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 RAPUNZEL
MUST DIE
A PERSIAN RETELLING

BY ELI GARDNER
 Abra Kadabra Ink LLC
Copyright © 2023 Elizabeth Gardner
ISBN: 9798861639187
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used
in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright
owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
 Burn

They only oppress you because they are scared of you.

Do you see how scared they are?
I know it doesn't make it feel any better.
Maybe you should start to think
Why are they so scared?
How powerful you must be.
How strong the light inside of you is.
People that are shadows will always try and swallow the light.
But the thing about swallowing lights is
That even if you dim from being inside the shadows
You will burn them from the inside out
And one day, they will have to spit you out
And you will be free.
They will never forget the way you made their throats burn.
They will never forget how much it hurt
To hold the fire that was you, inside of them.
-Eli
 Author’s Note:

This is a work of fiction. Like most fiction, it is loosely based on

real events. Although this story is set in one particular place, it is a
story I have seen in many places, all over the world. Tale as old as
time—people in power, taking too much. As writers, we know the
stories we tell, have been told before. But it is up to us to keep
writing, in different ways, because not every retelling will resonate
with everyone.
But this story will resonate with some, and those are the people I
write for.
I give you this story, full of beauty and heart.
I hope that you, too, find—it is done well.
-Eli
 Trigger Warnings:
Imprisonment
Child abduction
Implied sexual violence
Birth scene with quick complication
Repeated theme—hanging
 Morality Code Rule No. 23
Women who appear in public without proper head covering shall
be imprisoned from 10 days to 3 years, depending on their level of
cooperation upon arrest, and the measurement in centimeters of
exposed hair.

Morality Code Rule No. 24

No member of society, woman or man, shall exercise the right to
sing, unless said member is part of the government-approved
Constabulary. Any persons determined guilty of such actions shall be
imprisoned from 10 days to 7 years, depending on the inflammatory
qualities of their chosen song.

