Beast donna jo napoli pdf

 
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  1. Follow the Author
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  3. Beast by Donna Jo Napoli
  4. Spinning New Tales from Traditional Texts: Donna Jo Napoli and the Rewriting of Fairy Tale

(Retellings of Classic Fairy Tales and Stories). Beauty and the Beast. Beast ( Donna Jo Napoli). Beastly (Alex Flinn). Court of Thorns and Roses (Sarah J. Maas). Read Beast by Donna Jo Napoli for free with a 30 day free trial. Beast and warrior glow white, burning, against the gold ground. The sun. Get Free Read & Download Files Beast Donna Jo Napoli PDF. BEAST DONNA JO NAPOLI. Download: Beast Donna Jo Napoli. BEAST DONNA JO NAPOLI - In .

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Beast Donna Jo Napoli Pdf

Read eBook Beast By Donna Jo Napoli EBOOK EPUB KINDLE PDF. (c) >>> page 1 of 8 PDF File: e Beast By. beast by donna jo napoli, (beauty and the beast set in persia) beauty by robin mckinley and the beast. new york: crowell, sirena donna jo napoli pdf. Meet the Beast -- before there was Beauty Orasmyn is the prince of Persia and heir to the throne. His religion fills his heart and his mind, and he strives for the.

And no woman will ever love you. Cursed by an evil fairy, he will now live out the rest of his days as a lion until he can find a woman to love him. But who could ever learn to love something so monstrous? And I will die a lion, for no human woman will ever love me. We all know what Belle does and how she feels It seems that all the retellings create a half-dimensional version of him. The one who looks menacing but it a kind, gentle soul on the inside.

Islamic verse is in Arabic. These are stories in our own strong Persian. Let me read to you of Malika falling in love with Shahpour. Already I am thumbing back through the earlier pages. Mother squats and catches my hand between hers. In my room. A book by Saadi. The prospect intrigues me, for this great mystic, this Sufi, is known for mixing the spirit of Islam with the culture of Persia. I pull my hand away. Mother presses her lips together in a thin line. Then her face softens again.

Her finger now runs the part in the middle of my hair that I made during my cleaning ritual, the wudhu, before the prayers that precede sunrise.

Your father and I will be busy with festival duties most of the day. We had hoped to see you this morning, at least. Today is the Feast of Sacrifices. Every royal family in every town across Persia has invited the poor to partake of the meat from the animal they will sacrifice this noon.

Here in Tabriz there will be a double offering, for my family will add a sacrifice of our own to that of the local royal family. Is that so? Mother looks at me with curiosity. I draped this white cloth around me as the sun rose. It is almost a year since I returned from my pilgrimage to Mecca. These days, when I go out, I wear my ordinary tunic under royal robes, though of course I carry prayer beads and wear a white hat always. But today I will stand in white cloth with the other hajjiha, a cloud of purity.

Mother nods. But, son, my gentle prince, not every hajji must take part. I hear the question under her words. As a child I ran from the sacrifices, from the spilling of blood. As an adult, I take no part in the hunts. Mother says I am like the flowers that grow in my treasured gardens, more tender than flesh should be. Still, today I fight off trepidation.

The animal dies to commemorate the ancient sacrifice by Ibrahim. That way I can pick you out from the other hajjiha and send you my strength. I open the rear doors, which give directly out to my private garden for praying, my belaq. We have palaces in many cities, and I have taken part in designing the gardens at three of them. I work with a cohort of servants, planting, pruning, mulching. My special fragrance garden around the throne room in the central pavilion of our Isfahan palace is continuously in flower.

The carpet I stand on now depicts that garden. The border bands hold daisies and pomegranates and heads of lions. This rug makes my feet want to climb. We winter in Isfahan, of course, on the arid plateau almost completely ringed by mountains. My yellow roses are at our palace in Shiraz.

On the first day of spring, we celebrate Naurouz, New Year s, there, surrounded by flowering persimmons. I always beg Father to take us to Shiraz early, even as early as the end of February, so that we can feel the bade gulhaye sourkh —the wind of roses—that blows strong in the afternoon. Processions fill the streets with music and torches for thirty days. I throw coins with lions stamped on them to the people I pass. They throw rose petals in return.

But Shiraz is too hot in summer. So we return north to Tabriz, the capital, where I tend my most extensive gardens. I step outside now and pass through my walled belaq out to the public gardens. To the west stands the mosque.

