“The Zar Tales”, Chapter Four

(A Zar Ritual Dancer…)

 

CHAPTER IV.

Mr. Mazud Nageesh sat at his desk, pondering the information before him. His wife Leila, attending the Zar ritual at Sheikha Shakira’s house was a further complication.

Ah! Women and their issues certainly screwed a peaceful life! They were essential to men’s comfort, and they continued the bloodlines, but by Allah’s Exalted Name in Paradise…they troubled a peaceful man!

Mr. Nageesh thought through his options. If he ignored the activity of the women, winked at their Zars, his own leadership of the village could be called into question and he could be removed from office. Things could go worse than that for him.

Then, there was his marriage. Leila had been a good if stubborn wife for over thirty years. The man was supposed to rule the house, but any man married that long knew who actually ruled. It was always the women who had real power. At his age he longed for peace and quiet, and if at times he walked on eggshells around the women of his household, well, it was only because he was a wise man.

But Leila was at the zar, and playing her tamboura. It would not be possible to ignore her presence at Sheikha Shakira’s house. Perhaps there was a way around the behavior of the women, but at this time, he didn’t know what it was. The situation was like a sour pickle and however he held his mouth, it would be bitter.

There didn’t seem any way out. Sighing deeply, he resolved to contact the proper authorities in the nearest city for guidance. But he would sit on it for a while, think of some options, and as long as he did something, what was the reasoning to rush? Better to run into a lion’s mouth where religion and women were concerned than mess with the authorities.

Ah! Allah the Merciful! What was the difference between lions, women and religion? You got chewed up all ways!

 
Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

“The Zar Tales”, Chapter Two

When I first posted a few chapters of this book a few years ago, I got violent objections and threatened violence from an unknown Jew and a Muslim. For different and equally stupid reasons.  This is the course for women writers when the misogyny of men come into play.  I have learned to ignore them, as I have to deal with misogynistic and also stupid men in my neighborhood sometimes on a daily basis.  A tough battlefield, a steep learning curve, but it has been ever thus for women.

Lady Nyo

 

CHAPTER 2
–

Of course there had to be a snake in this paradise. It was the village mayor. He was not happy with the power Shakira had. For Shakira was a Sheikha, a ‘wise woman’, trained from her mother’s line in the responsibilities of such a position. Shakira was consulted by the women over many issues. Marriages, birth names, the problems women had over their troublesome men, all these and much more came to Shakira. She was wise, and known for her sensible opinion. She had power in her own right.

And this was irksome to the mayor. Not enough issues came to his desk. He was a man, and in this world, a man was the one to consult, not a woman!

No, the mayor was up against a force of nature disobedient to the natural order of life. And besides, he heard the women were having too much fun in the opinion of some of the husbands. There was talk they were planning to meet and drink and smoke and drum and laugh till late at night, but that was just a whispered rumor. Ah, life was not in the proper order at all!

He, by the authority of his office, would have to make inquiries into this matter. The women were showing their heels and who knew what would happen next? Perhaps they would roll their eyes at the Imam! Perhaps the women would refuse next to go to the mosque! Who knows with women? They could create all sorts of mischief, and he, the mayor, would be called to account for it. Ah! He owed it to the men, his brothers under the sun, to find out what was going on. He owed it to his own reputation and his position in the village to investigate all rumors. Perhaps if he put his foot down now, his own wife of many years would quiet her voice and heel to his command like a good Muslim wife. But he had his doubts. His wife, after all, was related to Shakira. Ah! That clan stretched back into time, and making his own wife obey was like telling the wind not to blow. It was the blood of Shakira that made ill in his own house. Or, at least, it had a part in his problems.

Well, whatever to come, he owed it to Allah, the one God! And He was a Man! He would agree with the mayor. That was the natural Order of things.

So the mayor, whose name was Mr. Nageesh, heard that on a certain Friday, when the men were at mosque chanting their prayers, the women were making their way to Shakira’s house. Mayor Nageesh sent a young boy, not more than twelve, to count those entering the house and see if he could hear anything of their plans. This young boy lurked in the shadows of a doorway and watched. At least twelve women had entered the house, some with bundles concealed under their dresses. What they were carrying was not clear to the boy, but the sound of drumming and laughter and even the sound of suspicious clinking of bottles could be heard from this house after dark. Worse, the women stayed there for hours. The sound of their ruckus was shameful, even the men could hear it through their snoring.

A Zar! The women were holding a Zar! What else could it be? Ah, this was very bad, very, very bad, for the Zar was now illegal. Everyone knew it was banned as pagan by the illustrious council of religious men in the cities. This would be the end of his office if word of this spread beyond this village. It was sure to reach the ears of the district and then he would have his hands full. Or, he thought with a shiver….they could have his head. It had happened before. Allah have mercy!

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

Published 2010, Lulu.com

 

“The Zar Tale”, a novella, Chapter One.

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

–

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. 
–

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

 

 

“A Turkish Tale”….short story

 

“The Zar Tales”, published by Lulu.com, 2010

I wrote this short story not realizing at the time it would become my second book, a novella.  I had such fun with the characters of “The Zar Tales” (Amazon.com 2009) but all those (and many more) came from this first short story, “A Turkish Tale”.

