The Strange Round Bird: Or the Poet, the King, and the Mysterious Men in Black

by Eden Unger Bowditch

  “Lucy,” Faye said gently, “we do not want to keep going in circles. We must find Katuum EtHabib.”

  “Ah, Katuum EtHabib?” said a crackling voice from behind.

  The children turned to find a small man, not much taller than Lucy, who was bent, with a large, gnarled walking stick in his hand. He had three bound books hanging from his arm by a rope. He smiled and nodded. “Katuum EtHabib?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jasper. “We do need to find Katuum EtHabib.”

  “Kidda,” said the man, indicating the direction from which they had just come.

  “Kidda means ‘like this,’” said Lucy. To this man she pointed and asked, “Kidda?”

  The man laughed and nodded. The children went the way he said.

  “The Khan il Khalili is Cairo’s most ancient market,” said Lucy. “It’s been busy since the late 14th century. I read that in a book.”

  “And it looks like most of these shops have not had a good dusting since then,” Faye said as they passed one shop with a particularly thick layer of dust in its window. She could not see the title of any of its books, nor a proprietor. It seemed as if someone, hundreds of years ago, had simply gone for tea and never returned.

  They arrived at a small shop that was certainly the cleanest. Inside, the walls were covered with beautiful paintings and sketches. The young man who held the feather duster refused to say a thing. He stood near the entrance, neither blocking their way nor inviting them in. He looked surprised, as if no one had ever entered before and he simply did not know what to do now that people had.

  “The name of this shop. Is it Katuum EtHabib?” asked Noah for the third time.

  The young man still did not respond.

  “But this is where we were sent,” insisted Faye. “Is this shop Katuum EtHabib?”

  “No,” came a voice from the stacks of books. “I am.”

  Out from behind a bookcase stepped a man seemingly from a different century. Clearly his face had once been quite pale before bits of sun reddened his cheeks. His gold pince-nez was perched on his nose. He was not very tall but was very thin. His hair was grayish. There were creases in the corners of his eyes where years of smiles had made their mark.

  The man wore a traditional robe, a galabaya of pale blue. On his feet were shib-shib (slippers) and his bare ankles showed just below the hem of his robes. In his hand he held a copy of The Lost Library of Alexandria by Sir Edward Romer, GCMG, Royal Librarian. This was their man. He would guide them to Sir Edward.

  “You speak English,” cried Faye in relief.

  “Well, I ought to,” said Katuum EtHabib. “I taught it for fifteen years at Oxford. Of course, I taught French, too, and I did live in Paris when I was young.”

  “And you have his book!” Lucy cried.

  “Mr. EtHabib.” Faye did think this was an odd name for an Englishman, but she kept that to herself. “Do you know Sir Edward Romer?”

  “Yes.” He smiled.

  “Would you know where to find him?” asked Jasper.

  “Indeed.” He peered at them above his pince-nez, and, with a slight bow, said, “At your service.”

  “You are Sir Edward?” Jasper looked at the other children, who were equally surprised.

  “I am one and the same,” said Sir Edward.

  “But you said you were—”

  “The ‘lover of books.’ Yes, katuum et habib. I’ve been called that since my early days here, studying the pieces of art and manuscripts said to be saved from the burning library in ancient Alexandria.” The librarian wiped the book in his hand with the edge of his galabaya and replaced it, lovingly, on a shelf. “How can I help you?”

  Sir Edward motioned for the children to sit. He had his assistant bring out an extra chair and offered a large cushion as a seat for Jasper. Lucy squeezed in next to her brother as he sunk into the pillow. Noah did not want to sit on the box of books he was offered. Instead, he stood.

  “Sir Edward, we’ve come to ask about Ariana Canto-Sagas,” said Faye.

  Before she could say another word, a great smile spread over Sir Edward’s face. “Ariana Canto. What a marvelous child.”

  “You knew my mother when she was a child?” asked Noah, sitting down on the box in surprise.

  “Your mother? Well, of course, I can see her in your ginger hair, though hers is darker, more auburn. And the blush of your cheeks. You are the son she spoke of. Yes. Your mother, how lovely.” Sir Edward smiled at Noah. Then he seemed to look around, gazing past the children. He waved. Following his wave, the children saw two of the brothers quickly slide deeper into the crowds. “Of course.” But the children could not see anyone waving back.

