American Gods: Awesome as an army with banners, a Bilquis story
I decided to translate my American Gods story about Bilquis in english.... And as before I am looking for someone to beta-read the story and let me know if the english needs some fixing!
Art under the cut!
Awesome as an army with banners
Mussed in the scarlet linen, quivering still from power and worship, Bilquis closes her eyes.
The dying light of the candles dances on the spindle of her thighs, on the dark brown of her skin, smooth and firm anew.
Later she will rise and get rid of the dress left on the chair by her last worshipper; once more she will turn on the phone given to her by the Tech Boy. She knows there is a debt here, an obligation she will one day have to fulfil… But how could she regret, when the screen -such a small thing, this screen, and yet so powerful- is the faint opening to the Queen she once was, the Queen she now remember being after so long? She had forgotten that feeling: that fullness, that certainty in herself… Now she knows what she is, what is her due; and she knows that whatever the Network asks in return she will give, for the possibility of forgetting again is unbearable.
But all those thought are for later. The now belong to the fulfillment and the evanescent flavour of the veneration so hard to gain in the only temple left to her, to this feeling, even if it is but a pale echo of her past cult.
Slowly her breath quiets.
Bilquis sleeps, Bilquis dreams.
The desert is a vibration of heat beyond the gardens and the high columns of the temple. Yet the marbles of Mahram Bilqis are cool under her bare feet. They echo with the whisper of the fountains and the melody strung out on a qanbüs cords, with the gentle bells of her golden jewellery every time she moves. The air is filled the fragrance of incense and myrrh…
Here reigns the Queen of the South, servants and courtiers kneeling at her feets. Her beauty and her wisdom are praised by her people, the sharpness of her mind is feared by her enemies; her name travels with the caravans and with it the glory of Sheba. Strangers come from far away to Ma’rib to gaze upon its wealth and splendour, to cross the eight pillars of the pericycle, to enter the shadows of the temple and venerate her.
Not every one of them get to leave. Bilquis is a godess, say some. An enchantress born from the djinns who knows magic beyond the knowledge of men, who sometimes devour her lovers. A woman, just a woman, say others: no more and no less powerful than a woman can ever be. To brush her lips is to stand at the open gates of heaven, to touch her skin is a fulfillment. Many men cross the desert for it; even more write songs.
In the dream Bilquis knows all of this, knows it is a dream, a honeyed memory from a vanished past. And yet she lets her feet lead her along well-known paths to the center of the temple, lets her fingers drag across the words of power engraved in the walls. Yet she listen to the clear voice rising and singing for her, accompanied by the qanbüs.
Who is she who looks forth as the morning,
Beautiful as the moon, Clear as the sun,
Awesome as an army with banners?
“It is me”, she whispers in the dream, her heart heavy like a stone. “It was me.”
This entry was originally posted at http://jainas.dreamwidth.org/186017.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Art under the cut!
Awesome as an army with banners
Mussed in the scarlet linen, quivering still from power and worship, Bilquis closes her eyes.
The dying light of the candles dances on the spindle of her thighs, on the dark brown of her skin, smooth and firm anew.
Later she will rise and get rid of the dress left on the chair by her last worshipper; once more she will turn on the phone given to her by the Tech Boy. She knows there is a debt here, an obligation she will one day have to fulfil… But how could she regret, when the screen -such a small thing, this screen, and yet so powerful- is the faint opening to the Queen she once was, the Queen she now remember being after so long? She had forgotten that feeling: that fullness, that certainty in herself… Now she knows what she is, what is her due; and she knows that whatever the Network asks in return she will give, for the possibility of forgetting again is unbearable.
But all those thought are for later. The now belong to the fulfillment and the evanescent flavour of the veneration so hard to gain in the only temple left to her, to this feeling, even if it is but a pale echo of her past cult.
Slowly her breath quiets.
Bilquis sleeps, Bilquis dreams.
The desert is a vibration of heat beyond the gardens and the high columns of the temple. Yet the marbles of Mahram Bilqis are cool under her bare feet. They echo with the whisper of the fountains and the melody strung out on a qanbüs cords, with the gentle bells of her golden jewellery every time she moves. The air is filled the fragrance of incense and myrrh…
Here reigns the Queen of the South, servants and courtiers kneeling at her feets. Her beauty and her wisdom are praised by her people, the sharpness of her mind is feared by her enemies; her name travels with the caravans and with it the glory of Sheba. Strangers come from far away to Ma’rib to gaze upon its wealth and splendour, to cross the eight pillars of the pericycle, to enter the shadows of the temple and venerate her.
Not every one of them get to leave. Bilquis is a godess, say some. An enchantress born from the djinns who knows magic beyond the knowledge of men, who sometimes devour her lovers. A woman, just a woman, say others: no more and no less powerful than a woman can ever be. To brush her lips is to stand at the open gates of heaven, to touch her skin is a fulfillment. Many men cross the desert for it; even more write songs.
In the dream Bilquis knows all of this, knows it is a dream, a honeyed memory from a vanished past. And yet she lets her feet lead her along well-known paths to the center of the temple, lets her fingers drag across the words of power engraved in the walls. Yet she listen to the clear voice rising and singing for her, accompanied by the qanbüs.
Who is she who looks forth as the morning,
Beautiful as the moon, Clear as the sun,
Awesome as an army with banners?
“It is me”, she whispers in the dream, her heart heavy like a stone. “It was me.”
This entry was originally posted at http://jainas.dreamwidth.org/186017.html. Please comment there using OpenID.