The Runaway Sultan

The Runaway Sultan

Chapter One

A Portent

“He’s here!” a voice cried out, echoing down the dark, silent corridors of Qataban Palace.

            Jolted awake from a dead sleep, fifteen year-old BB, Prince Bashir Baha al Din, hurled himself out of his bed.

            “It’s a boy.  It’s a boy!  I’m saved!” he crowed as he ran barefooted, clad only in his pajama bottoms .  “It’s a boy. So after Ahmed it’s the boy, NOT ME.” His laughter followed him, echoing like the messenger’s voice all the way to his brother’s wing in opposite end of the Palace.

            Throwing open the enormous carved door, BB leapt onto his brother’s sleeping form, waking him instantly.  “Ahmed! Did you hear?  Your son is here!”

             “Bonbon?  What the blazes…?  Get off me, get off!” Ahmed flung BB off his back, sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

BB bounced up, too excited to feel hurt from the tumble or being called his childhood nickname. “I heard them calling!  You have a boy! A son, a son – it’s just been announced. I have to tell Father!”

“Don’t be a ass,” he growled, “There’s no baby boy, Bashir, I'm going to kill you for this prank …”

“No you won’t.  There is so a boy!”

The pattering of more feet interrupted the night silence.

 “Prince Bashir!” two servants burst in, coming to a dead halt and folding into a deep bow. “Oh, forgive us, Your Highness,” they bowed again to Ahmed, “Permission to speak to Prince Bashir, if it pleases you sir.”

“It does NOT please me. Get out. Get out!  I don’t who care who speaks to whom, get the hell out!”

Without a second thought, they all ran, lest Ahmed begin hurling things at them.

“Hurry, Your Majesty, he’s here,” the servant pointed to one of the back staircases.

“This way is faster!” BB pointed.

“No, Highness.  These back stairs will get you to the Royal Stables much faster.”

BB stopped dead.  Three whole seconds ticked by in his head before he turned to face the men.  “The Royal Stables? But …”

“Yes, Isabella is fretting for you.”

“Isabella?”

“Yes,” bowed the servant again, “Isabella has produced her foal.  It’s male.”

“Oh no.  Oh NO.  So it’s not Ahmed’s baby? It’s Isabella’s foal… what about the Royal baby?”

The servants hung their heads, neither looked up at the Prince.  Neither made eye contact.  That could only mean one thing: one terrible thing.  “Ahmed did not have a boy then?”

They shook their heads, still not looking up.

“A girl?”

They nodded in unison.

“Argh!  Nooo.  No, no no.” BB beat his temples and stamped his feet.  “Jumping jiggery-pokery.  Argh.  Never mind; I still won’t be Sultan.  Come on – I need to celebrate with my lovely Isabella.  What are you waiting for?”

Hold on, I’m coming. I’m coming. BB’s forearms and neck prickled as he skidded into the vast stable. The entrance was ablaze with flickering torchlight, excited whispers and the sweet smell of fresh straw. Men parted and quieted as he hurtled toward the ample birthing section.

I’m coming. He ran smack into someone. “S- sorry…” Winded, BB doubled over, clutching his knees.

“No, it is I you who begs your pardon, Prince BB,” Agad bowed and stepped aside, revealing Isabella.

There she stood, silver-white and shining in the late-night moonlight.

BB gaped.

She nickered the moment she spotted him, pushing the musky smell of her recent foaling toward him, warm and milky.

“Hi … I’m here.” He looked straight at her.

She bobbed her head.

Ignoring the bloodied straw and afterbirth, he inched forward, wrapped his arms around her sweaty neck and buried his face in her matted mane.

“You did it, you wonderful, beautiful, clever girl,” BB rubbed her arched neck and then blew into her nostrils.  Snorting and blowing in response, Isabella nickered, turning her head to one side.

BB stepped back, “Ah, you have something to show me?” he teased.

Huddled in the cool safety of her shadow, still damp but upright on wobbly legs, was Isabella’s foal.  She licked its head and nudged it forward so BB could have a better look.

“Isabella,” he whispered falling to his knees. “He’s beautiful … perfect and beautiful.  Come here little one, yes, that’s it.  I’m not going to hurt you,” BB placed a hand on the newborn’s damp back.  “Eleven months we’ve been waiting for you, did you know that, little chap?”

Without a sounds, someone handed BB a clean towel and he began the slow and gentle process of cleaning off the sticky amniotic fluid.  “You’re so handsome little one and by the time the sun comes up, you’ll be ready to run around outside, did you know that?” A gentle ripple of laughter warmed his heart.  Everyone loved an easy birth.

