by P. B. Kerr
“Well, that may change, of course,” Nimrod said brightly. “You’re cold. A young djinn’s power never works when he or she is cold, you know that.”
“No,” said Philippa. “This feels different from just being cold.”
“And of course you’re tired,” said Nimrod. “Both of you. Exhausted. You need time to recharge your batteries, so to speak. Like that Mongolian death worm. You know, I’ll bet that in just a few days you’ll find that your powers are back to normal. You wait and see if I’m wrong.”
“No,” said Philippa. “I’m certain they won’t. It’s over. You know it. I know it. And John knows it. We always knew we would have to use absolutely every last candle of power that we had to make this work.”
“Philippa’s right,” said John. “I made a wish a minute or two ago. For more sugar. And I didn’t get any. As soon as I felt the word in my mouth I whispered my focus word but I knew it was no good. There’s nothing there anymore. Like an electric light when there’s no electricity. I’m flicking the switch but there’s no power. Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“And never will be again,” added Philippa. “What’s gone is gone.”
“Just like Dybbuk,” said John. “Burnt out. Remember?” Groanin let out a big, unsteady sigh. “What, my pets, no djinn power left at all?”
“None.” Philippa smiled through her tears. “I’m not crying because I’m sad. I’m crying because I’m happy.”
“Happy?” Nimrod frowned. “How is that possible?”
“I’m happy because I can be normal now. I’m happy because I can be mundane like everyone else.”
“I never thought I would say this, but I agree,” said John. “And, what’s more, I’m glad I gave it up — the djinn power — not because I couldn’t handle it, or something lame like that, but because there was something truly worthwhile to sacrifice it for.”
Nimrod nodded. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “I’m especially proud because the world will never know how much it owes you.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” said Philippa.
John smiled. “No normal person would,” he said. “Besides, who would believe us now?”
“You know what I’m looking forward to most?” asked Philippa.
“No,” said Groanin. “Tell us.”
“Going back home,” said Philippa. “Going back to school. Hanging out with some friends. Having an ambition. Living a normal life.”
“Doing things the hard way.” John shrugged. “Not being special. Not being important. Just being ordinary.”
“Staying at home. Not having adventures. Not being children of the lamp anymore. Just being — like other kids, I guess.”
“Not smelling like a camel, or tasting what a camel had for its breakfast.”
“Not worrying about having to give someone three wishes. What they’re going to wish for. That’s a heck of a responsibility.” Philippa shook her head. “I won’t miss that at all.”
John nodded. “Not turning someone into an animal. Or a bird. I hated that.”
“It’s all very well having three wishes and stuff like that,” said Philippa, “but I really think the only things worth having are the things you work for.”
“Still,” said John, “it was fun while it lasted.”
“Yes, it was,” agreed Philippa. “A lot of fun. But now it’s over.”
Nimrod sighed. “What have I done?”
“You didn’t do anything,” said Philippa. “We did. And what’s more, we knew what we were doing. So don’t blame yourself. There wasn’t any other way.”
“That’s right,” said John. “Look on the bright side, Uncle Nimrod. We won’t be needing those two junior flying carpets now. So you won’t have to go back to Fez and see Mr. Barkhiya.”
“And now that the airspace is open again,” said Philippa, “we can all fly home in the normal way. On a plane.”
“Going home.” Groanin rubbed his hands. “What could be better, eh, John? Philippa? I say, what could be better than going home to your mum and dad. You can’t ask for more than that. It’s always a blessing to go home.”
The End
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Good-byeeee! Good-byeeee! Wipe the tear, baby dear, from your eyeeee!
I have often been asked where I got the idea to write Children of the Lamp. I’m afraid the answer is not a particularly enlightening one: It seemed like a good idea at the time. Many times have I been asked this same question and it always seems curmudgeonly to answer the question with the apparently anodyne reply that is “my brain”; nevertheless, that is the truth. Duh! How could it not be? Where else do ideas come from?
And yet, perhaps, there is more. For perhaps the question begs a better question: Where do ideas go? Obviously, when you’re a writer the ideas go into a book. But the book is merely the manifestation of the idea; the thought processes that accompany the book are of enormous importance to the writer. Because every book one writes becomes a real experience and effects some change.
For example: While writing these books I have especially enjoyed getting in touch with my inner twelve-year-old — a scrofulous, bucktoothed, swarthy-looking Scottish boy I never again thought to meet — and I can honestly say to anyone who loves the story of Peter Pan (as I do) that writing for children is easily the best way I have found of getting some of his plentiful supply of fairy dust to rub off on you. Not growing up, not getting old, that is what writing Children of the Lamp has, for a while, meant to me.
As a result, I have had a great time over the last seven years writing these seven books that now make up the complete Children of the Lamp series. I had not intended that the seventh book should be the last. However, when I began to write the story it seemed to me that the characters — especially John and Philippa Gaunt — were asking me to end it for them. And, unlike Rashleigh Khan, I am a great believer in listening to children. Well-drawn, full-fleshed characters in books do this from time to time, and there is nothing that an author can do about it.
So, at their behest, it seemed best to finish the series now and certainly do so while I was still enjoying myself. I sincerely hope those readers who have read all seven titles will forgive me for not writing any more of them. But seven is quite a lot of books to have written in seven years. And I had no wish to repeat myself or become tedious as a storyteller.
