Ellen Datlow - The Beastly Bride

Salim had watched as his older brothers, spears in hand, had ridden through the village. Jamal, the eldest, drove his spear in front of the door of a wealthy merchant, whose daughter had a gap between her front teeth. Next, his brother Suliman had planted his spear at the door of a prosperous caravan master, whose daughter had plump limbs. When it was his turn, Salim had galloped up and down, up and down through the village, the spear remaining firm in his grasp. The emir called to him: “Salim, what prevents you from claiming your bride? Have you no desire to be married?”

“Of course I wish to be married,” he’d said. But not to the young woman his father had chosen. Salim had seen the melancholy way she gazed at the goldsmith’s son and how she turned her head whenever they passed in the street. How could he marry a woman he did not love, and one who did not want him? In a burst of defiance, he wheeled his horse around and shouted: “I call upon the hunter’s right to let my spear find a wife for me.” And with that, he had cast his spear far out into the desert.

His father had been angry. “Foolish boy! I chose a bride for you that would have brought our families honor. But you scorn such wisdom. Ignore my counsel and my wishes if you will, but know that you must now follow this path alone.”

Ashamed of himself for having offended his father, Salim had set off in search of his spear. Perhaps it might not be too late to make amends. But the longer he traveled in the desert not finding it, the more worried he became. “My spear has been my loyal companion, and yet now it leads me far from home. There is some strange force at work here,” he told himself. “But as I chose my fate, I must follow where it leads.”

A lone acacia tree appeared on the crest of a high dune. The horse hurried toward it, drawn by the scent of water bubbling in a spring nearby. As they approached, Salim saw his spear buried in the trunk. He slipped off his horse and went to retrieve it, disappointed that his journey had ended here. Then he heard a slight cough, and looking up, he saw a girda monkey perched high in the branches.

“Are you supposed to be my future bride?” he said wryly to the monkey.

“That I am,” answered the girda.

Salim was shocked by her unexpected reply, and then dismayed, realizing that he was now face-to-face with the consequences of his rash behavior. “Well,” he said ruefully, “though you have no wealth to bring with you, at least you can talk.”

“That I can,” said the monkey, scrambling down the tree. “Remember, it was you who chose me .”

“Yes,” Salim said unhappily, wishing he could undo the spear’s flight. He mounted his horse and, offering the girda his hand, pulled her up behind him. She laid her furred cheek against his shoulder and slipped a long arm around his waist. Salim’s heart sank as the girda’s musky odor filled his nostrils.

Salim was silent on the long journey home. Once there, he showed the girda to her room. Without a word, she lay down on an old angareb bed and promptly fell asleep. Then Salim went to give his father the disheartening news.

“Father, you were right to condemn my foolish behavior,” Salim confessed, “for I cast my spear into the desert and it found the home of a female girda. She spoke to me.”

“What did you do?”

“I brought her home, and now I must do the honorable thing and wed her.”

The emir shook his head. “You have brought this on yourself, my son, and it is you who must settle the matter.”

In the weeks that followed his marriage, Salim traveled far distances to hunt each day, hoping to flee his own despair. Ever since the girda had arrived, the plain house of his bachelorhood had seemed particularly comfortless. A human bride would have brought a fine dowry to his home: rugs and cushions, lamps of scented oil, sandalwood tables, and copper dishes. She would have brought servants to cook and clean, and been a companion to share his bed. Instead, there was only a girda waiting patiently for his return each day. The monkey would come and sit beside him as he ate a plain meal off of clay dishes. Frustrated anger would rise in him at the prickly stench of girda fur, and then dissolve with the sound of her sighs. She was as miserable as he was, he realized. What life was this for a girda, after all? And it had been his fault, for it was his spear that had claimed her in the desert.

One night, after returning empty-handed from a long day of hunting, Salim met the emir in the village square. He greeted his father and asked what had brought him out on the streets at such a late hour.

“I have been dining with your older brothers,” the emir replied. “For the last two nights I have visited their homes to discover how married life suits them.”

“And how did you find them?” Salim asked, sorrow like an arrow in his chest.

“Very fine, indeed. Their wives are beautiful, and their houses are filled with every luxury. I have dined exceptionally well,” the emir said, patting his stomach. “And how are things with you, my youngest son?”

“Not as well as with my brothers,” Salim replied, shame darkening his cheeks. “I am sorry, Father, that I cannot ask you to dine with me.” Then he turned his horse’s head and quickly galloped home.

There were no lights to welcome him. Salim unsaddled and stabled his horse, then stumbled to his angareb , where he tossed and turned in misery until the girda came to him.

“What troubles your sleep?” the monkey asked. “Perhaps it is something we can solve together?”

Salim sat up and stared into the girda’s concerned eyes. “It’s kind of you to ask, but there is nothing you can do for me. My life would have been better had I married the woman of my father’s choosing, just as yours would have been better had you found a male monkey for your mate, instead of me. I have ruined both our futures.”

“You are a man,” the girda said, “and you can’t know what lies in a girda’s heart. And you don’t know me well enough to know what I might do for you if asked. So tell me, what is troubling you?”

Salim told her about meeting his father that night; he told her about his brothers and their wives, how they had lavishly entertained the emir. And he told her that he was filled with shame because he could not do the same.

“Is that all?” the girda asked. “We can solve this problem tonight. Take me to the desert and I will lead you to a town where all the women are rich and beautiful. There you will find many willing to marry the emir’s handsome youngest son. Choose one, and she will accompany you home, bringing her wealth, her servants, and her family’s blessings on such a union. In the morning, you can ask your father to dine with you, and all will be well again.”

Salim’s heart quickened. But he hesitated, seeing disappointment in the girda’s eyes.

“You are very kind to help me,” he said. “But if I choose another, what will happen to you?”

“I will die,” she answered.

Salim’s joy was dashed by her words. “Then I won’t do it. I brought you here and I won’t trade your life for my happiness. No, little girda, you are still my bride. I won’t be the cause of your death.”

“I tell you, Salim, there can be nothing easier than this,” the girda insisted, a paw resting on his thigh. “Take me back to the desert, and you will find that beautiful wife of your dreams.”

Salim closed his eyes, imagining her: a long sweep of raven hair, slender limbs, and a heart-shaped face. Then he opened his eyes, and the vision vanished as he stared into the furred face of a girda. “What will happen to you?” he asked again.