Rapunzel must die a pers.., p.9
Rapunzel Must Die: A Persian Retelling, page 9
certain, dear one. She was taken by dark magic. That is as good as a death sentence.”
“But it isn’t an actual death sentence, is it? All these years you knew she could have been out there. We should have been looking for her. I could have been looking for her!”
Davud jerked his arm loose of Farrah’s hold.
Mahmoud watched her lip start to tremble. How easily hurt she was. How could a person be so fragile, and yet so strong at the same time? To have been through what she had took strength like the mountains—but how prone to rockslides and flashfloods.
“Son, you don’t know of what you speak,” Mahmoud interjected firmly. “The Tower is a pit, and dark magic lives there, and loved ones are lost there. Your sister, the widow—your mother and I had already lost enough.”
Davud’s mouth remained a firm and unyielding line, but Karim cleared his throat.
“Perhaps your guest requires attention,” he indicated the half-dead girl who had moved silently to the edge of the cliff. She had been all but forgotten in the light of the recent news.
Farrah rushed towards her, directing her gently a few steps away from the edge. “Come away, dear. It is not safe so close to the edge. Please forgive our distraction. It is just such very big news and…”
Farrah stopped, took in the girl’s face. Mahmoud stepped closer,
drawn in by faint traces of liquid silver falling from her eyes.
“Little one,” Farrah said in a soft hum, “are you crying?”
Mahmoud knew his bride shared the same thought they all did—what a wonder that eyes of stone could cry, and what beautiful tears they made when they finally did.
Farrah wiped the half-dead girl’s tears and her fingertips came away stained silver because of it.
Mahmoud’s chest tightened to see it. Farrah was marked now, forever tied to this girl who was not quite alive and not quite dead. Catching a person’s tears leaves a permanent mark, after all, and it is not easy to forget or take lightly, especially for those with big hearts.
“I suppose that is what it is called, isn’t it,” said the girl.
“Little sister,” Davud said stepping in front of her. “What makes you cry? Have you remembered something?“
Mahmoud felt proud to watch the protective nature displayed in his son. What a fine family he had.
The girl’s face remained stoic, despite the silvery tears, as if the rest of the muscles there could not comprehend the sadness.
“I’ve just remembered a feeling,” she said, “nothing specific, except this place you say I was—the Tower—my heart heard that word and remembered, it is a very sad place. I do not like this feeling.”
Farrah put an arm around her shoulder. “No, it is a big feeling
for such a little one to carry around. And look!” she remarked as she peered closer into the girl’s eyes. “There is a new crack in your eye.”
And there it was, a jagged line in the rock colors of the pupilless eye.
“Is that where the tears are coming from?” she asked quietly. “What does it mean?”
Farrah and Mahmoud exchanged glances. It was magic beyond their understanding. Yes, the gray magic of grief they understood. It was not good or bad in particular. It could turn either way depending on the person. But stone eyes with cracks running through them? This was something new.
“You both know what has to be done,” Davud said. “I must go to the Tower. That is where she is, and that is where the answers will be.”
“No!” said Farrah hurriedly. “We forbid it! Don’t we Mahmoud?”
Mahmoud sighed—ah, the heaviness that sometimes came with doing what was best for his family. He in turn looked to his own father, appreciating as he often did the decisions that had to be made in his own raising. For Mahmoud to keep his son safe would mean to lose his daughter. Yet how could he unlearn what he had just discovered and do nothing? His little girl was alive, and was a replica of her mother.
There were Farrah’s eyes pleading with him, but there were also Davud’s gleaming with defiance. This was a young man who wrestled with wolves and jackals and bears. He was old enough to have a family of his own. How much longer could Mahmoud even tell him what to do? Mahmoud had sung that strength into him.
Turning to Farrah he said, “He must go, my bride. You know it is true.” It pained him to be the source of Farrah’s newest fear, but it had to be done. What sort of a man—what sort of a father would be be—if he didn’t at least let Davud try?
Mahmoud’s heart burst open, to all at once see the excitement in his son’s face, and the fear in his bride’s.
There. It had been said. Let the fates have their games.
Let Davud be a man.
Mina
On the third day, an object was shoved through the slot in
her cell door.
It was a canteen and a tray of something she supposed was food. She didn't waste much time investigating the brown slop on her tray. She downed it in just a few bites and greedily tore into the chunk of hard bread. She tried sprinkling a few drops of water on it to soften it, but there was no coming back for that bread. But what was texture to a starving person?
On the first day, Mina made the mistake of drinking from the little faucet in her cell. It only took a few hours for it to travel through her body in a way that she soon came to realize meant the water was non-potable.
Naturally.
Her lips parted as she lifted the canteen to them. Immediately she could smell something in the water. It was plasticky in a way that made sense, as the canteen looked to be some sort of military surplus stock, but there was also a faint chemical smell to it.
She sniffed at it. Could they have put something in the water?
Mr. Kazemi watched through the slot. “Not good enough for the princess? Shall I take it away?”
