If you were to stand in the great city of Baghdad on a midsummer afternoon, you would find that the world had slowed to an absolute crawl. The sun, a white-hot shield in a sky of pale brass, pours down a heat so heavy, it feels almost physical, pressing the dust flat against the clay brick walls.
[000:26] On such afternoons, the sensible people of the city are asleep behind thick stone walls, where water trickles over screens of fragrant reeds to cool the air.
But the poor cannot always afford to be sensible.
On one such afternoon, a porter named Sinbad was dragging himself through the narrow winding lanes. He was a man who made his living by the strength of his back, carrying great crates of spices, heavy bolts of wool, and barrels of oil from the docks of the river Tigris to the markets and mansions of the wealthy.
Today, his load was a massive wooden chest, bound with iron, which seemed to grow heavier with every step he took.
The rough wood bit into his shoulder through his thin sweat-soaked tunic. His sandals, worn thin as autumn leaves, offered no protection against the cobblestones, which baked like griddles beneath his feet.
At last, exhausted and gasping for breath, the porter reached a wide, quiet street in a quarter of the city where the houses did not crowd together, but stood apart like palaces.
He stopped outside a magnificent gate of carved cedarwood, studded with bronze bosses.
Beside the gate was a wide stone bench, shaded by the overhanging branches of a bitter orange tree.
With a low groan of relief, the porter slid the heavy chest from his shoulder, letting it rest against the wall, and sank onto the cool stone bench.
From behind the high walls of the estate came the most exquisite sounds and scents. He could hear the soft, rhythmic splash of a marble fountain, the sweet, liquid notes of a loot being plucked by a skilled hand, and the low, murmuring laughter of people at their ease.
Even more torturous for a hungry man was the breeze that drifted over the wall, carrying the aroma of roasted meats, seasoned with cumin and coriander, of freshly baked flatbread, and the sweet, clean scent of rosewater.
The porter looked down at his calloused hands, blistered and stained with wood ash and rope burn. He looked at his ragged clothes.
Then he looked up at the blue sky above, his heart swelling with a sudden sharp ache of unfairness.
He did not speak in anger, but in a soft, sorrowful sigh, letting his voice rise in a simple verse of poetry, as people of his land so often did when their hearts were full.
Why, master of my land, have you given youth to the world youth, and labor, and loss, and difficulty to me, who am your slave?
Oh, creator of all things, look down upon our lives. One man wakes to a garden of roses, while another wakes to the heavy yoke. One sits in the cool shade, dining on delicate fowl, while another eats the dust of the road and drinks his own sweat.
Yet, we were made from the same clay, and the same sky bends over us both. Why is the divide so wide, and the road so steep for the weary?
The porter finished his verse, let his head fall into his hands, and prepared to rest for just a few moments more before lifting his heavy burden.
But he had barely closed his eyes when the great cedarwood gate creaked open.
A servant, dressed in a tunic of fine white linen with a sash of blue silk, stepped out onto the street. He looked at the porter, then at the heavy chest resting against the wall.
"Come inside," the servant said, his voice polite but firm. "My master wishes to speak with you."
The porter felt a sudden flutter of fear in his chest. Had he offended some great lord with his complaining? Had his poetry been taken as an insult?
"My Lord," the porter stammered, rising quickly to his feet. "I am only a poor porter. I stopped only to rest in the shade of your master's wall. I meant no disrespect, and I am ready to take my load and go."
"You have not offended anyone," the servant replied, offering a reassuring smile. "My master heard your words from the garden, and he desires your company. Do not leave your burden. My fellow servants will keep watch over it. Come."
With a trembling heart, the porter followed the servant through the gate. He stepped from the dusty heat of the street into a world that seemed like a dream of paradise. He walked along paths of cool, polished marble, bordered by beds of dark red roses and pale jasmine.
Tall palms and weeping willows filtered the sunlight into a soft, green twilight.
In the center of the courtyard, a fountain shaped like a golden peacock sprayed shimmering arcs of water into a pool of turquoise tile.
The servant led him to a wide, open pavilion, lined with carpets so thick, the porter's feet sank into them as if they were fresh moss.
Around the edges of the pavilion sat a company of noble guests, dressed in robes of shimmering silk and embroidered wool.
