Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman (The Aladdin Trilogy Book 3)

by J. R. Rain

  She couldn’t think of a better line than that? Nylon thought, disgusted.

  “Don’t do it,” Duban and Myrrh said almost together.

  “We’ll all go to our cabins,” I said, avoiding the issue.

  “I must be with you!” Dea said.

  “You will be safer with the women,” I said, realizing that could be taken more than one way. I retreated hastily to my own cabin, leaving her behind though I would have much preferred holding her as she wished. Was greater sacrifice ever required of a man?

  The winds buffeted us as the ship tacked into them. Sinbad knew what he was doing, but this was really rough weather. We might do better to land and anchor until the storm passed.

  No, we’d be buried in brush, Nylon thought. Would you like me to emulate your wife and distract you for an hour?

  That was tempting, but this buffeting was making me too nervous. “Some other time,” I muttered.

  Then it got worse. I peered out, and got smote by a face full of flying sand. What was happening?

  Sandstorm, Nylon thought. They happen in the desert.

  “A storm made of sand?” I asked, bemused.

  Yes, in essence. The winds pick up the sand and blow it about. It’s a perfectly natural occurrence.

  Natural! Not in my experience. But of course I had not been to Africa before.

  Wor-sand-worse, Sylvie thought, mentally spelling it out to be sure my dull mind would get the pun.

  “We can’t fight it,” Sinbad called. “We’ll have to ride with it.”

  Oh? What had we been doing up till now? I was beginning to feel sea sick.

  Maybe you should eat a sand witch, Nylon thought mischievously.

  Eat? That did it. I barely grabbed a bucket in time to catch my heave.

  Your sandy humor sickens him, Sylvie thought.

  Forget Myrrh. Both these nymphs needed spanking.

  Both caught that thought, and sent out pictures of their shapely bare backsides, inviting me to have at them. Knowing I was too sick at the moment to do anything even if I had the chance. They were consummate teases.

  But soon the ship straightened out and flew with the wind. That enabled me to recover.

  We went out on deck. The wind remained strong, but now the sand storm was harmlessly behind us. We were cruising over the Rift Valley, as Nylon called it.

  Legend has it that the Garden of Eden is in this vicinity, Nylon thought. After Adam and Eve were booted, Allah filled it in with water so there could be no return.

  “What legend is this?” I demanded truculently. The Nymph was taking this whole business far too lightly.

  Oh, just a tidbit I picked up from here or there.

  Jewel, Dea, Duban, and Myrrh emerged from their cabins. Dea headed for me, but Duban and Myrrh blocked her off. “Is this the way to the Hinterland?” Jewel asked.

  “Sinbad shifted course to avoid the sand storm,” I explained.

  “But we have left that far behind. Why are we still going south?”

  Good question. “Time to change course?” I called to Sinbad.

  “I’m trying to!” Sinbad called back. “The ship’s not responding.” Indeed, the ghost sailors were hard at work, but their efforts were having no apparent effect.

  Something was moving the ship south against our wishes. I did not like the feel of this.

  Then a body of water came into sight. It was a great lake. The Dutchman sailed down toward it, and splashed into the water. We had arrived—somewhere.

  “Why, it’s Eden!” Dea exclaimed, surprised.

  “Looks more like a lake to me,” Jewel said sourly.

  “It’s a lake now,” Dea said. “But in early times it was the Garden.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Oh, everyone knows,” Dea said. “Allah knew mankind would return to easy living if he had a chance, so he made sure there was no chance. So now it’s Lake Defeatia, showing the defeat of foolish Adam.”

  She’s right, Nylon thought. Perhaps Dea has been around a while.

  “I’ve got it!” Duban exclaimed. “The Flying Dutchman is an enchanted water ship. It can fly when directed, but prefers water, because flying takes a lot more energy. So when it spies water it naturally goes to it, especially when it’s tired. It saw this lake, and went to it. Once it is rested, it will fly again.”

  “How do you know this?” Dea asked him.

