The Thief of Bagdad/Chapter 3

“And the wild geese of Tartary flying over the river dunes …” the voice quivered, light as thistledown.

It was the voice of Fount-in-the-Forest who had been captured in battle seven years ago beneath the steel-shod tusks of the war elephants when the Caliph of Bagdad had gone into the East to fight the growing menace of the Khan of the Middle Horde. Daughter of a Mongol Prince, Fount-in-the-Forest had never forgotten the steppes and snow-clad mountains of her far country; had always hated this Western land of Islam with a smoldering, undying passion. She was attached to the personal service of the Princess Zobeid; and it was her duty, each night, to play and sing until her mistress fell asleep.

So tonight.

Her voice quivered on:

She cut off her song on a high note, in mid-air. She looked at the Princess who lay on a canopied couch; turned to Zemzem, another slave girl, an Arab entirely devoted to her mistress; put a finger to her lips.

“The Heaven-Born sleeps,” she whispered; and the two slaves stepped softly from the apartment, the sounds of lute and song growing fainter and fainter:

The trembling cadences receded and Ahmed rose, the string of pearls in his hand.

“Charming!” he thought, for he had a pretty taste in music. “Let us see if I, the Thief of Bagdad, am thief enough to steal a look at the singer!”

He left the hall. He leaped up a flight of stairs, side-stepping a huge Nubian watchman who was squatting on one of the steps, fast asleep, his ape-like arms crossed about the grip of his two-handed sword; he followed the sound of the music until he reached another staircase that swept down into an oblong room in an audacious curve of glistening, olive-veined marble; and, bending over the baluster, saw there, veiled by the thin silk of the canopy, the slumbering Zobeid.

Was it his fickleness? Or was it a sending of Kismet, of Fate?

The ancient Arabic records which have brought down to us the tale of the Thief of Bagdad, are silent on the point. But they do tell us that, at that moment, at once, immediately and completely, Ahmed forgot the singer in whose quest he had left the treasure chamber; saw only the sleeping Princess; thought only of her. That flower-like little face down there, on the silken pillow, drew him like a magnet. He vaulted over the baluster; landed on his feet, softly, with a plop like a great cat; crossed over to the couch; looked at Zobeid; listened to her gentle breathing; and felt a new sensation, a strange sensation, a sensation that was sweet with a great longing yet gall-bitter with a great pain, tugging at his heart strings.

“Love at first sight,” the ancient records call it laconically.

But whatever it was, love at first sight or love at second sight—and he did look a second time, looked long, looked ardently, could not turn his eyes away—it was to him as if, suddenly, they were alone, she and he, alone in the palace, alone in Bagdad, alone in all the world. The canopy which peaked above the couch seemed charged to the brim with some over powering loveliness of wild and simple things, like the beauty of stars and wind and flowers, with something which all his life subconsciously his heart seemed to have craved in vain, compared to which his life of yesterday was only a drab, wretched, useless dream.

Hardly knowing what he was doing and why, he crouched by the side of the couch. Hardly knowing what he was doing and why, carelessly dropping the necklace for the sake of which he had risked so many dangers, he picked up one of the Princess’ tiny, embroidered slippers. He pressed it to his lips.

The next moment Zobeid stirred slightly in her sleep. One narrow, white hand slipped over the edge of the couch.

The Thief of Bagdad smiled. Obeying a mad, irresistible impulse, he bent over the little hand.

He kissed it. Kissed it so gently. Not gently enough. For the Princess awakened. She gave a startled cry. She sat up, flinging the silken, padded coverlet aside. Quickly Ahmed dropped to the ground; and it was his luck that the coverlet fell over him, swathing him in its heavy folds, hiding him completely from the Princess’ sight; from the sight, too, of the slave girls who came running at their mistress’ outcry, and of the eunuchs and the Nubian watchman who rushed in, curved sabres poised in brawny fists, searching for the miscreant.

They looked all about the room, finding nothing, while Ahmed crouched beneath the coverlet, motionless, sucking in his breath.

