“And I feel the same,” said Homer with a beam in his eye and a smile directed at Thorhall’s eldest daughter. “The Provisional Council has asked me to take charge in city matters — a task that I hope to live up to in every way. I, too, have found my destiny here.” And the hint of a tear came to his eyes. “It was the Prince who altered the course of my life,” he continued. “Without him, I would yet be a worthless urchin in the back alleys of the Jandari. Aiding my new friends in Speca is but a small part of repaying that debt of gratitude.”
The wise Sage of Aran clasped Homer’s shoulder. “And I know that the Prince would be proud of this moment,” he told the youth. “It is both good and right that you are among us today. There is much we can all learn from you.” Then turning from the tearful lad, he looked to the haj. “And what of you, my friend? Shall you remain to become a part of the new Speca as well?”
Burlu smiled wistfully and hesitated in his reply. “Would that it were possible!” he told them all. “Alas, I cannot. I have too many duties that must be attended to at home. My family awaits my return, and I must hasten back to Kalimar as soon as possible. I leave today on board Captain Osari’s ship. My sons-in-law by now have me ruined, no doubt, and my grandchildren will have missed me sorely. But know this: these past months have given an old man such adventures as I never dreamed of. I am more than gratified to have lived them and done my own small part in freeing this fair land. Now I must take my leave.”
Old Man nodded his head slowly. “You shall be missed, good haj. Speca shall never forget your courage …”
The haj turned away to hide his tears, thinking that staying would have been a pleasure for him; he could have spent his last years in true peace, close to Mariana and Ramagar, perhaps living long enough to see his granddaughter’s children raise families of their own. But those at home could not be denied, either, and back to his herds he must go, as surely as the moon follows the sun.
At length both Old Man and the Sage looked to Ramagar. “And what shall be your future?” Old Man wanted to know. “You have journeyed half a world to be upon these shores. I don’t have to tell you that you and Mariana hold special and honored places among us. You may ask anything of what we have and it shall be granted …”
Ramagar thanked him; sighing, he folded his arms and gazed up at the cloudless blue sky, exulting in the mild breeze blowing in from the sea. Events and adventures had happened so fast these past days, that in truth he and Mariana had not spent a single moment discussing what they would do. The storms were at last over, though, and now the time for choice was at hand. Their home could be almost anywhere they decided, with a golden rainbow waiting should that choice be Speca.
“What do you say, my love?” he asked, looking sharply at the dark-haired girl whose eyes still glowed with tiny fires.
“Stay here with us, Mariana,” said Thorhall in hopeful offering. “You’ll never regret it, I promise. We are all your friends. We want you and we need you. It was you more than any of us who saved this land from its doom, and I think you’ll find Speca more than grateful.”
“Yes, Mariana,” chimed in Homer. “Do stay with us. The Prince would ask as much were he here today.”
A single tear rolled down her soft cheek and Mariana closed her dark lashes over her eyes. Speca was a wonderful land. A marvelous land with new wonders waiting to be found every day. Yet it wasn’t home. “I … I do want to stay,” she said truthfully, trying not to cry. “Truly, I do …” But her thoughts carried her back to her dreams; her dreams of golden sands and deserts, of palm trees swaying in an Eastern sun, of darkly tanned children playing along green, flowered hills. She reached out and took Ramagar by the hand, her bright eyes smiling. “What is your wish, dearest?” she asked. “Do you want to stay?”
Ramagar kissed her gently. “My happiness is where yours can be found. You choose, Mariana. Choose and I’ll follow.”
The dancing girl sniffed and smiled. “I think,” she said to everyone, “that the rainbow awaiting both of us can only be found at home …”
“Home?” sputtered Captain Osari, startled. “But you can’t! You can never return to Kalimar! Have you forgotten that Ramagar is still a fugitive from justice? The moment you come back he’ll be charged as a murderer and sent to the gallows!”
Ramagar sighed deeply. “He’s right, you know,” he said to Mariana. “As much as I also would like to see the East again, it cannot be. The thief of Kalimar can never return …”
“But the thief of Kalimar is dead!” interrupted the haj.
Ramagar looked at Burlu curiously. “What are you talking about, man? I’m as alive as you are!”
The haj smiled slyly and then laughed. “Ah, but that is not so, I assure you.” He looked at Mariana and winked. “The thief was killed — months ago aboard the Vulture while leading an abortive mutiny. I, Burlu the Swineherd, haj of the Mountain Lands, shall swear as much to the authorities upon my return …”
“And so shall I!” chimed in the grinning captain in dawning comprehension of the ploy before him. “The ship’s diary will give added weight. Ramagar the thief is dead. The man who returns to Kalimar is the husband of haj Burlu’s granddaughter.”
“Come back with me, my children,” pleaded the haj, taking them both by the hand. “All that is mine shall be yours. Return with me this day, to our true home, and there you shall find the rainbow of happiness you’ve been seeking for so long.”
Ramagar lowered his gaze and nodded with emotion. Mariana clung to him tightly and smiled.
“Then you have decided,” Old Man said regretfully.
“It’s what was meant to be,” whispered the girl.
