The forest in the rain was dark and cold. Iman shivered. Her hair was wet. She was waiting for the Hoopoe. He no longer came to her room. Ever since she had taken off her hijab, he no longer told stories especially for her. She sensed his aloofness, his silent rebuke. She was meant to learn from his stories, to become spiritually nourished, to tame her ego and strengthen her resolve. Instead, the pull of the other current was visceral and strong. The costumes more intimate than his stories; her anger louder than his voice. But still she wanted to listen to him, the wisdom of his words mesmerising if difficult to apply, comforting despite being cautionary. To listen to the Hoopoe now, she must join all the others in the forest, sitting as if she were one of its inhabitants, no longer a princess with a crown, no longer high up in the attic. And she must wait and interpret. She must interpret because the language in which the Hoopoe spoke to other creatures was not her language, not her mother tongue. Here, with the wind blowing, with the sounds of the frogs, birds, deer and foxes, gulls, rabbits and squirrels, she must listen more intently. The story that the Hoopoe told sounded like an echo of another tale, a classic of two sides, someone turning from friend to foe, from companion to devil, someone becoming something else. And, by doing so, stepping far away, detaching, springing out of reach. The animals did not listen quietly, it was not their custom to do so. They heckled the storyteller, they threw in snippets of their own stories, insisting on adding their trials to the pot. There were wails and chuckles, grunts and screams that substituted words. The Hoopoe was revered but taken for granted. He was given time and freedom to speak, but his listeners knew better. Usually Iman did not cry when listening to a story, but this time she sensed the loss and the confusion, how change was the nature of life, whether violent or subtle.

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven