escaped amidst whistling arrows which fell harmlessly close by.
Or had they been harmless? As he passed from the city, thundering through the gate like a witless tiger, he noticed that the stallion’s breathing grew heavy and labored. Sinbad leaned forward, ran his hand through the matted mane, looked sorrowfully at the curdling blood. Only then did he realize just how badly hurt his favorite stallion had been on this daring ride to freedom.
He slowed to a trot and steered the animal away from the caravan road, taking a shortcut to a small oasis he was familiar with. There he dismounted and examined the injury. The stallion’s chest pulsed with dark blood; he saw the broken shaft of an arrow with its head firmly implanted near the animal s heart.
Sinbad tearfully stroked the trusted steed and sighed. He led it among the fig trees and to the pond, where the dying horse refused to drink. How boldly this horse had run, Sinbad thought. A lesser steed would have collapsed and died long before.
He tried to soothe the agonized horse, watching as it kicked its heels into dirt and shook its mane in terrible pain. Sinbad drew his knife. He could not let the poor creature suffer; he whispered a few gentle words of endearment into its ear and plunged the dagger deeply into its heart. The animal kicked its hind legs, jerked spasmodically, then fell with a thud at Sinbad s feet.
The despondent mariner leaned down and shut the glassy eyes forever. “Good-bye, faithful friend,” he mumbled as he went through the saddlebags, taking only a water flask and a small bag of silver. “You were a better friend to me than any before; I shall never forget.”
Then he stood and gazed forlornly back toward the walls of the city, now glimmering brightly under ten thousand stars.
“And farewell to you, beloved Baghdad,” he sighed. “Fate, it seems, has ordained that we never see each other
78
again … “ He hung his head and fought back rising sobs. “Be kind to fair Scheherazade, let her life know only joy. May Sherry be blessed with — “ He could not go on. With his head against the bark of a fig tree, he wept as he had never wept before. His body was wracked with the pain of his wounds and bruises, his brow burned with fever; but nothing could compare to the anguish and hurt within his soul. He was now a man without a home, without a country, without the woman for whom he lived. In but a single day’s time, he had lost everything. Only a shallow and empty life lay before him now. One devoid of any true love, devoid of any dreams on which to build. Sinbad was shattered — for what good is the poet without his dreams?
After a time he lifted himself up, straightened his shoulders, and sighed with deep resignation. Then he headed from the oasis toward the west. Toward the road to Damascus, toward the ever-hot sands of the endless Arabian desert.
All through the night Sinbad wandered across the shifting dunes in a state of bewilderment and shock. Dawn spread gaily along the eastern horizon, where the high walls of Baghdad had all but disappeared from view. That the caliph’s soldiers would be in pursuit was all but a certainty, and Schahriar, although gloating over having foiled the lovers’ plan, now would demand justice for the sailor who tried to steal his bride. All caravans leaving the city would be stopped; soldiers would be sent to inspect every barge and boat upon the Tigris; and palace spies would comb every inch of Baghdad in search of the wily captain. Thus Sinbad had correctly taken to the desert, knowing that only there might he slip away unseen, lost among the endless sands, doomed to a nomad’s existence.
Oh, Fortune, how unfaithful thou art! Sinbad ruminated as he languished in misery. Thou hadst charmed me with thy wiles, enticed and blessed me like no other, then like a harlot hardened thy heart and cast me adrift upon this barren sea.
The only reply to his grief was the rising of the wind, growing like a sirocco, while Sinbad shivered with his fever beneath the blazing sun of the morning.
Half in a delirium, he crossed the dunes, aching in body and spirit as never before, wishing he were dead and forgotten to the world, his name but a memory. And so he wandered.
The sun was nearing its noon height when Sinbad came to a large flat where lay an oasis. As in a dream he stared at the fig and fruit trees and the fresh-water ponds nestled beside the grassy knolls. Sinbad gratefully washed his wounds, drank long draughts of the cool, clear water, and ate a few pieces of fruit. Then he searched for a shady place to lay down and sleep. It wasn’t difficult to find.
