by Lewin, Renee
Tareq studied his older brother’s thin, ashen face for any movement, hoping that his lips would pull into a smile and his brown eyes would open, hoping that this was Qadir playing some kind of practical joke.
A tear fell from Tareq’s glistening eyes and landed at the corner of Qadir’s brown lashes. The teardrop ran down Qadir’s face as if it were his own.
He always thought Qadir would turn away from his destructive lifestyle once their father was gone. He always planned that they would rule Samhia together. Why did you do this, Qadir? Why?
Tareq realized that the last thing he’d said to his only brother was an insult. “I’m so sorry,” he sputtered. “I’m so sorry. You’re all I have left. How am I supposed do this without you?” Tareq picked up Qadir’s heavy hand. He squeezed it and rubbed at his skin, trying to warm it again. Broken, he kissed Qadir on the cheek and began to wail with the intensity of an ill-fated child. He pulled the white and gold keffiyeh from his head and pulled at his hair.
When they were kids, the brothers showed each other their bruises from their father’s discipline. When Tareq was mute after Mariza was killed, he wrote letters to Qadir, and no one else. They shared years of secrets and bonded over dirty jokes. Tareq deeply regretted not laughing with Qadir more. He would give anything to take back the last jab he’d made. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
Tareq didn’t know if twenty minutes or two hours had passed before he noticed Bahja was standing at the doorway, weeping and watching. “Bahja?”
She went to him. Tareq released his embrace of Qadir’s body and buried his face in Bahja’s neck. Together, they sobbed. “It’s all my fault,” he cried. “I should have checked on him myself this morning, but I got caught up in the attention.”
“This is not your fault. My prince has been troubled for a long time now.” With the end of her headscarf, Bahja wiped at Tareq’s tears and then dried her own tears. “Your father’s death meant the spotlight would be on you as well as on him. He was afraid to face the scrutiny and the high expectations. He always turned to the wrong things to escape his worries. This time he went too far.” Bahja wanted to fall to her knees and scream, but she kept strong for Tareq. She rubbed his back and rocked him. Suddenly, she felt Tareq jolt as if he’d been frightened by something, and then he began to gasp and tremble. “Tareq?”
Tareq pulled away from Bahja. “Oh God, oh God! I killed him!”
“That’s madness!”
“I killed Jem’ya’s brother, so Allah took Qadir to punish me!”
“Stop it! This isn’t your fault. Please, Tareq, hear me or you will break what’s left of this old heart!”
Tareq continued to tremble and breathe irregularly, but he went completely silent.
“Tareq?” Bahja’s heart wrung. She feared he would go mute again. He was the King now. She couldn’t let him deteriorate. “My King, this is too much for you right now. I beg you, go to your room and lay down. I’ll give you something to drink that will put you right to sleep. When you wake up, everything will be better. Come this way.”
Tareq slid down from the bed and stood up. His face was pale and drawn. His eyes were empty. Bahja held his arm and led him toward the door. His legs froze when he reached the footboard of Qadir’s bed. Tareq gripped the bed post and cried out as immobilizing pain overwhelmed him. His muscles were seizing all over. Spots of white light were flashing before his eyes. Bahja yelped when he fell to his knees. He couldn’t walk. This was the worst his pain had ever been. It even hurt to breath.
Two guards ran to his aid. They lifted the King and began to carry him to his room. Tareq managed to speak, just above a whisper. “Put me in the tub. Hot water.”
Bahja shook her head. “No, you need Jem’ya.”
In the library, Jem’ya was having a lesson in Samician taught by the mixed blood young man who was Tareq’s translator at Tikso and was also the palace librarian. He identified her accent when she greeted him in Arabic as she walked into the library. Jem’ya was delighted when he greeted her back in Rwujan. It was so comforting to hear her first language. They began a conversation and Jem’ya expressed how she wished she knew more Samician so that she could have understood King Tareq’s speech that afternoon. The librarian offered to help her learn. Twenty minutes into the lesson, Bahja burst into the library.
“Lady Jem’ya!” Her voice echoed against the bookshelves. “Qadir has passed away. Tareq is in terrible grief. He cannot move his limbs; he is in so much pain. Please will you help him? I’ve never seen him like this before. Come, come! Hurry!”
