September 22, 2008
Gendering Tales: A Feminist Reading of Seven Wonder Tales
This study consists of a feminist reading of seven Moroccan tales collected by myself from my grandmother and aunt. The seven texts focus on the lives and tribulations of women characters, named and nameless, young and old, married and single, as they progress in a fantastic world of magical events and characters. Told by women and about women, they represent for the critic privileged insights of the female culture and unconscious, and constitute collective testimonies of the female condition within the patriarchal society. Indeed, caught by the laws that both govern the narrative from and the broader cultural structures that gave birth to them, these texts are necessary assertions of the patriarchal values; nevertheless, the expression of the female desire and subversion of traditional cultural frameworks finds its way into the texts, an underground, or undertext, insurrection that can only become evident with the help of specific theoretical readings. I aim, thus, to use a deconstructive feminist approach to demonstrate the ambivalence and complexity of the female discourse in these 'women's' wonder tales.
The said tales, translated from Arabic into English, were originally in Tamazight. It could be assumed that the violence translation perpetrated on the original texts degraded and modified them. Yet the possibility of the existence of 'original' texts per se in the realm of oral literature is a mere utopia, as it is for written literature as well. For a text, be it written or oral, is, as Barthes puts it, but a "tissue of quotations drawn from the innumerable centres of culture" , with no god-like author to hold a claim over it. However, it has been traditionally established that a written text is literature, while an oral one is folklore, a pot-pourri of genres that does not reach the blessed status of 'Culture'. Such distinctions are of no relevance in this approach; tales are texts that require the same analysis and attention the so-called canonical texts call for. More than that, tales from what is known as the oral tradition open up infinite horizons for multiple readings, precisely because they have multiple facets .
The 'oral' text is characterized by its flexibility. While the conventional written text indulges in fixity, the tale guarantees an adaptability seldom found in literature. It is processable and variable. It is contextual and contingent, can be changed, like the pieces of a puzzle, according to the linguistic and cultural environment. It is moveable; tales travel from one location to another and can be found worldwide. The oral text is an extensive intertextual structure which yields itself to no hierarchical pressures of capitalist claims of authenticity or possession. More than that, the tale is but a matter of encoding, and encoding that could be undone and reworked. Hence its importance as a gendering and a socializing engine which, although meant to condition women and men for their sex-roles, leaves enough space in its flexible narrative form for them to express their dissidence. Indeed, the language it is moulded in delineates the logic of the tale and its form. But, precisely because language itself is, according to Derrida, a discourse, a centreless structure where the interplay of significance is extended ad infinitum, a "system where the central signified, the original or transcendental signified, is never absolutely present outside a system of differences" , the tale spreads out in a play of discursive practices that collide and clash with each other in infinite versions.
Because of these specificities, the tale calls for a specific theoretical framework, drawing basically from the poststructuralist battery of theories, and especially its applications in the field of psychoanalytic and feminist criticism to effectively grasp the ambivalence and conflicts at work. Yet, there has been very little research done in this regard. Most works on the tale in the past relied on liberal humanist modes of analysis or, eventually, linguistic criticism. One of the pioneers in the latter is Vladimir Propp, whose Morphologie du Conte is a huge formalist study of hundreds of Russian folktales, which gave birth to a taxonomy of the traditional folktale's forms and functions. Some critics assert that Propp's classifications provide a universal model for the folktale; that would mean the erasure of race, class, gender and ethnic differences. There is no need to argue about the violence of such a homogenizing attitude. The same criticism could be levelled at the traditional psychoanalytic reading of tales, like Bruno Bettelheim's The Uses of Enchantment . His Freudian approach to European tales is most enlightening, yet he applies psychoanalytic concepts in too systematic a manner, overlooking the subversive potential of such ambivalent texts. On the contrary, he sees them as socializing apparatuses that enable the child to resolve the Oedipus complex and its ensuing anxieties to reach the 'normal' sexual maturity that secures psychic comfort for the individual, which it does not. Tales are much more complex than mere moralizing stories.
It is precisely because of their complexity that such texts call for feminist deconstructive readings, in order to fully determine the mechanisms that shape up women into others, in addition to "the complex and unstable process whereby discourse can be both an instrument and an effect of power, but also a hindrance, a stumbling-block, a point of resistance and a starting point for an opposing strategy" , that is, the space the female voice invests within the narrative to express its difference. Complying with the Law of the Father even as they undermine its doctrines, tales constitute sites of ambivalent discourses on women and for women, since they are, to quote Reumaux, a space for fiction where the conflicts, the non-said and the repressed of the social reality take shape, and where the tale plays the role of a tension regulator. Besides, the tale, being the expression of the ethnic unconscious, is contained by a stable narrative structure and restrained by its rules . To associate stability with a manifestation of the unconscious is obviously to disregard the fundamental instability of the latter. Indeed, the narrative form of the tale that Propp and many others see as inflexible is constantly weakened and recuperated by contradictory discourses. It is as formless, monstrously shapeless and subject to manipulation as the language it is trapped in.
The tale form is indeed a very complex genre of narrative and requires adequate criticism. This study is limited to the analysis of the tale as a gendering engine, an apparatus ensuring the construction of gender identities, using the seven tales collected. The first section is concerned with the treatment of female sexuality in the tales; even if culturally reduced to silence, the female voice finds its way through imagery and symbols to express the female desire for sexual freedom. The second section and third section concentrate on two major elements in the tale on women, the father and the mother figure. Indeed, their status is indicative of the tensions inherent in the female psyche as well as in the patriarchal system, as Oedipal feelings and matrophobic behaviour emerge in the texts in various and disguised forms. All through the three sections a depiction of the sexual politics regulating male-female relationships crystallizes, relationships based on binary structures of power and domination as illustrated by the tales, on the one hand, and characterized by the constant yet silent subversion of male authority by the female presence, on the other.
Indeed, in this collection, women are trying to tell their stories in their own terms, using, sometimes, alternative modes of textuality, such as weaving. It is significant that characters from stories are immortalized in carpets, as such tales are but reproductions and representations of the reality of women in a given community. This association of storytelling with weaving somehow echoes postsructuralist claims that culture and language are both 'network', 'tissues', 'woven' and constructed through a system of 'links'. So, in a sense, women construct their realities and their identities as they weave their carpets, even if the said carpets are seldom figurative, because orthodox Islam censors figurative art. Most of the times, carpets display geometric shapes and patterns; however, sometimes, a carpet might represent animals, like birds, cats and camels, and girls in dresses and skirts. Curiously enough, these characters are recurrent in tales, a fact that maybe illustrates the theory that tales are deeply rooted in women's imaginary and consciousness, to the extent that they draw from them images and sign to reproduce on concrete supports. There is definitely an affinity between women and storytelling since Sheherazade, and a bond between women and weaving since Penelope. Both women negotiated their survival through telling their stories in their master's voice, but managed to leave a space within which to express themselves anyway. With the same determination, women articulate authentic anxieties and portray everyday labour through the magical world of the wonder tale.
