The Thief of Bagdad/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX
Closely they crowded about the magic globe, watching tensely, while the Prince of India implored Doorga to cause the blessed miracle to materialize. Long and ardent were his incantations to the goddess. Not that it was really necessary. All he would have had to do was to say to the crystal: “Show me Zobeid!” and it would have obeyed immediately. But he saw here a good opportunity to impress the other two with the social importance of his divine relations.
So he chanted:
“Thee I implore, O Doorga, O Smashana Kali, O Mighty Ruler of the Lower and the Upper Firmament! Behold, I am blood of thy blood and bone of thy bone! Hari Bol! Hari Bol! Hari Bol! Thou art the Mother of All the World, of men and women and cows and Brahmins, also of grief and laughter, of light and darkness and the Zodiacal Twins! Hari Bol! Hari Bol! Hari Bol! Grant me one boon! Show to me, thy blood relation, and to these two Princes by my side, though they are mere dust-created mortals, what Zobeid is doing at this very moment! Ho, Doorga! Ho, Devi!”
At once the magic globe clouded. Breathlessly they waited for a few moments while something—perhaps the very spirit of Doorga—came out of the nowhere and wiped over the crystal with a soft, gigantic hand, causing a great coiling of motley colors and interlacing of lines and curves to pour down into the globe’s opaque depths, then to separate, to coordinate neatly, and to picture Zobeid’s apartment as in a miniature.
They saw every last detail of the apartment: the walls gemmed and inlaid; the floor of marble mosaic and covered with gold-threaded Teheran rugs; the carved Arab furniture; the great silver vases filled with a profusion of flowers, orange-flaming lilies, deep-red damask roses, and masses of feathery parrot-tulips of the most exotic shades, some purple, some white-spotted and stained with crimson and violet, others so dark that they seemed black. They saw the immense dressing-table with everything arrayed in proper order: attar holders, rose-water bottles, prepared sandalwood powder, saffron, and pods of musk. They saw, clustering about Zobeid’s couch, a great company of men and women, amongst them her father, the Caliph of Bagdad.
The latter had his head bent on his chest. His shoulders seemed to be shaking with great sobs.
“What is the matter?” asked the Mongol with well-simulated excitement.
Then, as though in answer to his question, in the miniature of the globe the Caliph turned. They saw tears streaming down his face; and, as the crowd about the couch drew aside, they saw the Princess stretched out, pale, hardly breathing—on the point of death, there was no doubt of it.
Perhaps for the first time in his life, an idea not suggested by others popped into the Persian’s brain.
“Quick!” he said, stepping on the magic rug. “Come with me! Let us fly to Bagdad! We shall be there within the hour!”
“Ah!” sighed the Indian, “to celebrate the death rites!”
“Not at all! Has not our eminent colleague from Mongolia the mysterious apple which holds the secret of life and of death? Perhaps he will be able to save Zobeid—for me!”
“No! For me!” interrupted the Hindu.
“For myself! Just for myself personally!” came the Mongol’s unspoken thought as he joined the other two on the rug.
“Hari Bol! Hari Bol!” shouted the Indian.
“Fly! Fly away, O magic rug!” cried the Persian.
“To the west—quickly!” commanded the Mongol.
The rug rose from the ground and cut rapidly through the air toward Bagdad, while down below, on the road between the latter place and Terek el-Bey, in field and village and desert and hamlet, the excitement and consternation of the people who looked up and saw the wondrous flying carpet, peaked to a hysterical pitch.
Hundreds fainted with fright.
Hundreds prostrated themselves and prayed to Allah and the Prophet Mohammed:
“Praise be to God, the Lord of the Worlds! The Compassionate, the Merciful, the All-Merciful, the All-Understanding! Thee we worship, and Thee we ask for help! Guide us in the straight way, the way of those to whom Thou art gracious; not of those upon whom is Thy wrath nor of the erring!” The prayer was everywhere.
“The Day of Judgment is here!” shouted a Dervish. “Behold—up there flieth the Archangel Gabriel, calling the souls to gather before Allah’s throne!”
