Only Being. Such beautiful words. I squeeze my bundles to my chest and smile as I walk. But when I reach the house, all pleasant thoughts fly from my head. Someone hurries away from the steps and disappears around the street corner. And there, on the front door, someone has drawn a small mark with a piece of chalk. It’s barely noticeable, really. A chalk mark is hardly a thing to invite panic. Perhaps it’s merely a game. But my heart races like a darabukka drum. Maybe the robbers discovered where Ali Baba lives. If one of them made the mark and means to return with the rest of the thieves …
I drop my baskets and fumble over the ground, searching for a chalky stone. Scurrying up and down the street, I draw similar marks on all the houses nearby. Now Ali Baba’s door looks exactly like the rest. I take a deep breath and release it. Gathering my bundles, I go inside and almost shout out the news, but at the last moment, I hold my tongue. Alarming the household will only make things worse—especially if Mistress finds out. No, it’s best to keep it to myself. Ali Baba trusts me to be in charge, and I don’t want him to doubt his decision. But the anxiety on my face doesn’t escape Rasheed’s notice.
“Marjana, are you all right?”
My nerves are lute strings that are wound too tightly. I nod. It feels as if the slightest strain might snap me in two. That evening as we listen to his stories after dinner, I wish I could relax and let Rasheed’s wondrous tales take hold of my imagination. The way he spins such wild adventures as “The Clever Princess and the Bold Thief Who Loved Her” make my heart beat faster than Jamal can play his drum. But instead of letting it lift my spirits, I can’t stop thinking about the chalk mark on the door.
The next morning, Mistress bids me prepare a basket of fresh fruit to take with us to the bathhouse. I hurry outside to pick some figs, anxious to see Saja again. When I glance at the front of the house, my heart leaps to my throat. Another chalk mark has been scrawled on the door, this time in red. I throw down the basket and run to find a red stone. Again, I mark the houses on either side, up and down the street.
“What’s wrong, dear?” Leila asks as we collect the things we’ll take to the baths.
“Nothing.” I force myself to smile. “I’m just not feeling well today, but going to the bathhouse will help.”
As soon as we arrive, I find Saja kneeling over a reclining woman, applying henna to her hair. When she sees me, she rinses her hands in a bowl of water and runs over to kiss both my cheeks. Her eyes are red.
I smooth back her tangled hair from her face. “Are you all right?”
Saja shakes her head. “I think of Badi all the time. It’s so hard.” She wipes her eyes. “But having you helps.” She squeezes my hand.
I glance at the naked woman lying facedown on the warm bath tiles.
“Don’t mind her,” Saja whispers. “I think she’s asleep.” The woman snores, as if to confirm it. Saja takes hold of my shoulders. “There’s something I have to tell you!”
“What’s wrong?”
She hesitates, wringing her hands. Her finger tips are stained orange from henna. “Some of the bathhouse boys say Red Beard is back and he’s planning another battle. One of the boys saw Red Beard’s man near Ali Baba’s house. He must be planning a battle in your neighborhood, Marjana. I’m worried about you. And what if he has the gangs break into Rasheed’s new madrasa?”
“What?” I go limp. My head’s spinning. The marks on the wall must have something to do with Red Beard’s street gangs. “Are they sure it was Red Beard’s man? I thought—”
“Well, none of the boys knows for sure what’s going on, but if it’s true, Rasheed’s dream for a school will be ruined, and you’ll all be in danger.” A line of worry appears across Saja’s forehead.
The bath patron stirs and lifts herself up on her elbows, glaring at Saja through muddy clumps of hair.
“Oh,” Saja says. “I have to go.” She lets her hand slide from mine and sighs. “Be on your guard, Marjana.”
When no marks appear the following morning, I breathe a sigh of relief. Perhaps it’s all a mistake and nothing will come of it. The bath boys haven’t been summoned to the dumping grounds, and no one has actually seen Red Beard return. Maybe it was just a rumor, and the marks are child’s play, that’s all.
I let myself relax a little. After evening meal, Cook goes to bed early. When the dishes are gathered and the food cleared away, I sit alone in my room, near the window, listening to the sound of Ali Baba laughing with his wife and son in the other room. Deep inside, I ache to have what they have. It’s what I wish for every time I dream of Umi—a family, people who love and need me.