Mina’s throat cried out in protest at the thought of even another hour without water. They wouldn't kill me this way, she thought darkly. They prefer to hang me instead. Oddly comforted at her own reassurance, Mina drank and drank and drank. They had left her cuffed on the chair for the entire day. She never knew a soreness like that was even possible. How numb she had gone at first. She lost consciousness multiple times and for that she was grateful. At least it made the time go faster.
As soon as they finally released her long after the sun had vanished, and the feeling had somewhat returned to her extremities, she crawled across the cold floor. She thought of the scream she still kept inside her. She thought of raging and roaring. But still she kept silent. She raised her knuckles to the wall she shared with Leila.
Tap. Tap. Tap
Nothing, for a frightening moment, and then came a response.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Mina had a lot of time to think in the chair, and she had come to the tiniest of plans. Of course, it hinged entirely on Leila being able to decipher a code without ever receiving the decoder. But it was a system of taps easy enough to understand, especially for twins connected with invisible strings.
One tap for every letter in the alphabet. Of course, it would be no good for any sort of lengthy conversation, but little phrases would mean as much as diatribes given the circumstances.
Mina began slowly. She tapped once for A, then eighteen times
for R, five times for E, and then she paused a beat, indicating a new
word, and began again.
Are you ok.
She held her breath, ignoring the throbbing fiery ache in every limb. Please understand, she thought desperately. Help her to understand. She repeated the phrase one more time for good measure.
The taps came back a moment later. Mina said the alphabet along with every tap until she had a response of her own.
I am here.
Mina wanted to sob. She felt as if she could collapse. She buried her face into her hands, body shuddering at the immensity of those few words.
She collected herself, wiping her nose with her hand then tapped out a reply.
I love you, Leila. We got this.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
To hell with the bastards, was Leila’s response.
For the first time in days, Mina smiled. She drifted off to sleep with her hand against the wall.
She couldn't think of her cousin, or if what they had said was even true. They could have just been playing more games. But Mina was good at compartmentalizing, so she did it now. Instead, she pictured Leila right beside her, as if they were back at their parent’s apartment sharing that shitty springy mattress or as if they were little girls again, out under the stars that made their homes above the Zagros Mountains. There was the cookfire before them and the girls were playing with Leila’s wooden horses as their father told them the story of Rapunzel and Davud and the half-dead girl who cried silvery tears.
To hell with the bastards, Leila had said.
Mina had never loved her sister more.
Rapunzel’s Story: Farrah
Farrah prepared a feast.
They had a guest after all, who was quickly becoming more than a guest and Farrah had the silver stains on her fingertips to prove it.
“Come child, help me with the meal,” she had said because the girl could likely use the distraction, and Farrah wanted to keep her close. She gave her easy enough jobs, like watching the eggs as they fried to keep them from burning and doing the last bit of churning for the butter. She had her add mint leaves to the yogurt drinks and pile the bread onto one of their prized silver platters while it was still hot.
Soon the air was thick with the comforting smell of a family preparing to feast. Farrah fried wild onions to mix with saffron rice and even added some of her cherished stash of turmeric. The spice could be hard to come by in the mountains, and Davud had sold a prized lamb to get the spice, but it was perfect for such feasts. She passed the girl bits of cumin candy as she set about searing the lamb, because why shouldn't the girl have sweet things to eat? Surely, she had been through enough. But what had she been through exactly? Farrah mused as she stirred the rice.
The girl finally agreed to take the rope from her shoulders, but she sat beside it protectively as if she were afraid to part with it. The girl, done with her chores, sucked silently at the candy and stared into the flames of the cooking fire. The men sang in the distance as they gathered the lambs for the evening to corral them and keep them safe from wild beasts—although the beasts rarely came close when there were so many of them together. Farrah considered the half-dead girl again.
“We should come up with a name for you,” she said after tasting a bit of the lamb. She licked her fingers, startled to find the taste bitter, realizing it was only the stains from the silvery tears that left such a taste.
The girl looked up with a small smile on her lips—the first Farrah had seen. It really was remarkable how much insight one lost into a person's inner thoughts and feelings once their eyes turned to stone.
Xerxes, their donkey, now quite ancient in his own right, ambled up to investigate the family's new addition. The half-dead girl gave the quickest of giggles as Xerxes put his head against her shoulder, insistent in his quest for attention.
“He'll be your best of friends forever,” Farrah confided playfully, “if you give him a sugar cube.”
She passed one to the girl, then another. “Maybe two. He deserves it. He's worked faithfully for us all his life.”
The girl accepted the treat. “I like him,” she said decisively. “And I like the sound of having a name.”
She handed Xerxes one of the sugar cubes and stroked his soft
muzzle as he chewed at it.
“Will you let me pick it?” Farrah sat down next to her. Up close it was easier to see the cuts on the girls harshly sheared scalp. Who had cut her hair, and why?
The girl nodded, relinquishing the remaining sugar cube. Xerxes, sure no one would dare to only give him two sugar cubes, nuzzled the girls hand insistently until she turned it over to prove she had no more. She giggled again as he licked her palm.
