The Five Fakirs of Faizabad (27 page)

Mr. Burton, Silvio, and Moo all began to scream as the certainty began to take hold of them that they would
surely hit the ground at the same time as John. Philippa was already screaming, of course. Mr. Swaraswati had his eyes closed and was muttering a last prayer to Rama. Only Nimrod and John appeared to be completely calm. Nimrod even appeared to be enjoying himself.

“You’ll kill us all, you fool,” yelled Mr. Burton as, at the last possible second, Nimrod steered the carpet underneath his nephew and, slackening the surface tension a little to soften the boy’s landing, caught him as neatly as if he had been wearing a baseball mitt.

Rakshasas barked once and began to lick John’s ear, which, for entirely telepathic reasons, Philippa could have sworn belonged to her; the sensation was so strong, she even grimaced a little and wiped her own ear with her sleeve.

The carpet continued its precipitate descent for several terrifying seconds before Nimrod brought the dive fully under control and they leveled off, clearing the ground at the foot of Mount Kailash by a matter of a few feet.

“You should see your little faces,” said Nimrod as the carpet slowed and then dropped onto the ground as lightly as a sheet of notepaper. He guffawed loudly. “You all look like you’re about to have a heart attack.” He laughed again. “Apart from Mr. Swaraswati, who looks like he’s already had one. And John, of course. Crumbs. What happened to you? You look like my granddad.”

“What?” John snatched off his glove, half expecting to see the exposed phalanges, carpals, and metacarpals of a skeletal hand. But his hand looked normal enough.

Philippa jumped up and hugged her brother with relief.
Everyone else was just hugging themselves and waiting for their heartbeats to return to normal. But John was rather more concerned with the possibility that he, too, was aging rapidly, like Hynkell’s SS troop.

“What do you mean?” he asked Nimrod anxiously. “Like your granddad? Am I old?”

“Your hair,” said Nimrod. “It’s white.”

“It’s true, bro,” said Philippa. “It’s white as snow.”

“What?” John touched his hair. “How?”

“I dunno.” Nimrod tutted, muttered his focus word, and gave John a hand mirror. “But it is.”

John grabbed the mirror and stared at himself, half expecting to see the face of Methuselah, who was a very old man in the Bible. He was enormously relieved to see his face did not look old. He felt as if he was still a young man. But it was certainly true his hair was white. He shivered to see himself, for he was still brimful of terror. “Could being really afraid have done that? Or something else?”

“You mean the kind of fear that you have when you’re falling through the air at one hundred and twenty miles per hour?” asked Nimrod. “That’s terminal velocity, in case you didn’t know.”

John nodded. “It’s true what they say,” he whispered. “You’re aware of everything. Just like on a bungee jump. And it’s horrible.”

“Yeah,” said Nimrod matter-of-factly. “That’ll do it, all right. Fall like that, no problem. Interesting fact: History records that the hair of some condemned prisoners, like Thomas More and Marie Antoinette, turned white
overnight before their executions.” He laughed his cruel laugh. “Not that it mattered all that much to them the next day, after they both got their hair cut.”

“I thought I was a goner for sure,” said John.

“You
were
a goner,” said Nimrod. “By rights you should be strawberry jam. Oh, yes. We should be scooping you off the ground with a spoon and onto a scone with some cream and some tea. Talking of tea, I could do with a nice cup of tea. Where is that butler of mine? Where’s Groanin?”

Moo stood up angrily, “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said. “Do you have to be so selfish? Ever since that pelican landed on your head you’ve been insufferable.”

“I like that,” said Nimrod. “Here’s me, trying to solve the world’s problems. And all you can do, Moo, is moan about my personality. I don’t have to be here, you know. I could be somewhere with my feet up. It’s you who got me into this mess, you silly old bat.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Moo.

“I said you’re a silly old bat. Something old and creepy and a bit leathery, anyway.” “What did you say?”

“Have you thought about a hearing aid?” said Nimrod. “Blimey, it’s no wonder the British spy service is so up the creek if you’re one of the ones who’s in charge. Call yourself a spy? You should be selling cakes at the local church fete, dear.” Nimrod bent down and smiled at the wolf. “And I suppose this rabid-looking mutt must be Rakshasas.”

