The Storyteller
By Lizabeth K. Zaehringer
Cover Design by Andrew J. Zaehringer
Copyright 2011 Lizabeth K. Zaehringer
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Chapter 1: The Empress and the Six of Swords
I am the storyteller. The Sultan’s mother, Valide Sultan Kosem, may God always shine His face upon her and may the Holy Dew of the Morning bless and renew her each day, paid an enormous fee to have my contract bought out in order to bring me to her son the Sultan Ibrahim. It seems the Sultan has a sweet tooth…
I have led a decent enough life these last few years, because of my ability to paint pictures with words, and while I do so I am sure, my listeners like also… to stare. The Sultan’s mother’s agents have decided to call me Sheker Pare, which means literally, “a piece of sugar.” Is it so spoken because I am always so sweet? Somehow I think not. Rather, I am more certain, it is because of my own taste for the indulgence of all things sugary. When I eat watermelon it is never enough, oh no, I must add to the sticky wet fruit a few grains of salt and then many heaping spoonfuls of sugar, raw brown sugar. Eaten like that, you would be surprised how much can be taken in, as the taste is so wondrously flavorful and sweet. Fried balls of bread dough covered in honey, flaky filo pastries with more brown sugar and more honey, creamy cheesecakes, candied mints and gooey tortes with butter and brown sugar; ah it is all too wondrous to me.
The Sultan’s mother, may God think of her always, sent agents all over in search of someone just like me, and praise Him always, they found me.
These agents found me in a tavern in Venice. I sit each evening upon a short couch, though for me it is really more like a wide chair, large enough just for one. And for those who wish to hear my stories, I weave the tales, speaking each and every part of the dialogue myself, with an arsenal of voices, and describing each and every place in the tale as if I have actually been there. At the end of the night, as is my want, I will amble off, to find a late night snack which is so easy in this sweet city on the water, and then I will find my way back to my little hovel, as I am unable to afford very much on a ground floor, and I prefer to save my earnings for my next meal. It is an easy life, I usually draw a regular and sometimes large crowd, and even the tourist trade too, comes to gawk and listen to me spin a saga or two. I do well enough that the gruff old man who runs the place annually pays me an additional stipend on my honor that I will stay for another year, and so I eat very well that week, and consider myself lucky to have found such lucrative work. Especially since most of those who pursue my line of work must travel all the time, always on the move from town to town, but I have found a way to make a living in one city telling my tales. It has been like this for four years now, though I have repeated a few stories in that time I must admit.
Every waking moment finds me immersed in a sort of reverie, as I converse with my characters, seeking their stories. They are all each and every one naught but hungry ghosts, anxious to vicariously enjoy the sweet foods that I so love and indulge in, but I have no fear from any of them. The truth of the situation is that the most incredible stories happen to be those that have actually occurred to an actual person, as they are far more impossible than any wild fantasy that I could ever possibly imagine. I spend my time speaking to those shades and they speak to me, and I ask: who are you, where did you go, how did you die, who did you love, why did you cry… And with their answers whether true or a lie, I weave my web of tales to enchant and to inspire, to cause dread and to inflame desire.
I like to believe that my loyal listeners come to hear my tales, and perhaps to look at my long flowing red hair. These luscious locks are not just any red: no dull rust, nor awkward auburn but a true Valencia orange sweet red, like a bit of a spun sugar creation too. The color is a strawberry blonde with more strawberry, and Valencia orange, than blonde. Perhaps also though, they find just the general sight of me something worthy of a good stare…
Ah Venice, sweet Venice, stone upon water as it is. What city has done so much with so little? What pleasure cannot be achieved amongst your dark waterways and within the curved hulls of your many boats and ferries of delight? She reminds though, of an aging courtesan, more alluring in the kinder light of evening or night, her cracks and wrinkles more obvious in the harsh light of day. No matter, I am rarely up before noon anyway…
Venice was not my original home. I had often asked that vile and despicable man who so carefully insisted that I call him “Papa”, though he was not, how it came about that I became one of his possessions. And possession is most definitely the correct wordage… I don’t remember how it happened myself—no memory of childhood idyllic, no blessed kiss on the forehead by the lips of a mother most dear, no toss in the air by a true and loving papa--though how I wish I could manifest even the tiniest recollection of even the tiniest piece of my own past. Through the years that man most foul, may the Devil have his soul forever, told me several different versions, so I never knew for sure which was true. He once said my father sold me to feed the rest of his brood, and that my mother died in childbirth leaving him a widower anxious to be rid of any of his female kin who promised to be nothing more than an expensive mouth to feed. Another time when asked, he said he stole me right beneath my mother’s nose, as she stood and haggled over a length of cod fish. He laughed to remember her screams when she realized her wee one was gone, but ‘ twas too late for he already had me well hidden and squirreled away from all sight. Still another story was that there never were any parents, that he found me and adopted me from an overflowing orphanage, fair and square and all legit and legal-like. Each and every story was undoubtedly true, plus many more too, for some poor child once in his grip, for he was a purveyor of such. As to me, he found a personal delight in my cottony orange-red hair and azure blue eyes, the blue the same color as Egyptian Faience beads strung on the golden chain of my lashes and brows. Lucky me…
And so he kept me all those years by his side, and I was carefully instructed to always call him “Papa” wherever it was that we went. Whenever some horrid pustule of a customer would ask, “…and how much for that little gem?” He would always answer, “Not for sale that one; she’s for me…” His grin told all and was answered in kind, the snickers and hoots each another nail pounded sharp and deep into my already bloody heart.
