Eye of the Forest

by P. B. Kerr

  John glanced around. “You mean he’s here? I thought he must have been captured, like the others.”

  “I think not.” Nimrod delved inside Mr. Vodyannoy’s backpack and took out the black Fabergé bottle decorated with solid-gold filigree. “I imagine he’s inside this. Light my lamp, that’s where I’d go if a poisonous frog had crawled all over me. You wouldn’t see me for smoke. Indeed, it might be the only way he could survive such a terrible experience.”

  Nimrod disappeared inside the lamp to look for Mr. Vodyannoy, leaving John alone again. Hearing himself blamed once again for damaging the tents, Hector had skulked off into the bushes. And wondering what to do with himself, John started to search Zadie’s backpack in the hope that he might find other messages from McCreeby and that these in turn might provide some further clue as to why she had betrayed her own kind and her friends. For John had not yet quite overcome his dislike of Zadie enough to accept the idea that she had indeed been hypnotized.

  As he searched Zadie’s things, the primordial quiet was pierced by the sound of someone expertly whistling a carefree, plangent tune, a hauntingly rapturous, inspired human sound that floated through the forest glade like a beautiful, summery, magic spell.

  John stood up and listened. How he had always wanted to be able to whistle like that! It was hardly the kind of tune an Indian would have known, surely. And it certainly couldn’t have been a bird. Not even a bird of paradise could have mastered a melody like that; there must have been at least nine notes in the tune, which was whistled perfectly, and with tremolos, too. So, who could it be? Sicky? Muddy? Zadie, perhaps?

  He was reluctant to break the spell of the catchy tune but, eventually, John called out, “Hello? Who’s there?”

  The beautiful whistling stopped.

  Picking up Sicky’s machete, John slashed at some bushes and advanced into the forest. “Hello?” he repeated loudly. “Who’s there? Come out and show yourselves.”

  Working his way around the perimeter of the camp, John came back to where he had started from, and cocking one ear he listened closely, hoping to hear the whistle again. All he could hear was the myriad sound of the birds twittering tunelessly, monkeys laughing like hyenas, frogs creaking like old ropes, and insects whirring like dozens of small clockwork toys. He might have used djinn power except he couldn’t think what to wish for that could possibly have enabled him to determine the source of the whistling. As Mr. Rakshasas had been fond of saying: “Sure, knowing what to wish for is half of it.”

  Had he imagined it? He was beginning to realize just what a strange place the rain forest really was and how your mind could play tricks on you: sticks that turned out to be insects, leaves that turned out to be lizards, logs that turned out to be alligators. John had even heard of a fish called the corvina that came to the surface of the water to eat fruit and make a bizarre chirping sound. He listened again. Maybe it had been a bird after all. Some of the birds looked extraordinary. Was it so hard to imagine that they might have sounded extraordinary, too? Even though it was broad daylight, John felt a little unnerved by what he had heard. And very alone. John shook his head and went back to searching Zadie’s backpack.

  He found no more messages from McCreeby, only a little notebook of canary-colored onionskin paper that she must have used for writing her own messages and, right at the bottom of the backpack, something that pricked John’s curiosity. Sealed in a glass jelly jar, and just a little smaller in diameter than the lid, were three gold disks. John opened the jar and, kneeling down, emptied the disks onto the ground before picking one of them up. It was thicker than a quarter — about as thick as two or three quarters — and heavy. Very heavy. He stayed there looking at them for a while wondering what they were. They weren’t coins or medals or plates. On each side were the faces of some Indian men — one of them very fierce-looking. He guessed they were possibly Incan but he wasn’t even sure of that.

  “Found something?” It was Nimrod, returned from his visit to the interior of Mr. Vodyannoy’s lamp.

  “These were in Zadie’s backpack.” John showed Nimrod the onionskin and the three gold disks.

  “Interesting,” said Nimrod, weighing one in his hand. “I’ve never come across gold that was quite as heavy as this.” He turned one disk over in his fingers. “Supay the Incan god of death on one side, and Inti, the sun god on the other. That’s unusual, too.”