“I’ve never been so insulted in all my life,” said Moo, and swung at Nimrod with her handbag. It was a large
handbag, full of stuff, including a laptop and a gun, which made it all the heavier.

“What’s that?” Nimrod straightened just as Moo’s heavy handbag came his way and struck him on the head with an audible
clunk
that sounded like a large wrench being dropped on a garage floor.

“Oh, I say,” said Moo. “That sounded a bit too solid.”

Nimrod spun around on his heel, reeled to one side, and then walked unsteadily, like someone drunk, for several paces before sitting down heavily. He held his head for a moment and groaned quietly for several seconds.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he said.

Moo glanced inside her handbag and, finding the gun, looked at Philippa anxiously. “I forgot I had my computer in there. I certainly didn’t mean to hit him that hard.” She followed Nimrod, full of apologies. “I’m so, so sorry, Nimrod. Are you all right?”

Nimrod shook his head and blinked through the pain. “Light my lamp, but I feel most peculiar,” he said. “Like I’ve got a brain-freeze headache.”

“Perhaps you need to see another doctor,” said Moo.

Nimrod remained silent for a moment or two.

“Moo’s right,” said Philippa. “You should have an X-ray.”

“No,” said Nimrod. “That won’t be necessary. It’s going now.” He let out a deep breath and flexed his neck. “The fact is, I feel as if I’ve not been myself for a while. And now, I think I am again. In fact, I’m certain of it. You know, I really don’t know what came over me.”

Philippa ran to her uncle and hugged him. “You had a
bang on the head. In Kazakhstan. And for a while, you were insufferable.”

“Yes. I was, wasn’t I?” Nimrod stood up slowly and looked very embarrassed. “Light my lamp, I seem to remember saying some terrible, monstrous things to you all. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.”

“Of course,” said everyone.

“Especially you, Moo,” said Nimrod. “Did I really call you an old bat?”

“Please don’t mention it,” said Moo.

“And you, too, Mr. Swaraswati.”

“Your apology is wholly and in full measure acceptable,” said Mr. Swaraswati.

“Thank you,” said Nimrod. He looked at John. “John. I’m so very glad you’re all right. Tell me everything, dear boy. For a start: Why are you here? And where is that butler of mine?”

John explained everything that had happened to him since leaving Morocco, after which Nimrod and Philippa asked him many questions. But after a while, Mr. Burton observed that John looked tired and suggested that the rest of their questions ought to wait until John was feeling a little stronger.

“Thanks,” said John. “I do feel kind of tired after all that climbing. Not to mention all that falling.”

“But if I might be permitted ask a question,” said Mr. Burton. “Of you, Nimrod.”

“Of course,” said Nimrod.

“Before you rescued John on the flying carpet,” said Mr. Burton, “you were about to tell Philippa something important. About what Mr. Swaraswati has told us.”

“Was I? Yes, I was, wasn’t I?”

“What was it? That you were about to say? About the ultimate truth of the universe.” He shrugged. “I’m curious.”

“Curious?”

“I’ve spent my whole life seeking this kind of enlightenment and I don’t feel I can wait another second to find out what it is that has been revealed here.”

Nimrod shrugged. “It’s a mathematical proof,” he said.

“Yes, yes, but of what?”

“God, of course,” said Nimrod. “It’s the mathematical proof of God.”

I
s that all?” said Mr. Burton.

“Is that
all
?” Silvio frowned at him. “About the mathematical proof of God? Is that
all
?”

“I meant no offense.” Mr. Burton looked apologetic. He fiddled with the beads around his scrawny neck and shuffled his dirty feet. “I was being ironic for the purpose of rhetorical effect. And irony can be hard to detect when English is not your first language. I expect that’s why Americans can’t understand it.”

“Hey,” said Philippa, who thought she understood it very well.

Nimrod chuckled. “Oh, very good. Very good.”

“It was a sort of joke,” Mr. Burton told Silvio. “After all, what could be more important than a mathematical proof of God?”

Somewhat placated — for he was a good Roman Catholic — Silvio nodded. “If this is true, it’s no laughing matter for people,” he said.