He found a good business in Venice, it being well known for its hordes of traders and merchants, and so it became a home of sorts for us. Though we traveled often and far in search of new “merchandise”, we always came back eventually, to settle for awhile in Venice. Being on the road had its own perils of course, constant the anxiety of where to sleep and how to eat, but the worst of it for me always were his acquisitional activities. He was ever vigilant, watching for that one lone child, preferably an attractive though often slight and poorly nourished child, who played all alone, unattended and seemingly uncared for. I was the bait, tempting the hapless tot with the easy lure of candy, and once I led the “mark” away from safety and all that he or she held dear, dear “Papa” swung into action, and we were off with the “merchandise” well in hand.
As much of a relief as I found it to be back in Venice, our travels over for awhile, my own personal hell would always be just beginning, as “Papa”, may the Devil keep his soul forever, would turn his attention to his personal pleasure, and me. I shall spare the details…
If it is possible to love and hate a place at one and the same time, Venice is that place for me. Even so, I stayed, even after he was sent to that festering blemish of a quarantine island, Lazzaretto Nuovo. By then he was quite mad, surely the syphilis had finally traveled from his member most hideous to his bastardly brain and caused him to not know any more, what was real and what was merely a never-ending waking hallucinatory nightmare-dream. Lucky for me, he had never entered me, though he had done enough, may the Devil keep his soul forever, he had done enough. He said he was saving my first time for the highest bidder and I do not know how much he made on the deal but I hope it was worthwhile for the bastard; it was worth enough to me that I was saved at least, from him and his grim disease anyway.
My career in the carnal arts lasted but a day. I found it not the least to my liking and so I vowed to never allow it to happen again to me. Even though I was raised to a live a life devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, to give as well as to receive, I came too much to hate it too, and so instead of many trembling and heated embraces in the dark, be it with a man or a woman, I found my passion instead, in an extra large piece of Tiramisu.
Fortunately, a mere few days after the selling of my virginity, my guardian went off on a fool’s mission, and while riding in his rented water ferry he became convinced that his gondolier was on the verge of causing him great bodily harm, specifically in the form of an anal rape with the rounded end of the gondolier’s remo, or oar. “Papa” jumped into the dank waters of the canal to get away from his imagined attacker but instead of promptly drowning in the dismal sewage of the waterway, he simply and logically swam to the nearest ladder and hoisted himself out of the drink and made his way back to our apartments by way of the docks, with whatever his twisted errand had been left unfulfilled. I must here admit that he did provide for us a fine home, as he had exquisite taste and the criminal coin to pay for it all. He was also a careful and clean householder, hard as it may be to believe. Once he was safely returned to our rooms, in addition to his mental aberrations, he also soon fell victim to a bad flux and serious catarrh. I finally called in a doctor when he would not leave a corner of his own bedroom. He sat curled up in a ball screaming that the rats were all over his bed and bed curtains and the evil gondolier was on his way back to finish having his way with him. The worst of it though, was his breathing, coming as it did too rapid, too shallow, and too labored as he struggled with the copious secretions that would drown him when the canal could not.
The physician I summoned was a knowledgeable old fellow, and he asked if my guardian’s crazy rants were new or unusual. I had to admit to the medical man that in fact my “dear Papa” had been acting most odd of late, and had been even before the fall into the dark waters of the canal, standing sometimes at the edge of a room and clinging to the wall as if he would fall from a great height if he did let go. Another moment might find him screaming at me to hide with him beneath the bed before the arrows he saw raining down from above might find their mark upon my chest or head. Not to mention the absolute nonsense that streamed forth from his lips, being more like gibberish than any actual and understandable language…
It did not take the doctor long to decide, after a brief examination of my “Papa”, that he suffered from end-stage syphilis, in addition to his respiratory issues and must for his own safety and everyone else’s be committed to Lazzaretto Nuovo. The physician left then, with the promise that a couple of burly officers of the court would soon, in a day or two, be along to collect my syphilitic warder and take him to his cursed reward for a life too well-lived.
As for me, I did not linger. I knew “Papa” (such a gentle word turned so foul…) had not paid our rent for a few months, and that soon enough the landlord would be coming along to take all that he owned and evict us. Lucky for me I knew where my guardian hid his precious coins, and I took it all for myself while he sat and babbled nonsensically to no one. I hastily rented an apartment and hired a brawny mover of my own to come to take what I wanted from the place, all before the doctor’s promised guards had come to collect their madman for transport to that island of horrors. I never saw my abuser again, so I know not how he fared or how long he survived on that terrible blot on the landscape of Venice, but that story is surely a tale for another day and another teller…
To tell the truth I did not take much from my old home, not wishing to be reminded of those unending days of disgust that had somehow, miraculously, come to an end. I knew however, that his dirty money would not last long if I did not invest it wisely, but at first all I could think to invest in were delectable desserts and tantalizing treats. And despite my growing girth I also bought more than a few fashionable frocks too, to fill the tall dark cherry wood wardrobe, the one piece of furniture I kept from my unhappy youth and moved from the hands of my crazed captor.
