The Healer's Warrior (4 page)

He’d wounded men before. He’d killed before. But he wasn’t like some of his men who got satisfaction from seeing their opponents die. He did not go to battle thirsting to kill another human being. It was the fight that he loved. It was the danger of it and the feeling of his heart drumming in his chest and the adrenaline in his veins enlivening his body and mind.

He’d wanted to die. That’s how it started, that’s what made him volunteer that first time to lead a squadron to a rebellious territory. He was 17 years old and so empty and sick in his heart that it seemed like the best way to end his life, since committing suicide would only give the King the satisfaction of proof that his son really was as weak as he’d always accused.

Tareq found out during training that the other warriors couldn’t let him die in battle. They had sworn to protect the King and his family with their lives. Still, he had enjoyed the combat training and decided he would continue to lead the squadron.

When he went to battle for the first time it was like nothing he’d ever felt before. He was hooked immediately. Within the chaos and desperation at the battleground he was able to release his own inner chaos and desperation. For a few days after every battle he remained drained and serene. He was untouchable. Nothing, not even his father, could upset him, nor could anything interest or excite him. But the numbing shield always faded eventually, and soon after he took up the terrible, bloody sport was when the chronic pain began.

Tareq practiced sword fighting and hand-to-hand combat exercises until his white shirt and his jet black hair became drenched with sweat and stuck to his hot skin. His shoulders and legs throbbed from mild pain.

He retired to his room where he soaked in a hot bath. Then he got dressed and had Bahja bring dinner. Wearing her powder blue headscarf and a spacious white dress over her plump body, Bahja brought Tareq plates of grilled lamb, sautéed greens and savory couscous. There was cool water to drink, and, for dessert, honeyed porridge with dates.

Tareq grinned. “Thank you, Auntie. That’s just what I wanted.”

“You’re welcome, my prince,” she smiled and lowered her green eyes. She lifted them again to watch his eager eating. “How was your visit to the healer? Good?”

“Yes. Her hands worked miracles as always.”

“I saw you in the training court earlier. Why do you not let yourself rest, especially right after your session with the healer?” she scolded.

He smiled with his mouth closed, chewing. “Don’t worry about me, Bahja. I haven’t suffered any bad pain from practicing this afternoon.”

“Still…,” she trailed off. Bahja lowered her voice, conspiratorial. “So, did she like the earrings?”

Tareq blushed and swallowed his food. Looking down at his plate, he stifled a smile and nodded. “Yes. Very much, I think. She deserved them, don’t you agree?” He looked up.

Bahja nodded, a pleased, knowing look in her wise green eyes. She sighed. “Well, enjoy your meal, my prince. I’ll return in an hour for the dishes.”

Tareq was finishing the last sweet sip of his porridge when a flash of lightning brightened the night sky. He walked towards the balcony and leaned against the frame of the open glass-paneled doors. He watched lightning slash through the clouds, listened to the gnashing rumble of thunder and the whistle of strong winds, and finally the rain began to pour.

Rain glistened off the dark fronds of the tall palm trees before the palace. Rain washed down the roofs of the big houses around the base of the hill and the small ones deeper in the city below. Rain was a blessing in any desert land. It lifted Tareq’s mood to see it. However, people in a desert land are rarely prepared for rainstorms. He began to worry about unstable roofs buckling in or shoddy homes being washed away. He worried about the roads turning to mud and freezing up transportation tomorrow until afternoon when the sun finally hardened the roads again.

He worried that if the storm stayed strong and continued east it might hit Jem’ya on the Coast. Her house was so near to the sea. Could the waves grow big enough to wash her home away? Where would she go if that happened? She’d told him once that her family was all the way in Middle Africa.

He reasoned that there was only a small chance that the storm would reach Jem’ya on the Coast, and if it did it would be much more subdued.

 He imagined her standing along the shore in the rain at night, roughened waves crashing on the beach. She was gazing out at the dark water as cool rain trickled down her warm brown skin and dampened her long white dress. Then she turned to him after feeling his gaze on her. She turned to him and her big dark eyes brightened under her elegant arched brows. A slow seductive smile stretched across full lips moist with raindrops. The rain made her white dress heavy and translucent. The fabric clung to her thighs and hips, clung to her stomach, clung to her pert, full breasts.

Tareq’s mind snapped back to reality. He glanced down at his hardness and quickly away. Shifting his stance, he rolled his eyes and shook his head at his embarrassing condition. It was so juvenile to think up such ridiculous, explicit fantasies. Tareq clenched his eyes shut and thought of the troubles of the kingdom until his body calmed down. The fantasies were happening more than he’d like to admit for the last few months. They were always about Jem’ya.

Sometimes they weren’t even fantasies, just memories. Two weeks ago he was in his private library reading and recalled the time that he asked Jem’ya why it was she left home to live on the Coast all alone. She’d locked her eyes with his and said, “To prove the strength and intelligence of a black woman.” Just the memory of her intense, confident gaze had aroused him. He never had that problem when he was in Jem’ya’s company, thank God, except for those times during the massage when his body did react, but that couldn’t be helped and Jem’ya never noticed.

Tareq had never been with a woman. He knew that was an anomaly for a man his age and status, but it was unfathomable to him that a man could be with a woman in such an intimate way without deeply trusting her and knowing her. And so, since he was not close to any woman except his late mother and Bahja, it had never happened. Many men womanized to convince themselves and others of their power, but to Tareq it only proved that their weakness was women.

