‘We are indeed. Well done, Cy.’
The Princess dismounted first and immediately turned on Cy. ‘You lowly dung beetle!’ she screeched. ‘The wrath of a princess is upon your head!’
Cy stared in amazement. Here was someone who could screech even louder than Lauren! ‘Don’t be a bad sport,’ he said. Cy quoted his Grampa. ‘Sometimes it’s good to lose. Then you enjoy the times you win even more.’
The Princess smiled, showing all her teeth. ‘I will very much enjoy the time I win, because that time is now. I have you in my power. I could easily have your head chopped off. You will wait here until I decide what to do with you.’ She clicked her fingers. The magic carpet rolled itself up tightly. Shahr-Azad tucked it under one arm, spun on her heel and disappeared through one of the archways.
The Dream Master looked fearfully at Cy. ‘Let me see your dreamsilk,’ he said. And as Cy showed him the now greyish piece of material, he went on, ‘I thought as much. You’ve drained all your energy by keeping us on track to arrive in Arabia. And because it’s your dream, your story, I can’t use my own dreamcloak to help us escape.’ The Dream Master glanced around worriedly. ‘We’re stuck here for a while, and I can’t say I liked the Princess’s tone. She is in a bad mood. A very bad mood.’
Cy folded his faded piece of dreamsilk and put it away. He went over and trailed his fingers in the fountain. Around the courtyard grew trees laden with peaches and pears. ‘This is a fabulous place,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind staying on for a bit. I’d like to explore the palace.’
The Dream Master bit his beard. ‘You Great Gallumphing Gullible Gowk! Do you think you’re on some kind of holiday tour? We’d better find somewhere to hide before—’
He was interrupted by the sound of marching feet.
The Dream Master scuttled across the courtyard and took cover behind a pillar.
‘What are you doing?’ Cy asked him. ‘What are you afraid of?’
‘Get over here! Fast!’ urged the Dream Master. ‘That sounds like the Palace Guard and, believe me, they won’t be bringing us an invitation to share some sherbet.’
Cy made a dash towards the Dream Master’s hiding place, just as a group of fierce-looking soldiers strode into the courtyard.
‘Perhaps if we explained to them that we are only visiting for a few hours . . .’ Cy broke off.
The captain of the Palace Guard let out a mighty whoop and brandished his scimitar in the air. ‘Invaders! They lurk behind the pillar yonder. A silver coin to the man who captures them, dead or alive!’
‘You can stay and explain if you want to,’ said the Dream Master. ‘I’m out of here!’
CY HADN’T REALIZED that the little man could run so incredibly fast.
‘Wait for me!’ he shouted, as he raced after the fleeing figure of his Dream Master down the long walkway under the arches and out into a walled garden.
‘Get them!’ bellowed the captain of the Guard. ‘They must not escape!’
And it didn’t look as though they were going to, the thought came into Cy’s mind as his Dream Master skidded to a halt in the middle of the garden and Cy cannoned into him.
‘Look where you’re going, why don’t you!’ The Dream Master hopped about, holding first one foot and then the other.
‘Where are we going?’ Cy asked him. The long garden was hemmed in by a high wall covered in trailing blossoms. Many paths wound this way and that, under trees and through arches surmounted by vines or scented flowers. A white peacock strutted around, its tail spread like a fan behind it.
‘Look for a way out,’ said the Dream Master.
Cy and the Dream Master ran to the furthest end of the garden checking the walls on either side as they went. There was no door in any of the walls. They were trapped!
Cy glanced anxiously at the entrance. ‘I can hear the soldiers coming this way.’
‘Hide in here while we think of a plan.’ The Dream Master dived for cover under a large bush. The white peacock moved swiftly out of their way as Cy hurried to follow him.
‘We might be able to get over the wall,’ said the Dream Master. He crawled to the part of the garden wall nearest them and, grabbing a handful of the creeping plant which grew there, he tried to haul himself up. The branches came away in his hand and he landed back on the ground with a thump. He glared at Cy. ‘Instead of standing there like a Potted Palm, why don’t you give me a leg up?’
‘What happens to me after that?’ Cy asked him. ‘After I give you a leg up, how do I get out?’
