by David Ward
Suddenly, a large patch of mist loomed over the bow. An enormous mouth yawned in front of Yeats and snapped viciously at his face. It exploded into wisps, which burst against his forehead. He swallowed a scream.
Skin smirked. “Welcome to the story world. Ye looked as white as … as … a chicken!”
When his breath returned, Yeats said, “Not bad. You’re getting wittier.”
Skin doffed his hat.
“But,” Yeats added, “your legs are so skinny and your head is so fat that you look more like an overgrown turnip wearing pajamas than a pirate.”
Skin lunged and the boat keeled over hard to starboard. Yeats would have fallen out if Bones hadn’t caught him. Odysseus was permanently attached to the gunwales, his claws dug in like spikes. When the boat righted everyone fell back into place.
“Enough! No more insults!” Bones roared. He adjusted his hat. “We’ve got a wish to fulfill. And we are almost there.”
“Wait!” protested Yeats. “You’ve got to answer my question, especially after the last insult. Come on, Skin.”
The pirate shrugged. “Well, it were a good one, I’ll give ye that.”
Without hesitating Yeats asked, “How will I recognize her? I mean, it’s been years, so she will look completely different.”
“Oh, ye’ll find yer girlie-friend, all right,” said Skin.
Yeats grimaced. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my father’s age!”
“Oh no she’s not! She’s the same age as when she entered the book. And that answer was free. Just ’cause I’m a bit of a romantic.” He winked knowingly.
“Land ho!” Bones hollered.
The musty smell that had surrounded them on the sea of words disappeared and in its place blew a fresh wind. A seabird cried overhead. The shrouds thinned out and the warm hues of sunset filled the sky.
“Make ready for landing!” Bones said. A shore appeared. Low mountains the color of sand and without a speck of green rose through the mist in the distance. Before the foothills, a vast desert stretched toward them. The air rippled with heat, and for the first time the smell of the ocean came fresh on the wind. Other smells competed with the brine: oranges and spice, and something sickeningly sweet like overripe garbage.
Gardens and fruit groves came into view. They were latticed along the desert and ran along a silver river that sparkled with the last rays of the sunset. It wound from the mountains, cutting through farmlands and ending at a magnificent sight: a spiral-towered city with glistening white walls. Gold reflected off the tops of the highest towers. Small boats and punts drifted in a congested mass at the headland.
Staying clear of the river’s mouth, the pirates made for a secluded beach. The pungent odor of lemons and limes and fresh mint overwhelmed the salty wind. Lush gardens breathed cool air in their faces and the stark desert disappeared behind the dunes.
The pirates ran the boat aground and leapt ashore. Yeats leaned over the side, a little fearful of getting out of the boat, and grabbed a fistful of beach. Its whiteness reminded him of beaches his family had visited during his father’s revitalization trips. The memory of his father made him stand. He set Odysseus down on the bench. “Stay here,” he commanded. Odysseus stared back uncertainly.
“I know. I’m scared too.” He scratched the cat’s ears. “But I need you to watch these pirates. It’s going to be scary out there,” Yeats said and nodded in the direction of the palace. “You keep these bookends honest for me. If they’ve been lying in any way, knock them off their shelf for me.”
Skin did not laugh. Instead, he eyed the cat warily.
Yeats took a deep breath. “So, this is it,” he said. Both pirates nodded. “All right then,” Yeats said. He put on his best scowl and stepped onto the beach.
he sand was cool and real enough. Yeats took a good look around. “Where are we? Or do I need to give you an insult first?”
Bones glanced over at Skin, who, at the mention of insults, looked up eagerly. “No,” Bones said quickly. “No more insults. I’ll tell ye. We be at the king’s summer palace. The back entrance. Nobody here at this time of day.”
Yeats frowned. “Are you visible to the people here?”
“Aye. At the moment, we’re in the story too.”
Interesting, thought Yeats. “Why did you bring me to this spot? Isn’t Shaharazad the vizier’s daughter—wouldn’t she be at home?”
