The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan (20 page)

“Have another?” suggested Charlie.

“Er, no thanks.”

Quelling his own instinctive disgust, Axel quickly followed the professor’s example and then it was only Philippa and Groanin who had yet to eat one of the grubs.

“Come on, sis,” said John. “If I can do it, then you can do it, surely.”

Philippa nodded, for this made perfect sense to her and always had. They were twins after all and if her brother could eat a live witchetty grub without throwing up, then so could she. She picked one up and trying to ignore the movement of the grub in her fingers, she closed her eyes, steeled herself, and then put the grub in her mouth.

That left Groanin, lips sealed, eyes closed, and shaking his head, resolutely opposed to putting anything in his mouth that was still moving.

“Look here, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “You wouldn’t want to hurt their feelings, would you?”

“What about my feelings? Me, with my digestion? If these lads knew anything about
my
feelings, they’d be a lot more circumspect about asking
me
to eat something objectionable that, to my eyes, belongs under a stone. Besides, sir. That white worm wouldn’t be in my stomach for very long, if at all, before it was coming back up again and then where would we be? Just think. How much more hurt would their feelings be if I threw up on their toes?”

“You make a fair point, Groanin,” agreed Nimrod. “I suppose I’d better help you out with this one. For the sake of diplomatic relations, you understand. We certainly wouldn’t want you being ill, now would we?”

Groanin smiled at his master’s kindness. He thought that Nimrod meant that he would eat the last witchetty grub himself, to save Groanin from having to do it. At least he did until he felt some unseen power taking hold of his hand
and place it on the leaf, and then making him collect the witchetty grub and bring it toward his mouth, which seemed to be opening of its own volition.

“No,” said Groanin. “You can’t make me eat it, Nimrod.”

Except that Nimrod
could
make him eat the witchetty grub, and did; and before another minute had elapsed, Groanin found himself placing the large, writhing larva squarely onto his tongue and then closing his mouth, where it remained for several seconds, shifting around like an insect in a tiny cream-colored sleeping bag — which is what it was, after all — and then biting into it so that his mouth was filled with what felt and tasted like the yolk of a runny, boiled egg, and then swallowing the entire contents of his mouth with one loud and quite involuntary gulp that was also half whimper.

To his own surprise, Groanin did not even so much as gag, and gradually, as he felt himself released from Nimrod’s powerful control, he felt able to relax and even to detach his mind from the thought of what he had just swallowed. It was perhaps the first time the fastidious English butler had eaten anything quite so spectacularly unusual with quite such little effect.

“There,” said Nimrod. “Now our two guests are satisfied. And you, my dear fellow, you’re not going to throw up.”

The two aborigines grinned happily, pleased that their thoughtful gift had been received so well by such illustrious visitors from the songlines in the sky.

“I don’t know why I stay with you, Nimrod,” said Groanin. “Really, I don’t.” He shrugged. “Then again, as I discovered recently, the alternative might be so much worse.”

E
arly the next morning, Nimrod, Groanin, the twins, Axel, the professor, and their two aboriginal guides, Jimmy and Charlie, flew directly west, on the large blue carpet. Against the red ocher of the dry ground, the sky appeared to be a bright shade of azure and the flying carpet an even brighter blue. But nothing could compete for brightness with the smiles of the two aborigines.

“When we get back to Sydney, this is going straight onto my next painting, mate,” Jimmy told Charlie.

“Too right. Flyabout sure beats walkabout, doesn’t it?”

Several hours later, and as many hundred miles west of Alice Springs, Jimmy checked the horizon and the position of the sun, and told Nimrod to fly a bit lower and farther south as they were now nearing the little town of Docker River.

“Let’s hope we miss the storm,” he said.

“What storm?” said John.

Jimmy pointed at the northwestern horizon. “Look,” he said. “Over there.”

To everyone else but Charlie, the horizon looked much the same as before but Jimmy was adamant. “Lot of dark cloud coming our way,” he said.

And gradually, as they looked, the rest of them did see something, as if someone had drawn a very faint line with a pencil between the sky and the land.

