The Healer's Warrior

by Lewin, Renee

  “Yes. Her hands worked miracles as always.”

  “I saw you in the training court earlier. Why do you not let yourself rest, especially right after your session with the healer?” she scolded.

  He smiled with his mouth closed, chewing. “Don’t worry about me, Bahja. I haven’t suffered any bad pain from practicing this afternoon.”

  “Still…,” she trailed off. Bahja lowered her voice, conspiratorial. “So, did she like the earrings?”

  Tareq blushed and swallowed his food. Looking down at his plate, he stifled a smile and nodded. “Yes. Very much, I think. She deserved them, don’t you agree?” He looked up.

  Bahja nodded, a pleased, knowing look in her wise green eyes. She sighed. “Well, enjoy your meal, my prince. I’ll return in an hour for the dishes.”

  Tareq was finishing the last sweet sip of his porridge when a flash of lightning brightened the night sky. He walked towards the balcony and leaned against the frame of the open glass-paneled doors. He watched lightning slash through the clouds, listened to the gnashing rumble of thunder and the whistle of strong winds, and finally the rain began to pour.

  Rain glistened off the dark fronds of the tall palm trees before the palace. Rain washed down the roofs of the big houses around the base of the hill and the small ones deeper in the city below. Rain was a blessing in any desert land. It lifted Tareq’s mood to see it. However, people in a desert land are rarely prepared for rainstorms. He began to worry about unstable roofs buckling in or shoddy homes being washed away. He worried about the roads turning to mud and freezing up transportation tomorrow until afternoon when the sun finally hardened the roads again.

  He worried that if the storm stayed strong and continued east it might hit Jem’ya on the Coast. Her house was so near to the sea. Could the waves grow big enough to wash her home away? Where would she go if that happened? She’d told him once that her family was all the way in Middle Africa.

  He reasoned that there was only a small chance that the storm would reach Jem’ya on the Coast, and if it did it would be much more subdued.

  He imagined her standing along the shore in the rain at night, roughened waves crashing on the beach. She was gazing out at the dark water as cool rain trickled down her warm brown skin and dampened her long white dress. Then she turned to him after feeling his gaze on her. She turned to him and her big dark eyes brightened under her elegant arched brows. A slow seductive smile stretched across full lips moist with raindrops. The rain made her white dress heavy and translucent. The fabric clung to her thighs and hips, clung to her stomach, clung to her pert, full breasts.

  Tareq’s mind snapped back to reality. He glanced down at his hardness and quickly away. Shifting his stance, he rolled his eyes and shook his head at his embarrassing condition. It was so juvenile to think up such ridiculous, explicit fantasies. Tareq clenched his eyes shut and thought of the troubles of the kingdom until his body calmed down. The fantasies were happening more than he’d like to admit for the last few months. They were always about Jem’ya.

  Sometimes they weren’t even fantasies, just memories. Two weeks ago he was in his private library reading and recalled the time that he asked Jem’ya why it was she left home to live on the Coast all alone. She’d locked her eyes with his and said, “To prove the strength and intelligence of a black woman.” Just the memory of her intense, confident gaze had aroused him. He never had that problem when he was in Jem’ya’s company, thank God, except for those times during the massage when his body did react, but that couldn’t be helped and Jem’ya never noticed.

  Tareq had never been with a woman. He knew that was an anomaly for a man his age and status, but it was unfathomable to him that a man could be with a woman in such an intimate way without deeply trusting her and knowing her. And so, since he was not close to any woman except his late mother and Bahja, it had never happened. Many men womanized to convince themselves and others of their power, but to Tareq it only proved that their weakness was women.

  The philosophy Tareq learned as both a warrior and as the son of the King of Samhia was this: Once you show weakness, they will know how to destroy you. That was his approach to most people, especially women.

  However, Tareq did trust Jem’ya. His health was literally in her hands. His father didn’t know about Tareq’s condition. The King thought Tareq took long baths and spent some days in bed because he was lazy. Jem’ya knew which muscles in his body were weakest from the pain. She knew his flaw. Tareq trusted her completely to take care of him.