In the center of the room was a long cloth spread with silver platters of roasted lamb, bowls of saffron rice, figs, dates, and flagons of sherbet cooled with snow brought down from the northern mountains.
At the head of the table sat a man of great presence. He was old, with a long beard as white as swan's down, but his dark eyes were bright and clear, filled with a deep, quiet intelligence.
He wore a robe of dark blue silk woven with threads of gold, and on his finger was a ring set with a single magnificent emerald.
"Welcome, brother," the old man said, his voice deep and warm. He gestured to a place near him at the table. "Sit, eat, wash the dust of the road from your throat, and then we shall speak."
The porter, overwhelmed by the splendor and the kindness, bowed low. "I am your servant, my Lord," he said. "My name is Sinbad."
The old man's eyes sparkled with a sudden, bright amusement. "Is it indeed? That is a remarkable thing, for my name is also Sinbad. It seems we share a name, though our paths in this life have been very different.
But come, Sinbad the porter, eat first. A hungry man cannot listen well, and a tired man cannot speak clearly."
The servants brought basin and water for the porter to wash his hands, and then they piled his plate with the finest foods he had ever seen.
For a time, there was no sound in the pavilion, but the gentle splash of the fountain and the quiet clatter of silver.
The porter ate until his hunger was a distant memory, and his spirits rose with every sip of the sweet, cold sherbet.
When the meal was finished and the dishes were cleared, the master of the house turned to his guest.
"Sinbad," the old man said, "while I sat in my garden, I heard the verse you sang outside my gate. You spoke of the unfairness of fortune, of how one man sits in luxury, while another carries the weight of the world.
Do not think I am angry with you for those words. Indeed, they are natural words for a man who is tired and poor. But I must tell you that the wealth you see around you was not given to me by inheritance, nor did I find it without pain. I did not always sit in this garden."
The old man leaned back against his cushions, his gaze drifting toward the open sky, as if he were looking across vast distances of time and water.
"This story," the old man continued, "is one of many that are told in our lands. We live in a world of travelers, of merchants who brave the desert sands, and sailors who cross the great Indian Ocean to trade with distant empires.
Our stories are like the threads of a grand carpet, woven by many voices over hundreds of years, from Baghdad to the farthest shores of India and China. It is a tradition of wonder, of terror, and of survival.
And if you will listen, I will tell you how I, Sinbad the sailor, earned the right to sit in this garden. I will tell you what the road cost me."
The porter settled back, his eyes wide, his fatigue forgotten. The guests in the pavilion grew quiet, and the storyteller began his tale.
"I was born to wealth," the old sailor began, "though I did not know how to keep it. My father was one of the most successful merchants in Baghdad, a man of high standing, who left me a vast fortune when he passed into the mercy of the creator.
I was young, foolish, and surrounded by companions who loved my wealth far more than they loved me.
I thought my father's gold was a well that could never run dry. I bought the finest robes of Egyptian linen and Persian silk. I threw banquets that lasted from sunset to sunrise, where the musicians were paid in gold coins, and the wine flowed like water.
I bought horses I did not ride, palaces I did not need, and friends who vanished the moment the music stopped.
For several years, I lived in this golden fog. But one morning, I woke to a strange and terrible silence in my house. My friends were gone. My servants had departed, for there were no wages to pay them.
When I opened my father's great iron treasury chest, which had once been filled to the brim with gold dinars, I found nothing but dust and a few copper coins rattling in the corners.
I stood there in my empty house, wearing a tattered silk robe that was fraying at the sleeves, and I felt a cold hand clutch at my heart. I had squandered my inheritance. I was on the brink of ruin.
And in Baghdad, a man without money is like a shadow without a body. He is seen, but he does not exist.
In my despair, I remembered a proverb my father used to repeat to me. The grave is better than poverty, but the sea is better than both."
I realized that if I remained in Baghdad, I would become a beggar, an object of pity and mockery to those who had once flattered me.
I resolved to gather what little I had left. I sold my remaining furniture, my father's old books, and the very house I lived in.
When all was done, I had a small sum of 3,000 silver pieces.
With this money, I went to the great markets of Baghdad. I did not buy luxuries, but practical goods that could be traded in distant lands: iron tools, copper vessels, bolts of sturdy wool, and bags of common spices.