“It must be all those volcanoes along the Pacific Ring of Fire,” said the professor. “There’s probably so much ash in the atmosphere that it’s filtering out the sun and cooling the air. When that happens there’s likely to be an almighty thunderstorm around here.”

Nimrod shook his head. “Flying carpets don’t perform at all well in thunderstorms,” he said. “We’d better hope we can be away from here before those clouds arrive.”

“Amen to that,” said Charlie. “Could be bad with the camels, too, if it rains.”

“How’s that?” asked Philippa.

“Camels are a real nuisance around these parts,” explained Charlie. “Most people think that they don’t need water. Of course they
do.
They just make it last longer than other animals. Water’s pretty scarce out here and they go berserk if there isn’t any. And even more berserk when there is, smashing down fences and cattle stations and generally causing damage, so the local folk just hate them. A thirsty camel is one of the most dangerous animals in Australia.”

Jimmy sniffed the air and said, “We’re getting closer now. I can smell ’em. The camels.”

“I can’t smell anything,” said Groanin.

“You will,” promised Jimmy. “You will.”

Half an hour later, he pointed at a large group of braying dromedaries that was grouped around a very small billabong. The camels looked altogether scrawnier and meaner than their domesticated cousins in Afghanistan. In their haste to get near the dwindling supply of local water, they had knocked over the few acacia and bloodwood trees that were shading the water hole.

“There are thousands of them,” said John. “Not nearly enough for that little bit of water. They’ve more or less drunk it dry.”

“That’s why some of the bulls are fighting,” said Charlie. “Look.”

A pair of bull camels seemed to be wrestling. One camel’s neck was wrapped around the other’s and they were each of them biting ears, lips, noses, and faces — anything they could get hold of with their large yellow teeth.

John pointed at another pair of male camels who, foaming at the mouth, were locked in a desperate struggle on the ground, with blood pouring from their wounds.

“Kind of vicious, aren’t they?” said John.

“You bet.” Charlie grinned. “Reckon I’d rather get bit by a croc than a camel.”

Philippa put her hands over ears. “And noisy, too.”

Nimrod steered the carpet a safe distance away from the herd of camels and then landed. But almost immediately some of the camels started to run toward them.

“They’re trying to drive you off from what’s left of the water,” explained Jimmy. “We better get out of here fast, or risk being trampled down like them trees.”

Nimrod had little choice but to take off and he spent the next few minutes landing and then taking off again as the camels persisted in trying to run them off.

Hovering over the heads of the loudly braying camels, he wondered how to proceed.

“Maybe you should just land a bit farther away,” suggested Groanin.

“Easier said than done, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “By my reckoning, there are almost ten thousand camels over an area of two or three square miles.”

Spooked by the carpet flying overhead, some of the camels ran one way and then the other, kicking up a large amount of dust that included quite a lot of dried camel dung.

“They don’t half stink,” said Groanin, holding his nose. “You were right, Jimmy.”

“I reckon a herd of camels is about the smelliest thing this side of that stuff you blokes were eating last night,” said Charlie.

“The
kœstur hákarl
?” said the professor. “It’s an acquired taste, right enough. What do you say, Nimrod? You seem to like it all right.”

Nimrod wasn’t listening.

“If I land down there and leave the flying carpet,” he said, “so that I can go inside the mind of one of those beasts, there will be no one to fly us out of trouble if the rest stampede.”

“There’s only one possible solution to that,” said John. “I think me or Phil will have to go.”

“Why not both?” said Philippa. “With two of us mind
reading the camels it should take half the time it would take with just one person doing it. We can leave our bodies here on the carpet and then float down. That way there’s no need even to land.”

“Good idea,” said Nimrod. “All right. It’s a plan. You two will go down there and do it. And I’ll keep hovering over the herd like this. To keep an eye on things. But here’s the thing: To search for the Well of ancestor memory in a camel’s mind, you will have to delve deep into the beast’s subconscious.”

“And where will we find that?” asked John.

“Well, most of anyone’s mind is subconscious,” said Nimrod. “As much as ninety-five percent. With only five to ten percent being devoted to what you might call taking care of business.”

“Yes, but where is it?” persisted John. “I mean, where inside the camel’s head?”