“It’s true,” said Mr. Swaraswati. “When he told me this great thing, the Tirthankar said that this was the most important truth of all.”

“More important than
e
equals
mc
squared?” said Mr. Burton. “I find that very hard to believe.”

“That is what he said,” insisted Mr. Swaraswati.

Meanwhile Philippa untied Rakshasas from John’s back and hugged the animal closely. It licked her face more like a dog than a wolf, but seeing it untied, Silvio backed away from the creature nervously.

“What’s the matter?” Philippa asked him.

“This is a wolf, is it not?” said Silvio.

“Yes,” said John.

“I used to work at the Rome Zoo. Before I got attacked by a panda and left this employment, I see many wolves.” He pointed at Rakshasas. “Every night they howl. Isn’t it dangerous? Wolves eat people, don’t they?”

“This fellow is quite all right, I can assure you,” said John. “He won’t harm you, Silvio. This wolf contains the reincarnated spirit of a very dear old friend of ours. Isn’t that right, Nimrod?”

“Absolutely right, dear boy.” Nimrod knelt down and took the wolf’s paw in his hand. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Rakshasas. I can’t tell you much we’ve missed you.”

Rakshasas barked once.

“Here, let me quickly introduce you to everyone,” said Nimrod. “This is Silvio Prezzolini, who is the truly happy man we will need to gain admittance to
Shamba-la, as you instructed. Yes, I got your message, from Liskeard. And I already have the Joseph Rock Archive.”

Rakshasas barked again and looked sideways at Moo.

“What lovely blue eyes he has,” said Moo.

“This is my dear friend Moo,” said Nimrod. “She is chief of the British KGB. This is Mr. Swaraswati, one of the fakirs of Faizabad.”

“Delighted,” said Moo.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rakshasas,” said Mr. Swaraswati.

“And this, of course, is Mr. Burton, your former butler, whom you already know.”

Rakshasas greeted Moo and Mr. Swaraswati and Silvio Prezzolini with an alert expression and a wagging tail. But as soon as Nimrod had introduced Mr. Burton, the wolf backed away growling, with ears folded back and teeth bared, which was a thoroughly alarming sight.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” said John, taking hold of the collar of fur around the wolf’s neck, just in case he was thinking of attacking anyone after all.

Mr. Burton looked sheepish. “It’s true, I’ve changed quite a bit since he last saw me. Living at the top of a rope in the Atlas Mountains will do that to a chap.” He patted his stomach with the flat of his hand. “I’m somewhat thinner. And of course I didn’t have the beard or the long hair. Plus, I do need a bath.”

“We all need a bath,” muttered Moo.

Rakshasas kept on growling fiercely.

“All the same,” said Mr. Burton. “It is rather disappointing. I felt sure that he’d recognize me.”

“He looks a bit different himself,” observed Philippa. “And when you have the eyes of a wolf, you see things as a wolf does. Not as a djinn or a man. Who can tell what he’s thinking?”

“I can,” said John. “At least I can when I enter him as spirit.”

Philippa tutted loudly. “Well, anyone can do that.”

“What’s the matter?” Nimrod asked the wolf. “Don’t you know your former butler?”

“He didn’t recognize me right away, either,” said John. “I had to enter him as spirit before we were able to bond properly.”

“Yes, that must be it,” said Nimrod.

“Perhaps if he can get my scent it will jog something in his memory,” said Mr. Burton. Bravely, Mr. Burton held a hand toward the wolf for him to smell. But Rakshasas just barked viciously and backed farther away.

“Nope,” said John. “He’s not having it.”

“Well, it has been a very long time.” Mr. Burton looked a little hurt. “It’s obviously going to take a while for him to remember me,” he said.

“Don’t worry,” said John, who had formed the closest attachment to Rakshasas and now felt he knew him better than anyone. “After what we’ve just been through, I think maybe he’s a little nervous. And maybe a little worried about Groanin.”

