The Fierce and Tender Sheikh (15 page)

“D
id you know who he was all along?”

“It never crossed my mind. He doesn't seem to have the al Jawadi look,” Sharif assured her, “and for once I wasn't looking for it.”

“A little,” she said. “When he is laughing hard.”

“I am glad you laughed with your brother, Shakira,” he commented softly. “There wasn't much laughing going on in our meetings. No, it was almost chance that I asked him, and not some other member of the council, whether he had ever heard of a boy found wandering the mountains. As we spoke he got more and more agitated, and finally he asked your father's name. When he heard it, nothing could stop him.”

They were wandering in the garden at night, always her favourite time in the garden, when the scent of roses seemed sweetest on the night air.

She rested her head where it belonged, against his heart, and they walked in silence while the moon climbed the night sky.

“In the way of the tribes, your brother has agreed to our marriage, Shakira,” he said softly.

“I have to tell you something, Sharif,” she interrupted hurriedly. “If you—if you still want to marry me when I've said it, then…then I will.”

He went still for a moment. “There is nothing you can tell me that will make me change my mind about wanting you for my wife.”

“I have to tell you.”

Seeing the intensity in her face, he nodded once, and fell silent.

“There was—it was in the first camp, in Parvan. There was a man there—everyone knew he was a Kaljuk, because of the way he pronounced certain words, but he didn't seem to realize that. He was married to a Parvani woman and had been living in Parvan for years, and he seemed to think no one knew.

“He was a bad man. And he always picked on the weakest people. He stole food from pregnant women.”

Sharif muttered something.

“Everyone knew or suspected he was attacking women, but he chose women—girls—who were alone, with no husbands or brothers to avenge them, and so nothing ever got done. And afterwards the women would always keep quiet out of shame.”

Sharif closed his eyes and breathed deep. “You were alone,” he said. “With no one to avenge you.”

“I was about twelve. It was just before my stepmother was killed. I'd been a girl again ever since England, you know, but I was still—I hadn't gone through puberty, so I didn't really think—I wasn't afraid of him, the way some were. But one day…”

He let her pause, struggling with the anger that rose in him, the murderous rage and outrage that would have ripped the villain apart if he had faced him.

A cloud obscured the moon, hiding his face from her.

“I told you the Kaljuk planes used to bomb and strafe the camp sometimes as if it were a game to them. They would chase someone with strafing, and sometimes kill them and sometimes not. When we heard the Kaljuk planes, we used to all run to the kitchen building.”

“Yes,” he said, for she had told him this part of the story before.

Shakira took a deep breath. “One day I was in the school tent. We only had a few textbooks, and they were always kept at the school. And that day I was there by myself, studying, and I didn't hear the planes. I got up to sharpen my pencil with the knife from the supplies box, and that's when I realized the planes were coming. I ran to the door. Almost everyone was already inside the kitchen hut, and the planes were close, and I didn't know whether to run or not. I was—” Even now the fear was almost overwhelming, and he put his arm around her to remind her of where she was. “I was so scared.”

Her eyes were dark. “Someone came around the corner of the school tent as I stood there, and it was him. The Kaljuk. He glanced over at me, and I saw his face change…he turned and came towards me. And then…I would have run then, though the first planes were almost on us, but he grabbed me and shoved me back inside the school before I—before I…”

She sobbed once, but her eyes were dry as she stared into the past.

“Shakira, I love you,” Sharif said.

“I'd been sharpening the pencil, and I—he dragged me towards the teacher's table and started pushing me down and I…I…” She took a deep, shuddering breath and looked straight into his eyes.

“I still had the knife in my hand,” she said baldly.

It was the first moment he allowed himself to breathe.

She wiped her eyes convulsively.

“I stabbed him. I don't know where it hit, I just remember lifting my arm and—I hated him, and I hit him as hard as I could.”

Her eyes left his and sought the past again. “There was blood…suddenly it gushed out everywhere. He grunted and I shoved him, and he went down on the ground. I ran outside. The blood was on my hands, and the planes were screaming right overhead, very low. I was sure they were going to strafe me.” Her eyes were black and bleak.

“I can never forget that—running to the kitchens with that man's blood on my hands, and the planes…and then the bombs started falling.”

He was weeping with relief, with anger, with emotions stronger than anything he had ever felt in his life.

