* * *
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 more 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.
Well, he had delivered. Idrin knew she was stuck for it. “Now you may kiss me,” she said, nerving herself for the ordeal. She had never kissed a boy before.
The bully gazed at her. Then he shook his head. “Those are no longer the features I love. I don’t want the kiss any more.” And he turned about and walked away.
Idrin stared after him, relieved but also, if truth be told, just a bit annoyed. She had been rejected because of her beauty?
Idris Ifrit re-formed as the doll. “My spell made him love you exactly as you were at that moment,” she explained. “He still loves that face, but you no longer have it. If you want him back, you will have to wipe off the cream quickly before it sets.”
But the girl hesitated. “Let’s not be hasty,” she said. She realized that if she left the cream on, and it set, she would be lovely for the rest of her life. She would be able to attract any man she wanted. That counted for something.
So she walked on to her home village, carrying the doll. Soon another boy spied her. He was handsome, one she liked. “Who are you, fair miss?” he inquired.
“He does not recognize you, because of the change,” Idris murmured.
“I am—visiting my friend Idrin,” Idrin said.
“Let me show you the way,” the boy said. “In exchange for a kiss.”
Oops. Idrin liked the attention, but she remained too young for what she suspected a kiss would lead to, and wanted to take it slowly. So she temporized. “Maybe after you do me a significant service.”
“And what is that?” the boy asked eagerly.
“Uh—” She stalled.
Idris had to rescue her. “Make him fetch you a wonderful ship upon which you can travel the world in luxury and leisure.”
Flustered, Idrin repeated the request almost verbatim. Had she had time to think about it, she would have pared it down closer to a rowboat.
“Immediately,” the boy said. “But where can I find such a ship?”
Idrin listened to Idris’ whisper. “Well, Noah’s Ark might be nice. I understand it still sits stranded in the Mountain of Ararat, not far north of Baghdad. It might need a few repairs, but it is the world’s premium ship.”
“Immediately,” the boy agreed, and set off forthwith. Little did he know what he was undertaking. Boys were like that.
“I think I won’t be needing the doll after all,” Idrin said. “You have given me more than enough, Idris, and I thank you.”
“In that case, I’ll go help the boy with the Ark,” Idris said, regretting that she had sent him on what might be an impossible mission. “That should prove to be an interesting quest, regardless of the outcome.”
* * *
“Thus concludes the tale of Idris and Idrin,” Jewel said. “Idrin was destined to grow up, marry, and live happily the rest of her life. But the tale of the boy’s quest for the lost Ark is even more wonderful, filled with rare adventure, foul tragedy, and fair maidens. But I a
m tired, and must rest until the morrow.”
“This is a cheat!” Captain Figurehead said angrily. “You are starting another tale without giving me a chance to digest the first one.”
“And you don’t know the outcome. What a pity,” Jewel said without pity. “Carry on, Captain.”
I saw that she had the figurehead snared. She would keep telling tales until we got where we were going and did what we were doing.
Now all we had to do was get to the Hinterland in time to accomplish our mission, assuming that we’d be able to do it despite the somewhat surly cooperation of the figurehead. I feared the boy of the tale would have an easier time finding and renovating the Ark.
Chapter Eleven
As the days passed, as we headed deeper and deeper into an empty wasteland filled with endless rolling sand dunes, Jewel regaled the ship and crew with her tale of the boy’s epic search for Noah’s Ark.
I marveled again at my wife’s cleverness. After all, a search for one great ship as told to another ship of equal greatness was sheer genius, although I questioned the wisdom of her need to constantly remind the accursed captain that Noah’s Ark was, indeed, the greatest of all ships. But my wife spared no fools, least of all me. The ship, although knowledgeable of all things, seemed predisposed to surliness and haughtiness, proving again that great knowledge did not equate to great wisdom.
Lucky for us, Captain Figurehead seemed enraptured by the tale of the boy and his search for Noah’s Ark, and so for now we continued sailing over desert dunes, the occasional oasis, and the even rarer caravan.
On this evening of the third day of our journey, as we ate cheeses and breads and fruits and nuts, Jewel cut short the latest installment of her tale, this time leaving the boy stranded in a catacomb of tunnels deep within Mount Ararat. The captain was clearly frustrated. Even I felt mildly annoyed at having to wait another day to hear of the boy’s fate. I sensed we were reaching the end of the captain’s patience. What would happen after that, I didn’t know. But it might be a battle of wills.
Others on board listened to the story; in particular, Dea the slave girl, who seemed particularly enchanted by the tale.
Now, as the sun began to set, Duban brought out his lyre and struck up a somber tune. Although he was now the heir to my throne, I doubted that he would take the job. He was more minstrel than monarch, despite being one of the more powerful conjurers of magic I had ever seen.
He is the last of his kind, said Queen Nylon in my ear, no doubt following the trail of my thoughts.
“What do you mean?” I asked, sub-vocalizing my words.
The prophecy, my lord. Your stepson was prophesied to be the last of the great magicians, following a long line of great magicians. With him, the bloodline will die. It is why Prince Zeyn was so determined to hurry the process up.
“You make it seem like he won’t see his next birthday,” I said, perhaps a little louder than I had intended. Jewel shot me a curious look, raising her eyebrows, but I did not elaborate. Already Jewel was getting used to me speaking seemingly random gibberish to my nymph counsel.
Queen Nylon, however, had grown curiously silent, and I did not feel the need to press the matter. Instead, I watched the boy play on happily, tapping his foot, smiling at the others who had joined him. I had grown found of him, and the thought of him dying prematurely was a devastating one. I could only hope Queen Nylon was wrong.