“You’re right,” said Nimrod. “As soon as we’ve had a cup
of tea we should get going again. It’ll be getting dark soon. The sooner we can reach Shamba-la, the sooner we can get back to Yellowstone and rescue that big-hearted butler of mine. Light my lamp, but I don’t know what I’d do if ever he decided to retire and go and become a holy man in Morocco. Really I don’t.” He shook his head and smiled at Mr. Burton. “How long were you in the service of Mr. Rakshasas, anyway?”

“Twenty years,” said Mr. Burton.

Nimrod nodded. “Ten years Groanin’s been with me,” he said. “Just ten years and he’s become quite indispensible. Not to mention my best friend since Mr. Rakshasas here moved on to his next incarnation. I hate to think how much I’d miss that man after twenty years of service. Especially his tea. No one makes tea like Groanin.” Nimrod wagged a finger at Mr. Burton. “You know, I bet you can make an excellent cup of tea. All that time buttling for Mr. Rakshasas. He may have dressed as an Indian, and sounded like an Irishman, but Mr. Rakshasas was as English as I am. And he did like his Darjeeling tea, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Burton. “That he did.”

“I, for one,” said Moo, “would love a cup of tea.”

“Me, too,” admitted John. “Something hot, anyway. I’m cold.”

Philippa confessed that even she was cold enough to drink tea.

“Of course,” said Nimrod. “Why didn’t I think of it earlier? I wonder if perhaps you would be kind enough to make us some tea, Mr. Burton. As only a great butler can.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Burton. “I’d be delighted.”

“You make the tea and I’ll make some scones.”

Nimrod dug out the tea things from the luggage and gave them to Mr. Burton, who set to work collecting snow in the kettle and then lighting a fire to boil some water. And while Mr. Burton prepared the tea, Nimrod, whose personality seemed quite recovered from his bump on the head, had John explain to him precisely how to fly a carpet through the fissure in the north wall of Mount Kailash and into the secret crater.

“You must fly the carpet straight into the north face of the mountain at a low spot where the snow looks like clouds and the rock most looks like the sky,” he said. “You must aim at what you consider to be the bluest part of the north face. Although this changes according to the time of day and the weather. This part of the north face is called Milarepa’s Window. But in truth, your aim is not so important as your state of mind, Uncle. To some extent this is an exercise in mind over matter.”

“Blue sky thinking.”

“Precisely.”

“So why do I need to fly at speed? Couldn’t I just ascend slowly until I found this window?”

“From time to time there is a very strong current of air that emanates from this part of the rock face,” explained John. “Like the blowhole of a whale. If we are not moving at speed, we could be blown off the carpet.”

“Perhaps you should fly the carpet,” said Nimrod.

“I’m much too tired,” John said. And in truth, with his head of white hair, he looked tired, too.

Nimrod nodded. “Before we get back I’m going to have to fix that,” he said. “Your hair.”

“With djinn power?” asked John. “No, with some hair dye.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, tea is served,” said Mr. Burton. Smiling broadly, he laid a large silver tray in the center of the carpet and started to hand around cups and saucers. “You know, when I was up that rope on Jebel Toubkal, in the Atlas Mountains, I often used to think of English afternoon tea. With cucumber sandwiches, buttered tea cakes, fairy cakes, and hot scones. Many’s the time I thought of hot scones with cream and jam — apricot jam mostly.”

“Excellent,” purred Nimrod. “Excellent. Thank you,

Mr. Burton.”

“It almost makes me want to have my old tailcoat back,” said Mr. Burton. “And my stiff collar. So that I might serve tea properly. And look like a proper English butler.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with the way you make tea,” said Nimrod happily.

“Except for one thing,” said Moo.

Nimrod raised his hand. “Please, Moo. I’m enjoying my tea. Don’t say another word.”

“Why?” she said indomitably. “I’ll say what I like. I don’t know what kind of English butler he was, but he can’t have been a very good one.”

“Please, Moo, not now,” said Nimrod. “You’ll spoil everything.”

“Why?” asked Philippa.

“Because he didn’t serve the tea with milk,” said Moo. “The fool served it with lemon. That’s the sort of thing you might expect from an American. And easily excused. But it’s quite unforgivable in an English butler.”

Mr. Burton stared at her with hard incredulity.

“You stupid, crabby, stuck-up English snob,” he said, and then kicked the cup and saucer from the old lady’s gloved hands.

