wyrdwind

We know her myth,

the mystery and magic,

a master of her craft lost

to the sands.

There once was a sultan

who returned early from a trip

and found the love of his life

in bed with just about

everyone but him.

He became a tyrant,

blew through all the women

in his kingdom. People fled.

His trusted vizier at wit’s end.

That vizier’s eldest daughter

came to him and said,

send me. I will wed the sultan.

Oh absolutely not, none so precious

as your beautiful head. No tomes

you haven’t read, my most eloquent,

wise and well-bred. Send me,

she said, I’ll have this sultan

in hand.

Scheherazade

spun tale after tale

at the sultan’s bedside,

every night so enraptured

he could scarcely close his eyes.

She pulled from four corners, the entire

sphere of her knowledge and worked

so many subtly attuned threads

he thought her will his own mind.

Stories within stories within stories,

songs and poetry, worlds so real,

so intricate that if he could just

reach into them

he could believe in love again.

And he couldn’t be anything

but married by the end.

One such thread

the tale of Taj Al-Muluk

and the Princess Dunya.

He was a most adored prince,

ripened loins on both men and women

but to look upon him, exquisite manners,

a single glance worth a thousand sighs,

son of the Green Country, a kingdom

most wealthy. Low and high born,

young and old waxed poetic alike.

The very lyrics of desire sprung

from vile water.

You get the point.

Everything was good. Great. Alright.

Sumptuously dressed, silks richly dyed, pampered

apple of his father’s eye, driven to ride

further and further afield in spite

with his adoring men. Cast nets at lilting gazelles

through rolling savanna, medjool citrus oasis,

they spied vibrant merchants’ tents

and Al-Muluk paid them a visit

to ask the meaning of this.

What he certainly did not expect

was the most forlorn man he’d ever met,

resignedly presenting his collections

between swooning ghazal fits,

weeping over a handkerchief.

He implored of this Aziz,

my god man what has befallen thee,

and what is that kerchief, show it me.

If it is within my power, I will do anything

to relieve your pain.

What followed was the story

of a man who lost it all,

up to and including his cock,

because he chose to gorge and not eat,

bewitched by a floating handkerchief

cast by a terrible beauty

who was not the woman

bound to his side.

The kerchief all that remained

from the ashes of his former life.

He had made pilgrimage

to a far off land upon revelation

of its true maker, his calling

as a merchant revealed,

so that he might glimpse

a final vision of a woman

he could never be worthy of.

Spied from a distance

across a sacred garden

she who could only be enchantment

personified.

Al-Muluk held this simple linen

with a reverence, a thing so plain

set upon with such devastating skill,

sensitivity in every stitch,

eye for color and detail,

as if this Dunya wet her needle

in the blood of his own heart. Gazelles.

Verse. She sent other such missives abroad,

drama wherever they fell, so others might know

her people. Seek trade.

Well what Al-Muluk knew

was that it was Over.

The golden curse

of a life bisected, before and after,

bit the apple of knowledge that reveals

for you there is only One.

Good sense, reason, distance,

circumstance be damned. Taj Al-Muluk

fell hopelessly in love

with a woman he’d never set eyes upon,

from a place he’d never heard of.

Our golden boy likewise succumbed

to fits of ghazal.

United with his new best friend

in predilection for mope,

wasted and wept and sang.

His father said my boy, my boy,

good god why? Whatever is the matter?

How you’ve let yourself go.

You’ll give your mother

cardiac arrest.

Father I am in love

and I hardly know her, would that I

had even a face to make moan my passion,

press my suit, but no. Princess Dunya

of the Camphor Isles. How can I go on?

If the king grumbled of youth,

Al-Muluk heard not. His father promised

he would inquire after her hand.

Joy leapt in his throat.

It did not go well.

Dunya had a mind of her own,

the will to forge her own path, swore

should her father force marriage,

he who she wed she would kill.

To her reckoning

all men were brutes, scoundrels, and cowards.

Unworthy

of trust, strangers

to love.

As the fruit of a child bride his own self,

the prince couldn’t pretend she was totally wrong.

The king read Al-Muluk’s abject despair

and said son you could have a bride

from anywhere. Beauty and breeding

weren’t scarce. But it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter. There’s the rub.

So many could simply settle down

and well enough’s enough. Never know

the searing arrow shaft of true love.

None of those women

would ever be Her.

Could never come close.

If he couldn’t chart a course,

navigate the shifting sand,

he resolved to wander without water

into the desert and death take him.

The presence and possibility

of such a high caliber match rendered

everything else mirage. Djinn smoke.

The king said very well, we can always

conquer her kingdom.

Al-Muluk said no,

he must win her by his own merits,

as a man. Dunya’s spirit

demanded an untraditional approach.

He would travel abroad

and set up shop as a merchant,

use his skills to lure information,

connections, oh he was certain

that if they could just meet

their souls would slip into place,

hit their stride like well worn

leather slippers. Soft tread footsteps

on a path always been there.

