The Five Fakirs of Faizabad

by P. B. Kerr

  “And your third wish, Asaf?” asked Nimrod.

  “Things have been difficult for my country of late,” said Mr. Barkhiya. “People are fearful. They are superstitious. And of late, luck has not smiled on us. The crops lack rain. There is much unemployment. Our country has many enemies and owes much money to the World Bank. Good fortune seems to have deserted us.”

  “That’s interesting,” said Moo. “This is what I suspected all along.”

  “But this is one of the reasons I came here in the first place,” Nimrod told Asaf. “To consult with the English fakir who lives at the top of Jebel Toubkal. If Lady Silvia here is right, it’s not just your country that feels its lack of luck. Many others do, too.”

  “I would change that.”

  “You ask the impossible, Asaf,” said Nimrod. “Even I don’t have the power to fix all your country’s ills.”

  “I believe I have a way. So this will be my third wish, Nimrod.”

  “How?” asked Nimrod. “This interests me a great deal, Asaf. How would you change the luck of your country?”

  “I will not say that it would change things in your country, Nimrod,” said Asaf. “But it will certainly change things here. We are a simple people and some sort of a sign is needed that perhaps things are improving in my country. I think that the sign I would give with my third wish might change this perception. The ancient Romans had a saying: cum mula peperit. You will find this strange, Nimrod. But that will be my third wish. This is how it will be, O great djinn?”

  Nimrod nodded. “This is how it will be, Asaf. As you wish. Cum mula peperit.”

  CHAPTER 12

  THE FLYING CARPET

  Mr. Barkhiya took Nimrod and the others up to the rug emporium rooftop, where, in the late afternoon sunshine, his sons were spreading out the three carpets that had been bought. The biggest of the carpets — Nimrod’s flying carpet — was about a thousand square feet and as blue as a sapphire. Under the hot Moroccan sun, the gold thread woven into the carpet seemed to glow like it was molten metal. Moo and Groanin sat close to the center of the carpet, which seemed like the safest place, and patiently awaited takeoff.

  The emporium’s rooftop was castellated like a fortress and was the highest in all of the old city so that local people might not be alarmed at the sight of a carpet ascending into the sky. The El Moania hotel was several miles away, although its distinctive pyramid shape was clearly visible on the horizon.

  “If the carpet has not flown for a while,” explained one of the sons, “then you should always leave it in the sun for a few minutes to warm the fibers up. Djinn power relies on heat, yes? Especially the heat of the sun?”

  John nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  “You will wish to personalize your carpet,” said the man. “Make it so that only you can fly it. In which case you must spill your blood upon it. For then your djinn blood will become part of the carpet. And the words of power will always be yours to command.”

  Mr. Barkhiya’s son, who was called Mustafa, produced a large hat pin that he handed to John expectantly.

  “What, now?” John stared at the hat pin.

  “As good a time as any,” said Nimrod. He took the hat pin from John, stabbed his thumb with it, and let a ruby of blood drop on the shining blue silk of the largest carpet. “And you certainly wouldn’t want another djinn to steal it, would you?”

  Philippa pricked her finger in turn and handed the hat pin back to her brother.

  “I hate needles,” mumbled John.

  “Do hurry up, John,” said Nimrod.

  “Don’t be such a wuss,” said Philippa and, taking the hat pin back again, she grabbed her brother’s finger and pricked it for him before he could protest.

  “Ouch,” said John. “That hurt.”

  Philippa squeezed his finger hard and dropped some of John’s blood onto the third carpet.

  “By the way,” said Nimrod. “You’d better let me have some of that blood. Just in case.”

  “Just in case of what?” asked John.

  “Just in case I need to fly your carpet myself,” said Nimrod.

  He ordered the two smaller flying rugs to be rolled up and placed on top of the larger one and, with he and Moo and Groanin and the twins now seated on the huge blue square of silk carpet, the English djinn muttered his focus word. A second or two later, the carpet started silently to rise into the air like a very well-behaved helicopter.

