by David Ward
At the fountain’s edge three minstrels played, one of them singing. It was the vizier’s command that music should blanket the sounds from the town outside.
Shaharazad sighed. “Ah, Rawiya! Such a glorious day. My father, the vizier, long may he guide us, has promised to fit me with the finest gown from the bazaar! And within this very hour! I am shaking!”
“Indeed, he has, my lady.” Rawiya poured her a cup of cool wine. “But let my lady also remember that the vizier is the busiest of men in the kingdom. At any hour of the day or night, the King, long may he reign, might require your father’s infinite wisdom on this matter or that.”
Shaharazad pouted. “Surely not on the day he has promised his daughter the finest dress in the kingdom!” She brushed aside the wine.
Pleased, Rawiya wiped the rim of the cup, then offered it again. “Is it not said, ‘Happy is the maiden whose patience grants her the favor of the gods?’”
Shaharazad turned briefly to hide her smile. This time she took a sip. “Perhaps you are right. I fear then he is delayed and the dress shall not come before the markets close.”
“Come, sweet Shaharazad. Be comforted. Recite words of the poets and fill the air with sweeter sounds than these musicians.”
The singer scowled but did not lower his voice, for his life depended on it.
“Posture, my lady!” Rawiya reminded, and Shaharazad sat up straighter.
Perhaps Rawiya was right, she thought. Poetry or a story would pass the time more swiftly. Her heart leapt at the prospect of her evening plans. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “All right. A story then, from a far-off land, about a brave girl and a terrible Sultan. I warn you, the translation will not be perfect, but I will do my best.” She allowed the words and images to form and then began:
“In the time of kings and sons of kings there ruled a cruel lord.
He gathered all the mighty men from hill and vale and fjord.
Upon the warriors gathered there the Sultan laid this quest:
‘To win my lovely daughter’s hand, thou must be the best.’
So fair she was, in wisdom sound
Her words fell not onto the ground
But captured all who listen well
Upon their ears, a beauty spell.”
Rawiya raised an eyebrow. “Would I know this maid, my lady? She seems familiar.”
“Shhhh,” Shaharazad whispered.
Rawiya motioned to a servant. “Bring a fan! It is hot even in the shade. And pomegranate juice. Posture, my lady.”
“By the gods, Rawiya, you interrupt.”
“My lady. I beg you, continue.”
Shaharazad smiled. If midnight was slow in coming, the least she could do was entertain.
“A tournament was readied there,
The grounds enriched with garlands fair.
And lords and ladies far and wide,
Came hither to the Sultan’s side.
In cloistered room his daughter wept
Privy to the taxes that he kept.
Could not but hear the groans of misery,
Her people’s yoke of usury.
The Sultan’s heart was black as oil,
And fainted not at the people’s toil.”
Rawiya glanced toward the palace nervously. “Must you choose stories with bad rulers and unhappy people?” Apparently the musicians were listening as well, for they began playing even louder. Shaharazad, however, was lost in the telling and failed to see the servants’ consternation. She focused beyond Rawiya, as if an audience of greater proportion sat in the sunlight.
“The Sultan’s daughter made her choice, Stood resolute and raised her voice: ‘Let the evil of this land stop with me, And by my life! I’ll set them free!’” “Oh, help us all!” Rawiya clasped her hand to her mouth. “My lady! You must stop now!”
The girl stirred, blinked, and disengaged from her audience. “But this is where the Sultan’s daughter …”
Rawiya clapped her hands and bade the other servants to do likewise. “All of you, quickly now! Let us go to the inner pool. We must get away from this oppressive heat.” Shaharazad sighed resignedly, rose, and followed her maidservant inside. But not before she cast one last, long look at the shadows of the garden.
Meanwhile, Yeats ran for his life. He shouldered through the crowds and into the narrow alleys, hunting for a hiding place. Yet everywhere was the same: the streets all led back to the main road to the palace in concentric circles. His earlier worries of finding Shaharazad seemed foolish. It was impossible not to reach the palace.
