The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan

by P. B. Kerr

  CHAPTER 2

  GROANIN QUITS

  Vesuvius is the most densely populated volcanic region in the world. For the three million Italians who live near the volcano, the fact that smoke had started billowing from the crater would have seemed uncomfortable enough. But Vesuvius is not the only volcano in Italy, nor indeed the largest. Mount Etna in Sicily is more than twice as big as Vesuvius and, according to the television news, began a powerful eruption minutes after the earthquake had struck southern Italy. Stromboli, another of the three active volcanoes in Italy — this one on an island off the coast of Sicily — also began its first eruption since 2003.

  “Fascinating,” said Nimrod as they watched the television in his handsomely appointed hotel suite. “It’s highly unusual that all three volcanoes should become simultaneously active. It seems that we have arrived in Italy at a most interesting time.”

  “And I always thought Italy was a nice, quiet country,” said John.

  “Oh, but it is,” insisted Nimrod. “All the same, I’d better call my friend, Professor Sturloson in Reykjavik.”

  “Why would you want to do that, sir?” inquired Groanin.

  “Surely you remember, Professor Sturloson, Groanin?”

  “Naturally, I remember him, sir. He is a rather hard man to forget.”

  “Then don’t be a fool. He’ll want to know what’s happening here as soon as possible.”

  But when Nimrod telephoned the professor at his laboratory in Iceland he was told that Sturloson was out of the country and given a cell phone number to call. Nimrod dialed again and spoke to the professor’s assistant, Axel Heimskringla, who explained that he and Professor Sturloson were by a coincidence already in Italy and up on Vesuvius, and that the professor was unable to take Nimrod’s call because he was in the process of making a descent into the crater to take some rock samples.

  “Please inform the professor I’m on my way to help,” Nimrod told Axel Heimskringla. “And that I’ll be there within a couple of hours.”

  “Oh, Lord,” groaned Groanin and, sitting down at an antique desk, he began to write a letter.

  When Nimrod had finished speaking to Axel Heimskringla, Groanin stood up stiffly and waited politely for a moment to interrupt his master, who was packing a backpack and outlining his plans.

  “If we leave now,” he told the twins, “we can make the seven minutes past seven Circumvesuviana train from Sorrento to Pompei Scavi. Assuming it’s still running after the earthquake. From there we can take a taxi or the bus as far as the upper parking area and then walk to the summit. Assuming it’s not closed because of the ash plume. If it’s closed, we’ll have to hike up the whole mountain so you’d better wear stout shoes, take a walking stick if you have one, and bring lots of bottled water.”

  “You want to go up Vesuvius?” John’s tone was incredulous. “Just when it’s started to get active again. Are you crazy?”

  “A bit of smoke isn’t going to harm you, boy,” said Nimrod. “You should know that by now, being a good part smoke yourself.”

  “Suppose it erupts,” objected Philippa, “while we’re up there. What then? I’d rather not repeat the experience of my mother and end up like a flying potato chip.”

  “Yeah,” said John. “It’s not so easy to find another body. Besides, I’m kind of attached to the one I already have.”

  “I do have some experience of knowing when a volcano is going to erupt and when it’s not,” said Nimrod. “After the earthquake of A.D. 63, which seemed to have reawakened Vesuvius, it was another sixteen years before it erupted properly and destroyed Pompeii, in A.D. 79. Sixteen years. And Snorri Sturloson would hardly be making a descent into the crater if he thought it was about to explode. He may be mad, but he’s not that mad.”

  Silently, John looked at Philippa, who hardly looked convinced.

  “Light my lamp, don’t you children want to learn anything?” demanded Nimrod. “This is a fantastic opportunity to expand your knowledge.”

  “It’s not my knowledge expanding I care about,” said John. “It’s the side of the mountain.”

  “Nonsense,” said Nimrod. “You’ll be fine. Groanin, you’d better stop at the local supermarket to buy a lady’s nylon stocking, or perhaps a pair of micro-mesh tights. You may need to pull one over your head to help you breathe if the ash becomes troublesome. Given your previous career as a burglar you should be used to wearing that kind of headgear.”