  “Marvelous,” said Moo, glancing over the carpet’s edge at the retreating medina. “I never thought to fly on a real magic carpet.”

  “Don’t say that word,” muttered Groanin. “Magic. It irritates the boss. And I wouldn’t want him irritated when he’s flying. It’s been a while since he flew anything other than a will-o’-the-wisp.”

  “Oh, right,” said Moo. “Sorry. But I don’t think I’ve had as much fun as this since I was a little girl, when I rode on an elephant at the London Zoo.” She smoothed the carpet with the palm of her hand and thought it smoother than the fur of the cleverest cat that had ever lived.

  Groanin closed his eyes. “You ask me,” he said, “carpets is for covering floors with. Or vacuuming. Not gallivanting about the world upon. It isn’t natural.”

  “Do shut up, Groanin,” said Nimrod, and steered the flying carpet in the direction of the El Moania hotel.

  “I didn’t understand Asaf Barkhiya’s third wish,” said Philippa. “It was in Latin, wasn’t it?”

  “Cum mula peperit?” said Nimrod. “Yes. It’s Latin. And if you had ever attended a decent school where they taught anything other than so-called ‘computer skills,’ you might also know that it means ‘when a mule foals.’“

  “That’s a wish?” said John. “Sounds more like a riddle.”

  “In a way it is,” said Nimrod. “A mule is —”

  “The sterile hybrid of a horse and a donkey,” said Philippa. “They do teach us biology.”

  “That’s something, I suppose,” said Nimrod. “Then you might also know that it’s almost impossible, biologically speaking, for a mule to give birth. But it does happen. Once in a blue moon.”

  “So, when it does happen,” said Moo, “word will quickly get around that something pretty special has happened. Which Asaf hopes will be seen as a cause for some optimism in the country at large.” She nodded. “Yes, I can see how that might work. Very clever of him, really.”

  Nimrod stopped the flying carpet outside the hundredth floor of the El Moania and because there was no window — Groanin having leaned on it earlier and pushed it out of the frame — it was a simple matter for all except Moo to climb back into the room where Zagreus had remained behind watching television.

  “Pack your bags,” Nimrod told everyone. “We’re leaving.”

  “First sensible thing you’ve said since we got here,” said Groanin. “Thank goodness we won’t have to carry the bags all the way down those stairs.”

  “Hey, what about the hotel bill?” said Zagreus.

  “He’s right, we should leave them something,” said Philippa.

  “The bill?” exclaimed Groanin. “For what? Ruining my boot? Making us climb a hundred flights of stairs? Confiscating my food supply? I’ve stayed in better prisons than this place.”

  “John?” asked Nimrod. “What do you think?”

  “Well, it was certainly an experience,” said John. “I don’t think I’ll ever complain in a hotel again. That is, as long as I don’t ever have to come back to this particular hotel. I thought the Oasis Guesthouse in Bumby was bad. But this place is terrible.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the Oasis Guesthouse in Bumby,” insisted Groanin. “Leastways not unless there’s a Jinx staying there.”

  “Speaking for myself,” said Philippa, “I think I’ve learned to appreciate how well-off I am and what a good hotel is. It’s been an education, all right.”

  “Ah,” said Nimrod. “Experience. Education. The all-important words. In which case we should certainly leave so
mething to cover the bill. Experience and education are in short supply these days and are always worth paying for. After all, anyone can stay in a good hotel. But it takes a very special kind of person to stay in the worst hotel in the world.”

  “You don’t half talk some nonsense,” muttered Groanin, and pulled his bowler hat tight about his ears.

  “Quiet, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “Or I shall turn you back into a garden ornament.” And, taking out his wallet, he thumbed several banknotes onto the table. “It’s a pity more people don’t get a chance to stay here. And then they might be a little happier with their lot in life.” He shook his head. “But perhaps when we return to Fez, we’ll stay in the Morisco Palace Hotel, after all.”

  Zagreus, who didn’t have any bags, switched off the television and bounded out of the window, onto the carpet beside Moo.

  “Is it safe?” he asked, stretching out and leaning his head on John’s rolled-up carpet.

