The Fierce and Tender Sheikh (14 page)

“I want to tell you a story,” he said.

“I love your stories. Who is it about?” she demanded. In the distance she heard music, and her grandmother's voice.

“It's about you, Shakira, as all good stories are,” Sharif said. “Listen.”

“O
nce upon a time,” he began, and with a sigh she nestled against his side. “Once upon a time, there was a young man named Yunus. He worked hard and saved his money, and one day he decided that it was time for him to marry.

“Now, Yunus had several times seen a pretty girl at his neighbour's window, and he thought that she would make him a fine wife. So he went to his neighbour, and asked him for the girl's hand in marriage.

“But the neighbour looked gloomy. ‘Yes, it is time my Fatima was married,' he said, ‘but I would not inflict her on you, Yunus, good friend that you are. For although she is lovely to look on, she has the voice of a corncrake, and a very bad temper with it. There is only one thing which can be done to correct this, and it is far too difficult for me to suggest that you attempt it. No one should go to so much trouble for my little Fatima.'

“But Yunus was undaunted, and he asked what could be done. ‘I have been told by a wise man,' said the neighbour,
‘that three drops of water from the Well of Sweetness, carried in a tiny bottle, will cure her bad temper.'

“‘Then I will go and get the water,' Yunus declared. ‘Where is the Well of Sweetness?'

“‘The woman who sleeps on the steps of the mosque knows where it is,' said the neighbour. ‘But let me urge you not to go to so much trouble, my friend!'

“But Yunus was determined and, having first purchased a tiny bottle in the bazaar, he approached the beggar on the steps of the mosque. He dropped a gold coin in her bowl, and then asked her how he could find the Well of Sweetness.

“‘Travel seven days to the west, and seven to the east,' she said. ‘There you will find a river. Cross that, and you will come to where a Giant lives. Ask the Giant what you want to know.'

“Yunus followed her directions until he came to the river. As the ferryman rowed him across, he asked about the Giant, and learned that the Giant lived in a cave in the mountains. ‘But be polite, or he will kill you with his club,' advised the ferryman.

“Yunus walked a long, weary way, and at last met the Giant. Politely wishing him peace, he explained his mission. ‘Since you have spoken so respectfully to me, I will tell you,' said the Giant, ‘though few who come this way are so polite, and I usually kill them. Inside my cave is a secret passage, guarded by a three-headed dragon. When you see him, say,
By leave of Suleiman, Son of David, upon whom be peace, let me pass!
And the dragon will let you pass.'

“All was as the Giant had foretold, and after passing the dragon, Yunus travelled far along the dark passage. Finally there was a shaft of light ahead, and he saw a beautiful fairy pulling up a bucket of water from a deep well. ‘Peace be upon you!' Yunus cried, and the fairy replied, ‘And upon you, peace, mortal! Come, and I will fill your bottle.' And she put three drops of water into the little bottle and gave it back to him.

“Then he went back along the passage, and it seemed a longer and harder way to him than before, with the darkness cloying
and stones cutting his feet. But finally he reached the dragon, recited the magic sentence, and was again allowed to pass.

“When he reached the Giant's cave again, he showed him the bottle of water from the Well of Sweetness, and the Giant commended him. ‘Now, mortal,' he said, ‘you must work for me a year and a day, and then you may go home.'

“So Yunus served the Giant for a year and a day, tending and milking his goats and cooking the Giant's meals. He washed his dishes and scrubbed his shirts and spread them to dry on bushes, and he kept the fire alight. And at the end of a year and a day, the Giant was so pleased with his work that he gave him a bag of gold and sent him on his way.

“When he returned home, Yunus was greeted by his neighbour. ‘You have been so long away, friend!' exclaimed the man. ‘We were afraid for you. What an experience you must have had! Did you get the water from the Well of Sweetness?'

“Yunus told him of his adventures, gave him the bottle of magic water to give to Fatima, and went home to prepare himself for the wedding. When all the arrangements were complete, his bride appeared, veiled and magnificently dressed, and the celebrations began. Yunus felt he was the happiest man alive.

“That night, when the feasting was over, Yunus removed Fatima's veil, and found her to be as beautiful as he could wish. Her voice was sweet and soft as the cooing of a dove. ‘Dear wife,' he said, ‘what wonders there are in the world,
Alhamdolillah!
How glad I am, hearing your soft voice, that I went to the Well of Sweetness for your sake!'

“‘What do you mean, husband?' his bride asked. And Yunus explained that her father had sent him to get the magic water to soften her voice and improve her temper.

“At this Fatima threw back her head and laughed and laughed. ‘It was not I who had the bad temper, husband, but my mother! My father was told by a wise man that three drops of water from the Well of Sweetness on her tongue would transform her. And so he made up his mind that who
ever asked for me in marriage should be made to go for the water.'

