by P. B. Kerr
“I don’t know. I feel there’s something she said that was important to me and John. But I can’t for the life of me say what it was. Weird, isn’t it?”
“Have you spoken to him about it?”
“Yes,” said Philippa. “He says he stopped listening to her after she called him an idiot.”
“Understandable. And Groanin?”
“He says he was too traumatized by that camel spider to remember anything of what she said.”
“Can’t say that I blame him,” said Axel. “They are uniquely horrible.”
“Professor Sturloson says that he finds it easier to understand what people are saying in English when he watches their lips, on account of the fact that he’s a little deaf.”
“That’s true,” said Axel.
“And because he was wearing that burka thing, with a little cloth grille covering his eyes, he found it hard to keep track of what my aunt was saying. So he doesn’t remember what was said, either.”
“And your uncle?”
“He says that if I don’t mind, he’d rather not talk about it. I think he’s upset by seeing his wife again.”
“Well, of course. That’s to be expected, under the circumstances.”
Philippa sighed. “So as you can see. I’m really none the wiser.”
“Well, I always say that if you can’t remember something, it wasn’t worth remembering in the first place,” said Axel.
“I hope you’re right,” said Philippa.
Their first sight of Indonesia was of several columns of ash on the horizon. John said it looked as if a small nuclear war had been fought in the area, and Nimrod was soon obliged to find higher altitude in order to escape the worst of the smoke.
“Now I know what a kipper feels like,” said Groanin.
“What’s a kipper?” Philippa asked.
“A smoked fish,” said Groanin.
“I fear that unless we solve this mystery soon,” said Professor Sturloson, “and put an end to all this volcanic activity, we shall be too late.”
Nimrod agreed and tried to make more height and speed for the north Australian coast.
A short while later, the professor pointed at the sea beneath them.
“According to my calculations, that is the approximate site of the island of Krakatoa. A volcanic island that exploded in 1883, killing tens of thousands of people. It’s said that it was the loudest explosion in history — about thirteen thousand times as powerful as the bomb that destroyed Hiroshima — and was heard three thousand miles away, in Western Australia.”
“I’ll bet that bang broke a few windows,” said John. “Oh, it did.”
“If you don’t mind me saying so, sir,” said Groanin, “I’m beginning to wonder if any of us is really equal to the enormous task we seem to have set for ourselves. I know that you’re a powerful djinn, sir, and that gives us a bit of an advantage, but aren’t you worried that this time, we’ve bitten off more than we can chew?”
“Of course I am,” said Nimrod somberly. “Of course. And I have the distinct feeling that by the time this is over, none of us will ever be the same again.”
CHAPTER 28
FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD
I’m cold,” said Groanin. “Perishing cold.”
“Me, too,” agreed the professor.
“It’s the altitude and our air speed,” said Nimrod. “I think what we all need is a coat. Perhaps, a good, old-fashioned duffle coat. It’s cold at night in the desert, too, so now’s as good a time as any to have one, I suppose.”
“Aye, that’s the ticket,” agreed Groanin. “A duffle coat. Just like Field Marshal Montgomery used to wear in the western desert during the war.”
“I’ve seen those,” said John. “They’re really cool.”
“I hope not,” said Groanin. “It’s a warm coat I need, not a cool one.”
“Philippa?” said Nimrod. “John? If you could oblige. I’d do it myself but for the fact that I’m flying this carpet.”
“Sure,” said John, and uttering his focus word, he made a camel-colored duffle coat for Groanin.
“Perfect,” said the butler. “For once that’s exactly what I need.”
“It suits you, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “Makes you look like a general. All you need is a beret and a pair of binoculars and you’ll be the perfect picture of an army man.”
“Well, I was, as you know, an army man, sir,” said Groanin proudly. “In the paratroops.”
“I don’t like that color,” said the professor. “Could you make mine red, please?”
“Red?” Groanin was appalled. “What do you want a red one for? These coats are supposed to look military. You wouldn’t last five minutes wearing a red duffle coat in the western desert. An enemy sniper would pick you out in no time.”
