The Forty Thieves

by Christy Lenzi

  “Marjana, you and I must leave for the cave immediately!”

  “Me?”

  Ali Baba nods firmly. “Yes, Marjana. Rasheed would volunteer, of course, but he is not able, and I truly need him here to keep the household calm and at peace. You’ve proved yourself most capable to do what I ask. Please. I need your help.”

  I still can’t believe the cave is magic, but if the part about the Forty Thieves is true, going to their cave is the last thing I want to do. I never want to see the devil-man again. But I can’t let Ali Baba make the journey alone. I nod gravely.

  Dusk is falling as I follow Ali Baba through the woods. We come to the edge of a small clearing. After we’re certain that the thieves are nowhere about, Ali Baba and I step out into the open and stand before a stone cliff face. It looks exactly like an ordinary cliff face—nothing remarkable. Certainly no door cut into it. I wonder what’s wrong with Ali Baba. It seems only a child or a simpleton could believe that behind this rock hides a magical cave full of treasure.

  “Are you ready, Marjana?”

  Ali Baba’s eyes have a wild look about them. Is he mad? I swallow hard and nod my head, wondering if he has lost his senses. “Open, Sesame!” he cries.

  At Ali Baba’s words, the ground shakes. Pebbles and earth cascade down the wall of rock, and a great door slowly opens. My jaw drops in awe.

  Magic.

  It’s true.

  I feel dizzy as we step inside.

  Light flickers on the cave walls, but when I pick up a lamp, it’s empty—it burns without oil! I hold it in front of me and gaze around the room in amazement. Heaps of gold coins cover the cave floor, and in the center, a great table is set with an elaborate feast of steaming roasted meats, sparkling goblets of drink, jewellike fruits, and delicate pastries. It’s the magic never-ending banquet that Jamal told me about the night we were taken by the Forty Thieves, and I didn’t believe him. He was right. It’s all real. Luxurious tapestries lie over chests brimming with gems and jewels. Most amazing of all, a flying carpet floats around the cave, above our heads, just as Ali Baba said.

  I stagger around the room in wonder, scooping up the gold pieces to make sure they’re real and letting them fall through my hands like water. Am I dreaming? I must be. But I could never dream up something so extravagant as this. It is only when my eye catches the gleaming pile of scimitars that I remember why we are here. In my distraction, I have lost track of time, and a nervous flutter rises in my chest as I scan the cave for Ali Baba. I spot him huddled over in a dark corner.

  “Ali Baba,” I whisper. “Where is … Master?”

  When he turns to me, Ali Baba’s face is the color of ash. He points to four bundles he has wrapped and placed on the ground. “Here is the body of your master, my brother.”

  The horror of his words strikes me dumb.

  Ali Baba covers his face with his hands. “I found him like this … quartered….”

  My knees turn weak. I place my hand on the trembling man’s thin shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ali Baba.”

  “The thieves murdered my brother, quartered his body, and left it here.”

  I shiver, staring at the bundles he wrapped in pieces of elegant cloth, and then I freeze. More of the fortune is coming true: When Master said he was twice the man Ali Baba was, Abu-Zayed had said, Be that as it may—in the end, you will be but a quarter of the man he is.

  “Ali Baba, if we don’t hurry and leave, they may come back and do the same thing to us!”

  “Marjana.” He takes my hand. “I need your help with my brother’s remains. I believe you’re brave enough to do as I ask.”

  I nod.

  “When the robbers see my brother’s body is missing, they’ll realize someone knows their secret. They’ll be looking for news of a murdered man’s funeral. We must make it seem as if he died in his bed at home, or we’re all in danger.”

  Remembering the devil-man’s serpent tattoo makes me want to sink to the floor.

  “I understand. I’ll take care of …” I glance at the bundles on the ground. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  The following morning while Mistress sleeps, I stick gold pieces from the cave into my sash and hurry with Jamal to the bathhouse. I have a plan to make it seem like Master died in bed, but before I can do anything, I need to see Saja. The aching guilt I feel for Badi’s death is too much to bear another day. When we reach the bathhouse, it isn’t open yet. Saja will be working with the other servant girls in the courtyard, doing the laundry.

