Andrew Nicoll(short story) "Scheherazade" in LitPot

Short Story by Andrew Nicoll

SCHEHERAZADE

We watched the executions every day. Standing on the terrace above my father's gate house, hidden by the alabaster urns, we'd see the procession pass, the white donkey driven on with blows and kicks by the donkey man and his boy or kicking out for himself at the woman stumbling along behind, digging her feet in, dragging her heels, tied to his tail.

They weren't all like that. Some were dignified and upright, pale and frightened, determined not to give in to hysteria. But most were tearful, screamed for pity, begged for help in the grip of shrieking terror. Nobody helped. There was nothing to do but watch them and their howling families; the mothers with veiled faces, the ululating aunts and sisters, fathers and brothers weeping alongside, helpless and ashamed. Those men couldn't save their women but might have died trying with enough courage. That's what they were supposed to do in this most manly man's world: offer strength and protection in exchange for absolute authority and the total obedience of their women. But they never tried. They went home and beat their wives until the shame passed.

We could see the whole street from our terrace. The donkey used to come from behind the tamarinds on the corner and bobbed along towards my father's house, its sorry little procession dragging behind.

At the other end of the road, they stopped in the square by the well. Doves crowded in the branches of the fig tree for a better view and my sisters and I hung from the terrace, jostling the geranium urns to see the women die.

There was an hour-glass feeling in those moments. All the life rushed out of the victim and yet I tingled with it, blood singing in my ears, surging through me.

In my memory all the executions were the same. For me, the killings in the square were like puppet shows from the fair - but they were all too real for those girls. Even the shriekers grew quiet by the time they reached the square and the donkey man forced them to their knees.

By then they knew their pleading was wasted, their fathers would not save them, the executioner would not look away and allow them to escape, nothing could be bargained, nothing could be given. So they knelt, hoping for the waking jolt from a nightmare, as the donkey man tied his scarf around their eyes and walked back to his donkey and pulled that long, thin, glittering blade from under the blanket.

The donkey man stepped forward, dancing lightly, silent on slippered feet in the dust, graceful like a falling hawk, quick paces, one step, the sword went back, two steps the sword was still, three steps, the donkey man's boy touched the woman on her shoulder with his stick, she started, sat bolt upright, the blade swooped forward, sliced through her neck, head fell, side-step, four steps.

The doves in the fig tree took flight at the rush of it and circled round the square, landing on the rooftops, cooing while the blood seeped out in thick pools on the pavement. When the body was taken, wrapped in its white shroud, with a weeping father leading the way to the fresh grave, the donkey boy would scour the slabs around the well, bucket after bucket bobbing up and down on its pole and spilling over the square, chasing the blood down our street.

And then he washed the donkey and made its white coat shine and fed it carrots; he brushed and garlanded it under heaps of knotted roses and put daisies behind its ears and an embroidered riding cloth over its back. After that we watched the second procession of the day when the donkey man went to a new victimšs house and escorted her to the palace to be married to the Sultan for a night. We heard the shawms and the tambours and her family's howling as they walked behind the band, scattering petals in her path.

After the first month of these rituals, the women of the town stopped using the well at the end of our street and went to the one on the other side of the fruit market. It was further away and the water was heavy to carry but they said it was worth it. They said our well had a taste to it.

By that time my sisters and I had long ago stopped watching the executions. They were boring. The same story every day. A poor sort of play this when the story never changes. We heard the weeping and the scouring at dawn and the weeping and the music at noon and the weeping and the scouring at dawn but we seldom looked out from our house.

That was how my father liked it anyway. The neighbours hated him because he was the Sultan's vizier but they would have fired the house if they had known of his crop of daughters behind the gate, laughing and singing like waterfalls, swaying like palms to the sound of lutes. Father kept the gates locked and the screens drawn.

But one day the donkey man came. He had been to the neighbour on the left and he had been to the neighbour on the right and now he came to our gate. My father had given orders that we should open to none. But the donkey man stood all day at the gate and knocked and he was still there at evening when my father returned from the palace.

Father cursed him. Father denied there was any woman in the house. Father came through our gate, pale and ashamed and said that, the next day, at noon, the donkey man would lead a wedding party to the Sultan's palace. My sisters wept, my father wept. They were all afraid but I was not afraid.

I was glad. My father could not choose my older sister because she was his first child and he had loved her the longest and he could not choose my younger sister because she was but a baby and he could not choose me because, above all things, he loved me the best. But I offered myself.

