Ellen Datlow - The Beastly Bride

“I will die,” she replied gently.

“I won’t reward your kindness with your death!” said Salim, shaking his head. “No, little girda, you will remain here with me. Somehow we shall manage.”

“As you wish.” The little girda shrugged. “But, Salim, have you not asked yourself how it is possible that I can talk? And if I am capable of such a thing, is it not also possible that I am capable of other remarkable things?”

“Why, yes,” Salim answered, surprised.

“Good,” said the girda, her gentle eyes holding Salim’s astonished gaze. “Then trust me. Bid your father to dine with you tomorrow. Believe that, like your brothers’ wives, I, too, can entertain the emir in the manner you would wish.”

“All right, I will ask him,” Salim agreed, his heart lightening. And for the first time, he wondered what manner of creature his spear had claimed in the desert.

That night, roused by curiosity at last, Salim went to his bride’s bedroom. A stray shaft of moonlight from a crack in the roof illuminated the girda as she lay sleeping. Salim moved closer and saw that her furred pelt had split open at the back. Long black hair, entwined with golden chains, spilled through the split in the monkey skin. He touched it gently, surprised by its softness. The girda sighed and turned in her sleep, and Salim, filled with puzzlement and wonder, retreated from the room.

Early the next evening, Salim knocked upon the gate of his father’s house. He was welcomed by the servants and brought before the emir, who was sitting in his garden with his second wife, Salim’s mother. Bowing before his parents, he said: “Father, I have come to ask you to dine with me this night. At this very moment, my bride is preparing a feast.”

The emir frowned. “My son, how can you ask such a thing? You have no proper marriage, for you disregarded my guidance and chose no woman to be your wife. How can I dine in a house such as yours?”

“I promise that you will not be disappointed or dishonored,” Salim replied with more confidence than he felt, pressing the invitation until, at last, the emir reluctantly agreed.

As they walked through the village together, Salim’s stomach churned at the thought of the dark, cheerless rooms he’d left behind. What did a girda know, after all, about entertaining an emir? Yet when they reached the house, the light from a hundred oil lamps bloomed brilliantly through the windows. At the doorway stood serving boys holding bowls of scented water with which to wash away the dust. Inside, the floors were covered with rugs of richly dyed wools and pillows of embroidered silk. Carved sandalwood tables held golden plates laden with mouthwatering food.

“From where comes this wealth, my son?” the emir asked, amazed.

“From my bride, Father,” Salim replied.

The emir walked around the room, touching everything, as though to assure himself that it was real. Then he sat amid the silken cushions and ate, but sparingly, of the lavish feast. He was not entirely pleased, Salim realized, by his son’s new-found prosperity. My father believes me a liar , he thought, for what girda could have such a dowry? I barely know what to make of it myself.I must find a way to learn what else is hidden beneath the monkey’s skin before I explain this mystery to him.

The following morning, Salim awoke to a house that was once more dark and dreary. He might have wondered if he had dreamed the splendor of the night before, but the residue of spiced oil on his lips and the contentment of his full stomach declared that it had all been real. He resolved to talk to the girda, but before he could find her, a messenger arrived at the door.

The messenger bowed deeply. “I bring greetings from the emir,” he said, “who wishes to repay you for your hospitality, and requests that you and your wife join with your brothers and their wives to attend a feast of gratitude.”

Salim was struck dumb. He could not bring a monkey to dine with his brothers and their wives; it was more shame than he could possibly bear. He buried his head between his hands as the girda entered the room.

“What troubles you?” the girda asked. “Was your father not well pleased last night?”

“He was,” Salim answered, his voice muffled by his palms. “So well indeed, that he now requests the presence of his three sons and their wives at his home to dine. I don’t know what to do.”

“You must go, of course,” the girda replied.

“I can’t. My little girda, you are my wife. I shall not break that vow. But I cannot take a monkey to dine in the house of an emir.”

“Take me back to the desert and I will show you where to find a beautiful new wife.”

“But what will happen to you?”

“As I told you before, I will die,” she said.

“And as I have told you before, I won’t let that happen!”

“You must choose: honor your father’s wishes and bring me as your wife to his house tonight, or take me back to the desert and find a more suitable woman to take my place.”

“I will not.”

“Then I shall go to your father’s feast.”

“As you wish,” Salim said, with a flush of temper. “But you will go alone, for I won’t come with you!” He left the room angrily, saddled his horse, and rode away.

Throughout the day, Salim galloped across the desert, trying to outrun his emotions. The horse grew weary, its flanks dark with sweat. Finally, at a small oasis, he stopped to give his horse a rest. Dismounting, his anger dissipating, Salim began to think more clearly. He knew he could not betray the girda; having brought her into his home, he could not now discard her simply to save himself from shame. Despite his dismay at such a bride, the girda had shown him nothing but kindness. And what had he given to her in return? He had not even thanked her for last night’s feast. Or asked how it had been possible. Obsessed with the oddity of his marriage, he’d failed to note it was also remarkable. He recalled the sight of the girda sleeping, and of moonlight shining on long black hair spilling out of the split in the girda skin. It was then that Salim decided to stop running and search, instead, for answers.

Night was falling as Salim stabled his horse at a neighbor’s house and then returned quietly to his own. He crept to the roof and found the small crack in the ceiling above the girda’s bedroom. With his eye to the crack, he watched as she prepared for the emir’s feast.

Standing, the girda waved her paw, and a mirror appeared on the rough mud wall. She studied her reflection with interest. Then her thick-furred pelt split down the back, and a woman emerged from the ugly skin. Salim bit his hand to keep from crying out. She was young and beautiful, with shapely limbs, high rounded breasts, and almond eyes in a heart-shaped face. He watched as she donned a fine linen shift, golden bangles, jeweled necklaces and combs — each item pulled from the monkey skin. Then she wrapped herself in a large silk shawl and left for his father’s feast.

The moment she was gone, Salim hastened to her room. He picked up the discarded monkey skin, turning it inside out and realizing that it was as empty as the dried husk of a locust. Whatever magic existed was not in the skin but in the woman herself. She had gone to the emir as herself, Salim thought, and no longer needed it. Impulsively, he threw the hideous skin into the fire, where it sizzled with strange blue smoke until there was nothing left but ashes. Then, he sat and waited for his wife to return home.