NIGHTS

"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful maiden who-"

"Stop."

The girl blushed. "What's wrong?"

The man rose from his cushion on the floor and walked towards the window. "I asked you to tell our story. What is this beautiful maiden business?" The moonlight made his frown more visible, and she stared for a short moment at the hard line of his jaw and his crooked nose.

"We don't have a story," the girl finally confessed, frank as always. "I wanted to tell you a different story, a beautiful story. There was going to be a lovely sea princess who tricked a jinn and-"

He shook his head. "I don't want to hear a beautiful story," he said, "and hell, I've had enough of sea princesses. I think every single story you've told me has had a sea princess in it. It's been, what, nearly a year now? I was hoping you could come up with something a bit more original by now."

It had been three hundred and thirty three nights, she knew. The girl sighed and began to play with her hair, braiding it into thick, black ropes. Everything had gone terribly wrong. She had been a storyteller all her life, and she thought she had known her own story like the back of her hand. There had never been so much as a loose plot thread in sight. She thought that she would marry her father's friend's son, a nice boy who was a few years older than her, and together they would have three children, a very lucky number. There would probably be a lot of foreshadowing before anything unfortunate happened, but they would never see it coming, providing the irony. Eventually, they would learn their lessons and move on. It would have been a moving story, detailing the gentle loss of innocence and the enlightenment that came from a life well lead. Such were the simple dignities of the nomads.

And because she had written this out before she had really become enlightened, she had also expected that there would be pirates and sea princesses involved.

Unfortunately, there was not nearly enough foreshadowing in her life, for she could never have imagined what was to happen next. Instead of marrying her sweet faced friend, she was married to a warlord, a settled warlord, no less, who only talked to her to ward off the boredom. In all her days, she had never imagined herself married to a man who owned a household. It was a political match, a plot twist she had not been expecting. He married her because he had heard that she was entertaining and told good stories.

"What sort of story would you like to hear?" she finally asked, irritated. "It hardly matters. It's nearly dawn, and I haven't gotten a wink of sleep. How do you expect me to tell you good stories if you don't let me sleep?" She leaned back in her bed, drawing the curtains around her.

He sighed, still at her window. "I want to hear a story with truth in it. I give you a beautiful home and nice clothing, and you can't even tell a story."

She frowned. She was a bedoui, a nomad; she had no use for homes or nice clothes, and his insinuation that he was bribing her to stay only annoyed her. "I truly wish to go to sleep now," she said, her voice slightly muffled by the thick red curtain now enveloping her bed.

He was a busy man, often leaving for weeks at a time. Whenever he returned, however, the first thing he did was check on his little wife, like a child who is waiting to read the next page of a book. Though he tried to swear off her supposedly boring stories, he was once more in her bedroom, leaned up against the cushions, listening to her deep voice as she weaved her stories melodically.

Tonight, her story was about a fish. She had long ago learned that sea princesses didn't hold his interest, and he suspected that she simply changed all the princesses into fish to keep him happy. That was probably the best explanation for why the fish was a princess and lost her shoe at a ball, though he didn't feel like telling her that he saw through her little trick.

"...and the moral of the story is never to trust an adulteress, especially if she's a fisherman's wife and you are a fish."

He nodded. "And what moral am I to take from this if I am not a fish?" he asked.

Her brown eyes snapped to his. She was, of course, used to this by now. He took all of her stories and found fault with them, which was ridiculous, in her opinion. In her tribe, no one had ever questioned her stories. They had simply accepted the mysterious power of them. In her stories, people lived, loved, and learned lessons. It was universal.

"Don't look at me like that. You know I'm not a fish," he said. "Why are you telling me stories about fishes?"

She bit her lip. "It was metaphor, you idiot. Honestly, I have no idea how you can take care of this nation of people if you can't even interpret a simple story."

"That was hardly a universal moral," he pointed out, unwilling to let it go. He felt as though she sometimes told stories simply for the sake of telling them, without understanding truth. "Besides, what would a nomad girl know of nations?"

"I am hardly a nomad anymore. But very well," she all but bit out. "The story was just in case some wicked enchantress ever turns you into a fish."

"It was a joke," he said, sensing her anger. He stood up and walked towards her bed.

