Day of the Djinn Warriors

by P. B. Kerr

  Mr. Rakshasas was already standing immediately behind the zombie. He spat on his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. Then he cleared his throat, and said, “Would you mind getting out of me way, you great big ugly lummox, you?”

  The creature shifted on each foot and, as it turned slowly to face Mr. Rakshasas with its staring, doll-like eyes, John was obliged to admit to himself that it looked more like a zombie than anything else he could think of. Only now that he saw it more closely, he could hardly fail to recognize that the creature’s narrow eyes, high cheekbones, and drooping Charlie Chan mustache marked it as being Chinese. A Chinese zombie. Well, why not? China must have zombies, just like everywhere else.

  The zombie’s eyes may have remained blank but they seemed to function well enough, for the creature lunged at Mr. Rakshasas with one big arm and sought to grab him. Mr. Rakshasas ducked under the arm and hobbled quickly out of the temple and into the museum. The creature turned and pursued him.

  “Come on,” said John. “Let’s go.”

  John took Faustina’s hand and they ran out of the temple and down the steps onto the marble floor of the Sackler Wing, disappearing as they entered the physical world. As they ran, they shouted at the zombie, hoping to distract it and draw it away from the pursuit of Mr. Rakshasas. But the creature did not even look around, for there was nothing to see, of course, and much faster than before it was advancing upon the old djinn who, quite on purpose, had run through the cold water in front of the temple and then a current of air-conditioning in order to remain tantalizingly visible to his pursuer.

  Suddenly, the zombie seemed to accelerate, almost as if some kind of electrical current were carrying it forward. At the same time, Mr. Rakshasas stopped to catch his breath and look around. John cried out with horror at what he saw was about to happen.

  “Mr. Rakshasas, look out!” he yelled.

  The next second, the zombie collided with the old djinn. But it did not knock him over. Nor did it pass harmlessly through the spirit of Mr. Rakshasas. One moment the thin, half-visible shape of Mr. Rakshasas was almost there, and then it was not. He disappeared completely, as if absorbed by the zombie, which continued on its way for several more feet and then walked around the corner.

  John and Faustina stopped running and waited to see if Mr. Rakshasas would make himself nearly visible again. When he did not, John and Faustina shouted his name several times. Minutes passed and nothing happened.

  “It was just like Leo said. He got absorbed by that thing.”

  Still holding hands, they crossed the floor and went back up the steps to the Temple of Dendur where they could see Leo staring anxiously out of the door and into the museum. As they came between the pillars of the temple, John and Faustina became visible again.

  “You should go,” Leo told them. “In case that zombie comes back again.”

  “We can’t go without him,” insisted John.

  “It’s what Mr. Rakshasas would have wanted,” said Leo. “He knew what he was doing. That’s why he did it. So you two children could get away.”

  John shook his head. “This can’t be happening,” he said unhappily. “I don’t believe it. Not Mr. Rakshasas.”

  Faustina squeezed his hand and then put her arms around John’s neck. “Leo’s right, John,” she said. “We have to go, and go now. Before it comes back and does the same thing to us that it did to Mr. Rakshasas.”

  “You don’t understand,” said John. “He’s my friend. I can’t leave my friend.”

  “It’s too late, John,” she said. “He’s gone. Mr. Rakshasas is dead.”

  CHAPTER 12

  THE VOICE OF THE SILENCE

  Nimrod and Groanin carried Faustina’s body to the ambulance and laid her carefully in the back. Groanin slipped behind the wheel and quickly started the engine while Nimrod and Philippa got into the front alongside him. “Where to, sir?” he asked. “Some quiet field? A rooftop? Somewhere you can get a nice whirlwind started.”

  “Groanin, your new enthusiasm for traveling by whirlwind is most unsettling,” said Nimrod. He took out his cell phone and called New York. Marion Morrison answered and reported that while Mr. Gaunt was continuing to make good progress, there had been no change in the condition of Mrs. Trump, who remained in a coma. And there was still no sign of John and Mr. Rakshasas. Nimrod thanked her and then hung up.

