Eye of the Forest (28 page)

“You managed it all right with the chess piece,” said Philippa.

“That was an easy bit of opposite wishing,” said Nimrod. “In a sense the word black is already built into the word white. Especially in the game of chess. Indeed, a chess piece becomes whiter if it exists in relation to another piece that’s black.”

Groanin threw his hands up and brought them down on top of his bald head with a loud and exasperated slap. “Virgil McCreeby will be gone by the time you work out all the linguistics on this,” he said. “And so will we if he gets a chance to use that third disk.”

Philippa stamped her golden heels on the yellow stone path and a strong fragrance of strawberries filled the mountain air.

“Oh, it makes me so mad,” she said, and experienced a strong but pleasant taste of strawberries in her mouth, which she thought was very curious. She stamped her heels again, only this time things tasted and felt very curious indeed, especially underfoot, for when she looked down at her golden shoes she saw that these were no longer standing on top of the yellow brick path, but on the flattened body of Virgil McCreeby who lay prostrate, groaning underneath her on the ground like a quarterback who has been tackled in a game of football.

Meanwhile the golden disk that had been in McCreeby’s fat fingers was now rolling back down the path toward the spot where Nimrod and the others were still standing; the spot where, not five seconds before, she had been standing herself.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” said Philippa, who was now so much surprised that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English.

Nimrod picked up the disk and put it in his pocket.

Philippa looked at her uncle and, catching his eye at last, lifted her arms in bewilderment, as if to say, “I really have absolutely no explanation for why I’m over here when, just a few seconds ago, I was over there with you.”

Anxiously, Nimrod started to walk toward his niece until one of the vampire plants turned its pink flower his way and, wisely, he seemed to think better of it just as a poison dart came flying through the air. It fell a long way short of Nimrod, but the thing’s intent was clear enough. There was still no way past the vampire plants. At least, no way that either he or Philippa was able to explain.

“How I hate those beastly flowers.” Philippa stamped her heels on Virgil McCreeby’s back and once again, a delicious fragrance of strawberries filled the air and her mouth.

“Ouch,” yelped McCreeby. “Oooof.”

This time she remained exactly where she was. It was the vampire flowers that moved. Or, to be more accurate, disappeared. All of them. One second they were there, and the next, they were not. It was as simple and immediate as that.

Looking rather bemused by this fortunate turn of events, Nimrod and the others came slowly up the path.

“Er, what happened?” John asked Philippa.

“I don’t know,” said Philippa. “All I know is that I didn’t make a wish. I never said my focus word. And yet, somehow, each time, what I was thinking is exactly what ended up happening.”

“Gerroff,” moaned McCreeby. “I can’t breathe.”

Philippa glanced under her feet and realized she was still standing on the Englishman. And a strong scent of strawberries remained in the air.

“What’s that smell?” asked Zadie.

“Strawberries,” said Philippa, and stepped off McCreeby’s armor-plated back. “Somehow, stamping my feet seems to make the smell of strawberries coming off my golden shoes grow stronger.”

“I don’t think that’s all it does,” said Nimrod, kneeling down beside her feet, and scrutinizing her shoes. “I think these shoes given to you by Kublai Khan are gestalt slippers.”

“Guest what?” asked Groanin.

“Gestalt,” said Nimrod. “I’ve heard of them, but I never thought they actually existed. I’m sure the Chinese called them something different, but that’s what we call them today. It’s said that when a djinn wears them, the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. A djinn’s true desires emerge spontaneously, without reference to the wish-making process. You just have to have a strong thought about something, and that thought emerges as complete reality immediately. It’s your idea of order on matter. Those slippers must be immensely powerful.”

“And here I was thinking that they were just a nice pair of shoes,” said Philippa.

“If they’re so powerful,” said John, “it might be best if you were to take them off immediately. At least until you know how to control them better.”