  “Isn’t that a question you should ask before you step out of a hundredth-floor window and onto a flying carpet?” Groanin threw Nimrod’s bag out of the window, then his own, and climbed out beside the Jinx. He was followed by the twins and, last of all, Nimrod himself.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” said Zagreus. “But then as someone who’s neither properly dead nor properly alive, it’s easy for me not to pay too much attention to these things. If I fall a hundred floors, I’m not sure I’ll be any worse off than I am now. Can you say the same?”

  Nimrod laughed at the sight of Groanin’s obvious discomfort and set a course for the Atlas Mountains.

  “Nimrod, you haven’t yet explained why this man we’re going to see is so important,” said Moo as they climbed higher into the sky above the city. She tied a ribbon over her straw hat and under her chin so that the hat would not blow off her head.

  “And how a butler comes to be a fakir,” said John.

  “Mr. Burton is the great-grandson of the famous English explorer and Orientalist Sir Richard Burton,” said Nimrod. “The man who was one of the first translators of the Arabian Nights. Inspired by his illustrious ancestor, Mr. Burton studied Arabic and Urdu at Harvard University and then went to live with holy men in India, where he met Mr. Rakshasas, who was persuaded to take the young man under his wing and teach him many ancient secrets and several esoteric mysteries.

  “In return, Mr. Burton was, for twenty years, butler to Mr. Rakshasas. Then, according to what I was told by Mr. Rakshasas, Mr. Burton had some sort of vision and decided that he should go and become a holy man himself. Some people call these holy men sadhus or gurus, and some call them swamis or yogis. The most important thing is that Mr. Burton became an ascetic, which is to say that his life became one of abstinence and hardship, all with the aim of attaining wisdom and enlightenment. For many years now Mr. Burton has lived at the top of Jebel Toubkal, which is the highest peak in the Atlas Mountains, not seeing anyone, not saying anything, and not eating or drinking anything. In other words, he became a kind of fakir. And it is certain no one knows more about fakirs than he.”

  “He doesn’t eat anything?” said Groanin. “Nothing at all? Not even a cup of tea?”

  “So far as I know,” said Nimrod.

  “He sounds a bit mad to me,” said Groanin. “I mean, what’s the point of being alive if you can’t eat? Or drink? You might as well be dead. Anyway, how are we going to get any information out of this character if he doesn’t say anything? Have you thought of that, sir?”

  “There are more ways of communicating with someone than just speech,” said Nimrod.

  “For you, maybe,” grumbled Groanin. “Personally, I’ve always found speech is quite adequate for making myself understood.”

  After an hour’s flying, they reached Jebel Toubkal, the highest peak in the Atlas Mountains. But at the summit of the mountain, which is 13,665 feet high and shrouded with clouds, there was no obvious sign of the English fakir. And, dismounting the flying carpet, they spread out to search the summit and its environs.

  “Perhaps he went on holiday,” suggested Groanin.

  Moo shivered. “I wish I’d brought a coat,” she said.

  And because Philippa liked Moo and could already feel her own djinn powers starting to wane in the cold of the mountaintop — for djinn are made of fire — she quickly muttered her focus word and made warm fur coats, one for Moo and one for herself.

  “Don’t worry,” she told Moo. “It’s not real fur,” and wondered why Moo looked a little disappointed.

  “I like that,” said Groanin. “She gets a warm coat but not me.”

  “Too late, I’m afraid,” said Philippa. “My power’s gone.” “Mine, too,” admitted John.

  Groanin glanced at Nimrod. “No chance you making me a fur coat, is there, sir?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t it be simpler to look for something warm in your suitcase?” asked Nimrod.

  Groanin shrugged and then opened his case. But there was nothing that looked like it might make the butler feel any more comfortable. “I packed for a hot climate,” said Groanin. “Not a perishing cold one.”

  “We’re supposed to be looking for some sign of Burton,” said Nimrod. “Not a vest or a pullover.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” said Groanin, rubbing his hands together.