  “We need to get into contact with John and Mr. Rakshasas and find out where they are and what’s happening,” he said. “I need Mr. Rakshasas to bring Faustina’s spirit out here to Italy. For one thing, it will save us going all the way back to New York. For another, Italy’s more than halfway to Babylon. Let’s not forget, time is getting short. It’s been almost three weeks since your mother left New York.”

  “How are we going to get in contact with them?” asked Philippa.

  “The same way mundanes do when they want to contact the spirit world,” said Nimrod. “Through a séance.”

  “A séance?” said Groanin. “You mean all the mumbo jumbo with moving wine glasses and canasta cards is true?”

  “Some of it,” said Nimrod. “The most important thing is to choose a good medium. Which makes it very fortunate for us that we’re in Italy. The best medium in the world lives in Rome. Come on, Groanin. That’s where we’re going. Rome. The eternal city.”

  “What’s a medium?” Philippa asked Nimrod.

  “A medium is a person thought to have the power to communicate with the spirits of the dead or with agents of another world or dimension. Also called a psychic.”

  “Pyscho more like,” muttered Groanin, steering the car down the mountain road. “A lot of silly people meddling with stuff they don’t understand, if you ask me. I thought you didn’t hold with all of that malarkey, sir.”

  “Ordinarily I don’t, Groanin,” admitted Nimrod. “But this is a special case. Besides, Madame Theodora Sofi is no ordinary medium. Her powers are quite genuine. Which is hardly a surprise. At the age of eighteen she went to Tibet to study for seven years with the brothers.”

  “What brothers?” asked Philippa.

  “The true authors of the Tibetan Book of the Dead,” said Nimrod. “Some monks and lamas who know more about the afterlife than any other mundanes that have ever lived. They taught her everything they knew. She has given her whole life to spiritualism.”

  It took several hours for Groanin to drive the ambulance to Rome from Malpensa. Arriving at the outskirts of the great city, Groanin asked Nimrod for Madame Sofi’s address.

  “She hasn’t got one,” said Nimrod. “Theo’s the only person in Rome who doesn’t need an address.”

  “How does that happen?” asked Groanin.

  “Because she famously lives in the only pyramid in Rome,” said Nimrod. “All we have to do is ask where it is.” Rolling down the window, Nimrod leaned out of the ambulance and, in his perfect Italian, asked a policeman on a motorcycle for directions. The policeman, who had a large red mustache, pointed up the street and then bent his hand left, and when he had finished speaking, he saluted Nimrod smartly.

  Groanin drove on.

  “How does Madame Sofi come to be living in a pyramid, anyway?” Philippa asked her uncle. “Is it a real one?”

  “Real enough,” said Nimrod. “It was built in 12 B.C. as the tomb of some rich Roman praetor called Cestius, who fancied a family sepulcher with a difference. Madame Sofi’s the first person ever to live in it, though. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, living in a pyramid.”

  “I should say not,” said Groanin. “Makes the furniture difficult to choose, I’d have thought. But won’t she want something in return for helping us? Three wishes, I mean. That always ends in trouble.”

  “She had three wishes, the last time I saw her. How do you suppose she came to be living in a pyramid?”

  At last they caught sight of the pyramid. Compared to the Egyptian pyramids, which she had seen the previous year, Philippa thought the Roman Pyramid of Cestius was a little too pointed
. Like an over-sharpened pencil. Made of white marble and exactly one hundred feet tall, it was, however, in an excellent state of repair, as if recently completed by some trendy modern architect, like the one in Paris.

  They found Madame Theodora Sofi awaiting their arrival at her triangular front door, a fact that Philippa and Groanin couldn’t help but feel impressed by, given that Nimrod hadn’t actually telephoned the great medium to tell her they were coming.

  She was a tall Italian woman with a long sinuous neck, a voluptuous head of red hair, a big nose, and tinted glasses that seemed to be as large as television screens.

  “I felt you coming here about ten minutes ago,” said Madame Sofi. “By the way, did you speak to a policeman on a motorcycle en route? A man with a large red mustache?”

  “However did you know that?” asked Groanin.

  “I am Theo Sofi,” she said rather grandly as if that were the only explanation necessary.

