Ancient Moorish Quirkat
Prolog . . .
[Translators note: The 10th century Arab historian al-Mas'udi spoke of a collection of stories, translated from the Persian 'Hazar Afsana' (a thousand legends), which he called 'The Thousand Nights'. This collection has been lost for many centuries, and consequently our current versions of 'The Thousand and One Nights' come from later Syrian manuscripts. But a small fragment of this earlier version, the translation of which is below, was found recently lodged in other, unrelated manuscripts at the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris. It gives us a tantalizing glimpse into some of the lost 'Nights' including the short and open-ended story of the 'princess entombed in the whirlwind of sand' which, along with the story of 'The slave-girl and the fisherman', appears to have been part of a longer story -- 'The caliph and the raven'. We can only hope that other fragments will soon be found.]*
. . . (And what) became of the slave-girl and the fisherman asked the king? "God's world is wide," replied the vizier and no one knows, for not all tales have an end." "What?!" exclaimed the king, "No end?! Surely you know the ending. Please tell me." "I cannot," sighed the vizier, "for with certainty I do not know. It may be as the story of the princess entombed in the whirlwind of sand -- a story that does not yet have its ending." His curiosity aroused, the King implored," I have never heard this story. Please tell it to me." "Very well," replied the vizier, "it is related -- yet only God knows what is hidden in these old accounts of people long past -- that there was once a king who ruled a land far to the west from a city at the edge of the great desert -- the city of Sijilmasa. The river Ziz brought water from the mountains to the North, and gold, salt, slaves, and trade-goods of all kinds flowed in from the Great Desert to the south. Life was good there. In time the King and his wife gave birth to twins -- two beautiful girls -- who grew to beauty and loveliness and perfect grace. They were like as the poet said:
"Their forelocks like the night unfurl;
Before their light the sun is pale.
With rosy cheeks, Beauty proclaimed their names,
To those who had not yet received their fame."
Yet one held a heart of purest gold, while the other's heart was as black as jet, and while the one spent her days in the service of the poor and needy, the other sought after sehour (witchcraft) and became in time a powerful sehhria (witch). One day the son of the vizier of Egypt, who had taken a long journey, visited the king. The visitor was a figure of perfect charm and grace. He was as the poet wrote:
"He garnered all the beauty of the world,
Leaving all mortals helpless and undone
And on his cheek beauty for all to see,
Proclaimed, 'No one is beautiful but he.' "
And beholding the two sisters, he was ravished by their beauty, but seeing well into their hearts, was captured by the good princess' innocence and kindness. She too returned this love and for a time the two lovers walked side-by-side in happiness as they prepared for their wedding day. But the wicked sister became jealous and tried to turn the vizier's son's love through powerful potions and spells. Yet his love was too strong, as was his betrothed's love for him. So strong, in fact, that no witches' spell could frustrate their burning hearts, and no potion could afflict love's desire. Seeing this, the wicked princess made a pact with a dark and wicked djinn, a creature born of the fiery winds of the desert, who had stolen King Solomon's signet ring. Together they used the ring’s power to imprison the good princess within an enchanted whirlwind of sand and set it spinning out on the desert far from the city on the eve of her wedding. And there she still lives -- imprisoned even today -- and although she never ages, there is no way in to her, or out from her, save it be by the powers of Satan or by the powers of the ring which the djinn keeps ever safely by his side. Yet, there may be hope for her. It is foretold, my King, that someday the djinn may grow careless. Then again, only God knows for certain of such things.
But morning overtook Shahrazad, and she lapsed into silence. Then Dinarzad said, "Sister, what an entertaining story!" Shahrazad replied, "What is this compared with what I shall tell you tomorrow night if I stay alive!"
The following night Dinarzad said to sister Shahrazad, "Please sister, tell us the rest of the story of the 'caliph and the raven' . . .
Morocco. April, 1999.
"2 years!" you muse to yourself as the bus rides into Rissani after the long, two-day ride over the Middle Atlas Mountains from Fez. "Wow! Where has the time gone?", you continue. Soon you’ll be headed home from your stint in the Peace Corps. But before you go, just once, you just had to see it. Not just any desert, but that deserts of all deserts – the Sahara. A few minutes later you are traveling again, but this time by jeep. Soon you see the expanse of the desert. Your guide promises to take you to a remote oasis, away from other travelers, and after a seeming eternity you arrive. It’s a disappointing place. A few palms struggle here and there next to a well and a small pond, but that’s about it. The dunes to the north hide the mountains; to the south stretches the empty desert. In this vastness, the oasis seems a tiny, fragile island in an ocean of sand. The sun beats down mercilessly -- so relentlessly that even the water from the well seems inviting. "Well, why not?" you think, "I can say I drank water from an oasis in the Sahara Desert -- not many back home can say that!" Besides, your trusty filter -- a blue Katadyn -- is always at your side it seems. While leaning over the water to place your filter a gleaming catches your eye. Reaching down you pluck a gold ring out of the mud. Jewels encrust its surface, strange carvings adorn its face.
