The Waters of Eternity

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “Of course not, Master.”

  “Dabir, Asim, let us be off.”

  Once more the sentries reached for the doors, eyes focused blankly above our own, lest they be in on a secret they should not know. Outside was bright and fragrant, for even here at one of the side entrances were a row of bushes in bloom. It was but a short walk to the gate in the outer wall, likewise guarded by sentries. One opened the gate for us while the other advanced to push back the crowd of folk who tend to gather about all palace entrances. Dabir and the master and I stepped around them; the assorted beggars and job applicants and onlookers watched us curiously; one even pulled at Dabir’s robe, pleading for alms, and then we were past.

  I think the master was more bewildered than amazed by the cacophony of the streets. Baghdad teemed with people and their attendant smells, and we were in the thick of both. It is not that the master had never been out of his mansion, it is just that he never ventured forth without a buffer of servants and guardians.

  When Jaffar asked where we should go, Dabir suggested first the nearby market in south Al-Rusafa, the wealthiest quarter of the city, where we spent the greater part of the next hour. Merchants could not know the master’s true identity, but even a fool could tell at a glance that he was a nobleman in disguise because of his fine manner. They bade him look at the best of their baubles and silks and perfumes and nearly everything else under the sun. Jaffar paid them little heed, but he examined much, listening with interest to the outrageous lies regarding the rarity of certain cloths, or the unmatched skill of a bootmaker’s leatherwork. He was especially taken by the elaborate tale of one jeweler’s perilous trip to Baghdad from India. I found it tiresome and stepped away. Dabir joined me.

  “Is your sword sharp?” he asked quietly.

  I did not take his meaning at first, then saw his sly smile and chuckled.

  “We must give thought as to our next course,” Dabir said, “for he will grow bored.”

  “There is a place across the river where men often race pigeons,” I said.

  “That involves birds, though,” Dabir wisely pointed out, and I nodded agreement.

  “Do you suppose he would like to see some wrestling?” I asked.

  At that moment Jaffar returned, passing each of us a small gold ring.

  “Thank you … Andar,” I said. Dabir echoed me. I slipped the thing over my smallest finger and admired the effect.

  “It is my pleasure.” Jaffar ignored the beckoning calls of other merchants and turned his head this way and that, searching the distance. Because the market was crowded, there was not much to be seen but the turbans and backs of shopping folk.

  “The jeweler spoke to me of a woman who deals in magical things. She is down one of these side streets.”

  Dabir and I traded a quick look while the master was looking the other way.

  “Is it not said that upright men should turn their face from magics?” I asked.

  “Andar,” Dabir said, “our last encounter with magic was … somewhat…”

  “There will be no Greeks involved this time,” Jaffar said airily. “Besides, that wasn’t really magic.”

  Dabir and I exchanged a glance. The master had never fully believed our accounting of the events with the Greeks, having been drugged at the time. “This,” he continued, “is simple marketplace magic, in our own city. There can be no real harm. Let us seek her. The jeweler said she is very good.”

  “She is probably the man’s aunt,” I said, “who will share our monies with him.”

  “Asim, must you always grumble so?” the master asked. “I thought we were going to have fun today. Let us see this magic woman, then find some food.”

  I would have preferred that we find the food first, for I had neglected a proper meal while preparing for this venture, but Dabir and I followed the master down a winding side street, stepping past running urchins and around a series of foul-smelling brown puddles. After a time it was clear that Jaffar had become lost, so we gave alms to a graybeard who then provided directions, and in the next quarter hour we sat on the rugs within a small, dark front room. From elsewhere in the house came the enticing sound of sizzling meat and a most pleasing scent of lamb.

