Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger (14 page)

Sinbad sighed again. Would there ever be enough time to see it all, he wondered. The temples of Ishtar, the mother goddess? The vast temple of Zeus? Would there be time to travel to the Oracle at Delphi and speak the question that he secretly held in his heart? Would he see Troy, the city that many said did not exist, but where mighty heroes had fought?

The sea stirred.

A freshening wind came before the dawn, flapping at the bright sails.

And the sea stirred.

Was the story of Gilgamesh true? A man who had lived so long, a great warrior who fought beasts with his bare hands and outlived his grandchildren? Would he see the piles of skulls that warned the travelers from Cathay?

Lamplight reflected off the polished surface of a brass-topped table. Inscribed in the metal was an outline map of the waters beyond the Pillars of Hercules, where most ships feared to go. The waters were etched in wavy lines, and here and there, fearsome dragon heads loomed from the lines, an indication of unknown, but suspected, terrors.

On the shiny surface was the brass replica of a ship and on it rested the fingertips of Zenobia and Rafi. They were concentrating fiercely, their eyes closed, their breathing shallow and ragged. The tiny replica was more of a marker than a model and it drifted one way, then another, under the guided lingers of mother and son.

Then the ship came to rest.

Zenobia’s eyes popped open. Her head tipped down and she stared at the spot on the map. Rafi opened his eyes and his lips parted in eagerness.

“We must be within sight of Sinbad’s ship,” Zenobia whispered fiercely. Her eyes came up like a hawk’s, peering across the dimly lit cabin into those of her son’s. “Go and see, Rafi.”

He rose and opened a carved door. There was a sudden flare of daylight into the dark cabin and Zenobia winced. She crossed to a low divan, covered with a rich red fabric, and lay down against a mass of cushions covered in damask and silk.

Rafi came out of the passage to the main cabin and his booted feet rang on the metal deck. Droplets of spume from the waves dotted the shiny surface in a million tiny jewels. The long brass oars cut through the sea in an uncannily steady rhythm. Rafi barely glanced at the huge Minaton that effortlessly powered the boat with his threshing arms. Zenobia’s son climbed to the poop deck and studied the horizon. He frowned, stared intently at a part of the horizon, then continued to search for several moments.

Biting at his lip, Rafi recrossed the poop deck, went quickly down the ladder, passed the pumping metal Minaton, and returned to his mother’s cabin.

Zenobia was lying on the low divan, completely at ease, staring up at the designs on the luxurious cabin’s roof, where artisans had hammered intricate decorations into the metal panels. In her fingers, absently fondled, was a tiny crystal locket that hung from a fine gold chain around her throat. Rafi’s eyes went to the double locket and he found the words did not come easily.

Zenobia frowned, still not raising her head to look at her son. For a moment there was only the sound of the oars and the passage of water along the sleek metal hull.

“No sign of a sail?” she asked at last, impatient at Rafi’s silence.

He cleared his throat. “Um, a moment ago, I thought I saw a ship ahead on the far horizon . . . but I cannot be certain.”

Zenobia did not move or speak. Then, in a gesture that made her son jerk in surprise, she snapped the gold chain. Holding the crystal she studied it closely. Within it was a liquid, the color of blood. “We must be certain,” she whispered.

Rafi stepped back in fear, raising his hand toward his mother. “But . . . not . . . not . . .”

Zenobia sat up in a smooth, sudden movement. Her slanted eyes darted to her son, pinning him against the polished panels of the cabin’s bulkhead. “We must,” she said harshly. She looked again at the locket. “I must . . .”

Rafi’s voice was choked. “Too dangerous . . .”

Zenobia pinned him again with her penetrating eyes. “And too dangerous
not
to!” Her lips thinned to a harsh line. “The Greek is old, but cunning. I
must
know what he means to do. I must see the scrolls.”

Rafi started to protest, but she held up the locket, the broken chain dangling. “This is the surest way,” she said, almost to herself. “It was powerful enough to charm Kassim. It will work for me.” Again her son started to protest but her hand came up, palm out, and stifled his objections.

“No argument, Rafi! I have decided.” Her voice changed and she seemed to be speaking to herself. “Should the Greek’s plan succeed, and Sinbad leads Kassim back to Charak in triumph, what becomes of us . . .?” Her feline eyes swung again to Rafi and he squirmed under her stare. “You know the answer. They would burn us both and feed our bodies to the vultures.”