My husband sat up reading “The Zar Tales” last night and suggested I post the entire novella for summer reading.  It’s a funny and energetic story and is based on incidents that happened in isolated villages in Turkey in the 1980’s.  Women who held the Zar rituals were imprisoned, stoned and worst by Turkish religious authorities.  This book came out of those incidents.  

Lady Nyo

 

(The Zar is a number of things in Middle Eastern and North African societies. One, it’s a ritual of extracting a Demon (a Zar) from the possessed, placating and then restoring them to the host body. A Sheikha (Wise Woman) gives it new marching orders…. Hence, a Zar is also a Demon or Djinn. Three, the Zar is a bonding or ritual dance among women. And four, the Zar dance is also a form of Hyperarousal Trance, distinct from meditative trances. This story, along with “The Zar Tales”  is set in Turkey, in the 1980’s.)

“A TURKISH TALE”

“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

 

“The Zar Tales”, Chapter 10, end of Book One.

 

CHAPTER 10

 

That morning, an hour after dawn, Shakira rose from her bed, finally alone from the village women.   She heard someone knock at the door. She had spent a sleepless night, her eyes  red and swollen with  weeping. Drawing on a gown, defiantly leaving  off her head scarf, she answered the door. There, dressed in blue robes and  indigo turban, was Ali. But Ali in the flesh and no longer a vaporous ghost. He was tall, his skin tanned from the sun, gold earrings in his ears that flashed like the sun in a mirror! Ah, he was handsome! She slumped against the door frame in her shock, and Ali, the spirit now made of strong flesh, caught Shakira in his arms, and carried her inside.

Ali lay Shakira down on her bed. The miracle of Ali in the flesh  made her dizzy. Ah! He was so …male! She looked up at him standing at the bottom of the bed before her, and her eyes traveled up his figure. He wore a blue outer robe, and a white djellaba under it. As she watched, he smiled down at her and removed the girdle around his waist, and lay aside the short, curved sword that he carried. He reached up with his dark hands and started to unwrap the dark blue turban. Around and around came the rolled cloth, and shaking free his hair, it fell in black waves down his back. He had coins plaited into his hair, and they shone in the half- light of the room like stars. He threw off his outer robe, and pulled his gown over his head, now standing in his cotton trousers. His arms were strong, roped with muscle, and his chest! Ah! He had a broad chest, with dark hair across it like a wave, and a stomach that was lean. Shakira thought  a bit thin, but her cooking would fatten him up. Her eyes were bold and they traveled his body with delight. He saw her interest and with a pull of the string at his waist, dropped his cotton pants to reveal his manhood. Shakira’s eyes widened in surprise, for this was the first time she had   ‘seen’ evidence of this.

“Is it you, Ali? Is it really you, my dearest one?”

Shakira’s face was puffy, her hair standing all over her head, half hiding her face. She could not believe her eyes.

“It is I, Shakira, my woman. In the flesh.”

Ali sat down on the pallet of her bed and stretched out a long arm in front of him. Both of them looked with awe at his solid flesh, and Ali flexed his fingers, a wry grin appearing across his dark face.

“I have not seen my limbs for a thousand years. I have not felt my skin, nor the muscles beneath. I was a strong man, Shakira, before my death. I could gallop a camel across the desert for days, I could kill a horse under me and leap onto a fresh on and continue on in battle. I was a warrior with the strength of many men.

And then I became a ghost.”

There was nothing to say. Shakira  thought she saw tears in his eyes. It was not unmanly for him to weep, for she was convinced that Ali had proved his mettle many times. No, it was just after a thousand years such a transformation took a bit getting used to. For both of them.

Shakira reached out and touched his arm. His flesh was warm and firm. He was no more a gold-dusted ghost.

He was clearly a man.

Ali knelt beside Shakira. She lay under his dark eyes and blushed. It had been a long time since a man was naked before her. She could only remember one, her dead husband, and he, poor soul, didn’t look quite as potent at this one. She started to raise herself but Ali put a hand on her chest, and gently pushed her back down onto the bed. With a smile, he bent down and kissed her softly on the mouth, his lips warm and hard on her own. He rose from this kiss and with a strange look, he gripped the neckline of her gown and ripped it apart, exposing Shakira’s body. He looked from the top of her breasts to the bottom of her hips and her large, rounded thighs, and with a groan, flung himself upon her and kissed her deeply.

Ali pressed open her mouth with his tongue and plunged it into her throat. He moaned in his passion and broke his kiss, rising up from her body. He was between her legs and sat back on his knees, looking at her like a starving man.  In fact, he was, and after this first course, he would eat whatever he could find in her small kitchen.  Being mortal finally, after a thousand years, and he had forgotten that deep, persistent hunger in his belly that grew with the hours.

Oh! He was a strong man! Shakira squealed in surprise and delight. His hard hands gripped her body and it was very different being made love to by a mortal man than a vaporous ghost!

Ah! He stared into her eyes as he slowly pushed his sword into her. Shakira gasped as he filled her. Ali was in no hurry to end this bout of lovemaking. He had waited a thousand years for the taste and feel of a woman under him. The warm, moist cave of her was a harbor for his manhood. It was worth the wait of centuries and he would savor it as long as he could.

