by P. B. Kerr
From his own backpack, next to the lamp containing Frank Vodyannoy’s transubstantiated djinn body, Nimrod produced a small plastic bag. It was full of tiny trees.
“These are bonsai lupuna trees,” he told the twins as they walked into a jungle clearing nearby. “Miniaturized using djinn power. And genetically modified by Faustina herself so that they can grow more quickly. I’ve been planting them ever since we arrived in the upper Amazon. The idea is that they start growing immediately at about ten times the normal speed so that in just twenty years you have a tree that’s as big as one that’s two hundred years old. It goes without saying that the whole rain forest is important to planet Earth. But there are no trees that put out as much oxygen as the lupunas. To say nothing of the spirits that live within them. It’s the lupunas that are the most important ones, especially for us.”
“So why do the loggers cut them down?” asked Philippa. “If they’re so important.”
“Not all loggers do,” said Nimrod. “As I told John, some loggers are afraid of them. But most of the loggers have to do what they’re told by the logging companies or they’ll lose their jobs. And for the companies these lupuna trees are one of the most important saw-logs in Peru. The timber is used for furniture, plywood, and pulp. Even the fiber surrounding the seed gets used as filling for pillows.”
“But why do spirits go and hide in these trees and not others?” asked John.
“Spirits like anything that’s been in existence for a long time,” said Nimrod. “In developed countries that usually means old houses and castles. But here in the jungle, the lupuna trees are the oldest things around.” Nimrod looked around the clearing and nodded. “This looks like a good spot to plant some trees.” He handed each of the twins a pointed wooden tool.
“What is it?” asked Philippa, looking at the simple implement.
“A hole dibber. You make the holes and I’ll put the little trees in them.”
It was hard work but after about an hour they had planted the clearing with as many as a hundred new lupuna trees.
“Now all we have to do is protect them from being cut down when they become mature trees,” said Nimrod. “John? Philippa? Any ideas on how to do that?”
“How about one of those giant centipedes?” suggested Philippa. “I can’t see anyone arguing with one of those horrible things.”
“True, but not very subtle. I was thinking of something a little less lethal. After all, these are decent men who are only trying to make a living.”
“I don’t see what’s so decent about it,” said Philippa. “Everyone knows it’s important to preserve the trees in the rain forest.”
“And what about Christmas trees? Did you have one of those last year?”
“Er, yes,” said Philippa. “But those are different, aren’t they? I mean, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a nice tree.”
“Rank hypocrisy,” Nimrod snorted. “You want some poor Peruvian loggers to desist from making their living by cutting down trees in the rain forest. But you don’t want to give up your own Christmas tree.”
Philippa pursed her lips and nodded thoughtfully. She had to admit he had a point.
“But let’s get back to the problem at hand,” said Nimrod. “How are we going to protect these new trees?”
“Why not make them invisible?” said John. “After all, you can hardly cut down what you can’t see, now can you? I can’t think of anything more subtle than that.”
“No, nor can I,” said Nimrod. “Good thinking, John. Actually, I’ve been doing the same thing myself with the trees I already planted. I just wanted to see if your ideas coincided with my own in this matter. Do you know any good invisibility bindings?”
“No,” said John. “I’m not very good with those. Whenever I try to make something invisible, it disintegrates.”
“Me, too,” confessed Philippa.
“Then it’s fortunate I know a good one,” said Nimrod, and, muttering his focus word, the small tree plantation disappeared. When they got back to camp, they found tea waiting for them, which Nimrod decided to complement with cucumber sandwiches and a large chocolate cake, and scones with lots of cream and jam.
“Beats me why you didn’t make the tea as well,” complained Groanin. “I say, it beats me why you didn’t make the tea as well, sir.”
“Because, my dear Groanin, it is an established fact that tea always tastes better when someone else makes it. And what’s more, when someone makes it properly, as only an English butler can. In a teapot, with boiling water. And then serves it with milk. Never with lemon. You have many good qualities, Groanin, and you have many faults, as well. But no one makes tea quite like you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I don’t know about the tea,” said John, “but this cake is fantastic.”
