10 Soty-Second 3-11, page 1
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Frances Soty published several stories in Analog in the early 1990s but hasn’t been heard from in a while. “The Second Kalendar’s Tale” marks this author’s welcome return to the fields of fiction.
The Second
Kalandar’s Tale
A story of the encounters between Hassain Mohammed al-Shehr, a Prince of Arabia, and the Ifrit Jirjaris bin Rajmus, in A Thousand Nights and A Night; translated from the original Arabic by Sir Richard Burton
Retold by Francis Marion Soty
DESPITE THE UNCOMFORTABLE
shackles binding my arms behind me, fa-
tigue and weakness from three days without food caused me to fall asleep. I awoke when the man seated on the floor to my right bumped his knee hard against mine, while muttering a warning. Raising my sagging head and opening my eyes, I saw that the three mature but lovely sisters who had made me captive, unveiled and clad in harem silks, still reclined on cushions in front of us. I had been sitting there, helpless and fearful for my life, for almost an hour before weariness overcame me. “That is my tale,” said a deep voice to my left. I turned that way, to see the shaven face and head of one I knew as the First Kalandar, as he crawled backward to his place in the line of captives. “I swear before Allah, every word is true.”
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I stared at the one-eyed man, realizing I had slept through his entire story, and had no idea of its worth. But no matter how strange and marvelous the tale, it would pale before mine.
I looked to both sides, at the six other men taken captive with me, seated in a semicircle on the thick carpet, with our arms bound behind us and roped loosely to each other. Three of us were Kalandars, dressed in the poorest of black robes, looking somewhat alike with our shaved heads and faces, including eyebrows. One, who had been introduced as a porter, had been the first to speak. The remaining three, well but not richly dressed, were apparently merchants.
“Your tale is a fine one, and with it you have earned your life,” said the strikingly lovely woman in the center of the three. “Rub your head, and go your way.” She gestured for one of the seven huge Nubians standing guard against the wall to release the man.
“My lady, if it is well with you, I would do as the porter did after finishing his tale, and stay. I yearn to hear the stories of my fellow mendicants, and of these other three travelers.”
“As you wish. But if you stay, then before the night is over, you may still lose your head,” said the senior lady. But she smiled as she spoke, and I had hopes she was not as determined on our deaths as it had at first seemed.
The lovely woman nodded to me, second in the row of three black robes, and I got to my knees and crawled forward as far as the tie-rope permitted. “Ladies, it would bore you to hear how I, the son of a King, a renowned scholar in my own right, came to be a simple woodcutter, in one of the distant kingdoms of Hind. Travels and travails I knew in plenty, but the most fantastic part of my story began after a year of this hard life, when I wandered away from my fellow woodcutters one day and chanced on a lowland of fine timber.”
In my mind I returned to that time of two months ago, and again saw the old tree stump, rich with resin, hidden in the center of the grove. I remembered that I had decided to dig it out, and put shovel to the ground, but had barely begun when I heard a distinct chink! My shovel had hit something solid, a few inches down, that sounded like metal. But buried metal had no place in this isolated wood.
Curious, I cleared away the dirt and saw a copper ring, wider than my
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hand, set into what seemed a wooden trapdoor. I thought immediately this must be someone’s hidden treasure, gold some rich man in the nearby city had hidden from the tax collectors. I shoveled off the remaining grass and soil, and pulled on the ring. It took all my strength, but when the door tilted back and stopped, I saw a set of stone stairs descending into a shadowed underground.
I look a slow, careful look around. The trees were thick, the raised door well hidden. It seemed unlikely any of my companions would follow me here. And if the rich man had left some monster to guard his treasure, I did not want to be caught while straining to lift that heavy door from below.
Leaving the shovel behind, I shouldered my ax and walked down the stairs for about twenty feet, into a dark, stone-walled tunnel. Ten steps ahead I saw a second door, an upright one, with light leaking through around its edges. Holding the ax ready in my right hand, I cautiously opened the unbarred door with my left.
Brightness flooded around me, dazzling my eyes. When they adjusted, I stood looking into a noble hall, carved out of the stone of Mother Earth.
Thick carpet covered the floor, and colorful cloths and swatches of silk hid the hardness of the walls. Walking toward me, surprise and wonder on her face, came the most beautiful woman I had ever gazed upon. As the son of a king, raised in his harem until my balls descended and the Chief Eunuch expelled me, I had seen many female beauties — but never one to equal her.
She stopped a few feet away, gazing earnestly into my eyes with a mixture of fear and curiosity. She wore harem pajamas, loose-fitting silk that clung to her body in places, hung freely in others. The upper edges of large breasts, white as snow, peeped from beneath the clinging folds. She stood only five feet tall, and I saw now that she was a mature woman, approaching her prime; certainly a decade older than myself, three years away from thirty. In what was clearly her home, she wore no veil. Jet-black hair framed a round face of surpassing loveliness. The eyes looking up into mine were long-lashed, and dark as the skies at night when the moon is hidden.
“Are you Man or Jinn?” she asked, in a voice as soft and womanly as her body, hope now mingling with the fear on her face.