  They went inside the pyramid. There were no windows but the interior was oddly cool and bright, as if there were some secret means of conducting sunlight and fresh air into the pyramid, which was just as well because the place was full of cats.

  Nimrod introduced his niece and his butler.

  But Madame Sofi was more eager to be about her business than to talk. “You have come because you want to speak to some people on the other side, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Nimrod. He was about to speak again when Madame Sofi started to cry. “Why, what is the matter, dear lady?”

  Madame Sofi removed her glasses and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “What you ask may not be possible,” she said. “Either I have lost my gift or something is very wrong on the other side. I have tried to speak to the spirits many times these last few weeks. But with little or no success. It’s almost as if there’s no one there. Like nothing I have ever felt before.”

  “Whatever do you mean — no one there?” asked Nimrod.

  “Just exactly what I say.” She blew her nose and put the handkerchief up her sleeve. “Normally, the clamor of voices on the other side is very loud. Now there is only silence. The spirits I usually speak to, here in Rome, are no longer there.”

  “That’s strange,” said Nimrod.

  “Isn’t it? And yet, until recently, the museums and ancient temples in the city were all reporting an increased amount of paranormal activity. The attendants wouldn’t go near them. They went on strike.”

  “It’s the same in New York,” said Philippa.

  “Which was great news for burglars of course,” said Madame Sofi.

  “Really?” said Nimrod. “How do you mean?”

  “During the strike,” explained Madame Sofi, “many of the museums in Italy were robbed. Strange. But always it was the same thing stolen. Jade.”

  “Jade?” said Nimrod. “That’s interesting.”

  “Precious stones mean nothing to me,” said Madame Sofi.

  Philippa thought this was a little rich given the diamond necklace Madame Sofi was wearing around her long neck.

  “Without the spirits to speak to, I have nothing,” said Madame Sofi. “I’ve even been to the Forum. To try to speak to some of the oldest spirits in Rome, but I couldn’t get through to them. It’s almost as if they were afraid to speak to me.” She shrugged. “Or not there at all.”

  “The people I wish to contact are not actually dead,” said Nimrod. “They’re disembodied djinn. My nephew, John, and my friend, Mr. Rakshasas, whom you’ve met, I think.”

  “They won’t hear us,” she said matter-of-factly. “Not being dead themselves, they will be unused to the world of spirit. But if they were sensible enough to enter the spirit world through a portal. A temple perhaps …”

  “They did,” said Philippa. “The Temple of Dendur. In New York. It’s an Egyptian temple to the goddess Minerva, built by the Roman Emperor Augustus.”

  “In which case they will certainly have tried to pick up a spirit guide. All Egyptian temples have a Ka servant. We must try to contact him. The Ka servant’s ears will be well-tuned to the other side, if he still exists.”

  Madame Sofi ushered them into a wide room and invited them to sit around a table. They sat down and, at Madame Sofi’s invitation, held hands. She placed a piece of black lace on her head, removed her outsized glasses, closed her eyes, and started to breathe deeply through her largish nose. Minutes passed and, after a while, Philippa was quite convinced that Madame Sofi was asleep. She looked at Groanin and tried not to smile as he made a face.

  After a while the medium straightened a little and said, “I’m speaking to the Ka servant of the Temple of Dendur. Formerly of Aswan in Egypt and now in Manhattan, New York. If you can hear me, O spirit guide, please speak to us. I am here with some friends of Mr. Rakshasas and John Gaunt, who are anxious to speak to them.”

  Another minute passed and gradually Philippa became aware of a long thin current of sound, which was like someone had switched on an invisible radio. The sound appeared to be coming from Madame Sofi’s open mouth. A second or two later, she felt her hair stand on end as a foreign-sounding voice came drifting slowly out of Madame Sofi’s mouth, as though arriving from a long silence on a very high mountaintop in a country that was very far away. But Madame Sofi’s lips did not move.

  “This is the Ka servant of Dendur,” said the voice. “My name is Leo Politi. I have the nephew of Nimrod by my side, and his friend, Faustina. We are at the temple in the museum in New York.”

