Shadow Spinner

by Susan Fletcher

  I was about to tell her that in fact, they were far too much. These dinars would draw attention to me, draw suspicion to me. Copper fils would be better, with maybe a silver dirham or two. But before I had a chance to say it, she dropped two more dinars into my hands, saying, “Better too many than too few.”

  A loud knock at the door; I jumped.

  “Hurry!” Shahrazad whispered. “Get in!” She pushed me gently toward the chest.

  I thrust the coins into the folds of my sash. Quickly, I climbed inside and put on the sandals. I couldn’t straighten my legs. But when I bent them, lying on my back, and put my feet against the end wall of the chest, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Shahrazad tucked a pillow between my head and the wall of the chest and covered me up to my neck with a narrow carpet. “So no one can peer through the holes and see you,” she said softly. She lowered the lid, then lifted it again—just a crack—and I was staring up into her eyes.

  “Thank you, Marjan,” she said.

  Knocking again. The lid came down, and I heard the metallic clinking of a key in the lock of the trunk.

  A wild rush of panic surged up inside me, and for a moment, it was hard to breathe. I resisted the urge to call out, to push at the lid.

  And then I remembered a story I had heard about a boy who was imprisoned in a copper bottle by magic. He calmed his fears by imagining he was a silkworm in its cocoon. So I imagined that I was a silkworm, too—safe and snug in my own cozy home. No one could see me here. No one could harm me. I gulped down a deep breath—it smelled of sandalwood—and felt my panic ebb.

  It was dark in the chest, though not completely. Light trickled through the cluster of holes in the lid.

  I could hear low, muffled voices. The barest hint of Shahrazad’s perfume lingered in the sandalwood-smelling air. Then there were footfalls, coming this way.

  I braced myself, pushing my head against one end, my feet against the other, my hands on either side. “The important thing is that you don’t move,” Shahrazad had said the day before when she had explained the plan. I had asked her if the bearers wouldn’t know, from the weight of me, that someone was in the chest. She told me that the chest itself was so heavy, they wouldn’t know the difference. And she told me not to stir.

  All at once, the chest was hefted into the air with little jerks and sways and lurches. I heard the sounds of fabric rubbing against wood, and labored breathing, and soft bumps as the chest hit against something. Someone’s leg. It would have to be a eunuch’s. None of the harem women would be strong enough to carry the chest, and tradesmen would never come inside Shahrazad’s rooms. In my mind, I pictured the young eunuch, the one who had smiled at me. Might he be one of the bearers? Might he be the one who knew?

  Now we were going down, though the chest was level, not tipping. They must be walking side by side down the stairs. Then the sound of splashing water: the courtyard.

  Soon, I lost track of where we were. There were too many ups and downs, too many turnings this way and that. It had grown hot inside the chest. Before long I heard a loud creaking noise—a gate, I thought—and then the sounds of the street rushed in. Shoutings. Cart rumblings. Cloppings of hooves on stone. Beyond the fragrance of sandalwood, I could smell the street—sweat and animal fur and manure. All at once, my feet lurched upward and my head pressed hard against the pillow. The bottom of the chest was scraping against something—a cart? A shrill, rasping noise. A clunk. For a moment, all was still.

  Then we were moving again—a different kind of moving. Something rumbled beneath me—it must be a cart—with quakes and jostles, sudden sharp jolts. I was very hot now. A bead of sweat trickled off my forehead into my hair.

  I tried at first to imagine where we were going, which streets we were on, but before long I was thoroughly confused. And I didn’t know where the shop was that they were smuggling me to.

  Smuggling. Like the outlaw who smuggled girls out of the city so that they wouldn’t become brides of the Sultan. Abu Muslem was what they called him; nobody knew his real name. My mother had spoken of him, but she hadn’t done anything about it. If she had done the right thing, I would have been safe and whole.