Skin fixed him with an impatient glare. “Would ye go anywhere without yer adviser if ye lived in a land where every one of yer sons competed for yer throne and might cut yer throat to take it?”
“I suppose not.”
“Night’s coming,” Bones said. “Ye’d best get on with it. Steal inside and ye’ll find her quick. She’ll be in the garden. And keep a wary eye out for palace guards. They be the ones that almost took ye father’s head!”
Yeats blanched at the thought. “Could you wait for me?” he pleaded. “I’ll try and be quick.”
“No!” they chimed.
“You’re sure I can get back?” Yeats looked from one to the other.
Bones doffed his hat. “Ye have my word as a pirate and as a bookend.” Then he added, “As long as ye break the wish.”
Desperate, Yeats added to Skin, “If you come when I need you I’ll give you a year’s worth of insults. I’ll insult you all day long.”
“Get on with ye,” Bones said gruffly before his partner could reply. “I’ve had enough. What ye seek and made yer wish for is through that gate. We’ve done our part. Now if ye want to help yer father, ye best be about yer business and we’ll be about ours.”
Yeats watched Bones get on board. He wondered if he’d made a dreadful mistake after all and if it was the last time he would see them. Or worse, if it was the last time he would see anyone he knew from his own world. Odysseus peered over the rail in mournful salute. Although the pirates could hardly be called friendly, they were the last link to Yeats’s parents and anything he could call home.
“Anchor away!” called Bones.
Skin pushed the boat off the beach and jumped in. The boat slipped out into the waves and Bones began his steady pull on the oars. They quickly drew away from the shore. Yeats remained frozen on the sand. From across the water he could hear Skin singing his song again.
“Use your wits,” Yeats murmured. Tempted to wave, he turned quickly from the sea before they vanished.
Hands on hips, Yeats surveyed the land. Up at the top of the dune there was a gate in the palace wall as the pirates had said, and beyond it a garden. On the warm, dry wind the scent of sweet blossoms filled the air. Although his heart thumped briskly, his curiosity and sense of adventure started to take over. He fixed his scowl again and faced the new world.
Royalty would seek solace in a place that smelled of blossoms, not garbage, he reasoned. He shrugged and followed his nose.
His feet sank into sand as he trudged toward the palace. At the top of the beach his vantage point changed and he had a better sense of the place.
Walls separated the poor from the wealthy. The palace and gardens were cut off from the sea and port town. The walls were whitewashed, baked clay, and loomed higher then he could throw a stone. The heat emanating from the brick was stifling. But the artistry and majesty of the place quickly diverted him from his discomfort. Colored tiles formed a mosaic of a roaring jackal beside the gate, and running along the highest wall was a border of flowing script as tall as Yeats. The stone was pockmarked and scored by the elements. The walls continued as far as he could see.
The city was bristling with activity on land and water, with bazaars, markets, churches, soldiers, peasants, and animals everywhere. His scowl deepened. In the city he could at least blend into crowds and search with some anonymity. But not here at the palace—not without a disguise. He sat with his back to the gate and waited for night. The darkness would be his cloak. When the shades of night finally came down and he could wait no longer, he stood up.
The gate creaked ope
n to reveal a starlit garden. It was nothing like the jumbled mess of Gran’s garden. A path of white stones formed a large oval around neatly tilled beds of blooming plants and cultivated trees. The smell of freshly turned soil wafted on the night air. And there were voices.
The moon shed its cover, opening the garden as light to a page. Two figures stood on the central path, an old man and a girl.
“You must tell me, Mohassin. I beseech you!” the girl said.
The old man’s voice trembled. “My lady, I cannot. Your father, the vizier, has made each of us swear, on the tombs of our fathers no less, that we will not breach our silence on this matter. You endanger your servants to ask that question.”
Yeats listened intently.
The girl sighed. “What would you have me do? Every morning I hear wailing outside the palace. Night after night I hear their cries! The voices of mothers and sisters and daughters. Upon my soul, Mohassin, I will find out.”
