The Healer's Warrior (6 page)

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.