The professor shrugged. “I like red,” he said. “Besides, we’re not in the military or, for that matter, in the western desert. And I don’t think there are any enemy snipers where we’re going.”
“But red.” Groanin shook his head. “Navy blue, perhaps. But not red, Professor, old chap. I say, not red. A red duffle coat isn’t quite right, if you see what I mean. It isn’t done. Not for a man. Besides, going near camels, it might be wise to have a camel-colored coat. So as not to alarm the beasts.”
“What nonsense,” said Philippa. “If he wants red, he can have red. What difference does it make if it’s red, or any color, so long as it is warm? I shall have a pink one myself. So there.”
Uttering her focus word, she made two duffle coats, one in red and then one in pink, while John created three camel-colored coats — one for himself, one for Axel, and one for Nimrod. And soon they were all of them wrapped up warmly against the cold.
They flew all day and made good progress to Darwin, which is the northernmost city in Australia, and soon were flying low across the desert, keeping a close lookout for camels.
“According to the map, that’s the Great Sandy Desert over there, I think,” said Nimrod, pointing to the west to where the sun was already going down.
“And what else are you likely to find in a desert but sand, I wonder?” said Groanin. “Calling it a sandy desert is hardly helpful. That’s like calling a sea the great watery sea, isn’t it?”
“They do have rather a lot of deserts here,” said Nimrod. “I expect they were running out of ideas by the time they named that one.”
Their route south took them across the Northern Territory. Even when it wasn’t desert the land looked as dry as a bone.
“I haven’t seen any camels yet,” said John. “Not one. I thought you said there were millions of them.”
“No, I said there were a million of them,” said Nimrod. “That’s not quite the same thing in a country as large as this. Besides, it’s getting dark and soon it will be hard to see anything, let alone a camel, so I rather think we ought to land and set up camp.”
“Couldn’t we try to find a decent hotel, sir?” inquired Groanin. “Or even a Holiday Inn?”
“Can’t be done,” said Nimrod, steering the flying carpet nearer to the ground. “It gets dark very quickly in the outback, which is what Australians call their countryside. Besides, this is a vast country. We might fly two or three hours before we even see a town, let alone a decent hotel. No, we’ll land, and set up camp.”
“Very good, sir.”
They landed by a small billabong, which is Oz for a water hole. This was surrounded by a few gum trees and a seemingly endless supply of sky and stars. The night was full of the noise of exotic-sounding birds, some of which proved to be fruit bats.
While Nimrod used his djinn power to conjure several large tents from the cooling night air, creating an elegant and comfortable encampment that would not have disgraced any modern cross-continental expedition, Groanin and Axel collected wood for a fire, in the conventional way, and the twins walked around the growing camp to see if there was anyone about. They saw no one, but they were not unobserved. Several hundred living things w
ere watching them, and two of them were human.
In a matter of minutes, Groanin had made a fire and was boiling water because, being English, he and Nimrod were unable to function without a cup of freshly brewed tea. Tea was soon followed by dinner and, in honor of Axel and the professor, Nimrod used his powers to make a special Icelandic feast that included caviar, smoked lamb, rye bread, shrimp, and, as a special treat, some special Icelandic dishes including kœstur hákarl, svið, and selshreifar.
Groanin and the twins regarded the svið — which is a dish of singed and boiled sheep heads — with something close to horror.
But Axel and the professor were delighted.
“I don’t believe it,” said Axel. “We’re here, in the middle of the Australian outback, and we’re eating svið.”
“You might be,” said Philippa. “But I’m not.”
“And kœstur hákarl,” said the professor. “It’s been ages since I ate kœstur hákarl.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Groanin. “You’d have to forget a great deal before you could eat that stuff again.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything as disgusting,” said John, his nose wrinkling with distaste. “What is that stuff, anyway?”
“It’s a great delicacy in Iceland,” insisted the professor, tucking into the feast with relish. “My father used to make it. But I think yours is better, Nimrod.”
