“A Turkish Tale”….A Short Story.

Zar Dancer

(A Zar Dancer)

The Zar is a number of things in North Africa and Middle Eastern countries.  It is a ritual, a bonding ritual and the Zar is a Djinn, or demon who possesses women.  It’s also a way for women to get the attention of their husbands (as the Zar only possesses married women…) as in “The Zar told me that I could have a new red scarf.”  A Sheikha calls out the Zar from a women possessed and gives him new marching orders.  She restores the peace amongst couples.




“Woman!” said an angry Ahmed. “We are married a year. You behave like a child! You don’t speak to my mother. I did not get married for this treatment. You are a terrible wife!”

Ahmed had a reason to be angry with Aya. She did not act the spouse he believed he deserved. He expected a paradise on earth, a wife pliable to his wishes and prepared to serve his wants. But Aya was young, only sixteen years old at the wedding. She came from across the mountain, born in a village no different from where she was now. No village in this part of the country was much different, and the mountains bred people repeating the same traditions and habits.

Aya was very naïve and ignorant of life.   She was a daughter born in the middle of ten children, not noticed by any much. Plus, she was a shy girl, and not expected to shine.

When a matchmaker came from Ahmed’s parents, everyone was shocked. Surprised she could be married off.   Both sets of parents, with the matchmaker in the middle, bargained for Aya much as her father bought sheep in the market. In due time, Aya was married and packed off to Ahmed’s parents, over the mountain and into another village and that was the last the bride’s family saw of Aya.

Aya began to droop. Deprived of the only people she knew and thrust into a family of strangers, she became even more timid and quiet. The excitement of the new marriage had passed, and living with Ahmed in a room apart from the large, noisy family was not much of a change. All brides have hope and expectations, and though she was married for a year, Aya still held hope for something different than what her life was already.

Ahmed’s mother smelled trouble. She could tell by the scowl of her favorite son that he was not happy. Peace on earth depended upon the contentment of men, and Ahmed’s mother had tradition to uphold. She knew the trouble gossip could cause, for she had been the generator of much during her life.   Soon Ahmed’s sadness would be common discussion around the well, and the family would lose face. Something had to be done and Ahmed’s mother knew it was up to her to save the family honor. But first she would talk to the raw girl.

One day Ahmed’s mother went and cornered her in the courtyard while she fed chickens.

“My daughter. Why the long face?”

She generally showed little concern for her daughter- in- law, for she did not understand her. Aya was quiet, which was proper for a good Muslim woman, but too quiet. She had grown listless and preoccupied with spending time on the roof looking over the dry and rocky countryside. Many times Ahmed’s mother caught her up there, a strange look in her eye, and seemingly deaf to her calls.   At first she had hoped for a grandchild, but Ahmed was spending more time with the men and less with his woman. Surely the girl should be able to charm her new husband. She must not be trying! Ahmed said little, just went about the house with a scowl, but all knew something was wrong.

Ahmed’s mother, whose name was Leila, could get nothing from her. The silly bride bowed her head, and cast her eyes downward, looking at her dusty feet. Well, the peace of her household was at stake, and if Ahmed was unhappy, Leila was prepared to do battle.

But not with the girl. That would be beneath her.

So in time honored tradition, Leila made a formal visit to the local Sheikha. She would know what to do. Leila would at least have the satisfaction of doing her duty by her son. If the Sheikha, named Shakira, was successful, Leila and her husband would be able at least to keep all of the bride price. To return it, or even a part, would be a terrible burden. Anyway, most of the bride price was already gone. You could not recover water upstream when it was downstream.

Sheikha Shakira told her to send the girl. She would find out the trouble between Ahmed and Aya. She would attempt to fix what was broken.

For the visit, Aya came with her mother- in- law and a very quiet Ahmed. Shakira of course knew the young bride on sight, her family name and that she was a new bride, but she had never reason to notice her.   She sometimes saw her at the village well, drawing water in her families jugs or washing clothes down by the sluggish river, or feeding the chickens outside the door of Leila’s house. But she didn’t seem remarkable to Shakira.   Just a young bride, nothing special.

Aya was very young, with not much meat on her bones. She would not give much heat next to Ahmed when the winter winds blew down from the mountains and turned the air raw and bitter. Better that Ahmed’s parents had found him a bride who would fill his bed and warm his feet with her flesh.

