by P. B. Kerr
“They know that I’m a djinn,” he said. “Well, of course they suspected something of the kind when they saw us arrive here on a flying carpet. Seventy odd years ago, Himmler sent them here to find out the secret of eternal life and a load of stuff about Tibetan paranormal powers, but the monks at Shamba-la have always refused to let them in the door. I guess they must have showed up after you were last here, huh? Otherwise you’d have mentioned it, right?”
Rakshasas barked once.
“Anyway, they think I’m the next best thing to Tibetan paranormal powers. So they’re planning to take me back to Berlin instead of some monk from Shamba-la. And yes, I’ve agreed to go with them.”
Gradually, the wolf settled down until he was just standing there looking at him, with an expression of disappointment and reproach in his blue eyes — as if to say, “You made a deal with some Nazis?”
“What could I do?” John said to Rakshasas. “Since I’ve been in the Kailash crater, I’ve had no djinn power. None at all. It’s completely deserted me. I couldn’t have resisted them even if I had wanted to. And I had to give my word to go back to Berlin with them or they’d have tortured you. Roasted you alive, they said, and made me watch.”
Rakshasas stared at him some more and then shook his head, and John didn’t need to put his spirit inside the wolf to know what he was thinking.
“That might not seem important to you,” said John. “But I certainly couldn’t have endured it.”
Then Rakshasas put his nose into the air and emitted a long howl, which of course made John think of Groanin and what was happening in Yellowstone Park.
“Yes, I know. I’m thinking about poor Groanin, too. But he’s a shrewd one, the Nazi commander. He made me make a wish, see? They made me wish that something would happen to Mom and Dad if I broke my word to them. And I know better than to wish things lightly, especially when it involves the lives of others. You know how that stuff works. So I had to choose.”
John punched his hand as he tried to explain himself to the wolf.
“I had to choose Groanin or my own mother and father. So I had to choose my parents. That’s what anyone would do, isn’t it?”
Rakshasas stepped forward and licked away the tear that was rolling down John’s face. Then he nipped him on the hand again as if to say, “Pull yourself together.”
John pulled himself together and watched helplessly as the flying carpet was rolled up and tied on top of a climbing pack, and although he had his doubts that the carpet would fly at all within the confines of the crater, he still felt compelled to mention it to Hynkell. Even to tease him with it a little.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Don’t you want me to fly some of you out of here? It’d be a lot easier than walking, I’d have thought. And certainly a lot quicker.”
Hynkell, who was tying a rope around his middle for the descent, shook his head. “I can’t ask some of my men to wait behind,” he said. “Either we all go back together or not at all. Besides, I’m not quite ready to put myself completely in your control, John.”
“I already gave you my word,” said John.
“It’ll be a different story in Berlin, but up here it’s best that I don’t put too much temptation in your way. So I think we will climb down, yes?”
John shrugged. “It’s your call,” he said. “But it looked like a very difficult climb when I flew in here. I’d have said it couldn’t have been done on foot. It’s a sheer wall at the foot of that fissure. You must all be excellent mountaineers. I certainly hope so since I’m putting myself in your control.”
“We’re the best in Germany,” said Hynkell. “Which is to say, the best in the world. That’s why we were sent here in the first place.”
“I don’t mind telling you,” said John. “I’m not much of a climber. And nor is Rakshasas.”
Hynkell smiled thinly. “Then we shall teach you.” The Nazi approached John and tied a rope around his middle.
“Is that in case I escape?”
“No, it is in case you fall.”
When all the Nazis were assembled and ready to leave the crater, Hynkell made a speech about the journey that lay ahead of them and passed around a bottle of schnapps. After that, they sang the German national anthem. And just before dawn, they set off.
For about an hour they walked along a knife-edge traverse until they came to the entrance to the fissure and Hynkell led the way in, but not a man followed him without halting breathlessly for a moment, and glancing back at the crater where they had lived for such an unfeasible length of time. Yet there were no expressions of regret at leaving behind their secret Himalayan sanctuary. For all of the Germans, this was not a departure but an escape and, in spite of his dislike of their leader, Hynkell, John couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of concern and foreboding for what lay ahead of them. How soon would they discover the truth about what had happened to them? When they reached Lhasa and saw the first television? And how would they react to the discovery that even the youngest of them was at least ninety years old? Would they take it out on John and Rakshasas?
The passage through the fissure was anything but easy going. The floor was nonexistent and most of the time they had to traverse the passage in an acute angle between the two walls. Sometimes the gap between the two walls was very narrow, which meant that the larger climbing packs had to be removed and in some cases abandoned because they were too bulky to be squeezed through. Only Rakshasas, being the smallest of all the travelers, moved through the fissure without any real difficulty.
After several hours in the fissure, they stopped for food and some of the kinder, friendlier Germans fetched Mr. Rakshasas some food, and John learned that not all of the men were fanatics like Hynkell. Some were just ordinary men who had found themselves drafted into the German army and, because they were skilled mountaineers, detailed to join the SS and, in particular, Hynkell’s expedition to Tibet.
