The Five Fakirs of Faizabad

by P. B. Kerr

  “What’s a patent?” asked Philippa.

  “It’s a grant made by a government that confers upon the creator of an invention the right to make, use, and sell that invention for a set period of time,” explained Moo. “But it’s also a means of officially recording the existence of an invention or a theory.”

  “The fakir went into the Federal Office for Intellectual Property in Bern,” continued Mr. Burton. “Fortunately for him, it was there he met someone who understood the meaning of his secret immediately. That man was Albert Einstein. It was the holy man’s secret that helped Einstein develop his famous theory of relativity that changed the world.”

  “You mean e equals mc squared?” said Philippa. “That was one of the great mysteries entrusted to the ten fakirs by the Tirthankar of Faizabad?”

  “Exactly so,” said Mr. Burton.

  “I’m beginning to see why someone might want to get his hands on one of these great mysteries,” admitted Nimrod. “With a secret like that there’s no telling what someone might do.”

  “Yes, you are right, Nimrod,” said Mr. Burton. “It is generally supposed that each of the fakirs could reveal a secret that would bring about such an enormous change in the world, and which, if it fell into the wrong hands, might prove disastrous.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said Moo. “e equals mc squared was the theory that helped unlock the secrets of the atom.”

  “Not to mention the atomic bomb.” Groanin shook his head. “Nasty things that make nasty-looking clouds shaped like mushrooms. I’ve never liked mushrooms. Not even with sausages.”

  “My suspicion,” said Mr. Burton, “is that someone must know where one of these dasas — the fakir servants — is to be found, and is watching him closely. Probably they are hoping to create a feeling of bad luck around a particular location where it is commonly believed one of the remaining six must be buried alive.”

  “Bumby,” muttered Groanin. “There must be one of them fakirs in Bumby. It’s the only possible explanation for why the town’s luck has turned so bad.”

  “The dasa has no control of the fakir’s revival. It’s even possible the fakir himself may already have arisen, but the dasa knows he’s being watched and doesn’t dare contact his risen fakir for fear of the secret falling into the wrong hands,” said Mr. Burton.

  “Light my lamp, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “But you could be right. It could be Bumby.”

  “It would certainly explain why there were so many odd and sinister-looking characters wandering around the place,” added the butler. “It must have been them fake mendicant fakirs you was talking about, sir.”

  “Yes,” said Nimrod. “I think so, too. But who’s behind them? The mendicant fakirs, they’re just a bunch of troublemakers. They wouldn’t know what to do with one of the universe’s great mysteries if they found it inside a Christmas cracker. No, this is something else. Something more sophisticated.”

  “I suppose it’s back to Bumby, then,” said Groanin.

  “What, all of us?” exclaimed Nimrod. “I should say not. No, this calls for some subtlety. We must move carefully. Philippa, you must go.”

  “Me?” exclaimed Philippa. “On my own? Why me?”

  “Because no one there will suspect you, my child. And besides, Groanin and John have been there before and it might draw attention if they went back there so soon. It’s my impression that no one goes back to Bumby unless they are quite mad.”

  “I often go to Bumby,” protested Groanin. “On my holidays.”

  “Then you make my point for me,” said Nimrod. “You can go there on your flying carpet,” he told Philippa.

  “I shall accompany you, child,” said Moo. “I may be of some use. In an official government capacity.”

  “Good idea,” said Nimrod.

  “What shall I do when I get there?” asked Philippa.

  “Watch and observe,” said Nimrod. “See if you can spot the mendicant fakirs and the dasa. And the genuine fakir, of course. The one with the secret. And if you can manage it without leading the fake fakirs to the real one, try to make contact.”

  “Where are you going to be?” asked Philippa.

  “Er, I don’t know,” said Nimrod. “But I’m hoping Mr. Burton here is going to tell me.”

  Mr. Burton shrugged. “This is not so easy.”

