The Fierce and Tender Sheikh

by Alexandra Sellers

  “Shakira!” they cried. “Welcome home, Shakira!”

  Five

  A sweet wind was blowing, bringing the soft smells of the desert to her nostrils. The heat was dry; her tears evaporated even as they formed on her cheeks.

  The tall, dark man in the white djellaba, his green keffiyeh lifting in the breeze, moved to the foot of the steps and stood looking gravely up at her. And with a blow that struck her heart, Shakira recognized the eyes in the stern, noble face.

  A wordless cry warbled from her throat, and she dashed down the steps and stopped in front of him.

  “Who are you?” she whispered. “Are you—”

  “I am your cousin Ashraf,” said the Sultan simply.

  “Oh, you look like my father!” she cried, and that other, beloved face was sharp and clear in her memory, as it had not been for too long.

  Shakira stood for a moment, not knowing how to deal with the powerful feelings that rose up in her. After a lifetime without closeness she had no instinctive way to express the overwhelming mixture of love, joy, pain and almost terrifying relief.

  Ashraf broke the tension by wrapping her in a tight embrace. “Welcome home, Cousin,” he said.

  For a moment she resisted, her thin body tensing as if for an attack. Then a strange, unfamiliar sensation burst up, driving a sob into her throat: the human comfort of touch. Hot tears burned her eyes, too powerful to resist, though deep instinct told her it showed a dangerous weakness.

  Crying in front of so many people! How they would treat her now—they would take all the drinking water, steal her food! And yet—the arms around her felt so safe, like something she remembered feeling, long ago….

  Before she had time to sort out such conflicting emotions, Ashraf released her to be embraced again, this time by the magnificently beautiful woman with the cloud of black hair, whom she had seen from the plane.

  “I’m Dana, Ash’s wife,” Shakira heard. “Welcome! We are so happy and thankful to have found you at last. What a terrible time you’ve had! But you’re safe with your family now.”

  Hani had always been able to contain his tears. Sometimes he had felt that his soul was so dry tears would never happen to him again. In the camps that was a good thing.

  Shakira, though, could not stop her tears. From that moment of learning her true name, she seemed to have lost her power over her emotions, over the feeling that flooded from her eyes. And now, held in the tall Sultana’s embrace, head against her breasts, as her mother had held her long ago, and no one since, Shakira was overwhelmed.

  “You’re safe here,” the Sultana said again, as if she understood everything. “It’s all right.”

  The Sultana’s gently smiling face bent comfortingly over her, and that tore away the last vestige of self-control. Shakira wept and wept. She wept for Hani, she wept for Shakira, she wept for her loss, and she wept for her homecoming. She wept because she was torn with a confusing mix of grief and joy, and she wept for shame at her unaccustomed weakness.

  She lifted her head at last, her face streaming, while her breath settled down with long, shuddering sobs. She felt ashamed, and didn’t know what to say to regain face. Hastily she lifted the hem of her T-shirt to wipe her nose and face, and gave the Sultana a nervous, tentative smile.

  “Oh, you are so like Ash!” Dana cried. “I can see how you knew her, Sharif!”

  “Am I?” Shakira asked, partly because it was so completely thrilling to think that she shared a family resemblance with someone living, and partly because, even now, she doubted what was happening. Could it really be true that she was not only part of a huge family, but also that this family was the ancient royal house of Bagestan?

  The others crowded round, and added their voices to the Sultana’s. “Yes, look, she’s just like the portrait of Grandfather’s sister!”

  “You’ve got Ash’s eyes, for sure! Hi, Shakira, I’m your cousin, too! My name’s Noor. Welcome to the family!”

  “I don’t think we’ll introduce everyone now,” Dana said, sensing too much tension in the thin little body under her hands. “Let’s take Shakira home. She’s tired from a long trip. And her foster family, too.”

