Week 1 Storytelling: St. Ives

(Statue of Ancient Egyptian cat at the Museum of Fine Arts of Lyon, via Wikipedia. Redistributed under the terms of the CeCILL.

I would have stopped and bartered with the merchant, but I did not, in fact, like the look of him. His eyes glinted like coins, and his teeth flashed like knives, lining a cavernous smile. His wives outnumbered him seven to one, every one of them mounted, veiled, and trailed by seven more camels dripping with jewels, a large, gilded sack draped gracefully over each hump. Altogether, the effect was quite impressive—although, I thought, in a quiet, private part of my mind, he’ll draw thieves like a watering hole draws lions.

I did not hail him, did not stop. Instead, he hailed me.

“Young fellow!” he cried, as the ranks of his company came rippling to a halt behind him. “Young fellow, whatever your heart desires—I have it!”

My eyes came to rest dubiously on the wives. Their eyes came to rest dubiously on me, gazes sumptuous under their many-colored veils. The camels glowered at me through long lashes. I had the strangest feeling that the sacks were watching me also, but no doubt it was just my discomfort with the merchant spreading to his entourage, like one fruit spreading its rot to the others in the barrel.

My doubt as to the attractiveness of his wares must have shown in my eyes, because he was still speaking. “Perhaps a comb?” he asked. “Or a glass flower, for the lady that walks your dreams? A scarf—of the finest silk? Or a coat?” He gestured to his own, the linen stiff with lurid embroidery. “Anything, my good fellow—anything! May I ask where Your Most Noble Self is going? Are there no others in your party?”

“I travel to the Holy City,” I said, casting down my eyes. It was the barest gesture of respect, but I didn’t trust him out of my sight for longer. “And there are no others—only myself.”

He exclaimed in wonder. “A pilgrim! Then would Your Most Devout Self desire a camel? It is some ways to the Holy City, and a long walk for only two feet. I know—I left through its high gates no less than five days hence, and have traveled at full speed to reach here."

“I desire nothing, Most Salubrious Sir,” I replied. “Except, perhaps—may I ask what the sacks on your camels hold? Their contents do not seem to be coats or combs.”

“Ah—“ he said. He paused for a long moment. “The contents of the sacks are not for sale. I am most apologetic. Official business, I’m afraid; instructions from His Holiest. Not for sale. But—“ he licked his lips. “Perhaps you, Most Pious Sir, would like to see? Just for a moment, you understand.”

I wasn’t so sure the sacks didn’t hold the bodies of other Most Pious Sirs, who had similarly been tricked into looking within, but I nodded, fighting the urge to laugh at the merchant, who was trying his best to emanate Official Holiness and Grandiose Generosity yet only managing Vague Discomfort. “It would be an honor,” I managed, with the merest of lip twitches, “to know a secret which otherwise only His Holiest may know.”

“Very well, then. Aminah?” At his gesture, the smallest and brightest of his wives rode forward and dismounted. She met my eyes for a brief second—hers were the same rich brown as a camel’s—and by her gaze, wavering and wary, I knew her to be the youngest as well. Her fingers fumbled with the ties to the sack, and I tried to move unthreateningly as I stepped forward to look over her shoulder, into the mouth of the sack.

Many pairs of eyes gazed back at me, luminous and leery. Some of the cats were sleeping, but most were very alert, and quite angry with their prison: ears twitched and tails thrashed. They were the finest I had ever seen, with bright coats and proud faces, and each attempted to nurse seven kits from its precarious perch within the sack.

“Most fine, are they not?” The merchant’s arm swept into my vision, rings winking in the sunlight. “Bred by His Holiness himself. They are a present.”

A present to whom? I thought. But I took a step backwards as I nodded. “Well then,” I said, softly, tearing my gaze away from sight of Aminah tying up the sack again. “If they are not for sale, I’m afraid none of your wares can tempt me. I wish safe travels to Your Most Generous Self.”

We parted ways, him with his jingling beacon of an entourage and me in my worn clothes, alone. Several miles on, I stopped for the night. As the cool wind of the desert night swept across the sand, I opened my tattered coat and pulled out the furry body I had been cradling close to my breast. Stroking my finger across the soft dome of its head, I leaned down and breathed in the milky, musty scent of its fur. The kit rumbled contentedly in its sleep.

My lips twitched again, and this time I didn’t stifle my smile—holy cats were good luck, and this one had been bred by His Holiness. It also liked me much better than it liked the merchant.

And so not one, but two, traveled to the Holy City.

Author's Note:

This story is (very loosely) based off a nursery rhyme/riddle that goes like this:

As I was going to St. Ives,
I met a man with seven wives;
Every wife had seven sacks,
Every sack had seven cats,
Every cat had seven kits:
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives.
How many were there going to St. Ives?

I had a lot of questions about these seven lines. For instance: who is the person telling the story? Where is St. Ives? How did the man have seven wives? And how did they put cats in sacks without a lot of complaining?

Turns out, St. Ives is a small seaside town in Cornwall, England. But that didn't make any more sense for the number of wives, so I decided to take some liberties with the setting of the story: mine takes place in a kind of "fairy tale" version of the Middle East that many fairy tales/nursery rhymes from the 1800s take place in, which I want to stress is NOT culturally, religiously, linguistically, or geographically accurate. But it is very handy in a pinch. And from there, I knew my viewpoint character--he just kind of appeared as I started writing, complete with wry humor and pick-pocketing skills (although I suppose in this case they could be called kit-pocketing skills?)--and the story began to take shape.

Bibliography:

Author Unknown. (1897) "As I Was Going to St. Ives". The Nursery Rhyme Book. Ed. by Andrew Lang. Via Project Gutenberg.