“Allah!”
“Allah!”
Steadily the excitement grew.
Camels broke their halter-ropes and stampeded. Horses followed suit. Dogs became mad and bit stray human legs. Cats bristled their hair and scratched and hissed.
Seven old men and nine old women died with fear.
Nineteen small children became ill with colic.
A notorious drunkard gave oath that never again would he let fermented liquor touch his lips. A notorious Armenian usurer gave oath that never again would he charge over ninety-nine per cent compound interest a month. A notorious Greek banker gave oath that never again would he lie away his honor for the sake of oppressing the widows and the orphans. A notorious Jewish broker gave oath that never again would he cheat the simple Moslem villagers by palming off bad coins on them. Indeed, it was claimed later on that the flying rug did more toward the moral reform of certain foreign elements in Arabistan and the whole of Islam than a thousand laws and a thousand painful bastinados.
But if the people below were frightened, so was at least one of the magic carpet’s passengers.
For, earlier in the morning, the Prince of Persia had breakfasted well though not wisely on half a stuffed goose, a large raisin cake drowned in whipped cream, a bottle of scented Shiraz wine, and a fine dish of prawns; and the jerking, rolling, sidewise motion of the rug as it sailed through the ether was conducive neither to his peace of soul nor to his peace of stomach. He groaned; shuddered; felt faint; turned a delicate pea-green; and he would have fallen overboard had not the Prince of India lent him a helping hand.
He was glad when, an hour later, the spires and roofs and painted domes of Bagdad came into sight, and when the rug flew low, entered the palace grounds, and at last sailed down the curved stairway into the apartment of the Princess.
Here, too, was excitement; surprise; consternation; fear; questions:
“What?”
“Where?”
“Whence?”
“Why?”
“How?”
“Well—we are here, aren’t we?” replied the Prince of Persia, his pride overcoming his seasickness as he and the other two stepped down from the rug. “Here—to save the Princess!”
More hectic questions:
“What?”
“How?”
“When?”
Only the Moslem priests continued chanting their sobing, wailing liturgy since, given their vocation, they considered death much more important than life:
“Urhum yah Rubb! Khalkat, elathi ent khalakta; urhum el-mezakin, wah el-juaanin, wah el-ayranin! Urhum—urhum y'Allah …”
But the Mongol Prince interrupted their chant with chilly words:
“You are previous, my saintly friends. The Princess is about to regain life!”
“Kismet has decided that she must die!” exclaimed one of the priests.
“Maybe!” smiled the Mongol. “But I have decided that she must live!”
“How?” demanded the Caliph. “I have consulted the greatest physicians and scientists and professors …”
“And similar learned jackasses, I know,” cut in the Mongol arrogantly.
“Sir!” cried the German professor, turning livid with rage.
“Sir!” echoed the French professor.
“Sir! How dare you?” echoed the other savants; and for once it seemed that they were thoroughly in agreement.
But the Mongol laughed.
“Behold this apple!” he said, holding high the magic fruit. “The greatest rarity on earth! With its help Zobeid will live again!”
It was a lucky thing that he was a Mongol, thus practical, rather coarse, basing his life on facts. For had he been Arab or Hindu or Persian, he would first have gone through half a hundred proper rites, would have observed due etiquette, and by the time he was ready to use the apple the Princess would have been dead for good. But, being a Mongol, a rough Man on Horseback in spite of his gorgeous Chinese robes, he calmly brushed aside learned men, philosophers, dry-nurses, slave girls, priests, sorcerers and eunuchs; stepped up to the couch; slipped an arm about the Princess’ shoulder without any ceremony; and scratched her slightly with the apple’s purple point.
The effect was instantaneous. Zobeid sat up, her cheeks a healthy pink, her eyes clear and bright, her breath coming regularly.
“A miracle!” cried the Caliph, rushing up to her and kissing her hand.
“A miracle!” shouted they all; and so the death chant changed to a chant of thanksgiving while the Mongol Prince, using the excitement as he might a cloak, stepped up to Fount-in-the-Forest.