“My lady. You must shut your ears and close your eyes.”
“I cannot!”
The old man sighed. “Your people love you, my lady. And with discretion”—his voice trembled—“I dare say, not a princess in this land shares your love and duty to the people.”
“And I will not rest while the city weeps,” the girl replied.
“Punish as you may. There is nothing that can move me.”
The girl’s voice broke. “Go, Mohassin! I will not be the cause of grief to such a friend. Go back to your kitchen without fear and take these coins for your trouble.”
“Dear lady. Your kindness is enough.”
The figures parted and the servant hobbled to a set of steps leading to a colonnade. The girl remained, looking at the stars.
When Yeats’s eyes adjusted to the deepening dim, he realized she was crying. A sob drifted with the scent of flowers. Yeats moved closer to the cover of a tree several yards ahead, but when he peeked out, the girl was coming right for him along the main path.
He froze.
She was close enough to touch and dressed in a thin lace tunic that swished as she walked. A shawl covered her head. She must have heard him move, for she stopped, then turned and peered into the shadows. As she pushed back the branches, her face was suddenly illuminated by moonlight.
Shaharazad!
“Khan?” she whispered.
Yeats gawked. “I … I …” The shawl had lifted with the branches to show her hair flowing over her shoulders in thick black curls. She looked like a princess from a fairy tale.
“You’re not Khan. What are you doing in there?” There was no alarm in her voice, only mild amusement.
“I … I …”
“Are you spying?”
“Uh …” He winced.
She stepped closer. “Listen to me, spy, because I warn you for your own good. Do you know what happened to the last spy that was found by Khan? And my father is even less merciful than Khan.” She put her hands on her hips. “I am astonished that you eluded my pet. Still, I am happy for someone’s company other than my nurse.” She looked sideways at him. “Unless, of course, you are a thief. Be warned that I am armed.” She pulled back the folds of her tunic to reveal a short knife.
“I am not a thief,” Yeats managed. “But I am looking for something.”
“And what might that be?” She folded her arms.
“You.”
Her face brightened. “Did Mohassin send you? Oh deceitful, lovable cook! He cannot tell me himself but has sent his servant,” she murmured. “Wait! I’m coming in!” Before he could reply, the girl parted the branches of his tree covering and stepped through.
She was so close their noses nearly touched. “There! Now, what does Mohassin have to say to me?”
Yeats tried to think. “Mohassin did not send me. I am here on my own.”
“For what purpose?”
Taking a deep breath, Yeats ventured, “To help you, to save you from a danger. And to help my father.”
She narrowed her eyes. “The poets have said, The face of an honest man hides nothing, while the face of a liar can be read by all.”
She was almost as tall as Yeats, which surprised him since he was used to looking down at people his age. Her delicate curls and feminine clothes were deceiving, for when her arm brushed against his shoulder he felt the strength of an athlete, not a dainty royal.
“I am not a liar,” he answered.
“Yet not telling all either. That is close to a lie. Tread carefully.”
He swallowed. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you will think I am crazy.”
She scrutinized him. “You are not witless. However, each man serves his own purpose. And what may yours be, I wonder?” She tugged him out of the tree branches into the moonlight. “What garments are these!” she exclaimed and touched his shirt. “You are from a distant land, I see. But I do not fear you. You have a trusting face. And familiar! Walk with me. My father allows no one but my maid to visit, and your company, deceitful or not, is welcome.” She stopped after a few paces. “By all that is in heaven! I have seen you before. Swear it is so.”
“You knew my father.” Before she could query further he added, “And if everyone has their purpose I would very much like to know yours.” At the last second he remembered to add, “My lady.” The stones crunched pleasantly beneath their feet and the moonlight opened a path before them. Yeats had the surreal sensation that the garden was a theater and the trees an audience. Blossoms fluttered down like butterfly ghosts and came to rest silently before their feet. Her next words broke his reverie.