But Shakira couldn’t. She began a deep scream somewhere in her gut, and it rushed up and out her throat. Ah! She threw her legs around Ali with a shriek. Ali saw her passion and gripping her hard around the shoulders, drove home into her warm flesh. Shakira yelled out and it seemed her noise would wake the sleeping in Paradise! She danced like a wild dervish , her eyes closed in her own trance, and her breasts– Ah! Her breasts were flushed a rosy color, hot, and her nipples so hard, they rivaled his cock. He held her to him because it seemed she was possessed and would dance off the bed!

Ali began his own dance to nirvana. He pushed into her like he had the strength of ten men and his body glistened with the sweat of his sweet toil. With his own yell, like the rising groan of the desert wind, he pumped his seed into the vessel of Shakira. Long did he come into her, spilling, spewing the seed of centuries into this fine woman under him. Finally, he threw himself down, lost in that sweet dark cave, and gathering her limp body to his, they slept a deep and exhausted sleep, limbs now solid to each other, entwining like branches, grown together like two old trees twisted by the strong winds coming down from the mountains…

For hours they slept a deep and exhausted sleep.

No one disturbed them. Even the goats outside were silent, the hens did not cackle and the rooster did not crow. No woman came calling at Shakira’s door. It was as if a spell had been put on the village and time had stopped in its passage. And perhaps time had reversed itself that day.

For all over the village, women who were formerly possessed by Zars, who had vaporous ghosts up their gowns and no men to hold onto, well, they slept like Shakira, the deep sleep of a thoroughly happy woman.

When Ali and Shakira woke, both of them still locked in their embrace, he looked at her with a wide grin.

“I told you if the Mullahs killed you I would claim your spirit and together we would be Zars for eternity.”

“Ah, my Habibi, this is much better. I have had enough of Zars. I like you better as a man in my bed, with my arms around you, and your ney where it belongs. This feels enough like eternity. Besides, now you can eat my cooking and fix the roof.”

 

******************

 

Since the Mullahs never made it back to Ankara, their findings were not disclosed nor the sentence they pronounced upon Shakira revealed.   The mayor had enough sense to keep his mouth shut and the elderly Mullah Kaleel died shortly after, a peaceful death in his bed.

As for Shakira and Ali? They are very happy, and will remain so. It is the gift of the gods for the intolerance of mankind. There is justice in the long run, but you might have to wait most of your life for it to come to your door.

 

Praise to all the Gods and Goddesses, One God or Many!

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010-2014,

“The Zar Tales” published by Lulu.com.  This is the end of Book One, but not the end of the story.  In Book Two, the Mullahs have their revenge as they are sent back from Paradise in the form of Zars in the charge of a particularly troublesome djinn.

 

 

 

“The Zar Tales”, Chapter VIII

“The Zar Tales”, published by Lulu.com, 2010

CHAPTER 8

Mayor Nageesh called to the women clustered around the door. Four entered and seeing Shakira lying in a black, formless heap, uttered loud cries. The chief Mullah raised his voice over the women moans and admonished them sharply.

“She is not dead. She has just swooned. Do not be stupid women. Take her to her house and attend her there. Do not let her out of your sight. I command you in the name of the Ankara Authorities to do this.”

The four women, Leila amongst them, gathered up Shakira from the floor and carried her from the room. Other village women stood outside and their cries rose up like a flock of startled birds. They quickly carried Shakira home and lay her down on the bed, chaffing her wrists and putting wet cloths on her brow. She revived and looked around in confusion. Trying to sit up, she was kept from doing so by hands holding her down. The women’s soft murmurs sounded like the clucking of worried hens to her ears. Then, within a moment’s revival, she remembered why she had swooned, and fell back stunned, too shocked even for the mercy of tears.

The women’s sound became like a hive of bees to her ears, irritating, annoying and she tried to cut out the noise by tightly squeezing her eyes. Then the tears came, and they rolled down her face in a steady stream. Seeing her distress, the others close to her started their own moans and tears and before long, like a nursery where one baby starts to cry, all the women were giving vent to their own personal grief.

Aiiiiiyeee! Our beloved Sheikha is to be taken from us. Our days of laughter are over. The blessings of the Zar are to be crushed into the dust. Our tears and wails are for all women, for our future is doomed!

Word passed quickly throughout the village as to the Sheikha’s sentence. There was shock and disbelief, and even those men who didn’t like the fact that their women disappeared to Shakira’s house to smoke and drink and laugh, were distressed at the severity of the sentence.

Ten years!

That evening, when the Mullahs left for the long trip back over the mountain and through the valleys and forests, the men gathered. They talked amongst themselves, sharing the hookah, the sweet scent of their tobacco rising amongst their soft babble like vaporous ghosts.

This did not portend well for their village, what the mullahs had done this day. No, it was not good at all! Their women would make lives more difficult until time had quieted and dulled the emotions.

Aiyee! Allah! In your greatness, could you not have done something else here? Could you not think farther down the road to what the men now would suffer? Ah, the fury of the women would be subtle, but constant.

Each man thought of how his life would suffer. The silence, at other times welcome from the babble of women, would be heavy with accusation. First there would be tasteless dishes, then angry words, then no comfort in bed from their heavy thighs and perfumed hands. No, all they could expect were turned backs and mouths of bitterness. The men would be punished along with Shakira, and though her sentence was long, theirs would be heavy, compounded by each house and by each torment that an angry wife could conceive.