The grasses were deep and rich beside a small lily pond, and he stretched out luxuriously, his body well shaded by the leaves of a thick, aged tree.
How tranquil this little spot was, he mused, staring expressionlessly at the deep water of the pond and watching the lily pads go floating by. Butterflies were dancing, their colorful wings catching streams of sunlight pouring down between the branches; tiny sparrows twittered carelessly from their nests in the trees. Sinbad smiled at the sight of a frog hopping along the gravelly banks.
Ah, what a peaceful place, he said to himself, relaxing and shutting his eyes. / truly do like it here; perhaps I shall never leave …
And then he fell asleep.
It was a disturbed sleep, though, for in it he saw Sherry, her gentle features etched with grief, tears pouring from her eyes. She was clad in a wedding gown, and with her face veiled and her brooding eyes downcast, she came beside the caliph and gave him her hand. Schahriar took it greedily, a victorious glint in his eyes. And he proclaimed before Allah that the girl was his wife.
No, Sherry, no! cried Sinbad, watching from afar. But
80
the girl did not hear and his plea went unnoticed. Then the caliph lifted the veil and kissed her.
Sinbad jumped from his slumber, his heart thumping wildly. Seconds passed and he fell back and sighed, realizing it had only been a dream. He was still in the oasis, beside the lily pond; nothing had changed at all except that the sun had already begun to dip. Evening was upon the desert.
Sinbad sat back up, cross-legged, and put his head in his hands. “Ah, me,” he mumbled sorrowfully. “What am I to do? Returning shall mean the loss of my head, but if I don’t I shall never gaze into Sherry’s eyes again. Not even for a fleeting moment … “
And in his despair he began to create a poem, one which would forever explain to the world his shattered heart.
“It sounds as though you have a problem,’’ said a sudden nearby voice.
Startled, Sinbad tensed, expecting to find he was not alone. Had the soldiers tracked him here? Had the caliph known of his route?
Sinbad looked around slowly, slanting his black brows and carefully examining the landscape. But all there was to see was the lily pond, the butterflies, the exotic flowers and shrubs, and, at the edge of the bank, an enormous bullfrog sitting upon his hind legs and staring at him. There was no sight of another human being.
I must still be dreaming, he told himself, forgetting about the strange voice. Then he shrugged and went back to composing his sad poem.
“Don’t you want to tell me what’s wrong?’’ came the peculiar voice again.
This time Sinbad’s hand slid to his dagger. He definitely was not dreaming. He gazed out toward the pond and the direction of the voice. “Who … who said that?’’ he called nervously.
“I did.”
The mariner’s jaw hung limply; he peered long and hard at the scaly frog with bulging eyes and a tongue as long as a lizard’s. It was a big frog, dark and light green in color, with numerous black spots scattered across its back and the largest webbed feet Sinbad had ever seen.
“You?” he gasped. “You spoke to me.”
The frog nodded evenly.
Sinbad scratched his head in wonder. “I must be losing my mind … “
The frog sighed. “No, I don’t think so. It was me you heard.”
Sinbad was incredulous — the world must have gone insane during his slumber! Turned topsy-turvy in a nightmare. He collected himself and narrowed his eyes at the creature. “It was you” he asked.
“
Oh, yes. It was me all right. Take my word for it.”
“But … but that’s impossible!” he sputtered. “Frogs can’t speak!”
“Well, dear fellow,” replied the frog haughtily, “as you see, this one can” And then he shrugged his shoulders matter-of-factly.
Sinbad whistled and shook his head, suddenly positive that his ordeal had left him demented. Sitting here and having a conversation with a toad was just too much to accept; he had seen many, many strange and wondrous things in the world during the adventures of his voyages. Beasts of all sorts, monsters, demons, rocs, and Cyclopes — but a talking frog? Never!
But the frog seemed to pay little attention to Sinbad’s quandary. With a single push of his long hind legs, he leaped from the bank and landed beside the amazed sailor.
“You must be a devil!” cried Sinbad. “An evil wizard, taken this vile guise to trick me!” He pulled his blade and wielded it menacingly. “Tell me before I slit that tongue of yours — are you an agent of the caliph?”
