by David Ward
There was nothing to be done. He could not hide from bush to bush in the garden with guards tramping around all night. “Midnight, here!” he repeated. Cursing his luck, he rushed across the paving stones just as the guards came into full view. He shrank from the shadows cast by the spitting torches and hugged the wall. The girl gave a final wave, and Yeats was alone once more to face the Arabian night.
hen the guards left, Yeats headed in the direction of the passage Shari had described to him. A twig snapped behind him. He stopped breathing. What now? What else could be lurking that might be worse than guards? The gray trunks blurred as he swung around. He could hear the breath of a large creature. Seconds later something tickled the back of his neck.
A savage voice growled in his ear, “Why are you here?” Long whiskers trailed across his cheek and a powerful shoulder jostled him with ease. Two green eyes blinked.
It was a panther, black as pitch, whose eyes and glimmering teeth alone gave away its shape.
“Answer.”
Yeats winced against the blast of its warm breath.
“I’m looking for someone,” he stammered.
The giant cat sniffed; its wet nose greased Yeats’s chin. Then it swung toward the sound of the retreating guards. Yeats stepped backward and the cat whipped a paw around his leg without turning. When its claws punctured his skin, Yeats screamed.
Suddenly he was on his back, the giant cat pressed against his chest, forcing all the air out of him.
“Another sound and I’ll gouge your throat!”
“I won’t,” Yeats wheezed. “I promise.” His leg throbbed: the weight of the cat was unbearable. Its teeth were dangerously close. “Please let me go.”
“You prefer the company of the pirates?” mocked the panther. “Yes. I saw who brought you here. I would have tracked you faster but that foolish cook shut the inner gate on his way out.”
The panther proceeded to wash a paw, bobbing its great claws in front of Yeats’s nose.
“Are you going to kill me?”
The panther stopped and eyed the garden. “I cannot release you,” it said simply. “For it is my position to guard those who live here. And you are an intruder.”
“I didn’t know this was your garden.”
The cat continued licking itself, roughly scraping its claws across Yeats’s shirt in the process. “This is not my garden.” Its muscles tensed. It was going to bite his throat! Those horrible teeth ripping …
“I’m here for Shaharazad!” he cried desperately.
The green eyes flared. “Shaharazad?”
“Yes.”
The panther extended a claw, pressing the point into Yeats’s neck.
“Please don’t kill me,” he gasped. “I’ve got to bring that girl home.”
The cat gave a low growl. “You’ve as much chance of that as of escaping my claws.”
“Why?” Yeats asked breathlessly.
“She’s under a spell. Surely your pirate friends told you.”
Yeats gawked. “They did. How did you know?”
“Because,” the giant cat said and rolled off his stomach, “I am a bookend.”
Gasping, Yeats clutched his throat and sat up. The panther made no move to stop him.
“I happen to be searching for someone myself. A wish gone bad, you might say.” The great creature sighed, a little sadly, Yeats thought, although he did not say so. “I work alone now and at double the effort. I envy your pirates that much.”
Despite his fear Yeats couldn’t help but appreciate the panther’s beauty and mystique. “Who are you looking for?” he asked.
The panther’s eyes gleamed. “A boy. His name is Roland. He entered this story a short time ago and remains lost in the town.”
Yeats brightened. “My dad desperately needs Shaharazad to come home,” he whispered. “If you let me go, we can help each other. I will do my best to look for Roland. I’ve got to go into the town tonight and I could use the company anyway. I could bring him back here.”
The giant cat’s tail thumped the garden floor. Yeats couldn’t tell if it was angry or thinking. After a long pause it said, “All those within the confines of this book live and die accordingly. But you and I are not of this place. We smell its smells, breathe its air, and taste its food, but we know better, don’t we? We know of the other place. It is indeed difficult to journey alone.”
Yeats nodded. “I’ve only been here for an hour and already I’m homesick.” He thought of the pirates abandoning him on the shore. “If you’re a bookend, where is your partner?”
