The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan (31 page)

“What we need is a television set,” said Nimrod. “Then we could check the international news bulletins and see if it’s raining on any of the other volcanoes.”

“There’s one down at the old observatory,” said the professor.

“Yes, of course,” said Nimrod. “Well, let’s go there.”

“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Groanin, “I’ll stay up here with them. Just in case they need me.”

“This could take a while, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “You’d probably be more comfortable down at the observatory.”

“Thank you, no, sir. I think it’s best that someone remains up here with them. They’re only children, after all. Besides, I think they’ll need to see a friendly face when this is all over, don’t you? Not to mention some refreshment.” He nodded down at the picnic hamper.

“If you say so, Groanin.” Nimrod nodded. “We’ll come and find you when the rain stops, shall we?”

Groanin watched Nimrod and the professor walk carefully along the already treacherous path down the mountain in the direction of the old observatory. Finding the driest spot in the gift shop, he opened the picnic hamper and poured himself a cup of tea from one of several thermos flasks he had filled in the kitchens of the Excelsior Vittoria hotel. Then, he took out his silver-framed photograph of the queen (recently repaired), placed it carefully on the gift shop’s empty ice-cream chest, and, with a cup of tea in one hand, found his newspaper and started to read.

J
ohn opened his eyes and looked up at a beautiful, cloudless blue sky. High in the troposphere, a jet was moving as slowly as a silver snail, leaving behind a thin white contrail. The sun was shining and warmed his face pleasantly while the early morning air was filled with birdsong and a strong smell of flowers. His clothes were a little damp, but surely that was to be expected after so much rain. And remembering where he was, he sat up and looked around.

He was sitting on the edge of the path on the crater rim of Vesuvius. The skyscraper-high plume of ash and smoke that had existed there the day before was now gone. And in the crater below his feet, where once there had been molten rock and fire, and prior to that an enormous dust bowl, now there was just a large expanse of water.

Philippa was lying next to him, in a similar state of bedraggled wakefulness. Her red hair was matted onto her skull like
it was a head scarf. Her face was already pink from the sun, which, he thought, was something he’d never seen before.

She sat up and picked her damp shirt from her shoulders. Then she took off her glasses, cleaned them on the end of her shirt, and put them back on her face.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I guess so. A bit tired. You?”

“Okay, I think.” He nodded. “It must have worked. At least it has worked here on Vesuvius. Look.” He pointed at the lake below them. “The rain has filled the crater.”

“It looks kind of peaceful, doesn’t it? Like one of those Swiss lakes, but smaller. Hard to believe it’s the same crater, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.”

“I wonder if it worked anywhere else,” said Philippa. “On any other volcanoes.”

“I can’t imagine it didn’t, given the way I’m feeling now.” John shrugged. “But time will tell, I’m thinking.”

Philippa yawned — a big, stretching, loud yawn that echoed across the crater like a yodel.

“It feels like it’s really early in the morning,” she said, and glanced at her watch. “I guess it must have rained all day and all night.”

“How do you feel?” he asked. “Really.”

“Wet,” she said. “My clothes are stuck on like postage stamps.”

“Mine, too. No, I meant, you know. Inside.”

“Inside?” She thought for a moment. “Different. Very different. Like I’m seeing things with different eyes. Or that
I’ve forgotten something. Except that I know what it is that I’ve forgotten.” She shrugged. “If you see what I mean. You? How do you feel?”

“Really, not as bad as I thought I’d feel,” said John. “Considering everything that’s happened.” He shrugged. “I ache a bit, all over. And I have this feeling of loss.” He shook his head. “Maybe that’s too strong a word for it. But I sort of feel like a car that just ran out of gas.”

Philippa stood up, stretched, and looked around. “I wonder where the others are.”

“Let’s go and find them.”

