Riddle of the Copper Coin

Mix of modern-day and fantasy adventure with F/F romance, poetry, and eventually some smut. Hope you enjoy it!

* * * * *

Rafi and I had been friends for years, but there were still a few things I hadn’t figured out about her. I knew she was a fellow nerd—we’d been playing Dungeons and Dragons together for five years—and I knew she liked cats and sci-fi, and worked for an architectural firm.

I knew “Rafi” was short for Rafeeqa, and that her family had come from Iraq as refugees when she was eight, after her mother died. I knew she was Muslim and wore hijab and drank lemonade on D&D nights when the rest of us had cider, and that our party of heroes had to get by without her wizard for a month every time Ramadan came around. (She assures me that this is why Gandalf and Dumbledore kept disappearing at inconvenient moments. I am unconvinced.)

I knew she had several queer friends, me included; Lucy and I had a standing invitation to her family’s Eid celebration, and she made no bones about introducing us as a couple to anybody who might ask.

(“Does that bother them?” I’d asked. “Some,” she’d replied, “but that’s their problem. My uncle said he doesn’t understand homosexuality, but if Cory Bernardi hates gay people so much, they can’t be all bad.”)

But I didn’t have a clue about her own orientation. In five years of hanging out with Rafi, the closest I’d seen her come to romance was arguing over whether Ron and Hermione were suited to one another. I didn’t know whether to read her as closeted, aromantic, or just waiting for Mr. Right.

It didn’t matter to me—or perhaps I should say, I didn’t allow it to matter to me. I was very fond of Rafi; she was one of the sweetest and smartest people I knew, and if I’d been unattached that might well have developed into a crush. But I was in a happily monogamous relationship with Lucy, and I had enough sense to know that nothing good could come from thinking too hard about Rafi’s possible inclinations.

Then in a few months, everything changed. Lucy was offered her dream job in the UK. I didn’t know anybody there, and I didn’t want to move away from family in Melbourne. We talked it over and came to the hard realisation that I’d be miserable if we moved, and she’d be resentful if we didn’t. From there the conclusion was inevitable. It was amicable enough as breakups go, but still it left me bruised and bleeding: “I love you, but not enough.”

Around the same time, Rafi was looking for somewhere to live; the lease on her flat had run out and the owner wanted to sell. I needed somebody to share the rent that I’d been splitting with Lucy, and after previous experiences I wasn’t keen on living with a stranger. (Ask me why I stopped eating watermelon; better yet, don’t.) So Rafi and her elderly tabby, Bilqis, moved in to what had been Lucy’s study.

A couple of weeks later, I slipped on somebody’s spilled coffee at Spencer Street railway station and messed up my ankle big time. Surgery, steel pins and a plate, the works. I was off my feet for several weeks, and on crutches on and off for months. After the cast came off I started rehab, which meant a series of painful exercises to strengthen my ankle and restore mobility.

I’d always thought of myself as somebody who was enlightened and compassionate about disability in others. I was not prepared for the reality, for how diminished I felt when I had to plan in advance for something as trivial as a walk to the shops, and budget in pain and energy. Of course Rafi offered to help, but asking felt like an admission of weakness. It would have been different if I’d been able to lean on Lucy, but… no. I felt helpless, and I resented it.

I drifted into bad habits, putting off the exercises as long as I could. I told myself I’d do them in the evening, last thing before bedtime, and so bedtime drifted from eleven to twelve to one o’clock, and as often as not I’d end up telling myself that it was too late, and promising to do my rehab in the morning. You can guess how that worked out. I was self-employed at the time, doing website design, so I didn’t have a reason to get out of the house or to keep sensible hours.

It came to a head one night when Rafi wandered out at two a.m. for a glass of water and found me on the sofa watching late-night TV. It had not been a good day; I’d just done the paperwork to take Lucy’s name off the gas and water bills, and that had nudged me back into one of those unpleasant feedback loops of anger and regret.

“Penny, can we talk?” said Rafi.

“Sure.”

She sat in the armchair facing me, and Bilqis immediately jumped into her lap. “I’m worried about you. You’re not getting nearly enough sleep and you’re tired and grumpy every day.”

“I know.” I told her about the exercises, how much I hated doing them and how stupid I felt about not doing them, and she nodded along.

“Can I help? If you ask me to, I’ll nag you every night until you do them. I’m an excellent nagger.”

“Not just that. Even when I do them, I’m not sleeping well. My foot hurts in the night.” I’d stopped taking the oxycodone they’d given me, because it wasn’t doing anything for me. (I found out later that it’s a redhead thing; the same mutation that makes us ginger also affects our reaction to painkillers. Who knew?) “I wake up and then I start thinking and can’t get back to sleep.”

“Lucy?”

“Yeah. I miss her. Hate feeling like her job mattered more than me. And then I feel like a hypocrite for not going with her.”

She shifted Bilqis aside, came over next to me on the sofa. “Oh, honey. Of course you feel sad. How long were you with her? Was it four years? I like her too and I’m sorry it didn’t work out. But as your friend, as somebody who cares about you, can I give you some advice you might not want to hear?”

“Okay.”

“Please think about seeing a counsellor. I’m always here for you, but I think talking to a professional might be good for you. It’s helped me.” Rafi didn’t talk about it much but I knew she’d had some bad experiences in childhood, both in Iraq and later when her family were in refugee limbo.

“I don’t… it seems stupid having counselling just for a breakup.”

“Penny, it’s not a competition. I can see you’re hurting. Please will you think about it?” She squeezed my hand.

“I will. And, thanks for listening.” While we talked, Bilqis had sprawled across my lap. There’s something very soothing about a cat who purrs easily.

“I used to get nightmares,” Rafi said. “Hated going to bed. So Dad bribed me with stories. Every night when I was tucked up in bed he’d pull out a big book of the Thousand and One Nights.”

“Really? Is that suitable for children?”

“He skipped a lot of the stories. I got hold of the book and read it for myself when I was fifteen. It was quite an eye opener. Many of the ones he did tell me weren’t in the book at all, he just made them up for me.”

“Your dad’s the best. That’s really sweet.” My ankle twinged, and I grimaced, and thought about Lucy’s empty spot in the bed. “I wish somebody would tell me stories at bedtime.”

“I would,” Rafi said.

“Oh, I was just whining, I didn’t mean—” I remembered something Lucy had once said: Penny, you really need to learn how to say yes. “Wait, really?”

“I would. Not tonight, it’s three in the morning and I have to work. But if you do your exercises and go to bed by eleven, I promise you a story tomorrow night.”

And this is the story Rafi told me—or at least, an abridged version. The tale she told me had many more digressions and side-plots and stories within stories. I have left out the stories that the sea-captain told Fadil and Adiba, and the stories they told in return, and many others beside. This is the heart of her story, and although I’ve condensed it to a few short nights, you should understand that it was months in the telling.

* * * * *

Once, it is said—but only Allah knows for sure—there was a widowed old man named Fadil al-Katib who worked as a scribe, copying books and writing letters.

He had a daughter Adiba, clever and beautiful (are not all daughters beautiful?) whom he loved above all things. Adiba read all that he copied, and so became versed in all manner of things. As she grew, Fadil taught her his craft. She soon became his equal; then, his better.

In the city of Prince’s-Splendour where they lived, it was haram to draw or paint any living creature. But it was not forbidden to write. So writing became a great art, words formed into ornate shapes of black and red and gold, and in all the city Abida was the greatest of artists. From letters and sentences she formed the petals of roses, the feathers of eagles, the eyes of lovers, so skilfully that it seemed they might come to life.

Although none but Fadil knew the true artist, Adiba’s work became renowned throughout the city, and at length it came to the notice of Prince Kedar. “Bring the calligrapher to my presence, that I may honour him!” ordered Kedar.

But the Prince had a name as a cruel and rapacious man, and Fadil feared for his daughter, so he came himself. “I am the calligrapher,” he said, “but I do not seek reward. It is enough to have pleased your highness.”

Then one of Kedar’s courtiers whispered to him, “I have seen this man’s work, and he cannot be the one you seek. His lettering is indeed praiseworthy, but the other artist surpasses him as the moon surpasses the stars.”

So Kedar commanded Fadil to write for him, and he saw that it was just as his courtier had said. Then he grew angry, and ordered Fadil al-Katib thrown in prison to await execution on the morrow.

When Adiba heard of this, she lost no time in coming to speak to the Prince. “I am Adiba daughter of Fadil al-Katib,” she said, “and I am the one you seek. I ask your forgiveness for my father, for he was only seeking to protect me.”

