Day of the Djinn Warriors

by P. B. Kerr

  “Who is it that dares to use one of my golden tablets of command for evil?” said the figure. He was speaking Chinese and, being a good and conscientious diplomat, Mr. Blunt felt obliged to offer a simultaneous translation for all those who spoke only English.

  “Iblis, of the Ifrit,” said Iblis bravely. “And who are you when you’re at home, chubby?”

  “I am at home,” said the Chinese djinn. “I am Borjigin of the Borjigi. Also called Khiyad. Also called Setsen Khan. But better known by my given name, which is Kublai Khan, Khan of the Mongols, Emperor of Yuan China and grandson of the great Lord Temudjinn, Genghis Khan.”

  “Temudjinn?” said Iblis.

  “That’s right. Temud Djinn.”

  “Genghis Khan was a djinn?” Iblis sounded surprised.

  “Of course,” said Kublai Khan. “How else do you think he conquered such a large empire?”

  “Which means …”

  “That I am, too. You’re not as dumb as you look.”

  Kublai Khan smiled. But it was not a smile that filled the heart of Iblis with gladness. Far from it.

  “Yes, I’m a djinn,” said the great Khan. “How else could I have ruled such a large empire? How else could I have known that, in the wrong hands, the djinn power that is in the Dong Xi could be so destructive? Why else did I leave five golden tablets of command, to bind them to the will of someone with a good heart?”

  Iblis swallowed loudly.

  The long fingernail pointed to Philippa. “She has a good, brave heart,” said Kublai Khan. “But you do not. Which is why I am here, to punish you.”

  “And how is it that you think you can punish me?” demanded Iblis. “What gives you the right?”

  “This right, as you call it, was given to me by none other than the Blue Djinn of Babylon herself, in the year 1290,” said the great Khan. “My transubstantiation is occult. Which means that it is her power that brings me here to you now. Not mine.”

  Iblis laughed. “Well then, Khan, you’ve had a bit of a wasted journey. My son and I are invulnerable to djinn power in these jade suits of armor of ours. You can’t touch us. Come, Rudyard. Let’s leave these djinn fools to play with their pet mundanes.”

  Kublai Khan waved the warrior devils forward to block the exit of the two Ifrit.

  “It’s true,” said the Khan, “that those jade suits protect you from my power. So it is fitting that they should also protect the world of men from the likes of you, Iblis. They shall be your prisons. And, in time, they shall also be your sepulchers.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Iblis.

  “Hold them,” said the Khan in a voice that was used to issuing commands.

  The warriors took hold of Iblis and Rudyard and held them tightly by the arms.

  “Lay them down upon the ground,” said the Khan.

  “What are you going to do to us?” demanded Iblis. “Help, Nimrod. Say something in my defense, please, old friend, before this overweight lunatic does something drastic.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to say, Iblis,” Nimrod said sadly. “What can be said in defense of one who would have gladly sacrificed the lives of millions of children? Whatever the great Khan has in mind as punishment for you is very probably less than what you deserve.”

  “It was all a joke,” said Rudyard. “A joke that got out of hand, that’s all.”

  “Nobody’s laughing,” said Groanin. “I say, nobody’s laughing.”

  The great Khan collected the golden tablet in his bare hand. It looked much too hot to touch, not that this seemed to bother him much. He held it over the jade suit worn by Rudyard Teer and some of the gold began to melt, running into the crevices between the various pieces of jade, all 2,156 of them, so that, gradually, the suit of mobile armor became a solid sarcophagus.

  “I can’t move,” shouted Rudyard. And then gradually, as the reality of what the great Khan was doing dawned on him, he started to curse and then to plead for mercy. But the great Khan was deaf to the young Ifrit’s many loud and wailing appeals for mercy; within just a few minutes, he had sealed every piece of jade, including the mask, with molten gold.

  With Rudyard Teer silenced inside a living tomb, the great Khan advanced on Iblis, who lay beside his son on the triangular floor.

  “You can’t seal me up in my own suit like this,” protested Iblis. “It’s burial alive, that’s what it is. Tell him, Nimrod. This is inhuman.”

