by P. B. Kerr
“Not so hard, darling,” he wheezed. “In a minute or two, I reckon you can squeeze the hand all you like, but right now leave it out, there’s a good girl.”
Philippa grinned even as tears burst out of her eyes.
“Geez,” whispered Charlie. “Is it raining again?”
Philippa looked at her uncle. “Can we help him?” she said.
Nimrod shook his head gravely.
“Reckon we needed all that rain.” Charlie swallowed but with some considerable difficulty. “I just love this country after it rains. You wait. There’ll be flowers all over this desert in a few hours. I just wish I could be there to see it.”
“Why did you do it?” sobbed Philippa. “Why, Charlie? Why?”
“’Cos if your uncle Nimrod is right, Queanbeyan, the earth is going to need all three of you to fix this disaster. And if that’s not worth taking a dive for, I don’t know what is.”
Jimmy laid his big hand on Charlie’s forehead. “Say hello to Mum for me, will ya, mate?”
“No worries,” whispered Charlie.
His lips continued to move for a moment without sound.
And then he died.
The professor pressed his ear next to Charlie’s barrel chest for a minute and then sat back on his haunches. His strange, young girl’s face remained inanimate — indeed, it was quite like a mask, so little emotion was written on it — but, from the evidence of his shaking hands and his tremulous voice it was clear to everyone that he, too, was upset.
“I’m afraid he’s gone,” said the professor. “Poor Charlie is dead.”
Philippa lay prostrate across the aborigine’s body and wept bitterly.
Jimmy stood up and walked away. John and Nimrod waited for a few minutes and then followed.
“Best mate I ever had,” said Jimmy.
“I don’t know much about aboriginal funeral ceremonies,” said Nimrod, placing a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “But I’d like to help. I’m sure we’d all like to help. If you’ll allow us.”
“Yes, please,” added John. “It’s the least we can do for a bloke like Charlie.”
Jimmy nodded. “Thanks, pittong Nimrod. Thanks, poolya John.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “A toorooga. A hollow log,” he said, half choked with grief. “A dead tree trunk that’s been hollowed out by termites. That’s where we folks usually leave our dead. At least, out here, it is.”
Nimrod nodded. “I think I can find a hollow log,” he said.
“But I’ll decorate it meself,” said Jimmy. “If you don’t mind.” He swallowed hard and then tousled John’s hair. “The decoration on that didgeridoo you made was a bit crook, mate.” He grinned at the boy djinn. “Some of it was upside down.”
“Sorry,” said John.
“No, mate. No need for that. ’Cos I reckon all of this was meant to be. And you can’t go kicking against that. Or else why are we here?”
A little later on, when Charlie’s body had been placed carefully inside a hollow tree trunk, Groanin — following a little bit of instruction from Jimmy — managed to play the yirdaki so that the aborigine could be free to dance and sing in order to ensure his friend’s spirit might leave the area and return to his birthplace, where it might be reborn.
Philippa thought that for as long as she lived she would never ever forget the sound of the goohnai-wurrai, or dirge, that Jimmy sang as he danced a slow but graceful corroboree step around the hollow tree trunk that now contained his best mate, Charlie. And the dirge seemed to stay inside her head and heart long after they had climbed back aboard the carpet and taken flight for Mongolia. And whenever she thought of Jimmy’s dirge and of Charlie she thought of a good man who had bravely sacrificed his own life for hers and for something he believed in. It was a very humbling thought.
They asked Jimmy to come with them, but he declined.
“Please come,” said Philippa. “You can see the whole world from a flying carpet.”
“I’ve got no use for seeing the world.” Jimmy shrugged. “Not without me mate. Besides, why would I want to see the world when I haven’t yet seen all of Australia?”
For a long time, Philippa just sat silently at the rear of the carpet, as they crossed the continent, heading northwest, back to Asia. It was, she thought, one of the most extraordinary places she had ever seen. With its unending red deserts and dry irrigation channels, Australia looked like the surface of the planet Mars. And now, since Charlie’s death, it felt almost as alien to her.
