Daughter of the Salt King

by A. S. Thornton

  I stayed silent as I led us through the palace, waiting for Aashiq to explain his strange behavior. Wrapped in his robe that smelled of Buraq smoke, I imagined I was his wife and we were walking through our own home.

  He wanted to breathe the night air, he had said, so I led him to the edge of the palace where there was a gap in the surrounding date-palm fence. It was where we could slip through so that we could see the sky as it fell to the ground.

  Silent, I sat beside Aashiq. He stared at the desert, nearly invisible in the moonless night, and I was comforted by his slow breaths. Though I was exhausted, my mind spun with worries of how he felt about me. Had I not been enough? But he had wanted to walk with me. Surely that meant something?

  Hadiyah’s recollection of my first suitor slid through my thoughts, how different I had been then. In my fourteenth year, my hopes were sky-high. Everyone told me I would wed quickly. I would not be long in my father’s court. Mama especially told me with glistening eyes how she couldn’t wait for me to see the desert.

  My first muhami took me quickly. What man could resist a virgin girl? He did not request me again. Another sister, superior in every way—smaller hands, quieter steps, softer hair—left with him. I cried and cried to Hadiyah, vowing I would not fail again. I told Mama I would not disappoint my family once more. Aloud, I never said how unclean he made me feel. How it felt like a part of me left with him.

  Dozens of suitors later I was an expert lover, but even so, I splintered with each bedding, each rejection. Though questions and self-doubt plagued me, still, I wished for them to come and take me away. Because after all, this was my fate, and whatever waited for me after marriage had to be better than this. Perhaps love was in my future, or at least a life of choices I could own.

  I was an ahira and slave to my King. I would carry on until I bedded expertly and was wed or I was discarded by my father to live in squalor as a forsaken ahira. They were the only cards I held in my hand, so I had to choose the one that, at least, held hope.

  “Emel?” From the light of the palace tents behind us, I could see him looking at me.

  “Hmm?”

  “What’s this?” He pressed his finger against my cheek, against a tear. He was again the hesitant, kind man who loved his family and home.

  I wiped at my cheeks with my palms and shook my head. “Nothing. Drink makes me emotional, that’s all.”

  “A distraction is what you need then.” He took my hand in his, concern in his eyes. Without his turban, he appeared much younger. “My children say I am an excellent storyteller.” He raised his eyebrows like a merchant selling spice for twice its value.

  “I am no child who needs a story.”

  “You’ll be sorry you missed it. It was a good one about a jinni and the child who found him.” He threw his hands into the air, gesturing offense, and leaned back.

  I scoffed playfully, eased by his light-heartedness despite myself. “I’ve heard all the stories of jinn.”

  “Ah, if you’ve heard them all, tell me one I don’t know.” He was teasing me now.

  I narrowed my eyes. “I don’t understand you.”

  “No, you don’t.” He took my hand in his and kissed my knuckles very seriously. His beard tickled my skin. “I am a complicated and mysterious man.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Had I ever laughed with a suitor before? My hopes fluttered dangerously close to the fire.

  He said, “Tell me a story of your home. Is there anything better to take from travels than a story? It can be shared again and again and won’t weigh down my camel’s back.”

  “The story of the Salt King then.”

  A large grin spread across his face, and his eager attention locked on me.

  “The Salt King was born along the northeast trading route in a large settlement that traded ivory and gold for bricks of salt. He learned quickly that the greatest rulers were not dependent on the salt trade, and he knew the tales of the city where salt was not mined but found glistening on rocks.”

  “Bah!” Aashiq swung his hand through the air. “You mean the desert’s edge?”

  I nodded excitedly. “You’ve heard of it?”

  “It’s all legend. Fantasy. My people have spent our entire lives on camelback. The desert doesn’t end.”

  I shrugged. “Shall I continue, or will you tell me more about my story?” The words came out like they would have with my sisters. I bit my lip, fearing I’d been too harsh.

