The Storyteller's Daughter (13 page)

And from there it was but a simple step to the one the brothers hoped would give them their revenge. And so. they took the gift the chamberlain had unknowingly bestowed upon them and to it added one final touch.

Soon all began to whisper that if Shahrayar could not show himself stronger than his wife’s enchantment by putting her to death, it would be proof that Shahrazad’s magic ruled his mind. In which case, Shahrayar would no longer be a true king and could not be considered fit to govern.

And so, by degrees, though neither of them could remember from whose mouth they first had heard it, the rumors reached Shahrazad and Shahrayar. But from there they went no further, for neither could bring themselves to speak of it to the other. And in this way did doubt begin to cloud the bright things that had been growing in their hearts.

When Shahrazad learned what the people were saying, her first thoughts were not for herself, but for her father and for Shahrayar. For, like her mother before her, Shahrazad recognized that the love of the people was a thing that she had never truly possessed. She had only provoked their curiosity.

And now, it seemed, their fear. And so Shahrazad knew fear also. For in her quest to save the heart of the king she had two main allies: time and her skill as a storyteller. So tightly were these two woven together that disaster must surely follow if they were unraveled from each other before the proper moment. But when that moment would come, Shahrazad could not know. She knew only that it had not yet arrived.

And so she trembled as she stood in a pool of bright sunshine, for the very first time finding no joy in the coming of the morning. Her blind eyes were turned toward a window although they gazed only inward, and still she saw nothing. She trembled for the things already said as well as for the things she might not now have time to say. Things she had not known that she would long for. For, in her desire to save Shahrayar’s heart, she had forgotten that she must also contend for her own.

And it was in this fearful state of mind that Shahrayar found Shahrazad.

He had heard the rumors just that morning. Though his first reaction had been rage, it did not take long for fear to creep into his heart just as it had into Shahrazad’s. Suddenly he remembered the words of the boy, ‘Ajib, who had proclaimed there must be magic in Shahrazad’s story. And if even he could perceive this possibility, being but a child …

But whereas Shahrazad’s fear had been a path that carried her straight to her husband’s and father’s doors, Shahrayar’s fear was like a great jewel that sparkles in the light. Sharp-edged, and so multifac-eted as to be all but blinding.

Everywhere his fear compelled him to look, it seemed Shahrayar saw his own reflection. Each one the face of a man who had made a different decision in his time of greatest crisis. But which face was his true reflection, which deed should be his true act, these things Shahrayar could not see, for his own face blinded him.

And so, in their fear, Shahrazad and Shahrayar increased their own danger, though they did not do so knowingly. For, each in his or her own way, both looked in the wrong direction: not inward, but outward. In the moment when they most needed to recall it, both forgot the first queen’s prophecy.

Only by knowing what was in their hearts and being unafraid to have it known could all be made right once more. And so the final chapters in the story, which they were weaving together themselves, came to be set in motion.

When Shahrayar entered his quarters and saw Shahrazad standing before the window, he felt himself struck by so many different emotions that he could do nothing but stand and behold her.

What is she thinking?
he wondered. Did she know of the rumors that filled the land? The ones that proclaimed her a sorceress and called for her death? If she did, would she even tell him?

For it came to Shahrayar suddenly as he gazed upon his wife that she was still almost completely a mystery to him in spite of the way her voice had found a home inside him. Her voice, yes. That he thought he knew. But her mind, her heart, those things were still unknown and were as deep and fathomless as any well. And just as vital to his life as water, or so Shahrayar was coming to suspect.

What does Shahrazad truly contain?
he wondered. Was she pure, as he had originally perceived her to be? Or was she tainted, as the rumors now insisted she must be? For in this uncertainty, more than anything else, did Shahrayar’s fear distract and blind him. And so he turned to the wrong place to find the answers to his questions: not to his own heart, or even to their hearts together, but to Shahrazad’s heart alone.

If only she would reveal herself to me, all would be well,
he thought, never stopping to remember that to reveal one’s heart alone is a difficult thing, perhaps the most difficult thing of all.

