Aladdin and the Flying Dutchman

by Piers Anthony

  Idris thought fast. How could she stop this implacable bully without hurting him? Then she got a notion. She was in direct physical contact with him, so this was easy magic. She reversed his emotional polarity.

  Bull paused, taking a moment to reassess. He had never experienced anything like this before.

  Then he returned the doll to Idrin. “I’m sorry; I was only teasing. I would never hurt your doll.” He took a breath. “Or you.”

  Idris stared at him, confused. The bully was making nice? But Idris clarified it for her. “I reversed him,” she whispered. “I made him want to help you instead of hurt you.”

  “Idrin,” Bull said. “Please—may I kiss you?”

  Now both girl and ifrit paused in shock. Idris was the first to figure it out. “I’m rusty. I have been too long out of practice. I overdid it. I put him into love with you.”

  “But no one loves me,” Idrin murmured.

  “Please,” Bull said. “I’m not good at this. I want to hold you and kiss you. Please let me.” Such was the power of the magic, he was asking instead of taking. He wanted her return interest.

  Girl and doll gazed at him. What were they to do? It would be chancy to change him again; magic seldom reversed cleanly, especially when wielded by a rusty practitioner. But Idris knew, if Idrin did not, that Bull was about to ask for more than a hold or kiss.

  They were in trouble.

  * * *

  Jewel paused in her narration. The ship had drifted lower as the figurehead listened, providing them all better air to breathe. The story was working. I was amazed that such a soft, gentle tale would interest the knowledgeable figurehead, whose heart, let’s face it, was wooden. It seemed that Jewel knew what she was doing after all.

  But would it be enough to prevent the figurehead from resuming his quest for Allah? I did not know, and feared to ask.

  Chapter Nine

  “Why did you stop?” asked the figurehead, turning its massive head to regard Jewel.

  The entity, which had once been a carved wooden statue projecting from the prow of the ship, now appeared to be a combination of living and inanimate. Its face was still lined with wood grains, but now it was very much alive, and expressive enough to show his arrogance and now his irritation.

  What manner of being he was, I didn’t know, but just as the thought crossed my mind, Sylvie’s words appeared: He is the Flying Dutchman’s original captain, sire. Forever cursed to remain on his ship. Indeed, cursed to forever inhabit the ship.

  An unbreakable curse, I thought. Which is why he was unable to free himself.

  Yes, sire. Only the gods can save him now.

  There's something else, Myrrh thought. That figurehead knows but is not telling you: only you, as master of the ship, can free him from the ship, by officially granting him release. He knows you won't, so hides that information. He has nullified much of the curse, but must remain with the ship, regardless where he takes it. Unless he can indirectly kill you and plead to Allah for release.

  That was interesting. I still had some power. I was about to ask why he had been so cursed when Jewel spoke. Her weariness did not feel feigned, although I suspected it might have been. “I stopped because I have grown tired.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “I’m short of breath, as you can see. We are much too high for me to continue the story.”

  “Never mind that, then, woman. We shall proceed.”

  And with that, the ship veritably lurched forward, surging through the heavens, toward this reported wormhole that I suspected would be our doom. I leaped forward, struggling for my own breath, for we were indeed very, very high. No doubt this valuable oxygen was quite low up here.

  “But wait,” I said. “You do not know the ending to the story.”

  “It is just a story. A fair one, mind you, but a made-up tale nonetheless. Unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Indeed, it is time to meet Allah.”

  And the ship surged forward.

  I cudgeled my oxygen-deprived brain and continued with the logic I had started, “Unimportant or not, it is something you do not know. It is knowledge that’s unknown.”

  “What are you getting at, mortal?”

  “You would be approaching Allah under false pretenses. You claim to know all, but you don’t. You don’t know the ending to Jewel’s story.”

  “I can guess the ending. I am aware of all stories now, thanks to your epic blunder. Most stories are not so different.”

