Bearer of the Pearls

by Faust, Terry P. ;

  Mollified, Oliver went on, “He was the head of the house and his decision was final, as it should be.”

  “Baloney,” I muttered. Werling giggled. Ben put his finger to his lips and shook his head at me.

  “If there’ll be no more interruptions, I’ll continue,” Oliver said, glaring at me.

  “Fine,” I said. “Plunk your magic twanger, Froggy.”

  Oliver opened his mouth to complain but couldn’t place the quote and was too proud to ask.

  Werling grinned at me and jumped in. “From a Saturday morning children’s TV show called Andy’s Gang. Froggy was a gremlin who—”

  “Thank you, Werling,” Ben snapped, stopping him. “Go on, Oliver. And no more interruptions!”

  “Thank you, Benjamin. The divers worked and worked but continued to come up empty as the days passed. Finally, in desperation, they decided to dive in the name of Iblis, whom God may curse.” Oliver spat on the floor to make his point. “And they came up with a pearl of immense size and value. The profit from this one pearl alone would be as much as the man had made in his entire life.”

  “And that was Yetima, the pearl?” Werling asked.

  “No,” Oliver said. “When the man from Oman learned what the divers had done, diving in the name of Iblis, he promptly smashed the pearl to dust and threw it into the sea. The divers went wild, demanding to know why.”

  “Who is Iblis?” I asked.

  “I would not expect an inconsiderate westerner to know,” Oliver sneered.

  “This is not a mosque, Oliver, and we are not Muslim,” Ben said in a warning manner.

  “Yes, very well. My apologizes, Benjamin.” Oliver replied. “In Islam, Iblis is king of the evil jinn.”

  “Genies?” I said. “Like Aladdin’s lamp, right? Poof, you get three wishes?”

  “Genie,” Oliver said with total snarkiness, “is the western word. Jinn are mythical beings made of smokeless fire, given free will by the creator. They can be good or evil. They were made before man to serve him.”

  “So, they’re like angels.” I said. I couldn’t remember genies or Iblis being mentioned in Sunday school.

  “Not angels,” Oliver said. “Angels have no free will. Jinn can choose to do good or evil.”

  “Okay, Iblis is a genie,” Ben said. “We can talk religion later. What about Yetima? The man from Oman crushed it and threw it into the sea.”

  “No, no, no!” Oliver cried. “The Iblis pearl was destroyed. That was not the Yetima. The man from Oman knew he was being tested and refused to profit from evil. He destroyed it.”

  “You say Iblis is a bad genie?” I said. “What makes him so bad?”

  “He was cast out when he refused to bow down to man.”

  “Not bowing to men? He doesn’t sound so bad to me.”

  Oliver got mad. “Iblis deceives both jinn and men. He whispers into their hearts so they’ll commit evil. It’s not a joke.”

  Oliver really believed this stuff, and I knew enough to lay off him.

  “Wendy, let Oliver tell his story,” Ben demanded.

  “Thank you, Benjamin.” Oliver continued. “The next day, the last day the owner of the pearl operation could operate, the divers miraculously brought up two pearls: Yetima, a black pearl of such incredible richness and beauty that the man from Oman, his wife, and all the divers bowed in praise and gratitude. They could all retire in wealth. And they found a slightly smaller but equally beautiful pearl. Some versions of the story called it The Heart. The pearls were God’s reward for the man’s faith and trust. That’s the story.”

  The story affected Ben and Werly. Even I felt some of its power, too. Ben picked up the clamshell he took from the creek and turned it over and over as he thought about the story. Though he looked at the thing, his eyes weren’t focused on it and his lips went back and forth. He shook his head, then nodded, like he was hearing voices. “As I recall, the jinn can change shape and size, correct?”

  Oliver shrugged. “The tales say they can.”

  “Right,” Ben said with a wave of his hand, like he swatted at a belief.

  “Do you think our thief is looking for the Yetima pearl?” I asked.

  “If such a pearl existed . . .” Ben wondered out loud, “Then it would make sense.”

  “What would?” Werling asked. He looked as puzzled as me.

  “Why would whoever wants the pearl dig up the clams if he’s after a pearl that’s already made?” I asked. “And ancient?”

