Chapter 11
By next morning, when dawn’s quiet light kissed the churning midnight sea, warming it in brilliant hues of indigo and iris, the shimmering expanse of water stretched from horizon to horizon without a single blemish.
The shore—and the possibly pursuing other vessel—was now long gone as we pushed into the heart of the Persian Gulf, this ancient sea of pearls and sailing traditions older than dust. With no destination save the deep, on a course Majed ominously said the most vessels seemed to have vanished upon, we were finally on the quest Khayzur had warned me a significant time ago was urgent.
But there was nothing to be done about it now, save press forward.
My family furious, my daughter left in Baghdad with only a teenage scholar looking over her, my estranged spouse even more determined to hunt me down, and one of my dearest friends shut away .
. . all I could do was sail, try to complete this latest deadly quest, and then return to deal with the aftermath of it all.
Accordingly I turned my attention to my ship and crew, making sure the Marawati would be in prime condition, her people hale.
We had one minor squall, a few days in, that left half the crew emptying their stomachs and washed away a number of unsecured items, and another incident with the carpenter’s apprentice smashing his toe with an ill-aimed adze, but otherwise the sailing was steady if the water a bit rough.
There were two brushes with the Unseen—a horrid cross between a seagull and a bat that woke me from a dead sleep and a pair of mating mermaids (do not get excited—they resemble turtles more than any fair maiden and the resulting scene was something I desire burned from my memory).
But I was growing more accustomed to my visions of a world and creatures no other human could see, and besides the sandal I hurled at the bat-gull, I was learning to keep such reactions to myself.
Save for a few lumbering baggala—the heavy trade ships darting away at the sight of my possible pirate’s galley—we spotted no other vessels and seemed to be alone.
At first, this was a blessing. One never knows the intentions of a strange ship, in that lonely, lawless world of water and sky where everyone is on edge, where miscommunication can be as deadly as malice—but as we edged past the third week without sight of land, when it had been a few days since birds were last spotted, a restless energy began to simmer about the crew.
I had warned my men that we were headed to an isolated land, one we might find strange, dangerous, and difficult to leave; indeed, I had granted the few that wished to stay behind my blessing, choosing a handful of adventurous new recruits in Basrah.
But even for those of us accustomed to life at sea, the narrow confines of a ship quickly grow suffocating, particularly without even a short break upon land.
Mood can be capricious. Infectious. Entirely changed by something as simple as a dead bird taken as an ill portent.
When you are at the mercy of none but God and a vast, shifting ocean that might swallow you with a single gulp, even the most seasoned sailor can be rattled.
Looking back, the shift in the Marawati’s attitude can be blamed on that which rules a sailor’s life: the weather.
On the twenty-ninth day at sea, the sun broke across the sky as though a viciously wronged celestial being, determined to scorch the vast world below that had maltreated it.
It crept into every patch of shade, warmed the water so much that not even a dip in the sea offered respite, the air so muggy that we existed in constant sweat—moisture we could ill afford to lose.
Tempers grew shorter as temperatures rose and we were all struck with a terrible thirst: a danger when there were no ready sources of fresh water.
Old friends snapped at each other and newer ones cursed acquaintances they had been nurturing.
I was forced to intervene more than once before people came to blows, and as we passed a solid month since departing Sarilaglag, a new moon rising over a night whose darkness offered no relief, I could sense the doubt, hear the murmurings that we were lost, that there was something cursed about this venture, and worse—see the disquiet in their gazes when they looked upon Dalila.
Because there was no denying that the Mistress of Poisons was alarming everyone.
Granted, a certain level of alarm was the general state around Dalila, one she even cultivated.
But while her devil-may-care attitude, cold confidence, and bizarre experiments were one thing, the paranoid hermit who had all but taken over the cargo hold hunched over a peculiar assortment of tools and “ingredients” was another.
She was openly pilfering random bits of detritus and personal items like a wanton crow, bringing back fish bones and wood shavings, iron nails and seaweed snagged on fishing lures.