However, after Shakira looked more closely at Aya, she could see there were bigger problems than too- thin Aya. The girl looked haunted to Shakira’s eyes.

After the obligatory cups of mint tea, Ahmed and his mother were sent home, with Leila passing a small gift of money to Shakira from the depths of her robe. Shakira nodded and turned back to the sullen girl sitting at her table.

Shakira prepared to question young Aya. She plied her with more of the sweet tea they brewed in the village and drank on all occasions. Aya was quiet, which wasn’t unusual for a young Muslim girl, but she noticed that she kept her eyes cast on the floor. This was more than a normal shyness. The girl appeared disturbed, or perhaps she was hiding a secret. This last intrigued Shakira the most.

“Come, Aya. Do not be shy. You know why you are here. Your husband has made complaints about your behavior in the marriage. Is something wrong, my daughter?”

Aya sipped at her tea and shook her head, but did not raise her eyes to Shakira’s face.

The Sheikha Shakira could tell many things by the shine of the eyes, by the carriage of the head, by the shoulders, by the sheen of the skin. Although thin, Aya did not appear sick, just unhappy.

“Aya”. Shakira thought a direct approach would get some answers. “Does Ahmed do what a husband should? Do you know what a husband does for his wife?”

Aya blushed, and her hands shook as she put her small glass down.

“Tell me,” said Shakira with an encouraging smile. “Does Ahmed put off his own pleasure for yours?” The look on Aya’s face told Shakira that Ahmed did not.

Aya’s blush increased, giving her dusky skin a bloom of beauty.

“Tell me, Aya.” Shakira’s voice was gentle and low, a conspiracy brewing between two women against all men.

“Does Ahmed touch you in your holy woman’s place? You know after you are married, it is right and good when he does? He should use his male member and his fingers and even his tongue.” Shakira sat back and looked closely at Aya. Her hands shook and she didn’t pick up her glass.

Ah, thought Shakira. Another stupid man that doesn’t know how to stroke his wife into bliss! Allah punish these stupid men who are so selfish!

Shakira thought a different approach would be fruitful. “Aya, do you touch yourself down there in your holy place? Did you know God has given you a body with all the pleasures of paradise on earth? You can touch and stroke and push your fingers in there and have lovely feelings. Perhaps you need to show Ahmed how to arouse you? You are married a year, and if your husband doesn’t understand, perhaps you need to give him a push. Do you understand, daughter?

Suddenly Aya started shaking violently and a great sob escaped from her throat.

“Aaaiiiyee! It is like a man is already in there…in my holy place, and he strokes where Ahmed puts his flute. I try to resist him, it is a demon inside of me! but I am not strong enough. Ah, Mother Shakira, help me! I have thought many times as I go to the roof of the house I would throw myself over the edge!”

This burst of words shocked Shakira.   She sat there blinking, watching the young girl sob out her shame and fear. Ah! Now she had something to work with!

A demon. In bed between an ignorant girl and an even more ignorant husband!

But! This was something most interesting, something Shakira encountered at times among women. From the narrowness of their lives, in their isolation from the cities and from the stupidity of the men, a demon popped up frequently in the lives of married women. And thank God only married women. They seemed to scorn the virgins, which was good, for if they didn’t, it would mean the murder of many young women by their fathers and brothers, thought Shakira.

These spirits were helpful to women as Shakira well knew. They could give a woman a certain liberty to sass their husbands. If a word popped out, she could blame it on the Zar, the demon. It was not her fault, and punishing her would do no good. Something just came over her and she didn’t know where it came from. It was the fault of the Zar. He needed to have his power ‘reduced’. He needed a good talking to, to be placated, given new marching orders.

Shakira thought about the demon. She knew she could never can purge a Zar, these troubling spirits, she would have to cajole, puzzle, confuse and ultimately, calm them. But! She would restore them with their powers reduced.   No one wants a Zar wandering around scaring the children and chickens. It was bad enough they sat under the trees in the woods on the mountains and woe to anyone who cast their eyes on a bodiless Zar! Shakira knew that to be immediate possession. The Zar needed a human body.   That was where Zars lived comfortably. A goat would not do.

Ah! An excuse for a Zar ritual!   Shakira rubbed her hands in glee. The price of the feast and the sacrifice was less important than the chance to get the women together for some fun. And Zars were fun in a life that was black- clad, dusty and under the thumb of Allah and the men.