When Kedar looked on her, all thoughts of calligraphy flew from his head, for he was overcome with lust. “I shall forgive your father and reward him richly for his diligence,” said the Prince. “But you must give yourself to me this very night, for I desire you. Else I shall have his head, and yours too.”

Then Adiba knew him for an evil man, and she saw that it was no use depending on his mercy. Instead she thought up a stratagem. “As you say, so shall it be, unless Allah should wish it otherwise. But, your highness, this week I am unclean. By your leave I will go home and purify myself. In a week I will come to you, and your pleasure will be all the better for it, as water in Ramadan is sweeter for a day of thirst.”

“I shall wait,” said Kedar. “But you need not go home. You and your father will stay in my palace, until you are ready for me.”

So Prince Kedar’s guards took Adiba and Fadil to the chambers in the palace that had once belonged to Kedar’s mother. There were a dozen rooms, and the smallest of them was bigger than Fadil’s entire house; but the doors were locked, and they were guarded night and day.

“My lady,” said the chief of the guards to Adiba, “his highness has given instructions that you are to have anything you ask for.”

“All I wish is my old threadbare prayer mat from home, and my books, and a pot of glue to mend one of them that is falling apart. And I should like to walk in the old Queen’s garden each day, to beautify my thoughts.”

So they brought her the things she had asked for, and each day she walked in the garden, escorted lest she try to escape.

Then on the seventh day—

* * * * *

Rafi yawned and stretched her arms. “I’m sorry, it’s really getting quite late. Would it be all right if I picked this up tomorrow?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Rafi, are you Scheherezading me?”

“Oh, Penny! Would I do a thing like that?” She winked and rose from her chair by my bedside. As she left she switched out the light; for the first time in months, I slept through the night.

* * * * *

On the seventh day, they brought Adiba to Prince Kedar.

“Your words were true,” he said. “I have thought of nothing else this last week, and my desire is all the sweeter for it. Come, my darling, it is time for me to possess what until now I have only imagined.”

“Very soon, my darling,” said Adiba. “But have you any wine? I have heard that even an ugly woman becomes desirable at the bottom of a goblet. How much more beautiful then mightI be to you, my lord?”

“Truly you are a maiden of excellent wisdom,” said Kedar, and he called for wine, then bade his attendants to leave them.

“Allow me to serve you,” said Adiba, and she brought him his wine, but only pretended to sip her own. For she had learned of the plants that bring slumber; as she walked in the old Queen’s garden she had gathered them in her robe each day, and so made a sleeping-powder for the wicked Prince’s drink.

While he was deep in slumber, she swiftly deprived him of his clothes and changed them with her own, for he and she were almost of a size. In the seven days of her captivity she had unpicked the threads from her prayer mat and fashioned them into a beard and moustache to match the Prince’s own, and this she fastened to her face with the glue that her guards had brought.

Then she amused herself for the best part of an hour making the most extravagant noises of passion she could imagine. No dying man ever moaned as loud, no parrot ever shrieked as shrill, as did Adiba bint Fadil that night.

When she was almost hoarse she covered the Prince with a blanket and left him snoring. Then she slipped out the door and spoke to the guards, coarsening her voice to match that of the Prince.

“The lady is quite exhausted,” Adiba said. “See to it that she is not disturbed. But you, go order her father released. And you, have my fastest horse saddled and ready, for I am minded to visit an old friend.”

The guards thought it odd that the Prince should choose to go riding in the middle of the night, but they knew better to question his commands, and so all was done as Adiba commanded.

She mounted the Prince’s horse and rode to the west gate of the city, making a great noise to ensure that all the watch saw her. Then she circled around the outside of the city walls, keeping to the shadows. Outside the east gate she met her father, as they had arranged, and together they rode away.

It was morning before Prince Kedar woke from his torpor to discover Adiba and Fadil gone, and sent his soldiers west to pursue them. By the time he found out he had been outwitted not once but twice, it was evening again, and Adiba and Fadil were far away.

At the sunset of the third day they came to the port city of Sweet-Cinnamon. “We cannot stay here,” said Fadil, “for this city is loyal to Prince Kedar, and his riders cannot be far behind us now, for they can change horses at every town along the way. We must find our way to some distant land beyond his reach.”

“Indeed,” said Adiba, “but first there is a matter of honour we must attend to.”

Adiba wrapped herself in a long cloak to cover the prince’s finery, and together they brought his horse to the guards at the gate.

“My lords,” Fadil said, “Prince Kedar comes to this city soon, and he has sent his finest stallion ahead that he may have use of it here. There is a message in the saddle-bags, for no eyes but his.” And while the guards were hastening to make ready for Kedar’s arrival, Fadil and Adiba slipped away.

When Kedar arrived, he found his horse awaiting him, and Adiba’s letter:

To the mighty, the exalted Prince Kedar,

I would not be thought a debtor or a thief, and so I return your horse with thanks for his service. I hope you will not begrudge me the use of your clothes to protect my modesty, and for them you have mine in exchange; they are poorer than yours, but you will not find them less honourable.

May Allah look upon you, O Prince, and see to it that your wealth and your power come to match your kindness and righteousness.

Adiba bint Fadil al-Katib

She had written the message so that the words were shaped like two hawks taking flight; and indeed Adiba and Fadil had flown. At this, Kedar’s rage consumed him.

For a time it seemed as if their troubles might be over. The captain was a kind man, and he told Fadil and Adiba of harbours far across the ocean where they might live far from the Prince’s wrath. As they skimmed across the sun-glittering sea, the sailors took to telling marvellous tales of past voyages and distant lands, and Fadil and Adiba repaid them with tales of their own. In ports along the way they had various adventures, too many to retell here.

But then one day when they were out at sea came a terrible storm—

* * * * *

Rafi was fidgeting. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how you put up with this chair. There’s a bolt or something sticking into my bum.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s on the list of things for when I have money. Sorry!”

“Well, I need to get up before it gives me a permanent dent. I’ll tell you about the storm tomorrow.”

“Looking forward to it! …oh, Rafi?”

She was halfway out the door, but turned back. “Yes?”

“I’m booked in with a counsellor tomorrow. Found one on the web and she seems pretty good.”

“Good for you!” She bounced over to my bedside and kissed me on the cheek. “I hope it helps.” I felt the warmth of that touch long after she was gone.

We’d settled into a routine. Wednesday night was gaming, and Saturday night she had dinner with her family; the other five nights were my story nights. It felt childish and yet delightful, like the moment when I realised that being an adult meant I could buy myself ice cream any time I wanted.

* * * * *

A terrible storm came upon the little ship, worse than any of them had ever seen. Clouds rose so thick and so high that day became dark as a moonless night, but for lightning that flashed as bright as the sun. Waves tossed the ship like a child’s toy, and dragged men overboard, and the only thing louder than the howling wind was the shattering thunder.

For days they flew before the wind’s fury, sails and ropes and masts torn away, until some of the sailors went mad with fear and leapt into the water. Adiba and Fadil took their place, baling water to keep the ship afloat. But as Adiba climbed down to the hold the boat lurched, and she slipped from the ladder and struck her head, and knew no more.

When she woke she was lying on a beach, arms tied around a barrel. The storm had died, and the sun was out. Around her she could see all kinds of storm-driven debris, dead birds and driftwood, and among it some pieces that she recognised as cargo from the ship.

Then she wept, for she felt sure that her father and all the sailors must have perished in the wreck, having tied her to the barrel that was to float her safely ashore. She consoled herself with the knowledge that her father had been a virtuous man who must now be reunited in Paradise with Adiba’s long-dead mother, and yet her heart grieved for the father who had raised her.

As Adiba lay deep in mourning a group of men approached, picking through the debris that had washed up. “Look!” said one. “It is a man, and he lives!” For she was still clad in the robes she had taken from the wicked Prince, having none other to wear.

She knew not their intentions, so she thought it safer to accept their mistake and present herself as a man. “I am Adib al-Katib,” she said (in fact she said “Adiba”, but the “-a” so softly that none heard), “and the storm has blown me far from home. What is this land?”

“You are in the kingdom of Salt-Sorrow,” said the oldest of the men. “We will bear you to our lady Queen Sharifah, who will know how to deal with you.”

The kingdom of Salt-Sorrow was barely more than a city, and a small and poor city at that. Queen Sharifah’s entire palace would have been eclipsed by the least of Kedar’s stables. But the Queen was a charitable and virtuous woman. She had “Adib” seated at her own table, and sent for new clothes to replace the ones that the sea had spoiled.

“You must be a fellow of some worth,” Sharifah said, “to have clothes such as these.”

