by P. B. Kerr
The third book Philippa looked at was another about the nature of twins: Children Are from Earth, Twins Are from Jupiter by Prasad Vilma. And once again, the following passage was heavily underlined in maroon ink:
Now when there is a drought and the prospect of famine threatens your world, and all nature, scorched and burnt up by a sun that has been shining endlessly from a cloudless sky, is panting for rain, it is certain that twins can bring down this longed-for rain on the parched earth. If a village or town has no twins, the women must cover themselves with leaves and go and pour water on the graves of twins. For this reason the grave of a twin ought always to be moist, which is why twins should be buried near a lake. If all their efforts to procure rain prove abortive, they will remember that such and such a twin was buried in a dry place on the side of a hill. “No wonder,” says the wizard in such a case, “that the sky is fiery. Take up the body of a twin and dig him another grave on the shore of the lake.” His orders are at once obeyed, for this is supposed to be the only means of bringing down the rain.
Philippa yawned and then stretched. It was easy for her to understand why she was fascinated with twins. She was herself a twin. But, leaning back in her chair for a moment, she wondered why Nimrod was so interested in them, beyond the fact that he was uncle to twins. And while all of this was of mild interest, it didn’t seem really important, at least not in the context of their urgent mission to save the world from some hidden hand that might or might not have used some mysterious ancient crystals from the tomb of Genghis Khan to bring all of the world’s volcanoes simultaneously to life. Where was all of this going?
But then she picked up another book and things took on a darker hue, as if a cloud of volcanic ash had covered the blue sky in her own mind’s eye. The book was rather more ominously titled, Romulus and Remus Revisited: A History of Child Sacrifice, by Professor Martin Moustache. And the underlined passage in this book left Philippa feeling very disturbed:
Child sacrifice to supernatural forces and figures has been practiced throughout history. Perhaps the most famous story of child sacrifice is that of Abraham and Isaac in the book of Genesis, although, of course, God intervenes, and Isaac is spared. Almost all civilizations, without exception, have carried out child sacrifice, most notoriously the ancient Carthaginians. One burial pit in a Carthaginian archaeological site in modern Tunisia contains the bodies of as many as twenty thousand children. The practice of child sacrifice was equally common in ancient Rome: for example, Romulus and Remus, who were the twin infant sons of the god Mars. These two survived being tossed into the River Tiber and, having been raised by wolves, founded the ancient city of Rome.
But twins have always been especially susceptible to the practice of child sacrifice. Twins were put to death by some African societies such as the Nama Hottentots of southwest Africa and the Bushmen of the Kalahari because they were considered unlucky. Twins were routinely thrown to the sharks or into volcanoes to placate their gods by the ancient Hawaiians. The Kikuyu tribe of Africa practiced the ritual killing of twins and this may also have had something to do with the two dozen volcanoes that are to be found in Kenya.
There is much evidence of child sacrifice in the pre-Columbian societies of South America. The Aztecs made frequent sacrifices of children, and more especially twins, to Xiuhtecuhtli, who was the god of volcanoes, and these unfortunate children may even have been flung into the lava-filled craters to prevent eruptions. This practice was also common among the Incas for whom special children such as twins or physically perfect children were the best children they could give Apu, who was their god of mountains and volcanoes, and Catequil, the god of thunder and lightning.
Philippa wrinkled her nose with distaste and closed the book loudly.
“Horrible, horrible, horrible,” she exclaimed. “Why must people always behave so horribly?”
And why had her uncle underlined this passage?
It was the fifth book, however, that left her most disturbed of all. This was the oldest book, entitled Twice Upon a Time: The Importance of Twins and How They Will Save the World from Itself. A Prophecy by Taranushi.
Of course, Philippa was well aware that Taranushi was the name of the first great djinn, which was why his memory was so important to the Marid. Before the time of the six tribes — of whom the Marid was the most powerful tribe for good — it was Taranushi who had been charged with controlling the rest of the djinn, only he was opposed by a wicked djinn named Azazal and was defeated.
Hardly knowing what to expect, Philippa opened the book and started to read another passage underlined in maroon ink by her studious uncle.
Among the djinn, twins are rare. Very rare, for even among the djinn they have special powers and deep bonds that all djinn — good or evil — would do well to fear, especially when these twins are still children, for their bonds will be closer than adult twins’, who often grow apart. Their extra power lies in the fact that they are two halves of the same whole, which being multiplied by two, is twice as powerful as one. They are often partners on quests and that is their power. All djinn twins have a secret destiny, although it is very likely this destiny may never be fulfilled. Twins are especially powerful and important when they are male and female and the result of a djinn mother and a human father for mortal qualities are important to know a true sense of destiny. For just as the creation of the world was attended by the sacrifice of many human twins, so the saving of the world will require the sacrifice of one set of djinn twins. For it is written that when a sea of cloud arises from the bowels of the earth and turns the lungs of men to stone, the wheat in the fields to ash, and the rivers to liquid rock, then only djinn who are twin brother and sister and true children of the lamp can become true partners on a quest to save the world from inflammable darkness and destruction.
