The Hakawati (97 page)

First the torso. Up in the sky, upon the carpet, Majnoun said, “I will deal with the lions.”

“They are mighty beasts,” said Jacob.

“Do not be excessively cruel,” suggested Isaac. “They did not kill your brother.”

“And in your time of need,” said Ishmael, “they were a comfort.”

The cave was in a rocky oasis in the middle of the desert. It was guarded by seven lions that roared as soon as the company alit in their midst. The rest of the pride dribbled out of the cave one by one, a solid fifty strong. The king of the beasts announced his arrival by unleashing a forceful roar. “I am here for my son,” Fatima said.

“You might as well have stayed at your lair,” the king of lions said. “I will not give up our treasure, whose presence has increased our strength a hundredfold.” And those were his last words. Majnoun held the heart before him, and the king of beasts exploded into nothingness.

“I will recover my love,” said Majnoun, walking toward the cave.

And then the legs. Into darker Africa they traveled, along the Nile and beyond its seven mouths. “Be wary,” warned Ishmael. “The monkeys are tricksters, and Hanuman is their god. We cannot allow ourselves to fall for their wiles.”

Majnoun pointed toward a dense carpet of sausage trees and baobabs. Upon landing, they were beset by a large band of monkeys, who tried to appear threatening but could only manage irritating. They floated between branches with ease and grace and jumped impossible distances.

“All travelers who pass through my realm must answer my riddle or die.” The monkey king’s voice, like its master, traveled from branch to branch.

“You said they followed Hanuman,” Isaac told his brother, “not the Sphinx.”

“I will reduce you and yours to ashes,” said Majnoun, “and char your timber into ember.”

“Ask now,” commanded Fatima.

“Riddle me this,” said the monkey king. “What has one voice, is four-footed at dawn, two-footed at noon, and three-footed at dusk?”

“Oh, please,” said Job.

“Not that again,” said Isaac.

“Who cares?” said Elijah.

“Now give me what belongs not to you or your kind,” warned Fatima.

“I will do no such thing,” said the monkey king. “Solving the riddle only wins you safe passage. I will not—” The monkey king was no more.

I would be Murad’s storyteller, and I hoped he would one day hear me. My grandfather told stories to his children, but only Uncle Jihad heard him, and even he stopped listening by the time he became an adult. My father pointedly refused to listen, neither to his fairy tales nor to his family stories. “I have very little interest in lies and fabrications,” he used to say.

A week before he died in that awful spring of 1973, my grandfather told me a story in my room, a tale he hadn’t told me before. Maybe it was because he’d thought I had finally reached an age, twelve, when I could understand more, when I could listen better. Maybe he knew he was dying. He was in a good mood, though—ebullient, the corners of his lips pointing toward the ruffles of hair in his ears. His version of the death of Abraham he told me that day.

“And the end approached,” he began, “as it always does. Nearer and nearer it came. Abraham, one hundred and seventy-five years old, knew the signs, for his wife had passed away before him. On his deathbed, he whispered to his son, ‘I need your health, for mine is fading. I beg you to search for your brother. I promised your mother that I would never try to see him, but I wish for him to see me.’ Isaac saddled his horse and rode out to find Ishmael.

“And in a different land, Hagar consulted her heart and knew that her beloved was leaving this world. She woke her son and said, ‘Rise, Ishmael, rise, and seek your father, for he will soon be welcomed within God’s bosom.’ Ishmael sat up and said, ‘Come with me, Mother, and we can both say our farewells.’ And Hagar declined. ‘I have spent lifetimes away from home. My heart has been immured for much too long. Even a hint of what might have been is unbearable.’

“As she bade Ishmael farewell, Hagar wondered, ‘Had I done the right thing?’

“And when Isaac came across Ishmael in the desert, he recognized him, for, even though his brother was exiled when he was a baby, Isaac saw his father in his brother’s eyes. Ishmael recognized his brother, for he saw his father in Isaac’s eyes. And the brothers embraced, for each saw himself in the other, and they rode home to their father.

