Eye of the Forest

by P. B. Kerr

  After a while, she became aware that she was out of breath and that the route along the bridge was getting more difficult. The bridge was going up. The air was getting colder, too. She turned around, nodded at Groanin, and saw that the stone anchor that marked the beginning of the bridge and the midget submarine next to it had disappeared into the mist. With only mist ahead of them, it was almost as if the bridge was suspended by nothing. This she found more than a little disconcerting.

  “Keep up, Groanin,” she said. “I can hardly see you.”

  “Doing my best, miss,” he said, panting audibly. “I don’t know whether it’s exertion or fear that’s making me breathe so hard. I can’t say I like this place very much. If it is a place. Being neither here nor there, it’s like being in limbo.”

  “That’s a happy thought,” said Philippa, and winced as she felt the vibration of something heavy strike one of the rope bridge’s handrails. And then again.

  “Everyone take a tight grip of a handrail,” shouted Nimrod.

  “Why? What’s happening?” yelled Philippa.

  “I could be wrong,” said Nimrod, “but it feels as if someone — probably McCreeby — is trying to cut the bridge, with a machete.”

  “Did you have to say that?” moaned Groanin. “I say, did you have to tell me? I’m a much happier man when I’m an ignorant one.”

  As all four of them took a firm grip of the handrail, they felt another powerful vibration of something striking it hard. And then, just as suddenly, the vibrations stopped. For a moment, everyone remained braced for a fall. But the bridge remained suspended in the air.

  “It’s stopped,” said John.

  “Thank goodness,” said Philippa.

  “Talk about white knuckles,” said John, inspecting his two fists, which were still clenched on to the handrail. “My heart feels like it’s in my mouth.”

  “Mine feels like it’s trying to climb out of my ear holes,” said Groanin. “If I do catch sight of my heart, I’m going to strangle the thing just to put it out of its misery.”

  “I wonder what it really was,” said Nimrod. “That vibration.”

  “Please don’t,” pleaded Groanin. “I don’t think I could bear it. If you say McCreeby’s gone to fetch a sharper machete, I think I shall just jump and have done with it.”

  “It’s a thought, you know,” said Nimrod. “When human hair is bound and braided like this, it’s extremely strong. You’d probably need a very sharp machete to cut through it.”

  “Oh, well, that’s all right then,” said Groanin.

  Experimentally, Nimrod bounced the blunt edge of his own machete on the handrail.

  “What the heck do you think you are doing, you blithering idiot, sir?” demanded Groanin.

  “The tensile strength of this hair is indeed remarkable,” said Nimrod. “Maybe as strong as steel cable.”

  “I wish the same could be said of my nerves,” said Groanin, mopping his brow again. “They feel like they’ve been put through a shredding machine.”

  “Relax, Groanin,” said John. “The bridge is still aloft. And we’re still here.”

  “I wish I wasn’t, young Master John. I really do wish I wasn’t here at all.”

  “No wishing in here,” Nimrod said sternly. “I thought I made that clear.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It’s just that I didn’t think that applied to me, sir. For obvious reasons.”

  They walked along the bridge for another two hours before they began to see an end in sight. And near the stone anchor at the far side was a vaguely human figure. At first it looked like something vaguely monstrous and hairy, like a human-sized fly. It was only when they neared the thing that they realized it was a human being enveloped in millions of strands of the same hair from which the bridge was constructed. Nimrod put his ear to what appeared to be the head and listened carefully. But it was Philippa who first recognized who it was.

  “It’s Zadie,” she said. “Look at the boots.”

  Sure enough, the hair-wrapped being was wearing Zadie’s distinctive purple boots.

  “And there’s something sticking out of the mouth,” said John.

  “Her toothbrush,” said Philippa.

  “It is Zadie,” said Groanin. “At last, someone or something managed to stop her from dancing. She looks like a caterpillar before it becomes an insect. You know. A thingy.”

  “A pupa,” said Philippa.

  “Aye, a pupa,” said Groanin.

  “Talk about a bad hair day,” said John.

  Groanin chuckled. “That’s good. Very good.”

