Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger (10 page)

Hassan shrugged. He saw Sinbad start down the trail and he followed. Maroof hesitated, taking another long look at their back trail. Then he, too, followed their battered party down into the valley.

As they grew closer they saw that the buildings were carved around cave mouths for the most part. “A cave city,” Hassan said, and the others nodded.

“The islanders must live here,” Sinbad said. “Or they might be tombs . . .”

They stood at the edge of the city, stopping without command, not eager to enter into the unknown and strange complex of carved caves and strange rocks.

“But there are no children,” Farah said, almost in a whisper, “. . . no women . . .”

Aboo-seer pointed. “Look, over there!” They followed his finger and saw an amphitheater. “It’s like those of the Greeks that we’ve seen in Antioch and Epidaurus.”

Hassan grunted. “There are
three
like it in Jerash.”

Sinbad took a few steps into the city, stepping carefully on the hard stone “streets” between the carved cave mounds. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted. “Melanthius!
Melanthius!”
There were only faint echoes.
“Someone!”
he cried. “Come out! We mean no harm!”

There was no answer, no stirrings, no faint cries. “It’s a necropolis,” Hassan said to himself, but Maroof caught his words and gave him a wide-eyed look.

Sinbad gestured and they stepped out slowly, walking between the carved façades of the cave mouths. The cliffs rose above them, raw and wild above the smoothly and expertly carved buildings.

Suddenly Sinbad caught a movement and shouted a warning. “Rocks!” The party of adventurers leaped back, away from the nearest cliff, and only just in time. A hail of fist- and head-sized stones struck where they had been walking. Another shower of rocks came down, accompanied by angry but unintelligible shouts from the cliff tops.

Sinbad and the others crowded behind the pillars of a façade as far from the cliff as they could, but still rocks chipped stone all around them. A sailor gave a curse as a rock hit his foot and Aboo-seer grunted as another struck him in the stomach. Sinbad sheltered Farah with his body and tried to think of what to do. He looked around, trying to estimate their chances of bolting from what cover they had and working toward the more open area in the center of the city, away from the cliffs.

He was about to give an order when he saw a woman, a girl, really, come out of one of the carved-front caves. She stood in the street and shouted a sharp command up at the cliffs. At once the savages stopped their barrage of rocks and everything fell silent.

Dressed in a simple, homespun shift and sandals, the girl walked toward Sinbad and his party. She stopped within easy speaking range and regarded them coldly.

“They will not harm you now,” she said. “Have you been shipwrecked?”

Sinbad and the others emerged from the shelter of the pillars and stepped cautiously into the street. Keeping an eye on the cliffs, where most of the primitives stood, Sinbad said, “No.” He looked at the girl and attempted to assess her quickly, for she obviously had great power over the savages above. He forced a smile. “I am Captain Sinbad. My ship is anchored safely.”

The girl-woman let an expression of mild interest cross her face. “Only those who were wrecked have landed here before.” She shrugged and her eyes flicked toward the savages, then back to Sinbad. “But the Casgar people always found them first.”

Sinbad nodded, and stepped closer to the woman, who was blonde, and surprisingly beautiful to be found in such an isolated place. “We seek the wise man known as Melanthius.” He detected a faint flickering in her eyes. “Does he truly exist? Does he live on this island?”

The girl examined him narrowly. “Why do you seek him?”

“It is a matter of great urgency and importance,” Sinbad replied.

The girl looked at Sinbad for a long moment, then her gaze took in each of the others, stopping the longest on Farah. Then she turned and shouted up at the cliff tops in a language none of them understood, a guttural, harsh language. The figures on the cliff tops did not move for a moment and she added another phrase, a steely-voiced order of some sort.

Sinbad saw the savages turn, one by one, and melt away. It made him feel considerably better not to have rock-throwing primitives looming over him. Then the girl turned toward Sinbad, and there was something in her manner, a softening, or a curiosity, that led the sea captain to begin introductions. He started with Farah, for it was she that the blonde girl was eyeing.

“This is Princess Farah, from the distant city of Charak.” He gestured toward his crew. “These are my men. Aboo-seer . . . Hassan . . . Ali . . . Maroof . . .” They each bowed as they were introduced, and when he had finished Sinbad turned expectantly toward the girl.