  “It’s them,” squealed Philippa. “Thank goodness they’re all right.”

  “This is wonderful.” Madame Sofi tightened her grip on Nimrod’s hand. Once again there were tears in her eyes, only these were tears of happiness. “Go ahead,” she said in her own voice. “Speak to him. He will hear you through my ears.”

  John and Faustina had been leaving the temple a second time when Leo touched his ear with his plump hand and asked them to wait a moment. “There’s a voice coming through from the other side,” he said. “A medium who’s with your uncle and your sister.”

  “I can’t hear anything.” John let out a sigh and shook his head gloomily. After what had happened to Mr. Rakshasas he thought his senses must have been numbed. Which seemed hardly surprising. At the same time he felt a huge sense of relief to hear from Nimrod. Surely he would know what to do.

  “Ssssh,” said Leo. “Your ears are not yet tuned to the world of spirit. That’s why you can’t hear anything. I shall be your medium. Wait a few moments, then speak, and they will hear through me.”

  Leo closed his eyes and, taking a deep breath, appeared to enter a light trance. His mouth sagged open and a sound came out. A strange, unnerving sound that John instinctively knew came from a source that was not Leo. At first John thought it was like the sound of a dentist’s spit sucker. Gradually, as the volume of the noise increased, it became a cappuccino machine. Then a vacuum cleaner. And finally a still silence came carrying a human voice he recognized.

  John glanced around. “Better keep an eye out in case that zombie comes back,” he told Faustina.

  “John?” Nimrod’s voice was coming out of Leo’s motionless mouth. “Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you,” yelled John, for in truth the voice in the silence was very faint and he thought he’d better speak up, just in case it was the same at the other end. Wherever that might be. “Thank goodness you, er … called.”

  “Is Faustina with you?”

  “Yes, she’s here.”

  “And Mr. Rakshasas? I need to speak to him if I can, please, John.”

  “No,” said John. “Something happened to him. A sort of zombie absorbed him. He’s disappeared.” He felt a lump in his throat and tried to control the grief that threatened to choke him.

  “Absorbed him? How?”

  “I don’t know. It was here in the museum. There’s this zombie that looks like some kind of ancient Chinese warrior that’s scaring the other ghosts here away. And if it catches up with them, it absorbs th
em. That’s what it looks like, anyway. And that’s what happened to Mr. Rakshasas.” John swallowed some more grief. “I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, Uncle Nimrod.”

  “A Chinese zombie, you say?” said Nimrod. “I never heard of such a thing.”

  “I’m not making it up. One minute he was there and the next he was gone.”

  “Listen to me, John,” said Nimrod. “I want you and Faustina to go home and check on his body. It might be that he had a good reason to leave you and has gone there. To get back into his own body.”

  “What if he’s not there? What if he’s dead? And how on earth will I tell? I don’t know about this stuff. I don’t know how I’m going to be able to tell if he’s all right.”

  “If he’s not at home there’s nothing you can do. Without his spirit, you can’t help him. You’ll have to leave his body there. Then I want you and Faustina to get yourselves on a plane and come here to Italy. But don’t forget to leave your own body at home, John. Remember there’s a Methusaleh binding on your father that’s still active. If your body and your djinn power leave New York, he’ll start to age again.”

  “All right,” John said dully. “We’re both to go to Italy. But why Italy? I thought you were in London.”

  “Change of plan,” said Nimrod. “Faustina’s body was in Italy. Tell her it’s fine. And that it’s just as she left it.”

  “Where in Italy?” asked John.

  There was a long silence.

  “John,” said Nimrod. “Why did you say that the zombie was Chinese?”

  John told him about the spirit world tsunami and how Faustina had found herself in Xian, the old Chinese capital, and how the museum zombie was the same as the zombies she’d seen there.

  “To be honest, she’s not exactly sure about the word ‘zombie,’” added John. “She thinks she heard someone use that word. But it could be something else.”

  “All right, John,” said Nimrod. “Listen carefully; I want you and Faustina to go to Venice. We’ll be waiting for you at the Gravelli Palace Hotel. Something very odd is happening in the ethereal world and I think we’d better find out what it is and quick.”