  Jamal scowls at the ground, kicking stones in the road as we near the gate. I try taking his hand, but he yanks it back.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Lately he’s pulling away from me, like a thread unraveling from a garment. If I don’t do something, I’ll lose him completely and feel more cold and alone than I already do.

  “Jamal, you were right.”

  He stops and kicks a rock toward me, almost hitting my shin. “About what?”

  “About everything. That I’m not your master and I’m just a slave. You were right about Red Beard—he won’t want you to ride with him now that I made you leave. And the magic—you were right about that, too.”

  Jamal looks up in surprise at that, a glimmer of interest in his eyes, but quickly turns away again. He hasn’t forgiven me yet.

  I dig a rock loose with the toe of my sandal and kick it between Jamal’s feet. “But I was right about some things. I was right to want to keep you from joining the gangs. I may not have done all the right things, but I was right to want to stop you, Jamal, and you know it.”

  He frowns at the rock near his foot.

  “But I was wrong about something important.”

  He steps on the rock, pressing it into the dirt.

  “I was wrong when I said it was your fault that Badi died. I was sad and angry. I threw those words at you when I should have just thrown them away, because they aren’t true. It isn’t your fault, Jamal.”

  He keeps his eyes on the stone. “Then whose fault is it?”

  I stare at the rock, too. Tears rise to my eyes. “Badi chose to do what he did on his own, but he didn’t realize how dangerous it was. Neither of you did.” The burden of a hundred stones in my heart starts to lift. “He just wanted to be a brave warrior and stop the boys from hurting you.”

  My heart lightens just a fraction at the truth of my own words. Badi’s death isn’t my fault, either.

  “You would have done the same thing for him, wouldn’t you?”

  Jamal nods and picks up the stone. “Badi tried to help me just like Saja helped you. Because that’s what friends do.”

  The truth in his words is a mixture of bitter herbs and sweet honey. Just when I finally open my heart to Saja’s friendship, I’ve lost it.

  As Jamal and I near the courtyard entrance of the bathhouse, a hulking khādim guard walks his rounds past the locked gate. A ring with a key on it hangs from his belt. I pull my brother close enough to whisper in his ear.

  “Jamal, listen. Badi was brave. And what I’m going to ask you to do for me and his sister is brave, too. Listen.” I tell him my plan and watch his eyes light up as he listens. He nods, and as soon as I’m done, he skips off toward the guard, and I follow.

  When Jamal stops short in front of the surprised guard, tripping him, I have the key off the ring before the man even finishes cursing. As soon as he’s gone, we burst out laughing. It feels good—I haven’t smiled in ages. But when I turn toward the bathhouse courtyard and unlock the gate, the feeling fades. There’s a stone in the pit of my stomach. I can’t bear to see Saja only to have her curse me or slap me again like she did before. I don’t know what to say to her.

  I pull my brother aside. “I can’t go in, Jamal.”

  “But she’s your friend like Badi was my friend.”

  “I know.” My voice wavers. “But I don’t know if she wants to see me, yet. Here—take this to her and tell her it’
s from me.” I hand Jamal a cracked cardamom, which Leila said means I am in agony.

  “It’s just a seed pod.” Jamal wrinkles his nose. “And it’s broken.”

  I touch my cheek where Saja slapped me. “I know it’s broken. Just go.” I give him a little push and hide behind the bathhouse wall, watching.

  Jamal hurries to Saja, who’s wringing out washed linens and hanging them in the sun to dry. After talking for a little while, Jamal hands Saja the cracked cardamom. I strain to see Saja’s expression, but she’s too far away.

  All at once, Saja turns and runs from the courtyard. My spirits sink, but Jamal stands still, as if waiting for her return. It seems ages before she comes running back and hands something to him.

  My heart flutters with hope. As soon as Jamal joins me on the road, I take hold of his shoulders. “What did she say?”

  Jamal shrugs my hands off. “Not much. She was crying.”

  “What did she say, little donkey?”

  “I asked her if she had heard any news about Red Beard. She said he’s gone. The bathhouse boys say he’s away on a journey, and all the gangs are quiet.”

