The Five Fakirs of Faizabad (10 page)

Nimrod nodded. “Very well. We’ll pitch camp down there, on the mountaintop. And speak again first thing in the morning.”

I
n 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. Just 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.

A
fter 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.

Mr. Burton was exactly where they had left him except that the sun in the sky had been replaced by an equally bright moon — so bright that it was almost like the middle of the day. John steered the carpet closer to the fakir and, getting up, bowed gravely to the holy man.

“Mr. Burton,” said John. “I apologize for disturbing you. This is going to sound weird, I know, only I have questions that need answers. I hate to sound like a hippie but you might even say that I seek enlightenment.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Burton. “Earlier on, I heard the voice in your heart that commands you to seek answers, which is why I said I would help you. And I shall, if I can.”

“My sister is cleverer than me,” said John.

“It could seem that way. But you are not your sister. You are yourself. So why does such a thing matter?”

“I just wish I was a bit cleverer, that’s all,” admitted John.

“Perhaps you have other strengths,” observed Mr. Burton.

“Yes, but what?”

“That is for you to find out,” said Mr. Burton. “The finding out is one of life’s pleasures. And as my former master, Mr. Rakshasas, used to say, even castles are built one brick at a time.”

“I miss him,” said John. “I was kind of fond of that guy. I often wish I knew exactly what happened to him.”

“If you look for him, then perhaps you will find him,” said Mr. Burton.

“If he’s dead, how can I look for him?”

“You only have to know the best place to look,” said Mr. Burton. “Fortunately, I can help you there.”

Mr. Burton took out his fountain pen — the one he had used earlier in the second riddle — and squeezed a little drop of black ink into a white saucer.

“Perhaps,” he said mysteriously, “you will find an answer in this little drop of ink.”

“How can anyone find something in a drop of ink?” objected John.

“Shakespeare did,” said Mr. Burton. “And many others since. But have you ever actually looked inside a spot of ink?”

“No,” admitted John. “I can’t say that I have.”

“Then it may be that you will find more in it than you might expect.”

“Don’t know unless you try it, huh?” John nodded, took the white saucer from the fakir’s bony fingers, and stared at the little shiny concave black dot.

At first he could see nothing at all. But then as his eyes steadied on the ink spot, John saw the full moon reflected there and next his own face.

“I can see myself,” he whispered.

“That’s a start,” said Mr. Burton. “Believe me, it’s not everyone who can see himself. Already there is enlightenment where none existed before. What do you see?”

“I see someone strong,” said John. “A seeker after truth. An explorer. Someone who is not afraid to act. Someone who would do things. But what? The answers are hidden. Perhaps lost forever.”

“Then you must look deeper to find that which was lost,” said Mr. Burton. “You must look beyond yourself to that which lies beneath. You have to search the very depths of the ink spot to find what you seek, my son. Oh, and try not to blink. You have a much better chance of seeing something if you don’t close your eyes.”

“All right.”

John could not have said how long he sat there and stared into the ink spot. And for a long while it was like staring down the wrong end of a telescope. As if he was trying to look at something that was a very long way away from him. But then, after a while it seemed as though the length of the
telescope shortened and what he was looking at grew nearer, and he had the idea that it was not the inside of a telescope he was looking at so much as the depths of an enormously deep well. No ordinary well, either, but a well that seemed to have been bored into time itself. And as he looked, he started to see places and people he recognized.

“Why, it’s incredible,” he whispered. “I can see everything.”

John saw his house in Manhattan, and his mother and father, and Alan and Neil — the two dogs who were really his uncles. He saw his uncle Nimrod, and his sister, Philippa, Mrs. Trump, Dybbuk, Virgil McCreeby and his son Finlay, Iblis the Ifrit, and almost everyone he had ever met or known. None of them paid him any attention or perhaps even noticed him. It was like looking out of a window set into the sky and staring down at a selection of human miniatures. He could even hear voices he recognized and smell things.

And finally, he saw his old friend, Mr. Rakshasas.

“I see him,” he said delightedly. “He’s quite real. It seems to me I could almost reach out and touch him.”

