Read Online Sinbad and The Eye of the Tiger by John Ryder Hall - Free Book Online
Authors: John Ryder Hall
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rose and fell on the dark blue bosom of the ocean. The colorful sails billowed out, pushing the wooden ship through the waters, cleaving the sea, foaming the waves, sending spray flying back over the deck to sting the cheeks of Sinbad.
The turbaned captain squinted at the sun, swept the horizon with a practiced eye, and his legs compensated for the tilt and sway of the deck. Sinbad felt the salty tang of the air, heard the snap of canvas, the hiss of water along the ship’s side, and the sound of a song from the crew’s quarters.
Out of the corner of his eye Sinbad spotted the leap of a fish. A seabird dipped and banked, then plummeted toward a spot of ocean. With a sudden flurry of wings it was airborne again, but in its claws was the squirming, flopping shape of a fish.
Sinbad took a primitive instrument from a compartment near the helm and took a reading on the sun. Then he watched the crew on the deck for a few moments, savoring the feeling of salt air and a moving deck beneath his feet.
One sailor was brewing tea over a low, wide-legged brazier. Another was sharpening a dagger on a flat stone and testing the point with his thumb. Abdul was mending a much-mended shirt and Sinbad grinned. “Abdul, if you spent less at the gaming tables you might afford a new shirt!”
Abdul looked up with a grin that showed several absent teeth. “Aye, Cap’n, but a shirt only keeps you warm—it doesn’t stir the blood!”
Sinbad laughed, then saw two more sailors throwing dice against the cabin wall and sighed. He didn’t stop it for he was of the mind that all sailors gambled—on everything: returning home, surviving the next storm, eating food stored for weeks or months in smelly holds, coming back aboard from leave in a cutthroat port. And he was the biggest gambler of all, he thought, gambling ship, crew, his life—and the life of Princess Farah—in a mad adventure to find a myth and have him perform a miracle.
Sinbad turned to Bahadin, at the helm. “Three degrees west.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Sinbad took another deep breath of the salt air and grinned as Aboo-seer came up the ladder to the poop deck. “The sea is as calm as a shallow pool and the wind fair.”
The sailor nodded. “Perhaps the Princess Farah can be persuaded to come up on deck today.”
“Perhaps.” Sinbad agreed.
“Four days since we set sail,” he said, shaking his head. “And never once out of the cabin. It is unhealthy.”
Sinbad made apologies for her. “The seas have been rough until now. She is a poor sailor.” Aboo-seer spit over the side, then put his gaze on the same horizon as the bearded helmsman. “I shall try to persuade her,” Sinbad said. He heard a scrape and went to the stern rail to look over the side.
Hassan was painting the worn window framing of Sinbad’s cabin, a task they had meant to do in port at Charak. He was held by a rope around his waist. He saw Sinbad’s shadow and grinned up at him, shading his eyes with a paint-flecked hand. Sinbad smiled at him and moved on.
Hassan continued to hum the tuneless little ditty that Sinbad’s appearance had interrupted. His hand slopped on paint with not too expert a hand, but he cared not. He was more interested in remembering the bawdy words to the tune, taught to him by a tawny-skinned wench in a disreputable tavern in Cyrene, on the African coast west of Alexandria. He stopped when he heard a strange grunting sound, followed by Farah’s voice. He frowned as he heard the strange animal grunting again, a kind of guttural chattering. Then again, the voice of the princess.
Intrigued, Hassan edged closer to the cabin windows, pushing out from the stern and letting the roll of the ship move him on the end of his rope toward the windows. He peered in and almost dropped his paint jar and brush in surprise.
Hassan stopped with his feet on the recessed sill of the high transom that ran across the back of the ship. The windows, which were composed of small panes of
The turbaned captain squinted at the sun, swept the horizon with a practiced eye, and his legs compensated for the tilt and sway of the deck. Sinbad felt the salty tang of the air, heard the snap of canvas, the hiss of water along the ship’s side, and the sound of a song from the crew’s quarters.
Out of the corner of his eye Sinbad spotted the leap of a fish. A seabird dipped and banked, then plummeted toward a spot of ocean. With a sudden flurry of wings it was airborne again, but in its claws was the squirming, flopping shape of a fish.
Sinbad took a primitive instrument from a compartment near the helm and took a reading on the sun. Then he watched the crew on the deck for a few moments, savoring the feeling of salt air and a moving deck beneath his feet.
One sailor was brewing tea over a low, wide-legged brazier. Another was sharpening a dagger on a flat stone and testing the point with his thumb. Abdul was mending a much-mended shirt and Sinbad grinned. “Abdul, if you spent less at the gaming tables you might afford a new shirt!”
Abdul looked up with a grin that showed several absent teeth. “Aye, Cap’n, but a shirt only keeps you warm—it doesn’t stir the blood!”
Sinbad laughed, then saw two more sailors throwing dice against the cabin wall and sighed. He didn’t stop it for he was of the mind that all sailors gambled—on everything: returning home, surviving the next storm, eating food stored for weeks or months in smelly holds, coming back aboard from leave in a cutthroat port. And he was the biggest gambler of all, he thought, gambling ship, crew, his life—and the life of Princess Farah—in a mad adventure to find a myth and have him perform a miracle.
Sinbad turned to Bahadin, at the helm. “Three degrees west.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Sinbad took another deep breath of the salt air and grinned as Aboo-seer came up the ladder to the poop deck. “The sea is as calm as a shallow pool and the wind fair.”
The sailor nodded. “Perhaps the Princess Farah can be persuaded to come up on deck today.”
“Perhaps.” Sinbad agreed.
“Four days since we set sail,” he said, shaking his head. “And never once out of the cabin. It is unhealthy.”
Sinbad made apologies for her. “The seas have been rough until now. She is a poor sailor.” Aboo-seer spit over the side, then put his gaze on the same horizon as the bearded helmsman. “I shall try to persuade her,” Sinbad said. He heard a scrape and went to the stern rail to look over the side.
Hassan was painting the worn window framing of Sinbad’s cabin, a task they had meant to do in port at Charak. He was held by a rope around his waist. He saw Sinbad’s shadow and grinned up at him, shading his eyes with a paint-flecked hand. Sinbad smiled at him and moved on.
Hassan continued to hum the tuneless little ditty that Sinbad’s appearance had interrupted. His hand slopped on paint with not too expert a hand, but he cared not. He was more interested in remembering the bawdy words to the tune, taught to him by a tawny-skinned wench in a disreputable tavern in Cyrene, on the African coast west of Alexandria. He stopped when he heard a strange grunting sound, followed by Farah’s voice. He frowned as he heard the strange animal grunting again, a kind of guttural chattering. Then again, the voice of the princess.
Intrigued, Hassan edged closer to the cabin windows, pushing out from the stern and letting the roll of the ship move him on the end of his rope toward the windows. He peered in and almost dropped his paint jar and brush in surprise.
Hassan stopped with his feet on the recessed sill of the high transom that ran across the back of the ship. The windows, which were composed of small panes of
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