Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger (5 page)

Sinbad leaned over her. “But what
happened
to him?”

She burst into tears, sobbing in anguish, and Sinbad awkwardly tried to comfort her. He looked around in anger and frustration. “How can I help?” he muttered to himself. “I’m only a sea captain . . .”

Farah’s sobs lessened for a moment and her hand clutched at his wrist. “You’re . . . you’re more than that. You’re a brave man . . . and a man to trust.” The smile she gave him over her hunched shoulder was tremulous and melted Sinbad’s heart.

He sighed and shook his head. “From what we saw . . . and fought . . . tonight . . . well, it takes more than a swordsman’s courage to fight witchcraft.”

“You will find a way,” she said, her sobs lessening. Sinbad held her until she ceased to cry and fell asleep. All the while the bearded captain-adventurer wondered how he could keep her trust in his ability to “find a way.”

T
he morning sea mist clung closely to the water. Overhead the sky was clear blue, but before him all Sinbad saw from his position next to the helmsman was gray mist. He glanced aloft at Ali, clinging to the highest shrouds. “Well?” he said loudly and the lookout shrugged expressively.

“Fog, Sinbad, nothing but—hold! Wait a moment!” He pointed into the mist, which was thinning. They could hear the waves of the bay breaking on the beach before the city and in moments the high-walled town rose out of the mist in an almost ghostly manner. Sinbad saw a flaming arrow climb high in a blazing arc against the sky.

“Signal arrow,” Ali shouted down. “They’ve seen us.”

Sinbad nodded. The quay was to be seen now and the helmsman steered a true course. The mate shouted orders and the sails fell, to be gathered by the hard-working, well-muscled sailors. But none of them stopped glancing at the mist-shrouded city walls. The story of the ghostly hooded figure and the close escape of Sinbad, Hassan, and the Mate had gone the rounds of the crew.

The ship coasted, moving silently through the oily morning waters toward the stone quay. Princess Farah came out of Sinbad’s cabin, one of his cloaks around her shoulders to ward off the morning chill, but her scanty clothing dry and redonned. She crossed the deck and stood at the rail with a troubled face. The ship drew next to the quay and two sailors, fore and aft, leaped lithely to the surface of the jetty and snugged strong ropes around stone bights, bringing the slow-moving ship to a graceful halt. It bobbed on its own wake, then settled down to the slow rise and fall of the tide.

Sinbad fingered the hilt of his sword, his eyes straying from city gate to the low profiles of the Bedouin tents, dark and spreading to the left and right of the road from quay to gate. The burned, sagging mess that had been Rafi’s tent was still there, smoldering fitfully, its smoke mixing with the thinning mist. Beyond was the tumbled pile of timbers, but Sinbad could see no evidence of any ghouls.

There was a creaking noise at the gate, carrying far over the still waters, and the massive gate of Charak swung open. Sinbad narrowed his eyes as he saw a troop of colorful horsemen ride out, each cavalryman armed with shield, sword, dagger, and lance. Then he smiled as he recognized the dignified old man at the head of the troop. Sinbad glanced down at Princess Farah and saw her hand raise in a wave to her father’s—and now her brother’s—trusted Vizier, Balsora.

Sinbad’s eyes quickly went along the line of horsemen. Next to Balsora was Zabid, a tough old soldier with a scarred face. A black eye-patch covered an empty socket. Farther along the cavalcade Sinbad saw a litter carried by six large Nubian slaves. On the litter he could see a rather exotic collection of baggage—chests of inlaid wood, brass-bound boxes of cedar, woven baskets with hidden contents, and a strange, cage-shaped object completely covered in scarlet cloth.

Sinbad walked to the head of the ladder to the deck and jumped down, using the ladder’s framing to slow his controlled fall. He walked lithely to stand by Princess Farah. She glanced up at him and gave him a shy smile, then her eyes returned to the Vizier.

She saw him give a sign to Captain Zabid, then both their horses broke into a gallop, heading for the quayside. They left the escorting guards with the litter in their midst and galloped noisily down the twisting road between the encampment of tents and clattered out onto the stones of the wide quay.

Zabid quickly jumped down and held the reins of the Regent’s horse. He ordered a slave to kneel on the ground for Balsora to use as a step when he dismounted. Sinbad hurried down the gangplank to greet the dignitary.

Sinbad bowed. “Excellency.”