She appeared physically healthier than she had when we first rescued her, but she would speak to no one, instead muttering to herself and her work.
Throughout the day, I would randomly feel a heat upon my neck and turn back to find her staring at me, studying me in a way she refused to explain.
And it was starting to exhaust my sympathy.
Had we been upon land, I might have indulged some further licking of her wounds, but we were at sea under increasingly perilous conditions and when a member of the crew began refusing to pull their weight .
. . it was noticed. And it was enough that I feared we might be flirting with the sort of discontent that leads to mutiny—until a change of fortunes one miserable late afternoon soon made heat waves, unhappy sailors, and eccentric poison mistresses the least of our problems.
There was little to signify the misadventure to come.
We were awaiting night in a stupor, exhausted from the day’s labors and praying for the mild release of dusk.
I was fighting a spell of dizziness, one of many that had been plaguing me, the vicious weather making every physical ailment worse.
Regardless, I was still overseeing a change in the sails.
The wind had died a slow death in the hazy air, thick as honey, and if we had any hope of movement, we needed to try tacking in a different direction.
Shading my eyes, I watched my men, waiting for Ilyas to toss down his rope.
FLEE.
It was not a word, not quite, but rather a sensation—a warning more dire than any tongue could confer. A sharp cold punched through my chest, and I sucked for air.
“Are you all right, nakhudha?” Ilyas called down.
I attempted to steady myself on the mast and then jerked back my hand: the blisters on my left palm had yet to heal, there was no time, not when I couldn’t rest my hand and constantly sweat through any bandage.
The pressure in my chest relented, replaced by an overwhelming urge to follow.
The fear didn’t leave; rather it felt like spotting a leopard in the wilderness.
A sight so beautiful that one is tempted to linger, to steal another look despite every moment increasing their chance of having their throat ripped open by feline fangs.
“Keep working,” I managed, my feet nearly tripping over each other. I wasn’t even sure I was controlling them. The sensation that was not quite a voice was continuing to not quite shout internal commands.
Look, it urged. Here. There.
My skull pounded in complaint; I’d had a steady headache for weeks, the lack of water not helping, and I barely made it to the edge of the ship before I vomited without warning, the rush of magic upending my thirsty, mortal form. I braced myself on the railing, breathing hard.
A flash of color drew my eye to the southeastern horizon and my mouth fell open in genuine surprise.
In the distance was a bright green shore.
I hastily rubbed my eyes, convinced it was a mirage, but no.
The rich expanse of forested hills remained and then, with another shift of the sun, a blindingly white city appeared in their midst. It was like a pearl set among blazing emeralds, both riches and relief beckoning.
The next moment, it was gone. Cold certainty churned in my chest another moment, then faded.
But the urge to follow remained, like a ghost upon the eye after glancing at the sun.
That part of the sky had darkened enough for the brighter stars and planets to glow, and I quickly marked al-Zuhara close by.
Tinbu had noticed my distress. “Nakhudha?” he called, joining me. “Is everything all right?”
Gripping the side of the boat to steady myself, I forced a nod. “Ay. We make for that spot,” I added, pointing to where the now-vanished white kingdom had blazed.
He gazed at the empty horizon and frowned. “You are certain?”
The yearning ache in my chest certainly was. “I am. Set the rudders. Make as much progress as we can before nightfall.”
I returned to my captain’s bench to oversee the work, calling out for the sails to be repositioned and the anchor to be checked if—God willing—we were soon to make landfall.
The environment seemed to respond, a swell shoving the ship forward and a breeze catching the sails as though we were a ball being tossed between children.
We surged forth, night falling swiftly as we left the setting sun behind and headed toward a kingdom that had only offered a glimpse of itself.
Majed and I traded shifts, each watching the map of stars in the sky.
But I had not been sleeping long when a gentle nudge woke me.
“Nakhudha,” Tinbu whispered. “There is something you must see.”
Grumbling, I rolled over and rubbed my bleary eyes. It was nearly dawn, the stars still out for they immediately grabbed my attention . . . by being entirely wrong.