Adiba shook her head. She was still not sure whether it was safe to reveal herself as a woman travelling alone, but she did not wish to deceive the Queen more than was necessary. “I am only a poor scribe, but I won these from a Prince in a game of wits.”

“You must tell me all about it!” said Queen Sharifah.

“My lady, I beg to be excused,” said Adiba, knowing that the full story would disclose too much about her. “I cannot tell the story without painting the Prince as a fool, and it is unwise to make enemies of princes. But if it pleases you, I should be very glad to sing instead.”

To this the Queen agreed, and Adiba began an old lament that she had often heard the orphans sing at home.

Mother, I have never known you Never have I seen your face But never can my heart disown you In my flesh still lives your trace

In still water I shall meet you Glimpse your features in my own In the mirror I shall greet you Eye to eye, and yet alone.

As she sang Adiba wept again, thinking of her mother and her father both. Then she saw the Queen was weeping also, and she broke off.

“What is wrong, my lady?” asked Adiba.

“Your song reminds me of a grief I have carried for thirteen years. Adib, will you hear my tale?”

“My lady, I am your servant.”

So the Queen began her story—

* * * * *

Rafi had given up on my chair altogether—the bolt had made its way through the upholstery—and taken to sitting on the bed beside me, with her feet by my head and her head by my feet. It felt comforting to have a physical presence there again on what had been Lucy’s side, even with a quilt and several inches of space separating us.

(Did I say several inches of space? Make that several inches of cat. It didn’t take Bilqis long to figure out that if she took her place in the gap between us she could command the attention of two humans at once.)

I’d settled into a routine with Annie, my counsellor. We’d meet every couple of weeks and talk about how I’d been doing, unpicking some of the things I was feeling about the injury and about Lucy. There’s no magic fix for these things, but at least I was getting better at noticing when I was sinking back into negative thoughts, and doing something about it.

Every so often, though, something would come up that made me flinch again: picking up a favourite book and remembering who’d given it to me, or responding to an invitation sent to “Penny and Lucy”. The worst times were when I had to interact with her, passing on messages or mailing on things she’d left behind.

* * * * * To the north of Salt-Sorrow, said Queen Sharifah, there lies a vast desert where the unseen jinn live in numbers beyond counting. A few are Believers, but for the most part they are fierce and wild, answering only to their lord Karrakanash.

As a young woman I strayed into that land alone and would surely have died in the sands, but that I caught the attention of the ifrit Lellinalak, the youngest of Karrakanash’s three sons. He made himself visible to me and brought me to his house, where he gave me sweet water to drink and food to eat. We spoke for days, and we came to love one another; he wooed me with sweet songs and verse, and at length he asked me to marry him.

I told him that despite my desires I could not marry him, for I was a Believer and he was not, and besides I could not desert my parents; I was the only heir to this kingdom.

But he swore to me that he would never ask me to abandon my faith or my family. Instead he would leave his family and come live with me in Salt-Sorrow. So I agreed, and we became husband and wife, and for some years we delighted in one another. During that time my mother and father died, and I became Queen of this kingdom.

On the day I took the throne of Salt-Sorrow I bore Lellinalak a daughter. Some have claimed that the union of jinn and human may create only monsters, but she was a beautiful child, sweet and clever. Makaarim, my greatest joy and my greatest sorrow! When I passed judgement on my subjects she would sit at my knee and attend, and she had as much care for the lowest of them as for the highest. Sometimes her childish questions would cut to the heart of the matter and show the way to justice.

Yet she was the cause of strife between myself and Lellinalak, for I was determined to raise her in my faith, and this he would not countenance. We fought, and at the last he divorced me and returned to his own land with our daughter. I have not seen her since she was a small child—she would now be of an age with you, if she still lives—and every day I have wept for her loss.

“Your ladyship,” said Adiba, “with my father lost, I am alone in the world. I feel sure that your daughter misses her mother as I miss my father; if Allah wills it, I will go into the desert and free your Makaarim.”

Sharifah tried to convince “Adib” of the danger of such an endeavour, but Adiba was resolute. “If Allah allows it, I shall return with your daughter,” said Adiba, “and if Allah permits the jinn to slay me then I am ready to stand before His judgement.”

When the Queen saw that “Adib” would not be dissuaded, she offered what help she could give. She gave Adiba two camels, laden with food and water, and called on Allah to bless her journey.

Having rested, Adiba set out into the desert—

* * * * *

—and so did Rafi. Well, over the desert; a friend of hers in Perth was getting married, and she was travelling over for a couple of weeks to help with the preparations.

Four days into the trip, she called me:

“Hi, Penny!”

“Hey Rafi, how’s doing?”

“Busy busy. Just found out the caterer double-booked, Aisha’s mum had a total meltdown. You?”

“Yeah, not bad. Her Ladyship’s still wandering around meowing for you.”

“Aw, tell her I’ll be home soon.”

“Rafi, can you do me a favour?”

“Sure thing, what?”

“Tell me I’m not allowed to go look at Lucy’s Facebook.”

“Aw, hon, I thought you were over that.”

“I am, mostly. Just get twitches once in a while. I want to know how she’s doing.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, I mean I…” I trailed off. I couldn’t figure out how to say it.

“You want to know if she still thinks about you. Sad about you forever, talking about how miserable she is in London, wishing she hadn’t given you up?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

“If she felt that way, do you really think she’d put it up there for people to see?”

“No… no, I guess not.”

“You will see her chatting to her shiny new English friends about her shiny new job. She won’t be talking about you. You’ll work yourself up telling yourself that she’s forgotten you already and you never mattered to her, because you want to be angry. Even though you know it’s not true.”

I mumbled something or other.

“So we’re not going to do that, are we?”

“…no, miss.”

“Good.” I heard another voice in the background. “Hang on a moment.” Rafi said something in Arabic, then came back to me. “Look, I have to go, some sort of disaster with the bridesmaids’ dresses. I want you to do something good for yourself. Take a nice bath? And I’ll call you back later, okay?”

I took her advice, and I stayed away from the Internet, but even after the bath I still felt twitchy. It was just past eleven p.m. when my phone finally rang.

“Hey Rafi! Everything under control?” As I spoke, I felt my anxiety receding, and I realised I’d been nervous about whether she’d remember.

“Not really, but I’m taking a break, otherwise I’ll start shouting at people. And I thought you might want to hear about what Adiba did in the desert…”

* * * * *

Adiba rode alone into the bleak waste. She left Salt-Sorrow behind her, and then saw no living thing except her camels, nothing but stone and sand and sun and sky. At night she slept rolled up in a blanket, surrounded by the moaning of the wind.

At the end of the third day her water was half gone, and still there was nothing. Not so much as a hawk in the sky, nor a beetle crawling on the ground. She knew she had enough water to take her back to Salt-Sorrow, and none to spare, but she kept riding north. The wind danced around her now, and sand stung her face.

She rode for three more days, until the last of her water-skins was dry and she had but one small flask remaining, and that half empty. Then she dismounted, and gave the camels their freedom. “I have chosen this errand,” she said to them, “and unless Allah wills otherwise, it may be the death of me. But I see no reason for you to die with me.”

She wet her lips, then poured the last of the water into her hand and held it out for the camels to drink. “Go back to your mistress,” Adiba said, “and tell her that I continue alone.” Then she slapped their haunches, and as they plodded away she turned back to the north and began to walk. When night fell she kept on walking, for she had sent the blanket back with the camels, and she knew the next day’s sun would be the end of her.

The moon shone bright overhead, striking shadows from the rocks like sparks from a flint, and suddenly Adiba stopped in her tracks. Just a footstep in front of her the moon had revealed a tiny grey snake. It was no thicker than her little finger, but it was the first creature she had seen in all this land.

“Brother serpent,” she said, “I think this must be your land, for I have met no others in it. I ask your permission to travel here.”

Then the snake slithered towards her on its belly. Its tongue flicked the air, and then it flowed over her toes and coiled itself around her ankle, although it was so small it barely wrapped once around. Adiba kept very still, but her heart pounded in her breast.

“Brother serpent,” she whispered, “I seek the City of the Jinn. Can you show me the way?”

The snake began to move again, and then to wriggle, and then to shake. Then it slipped from her ankle, and before her eyes it transformed into a huge jinn, still shaking with laughter. He was very ugly indeed! He stood as tall as three men, and his feet were webbed like a frog’s, and on his head were great spiralled horns. His tail was forty feet long and his zabb was longer still, and they twisted around one another, knotting and unknotting. His lips belched flames when he spoke, and his tongue was that of the little grey snake, although grown to enormous size. His name was Mishderesba.

