Day of the Djinn Warriors

by P. B. Kerr

  “Bees?”

  In the elevator, Faustina and Philippa explained about Signor Medici and his bee therapy.

  “I never imagined I could be so happy to have my daughter stung by a bee,” said Dr. Sachertorte.

  “That’s the way I feel about it, too.” Faustina laughed out loud and hugged her mother again.

  In Nimrod’s suite of rooms, they found him drinking champagne in celebration of Faustina’s restoration to good djinn health. Groanin was reading his newspaper and sipping a cup of tea. Finlay and John were watching television. The two boys greeted Faustina coolly because each was trying to pretend to the other that he didn’t feel anything very much for her, but failing miserably because, of course, it’s impossible to keep anything secret when two different people are sharing one physical body. And it goes without saying, Faustina knew that, too.

  Nimrod stood up and embraced Dr. Sachertorte fondly. “It looks as if you have a daughter again,” he said.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” said Dr. Sachertorte.

  “I thought you’d come a cropper, my lass, when you jumped off that balcony,” said Groanin. “Must be thirty feet down to that canal. Water’s absolutely filthy, of course. I mean, you do know that all the lavatories in Venice get emptied straight into it. That’s why it smells the way it does. If I were you, miss, I’d have me stomach pumped immediately. Just in case you pick up some kind of tummy bug. Mind you, having said that, it’s lucky you jumped off that side and landed in the canal. The other side, you’d have landed in the street. All that fuss over a few bee stings. I never saw the like.”

  “No harm done,” said Nimrod. “That’s the main thing.”

  “I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Rakshasas,” Dr. Sachertorte told Nimrod. “Is there no hope?”

  “I’m afraid we shan’t know that,” said Nimrod, “until we have discovered more about the being that absorbed him in the spirit world.”

  “Does that mean you’re going back to New York?”

  “Actually, no,” said Nimrod. “I think we may have to stay here in Venice for a while. To do some further research.”

  “That’s great,” said Finlay. “I love Venice. I think Venice is cool.”

  “Do you?” murmured Groanin. His nose wrinkled with displeasure and, producing a small bottle from his jacket pocket, he dabbed some more aftershave behind his ears.

  “How about it, Faustina?” asked Finlay. “Are you going to stay here in Venice with us for a while?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Faustina. “I have other plans, as I think you already know.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Finlay. “Babylon. I forgot.”

  “Why don’t you come and visit me when I’m the Blue Djinn?” she asked. “At my official residence in Berlin.”

  “Who, me?” said Finlay.

  “Both of you.”

  “Is that allowed?” John asked. “I mean, I thought guys weren’t allowed to visit with the Blue Djinn.”

  “That’s only true in Babylon, John,” said Faustina. “Besides, I intend to make some changes when I’m supreme djinn. Ayesha was in charge for so long that people have quite forgotten what it was like before her. You see, a lot of what we believe about being Blue Djinn came from her. And it doesn’t have to be that way. Living beyond good and evil is one thing. Being that way is quite another. I did quite a bit of research on the subject.”

  “But I was there,” said Philippa, “in Babylon. At one point, I thought I was going to be the Blue Djinn myself. I remember the effect the place had on me. I hardly recognized John when he showed up to rescue me.”

  “It’s true,” said John. “She was a real pig.”

  “I worked out a way for none of that to affect me.”

  “This should be interesting,” said Nimrod, exchanging a glance with Dr. Sachertorte.

  “I’ve learned a lot while I’ve been out of my body for twelve years. I spent two whole years studying the Baghdad Rules. Not the Shorter Baghdad Rules, compiled by Mr. Rakshasas, but the longer version. All two hundred volumes. If Ayesha had ever read them, she would have discovered that there’s plenty in them about how a female djinn must spend thirty days in Iravotum if she is physically to become the Blue Djinn of Babylon. But there’s nothing that says her spirit has to stay there, too. It’s so obvious that I wonder why someone didn’t think of it earlier.”

  “Are you suggesting that your spirit could be elsewhere?” said Nimrod. “That my mother could have been the Blue Djinn and still have managed to keep some warm feelings for my sister, Layla, and me?”

