The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar

by Graham Diamond

  Dormo stepped lightly over the maroon and gold rugs scattered across the mosaic floor, his eyes glancing fretfully at the colorful frescos and tapestries that clung to the walls. Paintings and tapestries that his daughter had painstakingly designed and woven herself during the long months of Sinbad’s many voyages. In the corners of the huge chamber stood tall and unusual vases of the highest quality and symmetry, Scheherazade’s favorites, brought to her from the farthest-flung empires of the globe — Persia, Arabia, India, Athens — each a gift from Sinbad upon his return, each attesting to a different exotic spot to which the mariner had journeyed.

  A small ivory taboret stood beside the grand marble columns; Dormo glanced at the untouched setting upon it and frowned. His servant had brought the girl the lightest of suppers — cheese, fruit, a pitcher of the finest honey-flavored juice. But the girl had not taken a thing. With a heavy sigh, Dormo picked up a crystal goblet and sipped slowly, struggling within himself to find the right words to comfort her.

  Scheherazade heard as he replaced the goblet and turned toward her father abruptly. Her black hair, so long and silky smooth, was totally disheveled, her normally bright and pensive eyes now glassy and red from crying. She made to speak, but the only sound to come from her soft throat was a squeal. Her lips quivered and she put her hands to her face, weeping a new flood of tears.

  Anguished Dormo reached out to touch her. “Sherry, don’t,” he beseeched. “It won’t be so awful. You’ll see. And think of it! The caliph’s wife — his First Wife. And the son you bear him will make the other harem wives howl with envy.” His hand took the sleeve of her costly and fashionable dress.

  “Don’t you touch me!” she flared, pulling away fiercely as though her father were a wild animal.

  Shock and hurt mingled in his sharply etched features. “Please, Sherry. Listen to me. I did my best. Truly — ”

  “I hate you!” she cried, sobbing and ranting, banging her open palms against the Doric columns.

  Dormo hung his head, shaking it slowly. How could this have happened? he wondered. How could such a perfect life be so suddenly spoiled at the whim of an old, jealous, spiteful man? Still, the caliph’s word was law. His own duty, and Sherry’s — whether they liked it or not — was to obey and keep silent.

  “You are very young, child,” he said. “You don’t understand these matters. Listen to me, let me be the one to break the news to Sinbad. Let me — ”

  Dormo ducked as a crystal goblet went flying, shattering into a thousand pieces as it sailed past his head and smashed against the wall.

  “Get out of here! Leave me alone, do you hear!”

  Dormo held out his hands. “Sherry, you don’t mean that — ”

  This time the bowl of fruit went flying, pears and grapes and oranges tossed and tumbling, the wooden bowl skidding and bouncing across the floor and finally coming to rest at the extreme end of the resplendent chamber.

  Scheherazade balled her hands into tiny fists and glared menacingly at her father. As distraught as she was, though, she still managed to hold herself erect and proud. Dormo could see in the defiant girl the traits of her mother, that stunning and rebellious Arabian girl he had married so long before. If only she had lived to see Sherry become a woman, to see her now …

  Sherry picked up a large vase with both her hands and held it high above her head. “I’m not joking with you, Father,” she hissed. “I’m never going to speak to you again! Now be gone before I do something we’ll both regret!”

  Dormo drew back hastily as the girl motioned to heave the vase. “All right, I’ll go! But I’ll be back,’’ he warned, shaking his index finger at her. “And when the caliph beckons, you’ll come to him sweet and blushing like a proper bride — on your knees and kissing his hand for the honor he has bestowed upon you!”

  “Never!” she vowed, her eyes flashing with fiery intensity. “I’ll never submit myself willingly to that bloated old goat!”

  “You will, Scheherazade!”

  “I won’t! They’ll have to carry me in — kicking and screaming every step of the way!”

  Dormo flushed crimson with anger. He knew his daughter well enough to know that she would keep such a promise — thereby insuring a swift end to the family line. The enraged caliph would demand both their heads for such defiance; he was a man who minced no words with women, be they vizier’s daughters or no.