They talked through the soft summer evening, each afraid to go home. They knew what they would face. They even talked about recalling the Mullahs and protesting the sentence on the Sheikha, for now, Shakira seemed to become even their Sheikha, not only the women’s. It was funny how things worked, but something deep in the fabric of the village had been disturbed. And now, their lives would be made less comfortable because of it. But what could they do? They had never questioned the authority of the Mullahs nor those in religious power.

Ah! Allah! Restore the peace to our lives! Restore our mundane routine with our wives! Give us back the solitude we threw to the winds when we complained of our women’s frolicking with our Shakira Sheikha!

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2010-2014

“The Zar Tales”, Chapter VI.

CHAPTER VI.

The heat of the day faded and the soft, cooling winds came down from the mountain, swirling around the trees in the woods. The village was high up the mountain, with pine forests peppering the area. Ali and other Zars met in a clearing, far up that mountain, hidden from any mortals who might travel up the steep terrain. It was easy for the Zars, for they could float upwards, where they would perch on tree branches. They gathered to smoke the sweet hashish together and discuss details of the mortals around them. They would fill the bowl at the top of a big hookah, light it with a little small magic, sit cross-legged around the big glass bottomed pipe and each take a hose and suck in a lungful of the potent smoke. After a while each Zar would float to a branch in a tree, until the trees surrounding the clearing were hung with glimmering Zar-fruit.

Most of the Zars were around the same age. They were transformed into Demons at a time of life when they were still full of the vitality of men, just not their mortal lives. However they became to be, and of course the reasons varied, they seemed to have mortal interests. They gathered to discuss the business and gossip of the villages, the politics, the secrets and rumours of the prominent. Like men everywhere, they complained and groaned about the women they possessed. If human ears could hear this Zar-talk, they would hear the common, everyday concerns of men. Alas, they would only hear the sighing of the wind, the rustle of leaves whirled by eddies of air swept down from the mountain passes. No language for mortal ears to discern, but a constant moaning in the woods, enough to make a man turn back and run down to the world he knew. The woods in this region were known to be haunted by spirits, and though they suspected there were Zars up there, no one had ever seen evidence. There was just the sigh of the wind and the sweet lingering smell of hashish.

This evening the Zar-fruit discussed the Shahnamah. For thirteen centuries this book of wisdom ran like a river through the minds of Persians to the ultimate ocean of life. The book spoke of wisdom, and to some of the men-spirits this was to know good from evil. To others, sitting on the branches, with eyes distant and unfocused by the hashish, wisdom was the dispensing of justice and fairness. Whatever an individual Zar thought, there was sure to be an opposing opinion. For Adil, Benan, Emir, Ali, Hasan, and quiet Derin, all were Zars of intelligence and former distinction. At one point, Emir, who was considered by some to be a poet, quoted an old verse he had worked upon for many centuries. He revisited the garden of memories to versify his experience and refine it now when mortal toil was beyond his reach.

“Take to delight the presence
from this two-way abode.
We would not meet each other
Once we pass through.”

Ah! To some of the Zars this was the sad essence of life. To others, it was not. Good they had taken of the pipe before they began to discuss Emir’s verse, for the argument could have grown fierce. Sadly, they were just spirits. Their impact upon mankind was long past.

But not in the plans of Ali.

In life, he had been a Berber chieftain of the Tuaregs tribe. He was a natural leader of men, had been known for his courage and fierce sword play. He had stood on the edge of the desert, robed in blue gowns and indigo veils, looking out from his encampment, and counted the horses grazing before him. He had raided other tribes, and the scars on his body were the badges of his courage. He was a tall man in life, with flashing dark eyes and flowing dark hair he wore braided with gold coins. Gold earrings glittered in his ears and a gold torque around his neck signified his status in the tribe. He came from warriors, and his young sons by his wives would be raised as warriors.

He was killed by a traitor while in the arms of his second wife, in the throngs of passion. When he was judged by the Mullahs in Paradise he was found wanting, for he had chosen to remain with the gods and goddesses of his ancestors. Plus he made the foolish mistake of not having his sword by his side. This condemned him more for they once had been men themselves. So Ali ben Gaia du Naravas, first son of the illustrious father of the tribe, and a new Berber poet, was cast out of Paradise, and condemned and branded a Demon. No longer would the smell of the wind from the desert fill his nostrils. No longer would he see the sun fall to the horizon over endless dunes. He would not hear the ney and soft drums played by Berber tribesmen around a fire at night, nor see the women dance, their hair swirling outward like black waves upon a roiling nighttime sea.

Ali’s fate was to roam the mountains far north of the desert, where other demons, some with similar crimes, some from countries unknown to him, shared their sad stories and their longings for home and family. Most had been wandering for thousands of years, taking residence where they could fine suitable quarters. Ali was fortunate in the choice of Shakira, for she was intelligent and comely. She was also passionate and demanding. Ali expected to remain with her for a long time, though it was a matter of opinion who was possessed by whom. Ah! That Shakira was a strong woman, and never boring. Sometimes annoying but all women were to some extent.

These mullahs would upset the apple cart in the name of their one God, Allah. He was a jealous god, no different from the Christian’s Christ or whoever the Jew’s God was when you thought about it. Ali missed the tolerant and easy gods of his youth. So, he had a reason for bringing together these Zars this fine evening. If he could get these hashish-sodden demons to agree, together they could have one sweet revenge on the Mullahs.