  The Sultana turned to where Farida stood next to Sharif, Jamila clinging to her leg, the baby in her arms, and put out her hand. “We are so very grateful to you for your friendship with the Princess. Of course you will come and stay with us at the palace for as long as is necessary for us to find your husband.”

  Farida moved a fist to her heart and bent her head respectfully.

  “Excellent Lady,” she began, “I am honoured by your hospitality. Hani’s place is with you, that is her home. But my home is my home, and I long to go there at once. There is no need to trouble you further. If your generosity will allow us only a little food and water for the journey, we will walk. I know the ferry boat captain—he will agree to carry us when he knows our story. My husband will pay him when he returns.”

  Shakira sensed rather than saw the glance that the Sultan and Sultana exchanged. Dana smiled at Farida again. “I am so sorry. There is no ferry now, and nowhere on the island for you to live. Nothing has been rebuilt yet. But you are very welcome—”

  Shakira suddenly stood straighter. “Why is Farida not allowed to go home?” she demanded, the Hani in her suddenly taking the opportunity to exhibit strength after the terrible show of weakness her tears had been. “She wants to go to the island, to Solomon’s Foot! Do you think to be on Solomon’s Foot without a roof can be worse than to live in Burry Hill Detention Centre?”

  “Cousin,” the Sultan intervened, “it is not—”

  Shakira could not have defined the feelings that now drove her.

  “Why can’t she go home?” she demanded hotly.

  They all went still, looking for a way to deal with this unexpected challenge, but before anyone could muster a response, Sharif stepped out to face her, offering himself as a target. There was a kind of indrawn breath amongst those who watched, because now it was between these two, and they wondered how the Cup Companion would handle it.

  She was quick to take him up on the offer. “You said you would take us home!” she accused.

  Sharif met her glance firmly.

  “You who have waited so many years to find your family—to find even your self, your own name, Shakira, do you imagine that everything good happens in one moment? Farida must be happy for the moment simply to be in Bagestan amongst her countrymen. She must wait a little longer to be in her own home.”

  “Why must she wait?”

  Her fiery rage did not abash him. “She must wait because only those who are patient shall receive their reward in full,” he quoted gently. “Your protection of your friend does you honour, Princess, but she must submit to this.”

  There was a moment of silence while the thin boy-girl and the tall, strong man gazed at each other. Shakira breathed deep then, and as the strange rage passed, the tension left those watching, as if with one shared breath.

  “Oh,” Shakira said. She turned to Farida. “I hope it will not be long.”

  Farida smiled. “Nobody can be given a blessing better and greater than patience. Did not the Prophet himself say it?”

  The young mother turned to the Sultana and bowed her head again. “Excellent Lady, I am honoured to be your guest.”

  In a high, blue-tiled wall an arched wooden gate opened inwards, and the little cavalcade of cars slipped from the narrow street into the courtyard within.

  Shakira, in the back of a limousine between two cousins whose names were part of a jumble of names and faces, bent her head back and gazed out the rear window up at the arch as the car passed under it.

  There were windows above the archway. She looked around the courtyard, where the cars were parking, one by one, in front of another, smaller archway. She guessed that it must lead out onto another street. The courtyard was faced with worn yellow brick, and the ground, too, was paved with it. Green plants lined the base of the walls, an
d two trees reached for the sky. Sunshine slanted down, giving the ancient brick a warm, comforting glow totally unlike the sterile structures at Burry Hill.

  “Is this the palace?” she asked in wonder. “It’s beautiful.”

  Noor chuckled a little, not unkindly, because this area was simply the private entrance and parking lot for the palace.

  “You’ll see how beautiful it is,” she promised.

  As the family clambered out of the various vehicles and urged her towards the archway, Shakira looked through, gasped and cried out, “Oh, it’s like heaven!”

  Beyond the arched passage was the most beautiful garden courtyard of the palace, and ever afterwards she would remember her first glimpse of it.

  It was a wide rectangle, overlooked by tiers of arched balconies, and shaded with trees and ornamental shrubs, many in full flower. In the centre was a broad reflecting pool from which water bubbled up over a tall marble fountain, spilling water over its levels with a sound that was pure intoxication.

