The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan

by P. B. Kerr

  “I can’t see the point of all these books,” said John. “Just gathering dust, most of them. I mean, some of them never get read at all. What’s the point of writing a book that no one is ever going to read?”

  “I’ve written a few books like that myself, John,” confessed the professor. “But sometimes you just feel you have to write them. Regardless of whether or not anyone will read them.”

  “That sounds like a waste of time,” said John. “All that work. All that writing. All those words. Strikes me there are better things to do with your time than write a book that no one is ever going to read. That’s like building a football stadium for a team that doesn’t exist. Or making a record that no one is ever going to listen to. What’s the point of them? That’s what I want to know.”

  “I’ve written seven books like that,” admitted the professor. “At least, that’s what it feels like sometimes.”

  “Seven?” John looked aghast. “If I lived to be a hundred, I don’t think I could ever write seven books. How old are you, anyway?”

  The professor laughed. Behind his black mask and without a smile the laugh sounded like something artificial to John. Something weird, anyway.

  Philippa looked over the edge of the carpet and saw that they were no longer over the sea.

  “Where are we?” She was hoping to change the subject again.

  “Somewhere over Pakistan,” said Nimrod.

  “That’s another country that doesn’t much care for unidentified flying objects, isn’t it?” said Axel.

  “Yes, it is,” said Nimrod. “But we have no choice but to fly over it, Afghanistan being landlocked like it is.”

  “What’s landlocked?” asked John.

  “It doesn’t have a coast.” Nimrod grinned at John. “So if anyone ever offers you a job as the head of the Afghan Navy …”

  “I’ll know they’re pulling my leg,” said John.

  Philippa smiled at her uncle but there was no humor in her smile; it felt like the professor’s laugh without a smile. She was only smiling because she needed time to think about what he was planning, if anything.

  “So we should be keeping a lookout,” said John. “All of us.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Nimrod.

  Philippa saw an opportunity to speak with her brother out of Nimrod’s earshot. She said to Axel, “All right. John and I will take the port side, and the professor can go on the starboard side with you.”

  “Any volcanoes in Pakistan, Professor?” said John. “Just so that we can tell the difference between the ash cloud of a volcano and a rocket launch.”

  “They’re mostly small mud volcanoes,” said the professor. “The only one of any note is Neza e Sultan, in the northwest of the country, on the Afghan border.”

  “We should be flying over it any minute now,” said Nimrod.

  “But it’s been extinct for centuries,” added the professor.

  “You mean that pointy bit of rock that looks like two praying hands?” said John.

  The professor crawled toward the port side of the carpet, where John and Philippa were now on watch.

  “It doesn’t look like it’s extinct now,” said John. “Look. There’s a trail of smoke coming out of the top.”

  “My God, you’re right,” said the professor. “This is bad. This is very bad. If an extinct volcano has started smoking, this is very bad indeed.”

  Nimrod steered the flying carpet toward the curious little volcano for a closer look. And while he and the professor and Axel began to discuss this latest discovery, Philippa took John aside and told him what she’d discovered in the Rakshasas Library.

  When she’d finished, she waited impatiently for John to say something.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “And so you think that because of all those underlinings Nimrod has made in those books you were looking at, then maybe he’s planning to sacrifice us to the gods of the volcano, or something like that?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what to think, John. Not yet. But they say two heads are better than one, so I wanted to know what you thought. So?” “I dunno.”

  She glanced nervously at her uncle, who was still locked in conversation with the two Icelanders. “All right, one and a half heads,” she said.

  John shot her a sarcastic smile. “Funny,” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  John shrugged. “I don’t mind volunteering for stuff that’s dangerous. As long as it’s for a good cause, mind you, as long as it’s for a good cause. But there’s no way that someone is going to fling me into a volcano to appease this Caterpillar guy or Shoetickelme.”

  “Catequil and Xiutecuhtli,” said Philippa, correcting him patiently.

