Reflections of Love

by Jeanne

I am Olga, the wife of Ahmad ibn Fadhlan. I am writing these words in the language of my husband, which is now my language too. My native tongue, the speech of the north, is a spoken language only; it has no written counterpart.

My husband has written the story of his exile from Baghdad and his journey to the north, where he joined a band of warriors who came to defend our village against the wendol. Ahmad's history tells of the fight against the wendol and the death of Prince Buliwyf. Although Ahmad mentions me briefly in his account, he has left it to me to tell my story in my own words, and with his love and encouragement, I shall do so.

I was born in the village of King Rothgar in the far north, and I lived there until I was a young woman. Our village was remote, and although our men went to sea and traveled to distant lands, visitors rarely came to us. That is why the arrival of Ahmad ibn Fadhlan in our village created such a stir. To begin with, he looked nothing like the people of the north. His dark eyes and hair were exotic to us, and his skin was so much darker than ours that at first I thought he was dirty. I soon learned, however, that Ahmad was much more fastidious than any of our men, and that the dusky color of his skin was commonplace in the land of his birth.

Compared to the men of the north, Ahmad was small in stature, and although his body was graceful and well-formed, his companions towered above him. Ahmad was a poet and a scholar, occupations virtually unknown in our village. He had not been trained as a warrior, and his lack of skill with our weapons was the source of much amusement. But Ahmad was good natured as well as persistent, and he endured the teasing while he honed his skills and gained proficiency as a warrior.

When the time came to stand against the wendol, Ahmad proved himself as brave as any of our men. He would never have the physical strength that many of our warriors had, but he had a quick mind and a subtle intellect that, in the end, proved more valuable in defeating the wendol than the strength of many men. Without Ahmad, the warriors could not have discovered the lair of the wendol or found their way out again. It was Ahmad who first showed me that a sharp mind can be a more powerful weapon than the sharpest sword.

Ahmad stirred the interest of many women in the village, but I was the one he chose. We became lovers after a fierce battle in which our warriors repulsed the wendol, but at great cost to the village and themselves. With the dead and dying all around us and the village in flames, it seemed inevitable that the wendol would ultimately destroy us. Ahmad comforted me, and we lay together for the first time that night, determined to taste all the sweetness of life before death overtook us.

Well, as you know from Ahmad's account, the wendol were defeated, and Ahmad and I lived, although Prince Buliwyf and many of his warriors perished. Ahmad stayed in our village for several weeks after the final battle. Each day crept by as I waited for darkness, when he would come to me. Each night was so sweet, but so achingly brief that we dreaded the dawn. Ahmad's hands were wise, and in the darkness, they touched my secret places, making me pant with desire and sigh with contentment. His lips burned as he devoured me with kisses each night, only to return the next night, more famished than ever. He whispered words of love as our bodies moved together, calling me his beloved, his beautiful one. Ahmad possessed me completely, and I was his, body and soul.

One night as I lay in Ahmad's arms, he told me that he must leave soon to return to his home. It was the news I had dreaded. I wanted so much to be brave, but I sobbed with grief and begged him not to go. He told me that as the eldest son of his family, he must fulfill his obligations to his aged parents and take responsibility as head of the household upon the death of his father. His duty to his family demanded that he return to Baghdad, if the Caliph would permit it.

I did my best to stifle my sobs, and Ahmad's fingers wiped the tears from my cheeks. He told me to stop crying, that he did not intend for us to be separated. He wanted me to go with him.

I was quiet then, speechless with surprise. I had never imagined that I might go to Baghdad with Ahmad. To tell the truth, Ahmad's descriptions of Baghdad were so fantastic that I only half-believed it was a real city. It seemed more like a beautiful dream of white stones and golden sand shimmering in the desert heat. The village of King Rothgar was all that I knew. The world beyond the village was only a story that Ahmad had told me.

In the end, I was a coward. I could not leave the safety, the familiarity of the village for an unknown world. The tears ran down my cheeks when I told Ahmad, and he wiped them away with a sad smile.

"I'll never forget you," he murmured.

"Forgive me," was all that I could say.

