Sheikhs: Rich, powerful desert kings and the women who bring them to their knees...

by Clare Connelly

  “It seems to me,” she continued, without waiting for his response, “that these tribes are a little like those beautiful, ancient tapestries that adorn the walls of the palace.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  “I used to love looking at those tapestries. The first time I came here, I spent hours just staring, following the intricate threads, looking at them up close and imagining the long-ago hands that had knotted them together, forming patterns that, when you stood further back made the most amazing pictures. I would run my fingers over those threads –,”

  “They are not to be touched,” Malik said, but his lips were twitching into a smile of their own accord.

  “So Addan told me,” she laughed softly; his smile died. “He told me it was bad luck but I… it doesn’t matter. My point is, they’re incredibly beautiful and quite unique to this country. Nowhere in the world are there tapestries with those patterns and colours, the dyes they were able to produce a byproduct of the vegetables available only here.” Her eyes widened. “These tribes are a part of your culture, but Malik, maybe they’re also destined to become another part of your rich history. Maybe they won’t survive the twenty first century. Societal change is a part of life. A hundred years ago, women in America couldn’t vote, people from different cultures couldn’t easily marry. Our world is always changing and evolving.”

  She reached across the table, curving her fingers over his, but he was finding it hard to hear her words over the pounding of his pulse through his body. Everything she said made sense, it was though she was drilling right into his brain and tapping on the knowledge he’d always held, but had been fighting hard to accept.

  “Whether on your watch or our son or daughter’s,” she squeezed his hand, “or their child’s or theirs, this way of life will survive or not. Laith has to make this workable for the younger people, so that they might choose to leave, and then come back. The tribes have to evolve in some small measure. That responsibility isn’t yours to bear.”

  He let out a small sound of frustration. “This way of life is beautiful and valuable. It is unique and it must be protected.”

  She dipped her head forward. “But not by you.”

  He leaned forward a little, studying her face, her eyes that seemed to show him a whole galaxy in their depths. “By who then?”

  “By Laith, by Saliyah, by the children out there who know only this reality.” She expelled softly. “You have a role to play – and it is to speak for your people. All your people. Saliyah is counting on her King to protect her rights, to see that her life isn’t diminished because she happened to have been born into this tribe. You cannot perform Laith’s role, you cannot. Your responsibility here is clear cut.”

  He swallowed, her clarity something that sat within him like a piece of silver, shimmering and certain.

  “You have tried to cajole Laith,” she said quietly. “And if you do not act, you will be forcing a whole generation of people, this generation, to live without choices, without options. You will be enslaving them.”

  He dragged his palm over his chin, her words settling into his soul.

  “He has forced you into making this ruling. It’s regrettable, but you can’t not protect her.”

  How often had he found himself butting against the idea of accepting her counsel? How often had he told himself she knew nothing of his people and their ways?

  Too often.

  Her insights were exactly what he needed to hear, and for a man who was used to relying purely on his own counsel, the realization that he’d enjoyed discussing this matter with his wife brought him very little pleasure.

  She hadn’t laughed so hard in a very long time.

  “She’s adorable,” Sophia said, trying to emulate the tone of the dialect she’d been hearing that day.

  ‘She’ was a two year old girl with chubby legs, a rounded tummy and dark ringlets that sat close to her head like a little mop. Her eyes twinkled and her cheeks had dimples scored deep within them.

  “She is trouble, more like,” the little girl’s mother responded, sitting down beside Sophia on a vibrant blue blanket. The little girl clapped her hands and danced some more, so Sophia laughed, and clapped along with her.

  The little girl’s mother put her finger out, touching Sophia’s hand, tracing a line across her knuckles.

  Sophia turned to face her.

  “I have never seen skin like this,” she said simply, smiling, her expression enigmatic. “You are like one of the ancient souls said to wander the desert.”

  Sophia laughed. “I have heard this before. Really, I’m not so pale, am I?”