I demanded that I should be the one to go and, while they spent the night in tears and argument - for we all loved one another and each of my sisters would have given their lives gladly for the other - I went upstairs and dressed myself as a bride.

The next morning we heard the procession go by with weeping to the square at the well and the blood ran red past our open gate. And then at noon the white donkey came, covered in roses with its embroidered saddle cloth and I mounted and rode to the palace with my father and my sisters walking on ahead, throwing petals and howling as if to drown out the musicians in front of us.

By my marriage I became a queen. With modest eyes I gazed at the Sultan over my veil during the wedding feast and I saw that he was beautiful and I felt my body open to him and I longed for him - whatever might be the price. The endless meal ended and, at last, I was brought to the Sultan's chamber where I cast away my veil and let him look on my face and I knew that he was enchanted and, when I danced for him, he was captivated. He reached out to me but I floated away, the silk clinging to my body, the shape of me left shimmering in the air and he growled.

"I have been married many, many times" he muttered in his beard, "and even if I could have remembered their names, I never asked them. But tell me yours."

I danced close and whispered "Scheherazade" with a tiny, tinny clash of my finger cymbals in his ear and danced away again with just the scent of my perfume for him to hold.

How he wanted me then. And he wanted me more when I sang to him and poured his wine until he was drowsy and kissed him, long and deep and talked to him and told him stories. I told him of the poor orphan boy, Aladdin, and the wicked sorcerer who lowered him into a cave of treasure and the magic lamp and the genie who dwelt within. I told him of the brave sailor, Sinbad, and the bottomless gorge, scattered with diamonds and how he was lifted out of it into the sky in the talons of the great Roc. Such wonderful stories I told him until dawn. But I would not give myself to him.

In the morning, when the donkey man came to the door, the Sultan shooed him away - as I knew he would. There was no reason to kill me. My fingers had found the mound in the Sultan's trousers. That had not been there for the others. He need not kill me to hide his shame.

But he was tired and he sent me away to the empty harem where the morning peacocks were screeching on the lawns and gold fish flashed in fountains of lapis mosaic. There the eunuchs, those great fleshy capons who giggled when I tickled them and twittered like birds when I danced, served me. Pleasure without danger. I shook my buttocks for them, I teased them with my fingers, I worked them with my mouth and soon they blossomed and they had me, each of them, one after another until I quivered with pleasure and moaned with delight. Yes, it was disloyal, but as deadly a secret for them as for me and I have needs as well as a brain.

That evening, the Queen of a second day, I went back to the Sultan and danced and sang and teased and told stories. I told him of a Prince who saw his kingdom stolen by a wicked uncle and a faithless mother, driven to murder by his father's ghost. I told him of a man who wandered from farm to farm with his giant friend in search of work - and killed him for love. I told him of a worthless man who found himself a place in Heaven when he gave himself up to death for another - for the love of the other's wife. But I would not give myself to him.

Again, in the morning, the donkey man came to the door and, again, the Sultan sent him away and withdrew, burning, to his bed, while I retired to the empty harem and my peacocks and my gold fish and my fountains and my eager eunuchs.

And then, on the third night, I told him of the struggle between a fat man and a man with a pointed face and how they battled for a golden falcon, studded with jewels. I told him of a man whose niece was stolen by savages and how he searched through the desert and the snows that he might kill her to save his name but, at the end, his love was too great and he let her live. And I told him of men who sailed to the moon sitting on the top of a great rocket as high as the Grand Mosque and fell back to crash softly in the sea bringing nothing but moondust with them.

The stories never ended and, all the time I touched him and stroked him and kissed him and pleased him but, though my want was as hot as the desert winds, I did not let him have me. His want grew for a thousand nights and a night and mine was slaked in the harem every morning.

Until, at last, the Queen of a Thousand Nights and Two Nights, as I played my lips and tongue over him again, he admitted it. "I have loved you from the first, Scheherazade. No woman has ever pleased me as you have done. No woman has your charm, no woman has your beauty, no woman has your peach arse. Then I knew that he and I were a pair and our love would last unto the grave and I would lie beside him as his Queen forever. For Scheherazade is no woman and never was and the mound in the Sultan's trousers is not quite as big as the mound in mine.

§ § §

Andrew Nicoll is 41, married with three children and lives in a tall Victorian house by the beach on the east coast of Scotland. His first published poem appeared in Lit Pot last year. Short stories have appeared in In Posse Review and Paumanok Review. Further poetry will be anthologised in a print publication "The Pagan Muse" later this year.