Ahmad asked me not to come to the shore the day that he sailed away from us. I believe that he was afraid of his own feelings. I watched from a distance as he boarded the ship and Herger, standing on the beach, bade him farewell.

You have read of Herger and his friendship with Ahmad in Ahmad's account of the fight against the wendol. Truly, Herger was a loyal friend to both of us. In the days after Ahmad's departure, when the loss of my love ached like the loss of a limb, Herger was the only one who could comfort me. Because he had been Ahmad's friend, I felt closer to Ahmad when I was with Herger. We talked of Ahmad often, and Herger always spoke of his "little brother" with affection and respect.

My grief for Ahmad made me ill for a time. I could not eat or sleep, and my monthly cycles were disturbed. I thought little of that until Queen Weilew spoke to me one night, telling me that I must eat for the sake of the child I was carrying. I touched my belly with wonder. My grief for Ahmad had blinded me to the great gift that he had left behind.

As the months passed, the child inside me grew, balancing the loss of Ahmad with the promise of a new love. Herger remained in the village, although all of the other warriors had left. His kindness to me soothed my loneliness for Ahmad. Perhaps it was selfish of me, but I did not send him away, even when I began to suspect that he was falling in love with me.

Ahmad's child was a son, and I named him Rashid, after Ahmad's great-grandfather. Rashid was a beautiful boy, with his father's dark hair and dusky skin and the blue eyes of the northern people. He gave me the greatest joy and the deepest pain, reminding me always of his father, the man I could not follow, the lover I could not forget.

One evening I sat nursing Rashid in a darkened corner of the great hall. Thinking that no one could see me, I allowed myself to weep for Ahmad, and my bitter tears fell on his little son's head. In a moment, Herger's voice spoke to me softly out of the shadows.

"Such grief is not good for the boy," he said. "It will sour your milk."

"I know," I replied. "It's just that . . . ."

"You were thinking of Ahmad. You can't forget him, can you?"

I shook my head.

"Then you must go to him."

"What do you mean?" I said. "I can't go to him. I don't even know where Baghdad is."

"I suppose," he said, "that you just go south until you reach the desert and then ask directions."

"Even if I did that," I protested, "I couldn't ask directions. I don't speak the language."

"But I do," he said. "Or near enough to make myself understood."

"You would go with me?" I asked.

"I couldn't let you go alone, could I?" he replied. "And besides, I miss my little brother."

I paused for a moment, overcome by the idea that I might see Ahmad again. "What if he doesn't want me any more?" I finally whispered to Herger. "What if he has found someone else?"

"Then you should know that," Herger said, "so that you can go on with your own life. Rashid will need a father, and there are many who would be honored to wed you."

I told Herger that I would think about it, but really, there was nothing to consider. If there was even a chance that I might see Ahmad again, I had to take it. I knew now that whatever terrors the unknown world might hold, they could not hurt me as much as the loss of Ahmad. And even if Ahmad no longer wanted me, he would want his son, he would love Rashid.

The story of our journey to Baghdad could fill a scroll all by itself. The rough seas, the towering mountains, the vast plains lay before us and then behind us as we traveled toward our goal. At every step, Herger was there, helping me over the rough places and taking Rashid from me when the boy grew too heavy for my arms. Rashid came to love Herger on that journey, and I did too, though not in the way he wanted.

We came, at last, to Baghdad. One glance at the gleaming towers of that city showed me how primitive our village must have seemed to Ahmad. In response to Herger's inquiries, we were directed to a fine house in the center of the city, the home, we were told, of Ahmad ibn Fadhlan.

We were admitted into Ahmad's home by a servant who told us that his master was engaged at the moment, but would see us presently. Eyeing our travel-stained condition, the servant suggested that we might like to bathe and refresh ourselves before seeing Ahmad. Rashid and I were taken to a private chamber where Ahmad's maid servants bathed us in warm water. I could not understand their conversation, but as they pointed to my fair skin and touched my golden hair, I realized how strange I must seem to them. My own clothes were dirty and worn, so the women dressed me in a silken robe the color of the periwinkles that grew at home in the north. They brushed my hair until it gleamed, then covered it with a veil, which they drew across my face until only my eyes showed.