The task of critic is, therefore, to delve into such texts, which constitute marginalized histories of women, in a feminist attempt to unearth the buried voices of women. Furthermore, the regenerative energies of tales should be exploited to reformulate and rewrite them to disrupt their mechanisms as gendering texts, to let them become liberating texts.
The task of collecting and translating tales from storytellers is neither simple nor easy, because numerous reasons. First, the sociopolitical events that swept Morocco during the last century introduced a 'modern' westernized lifestyle which seriously threatened the oral legacy, preventing the elders of most communities from transmitting their cultural wealth to the next generation, who was busy identifying with newly introduced ideals and cultural models imported from the conquering west through mass media. Oral literature became 'folklore', meant to entertain tourists and interest ethnographers in search of 'primitive' forms of narrative. For these reasons, old people started forgetting huge collections of tales no one cared to hear. The second problem is therefore to refresh the tellers' memories through showing interest in their cultural heritage. One conversation is never enough; the researcher needs whole days of continuous questions and enquiries before tales flow like a river long kept by a dam and set free at last. It is almost impossible, at that time, to stop the teller from remembering dozens of stories, anecdotes, proverbs, songs and parables that would require hundreds of papers to cover them all. The next problem that emerges is that of transcription. Indeed, writing the oral tale kills most of it, for the oral tale is a multi-layered textual structure; it is made of words, of course, but also of intonation, body language, mimicry, facial expressions, eloquent silences and discreet smiles that express more than what could be recorded on a blunt blank page. The whole atmosphere surrounding the teller is sacrificed during the writing, and I apologize for my failure to transmit it to the reader, due to the shortcomings of the written medium. Problems do not stop here, though; the process of translation is further damaging for tales, as it is for most texts situated in different cultural frameworks. Translation is indeed the unavoidable violence I perpetrate on these seven tales to be able to study them, and I apologize for this, as well as for the footnotes who are supposed to constitute a glossary. Writing and translating oral texts are definitely no easy tasks for a researcher, but they are far more rewarding and interesting than working on long-digested supposedly-canonical wonders of a culture other than mine. This is not a chauvinistic stand, but rather a legitimate 'postcolonial' re-evaluation of a culture reduced to touristic attractions.
My grandmother sat before her loom. The sun was already beginning to melt into a purple and orange cream of clouds. She lit the petrol lamp. She selected her wool threads on its faint gleam. Red, blue, white, green, yellow. With these basic colours she wove her stories every night, along with the carpets and quilts she covered her children with. Now I look at the carpet in my mother's house, worn out but still red bright. My grandmother's stories are still as fresh, though her voice now sounds like downtrodden straw.
My grandmother was busy working on her loom, and I was busy devouring the flames in the kanoun with my eyes, wolfing their riotous light with my young and hungry urban eyes. Bulb lights didn't dance that way back home. But here everything was different, even carpets spoke to me. This one was blue, featuring little girls and birds roaming around mazes of merry patterns. Would the little girl catch the bird? I turned back to the fireplace, trying to steal a bite of passion.
"Won't you stop getting yourself into trouble? You'll burn yourself! Come on, come and sit by me, and let me tell you a story. I don't want your mother to come and find you burnt. What would your daddy think?"
But was it safe to hear my grandmother's stories? I looked at my aunt. She had been listening to tales since she was a child, gathering round her with her brothers and sisters while my grandmother uttered her fatal hypnotic words, entrapping her children in silence and awe while she peacefully wove her way to the night. What if I got charmed too? Yet I longed to know about the birds and the girls, so I readily crept to her.
Once there was a girl called Khoullal El Khadra . Her mother was dead, and she lived with her father and her stepmother. She was very pretty, so her stepmother was jealous of her fine looks and she resolved to get rid of her. One day, she told her:
"My dear daughter, let's visit your late mother's brothers, they must miss you a lot. Make some msimmnett to take them with us."
Khoullal Elkhadra prepared delicious msimmnett and set out with her stepmother and their dog to her uncles' douar .
Once in the forest, the stepmother feigned weariness. She told her stepdaughter:
"Let us rest for a while. Come, my dear, let me delouse your hair." Khoullal Elkhadra put her head on her stepmother's lap and, pleased by the latter's smoothing of her hair, fell into a deep sleep. Then the stepmother gently removed her knee and ran back to the tent, thinking she had gotten rid of her.
Fortunately for the girl, the dog awakened her and brought her back home. When she reached the tent, she cried at her stepmother:
"Why did you leave me alone in the forest? If the dog had not been with me, I would have been lost!"
The evil woman mumbled:
"I remembered that I did not tidy up the kitchen , but I was coming back to fetch you anyway!"
The following day, she urged the girl to prepare msimmnett again. This time, she tied the dog before leaving, and once again, in the forest, induced her into a deep sleep by gently delousing her hair.
That time, when Khoullal Elkhadra woke up, she was completely alone, and the sun was already down. She tried to find her way back, only to go deeper into the forest. Suddenly, she distinguished a dim light far away. She walked to it and discerned a tent inhabited by seven young men, probably hunters, as the delicious smell of roasted game suggested. She hid in the bushes surrounding their tent and waited.
The seven men, who were indeed brothers on a hunting trip, ate half of the roasted game and left the rest for the following day's lunch, then slept. Khoullal Elkhadra, at that moment, crept to the tent and ate the leftovers, for she was ravenous. At dawn, the brothers were surprised; they thought a little animal had stolen the meat and gone back to the forest again. The girl took the opportunity to dig a hole inside the bushes, in which she hid herself during the day, and from which she crawled to the tent at night to eat leftover roasted game.
On the seventh day, the brothers were utterly furious about that unknown animal which stole their meat every night. The eldest, a bald, frightening tall man, decided to trap it:
"Let me watch over the tent tonight, make me a plate of roasted wheat, and another of pebbles , lest I sleep. I'll catch our thief tonight."
Even so, he fell asleep, until he heard the sound of munching. His surprise was extreme when he realized that the thief was a beautiful young girl. Yet he was not sure she was human, because of the darkness and her beauty. What if she was a Djinnia or some supernatural being? So he sewed his clothes with hers while she was busy eating, and woke up yelling:
"I caught the thief!"
Khoullal Elkhadra tried to escape but she was tied, so she started crying and apologizing to the seven brothers, telling them her sad story. But they were not listening to her; they were all so dazzled by her beauty.
They proposed to marry her; all she had to do was choose. But how could she pick up one without offending the others? So she decided to carry out a stratagem:
"I will dye your hands with henna at night, and the one who gets the best colour in the morning will be mine."
She collected fresh cow dung that looked like henna mixture from the forest, which she mixed in one bowl, and prepared another bowl of real henna. At night, she dyed the youngest and most handsome brother's hands with real henna, while the other men had their hands soiled with the other muck.
Naturally, the following morning, the youngest brother displayed nicely dyed hands and took her back to his douar, where a great wedding took place. Indeed, the brothers turned out to be very wealthy; Khoullal Elkhadra led with her husband a very comfortable life, and became famous for her generosity and fastidious way of life.