* * *
I had been dozing lightly on deck as Duban played on, when I felt a small tug on my sleeve. It was Jewel. “Look,” she said, pointing. “It appears the slave has made a new friend.”
I followed her pointing finger and, although it was now late evening, could easily make out the form of Dea speaking urgently to the Captain Figurehead. The captain tilted its massive head toward her, clearly listening.
I sat up, curiously alarmed. “How long have they been talking?”
“I don’t know. I only just noticed them.”
What business did a slave girl have with speaking to the accursed captain? I didn’t know, but I called Duban and Myrrh over. He quit playing and they came over together. I spoke telepathically to Myrrh to shield my thoughts, asking her to relay them to Duban, which she did.
Can you fashion a listening device? I asked my son.
Duban nodded once the message had been relayed. Of course, father.
I explained further what I needed, and he nodded again and slipped his lyre inside his robe where it promptly disappeared. He next held both hands over his ears and closed his eyes. Jewel gasped first, followed by me. After all, a hairy, wolf-shaped ear now appeared where the boy’s once roundish ear had been. The wolf-ear perked up and promptly pointed toward the figurehead and slave girl.
Duban listened a moment, then reported: They’re striking a deal, father.
What kind of deal?
He listened some more. It’s an exchange of some sort. His services for...he trailed off, listening again. His services for freedom from the curse.
That surprised me. I had been expecting to hear something else. “Sylvie,” I said, sub-vocalizing the word.
Yes, sire?
“I thought you said only a god could reverse his curse.”
Indeed. His was one of the most powerful, placed upon him by yet another god. You were given power over the ship, by one with equivalent power, so if you did it you would be acting on a god's authority.
“Then how could a simple slave girl free him of it?”
A good question, sire. Perhaps she’s more than a simple slave girl.
I thought about that as Dea nodded toward the figurehead, and slipped back into the shadows.
* * *
Curiously, the next evening, after spending the whole day speeding along at a much faster clip, the accursed ship captain did not request Jewel’s presence to continue the story. Clearly, the captain had abandoned his desire to see Allah. His deal with Dea had something to do with that.
Jewel and Myrrh came to my side, where I stood with Sinbad at the ship’s helm. Jewel was sweating profusely and holding her stomach.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, coming to her.
“She needs rest, sire,” said Myrrh, looking at my wife with obvious concern. “I’m worried for her.”
“It’s nothing, really—” but her words were cut short with a gasp of pain.
Surely, a journey to the Gates of Hades was no trip for a pregnant woman—or any person with an ounce of sanity. Now, as my wife did her best to push through the pain, I came to a decision. I rounded up the remaining passengers—all those who had so willingly volunteered to help. I explained to them that I could no longer risk their lives and, despite their protests, ordered them to board the smaller dhows.
Once all were aboard, I kissed my wife and rubbed her growing belly—luckily, her pain was subsiding. Duban hugged Myrrh tightly, and Sinbad held Nydea. Shortly, the smaller boats peeled away and shot down through the sky. We would remain in contact through Nydea, who was always magically connected to Queen Nylon. A good thing, since we would have had no other way of finding them.
Now the three of us watched as the two dhows, filled with the remaining crew, raced downward until they finally disappeared from view.
Now it was just myself, Sinbad, Duban and the two nymphs on my hand. A motley crew, but a battle-tested one. Whatever the hell was going on here, we would find out. And whoever sought to open the Gates of Hades, we would stop.
One way or another.
Sinbad suddenly pointed across the bow. “The Hinterlands, Aladdin.”
I turned my head and saw them, too. Great, rocky crags jutting up from the desert floor, rising high into the sky. Buzzards circled above, wings outstretched. The ship seemingly picked up speed.
“And what of the Gates of Hades?” I asked.
“It is rumored to be deep within a cave, beyond a fiendish underground river.”
The River Styx, my lord, said Queen Nylon. Or the river of hate. It separates the wo
rld of the living from the world of the dead and is guarded by the dog-beast, Cerberus.
“And ferried by Charon,” I sub-vocalized. “Yes, I know my Greek mythology.”
Sinbad turned to me. “Things are about to get very interesting.”
Chapter Twelve
We sailed slowly beside the mountain range, looking for caves. The curvature of the Hinterland terrain was intricate and bleak, with many false avenues. Beyond it was nothing but trackless burning desert. “I wonder how anyone gets here,” Sinbad said, “without a flying ship?”
“I suspect most of them are dead,” I said. “So they can navigate the desert without suffering ills of the flesh.”
“Or they are magically drawn in by Hades and don’t need to look,” Duban said. “We are approaching by an alternate route that should be rarely used.”
Good point; there were not too many flying ships in these parts. If all dead folk had to go to Hades, why would it be made difficult for them to find? It was living folk like us it wanted to discourage.
“There,” the figurehead said, nosing the prow toward the forbidding recess of a dark cave that resembled nothing so much as a cavity in one of the tooth-like mountains.
We looked. He was surely correct. We would have to verify it.
That brought something else to my mind. What about the Flying Dutchman? Could we afford to leave the ship while we explored the cave? I did not trust that, but did not want to discuss it aloud with the figurehead listening. He had behaved okay recently, but that might be a pose to get us to depart peacefully. I did not trust him. The ship was bound to me, but Figurehead was the ship and might be able to override the binding and go his own way. If I were not there to tell him no. Magical strictures can be devious.
Sinbad seemed to read my thought. “Let’s draw lots for the privilege of rear-guard duty,” he suggested. “In case something unkind is on our trail.”
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