“But they were not in time, because Abraham had kept his promise to his wife and died before he could see his son. Ishmael and Isaac, kneeling before their father, wept and lamented their destinies. And Isaac said, ‘I regret so much,’ and Ishmael said, ‘I as well,’ and Isaac told him, ‘Your father wished you to see him,’ and Ishmael held his brother’s hand. The brothers mourned and grieved together, and comforted each other, for their loss was one.

“Ishmael and Isaac buried their father in the Cave of Machpelah, in the field that Abraham had purchased from the Hittites, what is now the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron.”

The arms. The carpets soared above the mountains of Lebanon, past the great cedars, atop which the eagles had their nests. The birds flew in a threatening formation, their king in the lead.

“Return whence you came,” cried the eagle king. “Demons are not allowed in our skies. Begone or die.”

“Their skies?” asked Job.

“I loathe eagles,” said Isaac. “Prissy and pretentious creatures.” A popping sound, and Isaac disappeared, and reappeared riding the eagle king’s back. He began to pluck feathers one by one. “This little eagle is prissy,” Isaac sang, “this little eagle is not going to fly, this little eagle thinks it rules the world, this little eagle shall die.” Isaac did not stop until nary a feather was left in its place. The eagle king fell to his death, and Isaac popped back onto his carpet.

And then the head. The hyenas’ den was located in a soft desert between the Euphrates and the Tigris. When the company reached the den, not one hyena was to be found, and Majnoun retrieved his brother’s head.

“The sultan is a pretender,” Arbusto said. “An honorable man metes honors to the deserving, not to his loved ones. The sultanate is being run by whores and thieves and begs to be rescued from its rulers.”

Taboush sat upon his throne and pondered the appalling plight of the world. “I do not know what to do. I do not think warring against one’s people is either auspicious or admirable.”

“A true sultan can distinguish right from wrong,” said Arbusto, “an undeserving one cannot. He dishonors you because he fears you. You are a hero descended from heroes, a king descended from kings. He is but a slave whose luck lifted him to the throne, and the throne weeps while it waits for a worthy occupant. Rise, my lord, and claim what is rightfully yours, if for nothing else than to offer the faithful a commendable leader and a righteous example.”

“I do not know what to do,” said Taboush.

“Call your army. Begin with the city of Aleppo. Once the people see the sultanate’s honest hero, they will declare their allegiance to you. If they do not, we will raze their walls as an example to other cities.” His eyes lit up, and his pupils moved in every direction. “Not only are we going to thrash them in Aleppo, we are going to Damascus and Homs and Hamah, and we are going to Baghdad and Mosul and Jerusalem, and then we are going to Cairo to take back the sultanate. Yeeeeaaaah.”

Taboush did the honorable thing. He wrote a letter to the mayor of Aleppo, warning him of the imminent arrival of the army of Kirkuk. Taboush asked the Syrian city to surrender to his rule, for he did not wish to shed blood. And the mayor of Aleppo sent a message to King Baybars. “Prepare the army,” commanded the sultan. “Black days are upon us. Sons will fight their fathers, and brothers will fight brothers. Dispatch a letter to the Fort of Marqab, since the sons of Ishmael are the closest fighters to Aleppo. Inform my brother Ma
rouf of this calamity.”

And when Ma
rouf read the letter, he smote his head. “The Day of Judgment nears.”

“My heart aches.” Taboush stood with his army before the gates of Aleppo.

“The honorable course is rarely easy, and a hero always suffers,” said Arbusto.

The defenders of Aleppo cheered as the sons of Ishmael appeared
on the horizon, trumpeting the songs of war. The warriors lined up, and their hero rode out toward the invading army and cried, “Return to your homes. I will defend this faithful city unto my death.” And Taboush recognized the voice of his father.

“Send a warrior to kill him,” said Arbusto.

“None but I will stand before my father,” said Taboush, as he jumped on his stallion.

“What are you doing, my son?” Ma
rouf asked.