“His body was found, and no one ever questioned what killed him. I think some of the men—just the way they looked at each other when his body was found made me think they knew that it wasn't the bombs. One man said,
It is God's justice
. And there were so many casualties that day that the body was never examined.”

She looked up then, for his judgement.

“Do you tell me you felt one moment's guilt over this man's death?” Sharif demanded.

“No,” she whispered. “I can't feel guilty, even—even if I did kill him. That's why I had to tell you, Sharif. I wasn't sorry—I'm
not
sorry!—for what I did. And maybe that—makes me as bad as he was. He was bad, an evil man. Women cheered and spat on his body when it was found. And I was
glad
I had done it, because he couldn't hurt anybody else.”

“I am glad too, Beloved,” he said softly.

He drew her against his side, and she sighed from the depths of her being, and they walked a little.

“And was it then that you became Hani again?”

She gave a half laugh, though she knew she should never be surprised by his understanding. “Yes. A week later the kitchen was bombed and my stepmother died. The camp was—we were moved after that, and it was easy to say I was a boy.”

“And later, your protection extended to other women and girls—like Farida and Jamila. That is why you adopted them.”

She blinked. “I—I suppose so.”

“My brave and courageous Hani. And what did you fear from me, Beloved? Did you think that I could judge differently in such a case? Could you imagine that I would say what you did was wrong?”

“I—I didn't know. I just knew I had to tell you. But I couldn't. And then…I told Mazin.”

He stopped then, and drew her into his arms, and she rested her head against its natural home. It beat strongly, reassuringly, under her ear. Above, the moon sailed serenely free of the cloud that had hidden its face, and glinted off the pool, the tumbling fountain, and the great golden dome in the distance.

“And this is what kept you from me,” he said after a long silence in which their hearts spoke without words. “But now you will not be kept from me any longer. Now you will be my wife. I love you, Shakira. In my heart you are my wife already. Tell me that it is so for you, too.”

“Yes,” she breathed, and the last weight lifted from her heart, and like the moon, it soared free.

“W
ell, Marta, it's another royal wedding in Bagestan,” said Barry. “We seem to be making a habit of this.”

“Yes, and a fabulous
triple
wedding, too, Barry! We haven't seen one of those since the handsome Princes of Barakat all were lost to panting womanhood in one day.”

“I don't think you ever recovered from the blow.”

“Well, it's your turn to suffer now! Three princesses of the
al Jawadi family agreed to exchange their vows—in one joint ceremony—with three of the handsomest Cup Companions out there, and believe me, that is saying something!”

“Tell us about the princesses, Marta.”

“Well. They're all direct descendants of the old Sultan of Bagestan, Hafzuddin al Jawadi, Barry, but none of them knew it until after the bloodless coup we in the West call the Silk Revolution, but in Bagestan people mostly call the Return. Because, as you know, the royal family was in mortal danger from Ghasib's assassins for years, and had to flee to other countries and live under assumed names until the Sultan's grandson regained the throne.

“Princess Noor you'll remember because she hit the headlines a few months ago. She fled from her own wedding minutes before the vows were exchanged, provoking delicious speculation. Then she and her fiancé disappeared, and we had the terrible discovery that his plane was missing in a thunderstorm. Nearly everybody assumed the worst, but Princess Noor and Bari al Khalid were finally found shipwrecked on one of the deserted Gulf Islands. It was revealed that the reason for her flight was her fiancé's grandfather's eleventh-hour withdrawal of his permission for the marriage. Reason—some ancient family feud. Bari al Khalid rejected his grandfather's orders to marry a woman from another family, and the old man threatened to disinherit him. But when he died shortly afterwards, his will revealed that he had not made good on his threat.

“Princess Noor has since returned to university to begin her studies in science and engineering, Barry, and says she wants to find new approaches to old problems in Bagestan.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn't have stood a chance there anyway. Brainy women never go for me, Marta.”

“Next up is Princess Jalia, and she's way out of your reach, Barry, because Jalia lectured in Arabic at a university in Scotland! She's resigned that post now, in order to stay in Bagestan, but once the dust has settled on the wedding, she'll be kept
busy in her new role as one of the Sultana's Cup Companions, with some sort of mandate in higher education, we're told. The man marrying her today is tall, dark and moody Latif Abd al Razzaq Shahin, whose grandfather was also famously a Cup Companion to the old Sultan, as well as the tribal leader of Sey-Shahin Valley, where those fabulous purple carpets come from.