“Ha ha ha! You are bold for a beardless youth, bold and foolish! What is your name?”

“You may call me Adib bin Fadil,” she said, which was quite true, for the jinn might do whatever he pleased.

“Well, Adib bin Fadil, the City is no place for humans.”

“None? I have heard that the King’s son Lellinalak married a human woman, and that their daughter lives in the City.”

Then the jinn laughed again, louder than before. “Oh, you seek the Princess Makaarim? You have heard of her beauty, you think to woo her!”

“That was not my purpose, sir.”

“Good! For her father and grandfather keep a close watch on her, and woe betide any who tries to steal her away. But then what?”

“I shall not say, sir. But will you take me to the City?”

The jinn laughed louder still, until the rocks around them shook and clattered and dust rose into the air. “Perhaps I shall! I don’t know what my lord Karrakanash will do with you, but I shall enjoy finding out!”

And he snatched her up and flew through the air on bat-leather wings—

* * * * *

“So when Dad told me these stories, sometimes he’d let me play too. He’d say ‘and what do you think the robber did next?’ and I’d tell him. He’d say ‘Absolutely right!’ and improvise from that. Sometimes I’d paint him into a difficult corner on purpose. Heroine gets caught in a sinking ship, that sort of thing, just so I could make him come up with a way out of it.”

I heard Rafi chuckle at the other end of the phone. “We always had fun with the jinn. We’d take turns. He’d tell me how the jinn had feet like an elephant’s, I’d tell him it had eyes as small as watermelon seeds, and we’d go back and forth. Fun times.”

“That sounds like hard work for him?”

“Oh yeah. He kept a little notebook so he could remember all their names and descriptions. Sometimes he’d pull out one of the jinn we’d made up years ago in a different story, have it come back. You have to know, when we got to Melbourne he was working two jobs, didn’t get home until just before my bedtime. So story time was our big thing. He always took the stories seriously. His way of making sure I knew he loved me.”

“Aw, that’s so sweet. Well, I’d better get some sleep. You try not to shout at any caterers, okay?”

“No promises, but I’ll try. Sleep well, Penny.”

A couple of nights later she called again, putting me on speaker so she could continue the story while she folded wedding programmes:

* * * * *

The jinn Mishderesba flew high through the air, grasping Adiba’s shoulders in his toadlike feet. “You could wander this desert for a thousand years,” he bellowed, “and never find the City! We alone can travel the ways that lead here!”

Adiba was afraid lest the jinn should let her fall, but soon her fear was forgotten as the desert below them gave way to a magnificent city. Banners rippled in the moonlight and a hundred spires shone, copper and brass, silver and gold. Fruit trees of every kind grew along the avenues, and strange things walked under them; whether beasts or jinn, she could not tell.

In the heart of the city was a huge palace of marble and greenstone, and here did Mishderesba alight. He brought Adiba into the great hall of the palace to stand before the mighty King Karrakanash.

Karrakanash was a huge ifrit, as high as a palm tree, and he had three tails. One trailed behind him, one rose up behind to scratch his back, and one he carried over his shoulder and waggled the tip at his courtiers when he was angry. His skin was the colour of lead, and his mouth opened as wide and as hot as a potter’s kiln, with teeth like millstones.

Beside him sat his sons: Amasp, Minbidim, and Lellinalak. But Adiba had eyes for none of those, for behind Lellinalak amongst the ladies of the court stood one who could only be the lady Makaarim.

She was no taller than Adiba, tiny behind her uncles and father, and there was no missing that she was the child of Queen Sharifah; there was a likeness in their faces. But equally there was no missing that she was a jinn’s daughter; her eyes gleamed like opals, and what little hair showed beneath her veil was red as burnished copper. She looked at Adiba with intense curiosity.

“Well, well,” boomed King Karrakanash, “what have you brought me, Mishderesba?”

“Sire, Lord of the Grand City, I found this foolish man wandering in the desert. He sought our City but would not say why! I would have punished his insolence, but I thought it might please you to design some punishment for him yourself.”

“Oh ho ho!” said the King. He flicked out his tail—the first one, the one that trailed behind him—and caught Adiba around the waist, holding her so close he could have bitten her head off. “Is this true, little manling? Creature of clay, will you tell us your purpose here?”

Adiba did not wish to lie. But she knew that to tell the real reason for her journey would draw the King’s anger onto Sharifah. So in reply she murmured, “Not unless Allah wills it,” which is an answer that can be given truthfully in almost any situation.

“Oh, a Believer? Well,” roared the King, “Believer or no, I think I shall squeeze you until you burst, and see what Allah wills about that!” His tail began to tighten, and Adiba was sure the end was near—

* * * * *

Rafi left us dangling there—Adiba and me both—for four days, until she came back from Perth. Her flight was due to land at ten p.m. but at midnight there was still no sign of her. It was almost one in the morning when I heard the taxi outside; I got to the door just as she was fumbling for the key.

“Hey Penny! You didn’t need to wait up.”

“I know. Just wanted to know you were safe. Expected you earlier.” I’d been missing her more than I wanted to admit. “Dinner in the fridge if you want it.”

“Aw.” She hugged me tight. “Dad’s suitcase came open when they were unloading, everything fell out. They had to pick up the pieces and bring it out to us, took forever.”

“Glad you got it sorted out. Well, now you’re home, I’m off to bed.”

“Same. I had dinner on the plane, just gonna brush my teeth and hit the sack.”

But a few minutes later, she knocked on my door. “Do you want to hear what happened with Adiba?”

“Please! Uh, that is, I’d love to, but I don’t want to keep you up.”

Rafi let out a loud yawn. “Excuse me. Yeah, I should get to sleep…but I’m getting a bit addicted to this.” She sat on the bed beside me, bunny-slippered feet near my head. “I like having you on the hook. Now, where were we?”

* * * * *

King Karrakanash would surely have crushed the life out of Adiba. But the Princess Makaarim was kind of heart and she was intrigued by the stranger, for she had rarely seen her mother’s kind since Lellinalak stole her away as a child. She ran to the King and tugged on his back-scratching tail.

“Grandfather!” she cried. “Let him live, let him live. He has travelled far, perhaps he will entertain us with stories of his travels.”

“Very well,” said Karrakanash, “but his insolence shall be punished nevertheless. He shall stay as our prisoner and amuse us of an evening, until I grow tired of him. Mishderesba, take him to the east tower!”

Mishderesba bowed to the King, then snatched up Adiba and took to the air once again, sweeping her up to a small chamber at the very top of a tower of alabaster and silver. “Do not think to escape, little wingless one,” he said, “for there are no stairs. I did warn you!”

Then he gave her a jug of water and a little dry bread, and left her there. For it was almost sunrise, and the jinn of that city loved to sleep through the day and wake at night.

On his return, Makaarim sought him out. “Mishderesba, what do you suppose his errand might be here? Why would one come such a way at such risk?”

Now Mishderesba was something of a knave, and although he did not know what “Adib”‘s intention could be, he saw an opportunity (as he thought) to curry favour with the Princess. So although Adiba had told him otherwise he replied, “Your magnificence, I believe the impudent fellow has heard stories of your beauty and come to press his suit.” To this the Princess listened with great interest.

Meanwhile Adiba made her fajr salat, the prayer that comes just before dawn, and then took the measure of her prison. Indeed it was just as Mishderesba had said. There were no bars on the windows, but there was no way up to the tower without the benefit of flight, and no way down but a swift one with a sudden stop.

But as she looked out, she forgot her captivity. The moon had set, and the lamps were extinguished; the City of Jinn stretched out beneath her in darkness. And yet, as she looked out on the city she saw a gleam of light, and another, and another; one by one, the new day’s sun was striking fire from the highest spires and minarets.

Adiba watched the play of light spread across the city, tower by tower, dome by dome, down to the treetops and the rooftops until it fell at last into the dust of the streets. She thought, well, if the King kills me tonight, at least I have seen this wonder, and I am grateful to Allah for it.

Now by the palace, not far from the tower, there was a garden surrounded by a high wall. In it grew peach trees and plums, and flowers of every hue, and there walked splendid peacocks. And among the peacocks walked the Princess Makaarim, unveiled and alone. Adiba looked down on her, and thought she had never seen anybody more beautiful; and then Makaarim looked up, and hastily Adiba turned away lest she be caught watching. When she looked again later, the Princess was gone.

That night Mishderesba came for her, carrying her down to the palace. The King was there, and his sons and courtiers, and behind them sat Makaarim.

“Well, little fellow,” snorted the King, “I hope you have something to amuse us.”