“Ali my friend!” Hasan , from a village across the great ridge, called out to Ali.

“We hear all over the mountain the Mullahs from Ankara are interested in our women. What do you my fine friend, know of these rumors?”

Ali smiled from his perch in an alder tree. His white teeth gleamed like bleached bones in the gathering darkness.

“Hasan, my brother! I hear the Mullahs have been warned by the mayor of our village that our women are holding zars. They must stick their narrow noses where the women are concerned.”

The sound of sighing wind was heard amongst the trees. This concerned them all, and they struggled to focus their attention on the words of both men.

“Ah”, chimed in Benan, from the village closest to Ali’s. “So that’s why those men were closed up for a day. Our elders went from the mosque to the home of Imam Kaleel and stayed there for hours. I only heard bits and pieces over the wind. May Ammon and Isis protect us!”

At the mention of these two earliest gods of the Berbers and their cousins, the Egyptians, the Zar Demons kissed their closed fist and touched their foreheads in the old Berber self-blessing.

Ali’s eyes flashed, his heart lept in his chest. Each Zar perched on a branch would have had the same reaction. Ah, thought Ali. Our Gods are forbidden to us. The religion of the Arabs has replaced the true religion of our ancestors. Ammon will have his revenge. The defeat of our culture has taken them ten centuries, but there still is resistance amongst our living tribesmen to the north and south of the desert.
.
Berbers still, and with this Ali concocted a plan.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2010-2014

“The Zar Tales”, Chapters IV and V.

“The Zar Tales”, published by Lulu.com, 2010

CHAPTER IV.

Mr. Mazud Nageesh sat at his desk, pondering the information before him. His wife Leila, attending the Zar ritual at Sheikha Shakira’s house was a further complication.

Ah! Women and their issues certainly screwed a peaceful life! They were essential to men’s comfort, and they continued the bloodlines, but by Allah’s Exalted Name in Paradise…they troubled a peaceful man!

Mr. Nageesh thought through his options. If he ignored the activity of the women, winked at their Zars, his own leadership of the village could be called into question and he could be removed from office. Things could go worse than that for him.

Then, there was his marriage. Leila had been a good if stubborn wife for over thirty years. The man was supposed to rule the house, but any man married that long knew who actually ruled. It was always the women who had real power. At his age he longed for peace and quiet, and if at times he walked on eggshells around the women of his household, well, it was only because he was a wise man.

But Leila was at the zar, and playing her tamboura. It would not be possible to ignore her presence at Sheikha Shakira’s house. Perhaps there was a way around the behavior of the women, but at this time, he didn’t know what it was. The situation was like a sour pickle and however he held his mouth, it would be bitter.

There didn’t seem any way out. Sighing deeply, he resolved to contact the proper authorities in the nearest city for guidance. But he would sit on it for a while, think of some options, and as long as he did something, what was the reasoning to rush? Better to run into a lion’s mouth where religion and women were concerned than mess with the authorities.

Ah! Allah the Merciful! What was the difference between lions, women and religion? You got chewed up all ways!

CHAPTER V

Leila caught wind of her husband’s plans. It was easy, for thirty years of marriage gave sharp insight into the workings of any married man if you were paying even a little attention. A few questions, a few mumbled responses, a bit of shouting and Leila had her answers. Her stupid husband would meddle in women’s affairs for the sake of his position and now only grief and trouble would follow.

Ah! Allah listen to the women’s plight! Even if you are a Man-God.

Perhaps cousin Shakira was right. Perhaps Goddess Nut was where she should take her concerns. Allah seemed to be doing right well by the men, and the women’s suffering didn’t abate.

Leila went to Shakira and together they sat and drank sweet mint tea, Shakira pouring it high into the pot three times so it would foam properly.

“So, this is what I know, cousin, though it took a bit of work to learn Mazud’s plans.”

Leila sipped her mint tea, her eyes looking at Shakira’s face over the rim of her tiny glass.

Shakira’s concern was obvious, her brows crinkling with concentration. Shakira called upon Nut silently, for she was needed to address all women’s concerns.

Mother Nut? Help us!

“Leila”, began Shakira, addressing her cousin in a lowered voice. “Who has he talked to? Is it anyone local?”

“Ah….from what I could get from him, and what I heard through the wall when he spoke on the phone in his office, he first talked to the old mullah, that ancient fart in the next district, what is his name? Imam Kaleel? Yes, that is his name. He is half blind with age and clinging to life. Allah push him over the cliff.”

They both laughed. Allah could at times be reasonable.

“Then the Imam will go to others for advice.” Shakira sipped her tea, deep in thought.

Yes, there would be trouble, no doubt about it. The zars would be too much of a target for the men to resist. This would have to be addressed, and soon.

“Well, cousin”. Leila’s voice cut into Shakira’s thoughts. “What do you propose? Surely there is something we can do? It is too good a thing to lose to the men. What should we do?”

“Let me think a while, Leila. Let me think.”

Shakira knew how important this was. The zars must continue. But how? The mullahs had supreme power, but the women needed the zars for so many reasons. Things were worked out in the zars. Health was restored by the zars. Her precious Ali had come to her at a zar. Shakira shook her head to clear her thoughts.

