The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan

by P. B. Kerr

  “For it is written that when a sea of cloud arises from the bowels of the earth to turn the lungs of men to stone and the wheat in the fields to ash, then the Marid shall save the world from inflammable darkness.”

  CHAPTER 3

  SNORRI STURLOSON

  Where is it written?” asked Philippa.

  She thought it was a reasonable question but Nimrod didn’t answer. Her uncle had seen Professor Sturloson climbing up a long rope from the interior of Vesuvius, and was already hurrying down a desolate-looking path into the crater to greet him. Philippa and John followed him to a Matterhorn-shaped rock crest around which the professor’s rappel rope had been expertly tied and where a tall, blond-haired man was carefully monitoring Sturloson’s laborious ascent.

  Philippa thought this tall man very handsome indeed.

  “My dear Axel,” said Nimrod. “How are you? Permit me to introduce my nephew and niece, John and Philippa. Children? This stout fellow is Axel Heimskringla.”

  The blond-haired man greeted Nimrod and the twins warmly in Icelandic but never took his blue eyes off the taut rope; and finally, a wiry-looking man, covered in dust and sweat and wearing a Harlequin’s black mask, appeared at their feet, grunting loudly. He pulled himself up onto the Mars-like red dust of the crater path and sat down heavily.

  John leaned a little closer, curious to see the full extent of the horrible burns that might lie behind the mask and saw an ear that was no bigger than a child’s.

  “Snorri, my dear fellow,” said Nimrod. “I was holidaying in Sorrento with my niece and nephew and saw the ash cloud. So I thought I’d better come up here and take a closer look. Although not as close as you just did. What do you think? Is it safe?”

  The professor said nothing until he had caught his breath and drank two whole quarts of water, and because of the mask it was difficult to tell if he had even registered Nimrod’s presence; but finally, he nodded wearily and said, “It looks safe enough for now, I believe. I took a lava sample. From a spot as near the fissure as I dared to go. Really, it’s quite imperative that I should have several more before I venture an opinion as to the volcano’s long-term future, but I was overcome by heat and exhaustion. I’m not the climber I used to be.”

  Both the professor and Axel spoke with a strong Icelandic accent, which is a bit like a Scandinavian accent, but colder.

  The professor lifted his arms and allowed Axel to untie the rope that was knotted around his middle. That was when John noticed the professor was wearing a single glove. At first, when it caught the sunlight, he thought it was a rhinestone glove, and it was another moment before he realized it was actually made of chain mail.

  “Who is, dear fellow?” said Nimrod. “Who is? None of us is getting any younger. I’m afraid my days of clambering up and down ropes like a monkey are behind me.”

  “I’ll go,” said Axel, and fed the rope around his own waist.

  The professor shook his head. “You can’t. You’re too heavy, my boy.”

  “This is a good rope,” insisted Axel. “Should be no problem. Besides, you said yourself, it’s imperative that you get some more lava samples.”

  “It’s not the rope I’m concerned about,” said the professor. “It’s the crater floor. I’m half your weight and underneath the dust, the floor felt very brittle. Like a honeycomb. You might easily fall through.”

  John glanced over the edge of the path and thought it looked safe enough. The volcano wasn’t anything like what he had imagined. If it hadn’t been for the large column of smoke that emanated from the fissure in the crater wall, he might even have said it looked a bit boring. And stung by his sister’s suggestion that he lacked the nerve to climb an active volcano, he was determined to prove to his uncle — he really didn’t care what Philippa thought about him — that he could do a lot more than ascend the outside of Vesuvius; he could also descend into the inside of Vesuvius.

  “Why not let me try?” said John. “To gather some more lava samples, you say? Well, I can do that. And the heat is hardly likely to worry me. After all I’m —”

  Nimrod covered John’s mouth with his hand.

  “You impetuous youth,” he said. “Professor Sturloson? This is my young nephew, John. And my niece, Philippa, his sister. Like most children they think they’re immortal. Especially John. Anyone would think he had superpowers, the way he carries on. He hasn’t yet learned that he is just a human being like the rest of us, and nothing more. Eh, John?”