  “It’s bank robbers what wears ladies’ nylon stockings over their heads,” Groanin said coolly. “Not burglars. And as a matter of fact, I wasn’t a burglar. I were only ever a thief. Not that it makes any difference. Do say hello for me to the professor, and to Axel, sir. But I’m afraid I have no intention of wearing a lady’s stocking over me head. Nor have I any intention of accompanying you and these children on this daft expedition of yours. Not now. Not ever.”

  He handed the letter to his master.

  “What’s this?” asked Nimrod.

  “Me resignation,” said Groanin. “I’m sorry, sir, but after our last adventure, so called, I swore I wouldn’t ever do anything of a hazardous nature again. I’ve had enough of creepy crawlies and giant millipedes and homicidal head-hunting Indians and all manner of inconveniences that I’ve had to endure in your service. John’s right. It’s crazy to go gallivanting up a flipping volcano just when it shows signs of turning nasty. If you want to end up as toast, that’s your affair, sir. But count me out.”

  “Honestly, there’s no danger of that, Groanin,” insisted Nimrod.

  “I wish I had ten pounds for every time you’ve said something like that.”

  As soon as Groanin uttered these words, a small leather briefcase appeared, as if by magic, out of rippling thin air on top of the desk where Groanin had written his letter of resignation.

  “Eh? What’s that?” Groanin opened the briefcase and discovered that it was full of ten-pound notes.

  “Sorry,” said John. “That was me. It was instinctive. Subliminal wish fulfillment. Couldn’t help it.”

  “Aye, well, this can count as severance pay,” said Groanin. “I’m obliged to you, lad.”

  “But, Groanin.” Nimrod looked and sounded bewildered. “What will you do? Where will you go?”

  “Back to England,” said the butler. “I’ll stay with me sister, Dolly, in Heaton Park until I can find a place of me own.”

  “I didn’t even know you had a sister, Groanin,” said Philippa.

  “We don’t get on, she and I. Never did. But blood’s blood and she’ll have me to stay for a while. I shall miss you and John, right enough. But I shan’t miss the foreign travel. Or the foreign grub. Or the hair-raising scrapes that we’ve been in. I’ve even started to dream that I was in a scrape. Last night I dreamt I was being chased by a flippin’ grizzly bear. I woke up out of breath as if it was actually happening.” He shook his head grimly. “I can’t take it anymore. I said, I can’t take it anymore.”

  “Look, old chap,” said Nimrod. “You don’t have to quit. You can stay here. Take it easy. Read the newspaper.”

  Groanin looked pained. “Thank you, sir, but no. Me mind’s made up. I’ve been thinking about leaving your service for a while and this has just made me think that it’s the right thing to do. You see, I know how these adventures start. You’ll go off to the volcano, leaving me here at the hotel, but something will happen that’ll be worse than if I’d come with you after all. Worse for me, that is. There’ll be another earthquake or something and the whole hotel will fall down the cliff face and I’ll look like a chump for not coming up Vesuvius.”

  “Please don’t leave,” said Philippa. “You’re like family.”

  “Sorry, miss. But one of these days I’m going to end up dead or seriously injured, possibly both. Unlike you, I don’t have nine lives, just the one.”

  “A djinn doesn’t have nine lives, Groanin,” objected John. “You’re thinking of a cat, surely.”

  “Maybe I am at that,” a
dmitted the butler. “Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go and get packed.”

  “Will you still be here when we return?” asked Philippa.

  “It all depends on how soon I can get on a flight from Naples to Manchester, miss. But perhaps, I don’t know.”

  Groanin wiped a tear from his eye and left Nimrod’s room.

  The three djinn were silent for a moment as they contemplated the departure of their faithful old friend.

  “I’m gonna miss him,” said John.

  “Me, too,” agreed Philippa.

  “I shall miss him, right enough,” admitted Nimrod. “But his mind seems made up, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes,” agreed John.

  “Totally,” said Philippa.

  “I mean, you heard me try to talk him out of it, didn’t you?” said Nimrod.

  “Yes,” they agreed.