Zenobia stood up, her long gown falling smoothly to the metal deck. “I must
see
the scrolls,” she insisted. “I must be
first
to the Shrine.” She held up the locket and the scarlet contents sloshed within. “This is the last of the secret potion left to me. The old alchemist of Alexandria swore that it was made from elements brought many years ago from the shores of Hyperborea.” She stared almost hatefully at the locket. “I have never been able to reproduce it. No amount of gold has ever been able to buy more.” She clutched the locket in her fist. “Perhaps in Hyperborea . . .”

Her hand opened and she stared at the locket intensely. “The only way . . .” She took a deep breath and her entire manner changed. The sorceress had made up her mind and now knew what to do. “Now, by Hecate and all the powers of darkness . . .”

Zenobia lifted the locket high, the gold chain trailing, swaying like a tail of some strange animal. “I summon all the force of Hell and Evil!” she commanded. “Help me!”

She flicked open the catch on the top of the locket and lifted the crystal object to her lips, pouring a third of the blood-red liquid into her mouth. Rafi watched, horrified, but also fascinated.

Zenobia’s head jerked back as if she were being garroted. Her whole body arched and she fell back upon the divan stiffly, then shuddered. Rafi could hear a heart pounding, but was not certain if it was his own or some strangely amplified sound from his mother.

The slanted-eyed woman groaned, her hands like claws upon the divan, tearing at the rich fabrics. Her body arched and her head went back, an odd, harsh cry coming from her throat. Rafi stared with wide-eyed horror as he watched his mother arched across the couch as if crucified to it.

Zenobia thrashed about, breaking her rigid posture, gasping and making harsh, dry cries. The locket in her hand was raised high, then slipped from her rigid fingers to fall into the disheveled coverings of the couch. She flipped over with a great cry and huddled into herself, then just as suddenly flipped back—and Rafi gasped.

The backs of his mother’s hands were feathered. She moaned, then the moan dissolved into a dry, hawking cough. Her fingers were like talons as she clutched at the draperies that hung along the cabin bulkhead behind the divan. With a cry of pain and rage Zenobia ripped the rich embroideries from the wall, sending them flying across the cabin. Rafi put up his hands, but was entangled in the cloth. He tripped and fell to the metal floor with a clang, and became further entangled.

Annoyed and frightened, Rafi fought free of the fabric but the cabin was filling with a cloying green mist. He heard his mother threshing and the beating of what sounded like great wings, the rustling of feathers, and the cawing of some tortured bird. Rafi fought to his feet, but a swaying of the cabin threw him back. The green mist boiled and swirled at his fall and the entire room dimmed and swam to him.

His face running with sweat, Rafi flung the drapery clear and fought his way to his feet, clinging to the metal table desperately. A few feathers wafted downward on stirrings of the green mist and Rafi shrank back against the bulkhead, his mouth dry and his hand held protectively across his face. With wide eyes Rafi looked at the strange object on the divan.

It was hard to distinguish Zenobia within the odd shape on the divan. Rafi blinked, wiping the sweat away, causing another stirring of the billows of green mist. He was afraid, yet oddly excited, as if viewing a dangerous but important event.

The mist cleared, then billowed in again. Rafi’s brief glimpse of the bird shape on the divan was that of a smaller creature. He stumbled forward, through the mist and fear, to search with trembling hands blindly in the rich fabric of the couch. His fingers found the locket as the mist swirled away and began dissipating.

A seagull sat on the divan.

It squawked and Rafi’s fingers fumbled for the gold chain. Using a section of the broken gold chain he rehung the locket around the neck of the seagull. Then, very gently, he picked up the bird and carried it out of the cabin.

On deck he lifted his hands and opened them. The bird flapped its long white wings and flew upward into the sky. Rafi shielded his eyes against the sun and followed the flight until he could no longer see the seagull.

Sinbad stood with Melanthius as they examined one of the wooden sledges being constructed in the hold. Hassan looked up as the old Greek grunted. He raised his eyebrows and the two helping sailors stopped work as well.

Melanthius spoke with some irritation. “If you will study my designs,” he said, gesturing toward some parchment sheets, “you will see that there is more curve in the runners. The snow will be deep.”