  “You knew her?” Noah said softly, not noticing Sir Edward’s distraction. Ariana did have Egyptian relatives. Perhaps she had been visiting them.

  “Yes, I knew her many years ago. I have not seen her since she was, well, not much older than you“—he nodded to Faye—”but I was so pleased to hear she would be coming to Cairo. How splendid, the opera. Dear me, I remember when she would come to my bookshop. She was a young girl then. She’d come on her own or with a couple of young friends. She visited regularly for about a month. Perhaps they were all on a family holiday.

  “I found it remarkable that a young lady would be interested in books instead of the lovely silks and ornaments. We corresponded over the years, always about poetry. She was very interested in translations and often brought me poems. When she was a girl, she learned to read the Arabic script. Her great-grandmother was an Egyptian queen, I believe, and Ariana’s grandmother had taught Ariana some letters so she could read stories in Arabic.”

  “Poems?” Noah asked. “She wanted you to translate poems?”

  “Yes, in particular poems from ancient Persia, poems by the poet Muhabi.” Sir Edward disappeared behind his shelves, searching. He brought out a book that sent the children clambering to see it.

  Sir Edward adjusted his glasses. “You see, I read Arabic but I am not as deft in Persian. It is the same alphabet, but a different language. I can translate, but I am slow.”

  Noah pulled from his pocket his mother’s diary. The two pieces of scented parchment were folded back among the pages. “Is this poem in Persian? It seems my mother got it partially translated.” He passed the pages to Sir Edward.

  “Let’s see…hmmm…she was making progress…‘faith/trust,’ ‘small/less/fewer’ or ‘fear/worry’…I see she did not understand this word, circled here, meaning ‘eternal.’”

  “She was translating it?” asked Noah.

  “Well.” Sir Edward seemed to be reaching in his mind. “Hmmm, familiar…I remember a part of…let me see…They stand together/ their will and faith the only wall/the double devil lurking ever near/ the world around them/never knowing that it leans/upon their black sleeves.’”

  “Yes, yes, that’s a poem fragment she had in her satchel.” Noah wanted this to lead somewhere.

  “It’s an odd piece,” said Sir Edward. “I never understood what it meant, really. I suppose it is some religious observation. Or a metaphor for—”

  “What about the book?” asked Noah.

  “Book?” Sir Edward asked.

  “You see, here she wrote, ‘Ask Sir E about the book,’ and we have assumed that ‘Sir E’ is you.” Faye showed him the note.

  “Yes, I assume it must be me,” he said. “How lovely. I am looking forward to seeing her, though she has fallen ill, yes? I was so disappointed not to hear her sing.”

  “You were there?” asked Noah.

  “Yes, I was,” said Sir Edward, shaking his head. “I was disappointed. Is she feeling better?”

  “She’s been taken,” blurted Noah. “She’s missing and in danger. We need to find her.”

  “This is terrible news,” said Sir Edward, clearly shaken. “Who has taken her? Where did they take her? Does this…but how can it have anything to do with these poems?”

  “We do not know,” said Noah, “but this is our only c
onnection, our single clue to what she was doing and what might have happened. We didn’t find a book with her. Did she contact you when she arrived? What is ‘the book’?”

  Sir Edward shook his head. “Well, unfortunately, I did not see her, though I did receive the telegram.”

  “Telegram?” This was news to Noah.

  “Yes,” said the librarian. “I was so pleased, indeed. That’s how I knew it was you.”

  “Me? What did it say?” asked Noah.

  Sir Edward shuffled through his pockets and on his desk. “I have it here somewhere.”

  “Did she say anything important?” asked Wallace.

  “She said she’d be coming to Cairo. She said she’d be performing at the Opera House and that she had reserved a special seat for me,” said Sir Edward, blushing. “And she did ask about the book. I think she said ‘I need to peruse the book to help my son.’ Something like that.

  “Help her son?”

  “Something like that,” said Sir Edward, “or perhaps ‘to protect my son’ or maybe ‘tell my son.’ I’m sorry I don’t remember.”

