laughter and limbs.
“Remember.” Nayra’s palm on Jalila’s right breast, scrolled like an old print in the geometric moonlight which fell from Walah and then through the arched stone grid of a murqana which lay above their heads. “I’m Scheherazade. You’re Dinarzade, my sister…” The pebble of Jalila’s nipple rising through the windsilk. “That old, old story, Jalila. Can you remember how it went…?”
In the tide of yore and in the time of long gone before, there was a Queen of all the Queens of the Banu Sasan in the far islands of India and China, a Lady of armies and guards and servants and dependants…
Again, they kissed.
Handsome gifts, such as horses with saddles of gem-encrusted gold; mamelukes, or white slaves; beautiful handmaids, high- breasted virgins, and splendid stuffs and costly…
Nayra’s hand moved from Jalila’s breast to encircle the tideflower. She gave it a tug, pulled harder. Something held, gave, held, hurt, then gave entirely. The windsilks poured back. A small dark bead of blood welled at the curve between Jalila’s breast and shoulder. Nayra licked it away.
In one house was a girl weeping for the loss of her sister. In another, perhaps a mother trembling for the fate of her child; and instead of the blessings which and formerly been heaped on the Sultana’s head, the air was now full of curses…
Jalila was rising, floating, as Nayra’s mouth travelled downwards to suckle at her breast.
Now the Wazir had two daughters, Scheherazade and Dinarzade, of whom the elder had perused the books, annals, and legends of preceding queens and empresses, and the stories, examples, and instances of bygone things. Scheherazade had read the works of the poets and she knew them by heart. She had studied philosophy, the sciences, the arts, and all accomplishments. And Scheherazade was pleasant and polite, wise and witty. Scheherazade, she was beautiful and well bred…
Flying far over frost-glittering saharas, beneath the twin moons, souring through the clouds. The falling, rising dunes. The minarets and domes of distant cities. The cries and shuddering sighs of the beloved. Patterned moonlight falling through the murqana in a white and dark tapestry across the curves and hollows of Nayra’s belly.
Alekum as-salal wa rahmatu allahi wa barakatuh…
Upon you, the peace and the mercy of God and all this blessings.
Amen.
There was
no cock-crow when Jalila startled awake. But Walah had vanished, and so had Nayra, and the light of the morning sun came splintering down through the murqana’s hot blue lattice. Sheltering her face with her hands, Jalila looked down at herself, and smiled. The jewel in her belly was all that was left of her costume. She smelled faintly of vanilla, and much of Nayra, and nothing about her flesh seemed quite her own. Moving through the dazzling drizzle, she gathered up the windsilks and other scraps of clothing which had settled into the fleece bedding. She found one of Nayra’s earrings, which was twisted to right angles at the post, and had to smile again. And here was that tideflower, tossed upturned like an old cup into the corner. She touched the tiny scab on her shoulder, then lifted the flower up and inhaled, but caught on her palms only the scents of Nayra. She closed her eyes, feeling the diamond speckles of heat and cold across her body like the ripples of the sea.
The hayawans barely stirred as she moved out through their stables. Only Robin regarded her, and then incuriously, as she paused to touch the hard grey melds of her flank which she had pressed against the bars of her enclosure. One eye, grey as rocket smoke, opened, then returned to its saharas of dreams. The hayawans, Jalila supposed for the first time, had their own passions, and these were not to be shared with some odd two-legged creatures of another planet and race.
The morning was still clinging to its freshness, and the road as she crossed it was barely warm beneath her feet. Windtowered Al Janb and the haramlek behind her looked deserted. Even the limbs of the mountains seemed curled in sleepy haze. On this day after the moulid, no one but the geelies was yet stirring. Cawing, they rose and settled in flapping red flocks from the beds of the tideflowers as Jalila scrunched across the hard stones of the beach. Her feet encountered the cool, slick water. She continued walking, wading, until the sea tickled her waist and what remained of the windsilks had spread about in spills of dye. From her cupped hands, she released the tideflower, and watched it float away. She splashed her face. She sunk down to her shoulders as the windsilks dissolved from her, and looked down between her breasts at the glowing jewel which was still stuck her belly, and plucked it out, and watched it sink; the sea-lantern of a ship, drowning.
Walking back up the beach, wringing the wet from her hair, Jalila noticed a rich green growth standing out amid the sky-filled rockpools and the growths of lichen. Pricked by something resembling Pavo’s curiosity, she scrambled over, and crouched to examine it as the gathering heat of the sun dried her back. She recognised this spot—albeit dimly—from the angle of a band of quartz which glittered and bled blue oxides. This was where she had coughed up her breathmoss in that early Season of Soft Rains. And here it still was, changed but unmistakable—and growing. A small patch here, several larger patches there. Tiny filaments of green, a minute forest, raising its boughs and branches to the sun.
She walked back up towards her haramlek, humming.
3
The sky was no longer blue. It was no longer white. It had turned to mercury. The rockets rose and rose in dry crackles of summer lightening. The tube-like liens fled, leaving their strange house of goo-filled windows and pipes still clicking and humming until something burst and the whole structure deflated and the mess of it leaked across the nearby streets. There were warnings of poisonings and strange epidemics. There were cloggings and stenches of the drains.
