The Five Fakirs of Faizabad (18 page)

J
ohn recognized the howl of his old friend and hurried across the snow to find him, certain from the plaintive tone of the wolf’s howl that something was very wrong. Then, in the distance he saw a big grizzly bear running away and was gripped by a terrible feeling of déjà vu — as if somehow all of this had already happened to him before. This sensation was so strong that it made John nauseous and, for a moment, he stopped running and just stood there trying to rationalize it. Finally, he retched into the snow; and then, feeling a little better and telling himself that he was just worried about Groanin, he picked up his feet and carried on running along the huge tracks that had been left behind by Zagreus.

About a half mile farther up the trail, he found a trio of furry shapes that broke up as he got nearer. Rakshasas ran toward him and licked his hand and whined. Zagreus stood up and John saw that his large, low-set forehead was even
lower on his huge, pointed head than before and his eyes were full of sadness.

Only the third shape remained motionless on the snow.

For a moment John did not recognize that it was Groanin. For a moment he thought it was Nimrod, for was that not Nimrod’s red fox fur coat he saw crumpled on the ground? For several seconds he just stood there until Zagreus mumbled a sentence that included Groanin’s name but which John, his ears singing with shock as if he had been struck by a bolt of electricity, could not otherwise understand.

“Groanin?”

John threw himself down on the ground and saw that the unconscious butler was gravely wounded. There was a large gash across his forehead, and as John unbuttoned his coat he saw that the fur had been cut through and was sticky underneath. Hardly hesitating now, he bent forward, placed his head on the butler’s chest, and gradually made out the irregular sound of a failing heartbeat. Groanin was dying.

This realization drew John’s hands to his face and feeling them wet, he saw that they were covered with blood and instinctively he wiped them on the snow. Something fell out of the butler’s inside pocket and John picked it up and wondered why it seemed significant. It was Groanin’s fountain pen.

And then he remembered what Mr. Burton had said….

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.

John screamed very loudly and sat down in the snow. All was clear to him now where it had not been clear before — that much was obvious. The death foretold was not that of Nimrod but that of poor Groanin. And the only reason Groanin had followed John to Yellowstone was because John had gone there to seek advice from Mr. Rakshasas on what to do about the foretelling of Nimrod’s death that he thought he had seen in Mr. Burton’s ink spot. It was exactly as Mr. Burton had said.

For some reason he could not explain, John looked up at the sky and for a fleeting second he saw in his mind’s eye the whole sky as black and shiny as an ink spot and behind the ink, the image of an enormous eye. His own. And it was plain to John that he had had been right about one thing. It was all his fault.

“You stupid idiot,” he said, punching the snow with both his fists. “You stupid, darned idiot.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” said Zagreus. “Well, maybe. He was foolish to cook those sausages, sure.”

“Not him!” John screamed. “Me! I’m the idiot. If I hadn’t wanted to look into the future, none of this would have happened.”

John threw himself into the snow and wished that he was dead and buried under several feet of the stuff.

Rakshasas barked loudly and then nipped John on the elbow as if urging some more practical course of action than merely feeling incredibly sorry for Groanin and by extension, himself.

“You’re right,” said John, wiping the tears from his face. “Maybe it’s not too late. Zagreus, pick him up and carry him back to the tent. I can go for help. Get him to a hospital.”

Rakshasas barked and took hold of John’s sleeve.

“What is it? You want me to come with you?” John shook his head. “I need to get started right away. I figure if I walk west I can reach a town, or maybe get a signal on my cell phone.”

Rakshasas barked again and, gripping John’s sleeve, pulled him along the trail back to camp.

“All right, all right,” said John. “I’ll come with you. But there’s not much I can do for him back at camp. I’ve got a small first aid kit but that’s hardly going to be enough to fix him up. Not with these injuries. He needs a hospital.”

Rakshasas barked and, lolling his tongue out of his mouth, panted loudly, as if he was hot.

“What the heck’s the matter with you?” John asked.

Rakshasas did it again, only this time he splayed his legs out.

“You’re pretending to be hot,” said John.

Rakshasas barked once.

“Of course, the sweat lodge.”

