The Thief of Kalimar; Captain Sinbad; Cinnabar
Page 73
“Can’t we turn round and go back to land?” Sinbad heard a frightened Clair ask of the second mate.
Felicia scowled. “That’s the worst thing we can do! The ship won’t be running away from the tempest if she heads for Corsica. Look at those winds — she’ll be running with them! And we’d be smashed before we even reached the strait!”
The crew at the halyards as well as those on the bridge lashed themselves to the lines to keep from being swept overboard by the huge waves breaking in steady rhythm across the deck. The ship steered badly, when at all, and heaved and yawed again and again under what had become a virtual battering-ram of water.
The wind continued to pick up; foaming waves exploded against the hull, cascading like waterfalls over the deck. The crew slipped and slid at their posts while they worked the rigging waist-deep, tugging at the lines with hands raw and bloodied.
“Sinbad, look!” cried Felicia. The captain spun, shading his eyes from the downpour as he stared back toward the coast. The Cretan fleet was still there, but caught amid a barrage that pinned it to its place like glue. Swirling winds battered it from every side. Waves, tearing like demons across the reefs, crashed upon it time after time. One wave, higher than any other, formed a solid wall of water, bearing down on the fleet like a gruesome ogre frothing with malevolent rage.
The lead ship, the king’s ship, fell off to port side in a trough and took the battering broadside. Sinbad watched with a mixture of dread and fascination. The lofty masts spun, the mainmast cracked. Timber went flying in a thousand different directions, and in his imagination he could hear a dozen sailors screaming as they were hurled into the air and dragged down deep beneath the black waters. The Greek ship reeled, almost capsized, then straightened. Behind it, the captains of the other ships were turning for land. The flagship listlessly spun, floundered as tremors rippled her from stem to stern.
Sinbad fought his way to the rail, Felicia and Milo on his heels. There was no doubt about it — if the king’s ship survived at all, it could not go on anymore. The Cretan fleet would have to hobble to safety and give up the hunt. Besides, what sane captain would dare continue on in such a storm? If nothing else, the Greeks would be certain of one thing: that Captain Sinbad and his ship would go down long before the tempest subsided. Wisely would they let nature do what they were unable to accomplish.
“They’re running!” chortled Felicia, her uncovered hair mop-like in the torrential downpour. She looked at Sinbad and grinned. “We’ve won! You were right! They’ve given up!”
Sinbad sighed. Yes, he’d been right; the Greeks were no longer the enemy. But now there was another: the tempest itself. And there was no going back now. Nothing but open sea and the storm lay between them and Cordoba.
*
For the hundredth time the wind shifted, and through blinding scud Sinbad kept them going. The exhausted sailors worked in shifts, four hours on, four off. Creaking and groaning, sails tattered and furled, the Sherry did not give up. Sinbad worked with them all, pulling his way hand over hand along the anchoring ropes, lending encouragement, extolling his men, calling for courage and pride. And in no respect was he disappointed. His men were the best, from giant Mongo, who did the work of three, to old Milo, whose hands were always ready.
Day came again, a cold dismal day in which the awful chill cut to the bone. Then night. Bleak as it was black. No stars, no sky, only the rumbles of thunder and the opened bellies of grim turbulent clouds.
The ship bobbed like a cork, shaking herself to shed water from the single unfurled sail that ballooned from the mainmast. For a full forty-eight hours Sinbad stayed on deck, until, dropping from exhaustion, he was forcibly taken to his cabin for a few hours’ sleep.
“Wake me before dawn,” he had barked to Abu, and the first mate had nodded somberly. But when Sinbad finally did wake, he learned that he had been purposely allowed to rest for ten hours. In a fury he clambered to the bridge, the late afternoon of the third day of the storm. And there a bone-weary Felicia greeted him with a smile. She and Abu had taken control themselves while Sinbad slept, and grudgingly he had to admit they had done a fine job of it. With somewhat slackened winds, they had made more headway these past hours than the ship had made in the previous two days.
