Day of the Djinn Warriors

by P. B. Kerr

  “Don’t worry about things,” Finlay told him. “Mr. Rakshasas and Mrs. Trump. I’m sure they’ll be all right.”

  But, of course, John knew that Finlay was just saying that and didn’t really think it at all.

  Because John knew it, Finlay instantly knew all about Faustina and why she and John were going to Italy. He even knew that John had to leave his own body behind in New York and now wanted him to come along, so that he might avoid astral-sickness again. And John knew that this was cool with Finlay. But Finlay was hardly prepared for John’s next idea. Indeed, John had only just thought of it himself.

  “It might make traveling easier if we had Faustina join us in here with you, in your body,” he told Finlay. “Just to make sure she doesn’t get lost. Which is easy enough when you’re invisible, let me tell you.”

  “I know.”

  “Plus, it’ll save a lot of time trying to talk to her, and vice versa. It’s not easy when you’re out-of-body.”

  “I know.”

  “And I know you’re not sure about it,” said John. “On account of the fact that she’s a girl.”

  “It’s just that two’s company, you know,” Finlay told John. “And three’s going to be a crowd in here. But I guess it’ll be okay. Shall I tell her or will you?”

  John glanced around and saw a thin bluish outline of a female human shape sitting on a chair in front of the open refrigerator door.

  “There you are,” he said. And told her his idea. To his surprise she agreed without hesitation.

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” she said. “Besides, if the three of us are all going to Italy it’ll make communication a lot easier. There’s just one thing I’m concerned about. How are we going to get there? Once we’re all in Finlay’s body, it’s not like we’ll be able to walk invisibly onto a flight. Who’s going to pay for a plane ticket?”

  John and Finlay looked at Doc. “Sorry to ask you, Doc,” said John. “But could you fix us up with a ticket?”

  “Sorry don’t get it done,” said Doc. She took out a big red handkerchief, looked at the knot tied in it, and then let out a big sigh. “Now what was it?”

  “What was what?” John asked her.

  “My focus word. Been so long since I used my focus word, I guess I must have forgotten it.”

  “I thought you came here on a whirlwind,” said John.

  “That’s only what I told you. Fact is, I came here by airplane. I don’t like people knowing I forgot my focus word. That’s kind of embarrassing. Makes me look incompetent. And that’s bad in a nurse.”

  “When did you forget it?” asked John.

  “Six months ago. Maybe longer. When I was up the Amazon. There’s a way of remembering a forgotten focus word. But I can’t remember what that is.” She shook her head. “Might take time to remember it. Lots of time. Might take weeks.”

  “We can’t wait that long,” said Faustina.

  “If Mr. Rakshasas was here he could probably tell us how you could remember it,” said John.

  “Ifs don’t pay for the steaks, kid,” said Doc.

  “Why don’t you just use your old man’s credit card and buy a ticket?” Finlay told John. “That’s what I used to do when I wanted to get something he didn’t want to give me.”

  “Good idea,” said John.

  “Not always,” admitted Finlay.

  “Are you ready to have me come on board?” Faustina asked Finlay.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” said Finlay. “The things I do for this family.”

  Sharing one human body with two other people was, Faustina decided, like being in a cold bath with total strangers: uncomfortably close. Most of the time she didn’t know where to put herself. The worst part of it was knowing what John and Finlay already knew. Not to mention them knowing what she already knew. Neither she nor John had bargained on the other discovering their true feelings for each other. This might not have seemed quite so embarrassing if Finlay had not been there, also.

  “I never thought I’d feel unwelcome in my own body,” Finlay said as he walked into the airport to catch a plane bound for London and then Venice.

  “Who said you were unwelcome?” asked Faustina.

  “Speaking of unwelcome,” said John, “isn’t that your father over there?”

  “You know it is,” said Finlay. “He must be on his way to London, too.”

  Virgil McCreeby wore a tweed suit and a chin beard that looked like a shoe brush, and did not look like a man who missed his only son.

  “Do you think he saw you?” John asked Finlay.