“Harmonious and exquisite thanks!” he whispered. “You have done your work well. I am grateful. Perhaps at a future date, after having been married to Zobeid for a few years, I shall reward you most splendidly by elevating you to the gorgeous rank, position, and title of my Number-Two-Wife. But—first of all—I must marry the Number-One-Wife—Zobeid!”
“Surely,” replied Fount-in-the-Forest, “there can be no doubt of it now?”
“There should not be. But there might be. I believe in defeating Fate by preparing for the worst. For once my father told me that it is better for us to breakfast upon our enemies than to have our enemies dine upon us. So slip out of the palace, find Wong K’ai, and tell him to hold my warriors in readiness. If I need them, I shall give a signal.”
“What signal?”
“Three times I shall flutter my handkerchief from the window over there. Then let them attack town and palace with full, ruthless force. Ah!”—his narrow-lidded, oblique eyes gleamed, his teeth showed in a white, wolfish snarl, he was suddenly the Mongol, the rider, the raider—“let them spare neither man nor woman nor child! Let the ancient boast of our race come true—that grass will never grow again where once our horses’ feet have trod!”
“Listen is obey, O Great Dragon!” said Fount-in-the-Forest triumphantly; and she kowtowed deeply, and left the palace to find Wong K’ai.
The Mongol turned and joined the other two Princes who were busy answering the Caliph’s questions as to the Why and Wherefore of the extraordinary happening.
“I am grateful—so grateful!” exclaimed the happy father, fondling his daughter’s hand. “Grateful to all of you!”
“Do not forget that most of your gratitude belongs to this little magic apple!” suggested the Mongol. “With its help I restored life to your charming daughter. Life! The greatest gift in the world! Ah!”—he bowed deeply before the Caliph—“the greatest rarity in the world! I found it! Be pleased, O delightful Zobeid, to accept it as a present!” He gave the magic fruit to Zemzem, the Princess’ faithful Arab slave girl; and once more addressed the Caliph: “I have succeeded! I found and brought back the most marvelous treasure on earth! And now, according to your and your daughter’s pledge, I claim her as my own—my bride—my wife!”
“Fair and just!” admitted the Caliph of Bagdad; but his words as well as Zobeid’s exclamation of horror and consternation were swallowed in the Indian’s angry:
“Why—the pretensions of this Mongol are absolutely preposterous! Saved Zobeid’s life, did he? By Shiva! There is hardly a Brahmin or holy fakir in Hindustan who is not familiar with Sanjivnividya—the science of restoring the dead to life!”
“Pardon me,” sneered the Mongol, “but why did you not use this marvelous science?”
“Partly because, in my excitement and grief, I did not happen to think of it; and partly because, knowing that Zobeid would marry me, I did not wish to rob you of the glory of having cured—ah!”—he smiled like the cat that has stolen the cream—“the future Queen of India. For I claim Zobeid’s hand. Here”—as he gave the magic crystal to Zemzem—“is the greatest rarity on earth! Without its help we would not have known of Zobeid’s terrible plight! She is mine—mine—mine!”
“There is something in what you say,” admitted the Caliph. He turned to his daughter. “Zobeid, I really believe that he is right and that …”
“Wait a moment! Just wait a moment!” cut in the Prince of Persia. “A fiddlestick for magic globe and magic apple! Valuable—I grant. Also interesting. But it was my magic flying carpet which brought us here in time to save the Princess’ life. Here”—as he spread the rug in front of the couch—“is the greatest treasure, the rarest gift in the Lord Allah’s Creation! By its token I claim your daughter’s hand, O Caliph of all the Faithful!”
“By the honor of my beard,” said the latter. “The Persian, too, is right!”
“But, father dear! I am an obedient daughter. Still—I cannot marry the three of them, can I?”
“Hardly!” admitted the Caliph.
“Then—what shall I do!”
“You are mine!” cried the Indian.
“Mine!” exclaimed the Persian.
“Mine! Mine own!” growled the Mongol.