“If the wind stays with us,” said Milo, sharing the helm with the captain, “We could reach sight of the coast in another twenty-four hours.”
“Tarragona,” replied Sinbad, feeling well rested. His hands grasped firmly at the steering oar and he kept the course as steady as he could. “We’ll head for Tarragona if we can. It’s a small port, but at least we’ll be able to make some repairs.”
The spars buckled and groaned with the lashing wind. The bow dipped and rose, the ship pitched and tossed. And still there was no end in sight. Without question it was one of the worst storms Sinbad had ever seen. Had he known then what he knew now, he wondered if he would have enlisted Methelese’s aid.
The sharp cry of the lookout snapped him from his thoughts.
“A ship, Sinbad!” came the furtive call. “A ship off the starboard side!”
Calling for Mongo to take the helm, Sinbad wiped his eyes and grasped at the splintering rail at the edge of the bridge. There was another ship. Far back, to the east, fighting the gales just as the Scheherazade was doing.
A wave crashed over the side, causing him to lose his balance. By the time he picked himself up from the foam a series of lightning bolts lit up the sky. He stared ahead again. Before he could get a good fix, though, the day had returned to night and the other ship once more became a dark silhouette.
Felicia fought her way to his side as the ship reeled lopsidedly. “Who can they be?” she asked, panting to fill her lungs with spray-filled air.
Sinbad shook his head. “It can’t be the Greeks; they turned back, we saw them … ”
Felicia frowned. “Maybe they had second thoughts. Maybe the king — ”
Thunder crashed and shook the very planks beneath their feet. The Scheherazade dived into another trough and, while new mountains of waves stretched above them, the second ship disappeared from view.
Sinbad held tightly onto the girl and they picked themselves up together, careful to keep firm hold of the lashline. “Could it be?” asked Sinbad rhetorically. Then he shook his head again, water wildly spilling from his hair. “No. Impossible … ”
She took his arm. “Who?”
His face was grim in the shadows, his eyes flickering with the mystery of unsolved questions.
Felicia gasped. “Melissa! You think it’s Melissa, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. But it’s possible. She could have been following us since Phalus … ”
A renewed gust punched violently into the heaving vessel. Felicia fell back helplessly, her hand letting go of the rope, sliding across the bridge. Sinbad dived for her, only to be knocked back sharply. Felicia tumbled and rolled, almost to the far side of the rail where she would have been thrown overboard, had it not been for the quick hands of Mongo. Letting go of the steering oar, he grabbed for her a split second before the deck tilted again and the Scheherazade twisted helplessly.
Sinbad rushed to the scene, sighing thankfully as the giant hand-signaled through the terrible din of rain and thunder that she was all right. Shaken, Felicia sat and spewed saltwater from her lungs.
The ship lurched; Sinbad spun, arm covering his face, and listened to the awful sound of groaning timber. The boom was swinging loosely and dangerously. Then another wave toppled over the side and from the corner of his eye he could see the lashed water barrels snap free from their bindings and go sailing into the air. A deluge of water shattered them into hundreds of fragments.
The whitecaps were growing larger again, hurling the tiny vessel, looming like a majestic mountain range as they carried the ship forward at breathtaking speed.
“We’re losing control!” groaned Abu, trying to draw air into his waterlogged lungs.
“Run with her, Abu!” he shouted above the noise. “Stay with her as long as you can!”
“We’ll never make Tarragona!” rejoined the mate.
Sinbad wiped the pools of water from his face and glared at his anguished first officer. “We can! We’ve come this far — we can make the rest!” And he worked his way to the steering oar, grappling at it with Abu and trying to keep it on some semblance of a course.
The air pressure began to drop, then rise, only to drop again. And the crazed quilt-patch of winds shifted, battering from the south, then from the southeast. The ship made a frantic effort to ride the waves, succeeding against all odds but throwing them farther and farther away from their destination.