“Yunus laughed with her, and he and his wife were so happy together that they never had a cross word all their lives.”

 

Shakira sat in silence while he waited and watched. “That's about me?” she asked at last. “I don't understand.”

“Don't you see that Yunus has seen perfection and loves it, but because of some flaw in himself, some doubt, he imagines that his future bride is flawed? It may be that Yunus has to go on a quest, but his travails and his search do not affect his bride. They affect Yunus, so that in the end he is brought to a state where he is able to appreciate what Fatima is. That is the true end of most quests, isn't it?”

“But who am I in the story? Yunus or Fatima?”

“You are both, aren't you?” Sharif said.

“Both?”

“And perhaps everyone else also. Fatima is your true inner self, Shakira. The doubting part of you thinks that she is flawed, but she is perfectly beautiful and true. It may be that your outer self has to be brought to a state where you can recognize your own truth, but your inner self needs no transformation.”

She sat silent, taking it in. Was it true? Was the fear that she felt just that—fear? She hardly knew what she was afraid of. Of not being good enough. Of still being too close to the boy who had learned to think himself worthless, unlovable.

She was afraid of being judged.

I
n the dream she swam in a jade-and-emerald sea, cool and sweet and spangled with gold, and he was beside her. Naked she swam, and the water held her close as a lover, so that with every wave that lapped, a delicious pleasure rippled across her skin.

Then it was not the water that held her, but his body, for he lay under her like a bed, and now his hands and the waves caressed her together.

In the dream he kissed her, and her heart sounded her yearning, and her delight. In the dream she had no fear as his hands cupped her cheeks, her head, and held her face to the sweet whisper of his mouth on her flesh. His lips brushed her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, her cheek, her ear, and her blood pulsed eagerly up under the caress, seeking his warmth, and then rushing to carry it to every part of her being.

In the dream her body melted into his with a divine and fearless hunger, and she yearned against him, so that he felt her trust and her love as one thing. His arms encircled her
with fierce and tender passion, and his hand cupped her head and drew her up to his wildly seeking kiss. And only then did she understand how long he had waited for her, and how hungrily.

His face was shadowed in the dream, but she knew he smiled. His eyes were dark and as deep as the sea, and in them she saw a glow. The glow reached deep into her heart, and she felt its touch all through her being.

“It's love!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” he said, though she could not hear his voice.

Was it his hands, or was it the sea, that began to stroke her then, so that joy and love and melting pleasure pulsed through her? She sighed and moaned, and stretched herself luxuriously against his body the sea, and felt his touch everywhere.

She clasped him tight, and then she knew that he was herself, and she was him, that they were one being, and one with the sea. Then the joy was urgent in her, like a storm, pressing up through soul and heart and body, seeking a way to the sea.

Pleasure beat unmercifully against their bodies. It drew her down into the green depths. Deep she went, and deeper, amongst spangles of golden light. The water, or his hands, stroked and loved her, for he stayed at her side as she sank, and the pleasure pushed and pushed in her.

Deep within the mysterious green then she saw that they were among shining domes and minarets. And as they moved under arches and between rows of pillars, she saw a golden pavilion encased in a golden glow.

Inside the pavilion there were chests of jewels, red and green and blue and white, yellow and turquoise, purple and black. And there were treasures of gold and silver. And all the jewels and treasures were her own.

“Oh!” she cried. “I didn't know this!”

He turned to her, and wrapped her again, and then at last the beating, pushing pleasure found its way. It flooded up and coursed through them, and over them, and made its way out
into the endless green sea. Then she swam in the sea of pleasure, and was part of it.

And then came love, a deep, flooding love that filled her, heart and body and soul, with calm and knowing.

Her heart lifted and soared, and they followed it up till they floated on the surface of the green, green sea, and the night sky sparked and spangled all around them.

F
or the next two days she could think of nothing but Sharif. His eyes, the way they had looked at her, flames of moonlight and passion in their depths—the memory of it trembled in her bones. As if she was precious and he was frightened to the soul that she might not love him.

She did love him. Oh, she loved him! She couldn't prevent herself loving him, though she knew how dangerous it was to love. How fragile existence was.

But she could not give him the answer he wanted.

She did not see him often, because the tribal leaders were in the palace and Sharif was sitting in on the negotiations. For the second day she ate lunch with Noor and Jalia, who were now full of their wedding plans, having dress fittings with Kamila and discussing music and the guest list replies and a host of other things.

“Whose bridesmaid am I going to be?” Shakira asked when they showed her the fabulous designs for the bridesmaids' cos
tumes. As tradition dictated, each would wear a different outfit, from a choice of beautiful colours.

