The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar

by Graham Diamond

  “So there you have it. That’s all I know. When I finally awoke, I found myself here, right in this very room.”

  Maria Elisa remained still for a time; then she inched her head from his chest and nestled it more comfortably against the crook of his arm. Through the window she could see a small gray patch begin to nudge upward against the sky; from the barn a rooster crowed, heralding the new day.

  Sinbad stirred; he kissed Maria Elisa lightly on the top of her head and forced himself to sit up straighter. His mouth was very dry, he realized; he’d been talking through the night. Neither he nor the girl had slept for a single moment.

  Sinbad’s fabulous and incredible saga had left Elisa spellbound and awed; she had nothing she could compare it to. Oh, the old fishermen of Pansa often told stories of their own, tales of the sea and the faraway places they’d seen during their lives — but nothing like this. Nothing even remotely similar. She felt overwhelmed by it, and a little bit saddened as well, for she knew she would now have to add to his pain.

  Sinbad sat and stroked her hair for a time, watching peacefully while the gray of dawn spread, turning first to indigo, then to blue, and a trickle of majestic sunlight shimmered along the sea. He gazed wistfully at the tiny fishing boats of Pansa, bobbing in the little harbor. Then, feeling the swell of his memories rush up at him, he shut his eyes.

  Elisa opened her own and peered into his face. A single tear appeared between his thick lashes and rolled slowly down upon his cheek. Her lover, so strong and capable, so much the master of his fate as he sailed the limits of the world, had begun to cry. And right now he seemed far more the lost little boy than the daring mariner every land admired.

  She kissed his lips softly, tasting the salt of his tear. “You’re safe now, Sinbad,” she assured him. “All these things are past, soon to be forgotten. Now you’ll start life again — a new and better life … ”

  He shook his head, the sadness etched into his features only deepening. “I don’t think so, Elisa,” he whispered. “You see, I’ve failed — failed for the last time, and failed miserably. What kind of a future can there be for me? Everything I’ve set out to do is lost. Better that I should have died in the storm — ”

  She shuddered as he spoke, and squeezed his hand. “No, Sinbad … ”

  Looking down at her wide eyes, he smiled. “All those whom I love,” he said, “all those who love me, had put their faith and trust in me. Counted on me. Now, I’ve let them all down. My crew, my ship, Sherry … ” He reflected for a moment, adding, “Even poor little Don Giovanni, whom I vowed to help find a cure for his affliction.” Sinbad sighed; he slumped his shoulders and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, feeling tired, incurably tired. “It was all for nothing, Elisa. All of it. None of my hopes can be realized, none of my goals achieved. It’s as impossible a dream as the search for the Red Dahlia. I was a fool to believe in any of it. It doesn’t exist.”

  Elisa lifted herself up and wiped away a second tear that had streaked down his face. He opened his eyes to find her holding back tears of her own. “It does exist, Sinbad,” she whispered.

  “No, Elisa. Because of a broken heart I’ve spent all these months chasing rainbows. I see that now. I only wish I hadn’t made those around me believe in them, too.”

  Elisa looked at him evenly, biting her lip. “Listen to me, Sinbad. I don’t know what I can do to help you find your ship or return to Baghdad, but as for the flower, the dahlia … ”

  His eyes narrowed. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  And here it would come, she thought. Perhaps the crudest blow of all, and she dreaded having to be the one to tell him. “The Red Dahlia you’ve sought. It’s real. I can show you — ”

  His expression turned to stone. “You? You know of it? You can tell me where it can be found?” Trembling, he held her by the shoulders and stared at her with pleading in his eyes.

  Elisa sniffed. “Oh, Sinbad! How can I be the one to tell you this? Yes, your strange flower exists. It’s as real as you or I. But I fear you’ve searched so long and hard only to be disappointed. You needn’t pass the Pillars of Hercules to find it. These hills, right here in Barcelona, abound with wildflowers. Many of them dahlias, many of them red … ” She cast her gaze away.

  “Where?” he panted. “I must see for myself!”