On the day of the Zar ritual, Shakira placed a tray of nuts and fruit on an altar in the middle of the room. The drummers came in earlier and were sitting together talking, laughing and drinking tea. The ney player, a young man, was sitting apart from the drummers, all women now. Incense was heavy, and the smell of it was hypnotic even before the drummers started beating their rhythm.

Shakira spent some time with Aya, talking to her, helping her ease herself into the ritual soon to take place. Aya had suffered some nerves, thrown up, and then seemed resigned to her fate. She remained pale.

More women straggled into the room, waddling like black crows in a field.   They sat in a rough circle, breathing in the heady perfume wafting from the burning incense. Some were praying to themselves, others began chants, and the combined sounds were like a hive of bees in the sunshine, dipping into the honey. Shakira was trying not to slip into her own trance, but the warm weather and the sunshine conspired to lull her senses. She looked over at Aya sitting with her mother and mother-in-law. She was dressed in a white cotton gown, her hair loose down her back. The hair was the last place that Aya’s demon would hold on to as she tossed her head around and around, throwing him into the arms of Shakira. She wondered what this demon would be like. Would he be a hard one to cajole? Would he demand a price for his obedience? Would she be strong enough, without rallying her own demons, to take him on?

None of this could she know in advance. Allah Provide, she prayed.

Then the drummers started their different rhythms. Each part of the body was capable of possession and a different rhythm beat out on the stretched goat skin drums would find them out. The rhythm would call out to the soul of the demon, and he would have to answer. It was heartbeat to heartbeat.

The first rhythm was the ayoub, ‘dum-tec-a dum-tec-a’, the heartbeat of humanity, becoming more and more intense. Shakira could not help begin her own trance. It was a necessary part of the Zar ritual. She would catch the demon when he was tossed from Aya’s hair, wrestle him in her own arms and give him a good talking to!

Aya had risen, fear distorting her pale face as she walked around the room, her eyes like big dark moons. A blind man could see how frightened she was!   Then, allowing herself to feel the rhythm seeping into the blood of all there, she started to nod her head, back and forth, little nods at first, as if she were tentatively allowing the heartbeat of the drums to enter her body. Her eyes glazed and she started to change the gait of her walking, as if she was swaying to some internal rhythm set up as a counterpoint to what was heard by all others. Her hips started to jerk and her head rolled on her neck in little circles, hair flying in gentle waves around her. The ney player picked up the tempo, the drums followed. Aya’s movements around the circle increased in speed. She started to whirl around as she walked, her face upwards to the ceiling, now her hair flying out like Dervish’s skirts. Faster and faster Aya twirled and jerked around the room, throwing her arms outward and upward. She uttered little shrieks, unheard with the general chanting and drumming and the shrill music of the ney.

Shakira knew if there was a demon inside of Aya, he would soon appear. She swayed back and forth in her own trance, standing with her arms outward towards the spinning girl.

There! Something hit Shakira in her chest! Something solid and hard enough to almost knock the wind from her. Aya sank down in a heap, shuddering with spasms. Women moved to chant over her, and ever the drums and ney player increased their frenzied rhythms.

Shakira slipped into full trance and talked to the Demon standing there, hovering with a scowl, a male Demon of course! His aura was powerful, and he shimmered before her with a golden glimmer. Shakira saw him clearly in her mind’s eye, and saw how beautiful and arrogant this demon was.

“In the name of Allah, the One God! Demon. Tell me your name!”

Shakira spoke in the tongue of the tranced, unintelligible to the women around the room.

He scowled at her, but bidden he was commanded to answer.

“My name is Ali”, and his voice was sweet and seductive, in spite of the grimace.

Ah! Thought Shakira. What a lovely demon to possess a woman! His hair was black and lay in curls over his brow. His lips were full, the color of pomegranate seeds. His nose was like an arrow, straight and elegant. His eyes were two black and shimmering pools, his cheeks like halves of apples. Ah! Shakira was shaken by his beauty. She cleared her throat and her thoughts before speaking to him again.

“Demon. Listen to me. You disrupt the marriage of Ahmed and Aya. You must stop your demonic ways and let Ahmed have back his wife.”

“Ahmed is a fool and doesn’t know what to do with Aya. She is afraid of him, he plays his flute for himself, and ignores his wife.” Demon Ali’s voice was a low, honeyed growl, seeded with contempt.

“True, true enough, Demon. But you could help here. You could teach Aya things to please Ahmed and perhaps dense Ahmed will become a proper husband.”