  None was offered us, though, by the stripling who had answered the door and told us to sit, and nothing was offered us by the bent woman who emerged from behind the curtained doorway and bade us welcome to her home. Her voice was like that of an old songbird, for it was clear, but tired, and a little thin. She fished for information about us, as fortune-tellers do, whether we were young men looking for wives or taking a break from important business, all the time watching us with dark eyes. In the shadowy room there was no seeing through her veil, and her gaze revealed no emotion or sign of her thoughts. I took in the room, ordered neatly with strange things, both rare and humble. High shelves stood out from the dark walls. I could see few of the contents perched on those directly to my right, so close were we to the wall itself, though I thought I saw a small bird’s claw hanging off one ledge. On the shelf to my left was a hodgepodge of wooden balls adorned with strange symbols, chips of colored stone, a clay goblet decorated with what looked to be emeralds, and the mummified head of a ferret. The peculiarity of these items lent an ominous mien even to the more mundane trappings—that kettle hung from a rafter, for instance, might hold more than emptiness. And what had those dark wooden spoons on the wall been stirring?

  My sword lay ready to hand and so too did my knife. As my fingers brushed over its hilt I felt the magic woman’s eyes upon us. Just then she asked us for coin and Jaffar revealed his station by bidding me pay an initial fee. The woman passed the coins without comment to one of two similarly dressed youths, identical in feature and hair save that one was a few inches taller. He disappeared briefly then returned with small pastries, which he sat before us. He retreated again. The older boy sat quietly upon a stool in the shadows.

  “You seek magic,” the woman said, sitting. “Why?”

  “Because I am curious,” Jaffar answered.

  “You are bored.” The woman glanced over at me as I munched on a treat. It was fresh, and seasoned with honey. It can never be said that I dislike sweets. “Do you seek magic only because you are bored?” she asked Jaffar.

  “My friend has witnessed true magic,” Dabir said. “Dark magic. He has no interest in that.”

  The master’s mouth turned down at this.

  The woman turned to Dabir, appraising. “What sort of magic does he desire?”

  Jaffar spoke up. “A merchant outside told us you are gifted with an understanding of future events. I would hear them.”

  “Would you?” She cocked one of her thick gray eyebrows. She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “Do you know for what you ask? It is a dangerous thing to know one’s fate. The knowledge has driven some mad. Some spend the whole of their lives twisting and turning and scheming to avoid what they have been told, until they realize they are wrapped within the coils of the serpent they thought to escape.”

  “We are not afraid,” Jaffar said.

  Perhaps he was not; I covertly made the sign warding against evil, hiding it behind my thigh.

  She paused a moment more, staring into his eyes. “You have paid the price,” she spoke without sentiment, “and I will honor your coin with my service.”

  She motioned to the boy, who brought forth short red candles, which she lit. They gave off but little smoke. She then presented us with parchment, one small square each, of a peculiar wrinkled texture.

  “What manner of paper is this?” Dabir asked.

  “It is fashioned from the skin of Egyptian cats,” she said, whereupon my master fell to examining his own paper more closely. In truth it did not look to me to be animal skin, but I said nothing.

  Then came the presentation of an especially old-looking stone inkwell, in which black ink rested, and a pen with a marvelously colorful feather. This she handed to my master.

  “Breathe deep of the candle f
umes, then write your name upon this parchment and set it within the bowl.” At this word, the youth placed a small brown bowl before each of us. I looked at Dabir, wondering if he too were concerned by Jaffar revealing his name to this woman, but he kept silent; Jaffar hesitated not at all.

  My master leaned close to breathe in of the candle—which smelled faintly of cloves—put the parchment across his knee, and boldly wrote out his name. He then folded the paper and set it within the bowl. Next was my turn, and then Dabir’s, who had watched us closely at work.

  In light of later events, I wish that I had paid closer heed to how the woman brought the bowls to her, but I saw only that she reached forth and set them near. She closed her eyes and began droning indistinct syllables. I thought them words of magic, and made again the sign casting off evil. It may be that she spoke some prayer. Whatever it was, she sat thus, with eyes closed, and back straight, mumbling for some minutes. The fumes spun about us and the flames of the candles flickered and the air felt heavy. The atmosphere was cavernous, as though we were somewhere quiet and secret, deep beneath the earth, rather than a mere few feet from the entrance to a Baghdad alley.