The big cat’s tail thumped a little harder and Yeats wondered if he had pushed his luck too far. But the panther responded, “Lost to fire.”
“I’m sorry,” said Yeats.
“So am I,” the animal said. “I will release you on one condition: that should you encounter Roland you must tell me. You will recognize him by his shaved head and black skin. I must find him quickly, for he has rightly and fairly broken the spell.”
Yeats felt a rush of panic. “Why can’t you find him? The pirates told me I would return to my world if I broke the spell.”
The panther licked its paw ominously. “With my partner’s untimely demise I work with only half the magic.”
“I see. The pirates were separated for years, one in the library and one in the garden when Dad buried him. Does this happen to everyone? Do all wishes go bad?”
The panther snorted. “Rarely. With those two, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I guess I’ll have to take my chances,” Yeats said. “Now, how will I reach you?”
The cat glanced over its shoulder. “Only at night do I stray from my mistress to search for the boy. Otherwise, I am here.”
“Your mistress?”
“Shaharazad.” The panther began to pace. “Go—if you will. But remember: Khan tracks you closely. If you should find Roland, do not dare to return to your world without first telling me. I have a duty while in this story to chew the legs of intruders. I do not let my quarry go easily. And I do not need the entanglements of another’s wish.”
The thump of Khan’s great steps on the ground was disconcerting, particularly so when the shimmering green eyes winked closed and Yeats lost sight of him.
“Khan?” Yeats whispered.
The cat was gone. Yeats scrambled to his feet and then dropped just as suddenly because of the pain in his leg. He touched it and his hands came up bloody. After further examination with his fingers, however, he determined the cat’s scratches were not deep. They would mend soon enough. He gritted his teeth and tore a long strip from his shirt to bind the wound tightly. “Not a nice place so far,” he told himself. “I’ve nearly been hung for hiding in a garden and killed by a panther!”
Yeats tested his leg, taking several steps toward the culvertlike passage Shaharazad had described. The grand conditions of the palace deteriorated rapidly the more he progressed. Brackish water leaked in rivulets from cracks in the wall, and the path became uneven. A little farther along, the torches stopped. He was in a rarely used part of the palace, and yet, he thought with a grin, it wouldn’t surprise him if Shaharazad had been this way before. For someone who really wasn’t who she thought she was, she certainly played the part well. In the few minutes he had known her he decided he liked her immensely.
He stared into the gloom, keeping one hand at the ready and the other feeling along the wall. He was plunged into the darkness. It never occurred to him that Shari could have deceived him. He knew there would be a door leading to the town.
Sure enough, within a minute the passage came to an abrupt end. Upon opening the door he was struck by a blast of dry heat, very different from the cool of the garden, even though he was still underground. A rocky path sloped away from the palace and wound its way to a cluster of tiny lights in the distance.
It was an awful feeling when he broke into the fresh air again. He crept like a sand crab along the dark and dusty track. Someone barked an order from high
on the parapet, and Yeats pressed himself to the ground. Torchlight revealed a guard’s silhouette on the sand. But the guard’s back was turned and his hail was answered from the nearest tower. Yeats waited for the voices to stop before hurrying on.
He crossed a stream, stopping briefly to drink and wash the scratches on his leg. He wondered if this was part of the same river that met the sea near the palace. “Too small,” he murmured. The world turned flat away from the walls of the palace, and the gray desert stretched to the horizon under the moon where it met the last crack of sunset.
Only a little heat came from the ground, the last vestige of a boiling day and cool night. He was glad to be wearing his running shoes. He wondered what his father and Shari had done for disguise and if their clothes were the very things that attracted attention and caused the girl to be taken. Then he frowned. “I’ll have to find clothes somehow in the town,” he said to himself. “Can’t go around dressed like this. That’ll bring guards in a hurry!”
Yeats wrapped his arms around his chest for warmth as he walked. Only the lamps, glowing from the town ahead, provided him with enough light to choose a direction. All else had turned to blackness. He stumbled frequently. To keep from falling he kept his eyes on the cluster of flat-roofed houses glinting like bone in the yellow lamplight.