  “If you say so, Uncle,” muttered John, remembering almost too late that these two humans were ignorant of the kind of beings Nimrod and his blood relatives were.

  But Professor Sturloson was having none of it. He stood up, brushed off his clothes, which were those of an old-fashioned mountaineer — all gaiters, tweed, and flannel — and taking John’s hand in the chain-mail glove, pumped it furiously.

  “Nonsense, Nimrod,” he said, and clapped John on the shoulder. “This is a brave lad. And you should be proud of him. Very proud. Of course, it’s quite unthinkable that one could actually permit a boy to go down there to do a man’s work but —”

  “With all due respect, sir,” said John. “Now it’s you who’s talking nonsense. You said yourself it’s imperative you get more samples and that Dr. Kreimhingla was too heavy for the crater floor.”

  “Heimskringla,” said Axel, trying to conceal his irritation. “My name is Heimskringla.”

  “Well, if he can’t go, and you can’t go, and Nimrod can’t go, then that leaves me and my sister,” argued John. “And I’m not about to let a girl go down there when I can go myself.”

  “Sexist,” said Philippa.

  “Have you ever rappelled down a rope before, boy?” asked Axel. “It’s extremely dangerous. Rappelling is the highest cause of fatality among mountaineers because it looks a lot easier than it is.”

  “But it’s a lot easier than climbing back up,” added the professor.

  “I can climb a rope,” insisted John. “I’m a boy. It’s what we boys do best. Sure, I wish I was a better climber.”

  And muttering his focus word, which was ABECEDARIAN, he was. For such is the power of a djinn that new skills and knowledge can be instantly learned.

  “But I think I know what I’m doing.”

  And now, of course, he did.

  John picked up a spare length of rope and began tying knots. “Here,” he said. “A three-wrap Prusik.” Untying the Prusik as quickly as he tied it, John began to tie another knot. “A French Prusik.” And then another: “A Munter hitch.”

  “Impressive,” said Axel.

  “A rolling hitch.” John was showing off now. “Can either of you do a rolling hitch?”

  Axel looked abashed. “Er, no,” said Axel.

  “And there are easier ways to climb a rope than what I saw you doing just now, Professor,” said John. “I would have assumed that knowing how to rappel, you would have brought some mechanical ascenders.”

  It was hard to tell if behind the mask the professor looked abashed or not; but he certainly sounded abashed. “Nei,” said the professor.

  “Then it’s fortunate I brought my own rig.” John dropped his backpack onto the ground and took out a Petzl Corax harness, several carabiners, a handful of ascenders, fingerless climbing gloves, an ice ax, and a helmet.

  “I see you came prepared, bro,” said Philippa.

  “We can hardly argue with a man who brought his own harness,” said the professor. “Nimrod, you didn’t tell us the boy was so proficient. Hann er alveg litla hetja.”

  “Among all his other accomplishments, it quite slipped my mind,” said Nimrod.

  “As long as it’s the only thing that slips,” observed Philippa, “then he’ll be okay, I guess.”

  While John got into his climbing harness, she gave him a skeptical look.

  “Do you really know what you’re doing?” asked Philippa.

  “You know I do,” answered John. “You most of all.”

  P
hilippa nodded. Now that she stopped to think about it, she realized that her twin brother was right, for all twins, be they djinn or no, possess curious powers over nature and often have the true knowing of things that could not be known by means other than what might be called telepathy.

  “All right,” she agreed. “I guess you do know what you’re doing.”

  Only when John was secure on the rope and standing on the edge of the crater rim ready to rappel down onto the floor of the volcano almost a hundred feet below, did he start to feel a little nervous. Because of his wish he knew what he was doing; but knowing and feeling are two different things. And nearly all of his confidence was inside his brain rather than in his hands and his feet. This was hardly surprising and probably just as well. For as the late Mr. Rakshasas once said, “A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drowned.”

  Axel clipped an asbestos-lined rock sample bag and telescopic scoop to John’s harness while the professor advised him on what to do when he reached the bottom.