  “Guessing is not the same as knowing,” said Myrrh, stepping in. “You ate from the Tree of Knowledge. Not the Tree of Guessing.”

  The one-time captain looked from Myrrh to me, then threw back his head as far as it would go. “Damnation!”

  Our forward momentum stopped so suddenly that many of us were thrown into railing or into each other. Once we had regained our balance, I saw that the great vessel was now adrift in the heavens. Below, the earth was nothing more than splotches of color. Browns and tans where the earth lay, blue where the ocean rested. White patches of clouds drifted everywhere. All of us were gasping for breath. Little Duban was looking green. We needed to reverse course immediately.

  “What do you propose, mortal?” growled the figurehead.

  “Jewel will finish the story as she sees fit,” I replied. “After all, such stories cannot be rushed.”

  “You are toying with me, mortal.”

  “We are striking a bargain. You get your story and we get what we need.”

  “Your lives.”

  “More than that,” I said. “We get the services of your magnificent ship.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Jewel stepped forward, leaning heavily on me. “You will never know the ending to Idrin’s tale.”

  “Damnation and ruin! Fine, mortal, you have yourself a deal. And when, pray tell, will I hear the next installment of the story?”

  “Tomorrow night,” said Jewel. “When I have properly rested.”

  The wooden figurehead swore, then threw his head to the right, and the ship turned to starboard, and soon we were speeding rapidly down through the heavens. Below, the earth quickly took on more and more details, and as we plunged down through the clouds, we all took a deep and blessed breath.

  “Where to now?” growled the figurehead, when the ship had leveled out many hundreds of feet above the desert sands.

  “The Hinterlands,” I said.

  Now the figurehead grinned mischievously. “To stop those who seek to unlock the Gates of Hades, I suppose.”

  “Yes, of course.” It suddenly occurred to me that if the ex-captain had knowledge of all things, then he certainly knew where the key was.

  His disdainful laugh seemed to support my line of thinking. “And do you not realize that the Key to Hades is actually—”

  And in that moment, Dea the Slave, who had been standing nearby, rushed forward and pointed across the bow. “Dragons!”

  Whatever the figurehead was about to say had been lost, for the moment. He snapped his head around, as did I. Sure enough, swooping from high above were three black dragons, each more hideous than the next, and all sporting massive, leathery wings and long necks.

  Sensing what was about to come, I used my sash to strap myself to the nearest railing and ordered the others to do the same. What happened next was a testament to the ship’s construction, although I suspected it was now held together by magical means. At any rate, the ship veered away from the dragons so sharply, that I thought my neck might snap. The aerial maneuvers that followed were enough for all of us to heave whatever was left in our stomachs. And when we were not heaving, I watched in amazement as the great ship, easily two or three times the size of the dragons, always just managed to avoid the black beasts.

  When one dragon lunged, belching a great stream of crackling fire, the ship would turn sharply to starboard or port, or dive and plunge. Each time the fire would just miss us, always leaving a burning black trail in the sky where we had once been.

/>   Our bodies twisted and turned and strained against belts and sashes and rope—anything that we had found to secure us in place. At one point, the ship plunged deftly, just as two of the magical creatures slammed full board into each other. I turned my head and watched as they spun wildly from the sky.

  From where had the creatures come, and why? Only once had I seen such foul beasts in the land of man, and they had been the work of powerful djinns. Such creatures, I knew were commonplace in Djinnland. So why were they here now? Who had summoned them?

  The final dragon screeched in fury and beat its powerful wings and soon closed in on the starboard side. The side I just happened to be on. I had a good look at the beast’s pure black eye, an eye that revealed nothing. Its snout was as long as three horses and its nostrils impossibly wide. From them, black steam issued forth, and I suspected I knew what that meant.

  As it had just turned its head, I could see the smoldering fire from within ignite. By Allah, it was going to torch me alive! I think the figurehead realized that, too, and perhaps realized he might never hear the end of the story, for just as the beast threw back its head to let loose with a great blast, something else blasted.

