by David Ward
She smiled. “That is an old tale.”
Time slowed in the peace and luxury of her room. The water soothed his burning throat and her voice calmed his mind.
“My family loves stories and poetry,” he said, suddenly feeling tired and longing for home. The carpets were soft and so much more inviting than the prison cell and the wildness of the Arabian night. “I’m named after a poet,” he added.
Shaharazad was delighted. “A poet! I love poets!” She blushed. “I mean, I love poetry.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“And how would you have such knowledge?”
He handed back the cup. “You love poetry because you think you are Shaharazad.” He stood up and held out his hand. “And we have to go.”
She remained kneeling. “Go? It was my understanding that you were to tell me why the people weep. I know you found Mohassin, for the story has circulated throughout the palace. What has happened to change our plan? Do we need to go elsewhere for me to hear your answer?”
Yeats gestured for quiet and moved to the door. He listened. Still no sound. “Shari! You must come with me. My friends are risking their lives running from your palace guards. I don’t know how much time we have.”
The girl nodded. “You speak truly that there is little time. But why do you insist that I must go with you? I have not decided what I will do until I know the answer to my question. You were to find answers. I thought you came to tell me why the people weep. I thought you were sent to tell me my adventure. I thought the voice and the pictures I saw …” Her words trailed off.
Yeats shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that.” It was so hard to be attentive to what she was saying while he was listening intently for the guards’ return.
Frowning and looking disappointed, she stood and walked slowly to her bed, keeping her eyes on him as she went. When she turned there was a scimitar in her hands with the sharp end aimed at Yeats’s head.
“Hey, put that down,” he said. “I can tell you what is happening. I can explain. You don’t need to point that at me.”
She moved closer, aiming the blade at his chest. “Who are you? Why would you take me from here?”
“Because this is not where you belong,” he spluttered. “You’re not from here. My father—”
The blade shifted to his neck. He closed his eyes for a second as the blade touched his skin. “Please don’t do that,” he whispered. “Put it down.” He stepped back slowly until his back was pressed against the door. On the carpeted floor their feet did not make a sound. The girl moved with unnerving ease.
“Who are you?” she repeated.
“I told you! I am Yeats. And I am here to help you.”
“Why?”
Yeats sucked in a breath as the blade pushed a little more firmly into his flesh. Her manner was far too much like Khan’s for his liking. “I tried to tell you in the garden. The problem is that it sounds so crazy. I just don’t know if you will believe me. But I really, really need you to believe me. I’ve come a long way to bring you home.”
The girl stared without giving away her thoughts.
Desperate, Yeats tried another tack. “If I tell you why the people weep, will you come with me?”
Shaharazad took a step backward yet with her sword still raised. “Let us say that I will give more consideration to your words. I will reward you for telling me the truth. Although what that reward shall be remains in my discretion.”
Yeats let his shoulders relax. He took a breath. Although he still felt a long way from accomplishing his goal, keeping her talking was better than having her chop him in half with a scimitar. But the risk! Once she found out about the weeping she might never want to come home.
“Guards will be here any moment,” the girl said quietly. “Tell me the answer to my question. Why do the people weep?”
Yeats thought of Mr. Sutcliff. All these years he had tried to bring his granddaughter home, and now Yeats was faced with answering a question that might seal the girl’s fate forever in the book. And yet, he reasoned, it was Mr. Sutcliff, after all, who said, We cannot claim to have lived life unless we have taken risks. He took strength from the old man’s words and faced the girl again. “The people are weeping because the king of this land is murdering all the young maidens,” he said firmly.
Her eyes widened. Her mouth dropped open.
Yeats continued. “His first wife betrayed him and he is determined to never trust a woman again. He marries a new girl each day and then …”
Shaharazad lowered her sword. Her face was ashen. “The king is killing the young women,” she repeated, stunned. “How many?”
Yeats thought of the wall of white stones he had seen in the town. “I think hundreds.”