  “What is?” asked John.

  “To have the sun and death on the same artifact.”

  “Well,” suggested John. “The sun gives life, doesn’t it? So life and death. Aren’t they just opposite sides of the same coin?”

  “What you say makes sense,” said Nimrod. “But look how one disk fits into another and how both fit into the third. It’s almost as if they were meant to show that the sun and death were one and the same. That’s what’s unusual. I imagine that these must be the tears of the sun that McCreeby’s message talks about. The Incas actually called gold the ‘sweat of the sun.’”

  “I guess we now know the true identity of the person who robbed the Peabody Museum in New Haven,” said John.

  “Of course,” said Nimrod. “There were three golden disks stolen, weren’t there? I’d quite forgotten about those.”

  “It wasn’t Manco Capac who stole them at all.”

  “I think all he wanted was his mummy back,” said Nimrod. “Yes, you’re quite right, John, it must have been Zadie who stole them.” He nodded back at Mr. Vodyannoy’s black bottle. “Just as it was Zadie who tried to kill Mr. Vodyannoy. He told me just now that he woke up and found her in his tent. She said that she had been sleepwalking. Mr. Vodyannoy said she went back to her tent and that he didn’t think any more about it at the time. But now, he’s pretty sure she was wearing gloves. And that it must have been she who put the frog in his bed.”

  “How is he?” John asked anxiously.

  “Really quite ill.”

  “Shouldn’t we get him to a hospital?”

  “And what could they do? Hospitals are for people, John. Not djinn. No, with warmth and rest, he’ll recover. Eventually. When a djinn gets as sick as that, there’s not much that can be done that he or she can’t do for himself. He will have to stay there in his lamp for a good while longer, until he’s rekindled his life force. Which might take several weeks. I’m afraid we’ve seen the last of him on this expedition.”

  “And does he have the map?”

  “No. I’m afraid he doesn’t.”

  “Then Zadie must have it.”

  “I fear so. But I am quite convinced she has been hypnotized. I cannot believe there is any other way she would ever have tried to murder Mr. Vodyannoy. For that matter, nor can he.”

  “So, what are we going to do?” asked John. “How will we find our way to the Eye of the Forest without the map?”

  Nimrod tapped his forehead. “Fortunately, I have already memorized it.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “The message tube around the bat’s leg,” said Nimrod. “Did you keep it?”

  “Of course.” John retrieved it from his own pack and handed it to Nimrod.

  “Excellent.” Nimrod opened the little onionskin notebook and, taking out a pen, began to write. “We shall send our own message to McCreeby. As if it had been written by his young female accomplice. I think I can reproduce Zadie’s hand accurately enough. She writes in capital letters, does she not?”

  “That’s right. With circles for dots and lots of fat curlicues.”

  “This sort of writing usually signifies a certain lack of confidence,” said Nimrod. “Perhaps even a kind of moronic ignorance. It is almost as bad as forgetting to use capital letters altogether. Although of course there are some alphabets that have no capital letters. Hebrew, for example.”

  “Sometimes she draws hearts instead of circles. Like maybe she was in love with someone.”

  “Does she?” Nimrod said thoughtfully. “That is perhaps another indication that she has been hypnot
ized.”

  “What are you going to tell him? McCreeby.”

  “Only that we are all dead except her. Something that will serve to make him feel overconfident. And that he should now tell Zadie precisely where he is so that she can come and find them.”

  John grinned and, while Nimrod wrote the message, he tried not to think about the fact that his sister and Groanin and Sicky and Muddy — and quite possibly Zadie herself — were in the hands of the Xuanaci Indians. To keep up his spirits he started to whistle. The very same catchy tune he had heard just a few minutes before.

  Nimrod carried on writing but spoke up with disapproval in his voice. “My dear young fellow. Didn’t Sicky tell you? You must never, ever whistle in the rain forest. It is said that if you ever chime in by whistling the exact same tune as el Tunchi, then he will appear to you and play with you in a most horrible way.”

  John gulped. “Who or what is el Tunchi?”

