The Curse of Tabigati

Zamira stood upon the shore, no longer concealing her nakedness with the towel.

Instead of growing angry and calling the guards, she winked. Alisher broke into a joyous smile and galloped away along the path into the garden.

His father greeted his delayed return from the lake with a magnificent torrent of abuse.

“Where have you been? The guards make their rounds every four hours. Do you know what will happen if they see you?”

“Forgive me, ota. I fell into a daydream. I heard the birds singing and stopped to listen.”

“Grown as tall as a poplar, strong enough to wring a buffalo’s neck, and with no more brains than… Ah, he stopped to listen to birds. Hurry. The patrol will be making its rounds soon.”

“Do the guards patrol after the evening prayer too?” Alisher asked, pouring a quarter of the bucket beneath another rosebush.

“Of course not. What fool would enter the garden then?”

“Why not?”

“They say that before the pond was dug and the garden planted, a thousand enslaved women were sacrificed to the Faceless One—one hundred from each vilayat. But the Faceless One rejected the offering because not all of them were chaste virgins. The rejected souls became Ten Urtasy—the Restless Dead. Their ghosts still wander the darkness, thirsting for vengeance. No true believer would stick his nose into these labyrinths at night.”

“What do you mean, they weren’t chaste virgins?”

“Vay! I’m going to kill Fatima. My son cannot possibly be this stupid.” Maruf threw up his hands. “Chastity and virginity are not the same thing, you blockhead. Virginity is purity of the body. Chastity is purity of the soul. They say some of the enslaved women were dragged from their homes and torn from the men they loved. Their hearts had already known love for a man, and they could no longer serve the Faceless One. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” Alisher muttered as he emptied the remaining water.

“If you understand, move. Another ten trips or so and we can go home. Your mother has surely prepared a magnificent supper.”

The youth seized the buckets and hurried toward the lake, but the shore was already empty. Yusuf Bey’s daughter had gone, leaving behind only echoes of her beautiful song. Its melody lingered in the garden for a long time, carried onward by the birds’ singing.

Chapter Three

Until nearly the middle of Bilek, the first month of autumn, the gardener’s son slipped away from home every Friday. Each time, he brought a gift for his companion—a handful of dried fruit, a delicacy from across the sea, or some exotic sweet from the southern lands.

The young pair spent hours watching the Faceless Svir kindle stars across the night sky. They watched the majestic moon change her face and narrow into a crescent, talking for hours at a time—sometimes until dawn.

Born with the Faceless One’s mark and raised beneath the strict supervision of nursemaids, the bey’s daughter found everything fascinating. Alisher learned that Zamira had never ventured beyond the walls of her father’s residence, so he took pleasure in describing Ostos, its bazaar, and its streets of craftsmen in rich detail.

The girl listened to his stories, while the youth bathed in her gaze—bottomless as fissures in primordial rock and warm as a summer night.

Alisher did not even dare dream of touching the beauty’s snow-white skin. Thoughts of her drove him mad. Only beside her did he feel that Yusuf Bey’s garden truly was Jannat.

Sometimes—especially when Alisher made her laugh with an amusing tale—Zamira sang him the song of great love: the Faceless One’s plea to Ibrahim, first sultan of humankind, before he rejected her and she descended into the underworld, veiling her beauty beneath the hijab of death.

Her voice murmured like a waterfall of pearls through the stillness of summer nights, accompanied by cicadas and the croaking of frogs upon the lake. To the young lovers, it seemed that nothing and no one could disturb their idyll.

But nothing beneath the moon is eternal, and even gods often envy the happiness of lovers.

Fatima wrapped a heated stone in a towel and placed it beneath her husband’s feet. The fire barely illuminated the mud-brick walls of their hovel as damp wood crackled in the hearth.

Maruf coughed.

“How do you feel, my lord?”

“Cold. Where is that good-for-nothing wandering? When the fool appears, tell him to chop firewood.”

“Alisher still hasn’t returned. I’m worried about him. Ever since you took him into that accursed garden, he has not been himself. He disappears for entire days. He has grown thin and hardly eats.”

The woman added another pair of logs to the hearth.

Maruf pulled the sheepskin more tightly around himself.