As they left the land behind and reached the shore of the ocean, she reflected that it could hardly have been denied that perhaps Jimmy was right, that there was a great deal of Australia to see. Not that there seemed to be anyone who was actually seeing it. She’d never seen anywhere that looked so unpopulated. There were just hundreds and thousands of miles of empty land, without roads and without towns and without people.
Of course, people were there, although mostly on the southeastern coast. People for whom Charlie had been almost happy to give up his own life. And that unselfish sacrifice touched her in a way that nothing had touched her before.
It left Philippa feeling inspired by his example.
CHAPTER 34
THE FALLOUT
Strongly affected by the misery his sister was feeling, John left Philippa alone for the first few hours of the flight up into east Asia.
But the sight of so many smoking volcanoes in Sumatra and the rest of Indonesia — the sky looked like the aftermath of a nuclear war — prompted him to go to the back of the carpet and sit beside his sister and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Looks pretty bad,” he said.
“Hmmm,” she said, stroking Moby’s head. “Pretty bad, yeah.”
“Professor Sturloson says that if we can stop it in time, all this volcanic activity could actually be a good thing. Because it makes the soil very fertile. Like on Vesuvius. Volcanic ash provides all sorts of useful soil nutrients. He says there are parts of the planet where nothing grows very much that might actually benefit from all this extra volcanic activity.”
“Always provided that there’s enough sun getting through to make things grow,” said Philippa.
John glanced over his shoulder. “I think I preferred him wearing that mask,” he said.
“Me, too. I can’t get used to him looking like a girl I know from school.”
“Does he?”
Philippa mentioned a name.
“For Pete’s sake,” said John. “You’re absolutely right.”
“Maybe we should speak to Nimrod,” said Philippa. “And see if we can’t organize him a new face.”
“Nimrod says it’s only polite to wait until we’re asked,” said John. “But as a matter of fact, I already did something to help him out. It’s only something he said he once wished would happen, so I didn’t think Nimrod would mind.”
“What is it?”
“Can’t you guess?”
Philippa thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yes. I approve. It’s a good idea. I’d have done the same. Anything so as not to have to look at that face and be reminded of —”
“Daisy Bohemio.”
Philippa nodded again.
John grinned. “What were you thinking?” he asked. “Before I sat down.”
“As if you didn’t know,” she said.
“I guess I do,” he said. “But I’d still prefer to hear you say it. I’m not as good as tuning into your thoughts as you are at tuning into mine.”
“It’s telepathy,” said Philippa. “Why not just say it?”
“Because it scares me.” He shrugged. “Besides I feel it, rather than know it, if you know what I mean.”
“It’s the same for me,” said Philippa. “You think I’m better at it, bro, but I’m not. I’m just more in touch with my own feelings than you are. Because I’m a girl, I guess.”
“I thought it was because you’re more intelligent.”
“We both know that’s not true. You have a different
kind of intelligence, that’s all.” She shrugged. “Well, since you ask, what I was thinking was this: I was thinking that if I’m dealt the same cards as Charlie, I hope I would have the guts to do what he did.”
“I hope so, too,” said John. “All the same I don’t think you can tell what you’d do in that kind of situation until you have to do something, do you? I mean, everyone aspires to be brave but not everyone can be that self-sacrificing.”
“So what are you saying, bro?”
John shrugged. “I’m just saying that I don’t really know if I could actually be as brave as Charlie, that’s all. And I don’t think you can ever know that until the moment arrives.”
“I think I know,” said Philippa.
“Good for you,” said John. “But I don’t. Not yet. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Don’t you think that some causes are worth dying for?” asked Philippa.