  “In some ways he was a terrible butler,” said Nimrod. “Insolent. Bad tempered. But in many other ways he was the best butler I’ve ever had.” Nimrod paused for a moment and then added: “I shall especially miss his tea. No one makes a cup of tea like Groanin.” He shook his head. “And his boiled eggs are perfection. I never knew anyone who could boil an egg so that it was always exactly how I like it. Soft, but not too soft. Every time. While his ironing — his ironing was without equal. There isn’t a laundry in the whole of London that could press a shirt as well as Groanin.” He sighed. “Still. There’s no point in crying over spilled milk. We’ve got a train to catch.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the twins followed their uncle out of the hotel and along the street to the railway station where they boarded a train covered in ugly graffiti. Soon, they were rattling north, along the winding, precipitous Neapolitan coast toward Pompeii and Vesuvius.

  John and Philippa were unusually quiet during the journey aboard the humid little train since they were preoccupied with Groanin’s departure as well as the daunting prospect of ascending to the crater of an active volcano. This silence soon hardened, like pumice, into a mood of pessimism and depression as the reality of everyday life without the grumpy, old butler began to take hold of their young minds. Not even the arrival aboard the train of a three-piece band — guitar, double bass, and accordion — to serenade the sweating passengers with a selection of cheesy Italian hits from the 1950s such as “Volare” and “Tu Vuò Fa’ L’Americano” could cheer the twins. And it wasn’t long before John began to grow irritated that his enjoyment of feeling miserable should be challenged by a stupid band that nobody had asked or wanted to play and whose jaunty, happy Italian music was now quite at odds with his prevailing feelings of melancholy.

  At first, he was inclined to use djinn power to turn the three unwitting musicians into stray cats, which seemed, somehow, appropriate. But better sense and Philippa’s telepathic disapproval persuaded the boy djinn that this would have been something of an overreaction; so instead he merely turned the strings of the guitar and of the double bass into dry spaghetti that swiftly shattered, and the impromptu concert aboard the train immediately ended in a shower of broken pasta.

  “Thank you, John,” said Nimrod. “That was a real kindness to us all.”

  At Pompei Scavi, they left the train in the company of several hundred tourists who, despite the earthquake and the plume of smoke on Vesuvius, were still intent on sightseeing the ancient Roman city of Pompeii. But the usual bus up the mountain was canceled until further notice and while Nimrod negotiated a “danger-money” fare with a local taxi driver, the twins inspected some of the gift shops with polite disinterest.

  Then they were in the taxi and driving through the neglected, garbage-strewn streets of new Pompeii with its dilapidated shops and cheap high-rise apartment buildings.

  “Gee, I don’t know which is the bigger ruin,” observed John. “Roman Pompeii or the new one.”

  “This is a very poor part of Italy,” said Nimrod. “There’s not much money here for anything in the way of public services. And of course, the houses are the cheapest in Italy.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Philippa.

  “Would you buy a house on the slopes of an active volcano?”

  “Hmm,” said Philippa. “Perhaps not.”

  In spite of this, the taxi driver, Carmine, was a happy sort and sang a song all the way up the slopes of the volcano, through a beautiful, sweet-smelling forest, to the upper parking area, where they were met by a contingent of excitable Italian police — the carabinieri — who demanded of the taxi driver and then Nimrod why they and the children had come to what was now a dangerous and restricted area.

  Speaking perfect Italian, with a strong Neapolitan accent, Nimrod explained that he was an important volcanologist, a professore, and that he had arrived on Vesuvius to lend assistance to the famous Arlecchino; and that since he had brought his own niece and nephew with him they could all rest assured that things were not nearly as bad as they might otherwise have supposed.

  After ten or fifteen minutes of lively conversation — which Nimrod had simultaneously translated for the benefit of the twins — the carabinieri allowed the three djinn to complete their journey and to ascend the remaining twenty-seven hundred feet of the volcano to the summit on foot.

  The trail led up a dusty, steep, winding path that was covered with volcanic rock and pebbles.

  “Why did you call Professor Sturloson, Arlecchino?” Philippa asked Nimrod. “That was the word, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” admitted Nimrod. “Everyone in this part of the world calls him that. It’s his local nickname. I must say the Italians can be a little cruel like that. But I don’t think it bothers him. The name, that is.”