Rakshasas barked again.

“Maybe I can use djinn power to help him.”

Rakshasas barked again.

Zagreus was already carrying the unconscious Groanin back to camp. His huge hairy legs and powerful arms made short work of the walk and Groanin’s weight. For every one of his steps, John was obliged to take two or three, but he soon caught up with the Sasquatch. And racing ahead, he and Rakshasas ran all the way back to camp.

As soon as John saw the sweat lodge he started to throw off his clothes so that he might run straight inside and start warming up. To John’s surprise, Rakshasas followed him in.

Sweat lodges were ceremonial saunas built by Native Americans for medicinal purposes. A hole was dug in the ground and a structure made with tree branches, and these were then covered with animal skins; stones heated in an exterior fire were then brought into the lodge, laid in the pit, and, when water was poured onto them, these produced steam and a considerable amount of heat.

John’s sweat lodge was still hot from before, when he had needed extreme heat to bring about an out-of-body experience that could enable him to enter the wolf body of Mr. Rakshasas. And it was clear from the wolf’s anxious demeanor that he wished this to happen again so that they might effectively communicate, for while Rakshasas the wolf was able to remember much of what he had once been, he was no longer in possession of the least part of djinn power and was quite unable to transubstantiate or to become pure spirit.

Indeed, when John in his mundane physical shape had first come upon Rakshasas, the wolf had hardly recognized him. The memory of his djinn life was locked away inside the wolf’s unconscious mind like the contents of a hard disk on a very old computer.

As soon as he was able to, John lifted his spirit clear of his own parboiled body and stepped inside the wolf’s, at which point the wolf, who found it too hot inside the sweat lodge, stepped outside.

Rakshasas watched as Zagreus lay Groanin on the snow, and licked his lips at the sight of so much fresh blood.

“Gosh, you really are a wolf, aren’t you?” said John, a little shocked to discover that there was a part of Rakshasas that looked upon Groanin as a possible meal.

“I am that,” said Rakshasas. “But it’s apologizing for it, I’m not, John. Sure, any dog is always full of loyalty to a man until a cat comes by.”

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry.”

“It’s a lot I’ve remembered since you were last inside my mind, John,” said Rakshasas. “All of the adventures we had. Great times, eh? And there’ll be more, I’m sure of it, now that you’ve found me again. Of course, I’ll be a wolf from now on. Which is not so bad. To be honest, I’m relieved to be shot of the burden of all that djinn power. Such a responsibility. More than any decent spirit can cope with, I’m thinking.”

“I’m not being rude,” said John, “but I really don’t have time for this. I need to get djinn power so that I can make a stretcher and some bandages so that I can get Mr. Groanin straight to a hospital.”

Rakshasas lay down beside the unconscious English butler.

“There’s no helping him now,” said Rakshasas. “At least there’s nothing medical science can do for him. Take it from me, John, poor Groanin is beyond the help of any doctor.”

“What?” John’s spirit was appalled. “What do you mean? You mean he is going to die? No. That can’t happen. I won’t allow it.”

“‘Peace, peace!’“ said Rakshasas. “‘He is not dead, he doth not sleep — he hath awakened from the dream of life — ‘Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep with phantoms an unprofitable strife.’“

“What?” John sighed. “Make sense, will you? You were always hard to understand.”

“Wisdom is a bit like that in the ears of them as have none of their own.”

“Well then, what does it mean, what you said?”

“Just a little piece of poetry by Percy Shelley,” said Rakshasas.

“Poetry! At a time like this? Are you mad?”

“There’s wisdom in yon Percy Shelley. Take my word for it. A lot of wisdom. More than you might expect, given how young he was when he died. He was just thirty years old. It was him who wrote that poem you and Philippa were fond of. ‘Ozymandias.’ Well, I digress. Have you heard of purgatory, John?”

“Of course. But I don’t know where or what it is.” “Purgatory is a spiritual condition or process in which
the souls of people who die are made ready for heaven. It’s a kind of waiting room for souls to become pure enough to enter heaven. Well, the same is true of death. There’s a kind of waiting room in between life and death where a soul can be held up, if you like. That’s where Groanin is right now. For a while, at least.”