  I cross my arms and bite my lip to keep from crying. “That’s all?”

  “And she gave you another stupid present.” Jamal presses a small seed into my palm.

  Shaking, I wait for my heart to resume its normal rhythm, but it doesn’t. I slowly open my fist. I almost fall to my knees when I see what’s inside.

  A pear seed.

  I let it drop from my fingers into the dirt and stare out at the streets of Baghdad with a lump in my throat.

  I hate you.

  “What’s wrong?” Jamal squints at me. “Let’s go—Cook will whip me if I’m not there to help her make breakfast.”

  I blink at him, forcing back the tears. “I have an errand to do for Ali Baba; you go on without me.”

  Jamal shrugs and darts away until he disappears in the crowd. Then I let the tears fall freely behind my scarf.

  Finally, I pull myself together and dry my eyes.

  Ali Baba is counting on me, and I have a lot to do. First, the apothecary shop. If my plan doesn’t work, none of us will be safe from the Forty Thieves. As I make my way through the crowds and street performers, I step around the old storyteller, who sits cross-legged on the ground near a fruit vendor’s stall. His eyes are closed, and he has the same look of concentration on his face as Rasheed wore when he prepared to recite the Qu’ran.

  Perhaps he might know Abu-Zayed. Fortune-tellers and storytellers of the streets frequent the same places and often share the same customers. Some folks claim they even sell the same wares—fiction. But maybe Abu-Zayed isn’t a falsifier after all. My heart starts thumping wildly. He knew that Ali Baba would become wealthy and Master would be killed. Maybe Abu-Zayed knows what’s going to happen next.

  I slip a gold dinar from my sash and drop it onto the storyteller’s lap. “As-salaam alaykum.”

  The little man’s eyes pop open, and he scoops up the coin. He squints, holding it just inches from his face. “Wa alaykum as-salaam! I just had a dream,” he mumbles. “About an ancient coin, just like this one, and of its many brothers hidden away all these years! Gifts from the jinn, they were.”

  I hope he is talking about good jinn, not the harmful ones.

  “Sir.” I clear my throat.

  The storyteller raises his eyes. “And you were in the dream as well! Ah, I knew you’d come back to hear my story.” The man’s thin shoulders shake as he cackles to himself.

  I smile at him. “Sir, the coin is yours to keep.” I glance around the square and lower my voice. “I hope you might tell me where I can find the fortune-teller Abu-Zayed? It’s very important.” I’m nervous to be asking about a fortune-teller in public, but the storyteller doesn’t seem shocked one bit.

  The man’s gnarled fingers curl around the coin. “Yes, yes, the fortune-teller is nearby. He shows up when he is needed. But now I am here, and I have a story for you.”

  “But I have very little time—” I start to protest, but falter when I look into his eyes. The way he smiles at me makes me hesitate. Something feels so familiar about it.

  “It’s a very short story—it will be over and done with before you realize it. Besides, this one is about a man you know.”

  My mouth falls open. “A man I know? Who is it?”

  “It’s a man we all know because we are this man. He is our brother, our wife, our lover, our friend. He is a slave girl, a poor man, a thief, and a captain. Today, he is a merchant.”

  My skin prickles at the storyteller’s strange words. I wait, holding my breath.

  The storyteller licks his lips and begins. “One morning, perhaps it was not long ago, a certain merchant was strolling down this very street. As he walked along, his head was full of plans for the future and his heart was full of his own desires. Well, you can imagine his surprise when he turned the street corner and came face-to-face with Death! It was an odd sort of meeting. Death merely stood there with a strange look on his face and stared at the merchant.

  “Needless to say, the merchant did not stand around! He flew like the wind from the place, hoping to put much distance between himself and Death. He traveled all day, as swiftly as he could, and arrived at a faraway town by nightfall. Weary from his long journey, he entered the town. But who do you think was there to meet him at the city gates? Death was there, waiting for him all along.”