I had developed the ability to tell a good tale very young; when I discovered that it could sometimes save me from his unwanted advances on my innocent little body. Being a very lonely child I had already often spoken with the shades, they being my only, albeit non-corporeal, friends. I would entertain that disgusting man with silly love stories and thrilling tales of adventure, and often he would listen to me long into the night, drinking his red wine or apricot liqueur and eating fried cheese and fried peppers, until he passed out before he got around to what it was he had originally intended.
So it was that after I had myself to support, I went to the one friendly soul that I knew: a curmudgeonly old tavern keeper who hated everyone but knew a good plan when he heard mine. Despite his many sour frowns I knew he held a tender heart within his burly barrel chest, and he agreed to try my idea of entertaining his customers with my treacle tales. Thus it went through the years, until the day the two men came, agents as it turned out, for the Sultan’s mother, may God think of her always.
The first night that they came I told a tale of a lucky girl born poor, who every time some hapless and terrible thing would occur to her she would always come out so much the better for it, and the tale ending with her finding the love of her life and with her sitting on a big pile of money too. The dress that I wore that night was a billowy pale pink creation with tiny white polka dots and tiny white bows over the bodice, set off by a white chiffon shawl with long braided pure white tassels all along the bottom edge that I wrapped round my hefty shoulders as it trailed very nearly to the floor. The dress was cut low to which I had added a ruffled white lace insert that did little to hide the deep cleft of my cleavage, and the darker pink skirt of it billowed wide to cover the breadth of my hips, naturally as nearly broad as panniers, and my rump as buxom as any bustle. I barely noticed the two men though, beyond the fact that I had never seen them before, and that they merely drank one drink each and left early. I certainly did not have any reason to believe I would ever see them again, much less that they would be the cause of my release from this watery prison otherwise known as Venice…
They did not return the next night nor did I have any reason to expect them to. But on the third night they did return, and they came early and stayed late, long after everyone else had gone to their own beds, slowly sipping one drink each all through the night and then talking long with the tavern-keeper, and forcing me to have to wait for my pay for that night’s work.
I like to think about the day preceding the agents’ offer, but cannot determine anything unusual about it as it was much like any other. I rose when the bells of Santa Maria dell’Orto rang only once. That single toll is always more startling to me than the twelve bells of the hour before it.
I began the day as I begin every day, by pulling out my Tarot deck of cards to see what will be. It is a beautiful old ornate deck, hand painted in stunning detail and beautiful jewel colors, though after many years of shuffling the cards they have lost some of their clarity and brightness. “Papa”, may the Devil keep his soul forever, won the deck in a gamble game, but he had no use for the thing so gave it to me as a distraction, not being one to buy more toys than were absolutely necessary for his business. I would stare at the odd pictures for hours at a time when I was very young, and when I became a teenager an old Romanian woman who used to wash our laundry taught me how to read them. I used my usual indicator card: The Empress, her flowing and flowery loose gown covering what looked to me like some pretty wide thighs of her own. I did an extended lay-out, and I pulled some uninteresting cards, indicating things I already knew or this person or that who I would soon meet. It was the final draw for the layout though, that caught my interest, that being the Six of Swords. One never wants to pull a sword, for they very rarely speak of good news to come, but the six indicates a long slow trip, or the eventual overcoming of some obstacle or the ultimate healing of some pain. I looked at the card long and hard, as if by staring at the drawing upon it of the woman in the boat with the six swords behind her, I might somehow decipher what it might mean for me. Giving up finally, I went on with my day.
I made my way first, to one of my favored bakeries for breakfast. I could not choose between a “Bee Hive”—a round chocolate cake filled with a creamy white filling and dipped entirely in a thick chocolate coat, then at the very top another small dollop of the creamy filling and a cherry—or a “Pillow”. The “Pillow” is a generous rectangle of puff pastry baked light and flaky and separated, and between the two it is filled with a wonderful and very slightly salty sweet butter-cream and the top of the pastry is covered with big square crystals of clear sugar baked in. So I bought both, deciding to eat one soon, the “pillow”, and save the “bee hive” for a little later in the morning. I am not always quite that generous with myself, but something told me it was to be a special day, though I had no idea of why as it went along. Saving my breakfast until I was in a safe place I made my way along the docks. I learned long ago to not eat as I traversed the docks of the city as the gulls were thieves who would steal a snack right from one’s hand as it made its way to one’s mouth…
I continued to my next destination, the home of the woman who dresses my hair. I have an unusual arrangement with her, as most hairdressers go to the client rather than the reverse, but my apartments being what they are… Suffice it to say, she has kindly allowed for me to come to her, and so our agreement is for me to see her every third day. I have to walk along a set of docks to get to the place where she lives, and the swaying that my thirty and three hundred pounds can induce is always enough to cause any witnesses to the event to snicker and laugh, rolling their eyes and pointing in my direction. Why should I care? It isn’t as though I am wishing to attract a lover after all…
She let me in without a word, and we went about our usual routine with very little comment between us. I was the quieter of the two as I indulged myself with my breakfast as she went about her task. She is a typical Italian woman, hard working, capable, excellent cook and wonderful mother of many children who can manage to do it all just fine thank you very much…
She first brushed, then washed, and then dried my long tresses, using a towel and her fingers to work the waves dry and to bring out the best shine and curl. I paid her and gave her a small tip too, which she secreted all away in the folds of her dress, and I returned then in the direction of my rooms, repeating the swaying dock scene for the amusement of all who watched.