During flashes of lightning Sinbad again saw the other ship, also fighting a desperate war against the sea, also struggling for its very survival. Who they were no longer mattered — both vessels were now in a life-and-death match against the full force of nature gone rampant and wild.
Long hours passed — it seemed an eternity — and still the fury raged around them. But the pelting rain at times had begun to momentarily ease, and that, with the erratic shifting patterns of wind and air pressure, indicated that the storm was beginning to break.
The sky remained as dismal as ever. Was it dawn or dusk, Sinbad wondered, as a dim distant scrape of light appeared against the black horizon. No matter. Not now. Not until the worst was over. Not until —
He jumped to his feet, screaming for his men to get out of the way of the swinging boom. A yard cracked, split, sent one of his younger men sprawling over the side, dragged down into the frenzied whitecaps. Another wave crashed from the prow, spilling like a tide from one end of the ship to the other. For an instant Sinbad’s head was under water. And then he found himself swimming, swimming in an ocean of freezing water that raged over the ship. His head bobbed up from the pouring tide. The brave ship managed a full half turn before she hit the bottom of the slant, dark waters rushing up, up, up on all sides. Then the bow finished the arc of its turn, to await the next onslaught.
Sinbad went under again, a mouthful of air to sustain him. When he next came up he saw the great mainsail looming before him, its mangled lines pulling loose, whipping and lashing any who got in its way. The yards strained to maintain their angles. Sinbad grabbed for a stay at the port-side rail, then sank below the water as the ship plunged to one side.
He wallowed helplessly in the sloshing waters, desperately trying to take hold of anything. Twisting, seeking air for his bursting lungs, he came up again, feeling himself being pulled without restraint toward the bulwark.
Dizzying crests swept over and the Scheherazade once more plunged to the troughs. Wind-driven spits hit him harshly; his water-clogged eyes opened and caught sight of the burly silhouette of Mongo screaming and pointing to him as he stood against a backdrop of slashing lightning. But there was nothing the giant could do, nothing anyone could do. Not while the reeling and pitching convulsed the ship in a horrid dance for life.
A white-ridged swell proved the final blow. The well-secured skiff snapped from its ropes and began a grisly dance of its own, planks flying as it heaved into the sea. And Sinbad was with it every step of the way. Over the side, tumbling down, crashing into wet blackness colder than he had ever imagined. The ship’s natural roll brought her one way, a malignant lash of wind hurled Sinbad and the little skiff the other. He whirled forcefully into the maelstrom and with every ounce of effort began to swim upward to reach air.
Barely conscious, he made it to the top, lost in the dark shadows of his ship. He saw the frail and battered skiff floundering nearby and fought against the waves to swim to her. It seemed like forever, but make it he did; he managed to grab hold of a splintered plank and haul himself up and over, falling into the skiff head-first. The Scheherazade loomed before him like a monster in the throes of death; he was like a spinning bottle crushed in her wake. And bit by bit the ship was pulling away, dragged out of its trough and sent tearing prow first into the gigantic whitecaps.
The skiff climbed its next slope, then fell back and nearly capsized. Sinbad clung to the tiller; he cried out in futility to his shipmates, knowing full well no one could possibly hear him above the roar. But someone — he couldn’t tell who — had seen him and was shouting to the others. For a brief time the Scheherazade righted itself and through the slant of the rain Sinbad could make out his men cluttering at the foredeck as they anxiously watched him drift farther and farther into the maelstrom.
He was on his own, no chance of being rescued. And it would take a miracle for him to save himself against this. All around the waves lashed, driven water wreaking havoc upon the already waterlogged boat. The shoreward currents played a treacherous game, sweeping him to dizzying heights on the back of frothing whitecaps, then plunging him to the darkest depths while all the time he kept his grip on the tiller. He wrenched his gaze from the sad sight of the faraway ship struggling for her own life, and grimly kept as much control as he could.
