by P. B. Kerr
John told him. But because he had no memory of his head having been inside the lupuna tree he left that part out, which made his achievement seem all the more impressive to Nimrod.
“Remarkable,” said Nimrod.
“I noticed something else,” said John. “When I was untying the rope.”
“Oh?”
“There is a series of colored dots on the rope’s inside,” said John. “Interestingly, they correspond with the series of colored knots that appear on the khipu given to me by el Tunchi.”
“That is interesting,” agreed Nimrod.
“I’m pretty sure that the position and number of these dots mean something important,” he said. “I’m not sure what yet. Only that it will come to me. In time.”
Nimrod was pleased with his nephew. “You’ve already done more than I thought was possible,” he said. “Perhaps your experience with el Tunchi has sharpened your wits.”
“No,” said John. “No, it wasn’t that. But I do feel more intelligent, sort of, since I had that nap.” He pointed at the doorway. “Look, they’re nearly through.”
Nimrod put his hand close to the door, ready to close it the second he was able to do so without hitting Philippa, who was the last to emerge from beyond the Eye of the Forest. A fierce-looking Inca king was close on their heels with a large war club in his raised hand, as if he was in the act of bringing it down on Groanin’s head. Momentarily, Nimrod glanced at John. “When were you asleep?” he asked.
“When you were thinking in your tent,” said John. “I sat down to read that book about khipus and must have dozed off. Books do have that effect on me, I’m afraid.”
Nimrod tutted loudly. Then he said, “Where were you sitting, exactly?”
“Over there.” John pointed at one of the huge lupuna trees.
“You mean you were resting against one of the trees?”
“S’right.”
“That explains it, then,” said Nimrod. “You must have learned something from the spirit of the lupuna.”
“You mean I didn’t come up with the solution to the knot all by myself?” John sounded a little disappointed.
“I’m afraid not,” said Nimrod. “But there’s no shame in that. After all, you do know what you know. And rest assured, I certainly won’t tell anyone your secret.” He glanced back at the doorway. “At last. I think we’re about ready to close the Eye.”
The very next second, he slammed the door in the face of the slowly advancing Inca king, and John suddenly understood what Nimrod had meant by closing the Eye. Nimrod picked up a piece of wood and used it as a temporary fastening on the bolt. “That should hold them for a little while,” he said.
As soon as the door was closed, Groanin, Sicky, and Muddy suddenly came to life, as if somewhere a switch had been thrown that brought them up to normal speed.
“Thank goodness,” bellowed Groanin. “That wasn’t a second too soon. I say, that wasn’t a second too soon.” He rubbed the back of his neck and shivered. “That maniac’s war club must have missed me by only a millimeter.”
“If my head wasn’t so small,” said Sicky, “he’d have combed my hair with it for sure.”
Groanin put a hand on his chest. “My heart,” he said. “It feels like I’ve got the whole Nelson Riddle Orchestra in my chest. And they’re playing ‘I Get a Kick Out of You.’”
Nimrod and John knelt down by Philippa.
“We had a bit of a collision, she and I,” Groanin explained. “It were an accident, so it were. Couldn’t be helped. But I’m right sorry, that I am. I wouldn’t have hurt the lass for all the world.”
“I know, Groanin,” Nimrod said kindly. “I know.”
“We have to get her to a hospital,” insisted Groanin.
John put his ear to Philippa’s chest. “She’ll be all right,” he said. “I can tell. She’s just a bit concussed.”
“What are you, a flipping doctor?” demanded Groanin.
“No, but I am her twin,” explained John. He tapped his head and then his heart. “I’d have known in here if she wasn’t all right.”
“Yes, of course,” said Groanin. “Stupid of me.”
John was right. A moment or two later, Philippa groaned and moved her head. And within just a few minutes she was sitting up and sharing explanations of what had happened since Nimrod and John had parted from her and the others.
“Zadie’s a traitor,” John told his friends. “That’s probably why she managed to persuade you to invite her along in the first place, Phil. All along she’s been in cahoots with Virgil McCreeby, trying to slow us down so that he could catch up with us and she could give him the map. She stole it from Mr. Vodyannoy’s pack.”