  “Is she dead?” asked John.

  “No,” said Nimrod. “Not dead. I can just about detect some signs of life. But she’s been completely immobilized, obviously. And I’ve an idea why. Look at this.” He ran his hand down from the head to what were only just recognizable as a shoulder, an arm, and then a hand. In the hand was the vague shape of something metallic.

  “A machete,” said John.

  “Exactly,” said Nimrod. “It would seem that this bridge is designed to protect itself against destruction. From the look of her I’d say that when she started to cut the handrail, the hair fibers she’d severed managed to reconnect themselves. And along the way, made her a part of the bridge.”

  “How are we going to get her out?” asked Philippa.

  “How?” Groanin sounded outraged. “Why on earth should we bother? She was cutting the bridge. Need I remind you that we were standing on it at the time?”

  “Zadie didn’t know that,” said Philippa.

  “She didn’t know we weren’t, either,” said John. “I agree with Groanin. She wouldn’t bother trying to get you out.”

  “We can’t just leave her here,” said Philippa.

  Nimrod smiled and handed her his machete. “Would you care to try and cut her out?”

  “Er, no,” admitted Philippa.

  “A wise choice, Philippa,” said Nimrod. “I fear you’d only end up like her. Wrapped up like — what was it again, Groanin? A pupa. Except that this is one butterfly that’s not going to fly anywhere.”

  Groanin pushed his way off the bridge to stand on the rocky outcrop on which the stone anchor had been built. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll only feel more comfortable discussing this on terra firma.”

  “Me, too,” said John, joining him.

  Nimrod shrugged and followed them. A set of steps led steeply up the side of a mountain and around a corner.

  “Uncle Nimrod?” There was a note of strong protest in Philippa’s young voice.

  “What?” said Nimrod. “Look, there’s nothing to discuss. It’s entirely up to John what happens to her now.”

  “Me?” said John. “I don’t see why. I don’t even like her.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Groanin. “Look what she did to Mr. Vodyannoy. Tried to kill him with one of them frogs. Not to mention that giant centipede that nearly ate me for supper. I can be quite a forgiving man, it’s true. But I draw the line in front of anyone who’s set a giant Peruvian centipede on my trail. The image of that thing underneath my hammock will live with me forever.”

  “Which is about the length of time Zadie will be here, unless John releases her,” said Nimrod.

  John looked at the machete in his hand uncertainly. “I don’t see why I should be the one who has to risk going the same way as her. Mr. Groanin wasn’t the only one who nearly got eaten. You’re forgetting that giant anaconda.” He shook his head.

  “Need I remind you again that, whatever wrong she’s done, she has done because she was hypnotized by that scoundrel McCreeby?” asked Nimrod.

  “Exactly,” said Philippa.

  “I don’t care,” said John. “I’m not going to do it. She can stay there forever as far as I’m concerned. I’m not chopping this bridge. Not for her. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

  “Nobody said anything about chopping the bridge with a machete, John,” said Nimrod.

  “What then?” de
manded Groanin. “I wish you’d make yourself clear to the lad. We’re facing nuclear annihilation, after all. Blimey, I don’t half wish old Rakshasas was here. He certainly couldn’t make less sense than you, sir.”

  “No wishing, Groanin,” said Philippa. “Try to remember.”

  “Sorry, miss.”

  Nimrod touched the handrail opposite the one that had enveloped Zadie in a web of human hair. “Haven’t you noticed these colored spots? They’re in the same order as the ones near the other side of the bridge.”

  “So?” asked John. “What about them?”

  “Well, it’s just a thought,” said Nimrod, “but it strikes me that if you were to pronounce those Quechuan words again in the same order that you learned them when you untied the knot on the Eye of the Forest, you might very well facilitate the release of Zadie.” John thought for a moment.

  “What if I can’t remember them?” said John.

  “Then I suppose poor Zadie will be hair for the rest of her life,” said Nimrod.

  Groanin chuckled. “That’s good, too,” he said.

  “I don’t think it’s funny,” said Philippa.

  But John and Groanin were laughing.

