Riddle of the Copper Coin

Mix of modern-day and fantasy adventure with F/F romance, poetry, and eventually some smut. Hope you enjoy it!

* * * * *

Rafi and I had been friends for years, but there were still a few things I hadn't figured out about her. I knew she was a fellow nerd—we'd been playing Dungeons and Dragons together for five years—and I knew she liked cats and sci-fi, and worked for an architectural firm.

I knew "Rafi" was short for Rafeeqa, and that her family had come from Iraq as refugees when she was eight, after her mother died. I knew she was Muslim and wore

hijab

and drank lemonade on D&D nights when the rest of us had cider, and that our party of heroes had to get by without her wizard for a month every time Ramadan came around. (She assures me that this is why Gandalf and Dumbledore kept disappearing at inconvenient moments. I am unconvinced.)

I knew she had several queer friends, me included; Lucy and I had a standing invitation to her family's Eid celebration, and she made no bones about introducing us as a couple to anybody who might ask.

("Does that bother them?" I'd asked. "Some," she'd replied, "but that's their problem. My uncle said he doesn't understand homosexuality, but if Cory Bernardi hates gay people so much, they can't be all bad.")

But I didn't have a clue about her own orientation. In five years of hanging out with Rafi, the closest I'd seen her come to romance was arguing over whether Ron and Hermione were suited to one another. I didn't know whether to read her as closeted, aromantic, or just waiting for Mr. Right.

It didn't matter to me—or perhaps I should say, I didn't

allow

it to matter to me. I was very fond of Rafi; she was one of the sweetest and smartest people I knew, and if I'd been unattached that might well have developed into a crush. But I was in a happily monogamous relationship with Lucy, and I had enough sense to know that nothing good could come from thinking too hard about Rafi's possible inclinations.

Then in a few months, everything changed. Lucy was offered her dream job in the UK. I didn't know anybody there, and I didn't want to move away from family in Melbourne. We talked it over and came to the hard realisation that I'd be miserable if we moved, and she'd be resentful if we didn't. From there the conclusion was inevitable. It was amicable enough as breakups go, but still it left me bruised and bleeding: "I love you, but not enough."

Around the same time, Rafi was looking for somewhere to live; the lease on her flat had run out and the owner wanted to sell. I needed somebody to share the rent that I'd been splitting with Lucy, and after previous experiences I wasn't keen on living with a stranger. (Ask me why I stopped eating watermelon; better yet, don't.) So Rafi and her elderly tabby, Bilqis, moved in to what had been Lucy's study.

A couple of weeks later, I slipped on somebody's spilled coffee at Spencer Street railway station and messed up my ankle big time. Surgery, steel pins and a plate, the works. I was off my feet for several weeks, and on crutches on and off for months. After the cast came off I started rehab, which meant a series of painful exercises to strengthen my ankle and restore mobility.

I'd always thought of myself as somebody who was enlightened and compassionate about disability in others. I was not prepared for the reality, for how diminished I felt when I had to plan in advance for something as trivial as a walk to the shops, and budget in pain and energy. Of course Rafi offered to help, but asking felt like an admission of weakness. It would have been different if I'd been able to lean on Lucy, but... no. I felt helpless, and I resented it.

I drifted into bad habits, putting off the exercises as long as I could. I told myself I'd do them in the evening, last thing before bedtime, and so bedtime drifted from eleven to twelve to one o'clock, and as often as not I'd end up telling myself that it was too late, and promising to do my rehab in the morning. You can guess how that worked out. I was self-employed at the time, doing website design, so I didn't have a reason to get out of the house or to keep sensible hours.

It came to a head one night when Rafi wandered out at two a.m. for a glass of water and found me on the sofa watching late-night TV. It had not been a good day; I'd just done the paperwork to take Lucy's name off the gas and water bills, and that had nudged me back into one of those unpleasant feedback loops of anger and regret.

"Penny, can we talk?" said Rafi.

"Sure."

She sat in the armchair facing me, and Bilqis immediately jumped into her lap. "I'm worried about you. You're not getting nearly enough sleep and you're tired and grumpy every day."

"I know." I told her about the exercises, how much I hated doing them and how stupid I felt about not doing them, and she nodded along.

"Can I help? If you ask me to, I'll nag you every night until you do them. I'm an excellent nagger."

