The Storyteller's Daughter (3 page)

“I will, Mother,” promised Shahrazad. She felt her mother’s fingers whisper along her hair. Could Maju read her the way she read the cloth? Shahrazad wondered. She lifted up her head and felt her mother’s touch drop away.

“I will always be different, won’t I?”

“You will always be different,” Maju replied.

“And they will never like me.”

“I cannot say what another will or will not do. No one can,” answered the storyteller.

Abruptly Shahrazad got to her feet, her expression set. “Then I will learn to live without them.”

Maju tipped her face up, as if she could really see her daughter’s determined face as it stood over her.

“Do you think that such a thing is possible?”

Shahrazad snorted and turned away. “I don’t know yet. When I do, I’ll tell you.”

At Shahrazad’s sharp reply, Maju made a
tsk
eing sound with the tip of her tongue. She got to her feet in her turn, and the piece of silk she had been holding fell from her lap and floated down into the water. It settled on the surface for no more than a moment.

But in that moment, those with eyes to truly see would have beheld an image they had not noticed before. A fish, outlined in intricate stitches of shimmering gold. Then the silk sank beneath the surface of the water like sugar melting into coffee, and this fish became as any other fish in any other pond.

“I am not so sure I like your story, Maju,” Shahrazad informed her as she turned to take her mother by the arm.”That
djinn
tricked the princess in more ways than one. She only got two wishes. Everyone knows you always get three.”

“O, bah!” Maju exclaimed. “I waste my talent on you. Such things happen only in fairy stories. Have I not always said so?”

Shahrazad was laughing as they left the garden.

For many moments after their departure, the garden stayed still and silent. Then, there came an agitation high in the pomegranate tree, as if its branches had caught a sudden wind and held it. A face appeared amid the leaves. A youth several years older than Shahrazad shimmied down the trunk and dropped to the ground. Without hesitation, he moved to the pool, and caring nothing for his fine robes, he thrust his arms into the water, all the way to the bottom.

Although he searched until he was wet from head to foot, he could find no trace of the cloth the storyteller had left behind. Finally he simply sat beside the pool, staring down at the fish moving lazily in the water and tried to count them.

This youth’s name was Shahrayar.

_Chapter 3 _

SORROW

Not long after what I have just related, a great sorrow came to Shahrazad and her father. Maju the Storyteller fell sick of a fever that would not abate. No healers potion would make the fever fall. For many days she lay upon her sickbed never moving, never speaking, with her blind eyes closed. Then, one day, she summoned all her strength, opened her eyes for one last time, and called her daughter to her bedside.

Shahrazad came at her mothers bidding. She sat beside her for many hours. In those hours Maju told her daughter many things, and Shahrazad came to understand much that had been painful and troubling. But what passed between them, what Maju spoke and what Shahrazad answered, Shahrazad would keep to herself for many years to come.

Toward evening, Maju closed her eyes once more. At this, Shahrazad left the chamber, carrying in her arms the ebony chest that had been the only possession her mother had brought with her when she married her father. No sooner had Shahrazad reached her own chambers and placed the chest beneath the window than Maju the Storyteller took one long breath and released it slowly. And with that, she died.

The moment her mother breathed her last, Shahrazad collapsed upon the floor. For many days she lay as Maju had, without moving, without speaking, her eyes closed fast. The vizier was truly in despair, for it seemed to him that the fever that had claimed the wife he loved would now also steal away his daughter. He left his apartments only to attend the king. All other hours hed spend at Shahrazad’s bedside.

But it was not until the vizier had almost given up hope that his long vigil at last had its reward. For Shahrazad’s limbs stirred, and thus she spoke: “Be comforted, my father. For I am still alive and will remain so.”

But when she opened her eyes, the vizier learned a bitter thing. Though his daughter lived, she had not escaped the fever unscathed. She was blind, like her mother before her. From that day forward the vizier beheld a change in his daughter. Though her love for him remained constant, Shahrazad now made good the boast she had made to Maju beside the fountain: She never left the vizier’s quarters, never received visitors. Instead, she schooled herself in how to live alone.