I sought out a company of merchants who were preparing for a trading voyage. Together, we traveled down the broad river Tigris on a flat-bottomed barge, until we reached the port of Basra, where the river meets the vast, salt-scented air of the open sea.
Oh, the port of Basra. To a young man who had never left the high walls of Baghdad, it was a place of wild, chaotic wonder. The harbor was a forest of masts, great dhows and galleys, their hulls black with pitch, and their sails folded like the wings of giant birds, rocked on the tide.
The air was thick with the smell of wet wood, drying fish, tar, and the sharp, exotic perfumes of cloves and nutmeg from the southern islands. Men of every tongue and color shouted, argued, and sang as they loaded the ships.
We found a fine, sturdy ship with a crew of experienced sailors, commanded by a captain whose face was as weathered and dark as walnut wood. We loaded our goods into the dark, cool hold, paid our passage, and stepped aboard.
As the sails were unfurled and the wind caught them, the ship leaped forward like a horse released from its tether.
The shore of Basra began to recede, the palm trees shrinking into tiny green feathers against the horizon, until at last, there was nothing but the great blue circle of the sea and the sky above us.
I will not lie to you, Sinbad. My first days at sea were terrible. The motion of the ship made my stomach turn, and I lay on the deck wishing the waves would swallow me.
But the sea has a way of hardening a man. After a week, my limbs grew strong, my eyes grew accustomed to the endless horizon, and I began to feel the rhythm of the ship as if it were my own heartbeat.
We sailed for many days and nights, traveling from island to island, from coast to coast. At every port, we cast anchor and went ashore. We sold our goods, bought the local products of each place, and traded with the inhabitants.
It was a life of constant movement, of buying cheap and selling dear, and my small store of silver began to grow. I felt the pride of a man who was earning his own bread for the first time in his life.
But the sea is a fickle master. It gives and it takes, and it does both without warning.
We had been at sea for several weeks," Sinbad the sailor continued, "when the wind suddenly died away.
The great sails of our ship hung limp and useless from the yards. The sea became as flat and smooth as a sheet of polished blue glass, reflecting the hot sun with a blinding glare.
We drifted slowly, the current carrying us toward an island that lay on the horizon.
As we drew nearer, the lookouts in the rigging called down to the captain, their voices filled with wonder.
It was a beautiful island, unlike any we had seen before. It was perfectly round, rising gently from the water like a green dome.
But what was strangest of all was its texture. There were no sandy beaches, no jagged rocks, and no trees of any kind. It was covered entirely in a dense, lush carpet of soft, emerald green grass that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight.
The captain, seeing that the ship was barely moving and that the crew was weary from the heat, decided to cast anchor.
"We shall land on this island," the captain announced. "The water is shallow and the ground looks soft. You may go ashore to stretch your legs, wash your clothes, and light fires to cook a hot meal. But do not wander far, and keep your eyes on the ship."
The sailors and merchants were overjoyed. We lowered the ship's boats and rode to the island.
When I stepped onto the shore, I felt a strange sensation. The ground was not hard like stone or dry like sand. It was soft and springy, yielding slightly beneath my feet like a thick leather cushion.
We laughed, thinking it was merely some unusual kind of soil, and ran about like children freed from a cage.
Some of the merchants set up large iron pots to boil rice and meat. Others gathered driftwood that had washed up on the edges of the island, piling it high to make cooking fires.
I walked a little apart from the rest, enjoying the cool feel of the grass beneath my bare feet and the fresh breeze that had begun to stir.
I sat down near a small pool of water that had gathered in a hollow of the grass. I dipped my hand into it, expecting it to be cool, but to my surprise, the water was warm, almost hot.
I frowned, looking closely at the ground.
Then, the world began to move. It was not a sharp jolt, but a slow, massive shudder, like the deep breath of a sleeping giant.
The ground beneath my feet rose up an inch, then sank down again.
"Did you feel that?" I called out to a merchant who was standing near one of the cooking fires.
He laughed. "It is only your sea legs, Sinbad. You have been on the water so long, you think the land is moving."
But before he could finish his laugh, the shudder came again, stronger this time. A low, deep vibration, like the rumble of distant thunder, seemed to rise from the very depths of the earth.