“Maybe you’re right,” said Philippa. “But what about Dybbuk? Shouldn’t we — shouldn’t I go and stop him, right away?”

“It’s all right,” said Nimrod. “Without the third disk, he can’t cause an atomic explosion.”

“You mean all that stuff about atomic bombs was true?” said McCreeby, sitting up and rubbing his shoulders painfully.

“Most certainly it was true,” said Nimrod. “Ti Cosi really did intend to bring about the complete destruction of the conquistadors. Just as Manco Capac had promised.”

“Odd, how we never saw Manco again,” remarked John.

“Well, I never,” said McCreeby, and let out a chuckle. “Oh, I say. That explains the mushroom. On the door of the ritual chamber in Paititi, there’s an engraving of a mushroom. Well, obviously I thought it was the sacred mushroom. The
teonanactl,
or the ‘flesh of the gods.’ I say, you don’t really think that I’ve been assembling a nuclear bomb, do you?”

“I do think,” said Nimrod. “It’s not a mushroom engraved on the door of the ritual chamber, but a mushroom cloud. Of the kind you might get over a nuclear explosion.”

McCreeby whistled. “And there I was, blithely putting together the means of my own destruction.”

“If it was just your own destruction, McCreeby,” said Nimrod, “there would be no great cause for concern. But since it involves the destruction of a good part of this hemisphere, then we’re obliged to do something about it.”

Groanin cuffed the magician on the back of the head. “Your trouble, Virgil McCreeby, is that you judge everyone by your own despicably low standards,” he said. “You wretched man. If anything happens to their father, I’ll give you such a hiding.”

“Oh. Yes. Look here. Let me call my followers right away,” said McCreeby. “All I need is a satellite phone. I left my own in Paititi.”

Philippa stamped her feet and handed him a phone. Fearfully, because he was beginning to realize just how awesome Philippa’s power was, McCreeby took the phone and keyed in a number. “Er, what time is it in New York?” he asked.

“That’s odd,” said John. “My watch has stopped.”

“Mine, too,” said Groanin.

“Erm, this phone doesn’t work,” said McCreeby.

Nimrod looked at the phone and shook his head.

“Perhaps it’s the effect of these gestalt slippers,” said Philippa.

“Perhaps,” said Nimrod.

“Look,” said McCreeby. “It’s just a thought, but young Dybbuk isn’t what one would call a patient person, is he? In fact, I would say that Dybbuk’s rather an impulsive, willful sort of chap. Not to say headstrong.”

“That’s him, all right,” muttered Groanin.

“The reason I mention it is this: Before I left Paititi, to come back down here to look for the third disk, Buck was asking me if we could complete the
kutumunkichu
ritual
without the third disk. Naturally, I said it was impossible. Thank goodness I stopped him, eh? Of course, it wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. In fact, he got quite cross about it, really.”

“You showed him what to do?” said Nimrod.

“The details of the completion of the ritual are on an inscription in the main building,” said McCreeby. “I just read them out. I didn’t actually show him anything that he couldn’t have read for himself. But it sort of occurs to me now to inquire what might happen if the boy just sort of went ahead and dropped the uranium rod down the tube and into the uranium rock, after the first two tears of the sun.”

“The uranium in the rock would start to fizz,” said Nimrod. “There would be no explosion, just a great deal of radioactivity.”

McCreeby pulled a face. “Well, might that not explain why this phone isn’t working? And why your watches have stopped?”

“Light my lamp, you’re right,” said Nimrod. “Electromagnetic radiation. If only we had a Geiger counter.”

“You mean a machine that measures radiation?” said John.

“You mean one of these?” Philippa stamped her feet and handed Nimrod a strawberry-colored electrical box with a dial and a pinkish tube that was about the size of a duck call.

“That’s it,” said Nimrod. “That’s a Geiger counter.”

Taking the machine from Philippa, he switched it on and held the tube up to the air. The needle on the dial
moved from one side of the machine to the other as the tube in Nimrod’s hand registered the background radiation. Nimrod shook his head and almost bit his lip off.