“Of course I do. But to be really brave I think you also have to be afraid first. And that’s where I am now. You have to be afraid first, otherwise it’s not really brave you’re being; it’s, I don’t know, crazy, I guess. Reckless. Foolhardy.” John smiled. “But look, Phil, this is just talking, right? This discussion we’re having now, it’s only theoretical, yeah? There’s no real call to be talking about sacrificing your life in a cause, is there?”
Philippa shrugged. “No, I suppose there isn’t. I just wanted to let you know what I think about these things.”
John smiled. “As if I didn’t know,” he said.
Nimrod, too, was deeply impressed by Charlie’s heroic self-sacrifice and had thought about little else since leaving the burial ceremony at Docker River. It was easy to see that the brave aborigine’s death had had a profound effect on the children, too. He watched and heard the twins talking and wondered if perhaps now was the right time to mention to them the very sensitive matter of the Taranushi prophecy and the somewhat barbaric idea that in order to save the world a set of djinn twins would have to be sacrificed.
Not that he believed in the Taranushi prophecy — at least the part about sacrificing a pair of djinn twins; but it could hardly be denied that there were certain aspects of John and Philippa’s existence that seemed to fulfill what Taranushi had said about two djinn who were twin brother and sister and true children of the lamp, and how only they could become true partners on a quest to save the world from inflammable darkness and destruction.
At first, Nimrod had concluded that it was best not to mention the prophecy to the twins at all, reasoning that no one would ever care to be told that the planet’s future survival might depend on his or her death.
But after Alexandra’s mention of these uncomfortable things in Kandahar, Nimrod had been expecting John and Philippa to bring the matter up with him themselves. And when neither twin had spoken to Nimrod about the subject, it was another day or so before he realized that it was always thus with Alexandra: No one ever remembered the predictions she made for them.
That was her curse. Never to be believed.
Now he was of the opinion that he should tell them about the prophecy — after all, knowledge is potentially, at least, a kind of power, and to be forewarned is to be forearmed — but he’d been awaiting the right opportunity to do so. And overhearing their conversation about Charlie’s sacrifice prompted Nimrod to think that the twins were now in the right frame of mind to talk about these things.
He would have preferred to discuss the subject with John and Philippa on his own, without Groanin and the professor and Axel hearing everything that was said. Groanin was certain to say something unhelpful. For a while, Nimrod contemplated landing somewhere and finding a quiet spot where he could talk to the twins on his own; but the sight of so many ash plumes in the air above Indonesia had persuaded him that there was no time for such diplomacies and that they must get to Mongolia as quickly as possible.
And finally, he just called the twins over and told them the unvarnished truth about what Taranushi, the first great djinn, had prophesied.
To Nimrod’s surprise, Philippa actually looked relieved.
“So that’s what I’ve been trying to remember,” she said. “Ever since Kandahar. It’s been nagging me for days.”
“You forgot about it because people always forget the predictions that Alexandra makes,” explained Nimrod.
Philippa nodded. “I guess that’s why I also forgot about those books you underlined in the Rakshasas Library,” she said.
“You saw those, did you?” Nimrod nodded. “Yes, well, it’s all the same subject, so you would have forgotten that, too, yes. Undoubtedly. But I wonder why you didn’t mention it to me then. Before Kandahar.”
Philippa shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if we could trust you,” she said.
“We’re still not sure,” added John. “Why are you telling us now?”
“Look,” said Nimrod. “It’s not something that I believe myself. Obviously.”
“Obviously,” murmured John.
“But I just thought you ought to know.”
The twins said nothing.
“I certainly hope you don’t think that I’d ever contemplate something like that,” added Nimrod. “I mean, that sort of thing — human sacrifice — it’s nothing more than primitive superstition. The Incas practiced mountaintop child sacrifice for centuries, but no gods were ever placated, no crops grew as a result, nor any rain fell. It’s nonsense, of course.”
“But suppose it wasn’t just a primitive superstition,” said John. “Suppose it was true. What would you do then?”