Meanwhile, her stepmother was rejoicing for her stepdaughter's death, for she thought she had been slain by a wild beast. On a fateful day, an a'ttar was passing by her douar. The stepmother went to buy some items from him, and offered to pay him with a plateful of barley. The trader scornfully reacted:
"What a wretchedly famished woman you are: your mistress and lady Khoullal Elkhadra pays me with platefuls of gold!"
She could not believe her ears: Khoullal Elkhadra, alive and rich? The vile woman quickly answered:
"But that's my stepdaughter! Please take me to her, or at least let me send her a present with you." She went back to the tent and came with a beautiful ring. "This ring is very precious, tell her to keep it in her finger, and if she wants to take a bath, tell her to put it in her mouth so it won't slip out of her finger."
The a'ttar thus delivered the ring to Khoullal Elkhadra, who credulously thought her stepmother loved her and meant to please her. She kept the ring in her hand and, when she wanted to take a bath, put it in her mouth. She collapsed instantly: the ring was poisoned. Her husband, in utter despair, shouted to a green camel to carry her to a doctor:
"Green camel, how long can you bear your mistress?"
The green camel replied:
"I can bear her for a month."
He then turned to a red camel:
"Red camel, how long can you bear your mistress?"
"I can bear her for two months," answered the red camel. Then he went to a black camel:
"Black camel, how long can you bear your mistress?"
The black camel said:
"I can bear her for a year."
The husband was losing hope when Esshaan'ila sprang from nowhere; he ran to it:
"Esshaan'ila, how long can your bear your mistress?"
"I can bear her through the years and never tire."
Therefore, the husband placed his wife's body on Esshaan'ila's back, and the latter sprinted like lightning through the forest. In panic, the whole douar pursued her:
"Esshaan'ila, have some barley! Esshaan'ila, have some water," but the camel would not stop; she kept on running through the forest until she became invisible to the douar's people. After a long time, it reached an isolated hut in which lived its mistress, a wise old woman. She retrieved Khoullal Elkhadra, opened her mouth, introduced her little finger inside her throat and gently removed the ring. Khoullal Elkhadra woke up at once. She thanked the old woman for saving her life, and came back to her husband's douar on Esshaan'ila's back again.
Oussalam!
There was a man who had two wives; the first had seven daughters, and the second one single son who was very spoilt.
Once the two wives had to go to the stream to wash wool. Because wool becomes very heavy once washed, they took the household's donkey with them to carry the wet wool, and tied it to a tree while they were working. A thief who was passing by saw the donkey; he cut its two ears, attached them to a branch of the tree and dragged the poor animal with him. Obviously, the two wives heard nothing, they were too busy washing their wool; besides, the two ears made them believe the donkey was just resting behind the tree.
It was already sunset when they figured out that they had been robbed. The first wife started crying in despair when the second one told her:
"There is no reason for all these tears, I have a solution: let me hit you with my belt, and step over your body seven times, just then you'll turn into a big cow. I'll carry the wool on your back, and as soon as we'll be home, I'll go over the whole operation and you'll be human again. We can't leave all that wool here!"
The first wife, who was quite credulous, let her co-wife bewitch her and transported all the wool until they reached their tent. But then, the second wife did not keep her promise; instead, she told her husband:
"Imagine what your good-for-nothing wife did to me! She ran away with the donkey and left me alone at the stream. It is by pure chance that I found that lost cow and brought the wool on her back. Otherwise, all the wool would have been lost."
The seven sisters could not believe such a lie; they knew their mother was virtuous, so they turned to the cow, which was bellowing madly, and looking at them with big imploring eyes, and guessed the whole story. But what could they do? They decided to wait till the next day. Meanwhile, the evil wife was busy scheming:
"That cow must be rabid, listen to its wild bellowing. We must kill it and distribute it before it dies or hurts anyone ."
At dawn, the cow was slaughtered, and the poor sisters had to cut and distribute their mother's flesh with their own hands. So, each time they gave the meat to someone, they begged him or her to eat the meat and keep the bones. They later collected them and buried what they felt were their mother's bones in the forest.
Some time afterwards, a miracle occured! Two sources sprang from their mother's grave, one of honey and another of melted butter ! The sisters, who visited their mother's tomb regularly, welcomed that sign of their mother's love and started feeding on the honey and butter, because they were practically starving by their cruel mother-in-law. They became so healthy that their cheeks flushed like poppies.
Naturally, their mother-in-law was driven mad with envy. She began blaming them:
"Selfish egoistical girls! That's what you are! You go out in the forest and eat I don't know what, but never bring anything to your poor little brother, who looks like a cadaver! What is it that makes you all look so fine?"
The eldest replied: "nothing special, my aunt. We feel so hungry that we go to the forest to feed on little snakes, little scorpions, beetles and the like. That's probably what nourishes us so well."
"All right. Next time you take you brother with you. I want to see him as ruddy as all of you!" the stepmother replied. The next day the seven sisters went to the forest, but not to the honey and butter springs; instead, they gathered dozens of poisonous scorpions, snakes and insects and gave them to their spoilt brother. He was struck so violently with fever that his cheeks flamed with a vivid red. Yet his mother suspected nothing; on the contrary, she congratulated the sisters:
"Now look how your brother is fine now, he is so replete that he fell sound asleep as soon as he came back from the forest!"
At dawn the boy was found dead. His mother became raving wild; she went to her husband and denounced her daughters-in-law; she even asked him to drive them out of the house. But the father did not have the courage to just throw them out like trash. He thought deeply, then went to his daughters:
"Let me take you girls to the forest of Zaarouri , you'll gather mqiqfat and mnioulat to work and play with."
The girls were so happy; they had much fun playing all kinds of games while their father was climbing up trees to get the best and most resisting twigs. Then he tied a leafy branch on the top of a tree, in order for the wind to shake it and simulate activity, and sneaked out of the forest. The girls noticed nothing. Whenever they heard the sound of the branches in the wind, they exclaimed
"La Yibba Khithkes Thifeggagin! "
At sunset, the seven sisters found out that they had been forsaken and lost in the wild. They could not spend the night in the forest where dreadful creatures of all kinds dwelt; they resolved to let providence guide them and started walking, when suddenly, the youngest sister fell in an old well. Fortunately, the well was dry, but the sisters had no ropes to lift her up; they left her and walked away, hoping that some sympathetic shepherd would rescue her in the morning.
Soon afterwards, they reached a tumultuous river. On its other border were six reapers toiling. The six sisters called them out:
"Please help us cross the river, and whoever saves a girl keeps her as his bride."
The bargain was tempting, for the six girls were young and pretty; therefore, the six men hurried to the river and carried the six girls on their backs, and every sister went with her newly found husband to his tribe.
Meanwhile, the youngest sister was still crying in her well. An a'ttar came passing by and heard her lament; he came near the well and asked:
"Are you human or Djinn?"
The little girl answered:
"We are seven sisters and our father took us the forest of Zaarouri and abandoned us."
