Dreams and Shadows

chapter FOUR

THE TEN THOUSAND BOTTLES OF THE FISHMONGER’S DAUGHTER

Translated from fragments unearthed midway through the twentieth century, “The Ten Thousand Bottles of the Fishmonger’s Daughter” appears to have, at one time, been collected as one of Scheherazade’s many tales presented in Burton’s The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night. However, at some point it fell into disuse and doesn’t appear in any complete subsequent copies. Some scholars argue that this is simply a local tale added by an unscrupulous scribe meaning to include his own work in such a respected manuscript, a common practice of the time and one of the problems Gutenberg sought to eradicate with the invention of his printing press. Others argue that it is a lost folktale that became unfashionable, failing to espouse the beliefs of Islam, as many Nights tales do. Perhaps the best argument against its inclusion as a true Nights story is that it does not portray the sultan in a good light, something contrary to Scheherazade’s ultimate goal—that of appeasing her murderous sultan husband. It is included here for the sake of completeness and should not be considered in actuality to belong directly in Nights.

Excerpt from Timm’s Lost Tales: The Arabian Fables by Stephen Timm

Once upon a time there lived a very selfish djinn. While he was one of the most powerful and clever of his kind, he had become infatuated with the lifestyle of man. He would seek out men of this world and grant them wishes, be it great wealth, power, or a multitude of women, and in return he would ask them one simple favor: to make a wish that in no way benefited them directly. These men would often think of wondrous, selfless ideals—feeding the poor, sheltering the homeless, curing the sick. But all the while the djinn had been seeding them with notions that he was in some way trapped or poor or suffering. To each man he told a different tale and often each man—hoping to further gain his favor—would grant the djinn some creature comfort with his spare wish. In this way the djinn amassed such wealth that it began to rival the sultan’s own. This estate afforded him a great many wives, all of whom he loved very much, each spoiled and pleasured in a way no other harem was ever spoiled. This djinn had a good life, one he felt he had earned many times over.

But in this very same kingdom, at this very same time, lived a very selfish sultan. Though the most powerful and respected man of his day, he had grown comfortable with his status and with all of his worldly things. And when he heard about the growing wealth of the djinn, the sultan grew nervous. Soon this djinn’s wealth would eclipse his own and he might one day claim himself to be sultan, ruler of all he surveyed. As far as the sultan was concerned, this djinn was one wish away from stealing everything that was rightfully the sultan’s—all of which was bequeathed to him by Allah upon his birth. And as no djinn was going to take away a birthright gifted by Allah, the sultan summoned together his wisest viziers to hatch a plan to put this djinn squarely in his place.

For days the viziers talked it over and could come to no agreement. Some thought they should put the djinn’s women to the sword and burn his estate. Others, fearing reprisal, thought they should only threaten to put his women to the sword and burn his estate. Still others thought the sultan should absorb the lands and estate as his own, by the will of Allah. But none of these options truly protected the sultan and his kingdom from possible reprisal—for while the sultan’s army was mighty, djinn were numerous and there was no telling how many would come to the aid of one of their own.

It was the sultan’s wisest vizier, a man whose name is no longer known to us, who sat silent for three days and three nights, letting the other men talk themselves hoarse before speaking up. And when he did, there was not a voice left in the room to contradict him. “You waste your time with talk of force and threats,” he said, condemning his fellow advisors. “If you wish to best a man, whether in warfare or in guile, you do not confront his strength. You play upon his weakness.” And with that he laid out his plans to humiliate the djinn and leave him no longer a threat to the sultan. But the vizier demanded a price from the king—albeit a small one—for it is said that a djinn can sense desire in the heart of a man and it was essential to the plan that the vizier be given a reward.

He asked, humbly, for the hand in marriage of the mute virginal daughter of a fishmonger, said to be the most beautiful girl in all the kingdom. The sultan himself had considered adding her as one of his many wives—for what man does not want a silent wife, especially one so beautiful? But this request he granted to his vizier, for the vizier’s cunning was legendary and the sultan wanted never to find himself on the wrong side of it.

The next evening the djinn’s residence was visited by a poor, traveling beggar. The djinn welcomed him in and offered him food. The beggar thanked him and gladly partook of the meal offered him. “You have quite a nice estate,” said the man. The djinn smiled, for he was proud of the home he had created. “It’s not as nice as the sultan’s palace, but it is a fine estate.” The djinn smiled a bit less.

“How is your stew?” the djinn asked of the beggar.