  Nimrod thought for a moment. “I think that somehow we will need to alter the perception of luck in the world and to do it quickly before other fakirs start to come out of the ground and reveal their secrets,” he said. “But for that to happen, something really lucky would have to take place. A quick-fix event of almost mythical good luck. But just how such a thing is brought about, I really have no idea.” He sighed and, throwing up his hands, landed them loudly upon his head as if he hoped the impact might provoke a good idea. But it didn’t.

  “When Mr. Rakshasas needed inspiration and enlightenment,” said Nimrod, “he would say that it was time to look for his navel.”

  “I can’t see that helping somehow,” observed Groanin. “For a start you’d have to find your navel. That’s not so easy these days. You’re not as thin as you used to be.”

  “I was speaking metaphorically,” said Nimrod. “I don’t mean my navel. I mean omphalos, which is Greek for ‘navel.’“

  “A navel is still a navel,” said Groanin. “Whether it’s a Greek navel or one from the Isle of Skye.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “An omphalos is also an ancient religious stone artifact. According to the ancient Greeks, Zeus sent two eagles to fly across the world and meet at its center, the navel of the world. And several omphalos stones were erected in several areas around the Mediterranean Sea, including one that was at the oracle at Delphi. Omphalos stones were said to allow direct communication with the gods.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Mr. Burton. “Mr. Rakshasas used to go and sit inside an omphalos stone when he wanted to do some serious thinking. The stone has a hollow center.”

  “Did he now?” said Nimrod.

  “Oh, yes. He once said that he regarded the inside of an omphalos stone as a better place for thinking than the great British Library.”

  “That wouldn’t be difficult,” said Groanin. “Some of the stupidest people in the world work at the British Library. I should know. I used to work there myself.”

  “Do shut up, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “So then, I suppose I’ll have to go to Delphi.”

  Mr. Burton shook his head. “The one in the museum at Delphi is a fake,” he said. “But there is a real one in Jerusalem. In the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. That’s the one that Mr. Rakshasas always favored.” He bowed to Nimrod. “It would be my honor to accompany you, Nimrod, as I did once accompany Rakshasas.”

  “Good idea,” said Nimrod. “So, here’s the plan: Philippa and Moo will fly to Bumby, while Mr. Burton, Groanin, John, Zagreus, and myself will fly to Jerusalem.” Nimrod frowned. “Which reminds me. Where is that boy? And where is that Jinx?”

  “You say that there is no sign of him down below?” asked Mr. Burton.

  “No,” said Philippa. “And frankly, I am a little worried.”

  Mr. Burton looked sheepish. “I think I might be able to provide an explanation,” he said.

  CHAPTER 17

  RESCUE MISSION

  What is it, Mr. Burton?” asked Philippa. “Do you know where my brother, John, is?”

  “No, I do not know that. But if your brother has left the mountain, then perhaps I can offer a reason why. He was most aggrieved at his lack of cleverness. Upset with himself that he did not guess any of the three riddles I set you yesterday. I think he wished to prove his worth in some way. That is why he came to seek my advice. Most particularly he wished to know what happened to our mutual friend, Mr. Rakshasas.”

  “And?” Philippa’s tone was impatient.

  “The boy asked to look into the past,” explained Mr. Burton. “Into my ink spot.”

  “I
nk spot divination?” Nimrod sounded surprised. “You can do that, too?”

  “I learned it from a great Egyptian sorcerer,” said Mr. Burton. “A Mr. Jonathan Burge, of Heliopolis, Cairo. A most capable fellow.”

  “Well, what did he see in your ink spot?” asked Groanin. He, too, was beginning to feel worried about John.

  “In my ink spot he saw that Mr. Rakshasas has undergone samsara, the process of rebirth, and has been made flesh again. Or to be more exact, flesh and fur.”

  “What, you mean like reincarnated?” said Groanin.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Burton.

  “Who is he now?” asked Groanin.

  “Not who. What. According to what John saw in the ink spot, Mr. Rakshasas is now a wolf.” “A wolf?”

  “A wolf living quite happily in Yellowstone National Park,” said Mr. Burton. “That is a park in Wyoming, Montana, and Idaho, I believe.”

  “Thanks,” said Philippa drily. “I know where it is.” She looked at Nimrod. “Did you know about this, Uncle Nimrod?”