“I did not want to upset you, my love, but I am already ashamed of him before the neighbors. Khatuna, the carpet seller, asked where we found buried treasure. Your darling spends piles of coins on trinkets, while we have no firewood and the roof leaks. Winter is coming, Fatima. What if it is cold and snowy? Alisher must contribute more to the family.”

The woman sighed heavily but did not dare contradict her husband. Age was taking its toll, and supporting the family had become increasingly difficult for Maruf. Yet denying her son the chance to save for a bride-price hardly seemed right to a mother.

“He is grown, Maruf. It is time he thought about a family of his own.”

“He thinks about nothing at all. He scatters coins like a merchant from Khmarg. This way, at least everyone would benefit. They say he has taken an evening position as a striker in Tabir’s smithy.”

The mother’s heart missed a beat. Tabir was a famous master and paid his apprentices and hammermen very well.

“My heart senses trouble, Maruf. What if the boy is in danger? What if he has become involved in something wicked—or fallen in with the servants of Iblis?”

“The servants of Iblis are all blue-eyed, just like your son.” The man’s voice grew irritable. “He simply has extra money, and it burns a hole in his pocket. Listen to me, woman. We must demand more from him. He is obliged to help us, not squander his earnings on unfamiliar fruit and useless baubles. Faceless One forbid he takes to the bottle or starts visiting the harbor sharmutas.”

“He isn’t like that.” The mother brought a teapot and piala from the kitchen. “Drink your tea, Maruf. Alisher bought this blend from the tabib, and the honey from traders out of Bakashma.”

“I am not so old yet, my beauty.” Her husband turned and accepted the bowl from her hands. “I still remember being young. I remember turbulent nights. That is why I want you to take our son’s excess earnings. The coins will be safer with you, and I will have peace of mind. Bilek is already here. Winter will come soon. We need a reserve. Speak to him.”

Fatima nodded and poured more tea.

The day leaned toward sunset. Evening approached.

Alisher threw the final sack onto the arba. His body groaned and ached from brutal labor. But today was Joghma—Friday—which meant he would see her eyes again and hear her voice.

Despite her rank, the ruler’s daughter treated Ali without condescension. She looked at him as an equal, a friend. And when she sang Tabigati’s song, it seemed to the youth that they shared something greater than friendship.

For that, he worked sixteen-hour days—carrying burdens, swinging a sledgehammer in the forge. The light in Zamira’s eyes was dearer to Alisher than every treasure in the world. She had become special, unlike the other girls who first measured his purse and the size of the bride-price he could pay.

The merchant counted out the agreed copper coins.

“Exactly five, as promised. Will you come for the night unloading? A galley from Sogdinia arrives tonight. Magriskans. Spices and nuts. We need strong hands.”

“Forgive me, honored sir. I cannot tonight. Any other time, gladly. Perhaps for loading?”

“Those galleys do not take return cargo. Their goods have legs. But I will let you know if help is needed.”

Alisher bowed to the merchant and raced like an arrow toward the northerners’ stall on the opposite side of the bazaar.

The seller had kept his word and was waiting. The precious berries inside the cloth pouch were still fresh.

Clutching his treasure, Alisher did not slow as he ran through the familiar streets toward Yusuf Bey’s garden. Everything was as it always had been, and his heart sang with the joy of their approaching meeting.

The youth slipped through the opening. But this time, one of the garden guards had lingered at the tavern longer than usual and saw someone enter the holy of holies.

He followed the intruder. The moment Alisher seated himself upon the trunk of a weeping willow bent almost to the ground, the bey’s nukers fell upon him.

Yusuf Bey was furious that anyone had dared trespass upon his domain. Abandoning his supper, he went personally to the lake to question the insolent intruder.

At first, he meant to flog the youth to death. But greed prevailed. By the time he reached the shore, Yusuf Bey had already decided the criminal’s fate. He needed only to learn why the trespasser had entered the garden.

The guards twisted Alisher’s arms painfully behind his back, bound them, and forced him to his knees before the master of the household.

“Who are you, and why did you come here?” Yusuf Bey weighted the question with a kick to the ribs. The gardener’s son lost his breath as pain seized his lungs. “Answer, or I’ll have you skinned alive.”

To demonstrate the threat, they stretched Alisher’s arms apart and tied him to the willow.