  It suddenly dawned on Tareq that the gift he gave to Jem’ya this morning was a sign of weakness. His jaw tightened. He was not careful enough when it came to Jem’ya.

  The fact was that what he felt during battle was what he felt at the Coast. It wasn’t as intense, but it was there. His heart did drum a little quicker and his body and mind were more alive. At Jem’ya’s he felt serene and untouchable, but, unlike after battle, there was no guilt when he returned home, only lingering contentment.

  Tareq bit at the tip of his tongue, watching the rain pelt his family’s kingdom.

  There were things in life that could never be, so it was a waste of time to want them. He and Jem’ya were from two very different worlds. They lived opposing lives that Tareq knew could never peacefully come together.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jem’ya’s heart swelled with joy as her village came into view. It had taken five days and four nights, three carriage rides and two camel rides, to get to the country of Rwuja and finally to Tikso. She was exhausted but the sight of her family and friends in the near distance energized her. A group of women weaving baskets noticed her and her camel. Jem’ya was too far away to identify them. She made a high-pitched call to let them know she was family. “Keeeeeyah!”

  She grinned as the women stood and people stepped out of huts. “Keeeeeyah!” she called again and tapped the camel with her heel so it would start a faster pace.

  “Yehyehyehyehyeh!” the small crowd began to call back, whistling and waving their arms excitedly.

  Jem’ya wiped the sweat from her forehead and wondered if she’d ever be accustomed to the dry heat in Rwuja again. She’d grown used to the constant cool air from the sea. A crowd surrounded her camel as she entered the village.

  The women of Tikso styled their hair in beaded braids or a simple bun, wore short red sarongs around their waists, and a wide oval shaped necklace made of black cloth designed with hundreds of red and brown beads. The necklace covered the women’s breasts and was worn for its aesthetic, not out of shame for their bodies. The people in Tikso were nowhere near as sensitive as the people in the North, where a woman is made to feel ashamed to even show too much of her face in public. To Jem’ya those rules were just the creations of perverted and paranoid men who were punishing women for being their greatest weakness. In Tikso, Jem’ya was glad to feel comfortable in her body and in her skin. She wanted to change out of her long dress as soon as she could.

  The men wore black cloths that had splits at each hip. They wore their hair in short twists or braids and wore chokers constructed with beads made of polished animal bone.

  Jem’ya came down from the camel and unstrapped a large black knapsack from the saddle. She greeted everyone, holding hands with her extended family and touching foreheads with her very good friends and close family. “Welcome home, ZeeZee,” they teased.

  ZeeZee or Zee was her nickname, short for chimpanzee. She was born the only person in the entire village that had ears that stuck out rather than laying back. Her ears weren’t big, they just weren’t flat, and they unfortunately reminded everyone of a baby chimpanzee. She used to hate the nickname and think it was demeaning to make any comparisons between a black person and an ape. But she had grown to accept it because it was coming from people who loved her, not from those who thought less of her and her people, like the fair-skinned population did.

  From the sack she gave everyone a gift. She’d cleared out most of her beach ho
use and gone shopping at various bazaars along the way. The adults got anything from fabric, spices, bracelets, combs, and mirrors, to bowls, cups, pens and paper. She bought spinning tops for the little boys and colorful twine dolls for the girls.

  Kibwe appeared, tall, broad shouldered and perpetually grinning. He bound towards her, picked her up, and spun her around before she could protest. Kibwe Okobi, with his deep dark skin and his long friendly face, was her only full blood sibling and her older brother. He was her first patient, the person who comforted her when she was frightened to discover she made the pain disappear from Kibwe’s sprained ankle only by touching it. Kibwe was the only one who supported her and believed in her when she decided to leave Tikso on a one-woman journey with no real plan other than to reach the sea. Jem’ya began to cry.

  Kibwe flicked her ear. “Such a crybaby, Zee.”