  “No. But it’s what Mr. Rakshasas believed would happen to him after he died. So I’m not particularly surprised. Mr. Burton? Do you think John might have gone to Yellowstone to see Mr. Rakshasas in his new incarnation?”

  “Yes, it’s possible,” said Mr. Burton. “But I think there was also another reason that he has left the mountain. Something more serious, perhaps.”

  “What was that?”

  “I cannot say for sure, but as well as looking into the past he looked into the future, and there he saw something that was most alarming to him. He didn’t say what it was, however, and I didn’t press him to tell me. My own experience of looking into the future has persuaded me that it’s a very personal matter. I confess I warned him of the dangers of future gazing but still he wished to look.”

  “And you let him look?” said Nimrod.

  “He wished it,” said Mr. Burton.

  “If you only knew the problems we have with wishes,” observed Philippa.

  “You got that right,” observed Groanin. “I say, you have got that right, miss.”

  “But he’s just a boy,” Nimrod told Mr. Burton.

  Mr. Burton shrugged. “I have no experience of boys except that I suppose I was once one myself, a very long, long time ago. Why should I say no to him? I liked him. I explained the hazards of looking at tomorrow and the year after, but he was adamant as Adam himself. Besides, this is no ordinary boy, Nimrod. He is a powerful djinn. Who better than he to look after himself, wherever he has gone?”

  “You make a fair point,” sighed Nimrod. “All the same it’s very inconvenient that this should have happened now, in the midst of this crisis.”

  “Someone should go after him,” said the butler. “And fetch him back home. A rescue mission, so to speak.”

  “I agree with you, Groanin. And it’s brave of you to volunteer for the job. Stout fellow. Proud of you. I shall miss your tea, of course.”

  “Me?” said Groanin. “In Yellowstone?”

  “I’d go myself but there are more pressing matters to attend to.”

  “Nimrod’s right,” said Philippa. “John will listen to you. He respects you.”

  Groanin looked pained for a moment. “But there are bears in Yellowstone. Large ones. With very sharp claws and even sharper teeth.”

  “Then I had better arm you with a discrimens,” said Nimrod. “An emergency wish that you could use in the event of, er … well, an emergency, such as meeting up with a grizzly bear, perhaps. Or being hunted by a pack of wolves. Or a mountain lion. Or being charged by an elk. Or attacked by a rattlesnake. Yes, I think there are lots of rattlesnakes in Yellowstone National Park. To say nothing about the park being one very, very large active volcano that is several centuries overdue for an eruption.”

  Groanin smiled thinly. “Best say no more, eh, sir? Otherwise I shall feel quite unequal to the task of going at all.”

  “You’ll enjoy it,” said Nimrod. “At this time of year, Yellowstone is extremely beautiful.”

  “What time of year is it?” inquired Groanin. “In Yellowstone.”

  “Spring, of course,” said Nimrod. “Although I believe there’s still plenty of snow about, so you’d better take that coat with you. Plus one or two other things. In fact, I’d better set you up with some proper equipment. All that Jack London stuff.”

  “Yes, but how am I going to get there? The boy is using a flying carpet, which means he’ll get there sooner than any plane I might catch.”

  “Hmm. Good point.” Nimrod sighed. “I suppose there’s only one thing for it. I’d better cut you off a chunk of my own carpet.”

  “I thought Mr. Barkhiya said that only a djinn could fly one of these carpets,” objected Moo.

  “That is true,” said Nimrod. “But Groanin will merely have to sit on his piece of flying carpet. I shall be doing the flying. By means of my own willpower. Happily, this will be easy enough. You remember that Mr. Barkhiya told us that all flying carpets were made from the one larger carpet once owned by King Solomon? Well, when directed to do so, one rug will follow the other. I shall simply direct the smaller carpet I cut from my larger one to pursue John’s carpet, with a special binding. Much as I would instruct a bloodhound to go after a scent. All Groanin will have to do is sit on the carpet until it gets to Yellowstone.”