I reach for my lute. My fingers glide over the curves of the smooth wood and rest on the familiar strings. Rasheed’s deep voice makes me pause.
“Now, Jamal, do you remember where we left off last time?” He’s telling another tale about Scheherazade, a queen whose husband planned to execute her. Scheherazade told the king an exciting story every evening, but she always withheld the ending. The captivated king would spare her life another day in order to hear the rest of the tale. By continuing her stories, Scheherazade saved her life and the lives of countless other wives who the wicked king had planned to marry and murder.
“Yes!” pipes Jamal. “Scheherazade was telling the tale of Sinbad’s third voyage! He set sail from Basra and was marooned on an island where he was captured by a monster with eyes like coals of fire and large teeth like boar’s tusks!”
“Ah, yes,” Rasheed says. “That’s right. Well, you’ll never guess what happens next!”
I walk quietly through the hall and stand near the door, listening as Rasheed resumes the tale he started the night before.
“But please don’t stop at the most exciting part this time, Rasheed!” Jamal begs.
I try stifling the laugh rising in my throat, but I can’t keep the giggle from escaping.
Rasheed pauses. “We haven’t even got to the funny part yet, Marjana,” he says, starting to laugh, himself.
I poke my head around the doorway.
Leila motions me into the room and fluffs the pillows beside her. “Come join us!” Jamal kneels in front of Rasheed, transfixed, like a heathen worshiping a god.
I settle myself on the comfortable cushions next to Mistress and Leila. Ali Baba’s probably sitting outside the front door, resting in the coolness, as is his habit in the evenings.
Just when I start losing myself in the excitement of Rasheed’s story, Ali Baba walks into the room. He clears his throat, and Rasheed stops talking.
“I’ve invited a guest to stay the night—an oil merchant who was passing by and stopped to talk to me. He hasn’t the money for an inn, and he needs a place to stay. Surely, we remember what it’s like to be poor, so please welcome my guest.”
The women and I pull our scarves over our faces as the oil merchant follows Ali Baba into the room.
“As-salaam alaykum,” everyone murmurs as the women retire to the harem.
“Marjana,” Ali Baba says, “please see to my friend’s needs. He’s had a long journey.”
The man is tall and slender, with a dark beard and high cheekbones. He wears a patch over one eye, and a scar runs across his right cheek. His clothes don’t appear to be from around here, and he’s carrying a few small bundles.
I bow and take his belongings to a chamber upstairs, disappointed that I’ll miss the story Rasheed’s telling. While Ali Baba visits with the merchant, I ready the man’s room and prepare a broth for him as I strain to listen to Rasheed’s voice.
He soon finishes his storytelling, and Jamal begs him to tell the ending, but Rasheed only laughs and says he’ll have to wait until next time. I smile to myself and slip my scarf off while I cook. Rasheed sends Jamal to bed. Before long, the house turns completely quiet, but for the sound of the spoon scraping the pot.
As I dip the ladle into the soup, my lamp flickers and goes out. That’s the last oil I have in the house. If only I had my own magic lamp! I sigh, thinking of the oil merchant up
stairs in his room. Surely he has jars of oil that were unloaded in the back courtyard. He won’t miss just a little, in order to get his own supper made.
I take a kettle and walk quietly out to the backyard. The large leather oil jugs stand near the stables. The merchant’s chamber is nearby, so I tiptoe across the yard and pull on the lid of the first container.
As I lift it, a low voice whispers from the jar, “Is it time?”
CHAPTER
22
I almost drop the lid when I hear the voice coming from the huge oil jar. A scream of terror leaps to my throat, but I swallow it just in time. Are jinn stuck inside the jars? But then the awful truth flies to my mind a moment later—the robbers!
Fear courses through my body. The captain found us and is pretending to be the traveling merchant. Ali Baba, Leila, Rasheed, Mistress, and little Jamal are all sleeping in the house with a murderer. The men are awaiting the devil-man’s command to attack and kill them all! My first impulse is to run and wake the household, but I rein in my fears and think fast. Causing a commotion would put everyone in danger, and we would be outnumbered and overpowered. My knees go weak.