“How long can it be held up?” John asked urgently.

“Oh, almost indefinitely. If the conditions are right. And it so happens, they are. They are here, I mean.”

“What sort of conditions?” asked John.

“Extreme cold. Ice. Freezing.”

“You’re saying we should freeze Groanin until I can get medical help?”

“Yes. But perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. Mr. Groanin is beyond the help of any doctor, John.”

“How do you know? With respect, you’re just a wolf.”

“Instinct. Believe me, a wolf knows when something is close to death. No, something much more drastic than anything a doctor can do is now required if you’re going to save Mr. Groanin. Isn’t it always the way?”

“What must I do?”

“First of all, you’ll have to bury him in snow and ice. To keep his body cold. Of course nothing in Yellowstone stays buried for long. And fortunate it is that your friend Zagreus is with us. If he’s willing, he can stay here and keep an eye on Groanin’s body while we’re gone. To make sure that nothing tries to eat it. Even though he’s a big fellow, it’s fair to say he might have his work cut out for him. There’s plenty a creature in the park that likes a free meal such as a dead
human being. And there’s a smell of blood that’s in the air, right enough.”

“Then what?” demanded John.

“We have a long and difficult journey ahead of us, John. A journey that is not without risks to us both. My life I count for little. But yours I value above a nice juicy steak, and that’s saying something. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“It’s my fault that Groanin’s in this position,” said John. “If I hadn’t looked into the future —”

“The future is certain, right enough,” said Rakshasas. “Sure, it’s the past that’s unpredictable.”

“— he’d never have come here at all.”

“He never did like foreign travel, that’s the truth. When you meet an Englishman like Mr. Groanin, it’s hard to believe the British ever had the largest empire the world has ever known. If it had been up to him, the likes of Sir Francis Drake, John Churchill, Lord Nelson, and Captain Cook would never have left their armchairs in Portsmouth dock. Well, well, we’re all different colors on life’s paint box and no mistake.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to take him with us?”

“No, no, it wouldn’t,” said Rakshasas. “You see, there’s a strong possibility that his spirit might already have left his body and be wandering around Yellowstone. If we took off with his body now, we might never bring him back.”

“So, where do we have to go?” asked John.

“A long, long way. The other side of the world, and beyond all probability, more or less. It’s lucky you have the carpet because we’ve hours of flying ahead of us. Sure, it’ll be like old times. It’s ages since I was on an old Marrakesh
Express. That’s what we used to call a flying carpet when I was a lad.”

“Where do we have to go?” John was beginning to sound exasperated.

“Didn’t I say? Tibet. That’s where we’re going, John. To Tibet. That’s the only place that can help him now.”

B
ack at the King David Hotel, Nimrod lamented the passing of Mr. Rakshasas to his former butler, Mr. Burton. “If only Mr. Rakshasas were still with us,” he said. “He would know exactly where to begin the search for a legendary place like Shangri-la.”

“An earthly place of paradise has been an enduring myth in all human mythology, has it not?” said Mr. Burton.

“Yes. From the Bible story of the Garden of Eden, to Dilmun in the Epic of Gilgamesh, even Celtic literature has its Islands of the Blessed. Pretty much all great human civilizations have their traveler’s tales about a legendary lost paradise.”

“Then it is my opinion,” said Mr. Burton, “that the best place to begin such a search would be with the tales themselves. In a bookshop or perhaps a library. It is the curse of
our modern times that people live their lives paying such little reference to so much knowledge.”

“By Jove, you’re right,” said Nimrod. “I could visit the library inside Rakshasas’s lamp. There’s a collection of esoteric books in there that rivals the Library of Congress. He must have some rare and antiquarian books about Shangri-la.”

Nimrod retrieved Mr. Rakshasas’s djinn lamp from his leather Louis Choppsouis luggage, set it on the coffee table, and, having become a thick cloud of transubstantiated smoke, made his way into the lamp’s enormous and esoteric interior.

The lamp was almost completely given over to a huge library that was as untidy as a Cornish boatyard, with books strewn about everywhere, and which revealed no discernible organization. For anyone who had never visited the Rakshasas Library, it would have been hard to believe that it was cared for by a devoted librarian.