  “I’m not suggesting it,” said Faustina, “I’m stating it as a fact. As soon as I get there I’m going to leave my body and take my spirit somewhere else, for thirty days. I do believe I might go to Mount Olympus. I’ve heard it’s very good for spirits there.”

  “So you’re saying that while your body might be affected,” said Nimrod, “your spirit can remain unchanged.”

  “That’s exactly right. I can be the Blue Djinn without having to change very much at all. Isn’t that marvelous?”

  “But what about your ability to be impartial in the making of judgments between good and evil?” said Nimrod.

  “Judges manage it all right,” said Faustina. “They can seem totally inhuman in their administration of the law without actually being inhuman. They’ve been doing it for centuries.”

  “So you can have your cake and eat it, too,” said Nimrod.

  “Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Faustina smiled at Philippa and then at Finlay/John. “Which is why you guys can come and stay with me in Berlin.”

  “Great,” said the three children.

  “Well, I must say that’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” said Nimrod. He looked at Jenny Sachertorte. “Did you know any of this, Jenny?”

  “No. It’s the first time I heard of it.” Dr. Sachertorte shook her head. “If only someone had discovered all of this sooner. You and Layla might have been spared the loss of your own mother.”

  “Yes,” said Nimrod quietly.

  “Which reminds me,” said Faustina, “I had better leave right away if I’m going to stop Layla from becoming the Blue Djinn instead of me. You know, it’s a pity Dybbuk’s not here. I’d like to have seen him again before I left.”

  “You can see him now,” said John, pointing with Finlay’s hand at the TV. “There he is.”

  Everyone moved slowly toward the TV and watched as Jonathan Tarot, wearing a fabulous black, diamond-encrusted jumpsuit, performed a spectacular feat of close-up magic, making a mouse appear in a girl’s hand. The studio audience applauded with huge enthusiasm.

  “Except that he’s not calling himself ‘Dybbuk’ these days,” said John. “Now he’s called Jonathan Tarot. And he’s a huge star. You can hardly open a magazine or a newspaper without seeing his face.”

  Nimrod shook his head sadly. “Dybbuk, Dybbuk,” he said with a sigh.

  “I tried to talk him out of it,” said Jenny Sachertorte. “But he wouldn’t listen. I even tried to put a binding on him. But he’s become too powerful for me to control, Nimrod.”

  “Djinn power was always strong in him,” said Nimrod. “Stronger than his judgment.”

  “What did you expect?” said Dr. Sachertorte. “Look who his father is.” She smiled apologetically at Faustina.

  “He makes it look like it’s a real illusion,” said John. “If you know what I mean. Like it’s just a trick. A good trick. But a trick nonetheless.”

  “If people ever thought it was real,” said Philippa, “they’d probably start to question their whole world.”

  “Wise words, Philippa,” said Nimrod. “That is the real danger of Dybbuk doing what he’s doing. That he’ll go too far and they’ll find out that it’s not an illusion at all.”

  As they watched, the TV cameraman cut away to a shot of the audience applauding a feat of magic that was remarkable to anyone but another djinn. In the audience was a fair-haired man with a chin beard who was wearing
a curious white jacket. It was Adam Apollonius.

  “He doesn’t seem to realize the dangers of such profligate use of his djinn power,” said Nimrod. “Using it all the time like that, on cheap conjuring tricks, will have serious consequences.”

  “Don’t you think I told him that?” said Dr. Sachertorte. “He said he didn’t care. And that it’s his life, to do with as he wants.” She sighed. “What’s a mother to do? I sure don’t know. It’s not like I can threaten him with his father anymore. Especially now that he knows his father is not his father. He doesn’t seem to care about what I say anymore. And after all I’ve done for him.”

  Everyone, apart from Groanin, continued to stare at the TV in silence.

  “Hey,” said Faustina. “That’s the man from the cavern with the pyramid and the silver lake. The one I heard use the words Dong Xi.” She waved her hand at the studio audience on the TV screen. “Him.”