  “It is beautiful,” the woman complimented. “Your highness.”

  She wanted to implore the woman to call her Sophia, but Malik had been right. She was the Sheikha, she also had a role to play.

  “Thank you.” She smiled though. “What is your name?”

  “Fatima.”

  The little girl fell onto her bottom and for a moment, Sophia thought she might cry, but then she threw her head back and laughed and stamped her feet, before seeing a line of ants crawling past and stopping to investigate them.

  Sophia could have watched her all day – she had been watching her for the better part of an hour.

  It was hot, but she’d become a little more used to it, and one of the tribeswomen had provided her with a fan of sorts, made of lace and delicate branches, just the slightest movement circulated air around her face.

  “She is like my shabat,” Fatima said. “My grandfather.”

  Something spiked in Sophia – a curiosity. Would their child be like her? Her mother or her father? Her heart squeezed. Or like Malik?

  “It must be lovely to see traces of someone you love in your daughter,” Sophia murmured, as the little girl stood up on those impossibly sweet little legs and tottered towards Sophia.

  “It is the way of life, is it not? The continuity of things.”

  Sophia’s chest was weighted by grief. Not all things continued. She thought of her father and Addan, and sadness was pervasive.

  But that was all the more reason to persist with this – to ensure she fell pregnant. Life was the only antidote to death. All those people would live on in their child, in some way. Perhaps it would be a little girl with fire in her soul, like her sister Arabella, and a kind heart like Addan, and a love of games and Christmas, like her father.

  Their child would give life back to those who had lost it.

  “Yes,” Sophia whispered, turning to Fatima and smiling wistfully.

  “You have a baby,” Fatima asked.

  Sophia shook her head. “No, not yet.”

  “I think you do,” Fatima corrected, and Sophia realized it hadn’t been a question at all, so much as a statement.

  “Oh, no,” Sophia shook her head.

  But Fatima reached across and put a hand on Sophia’s belly, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Sophia felt light-headed and strong, all at once. A rush of cold air seemed to pass through her, and she saw pink lights glistening beneath her eyelids.

  “Yes,” Fatima murmured, moving her hand slightly. “There is a powerful life inside you, your highness.” She moved her other hand to Sophia’s belly, hovering it slightly above the skin. “Very powerful indeed.” And then, she opened her eyes, pulled her hands away and smiled. “You have my congratulations and my sympathy,” she said from the corner of her mouth.

  “Sympathy?”

  “As the mother of one incredibly strong-willed child, power is not always a good thing.”

  Sophia sucked in a deep breath, the words impossible to make sense of. “I’m not pregnant.”

  Fatima tilted her head to face Sophia’s. “I beg to differ. Your highness.”

  Fatima’s eyes ran over Sophia’s face. “This is not the news you were expecting?”

  “I … wasn’t expecting any news,” she said weakly. “I … we’ve only been married a few weeks.”

  Fatima�
��s eyes grew watchful. “Which makes even more sense,” Fatima nodded. “This little soul wants very much to be here.” She nodded towards Sophia’s stomach. “There is a power in that child. I think it is desperate to be a part of this life, of your family.”

  Sophia’s heart turned over. She wanted to beg Fatima to stop talking like this, because suddenly, all of her dreams were coming true, and she wasn’t sure how she could bear it.

  Her family.

  She swallowed, and unconsciously, her eyes lifted to the tent which housed Malik. He’d been locked in consultation with Laith for much of the day.

  “How can you tell?” She asked, focusing on the science – or lack thereof – of this diagnosis.

  Fatima frowned slightly. “I’m a seer.”

  “A seer?” Sophia’s heart sank. “Like a future-teller?”

  “No,” Fatima shook her head slightly. “More like what you would call a doctor. I can see, or feel, perhaps more accurately, what is happening inside a person.” She touched Sophia’s stomach once more. “It is a gift. My family has possessed it for generations. It is, perhaps, most powerful in her.” She jerked her head towards her daughter.