By the time I had returned to my rooms I was hot and sweaty from the exertion, though the day was a fine one in fact. The afternoon sun sparkled on the murky lagoon water, making even that questionable liquid shimmer like gold. I took a nap then, or I should say, I fell asleep rather unintentionally, as I lay thinking and conversing with my invisible friends, as we discussed what story I should tell that night at the tavern. Something, or someone, was telling me that I needed to tell a good story this night.
When I woke I was hungry again, so after cleaning up as best as I can--it can be quite difficult to reach some nether regions, a bit of balancing act if you will-- I went in search of my supper. I always keep plenty to eat on hand at home, but I was in the mood for something special, so I went to my favored seller of sweet and savory raviolis and bought myself an assortment, putting one of the little sweet pastas to my lips before I had even left his small storefront facing the water. Reaching that place required the renting of a ferry, and most of the smaller gondolas will just pass me by as if I don’t even exist. Finding one for my return was a trial, but eventually I was relieved of my money for the trip, and went back again to my apartments. An expensive meal to be sure, one requiring a little dip into my savings even, but it was as if I were already celebrating though I didn’t know why.
I took special care then to ready myself for the evening, pulling out my finest dress from the interior of the tall wooden wardrobe. My clothing choice was an artfully draped creation, worked from an amazingly beautiful but enormous piece of lavender-pink crepe silk, and beaded with iridescent black “peacock” pearls all along the neckline and around the billowy circular sleeves. The dress highlights my finest features: my bountiful décolletage, and the wonderful width of my hips. I wore a pair of slippers with black pearl beaded arches across the tops, the silk dyed in the same hue as my shawl. The shawl I wore was a soft grey, of the same crepe silk as the dress, and the yards upon yards of material had been carefully gathered together to give it a draped look also. I brushed my hair carefully, so as not to lose any of the wavy curl, and arranged it to hang long down my back and a few thick strands flowed down the front along the sides of my body too. I needed no cosmetic enhancement, as my own complexion is naturally “glowing”, and my eyes are both large and that alluring azure blue. Satisfied with the effect that looked back at me in my mirror, I ate quite a bit more of the raviolis before going on to the tavern for the night’s work.
The story that I told that eve was oddly personal; something thoroughly unusual for me to do. There was just something in the air, a sense of finality, a season of opening up for the moment, to remember and relive all of the “before”. It was a story of a little girl lured away from her mama by her first sweet taste of candy, a jellied piece made from the juice of the raspberry and rolled all around in a powdery fine granulated sugar, so sweet and tart and thick and fine all at the same time.
She had many adventures as she grew, and it took the whole night to tell of them all, until finally, she stabbed her awful abductor in the heart, then burned his body and all his money, and walked away into a great unknown future just before my curmudgeonly friend the tavern-keeper was about to close his doors for the night.
Of the telling of it I must have done well enough, for as I have mentioned, the two agents of the Sultan’s mother, may God remember her always, offered the tavern-keeper enough to release me from my contract with him.
The gruff old tavern-keeper said to me then, “It is likely a good opportunity for you; I can’t promise to forever employ you as storyteller here, and besides, my pay is not much, well do I know it…” Even in the dim light I could see his eyes were full of moisture and concern. I saw that he had wrestled with the idea to let me go, and I wanted to believe that his final decision wasn’t entirely because the agents had found his price, but rather that he sincerely wanted to do right by me. I guess I shall never really know the truth of it though.
Thus it was that I packed my clothing and few belongings early the next morning, unusually early for me to rise when the Priory of Santa Maria dell’Orto had swung the bells only six or maybe seven times.
Chapter 2: The Knight of Pentacles and the Knight of Cups
The journey away from Venice began by boat of course, but now we travel by carriage, and the going is terribly difficult. As elaborate and gaudily decorated as these conveyances were made, they were not designed for one of my girth. I can find no pleasant way to recline or even to sit with any comfort. Fortunately, my benefactor’s agents have the ability to relieve me of some of my misery, in the form of little cakes made from sesame seeds, honey, and opium. They said the little cakes should put me to sleep, but I fear my body size was not taken into account for the dosage, and I find when I eat two or three, I merely get a little more comfortable but also find myself very talkative indeed.
The two carriages were waiting for our little party where the agents had left them in storage, in Arberia. We sailed first, for many days, upon the Adriatic Sea, adrift in a boat too large to be called a skiff, too small to term a ship. I was so nauseated through that leg of the voyage I could barely keep down the miserable portions that they claimed were food. The two agents worried terribly about my losing any weight, though I did not then know why, but I promised that once I was again on dry land I would make up for my inability to swallow and keep down the fish stews and hard-dried biscuits the captain and crew insisted were edible. The time on the voyage seemed marked only by my own vomiting, and it was with a happy heart that I disembarked at Vlore. I was surprised at myself for being so sick, after living for so long essentially upon the water as I did in Venice, and being able to walk the many docks and piers without the least little bubble or burp. The up and down swells of that narrow sea definitely got the better of me.