When Jem’ya went to Tareq’s room, what she saw made her speechless. Just like in her vision, Tareq was in a huge bed with crumpled white sheets. His whole body was trembling. Tears escaped his clenched eyelids, spilling from beneath thick lashes. His hands gripped at the sheets. Her vision had been a premonition of Tareq mourning the loss of his brother.
“I’ll get the bowl of water and the oil,” Bahja said.
Jem’ya ran to Tareq. Her own sadness constricted her vocal cords. “I’m so sorry.” She lovingly combed her fingers through his soft curly hair and kissed his wet cheek, comforting him and crying with him. Her empathy was strong because she knew intimately the grief he was experiencing. Jem’ya passed her hands above his body and found that he was hurting everywhere, not just his usual problem spots, and that the pain was worse than ever.
Once she brought Jem’ya the water and oil, Bahja left quietly to her own room. Out of Tareq’s sight, she closed her bedroom door and dissolved into hysterics, crying out to God and pulling at her hair in anguish.
In Tareq’s bedroom, Jem’ya was lifting away his pain even though it was causing her pain to do so. Her palms were getting so hot that she feared she might have blisters by the end of the session, but she was desperate to help Tareq so she worked through it. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’ve needed to do this for a long time. Allow yourself to feel your sorrow, instead of resisting it and holding onto it like you always do. Relax as much as you can and allow the emotions to flow out of you so that it will not poison your body with pain anymore.” Jem’ya began to massage his calf muscle.
Tareq’s teeth were chattering from the agony in his heart and in his body. He sniffled. “Jem’ya?”
“Yes, Tareq?”
“Will you sing to me, please?”
Jem’ya’s determined expression softened. “Of course.” She began to hum a Tikso hunting song to soothe and distract Tareq.
Though her hands stung from the heat of her work, she didn’t stop until Tareq fell asleep. The salt of dried tears was at the corner of his eyes. His pink lips were tender from crying and sleep. As she studied Tareq’s face, Jem’ya felt the truth in her heart. She smiled a teary smile and turned to walk out on his balcony. The truth was that she was in love.
Jem’ya took in a shaky breath of the night air. It was crisp and fresh, but occasionally the burning kerosene torches around the exterior of the palace added a trace of smoke to the breeze. She never felt such deep concern for any person outside her family until she met Tareq. His pain was hers. Guilt was pelting her heart. She’d wished harm would come to Tareq, a punishment, and now it had. Tonight her highest self was called forth, the self that was open-minded, pure and open-hearted, and from that elevated vantage point she saw that Tareq’s actions in her village and the choice he made to kidnap her were mistakes made by a man who was hurting and misguided. She forgave him and she loved him. She was powerless to it. Her love had endured the tribulations of the last few weeks, so she was sure she would always love him. But it didn’t matter, because her love was not reciprocated.
Jem’ya squeezed her fingers around the smooth wooden banister of the balcony. “I just want to go home, Tareq,” she whispered into the darkness. No longer did she hate him for what he was doing. Rather, she was deeply disappointed in him for allowing the shadowy, selfish part of him to take over. She felt so used. She had only been an object for Tareq to lust after and the
nice girl that made him feel better by listening to him and healing him. She was a possession that he stole and kept for his self, to call upon whenever he desired. She was his current fixation. She was a mirror to see himself in, to confirm his own greatness by seeing the admiration and need in her eyes. Suddenly, it became clear that she was not powerless at all. He didn’t love her, but he always pursued her.
She was the only healer he trusted and it was no secret that he found her desirable. How many people would ever have the opportunity to be this close to the King of Samhia and have this much influence? How many tribal black Africans would ever be a respected guest in the palace of Tareq Samhizzan? This was bigger than just her. There was a divine purpose for her relationship with the young man who became King. This was her destiny.
It was set. Her brother’s life would not be lost in vain. She would be a martyr for Black Africa. Her gift of healing and her virginity would be her swords. God willing, she would win and still have her life.