  “And is it… accurate?”

  Fatima’s expression showed amusement. “You are skeptical.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be. It’s just…”

  “You are from out there,” Fatima gestured with her palm heavenward, towards the outside world. “You rely on things like this,” she moved her hand to Sophia’s watch. “And have forgotten the senses we all possess.”

  “Perhaps,” Sophia responded noncommittally, disappointment surging. For a brief moment, she’d truly believed she might be pregnant. But how absurd, to get swept up in some kind of witchcraft.

  “Close your eyes a moment,” Fatima suggested.

  Sophia wasn’t sure she wanted to, and yet, she was fascinated by this. At least, fascinated by what Fatima was saying, if not convinced of there being any truth to it. She blinked her eyes shut.

  “Hold your hands here,” Fatima said, taking Sophia’s hands and arranging them palm up on her knees.

  Sophia opened her eyes to find Fatima watching her carefully.

  “Keep them shut,” she smiled.

  Sophia laughed apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

  “You are a curious person. I understand. Close them.”

  Sophia did as she’d been told, sweeping her eyes shut.

  “Feel this,” Fatima murmured.

  At first, Sophia felt nothing. Just hot, from the sun, from the day that surrounded them. But then, something began to spark in her fingertips, and a different heat, more of a gentle warmth, seemed to throb in her veins.

  Her breath grew rhythmic and she saw a flash of green behind her eyes. She kept them shut.

  “You are sad,” Fatima said, after several moments, and the warmth migrated higher, to Sophia’s chest.

  She swallowed.

  “A deep sadness, right here.” And now she pressed a finger to Sophia’s chest and she felt that grief – some very old, some very new – spiral through her. “You must allow yourself to feel it. Accept that it is a part of who you are. Sadness like this never goes away – it is like a stone in the desert, covered over by sand but always there, deep inside.”

  Sophia swallowed. Her heart tugged painfully.

  There was a noise. Sophia blinked her eyes open and the world seemed to tip completely off its axis. Fatima smiled. Behind her, the children were playing, running in circles, each trying to catch one another.

  “Do you believe now?”

  Sophia’s heart lurched. Did she? She couldn’t say for certain.

  She watched the children play and a servant brought iced tea and vine leaves wrapped around rice and dates. She ate with the women of the tribe, and found herself laughing even more.

  And as the day moved towards afternoon, something settled inside her soul.

  A certainty that Malik’s fears were unfounded. This way of life wouldn’t disintegrate so easily. There was magic here, and love. It was impossible to imagine that all of these people would turn their backs on this life they knew.

  Before dusk, with no sight of Malik, Sophia settled the younger children of the village into a circle, and she began to tell them a story – one of the ancient tales Sheikh Bashira had taught her, when she was just a little girl. She had read the books so many times over the years, she knew the tales by heart. She spoke slowly, conscious there was a difference in the Abu Fayan she spoke and the dialect of this tribe. But it was close enough. Close enough for the children’s faces to sparkle with wonderment as she spoke of ancient traders and the monsters that pursued them across these deserts, the caves that shielded them with their magic and art. She saw the way they laughed at the antics of Jaffaran, the ancient King who was so very vain that he insisted on anyone who saw him knowing how rich and important he was. So much so that he went into the Ocean of Alindor wearing all of his jewels and crowns, and sank to the bottom of the sea.

  She lowered her voice to a whisper and spoke of the pirates who had hunted for those jewels and been taken by the sea as well, swallowed up into its deep belly – a reminder that seeking earthly wealth is beneath us, and can only lead to danger.

  She saw their faces light up and the seed of hope that Fatima had planted in her belly exploded into an orchard.

  Was it possible that a child, just as sweet as these little ones, might be growing in her already?