  “Yeah. That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “Look, I just mentioned those two pre-Columbian gods as an example. I really don’t think they’re anything to do with all this.”

  “That’s good, because I don’t ever think I could pronounce those names without a tongue transplant.” John gave his uncle a sideways look. “He doesn’t look like he’s planning to sacrifice us.”

  “Oh? And what would that look like?”

  “I dunno. Different. He might look a bit guilty or something. Like he might avoid your eye. I know I would avoid someone’s eye if I was planning to sacrifice them. Especially if they were kids. You’d be kind of shifty, wouldn’t you? Like it was already on your conscience.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Philippa. “But he did mention Taranushi’s prophecy and he did leave out some crucial parts relating to us. And there’s another thing, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “In all of our adventures, I’ve had the feeling that we weren’t being told everything about ourselves. We’ve had little bits here and there, but never quite the whole story.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That just maybe we’ve been laid out for this all along. Set up. And that everyone’s been in on it except us.”

  John thought about what his sister had said and nodded. “You’re right, sis. All the other djinn kids seem to be different from us. Maybe that’s because we have a mundane dad and a djinn mom. On the other hand, maybe there’s another reason behind it, after all.”

  “Maybe that’s the real reason Mom wanted nothing to do with the world of djinn,” said Philippa. “Because she knew or suspected what destiny might — and I do stress the word might — have in store for us both.”

  “Nimrod didn’t know that Vesuvius was about to become active again,” said John. “Did he?”

  “I think that’s true,” admitted Philippa. “But you can’t ignore the underlinings in those books. In his ink. With his pen. I don’t think it was Liskeard who did that. And who else does that leave? Nobody.”

  John shook his head. “After all we’ve been through,” he said. “Hey. I just had a thought.”

  “At last.”

  “You don’t suppose that Groanin’s departure has anything to do with this, do you?”

  “How do you mean, John?”

  “Well, if he found out something about Nimrod planning to make sacrifices out of us, well, he wouldn’t just stick around waiting for it to happen, would he?”

  “You’re right,” said Philippa. “He wouldn’t.” She racked her brain for a moment. “It was a bit strange the way he quit like that. Even for Groanin. One minute he was on board and the next he’d jumped ship.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “I never thought of that. But it could be connected, yes.”

  “So what are we going to do? Nimrod’s much too powerful to try and go inside his body to find out what’s in his mind.”

  “We’ll just have to keep a very close eye on him,” said Philippa. “And take comfort in the knowledge that if the prophecy is true, then because we’re twins, we’re more than twice as powerful as one.”

  “That’s right,” agreed John. “We do have a bond that makes us stronger. Alway
s did. Always will.”

  Philippa nodded. “I think the time has come when we have to start using that extra power.”

  “What are you two gossiping about?” said Nimrod.

  “Nothing much,” said Philippa.

  “Really? The pair of you looked as thick as thieves a moment ago.”

  Philippa got up and went to sit beside Nimrod.

  “We’re just getting a bit bored, that’s all,” said Philippa, stroking Moby’s green head absently. “It seems like we’ve been sitting on this carpet forever.”

  “We’ll be landing soon,” said Nimrod. “In the desert, near Kandahar. We wouldn’t want to draw any more attention to ourselves than can be helped. It’s the second-largest city in Afghanistan.”

  “Oh,” said John.

  “You don’t sound particularly impressed, my boy,” said Nimrod.

  John shrugged. He was feeling distinctly cool toward his uncle. The prospect of being sacrificed has a very sobering effect on any child.

  “But this is a historic place,” insisted Nimrod.

  “So?” said John defensively. “Everywhere’s historic, if you think about it. I’ll bet if you started digging up Des Moines, in Iowa, you’d find all sorts of historic stuff.”

  “Perhaps.” Nimrod nodded, politely acknowledging John’s point. “Only Kandahar is a bit more historic than most places. After all, it was founded by none other than Alexander the Great. Which is more than you can say for Des Moines, attractive as that particular city must be.”