Hassan looked bewildered. “I have never seen snow, Master.”

Sinbad nodded. “You may wish you never had.” He stepped forward and took the plane from Hassan’s hands. “Here, let me try it.”

The alchemist watched them for a few moments, then grunted and started up onto the deck. Sinbad called after him, “I will be up in a few minutes . . .”

The old man mumbled something and climbed up the ladder to the deck, where he almost immediately slipped as a wave came over the prow and went splashing along the tilted deck.

Melanthius swore in some mumbled language which neither Sinbad nor any of the sailors on deck understood. They watched with the amusement of those who seemed born to tilting decks and rolling floors. Melanthius glared at the smiling sailors and bustled below.

Sinbad tossed the plane to Hassan and stood up. “I think that’s the way.” Hassan eyed the recut angle dubiously, then shrugged.

“What do I know about water that freezes?” he grumbled and set to work.

Sinbad swung lithely up the ladder and stepped expertly across the wet deck. He found the old alchemist trying to negotiate the corridor, which was pitching now that they were beyond the Pillars of Hercules and heading north in the open sea.

The sea captain took the old scholar’s elbow and helped him through the door of the cabin. Princess Farah was sitting cross-legged on the bunk, sewing pieces of animal fur into a great coat. She looked up as Melanthius and Sinbad entered. She hid a small smile from the old Greek as she saw his annoyance at the pitching ship. Her eyes went to Sinbad and they exchanged amused glances.

The sea captain leaned nonchalantly in the doorway, watching as the old man found his seat. “Where is Dione?” he asked Farah.

“Getting more sailor’s thread from Maroof. It’s the only thing that’s strong enough to sew these furs with.”

Melanthius lurched into his chair, which had been fastened to the deck, as had been the table. He wrestled his sextant from the voluminous pocket of his clothing and put it on the table. He gave Sinbad a grumpy look, then swept around to glare at both Farah and the baboon. “The sea!” he complained with disgust. Then, ignoring everyone, he began to make his calculations, using scraps of parchment and a feather nib, with preliminary figurings on a wax tablet.

Sinbad could see he was working on his navigational calculations, comparing his figures to those in the cuneiform script on the ancient scrolls. With a grunt, Melanthius smoothed away the figures on the wax tablet, and started again with the stylus. Satisfied, he transferred the figures to parchment, then tested everything against the old scrolls, using a primitive compass.

“Sixty-three by two hundred forty-seven,” he muttered. “Twenty-one with eight hundred fifty, um, fifty-four.” He frowned. “Wind force, um . . . distance covered . . . seventy-two added to, um, six hundred ninety-four, um, less eighty-nine . . .” The old scholar growled and smashed his fist into the wax tablet, smoothing out the calculations messily. “Not good,” he snapped. “Not good enough!”

“Your calculations?” asked Sinbad.

Melanthius looked around at him with a furrowed, angry expression. “You doubt their accuracy?”

Sinbad shrugged. “I don’t understand them.” He pointed at the brass-bound compass on the table, “Your machine for finding the north—”

“Used by the Chinese for many centuries,” Melanthius interrupted. “Absolutely reliable . . . as long as iron does not come close.”

“I prefer the North Star,” Sinbad replied.

“Where we are going you won’t always be able to
see
it!” snapped the bearded alchemist disagreeably. “I’d hoped to be further on by now. But your ship . . .” He indicated the whole vessel with a disparaging gesture.

“My ship can only sail as fast as the wind allows,” Sinbad reminded the Greek scholar.

Melanthius frowned down at the scrolls. “From now on, every day, every hour becomes precious . . . we
must
beat the ice.” He looked around at the sea captain in the door. “Is there
nothing
you can do to increase our speed?”

Sinbad raised his eyebrows and shrugged helplessly. “We’re carrying all the sail we can possibly rig.”

T
he deck of Sinbad’s ship was crowded and cluttered with lashed stores and equipment fastened to the sledges. There was a fluttering of wings and a seagull flew onto the deck. It moved about on the worn and polished wood, making little stiff circles, tipping its head one way, then another, its bright eyes searching.

If any of the men on the poop deck noticed the bird they thought nothing of it. On their port side was the open sea, dark blue and crested with whitecaps. To the starboard the ship leaned under the wind that drove them northward. On the horizon was the distant, uneven dark line that was the coast of Europe.