“That would explain why she went off with Pizarro and his men,” said Philippa. “She obviously intends to go and find McCreeby while the Spaniards are busy dealing with the Xuanaci Indians.” Then she gasped. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. We have to do something to help them. The Xuanaci. Pizarro and his men will massacre them for sure.”
But John was almost as offended by this idea as Zadie had been. “What? Are you kidding? They were going to feed you to the piranhas. And then eat the fish.”
“Philippa’s right, John,” said Nimrod. “It was an unequal struggle back in November 1532 when the Spaniards first turned up on the Incas’ doorstep. And it’s an especially unequal struggle now. After all, even the Xuanaci can hardly defeat an enemy that’s already dead.”
“I guess you have a point,” agreed John.
Philippa rubbed her head and stood up. She felt a little like she’d been hit by a truck. But nothing was broken. “So, what are we going to do?” she asked Nimrod.
“I think there’s only one thing we can do,” said Nimrod. “And that’s to give the Xuanaci a powerful ally.”
“Who?” asked Philippa.
Nimrod looked at Sicky. “Can you remember the way back to the Xuanaci camp?” he asked.
Sicky pointed at the Eye of the Forest. “You mean, down there? Through that door?”
“No, through the jungle.”
Sicky shrugged. “Sure, no problem,” he said. “My head might be small but there’s nothing wrong with my sense of direction. Or my memory, boss. Twice I’ve been a guest of the Xuanaci and twice I’ve gotten away with my life. I’m not exactly anxious to be visiting with them Xuanaci a third time.”
“Not visit, exactly,” said Nimrod. “All you have to do is lead some warriors near to the Xuanaci camp.” He laid a hand kindly on the jungle guide’s broad shoulder. “How do you feel about doing something like that, Sicky?”
“Sick,” said Sicky. “Pretty sick. But I’ll do it. Only, what warriors are you talking about, boss? There ain’t no warriors hereabouts who’re crazy enough to take on no headhunters like the Xuanaci.”
“Yes, there are,” said Nimrod, and looked at the door in the Eye of the Forest. “Who better than some dead Incan warrior kings to go and fight with some dead conquistadors? Who is harmed, if everyone is already dead?”
“Your logic is unanswerable,” said Philippa.
“I think maybe you is the crazy one, boss,” said Sicky.
“Sicky’s right, sir,” agreed Groanin. “We only just got away from those nutters. And you’re proposing to open that door and let them out. How do we know that they won’t bash our heads in first?”
“We can protect ourselves with djinn power, of course,” said Philippa.
“I’m afraid we can’t, no,” said Nimrod. “Not here. This is a holy place.” And he told Philippa what he had already told John: that under The Baghdad Rules, which govern the use of djinn power, it is strictly forbidden to use djinn power in a church, a mosque, a synagogue, or any holy place where worship had been conducted within the last thousand years.
“It doesn’t look much like a church,” observed Groanin. “At least not the ones I’ve been to.”
“Nevertheless it is, and that’s the rule,” said Nimrod.
“So what are you
proposing to do?” Groanin said acidly. “Persuade them with quiet diplomacy not to bash our heads in. Is that it?”
“Yes,” said Nimrod.
“The man’s mad.” Groanin looked at Philippa and shook his head. “I say, the man’s mad.”
Nimrod smiled. “Well, not just diplomacy,” he said. “Eh, John?”
“What’s that?”
“It was John who solved the secret of the Gordian-like knot that was used to bind the bolt on the door,” said Nimrod.
“Er, yes, it was,” John said a little uncomfortably.
“And it’s John who knows now how to speak diplomatically to these Inca kings, not me. It’s he who will know exactly what to say.”
“I do?”
“Yes. I think you do. I think when the moment comes, you’ll know exactly what has to be said.”
“I will?”
Groanin rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t sound like it,” he remarked caustically. “The lad doesn’t sound like he even knows what day it is.”
