And Scheherazade noticed that dawn was approaching and stopped telling her tale. Thereupon Dunazade said, “Oh sister, your tale was most wonderful, pleasant, and delightful!”
“It is nothing compared to what I could tell you tomorrow night if the king would spare my life and let me live.”
“By Allah,” the king thought to himself, “I won’t slay her until I hear some more of her wondrous tales.”
So they continued to rest in mutual embrace until daylight finally arrived. After this the king got up to perform his official duties, but he did not call upon the vizier to perform the execution. Instead, he went to his assembly hall and began holding court. He judged, appointed, and deposed, forbidding this and permitting that, the rest of the day. After the divan was adjourned, King Shahryar returned to the palace. That night he had his will of Scheherazade, as was his wont, and afterward, as they were relaxing, Dunazade came to her sister and asked her to tell another tale.
“With the king’s permission,” she said.
And Shahryar replied, “You have my permission.”
So Scheherazade resumed her storytelling.
- Arabian Nights: The Marvels and Wonders of The Thousand and One Nights
Signet Classic, Penguin Group, 1991
Adapted from Richard F. Burton’s unexpurgated translation by Jack Zipes
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He could feel their hands on him, slow, intimate… pulling at him from the inside out. He resisted at first—they liked it when he resisted—but soon his body began to respond to their ministrations. Soon, he was sweating and trembling and smooth for them. He wanted to cry, but it came out as a gasp when they tugged him—hard.
He hated them.
But he hated his body even more.
He fell forward when they climbed over him, their softness brushing along his hardness. They liked him hard. They made him hard. If he was not hard, then he would be dead. It was one of the rules of living: to be what they wanted him to be. He was nothing without them—would be dust and decay without them. They let him live as long as he was hard.
He raked his nails into the ground as they pulled at his chi points—abused his chakra. It was both soothing and burning, both pleasure and pain, and they giggled and simpered as he hissed and groaned. He wanted to pass out, but knew that he must stay awake; he wanted to sink, but knew that he must resist—they liked it when he resisted, their hands running over his smooth planes and pulling him into them, away from them, in every direction against his want.
“Bella,” they called him. “Bella…” With one last jerk, he spilled onto the ground, sinning the Mother who bore him—the Mother who cursed him. He could only choke and tremble as they laughed and laughed and laughed, satisfied, but not yet sated. For hours into the night, they moved him however they wished, beaten him however they wished, bled him however they wished until, finally, they were as spent as him.
Until, finally, the sun rose and the others came to take him back to his beautiful cage. They tossed him onto the feather-filled duvet and velvet-silk pillows, leaving him in the room, shaking and hating himself. He wished for a swift death, or magic strong enough to strike down his accursed enemies—those who sinned and destroyed and killed for pleasure. He wished them all dead.
He stilled when he heard his brother call for him from his corner. A gentle tone of comfort and compassion. Then, and only then, did he find the strength to lift himself up from the ground and lay his head down on his brother’s lap.
“Sing for me, brother,” he requested.
And his brother sung.
He closed his eyes, and let his brother’s lullaby sing him to a dreamless sleep.
He hated all of womankind.
He hoped the Evil One would take them all to Hell.
#
She opened the lacquered chest and the scent of heady incense puffed into the air, stirring the fire in the fireplace. From the adjourning washroom, she could hear the water lull in the bath, slipping over the peony petals and foaming around the soap. Outside, the ground shook under millions of feet, shuffling, anxious, eager for the day’s activities.
The living could forget so easily the dead that haunted them.
With a tight smile, she gave a gentle push and laid the lid of the chest flat. The room became still; even the cacophony from the masses seemed to dull into white noise. From her right, the warrior hummed and the healer gasped. From her left, the alchemist observed with appreciation. She, however, could only stare without seeing, be without feeling, live without living. She worried them, but she could not console them.
Quietly, she slipped the translucent, red cloth from the headdress and hung it off the side of the chest. It was an honour for the crown princess to choose her over her mother and her countless elder sisters. It was a gift, a symbol, of the crown princess’ trust in her, belief in her… burden on her. She stood aside to let the others drink their fill of the Imperial Jewels, their empire’s most lauded treasures laid out before them like a jeweller’s shop. They were beautiful.
Her gaze moved to the window, the big, bold, beautiful blue sky and the flaming pearl of a sun. There were several soft clouds that brightened the world rather than dull. There would be no rain, no snow, no disasters on this day. It would auspicious and perfect.
They could not possibly have it otherwise.
She looked to the servants rushing to and fro along the open corridors of the palace, each elaborately dressed in red and gold—in stunning hues of blues, greens and violets. There was so much colour and life here that the greys and death from the day prior momentarily faded; they could not possibly have it otherwise.
The warrior touched her shoulder, slow and tentative, and she turned to meet her friend in the eye. They exchanged a look that spoke volumes, and readied themselves for the day. She silently knocked on the bathroom door, and then entered to help the crown princess from of her bath. Together, they dressed her in a red, silk robe and returned to the bedroom. Prepared, the warrior opened the bedroom door and numerous servants rushed in to guide Her Imperial Highness onto a pedestal.
The dressing was to begin, and she could only stand by the wall as the servants’ silks flourished and waved in a rush to cover their crown princess in robes befitting her station and the importance of the day. The warrior and alchemist stood on either side of her while the healer stood by the crown princess to shyly gush at all the trappings and ornaments that would be donned upon the crown princess. The healer had a better eye for beauty than the other three, and the crown princess was fortunate to have the healer to help her choose the perfect baubles and jewels.
It did not take long, however, for the crown princess to persuade the other three to join them, to help her. For her, the one who had opened the chest, she understood that the crown princess was making an attempt to divert her attention elsewhere, elsewhere from the memories of skeletal stones and cast iron gates, and she would hate to disappoint the crown princess on her day. Carefully, slowly, she moved from the wall to the crown princess.
She had never been good with dresses, slippers or accessories, but she had always been a good actress. She played her part well, but she could not fool the warrior who would touch her arm now and again. They coaxed her into their conversations, exchanging words and looks around the servants, and an hour passed that exhausted them and ruined the beautiful bedroom with layers of fallen silk, mounds of discarded necklaces and hills of forgotten shoes.
She felt faint after the ordeal, but had to hold herself upright as the servants dressed her and the others next. The warrior rolled her eyes, the healer squirmed under the touches and the alchemist scowled. It was not their day; they held their tongues for the crown princess’ sake.
At last, when a servant slid a bejewelled pin into her hair, the lacquered chest was placed between her and the crown princess. The crown princess’ eyes became wet, and she, the one who had opened the chest, smiled a smile that made her own eyes wet. Gently, ceremoniously, she stepped down from her pedestal and drew out the gold paint from the chest. A servant handed her a brush, and she painted, with care and precision, a golden peony on the crown princess’ forehead.
They closed the chest, closed the headdress from sight, and she helped the crown princess down from her upraised dais. The servants handed the chest to her, the one who had opened it, and she held it between her hands, at her breasts, her beating heart. They stepped into their places, the one with the chest standing to the right of the crown princess, but a few steps behind.
Then, when a deep gong resonated through the palace, reverberating between the walls and shaking the windows, the door of the bedroom opened and the crown princess’ entourage set out.
She, the one holding the chest, caught the translucent silhouette of a qilin on the roofs.
She smiled, pensive, hopeful… sad.
It was beginning again.
Another journey.
Damn.