“Your majesty,” Adiba replied, “if you will but provide me paper, ink, and a brush, I will show you something worth your time.”

The King had all these things brought forth, and Adiba began to write, as the jinn gathered around her and marvelled at the cunning of her brushwork. Gradually the work took shape, words flowing into the shape of a tree, branches spread wide. Tree I am, but from my forests strayed Leafless branches clad in leaves men made Fruitless, I bear every kind of fruit Rootless, held to earth by iron root. “Oho! A riddle!” cried Karrakanash, and the jinn began to speculate on what the answer could be. Amasp suggested a gallows (Adiba did not like the way he looked at her when he said that) and Minbidim proposed a book, but Makaarim frowned and shook her head. “It almost works, but what is the iron root?”

After much thought, Lellinalak said, “A wooden ship, with sails, and cargo, and an iron anchor.”

“Very good!” said Adiba. By that time she had already written out the second of her riddles, this one shaped after the very same ship that had brought her and Fadil from Sweet-Cinnamon.

The sea-master was a funny fellow His face was white—or was it yellow? He guided ships past ragged rocks And brought them safely to the docks, Grew thin at sea, then fat once more Then thin again. From shore to shore He journeyed far, from east to west— Then sank into the ocean’s breast. The Princes fell to arguing. Lellinalak, who knew something of human illnesses, thought the answer might be a man suffering from jaundice; others thought of admirals and explorers from Cathay. But Karrakanash stood wordless, frowning, until at last he said, “I have it. The moon.”

“Quite right,” said Adiba. She regaled them for a while with stories she had heard from travellers, and stories she had read. Then she said, “Well, I have one more riddle for tonight. You solved the others, no doubt you can solve this too.” This time her words formed a circle: Two kingdoms made a copper coin Two royal faces closely join’d More precious than its weight in gold They made but one, then broke the mould.

This one perplexed Karrakanash and his sons most of all. They guessed at many things: day and night, sun and moon, long-lost monarchs that Adiba had never heard of. She just shook her head and laughed. In their bafflement they grew angry.

“This is nonsense,” said Minbidim. “There is no answer.”

“You are deceiving us,” said Amasp. “Tell us the answer, or I will dash your brains out and tear you to pieces.”

But Adiba shook her head. “You may tear me to pieces if you like,” she said, “but I will not give you the answer. You have not earned it.”

Amasp’s eyes blazed in fury, and he took a step towards her, but the King just chuckled. “Very well, little human, you have given us a pleasant diversion. If you will not spill your secret, I suppose we will have to think on it ourselves. But for now—Mishderesba! Back to the tower with him! See that he is well fed, and comfortable.”

Afterwards, back in her own quarters, the Princess thought for some time on Adiba’s riddles. Then she penned a letter and called for the most faithful of her maids. “Take this note, and see to it that it is hidden in the basket that Mishderesba takes to the prisoner.”

* * * * *

“Rafi?”

No answer. At some point during the story, sitting up on my bed had turned to sitting back, and then to lying back, and now my housemate was crashed out on my bed.

Should I have nudged her awake, guided her back to her own bedroom? Maybe. It was the obvious thing to do. But I found myself making excuses: she was very tired and she’d stayed up late for me, it would be kinder to let her sleep.

Then I started to think about why I was making those excuses.

Oh.

Between Lucy and my ankle, I’d been walking wounded for long enough that I’d fallen into taking it for granted. Not the dramatic kind of sadness, just the quiet gnawing sort that tinges everything grey and drags on and on.

But somewhere along the way, the misery had slunk away; it was only now that I went looking for it and found it wasn’t there any more. When I rolled Lucy’s name around in my mouth, it no longer had the power to spark thoughts of regret and bitterness. There was a faint ache—perhaps there always would be—but it no longer overwhelmed me as it had done.

And in its place…

Rafi was lying on what had once been Lucy’s half of the quilt, head at the foot of the bed. I folded my half over her to keep her warm (or was it to keep her from waking?) and put a pillow by her head in case she wanted one, then sat a while and thought about things. The way I’d waited up for her, the way I’d felt when she called unexpectedly from Perth to continue the story, the way I felt now about having her asleep alongside me…

After six years of friendship, suddenly I was crushing on Rafi, and that scared me. I had no idea whether there was any future there, and I was afraid of fucking up a precious friendship. But it was an exhilarating kind of fear, if no less terrifying for that.

Somehow I managed to switch off my brain long enough to sleep. When I woke in the morning I expected to find her gone, slipped away or even just something I’d dreamed, but she was still there curled up under my quilt. I climbed out as quietly as I could, and went off to grab breakfast. A few minutes later I heard Rafi heading for her morning shower.

When next I went back into my bedroom, Rafi had made the bed. But she’d left the pillows where I’d placed them, mine at the head of the bed and hers at the foot, and they were still there that night when she came to me again to continue the tale.

* * * * *

This time, instead of dry bread and water, Mishderesba brought a basket that held fine fruits and a delicious cordial made of mint and honeyed vinegar—and at the bottom, hidden under a jar of olives, she found a message written on thick paper.

A coin, you’ve called me? Well, my suitor, Some men lock their coins away, Misers hoarding unspent treasures— I don’t mean to live that way.

If you merely wish to own me Like some prize upon your shelf You’ll bring me no satisfaction— I’d rather amuse myself.

I’ve no fear of being lonely I need no husband above me But a suitor who’s my equal Such a one might be quite lovely.

I was born to shine and sparkle Like a coin under the sun See the world and try its pleasures I intend to have some fun.

So, if you still wish to befriend me— Tell me how you think you’d spend me.

Adiba read the letter with some consternation. She had never intended to court the Princess, never thought to do more than bring her home to her mother. But clearly Makaarim had taken her for a suitor and was willing to be courted. And Adiba wondered what she ought to do, whether to reveal her sex and her errand to the daughter of Queen Sharifah, or to go on playing the part of Adib the suitor.

* * * * *

“What do you think she decided, Penny?”

“Hmm?” Her question had caught me by surprise, and I was stalling for time to think.

“Did she tell Makaarim the truth? Or did she let the flirtation continue?”

I wanted to say both, but I couldn’t quite find the nerve. “I think…I think she felt guilty about the deception, but she wasn’t sure of her own intentions. So she didn’t want to say anything she couldn’t take back, not until she knew her own mind.”

“Very well then.” Rafi sat up. “I’ll tell you the next part tomorrow.”

“What, already? That was a short one. I mean, I’m not ungrateful…”

She patted my knee. “Penny, let me tell you something. Adiba and Makaarim, they are story-tale people, and they can toss off a poem or a riddle just like that. Me, I am not so quick. It takes me bloody ages, and I don’t have the next bit ready yet. I couldn’t tell you it tonight, even if you wrapped your tail around me and threatened to smoosh me to death.”

“Pretty sure I don’t have a tail. Not last time I checked…uh, by the way, does Makaarim have a tail?”

“I don’t know. Does she?”

“Hmm. Yes, she does. A long slender one that she hides under her clothes, smooth like snakeskin.”

“That seems reasonable. And now, it’s my bedtime. I really shouldn’t deprive you of your quilt two nights running. Until tomorrow!”

* * * * *

Sometimes unscrupulous folk rip off other people’s work and publish it as their own. If you’re reading this note somewhere other than the lit erotica dot com website, the work’s been stolen, and I’d appreciate it if you’d report the theft.

* * * * *

But the next night, Rafi took things in a different direction. As she told me, Fadil had not drowned after all; at the last minute, he and the captain were plucked from the sea by a pirate ship, and sold as slaves. The story that followed was a long and elaborate one, well worth hearing in its own right, but I don’t think it’s what you’re waiting for. I wanted to hear more of Adiba and Makaarim, and I’m sure Rafi knew that, but she kept me waiting for two weeks before she picked up that thread again.

* * * * *

Once again, Adiba watched the City of Jinn from her high prison as the sun rose, but this time her attention was on one garden. And as she watched, once more Princess Makaarim emerged to wander in the garden, admiring the flowers and tossing grain to the peacocks. But this time Adiba did not look away.

At length the Princess came to a small pool, fed by a fountain, and there she shed her clothes to bathe. And still Adiba did not look away but instead admired her, every inch of her—even to the tip of her tail, which was long and slender and smooth, like snakeskin. She watched as Makaarim stepped into the water, and the fountain splashed her so that droplets of water clung to her and glittered in the morning sun, rolled down between her breasts and over her belly to the fuzz below, and thence back into the pool.