Nimrod was already walking back to the door in the Eye of the Forest.
“Hang on a minute,” said John. “You’re not going to open it again right this minute, are you?”
“That’s the general idea,” said Nimrod.
“But, look, I’m not ready yet. Really I’m not.”
“Listen to him, will you, sir?” said Groanin. “Don’t bully the lad so. If he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. For Pete’s sake, you always think you know better than anyone else.”
“Think about it, John,” said Nimrod, ignoring his butler. “You just knew how to solve the problem of the knot, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll just know what to say to the Inca kings in the same way,” insisted Nimrod.
“But suppose I don’t understand,” said John, “what it is I’m supposed to say. What if it makes no sense?”
“Then I suggest you say it anyway,” said Nimrod, and removing the piece of wood from the bolt fastening, he opened the door once again.
CHAPTER 18
SPEAKING IN TONGUES
With the door in the Eye of the Forest now wide open, the heavily armed, mummified Inca kings — like Philippa and the other humans before them — slowly started trooping out into the Peruvian jungle clearing. Given their speed, or more accurately, their lack of speed, it seemed, after all, that John would have a few more minutes to remember what he was supposed to remember. Not that he could have ever really remembered what he had never learned in the first place. What was happening inside his mind had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with the lupuna tree, as Nimrod had wisely guessed. But none of this made it any easier for John to know what he was supposed to say that would persuade the kings not to attack them.
Instinctively, John glanced at the khipu from el Tunchi and the hair rope with which the knot in the door had been tied. The colored marks on both these strange artifacts were starting to mean something. Something important, yes. But what? Some words began to crowd into his mind. Only none of them made any sense to him. It was gibberish, he thought. Could he really speak something without understanding any of it?
It was a word of power, like SESAME in Arabian Nights, or an incantation such as ABRACADABRA in the Hebrew kabbalah. A word of power, he was sure of that much. Like a focus word it was a long word, too, only it was much longer than any focus word ever spoken by a djinn. How could he ever hope to pronounce such a long word? It was a much longer word than the longest two words he had ever read — but never pronounced — which were, of course, “FLOCCINAUCINHILIPILIFICATION” and “HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS.”
“Hurry up, lad,” said Groanin as one of the mummified Inca kings turned slowly to face him. To the butler’s horror, he realized it was the same king whose mummified body he’d kicked out of the way when he had picked up Philippa’s unconscious body. Groanin felt certain the king would hit him as soon as he was able. Moving rapidly away, he added, “They’re speeding up. They’ll be hopping around like us in a minute.”
“Shhh, Groanin,” said Philippa, and took her twin brother’s hand, telepathically offering him her own djinn and intellectual power to help enhance John’s strength of mind.
“Let me help you, brother. Use my brain as well as your own to help you concentrate. Take my mind and make it yours.”
And then …
“It’s not one word, I don’t think, but many words together. Quechua words. That’s the ancient language of the Incas. And it’s the order of the words that is important. Like a cipher or a code. The order of the words. Speak them as they appear on the khipu. As if these were a series of code words you were telephoning to the CIA. That’s all you have to do. It’s as simple as that.”
“Flipping heck,” said Groanin, and ducked as an Incan war club swung quickly through the air. “They’re up to speed. Say something quick, John lad, or my head is going to look like a bowl of gazpacho soup.”
Suddenly, John felt the words in his mouth and blurted them out in a language that he had never heard before. It was a most peculiar sensation. He spoke fluently but — to himself at least — quite unintelligibly.
“Yana chunka,” said John. “Yuraj pusaj. Puka tawa.”
Immediately all of the mummified Incan kings turned to face and then advance upon the one who had spoken.
“It’s working,” said Groanin. “I’ve no idea what he’s saying but it’s working, by Jove.”
“Sounds a bit like Quechua to me,” said Sicky.
“What’s he saying?” asked Muddy.
“Glossolalia,” said Nimrod.
“Glosso what? I say, glosso what?”