To the south and east and north stretches garden. My eyes follow straight pebbled paths interrupted at regular intervals by a series of steps, on and on, until the paths are lost in the trees and the mountains beyond. It is easy to fool myself into thinking the garden continues forever—infinite.

I imagine I feel a wet breeze from the Caspian Sea to the east—though it is more than a days journey away. I emerge from the shadows of the portico and walk along a maddi —a water channel—to the reflecting pool. The people will gather here after the sacrifice to await the cooked meat. The pavilion on the north side will host the men, while that on the south will host the women. Columns hold up the roofs of the pavilions, columns spaced widely, so that one group can easily see what the other does.

The voices will be loud and happy.

But right now the pool and garden are mine. The air is faint with white jasmine. Clover and aromatic grasses crush soft under my bare feet. Sour cherry trees fan out in star designs. I step up onto the talar, the platform overlooking the pool, and gaze at the black-and-white limestone colonnades of the palace.

The early sun gives an orangish sheen to the stones, almost the color of henna, and an idea comes to me. Mother said not every hajji must take part in the sacrifice. So nothing should prescribe the participation of those hajjiha who do take part. Joyous moment, I am free to choose what duties I assume. I race to the animal enclosures beyond the mosque, to the camel-holding pen, hoping no one has beat me to the task.

Preparing an animal for sacrifice is just as important a part of the feast as slashing its neck. Kiyumars is already in the pen, stroking the large she-camel. But no one else is about. I join this servant with a silent nod.

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Kiyumars puts henna on the head of the camel, turning her the orange color that guided my feet here now. All is well. I rub the camels eyelids with kohl. Ah, now I understand her cooperation, for I have a sweet tooth myself. The necklace shines from the open box nearby. It is made of tiny mirrors set in red silk with gold embroidered leaves.

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Kiyumars takes one end, and together we fasten the necklace in place. It hangs before her chest like a banner. Kiyumars dips his hands in the henna again. He turns to the camel, about to rub color into her back, when he gasps. I look over his shoulder. At first I cannot see it. It runs two hands-width long.

We both know what the scar means. Someone cut fat from this camels hump, a practice of our people for millennia. But now we know, through the teachings of Muhammad, that the Merciful One expressly forbids it: Live animals are never to suffer at the hand of man.

An old scar, to be sure. Nevertheless, this camel has been defiled. She appeared to be the finest camel, my prince. In the name of the Merciful One, this is truth.

Was no other camel brought here yesterday and prepared for sacrifice? I ask, though I can see the holding pen is otherwise empty. She is the only one, my prince. An error regarding sacrifices could call for grave punishment. The local royal family holds to old Persian customs that go against Islam; they would have Kiyumars nailed by his ears to the wall out front of the palace, just as they do to those who break the fast during the monthlong celebration of Ramadhan.

I wince at the thought. My hand instinctively takes his upper arm and pulls him close. My chest swells with the need to protect Kiyumars. But is it written anywhere that a camel who has been violated in this way cannot be sacrificed? I could ask the imam —the prayer leader—just to be sure. But the Feast of Sacrifices is one of the two most important holy days of the lunar year —so the Shah should know the rules that govern it. Consultation would be a sign of weakness.

Beast by Donna Jo Napoli

This camel is imperfect. But all the camels in our herd have some defect or other. They have to. Mother said not every hajji must take part in the sacrifice. So nothing should prescribe the participation of those hajjiha who do take part. Joyous moment, I am free to choose what duties I assume.

I race to the animal enclosures beyond the mosque, to the camel-holding pen, hoping no one has beat me to the task. Preparing an animal for sacrifice is just as important a part of the feast as slashing its neck. Kiyumars is already in the pen, stroking the large she-camel.

But no one else is about. I join this servant with a silent nod. Kiyumars puts henna on the head of the camel, turning her the orange color that guided my feet here now. All is well. I rub the camels eyelids with kohl. Ah, now I understand her cooperation, for I have a sweet tooth myself. The necklace shines from the open box nearby. It is made of tiny mirrors set in red silk with gold embroidered leaves.

Kiyumars takes one end, and together we fasten the necklace in place. It hangs before her chest like a banner. Kiyumars dips his hands in the henna again. He turns to the camel, about to rub color into her back, when he gasps. I look over his shoulder. At first I cannot see it. It runs two hands-width long.

We both know what the scar means. Someone cut fat from this camels hump, a practice of our people for millennia. But now we know, through the teachings of Muhammad, that the Merciful One expressly forbids it: Live animals are never to suffer at the hand of man. An old scar, to be sure. Nevertheless, this camel has been defiled. She appeared to be the finest camel, my prince. In the name of the Merciful One, this is truth. Was no other camel brought here yesterday and prepared for sacrifice?

