A Woman Named
Mother

An original story inspired by Disney's Aladdin
by Sedeara

==================================================================

Chapter One
 
          "I'm going to
catch you!"  Aladdin yelled breathlessly, chasing
Jasmine down the palace halls.  They were playing a game of tag,
and
Aladdin was "IT".
         "No you're not!" 
Jasmine called over her shoulder.  She raced ahead of
him, turned a corner, and disappeared into one of the palace's rarely
used
storage rooms.  She moved to the back of the chamber and ducked
down
behind an old trunk.
         Aladdin entered the
room shortly after her.  His eyes searched it, but he
didn't see her.  "Hey, no fair!"  he laughed. "This is tag,
not hide and seek!"
He ran ahead so quickly that he didn't notice a rolled up silk rug
on the floor.
He tripped, and in an effort to steady himself, he grabbed onto one
of the
shelves.  It was unsteady, and when he leaned against it, it fell
to the ground
with a noisy clatter.
         Luckily it was empty,
except for one huge framed portrait that dropped
off.  Aladdin rushed and caught it, still laughing.  He looked
at the picture in
his hands but couldn't make it out because it was covered with dust. 
He blew
it off, sneezing as the particles flew around him.
         He stopped laughing
when he saw the painting.  His breath caught in
his throat.  It was a beautiful woman,  obviously royalty,
who looked no older
than sixteen or seventeen.  She was wearing fine jewel studded
silk robes of
purple and azure.  A braid was wrapped around her head and tucked
behind
her magnificent crown.  The rest of her thick black hair hung
to the middle of
her back, with flowers strung through it.  Her neck, ears, and
arms were
adorned with jewelry.    Her skin was dark, and she
had the most gorgeous
big, brown, sparkling eyes.    Her red lips were captured
forever smiling.  It
was the smile of  a young heart in love.
         Aladdin thought she
looked strangely familiar, but he knew he had
never seen her before, for surely he would have remembered.  He
read the
name painted in the corner.  Amaranth.  Was it the
artist's signature, or the
woman's name? Whichever it was, he didn't recognize it.
         Jasmine, who was still
crouched down behind the trunk, wondered why
Aladdin hadn't found her yet.  She slowly stood up and saw him
staring
intently at the square object in his hands.  "Aladdin," 
she said,  "what are you
doing?"
         "Jasmine," he said
as she neared him, "who is this?"
         Jasmine looked over
his shoulder at the painting in his hands.  The
smile faded from her face.  For a moment, she couldn't speak. 
Even though
she had never seen this particular picture, she knew very well who
the woman
was without glancing at the name.  "It's my mother,"  she
answered quietly,
hoping Aladdin wouldn't notice the tremble in her voice.  It had
been years
since she had seen a picture of her mother, but she recognized her
just the
same.
         "Oh,"  whispered
Aladdin. "She's beautiful."
         Jasmine nodded.
         Now Aladdin knew why
he thought he should know the woman in the
painting.  He could see Jasmine in her.  In fact, they were
nearly identical.
"She looks like you, Jasmine."
         Jasmine didn't answer.
No one had ever told her that before, but there
was a time when she had wanted to hear those words.   In
a memory, she was
transported back to her childhood.
 
         "I wish I were
as pretty as this lady,"  a very young Jasmine said as
she gazed admiringly at an unfamiliar face.
         "My dear, where
did you find that?"  asked the Sultan.
         "In that room,
Father,"  she said, pointing.  The Sultan snatched the
picture from her hands and began to leave.
         "Father, I want
the pretty picture back!  Who is it?"  Jasmine asked.
         "It's your mother.  
You are never to take these pictures out again.
Understand?"
          The word
"mother" meant nothing to Jasmine then, but she nodded
anyway, confused.  "Father, why are you crying?"  she
asked.
         "I'm not." 
Then he left, leaving a little girl staring after him, still
wishing she looked like that woman named "mother" in the picture.
 
