Aysat Orujova

An Extract from A Princess with Apple Seeds in Her Hair

Stories were all we had. We would sit behind the evening fire, our faces lit with an orange glow and eager anticipation, waiting for our Baba to continue. He would tell us of courageous shahs raging battles against their enemies, of wise women sitting high up in library towers, of princesses dancing to the moon’s silent tune. He would wave his arms around our solitary cave, impersonating the furious dev who had yet again been outsmarted by children the same age as Shuur and I. He would scoop the two of us in his arms, pretending to be the ancient sea spirits, taking young children as offerings for wealth and good fortune. We would laugh against the starless sky, laugh despite the colourless reflections of our icy walls. We lived through his stories, devouring the world that seemed to lay beyond our looming mountains. We imagined Baba’s words in intricate lines, woven through our minds with careful threads of a man who had long ago mastered his craft. Each and every word of his was like a stroke of a skilled painter that created canvas after canvas of beautiful memories, memories that were not lived but only heard. We were content with our lives when Baba was with us, his stories giving us reason to continue, to endure, even when the wind was cruel and the sun was lost on her way. As long as we had our stories, and our Baba to tell them, nothing could crush our spirits. 

But then there were the days when Baba would have to leave. Every time he would promise the journey would be shorter than the last one, that we would meet soon and that if he didn’t go, then there wouldn’t be any stories for us to hear. We would acknowledge the truth but to bid him farewell would not come easy to us. By the time Baba had to leave again, we would have come to gradually forget the thrill of the stories, the life they provided us with. We would worry about him not returning, of us being stranded inside nature's walls, our voices useless against the lonely whining of the wind. The cave was dull without him, the colours draining from it like a dying fire that hadn’t been taken care of. On days when the sun wouldn’t come for weeks, we would beg Baba to take us with him. To let us accompany him to the outside world. When he would reject us, gently, and say we were still too young to take on the dangerous road (later my children, later), we would grow frustrated, refusing to speak to him for minutes that to us seemed like hours. But still we would come around each time as our Baba’s departure day came closer. What else could we do? Better say our goodbyes when we had the comforts of doing so. 

He would leave us for weeks, sometimes a month, never more than a month and three days. We would watch him descend down the steep mountain, every step of his like a clutch at our hearts. 

“What if he falls, Qurur?” Shuur, my sister, would ask every time. 

“He can’t fall,” I would reply, my voice a whisper slashing at the expectant silence. I didn’t know at the time where this conviction came from. All I knew was that I trusted it with all my heart. What would we become if we didn’t believe in his strength and take comfort in the warm blanket of his promises? He would be alright, I made us believe, as he always was. And just like that, he always was. 

One day we were preparing for yet another of Baba’s departures. The skies were clear of clouds, the bright blue burning our eyes when we dared a glance. Baba was portioning our food, preparing it for us so that we didn’t risk running out too soon. 

“I will bring more of these apples for you, Shuur,” he said, addressing my sister who beamed at him despite her earlier gloom. Baba once told us a tale of a maiden whose hair was so rich and healthy that if she put a seed on her scalp and slept on it, she would wake up with its fruits already blooming on her head. When he was done with his tale, he grabbed an apple from his satchel and gave it to us. These are gifts from the maiden to you. He spoke of how impressed the maiden was with us from his tales and how she wanted to reward us for our goodness. It never occurred to Shuur and I that Baba told stories of us to others too. That we were heroes of some of his tales was incredible to us, and we cherished the newfound knowledge with a childish greed. 

Shuur adored that story most of any other. So enamoured was she with the princess that she would put seeds in her own hair, and wait for them to grow fruits for us. Every morning she would check and every morning she would be disappointed to find that magic did not visit her that night. Soon she would forget about it, for Baba would be ready to tell us a different tale from his ventures. 

But that day Baba was leaving and as he slowly stood up, his hands found his knees. I knew he was getting older even then, but the knowledge of it was less urgent at the time and more like a distant echo that had yet to bloom into a warning. Our worries were limited to our present back then. 

Shuur and I watched him in silence. We never knew what to tell him in those last minutes. It was too late to beg him to stay, too soon to ask for promises. Those moments before he would be gone felt like a long and tranquil dream where our movements would slow down and we wouldn’t be able to speak out loud. Later, when trying to recall those instances, I would have to settle for a blurred memory of the words not spoken, the things not said. 

