by P. B. Kerr
“What’s keeping it all up?” whispered Groanin. “The rope? The platform? The bloke with the beard? Everything.”
“Simply mind over matter,” explained Nimrod.
“Is that all?” said Groanin.
“No man is just his thoughts,” Nimrod told Groanin. “Sometimes it’s important to take a step back from thinking. And to feel.”
“Aye, perhaps you’re right at that,” admitted Groanin. “You could say that’s why I support Manchester City Football Club.”
“The rope stays up because the fakir feels that it stays up,” added Nimrod.
“That never worked for Manchester City.”
Nimrod got up, walked to the very edge of the carpet, and bowed gravely to the fakir. Then he sat down again in front of the fakir and pressed his hands together in a gesture of respect and salutation.
“My name is Nimrod,” he said. “Possibly, you remember I was a close friend of Mr. Rakshasas who you served for many years. And like him, I am a djinn of the Marid tribe. In respect of your vow of silence I should like to step inside your head and meet with you, Mr. Burton.”
Nimrod waited for a moment before adding, “Alternatively, if your own level of enlightenment is sufficiently developed, you may communicate with me telepathically.”
For several minutes the fakir stayed motionless and silent. But after a while his breathing grew a little more noticeable. His chest moved perceptibly and the sound of a loud intake of breath was heard by all who sat upon the flying carpet. Finally, the fakir brought the palms of his own thin, leathery hands together and he spoke:
“That will not be necessary,” said Burton. His voice was surprisingly clear and strong for one who had not uttered a word in several years.
“Thank you.” Nimrod was grateful that Mr. Burton had spoken to him so quickly; at the same time, however, he was surprised that a long-kept vow of silence had been abandoned with such alacrity.
“What brings you to this place that is no place?” asked the fakir.
“Mr. Burton, I’ll be honest with you. I need your advice.”
“Nimrod, is it?”
Nimrod nodded.
“I have heard of you,” said Burton. “Mr. Rakshasas often used to speak of you when you were a boy. Tell me. How is my former master?”
“He died,” said Nimrod. “An accident. Most unfortunate.”
“I’m sad to hear it,” said Burton. “He was the wisest person I ever met. And yet it seems to me that I should have felt something if he was indeed dead. Yes, I ought to have felt something, perhaps. No matter. Tell me, Nimrod. The children who accompany you. Are they djinn like yourself? And were they, too, friends of Mr. Rakshasas?”
“Yes,” said Nimrod. “They are djinn. The boy is my nephew, John, and the girl is my niece, Philippa. And they were as fond of the old man as I was.”
“If, as you say, they were fond of Mr. Rakshasas, then they will know his mind as well as their own. And they will be able to answer three simple riddles that were told to me by him more than two decades ago.”
“We only have to join our minds for you to be sure about that,” said Nimrod. “Perhaps I could join you in spirit and then we should know each other’s thoughts.”
But Mr. Burton shook his head. “But what if you are an evil djinn?” he asked. “If I let you into my mind, you might take control of it. And what then?”
Nimrod nodded. “You make a good point,” he allowed.
“If the boy and the girl can answer three simple riddles,” said Mr. Burton, “then I will agree to help you. For only then will I know that you and they are what you say you are. Friends of Mr. Rakshasas.”
“Blimey,” muttered Groanin. “It was hard enough to understand old Rakshasas even when he was trying to make sense, let alone when he was giving you a riddle.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer me to answer your riddles?” Nimrod asked Mr. Burton.
“Sure, the wolf never found a better messenger than himself,” said Burton with a Rakshasas-like twinkle in his eye. “You might be what you say you are. But sometimes it’s best to judge the wolf by its cubs.”
“True,” admitted Nimrod. “And sometimes the youngest thorns are the sharpest.”
Nimrod waved the twins toward him.
The twins came over beside Nimrod and sat down in front of the fakir.
“Welcome,” said Burton. “It’s nice to meet children again. Especially nice when these are children of the lamp.”
“Have you been here very long?” Philippa asked Burton.