They surrounded the Caliph, clamoring, arguing, quarreling, protesting. They drew him to one side while the Princess, obeying a sudden impulse, turned to Zemzem.
“Quick!” she whispered. “Before they notice! Ask the magic crystal to show us what Ahmed is doing.”
Zemzem was sitting cross-legged in front of the couch, her back to the others so that they could not see. She spoke low words to the crystal. She stared into it. Then she looked up excitedly.
“Heaven-Born!” came her sibilant murmur. “The Thief of Bagdad is on his way home!”
“Oh” Zobeid forced back the exclamation.
“Yes. He flies. Flies through the air—mounted on a great white horse with shiny silver wings! Over valley he flies—and mountain—and stream—and forest—and desert! West he flies—home—to Bagdad—astride his great, winged horse!”
Zobeid laughed aloud with happiness. She called to the Caliph: “Father! Father, dear!”
“Yes, little daughter?” he asked, turning. “What is it?”
“Here am I,” she laughed again, “like a donkey between three bundles of hay—and I do not know how to choose.”
“Not a very flattering comparison to yourself,” smiled the Caliph of Bagdad.
“Nor to my tree suitors, I am afraid,” Zobeid went on, “for they represent the three bundles of hay. Without the Indian’s crystal, they could not have known of my plight. Without the Persian’s carpet, they could not have come here so quickly. And without the Mongol’s apple, they could not have cured me. Which of the three shall I choose?”
“If you choose one, the other two will object,” replied her father, wearily. “They have already deafened me with their arguing and counter-arguing, their accusations and counter-accusations.” He sighed. “Oh—I am so tired!”
“So am I,” said the Princess. “Let us all go to sleep. Tomorrow will be time enough to decide.”
“A good idea, daughter!”
Still grumbling, the three Princes assented. They left the apartment. But the Mongol, after bowing good-night to Zobeid, stopped for a moment near the window, as if wishing to look at the glorious view of Bagdad, golden and green beneath the setting sun. Three times he waved his handkerchief. He smiled thinly, cruelly, as almost immediately from a tower nearby an immense, triangular, red-and-gold flag was dipped—three times—in answer. He knew that flag. The battle flag of his race. It was stiff with gold; stiffer with gore.
Whatever the morrow’s decision, Zobeid would be his. Night would come soon. Bagdad would fall asleep. And then his Mongol warriors jumping to arms—the attack!
Again he bowed before the Princess, and left.
Alone with Zemzem, Zobeid stared into the magic crystal; stared into it to her heart’s content.
Ahmed had flown down from the sky, not far from an enormous defile. He had dismounted from his winged horse.
“Why,” exclaimed the Princess, “look, Zemzem! He is talking to the horse! And—look, look! The horse seems to reply!”
“Impossible!” cried Zemzem. “I can imagine Ahmed talking to the horse. But—the horse replying to Ahmed …? Why—it sounds like a fairy tale. It cannot be.”
But, Zemzem’s doubt notwithstanding, it was.
For as the ancient Arab chronicle comments:
“When the impossible happens, it exists. A stone swims in the water, when eyes behold the fact of it. A monkey sings a Kashmiri love song, when ears hear the fact of it. Only idiots, old spinsters, cats, and learned professors contradict the testimony of their own five senses.”
Indeed, having reached the western end of the Valley of the Seven Temptations, the horse had flown down to earth, and when Ahmed had dismounted had said to him, speaking in fair Arabic:
“I am, as you know, the Horse of Winged Imagination. At this side of the valley imagination ceases and, stretching to the West, to Bagdad, begins the life and world of hard facts. Back yonder you have learned several lessons, overcoming your pride, your envy, your jealousy, and gaining faith in Allah and the Prophet Mohammed—on Him the salute!—as well as resignation to the sendings of Fate. You also acquired two treasures, the silver box and the cloak of invisibility—which latter, by the way, as you will learn presently, shields your soul from the infamous lies and envy and hate of worthless people. I cannot carry you any farther. For I am wanted back yonder, near the shore of the Midnight Sea, where another mortal is waiting for me to help him back across the abyss of black desires which, single-handed, even as you did, he conquered and crossed. Salaam aleykum!”