  At last, the cart stopped. I heard that same shrill rasp—the back gate hinge of the cart, I guessed. I braced myself. The chest dropped suddenly—I heard the grunt of an exhaled breath—then I was carried for a short distance and set down upon something solid and flat.

  Footsteps, moving away. The sound of a door shutting.

  Then nothing. I could hear street sounds, but they were muffled, faraway sounding.

  I waited.

  Hot. Sweat streamed off my face into my hair. My back was soaked.

  Was this the cabinetmaker’s shop?

  Little light seeped in through the holes in the chest lid, so I must be in a shaded place. I breathed in deep, trying to see if I could smell this place, and I thought I caught a whiff of varnish.

  Suddenly, I heard footfalls. There was the clinking of the key in the lock, and then footfalls again. Running away.

  Shahrazad had told me that someone would come to unlock the chest at the cabinetmaker’s shop. But she had said that they would help me out of the chest, that they would point me in the direction of the bazaar.

  I waited awhile longer. All quiet.

  Why didn’t someone open the lid?

  Was it safe to get out?

  Still quiet.

  At last, I could bear it no longer. I pushed back the carpet and slowly lifted the lid of the chest. Just a crack. I could see a clutter of trunks and chests and cabinets and tables. Beyond, hanging on the wall, I could make out the shapes of woodworking tools.

  No one there.

  I opened the lid and clambered out, pulling my veil over my head and holding it securely under my chin. My legs felt stiff and a little bit numb. My bad foot ached. I stretched out, looking over the rest of the room—a small, dark room with heavy drapes drawn across the windows. The door had been left ajar.

  Still no one. Why was there no one here?

  All at once it struck me that no one had spoken on my whole journey here in the chest. The bearers in the harem had not spoken, and the cart driver had not spoken, and again, since I had arrived here at the cabinetmakers, I had heard not a single voice. People would speak when they shared a task. They would say, “I’ll go first,” or “I’ll take up the rear.” They would comment on the heaviness or the lightness of the chest, or they would greet someone working nearby.

  They didn’t want me to hear them. They didn’t want me to see them. They didn’t want me to know who they were. No one wanted to be connected with any secret goings-on at the harem. You could die for that, if you were on the wrong side. And going against the Khatun . . . put you on the wrong side.

  I shook off the thought. What was important was finding the storyteller. I had to find him. Today. Otherwise, Shahrazad would die.

  I crept to the door and peered out into the brightness. A courtyard. Empty, save for the cart and one lonely palm tree in a patch of dirt near the wall. The gate leading to the street was ajar.

  I moved to the tree, scooped out some dirt in one hand and rubbed it into the splendid slubbed silk. There. Now it didn’t look quite so fine.

  I walked briskly to the gate and let myself out.

  Chapter 9

  The Bazaar

  LESSONS FOR LIFE AND STORYTELLING

  There are many schools of thought on how to pick a ripe melon. The thumpers give a sharp rap and listen for a hollow sound. The sniffers claim they can nose out a ripe melon by smell. The gazers judge by color—a yellow hue beneath the fine, pale netting on the skin of the fruit. (But this only works for muskmelons.)

  My auntie Chava taught me to inspect the scar at the stem end. If it is well callused and sunken just enough, the melon will be good and sweet.

  I came out in a deserted, narrow alley, lined with walls and doors. A little way to my left, the alley ended in a stone wall. To my right, some distance away, I co
uld see a street—a busy street—cutting across the alley. I memorized the look of the wooden door to the cabinetmaker’s courtyard—how it nestled in the arch of the wall, how its white paint had begun to peel at one corner. It was the third door from the end of the alley. I could remember that.

  I made my way to the street and put memory to use again, fixing the intersection in my mind—the green door on one wall, the metal grillwork of a high window across the street.

  The crowd flowed in a great, strong river to the left, with only a few trickles moving right. So I went left, too. I didn’t recognize this place, but I knew that most people would be going toward the bazaar. I threaded my way among pack mules and merchants, through groups of women carrying bundles on their heads, between a band of musicians and some important dignitary being carried on a litter. Soon, not far ahead, I could see the high, open-sided domes of the bazaar.