“The Heaven-Born must have dreamt it,” said the Mongol slave girl to the Princess who insisted that somebody had touched her hand, and she persuaded her finally to close her eyes again. But the chief eunuch whispered to the Nubian that, indeed, a robber must have entered the palace since one of the treasure chests had been opened; and so the three eunuchs, the Nubian, and the Arab slave girl went to make a thorough search of the other rooms in this part of the harem, while Fount-in-the-Forest remained behind, once more singing her plaintive Mongol song:

until, gradually, Zobeid fell asleep again.

Fount-in-the-Forest stooped to pick up the coverlet. Then, suddenly, she became frozen into frightened immobility, swallowed the cry that bubbled to her lips when a brown fist, armed with a dagger, jerked out from the silken folds, and a low voice whispered warning:

“Keep quiet, little sister! Turn your back! Gently—gently does it!” as, the dagger pricking her skin, she obeyed, turning on her heel and facing the other way. “And now—walk slowly! Toward the door over yonder! Do not turn and look! Gently! Gently! This knife of mine is thirsty for young blood!”

She was helpless. Propelled by the pricking, tickling dagger, she preceded Ahmed to a narrow door set into the farther wall. With the help of a small cushion that he had picked up on the way he propped the hilt of the dagger against the door jamb and quickly withdrew his hand so that the point of the weapon still remained resting lightly against the slave girl’s bare, smooth skin. She was not aware of the trick, and stayed rigid and motionless, while he turned softly, to make his escape. But before he left the room he decided that he would take one more look at the sleeping Princess. He hurried back to the couch. He stared at Zobeid who was slumbering peacefully. He felt again love sweeping through his soul as with the mighty whirring of wings; and he bent … when, suddenly—“Hai!”—a stifled scream warned him, brought him up standing, made him turn.

“''Hai! Hai!''”

Again the scream. For Fount-in-the-Forest had discovered the trick of the propped dagger. She was yelling for help. Already, from the next room, came hurrying footsteps, clamoring voices.

The Thief of Bagdad laughed. He picked up Zobeid’s little slipper. He left behind him magic rope and pearl necklace. He ran toward the window; leaped through; landed in a tree not far from the garden wall. The tree curved beneath his weight, and, using it like a catapult, he launched himself across the wall and dropped to the ground on the street outside, a short distance from the place where Bird-of-Evil was waiting for him.

“Ah!” exclaimed the latter, excitedly. What loot did you bring? Pearls? Diamonds? Bed, red rubies?”

“No,” replied the Thief of Bagdad. “I found a far greater treasure! More precious than all the jewels in the world!”

“Show it to me!”

“I cannot!”

“Why not? Where is it?”

“It is here!” replied the Thief of Bagdad, holding high the little slipper. “It is here!” he continued, touching his forehead. “It is here!” he wound up, putting his hand on his heart.

And, refusing to say more, Ahmed stalked off into the fantastic, purple night, while Bird-of-Evil followed him, puzzled, perplexed, speculating, trying to read the riddle of the other’s words.

“It is here ….?” he echoed. “And here? And here? But—where—where—where … by Beelzebub, Father of Lies and Fleas. …?”

They reached the abandoned well.

“Where—where? Tell me—where is it?” he repeated.

Ahmed did not reply. He lay on his couch, unable to find sleep, staring into the void, silent, brooding, morose; and, silent, brooding, morose, he lay on the ledge near the fountain on the Square of the One-Eyed Jew the next morning, hardly noticing the festive crowds that thronged the streets of Bagdad the Golden to welcome the three great Princes who came today as suitors for Zobeid’s hand.

There, seeing his friend day-dreaming, regardless of the loot that might be his for a twisting and tugging of his agile fingers, all at once the answer to the riddle came to Bird-of-Evil.

“It is here—and here—and here!” he laughed. He addressed Ahmed. “Tell me—are you in love?”

“I am!” admitted Ahmed. “Hopelessly!”

“Hopelessly …?”

“Yes!”

