Eye of the Forest (19 page)

“I guess you have a point,” agreed John.

Philippa rubbed her head and stood up. She felt a little like she’d been hit by a truck. But nothing was broken. “So, what are we going to do?” she asked Nimrod.

“I think there’s only one thing we can do,” said Nimrod. “And that’s to give the Xuanaci a powerful ally.”

“Who?” asked Philippa.

Nimrod looked at Sicky. “Can you remember the way back to the Xuanaci camp?” he asked.

Sicky pointed at the Eye of the Forest. “You mean, down there? Through that door?”

“No, through the jungle.”

Sicky shrugged. “Sure, no problem,” he said. “My head might be small but there’s nothing wrong with my sense of
direction. Or my memory, boss. Twice I’ve been a guest of the Xuanaci and twice I’ve gotten away with my life. I’m not exactly anxious to be visiting with them Xuanaci a third time.”

“Not visit, exactly,” said Nimrod. “All you have to do is lead some warriors near to the Xuanaci camp.” He laid a hand kindly on the jungle guide’s broad shoulder. “How do you feel about doing something like that, Sicky?”

“Sick,” said Sicky. “Pretty sick. But I’ll do it. Only, what warriors are you talking about, boss? There ain’t no warriors hereabouts who’re crazy enough to take on no headhunters like the Xuanaci.”

“Yes, there are,” said Nimrod, and looked at the door in the Eye of the Forest. “Who better than some dead Incan warrior kings to go and fight with some dead conquistadors? Who is harmed, if everyone is already dead?”

“Your logic is unanswerable,” said Philippa.

“I think maybe you is the crazy one, boss,” said Sicky.

“Sicky’s right, sir,” agreed Groanin. “We only just got away from those nutters. And you’re proposing to open that door and let them out. How do we know that they won’t bash our heads in first?”

“We can protect ourselves with djinn power, of course,” said Philippa.

“I’m afraid we can’t, no,” said Nimrod. “Not here. This is a holy place.” And he told Philippa what he had already told John: that under
The Baghdad Rules,
which govern the use of djinn power, it is strictly forbidden to use djinn power in
a church, a mosque, a synagogue, or any holy place where worship had been conducted within the last thousand years.

“It doesn’t look much like a church,” observed Groanin. “At least not the ones I’ve been to.”

“Nevertheless it is, and that’s the rule,” said Nimrod.

“So what are you proposing to do?” Groanin said acidly. “Persuade them with quiet diplomacy not to bash our heads in. Is that it?”

“Yes,” said Nimrod.

“The man’s mad.” Groanin looked at Philippa and shook his head. “I say, the man’s mad.”

Nimrod smiled. “Well, not just diplomacy,” he said. “Eh, John?”

“What’s that?”

“It was John who solved the secret of the Gordian-like knot that was used to bind the bolt on the door,” said Nimrod.

“Er, yes, it was,” John said a little uncomfortably.

“And it’s John who knows now how to speak diplomatically to these Inca kings, not me. It’s he who will know exactly what to say.”

“I do?”

“Yes. I think you do. I think when the moment comes, you’ll know exactly what has to be said.”

“I will?”

Groanin rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t sound like it,” he remarked caustically. “The lad doesn’t sound like he even knows what day it is.”

Nimrod was already walking back to the door in the Eye of the Forest.

“Hang on a minute,” said John. “You’re not going to open it again right this minute, are you?”

“That’s the general idea,” said Nimrod.

“But, look, I’m not ready yet. Really I’m not.”

“Listen to him, will you, sir?” said Groanin. “Don’t bully the lad so. If he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. For Pete’s sake, you always think you know better than anyone else.”

“Think about it, John,” said Nimrod, ignoring his butler. “You just knew how to solve the problem of the knot, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll just know what to say to the Inca kings in the same way,” insisted Nimrod.

“But suppose I don’t understand,” said John, “what it is I’m supposed to say. What if it makes no sense?”

“Then I suggest you say it anyway,” said Nimrod, and removing the piece of wood from the bolt fastening, he opened the door once again.