“Was it something I said?” said Moo.

It would have been hard to say exactly what happened next, except that Nimrod threw away his own teacup and leaped to his feet. There was a huge flash and a loud explosion, as if a grenade had gone off, and a strong smell of sulfur, as if someone had just struck a couple of thousand matches.

Even John, with his quick eyes, could not have said what happened to Mr. Burton except that where the quietly spoken English fakir had been standing not one second before, there was now a roaring, beastlike man, seven or eight feet tall, who was smooth and uniformly red in his nakedness and almost entirely without human features, as if he had just sprung half formed from a giant clay modeler’s wheel.

Grimacing horribly, the creature stamped its clay foot violently and the whole ground seemed to shake. Then it swung a right hook at Nimrod, narrowly missed the tip of his long, thin nose, and struck a rock that shattered into a thousand pieces. Dust and small fragments of rock and bits of clay rained down on everyone’s heads like a shower of hailstones.

Still roaring like a tiger, the thing took another step forward and swung again. There was no time for Nimrod to duck or dive, and such was the clay creature’s raw destructive power that the hammer blow seemed certain to remove the djinn’s head at the shoulders.

Philippa screamed, which was why no one heard the word that came out of her uncle’s mouth. And all that John could’ve said with certainty was that the word was too short to have been his focus word. But whatever it was, it worked and even as the huge fist made the beginning of contact with Nimrod’s cheek, the creature wielding it stopped dead, as if someone had flicked a switch and paused an old horror movie.

Nimrod stepped away and, trembling just a little — for he was acutely conscious of how close he had come to death — let out a breath and touched his cheek, very much aware that a split second later might have seen the clay creature’s ham-sized fist follow through with its killer punch.

“Light my lamp, but that was close,” he said.

“What the heck is it?” said John, inspecting the clay creature more closely.

“And what in the name of Sam Hill just happened?” added Philippa.

“It’s all over now. Nothing to worry about. We’re all quite safe.” Nimrod let out a nervous laugh. “This is a golem,” he said. “An animated being created entirely from inanimate matter such as earth or clay. Rather like the first man, who was Adam, of course, except that Adam had a soul. Anyway,
this particular golem was made by my old friend Rabbi Joshua Loew ben Gazzara for the purpose of protecting the Einstein Archive in Jerusalem. Except that it didn’t. A few weeks ago, the golem and a part of that archive were stolen from the Jewish National Library by Jirjis Ibn Rajmus, who, as Philippa knows, is an evil djinn of the Ifrit tribe. At the time, I wondered why anyone, let alone a djinn, would want to steal the Einstein Archive and a golem. Well, now I know.”

Nimrod took out a handkerchief, mopped his brow for a moment, and then lit a cigar.

“You see, Jirjis needed an adsuesco, which is what we djinn call a spare shape or a familiar creature, and rather useful to have around as a means of escape when you are using someone else’s body. As Jirjis was. Goodness only knows where his own body is. Probably somewhere back in Morocco. Jirjis had stolen the body of Mr. Burton and was doubtless awaiting my own arrival on Jebel Toubkal in the Atlas Mountains, to seek Mr. Burton’s advice.”

“You mean Jirjis has been hiding inside Mr. Burton all along?” exclaimed Philippa. “But why?”

“Jirjis had already been to a great deal of effort creating an atmosphere of bad luck in the world so that he might provoke one or more of the fakirs of Faizabad to reveal themselves. So that he might gain control of one of the great secrets of the universe as revealed by the Tirthankar of Faizabad. I think he must have gotten the idea from the Einstein Archive, which, according to Rabbi Joshua, includes
a rather cryptic entry in Einstein’s diary about being visited by ‘the Man from Lahore’ while Einstein was still working rather anonymously at the Swiss Patent Office in Bern. The diary item suggested that a great secret was revealed to Einstein and that another similar great secret lay buried in Bumby, Yorkshire. That’s why Jirjis sent his mendicant fakirs to Bumby. So that they might find Mr. Swaraswati’s
dasa
— the servant of the buried fakir — and that she might lead them to him when he revealed himself.