The water in the little pools began to slosh back and forth, and the iron cooking pots tipped over, spilling their hot contents onto the grass.
And then, the grass began to hiss.
Where the hot coals of our cooking fires had fallen onto the ground, the green turf did not burn with a yellow flame. Instead, it began to smoke, a thick, greasy black steam rising from the earth. The air was suddenly filled with a terrible, choking smell of burning hair and hot oil.
From the ship, which lay a short distance away, we heard the captain's voice. He was standing on the high poop deck, his face pale with terror, shouting through his cupped hands.
"Back to the boats!" he screamed. "All of you, back to the boats! Fly for your lives! Leave your goods, leave your pots! That is no island!"
We stood frozen for a single terrifying second, looking at him.
"It is a giant whale!" the captain roared. "A sea colossus! It has lain asleep in these waters since the world was young, and sand has gathered on its back, and seeds have grown into grass until it looked like land. But your fires have burned through its skin. It is waking! Run!"
A collective shriek of terror rose from the merchants and sailors. We turned and fled toward the boats, but the ground was no longer stable. It was heaving and buckling like a carpet being shaken by two strong hands.
I ran as fast as my legs could carry me, but the soft grass seemed to cling to my feet. Behind me, I heard a sound that I will never forget: a deep, wet, roaring gasp, like the opening of a massive sluice gate.
The whale was diving.
The edges of the island began to curl upward, the blue sea rushing in to fill the hollows. The water boiled and foamed around us, turning from clear blue to a chaotic froth of white and green.
I saw the ship's boats being tossed like walnut shells in the surf. Some men managed to scramble aboard, their oars churning the water in a desperate bid to escape the massive suction of the sinking beast.
I reached the water's edge, just as the ground beneath me tilted at a terrifying angle. I lunged forward, throwing my arms out, and plunged into the cold, churning sea.
As I rose to the surface, gasping for air, I looked back. Through the foaming water, I saw an eye. It was an eye as large as the shield of a king, dark and ancient, opening beneath the waves.
It did not look at me with anger or malice. It looked with the slow, heavy indifference of a creature that belonged to the deep places of the earth, disturbed from its long sleep by the tiny, stinging sparks of men.
Then, with a movement of unimaginable power, the giant tail of the beast rose from the water, a great black wall of skin that seemed to touch the sky. It came down with a sound like a thunderclap, sending a wave of water as high as a palace wall rushing outward in all directions.
The wave struck me, pushing me down into the cold, dark silence of the deep. I fought against the pressure, my lungs burning, my arms flailing, until at last, I broke the surface again.
I wiped the salt from my eyes and looked around. The island was gone. The whale had vanished into the depths of the ocean.
A short distance away, our ship was sailing. The captain had been forced to cut the anchor cables and hoist the sails to escape the great vortex created by the whale's descent.
The ship was moving fast, its hull battered by the waves, carrying those fortunate few who had made it back to the boats.
"Help!" I screamed, my voice thin and weak against the roar of the sea. "Captain, help me!"
But my voice was nothing. The ship did not turn. It could not turn. It sailed on, its white sails shrinking against the blue sky, leaving me alone in the middle of the trackless ocean.
"I was alone," Sinbad the sailor said, his voice dropping to a quiet whisper that held the memory of that ancient terror.
"The sea was a vast, empty blue platter, and I was a speck of dust upon it.
I swam for as long as I could, but my limbs soon grew heavy and cold. Just as my strength was about to fail me, and I was preparing to let myself sink into the dark water, my hand struck something hard.
It was a large wooden trough, one of the tubs we had brought from the ship to wash our clothes on the island. It had been washed overboard during the chaos and was floating on the waves.
With a desperate, final effort, I dragged myself toward it. I could not climb inside, for it was too small and would have capsized, but I managed to grip the edges with my hands, resting my chest upon it.
All through that long afternoon, I drifted. The sun beat down upon my uncovered head, blistering my skin and drying the salt upon my face until my lips cracked and bled. I was tormented by a terrible thirst, surrounded by water I could not drink.
Night fell, and with it came a cold that seemed to sink into my very bones. The stars came out, thousands of cold, silent eyes looking down at me from the black vault of the sky.