When he started putting his satchel over his head, I felt something heavy tug at my chest. I glanced at Shuur for comfort, and saw her sulking too. Shuur was younger than me, for she was only six while I was almost nine, although we would always act like we were the same age. Still, in moments like that I would put my arm around her, hoping to console her and rid her of her grievances. But I had no guidance of my own, and today as a man of many winters, I can admit that I would often secretly wish that I was the younger one. 

“He will be alright, Shuur, don’t you worry,” I whispered, bumping our shoulders. I watched the creases appear on her forehead. Two incomplete lines of youthful frustration. “I don’t want him to leave, Qurur,” she said simply, as was usual for her. 

“You know he has to.” In truth, at the time I also did not fully understand why he had to leave us so frequently. Somehow it was always easier to say things I didn’t believe in myself when I felt the need to convince Shuur of their truth. Only later did I finally see why Baba did what he did. 

“Why can’t we go with him? We are older now, we are not as small as we used to be,” she said, the tip of her nose scrunching up in her defence. Baba didn’t like when we cried in those moments. He didn’t tell us that himself, but we could see that it displeased him and we didn’t want to upset him at those tender times that were over before we knew it. 

“Well, maybe we are not old enough,” I said. 

“How old is old enough, Qurur?” 

I also wondered about that question. But anytime I had tried to approach the topic, Baba would grow unbearably quiet, his shoulders would slouch and his expression would become grim. After the moment would pass, and I would say nothing, I would wonder if I had imagined it. I would decide to try again, but come to the same conclusion every time. The topic clearly brought Baba great discomfort, and I did not want to be a nuisance. At one point, I simply stopped asking.

Before I could find an answer for Shuur, Baba turned around, his eyes landing on us. His beard was shadowed with grey streaks and his forehead had more wrinkles than before. But his eyes stayed the same over the years, their warmth travelling to us despite the distance. 

He opened his arms and beckoned us forward. We were up in an instant and rushed into his familiar comfort, already anticipating the scent of burnt out fire and morning air that was synonymous with him. As soon as we reached him, he kneeled down and wrapped us in his arms, his chin resting between our shoulders. 

“My children,” he said, taking a long sniff from each of us, sending a fit of giggles in the air, “I will miss you. Be good to each other.” 

We promised him that we would and he squeezed us in his arms once more before standing up. As soon as we were freed from his embrace, the warmth disappeared and came back the dreadful expectancy of the moment to be over. It was painful to wait for something inevitable, and although we did not want to let him go, we wanted his departure to be quick because of this too. Anything to cut short the aching in our hearts, to dry the brimming tears from their roots. If he lingered any longer, it would be harder to let him go. After all, there were still so many things to tell him, so many questions to ask. 

What were the clouds above us made of? 

How did these mountains grow? 

Could our voices be heard when he was down below? 

But to ask those questions was to rush. It was to not believe in his return. The thought was unbearable so we would always put them aside. We pretended that as long as we had more questions to ask him, the longer he would be here to answer them for us.

For later then, Qurur? 

Yes, for later, Shuur. 

So we watched him walk out of our cave, his steps leaving marks in our constant snow. Shuur took my hand and I squeezed it in response. We followed Baba out. He was preparing to descend down the steep mountain, down the long rope that had been hanging there for so long that for us it seemed the natural part of the cliff. 

In those passing seconds where we watched Baba ready himself for the climb, I would be glad to not have to be in his place, dangling from the edge of land, down towards the unknown. But that fear would soon be overshadowed by different thoughts that were harder to quell. 

As if on cue, my eyes betrayed me then and I took a quick glance beyond the edge. All we could see from up here was white fog, concealing from us that wonderous world that Baba got to be part of. I felt something knot in my chest. Why was Baba keeping us from that place? What right did he have to leave us behind in this unchanging cage, while he enjoyed the feasts worthy of shahs and rooms of endless adventure and knowledge? 

I remember my silent contempt in that moment till this day. How intense was my loathing! How childish my judgement! Only shame is left from the memory of it, and that shame I will wear in my heart until I finally depart from this world. 

