Again Sinbad shook his head. “Better you should find a potion to make it rain,” he answered, his eyes gazing once more to the heavens. “A strong rain, and a stronger wind. Something to carry us far away from the Cretan navy.”
“Aye,” chimed Milo, listening from afar and joining the grim conversation. “A storm is what we need.”
“A storm, hmmm?” responded the philosopher, scratching his shock of silver hair.
“It’s our only hope,” added Sinbad. He folded his arms and drew a deep lungful of salty air. “I just don’t understand it. By this time of year these climes should be swollen with tempests. And yet … ”
“Nature hasn’t been very cooperative,” agreed Felicia. She put her hands to her hips and stared over the rail.
Methelese took all this in and then, with his fingers toying at the side of his nose, pursed his lips and nodded. “I wonder,” he mumbled almost inaudibly. “I wonder … ” And then he looked to his daughter. “Can you fetch me my black bag, child?” he asked.
Clair winced. “Now, Father?” She seemed most reluctant to do his bidding.
“Yes, now,” Methelese replied impatiently. “You know our predicament. Good captain Sinbad here just finished saying — ”
“I know, I know,” said Clair. “But your black bag? You know what happened the last time … ”
“Bah!”
Sinbad and Felicia felt totally bewildered. “What black bag is this?” asked the captain.
“Why, my potions, of course,” answered the philosopher with a tone that implied the question was superfluous.
“His tricks,” added Clair quickly. “He’s carried them around for half his life, as often as not getting us both into hot water. And I mean hot. Once, he promised the prince of Venice to recede the waters of his city,” — Methelese looked at her angrily as she spoke — “but instead, the potion backfired … ”
“It did not!” huffed the wise man.
“It did too!” rejoined the girl. “Recede the waters? Ha! Do you want to know what happened? He created a flood, that’s what! We had to leave Venice like thieves in the middle of night — and with a troop of soldiers on our heels all the way to Rome!”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” said her embarrassed father. He looked to Sinbad shyly. “My potions were good, but you see I estimated my amounts a bit too liberally. Instead of less water, we found we had more. Much more … ” Methelese shrugged.
There was a bemused grin upon Sinbad’s face as he pictured the poor, well-meaning philosopher becoming so fouled up. Felicia, though, seemed to receive the story quite a bit more seriously. “Wait a moment,” she said, turning around and facing Methelese fully so that her sharp eyes were keenly fixed upon his own. “What exactly are you telling us? That you can perform magic?”
The philosopher was genuinely offended. “Magic? Am I a wizard? A magician to entertain kings and children? No, my dear Felicia. Please do not place me in such an unenviable category.”
Felicia was unperturbed by his outburst. “Forgive me if I seem rash,” she said, “but what then is it that’s in this black bag of yours.’
“Wisdom,” came the somber reply.
“Would you mind explaining that?” said Sinbad.
Methelese shrugged, then sighed. “As you all know,” he began, “I’ve spent my life studying the ancient civilizations of the world — ”
“Yes, yes,” said Milo impatiently. “But to the point, man! What’s in the bag?”
Methelese ignored his impatience. “Many things,” he replied flatly. “Many strange potions whose workings it would take a lifetime to explain. Suffice to say that in my hands is the full knowledge of lands and peoples long since vanished. From the secrets of ancient Egypt to the wonders of Atlantis, from the miracles of the Cretan Caves to the blasphemies of Sodom and Gomorrah, all this can I recount. And all of their arts as well — ”
Felicia pulled him by his sleeve. “And magic?” she panted. “Do you know their magic?”
Methelese reddened. “I told you not to use that word!”
“I’m sorry. Knowledge, then. Call it what you like. But do you possess it?”
“But naturally! Why was I being kept prisoner so long on Phalus if not for this very knowledge?”
There was a long pause as Sinbad looked first to the pirate girl, then to Milo, then to Clair. “Is this so?” he asked the girl.
Clair nodded slowly. “I’m afraid it is,” she conceded. “But my father has never learned to use his potions properly. One way or another, he always seems to make a mess of things.”
Methelese eyed his daughter with shock. “How can you say such a thing, child? Have I ever misused these powers?”