He was almost finished rubbing the foal’s face, when he gasped, “Double faint-star?  Isabella, did you make a double faint-star?” he turned to look at his mare and then returned to her foal’s forehead.

Isabella whinnied and curled back her lips, tossing her neck, flailing her mane, delighted.

“Come, Agad,” BB called to the head groom, “Tell me about these markings.”

Crouching low, Agad put his hands together and faced BB. “Begging your pardon, Prince BB, but you must not inspect the horse before putting its horse-cloth on.”

“Horse-cloth? Agad, I don’t care about the horse-cloth, or the value of the foal.  Horse-cloths are for people who are buying horses.  This one’s not for sale and never will be.” BB waved a dismissive hand, “I want you to tell me about these,” he pointed to the two pinprick markings on the foal’s forehead.

“Very well then.  Let us take a closer look. Inspection torch,” he called out, making the foal jump.

“Shh.” BB stroked the skittish baby, “Be gentle, Agad if you please.”

“Ah, he doesn’t mind,” Agad grinned.

“But I mind.  I don’t want him startled.  Not now. Not ever.  Please treat him with kindness and consideration.”

Agad dropped his head, “Of course, Prince BB.  I’m foolishly excited and lost my head.”

BB patted the man’s arm, “I know.  Now tell me what you see.”

“Hmm.” The head-groom’s voice seemed stuck in his throat as he illuminated the shivering body nostril to rump.

“What do you mean, ‘Hmm’?  Spit it out, man.”

“Hmm.  Yes definitely twin faint-stars, which would usually be good but …” Agad’s voice trailed off.

“But, what? Agad?”

Every movement froze.  Every sound stilled.  Even Isabella seemed to be holding her huge breath.

“Oh, Prince BB, this is difficult.  So difficult.  There is more, but I do not wish to be the bearer of this portent.  It is too heavy even for me to say aloud.” Agad bowed his head.

“Nonsense.” BB returned to rubbing the damp foal pulling him closer.  “Everything looks perfect.  I know a double faint-star is a sign of good things to come.  What the blazes do you see that I don’t?” BB motioned for the Royal Veterinarian to come close.  “Come, come.  You look too and don’t dare tell me he doesn’t look perfect.”

The two men muttered, poked, lifted, splayed and further examined the colt until BB could contain himself no further. “That’s enough!  Tell me what you’ve found.  Whatever it is, I’m going to keep the foal, I tell you.”

“Well, it’s not that easy,” the veterinarian pushed back his white hair.  Agad mirrored his expression and shook his head.

“It’s this right here,” the older man pointed to the foal’s armpit.

“What?  Smelly armpits already?” BB chortled a ripple of laughter echoed behind him. “Really Isabella, I’m shocked,” BB looked up at her feigning a stern look.  She tossed her head and continued to stare down at them.

“Your Highness, Prince Bashir …” Agad began.  BB sobered up, knowing that the head groom meant business when he addressed him by his full name. “This marking in the armpit, this feather-marking is called a Kukhapit.  It is a powerful portent.”

The silence that followed was brittle.

Everyone seemed to lean in.

The foal edged closer to its dam.

“Portent?” BB’s voice cracked.

“Yes.  It means all relatives of owner will die before him.”

Shirley

Shirley Brady Johnson

  by Cath Rathbone

Shirley, you’re divine;

Happy,

Interesting,

Real, sublime.  Your

Love shows

Every day in

Your own special way.

Blessed are you! You

Radiate that joy

All over – every

Day, (and nights too.)

You truly are a beacon.

Just when

Others crave

Hope, in you come;

Never failing to

Share your light

Openly with those in

Need.

Remembering seven

REMEMBERING SEVEN

Pop.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

My eyes are wide open.  It’s dark.  It must be the middle of the night.  Maybe three or four am.  Yikes.

I look about the window and see the street is empty.  And dark.  No street lights in Carrasco in those days.  There used to be one lonely one about two blocks away, where the beautiful, one-and-only Bowling Alley had been; but the street lamp disappeared when they cleared away all the rubble of the Bowling Alley after someone bombed it.

Pop.

What’s that noise? Mummy? I’m whispering in my head, I’m scared.  But no Mummy comes.

I can’t go back to sleep.  I’m counting blue sheep jumping over fences.  But it’s not working.  They’re not happy.  They can also hear the pop, pop, pop.  They’re shivering and running away.  Wait!  Come back, please, come back.

Maybe I should go to the bathroom?  Or maybe not.  The snake might be under the bed.  For sure the snake’s under the bed, because that’s where it lives at night.  Sometimes with the crocodile.  I’ve seen the crocodile creep up the stairs dragging its long, long tail eight steps behind it.

