Eye of the Forest (2 page)

“Look, I thought you’d be pleased,” said Mrs. Trump/Gaunt. “But even if you’re not, I’m going to do this. I just want to feel good about myself again. That’s all.”

“When are you going?” asked Mr. Gaunt.

“I already called Dr. Kowalski. He scheduled me for my first procedure the day after tomorrow. Which means I’m going to fly down to Rio tonight. By whirlwind.”

They went to the rooftop of New York’s Guggenheim Museum to see her off.

For centuries, a whirlwind rather than a magic carpet has been the preferred method of djinn travel. Not only is a whirlwind as fast as — if not faster than — a jet airplane, it is
also a lot kinder to the environment because whirlwinds are created from nothing more than a current of warm air.

Layla Gaunt and her brother, Nimrod, had been making minor whirlwinds on the rooftop of the Guggenheim since they were children on their first visit to New York. There was something about the inverted spiral shape of Frank Lloyd Wright’s famous building that made it easier to whip up a good one. There was nothing to it. You waited for a small local wind to spin on the ground and then whipped it into a funnel. And when the funnel started to lift, you just rode it up as far as a high-altitude wind and then moved off in whatever direction you chose. The trick to avoiding any surrounding structural damage was to get a quick liftoff.

On this particular occasion, however, Layla was shocked to discover that she couldn’t control the wind. It wasn’t that her power was in any way diminished by being inside the body of Mrs. Trump but simply that there was too much warm, turbulent air in the atmosphere.

“I don’t understand,” she shouted over the noise of the wind. “A little local wind shouldn’t be able to turn this strong this quickly. Not here. Not in New York.”

She tried to hold on to the wind but when the speed of the vortex quickly reached three hundred miles an hour, she was obliged to let it go and off it blew, west across Central Park, uprooting trees, turning over benches, and creating a National Weather Service record that was reported in all the next day’s newspapers as the strongest wind to hit New York City since February 22, 1912, when the city was visited by a
gale that blew at ninety-six miles an hour for five minutes. This wind, more than three times as strong, lasted for only two minutes before it disappeared up into the jet stream, fortunately for the city.

“This has never happened before,” said Layla. “I don’t get it. Unless …” She shook her head. “No. It couldn’t be. Surely not so soon.”

“What is it, Mother?” asked Philippa.

“Only that some djinn have speculated that global warming might eventually affect our ability to make and control our own whirlwinds.” She kept on shaking her head. “But that was thought to be years off.”

“There are more hurricanes around than there used to be,” said Philippa. “Which might have something to do with it.”

“Yes, that’s right, dear. There are, aren’t there?”

“How about trying it again?” suggested John.

“I don’t even dare to,” admitted Mrs. Trump/Gaunt. “At least not in a built-up area where the wind might damage something.” She shook her head. “My goodness, I guess I’ll have to take a plane, like everyone else.”

And so she did, but not before telephoning her brother, Nimrod, in London, to tell him what had happened to her, only to hear that recently he, too, had experienced the same problem.

“I was about to fly over to America when the same thing happened to me,” he said. “I’m spending the weekend at Frank Vodyannoy’s house in New Haven, Connecticut. He’s
hosting a small Djinnverso tournament. But now I shall have to come by commercial jet.”

“But why is it happening?” asked his sister. “It’s because of global warming, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered Nimrod. “Although I think it has more to do with the destruction of the Brazilian rain forest than with things like carbon footprints.”

“But what are we going to do?” said Mrs. Trump/Gaunt. “Under these circumstances, it almost seems wrong for me to take a plane to Brazil.”

“Indeed so,” agreed Nimrod. “At the same time, I always think one hardly feels like a djinn at all if one is obliged to travel by commercial jet. Not to mention the claustrophobia. I wonder how we are going to manage being cooped up like chickens for hours on end.”

“The mundanes manage,” said his sister. “Somehow.”

“Only because they’ve gotten used to being treated like chickens.”

“Before long, I fear we may all have to get used to it,” said Mrs. Trump/Gaunt. “Now that’s what I call an inconvenient truth.”

C
onsidering that he was her twin brother, John Gaunt seemed to be unlike his sister, Philippa, in quite a number of ways. Most obviously he did not look like her, which is a characteristic of all dizygotic, or fraternal, twins — even human ones: She was smaller, with red hair and glasses, whereas he was tall and dark. He was a person of action rather than much thought. He liked movies instead of books. Then there was the fact that he disliked Djinnversoctoannular, which is the peculiar game of bluff enjoyed by nearly all djinn. Both John and Philippa were children of the lamp, having a djinn mother, but only Philippa liked playing this ancient pastime. John, who was not a skilled dissimulator — his sister was now classed as Incognito, the level below Expert — much preferred the honest if rather mindless kinds of games that were played on a small electronic screen. And normally he would never even have thought of accompanying Philippa to a Djinnverso party, but it so happened that he,
too, had been invited to the weekend tournament at the country home of Mr. Vodyannoy, in New Haven.