“I want to know why the city weeps.”
His stomach lurched. “You said that to Mohassin.”
“So you are a spy!” she accused.
He shook his head. “No. But why do you need to know about the weeping? Do you really think you are Shaharazad?”
With the briefest smile she kept walking. “How intriguing! It is told that once there lived a man whose words were honey but whose garb was as slovenly as a boar. …”
“Is this a story?” Yeats interrupted.
Shaharazad nodded.
He sighed. “I was told you are familiar with all the stories and poets.”
“I am. Shall I continue, stranger? And have you a name before I am interrupted again?”
“It is Yeats.”
“Fascinating!” the girl exclaimed. “I know it not. Nor have I read it in any book. You are not from here.”
“No. I am from another place.” Peering suspiciously at the near bushes, Yeats whispered, “And neither are you. You just don’t remember it.”
Shaharazad tapped her lip. “I have read of this philosophy before. Does it not come from the eastern part of the empire?”
“It’s not a philosophy. It’s reality!” Yeats gestured in exasperation. “You don’t belong here and you’ve got to come with me.” He broke into a sweat. “Listen. I don’t know why the city weeps. I’ll find out! But, Shari, I’ve really come to find you.”
The girl frowned.
“Don’t you know who you are?” Yeats pressed.
“I am the vizier’s daughter.”
“Yes, but who you really are? Don’t you remember William Trafford?”
She stared ahead with half-closed eyes, as if she was thinking hard. Her response, when it came, was deflating. “You are indeed strange, Yeats. Nonetheless, you are an answer to my prayers, for I have searched many days to find anyone who will tell me the mystery outside these walls. My father will not let me leave the palace, and his guards are sworn to execute anyone who speaks to me.”
“Execute?”
A bell rang and Shaharazad gasped. “My father! Quickly now!” She grabbed his hand. The echo of many heavy footfalls sounded in the colonnade, followed by crunching stones. Spearheads glinted in the moonlight.
Shari pulled him across the lawn to the shelter of a torch-lit archway. They crouched against the wall as three servants carrying earthe
n jars passed. They could hear but not see the group of soldiers in the garden. Yeats looked at the girl closely. With her curls framing her cheeks she looked prettier than the picture in Gran’s house.
“My chamber is through that door,” she said. “Can you see it?”
He squinted through the archway into the palace. “Yes.”
“I will wait for you tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?” Yeats exclaimed.
“Yes,” the girl said. “Come at midnight when Rawiya, my maidservant, has left my chamber. There will be a diversion to distract the guards. Knock with a single rap. Find out the grief of the city and bring me news! Then I will reward you.”
He panicked as the girl prepared to leave. “Wait! I just got here,” he began.
She pressed something into his hands. “Here are the coins Mohassin refused. Go to the kitchens and find him. He will help with all your other needs. But you must go to him. There is no one else I trust. Take this ring. It is a sign for him that you are true. But do not tell him why you are here, for I must protect him too.”
The voices from the garden faded. Shaharazad looked out briefly, then pulled him close. “There is a passage beyond the archway of the next colonnade. Follow it to its end. There you will find a door that can only be opened from the inside and so is not guarded at night. Follow the path to the main road. It will take you to the market and inns. In the morning, come back to the palace kitchens to find Mohassin.” Shaharazad squeezed his hand. “I know you, though I know not from where. You warm my heart.”
“Then come with me,” he urged.
The flash of torchlight made them both look up.
“Go, Yeats!”
She should be close to remembering! If only they had more time. “There is so much to explain,” he said. “I need to tell you about my family, about my father, about Gran’s library and where it all began. Can’t you hide me somewhere so we can talk?”
“Unless you wish to spend the night in the garden hedge there is nowhere else,” she said. “I am confined to the garden and my room. And how would I explain you to Rawiya, my maidservant? But tomorrow night I will send her on an errand. And I will create a distraction for the guards. At midnight. One knock on the door. Be ready! Now, go! Guards are coming.”