  Jem’ya poked him in his bare stomach where he was ticklish, and she laughed as the man tried to quiet a giggle before it escaped his mouth. Kibwe grabbed her arm and pulled her quickly to the hut where his family was. Jem’ya hugged his young wife and his little son who had grown so much, and she met for the first time his one-year-old daughter. “I’m afraid she has your ears, Jem’ya,” Kibwe grinned. Jem’ya cried happy tears, held her new niece in her arms, played with the little girl’s ears, kissed her fat cheeks and blessed her.

  Kibwe went with Jem’ya to their grandparents’ hut. She kneeled at their feet. She respected them not just because they were her elders but also because the love they shared for each other was what she dreamed of having one day. Her grandparents were married for 47 years and her grandfather never took another wife. He stayed committed to her. He needed no one else. To take only one wife was a thing of controversy in the village, but her grandparents proved it could work, that it was fulfilling, prosperous, and beautiful. To her grandfather Jem’ya gave an ornate copper chalice and to her grandmother she gave a red silk headscarf, both items she’d received from Tareq.

  Finally Kibwe accompanied her to see their parents. Jem’ya was nervous to see them. When she left Tikso two years ago her parents were very upset. She stayed in contact with them through letters and they expressed that they loved her, but still there was underlying tension. She had shattered the dreams they had for their first daughter to marry young and start a family within the tribe. Kibwe led Jem’ya to Mama and Papa’s hut.

  “Is it really you!” her mother cried upon seeing her face. Mama jumped up from her cushion and embraced Jem’ya. It was a long while before Mama let her go. They stepped back and they wiped the tears from each other’s faces. Mama was still beautiful, with small bright eyes, high cheekbones, a small waist and youthful skin. Mama was Papa’s first wife. Jem’ya and Kibwe were the only children they had together. They were Papa’s first two children of the eleven he’d fathered with his three other wives.

  Papa stepped towards her. He was a tall man and it was from him that she got her round eyes and dark eyebrows. There were wrinkles under his eyes that made him seem tired and he wore a short, thick beard. “Jem’ya, my first daughter, are you here to stay?”

  Her eyes began to brim with tears of remorse. She shook her hanging head. She had fought her conscience repeatedly during her journey to Tikso, refusing the urge to turn back to be of assistance to her patrons. “There are people that need me,” she explained.

  Papa nodded. “I will not give up hope, because it pleases me greatly when you are home.” He held her face and kissed her damp cheeks. She began to cry again at the fond childhood memories evoked by the feeling of his beard tickling her face.

  Jem’ya reached into the black sack and gave Mama an ivory hand mirror and gave Papa a small shiny dagger. Jem’ya had been surprised and frightened by it when Tareq gave the dagger to her. He even spent a few hours teaching her how to use it to protect herself. She’d been charmed by Tareq’s concern and delighted that he was willing to teach her to fight even though she was a woman.

  Her parents fawned over the gifts and they chatted for a while to catch up. Mama gave Jem’ya a tribal outfit she’d left behind. She changed into the sarong and necklace and went with Mama and Papa to the courtyard while Kibwe left to check on his wife and children. The courtyard was at the center of the village, under the shade of two old trees. It was the place that everyone came to talk and relax after the day’s work was done and where ceremonies and celebrations were held. Jem’ya sat on a straw mat and relaxed, watching children play with their new toys and listening to her father’s youngest wife gossip about one of her cousins.

  Suddenly a man sat beside her on the mat. “ZeeZee,” he grinned. It was Jakenzo, the most handsome man in the village, the man she almost married. Their failed relationship was the impetus for her leaving Tikso as fast and as far away as she could two years ago.

  Jakenzo was not very tall, but his swagger and confidence made him seem bigger. He had naturally light brown hair, a rare feature among her tribe. His eyebrows were the same brown. His eyes were seductive and angular like a cat’s and his jaw line was masculine, strong. His body was lean and powerful. You could see every muscle in his abdomen. Looking at his body now, Jem’ya was not as impressed as she once was. She chuckled inwardly, imagining Jakenzo’s ego deflating with the knowledge that she appreciated much more the physique of her patient, a white-skinned Arab man, a wealthy one on top of that.