“It’s no good,” he muttered. “I should have stayed with her. What if something happens to me out here and I can’t get back?” The thought made him bite his lip. He imagined his parents sitting at the table in Gran’s house, worrying to death about him. “Steady, Yeats,” he murmured. “Dad got out. I will too. And I have information he didn’t: I know how to break the spell and bring Shari back.” He grimaced. “Theoretically.”
Sometime later the ground surrounding the path became clearer. It happened so gradually that at first he did not realize there was a light shining from behind him. The brilliant moon traveled farther into the night sky, lighting the path to the town and the desert beyond. His footsteps crunched on the pebbly path.
Half an hour after setting out he came to his destination. There were walls here as well, surrounding the city, but nothing so ornate as at the palace. The gates were made of wood, weathered and beaten by the sun, and they stood wide open. More from neglect, he thought, then in welcome. There were no guards.
Through the gap the moonlight revealed whitewashed homes with cracked walls, most connected by flat-topped roofs. Lamplight flickered from a few arched windows, and Yeats smelled the acrid scent of oil burning. He turned at every sound: a cough, a baby’s cry, his own scuffing feet. Something savage barked beyond the walls. There were scattered conversations as well, soft voices and whispers as families brought their day to a close.
And then something quite awful rose above the expected nocturnal noises. Weeping. There was no warning. It simply broke out in one home and spread to the rest. From every dwelling, grief swept the night air like a morbid wind.
“How horrible,” he gasped. He covered his ears and ran between the homes. Shari was right; everyone was crying. What had happened to this place? The noise! He couldn’t stand it.
Something ran across his path and he stopped. He dropped to one knee. A scrawny cat rubbed against his legs. The sight of something familiar and friendly moved him to pick it up. He held it close, almost as a shield against the waves of grief still flowing from the homes.
“I bet you don’t get a quarter of what Odysseus eats at Gran’s,” he whispered into its ear. The cat searched his hand. The thought of Gran’s house made him suddenly weary. “I’ve got to lie down and rest somewhere,” he told the cat. “The biggest day of my life is waiting tomorrow. I’ve got to rescue a vizier’s daughter and save my family!”
A wail from the nearest window made him start. The cat finished licking his fingers and then jumped down from Yeats’s arms. It walked to a doorway a few steps away. Yeats approached cautiously. A waft of fish smell hit him the moment he touched the door frame. Holding his nose, he stepped inside.
Wooden slab tables. A fish shop. Not the best place to sleep. Still, he reasoned, the awful smell might keep the curious away. It could be the perfect place to remain undetected till morning. And then he could think of another plan.
Lying on the floor was the worst option. He couldn’t bear the idea of mice or rats running over his face. He climbed onto a table, then quickly jumped off. It was still damp. He searched around the spare room until he found a pile of empty onion sacks. He threw several on the table for a mattress and used another as a blanket. The business of readying himself for sleep renewed Yeats’s confidence. He punched the sack that served as a pillow.
“They’ll think I’m a beggar!” He grimaced. “And I suppose I am. I must wake before dawn and leave. I’ve also got to find some clothes. What does a boy wear here anyway?” He had not seen anyone his age other than Shaharazad, and he certainly did not want to look like her.
The cat jumped up and sat on his stomach. It did not appear to mind the fishy smell of the shop. Yeats stroked its back. So much had happened! He couldn’t believe that only hours ago he was drinking tea in Gran’s kitchen with his parents. Now he was far from his family, lying on a stinking table with a cat as his only companion.
“Can’t be helped,” he murmured. “I’m here for a reason! The moment I get Shari back, and Mom sees her, there will be no doubt about what’s happened. Mom will fall in love with Dad again. And who knows, maybe even old Mr. Sutcliff will get better when he sees his granddaughter.”
A scuffling sound in the corner made him start. The cat whirled around to look as well. It was about to investigate when Yeats held out a restraining hand. “Wait. Stay here. It’s only a rat or a mouse.” He stroked the top of the cat’s head until it settled back down.
