Slash of Crimson
A steady, warm drizzle falls through the night, ending
just after daybreak, slaking the thirst of the magical
garden. The lush terraced earth exhales, refreshed and
jubilant. The cypress roots sense their opportunity and
begin anew to worm vertically into the softened soil. Their
coffers bulging, the wind–tilled reflecting pools
offer a warm welcome to their long–lost cousins. The
gray and purple marbled sky has split open in several rough
patches, the sun's streaky yellow rays brazenly stretching
through down to the earth, brushed in with egg yokes. The
bird–gossip is boisterous, bawdy, an avian shouting
match almost deafening in its enthusiasm. All is dark, damp
and new. Glistening. Beads of sweat cling stubbornly to the
canary rose petals and ruby cannas lilies, who luxuriate in
the humid air, resisting the urge to dog–shake them to
the ground.
Aisha's leisurely crunch upon the pea gravel path is
echoed by Musa and Yazdan. The two bodyguards walk to either
side of her, a half pace behind, as if she is their worry.
Their eyes gauge the fog–tinged landscape, sweeping
the garden for any hints of mischief, signs of danger.
Aisha's eyes lazily track about as she day–dreams. An
especially generous buffer of thirty paces separates the
three chaperones from their charges, ample space to enable
the cacophony of fountain splash and birdsong to render the
lovers' conversation private.
To their left are rose beds in voluptuous full bloom,
dozens of interspersed red, yellow, white and pink blossoms.
A pleasing musky, spicy, citrus scent hangs heavy in the
moist air. To their right a head–high, sculpted
cypress hedge lines the gravel path, marked by periodic
keyhole–shaped privacy niches.
They walk deeper into the Partal Gardens, listening to
the birdsong and basking in the garden's simple harmony.
Chandon is the first to break the silence.
"Your father told me that we may ride together on
Wednesday. Provided, of course, our favorite twosome
accompanies us." He grins.
She answers with a smile. "Yes, he mentioned it last
night. That will be fun. I miss my riding. Before my Sufi
training began, I used to roam the Vega several times a week."
"The Vega is a wonderful place to ride. Blue is a fine
stallion, fast and proud. I have never ridden his equal."
"He was one of my father's favorites. He has ancient
Arabian blood lines, you know, one of the finest Andalusians
in the kingdom. However, I must warn you, sir, that my Afán
has never been bested."
He laughs. "We shall see, my Lady, we shall see. Your
Afán has yet to challenge Blue." He offers a coy, mock
frown. "I am afraid for poor Musa and Yazdan. I suspect
their stallions will not be able to keep up with us." They
share a knowing look, simultaneously grin, stroll on in silence.