  “Hlusta. Stay as close to the crater wall as possible,” he said. “The dust is treacherous and shifting underfoot, like a sand dune. What you need to do is traverse the length of the wall toward the fissure. The nearer you get, the warmer the rock will become to the touch. When it starts to feel hot, or you’re as near to the ash plume as your lungs can bear, hammer a piton into the wall and then descend on the rope a little. There’s a small, fresh lava flow underneath the plume. It’s important you recognize the difference between rock and lava, John, because only fresh pahoehoe lava gives us a precise idea of what’s happening underground. Pahoehoe lava is smooth and billowy and undulating, like it’s some sort of curtain material. In fact, it’s molten rock, and about twelve hundred degrees centigrade, so for Pete’s sake don’t touch it with your hand. Use the sample scoop. Find a toe or lobe on the edge of the main flow and pour some water on it. This should break it off the flow and allow you to pick it up with the scoop.

  “Now: some do’s and don’ts, hugrakkur ungur vinur minn. Do pay attention with all your senses. If you feel vibration in the wall of the crater, assume the worst and make your way back. The same goes if you hear an explosion. Try not to put too much weight on the ground under your feet. The ground might be thin and you could go straight through. Even if you didn’t fall in, the hole you make would create enough oxygen to cause a sudden flash flame that would surely incinerate you, my boy. And watch that the rope doesn’t rest somewhere too hot and start to melt. It’s nylon, see? And nylon melts when it gets hot. Just like your papa’s shirt when your mama gets careless with the iron.”

  John nodded gravely. His father had never worn a nylon shirt in his life, but that was beside the point now.

  “But the thing you really have to watch out for is gas. It’s the gas that’s most likely to kill you, boy. And I’m not talking about the smell of sulfur and rotten eggs and all that kjaftœði. I’m talking about something much worse. Carbon dioxide. You can’t smell CO2. And you can’t taste it. But it’s denser than air and you might see it moving on the ground like a river of smoke. So keep your eyes peeled. And of course if you start to feel very sleepy, that’s a sure sign that CO2 is affecting you. If that happens, you move the other way as quickly as possible.”

  Professor Sturloson shrugged. “Well, there’s a lot more hazards I could describe but that’s probably enough to be going on with.”

  “Light my lamp,” exclaimed Nimrod, “I swear if I hear of another life-threatening hazard, I won’t let the boy go down there at all.”

  “It’s all right,” insisted John. “I’ll be careful. Depend on it.”

  Stepping out was the worst part because this was the moment he was handing over his life to the equipment he’d created from thin air. John checked his locking carabiner and the figure-of-eight it secured and then, putting more weight on the rope, he leaned back and began walking his way over the edge and down the sheer crater wall.

  CHAPTER 4

  GROANIN CHECKS IN

  Groanin finished packing his battered leather suitcase and took a taxi to Naples airport. Like most airports in summer this one was full of sweaty tourists with cheap luggage milling aimlessly around as if they had lost their heads on a chicken farmer’s chopping block. So far so normal. But as Groanin approached the British Airways check-in desks he began to sense that not all was well. Word spread quickly through the line of strongly smelling travelers awaiting check-in that the British Airways cabin staff had called a strike. Everyone groaned loudly, Groanin loudest of all, and headed to the ticketing desks for other airlines.

  Half an hour later, he succeeded in buying an easyJet ticket to Manchester and was congratulating himself on his own resourcefulness when an announcement on the Naples airport loudspeaker announced that because of the ash plume from Vesuvius, all southern Italian airspace was closed to passenger aircraft until further notice.

  “When is that?” he demanded of the frazzled-looking girl manning the easyJet check-in desk. “Until when are we likely to be stranded here?”

  “Until I don’t know,” she said. “Until someone decides it’s safe. Until tomorrow at the very earliest. Until someone tells me different.”

  “If this is southern Italy,” said Groanin, “then what constitutes northern Italy? They’re flying from there, right? Where do I have to go to get on a plane home?”