The sea was dark and mysterious, and beneath me, I could hear the strange, deep sighing of the ocean, the movement of unseen creatures in the depths.
I prayed to the creator of all things, asking for mercy, for I believed that this night would be my last.
But when the dawn broke, the sun rose not on an empty horizon, but on the high, dark cliffs of an island.
The current, which had carried me through the night, was drifting toward the land. As I drew closer, I saw that the cliffs were steep and rocky, with no easy place to land. The waves were crashing against the stone with a roar like thunder, throwing up clouds of white spray.
If I am thrown against those rocks, I shall be dashed to pieces.
I let go of the wooden trough and began to swim, trying to steer myself toward a small sandy cove that lay between two high headlands.
The water was rough, catching me and spinning me like a leaf in a windstorm. A great wave lifted me high, carrying me over the jagged reef, and cast me onto the wet sand of the cove.
I lay there for a long time, unable to move. My legs were swollen and blue from the cold water, my skin was raw from the salt, and my throat was so dry, I could not form a single word.
I felt like a man who had died and been washed ashore on the banks of the afterlife.
At last, the heat of the morning sun warmed my frozen limbs. I dragged myself up the beach on my hands and knees until I reached the shade of some wild trees that grew near the cliffs.
There, I found a small spring of fresh water trickling over the rocks. I drank. Oh, how I drank. Never has the finest wine in Baghdad tasted as sweet as that cold, clear water.
I found some wild fruits growing on the trees, which I ate to satisfy my hunger. And then, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
When I awoke, it was late in the afternoon. My body was still sore, but my strength had returned. I decided to explore the island, hoping to find some sign of human life.
I walked along the foot of the cliffs, where the forest met the shore. As I turned a bend in the coastline, I heard a sound that filled me with utter astonishment.
It was the sound of horses. But it was not the ordinary neighing of horses in a pasture. It was a wild, resonant sound, deep and musical, echoing off the high stone cliffs like the sound of brass trumpets.
I crept forward through the trees, keeping myself hidden, until I reached a wide, grassy meadow that bordered the sea. There, tied to stakes driven deep into the sand, were several magnificent mares.
They were of the finest Arabian breed, with coats as smooth as silk and eyes full of spirit.
As I watched, a strange thing happened. The sea near the shore began to boil and foam. From the waves emerged a creature of unbelievable beauty. It was a stallion, but such a stallion as no man of Baghdad has ever seen.
Its coat was a shimmering, iridescent silver, like the scales of a fish in the moonlight. Its mane and tail were long and flowing, moving in the air as if they were made of seafoam, and its hooves struck the water with a sound like silver bells.
This was a sea horse, not the tiny creature of the reefs, but the great, mythical stallion of the deep ocean.
The sea horse ran up the beach, its silver hooves barely leaving an imprint on the wet sand. It approached one of the mares, neighing softly, and began to run in great, graceful circles around her.
Suddenly, several men leaped out from caves in the cliffs, shouting loudly and clattering iron shields with wooden sticks. The noise was deafening.
The sea horse, startled by the sudden clamor, turned and leaped back into the waves, vanishing beneath the blue water in a flash of silver spray.
The men did not pursue it. Instead, they ran to the mares, checking their tethers and soothing them with gentle words.
I realized that these were men, not monsters, and that my only hope of survival lay in their kindness. I stepped out from the trees, raising my hands to show I was unarmed.
"Who are you?" one of the men called out, drawing a short, curved sword. "And where did you come from?"
"I am a shipwrecked merchant," I replied, my voice still hoarse from the salt. "My ship was lost, and I have been carried here by the mercy of the waves. I am starving, and I throw myself upon your charity."
The men looked at me with pity. The leader sheathed his sword and stepped forward, offering me a cloak to cover my tattered clothes.
"Do not fear, brother," he said. "We are the grooms of King Mirjan, the ruler of this island. Every month, during the new moon, we bring the king's finest royal mares to this shore. The wild stallions of the sea emerge from the waves to run with them, and from this union are born the finest horses in the world, foals that can run as fast as the wind and never tire.
We have finished our work for this day, and we shall take you to our king."
"The grooms," Sinbad the sailor continued, "were as good as their word. They sat me upon one of their horses and led me through the interior of the island.