The philosophy Tareq learned as both a warrior and as the son of the King of Samhia was this: Once you show weakness, they will know how to destroy you. That was his approach to most people, especially women.

However, Tareq did trust Jem’ya. His health was literally in her hands. His father didn’t know about Tareq’s condition. The King thought Tareq took long baths and spent some days in bed because he was lazy. Jem’ya knew which muscles in his body were weakest from the pain. She knew his flaw. Tareq trusted her completely to take care of him.

It suddenly dawned on Tareq that the gift he gave to Jem’ya this morning was a sign of weakness. His jaw tightened. He was not careful enough when it came to Jem’ya.

The fact was that what he felt during battle was what he felt at the Coast. It wasn’t as intense, but it was there. His heart did drum a little quicker and his body and mind were more alive. At Jem’ya’s he felt serene and untouchable, but, unlike after battle, there was no guilt when he returned home, only lingering contentment.

Tareq bit at the tip of his tongue, watching the rain pelt his family’s kingdom.

There were things in life that could never be, so it was a waste of time to want them. He and Jem’ya were from two very different worlds. They lived opposing lives that Tareq knew could never peacefully come together.

CHAPTER TWO

Jem’ya’s heart swelled with joy as her village came into view. It had taken five days and four nights, three carriage rides and two camel rides, to get to the country of
Rwuja
and finally to
Tikso
. She was exhausted but the sight of her family and friends in the near distance energized her. A group of women weaving baskets noticed her and her camel. Jem’ya was too far away to identify them. She made a high-pitched call to let them know she was family.
“
Keeeeeyah
!”

She grinned as the women stood and people stepped out of huts. “
Keeeeeyah
!” she called again and tapped the camel with her heel so it would start a faster pace.

“
Yehyehyehyehyeh
!” the small crowd began to call back, whistling and waving their arms excitedly.

Jem’ya wiped the sweat from her forehead and wondered if she’d ever be accustomed to the dry heat in
Rwuja
again. She’d grown used to the constant cool air from the sea. A crowd surrounded her camel as she entered the village.

The women of
Tikso
styled their hair in beaded braids or a simple bun, wore short red sarongs around their waists, and a wide oval shaped necklace made of black cloth designed with hundreds of red and brown beads. The necklace covered the women’s breasts and was worn for its aesthetic, not out of shame for their bodies. The people in
Tikso
were nowhere near as sensitive as the people in the North, where a woman is made to feel ashamed to even show too much of her face in public. To Jem’ya those rules were just the creations of perverted and paranoid men who were punishing women for being their greatest weakness. In
Tikso
, Jem’ya was glad to feel comfortable in her body and in her skin. She wanted to change out of her long dress as soon as she could.

The men wore black cloths that had splits at each hip. They wore their hair in short twists or braids and wore chokers constructed with beads made of polished animal bone.

Jem’ya came down from the camel and unstrapped a large black knapsack from the saddle. She greeted everyone, holding hands with her extended family and touching foreheads with her very good friends and close family. “Welcome home,
ZeeZee
,” they teased.

ZeeZee
or Zee was her nickname, short for chimpanzee. She was born the only person in the entire village that had ears that stuck out rather than laying back. Her ears weren’t big, they just weren’t flat, and they unfortunately reminded everyone of a baby chimpanzee. She used to hate the nickname and think it was demeaning to make any comparisons between a black person and an ape. But she had grown to accept it because it was coming from people who loved her, not from those who thought less of her and her people, like the fair-skinned population did.

 From the sack she gave everyone a gift. She’d cleared out most of her beach house and gone shopping at various bazaars along the way. The adults got anything from fabric, spices, bracelets, combs, and mirrors, to bowls, cups, pens and paper. She bought spinning tops for the little boys and colorful twine dolls for the girls.

Kibwe
appeared, tall, broad shouldered and perpetually grinning. He bound towards her, picked her up, and spun her around before she could protest.
Kibwe
Okobi
, with his deep dark skin and his long friendly face, was her only full blood sibling and her older brother. He was her first patient, the person who comforted her when she was frightened to discover she made the pain disappear from
Kibwe’s
sprained ankle only by touching it.
Kibwe
was the only one who supported her and believed in her when she decided to leave
Tikso
on a one-woman journey with no real plan other than to reach the sea. Jem’ya began to cry.

Kibwe
flicked her ear.
“Such a crybaby, Zee.”

Jem’ya poked him in his bare stomach where he was ticklish, and she laughed as the man tried to quiet a giggle before it escaped his mouth.
Kibwe
grabbed her arm and pulled her quickly to the hut where his family was. Jem’ya hugged his young wife and his little son who had grown so much, and she met for the first time his one-year-old daughter. “I’m afraid she has your ears, Jem’ya,”
Kibwe
grinned. Jem’ya cried happy tears, held her new niece in her arms, played with the little girl’s ears, kissed her fat cheeks and blessed her.

Kibwe
went with Jem’ya to their grandparents’ hut. She kneeled at their feet. She respected them not just because they were her elders but also because the love they shared for each other was what she dreamed of having one day. Her grandparents were married for 47 years and her grandfather never took another wife. He stayed committed to her. He needed no one else. To take only one wife was a thing of controversy in the village, but her grandparents proved it could work, that it was fulfilling, prosperous, and beautiful. To her grandfather Jem’ya gave an ornate copper chalice and to her grandmother she gave a red silk headscarf, both items she’d received from Tareq.