  Faustina pointed to the man sitting next to Adam Apollonius. Almost immediately, the camera cut back to a smiling Dybbuk and only Philippa was quick enough to see the hard-looking young man to whom Faustina was pointing and to realize that she, too, had seen him before. At the Djinnversoctoannular Tournament in New York the previous Christmas. She most vividly remembered him for the amount of serious swearing he’d done after she’d defeated him in the first round. Her ears started to burn again as she recalled the many unpleasant things he had called her on his way out of the Algonquin Hotel.

  Adam Apollonius had been sitting next to Rudyard Teer, one of the sons of Iblis the Ifrit, and half brother to Dybbuk. Not only that, but Philippa had half an idea that Teer had been sitting in front of another equally unpleasant Ifrit: Palis the Footlicker. She told all this to Nimrod and Dr. Sachertorte.

  “Now I’m really worried,” admitted Dr. Sachertorte.

  “Calm yourself, dear lady,” said Nimrod. “Calm yourself. Things may not be quite what they appear.”

  “Nimrod’s quite right, Dr. Sachertorte,” said Groanin. “I say, there’s no point in getting upset by something that might turn out to be nothing at all. It’s perfectly possible that these villains were there quite by chance. On the other hand, it may be that there is some evil design behind their being in that audience. That Dybbuk is in grave and mortal danger, right enough. But I wouldn’t start worrying about that until you have to. I have found — yarooo!” A very red-faced Groanin leaped out of his armchair, threw down his newspaper, and, grimacing with pain, sprinted into the bathroom, slamming the door firmly shut behind him.

  “Well, that’s a relief, I must say,” said Dr. Sachertorte.

  “What did he say he’d found?” asked John.

  “I think he just found Signor Medici’s missing bee,” said Philippa, trying not to laugh.

  CHAPTER 19

  THE TWO MARCOS

  The Reliquary Room in St. Mark’s Church was at the top of the building, in a dusty-looking room that was more like a prison cell in a castle tower. There was a high, barred window, and around the walls was a series of outsized wooden filing cabinets with deep drawers, in alphabetical order, according to the names of the saints whose relics were supposed to be kept in them.

  The Keeper of the Relics was an elderly American nun by the name of Sister Cristina, who John thought looked like a bit of a relic herself. But he thought she must have been fitter than she looked: There were two hundred steps from the ground-floor entrance to the Reliquary Room, and Finlay’s body was wheezing breathlessly by the time Nimrod and the children had climbed all the way up there.

  Groanin had chosen to stay at the hotel, nursing a large bee sting on the top of his head that made it look like the red light on an ambulance. He was sulking because John and Finlay thought it was very amusing to make noises like a siren every time he came into the room. Faustina had gone to Babylon by whirlwind. Her mother, Jenny Sachertorte, had taken a plane back to the United States after a very emotional good-bye scene with her daughter.

  Sister Cristina was helpful and informative as was only to be expected given Nimrod’s high status as a Knight Commander of the Order of St. Mark. But she was also quite honest about the dubious origins of many of the Reliquary’s so-called relics.

  “I don’t know why we keep some of this junk,” she confessed. “Really, I don’t. Because that’s what most of it is: junk. We’ve got everything from the toenails of St. Blaise to the earwax of St. Mungo. At my last count, we had thirty-three of the fingers of St. Anthony, fifteen toes belonging to St. Munditia, six thigh bones of St. Bartholomew, and three skulls of St. Barnabas. Teeth are in the greatest supply. We could probably replace half of the dentures in Italy with the teeth we have here. There are boxes full of them.”

  “What about St. Mark?” asked Nimrod. “Do you have any of his bits and pieces?”

  Sister Cristina smiled. “You mean you don’t believe that he’s underneath our high altar?”

  “I think, like a lot of people, I have my doubts,” admitted Nimrod.

  Sister Cristina shrugged and went over to a drawer with the word MARCO painted neatly on the outside. She opened the drawer and pointed at a jumble of bones, teeth, vials of blood, locks of hair, fingernails, toenails, arm and leg bones, and vertebrae. Wrapped in a piece of pearled velvet was a skull, complete with glass eyes and jeweled teeth. There was even a golden leg that allegedly contained Mark’s femur.