Mummyyyy? Help me; I’m frightened of the popping sounds.

Niggy? I call my little dog in my head, but Niggy’s a bit deaf and quite old – he’s my age, but Mummy says in dog years, that’s about 49.  Yikes, that’s really, really old. Although he still fights dogs, bigger dogs, all the time.

I wish I had some chocolate.  Chocolate always makes me feel better.  Chocolate makes me smile.  Chocolate. Two chocolates, three choc…

“Noony? My Daddy’s shaking me awake.  It’s morning.  The sun is getting ready to break in through the curtains. “Were you dreaming? You were doing something quite funny, making a popping sound like this,” and Daddy put his finger in his mouth and snapped it out against the tight left side of his lips. Pop. “Like that, Noony.”

“Oh.” I’m turning scarlet, I know it, I can feel the red burning in my face and neck. “Pop?”

Daddy nods.

"Did you also hear me in the night?" I whisper into the blankets I've pulled up to my nose.

"Yes, I think I did.  Come on, it's time for school."

I know it's safe to get up now, because the big black shoes have already chased away the snake and the crocodile too.

I hop out, put my finger in my mouth.  Snap it out.  Pop.

It worked.  All day yesterday I'd practiced and it hand't worked.  

Pop.

Pop. 

I was good at this now.

Your WRITE to Find Yourself

The more I write the more I find out about myself.  I never leave the page disappointed.  Well, I lie.  If nothing comes onto the page, then I leave disappointed. 

It’s not always easy.  It’s a question of pushing through the stubbornness and ploughing through the same random silly excuses.

Then all of a sudden I’m there.  I’m in that place where I begin to discover the real me that’s hidden, waiting, afraid almost, under all those layers of rules, conventions, society classes … layers of a world of cement that so often gave me a bum steer.

Never mind!  Today is a brilliant day and it’s time to share this gift.  I’ve been told over and over by those who have gone before me, that in order to keep it you have to give it away.  Share it. It's like love, the more you give the more you have to give.

This is not my invention and I don't attempt to take credit for it  – people have been doing it for centuries  –  but I’ve added my own twist.  A twist that comes from the experiences of my life, the places I’ve visited, the people I’ve met, the relationships I’ve had and those I’ve missed.  It comes from the words of other writers whom I have followed, observed and read. And it comes most especially from things I've failed at, my mistakes, blunders, and poor choices.

A beautiful student of mine of many, many years ago, Clarita Berenbau, died recently.  She was only 30 years old and had given birth to twin boys but never lived to see their first birthday.  Cancer didn't stop her; she made sure her life didn’t pass in vain.  She spoke out about living a full life with "it" and touched so very, very many people.

http://www.fundacionclaritaberenbau.org/

She will never know this, but her life and testimony have ignited a new level of passion in me.  Let this death not be in vain.  Let the lesson not pass unlearned.  This is but a beginning.

Darling Mummy

A letter to my mother on the birth of her second child …

Darling Mummy,

For some mystical reason, I have felt the urge to dedicate my birthday to you this year and I’m proud to do so.  I have no memory of that day, nor of so many of the years that followed that day. So many questions.

Fifty-four years ago, you were wheeled into a sterile delivery room, alone, at the British Hospital, in Uruguay.  The outcome of your nine-month wait: another girl.  Everyone, and you included, had predicted a boy.  Everything ready was for a boy.  But I was a girl.

How did you feel?  I have wondered all day today … In my selfish act of growing up, chasing my teens, raising my own kids, and adding notches to the growth chart of my life, I never really thought about the fact that this day is just as much about you as it was about me.

I wondered all day today if – as you sat in your room bundled up against the horrible English winter – you had a flash of memory about that day, fifty-four years ago today when you became a mother for the second time. So many questions.

That’s something else I’ll never know, and it's OK, Mummy, because I don’t remember anything about that day either.  Maybe if I’d been smart enough, earlier, to ask you more questions, to be more curious, you might have told me more of your story.  I think this shows me that memories can sometimes be overrated – because even thought neither of us remembers, we’re both here.  So many questions.

Too late for questions now.  So, thank you, Mummy.  Thank you for going through whatever you went through to give me the gift of life and love.  You were and always be the most amazing, caring, loving and funny girl; brave and shy; stern yet fair; always interested in other people’s lives and ready to lend a hand - even today.  I love you always.  Noony xxx

I need to have a rant.

If you’ve been reading my blog lately, you know that Mum is in the latter stages of Alzheimer’s and occasionally I write about it.  About the things that have made me grow; things that have made me sit up and take notice; things that have made me sad. I’ve written about special days, happy memories, sad moments but most of all, I want to reach out and share with you so that you can see that there’s a whole new relationship out there for the taking, if you’re become willing to accept that the person you once knew is changing.