Still without showing any but the faintest traces of emotion, she said, “I am Dione.”

She started abruptly away, turning back toward the cave façade from which she had emerged. “Come,” she said.

Sinbad stepped quickly after her, followed by his men and Farah, who was looking at the beautiful young blonde with narrowed eyes. “But
Melanthius,”
Sinbad said. “Does he
exist?”

“Follow me,” were the girl’s only words.

Sinbad caught up to the blonde girl and gestured at the city around them. “Who built it all?”

“The ancestors of the natives,” Dione replied.

Hassan frowned. “What happened to them?”

Dione shrugged. “They became too civilized and destroyed each other.”

“Too
civilized?” Farah said, and Sinbad shrugged.

Maroof pointed to their right. “Is that where the savages live?”

“Those are the tombs of their forefathers,” Dione replied.

“A necropolis . . .” Hassan muttered.

Dione indicated the theater behind them. “That is the theater the Romans built when they conquered Casgar.”

“And
those
buildings to the right?” Farah asked.

“The tombs of kings . . .”

Sinbad stopped abruptly. “There is someone there!” he exclaimed, shading his eyes against the sun.

And old man, wearing a long plain robe, was coming forward from the shadows, stepping out onto the terrace before the great carved tomb.

Farah spoke excitedly. “Is that the great Melanthius?”

Everyone had stopped walking, including Dione. Sinbad noticed that she had shut her eyes and wore a slight frown, as if concentrating. The others reacted curiously, shifting their gaze from the distant old man to the blonde girl and back again.

After a moment Dione spoke, as if to herself. “Yes, father . . . I will . . .” Sinbad exchanged looks with Hassan, then the girl opened her eyes and turned to Sinbad. “Melanthius has agreed to see you.”

Sinbad shot a look at the far figure of the man, too far for any but the greatest of poop-deck shouts to reach him. And there had been nothing. Nonplussed, Sinbad asked, “But how did you . . . ?”

Simply, Dione said, “My father taught me. He calls it
tele-patheia.
Greek words for the communication of the mind.” She started walking again, abruptly. “Come. I will take you to him.”

Too stunned to speak, the others exchanged looks, then followed her. They went down the streetlike path, then turned up through some low rocks, to where Melanthius waited for them on the wide stone terrace.

Dione reached him first and turned toward Sinbad and his friends, standing at her father’s side. The old man spoke gruffly, his voice deep with authority and strength. “You are a brave man, Captain Sinbad, and a remarkable navigator to have landed on Casgar safely.” A faint smile touched his bearded face. “It is only for
that
I have agreed to see you.”

Sinbad looked around. “But I still do not understand how . . . ?”

Melanthius waved a hand in dismissal. “The mind is an extraordinary thing, Sinbad. Thought is transferable. It can travel through space . . . even to the stars!” He smiled faintly at Sinbad’s reaction. “But the method needs time and patience . . . and not everyone is adept. Now, how can I help you?”

Again, Sinbad went through a quick introduction, but got no further than introducing Princess Farah, when the old man made an impatient gesture as if he knew all that. “Princess Farah’s brother, the Prince Kassim . . .” he began, but the old man cut him short with a gesture.

Pointing at the covered cage, now dusty and much the worse for wear, Melanthius asked, “What is in that?”

He stepped toward the cage, which the sailor carrying it had put down, and Sinbad stepped forward to remove the scarlet cloth. “It is a cage holding a . . .”

“Wait!” commanded Melanthius, who then shut his eyes. After a moment he said, “It is an arboreal anthropoid of the genus
Papio.”

Sinbad pulled away the cloth and the animal within was looking up with piercing eyes. “No,” said Sinbad, “it is a baboon.”

Delighted with himself Melanthius exclaimed, “That is what I
said!
A baboon!”

Sinbad exchanged confused looks with Farah and his men. Melanthius crouched down and peered at the chittering baboon within. Smiling, he reached through to pat the baboon’s head. The animal nipped at his hand and growled.

“Careful!” exclaimed Sinbad. “He can be savage with anyone but the princess.” He looked apologetically at Farah. “That is why he is kept in a stout cage.”