  Duban almost smiled. “Everyone knows the legends. I just had to remember the right one for the occasion.”

  Dea nodded slowly. It was almost as if she remembered this legend too, but did not care to say so. The woman had been around. More than she wanted us to know.

  All things considered, it seemed best to rest on the lake for a day or so, letting the ship recover. That sand storm must have worn it out.

  Chapter Five

  Sinbad appeared with one of the ship’s original crew.

  The ghost rose and fell on ethereal currents as he held the faint wisps of his hands together nervously. Who knew a ghost could be nervous? There was the faint remains of a wound just under his jaw. Surely a fatal wound which directly led to his current departed state.

  “Aladdin, this specter wishes to speak with you.”

  “Ghosts can speak?” I asked, surprised.

  It was coming on evening, and the ghosts were slightly easier to see in the dimming light. Their ectoplasmic forms seemed to glow from within, lighting up their immediate vicinity with an unearthly light that, quite frankly, I don’t think I would ever get used to.

  Sinbad shrugged. “Judge for yourself, Aladdin.”

  The skittish, translucent spirit stepped forward, “Master,” he said; or, rather, I think he said. His raspy, whispery voice could have just as easily been the desert wind moaning over the deck. I strained to listen as he continued: “The ship is experiencing unexpected difficulties.”

  “What difficulties?” I asked, realizing that this was perhaps the first time in my life that I’d addressed a ghost directly. By Allah, I live a strange life!

  “We are experiencing an unaccounted drag upon the ship.”

  “Has this ever happened before?”

  “Once, when the ship was bewitched.”

  “Duban,” I said, turning to my son. “Do you sense any bewitchment upon this ship?”

  The boy nodded and closed his eyes. A moment later, he looked up at me and shook his head. “No, Father. But I do sense...something.”

  “What?”

  “Another,” he said guardedly.

  “Another what?” I asked.

  But the the boy only shook his head. “I do not know, Father, but I sense there’s more to this than we can see.”

  I had an idea. “Myrrh?”

  “Yes, my liege?”

  “Cast your thoughts about the ship. Look for the one known as the Thief of Baghdad.”

  She nodded. “Aye, sire,” she said, already picking up on the ship lingo. She, too, closed her eyes as she turned in a small circle. She nodded. “Yes, sire. He is here.”

  My jaw dropped. So did Sinbad’s. I reached for my scimitar, as did he his own. “Where is that wretch?”

  She shook her head. “I only sense his thoughts, sire. I cannot pinpoint.”

  “Perhaps his thoughts will give him away,” said Sinbad. Like me, Sinbad never liked the rascal. Sinbad, like me, saw through his greasy charms.

  But Myrrh only shook her head again. “His thoughts are guarded, master Sinbad. Perhaps by magic. I cannot gain entry. I only sense his mind is near.”

  I looked again at the ghost captain, who was waiting for me patiently, nervously wringing his hands and rising and falling on mysterious winds. I said, “What, then, must we do to accommodate the drag?”

  “We can wait until the ship has fully recovered, master.”

  “And how long will that take?”

  “Perhaps another four or five days.”

  Too long, said Sylvie, speaking urgently. The Gates of Hades will be open
ed by then.

  Unless the key is with us, said Queen Nylon. You heard the young telepath. The thief is near, somehow.

  Unless he gave the key to another, countered Sylvie. There’s more than one way to get to the Hinterlands. Perhaps another had a magic carpet. Or a trained roc. Or a—

  “Quiet,” I commanded, sub-vocalizing the word. “Give me a chance to think. Sometimes I think I’m going crazy with you two in my head.”

  “What about me?” asked Myrrh, teasingly.

  I growled under my breath and turned back to the ghost who was still patiently waiting. “Is there any other option?”

  “Yes, master,” he said eagerly, nodding his ghostly head. “There is indeed another way.”

  He explained that magic was limitless, and the Flying Dutchman was no different. To keep it aloft required, apparently, an astronomical amount of magic. Magic that needed to be restored periodically. Our flight from Djinnland and now the flight over the desert—with the sandstorm and now this additional, unknown drag—had depleted the ship’s supernatural resources.

