He set the lantern down. “Neither here nor there, but long ago…”
The first story he told was of the so-called King of Fire, who was so fearsome he could burn anything, even the sand on which they stood. But the King of Fire was not without a heart, and he fell in love with a human, a girl who dressed in stars. The king loved her dearly. So dearly that upon his death, he ordered the girl to bottle his flame so he could watch over her always. The girl honored him by gifting his fire to her descendants and having them tend it forever.
“And it is that same fire you see before you.”
When the story was over, the audience clapped and cheered. Mazen grew drunk on their adulation. He forgot about the gold. He forgot about everything but the tales, which he told well into the night. He told them stories about the Hemarat al-Gayla, the fearful donkey creature that devoured children who strayed too far from home in the heat of the day; of Bu Darya, a fish-man who drew his prey into the ocean by pretending to be a drowning human; and of the firebird, the majestic bird that trailed streaks of flame through the sky.
Loulie al-Nazari spoke in between the stories, holding out a pouch of silk and proclaiming, “The storyteller Yousef has traveled far and wide to share these stories with you! They are rare and precious, like relics. But every treasure has a value measurable in coin…”
They were a good team, he and Loulie. She knew how to pull in the crowds, and he knew how to keep them. Their audience remained enthralled even as the souk darkened and merchants began to pack their goods. By that time, those who remained were drowsy but expectant, lingering to see if he would tell another story.
Loulie caught his eye. One more? she mouthed.
Mazen considered. If this was to be the last one, he needed to make it impactful. The late-night tales were always the stories that lingered longest in a listener’s memory.
An idea snapped into place so suddenly it was as if it had always been there. Mazen had traveled with legends and watched stories come to life on this journey, but he had done it all while living a lie in Omar’s skin. Now, though, he was no longer his brother, and he was free to tell his own truths. Free to breathe life into his own history.
Most of his family’s stories were secrets. But there was one tale everyone knew, one whose details had been ingrained in Mazen’s heart since he was a child: a part of his family history, compressed into a fiction and made legend. One he knew better than anyone else.
“If there is to be only one more tale tonight, let it be the one about the storyteller who changed her fate with her fables. Let it be a story about stories and the power they have to sway mortal hearts.” Mazen smiled. He clasped his hands and began to tell them his last story.
His mother’s story.
The Tale of Shafia
Neither here nor there, but not so long ago…
There lived a Bedouin storyteller named Shafia, who was known for her near-perfect memory and evocative performances. Beautiful, bright-eyed, and wise beyond her years, she was said to have the perfect anecdote for any situation. Her reputation was so widespread that even those in the cities knew of her talent. This was how word of her came to reach the sultan’s wazir, who traveled for seven days and seven nights to meet with her. When he came to her tribe’s land, he prostrated himself before the sheikh and pleaded for an audience.
Shafia met with the wazir in her guest tent and bade him to tell her his woes. He shared with her a disturbing tale: his once-benevolent sultan was afflicted with a grief so profound it clouded his judgment. He had lost his first wife to childbirth and his second to betrayal, and ever since killing her in punishment, he suspected every woman plotted to shame him.
“Every week since the second wife’s murder, he calls for a new woman to be brought to him,” the wazir said. “And at the end of every week, he accuses her of some slight and kills her.” He pressed his forehead to the ground and spoke humbly: “They say you have mended broken hearts and charmed beasts with your stories, wise storyteller. So I beseech you: tell me how to calm His Majesty’s unnatural rage.”
Shafia considered. Then she said, “There is a truth to every story, and I have not yet discerned this one. I will meet with your sultan and speak with him myself.”
The wazir frantically shook his head. “The only way to meet with the sultan now is to consent to be his wife. You will not survive the week!”
Shafia simply smiled at him. “Loyal wazir, one cannot know the outcome of a journey if one is not brave enough to take it.” And so saying, she went to prepare for her departure.
Her family despaired at her decision. They tried to convince her to stay, claiming she had little to gain and much to lose. But Shafia was resolute, so there was nothing to do but honor her courage and pray for her safety as she rode out with the wazir. Seven days and seven nights passed before they came to Madinne’s gates, and then the wazir guided her into the city and to the palace, where the sultan sat upon his throne.
“I have brought a legend before you, Your Majesty,” said the wazir. “A storyteller named Shafia, who has a request of you.”
Shafia bowed. “I would ask the honor of being your wife, Your Majesty.”
The sultan’s surprise was second to his suspicion, but he nonetheless agreed to the storyteller’s request. He warily welcomed Shafia into his palace and had sad-eyed servants dress her in the richest robes and purest golds. They attended to her every need until the end of the week, at which point the sultan called her to his chambers. No woman had survived this encounter with him, but Shafia was unafraid as she entered his room.
“I have a question for you,” he said when she arrived. “Will you answer it truthfully?”
“You have my word, Your Majesty.”
“Then tell me: Why did you offer yourself to me?”
Shafia thought for a few moments, and then she said, “Have you heard the story of the haughty merchant who woke to become king for three days? Much like he believed himself to be hallucinating, I too thought I was dreaming when the wazir sought me out. How could I not be compelled to follow him to your palace and seek out the truth when given the opportunity?”
The sultan hissed in anger. “You told me you would answer my question, but instead you speak in riddles! Continue like this and you will pay for your deceit with your life.”
It was just as the wazir had said. The sultan had found some bizarre fault with her and intended to kill her for it. But Shafia did not wilt against the unexpected threat. “My apologies, Your Majesty. As a storyteller, I draw most of my truths from allegory.” She looked out the window to the sinking sun. “If you find it permissible, I would tell you the full tale before you take my life.” The sultan hesitated but, in the end, bade Shafia to continue.
So it was that the storyteller told him the tale of the proud merchant and the shrewd king. In the story, a king overheard a merchant ridiculing his decrees and decided to play a trick on him. He commanded his servants to bring the merchant to his palace in the dead of night and to address him as king when he woke. At first the merchant believed he was living a dream, but he soon realized how difficult it was to rule. Eventually, the true king revealed himself to the merchant, and though he had originally meant to punish him for his gall, he instead decided to reward him for his mettle by making him his advisor.