Historical fiction - 10th century Spain!
960AD. Al-Andalus.
Spirited and learned, Qamira has discarded the strictures of her life in Baghdad to travel with her grandfather to Cordoba. Here she embraces the undreamed-of freedoms accorded women. She befriends her neighbours, attractive young men and women of Jewish, Christian and Arabic faiths, all living in harmony. One of these is Zayd, a swordsman, poet and teacher from the Maghreb; they form a strong emotional attachment. Sadly, that harmony will be shattered…
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Excerpts:
She
had gone through twelve months of deep depression after her parents died
horribly and swiftly of the plague that had wiped out hundreds of pilgrims on
the way to Mecca. The vultures had made light work of the bodies.
When fellow travellers brought the
devastating news, although a younger maiden aunt said she was happy enough to
care for Qamira, Talha insisted she come to live with him.
Since that day she had barely spoken,
just sitting swaying, silent – an elective mute. She ate because she must; she
said her prayers because God was watching her; she kissed her grandfather good
morning and good night because it was expected; but all joy had fled her short
life.
***
Talha
and Qamira entered the splendid garden with the three-tiered fountain Qamira
had glimpsed from above. They made their way along cobbled pathways, past
myrtle hedges and a pool covered with water lilies. Jasmine clambered up the walls
to reach the balconies of the upper floors and niches, pots and urns brimmed
with scented roses.
They followed the colonnade that snaked
round the house, passing tables and chairs, glass-fronted cabinets filled with
ornaments and books.
Voices and laughter summoned them to the
feast. Comfortable leather divans surrounded a convivial table in whose centre
were bowls of water containing sweet-scented rose-petals and lemon peel. Soft
cloths were provided to dry hands and faces. Each place had a drinking glass
and ceramic plate. Ornate metal teapots and trays of food stood at the ready.
Three young people sat in one corner, heads together, whispering, oblivious of
the presence of strangers.
***
The gate swung open on well-oiled hinges and Yuhana and Qamira exited into
glorious countryside. Qamira gasped at the view, deeply inhaling the cool
morning air, scented with herbs and pine. Carobs and oaks lined the narrow
winding path leading to the lake and in the distance the Dark Mountains were
bathed in a ghostly white mist.
They ambled
along the shady path then Qamira halted, suddenly anxious.
Yuhana
grabbed her arm and lengthened her stride, pulling her past the high wall of
the munyat cemetery. ‘Qamira, hurry, the lake is this way. Or have you lost
your nerve, no longer daring to defy Urvan’s ban?’
‘Not at
all.’ She slowed her pace. ‘Why do you let him dictate to you? Does your father
also disapprove?’
Yuhana fell
into step beside her. ‘Yes, he also fears for our safety and because he is my
father I must obey him! Surely you obey your grandfather?’
Qamira gave
her a devilish grin. ‘Most of the time. But he is always open to discussion. It
is often the only way forward. Besides, he approves of swimming. This is an
ideal time of day to bathe and,’ she indicated the cemetery, ‘the dead won’t
talk, or harm us.’
They reached
a clearing, uncultivated except for clumps of herbs. At a glance Qamira
recognised borage and rosemary, comfrey and lavender. She stooped and squeezed
a handful of rosemary, cupped her hand around her nose and inhaled the sweet
smell. Rising, she observed a small copse of hazel and almond trees. A cluster
of six beehives to her left crouched like slatted creatures from another world.
‘Whose are those hives?’ she asked.
‘Ours but
no-one tends them. I stay away. I was stung once. Mother used marigold flowers
to ease the pain.’
‘She was
right to do so,’ Qamira said. ‘Perhaps I can take the beeswax for my creams and
I must gather those herbs before the sun wilts them.’
Yuhana
plucked a stem of lavender and breathed deeply. ‘Tell me about them.’
‘There are
many types. Here we have thyme, parsley, sage and rosemary for cooking.’ She
spun round. ‘And there are comfrey and witch-hazel for sprains and bruises,
borage for fevers, lavender to aid restful sleep. There are poisonous plants
too – arum, nightshade and wormwood – but they can be used safely…’ She ran
ahead down the path, calling back, ‘if you know how.’
They arrived
at the lake. Herons skimmed the calm surface seeking fish, a bunting hidden in
the reeds called plaintively to its mate, frogs croaked unharmoniously and the
reeds themselves whispered in the breeze. Along the shore-line, a row of
willows stood sentry-like, a natural barrier from prying eyes. Qamira noted the
trees. She must tell Grandfather.
She ran
forward to the edge, removed her sandals and dipped in her toe. Glancing
around, she stripped off her robe and undergarment then plunged into the
rippling wavelets, naked and free. She disappeared below the surface, swam some
way off then reappeared.