“Oh, fine, sir. Fine. It is an excellent meal. It reminds me of the time I dined with a foreign head of state. He had the most magnificent cooks. They cooked a goat the likes of which you have never tasted, roasted to perfection with the finest of imported herbs.”

The djinn looked at the beggar suspiciously. “How is it that a beggar like you has dined with kings and visited the sultan?”

“Oh, sir. I do not wish to burden you with my tale.”

“Oh, but you must,” insisted the djinn.

“Many summers ago the man sitting humbly before you was vizier to the sultan himself.” The djinn looked upon the man now with great interest. “But the sultan, he is a wicked and most selfish ruler. I served him for many years and asked only one thing of him, the hand of a beautiful girl in a nearby village. But the sultan, once he set eyes upon the girl, decided that he himself must marry her and deprive her of her most cherished innocence. When I dared to speak up, he cast me out—sparing my life for the years of service I had offered him—stripping me of my title and wealth. I have lived upon the kindness of strangers ever since. Oh, if only there was a way to correct these ills!”

Touched by this tale of woe, but even more so enraged by the selfishness of a man higher in station than he, the djinn decided he would help this man. He could sense the longing for the young maiden in the man’s heart and thus revealed his true self to the man. Awestruck by the golden form of the djinn before him, the man fell to his knees as the voice of the djinn boomed through the marble halls. “Sir, this night I will give you the chance to avenge yourself and right these wrongs!”

“Do you swear it?” the beggar asked.

“I do,” swore the djinn. “I will grant you three wishes. The first two are for you. The third must benefit someone other than yourself. Do you promise to do this?”

“Oh yes. Yes I do.”

“Then what is your first wish?”

“I wish for the sultan to grant me the hand of the woman I desire most.”

The djinn nodded his head, clapped his hands, and made it so.

“What is your second wish?”

“That no matter what, you do not in any way harm the sultan or his viziers for what they have done, nor may you rob them of anything rightfully theirs without their knowledge.”

“Why not?” asked the djinn, puzzled by this request.

“Because if I let harm come to these men, it would make me no better a man than they.”

The djinn smiled and nodded approvingly. Truly this was a man of character. He nodded his head, clapped his hands twice, and made it so. “And your third wish?”

“That all of your possessions, your estate, and your wives be immediately bequeathed to the sultan.”

The djinn was immediately shamed. He had been tricked. In a rage, he drew back his arm to strike the man but could not, for this was a vizier of the sultan’s and he could not harm him for what he had done; the djinn knew that now. It was only then that he truly understood what he had done.

“You swore an oath, djinn. Grant me my third wish.”

A tear came to the eye of the djinn. His estate, all of his possessions, and the wives he had loved so much; in a moment, they would all belong to the sultan. Sadly he nodded his head, clapped three times, and made it so.

“Now, I order you out of the sultan’s estate, djinn.” The vizier smiled, ordered the servants to tend to the residence in his absence, and returned to the sultan to claim his bride.

Shamefully the djinn walked out of the sultan’s estate and for three days and three nights continued without stopping, trying to get as far away from his old life as possible. When he could walk no more, he found a nice inviting branch in a large fig tree and fell into a deep sleep.

The next morning a young farmer was collecting figs from his trees when he accidentally stumbled upon the djinn. Startled by the disturbance, the djinn awoke angrily, lost his balance, and fell from the tree. The man dropped immediately to his knees and begged the djinn’s forgiveness. It was then that the djinn looked around and, seeing himself surrounded by fields of fig trees, realized he had mistaken the farmer’s orchard for simple woodland. He begged the farmer’s forgiveness, but the farmer would not hear of it.

“This is your tree now,” the farmer implored. “You have chosen it.”

“But it is your tree, in your orchard.”

“I have many trees in this orchard. This one is now yours for as long as you want it. Please forgive my awakening you. Is there any way I could repay this offense?”

It was then that the djinn noticed just how hungry he was. “Some food would be nice, if you can spare it.” The farmer nodded to this request. “But do not salt it or you will have offended me tenfold.” The farmer left and returned an hour later with a bowl of the day’s stew. The djinn sat beside the tree and hungrily devoured his meal. He motioned for the farmer to sit beside him. “Thank you for your kindness. You have given me food when I was hungry and a tree when I possessed nothing else in the world. How can I repay your kindness?”

“All I ask is that you spare me your wrath,” pleaded the farmer.

“I have no wrath for you, young man,” said the djinn.

“Then I have all I need.”

“But what is it that you want? What is it that you wish?”

“Wish?” The farmer blushed. “There is a girl in a nearby village who I care very much for.”

“And you wish that she loved you?” the djinn asked.