The a'ttar, always hunting for the strange, took her out of the well, but only to imprison her in a mezoued with his merchandise. He thus compelled her to repeat the very sentence he heard from her at first; each time he arrived at a douar, he would ask her:
"Tell me more, � Mzioued El Kheir !"
And she would reiterate the same phrase:
"We are seven sisters and our father took us to the forest of Zaarouri and abandoned us."
Life became unbearable for the poor girl captive in her mezoued when, luckily, the a'ttar reached her eldest sister's husband's douar. Once in the marketplace, he carried out the same performance again, and people gathered around him to hear that strange voice coming out of a mezoued, and eventually buy one of the eclectic goods the mischievous trader proposed. The eldest sister recognized her sister's voice; the painful story she was telling was hers too. So she resolved to save her at all costs. Her husband being absent for the night, she went to the a'ttar and invited him for dinner, convinced that the wicked man would never decline the opportunity to spend the night with a good-looking and lonely woman. Once in her tent, she gave him a delicious soup that was actually seasoned with sleeping herbs. Some minutes later, he was dead to the world. Then she ran to rescue her unfortunate sister, and hurriedly put her ferocious Slouguiya in the mezoued. After that, she wakened the a'ttar, simulating panic as if the husband was coming back home, and begged him to leave at once. In his rush, the a'ttar did not inspect his baggage. It is only when he came across another douar and asked the mezoued to speak for him that he realized he had been tricked, for, instead of the familiar reply, a fierce growl answered him. He opened the mezoued in his fury, and the angry animal jumped at his neck, killing him instantaneously. The faithful dog then ran back to its mistress again, and the two sisters lived happily with the eldest's husband and his tribe.
Oussalam!
The bread loaves were ready. They were graceful rounds nested in the tbika , covered with a floured white cloth like babies. Once risen, they would be cooked in the clay oven. They would smell like bread cooked in a clay oven. Nothing smells or tastes like that bread.
"These bread loaves look like babies!'
Her laughter was unpredictable. She didn't laugh a lot while toiling. It was no fun.
"Bismillah Arrahmane Errahim! Don't compare babies to food! What do you think I am, Maghoula? The ogress who preys on children?"
"Tell me about her!"
"No, this is milking time. If you behave well, I'll tell you more while cooking bread."
But I was restless. The promise of a story haunted me while I was playing in the field. Was I being bewitched by my grandmother like my aunts and uncles? I ran back to the kitchen. She was churning.
"Can I help you churn?"
"No, it's too hard."
"So I might gather wood."
"There's enough of it. And you can't. You'll cut your hands."
"But I'm bored!"
I wasn't. I was just dying to hear another story. She felt that and her wrinkled face shone with a tender smile.
Once there was a man who had three wives. The first two had no children; the third had six daughters, and was pregnant. The first two wives hated their third co-wife; they convinced their husband that her belly was only good at delivering girls, that she was to give birth to a seventh one again, that he must get rid of her as she did not bring him a male child. So he went to her and declared:
"We are leaving for the valley soon; you will not come with us until you give birth. If the child is male, follow us. If it is female, consider yourself repudiated."
The unfortunate woman broke down. Her daughters tried to comfort her:
"Don't worry, we'll leave a track of bran and another of cinder for you. If you give birth to a boy, follow the first. If it's another girl, follow the second. In both cases, we'll be waiting for you."
Thus she watched the whole household depart in tears, and remained alone in the dark. At night, she felt the first contractions; she searched in the dark for a light to go to but could only perceive the dim shape of a house. She hurried to what she found out was the mausoleum of a saint. Once there, the convulsions became unbearable, indicating that the time of delivery had come. Suddenly, two Houris materialized in front of her. They told her:
"Close your eyes and unfold your hands. If you ever gave something in your worldly existence, you will recover it."
The woman obeyed, but she was only given a black hedma and a stick of tar. These were the only things she ever gave as charity. The Houris scolded her:
"You should have been more charitable; now these are the only items we shall help you with."
Thus they assisted her until she gave birth to a boy. They healed her with the tar and wrapped the baby in the black cloth. Moreover, before leaving, they endowed him with a ruby on his forehead and a ruby on his gums.
Meanwhile, her husband started feeling remorseful; he sent a slave to fetch the forsaken wife, and hours later the slave was running back with the good news: the baby was male! At last! The husband's joy could only match the other wives' fury. He saddled the mule, invited the Fantasia men, bought dresses and jewellery for his daughters and set off to bring back the blessed wife. Back home, he gave orders for a great feast and covered the baby and his mother with multiple presents.
The evil co-wives were boiling with rage. They sent for a famous Oumme'gouz, who willingly agreed to trap the unlucky mother. At night, the old woman sneaked to the mother's bed, cut the baby's little finger and, with his blood, stained his mother's mouth and face, then kidnapped him and flew away at once. The following morning, the mother was woken up with the screaming of her co-wives:
"She ate her child! Look at the monstrous mother who ate her child!"
The husband, who believed only what he saw, immediately threw her out. All her nice clothes and jewels were taken away; she was clothed with camel's skin, her head was covered by a camel's stomach, a hut was built up for her, and she was assigned the shepherding of camels.
From that day onwards, her daughters watched her, powerless before their mother's disgrace. Their father hid their mother's clothes and gold in a big chest he owned, and locked it to never reopen it. Besides all these humiliations, the co-wives invented a daily torment for her; every morning, they would yell at her to destroy her hut to let the camel herd pass by, as if camels could be frightened by a mere hut. She would comply then rebuild her hut, only to demolish it again in the evening when the herd was returning to its pen, and restore it to sleep. It even became a saying nowadays: "Rip down the hut to let the camels pass by!" this is said in a situation where there is an absurd order given to torment a helpless person.
In the meantime, the Oumme'gouz took the little boy to her tribe and sold it to a barren woman who was very wealthy and dearly loved the baby. She raised him like a lord, with a horse and a slougui, and let him lead a life of pleasure and amusement. He was already a young man when, one day, as he was racing with his friends, he inadvertently fell on the Oumme'gouz's hut and ruined it. The old woman insulted him:
"Be damned, lost, son of the lost, and who does not even know his tribe's whereabouts!"
The young man was shocked. The old woman's words were enigmatic, but they meant he was a stranger to that tribe. He was determined to discover the truth, so he went back to his foster mother's tent and complained of heartaches:
"I don't feel good, mother, please cook me a good thick tchicha , but bring it hot, I want to warm my body up."
Accordingly, she made a thick soup and served him a big bowl of it. He took her hand as if he wanted to kiss it, but instead, plunged it into the boiling soup. She screamed with horror and pain, and entreated him to let go her hand, but he grabbed her firmly and said:
"I won't unless you tell me who my real parents are, and how come I am away from my people."
His foster mother agreed to tell him the truth and, once she recovered her hand from the burning pain, revealed the whole story. He decided to ride at once to his tribe to free his mother from her misery.