  Why has Allah both blessed and cursed me with such a headstrong child? Dormo moaned to himself. His strong-willed daughter would be the death of him yet!

  “You’re being very foolish about this, Sherry — ”

  The girl laughed bitterly, her curly black hair forming a curtain across half of her face. “Am I?” she snapped, with a glare so icy that it sent shivers down Dormo’s spine. “Or is it that you’re just too afraid to be a real man for once — to stand up to the caliph and tell him that your daughter’s hand is already promised to another.”

  Dormo threw up his hands in exasperation, taxed to the limit. He swung himself onto the velvet divan and gazed at Sherry, his face filled with foreboding.

  Still shaking, Sherry put down the vase and knelt at the feet of her father, clasping his fingers between her soft, slim hands. “Please, Father,” she begged. “Let me marry Sinbad; we can be wed immediately, the caliph will find another. He needs me not … ”

  “He needs an heir,” mumbled Dormo softly, patting her unruly hair.

  Sherry’s eyes flashed hotly. “Am I a mare to be wed merely to bear him a son? The caliph can find someone else — he has but to snap his finger and a thousand women will gladly obey.”

  “But he has chosen you, my child. It’s you he desires.”

  The girl looked at him mockingly. “You are a poor diplomat, Father. Our caliph cares not for me one whit!”

  “That isn’t so!” protested Dormo.

  “It is so! Why, in court he barely ever gave me a second glance, so preoccupied is he with his toy soldiers and other affairs of state.”

  The minister glanced about the room uneasily. “Hush, child! The caliph has many spies. Let not your angry words be overheard lest they be repeated with more malice than you had intended.”

  Sherry sighed, shaking her head disconsolately. Even in her own home she dared not speak her mind openly! “Oh, Father,” she went on, lowering her voice, “Don’t you see? Schahriar forces this marriage not out of love for me, but to get even with Sinbad. He is jealous, Father. Jealous!” Dormo put his head in his hands and groaned, softly weeping before his only daughter. “Dear, dear child,” he muttered, “the caliph remains my closest friend. Without him I might yet be a slave here in Baghdad. And I understand him better than you give me credit for. Schahriar has been a good ruler for us; he has been a noble caliph. Alas,” — and here he sighed deeply — “his heart has hardened in his later years; he can see only what he wishes to see.” Sherry squeezed her father’s hand and Dormo looked at her painfully. “He has made his decision, child, one as firm and resolute as he has ever made. You shall be his bride.”

  “To force me to marry the caliph is to sign for me a warrant of death,” said the girl.

  “Oh, no, Sherry. You’re wrong. Believe me, you’re wrong. Think upon the future — and the child of your own flesh who shall one day sit upon Baghdad’s throne. You will be the most important woman in our empire.”

  “Without Sinbad I am nothing,” she lamented. A dark cloud crossed the face of the dipping sun and Sherry watched as it shadowed the gallery. It portended only grief, she was sure, darkening the sky as it did this very moment.

  “Will you dry your tears, daughter, and come tomorrow with me in joy to your new husband?”

  She shook her head firmly. “Father, no. I can’t … ” She cried again, like a little girl caught alone in a thunderstorm, only this time the maelstrom would last a lifetime.

  As the girl buried her head against his breast and sobbed, Dormo ran his fingers through her long hair, soothing her as best he could
in the same fashion he had always done when she was a child.

  “It is better if I be the one to speak with Sinbad,” he said after a time, when Sherry was cried out.

  She peered up at him through watery, luminous eyes. “No, Father I shall tell him; I owe him at least that.” Dormo nodded reluctantly. The caliph would certainly be displeased if word of this rendezvous reached his ears, yet how could he, Dormo, deny his daughter this small wish? Sinbad would be greatly grieved, of course — he would return to his home, get drunk, and then sulk. But the pain would pass, and the captain would one day find another. It would be much the same for Sherry, and although he knew his daughter would never be able to love the caliph in the same way she did the bold mariner, he hoped that with time her heart would mellow and she would accept what destiny had chosen for her.