“At the moment, we think we won't have separate groups. It'll just be a flock of gorgeous girls doing duty for both of us. But we can't be certain yet. Maybe we'll have to split them into two groups.”

It was exciting, but of course not nearly so thrilling for Shakira as for the two brides. Especially not when she was desperate to see Sharif again.

When they did meet, it was a snatched half hour in the private courtyard that evening, where they walked alone.

He did not press her for an answer. She was so relieved by this that she scarcely noticed that whatever he said seemed to take for granted that they would be together forever.

“Now that the issue of the island resettlement is resolved, the islanders become the Sultana's concern, since refugees fall under her purview,” Sharif said. “I told Dana I'd like to involve myself with it. She has asked me to take charge of repatriation—not just of the islanders, but all refugees.”

She gazed at him. “Oh! Will you—will you like that work?”

He looked into her eyes. “It is very close to my heart. I want to prevent anyone spending one day more than absolutely necessary in the hell where I found you, my beloved.”

Her heart thumped painfully. “Oh—!”

“We both wondered if you would like to work with me on the project.”

“Oh!” she said, in a different voice. “Oh, yes! Why didn't I think of that? Will we be able to bring them all home?”

“First on the agenda has to be finding temporary accommodation for them. Ash has been putting a new proposal to the tribal council—there's no longer the necessity to ask for permanent resettlement of the islanders, but still we need space to house everyone while they are assessed and their homes are rebuilt. Of course no one wants another refugee camp, but it seems better to bring them home, even if we haven't yet got permanent accommodation for them. Ash has
a powerful ally on the tribal council, Tabasi's son, who has a big impact for such a young man. His influence over his father is very strong, we hear, and where Tabasi goes, the council goes. We'll probably reach an agreement tomorrow that will allow us to put up temporary accommodation for a certain number only. That still leaves a sizable number….”

“Can't we house some in Ghasib's New Palace?” Shakira suggested. “It's ugly, but not nearly as ugly as Burry Hill, and it's huge, and it's got plumbing! And at least it's already built. It's not doing anything at the moment, is it? Waiting to be turned into a tourist site or a hotel complex if Ash can find investors!” She snorted. “Why not do something useful with it?”

Sharif threw back his head and laughed the laugh of a man who has suddenly been shown the answer that's been staring everyone in the face.

 

The next day was Friday, and the Sultan hosted a dinner at the palace for the tribal council. It was not a public occasion, only family and Cup Companions dining with the tribal leaders in the formal dining room off the Sultan's Anteroom, where visiting monarchs and heads of state were entertained.

They were a fierce-looking group, most wearing the flowing kaftans and hooded burnouses more common in the desert than the cities, some in the baggy trousers and vests of the mountain tribes. All men, for the tribes hadn't yet admitted women into the council.

Shakira had met such men in the camps, for the tribes had often been seen as a danger by Ghasib, and she instinctively felt comfortable with them. But she was slipping into her easy, man-to-man Hani ways, and since she was a beautiful and beautifully dressed woman, not all the men were so comfortable with her as she was with them.

Sharif appeared in the doorway, his eyes searching the room. His gaze fell on her, and she was surprised to note a
frown in his gaze before he saw that she had seen him, and changed it to a smile.

He did not come to her, but as she watched made his way towards where the Sultan and Sultana were standing, under the great portrait of Hafzuddin. Shakira watched as he bowed and spoke, and then, to her surprise, the Sultana looked her way, the same frown of concern on her face, and started across the room towards her.

At that moment her attention was caught by something at the door, and she turned to see that a man was standing in the doorway, his fierce black eyes combing the room.

He was a man much younger than most of the others, but he carried himself with the same authority as the greybeards. Shakira felt a glimmer of recognition. Perhaps she had met him in one of the camps? He was in tribal dress, wearing a voluminous white burnous open over his shoulders like a cape, a dark waistcoat, the traditional flowing
shalwar kamees,
and a navy turban with the ends falling over his shoulder.

“Who is that man?” she asked Jalia's fiancé, who was standing near with Jalia. Latif Abd al Razzaq lifted his head.

“That's old Tabasi's son. He's been Ash's strong supporter on the council, and we're assuming it's his influence over the old man that has convinced them at last.”

The man was sternly handsome, his skin darkly bronzed by the sun, and he looked strong, proud, and every inch a tribal sheikh. His eyes raked the gathering with an eagle's ferocity.

Suddenly his gaze lighted on her. Something like recognition buzzed in her, and Shakira shivered as the man, his burnous billowing around him, started across the room towards her.

“Wow, that's some hunk!” Noor whispered in her ear. “And it looks as though he might be going to give Sharif a run for his money! Sharif isn't happy about it, either, by what I see!”