“Cucumber sarnies aren’t bad, either,” agreed Groanin.
“After all that we have been through,” said Nimrod, “I thought we could do with a treat. There’s nothing boosts morale quite as well as an English high tea.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Nimrod,” said a polite English voice. “Milk and two sugars for me, Groanin. Oh, and I say, doesn’t that chocolate cake look nice? It is fresh cream, isn’t it? Silly me. Of course it is. You wouldn’t have any other kind of cake, would you, Nimrod? Not a man of your taste and sophistication. But I wonder if that cake tastes as good as my wife’s famous lemon drizzle cake.”
Everyone looked around to see a man walking toward them, grinning affably and waving Faustina’s map. He wore a safari jacket, puttees, and a solar topi, which is a kind of hat. On his chin was a beard that looked like a shoe brush, and he had a smooth, well-spoken voice that always reminded John of an actor in a play by William Shakespeare. And but for the gun in his hand, the man might even have seemed quite friendly.
“I was wondering when you’d show up,” said Nimrod.
Of course, it was Virgil McCreeby and he was accompanied by Zadie Eloko and a tall, moody-looking boy of about thirteen who wore a rock band T-shirt, jeans, a leather jacket, and a pair of motorcycle boots that looked like they’d been around the Daytona International Speedway by themselves.
“Dybbuk,” exclaimed Philippa. “Dybbuk, what are you doing here?”
Dybbuk made a noise like a bassoon and rolled his eyes up to the top of his long-haired head. “Buck,” he said. “Just Buck, okay?”
CHAPTER 19
THE HOSTAGE
Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t turn you into an ulcerous toad, McCreeby,” said Nimrod.
“Because he already is an ulcerous toad?” offered John.
“I say, that’s not very hospitable, Nimrod,” said McCreeby. He swallowed a mouthful of Nimrod’s cake and washed it down with some hot sweet tea. “Considering that I’m a fellow Englishman out here in the Amazon jungle and all that rot. But since you ask, I’ll give you a number of jolly good reasons why you ought to restrain yourself. And this goes for all of you.” He pointed first at the twins and then at Groanin and Muddy before stuffing some more chocolate cake into his mouth. Clearly he was enjoying it. He even managed to smear some of the chocolate icing on the handle of the gun he was still carrying.
“I’m listening,” said Nimrod. “You were about to list the reasons why I should restrain myself from turning you into a toad. And I suggest you do it very quickly.”
“Well then, let’s see.” McCreeby licked chocolate off his fingers’ ends as he started counting off the reasons. “One is that this is a holy place and I know that out of a stupid sort of respect for other belief systems, you people won’t use djinn power in a holy place.” McCreeby glanced up at the cathedral of lupuna trees. “What do they call this kind of thing? An abadía de árboles, isn’t it? So. As long as we’re here, I figure I’m perfectly safe. Especially with this gun in my hand. Which is, of course, another reason why you should restrain yourselves. And I will use the gun if I have to, so I advise you all not to try anything. That’s two reas
ons.” He slurped some tea noisily.
“But you djinn do like things in threes, don’t you? Such as wishes. Oh, yes. So I’ll give you a third reason. And perhaps you’ll think, as I do, that it’s the most important reason of all. You see, I have a hostage. My followers — druids, they call themselves, although to be honest, the little cult I have going in England these days has nothing at all to do with true pagan druidry — are holding John and Philippa’s father, Mr. Gaunt, at a secret location. Which is to say, he’s been kidnapped. But don’t worry. He’ll remain quite unharmed as long as you keep out of my way.”
“I don’t believe you,” said John.
“No? Well, naturally I didn’t expect you just to take my word for it, boy. I’ve brought some proof, of course. And you can thank your lucky stars that I’m a civilized sort of man and that I’m not about to hand over your father’s ear or little finger.”
Virgil McCreeby nodded at Dybbuk, who dropped his backpack on the ground and silently began to search inside for something. Apart from insisting that people should call him Buck, Dybbuk still hadn’t spoken. The sense of shame he was feeling in front of his former friends had, so far, prevented it.