‘I’ll sit on top of the wall and help you climb up. I promise,’ the Dream Master added as he saw the doubtful expression on Cy’s face. ‘Come on. There’s nothing else we can do.’ His fingers tightened on Cy’s arm and he nodded towards the entrance to the garden. ‘Look!’
The soldiers of the Palace Guard had appeared and, after hesitating at first, began to move towards them, searching the garden as they came by prodding the undergrowth and delving into every bush with their sharp swords.
‘You want to stay here and become part of a kebab?’ the Dream Master enquired with false politeness.
‘All right,’ Cy reluctantly agreed. ‘But let’s crawl along to where we’re hidden a bit by that tree and then try it.’
‘We’ll have to be nifty,’ said the Dream Master. ‘And fast.’ He cast a worried glance in the direction of the nearest soldier and then said, ‘Now!’
Cy got up and crouching low held out his two hands together to make a step for the Dream Master. As soon as the Dream Master had put his foot in place, Cy launched the little man into the air with a mighty heave.
‘Ayeeeeeeeeeeee!!’
The Dream Master had landed accurately, but painfully, astride the wall.
‘There!’ One of the soldiers sounded the alarm.
‘Cut them down!’ bellowed the captain.
The Dream Master leaned down from his position on the top of the wall and reached his hand out to Cy.
A scimitar slashed through the air as Cy scrambled to freedom. It missed him by centimetres. Cy leaped clear while just below him pieces of splintered rubble broke from the garden wall and spattered on to the earth.
They tumbled to the ground on the other side, the enraged cries of the guards echoing behind them. They both got to their feet, the Dream Master limping. ‘I cannot run very far now,’ he complained bitterly.
‘You won’t have to,’ said Cy. ‘Look. The market is opposite. We can mingle with the crowds and lose ourselves there.’
The market place was thronged with traders, shoppers and entertainers. Cy and his Dream Master moved quickly past snake-charmers, and stalls laden with leatherwork, pottery, lamps, cloth, foodstuffs, spices, and a huge variety of fruit, bananas, dates, figs. Fires were being lit and people gathered round these gossiping, exchanging news and bartering for goods.
‘The Palace Guard won’t give up,’ said the Dream Master. ‘And even though this market place is huge we can’t stay here for ever. We must look for a means to put some distance between ourselves and—’
He broke off. Cy followed his gaze to where a man sat with two camels tethered to large stones.
‘Perhaps . . .’
The camel-trader spotted their interest. ‘Two wonderful camels,’ he declared at once, ‘very cheap.’
‘We don’t have any money,’ said Cy.
‘Your shoes,’ said the camel-trader pointing at Cy’s feet. ‘I will exchange these two camels for those shoes.’
Cy looked at his trainers. His mum would be furious.
‘Give them to him,’ ordered the Dream Master.
‘One of those camels is totally decrepit,’ Cy spoke to the Dream Master from behind his hand, ‘and the other one looks a bit scary.’
The older camel of the two was kneeling sleeping while the younger animal frisked about trying to bite through the tether rope.
‘This one for the venerable gentleman,’ said the camel-owner, enthusiastically kicking the old camel a
wake. ‘Extremely peaceable animal. Only one previous careful owner. Little old lady who didn’t travel far.’
The Dream Master surveyed the mangy camel. ‘Can this camel actually walk?’ he demanded.
‘Of course. Of course. Very good camel.’ The trader helped the Dream Master climb on. ‘Now you, sir.’ He reached out to snatch Cy’s trainers from his hand, then had to shove Cy’s camel roughly several times before it would lower itself onto the sand.
Cy stepped forward to mount it. The camel looked at Cy and then spat a long juicy squirt of spittle through its teeth and onto the sand at Cy’s feet.
‘I don’t think this camel likes me,’ said Cy.
‘Whether the camel likes you or not is completely irrelevant,’ snarled the Dream Master. ‘Get on the blasted beast and ride out of here as fast as you can.’
Cy’s camel rolled its eyes. Cy tried to ignore its murderous look and clambered into the saddle on the animal’s back.
‘Are the effendi quite settled?’ the trader asked.
The Dream Master and Cy nodded.
‘I’d hold on a bit more tightly,’ the camel-owner told Cy as he cut the tether binding the camel to the huge boulder on the ground.