Back on dry land I soon scarcely remembered those many days of sickness, and want now only to make up for those meals lost over the time on the water. My chaperones are more than willing to comply.
The two agents ride together in the other small carriage, though I must presume they originally came each in their own. I was quite pleased and surprised when first I laid eyes on our vehicles. The carriages of the Ottomans are truly a delight to behold, all curlicues and golden dangles at every corner with fancy twirls of pretty painted lines here and there, but to ride in one is another story entirely…
Occasionally one of the two of the Sultan’s Mother’s agents will ride with me, which makes for tight quarters indeed. It seems the very air dries up within the little vehicle, and the creaky bumps of the road jostles all the more. Nevertheless, I am glad for their company, and curious to hear all they will tell me about how things will be.
Both of these agents are that odd sort, being neither man but certainly not woman either. Their skin black as ripe olives, their sumptuous robes and jeweled turbans mark them as something more than mere slave. That and the official looking scrolls marked with the Turgra, the monogram symbol of the Sultan, and with the many royal seals documenting the right and noble charge entrusted to the two for travel where they will in search of someone just like me.
The shorter of the two—both are no taller than am I, and one is even shorter—seems a gentle soul; and very talkative too. I thought of the two other cards I had turned over on the day the two agents from the Sultan’s Mother made their offer, one being the Knight of Pentacles, a peaceful, pleasant person, steady in his ways, at times a little stubborn too. The other card had been the Knight of Cups, proud and disdainful, yet beneath his vain appearance beat a tender heart too. The Knight of Cups is also known to bring new opportunities. I have certainly wondered if those two cards foreshadowed these two agents.
As the shorter agent sat with me in my carriage, the slow miles passing beneath us at a sluggish pace, he told me of the Sultan, “It seems he favors women of ample girth; the bigger, the bustier, and the more bottom heavy the better…”
For the first time since hearing of this offer a deep sense of dread entered my heart as I realized that perhaps it was not merely for the telling tales that I was being hired. Tears welled up in my eyes at the thought of my needing to bed this Sultan, and a wave of fear passed through me. What could I do now? I had sold all my furniture and gave up my small apartment, I didn’t even have my job anymore; how would I survive? I knew though, job, furniture, apartment, or no, I would not allow anyone, man or woman, to have me in a carnal manner. And so I realized, I was going to have to make a break for it somehow, and the sooner the better. I cursed myself silently for being such a fool; of course these two men didn’t come all that way just to gain a storyteller, of course the Sultan wanted more, twisted though his tastes may be…
The short little eunuch must have guessed the path of my thoughts, perhaps from the assortment of emotions as they crossed the features of my face, and he was quick then to reassure me, “Do not worry over it, he won’t ever touch you! His mother would never allow it! No, you will merely be…shall we say…inspiration for the Sultan.” He smilingly shook his head with amusement over the very idea that was causing me so much fear, “No, his mother would never allow him to waste his royal seed just anywhere…Not that I consider you to be ‘just anywhere’ of course, please do not misunderstand. It is just that she has spent a great deal of the treasury on finding the ideal…receptacles shall we say…for his most precious seed. The women she has chosen, mere girls really, are all perfect physical specimens, each and every one guaranteed to strengthen the imperial bloodline!”
I wiped a single incriminating tear away. “How though, am I to be his ‘inspiration’? What do you mean by that?” I asked, very much relieved that I would not be expected to do anything I will not do, even if the agent could find no way of saying it without being slightly insulting to me.
“Well, ahem, it seems the Sultan prefers women large, as I mentioned. You shall merely entertain him with your tales, and after an evening of looking at you we are hoping he shall be inspired enough to do his duty by his concubines. So far, he has been unable, but he promises that if he had a beautiful specimen to see he would be able to do as his mother bids. She is very anxious that he fulfill the need for heirs, as you can imagine.” The small eunuch’s black eyes darted here and there and his teeth flashed a brilliant white as he spoke. He had left his turban off while traveling in the carriage and his head was shaved clean; the dome of it gleamed with rich sandalwood scented oil.
On the seat next to him was a plate with a few pastries and candies on it, and we each would take a bit now and again, though he kept saying he would take no more less he should gain too much weight himself, but he always seemed to take as much as did I. I noticed too, as we sat so close and he loosened his robes to be more comfortable as we rode along, that he wore beneath his robe long strands of gold chains with many gold coins attached, and upon his neck was a tattoo. I could not read the tattoo though, as it was written in the cursive calligraphic writing of the Ottoman Empire. We spoke together in our mutual language of communication, Greek, though I was most fluent in Italian. I could speak passing well in French also, having been that far west and north in my travels a time or two. We were expecting to soon be upon the border of Greece and traveling just south of the mountain range of that country until we reached Istanbul, and the Sultan’s Palace. I did not know yet if I would be telling stories in Greek or if I would be given a translator so that I might spin my tales in my usual Italian, which felt the most natural to me after so many years of speaking it exclusively.
“How long has he been Sultan then? Has it been a very long time that he has been unable to…perform?” I asked my new found friend carefully, taking a dainty bite of a single candied pistachio nut.