She turned her head. "You're not very funny. Perhaps you'd like to tell me a story? We can see how you measure up," she suggested, with an imperious air.

He smoothed his stubble for a moment while he thought. "A story? Very well. Once upon a time, there was a foreigner named Lawrence. He traveled to Syria to view a beautiful palace; he had heard that each brick in each room was ground with perfumes, and he wanted to see if the stories were true. When he arrived at the palace, a servant took him from room to room."

"Wait," she interrupted. "Are there any sea princesses in this story?"

"No, of course not."

"Are there any jinn?" she asked.

"Be quiet. Anyway, Lawrence travelled from room to room. One room smelled of jasmine, another smelled of roses, and so it went, room to room, each one a new delightful scent. At long last, the foreigner grew tired, for the palace was very large, and asked the servant to take him to the room which smelled the most excellent, after which he would take rest and go home. The servant smiled, and explained that there was indeed one room which smelled the most excellent. Up they went, to the highest room in the highest tower. When Lawrence finally walked into the room, all that he could see was a gaping window, the deset wind raking across the sands below."

"That's your story?" She was unimpressed.

He cleared his throat. "Not quite. Lawrence was confused as to why he was brought to this room, and asked the servant. The servant merely pointed out the window. 'This is the most excellent room, for it has no taste', the servant said. And that, my dear, is the end."

She sniffed. "Your stories are boring and I see no moral. What is the moral of the story?"

Rolling his eyes, he drew closer to her. "Perhaps that there is no beauty like the desert wind? Or perhaps that every man holds within him a gaping window of loneliness. Or perhaps the King overvalued expensive perfumes, only to be outdone by Nature... Hell, I don't know. That was the point. The story is as empty as the room," he explained. "But since it's a true story, it holds a different fullness."

"The story is as empty as your heart," she corrected, though inside, she wondered. Had he been a lonely man, before he had married? "Besides, what does a settled gentleman like yourself know of the desert? You live inside a man-made palace."

He coughed and looked down at his feet, before fishing in his pockets. "Look, don't be angry with me. See, I have a present for you." As he spoke, he pulled out a necklace of little black pearls, and draped it over her head.

She looked down curiously at the sparkling necklace.

He smiled. "The man I bought it from said it belonged to a mermaid," he said, struggling with the foreign word.

She narrowed her eyes. "A what?"

"A sea princess," he said, before walking briskly out of her bedroom.

She smiled, twisting the string of pearls in her fingers. Twisting a lock of black hair, she pulled out her book and scratched another mark into it. Tonight marked the six hundred and sixty sixth night in the company of her Lord. She thought over the story about the gaping window of loneliness. Perhaps this was the character development in her story, she thought to herself. After all, every good story needed character development, and why should her life be any different?

The young warlord spent less and less time away from home, finding some relief in confiding in his Lady. She gave him suggestions to help him run his people, and before they went to their separate beds at night, she told him fantastical stories with supposedly universal morals. Though her plots were sometimes laughable, he often marveled at her voice. It was a thread, stitching together plots, but it was also a black lake, impenetrable.

She laughed when he told her this, one night. "There is nothing so mysterious about me," she confessed, a smile in her eyes. She still bickered with him, but there was something of a friendship between them. It was not all that surprising, considering that tonight would mark the nine hundred and ninety ninth night.

"Tell me a story... a true story. Tell me your story," he pleaded, his eyes gentler than she had ever seen them before.

For some reason, she had the urge to shiver, but attributed it to the cool desert night. She adjusted her skirts around her feet, before clearing her throat. "Once upon a t- no, no, I can't do this. This is a very private story," she said, turning her head away from him.

He looked disappointed.

"My story has been ruined," she mumbled, unable to look at him. He, however, could look at nothing but her. It was an unorthodox beginning to a story, and it had caught his attention.

"I was supposed to marry a boy from my tribe," she continued. "We were supposed to have three children, all girls, all beautiful. One would have been a weaver, one would have been a painter, and the last and dearest would have been a storyteller, though really, they would all be storytellers, but they just wouldn't realize it..."

When she looked up, she saw that the man at the foot of her bed looked more like a little boy; a prince kicked off his pedestal.

"I ruined your story."

She shook her head, but he was out of her room before she could speak.