  Aashiq waved me on, smirking. I relaxed.

  “He set out to find what he knew must exist. Gradually, others joined him, also eager to find wealth. The people packed and unpacked their lives—hitching and unhitching their camels, moving their livestock, assembling and disassembling their homes—over and over again in search of salt.”

  “So your father started as a salt chaser. I didn’t know that,” Aashiq said, shaking his head.

  “I hate that epithet. Isn’t everyone, until they find it?” I lifted my chin, and he had the decency to look scolded. I softened my voice. “Their journeying stopped when they came upon an oasis.”

  “I can’t wait to hear more of this oasis.”

  I shushed him.

  “My apologies, princess.”

  “They came upon an oasis. It seemed like all others with the small patch of swaying trees that beckoned. An island of green amongst the sand.” I spread my fingers and, in the air, painted the oasis with my hands. “My father went in to be the first to drink from the water—was it life-giving or life-taking? The people watched him disappear, praying that he would return.

  “They waited through two sunrises, sure he had not survived the drink. At last, he was seen leaving. The King spoke with the guards who protected his path. Then, the guards turned toward the people, raised their swords high over their heads and pressed their blades into the sand. The journey had ended.”

  Aashiq cackled loudly. “That is very dramatic. Is that really how your father would end his travels? With a sword show?”

  Pressing my hand to his lips, I turned to the palace tents behind us, ensuring no guards were nearby.

  “Quiet! No opinions are secret behind cloth walls,” I whispered. When he had settled, I continued. “The people reconstructed their homes, restarted their lives, and began anew, awaiting notice from their king of when they would travel again. When the nights grew longer and still the King kept them there, questions were asked about why. What of the desert’s edge? Did he care no longer?

  “But the questions stopped when the King’s wealth exploded. He had found it—salt. No one understood how he acquired it. There are no salt mines here, and salt can’t be found from the sand. Where did it come from?” I paused, then whispered, “It must have been magic. Hidden in the watery heart of the oasis.”

  “Have you been there?” Aashiq asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Then I will tell you what lies in the oasis.”

  I leaned in close, keen to hear. He took a deep breath and looked over his shoulders before he said, “A salt mine.” Laughing again, he planted his lips against my forehead. “What else could it be? Magic is not real, Emel! If your father has seemingly unlimited salt, it is from a mine. And if none are allowed in the oasis, surely that is what he hides.”

  I replied, “People have visited.” Though indignant at his rejection of magic, my brow was still warm from his kiss. “They talk of palm fronds that collide, branches with thick leaves that brush together in the wind, a pool that sits in the shade. But I’ve heard no account of white burrows and trenches, nor of salt stacked in bricks.”

  “I saw the oasis when I arrived. Soldiers ensured I did not visit.”

  “Yes, only the King, his vizier, runners, and the villagers who collect our water are allowed.”

  “What do you think he protects if not a mine?”

  I turned to him. “Am I to finish?”

  He lay in the sand and laced his fingers behind his head. “I suppose.”

 
“With my father’s wealth came power, and the Salt King, as he quickly became known, attracted traders from across the desert. In the footsteps of traders came foreign aristocrats who sought political alliances and protection that only the Salt King’s wealth could buy. Royals brought their sisters and cousins and daughters, hoping to secure valuable connections. Soon, the King had seven, ten, eighteen wives, and the King was deemed the greatest and most formidable ruler the desert had ever seen. The thread from which legends are woven.

  “Daughters and sons were born and born again. With his sons, the Salt King created an army. With his daughters, the Salt King created a court.”

  Our eyes met, and he turned away.

  I said, “In the dawn of his rule, brave nomads attacked the village. Ambitious men who challenged the King, hoping to win his throne. No match for his scimitar, they were slain. Soon, the desert learned to fear the King’s soldiers and his mythic power. The last challenger was almost ten years ago. I barely remember it.” I only remembered my fear as my father faced the stranger—the man whom Mama had warned me I must accept as ruler should the King fall.