She shook her head. “No … Not intentionally, anyway.”
“Well then?” Methelese felt better now that he had proved his point.
Sinbad held up his hands. “Never mind all this,” he said. “What I think Felicia wants to know — what we all want to know — is whether there is something in this bag of tricks of yours than can be of help to us?”
A smile broke across the philosopher’s marred features. “You mean can I make your storm for you?” he asked. “Is that it?”
“Exactly!” cried Felicia. “Can you do it?”
“No.”
“What? She was astounded. “After all you just finished telling us about the Egyptians, about Atlantis … ”
“No man can make a storm,” Methelese told her. “It is quite impossible. Nature alone governs such matters.”
“By Allah, then, what can you do?” the pirate cried with despair.
Methelese smiled slyly. “I can lend nature a hand.”
“Lend … nature … a hand?” wondered Milo.
“Certainly. It’s really quite simple.” He rested his hands on the rail and peered out toward the starry western sky. “As Sinbad noted before, the tempest season is already upon us, although we have yet to see a storm … ”
“So?”
Here the Greek turned back to them in triumph. “I possess the very powders needed to stir the clouds, block the sun, raise the wind — ”
“And make rain?” said Sinbad, breathless.
Methelese grinned like a schoolboy. “And make rain.” Clair hastened to stand between her father and the others. “Don’t listen to him!” she pleaded. “It won’t work. It will go wrong. It always goes wrong!”
Sinbad studied the philosopher’s expressionless face. “Is Clair right?” he demanded. “Are your tricks safe?”
“Safe enough for the ancient pharaohs to use,” he replied dourly. “Time after time these very powders — with the right incantations of course — saved the land of Egypt from drought. And this trick was taught to them by no less than the Persians a thousand years earlier. Naturally, it was during the Golden Age of Atlantis that these potions were originally devised … ”
Milo looked at the captain darkly. “I don’t like the sound of this,” he warned. “By Allah, we should not have to resort to such sorcery.”
“I disagree,” said Felicia, shaking her head vehemently. “I put great trust in the ancients. After all, it was their civilizations that flourished long enough to give us our own. Everything we know we learned from them in one way or another. Let’s give Methelese a chance.”
“She’s right,” said the Greek. “Wisdom such as this has never been matched. Would you hide it because of superstitions?”
“You say Atlantis used these powers,” said Milo, unconvinced. “Well? What happened then? Is it not so that that mighty nation sank beneath the very sea? The entire land with all its peoples? What powers caused such catastrophe? I warn you, Sinbad, use these potions and we will bring down the wrath of nature upon our own heads!” Felicia scoffed. “What is there to fear? A tempest?” She laughed caustically. “Come now, gentlemen. We have the entire Cretan navy at our backs, poised to ram and burn us. Bad weather is our only chance — are we to willingly slip into the king’s grubby h
ands? I say no.” She faced Methelese sternly. “Bring this bag of yours, Greek. Quickly. If you have the powers you claim, then use them. Remember, your own throat and Clair’s will cut as easily as mine at the wrong end of a Cretan blade.”
With that sobering judgment Sinbad was forced to agree. “Now is no time to fear superstition,” he told the old sailor. “Besides, what choice do we really have?”
Milo remained silent and nodded submissively. The captain had been honest enough; right now the Scheherazade was a desperate ship.
“Bring the black bag,” said Sinbad to Clair. “Let’s not waste any more time.” Then to Methelese, when the girl scampered below, “What can we do to help?”
With a piece of white chalk from his pocket, Methelese drew a rough circle about two meters in circumference on the deck of the bridge. “While I spread the potion to the wind,” he said soberly, “Clair shall do her rain dance. Meanwhile I’ll need you all to concentrate as hard as you can — thinking only of the rain. The rain and nothing else. Understood?”
Milo grimaced; Felicia nodded; Sinbad shrugged. “All right. What else?”
“That’s all. Just keep the picture of rain in your minds for as long as you can.”
“All night?” asked Milo.
The Greek’s face was stony and glum. “And all day if necessary. We’ll wait for the dark clouds to appear; at the first rumble of thunder we’ll know we’ve succeeded.”