“Don’t worry,” one of them told John. “We’ll look after you and your furry friend here. Back in Germany, I have a dog that looks a lot like him. My brother has been looking after him while I’ve been away.” The German smiled. “He’ll go crazy when he sees me again.”
“After all this time, do you think he’ll recognize you?” John asked carefully.
“Of course,” said the German. “He’s my dog. Not my brother’s. German shepherds are one-man dogs. For life. Once they’re yours, they’re yours forever.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said John.
“My name is Fritz,” said the man, holding out his hand.
John nodded and took it. “John,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. I think.”
“Have you been to Berlin before?” asked Fritz.
“Yes, once,” said John. “I went to the Pergamon Museum. It was very interesting. The Blue Gates of Babylon.”
“Your German is very good,” said Fritz.
“Thanks.” John thought it best not to mention that the only reason he spoke fluent German was because he’d wished it with djinn power. That was the only reason he’d done a lot of things. And he wondered how much Fritz knew about who and what he was. Kind or not, John certainly didn’t want to get into a conversation with the German that ended with being asked for three wishes.
“How is it,” asked Fritz, “that you are able to fly a magic carpet?”
John shrugged. “Practice,” he said.
Fritz smiled at John’s joke but there was no time for him to reply as one of Hynkell’s staff sergeants blew a whistle, which was the sign for everyone to get moving again.
The second stage of the journey through the fissure in Mount Kailash was even harder than the first, and while John found the going difficult he did not find it as difficult as most of the Germans, who seemed surprisingly unfit. By the time they reached the other side of the mountain, the Germans were all puffing like steam trains and many of them were exhausted. And it was with a sense of relief that John heard Hynkell give the order that they wou
ld make camp in the fissure that night and begin the descent of the rock face first thing in the morning.
As soon as the order was given, Fritz collapsed against the rock wall and might have lain down except that there was no room to lie down, and almost everyone except John spent the next few hours asleep on their feet like a collection of statues. Even the man carrying John’s flying carpet was asleep, and John might actually have stolen it back but for the fact that he had given his word to Hynkell.
To take his mind off such considerations, John went to the edge of the fissure, stared down the rock face, and shuddered at the very thought of trying to climb down the mountain. The descent looked impossible and the real wonder was how these men had ever made the ascent. If he’d felt sufficient heat in his bones, he might even have contemplated helping out the Germans with better rope and some more up-to-date climbing equipment like a few dozen belay and rappel devices, quickdraws, carabiners, and climbing boots. But it was a bitterly cold night, and John felt as helpless as a kitten stuck up a tree.
“Thinking of escape?” said a voice.
John looked around and saw Hynkell was immediately behind him. He looked very tired. There were deep lines in his face, and John wondered if he or any of his men would be up to the physically demanding feat that lay ahead of them.
“No,” said the boy djinn. “I told you I gave my word. Maybe you Nazis are in the habit of breaking a promise, but I’m not.”
Hynkell nodded. “Good,” he said. Then, producing a Luger pistol, he added, “Just remember. I’ll be bringing up the rear tomorrow. So if you do break your word, I shan’t hesitate to use this. On you, or your furry friend.”
John looked over the edge once more. “Anyway, right now I’m more worried about breaking my neck than breaking my word. If you ask me, none of your men are up to this climb. They’re already exhausted. What are they going to be like when they’re on that wall?”
“Don’t worry about my men,” said Hynkell. “They’ll be all right. They made it all the way up here. They’ll certainly make it back again.”
“I hope so,” said John. “For my sake.”
As soon as it was light, the best of Hynkell’s climbers moved out onto a narrow ledge, roped in threes, and began to traverse along the sheer face of Mount Kailash; this first climber was roped to a second man who followed, and a third, and so on until it was John’s turn. Tied onto his back was Rakshasas, for John trusted no one else to carry his old friend. If they fell they would fall together. But before John stepped out onto the ledge, Fritz tapped him on the arm and handed him a pocketknife.
“Just in case,” he murmured.
For a moment John wondered what he meant and realizing this, Fritz explained:
“Just in case you need to cut the rope,” he said.
“Cut the rope?” John looked horrified at the very idea. “Why would I want to do that?”
“You might have to, lad.” said Fritz. “To save yourself. And there would be no shame in that. My own son would be about your age. I hope that another man, in similar circumstances — if such a thing were possible — would do the same for him.”
“Thanks,” said John. “But I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Naturally.” Fritz grinned. “It’s just a precaution, that’s all.”
Ignoring the sharp wind that whipped his face with reproach for having dared to set foot on the holy mountain — John had hardly forgotten what Rakshasas had said about the blasphemy of climbing Mount Kailash — he edged his way onto the traverse and began to inch his way along the wall. And, one by one, Fritz and the others followed until they were all on the wall, like a daisy chain.
For about half an hour, the movement of the climbers along the traverse was steady, but gradually it slowed and eventually came to a halt. At first, John thought it might have something to do with the wind, which was quickly building up to a gale, and he braced himself for an order from the front to go back to the fissure. He felt that would only have been sensible; perhaps they might attempt a descent later, when the wind had dropped. But when no such order came, John became impatient.
“What’s happening?” he asked the man in front to whom he was roped, whose name was Kurt.
