One Thousand Desires | ON HOLD

3 | A BEGGAR'S BESTOWED LUCK

       PREPARING TO TELL a tale to the murderous king, Zeinab walked over to the bed and sank into the mound of a dozen pillows. She rested her head against the headboard and crossed her legs at the ankles. Then she grabbed one of the pillows and placed it on her stomach, hugging it to her chest.

       For a few long moments, King Kadar appeared conflicted. He turned to face the door, but remained rooted firmly in place at the very middle of the room. He clenched his teeth before biting down on his lower lip, and a vein pulsed in his forehead. However, soon, he seemed to begrudgingly give in. Circling the bed, he sat down on the very edge and cast his blue eyes expectantly in Zeinab's direction.

       For the first time since she had seen him, Zeinab smiled.

       Like an obedient little boy, she thought to herself, both pleasantly surprised and immensely relieved. I've got the Caliph of Khorashtar in the palm of my hand.

       The mere thought gave her a surge of power and urged her to tell the tale that was flowing through her blood, tingling her tongue, yearning for release.

       "What exactly is this story?" the caliph questioned.

       "Patience, sayyidi," said Zeinab. "Besides, I am about to tell it. It's a story my father used to tell me before he died. He was an exemplary storyteller, and I hope to be half as good as he." She wasn't entirely sure as to why she was even mentioning this to him. Perhaps she was attempting to evoke some kind of sympathy within him, but he had none. She cleared her throat. "May I tell it?"

       "Proceed."

       She sighed, her eyes glistering like the gold flakes on her shoulders. Inhaling once, she allowed the words to flow from her lips, pristine and eloquent.

       "In the desert kingdom of Mohkasan lived a young man by the name of Faruq," the gifted storyteller began in a slight singsong voice that only served to further captivate the king. "He was the son of an emir. He lived with his wealthy father and was spoiled rotten by him. Faruq would be given as much gold as he so desired from his parents, and he had only one obligation: to go to the market for them once every seven days, and bring back food for the family.

       "On his way to the marketplace, astride his majestic black stallion—an al-Khamsa—he frequently met beggars who would plead mercifully for just a few coins or anything else he had to spare. On rare occasions, they would attempt to swipe a loaf of bread off of him, but he never allowed them to get away. He was hawk-eyed and noticed everything, so even when the beggars were on the brink of starvation, he did not give them a single thing. Faruq did not like these less fortunate men and the fact that they asked him for his money when, in his mind, he had worked so hard to earn it."

       "Worked hard?" the caliph scoffed suddenly. Zeinab glared at him for interrupting the story—wondering where the audacity had originated from—before remembering that he was the king and that he made his own rules. In his mesmeric daze, he failed to notice her staring daggers into his head and simply continued his comment. "He went to and from the market, and didn't even have to walk. Clearly this man knows nothing about true effort."

       And you do, Kadar al-Din Rumi? she wanted to spit at him venomously; but for once, she kept her lips sealed and blocked the insult.