Now, because John had always considered Mr. Vodyannoy to be his friend rather than Philippa’s, and because he knew he was facing a boring weekend on his own in New York City, he decided to tag along. New Haven is less than two hours on the train from New York City. Besides, Mr. Vodyannoy’s house, which was called Nightshakes, was, according to Uncle Nimrod, famously haunted. Not only that, but Mr. Vodyannoy had the largest collection of antique talking boards — some of them more than a hundred years old — in the world. John hoped that while his sister and his uncle and his host were busy playing Djinnverso, he himself might put the shadowy inhabitants of Nightshakes to some practical use. For it was the boy djinn’s sincerest wish to enlist the spirit world in finding out for sure if his old friend Mr. Rakshasas was truly dead or not.

But first they were obliged to ask the permission of their father, for with their mother now in Brazil, it was he who was in charge of their immediate welfare.

“I can understand why Philippa wants to go,” said Mr. Gaunt. “She loves playing Djinnverso. But you, John? I fail to see why you want to go. You hate the game.”

“While we’re in New Haven I thought I might take a look at the Peabody Museum,” said John.

Philippa said nothing.

“You know, at Yale University,” John added.

“I know where it is,” said his father. “In case you’d forgotten, I’m a Yale man myself. I’m just a little surprised to hear you say that you want to go there.”

“I don’t know why you should sound so surprised,” said John, feigning innocence. “They’ve got a pretty good collection of dinosaur skeletons at the Peabody. Matter of fact, they’ve got all sorts of good collections. While she’s off playing games, I expect I’ll spend most of my time looking at all the interesting stuff they’ve got there. Improving myself.”

“I guess there’s always room for improvement,” said Mr. Gaunt. “Just don’t get into any trouble, will you?”

“Me?” John laughed. “I don’t see how anyone can get into trouble just walking around a silly old museum.”

“What about you, Dad?” asked Philippa. “Will you be all right without us?”

“Me?” Mr. Gaunt hugged his daughter.

“Without Mom,” she added.

“I’ll be fine. What could possibly happen to me? But it’s kind of you to ask.” He tousled John’s hair. “Both of you — go. Have a nice time.”

For her part, Philippa welcomed John’s company although she had strong doubts concerning the truth of her brother’s explanation as to how he intended to occupy himself while they were weekending in New Haven. She was his twin after all, and even among mundanes, twins almost magically always seem to know things about each other without ever having to say anything. Ask any pair of twins and they will probably tell
you that there exists a kind of telepathy between them that defies scientific explanation.

On their journey to New Haven by rail from New York’s Grand Central Terminal, they were accompanied by Uncle Nimrod, recently arrived in New York and who was himself a keen Djinnverso player, and his English butler, Mr. Groanin. Groanin was not a good traveler, and it wasn’t long before he had voiced his disapproval of American trains in general, and of the lack of proper breakfast facilities in particular.

“A snack car,” he moaned. “That’s all there is on this train. How’s a grown man expected to get by with a flipping snack car, serving soup, salad, pizza, sandwiches, and other snacks and beverages? Whatever happened to Canadian bacon, German sausage, deep-fried bread, black pudding, eggs, mushrooms and tomatoes, toast and marmalade, and lashings of hot sweet tea? I wish, I say, I wish there was a proper dining car on this train.”

“You had breakfast at the hotel, before we left this morning,” said Nimrod.

“That was in the hotel,” said Groanin. “Trains always make me hungry.”

John, who was himself starting to feel quite hungry as a result of Groanin’s description of breakfast, decided it would be amusing if he were to grant the butler’s wish and, a few minutes later, they were all sitting down to eat in an elegant dining car that would not have disgraced the old Orient Express.

“You’re going to have to stop doing that,” Nimrod told his nephew.

“It was just this one time,” said John.

“Even so,” his uncle said sternly. “You know it risks drawing attention to us. To say nothing of the unseen, unpredictable consequences that can result from granting someone’s wish. Remember what Mr. Rakshasas used to say? Having a wish is like lighting a fire. It’s reasonable to assume that the smoke might make someone cough.”

“Speaking for myself,” said Mr. Groanin, “I’m glad the boy did grant my wish, sir. There’s no journey that’s not improved by a good English breakfast. Especially one that comes with a nice white tablecloth and some proper silverware.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” said Nimrod, and smiled indulgently at his nephew.

