The Healer's Warrior

by Lewin, Renee

  They clapped, whistled and trilled as the drummers sped up the tempo and the volume.

  Boom-boom-boomboomboom! Clap-clap-clapclapclap!

  The swaying turned into stomping and bouncing. Sweat began to bead on Jem’ya’s skin as she moved. Her own heartbeat began to match the feverish pounding of the drums. When a group of six young men, including Kibwe, holding decorated spears went to the center of the circle and started her favorite dance, she was delighted.

  A memory from the Coast entered her thoughts. One morning after his session, Tareq woke up in a particularly good mood and came out of the healing room dancing, which amused Jem’ya immensely. At the time she’d been his healer only a month. It was the first moment she began to see him as more than her patient. It was a dance that Jem’ya had seen other North African men do, a kind of hopping and stepping from foot to foot while waving your hands above your head and twisting your hips. She stood up from the table and clapped and whistled for him as he danced. Then she joined him, copying his moves.

  Tareq seemed surprised.

  “Why are you looking at me that way?” she asked.

  “In my country the men do not dance with the women.”

  “Well, in my country they do,” she chuckled and continued dancing. He was impressed that she learned the dance so quickly. Then he wondered if she could teach him a dance from her culture, so she taught him some steps from the dance the young men were dancing now.

  The young men stood in a line, side by side. Their lean legs sprang up as they kicked up their feet, moving four steps forward and then four steps back, stirring up clouds of brown dust and shaking the spear in their right hands. Together they spun suddenly around and then converged on one side of the circle, stamping the butt of their wooden spears hard against the ground as they shuffled forward. Using their deepest, most menacing voices, but with amusement in their brown eyes, they shouted in unison “Yah! Yah!” at one side of the crowd. The men then moved back to the center to spin around and charge towards the other side of the circle the same way.

  After Jem’ya taught the dance to Tareq that day, he sometimes would burst from the healing room doing it, to commend her for how much better he felt. The memory of his black curls shaking, his handsome white smile and bright hazel eyes, and his lightly tanned, strong and agile body moving to the drumbeat of her hands against the dining table faded away into an empty, needy feeling she didn’t welcome. To push it from her mind, Jem’ya broke from the crowd and entered the circle. Her friends and family cheered as she began to dance with all her spirit. Her brother and the other young men pulled back into the edge of the circle and let her have her solo.

  After everyone danced and ate well, Jem’ya said goodnight and went to her hut. She washed her face and body and turned to her bags to find the oil. As she pulled out the bottle of Shea oil, a small metal box fell from the bag to the ground. For a silent moment she stared at it. She exhaled a tired breath and continued preparing for bed. She oiled her skin and dressed in a long blue nightdress. Then she sat down on her bed mat and picked up the metal box. It was the last thing left, the only item from Tareq that she hadn’t given away.

  Jem’ya was not a materialistic person. Giving her tribe those gifts was more rewarding than when she received them from her patients. She never charged for her services so that any person from any walk of life could receive help if they needed it. All the donations she accepted were received with slight embarrassment. She never felt deserving of it, always thinking someone else would benefit more from them.

  Jem’ya opened the box. She was not selfish but there was something about this gift that she could not let go.

  “Jem’ya?” her mother called from outside the hut.

  “Come in.”

  She entered the hut hugging a black goatskin shawl around her shoulders. “Is everything okay, my daughter?”

  Jem’ya put on a smile. “Yes, Mama.”

  “How beautiful!” Her mother gasped at the pearl and gold earrings. “Put them on. Let me see.” She seated herself beside Jem’ya on the mat. “Who gave these to you?” She leaned close to admire the jewelry as Jem’ya put them on.

  “A patient of mine.” Jem’ya picked at her fingers.

  Mama nudged Jem’ya’s shoulder with her own. “A handsome patient?” she smirked.

  Jem’ya chewed at her bottom lip and nodded slowly. “He is handsome, yes, but a man; arrogant, insensitive, entitled… ” Jem’ya fell silent. She only half believed what she was saying about Tareq.

  Mama shook her head. “You are 24 years old. You could have been married, well taken care of, and with child by now.”