So, though he had come to his quarters with some vague notion of telling her what he had learned so he could weigh her reaction to it, when Shahrayar opened his mouth to speak, no word of the rumors came out. Instead he said, “What do you see when you gaze out the window, Shahrazad?”

At the sound of her husband’s voice, a ripple passed through Shahrazad. For the first time since they had been wed, she had not sensed his presence the moment he entered the room, so far away from the place her body was had she traveled in her thoughts. Her journey had not been a pleasant one. Never had she felt so blind.

“I do not see,” she said. “Instead I… wonder.”

“What do you wonder?” asked Shahrayar.

Shahrazad was silent for a moment, as if framing her reply. “Whether the great world outside is as I remember it,” she said at last. “I have not been outside the palace since I was a child.”

At this, it seemed to Shahrayar that his fear and confusion vanished, and he saw his way clear once more.

“Come with me,” he said on impulse, and he moved to Shahrazad’s side and took her by the hand. “Let us go out together.”

At his words, Shahrazad felt her heart give a great leap, even as her words faltered. “But… the people—”

Ah!
Shahrayar thought.
So she knows.
But it mattered less than he had thought it did.

“Let us not worry about them,” he said. “Just for a little while. I am tired of seeing you only in the lamplight. Come with me into the sunlight, Shahrazad.”

And Shahrazad answered steadily, though Shahrayar could feel the way her fingers trembled in his.

“I would like to feel the sun upon my face with you beside me.”

Shahrayar raised her hand, pressed his lips against her palm and felt the way her trembling spread throughout her body.

“Come, then. Let us go.”

And so Shahrayar and Shahrazad left the palace. They took no retainers, wore no fine robes. They did not even pause to tell the vizier that they were going. Indeed, Shahrayar sent the vizier on an errand that would keep him busy until after nightfall. In this way, he hoped he and Shahrazad might leave the palace and return again with no one the wiser. He did not intend deception in this, merely to travel as another man might. For this one day, if no day else, to leave the cares of government behind him.

So he wrapped Shahrazad in a cloak from head to foot, lifted her upon his horse, then vaulted up behind her. She leaned back against his body. Shahrayar stretched his arms around on either side of her to hold the reins. Both remained silent. In this way, they passed through the least impressive of the palace gates and, at length, through the gates of Shahrayar’s city itself and out into the desert beyond. Unremarked upon, unheralded, unnoticed.

“Where are you taking me?” Shahrazad inquired.

Shahrayar laughed suddenly, surprising them both.

“I am not going to tell you. Let the tale of this journey be as much a mystery to you as the tales you spin are to me.”

“As the king commands,” answered Shahrazad, her tone as light as his own. “Meantime, with your permission, I will enjoy the wind in my hair.”

“Gladly,” said Shahrayar.

So Shahrazad shook back her cloak and Shahrayar spurred the horse forward till they flew along the sand, Shahrazad’s long, dark hair like banners in the wind around them. How long they traveled she never knew, for it was a thing she had ceased to care about. She cared only about the warmth of the sun on her face, the breath of the wind through her hair. The rhythm of the horse as its strides came together and apart, together and apart. And, always, the feel of Shahrayar’s arms around her.

After some time, she heard him speak to the horse, and the pace of their travel slowed, then came to a halt, and her hair settled down around her shoulders.

“This is the place,” Shahrayar said.

Shahrazad took a deep breath. “Do I smell water?”

Shahrayar smiled as he slid from the horse, then lifted her down. Though she was steady on her feet, he kept one arm about her shoulders, for he had suddenly discovered how empty his arms could feel without her inside them.

“You do,” he replied. Gently, he began to lead her across the sand to where a stand of date palms created a small oasis of shade. “My father brought me here when I was but a boy. I should always know how to find water in the desert, he said. So that when I grew to be king, I might never forget its importance to my subjects,”

“Your father was wise. My father always told me I should never take anything essential for granted lest I lose it, but now I see it is probably because yours said it first.”