  Cannon fire.

  The ship rocked with the percussion, and so did the dragon. Its great black eyes bulged, and the fire winked out. It massive wings went limp, and now I could see the great, bloody hole in its side.

  It fell from the sky, quite dead.

  The Flying Dutchman leveled out and I saw that the figurehead looked eminently pleased with himself.

  I unfastened myself from the railing and checked on the others. They were fine, but bruised. Duban had a bloody bump on his head, where he had knocked it against a mast.

  I headed straight for the figurehead.

  “You know who sent the dragons,” I said.

  “Of course,” it said smugly. “I know everything. Just as I know where the key presently is.”

  “Tell me,” I said eagerly. “Who sent the dragons? Where’s the key?”

  Now the figurehead threw back its head, just narrowly missing the wooden hull. “And where would the fun in that be, King Aladdin? You are not the only one who can play games.”

  And with that the figurehead faced forward again, and the ship turned slightly to port, racing over the shifting desert sands and into the setting sun.

  Chapter Ten

  Jewel retired for the evening and night, for she really was tired, unsurprisingly. I joined her, of course. “Do you have a good continuation of the story?” I asked.

  “Why would I tell you, with the ship listening?” she retorted. “The story must remain untold, until I tell it to Captain Figurehead.”

  Good point. “In that case—”

  “What part of ‘I am worn out’ do you not understand?” she demanded sharply. “Besides, there’s the baby.”

  She was on to me. I sighed. This was going to be a long nine months.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” she said. “Find a concubine. That’s what they’re for.”

  That was an idea. “Maybe that new girl, Dea,” I suggested.

  “Don’t touch her! She’s dangerous.”

  “But you know I can’t be potent with just any woman who isn’t you. She has to be special.”

  “That is your problem,” she said unsympathetically. Women can be like that. “Now let me sleep.”

  Ahem, Queen Nylon coughed mentally.

  I had for the moment forgotten that she was on concubine duty. She would certainly do. “Good night, Jewel,” I said, and left her presence. Fortunately we had a spare cabin.

  Nylon unwrapped herself from my finger and assumed the form of Jewel. She kissed me. “Let me show you what I would do with you if I weren’t with child,” she murmured.

  She showed me, because of course she was not with child. It was quite a night. The only way I would have known she wasn’t Jewel was that she lacked the cutting verbal edges Jewel evinced when annoyed. Nothing I did annoyed Nylon; she seemed genuinely delighted to accommodate anything I could imagine. There is something to be said for interacting with a woman with centuries of experience and a hunger for renewed passion.

  Next day the ship was back over the desert and flying west. It did not seem to be moving as rapidly as before. “Is there a problem?” I asked Captain Figurehead.

  “I’m tired, dolt,” he said. “I need a story to refresh me.”

  So he was dawdling, to make sure we did not arrive at the Hinterland before the story was finished. If we wanted to arrive there in time to prevent the Key from being used, we would have to get on with the narrative.

  Fortunately Jewel was now up for it. Maybe she had literally dreamed up the continuation during the night. She settled herself in a deck chair near the figurehead and began talking. The rest of us joined her there, hoping for the best.

  “It has reached me, O auspicious Captain,” she said formally, “that when Idris Ifrit invoked a spell to reverse the bully’s emotional polarity, she got it slightly off-center and instead of merely feeling helpful, he had fallen in love with Idrin. This was awkward...”

  * * *

  Idris snapped her fingers, freezing the bully in place, unaware that he was being paused for their convenience. It was minor magic, but useful in a situation like this.

  “Oh, what am I to do?” Idrin whispered to Idris. “I can’t kiss him. I don’t even like him. Besides, I’m too young for that sort of thing.”

  Idris knew that in many locales girls were considered marriageable at ten years of age, and Idrin was three years beyond that. But it was her duty, as part of her return favor for being released from the bottle, to see that the girl was satisfied with the outcome. So if romance was not what she wanted at this time, so be it. The bully had to be turned off.

