by Lewin, Renee
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.
Tareq squinted and blinked at the sleeping man. He stood swaying for a moment, then shook his head, turned around and stumbled back to bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Late the next afternoon, Tareq pulled himself out of bed to eat and to bathe. He got dressed and sat in a chair on the balcony where he could feel the warm energy of the sun on his skin. For a long while he did not move from that spot because there was nothing he was eager to do. Tareq’s mental, emotional and physical energies were depleted. He could not think of anything too deeply. Watching the bustle of the citizens in the capital down below was all Tareq could take in.
Bahja came into his room a few hours later and stood beside his chair.
Tareq did not look at her. “Is she well?”
Bahja looked out at the capital and shook her head. “She has not stopped crying since yesterday. She cries for her family and she calls for you.”
Tareq lifted his chin slightly but continued to stare out at the city.
“She calls for you, wanting to know why she is being held captive. She asks me why she is being kept here, but I have no answers for her, Prince Tareq.”
Tareq heard the disappointment in Bahja’s voice, but his mind couldn’t conceive a response. He lightly shook his head to express he had nothing to say. The old woman sighed and shuffled out of the room.
The memory of Jem’ya wild with hate entered his mind. There was strength in her grief. When Tareq lost his mother, he didn’t speak for eight months, but he had been young and weak.
He was weak still, because he could not face Jem’ya now. He hoped Jem’ya would be calm tomorrow. Then he would have the chance to explain the battle in Tikso rather than block another of her assaults.
More memories of Jem’ya’s beauty and sorrow began to spill into his mind. Tareq stood and went to his bed. There he slept the remainder of the day.
The following morning, Tareq awoke recharged. He ate, dressed in black pants and a white sleeveless shirt, and rang the bell for Bahja. “How is she, Auntie?” he asked when she entered his room.
“The girl—”
“She is Lady Jem’ya to you,” he corrected.
Her lips parted to comment but she stopped herself. “Yes, Prince Tareq. Lady Jem’ya refuses to eat and she will not speak.”
Tareq went immediately to the cellar, by way of the palace’s long hallways and winding stairs. Jem’ya was sitting on the bed mat with her back against the wall in the lamp-lit room. Her knees were drawn to her chest and her tired eyes were focused on the ground. “I hear you will not eat,” Tareq said from the gate.
Jem’ya was silent.
“I see it is also true that you refuse to speak.”
Jem’ya closed her eyes.
Tareq folded his hands behind his back, squaring his shoulders. “You won’t talk, but you can listen. There are some things I need you to understand, Jem’ya.” Tareq retold the events at Tikso, of how he’d been searching for the Cambe rebels when he came across her village, how he’d told his men to be calm but that one of his soldiers disobeyed him, causing the needless battle.
“My father is dying,” he continued. “He has always been irrational and petty, but more so now that he is bitter over his failing health. I was worried he would be angry that your people fought us instead of surrendering, and would decide to annex Tikso as punishment. That’s the reason I ordered some of your tribesmen be brought to Samhia as slaves, in hopes it would quiet the King. It will not be long before they are free again. In case the King still sets his sights on your village, I had your parents brought to Eulid. So, please understand that I never wanted any of this.”
Jem’ya opened her eyes but her gaze remained on the ground. “And what about me? Why am I here, Tareq, hidden in the dark beneath this castle that was built on the backs of slaves and is maintained on the shoulders of the poor?” She met his gaze.
“To keep you safe.”
“I could be safe with my parents in Eulid. I could be protected by my uncles, half-brothers and cousins in Tikso. Why. am. I. here, Tareq?”
Tareq hid his anxiety with a mask of irritation. “To keep you safe,” he repeated with more force.
Jem’ya saw the uneasiness in Tareq’s hazel eyes. “You are a murderer and a liar,” she stated. She looked away and closed her eyes again.
Tareq chewed at his bottom lip and watched her a while, but he could not reveal the answer to her question.
She did not speak or eat anything the next day, or the next. Each day, though Jem’ya refused to look at him, Tareq went down to the cellar to apologize again for the battle of Tikso, to tell her that her parents were well, and to encourage her to eat. He had Bahja bring heaping plates of the most delicious meals, but Jem’ya only drank some water and turned away from the food. Each day, Tareq grew more worried. He watched her begin to sleep most of the day. Her hunger made her toss and turn in her sleep. She barely moved at all when she was awake, and when she did her movement was shaky and sluggish.
Panic and anger intensified within Tareq as he watched her torture herself. He feared that yelling at her would cause her to withdraw further into her stubbornness, so he continued to be gentle. Tareq thought of drugging her and forcing food down her throat, but he could not bring himself to do that to her or to order someone else to complete such a wretched task.
On the fourth day of Jem’ya’s hunger strike, Tareq went to the cellar and saw her curled up on the bed mat. He watched her side rising and falling as she breathed. Then he heard a faint whisper he wasn’t sure was real or imagined. “Jem’ya?” he called. She didn’t stir. Tareq raised his voice. “Jem’ya?”
