Between Two Ends (10 page)

“I am not a thief,” Yeats managed. “But I am looking for something.”

“And what might that be?” She folded her arms.

“You.”

Her face brightened. “Did Mohassin send you? Oh deceitful, lovable cook! He cannot tell me himself but has sent his servant,” she murmured. “Wait! I'm coming in!” Before he could reply, the girl parted the branches of his tree covering and stepped through.

She was so close their noses nearly touched. “There! Now, what does Mohassin have to say to me?”

Yeats tried to think. “Mohassin did not send me. I am here on my own.”

“For what purpose?”

Taking a deep breath, Yeats ventured, “To help you, to save you from a danger. And to help my father.”

She narrowed her eyes. “The poets have said, The face of an honest man hides nothing, while the face of a liar can be read by all.”

She was almost as tall as Yeats, which surprised him since he was used to looking down at people his age. Her delicate curls and feminine clothes were deceiving, for when her arm brushed against
his shoulder he felt the strength of an athlete, not a dainty royal.

“I am not a liar,” he answered.

“Yet not telling all either. That is close to a lie. Tread carefully.”

He swallowed. “I can't.”

“Why?”

“Because you will think I am crazy.”

She scrutinized him. “You are
not
witless. However, each man serves his own purpose. And what may yours be, I wonder?” She tugged him out of the tree branches into the moonlight. “What garments are these!” she exclaimed and touched his shirt. “You are from a distant land, I see. But I do not fear you. You have a trusting face. And familiar! Walk with me. My father allows no one but my maid to visit, and your company, deceitful or not, is welcome.” She stopped after a few paces. “By all that is in heaven! I
have
seen you before. Swear it is so.”

“You knew my father.” Before she could query further he added, “And if everyone has their purpose I would very much like to know yours.”
At the last second he remembered to add, “My lady.” The stones crunched pleasantly beneath their feet and the moonlight opened a path before them. Yeats had the surreal sensation that the garden was a theater and the trees an audience. Blossoms fluttered down like butterfly ghosts and came to rest silently before their feet. Her next words broke his reverie.

“I want to know why the city weeps.”

His stomach lurched. “You said that to Mohassin.”

“So you
are
a spy!” she accused.

He shook his head. “No. But why do you need to know about the weeping? Do you really think you are Shaharazad?”

With the briefest smile she kept walking. “How intriguing! It is told that once there lived a man whose words were honey but whose garb was as slovenly as a boar. …”

“Is this a story?” Yeats interrupted.

Shaharazad nodded.

He sighed. “I was told you are familiar with all the stories and poets.”

“I am. Shall I continue, stranger? And have you a name before I am interrupted again?”

“It is Yeats.”

“Fascinating!” the girl exclaimed. “I know it not. Nor have I read it in any book. You are not from here.”

“No. I am from another place.” Peering suspiciously at the near bushes, Yeats whispered, “And neither are you. You just don't remember it.”

Shaharazad tapped her lip. “I have read of this philosophy before. Does it not come from the eastern part of the empire?”

“It's not a philosophy. It's reality!” Yeats gestured in exasperation. “You don't belong here and you've got to come with me.” He broke into a sweat. “Listen. I don't know why the city weeps. I'll find out! But, Shari, I've really come to find
you
.”

The girl frowned.

“Don't you know who you are?” Yeats pressed.

“I am the vizier's daughter.”

“Yes, but who you
really
are? Don't you remember William Trafford?”

She stared ahead with half-closed eyes, as if
she was thinking hard. Her response, when it came, was deflating. “You are indeed strange, Yeats. Nonetheless, you are an answer to my prayers, for I have searched many days to find anyone who will tell me the mystery outside these walls. My father will not let me leave the palace, and his guards are sworn to execute anyone who speaks to me.”

“Execute?”

A bell rang and Shaharazad gasped. “My father! Quickly now!” She grabbed his hand. The echo of many heavy footfalls sounded in the colonnade, followed by crunching stones. Spearheads glinted in the moonlight.

Shari pulled him across the lawn to the shelter of a torch-lit archway. They crouched against the wall as three servants carrying earthen jars passed. They could hear but not see the group of soldiers in the garden. Yeats looked at the girl closely. With her curls framing her cheeks she looked prettier than the picture in Gran's house.

“My chamber is through that door,” she said. “Can you see it?”

He squinted through the archway into the palace. “Yes.”

“I will wait for you tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night?” Yeats exclaimed.

“Yes,” the girl said. “Come at midnight when Rawiya, my maidservant, has left my chamber. There will be a diversion to distract the guards. Knock with a single rap. Find out the grief of the city and bring me news! Then I will reward you.”

He panicked as the girl prepared to leave. “Wait! I just got here,” he began.

She pressed something into his hands. “Here are the coins Mohassin refused. Go to the kitchens and find him. He will help with all your other needs. But you must go to him. There is no one else I trust. Take this ring. It is a sign for him that you are true. But do not tell him why you are here, for I must protect him too.”