  “I understand,” I said. “What do you propose?”

  “An outside energy source would be suitable, master.”

  “What kind of outside energy source?”

  “Anything powerful enough to fuel the ship, master.”

  I rubbed my face, ran my fingers through my thick hair. All eyes were on me, ghostly and humanly alike. What did I know of such enchantments? I didn’t, and, out of habit, nearly called upon Lamprey. Surely my powerful djinn could have fueled a hundred such sky ships.

  The problem was obvious: how to search for an energy source while presently trapped on a lake? I sensed Sylvie’s growing anxiety. The longer we waited, the more likely the devil key was on its way to the Gates of Hades.

  To my surprise, Dea the slave girl stepped forward. “Sire, let me remind you that we are presently floating over what some think was once the Garden of Eden.”

  Sinbad grunted. “A legend only, woman.”

  “But one that might be true,” she persisted.

  “And if the legends are true,” I said. “What of it?”

  She walked over to me and nearly laid a hand on me but, seeing the glare in Jewel’s eyes, obviously thought better of it. “The Garden of Eden contains the Tree of Life.”

  “Again, enlighten me, slave,” I said.

  “There are a great many power sources on the earth,” she said. “Some are natural and others are man-made. A great ring of rock on the emerald isle, pyramids on both sides of the earth, sacred stones and sacred forests. Do you see where I’m going with this, my king?”

  “You are saying the Tree of Life is such a power source?”

  “No,” she said, grinning seductively. “I’m saying that it is, perhaps, the most powerful. And it’s directly beneath us.”

  “But the lake is flooded,” countered Sinbad.

  She spun on him. “Not all of it. The tree is too valuable, too necessary.”

  “And you know this how?” asked Jewel.

  “As a slave, you hear things, especially if your master is particularly powerful.”

  I thought about this, chewing my lip, noticing that the desert wind had picked up again. The great ship rocked noticeably upon the lake.

  As much as it grates me to admit it, said Queen Nylon, I think the slave might be right. Most of my kind are aware of the Tree of Life and its reputed power. In fact, some say that it’s the source of all life on earth.

  Then we must go to it at once, said Sylvie urgently. I can help guide us to it.

  I thought about this some more, drumming my fingers on a nearby railing. All eyes were still on me. A decision must be made.

  “Duban,” I said finally.

  “Yes, father?”

  “Can you fashion a breathing device for myself and two others?”

  “Of course, father.”

  I nodded. “Then we will find the Tree of Life, and return with a suitable power source.”

  Sylvie squeezed my finger; Dea smiled broadly, almost wickedly. At least two people were happy with my decision.

  Chapter Six

  Soon Duban had conjured the swimming equipment, which consisted of masks resembling pig snouts—that really bothered me, because pigs are unclean, but I suppressed my aversion, knowing it was misplaced—that covered our mouths and noses, with hoses that entered packs on our backs. I gathered that those packs contained a lot of squeezed air. There were also fishlike fins that we could don as gloves for our hands and slippers for our feet. I knew that these would really help; suddenly I would be able to swim much better than ever before.

  “Use some of this,” Jewel said, anointing each of us with a drop of fluid. “It will protect you from predators.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Cursed perfume. I saved a little, just in case.”

  Now I smelled it. It was awful. Maybe she was having revenge for her own humiliation. But she was right: it should drive away hostile creatures.

  The three of us splashed into the water. Sylvie detached from my finger and resumed her natural form, swimming ahead of us. I could see Sinbad’s eyes goggling as he looked at her flexing bare legs, and Duban’s too; I wish she could have worn pantaloons or something. But I suspected that my own eyes were goggling too.

  Three crocodiles headed for us—and sheared away before getting close enough to bite. The perfume was working.

  Then Sylvie changed her legs into a tail and dived. She had of course been teasing us by leaving her feet on so her legs could flex apart. She angled down into the dark water and disappeared. That was worse; how could we follow her if we could not see her?