W
ith the door in the Eye of the Forest now wide open, the heavily armed, mummified Inca kings — like Philippa and the other humans before them — slowly started trooping out into the Peruvian jungle clearing. Given their speed, or more accurately, their lack of speed, it seemed, after all, that John would have a few more minutes to remember what he was supposed to remember. Not that he could have ever really remembered what he had never learned in the first place. What was happening inside his mind had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with the lupuna tree, as Nimrod had wisely guessed. But none of this made it any easier for John to know what he was supposed to say that would persuade the kings not to attack them.

Instinctively, John glanced at the
khipu
from
el Tunchi
and the hair rope with which the knot in the door had been tied. The colored marks on both these strange artifacts were starting to mean something. Something important, yes. But
what? Some words began to crowd into his mind. Only none of them made any sense to him. It was gibberish, he thought. Could he really speak something without understanding any of it?

It was a word of power, like SESAME in
Arabian Nights,
or an incantation such as ABRACADABRA in the Hebrew kabbalah. A word of power, he was sure of that much. Like a focus word it was a long word, too, only it was much longer than any focus word ever spoken by a djinn. How could he ever hope to pronounce such a long word? It was a much longer word than the longest two words he had ever read — but never pronounced — which were, of course, “FLOCCINAUCINHILIPILIFICATION” and “HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS.”

“Hurry up, lad,” said Groanin as one of the mummified Inca kings turned slowly to face him. To the butler’s horror, he realized it was the same king whose mummified body he’d kicked out of the way when he had picked up Philippa’s unconscious body. Groanin felt certain the king would hit him as soon as he was able. Moving rapidly away, he added, “They’re speeding up. They’ll be hopping around like us in a minute.”

“Shhh, Groanin,” said Philippa, and took her twin brother’s hand, telepathically offering him her own djinn and intellectual power to help enhance John’s strength of mind.

“Let me help you, brother. Use my brain as well as your own to help you concentrate. Take my mind and make it yours.”

And then …

“It’s not one word, I don’t think, but many words together. Quechua words. That’s the ancient language of the Incas. And it’s the order of the words that is important. Like a cipher or a code. The order of the words. Speak them as they appear on the
khipu.
As if these were a series of code words you were telephoning to the CIA. That’s all you have to do. It’s as simple as that.”

“Flipping heck,” said Groanin, and ducked as an Incan war club swung quickly through the air. “They’re up to speed. Say something quick, John lad, or my head is going to look like a bowl of gazpacho soup.”

Suddenly, John felt the words in his mouth and blurted them out in a language that he had never heard before. It was a most peculiar sensation. He spoke fluently but — to himself at least — quite unintelligibly.

“Yana chunka,”
said John.
“Yuraj pusaj. Puka tawa.”

Immediately all of the mummified Incan kings turned to face and then advance upon the one who had spoken.

“It’s working,” said Groanin. “I’ve no idea what he’s saying but it’s working, by Jove.”

“Sounds a bit like Quechua to me,” said Sicky.

“What’s he saying?” asked Muddy.

“Glossolalia,” said Nimrod.

“Glosso what? I say, glosso what?”

“Willapi qanchis,”
said John, continuing.
“Kellu kinsa. Komer phisqa. Sutijankas iskay. Kulli sojta. Chixchi jison. Chunpi uj.”

All of the mummified kings stopped what they were doing and stood still.

“It means ‘speaking in tongues,’” said Nimrod. “I’ve heard of it being done, but never seen it before.”

“Does it matter?” said Groanin. “It’s had the desired result, hasn’t it? The main thing is they no longer seem intent on bashing our heads in.”

Surrounded by the Inca kings, who now seemed to be awaiting his next command, John said, “I think it means black ten, white eight, red four, yellow seven, lemon three, green five, blue two, violet six, gray nine, and brown one. The colors are also the names of birds of the same colors.”

“Excellent,” said Nimrod. “A color and numeric code. What could be simpler?”

“What shall I tell them?” asked John. “I don’t know any more words of Quechua.”

“Tell them in English,” said Nimrod. “I’m sure they’ll understand. All languages sound much the same after you’re dead. Besides, when they’re abroad and speaking to a foreigner, most English people — Groanin for example — just speak English as if they were speaking to a dead person. Which is to say slowly and loudly. And that often works.”