Even more guards pursued him now. People pointed as he ran past. Sweat seeped into his eyes and his lungs ached. The noise of the market indicated he had chosen yet another wrong road. So much had gone badly. The fruit seller thought he was a thief, and Mohassin thought he was a traitor. Everywhere he was being chased by men with swords and he had lost his best chance of getting to Shari safely.
He made for an empty alley, a narrow track behind a cluster of living quarters. The alley appeared deserted, but there would be no escape routes out the side if he entered. Walls rose on all sides with only the odd door frame to break up the mud-brick barriers until the exit on the other end. Still, it promised to lead away from the palace, and Yeats took it.
He was only a few yards in when a palace guard entered from the opposite end.
Yeats froze. The dust from Yeats’s feet swirled ahead with the breeze and rushed the guard’s face like an insult. The soldier spat, wiping his lips. Then he raised his scimitar and charged.
This time, Yeats’s feet failed him. The guard was too fast and Yeats was exhausted. As he teetered toward the wall, sweat trickled into his mouth. He raised his fists. It would take more than a single punch to knock this guard down. Will my head roll like a cabbage spilled from a cart? Will I feel anything? The beggar’s laughter rolled insanely through his thoughts.
The guard swung and Yeats ducked. Splinters of wood stung the back of his neck. More footsteps sounded in the alley. Yeats punched and missed. Then someone delivered a terrible blow to the side of his head and he fell down, quickly losing consciousness.
Yeats moaned. His vision was blurry and his head hurt.
“You all right?”
The question came from someone near his feet. Yeats opened his eyes a little wider. Someone peered at him from behind a set of bars. Light streamed in from a grate in the ceiling.
Yeats tried to sit up. “Everything hurts,” he murmured. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he lay down again in the dirty straw. “Where am I?”
“Prison. Well, it’s more of a hole, really. It’s not the palace. We’re in the town.” The speaker was a boy, and Yeats squinted to see more of him and their surroundings. It was not quite a cell—more like a cave carved out of the rock. The straw beneath him was black with mold and made him sneeze.
Yeats slapped his knee. “I don’t have time for this. Can’t believe I risked the alley! I could be safely on my way. I wish I had the panther’s help again.”
“A panther!” The boy crouched and leaned toward him. When he dipped into the shaft of light, Yeats saw his shaved head and black skin.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” Yeats ventured. He sat up slowly.
The boy glanced at the grille overhead, revealing a split bottom lip. “No, I’m not. How did you know?”
Yeats dabbed at the blood around his eye. “You’re wearing running shoes,” he said.
The boy gasped. “Yes! So you’re from … where I come from? It’s all gone foggy.”
Yeats nodded. “You’re caught in a spell,” he explained. “You must have wished something in a book, and it went bad. It’s happened before. I’m trying to rescue …”
A bearded face suddenly appeared at the grille above them. “Silence!” the guard growled. The boy ducked as if he feared something would be thrown at him. Then he stood, arched his back, and spat. A series of wild curses came from the other side of the grill
e.
Dirt and bits of straw fell through the grate and peppered Yeats’s face before the guards’ footsteps were heard retreating overhead.
“Good shot, Roland!”
Although the boy smiled, the glitter of tears on his cheeks indicated another sort of feeling. “How do you know my name?”
Yeats glanced at the grille and crawled to the bars. “We have to get out of here. You’ve been in the story longer than you should. Khan is searching for you.”
“Khan,” the boy repeated.
Yeats nodded. “He’s not gentle, but he is on your side. I’m supposed to tell him I’ve seen you.” He sighed. “Not much chance of that now. Not unless he figures out where we are. And he hasn’t had much luck so far. He has to spend most of his time in the garden.”
Roland licked at his split lip. “When I got here, there was a snake charmer at the marketplace. Amazing! He made the snake rise out of the basket and people threw coins at him. One of the coins rolled toward me and I picked it up. Before I could give it back the snake charmer went crazy. He claimed I was a thief and the next thing I knew I was thrown in here.”