They were the same, face to face,

exactly the same somehow. A single pair.

Or the desert.

Al-Muluk, Aziz, and the Vizier set out.

The journey was of course arduous,

every day wondered if he’d gone mad,

mooning over a ruined eunuch’s report

of a spear-straight back, slender waist,

heavy hips and dark-bright eyes,

if he could get hold of that

he’d act all kinds of right.

The name Dunya after all

means the World,

this present life

nearest to us.

The name Al-Muluk imagines

a crown, pretends

dominion.

Well, by now we know

which boasts superior pull. The road

wore long and on the horizon

a crest crystalline, some trick of light,

thrust from the clamoring ocean,

some heady, heaving seafoam. Love’s spoils.

Its mess. His churning thoughts.

They would soon reach

their destination.

The first thing they did

after securing lodgings

was hit the bathhouse and flirt

with a dirty old man

for the best bazaar stall,

a prominent place.

While the tumultuous two worked, the Vizier

gathered up the manly gossip about town.

Who’s who what’s what local pollen,

jabber they get up to at a tea house,

possessed that gift of gab.

Skirt whirled streets, dust and grit,

children at play,

swags, rugs, and mosaic lamps,

Al-Muluk cherished this time anonymous,

just another working man. Hardly slumming it,

but still. Honed his clever tongue

on all manner of folk. Quite a reputation.

The princess was jealously guarded,

seldom seen since she came of age,

between royal wills a stalemate.

Some said lack of mother to blame,

raised by maids, kept to her ladies,

courtyards, chambers and apartments.

Scarcity magnified intrigue.

The prince despaired an opening.

Then, one day an old woman hobbled by

and they received her with customary grace,

sat her down, fanned her sweat, offered drink,

this granny’s lascivious eye did partake

of this stall’s particularly fine

wares

and said it was a lucky young woman indeed

who got her arms about that waist,

and Al-Muluk never missed a chance

to preen those masculine wiles

his mama gave him. His father

got what he paid for.

As for Granny, she sought a gift

fit for a princess.

He had just the thing.

She returned with a chest

of nothing but the best

at a shockingly good price.

Such a deal social debt implied,

a favor bestowed

for what caught Dunya’s eye,

or who might. Granny crowed delight

at her finds, reported no finer

wares

in the Camphor Isles.

Oh that merchant was no less

than the full moon dune-glow

to her rising sun, such a comely traveler

would look oh so good

kiss drunk, cheeks flush

between the heaving sea fairy swell

of her breasts.

Dunya pretended shock

at Granny’s lewdness. Bade she capture

that favor, this merchant’s humble request.

This old maid who nursed and raised her

returned with a letter.

Now Al-Muluk wasn’t stupid,

Dunya already had her dagger drawn,

hackles up, coming at her with a caterwaul

all yes hello trust me I’m your soulmate

totally not like other men

would not be well received.

Instead he engaged with riddling verse,

invited further exchange,

desperately trying to quell

his heart’s fancy footwork,

telling him to go whole hog,

head to hooves apple in his mouth,

do with him what she will.

Restraint

piqued her tongue, or fingers,

thus began their dance of wits and words

though never so clever

as to be insincere, more

gentle knuckles sweeping, toes weaving

side to side

through sheer silken veils, the art

of the drape incense curled

and brass pooled flame.

A merchant must know

how best to present

his wares.

When one sheet of fabric

a breath’s flicker between them

he asked if they might meet.

Al-Muluk was denied

and plunged into silence.

Why

was an anvil

strapped to his chest,

and he walked dangerously close

to those seaside cliffs.

Aziz and the Vizier stressed

what they’d tell the king

if his dear son departed this world.

Then Granny hobbled by

to assure that the princess Dunya

was not made of ice, not stone,

no trick of his mind, lifelong

nightmares

plagued her flight feathers,

the recurring theme

of two pigeons separated,

wherein the male abandoned

his mate.

If he meant to persist,

Al-Muluk must seek her

in the solace of her private garden,

a pleasure permitted once a month,

the closest thing akin the taste

of freedom. He must show

steady hands,

stay the course.

And just like that

our lovestruck prince

was back on his bullshit.

Merchant, that is.

They arranged a reconnaissance mission,

and even if all he impressed were some plants

he wouldn’t be caught dead

looking a mess,

bath fresh hair did dapper pants,

clocked the sad state

of the courtyard’s plaster.

He finally saw her.

Wending thoughtful through

everything she’d planted

for her own amusement. Boughs

heavy laden with fruit, blooms

wafting humid intoxicant,

alighting on every carefully selected

specimen.

Dewdrops or sweat pricked,

the entire expanse of his skin

so sudden,

so sudden.

Nerves a hummingbird’s wings.

Whatever it took.