‘You are
bold!’ Yuhana called. ‘And such a strong swimmer.’
‘It is
heavenly. Come in.’
Yuhana began
to wade in but Qamira called out peremptorily, ‘Your clothes? Remove them. Or
walk home soaking.’
Yuhana
blenched. ‘Someone may see.’
‘There is
no-one. Anyway, the trees will hide us. You must, or your robe will drag you
down.’
Yuhana
removed her robe, threw it ashore then ducked down into the water.
***
Zayd
sat beside her and eyed the poem. ‘Is that a muwashshah?’
‘I don’t know. It’s an ode.’
‘A qasidah, then, a classical ode. To…?’ the handsome Berber
inquired gently.
‘Dido.’
‘Ah, the tragic Queen of Carthage.’
‘When Grandfather and I disembarked
there, he recounted the sad tale of Dido and the Greek Aeneas: their love
affair, his treachery, his abandonment. Her despair, her death,’ she finished
with barely a whisper.
‘Please read me your ode.’
‘It’s not ready.’
‘No matter. It’s not the end-product
that matters but the journey we make to achieve it. The road we pursue can
enrich all things. So, may I hear it?’
She obliged, reading the poetry in a
clear voice.
‘Your words are poignant. How they
remind me…’
Qamira’s brow furrowed. ‘Remind you of
what?’
‘Of my own land, Qamira, of El-Maghreb.’
His look was wistful, longing for
something lost forever. Maybe, like her, he was a wandering soul, far from his
native land, still on his own journey, accepted but apart, not quite at peace.
Was this to be their common bond, then? Should she feel sorry for him, or a
kindred spirit? Should she by silence demonstrate her understanding of his
situation and his destiny or by questioning seek to discover more?
‘Do you miss your home?’
‘Sometimes.’ He ran his hand through his
thick hair. ‘Tell me about Baghdad.’
‘It is a city of wondrous architecture:
minarets, mosques. Much activity: learning, invention. Like here but bigger.’
‘And the people?’
‘Dark and mysterious.’
Zayd pursed his lips. ‘And life?’
‘Unbearably lonely. I had my dreams and
I was afraid I would never achieve them, always bound by tradition and rules. A
foolish desire.’
His eyes bored into hers. ‘No, Qamira.
No ambition is foolish. The only rules that should bind your life are those
that you yourself make. Nothing should constrain you.’
‘Easy to say.’ She turned slightly to
contemplate the garden. ‘Are we not all constrained – even Nature? Do not the
trees grow to their expected height, flowers bloom with their due colours, all
things in their season? Dogs bark and cats mew? Unchanging? Never branching
out?’
‘We are humans, not flowers. We may do
as we please. You have branched out. You’re here with your grandfather,
embracing a new life.’
Qamira contemplated this a while. ‘As
did you,’ she agreed finally. ‘Do you have any family left in El-Maghreb?’
He gazed at the ground. ‘My parents are
both dead.’
‘Mine died too – before their time.
We’re both orphans, then.’
He looked up at her through long thick
lashes. ‘Indeed we are.’
***
‘Do not run from me!’ His voice
rasped unkindly in her ear. ‘I want you! I have made myself clear on countless
occasions. I will wait no longer. You will
submit to me.’
‘If Grandfather
were here, you wouldn’t dare make so bold.’
‘But he is
not here, and I am. Here, to fulfil your destiny.’
Then his
mood changed, his voice pleading. ‘It is I who beg you, my sweet nightingale.
You cannot comprehend how much I love and desire you. Not just your music–’
She turned
her face away as he kissed her again, his beard scratching her soft cheek.
Remember Zayd! She sobbed, her will almost
broken. Why was he suddenly so difficult to resist? Then from somewhere in her
inner core she mustered the strength of mind to withstand him. ‘I cannot do
this. I cannot love you as you would have me do. I do not want you!’
But to no
avail. He was panting now, whether from passion or exertion, she could not
tell. She tried to push him away, the heels of her hands against his shoulders,
but his grip tightened and he slid down to his knees, kissing her stomach, her
abdomen, moving lower until his hands were raising the hem of her nightgown.
His desperation revolted her yet her whole being ached with a treacherous
sensation of pleasure and betrayal – and she the betrayer.
Remember Zayd! Now his fingers probed, seeking
her secret warmth.
The sudden
unexpected stab of bliss surprised her. She gritted her teeth, shuddered. She
must not succumb.
Remember Zayd! The dim light and his lustful
eagerness made him awkward, fumbling, and in that instant she came to her
senses, all thoughts of pleasure fled. Her fingernails dug into the soft flesh
between his shoulders and neck. She hoped she’d drawn blood. He roared in pain
and stumbled away, releasing her to massage the spot.
She slid
sideways and staggered towards the door.
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