  “What’s it mean?” asked John.

  “ ‘Harlequin,’ ” said Nimrod.

  “Why do they call him that?”

  Nimrod pulled a face. “Perhaps I should explain one or two things about the professor before you meet him and embarrass us both by staring at Snorri. That’s his real, Icelandic name by the way: Snorri Sturloson. But you should call him Professor. Unless he invites you to call him something else. But never Arlecchino. That would be too impertinent.”

  Nimrod stopped for a moment to catch his breath, admire the view of the Bay of Naples, and to finish his explanation.

  “Has either of you ever heard of Montserrat?”

  “It’s the surname of a famous writer,” said Philippa. “And it’s also the name of an island in the Caribbean. Next door to Antigua.”

  Nimrod was impressed. “An island in the Caribbean with a volcano. The Soufrière Hills volcano. The Soufrière Hills eruption, which began on July eighteenth, 1995, was the first in more than two hundred years. An even larger eruption occurred two years later, which caused the deaths of nineteen people. The professor, who was monitoring seismic activity with his wife, Björk, was hit by the pyroclastic flow and horribly burnt. One complete side of his face was burnt to a crisp. Which is why he wears the Harlequin mask. And why his wife left him, apparently: because she couldn’t bear to look at him.”

  “Sounds a bit like the guy in The Phantom of the Opera,” observed John.

  “Yes,” agreed Nimrod. “In a way. Except that the professor doesn’t hide himself away. He may have been horribly disfigured but he’s no recluse. His work is too important for him to stay out of the public eye.”

  “So, this could be dangerous, after all,” said John. “This little excursion of ours. I mean, if the professor got it badly wrong once, then he could get it badly wrong again. And so indeed could you. For all we know, this whole mountain could be about to go bang. And then djinn or not, we’ll be history.”

  Nimrod shook his head. “Really, John, there’s nothing to worry about. But if you’re worried, you can go back down to the car park and wait for us in the taxi.”

  Philippa took off her glasses and started to polish the lenses, which was always a sign that she was feeling nervous.

  “Good idea,” said Philippa. “Maybe it’s better if you do wait for
us down there. But it’s all right to be scared, you know. Nothing to be ashamed of, bro.” She smiled a sarcastic smile that helped to conceal her own fears. “I might be scared myself if I bothered to stop and really think about it.”

  “Who said I was scared?” said John. Hoisting his backpack on his shoulder he started up the path again, overtaking Nimrod and leading the way up the rocky path. “All I said was, it could be dangerous. And it is. But I don’t mind a bit of danger. Never did.”

  “By the way,” said Philippa. “Does the professor know that you’re a djinn?”

  “No,” said Nimrod. “He thinks of me as gifted in the field of volcanology. But nothing more.”

  Above the cloud line, they reached the top of the cone and stared down into the depth of what looked like a huge quarry: Most of this resembled a large dust bowl, but from a glowing hole at the foot of one of the sheer walls on the opposite side of the crater was emerging an enormous plume of gray smoke, like the biggest cypress tree anyone had ever seen. John looked up its vertiginous height and thought of “Jack and the Beanstalk” and half expected to see a boy climbing down from an unseen castle several miles above his head, with a goose under his arm.

  “Holy smoke,” he exclaimed. “That is just amazing. Amazing.”

  Philippa was experiencing the same sensation as her brother. The idea of the ash plume and its little glowing origin was utterly fascinating to her and reminded Philippa of the time, soon after she and John had lost their wisdom teeth, when the trail of smoke from Mrs. Trump’s cigarette had held such a strong fascination for her.

  “Isn’t it just the most extraordinary thing you have ever seen?” said Nimrod.

  “Yes,” agreed Philippa unhesitatingly. “It is.”

  “I think it’s the rising column of smoke and ash that exerts such a strong effect on all djinn,” said Nimrod. “It touches something deep and primordial within us that no mundane being could ever hope to understand. That’s why I wanted to bring you two up here. So that you might understand exactly why it is that volcanoes are so special to our kind. And why it is that the destiny of our djinn tribe, the Marid, has always been inextricably linked to volcanoes.