Ellen Datlow - The Beastly Bride

Fatma, the daughter of the king of Alledjenu, smiled as she walked to the emir’s house, for she had loved Salim from the moment she’d first seen him riding across the desert. She’d followed him in the guise of a hawk as he hunted close to her father’s land, and he’d never known that a king’s daughter was tracking him from above. She’d watched him many times since then, delighting in the ebony of his skin, his bold black eyes, and even white teeth. And on the day that he’d cast his spear into the desert, she’d coaxed the spear to come to her, leading the emir’s son to a small oasis in her father’s domain.

But his handsome face was no guarantee that he could love Fatma as she desired, faithfully and with a generous heart. She needed to be sure of him. And so she had devised her test, changing her fine hawk feathers for the dusky skin of a girda monkey. And oh, how he had suffered for his compassion toward her! A lesser man would have seized the chance to free himself from this wretched fate and gain a wealthy, beautiful wife. But not Salim. She had offered him the easiest of all possible escapes from his misery, but he had found the price too high. Despite his deep unhappiness, he had been nothing but honorable toward his monkey bride.

Fatma raised her head, catching the acrid odor of singed fur that followed her on the wind. She had been right, of course. Salim’s kindness and generosity had allowed her to abandon the monkey skin. But in so doing, the monkey girl had died to allow the woman to become his true wife. Neither of them needed the skin anymore.

Fatma arrived at the emir’s house, and two servants ushered her into the private chambers where he entertained his family. As she stood in the doorway, her shawl hiding her face, Fatma could hear the whispered complaints of the other wives, distraught at finding themselves expected to dine in the company of a monkey.

The emir called to her, “My sons’ wives are not veiled in this room. You, too, must remove your veil and show your face. We will not insult you.”

“And why should the chosen wife of your youngest son be insulted?” asked Fatma as she pulled off her shawl, her beauty emerging like the rising sun from the folds of the dark fabric. Salim’s brothers and their wives stared at her, speechless. The emir devoured her with his eyes, his displeasure in his youngest son’s marriage swept away by the sight of this regal young woman covered in gold and jewels.

Fatma lowered her gaze in modesty. She unwrapped a large diamond from a length of silk and presented it to her father-in-law. “Please accept this gift from my father, the king of Alledjenu — who, knowing of my love for your son, has granted me the privilege of marriage. I know that the mysterious manner of my presence here has grieved you, my lord. I came disguised in a monkey skin to determine if your son was as good and honorable as he is handsome. The girda skin repulsed him, yet he refused to harm the girda and seek another bride. Salim has passed my test. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my lord, I shall return to our home in my own true shape, as a woman and as his loving wife.” Fatma bowed her head before her startled in-laws, wrapped the shawl around her shoulders, and departed.

Versed in magic as she was, Fatma could sense Salim long before she could see the house. She could feel the strength of his emotions, hear his heart drumming in anticipation of her return, and she willed the dark and dreary house to be filled with warmth and light. Her thoughts flew before her, lavishly redressing each room, preparing the house for her arrival. She gave special care to the seraglio, where this night she and Salim would finally sleep together as a married couple.

Arriving home at last, she threaded her way through the now elegant rooms until she came to the seraglio, where her young husband awaited her. A blue-tinged fire blazed within the hearth. No sign of the girda skin remained. Salim grinned, shyly at first, then broadly, his gaze never leaving her face. With a joyful laugh, for she knew herself to be loved, she flew into his open arms.

MIDORI SNYDER is a writer, folklorist, and the codirector of the award-winning Endicott Studio for the Mythic Arts. She has published eight books for adults, young adults, and children, winning the Mythopoeic Award for her Italian-ate novel The Innamorati . Her short stories, essays, and poems have appeared in many journals, anthologies, and “best of the year” collections. Her forthcoming books include a fairy novel with Jane Yolen, and a sequel to The Innamorati . She currently resides with her husband, Stephen Haessler, in Arizona.

Who doesn’t have a list of attributes that one looks for in a boyfriend or girlfriend, a husband or wife? We may be attracted to someone because they are beautiful or handsome — but that is rarely enough to attract us for long. So we all “test” these potential partners based on our own private list of preferences. It is one of the reasons why I have always enjoyed the tale of the Monkey Girl from the Kordofan of the Sudan. From a great distance, a magical bride sees a young man she likes and devises a clever plan to test him, really test him up close. Does the handsome man have integrity? Honor? Compassion? These are the qualities that matter most to her, and happily for the couple, the young man proves to be worthy. For me, top among the usual attractive qualities was a good sense of humor, and thirty years of marriage later, I can say I am still laughing.

On the day Shruti’s grandfather was to be cremated, her grandmother went into the garden of their apartment complex to pick roses for a garland. She never came back. Shruti’s father and uncle went on to the crematorium with the body and the priest, while Shruti’s mother sat cross-legged on the floor in her heavy silk sari and wailed on Auntie’s shoulder, and the police searched for Ankita Bai.

Shruti climbed up to a sunlit windowsill, crumpling her stiff new pink dress. She leaned against the mosquito screen to peer down at the garden, its layered tops of coconut palms, mango trees, banana palms, and frangipani bushes spreading their greens over bright smears of rose and bougainvillea. Mama blew her nose noisily and sniffled, then wiped her face on the embroidered end of her sari. Auntie rolled her eyes.

The doorbell buzzed. Shruti’s brother and cousin raced off to answer it, and came back almost bouncing with excitement. With them was a policeman, cap in hand.

“You should ask my sister questions,” said Gautam importantly. “Ankita Nani always talked to her.”

The policeman came over to the window and bent over Shruti, his hands on his knees. He was balding and shiny with sweat, and his khaki uniform bulged at the stomach. “Do you know where your Nani went, little girl?” he asked.