  He knew the story of Jaffaran well. It had been one of his father’s favourites to recount. Sheikh Bashira had known the danger of pursuing personal wealth in place of prioritizing the people.

  He knew the story well and yet he’d never heard it told like this.

  He stood on the edge of the group, outside of his wife’s field of vision, and he listened as she spoke, the words flowing from her lips almost as if by magic.

  He stood behind her and saw the rapt expressions of the tribe’s children, the smiles of the adults who were gathering to hear their Sheikha, and pride burst through him.

  It was ridiculous and misplaced. Not only had he not chosen her as his wife, he’d made it clear he didn’t relish the prospect of her holding any such position. And yet his father had been right. His brother had been right.

  Sophia was perfect for this. We all have our roles to play, she’d said. And she was playing hers with absolute perfection. He had no idea what else she might have been destined for, what other life may have called her had Bashira and her father not been friends, had Bashira not decided that Sophia had a place within the palace. But he had, and he had chosen well.

  Malik had been the last to realize that.

  Much later, as the helicopter lifted up out of the desert, and the tribe stood below, waving their farewell, Sophia pressed her forehead to the window, staring down at them, and Malik watched her.

  “They’re beautiful,” she said, her admiration apparent in the tone of her voice. “I didn’t expect to be so touched.”

  “Their way of life is unique,” he agreed.

  “What did you decide with Laith?”

  Malik expelled a long breath. “He is going to permit Saliyah to leave.” His smile was grim. “With his blessing, and that of the tribe. But privately, he is going to beg her to return when she has completed her studies.”

  Sophia tilted her head. “Do you think she will?”

  Malik was quiet on that score. He had his doubts. “I hope so.”

  Sophia tilted her head in agreement, then turned away from him a moment. When she spoke, he could hear her courtesy of the headsets they both wore. “I met an interesting woman today. Fatima.”

  “Ah. The tribe’s naraan. Their Seer.”

  “Yes, she told me.” Sophia cleared her throat. She seemed hesitant – unusual for her. “Do you believe in that stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  Her surprise was obvious.

  “But it’s kind of voodoo, don’t you think?”


  “I think not knowing how something works doesn’t invalidate it,” he corrected.

  “So if you were unwell, would you go to her?”

  He leaned back in his seat, focusing straight ahead. “When Laith’s grandson was four years old, he became very tired. It happened fast. Within weeks. At first they thought it was a fever. Or that he’d eaten something which did not agree with him. But Fatima knew. From the start, she said something was different in his blood; it had changed its rhythm. It felt thick and discordant with his body.”

  Sophia’s heart turned over. “And?”

  “He had leukemia.” Malik turned to face Sophia. “Laith sent him to the city for treatment and he is now a healthy eight year old.”

  “I met him today,” Sophia murmured softly, something like excitement in her voice.

  “I have no idea how it works, but yes, Sophia, I believe Fatima’s family has this ability, much like some people can divine the source of water, far beneath the surface. It is one of the many things I seek to protect, when I talk about preserving this way of life.”

  But Sophia no longer seemed to be listening.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I HAVE A MEETING,” he said, as the helicopter came over the palace. “Hereth messaged while we were out there. I’ll be a while.”

  Sophia nodded, but she was distracted. All she could think about was Fatima, and her insistence that Sophia was pregnant.

  But Malik was intent. He reached across, putting a hand on Sophia’s knee. “You will move to my room.”

  The words were spoken as an order, but she felt the hint of a question there. The helicopter dropped lower, closer to the palace. Dusk was drawing in. The sight was incredible.

  “Sophia?”

  She hadn’t planned to keep her own rooms once they were married. It had just happened that way.

  She opened her mouth to agree, but he spoke first.

  “I will have your rooms locked up if you do not say ‘yes’,” he muttered, and she jerked her eyes to his. She should have been annoyed, but she wasn’t. He was half-joking, but she heard the madness in his voice, the sound of desperation and her heart turned over. He wanted her with him.