  “When have you ever cared for humanity?” demanded the great Khan.

  “Tell him, Nimrod,” begged Iblis as the great Khan bent over him to seal up his suit with gold. “Tell him this punishment is cruel and unusual and quite unconstitutional. No court in the world would allow such a thing.”

  “You were going to have the warriors tear us apart,” said John. “You said so yourself.”

  “A misunderstanding,” insisted Iblis.

  “You were looking forward to it,” said Finlay.

  “Look, I know I’ve been bad and that I deserve to be punished,” said Iblis. “But not like this.”

  “Sealed up,” said the great Khan, and continued to drip molten gold into the crevices of the jade suit. “In your own priceless armor. Forever. With gold and djinn power and the jade you stole from museums. The most powerful binding there is. Impossible for djinn power to get into or out of. A living statue to be left gathering dust in the quietest corner of this museum. That’s the fate that awaits you, Iblis.”

  “It’s not fair,” said Iblis. “I shall write to my congressman. My senator. I shall appeal to the Blue Djinn of Babylon herself.”

  “You mean Dybbuk’s sister?” said Nimrod. “I wouldn’t recommend it, Iblis.”

  “Stop it!”

  “Horrible,” whispered Philippa, and looked away. Even Iblis did not merit such a terrible fate as this, she felt. “Horrible.” But there were no words she could find to plead for mercy. They stuck in her throat when she recalled what had happened to Mr. Rakshasas. And before him, the French Guianan boy, Galibi. And of course, poor, poor Dybbuk. Nimrod had been right. This seemed the worst of all.

  “He’s got it coming, in spades,” said John, who was made of harder stuff than his sister.

  “Stop,” screamed Iblis as slowly the great Khan slid down the jade visor over Iblis’s face and began to weld that tightly shut, too. “Stop,” came a muffled cry. “Stop. I beg you.”

  But when the last drop of molten gold had filled the final fissure between the 2,155th piece and the 2,156th piece of the suit, all was silence.

  The great Khan stood up and surveyed his ruthless handiwork. Two solid jade suits lay on the floor like stone knights lying in some medieval crypt. Impenetrable. Impervious to djinn power. No one ever would have guessed that inside the two suits were the bodies of two living djinn. “It is finished,” he said. “These two won’t trouble mankind ever again. Take them away.”

  Eight of the warrior devils carried the figures out of the pyramid.

  “Talk about the ‘Man in the Iron Mask,’” said Finlay. “Wow.”

  “Awesome,” added John. “Really awesome.”

  The great Khan waved some warriors toward the prisoners chained to the wall. “Release them,” he said.

  Nimrod caught Philippa’s eye, saw the tear that was there, and nodded silently at her, acknowledging her pity for Iblis and his son and, to some degree, understanding it, too. He winced as, once his arms were released from their shackles, the blood rushed back into his shoulders; he flexed his arms a little before folding them around his niece. “It’s all right, Philippa,” he said. “It’s all over.”

  “It is for Iblis and that mongrel son of his,” said Groanin. “At least I hope it is.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Mr. Blunt said nervously, addressing Philippa and Finlay, “I’d better be getting back to the consulate. It’s been most interesting, I don’t mind telling you. Most, most interesting. But I don’t suppose anyone would ever believe me if I told them, so I won’t. You may rest ass
ured of that. It would probably cost me my career if I mentioned any of this. Her Majesty’s government takes a very dim view on the reporting of tall tales and far-fetched stories.” He raised his hat politely. “Good day to you.” And then he left. Quickly. Before anything else that was far-fetched and therefore unreportable could happen to him.

  “Thank goodness he’s gone,” said Finlay. “He’s the kind of stiff-necked Englishman who gives the rest of us a bad name.”

  “I thought he was quite sweet, really,” said Philippa.

  “You see the good in everyone,” scoffed Groanin. “I say, you see the good in everyone.” He shook his head. “I suppose that’s why we’re so fond of you, Miss Philippa. Come here and give us a hug.”

  Philippa embraced him warmly.