On his way, he caught a wolf, and tied it with his slougui. Therefore, wherever he went, people marvelled at the sloughi and wolf being together, as everybody knew these two animals were sworn enemies. And whenever people exclaimed:
"How strange, a sloughi and a wolf together!"
He responded:
"How strange, a woman ate her child!"
And people would protest that such a thing could never happen.
Thus he went until he reached the forest where his mother was grazing the camel herd. She saw him and wondered:
"How strange, a slougui and a wolf together!"
He replied:
"How strange, a woman ate her child!"
But then, she sighed:
"Oh, this happened to me!"
He recognized her, but feigned astonishment:
"How come, my aunt, how can a woman eat her child?"
"I don't know, son, but some said I did, while I feel that I could never do that," and narrated the whole story to him. The young man was revolted; he told her:
"What if your son was alive? Would you recognize him?"
"Of course I would! He has a ruby between his eyes and a ruby between his teeth."
At that moment, he unfolded his turban and smiled; the two rubies shone before his mother's unbelieving eyes. They embraced each other and cried heartily. Then he gave her his tunic to wear, and tore a piece of his turban for her to cover her head. As sunset was looming, they set a plan to rehabilitate her, then each one of them took a different direction. Once back home, the co-wives wondered what had made her change, as she was clothed and refused to demolish her hut. But they could not punish her because, right then, her son approached. They hurried to their husband to announce the coming of a stranger. Accordingly, the latter went to his father's tent and asked to be Allah's guest. He was welcomed warmly and orders were given to prepare a nice dinner. His mother, meanwhile, brought the good news to her daughters. Their cheerfulness was almost palpable, and the co-wives became alarmed. At dinner time, when the men gathered around the table, the mother entered the tent and sat right in its centre. Her husband, outraged, yelled at her:
"Out! Out!"
But she did not move. Her son retorted:
"Why are you expelling that woman? What is wrong with her?"
The old man answered:
"Son, that woman is a monster who ate her baby."
"That's impossible, a mother cannot eat her child!" argued the young man. Then, his father told him the same old story. The son pretended disbelief, and asked him:
"What if your son was alive somewhere? How could you recognize him?"
"That would be simple, he has a ruby between his eyes and a ruby between his teeth."
Once again, the two precious stones were revealed and father and son embraced tenderly. Their happiness was as intense as the terror the co-wives felt. The father broke his chest's lock and gave back to his wife the confiscated dresses and jewels. He also offered his daughters presents. Another big feast was organized; and after that, the father asked his wife:
"What punishment do you want your co-wives to endure?"
She chose the torture of the hungry camel and the thirsty camel. Four camels thus were locked up, two without food and the others without water. When they became hungry and thirsty enough, the two co-wives' arms were tied to the hungry camels, while their feet were tied to the thirsty ones. Then a slave tempted the hungry camels with food, whereas another attracted the thirsty ones with water. Each two ran in a different direction and the two women were torn apart. And therefore the mother was definitely rid of their evil.
Oussalam!"
I gulped my buttermilk.
A heap of firewood, piled up on the oven's side, was waiting for its turn to perish. That day's bread was to wear a eucalyptus scent, with a hint of lemon and olive, were I to judge from the wood gathered. I was pleased and tense with various expectations.
"You promised to tell me about Maghoula while cooking bread."
"It's too hot here, wait until I'm over with this."
"No I won't! You promised!"
"It seems I won't have peace today!"
The first bread loaf was overturned on a wooden plate, drilled twice by an olive stick and deposited inside the oven on a wooden platter, on the left of flaming logs. Slowly, surely, the bread rose, flushed, its crust hardened, its creamy colour gradually turned into a brownish gold. The baby analogy was looming in my mind.
"There was a girl living with her younger brother, her father and her stepmother, for her own mother was dead. Her father was a hunter. He used to bring every night a pair of partridges for dinner. And his wife complained every night about the necessity to cut them into four parts instead of two:
"If only you got rid of those children, we would then have a whole partridge each!"
She harassed him thus until, one foggy day, he resolved to take them to the forest. His daughter, who sensed some malice behind that trip, stole a handful of ashes from the kanoun and, while walking, left a tiny line of it from their tent until the heart of the forest. Once there, their father disappeared in the fog and went back home, leaving the poor children alone. The brother, who was rather simple-minded, quickly burst into tears. But his sister comforted him in these words:
"Don't worry, we won't be lost, I know the way back home."
Thus the two children followed the grey line until they reached home. At that moment, their stepmother was setting the table for dinner, and their father was sighing:
"Eh, how can I dine without my children?"
"Here we are father, here we are!"
Exclaimed the children. The father was so happy that he embraced them, apologising:
"I was lost in the fog, I thought I'd never see you again!"
The wife was infuriated. That night, she heavily attacked her husband:
"If you don't get rid of your children, I'll go back to my parents!" she threatened. The following day, the father was taking his children again to the forest, as if to make up for the day before. That time, the young girl carried a little bag of bran under her clothes, and, accordingly, left a line to ensure their return. Again, the father vanished between the trees, and the two children followed the bran track until they reached home. They waited for their stepmother to bring the dinner and their father to complain: "eh, how can I dine without my children?" to rush back crying: "Here we are, father, here we are!""
That was too much for the stepmother's patience; as soon as they were alone, she accused her husband of cheating her, and threatened to leave him if he did not dispose of his children, the sooner the better.
The following day, the little company was heading out to the forest all over again. However, before they left, the brother caught sight of his sister stealing some dates from their jar. He went behind her so that, whenever she threw a date, he picked it up and ate it. Once alone, his sister looked for the trail of dates but found none. She panicked and frantically searched between the bushes, while her brother leant on a tree and told her:
"What are you looking for? I hope you are not hungry, because I am not! I have been eating dates since we left!"
"What did you do, stupid boy? These dates were our path back home!"
This time they realized that they had been abandoned and were really lost.
Eventually, the night came and the two children roamed in the forest looking for a shelter; they perceived a faint light and went towards it, hoping it was the kanoun of some woodmen. Alas! The light was indeed that of a kanoun, but its owner was a horrifying Maghoula . She was big, ugly, and had only one eye, but her tent was crammed full of victuals. She also had flocks of sheep, goats and cows. When they reached her tent, she was busy cooking mounds of bread in her clay oven. It smelled so tasty, and the children were so hungry, that they ventured near her tent and silently observed her. The girl, who was shrewd, noticed that Maghoula piled up the bread loafs she was cooking beside her, where she could not see because of her missing eye. So she sneaked into the tent and stealthily took a bread loaf, then crept back to her brother and they both dined and slept in a nearby bush. The following day, they wandered helplessly in the forest, looking for a way out of it, but found none and hurried back to Maghoula's whereabouts at night. But then the brother insisted on accompanying his sister in her stealing expedition:
"No, you won't come with me. You'll surely laugh at her and she'll eat us both!"