         "Jasmine?"  Aladdin
asked, bringing her back to reality. "Is something
wrong?"
         She shook her head. 
"I was just . . . remembering."
         "I didn't know you
remembered her."
         "I don't," replied
Jasmine.  She realized the pictures were the only
piece of her mother's life that was left.    She felt
empty, as if  something had
been taken from her that she never had a chance to have.  
"Sometimes I
forget I had a mother at all," she admitted, feeling guilty.
         "I can see why," commented
Aladdin, "since you keep these pictures
hidden away like this.  This is the first one I've ever seen."
         "They make Father
sad," she explained, trying to ignore the empty
feeling.  She took the painting from Aladdin and shoved it onto
another shelf.
She didn't want to look at it anymore.
         "What do you know
about her?"  he asked.
         "Nothing,"  she
answered, "except the way she looks, and her name:
Amaranth."  Jasmine wished Aladdin would stop talking about her
mother.
The empty spot was growing now that she had to remind herself her mother
was as much a stranger as someone she wasn't a part of.   
That's when she
made herself a silent vow to fill that emptiness, somehow.
         Aladdin could hear
in her voice that it bothered her, and even though
he was curious, he decided to drop the subject.  He tapped Jasmine
playfully.
"Okay, you're "IT"!"
         She stared at him. 
She had forgotten the game after seeing the picture
of her mother.  It didn't seem like much fun anymore.  "I
don't feel like
playing," she said.  She turned away from Aladdin and left, leaving
him alone
to stare silently after her.
 

         The hot desert sun
beat down upon Jasmine's thin brown cloak.  The
hood covered her hair and shadowed her face, and a common passerby
wouldn't know she was royalty.  She wanted it this way. 
She wasn't in the
mood for the crowds that often swarmed around her when they knew she
was
the princess.  She needed to be alone.
         Jasmine sighed. 
The day was beautiful, but her mood wasn't lifting.
She kept remembering the portrait.  She didn't know why, and she
wished she
could forget it.
         Is it really important?
she asked herself.
          Her answer came
quickly.  Yes, of course it is.  It's my mother. 
But
I've seen pictures before and they didn't make me feel like . .
. this.  Is it only
because I'm older now that makes it different?
         "Woman, woman!" 
someone called.  Jasmine turned around.  A young
lady was standing behind her.  She cradled in one arm a tiny baby
and held
the hand of a small girl that looked about three years old in the other.
         "Me?" Jasmine asked.
         The woman nodded. 
"Will you please take my children home?  They
are too young to go themselves, and I must be at my sister's aid. 
She has
fallen ill, and I am to stay with her until her husband returns. 
I would take the
children with me, but I fear they may catch it."
         "Yes, of course I'll
take them home.  Where do you live?"  Jasmine
asked.
         The woman pointed
down the street. "It's that small one there, just
three homes down.  Do you see it?"
         Jasmine nodded, and
the woman hastily passed the squirming baby into
her arms.  Then she let go of the girl's hand.  "Go with
this nice woman for a
little while, Kalila, and Momma will be home soon."  The child
nodded, let go
of her mother's hand, and shyly held it out for  Jasmine's.  
"Thank you ever
so much, my friend.  I will try to return quickly."
          Jasmine watched
her leave, then grabbed onto Kalila's outstretched
hand.  "Time to go home!" she said with cheerfulness she didn't
feel.  She led
the child to their small house, and they stepped inside.
         "What's your name?" 
asked the girl as Jasmine laid the already
sleeping baby into his cradle.
         "Jasmine," she answered.
         "My name is Kalila. 
My momma says it's a pretty name, but I think
yours is prettier.  Did you know that the princess is named
that?  Momma told
me that too.  I would like to have a princess name. Do you think
I have a
pretty name?"  asked the girl, delighted to have someone new to
talk to.
         "I think you have
a beautiful name," assured Jasmine.
         "Oh goody!  I'm
happy you think so . . .  Jasmine, will you rock me?"
Kalila asked.
         The question surprised
Jasmine.  Taking care of children was not
something she was used to, being an only child and kept in the palace
all her
life.  But Kalila was such a sweet child, and Jasmine said, "Of
course I will."
         She sat down in a
chair near the boy's cradle, and Kalila eagerly
climbed onto her lap.  She leaned her small head against Jasmine's
chest, and
Jasmine wrapped her arms around the tiny body.  Jasmine thought
the child
would fall asleep, but instead she began to talk again.
         "You a good rocker,"
she said.  " Are you a momma?"
          "No," she answered. 
"I don't have any children."
         "Oh.  My momma
says she is happy to have children, and that makes
me feel happy too.  I love my momma very much.  Do you love
your momma
very much?"  Kalila asked.
         "I don't know," replied
Jasmine absently.  She knew she should, but
how could she love someone she had never known?
         "You don't know?" 
giggled Kalila.  "That is a silly answer."
         "Well . . ." Jasmine
started to say that her mother had died, but then
decided not to tell this happy child about death.
         "Oh, maybe big people
don't have mommas.  Do they?"  she asked.
         "Of course they do,"
answered Jasmine.
         "Oh good.  I
was afraid when I get big I won't have a momma or poppa
no more.  Now I know I will.  I don't think I'll ever
get big.  Look how little I
am now!  My poppa said I would, but I like being small, " she
said.  "I would
miss Momma lots and lots.  And baby brother would miss her too. 
He loves
her, even though he can't tell her so, I know he does, don't you think
so?  But
I tell Momma every single day, just so she don't forget.  I don't
want her ever
to forget, that's why I keep telling her.  Once she said . . ." 
Kalila rambled on
about her parents for what Jasmine thought seemed like forever. 
She wasn't
listening anymore because it was depressing her.  She didn't understand
the
love Kalila felt for her mother.  She was afraid she never would. 
It hurt to
realize it, but never would she have another mother.  She
didn't even have
memories.
         Jasmine looked down
at a now silent Kalila.  Her thumb was in her
mouth, and she was sleeping peacefully.  She could tell the girl
fell asleep like
this often.  What is it like, Jasmine wondered, to be
held and  rocked by the
woman named "mother"?
 

