by Aisha Saeed
“That’s for us?” Jasmine asked.
“I think so. I mean, yes,” Ali said quickly.
The coachman wore a navy blue outfit with a matching hat and expertly reined in the horses. They stopped just at Ali’s feet. Hopping down, the coachman hurried over to open the carriage door for Jasmine and Ali.
“Welcome home, Prince Ali,” he said. “We have missed you so.”
The crowd erupted into applause so hearty the ground beneath them trembled. Ali blushed furiously.
The interior of the carriage was more spacious than it had appeared from the outside. The seats were velvet and the curtains were parted by silk ropes threaded with pearls. Jasmine trailed a finger across them, amazed to see they were genuine.
“Stay in my lap, Carpet,” Ali told the magic rug as the horses began trotting and the carriage rumbled off. The carpet stuck its tassels out the window and twisted its body as though trying to squeeze out. “Of course you could fly us to the palace quickly,” Ali reassured it, patting its side. “And I know it’s not fun for you to be compressed into a small space like this. But please don’t worry—you’re safe here. Relax. You’ve earned it.” The rug grudgingly complied and rested against Ali’s lap. In just a few seconds, though Jasmine couldn’t be sure, she’d have sworn the carpet was fast asleep.
Outside, people lined the cobblestoned walkways, waved, and shouted adulation at the passing carriage.
“They’ve really missed you,” Jasmine observed, looking out the window at all the beaming faces.
“I guess it has been a while,” Ali said. Jasmine studied him as he waved at his subjects. In her experience with the different royals who had come through Agrabah to try to win her hand, there were two types of princes. There was the one who looked bored and a bit irritated with all the attention from those he was in charge of ruling, leading, and providing for. And then there was the type of prince who preened and swelled practically to three times the size of a fully grown peacock when in the presence of mass adoration. But now she realized there was a third type, because Prince Ali was like neither of these types of men. He appeared taken aback and genuinely touched by the love of his subjects. It was more than just the fact that he hadn’t been back to his kingdom in a while—he was truly humble. If she hadn’t been here to witness it in person she wouldn’t have believed such a thing was possible, but there it was. She hoped if she had the opportunity to become a ruler herself one day, she, too, could engender the respect and affection of her people as Prince Ali had.
“I think my arm is sore,” Ali said. He leaned against the seat cushion now and stretched his arm before resting it against the carpet. He looked at Jasmine. “You look lost in your thoughts.”
“I tend to always be lost in my thoughts,” Jasmine replied. She looked around the carriage. “I guess I was thinking about how nice it is here. How admired you are in Ababwa. It’s not like that for us back in Agrabah. Our subjects might throw a parade if we were to leave Agrabah, but certainly not when we returned.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the guards?” Ali said. “They’re stationed at practically every street corner…at least it looked like that when I was there. They walked among the people glaring at them a bit.” He hesitated. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult your kingdom, and I definitely don’t want to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. It was just sort of the impression I got.”
“Your impression was correct,” she told him. “The guards really are everywhere. I’ve tried to talk to my father about it. It’s not right to treat our citizens like they’re guilty when they haven’t done anything wrong. But Jafar—he’s my father’s advisor—he insists the guards need to be stationed throughout Agrabah to keep the peace. I wish he wouldn’t have such a huge say, but my father trusts him completely. He doesn’t understand that stationing guards on every street corner ends up sending a message that the leaders don’t trust their people.”
“No one wants to be made to feel guilty over nothing,” Ali agreed. “What does your father have to say about it when you discuss it with him?”
“I never get the chance to talk to him about it alone.”
“Jafar is always there?”
“Yes. If I could talk to my father by myself, things could be different. He’s seemed open-minded when I’ve brought up changes we should make in the past, but as soon as Jafar shows up, the conversation ends.”
“But you’re his daughter. You have every right to speak alone in confidence with your father whenever you want to.”