  The storyteller’s eyes grow keen and he gives me a crooked grin. “Do you know why Death gave the merchant such a strange look that morning?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why, it was because Death was surprised to see the merchant in his hometown, as he had an appointment with him far away in the foreign town that evening!” He gives a disdainful laugh.

  “Oh!” I cry out in dismay. “The man tried to escape his fate—and that’s the very thing that led him to it! What an awful story.” It’s just like Master’s death. I wince. He, too, tried to defy his fortune, yet no matter what Master did, however he tried to defy it, every turn he took only led him to the same place fate had intended for him from the beginning.

  The storyteller shrugs. “The threads of fate are woven in such an intricate way; some find beauty in their design. I myself find satisfaction in using fate for my own purposes.” A thin smirk creeps across his features, reminding me of the way Abu-Zayed had grinned at me through the gap in the curtains.

  I gasp. “You’re the fortune-teller!”

  CHAPTER

  17

  I’d been distracted by the storyteller’s tattered, smelly clothes and comical gestures, but now I see that he and the formidable fortune-teller are definitely one and the same. I can even see the tip of the jagged scar on his neck.

  I’d wanted to confront the man, but now that he’s here in front of me, my bones turn weak and fear consumes me.

  “People aren’t always what they seem, eh, bathhouse boy?”

  My face flushes and my heart races. How did he recognize me—my voice, my eyes?

  “But—” My hands flutter to my scarf. “You disguise yourself so you don’t get caught telling fortunes! At least I had good reasons for my disguise.”

  “We all have our reasons.” Abu-Zayed says. “Mine is a long story. A story about a thief. I will tell you the short version. A young man once coveted a secret that belonged to me. He wanted it so much he followed me to the edge of the forest and killed me. Then he stole my secret away.”

  “He killed you?” Maybe the man isn’t a fortune-teller after all. Maybe he just isn’t quite right in the head. Scores of poor people living on the streets of Baghdad talk to themselves and mutter nonsense—maybe Abu-Zayed is like them. Sighing, I turn to go, but the man catches the hem of my garment. I hesitate.

  Abu-Zayed points to the jagged scar on his neck. “Oh yes, he killed me.” He laughs in scorn. “At least, that’s what he thinks. I hid because the jinn told me to. They’ve always been my faithful guide
s. When they listened to the plans of the angels and heard my name whispered on the winds, they hurried to me right away and told me what to do.”

  I can’t decide if Abu-Zayed is crazy or not, but the thought of him truly conversing with evil jinn makes my blood run cold. “You should not have meddled in the fate of my master and Ali Baba.”

  “Don’t tell me that your master didn’t deserve it. And Ali Baba! What a simpleton. He’s always greeted me every day on his way to the forest and gives me the crusts of his own bread, the poor fool.”

  “He does?” Ali Baba seems different than anyone I have ever met. The old man’s gaze softens. The wildness leaves his features, and once again, I recognize the old storyteller. “It’s true the angels are weaving all our fates together, but the threads are our own. The fortune-teller in me would say grab ahold of their strands and wring everything you can from them. ’Tis the course I have chosen and I cannot change now. It is too late for me,” he says with a sigh. “But the storyteller in me says this: Whatever the angels are creating out of your threads, make sure it’s strong and beautiful, eh? That’s all I can say to you. We shall soon see what comes of it all.”

  Abu-Zayed closes his eyes, and the look of concentration settles over his features once again. “As-salaam alaykum,” he murmurs.

  “But, sir—” I hardly know what to say, but it’s obvious the man is finished talking. “Wa alaykum as-salaam,” I reply as I drop a coin in Abu-Zayed’s lap and turn away, moving through the market square in a daze. What did he say about the threads of people’s fates being woven together by the angels?

  Make sure it’s strong and beautiful, eh?

  What kind of fortune-telling is that? But then again, Master’s fortune is definitely coming true. The thought of my dead Master jolts me out of my trance. I still have an important task that must be done early. When Master’s death is announced, everyone in Baghdad must be made to think he died in his bed at home. If the thieves hear about a murdered man’s funeral, they’ll find out Ali Baba took his body from the cave and the devil-man will come find them. It’s my job to keep that from happening. I pick up my pace and head to the apothecary.