  Then John shouted from a place several yards away that was hidden in the mountaintop mist. “I think I’ve found something,” he said.

  “Where are you?” said Nimrod.

  “Here,” said John. “A few yards down the south-facing slope, there’s a pile of stones.”

  When they found John, he was halfway up a little pyramid of rocks and taking hold of what looked like a tall, thin tree that was growing out the top of it. Except that it wasn’t a tree at all but a rigid length of thick rope. John peered up the rope into the depths of the mist above his head and then tugged it experimentally.

  “It seems to go up for quite a way,” he said.

  “Well done, John,” said Nimrod. “I should say there’s a very good chance that you’ve found Mr. Burton.”

  “What? You mean he’s up there?” Groanin sounded outraged. “At the top of that rope?”

  “Of course,” said Nimrod. “Where else would he be?”

  Groanin smiled a wry smile. “Where else indeed?” He shook his head. “You make it sound almost normal. Just don’t expect me to climb up there, sir. I’m a butler, not a chimpanzee.” He glanced sideways at Zagreus when he said this.

  “What an unimaginative fellow you are sometimes, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “Who on earth said anything about climbing up there? Why climb when we can fly?”

  CHAPTER 13

  THE THREE RIDDLES OF THE FAKIR OF JEBEL TOUBKAL

  Steadily, like an elevator in a very tall building, the flying carpet ascended in the air alongside the rope. Above their heads were thick white clouds and little sign that there was anything at the top of the rope except yet more clouds. As they continued their inexorable ascent, both air temperature and pressure dropped quickly and a thin layer of hoarfrost began to turn the golden edge of the blue carpet white. After a while, Nimrod took pity on Groanin, whose teeth were chattering like castanets, and made a warm silver fox fur coat for his butler, as well as one for his nephew. For himself, he made a red fox fur coat because Nimrod was always very fond of the color red.

  Only Zagreus didn’t seem to feel the cold, but then again, he didn’t feel very much at all.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Groanin, shrinking into the warmth of the coat.

  “Is that real fur?” asked Philippa.

  “It is and it isn’t,” said Nimrod. “You see, it all depends what you mean by ‘real fur.’”

  “Don’t you know that real fur is wrong?” said Philippa. “Synthetic fur is the ethical choice.”

  “Oh, I agree,” said Nimrod. “But since I used djinn power to make these coats, then you can be assured that no animals were killed.”

  “Hmm.” Philippa nodded. “I had
n’t thought of that.”

  John was looking anxiously up the rope. “I think we’re nearing the end of the rope,” he said. “There are little bits of knotted string. And, in the knots, there are pieces of colored wool and paper, and cloth bags.”

  “Those are prayers, and offerings of food,” said Nimrod. “From local people on the ground. The Berbers. Those probably get pulled up the rope by the fakir. An indication of the regard people hereabouts must have for him.”

  “I suppose this is a bit like the Indian rope trick,” said Moo.

  “I sincerely hope not,” said Nimrod. “The point of the Indian rope trick is to disappear at the top.”

  “Oh, yes.” Moo pulled an old lady sort of face. “I never thought of that.”

  At the top of the rope, the wind dropped and the clouds suddenly cleared to reveal a brilliantly blue sky bathed in bright, warm sunshine. The air seemed sweeter, too. As if someone had opened a box of strongly scented Turkish delight. Attached to the rope was a little triangular wooden platform, like a very small tree house, and sitting on the platform, surrounded by flowerpots, was a tall, thin man with white hair and the longest beard the twins had ever seen. Everyone fell silent as Nimrod brought the flying carpet directly alongside the fakir.

  Mr. Burton wore a thin brown robe and a set of amber beads, and on his forehead were four streaks of yellow paint. In front of his bare feet was a garland of beautiful flowers. But most curious of all were his bright blue eyes, which stared into the most distant distance, as if he could see far into the next world. Groanin, who had seen holy men before, was more fascinated with the rope, which wasn’t attached to anything at all. It just ended in a large knot, as if someone had tried to tie the rope to a very tall, faraway tree that had long-since vanished into thin air.