“We are sorry to see you go,” Thorhall said truthfully. “But if this is what you want, then do it with all our blessings. But never forget that a home among us is always waiting for you. You both have secured a special place in our hearts.”
Homer swallowed to push down his own emotion. “And we’ll be expecting you to come and visit, with your children …”
“Thank you,” replied Mariana, bursting into tears; she threw her arms around the youth, hugging him with all her strength. “Take good care of yourself,” she wept, “all of you, dear friends. Ramagar and I shall never forget …”
“And we will come back,” promised the thief. “To see Speca as she prospers …”
“The Vulture is at your command,” said Osari, himself almost in tears at the parting. “Any time, any day. You always know where to find me.”
Mariana kissed each and every one in turn, smiling as stoic Argyle tried not to cry. Then, her brief goodbyes complete, she returned to Ramagar’s side. “Well?” she sniffed. “Hadn’t we better gather our belongings? The Vulture won’t wait …”
“And look for our rainbow within the tents of the haj?” asked the thief. “Where, perhaps, it has always been waiting?”
Mariana grinned. “You have doubts?”
Ramagar laughed and looked deeply into her wet, luminous eyes. “You really believe it, don’t you? You really believe it’s waiting?”
Tall and proud, Mariana threw back her hair and smiled. “My dear, dear husband,” she chided, “haven’t you learned by now? Anything in life is possible. Anything at all — if you believe.”
Captain Sinbad
© Graham Diamond 2007
Graham Diamond has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as author of this work.
First published by BookSurge in 2007.
This edition published in 2019 by Endeavour Venture, an imprint of Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE:
PART SIX:
PART SEVEN
PART ONE
How Sinbad found himself shipwrecked in Barcelona, caught between the warring Moors of Cordoba and the Knights of Christendom.
Thunder had rolled and lightning had flashed; the tempest had struck suddenly and violently, catching the fishermen of Pansa off guard. They had rowed in a frenzy back toward home while wives and children stood waiting in fear along the chilly shore.
The storm had been especially bad for this time of year. It was told that at least three of the fishing boats had nearly capsized, their crews almost lost. But, of course, this had been recounted well after everyone had made it back safely, so the actual truth of the tale was difficult to determine with any certainty The fishermen of Pansa, you see, are renowned for their bragging, even as far away as the walled city of Barcelona itself, some twenty kilometers to the north. Still, there was no question but that this particular storm had been the worst Pansa had encountered in some years, and that the dawn Mass had been held in the great relief of knowing that no one had been lost.
Pansa was a tiny village, its people numbering perhaps five hundred, all good and-worthy Christians, living out their lives in peace with hardly a thought to the turbulent world around them. Just a few days’ ride to the south stood the borders of the caliphate of Cordoba, and there it was said the Moors were preparing for war again, intent on sweeping over the county of Barcelona and then moving to take the kingdom of Navarre, thereby laying claim to almost all the Iberian peninsula in the name of their holy Prophet. Indeed, the Mother Church in distant Home was said to fear for her flock, for should Barcelona and Navarre fall to the heathens, what army was there to stop the followers of Islam from striking throughout all of Europe? Rome itself might not be safe.
Although caught in the very center of this battle of religions and armies, the gentle folk of Pansa gave little thought to any of these matters. Little could be gained in worrying, they reasoned, for, in truth, what could be done? Pansa had no army of her own to call upon, only the bold knights of Barcelona and the village’s prayers that all would finish well. Besides, there were so many other matters to contend with: the fields needed harvesting; the sheep and goats had to be tended; the fishing boats had to be kept ever seaworthy and trim. And such labors were enough by far for the quiet village to manage. Little time was left over for anything else.
So life was for Pansa during the early years of the eleventh century, a time when most of the world found itself in turmoil and chaos. Pansa’s people went about their small lives happily, celebrating births and grieving deaths, basking in the warm Mediterranean sun, always looking to the bright side of things while the shadows loomed around them and waited.
Mass had been said early this morning after the storm, and the fishermen had long since rowed back out to sea. As the village prepared for a new day, Maria Victoria de Leon, seventeen years of age and marriageable, finished with her varied chores at home and began her morning stroll along the beach. She had stolen these precious moments alone as she always did, musing upon the life that would lie before her, contemplating, as young women often do, just what happiness her future might bring.
The waves were rolling softly onto the shore now, white froth foaming and splashing over the golden sand. Above, the sky was a cloudless blue, hinting at the warm spring months ahead. Maria Victoria de Leon danced at the water’s edge, laughing and humming while a flock of seagulls dived down to the sea. She was a lovely girl; some would even have said stunning. She pulled the scarf from her hair and let it flow free and windblown, her face aglow at the beauty of the new day. She had her mother’s eyes, it was well known, black as coals, ever flashing with vitality. Her skin was dark, stirred to deep cream by the warm Barcelona sun; she had a scattering of birthmarks across her supple breasts and over her face which always darkened noticeably whenever she blushed. Her full lips were warm and inviting, the color of deep Castilian wine, and in the brightness of morning, her tawny hair glistened with hints of scarlet and amber when sunlight touched its edges.