“The fool,” he said. “The little idiot.”

“You mean, he’s gone and done it?” said McCreeby. The magician stood up abruptly and, wrapping himself in his arms, looked around with mounting anxiety. “Oh, Lord, what have I done?”

“He must have gone ahead without the polonium disk,” said Nimrod. “This whole area is a blizzard of radioactivity. We’ve got to get away from this place right now. Sooner if possible.”

“Oo-er,” said McCreeby.

Groanin cleared his throat. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “Are you telling me that after coming thousands of miles to find it — not mention surviving headhunters and giant centipedes and whatnot — that we’re not going to see the lost city of Paititi, after all?”

“I’m afraid not, old fellow,” said Nimrod. “Radiation is awkward stuff. You can’t see it. But it’s quite deadly. It may already be too late for us.”

“But what about Buck?” said John. “We can’t just leave him up there in Paititi. We have to go and rescue him. We have to bring him home.”

“I’m afraid there’s absolutely no possibility of that,” said Nimrod. “We have to go now or we won’t be able to go at all. I’m sorry, but chances are he’s already beyond our help. It may even be too late for us.”

Philippa stamped her golden strawberry-slippered foot. “No, she said. “No, no, no.”

Her voice sounded strange inside the concrete, lead-lined nuclear bunker that her will and the gestalt slippers had created within a split second. There had been a project about the Cold War at school and she had seen pictures of nuclear bunkers built during that time, and Philippa figured this one was pretty accurate in every detail, except for the color, of course. She was certain they weren’t ever the color of strawberries, but for some reason she had strawberries on her mind. At least it matched the semitransparent, strawberry-mottled, anti-radiation suits that everyone, including herself, was now wearing. Not to mention the several bowls of strawberries that she had thoughtfully provided in case anyone got hungry. And the strawberry drapes on the lead-filled glass window.

“John’s right,” she said. “We can’t leave him. Please wait and try to be patient. I’ll only be gone for a second. All of you will be safe in here, I think. There’s a decontamination chamber, working air filters and, through that door, a very comfortable living room with a TV and a library. And a refrigerator. I’m afraid it’s mostly full of strawberries, Groanin.”

“But why does it always have to be pink?” complained John, shouting through his strawberry-hued plastic hood. “Everything she makes. It’s always pink. You know how I feel about pink, Philippa. Couldn’t I have had a yellow suit? Or a blue one?”

“It’s not pink,” insisted Philippa. “It’s strawberry-colored.” She shook her head impatiently. “And I don’t have any time for this. I need to go and find Dybbuk.”

Philippa looked at her uncle, who nodded and then embraced her as fondly as their fully ventilated, gas-tight suits allowed.

“Please be careful,” said Nimrod.

W
hile he was waiting for McCreeby to come back with the disk, Dybbuk amused himself by dressing up in some of the Incan clothes they had found in Paititi and by fighting an imaginary enemy with a battle ax. The ax wasn’t, he thought, particularly sharp. None of the Incan axes or lances were very sharp, and it seemed obvious to Dybbuk why the Spanish had easily conquered South America. The Incan weapons were junk.

The one weapon he did like was a sort of mace with a long wooden handle that had a ball of copper at the end with eight protruding points. It looked jokingly crude but effective enough to batter heads to a pulp. But he doubted that even these could have penetrated Spanish armor. No wonder Ti Cosi had looked for some other kind of weapon that would destroy the Spaniards.

When Dybbuk got tired of wielding the mace, he tried using a sling and spent a happy fifteen minutes throwing
egg-sized stones at the head of what looked like a god or a king that was carved on a wall. He got quite good at it, too, and before long, his wanton boyish vandalism had quite obliterated the face on the ancient carving.