Milo snickered but said nothing as an out-of-breath Clair clambered back onto the bridge, a small leather satchel in her right hand. She gave it to her father with obvious misgivings, and the look in her eye clearly pleaded for him to use the potion sparingly and carefully.
The philosopher put the bag down slowly; taking a tiny key from the gold chain around his neck, he unlocked it. Sinbad peered over his shoulder at the incredible clutter inside. The bag was crammed with a vast variety of devices, some as crude as rough rocks, others seemingly so sophisticated that Sinbad could only speculate as to what they might be.
“Now let me see,” muttered Methelese, rummaging through these items. He tossed aside a worn volume of curious writings and proceeded to mull among a dozen or more stoppered vials with liquid contents. He held out a green one and frowned. “No, this is for rendering genies helpless,” he reminded himself. “I think I need the pink one … yes. But where is it? Dear me, what could have happened to it?”
Clair lent a ready hand. She shuffled aside a parchment of Persian script, pulled out a few geological specimens and placed them gently at her side. It did not take long before half the bridge had become cluttered with Methelese’s varied prizes.
“Aha!” cried the Greek at last. He stuck his hand deep, deep inside and came up with a vial so tiny that he could easily hold the whole thing within his palm. “Here we are,” he said triumphantly. “I knew we’d find it sooner or later.”
“What is that stuff?” asked Felicia with a shudder, the foul smell from the vial creeping into her nostrils.
“A potion concocted by the wise men of Imhotep the Eighth’s court,” Methelese replied. “He was pharaoh of all Egypt two thousand years before the first pyramids.”
Sinbad whistled. “And the liquid still holds its powers?”
“We shall see,” answered the Greek. Then he stood up and looked darkly at Clair. “You may begin, child,” he told her, gesturing for her to take her place inside the drawn circle.
Clair grimaced. “Are you sure, Father? Are you — ”
“Positive,” he replied sternly. “You know what to do?”
She nodded. “I remember the dance, Father. Don’t worry.”
“Good.” Methelese smiled and turned back to his companions. “Now remember what I said. Concentrate as hard as you can … ”
“And what will you do with that stuff?” Milo wanted to know.
With his teeth, Methelese uncorked the vial; a thin vapor immediately began to rise, slowly curling in the breeze and working its way upward to the sky. The pink changed color almost immediately upon contact with the air; Sinbad watched amazed as a flaming orange cloud spread lightly above their heads.
“I am ready,” said Clair.
“Then begin.”
She threw off the hood from her cloak, unclasped the pin, and let the garment fall to the floor. Then she started to sway her hips, her arms lifting above her head, hands forming weird and mysterious patterns in the air.
Milo watched her with interest; Clair’s dance was unlike any he had seen before. Her long hair waving in the breeze, she spun round and round and sang a curious song in a tongue no one save her father could name, much less understand; Methelese, meanwhile, lifted the vial higher and soundlessly mouthed an incantation. This continued for a very long while, with no results to be seen. Undaunted, he repeated the prayer again; Clair, although tired and dubious, went on with her vital part of the ceremony.
Milo grew weary of concentrating. He glanced at Sinbad and frowned. “Bag of tricks indeed,” he scoffed. “I feel like a fool. How much longer are we going to play this silly little game?”
“Quiet!” barked Methelese, “Do you want to ruin everything?”
Scowling, the old sailor went back to his thoughts of rain, and Sinbad and Felicia did likewise. It was nearly dawn; Mongo and Abu had come from below to take over the watch. When they reached the bridge, they stood frozen and speechless at the scene before them. There were the captain and his mates, standing mute and still like dolls, Methelese mumbling queerly to himself, and the lovely Clair cavorting around inside a chalk circle like a Ceylonese snake-charmer.
“By Allah!” cried Abu. “What goes on here?”
“Shhh!”
They peered down and saw Don Giovanni sitting quietly beside the black bag watching the proceedings. The frog hopped to Abu’s side and cautioned the first mate to stay silent. Perplexed, thinking Sinbad and the others mad, both he and Mongo complied.