  But how? Messing again with his emotional settings was not advisable, lest it lead to even more difficult complications. Yet what else was there? Idrin didn’t want him hurt, and that blocked off whole avenues of actions.

  Then she remembered a standard ploy utilized by attractive women to stave off suitors without actually rejecting them. “Tell him that if he wants to kiss you, he must perform three heroic feats in your honor, like single-handidly defeating an army using no more than the jawbone of an ass, or taming a rogue dragon.”

  “That’s cheating,” Idrin objected. “I have to play fair. There should be only one demand, a relevant one, and it should be feasible to accomplish with reasonable dispatch.”

  Idris took a breath and counted to twelve, so she wouldn’t explode into a roiling cloud of acrid smoke. This child was frustratingly fair-minded. In fact she would be an excellent partner for any man, regardless of her appearance. But that was the rub: men did not care much about excellence of character, only appearance. Men could be such dolts that it was remarkable that any woman ever chose one to marry. Except that the Sons of Adam in some locales had gotten around that by depriving woman of all rights, so that they were not in a position to choose.

  And therein lay the clue. Give the bully a task that contributed to Idrin’s appearance, making her beautiful. Then she would be able to choose any man she wanted, when the time came. And if the bully did not accomplish that task, then he got no kiss. Win-win, either way.

  “Demand a pot of beauty cream,” Idris told the girl. “The magical kind that makes any girl’s face lovely.”

  “Does such a thing exist?” Idrin asked skeptically.

  “Yes, because I am about to make some. I will hide it under a stump. If he finds it, you will use it and it will make your face beautiful. The rest of your body will fill out nicely in the next year or so, so you will need no more than the facial.”

  “But suppose he doesn’t find it?”

  “Then you don’t have to kiss him.”

  “But what if he finds it?”

  Idris counted mentally to thirteen. “Then you will have to kiss him. You can do that much. If he wants more, he will have to perform another task, one mor
e challenging. By the time he accomplishes that, who knows—you might even begin to like him a little.”

  “Never!” Idrin said with dismaying certainty. But she seemed taken by the idea of challenges. “I’ll do it.”

  Idris snapped her fingers, reanimating the bully as she converted herself to a jar of cream and hid under a nearby stump.

  “Please,” the bully said. “Anything for a kiss.”

  “Anything?” Idrin asked.

  “Anything.”

  “Then fetch me a jar of beauty cream. Then you may have one kiss.”

  “But I have no idea where such a thing would be,” he protested.

  “There’s one in this vicinity. Maybe you can find it.”

  “Stay right here,” he said. “I will find it.”

  Idrin would have preferred to go home, but she waited. It was just barely possible that she was intrigued by the idea of becoming beautiful, and possibly even by the prospect of submitting to a kiss. One never could be certain of the content of a girl’s mind or heart.

  The bully looked diligently, propelled by his desire for the kiss. He turned out to be a fairly efficient searcher. He crisscrossed the area, checking every clump of weeds and around every tree, shaking the foliage. And in due course he kicked over the old stump and found it. “Haa!” he exclaimed as if he had found something as precious as gold, and actually, he had.

  He brought the jar back to Idrin. “Here it is. Now my kiss.”

  “Not yet,” she said. “I must make certain it’s the real product.” She opened the jar, dipped out some cream, and smeared it on her face. Then she brought out her pocket mirror and looked.

  The smear of cream crossed from her left eyebrow to her right ear. Most of her face was ugly, as before, but where the smear was, her face was lovely. The cream really was magic, as Idris had formed it from her own magical substance.

  The bully stared, amazed.

  Idrin quickly smeared the cream across the rest of her face, and in that moment she became beautiful, as her mirror verified. The cream had filled out the cavities and smoothed out the lumps and left matchless skin covering perfectly formed features.