  It was almost night outside; Dormo kissed the girl and slowly stood. Sinbad would be due at any moment, he knew. The dashing sailor never failed to visit their house upon the day of his arrival home.

  He took his daughter’s hands into his own and forced her to look at him. “You’ll say what must be told immediately upon his arrival?”

  Sherry nodded. “I promise. No time shall I waste.” Then she dried her eyes with her silk handkerchief and gazed at the glittering stars. “Leave me now,” she asked. “Sinbad shall be coming, and until he does, I prefer to be alone.”

  *

  Captain Sinbad’s arrival home had Baghdad humming with speculation. Although no one knew of Schahriar’s plan to wed the mariner’s betrothed, many suspected the caliph’s jealousy and pondered what he might do.

  The heat was intense in the late afternoon when Sinbad’s ship had finally berthed and been unloaded. As the turbaned captain happily completed his arrangements to sell his cargo to the city’s eager merchants, he thought not one iota of the handsome profit he would reap, but only of the waiting girl at the vizier’s grand estate outside the palace walls.

  Business finished at last, he returned to the city, preferring to walk among the milling throngs of his people rather than ride to Sherry’s arms. Crowds of citizens jostled each other uneasily amid the bazaars and markets; Sinbad took it all in with exhilaration, thinking how good it felt to be back home at last. Needless to say, the perils of his last voyage had been many; he had barely escaped with his life on more than one occasion. This was behind him now, though, and he felt only the joy of Baghdad encompassing him.

  He crossed the main thoroughfares, paying no attention to the cries of vendors hawking their wares, the acrobats and jugglers and magicians performing on virtually every corner. The memory of Sherry’s scented hair held him captive, the recollection of her honeyed lips on his, her warm and tender embrace. Sinbad walked quickly through the city, waving hello to friends and a multitude of well-wishers, but never once pausing to speak. Under his arm he carried a single package, a special gift that would put to shame anything he had brought her before. It was a dazzling diadem — stolen from the caves of the Cyclops — a priceless gift unlike any other in all of Araby.

  With a merry tune upon his lips and a new poem working at the corners of his mind, he came at last to the spacious home of the vizier. He plucked a rose from the garden, inhaled the sweet fragrance, and hurried up the stone steps two at a time. He gazed briefly at the moon, sighing wistfully, then knocked upon the carved bronze doors.

  The servant bowed in greeting and led the way in. Sinbad bantered with the man, whom he had known for all the years since, as a young boy, he had first come here and seen Sherry. The servant, although willingly exchanging small talk, would not meet Sinbad’s eyes with his own.

  Peculiar, thought the mariner as he followed him along the wide, well-lit corridors. But he decided that it was a matter unworthy of dwelling upon. Passing the courtyard, he greeted several other servants, all well-known and trusted by him. They, too, seemed pleased to see him, yet they, too, shied from direct confrontation. At this, Sinbad’s thick black brows furrowed. A nagging feeling somewhere deep in his gut cautioned him that something was amiss.

  Into the spacious chamber he was swiftly taken, whereupon he was left standing alone in the shadows of the brazier. His eyes scanned the room slowly, taking in the familiar artifacts and recalling the pleasant memories that were associated with them all.

  Then, as he, gazed to the balcony, he saw Sherry, her back to him, her dress gently flowing in the breeze, her face lifted to peer at the multitude of beguiling stars shining on this clear, perfect night.

  His sandals pattered softly across the stone, and Sherry turned to greet him. As Sinbad came closer he saw that her eyes were bloodshot, her small mouth turned down in a frown, and her lips slightly quivering.

  “Sherry! What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, Sinbad,” she sniffed as she held out her arms and ran to him. The lovers embraced closely; Sinbad swept her off her feet and kissed her again and again.

  “How I’ve missed you,’ she wept, clinging to him fiercely. “How much I’ve longed for this moment when we could be together — ”

  “Forever, Sherry. Forever.”

  She burst into sudden tears again, and Sinbad, his features darkening, held her at half arms’ length. “What is it, beloved?” he asked worriedly, wondering if perhaps during his absence some grave illness had stricken her family.