Even through his mask, they could tell that he was really enjoying the feast.
“Yes,” said Groanin, “but what is it?”
“Iceland’s answer to fugu,” explained Nimrod.
“You mean that poisonous fish the Japanese eat?” said John. “At least, the ones who can afford it.”
“Yes,” said the professor. “Kœstur hákarl is simply putrefied Greenland shark. Prepared and cooked to remove the high concentration of poisons from the shark flesh. Trimethylamine oxide and uric acid.”
“But that’s —” John look horrified.
“Yes, John,” said Nimrod. “That’s exactly what it is.”
John shook his head. “I feel sick just smelling that stuff.”
Axel grinned. “You don’t know what you’re missing, little brother,” he said, eating some putrefied shark with, it must be said, some considerable relish that was perhaps increased by the look of repulsion that was displayed on the faces of Groanin and the two Americans.
“I’ll stick to caviar, if you don’t mind,” said Groanin.
“I don’t know how you can eat that stuff, either,” said John. He tore off a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth unhappily.
“It’s not so bad,” said Groanin. “When you get used to it.” He shook his head and grinned. “I’ve eaten some wonderful food being around you, Nimrod, sir. And been to some great restaurants. But I’ve also had to eat some terrible things. A curry so hot I thought my head would explode. Beer made from human saliva. Rats at that foul restaurant in China. And I’m just glad I’m not going to have to eat anything as disgusting as that dead shark. Not on this trip.”
The strong smell of the kœstur hákarl did have one useful function in Groanin’s opinion: It kept away the many insects that otherwise would have plagued him, but it served only to fascinate Jimmy and Charlie, a couple of aborigines who were hiding nearby in the bush.
“What do you think, mate?” whispered Jimmy.
“Well,” said Charlie. “We know they came from the sky. So I reckon that narrows it down a bit. And so does the way they made all sorts of stuff appear from thin air. Like the tents and the lights and the rest of their gear. Which narrows it down even further. I mean, I don’t think they’re from Oz. At least, not the Oz I know. Then there’s the bloke in that black mask and the red coat. You ask me, no bloke goes around wearing a black mask unless he’s not a bloke at all, but something else.”
“Too true, mate.”
“But I reckon the real clincher is the grub they’re eating. Because I certainly don’t reckon that no white feller could ever eat grub like that. Not when it smells so bad.”
“Too true, mate,” said Jimmy. “Smells like a dead window cleaner floating in Sydney Harbor.”
Charlie grinned. “That’s exactly what it smells like, mate. Exactly. Couldn’t have put it better meself.”
“But they don’t look like bunyips, neither.” (A bunyip is an Australian evil spirit that lives beside water.)
“That’s true. Not that I’ve ever seen a bunyip, mind.” Charlie thought for a moment. “You know what? I reckon they must be sky gods.”
“Could be right. But do you think they’re friendly?”
“The way I look at it is this, Jimmy. If they are sky gods, they probably know we’re here already. Very likely they know we’re on walkabout and they’re just waiting for us to come and introduce ourselves.” Charlie thought for a moment. “But here’s a clincher. Instead of speaking to them in English, try speaking in Laragiya. You’re about the only person I know who still speaks Laragiya, Jimmy. And if they really are sky gods, they’ll be able to answer you.”
“Good thinking, mate.”
“Hang on. What if they can’t speak Laragiya?”
“Then maybe they’ll kill us.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Me, neither.”
“Maybe we should call the cops, back in Alice Springs.”
“With what? In case you’ve forgotten my cell phone isn’t working. Anyway, do you think the cops’d believe us?” “Nah. Probably not. Here, maybe we should take these sky gods a gift?”
“Good idea.”
“Like what, mate?”
“Some better food, of course. Fresh food. That stuff they’re eating is just rotten.”
A few minutes later, the two near-naked aborigines, painted with white dots, and carrying spears and a gift of fresh food, walked into camp.
At first Philippa and Groanin, and John to some extent, were afraid of them, but Nimrod assured them that there was nothing to fear as aborigines were peace loving and friendly and much more sinned against than sinning. He stood up politely and welcomed them into the camp.
