Poisoned Beauty

By Rebecca Morgan

The market is an organ pulsing with life. Beating with the hearts of hundreds, thousands of people. Beating with the laughter of happiness and friendship. Palpitating with the cries of sorrow. The exertion of merchants as they compete to sell mounds of golden turmeric, bloodred paprika, and earthy cinnamon. Trinkets. Shells strung in tempting patterns. Tiny woven baskets for a woman’s baubles.

The pyramid’s shadow offers little relief from the sun’s heat and from bodies pressed together. Sweat falls down my forehead followed by panic as I quickly wipe it away, taking care not to disturb the powder I set with care that morning.

“Fair lady.”

Ah. He knows taste when he sees it. I stop, giving the man before me my attention. His eyes light up as he lays an amethyst necklace out on his hands.

“Tis the finest necklace this side of the Nile.”

“Inarguably.” I finger the sanded-smooth edges. Amethyst. Royalty. Power. Everything I hope to gain.

What would these look like around my throat? Yet poignant beauty doesn’t need the aid of jewels or hair adornments to aid allure.

The man evidently sees my hesitation, as any good peddler would. He places the necklace in my hands.

“Test it, love. See how you like it.” He gestures to a vessel of water.

I fasten the delicate chain around my neck, the stones cool against my skin. Leaning over, I study my reflection. Midnight hair. Rich caramel skin. Hazel irises. Truly, Egyptian goddesses themselves couldn’t rival me. The purple stones around my neck tell what I am. What I am capable of.

Carefully, I count the money required, keeping the peddler from seeing how much I have. I need the rest for something far more important, and I’ve let myself get distracted.

I continue through the market, searching for the real reason I’ve come. Whispers of a man who can change everything for me. I caress the stones around my neck.

Then I hear it. The high and reedy notes of a pungi. I follow the sound, the continuous humming impossible to ignore.

I find the snake charmer sitting cross-legged on his rich red rug, a covered basket in front of him. He removes the pungi from his mouth when I approach.

“I’ve heard that you are great among snake charmers. That you have a snake that can speak, tell you everything you wish to know.”

The man nods, holding out his hand. “I do indeed. Though it will cost you.”

I draw three gold coins from my purse, feeling the emptiness already. The snake charmer gestures for me to sit.

“You understand the importance of this? What the cobra represents?”

Strength. Divine authority. A being with mysterious powers. The gods in animal bodies among us. We love them even as we fear them. As we love and fear the gods.

I nod.

“Haje is his name. I will signal when you may speak.” The charmer fiddles with the basket, before bringing the pungi to his mouth. A rising melody comes from the instrument, the low humming settling in my bones, lulling me into a stupor. I shake my head. The charmer removes the lid and slowly, the cobra rises. Moving back and forth, swinging his instrument, the charmer continues his tune as the cobra expands its hood and turns to look at me with its dark beady eyes. The charmer nods. I take a breath.

“Tell me, Haje, who is the fairest of them all?”

The charmer’s eyebrows rise but he continues playing.

The snake moves back and forth, forked tongue assessing me. “Eléa Cadeaux, with her vivid red lipsss and hair the color of wheat fields, is the fairessst of them all.”

A flare of anger rises in me, but I’d expected it. I stand, dusting the dirt from my clothes. “Thank you.”

I hand over the three gold coins as before and take my seat in front of the charmer. My heart beats louder than the noise around me, filling my ears with the sound of my life’s blood in my veins. The charmer plays. The cobra rises.

“Tell me, Haje, who is the fairest of them all?”

“Anastassia Bocharov, with her icy blue eyesss iss the fairesssst of them all.”

Surprising. I stand and leave without a word. Maybe this time I will succeed.

A weariness seeps throughout my bones. My soul is a hardened shell as I sit once again in front of the charmer. A heavy plague has settled on my heart. Shadows hood my eyes. I bite into my red apple; the juice runs down my neck. The charmer plays.

Days. Weeks. Months have gone by. The charmer knows me, eyes wary when he would see me approach. As if he can see the blood that I’ve washed from my flawless skin. I know the cobra can smell it. Seven times I have asked. Seven times I have gone away.

I toss the core. Wait. Haje rises from his basket. “You wissh to know who is the fairessst of them all?”

I nod. Waiting for his answer. Preparing for what I’ll have to do. Anything.

“You. You, Aya Jamal, are the fairessst of them all.”

Relief floods me, crushing me in its wake. Tears prick my eyes. Finally, after all this time. Power. Authority. A queen’s throne. It will soon be mine.

“But be forewarned, Aya,”

Haje snaps me back to the present.

“You can’t stop beauty from arising. Everywhere people look for it, they will find it, in more forms that you think. You’ll never stop grace from entering the world, even when it’s most obscured.”

Laughter spills from me, filled with scorn. “That’s where you’re wrong, Haje. I already have.”

Haje hisses, coiling tightly. “One day, in sssome far-off place, sssnow will enter the world. And you will find that you have failed and alwayssss have.”

I stand, wiping the dust from my clothes. “Then at that time you can expect my return.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca Morgan has been writing stories since before she could read—or at least, she thought she was!  All these years later, she is definitely writing, having written three novels and countless stories and poems. Rebecca aims to write stories that heal and bring healing through the written word. Besides writing, Rebecca loves cooking, reading, journaling, blue oceans, and salsa. She lives in the South with her family.

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