  Oliver cleared his throat in an important way. “Possibly, someone reintroduced a whole pearl into a large mussel in the hopes of hiding it. Not only would it be out of sight, but also the mussel would start coating the pearl with new layers of nacre, changing the pearl’s color. What would be better concealment? Of course, that’s mere speculation.” He gave his head a superior little shake.

  I had to give him credit for some radical thinking. Even Werling looked impressed, though he said nothing.

  “An interesting idea,” Ben said, “Pearls and jinn.” He said it like he was alone in the room. He then said, “In looking through the news, I came on another interesting creek story.” He tapped a finger and didn’t said more, like he was silently working out a puzzle.

  “What?” I asked him.

  “Wendy,” he replied. “If I told you what I think without more information, it could mislead us. We’d waste time.”

  “Waste time? We’ve been spinning our wheels since we started. How could we waste more time? What do you think, we’re idiots?” I asked. “I mean, Oliver there is like Mr. Wizard, and even Werling seems pretty smart about most things . . .” Werling lit up like a Christmas tree. “Tell us.”

  “She’s got a point, Ben,” Werling said and grinned at me.

  Oliver cleared his throat. “Though I’m reluctant to do so, I must agree with Wendy.” He tipped his head stiffly to me. “Pooling all our thoughts, right or wrong, may lead to a fruitful area of investigation.”

  It was plain Ben was not used to democratic input—or changing his mind—but he took it okay and shrugged. “Mostly, I’m worried you’ll think I’m bonkers.”

  “Too late,” Werling said with a laugh, which he stifled into a cough at Ben’s glare.

  “Give us what you’re thinking and let us decide,” I said.

  “Yes,” Oliver agreed. “And what is ‘bonkers’?”

  Ben looked around at us, I guessed judging how much bizarreness we could manage. “Remember those guys in the news last month who were dredging out the creek below Hiawatha?”

  “The TV news story. They claimed they were searching for gold,” Werling said.

  Ben corrected him, “Actually, they said they were searching for treasure. It could have been their first attempt at finding mussels. The TV news reporters said they were panning for gold. An unintentional mistake of the reporters, but it made the story more dramatic.”

  Oliver slid off his stool and went to a computer console against one rock wall. “I’m checking TV news, last thirty days. Panning for gold. Minnehaha Creek.” He waited a moment. We gathered around him.

  “Ah, here we go. Video.” The screen displayed a TV news segment with a female reporter in the foreground and a section of the creek behind her. A pile of mud was thrown up on one bank.

  The reporter said, “I’m standing beside Minnehaha Creek in South Minneapolis. The site of two men’s attempt to return to the days of the gold rush . . .”

  We crowded closer, bending over Oliver. The news camera showed police leading handcuffed men to a squad car. The reporter said, “These men, arrested by the police, vanished shortly after being taken into custody. Police are baffled by the apparent disappearance of the prospectors from the backseat of their squad car.” A close-up of the two men made me gasp.

  “What is it, Wendy?” Ben asked.

  “Those two!” I cried. I was mentally once again standing behind the Prestons’ front door squinting through the peephole. “They were outside . . . with Catha
l!”

  Thirteen

  Morgan’s Rest

  Morgan’s Rest was nothing to write home about. The place was an Irish Pub on Lake Street, not far from Ben’s place. Its long and narrow kitchen had greenish fluorescent lights. A dented stainless steel counter with a double sink lined one wall; sacks of hamburger buns, onions, and potatoes were piled on it. Dirty plates, cups, and silverware soaked in the steaming sink. A rectangular opening looked into the pub past a shelf for plates and a revolving order holder. The other wall had a huge griddle, burners, cutting board, monster fridge, and doorless cabinets full of cans and spices. The only decoration was a grease-coated photograph of a group of soldiers in a desert.

  To my unasked question, Ben answered, “Morg has the best fish and chips in town. He also has all the news of spirits, demons, and things that go bump in the night.”

  “Right.” I’d reached the point where mentioning demons didn’t make me blink.

  A grizzled little man juggled two pans over flaming burners and shouted, “Order’s op!” as he combined the stuff onto one plate and reached for toast that miraculously popped into his hand. Without looking, he knifed up butter and covered the bread in one swipe, laid it on the plate and landed everything on the shelf. “Benny, lad, I’m a wee bit busy, ya ken?”

