I’d tell it this way:
In that particular place at a parallel moment in time, a troop of His Royal Vileness’s cavalry reached a village, poor but beautiful, to seek girls with the same attributes. His Wretchedness desired a new toy.
Encircling this little place, ice-clear streams embroidered shimmering mountains and orchards terraced the foothills; even in the heat of summer you never breathed dust. The girls all had eyes like gems set in snow-carved landscapes, noses that were heralds of magnificence, and nectarine mouths promising the soul’s replenishment.
The troop dismounted in the middle of the village triangle (it was too poor to have a square). Behind them a massive, steel-banded carriage rumbled to a halt.
People gathered nervously, wondering what doom had come upon them.
The soldiers swiftly erected a tentlike little pavilion and lugged into it an enormous wood and leather chair.
Two of them, sweating despite the freshness of the breeze, placed a samovar next to the chair.
A tiny sigh rose, hovered above the triangle, and blew away. Such a samovar!
Finally the fragrance of an exquisite tea reached everyone’s trembling nostrils and the carriage door opened. A terrifyingly large woman stepped down and seated herself in that capacious chair.
The troop captain proclaimed, “His Royal Abysmalness commands us to find the loveliest virgin in the realm, that she may be blessed to delight him! Bring out your finest girls!”
(It should be noted that daughters are like watermelons. Best to sell them as soon as they’re ripe.)
A rumor spread faster than pneumonia: Her Royal Awfulness the Queen Mother herself was here to select one!
Girls and their mothers, stretching the triangle till it burst, began fainting to demonstrate their pliancy. One father collapsed too, but he was the one who had stomach-aches whenever his wife was in labor. No one took him seriously.
The rumor wasn’t true, anyway.
Think of her as the Quality Control Supervisor. Pinching, poking and probing, she judged the virginal quality of delectable flesh.
She’d been misfortunately named and that had curdled her life. Their newborn’s fluttering little primrose lips so bewitched them that her parents were moved to call her Peri Gul. That means fairy flower.
She grew into a volcano, instead. Even her lovely little feet betrayed her; they were as fragile as a gazelle’s dancing hooves, exquisite tiny bones perpetually cracking inside the most delicate pointy gold-embroidered shoes, and made one think of a djinni struggling to billow from its lamp but caught by the tips of its toes.
***
Some thought the village mayor’s wife Mahzadeh ill-named too. Moon’s child—for someone plain-faced as that!
But she too was a woman of presence, and possessed an excellent eye for the proportionality of ponds and their fishes. She strengthened her nerve and walked up to Peri Gul.
“Great lady, we welcome you. Your long journey must have been tiring. My home has nothing worthy of you, but its aspect, which God has made, is beautiful. Will you sit on my verandah and be refreshed?”
Peri Gul, overfed on others’ obsequiousness, was surprised by those clear honest eyes.
“This isn’t a pleasure tour,” she growled.
“It will shame me forever, that I failed to serve you tea from my own hand,” said Mahzadeh.
Peri Gul felt a strange little devil kick its razor-sharp feet in her heart. Simple hospitality! His Crassness’s golden wages had never bought her that.
“Where is your house?”
“There, where the slope begins,” Mahzadeh pointed.
Peri Gul jutted her chin at the nervous crowd.
“Let them go back to their work, my lady,” said Mahzadeh; “we’ll summon them again at your pleasure.”
Peri Gul lumbered to her feet, muttering something to the captain. An unsurprisable man, this surprised him. He watched Mahzadeh, a quarter-step behind Peri Gul, guide the way.
A curving sarabande of orchard, garden and rock lent the stone and timber farmhouse an unexpected touch of modest grandeur. Peri Gul grunted up the steps and sat heavily down in one of the verandah’s wooden armchairs.
The river coiled far below, where children splashed water buffaloes in the midmorning sun.
Mahzadeh whispered to her three daughters-in-law who were keeping themselves invisible behind the door, and soon a tray appeared, with glasses of tea and little dishes of pine nuts and dried mulberries.
“My lady,” said Mahzadeh. “Please take, in God’s name.”
She told her daughters-in-law to begin the preparing of a fine pullao.
“I’m not here to dine.”
“Let us demonstrate the skills of our girls.”
“They’re not wanted for their cooking,” said Peri Gul.
“How better,” asked Mahzadeh, “to judge the delicacy of their touch and the excellence of their timing?”
Peri Gul had sometimes felt deprived of the relish a good adversary brings to the table; suspecting she might have found one in a place like this enraged her. She exploded from her seat.
“You dare to fence with me, you insect?”
“Pardon me. It’s unforgivable to discomfit a guest,” Mahzadeh said gently, and kissed Peri Gul’s hand.
Peri Gul burst into tears.
***
“Ah,” said Mahzadeh, almost to herself, when they’d finished the last scrumptious morsel, “a woman of property needs no one. Such quince trees those rings would buy!”
Peri Gul stared at her.
“The jam, from an orchard of quinces!”
Peri Gul thoughtfully stroked the gold bracelets on each of her mighty wrists.
***
Eventually she summoned the captain. “I have died of a sudden apoplexy, and these humble people buried me, as custom requires. Let His Wretchedness know.”
He stared at her.
***
The captain summoned his lieutenant. “Great Lady Peri Gul and I have been taken by the flux and died, and these humble people buried us, as custom requires. Go home and let His Monstrousness know.”
***
In the the natural course and fullness of time, His Just Dessertedness choked to death on a mouthful of Turkish Delight.
***
Peri Gul proved to be a woman well-seasoned but not yet done, and zestfully produced five daughters (after inviting the captain to marry her). All were delightfully named.
***
And—“my falcon!” the captain cried out one night, at a moment of especially soaring passion. “I must call you that forever. It should have been your name from the start.”
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An earlier version of this story was published 3/26/13 on Every Day Fiction.
I liked the story. It reminded me of some of the old fairy tales that my mother read to me. I think the names of some of the characters were perfectly funny! It was delightful to hear such a great ending.
Delightful!!