“Speak, and your death will be easy,” the bey roared, infuriated by the boy’s stubbornness.

The ruler’s threats did not frighten Alisher. He desperately sought a way to protect Zamira without bringing disaster upon his own family, but the guards’ blows kept his thoughts from forming into anything logical.

They tore the shirt from his shoulder. The captain of the guard cut deeply into the flesh.

The youth knew what would come next. He had watched a condemned man flayed in the square and could imagine the torment.

Fear enveloped his mind. Unbearable pain might force him to betray their secret.

“I heard a nymph of incomparable beauty lives in the lake,” the porter babbled, hoping the bey would not hear the lie. “Her songs are gentle and beautiful. They say that if you surprise her, she must grant any wish. I am the son of your gardener, Maruf. He fell ill. I wanted to catch the nymph so she would restore my father’s health.”

Yusuf Bey raised one hand. In the sudden silence, Alisher heard a girl’s relieved breath from the bushes.

The porter’s heart faltered. He could not have been the only one to hear it.

Zamira was desperately anxious. One rustle or awkward motion might betray her.

The youth resolved once more to save his beloved and shouted as loudly as he could, feigning repentance.

“Forgive me, my lord. I did not come from greed. My father doesn’t even know I entered the garden.”

“Have you lost your mind? What damned nymph? What devil’s nonsense is this? Are you an idiot?” The bey could not decide whether the boy was mocking him or speaking sincerely.

He was about to order the insolent youth’s execution when the Faceless One decided Alisher’s hour had not yet come. Help arrived from where he least expected it.

“He truly is a holy fool. I know him. He works as a porter in the bazaar. Strong, but Heaven did not bless him with a mind. Yesterday, I saw him bargaining with northerners for exotic berries and promising nearly five coins. He said they were ‘for the nymph.’ Five coins—half a week’s wages. Enough to buy flatbread for a week.”

The guard’s speech ended beneath his lord’s hard stare. He lowered his head.

“See whether he has the berries,” the bey commanded.

They tore the rest of the shirt from the youth. The bundle of berries—crushed beneath the guards’ blows—fell at Yusuf Bey’s feet.

“Sell him to the Magriskans. They pay well for strong slaves.”

The man spat toward the porter and walked away.

The slave market occupied the farthest corner of the bazaar, beside the livestock yard and latrines.

The sultan did not encourage the slave trade, but neither did he hurry to prohibit it. He preferred collecting tribute to driving the traffic underground.

Alisher was dragged directly from the cellar into the market.

The youth had accepted his fate. He no longer noticed the crowd’s cries or the appraising stares of merchants in human flesh. Heavy shackles replaced the stocks, restoring some movement to his arms. His body still ached from the previous day’s beating. He stood in a row with the other unfortunates.

There were few enslaved people and equally few buyers, so the auction Yusuf Bey had expected never occurred. A merchant from Sogdinia bought the entire lot in bulk.

Once the paperwork was complete, the captives were chained in pairs and marched through the entire city toward the wharf on the Daryo.

When Alisher glimpsed his mother’s face in the crowd—aged in a single night—he jerked toward her and received his first blow from a slave driver’s whip.

The lash cut deeply across the youth’s face, further disfiguring the porter’s already unhandsome features.

His mother watched her foolish son for a long time as they led him away. Alisher felt her stare in his skin and in his soul.

He did not know how to answer her silent question: Why?

“You are Beaten now. That is your new name. Call me Aksak,” said the bald man chained to Alisher. “Believe me, it will be easier. Forget your true name—or, if you have the courage, preserve it and tell no one. Then you will possess a secret of your own. A treasure. Your old name will always remind you of what you lost, of who you were and what you possessed. That memory drives men mad. We are slaves now. Property. Better to forget the past.”

“How did you come here, Aksak?” the youth asked, trying to distract himself from his dark thoughts.

“Never ask a slave that question. It is forbidden,” the man snarled, and said nothing more.

The burning ache of the wound across Alisher’s face gradually eclipsed the pain of his beating. Yet he did not regret what he had done. He understood that he could not have escaped his fate in any case.

At least he had protected the honor of Yusuf Bey’s daughter—the girl who bore Tabigati’s own sign and had captured his heart. He hoped he had performed a noble deed and would receive a swift death as his reward from the Faceless One.

Burdened by these thoughts, he failed to notice when his feet stepped onto the deck of the Sogdinian galley.

The new arrivals were given a waterskin apiece and two boiled tubers of chalbar, a local rutabaga. Then the captives filled the empty places at the oars.

Alisher was seated beside the central passage. His shackles were looped around the oar, and a hammer drove an enormous pin deep into the wood, binding him completely to the two other unfortunates seated nearer the side.

The man closest to the porter snatched a tuber from his hands and stuffed it hastily into his mouth.

Before Alisher could protest, the whip sliced across his body again—this time striking his bare, sweating back.

The thief’s punishment was worse. He shrieked and seized his cheek.

“No order was given to eat. Try that again and we’ll use your chuchak for zheena bait,” the overseer thundered.

Ali’s neighbor shrank against the bench, nodding frantically.

“And you, newcomer—remember: whoever gawks goes hungry.”

A drum began to beat, and the captives leaned into the oars.

Alisher quickly lost all sense of time.

The fierce sun burned his back. His sides were covered in dark purple bruises from the boots of Yusuf Bey’s nukers, and the whip wounds bled and caused unbearable pain whenever sweat entered them. His mouth went dry.

The youth released the oar and found his waterskin. He managed only two swallows of life-giving water before the whip cracked and opened another wound upon his back.

Alisher nearly dropped the precious vessel as the fresh agony stole his breath.

The overseer raised his arm with a malicious grin, preparing another stroke, but froze at the captain’s commanding voice.

“What are you doing, you idiot? He is the only acquisition worth anything. These are my slaves, not your oarsmen. Touch another and I’ll have your filthy carcass nailed to the ship’s prow. That will teach the rest to respect a merchant’s property.”

“Ca… Captain…” the brute with the whip bleated, drawing his head fearfully into his shoulders.

“Give them food and water. Put them in order. My name is on the contract. What will you do when his wounds fester?”

“But I…”

“If he does not reach Sogdinia alive, you will take his place on the platform. Understand? They are not merely slaves. They are my wealth—and that wealth becomes gold only at the market in Sogdia. Who will pay for the dead and crippled? You witless fool. Treat his wounds at once.”

“With what?” the overseer asked, turning still paler.

“Lick them clean if you know nothing better, imbecile. Have him piss into something and wash them with it. Useless moron. You’re fit only to drive donkeys. Is this your first time aboard?”

“Second…”

“And apparently your last. See to my money.”

The captain vanished into the shade of his cabin. The overseer hurried to obey.

The vessel hove to without dropping anchor and drifted helplessly with the current.

Chapter Four

After the night’s events, everyone in the palace seemed to have gone mad. Yusuf Bey ordered an extraordinary inspection of his servants, though his outrage gradually subsided once the guards took the trespasser away to the market.

Even so, the consequences of his fury were plain in the number of dishes served at his daughter’s breakfast.

Akhneya did not touch the food while she waited for her charge, but the girl was late. The tea had grown cold, as had the eggs and pastries, and the fruit had lost the gleam of perfect freshness.

Yusuf Bey’s daughter’s absence from breakfast deeply troubled the nursemaid. The woman’s heart told her that Zamira was somehow connected to the previous evening’s incident.

She had also sensed for some time that something was wrong with her charge. Those Friday-evening escapes could end in disaster, yet willful Zamira ignored her warnings and did not fear provoking her father’s anger.

Something had to be done. The old woman’s heart bled at the thought that her stubborn girl had entangled herself in something dangerous.

Summoning her courage, the nursemaid climbed to Zamira’s bedchamber and found her hysterical and weeping.

“What happened, darling? A terrible dream?”

The girl flung herself around her nursemaid’s neck, unable to contain the pain that had gathered within her since the previous evening.

“I only wanted a little amusement. I made him come to the garden, and he… I honestly didn’t know how much his gifts cost. He spent his last coins at the bazaar buying me rare things. What a fool I am. Not everyone lives in luxury.”

Zamira sobbed uncontrollably, her forehead pressed against the nursemaid’s shoulder.