He heard the whispering again, a little louder, desperately calling his name. It was her. Tareq unlocked the gate and went inside.
Jem’ya didn’t move. She remained curled up and facing the wall on her bed mat. “Tareq? T-Tareq?” she breathed.
Tareq knelt beside her and peered over her shoulder. Her mouth was trembling and he could see that her eyes were rolling and scanning behind her eyelids. Her eyelids were slightly open. She was between sleep and wakefulness. “Tareq?” she whimpered. “Where are you?”
Tareq wasn’t sure what to do. Was she dreaming or was she conscious? Why was she calling for him as if she desired his comfort?
Suddenly, Jem’ya’s whole body began to tremble violently. Tears rolled down her face as she pulled her limbs in even tighter to her body. Her calls became fearful and urgent as if she were cornered by something terrifying. “Tareq! Tareq! Where are you?”
Instinctively, Tareq scooped her up into his arms. He cradled her against his chest as he folded his legs underneath himself. Fear gripped at his heart as he felt how light she’d become. “Jem’ya, it’s only a bad dream.” Though he was nervous, he gently rubbed her arm to soothe her. He studied her
face, anticipating her rejection of his touch, but her eyes remained almost completely closed and her trembling and crying began to subside.
She slowly lifted her hand and rested it finally on Tareq’s bicep. “Tareq?”
“Yes, Mahsalom, it’s me.” He moved his hand from her arm and, with his thumb, dried the tears from the corner of her eyes and from the warm plane of her cheek. His hand returned to caressing her shoulder.
She gave his arm a weak squeeze through the pale yellow sleeve of his shirt. “Tareq, I…” She hiccupped, and started again. “Tareq, I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
Tareq’s hand paused on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed.
Tareq swallowed. “No, Jem’ya. No, I deserve it. I deserve worse.”
“You just wanted us to have fun together.”
Tareq’s eyebrows furrowed. Was Jem’ya delirious from the hunger? “What do you mean?”
“You just wanted me to go for a swim with you.”
Tareq relaxed some. She was remembering the last time they’d been together at the Coast.
“Tareq, sometimes I must push away from you, to remind myself of how things really are,” she whimpered. “To remember it isn’t possible.” She stroked his arm. Tareq’s heart began to race. “But I can’t stop dreaming of you. See? Here you are.” Jem’ya snuggled against him, pressing her face against his chest. Her eyes still closed, she reached her hand up to the nape of Tareq’s neck and felt at his silky black curls.
Tareq stared down at her in amazement. He held his breath and kept perfectly still as he felt her fingers playing in his hair. Her slow breathing whispered through the fabric of his shirt, cooling and warming the skin above his racing heart. His stomach fluttered as he savored the moment, but his mind chattered with cautions. This is a mistake. She is not in her right mind. She does not know what she is doing or hear what she is saying. She doesn’t mean it. Do not think too much of this.
Jem’ya’s hand slipped from his neck as she fell into a deep sleep. She was beautiful. Tareq pressed his lips against Jem’ya’s forehead, a gentle, worried, lingering kiss. Just as he pulled away, Bahja walked into the room with a tray of food. Bahja saw the kiss, but kept quiet. She placed the tray on the ground beside Tareq, bowed her head, and then left. Once the aroma of the food reached Jem’ya’s nose, Tareq heard and felt Jem’ya’s stomach growl as he held her. She began to stir in his arms, and then finally her eyes opened.
Tareq searched her dark brown eyes. “Jem’ya, please, will you eat?” he asked softly.
Jem’ya’s eyes widened. “Get off of me!” She drowsily pushed his arms away. “Get away from me!” She fell back onto the bed mat and used her heels and palms to move backwards until her back hit the wall. She sat panting from the effort. Tareq stood. Jem’ya glared up at him. “You disgusting—!”
“Why are you being so foolish? You will gain nothing from starving yourself!”
Jem’ya rested her head against the wall to focus on Tareq. She was very dizzy and her head was throbbing. “I will not be used up by you!” she retorted. “If I am weak, I cannot heal you to take the lives of more innocent people, I cannot work as your slave, and my body will waste away so that there will be nothing for you to appreciate!”
Tareq hated nothing more than to be thought of as one in the same as the King and the depraved men in his father’s court, men who treated the less fortunate like animals and who had no issue taking women against their will. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“If that is what I wanted from you, believe me, I could have had you long ago at the Coast, but I am not someone who gets any enjoyment out of taking what I can be eagerly given. I have no lack of propositions, Jem’ya, and I am a man accustomed to getting what I want, when I want it. And what I want is for you to eat, Jem’ya!” His lips quivered with anger. “I will not watch you waste away and die! If you do not eat, then I will see to it that your mother and father, your entire village, does not eat either!” He bent, picked up the food tray and dropped it beside her on the bed mat. “So, Mahsalom,” he sneered, “do not let another meal go to waste.”
