Beyond the Pale: A fantasy anthology Read Free

The shape behind the screen shifts. There is a
scraping noise. And a woman’s leg ending in a cloven hoof stretches out from
behind the screen.
    I take a deep breath. “God is Great,” I
say aloud. This, then, is the source of Shaykh Hajjar’s fanciful grumbling. But
such grotesqueries are not unheard of to an educated man. Only last year
another physicker at court showed me a child—born to a healthy, pious man
and his modest wife—all covered in fur. This same physicker told me of
another child he’d seen born with scaly skin. I take another deep breath. If a
hoofed woman can be born and live, is it so strange that she might find a mad
old man to care for her?
    “O my sweetheart!” Abdel Jameela’s whisper
is indecent as he holds his wife’s hoof.
    And for a moment I see what mad Abdel
Jameela sees. The hoof’s glossy black beauty, as smoldering as a woman’s eye.
It is entrancing…
    “O, my wife,” the old man goes on, and
runs his crooked old finger over the hoof-cleft slowly and lovingly. “O, my beautiful
wife…” The leg flexes, but still no sound comes from behind the screen.
    This is wrong. I take a step back from the
screen without meaning to. “In the name of God! Have you no shame, old man?”
    Abdel Jameela turns from the screen and
faces me with an apologetic smile. “I am sorry to say that I have little shame
left,” he says.
    I’ve never heard words spoken with such
weariness. I remind myself that charity and mercy are our duty to God, and I
soften my tone. “Is this why you sent for me, Uncle? What would you have me do?
Give her feet she was not born with? My heart bleeds for you, truly. But such a
thing only God can do.”
    Another wrinkled grimace. “O Professor, I
am afraid that I must beg your forgiveness. For I have lied to you. And for
that I am sorry. For it is not my wife that needs your help, but I.”
    “But her—pardon me, Uncle—her
hoof.”
    “Yes! Its curve! Like a jet-black
half-moon!” The old hermit’s voice quivers and he struggles to keep his gaze on
me. Away from his wife’s hoof. “Her hoof is breathtaking, Professor. No, it
is  I  that need your help, for I am not the creature I need to
be.”
    “I don’t understand, Uncle.” Exasperation
burns away my sympathy. I’ve walked for hours and climbed a hill, small though
it was. I am in no mood for a hermit’s games. Abdel Jameela winces at the anger
in my eyes and says, “My… my wife will explain.”
    I will try, my husband.
    The voice is like song, and there is the
strong scent of sweet flowers. Then she steps from behind the screen and I lose
all my words. I scream. I call on God, and I scream.
    Abdel Jameela’s wife is no creature of
God. Her head is a goat’s and her mouth a wolf’s muzzle. Fish-scales and
jackal-hair cover her. A scorpion’s tail curls behind her. I look into a woman’s
eyes set in a demon’s face and I stagger backward, calling on God and my dead
mother.
    Please, learned one, be calm.
    “What… what…” I can’t form the words. I
look to the floor. I try to bury my sight in the dirty carpets and hard-packed
earth. Her voice is more beautiful than any woman’s. And there is the powerful
smell of jasmine and clove. A nightingale sings perfumed words at me while my
mind’s eye burns with horrors that would make the Almighty turn away.
    If fear did not hold your tongue, you
would ask what I am. Men have called my people by many names—ghoul,
demon. Does a word matter so very much? What I am, learned one, is Abdel
Jameela’s wife.
    For long moments I don’t speak. If I don’t
speak, this nightmare will end. I will wake in Baghdad, or Beit Zujaaj. But I
don’t wake.
    She speaks again, and I cover my ears,
though the sound is beauty itself.
    The words you hear come not from my
mouth, and you do not hear them with your ears. I ask you to listen with your
mind and your heart. We will die, my husband and I, if you will not lend us
your skill. Have you, learned one,