I ask, though I can see the holding pen is otherwise empty. She is the only one, my prince. An error regarding sacrifices could call for grave punishment. The local royal family holds to old Persian customs that go against Islam; they would have Kiyumars nailed by his ears to the wall out front of the palace, just as they do to those who break the fast during the monthlong celebration of Ramadhan.

I wince at the thought. My hand instinctively takes his upper arm and pulls him close. My chest swells with the need to protect Kiyumars. But is it written anywhere that a camel who has been violated in this way cannot be sacrificed? I could ask the imam —the prayer leader—just to be sure. But the Feast of Sacrifices is one of the two most important holy days of the lunar year —so the Shah should know the rules that govern it.

Consultation would be a sign of weakness. This camel is imperfect. But all the camels in our herd have some defect or other. They have to. Such is the way of the world. This may be the best camel available, despite her scar. Kiyumars puts both hands to his cheeks, forgetting the henna in his desperation and turning himself orange. It is my thoughtlessness. Jumail is the only camel prepared for sacrifice. Forgive me, my prince. This is the Arab word for little camel, not the Persian one.

This camel clearly belongs to Islam. I reach high and put my hands over her muzzle, trying to pull myself up so I can look into her eyes. The camel stares at me a moment, then blinks and jerks her head away. Jumail is ready for sacrifice. The Merciful One forgives our dietary lapses more easily than most other lapses.

Spinning New Tales from Traditional Texts: Donna Jo Napoli and the Rewriting of Fairy Tale

And eating camel meat rekindles faith, I say softly. I think of the sick, for whom half the meat of this camel will be salted and set aside. They will chew it all year long for strength no other meat can give. Nothing would be gained by failing to sacrifice this beast.

And I cannot believe the Merciful One would want Kiyumars to suffer for an innocent oversight. Indeed, if animals are not to suffer at the hand of man, how then can humans be allowed such suffering? I fasten a necklace of bells around the camel, high up and tight, so that it rides in front of the arch of her neck. Then I stand tall before my servant, my friend.

Kiyumars bows to me. When he rises, he smears the camels hump with henna, putting extra on the scar that disappeared with his first swipe. I add a strand of precious stones between the necklace of bells and the necklace of mirrors. She is ready. In an instant I am cold. It is nearly impossible to be cold anywhere in my country in the summer, even at the start of summer, even in Tabriz. Yet I shiver now. It is as though a tiny being flutters around my head, blowing and blowing.

It as as though a storm begins. The bazaar is thronged with the faithful, as always. But this morning they do not barter for cloth or copper vessels, for wool or carpets. And this morning the number of people is multiplied many times, for the women have come out of their homes to stand beside the men, and the zarehun —the farmers—have left the fields to take their place along the sides of the road.

All have come out for the procession. Little boys run before the hajjiha— the pilgrims—picking up small stones and sticks. Normally they use brooms to sweep the streets, but on the Feast of Sacrifices no brooms are allowed, because the broken needles left behind by sweeping might pierce the bare feet of the hajjiha. I am grateful; many times on my pilgrimage I walked for days. Behind the row of hajjiha comes the ram to be sacrificed by the local royals. Next comes the camel to be sacrificed by the Shah.

A gap follows these two animals, a gap in which the bells of their necklaces jingle, happy and light. If they know they are to die, they must be filled with rapture at the prospect. To give ones life for the Merciful One, that is true privilege.

After the gap come the music makers: And one man playing the kerna — a trumpet as tall as he is. And then a row of men on kettledrums. We hear it every night and at all festivals.

And during the month of Ramadhan, we hear it before each dawn. Familiarity endears it to me. This is the music of my faith. I listen to it from my position far in the front of the procession and it is muted, like the sound of water in a river on the far side of a stand of trees.

A smile swells my cheeks, though this is a solemn feast. This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue? Upload Sign In Join. Save For Later.

Create a List. Beast by Donna Jo Napoli. Summary Meet the Beast -- before there was Beauty Orasmyn is the prince of Persia and heir to the throne. Read on the Scribd mobile app Download the free Scribd mobile app to read anytime, anywhere. Atheneum Books for Young Readers Released: Feb 24, ISBN: I turn, startled.

Shall I read to you? Battle stories. Mother wrinkles her nose. I prefer Islamic verse.

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