Yeats pulled the onion sacks up higher on his chest. The wailing eventually stopped. The wildness of the day had exhausted him at last. His thoughts drifted. Shari was exactly as his father had described her. She was so determined. It was impossible to argue with her. The only thing that seemed to shake her confidence was how familiar he looked.
“I’ve got to make her remember,” he said. He took out the ring she had given him. When he leaned over to return the ring to his pocket, the necklace popped out from his shirt. The bell and marble jingled. He’d forgotten about the necklace. “Don’t worry, Dad,” he murmered. “It’s kept me safe so far. I’ll bring her back.”
hen the sound of the wind from Yeats’s departure reached upstairs, Mr. Sutcliff was the first to move. “The library! Quickly, now!” For an old man he managed the squawking stairs with amazing agility. The rest of the family followed him. They stopped at the glass doors to the library, now blown wide open.
“He’s gone.” Gran squeezed her eyes shut.
“Yeats!” Faith yelled. She pushed past her husband, calling up and down the stacks, “Yeats!”
“Over here.” Mr. Sutcliff was standing between the shelves. There was a volume lying open on the floor at his feet. The mess of books and the open pages plainly told that someone had been there.
“He’s gone then.” Sutcliff nodded. “Good lad!”
“Gone?” Faith sputtered.
Mr. Sutcliff leaned down and examined two bookends. “Saints alive! There’s two!” He nodded slowly and cast a glance around the room. “It starts to make sense now.”
“What does?” Faith said, exasperated.
William lifted the book from the floor. “It’s Collfield’s.”
“I knew it!” Gran clapped her hands. “Odysseus!” she called.
“Well, what are we going to do?!” Faith yelled, her voice choked by a sob.
William touched the pages. “There’s nothing we can do. I can’t remember how to get there!” He shook his head hopelessly. “What have I done? I shouldn’t have come back here.”
Mr. Sutcliff traced Skin’s hat. The dust from the brim was strangely missing. Mr. Sutcliff stared long and hard at the book lying in William’s hands. “No, Willia
m. You are wrong.” He touched the treasure chest. “There is something we can do. We have forgotten our stories. We have forgotten Aladdin and his lamp. We have forgotten the significance of wishes! And I am beginning to see at last how the pieces fit together.” He glanced knowingly at the bookend. “Time for a little chat, my friend, isn’t it?”
Faith murmured to Gran, “Perhaps Mr. Sutcliff should go to bed. He’s talking to the bookend.”
Gran rubbed her nose thoughtfully. “Heavens no, child! He’s the only one who can help us.”
et out!”
Yeats sat bolt upright. An angry face, framed by a turban, bent near his. “Be gone, beggar’s brat! You’ve had your ease. Clear out for those who make an honest living!”
Yeats fled, onion sacks scattering to the floor as he stumbled to the door.
Bleary-eyed, he gaped at the streets filled with merchants, stalls, and donkeys. Dust covered everything. He stumbled and caught himself in the doorway.
“Out!” came a final roar.
He leapt into the street, narrowly colliding with a fish cart. Bulbous eyes stared up at him lifelessly from the stinking mass.
“Watch yourself, boy!”
“Just where are you from, dressed like that?”
“Keep moving!”
The only direction he could walk was straight ahead, upward toward the palace. At least the throbbing from his scratch had settled and his leg no longer hindered him. A strong scent of coffee, swiftly overtaken by the aroma of fresh bread, set Yeats’s stomach grumbling. Three men on a mat took turns grinding beans in a pot. A steaming urn lay beside them. The men stared at him curiously. One of them pointed at his feet and called, “I’ll give you a chicken for those sandals!” Yeats looked down at his running shoes. Then he was propelled forward along the street as someone shoved him in the back.
“I need a disguise,” he muttered. From an alleyway just off the road he saw his chance. A string of laundry hung from twine between the homes. He darted into the alley, slinking along the wall and keeping a wary eye on the two windows above. There was a terrible smell and when he looked at the ground he saw fish bones and rotting cabbage leaves scattered everywhere.
