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Shahrazad. Shahrazad. Shahrazad.
C h a p t e r 1
H O W T H E S T O R Y B E G I N S
Once, in days so long past even the graybeards among you remember them only in stories, there lived a king who had two sons. Their names were Shahrayar and Shazaman.
Now, this king was a wise man. Where other rulers raised up their sons in jealousy and anger, keeping themselves strong by causing those around them to be weak, this king strengthened himself by making those around him strong. He raised up his sons in harmony and love. And so, at his passing, his kingdom reaped not the whirlwind, but a great reward. For the princes did not quarrel over their father's earthly goods. Instead, Shahrayar, the eldest, said to his brother, Shazaman, "Hear my words, O Shazaman! You are my brother, and I love you well. Though I am oldest and could, by law, rule all, instead I will make a different choice. Hear now what I propose: "The kingdom of our father is a vast one. Let us then divide it between us, each attending to his own domains and never making war upon the other. In this way, our people will know peace and all will prosper."
To which Shazaman replied, "Firstborn of our father, my brother, Shahrayar! Truly you are our father's worthy successor for, even in your greatness, you seek to do me honor. And, as I love you no less than you love me, I will therefore be satisfied with the lands you grant me and never seek to overthrow you."
Then Shahrayar divided the kingdom, keeping for himself the vast lands of India and Indochina. But to his brother he gave the city of Samarkand, the trade routes and the lands thereof—all jewels of great value.
And so the brothers embraced each other and parted.
But all this is yet to come, for I have let the story run on ahead of itself.
Now, at his father's death, Shahrayar inherited not only the king's lands. He also inherited his court and palace. He inherited courtiers and advisors. Chief among them, most high and highly prized, was his vizier.
A fitting title! One which means, "the one who bears burdens."
What burdens this vizier was to bear in the service of his young king shall soon be told.
The vizier was older than his new master, being more of Shahrayar's father's age, and he had two daughters. Though they were far apart in years, they were close in love. The younger was a child of ten as this tale opens. Her name was Dinarzad. The elder was a young woman of seventeen. She was called Shahrazad.
Dinarzad's mother had been a great lady at court. But Shahrazad's mother had come from afar. Ah!
Many were the tales told about her: Maju the Storyteller.
As a young man the vizier had led the forces of Shahrayar’s father to a great victory, deep in the heart of India. When he returned home, he brought with him a bride, daughter of a people both fierce and proud.
They lived not in cities and settlements as others did, but traveled always from place to place, as if their true home in the world had yet to be found. They obeyed the laws of all the lands they passed through, yet made alliances with none.
Greatly honored among them were the drabardi— the tellers of stories and fortunes. It was whispered that the viziers young wife was greater than all the drabardi who had come before her. So great was her gift that her people wept and cast themselves upon the ground when they understood that she meant to part from them. For, once gone, she would become a stranger and could never return. So said their customs.
And it had been prophesied at Maju's birth that in her time, she would come to bear the greatest drabardi of them all.
Though she loved the vizier, when the time for parting with her people came, Maju wept also. For many days and nights the tears fell from her eyes without ceasing, across all the miles to her new country.
Only when the outru
And so it was that Maju the Storyteller came to her new home. She was possessed of an intellect as sharp as the blade of a newly honed knife, and a beauty so terrible only a few could bear to look upon it.
But Maju herself had never had to pass the test of gazing upon her own features. For she was as it was whispered all the truly great drabardi are:
Maju the Storyteller was blind.
The vizier and Maju lived quietly in their quarters in the king's great palace. In the second year of their marriage, Maju presented the vizier with a child. A daughter. They gave to her the name of Shahrazad.
Though Shahrazad grew to young womanhood in the palace, she kept herself far from the pomp and circumstance of court functions. Her father, the vizier, sat at the king's right hand. He was loved and trusted. But, even as the years went by and Shahrazad's mother showed herself to be true and virtuous, few of the people she had come to live among gave their love to Maju the Storyteller. She had not been born in that place, and the fear of such a one proved to be too strong.
And so even as the parents in the kingdom withheld their love and trust from the mother, so did they teach their children to do the same to her child. And though she never saw them nor lived amongst them, Shahrazad grew up like the people of her mother. Searching yet never finding her true place in the world.
And she grew up lonely.
The palace of the king was vast and lovely, and in it there flowed many beautiful fountains. One in particular, the young Shahrazad loved. It was not large, rather a small pool shaded by a pomegranate tree and tucked into a corner of a secluded garden. In it swam many beautiful goldfish. It was tiled with stone of such a piercing blue that looking down into the water was exactly the same as looking up into the sky.
This quiet corner of the palace was Shahrazad's favorite place—the closest she had ever come to finding where she belonged. And so it happened that one day at the begi
A group of courtiers' children set upon her, lifted her up, and threw her into the pool with such force that the branches of the pomegranate tree shook above her. Shahrazad struck her head upon the stones that lined the pool and her red blood flowed out into the water.
When the courtiers' children saw what they had done, they became afraid. How terrible, they feared, would be the revenge of Maju the Storyteller! And so they fled, leaving Shahrazad sitting in a pool of bloody water, sobbing as though her heart would break. And thus her mother found her.
"Why do they treat me so?" Shahrazad cried when she saw her mother. "I do nothing to them.
Nothing!"
Though she thought perhaps her own heart would break when she heard the pain and despair in her daughters voice, Maju the Storyteller answered calmly, "Nothing is all you need do, Shahrazad, my daughter. Being yourself is enough. For you are not the same as they are, and they can neither forgive nor forget it. Come now, dry your eyes and get out of the water."
But Shahrazad was hurt and angry, and she felt rebellious. She stayed right where she was. "But I want to be the same!" she cried. "Why must I be different?" She splashed the water with an angry fist. "I won't get out until you tell me."
Before Shahrazad knew what her mother intended, Maju the Storyteller strode to the fountain, lifted her skirts, and waded into the water. She tore one of her sleeves and made a bandage to bind Shahrazad's bleeding head. How Maju knew to do this when she could not see the injury, Shahrazad did not know.