  “Quite a choice, isn’t there?” said Sister Cristina. “We had most of these things carbon-dated a while back and none of it’s older than a thousand years. In other words, most of this stuff is fake. But we keep it because it’s a part of our history, from a time when relics mattered to people. When the faithful thought they had the power to heal them.”

  “Is there anything you keep here that you think really might have genuine power?” asked Philippa.

  Sister Cristina thought for a moment.

  “Yes, there is,” she said. “Funnily enough, these are also supposed to be relics of St. Mark. And although they can’t possibly be genuine, the box they’re in, which is finely crafted and too big for the drawer, does emit a sort of power or energy, depending on what you want to call it. I find it most curious.”

  “Then why do you say these relics can’t be genuine?” asked Philippa.

  “Because we had them carbon-dated, as well. To find out how old they really are. From books, we know that St. Mark died in Alexandria during the eighth year of the Roman Emperor Nero, in about A.D. 63. But this particular skeleton has been dated to the early fourteenth century. About 1320. So you see, it can’t possibly be that of St. Mark.”

  “Yes, I take your point,” said Nimrod. “1320. I wonder.”

  “There’s another thing,” said Sister Cristina. “There are Chinese characters carved and inlaid with gold on every one of the two hundred and five bones.”

  “Did you say two hundred and five?”

  “Exactly two hundred and five,” repeated Sister Cristina.

  “What kind of Chinese characters?” asked Nimrod.

  “Numbers,” said Sister Cristina. “Of course, there’s no record of St. Mark ever having been to China. Egypt and Jerusalem are as far east as he ever traveled. So it simply can’t be him, can it?”

  “No. All the same, if you don’t mind I would like to take a look at this particular skeleton,” said Nimrod. “Just to satisfy my own curiosity.”

  Sister Cristina unlocked a large closet, moved a selection of bishop’s miters, shepherd’s staffs, crucifixion crossbeams, Roman pikes and spears, and longbows, and dragged out, along the floor, a dusty-looking wooden box that could have held a dozen rifles. Finlay, whose offer of help had been politely declined, was surprised at the strength of the old nun.

  “It’s kind of you to have offered, but this is my work, you see,” she explained to Finlay.

  She opened the box to reveal an ornate, polished brass chest that was inlaid with various Chinese numbers. “That’s the name of St. Mark there, in Chinese,” said Sister Cristina, pointin
g to an ivory plate mounted on the foot of the chest. “At least that’s what the people who speak Chinese have told us it is.” She laughed. “Although for all I know, it might say ‘Made in Taiwan.’”

  Nimrod ran his fingers across the ivory nameplate and the two Chinese characters that constituted “Mark.”

  Sister Cristina had been right, thought Nimrod. His fingertips detected that the box was charged with a sort of strange energy, but it was the design on the lid of the box that commanded his immediate attention.

  “As you can see, it’s a diagram of the human skeleton,” said Sister Cristina. “Look at the way all of the bones are identified. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  “Like something a medical student would use,” agreed Philippa.

  Then the telephone rang, and Sister Cristina went to answer it.

  “It’s a lot more than that, I think,” Nimrod said quietly, so the old nun would not hear him. “Each bone seems to correspond with a number on this other design.” He pointed to a square of thirty-six numbers that had been carved into the lid of the chest immediately above the head of the skeleton.

  “What is that?” asked Philippa.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” said Nimrod, “that’s a Chinese magic square. It’s said the magic square was invented by a powerful djinn many centuries ago. And squares like this were often placed under the foundation stones of houses in China to bring good luck. But they were also sometimes used to make a discrimens. You know, a wish that can exist independently of a djinn. Sometimes good and sometimes bad. And for an indefinite length of time. Only I’ve never ever heard of one lasting as long as this before.”

  “But what does it do?” asked Finlay.

  “If only Mr. Rakshasas were here,” said Nimrod. “He knows much more about these things than I do. I think, this is something called a chuan dai zhe. I’m not quite sure exactly what that means. Only that this box of bones has been designed to deliver some kind of message. I believe you have to draw a magic square on the floor, with all the numbers in the correct position, and then place each bone on the square indicated in the diagram. The message can then be delivered. In person.”