“Why? Who is she? Is she Ayesha, the daughter of the rich saddle-maker? Or Fathma, first-born of the Syrian goldsmith? Or is she belike …? Wah!” Bird-of-Evil interrupted himself. “Just tell me her name. I myself shall be the marriage broker. I am a clever hand at that sort of thing. Well—who is she?”

“She is Zobeid, the daughter of the Caliph! Allah” Ahmed sighed. “She is unobtainable—like flowers of air!”

“Nothing in the world is unobtainable,” said the other, who loved the younger man dearly, deep in his gnarled old heart.

“You cannot catch the winds of heaven with your bare hands! You cannot fish for the moon reflected in the water!”

“And why not? A Princess, is she? What of it? Once upon a time a Princess was carried off under the very nose of her father, the great Caliph Haroun el-Rashid.”

“How was it done?” demanded Ahmed.

“With the help of a subtle Egyptian drug. Eat the drug. Drink it. Or simply smell it. It will put you to sleep—will make you help less. I shall get you the drug. Today. Immediately. And then we shall enter the palace …”

“Enter the palace? How?” asked the Thief of Bagdad.

“Ahee!” laughed Bird-of-Evil. “Why does love render its victims so helpless, so foolish, so utterly silly?” He was silent as from the distance came the loud rubbing and thumping of silver kettle drums and the bull-like roar of long-stemmed trumpets. “Listen to the drums,” he went on. “The heralds are announcing the arrival of the princely suitors at the city gates. Come! We have little time to lose.” He took Ahmed by the arm and ran with him across the Square. “I shall go and procure the drug. Do you in the meantime go to the Bazar of the Persian Silk-Weavers and see if your hands are less dreamy and useless than your head. For we need costly raiment. Embroidered cloaks! Gold-threaded slippers of state! Gorgeous turban clothes! A few handsome jewels! Some fine weapons! And—before I forget it—go to the caravanserai of the Tartar traders! Get us a horse—and a donkey …”

“What for—what for?” demanded Ahmed.

“To attain the impossible! Flowers of air; ropes of tortoise hair; horns upon a cat; and—the hand of the Princess Zobeid! Hurry—hurry! And meet me, within the hour, at the Gate of Lions!”

And they ran off while—''bang! banng! bannng!''—thumped the distant kettle drums, while the Princes of Asia rode through the crowded streets of Bagdad, and while Zobeid watched from behind her screened window.

Early that morning, while Fount-in-the-Forest had slipped from the apartment upon a devious and gliding purpose of her own, Zobeid had called to Zemzem, her faithful Arab slave.

“Zemzem!” the Princess had said. “I am afraid of the future. Allah! Allah! What does the future hold for me?”

“Ask Therrya, the Bedawin fortune-teller,” Zemzem had suggested. “She will read the tale of your Fate in the shifting sands.”

They had sent for Therrya, who had come, had squatted down, had heaped a handful of Meccan sand on a porcelain tray and—by this time Fount-in-the-Forest had returned from her mysterious errand and was watching tensely—had blown upon it until, slowly, gradually, the golden sand grains had taken on the hazy outlines of a rose.

“Heaven-Born!” the fortune-teller had said. “The signs are clear. Whoever of your suitors will be the first to touch the rose tree in your garden—the great, crimson rose tree just below your window—him Allah the All-Powerful has destined to be your husband!”

And now, as the gates opened to admit the three Princes, Zobeid’s eyes glanced anxiously at the rose tree—the rose tree that spelled her Fate—the rose tree below her window that was straight in the path down which her suitors had to come on their way from the outer gate to the broad entrance door of the palace itself.

There was a loud bellowing and roaring and trumpeting as a huge white elephant ambled through the gate, carrying upon its back, sit ting cross-legged in a golden howdah, a tall man attired in a splendid cloth-of-silver costume, the arms encircled by jeweled bracelets, shimmering necklaces of pearls and moon stones hanging to his waist shawl, a naked, straight, six-foot blade across his knees. He was preceded and followed by mounted retainers, all gorgeously dressed, their beards dyed red with henna or blue with indigo, and curled and split on both sides of their brown cheeks so that they stabbed up like rams’ horns.