“They don’t look friendly, dressed like that,” said Groanin. “Or rather not dressed like that. They’re wearing war paint, aren’t they?”
“That’s not war paint,” said Nimrod. “It’s just decoration.”
Jimmy hailed Nimrod and addressed him in Laragiya.
Nimrod spoke back to him in Pama-Nyungan, which is a bit like Laragiya, and it was a while before he was able to identify the precise dialect that Jimmy was speaking; but as soon as he did, and had spoken a few words, Jimmy appeared satisfied and started speaking English.
“I reckon you blokes are all right,” said Jimmy. “I just wanted to see if you were the real McCoy or not. And I reckon you are what you seem to be. Which is pretty impressive.”
“We’re not gods, if that’s what you were thinking,” said Nimrod.
“Go on,” said Jimmy. “I believe you, boss.” But of course he didn’t. “Well, what brings you out here to the middle of nowhere, mate?”
“We’re looking for some wild camels,” said John.
“Camels?” said Charlie. “There’s none around here. Not for a long while. We ate the last of them a few months ago.”
“’S’right,” agreed Jimmy. “You need to go farther west, mate. I heard of a big herd making a nuisance of itself over at the town of Docker River. That’s five hundred miles west of Alice Springs.”
“Is that a big town?” asked Philippa.
“Nah. Blink and you’d miss it. Not that you would miss it, if you’d ever been there. A few houses on a Monopoly board. That’s the kind of town we’re talking about.”
“Could you show us where it is, perhaps?” asked Nimrod.
Jimmy pointed at the flying carpet. “You mean fly there, on that floating rug of yours?”
Nimrod nodded. “I can’t think of a quicker way to get there,” he said. “Can you?”
“Perhaps you might like something to eat?” said Nimrod. “While you were thinking about it?” He pointed at the kœstur hákarl.
Jimmy’s nose wrinkled with disgust. “No offense, mate, but whatever is in your pot smells like a dead dingo that’s been eating a dead koala bear. I wouldn’t eat whatever that is if you paid me.”
“Yeah,” agreed Charlie. “With stomachs like yours, you folks can’t be human. That’s what we reckon, anyway. Which is why we brought you some real, good, fresh tucker.” He opened a broad leaf to reveal a handful of large witchetty grubs. Each of them about the size of a man’s little finger, these were still alive and as such considered to be a special delicacy among all aboriginal peoples. “There you go. One each.”
Handing them around, Jimmy said, “Dug ’em especially for you. Just a few minutes ago.”
Groanin and Philippa stared at the wriggling grubs with horror. So did Axel. Only John, who had once eaten locusts, was not perturbed at the idea of eating “bush tucker”; after eating locusts, witchetty grubs don’t look so bad.
“Well, that’s very hospitable,” said Nimrod and, without a moment’s hesitation, he popped one into his mouth, chewed it several times, and then swallowed. “Delicious,” he said.
John was next and with only a little hesitation, he ate one, too.
“Come on, you lot,” murmured Nimrod. “They’ll be offended if we don’t all eat one. And it looks like we’re going to need them to find this herd of camels they were talking about.”
“In the spirit of scientific inquiry,” said the professor, and collecting the smallest grub from off the leaf, he pushed it through one of the holes in his mask and into his mouth. He chewed for a moment and then said, “A bit like a prawn, I suppose. Not bad.”
“Have another?” suggested Charlie.
“Er, no thanks.”
Quelling his own instinctive disgust, Axel quickly followed the professor’s example and then it was only Philippa and Groanin who had yet to eat one of the grubs.
“Come on, sis,” said John. “If I can do it, then you can do it, surely.”
Philippa nodded, for this made perfect sense to her and always had. They were twins after all and if her brother could eat a live witchetty grub without throwing up, then so could she. She picked one up and trying to ignore the movement of the grub in her fingers, she closed her eyes, steeled herself, and then put the grub in her mouth.