Yeats leaned against the bars. “How long?”
“I’m not sure. I can see the stars at night and I’ve tried to keep count. Nothing to read and nothing to do so I sleep all the time. It’s cold and I’ve only had bread and water. It makes you tired.” He nodded at the grille. “They keep saying they’re going to hang me.”
The boys were silent for a few moments, pondering their misfortune. Eventually Yeats said, “Well, you’re not a thief. You’re not even from this story. You and I belong in another world. I’ve got to bring back a girl; that’s why I’m here. She’s lost the same as you, only she thinks she’s the vizier’s daughter. She’s very smart, but I can’t seem to convince her.”
“A girl, is it?” Roland asked curiously.
“It’s not like that,” Yeats replied.
“You sure? You sounded kind of wistful.”
The boys locked eyes and Yeats knew instantly he could trust him.
“I like her,” Yeats finally said. “We’ve only just met, but she’s so different.”
“Pretty?”
“Yep.”
Roland pursed his lips. “Think she likes you?”
“Not sure. Maybe,” said Yeats. “Never can tell with girls.”
“Well,” Roland continued, “you might want to find out, ’cause if she does, that might convince her to go with you.”
“Good point,” Yeats said. “Thanks.”
Roland offered his hand through the bars. “I’m glad you’re here. You’re the only good thing that’s happened in a long time.” They shook hands and did not let go, white and black fingers clasped tightly.
“What’s your name?”
“Yeats. Where are you from?”
Roland closed his eyes. He scratched at the tiny tufts of his shaved head. “France,” he said slowly.
“I’ve seen it from across the Channel when we took a vacation to England,” said Yeats. “You don’t sound French.”
“We just moved. My dad got a job. I’ve got a big room with lots of books.” Roland smiled. “My aunt sent me a box—a trunk—full of books.” He gingerly touched his lip. “The panther was in the trunk too! I thought he was just a normal bookend. There was also a really old book. I wanted to read it right away, but it was late. And my mom said I had to wait. When my parents went to sleep I opened up the box again and there was Khan, twirling his tail around and around.” Roland gathered another gob of spit and hit the far wall.
“You’re good at that,” Yeats said.
“Practice.”
They were quiet for a few minutes. Yeats’s thoughts drifted to France, then home. “We’ve got to get out!” Yeats groaned. “Shari will be waiting for me at midnight. And my family’s life depends on it.” He winced the moment the words were out, remembering Roland’s promised punishment. “Sorry. I forgot. Don’t worry, though. We’ll think of something, right?”
At that moment, the grille opened. A guard descended the ladder carrying a small water skin. Yeats and Roland stood and took a step away from the bars.
The man spat at Roland. Roland spat back, aiming at the man’s head. The guard ducked and laughed. Then he turned and smiled wickedly at Yeats. “It’s the gallows, boy!” he leered. “The gallows!”
Gallows!
“We’re going to hang you, traitor. Midnight, tonight!”
Yeats’s knees buckled.
“The other one dies tomorrow. And about time too. He’s eaten enough bread for a thief.”
The guard tossed the water skin into the cell where it slapped and skidded along the stone floor. “Enjoy your last meal!” he laughed. Instead of climbing the ladder, the guard exited through a door in the wall beside the cells. When it slammed shut, Yeats fell forward on his hands and knees. Tears splashed onto the stones. His stomach lurched and he threw up. When he regained his senses, Roland was whispering.
“Hey, Yeats! Easy now. Come here.”
Yeats managed to crawl to the bars. His shoulders shook and he wiped his mouth.
Roland patted his back. “Courage, Yeats. Get the skin there and have a drink.”
Although he barely heard the words, he followed his instructions.
“The guard’s been saying that to me for three days,” Roland said. “And I’ve still got my neck!”
“Thanks.” Yeats sniffed. “But I don’t think he was bluffing. I’ve done more than steal a coin.”
“Can’t be too bad. I’ve nailed that guard ten times. He gets excited when I miss. He’s a lousy shot.”