“Yes,” said Burton. “So long that I’d almost forgotten that such a thing as a child even existed.”
“That is a long time,” said Philippa.
“Don’t you get lonely?” asked John.
“Long loneliness is better than bad company,” said Burton. “And truth speaks even though the tongue were dead.”
“Whatever that means,” muttered Groanin.
“What’s the first riddle?” asked Philippa.
“A woman gave birth to five children,” said Burton. “And exactly half of them were sons. And her husband said, ‘How can this be?’ And, indeed, please enlighten me: How can it be so?”
John frowned and scratched his head as he tried to imagine one of the children as a freakish half boy, half girl. But Philippa was already answering Burton’s riddle.
“If exactly half of her children were sons, then all five of her children were sons,” she said. “Because no one can be half of anything.”
Burton nodded. “You answer well, child,” he said.
John winced. Five children who were five sons. How else could there have been exactly half of them who were sons? It seemed obvious now that Philippa had given the answer. But all riddles were a bit like that.
Burton produced a large, silver inkwell and placed it in front of Nimrod and the twins, and then a fountain pen. He unscrewed the body of the pen and, squeezing the little reservoir, allowed one drop of black ink to drop into the inkwell.
“Now, please tell me this: Exactly how many such drops of ink can be dropped into this empty inkwell?”
John stared at the inkwell. He was certain that a bottle of ink held about twenty-five mills of ink, and that the well itself was large enough to have room for two such bottles, and that each drop of ink was perhaps a tenth of a milliliter, and that …
“The well is no longer empty after you put one drop of ink into it,” said Philippa. “Therefore the answer is just one drop of ink.”
“Once again, you answer well,” Burton told Philippa.
“She’s a clever girl that Philippa,” Groanin told Moo. “I said …”
“Yes, I heard you the first time,” said Moo.
John could have kicked himself. Once again, the answer seemed so obvious now that his sister had said it. What was more, he could see how he’d wasted time in a pointless math calculation of the inkwell’s capacity when the question had really been about words and their proper meaning. And he told himself he simply had to answer the third riddle himself otherwise he’d never hear the end of it. As if to underline this fact, Philippa shot him a look that only a brother with a sister could ever have recognized. A smirking, triumphant look that said, “You’re a dork.”
“What’s the third riddle?” John asked Burton, even more anxious to prove himself now.
“Please tell me this,” said Burton. “Yes, tell me what is better than heaven, but worse than hell? Every poor man has this, yet the richest man in the world has need of it. And if you eat it, you will surely die. What is it that I speak of?”
John racked his brains and glanced sideways at his sister. Being a twin and given to an almost telepathic knowledge of what his sister was thinking — and vice versa — he even tried to sneak a look into Philippa’s mind, but instead he found her thoughts blocked to him and her eyes staring back at his.
“Looking for something?” she asked.
“No, nothing,” he said, and redoubled his effort to arr
ive at a solution before she did.
“Of course,” she whispered. “That’s it. That’s the answer.”
“What is?” said John, aware that he had said or thought something important that Philippa had picked up on. But what? What was it that he had said? He didn’t know.
“Well, go on,” she urged. “Tell him, John. Don’t keep everyone in suspense.”
John smiled thinly as a fourth riddle now confounded him: the riddle of how he had solved the riddle. He wrung his brain, like a wet sponge, with thinking for a moment and then shook his head. “Er no, I don’t think I did solve it,” he said. “At least, if I did, then I don’t know how.”
Philippa shrugged. “You said it.”
John shook his head again, this time more irritated than before. “Nothing,” he said. “I said nothing. I don’t know the stupid answer, you idiot.”
“That’s the answer,” said Philippa. “Idiot yourself.”
“What is?” John sounded very exasperated.
“Nothing.”
John shook his head again. There were times — and this was one of them — when he felt like the dumbest djinn ever to billow out of a bottle. “Tell me,” he said. “Don’t be such a dork, Phil.”
“Nothing,” repeated Philippa. “Nothing’s the answer.”
“There has to be an answer,” said John. “It wouldn’t be a proper riddle if there wasn’t an answer.”
