“We know all this,” cried the youngest among them, Haroun-el-Ahson, with obvious impatience.

Hari-ibn-Hari glared at the upstart, who was always seeking attention for himself, and continued, “But Scheherazade, daughter of the grand vizier, has survived more than two months now by telling the sultan a beguiling story each night.”

“A story stays the sultan’s bloody hand?” asked another storyteller, Jamil-abu-Blissa. Lean and learned, he was sharing a hookah with Fareed-al-Shaffa. Between them, they blew clouds of soft gray smoke that wafted through the crowded little room.

With a rasping cough, Hari-ibn-Hari explained, “Scheherazade does not finish her story by the time dawn arises. She leaves the sultan in such suspense that he allows her to live to the next night, so he can hear the conclusion of her story.”

“I see!” exclaimed the young Haroun-el-Ahson. “Cliffhangers! Very clever of her.”

Hari-ibn-Hari frowned at the upstart’s vulgar phrase, but went on to the heart of the problem.

“I have told the grand vizier every story I can think of,” he said, his voice sinking with woe, “and still he demands more.”

“Of course. He doesn’t want his daughter to be slaughtered.”

“Now I must turn to you, my friends and colleagues. Please tell me your stories, new stories, fresh stories. Otherwise the lady Scheherazade will perish.” Hari-ibn-Hari did not mention that the grand vizier would take the tongue from his head if his daughter was killed.

Fareed-al-Shaffa raised his hands to Allah and pronounced, “We will be honored to assist a fellow storyteller in such a noble pursuit.”

Before Hari-ibn-Hari could express his undying thanks, the bearded, gnomish storyteller who was known throughout the bazaar as the Daemon of the Night, asked coldly, “How much does the sultan pay you for these stories?”

Thus it came to pass that Hari-ibn-Hari, accompanied by Fareed-al-Shaffa and the gray-bearded Daemon of the Night, knelt before the grand vizier. The workmen refurbishing the golden ceiling of the grand vizier’s chamber were dismissed from their scaffolds before the grand vizier asked, from his chair of authority:

“Why have you asked to meet with me this day?”

The three storytellers, on their knees, glanced questioningly at one another. At length, Hari-ibn-Hari dared to speak.

“Oh, magnificent one, we have provided you with a myriad of stories so that your beautiful and virtuous daughter, on whom Allah has bestowed much grace and wisdom, may continue to delight the sultan.”

“May he live in glory,” exclaimed Fareed-al-Shaffa in his reedy voice.

The grand vizier eyed them impatiently, waiting for the next slipper to drop.

“We have spared no effort to provide you with new stories, father of all joys,” said Hari-ibn-Hari, his voice quaking only slightly. “Almost every storyteller in Baghdad has contributed to the effort.”

“What of it?” the grand vizier snapped. “You should be happy to be of such use to me—and my daughter.”

“Just so,” Hari-ibn-Hari agreed. But then he added, “However, hunger is stalking the Street of the Storytellers. Starvation is on its way.”

“Hunger?” the grand vizier snapped. “Starvation?”

Hari-ibn-Hari explained, “We storytellers have bent every thought we have to creating new stories for your lovely daughter—blessings upon her. We don’t have time to tell stories in the bazaar anymore—”

“You’d better not!” the grand vizier warned sternly. “The sultan must hear only new stories, stories that no one else has heard before. Otherwise he would not be intrigued by them and my dearly loved daughter would lose her head.”

“But, most munificent one,” cried Hari-ibn-Hari, “by devoting ourselves completely to your needs, we are neglecting our own. Since we no longer have the time to tell stories in the bazaar, we have no other source of income except the coppers you pay us for our tales.”

The grand vizier at last saw where they were heading. “You want more? Outrageous!”

“But, oh far-seeing one, a single copper for each story is not enough to keep us alive!”

Fareed-al-Shaffa added, “We have families to feed. I myself have four wives and many children.”

“What is that to me?” the grand vizier shouted. He thought that these pitiful storytellers were just like workmen everywhere, trying to extort higher wages for their meager efforts.

“We cannot continue to give you stories for a single copper apiece,” Fareed-al-Shaffa said flatly.

“Then I will have your tongues taken from your throats. How many stories will you be able to tell then?”

The three storytellers went pale. But the Daemon of the Night, small and frail though he was in body, straightened his spine and found the strength to say, “If you do that, most noble one, you will get no more stories and your daughter will lose her life.”

The grand vizier glared angrily at the storytellers. From her hidden post in the veiled gallery, Scheherazade felt her heart sink. Oh father! she begged silently, Be generous. Open your heart.

At length the grand vizier muttered darkly, “There are many storytellers in Baghdad. If you three refuse me I will find others who will gladly serve. And, of course, the three of you will lose your tongues. Consider carefully. Produce stories for me at one copper apiece, or be silenced forever.”

“Our children will starve!” cried Fareed-al-Shaffa.

“Our wives will have to take to the streets to feed themselves,” wailed Hari-ibn-Hari.

The Daemon of the Night said nothing.

“That is your choice,” said the grand vizier, as cold and unyielding as a steel blade. “Stories at one copper apiece or I go to other storytellers. And you lose your tongues.”

“But magnificent one—”

“That is your choice,” the grand vizier repeated sternly. “You have until noon tomorrow to decide.”

It was a gloomy trio of storytellers who wended their way back to the bazaar that day.

“He is unyielding,” Fareed-al-Shaffa said. “Too bad. I have been thinking of a new story about a band of thieves and a young adventurer. I think I’ll call him Ali Baba.”

“A silly name,” Hari-ibn-Hari rejoined. “Who could take seriously a story where the hero’s name is so silly?”

“I don’t think the name is silly,” Fareed-al-Shaffa maintained. “I rather like it.”

As they turned in to the Street of the Storytellers, with ragged, lean, and hungry men at every door pleading with passersby to listen to their tales, the Daemon of the Night said softly, “Arguing over a name is not going to solve our problem. By tomorrow noon we could lose our tongues.”

Hari-ibn-Hari touched reflexively at his throat. “But to continue to sell our tales for one single copper is driving us into starvation.”

“We will starve much faster if our tongues are cut out,” said Fareed-al-Shaffa.

The others nodded unhappily as they plodded up the street and stopped at Fareed’s hovel.

“Come in and have coffee with me,” he said to his companions. “We must think of a way out of this problem.”