Shahrayar chuckled. They settled beneath the trees, Shahrazad with her back against one great trunk. Shahrayar stretched out and laid his head in her lap.

I am free,
he thought. Though he had not known he had felt confined until this moment. He looked up at Shahrazad, who was sitting with her face tipped up to the sun.

“Shahrazad, will you tell me something:
¹
”

She did not reply, but merely nodded.

Do
you fear to lose me? Have I become so essential to you that you will treasure me always and never take me for granted?

The words quivered upon his tongue, welled straight up from his heart with a heat that left Shahrayar shaking as if he had a fever. But at the last moment, he found he could not pronounce them.

What did it matter if he thought he suddenly saw and understood his own heart? He still could neither see nor understand Shahrazad’s. And in what he could not see lay pain and danger, or so he thought.  And so he did not ask the questions that were in his heart. Never stopping to think that in refusing, he kept his own heart as much a secret to Shahrazad as hers was to him. And so both stayed locked up tight, the hopes and needs in them unspoken.

“Will you tell me a story?” he asked instead.

“A story!” exclaimed Shahrazad. “But Maju’s trunk is in the palace.”

“Can you not find a story in any piece of cloth?” Shahrayar inquired.

“I do not know,” Shahrazad answered truthfully. “For I have never tried it. But I suppose it would be possible, for it is the finding of the story that is the true storyteller’s art, or so Maju always told me.”

“Then we could try it,” Shahrayar insisted.

“Yes,” Shahrazad acknowledged. “We could try. What piece of cloth would you have me decipher?”

“This one.

On impulse Shahrayar reached out and captured one of Shahrazad’s wrists in his hand. With the other he pushed back her sleeve to reveal the small scrap of fabric he had noticed she always wore there. Never had he seen her without it, not even as she slept. He wondered what significance it had for her, and also what tale the cloth might hold.

“You wish to know the tale of this?” Shahrazad asked, her tone astonished. Her heart began to beat swift as a bird’s wing within her breast. What did it mean that Shahrayar had been drawn to the only thing she wore that had come from Maju?

“I do,” Shahrayar said. “Where did it come from?”

“Maju gave it to me long ago,” Shahrazad replied. “In a time of trial and sorrow. I do not think she intended it as a gift, but I have treasured it always.”

“Then if it comes from Maju, surely there must be a tale within it,” Shahrayar said.

And Shahrazad answered, “I do not know, but since you wish it, I will try to find it.”

“Thank you,” said Shahrayar. He sat up, and with careful fingers, untied the piece of cloth from her wrist. But when he spread it out he exclaimed, “But surely this cloth has been stained with blood, Shahrazad!”

“It has been,” she replied. “With mine when I was just a child.”

And at her words, a memory came to Shahrayar. Of himself, also a child, concealed within the branches of a pomegranate tree, watching a young Shahrazad’s wounds being bound up by her mother as the young girl poured the bitterness and grief from her heart.

“Why would you keep such a thing?” Shahrayar asked, though he thought he knew, for now he remembered what else had happened on that day long ago: The thing that she had vowed.

“So that I might remember my own promises to myself” Shahrazad said, confirming what Shahrayar surmised. “And also, that I might have some token of my mother. These are the tales I have added to this cloth,” she went on, as if to forestall any further questions. “Now let us see what was there to start out.

So saying, she stretched out her hand and Shahrayar placed the piece of cloth upon her palm. Shahrazad ran her fingers back and forth across the old stained piece of silk as if she had never touched it before.

“Ah!” she said at last. “It seems that you are right, my lord. A story may be found anywhere, if one is willing to search for it. The one that I have found here is called…”

“Once, in a land much like our own, there lived a poor water bearer who had but one child, and that was a daughter. His wife had died in giving birth, and since the water bearer was too poor to remarry, father and daughter lived all alone, though they were not lonely. For such was their affection for one another, that even though it was not filled with fine things, to them their home seemed always full to overflowing.