Cy’s camel took off like a racehorse. The Dream Master’s camel tottered a few steps and then collapsed, legs splayed out, in a heap on the sand.
‘Please, nice camel. Get up,’ coaxed the Dream Master.
Cy’s camel began to run in circles. Cy realized that he wasn’t actually going anywhere. The camel was trying to throw him to the ground. He looked back as he bounced around on his saddle. The Dream Master had lost patience and was yelling at the top of his voice.
‘Move, you Lazy Legless Lump! You Dopey Dromedary! You Hopeless Humped Horse!’
A few people had gathered to enjoy the spectacle. They called words of encouragement to both Cy and the Dream Master. Across the tops of their heads Cy could see something else. Attracted by the noise the Palace Guard were shouldering their way through the crowds.
‘Omigosh!’ yelped Cy. ‘Omigollygosh!’
He hauled on the reins. The camel stopped dead. Cy shot forward over the top of its head and landed on the desert sand. In moments he and the Dream Master were surrounded by soldiers.
‘We’re visitors,’ gabbled Cy as they were dragged off towards the palace. ‘Tourists really.’
‘You trespassed in the palace,’ said the captain. ‘You stole two camels.’
‘Stole?’ said Cy.
‘We didn’t steal them,’ said the Dream Master. ‘We traded—’
Ignoring their protests the guards marched Cy and the Dream Master all the way to the palace. Once there, they were led down some stairs to an underground prison. Then they were thrown inside a cell and the heavy door clanged shut behind them.
‘This isn’t good,’ said the Dream Master shaking head. ‘Not good at all.’
Cy peered through the bars set into the prison door.
‘When Shahr-Azad hears that we’ve been captured she’ll rescue us . . . won’t she?’
‘It’s totally dark outside, so by now the Princess will have begun to tell tonight’s story,’ replied the Dream Master. ‘Once she has begun the King has decreed that no one must interrupt her. Her very life, and indeed that of others, depends upon it. Often her story lasts the whole night through. Dawn will break before she can come to our aid. The Princess will be powerless to help us. The sun rising . . .’ the Dream Master paused, ‘the sun rising is the signal for events to take place.’
‘What events?’ Cy asked. ‘What happens when the sun rises?’
The little man was chewing his beard. ‘We will be brought before the King.’
‘And then?’
‘Then he will decide.’
‘What?’ Cy wondered why his Dream Master was not answering him directly. Usually the little man spoke right to the point. So much so in fact that he was frequently brusque and often rude. ‘What will the King decide?’ Cy asked him again.
The Dream Master ran his fingers through his beard. He looked away before answering. Then he said very quickly and all at once. ‘To trespass in the palace is a crime punishable by death. Tomorrow morning the King will hold judgement and decide the time of our execution.’
‘EXECUTION! YOU MEAN . . . like . . .’ Cy’s voice shook. He put his hand to his throat.
‘Exactly.’ The Dream Master thumped the cell door. Then he jumped up to try to see out of the window set high in the wall.
Cy stared hard at the cell door. ‘Open Sesame,’ he said.
‘That won’t work again,’ said the Dream Master, ‘you Dreaming Daftie. And anyway there are guards outside the door and windows.’
‘Can’t you help out?’ asked Cy.
‘It’s your story,’ said the Dream Master. ‘It’s got to be your ideas.’ The Dream Master began to stride up and down. ‘Have you nothing in your pockets that might be of use? A penknife for example? Don’t all boys carry a device that takes stones out of horses shoes?’
‘No,’ said Cy. ‘And even if I had, it wouldn’t saw through these bars. They are too thick.’ Cy felt in his trouser pocket. The only thing that had survived the trip on the magic carpet was one of the empty bottles from the bathroom. Although . . . Cy held the elegant glass bottle up to the light and shook it gently . . . it was not completely empty. There were a few grains of coloured bath salts still lying at the bottom. And the shape of the bottle seemed familiar. Cy remembered earlier seeing the fisherman casting his net by the sea. There had been a bottle trapped in the fishing net. ‘The bottle . . .’ Cy murmured. He turned to the Dream Master. ‘When Shahr-Azad took the magic carpet close by the seashore, what was in the bottle that the fisherman caught in his net?’