  The bazaar was huge, and I knew my way about only parts of it, and not the part where I had seen the blind storyteller. He had been near the carpet bazaar—but where? I tried to picture the fountain—the one I had told Dunyazad about. There weren’t many fountains in the bazaar. It shouldn’t be hard to find.

  I headed through the narrow shop-lined streets toward the carpet bazaar. It was not far from the food stalls, I remembered. I knew that place well, for I had gone there many times to shop with Auntie Chava.

  I cut through the crowd—ducking this way to avoid a swinging elbow, darting that way to dodge a heavy boot, slipping into short-lived pockets of space as they opened up in the throng before me.

  Light and dark washed over me as I moved through patches of hot sunlight into cool, welcome stretches of shade—a domed arcade, a stone arch that spanned the street, wide canopies jutting out from the shops, a roof of hanging shawls strung overhead from one side of the street to the other.

  And everywhere there was noise—merchants crying their wares; street musicians playing horns and lutes and drums; mule drivers cursing; women haggling; caged birds screeching; brass workers’ mallets pinging and clanging and bonging. Smells drifted past: sawdust, perfume, leather, dye, feathers, manure—all mingled with the ever-present odor of sweat.

  Now, just ahead, I could see the food stalls: the fruit sellers, the spice sellers, the grain sellers. I pushed through the crowd of women—women thumping melons, women squeezing eggplants, women inspecting pomegranates for bugs. I moved past buckets of fresh fish, baskets of cheese, heaped mounds of spices in rough hempen bags. I breathed in the familiar smells of this place: ripe fruit and briny olives. Raw fish and pungent cheeses. Cinnamon and cumin, jasmine and myrtle, saffron and cloves.

  Every other time I had been here, I had been with Auntie Chava. The smells nearly conjured her up.

  I glanced about me, feeling a sudden, sharp surge of hope. Just to see her . . .

  Searching, I moved through the crowd. I looked for her face; I watched the swaying movement of long veils and robes for her walk; I listened through the clamor for her voice—complaining that the quinces were bruised or the price of dates disgraceful. I would know Auntie Chava. I knew her by heart.

  She wasn’t there.

  At last I stopped, let the river of people wash past. An emptiness opened up inside me. I knew it wouldn’t have been good to see her. She would be worried to find me here, outside of the harem—and beside herself when she found out what I was up to. But still. . .

  Now, beyond the baskets of lentils and shelled almonds, I could see carpets. A whole row of them, hanging on a line strung above the street from one side of the domed arcade to the other.

  I moved into the carpet bazaar, peering into every stall and staring at the beggars who sat against the walls. My bad foot clunked against something hard—a wooden loom. The carpet weaver yelled out a curse, ceased her knotting, and shooed me away. I hobbled down the street; my foot hurt. Worse, this didn’t seem quite like the right place. The street was too narrow. There had been a crowd gathered around the storyteller, but here there was no room for that.

  At last, through a gap in the mass of bodies before me, I glimpsed a high spurt of water glinting in the sun.

  A fountain.

  I pressed through the throng, faster now, until I came to a wide, open place where two streets crossed. And there, like an island in the middle of the moving river of people, was another crowd. A still crowd, in front of the fountain.

  Listening to a story?

  I wriggled between the bodies until I could see what they were watching . . .

  My heart sank.

  It was a man with a performing monkey.

  I looked past him, at the fountain. Water splashed down into a blue-and-gold-tiled basin. It was the same fountain—I was almost certain.

  So where was the storyteller?

  Panic bubbled up within me; I pushed it down. This didn’t mean he wasn’t here, I told myself. Maybe there was another fountain in the carpet bazaar. Or maybe he had moved to a different place. It had been a long time ago, after all. I had been lost, after all.

