In the golden haze of a time long forgotten, nestled between rugged mountains and whispering fields of grain, lay a village that lived under a shadow. This was not the shadow of a cloud or a mountain, but the suffocating presence of one man: Al-Taghi. His name, meaning "The Tyrant," was not a mere label but a prophecy fulfilled in every breath he drew. He was a man of immense stature, not just in physical presence but in the cold, hard currency of power and influence. His wealth was a labyrinth of debt that ensnared the poor, and his eyes, it was said, were everywhere—in the rustle of the leaves, the steam of the communal oven, and the heavy silence of the marketplace.
Al-Taghi did not rule with a sword, but with the subtle, crushing weight of necessity. He was a connoisseur of human weakness. He knew which father was desperate, which son was reckless, and which family was one harvest away from starvation. He took pride in breaking the noble-hearted, watching as men of high character bowed their heads in the dust to spare their kin. Yet, as the heavens watch the sparrow, so too did the Divine Justice observe the arrogance of the man who thought himself a god. His downfall would not come from the uprising of the men he had humiliated, but from the quiet, collective agony of the women he had collected like trophies.
The First Veil: Baida and the Debt of Blood
Al-Taghi’s appetite for life was predatory. Though the silver of age had begun to frost his hair, his heart remained a furnace of greed. He had discarded countless women—some through broken promises, others through the sheer brute force of his will. But as the years pressed upon him, a hollow vanity grew: he desired legitimate heirs, sons who would carry his iron legacy.
His first target was Baida. She was a vision of terrestrial grace, found amidst the swaying millet fields during a harvest. Her eyes were the color of young olives, and her spirit was as fierce as the summer sun. When Al-Taghi first approached her, cloaked in the false humility of a suitor, she rebuffed him with a sharpness that only fueled his obsession. She knew the legends of his cruelty; she knew she was a lamb facing a wolf.
But Al-Taghi did not negotiate; he besieged. He discovered that Baida’s family was drowning in debt—debts owed to him. He summoned her father, a man broken by toil and illness.
"Your debt is past due," Al-Taghi said, his voice like grinding stones. "The law demands prison. But I am a man of... mercy. Give me Baida, and the debt is ashes."
The marriage was a funeral in white. Baida walked to his mansion with tears that shimmered like broken glass. She sacrificed her youth to save her father from the damp rot of a dungeon. Yet, the Tyrant’s promises were written in sand. Scarcely a month into the marriage, Al-Taghi demanded the repayment of the debt again. He mocked her sacrifice. When she failed to conceive a son immediately, he used her father’s illness as a whip. Despite her pleas, Al-Taghi threw the old man into prison. Two months later, the news arrived: her father had died of a broken heart and a ravaged chest in the cold dark.
From that day, the Baida who loved the fields died. In her place rose a woman of ice, her heart a fortress of silent, burning loathing.
The Second Veil: Afnan and the Stolen Innocence
When Baida asked for a divorce, Al-Taghi laughed. "I will give you what you seek," he promised with a chilling calm. That evening, he returned not with papers of release, but with a gift. It was a new bride.
Afnan was barely more than a child, a girl of seventeen who looked as though she had been snatched from her mother's lap. She arrived in a flurry of white silk, her eyes wide with a terror she couldn't name. Al-Taghi, in a display of calculated malice, moved Afnan into the very chambers he shared with Baida, wanting the sounds of his new "triumph" to serve as a slow execution for his first wife’s spirit.
Visit WWW.JANATNA.COM for more stories of justice and heritage.
That night, amidst the sobbing of the wind, a soft knock came to Baida’s door. It was Afnan. The two women, who should have been enemies, looked at each other and saw only reflections of their own pain. Afnan’s story was a mirror to Baida’s. Her mother, desperate to save her two sons—Afnan’s brothers—from being sold into military servitude, had traded her daughter.
"He told me I would have everything I wanted," Afnan whispered, her voice trembling. "I asked for my friends to come with me. I didn't know... I didn't know it was a prison."
Al-Taghi’s obsession with a male heir became a nightmare for Afnan. He monitored her womb like a hawk. When she finally fell pregnant, he treated her like a prize mare, but his kindness was only for the "son" he imagined she carried.