‘A djin,’ said the Dream Master. ‘What you would call a genie.’ He looked at Cy and then at the bottle in Cy’s hand. ‘A genie,’ he repeated slowly, ‘but . . . believe me they can be more trouble than they’re worth.’
‘It’s our best chance to get out of here,’ said Cy. He pulled off the glass stopper and stuck it in his trouser pocket. Then he squinted down inside the bottle at the tiny residue of green and gold. With his free hand Cy touched the piece of dreamsilk in his top pocket. Drawing on the last of his dream energy he directed it towards the bottle as he spoke.
‘Awake, O Genie, and do my bidding.’
For a few moments nothing happened. Then within the prison cell a breeze whispered. This faintest murmur of wind stirred the grains at the bottom of the bottle. Cy’s fingers became warm as a dull heat started to beat within the glass, growing stronger, hotter. The grains swirled and merged, the colours blending into one another. Light danced, sparkled and the bottle shook violently. The grains melded to substance, the colours separating into distinct shapes. The green became a pair of trousers and the gold a pair of huge hooped earrings. A figure formed and expanded. With a crack of lightning and a heavy peal of thunder it poured out from the bottle, enlarging as it did so to fill the space in the air above their heads. The heavy hooded eyes blinked once and opened. Dark pools of red fire flashed from their depths.
Cy staggered and clutched at the Dream Master.
‘It’s a genie!’
A very petulant voice addressed them. ‘Who has dared disturb the Djin of the bottle?’
Cy gaped. The Dream Master nudged him hard in the ribs. ‘Speak up,’ he said.
‘Me.’ Cy tilted his head to look up at the huge figure looming over him. ‘Me. I did. That is, I summoned you from your bottle.’
‘So . . .’ The genie folded his arms. ‘What is it now?’
‘Sorry?’
‘What do you want.’ The genie made a tsking noise. ‘I’m assuming you want something. Everyone wants something. Nobody calls me up to say “hello”, or to ask how I’m getting along.’
‘Well, yes I did want something,’ said Cy.
‘See? Knew it!’ said the genie. ‘No matter that I might be busy pursuing my own inte
rests and would rather not be disturbed. As soon as you want something it’s “Awake, O Genie, and do my bidding” and never mind that I might have other plans for the day. Well frankly I’m scunnered with this whole Genie-do-this, Genie-do-that, carry-on.’
‘Scunnered?’ said Cy.
‘Scunnered,’ repeated the genie, ‘as in “fed up”, “cheesed off”, “bored”. Give, give, give, that’s all I ever do.’
‘Oh no!’ said the Dream Master. He struck his forehead with his fist. ‘This is typical! We get a genie with attitude.’
Cy looked up at the genie towering above him. ‘But you’re supposed to do what I want,’ he said. ‘You are a genie. I’ve heard about you. You’re in films and things, and, and, a genie must do as the master commands.’
‘Sez who?’
‘It’s traditional,’ said Cy. ‘It’s the custom.’
‘Yes, but do I have to put up with rudeness as well?’ the genie demanded. With you lot it’s “I want, I want, I want”. Well, “I want” doesn’t get. At the very least you could show a bit of civility.’
‘May I have,’ Cy began politely. ‘That is to say, I’m very sorry to disturb you—’
‘Get on with it!’ the Dream Master interrupted rudely.
‘I should like very much . . .’ Cy began again. ‘I realize that you are awfully busy, but I wondered if you would be able to . . . and I’d be awfully grateful if you would—’
‘Spit it out!’ yelled the Dream Master.
‘– grant me a wish,’ Cy finished.
The genie tossed his head. ‘I’ll consider it,’ he said, but only if you say “please”.’
‘Please,’ said Cy.
‘Say “pretty please”.’
The Dream Master growled into his beard.
‘Pretty please,’ said Cy. ‘Pretty, pretty, pretty, please.’
‘Oh all right,’ said the genie. ‘But that’s one of your three wishes gone.’
‘What?’ said Cy.
The Dream Master flung his hands in the air. ‘You Fuddling, Foolish, Fluffing, Footer—’
‘Be quiet!’ Cy shushed the Dream Master. ‘What do you mean,’ he asked the genie, ‘that’s one of my three wishes gone?’
Dream Master: Arabian Nights Page 6