  Pity for him overtook her and she started to cry. “A dahlia isn’t rare, Sinbad. Not even a red one. It holds no magic, no cures. Both you and Don Giovanni have put your hopes in a fantasy.” She clasped him tenderly, sorrowfully. “It’s … it’s only a flower. A common flower … ”

  What she was saying hit him with the weight of a sledgehammer. Disbelief filled his features and he shook his head. “No, Elisa. It can’t be … It can’t be … ” But even as he spoke he knew she was telling the truth. From the beginning he had known, although he had never allowed himself to admit it. Love and misery had caused him to cling to a myth; truth was hard to swallow. He had embarked upon a futile journey for a useless weed.

  “Then … there is no hope?” he asked, his voice cracking.

  “None. I know what I’m telling you only hurts you further. But it’s better to face it now than to go on believing. Perhaps in Baghdad a red dahlia is so rare that to find one is said to bring magic. But here” — she gestured about her — “there are fields filled with them; they hold no attraction for us. I know, I’ve picked them many times. They’re beautiful flowers, Sinbad. Perhaps the most beautiful that God ever created. But there is no magic. None.”

  Sinbad lifted his gaze toward the rising sun, a bitter laugh upon his lips. How cruel the fates had been! How mean, how spiteful to have been given hope only to have it shattered now like everything else.

  Still, dreams die hard, and Sinbad, although convinced of Elisa’s sincerity, could not let himself accept. Not just yet …

  It wasn’t hard for her to read his thoughts; she could well understand his doubts. “Would you like to see for yourself?” she asked. “I can take you into the fields and show you — ”

  He nodded with a mixture of enthusiasm and fear. “Yes, Elisa. Please. It still means a lot to me, more than I can explain. I have to see for myself … ”

  She put a finger to his lips. “I understand. We’ll go. This very morning.”

  Sinbad closed his arms around her, and as her dark lashes meshed, she could feel the wetness in her eyes. At that moment she wished and prayed that he would prove to be right about the flower. She wanted to be wrong, she wanted him to find the magic he sought if only to see him happy once again, knowing he could return home and claim everything that had so unjustly been taken away.

  From the house she heard the stirrings of her sisters. Elisa slipped from the bed and hastily dressed. Her father was already up; she could see him from the window as he sleepily strode from the house and made his way, buckets in hand, toward the barn.

  “You’d better hurry,” Sinbad told her as she combed her hair and slipped into her sandals.

  Elisa nodded. “I have a few chores to do. Wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He watched as she threw him a kiss and stole quietly from the room. She hid near the hedges and, after making sure no one was about, sneaked back to the house.

  Sinbad smiled, thinking fondly of the girl, then shivering in the chilly morning air, he pulled on his shirt, and waited tensely for her to come back.

  The minutes ticked by like hours. His own breakfast was brought by Maria Vanessa and left untouched as he anxiously paced back and forth. And then she came, breathless and smiling, her duties finished.

  “Don’t let anybody see us,” she said as she took him by the hand.

  Sinbad nodded. He opened the door slowly, peered outside, then dashed with her beyond the garden toward the line of trees atop the hill.

  “Where’s the field?” he asked, peering from the heights across the village and the harbor.

  Elisa pointed down to a meadow where a
herd of sheep grazed peacefully in the damp thick grass. A shepherd boy sat perched on a boulder, playing a flute as he kept an eye on the herd.

  “Not far,” replied Elisa, taking his hand again. “There’s a ridge over the next hill. We’ll cross the meadow and come to a stream. The field is beside it.”

  They ran through the grass like a pair of young lovers, unmindful of the smiling shepherd boy who watched or the baaing sheep who crossed their path.

  Warm sunlight filtered through the branches of the trees onto the cold waters of the rippling stream. Sinbad and Elisa splashed across and, barely pausing to catch their breath, raced up a rise. The girl reached the top first and beckoned. He followed slowly, almost too frightened now to look at what he had come so far to find.

  “There, Sinbad,” said Elisa, pointing down a sharp slope covered with knee-deep grass and a multitude of wildflowers.

  Sinbad shaded his eyes from the sun and peered into the field. Below him lay a full spectrum of color: roses, violets, daisies as bright as the sun, bloodroots as crimson as a sky at dusk. Slowly he picked a path downward, Elisa following in his footsteps.