Philippa put the book aside and shook her head in disbelief. She could hardly ignore the fact that these passages had all been underlined with Nimrod’s own fountain pen. Nor the fact that these words and ideas — many of them horrible to her — were now in her own dear uncle’s head.
Was it possible that he was actually contemplating — she could hardly bring herself to think such a thing — throwing herself and John into a volcano in order to placate it in some way?
What was she going to tell John? Should she tell John anything? If they really were in danger, didn’t he deserve to know?
Suddenly, the words she herself had uttered to Liskeard in relation to his horrible bad breath seemed to thrust themselves back into her memory.
“Sometimes you learn the most from books you aren’t supposed to read, and words you aren’t supposed to hear.” How very true that was, she thought. How true.
CHAPTER 19
THE SPIDER FROM MARS
Arriving in the ancient port city of Djibouti, on the Horn of Africa, the Somali pirate ship was met by two officials from the People’s Rally for Progress, which is the largest political party in Djibouti. Other political parties are allowed in Djibouti but only the People’s Rally for Progress (the RPP) is ever allowed to form a government.
The two officials were, as a result, members of the government as well as being senior officers in the Djibouti Secret Police. Following the arrest of several hundred people in the city, a ring of American spies had been uncovered by the secret police. The ring was actually just one man and everyone who was unfortunate enough to share the same apartment building with him; they were unfortunate because they were all tortured to reveal information possessed by only one man, and it was several days before the secret police found out who the man was. But this was how the two officials from the RPP knew that the Somali pirate ship was being watched closely by NATO, and why they told Captain Sharkey that it would be better if he left Djibouti, and why, not long after the Shebelle docked, it set sail again immediately, for the port of Aden, in Yemen, on the other side of the Red Sea.
Once there, Captain Sharkey and his first mate, Mr. Khat, debated what to do with Gr
oanin.
“Now that NATO is onto us we should get rid of him,” said Mr. Khat. “As quickly as possible. Before they have soldiers abseiling down from a helicopter onto the deck of our ship to rescue him and kick our behinds into prison.”
“What would you suggest?” asked Captain Sharkey.
“Throw him to the sharks,” he said. “It’s what we usually do.”
“I’m bored with throwing people to the sharks,” said Captain Sharkey. “Once you’ve seen one person being fed to the sharks, you’ve seen them all. Besides, there’s no profit in it.”
“Then perhaps we could sell him to . Şābh al-Mjnwn. Here in Yemen.”
“Şābh al-Mjnwn?”
“It means ‘the Crazy Gang.’ ”
“I know what it means, Mr. Khat. But who are they?”
“Yemeni terrorists. Experts in kidnapping American and European VIPs. And extremely ruthless. Much more ruthless than us.” Mr. Khat shook his head. “I mean, they’re crazy. Everyone in Yemen says so.”
Captain Sharkey nodded. “How crazy are they?”
“Really crazy.”
“How crazy, out of ten?”
“Well, how crazy would you say we are, out of ten?” asked Mr. Khat.
Captain Sharkey thought for a moment. “Six or seven,” he said at last.
“Then they are probably a nine. Take my word for it. These guys, they’re really crazy.”
Captain Sharkey nodded. “Okay, I’m gonna ask my little friend Ringo what we should do next.”
Captain Sharkey lifted his eye patch, removed the beetle from his empty eye socket, and kissed its leathery back.
“Yes, we give the Englishman to the Crazy Gang, or no, we give him to the sharks.”
Then he placed the beetle on the table and awaited its decision.
Ringo stayed motionless for a minute or more while it contemplated which way to walk. Finally, it made its decision and walked toward the Somali word for yes.
Which is how it came to be that later on that same afternoon, a group of very fierce-looking men with dark glasses, bright red beards, and white robes collected Groanin from the Shebelle and, with a great deal of shouting and gesticulating, they pushed the butler toward a new-looking green Toyota sedan that even now was being polished proudly by one of the other Crazy Gang members, almost as if he had just taken delivery of the car.
The leader pointed at the open trunk and indicated that Groanin should get inside.
“I’m not a suitcase, you know,” protested Groanin. “I’m British.”
“Don’t ask questions, Englishman,” said the man with the largest red beard. “Get into the trunk of the car.”
“Where are we going?” asked the Englishman. “I said, where are we going?”
“Didn’t I tell you not to ask questions? Get into the trunk of the car.”
“A please would be nice,” said Groanin. “Costs nothing to have good manners, you know. Even for someone like you who has no manners at all.”
Captain Sharkey and Mr. Khat watched these proceedings nervously as the negotiations for the sale of Groanin to Şābh al-Mjnwn had been attended by a great deal of bad temper on the part of the Crazy Gang members. Captain Sharkey had rarely ever met people who were so cross and he was relieved to see the backs of them.
“Shall we tell them about the Englishman’s enormous strength?” Mr. Khat asked his captain.
Captain Sharkey shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll mention it now that they’ve paid for him,” he said. “Just in case they become even angrier than they are already.”
“That hardly seems possible,” said Mr. Khat.
