The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar

by Graham Diamond

  Sinbad looked at his beloved. Sherry glanced around nervously, making certain that no one stood hidden among the shadows.

  “Tomorrow shall he too late,” she continued, in a low voice. “We must act fast — that is, if you still want me … ”

  “Want you? I want you more than anything upon the world’s surface; more than any treasure, more than any gift that even Allah himself might bestow … ”

  “I love you, Sinbad. Take me away forever. What difference shall it make where we go? Our lives will never again be parted. Promise me, Sinbad, we shall leave all this behind and never return.”

  His mouth pressed upon hers; his hands clutched her to him until they had entwined almost as one. “Yes, Sherry,” he vowed. “What good is life itself without you? Tonight we shall run — flee with a thousand soldiers after us, if necessary. And never will we come back.”

  For the first time Scheherazade smiled. She closed her eyes in a quick, thankful prayer, then said: “Find horses for us both. Tonight, before midnight, I shall slip from my rooms and seek you at the fountain of the Garden of Miracles. No one shall see us — I shall dress myself in the robes of a house slave, not even my brother would recognize me. Then I will wait beneath the willows for your arrival … ”

  Sinbad nodded. “Agreed. At midnight, then. Everything shall be prepared.”

  Sherry stood upon her toes and kissed him fleetingly. “Go, my love,” she whispered. “Breathe not a word of this to anyone. Our caliph has spies everywhere.”

  And without another word, Sinbad passed from her arms and strode from the chamber, his mind a flurry of activity, preparing for this sudden and unexpected new adventure.

  Sherry watched until he had gone. She sighed and, with a hand to her bosom, ran from the room to gather a few belongings.

  Beneath the shadow of the balcony a small, wispish fellow with a devious smile chuckled. So they escape, do they? he mumbled. Already he could feel the jingle of gold coins in his pocket; this time the caliph would reward him well for his little errand. Indeed, Baghdad’s ruler would no doubt be willing to part with a fortune for news such as this.

  The palace spy, dressed in the ragged garb of a gardener, grinned and rubbed his hands together. The caliph shall never forgive you for this, Dormo. You shall be a broken man — and I a rich one! But never mind. I deserve it more than thee.

  Then he looked at the position of the moon and frowned. Time was passing too swiftly; he must hasten to the palace at once. There would be plenty of time for gloating tomorrow.

  *

  Scheherazade was tense and frightened that night as the hours slowly ticked away and the appointed time grew close. But, sincere in her devotion to Sinbad, she had not a single doubt in her heart as she stole from her bed and slipped silently out of the house, dressed in the rough cloth garb of a kitchen slave. She slinked under the cover of night to her father’s favorite stable, where she saddled his finest stallion. Sherry was more than excited when she rode onto the quiet, tree-lined street — but how slow these minutes seemed to pass!

  The hour was very late — long past eleven by the position of the moon. Soon she and Sinbad would be reunited, she was certain, and no one would ever force them apart again. By dawn they would be well away from this accursed city where separated lovers found no sympathy.

  In the enlightened city of Baghdad it was not totally unusual for a woman to be out alone after dark. So she rode from her home secure in the knowledge that few citizens would take much notice, although as a precaution she pulled her veil securely over her face. She galloped the horse well away from the main thoroughfares that crisscrossed the city, keeping well out of sight of the looming stone walls of the palace and toward the oldest section of Baghdad, where few of her breeding were ever to be found.

  It was here that she would soon come to the ancient place known as the Garden of Miracles, a curious and foreboding place. Once upon a time, when Baghdad flowered in its youth, these fabled gardens were numbered among the most beautiful on earth. So renown were they that the disciples of the Prophet Mohammed himself had come there to instruct in the sacred teachings of the Koran. Princes and noblemen were frequently seen in the company of beggars as all listened to the holy word. And the Garden of Miracles blossomed as did Baghdad itself.

  Yet black days soon followed. It was said that a prince, finding his wife in the arms of another, slew the lovers as they lay in these very gardens. The soil was fouled with their blood and the dying lovers swore never to rest. Subsequent lovers who visited the garden reportedly vanished, and the laughter of ghosts was said to echo cruelly each third night. Although this had happened many years before, it was never forgotten, and now the Garden of Miracles lay fallow and wasted, unvisited save by the most hardy souls.