Yet he plagued her until she agreed to take him. And as predicted, the moment the boy set his eye on Maghoula, he burst into laughter, leaving his sister stunned with horror. The ogress seized them both in an instant with her huge arms, and threw each one of them in a jar. The boy found himself in a jar of almonds, and the girl in one of walnuts. Maghoula's obvious intention was to fatten them like lambs in order to eat them. The girl waited till she was asleep to talk to her brother:
"Listen to me: if she ever asks you to show her your arm, show her a needle instead."
Accordingly, a week later, as Maghoula opened the jars and ordered them to raise their arms, they let her feel needles instead. She closed the jars, grumbling, to let them fatten more. Thus, every time she checked, she only sensed needles.
Meanwhile, the two children grew plump and mocked their jailer's poor eyesight, until, one day, the brother, who was definitely foolish, laughed at Maghoula openly and told her:
"You are really gullible! These are not our arms, but just needles. Now feel our arms and you'll see how fat we are!"
As the ogress ran to her kanoun to make a big fire and roast them, his poor sister was fuming. She did not lose hope, nevertheless. While the ogress was watching her fire, she conspired with her brother to kill her. When she took them out of their jars, they followed her meekly, and then hurled her into the blaze. There she burnt and they were at last free. Not only were they safe, but they became also incredibly rich; Maghoula's tent was full of gold and goods of all sorts. They inherited her wealth and cattle, and enjoyed living there.
However, the tent sheltered another host, a snake who married the girl. She gave birth to a supernatural child she called Smimie'ennda Ould Lehnech . Gradually, the snake stirred up the sister against her brother; they both decided to dispose of him so they could live with their son in peace in Maghoula's tent. But the boy, Smimie'ennda, loved his uncle dearly, more than his father, and resolved to protect him from his mother and his father's malevolence. Thus, one day, the snake hid in a date jar to bite his brother-in-law. His sister waited till the whole household was around the fire to ask him:
"Please bring me some dates from that jar, brother."
Her son, whose mystical intuition never failed him, sprang and said:
"Don't move, uncle, I'll bring them myself."
He opened the jar and exclaimed, feigning astonishment:
"What are you doing here, father?"
The snake muttered:
"Uh, I was just looking for some tender dates, I am afraid my teeth are no longer what they were."
The following day, the snake curled behind the leben jar. Again, the sister asked her brother to fetch a pot of leben for her and her son went running instead. He approached the jar and asked his father:
"What are you doing behind that jar, father?"
"Oh, I felt so hot that I came seeking some freshness here, son," he replied, and their mischievous plan failed again. The third day, the sister put the snake in a woolsack and asked her brother to wash the wool for her. He willingly took it from her and started out for the river. Smimie'ennda, who, once again, guessed his uncle was in danger, ran after him and offered his help:
"Don't get the wool out of the sack; we'd rather soak it and beat it
While it is still inside, it would be much easier."
The uncle, who was still as dim-witted as ever, followed his nephew's instructions; he plunged the sack in the river, beat it vigorously, and proudly took it back to his sister.
When she opened it, she found the corpse of the snake reduced to pulp. Her fury was incredible. She accused her brother of murdering her husband and kicked him out of the tent. Her son decided to follow his uncle. He caught him at the edge of the forest:
"All right, uncle. You can go search for a job; but please, don't work for the blue-eyed man. Anyone but the blue-eyed man. We'll separate at this tree. If I come back again and find the tree green and leafy, I'll know you are fine. But if I ever find it dry, I'll know you are in trouble. May Allah help you, uncle."
Thus the uncle and the nephew parted each in his own direction.
The uncle soon reached a souk outside of the forest, and entered it looking for employers. A blue-eyed man accosted him and asked him to work for him. He refused, of course, remembering his nephew's advice. The blue-eyed man changed his clothes and appearance, and then came back to him again, only to see his proposal turned down again. Thus he spent the whole day disguising and urging the uncle to work for him, until the latter, worn out and hopeless, agreed to work for him, thinking that all people in that tribe had blue eyes. The blue-eyed man then set his conditions to the uncle:
"If you want to work with me, you'll have to obey blindly, and never ever contest to any of them. I won't contest your doings either. If any of us ever does, the other will have the right to behead him."
Thus the two went to the blue-eyed man's mansion. His first directives were:
"Make fire without smoke, carry my mother on your back to the rooftop, and catch some birds for my children to play with."
Fire without smoke was almost impossible; he strived the whole morning to make it, then he carried to heavy old woman to the rooftop, and ran after birds till he was dead tired. In the afternoon, the blue-eyed man told him:
"Go bring my guests from their houses on your back, I don't want their blaghi to be soiled by dirt, and get back my mother from the rooftop. I'll give you your dinner afterwards. You'll have to race with the dog to get it."
The uncle performed the tasks, and when dinnertime came, he was too exhausted to run for his meal. The (female) dog ate it and left him none. The following morning, the same strenuous tasks had to be done again and again and again, until, one day, the uncle simply refused to work.
"So you are contesting my orders, then!"
"Yes I am! I am hungry because the dog gets my dinner every night, and I can't even move, let alone carry or transport people."
The blue-eyed man drew his sword straight away and beheaded the poor man.
Meanwhile, Smimie'ennda regularly visited the tree, as he promised his uncle. One day, he found it dry and naked. He prepared himself for a journey to avenge him. Once outside of the forest, he came across the same souk, and was accosted by the same blue-eyed man. He agreed on all his conditions and went with him to his big mansion.
But Smimie'ennda did not execute his master's orders as his uncle had done. When he told him to make fire without smoke, carry his mother on his back, and fetch birds for his children, he burnt all his master's rifles in a big kanoun, to make a big fire with the gunpowder without smoke. After that, he took the old mother to the rooftop and rummaged for scorpions for the children to play with, instead of birds.
"What did you do? Why did you burn my rifles?" the blue-eyed man yelled at him, "What, are you contesting my work, isn't the fire set, your children playing, and your mother having her sun bath? Didn't you say the one who contests the other should die?" Smimie'ennda replied. The blue-eyed man shut up and gave his second set of orders:
"Go bring my guests from their houses on your back, I don't want their blaghi to be soiled by dirt, and get back my mother from the rooftop. I'll give you your dinner afterwards. You'll have to race with the dog to get it."
Instead of carrying the guests, Smimie'ennda killed all the sheep his master owned, skinned them and lined their fur from the guests' houses to the blue-eyed man's mansion. Thus they would not muck up their blaghi. At dinnertime, he did not race with the dog but knocked the latter out with a rock and ran to his dinner. And when the old mother wanted to come down from the roof, he did not carry her on his back but hurled her down. She, of course, died.
The blue-eyed man could not stand that:
"You killed my livestock, poisoned my children, and murdered my mother!"
"What, are you contesting my work?" Smimie'ennda enquired.
"Yes I am!" shouted the blue-eyed man.
That was what Smimie'ennda was waiting for. He drew his sword and beheaded his uncle's murderer.
There was a man who had one single daughter named Fatna. He resolved to go to Mecca for pilgrimage; so he bought his daughter plenty of provisions and victuals, offered her a nice little kitten , left her to Allah's protection and set out for the Orient.