"W-wait!" she called out, running after him, nearly tripping over her long dress as she tried to cover the distance between them. He was soon out of their home, however, and she was not sure of which direction he took into the desert.

Still, she tried to follow him outside; she ran as far as she could in the cool sand, making sure she kept her home in sight. She ran all around, back to front and left to right, until she was ready to collapse from exhaustion and confusion. A desert night can be treacherous if one becomes lost, as she well knew, a daughter in a nomadic tribe. The winds were harsh, and they blew the sand into her eyes. Though she tried to see him, she was not able to follow him into the night, and had to return home, disappointed. She prayed that he was sensible and took his own camel with him, for an Arab without his camel is like a sailor without his stars.

Once inside the household, she began to wail. Her crying woke up all the occupants of the house and all the servants. Within moments, the household became well lit, and the concerned chatter began. Everyone scurried about to appease her, offering her sweets and advice. The servants reassured her that he would be back, that he couldn't leave her for long.

"Our Lord knows the lay of the land, Milady," they assured her. "Not even the trickster dunes can fool him."

All day long, she sat by her window, waiting for his return. Her eyes nearly gave out, blinded by the hot white sand, but she did not leave her spot. However, he did not return that day, and he did not return that night. The string of pearls around her neck began to feel like an executioner's noose, about to be pulled tight.

When he finally returned the morning after, he did not speak a word to her. Relief filled her heart, but again deflated when she saw how sour his mood, how foul his countenance. She floated from room to room, spying on him as he took his breakfast, listening in on his meetings. He looked terrible; he was dirty and there was blood on his clothes, but she did not dare approach him to ask about what had happened the day and night he had run away.

She did not dare, because she knew that he had run away from her, and that if anyone had ruined her story, it could only be herself.

That night, she rubbed kohl around her eyes and brushed her black hair until it was silky soft. Impatient, she began counting the pearls around her neck, over and over, until the numbers made her feel sick and uneasy in her stomach. She half expected that he wouldn't come at all.

The door swung open.

There was a moment of silence. "Are you all right?" she finally managed. Her voice sounded alien to her, nervous and shy.

He nodded. "I'm not a nomad, but the desert is not a stranger to me," he said softly. His eyes, she noticed, were red rimmed.

She blushed, but her vigor came back to her. "You idiot. You could have died. You could have run into a hundred and one misfortunes, and then what would I have done? This is what happens when you marry a settled man; they have no sense," she said, bitter and angry about the heart ache he had caused her.

"I'll take you back," he all but whispered. "I'll take you back to your tribe. I know you hate being settled; you can't take the desert out of a nomad."

She shook her head and then stood up from the bed, feeling lightheaded. "You've misunderstood. Oh, what a fool I have been!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide. She knew that this was her home now, though she could not yet bring herself to say it.

There he was, her Lord, standing before her. He was a mess of a man. "I'll take you back," he repeated, his eyes red and his voice choked.

She shook her head once more. Tonight would mark a thousand and one nights that she had been married to him. She would not leave him, not now. "You can't. I didn't finish my story from last night," she explained, walking towards him and leaning her head in towards his chest.

"It-it was an unhappy story. I don't wish to know the end," he said, his voice thick. He hesitantly brought one arm up around her shoulders and held her as though he were afraid she would disappear.

"There once was a girl," she began, and he looked down to meet her gaze. "There once was a girl who told stories. She was born from many stories before her, and she knew that she would birth many stories herself. She kept her life neatly and spun pretty parables for all who would listen... and listen they did."

Here, she paused, and he smiled. "They are such wonderful stories. One can't help but listen, you know," he said, looking as though he didn't know whether he should laugh or cry.

"She thought that she could tell her own story," she continued, "She thought her life was a story, and and she tried to make it a most perfect one, weaving in every loose thread, marrying off every cousin and every friend until everything was so neat and so perfect that she could simply burst. But the young girl did not keep plot twists in mind."

"Plot twists?" he asked, his eyes dark.

She licked her lips. "As many storytellers know, the story often writes itself," she admitted, and then leaned up into a kiss.

NOTE: This story was inspired by the frame story of A Thousand and One Nights, also known as Arabian Nights. The story that he tells is a true story, one that Lawrence (Of Arabia) once recounted. And sea princesses are sort of like mermaids except that they have feet. They are basically princesses who live underwater.