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“I am a man,” I replied, stepping inside the hall. I slipped off my dirt-encrusted sandals, leaving them at the edge of the rich carpet. As I walked toward her she retreated, keeping well out of my reach. After a few steps I stopped and knelt before her, in admiration for her beauty, but also to show I intended no harm. My ax I laid on the carpet as I bowed my head.
“Truly? Then how did you come to this hall, where I have lived for five-and-twenty years without seeing a living soul? The mighty Ifrit, Jirjaris bin Rajmus, hides me from Jinn as well as humans, for he took me without his family’s consent, and would suffer if they knew. Every tenth night he comes to bed me, and has done so since he snatched me away on what should have been my wedding day.”
I got to my feet, leaving the ax on the floor, and said, “I am Hassain Mohammed al-Shehr, the son of a King, and the tale of how I came to be a simple woodcutter, and found your prison, is long and sad. Let us save it for another day.”
The small but exquisite enchantress studied my face intently, looking deep into my eyes. Apparently what she found there satisfied her, for she nodded. “We will have five of those, if you find my company pleasing.
It has been four days since Jirjaris came, so he will return in six more. In the meantime I yearn to hear another human voice, trade thoughts with someone from the world of men. I am ensorcelled, and will die if I try to leave this place; but you can ease my loneliness for a time, if you will.”
It had been over a year since I left my father’s palace, and my own small group of concubines; I yearned for a woman. It seemed certain she was what she appeared, not a Jinni or monster set in place to guard a fortune. She herself was the jewel in this hidden hall.
I walked back to close the heavy door, then followed this mature flower of unsurpassed beauty into her luxurious prison.
“My name is Salima, and I am the daughter of a King.” She led me deeper into the noble hall. Through an open arched doorway ahead I saw her Hammam-bath, drawn and ready. As we passed a small alcove she pointed to an inscription burned into the wooden door. “Jirjaris made those symbols, with a finger hotter than an iron poker hours in the fire. I have only to touch them, and he will instantly appear. In all these years I have yet to call him, for I have never been in danger, and have no wish to see any more of him than I must.”
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Salima did not yet feel entirely safe with me, and had given warning. My statement of being a King’s son must have seemed a lie, and a man who would lie could not be trusted in other matters. But the longing for compan-ionship, to ease for a time the loneliness of her days, compelled this lovely creature to welcome even a man of unknown character into her home.
She led me into the bath room and started doffing her clothes. Salima did not need to tell me I was grimy with dirt and sweat, and she wanted me to join her in the bath and cleanse my body before I lay with her. I shed my own rags, until we stood naked before each other. She glanced shyly at my manhood, but quickly averted her gaze, and a noticeable blush stained the ivory cheeks. She had known an Ifrit over 900 nights, by my quick reckoning, but had never before seen a human male in urgent need.
In turn I stared at her as if entranced, and in the sense that the body of a beautiful woman ensorcells a man with desire, I was.
As if suddenly aware of a lack of proper modesty, Salima turned toward the bath, to hide her feminine glory beneath the water — but she took my hand, and pulled me after her.
When our bodies were clean and dry Salima produced two long, luxurious robes, then led me back to the central room. She seated me on
She explained that the Ifrit always brought plentiful supplies of food and drink on his visits, but servants were forbidden; she had to cook and clean for herself. He also provided her with books and scrolls in profusion. She had read and studied them all. Learning had become her primary occupa-tion, the means by which she passed the lonely hours; without something to occupy her mind, she would have gone mad.
When we had eaten our fill and finished the first bottle of wine, Salima brought another. We sat and talked for two hours, emptying the second bottle, of which I drank the most. At last she arose, having finally decided I was one who would never do her harm, took my hand again, and led me to her bedchamber. In the light of only two candles we shed those long robes and lay down together. As I took her small body in my arms, I could not help but think my situation wondrous strange. Here I lay in the bed of an Ifrit, a Jinni of fire from hell, about to enjoy the beauty he had kept isolated from Jinn and human alike for twenty-five years. But then her
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arms crept around my neck and I turned my mind to nothing, sinking entirely into the moment, as I had been taught by Sufi scholars at my father’s court. Some experiences are best enjoyed without the distractions of conscious thought.
During one period of rest Salima brought us a fresh bottle of the delicious wine; another as dawn appeared in the world above. Our congress continued long into the morning, our delight in each other yet unslaked. She looked askance at me when I emptied the current bottle and asked for another, suggesting we break our fast instead. But I demurred, having no appetite for food, and she did as I asked.
About noon, even my healthy young body and her long-unmet needs had been satisfied. I arose with an urge to relieve my bladder, but found I could barely walk. I managed it, though my feet were unsteady, and afterward came back to the bed.
I looked at the unclad beauty of Salima, still deeply asleep, and knew I had to have this woman, not just for now but the rest of my life. Instead of joining her I slipped on my robe, returned to the main room, and found the ax I had left there. Weapon in hand, I staggered over to the little alcove, where the evil Jirjaris had left his call sigil burned into the door. I lifted my free hand to press it, but heard a cry of alarm from behind me. I turned to see Salima, also robed, emerging from the bedchamber.