The frog remained cool. Shaking his head, he said:
82
“Nothing like that, I assure you. I’m only a common bullfrog, no different from any other.”
Sinbad laughed hollowly. “Not quite so common, I’ll wager,” he said. “How many of your fellows converse like a man? Hrmn?”
The frog chuckled in a curious fashion. “Well,” he drawled, “I suppose you’re right. I guess it would seem strange to you. But everyone here,” his eyes swept the oasis in two different directions, “knows all about it. Really they do. Why, they hardly give it a second thought any more.” The bullfrog sat back and stared up at Sinbad again. “But never mind me. Who are you, pray tell? What are you doing at my pond? And what causes you such distress?”
His fear gone, Sinbad sheathed his dagger and looked at his companion with a slightly bemused grin. “I am called Sinbad,” he announced proudly. “Captain Sinbad, merchant of Baghdad, adventurer and poet, mariner and soldier of fortune.”
The frog remained docile and still beside Sinbad’s leg. He put a webbed foot to his head and scratched it, deep in thought. “Sinbad? Sinbad, eh?” he said. “Hmmm. Yes, yes; I think I’ve heard that name before. Why, I’m sure of it!”
Sinbad’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You’ve actually heard of me?” he questioned.
The frog bobbed his head strongly. “I daresay the name has passed my ears now and again. After all, when you spend your whole life sitting around in a pond, you have lots of time for gossip. One hears all kinds of things, let me tell you. So is it such a surprise that the famous name of Captain Sinbad may have come this way once or twice?” The frog leaned back and blinked his eyes, which he did habitually whenever he was thinking hard.
“If memory serves,” he went on after a time, “I think it was a sparrow who first mentioned you. Yes, yes. Or was it a grasshopper?”
But Sinbad remained unconvinced; this toad seemed a bit too knowledgeable for his own good. And, wary of what might happen next, he let his Land drift back toward his knife.
The bullfrog observed his nervousness and smiled in the peculiar way that only frogs do. “You needn’t be afraid of me, Captain Sinbad,” he said kindly. “Neither I, nor any of this oasis, mean you any harm.”
Sinbad leaned forward, fie put his head in his hands and sighed. “I know you don’t,” he told his companion. “You must excuse me. I’m not myself today — and I doubt I ever will be again.” And he stared blankly out toward the brilliant sunset, unmoved and uninspired.
“What is the matter, Sinbad?” asked the frog. “What makes the most admired man in all Baghdad so saddened?”
“I am crushed,” admitted the mariner. “My life is near its end, I’m sure. There is no future for me, nor can there ever be without her … ”
The frog nodded knowingly; he had suspected that a female was the reason for such anguish. Somehow that was always the case, even here in the pond.
“Won’t you tell me about it?” he asked.
“What good would it do? The memory is too fresh, too painful … ”
“Sometimes it helps to tell someone,” replied the frog wisely. “It eases the pain to share it with another.”
Sinbad reached over and patted his head. “You are a very clever frog — and very understanding.” Then he smiled. “Why not? All right, my friend. I’ll tell you my tale — all of it. And then you’ll come to see why I weep as I do.”
It took quite some time for Sinbad to explain the details, how he had heard of the caliph’s decision, and of Sherry’s plan for their escape to freedom. Sinbad left nothing unsaid; he told the frog every last point, minor and major, and when he had finished they both hung their heads.
“Love is both the joy and the bane of the world,” the frog said with a sigh.
Sinbad nodded. “How true! alas. A broken heart cannot twice be endured. So now I must go far, far away. As far as I possibly can. Maybe, with time, some of the wounds shall heal — although the scars shall always remain.” As Sinbad forced a smile, he tossed a few pebbles into the pond and stared at the widening ripples of water. Then he turned back to his companion. “Now you know everything there is to know,” he said. “But what about your own tale? Surely it must be a strange and wondrous story. How it came about that a toad can converse.”
The frog looked up indignantly. “I am not a toad!” he huffed.