  “A fountain!” she whispered. She turned to share the wonder, and saw Sharif. He was standing a little apart from the cluster of her family behind her, for they had pushed her in first, wide-eyed and speechless, to give her the garden in all its glory.

  She smiled at him, her eyes alight, her gaze impelling him to her side. “Have you seen it before?” she wondered.

  “Many times, Princess. My rooms are there.”

  He pointed up through the trees to a balcony above, from which a profusion of plants tumbled down into the magic garden. She stared at him, her mouth open.

  She turned to her excited family, who crowded around now, well pleased with her reaction. “Do people live here?” she demanded.

  “You live here!” someone informed her.

  “Yes, and I think we’ll take you to your rooms now, Shakira,” Dana said quietly, because it was very evident that the princess, still half a boy, half in her former life, had had about as much as she could handle for the moment.

  2

  Shakira

  Shakira’s Dream

  In the dream they dressed her in flowing robes of unimaginable beauty and delicacy, embroidered with threads and jewels that glowed and shimmered in the soft light of the magical place that was, miraculously, her home. The face that looked back from the mirror as they fussed around her was mysterious and deeply feminine, and the curls that clustered over her head enhanced the delicate bone structure, and the wonder and gratitude she felt burned her eyes.

  In the dream, guards in fabulous dress uniform saluted her as she walked through a huge, arched doorway into a hall so bright her eyes hurt. The hall was jammed with magnificently dressed people, who turned to look up and smile with wide-eyed approval as she approached the broad, short flight of marble steps that led from the dais down to the hall.

  In the dream her family were there, and in their faces she saw that they were proud of her, and her heart swelled and was filled with sweetness as she looked at them, and felt a part of that larger whole. Felt how she belonged.

  Her eyes searched the crowd, in the dream, without her knowing why. As if she were looking for someone. Someone else. Someone not counted among her family.

  He was there then, though she never saw his face. She felt his strength, fierce and protective, felt his warmth, his heat. In the dream, he approached as she came down the steps, her dress rippling and glittering around her as if the sudden soft breeze whispered through the arched openings from the candlelit courtyard just for this moment, for her. He lifted his hand, and she knew he smiled, though she couldn’t see his face.

  In the dream she wasn’t afraid. She reached out, strong and confident, and placed her hand on his. On her own hand and arm, precious jewels glittered, but no more brightly than the approval in his dark eyes.

  Six

  RETURN OF LOST PRINCESS

  Exclusive Photos of the Boy Princess!

  The royal family of Bagestan is celebrating today behind closed doors as they welcome home another princess, this time one who was long believed dead. Informed sources say Princess Shakira was discovered by chance in an Australian refugee detention centre, where she had been living in disguise as a boy ever since the assassination of her entire family by Ghasib’s agents fifteen years ago.

  Sources say the boy princess arrived at Bagestan’s international airport early yesterday, where she was greeted by the Sultan and Sultana and members of the royal family, including Princesses Noor and Jalia. Shakira, who looked tired and malnourished, wept with happiness as the Sultan, her father’s cousin, embraced her. The family have asked for privacy while the Princess takes time to recover from her ordeal.

  It was Sharif she wanted. In the utter strangeness of her new surroundings, he was her only link between past and future. He alone knew both what she had come from, and what she was moving towards. It was a comfort to think there was someone who knew her, when she no longer knew herself.

  But where was he? She had not seen him since her arrival at the palace. The day had overwhelmed her, in spite of the Sultana’s best efforts to soften the impact of the new on her wondering mind. There had been no time to be frightened.

  Tonight she had taken a bath in enough water to keep a person alive for a month—warm, and scented with perfumed oil, an unimaginable luxury. She had stayed in the water for an hour, hardly believing it could be true.

