On Arabian Nights ✓

thief

chāhār

١
On Arabian nights, thieves have a tendency to come out of the shadows and creep through the world. They slip through doorways and out of windows. They dance across roofs and pass through places where men are not allowed to go. On Arabian nights, knives are drawn, and so is blood. With a vengeance. Sometimes it is not drawn in anger, though, but in promise. Sometimes, forty men cut a line into the pad of their thumb at once and each let a single drop of blood fall into a swirling cauldron. Sometimes, words are spoken in hallowed candlelight and raspy voices murmur the same words over and over again so that they might never forget it. When those forty men are done with their magic making, they go to a place between rocks and trees where a cave sits, empty, and they pour their concoction over the entrance. And sometimes, someone stumbles upon those magic words and opens up a cave that is filled to the brim with treasure...

۲
Scheherazade is weary. She is weary when the story is half done and the moon has receded past the horizon and the sun begins to glow as it rises. She is weary with lack of sleep. Amzi lazes at the foot of her bed. Tahir lays beside her, still gesturing animatedly with his hands and his expressions. Scheherazade holds up a hand. "Stop," she says. "I will hear no more of this story tonight." Her heart aches, though, to hear the rest. She longs to know what will happen to the man who stumbles upon that cave of treasure. She wishes that she could hear the magic words that the forty thieves use to open and close it. She wants the story to be finished, and the only way she will hear the end of it is to hear it from Tahir. Now, though, her eyelids feel as though they weigh as much as full-grown elephants. Now, Scheherazade needs to rest. "Tomorrow night, you will finish your story." Scheherazade waves a hand at Tahir, who stands, bowing to her. "Now go."

۳
In a world of suspense, Scheherazade trudges through the day. She finds no pleasure in telling off her clingy vizier. Her heart is not in the hours she spends throwing spears with Amzi and sparring with soldier men. Scheherazade's mind is always a few hours ahead, her thoughts on golden eyes and singsong voices. Scheherazade, as much as she hates to admit it, wants to see Tahir again. She wants to see him and breathe his spiced breath and touch her trembling fingers to his skin. She wants to hear the rest of his story. Scheherazade is disgusted with herself. Never has a man made her so weak. Never has she wanted someone as much as she wants Tahir. Never has she been in such a state over a story. When the time for dining rolls around, Scheherazade shovels down her food with the speed of one of her past husbands. She springs up from her seat and indicates the bedroom door. Tahir follows her inside, stands still as she presses the curve of her knife against his throat - more out of tradition than malice. "Tell me the rest of your story." He does.