The Caliph’s herald turned to the Bagdad dignitaries, the officers and green-turbaned priests, the chiefs of tribes and ministers of the household and rich, paunchy merchants, who thronged the garden.

“The Prince of all the Indies!” he announced in a clear, ringing voice, waving his diamond-tipped staff of office. “The Ruler of the South! The Descendant of Hindustan’s many Gods! The Harrasser [sic] of his Foes! The Cousin to Vishnu, Shiva, and Brahm! He, whose palace is said to glow with the crimson sheen of a hundrd thousand rubies!”

“Ah”—whispered Zemzem into Zobeid’s ear—“he is rich and powerful and glorious!”

“Indeed!” Zobeid stared through the marble screen that covered the window. She scanned the Prince’s face. She made a little grimace. “No, no!” she continued. “I do not like him for all his rubies! Haughty he seems—and cold—and stern—and forbidding!” She raised clasped hands. “O Allah!” she prayed fervently. “Grant that he may not touch the rose tree!”

And Allah listened to her prayer. For suddenly the elephant swerved and turned to one side. Zobeid laughed happily; then looked toward the gate as the herald announced the Prince of Persia, surrounded by mounted, raw-boned, steel-clad, hard-riding warriors, while he himself was reclining luxuriously on a silken litter slung between two shaggy Bactrian dromedaries, ocassionally [sic] dipping a plump, beringed hand into a jewled box and helping himself liberally to pink and rose-red sweetmeats.

“Khalaf Mansur Nasir-ud-din Nadir Khan Kuli Khan Durani, Prince and King of Persia,” proclaimed the herald, “Shah-in-Shah of Khorassan and Azerbaian, Khan of the Kizilbashis and. …”

“Oh! Zemzem! Look at him!” exclaimed Zobeid while the herald continued the recital of the many grandiose titles. “Does he not look exactly like a pig—with his fat, pink cheeks—his fat, pink button of a nose—his short, round body? And his little mustache! Is it not exactly like a pig’s curling tail. …?”

An unflattering description. But true. For, whatever his tough-thewed ancestors, this Prince of Persia had forgotten their prowess in the pleasures of the table, was valiant with steel only where the carving of juicy mutton joints and not the cutting-off of enemies’ heads was concerned; and the ancient Arab chronicles relate that it took three strong men to lift him to his throne, and seven yards of cloth to make a shawl for his enormous stomach.

“His nightly dinner,” says the ancient chronicle, “consisted of a goose stuffed with a duck, the duck stuffed with a chicken, the chicken with a quail, the quail with a pigeon, the pigeon with a lark, and the lark with an oyster. He had a thirst worthy of those Scottish barbarians of whom our traveling merchants bring fantastic tales. He looked, to the casual observer, like a huge balloon filled with seventy times seventy pounds of grease and wobbly flesh. …”

A statement to which Zobeid agreed.

“A balloon!” she exclaimed. “Why—the man is made of lard! Oh—Allah—do Thou keep this mountain of fat from touching my rose tree!”

But there was small danger of that. For, even had he wished it, even had he known the fortune-teller’s prophecy, his huge bulk would have made it impossible for him to lean from the litter and touch the odorous, red-blooming tree.

“Praised be Allah the One!” exclaimed Zobeid while, without her noticing it, Fount-in-the-Forest, an idea shaping rapidly in her shrewd brain, slipped out of the room, down a secret stair-case into the garden where, a few minutes later, a veil hiding her features, she mingled with the retinue of Cham Sheng, Prince of the Mongols, who just then was entering the palace grounds with pomp and circumstance.

Once before, earlier in the day, she had communicated with the Mongols. For her soul was seared with hate against the Arabs, the Moslems, who had enslaved her, and there was in her the wish and hope that Cham Sheng, her, countryman, might wed Zobeid and, after the Caliph’s death, bring the dominion of Bagdad under the Mongols’ spurred heel.