  “Thank you for rescuing us,” said Nimrod, and bowed politely for, after all, Kublai Khan had been one of the greatest emperors that ever existed. “We’re very grateful to you. Aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” said everyone.

  “The spirits of the children who were imprisoned here?” asked Nimrod. “What’s happened to them?”

  “On their way home to their families,” said the great Khan. “Some will take longer than others, I expect. But rest assured they’ll all get there in the end.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” said Nimrod, “how is it that your being could be summoned back here after so many years and from an artifact that you yourself gave Marco Polo? You mentioned occult transubstantiation. I’ve heard of it, of course. But how does it work?”

  “Concerned about the possible risk that the Dong Xi might pose to future generations, I asked the great Blue Djinn to come and visit me in China,” explained the great Khan. “It was her idea to make five golden tablets of command. We made them together using my own fingernails in the smelting of the gold. So that my spirit could be summoned again by her powerful binding.”

  “But you told Marco Polo that Yen Yu had made the golden tablets,” said Nimrod. “In order to protect your own great secret. That you yourself were a powerful djinn. Isn’t that right?”

  “Marco was a good friend,” said Kublai Khan. “But he would not have understood the true nature of our power. He was a man of his time and might have assumed that I was some kind of witch or warlock or perhaps something worse. The devil himself, perhaps. People were very superstitious back in fourteenth-century Europe.”

  “And the warrior devils?” asked Nimrod. “The Dong Xi? What is to become of them? Not to mention all those ghosts and spirits who were absorbed. The warriors are still full of those spirits, aren’t they? Don’t they still pose a threat to mankind?”

  “Yes, they do,” the Khan said bluntly. “It will be my job over the coming months to conduct many exorcisms and empty the spirits from them. Of necessity, it will be a brutal, destructive process. And it is to be regretted that few, if any, spirits will survive. Most of them will find themselves freed from the Earth, forever.”

  “A good friend of ours was a djinn who was in spirit form and found himself absorbed by one of the warriors,” said John. “His name is Mr. Rakshasas. Is it possible he might survive the process of exorcism?”

  “I doubt it,” said the Khan. “With more than eighty thousand warriors to exorcise here in Xian, I have my work cut out for me, I’m afraid. I think it will be impossible to find one among so many and take a great deal of extra care with his exorcism. Which is what it would require.”

  “Poor Mr. Rakshasas.” John bit his lip. “He was trying to distract the devil warrior in the Temple of Dendur away from me and Faustina,” he said. “So that we could make our own getaway.” John swallowed loudly. “I’m going to miss him a lot.”

  “We’ll all miss him,” said Nimrod. “He was a great soul.”

  “Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different ends,” said the great Khan. “Try to remember this: That clay is molded to form a cup. But it is on its nonbeing that the utility of the cup depends. Doors and windows are cut out to make a room, but it is on its nonbeing that the utility of the room depends. Therefore, turn being into advantage and turn nonbeing into utility. Nonbeing is the greatest joy.”

  “I don’t understand,” confessed Philippa.

  The great Khan laid his hand upon her head. “Words of truth are always confusing,” he said. “But know this for certain, child. Great acts are made up of small deeds such as yours.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Groanin. And John, who was, of course, still inside the English butler’s body, agreed.

  “You have been a great soul, too. And in reward I give you these strawberry slippers.”

  The great Khan pointed a fingernail at Philippa’s feet and a pair of beautiful shoes appeared on them.

  “Thank you very much, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said. “But they’re gold, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, but they smell of strawberries,” said the great Khan.

  “How lovely.”

  “I have a small favor to ask of you, sir,” said John. “If I may.”

  The great Khan nodded.

  “When you’re doing your exorcisms in those museums, like you said you would, I wondered if you might like to exorcise the Temple of Dendur in the Metropolitan Museum in New York. There’s a friend of mine who’s trapped there. His name is Leo Politi and he’s been the Ka servant at the temple for more than two hundred years. If it’s possible, he’d like to be released from his duties. If you don’t mind, sir.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” said the great Khan.

  “Thanks,” said John. “I appreciate it.”

  “Come on, it’s time we were going home,” said Nimrod.

