The Beastly Bride

THE MONKEY BRIDE Midori Snyder

Salim shaded his eyes from the blazing sunlight that burnished the desert a copper color. His horse panted as it plodded through the shifting sand. It was his own fault that he was here, Salim thought angrily; his fault that he was wandering across the desert in search of his rebellious spear.

That morning, the emir, his father, had called together Salim and his two older brothers. “My sons,” he said, “you have grown into strong young men. You are excellent hunters and your spears never miss their aim. It is time now to marry the brides I selected for you many years ago when you were first born. Go to the home of the woman chosen for you and drive your spear into the ground before her door to let the family know the time has come.”

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.

“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.

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.