The voices from the garden faded. Shaharazad looked out briefly, then pulled him close. “There is a passage beyond the archway of the next colonnade. Follow it to its end. There you will find a door that can only be opened from the inside
and so is not guarded at night. Follow the path to the main road. It will take you to the market and inns. In the morning, come back to the palace kitchens to find Mohassin.” Shaharazad squeezed his hand. “I know you, though I know not from where. You warm my heart.”

“Then come with me,” he urged.

The flash of torchlight made them both look up.

“Go, Yeats!”

She should be close to remembering! If only they had more time. “There is so much to explain,” he said. “I need to tell you about my family, about my father, about Gran's library and where it all began. Can't you hide me somewhere so we can talk?”

“Unless you wish to spend the night in the garden hedge there is nowhere else,” she said. “I am confined to the garden and my room. And how would I explain you to Rawiya, my maidservant? But tomorrow night I will send her on an errand. And I will create a distraction for the guards. At midnight. One knock on the door. Be ready! Now, go! Guards are coming.”

There was nothing to be done. He could not
hide from bush to bush in the garden with guards tramping around all night. “Midnight, here!” he repeated. Cursing his luck, he rushed across the paving stones just as the guards came into full view. He shrank from the shadows cast by the spitting torches and hugged the wall. The girl gave a final wave, and Yeats was alone once more to face the Arabian night.

hen the guards left, Yeats headed in the direction of the passage Shari had described to him. A twig snapped behind him. He stopped breathing. What now? What else could be lurking that might be worse than guards? The gray trunks blurred as he swung around. He could hear the breath of a large creature. Seconds later something tickled the back of his neck.

A savage voice growled in his ear, “Why are you here?” Long whiskers trailed across his cheek and a powerful shoulder jostled him with ease. Two green eyes blinked.

It was a panther, black as pitch, whose eyes and glimmering teeth alone gave away its shape.

“Answer.”

Yeats winced against the blast of its warm breath.

“I'm looking for someone,” he stammered.

The giant cat sniffed; its wet nose greased Yeats's chin. Then it swung toward the sound of the retreating guards. Yeats stepped backward and the cat whipped a paw around his leg without turning. When its claws punctured his skin, Yeats screamed.

Suddenly he was on his back, the giant cat pressed against his chest, forcing all the air out of him.

“Another sound and I'll gouge your throat!”

“I won't,” Yeats wheezed. “I promise.” His leg throbbed: the weight of the cat was unbearable. Its teeth were dangerously close. “Please let me go.”

“You prefer the company of the pirates?” mocked the panther. “Yes. I saw who brought you here. I would have tracked you faster but that foolish cook shut the inner gate on his way out.”

The panther proceeded to wash a paw, bobbing its great claws in front of Yeats's nose.

“Are you going to kill me?”

The panther stopped and eyed the garden. “I cannot release you,” it said simply. “For it is my position to guard those who live here. And you are an intruder.”

“I didn't know this was your garden.”

The cat continued licking itself, roughly scraping its claws across Yeats's shirt in the process. “This is not my garden.” Its muscles tensed. It was going to bite his throat! Those horrible teeth ripping …

“I'm here for Shaharazad!” he cried desperately.

The green eyes flared. “Shaharazad?”

“Yes.”

The panther extended a claw, pressing the point into Yeats's neck.

“Please don't kill me,” he gasped. “I've got to bring that girl home.”

The cat gave a low growl. “You've as much chance of that as of escaping my claws.”

“Why?” Yeats asked breathlessly.

“She's under a spell. Surely your pirate friends told you.”

Yeats gawked. “They did. How did you know?”

“Because,” the giant cat said and rolled off his stomach, “I am a bookend.”

Gasping, Yeats clutched his throat and sat up. The panther made no move to stop him.

“I happen to be searching for someone myself. A wish gone bad, you might say.” The great creature sighed, a little sadly, Yeats thought, although he did not say so. “I work alone now and at double the effort. I envy your pirates that much.”

Despite his fear Yeats couldn't help but appreciate the panther's beauty and mystique. “Who are you looking for?” he asked.

The panther's eyes gleamed. “A boy. His name is Roland. He entered this story a short time ago and remains lost in the town.”

Yeats brightened. “My dad desperately needs Shaharazad to come home,” he whispered. “If you let me go, we can help each other. I will do my best to look for Roland. I've got to go into the town tonight and I could use the company anyway. I could bring him back here.”

The giant cat's tail thumped the garden floor. Yeats couldn't tell if it was angry or thinking. After
a long pause it said, “All those within the confines of this book live and die accordingly. But you and I are not of this place. We smell its smells, breathe its air, and taste its food, but we know better, don't we? We know of the other place. It is indeed difficult to journey alone.”

Yeats nodded. “I've only been here for an hour and already I'm homesick.” He thought of the pirates abandoning him on the shore. “If you're a bookend, where is your partner?”

The big cat's tail thumped a little harder and Yeats wondered if he had pushed his luck too far. But the panther responded, “Lost to fire.”

“I'm sorry,” said Yeats.

“So am I,” the animal said. “I will release you on one condition: that should you encounter Roland you must tell me. You will recognize him by his shaved head and black skin. I must find him quickly, for he has rightly and fairly broken the spell.”