         That night, Jasmine
lay in her bed and stared at the ceiling, unable to
fall asleep.  She kept thinking about her day in the marketplace.
         When Kalila's mother
had returned she had lavished both children with
kisses, even though they were still asleep.  Jasmine had even
heard her
whisper, "I love you," more than once.  The woman had thanked
Jasmine,
then paid her with two coins, which Jasmine had given back later without
letting the woman know.  She knew they needed it more than her.
         I love you.
What was it that made those words so very important?
Aladdin had said them to her, her father had said them, and she had
returned
them.  She loved them both dearly, without question.
         Did my mother ever
say those words to me? she wondered.  But what
bothered her even more, was:  if her mother did love her,
did she love her
mother in return?  Her thoughts ashamed her.  Of course she
should love her
mother.  But how could she love someone only real in portraits?
         Why is this worrying
me? she wondered.  Is it all because of that
picture Aladdin found yesterday?  It had reminded her that
she had a mother,
a mother she never knew.  She wished Aladdin hadn't found the
painting.
Then she wouldn't have given her a second thought, and now she wanted
to
forget it.  But she couldn't.
         She sighed and turned
over in bed.  Again her mind wandered back to
Kalila and her family.  Jasmine knew she had more than they would
ever
have, no matter how hard they worked.  So why did she keep wishing
that
was the way she had grown up?
 
          Jasmine's
mother was standing before her, and she was every bit as
beautiful as in the paintings.
         "Why do you want
to forget me?  I 'm your mother.   I love you. Why
won't you love me?"
         "I . . . I don't
know you . . ."  stammered Jasmine.
         "Whose fault is
that?  Certainly not mine.  It's yours.   You haven't
even tried to know me!  You have shoved my portrait
to the back of a shelf in
a storage room, the same way you tried to shove me to the back of
your
mind!  You want to forget me.  Me! I who brought
you into this world!   But
it won't work.  Do you know why?  It is because you are
a part of me,  and
that part lives in you still.  A part you don't know about
because you are
afraid to find it.  Why are you afraid?  Why do you try
to forget?  Know me,
love me, please . . ."

         Jasmine woke up shaking. 
It's only a dream, she told herself.  She had
never dreamed of her mother before, and it scared her.   
The words from it
echoed in her mind:  . . . the same way you tried to shove
me to the back of
your mind!  Know me, love me . . .
         Jasmine realized it
was true, she had tried to shove her to the back of
her mind, and it wasn't working.  As she sat up, she noticed that
her room was
dark.  It wasn't morning yet.  She would have to try to fall
asleep again, which
she didn't want to do.
         There's no use
in trying, she decided.  She got out of bed,
walked down the hall, and stopped in front of the storage room. 
Something
was drawing her to it.  She had to see the picture again
. . . that same picture
she wished she had never seen in the first place.
         She found it in the
back of the shelf, exactly where she had left it.  She
pulled it down and slid to the floor with it in her hands.  She
stared at it.  This
is my mother, she kept telling herself, yet she felt no emotions,
except regret
that she had never known her.
         Empty.  
She wanted to cry, but couldn't.  "I will try to know you," she
promised the painting. "I will try to love you . . ."