They walked down the crater path to the gift shop and found Groanin asleep on the concrete floor. Seeing the hotel picnic basket reminded John that he was hungry and he helped himself to some of the delicious things that Groanin had thoughtfully brought along: pastries, fruit, orange juice, sandwiches, cakes, coffee, and tea. There was even some chocolate, which, under the circumstances, seemed a little ironic.

John poured himself some coffee but found there was no sugar.

“I wish I had some sugar,” said John. “I don’t like coffee without sugar.”

But he drank a cup, anyway.

Groanin woke up and sat up. “Forgive me,” he said. “I must have fallen asleep.” He rubbed his eyes and straightened his tie. “What must you think of me, sleeping while you went through that terrible ordeal.” He glanced at the children. “Was it terrible?”
“It was hard work,” said John. “I don’t mind admitting it. Probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I guess it wasn’t so very terrible.” He shrugged. “We’re still here, aren’t we?”

Philippa was hungry, too. She helped herself to a slice of cake, and then another.

“I wish this cake wasn’t so delicious,” she said happily. “But it is. I can’t help myself.” She pushed some John’s way. “Here. Try some.”

“Thanks. I will.” John stuffed a whole slice into his mouth and nodded his agreement.

“How long have we been up here?” asked Philippa, embracing Groanin fondly.

“We came here three days ago,” said Groanin. “And it’s been raining ever since. All day and all night. It rained so much that I half expected to see Noah floating up here in an ark.” He glanced up at the sky. “Looks as if it’s worked, then.”

“Looks like,” said John. “Here, anyway.”

“Where’s Nimrod and the professor?” asked Philippa.

“They went down to the old observatory,” said Groanin. “To watch the television news. See what was happening in volcanic countries around the world.” He felt in his pocket. “I wonder. Now that the ash cloud is gone, it might just be that my cell phone is working again.”

He switched it on. “There’s a signal, all right,” he said excitedly, and keyed in Nimrod’s number. “I wonder if that means some things are getting back to normal.”

“Yes, they are,” said John. “They must be. I saw a jet in the sky a few minutes ago. So the airspace must have reopened already.”

“I can hear a phone ringing,” said Philippa, and stepping out of the gift shop, she saw Nimrod and the professor coming slowly up the path. Both of them were grinning broadly and it was plain from their faces that they were the bearers of good news.

Philippa ran to greet her uncle and embraced him, too.

“Did it work?” she asked keenly. “Did it?”

“Did it?” yelled the professor. “And how!”

“Yes,” said Nimrod. “It worked.”

“Everywhere?” shouted John.

“Everywhere there was a volcano threatening to erupt, there is now an attractive mountain lake or reservoir, like this one,” said Nimrod.

“Everywhere?” Even John sounded surprised, in spite of the fact he knew that he and Philippa were responsible.

“Everywhere,” said the professor. “From Iceland to Hawaii. From Sumatra to Chile. In Africa and in Japan. It’s incredible. The world’s media are talking about a mountain miracle.”

“Aye, well, they would,” said Groanin. “It’s been a while since we had one of those.”

“Already the skies are clearing of smoke and ash and the world’s weather seems to be returning to normal,” added Nimrod. “And the threat of a global catastrophe has passed.”

John punched the sky. “That’s great news,” he said. “The best.”

“How do you feel?” asked Nimrod.

“A bit tired and wet,” admitted Philippa. “And —” She shrugged. “A bit ordinary, I guess. I suppose I’ll get used to that. Eventually.” She thought for a moment and then added,
“A bit like when you lose an arm or a leg and yet you have the sensation that it’s still there.”

“A phantom limb,” said Groanin. “Aye, well I remember that, all right.”

“That’s the way I feel, too,” said John. “I don’t know. Like something went out inside of me.”

“Well, that may change, of course,” Nimrod said brightly. “You’re cold. A young djinn’s power never works when he or she is cold, you know that.”

“No,” said Philippa. “This feels different from just being cold.”

“And of course you’re tired,” said Nimrod. “Both of you. Exhausted. You need time to recharge your batteries, so to speak. Like that Mongolian death worm. You know, I’ll bet that in just a few days you’ll find that your powers are back to normal. You wait and see if I’m wrong.”