Jem’ya pulled the white silken headscarf from around her face. She refused to hide her femininity any longer. Tareq liked her boldness anyway. Jem’ya held the scarf by a corner of the fabric and held it up in the air. She let it slip from her fingertips, hoping the breeze would carry it out past the gates, but it fell short, gliding into the rippling water in the second tier of a stone fountain.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Though it was against religious custom for a woman to prepare a man’s body for burial, there was no question in Bahja’s mind that the task was hers and that Allah would forgive her for loving Qadir as though she had birthed him herself. Using lavender scented water, she bathed Qadir from the top of his head to the bottom of his feet with a soft cloth, just like she did when he was a newborn; Not so long ago. Then she made his beard neat, trimming it with fine scissors. She clothed him in his favorite tunic. It was as yellow as the brightest turmeric spice. She put shined leather sandals on his feet.
With all her strength she was able to move his body onto the uncovered palanquin he would be carried on through the city streets. Next, she brushed his short brown hair. It took her twenty minutes to ensure every strand was perfectly in place. She glanced at the closed door and back at Qadir. She fussed with his hair again. Bahja found herself trying to memorize his face. She quickly kissed him on the forehead and forced herself to walk away. She opened the doors and let in the three maidservants who were waiting with large bouquets of yellow flowers. Together, Bahja and the servants removed the stems of the flowers and arranged the yellow blossoms all around the prince.
The first time Tareq saw Qadir dressed in his favorite yellow tunic on the palanquin surrounded by yellow flowers he broke down. Qadir was glowing. It was like he was still alive. Tareq dried the tears from his face and fought back his grief once the funeral procession began. He was king. He needed the people to be confident in him and see that he was strong. He didn’t want them to be discouraged about his leadership after this bad omen of two deaths in the Samhizzan family in one day.
Tareq wanted Jem’ya at his side during the funeral but she had already done so much for him, so he didn’t ask it of her. He was also afraid that she might run away and disappear into the crowd, never to be seen again. His heart could not take another loss.
It started off silent like most funeral processions, like his father’s funeral procession, but Tareq could not maintain a stoic façade, and neither could the bystanders when they saw Tareq’s emotions. Women and men began to shed tears as they witnessed the angelic sight of Prince Qadir and the sorrowful weeping of King Tareq. A gaunt beggarwoman stepped forward from the crowd. The guards stepped up to her with their hands on the hilt of the swords hanging at their hips. “No,” Tareq said to the guards.
The woman was holding out one of her yellow wildflowers from the bushel she’d collected to sell for a day’s meal. She trembled with fear. “I only wanted to give this to the prince, your Highness.”
Moved, Tareq nodded. “Of course you may.” The woman added her flower to the others at Qadir’s shoulder. Tareq took the woman’s hand in his and gave it a gracious squeeze. “May God bless you.”
The woman gasped. She stared, speechless, down at Tareq’s clean hand holding her dirty, scarred hand. The onlookers were shocked as well. Though Tareq had expressed concern for the less fortunate in his speech to the nation, the citizens were still surprised to see the king make contact with a beggar. The woman tried to thank King Tareq, but all she was able to do was blubber and bow.
A deep weariness came over Tareq when he found himself standing before the cold, towering mausoleum again. Tareq watched Qadir, a splash of vibrant yellows, being swallowed up by the black void of the mausoleum. One day Tareq’s body would feed the yawning mouth of the crypt, perhaps the end point of the Samhizzan family line. Tareq had rejected the prophecy of Moosa Hassan. Now, after Qadir’s death, his stubbornness was wiped away. Lording over millions of people made Tareq a king, not a god. He could not control every aspect of his life, control other’s lives, or bring people back to life, no matter how desperately he wanted to. Tareq surrendered to the fact that the sands were always shifting. Sometimes the sand would bury him up to his neck. Sometimes he’d be above the sand, blessed with the chance to trek across it toward his dreams.
“Goodbye, brother,” he whispered as the marble doors were closed. “I’ll be a better man. I promise you.” The door to Tareq’s grief did not close when with the tomb doors were shut, but he did get a small amount of peace from the finality of the ritual. It gave him the sense that he could move forward; a closure that Tareq hadn’t allowed Jem’ya to have.