  I continued. “Princes, nobles, and even kings began flocking to the Salt King’s court looking to wed his daughters. The reputation of his power soon took second to that of his court, and more men sought to align themselves with the King whose might brought armed men to his side and women to their knees. The man who from the sand of the desert found the salt of tears.”

  “Very impressive.” He stacked his bare feet and wiggled his toes.

  “Aashiq!”

  He laughed quietly. “Ah, forgive me, but I must admit, it pleases me to tease you.” He leaned in. “Plus, the story is quite theatrical, is it not? You tell it like a wizened elder.”

  I harrumphed and leaned back as he did. “Can I ask you something?” The question burning in my mind the entire evening fought to pour from my lips, but Hadiyah’s warning to mind only ahira matters echoed. “Where exactly are you from? My father said east, but your accent, I have not heard . . .”

  “Very far east of here. Our settlement is much smaller than yours, but our oasis is much larger.” Smug, he ran his fingers down his short beard. “And anyone can visit any time they please. The hottest days, half the village is in its water, I swear it.”

  Pulling his robe tight around me, I spun and found a place on the ground lit softly by the filtered torchlight.

  “What are you doing?” Aashiq asked.

  I held my finger to my lips and beckoned to him. He came dutifully, sitting beside me.

  Whispering as I drew, I dragged my finger through the sand until I created the map I knew so well: the desert’s salt trade, my home at the center of the routes. I pointed at the eastern lines and circles. “Where?”

  “How do you know all this?” He said it quietly, but I heard the surprise in his voice. Worry clenched in my gut. Had I gone too far, revealed too much?

  He leaned over and with his finger, drew a cross far along the eastern route, almost off my map. I asked him question after question, and he answered them all.

  “Gold grows out the earth, it seems. We see so much, it’s more plentiful than water. Yes, spices, too. The sand is painted yellow and orange after caravans come through. The winds are stronger, though, and we often have to move our settlement from the paths of shifting dunes.” He drew smaller crosses on and off the routes, telling me of oases near him. Despite his proclamation that his people had been all over the desert, he knew little other than the east, but it enthralled me all the same.

  “Emel,” he said, tentatively, “how does my home sound to you?”

  “It sounds much like mine, but smaller, as you said. Your oasis sounds nice.”

  “I mean, does my home sound like somewhere you would like to live?”

  Fluttering erupted in my chest. “It does.”

  He smiled. “Because I think I would like to take you there.”

  “To visit?”

  “No, not to visit. I have come to the Salt King’s court to form an alliance with the King. I wanted more security for my family, my settlers, and our village. I hoped I would find a woman that would fit in well with my wives. I did not expect I would . . .” He stopped for a breath. “This is unorthodox—I know I should seek permission first from your father—but I would like to take you home with me. As my wife.”

  I stared at him, disbelieving what I heard. Triumph swelled in my chest, and my hopes flew to the flames. No, I realized, not to fire. To a promise of something good. To sanctuary—a cool hollow filled with water underneath shady trees.

  “I would like that very much.” A wide smile stretched across my face.

  He took my hand into his again and looking into my eyes, he said, “Let me take you home to your sisters. Find sleep at their side. On my third evening, I will call you to me once again. Only that time, if your father allows it, it will be forever.”

  I did not walk home, I floated. And it was not because of the Buraq.

  “Back already?” Raheemah whispered groggily.

  “Emah, it’s almost morning. Go back to sleep,” I said beaming, my cheeks aching.

  Silently, I reached under my mat and collected my preciously guarded jar of ink and hollow reed and unrolled an equally well-protected parchment. In the gray dawn light, I could see just enough. I dipped the reed into the ink. Along the eastern trade route, I drew a tree with small waves beside it. Nestled beside the tree, I wrote a curving A. I stared down at the map, following the trade routes that led to my home at the center. I looked at the marks where I had drawn the homes of other suitors—where an I was drawn in with a younger girl’s hand. The settlement of my mother.