Philippa gave up on him and turned to face Burton. “Nothing is the answer,” she told the old fakir. “Nothing is better than heaven, and nothing is worse than hell. Every poor man has nothing, yet the richest man in the world has need of nothing. And if you eat nothing, then you will surely die.” She nodded. “It’s just what Mr. Rakshasas would have said.”
“Once again, you answer well, girl,” said Burton.
John cursed himself for his own stupidity. It was true. He remembered now. He’d said “nothing” after Philippa had asked him what he thought he was doing trying to sneak a look inside her thoughts. The answer had been right on his lips and even then he’d not understood.
“Never mind, John,” said his uncle Nimrod. “We can’t all be Stephen Hawking.”
Burton smiled and placed a friendly hand on John’s head. “Calm yourself, boy. And recognize that the true pleasure of a riddle is, as in life, finding your own pathway to the right answer. And though wisdom is good in the beginning, it is better at the end. ‘Tis afterward that everything is understood.”
“That’s easy to say,” said John, who was still beating himself up inside his own head.
“No matter how tall your grandfather was, boy, you always have to do your own growing.”
“You will help me then?” asked Nimrod and, seeing Mr. Burton nod, he described the problem that had brought them all the way from London. “A group of religious scoundrels, mendicant fakirs most probably, but certainly part of a fraternity that is governed by laws of an uncommon or secret nature, seems to be bent on bringing about some change in the amount of luck that exists in the world. The question is, why? What do they hope to achieve?”
“Hmm. That is interesting. But you’ll forgive me, Nimrod, if I say that I’m tired. This has been a busy day for me. You must come again tomorrow and we shall speak some more.”
“We’ve only been here ten minutes,” whispered Groanin.
“I think we have to respect the wishes of the fakir,” Moo told him. “After all, it’s we who are disturbing his peace and soliciting his help. It’s what’s called diplomacy.”
Nimrod nodded. “Very well. We’ll pitch camp down there, on the mountaintop. And speak again first thing in the morning.”
CHAPTER 14
FALERNIAN WINE
In a matter of minutes after landing safely back on the mountaintop, Nimrod had used his djinn power to conjure several canvas pavilions from thin air, creating an elegant and comfortable encampment that would not have disgraced a desert-dwelling caliph. Meanwhile, Groanin gathered wood in the conventional way, made a large campfire, and before long had boiled some water for Nimrod and Moo and, of course, himself, for, being English, none of them were able to function without a cup of freshly brewed tea.
Tea was followed by dinner and, in honor of Moo, who said it had been years since she’d been on a picnic, Nimrod used his djinn powers to make her a whole roast wild boar stuffed with sausages and dates and all served with hundred-year-old Falernian (S.C.) wine. The twins, who didn’t much care for wild boar or wine, were permitted to use their own djinn powers to make themselves cheeseburgers and sodas, and a plate of fruit for Zagreus. But Groanin, who was fond of sausages, enjoyed the wild boar and perhaps a little too much of the sweet Falernian wine.
“This Falernian wine is delicious,” said Moo. “It has a most warming effect.”
“Indeed.” Groanin wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It’s a cold night, but for some reason I don’t feel cold at all.”
“That’s why we djinn drink it,” said Nimrod. “So that we can nourish the inner fire that gives us all power.”
“What exactly is Falernian wine, anyway?” Groanin asked Nimrod.
“Are you sure you really want to know?” Philippa asked him.
“Er, on second thought, perhaps not,” said Groanin, who remembered how appalled he had been in South America upon discovering the horrible secret of the recipe for making a local beer called chichai.
“It was the most expensive wine in ancient Rome,” explained Nimrod. “Falernian wine was served at a banquet to honor Julius Caesar following his conquests in Spain in 60 B.C. Both Pliny and Catullus describe the excellence of Falernian wine. It’s made from black grapes from a variety of countries.”
“That’s a relief,” said Groanin. “And the S.C.? Southern Campania in Italy, I presume.” He chuckled politely. “Or perhaps these days it’s Southern California. They make a nice drop of wine, them Californians.”