Balsora spoke warmly. “Captain! Welcome again to Charak.” He started to speak, then caught a glimpse of Princess Farah at the ship’s rail. His white-bearded face broke into a wide smile. “I prayed that Princess Farah would reach you safely, Sinbad.” His voice shifted to a pious tone. “Allah’s name be exalted.”

Sinbad looked around, catching only Zabid’s one good eye, which looked as fierce as a hawk. “Where is your nephew, Prince Kassim, Excellency?”

Balsora’s manner changed. He looked around suspiciously, then took Sinbad’s elbow and turned him back toward the gangplank. “Let us go on board.”

Puzzled, Sinbad helped the older man up the gangway as the armed guards took up defensive positions all along the quay, with Captain Zabid in a command position at the foot of the gangplank.

Balsora embraced Farah warmly and his solemn face was creased with another wide smile. “O beloved child! Praise to Allah that you are safe.” He dropped his voice and almost whispered his next words. “You have told Captain Sinbad of our misfortune?”

Before she could answer, Sinbad, still doubting, spoke a question. “Is it true, Excellency?”

The Vizier nodded. “Tragically . . . horribly . . .” He twitched with revulsion and fear. “We have consulted all the wisest men and skilled doctors from here to Alexandria . . .” His shoulders drooped in resignation. “They . . . they can do nothing . . .”

The Regent turned away, tears in his eyes. Farah comforted him and Sinbad bridged an awkward moment by calling to the cabin boy who stood nearby with wide eyes. “Boucheri! Food and drink! The best we have . . . for our guests.” He turned toward the mast. “Hassan! Maroof!”

Sinbad’s men were already moving. As Sinbad led the Regent and Farah to a sheltered part of the deck, Maroof was already unrolling a colorful carpet. Hassan came with an armload of bright cushions, gathered from Sinbad’s cabin. In moments there was a comfortable spot in the shade and Farah helped her uncle settle down against the cushions. Maroof quickly rigged a small sail to give added shade against the fierce sun as the cabin boy brought a beaten brass tray of wine and cheese.

Balsora had recovered himself and spoke to Sinbad with a measured tone. “Sinbad, you have traveled to many foreign lands . . . Help us . . .” He gestured at the ocean. “Perhaps there is someone . . . somewhere . . .” His hand went limp, as if in doubt there was really anything to be done.

Sinbad sat cross-legged on the deck before the Regent of Charak. “Truly, my lord, I will do all in my power to help. But what has happened to Kassim requires skills far greater than mine.” He shrugged. “It needs an understanding of the Black Arts . . . a great alchemist . . . a magician . . .” Suddenly his expression changed to great delight. “I
have
heard of such a man—if he still lives!”

Farah leaned forward excitedly. “Who? Where can he be found?”

Sinbad gestured toward the distant horizon. “A Greek . . . some say the wisest man in the world . . . His name is . . . ah . . .” He paused, his brow creased in thought. He snapped his fingers at Hassan.
“You
remember . . . !”

Hassan’s brow also furrowed in thought. Boucheri returned with a samovar of tea, cups, and a plate of Persian sweets. Maroof helped to serve, as did Hassan, still thinking hard.

“Melanius . . . Melanus . . .”

Sinbad’s voice was loud with discovery. “Melanthius—that’s it!” He clapped Hassan on the leg.

Hassan peered sightlessly out to sea, trying to remember more. “The Hermit of . . . of . . .”

“Casgar!” Maroof exploded. “The Hermit of Casgar!”

“Casgar, yes!” Sinbad said. He looked at Vizier Balsora eagerly. “A remote haunted island off the coast of Phrygia,” he explained.

Balsora spoke quickly, leaning forward toward the ship’s captain. “Have you been there?”

Farah added, “Have you met him?”

Sinbad shook his head. “No . . . nor have I met anyone who has.” He looked for confirmation from Hassan and Maroof. “His deeds are legendary,” he said to the two noble Charakians, “but . . . like many legends . . . he may not even exist.”

Hassan grunted ominously. “The island is ringed with dangerous reefs and whirlpools—always shrouded in mist . . .” He made a gesture that indicated his concern that the island could even be approached safely.

Farah touched Sinbad’s arm and got his attention. “You
must
take us to him.”

Sinbad exchanged a look with Hassan. “It could be a dangerous voyage,” he said to the beautiful princess.

“I will risk it,” Farah said, straightening her soft shoulders.

Balsora put out a hand. “No, my child, I cannot allow
you
to go.” He turned to Sinbad with a serious expression. “Unless Prince Kassim is crowned before the passing of seven moons, he will lose his right forever to be Caliph.”