  “You know he hasn’t,” said Finlay. “The question is, what revenge am I going to take on my dad. I mean, I can’t just let him get away with it. There has to be something unpleasant I can do. He had me turned into a bird, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Only because you were irritating him,” said John. “He lost his temper. That’s what fathers do with sons.”

  “True, but if you remember, Nimrod told him to make a fourth wish, so that I could be turned back into a human being. And he didn’t. He wanted to keep what he’d gotten from the first two wishes.”

  “Yes, that was bad,” agreed John. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I read somewhere that they’ve got a no-fly list on the check-in screens,” said Faustina. “To help identify suspicious-looking characters. I could slip out of your body and into the attendant and make her identify your dad as a suspicious character. And not let him on the flight. You don’t need djinn power to do what comes naturally to any spirit.”

  “And then,” said John, “when he complains, she can call a cop over. And I can possess the cop long enough to persuade him to make an arrest.”

  “He does look kind of suspicious,” said Faustina. “Don’t you think?”

  “Oh, for sure,” agreed Finlay. “He’s a warlock, after all.” He nodded. “Go for it.”

  Finlay felt the two djinn slip noiselessly out of his body and sat back to enjoy the show. It was true what some people said, he thought: You don’t always have to go to a theater to see a good play.

  CHAPTER 15

  VENICE IN PERIL

  Venice is Italy’s most interesting city for the simple reason that the streets are made of water and the cars are boats. The Gravelli Palace was Venice’s oldest and best hotel and looked out over the largest “street,” which is the Grand Canal. Below Philippa’s bedroom window, the bright morning sunlight danced on the waves like liquid music, and she thought she had never seen a more beautiful view. But Groanin was not impressed.

  “It smells a bit, does Venice,” he said, wrinkling his nose as they left the hotel to take a trip aboard a beautiful polished wooden motorboat through the limpid, bright green waters to the island of Torcello. “I say, it smells a bit, does Venice. Like it needs the services of a good plumber. I’ve been splashing my new aftershave on myself to cover the stink. Of course, I have a very sensitive sense of smell. Where are we going, anyway?”

  “We’re going to the Library of Attila the Hun,” said Nimrod.

  “What, him that sacked Rome?” said Groanin. “I wouldn’t have picked him as much of a reader. I say, he’s not a man I can easily picture reading the latest John Grisham.”

  “Books were a source of power and status in those days,” explained Nimrod. “Regardless of whether you were a reader or not. Before he sacked Rome, Attila also sacked Constantinople, which was the capital of the eastern Roman Empire, and there he stole a library that the Byzantine emperor had stolen from the Persians, who, in turn, had stolen it from the Chinese.”

  “It’s like I always say,” said Groanin, “there’s more theft in libraries than you’d ever credit.” He nodded grimly. “I know. I used to work in a library. That’s where —”

  “I know,” said Nimrod. “You lost your arm to a tiger in the British Library. You’ve told us many times.”

  “Pardon me for breathing,” said Groanin, “I’m sure.” He sniffed loudly and made a
nother face as the smell of the canal prickled his sensitive nostrils.

  “On his way back from Rome in A.D. 453, Attila left the library on Torcello,” continued Nimrod. “And there it has remained ever since, in the care of the Knights of St. Mark. Today it’s the best Oriental library in Europe.”

  “Well, speaking as an ex-librarian,” Groanin said stiffly, “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “The Library of Attila is not open to the public,” said Nimrod. “Only to the Knights of St. Mark, of whom I am a Grand Commander.” And so saying, Nimrod showed them both a gold medal he was wearing around his neck on a purple silk ribbon.

  Now it was Groanin’s turn to groan and roll his eyes at Philippa. “I might have known,” he said. “It’s like I always say, it’s those who have a lot already who always get more.”

  Torcello was a small island full of rather simple, brightly painted houses, many of which looked like they were falling down. The entrance to the library was by boat, through a dank, dark water gate in an anonymous-looking area of wall that cleverly concealed its purpose; it was only after they had left the boat and mounted a series of slippery stone steps to open a heavy wooden door that Philippa was able to appreciate the building’s true size and significance.

