Wrapped in the mist of musky incense, under the firelight of a thousand torches perched high on the stone walls in polished brass holders, the whole scene was a plunge into the most lavish eras of bygone empires, or even One Thousand and One Nights.
As her dazed glance swept the space, the details were almost too much to take in. Cascading satin banners with Jareer’s tribal insignias. Acres of tulle and voile wrapping around columns, raining from the hundred-foot-high ceiling and spanning the elaborate Arabesque framework. And the hall that Mohab had installed exploding with flower arrangements. The hundreds of people present looked like sparkling gems themselves in all kinds of finery, from lavish modern evening gowns and tuxedos, to costumes that belonged in a masquerade.
Then everything ceased to exist. In the depths of the hall, on top of a maroon-satin covered platform, with two elaborately carved and gilded ceremonial chairs at his back, there he stood. Mohab.
His hair is loose. It was the first thing that burst into her mind. He’d never worn it down in public before. But now it brushed the top of his massive shoulders, its thick luxury and vitality gleaming with sun strands in the firelight.
The second thing that impinged on her hazy awareness was that he was dressed like he had stepped out of the Arabian Nights. Like everyone in her bridal procession, his clothes had the same color scheme, if in much darker tones. A burgundy abaya cascaded from his shoulders to his feet over a gold-beige top embroidered in his tribal motifs. Dark maroon pants clung to his muscled thighs before disappearing into darker leather boots.
He looked like the embodiment of the might of the desert, the implacability of the fates. And he glowed. She swore he did. From the inside. With power and distinction. And she loved him with everything in her. Despite the harsh lessons of the past and the permanent injuries lying in the future.
An eruption of thuds made her lurch, even though she’d known it was coming. The matrons of the tribe began her bridal procession with a boisterous percussive zaffah that was a variation of what she was used to in Judar.
She snatched a look behind her at the older women with their chins and temples tattooed. One of them was two feet to her side, whacking away at a mihbaj wooden grinder.
Then others joined on all the local percussive instruments—the tambourine-like reg, the bigger jangle-free duff and the vase-shaped hand drum called a darabukkah. After that rousing introduction, melody players joined in, an evocative droning emanating from the string rababah, and the squealing of reedlike mizmar. Then voices rose, from all around, singing congratulations to the bridegroom for his incomparable bride.
She found herself rushing beside Kamal, powered by Mohab’s hunger that demanded her at his side. Once they were on top of the platform, her eyes clung to her most beloved people, Kamal and Mohab, locked in a firm embrace that exchanged pledge and trust, before withdrawing to grip each other by one hand, while their other exchanged her from brother to husband.
Then she was clasped tight to Mohab’s side, drowning in him, in the hyperreality of it all.
Putting his lips to her ears as the song continued, he whispered, “Do you know I play the darabukkah?”
The totally unexpected comment had her gasping, “Can I have a demonstration later?”
“Only if you promise to dance for me.”
She lurched as if he’d scalded her. And he had. He’d injected a whole scene of abandoned sensuality into her imagination. Of her, in an explicitly revealing belly-dancing costume, undulating in a fever to the carnal rhythm, getting hotter with every move before he pulled her on top of him, thrust up into her and rode her into oblivion....
The music stopped, bringing her runaway imaginings to a grinding halt. Then the ma’zoon came forward to begin the marriage ritual. It was really happening.
Mohab took her hand in his and the cleric covered their clasped fingers in a pristine white cloth, placing his palm atop them and intoning the marriage declarations. They repeated only the last parts after him, each accepting the other as a spouse. As the cleric stepped away, she thought that was it and she’d managed to survive the ritual without further upheavals. But before she could move, Mohab took her other hand in his.
Looking soulfully into her eyes, his voice rang out to fill the hall, deep and reverent. “That was what any man pledges to any woman he marries. But my pledge to you is that you have all of me, have always had all of me and will always have all of me. All that I own, all that I do and all that I am.”
She stared up at him, nothing in her bursting heart and chaotic mind translating into words, let alone anything as evocative as what he’d just said. It was all she could do to remain on her feet as the crowd roared with applause again.
In a tumult over what he’d just said, wondering if it had been for show or if it could possibly be true, she watched the Aal Kussaimi tribe elder climb up onto the platform.
He announced that by the unanimous vote of all tribes of Jareer, Mohab was appointed as king of their land, with his heirs after him inheriting the title.
After that, she could barely register anything as the cacophony rose to deafening levels while every tribe elder came up to kiss Mohab’s shoulder and offer him the symbol of their tribe, pledging their allegiance and obedience.
Then only she and Mohab remained, and he was talking.
“By the responsibility you granted me, and the privilege you bestowed on me, as your king, I pledge I will rule with justice and mercy, doing everything in my power to fulfill your aspirations and achieve your prosperity.” He led her to the edge of the platform. “As my first decree as king of Jareer, I give you my one treasure to rule beside me, in her wisdom and compassion, your queen...Jala Aal Masood.”
Cheers rocked the hall, rising to thundering levels as Mohab smashed the region’s every ban on displays of public affection and devoured her in a deeply explicit kiss.
Without hesitation, she sank into the rough demand, the ecstasy of his taste and feel. She would take it all with him, every second, every breath, every spark of his desire, and make a reservoir of memories for the life ahead devoid of all of that, of him.
Amid a storm of cheering led by her family, he finally relinquished her lips. Then, grinning down at her, eyes blazing with exhilaration, he shouted to her over the din, “Shall we give them the joloos they’re after?”
Nodding, his enthusiasm infecting her, she rushed after him to their thrones. After he’d seated her in hers, he came down before her on one knee, his eyes roiling with hunger as he kissed her hand. Then he whispered something she couldn’t hear. But she read it on his lips. “Maleekati.”