Also from that time forward the tales about her began to spread. Throughout the land it was whispered that Shahrazad was as her mother Maju before her had been. A
drabardi.
A storyteller. And those who had been with the vizier when he had first taken Maju to wife remembered the prophecy of her people: that Maju’s child would come in time to be the greatest storyteller of all.

Shahrazad and her father mourned Maju the Storyteller for a year and a day. At the end of this rime, though their hearts were still heavy, they put aside their mourning robes. That very same day, as if he had only been waiting for the moment, the king, Shahrayar s father, called his vizier before him.

“Old friend,” he said. “You have served me well. Now, I desire to serve you well also. I will give to you a beautiful wife to ease your grief, for the time has come to put an end to sorrow.”

Now, the vizier had no desire for a beautiful wife. He had no desire for another wife of any kind. For, save for the love he had for Shahrazad, he had buried his heart with Maju the Storyteller. But the vizier had not served the king for so many years without learning his ways. He knew a command when he heard one. And so he bowed his head and said, “My lord, you do me too much honor.”

“Nonsense,” said the king. And he brought forth the bride that he had chosen. She was a great court lady, as beautiful as the morning. He married her to the vizier that very hour. And so, though he had set out alone for his audience with the king, when the vizier returned to his quarters he brought with him a bride.

Now, the vizier’s new wife was proud and ambitious. Never had she doubted her own value or her beauty, for all her life others had told her of it. She had not loved Maju the Storyteller, and she had no wish to love her daughter.

“Do you not think she would be happier among her mother’s people?” she asked the vizier on their wedding night. “Why should she wish to stay here, among foreigners?”

The vizier looked his new wife up and down. That was all he needed to take her measure, though he was careful not to let her know it took so little time.

“She is my daughter also,” he replied. “My people are hers, and her place is at my side. I will hear no more talk of sending her away.”

So the vizier’s new wife had no choice but to bide her time. But she had a plan, and she was sure it was a sound one. She spoke no more to the vizier of sending his daughter away. Instead, thus she spoke to Shahrazad: “Wait till I have given your father a son. I will have done something not even the great Maju could, and then we shall see how soon a storyteller’s daughter is forgotten.”

Though the words were designed to cut deep, Shahrazad bowed low her head and made no reply. She was still a child and had fears as all children do, but she had no fear that she might lose her father’s love.

At last the day came that the vizier’s new wife had hoped for: the day she could announce she was with child. Though her stepmother did not intend it should be so, this news was pleasing to Shahrazad. For it meant the viziers wife spent all her time making arrangements for the birth and no longer had time to pick and poke at Shahrazad. The months went by, and in due course, the time arrived for the coming of the child.

For many hours the viziers wife labored to bring forth the son she so desired. But when at last the child was born, it was not a son. It was a daughter. When the vizier’s wife was informed of this, she flew into a rage so great that her heart burst, and she died.

And so it was Shahrazad’s arms that first sheltered her sister from the world. And it was she who named her Dinarzad.

The vizier and his daughters lived together quietly and joyfully. Though Dinarzad sometimes accompanied her father outside their quarters as she grew, Shahrazad did not. She kept true to her vow and always stayed within her own household. Many hours did she spend with nothing for company save her own thoughts and the contents of Maju’s ebony trunk.

As the years went by, the vizier and his daughters grew in affection, as did the king and his two sons. The vizier’s first act upon returning from his duties each day was to retire to Shahrazad’s suite of rooms. There, he would tell her all that had befallen him. In this way did Shahrazad learn what transpired in her own land. Her father also placed a special set of servants always at Shahrazad’s disposal. At any hour of the day or night, they might read to her on any subject she desired. In this way did she learn about the wide world around her.

The cleverness of her mind and the depth of her beauty grew with each passing year. And, as these things grew, so did the curiosity of the king’s courtiers. Their earlier animosity toward Shahrazad’s mother was all but forgotten, and they longed to see the storyteller’s daughter. And the greatest longing of all lived in the breast of the young prince, Shahrayar, though he kept it locked away inside himself and spoke of it to no one.