Jalila showed the breathmoss to her mothers, who were all intrigued and delighted, although Pavo had of course noticed and categorised the growth long before, whilst Ananke had to touch the stuff, and left a small brown mark there like the tips of her three fingers, which dried and turned golden over the days which followed. But in this hot season, these evenings when the sun seemed as if it would never vanish, the breathmoss proved surprisingly hardy…
After that night of the moulid, Jalila spent several happy days absorbed and alone, turning and smoothing the memory of her love-making with Nayra. Wandering above and beneath the unthinking routines of everyday life, she was a like fine craftsman, spinning silver, shaping sandalwood. The dimples of Nayra’s back. Sweat glints in the chequered moonlight. That sweet vein in the crook of her beloved’s arm, and the pulse of the blood which had risen from it to the drumbeats of ecstasy. The memory seemed entirely enough to Jalila. She was barely living in the present day. When, perhaps six days after the end of the moulid, Nayra turned up at their doorstep with the ends of her hair chewed wet and her eyes red-rimmed, Jalila had been almost surprised to see her, and then to notice the differences between the real Nayra and the Scheherazade of her memories. Nayra smelled of tears and dust as they embraced; like someone who had arrived from a long, long journey.
“Why didn’t you call me? I’ve been waiting, waiting…”
Jalila kissed her hair. Her hand travelled beneath a summer shawl to caress Nayra’s back, which felt damp and gritty. She had no idea how to answer her questions. They walked out together that afternoon in the shade of the woods behind the haramlek. The trees had changed in this long, hot season, departing their urrearth habits to coat their leaves in a waxy substance which smelled medicinal. The shadows of their boughs were chalkmarks and charcoal. All was silent. The urrearth birds had retreated to their summer hibernations before the mists of autumn came to rouse them again. Climbing a scree of stones, they found clusters them at the back of a cave; feathery bundles amid the dripping rock, seemingly without eyes or beak.
As they sat at the mouth of that cave, looking down across the heat-trembling bay, sucking the ice and eating the dates which Ananke had insisted they bring with them, Nayra had seemed like a different person the one Jalila had thought she had known before the day of the moulid. Nayra, too, was human, and not the goddess she had seemed. She had her doubts and worries. She, too, thought the girls who surrounded her were mostly crass and stupid. She didn’t even believe in her own obvious beauty. She cried a little again, and Jalila hugged her. The hug became a kiss. Soon, dusty and greedy, they were tumbling amid the hot rocks. That evening, back at the haramlek, Nayra was welcomed for dinner by Jalila’s mothers with mint tea and best china. She was invited to bathe. Jalila sat beside her as they ate figs fresh from distant Ras and the year’s second crop of oranges. She felt happy. At last, life seemed simple. Nayra, now, officially, was her lover, and this love would form the pattern of her days.
Jalila’s life now seemed complex and complete; she believed she was an adult now, and that she talked and spoke and loved and worshipped in an adult way. She still rode out sometimes with Kalal on Robin and Abu, she still laughed or stole things or played games, but she was conscious now that these activities were sweetmeats of life, pleasing but unnutritous, and the real glories and surprises lay with being with Nayra, and with her mothers, and the life of the haramlek that the two young women talked of founding together one day.
Nayra’s mothers lived on the far side on Al Janb, in a fine tall clifftop palace which was one of the oldest in the town, and was clad in white stone and filled with intricate courtyards, and a final beautiful tajo which looked down from garden of tarragon across the whole bay. Jalila greatly enjoyed exploring this haramlek, deciphering the peeling scripts which wound along the cool vaults, and enjoying the company of Nayra’s mothers who, in their wealth and grace and wisdom, often made her own mothers seem like the awkward and recent provincial arrivals which they plainly were. At home, in her own haramlek, the conversations and ideas seemed stale. An awful dream came to Jalila one night. She was her old doll Tabatha, and she really was being buried. The ground she lay in was moist and dank, as if it was still the Season of Soft Rains, and the faces of everyone she knew were clustered around the hole above her, muttering and sighing as her mouth and eyes were inexorably filled with soil.
“Tell me what it was like, when you first fell in love.”
Jalila had chosen Pavo to ask this question of. Ananke would probably just hug her, whilst Lya would talk and talk until there was nothing to say.
“I don’t know. Fall
ing in love is like coming home. You can never quite do it for the first time.”
“But in the stories—”
“—The stories are always written afterwards, Jalila.”
They were walking the luminous shore. It was near midnight, which was now by far the best time of the night or day. But what Pavo had just said sounded wrong; perhaps Jalila hadn’t been the right choice of mother to speak to, after all. Jalila was sure she’d loved Nayra since that day before the moulid of Joanna, although it was true she loved her now in a different way.
“You still don’t think we really will form a haramlek together, do you?”
“I think that it’s too early to say.”
“You were the last of our three, weren’t you? Lya and Ananke were already together.”
“It was what drew me to them. They seemed so happy and complete. It was also what frightened me and nearly sent me away.”
“But you stayed together, and then there was…” This was the part which Jalila still found hardest to acknowledge; the idea that her mothers had a physical, sexual relationship. Sometimes, deep at night from someone else’s dreamtent, she had heard muffled sighs, the tick of flesh. Just like the hayawans, she supposed, there were things about other people’s lives which you could never fully understand no matter how well you thought you knew them.
She chose a different tack. “So why did you choose to have me?”
“Because we wanted to fill the world with something which had never ever existed before. Because we felt selfish. Because we wanted to give ourselves away.”
“Ananke, she actually gave birth to me, didn’t she?”
Everywhere: Volume I of the Collected Short Stories and Novellas of Ian R. MacLeod Page 10