“And then there's everybody's darling, the lovely Princess Shakira, who has been charming us all with her courage and spirit. She has heroically overcome her dreadful experiences in refugee camps while on the run from Ghasib's killers, and has championed the cause of the Gulf Islanders. She practically single-handedly took on the greedy multinational whose name we won't mention in polite company, and she's winning. Shakira is also planning to return to her studies, because she says she missed out on too much of her education while in the camps. She's been on the—sorry, what? Oh! We're going to Bagestan now, with Andrea on the live feed.”

She looked up at the monitor, where the reporter's face was pictured, surrounded by a crowd of cheering Bagestanis, in front of the glowing golden dome of the Shah Jawad Mosque.

“What's happening there, Andrea?”

“Well, as you know, Marta, Bagestan has some unique and colourful traditions that go back a very long way, and this is going to be a traditional Bagestani wedding times three. Each of the bridegrooms is coming to Jawad Palace in his own procession, and I'm standing in Shah Jawad Square in front of the mosque, where the three processions are finally meeting up. We've been watching their approach for the past half hour. The processions converged at the top of the square just a few minutes ago, and the three bridegrooms themselves are now riding together. They're just about to enter the square, escorted by the crowd of family, friends, street urchins, musicians and interested onlookers. You should have a view on your monitor now.”

“Yes, we do, and oh, Andrea, they are heartbreakers! Was there ever anything so magnificent?”

Bari al Khalid, Latif Abd al Razzaq Shahin and Sharif Azad al Dauleh entered the square on magnificent horses—black, white, and bay—though the colours were not easy to detect under the bright caparisons that they bore. Bridles, reins and saddles were richly jewelled, and the stirrups gleamed.

The bridegrooms were even more richly adorned. Flowing white silk
shalwar kamees
were covered by the traditional bridegroom's sleeveless cloth-of-gold coat, whose long skirts, spread over the horses' rumps, glowed like the mosque's dome in the bright sunshine. Over his shoulders each wore ropes of lustrous pearls and jewels and the chain of office of Cup Companion, and around his hips a jewelled scimitar. On the head of each, a wide turban was intricately wound with pearls and gold.

“Did you ever see anything so utterly gorgeous?” Marta commented, as the crowd cheered.

“I can't hear you, Marta—the roar is absolutely deafening,” Andrea shouted. “The bridegrooms are riding abreast now, and don't they look fabulous! They're moving down the square, a slow march to the palace. In addition to everyone else, they're accompanied by dozens of musicians playing every conceivable instrument, and by no means all in concert! People are very excited, and here's someone…what do you think of the wedding?” she asked a young smiling couple, holding out her mike.

“Yes, it's great, they are following the old traditions. It's good that people do this. Under Ghasib, you know, it wasn't so easy.”

“When you get married, will you do the same?”

“Yes, of course. It's tradition of our people. It's how we do it.”

“The palace gates seem to be closed, Andrea,” Marta observed, as the procession reached the other end of the square.

“Yes, and they'll remain closed. Here's what's happening now, Marta. Each of the grooms will ring the bell in turn, the gates will open—the old bell-pull has been installed for the
occasion…there's the gatekeeper now, Marta, and by tradition he'll refuse the bridegrooms entrance and close the gate again. Usually a bridegroom knocks and is turned away three times, but today they'll each ring just once. Then they'll shout and draw their swords, and at that show of force, they'll be allowed in—and there they go, inside. So that's it from me, in Shah Jawad Square.”

“And now we'll go inside the Great Court, where the wedding ceremony will take place.”

“After a certain amount of resistance on the part of the brides, I understand,” said Barry.

Marta sighed. “You wouldn't catch me resisting.”

“Maybe that's your problem, Marta. You don't play hard to get.”

 

The Great Court was filled with bright-hued canopies and pennants fluttering in the soft breeze, and a milling crowd of guests dressed in gorgeous silks and satins in every colour of the rainbow. Gold and jewels glittered and flashed in the sunshine, and there was music, laughter, and the burble of a dozen fountains.

“It looks like a medieval fairground!” Marta declared breathlessly. “All we're missing is the jugglers.”