Kurt turned to tell John that he didn’t know, and John hardly recognized him. At first, the boy supposed that it was the cold that had turned the man’s hair white; but he realized the cold could hardly have affected his voice, which was now weak and halting, or his back, which was now bent. There could be no doubt about it, thought John: Kurt was aging in front of his very eyes.
“There’s something wrong with Kurt,” he said, turning to speak to Fritz, and was even more shocked to see that Fritz, too, was aging rapidly. Instead of the tall and blond and handsome man that John had seen leaving the Kailash crater, Fritz was now an infirm and very elderly man.
Farther up the ledge, there was a shout and then a cry, and John looked around just in time to see three of the men leading the way along the traverse slip and fall to their deaths. Except that they looked dead already. Outside of a grave in a horror movie, John had never seen anyone look quite so old.
Rakshasas uttered a whine of fear, and even through his thick fur coat, John could feel the wolf trembling.
“Outside of the crater,” John yelled, “their true age is catching up with them.”
Rakshasas barked once to agree.
One by one, the men ahead of John fell from the traverse. And he realized that it would be only a matter of seconds before Kurt and Fritz, the two frail old men to whom he was still roped, fell, too.
Feebly, Fritz indicated that John should hammer in a piton and tie himself on. John hardly needed telling a second time. He put in a piton and was shocked to find it badly rusted and crumbling in his fingers as if it, too, was old — as old as the SS troop Himmler had sent to Shamba-la. This discovery — that it wasn’t just the Nazis who were rapidly deteriorating but their equipment as well — shocked John almost as much the faces of his two immediate climbing companions. He had no idea if the piton or even the rope would hold his weight if he fell.
He looked back at Fritz and nodded and saw him lay his head wearily against the rock as if he was too tired to go on. By now Fritz’s hair was completely white and his hands were shaking noticeably. He looked at least a hundred years old.
“Now cut the rope,” shouted Fritz. “Cut the rope and save yourself. Before Kurt and I take you down with us.”
John took out the pocketknife and held the blade over the rope still attaching him to Kurt and Fritz. He hesitated to cut the rope, knowing that without it these two frail old men were certain to die.
“I can’t do it,” he shouted.
Farther along the ledge, three more aged Nazis fell, very quietly, to their long overdue deaths.
“You have to,” said Fritz. He pointed a doddery hand behind John. “Look.”
John looked at Kurt and saw that he was already dead. He knew he was dead because the man was aging so rapidly his head was little more than a skull. The next second, Kurt’s skeleton collapsed in a pile of dust and bones that slipped over the edge of the traverse simultaneously removing the need for John to cut that section of the rope.
“Cut the rope, John,” shouted Fritz even as, feeling faint, he swayed on the ledge.
Rakshasas barked urgently and then nipped John on the ear.
John cut the rope and then closed his eyes as Fritz slipped, sat down heavily on the ledge, and then tipped forward into thin air like a man falling asleep for the rest of eternity.
He heard a few more feeble screams farther down the traverse and when he opened his eyes again he found that he was the only one left on the rock face. The SS men were gone, including the flying carpet that might have saved John’s life. And all that was left of them was one skull and a couple of thigh bones silvered with cold that occupied the center of the traverse like an SS man’s cap badge.
Rakshasas whined meaningfully.
“No way am
I dropping you down there after them,” said John.
The wolf barked once.
“I don’t care how heavy you are. We’ll either make it together or we won’t make it at all.”
Half frozen with fear, John tried to gather his courage. It wasn’t easy. He didn’t look down. He didn’t dare. The sight of so many men falling thousands of feet to their deaths would, he was sure, remain with him for the rest of his life. And begged too many questions he didn’t even want to think of. There was no point in staying where he was. There was no one to come and rescue him. He took a deep breath and prepared to move.
“Look on the bright side, Rakshasas,” he said, his face pressed close to the wall. “At least now I don’t have to go to Berlin.”
He slipped the rope out of the rusted piton and, reasoning that their best chance was back in the Kailash crater, he started to inch his way back along the traverse. But the wind seemed to have other plans and buffeted John like an invisible cat playing with a mouse. Desperate to keep up his spirits and hoping that somehow he might wish it true, John began to sing. He didn’t always sing the right words, but the sentiment was utterly true and heartfelt. John had never before wished anything with such sincerity:
“Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton,
Old times there are not forgotten,
Look away! Look away!
Look away! DixieLand.
Oh, I wish I was in Dixie,
Hooray! Hooray!
In DixieLand, I’ll take my stand
To live and die in Dixie.
Away, away,
I wish I was in Dixie.”
John’s hands stayed flat against the wall, for there was nothing to hold on to. There was just a toehold on life and nothing else. Rakshasas closed his eyes against the wind and stayed silent, hardly daring to distract the boy djinn from the important business that was happening beneath his feet.
Ten minutes passed, and then fifteen. John thought it could not be long until he was in the safety of the fissure again. He didn’t dare lift his head away from the wall to check on his progress. But when, after almost half an hour on his toes, he risked a look, he was shocked to find that the fissure was nowhere to be seen.