My treacherous thoughts were cut short by Shuur squeezing my hand. I blinked fast and turned my attention back to Baba. He was ready to climb down and we would be left alone for another month of nothing but waiting. 

He turned around and looked at us from where he stood. I watched him in silence, my pursed lips giving me away.

“Qurur, my boy,” started Baba at the look on my face but I did not let him finish. I let go of Shuur’s hand and darted inside the cave. It was a cruel thing to do because I knew he couldn’t follow me. It would take him too long to untangle himself and he had to leave before the sun was over our heads. But I didn’t care. Angry tears were betraying me and I couldn’t let them see me like that. I was the older brother and I was supposed to be stronger. What would Baba think of me if I sobbed like a newborn in front of Shuur? He would be disappointed and I hated him for that possibility. 

From outside the cave I heard him call for me but I had no intention of moving from my spot. I hoped Shuur didn’t come either. I couldn’t bear the thought of her looking at me then. I crouched down near the flames, my wet cheeks being warmed by the intensity of the pit. Soon the callings ceased and the silence followed. I imagined myself to be completely alone. Not just without Baba, but also without Shuur. I imagined that when I came out of the cave, all around me would be just fog, and I would no longer see anything beyond the threshold of our little home. I couldn’t decide if it was something that I wanted. A life without them was just as unfamiliar to me as life in the Other World. 

After my breathing evened out, I wiped my eyes on the sleeves of my sweater that Baba brought from his last journey, and stood up. 

Did I wish for him to still be there? Waiting for me, despite my behaviour? I couldn’t tell. Even today I can’t decide whether I was glad to not see his large frame as I emerged from the cave, or disappointed by it. I do remember thinking that he could have waited for me. He could have even come after me, was what I thought for a quick second too, a second that I did not want to acknowledge at the time. The fact that he didn’t, made me think that he really was disappointed in me, and for a long time the thought of it would haunt me in my sleep, even after the incident that would follow. 

When I came out of the cave, Shuur was standing closer to where Baba was moments ago. Her back was turned to me and she was watching the moving rope across her feet. I slowly approached and with some hesitation, looked down. 

The rope was moving, but the fog had swallowed Baba up and he was no longer visible. My shoulders relaxed as I stepped back. 

“He told me to tell you that he loves you,” said Shuur, her steady tone a reminder of what I failed to be. 

I couldn’t meet her eyes. “Okay,” I said instead and started walking away from her. “I wish you hadn’t done that,” she said, making me stop and turn around. “He was waiting for you to come back.” 

Hearing her say that made my previous anger return in raging pieces, and the childlike urge to defend myself overcame me. 

“He is the one who is leaving,” I said, my words dipped in poisonous hurt, “I am tired of watching him do it every time.” I turned around again, this time intent on ending the conversation. I didn’t want to fight with Shuur, and in my anger I worried about saying the wrong things. 

“We can go with him when we are older, you said that—” she didn’t get to finish that thought. A terrible shriek came from behind me instead. I spun on my feet then, and stared at my sister. For a moment I stupidly assumed that it was just her way of being angry with me.

Shuur’s heavy breathing was followed by her groans. I watched her slap at her knees and pull at her hair, an act so wild and strange that it took me a moment to come to my senses. When I finally saw the source of her distress, it all made sense. 

The metal hook on the ground that secured Baba’s rope was missing. 

That moment I can recall only in faded fragments. I remember standing there, Shuur’s whines in the background, a strange melody to the impossible thing. I kept looking for the rope, as if I could have missed its familiar shape, the lines that I had memorised over the years of watching Baba work around himself. But despite my insistence, the rope would not appear. 

“The rope is gone! Our Baba is gone!” wailed my little Shuur, her voice a fading sound at the back of my head. 

I turned to her. Uneven lines of tears marked her face, glistening with each stroke of light. I don’t know if it was seeing my sister in so much pain that made me do it, or if it was the slumbering agony of knowing that Baba was in danger. Perhaps even it was something more selfish that I am still reluctant to admit to myself. Whatever it was, I took one last look down the cliff and then darted back to our cave. Shuur cried out my name and followed me in a rush. I made my way towards the wooden trunk that belonged to Baba and opened it. There was a place for a lock, but Baba never locked his possessions away from us. We were impressed with ourselves for earning such honours at the time. 