  Jem’ya wanted to explain that she would be more miserable than she was now if she’d married Jakenzo, but she knew her mother wouldn’t understand.

  “You have let foolish pride and bad attitudes toward men hinder your happiness. Why do you always push good men away, Jem’ya? It worries me that you—”

  “He’s an Arab,” Jem’ya interjected to end the lecture. It worked.

  “Oh.” Mama frowned. “Be very careful.”

  Jem’ya nodded.

  For a while, Mama just sat and looked worriedly at her daughter’s guarded expression. “Goodnight, my child.”

  “Sleep well, Mama.”

  Once her mother left, Jem’ya lie down and stared at the roof of her hut, knowing the truth; that she had not been careful enough.

  She had allowed herself to play pretend. She let herself believe for a few hours at a time that when Tareq’s eyes glanced over her figure that he was attracted to her, and that when he was being silly it was because he wanted to see her smile and laugh, and that when he gave her gifts he wanted to impress her. She let her mind pretend, but in the end she had truly fallen for him. Her heart longed for him, even though her mind knew Tareq was pretending, too.

  He pretended to be someone else at the Coast, that he was poor rather than wealthy, that he was kind and thoughtful rather than pompous, and that it didn’t matter what her race was. What tortured her the most was the thought that Tareq knew how much she cared about him and was playing with her, giving her gifts and soft glances, just to go home and laugh with his rich Arab friends about his adventures courting a ‘negress witchdoctor’.

  She didn’t want to think about it anymore, that’s why she returned to Tikso. Thoughts of him made her feel empty, but being with her family made her heart full. She planned to stay in Tikso as long as her conscience allowed. Jem’ya curled up under the goatskin covers and fell into a fitful sleep, Tareq’s gift still dangling from her ears.

  Tareq led his squadron of twenty-eight warriors on horseback away from the rotting brutalized bodies and fire ravished homes in the Cambe settlement of Middle Africa, the very scene he had feared. The indigenous people had revolted, murdered all of the Samhian officials and guards, destroyed the settlement and then disappeared. They left no tracks for the squadron to follow, so Tareq followed his instincts and decided to lead his men east to apprehend the murderers and bring justice for the fallen.

  Earlier, Tareq released two warriors to return to the capital and inform the King and council of the circumstances. Their hearts filled with rage and a thirst for battle, they reluctantly obeyed his order to turn back. The tension among the remaining men was palpable. They had spent the day digging graves and burying comrades and their murdered family. The men sat rigid on their horses. The only sound was the hooves of their animals and the jangle of the metal on their armored leather vests.

  “I cannot wait to find these black savages!” growled Kaliq, the newest soldier. His long black hair gathered at the nape of his neck was slipping out of the tie, and his stubble-lined mouth was wrinkled with revulsion.

  “Yaaah!” exclaimed most of the soldiers in agreement.

  Tareq sighed. “Their love for their country and people is just as strong as ours.”

  “They do not know their place,” Kaliq retorted.

  “Enough,” he ordered, gruff
but tired. “Let us find water for our animals.” They rode in silence until they saw a village. Tareq could see some women sitting together by a hut. It was most likely that the women knew where to find fresh water, plus they would be easier to speak with, less confrontational. “Be peaceful, men. Be peaceful and they may be helpful to us.”

  Unfortunately, once they came upon the village they were met by a group of three surly men. Immediately, Tareq was annoyed by the short man with the brown hair. He had his chest puffed out like a rooster and had the smile of a hyena.

  Tareq called forward his translator, a thin, frizzy haired, mixed blood man, to inquire about the rebel tribe. The brown-haired man did all the talking while the other two stood behind him.

  The translator relayed the response. “He says they don’t know anything about them, Commander.”

  Tareq told the translator to ask for water for their horses.

  “He says there is no water here for us, Commander.”

  Tareq, irritated, stared down from Sultan at the man. “Tell him who I am,” he instructed the translator while still holding his serious gaze with Rooster.

  “Commander, he said he has no ruler and that he bows to no one.”