  Ben and I were crushed in a corner where the cook, Morgan, might not trample us. Why the place was called Morgan’s Rest was beyond me; he hadn’t stopped moving since we got there.

  He flung open the fridge, cracked open half a dozen eggs like a machine gun, and chucked them on the griddle. Morg was shorter than me, but made up for it with a kind of energy I only saw in cartoons. His hair under his brimless white cap blazed red.

  “Morg, I wouldn’t bother you if it weren’t important,” Ben said.

  “Ach, no, I s’pose ya wouldna.” The eggs sizzled and he reloaded the toaster, then turned to Ben and came to rest. “Right, then?”

  “Pearls. Water spirits. Kelpie. We have a situation at the creek. What have you heard?”

  Morg pushed back his cap and blew out a breath. “Crivvens, ye get straight ta the point.” He quickly looked out the order window and took a quick look around the tiny kitchen, as if it would be possible to hide an eavesdropper. “I read about the creek. Sad thing. The dear wee clammies.”

  “Mussels,” Ben amended reflexively.

  Morg flexed his biceps like Popeye. “Thanks for noticin’. It’s the job, laddie. Liftin’ and haulin’ all day. The lassies think they’re grand.” He kissed each bicep. “Me guns, laddie.”

  Ben plowed ahead, patiently, “And what have you heard?”

  “Ard Godfrey.”

  Ben looked as clueless as I felt. We waited for more and I realized Morg was enjoying this. He flipped his eggs and dusted them with pepper.

  “Okay,” Ben finally said. “Who is Ard Godfrey?”

  “Old Ardy built a sawmill on the creek, just about where your mussels showed up—nearly two hundred years back. A building fiend he was. Smart and successful, too—all but the creek sawmill, that is. Water spirits are na partial to dams and such. They ruined it for him.” His hand reached out and the toast once again popped up on cue. A quick buttering, a flip of the spatula, and the eggs and toast landed on a plate on the window counter. “Order op!”

  “You have anything more?” Ben asked.

  “Benno, lad, that’s all I ’ave for background. Rumor has it we have guest spirits—out o’ town genies moping about all over the perishing river. Cathal’s keeping an eye on them. If they’re tied up with the clam killings, there’ll be hell to pay. I got nothing else.”

  “That’s helpful,” Ben said. “Nothing about pearls or a jinn named Iblis?”

  Morg suddenly crouched as if avoiding a blow. “Shhh, laddie. Na so loud! It’s na a name to be spoke lightly.”

  I was about to laugh, but I swallowed it. Morg was dead serious.

  “The way I heard it,” Morg said, “Her Ladyship is goin’ ta war agin’ a few of his henchmen. You’d be a sharp lad if you steered clear o’ that.”

  “Order!” A girl shouted into the window and clipped a ticket on the order rack as she scooped up the two plates. Then she saw Ben and stopped dead. “Oh,” she softened her voice. “Hello, Ben.”

  There was a world of “Hello” in that greeting. Her eyes turned dreamy and fixed on him. She was blonde and cute in a zippity-doo-dah way—probably our age. You could cut the electricity coming off her with a tinsnips.

  “Whoa ho!” I said.

  “Hi, Jan,” Ben said, ignoring me.

  Jan saw me and went squinty eyed.

  “Jan, this is my cousin, Wendy.”

  I don’t know if Jan didn’t believe him or she came from a family that had liberal ideas about cousins. Her nasty look didn’t let up.

  “I have to get back to work, Ben,” Morg said. “That’s all I know on the subject. I canna help you more.” He reached for the order ticket, and it was plain he’d finished talking to us. But he did take time to walk us out to the back door and said in a low voice, “Ben, be careful. The news amongst the fair folk is that these genies are looking for something and stoppin’ at nothin’.”

  * * *

  The sun was low and I heard my stomach ask loud questions about food. Perhaps we should’ve talked old Morg into a chip or two, but Ben didn’t look ready to sit down. He was walking, deep in thought.

  “So, who is this Jan?” I teased.

  “What?” He was a million miles away.