Ah! Mother Nut! Come to me at night in my dreams! Come to me with some answers!

The Goddess Nut did speak to Shakira. She came to her in a dream but her answer was not in the form she expected. In her dream, a smiling Nut spread herself over Shakira, caressing her with her sweet breath, dripping the milk of her breasts into Shakira’s mouth, and perfuming her skin with the scent of her hair. Nut rubbed her strong limbs on Shakira’s and made her sound her joy cry in her sleep! Shakira awoke suddenly, thinking of Ali and his lovemaking! Ah! Ali was no where to be found, but Shakira was given a vision by her dream. Still, her holy place felt a faint sweet ache left over from her sleep, and she knew then Nut had visited her. She knew Nut was wise and would lead her in this troubling time. She would turn to Ali and confide in him.

So she did. As soon as she saw him, she decided to throw it all at his feet and implore his advice and help. Even though he was spirit, he still was a man, and men sometimes were wise in these issues. Well, at least she hoped Ali would know what to do.

But first she would make an effort to appeal to him. Ali, like any man, liked the efforts of a woman attempting to please. He may only be spirit, but he still was enough of a man to remember the old ways.

So Shakira made a sweet feast of stuffed dates, and Turkish delight candies, and sugared almonds and candied fruits and golden raisins stuck together in a rich nougat and roasted her best beans for coffee. She washed her long hair and rinsed in rosewater, and dried it in the sun on the roof of her house, where it sparkled like gems in the sunshine. She rubbed almond oil into her heated skin on the roof, and rubbed some into her bush of black hair beneath. She hennaed the palms of her hands with designs and the tops of her feet, and dressed in a white, embroidered cotton gown that was fine enough to show the dark rings of her nipples beneath. But just for good measure, she also applied the brick red henna to her nipples first to make sure that they looked like two eyes looking seductively out at Ali from beneath the thin lawn fabric. Ah! If this didn’t make his ney rise from his loins, then all the art in Persia was dead, along with its manhood!

*************************************

Ali sat on the low bed, in his usual position, hovering a few inches from the Turkish rug. He smoked his hookah, and the apple- dried tobacco floated out through the piping. Since Ali was mostly spirit, it circled in his lungs, visible to the eyes of Shakira. When Ali was pleased or aroused, he shimmered with a golden gleam, and Shakira did not fail to notice his interest. Ali never touched the food offered him, for he did not live on such substance of mortals. But his eyes widened when he saw Shakira standing before him, and she saw that he was pleased. Her nipples hardened and ached and seem to stretch their now reddened buds towards him sitting before her.

“Ya Habibi”, began Shakira, settling herself on a mound of pillows next to Ali. “There is talk amongst our mayor and men about the women’s zars. I have heard the old Iman Kaleel has been consulted by Mayor Nageesh.”

Shakira took a bite of a stuffed date, and looked at Ali siting next to her. Ah! He was handsome this morning, with his robes sparkling in gold dust and the sweet smell of the tobacco surrounding his head like a vaporous crown.

Ali continued to puff on his hookah, his face dissolving in the smoke. He did not look at Shakira, but with eyes half closed, seemed lost in his own thoughts. He did not immediately answer her, but continued to pull languidly on his pipe.

“It is more than just Imam Kaleel who has knowledge of what you women do.” Ali blew out a long plume of smoke.

“News has rolled like a stone from a hill down to the valley. Now the mullahs in the district know what goes on here, for your Mayor Nageesh is out to protect his good name.”

Shakira was surprised, but then again, Ali was spirit and would be able to gather information unseen. That was a definite advantage over mortals. He didn’t stand with his ear to the wall like Leila. She also knew Ali would not share how he obtained this knowledge. He was a spirit of mystery, after all.

And a man.

“Beloved”.

Shakira’s voice was sweet as mashed dates and cut through Ali’s smoke seductively.

“What do you think I should do? What should we women do to protect ourselves?”

Shakira could see a smile forming on Ali’s lips, even through the smoke. His smile broadened, but still he did not look at her.

“Ah, women! They do not change much through the centuries. They dig holes in the ground and complain when they fall in.”

He blew out a long stream of smoke, obscuring his face completely. Shakira could sense his mirth, for his spirit-body vibrated with his silent laughter.

“You should have asked my advice before you held your zars and I would have told you my opinion.”

Shakira’s mood changed from cajoling to anger.

Just like a man! Hah! He doesn’t remember the role his own zar played in his past. I could have left him in stupid Aya’s womb and he would still be unhappy.

Demon Ali must have sensed her thoughts for he changed his position slightly, and laid down the hose from the hookah.

“Look, Shakira. You have involved yourself and the others in a dangerous thing. The mullahs have cracked down all over the country on zars. This you well knew. Your rebellion against the men has been too open. Had you been smarter, you would not be so worried now.”

Shakira exploded.

“Alright, Mighty Zar! I have played the foolish woman and now you have your satisfaction! Your wisdom is more than my own, though I am called Sheikha. What can I do to make you help me?

“Ah! You want my help? All you had to do is ask.” Ali the Demon vibrated with laughter.

“I am asking, Ali, I am begging for your help. I am lost which way to go. I am lost.”