And when the Princess looked up to the tower, Adiba did not shy away, but met her gaze. From that distance it was hard to tell, but she thought Makaarim smiled at her before completing her ablutions and dressing herself.

That night Mishderesba brought Adiba back to the court, and once again she amused the King and his children with riddles. The first one was written out in the shape of a serpent, and it went like this:

A one-eyed snake, with but one fang Once lost, it’s hard to find him A maiden bade him burrow deep And leave his tail behind him.

“A man’s zabb!” said Minbidim.

“Oh?” replied Makaarim. “Does that fall off when his business is done?”

“Not to my knowledge,” said Adiba, “although I am largely innocent of such matters.”

Lellinalak solved it before long: “A needle and thread.”

“Indeed,” said Adiba, and she gave them the next, this one in the shape of a scimitar.

A woman took a wooden sword She shed black blood upon the plain Ten leagues away, her suitor saw And hastened to her side again.

Lellinalak frowned. “There are places where oil gushes from the ground, if one digs in the right spot. A wooden shovel?”

“A good thought,” replied Adiba, “but not the answer I had in mind.”

“A miscarriage,” said Amasp.

“Really? And he would see that from ten leagues away?” Adiba shook her head.

They were quite stuck until Minbidim, pacing the room, glanced at Adiba’s writing materials. “Aha! I have it! A wooden pen, ink on paper, a love letter.”

“Splendid!” said Adiba. “For what could any suitor relish more than a love letter from a beautiful woman?” And beneath her veil, Makaarim blushed.

She told them more stories, and then as it grew late she yawned. “It’s almost time for me to sleep. But since none of you were able to solve the riddle of the coin last night, I shall give you another chance.” And she picked up her pen and wrote out more verses, once more in the shape of a coin with the words spiralling inwards.

The coin lay in a fountain Clear water splashed around It ran between two mountains From there it trickled down

It flowed o’er plain and forest Till at last it reached the sea If my fingers could trace where that rivulet ran I’d carry that coin off with me.

A man may spend his coin but once And then it’s his no more But if I had that copper coin I’d spend it o’er and o’er

I’d journey round those mountains And I’d wander through the plain I’d tarry in the forest— There I’d spend that coin again.

With that coin I’d travel far And keep it as I spent it I’d let it sparkle like a star And praise the One who sent it. The King read Adiba’s riddle, and then the Princes. Last of all, while they were bickering amongst themselves as to its meaning, Makaarim read it, and looked up at Adiba with a degree of warmth that her veil could not entirely conceal.

Once again, the Princes and King Karrakanash were perplexed. Lellinalak attempted to relate the geography Adiba had described to places in distant Cathay, and Karrakanash suggested an old thieves’ device, a coin on a slender thread that the owner might spend and then surreptitiously retrieve, but Adiba shook her head to both. Once more Minbidim argued that there was no answer at all, Amasp threatened her with all manner of violence if she did not tell them the answer, and once more Adiba stood her ground.

“Well,” said Karrakanash, “is there nothing that will induce you to tell us?”

“O mighty King,” replied Adiba, “tomorrow I will give you a few more clues, and perchance you will solve my riddle then, for the reward is greater to those who discover the answer themselves. If you cannot solve it tomorrow night before the sun rises, then I will tell you the answer and my purpose in coming to this city. But in return you must promise me my freedom and safe passage, and a boon of my choosing that you will be well able to afford.”

“I accept,” said King Karrakanash. “I swear by the seal of Sulayman that I will honour this arrangement. Now, Mishderesba, return our guest to his quarters, and see to it that he has all the comforts he may desire.”

* * * * *

Rafi was beginning to falter towards the end, and I could tell she was on the verge of sleep. I might have said nothing, and let her drift off once more to sleep the night beside me. But it would have felt dishonest.

And besides, when you’re dealing with somebody who doesn’t drink, sometimes sleepiness is the next-best way to find the truth.

“Rafi?”

“Huh-mmm?”

“What are your intentions? Regarding me, I mean.”

Silence, and I began to think she’d dozed off while I was talking.

“My intentions…” It was quiet enough that I could hear her taking a slow breath. “I am very, very fond of you, and maybe more than that. But I don’t want to be your rebound fling in between Lucy and whoever comes after. I don’t do flings, Penny.”

“Ah. I—” But she cut me off, her drowsiness suddenly gone, in what was almost a growl.

“So if you want to take this anywhere, you’d better be serious about me. You fuck with my heart, I will never forgive you. Never.”

“I hear you.” I took a breath of my own. “I—”

She sat up, and her voice softened a little. “Don’t say anything now. I don’t need you making life decisions at midnight. Think it over, get back to me when you’ve had time to process it.”

With that, she left. A few minutes later I heard her voice from her bedroom; it was too soft to make out the words, but from the cadences I could tell she was praying. Not part of her usual schedule; after living with her for months I knew the times well enough, and this wasn’t one.

* * * * *

I missed her in the morning—she was gone to work before I was up—and by the time she got back from afternoon prayer people had started arriving for our D&D game, so there was no space for us to talk privately before the game started.

I won’t bore you with the details of how Rafi’s wizard and my rogue managed to trick a dragon into handing over his treasure. Suffice it to say, it was one of those great evenings where everything just falls together perfectly. Even the dice were on our side that night. I hadn’t laughed so much since the breakup with Lucy, and as I looked at Rafi chuckling I felt torn; everything that made me want her was everything in our friendship that I couldn’t afford to lose.

After the game was over and our guests had left, Rafi and I were in the kitchen, still buzzing from the game. I didn’t want to bring it up, but I felt I had to.

“Rafi, the stuff you said last night?”

“Yes?”

“I want to say yes. I don’t think it’s just a rebound thing. But I don’t know for sure. I can’t promise unless I know.”

She nodded. “There’s no rush, Penny. I’m not going anywhere.” Then she hugged me fiercely. “Thanks for being honest. And sorry if I came across a bit… defensive. I wasn’t angry. Not at you.”

I hugged her back. “Can’t afford to lie to my wizard. Then who’d get me out of trouble?”

“Sweetie, you are the trouble. Now, I am going to say my isha salat, and then will you be ready for a story?”

* * * * *

I wasn’t too surprised when that night she returned to the story of Fadil; I suppose both of us were wary of where Adiba and Makaarim’s story might lead us, and not ready for more just yet.

So it went until the weekend, when we sat down to breakfast together. “Annie’s been telling me, I need to start getting out of the house more,” I said. “Might go see the new exhibition at the NGV.” (That’s the National Gallery of the state of Victoria to you.)

“Oh? I was hoping to catch that one, actually. Mind if I tag along?”

I hadn’t been angling for that—I was still trying to keep a certain distance until I could approach things like a grown-up—but I wasn’t about to say no. So we caught the tram in together and paid our admission.

The new exhibition was good, but very crowded, and standing for long periods still made my foot ache. After half an hour or so, I had to call time out.

“They have wheelchairs,” Rafi said. “I could push you, if you like.”

I caught myself before I could say no wheelchair; I still hated acknowledging my injury, but Rafi had a point. “Yeah, I could give that a try? If you don’t mind?”

“It’s no problem.”

I’m a bit of a control freak, and it was weird having Rafi driving me, but I got used to it soon enough. Rather than go back into the din of the latest attraction, we turned the other way to tour the permanent collection, stopping in a dimly-lit room displaying old sculptures and paintings that couldn’t withstand strong light.

Something had been nagging at me. “Rafi?”

“Hmm?”

“What you said the other night. I promise, I wasn’t trying to toy with you. I’m still figuring things out, but I wouldn’t—”

Rafi patted my shoulder. “It’s okay. Just some old baggage.”

“Oh.”

She set the brakes on my chair and sat down next to me, looking at a wall as she spoke. “Queer Muslim, it’s a small dating pool here. Especially when you don’t want to say anything to a girl unless you know she’s gay, and she’s waiting for you to say something before she says something…” Rafi shook her head. “I guess these days you can go online, but they didn’t have that back when I was getting started. Or I didn’t know where to find it. Whatever.

“Okay, so I go to the campus gay and lesbian club… ya Allah, so many white faces, I thought it was the Oscars. Don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are white people.” She squeezed my shoulder again. “But they look at me and my hijab like obviously I’ve lost my way and ended up in the wrong room—doesn’t this scarfie know this is the gay and lesbian club? I felt like if I stayed, somebody was going to start telling me how I was oppressed and not listen to a word I said. So, not for me.