The contents of the vial had all but evaporated and Methelese pulled a long face. His chant over, he started it again, this time stamping his feet in time with the lyrics, singing louder, and gesturing for Abu and Mongo to clap their hands in time. The two sailors looked at each other, shrugged, and did as asked. Clair’s own song grew stronger as the light of day began to glow in the east. And on and on the group continued with the ceremony, until all, save Methelese himself, were stamping their feet, clapping their hands, and concentrating on rain.
Rain, thought Sinbad, over and over. Rain. Rain! Eyes shut, body swaying, he summoned all his mental strength to this desperate effort.
Suddenly Methelese stopped. His eyes shot to the eastern sky. “Did you hear?” he cried.
Felicia opened her eyes also. “Hear what?”
“The rumble! The rumble! Thunder!”
Milo peered out as well. Shaking his head, he said, “I didn’t hear a thing.”
“Nor I,” admitted Sinbad. “Let’s keep going … ”
“No, wait.” Methelese was clearly excited. Clair stopped in her dance as her father ran to the rail and beamed. A dull haze had begun to cover the morning stars in the east; he could almost make out the outlines of thick black clouds growing across the far horizon. “Do you see?” he called. “Do you see?”
Sinbad rushed to his side. “See what? What?” And then he felt it. A single drop of water splashed on his nose. He touched it with his finger and tasted. There was no salt; the water was fresh. “Rain,” he whispered. “It is rain.”
Methelese clapped his hands delightedly. “Yes, rain! It worked, by Heaven, it worked!” And he gleefully threw his arms around Felicia and swept her off the ground.
Milo stared in disbelief. This time the rumble of thunder could not be missed. It was real all right, as real as the ominous clouds scudding in from the east. And while the sun still shone in the straight between Corsica and Sardinia, they saw ahead the first fearful strokes of lightning.
Abu took to the helm, gazing at the nearby shores of Corsica. “That look
s like a bad one,” he marveled. “Allah’s mercy, feel the wind!”
Indeed, the wind had gained incredible speed and force; already the Scheherazade had begun to roll with the early swells.
“I’ve never seen a storm look so fierce,” Felicia said. “It could last for days … ”
Methelese laughed buoyantly. “Days, yes! Maybe more! Ah, Clair! Isn’t it wonderful? I’ve done it; we’ve done it. This time we’ve really succeeded!”
Milo shook his head. “We need a storm, my friend. Not a deluge. Just look at that! Do you realize what we could be in for?”
Sinbad glanced behind and saw the sails of the Cretans, barely in sight of the straight but pressing on still, unaware of what was ahead. He had wanted a chance to get away from the Cretan navy, and now he had one. “Steady the course,” he told Abu. “Keep her three points off the eye. Everybody not on duty get below. I have a feeling we’re going to get more than we bargained for.”
They rounded the finger-peninsula of Corsica in trepidation, as the sky overhead grew still darker as if in final warning to those sailors upon the sea, and then with a violent clap let loose a terrible barrage of pelting rain. Using the weather as cover, they attempted to slip across the strait, but the king was not to be deterred — at least not yet, and even under the bleak stormy night Sinbad could see his fleet also enter the straight and round the peninsula.
Out in the open again, the winds seemed to moderate, but they veered sharply south. Sinbad’s crew had to struggle to avoid being swept too far off their course for Mallorca near the Moorish coast.
By morning, Sinbad found that the trip from the deck to the bridge ladder had become in itself a torturous ordeal. Spray and foam were lashing over the bulwark and a ferocious wind screamed from the starboard side. Wild horses, Sinbad thought, recalling the unbroken Arabian stallions whose natures could never be tamed. Those stallions and the storm had much in common, and only the steadiest hand might hope to master them.
Gray-black thunderheads tumbled and churned above, and a thick pea-soup mist was fast bearing down on the battling ship. At times the tips of the masts were already being obscured, only to reappear as the ship tumbled into a trough before climbing the next mountainous wave. And the driving rain increased in intensity. Forward progress had been more than stalled; by evening, they were still in sight of Corsica.
The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar Page 72