  When the woman’s eyes opened, it was with such suddenness that my master flinched. Trancelike she reached for each bowl, held the parchment over the nearest candle, and dropped it back within. Three times she did this. Dabir started to say something, but held his tongue. The master and I were silent, though he glanced over at me, eyes alight with excitement.

  Each of the papers flared and went out, leaving black ashes that glowed red at their tips; these the magic worker stirred clockwise three times with her fingers and observed in turn, her eyes blinking seldom. Finally she set the last of them down, and straightened.

  “I have read the fates. Be warned—you may not wish to hear.”

  “Speak!” Jaffar demanded, breathless.

  “You.” Her gaze fastened upon Dabir. “You shall be known far and wide as a slayer of monsters and protector of the caliphate. Fame will go before and after you; heroes shall listen to tell of your exploits with envious ears.”

  Dabir’s brow furrowed and he looked as though he might have asked for further detail, but the woman’s eyes fell upon me. I found that I could not help but meet them, and it was not at all like staring into the eyes of a courtesan; it was more like studying the immensity of the night sky above the desert.

  “Your bravery will not be unknown, but in later days it will grow when you will take up the difficult weapons of pen and parchment; the fruits of these labors shall carry your name down the ages.”

  Her veil rippled when she turned to face Jaffar. “High have you risen and higher still shall you rise, until you lose your head when you dare to love a woman beyond your station. Your master will weep, but he shall not spare you.”

  The master blinked, then stared with rapt fascination and horror. His mouth opened, moved up and down, yet no sound came forth.

  “You stand at a juncture,” the woman said to all of us. “If you delay, if you do not rise and take immediately to the street, none of this shall come to pass, and your lives shall be forgotten in the greater misery that shall follow.”

  “Ah—” the master began, but the woman’s head fell forward, her shoulders slumped, and her breathing grew shallow. The stripling hurried to her side, and she reached feebly for him. He helped her rise.

  “My grandmother must rest,” he said in a high piping voice. “No more than a few moments. If you wish to ask her further about her sight, you may wait.”

  She leaned heavily upon him as he guided her through the curtains. My master meanwhile was still silently working his mouth, as though continued exercise might see sound evolve there.

  “I suppose,” he said eventually, “that we should depart.” Saying this, he rose, staring hard at Dabir. He stared hard at him again as I opened the door. I did not think him happy. Who would be, after such news?

  Sunlight flew at us in a blinding rectangle, and the noise of people haggling just down the street, and the laughter of children, even the snort of a horse, reached us with all the scents of the bustling city. I preceded both men, surveying the street as my eyes adjusted.

  The master was quiet as we walked, and his tread was slow.

  “I would not trouble myself overmuch about any of this,” Dabir said, by the sound of his voice smiling as he spoke. I thought it false cheer.

  “I do not know what to think,” Jaffar said. “Did you not hear the truth in her words? There was magic there.”

  I dropped back to his side. “There may have been, Ma—yes.” I had forgotten what I was supposed to call him.

  “But I think, perhaps, that she confused the bowls. Consider.” Jaffar raised a finger. “Dabir is no slayer of monsters, he is a scholar! Surely she must have meant you, Asim. You are the warrior. I think that God plans great things for you.”

  “I hope so, Master.”

  “And me—I have often thought that I might take pen in hand. I have been inspired to create many stories, but never set them down. You have heard me tell of some of them, I think?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, though I had always thought he went on a bit long before reaching his point.

  Now Jaffar looked long at Dabir, even as we stepped in to the main street.

  “She must have confused her fortunes,” the master said with surety. “There is no other explanation. Dabir, do not think me harsh, but I think you should leave my service. For your own safety.”

  “Master—” Dabir began.