“Then one day, Fatima…” Rafi shook her head slowly. “Oh, Fatima. My cousin’s friend. We just clicked, head over heels. Phoning every night, puppy-dog stuff, you hang up first. I was scared of being found out…I mean, you’ve met Dad, you know he’s pretty good about that stuff. But we didn’t talk about it back then. I didn’t know how he’d be. We were secret for two years, but I didn’t feel right hiding it. I didn’t want to treat Fatima like a dirty secret, like it was something shameful.

“So I spent like a month rehearsing how I was going to tell Dad. Wrote a big long speech, made backup plans in case he kicked me out of the house or something. I was scared as hell but I did it. And he was… not overjoyed, mostly worried about what it might mean for me, but he wasn’t angry with me or anything. So that’s good.

“And then a week later, Fatima broke up with me because it just wasn’t working for her. Oh, and she’d met somebody else, and she was sorry she hadn’t told me earlier, but let’s still be friends, okay? Just after I’d done… yeah, nah.

“So, if you were wondering why I snapped at you the other night…”

“Oh, Rafi. I’m so sorry.” I twisted around in my wheelchair and squeezed her hand tight. “That was a shitty thing to happen.”

“Not your fault. But I meant what I said.”

I nodded. “When was this?”

“Just before I met you guys. I guess it’s why I met you. Suddenly I had a lot of free evenings and I didn’t want to sit around the house writing awful poetry so I thought I’d get back into gaming.”

“Your poetry isn’t awful!”

She smiled thinly. “You haven’t seen the stuff I wrote back then. Come on, I’d rather not talk about it any more. Let’s get moving.”

She got up and went to push me, but the chair skidded on the polished floor. “Brakes,” I said.

“Oops!” Rafi disengaged them, and then we were rolling smoothly again.

We explored the gallery for another half-hour, and I was just starting to think we should head for home when we got to a hall of Victorian paintings (that’s the era, not the state). There must have been hundreds of them crammed close together on the wall, but one of them in particular caught my attention.

“Oh my.” Two women—one white, one dark and curly-haired—lying asleep on a stone floor, with nothing more than a wisp of straw for modesty. They were nestled together almost like spoons, each with a hand resting tenderly on the other. “That seems a bit risqué,” I said.

“Oh no,” answered Rafi, “it’s terribly respectable.”

“How so?”

She pointed at a cross scratched on the wall; at a couple of indistinct shapes in a dark corner that might or might not have been lions, which I must admit I hadn’t noticed. Then at the engraved plate at the bottom of the frame. “The Victory of Faith. They’re Christian martyrs, obviously, about to be fed to the lions.”

“Oh! I suppose that makes it all right.”

“Who could complain about a Victorian gentleman hanging a piece of religious art on his wall? Entirely respectable. Oldest trick in the book. Same reason all the gay boys loved painting Saint Sebastian.”

“How do you know this stuff, Rafi?”

“Dad paid for me to take a couple of fine arts units in my degree. I’m not sure he knew quite what the content would be, but…” She shrugged. “He said it would broaden my mind. True enough.” Her hand rested on the back of my chair, touching my shoulder, as she studied the painting. “This one is by St. George Hare. He did a lot of martyrs. All of them attractive young women.”

“Some things never change… hey, Rafi?”

“Hmm?”

“Thanks for coming with me. I’m having a lot more fun than I would’ve on my own.”

“Me also.” She ruffled my hair and took hold of the chair’s handles. “Ready to move on?”

“Yup.”

That night after Rafi had gone to bed, I thought of The Victory of Faith and of the two of us lying naked together, hands resting on one another, and I wanted to knock on her door. But I didn’t. Instead my hand ran down between my legs and I bit down on a climax so sharp it hurt, left me quivering like jelly.

* * * * *

The next night Rafi resumed our story. The adventures of Fadil and the sea captain went on, the next night and the next and the next, with no end in sight.

* * * * *

“So what do you want out of this?” Annie asked me.

“I want her. But I don’t want to lose her as a friend.”

“You don’t want to risk the way things are between you now?” Annie looked at me over her glasses. “Penny, the only thing I can guarantee is that things won’t stay the way they are. If you say nothing and do nothing about this… sooner or later, one of you two is going to move on, and your friendship will change.”

“I guess that makes sense. But what she said about rebound relationships, I don’t want to hurt her.”

“Do you think that’s what this is? A rebound?”

“No. I’m pretty sure. But I’m not sure sure.”

“Are you going to be more sure in a week, or a month?”

“I guess not. But I don’t want to take risks with her happiness.”

“There’s always risk. Doing nothing has consequences too.”

* * * * *

We were sitting on the sofa, catching the TV news, with Bilqis between us. Rafi was patting her, and I was patting her, and trying not to accidentally-on-purpose brush Rafi’s hand with mine. “Rafi?”

“Hmm?”

“Tonight, could you tell me what happened next with Adiba and Makaarim?”

She flicked off the TV. “Are you sure you’re ready for it?”

“As sure as I’ll ever be.”

“Well, then.” She stood up. “In that case, I need to finish a riddle…”

* * * * *

Not long before dawn, as Adiba completed her fajr salat, Mishderesba brought another basket of food and drink. It was more delicious than before, but Adiba cared not for that. She pulled the food out of the basket and searched for another note, but to no avail.

It was only when she opened a package of figs that she found something unexpected, two curves of glass bound together in a metal tube. When she put it to her eye, she saw one of the city’s distant spires brought so close it seemed she ought to be able to reach out and touch it.

As the day dawned she stood watching the garden; as the sun’s first rays touched the tops of the trees Makaarim emerged. She walked through the garden, tending the peacocks once again, and from one of them she pulled a long feather that had come loose.

Adiba put the glass to her eye, and now Makaarim seemed so close that she could have kissed her. Then Makaarim began to caper across the green grass, whirling, leaping, spinning, and Adiba’s heart was seized with joy. As the Princess danced her garments fell away one by one. By the time she stopped under a peach tree to catch her breath she was quite naked, and Adiba was caught by her beauty as birds are hypnotised by snakes.

The Princess touched the feather-tip to her forehead, and to her lips. She kissed it, and then held it to her breast, twining her tail around the quill. Then she looked up at the tower, stretched out both her hands, and beckoned in a way that left Adiba in no doubt of her desire.

* * * * *

“And then, Penny, what did Adiba do?”

I told her.

* * * * *

No longer could Adiba bear to deceive Makaarim, although she knew it might be her end. Heedless of whether any other eyes might see, she shed her robe and stood there naked in the Princess’ sight, trembling for thought that Makaarim might be outraged at her ruse.

But the Princess did not turn away. She stayed there, looking up at Adiba until the latter put the glass to her eye once more. Then Makaarim smiled, and pressed the feather to her lips once more, and held out the tip as if to touch Adiba’s lips with it.

Having done so, she reached up to the tree and plucked a peach, never taking her eyes away from Adiba. She held it up to her chin, and the glass brought it so close that Adiba could see the fuzz on the peach, every tiny hair. Makaarim ran her finger over the peach-fuzz, following the cleft of the fruit, as her other hand traced the curves of her own breast.

Then she brought it to her lips and bit into it, lapping at it greedily as the juice ran down her chin and neck. Adiba could barely breathe as she watched Makaarim devour it, turning the fruit in her hand, consuming the flesh bite by bite until there was nothing left of it but the stone. Her tongue flickered along the crevices of the stone, seeking out the last of the juice; then she set the stone aside and licked her hands, tongue running down into the notch between her fingers for the juice there.

At length she went once again to the fountain and there washed herself thoroughly. Then she dressed, and once more she looked up to Adiba, and smiled, before bowing and returning to the palace.

Adiba shook herself as if waking from a dream, and then hastened to cover herself again, lest one of the city’s jinn should wake and glance in her direction.

That night Mishderesba brought her once more to the court. “Young man,” he said, “I wish you good fortune, for the sake of your clever riddles and enthralling tales.”

“It will be as Allah wills it,” she replied. Then she bowed before King Karrakanash and his sons, and last of all to Princess Makaarim who stood veiled among the women.

“Your eminences,” Adiba said, “I have but one riddle tonight. It is the last part of the story of the coin.” She held out the paper on which she had written another poem; it was a little smudged, for it had taken her all day to write, and the ink had not quite had time to dry before Mishderesba came for her.

“Well, then, let us have it!” said the King. She gave him the poem, and he read it out loud.

I thought to earn that copper coin And buy some happy hours I found it in a garden ‘twixt the fruit trees and the flowers

The coin was guarded all around By those who did not own it But futile were their walls and towers Had they only known it

I saw it gleaming in the night And started on my scheming With eyes of sand I spied it out While all the watch were dreaming

Concealed in lamp-black and old rags I told the guards no lies I worked my wiles to win the coin Before their very eyes

I laid no finger on it Never stole what was not mine Yet my fingers’ work hath won it And I mean to see it shine.