  Jakenzo’s ego was in the end what ruined their engagement. He had to flaunt his masculinity every chance he could get. She used to be flattered by his competitive nature, his jealousy, and his lust. She used to love his rough, possessive kisses. Jem’ya used to be in love with him, accepting his insecurities for what they were. She thought that the years of patiently supporting him and humbly surviving on the scraps of sensitivity and half interest he threw her way would encourage him to be appreciative of her, the perfect virgin bride.

  It didn’t. She was still not enough for him. He finally admitted that his ultimate goal was to have seven wives. It was his right as a man, he’d told her. As a woman, she shouldn’t be so jealous and selfish, he’d said. She gave the beloved Kenzo a black eye that day and the whole village, especially her parents, rebuked her. Except Kibwe; he laughed uncontrollably, pat her on the back, and gave her a big cup of honey mead.

  After that day, she made up her mind to never trust or rely on a man for anything. Not for food, security, support or company, and certainly not for happiness. She left Tikso to be her own person and to prove what a woman could do without a man directing her. By the grace of God she made it to the North Coast safely. She was very happy for a while on the Coast, but after a year her verdict on men began to change. Perhaps she didn’t need a man, but she wanted one. And she wouldn’t need to rely on her mate completely, just once in a while.

  Looking into Jakenzo’s smiling eyes now, two years after the fact, Jem’ya still had no regrets about striking him in the face.

  Jakenzo leaned forward and reached his hands to cup her face so they could touch foreheads, as close friends and family do, but she intercepted his hands and held them between them. Jakenzo blinked at their hands and frowned, but hurriedly put the grin back on his face.

  “Jem’ya Okobi,” he smiled.

  “Kenzo,” she nodded and released his hands.

  “You look well.”

  “I am well. You look…the same.”

  “Thank you.”

  Of course you would take that as a compliment.

  “You’ve finally returned to Tikso. Did it get too hard for you, too lonely on the Coast?”

  “I’ll be going back in three days,” she corrected him. “I just felt it was time to come home and visit the family that I love and who truly love me.”

  He nodded.

  “How is your wife?” Jem’ya had learned the news from her father’s last letter a few months ago.

  He sighed, mildly annoyed by the question. “Fine. She is a good cook and we are expecting a child,” he dismissed.

  �
�Congratulations. Give her my blessing.”

  Then Jakenzo gazed into her eyes, smiling still. “The truth is…I missed you.”

  Jem’ya laughed. Before she had a chance to insult him in front of everyone, Kibwe appeared.

  “Just the man I was looking for,” Kibwe announced. “Come, Kenzo. We must build a new hut for Jem’ya.” He pulled Jakenzo to his feet. Kibwe chuckled and winked at Jem’ya as he led Jakenzo beyond the village to gather the materials. Kibwe always had perfect timing and the right words for any situation. He’d saved her from numerous awkward circumstances. Sometimes he saved her from herself. He did it all complaisantly, never holding it against her. Jem’ya loved her brother endlessly and couldn’t imagine she would have had the courage to be herself without him.

  Papa stood from his mat. “Tonight we will have a welcoming ceremony for Jem’ya, my first daughter,” he announced to everyone in the courtyard. “There will be dancing and feasting, for which I will slaughter eight goats from my own herd,” he grinned.

  Ah’s and whistles came from the crowd at the prospect of good food and fun.

  “Celebration! Yehyehyehyehyeh!” Papa shouted. The crowd returned the call with excitement. Jem’ya waved shyly at everyone and thanked them. A few stood up and began to show off the dances they would perform. Mama went with her aunts to plan the meal. Jem’ya couldn’t wait for sundown.

  The drums started off slow. Boom boom boomboom boom. The tribe got dressed in their costumes, grass skirts, woven headdresses, rows and rows of bracelets and anklets made of wood and bone and metal that rattled and jingled when they moved. They took turns painting Jem’ya’s face with white and black paint. Those who weren’t dancing stood swaying in a circle around those that performed. A small fire burned in the center and the light flickered against their dark skin. The fire illuminated their bright smiles and their vibrant, busy arms and legs.