I take a breath to calm myself, swallow, and wet my lips. Trying to make my voice sound deep like a man’s, I whisper back, “It’s not yet time, but presently.” My whole body quivers—a ruthless thief with a knife in his hand is curled up inside each jar. I force myself to continue walking alongside all the jars, lifting each lid just a crack and repeating this answer as I pass. Finally, I come to the last jar, which contains oil the devil-man used to fool Ali Baba into believing he was a merchant. I need to do something quickly. If only I could get help. A breeze blows in from the marketplace, curls around me, and sweeps back toward the empty bazaar.
Abu-Zayed, the fortune-teller! He’ll know what to do because he already knows what will happen! I remember the smirk on his face before he gave Master his fortune, and a shiver runs down my spine. A man who consorts with harmful jinn is the last person I should be asking for help. May Allah forgive me for seeking him out, but I must save Ali Baba’s family. I fly down the road leading to the marketplace. The devil-man might give his men the signal to attack while I’m gone if I don’t hurry. My hair whips around my face, stinging my eyes, and my long qamis gets twisted in my legs as I run.
Some men walking down the dark street stop and stare at me tearing down the road, my unpinned hair flying out behind me. They point and shout at me, but I don’t care. I have to find Abu-Zayed. He’ll know what to do.
I finally reach the market and find him in his usual spot lying against the stall, and I shake his frail frame. “Wake up! Abu-Zayed, I need your help!”
His eyes open, and he smiles slowly, as if he’s been expecting me. “Is it time?” he asks calmly.
“Please come help me!” I pull the old man to his feet.
“Of course. I have been waiting years for this moment.” Abu-Zayed takes hold of my arm and runs along with me.
“What should I do?” I gasp. “They’re waiting to kill us! What do I do?”
Abu-Zayed already seems to know who I’m talking about. “You must be brave.”
“But what should I do?”
“You must be strong.”
“But how?” I cry, angry at the man for staying so calm. “I can’t wake the household or the men will jump out and kill us all. And I can’t wake anyone in the neighborhood. There’s a band of ruthless killers in the courtyard just waiting to swarm—our neighbors wouldn’t stand a chance!”
I go faster as we approach the house. “If we fetch the magistrate or the commander of the army, it might take too long.”
We pause at the street corner. Abu-Zayed remains quiet.
I throw my hands up, exasperated. “Our only chance is if I stop them before they make a move.” There doesn’t seem to be any other way. I try to swallow the lump forming in my throat. Abu-Zayed doesn’t answer but continues alongside me as we hurry back to the house. Nothing had changed; all is quiet. I glance around the courtyard, thinking fast. The oil? I could heat it to boiling and pour it into each jar, killing the thieves inside. Foolishness. This isn’t one of Rasheed’s wild stories—this is real. It would take a whole jar of oil for each man, and the screaming of the first would wake the rest. I shiver in horror.
Finally, Abu-Zayed speaks. “You were right when you said at the beginning that waking people is not the answer.”
“Yes,” I say impatiently. “But what is the an—”
The sleeping potion. My blood pumps faster as the idea takes shape. Kadir and Kadira gave me the sleeping potion for Master, which is just sitting on a shelf inside since Master didn’t really need it. One drop will ease the pain of dying, they said, and bring days of deep, peaceful sleep, almost like death itself.
I lead Abu-Zayed to the kitchen and find the sleeping potion, my breath coming fast. Taking some loaves of pan bread, I break them into thirty-nine pieces and carefully pour the potion onto them—one drop for each piece, to put the murderers to sleep until we can fetch the magistrate. I give Abu-Zayed half the bread, and we carry the baskets to the courtyard. I stop and stare at the thirty-nine jars and glance at Abu-Zayed. He gazes back at me, his eyes narrowing as he waits for me to continue.
What if they suspect something and rise from their jars?
I grip the basket of bread. Umi would want me to protect Jamal. And what about Ali Baba, Leila, and Rasheed? Their kindness is worth more than gold.