I dug into the trunk and took out his few clothes and books, covering the ground around me in a pile of discarded things. I sensed Shuur watching me on the side, her silence hanging heavy in the air.

“The rope, Shuur,” I said in between my search, “he had another rope! Remember?” I saw her eyebrows rise slightly. I was expecting a much happier reaction. 

“But Qurur,” she said instead, “what use is a rope if the metal is broken off?” I felt my fingers finally find the rough texture I was searching for. I grabbed it, its weight catching me off guard. Shuur came for rescue then and helped with the other end. I threw my end of the rope around the heavy trunk and repeated the act until the rope was secure enough that it didn’t slip off. Shuur watched quietly and by the time I was done, both of us were panting and sweaty. 

“What if the trunk is not strong enough?” she asked, relentless with her questions. “I can’t even move it from its spot, it will be enough for me.” 

I purposefully avoided her eyes. Busying myself with the trunk I anticipated the coming storm. 

“What?” she asked. I didn’t respond and instead moved to grab her end of the rope. But Shuur moved out of my reach then, forcing me to stop. “What do you mean, Qurur?” 

I pressed my tongue against my cheeks, trying to gather some sense of authority so that she would listen to me. But I knew she never saw me as above her. She didn’t see herself that way either. We were equals in her eyes, despite our age differences. Still, I tried. 

“I am going alone, Shuur,” I started, my voice still that of a child from before. “Only one of us can go and I am older than you so I should be the one.” 

I saw a thousand thoughts pass behind Shuur’s eyes at that moment. Some were familiar to me, others not. All of them washed over her sweet features in a span of a few seconds. Before I knew it, it was too late to say anything else. When she spoke again, she was the most calm she had been since the incident occurred. 

“Fine. Go then,” she said simply, as was usual to her. 

“Shuur,” I reached out but she took a step back. 

I rarely fought with Shuur and the thought of her being displeased with me was distressing. I tried to reason with her again, to tell her that I would return, that I wouldn’t leave her behind. But she didn’t answer me, instead grabbed the rope and started dragging it out of the cave. 

And so I left. I could speak of how scared I was to approach the cliff’s end for the first time with such intention. I could describe the terrifying view or the unsettling feeling of having nothing below your feet. I could tell you about how I trembled and how much I wanted to cry. I could tell you about all of that. 

But all I remember from that moment was the look on Shuur’s face as she slowly disappeared from my view. The lower I went in my descent, the more her expression became engraved into my memory. With each step I took down, I recalled the quick twitch of her eyebrow, the almost unnoticeable tightness around her lips. I still remembered her misty eyes when I finally reached the bottom after days of endless climbing. 

When at last I landed on the Other World, I was surprised at how ordinary it was. There were no glowing trees, no magical beasts or castles made out of foam like Baba described to us in his many tales. Dull grass paved the way towards a forest of oak trees instead. 

At first, I was afraid to move from my spot. I looked up, hoping to see Shuur’s small face looking down at me, a comfort that I did not realise I had when I was up there with her. But above was only looming cliffs and even further the clouds of fog that I was used to seeing from our cave only. I wondered whether she was calling for me. If she was, I couldn’t hear. At last, when the desire to find Baba became stronger than my fears, I freed myself from the constraints of the rope and stepped towards the slanted trees. 

I searched for Baba for two whole days, my hope waning with every hour I spent below with no hint of him ever being there. On my third day I came upon a dark place where people who looked a lot like Baba sat and worked endless hours with a piece of stale bread as their daily feast. 

I wish I could say that I found Baba there with them but that would be a lie. Or maybe I don’t wish that at all. I don’t know what would be better; losing him forever, or finding him but in that horrible place, suffering all alone. 

I never stopped thinking about Shuur, even when I joined those people. My days faded into nights, my only sense of happiness being our memories with each other. Baba, me and Shuur. The three of us, happy in our cave, in each other's company, with our stories for warmth and comfort. 

The dark place was cramped with rows of desks, all filled with people from all around the Other World. For the first few days I would search their faces for traces of Baba, wanting to see a glimpse of him in people he might have known once. But there were too many of them and only one Baba, so at one point, I made the decision to let go of him. 

Sometimes the people would tell me of their lives. I would return the favour and tell them of Shuur.