“No,” said Philippa. “I’m certain they won’t. It’s over. You know it. I know it. And John knows it. We always knew we would have to use absolutely every last candle of power that we had to make this work.”

“Philippa’s right,” said John. “I made a wish a minute or two ago. For more sugar. And I didn’t get any. As soon as I felt the word in my mouth I whispered my focus word but I knew it was no good. There’s nothing there anymore. Like an electric light when there’s no electricity. I’m flicking the switch but there’s no power. Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“And never will be again,” added Philippa. “What’s gone is gone.”

“Just like Dybbuk,” said John. “Burnt out. Remember?”
Groanin let out a big, unsteady sigh. “What, my pets, no djinn power left at all?”

“None.” Philippa smiled through her tears. “I’m not crying because I’m sad. I’m crying because I’m happy.”

“Happy?” Nimrod frowned. “How is that possible?”

“I’m happy because I can be normal now. I’m happy because I can be mundane like everyone else.”

“I never thought I would say this, but I agree,” said John. “And, what’s more, I’m glad I gave it up — the djinn power — not because I couldn’t handle it, or something lame like that, but because there was something truly worthwhile to sacrifice it for.”

Nimrod nodded. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “I’m especially proud because the world will never know how much it owes you.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Philippa.

John smiled. “No normal person would,” he said. “Besides, who would believe us now?”

“You know what I’m looking forward to most?” asked Philippa.

“No,” said Groanin. “Tell us.”

“Going back home,” said Philippa. “Going back to school. Hanging out with some friends. Having an ambition. Living a normal life.”

“Doing things the hard way.” John shrugged. “Not being special. Not being important. Just being ordinary.”

“Staying at home. Not having adventures. Not being children of the lamp anymore. Just being — like other kids, I guess.”

“Not smelling like a camel, or tasting what a camel had for its breakfast.”

“Not worrying about having to give someone three wishes. What they’re going to wish for. That’s a heck of a responsibility.” Philippa shook her head. “I won’t miss that at all.”

John nodded. “Not turning someone into an animal. Or a bird. I hated that.”

“It’s all very well having three wishes and stuff like that,” said Philippa, “but I really think the only things worth having are the things you work for.”

“Still,” said John, “it was fun while it lasted.”

“Yes, it was,” agreed Philippa. “A lot of fun. But now it’s over.”

Nimrod sighed. “What have I done?”

“You didn’t do anything,” said Philippa. “We did. And what’s more, we knew what we were doing. So don’t blame yourself. There wasn’t any other way.”

“That’s right,” said John. “Look on the bright side, Uncle Nimrod. We won’t be needing those two junior flying carpets now. So you won’t have to go back to Fez and see Mr. Barkhiya.”

“And now that the airspace is open again,” said Philippa, “we can all fly home in the normal way. On a plane.”

“Going home.” Groanin rubbed his hands. “What could be better, eh, John? Philippa? I say, what could be better than going home to your mum and dad. You can’t ask for more than that. It’s always a blessing to go home.”

The End

Good-byeeee! Good-byeeee! Wipe the tear, baby dear, from your eyeeee!

I have often been asked where I got the idea to write Children of the Lamp. I’m afraid the answer is not a particularly enlightening one: It seemed like a good idea at the time. Many times have I been asked this same question and it always seems curmudgeonly to answer the question with the apparently anodyne reply that is “my brain”; nevertheless, that is the truth. Duh! How could it not be? Where else do ideas come from?

And yet, perhaps, there
is
more. For perhaps the question begs a better question: Where do ideas go? Obviously, when you’re a writer the ideas go into a book. But the book is merely the manifestation of the idea; the thought processes that accompany the book are of enormous importance to the writer. Because every book one writes becomes a real experience and effects some change.