Her garden was a jungle, thick

with such intimate sustenance,

so green as to be gore,

and he wanted nothing else

to pass his lips again.

After Dunya left

he went to see a man

about that plaster.

His final move

spanned one month more.

Al-Muluk plastered and painted

an answering dreamscape in triptych,

the secret side of her nightmares,

that which was hidden from view,

a male pigeon struck dead

by a kite’s talons. He returned.

He would always return.

Stained half his clothes,

even grew calluses. He wrought

for Dunya a masterpiece.

Al-Muluk waited.

At last she beheld a mural

whose beauty embraced her garden,

a perfect complement. How could someone

she’d never met

know so well her heart’s chambers,

as if the very bated shadow breath

between beats?

Dunya asked of Granny,

who’d sent everyone else away,

the name of this artist, his identity,

and Granny said, your merchant is here

if you would meet.

Dunya’s discerning eye

sampled heatedly his

wares

and duly decided, yes,

she would be having that, yes,

very,

very

suitable to her palate.

Granny dressed Al-Muluk as a woman

and snuck him into the palace,

he’d run the risk of losing his head,

both of them, so long as he first

put them to their purpose.

For six months hence

Dunya put his endurance to test,

scarcely a moment she did not

catch and suck his lips, small nips,

grip the curly down scalp to navel on

of her specimen,

hungered every inch every day,

some act of scathing revenge

for how long she had to wait.

Al-Muluk served no complaint.

Dunya would not be rotting on the vine,

drank from her mouths both musk and wine,

clung to her hips and thighs for dear life,

split the night with swallowed cries,

she was so very

ripe.

Granny worked double time,

washed at the break of dawn

Dunya’s wrecked bed sheets in the wake

of a focused and generous lover, our pair

writhed almost every night as serpents,

oh their pleasures plunged

a wide berth.

Nothing but the best for her girl.

Their mutual passions

only further inflamed, steady oxygen flow,

increased with exposure, the madness

of a perfect match.

God would blush. Or perhaps

this was how

the most High is best known crescendo

over bass thrum. Bright star

above the ocean.

When Al-Muluk was not

panting in her garden

or nestled in her crook, some dozing dovecote

of murmured conversation,

he haunted the many rooms

of her apartments. Intricate interiors,

curiosities and books, crafts and their tools,

cross breeze screens and windows

carried birdsong and distant bustle, laughter,

cast sunlit patterns

on the beautifully loomed

floors and walls. Velvety jewel tones.

Ached in these spaces

as she must have done.

Worlds within worlds.

He wanted more.

Found some traveling bags

carefully packed. His leaping heart.

Then one night it was different,

her nails bit his behind, hungry

in a new way. She would have him

spent deep between her legs.

She was not asking.

He expended utmost

generosity.

As they lie wild and sated,

his fingers still stroking the pungent,

dewy flush of her bud just

to revel in how her speech caught,

once, twice, some sweet tears, dipped

to circle her swollen comb

and offered the sacrament

of their mingled mess. Accepted.

What man done better with his flesh

than to inspire the wanton might

of his woman’s creation?

If you must do a thing,

do it right.

Al-Muluk thought it time

to reveal that he was not in fact

a merchant,

but an embarrassingly wealthy prince

of the far off Green Country,

and though he wouldn’t dream

of forcing such a journey,

demanding she leave everything behind,

she made him want to be a man

worthy of the responsibilities

his accident of birth implied.

Should he feign death

or otherwise slip the harness

of such status, his station,

it would spur his father to violence

from which he’d previously retired, and pierce

his mother’s heart,

and her pain he could appreciate

all the more now. Nor would he make

Dunya a fugitive from her own people.

No.

He was Taj Al-Muluk of Green Country,

and if she would have him,

he would make her its queen.

Found himself

indecent again, Dunya mounted

without ceremony

and said yes until his legs gave out

and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

Our lovers were discovered.

All hell broke loose.

After six months and no word,

his father was en route

with their entire army. Her father

had him thrown in jail and beat,

thinking this merchant debauched royalty,

did Dunya dishonor. A mongrel’s disrespect,

however pretty.

Several rounds of fury, explanations,

and blood.

Dunya pulled a knife like bitch she might

commit regicide. Twice.

The prince’s true identity revealed,

intentions clear.

Their fathers stood down.

Al-Muluk and Dunya were married twice,

according to respective customs, so everyone

could celebrate, and somewhere on the road

everyone pretended that was when

she “lost her maidenhead”

as was proper.

His people adored her,

and if Dunya’s belly

seemed awfully swift with child,

that was just a djinn’s coincidence.

Their king and queen stole about their palace

as if only recently in the throes of courtship,

for pigeons never cease wooing their mates.

You might say Dunya killed the man

she wed after all,

but not for many long years

in each other’s arms.

@~^~

I took great liberties and don’t apologize. Hope it was worth the wait.