“Do you think it’s the fact that they have red hair?” wondered Captain Sharkey. “That makes them so angry? Or does being very angry make your beard turn red?”
“I don’t know, Captain. But that looks like a new car. And I’d hate to be around to see how angry they get when the Englishman decides that he’s had enough of being shut in that trunk.”
Captain Sharkey grinned. “Don’t worry. We’ll be at sea by then. And perhaps we should stay away from Yemen for a while.”
Groanin climbed into the trunk of the green Toyota and sat down. He was hardly happy about this new development, but the men from Şābh al-Mjnwn were heavily armed and, once again, he thought it best not to argue. Besides, there was a mattress in the trunk, a blanket, some jars of his favorite baby food, and several bottles of water. As the terrorists closed the trunk and then drove off with their new captive, Groanin settled down and, before long, managed to fall fast asleep.
He might have found this more difficult if he had known that as well as himself, the trunk of the Toyota contained one other living thing: the largest camel spider in Yemen. And while the butler was asleep, the camel spider, which looked like some sort of alien from the planet Mars, crawled onto his large, warm stomach.
Camel spiders are not true spiders and have nothing at all to do with camels. They are giant Solifugae, which are members of the class Arachnida, and while not particularly venomous, they do use their own digestive fluids to liquefy their victims’ flesh into a soup, making it easy to suck this into their stomachs. They are also very, very fast on their ten legs. The reason they are called camel spiders is because some people think they gnaw on the stomachs of sleeping camels, which the beasts don’t feel, due to the numbing effect of their anesthetic venom.
If Groanin had been aware of the presence of the camel spider … but, look, perhaps it’s just fortunate that he remained soundly asleep.
For now.
CHAPTER 20
SUSPICIOUS MINDS
Philippa uttered her focus word and was quickly enveloped by white smoke. Leaving behind her transubstantiated self, she drifted up through the ceiling of the library and then the top of the old lamp and, once outside, she began to gather her atoms urgently. This was always a slightly nerve-racking moment for any djinn, especially one who was young and inexperienced. For Philippa, it always felt as if the string on a valuable necklace had broken and she was anxiously collecting lots of precious pearls that were still bouncing and rolling around the floor, worried that she would lose one and wondering what would happen if ever she did. A missing leg? An ear out of place? No teeth perhaps?
Finally, she heard herself take a loud, euphoric breath and then opened her eyes with a strong sense of relief that she seemed to be all in one piece.
“Is that painful?” inquired Axel, handing Moby the duck back to her.
She hugged the duck to herself. “No,” she said.
“It looks as though it might be,” observed Professor Sturloson.
“Transubstantiation?” Philippa shook her head. “No, not really. All the same it always feels kind of weird to be mundane again. I mean, human. To have a human body is, well, limiting. Being spirit, or smoke, is more natural to us. A more profound state. You sort of gain a better understanding of who and what you are when you’re out of body. You know?”
“Not really,” admitted the professor.
“No, I guess you couldn’t. Sorry.”
“And inside the lamp, or bottle,” continued the professor. “What does it feel like? Rather close, I imagine. Like being shut into the trunk of a car, perhaps.”
Philippa shook her head. For a moment, she was too distracted by what she had learned in the library to answer him; but after a moment or two longer she said, “No, not at all. You see, the inside of a djinn bottle or lamp exists outside time, and normal three-dimensional space does not apply. So it’s impossible to imagine that you’re inside anything at all. Unless, that is, you choose to have the interior of the lamp look like the inside of a house. Or in the case of this particular lamp, a huge library.”
“I see,” said the professor who, quietly, didn’t see at all.
“Could you go inside another person?” said Axel.
“Yes,” said Philippa. “But only with their permission.”
This wasn’t true, of course, but she hardly
wanted to alarm the handsome Icelander, not when she was as fond of him as she was.
“So, if you were inside me,” said Axel, “you could read my thoughts.”
“Yes, I suppose I could.”
Nimrod smiled at Philippa.
“Did you find the books you were looking for?” he asked her.
“Silly question,” said Philippa.
“Yes, of course.”
She showed him the book she had brought with her, only for the sake of appearances and again to elude her uncle’s curiosity.
“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” she said, surprised to find that this was the book that had come to hand as she was leaving the library.
“I’m pleased to see you’re reading Coleridge,” said her uncle.
“Why was it a silly question?” asked Professor Sturloson. “When your uncle asked if you had found the books you were looking for. Is the library as well stocked as that?”
And partly to deflect her uncle from further conversation on the subject of what she had been reading, Philippa explained that it was a wishing library.
“You just wish for the books you want to read,” she said, “and then they sort of leave their places on the shelves and make their way up to the reading desk.”
“How?”
“They sort of float through the air, like this carpet,” said Philippa.
“Do you have to know the titles?” asked Axel.
“If you know the title or the author, that’s an advantage, obviously. Otherwise, you just work by subject. A very specific subject, sometimes. For example, if you want a book on ice hockey in Hawaii, or whaling in the Congo, then that’s what you would wish for.”
“And if there are no books on those subjects?”
“There’s always a book,” said Philippa. “Whatever you can think of, there’s always a book on it.”