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	Short Story by Andrew Nicoll SCHEHERAZADE We watched the executions every day. Standing on the terrace above my father's gate house, hidden by the alabaster urns, we'd see the procession pass, the white donkey driven on with blows and kicks by the donkey man and his boy or kicking out for himself at the woman stumbling along behind, digging her feet in, dragging her heels, tied to his tail. They weren't all like that. Some were dignified and upright, pale and frightened, determined not to give in to hysteria. But most were tearful, screamed for pity, begged for help in the grip of shrieking terror. Nobody helped. There was nothing to do but watch them and their howling families; the mothers with veiled faces, the ululating aunts and sisters, fathers and brothers weeping alongside, helpless and ashamed. Those men couldn't save their women but might have died trying with enough courage. That's what they were supposed to do in this most manly man's world: offer strength and protection in exchange for absolute authority and the total obedience of their women. But they never tried. They went home and beat their wives until the shame passed. We could see the whole street from our terrace. The donkey used to come from behind the tamarinds on the corner and bobbed along towards my father's house, its sorry little procession dragging behind. At the other end of the road, they stopped in the square by the well. Doves crowded in the branches of the fig tree for a better view and my sisters and I hung from the terrace, jostling the geranium urns to see the women die. There was an hour-glass feeling in those moments. All the life rushed out of the victim and yet I tingled with it, blood singing in my ears, surging through me. In my memory all the executions were the same. For me, the killings in the square were like puppet shows from the fair - but they were all too real for those girls. Even the shriekers grew quiet by the time they reached the square and the donkey man forced them to their knees. By then they knew their pleading was wasted, their fathers would not save them, the executioner would not look away and allow them to escape, nothing could be bargained, nothing could be given. So they knelt, hoping for the waking jolt from a nightmare, as the donkey man tied his scarf around their eyes and walked back to his donkey and pulled that long, thin, glittering blade from under the blanket. The donkey man stepped forward, dancing lightly, silent on slippered feet in the dust, graceful like a falling hawk, quick paces, one step, the sword went back, two steps the sword was still, three steps, the donkey man's boy touched the woman on her shoulder with his stick, she started, sat bolt upright, the blade swooped forward, sliced through her neck, head fell, side-step, four steps. The doves in the fig tree took flight at the rush of it and circled round the square, landing on the rooftops, cooing while the blood seeped out in thick pools on the pavement. When the body was taken, wrapped in its white shroud, with a weeping father leading the way to the fresh grave, the donkey boy would scour the slabs around the well, bucket after bucket bobbing up and down on its pole and spilling over the square, chasing the blood down our street. And then he washed the donkey and made its white coat shine and fed it carrots; he brushed and garlanded it under heaps of knotted roses and put daisies behind its ears and an embroidered riding cloth over its back. After that we watched the second procession of the day when the donkey man went to a new victimšs house and escorted her to the palace to be married to the Sultan for a night. We heard the shawms and the tambours and her family's howling as they walked behind the band, scattering petals in her path. After the first month of these rituals, the women of the town stopped using the well at the end of our street and went to the one on the other side of the fruit market. It was further away and the water was heavy to carry but they said it was worth it. They said our well had a taste to it. By that time my sisters and I had long ago stopped watching the executions. They were boring. The same story every day. A poor sort of play this when the story never changes. We heard the weeping and the scouring at dawn and the weeping and the music at noon and the weeping and the scouring at dawn but we seldom looked out from our house. That was how my father liked it anyway. The neighbours hated him because he was the Sultan's vizier but they would have fired the house if they had known of his crop of daughters behind the gate, laughing and singing like waterfalls, swaying like palms to the sound of lutes. Father kept the gates locked and the screens drawn. But one day the donkey man came. He had been to the neighbour on the left and he had been to the neighbour on the right and now he came to our gate. My father had given orders that we should open to none. But the donkey man stood all day at the gate and knocked and he was still there at evening when my father returned from the palace. Father cursed him. Father denied there was any woman in the house. Father came through our gate, pale and ashamed and said that, the next day, at noon, the donkey man would lead a wedding party to the Sultan's palace. My sisters wept, my father wept. They were all afraid but I was not afraid. I was glad. My father could not choose my older sister because she was his first child and he had loved her the longest and he could not choose my younger sister because she was but a baby and he could not choose me