Ali was right about that. If she ever became sultana, she’d start with a bit of housecleaning and get a new advisor, first and foremost. Even if Agrabah would never have citizens who adored their rulers the way the ones here in Ababwa appeared to adore Ali, they had to do better than they were.
When Jasmine looked out the window again, she paused.
Goosebumps trailed her shoulders. They tickled the back of her neck. It was easy to miss the man amid the crowd of happy villagers chatting and talking over one another as they waved at the passing carriage. One’s eyes could simply pass right over him, mistaking him for a statue on the street corner. But he was no statue. He was a man. His clothing was tattered and torn. His face was coated in grime. But it was none of this that made Jasmine’s stomach clench. It was the fact that among a sea of admiring gazes, this man alone scowled at them. His gray eyes were narrowed; a deep frown line creased his forehead. He didn’t simply look at the passing carriage. He glared at it. Their eyes met then. He cocked his head to the side and stared at her. Looking into his eyes turned her insides cold.
It was the strangest thing. The man seemed familiar. But where could she have seen him before? It was impossible. Wasn’t it?
The carriage jerked to a stop.
“Whoa!” Ali’s head bumped against the window.
“Did we hit something?” Jasmine asked, holding onto the window.
“My apologies,” the coachman called out. He opened the carriage door. “The horses were not eager to stop their ride. We are at the palace now.”
The carriage door opened wider and Ali stepped down. He reached back and held his hand up to Jasmine. “Ready, Princess?”
Jasmine glanced back out the window, but there was simply empty space now where the man had once stood. He was gone.
“Saw something interesting?” Ali asked her.
“No…it was nothing.”
Taking his hand, she stepped onto the road. Together they approached the palace gates and the golden estate just beyond the brick walls.
PLAY IT COOL, Aladdin reminded himself. After all, theoretically, he’d seen all these sights before. This was his home. If one lived on the moon, even that would get dull after a lifetime. He had to act like all of this was commonplace and ordinary.
But how?
Ababwa seemed plucked straight out of his deepest dreams. The town square they’d passed on the ride over had a public fountain for the village’s poor. He hadn’t even told Genie about that and yet there it was—a gathering place where people replenished their buckets right before his eyes. And then there were the thick leafy palm trees flanking each side of the road they had traveled down—he loved those trees! And the way the entire town seemed to have a hint of warmth emanating from it. Everything about Ababwa felt tailor-made for him. Which, he realized with a start, it was.
He was trying his best to act natural, but glancing at Jasmine, he wasn’t sure how well that was working out. And as they approached the palace—ostensibly his house—he knew acting natural here would be his biggest challenge yet.
Two guards stood on either side of the steel gates outside the palace walls. Their muscled arms were crossed as they stood at attention. They were so tall they towered over him. Aladdin tensed and instinctively reached for Jasmine’s hand. They looked much like the men who patrolled the streets of Agrabah with their sharp jaws and stoic expressions. Even though Aladdin knew they were his guards and that they were not standing
there to grab him or throw him into prison, he glanced about for possible escape routes. But their expressions melted into smiles upon seeing Aladdin, and they nodded before opening the wrought iron gate for him and Jasmine. Aladdin felt a palpable sense of relief. As they headed up the steps, two servants parted the front doors before they could even knock.
“This is…” Jasmine looked around as they stepped into the foyer. “This is quite the entrance.”
“Thanks,” Aladdin said. She was right. The molding around the ceiling was filled with glittering jewels, as were the baseboards. A fountain was on display in the center of the entryway. Water splashed from the mouth of a carved ceramic dolphin. Well done, Genie, Aladdin thought.
He took in the red silk carpets running from one end of the room to the other. The crystal chandeliers. Marble floors. None of this was really his, Aladdin knew. They were here only for a brief visit. But as long as they were here, everything from the gold-encrusted minarets to the fountain at his feet belonged to him. After a lifetime of struggling to scrape by, to simply make sure he and Abu had enough to eat that day, it was the strangest feeling to stand before unimaginable wealth and claim it as his own. Aladdin smiled; as long as he was here, he might as well enjoy it.