Maria Victoria de Leon carried herself nobly, as if she strove to rise above her station as an innkeeper’s daughter. But in the village of Pansa, where there were no nobles, her father, Manuel de Leon, being a man of means, was himself considered as close to aristocracy as the town might have.
A seagull squawked in the sky. Maria Victoria looked up and watched its flight downward toward the end of the beach. She laughed as the great bird closed its wings and came to an awkward landing beside a pile of driftwood, where it pecked its beak at some undefined form. A large fish must have washed ashore, she was certain; it was a frequent occurrence. Once she had even seen the stiff carcass of a shark washed up on the sand.
Maria Victoria scratched her head in recollection. If memory served, the shark had come after a storm, a bad storm such as last night’s. Then, with curiosity overwhelming her, she walked briskly toward the driftwood and the pecking gull.
The figure was covered with sand; she had to shade her eyes from the sun to get the briefest glimpse of it. It wasn’t a fish, she realized, that was certain.
Then she put her hand to her mouth and gasped. “Dios mio!”
The half-buried figure was a man.
At first glance it seemed as though he were dead, but then she saw his arms suddenly begin to move, his fingers reaching out as if to grasp at the driftwood. Helplessly he writhed in the sand, amid the various debris of what must have once been boards of a ship.
Panting, Maria Victoria knelt down beside the struggling figure. She pulled her shawl from her shoulders and wiped the caked sand from his face and shirtless body. Biting her lips, she looked about in frustration while her shouts for assistance went unheeded.
The man began to moan softly in a delirium; seawater flushed from the corners of his mouth as he coughed with every breath. Maria Victoria made the sign of the cross and thanked Heaven that at least he was still breathing. Then, using the techniques for rescue that the fishermen had taught her, she managed to roll the stranger onto his stomach and place the palms of her hands firmly beneath his shoulder blades. With strong, deliberate movements, she pushed up, forcing the salt water from his lungs, releasing as he vomited it up, and then repeating the procedure. The man spewed up more water and fell back, breathing clearly. She turned him around carefully and placed his head upon a small rise of wet sand. With worry-filled eyes she gazed deeply into his face. A young face, windblown and handsome, yet filled with worry lines as prominent as the thin streaks of silver in his trimmed black beard.
“You’re alive,” she whispered, as he tried to open his eyes. “Don’t be afraid. We’ve found you, you’re safe.”
The man, barely conscious, forced open bloodshot eyes, black eyes like her own, and tried to say something. Then he sighed deeply and fell asleep.
Maria Victoria covered his chest with her shawl and leaped to her feet. Several children had come to the beach, and she shouted to them frantically, pointing to her discovery. It was only a matter of minutes before a small crowd had gathered, made up mostly of old women and young children, all staring down in wonder at the helpless survivor of the terrible storm.
“Who do you think he might be?” asked one.
“And where could he have come from?” wondered another.
Maria Victoria de Leon looked on at the women with growing frustration. “What matter does any of that make?” she flared, biting her lips. “He needs our help. He could die if we leave him like this!”
The old women shook their heads sadly. “Such a young man, to die,” one said. “Yes,” agreed another. “Young — and handsome as well.”
Maria Victoria felt tears come to her eyes. Where were the village men? Why hadn't they come to the beach? But the answer was plain — the fishermen were in their boats, already far out to sea, the shepherds and farmers already in their pastures and fields. There was no one else. No one but …
“Send for my father!” Maria Victoria demanded of a small, wide-eyed boy standing barefoot beside the sleeping stranger. “Tell him he must come here at once!”
“Si, si!” replied the youth, and Maria Victoria sighed thankfully as he ran off in the
direction of her home.
Manuel de Leon was a stout, robust man who looked far younger than his fifty-seven years. As a youth he had served as both footman and soldier in many wars, defending his beloved Barcelona against the heathen hordes. Castilian knights had oft times praised him for his valor in combat, once even promising to make of him a squire and bring him into the service of Navarre. But a Moorish blade had cut short the young man’s promising career, and he had been forced to return to his home, Pansa. Now he thought not of war, nor of glory or honor, or even of gold or women. Only of his small inn and the family he had raised. Three daughters he had been blessed with. Three beautiful girls, no sons to carry his name. Only dowries for his sons-in-law to be, and, God willing, that day was close at hand.
It took Manuel long minutes to hobble from the inn down to the beach, his bad leg throbbing with pain every step of the way. At sight of Maria Victoria, Manuel picked up in speed, giving no thought to his aches. Had the girl been hurt in some way? Molested? The boy who had come for him had spoken like an idiot, giving no details, saying only that he, Manuel, had better come to the beach at once because his youngest girl was crying. Leaving the horses of his single guest unattended in the stable, he had raced to find her. And now there she was, tearful and distraught, kneeling over the corpse of some drowned sailor washed ashore.
“But he’s alive!” protested the girl as Manuel made to drag her away.
“It is true,” offered one of the old women solemnly.
Manuel gazed down at the sleeping man and let go of Maria’s hand. “You’re right!” he exclaimed, reaching down and feeling the weakened pulse beat. Then he looked sternly to the old women and snapped his fingers. “Go and find Pepe — and Domingo as well!”
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 45