  “John,” said Philippa. “This is me talking. I know you’re lying. I know you can remember the words. And you know I know.”

  “Yes,” sighed John. “All right. I’ll do it. But she’d better be grateful. Not to mention a lot easier to get along with than she was before.”

  “Amen to that,” said Groanin.

  “If she gets out of line, I’ll zap her myself,” said Philippa.

  Nimrod winced. “I do so hate that expression. Zap. It makes you sound like a pest controller.”

  “Zadie is a pest,” said Groanin. “And she does need to be controlled.”

  John frowned as he tried to remember the words. “Yana chunka,” he said. “Yuraj pusaj. Puka tawa. Willapi qanchis. What was it now? Kellu kinsa. Komer phisqa. Sutijankas iskay. Kulli sojta. Chixchi jison. Wait a minute.” He tapped his forehead impatiently. “Yes, I’ve got it. Chunpi uj.”

  Immediately when John had uttered the last Quechuan syllable, the hair binding Zadie to the bridge started to unravel. It was like watching a time lapse film of a plant growing, only in reverse. Several minutes passed before Zadie was able to speak. And when she was finally free she spent several more minutes weeping and apologizing for all her bad deeds.

  “I couldn’t even speak my focus word,” she said through gulps of tearful air. “As soon as I had cut some of the hair, it bound my jaws tight together. If I hadn’t had my toothbrush in my mouth, the bridge would have smothered me.”

  Zadie was still holding the machete and the realization that she might have been killed was enough provocation for her to take another swing at the handrail of the bridge, cutting more of the hairs so that once again she was quickly enveloped in another massive beehive of human hair.

  Groanin groaned loudly. “Flipping heck,” he complained. “Is the girl daft or what? I mean, you’d think she’d have learned her lesson, wouldn’t you?”

  “Actually,” said Nimrod. “It’s my fault. I completely forgot to bring her out of the hypnotic state that McCreeby put her in.”

  Once again, John was obliged to repeat the Incan words of command. Only this time, Nimrod relieved Zadie of the machete as soon as she had been released by the hair.

  “I think I’ll take that,” said Nimrod. “Just in case.”

  And his voice had altered. To the others he sounded exactly like Virgil McCreeby. It was the first time they realized that among his many other talents, Nimrod was also a brilliant mimic.

  “Listen to me, Zadie,” he said. “Listen to my voice. And only my voice. Forget everything else. Only my voice matters. When I snap my fingers, you will no longer be hypnotized. You will come out of the trance I put you in and behave quite normally. You will remember everything. But you will behave quite normally.”

  Nimrod snapped his fingers in front of Zadie’s eyes.

  She blinked and looked around with a look of bewilderment. “Oh,” she said, and bit her lip as a tear welled up in her eye. “Oh.”

  Nimrod put an arm around Zadie’s shoulders to comfort her. For a moment, Zadie could not speak. Then she said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the terrible things I’ve done. I owe all of you an apology. I don’t have an excuse, only an explanation. I did all that I did because I thought I was in love with Buck. But I realize now I wasn’t in love with him at all. Dybbuk and Virgil McCreeby were using me. I know that now.”

  “It’s all right,” said Philippa, taking Zadie’s hand and squeezing it affectionately. “You were hypnotized. You couldn’t help yourself.”

  “Yes,” said Zadie, realizing this for the first time. “I was, wasn’t I?” Then she shuddered. “When the bridge wrapped me up with hair, Dybbuk didn’t even stop to try and rescue me. He said he’d come back and rescue me when his power was restored. But I just knew he was lying. And that he would never come back for me. Just as he didn’t try to find me when the Xuanaci were holding us prisoner.”