“Well, that’s a little hard to explain,” said Nimrod. “It’s not like the subconscious mind has an exact location, like front or back, or next to an ear. It’s sort of beneath your conscious mind’s awareness, if you like. You’d best search for the subconscious by looking for deep thoughts and emotions the animal has about its mother and father, and perhaps also its grandparents. These thoughts and emotions are probably in the same place you would keep them in your own mind. For example, if you were to start thinking about Christmas with your family, five or ten years ago, that would probably lead you nicely to the top of your own Well of ancestor memory. And then, you just dive in.”

“Think of Mom and Dad,” said John. “Right. I can see how that might work.”

“But beware,” added Nimrod. “You’ll be very much on your own, I’m afraid. Because you’ll be just spirit when you leave your own bodies, you’ll be invisible to us on this carpet and I won’t have any idea which camels you choose to be inside. Got that?”

The twins nodded.

“And remember that while you are in the camel’s unconscious mind, you won’t actually have control of the camel’s conscious mind. So the camel will still be free to do anything it wants: run away, have a fight, you name it. And of course while you’re inside the camel’s unconscious mind, you’ll have no sense of what’s happening in the outside world. No sight, no sense of smell, no hearing. In other words, it’s possible that when you leave the camel’s body it’s probable that you will be in a different spot from the place where you went in. So, this is not without risk. If you get lost, I don’t have to tell you what can befall a djinn who can’t get back to his or her body. If that happens, try to stay put and we’ll come and find you, all right?”

The twins nodded and lay down to go into a light trance.

“Good luck,” John told Philippa.

“You too,” she said.

“Whisper in my ear as you leave your bodies,” said Nimrod. “Just so that I’ll know you’ve gone.”

Several minutes passed, without result.

“Whenever you’re ready,” said Nimrod.

“I’m finding it difficult to get into a trance,” said John.

“Me, too.”

“I’ll take us a bit higher,” said Nimrod, and lifted the carpet farther up in the air where the noise and stink of the camels were less obtrusive. “There. How’s that?”

Philippa sat up and shook her head. “Nope. It’s still not working. It’s like there’s something preying on my mind. But I don’t know what.”

Of course, what she’d forgotten was Alexandra’s prediction; but then no one ever remembered Alexandra’s predictions, and if they did, then they never took them seriously. But it wasn’t just her aunt’s ominous, terrible prediction she had forgotten, but also what she had learned in the Rakshasas Library.

It was the same for John.

“And Phil’s affecting me,” he said, mistaking his own mental turmoil for hers, which is common enough between twins.

“If I had my
yirdaki
with me,” said Jimmy, “I might help you two blokes.”

“What’s a
yirdaki
?” asked John.

“White fellers call it a didgeridoo,” explained Jimmy. “It’s a length of hollow, cylindrical wood, about ten feet long. You blow in it and you get a great drone sound. Perfect for getting into a trance.”

No sooner had he explained it than John had made one with djinn power — a polished wooden tube, about the size of a largish organ pipe. He’d even thought to add a few aboriginal-style decorations.

Jimmy blew into it experimentally and a deep, almost electronic sound emanated from the opposite end.

“That’s a beaut,” said Jimmy. “Nice one, John.”

“I saw one on TV,” said John. “And made one just the same as that.”

Jimmy got up onto his knees to get a better grip on the
yirdaki
, put his mouth to the beeswax mouthpiece, and when he was satisfied he had a really airtight seal, he started to blow. Breathing through his nose while at the same time expelling air from his mouth, he produced a continuous, steady, and vibrating tone that was an aural kaleidoscope of low-frequency sound.

The noise seemed modern and primitive at the same time, and uniquely Australian.

For John, the
yirdaki
seemed to illustrate what was going on inside his own head, like hearing the passage of one enduring thought as it made its way ’round and ’round his own mind.

For Philippa, it was like going to a place deep in her thoughts she had never before been; at the same time, it was like joining up with Jimmy’s breath. She took a deep breath of her own and closed her eyes.

And it wasn’t long before Jimmy’s playing began to produce the desired effect: Groanin fell soundly asleep.