Shaharazad squeezed her eyes shut. “And I have not been told.”
“For your own safety. The king has allowed you to live because you are his vizier’s daughter. At least, that is how I heard it.”
She nodded slowly.
Yeats rushed forward and took the scimitar. She did not resist. Instead, she threw herself on the bed, burying her face in the pillows. Yeats stood awkwardly, staring from the sword to the girl. When she did not calm down quickly, he dropped the scimitar on the carpet and sat on the edge of the bed. A silk streamer hung from the canopy and tickled his nose. He blew it off.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m sure this must be very difficult for you.” For a brief moment he was tempted to stroke her beautiful hair. Then he remembered his task. “Shari! Please! We have got to go. You must come with me!”
Her sobbing eased. “Why?” Her voice was muffled by the pillows. “So that I can leave my suffering people? To make certain I do not meet the fate of all the girls my age?”
Yeats punched the bedspread. He was so close.
“There are reasons I can’t explain. Because you won’t believe me.”
“Why would I not believe you?” she said quietly.
Yeats forced himself to take a slow breath. “Do you believe that it is possible to have too much of a good thing?” he asked.
The girl thought. “I suppose. If the good thing could be corrupted.”
Nodding, Yeats answered, “Even reading and books?”
She shook her head. “How could there ever be too much of that?”
He opened his hands like a book. “What if you liked a character or story so much that you imagined yourself inside the book?”
“I have done this many times,” she said.
“Yes! And you are still in a book. You have never left.”
Shaharazad turned her face up to him, scowling. “How can you speak such foolishness?”
“It’s not foolishness! It’s the truth. You are in a story.”
She swung away from the pillows to grip the scruff of his tunic fiercely. “Maidens are dying! And you speak like you have had too much wine!”
He gripped her wrist. “Look at me! Shari Sutcliff, look at my eyes! Do you see lies? Do I look drunk?”
The girl focused. She looked at him deeply. “No,” she whispered. She touched his face. “Why do I know you?”
“Because you know my father.” She slumped and he held her up. “Shari. We have to go. Now!”
The girl had gone strangely silent. Her tears ceased. Gradually she leaned away from him with a look of fixed determination.
Yeats did not let go. “Oh no! No, no, no. You can’t do that.”
Her eyes shifted. “Do what?”
“You can’t marry the king to change his ways. Your grandfather already told me that. We have to get you out of the story now.”
She blinked.
“There!” he exclaimed. “I was right. I can tell by your face. It’s exactly the plan going through your mind.”
Shaharazad turned away. “How did you know?”
“Like I said, you wouldn’t believe me.”
“You are the strangest boy I have ever met. You tell me what no one else would dare to say
and then you read my mind.” She threw a silk pillow across the room. “But what of it? Can you save my people? Can you stop their grief? Who will do it if not me?”
“You are not the vizier’s daughter.”
She wiped at a tear. “So you say.”
“You are not Shaharazad.” Could he pull her out the door?
Their eyes met and this time she read his thoughts. Yeats pushed off the bed. They both ran for the entrance. Yeats got one step ahead and threw himself down to block her. “No!” he gasped.
Shaharazad glared. “Eventually guards will come. I can wait. You, they’ll hang. Although that is not my wish.”
He blanched. “They’ve already tried and failed. You’re coming home with me!”
She smirked. “You are too young to be my suitor.”
“Suitor?”
She sighed. “I am impressed by your affections. You wish to marry me and have come to take me. It is very honorable and you are far more interesting than the older prospects my father has suggested. But this is rather unprecedented. And since you cannot walk out the door with me, past all the guards and through the palace gates, I do not see how you will fulfill your wish.”
Yeats shouted, “You are not Shaharazad! You have been lost in this story for twenty years. You came here with my father, William Trafford! Remember? Remember the boat, the pirates, reading the unexpurgated version?”