Liskeard Karswell du Crowleigh had curated the Rakshasas Library for more than fifty years. He was also the bottle imp.

There are the children of hell. There the creatures of Beelzebub. There are mocking imps and there are petty fiends. There are flibbertigibbets, which were once wont to hang about a place of execution, and there are imps that were once children. There are little demons and evil spirits and there are bottle imps that some djinn employ to guard the lamps and bottles in which they sometimes live. Bottle imps
are sometimes regarded as venomous but, strictly speaking — and there’s no better way to speak to a bottle imp — this was not true of Liskeard. Because of his unpleasant taste for rotting animal flesh, the bacteria in his mouth were extremely dangerous, and this was the main reason why Nimrod did not employ an imp in his own lamp — although not because he was afraid of being bitten; it was just that Liskeard Karswell du Crowleigh had terribly bad breath.

It was several minutes before Liskeard, who was a former sorcerer, appeared in the great reading room, however. He bowed gravely to Nimrod and hissed a polite greeting to the man he now regarded as his lord and master:

“Good day to you, ssssir,” he hissed for, despite his neat gray suit and vaguely human ways, Liskeard Karswell du Crowleigh most resembled a monitor lizard. “I’m sorry I did not come more quickly, but I was in the lower library stacks and it takes all of ten minutes to climb the cast iron stairs up to the reading room.”

“How are you, Liskeard?” asked Nimrod.

“Very well, sssir.”

“Are you sure?” Nimrod smiled kindly. After Mr. Rakshasas had died, Nimrod had offered Liskeard three wishes as a reward for his long and faithful service, but these Liskeard had declined on the grounds that having any kind of wish would have implied a strong longing for a specific thing he did not already have and since his life was the library and nothing but the library, he could not conceive of an alternative to that. Besides, Nimrod was quite unable to
change Liskeard’s hideous appearance which, it is to be imagined, otherwise would certainly have been at the top of his wish list.

“You weren’t always a bottle imp, though, were you?” said Nimrod.

“No, sssir,” admitted Liskeard. “Once I was a poor excuse for a sorcerer. Many years ago, I made the mistake of trying to steal the synopados, the soul mirror of a wicked djinn. The mirror was armed with a very powerful binding that turned me into the hideous-looking imp you see before you now, sssir. As I’m sure you are aware, sssir, a binding made by another djinn is irreversible, and since I have no idea whose mirror it was I tried to steal, I fear I shall be like this forever. Which makes it better that I live in here, sssir. Where my abhorrent appearance is an affront to no one.” He smiled a hideous smile. “Besides, I like reading.”

“Er, yes, quite,” said Nimrod. “Well, perhaps one day we’ll find out who was responsible for turning you into an imp and then we can sort you out, what?”

“Yesssssir.” Liskeard kept on smiling his malodorous smile. “It was Mr. Rakshasas who took pity on me and invited me to become his librarian, and here I have remained ever since.”

“And you’re doing a splendid job, I’m sure, old fellow,” said Nimrod.

“Thank you, sssir. Were you looking for a particular book, ssssir? Do please bear in mind that in this particular library, you only have to wish for a book and it will bring
itself to you. Which is why we don’t bother organizing the books in any alphabetical or subject or author order.”

“I was wishing like mad for everything on Shangri-la,” said Nimrod. “But so far the only thing that’s turned up is you, old chap.”

“That is unusual, ssssir.” Liskeard shrugged. “Shangri-la and other material regarding an earthly paradise is almost certainly held in this library, sssir. I know because I’ve read several books on that subject myself. Most recently,
Lost Horizon
by James Hilton. That was a very good book, sssir. Very good. I think the last time I read it was 1966.” Liskeard paused for a moment. “Yes, most certainly the library has many books on Shangri-la.” Liskeard paused. “Unless …”

“What?”

“Well, I was merely recalling the fact that not long before he died, Mr. Rakshasas burned all of the books in one of the lower sections of the library.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Although it wasn’t my place to solicit or to receive explanations, nevertheless, Mr. Rakshasas told me that all of the books were burned in fulfillment of a promise he had made to the High Lama of the Meru Lamasery.”

