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Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night
And wouldn’t you love to love her?
Takes to the sky like a bird in flight
And who will be her lover?
All your life you’ve never seen
Woman, taken by the wind
Would you stay if she promised you heaven?
Will you ever win?
933Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEiMXcDtjAC
She is like a cat in the dark
And then she is the darkness
She rules her life like a fine skylark
And when the sky is starless
All your life you’ve never seen
Woman taken by the wind
Would you stay if she promised you heaven?
Will you ever win?
Will you ever win?
933Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyQGQcZW7vg
Rhiannon
Fleetwood Mac
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Hawwa walked barefoot into the main harem of her father’s palace and paused just within the entrance, surveying the throngs of women and children who were socializing in relaxed positions. She glanced over the faces of the women who made up the royal harem; wives, mistresses, daughters, but mostly servants and bureaucrats.
Harem life could be a delicate and tricky business. Men never seemed to understand how cruel women could be to each other, for they were just as ambitious as their male counter-parts. Gossip tended to be the most useful weapon in a Sultana’s arsenal, but the women of the harem were not above murder. Her mother had taught her that lesson when she had included her on a scheme that resulted in the very tragic death of one of the Sultan’s mistresses. There had been many other mysterious deaths, but that had been the only one where she had been privy to the conspiracy. Her mother had referred to it as a “learning” experience.
She finally located the face she had been looking for and walked across the hall to her mother, who was lounging on an array of colorful cushions with some of the Sultan’s other wives and watching a performance. She sat down carelessly next to her mother, without greetings, letting her mother continue her morning ritual of manipulation and scheming. While she waited for her mother to acknowledge her existence, she watched the girls dance in front of her. They had been brought in from the Roma district and were performing a new style called belly dancing. The girls who were performing the coordinated dance were young, to the point that Hawwa was unsure if some had even flowered. Yet, they gyrated their hips in a syncopated unison that was entrancing and alluring. The older girls had zils that they clapped together in complicated rhythms that both led and complimented the motion of their hips, their colorful silken wraps flapping around them. Some of the outfits were covered in metal ornaments that made each movement musical.
In a few moments like this, Hawwa did not feel completely jaded and bored by her pampered lifestyle. She responded physically to this dance and wanted to learn it as soon as possible. She masked her interest in it, however, to practice her acting abilities and maintain her consistently unimpressed reputation.
Her mother finally turned to her, “You look particularly bored this morning; you are too obvious and I am unconvinced.”
“Sorry mother, I will work on my subtlety.”
Her mother gave her a warm smile that implied nothing but maternal love and devotion. Hawwa did not know if she believed any emotion her mother displayed. She had seen her mother convincingly lie enough times to know that you never truly knew what the woman was thinking. Although her mother had never given her a reason to not trust her, still it did not mean that she wasn’t being manipulated by her.
“So, what are your plans for the day?”
“Besides my normal artistic and social endeavors? I was thinking that I would like to meet with a merchant from the bazaar.”
“Really? That’s the third time this week. You are developing a shopping habit.”
That was exactly the opening Hawwa had been hoping for. She now reached for the subtlety her mother believed she lacked. She sighed and twirled her long dark hair around a singular finger. “I really am bored here. Perusing the goods available in the bazaar is a way to pass the time. If I had a husband and children to attend to perhaps I would not need to use such diversions.”
“Oh Hawwa, I know you are becoming impatient. There just are not that many suitors to choose from.”
“I know. Father really has spent too much time siring daughters. We are running out of suitable husbands and I feel that my womb will begin to shrivel up any day now.”
Her mother gave her a sympathetic frown, then said, “Be patient; we cannot marry you off to just anybody.”
Hawwa let the statement hang in the air between them. The moment had come to plant the idea in her mother’s head. “Perhaps we should begin to look beyond our own walls. The right match could lead to a trading alliance that could be very beneficial to all involved.”
Hawwa said it as casually as she could, as if the idea had just come to her, but her mother had not missed the clues in her daughter’s voice that revealed that she had been thinking of this for a while. Hawwa watched out of the corner of her eye as her mother turned the idea over in her mind, although she could not tell if her mother’s initial reaction to the idea was positive or negative. She decided to let her mother think it over outside of her presence. “Well, I’m off to the mosque. May I eat lunch with you upon my return?”
Her mother gave her a warm smile, concealing anything that might have given away her thoughts on the matter, and said, “Of course. I will see you then.”
She left her mother’s side and walked to one of the exits of the large hall where she met with Judar, the large black eunuch who was in charge of maintaining the safety of the women within the harem. “Please inform Alanzo D’amore I wish to see his selection of glass vases at the mosque within the hour.” The large eunuch only nodded and went to make the necessary arrangements. She could not conceal the grin that appeared on her face at the thought of the Italian merchant and went to make her own arrangements.
Exiting the vast hall of the main harem, she turned down a series of tiled halls towards her own chambers. She set an excited pace for herself, unable to keep the spring from her step. As she turned the corner, she crashed unexpectedly into another body. She gathered herself after the collision, smoothing out the wrinkles of her skirt before looking up into the eyes of her half-sister Manara. She huffed as she too rearranged her garment around her.
“Good morning Hawwa,” she said in a polite tone that only barely covered her obvious contempt. Manara was the daughter of one of the other Sultanas—one who was not a part of her mother’s allegiances. She was a few months younger than Hawwa and in many ways Hawwa’s direct competition.
Manara inspected her before asking, “What has you running so excitedly around corners this morning without looking?”
Hawwa smiled pleasantly back. “Dear sister, I realized I was running late for a meeting with a merchant. My mother always said that tardiness is unbecoming of a sultana.”
Manara smiled back at her, but something dangerous glinted in her eye. “Well I hope you enjoy shopping.” She continued to gaze at Hawwa as she walked around her. Hawwa looked behind her and watched Manara walk down the hall. She bit her lip nervously. That could pose a very serious problem.