But Shahrazad still kept to her own rooms and satisfied only her own curiosity.

When Shahrazad was sixteen, another sorrow befell her and her father. For in that year, the old king died and the whole kingdom was plunged into mourning. At the end of this period, Shahrayar ascended to the throne. He divided the kingdom with his brother, Shazaman, as has already been told you. The brothers embraced. Then Shazaman took his servants and his goods and departed for the city of Samarkand. And so a year went by,

Then, on no less important a day than the anniversary of their father’s death, Shahrayar conceived a great desire to see his brother. He had missed him dearly for they had never been parted until now. Therefore, he sent for the vizier and commanded him to make the journey to Samarkand and bring Shazaman to his side.

The vizier made preparations without delay. He mustered a great caravan. On the day it was to depart, the streets of the city thronged with people, all loudly proclaiming their good wishes to the vizier, and their love for King Shahrayar. The king himself stood on the palace steps to wish his vizier godspeed. Dinarzad stood with the young queen and her ladies, waving a silk handkerchief in farewell. But of Shahrazad, there was no sign.

The vizier’s caravan traveled for many days. When it reached Samarkand, Shazaman gave the vizier a warm welcome. When he learned the reason for the journey, he was overjoyed at the prospect of being reunited with his brother. Because the city was full of traders, Shazaman bade the vizier make camp outside the city gates. Then he set about making preparations for his own departure. It took several days, but at last the evening came when he kissed his wife farewell, and she presented him with a skin of his favorite wine.

“Tonight as you sit in your tent, drink this, and think of me,” she said. “It will ease the sorrow of this parting.”

“My beloved,” Shazaman answered, “gladly will I do as you desire.”

Then Shazaman went to the caravan of the vizier. There, he would spend the night so that they could depart early the next day in the cool of the morning.

But late that night, as he sat in his tent, a cup of the wine she had given him in his hands, Shazaman’s thoughts circled back to his wife. Much as he longed to see his brother again, Shazaman’s heart was sad, for he and his wife were newly married and he loved her dearly. Deciding he did not wish to part without one more sweet farewell, Shazaman set down the wine untouched, rose from his couch, and made his way back to the palace.

When Shazaman reached his chambers, his wife was nowhere to be found! Great was his dismay and alarm! He had just opened his mouth to give a cry when he heard the barest thread of sound. This was enough for him to recognize his wife’s voice, so great was his love. Wary now, for he feared that something was amiss, Shazaman followed the sound. Soon he found himself on a balcony overlooking his wife’s favorite garden. In the light of the moon he saw her—wrapped in another man’s arms.

“What a fool is this Shazaman,” he heard his wife proclaim. “For I have played him false before he has even departed. But he will never know it, for the wine I gave him at our parting is poisoned.”

When Shazaman heard these words his blood ran cold as newly melted snow. The love he felt for his wife fled from his heart, never to return.

At Shazaman’s wife’s words, her lover pulled back. “By the love of God!” he cried. “What have you done?”

But Shazaman’s wife merely laughed, a sound like tinkling bells which, as though the feeling belonged to another life or another man, Shazaman remembered had once greatly charmed him.

“Calm yourself, my beloved,” spoke his wife to her lover. “For the poison is as a thief in the night. So cunningly made that no one will be able to detect its coming and going. Now let us go in and repose ourselves, for we must be ready to rule in Samarkand on the morrow.”

So saying, Shazaman’s wife and her lover prepared to go in. But before they could, a great rage swept Shazaman. He drew his sword and leaped down into the garden. With the first stroke, he severed his wife’s lover’s head from his body. The second stroke deprived his wife of her head as well. Thus did he dispatch those who would have destroyed him.

After these deeds were done Shazaman summoned his most trusted councilors and made known to them all that had taken place. They pronounced his actions true and just. Though they begged him to remain within the city lest there be other conspirators, Shazaman would not delay his visit to his brother. For he discovered that he had no wish to remain in Samarkand where everything he looked upon reminded him of the treachery of the woman he had loved.