“Why suppose it when it couldn’t ever be true?” asked Nimrod.
“Suppose it was,” insisted John. “Suppose there was no other way to save the world but to sacrifice me and Phil. What would you do then?”
Nimrod shook his head. “No one intelligent could ever believe that by killing someone, someone else could be saved. Least of all me.”
“That’s not answering,” said John. “That’s not answering at all.”
“I’m sorry you think that, John,” said Nimrod. “Very sorry indeed.”
“We don’t know what to think,” said Philippa. “That’s just the point.”
“Perhaps if you’d been straight with us from the very beginning, things might be different,” said John. “But you only told us half of the Taranushi prophecy. You left out the most crucial part. The part that affects us.”
Groanin scowled at the twins. “I never thought I’d see the day when you two kids fell out with your uncle Nimrod,” he said. “I say, I never thought I’d hear the day when you stopped trusting him. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. After all he’s done for you.” He looked at Nimrod and shook his head. “If you ask me, that’s the trouble with kids today. All they think about is themselves.”
“With all due respect,” said Philippa, “child sacrifice concerns us in a way that it doesn’t concern any of you.”
Groanin uttered a loud sigh.
“After all we’ve been through,” he said. “The four of us. After all the adventures we’ve had and the dangers we’ve faced. Together, mind. Together. Through thick and thin.
One for all, and all for one. After all that, you still have the nerve to ask him what he would do if the world and the good of mankind depended on you two being sacrificed.”
“If I might say something,” said the professor.
“Please do,” said Nimrod.
The professor looked at John and then at Philippa.
“Forget what your uncle might or might not do in these peculiar circumstances. If this prophecy was indeed true — although that seems highly unlikely to me — then what would you do? What would you do?”
John looked at Philippa, who shrugged back at him.
“Aye,” said Groanin. “I thought not. You’ve no idea what you would do. You expect your uncle to have all the answers when you’ve none of the answers yourselves.”
“No, she’s right, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “They’re both right.
I should have told them everything from the beginning.”
“Why didn’t you?” asked John.
“It’s not the sort of thing that’s easy to say,” said Nimrod. “Besides, it’s not like I know much more than you about all this. You might think I do, but I don’t. It’s my manner. It looks omniscient, but it isn’t really.”
The carpet turned slowly in the air and started to head back toward the coast of Sumatra. At the same time, they started to descend through the air.
“What are you doing?” asked Philippa.
“Landing,” said Nimrod.
“Landing?” “I think it’s best that I let you both off,” said Nimrod. “I’ll cut off a piece of the carpet, show you how to control it, and then you can both fly back home to New York. Shouldn’t take you more than a day or two at most.”
“Perhaps I could cut this one for you, sir,” offered Groanin. “Hmm?”
“My dad was a carpet fitter all his life,” declared Groanin. “In Burnley. For sentimental reasons, I keep his carpet knife in my suitcase alongside a picture of the queen. Sometimes, I just get it out and hold it. It’s amazing but I can always think of the smell of a new carpet when I hold that knife. Perhaps I could cut this carpet for you, sir.”
“Yes, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “Why not? Thank you, old fellow.”
“What about you?” John asked his uncle. “Where will you go?”
“We’ll keep on going to Mongolia,” said Nimrod. “And just hope that we can find the grave of Genghis Khan from the description of the site you gave me, John.”
“And if you don’t find it?”
Nimrod kept the carpet headed for the ground and didn’t answer.
They landed on a long, deserted beach that was covered with a thin layer of volcanic ash, as was the vegetation that lay behind it. But this was hardly the thing that impressed them the most. Almost immediately, Axel found a dead gray bird with a large, curving beak, and then another. Axel handed one of the dead birds to the professor.
“Buceros bicornis,” said Axel. “The great hornbill.”
The professor nodded. “Looks like it,” he said. “Poor thing.”
“I thought hornbills were black and white,” said John. “With a yellow beak.”