After another sip, Yeats sighed. “Yeah, but I’m trying to kidnap the vizier’s daughter.”
Roland slid down the bars and the boys sat, back-to-back, treasuring the comfort while it lasted.
“If we were in the same cell,” Roland said a few minutes later, “we might pretend we were sleeping. When the guard comes—it’s always the same one, and he hates me—we could knock him over or something.”
“And then what?” Yeats grumbled.
“Well, we could take his sword!”
“And how would that help? Have you ever attacked someone with a sword? These are warriors! They know their business. I’ve never even held a sword.”
Roland slapped the ground. “Still, one of us might get out!”
A guard walked across the grille and they both stiffened. His shadow washed over them and disappeared.
“What happens if we die here?” Yeats murmured. A thought flickered in his mind and he sat up. “Can we die? Roland! Maybe we can’t die! It’s a story, so how can we die in this story if we belong in a different world?”
Roland took a sip of water and then said, “Not sure why you’re so worried about what will happen in two different places. This one’s bad enough. And look at your leg. You better tighten the rag. Blood’s leaking through.”
Yeats stared at his leg for a long moment. “The pain is real enough. If I can feel this kind of pain, then …” He looked wildly up at Roland. “Then death will probably be real too!”
Roland started to speak, then stopped. Yeats buried his face in his hands.
haharazad knelt and dipped her fingers in the cool water. There was no one else around and so she had the pool to herself. It was one of her favorite places in the palace. She could see the servants bustling in and out of the kitchens, and if she squinted, she could even glimpse a door that opened to the outside, to the market and the wide world beyond.
Each day she hoped she might see something that would reveal what was going on in the city. But she was not allowed to step past the raging bulls on the floor. The guards knew it, too, and kept a close eye on her when she came near. Whenever weepers went by the entrance a guard always went out and moved them away and out of hearing.
However, this day her mind was full and she rarely looked toward the servants’ door. The air was cooler near the pool, and it was the best place
to read without interruption in the late afternoon. The pool was also a favorite location for Rawiya, who never missed an opportunity to gossip with friends in the kitchens. Shaharazad and Rawiya had fallen into the comfortable habit of coming to the pool most afternoons. Rawiya visited and Shaharazad read.
On this occasion, however, she had a hard time relaxing. No sooner had she begun to read when she found her mind wandering.
“Yeats,” she murmured. She thought of him standing in the shadows beneath the tree only the night before. “How you stir my memory,” she said. It was the strangest feeling. There were pictures in her mind that were clearer than detailed paintings, of places and people she did not know. They rose up like ghosts every time she thought of Yeats. Since their first meeting she had felt a growing sense of anticipation that something terribly significant was about to happen. She began to believe that his coming to the garden and her finding him was no accident but rather providential.
“And what news will you bring tonight?” she whispered. “What will you tell me? Have you kept your word? Will you tell me why the people weep?”
She laid the book aside and leaned over the water. When her eyes locked with those of her reflection she gasped, for at that very moment she felt a tug, as if her whole body was being pulled forward. She reached out to steady herself against a statue. At the same time she heard a voice, a boy’s voice, echoing across the pool. “I wish! I wish!” it said. The voice rolled over her like a wind. And then it was gone.
She sat up and looked around her, but all was as it had been before the voice had spoken. She took several deep breaths and then leaned over the water again, this time a little more cautiously. She did not let go of the statue’s base.
“‘Mysteries and wonders too great to compare!’” she quoted from a favorite poet. Then she passed a hand over her eyes. What had just happened? A vision? A ghost?
“My lady?”
Scrambling to keep her balance, Shaharazad pulled herself back. “Rawiya!” she said. “You startled me.”
“What were you doing?” asked the older woman.
“I was … I heard …” Her heart was troubled. It suddenly occurred to her that whenever she thought of Yeats strange memories arose. And then the ghostlike voice appeared. She shivered. What if Yeats was not safe? What if he was not good but evil? The thought was disturbing. “I was looking at my reflection,” she said slowly. “I wanted …”