  “A spirit that protects the forest,” said Nimrod. “A nasty mischievous spirit. Like a sort of poltergeist, I suppose. Only much, much worse. Or so I’m told. Just be careful, John. All right?” Nimrod looked up. “John?”

  But John had disappeared.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE RETURN OF THE CONQUERORS

  Groanin had been right when he said that Francisco Pizarro had come back to life with his whole army. Because of Zadie’s careless wish, the underground cavern where the party comprising Philippa, Groanin, Zadie, Sicky, and Muddy had taken refuge after their escape from the Xuanaci was now filled with one hundred and sixty-eight men at arms, sixty-two horses, and several Roman Catholic priests. This was the exact number of men and horses (and priests) with which Pizarro had conquered the Incas in September of 1532.

  The Spaniards did not seem to need the light. They worked in darkness for it was from darkness they had come. And already they seemed intent on carrying out the second part of Zadie’s wish, which was that they should teach the Xuanaci a lesson. And since there was only one kind of lesson that these hard-bitten soldiers had ever been capable of teaching anyone, they were sharpening their swords, and tightening the buckles on their armor with the obvious intent of reenacting the whole brutal business that had been the conquest of the Incas. Except that this time it would be the Xuanaci who would be put to the sword. Nobody had any doubt that this would be the result. Pizarro’s small, ragtag army had easily defeated an army of one hundred thousand Incas, and it seemed unlikely that a few hundred Xuanaci would fare any better.

  “We’ve got to stop them,” Philippa told Zadie. “Those poor Xuanaci don’t stand a chance against these murderers. They’ll be massacred. Just like the Incas.”

  Zadie snorted with laughter. “Those poor Xuanaci?” She sounded incredulous. “Philippa. Hello? Those poor Xuanaci as you call them were going to feed us to the piranhas. The Xuanaci are the same guys who shrank poor Sicky’s head, while it was still on his shoulders.” Zadie looked at Sicky as if in search of some support. “Tell her, Sicky. Tell her how you feel about the Xuanaci.”

  Sicky scratched his shrunken head. Undeniably the Xuanaci had shrunk it. “Sick,” he said. “I feel sick about what they did to poor Sicky, sure.” But he was not a vengeful man. And now that he thought about it, he could see the contest between the heavily armored Spaniards and the half-naked Indians would be a grossly unequal one. “Xuanaci are fierce people, right enough. But then so were the Jivaro. And before them, the Prozuanaci. All Indians of the Oriente are pretty fierce, one way or the other. But Xuanaci are just ignorant folk. They don’t deserve to get themselves beat up by a bunch of conquistadors like them Incas. You gotta speak to this Pizarro fellow, Miss Zadie, and persuade him to forget about the Xuanaci.”

  “Well, I won’t,” Zadie said firmly. “It would serve those Xuanaci right if they got their butts kicked by these Spaniards.”

  “From the look of them,” observed Groanin, “I think this lot are planning a bit more than just a bit of butt-kicking. They mean business. Nasty business. Look.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” said Zadie. “As usual.”

  The entire army, including Pizarro, was on its knees, and receiving the blessing of the priests so that what they were about to do might meet with favor in the eyes of God.

  “That’s what always happens before one lot of people go and massacre another lot,” added Groanin. “They persuade themselves that it’s the will of God or some such malarkey. You ask me, God wants nothing to do with folk who go around killing other folk in his good name.”

  “Mr. Groanin’s right, Zadie,” said Philippa. “We have to do something.”

  “Like what?” demanded Zadie.

  “This is your mess,” said Philippa. “It ought to be you who cleans it up.”

  Zadie shook her head stubbornly. “Do what you like,” she said. “But I think you’re making too much out of this. I certainly didn’t wish for any massacre. Just that someone should teach these headhunters a lesson, that’s all.”

  Philippa shook her head, utterly exasperated with the other djinn and now very much regretting having asked her along on the expedition. John had been right. She could see that. The next time — assuming there was a next time — she would listen to her twin brother.

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll speak to him myself. As soon as they’re finished praying.”