  “Andar,” Jaffar corrected. “My niece is fair, I know. She is young and well spoken, and it was unwise for me to present her with a tutor instead of a suitor.” He smiled. “You see,” he confided to me, “I do have a way with words.” He looked back at Dabir. “Clearly the woman confused the bowls.”

  I brushed past a kneeling man begging with upthrust and dirty arms, fearful no longer for myself, but for my friend, whose livelihood was jeopardized because I had suggested he join us.

  “Master—Andar—she was just an old woman in a rude hut. If she were truly a mistress of magic, would she not reside in a palace walled with rubies and emeralds? Surely we can look upon it all as a jest. A lark.”

  I saw from Jaffar’s expression that he was not convinced.

  Again he raised that index finger of his. “I think—”

  I was never to learn what he thought, for at that very moment a bleeding man stumbled into our path, clutched vainly at Jaffar’s robe, then pitched into the dust before us.

  2

  Before I could draw breath, four bold rogues rounded the corner and stopped short at the heels of the wounded man. Three wore fine clothes shabbily treated, as if they liked the look of them but did not know their proper care. More to the point, swords were in their hands.

  I slung free my sword; I knew a surge of pleasure as the weapon came clear and sat in my fist, curved and gleaming. It was a blade my father had won from a Turk. In practiced hands, its shape allowed faster unsheathing than the straight blades borne by most folk of the caliphate.

  “Back, dogs!” I said.

  The first of the ruffians, broad-shouldered and large-bellied, gave way. “That man is a thief,” he said, pointing at the fellow lying before us.

  I pressed forward a half step. “Then the magistrate will decide his fate.”

  “He has something that belongs to us.” This from the second man, tall and rangy, with a dirty turban. The third, big-boned and surly, was like enough in mien to be his brother.

  The fourth of them watched quietly. He was smaller than his companions and dressed simply, but I did not discount him. They were oxen, he was a snake. Angered oxen are dangerous, true, but are mostly bluster and would sooner stand about eating grass or chasing females. A snake kills for its living.

  Dabir stepped to my side and drew his own sword. There is, of course, a vast gulf separating the competent from the skilled, but the ruffians could not see that gulf as Dabir took a confi
dent stance; he held his blade well.

  Jaffar, behind us, had knelt and was speaking softly to the injured man, but I could not hear, for the fat rogue spoke again.

  “He has stolen our property,” he said petulantly. “Give aid to honest citizens and step aside.”

  “That may be,” Dabir said. “Let us sheath weapons and consult reasonably.”

  This puzzled the fat one, who glanced to his right, where the snake waited.

  “Kill them,” the little man hissed.

  The fat man bellowed, as is the manner of bulls, and charged Dabir. The tall one leapt at me with an overhand swing. I sidestepped and his blade whished past even as my own sliced through his abdomen. I was certain of the strike and did not watch the impact or subsequent fall, for my eyes were already upon the one with the surly grimace. He, too, charged, and his strike at my head was more skilled than his comrade’s. Almost I threw up my right shoulder, but I remembered I did not wear armor, and dropped to one knee. I felt the wind of the sword’s passage over my head.

  There are those who say combat is a whirlwind that leaves no time for thought. I find that the world seems slowed at such moments, also that my thinking is clear and steady, and that my soul sings with life.

  Dabir and the fat man traded wary blows to my left while the snake watched.

  I sprang to my feet. The big-boned one caught my blow with a desperate swing. There was power there, but no finesse, and I locked blades and forced his down and offside. He was wide open, and his eyes were wide as my sword tip sliced across the front of his throat. Blood sprayed. He clutched his ruined neck with his hands as he fell.

  The snake cursed, backed away, and darted off. The fat man sprinted after him, puffing heavily. Both disappeared around a house and I started to follow before recalling my first duty was to safeguard Jaffar.

  My master had turned the man over onto his back. Dabir sheathed his unbloodied blade and knelt now at the dying man’s side, seeking for his wound. A simple look at his blood-soaked clothing told me there was no bandage wide enough to save him—surely there was more blood without than within. His face was pale as winter sky.