Looking around for something else to destroy, Dybbuk happened upon a bow and achieved a certain amount of pleasure in shooting arrows at a bronze shield and breastplate of the kind McCreeby had taken to protect himself against the vampire plants. And it was quickly clear that neither afforded much protection against an arrow.

So how would it fare, he wondered, against a poison dart?

To answer this question, Dybbuk went back to the containment dome to take another look at McCreeby’s backpack — the one that had been hit by a dart from the vampire plant. And he was surprised to discover that the poisonous dart had apparently penetrated the tough nylon Cordura material and the contents of the backpack — including McCreeby’s tobacco tin — to a depth of several inches. It was this last discovery — the hole in the tobacco tin — that persuaded Dybbuk that there was no point in awaiting McCreeby’s return.

“Poor old McCreeby,” he said out loud, because the profound silence and solitude of Paititi was beginning to weigh on him a little. “Gee, those darts must be sharper and tougher than we thought.”

In this assumption Dybbuk was mistaken, however. The hole in Virgil McCreeby’s tobacco tin had not been caused
by the dart from the vampire plant but by the Englishman’s Swiss Army knife, when he had fallen on the path.

Dybbuk glanced impatiently at his expensive gold watch — it was about the only thing he hadn’t sold after the Jonathan Tarot affair — and told himself that McCreeby’s return was well overdue.

“The lazy fat idiot, he should have been back by now.”

Dybbuk was mistaken about this, too. It was an hour’s walk to the place where the vampire plants grew, and an hour’s walk back again. McCreeby had been gone for less than ninety minutes.

He smiled wryly. “For sure, the guy’s a goner. Poor old McCreeby. Hey, wait a minute. Poor old me. I guess I’m on my own now.”

Dybbuk went and sat cross-legged in front of the carving that a little earlier he had been using for target practice. There he spent several minutes considering the possibility of going to get the disk himself, and then telling himself the various reasons why he thought that this was not a good idea.

“First, there’s the obvious danger,” he said. “If McCreeby is dead, then I might get killed, too. Those plants are not to be messed with. The darts are lethal. Second, there’s the fact that if McCreeby isn’t dead, just injured, I might actually have to help him, which would be difficult on account of the fact that he’s too fat to carry, and I don’t know how to use any of that medical stuff in his backpack. Those are two pretty good reasons.”

Clouds moved across the high peak on which Paititi was
positioned, casting strange shadows that undulated over the ancient ground. A condor wheeled in the sky near the sun. Except that Dybbuk thought it was a vulture and that it could be waiting to eat his dead body. He shivered.

“Third is the fact that this place is kind of cold and spooky and I don’t much like being up here on my own, so the sooner I can complete the ritual and get out of here the better. I think the silence is beginning to get to me. I’d sure hate to be here at night.” He tossed another stone at the carving. “I don’t know how you stand it, pal.

“Fourth is the fact that fundamentally, McCreeby was a very picky sort of guy and was always one for doing things exactly by the book and the proper way, even though a lot of times, in most situations, you can always cut a few corners. That’s certainly been my own experience. Frankly, he was a bit of a bore like that and just because he thought we couldn’t do without the third gold disk, doesn’t mean that it’s really the case. If this ritual is half as powerful as it is supposed to be, then I can’t believe that one little stupid disk is going to make all that much difference.”

Another shadow moved across the ground, only this time it seemed human in shape. Dybbuk thought it must be McCreeby with the disk and felt a mixture of emotions. He was pleased to see McCreeby back, because he was lonely, but at the same time he was already looking forward to being rid of him again.

“Well, you certainly took your time,” said Dybbuk. “Did you get it? Did you find the disk?”

Glancing up, he found himself staring at a figure silhouetted by the bright sunshine. A figure that did not answer him. A figure that seemed to be wearing a cloak of feathers.

