It’s almost summer and nothing delights like a engrossing book to read. My husband started to read Chapter One and kept going. “You should post this on your blog”. “But people have such little attention span these days.” “It’s a short book.” He’s right. And this will free me up for other things. After all, story tellers love to entertain, but even these folk need a vacation.
Lady Nyo
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Shakira is Sheikha, Wise Woman, leader of the Zar ritual and general organizer of the women and women’s issues. Previously, Ali the Demon has jumped from young Aya to the arms of Shakira, a middle-aged woman. (“A Turkish Tale”) Zars have been outlawed in most Islamic countries since 1983 as pagan worship. However, it flourishes in rural areas and also in some big cities. It is considered part of ‘women’s religion’ by the officials and yet it continues in spite of being outlawed. It is one of the main mental health outlets for women in these countries. Possession by a Zar usually is a woman’s way of sassing her husband and expressing her unhappiness with marriage and her life.
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CHAPTER ONE
Shakira, wise woman, daughter of the veil, Sheikha to the village like her mother and grandmother before her, stood before the window of her small stone house. She could see to the village pump and watch dark clad women like so many black crows, fill their water jugs each morning and again in the afternoon.
It was still early in the morning, but a sultry wind blew in from the south. It would be no different than any other day of the season, for the rains would not return until late fall.
Mixing the humble mashed chickpeas, oil and garlic, she prepared the day’s humus. Not a task to try her powers, but one that fed her, important enough. The flat bread was already cooked, the yogurt curdling in the heavy glass jars sitting outside in the sun.
She wondered where Ali had gone so early this morning. Probably lurking around with other Zars on the mountain, playing at knucklebones.
“Shakira! Have you enough water this morning? I will draw you some if not.”
A woman walked by the window, her black dress and head scarf no different from any of the other middle aged women. Except for her voice and that limp from a club foot, she would not be distinguished from any other black robed woman.
“I have enough, Leila, enough for this morning. Later I will go draw more.”
Leila was Shakira’s relative, their families as mixed as a bowl of wheat and barley. Not much had changed in this mountain village in centuries, except the convenience of electricity, a central, motorized village pump and a few motor cars that brought dignitaries from the far flung cities once a year. New was old by the time it got to their village, for they were isolated in the mountains of eastern Turkey.
Shakira’s Ali was a Zar, a demon who came to Shakira for a man’s comfort up under her dress. He was young, younger than middle-aged Shakira, but he only appeared young. Ali was at least a thousand years old. He was killed by one of his tribesman around the age of thirty. Shakira knew very little about his circumstances, because Ali did not talk. It was a man’s prerogative to keep secrets, and Ali, though a Zar, was once a man.
Shakira first saw Ali when he appeared before her a shimmering, golden ghost at the Zar ritual a year ago. She struck a deal with the handsome devil and Ali was glad to jump into the welcoming and much more experienced arms of Shakira. He had more room to sleep than in the womb of Aya, the young women he formerly possessed. He liked the strong thighs and women’s quarters of Shakira.
At times, when the weather was cooled by breezes blown down from the mountain, Shakira would close her door and draw the curtain over her front window. In the other room serving as her bedroom she could watch the constellations revolve in the sky from a small window cut high in the wall. There she would hope to entertain Ali, dancing the slow, sensuous movements, caught in the moonlight from that window.
“Come, my Habibi, come and comfort me,” Shakira would call out, her eyes closing in expectation, her voice shaking with her need. And Ali would magically appear, materializing in the room, glowing like a golden shower of tiny stardust.
Ali would then sit on her bed, hovering as demons do, a few inches from the woven wool covering. He would smoke his hookah and his eyes would sparkle through the stardust as he watched Shakira, now naked, seduce him with her dance.
“My Habibi, I dance for you, I dance with my limbs and my heart and my soul. Do you like what you see, my dearest?”
We must remember that Ali was a Zar, a Spirit, and there wasn’t much of flesh on him…or of him.
Somehow Ali would answer her, but not in words. He would speak into her heart, into her soul and Shakira always heard this unspoken language.
“You are my heart’s delight, my beautiful and wise Shakira. Your movements would inspire the dead to rise and dance in the streets, so lovely are you to my eyes.”
Shakira’s body was mature and ripe, her skin the color of Turkish coffee filled to the brim with rich cream. Her hair was still black as the night, with just a few strands of silver, and when she danced, freed of the day’s covering, it swung in waves down her back to her full, muscular buttocks. Her belly was rounded and jiggled when she laughed, not like the slim, flat bellied girls like Aya before her baby, but full like the clay jugs made to carry the precious water from the village well. Her hips were strong and fleshed out like ripe fruit from a sacred and ancient olive tree.
Shakira had some vanity about her, and since Ali had appeared and taken up residence, she rubbed scented oils into her skin. In the dim light of the oil lamp, Shakira’s skin rolled and wavered like watered silk. She raised her strong and muscled limbs above her head, snapping her fingers like zils to her humming. Her breasts swayed and pushed themselves out proudly, and if they sagged a bit with age, Ali didn’t mind. She was a woman after all, and the scent of her body and the oils rubbed in her skin put him in a narcotic trance. Her dark eyes rolled back in her head as her shoulders rolled forward, and her hips gyrated in the age-old movements of seduction.
Ali was enchanted. Their nights were filled with strange lust and if Shakira woke in her bed alone, she was not deserted. Ali had climbed into her woman’s garden to sleep, folding himself and resting in the warmth below her womb. She would rub her belly, and say: “Good morning, dearest”, smile and start her day. Some mornings she would feel Ali rush out of her like a warm breeze and disappear into the day, off to converse and argue with other Zars around their mountain village.
Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted 2010-2018
“The Zar Tales”, published by Lulu.com, 2010
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