“They caught him yesterday. They beat him and demanded to know why he came into the garden, and he protected me. Father threatened to have him skinned, but he still didn’t betray me. Why? I was the one who ordered him to come. I thought every man was cruel and cunning like Iblis, but he…”

The girl’s words dissolved into an incoherent howl. Akhneya stroked her hair tenderly, barely containing her own tears.

“When Father asked why he was there, I was so frightened. I thought I was finished. But he told them about a fairy in the lake, and Father sold him into slavery. It’s my fault. I destroyed his life. Why did he do it? He knew what would happen, and still…”

Zamira wept and struggled to understand why the boy had sacrificed himself when he could have revealed the truth and returned to his family.

Alisher would not have escaped brutal punishment, but he would have remained alive and retained the chance to see those he loved.

Did his sacrifice mean something special?

Had the same strange, pleasant feeling settled in his heart—the feeling that made Zamira’s soul grow still with happiness whenever she met him?

“Were you intimate with him?” the nursemaid asked almost inaudibly after the bey’s daughter had calmed a little.

“No!” the girl cried, her expression plainly wounded in both pride and dignity. “How dare you think such a thing of me? He never touched me with so much as a finger.”

“Not all men are treacherous and cruel like Iblis. Some are worthy. When such men love truly, they will face death, Hell, or the entire world at war for the woman they love. For their other half, they are prepared to fight not only enemies, but gods.”

“Then perhaps he is my destiny—and I condemned him to slavery.” Fresh tears poured from the girl’s eyes.

“No, my darling. You never understood the parable of Tabigati. You learned the words but missed their meaning. Those she has chosen possess no other half among men. Your destiny is service. You are the future High Priestess of the Faceless One. Your mark lies over your heart for a reason, and even your name means honor and support.”

Akhneya drew the girl to her breast as if trying to shield her from every evil in the world.

“Only you can beg Tabigati to save that unfortunate boy. But you must become perfect, for the Faceless One is deaf to everyone else. Become what fate intended. Tell no one what happened—do you hear me? Otherwise, they will question your chastity, and the boy will perish.

“Forget everything else. Had he been your destined husband, the Faceless One would have brought him as an infant into a worthy family equal to your own. Forget it. I will forget it too. This conversation never happened. Never.”

The nursemaid held Zamira still more tightly, doing everything she could to conceal the emotions struggling to escape.

Akhneya loved Yusuf Bey’s daughter as her own and sincerely wished her happiness. Yet the woman understood that a marked path could not be changed. Tabigati’s sign would not disappear, and Zamira was destined to devote her life to the glory of the Faceless One.

The captain’s threats had not been wasted. The overseers’ whips disappeared, replaced by lengths of rope whose separated strands were knotted at the ends.

Such a weapon did not tear the skin, but its blows were no less painful.

Irnam had not forgiven Alisher for the humiliation he believed the negligent slave had unjustly brought upon him. Whenever he passed, he kicked the youth, or accidentally-on-purpose stepped upon his hand.

Given his own will, Irnam would long since have decorated the ship’s prow with the boy’s remains. But he possessed no authority over the captives’ lives, and that limitation drove the overseer nearly mad.

It was the third day of the voyage. Having safely cleared the river shoals, the vessel emerged from the mouth of the Daryo. The last island lay ahead. Beyond it stretched the boundless reaches of the Yarsula, the violent sea between the Sultanate and Sogdinia.

The helmsman was already dreaming of wrapping his fingers around a cup of sherabi from the captain’s private cask when lateen sails appeared from behind the island to port.

“Norsemen!” the lookout shrieked, spreading panic across the deck.

The guards hurried into their armor and began taking down the shields hung along the sides. The captain emerged from his cabin to oversee the situation personally. The drummer froze, awaiting an order, while the helmsman seized the tiller.

“Belay the sheets. Raise sail. Turn to starboard,” the captain shouted to the handful of sailors. “Starboard bank, oars up. Port bank, faster. Keep the rhythm.”

The drummer hammered the stretched hide. Overseers rushed toward the captives along the port side. The starboard oars hung motionless above the water, granting the wretches an unexpected rest.

The galley groaned and began turning, but the headwind fought them. By the time the crew found the proper tack, the northerners’ ship had closed to bowshot.