because, above all things, he loved me the best. But I offered myself. I demanded that I should be the one to go and, while they spent the night in tears and argument - for we all loved one another and each of my sisters would have given their lives gladly for the other - I went upstairs and dressed myself as a bride. The next morning we heard the procession go by with weeping to the square at the well and the blood ran red past our open gate. And then at noon the white donkey came, covered in roses with its embroidered saddle cloth and I mounted and rode to the palace with my father and my sisters walking on ahead, throwing petals and howling as if to drown out the musicians in front of us. By my marriage I became a queen. With modest eyes I gazed at the Sultan over my veil during the wedding feast and I saw that he was beautiful and I felt my body open to him and I longed for him - whatever might be the price. The endless meal ended and, at last, I was brought to the Sultan's chamber where I cast away my veil and let him look on my face and I knew that he was enchanted and, when I danced for him, he was captivated. He reached out to me but I floated away, the silk clinging to my body, the shape of me left shimmering in the air and he growled. "I have been married many, many times" he muttered in his beard, "and even if I could have remembered their names, I never asked them. But tell me yours." I danced close and whispered "Scheherazade" with a tiny, tinny clash of my finger cymbals in his ear and danced away again with just the scent of my perfume for him to hold. How he wanted me then. And he wanted me more when I sang to him and poured his wine until he was drowsy and kissed him, long and deep and talked to him and told him stories. I told him of the poor orphan boy, Aladdin, and the wicked sorcerer who lowered him into a cave of treasure and the magic lamp and the genie who dwelt within. I told him of the brave sailor, Sinbad, and the bottomless gorge, scattered with diamonds and how he was lifted out of it into the sky in the talons of the great Roc. Such wonderful stories I told him until dawn. But I would not give myself to him. In the morning, when the donkey man came to the door, the Sultan shooed him away - as I knew he would. There was no reason to kill me. My fingers had found the mound in the Sultan's trousers. That had not been there for the others. He need not kill me to hide his shame. But he was tired and he sent me away to the empty harem where the morning peacocks were screeching on the lawns and gold fish flashed in fountains of lapis mosaic. There the eunuchs, those great fleshy capons who giggled when I tickled them and twittered like birds when I danced, served me. Pleasure without danger. I shook my buttocks for them, I teased them with my fingers, I worked them with my mouth and soon they blossomed and they had me, each of them, one after another until I quivered with pleasure and moaned with delight. Yes, it was disloyal, but as deadly a secret for them as for me and I have needs as well as a brain. That evening, the Queen of a second day, I went back to the Sultan and danced and sang and teased and told stories. I told him of a Prince who saw his kingdom stolen by a wicked uncle and a faithless mother, driven to murder by his father's ghost. I told him of a man who wandered from farm to farm with his giant friend in search of work - and killed him for love. I told him of a worthless man who found himself a place in Heaven when he gave himself up to death for another - for the love of the other's wife. But I would not give myself to him. Again, in the morning, the donkey man came to the door and, again, the Sultan sent him away and withdrew, burning, to his bed, while I retired to the empty harem and my peacocks and my gold fish and my fountains and my eager eunuchs. And then, on the third night, I told him of the struggle between a fat man and a man with a pointed face and how they battled for a golden falcon, studded with jewels. I told him of a man whose niece was stolen by savages and how he searched through the desert and the snows that he might kill her to save his name but, at the end, his love was too great and he let her live. And I told him of men who sailed to the moon sitting on the top of a great rocket as high as the Grand Mosque and fell back to crash softly in the sea bringing nothing but moondust with them. The stories never ended and, all the time I touched him and stroked him and kissed him and pleased him but, though my want was as hot as the desert winds, I did not let him have me. His want grew for a thousand nights and a night and mine was slaked in the harem every morning. Until, at last, the Queen of a Thousand Nights and Two Nights, as I played my lips and tongue over him again, he admitted it. "I have loved you from the first, Scheherazade. No woman has ever pleased me as you have done. No woman has your charm, no woman has your beauty, no woman has your peach arse. Then I knew that he and I were a pair and our love would last unto the grave and I would lie beside him as his Queen forever. For Scheherazade is no woman and never was and the mound in the Sultan's trousers is not quite as big as the mound in mine. § § § Andrew Nicoll is 41, married with three children and lives in a tall Victorian house by the beach on the east coast of Scotland. His first published poem appeared in Lit Pot last year. Short stories have appeared in In Posse Review and Paumanok Review. Further poetry will be anthologised in a print publication "The Pagan Muse" later this year. Send the URL for this work to a friend!