  I squeezed backward through the crowd, then stumbled through the carpet bazaar, searching. The sharp pain in my foot had eased, but now it ached with every step. Here was another place where the street widened. But no fountain. No still crowd of listeners. Then, to my left, I saw a flight of stone steps, leading down. And I remembered: There was more of the carpet bazaar below.

  I hobbled down the steps, jostling against shoppers, trying to keep my balance, then moved through the cool, dark lower part of the bazaar, through yellow scraps of light where the sun streamed in through holes in the vaulted ceiling.

  Nothing. No fountain. No storyteller.

  The panic was pushing up again.

  Stairs. More stairs.

  Hobbling up again, past lacy, wooden screens and men who worked lathes with their feet. I rounded a corner into the leather bazaar with its revolting stench of animal skins and the blistering reek of the tanning vats.

  And always I looked for the blind storyteller. I saw fortunetellers and snake charmers and water sellers and lute players. Once, my heart leaped into my throat as I heard the thread of a story, saw a crowd standing around a seated man. But I knew as soon as I saw his face that he was not my storyteller.

  At last, hot and sweaty, I found myself back among the food stalls. My bad foot ached and throbbed. The inner side of my big toe burned where it pressed my sandal straps against the ground, and the whole bottom half of my leg had seized in a cramp. I leaned against a wall and massaged my leg. The day had grown hot, and flies swarmed in great buzzing clouds about the food. About me. The thick commingled reeks of spoiling fruit and overripe cheeses and animal droppings made my stomach roil. My mouth was parched. I looked longingly at the water seller, squirting thin, cool jets of water into the brass cups that dangled from the harness on his chest. But the only money I had was the gold dinars Shahrazad had given me. And gold was too dear for a cup of water. People would stare and become suspicious. I’d be a target for thieves.

  As much as I admired Shahrazad, I began to see that she knew little of the world outside of the harem. To make a mistake like that . . . And now I felt uneasy about this plan. A plan for the outside world, made by two people who had never seen it. All hinging on this storyteller, a man I had seen but once, years ago. Who might have moved to another city by now. Who might have died.

  If only Auntie Chava were here! She knew the whole bazaar as well as her own front courtyard; she would know how to find the storyteller.

  But . . . I could go to her. I could ask her where the blind storyteller had been. And then I could see her. Could talk to her.

  I imagined what it would be like to go home. How happy Auntie Chava would be to see me. Old Mordecai would open the courtyard gates and she would look up from her work, then she would run to me, and—

  What was that?

  I started up out of my daydream. A crimson robe, like most of the harem eunuchs wore. Two of them.

  I crouched dow
n, watched them pass. Their faces were blocked; I couldn’t tell who they were. But I knew they came from the harem.

  Were they looking for me?

  And I knew it then, that I couldn’t go to Auntie Chava. It would be dangerous for her to know what I was doing. Because if the Khatun had discovered that I was gone, she would send her men to Auntie Chavas home and have it searched. They would question Auntie Chava. They might already have gone there. And someone would wait there . . . for me.

  I pressed myself back against the wall, the panic rising in a thick, choking wave inside me. The storyteller was gone! How could I have imagined he would still be here after all these years? I had been foolish even to think it!

  I would never get that story, and Shahrazad would have to tell the Sultan that she had lied, and then . . .

  Then she would die. The Sultan would marry the copper-haired girl who told stories worse than a donkey, and then more women would die. And the city would go back to the way it had been, with unmarried girls living in terror for their lives, and their fathers and brothers threatening rebellion.

  But right now I didn’t care about that. Right now I cared only about Shahrazad.

  “Move aside, girl. Move aside.”

  I stumbled out of the way of a short, hunched woman, who unrolled a small rug and sat down upon it. The fortuneteller. I remembered her from when I used to come here with Auntie Chava. This was her spot. The woman fanned a deck of cards and called out for people to have their fortunes told.