This will be the end, he thought. And with eyes more melancholy than frightened, he stared at the raging sea around him. I’ve fought many fights with you before, dear lover — and won every one. Now it’s your turn to even the score. I’m ready. Claim me when you will …
But it seemed incomprehensible to him that these could really be the final moments of a life once so promising and fulfilled, yet with so much left undone.
As the sea smashed over the skiff, Sinbad’s thoughts turned to Sherry, for the last time, he was sure. There would be no triumphant return to Baghdad. No new love to share with her, no way of freeing her from her bondage. The quest for the Red Dahlia, barely begun, was now ended. A failure. Sherry could never be saved. Nor could Don Giovanni. Sinbad sighed at the thought of the little frog, probably shivering and petrified at this very moment, hidden beneath his bed. Poor Don Giovanni. I’ve failed you, too. Failed my ship. Failed my crew. Nothing is left.
With a mighty roar the skiff was upended and sent spinning, thrown a dozen feet above the water, above the peaks of the waves, and came crashing down again. Lightning flashed, bolts racing three at a time across the sky. Through the murk and the gloom, holding on for dear life, Sinbad winced. He wiped his eyes as the skiff crashed clumsily onto water and rode another whitecap.
A hint of color; dark forms, ragged and solid … Land!
He shut his eyes and prayed. Merciful Allah, let it be so! Don’t deceive me, not now!
He daringly reopened his eyes, heart thumping, almost too afraid to look. More lightning flashed, culminating amidst a terrible barrage of thunder. And there it stood, still distant to be sure, but as real as could be. Not a figment of imagination or dreams, but a true shoreline.
The Cordoba coasts! he cried jubilantly. It had to be! It could be nothing less!
No time for all your self-pity now, Sinbad, he said to himself, pulling up into a sitting position and clutching the brace as the boat rode the wave. If only I can keep afloat long enough to reach the shore …
A swirling wind sent the broken skiff into a somersault; water flooded over his head and obliterated everything. Then the skiff heeled leeward in a madcap race across tumultuous sea, finally shooting back up beyond the surface and riding once again upon the back of a wave. It thundered along with the powerful swell and dipped sharply back down into a trough, wildly spinning. Sinbad could feel the boards beneath his feet split asunder as the skiff smashed like kindling. A large board drifted by and Sinbad clung to it. Swimming now, submerging and surfacing out of control, he stiffened his resolve, wrapped his arm around the splintered wood, and rode the wave toward the shore.
From behind came a growing roar. He glanced back over his shoulder only to gasp at the si
ght. The sea was gathering itself and rising behind him in a new wave twenty or more feet high. And still the land was so far away!
He was rising again toward the crest of the mighty mountain as it climbed upon itself, gaining strength and speed, and rolled in a fury toward the beach. Soon it peaked, curved in a terrific arch, and came tearing down upon him, the roar filling his ears like a hideous laughter.
Sinbad filled his lungs with air, the last air he would breathe. And as he did so, he saw that the wave’s arc began to look more and more like a grin, a sardonic death mask waiting to capture him and claim him for the sea. Sinbad swam as fast as he could, the board now the only thing keeping him above the waterline.
Before he could even shut his eyes, the wave thundered over, the impact knocking the board out of his hand and sending him flying head over heels beneath the murk. Its incredible weight pressed; his struggling was useless. Deeper and deeper into the depths, the ocean whirled him like a hapless matchstick until he scoured the very sands of the seabed.
He gagged, felt his lungs bursting for air. With his last few seconds of consciousness he fought a valiant fight to regain the surface, to reach the cap of the churning foam. But he’d never make it, not now, not with so far to go.
It was then he waited for the end, the sea rushing in on him and burying him in her tomb. It was over. He’d been so close, though. So very close. If only he might have lasted a few precious seconds longer.
Then he lost himself in the abyss of wet darkness from which there could be no return. A true sailor lives by the sea and dies by her as well; Sinbad’s jealous lover had finally claimed him.
PART SEVEN
One tale is done, another unfolds: How Sinbad loses all he has gained, and gains what is lost.