“Mr. Gaunt was kidnapped,” explained McCreeby, “on his way to work one morning in Manhattan while you were all in New Haven.”
“Mr. Senna would never have allowed anyone to kidnap my father,” insisted John. “He’s Dad’s bodyguard as well as his driver. And he’s pretty good at it. He’s ex–Special Forces.”
“Oh, is he?” McCreeby made a face. “Well, Special Forces or not, your Mr. Senna has a stomach like anyone else. Which means it can be upset. Especially when my people managed to give him something nasty to put inside it. Such as a potion of my own devising that makes it impossible to leave the bathroom for three whole days. I mean, that’s what I really call ‘Special Forces.’” McCreeby chuckled unpleasantly. “As a result, on the particular morning in question, he just wasn’t there to drive your dad to work. One of my followers was. Mr. Haddo. Anyway, your dear old dad didn’t even notice that old Sennapod wasn’t in the driving seat. Until it was too late. Show him, Buck.”
Dybbuk took a small laptop out of his backpack. He folded open the computer, attached it to a satellite phone, switched it on, logged on to a popular Web site featuring lots of videos, and then turned it toward John.
John tried to meet the eye of his old friend but Dybbuk avoided it.
“And here I was thinking it was Finlay who was helping McCreeby,” said John, “when it was you all along. I might have known. Why are you doing this, Buck? I thought we were friends.”
But Dybbuk did not answer. This — the moment when he faced John and Philippa — was the moment he had most dreaded. Now that he was here with his former friends, enduring their sense of disappointment in him, he felt even worse than he had expected to feel. After all the adventures they had come through together, he knew exactly what they must be thinking about him. Dybbuk winced as if someone had burned him with a hot iron when Groanin said loudly, “I never liked that lad. I always thought he were trouble. I say, I always thought he were trouble.”
Meanwhile, Groanin, Nimrod, Philippa, and Muddy had grouped around the laptop and were waiting to view what had been recorded.
In the video, Mr. Gaunt was seated on a chair inside a cage. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit and holding up a copy of the New York Daily Post with manacled hands. The video zoomed in on the front page and then the date of the newspaper so that the fact of his imprisonment might easily be proved to anyone’s satisfaction. He looked a little tired and unshaven but otherwise seemed quite unharmed.
“Hi, kids,” said Mr. Gaunt. “Hi, Nimrod. I guess you know by now that I’ve been kidnapped and that I’m being held hostage by three English hippie weirdos. I have no idea who they are or what they want, but they’re treating me well enough. I’m getting plenty to eat and to read and I’m watching a lot of TV. I’ve been told to tell you that if you do exactly what they say, they’ll let me go unharmed. But that if you don’t cooperate, then things might get a bit rough for me. Their words, not mine. That’s pretty much all that I’m going to be allowed to say, except that John? Philippa? I miss you both and love you very much and hope to see you again soon. And not to worry about me. We’ve come through bad times before and we’ll do so again.”
When the video ended abruptly, they watched it once more.
“Most heartwarming,” said McCreeby.
“Is it for real?” John asked Nimrod.
“Of course, it’s for real,” McCreeby said irritably. “Whatever makes you think otherwise?”
“You faked the photograph in the newspaper,” said John. “The one of the exploration party supposedly discovering the Eye of the Forest.”
“Yes I did,” admitted McCreeby. “Rather a good fake, though, don’t you think? Amazing what you can do on a computer these days.”
“So, maybe you faked the video, too,” suggested John.
“If I did, then I’d have nothing to bargain with,” said McCreeby. “Which is hardly likely. I’d be taking a terrible risk, wouldn’t I? Risking the wrath of three powerful djinn? Four if we include your mother. It was a lucky break her not being on the scene right now, wasn’t it?” McCreeby shook his head. “No, I’m not brave enough to fake it, lad. Or sufficiently foolhardy. Besides, now that you’ve guided me here to the real Eye of the Forest, it’s not like I’m asking anything from you people except to stay out of my way. If you do that, then your father will be returned to you unharmed. You have the word of Virgil McCreeby.”