Rubbing his hand, Melanthius stood up. “I see. Yes . . . yes, as a species they are aggressive and of low intelligence.”

Farah came forward and bent down. She reached confidently between the wooden bars and patted the baboon. He responded favorably to her and his growling ceased. “He trusts only me,” she said.

Dione stepped to the cage and bent down. For the first time there was a complete, real emotion on her face: sympathy. “He looks so unhappy,” she said. “Poor creature.” Before anyone could stop her she reached through the bars to caress the animal’s dark fur.

“Be careful!” exclaimed Farah. But she and the others reacted in surprise—and some relief—when the daughter of their host was not bitten or scratched, for the baboon looked at her with unblinking affection and took her caresses without animation. After a moment he took her hand and held it.

Sinbad let out a long sigh and turned to Melanthius. “Master Melanthius, it is the baboon about whom . . .”

The old magician stopped him with another gesture. “You wish to consult me . . . I know.”

Sinbad blinked. He was not yet used to having anyone finish his thoughts for him. The old man gestured toward the tomb entrance.

“I suggest we continue below, in my laboratory, out of the sun.” He gestured as he strode off across the worn flagstones of the terrace. “Come.”

Sinbad ordered the treasure chests and the baboon cage gathered up. Dione waited with them. “Dione,” Sinbad said, pronouncing her name
Die-own-ay,
as she had, “those savages . . .”

“They distrust strangers,” the blonde daughter of the legendary magician said. “They hide from them . . . or attack. It took my father many years to win then confidence.”

Sinbad saw Dione’s gaze on the chests. “Princess Farah’s uncle, the Vizier, has sent much treasure with her, as payment, if your father can help.”

Dione did not change expression. It was as if the matter of a Caliph’s treasure was unimportant and trivial. Her eyes went to her father, awaiting them in the cooler shadows of the great carved and sculpted entrance to the cave dwelling.

Melanthius smiled at his daughter and put his arm across her shoulders as they passed into the dimness of the temple entrance. “Dione is the comfort and companion of my old age,” he said to Sinbad, who could only nod. Melanthius indicated Sinbad’s men with a nod. “They can rest here, Captain.”

Sinbad looked at Hassan and Aboo-seer and they nodded. They dropped the treasure chests with a clatter. Sinbad hefted the weight of the baboon’s cage and followed Farah, Dione, and the old Greek into the deeper darkness.

“Keep a good watch,” he said over his shoulder.

The men slumped down on the treasure chests, using the prince’s ransom as improvised seating. They heard the footsteps of Sinbad and the others fading into the distance within. Hassan stepped out into the sun and gave another searching look around, memorizing the landmarks. If anything were to be changed or move, he would have a mental picture to compare it to and could instantly sound the alarm. But he knew, in his heart, that the important events were going to happen within the bowels of the temple.

T
hey lighted torches and proceeded through the dusty passages to the cooler interior. Sinbad eyed the old man as they walked. He appeared to be harmless, with the wise but somewhat eccentric look of an old scholar, as so often happened with men who spent their lives away from others, alone and self-involved. There was an impish smile beginning on the old man’s lips, and men who smiled without Sinbad knowing the reason or sharing the humor made him nervous. He looked at the girl, whom he found infinitely more pleasing. She was beautiful and young, with an innocent air, one of unworldliness, as though she had grown up far from men and their ways. Although ripe of figure and fair of face, she did not flaunt it, either overtly or covertly, as many others would have.

“It is cooler here,” Farah said. “More comfortable.”

Melanthius gestured at the high-walled passage and the just visible carved murals. “Welcome,” he said. “Welcome to my poor hovel.”

Sinbad snorted a laugh and gestured around them with his free hand. “Hovel? This valley of splendid temples and great tombs? Why it must be the eighth wonder of the world!”

The old magician smiled faintly. “Welcome to Casgar in any case,” he said.

“We came a long way to find you,” Farah said, “but we did not expect to discover you in a wonder of wonders!”

The old man shrugged expressively. “But like all wonders, in time abandoned and forgotten.” He smiled his impish smile. “Except by me . . . and my daughter.” He gestured forward the girl, who had hung back, her wide eyes going from face to face, but spending most of her time looking at Princess Farah.