  Pausing in a patch of white lilies, he stooped over and plucked a single orange blossom that had fallen among them. His mind flashed back to Baghdad and to Sherry with such a flower in her hair. Orange blossoms were her favorite, and it hurt him deeply now to be reminded of his loss.

  Elisa took his hand again, they made their way to the foot of the hill. Sinbad dropped the blossom and stared ahead. As Elisa had promised, growing in the field were a multitude of lovely dahlias. He walked among the array and gazed at the red petals. Each flower was a work of art, a masterpiece in itself.

  The girl kept back while he knelt down and choose one from among the many. The delightful fragrance of the flower filled his nostrils; he took it by the stem and gently yanked it from the soil. Then he held it between his fingers and looked at it with wonder. The Red Dahlia of his dreams was at last in his possession. It, and a hundred like it, all his to claim, as few and as many as he desired.

  What was it that Don Giovanni had told him so long ago? Yes; to grasp it within your palm, to shut your eyes, to make your wish as you squeezed it …

  Sinbad swallowed, his mouth dry, his hand shaking, his heart beating like a drum. Afraid to find out once and for all the secrets of the flower, he wished that the little frog could be here with him now, sharing this crucial moment. As his fingers began to tighten around the soft petals he prayed with all his heart that Elisa was wrong, that the dahlia was every bit as strange and powerful as the legends of Baghdad said. And a thousand different wishes swain through his thoughts; he found himself struggling to blot them all out and think of only one. Yes, that was it. Just one thought. One wish. Maybe the flower might yet provide it …

  The petals started to crush as he squeezed. He shut his eyes fiercely and concentrated all his will and energy on this single moment.

  Take me far, far from this place, he entreated. Take me back across the sea, across the desert sands to my home. Take me now to Baghdad, to the caliph’s palace, and even should I die for it, allow me to take Sherry one last time into my arms …

  He stood perfectly still, waiting, intensifying his concentration. The sun was strong, and he could feel the beads of perspiration on his face and hands. A calm breeze cooled his flesh, and in his agonized mind he thought he could feel the magic of the dahlia flowing mysteriously through him. On his knees now, he rocked his pained body back and forth, wishing, praying, begging. Elisa looked on with sadness while over and over Sinbad repeated his desire.

  Then, head bent low as if in prayer at a mosque, Sinbad dared to open his eyes. At first the salty tears blurred his vision, allowing him to make out only the vaguest forms of land and sky. But soon reality washed away hope and belief; he plainly saw the gentle field, the slope of the rise, the patch of lilies and the silent girl standing tearfully among them. Slowly he got to his feet, and with sagging shoulders opened his hand. The pretty flower had been crushed almost beyond recognition. One by one its petals floated away in the wind and the bent stem dropped forlornly to the grass, to be lost among the tall blades.

  Elisa hesitantly took a step forward. She held out her hand to him. “Sinbad … I — I’m … sorry … ”

  The mariner stared at her for a time, and then he smiled. “Don’t be silly. Of course you were right. I had no reason to believe … ”

  “Yes, you did. Everyone has at least that much reason. What good is living without it?”

  She bit her lip, sorry she had said that. Sinbad sighed; he kneeled and plucked another dahlia. Then he twirled it around and watched its petals spin. “You’d be lovely in the gardens of Baghdad,” he said wistfully to the flower. “A pity I can’t bring you home to bloom … ”

  Maria Elisa came beside him. “What will you do now?” she asked. “Now that your search seems to be over … ”

  Sinbad shrugged. He turned to her and rose. “I suppose what I planned to do all along. Sneak a boat from the village tonight and make my way south across the Cordoba border. There’s a good chance still that my ship is looking for me. With luck maybe I can catch up with her at Tarragona as planned.”

  Elisa nodded. “You will, Sinbad. I know you will. And I’ll help you steal that boat. I promise I will.”

  She locked her eyes with his, smiling as he said, “You mean that? You’ll help me get away from here?”

  “I swear. Just tell me what must be done.”

  A faraway voice grew louder, a woman’s voice shouting from the top of the rise.