“You must not,” said Mr. Burton.

“He’s at the Metropolitan Museum in New York,” said John. “And he’s been absorbed by one of those horrible terracotta warriors. And … ah! So that’s what happened to him. That’s where he went. But no, that’s impossible, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That he should have … died,” said John. “And started a new life without telling me about it.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. And yet, he can’t have, can he? Reincarnation? Surely not.”

“Don’t you believe in reincarnation?”

“I didn’t,” said John. “Until I met Zagreus.”

“And now?”

“Well, yes. I do.”

“Then perhaps that is why you and Zagreus were brought together in the first place.”

“Perhaps,” said John. “But surely someone as important as Mr. Rakshasas wouldn’t come back as a dog, would he?”

“We don’t choose who or what we come back as,” said Mr. Burton. “If we come back at all. Not everyone does. And a dog is not so bad.”

“Why do people come back at all?” asked John.

“Perhaps they have something left to do or say?” said Mr. Burton.

“Then it’s not much use coming back as a dog,” observed John. “They can’t say anything.”

“Tell that to another dog,” said Mr. Burton. “It’s my impression that dogs can say a lot. Even to us, upon occasion.”

John shook his head. “No. It’s not a dog. He’s a wolf. Mr. Rakshasas has come back as a wolf. A young wolf. He’s black and gray, with bright blue eyes. And I can actually hear him howling. He’s living somewhere cold, too. It looks like Yellowstone National Park. Yes, it’s Yellowstone National Park. Gee, I thought I’d seen everything. Well, a lot, anyway. But that’s incredible.”

John shook his head and found himself staring at a
simple ink spot. “What I was looking at,” he said. “How long ago was that?”

“The past is the past,” said Mr. Burton. “It could be anything from a few seconds to several years. The longer you look, the further into the past you can see.”

“And the future?” said John. “Is it possible to see the future in the same way?”

“The ink spot you were looking at was concave,” said Mr. Burton. “To see the future you must look into an ink spot that is convex.”

“You mean like a lens?”

Mr. Burton nodded. “But to know the past is one thing. To know the future is quite another. It is not without danger.”

“What kind of danger?”

“Knowledge of the future is the most dangerous thing in the universe,” said Mr. Burton. “That is why I remain here. Because once, many years ago, I looked into the future and what I saw made me think that it would be safer for everyone if I came here where I could not put that knowledge into action.”

“Can I look for something in particular?” asked John.

“Yes, but why would you wish to look into the future in the first place?”

“I want to make sure I’ll amount to something, I guess.”

“You can look but there is no guarantee that you will see anything,” said Mr. Burton. “Visions of the future tend to be rare and rather unpredictable.” He winced.

“What?” asked John.

“To be given a vision of the future is a rare thing. Upon seeing such a thing, however, it is difficult not to act on it. And yet you must also be aware that what you might see would only be a fragment and not the whole picture, therefore understanding might be similarly incomplete. Are you sure that you wish to do this, boy djinn?”

“Yes,” said John.

Mr. Burton wiped the spot of ink off the saucer with the edge of his robe and, taking his fountain pen, dropped another spot of black ink into the saucer’s center. “Then look again,” he said.

John leaned forward and stared hard. First of all, he noticed that this time the spot of ink was convex and it impressed him that Mr. Burton could do this with ink spots.

“How do you make one spot concave and the other convex?” he asked.

“Practice,” said Mr. Burton. “But it’s best to look in silence. The future is like a great movie star. It does not like to have its picture taken, unawares.”

John stared a while and saw nothing. Or so he thought. But just as he was about to blink and rub his eyes, he saw himself leaning over a body. A dead body. John was pretty sure it was a dead body because there was blood on John’s hands. He couldn’t see the dead man’s face but there was no mistaking the red fox fur coat. It was his uncle Nimrod. And Nimrod was dead — by John’s bloody hand, or so it seemed.

John blinked and, turning abruptly to one side, vomited over the edge of his flying carpet.

“No,” he said. “It can’t be. Say it isn’t true.”