Dybbuk sprang up. It wasn’t McCreeby at all but someone else. Someone or some unspeakable thing. An Inca not unlike the little figure carved in stone. This Inca’s face was also defaced, not by the stones hurled from some careless boy’s catapult, but by that greatest vandal of all — time itself. The baboonlike visage was that of a near-naked mummified man, part skull and part flesh, hardened by centuries, with some sort of material thrust by its long-deceased embalmers into the ancient nostrils and question-mark ears to prevent the escape of something decayed and liquid. Several teeth were visible on the upper jaw of the stiffened mouth. But in the large recessed eye sockets, behind half-closed eyelids, some kind of sinister life still moved like goldfish in two bowls of very dirty water.

Instinctively, Dybbuk backed away from a figure he half recognized, half guessed must be Manco Capac. The same Manco Capac whose mummified figure had remained in the Peabody Museum, a gift from the explorer and desecrator of graves, Hiram Bingham, for a whole century.

“Was it you I was talking to?” Dybbuk asked nervously. “If so, I meant no disrespect to you or your people. I’m a djinn, too. Like you. Only I’ve lost all my power. Which is why I’m here. To complete the
kutumunkichu
ritual and get it back. The same way you did, right?”

“I see the twins have arrived,” hissed the figure.

“Twins?” Dybbuk looked around. “They’re not here, are they?”

“You, boy,” hissed Manco Capac. “You’re the twins. Two boys in one body. As if you didn’t know.”

“You’re mistaken.” He started backing away from Manco Capac’s mummy. “So, look … nice to meet you, but I’ll finish up and be on my way, okay?”

Anxious to be gone from Paititi as soon as possible, Dybbuk ran back into the dome and picked up the staff with a mixture of urgency and reverence. Swallowing his fright, he carried the heavy staff up the steps. He checked the release mechanism as he had seen McCreeby do, and then slid the rod precisely into the golden tube, appreciating for the first time the accurate workmanship of the ancient Incas who had fashioned these pieces of precious and semiprecious metal. Fear of Manco Capac and anticipation about what he was about to do — about what he was about to become — now dominated his thoughts. Would it work? Would the energy and heat released return his djinn power or would it destroy him? He was willing to take the risk. What else could he do? Dybbuk wiped the sweat from his hand and reached to twist the top of the staff.

Then a voice he recognized stopped him.

“Sure, before you do that, young Dybbuk, consider this: A trout in the pot is better than a salmon in the sea.”

Dybbuk turned around in the direction of the familiar voice. He had to look hard to see who or what had spoken, although
in his bones he knew exactly whose voice it was he had heard.

It was Mr. Rakshasas.

Or rather it was a thin, almost invisible, ghostly version of what had once been Mr. Rakshasas. Not so much a ghost as the ghost of an idea Mr. Rakshasas had once had, a long time before: the idea that one day Dybbuk would have need of some wise and fatherly advice of the kind he was unlikely to get from his real father, Iblis.

“Mr. Rakshasas,” said Dybbuk. “First Manco Capac. And now you. It’s becoming like a convention of freaks up here.”

“I heard you talking to that old prune face. He started out a decent sort of djinn. But I’m afraid that too much time has curdled his soul.”

“I rather admire him,” said Dybbuk.

“There never was a scabby sheep in a flock that didn’t like to have a comrade.”

“What are you doing here?” Dybbuk asked Mr. Rakshasas. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m not so very dead that I can’t spare a little time to come here and stop you from throwing away your life, you young eedjit,” said Mr. Rakshasas. “It’s not easy being a child of the lamp when the light gets taken away. Ages ago, when first we met, I decided to attach a pale ersatz version of myself to you and the twins, John and Philippa. Like a sort of personal recording, if you like. Or a conscience, if you prefer. So that in a moment of great personal crisis, I might turn up and give you some necessary guidance. Private-like. Sure, a
whisper in Nora’s ear is louder than a shout from the highest hill. Anyway, my advice to you is this, boyo: You might not have your power anymore, but at least you still have your life. You twist the head of that Incan staff to release yon rod, and you’ll regret it to your dying day, if you live that long.”