“Did you say the Meru Lamasery?”

“Yesssssir. A lamasery is a Tibetan monastery, for Buddhist monks who are called lamas, right? Is it something to do with Shangri-la? Does the name of Meru mean something to you?”

“Possibly, yes.” Nimrod shook his head. “But I wish I
knew why. And I do wish he hadn’t burned all those books about Shangri-la. Promise or not.”

As soon as Nimrod had spoken these words — and it must be remembered that this was a wishing library — Liskeard bowed gravely and spoke again, although this time the voice was not his own but that of Mr. Rakshasas:

“Your wish, dear Nimrod, is my command. If you’re listening to this, I must be dead and you must have a very good reason for wishing I hadn’t burned all my books about Shangri-la, or you wouldn’t be here now and wishing what you’ve wished. If you haven’t and you don’t want to go to Shangri-la then smack the bottle imp five times on the head and this message will self-destruct. Otherwise pay careful attention as I’ll say this only once.

“Years ago, I think it was 1937, I visited Shangri-la. And yes, it does exist, although it’s not called Shangri-la. Not exactly. In point of fact, the place is called Shamba-la. And no, you don’t remember me ever talking about it because I made a solemn promise to the monks of the lamasery on Mount Meru that I would never speak about the place during my lifetime. I also promised them that before I died I would destroy all of my books and papers about Shamba-la in order that we might keep the place a secret. Sure, if people knew that such a place as Shamba-la existed, they’d be lining up to get in there and the paradise would be spoiled, right enough.

“However, I happen to know that the author, James Hilton, based his novel
Lost Horizon
on the notes of an Austrian-American called Joseph Rock. Now this fellow
Rock was a great explorer and knew Tibet very well in the 1920s. Almost certainly he visited Shamba-la, because when I was there I found some of his possessions. And they knew his name. Anyway, Rock died in 1962 and left all of his books and papers to the Jewish National and University Library.”

“You mean the National Library here in Israel?” said Nimrod.

“Are we
in Israel?” It was the voice of Liskeard interrupting, momentarily, the message left within him by Mr. Rakshasas.

“As it happens, we are,” said Nimrod.

Liskeard was silent for a moment before Mr. Rakshasas continued speaking:

“It’s Joseph Rock’s papers you’ll be needing, Nimrod, if you’re ever going to find Mount Meru and Shamba-la. Because that’s where you’ll find it and you probably don’t need me to tell you that Mount Meru is the same Mount Meru that exists at the center of the universe in Hindu mythology. Find that and you’ll have found Shamba-la. I’m pretty sure that Rock’s papers will tell you how.

“The last I heard, the head librarian at the Jewish Library was a djinn of the Jinn tribe by the name of Rabbi Joshua. He’s an awkward customer, is Rabbi Joshua. A Kabbalist, which, among other things, means he believes that every number contains a secret meaning and, to get him to cooperate and lend you Joseph Rock’s papers on Shamba-la, you may have to play a game of Djinnverso with him. And win. But beware, Rabbi Joshua is a bit of a gambler.”

Nimrod groaned.

“You need the Rock papers, old friend, so you’ll have to be polite to him,” said the voice of Rakshasas. “Bite your tongue if you have to, but get those papers. There’s no other way to get to Shamba-la. And by the way, there’s something you’ll need if they’re going to let you into their earthly paradise. You’re going to need to find a man or a woman who is genuinely content with his or her lot in life to keep you company on your expedition. Believe me, you won’t get in without such a person. And you can take my word that he or she won’t be easy to find because such people are rather thin on the ground these days.”

“Too true,” murmured Nimrod. “Especially these days.”

“Good luck, Nimrod,” said Rakshasas. “I wish I was coming with you. And keep a tight lip on where you’re planning to go. Fences and ditches have ears when it’s Shamba-la you’re talking about. And if you get there and you come back, just remember that a man’s eye should always be blind in the home of a friend. That’s why I burned all those books. Good-bye. Good-bye, old friend.”