  Then Kaliq jumped down from his horse with his hand gripping the sword in his belt. “I’ve had enough of these godless animals!” He rushed up to the light-haired tribesman. Tareq allowed Kaliq to scream at him even though he hadn’t given the warrior permission. “We are part of the royal army of Samhia, led by Prince Samhizzan who will soon be king as fated by Allah!” Kaliq shouted, red in the face. “Do you dare go against the will of Allah, miscreant?!”

  “Kaliq, go back to your horse,” Tareq ordered.

  Kaliq took a few steps backwards, nostrils flaring.

  Tareq told the translator to ask again for water. He watched Rooster spit at the ground by Sultan’s hooves and growl some words.

  “He said ‘There is your water’.”

  In a flash, Kaliq drew his sword and slashed it across the tribesman’s face. The man fell to his knees holding his cheek together as it gushed blood. The two indigenous men behind him turned and ran, calling out to the others in the village.

  Tareq was infuriated. “Did I give you permission?!” Tareq jumped down from his horse. Kaliq lifted his chin defiantly but said nothing. Tareq shoved him, hard. Kaliq stumbled backwards and fell. “Give up your sword and may I never lay eyes on you in my kingdom again!”

  Kaliq stood, flung the bloody sword to the ground, jumped onto his horse, and galloped full speed away.

  Tareq turned at the sound of war cries. Men with spears and wooden shields were racing towards them.

  Tareq took his saif from his belt. It was a long curved sword, thin and lethally sharp. He lifted it in the air. “Men!” he bellowed.

  The squadron roared and rushed past Tareq, on foot or thundering by on their horses. The sunlight flashed off of their drawn swords. Tareq pat Sultan on the shoulder. “Stay, Sultan.” He didn’t like to bring his beloved horse into battle. Tareq’s heart and mind pounded with adrenaline. He took a deep breath and ran out into the battle. Three men he brought down with the butt of the saif and some powerful kicks. He dodged their spears and dealt a couple strong blows to their chests and legs which brought them to their knees. Two more he disarmed and brought to the ground in the same way. Tareq’s muscles ached from the exertion but he enjoyed the high of this dangerous dance and savored how it quieted his mind. He focused all his attention on each movement, on each moment of combat, and in those charged moments nothing else, past or future, mattered. There was only now.

  He looked all around for any more opponents and saw his men engaged in numerous instances of combat, some fights just beginning and others now ending in bloodied tribesmen who were badly injured or dying.

  Then Tareq saw a very tall, well-built young man walking steadily towards him. He had long thick arms and legs, and a long dark face. Rage was in his eyes but he did not run at Tareq. He neared Tareq slowly.

  Tareq felt apprehensive. He knew this was almost an equal match. The young man was large and fierce, but Tareq had a metal sword while the man had a wooden spear. The man’s eyes disturbed Tareq. There were tears in his eyes. Tareq had seen men get emotional during battle, so it was not the tears that bothered him. There was something about the shape and color of his dark round eyes that unnerved the prince.

  The young man’s mouth trembled with anger. “Metama, lewome tebu oko,” he said. “Lewome tebu oko!” he screamed. “Lewome tebu oko!” He rushed at Tareq.

  Jem’ya was startled out of her sleep by male shouting and high pitched cries. The ground rumbled as though a herd of bulls were crashing through the middle of her village. Her heart raced at the chaotic sounds of men yelling in Rwujan and Samician. Shaking with fear she stumbled to the door of her hut and threw it open. The breath was sucked from her body as she watched her tribe, her family, being killed or captured. Then she heard her brother’s voice.

  “Today you fight my heart!” he yelled. “You fight my heart! You fight my heart!” he screamed it over and over again as he wrestled one of the Arab warriors to the ground and began to strangle and shake him. He screamed it until the Arab drew a long sword and stabbed it through his stomach. She recognized the man as Tareq when he sprang to his feet and stood over Kibwe’s convulsing body.

  “KIBWE!” she cried.