  I glanced at Duban. He nodded. Then a dim glow appeared, enough to enable us to see in the shadowed recesses. The siren was still descending. We followed. The fins really helped and, of course, this would be impossible without the breathing masks. The hoses must be bringing air in from somewhere else; the backpacks were not big enough to hold the amount we were breathing. But who cared, as long as they worked?

  We reached the bottom, which really wasn’t far down. It was covered in what resembled seaweed, forming a dark green mat.

  And there in the distance before us was a hill, not high enough to become an island, but it had its own colored foliage. It looked a lot like an island, as maybe it once had been. In the center was a mighty tree. That must be the Tree of Life, not bothered by the surrounding water.

  A merman with a flaming sword appeared. “Begone, sons of Adam!” he cried. “Your kind is forbidden in these demesnes!”

  How did he call out aloud, under water? And why wasn’t that sword promptly quenched?

  We paused, dismayed. Then I realized. We had forgotten that Allah had posted an angel with a flaming sword to prevent men from returning to the Garden of Eden. The magical blade hardly cared about the water, or the stench of cursed perfume, but was surely quite capable of dismembering us. Did we really want to invoke the wrath of Allah?

  Sylvie swam back to me and touched my flippered hand. I’ll handle this, she thought. Wait your chance.

  “But that’s God’s angel!” I protested sub-vocally.

  He’s male. Don’t listen. Then she let go and swam away from me.

  Don’t listen? Don’t listen to what? To the wrathful angel? It wasn’t his words I feared, but his sword. However, I signaled the others to hold back.

  Sylvie swam close to the angel. He raised his sword threateningly. “That applies to you too, infernal nymph.” Then he paused, listening. I heard the faintest trace of a devastatingly familiar song. The siren was singing to him! Faintly, so as not to catch the three of us, but definitely singing. Could this possibly work?

  I clapped my flippers to my ears to block off the sound, and Sinbad and Duban copied my motion. They understood the siren’s eerie power.

  The angel sheathed his sword and ran after her. Then he spread his arms in a swimming motion and lifted off the ground. It looked as if
he were flying. As he was, in effect.

  Sylvie continued her song as she swam just out of his reach. I saw that she had reverted her tail to legs, flashing him as she had us. That was less efficient for swimming, but considerably more efficient for luring. And, compelled by the eerie, potent song, he was going for it. He was indeed male, and it seemed no male could resist the siren’s compelling call. He had probably been on solitary duty for millennia, and really missed the pleasures of female company.

  I shook myself out of my reverie. “Forward!” I tried to shout, but only blew off my breathing mask. Water rushed in, and I choked and coughed before I got it back in place. But Sinbad and Duban got my message, knowing that Sylvie had cleared the way for us. Allah might not be pleased at such time as he found out, but maybe he would understand that we were on a vital mission.

  We swam on toward the island, I mean hill. Soon we reached it, and closed in on the tree. It was a widely spreading, handsome thing, with lovely, thick foliage.

  Then a giant serpent appeared, slithering out of a hole in the ground. “Begone, sons of Adam!” he shouted. “Before I chomp you to death!”

  A serpent speaking in human language? But he certainly looked big enough to do the job. We paused again.

  Then I remembered how a serpent had spoken to Eve, and tempted her with the forbidden fruit. This must be part of that serpent’s punishment: to guard the tree forever, in case someone bypassed the water and the angel with the flaming sword. Allah evidently did not believe in half measures.

  “Ah, I see you are surprised I speak your language,” the serpent said. “But I was educated in your country, in Bagdad.”

  Bagdad? Not Baghdad? He was faking it, and had made a foolish error. But he was still big enough to eat us all.

  I will handle him, Nylon thought. Then she slid off my finger, formed into a truly voluptuous lady serpent, and slithered by the male serpent with a come-hither wriggle that even I found evocative. Something about the way she disported her curves.

  Mesmerized, the serpent followed her. What else could he do? She was emulating his ideal mate. This was her area of expertise, and there was none to match her in this respect.