Sharif was crossing the room towards the man at an angle to cut him off, and Shakira had never seen him move so fast, practically pushing people out of his way.

He reached Tabasi's son a few yards away from where Shakira stood, and she heard an urgent, low-voiced murmur. But the tribal leader flung up a haughty hand and pushed past the Cup Companion. In another moment he was face-to-face with her.

“Shakira,” Dana's voice spoke behind her. “Prepare yourself for—”

The man stood gazing at her for an electric moment, an expression in his eyes that almost frightened her. She heard a rushing sound in her ears, and the light went dark for a moment, as though she had made some discovery that hadn't yet reached consciousness.

Then Sharif said, “Shakira, this is Sheikh Mazin ibn Tabasi al Johari.” She had never seen him look so anxious, as if he did not know how to handle the situation. “The Sheikh believes—you must understand we have no proof yet, but—”

But Sheikh Mazin ibn Tabasi al Johari was impatient of this preparation. His hands reached out to grip her shoulders, and she gasped at the urgency of his grasp.

“Sister,”
he said simply. “My sister Shakira. It is a great happiness to find you.”

The word ricocheted around the room as once the sound of her name had done, wildly, crazily, like a trapped bird seeking escape, and her heart fluttered in time with its wings.

Sister.
A dozen whispers behind her in the room repeated the astonishing, amazing word.

“Sister?” Her own voice croaked as she pronounced it, the wonderful, marvellous word she had waited to hear for fifteen long, hungry years. “Are you my brother? Oh, are you my
brother?
Are you really…Mazin?”

“Shakira, we need evidence before—” she heard someone, the Sultana perhaps, begin, but she was gazing up into that dark face, hungrily searching for the brother she knew.

His eyes glittered with unshed tears as he gazed down at her, and his mouth split in a smile, revealing strong white
teeth. One eyetooth stood proud of the others, a little twisted over its neighbour.

“Mazin!”
she cried, with a voice that shivered down the spine of everyone present and caused the precious piece of glass on a nearby table to ring. “Mazin! It is you! Oh, it is you, my brother!”

She flung herself into his arms, and he held her as tightly as she had always dreamed, and his tears fell and mingled with hers.

 

They walked and talked in the garden for hours, searching for mutual landmarks in their fifteen years of unshared history.

“Oh, when you were doing that, I was there or there,” she would say, and he would say, “Ah, when we heard that news I never thought—”

There was so much to say, so much to hear. She was hungry for every detail of her brother's life, and he for hers.

“Gulab gave me a pack and told me to go into the mountains the night after you were taken. He said I was no longer safe in the house. I am sure he was right. There were some in the village…”

“Oh, weren't you terrified? Going into the mountains in the dark, alone…”

Mazin only shook his head, a powerful warrior unwilling to recall a time when he was vulnerable and afraid.

“I spent three days walking before I met a hunter. He took me to the fortress, where his sheikh was. It was Tabasi. He was already an old man, and his sons had all died in a terrible epidemic that had swept the tribe—some said deliberately sent by Ghasib. Tabasi adopted me. I was not with strangers. My grandmother was a Johari herself, and the tribe knew my father's name and had a bond of kinship with us. I never suffered as you suffered, Sister. If I went hungry, we all went hungry. In the drought we lost many.”

She told him of her life—the Bahramis; England; the bombing; the camps; and he listened closely, as if to know her
by what she had suffered. He listened in silence, nodding, turning his head from time to time to look down at his sister in the moonlight.

And then, because he was her brother, she had the courage to tell it all.

“Now you have told me,” she heard at the end. “I am your brother, your guardian. These memories will not trouble you anymore,” Mazin said, with his uncomplicated mountain wisdom.

 

“And now, there is my friend Sharif Azad al Dauleh,” said Mazin.

She breathed a silent gasp.

It was late, they didn't know how late, but the moon had climbed high, and the sky behind had changed from purple-black to midnight.

“I have met him much during our negotiations. And I have seen how he looks at you, heard his voice pronounce your name. He wants to make all right for you, is that not so?”

“Yes,” whispered Shakira.

“He asks you to be his wife.”

She nodded. “But I—I don't—I'm not—”

He looked at her closely. “He is a noble man, Sister. He has been honoured by the Sultan, and he is of a good family, whose tribe has always been on good terms with al Johari. You have my permission to marry Sharif Azad al Dauleh.”

“Mazin, he—I—do you think he really loves me enough for that? Won't he—if he knew—?”

Mazin frowned. “He is a
man,
Sister.” Her brother invested the word with a deeper meaning than she had ever heard it given. “Does a man want a woman only for her beauty, or for everything she is and has been?”

And somehow, just like that, she could see her way.