“I can’t see why we’re going by train at all,” objected John. “Instead of by whirlwind.”

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten what happened to your mother,” said Nimrod. “As it happens I’ve taken a sounding among other djinn of my acquaintance and discovered that whirlwind travel has become problematic for us all, good and bad. Until someone, somewhere, works out what to do about this situation we shall simply have to travel like mundanes. Where air travel is concerned, that is unfortunate. But where, as in this case, there is a perfectly good train, I can see no real objection.”

“I don’t know about perfectly good,” said Groanin.

“Need I also remind you, John,” continued Nimrod, ignoring his butler, “of the effect that the profligate use of djinn power has on your life force? How many times have I told you? Every time we use djinn power it dims the fire that burns within each and every one of us. Do try to remember what happened to poor Dybbuk.”

“I remember,” said John, but by now, and like the good uncle he was, Nimrod was intent on reminding him, anyway.

“He exercised his power in such a reckless way that he quite used it up. Completely. Forever, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“
I
wonder where he is now,” mused Philippa.

“It was his choice to put himself beyond our world,” Nimrod said quietly. “Dybbuk’s gone somewhere beyond our sympathy. Into the cold. Quite literally, I’m afraid.”

“Does anyone ever come in from the cold?” asked Philippa.

“I’m afraid not,” said Nimrod. “Not in my experience.”

“Where will he go?” asked Philippa.

“Egypt probably,” said Nimrod. “That’s where I’d go if I’d gone cold.”

“Poor Dybbuk,” repeated John, and then ordered his hot breakfast.

Edward Gaunt left his house, as he always did, at exactly 7:30, and glanced right to see his gray Maybach limousine waiting for him. Hardly lifting his eyes from his newspaper, he came down the steps and ducked into the back of the car. He
poured some water into a silver goblet and settled back in his leather seat to look at the market prices, which was what he always did. Even creatures of habit looked irregular in their habits compared with Edward Gaunt. They were several blocks down Park Avenue before Mr. Gaunt realized that he was not being driven by his usual driver, but by another man.

“Where’s Mr. Senna?” he asked.

The man was tall and bald and wore a uniform identical to Mr. Senna’s.

“He’s ill, sir,” said the man. “My name is Haddo. Oliver Haddo. I’m an old friend of Mr. Senna’s. A chauffeur like him. He asked me if I could fill in for him.”

“I’ve never known Senna to miss a day’s work in his life,” said Mr. Gaunt. “What’s the matter with him? And why didn’t he telephone and let me know personally?”

“I believe he wanted to, sir,” said Haddo. “But due to the nature of his virus, he found himself unable to do so.”

“You’re English, aren’t you, Haddo?” said Mr. Gaunt.

“That’s right, sir.”

“My wife was born in England,” said Mr. Gaunt. “Although you wouldn’t know it now. Which part of England are you from?”

“From Strangways, sir. In Wiltshire.”

“Don’t know it.”

“It’s about a quarter mile up the road from Stonehenge, sir.”

“You mean the ancient stone circle of the druids?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s a strange place to come from,” said Mr. Gaunt. “And what’s that strange smell?”

“In many ways Strangways is rather a strange place, sir,” admitted Haddo. “Oh, and the strange smell is probably me, sir. You see, when you brush up against evil, sometimes a little of it rubs off.”

“What does that mean?”

“As well as being a chauffeur, I’m also a druid, sir. Only not a white druid. They celebrate good. I’m a black druid.” He chuckled unpleasantly. “We support the other team.”

“I think I’d like to get out,” said Mr. Gaunt. “Stop the car.”

“As you wish, sir,” said Haddo. “I’ll pull up at the next corner if you like.”

“Yes, please do.”

Amid much honking from the many taxis and cars behind, the Maybach drew almost silently to a halt on the corner of Park and 57th, but before Mr. Gaunt could get out, the heavy doors opened and two even stranger men got into the back of the car beside him. The odd smell in the car seemed to grow even stronger.

“Thank you, Mr. Haddo,” said one of the two men, who was also English.

The car pulled away again and, sensing some danger now, Mr. Gaunt made an attempt to get out of the car only to find he could not move.

“Don’t worry,” said one of the two men. “The odor on Mr. Haddo’s body is a hypnotic unguent to render you harmless to us and to yourself.”

“What’s happening?” said Mr. Gaunt. “Who are you people?”

“We’re your kidnappers,” said the man. “And you’re being kidnapped.”

“I suppose you want money,” said Mr. Gaunt.

“Money?” The man laughed. “No, no. Nothing so mundane.”