  They were standing under a huge concrete dome, almost 150 feet tall, with a central opening or oculus, open to the sky.

  “I never heard of a library with a hole in the roof,” said Groanin. “Don’t the books get wet when it rains? I say, don’t the books get wet?”

  “The books are housed in vaults around the circumference,” said Nimrod. “They never get wet. When it rains, the librarians simply sweep the water down the steps.”

  He led them across the marble floor to where a librarian appeared to be waiting for them. But on closer inspection, it turned out to be two librarians. One was about seven feet tall, and he was carrying the other in his arms, who couldn’t have been more than about four feet tall and who — despite his clothes — was of Asian origin. Both of them were wearing black silk stockings, silver buckled shoes, black brocade coats, periwigs, and white lace collars. Philippa thought they looked as if they had stepped straight out of the eighteenth century. The big one said nothing while the little one did all the talking.

  “This is Peng Win,” Nimrod told Philippa. “The master of the library. Peng Win, this is my young niece, Philippa, and my butler, Groanin.”

  “Welcome to the Universe,” said Peng Win, “which others call the Library of Attila. Do you like books, Philippa?”

  “Of course,” said Philippa.

  “And you, Mr. Groanin?”

  “I can stand a bit of poetry. And I read the odd thriller now and again.”

  Seeing Philippa’s uncertain smile, Peng Win said, “You are wondering why my friend, Mr. Borges, carries me around. It’s because I don’t have the use of my legs and there are many stairs in this library. Many more than you can see. Don’t worry, my child. He is very strong and I am very light.” He looked at Nimrod. “If it’s an old book you’re after, then you’ve come to the right place, my friend.”

  From a deep flap pocket in his elegant coat he took out a small pad of paper and an ancient-looking pen, so that he might write down the name of the book.

  “I’m looking for a book on Chinese zombies,” said Nimrod. “At least I think I am. There may be some confusion as to whether ‘zombie’ was the word that was actually used.”

  “The Chinese word for a revenant or reanimated corpse is wui wan xi.” Peng Win drew the Chinese characters that made up this word on his little pad of paper. “From wui — ‘something that turns’; wan — ‘soul or a spirit’; and xi or shi — meaning ‘corpse or carcass.’” Peng Win shook his head, which was the largest part of his body. “But there is no exact word for ‘zombie,’ not even in ancient Chinese. Regretfully, wui wan xi is the closest you might come. And I’m certain there is no book on this subject. Even here. Where the library is complete.”

  Nimrod thought for a moment, which left a sufficient space in the cool air of the library for Philippa to admire Peng Win’s pen.

  “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “All of the pens in this library were made from the Sword of Mars that belonged to Attila the Hun himself. It was done so that all men might know that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.”

  “I wonder,” said Nimrod. “If ‘zombie’ is the wrong word, then perhaps there is a Chinese word that sounds a bit like ‘zombie.’ After all, the word was heard in China. So that might make sense. Is there such a word, Peng Win?”

  Peng Win thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “There is one possibility that might fit what you’re looking for. Dong Xi. For one thing it sounds a little like ‘zombie.’” He shrugged. “A little. But it is perhaps closer to the true meaning of what you were asking about, Nimrod, old friend. Dong Xi means ‘fool,’ or ‘thing,’ something less than human, anyway. It also means ‘creature.’ It’s some time since I read it, but I believe there may be a reference to Dong Xi in the Jade Book of the Emperor Chengzong of Yuan China.”

  “Did you say Jade Book?” asked Nimrod.

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “Only that of late there have been many thefts of jade,” said Nimrod. “You must take care of this book.”

  “Mr. Borges guards the books,” said Peng Win. “I should hate to think what he might do to someone attempting to steal one.”

  As big as a telephone directory, the book was a series of thirty jade tablets strung together with yellow silk straps, with the Chinese text engraved in gold.