Without waiting for the Thief of Bagdad to reply, the Horse of Winged Imagination spread wide its splendid shining pinions, rose into the air in a graceful curve, turned East, and soon was nothing but a tiny speck of silver against the vaulting purple of the evening sky.
The Thief of Bagdad was alone.
He felt conscious of a certain sharp clutch and lift at the heart; a certain fear; a certain nervous apprehension as to what the future might bring. These seven months he had lived in a dim, motley, coiling world of wizardy where currents of primeval, cosmic earth life had tugged at his inmost self, changing portions of this self, changing his very soul—giving him a new soul. Now this new soul of Ahmed, the Thief of Bagdad, faced once more the old facts of life; this new soul felt like an alien amongst the old facts of life.
He looked to the West.
There leagues of beach wood poured down the slope of the hills in an enormous cataract of green and black-green foam, smothered farther down in an exuberance of blue and golden flowers. Beyond it stretched the desert; and across the desert cut a narrow caravan trail—the road to Bagdad.
Bagdad! Hundreds of miles away!
With the thought came a sharp and bitter pain. Why—he said to himself—it was near the end of the seventh moon. Tomorrow was the last day. Had he then conquered himself only to lose what he loved most on earth: Zobeid? Yet, even with the pain gnawing at his heart and soul, he bowed his head in resignation to the decrees of Fate, and gave thanks to Allah:
“Say: He is the One God; God the Eternal! He beggeteth not, nor is begotten. Nor is there one like unto Him! Verily I declare that He is the One God and that Mohammed is the Messenger of God!”
Then he squared his shoulders. Hundreds of miles to Bagdad, across desert and forest and mountain and desert again, and only one day to cover the distance. It was impossible. But he must try. So he stepped out, into the world of facts. He put his feet on the road of life; life that, as he descended the slope of the hill, pulsed everywhere about him, immense in power, moving swiftly, surging close to his heels and hands and heart, striding behind him and before, urging him on.
On he walked through the night, hungry, tired, his feet sore and bleeding, until very slowly the dawn of morning came with fantastic, purple spikes and the sun racing along the rim of the horizon in a sea of red and gold.
Then, at the edge of the desert, he saw a great gate of horn and ivory athwart the trail. The gate opened, and from it came the hermit whom, seven months earlier, he had met after he had passed through the defile of the Hill of Eternal Fire, the Hill of Pride.
Ahmed was about to walk on with a curt: “Salaam aleykum!”
But the hermit stopped him with a gesture of his thin, high-veined hands.
“Why—Ahmed!” he exclaimed, rather hurt. “I am glad to see you! Glad that you made the wondrous journey in safety! Come—and swap the time of day with an old friend!”
Ahmed shook his head.
“I am sorry,” he replied. “But I am in a devilish hurry. I have only about twelve hours in which to walk nearly seven hundred miles. Besides, my feet burn like fire. Besides, I am hungry enough to eat a stewed mule. Besides …”
“Besides you are a fool!” interrupted the hermit.
“Thanks for the compliment!”
“No compliment intended. I am stating a fact. Thief of Bagdad—aren’t you?”
“Well—used to be. What about it?”
“I cannot help wondering,” laughed the hermit, “that, during your former light-fingered career, you got away without being caught time and again. Why—you have not even an ounce of mother’s wit.”
“Insults are no argument. Kindly explain!” demanded Ahmed stiffly.
“Here you have the magic silver box—I can see it sticking out of your waist shawl—and you have not even enough sense to use it.”
“Use it?”
“Yes. Open it. Don’t you know what is inside?”
“Happiness—also honor, I was told.”
“Rightly told! But, Ahmed, happiness is a helpmeet to those who deserve it—as you deserve it, having conquered your own self. And honor, too, helps in life’s struggles. Honor is really a very practical and constructive virtue. Fine ideals always are. That is exactly where cynical philosophers are wrong. Look!”—as Ahmed opened the little silver box—“do you see the tiny yellow seeds?”