Now Ali the Demon turned to look at Shakira propped up on the rich colored cushions beneath him. His eyes softened and he folded his arms across his chest and golden stardust rose from his movements. His voice was serious but still a hint of laughter was there as he spoke in low tones to this woman.

“You and the others do nothing. Tell them to be obedient wives to their husbands. Tell them to act sweetly and talk in pleasing, melodious tones and not to challenge them. Tell them to act as white doves and bring honor to their house. I will do the rest.”

Shakira, being an intelligent and curious woman, could not resist. “What Ali, do you plan on doing?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she realized her mistake.

Ali the Demon’s eyes grew dark, and his face scowled with thunder. Shakira had never seen him in such a state, and shrunk back on her pillows. Her heart thumped as if she had seen a horrible jinn in the black of night, and sweat rose on her skin in fright.

Ali saw her fear, could smell it with his sharpened senses, and curbed his anger as well as he could.

“Woman, it is enough for you to know I will fix what you have broken. It is not for you to question what I do. I am not your husband, but you apply the same advice here as you tell the other women. Now, I desire soft music and the perfume of your body in my nostrils and my ney within your woman’s bush. I will play the flute and you will dance for me. But you take off that gown. I prefer to see your skin glisten with your almond oil, and to see your flesh roll in the morning light. This is what you will do for me and I will take care of your mess. But ask me not again my plans. You would not want to know. Have faith in your beloved.”

Ah! Shakira knew a strong and determined man when she heard one. And since she had no power against the mullahs, she was glad to leave it to Ali. There are times when a man is a necessity in life, and this was a prime example. He might be spirit, but there was enough man in that spirit to hide behind.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009-2014. “The Zar Tales” published by Lulu.com, 2009

‘The Zar Tales’, Chapter Three…..

-“The Zar Tales”,  published….. on Lulu.com.

 

CHAPTER III.

 

Shakira looked around at the women on the floor. Some were smoking, most talking and the sound of clinking bottles were heard though the women tried to muffle it with their robes.

“Aliya, don’t be so stingy with that bottle. Pass it over here, woman.”

“You will guzzle it, and we will have to clean up the mess.” Laugher sounded throughout the room. Some of the women sipped from the hidden and forbidden bottles of their husbands. They were not the young ones.

Give them time, thought Shakira, the wine will flow as easy as their tongues and their laughter.

It was not often they could gather, and each yearned for a time where inhibitions would lessen and gossip, the welcome companion of women, was allowed.

“Jassa”, called Shakira, “come spread the cloth on the altar. We must do this properly if

we are to catch a Zar tonight.”

“Perhaps cousin we catch two Zars tonight. My Farah has been complaining of stomach troubles and maybe a Zar has gripped her middle.”

Shakira shook her head and laughed. “Farah eats too many dates and she is fat as a ewe. No Zar would have room to lodge in her stomach. Too much food in there. 

Dried fruit, stuffed dates, nuts and sweet breads were passed around on large trays. A large brass one was placed on the altar, made of a high stool in the middle of the room. This was for the spirits who happened to come wandering in during the drumming. No mortal would dare touch that offering.

A number of women had dumbeks, brought to the house smuggled under their voluminous robes. The tamboura , an ancient lyre-like instrument, was already in the hands of Leila, and she busy tuning it to suit the mood of the evening. Leila usually started with sad songs, and as the wine made the rounds, the tempo of the tamboura , followed by the dumbeks, would increase and the women would make little effort to confine their happiness.

Ah! Life could be good! It was just a matter of side- stepping the men. 

Tonight Shakira had an idea, something she had dreamed of for a while. The festival of the Goddess Nut was approaching, and though no longer celebrated openly Nut was the Goddess closest to the heart of women. Protector of the dead, Nut was also beloved by the living, for she spread her body over the Universe and fed and comforted them from her teats. There was always enough milk from generous Nut and she was beloved by mothers, and most of the women in the village were mothers.

So many babies now in the arms of Nut, resting like stars in her bosom! She had lost her only babe, along with her husband many years ago. So Ali was both to her and tonight she would dance in celebration. Allah was the men’s god, but Nut had the heart and devotion of women.

Leila started to play her tamboura, and slow, sad chords and plaints tumbled from her fingers. Women around the room hushed, listened with their ears and hearts, heads nodding. This was the music reaching up to their wombs and lifting the sorrows off their bosoms. Shakira could imagine the ghosts of children and husbands long gone floating like wisps of smoke in the center of the room. Perhaps they would eat from the sacred tray of sweets. Tonight they would join together, still part of the village though no longer in corporal form. The magic of Leila’s fingers drew forth tears along, perhaps, invisible spirits.

Her playing changed after these sad songs. Gone was the mourning of the women, to be replaced by joyful tunes. Voices were lifted in song and chant, shoulders swayed and hands clapped out a counter rhythm to the drums.

Shakira felt the trance take over her body, slip up her loins and envelop her mind. 

Ahhhh!

It was a warm embrace, and it wasn’t Ali! Warm enough to make her move with an internal rhythm apart from any conscious intentions.

She was possessed by the Zar trance. 

Shakira rose to her feet and discarded her outer garment. She shook out her arms and rolled her head around.   Her white cotton undergown was loose over her swelling breasts and haunches. She kicked off her sandals and her long black hair streamed down her back, unplaited, flowing like dark waves. She paced around the circle, her body picking up the rhythm of the drums and tamboura, her hips defining a pattern of movement, her arms held out from her body. She was dancing the age-old dance of women, for women, to greet the cares and concerns of their tribe. For, men aside, women were the heart beat of the village, they were the blood coursing through the alleys and up to the well. They were the waters of Life .