It was a rich and beautiful land, filled with prosperous villages, orchards of pomegranates and figs, and fields of green sugarcane.
At the center of the island rose the city of King Mirjan, a place of white stone palaces, high towers, and busy markets that rivaled those of Baghdad.
The grooms brought me directly to the palace of the king.
King Mirjan was a man of great nobility and kindness. He sat upon a throne of carved ivory, surrounded by his ministers and scholars.
When he heard my story, of the squandered inheritance, the journey to Basra, the island that was a whale, and my long night on the wooden trough, he shook his head in wonder.
"By the creator," the king said, "your life has been preserved for some great purpose, Sinbad. The sea does not often return what it has taken.
You are welcome in my kingdom. You shall be treated not as a beggar, but as my guest."
The king gave me fine robes to wear, a spacious apartment in the palace, and a daily allowance of food and gold.
But I did not wish to live in idleness. I have always believed that a man must be useful, no matter where fortune casts him.
I went to the king and offered my services. Seeing that I was a merchant who could read, write, and calculate numbers, he appointed me as the clerk of the harbor.
My duty was to register every ship that entered the port, to list their cargoes, and to collect the customs duties for the royal treasury.
It was a position of great trust, and I performed it with honesty and diligence.
Every day, I sat on a wooden bench at the harbor, watching the great ships arrive from all corners of the world.
I saw vessels from India, loaded with fine silks and sandalwood. Ships from China, carrying delicate porcelain and tea. And dhows from the coast of Africa, filled with ivory and gold dust.
And every day, I asked the captains and the merchants the same question.
"Do you have news of Baghdad? Do you know the city of peace on the river Tigris?"
But the answer was always the same. "Baghdad?" they would say, shaking their heads. "No, we have not heard of it. It lies too far inland, across too many deserts and mountains. We know only the sea."
I felt a great, heavy sadness in my heart. Though I was wealthy here, though the king treated me with honor and the people respected me, I was a stranger in a strange land.
I longed for the sight of the muddy waters of the Tigris, for the sound of the muezzin's call from the minarets at sunset, and for the crowded, dusty lanes of my home.
Several years passed in this manner. I grew older, my beard began to show its first threads of gray, and I began to fear that I would die on this island, far from the land of my fathers.
Then, on a bright morning when the harbor was busy with the incoming tide, a large merchant ship sailed into the bay.
It was a magnificent vessel, its sails white as clouds, its deck crowded with sailors.
I watched as it cast anchor, and the crew began to unload the cargo onto the stone quays.
I stood by with my ledger and my reed pen, ready to write down the cargo. I watched as the sailors hauled up great bales of wool, crates of ironware, and bags of spices from the dark hold.
As I looked at one of the large wooden crates, my heart suddenly stopped.
There, painted in black pitch on the rough wood, was a mark I knew as well as my own face. It was the merchant mark of my father's house.
And beneath it, written in a clear, bold hand, was my own name. Sinbad of Baghdad.
I felt a sudden, dizzying rush of blood to my head. I walked slowly toward the crate, my hand trembling as I reached out to touch the wood.
"Whose goods are these?" I asked the sailor who was hauling the crate.
"They belong to a merchant of Baghdad," the sailor replied, wiping the sweat from his brow. "But he is no longer with us. He drowned at sea some years ago, near the beginning of our voyage. The captain has kept his goods in the hold, hoping to find his relatives when we return to Basra."
I turned and ran toward the ship, scrambling up the wooden gangplank.
I found the captain standing on the deck, directing the unloading.
He was older now, his hair more silver than when I had last seen him, but his face was the same. The same weathered, walnut skin, the same sharp, experienced eyes.
It was the captain of my ship.
"Captain!" I cried out, my voice shaking with emotion.
He looked at me, his brow furrowing with confusion. "Yes, what do you want, master clerk? Have I failed to pay some duty?"
"Captain!" I said, stepping closer. "Do you not know me? Look at my face!"
He stared at me for a long time, but he saw only a well-dressed harbor clerk in the robes of King Mirjan's court. He shook his head.
"I am sorry, my Lord," he said. "I have seen many faces in many ports. I do not recall yours."
"I am Sinbad!" I cried. "The merchant of Baghdad! The one who squandered his inheritance, who bought the cargo of iron and wool, and who landed with you on the island that was a whale!"
