Page 26 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)

“In the name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. Praise be to Allah The Cherisher and Sustainer of the Worlds; Most Gracious, Most Merciful; Master of the Day of Judgement. Thee do we worship and Thine aid we seek. Show us the straight way, The way of those on whom Thou has bestowed Thy Grace, those whose portion is not wrath, and who go not astray.”

This first prayer, which can be heard above the crowd, since the officiant has a carrying voice and is determined to be heard, is followed by many and varied blessings over the couple, everything from wishes for them to bear children to having a peaceful household.

I tug at Aisha, wishing to leave. After all, the marriage is done now, these are only niceties, and I cannot find it in my heart to echo these blessings.

“Oh Allah,” intones the officiant, “Bless this couple with faith, love and happiness in this world and the Next. Oh Allah, You are the Loving and the Merciful. Put love and mercy in the hearts of this couple for each other. Our Creator, strengthen the hearts of the bride and groom with faith, and let them increase in their love and commitment to You through their bond. Oh Lord of the Universe, all power is with You. Let this couple’s marriage become a beautiful example to other couples.

My God, protect this couple from the misguidance and planning of Shaytan.

Help them resist his call to break their bond.

Oh Allah, bless this couple with children who will be a source of happiness and joy to them and the world. ”

I slip my hand from Aisha’s grasp and turn and walk away, unable to listen any longer. It is difficult to make my way through the crowd and the words of blessing continue to reach me, even as I struggle to leave the ceremony behind me and return to the barren peacefulness of my own empty room.

“Oh Allah, unite the couple and their families in faith and love. Oh Lord, You are the Just. Let this couple live their lives being fair and just to each other. Oh Forgiver, bless this couple with the strength to forgive each other’s shortcomings.

Oh Allah, give them the loving relationship which Muhammad and Aisha had. May Allah be pleased with them.”

By the time I have left the crowd, I am almost running, making my way through the little mazes between the tents and outwards to where the first buildings lie, past stone and mud, wooden planks and half-erected scaffolding.

I push open the gate to my own home, ignore my plants and make my way into the dark recess of the kitchen, the only space I can bear right now.

I kneel in the gloom and ask God to relieve me of the thoughts I am having, to take away the pain I should not even acknowledge, nor be feeling. The commander of our army is marrying a queen. It should not, must not, be of any matter to me. And yet it is.

Here in the darkness, here all alone, I acknowledge to myself and to God that I love Yusuf, that I desire him as a man, that I am jealous of Zaynab.

That, watching them just now, all I wished for was to stand in Zaynab’s place.

To take Yusuf’s hands in mine, to place the sweet date in his mouth, to know that tonight, when the ceremonies, the celebrations and the feasting are all complete, Yusuf will make his way, not to the great black tent and Zaynab’s lustful bed but to my empty room, in this quiet part of the city, and take me in his arms.

Aisha seeks me out later, finding me amidst my plants, tending to them one by one in an effort to still my mind.

“Yusuf’s first wife arrived, but too late to stop the ceremony, even if she could have done.”

I stare up at her. “What?”

“His wife arrived!”

“Kella?”

“How do you know her name?”

“He mentioned her,” I say, thinking of how Yusuf described an adventurous young girl, seeking freedom, willing to risk joining an army, dressed as a man.

“Well, she is here now, and she is miserable.”

I think of my own feelings, watching Yusuf take Zaynab’s hands in his, and feel nothing but a common sorrow with this unknown woman. “She did not arrive in time for the ceremony.”

“No,” says Aisha, squatting down and beginning to deadhead a chamomile plant. “She arrived only a little time ago, and was taken straight to Zaynab, no doubt against her wishes.”

“What does she look like?” I ask.

“Miserable,” repeats Aisha. “Young. Much younger than Zaynab. But not as beautiful.”

I nod, continue watering a few of the drier plants.

“You don’t look so happy yourself,” says Aisha.

I say nothing. I keep my head down, but unbidden tears roll down my cheeks, attempting to water the plants.

“I know you care for him,” says Aisha softly.

“I have no right to care for him,” I say.

“We none of us choose who to care for,” says Aisha.

“I have taken vows,” I say.

“Vows are hard to keep,” says Aisha.

“My temptation has been taken from me,” I say.

“Has it?” she asks. “Temptation does not need to stand by our side to make itself felt.”

“Then the path before me will be hard,” I say.