  Sherry scoffed at such nonsense of ghosts and witchcraft, yet she knew that the folk of Baghdad were a superstitious lot, and that no one would suspect her coming here for her secret escape with Sinbad.

  A strange wind had begun to blow, and there were eerie rustlings and whistlings from among the aged and bent trees as she reached the garden entrance. Her horse scuffed its hooves and whinnied when she reached down and opened the squeaky gate. Sherry dismounted; she tethered the horse outside and proceeded ahead on her own. She stepped lightly over the weedy grass searching out the row of wisping willows where her appointment would take place.

  “Sinbad? Sinbad?” she called. There was no answer and she moved deeper inside, oblivious of the fearful shadows that swept down from the trees and shrubs. Signs of decay were everywhere. Fountains set in tiny plazas crumbled; gazebos, worn and ruined, were covered by thick, slimy vines that clung like leeches; walks were cluttered with grim weeds that sprouted haphazardly throughout. A jungle in miniature spread before her, and she shuddered in trepidation.

  She crossed a corroded stretch of tiled walk and climbed the hill leading to the willows. Leaves danced and swayed in a macabre ballet in front of her startled eyes. Sherry gulped, admitting to herself for the first time that perhaps the site of the rendezvous might have been better chosen. Still, it was too late to turn back now, when midnight was so close.

  She made herself as comfortable as possible beside the gnarled roots of an enormous willow, and, chewing her nails, she searched the scape below for the coming of her lover.

  But where was he? Why was he so late? Had something gone wrong — had Sinbad been delayed by the caliph’s soldiers? Perhaps the truth was even worse, she thought. Perhaps he had been arrested … Perhaps he was dead!

  The thought made her squeal with fear. Then suddenly there came a sound, which made her eyes widen and her heart fly into her throat. A hoofbeat? Or the heavy tread of boots.

  Silhouettes jumped from behind. Sherry whirled and tried to run. As she made to scream, a large, calloused hand grabbed hold of her and spun her around. She kicked and fought, banged her fists against a shirtless chest, but all to no avail. Her captor grappled her down to the ground and roughly pinned her by the shoulders.

  “Gag her!” he barked throatily.

  Sherry squirmed as the second silhouette drew closer. Grinning in the moonlight, he withdrew a dirty rag from his robe and stuffed it inside her mouth. Then he laughed malevolently. The girl stared and gasped. She recognized him at once to be a former captain of the caliph’s guard, taken from that position to serve his liege as a spy among the people. A rank and foul man who had earned little respect even among his peers.

  “What do we do with her?” growled the other man, the one who held her to the ground.

  The spy put his hands on his hips and sighed deeply. “We keep her out of sight for now,” he replied in a low voice. “Once Captain Sinbad’s been caught, we can take her back to the palace. The caliph will want to decide himself what’s to be done with her.”

  Sherry wanted to scream. Her lungs were bursting to break free, to cry out in warning. And the folly of her scheme became all too plain. These brutes — and no doubt others as well — lay
in waiting to pounce upon the mariner the moment he showed. They would bind him and drag him to the palace, throwing him before the caliph as though he were a rag. “Here is your bold captain,” they would snarl, “caught in the act of stealing your bride. Decide, O Schahriar, what price you would have him pay.” To which the caliph would feign pity and summarily condemn Sinbad to lose his head.

  Her hands were bound. Her captors had to drag her kicking and fighting all the way to a small crumbled gazebo near the top of the hillock, completely hidden from sight by weedy vines and lumbering branches. Sherry’s very soul flooded with desperation — she must somehow warn Sinbad of this treachery, signal to him from afar and make him flee while there was yet time.

  *

  Along the deserted highway Sinbad rode, his horse’s hooves clattering against flagstone. Behind him trailed a mule with saddlebags fully packed for the long journey ahead. The youthful mariner bore no arms, save for the fine curved dagger that he always wore strapped to his belt. He slowed down before reaching the gardens, carefully scanning the distant foliage and tree lines for sight of his betrothed. Moments later he came upon Sherry’s tethered horse beside the gate and he smiled. Like himself, it seemed she enjoyed a touch of the melodramatic, choosing such a spot as this for their midnight rendezvous.