Herger, Rashid and I were taken to see Ahmad in his library. He was reading as we entered the room, and I had a moment to study him before he saw us. My breath caught in my throat as I saw his beloved face and realized that my memories had been only pale shadows of the man himself. When he glanced up, the warmth of his eyes came back to me, and my own eyes blurred with sudden tears.

Ahmad saw Herger first and hurried to embrace him, dropping the scroll in his haste. Joy struggled with amazement in his face as he welcomed his friend to his home. Ahmad glanced at me then but saw only a veiled woman holding a child. He was about to turn back to Herger when he saw my eyes. My blue eyes.

"Olga?" he said, in a voice I could not read.

"Yes, Ahmad," I replied. "And this is your son, Rashid."

"Rashid," he repeated, his voice soft with wonder as he stroked the boy's curly hair.

"We've come a long way to see you," Herger said, breaking the silence.

"Indeed you have, my friend," Ahmad replied, "and you must be hungry and tired. I am forgetting my manners. You must have food."

I learned then that it was the custom in that country for men and women to eat separately. Ahmad and Herger would eat together with the men of the household, and I would be taken to another room where food would be brought to me. Ahmad told me that he would come to me after the evening meal.

The servants took me to a richly appointed chamber, where the ruddy light from the fire showed me a wealth of damask hangings and silken pillows. The food was placed on a low table before the fire, and the servants beckoned me to the cushions they had arranged around the table. When at last they left us alone, I removed the veil from my hair and sat before the fire nursing Rashid. I rocked my son in my arms, singing a lullaby of the north, until he fell asleep. I laid him on the soft cushions and tried to eat a little, but found that I had no appetite.

I waited nervously for Ahmad to come, thinking of those days in the distant north when I had longed for the darkness that would bring him to me. How different things were now. I had waited then with confidence that Ahmad would come to me in love. Now, I didn't know what to expect.

A door closed softly behind me, and suddenly Ahmad was in the room. His eyes had the penetrating look that I recalled, and he wasted no time on pleasantries.

"Why did you come to me?" he asked, in the beautiful voice that I remembered.

"I wanted you to know that you have a son," I replied.

"Yes," he answered, bending down to the sleeping child, "Rashid is a beautiful boy.

"Was there any other reason you came?" he asked, rising again.

I hesitated for a moment, but in the end, I knew that only the truth would do. "I couldn't forget you," I said. "Every time I looked at Rashid, I thought of you, thought of what I lost when you went away."

"Regret has a bitter taste, hasn't it?" he said, his voice thick with feeling.

"I had to see you again," I continued. "To see if you might still care for me, or if you had forgotten, found someone else."

"There's been no one else," he said then. "I never saw a woman who could compare with you."

The sadness in his voice brought tears to my eyes, and when Ahmad saw them, he pulled me to my feet and into his arms. "Don't cry, love," he said softly, "don't cry. The time we've lost we can't get back, but we can have the rest of our lives together, if that's what you want."

"Dearest, it's all I want," I whispered, my face against his shoulder and my arms around his neck. Touching him, hearing his voice, breathing in his scent. It was all the sweetness I remembered and much more than I'd ever thought I would know again.

Ahmad stood cupping my face in his hands, looking down at me with his warm amber gaze. When he bent to kiss me, a spark leapt between us, rekindling the passion that had burned so brightly in the northern nights. My lips opened to him, and, once again, my tongue savored his taste.

Ahmad led me through a door hidden behind the hangings into a chamber golden with the light of many lamps. As we moved toward the bed, I glimpsed a movement at the other end of the room and turned to see a woman watching us. Her fair hair fell past her shoulders, and she wore a blue robe like mine. I walked toward her, and she approached me, reaching out to me the moment that I reached toward her. Our fingers met, but mine touched only a smooth, cool surface, not living flesh. The puzzlement on the woman's face echoed my own.

"Who is she?" I asked Ahmad. "Why can't I touch her?"

"She is yourself," he replied, walking toward me as his double appeared behind the other woman. "Your reflection," he continued, "as in a pool of water."