  But when the servant—her personal maid, the Sultana said—pulled the plug and she understood that the water was being allowed to run away after only one use, Shakira had arrived back in the real world with a bone-breaking jolt. Swallowed up in a lush white towelling garment as big as a blanket, she had screamed at the woman, raining curses down on her head for her wanton waste and stupidity. As Shakira feverishly shoved her aside to stuff the plug back in the hole the bewildered maid had run for help.

  Six more staff came into the new princess’s apartments, rushing and babbling like people waiting for bags of flour to be thrown off the back of a truck. No one could understand her; it was as if she spoke a foreign language.

  “Look, Highness,” a grey-haired woman kept saying, turning on a tap to let even more water gush wasted down the sink hole, “there is water, there is water now. The rains came! The Sultan sits on the throne and Allah smiles on us.”

  “Stop doing that!” Shakira had shrieked, by now practically weeping under the combined assault of such terrible waste and not being able to make herself understood.

  “The rains came, Princess!” the housekeeper said again.

  One of the women, very bravely, had slipped away to the Sultana, and Dana came, bringing instant calm with her presence.

  “You are very right, Shakira,” she had said, smiling gently. “Someone should have explained to you that waste water from all our bathtubs and sinks goes into a reservoir for use in the palace gardens. I will show you the tanks in the morning.”

  That had calmed her; it was impossible not to feel gentled by the Sultana’s rich, warm voice. Still, Shakira wondered if she would ever get used to the luxury of baths and showers.

  She wanted to tell Sharif about that—about how amazing it was to have such an abundance of water. He had followed her trail through so many of the camps. He had seen. He knew.

  Now Shakira crept from the too-soft bed—where she had lain sleepless for hours, listening and watching while night birds called, the fountains were stilled and the moon climbed the sky—and slipped barefoot out onto her balcony.

  The palace was silent, the sliver of moon reflected in the still, smooth water of the pool. Hidden low amongst the flowers and plants, muted lights glowed at intervals, giving the garden an air of magic; above, from one or two rooms, lamplight showed that the occupants were still awake. One of the lights, like a beacon, glowed from the room Sharif had pointed out earlier as his own. Her heart gave a little kick. It comforted her to know that he, too, was awake, even if she could not talk to him.

  Shakira knelt on the cool tiles, her arms r
esting on the rim of the balcony, her chin on her arms, and watched the tiny crescent of bright moon. Was it really the same moon she had seen from the camp? Or had the world changed, along with her life?

  Nothing was certain. In the camps there had been ruthless certainties, harsh and sharp, always reminding her who she was, where she was, that she was alive. When you are hungry, she thought, at least you are certain of that. Here she could be sure of nothing, not even what was real and what a dream.

  A shadow moved across the lamp in Sharif’s room. Her nameless yearning attacked her more fiercely. He would tell her. He would understand.

  She gazed hungrily at the light from the stormy sea of uncertainty, wanting to reach it and be saved. So close, and yet so out of reach. She had seen little of the palace today, only enough to gain the impression of an overwhelming confusion of corridors and doors. Hani had found a secret way out of Burry Hill, but at the thought of finding her way around those corridors Shakira’s courage failed her.

  She would never find his room if she went searching, and yet she knew exactly where it was. That contradiction was disturbing, underlining the truth that she was in an unknown world. A world where the skills she had learned over a lifetime were suddenly pointless.

  And yet—were they? His light beckoned her. The Princess stood and peered over her balcony into the shadowed courtyard, her hands against the warm, breathing marble. The delicately carved surround of each balcony offered a thousand toeholds to the agile.

  And a moment later, her bandaged ankle hampering her hardly at all, she was over the balcony and down. As her muscles took her weight she was suffused with a sense of relief: she was not completely lost in this new environment. Her life skills could still be put to good use.

  The tile paving of the courtyard was cool and smooth under her bare feet as she crept among the shadows across to the opposite wing. Then, after a moment to get her bearings, she clambered up again, monkey agile, and slipped silently into the moonless gloom of Sharif’s balcony.