  “Jan. I think someone likes Ben.”

  He grimaced and shrugged. “Wendy, I’m not interested in girlfriends.”

  “She’s interested in you.”

  “What? No . . . what are you talking about?” He actually sputtered and blushed.

  I did my best to imitate Jan’s suggestive “Oh . . . Hello, Ben.”

  “I don’t see how that is any of your business!”

  “Maybe I should ask Aunt Mary about Jan.”

  “Don’t you dare!” he shouted.

  “Uncle Craig, then?”

  “No! What’s the matter with you?”

  “Hey, this is my first sign that Ben Preston, boy scientist and battery-powered robot, might have a human being inside.”

  “Well, think again. You know, two can play this game. A little encouragement from me and Werling will throw himself at your feet.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “And remember, he’s persistent.”

  He was fighting dirty, but before I thought of something to counter his threat, he glanced back, then grabbed my arm and increased his pace.

  “Ow, let go.”

  “Don’t look back.”

  “Why?”

  At the first intersection he took a sharp right.

  “Hey, Benno. This isn’t the way home.”

  “We have company.”

  I glanced back anyway and saw Tweedledum and Tweedledee, the two that were at the front door yesterday. They strolled half a block behind us.

  “Listen, Wendy. I want you to run for home. Cut through that yard with the garden.”

  I looked back again and the two had cut their distance by half without changing pace. Two of the jackals were with them. “What about your mace?”

  “Didn’t bring it to Morg’s.”

  The dogs now trotted. They snarled and shot ahead of the twins. The twins looked as featureless and bland as before—but this time there was no solid door between them and me. I was scared.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” he said.

  “This doesn’t sound too smart,” I said.

  “I agree. Okay, really run on three. One, two . . .”

  “Three!” I shouted. We took off galloping.

  Tires squealed behind us. A busted old green van whipped past us, then slowed to our running speed. The twins were gaining without breaking stride. The ugly dogs bounded forward.

  The side door of the van flew open and I expected dogs and genies to pour out
, but it was Cathal driving.

  “Benny, me lad. You run like a drunken Englishman. Climb aboard. And help sweet Wendy in.”

  Gasping, I shouted, “Do we trust him?”

  “No,” Ben panted.

  The Doublemint twins were within throwing distance. The dogs were a leap away. They started to glow like hot plates. I’d swear there were flames in their fur. Their teeth snapped and lashed toward us. Another leap and . . .

  Ben and I didn’t think. We jumped into the van.

  Cathal shouted at the dogs, “A’oo Thu Billahi min Ash Shaitan Arrajim!” He held his right hand up, palm out, and the side door slid shut in their faces. I heard them bounce off the van’s side. Cathal hit the gas and the van roared away, leaving the twins and dogs behind.

  Ben fell back against the inside of the van, gulping air. The van’s back had no seats. I caught all the breath I could. Cathal might be no better than the twins, but at least there was only one of him, and he had no crazed pets.

  “Damn!” I cried. “What were they?”

  Ben said, “My guess would be that those two beings were jinn.”

  “Your guess would be right,” Cathal said. “Lucky for you, they were ghul and not ifrit, or I’d have not dared opening the door for you.”

  Ben asked, “But where did they come from?”

  “Hold on one frigging minute!” I said. “You’re telling me those were jinn—as in genies?”

  Ben and Cathal both stared at me like I was a twit.

  “Okay, why not?” I said. “Genies with fire dogs.”

  “Jackals, lassie.”

  “But you’re with them!” I said. “I saw you.”

  “You’re wrong there. I’m keepin’ me eye on them for her ladyship.”

  “What was it you said to them?” Ben asked. “It didn’t sound Gaelic.”

  “Arabic, me laddie. A protection.”

  “But you were with them at the front door yesterday,” I said. “I saw you.”

  “I wasn’t so much with them as there at the same time, trying to understand what they are after.”

  Ben frowned and twisted his mouth up to one side. “You were keeping an eye on them?”

  “Aye. Two eyes.” He chuckled at his own humor. “This is our realm. We can’t have strange supernatural creatures just waltzing in without so much as a by-your-leave, can we? Her ladyship told me to watch them. Nothing goes on along the creek without her approval.”