"Not just that. Even when I do them, I'm not sleeping well. My foot hurts in the night." I'd stopped taking the oxycodone they'd given me, because it wasn't doing anything for me. (I found out later that it's a redhead thing; the same mutation that makes us ginger also affects our reaction to painkillers. Who knew?) "I wake up and then I start thinking and can't get back to sleep."

"Lucy?"

"Yeah. I miss her. Hate feeling like her job mattered more than me. And then I feel like a hypocrite for not going with her."

She shifted Bilqis aside, came over next to me on the sofa. "Oh, honey. Of course you feel sad. How long were you with her? Was it four years? I like her too and I'm sorry it didn't work out. But as your friend, as somebody who cares about you, can I give you some advice you might not want to hear?"

"Okay."

"Please think about seeing a counsellor. I'm always here for you, but I think talking to a professional might be good for you. It's helped me." Rafi didn't talk about it much but I knew she'd had some bad experiences in childhood, both in Iraq and later when her family were in refugee limbo.

"I don't... it seems stupid having counselling just for a breakup."

"Penny, it's not a competition. I can see you're hurting. Please will you think about it?" She squeezed my hand.

"I will. And, thanks for listening." While we talked, Bilqis had sprawled across my lap. There's something very soothing about a cat who purrs easily.

"I used to get nightmares," Rafi said. "Hated going to bed. So Dad bribed me with stories. Every night when I was tucked up in bed he'd pull out a big book of the Thousand and One Nights."

"Really? Is that suitable for children?"

"He skipped a lot of the stories. I got hold of the book and read it for myself when I was fifteen. It was quite an eye opener. Many of the ones he did tell me weren't in the book at all, he just made them up for me."

"Your dad's the best. That's really sweet." My ankle twinged, and I grimaced, and thought about Lucy's empty spot in the bed. "I wish somebody would tell

me

stories at bedtime."

"I would," Rafi said.

"Oh, I was just whining, I didn't mean—" I remembered something Lucy had once said:

Penny, you really need to learn how to say yes.

"Wait, really?"

"I would. Not tonight, it's three in the morning and I have to work. But if you do your exercises and go to bed by eleven, I promise you a story tomorrow night."

And this is the story Rafi told me—or at least, an abridged version. The tale she told me had many more digressions and side-plots and stories within stories. I have left out the stories that the sea-captain told Fadil and Adiba, and the stories they told in return, and many others beside. This is the heart of her story, and although I've condensed it to a few short nights, you should understand that it was months in the telling.

* * * * *

Once, it is said—but only Allah knows for sure—there was a widowed old man named Fadil al-Katib who worked as a scribe, copying books and writing letters.

He had a daughter Adiba, clever and beautiful (are not all daughters beautiful?) whom he loved above all things. Adiba read all that he copied, and so became versed in all manner of things. As she grew, Fadil taught her his craft. She soon became his equal; then, his better.

In the city of Prince's-Splendour where they lived, it was

haram

to draw or paint any living creature. But it was not forbidden to write. So writing became a great art, words formed into ornate shapes of black and red and gold, and in all the city Abida was the greatest of artists. From letters and sentences she formed the petals of roses, the feathers of eagles, the eyes of lovers, so skilfully that it seemed they might come to life.

Although none but Fadil knew the true artist, Adiba's work became renowned throughout the city, and at length it came to the notice of Prince Kedar. "Bring the calligrapher to my presence, that I may honour him!" ordered Kedar.

But the Prince had a name as a cruel and rapacious man, and Fadil feared for his daughter, so he came himself. "I am the calligrapher," he said, "but I do not seek reward. It is enough to have pleased your highness."

Then one of Kedar's courtiers whispered to him, "I have seen this man's work, and he cannot be the one you seek. His lettering is indeed praiseworthy, but the other artist surpasses him as the moon surpasses the stars."

So Kedar commanded Fadil to write for him, and he saw that it was just as his courtier had said. Then he grew angry, and ordered Fadil al-Katib thrown in prison to await execution on the morrow.

When Adiba heard of this, she lost no time in coming to speak to the Prince. "I am Adiba daughter of Fadil al-Katib," she said, "and I am the one you seek. I ask your forgiveness for my father, for he was only seeking to protect me."

