And the lily, how passionately it needs some wild
Darling!
At night, I open the window and ask the moon to come
And press its face against mine. Breathe into me.
Her melancholy verses pulled at my heart. I knew nothing of that kind of love. I knew nothing about pearls and shells either except that one had to free itself from the other. We were both calmer than we should have been, Benafsha because she had lived her love, and me because I had never known it.
The hours crept by.
Day turned into night and night became morning. One final morning.
Maybe this is how it is meant to be. Maybe this is how I will finally be returned to my family and saved from this wretched existence. Maybe there is nothing for me in this world.
Shekib swung wildly between anger, panic and submission in those hours. Benafsha whispered words of apology from time to time but mostly prayed. She held her head between her hands and atoned for her sins, said there was no God but Allah.
Allahu akbar, she whispered rhythmically. Allahu akbar.
There was talking outside their door. Shekib could not make out what they were saying but heard a few words here and there.
Whores. Stoning. Deserved.
Whores? Shekib realized she was a woman again. As guilty as the woman lying a few feet from her.
I have been both girl and boy. I will be executed as a girl. A girl who failed as a boy.
Stoning. Today. Stopped.
Stopped? What was stopped?
Shekiba listened carefully.
King. Pardon. Gift.
At hearing “gift,” Shekiba realized something was happening to her. She strained to hear the voices more clearly but could not make out most of what they were saying.
The door opened. The same ranked soldier reappeared, his face cross.
“Khanum Benafsha, prepare yourself. You,” he said, looking at Shekiba with disgust. “You will attend the stoning and then you will be punished for your crime. After that, you will be given in marriage. You should thank Allah that you have been shown a mercy you do not deserve.”
The room went dim again and the chains were locked in place. Shekiba’s heart pounded.
They will not stone me! I will be given in marriage? How could this be?
Benafsha looked at her, the corners of her mouth almost turned up in a weak smile.
“Allahu akbar,” she whispered; the condemned’s prayer had been answered.
Shekiba’s hands trembled. Was it Amanullah? He must have intervened! But why would he want her now that she had been accused of such treachery? Now that she had made herself an unworthy wife?
Everyone spoke of Amanullah’s noble character. Maybe he had seen through the accusations. Maybe in their brief exchanges he had seen something, something that told him she was more than just a woman-man, more than just a harem guard. Was that not what he had told his friend Agha Baraan?
Tears ran down Shekiba’s cheeks. Now all she could do was wait. The hours passed slowly. It became painful to sit in the same room with Benafsha. Shekiba looked at her glazed eyes and broken spirit. She crawled over and crouched at her side.
“Khanum Benafsha,” she said, her words a hush. “I am praying for you.”
Benafsha’s eyes focused on Shekiba. She looked hollow but grateful.
“I cannot understand why you… but I want…”
“I fulfilled my destiny,” Benafsha said calmly. “That is all I did.”
When they came for Benafsha, Shekiba was holding her hands. Two soldiers dragged Benafsha to her feet and another two pulled Shekiba up by the shoulders. Shekiba’s fingers lost their grip when they bound Benafsha’s wrists together and covered her with a blue burqa. Benafsha looked at her and began to wail, long slow moans that grew louder as they walked through the hallways.
“Shut your mouth, whore!” a soldier snapped, whipping his hand against the back of Benafsha’s head after he had made sure they were not being watched. Though she was about to be executed, she was still the king’s concubine.
Benafsha’s head bounced forward. She began to pray loudly.
“Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar. Allahu…”
They shook her gruffly by the shoulders and warned her again. Her prayers went on.
Through the palace, out a back door and into the courtyard, where the afternoon sun nearly blinded the women. Shekiba looked at the harem and saw the women lined up outside, head scarves pulled across their faces. Halima in silhouette, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. Sakina stood among them, her arm linked with Nabila’s.
You did this, Shekiba thought bitterly.
Ghafoor, Karim, Qasim and Tariq stood in front of the women, solemnly watching the dead woman walk by. Even from this distance, Shekiba could see Tariq trembling. Ghafoor kept her eyes averted, whispering something to Karim as she looked back at the concubines.
Coward. You can’t even look at me.
“Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar…”
Soldiers stood everywhere. The palace grounds were quiet, an eerie silence given the number of people in sight. Benafsha’s prayers echoed through the gardens, her toes dragging through the ground. The women of the harem shrank into the distance. Shekiba could hear someone crying. Others tried to hush her but the sobs continued. Shekiba thought it sounded like Nabila.
“Do not weep for those who damned themselves!” a voice boomed.
Shekiba turned around to see where the voice came from. Ahead of them stood a general. From this distance she could not tell if it was one of the men who had come to their makeshift prison cell. Three soldiers stood on either side of him, their backs straight as rods.
A hundred times Shekiba had crossed the palace grounds but never had it seemed this far. They inched along.
“Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar. Allahu…”
Shekiba began to mouth the words too. Her voice was barely audible, her throat so dry it burned to talk.
As they neared the general, he nodded to the soldiers and they walked past the fountains, toward the far limits of the palace. They marched solemnly to a clearing where a semicircle of soldiers stood at attention. Shekiba’s heart dropped. In front of the soldiers lay two separate piles of stones, most the size of a fist. The heaps reached the soldiers’ knees.
Shekiba’s prayers grew louder, synchronizing with Benafsha’s. She tasted tears. They walked to the edge of the palace; high walls shielded the onlookers. King Habibullah emerged from the palace and stood beside the general he had placed in charge of the execution. The men whispered to each other, keeping their eyes on Benafsha.
The general nodded at something the king said and approached the condemned as she was brought to the center of the semicircle. A deep pit had been dug in these outskirts of the palace, behind a row of fruit trees, a place Shekiba had never before ventured. The soldiers, about fifteen feet away, stared at Benafsha. Shekiba was still within earshot.
“Tell me, Khanum Benafsha, are you ready to divulge the name of the man you welcomed in your chambers?”
Benafsha looked up and met his stare.
“Allahu akbar.”
“You could be granted mercy if you would at least tell us who this man is.”
“Allahu akbar.”
The general threw his arms up and looked back at the king, exasperated. The king nodded, his face a contorted mix of wrath and disappointment.
“Very well! Khanum Benafsha, your crimes have been reviewed by the scholars of our beloved Islam and according to the laws of our land, you are to be stoned for the grave offense you have committed.” He looked at the two guards and pointed at the hole. Benafsha let out a wail as they held her by the armpits and lowered her into the pit, her legs kicking, her blue burqa flailing like a goldfish pulled from the palace fountain.