Shakira stalked the room, now a tigress, the drums following her, she commanding the rhythm. Shaking, bowing, swaying, each movement mirrored in the watching eyes of the women. She danced alone, but the movements were blood, flesh and muscle of every woman who sat before her. Heads nodded in time with the drums, hands clapped, some women pounded the floor in counter rhythms, swayed with their own bodies in imitation of Shakira’s dancing.   She moved around the room, hips shaking, belly rolling, shoulders thrown back and forth, hair cascading outward like the whirling skirts of the Dervishes of Turkey as she turned in circles, feet pivoting beneath her body, those feet beating out an tattoo that went straight into the earth. 

“Ayaaa!”

“Sheikha Shakira dances in the river of life! The Sheikha captures our hearts and lifts them to the Goddesses’ lips!”

“Ayaaa! We dance with you, Shakira!”

Voices were raised in chants, joined together in different harmonies, rising up to the ceiling, taking wing in the nighttime air. Shakira’s feet pounded out rhythms deep, deep into the soil of the floor. Her hands and flinging arms commanded the winds, and the women’s chants rose to the ears of heaven.

Ayaaa! 

Sweat dripped on the face of Leila as she played the tamboura, her fingers flashing on the lyre-like instrument and the drums beat different cadences, creating multi-layered sounds. This drone of music underlay the vocals of the women singing in now- strange harmonies. Pagan magic filled the room and Shakira’s body radiated the energies of an older culture. Gone were the cities, the stuff of modern life, the mullahs, the chadors and berka that veiled the beauties of women and in their place was the teats of nourishing Goddess Nut, spreading her body over the universe, the stars coursing through her body, the planets, the moons, the comets, too. The sun crept up her holy woman’s place at night, to be born out of her mouth at dawn. The moon too, came forth from her body, and the passage of the hours were marked by her Houri, the original women of the night, dancing with lessening veils till they lay under her belly at daybreak, sleeping. 

Praise Nut! Goddess of women. Goddess of our own, time before time, Goddess before any God!

 –

 Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted 2010-2014, The Zar Tales published by Lulu.com, 2010

 

 

“The Zar Tales”, Chapter Two

A Woman possessed by a Zar……

 

Chapter II.

 

Of course there had to be a snake in this paradise.  It was the village mayor. He was not happy with the power Shakira had.  For Shakira was a Sheikha, a ‘wise woman’, trained from her mother’s line in the responsibilities of such a position.  Shakira was consulted by the women over many issues. Marriages, birth names, the problems women had over their troublesome men, all these and much more came to Shakira.  She was wise, and known for her sensible opinion.  She had power in her own right.

And this was irksome to the mayor.   Not enough issues came to his desk.  He was a man, and in this world, a man was the one to consult, not a woman!

No, the mayor was up against a force of nature disobedient to the natural order of life. And besides, he heard the women were having too much fun in the opinion of some of the husbands.  There was talk they were planning to meet and drink and smoke and drum and laugh till late at night, but that was just a whispered rumor.  Ah, life was not in the proper order at all!

He, by the authority of his office, would have to make inquiries into this matter.  The women were showing their heels and who knew what would happen next?  Perhaps they would roll their eyes at the Imam!  Perhaps the women would refuse next to go to the mosque!  Who knows with women?  They could create all sorts of mischief, and he, the mayor, would be called to account for it.  Ah!  He owed it to the men, his brothers under the sun,  to find out what was going on.  He owed it to his own reputation and his position in the village to investigate all rumors.  Perhaps if he put his foot down now, his own wife of many years would quiet her voice and heel to his command like a good Muslim wife.  But he had his doubts.  His wife, after all, was related to Shakira.  Ah! That clan stretched back into time, and making his own wife obey was like telling the wind not to blow.  It was the blood of Shakira that made ill in his own house.  Or, at least, it had a part in his problems. 

Well, whatever to come, he owed it to Allah, the one God!  And He was a Man! He would agree with the mayor. That was the natural Order of things.

So the mayor, whose name was Mr. Nageesh, heard that on a certain Friday, when the men were at mosque chanting their prayers, the women were making their way to Shakira’s house.   Mayor Nageesh sent a young boy, not more than twelve, to count those entering the house and see if he could hear anything of their plans.  This young boy lurked in the shadows of a doorway and watched.  At least twelve women had entered the house, some with bundles concealed under their dresses.  What they were carrying was not clear to the boy, but the sound of drumming and laughter and even the sound of suspicious clinking of bottles could be heard from this house after dark.  Worse, the women stayed there for hours. The sound of their ruckus was shameful, even the men could hear it through their snoring.

A Zar!  The women were holding a Zar! What else could it be?   Ah, this was very bad, very, very bad, for the Zar was now illegal. Everyone knew it was banned as pagan by the illustrious council of religious men in the cities.  This would be the end of his office if word of this spread beyond this village.  It was sure to reach the ears of the district and then he would have his hands full.  Or, he thought with a shiver….they could have his head.  It had happened before.  Allah have mercy!

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2010-2014