“Oh my love, I beseech you, do not touch that symbol!”
But the wine I had drunk, and my great love for Salima, made me bold.
“I am a man, and a scholar. I have studied the Jinn, and know that any spell cast by one ends with his death. I will slay Jirjaris, which will free you of his ensorcellment. Then we can return to my father’s kingdom, where one day I will rule, and you shall be my queen.”
But Salima only looked terrified. “By the grace of Allah, do not attempt this! No man can stand before Jirjaris!”
“Nonsense,” I said, again lifting my hand to touch the symbol. “He has treated you foully, and I intend to kill him and remove you from this spell-bound prison.”
But Salima said, “Oh dear to my heart, do not destroy what we have!
Nine nights out of ten I can be yours, and the evil one need never know.”
Confident in my youth and strength, my wits befuddled by far too much wine, I ignored her woman’s pleas and touched the sigil.
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At once the room darkened, thunder boomed, and lightning flashed.
The very stone beneath my feet seemed to heave and ripple, like waves in an angry sea. In an instant the wine fumes left my head, my brave intentions vanished like pipe smoke in a desert wind, and my guts turned to water.
“The Ifrit comes! Oh flee, my love, save yourself!”
I dropped my ax, a useless toy, and ran for the door. I pushed the heavy wood open, stepped through, and started to close it behind me, but then paused. Salima could not leave, and I was abandoning her to the mercy of one who had no mercy. But she had urged me to go…cowardice and courage warred in my heart, and I stood indecisive, the door closed but for a slight crack. And as I watched, the stone floor and carpet seemed to split asunder. A mighty Ifrit rose from the opening, which closed into a floor again beneath him.
Salima had said Jirjaris assumed human form, that of a tall Persian, when he visited and bedded her. But this time he had been called without warning, and came in his true shape. He stood twice as tall as a man, on legs thick as trees; huge feet smoked on the thick carpet. I saw two short black wings, furled close to his back. His eyes were hideous cressets of red fire. Two long teeth from the upper jaw extended down past his chin.
I felt my bowels quake with fear. I dared not move the door even the bit that would close it, afraid he would hear a squeak, or notice the movement. As I stood there, paralyzed, I heard the voice of Jirjaris, rumbling like thunder close overhead. “Why do you disturb my rest, wife?
I see no danger here.”
“Oh my lord, forgive me, it was an accident.” Salima kept her composure far better than I; she must have seen this hideous, fearful form before. “I had a full bottle of wine after dinner, and the effects were still with me when I awoke late. I stumbled walking past the alcove, and touched your symbol when I kept myself from falling. But — ” I saw an inviting smile curve the wine-red lips that had pressed mine so often during the long night “ — since I have accidentally brought you here for the first time, will you not assume your human form and come lie with me? I grow lonely over nine days without you, and desire your company in my bed.”
“You lie, whore that you are!” bellowed the Ifrit. He had seen my ax,
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and picked it up. Looking around, he spotted my sandals; Salima had cleaned them yesterday, and they waited at the foot of the smaller of the two divans. My rags of clothing had gone into a back area, to be cleaned later.
Jirjaris brought the three items to Salima. “What are these but the belongings of some mortal who has found you here? You lying strumpet, you have lain with him this past night, and now seek to lure me to your bed to distract me from my vengeance.”
“I have never seen these things before,” said Salima, but her voice quavered with fear. “You must have brought them yourself, clinging to your garments.”
The Ifrit reared up even higher, until his head neared the tall ceiling.
“Lying harlot! Your words are absurd, and you shall pay for saying them.”
Jirjaris seized Salima, stripped off her robe, and threw her naked body to the floor. He produced four cords, pulled her arms and legs apart, and tied each to a heavy piece of furniture. She lay on the carpet as though crucified, her beauty all exposed. But the Ifrit had no eye for her loveliness.
He shrank down to just more than human size, then knelt by her left side.
Jirjaris raised his right hand, and suddenly the outer part of the thick forefinger glowed red, as though burning.
The Ifrit brought the tip of his glowing finger so close to her ribs that Salima must have felt the heat. “One last chance for truth. Confess your sin, and name the man who bedded you.”
Salima raised her head enough to look up at her master, and past him to the outer door. She saw what he had not noticed, that it was open a tiny crack, and guessed I was still in the tunnel. Her head sank back to the floor, and she again denied any man had entered her prison, or lain with her last night.
Jirjaris placed the finger of fire at the top of her rib cage, and slowly drew it downward.
Salima screamed in agony, her body arching upward in a useless effort to escape. She threw her head back, beat it on the carpet, and writhed and twisted, all to no avail. The red-hot finger moved down her ribs until all were marked by a black gouge, so wide I could see it from the door. Some smoke drifted upward, and I smelled burned flesh.
“Now will you speak, or must I decorate your other side to match?”
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As Jirjaris rose to his feet and stepped over her prone body, Salima raised her head again and looked at the door. With the Ifrit’s eyes not on her, she shook her head; a clear message telling me not to sacrifice my own life in some hopeless effort to rescue her. I had known this woman only one night, but she was willing to endure horrible torture to save me.