“He was placed on the throne after the death of his brother, about five years ago though how long he has had the other problem I couldn’t say.” The eunuch sniffed disdainfully before continuing, “It is actually pure luck for him, that he is even still alive…” He helped himself to another candied nut also, popping the sugary nut into his mouth and then licking his finger afterwards with an appreciative smile.
“Oh? What do you mean?” I took an apricot candy, the fruit and nuts ground fine, cooked down thick¸ and then rolled in a fine powdery sugar coating.
“Well, I don’t suppose it will do any harm for you to know…The Sultan’s brother, the previous Sultan, Murad IV, had his handsome and intelligent brother Beyazid killed because their mother, the Valide Sultan Kosem, actually favored Beyazid for the throne, causing the Sultan Murad IV to become viciously jealous, though to be fair he did have reason to worry as there were always many ploys and plots for a coup. The Valide Sultan Kosem came too late, to learn of his command to have his good brother executed and so she was unable to stop the killing. When Murad next commanded to have his only remaining brother also killed, their mother, Valide Sultan Kosem, was able to stop the execution from proceeding, by making the claim that Ibrahim was too mad to be of any worry, and she promised that Ibrahim would never leave the kafes. So, Ibrahim was spared because the Sultan Murad IV did come to consider him to be too mad to be of any worry…” The agent delicately took a piece of the apricot candy also, and rolling his eyes at his own greed, he downed the piece in one big chew.
“So the Sultan Ibrahim is mad then?” I asked, now truly curious.
“Well, yes…or so they say. He is known as ‘Ibrahim the Mad’ in fact.” The short eunuch gave me a mischievous smile and then took one more bite of the sugared pistachios, licking his fingers again appreciatively.
“So, I trade one madman for another…”
“What’s that?” He looked at me quizzically.
“Oh nothing…” I responded, taking for myself another small handful of the sweet nuts. “What became of the older brother, the Sultan Murad IV?” I asked then, half expecting to hear that either his mother the Sultan Valide Kosem, or his mad brother Ibrahim conspired to have him killed after all.
“He died of fright, after a solar eclipse…” The eunuch answered me.
“He sounds as though he might have been a bit mad as well. Perhaps it runs in the family…” I responded with a terse laugh.
He shrugged then continued, “Ibrahim is actually better than he used to be, now that he is no longer under the constant threat of impending execution on the command of his own brother dear.”
“Need I have anything to fear from this madman on the throne then?” I wondered aloud, anxious again now about my future.
“Oh no, not at all; he is quite harmless really. His mother, along with the Grand Vizier, does the actual ruling, and the important decision-making; she plays him quite like a puppet in truth. His madness is now one mainly of fears: he fears spiders and beetles, the webs of spiders, the number six, oh and wizards, witches, black magic of any sort, particularly if he believes it is directed against him, and ghosts, especially the ghost of his brother, the Sultan Murad IV, may Allah hold him close to His bosom in Paradise forever. And thunder makes him quite anxious too…Oh and sickness, yes sickness; that is a big one…”
I realized I would need to take special care to keep my cards well hidden so that I would not be wrongly judged as a purveyor of the Black Arts. Such a thing could mean death in Venice…
“What sorts of things does he like then, besides women of great and formidable structure?” I asked as I wiped my fingers on the tightly woven pink cotton napkin I had laid across my wide lap.
“Nothing unusual really; his shisha or water-pipe, and a well-made meal, dancers of talent and music that can draw a tear, a spellbinding story, all of the usual things that any person of discriminating tastes would enjoy. He also has his stars charted on a regular basis, and he has a seer who visits him every few months or so, to foretell his future for him. Oh and he enjoys the company of his physician too…” The eunuch used his hands to gesture widely as he spoke, his fingers holding an imaginary shisha, then an imaginary stuffed grape leaf full of pine nuts and goat meat, then the swirl of a dancer’s hips, then wiping away an imaginary tear from below his eye, and then a wide sweep of his hand to help describe the stars of heaven and the events of the future.
Chapter 3: The Queen of Cups Reversed
The weather is stunningly beautiful, perhaps a little warm for my taste, though I know it shall only be warmer as it is only April, and the warmest months are yet to come. The port city of Vlore was stunningly beautiful too, with the warm Mediterranean sun glinting gold on the choppy little waves of the sea and the distant hills green and silver in the afternoon. The road we ride on now follows close by the foothills of the mountains, their tops white yet with snow, along the southern side of Arberia, as we travel further to the east, on our way to Istanbul.
I knew when I left that I would be leaving the land of Christianity behind, but I have no feeling for it one way or the other. I have seen deacons of the church make their purchase from my “Papa”, may the Devil keep his soul, same as the self-described sinner. He sold a little boy once, to a priest even, when the priest told my guardian that even though there were many opportunities for him to be satisfied sexually, he tired of sleeping alone. What has that Church done to protect me? What has it done to protect the many children who live in fear every day? I fear it does naught, and worse… I believe it is much like my Romanian laundress friend once said: “Church with no spirit is worse than spirit with no church.” Still, it was always imperative to at least make the appearance of piety, less someone make an accusation that could prove harmful or even lethal.
I have heard though, that the followers of Allah do not place high value on the lives of women. I do not know if these tales are true, after all, doesn’t the Sultan’s mother rule the land?