Fatna found herself alone with her kitten; but she was not afraid, she had all the goods she needed at reach, as well as the agreeable company of her cat. The latter had rather strange habits; every morning, she left the tent early and came back a short time later burdened with almonds, nuts and assorted goodies. When Fatna enquired about them, she said:
"It is our generous neighbours who insist on providing for the pilgrim's daughter."
But the young girl doubted the cat's explanations, although the fact of feeding a pilgrim's household was considered an obligation in the good old days.
The following day, Fatna woke up at dawn to watch the cat and follow her. In total amazement, she saw her cat stand in front of every tent to dance and sing:
"Ki derti ha sanada, ki derti maa anada ? Come on, give me something so that I can go back home and awaken my mistress, she is still asleep!"
She saw the tribe's people hand her food, but that was too much for her; she rushed back to her tent to wait for the naughty cat. As soon as the latter returned, Fatna confronted her:
"Shameless, licentious animal! Ki derti ya sanada, ki derti maa anada! I saw everything!"
The cat's reaction was unpredictable; fuming at her mistress's words, she leaped to Fatna's face and mercilessly scratched it, and then she urinated in the kanoun, soaked all the wood, coil, and matches in the tent, and went away.
Poor Fatna felt miserable. Her eyes, swollen due to the scratches, did not perceive the whole disaster. It is only when the night came with its unbearable cold that she realized she was left without fire. She reluctantly set out for the neighbours to borrow some fuel, but she was soon lost in the darkness because of her swollen eyes. A moment afterwards, she discerned a dim gleam she took for a fire and walked towards it. When the light became clearer, she thought the reached a kanoun and said:
"Assalam aleikoum ."
The reply was a horrible roar. The gleam was in fact the blazing of a lion's eye, a lion that was busy devouring a prey. He told the girl who was stunned with fear:
"If your greeting had not preceded mine, I would have made a mouthful of your flesh, a gulp of your blood, and flung your bones in the air."
He then drew near her and cut her finger with his claw, and let her go. Naturally, the blood dropping from her finger traced the way to her tent, and the following night, the lion turned up at Fatna's tent:
"Fatna Bent Elhadj , what was I doing when you came to me?" He asked. She replied:
"I found you sitting on magnificent chairs like a sultan."
The lion was so delighted with her answer that he postponed killing her.
Thus, every night from then on, the lion showed up in front of Fatna's tent, and she escaped from death every time by flattering him.
Months later, her father returned from Mecca; she welcomed him with a thin body, a haggard look and a white hair.
"O my daughter, what has turned your hair grey?"
"That which turned mine grey will turn yours grey too," she said, and related the whole story to him.
The pilgrim meditated deeply, and then decided to trap the lion in a zoubia . They spent the whole day digging the hole, gathering enough wood to make a blazing fire and setting up the snare. At night, the lion appeared again, but that time, Fatna did not reply as usual; instead, she mocked him:
"What were you doing when I came to you? You were devouring the carcass of an old mule, that's what you were doing!"
Wild with rage, the lion jumped at her, only to fall directly in the zoubia. He was burnt instantly in the flames. The following morning, Fatna and her father buried the lion's remains in the zoubia, and rejoiced at the end of their nightmare.
Weeks after that, fragrant coriander grew on the area where the zoubia was set. As Fatna's father caught cold, she cooked a soup with that coriander to warm him up. But, as soon as he drank it, he became a bird and flew in the air. Therefore, Fatna prepared herself for travel; she resolved to find out someone who would free her father from that curse.
She passed through the valley until she came across an imposing tree. She sat for a while under its shady branches when she heard the tree ask:
"Fatna Bent Elhadj, where are you going?"
"I want to know why my father became a bird," she replied.
"If you get to know that, please enquire why a tree does not yield fruits," the tree said.
And Fatna continued her journey until she reached a river. As she was crossing it, the river spoke:
"Fatna Bent Elhadj, where are you going?"
"I want to know why my father became a bird,"
The river implored:
"If you get to know that, please enquire why a river does not breed fish."
Fatna promised to do that and went on her way until she encountered a group of young girls working in a field.
"Fatna Bent ElHadj, where are you going?" they asked,
"I want to know why my father became a bird."
And the girls begged her:
"If you get to know that, please enquire why girls do not get married."
And Fatna went on walking, when suddenly, she found a cavern into which she got to spend the night.
Inside, in complete darkness, she heard a voice say:
"Fatna Bent Elhadj, what do you want?"
But Fatna was loyal and could not start with her case and neglect the others:
"I want to know why a tree does not yield fruits," she said.
"It is because there is a treasure buried under its roots," the voice replied.
"I also want to know why a river does not breed fish."
"It is because it does not drown people," The voice replied again.
"I also want to know why girls do not get married."
"They have to bathe and make up every Sunday, if they want to." the voice said. Then Fatna came to the crucial question:
"I want to know why my father became a bird."
The voice answered:
"It is but the sweat of our shoulders; go back home and you'll find him human again."
At these words, Fatna understood that she was in the presence of a lion. She ran away from the cave, scared to death but also grateful for the lion's mercy and wisdom. On her way back to her tribe, she came across the girls, still working in their field. They ran to her:
"Fatna Bent Elhadj, do you know now why we did not get married?"
"Just bathe and make up every Sunday, and you will."
The girls thanked her and she continued her journey until she reached the river.
"Fatna Bent Elhadj, do you know now why I do not breed fish?"
"Let me cross first and then I'll let you know," Fatna replied.
Once on the opposite side, Fatna said:
"You'll have to drown people if you want to breed fish."
"What a pity you have already traversed me, otherwise I would have started with you," the river said. Then she went to the tree, which implored her:
"Fatna Bent Elhadj, do you know now why I do not yield fruits?"
"It is because you have a treasure under your roots, let me free you from its curse, and you'll be fertile."
Accordingly, she unearthed a chest full of jewellery and gold, and brought it with her back to her tent, where she found her father human again, waiting for her to return. They became very rich and lived happily.
Oussalam!
The carpet was at last finished. She removed it from the loom and called the family around. Compliments fused from everywhere. My brother and I were amazed, looking in turn at the delicate diaphanous fingers, and at the huge blue masterpiece. She had the craft.
But I heard her asking about the souk, about the mule that would transport that carpet to sell it, about the prices of carpets, wool, and tints!
"Give it to me! Don't sell it!"
She looked at me. Her eyes were telling of the hardships of life, of the money she needed.
"If you want to, I will. Do I have anything more valuable than my little demon of a grandchild?"
I hugged her. I knew, even then, what a carpet meant in terms of daily subsistence. But that carpet was speaking to me and I was beginning to grasp bits of words. I could not let it murmur under the treads of indifferent feet.