  “With any luck, Mom will be there already,” said Philippa. “I can’t wait to see her again. Or to recover my power. I feel kind of naked without it.”

  “You feel naked.” John’s voice sounded unsympathetic in Groanin’s mouth. “What about me? I don’t even have my body. Stuck in here with Groanin. It’s like having to share a small tent with an elephant.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep your personal observations to yourself, young fellow me lad,” said Groanin. “It’s not exactly been a picnic for me having to share my most intimate secrets with you, you know?”

  “Do tell,” said Finlay.

  A whirlwind carried them all across the Pacific Ocean and the continental United States. They landed in Central Park, at night, and said their good-byes in the dark.

  “Don’t you want to come back to the house and say hello to Mom?” Philippa asked Nimrod.

  “Not this time,” said Nimrod. “Your father should have recovered by now. And I expect all of you will have a lot to tell each other. So it’s best we leave you alone for a while. To enjoy being a family again.”

  “What about Mr. Rakshasas?” she asked. “His body was in John’s room when we left. What happens when a djinn dies? Is there a funeral?”

  “Since it happened in her house, it’s your mother’s right to make the arrangements,” said Nimrod. “Tell her I’ll call when I get back to London. And that I’ll be back for the OE. Obsequies and exequies. That’s what a djinn funeral is called.”

  After Philippa had embraced Groanin and her uncle Nimrod, Groanin allowed John, who was still inside his body, to take over long enough to thank Finlay for all that he had done.

  “It’s been interesting,” said Finlay with considerable understatement.

  “What happens to you now?”

  “I’ll go and see my dad,” said Finlay. “Nimrod’s right. I ought to see if I can make it up with him. After that, I’ll go to boarding school.” They shook hands.

  Then John transferred his spirit into his sister’s body. A minute or two later, Philippa stepped off the whirlwind and waved it off as Nimrod, Groanin, and Finlay flew on to London.

  Sharing one body for the short time it took John and Philippa to walk along East 77th Street did not cause either of them any real problems. They were twins, after all, and twins rarely have
any secrets from each other. Besides, there was, they decided, a lot to be said for reading each other’s thoughts, and they welcomed the chance to catch up with all the details of what each had done during the other’s absence without actually having to take the trouble of explaining anything.

  “You know something?” said John. “Adventure is not all it’s cracked up to be. Frankly, I’m kinda tired of adventure. I just want to go home and get my body back and see Mom and Dad. I want to eat the food I like, not the stuff Groanin or Finlay eats. Make my own choices, you know? Be myself again. Be a family again. Go back to school. Ordinary stuff like that.”

  “Me, too,” admitted Philippa. “I’m just going to fix myself something to eat and talk to Mom and Dad and watch TV, and then, later on, go and see Mrs. Trump.”

  Philippa stopped in front of a newsstand long enough for the two of them to read the story on the front page of the New York Post. Millions of children all over the world were now “recovered” from the “mass hypnosis” inflicted upon them by “disgraced magician Jonathan Tarot.” Which was a great relief to these two children of the lamp. As well as a source of considerable sadness, too.

  “Poor Dybbuk,” said Philippa.

  “It’s Buck, remember?” said John. “He hates that name.”

  “I wonder what will become of him.”

  “Says there he’s disappeared.” John shrugged. “Whatever that means.”

  “I know. I can read. I just wondered what was going to become of him. It’s been difficult enough not having any power for four weeks. I can’t imagine what it might feel like to lose djinn power for the rest of your life.”

  “I know. I feel like I’ve been missing an arm.”

  “I suppose you’d get used to that feeling,” observed Philippa. “Eventually. Groanin did.”

  Arriving home, they were disappointed to find that their mother had not yet arrived back from Iravotum, although there was a letter in her familiar, copperplate handwriting, explaining that she would be with them again very soon. John noticed that the letter was on her personal stationery, the ludicrously expensive stuff she had made especially with her name and address on top in gold lettering, and which she kept in the French bureau in her study. It struck him as a little strange, perhaps, that she could have been using this to write on, at least until he reminded himself that his mother was a powerful djinn and could do more or less whatever she liked.