  A woman’s guttural scream caught Tareq’s attention. When he saw Jem’ya falling to her knees the sword fell from his hand. His heart stopped. His hazel eyes went wide. He shook his head in shock. The hairs on his neck stood on end as his hands began to tremble. He watched Jem’ya begin to inch on her hands and knees in the direction of her dying brother, a tortured crawl. She was desperate to comfort her brother, but too shaken and shocked to move. Her face and trembling mouth were streaming with tears as she sobbed and cried out for him. “Aaaaah! Kibweee!”

  Tareq was rooted to his spot. He couldn’t move. He could hardly believe that it was her, couldn’t believe what he’d just done. His throat constricted with emotion. He swallowed to loosen it but his mouth was completely dry. “Hakan. Hakan?” he whispered. His throat began to relax again. “Hakan! Hakan!” he began to call out, though unable to take his eyes off of Jem’ya.

  Hakan was a hulking great man, the warrior that Tareq trusted the most. He had the Samhian star and cobra tattooed under his right eye to mark him as a supreme warrior. Hakan rode quickly over to Tareq.

  “Commander?”

  “I want…I want you to take this woman to the palace. Now.”

  Hakan looked at Prince Tareq curiously but followed the order. He pulled rope from his belt, hopped down from the horse and went to her.

  “Be careful with her!” Tareq shouted as he watched Hakan tie up her arms and ankles too roughly.

  “Yes, sir,” he grunted as he stood with Jem’ya slung over his shoulder. Her blue dress was streaked with dirt. Overcome with grief, Jem’ya did not struggle. Hakan got onto his horse with her.

  “Give her to Bahja,” Tareq instructed. “Tell her I want her kept hidden from everyone, but she must wait on her as well as she waits on me. Cover her face before you reach the capital. Keep her protected and keep her hidden.” He pointed at Hakan with a trembling hand. “And you do not touch her except to take her back down from that horse! Understood?!”

  “Yes, Commander,” nodded Hakan.

  “Kibwe!” Jem’ya wailed again and again.

  Hakan glanced at Jem’ya. “You belong to the future King of Samhia now,” he said. “Yah!” Hakan bellowed at his horse and they sped off.

  Tareq watched Hakan and Jem’ya leaving the village and then looked around at his men rounding up fallen tribesmen and dragging women and children, Jem’ya’s people, out of huts. Tareq’s voice roared above the chaos. “RETREAT! I ORDER YOU, LEAVE THE REST AND RETREAT!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tareq looked down at the hands holding Sultan’s reins and didn’t rec
ognize them. It was like he was now a different person from who he was before the killing in Tikso. Before, he was Prince Tareq Samhizzan, but now he was something unspeakable.

  His body felt foreign and numb, but his mind was unbearably present, replaying the events again and again, his emotions an endless loop of self-hatred, sickening regret, disbelief, anger, and intense shame.

  Tareq glanced over his shoulder at Tikso on the horizon. It was only fifteen minutes ago that he ripped Jem’ya’s life apart then fled. He looked at his squadron following behind him. They had taken twenty villagers captive. Ankles tied close together, wrists bound and secured against their chests by a piece of rope connected to a loop around their necks, the men and women stumbled along beside the warriors’ horses to which they were attached. In the next city they would buy a carriage for them to sit in.

  Tareq’s bitterness at the sight of Jem’ya’s people being hauled away upset his stomach, but he couldn’t leave a battle empty-handed. Those were the King’s cruel orders. To make matters worse, Tareq knew that the village would now be in the King’s sights, and it was likely the man would send another force to conquer Tikso entirely. Was there nothing Tareq could do to make this right? He couldn’t undo what he’d done, but the least he could do is make considerations for Jem’ya’s close relatives. Tareq turned Sultan around and stopped in front of the brigade.

  “Halt. Untie these people from your horses. I have questions for them.”

  The villagers were untied and then lined up in front of Tareq. Tareq’s heart raced as he stood before their piercing gazes. The mixed blood translator came down from his horse and stood at Tareq’s side to interpret the conversations.

  “Who here is a family member of Jem’ya Okobi?” Tareq asked.

  All of the men and women raised their hands as high as the rope allowed. Tareq’s heart fell. The translator then explained to Tareq that, in a tribe, all of them considered themselves family, even if they were not blood relatives.