“Peace be upon you, friends.”

A bandy-legged little man stood holding a torch in one hand. His beard was so spattered and stained I could not guess its original color. Knotted around his waist, a length of rope secured his trousers. Splotches of dried paint seemed the only things keeping his clothing from parting company.

“I thought I heard voices. I’m delighted that you came to visit.”

“Not on purpose,” grumbled Baksheesh.

“Even so,” the man said, “I hope you have found something of interest.”

“Remarkable,” put in Salamon. “Absolutely fascinating.”

“This is your work?” Shira said.

The little man bobbed his head. “Such as it is.”

“Oh no,” Baksheesh said aside to me. “A dauber! A paintsplasher! How did we come to fall in with one of them? Here, of all places? Rascals! Bad as public storytellers. Worse! They fling colors every which way and fool us into thinking they mean something. That’s an honest living?”

“Honest as anything else in the world, and a living like another,” said our host, whose ears must have been as sharp as his eyes.

“I am called Cheshim,” he went on, taking no offense at Baksheesh’s mumblings, smiling agreeably as I named each of us to him.

“And you,” he said, turning his glance back to me—very cordially, as much at ease as if we had been old acquaintances. And for an instant I had half a notion we had met somewhere before. “This seems to have caught your attention. I take that as a compliment.”

“The town, the harbor—” I said. “You’ve been to Magenta.”

“Been to where?” Cheshim raised a paint-crusted eyebrow. “No, my young friend, I’ve not set foot beyond this place for—how many years? So many I hardly remember where I was before I came here.”

“He’s beginning to natter like old Salonica,” Baksheesh said under his breath. “Two of a kind, if you ask me. One worse than the other. But which?”

“Mirza Cheshim, you may have forgotten,” I said, “but surely you were there. You had to be. You saw the port. You painted it.”

“I did?” Cheshim blinked. “Yes, yes, indeed so. If you believe you recognize it, I couldn’t be better pleased. But, you see, I only paint whatever fancies float into my head. I haven’t the least idea what’s coming along, or when. How could I know what I’m doing until I’ve done it? In a manner of speaking, then, I really have nothing to do with them. They more or less decide for themselves, and always surprise me.”

“But, mirza,” Shira put in, “why do your work where no one sees it?”

“On the contrary,” said Cheshim, “they are here for all who are meant to see them. And those who are meant to see them will unmistakably find them.

“I have others,” he added. “You are welcome to look.”

“Marvelous,” said Salamon. “It would be a pleasure.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Baksheesh. “But, before I’m able to devote my full attention and admiration for—for whatever it is you do, I have to build up my strength. I suppose you must eat like everyone else—except for old Salami here,” Baksheesh added. “Would you possibly have a little something in the way of food?”

“I have ample provisions,” Cheshim replied. “I shall happily share them.”

Baksheesh licked his lips and perked up. “I’m glad to hear that. I was afraid you wouldn’t have much of a larder in this barren nowhere.”

“The birds bring everything I need,” Cheshim said. “Eagles, hawks, ravens—they fly over quite often. I gather what they drop.”

“You eat bird droppings?” Baksheesh eyed him queasily. “Not to disrespect your hospitality, but never mind about offering refreshments.”

“No, no,” Cheshim corrected. “They leave off tidbits, odds and ends of all sorts. Only the other day, a seagull passed by—”

“Astonishing,” put in Salamon. “So far inland—wherever this part of inland may be? I definitely must make a note of that.”

“Yes, and left a very tasty fish head,” Cheshim went on. “Not long ago, a charming little bulbul flew by. Too small to carry much, but he perched up in the rocks and sang sweetly all night. That was better than a meal.”

“In other words,” Baksheesh said, “the pickings here are rather slim.” He shrugged. “Eh, well, I suppose something is better than nothing. The fish head—I’m not so sure about that.”

“And your marvelous colors, mirza?” Salamon asked, as Cheshim led us farther down the passageway. “Where do you manage to find them?”

“Here,” Cheshim said, lighting lamps set in niches along the wall. “Dig deep enough, you’re likely to turn up anything you want. Raw pigments I grind for my paints. Brushes?” He chuckled and pointed a gnarled finger at his beard. “Those, I grow myself.”

My shock at seeing Magenta had begun draining away. I had pretty much decided Baksheesh was right. One port was like another. My imagination had misled me.

But, if I had been taken aback, now it was Shira’s turn. I heard her draw in her breath. She went closer to the next picture. From what I could see, it simply showed a wide river lined with willow trees. Snow-covered mountains dwarfed the rest of the scene.

“We call those mountains the ‘Roof of the World,’” she murmured. “That river is near my inn. The last crossing before the borders of Cathai. I know the spot.

“My brother and I played there. Yes, exactly—there. We called it ‘our’ river. We made believe it belonged to us and no one else.

“See the long slope to the water’s edge?” Shira said. “That’s where my father taught me to swim. I loved that spot. Sometimes I would go to sit there by myself, always wondering what was on the far shore and beyond. There was a bridge a little way downstream, but I was afraid to cross it.

“When I grew older, I was too busy with my work. I still dreamed of reaching the other side; but I went there no longer.”

She turned from the picture. Her eyes shone with tears.

I said I had never seen her cry.

“Nor will you again.”

Salamon was urging us to see more of Cheshim’s pictures.

I was sorry I did.

The next painting showed a caravan under attack, camels butchered, fallen to their knees, horsemen galloping on shaggy ponies. In an upper corner of the picture were the faces of dead men, eye sockets empty, mouths gaping; patches of flesh had rotted away to show the white glint of skulls.

Cheshim stood waiting behind me.

“Mirza,” I said, “do you paint your nightmares?”

“Not mine.” He gave me a slantwise look. “Yours, perhaps?”

“You told me you painted whatever fancies came into your head,” I began. “But you show things that have really happened.”

“If you say so.” He shrugged. “I have no idea if they ever happened, or will happen. Or may never happen at all. And some I have had to leave unfinished.”

Shira and Salamon had gone on ahead, with Baksheesh grumbling to himself and anyone who cared to listen. I went quickly to catch up with them.

Other pictures covered the wall. I gave them not much more than a glance. I did understand what Cheshim meant when he claimed to paint his dreams. Like so many dreams— certainly my own—they had a good many odd bits and pieces; and he had put them all together in one picture. They confused and unsettled me. I had seen enough of them. And, by now, I was starting to agree with Baksheesh. I would have welcomed a little something to put in my stomach, even if it was what the birds had left.

I found Shira in front of one of the larger pictures; and, to me, the most perplexing. She had put her hand to her mouth and was staring wide-eyed. Cheshim had depicted what appeared to be a fortress under siege. Warriors had breached the walls and streamed into an open square, putting men, women, and children to the sword. At one side, within a chamber, a man in royal robes flung jewels and golden objects into a deep pit.

“I know what this is,” she said. “But not as it’s shown here. Not with—him.”

I followed her gaze. In the upper portion of the scene, against a crimson sky, a towering figure dominated the slaughter below. In an upraised hand, he held a blazing globe.

I could not read the expression on Shira’s face. It may have been part fury, part fear.

She said one word.

“Charkosh.”