They headed into a hall where an oversized floor-to-ceiling oil portrait of Aladdin dressed in full princely regalia atop a snowy horse hung on the wall. Aladdin’s arms were crossed and his chin was at a tilt as he looked down regally upon them. Now that was an impressive painting. He grinned.
“Oh!” Jasmine nearly jumped back when she saw it. She paused. “It’s quite a large painting, isn’t it?”
“It really is! Thanks!”
“Welcome back, Prince Ali,” said a man approaching them now. He had a white mustache and graying hair and wore a navy kaftan with a matching round hat atop his head. Aladdin faltered a bit upon seeing him. His uncle—his mother’s older brother—had died when Aladdin was quite young, but the mustache and hair reminded him so much of the stories his mother had shared of him. Walking up to Aladdin now, the man opened his arms wide and embraced him. It was strangely comforting. As if they’d known each other a lifetime.
The man smiled at Jasmine and folded his hands in greeting. “Princess Jasmine. A pleasure to meet you. My name is Omar. I am Prince Ali’s butler.”
“Wonderful to meet you,” Jasmine said. “Have you been at this palace long?”
“I’ve been working here most of my life,” Omar said. “I looked out for Prince Ali when he was a child. Now that he is all grown up, I assist however I can.”
“Interesting.” She glanced at Aladdin and then back at Omar. “If you’ve known Ali his whole life, then you would be the keeper of his stories? All the embarrassing ones he’d prefer left unsaid?” Her eyes sparkled mischievously.
“I have a treasure trove of stories—just say the word.” Omar winked. “I am quick to spill my secrets.”
“Hey, now,” Aladdin protested while they laughed. He wondered what sort of stories a fictional person in an imaginary land would have to share about him.
“Please allow me to escort you to the dining room,” the man said now. “Everyone is waiting for you.”
Everyone?
They walked down the main hall until they reached a spacious room showcasing not one, two, or even three, but four staircases inlaid with silver winding several stories above them. Outside the oversized windows flanking the far wall, lush green grounds stretched out into the distance with trimmed shrubbery in animal shapes lining the walkways.
Just then, servants in matching navy uniforms entered the room in single file and stood with their backs against the wall at full attention.
“Princess Jasmine, it would be my honor to introduce you to our palace staff,” Omar said. One by one he told Jasmine—as well as Aladdin himself—each person’s name and role in keeping the palace up and running. The stout man with the tall white hat was the chef. The woman next to him with wavy hair and a measuring tape draped around her neck was the palace tailor. Next came the gardeners—ten of them in all—and the housecleaning staff, the palace barber, and so on. Omar introduced them all.
“We have the most wonderful meal prepared for both of you,” the chef told them.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have gone through all that trouble,” Aladdin said.
“Not at all! It was exciting to have a grand feast to prepare! As soon as we heard you’d arrived, everyone got to work at once. You will not be disappointed.” The chef clasped his hands together and hurried into the kitchen.
As it turned out, the chef was right.
The polished oak table in the dining room had a scarlet runner that stretched from one end of the table to the other. Jasmine and Aladdin sat next to one another and watched servants set out plate after plate of food while the chef told them about each dish—piping hot breads, gourmet cheeses, and jams handmade from fruit grown on the palace grounds. The pastries featured olives and greens plucked from the grounds of the palace as well.
“What else could they possibly be bringing?” Jasmine laughed when the kitchen doors swung open once more. A woman walked out balancing a wooden tray with six different steaming porcelain teapots and matching teacups. Aladdin started when he saw that they were decorated with tulips. His mother had once found tulip teacups among the discards someone had placed outside their home. She’d cleaned them up nicely, and they’d used them for years. Of course, the cups they’d had weren’t quite so fancy; he smiled wanly, remembering the chipped edges and faded designs. His heart filled with gratitude for this personal touch Genie had added.