“What are they?”
“They are seeds from the Flower of Unfulfilled but Righteous Desire. Throw a seed on the ground. Wish hard. And if the wish be just and right, a puff of smoke will rise from the earth where the seed struck it, and at once you will have your wish fulfilled. Why”—as Ahmed hesitated—“don’t you believe me? Try it! Wish! Wish hard!”
“Very well,” replied Ahmed; and, raising his hands to heaven, he exclaimed: “I want a horse—a horse swift as the wind, to cover the distance between here and Bagdad before the day is over. And I also want a square meal. For I am terribly hungry!”
He took one of the little seeds, dropped it, and at once a puff of smoke rose from the ground, and there stood a tall, splendid, broad-backed Marwari stallion, black with a white star on the forehead, white stockings, dainty but strong hocks, and gorgeously saddled and bridled.
“By Allah!” cried Ahmed. “The silver box works!”
He dropped another seed; came another puff of smoke; and a table came out of the nowhere, covered with snowy linen, glass, silver, fruit, drink, and platters of steaming food.
“Come, wise hermit!” laughed Ahmed. “Be my guest! Here is food enough for two!”
They ate. Then the hermit blessed Ahmed, who mounted the stallion and was off.
The horse paced away faster than the wind—faster and faster—a mile at a jump—a mile at a leap—a mile at each stretch of its splendid, steely body.
Ahmed rode as he had never ridden before. He rode with a song in his heart. For here was his Fate blazing ahead of him like a sacred Grail; and, through the velvety glow of the sun, through the purple shadows of the low, volcanic hills which flanked the road and which danced like hobgoblins among the dwarf aloes, through the click-clanketty-click of the stallion’s dancing feet, there came to him the clarion call to life’s happiness and life’s work and life’s fulfilment.
The farther West he rode, the clearer became the singing joy in his heart.
Click-clanketty-click spoke the horse’s dancing feet. A gecko slipped away through the brush. A low-flapping bird brushed his face. The sun bored down with a brutish, flaming gesture.
There were few signs of life. Once in a while a carrion-hawk poised high in the parched, blue sky above him. Twice he passed Tartar camel riders, short, lean, brown, bow-legged men, whose jaws and brows were bound mummy fashion against the stinging sand of the desert, and who touched their rosary beads with superstitious awe as the wild horseman swept past them, faster than the North wind.
On he rode, bending over the horse’s neck, lifting it with every stride, keeping its nose straight to the road—a mile at a leap—a mile at a jump—a mile at each stretch of its splendid, steely body; until, having ridden the night through, he saw in the distance, in the greenish gloom of young day, a dark mass looming up: the oasis of Terek el-Bey—and Bagdad not far away.
The dark mass was becoming more distinct with every second. It split into tents and palm trees; and Ahmed dismounted to say his morning prayers:
“Allah! I praise Thee and I thank Thee! For Thou art the Lord God! Thou art …”
“Yoo-yoo-yoo! Yoo-yoo-yoo!”—a great sobbing and wailing drowned his prayers with loud, overlapping tone waves.
He looked up.
There, straggling down the road, coming from the direction of Bagdad, he saw a huge mob of men and women and children; hurrying, hurrying; loaded with household goods, having picked up what first had come to hand, like people when their home is burning above their heads—useless, absurd things; beating their breasts; crying, yelling, weeping—and hurrying, ever hurrying.
Ahmed stopped an old man.
“What has happened?” he demanded.
“The Mongols have taken Bagdad,” came the shattering reply. “They have captured the Caliph and the Princess Zobeid. They are murdering the people. They are polluting the wells. They are stabling their horses in the temples of Allah. They are crucifying the priests. They are looting and burning the ancient town!”
“Yoo-yoo-yoo! Yoo-yoo-yoo!”—rose again the sobbing and wailing, while Ahmed bowed toward Mecca.
“Forgive me, O Lord God,” he said, “that this morning I cannot finish my prayer. But my heart and soul and fist are needed at Bagdad!”
And he mounted his stallion and rode away.