Morality Code Rule No. 25

A man shall not have sexual relations with an individual who is not
his wife. If a man wishes to engage in said activities with someone
other than his wife, he must obtain a temporary marriage permit,
which can be dissolved immediately upon conclusion of said
activities. Temporary marriage permits can be obtained for a small
fee by any local government official.
 The Night Before the Execution
Tomorrow she will hang.
Her neck will snap under the touch of the rope.
Her windpipe will crush, and finally, her voice will be silenced.
Of course, that is what they wanted—the they in charge—the
nebulous they who pull strings from lofty towers, and sometimes
those strings are cords in a rope.
She would hang like all the others—five hundred so far that year
alone. How many times that chair had been kicked out from under
different pairs of feet. Some of the condemned would be blindfolded.
Some would refuse that last gesture. Some wanted to see, until the
very end.
And what about her? What was left, that she even wanted to see?
Her sister was already gone.
The last decision she would have to make on this earth, was if she
would accept the blindfold or not.
She thought of the noose.
It reminded her of another rope, one from the story her father
used to tell the sisters, when they were little children who still
believed in fairytales. It was about a girl named Rapunzel, and her
brother Davud. There was a Witch King and a Tower, and so many
different ropes.
And there was hair. There was always the hair, and the hair was
important. The hair held the power between life and death.
She thought it ironic, life mimicking art in this way, because wasn’t
that the reason all these protests had started? It all came back to
the hair, but it was so much more than that.
They did not want the women to show their hair—the angry men
who liked to play God.
And she knew why. Her grandmother had told her once, just as a
dear friend had reminded her, on the day of her own death.
They said if one uncovered their head and let the wind comb
through their hair, one would become like the wind itself—free, and
impossible to ignore. They do not want this, of course, the theys
who fear wind-like hair. Too much wind can become a hurricane, and
no one forgets a hurricane.
They are given women’s names, after all.
Hurricanes level cities. The land changes in the wake of such a
storm. People change. Stories are told about it for hundreds of
years. Records are made. People will remember. There is danger, in
all this remembering, for the they.
And even if there is a rebuilding, nothing is ever quite the same.
Hurricanes cannot be reasoned with, and they cannot be stopped.
Yes, one cannot forget such a storm. Board up windows. Pile up
sandbags. It will still get through, in any crook or cranny it can find,
and people will lament the lasting marks it makes on the foundations
of every single home.
They say if one lets the wind comb through one’s hair, that person
too can become a hurricane.
So the they make the women cover their hair. They don’t want
them to be like the wind.
But hurricanes cannot be suppressed for long, and neither can
women.
Yes, tomorrow she will hang.
The hair will become a rope, and the rope will become a noose.
She was too much wind for their liking, and the sentence was
death.
PART ONE
 Rapunzel’s Story: Farrah
Once upon a time, there was a young husband and wife, who
loved each other very much.
Farrah and Mahmoud lived the simple life of shepherds, in the
foothills of the Zagros Mountains. They had a bountiful flock of fat
sheep, many quick dogs to help them whenever they had to move
their sheep to richer pastures, and every night they slept under the
watchful eye of one thousand stars.
They had everything they could ever wish for, except a little child.
The young bride wept over this absence. She felt such an empty
ache in her womb, that she consulted all manner of spirits and
experts about it. She accepted fertility tea brewed with myrrh leaves
from the widow, Parisa, who lived on the cliff above them, as she
knew of many strange medicines that could be harvested from the
land. Farrah even left bowls of fresh goat’s milk for the mountain
faeries, because she knew if you left them just the right offering,
they would often return a favor for you.
She cast lots with her husband’s father, Karim, who read the
future in dried chickpeas and bits of old chicken bones.
"There will be two children,” Karim assured her as his dark eyes
swept over the future that was spilled out before them in the small
pieces of bric-a-brac. “And then, there will be none.”
“But what can this mean?” asked Farrah, clutching her empty
womb in fear. She had seen her stepfather read many fortunes, and
when the answers chose to appear in the bones and chickpeas, they
were never wrong.
Karim seemed unsettled, fingering the instruments of fate before
him slightly, as if hoping to find in them a different pattern.
Suddenly Farrah, who had yet to even have children, was already
mourning the loss of two. Terrible pictures swam before her eyes of
still little bodies, as quiet and cold as the lambs who breach in the
spring but never draw breath.
 “Hush, child,” Karim cooed. “Here—there is more. I see also a
rope.”