"What the . . ." you gasp. You glance up only to see that your guide has wandered off to sleep in the shade of one of the trees. Instinctively, you rinse the ring off in the water and slip it on for a try . . . you feel the sirocco begin to blow
. . . strange at this time of year . . . too early . . . then a whirlwind forms . . . faster and faster it spins, engulfing you in a raging storm of biting sand. Then its spinning walls recede and before you stands a beautiful women, beside her a fire crackles, behind her opens a multicolored desert tent. Beyond the women and the tent the walls of the whirlwind swirl and pulse menacingly, first advancing, then receding, but always encircling fire, tent, and captives.
"Don’t take off the ring!" she implores, "Please don’t be frightened. You are in no danger as yet and you are my only hope! Who are you? How did you find the ring?" Astounded, you sputter and stammer for a moment, then tell her your name and story. "But who are you and where is this place?" you question.
"Here, sit with me for a while. I will teach you a game and while we play I will tell you my story." You sit, and the princess begins:
"The ring you wear is King Solomon’s signet ring, a magical ring, that was stolen by a dark genie long after Solomon’s death. My sister who grew jealous of my love and betrothal made a pact with the genie and joined her witches’ power with his dark might and turned the magic of the ring to entomb me within a whirlwind of sand. I have been here many years . . . how long I cannot tell . . ." Then she began to weep, "At first, at night, I could sometimes see the light of the twin minarets of my father’s city through the swirling winds . . . but I have not seen them for a long time now." Grief overcomes her and she cries on the sand. You comfort her and urge her to continue. "The genie who guards the ring must have become careless and misplaced it. You found it. Putting on the ring makes the whirlwind visible and allows one to enter through the winds; taking it off hides the whirlwind, and me, from earthly eyes . . ."
". . . But is there no escape for you?" you exclaim. "No, not as long as the ring exists" she replies. "Then I will destroy it" you say. "It and its magic can only be destroyed in one way" she offers. "What way is that princess?", you ask. "I don’t understand exactly," she says, "The answer is in the form of an accursed riddle, which I cannot unravel."
But just then she grows frantic. "He comes!," she cries, "Quickly! Hide under these bed clothes and blankets." She helps you hide inside the tent and covers you with the whatever she can find. "Shhhh!", she says, "listen quietly." With that she is gone.
In a few seconds the genie, an infernal demon, breaches the walls of the whirlwind. Dark and ominous, he towers above the princess. “Here are your provisions for another 10 days -- food and water” He says. “Please, oh genie, free me. Let me beyond the whirlwind,” the princess pleads, “What have I done to thee to deserve this prison?” The genie’s cold eyes stare down at her. “I have grown a little fond of your beauty over the years, princess, but your goodness is abhorrent to me. It is better for me, my master Satan, and thy sister, that thou art shut up inside here -- one more bit of goodness eliminated from the world.” With that, he laughs an evil laugh and sneers at the princess’ mourning. “When can I hope to be free of this whirlwind?” she cries. The dark genie smiles a hideous smile and intones, "Thou knowest. When Solomon’s ring is no more." Then toying with her as he had so many times, he continues, "Consider this riddle princess:
The loftiest cedars I do eat,
Yet neither paunch nor mouth have I,
I issue from earth beneath,
And reaching the sea I die."
Then with a wicked laugh, he breaches the walls of the cyclone and is gone.
When it is safe the princess helps you from your cover. "Can you help me?" she pleads. "Perhaps," you reply, "I will try. Have patience and hope." She smiles. "I too will try," she promises. There is gratitude in her lovely eyes but steely resolve in yours. "Then this is good-bye" you reply as you slip off the ring. In an instant the whirlwind is gone and you stand alone in the desert, just as you had left it. Your guide still sleeps against the tree and the hot sun beats down. You wake the guide and quickly make your way back to Fez, all the while carefully concealing the ring so that no one will see. In a day or two you leave Morocco for home. And you bide your time and wait, and soon your chance comes . . .
One bright, beautiful Hawaiian morning, a lone helicopter makes it way over the Pu'u O'o vent of Kilauea and a small object falls from the hovering craft into the seething lava pool of the vent’s fiery furnace. "May Pele’s fire free you, princess," you pray, "and God deliver you from the evil of the day."
And what of the princess?
A few say that now, free of the whirlwind’s magic, time’s arrow flew swiftly and she crumbled instantly to dust on the desert sands. Others say she now wanders Morocco a vagabond from her own age. But some, having more faith, believe she again found herself free, and young, and at home with her betrothed on their wedding day.
Who can truly say? Each must supply an ending as seemeth good, for only God truly knows and sees all.
". . . seek refuge with the Lord and Cherisher of Mankind,
The King of Mankind, The God of Mankind,
From the mischief of the Whisperer of Evil, who withdraws after his whisper,
The same who whispers into the hearts of Mankind,
Among Jinns and among men."
The Holy Qur'an 114
*Note: The translators note above is wrong -- no new fragment has been found. The story comes from my imagination and bits and snippets from Husain Hadddawy's translation of 'The Arabian Nights', to whom I am indebted. ;-)
