Arabesque

Munif

Munif looked up at the lateen sails. Twin triangles of white linen swelled in the wind as the dhow raced across pristine waters. The teakwood planks of the deck showed no wear from the rough weather. Only the rigging had suffered any damage from the storm, and that had been quickly repaired. From the bow he watched as a pod of playful dolphins swam in the wake of the ship.

The sight was as serene as any Munif had seen.

While not superstitious, Munif felt that a certain fate had guided the dhow's journey thus far. There simply was no other explanation for their survival. They'd been navigating around the Ras Mansour, leaving the Indigo Sea and sailing the main passage toward Tivisis. It was treacherous under the best of circumstances, marked by dangerous currents, deadly undertows, and perilous weather year-round. Beneath its beautiful aquamarine surface, broken ships lay in watery graves, torn asunder by the shoals that hid like wicked teeth beneath the surface of the Emerald Sea.

Then the storm had hit.

For two days strong winds and high waves had battered the dhow, taking a toll of all those aboard. Confined to quarters, Munif could do little but ride out the tempest. He was exhausted—the storm had sapped the last of his strength. Deprived of sleep, Munif felt weak and sickly. It was affecting his mood and motivation. Food, water, and fresh air hadn't helped. His mind and body craved something else.

But what he wanted, he could not have.

The first sun shone high in the blue sky; the second, a fiery orange crescent, was beginning to emerge from the eastern horizon. The rising heat was tempered by strong sea-breezes, a crisp wind blowing from the northwest. Munif could just make out a dark mass to the south.

Probably Rades, he thought.

If indeed he was correct and the dhow had not been blown off course, then they were near the island some seventy-five farsangs from Tivisis. If the winds held, they'd be there in three days.

The hold doors squeaked open, jarring Munif into alertness. The two summoners emerged, wincing at the brilliant sunlight. They had chosen to stay with the cargo rather than the crew—avoiding contact with the others aboard. Munif watched the two turn their faces to the sky as though in relief after the dark, dank prison below deck.

Munif edged closer.

He waited until they turned their backs to him, then slipped just inside the hold—partially hidden from view, but still able to listen to any conversation between the two. The first words were lost to him. The guttural dialect of their native tongue, Zaran, coupled with the ambient sounds of a ship at sea, made following the conversation difficult. Munif had studied the ancient language and knew it far better than most, but was nowhere near an expert. And there was nothing he could do about the popping of sails, creaking of wood, and slapping of waves.

He sighed deeply. This would be difficult—his focus was gone.

Munif strained to hear the taller of the two. From following them for weeks, he'd learned their names—both no doubt assumed for the passage. This one was Hersí.

"Thankfully... rains... stopped," Hersí said. "... rid our noses... stench... reach the city."

Munif noticed that the second man—Bashír—seemed grave. When he spoke, it was in such a tone that Munif himself was troubled "There are many... to stop us."

Despite their physical similarities—both had raven-black skin and wore long robes and cowls that concealed their bodies—Munif noted the marked difference between the two: Hersíappeared calm, while Bashír seemed anxious. Each man was a devout disciple of an ancient religion—fanatical to the point of murderous obsession.

"Do not be foolish," Hersí murmured. "... mission is guided by... more powerful than ours. Those... oppose us will suffer... consequences."

"... be little doubt... suffering will occur," Bashír remarked, rubbing his hands nervously. "... pray... not our own."

"We are well," Hersí said.

Munif noticed both men looked constantly up into the sky. Hersí pointed out over the sea. Munif heard him mention Tivisis, and then, amid the hushed jumble of words, the word duty. The shorter summoner listened intently; his nods appeared to placate Hersí.

Munif leaned forward, desperate to hear more, to understand better. He knew they were headed to Tivisis—this was certain. Beyond, however, remained unknown—thus he'd spent frustrating nights in his cabin, studying a map between bouts of nausea, unable to determine whether the city was the end of their journey or just one more stop along the way.

A shriek from the sky interrupted the discussion. All three turned as a scarlet-tailed tern landed on the rail not ten feet from Hersí and preened its feathers.

"Now that is a good sign," said Hersí.

"Some signs... not to... trusted." Bashír replied. Hersí spat over the rail, startling the seabird; it fluttered up for a moment and then came to rest again a few feet farther along the rail.

"Don't be a fool. A few clouds... not prophesy doom."

Bashír bowed his head and the two men moved toward the stern, continuing their conversation. Munif shook his head in frustration. It was impossible to follow them without rousing suspicion.

This was all he would get from them for now.

His quest for answers would have to continue.