  “What did she mean? How…what…what poem?” Noah was completely confused.

  Sir Edward tapped his forehead. “The problem is that I wasn’t sure if she meant the book of Muhabi I have in my collection or my own book on Alexandria’s great library. You see, I came to Egypt fifty years ago. I was fairly young then, and full of hope and excitement. I had studied art extensively at Cambridge but received a doctorate in literature, in particular French literature of the 16th century, and the works of ancient Greece and Rome. I had recently been titled by Her Majesty and given the position of Royal Librarian.

  “I was then commissioned to write the book on the library of Alexandria. Imagine my pleasure. The Queen, Her Royal Highness Victoria, met with me herself. We had tea and lovely biscuits and… and, well, it was an afternoon I shall never forget. She sent me here to investigate the ancient stacks and put together the most thorough review yet made of any remaining writings.”

  “From the lost library?” said Lucy, excited. “You found the missing library?”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly find it, my dear. I fear it was lost long ago. But I did find some things I believe are from it. Very exciting. In truth, on my visit to Alexandria, I found something of a jumble of bits and bobs. There were quite a few remnants, unreadable, damaged, and irreparable. But there were fabulous things as well. Some of what I found, however, had nothing to do with the Great Library. In fact, among the parchments, scrolls, and books left for me to peruse was a very particular item of great interest to me. You see, it was from an era much later than the library of Alexandria. It was a book, a volume, from the 16th century.

  “It was handwritten in both Persian and old Turkish. At the time, I put it aside since I could see immediately that it did not belong. When I finished my translations, I was told that more parchment would be available to see in Cairo. When I asked about the book, no one claimed to know where it was from. It had been donated, they supposed, and there was no interest in it among the local Greek scholars. They offered it to me as a gift, if you can imagine! I took this remarkable book with me on the train.

  “When I began to translate it, I could see it was of great historic merit. It was a book written by Muhabi, known as the king of poets of the age.”

  “Oh, Miss Brett loves poetry,” said Lucy. “She’s our teacher and she reads us poems and stories.”

  “That is an important and wonderful thing,” said Sir Edward, clearly pleased. “Perhaps she would enjoy reading Muhabi. As I said, he was truly the king, rather the emperor, or perhaps sultan, of poets. When I saw the parchment, I knew my guess about the era was correct. It was indeed from the 16th century. I recognized the turgha of Suleiman immediately, inscribed among the first pages.”

  “We know that turgha symbol,” said Lucy. “It is lovely and swirly, indeed.”

  Sir Edward beamed at the little girl. “So I knew, from the turgha, that it must be Muhabi. I was able to translate some of the work he wrote in French and Latin.”

  “He wrote in French?” asked Jasper.

  “He did, and Latin, Arabic and, though you may find it odd, in Maltese, too” said Sir Edward, who opened his mouth to say something else but Lucy jumped up and squealed.

  “Oh, how lovely. Maltese!” she cried. “Et aussi le français!”

  “Bien sur, ma petite mignonne,” said Sir Edward in what sounded to the children to be perfect French.

  Jasper, Faye, Noah, and Wallace exchanged looks of interest. Maltese? Did the poet, Muhabi, have something to do with the mysterious men in black?

  “Well, isn’t that lovely?” said Sir Edward, smiling as he continued searching through his shelves. “They are still teaching French in English schools. And they seem to be doing a good job of it.”

  “Oh, no, Sir Edward,” Lucy said. “We’ve learned French from our mother, Dr. Isobel Modest.”

  “Isobel Modest?” Sir Edward peered at Lucy over his glasses. “Ariana had a friend named Isobel, une française, but not Isobel Modest.”

  “No, it could not have been the same Isobel,” said Noah. “My mother must have come on holiday with her family back then. She only met the Modest family after she was an adult.”

  “Well, your mother had a lovely voice, even as a young lady.” Sir Edward continued to shuffle through the books, searching.

  Noah smiled. He was not surprised that his mother had always been remarkable. “And she asked about a book. Any idea which one it might be? Could it have been the book you found in Alexandria?”