I shall be sorry, however, to hang up my magic lamp and put away my flying carpet after what has been an adventure not just for John and Philippa, and I hope my readers, but for me, too. Because I have learned a great deal as a writer from writing for children. I think that the most important thing I have learned — and this is crucial for anyone who writes books for children — is to listen to your own imagination, and to trust what it tells you. It’s not for me to judge the results of my endeavors, but I have the feeling that my imagination has served me well these last six or seven years; on the odd occasion when it has looked as if it was going to let me down, I was lucky to have enjoyed the advice of my son Charlie, whose unfettered, tangential way of thinking has been, sometimes, inspirational. He is quite a character.
I am often asked who in the books is my favorite character. Like a lot of writers, I must confess that all of the characters are merely facets of my own peculiar character and, as a corollary, there are none I regard with especial fondness, for that would be to say that I am fond of my faults and boastfully proud of those few virtues I do possess. Nimrod is every bit as pompous as I can be; John and Philippa represent my own personality split between action and bookishness. I especially loved writing the axiomatic djinn philosophy of dear Mr. Rakshasas, but the character who comes closest to the real me is probably Mr. Groanin. I say, the character who comes closest to the real me is probably Mr. Groanin.
Another question I am asked is why did I choose to call myself P. B. Kerr? Was I really, as one Scottish newspaper suggested, trying to pass myself off as a writer like J. K. Rowling in order that I might make more money? Wel
l, no, actually. As Philip Kerr, I am the author of many crime novels and thrillers, some of which contain violence and quite a bit of bad language, and I wanted to make sure that children did not mistake these for books that were suitable for them. Incidentally, the B stands for Ballantyne, a name that I hated as a child and that even now I cringe at when I confess to it. I often wished I had another.
Which leads me neatly to the subject of wishes and the small but important philosophical message that lies at the heart of all seven books: This is that there is great importance in thinking before one speaks and of learning how to use language to indicate precisely what one means. Being careful what one wishes for is a lesson well learned on the rare occasions when you get exactly what you wish for. I still smile when I remember the looks of horror on the faces of some children who had told me what their three wishes might be and I proceeded to tell them in some detail how, if I were a wicked djinn, I might just give them what they wanted, which, of course, was a lot more than any of them expected.
There is also an important life point at the heart of the books and it is this: the enormous value of ambition and working for what you want, rather than having someone — a djinn like the ones on television talent shows, perhaps — come along to make your wish come true. If it’s worth having, it’s worth working for. I am the proof of the importance of having an ambition. As a child of about ten, it was my dearest wish to become a professional writer. And that was when I started first to write. Twenty-three years later, after many valuable failures, I achieved that ambition. Fortunately, it was I who made my wish come true and not Nimrod or John or Philippa.
Author Message: You can make your own fondest wish come true provided that you are prepared to work hard. Now all you have to do is to decide what that wish is.
P. B. Kerr
Wimbledon, London, 2011.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
After seven books, there are a great many people to thank.
The most important people to thank, of course, are my wife and three children. It’s not easy being married to a writer or having one as a father. Perhaps, one day my own kids (like the children of poor Enid Blyton) will write a book about what an ogre I was. (And if you do, then remember this: I did my best for you.)
Now I have to thank three people who are excellent agents but, more importantly, even better friends. These are Robert Bookman at CAA, and Caradoc King and Linda Shaughnessy at AP Watt. These people are the nearest thing I have found to powerful but benign djinn who can help to make a writer’s wishes come true.
I should also like to thank everyone at Scholastic USA, of course, many of whom I didn’t get to know by name. I should especially like to thank Dick Robinson, Ellie Berger, and the wonderful Lisa Ann Sandell, who was my very patient and long-suffering editor, and the charming Charisse Meloto.
Thanks are also due to the talented Barbara Marcus, the brilliant Jean Feiwel, the loyal Richard Scrivener, the delightful Jo Hardacre, and my fellow in lunch, Amanda Punter. To each of them I say, “Best wishes to you all.”
I should like to thank Walter Parkes, Laurie MacDonald, and Nina Jacobson at Dreamworks for all their help and kindness.
But most of all, I must thank you, my readers — readers of all ages — many of whom have written to me with good ideas and kind words. The best thing about writing for children is the letters and e-mails from readers who almost invariably never write unless they have something nice to say. Apologies for not answering all of you. I’m a hopeless correspondent, as many of you will know by now. So thanks, guys. Warmest regards to you all.
About the Author
P. B. KERR was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, where he developed a lifelong love of reading. Although the Children of the Lamp books are P. B. Kerr’s first for children, he’s well known as the thriller writer Philip Kerr, author of the Berlin Noir series, including, most recently, Field Gray and If the Dead Rise Not, as well as the acclaimed novels A Philosophical Investigation, The Grid, and The Shot, among others. Mr. Kerr lives in London with his family.
Copyright
Copyright © 2011 by Thynker Ltd.
Cover art © 2011 by Petar Meseldžija
Cover design by Elizabeth B. Parisi
All rights reserved. Published by Orchard Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. ORCHARD BOOKS and design are registered trademarks of Watts Publishing Group, Ltd., used under license. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Orchard Books, Scholastic Inc., Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Kerr, Philip.
The grave robbers of Genghis Khan / P.B. Kerr.
p. cm. – (Children of the lamp; bk. 7)
Summary: While volcanoes spew golden lava around the world, djinn twins John and Philippa, with their parents, Uncle Nimrod, and Groanin, face evil more powerful than ever before when they try to stop the wicked djinn trying to rob the grave of Genghis Khan.
[1. Genies – Fiction. 2. Magic – Fiction. 3. Twins – Fiction. 4. Brothers and sisters – Fiction. 5. Volcanoes – fiction. 6. Genghis Khan, 1162–1227 – Fiction. 7. Mongolia – Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.K46843Gr 2011
[Fic] – dc23
2011020803
First edition, November 2011
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
eISBN: 978-0-545-38801-6