“Falernian wine is perhaps the only wine that takes light when flame is applied to it,” explained Nimrod. “But for some inexplicable reason, when we djinn make the stuff it seems to catch alight of its own accord. At least it does after you drink it. That’s what the S.C. means. Spontaneously combusting.”
“Spontaneously combusting?” Groanin smiled uncertainly. “You mean, it catches fire all by itself?”
“Exactly,” said Nimrod.
“Am I to take it, sir, that the inside of my stomach is on fire?”
“Yes, just like the flame on a Christmas pudding.” Nimrod grinned. “That’s why you feel so warm on what is, after all, quite a cold desert night.”
Groanin stood up abruptly. “I don’t think I like the sound of that,” he said, holding his ample stomach with both hands.
“Me, I’m glad I stuck to soda,” observed John.
“Me, too,” said Philippa.
“I’m glad I stuck to water,” said Zagreus.
“Don’t worry, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “It’s quite safe. Provided you don’t drink too much of it. And even then —”
“Yes, but suppose the rest of me catches fire as well?” said Groanin. “Suppose me whole insides catch fire. What then?”
“They won’t,” said Nimrod. “I promise you that the worst that could happen is —”
“Water,” said Groanin. “Quick, give me some water before I blow up or something!”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Nimrod.
But it was too late. Groanin had already snatched the jug of water from Zagreus and was pouring the contents down his throat.
“Oh, dear,” said Nimrod. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Groanin.”
“What?” Groanin frowned. “Why?”
“Falernian (S.C.) wine reacts badly with water.” Nimrod winced.
“In what way badly?” asked Groanin.
“Nothing fatal, I can assure you,” said Nimrod. “Not even painful. Just a bit inconvenient. Look here, Groanin, it might be a good idea if you slept outside the tent tonight. J
ust in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
“And one more thing,” said Nimrod. “If you happen to burp, don’t, for Pete’s sake, put your hand up to your mouth. And it might be best if you took several steps back from anyone whenever you felt a burp coming on.”
“Why?”
Talk of burping caused Groanin to belch nervously. But this was no ordinary belch. It was loud. Only it was not the volume of Groanin’s belch that made it unusual. What made Groanin’s belch unusual was that it was the kind that might have been produced by a dragon, for most of the wind that was released from his body through his mouth now appeared in the darkness of the mountaintop as a tongue of flame, several inches long.
“That’s why,” said Nimrod. “Fire always tries its best to escape from water. They don’t mix, you see.”
John ducked as Groanin belched again, only this time with more spectacular effect. The flame flew out of his mouth, through the air, and caught hold of a dry olive bush, setting it on fire.
“Blimey,” exclaimed the butler. “I’m a human flamethrower.”
“Wow,” said John. “Good trick, Groanin.” He grinned at Nimrod. “Hey, Uncle Nimrod, why don’t you put a cigar in your mouth and see if Groanin can light it?”
“Sounds like a good way to lose some eyebrows,” said Moo.
“John’s right, you know, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “I never thought of that. A butler who can light a cigar with one burp could be jolly useful.”
“Very amusing, I’m sure,” complained Groanin. “Isn’t there anything you can do to help me, sir?”
“I’m afraid not, Groanin,” admitted Nimrod. “Not now that you have drunk the water. You’ll just have to wait for the effect of the wine to wear off.”
Groanin muttered a swear word under his breath and, taking a sleeping bag, went away and found a quiet spot to sulk, which was, from time to time, illuminated by one of the butler’s fiery explosions of wind.
CHAPTER 15
THE FAKIR’S ADVICE
After dinner, the remainder of the little party settled down in their sleeping bags and were soon fast asleep. That is, everyone except John, who had other ideas. Sneaking out of the tent, he found his new flying carpet and willed it to move. Instead, it wrapped him up like a parcel, which is not an unusual thing to happen to anyone who attempts to fly a carpet for the very first time. But after several further attempts, he succeeded in getting the carpet off the ground and was soon ascending the height of the fakir’s rope.