“Why should I help Ahmed? What is Ahmed to me?” Demon Ali spat on the ground, a golden stream of honey.

“Ah Demon! You are too young or stupid yourself if you don’t think here. You could teach Aya where to place her hands on herself and Ahmed. You could take your own pleasure between them. How much more it would be if you brought them together as man and wife! You could tickle Aya’s womb and love chamber and she would toss her hips like a proper wife at Ahmed. You could stick your tongue on Aya’s button and make her think of love. You could torment both and what Demon isn’t happiest when he is tormenting two instead of one?”

The Demon Ali pulsated and quivered with her suggestions. Shakira could see he was considering her words.

(Demon Ali thought it over and could see her point of argument.   If nothing else, he could torment Ahmed in some particularly pleasing way to demons. Perhaps he could be an irritant in more ways than one. Perhaps he could make Ahmed’s cock fall off–)

“I hear your thoughts, Demon. Consider the case. Either Aya acts the proper wife to Ahmed, or Ahmed sends her back to her parents. She will disgrace her family, they will suffer needlessly because of a silly and selfish devil.”

Shakira could tell that Ali the Demon was considering his choices. He glimmered and glowed and vibrated and fairly danced in the air. Shakira noticed too that his male member was vibrating along with the rest of him. An impressive piece of anatomy for any man or demon. Ah! Ali the Demon was wasted on that little fool Aya!

Shakira, a wise woman with quite a number of years of experience with Djinns, decided she would have compassion for this pretty demon standing before her in all his stiffening glory. Perhaps this alluring devil could entertain her, Shakira, and leave Aya alone. She had an eye for a good looking male, and knowing the nature of demons, she could take some pleasure for herself under her chador at times. Perhaps something mutually pleasing to both could be arranged. It was worth a thought.

“So, Demon…what will it be? Will you help Aya become a wife and be a good demon, or do I have to call forth stronger Spirits to make you reconsider your behavior? It is your choice.”

Ali the Demon sighed, and it was like a sweet wind blowing from the east up Shakira’s skirts. Her eyes widened, in spite of her trance, and a smile came over her face. The Demon slyly looked at Shakira from under the fringe of his black lashes. A smile exchanged between them…

A bargain was struck!

Ahmed and Aya became a happy couple. Yes, Ali the Demon still tickled Aya in her love passage, and sat smoking his hooka crosslegged up by her womb. Ahmed was pleased with Aya now as his wife, and eternally grateful to the Sheikha.

And as for Shakira, she and Ali the Demon enjoyed many hours under Shakira’s chador. He tickled Sharika around the ears, and she spread her legs when she was busy at her kitchen fire, preparing food or just standing at the window, watching her neighbors outside. Peace reigned in both households.

Blessings on the head of Sheikha Shakira!



Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2009-2018


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12 Responses to ““A Turkish Tale”….A Short Story.”

  1. lifelessons Says:

    Are you Jane Kohut-Bartels, or are you reprinting this from another source? Not clear. A wonderful story.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. ladynyo Says:

    I am Jane Kohut-Bartels, and I wrote this story. It was the lead-in story that became “The Zar Tales” (and is included in the Zar Tales) published by Amazon in 2010. Thank you, Lifelessons for reading my story. The Zar appears as a main character in “The Zar Tales”. It was a lot of fun to research and write. I was a belly dancer from 2003 and came across the zar ritual in those years Fascinating stuff.


  3. lifelessons Says:

    So glad you are the author! It was both entertaining and educational. Really well done.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. ladynyo Says:

    Thank you, Judy! It was a lot of fun to write and rather scary in a way. I believe in things we don’t see in our culture. I love to writes dialogue but the trick to doing so is to trust and believe in your characters. When they really have their voices, they write the story for you! You are just a scribe. I have held to that for many years….or at least since I started writing which was only a few decades ago.


  5. lifelessons Says:

    I absolutely agree. I never know how something is going to turn out until the characters reveal it to me. Works out much better that way.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. ladynyo Says:

    That’s the spirit! So many don’t understand this about writing You have to love/hate but Trust your characters. They do the heavy lifting!!

    Liked by 1 person

  7. lifelessons Says:

    I do better with this in stories and poems than books. I have two books sitting on a pile back home waiting to be finished. I get so far and they get scared re/ that long road ahead. I guess I don’t trust myself to keep up with my characters. I have the discipline to blog. Why can’t I stick with the long haul?