“The tea smells divine,” Jasmine said.
“Thank you.” The woman smiled. “I have ginger, mint, oolong, peppermint, rose petal, and orange berry. But we have more, so please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“The ones you have brought all sound marvelous,” Jasmine said. She looked at Aladdin. “Which would you like?”
“Um…” Aladdin hesitated, then picked up the one in front of him. “This one?”
“Good choice,” Jasmine said. “You can never go wrong with mint.”
He poured some in his cup and took a sip.
“Not bad,” Aladdin said, unable to hide his surprise.
“I see the princess inspired Prince Ali to try some tea,” Omar noted from where he stood by the far wall.
“Inspired?” Jasmine glanced at Aladdin. “Does he not normally enjoy tea?”
“Not after what happened many a moon ago.”
“Really?” Jasmine lowered her teacup. “Now I have to know the story.”
“Um,” Aladdin interrupted, “she doesn’t need to hear that.”
“Now I really need to.” Jasmine laughed. “Please, Omar, go on.”
“Sorry, Prince Ali. But I cannot refuse the request of a princess,” Omar said, his eyes twinkling. “His dislike for tea began young, but it’s not the tea that was to blame. He was a little boy of five back then. Some royal guests arrived to visit the family and Prince Ali insisted on helping. He was getting into just about everything, so his mother ushered him over to the kitchen to help the staff with the tea—stirring sugar. Simple enough. Our young boy was eager to get to work, though there was a slight hiccup since he could not yet read labels, and…well, in fairness, salt and sugar are the same color….”
“Oh, no,” Jasmine clasped a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Oh, yes.” Omar nodded gravely. “Our young prince stirred salt into all the tea, including his own. And when the time came to serve their guests, well, everyone had a most unexpected surprise.”
“Poor Ali,” Jasmine said. “That might have put me off tea for good as well.”
“Yeah.” Aladdin managed to smile. He shifted in his seat. It wasn’t that Omar had shared an embarrassing childhood tale with Jasmine that unsettled him…it was the fact that the story Omar shared was true. Of course, the people who had been visiting his mother and him that day were friends passing through town,
not royalty. And there were no servants; Aladdin was helping his mother herself prepare the tea. He could still remember the laughing and conversations as everyone had sat in his family’s humble dwelling, and then the sudden shock in their eyes when they’d tasted their drinks. He hadn’t reflected upon that memory in years.
Suddenly, a banging sound jolted Aladdin from his memory.
“What was that?” Jasmine jumped at the noise.
“Let me in! Right now!” a loud angry voice shouted in the distance.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Jasmine murmured as the banging continued.
“I’ll see what the matter is.” Aladdin stood up.
“No, Your Majesty, please relax.” Omar sighed. “It’s a man—he came by earlier, just before you arrived. An eager subject wanting to welcome his prince home, I suppose. But he’ll meet you in due time. Please enjoy your meal. I’ll go speak to him again. If you’ll excuse me.” With that, Omar turned and walked out of the room.
Aladdin wondered if he should follow; what would a real prince do in such a situation? But he decided Omar would come get him if he were needed.
Birds chirped outside the window across from them. He watched as a chickadee fluttered up and disappeared into a birdhouse perched on a wooden pole just beyond a patch of shrubbery.
“Hope you didn’t mind Omar sharing that story,” Jasmine said.
“No, no.” Aladdin turned to look back at her, shaking his head. “It had been a long time since I had heard it, actually.”
“Where are your parents?” Jasmine asked. “Are they traveling these days?”
Aladdin put his teacup down and swallowed. “They died.”
“Both of them?” Jasmine put her own tea down and turned toward him.
“I was young when it happened. First my father. A few years later, my mother.”
“Oh, Ali. I lost my mother years ago; I can’t imagine how painful it must be to lose both of your parents.”