Her mouth opened as if to speak and then closed quickly. She turned and walked back to the bed. “You are mad.”
“Don’t you dare call me mad!” He pounded his chest. “I am not crazy. My father is not crazy. And neither was my great-great-grandfather!” The moment the words were out of his mouth he realized just how crazy they sounded.
“Argh!” He threw up his hands. He would have to try a different approach. If he could get her to Mr. Sutcliff, the two of them together might convince her. Provided Mr. Sutcliff was still alive. Without the sword he could throw her over his shoulder. But she was almost his height, although not as heavy. It would be tough if she fought him. He needed Skin and Bones!
Shaharazad watched him thoughtfully. “I am honored that you are fond of me,” she said. “I appreciate your sentiments and can even forgive your rashness—if you do not get in my way.”
He shook his head. “I have to. You think you want to marry the king to save your people. You will be stuck in this book forever unless you come with me. This is my father’s only chance. It’s my family’s only chance. And we are working off one last wish.”
“Why do you keep on about your father?” she asked crossly.
Yeats grabbed a fistful of his hair in exasperation. “I may be here to get you, but I came because of him!” Pushing off from the door, he ran at her. He caught her off guard. She barely managed to roll away. Only the ornate bedspread separated them now.
“Please come here.” He held out his hand across the cover.
“No!”
He jumped onto the spread. Shaharazad ran to the foot of the bed and swung free on the corner post. He raced after her as she rounded the bed again. They stared at each other, catching their breath.
Someone pounded on the door and Yeats’s heart lurched.
“Ha!” Shaharazad triumphed. She also made her first mistake. The sleeve of her nightgown caught on the post and she stumbled. Yeats tackled her.
“Let go!”
“No! You’re coming with me!”
The pounding on the door grew louder.
“Help!” Shaharazad screamed. She punched him.
Yeats seized her wrists, gripping hard. She stopped struggling. Tears welled up. “Ow,” she whimpered.
Yeats was mortified. “Sorry. Sorry! But you punched me.” He sat up. She pushed him hard in the chest and he fell backward. Kicking free, she made for the door before he could recover. A key turned in the latch.
“My lady!” called a familiar voice. Mohassin barreled into the room with two guards. Shaharazad ran to his arms.
“Arrest the traitor!” the cook commanded.
Yeats searched wildly for a window. The door slammed shut. The key turned in the lock. There was nowhere to go.
“What are you doing?” Mohassin spluttered furiously to the guards. “I told you to arrest the boy.”
“If ye be planning to keep yer tongue a while longer,” drawled Bones, “ye’d best keep it between yer teeth.”
Skin doffed his hat to a dumbfounded Yeats. “We’ll make a pirate of ye yet, boy.”
“Hurry!” Bones called.
Yeats felt a wave of relief. “That’s twice you’ve saved me. Thank you. But where is Mr. Sutcliff ?”
Bones pointed. “She comes with us. We meet Sutcliff by the boat. Shake a leg, lad, the courtyard is sprouting guards.”
Mohassin wagged his finger. “You will be caught! I promise you. Shame! Shame on you for risking the life of this great lady.”
Skin glanced at Bones. “Can I cut off his tongue?”
“No time,” answered his partner. “Tie him to the bed. Preferably with his face stuffed in a pillow.” The pirate turned to Yeats. “Tie the girl’s hands and feet.” He squinted at her. “Gag her too. Ye’ll have to convince her near the boat.”
Shaharazad put up a tremendous fight. In the end, Yeats was forced to sit on her while Skin tied her feet.
“Rogues!” she yelled. “Why are you—” She was silenced by the gag.
“Always put the gag on first,” Skin instructed Yeats.
Bones peeked into the corridor. “Guards all over the gardens! This won’t be easy.” For the first time, Yeats saw grim uncertainty in the pirate’s face. “Fact is,” Bones added, “this might be our last stand.”