  My gaze traveled to the edges of my map, and I frowned at the blank spaces. What else was there? Was it endless, as Aashiq said? His people had spent their entire lives on camelback. Maybe I would travel with them, too.

  The ink dried, and I tucked everything under my mat again along with the small leather sack filled with salt. I stuffed a twisted blanket beneath my head.

  Raheemah’s hand reached for me in her sleep. I clasped it in my own, knowing that it would be one of the last times I held it. Bringing her soft knuckles to my lips, I thought of saying goodbye to my sisters, to Hadiyah, to Mama. Tears stung my eyes.

  But then I imagined my hand clasped around Aashiq’s as we traveled back to his home, and the tears fell in relief. Finally, my time had come.

  I awoke to murmuring sisters and the buzz of the palace—roosters singing at the sun, servants sending their children off to the market and greeting each other in the lanes, the clang of metal against metal as iron was forged. A ceramic jug of sweetened sage tea sat beside my mat along with a plate with a large piece of flatbread. Sitting up, I pulled the food and drink to my lap.

  Raheemah saw me rise and came over.

  “Tell me,” she said eagerly.

  I did not want them to know, not yet. So I sipped the tea to hide my joy. “He was quite kind.” I gestured to the food and drink. “Thank you.”

  Raheemah stared expectantly.

  “He did not hurt me, since I know you will ask. We talked at length. He told me of his home, and I told him of ours.”

  “Other wives?”

  “Two.” I added, conspiratorially. “Though you wouldn’t know.” Raheemah giggled, and I warmed at the sound.

  “Do you think he will request you again?” Her eyebrows soared up her forehead. The suitor could use his three nights in the court how he pleased: with the same ahira, a different one, or sleep alone.

  I looked down at my hands, remembering both my father’s threat and Aashiq’s promise. “I don’t know . . .”

  “You liked him.”

  “I did.” I picked at my bread. He seemed a good man, and more importantly, he was going to be my escape from the palace.

  “Then, we can have hope.” Just as I was at her age, she was optimistic, seeing only the glistening promise of love.

  Though Rahee
mah was born six years after me to a different mother, I was fiercely protective of her. She dreamed of becoming a wife and making our father proud. She would spend afternoons describing the embroidery and embellishments of her wedding veil, how she would dance for her husband the first night in his home, how she would oblige him—they were not my same dreams, but they were what made her happy. I knew that Raheemah’s sincerity and innocence would soon get her married, and I feared not being here to see the man who chose her.

  “How is Mama?” Tavi sat beside me, immediately taking my hair in her hands, brushing it through with her fingers until it was soft. Sabra lingered, watching, wanting to hear about our mother, too.

  “She was worried about me, about all of us.” I looked at my sisters. “She wants us to be wed, of course.”

  Sabra scoffed. “Doubt she thought of me once.”

  Tavi and Sabra were my full sisters. We had one full brother, a soldier now, who we saw infrequently. Sabra had the misfortune of inheriting most of her features—and personality—from our father. Very few suitors requested her, and those who did had not found that which they sought. If she received no proposal by the first day of her twenty-third year, she would be banished. With each day that passed, she grew more bitter, angrier, and as desperate as the desert before rain. Tavi was the only one who could stand to be around her.

  “Don’t say that,” Tavi said, dropping my hair and turning to Sabra. “Mama wants the same for you that she wants for all of us.”

  “She’s given up on me. But not Emel, no. Never the beautiful Emel. When is the last time she came to see me?” Sabra said it as if that proved everything.

  I picked at my nails. This happened every time Mama was mentioned—I was the favorite because I was the most beautiful, and Mama loved Tavi because she was the youngest and still had promise, but oh, how Mama didn’t care about Sabra.

  “When is the last time you went to see her?” I said, unable to resist. “Sons, Sabra, I go to her all the time. She does not love me more; I just see her more often. If you want to wait around for whatever your impossible expectation is, then do it. But don’t complain.”