“A rope?” Farrah’s hand still clung to her belly, as if she could
hold together a future she didn’t even have yet.
“There is a rope, and it swings between these two. This rope will
either save them and return them to you, or it will be the end of
them.”
That is the thing about casting lots—one becomes a slave to what
is revealed. Farrah became a slave to this rope that might or might
not even exist, and she served the idea of it faithfully. It kept her up
at night, so much so that her hair grew white streaks from worry.
Her husband’s words could not comfort her. She started to turn away
the fertility teas and stopped bringing the offerings to the faeries.
Why would she want to bring babies into a world that would just
steal them away from her breast?
But fate is a playful mistress, and she will have her games. Farrah
could not have known, but when the lots had been cast by her
stepfather’s weathered hand, she was already pregnant.
Maybe it was the tea.
Maybe it was the faeries.
Maybe it was simply the consequence of the way she let her
husband love her deep into the night.
But soon her breasts swelled and felt tender to the touch. Soon
the scent of cooking strips of mutton made her stomach turn itself
inside out. Soon Farrah’s hair turned completely white, for her
dreams had finally come true, yet they looked different to her now.
They looked more like fears. What a thin line there was between
dreams and fears, Farrah thought as she watched her body change.
She lay on her bedroll under the stars with her trembling fingers
moving from her growing belly to her wool-white hair, and she
thought about the rope.
Yes, once upon a time, there was a young husband and wife, and
they became slaves to the rope.
 Mina: 1 month prior to execution
Those three-in-the-morning calls.
No one should ever have to get them.
The way the ring shattered the silence of her bedroom, woke Mina
up in a panic.
She didn’t like sudden noises anymore, not since her return from
her last deployment to Yemen with her contracting company just a
week earlier. She’d been hired to translate for the military on the
Female Engagement Team, a thing Mina had already done multiple
times before in multiple other countries. It was a good job—good
money—she thought as she reached for her phone—but it left little
party favors in her spirit, like this new way her heartbeat raced at
the drop of a hat, or the habit she’d picked up of constantly looking
over her shoulder. Maybe it was time to find a new job, away from
the combat zones and explosions and dangerous people who didn’t
want outsiders in their countries. It was tiresome, to expect trouble
from every corner as Mina did, and lately she had a growing sense
of dread that refused to part with her. She couldn’t explain it, but
here now was the early morning call.
She pushed her dog lightly off her phone, registered the light
ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner with little painted
sheep jumping over the hands. She looked at the screen. It was her
twin sister calling from their parents’ home in Persia. Leila was
twelve hours ahead and with no sense of time apparently.
Her sister had flown home a few days earlier from a university
tour in London, for their mother’s birthday. Mina would be joining
her in just a few days, yet another reason the call made no sense.
She would be there soon anyway, indulging in their Persian roots
and eating too much lamb with rice.
Mina answered, the odd way her stomach clenched foreshadowing
that already her life had changed forever, even if she didn’t know
from what yet.
 Any thoughts of chiding her baby sister—younger by two minutes
—caught in her throat instantly. “Leila? What’s wrong?”
The other end of the line was nothing but sobs.
Mina’s heart dropped.
“Is it Mom and Dad?”
What else were 3:00 a.m. phone calls about? Already Mina was
spiraling.
“Talk to me, Leila. Can you talk to me? Or maybe just breathe.
Breathe, darling. Take a deep breath for me.”
There was a choking sound, then a rattling series of shallow
breaths from the sort of person who is barely holding themselves
together.
“There. Good. Keep breathing.”
Directive. She had to be directive in a crisis—this she had learned
from the training the military insisted she take, even if she was only
a civilian contractor. It was important for some things to be second
nature, like crisis management, in the sorts of places Mina
frequented. But what sort of crisis was this? In her head, Mina was
already burying her parents. She was thinking of the calls she would
have to make. The relatives she would inform. White flowers to be
ordered from the shop around the corner where her parents lived.
Mourning banners hung outside the home. It wasn’t cold. It was
methodical. She was the one who got things done, after all. Leila
could be a mess enough for the both of them.
Finally, her sister spoke. “They’ve arrested Nila.”
The voice was so small, it was pitiful. Surely her sister was only
five years old again, little feet shoved into their father’s slippers, and
clutching at her favorite stuffed horse toy.
“What?” Mina’s brain stalled.
This bit of news did not make sense.
Children who grew up into adults sometimes got 3:00 a.m. phone
calls about the deaths of parents. Utterly tragic, but conceivable, and