The other agent rides with me today, though I feel less comfortable with him as I did with my friend from yesterday who told me that this fellow passenger is in fact, the first agent for the Kizla Agha, the Chief Black Eunuch. The Kizla Agha is the top eunuch of the Seraglio harem, in the Valide Sultan Kosem’s employ, and in charge of all the acquisitions of women be they gediki, haseki, or just odalisque. I had asked the other agent yesterday what all those words meant exactly, and he had answered that all the girls of the harem were odalisque, which simply meant “servant”, that haseki were the favored girls, favored for their sexual prowess or entertaining talents or both, and the gediki were a small group who served the personal needs of the Sultan, right down to brewing his coffee and washing his underwear. Despite the apparent mundane tasks of the gediki, evidently this was a highly coveted position as a Sultan tended to bed these girls the most frequently, increasing the girls’ chances of giving birth to a son and thus making her a wife of sorts. Not that there is a formal “wedding” ceremony or anything similar to mark the relationship as such…
It had been this important agent’s decision to search originally in Sicily, and from there to travel so far north to Venice, after hearing a rumor regarding me. The first agent, Abi, tells me that this other agent is called Josef, and that his boss the Kizla Agha is very important, very powerful, and much to be feared as to how he can make my life happy or miserable once I am settled within the Seraglio harem.
Josef climbed into the carriage with me, and settled on the seat opposite me, riding with his face to the front as I road with my back to it. His head was shaved as well, and both of his ears were pierced and from them dangled long cut clear crystals, each in the shape of spear perhaps, or a dagger. The sunshine coming in the little windows on each side of the carriage caught the edges of the earrings and threw rainbows all about the inside of the vehicle. He seemed to have no notice that he threw rainbows wherever he went, his demeanor stern and sober. He removed from a hidden pocket within his robes a packet which contained several of the little sesame seed cakes laced with opium, which he shared first with me, instructing me to take no more than three, and then he popped one of the little cakes in his own mouth too. I did not argue with him, regarding the dosage, as I had no wish to be delirious while he was in the carriage with me, and I even only took two. He nodded appreciatively; evidently happy to see I wasn’t desirous of being overly drugged.
“I wish to speak with you for a bit, Sheker Pare; I want to clarify for you, your position with the Sultan then. It has been decided to make things a bit easy for you. You will be odalisque for the Sultan’s mother herself. I shall present you, and name you “The Teller of Tales.” As such, you shall live amongst the oda, or court, of the Valide Sultan Kosem, a place of privilege. You shall have your own servants thus, eventually. First though, you must be educated on court etiquette. The first thing you need to know is that the Sultan is a very, very important man. He is the ‘King of Kings’, the ‘Master of the Two Continents and the Two Seas’, and ‘Sovereign of the East and West’, just to name a few of his titles. It is also important that you know that no one is allowed to speak or raise their eyes to him; you must think of him as very nearly divine…” He paused a moment to gauge my reaction to this, but I remained very quiet. He continued then, “I think it might be well if you learned some other talents, such as playing an instrument and reciting classic poetry, in case the Sultan tires of stories but still wants to look upon you. So at first you shall be little more than just another odalisque, but your patience and application shall reward you in the end.” He spoke very precisely in a low, velvety voice, surprisingly low considering his eunuch condition; how deep would his voice have been if he had never been cut? Or was he cut after his voice changed at puberty? Wonder that he even survived if this be so. I liked the sound of his voice even if it scared me a bit too. I was more engaged in thinking about this man in the carriage with me than I was giving much thought to the words he was speaking about my future with the Sultan I realized.
“As you wish sir. I have never played any musical instrument before, should that be a problem?” I asked, suddenly afraid of the prospect of needing to learn something that might be complicated and difficult.
“No, it shall not be a trouble at all. It just may take a bit more time and your deepest commitment and attention. We shall also instruct you on the Koran, and you shall learn the language too. Don’t worry, it shall all come in good time; you are an intelligent person, and we have good tutors also.” As he settled himself to become more comfortable in his seat, I saw that he also had the golden chains covered with coins hanging at his neck. At his wrists and his ankles he wore many more chains of gold, and dangling from these were nuggets of amethyst, emerald, and even ruby. On nearly every finger he wore an elaborate and large ring, some with a single stone of a shiny jet black, some with glowing moonstone, and some with iridescent pearls, and all set in gold filigree.
“What should I know of the Valide Sultan Kosem?” I asked Josef, thinking of the card I had pulled this morning. It was the Queen of Cups reversed, a watery woman treacherous and manipulative, she who once was a loving woman, is now known to be dark of heart. I hoped I had not already met the Sultan’s mother…
“It is wise that you ask. I shall inform her that she was topmost on your list of queries. Hmm, the Valide…” He tented his fingers as he spoke, as if that may help him best word what he was about to say. He went on then, in his velvety voice, “She has the best intentions for the rule of the land, but her highest and best concerns are for the imperial family first and foremost. She would see to it that her bloodline shall rule forever, that is, her bloodline and her husband’s, the former Sultan, may Allah hold him at his bosom in paradise forever. She will do anything to see to it that her descendents continue in the rule, and so she will spare no expense in the effort to bring one of the hasekis to child by her son the Sultan Ibrahim. Of secondary importance to her, is her hand in the rule of the land, which has become a necessary evil for her, considering the circumstances. Ibrahim is troubled you see, troubled after the threat of his life by his brother, troubled by his years in the kafes, troubled perhaps even in the womb, only Allah knows the truth. So Ibrahim needs his mother’s strong guidance to rule. You are wise to always consider her first, above and beyond all others, as she holds the key to your very existence and even your happiness, yes?”