I take a deep breath. Then, with all the courage I can muster, I nod to Abu-Zayed, and we step toward the first jars. As I lift the lid a crack in the darkness, I’m afraid my trembling fingers will drop it, exposing me to the thief inside and alerting the others. I swallow hard and steady my grip on the lid. The poisoned flat bread is like a stone in my hand, but I force myself to slip it through the crack. The sound of movement inside the jar almost makes me bolt, but the thief is merely trying to retrieve the bread. Hoping my voice won’t tremble, I say in a low tone, “Strengthen yourself—the time is near,” and shut the lid.
I haven’t realized how much I’m shaking until I try to breathe. My whole body convulses. Across the way, Abu-Zayed shuts a lid. He wears a strange look on his face—a mixture of grim satisfaction and … pleasure. The hairs on my arm stand on end as he grins and steps to the next one.
I stare at my long row of oil jars and gulp back a moan. But I step forward and crack open the next lid. “Strengthen yourself—the time is near.” I do it again and again, sliding in the bread and listening to the thief find it. Each time, my stomach clenches as I imagine the thief bounding out of the jar and swiping off my head. Finally, all the bread is gone; a piece is in each jar.
Pulse throbbing, I rush with Abu-Zayed back to the kitchen where the devil-man’s supper still sits where I left it, half-prepared. We put out the fire and wait breathlessly in the dark near the window to see what will happen. The devil-man can’t come before the potion takes effect, or we’ll all still be in danger. I picture the thieves inside the jars, eating their bread and slipping into a deep sleep.
In about a quarter of an hour, the shutters of the captain’s chamber window creak open, and a handful of pebbles rain down against the jars. When the thieves don’t respond to his signal, the captain climbs down into the yard.
His dark silhouette in the moonlight brings back memories of the kidnapping, when he stared at me with his face in shadow, the serpent on his chest ready to strike. I remember the feel of the ropes cutting into my wrists and the taste of fear in my mouth. Now it seems like it’s happening all over again.
The captain slides his scimitar from its sheath and walks silently through the courtyard. He whispers over the jars, “Are you asleep? Arise!”
Hearing no response, he cuts open a leather jar. The limp hand of one of his sleeping companions slides out and slaps the ground. The devil-man stands for a moment, staring at the lifeless body before walking down the long row of jars. He must think the men are all dead. He st
ops. His body straightens, and he jerks around with a sudden forceful movement.
I hold my breath. Will he leave or come after us on his own?
Abu-Zayed stirs beside me. “Captain!” The fortune-teller’s calm voice floats over the courtyard. I cover my mouth so the cry won’t escape. He must be truly mad.
The devil-man steps forward into the moonlight. I duck down farther into the shadows and peek out between the crack and the door.
The old fortune-teller steps from the kitchen doorway. I blink at him in disbelief from my hiding place.
The devil-man’s face turns ashen, as if he’s seen a ghoul. His merchant eye patch and scar are gone. The captain wears gold and silver necklaces over his bare chest, and his turban gleams white. “Abu-Zayed,” he murmurs. “You live.” He takes a few paces toward the old man. “Have you missed your treasure cave, or do you prefer to make your living telling fortunes?” The devil-man walks even closer to Abu-Zayed and gestures toward the jars. “So you finally got your revenge after all these years. But it is a shame you could not predict your own fate. I predict you will not leave here alive when I kill you this time.”
The devil-man draws his sword and, in one quick movement, strikes the old man in the side. Abu-Zayed falls to his knees.
I stifle a cry and drop to the kitchen floor.
Abu-Zayed clutches the wound and slumps forward, a terrible laugh coming from deep within his throat. “Yes, revenge. I have waited a long time for this. I came to tell you your fortune.” He coughs in pain.
The captain laughs. “Well, you’d better hurry and tell me, before you die.”
Abu-Zayed struggles to speak. “It is this: The very treasure you’ve stolen from me and hoarded all these years will be given away freely.”
The devil-man frowns.
“There is more.” Abu-Zayed coughs. “You have lived by the sword as someone you were not. Soon you shall die by the sword of one who is not what they were. I only wish I could be here to see it.”
With that, the old man sinks to the ground.
The Forty Thieves Page 11