“Well,” said Minbidim, “the old rags seem simple enough; the fellow has disguised himself as a beggar to pass beneath the guards’ notice.”

“Perhaps,” said Lellinalak, frowning, “but what sort of coin is kept in a garden? And how would one steal it without laying a finger on it?”

Makaarim coughed politely. “Father, I have heard that a lodestone will draw metal to it, even from a distance. One might commit a theft with such a thing.”

“Perhaps,” said Lellinalak. “But what of the eyes of sand? That makes no sense at all.”

“He does not say they were his own eyes,” replied Amasp. “He might have waylaid one of the guards, then rubbed sand in the man’s eyes until he agreed to speak.” He glanced at Adiba. “As I am inclined to do, if this fellow will not tell us the answer.”

“You shall have your answer at dawn,” replied Adiba, “if you cannot guess it before then. And you have not guessed it yet.”

“We should look at the other parts again,” proposed Lellinalak, “for they may offer clues.” And they set Mishderesba to searching for the previous days’ riddles, but he could not find them, for Makaarim had anticipated her father’s suggestion and had hidden them away. Between the three brothers and their father they managed to recall most of the verses, but they lost some time in doing so.

Makaarim reminded them that the King’s library contained many books, and one of these might hold a clue, so Mishderesba was sent off to fetch them. Through skilful misdirection the Princess drew them into discussion about the coins of different lands, and about whether the Believers were permitted to stamp faces on their coins, or if that was haram, and more time was lost in this way.

The night had grown very late, and Amasp was growing ever angrier. He began to threaten all manner of vileness to Adiba if she did not reveal the answer, standing over her and gnashing his huge teeth like ships crashing on rocks. But she ignored him and began to pray the fajr salat.

Minbidim and Karrakanash were still in discussion, and Makaarim did her best to draw them off the scent. But Lellinalak stood on his own, deep in thought, and at last he stamped his foot so hard that he cracked the tiles on the floor.

“I have it!” he shouted, and glanced furiously at Adiba. “Two royal faces together, myself and Sharifah. The answer is—”

But at that very moment the first rays of the sun shone through an eastern window, falling on Makaarim. “The answer is me,” she said, “and you are too late, Father. Our visitor has won the challenge.”

“He has cheated!” protested Minbidim. “Lamp-black and rags—he has worn no such disguise! He wears fine robes!”

“Before your eyes I courted the Princess in verse,” replied Adiba, “with paper made from old rags and ink made from lamp-black.”

“Eyes of sand?” said the King.

Adiba showed them the brass-bound lenses that Makaarim had hidden in her basket. “As your Majesty no doubt knows, glass is made from molten sand.”

“And the rest of your verses—”

“Grandfather,” said the Princess, “for the sake of my modesty, perhaps it is best that we leave some things unexplained?”

The King hemmed and hawed, and paced the chamber, lashing his tails as he went. At length he spoke. “Well, young man, you have played us an impudent trick, and you have abused our hospitality mightily. But I have sworn upon the Seal of Sulayman and I am obliged to honour my promise. What boon do you ask of me?”

“Sire, I ask to wed your grand-daughter, if she will have me, and to take her back to her mother Queen Sharifah, who misses her sorely.”

“Well,” said the King again, “Adib, you have wasted your boon. Had you not asked this I would have compelled you to wed her anyway, for the sake of her honour. But you have asked this, and you shall have it. Let the arrangements be made!”

* * * * *

“Well,” Rafi said, “that’s a good place to leave it for tonight.” I’d figured that was approaching; she’d started to slow down a little, the way she always did when she was getting sleepy.

But, having said it, she made no movement to go, and the silence between us thickened. I sat up to face her, heart clenching and unclenching. “Rafi?”

“Hmm?” She smiled at me in an adorably drowsy sort of way.

“I want to kiss you. So much.”

She moved up towards me. “What are you waiting for?”

I dragged her down into my arms, brushing her face, lips against hers. I’d become so accustomed to her face in six years of friendship, and yet until a few months ago I’d never looked for such a contact; now I could think of nothing else. Her mouth opened, and I tasted her, an intimacy that made my heart flutter again, before she broke the kiss and pulled back a little way.

“Just kissing tonight, okay? I need to take this slow.”

I pulled her back in and we kissed again. Somebody once said there is an ocean inside every one of us; two oceans met that night, and mingled at the edges. I was pleasantly squashed under her, arms around her.

Then there was a soft thump on her back, and Rafi giggled. “Bilqis, no.” She rolled off me, dislodging the cat, and lay by my side.

(Bilqis wedged herself between us and began washing herself noisily.)

“So,” I said.

“So.”

“Can we do that again some time?”

“Tomorrow’s good.” She smiled at me, and soon after we fell asleep in one another’s arms.

* * * * *

After a long series of adventures, Fadil and the sea captain (he did have a name; do you think I can remember it?) had come by providence to Salt-Sorrow. There (after being arrested for murder, and proving their innocence by extraordinary means) they met Queen Sharifah, and heard of the young man “Adib” who had recently passed that way, and Fadil at once realised who it must be.

“Adib is no man,” he said, “but my own daughter Adiba, who I had thought lost in the shipwreck.”

“I am sorry,” said the Queen, “but I fear you have regained your daughter only to lose her again, for she went into the Desert of Jinn, and some days later the camels I gave her returned once again without her.” Then Fadil and the captain wept, and spoke of Adiba’s good qualities, and the Queen wept with them.

* * * * *

Rafi and I were, I suppose you’d call it, dating. Really it was very much like the things we’d been doing for years as friends and then housemates: movies, board games, what-have-you, but now the implications for us were different. When our friends were around we’d steal moments, a surreptitious touch as I passed her the dice or a look that lingered just a moment longer than it ought.

Every night felt charged, but Rafi still wanted to take things slow, so still we did no more than kiss. It was driving me a little crazy, but in a good sort of way. There was one thing nagging at me, though.

“Rafi?”

“Hmm?” We were sitting in front of the TV, my feet tangled up with hers.

“Is Makaarim Muslim? I notice you haven’t mentioned it one way or the other.”

“Hard to say. Canonically, the jinn have free will, and some of them are Muslim. But Lellinalak took her away when she was pretty young, and she wouldn’t have been exposed to it after that.”

“Is that going to cause problems for her and Adiba?”

“…for Rafi and Penny, you mean?”

“Yup.”

Rafi leaned in and slipped her arm behind my waist. “I hope not. I’m not going to tell you it’s nothing, it does complicate things. Same-sex, dating outside marriage, a Muslim with an atheist… a lot of people see all that as haram. You and I will have to deal with that.” She shrugged. “But people do deal with that. I prefer to read the Book and say, okay, what was the context in which these rules were given, and what was the purpose behind them, and how do I live up to that purpose in the modern world. I’d rather be true to the purpose and break the rules than follow the rules blindly and ignore the purpose. And if I get it wrong sometimes, I hope Allah will forgive me.

“With belief… the way I see it, if I believe that all goodness comes from Allah, then I have to accept that anybody who strives for goodness has some kind of relationship with Allah. Even if they don’t approach that in the same terms I do. Can you live with that?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” And she kissed me again. “We can talk about this more some other time, but for now I’d rather leave it there, okay? It’s been a hard journey sometimes, and I don’t want to dwell on it tonight.”

* * * * *

The next day was a Saturday. I was out for the afternoon visiting family, and I didn’t get back until nine p.m. When I did the place was dark; I thought Rafi must have gone out, but she answered when I called.

“In here, Penny.” My room.

My light was off, but she’d set candles on my bedside table. She was lying on my bed in pyjamas, propped up on her elbows and reading a thick book—none other than the 1001 Nights—but as I entered, she closed it and looked up at me. “I thought, if you like, we might start the story early tonight.”

“I’d love that!”

“You go get yourself ready for bed, then. I’ll be here.”

I showered and brushed my teeth, then returned in my bathrobe. She patted the bed next to her, and I lay down beside her on top of the covers. There was a pleasant smell in the air, cinnamon and roses.

“Rafi, are you wearing perfume?”

“Just a little. You like it?”

I nuzzled her neck, inhaled. “I do.”

“I will begin.”

* * * * *

A wedding in the City of Jinn is a marvellous thing, and the wedding of a Princess—that is beyond all description! Although Karrakanash might have preferred to make some other marriage for his grand-daughter, he chose to save face by behaving as if the match had been his idea from the start, and Adiba did not contradict him.