When Kedar looked on her, all thoughts of calligraphy flew from his head, for he was overcome with lust. "I shall forgive your father and reward him richly for his diligence," said the Prince. "But you must give yourself to me this very night, for I desire you. Else I shall have his head, and yours too."

Then Adiba knew him for an evil man, and she saw that it was no use depending on his mercy. Instead she thought up a stratagem. "As you say, so shall it be, unless Allah should wish it otherwise. But, your highness, this week I am unclean. By your leave I will go home and purify myself. In a week I will come to you, and your pleasure will be all the better for it, as water in Ramadan is sweeter for a day of thirst."

"I shall wait," said Kedar. "But you need not go home. You and your father will stay in my palace, until you are ready for me."

So Prince Kedar's guards took Adiba and Fadil to the chambers in the palace that had once belonged to Kedar's mother. There were a dozen rooms, and the smallest of them was bigger than Fadil's entire house; but the doors were locked, and they were guarded night and day.

"My lady," said the chief of the guards to Adiba, "his highness has given instructions that you are to have anything you ask for."

"All I wish is my old threadbare prayer mat from home, and my books, and a pot of glue to mend one of them that is falling apart. And I should like to walk in the old Queen's garden each day, to beautify my thoughts."

So they brought her the things she had asked for, and each day she walked in the garden, escorted lest she try to escape.

Then on the seventh day—

* * * * *

Rafi yawned and stretched her arms. "I'm sorry, it's really getting quite late. Would it be all right if I picked this up tomorrow?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Rafi, are you Scheherezading me?"

"Oh, Penny! Would I do a thing like that?" She winked and rose from her chair by my bedside. As she left she switched out the light; for the first time in months, I slept through the night.

* * * * *

On the seventh day, they brought Adiba to Prince Kedar.

"Your words were true," he said. "I have thought of nothing else this last week, and my desire is all the sweeter for it. Come, my darling, it is time for me to possess what until now I have only imagined."

"Very soon, my darling," said Adiba. "But have you any wine? I have heard that even an ugly woman becomes desirable at the bottom of a goblet. How much more beautiful then might

I

be to you, my lord?"

"Truly you are a maiden of excellent wisdom," said Kedar, and he called for wine, then bade his attendants to leave them.

"Allow me to serve you," said Adiba, and she brought him his wine, but only pretended to sip her own. For she had learned of the plants that bring slumber; as she walked in the old Queen's garden she had gathered them in her robe each day, and so made a sleeping-powder for the wicked Prince's drink.

While he was deep in slumber, she swiftly deprived him of his clothes and changed them with her own, for he and she were almost of a size. In the seven days of her captivity she had unpicked the threads from her prayer mat and fashioned them into a beard and moustache to match the Prince's own, and this she fastened to her face with the glue that her guards had brought.

Then she amused herself for the best part of an hour making the most extravagant noises of passion she could imagine. No dying man ever moaned as loud, no parrot ever shrieked as shrill, as did Adiba bint Fadil that night.

When she was almost hoarse she covered the Prince with a blanket and left him snoring. Then she slipped out the door and spoke to the guards, coarsening her voice to match that of the Prince.

"The lady is quite exhausted," Adiba said. "See to it that she is not disturbed. But you, go order her father released. And you, have my fastest horse saddled and ready, for I am minded to visit an old friend."

The guards thought it odd that the Prince should choose to go riding in the middle of the night, but they knew better to question his commands, and so all was done as Adiba commanded.

She mounted the Prince's horse and rode to the west gate of the city, making a great noise to ensure that all the watch saw her. Then she circled around the outside of the city walls, keeping to the shadows. Outside the east gate she met her father, as they had arranged, and together they rode away.

It was morning before Prince Kedar woke from his torpor to discover Adiba and Fadil gone, and sent his soldiers west to pursue them. By the time he found out he had been outwitted not once but twice, it was evening again, and Adiba and Fadil were far away.

At the sunset of the third day they came to the port city of Sweet-Cinnamon. "We cannot stay here," said Fadil, "for this city is loyal to Prince Kedar, and his riders cannot be far behind us now, for they can change horses at every town along the way. We must find our way to some distant land beyond his reach."

"Indeed," said Adiba, "but first there is a matter of honour we must attend to."