  To peruse his lower shelves, the librarian had to bend down onto the dusty floor. “The book, yes, it would likely be that book, the Muhabi. It was the book she often wanted to see. She came to me originally because of my book on the Great Library. I remember she had a scroll that I authenticated. I was so surprised to find such a treasure in the hands of a young lady.

  “She told me that her hosts had an extensive library and this was among its works. When I showed her the work of Muhabi, she became something of a fixture here in the shop. She’d come and visit the Khan il Khalili whenever I was here and she would come to my shop in Giza whenever I was there.”

  “You have a shop in Giza?” asked Faye, leaning over to speak to the kneeling librarian.

  “Yes,” he said, standing and dusting off his knees, “and I fear that the book must be there. Now that I think of it, my little niece Pamina helped me transport some of my books to Giza. Like me, little Pamina is an avid reader and a lover of books. We were selecting choices for Ethel and Hugh Locke King, who own the Mena House. The formidable Locke Kings are planning a soirée, and when Ethel and Hugh are in town, they always want new books for their libraries. Or, rather, they always want very old books.”

  Here he once again dug through his pockets, pulling from one of them a rather wrinkled but beautiful linen envelope. He opened it and showed the children. “And I know that your mother is being celebrated since the invitation is to ‘raise a glass to the voice of angels and drink to the platinum’ or something like that. Of course, I knew it was Ariana.”

  Noah tried to imagine his mother, here in this shop. “What was she like?” he asked quietly.

  “Pardon?” Sir Edward came down from his reverie. “Ah, yes, your mother was as beautiful as a sunrise. She had a voice that made your heart stop.”

  Both Noah and Sir Edward stood for a moment, each thinking of Ariana. “She hasn’t changed, then,” Noah said.

  “I imagine not,” said Sir Edward, “considering her fame and adoration. And she was not merely talented, but brilliant. Absolutely could twist numbers to her will and—”

  “Lovely,” interrupted Faye, gently, “but we must know whatever we can that will help us figure out where she’s been taken.”

  “Of course,” said Sir Edward, “of course. But if it is the book, you will need to come to my shop in Giza. I’m sorry, but that is where the book is now.”r />
  “Giza?” Wallace pushed his glasses up onto his nose. “By the Pyramids?”

  “Quite,” said Sir Edward. “Quite near, in fact.”

  “And it is near the Mena House?” said Noah.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Sir Edward. “Merely paces down the road from the entrance.”

  At the castle, Wallace was feeling anxious as he waited for Noah to come back from checking on his father. He looked up when Noah came in the room.

  “They wouldn’t let me in the room,” said Noah, clearly unhappy. “He’s finally breathing better and they didn’t want him disturbed.”

  “Was Miss Brett there?” asked Wallace.

  “She was inside the room, by his side.” Noah had looked through the crack in the door.

  “Noah,” Wallace adjusted the glasses on his nose, “about this journey to Giza.”

  “It would take hours,” Wallace said, wiping his glasses as Noah again packed things into his leather satchel. “A horse cannot go much faster than four kilometres an hour through the busy streets. Giza is well over 20 kilometres from here.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Bell knows a short cut,” said Noah, distracted, checking to see if he was missing anything.

  “But still, it’s far.” Wallace put his glasses back on. “You shouldn’t go alone.”

  Noah looked up at the bespectacled boy. Wallace looked truly worried. Noah put a hand on his shoulder. “It will be alright, Wallace.”

  “Do you really need to go all the way to Giza? To the Mena House?” Wallace’s voice cracked. He turned his lucky coin over and over in his pocket.

  “It’s where her things are and it’s where Sir Edward’s book is,” said Noah, looking for the map of Cairo that he pulled from a small table in the reception room.

  “Look, while Noah is in Giza, we can seek more information here.” Faye looked at Jasper, who nodded. “We still do not know if the answer is with the poet. Or King Suleiman. Or someone else.”

  Faye and Jasper had spoken earlier, away from the others. If Noah’s mother was an innocent victim, she could offer no clues about her own disappearance. Faye wanted to give up looking through Ariana’s things. Faye wanted to concentrate on Komar Romak and where he had taken Ariana.