sugar cube
scheherazade chooses a different fate
The official version goes like this ~ the king’s wife cheated on him with a slave, and in a black-out rage he offed them both. Those sheets, warm from their bodies, were quickly soaked with blood.
He went to his brother’s kingdom, depressed as sin. His brother, funnily enough, suffered the same experience. His wife cheated on him with a slave too. Story has it that they traveled together to soothe their heavy spirits, and ended up crossing paths with a jinn. The jinn’s wife seduced them (mind you, she was captive to the jinn). They couldn’t resist her, oh no. Instead post-nut, they harped on how all these women were just so fucking faithless, unworthy of their care and devotion, undeserving of their loyalty.
The king got back home and sent out an edict through his son. Earlier that lunar year, he’d made the boy vizier, a golden chain to keep his heir close. The boy would have preferred losing himself in travels to and from Cathay, but the king couldn’t stomach the possibility of his heir slipping through his fingers.
The edict? All girls of such and such age were to be sent to the palace. Immediately.
People all over the kingdom assumed he was just amassing a huge harem. How greedy, merchants would whisper. Wails of mothers across the territories covered the land like ash. Who would their sons marry now?! But alas he was king. No one could say no.
Reality was grimmer. After a night spent with the damsel, he would execute them. Every night it was the same. He would devour, then order her to lay very still. He’d reach for his khanjar, and play with her, holding that blade close to her jugular. She’d smile and think he’s only joking, right? She had done nothing wrong, and she gave all of herself that night to please the powerful king, even if this was in fact her first time partaking in intercourse. She had run through all the advice her mother and aunts crammed into her brain before departure, even if her body hadn’t yet readied itself for such things. She did well, she did well... Her chant would come out as increasingly shallow breaths.
He released, and he was smiling.
His grin would spread, savoring her transparent thoughts, and in a breath, he would pick up his arm and swing down. He felt immense pleasure seeing the gush of scarlet spring forth and paint the sheets red.
The vizier was running out of girls, not to mention he was sampling one or two himself.
He summoned us from abroad — me and my cousins. This would have to do, he reasoned begrudgingly. The guilt ate at his entrails with newfound ferocity for he knew exactly what he was doing.
What I come to find out, once I’m back in my old childhood room, is that his wife, in fact, was very much alive. She still had her own wing and did as she pleased.
Spineless. Complicit. Her passive consent in exchange for comfort and gold. As long as she wasn’t the one that had to entertain that night, any night, she was at peace with looking the other way. Opium became her favorite incense.
Surprisingly, my room was just as I left it before I travelled north to Rus.
I shift to sit closer to my friend, who had refused to let me come back alone. “He hasn’t changed,” I whisper.
“I know,” she replies. She pats the satchel next to her, full of herbs, “You’ll make it through, and perhaps you’ll be the one to put an end to this madness. In the meantime, I will make sure nothing comes of it.”
She is as concerned as I am, but we take turns being scared, and right now, I need her to hold firm. I nod and gulp. If the rumors are true, I may not make it past the night. But in the case that I do... I am nowhere near ready to be a mother, and especially to a child of his. God forbid.
She helps me get ready: prepares a tea of yarrow, dolls me up in blue, tells me she will enter the chamber with me. That I am not alone.
I nod again. What else can I say?
The sun sets, and it is time. We make our way through winding halls. The slaves lower their eyes when we pass. None of us has a speck of power, we are at the whim of a sick man with a depraved appetite.
I decide then: this ends with me.
We stand at the threshold of his chamber. I notice that the light of the candles is amplified by strategically placed bronze mirrors.
“Come forth,” he orders. I step in.
Our eyes lock. Same color, same shape as mine. I’m back again in my personal hell.
“Ah, I knew you’d return,” he purrs.
Back to my old survival ways, I half-smile. He proceeds as intended. When he asks me to look back at him, I stare right at the middle of his forehead.
Truth be told, I am somewhere else.
I would think of a dear friend, the cute boy from Rus, of nights at his grandma’s place listening to her stories of Baba Yaga and all the idiots that came to her for help. I would think of my friend waiting right outside the door (she wasn’t allowed in), of nights spent praying to a god we barely knew, then playing with makeup and fabrics till the sun greeted us again.
My eyes flit back to the king’s face. He looks annoyed. He has finished, and his hand reaches for a sheathed blade next to our faces. With hesitation.
I roll my eyes and let out a small laugh, “O King, shall I tell you the story of Hades and Persephone?”
I will him to get off. Tit-for-tat. A story in exchange for space (and my life).
His chest deflates in relief, “Yes, tell me what you’ve learned. Any investment I make should come back to me with profits.”
He tries to caress my face, but I tense up. He calls my friend in. As she tends to me and cleans me up, I weave him the tale of Hades and Persephone with skillful voicing, charming narrative pace, and of course, smiles peppered everywhere. Just how he likes it.
If there’s one thing this king is good at, it is consistency. Lord, every day, the same. I am free to read, and recover, during the day. Then at twilight, I would be called to his chamber. My friend would wait outside, ready to be let in once it was over and I was to weave something captivating. Greek myths gave way to Egyptian lore, Slavic tales, Hebraic stories. Eventually, I made up my own.
Back in my room, I slump on the bed and sigh, “I’m exhausted. One thousand nights. I’m a little bird with a diamond encrusted leash on its ankle. Chained to this rotting kingdom forever.”
My friend stares at me, then moves closer to hold my hands. “I have news.”
I look up. Do I dare to have hope again? The tears fall like silent soldiers.
She continues, “He has sent me a message. See that falcon over there by the window? He awaits your response.”
“What is it?” I ask, knowing she already ate the paper. My voice trembles.
“He’s here. Ready when you are.”
I breathe in deeply, and squeeze her hand, “Let’s get ready for bed.”
The next morning, I wake and feel something small brush my palm as I pull my arm from under the pillow.
A sugar cube.
“Did you put this here for me?” I ask, confused as I don’t take sugar with my tea.
My friend shakes her head.
I place the cube on my tongue, and let it dissolve. I close my eyes, and for a second I remember the sun, the laughter, the wind on our faces as he and I raced horses by the seashore.
This ends with me.
On my way out, decked in red, I grab the small lighter from my nightstand. A gift received on one of those prayer nights, from the world beyond this one. I flick it open, click it shut. Engraved on its surface: a happy cat with one paw raised.
The king receives me as usual, but before he enters me, I hold my hand up.
“What is it, baby?” he asks.
“Enough,” I croak, “I can’t do this anymore.”
The king, stunned, sits back on his calves.
I push myself up onto my elbows, “I had so much to say, but now that I am allowing myself to speak, there’s nothi...”
“You will let me go.” My eyes pin his, voice resolute. “I will keep silent, you will keep silent. That has been and will continue to be our unspoken deal.”
I slink out of the sheets, and put my crimson robes back on as best I can. I stand next to the bed, and add, “Let the other girls go, don’t look for more. And find god, for fuck’s sake.”
I slip the lighter from its hidden pocket, flick the flame, and touch it to the sheets.
It catches.
He honors our deal, and doesn’t call for his guards. Once I am out the door, he finally lets himself stand.
“Let’s go!” I hiss on my way out, locking arms with her. I don’t look back.
Past the rose garden, a rider in black waits with two horses.
I look up. The night sky is clear, and directly above, Sirius illuminates the way.
Such a faithful star. He has heard all my prayers.