  “I’m afraid we’ve no time for explanations now,” said Nimrod. “But one thing I must tell you, Zadie, and it’s extremely important. On no account must you use your djinn power while we’re on this side of the Eye of the Forest. There’s an Enantodromian wish at work here. That’s a wish that —”

  “I know what an Enantodromian wish is,” said Zadie. “Whatever you wish for with djinn power you get the exact opposite.” She nodded. “It would certainly explain the midget submarine. I can’t tell you how mad they were when that happened. McCreeby bashed his head and is making no sense at all. I think he has a concussion. And Buck called me the most useless djinn he’d ever met and said I was of no use to him if I couldn’t fly them across a chasm. I tried to explain about the whirlwind situation, and how nobody can make one right now, but he simply didn’t believe me. After that, I think he was just looking for an excuse to leave me behind. Sometimes —” She shook her head, exasperated. “You know, sometimes it seems like there are two Bucks. Good Buck and Bad Buck.”

  “You say more than you know,” said Nimrod. “Come on. We’d better move.”

  CHAPTER 25

  SLIPPED DISK

  In the beginning, when first they had met and Dybbuk had been feeling quite sorry for himself about losing all his djinn power, he had quite liked Zadie — enough to allow himself to believe that he was as fond of her as she appeared to be of him. But that had been before he guessed that Virgil McCreeby had hypnotized her into believing she was in love with Dybbuk, as a way of making her obey him. Dybbuk was satisfied he himself had not been hypnotized. But at the same time, he half wondered if McCreeby hadn’t been using Zadie as a way of controlling him, too, by way of ensuring that it was McCreeby who remained in charge of things and not Dybbuk.

  Since this discovery, Zadie had become something of a nuisance to Dybbuk. Clingy and overattentive, she was always looking at him, smiling in a cloying, saccharine-sweet sort of way, reciting the love poetry of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, humming happily, and trying to stroke his hair or move it back from his brow so that she could look him tenderly in the eye. Dybbuk loathed people trying to touch his hair. Especially when they were humming or reciting poetry. Even if they had been hypnotized into behaving in that way.

  And then, of course, there was the tap dancing and the toothbrush that was forever in her mouth like a lollipop. Those things really drove Dybbuk mad. So, all in all, he was quite pleased when at last they were able to leave Zadie behind. Besides, they had little choice but to do so. It was clear that any attempt by himself or Virgil McCreeby to cut the hairs of the rope bridge that now held her fast would only have resulted in their getting tied up like Zadie. He felt sorry for her, sure. It was a tough break, her ending up looking like a set of New Jersey hair extensions, but what was he to do? It wasn’t like he had any djinn power to help her.

  Dybbuk leaned as close as he dared to Za
die’s nearly mummified head and told her that after his power had been restored he would come back and try to help her out. At the same time, however, somewhere inside himself he knew the truth was different and that in all likelihood he probably wouldn’t bother. As soon as he had his power again, he was planning to make a whirlwind and fly off to the Bahamas for a few weeks. On his own.

  Virgil McCreeby ought to have been more upset about leaving Zadie behind than he was, reflected Dybbuk. After all, he stood to lose the three wishes she had promised him for helping them. Then again, he was hardly himself since the blow on the head he had received when the plane/submarine Zadie had made for their journey across the chasm crash-landed. McCreeby had hit his head hard on the periscope, and Dybbuk had been obliged to drag him out. Ever since then, McCreeby had been repeating himself and looked puzzled whenever Dybbuk told him something. Dybbuk guessed he had a concussion. He himself was still puzzled how a small plane ended up turning into a midget submarine. Was it just Zadie’s incompetence as a djinn, or something else? Some other manifestation of djinn power interfering with hers, perhaps? Nimrod’s, or the twins’. Or even Manco Capac’s.

  So, leaving the bridge and Zadie behind, Dybbuk and McCreeby proceeded up a winding yellow stone path above the chasm. It was a bracing walk and the clear mountain air tasted pure and sweet. Even McCreeby seemed invigorated. He kept inhaling noisily through his nostrils like a personal trainer trying to enthuse a client. And, after an hour or two, McCreeby had sufficiently recovered his senses to notice Zadie was no longer with them. But when he asked where she was, Dybbuk felt obliged to provide him with an answer that would not delay their steady progress up the mountain for long. Indeed, he felt quite justified in filling McCreeby’s head with what he wanted him to believe because that was, he strongly suspected, what McCreeby had been doing to him with Zadie.