Into the scene burst the bridegrooms, scimitars held high, their horses prancing and snorting, surrounded by cheering supporters who were now firing rifles into the sky; and at this invasion the brides' guests formed up into ranks and began to heckle the men.

“What do you want here?” the crowd shouted.

“We come for our brides!” shouted the bridegrooms and their followers.

“Does a man seek a bride with naked steel?”

After a pause for consultation with their followers, the bridegrooms sheathed their swords in the jewelled scabbards on their hips.

“What do you want here?” the crowd shouted again.

“We come for our brides!”

“Does a man seek a bride on horseback?” the bridespeople challenged.

The men consulted and then dismounted, and as their followers parted to form a way for them, the three handsome bridegrooms, their golden coats fluttering on the wind, strode forward.

“Bring us our brides!” they shouted ferociously, and the crowd of bridespeople fell back.

“Find your bride, if you know her!” they called jubilantly, and pointed.

Under a majestic archway, tiled in blue, turquoise and purple, etched with arabesques, curlicues and mysterious, flowing calligraphy, three long lines of women and girls emerged. All were dressed in the most luscious silk, satin and organza, in a rainbow of bright shades, like a Sultan's jewel chest. They came in ruby, emerald, turquoise, sapphire, topaz, diamond, rose quartz, amethyst, and lapis lazuli, all set in threads of gold and silver.

All were closely veiled, with a large square of beautifully embroidered silk falling over head and shoulders.

The brilliantly hued clusters of female shapes moved slowly under the arch and followed a broad tiled pathway strewn with rose petals to the centre of the Grand Court. There the three lines converged in a single, silent group and stopped, veils fluttering in the breeze.

“Find your bride!” the crowd challenged the men again.

“All the bridesmaids must be unmarried,” Marta murmured softly, as the grooms ceremonially exchanged insults with the crowd. “And by tradition, a man is bound to marry whomever he chooses at this point.”

“Sounds risky.”

“It is, apparently, possible that a family might go all out to buy a particularly brilliant costume for a girl who was for some
reason unmarriageable, in the hopes of confusing the bridegroom at this point. So it's tradition, too, that the rightful bride wears some favour on her veil—of which the groom has been secretly informed, of course—to be sure of being recognized.”

“It says here,” added Barry, “that a popular cautionary tale in Bagestan tells about a bridesmaid whom the bride secretly sends to the bridegroom on the eve of the wedding, to tell him what sign to look for. But the girl falls in love with the groom at first sight, and so she describes her own outfit as being the one the bride will wear. And at the wedding the groom chooses her and marries her, and then the veil comes off and he makes a great show of anger when he discovers he hasn't married the right bride. But on their wedding night, he tells the girl that he fell in love with her, too, when he saw her, and he knew who she was and what trick she had played when he chose her. And they lived in peace and harmony for all their days, according to the story, and Allah sent them many children.”

In the bright courtyard, the bridegrooms now walked among the veiled maidens, challenging them. “Are you she whom I seek?” they asked the veiled girls at random. But the maidens only bowed their heads and made no sign.

“Now they'll pretend to be about to choose the wrong woman,” Marta said quietly, “in an effort to flush out the real bride by her agitated reaction. The women are forbidden to make any sign at this point, but it's a propitious sign for the marriage if the groom finds his bride quickly. Because, they say, if a man is sensitive, he should be able…now what's happening? There's some disturbance, but I can't quite—oh, it seems as though one of the brides has broken with tradition and laid claim to her man…. Is that—yes, it must be Princess Shakira, because that's Sheikh Sharif Azad al Dauleh she's holding so ferociously. And is that her brother Mazin expostulating with her?—but he's laughing too hard….

“What a staggeringly beautiful outfit she's wearing! The most luscious sea-green and gold, and—Shakira's traditional
boyish touch—trousers underneath a gorgeously embroidered tunic. Perhaps she took that story to heart, because she's certainly not going to run the risk of her groom making a mistake…. I don't know what's being said there, but everyone is now laughing uproariously, especially Sharif. The breach of tradition has been taken in good part, and I suppose it's no more than we have come to expect from the iconoclastic princess. And now the other two grooms have found their brides, and they'll each lead their chosen partner to one of the gold-topped canopies set up on the
talar,
and the actual wedding ceremony can begin.”