“Willapi qanchis,” said John, continuing. “Kellu kinsa. Komer phisqa. Sutijankas iskay. Kulli sojta. Chixchi jison. Chunpi uj.”
All of the mummified kings stopped what they were doing and stood still.
“It means ‘speaking in tongues,’” said Nimrod. “I’ve heard of it being done, but never seen it before.”
“Does it matter?” said Groanin. “It’s had the desired result, hasn’t it? The main thing is they no longer seem intent on bashing our heads in.”
Surrounded by the Inca kings, who now seemed to be awaiting his next command, John said, “I think it means black ten, white eight, red four, yellow seven, lemon three, green five, blue two, violet six, gray nine, and brown one. The colors are also the names of birds of the same colors.”
“Excellent,” said Nimrod. “A color and numeric code. What could be simpler?”
“What shall I tell them?” asked John. “I don’t know any more words of Quechua.”
“Tell them in English,” said Nimrod. “I’m sure they’ll understand. All languages sound much the same after you’re dead. Besides, when they’re abroad and speaking to a foreigner, most English people — Groanin for example — just speak English as if they were speaking to a dead person. Which is to say slowly and loudly. And that often works.”
“That’s a bit unfair,” grumbled Groanin.
“All right,” said John. “I’ll give it a try.” He cleared his throat and, reasoning that he was about to address several Inca kings, attempted to sound commanding. “Listen to me. We are your friends, not your enemies. Your true enemies are Pizarro and the conquistadors who, even now, are planning to fight your young brothers, the Xuanaci.”
John looked at Nimrod, who nodded his approval.
“Good, John, this is good.”
“You must help the Xuanaci to fight and defeat the Spanish conquistadors. Now then, this man.” John pointed at Sicky and, almost to his surprise, the Inca kings also looked at him.
“This man. Sicky. He will show you where the Xuanaci village is to be found. And where you can fight the ancient enemies of the Incas. Now go. And do not fail.”
“Well done, John,” said Nimrod. “As stirring war speeches go, it wasn’t exactly Winston Churchill and ‘we shall fight them on the beaches,’ but still, not bad at all.” He looked at
Sicky. “All right, Sicky?”
Sicky smiled thinly.
“I never had to guide ancient mummies through the jungle before,” he said uncomfortably.
“Just think of them as a bunch of stupid English football hooligans,” said Nimrod. “Should be easy enough. They’re armed. None of them is wearing much in the way of clothes. And they’re covered with tattoos.”
“All right, I’ll give it a try.”
“We’ll make camp here,” said Nimrod. “And wait for you to come back.”
“Okay, Your Majesties,” said Sicky. “This way.”
And then he and the mummified Inca kings set off into the jungle. Sicky thought it was about the strangest tour group the jungle had ever seen.
“What now?” asked Philippa.
“I’ll tell you what now,” said Groanin. “I’m going to put the kettle on and make us a brew. If I don’t get a cup of tea soon, I’m going to perish of thirst.”
“An excellent idea, Groanin,” agreed Nimrod. “I could use a cup of tea myself. And while you’re busy doing that, John, Philippa, and I will see if we can’t find room to plant some more lupuna trees in the ground around here.”
Groanin muttered darkly and then, with Muddy’s help, he set to work building a fire.
“Talking about the ground around here,” said Philippa, and handed Nimrod the piece of yellow rock she had in her pocket. “A lot of it seems to be made of this. I took this sample when we were underground.”
Nimrod weighed the rock in the palm of his hand.
“Heavy, isn’t it?” remarked Philippa.
“It seems to be uranium,” said Nimrod.
Both twins took a step back from Nimrod.
“Isn’t uranium radioactive?” said John.
“Yes,” said Nimrod. “But this is quite safe. The alpha radioactive particles released by raw uranium don’t absorb through the skin. Microscopic amounts can even be eaten, harmlessly. We all of us manage to consume about one microgram of uranium a day in nearly everything we eat and drink.”
“Speak for yourself,” muttered John.
“Interesting,” Nimrod said, and tossed it playfully to John, who caught it nervously and then put it in his backpack.