  Philippa didn’t speak Spanish and she rather doubted that before he had died, Pizarro had spoken any English. Nevertheless, her recent acquaintance with a reincarnation of the Italian explorer Marco Polo persuaded her that this wouldn’t be a problem. “Death is the most important passport you can obtain,” Marco had told Philippa. “When you die, all the mysteries are solved. Including that mystery that is how the English language works.”

  The old conquistador bowed politely as Philippa presented herself in front of him. “Señorita,” he said. “I am greatly honored.” He spoke quietly but firmly, like one who was used to being obeyed, and with a slight lisp.

  Philippa smiled and bowed back. “Don Francisco,” she said, minding her manners, for a Don was a kind of Spanish knight. “Yours is a famous name. Perhaps the most famous name in all of Peru. And, of course, it is a very famous name in … er, history.”

  Pizarro bowed again.

  “Look here,” said Philippa. “I’m afraid there’s been a mistake. Of course, it’s entirely our fault and please be so kind as to accept our sincerest apologies, but you see, it’s like this: You’re not required to teach the Xuanaci a lesson, after all. In fact, we’d much prefer it if you went back to wherever it is that you came from. And left them alone.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Pizarro. “A wish was made, was it not? We certainly wouldn’t have come back, uninvited.”

  “Yes, that is true,” admitted Philippa. “However, it was a wish made without any thought for the consequences. Even the djinn make mistakes.”

  “Forgive me, a wish is a wish: As I see it, making a wish is like pouring good wine onto the ground. When you have already done that, then it’s hard to pour it back into the bottle. Truly, señorita, I would like to accommodate you, but I very much regret I cannot.” He shrugged. “Unless of course, you wish it so. That would be a very different matter, you being a djinn.”

  “But I do wish it,” insisted Philippa. “Very much indeed. We all do.”

  Pizarro looked around him for a moment and then shrugged again. “And yet I and my men are still here, are we not? Forgive me, O great djinn, but if you really wished it, I suggest that we would no longer be here. Your own power would make it so. No?”

  “Ah,” said Philippa. “Good point. Let me explain. You see, the djinn are made of fire and since it’s a bit cold down here we’ve been unable to get warm enough to work ourselves up to full power. In fact we were obliged to set fire to the wooden box that had contained your skull in order to warm our hands long enough to make just one wish. Which came out badly, as I think I’ve explained. My friend spoke too quickly, you see.
It’s true, the Xuanaci are a tiresome and unpleasant bunch, but we don’t mean them any real harm. All I ask is that you wait a little before doing anything, well, drastic.”

  “You mean like teaching them a lesson?” Pizarro was sounding reasonable.

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Philippa. “I knew you’d understand. I promise you that as soon as we get our power back, we’ll wish things back to normal and —”

  “I’m sorry,” said Pizarro, “but you of all people should know that a wish can only be rescinded in the normal way. By a second, third, or fourth wish.”

  “Yes, normally that’s true,” said Philippa. “But please, can’t you make an exception? Just this once.”

  “My dear señorita.” Pizarro sounded almost kind. “I didn’t make the rules. You did. Or rather your kind did, many years ago. Is it not so?”

  Philippa stamped her foot in exasperation. “Oh, look, you’re not really going to hurt anyone, are you?”

  “That’s normal procedure in these situations,” said Pizarro.

  “What, all of them?” said Groanin.

  “Yes.”

  “Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

  “Of course it is. Most certainly. Now, if you’ll forgive me. I have to get back to my men. We have a job to do.”

  “Wait a minute,” Philippa said in desperation. “If you teach them a lesson they won’t forget, then you can hardly kill them all, can you? I mean they’ll only be in a position not to forget if some of them are alive and able to remember. Don’t you agree?”

  “You have a point,” agreed Pizarro. “Then we will certainly leave some alive.”

  “At least the women and children,” said Philippa.

  Pizarro looked shocked. “Señorita,” he said. “We are not barbarians.”

  Philippa turned away. “That’s not what I’ve heard,” she muttered.