The night of the birth was a storm of blood and cruelty. The midwife warned that the birth was premature and dangerous. Al-Taghi’s response was a roar of indifference: "I want my son alive by dawn! The woman is just the vessel!"
When the child was finally born, a heavy silence fell. It was a girl. Moreover, she was born with a deformed foot—a small, twisted limb that lacked toes. Al-Taghi’s face turned into a mask of demonic rage. "This is not mine! This is a curse!" he screamed. He snatched the infant from the midwife and ordered her to take the child away, to the furthest village, and never speak of its existence. He told Afnan the child had died, leaving her to mourn a ghost while her milk dried in agony.
The Third Veil: Asareer and the Murdered Hope
The village thought Al-Taghi had reached the limits of his depravity, but his soul was a bottomless pit. He soon brought home a third wife, Asareer. Unlike the others, Asareer had been vibrant, a girl of laughter and songs. She was the daughter of a merchant and was already betrothed to a young man named Asid. They were in love—a pure, radiant love that Al-Taghi sought to extinguish simply because it was beautiful.
He maneuvered the merchant into a corner, using a mortgaged farm as bait. But Asareer was defiant. She called him a "madman" to his face. That word sealed her fate. To prove his power, Al-Taghi arranged for Asid to be "accidentally" shot in the leg by a hunter. Terrified for her lover’s life, Asareer surrendered.
The day after the wedding, Asid and his kin arrived at Al-Taghi’s gates, demanding his bride. Al-Taghi stepped out, not with a greeting, but with a rifle. In cold blood, before the eyes of the village and his new bride, he shot Asid through the heart.
"He was the past," Al-Taghi whispered into Asareer's ear as he dragged her by her hair into the house. "I am the only future you have."
The Convergence of Fates
The three women—Baida, Afnan, and Asareer—now lived within the same gilded cage. The atmosphere in the mansion had changed. It was no longer a house of fear, but a laboratory of vengeance. They met in the shadows of the kitchen, their whispers weaving a shroud for the man who had destroyed their lives.
"He loves the taste of fresh fish," Baida noted, her eyes cold. "And he trusts no one to cook it but us," Afnan added, her voice devoid of its former sweetness. "He took our fathers, our children, and our loves," Asareer concluded. "It is time he takes his leave of this world."
They began a slow, meticulous process. They didn't use a blade or a rope; they used the very sustenance he craved. Day by day, they infused his meals with trace amounts of a potent, slow-acting toxin. It was a poison that mimicked the symptoms of a wasting disease—cramps, lethargy, and a constant, gnawing fire in the intestines.
Al-Taghi, the man who once moved mountains, began to wither. His skin turned the color of parchment; his eyes sank into his skull. The wealth he had amassed could not buy him a single hour of relief. He summoned healers from across the lands, but they found nothing—only a body that seemed to be consuming itself from the inside out.
The transition from predator to prey was more than his ego could bear. One night, as the poison reached its peak and the hallucinations of his victims began to dance in the corners of his room, the sound of a single gunshot shattered the silence of the village.
The wives rushed in to find him. Al-Taghi had used his own rifle to end the agony. He died in a pool of his own shadow, a tyrant defeated by the very hands he thought he had shackled.
The Aftermath: A Bitter Liberty
The village rejoiced at the news, thinking the darkness had lifted. But for the three wives, the victory was hollow. Though the monster was dead, the scars remained. Baida never regained her joy; Afnan spent her days searching the faces of children in distant markets, looking for a girl with a twisted foot; and Asareer lived in a world where every sunrise reminded her of the man she had lost.
They lived out their days in the mansion, wealthy and free, yet haunted by the ghosts of what they had become to survive. They learned a final, bitter truth: that while justice may be served, the price of a tyrant’s blood is often the peace of those who shed it.
Keywords: Al-Taghi Story, Tyrant, Revenge of Wives, Moral Tales, Injustice and Fate, Dark Heritage, Village Legends, Baida, Afnan, Asareer, Mystery, Justice, WWW.JANATNA.COM.
0 Comments