The Healer's Warrior (8 page)

“What does ‘
Lewome
tebu
oko
’
mean?” Tareq asked his translator after the third nightmare.

“You fight my heart,” said the curly-haired translator.

The entire trip home Tareq questioned and fought
his own
heart. What was wrong with him? Why did he have Jem’ya taken to the palace?

He didn’t want Jem’ya to see the destruction of her home village. But she’d seen too much already. He could have ordered that she be taken back to her house on the Coast, but he hadn’t. He didn’t want to take the chance of never seeing her again. He needed to be alone with her, to explain all of this.

Why did he feel the need to explain himself to a woman who, he now knew, actually thought little to nothing of him throughout their yearlong acquaintance?

Even if she never cared a wit about him, he still cared what Jem’ya thought of him. It mattered more to him now than anything. All he could think of was her forgiveness.  Once the squadron reached the city limit of the capital he broke from the pack. He bent down close to Sultan’s body and held onto its mane as he drove the horse as fast as it could go, up the winding road to the palace.  Tareq jumped down from the panting black horse as soon as it entered the gates, and ran into the palace, his heart still galloping.

He had an idea of where Bahja placed Jem’ya. There was a room deep in the palace’s cellar. When Tareq was very young he used to hide there from his father. Bahja would pretend not to know where little Tareq had gone. She would let him hide for a while, and then she would retrieve him. Tareq could get to the cellar from inside the palace.

There was a long stairwell that started on the third floor, and was accessible from the second floor. Tareq ran to the second floor, but slowed his pace as he walked past his father’s open bedroom door. The man was sleeping. Tareq continued running again to the end of the hall. He made sure no one was looking as he entered the dark passage and bounded down the steps. At the bottom of the stairs Bahja was sitting in a chair. She stood. A deep frown wrinkled her mouth and forehead.

“What is the meaning of this, Tareq?”

Tareq looked away from her. “Where is she?” he asked as he continued past in the direction of the secret room. He weaved through the dusty stockpile in the cavernous cellar with Bahja at his heels. He came to the metal door with the brown leather weaving. Jem’ya was sitting on the floor. She looked up. He watched her face change at the sight of him. Tareq’s aching muscles braced for her reaction.

To see his face was like seeing her brother impaled on that gold-hilted sword again. She saw Tareq’s face, and, like an evil spirit, rage possessed her body with animalistic strength.

“Murderer!” she screamed. She jumped up and threw herself against the gate. “
Murdererrrr
!” she screeched at him, her fingers curled to claw out his wet eyes.

Frozen, Tareq stared at her. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. His voice was quiet. “Open the gate,” he told Bahja. His maidservant hesitated, and then pulled the key ring from the pocket of her white dress. She slowly opened the lock and Tareq reached for the door, his eyes glued to Jem’ya. As soon as he stepped inside the room, Jem’ya attacked him. She was a whipping sandstorm of tears, screams, punching, scratching and kicking.

Tareq was silent as he restrained her. He took both her wrists in his large hands and held them between their chests. He put his right leg between hers and hooked his feet behind her heels to lock her legs in place. Baring her teeth, Jem’ya growled and cursed in frustration as she struggled to pull her arms and legs from his grip. The hatred in her wild eyes pained him. Tareq’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“I was defending myself,” he said softly. “I didn’t know it was your village. Jem’ya…if I’d known…” He felt her twisting in his grasp again. “Jem’ya, please.”

His remorse was barely detected by Jem’ya. Her anger was deafening. His smell, a mix of sweat and alcohol, was making Jem’ya nauseated. She wanted to see him bleed. “My name on your lips is like honey in the slimy mouth of swine.
You heartless monster!”

Tareq looked up at the wall behind Jem’ya’s head to get a break from her tormenting glare. Emotions were building up inside him. It was like a levee about to burst.

Bahja took the moment to speak up. “Tareq,
who
is this woman,” she demanded.

He swallowed. “She is Jem’ya
Okobi
.
The healer.”

Bahja gasped.
“Why are you doing this?!”

Tareq met Jem’ya’s eyes. “Jem’ya, I’m—”

“Do not speak my name again!” She was trembling all over with fury and tears continued coursing down her face. “I won’t allow you the privilege of that anymore. I am not your healer. I am not your Jem’ya. I am Black Africa. Black Africa!” she roared. “I am every black African man you’ve ever slaughtered like an
animal
, every black child you’ve orphaned without a second thought, and every black woman you’ve allowed to be violated and sold into slavery in your
degenerate
kingdom!”

Tareq saw her work her mouth and knew exactly what she was going to do. He ducked out of the trajectory of her spit, and grew angry. One hand still holding her wrists, he grabbed Jem’ya’s mouth and chin and lowered his face inches from hers.

“A bloody lip would not suit such a flawless face, eh? So, I beg you, tread lighter with me,” he warned. He felt like he was going mad. He could bind her hands and threaten her to prevent her attacks, but it would not be as simple to quench the consuming hatred inside of her.

His temper ebbed and Tareq realized what he’d said. He could never strike her. He wished he’d never said it. He relaxed his grip on her. His thumb smoothed across her lips as he let his hand slide away from her face. He released her wrists and her legs. He stepped back from her. He saw her hand lifting, but he didn’t stop her.