  “Chengzong was the grandson of Kublai Khan,” explained Peng Win. “His reign, from 1294 to 1307, was an unremarkable one. That is, apart from this magnificent book, written by the emperor himself, which is an account of ancient Chinese myths and legends, demons, fairies, and other subversive spirits. He was, by all accounts, a very superstitious man.”

  With Mr. Borges seated silently at a great oak table, and Peng Win seated upon his lap, the Chinese librarian put on a pair of half-moon glasses, opened the book, and began to turn the tablets carefully, with Nimrod, Groanin, and Philippa looking around their shoulders.

  “What have we here? Ah, yes. Here it is. The Dong Xi.” The librarian’s face darkened a little as he read what was written in the fabulous book. “‘Beware the shaped form that is the Dong Xi for he is neither dead nor alive. Beware his heated touch. Beware his invisibility. Beware the Dong Xi. Beware the warrior devil. His name is mud for this thing is a dirt shadow of that which is created by God. He is the raw material of evil and the word of destruction lies under his tongue. He is clumsy, he is slow, but he will not rest. Shun the warrior devil as you would shun the foulest demon, for he is also harbinger of death. Leave him buried and let him not see the light of day. Drive the warrior devil back into the pit where he belongs. Return him to the dust. Pray that he never escapes, but if he does, then seek the bones of the great one called Ma Ko. Only he will know how to help you. Beware the Dong Xi. Beware the warrior devils.’” Peng Win looked up and took off his glasses. “That is all there is,” he said.

  “Sounds like it’s enough,” said Groanin. “Whatever it is, I shouldn’t like to meet one of them devil warriors on a dark night.”

  “Who was the great one called Ma Ko that the Emperor Chengzong was referring to?” asked Philippa.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” confessed Peng Win. “Possibly some Confucian philosopher now forgotten.”

  “Pity,” said Philippa. “He sounded like a pretty useful kind of guy to know.”

  “Thank you, Peng Win,” said Nimrod, who was then silent until they were in the boat and on their way back to the hotel.

  “Let’s hope that the warrior devil wasn’t what John was talking about,” said Philippa.

  “No, indeed,” agreed Nimrod. “We shall have to question Faustina about it in more detail when, eventually, she and John arrive in Venice.”

  “That poor, poor girl,” s
aid Groanin. “I bet she’s dying to get back inside her own body. I hope this idea of yours works, sir. It’d be a crying shame to drag that lass all this way and find that it didn’t. Especially after building all her hopes up. I can’t imagine what kind of a peculiar torture that would be, to see your body and not be able to climb back inside it. If it were me and it didn’t work, I think I’d drown myself in that there Grand Canal.”

  “She can hardly drown herself if she hasn’t got a body,” said Nimrod.

  Groanin shrugged. “Well then, I don’t know what I’d do. I suppose that once you’re a ghost, life’s already done its worst. All that’s happened, all that’s ever going to happen, has happened.”

  “Faustina’s not dead, Groanin,” said Philippa. “That’s the point of bringing her to Venice. She’s not dead.”

  “Aye, miss, but if she can’t get back into that body of hers, she might as well be. I say, she might as well be dead.”

  “As usual, Groanin,” said Nimrod, “you have a point. A very sharp one. Just like that cologne you’ve taken to wearing.”

  Back at the hotel they were surprised to find Finlay McCreeby waiting for them in the lobby. He stood up and smiled at them sheepishly. And since it was Finlay’s body, John and Faustina thought it best to let him explain that there were in fact three of them squeezed tight inside it, and that they were anxious to proceed with the transfer of Faustina’s spirit back into her own physical form as quickly as possible.

  “It’s just that it’s getting a little crowded inside my skin,” said Finlay.

  “Two’s company and three’s a crowd,” said Groanin. “Right enough.”

  “Is Faustina’s body here in Venice?” asked Finlay.

  “She’s upstairs in bed,” said Nimrod, and led Finlay toward the elevator. “By the way, how’s your father?”

  “Him?” Finlay shook his head. “We haven’t talked since he had me turned into a falcon. You remember that?”

  “It doesn’t do to bear a grudge about these things,” said Nimrod.