“Yes, I understand perfectly. Still, I can only bless her for taking me out of Venice and giving me a chance at an easier life. I am done with the struggling to pay the rent each month, the worrying when my employment in the tavern might come to an end. So I will bless her each day…” I responded thoughtfully.
“Ah, you are wise to be grateful to your benefactors; you are old beyond your years. How old are you then? I should have asked sooner, but thought I knew; now I wonder…” He looked questioningly at me.
“I am now ten and eight. I shall turn ten and nine come the month of September…” I lied; I didn’t really know when my own birthday actually was, but I had often pretended when I was a child that my birthday was the ninth of September just because I liked the numbers: nine-nine. As to the year, “Papa” claimed my age as six when I first asked, so I have only counted from that time on. I may be younger, but I doubt I am any older.
“Perfect; still young enough that learning shall come easy for you, yet so wise already!” His voice boomed loud in the little carriage, “You shall be a great success I foretell, in the court of the Sultan Ibrahim!”
Chapter 4: The Ace of Swords, the Six of Cups, and the Moon
As we passed finally across the borders that marked the country of Greece, the weather turned foul and made the going even more difficult. The two agents rode together through the miserable day, leaving me to my own reveries. I ingested all the opium cakes I was offered, wishing it was enough to actually allow me some sleep, but didn’t really expect it. Instead I planned to wakefully indulge the day away with the plate of sweet candied mint leaves that were provided for my enjoyment and pleasure. I realized that whatever pounds I had misplaced on the sea leg of the journey were easily finding their way back to me.
When I had laid out my cards in the morning, before gathering up my things and going to breakfast at the old worn-out Inn we had stayed in the night before, I had found a most unusual spread, one that filled me with some happiness and some displeasure. The Ace of Swords spoke of clear thinking for the day, the Six of Cups foretold blissful and pleasant thoughts, but the Moon promised some crazy, odd thoughts, or so it always did for me. That or worse, for sometimes the card was the forerunner to that curse upon all womankind, that monthly blight upon my life, the menstrual period. I could only wait and watch for the worst.
Though the Inns of the past few nights had been rough hewn and a bit splintery around the edges, Abi and Josef promised we would soon be in Thessaloniki, a city as large or even larger than Venice, and a major center for trade, and we soon would be staying in a fine establishment known for the its wonderful food and most especially their pastries.
Having the carriage to myself allowed me time to think about my stories. I began to make a list of all the stories I would tell first, and those I would design for the telling too. The lists were all in my mind alone, as I never learned how to read nor write, and now I had to wonder if that might be one of the things the tutors of the court would be teaching me. What a wonderful thing that would indeed be, the greatest culmination of my every dream. It was with these delightful yet clear thoughts that I unexpectedly dozed off, my head bobbing along on my breast and my body swaying to the rocking lean of the carriage as it lumbered down the narrow dirt road.
I dreamed I was in a pool of water, it being just one of many delightful pools of pleasantly scented water. The aroma of jasmine and hyacinth filled the air, as the clouds of condensation above my head gave proof of the warmth of the bath. Surrounding the pools were beautiful tropical plants, and birds swooped and twittered amongst the green fronds and leaves of the thick foliage and trees. Tall narrow and short wide waterfalls emptied into the pools, the spray mist showing off rainbows in the air, and the water of the many pools being a beautiful and clear light blue-green. Small black monkeys with tiny white faces swung from vines amongst the trees, occasionally giving little screeches of delight as they went. A thick green moss covered the rocks, making a soft bed to lie on within the healing waters of the pools. White orchids with black centers and deep pinkish-purple orchids with apricot centers bloomed here and there amongst it all. I did not seem to be alone, though I cannot remember now who it was with me that lolled about in the warm waters of the pools; I know only that I was with many companionable friends who were also enjoying the scene. I could have enjoyed the idyllic wonder of it all forever.
Soon though, too soon it seemed, the light dimmed, though whether it was the light of the sun or of some other source I couldn’t say for certain. It seemed dark clouds gathered overhead, thick and mean and angry. It began to rain¸ very gently at first, then harder and harder until it was a veritable tempest, a deluge, a flood. The water of the pools turned an ugly dark and murky grey-green and swirled roughly within the bowls of the little pools. The soft moss was soon stripped clean, and we were beat about against the rocks with no mercy as the waves of water flowed up and around us. The rain pelted down hard, like rocks on our heads, and soon the level of water was too much, too high, too raucous around us. We were drowning, as the grey-green and foamy water went over our heads. My companions began to scream, a pitiful wail, a desolate howl, a cry of despair unending. I found purchase on a higher rock, and tried to save my beloved friends, their faces and voices unseen and unknown, but I could not secure any of them. Each and every one that I caught hold of soon slipped out of my fingers and I found I could not help any. As I saw the last head drop below the swirling waters, lost to me forever, I held my hands over my ears to stop the sound of that wailing cry that I thought would never leave me…