  She shook her head from side to side, delaying the inevitable moment. “I’m … I’m so frightened,” she cried, her hand to her mouth. “So frightened and so ashamed … ”

  Sinbad was bewildered. “Ashamed? Sherry, what has happened? Why are you acting like this?”

  “The caliph had demanded my appearance in court tomorrow — ”

  Sinbad laughed and held her close again. “Is that all? Ah, my sweet! Do you still fear the old man the way you used to when you were a child?” He put a finger to her chin and lifted her head. “There is no need for these tears, my darling. The caliph means you no ill.”

  Sherry’s heart beat faster. “I know,” she whispered. “But he does mean ill for you.”

  The mariner looked at her incredulously. “Don’t be silly, Sherry. I know the rumors about his envy; I know he grumbles and barks, sulks and schemes. But he’s really quite harmless, I assure you. Listen, tomorrow I go to court as well. Shall we not go together and announce our wedding date?”

  The girl gasped and turned away. Sinbad’s face contorted into a mask of puzzlement.

  “We … we cannot be married,” she whimpered, struggling not to weep again.

  “What? What in the name of the Prophet are you talking about, girl? Not be wed? You and I? Is this a joke or a game? If so, I find little humor.”

  Sherry burst into sobs and crushed herself as tightly against him as she possibly could. “Would that I were jesting!” she wailed. “Would that today was but an evil dream!”

  He took her by the shoulders, more roughly than he had intended, and forced her to look at him. “What’s happened in my absence, Sherry? What has transpired that you say these terrible things?”

  “Sinbad, Sinbad! What can I do? What can I do?” She choked on her tears. “The caliph has chosen a new bride — and I am to be the one!”

  Sinbad gaped in astonishment. He felt as though a mighty fist had just smashed into his gut, sweeping the breath from his lungs, wreaking pain throughout his body, rendering him as helpless as a newborn infant.

  “It’s true, it’s true!” she moaned. “Tomorrow my father presents me officially for the caliph’s inspection. But this is only a formality; he has already informed my father that the wedding shall take place within a single week’s time.”

  His head was reeling, his mind a foggy blur. Could this be so? Schahriar knew full well that he and Scheherazade were betrothed, and he had heartily approved. How could he now claim her as his own? Had the caliph gone mad? Was he out to destroy two loyal servants who had been his friends?

  “I shall talk to our caliph at once,” he hissed, his face stern and cold.

 
Sherry pulled at his sleeve and looked at him pleadingly.

  “No, Sinbad! You must not! The caliph expects such a gesture from you; he shall use your anger to his own advantage — accuse you of treachery against him. You shall be banished from Baghdad — or worse!”

  Sinbad was aghast. “No, Sherry. You’re wrong. I know him — ”

  “And I know him better!” flared the girl. “I understand his wicked heart. Through me he means to get at you! Oh, Sinbad, what are we to do?” And she fell against him, her graceful body shaking with terrible spasms.

  Sinbad tried to calm her anguish with soft words and kisses. “And what of your father?” he asked at length.

  Sherry shook her head. “He is powerless. There is no more to be done on the matter. Our caliph will not listen to him or to any other.” She sucked in air and shut her eyes. “I fear for you, Sinbad. Baghdad turns against you.”

  “Never! I have many friends, powerful friends. They will stand by me, you’ll see. They will speak before Schahriar in my name and make him realize the folly of what he does.”

  She sniffed and drew away from him sharply. “Sinbad, dear lover, are you so blind? All Baghdad trembles in fear of the caliph’s wrath — and with good reason. No man, no matter how much he may truly love you, shall come forward in your behalf. They dare not! Lest they face the same fate as you.”

  Sinbad had no words. The view of the city was magnificent from where he stood. The domes and steeples glimmered in moonlight, soft shadows danced across the countless roofs, the waters of the river reflected brightly the torchlight of the piers. Yet Sinbad was blind to this all. With anguish tearing at him from within, he stood frozen like a statue.

  “What is left for us?” he mumbled, his dark eyes staring aimlessly at the carved stones of the balcony.

  “We must flee,” came the brief, hushed reply.