There was a soft knock at her bedroom door. “Come in,” Jem’ya called. She was sitting at the vanity, looking through its drawers, analyzing the powders, rouges, lipsticks, and the various instruments invented to apply makeup to a woman’s face. She was fascinated by it all, though she could never bring herself to wear any of it. She was not ashamed of her natural self, nor was she compelled to decorate her face for men’s eyes.
The door opened and Tareq walked in. He was dressed for bed, in copper-colored silk pajamas with a matching robe, at 1 o’clock in the afternoon. His hazel eyes looked greener in color. Jem’ya wondered if it was his sorrow that had blanched some of the golden hue from his eyes.
“Hello,” he said in his deep voice. His gaze settled on her face only a few seconds at a time before darting away. Something was making him anxious.
Jem’ya smiled and stood up from the vanity, wearing a long, deep blue cotton dress. “Hi.”
“I wanted to thank you for helping me last night.”
“Oh. You’re welcome. You’ve always been welcome.” Jem’ya chuckled. “Well, perhaps not always.”
Tareq, serious, nodded.
Jem’ya sighed. She didn’t want to bring up past hurt at a time like this. “I saw them carrying your brother out of the palace gates this morning. The flowers were so beautiful.”
“Yes. Bahja did a great job. During Qadir’s funeral I realized that…I need to let you go. I’m letting you go home now, Jem’ya.”
Her eyes instantly filled with tears. “Really?” She began to cross the room toward him.
“I can’t keep you here against your will another minute. You didn’t get the chance to lay your brother to rest after...” He couldn’t speak it. “You and your parents can go home now.”
“Thank you so much,” she cried. Jem’ya folded her hands together and rested her forehead against them. Tareq walked closer to her. Tears ran down her wrists. Finally, I can have my freedom, but I have not yet fulfilled my purpose. She exhaled a slow, calming breath and lifted her face. “Thank you, Tareq, but I don’t want to leave. Not right now.”
Tareq was sure he’d misheard her. He leaned forward. “You don’t want to go?”
Jem’ya shook her head.
He studied her wet eyes. For all these weeks she let it be known that she hated him for bringing her here. She was crying with joy and
relief after hearing she was free to leave, yet she wanted to stay? “I don’t understand.”
Jem’ya dried her face. “I would like to stay, because I am your healer and your friend and I made a promise to you. I promised to never abandon you. This is not the time for me to leave. This is a time when you need a true friend the most.”
Tareq was silent. He swallowed, fighting away the urge to burst into tears in front of Jem’ya. Overwhelmed, and unable to accept her kindness, Tareq responded by turning around to leave. “I’m freeing you. Please. You can go home now.” He pulled at the door handle.
Jem’ya rushed over and grabbed the crook of his arm. “Tareq, I know that you would prefer that I stay.” Tareq stopped moving, but didn’t turn. “Now that I’m free, I’m making the choice to stay here and support my friend who is in mourning.”
Tareq’s hand dropped away from the door handle. He faced her. “Even though I wasn’t there for you when you were mourning?”
She shook her head. “You were there. I didn’t want to accept you, but you were always there. Let me do the same for you.”
His gaze intensified. “Jem’ya, I am in debt to you until the end of my life. I don’t need anything from you. I will not take anything else from you.”
“Then give me something.”
“Anything.”
“Give me a hug.”
His brows relaxed. “A hug?”
“Wrap your arms around me, Tareq.” She gazed up into his amber eyes. He was tense and immobile. “Hold me,” she said. “The way you did before.”
Tareq felt his eyes watering again. He surrendered to her request. Initially, he embraced Jem’ya so that he could hide his face at her fragrant neck. When Jem’ya’s graceful arms encircled his waist and her palms rubbed up and down his back, he discovered how her request for a hug was really her gift of warmth and comfort to him. He needed exactly that sensation: Jem’ya soft and warm in his arms. Such a vulnerable moment was what Tareq usually avoided. He was surprised to find that when he released her five minutes later he came away with more inner strength than he’d ever built up from a victory in combat. “How long will you stay with me?”