For example: While writing these books I have especially enjoyed getting in touch with my inner twelve-year-old — a scrofulous, bucktoothed, swarthy-looking Scottish boy I never again thought to meet — and I can honestly say to anyone who loves the story of Peter Pan (as I do) that writing for children is easily the best way I have found of getting some of his plentiful supply of fairy dust to rub off on you. Not growing up, not getting old, that is what writing Children of the Lamp has, for a while, meant to me.

As a result, I have had a great time over the last seven years writing these seven books that now make up the complete Children of the Lamp series. I had not intended that the seventh book should be the last. However, when I began to write the story it seemed to me that the characters — especially John and Philippa Gaunt — were asking me to end it for them. And, unlike Rashleigh Khan, I am a great believer in listening to children. Well-drawn, full-fleshed characters in books do this from time to time, and there is nothing that an author can do about it.

So, at their behest, it seemed best to finish the series now and certainly do so while I was still enjoying myself. I sincerely hope those readers who have read all seven titles will forgive me for not writing any more of them. But seven is quite a lot of books to have written in seven years. And I had no wish to repeat myself or become tedious as a storyteller.

I shall be sorry, however, to hang up my magic lamp and put away my flying carpet after what has been an adventure not just for John and Philippa, and I hope my readers, but for me, too. Because I have learned a great deal as a writer
from writing for children. I think that the most important thing I have learned — and this is crucial for anyone who writes books for children — is to listen to your own imagination, and to trust what it tells you. It’s not for me to judge the results of my endeavors, but I have the feeling that my imagination has served me well these last six or seven years; on the odd occasion when it has looked as if it was going to let me down, I was lucky to have enjoyed the advice of my son Charlie, whose unfettered, tangential way of thinking has been, sometimes, inspirational. He is quite a character.

I am often asked who in the books is my favorite character. Like a lot of writers, I must confess that all of the characters are merely facets of my own peculiar character and, as a corollary, there are none I regard with especial fondness, for that would be to say that I am fond of my faults and boastfully proud of those few virtues I do possess. Nimrod is every bit as pompous as I can be; John and Philippa represent my own personality split between action and bookishness. I especially loved writing the axiomatic djinn philosophy of dear Mr. Rakshasas, but the character who comes closest to the real me is probably Mr. Groanin.
I say, the character who comes closest to the real me is probably Mr. Groanin.

Another question I am asked is why did I choose to call myself P. B. Kerr? Was I really, as one Scottish newspaper suggested, trying to pass myself off as a writer
like
J. K. Rowling in order that I might make more money? Well, no, actually. As Philip Kerr, I am the author of many crime novels and thrillers, some of which contain violence and quite
a bit of bad language, and I wanted to make sure that children did not mistake these for books that were suitable for them. Incidentally, the
B
stands for Ballantyne, a name that I hated as a child and that even now I cringe at when I confess to it. I often wished I had another.

Which leads me neatly to the subject of wishes and the small but important philosophical message that lies at the heart of all seven books: This is that there is great importance in thinking before one speaks and of learning how to use language to indicate precisely what one means. Being careful what one wishes for is a lesson well learned on the rare occasions when you get exactly what you wish for. I still smile when I remember the looks of horror on the faces of some children who had told me what their three wishes might be and I proceeded to tell them in some detail how, if I were a wicked djinn, I might just give them what they wanted, which, of course, was a lot more than any of them expected.

There is also an important life point at the heart of the books and it is this: the enormous value of ambition and working for what you want, rather than having someone — a djinn like the ones on television talent shows, perhaps — come along to make your wish come true.
If it’s worth having, it’s worth working for.
I am the proof of the importance of having an ambition. As a child of about ten, it was my dearest wish to become a professional writer. And that was when I started first to write. Twenty-three years later, after many valuable failures, I achieved that ambition. Fortunately, it was I
who made my wish come true and not Nimrod or John or Philippa.

Author Message: You can make your own fondest wish come true provided that you are prepared to work hard. Now all you have to do is to decide what that wish is.

P. B. Kerr

Wimbledon, London, 2011.