ultimately expected. They did not normally get 3:00 a.m. phone calls
about the arrests of favorite cousins—cousins so close they were like
sisters. Cousins who did not do things that would lead to arrest. She
was an artist, after all.
 Her sister was whispering now, as if it were all she could manage.
As if she didn’t want someone to overhear—and perhaps she didn’t.
They were known to do things like that in the Persian capitol,
weren’t they? The they that ran things. The they that arrested
innocent girls.
“They’re going to kill her, Mina. I just know the bastards are going
to kill her.”
 Rapunzel’s Story: Farrah
Farrah’s belly grew, despite her fears.
The weeks of watching the flock finish the grazing in the winter
pastures, turned into months.
After a while, Farrah was able to stomach her favorite sour milk
drink again. She grew excited, even though she hated herself for it.
Why fall in love with something she knew could disappear, and break
her heart into one thousand pieces?
“That is being a mother,” Parisa assured her when Farrah placed
her concerns at the widow’s feet. The widow seemed to take a
practical approach to Farrah’s prophecy, accustomed as she was
herself to loss. Yet still she agreed to make protective charms and
amulets for Farrah anyway. With hands that shook with age, she
carefully wove special bracelets for the two babies, with little
figurines of the evil eye twisted in, to ward off any bad spirits.
Mothers and their new babies were particularly susceptible to such
things, after all.
Farrah resumed her small sacrifices to the faeries, anything from
goat’s milk to chicken blood to a freshly slaughtered lamb. She knew
these were precious and they couldn’t spare many, but the faeries
liked the smell of roasting meat and they always seemed to know if
one gifted them any meat that wasn’t the best cut. Even when her
ankles began to swell and her back ached from the extra weight,
Farrah would take the long-overgrown path that led to the shadows
of the mountain, where an altar of stone still stood, stained with
blood from the sacrifices that had come before. Most people didn’t
believe in faeries anymore, but Farrah believed in everything. In
Allah, in the casting of lots, in true love, in faeries, in good and bad
jinn—even in witches. It kept her busy, appeasing all these gods and
spirits, but she reasoned there were only things to be gained by
getting on the good side of all these powerful beings.
She began to experience a ravenous hunger, the likes of which she
had never known. Her belly ached for such specific things—roasted
chicken covered in the juices and seeds of pomegranates. Lamb and
stewed chickpeas rolled into toasted flatbread. Yet nothing taunted
her stomach more than the sweet vegetable known as Rapunzel.
The thought of the crisp roots and curved green leaves brought
water to her tongue. She knew of a place on the other side of the
mountain—a week’s journey from there—where wild Rapunzel grew
by a stream. If she could only get there. If only she could pick
herself a basketful, she could cook it over the fire with lentils and
spices. She would even eat it fresh, and lace the purple flowers that
blossomed with it, through her hair.
Yes, the babies demanded Rapunzel.
Her stomach growled as she watched Mahmoud constructing a
swing for the babies with branches from a cypress tree. Easily
collapsible, so that they could take it with them when they moved
the flock to summer pastures. He was thoughtful in that way. He
sang as he worked. Mahmoud was a constant song in motion, and
Farrah loved him for it.
Naturally he would sing—to Mahmoud, life was perfect. He had a
beautiful wife with a swollen belly, and a flock that gave him meat,
wool, and sometimes even ram’s horns to sharpen into knife
handles. These he could trade with other shepherds who passed
them, for things like books and silver kettles. Yet for as much as
Mahmoud loved his books, he didn’t believe in the words of
prophecies that came from the chickpeas and the truths they held in
them—not like she did. He simply believed, somehow, that
everything would always work out.
“How much do you love me, sweet husband?” Farrah cooed, as
she poured him a cup of fresh mint tea. He stopped singing,
accepted the tea with the sort of smile that said he already knew the
game she played, and he was happy to let her win.
“Why, I love you so much, I would call down the stars for you!” He
gestured dramatically to the heavens. “I would shepherd them and
keep them close by, just so that you could always bathe by
starlight.”
“My, what love!” laughed Farrah. “I cannot tell if the stars are
impressed, but I am.”
 “That is nothing,” said Mahmoud. “For you, I would go deep into
the mountains and capture the faeries I find there, in our water pot,
so that you could have magic whenever you wished it.”
She grinned. “That is a wicked thing to do to a faerie.”
“You make me want to do wicked things, " was his answer, the
tea quite forgotten.
Farrah seized her moment. “Well, my love, these are great and
impressive things, but I do not ask them of you.”
“Then what does my bride desire?”
She allowed a kiss to delay her response before saying,
“Rapunzel. I ask only for Rapunzel.”
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