  “What else has it got apart from history?” demanded John.

  “Kandahar is famous for a number of things,” said Nimrod. “It’s a major trading center for sheep and camels. This is why we’re here, of course. And for fine fruits, like pomegranates.”

  He paused for a moment, measuring the effect his next few words might have on his young nephew and niece.

  “What else?” he said. “Ah, yes, it’s also the home of my wife. Your aunt Alexandra.”

  CHAPTER 21

  AT THE KANDAHAR CAMEL MARKET

  Nimrod ignored all questions from the twins about an aunt of whom they knew absolutely nothing until the flying carpet was on the hot and arid ground, on which a deserted road led off to the north, where they could just make out the vague outline of the city of Kandahar.

  The two Icelanders helped him to roll up the carpet into a long blue pillar.

  “The carpet is too heavy to carry on our shoulders,” said Axel. “Then again, we can hardly leave it here, by the roadside.”

  “No,” said Nimrod. “We’ll bury it.” He glanced at the twins. “Perhaps you two could do the honors? With some shovels? I’m feeling rather tired after all that flying.”

  “Sure.” John spoke his focus word and then handed everyone a nice new shovel.

  “I was thinking of something a little more instant,” said Nimrod. “Like a long trench. But these shovels will do almost as well. And now that I think of it, you’re right, John. If you used djinn power to make a trench, then you’d have to make some earth or sand to put in it.”

  Everyone started to dig. In the hot sun it was hard work, but with five of them digging they quickly excavated a trench deep enough to hide the carpet, and then they filled it in again.

  “How shall we mark the spot?” asked John.

  “Oh, I shall remember where it is,” said Nimrod.

  “I imagine that’s what the sons of Genghis Khan said,” observed Philippa. “When they buried him.” She smiled. “Anyone got a baby camel handy?”

  “Touché, Philippa,” said Nimrod.

  He thought for a moment and then planted a small stone on the ground near the burial site.

  “We’re bound to spot that,” said John.

  Ignoring his nephew’s sarcasm, Nimrod said that it was a special stone, but didn’t explain in what way special.

  “What about our clothes?” said Axel. “We shall stick out a mile dressed like this.”

  “Good point,” said Nimrod. “Philippa? Perhaps you could oblige us all with some local costume. And I rather think the professor here had better wear a chadri. On account of his mask. Which might be alarming to the locals.”

  “What’s a chadri?” asked John.

  “It’s like a burka,” said Nimrod.

  John was none the wiser.

  “It’s an all-enveloping outer garment for women,” explained Philippa. “Not all women, just those who want to prevent themselves from being seen by men.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” John said pointedly. “Anything that covers your face, Phil.”

  Philippa flicked him a sarcastic smile. “It’s not for kids,” she said. “Just grown-up women.”

  “Pity.”

  A few minutes later, the little party of three djinn and two humans, dressed in local Afghan clothes, was heading into the ancient city. Along the way they passed almost a hundred wild camels grazing in a rough-looking field, which served to remind them all of why they were there in Afghanistan. But at that particular moment the twins were hardly interested in camels.

  “You never said you were married,” Philippa told Nimrod.

  “You never asked,” said Nimrod.

  “I always thought you were, um …” John hesitated. “Single. After all, you never talk about — what’s her name?”

  “Alexandra,” said Nimrod.

  “Is she a djinn, like us?”

  “Oh, yes. She’s a djinn, all right. But she’s not like us. For one thing she’s an Eremite.”

  “That’s the djinn cult whose believers seek to imitate the lives of angels and saints and go without possessions,” said Philippa. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Many years ago, she and your mother became Eremites together, in New York City. Your mother was lucky enough to be rescued by your father. But Alexandra was not so fortunate. She persisted in the cult and came here after the Russian invasion of Afghanistan in 1979. On the basis that the Afghans needed her help more than any other mundanes. And has remained here ever since.”