  He dismounted quickly and passed through the rusted gate, paying no attention to the weird rustlings of the unpruned grasses. With any luck at all, he reasoned, by this time tomorrow they could be close to the borders of Persia. Sinbad had many friends in that nearby land, good friends whom he could count on. There he and Sherry could safely be wed. Let the caliph’s soldiers try and follow! To the ends of the world they would flee, if need be. Together, bound by love and free of any king’s whim. Ah, it would be wonderful …

  The path to the willows lay directly ahead; Sinbad crossed the muddied banks of the walk, a new poem beginning to form in his mind. Then he stopped. Before him lay a series of footprints — a man’s footprints, if size were any gauge. Odd that they should be here, he mused. A brief shower had passed over Baghdad only hours before; therefore these tracks were undoubtedly fresh. But whose? What manner of man might be out in the night visiting the forbidding Garden of Miracles?

  Sinbad pressed his lips together tightly and narrowed his eyes. Something was amiss; it wasn’t just the track that bothered him, there was more. Something insidious.

  His hand slipped to his knife and he pressed his fingers lightly against the hilt. Looking up to the crest of the hill, he called: “Sherry, are you there?’’

  Only the wind replied. A fleeting shadow passed between trees; Sinbad cautiously walked forward. He reached the top long moments later and studied the foliage around him. It was then that he saw the shattered gazebo, its dulled stone roof faintly reflecting moonlight. And he proceeded closer with deliberate care.

  The girl sat numb in her corner, watching fearfully as her lover made his way toward her. If only she could scream! Run, my love, run! she cried in her anguished thoughts. Please, hear me and run!

  A twig snapped. Sinbad spun, his dagger already drawn. From behind a willow the spy came surging, a curved sword in his hand. “Catch him!” he bellowed to his cronies, and from everywhere they sprang, five brutish wrestlers of the caliph’s service.

  Sinbad’s fist lashed out, catching the first off balance. The hefty wrestler took the blow squarely on the mouth and reeled backwards. A sword whistled by; Sinbad ducked and brought the dagger up in full strength. The spy groaned and fell back, his blade falling from his limp hands. Clutching the gaping wound in his belly, he doubled over.

  From behind, another wrestler leaped on Sinbad’s back. The mariner whirled him with a sudden jerk and sent him flying against the trunk of a tree. As the wrestler thudded to the grass, the quick-thinking mariner brought his dagger back up and fended off two more charging wrestlers.

  With grins and grunts, the hirsute foe encircled Sinbad, steadily pressing in and closing off any avenue of escape. Sinbad’s eyes darted into the night; he saw yet other shadows come racing from down the hill. Burly men with cloaks swirling behind and plumed helmets upon their heads. The caliph’s guard! he realized. Perhaps a full squad of them, all having hidden and waited for his arrival.

  This was no time for games. Sinbad darted forward and kicked high, in the manner of Chinese fighters. “Ooof!” groaned the oaf at the receiving end of Sinbad’s foot. His heel had caught the man dead in the solar plexus, and now he fell to his knees gasping for air.

  Sinbad swung a fast chop at the second attacker, delivering it with such speed and force that the man’s collarbone snapped. He howled like an animal and fell writhing to the floor. There was an instant of respite. Sinbad raced to the gazebo and tried to free the bound Scheherazade.

  “Save yourself, Sinbad,” she cried as he loosened her gag.

  He picked her up abruptly and cut through her bonds. “I’ll not leave without you,” he hissed in reply. And he roughly grabbed hold of her hand and pulled her from the gazebo.

  “I want them alive!” came a cry from the racing soldiers. And the front line advanced with swords drawn menacingly.

  Sinbad held the girl tightly and made a frantic dash toward the trees. The wrestlers had begun to pick themselves up and give chase. Through the maze of branches, roots, and trunks the lovers ran, panting, sweating, struggling to find a way to reach their waiting horses.

  From all sides the troops began to converge. Sinbad fended off a host of blows, fighting like a cornered leopard. But the soldiers were everywhere, forming a vise around him and closing in fast.

  “It’s no good!” wept Sherry, her soiled dress tattered and swirling in the demonic wind.

  “Then we die together!” rejoined the fabled captain.