“That’s a bit unfair,” grumbled Groanin.

“All right,” said John. “I’ll give it a try.” He cleared his throat and, reasoning that he was about to address several Inca kings, attempted to sound commanding. “Listen to me. We are your friends, not your enemies. Your true
enemies are Pizarro and the conquistadors who, even now, are planning to fight your young brothers, the Xuanaci.”

John looked at Nimrod, who nodded his approval.

“Good, John, this is good.”

“You must help the Xuanaci to fight and defeat the Spanish conquistadors. Now then, this man.” John pointed at Sicky and, almost to his surprise, the Inca kings also looked at him.

“This man. Sicky. He will show you where the Xuanaci village is to be found. And where you can fight the ancient enemies of the Incas. Now go. And do not fail.”

“Well done, John,” said Nimrod. “As stirring war speeches go, it wasn’t exactly Winston Churchill and ‘we shall fight them on the beaches,’ but still, not bad at all.” He looked at Sicky. “All right, Sicky?”

Sicky smiled thinly.

“I never had to guide ancient mummies through the jungle before,” he said uncomfortably.

“Just think of them as a bunch of stupid English football hooligans,” said Nimrod. “Should be easy enough. They’re armed. None of them is wearing much in the way of clothes. And they’re covered with tattoos.”

“All right, I’ll give it a try.”

“We’ll make camp here,” said Nimrod. “And wait for you to come back.”

“Okay, Your Majesties,” said Sicky. “This way.”

And then he and the mummified Inca kings set off into
the jungle. Sicky thought it was about the strangest tour group the jungle had ever seen.

“What now?” asked Philippa.

“I’ll tell you what now,” said Groanin. “I’m going to put the kettle on and make us a brew. If I don’t get a cup of tea soon, I’m going to perish of thirst.”

“An excellent idea, Groanin,” agreed Nimrod. “I could use a cup of tea myself. And while you’re busy doing that, John, Philippa, and I will see if we can’t find room to plant some more lupuna trees in the ground around here.”

Groanin muttered darkly and then, with Muddy’s help, he set to work building a fire.

“Talking about the ground around here,” said Philippa, and handed Nimrod the piece of yellow rock she had in her pocket. “A lot of it seems to be made of this. I took this sample when we were underground.”

Nimrod weighed the rock in the palm of his hand.

“Heavy, isn’t it?” remarked Philippa.

“It seems to be uranium,” said Nimrod.

Both twins took a step back from Nimrod.

“Isn’t uranium radioactive?” said John.

“Yes,” said Nimrod. “But this is quite safe. The alpha radioactive particles released by raw uranium don’t absorb through the skin. Microscopic amounts can even be eaten, harmlessly. We all of us manage to consume about one microgram of uranium a day in nearly everything we eat and drink.”

“Speak for yourself,” muttered John.

“Interesting,” Nimrod said, and tossed it playfully to John, who caught it nervously and then put it in his backpack.

From his own backpack, next to the lamp containing Frank Vodyannoy’s transubstantiated djinn body, Nimrod produced a small plastic bag. It was full of tiny trees.

“These are bonsai lupuna trees,” he told the twins as they walked into a jungle clearing nearby. “Miniaturized using djinn power. And genetically modified by Faustina herself so that they can grow more quickly. I’ve been planting them ever since we arrived in the upper Amazon. The idea is that they start growing immediately at about ten times the normal speed so that in just twenty years you have a tree that’s as big as one that’s two hundred years old. It goes without saying that the whole rain forest is important to planet Earth. But there are no trees that put out as much oxygen as the lupunas. To say nothing of the spirits that live within them. It’s the lupunas that are the most important ones, especially for us.”

“So why do the loggers cut them down?” asked Philippa. “If they’re so important.”

“Not all loggers do,” said Nimrod. “As I told John, some loggers are afraid of them. But most of the loggers have to do what they’re told by the logging companies or they’ll lose their jobs. And for the companies these lupuna trees are one of the most important saw-logs in Peru. The timber is used for furniture, plywood, and pulp. Even the fiber surrounding the seed gets used as filling for pillows.”

“But why do spirits go and hide in these trees and not others?” asked John.