    Liked by 1 person

  8. ladynyo Says:

    I have found, after publishing 7 books…that it takes years really to finish a book. I started to write novels in 2006, and by 2007-08, I had 4 novels in various states of unfinish. “The Kimono” took me 11 years to finish, and I just published it, my first full length (60 chapters) novel on Amazon two weeks ago. It’s sort of like painting. You start a couple of paintings and you work on each but not to completion except when you do. LOL! The voices change with our characters…they get grumpy and don’t want to finish….I don’t think it is that we don’t have ideas how to finish, but sometimes we don’t…I think it is we get to a certain stage and then we drop them. But they sit there….all moldy and sooner or later we take them back up. The story starts again in their voices, eyes, and we find ways to finish. I think it is much the same for all writers, but I may be wrong. In 11 years, I have 5 novels written and only in the past 3 years have I finished 3 of them. It just takes time and effort…and mostly, immersing ourselves in the culture of our characters. Research can take years, and with “Kimono”, I wrote a lot in the earlier years, and let it sit and gather mold. Then last year, thinking I was done at 30 chapters, a dedicated reader said: “No, keep going , there are too many things to resolve.” And he expected maybe 5 more chapters, but I wrote 30. LOL! The story just kept compounding and the characters started to get down with the action. It took 6 months to finish those 30 new chapters, but it is such a b etter book and story in the effort. I mull over each character and see what potential they have for the heavy lifting. Long haul writing means you have time to do this. I would never have been able to write this much when I was working. Only by quitting my job and the support of my husband was I able to finish and publish. So, consider your circumstances and environment and don’t be so hard on yourself. Mostly, trust you characters.


  9. lifelessons Says:

    Thanks, Ladyno.. Yes, what stopped me was an editor who had worked for many publishing houses and with many famous writers. She asked to work with me and I sent her my first 7 chapters, but she wanted me to follow a process that went completely against the way I write.. to plan everything out, etc. It totally took the fun and inspiration and discovery out of the writing process and I just stopped. I think we have both found you need to just listen to the characters as though they are telling you the story. Perhaps I’ll get back to it. My time is so taken up by blogging.. but after 4 years and almost 5,000 blog postings, perhaps it is time to switch. I’ll see if I feel the need..or can get inspired again.

    Liked by 1 person

  10. ladynyo Says:

    I hope you can! That is the problem with many editors. They want you to follow a procedure that works for them, and may not for you. And they lose interest fast in you and your writings when you don’t do as they are used to. I think best it is to allow the characters to tell you the story. I am working on a novel, called “Tin Hinan”. It’s about a 4th century Berber woman who united the Berber tribes all over North Africa and Algeria. She’s already dead, speaking to us from the Spirit world. It reads like a fable. There was no way I could write this book (almost finished) without trusting Tin to ‘tell the story’. Of course there was a lot of research involved but I also practice (or did then….) Hyperarousal Trance and that seemed to be a lead-in to the writing. In any case, it made the research come alive and the book closer. You have to find your own methods and ignore the slings and arrows that come with some editors. I have a dedicated friend who reads and helps with grammar. It is difficult at times because he knows nothing about the cultures I am writing from, but he is helpful on other things. Be confident in your writing. I have only been publishing for the past 12 years or less, and I have no idea who reads or buys my books, but the point is that I write for myself. Blogging is great, I have been blogging for 11 years, but writing long is what keeps me alive in spirit. I hope you get back to your books. I’m always here to help or support you in this.

    Liked by 1 person

  11. lifelessons Says:

    Thanks, Lady. It occurs to me that hundreds of years from now our work will all be gone anyway, so I need to write what satisfies me, now. I would love to finish the two novels–both set in Mexico, one about rogue nuns on the run and the orphanage kids they left behind. It was very fun to write and could be again. It is gestating. The other is about a small Mexican coastal village disrupted and uprooted by land developers and corrupt politicians and what happens to the people cast into foreign environments by this upheaval. I also have a nonfiction book started about years in Ethiopia. All of these projects started as individual pieces that came together into chapters. We shall see if I have the discipline to get back to them. I have published four books before this.. nonfiction, poetry and children’s storybooks, and collaborated to publish two anthologies, but have since become addicted to blogging. Can’t seem to pull out of it. We’ll see.

    Liked by 1 person

  12. ladynyo Says:

    The best on all of this to you!


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