A wish, incidentally, quite in keeping with that of Cham Sheng himself.

He was different, in every last characteristic, from the Prince of India and the Prince of Persia. There was about the latter, for all his ludicrous looks and sensuous living, a certain soft, ingenuous lovableness, and about the former a sweeping, godlike nobility. But the Mongol was of the earth earthy; his was an enormous ruthlessness of purpose, a cruel ambition, a stupendous, racial vigor and crunching strength. Time and again he had said to Wong K’ai, his confidential advisor, a man educated in the Palace of August and Happy Wisdom in Pekin’s Tartar City, that he would take Bagdad: either by marrying the Princess or, should he fail in this, by an unhallowed trinity of intrigue, patience, and force.

“Perhaps,” Wong K’ai had said, “such is the will of the many blessed gods.”

“It is mine own will, fool!” the other had sneered. “Mine own will—stronger than the will of all the many gods put together!”

When early in the morning Fount-in-the-Forest had visited the Mongol encampment, she had assured Wong K’ai that, a Mongol to the core of her, she would do all in her power to further the Mongol Prince’s cause. Now here she was again, mingling with the retinue and presently, having reached Wong K’ai’s side, whispering to him the secret of the rose tree and the fortune-teller’s prophecy.

“These Arabs,” she added contemptuously, “are superstitious. They believe in such portents.”

“Ten thousand thanks!” replied Wong K’ai. “Exquisite and charming honors shall be thine when Cham Sheng shall plant the standard of the Five-Clawed Golden Dragon upon the walls of Bagdad!”

And, entering the Prince’s palanquin, he brought to his master the slave girl’s message.

This palanquin was an immense affair. Built on a marble platform, reached front and back by broad stairs and carried on the shoulders of a hundred red-faced warriors, it resembled a Chinese pagoda, surmounted by a peaked cupola. The walls of the pagoda were of malachite and jasper, carved into an inter-lacing scroll work of plum-blossoms and wind-swept reeds, while the cupola was of gold and inlaid with crystal, ivory, white and green jade, turmaline and agate, in a design of great, coiling dragons. The palanquin was surrounded by Tartar, Mongol, and Manchu horsemen, each riding under a flag painted with the device of his tribe or clan. There was here the banner of the White Tiger, the banner of the Red Tiger, of the Azure Dragon, of the Purple Light, of Sublime Union, and a hundred more; and, greater than all the other banners, carried by two gigantic, yellow-skinned priests, the banner of the Buddha of the Paradise of the West and the banner of the Buddha of the Light without Measure.

Thus the procession entered the grounds, while the Caliph’s herald announced the princely visitor:

“Cham Sheng, Prince of the Mongols, King of Ho Sho, Khan of the Golden Horde, Khan of the Silver Horde. …”

“Heaven-Born!” cried Zemzem. “Look—look …”

“Oh!”

For the palanquin had stopped. Its front door was thrown wide open; and, slowly, majestically, his tall, lean form robed in crimson satin embroidered over the right shoulder with a five-clawed, golden dragon, a carved jade sceptre in his left hand, Cham Sheng came down the steps, into the garden.

When Zobeid saw him she shuddered. His face was butter-yellow, with high cheekbones; and there was in his narrow-lidded, purple- black eyes the infinite, cruel, passionless look of one who has gazed too much on danger and death and desolation, without ever feeling the pity and shame and sorrow of it.

“Oh!” sobbed Zobeid. “He chills my blood with fear!”

And she shook as if in an ague, while Fount-in-the-Forest changed shrill, triumphant laughter into a cough, and while, a thin, ironic smile curling his bloodless lips, the Prince of the Mongols, as if aimlessly, negligently, with all his slow racial dignity, turned toward the rose tree.

“O Allah! Help me, All-Merciful Allah!” came Zobeid’s heartbroken sob. “Please! Please! Do not permit him to touch the rose tree …

But prayers were forgotten, fear was forgotten the very next moment when, with the Caliph’s herald announcing the arrival of yet another suitor, she looked toward the outer gate.