Dybbuk sighed. “There’s no other way to get my power back. And I really can’t live like a mundane. I know, I’ve tried. I don’t know how anyone could live an ordinary life like that. So, please Mr. Rakshasas, do me a favor and go away.”

“A silent mouth is sweet to hear, right enough. And if you really believe that, then you’re a bigger eedjit than I take you for. Listen to me, Buck, lad. When the old cock crows, the young cock learns. You want your power back? This is not the way. There never was an old slipper but there was an old stocking to match it. In time, a better solution than this will present itself. I promise you.”

Dybbuk shook his head. “What good are your promises?” he asked. “You’re not even real.”

“It’s a stubborn one you are, Dybbuk Sachertorte,” said Mr. Rakshasas. “You’ve a tongue like an adder, and no mistake. Just like your father. But sure, it’s no more I’m telling you now than you know yourself in your heart of hearts. That this is a big mistake you’re making.”

“Then it will be my mistake,” Dybbuk said sullenly. “Not anyone else’s mistake.”

“Another mistake in a long line of big mistakes.”

“It’s my right to make my own mistakes,” insisted Dybbuk.

“Sure, the fox never found a better counselor than himself.” Mr. Rakshasas sighed and shook his head. “Listen to me, young fellow, me lad. There are no shoes on your feet. So what’s the use of carrying an umbrella? Forget this idea. It will turn out badly for you and your other half.”

“My other half?” Dybbuk shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“Sure, it’s not just atoms that can get split, Dybbuk.”

Dybbuk made a noise like a bassoon and rolled his eyes. “Buck,” he said. “Just Buck, okay?” It was the last time he would ever say it.

“It’s people, too,” continued Mr. Rakshasas. “A man can lose more than just his hat in a fairy wind.”

“Look, I don’t know why you’re bothering with me,” said Dybbuk. “I’m not the person you think I am.”

“If I didn’t think there was some good in you, Buck, I wouldn’t be here, and that’s the truth. There’s good and bad in everyone. In you, most of all.”

“What do I care about being good?” said Dybbuk. “It’s the good part that made me weak. Except for that, I might still have my djinn power. It was being nice to people, trying to entertain them, that got me where I am now.”

“That’s nonsense and you know it.”

“I’m going to count to three, and then I’m going to turn this staff head,” said Dybbuk.

“If you count three, Buck, you’ll never hear the count of five, do you hear?”

“One.”

“It’s a different kind of energy you’ll release, Dybbuk. And you won’t like what it looks or feels like.”

“Two.”

“Even the light-bearer himself, the son of dawn, the morning star — he fell and lost his glory and hated himself for all eternity.”

“Three.”

“You will become hateful unto yourself.”

“I am hateful to myself already,” said Dybbuk, and turned the staff head. He felt the mechanism inside the little Incan god give a little click, and the heavy gold-covered uranium rod of the staff dropped away into the depths of the yellow rock mountain. He smiled a sarcastic sort of smile at Mr. Rakshasas. “It’s done.”

The old djinn’s shade nodded quietly. “Well, I tried,” he said. “But sure ‘tis as much of a mistake to give cherries to a pig as good advice to a fool. I’ll not be troubling you again.”

And with that he disappeared.

“I thought you’d never leave,” said Dybbuk.

He kept his hand on the little staff head but it was loose on the golden tube now so there seemed little point in holding it there. A few seconds passed and, wondering if anything had actually happened, he took a flashlight out of his backpack and peered down the tube into the depths of the atomic rock.

A split second later, he felt a wave of energy and a strong glow of courage. Something had happened. It was quite unmistakable.

For a moment, a great sickness took hold of him. This quickly subsided to leave a sense of something new and sweet. And for the first time he saw himself for what he no longer was. As something weak and disordered and fettered by the bonds of friendship and obligation and decency.