“Whatever that’s worth,” Nimrod laughed. “What exactly are you after, McCreeby?”
“I should have thought it was obvious. I intend to find the lost city of Paititi.”
“Now I’m beginning to understand,” said Nimrod. “There’s something in this for both of you. You’re planning to carry out the kutumunkichu ritual, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never heard of it,” McCreeby said innocently. “You’re mistaken. Kutumunkichu? What’s that?”
“Using the kutumunkichu ritual, you, McCreeby, hope to gain the power of turning base metal into gold.” He looked squarely at Dybbuk. “While you, Buck, you think you can restore your power. Like Manco Capac himself. Isn’t that right?”
“Why not? The kutumunkichu ritual worked for him,” said Buck. “Why not me?”
McCreeby winced. “It might have been better not to have mentioned that,” he told Dybbuk.
But Dybbuk ignored him. “It will work for me,” he told Nimrod. “It has to work.”
Philippa almost felt sorry for him.
“Is that what you’ve told him, McCreeby?” asked Nimrod.
“I haven’t told him anything.” McCreeby sounded indignant. “Buck read the ancient Incan texts for himself. In the library back at my castle in England. You remember my library, Nimrod, don’t you?”
“What ancient text might that be?” Nimrod asked. “After all, the Incas wrote nothing down.”
“The Incan priest Ti Cosi, nephew of King Titu Cusi, who was himself nephew of Atahualpa, described a number of Incan myths and legends to a Spanish chronicler in about 1550. Including the kutumunkichu ritual. I have the only extant copy of that chronicle. What I didn’t have was the map of how to get here. Thanks to you that’s no longer a problem. And before you suggest otherwise, it was Dybbuk who sought me out, looking for a solution to his problem. In return for my help, I’m getting not three wishes but six. That’s three from Zadie, and three from Buck. At least he will give me three wishes as soon as he gets his djinn power back. The only reason I’m not insisting that any of you give me three wishes, as well, is because even with your father under my control, I still don’t trust you not to do something unpleasant to me.”
At this mention of her father, Philippa wiped a tear from her eye.
“Ah, yes,” said McCreeby. “That reminds me. The tears of the sun that were in Zadie’s backpack? We need them for the ritual
. So please, hand them over.”
When no one moved, McCreeby added, “I only have to use the satellite phone to tell Mr. Haddo that you’re being obstructive. And he’ll just post another video of your father for you to watch that won’t be as easy on the eye as the first one. Come on. Hand them over. Best save your father the heartache, eh? Oh, yes, and you’d best hand over your satellite phone, as well. Zadie told me you’ve got one.”
John went into his backpack and found the three gold disks that had been stolen from the Peabody Museum. To his surprise they were quite warm. Almost hot, even. He handed them to Dybbuk. And then the phone.
“Listen to me carefully, Buck,” said Nimrod. “It’s possible that this Incan ritual you’ve read about has something to do with the Pachacuti. The great earth shaking that presages the end of the world. It might very well be dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“You don’t really believe that prophecy, do you?” scoffed McCreeby. “If that kind of force had been available to the Incas, don’t you think they’d have used it against Pizarro and his conquistadors? Of course they would.”
“Manco Capac died,” Nimrod told Dybbuk, ignoring McCreeby. “Have you thought about that, boy?”
“Manco was old and sick already,” said Dybbuk. “Anyway, without djinn power, I might as well be dead. To live without djinn power is no life at all.”
“You’re still alive,” said John. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Easy for you to say, John,” said Dybbuk. “You still have your power. I don’t.”
“And whose fault is that?” said John.
“John is right. You were warned not to waste your power,” said Nimrod. “By everyone. Me. Your poor mother. Everyone. But you chose not to listen. You abused your gift by performing cheap magic tricks for the entertainment of mundanes.”
“That’s a little unfair, Nimrod,” said McCreeby. “They were hardly cheap tricks. Some of them were rather good, I thought.”
“On television.” Nimrod spoke the word as if it had been something disgraceful.