Adiba wrapped herself in a long cloak to cover the prince's finery, and together they brought his horse to the guards at the gate.

"My lords," Fadil said, "Prince Kedar comes to this city soon, and he has sent his finest stallion ahead that he may have use of it here. There is a message in the saddle-bags, for no eyes but his." And while the guards were hastening to make ready for Kedar's arrival, Fadil and Adiba slipped away.

When Kedar arrived, he found his horse awaiting him, and Adiba's letter:

To the mighty, the exalted Prince Kedar,

I would not be thought a debtor or a thief, and so I return your horse with thanks for his service. I hope you will not begrudge me the use of your clothes to protect my modesty, and for them you have mine in exchange; they are poorer than yours, but you will not find them less honourable.

May Allah look upon you, O Prince, and see to it that your wealth and your power come to match your kindness and righteousness.

Adiba bint Fadil al-Katib

She had written the message so that the words were shaped like two hawks taking flight; and indeed Adiba and Fadil had flown. At this, Kedar's rage consumed him.

For a time it seemed as if their troubles might be over. The captain was a kind man, and he told Fadil and Adiba of harbours far across the ocean where they might live far from the Prince's wrath. As they skimmed across the sun-glittering sea, the sailors took to telling marvellous tales of past voyages and distant lands, and Fadil and Adiba repaid them with tales of their own. In ports along the way they had various adventures, too many to retell here.

But then one day when they were out at sea came a terrible storm—

* * * * *

Rafi was fidgeting. "I'm sorry, but I don't know how you put up with this chair. There's a bolt or something sticking into my bum."

"Yeah, I know. It's on the list of things for when I have money. Sorry!"

"Well, I need to get up before it gives me a permanent dent. I'll tell you about the storm tomorrow."

"Looking forward to it! ...oh, Rafi?"

She was halfway out the door, but turned back. "Yes?"

"I'm booked in with a counsellor tomorrow. Found one on the web and she seems pretty good."

"Good for you!" She bounced over to my bedside and kissed me on the cheek. "I hope it helps." I felt the warmth of that touch long after she was gone.

We'd settled into a routine. Wednesday night was gaming, and Saturday night she had dinner with her family; the other five nights were my story nights. It felt childish and yet delightful, like the moment when I realised that being an adult meant I could buy myself ice cream any time I wanted.

* * * * *

A terrible storm came upon the little ship, worse than any of them had ever seen. Clouds rose so thick and so high that day became dark as a moonless night, but for lightning that flashed as bright as the sun. Waves tossed the ship like a child's toy, and dragged men overboard, and the only thing louder than the howling wind was the shattering thunder.

For days they flew before the wind's fury, sails and ropes and masts torn away, until some of the sailors went mad with fear and leapt into the water. Adiba and Fadil took their place, baling water to keep the ship afloat. But as Adiba climbed down to the hold the boat lurched, and she slipped from the ladder and struck her head, and knew no more.

When she woke she was lying on a beach, arms tied around a barrel. The storm had died, and the sun was out. Around her she could see all kinds of storm-driven debris, dead birds and driftwood, and among it some pieces that she recognised as cargo from the ship.

Then she wept, for she felt sure that her father and all the sailors must have perished in the wreck, having tied her to the barrel that was to float her safely ashore. She consoled herself with the knowledge that her father had been a virtuous man who must now be reunited in Paradise with Adiba's long-dead mother, and yet her heart grieved for the father who had raised her.

As Adiba lay deep in mourning a group of men approached, picking through the debris that had washed up. "Look!" said one. "It is a man, and he lives!" For she was still clad in the robes she had taken from the wicked Prince, having none other to wear.

She knew not their intentions, so she thought it safer to accept their mistake and present herself as a man. "I am Adib al-Katib," she said (in fact she said "Adiba", but the "-a" so softly that none heard), "and the storm has blown me far from home. What is this land?"

"You are in the kingdom of Salt-Sorrow," said the oldest of the men. "We will bear you to our lady Queen Sharifah, who will know how to deal with you."

The kingdom of Salt-Sorrow was barely more than a city, and a small and poor city at that. Queen Sharifah's entire palace would have been eclipsed by the least of Kedar's stables. But the Queen was a charitable and virtuous woman. She had "Adib" seated at her own table, and sent for new clothes to replace the ones that the sea had spoiled.