There was an old Qadi who had one single daughter called Rabia. She was erudite and very cultivated, and knew the Koran by heart. Once her father received notable guests from a distant land. She took care to prepare a sumptuous dinner for the company. But her father's stomach was too delicate to stand all the elaborate dishes she presented; he soon felt drowsy, and was rather embarrassed, for his guests were in no mood of going to their beds. He knew that the only thing that would keep him awake was to listen to some verses from the Koran, so he called his daughter:
"Rabia, my daughter, come recite some Koranic verses for your old father and our distinguished guests."
Rabia, obediently, sat near her father and recited Koranic verses in a way no Taleb could. She had a wonderful voice, and mastered the Holy Book perfectly.
The following morning, the youngest guest asked the Qadi to give him Rabia for a wife. He was charmed by her intellect as well as her radiant beauty. The Qadi cried heavily, for he loved his daughter, his only companion and family. But what could he do? She was to marry anyway, and a rich and handsome young man was the best husband she could ever dream of.
So the wedding was promptly set and shortly afterwards, Rabia was riding with the company to her husband's land.
When she reached her new home, she found out her husband already had two other wives who had no children. Co-wives were always synonymous with trouble for a young bride, especially if older and barren. Indeed, Rabia was by far more beautiful and refined than her rivals, but they were nastier. In malice, she just could not outwit them. Her life soon became hellish.
Things became more complicated when she discovered she was pregnant. Her husband was so happy and proud that he surrounded her with care and presents, a fact that made the co-wives wild with rage and envy. They resolved to dishonor her.
She was in her ninth month when they sent for an 'Oumme'egouz' to be her midwife. The latter examined her and found out she had twins. The husband was all the more excited and pleased, and his other wives more determined to bring shame on the fortunate young bride.
At the first contractions, the 'Oumme'egouz' shut herself with Rabia in a room, and asked to be bothered by nobody else, so she would assist the young mother in peace. In reality, she was scheming to ruin her forever. As soon as the two babies were brought to the world, the old woman hid them in a box and took two puppies out of her bag, and put them on Rabia's bed. The latter was so exhausted that she fell in a deep sleep as soon as the pains were over, and noticed none of the midwife's doings.
Meanwhile, the husband was waiting outside for news. The old woman went straight to him and told him, acting sadness:
"Sir, you cannot reject your Blood even if the mother is a bitch. Your wife gave birth to two puppies, a male and a female."
The husband could not believe his ears. Puppies! After all those years waiting, that woman gave him puppies! In his fury, he ran to Rabia, still dozed, and threw her out of the house with the puppies. It was the triumph of the co-wives.
Rabia was shocked. What was she to do, and where was she to go? She was too proud to come back to her father's house humiliated and dishonored, and could not dream of going to her husband's house again. Instead, she went to the forest. She could not imagine she was deceived; she really thought the puppies were hers, so she breastfed them and lived with them among beasts and trees.
But what was to become of the twins? The evil co-wives awarded the mischievous midwife generously, and asked her to get rid of the babies, to kill them. Thus she took them to the riverbank, and set up to smash their heads a big rock. However, no matter how immoral that woman was, she was incapable of executing two babies in cold blood. She finally left them on the rock and went away.
But that rock was no ordinary rock. An Afreet lived in it. He was sound asleep when the midwife abandoned the babies. Some time later, he awoke on their wails. He sprang from his rock and saw the twins whimpering in their box. He was immediately overwhelmed by love and tenderness, and two breasts running with milk miraculously grew on his chest. He thus adopted the twins and breastfed them.
The Afreet's milk was truly miraculous milk. Thanks to it, the twins grew up with an amazing speed. In a fortnight, they were already young and charming youngsters. He build a wonderful glass palace for them on the river bank, and they all lived very happily until, one day, the 'Oumme'egouz' came passing by again.
She was wondering what happened to the babies she left, when she reached the glass palace and caught sight of the girl playing inside. She immediately guessed who she was, for she resembled her mother like two dew drops. She knocked at the windowpane:
"What are you doing all by yourself in this huge palace, my child? And where is your mother? She should not leave such a beautiful child alone."
The girl replied:
"I don't have a mother, my aunt."
"Poor child! But you must have a father, don't you?"
"My father is on a hunting trip with my brother. They'll be here soon."
The spiteful old woman sighed, then said:
"That's not very fair of him, taking his son and leaving his daughter bored in that palace. Why don't they take you with them? You could enjoy yourself . . . it seems your father is not that fond of you!"
The girl protested:
"No, that's wrong! He's the best father ever!"
At that time, the 'Oumme'egouz' countered:
"Well, if you really want to know how much your father loves you, ask him to bring you the Bird of Prosperity, from the Country of Integrity, with a hook in its beak. I'll come again to see if he will." And she went away, convinced that the twins' happy life would soon turn sour.
Meanwhile, the Afreet and the young man were wandering in the forest, where they met, by chance, Rabia's husband and the twins' father on a hunting trip with his company. The father was astounded by the young man's looks. It was as if he was looking at a mirror! The resemblance was truly striking for both. The father thought:
"This young lad looks just like me! He could be my own son!" and the son thought:
"This lord could be my father! He looks just like me!" But none of them thought that could actually be the truth.
When the Afreet came back home, he sensed someone had been there, but had no time to enquire, as his daughter snapped at him:
"You don't love me! Neither of you two care for me! You just leave me here and have all the fun, while I'm prisoner of this palace!"
"How could you say such a thing? You know how much we both love you!"
"Prove it! Bring me the Bird of Prosperity, from the Country of Integrity, with a hook in its beak!"
The Afreet guessed some wicked witch had visited his daughter, since only few people knew about that fabulous bird, which lived in the Land of Djinns where no mortal could venture. He, nevertheless, decided to bring the girl that present.
The following morning, he bore his son on his back and flew to the Land of the Djinns. Before entering it, the Afreet urged the young man not to complain or utter a single word, not even 'Ah!' . Once inside the Djinns territory, a huge number of demons, devils and other spirits assaulted the young man, harassing and frightening him. If he had pronounced one single word, he would have been thrown to the Void . But he was a smart young man. He obediently remained silent and captured the famous bird easily.
Back home, the Afreet gave the bird to the girl, and said:
"Now I brought you the present you wanted, but you have to show me how much you love me! All I want you to do is to bring me the person who told you about the existence of the bird."
"Of course! It's an 'Oumme'egouz who will be soon passing by to admire the bird!"
The Afreet thus hid in the rock until the old woman turned up. Like all Afarits, he knew at once her story. He bounced out and caught her:
"So you came to me on your own, damned old woman. Now you'll have to pay. Go and bring me those who command you, or else I tear you apart!"
She ran to the co-wives, shaking, and tricked them to go with her, while the Afreet flew looking for Rabia and her husband. In the blink of an eye, they were all gathered at the riverbank. He first addressed Rabia:
"These puppies are not yours, here are your real children," and blew the puppies away. Then, he spoke to the husband:
"Your wife is victim of the scheming of your two other wives. I brought your children up, and now I can give them back to you."
To the midwife and the co-wives, he said nothing. He just blew them away, to the Void, where they surely died. Rabia's honour was at last restored, and she returned to her house with her husband and her children.
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