"But this is not water," I said, my fingers remembering the hard surface they had touched.

"No," he replied. "It is a mirror, a looking glass. It shows us ourselves as others see us."

"Is this how you see me?" I asked, gesturing toward the woman in the mirror.

"Yes," he answered, "a jewel beyond compare. Let me show you how beautiful you are."

Ahmad's fingers unfastened the blue robe, and as it fell to my feet, the woman in the mirror stood naked before me. The lamp light shone on her fair skin, outlining the shape of her breasts, the curve of her hips. She smiled at me as her lover's hands touched her, and I felt Ahmad's warm fingers against my skin. The dark man in the mirror bent toward the woman, and Ahmad's lips touched my throat. His hands moved over me as he murmured how much he had missed me, how much he desired me.

I turned to Ahmad then, my hands fumbling with his unfamiliar robes as my mouth sought his again and again. When at last his robes were loosened, he took me in his arms, and I felt again the strong, lean body that had loved me so well in the nights of the distant north. The bodies of the man and the woman in the mirror intertwined, making a pattern of dark skin against light. Hot with desire, Ahmad and I sank down onto the soft, thick rugs that covered the floor.

Ahmad's fingers traced a line from my throat to my breasts, and his mouth followed, teasing my nipples with the lightest flicks of his tongue. I groaned when I could stand no more, twining my fingers in his dark curls as I pulled him toward me. His lips opened, and he took my nipple into his mouth, sucking me until he tasted the milk that my body had made for his son.

As I suckled him, Ahmad's hands traveled down my body, stroking the softness of my belly and coaxing my thighs apart. His fingers caressed the tender flesh of my thighs, then moved higher, brushing against the curls between my legs. I was panting by then, aching for him to touch me. I sobbed with pleasure when his fingers parted my nether lips and found the throbbing center of my desire.

My hips rocked as Ahmad's fingers slipped inside me, feeling how hot, how wet he had made me. "You are ready for me, my love," he said, his voice deep with passion.

"I burn for you," I answered, pulling him toward me, guiding him in.

We were still for a moment, and I savored the feel of my lover inside me. Ahmad raised himself on his strong arms, looking down at me as he began to move slowly in and out, catching his breath as my muscles tensed around him. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tempo increased. Ahmad's eyes closed, and he trembled with the urgency of his need, the strength of his desire. The heat of our passion burned me, and I begged him for release, craving the fulfillment that only he could give. As I pulled him down, Ahmad drove into me with such hunger, such desire, that my body convulsed against him, throbbing with the fierce pleasure he gave me. Ahmad's hands slipped beneath my hips, and he thrust into me even more deeply as my soft cries urged him on. The rhythm of our bodies rose to a thundering crescendo, and as we surrendered to the sweet release, Ahmad spoke my name, calling me his heart's desire, filling my ears with words of love as he filled my body with his seed.

We lay still for a time, wrapped in a lovers' embrace. When the room grew cool with the evening air, Ahmad rose, lifted me into his arms and carried me to the bed. I watched drowsily as he left the room for a moment and then returned, cradling Rashid against his chest. He gave the baby to me and then lay down with us, gathering us into his arms as if we were his most precious treasure. I knew then that Ahmad was my home, and always would be.

When Herger saw us together the next morning, he knew at once that Rashid and I would not return to the north with him. He stayed long enough to attend the wedding, and I believe that he was truly happy for us, despite his own disappointment. Herger has kept in touch with us over the years, sending us letters written in the Latin language, which Ahmad has learned to read. And always, Herger's letters are accompanied by a gift for Rashid, the boy he came to love on the journey to Baghdad.

Rashid is a young man now, with five brothers and sisters who have made their father very proud. These days, when I look into Ahmad's mirror, I see that the woman who lives there has grown older. There are silver threads in her golden hair and lines around her blue eyes. But Ahmad does not seem to notice these changes. "I have never seen a woman who could compare with you," he says, as he appears in the mirror beside her. We smile together, and as Ahmad takes me in his arms, the man and the woman in the looking glass kiss with such joy, such contentment that I am sure they must be as happy as we are.