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10 |Al Lixbuna, Islamic Iberia Caliphate of Córdoba 989 AD
Fatima kept her face down and turned her head strategically to avoid the eyes of those who might challenge her being in the streets with the Viking, though none who took notice appeared willing to confront the muscled man with brilliant beard. Yet despite this, with each step away from her certain past and toward an uncertain future, her heart hammered harder.
And she grew faint.
What are you doing?
It wasn’t too late. She could turn around and run home. Nobody knew she was gone except the guards, and if she returned before no one else noticed, they would say nothing, for they should never have let her go alone.
Their punishment would be worse than hers.
Magnus’ messenger kept urging her forward with a beckoning hand, but rarely looked back at her, perhaps uncomfortable being with an unrelated woman.
But that’s not his culture.
It was one of the reasons she had been so intrigued by these Vikings. The fact they treated her far better than her own relations, suggested to her, perhaps incorrectly, that women were partners rather than property where they came from. She prayed it was so, but in all honesty, wasn’t concerned with such things, as long as she could be with Magnus.
She spotted him near the edge of the cliff overlooking the roaring ocean below and her heart leaped, energy surging through her, spurring her reluctant legs forward and past the messenger. As she neared him, though, she slowed. His face was stern, his eyes glaring at her, none of the love she had come to expect in view. He stepped behind a large stone and out of sight. She slowed to a walk then cautiously rounded the rock, uncertain as to what had changed, only knowing that her stomach was now in knots, and self-doubt ruled her.
“Magnus?”
He turned to face her, his smile broad, his eyes bright, and she sighed with relief as he held out his arms for her. She rushed into them and they embraced if only for a moment. He pushed her away, holding her shoulders.
“We have little time. Do you still trust me?”
“Of course, my love.”
He bent over and picked up something lying unnoticed on the ground. “Then listen carefully.”
Rafiq came to a halt at the edge of town, the ocean ahead, the waves crashing against the cliff face a constant reminder of its strength. He loved the water, and swam in it whenever he had an opportunity, and never turned down an invitation to go to sea if his duties permitted it.
Yet those opportunities were rare, and would be even more so if he didn’t find his sister.
A sister nowhere to be seen.
He scanned the entire area, not for her, but for the striking blond hair of her Viking companion, yet saw no one. He turned his attention to the dozens walking in the area, some moving with purpose, some strolling with no obvious cares.
Then he heard shouting.
“We can never be together!”
He turned toward the argument, the accented Arabic recognized at once as that of Prince Magnus. He stormed out from behind a large rock, then spun on his heel, stabbing a finger at someone.
“That was never my intention, you silly girl! We can never be! It would dishonor not only your family, but mine as well, and I would never risk my people’s business for a woman.”
“But Magnus, please, don’t go!”
His stomach writhed with anger and horror at his sister’s voice, the foolish girl hidden by the rock. He wanted to go to her, to grab her by the scruff of the neck and haul her home for the shame she was bringing to her family, but he resisted. Nobody could see her. Nobody knew who she was. If he were lucky, this entire incident might play out with no one the wiser, and his family honor might yet be preserved.
“I’m done with you, silly girl. Make no attempt to contact me again!” Magnus stormed off toward the port to the north where his trading fleet was moored, and Rafiq took several tentative steps toward his sister’s hiding place, each passing moment suggesting her dishonorable actions might yet go undiscovered, those witness to the altercation already resuming their business.
“If you will not have me, then no one will!”
He gasped as his sister stepped into view, everyone turning toward her once again, this time the source of the other half of the conversation in full view. Rage flared in his chest at her stupidity, at her betrayal, at her naïve selfishness.
Then she stepped off the cliff, her scream bloodcurdling as it quickly faded.
“Fatima!” He stood frozen in place, unable to move, exchanging shocked glances with those around him. He finally tore loose from whatever held his feet in place and stumbled toward the edge of the cliff. As he neared its treacherous edge, he slowed, his fear of heights threatening to overwhelm him. He came to an abrupt halt a good half-dozen paces from the edge, then willed himself closer as others approached, their concerned utterances going unnoticed. He dropped to his knees, crawling to the drop-off, his heart hammering, sweat beading on his forehead as he finally screwed up the courage to peer over at the churning waters below.
But there was nothing to see beyond water and rock and a post jutting from the edge with a ring at the end, its purpose unknown, its rusted surface suggesting many years since its installation.
There could be no doubt.
She was gone.
He rolled onto his back, tears streaking his face as he stared up at the heavens. “Fatima, what have you done!”
“Look!”
Someone nearby was pointing out to sea, and he rolled back on his stomach, hope surging anew at the prospect of his sister being alive in the waters below, though it quickly faded at the sight of what had attracted the onlooker’s attention.
A lone Viking ship, heading away from the cliff, its sail raised and filled with the wind.
For a moment, he thought of calling to them, to beckon them back to search for his sister below, but it would be a useless effort. They would never hear him, and they could never get close enough to the cliff face to rescue her regardless.
She was dead, her lifeless body likely hammering against the rock below, unseen, her soul already condemned to eternal damnation for throwing away Allah’s most precious gift.
Life.
Why did you do it, Fatima, why?
Yet he knew why. She couldn’t face life with Sheik Al-Musawi, away from her family, relegated to the position of fourth wife. Before hearing the argument of moments ago, he never would have considered the concept of love in the equation. What did love have to do with marriage? At least at the beginning. Even his own parents came from an arranged marriage. They loved each other now, of that, he had no doubt, but he was certain there was no love there when they first met. How could there be?
And his sister had met few men in her brief life to even entertain the concept of marriage, let alone marriage based on love. She always knew her destiny, though he was certain she did have her own misguided fantasies of what her future husband might be like, and those imaginings certainly never would have included the pig of a man Al-Musawi was.
He did feel bad for her.
Genuinely.
Though none of that was an excuse to commit suicide, and publicly humiliate the family in the process.
He pushed to his feet and slowly edged away from the cliff, the Viking ship silhouetted in the distance, then headed for home, wondering what he could possibly do to save his family from the fury his news would undoubtedly bring from her future husband.
A man so powerful, he could crush their family with a casual word.