Shaharazad did her best to unseat Yeats. She arched her shoulders and twisted, knocking him off balance. With her hands still untied she grabbed him. She dug her fingernails into his leg.
“Yeow!”
Shaharazad reached for his neck and found his father’s necklace. She pulled and the leather strap broke. Two objects rolled onto the carpeted floor, inches from the girl’s nose. The silver bell gave a final tinkle before it stopped rolling.
haharazad reached for the bell. Skin made to stop her, but Yeats called, “No! Let her see it.”
The girl lifted the bell and turned it, listening intently to the jingle. Her gaze fell on Yeats, eyes troubled. He removed the gag from her mouth.
Skin stepped away and said, “I’ve seen that look before!”
Shari’s gaze shifted from Yeats to Mohassin, trussed and immobile on the bed. Then she turned her attention to the Persian carpet beneath her and ran her palm along the decorated patterns. She put the bell to her ear again. Confusion filled her face. But it was a different sort of expression than when she had questioned Yeats earlier. This was something deeper, so deep that she could not manage to find her way out of it on her own. She gasped.
Yeats sat up in a hurry and offered his hand. She took it and startled him by bringing her face so close to his own that their noses touched.
“William?” she whispered. He could feel the fear and uncertainty in her grasp. But he could not stop a smile from spreading across his face. The truth was dawning!
“I’m his son. My name is Yeats. And you are Shari.”
Her brows knitted.
“Not Shaharazad?”
“No. You are Shari.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I can’t even imagine what you are feeling right now. But I can tell you that my father, William, was terribly confused as well. He still is, and always will be unless we get you home.”
Her hands shook. “I don’t know what to think.”
Yeats nodded. He forced himself to speak slowly, purposefully. “Will you trust me? It is dangerous for us here.”
She studied his face. “You’re not William. Although I can see him in you. Your eyes! How is that?”
Still keeping his voice controlled and very aware of the pirates’ impatient tapping swords, Yeats said, “There is so much to tell
you that it would take a week to catch you up. I wish my father were here. I’m so proud of him. He knew the necklace was important. And it was the key to everything!” He stopped and looked at the door. “Your grandfather is here too. Do you remember him?”
She stifled a cry. “Yes, I do, I do. Where is he?”
“All right, lad,” Bones interrupted. “Now’s the time—if ye plan on leaving.”
Yeats nodded. “Come with me … please.”
The girl shivered. “My name is Shari. Shari Sutcliff.”
“Yes, it is,” Yeats affirmed.
She surveyed the luxurious room. “But I have lived here for so long,” she murmured.
“You have been in a story,” Yeats said gently.
“And will continue to be if we don’t weigh anchor!” grumbled Skin.
“Come on,” Yeats said and tugged at her sleeve.
Shari nodded and then froze when she saw poor Mohassin. “Don’t hurt him,” she said to the pirates. “He risked his life to save me. Other than my grandfather I’ve never met a more noble man.”
Bones shook his head. “Not a scratch.” Skin fingered his knife but grumbled in agreement. “We’d best be off,” Bones added.
“Must we go so quickly?” Shari said. “I feel like I’ve just woken up from such a sleep. I need to think.”
Catching her hand, Yeats said, “Please, we’ve got to go. We have to find your grandfather. And my father—William—is waiting.”
“I will go with you,” she said. “I must see my grandfather. I trust William … and I trust you too.”
Yeats grinned.
Then she added, “But give me one moment.” She walked to the bed and leaned toward the old man. “Mohassin,” she said softly. “I will go with these rogues so that no further harm is done. Be at peace! I will be quite safe. And so will the people. Shaharazad will save her people yet!” She winked at Yeats.
As Yeats made for the door, Shari held him back. “Is William really there, beyond that door?”
“No,” he said. “He’s at the end of the journey. If we make it.”
“I’d like to see him,” she added. “I feel like I’m caught between waking and sleeping and can’t decide which one is real.”