  “Get yourself to Rome,” said the girl. “They’re still flying from Rome. Is what I would do.”

  “How far is that, then?”

  “From here, is one hundred forty miles,” said the girl. She switched off her computer and then walked quickly away from the desk before Groanin or anyone else could ask her another awkward question.

  Groanin bit his lip and, pulling his largish suitcase on wheels, went outside to look for transport and found the line at the taxi rank was already more than a hundred yards long with no actual taxis in sight. The line for buses into Naples was even longer and there seemed to be no train station attached to the airport.

  “Flipping heck,” he murmured. “This is a nightmare. A real one. Forget being chased by a grizzly bear. This is worse.”

  Seeing a sign for Naples city center, he followed it, hoping to hail a taxi along the way. But if the lines of tourists at the airport had been bad, the lines of traffic on the autostrada were even worse. All of the roads between the airport and the city center were one big traffic jam and, in spite of the 91° heat, Groanin had little alternative but to take off his jacket and walk into the city, because Sorrento was too far for him to go all the way back there.

  Not that Groanin wanted to return to the Excelsior Vittoria hotel and face Nimrod like a dog with its tail between its legs. That would have been too humiliating. Worse, there was every chance that Nimrod would offer Groanin his job back and, weakened by heat and exhaustion and the sheer horror of traveling on his own dollar, he might easily accept it. Groanin knew that now was his best chance to escape Nimrod’s service for good. It wasn’t that he disliked Nimrod. And he loved the children, of course. But as he had explained, the hazards of working for a djinn were just too great for him to bear his employment any longer.

  Four miles and two hours later, Groanin finally came in sight of a hotel that looked equal to his fastidious, xenophobic tastes: the First Grand Imperial Britannia Hotel. A British flag hung like a dishcloth on a flagpole outside the entrance.

  Dripping with sweat, and almost faint with dehydration, Groanin trudged into the dingy lobby and approached the ancient-looking reception desk.

  On the wall behind the desk was a large picture of the queen. Another good sign, or so Groanin thought.

  A short, red-haired man ignored him carefully for a moment and then condescended to pay him some attention.

  “Good afternoon, and welcome to the First Grand Imperial Brittania Hotel, sir,” said the man behind the desk, who seemed to be British. “Can I help you?”

  “Thank goodness for an English accent,” said Groanin. “If
it was an English accent.” He collapsed against the desk and looked more closely at the man behind it. “I dunno. Was it?”

  Unfortunately, Groanin was one of those people who, to the irritation of the Scots, the Irish, and the Welsh, employ the word English when they really mean British. In Groanin’s case this was the result of having spent so much time with John and Philippa who, being Americans, had little or no sense of the subtle difference between what are two very different things.

  Groanin frowned and peered more closely at the receptionist. The man had green eyes and skin as pale as last week’s lard. “Wait a minute. You’re not English. You’re Scottish, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” said the receptionist, bridling a little. “And proud of it, too.”

  “Then what are you doing here, sunshine?”

  The man’s face reddened with anger. “We’re not the untraveled peasants you English think we are.”

  “No?” said Groanin. “Never mind. British will have to do. British is good enough under these extreme conditions. Now listen, Angus. I want a room, with a bath, and then I want some dinner. Proper food, mind. None of that foreign stuff. I say, I don’t want any of that Italian muck. I want English food. Roast beef and roast potatoes and recognizable vegetables. Can you do that, innkeeper?”

  The receptionist, who was from Edinburgh, and by a strange coincidence was actually called Angus, disliked the assumption that all Scotsman are called Angus almost as much as he disliked the English who were often those making that assumption. Indeed, his strong dislike of the English had, since his arrival in Italy, been many times reinforced by the fact of its being regularly assumed by the Neapolitans that he was English himself. And he had almost lost count of the number of times he had fixed a patient, snaggle-toothed smile to his fat face and corrected their mistake. In short, he was a tiresome little man with no more people skills than a guard dog. As a hotel-keeper in Scotland this would not have been a problem; but in a country as friendly as Italy, it marked him out as uniquely ill qualified for his chosen career.