The princess spoke out boldly. “This Melanthius is our only hope!”

Standing over them, Hassan gave a great sign. “Some say he is mad . . .”

Quickly Maroof added, “And that the island savages eat human flesh and worship him as a god.”

Balsora raised a hand. “I will send treasure with you,” he said earnestly. “Gold and precious stones, jewels by the handful, for you, your crew, and for Melanthius if he can restore my nephew.” He looked at the men and saw their doubt. “Jewels set by the master craftsmen of Persia and Byzantium,” he added, watching their eyes.

Sinbad spoke slowly. “Should I undertake this voyage it would not be for gold and jewels . . .” He ignored the faint groans from Hassan and Maroof. He looked at Farah. “But for treasure far more precious.”

Balsora’s face broke into a wide smile. He clapped Sinbad on the shoulder. “O my son, may Allah preserve you!” He heaved himself erect and went to the rail, where he shouted down to the one-eyed captain. “Zabid!”

Zabid responded at once, turning to come up the gangplank swiftly. But a sudden, violent commotion among the horses caused him to whirl around. The animals were rearing and whinnying in panic. Two of the horse guards were thrown from their mounts. Zabid ran back to the quay, shouting curses and commands. The two fallen horsemen were badly shaken and groped clumsily on the mossy stone quay, entangled by their lances and swords.

Captain Zabid ran toward the shore, where the main troop was stationed and where horses reared and twisted with loud snorts of fear. Sinbad and the others ran to the railing to watch as another horse reared, falling over backward and throwing its rider into the wet sand of the beach. A riderless horse bolted, neighing, kicking at the bales of cargo along the quay, then veering to tear away along the beach, kicking up puffs of sand. The horse angled up the embankment, to gallop through the Bedouin tents, where it uprooted a tent peg and brought down one of the wide, low shelters. There was dust and confusion, rearing horses, and cursing, angry men. There were shouts and conflicting orders.

Then, striding through the panicking animals, coming out of the dust, was a procession that brought a gasp from Farah, a curse from Hassan, and caused Sinbad’s sword to come whispering from its scabbard. A group of attractive women surrounded a litter in which rode a hooded figure. The face was hidden. The attendant women were all beautiful and graceful, garbed exotically, but each with a completely impassive face.

“Who is that?” Sinbad asked, angry at the superstitious fear that tugged at him.

Farah answered coldly. “Queen Zenobia.”

“Your mother?” Sinbad asked in confusion.

“
Step
mother . . . she was my father’s concubine.”

“But I thought—”

“My
mother died when I was born,” Farah said in a chill voice, her eyes on the hooded figure. “It is said that Zenobia is a witch . . . and willed her death.”

Balsora spoke fearfully. “Allah protect us . . . why is she here?”

Zenobia gave an order to one of the eunuchs in her entourage and the emasculated male turned to run up the gangway. He was stopped by several of Sinbad’s sailors and the captain himself became aware that he had drawn his sword automatically.

The eunuch addressed the sailors with a certain amount of imperiousness that Sinbad had noticed appeared in small people allied to powerful ones. “Her Highness, the Queen Zenobia, commands Captain Sinbad’s presence.”

The eunuch turned back without waiting for an answer and Sinbad, amused and curious now and less afraid, stepped to the head of the gangway. He sheathed his sword as Balsora stepped to his side to whisper a warning.

“Be careful, Sinbad. She is as dangerous as a scorpion.”

Sinbad nodded and walked down the gangway. He let himself stride with an arrogant confidence, the sort of attitude that had given more than one thief or assassin a second thought about tangling with the tall, bearded seafarer.

Sinbad came to Zenobia’s litter and bowed, but kept his eyes upon her. She smiled graciously and Sinbad could see into the darkness of her hood. She was an imperious beauty still, with good bones and commanding eyes. Sinbad saw why the old Caliph had chosen her for a concubine.

“O Queen,” Sinbad said politely, “may Allah’s blessings be upon thee.”

“We meet at last, Captain,” she said in a low, almost husky voice. “What brings you to our shores?”

Sinbad stood straight and looked down at her. “To deliver my cargo . . . and to visit my friend, Kassim.” He looked at her knowingly, smiling with a confidence he did not entirely feel. The intense and demonic power of the woman was strongly felt by this man who had sailed many dark seas and visited strange and exotic ports.