Jem’ya looked at the plate of hot, flavorful chicken tagine and couscous. Her mouth began to water and the wrenching pain in her stomach was like being kicked repeatedly in the side. How many days had she gone without food? She could not focus her mind to remember. All she knew was that Tareq could determine the fate of her family, so it was useless to be uncooperative. Worn down from anger, hunger and hopelessness, Jem’ya began to cry. Defeated, she picked up a clump of the food between her fingers and brought it to her mouth. Slowly she chewed the first bite.
As Tareq watched her eat, his mouth relaxed. When she swallowed the food, he exhaled, releasing some of the tension in his body. “Your plate should be empty when I return,” he instructed. Jem’ya glanced at him with moist eyes, silent. Tareq left, locking the door behind him.
As soon as Tareq was out of sight, Jem’ya pulled the warm tray onto her lap and stuffed her mouth full of the chicken and couscous. She ate quickly, swallowing sometimes without chewing, and gulping down water to moisten her throat. In two minutes the plate was clean. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and massaged at her full belly. Her body and mind were immediately energized from the meal. Her stomach, however, continued to ache, painfully stretched by the meal after days of contracting around emptiness. Once her stomach began to relax, she stood and paced the room to stretch her legs.
Six days of her life had been spent caged in the cellar of Tareq’s palace. Jem’ya wondered how Tareq could claim to be sorry, yet keep her imprisoned. He was a mad man. One moment, he was calm and soft spoken, and in the next he yelled threats at her.
Tareq’s madness had bleached the substance from her life. It perverted her past, robbed her of hope for the future, and made the present dark and empty. The memories of her family were now tarnished by the murder of her brother and the slaughter and servitude of her tribe. Her life was like a pitch black hallway. She did not see an end to the current circumstances, and if in the end she regained her freedom and saw her family, she did not know if she could ever be truly happy again.
The foggy recollection of the dream she had earlier and the memory of waking up in Tareq’s arms disturbed her. She had found solace and safety in the arms of the Tareq in her dreams. When she awoke actually cradled in Tareq’s arms she was revolted. How could her sleeping mind create such fantasies about Tareq despite the true nightmare? Well, in a sense, she’d had plenty of practice. It’s what she’d been doing from the moment she developed feelings for him months ago. She had never completely known the real Tareq, but she had fallen for the fantasy she’d created from what little she knew.
She knew he could be thoughtful. He could be funny and spontaneous. Sometimes he was gentle and charming. Other times he was aggressive and assertive. He was handsome, and also mysterious. He hid many things. He was tortured with chronic pain by those secret things which fought him back constantly because he tried to bury them while they were still alive. Now he was trying to bury her, Jem’ya realized. He wanted to stow her away and contain her as if that would change what had happened, but Jem’ya would continue to fight him, just like the rest of his demons.
A few hours later, Tareq returned to the cellar. He wore black silky pajama pants and a matching V-neck shirt and robe. His dark curly hair was wet from a bath. The muscles in Jem’ya’s body tensed when he came into the room. She stepped back against the wall and crossed her arms. Tareq glanced at the empty plate on the tray. Then he met her gaze. His expression was neutral. For the first time, Jem’ya noticed the dark circles beneath Tareq’s light eyes. He turned his back to her as he studied the newest additions to her cell. Bahja had hung a round mirror on the wall behind the square table, brought in a narrow dresser, and placed a three-panel privacy screen in the corner of the room for Jem’ya to dress herself behind.
“So, what do your brother and your fat
her think of me, eh?” Jem’ya taunted. “What would your mother think of this, Tareq?” Jem’ya had asked Bahja about the royal family and learned that Tareq’s mother died over a decade ago; of what, Bahja refused to discuss.
There was a silent pause, but Tareq did not turn around. “Do not rile me this evening. You know as well as I how it diminishes my strength.”
“Evening? Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize it was late. I live in a windowless cellar, you see.” She glared at the back of his head. Still he did not turn to her. Her eyes fell to his rigid shoulders. “I’ve told you many times that you should listen to your body. It is telling you what you do not wish to accept: that your actions are not in agreement with the flow of God’s pure energy. That your cold mortal heart and your divine soul are at odds.”
He continued touching at the burnt-orange notebook and the quill that Bahja had placed on Jem’ya’s table, his back to her. “Well, according to you I have neither a heart nor a soul,” he said with a dispirited chuckle. “And according to your mother, you’ve believed all along that I was an arrogant, insensitive and entitled man.”
Jem’ya’s heart seized. She wanted so badly to talk to her mother and father. Her eyes started to water. She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Yes, I did. And I believe it much more strongly now,” she needled.
Tareq finally turned around. He wanted to ask about Jem’ya’s half-dream, about why she’d desired to be held by him and what it was that she wanted from him but felt she couldn’t have. He wanted to ask, but the disgust in her dark eyes pushed those questions back. He asked instead, “Is that what you really believe? That I am a monster and have no human feelings?”
She wanted to yell Yes! However, the vulnerability in Tareq’s eyes made her soften her answer. “I don’t know you, so I really cannot say.”
“What do you mean you don’t know me? We have known each other a year or more! Were we not friends?”