The captain's face went white. He stepped back, raising his hands as if to ward off a ghost.
"By the creator!" he whispered. "Do not mock me, sir. Sinbad is dead. He was drowned before my very eyes when the whale dived. We searched for him, but there was nothing but the empty sea. You are an impostor, seeking to steal the goods of a dead man!"
"I am no impostor!" I said, and I began to speak rapidly, recalling details that only the two of us could know.
"Do you remember, Captain, the night before we reached the whale? You sat on the deck and told me of your first voyage to the islands of cloves. Do you remember the merchant who lost his turban in the wind, and how we laughed? Do you remember the exact price I paid you for my passage? 300 silver pieces, paid in the harbor of Basra?"
The captain's eyes grew wider with every word I spoke. At last, he let out a great, roaring cry of joy.
"It is you!" he shouted, throwing his arms around me in a great, rib-cracking hug. "By the mercy of heaven, you are alive! We mourned you, Sinbad! We thought the sea had swallowed you forever!"
He turned to his crew, his voice booming across the deck. "Bring up the goods of Sinbad of Baghdad! Every crate, every bale! For the master has returned, and what the sea took, it has given back!"
"I took my goods," Sinbad the sailor said, looking around his beautiful pavilion. "And I selected the finest and most valuable items: the rarest spices, the best ironwork, and the most beautiful bolts of cloth.
I brought them to King Mirjan as a gift, explaining that my ship had returned, and that I was indeed the man I had claimed to be.
The king was delighted by my good fortune. He refused to take my gifts, and instead, he gave me treasures of his own to add to my cargo: pearls of unmatched size, vessels of gold and silver, and rare woods that smelled of summer nights.
I bid farewell to the kind king, and to the grooms of the sea horses, who had saved my life when I was nothing but a piece of driftwood on the shore. I stepped aboard my old ship, and with a fair wind behind us, we set sail for home.
The voyage was long, but it was filled with the sweet anticipation of homecoming. We sailed through the Indian Ocean, up the Persian Gulf, and at last, we reached the port of Basra.
From Basra, I traveled up the Tigris with my goods, returning to the city of my birth.
When I entered the gates of Baghdad, I was no longer the foolish young man who had left it. I had departed with a small store of silver and a heart full of vanity. I returned with a fortune that exceeded my father's, but more than that, I returned with wisdom.
I bought this land, Sinbad. I built this house, planted this garden, and settled down to live a life of peace and charity, remembering always those who are poor and weary, for I have known the weight of the load and the heat of the road."
The old sailor fell silent. He reached into his sash and pulled out a heavy purse of embroidered silk, which clinked with the rich, heavy sound of gold. He placed it in the porter's hand.
"Take this, my brother," Sinbad the sailor said. "It is 100 gold dinars. It is yours to ease the burden of your labor. Go home to your family, and let your heart be at peace."
The porter looked at the purse in his hand, then at the kind, ancient eyes of the sailor. He felt a tears rising in his own eyes, not of sorrow, but of a deep, overwhelming gratitude.
"My Lord," the porter whispered, bowing so low his forehead touched the soft carpet. "I have no words to thank you. Your generosity is great, but your story is greater still. It has cured my heart of its bitterness."
"Do not thank me," the old man said, with a gentle smile. "But I have one request. Come back tomorrow at this same hour. Sit with me, eat with me, and I shall tell you the story of my second voyage. For the sea, Sinbad, is a strange and hungry thing. It is not easily forgotten."
The porter bowed once more, took his heavy chest, which now seemed as light as a feather, and stepped out of the gate into the cool evening air of Baghdad. The sun had set, and the sky was a deep, velvet violet, filled with the first cold stars.
As the porter walked home, his mind was not on his poverty, nor on the weight of the years, but on the great, mysterious ocean he had never seen.
And now, as we leave the two Sinbads in the quiet of the Baghdad night, there is a question that remains, floating like a ship on the dark water.
It is a question to keep with you as you close your eyes. What is it that pulls a person back to the sea, or back to any great and dangerous adventure, after it has taken everything once already?
Why, when we have found safety, comfort, and a quiet garden, do we still look out at the wide horizon and wonder what lies beyond the edge of the world?
Think on that, and sleep well.