“Spirits like anything that’s been in existence for a long time,” said Nimrod. “In developed countries that usually means old houses and castles. But here in the jungle, the lupuna trees are the oldest things around.” Nimrod looked around the clearing and nodded. “This looks like a good spot to plant some trees.” He handed each of the twins a pointed wooden tool.

“What is it?” asked Philippa, looking at the simple implement.

“A hole dibber. You make the holes and I’ll put the little trees in them.”

It was hard work but after about an hour they had planted the clearing with as many as a hundred new lupuna trees.

“Now all we have to do is protect them from being cut down when they become mature trees,” said Nimrod. “John? Philippa? Any ideas on how to do that?”

“How about one of those giant centipedes?” suggested Philippa. “I can’t see anyone arguing with one of those horrible things.”

“True, but not very subtle. I was thinking of something a little less lethal. After all, these are decent men who are only trying to make a living.”

“I don’t see what’s so decent about it,” said Philippa. “Everyone knows it’s important to preserve the trees in the rain forest.”

“And what about Christmas trees? Did you have one of those last year?”

“Er, yes,” said Philippa. “But those are different, aren’t they? I mean, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a nice tree.”

“Rank hypocrisy,” Nimrod snorted. “You want some poor Peruvian loggers to desist from making their living by cutting down trees in the rain forest. But you don’t want to give up your own Christmas tree.”

Philippa pursed her lips and nodded thoughtfully. She had to admit he had a point.

“But let’s get back to the problem at hand,” said Nimrod. “How are we going to protect these new trees?”

“Why not make them invisible?” said John. “After all, you can hardly cut down what you can’t see, now can you? I can’t think of anything more subtle than that.”

“No, nor can I,” said Nimrod. “Good thinking, John. Actually, I’ve been doing the same thing myself with the trees I already planted. I just wanted to see if your ideas coincided with my own in this matter. Do you know any good invisibility bindings?”

“No,” said John. “I’m not very good with those. Whenever I try to make something invisible, it disintegrates.”

“Me, too,” confessed Philippa.

“Then it’s fortunate I know a good one,” said Nimrod, and, muttering his focus word, the small tree plantation disappeared.
When they got back to camp, they found tea waiting for them, which Nimrod decided to complement with cucumber sandwiches and a large chocolate cake, and scones with lots of cream and jam.

“Beats me why you didn’t make the tea as well,” complained Groanin. “I say, it beats me why you didn’t make the tea as well, sir.”

“Because, my dear Groanin, it is an established fact that tea always tastes better when someone else makes it. And what’s more, when someone makes it properly, as only an English butler can. In a teapot, with boiling water. And then serves it with milk. Never with lemon. You have many good qualities, Groanin, and you have many faults, as well. But no one makes tea quite like you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I don’t know about the tea,” said John, “but this cake is fantastic.”

“Cucumber sarnies aren’t bad, either,” agreed Groanin.

“After all that we have been through,” said Nimrod, “I thought we could do with a treat. There’s nothing boosts morale quite as well as an English high tea.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Nimrod,” said a polite English voice. “Milk and two sugars for me, Groanin. Oh, and I say, doesn’t that chocolate cake look nice? It is fresh cream, isn’t it? Silly me. Of course it is. You wouldn’t have any other kind of cake, would you, Nimrod? Not a man of your taste and sophistication. But I wonder if that cake tastes as good as my wife’s famous lemon drizzle cake.”

Everyone looked around to see a man walking toward them, grinning affably and waving Faustina’s map. He wore a safari jacket, puttees, and a solar topi, which is a kind of hat. On his chin was a beard that looked like a shoe brush, and he had a smooth, well-spoken voice that always reminded John of an actor in a play by William Shakespeare. And but for the gun in his hand, the man might even have seemed quite friendly.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” said Nimrod.

Of course, it was Virgil McCreeby and he was accompanied by Zadie Eloko and a tall, moody-looking boy of about thirteen who wore a rock band T-shirt, jeans, a leather jacket, and a pair of motorcycle boots that looked like they’d been around the Daytona International Speedway by themselves.

“Dybbuk,” exclaimed Philippa. “Dybbuk, what are you doing here?”