  In a flashing instant Sinbad was sent flying back by the unseen hammer chop of an advancing wrestler. He groveled on the ground, then leaped to his feet dizzily, despair etched sharply into his handsome features.

  “Run, Sinbad!” shrieked the girl, and he looked on aghast while a handful of soldiers snatched her away, dragging her toward their waiting horses.

  “Sherry!” he wailed in surging sorrow. He tried vainly to break his way through the host of armored flesh before him, but they held firm, parrying his thrusts easily with their curved swords. Sinbad wielded his dagger to and fro, slashing at grasping hands trying to bind him. As the swirling wind tossed dead leaves about, Sinbad knocked an advancing soldier over and swept up the fallen sword. Then he scrambled and thrust wildly, keeping the host at bay. Sinbad was renowned throughout Baghdad for his prowess with weaponry, but none had ever dreamed he could fight with such abandon. Again and again they pressed, again and again he held them off, fighting more as ten than one.

  The tip of a sword grazed his cheek, another slashed through his shirt. The turbaned mariner winced at the feel of his own warm blood and quickly retreated toward the wall of bushes behind him.

  “He’s trapped!” shouted someone with glee and malice.

  Sinbad grunted, conceding his plight. But, like the cornered rat they had made of him, he sought to free himself. Twisting, he dived over the bushes and took refuge among the thick, tall weeds.

  “After him, you fools!” came an urgent cry. And while the troops frantically leaped the shrubs, Sinbad crawled on his belly along the downward slope. His catlike eyes glowed, following the dark figures as they beat swords against the bushes. He arched his body lithely and slipped beneath the gnarled roots of an especially large willow, watching searching troops run helter-skelter in their frustration to catch him.

  His body began to ache from the blows he had received. He glanced down at his torn shirt with surprise at the spreading red stains. The cut was deeper than he had realized; it was a thin, wisping line running from his shoulder almost to his belly. A hairsbreadth deeper and he would probably be dead.

  He stayed in position for what seemed a long time, while the soldiers continued combing the gardens. Then came th
e critical moment. Peering up, Sinbad saw a cloud pass before the face of the moon, shrouding the Garden of Miracles in total blackness. It was now or never — he must make it back to the gate and his waiting horse. Lingering would only give the caliph’s men more time to send for reinforcements.

  He slinked out from among the roots, cleaning mud off his bloody clothes. Then, sticking close to the overgrowth, he inched his way lower, dagger in hand. The soldiers still maneuvered between the willows; Sinbad reached the

  76

  bottom, drew a deep breath, and mustered all his energy. Then he bolted for the gate with all his speed.

  “There he is!’ someone shouted.

  Sinbad cursed as he stumbled, jumped the gate, and leaped for the waiting horse. A line of troopers dropped to one knee and drew bows. His stallion reared in panic at the twang of loosed arrows. Then it raced off into the night, Sinbad’s hand slapping fiercely at its flanks.

  Snub-nosed arrows whistled above the crouching rider s horse. Sinbad deftly zigged and zagged along the street, riding recklessly, his mind a blur of surging emotion. He must free Sherry! he told himself. He must! Yet even as he repeated this, his heart sank with the knowledge of futility. By now she had been whisked well away — perhaps already to Schahriar himself, awaiting the judgment of his wrath. Save yourself, Sinbad! he heard her cry in his troubled thoughts. Save yourself!

  He must leave Baghdad now — forever, he knew. Never look back, never again return to the home of his birth. Tears flooded his eyes; he wished his heart would stop beating. Sherry, he wept, how am l to live without you? Must I spend my entire life in solitude — while knowing you live in a marriage against your will?

  Suddenly more arrows were sailing, this time from in front rather than behind. Sinbad pulled in sharply at the reins and stared ahead. Directly before him stood a hastily constructed barricade, and behind it a handful of archers intent on bringing him down. They shouted frantically among themselves at the sight of him. Sinbad crouched as low as he could manage and clutched tightly at the reins. Then into the stallion s flanks he dug his boots and the horse lurched ahead. High he hurdled, over the turned wagon and crates, soldiers screaming as hooves and horseflesh slammed them about. Blades and daggers flashed, lashing the animal as he landed safely over. Sinbad urged the horse on with a slap and a whoop, and again they