“Why. …” Zemzem made wondering comment—“I thought there were only three Princes coming to woo you! And here comes a fourth! Who might he be. …?”

“Who might he be?” echoed Fount-in-the-Forest, with angry suspicion.

“Who might he be?” echoed the curious crowd in the garden.

“Who might he be?” echoed Cham Sheng to Wong K’ai in a low voice.

“Who might he be?” echoed Zobeid, a strange, sweet sensation clutching her heart.

And the herald gave answer:

“Ahmed, Prince of the Isles and of the Seven Palaces!”

“By the Excellent Lord Buddha!” whispered Cham Sheng to his confidential clerk. “There is no such rank or title!”

And he turned away from the rose tree without touching it to stare at Ahmed, who rode toward the palace, superbly mounted on a stolen, snow-white stallion, superbly robed in stolen, gold-threaded brocade, superbly armed with stolen, jeweled scimitar and battle-ax, followed by Bird-of-Evil, perched like a monkey on a tiny, grey donkey, his finery only a shade less costly than Ahmed’s. The latter rode his horse well, with a loose rein and long stirrups, swaying gracefully in the saddle. High in the air he carried his head, and when he came trotting beneath Zobeid’s window, she smiled.

“Ah!” she said to Zemzem. “He rides like a Prince! He looks like a Prince! He is the Prince for me! Allah! Permit him to touch the rose tree—as he has already touched my heart!”

Fount-in-the-Forest stood by her mistress’ side. She wondered, puzzled: who was this Prince of the Isles? Where had she seen him. …?

Down in the garden Wong K’ai was whispering to his master that, as to this new suitor’s rank and titles, he would look into them presently; but in the meantime … “Please, O Great Dragon! Remember the fortuneteller’s prophecy! Remember the Arab superstition! Whoever is first to touch the rose tree. …”

“Yes, yes!” replied Cham Sheng.

He stepped forward; and while, horror-struck, Zobeid watched, he raised a thin, yellow hand to pluck one of the flowers.

At which precise moment, up in the Seventh Hall of the Blessed, the Angle of the Scrolls, the Black-Winged Angel of Destiny, hearing Zobeid’s silent prayers to Allah, decided to interfere. He interfered by ordering a tiny honey-bee that had been sucking at the rose’s sugary heart to fly out suddenly with a whirring of brown-and-gold wings, to light on the Mongol Prince’s hand before he could touch the blossom, to sting him painfully, and to cause him to recede a few steps. A moment later, perhaps to make assurance doubly sure, the Angel of the Scrolls ordered the same little honey-bee to fly from Cham Sheng’s hand unto the back of Ahmed’s horse. The horse became frightened. It bucked and reared; and before the Thief of Bagdad could pull down on the snaffle and gain control over his nervous mount, it catapulted him out of the saddle, shot him through the air in an audacious curve, and deposited him in the very midst of the rose tree.

The Princess broke into peals of laughter.

“By Allah!” she exclaimed. “Behold! He has touched the rose tree!”

“Touched it?” commented Zemzem, echoing her mistress’ laughter. “Why—he has nearly crushed it!”

Ahmed accepted the accident with supreme unselfconsciousness. Calmly he plucked one of the roses, stuck it in his waist shawl, and jumped lightly out of the tree and to the ground, not far from Cham Sheng, who spoke to him gliding, low words of bitter irony.

“How tragic it would have been, O great Prince of the Isles, if the horse had killed you and—ah—ended your doubtless ancient and illustrious dynasty!”

He turned away, while Bird-of-Evil drew his friend to one side.

“The Mongol pig suspects you,” he whispered. “Hurry up, soul of my soul, and steal the Princess. Here!”—pressing a small crystal bottle into his hand. “This is the drug. And—here—take this bit of cloth. Sprinkle a few drops of the drug on it and. …”

“No, no!” interrupted the Thief of Bagdad. “I shall sprinkle the drug on the rose—the rose of destiny. …”

And he opened the bottle and saturated the crimson flower with the subtle Egyptian liquid.