 She slapped him, so hard that the tears in his eyes sprang out and flew across the room. The smack echoed through the cellar. Bahja gasped. His cheek began to burn like a dozen bee stings. Tareq clenched his jaw at the stinging pain that caused his eyes to water. Carefully, he turned his head to face Jem’ya.

“I cannot bring your brother back, but I have done my best for your mother and father.” He noticed Jem’ya’s expression soften a little at the mention of her parents. He told her that her mother and father were taken to
Eulid
, where he promised they would be free and safe.

“And what of the rest of my people?” she asked, her voice hoarse from screaming.

“I did the best I could. I released most of them, but there were a few men that had to be brought here…to work for a while. They are not your siblings or close family members, I made sure of that.”

“Do you think my heart does not break for them? They are still my family!” She shook her head in disgust. “You know nothing of family and you have no morals to speak of. What raised you,
Prince
Tareq?” she snarled. “It could not have been your natural mother. You are like a demon, not a man. I know now that you are like the rest of the white-skinned men; without color and without souls!” She glared at him a long, tense moment and then ripped the earrings out from her ears. She threw them at him. “Take back this blood gold!”

Tareq caught the earrings as they hit his chest.

Then Jem’ya began to sob. She crumpled to the bed mat and covered her face. “It would not sadden me,” Jem’ya whispered bitterly through her tears, “Tareq Samhizzan,
warrior prince
, if today you took your last breath.”

With that, the last part of Tareq’s pride crumbled into the rest of his inner ruins. He sauntered out of the cellar.

Bahja found the prince soon after in his bedroom on the third floor. He was sitting at his dining table, staring out at the view through the open balcony doors. His face was dry, but his eyes were full with tears. Bahja walked carefully towards him. She rubbed his shoulder. “I forgive you, child.” She kissed him on the cheek. Tareq’s chin lowered almost to his chest. He stared down at the earrings on the table top.

Bahja took his chin and turned his face to examine his left cheek. There were hot red welts there. Bahja clicked her tongue and went to the bathroom for a washcloth and a bowl of water. She returned and pressed the cool damp cloth to his cheek.  “You cannot bend her will, Tareq.” She dipped the corner of the cloth in the cool water again and then went back to his face. “You cannot make her forgive you.”

Tareq squeezed his eyes closed and the tears broke through his black lashes and fell down his face.

“Tareq, please, just let her go. You must let her g—”

“I cannot!”

Bahja slowly moved the cloth away from his cheek. She stared at him a moment, then continued dabbing at the welts and hot tears.

He moved his face away. “
Go, Auntie
,” he urged. “She needs a warm meal and more bedding. Get her a clean dress as well.”

Bahja set the items on the table and left the room.

Tareq lie naked on top of the wrinkled white sheets strewn across his canopy bed. It was after two in the morning, but he could not sleep. His mind wouldn’t quiet and he was too hot. His body was damp with sweat from the heat of the deep pain in his body and from the warmth of the liquor burning in his stomach and snaking through his veins. The pain was everywhere; in his skin, in his muscles, and in someplace inside that he could feel, though never touch. He took another swig from the half empty bottle of imported vodka from
Tusci
.

That’s where Tareq and Qadir’s mother was from. She was an Etruscan, from
Tusci
, a region in that boot-shaped peninsula north across the sea, where they were fair and had soft, thick black hair. Tareq touched his own curly hair. His mother’s hair was one of the few things he remembered about her. She’d kept it impossibly long. It almost swept the ground when she walked.

He loved her so much. When he was little, he thought she was the most beautiful sorceress in the world. To him, everything she did was magic. His father, on the other hand, always frightened him.

So, Jem’ya was right. He was only raised by his natural mother the first ten years of his life. After she died, there was the King, the demon. Who knows how much more of a “heartless monster” he might have become without Bahja?

Tareq couldn’t have survived this long in this palace if he’d given his heart too much influence. He learned to shut down his emotions to be a warrior, and a prince, and to remain the King’s successor. But was it worth it? He had caused the woman he cared about to hate him for always, during an effort to make proud the King who he’d hate forever.

Bitter and drunk, Tareq stumbled out of bed, pulled on some clothes and headed for the King’s chambers.

“Wake up you soulless bastard!” he shouted down at the King.

The room smelled of decay. The King was frail and sallow. Even his gray, overgrown eyebrows and white beard had become a sickly yellow. His thin skin hung to his bony face. He opened his cloudy hazel eyes. His voice was raspy and brittle “What are you doing?” the King wheezed.

Tareq stabbed his pointer finger an inch from the King’s face. “You deserve what’s come to you. My mother never loved you and now you will die here alone, because everyone,
everyone
, hates you. You fucking murderer.”

The King stared blankly at Tareq.

Tareq’s mouth began to tremble. “How could you? How could you make ending my mother’s
life
a public spectacle?” he growled. “How could you let your children witness that?! I was only 10 years old! Damn you!” Tareq stumbled backwards and then caught his balance. “You are the weak one, not me. You are the monster, n-not me.”

“Leave,” the King dismissed him with a tired wave of his decrepit hand. Then he turned his head on the pillow and fell asleep.