I wanted to explore Shira’s remark a little further; but here came Salamon, bright-faced from his glimpse of Cheshim’s workplace.

“Most remarkable how he’s set himself up,” Salamon told us, while the hermit-artist led us back through the passageways into open air and sunlight. “He’s found stones to make mortars and pestles to grind his pigments. He mixes the most astonishing colors. You really should see for yourself.”

I said I’d be glad to. Next time I was in the neighborhood.

“Don’t bother. The place is a caravanserai for bats,” Baksheesh said to me. “I hate to think what else lives there.”

“Mirza Cheshim,” Salamon said, “you were telling us of your next picture. Altogether fascinating.”

“Ah, so I was, so I was,” Cheshim said. “Alas, I have had to leave it unfinished.

“What came to me one night—how shall I put it?—yes, it was a kind of tale. A well-digger loved a princess but never dared to tell her, for he was too poor. Then he found a bottle belonging to a genie and wouldn’t return it until the genie granted him vast riches—the foolish well-digger thought wealth would win her heart. He disguised himself as a great prince and brought her chests of treasures.”

Baksheesh gave me a look. “I’ve heard that tune before.”

“But the princess refused him,” Cheshim went on, “because her heart was secretly given to a humble well-digger. So, he wished for all his fortune to vanish and went back to her as the poor well-digger that he was.”

Cheshim paused. “Ah, forgive me. I have neglected your refreshments.”

“I can hardly wait,” said Baksheesh.

As the hermit-artist hurried away, I turned to Salamon. It surprised me, I told him, that Cheshim was willing to talk of his unfinished work to strangers.

“On the contrary,” Salamon said. “These fellows are pathetically eager to tell anyone willing to listen. In fact, once they start, and have the bit in their teeth, it’s next to impossible to make them leave off.”

“I’ll tell you something else,” Baksheesh retorted. “He claims he dreamed all that? No. He’s a faker. A liar. It’s the same tale that wretch of a storyteller was spouting in Marakand.”

Baksheesh was right. I, too, recognized it. As for wishing away a fortune, I had practically offered to do likewise with Shira only minutes ago.

“Yes, I recall it, too,” Salamon agreed. “I should guess it’s an old, familiar story. Cheshim no doubt heard it as a child. It stuck in his memory and his dreams.”

“Well and good, as far as it goes,” Baksheesh said. “Except for the end. That pestilential ragbag stopped short. He didn’t tell the best part. I did. I made it up off the top of my head as we walked along.”

Shira nodded. “True.”

“So he’s not only a faker and a liar,” Baksheesh indignantly declared. “He’s a thief. I don’t know how, but he stole it from me. Paint-dauber? He’s a mind-robber.”

Baksheesh scowled and snapped his mouth shut as Cheshim reappeared. The artist carried an armful of flat, polished stones that served as plates for whatever it was he had piled on them. He motioned for us to sit on the beaten earth of a kind of portico that shaded us from the sun. Not to insult him, I made a show of dipping into my portion, which turned out to be surprisingly tasty. In fact, I wolfed it down.

“I must thank you for doing me a service.” Cheshim beamed at Shira, then at me. “My unfinished picture—the dream faded. The faces of the princess and the well-digger escaped me. I was unable to continue.

“Now that I see you two young people, their features are clear to me again. They are yours. You have allowed me to finish my painting. I am ever grateful. You are welcome to stay and see my work completed. It should take no more than six or seven months.”

Salamon, I was sure, would have been overjoyed to spend half a year in the cave; but I thanked Cheshim for his kind invitation. Time pressed, we had to be on our way.

“Young men are always in a hurry,” Cheshim said. “Without prying into your business, may I ask what way that is? Perhaps I can help you.”

He seemed eager to be useful, and so I explained how we had come from Marakand and now planned to retrace our steps there. We needed new gear; and, I mentioned in passing, I hoped to find a better map. Of the treasure, of course, I said nothing.

“No need for many weeks of travel,” Cheshim said. “There is a town much closer. What’s it called? I misremember. Something like Shahryar—ah, yes, Shahryar-eh-Ghermezi. I passed through it on my way here. When? I don’t recall. It must have been a good while ago. You will surely find everything you require. Not a comfortable journey; but, in the long run, to your best advantage.”

I certainly had no heart to turn back; nor did I relish spending several miserable weeks only to end where we started. I had no misgivings—until Cheshim went on.

“It’s very simple,” he said. “Follow the desert straight ahead until you run out of food. Then, turn right. Keep on your way until you run out of water. The town will be practically in front of you. Really, you can’t miss it.”

Easy enough directions. All we had to do was pay attention and notice when we were starving and dying of thirst, conditions hard to ignore.

I glanced at Shira, who gave a brief nod. Salamon, I was sure, would have walked happily to the moon and found it extremely interesting. Baksheesh looked sour, but he would have looked sour in any case.

I got to my feet and stared at the pink sand and the cantaloupe-colored hills with their jagged outcroppings. Yes, Salamon’s constant wonderment must have rubbed off a little on me, for I found them astonishingly beautiful.

And I hated them. They could kill us all.

What a real karwan-bushi, with all his wits about him, would have decided—I had no idea. I did the only sensible thing.

“We’ll try it,” I said.