The Hakawati by Alameddine Rabih Page A

noose around his boy’s head and walked him out of the pen.
    “The poor lamb,” the eldest ewe said as the sheep watched him being taken away.
    “Daddy, Daddy,” the little lamb said. “I’m a lamb now. Isn’t this a miracle?”
    And his father took out the knife and slit his throat.
    And the little lamb watched his own blood leave him.
    And his father cut off his head.
    And his father hung him from his ankles to drain him.
    And his mother began to skin him with her own hands. She would lift a small part of his skin and punch between the skin and body, lift, punch, lift, punch, until she finally cut the last attached skin at his ankles. And she chopped off his feet and hands. And she took out all his insides. And his mother cooked him over a slow-burning fire.
    His father waited. His mother cooked. His brothers helped set up the large table under the giant oak. His sisters cleaned the house and cleaned and cleaned. They got dressed in all the fineries. By lunchtime, they were lined up waiting. The mother wondered where our boy was. His brothers suggested he must be daydreaming somewhere as usual. He had gotten out of doing the chores, that sneaky brat. The family waited and waited and waited. Finally, the mayor arrived and said that the bey had decided not to come to the village.
    The lamb was placed in the middle of the table. The whole family salivated.
    “You outdid yourself,” the father told the mother.
    “This lamb was particularly succulent,” the mother said.
    And the boy felt his father tear into him.
    “Pass your plates, children,” the mother said. “We’ll get to have a great meal for a change.”
    And the boy felt his brothers bite into his flesh. He felt his sisters chew sumptuous pieces of him.
    “This tastes so good,” his brothers said.
    “The best meal we’ve ever had,” his sisters said.
    And the mother brought out his stomach. His siblings fought over his intestines.
    “You take this, my dear,” his father told his mother. “I know you love it.”
    “And you take this, my dear,” his mother told his father, “for I know you love it.”
    “And I am happy,” said the father.
    “And I am happy,” said the mother.
    And the boy felt his mother bite into his testicles.
    And the boy felt his father swallow a piece of his heart.
    And the boy was happy.

Three
    F atima dressed for her entrance to the city. She covered her hair with a scarf of sheer red silk, around her forehead a chain of gold. Her neck held beads of lapis lazuli, her right breast supported a small brooch of gems, seven rings of silver encircled her left arm. She tightened the twined belt around her waist and made sure it held the sword firm. She wore her heavy robe, which concealed everything underneath.
    It was only after she finished dressing that Jawad came out of Khayal’s tent. Embarrassed to have been discovered, he blushed, tried to speak, but ended up stuttering.
    “I see you have made your choice,” she said. “I am pleased. I grew to like our suitor and would have been troubled had we been forced to send him away.”
    And our three travelers entered the gates of Alexandria. Bast’s house was at the northern edge of the city, along an estuary. The healer stood outside, throwing morsels into the water. Fish surfaced, mouths open, snatching the bread before it hit.
    “I had expected you earlier,” Bast said without turning, still feeding her pets.
    “We were delayed,” Fatima said.
    “And so expertly disposed of. Well handled, if risky, I must say. Not all obstacles will be as easily surmountable. More will be asked of you.” When she ran out of bread, she brushed off her hands and turned around. “You are more beautiful than I expected, and it is to be hoped you will become more beautiful still. Follow me, and leave the lovers outside. You will be separated soon, and they should not hear my counsel.”
    “Why not?” Khayal asked, but the heedless healer had already begun walking toward her