  Elisa let go of Sinbad and turned sharply. “It’s my sister!” she gasped. “She’s seen us! And now she’ll tell Papa!”

  Maria Victoria had indeed seen the couple holding hands in the field, but if jealousy was in her heart it did not show itself now. Instead, Victoria was frantically waving her arms, madly beckoning both Sinbad and her sister to come up quickly, urging then with near-screams.

  Neither Sinbad nor Elisa could make out what she was saying, but the mariner knew that anguished look well enough. Victoria was frightened — frightened out of her wits.

  Pulling Elisa by the hand, Sinbad raced up toward the crest of the rise. Just then the church bell began to ring; Sinbad turned toward the village, where he could see Father Augusto in the bell tower calling the citizens of Pansa to hurry to the plaza.

  “Que es?” cried Elisa, panting. “What is it?”

  Victoria looked through her sister and focused her attention upon Sinbad. “It’s them!” she raved. “They’ve come! They’ve come!”

  “Who?” shouted Sinbad, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her out of her panic. “Who’s come?”

  Victoria’s face was the color of cotton clouds. She shuddered as she spoke. “Suliman. Suliman and his band of cutthroats.”

  Elisa’s hand leaped to her mouth.

  “Are you sure?” asked Sinbad. “How do you know? How can you be certain?”

  “The shepherds, Sinbad. Last … Last night. They saw the campfires,” she pointed in a southerly direction. “Dozens of fires. Everywhere, farms burned, destroyed. Prisoners … slaves … ” She blurted the last word and shook uncontrollably as Elisa shielded her in her arms.

  Sinbad looked at the older sister. “She must be right,” Elisa said firmly, looking to the village. “Father Augusto would never ring the signal at this hour unless … ”

  Sinbad nodded, saying quickly, “Can you take care of her while I get to the plaza?”

  “She’s all right. I can manage. Go, Sinbad. Do what you can. Please. For my sake … ”

  He squeezed her hand. “For Pansa’s sake.” Then he turned and ran ahead, listening to the shrill gong of the church bell and the dim wailing of the old women. Absentmindedly he stuffed the fresh dahlia in his pocket, forgetting all about the flower and thinking only of what he could do to help.

  The plaza was filled by the time he reached it. The old men of the village had gather
ed near the steps of the church, hollering above the din of crying children, trying to restore order amid the pandemonium.

  Sinbad tried to reach the priest and found himself blocked by a dozen anguished mothers sheltering babies in their arms. Pablo the cobbler was trying to calm a number of fisherwives whose husbands were still out upon the sea, and Francisco the smithy had his hands full holding back a crowd of farmers and shepherds from the nearby hills.

  Sinbad looked around frantically for someone he could talk to, someone who might be able to explain exactly what was happening. Hearing his name called from behind, he turned, stumbling over a running dog, to see Manuel de Leon huffing and puffing his way through the crowd. Sinbad grappled past others and finally forced his way to the innkeeper’s side.

  “What’s going on, Don Manuel?” he called, nearly drowned out despite his closeness to the other man.

  Manuel narrowed his dark eyes. “Haven’t you heard? It’s Suliman! The bandit has crossed the border! His men can be here in a day!”

  A shepherd’s wife fainted away after hearing what Manuel said. And without meaning to, the peaceful innkeeper had added to the panic. Manuel bent down to revive her, feeling the frightened eyes of a dozen others upon him. They expected him, as village leader, to do something. To take some action, to band them all together and tell them what to do. But poor Manuel was as frightened as any — and with good reason, for Suliman commanded an army of hundreds, and with the young men of Pansa gone off to fight with El Cid, the village was left totally helpless against the onslaught.

  At the top of the church steps Father Augusto was bravely trying to restore some order. Sinbad bolted from the innkeeper and struggled to make his way to the priest. Then through both their pleadings the citizens finally were quieted.

  “We must not panic, my children,” Father Augusto told them severely. “We must pray and seek courage … ”

  “But Suliman comes!” wailed a fisherwife. “Who shall protect us?”

  “We’ll be murdered!” screamed Pepe the goatherd. And he looked upon the faces of his companions. “You all remember the last time Suliman came into Barcelona?”