Beyond the Pale: A fantasy anthology Read Free Page A

never needed to be something other that what
you are?
    Cinnamon scent and the sound of an oasis
wind come to me. I cannot speak to this demon. My heart will stop if I do, I am
certain. I want to run, but fear has fixed my feet. I turn to Abdel Jameela,
who stands there wringing his hands.
    “Why am I here, Uncle? God damn you, why
did you call me here? There is no sick woman here! God protect me, I know
nothing of… of ghouls, or—” A horrible thought comes to me. “You… you are
not hoping to make her into a woman? Only God can…”
    The old hermit casts his eyes downward.
“Please… you must listen to my wife. I beg you.” He falls silent and his wife,
behind the screen again, goes on.
    My husband and I have been on this
hilltop too long, learned one. My body cannot stand so much time away from my
people.  I smell yellow roses and hear bumblebees droning beneath her
voice.  If we stay in this place one more season, I will die.
    And without me to care for him and keep
age’s scourge from him, my sweet Abdel Jameela will die too. But across the
desert there is a life for us. My father was a prince among our people. Long
ago I left. For many reasons. But I never forsook my birthright. My father is
dying now, I have word. He has left no sons and so his lands are mine. Mine,
and my handsome husband’s.
    In her voice is a chorus of wind-chimes.
Despite myself, I lift my eyes. She steps from behind the screen, clad now in a
black abaya and a mask. Behind the mask’s mesh is the glint of wolf-teeth. I
look again to the floor, focusing on a faded blue spiral in the carpet and the
kindness in that voice.
    But my people do not love men. I cannot
claim my lands unless things change. Unless my husband shows my people that he
can change.
    Somehow I force myself to speak. “What…
what do you mean, change?”
    There is a cymbal-shimmer in her voice and
sandalwood incense fills my nostrils.  O learned one, you will help me
to make these my Abdel Jameela’s.
    She extends her slender brown hands,
ablaze with henna. In each she holds a length of golden
sculpture—goat-like legs ending in shining, cloven hooves. A thick braid
of gold thread dances at the end of each statue-leg, alive.
    Madness, and I must say so though this
creature may kill me for it. “I have not the skill to do this! No man alive
does!”
    You will not do this through your skill
alone. Just as I cannot do it through my sorcery alone. My art will guide yours
as your hands work.  She takes a step toward me and my shoulders clench
at the sound of her hooves hitting the earth.
    “No! No… I cannot do this thing.”
    “Please!” I jump at Abdel Jameela’s voice,
nearly having forgotten him. There are tears in the old man’s eyes as he pulls
at my galabeya, and his stink gets in my nostrils. “Please listen! We need your
help. And we know what has brought you to Beit Zujaaj.” The old man falls to
his knees before me. “Please! Would not your Shireen aid us?”
    With those words he knocks the wind from
my lungs. How can he know that name? The shaykh hadn’t lied—there  is  witchcraft
at work here, and I should run from it.
    But, Almighty God help me, Abdel Jameela
is right. Fierce as she is, Shireen still has her dreamy Persian notions
— that love is more important than money or duty or religion. If I turn
this old man away…
    My throat is dry and cracked. “How do you
know of Shireen?” Each word burns.
    His eyes dart away. “She has… ways, my
wife.”
    “All protection comes from God.” I feel
foul even as I steel myself with the old words. Is this forbidden? Am I walking
the path of those who displease the Almighty? God forgive me, it is hard to
know or to care when my beloved is gone. “If I were a good Muslim, I would run
down to the village now and… and…”
    And what, learned one? Spread word of
what you have seen? Bring men with spears and arrows? Why would you do this?  Vanilla
beans and the sound of rain give way to