“Forgive me. A frog, then.”
“A bullfrog!” snapped the bullfrog.
“All right, a bullfrog!” He leaned in closer, looking his companion straight in the eye. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
The bullfrog grimaced and heaved a lengthy sigh. Resting back on his haunches, he croaked deeply and, as Sinbad clearly noted, very sadly.
“My fate was due to a practical joke,’ the frog confided at last.
“What sort of joke?”
“A poor one, surely. Once, some seasons ago, one of Baghdad’s mighty wizards passed this way with a caravan. While his camels and servants rested, the fellow decided to practice his wizardry. It was my fortune to fall victim; he put a curse upon me.”
“Aha!” said Sinbad, snapping his fingers. “I suspected as much! Tell me, were you indeed not once a man? But now condemned to dwell forever inside this scaley body?”
The bullfrog rolled his eyes wildly. “Heavens forbid, no!” he cried. “I was never a man — nor would I want to be. A bullfrog I was born and a bullfrog I hope to die. But this witty magician of the caliph’s court thought it might be amusing to cast a spell and give to me the voice of a man.”
Although the frogs plight was understandable, Sinbad could hardly refrain from a snicker.
“It’s no laughing matter!” bemoaned the bullfrog. “Just take a look at me! What do you see? Do you think it’s easy for me being like this? Why, my own family avoids me. Most of my friends won’t even talk to me any more — and don’t even ask about the problems I have during mating time!” He shuddered. “It isn’t fair! I tell vou, it just isn’t fair!”
Sinbad listened with a sense of absolute understanding. Indeed, the poor little frog’s woes were in many respects similar to his own. Both lived in misery, both had found themselves outcasts through no fault of their own.
“Do you have a name, little friend?” Sinbad asked. “Or do they just refer to you as ‘Frog’?”
His companion for the first time avoided meeting the sailor’s gaze. “I do have a name,” he confided, “but I rarely tell it to anyone — particularly strangers. They laugh at me.”
Captain Sinbad smiled warmly. “You needn’t fret. You can trust me.”
The frog looked up doubtfully. “You promise not to laugh?”
“I give my word.”
“All right, then,” he said reluctantly. “I was named … Giovanni. Don Giovanni.”
Sinbad put his hands to his face and roared. He laughed so hard and so loud that tears were streaming from his eyes and he thought his ribs might crack.
/>
“You promised!” wailed Don Giovanni. “You gave your word!”
Sinbad nodded and dried his eyes, managing to subdue his merriment to an occasional chuckle. “You are right, my friend. I beg your forgiveness. I was rude to you but I won’t be any more.”
The frog sniffed and sulked. He made to leave.
86
“Don’t!” cried Sinbad, reaching out. “Don’t hop away angry. I really didn’t mean to make fun of you.”
Don Giovanni pouted and looked at Sinbad dejectedly. “Oh, it really doesn’t matter. I suppose I’m accustomed to it by now. They all used to do it, you know. They would chase me out of the pond and force me to sleep in the grass.” He shut his bulging eyes and rolled them beneath heavy green lids. “What I wouldn’t give to be rid of this miserable curse,” he moaned. “If only I could go back to being just what nature intended for me to be.”
Sinbad felt truly ashamed for his crude behavior. He fully understood how cruel one’s fellow creatures can be when you are different than they are — -even if your home was only a lily pond.
“And there is no way for you to have this wish granted?” he asked.
“Alas, the wizard who cast his spell has died, and his antidote is unknown.”
“But surely there are other wizards,” protested Sinbad. “Other potions and other spells to disperse this one. The world is vast, good frog. Somewhere.
Slumping, Giovanni sighed. “There is said to be one cure,” he confided. “But how shall I, a simple bullfrog, ever hope to find it?”
“Perhaps I can be of assistance to you,” said Sinbad.
The little frog’s eyes widened. “You would help me?”
Sinbad nodded. “If I can, ves.”
Don Giovanni hopped onto Sinbad’s shoulder and put his face close to the mariner’s ear. “Have you ever heard of the flower called the Red Dahlia?”
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 52