Having been granted the grace to accept Mummy’s Alzheimer’s, doesn’t mean I like it. I’m overprotective and at times frustrated.  Ridden with guilt many times too, because I live seven thousand kilometers away in Florida, while she lives out the winter of her life in a residential home in England.

That being said, I am privileged to be given a ticket to fly over and spend time with her, at least twice a year.  For that I will always be grateful.

When I come over, we do things together.  A lot.  Most outings are like a first for Mum and that’s fine by me.  It’s like watching a child revel in discovery and we always end up having a laugh.  I will cherish these memories.

Church is something Mum and I do together when I’m there.  A very laid-back children’s service, where she can get her fill of kiddies, babies, parents, and gaze upon the exciting hustle and bustle of life – such a difference from the slump-walk of death she has to face everyday where she lives.

Here, friends embrace her with warmth and love. 

“Hello Daphne!” they hug her.  They understand she’s nervous and struggling to keep up.  She smiles and stirs her coffee.  Puts another sugar in.  I hold her hand because when we’re together, she tells me she feels safe. 

Then along comes Penelope. Oh no! She makes eye contact with me first then looks at Mum and rolls her eyes.  She comes right up to Mum, her face three inches from Mum’s.  Mum looks at her with the same half smile, half frown, but trusts this is another friend of mine, because I greet her by name.

Her tone is so horribly nasal and condescending and she draws out every words. “Hello, Daphne.  You don’t remember me, but I don’t mind.” She laughs and winks at me

Then she turns to talk to me, ignoring the hurt look on Mum’s face.  I want to smack her! My heart breaks for Mummy, because I don’t know how to handle a situation like this one.  How on earth am I supposed to tell this woman how horribly she’s hurt my mother?

After she’s left, Mum turns to me, “Why did she say that? I’ve never met her before.”

I give her a hug.  “Don’t worry about it, Mummy, I think she’s confused.”

“Oh.  Because I’ve never seen her before.” She puts her hand in mine.

I really want to smack Penelope.  Right there, in church.  I’m sorry, God, but I do. I don’t consider myself a violent person, but that’s the feelings that races through my veins. How dare she say that to Mum?  To her face?

Penelope, however, is well intentioned most of the time. She works hard to greet every person who comes in through the doors, she bustles everyone about, she serves, she hosts, she talks, she boasts and … well … she just always seems to be there.

Perhaps I should have a heart to heart with Penelope or perhaps I should just let it go.  I’m not sure what to do, you see, because I never know what’s going to stick in Mum’s mind and what isn’t.

Problem is: if I come to talk to her, being at the end of my rope with her insensitive behavior, I might just slap her.  And that wouldn’t do any good, would it?

Flow

Flowing our writings:   with pieces stolen, borrowed and copied from friends in the turret. With thanks to Jill, Lynn, Claire, Claudia, Julia, and Val.  Magical evening...

“Why, the old dears of the parish haven’t had so much to talk about for years,” Eleanor said, picking her cuticles.

“Really?  What happened?” Vi prompted with a poke in the ribs as the train hurtled down the tracks to Brighton.

“Well, you know these teenagers of untamed temperament…all snuggled together like cats in a basket one moment…and the next…” Eleanor paused, rolling her eyes. “Well.  Right out there in the park, I’ll tell you!”

“Really? What happened?”

“Ah, well.  It was Sunday’s bonfire, just after the sun had winked its last golden eye of the day, and they were at it!  Even down in the watercress and daisies!” Eleanor coughed, an ugly crackling sound in her chest and throat.

“Really? I can’t believe it.  I can just imagine the old dears’ faces, looking to see if this was a day for smiling.”

“Oh, no.  No smiling for them! It was leggy here, chrome handlebar there, spitting bonfire, alcohol…repulsive thing that sends children’s smiles devilish.” Ignoring the signs everywhere, Eleanor lit a cigarette and blew out a long plume of blue-grey smoke through pencil-thin red lips.

“Really?” With a nervous giggle, Vi wrapped her arms around her saggy breasts.  “An then?”

Another cough. “That’s when the strumpet performed.  Letting everyone rip off her clothes, piece by piece.” Vi gasped as Eleanor took a long drag. “Oh yes, they saw it all. Until she was standing there as naked as unctuous incarnate, breaking every law…daring every convention of human decency.  Slut!” With a final puff, she stamed out her cigarette and pushed it over to where a pierced youth snored against the window.

"Really..." Arms still tight over her chest, Vi pinched her wrinkled nipples in secret, remembering how it had killed her soul but paid the bills.