  “But I don’t understand,” said Philippa. “How can you and she be married if she’s an Eremite? Eremites believe in giving up not just possessions but relationships, too. Including marriage.”

  “We were married before she became an Eremite,” said Nimrod. “It was partly me and my taste for the good things in life that drove her to it, I think. That and some other things.”

  “Are we going to meet her?” asked John.

  “I sincerely hope not,” said Nimrod. “She’s half mad, you see. And that’s another reason she’s not like us. A lot of the Eremites are a bit eccentric, of course. But Alexandra is more than just eccentric. Possibly she’s dangerous.”

  “Why?” asked John.

  “Because she believes she has the gift of prophecy,” said Nimrod.

  “And does she?” asked Philippa. “Have the gift of prophecy?”

  “That’s a little hard to say,” admitted Nimrod. “Alexandra has what you Americans call issues.”

  “What kind of issues?” asked John.

  “Anger-management issues,” said Nimrod. “She can manage to get cross about almost anything. Anything at all. And in the middle of all that, it’s a little hard to remember her predictions at all. But whether she can or she can’t, knowledge of the future is the most dangerous thing in the universe.”

  “I can’t see why,” argued John. “I reckon that it would be quite useful now, to know what’s going to happen.”

  “I agree,” said Axel. “That way we might know if we’re on a wild-goose chase or not.”

  Nimrod shook his head.

  “Take my word for it, every manner of things can go wrong if you attempt to act on a prophecy. Fortunately, the way my wife speaks makes it hard to understand her. However, people, including djinn, come here from all over the world to have her tell the future.”

  They reached the outskirts of Kandahar and found the city rather more modern than they had supposed. There were also
a great many British and American soldiers on the streets, many of them heavily armed, and at almost every street corner, there was a large pile of sandbags and a military checkpoint where cars and trucks were stopped and searched. But mostly, the traffic was children on bicycles, heavily veiled women on donkeys and Pashtun tribesmen on mopeds and motorcycles, and local merchants leading camels laden with goods.

  John glanced at Professor Sturloson in his bright blue chadri and then at a group of identically dressed but anonymous women and realized he could not tell the difference. Anyone could have been wearing this garment, anyone at all; even the aunt Alexandra he had never met and it now seemed wasn’t going to meet.

  “How are you doing, Professor?” he asked.

  “I feel a bit of a fool,” confessed the professor. “It’s like wearing a tent. I’ll be glad when we’ve found this camel trader and we can get out of here.”

  “As I recall,” said Nimrod, “the camel market is north of Charsoo Square.” He pointed to the right. “Which is this way.”

  He led the way through streets packed with rickshaws and scooters to a market where everything was for sale: fruit and vegetables, beautiful cloths and carpets, computer equipment, meat and bread, guns and ammunition. In a shop selling television sets, they stopped for a few moments to watch Afghanistan’s Tolo TV. It was hard for the twins and the two Icelanders to understand exactly what was being said, but the drift of the news report was clear: Mount Damavand, the region’s largest volcano at more than eighteen thousand feet, had blown its top, forcing many Iranians to flee their homes.

  “This is bad,” said the professor.

  His deep and manly voice attracted a few strange looks from the locals but mostly he was ignored.

  “This is very bad. Mount Damavand has been dormant for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years.” He looked up at the sky, which was still the same color as his chadri. “No sign of any effects on the world’s weather. But if this kind of thing keeps up, it’s bound to create a volcanic winter. The eruption of Indonesia’s Mount Tambora made 1816 the year without a summer. Crops failed, livestock died, and the world endured the worst famine of the nineteenth century.”

  “Then there’s certainly no time to waste here watching television,” said Nimrod, and snapped his fingers at the professor and his companions. “Let us quickly find this camel market. And, if we can, the descendants of Ali Bilharzia.”