  “And the rug,” said Groanin. “This fragment of your own larger one. It won’t give out in the cold, will it? I don’t want to be stuck there in the middle of nowhere trying to fly a flipping yoga mat.”

  “I can’t imagine why you think such a thing is even possible,” said Nimrod.

  “Because, sir, I’ve been on adventures before. Things go wrong. I suppose that’s what makes them adventures, really. But I should much prefer it if they didn’t go wrong, see? I’m not much of a traveler at the best of times. A day in which nothing at all happens — and certainly nothing at all remarkable — is my idea of heaven.”

  “Rest assured, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “I shall endeavor to make sure you travel in style, comfort, and safety.”

  As soon as Philippa and Moo were airborne and bound for Bumby, Nimrod set about the preparations for Groanin’s flight. He faced his own flying carpet and for several minutes contemplated the best way to cut the thirty-one-foot square of blue and gold.

  “Do I cut a strip from the edge?” he mused. “Or do I cut it in half? And with what? I wonder what Mr. Barkhiya uses when he does this sort of thing? And if there are any ceremonies to be observed. Light my lamp, I do wonder about that. After all, this is no ordinary Axminster. This carpet was once owned by King Solomon himself. I’d fly back to Fez and ask Mr. Barkhiya if there was time, but there isn’t. You really ought to get started after my nephew right away, Groanin.”

  “Can’t you just use djinn power on it?” suggested Groanin. “Just zap it down the middle, laserlike?”

  “I don’t like to ‘zap it’ as you say,” said Nimrod. “There’s the small matter of respect involved here. Using my power on the carpet might offend the ancient power that dwells within its silky fibers.” Nimrod shook his head. “No, using djinn power on this is quite out of the question. And quite possibly impossible.”

  Groanin thought for a moment. Then he said, “I do happen to have a carpet knife in my luggage, sir, if that might help.”

  “Perhaps the edge of the carpet is best. Ten feet wide still leaves me with twenty-one feet. What was that you said?”

  “I have a carpet knife in my luggage, sir.”

  Groanin went and fetched his knife and handed it over to his master.

  “A carpet knife, Groanin? How on earth is it that you have one?”

  “That carpet knife were me dad’s,” said Groanin. “He were a carpet fitter all his life, in Burnley. I keep it with me for sentimental reasons. Sometimes I just get it out and hold it and imagine me dad slicing a Berber twist pile on the floor of some semidetached in greater Manchester. It’s amazing, I can almost smell new ca
rpets when I hold that knife.”

  “A bit like Marcel Proust, you mean,” said Nimrod.

  “I don’t know about Proust, but I do think it’s a bit ironic really, us planning to cut up this here carpet. If my dad was here now, he’d have it done in no time. No one could cut a carpet like my old dad.”

  Nimrod handed back the knife to his butler. “Then you shall cut the carpet, Groanin,” he said. “We shall see if this is a talent you have inherited from him.”

  “Very well, sir.” Groanin dropped down upon his knees and proceeded to cut the straightest line in a carpet that Nimrod had ever seen.

  “Perfect,” said Nimrod. “There seems to be no end to your talents, Groanin. Well then. On you get.” Groanin fetched his luggage and sat cross-legged on the carpet and waited while Nimrod used his djinn power to add a large box of stores for the expedition. “Everything you might need is in those boxes, Groanin. Food, tents, a rifle, ammunition, materials for making a fire. And I’ve attached a discrimens to your person just in case the rifle should prove not to be enough.”

  “Thank you, sir. When I find John, what shall I do?”

  “Go back to the house in Kensington and wait for me there. And don’t let him go gallivanting anywhere else.”

  “Right you are, sir.”

  Under Nimrod’s direction, the carpet carrying Groanin started to rise slowly in the air.

  “Can’t help feeling just a little bit nervous, sir,” said Groanin. “After all, this is my first solo flight, so to speak.”

  “Relax. Sit back. Enjoy the experience. You’ll be fine.”

  “And you, sir?”

  “Off to Jerusalem. With Mr. Burton here. In search of inspiration. Hard to say what that might look like. But I have a feeling we’ll know it when we see it.”