“He is a very strange donkey,” Farrah said with a grin, heart warming to hear the girl’s laugh. How many little-girl laughs from her own child had she missed? Had she been wrong not to insist Mahmoud return to the Tower? But after Parisa had not returned, she had been so afraid. And then she remembered the moths and those great wings full of eyes and shivered. Was this girl in such a place as one that birthed such monsters? She pushed aside the haunting thoughts. The girl deserved a name.
Farrah slapped her knee. “Aha! I know the perfect name. Mahnaz—it means, glory or beauty of the moon. What do you think? Perhaps it will be a good placeholder, until your memories return.”
The girl smiled wide, throwing herself suddenly into Farrah's arms. Farrah held the girl tightly, felt the newly-named girl curl up in a space in her heart. And with that new name in Farrah's heart came a fresh new fear. She shouldn't get attached to the girl. What if the magic went bad and it started what it had finished and led the girl to pick up her rope once more and jump again from a tree? That horrible rope. Was she never to be free of it? No, don't get too attached, Farrah thought as she hugged the girl who now smelled of fire smoke and sugar and freshly baked bread.
Of course, she knew deep down, it was already too late. She had made such a feast, after all, and given out a name. She looked up to the stars. How much higher could she climb if anything else went wrong? If anyone else was taken from her, she'd have to build a staircase into those distant stars.
The men came in from the field. With more animation than Farrah had yet seen, Mahnaz proudly told them her new name.
“A new name?” said Mahmoud with a clap of his hands. “Of course, that means we must celebrate!”
Farrah saw quickly that every kind word and gesture reverted Mahnaz just a little, towards the true nature a child should have—not the stoic, distant silence she had crested the cliff with.
Farrah laughed as Davud hoisted the girl who was now just a little more alive than dead onto his shoulders. “Three cheers for Mahnaz,” Davud shouted happily.
Karim brought out his flutes and drums and they danced long into the night under ancient constellations. Mahmoud had taught Farrah long ago to seek out what good things remained, even after grief, and to celebrate them unapologetically.
Farrah and Mahnaz spun with arms up and palms outstretched, like four more little pale stars, and she did just that. She would think about the Tower later. For now, there was fresh butter and bread, hot black tea, drum beats and new names.
Mina
On the fourth day, Mina discovered patterns on the ceiling
of her cell.
The guards had strapped her down to the metal bed, and Mina's mind and body completely revolted.
Oh, how she flailed. Oh, how her limbs pulled with everything inside of her at her bonds, with all her waning strength. The soft and sacred places on her body felt withdrawn, as if they could sense this undignified vulnerability and wanted to fold in on themselves protectively.
Mina's blood was fire—how angry they made her—these men who locked women away in towers for the little things they thought were indecent behaviors, like exposing too much hair or standing on a street where a protest was occurring or daring to have a life outside their homeland. The absolute hypocrisy of how they stretched her out now, as if theirs wasn’t the most indecent of all behaviors.
But Mina’s worst fear did not manifest. There was no pulling down of her pants, no heavy bodies on top of her with foul, stale breath. She was confused, and for a moment, stopped resisting against her restraints, unsure of this new game.
It was tiresome to look for a new type of danger every day. Had she really only been there four days? Surely, it had been years.
Finally, Mina had her answer. Mr. Kazemi walked back into the cell holding a thin metal rod. Mr. Madani reclined against the wall with a cup of coffee, newspaper in one hand. Mina stared at him, so deeply wounded by the cold indifference in another human’s demeanor.
He sipped his coffee. “Are you ready to confess?”
Mina glared. “I am no spy.”
Then, came a rapid-fire session of questions, asked over and over again. At first, Mina shot them down, one by one by one. But still, they came. The same questions, making her angrier and angrier each time she heard them.
“How long have you been giving information about our country to the US government?”
“What are the names of your conspirators here in Persia?”
“Who else in your family is involved?”
“Who were the organizers of the protest?”
Mina said nothing.
Mr. Madani shrugged, then nodded to Mr. Kazemi, who ripped off Mina's socks before she could so much as blink, before she could so much as breath.
There was a waving of Mr. Kazemi's arm.
There was a sound of the metal rod through the air.
And after the sick swish of it, there came a blinding and heart stopping pain, as the rod connected with the soft bottoms of her
feet.
Mina had done such a very good job of suffocating her scream. She had fought a good fight for four days. But she hadn't been—could never have been—prepared for the lightning strike that was the rod across her feet.
Whip. Whip. Whip.
She screamed. By God, did she scream. And when the first scream ended, Mr. Madani turned the page of his newspaper. He took another sip of his coffee and to an awaiting Mr. Kazemi he said, “Proceed. If she has nothing to tell us, we must fill this time somehow, mustn’t we?”
Disappear, Mina thought as she felt her eyes sting with tears.
Disappear, disappear, disappear. Melt into this bed until I am nothing but free.
She looked at the ceiling and suddenly it seemed to her that there were patterns there.
There, she thought, tracing the lines and edges of a discoloration—the mountains she had been born to. Yes, and there was the river, rushing and spitting. I am not here. I am there. I am Davud and his sheep. I am Rapunzel with her white hair. I am the mountains themselves with my many caves to hide old secrets.