“No,” said the farmer. “She already loves me. But her father has promised her to another man.”

“Then you wish she was promised to you instead?”

“Yes,” the farmer replied.

“What else would you wish for?”

“I wish she could speak so I could know what she was thinking at all times.”

“She cannot speak?”

“No. Not since birth.”

“What then would be your third wish?”

“Third wish?” he asked. “What else could a man wish for? A home, a wife, and land is all a man needs. The rest he must earn for himself, or else it has no value.”

“No value?” the djinn asked, surprised.

“No. Gold a man hasn’t earned is just something shiny on a pile that means nothing to him. We are not the sum of worthless piles. Our worth is the work that went into them.”

The djinn smiled, impressed by the wise farmer. “What is your first wish?”

“I wish the fishmonger’s daughter was promised to me.”

The djinn nodded his head, clapped his hands, and made it so. “What is your second wish?”

“I wish the fishmonger’s daughter could speak.”

The djinn nodded his head, clapped his hands twice, and made it so. “Not only is she the loveliest woman in all the land, but now she has the sweetest voice as well. What is your third wish?”

“I wish happiness upon all those you visit equal to what you are about to bring me.”

At this the djinn paused. “What?” he asked.

“You have done so much for me just now. My only wish left is that you may continue to gift others with a fate as wondrous as mine.”

At this the djinn smiled, nodded, and clapped his hands three times, making it so.

At that very moment, miles away, the vizier grew very angry, for he knew what the djinn had done and he swore the djinn would pay. Furious, he called together the rest of the viziers and the kingdom’s wisest wizards and together they pored over tablet and text looking for a final solution to the djinn problem.

That next morning the fishmonger rode up to the farmer’s home with his daughter in tow. Unsurprised, the farmer met him out in front. “It is the strangest thing,” said the fishmonger. “Last night my daughter came to me and with the voice of a dozen nightingales said, ‘Father, I love a man and I wish to marry him.’ And a voice so sweet cannot be denied, especially when she told me that she loved a man as well regarded and noble as you. So I come to you with dowry in hand asking if you would marry my daughter and make me the proudest father in all the land.”

The farmer smiled, nodded, and promised the fishmonger that he would love his daughter with all his heart. And so the two were quickly married and lived happily upon figs and fish for the remainder of their lives.

But the vizier was furious. After weeks of combing through scripture and scroll he still could not find a way to kill a djinn outright. He did however find two fragments of dark script that detailed two very important points. The first was that each djinn is only as old as memory and that they die when no one can remember their name. The second was a method of trapping them in a vessel where they could be stored and kept forever. Separate, these notions were dangerous to the djinn, but together they proved to be the path to their undoing.

At once the vizier commissioned the artisans of the kingdom to cast bottles and lamps constructed of the finest, carefully chosen materials. Then he ordered his riders to pay a visit to the fig farmer and his new bride. The riders returned by morning, bearing the freshly cut heads of the newlyweds. Commissioned then to ride in all directions, the riders sought out djinn wherever they could be found. Each rider was given a dozen bottles and lamps and was told they dared not return until each vessel was filled.

The vizier’s revenge was not swift. It was slow and deliberate. Word did not spread quickly enough and, within a year, ten thousand bottles returned filled with djinn. But not a one was the djinn he was looking for. Each bottle was stored in a vault that was then buried twenty feet beneath the sand. Robbed of both his prize and his bride, the vizier took solace in his hollow victory.

This victory was short lived, however, for the djinn were numerous—more numerous than ten thousand—and did not take the news of their imprisoned brethren without insult. While the magic of the bottles prevented the few remaining djinn from opening or even finding them, the riders who carried them were not so tight with their secrets—especially after they had run out of bottles. It took turning only a few of the riders inside out before their tongues loosened and the djinn were able to discern the villain behind these wicked oubliettes.

The vizier awoke from a night of bad dreams to find himself alone in a desolate wasteland, far from his kingdom. There he wandered for three days before the sun and sand drove him to near madness. Just before he succumbed completely, the djinn set wild dogs upon him, which tore him limb from limb to slake their own thirst with his blood. After that, his bloodline was forever cursed, with his family condemned to strangling their newborn children until not a single relation remained. Lastly, the djinn struck the vizier’s name from the record of time, some say banishing its syllables from the tongues of men altogether.

The djinn then laid waste to the entire kingdom, made barren all of the surrounding lands, and razed the sultan’s palace to dust. The selfish djinn, the cause of this swift and terrible war, joined the mass exodus and departed—morose, quiet, and heavy with shame. He was never heard from again.