by P. B. Kerr
“Prompted by his discovery of the true size of the terra-cotta army, Yen Yu sought to bring an immediate halt to Qin’s lunacy and declared that the time had come when the voice inside the bottle would deliver the last part of the ritual. Now the plain fact of the matter was that Yen Yu, who believed only in what he could see, had never bothered to read to the end of the Living Book of Life. It is a failing in many scholars that they are easily distracted and not single-minded. If Yen Yu had read the end of the Living Book of Life (which perhaps might better have been called the Deadly Book of Death) he would surely never have started the business of the terra-cotta army. For the last page described how each terra-cotta warrior required to fight in the afterlife could only become the emperor’s Dong Xi, or creature, if it was first animated by the souls of ten living children. Yen Yu was horrified, for while he thought there was no chance of the emperor’s huge army of warrior devils ever being brought to spiritual life, it was horribly clear that if the emperor found this out he would certainly order the sacrifice of some eight hundred thousand children — which at that time was the number of all the children in China.
“But once again, Yen Yu’s resourcefulness came to the fore. When the emperor ordered the bottle brought and commanded the voice to speak to Yen Yu — which was how it usually happened — the voice ‘told’ Yen Yu that with the army of Dong Xi now complete, it only remained for Qin to drink a large quantity of mercury and die so that he could live again more powerfully than before, and proceed with the conquest of heaven itself.
“Anyone other than Qin might have seen the obvious flaw in what the voice from the bottle had told Yen Yu must happen. But to Qin, this made perfect sense, and to everyone’s relief he proceeded to do exactly what Yen Yu had suggested. He drank enough mercury to kill a horse and died. All the children in China were saved. Yen Yu then ordered that Qin be buried alongside his army of warrior devils in his tomb, with the important difference that the last part of the Dong Xi ritual was never completed. The burial mound containing the huge army of warrior devils was then very carefully covered over by several tons of earth, and all the exits sealed up so that no one would ever again find the emperor’s terra-cotta army. And, in time, the Emperor Qin was forgotten.”
“You know,” said John, “I’ll bet these are the same terra-cotta warriors that were found by some Chinese workmen in 1974. Some of which are on loan to museums all over the world.”
“Including the Met,” said Philippa.
“Of course,” said John. “It was one of the terra-cotta warriors I saw. The one that absorbed Mr. Rakshasas. I don’t know why I didn’t realize this before.”
“All of the trouble the museums have had,” said Philippa, “the thefts of jade and the hauntings, they have followed the loan of the warriors.”
“Per favore,” said Marco Polo. “But my story is not yet over.”
“My apologies to you, sir,” said Nimrod. “Please finish your story.”
“Yen Yu lived to a great age,” said Marco. “But as he grew older, he became less certain of what he had once believed. This is common enough as people get older and death comes closer. The idea of an afterlife becomes more and more attractive. At the same time, Yen Yu began to worry that one day the warrior devil army might be discovered and used for evil and to conquer heaven, as the Emperor Qin had intended. So Yen Yu read the Living Book of Life again and, using the last of the djinn spit, made five golden tablets of command. With one of these tablets, a single good man might command unquestioning obedience from all men, as well as an army of warrior devils. Before he died, Yen Yu left these same five golden tablets to the succeeding emperors of China.
“This is what the great Kublai Khan told me,” said Marco. “So that I might tell you what only the emperors of China once knew. To help protect the world, the great Khan also gave me one of these golden tablets of command. And I brought it back here to Venice.”
It was at this point that Marco Polo let out a great heavy sigh. It was, Philippa reflected, a sigh that had been seven hundred years in the making. For the sigh was followed by a terrible admission and an abject apology.
“The golden tablet was to have been put in the brass chest with my bones so that I could deliver my message and hand it over to you now,” said Marco Polo. “But unfortunately, I lost it. Somewhere here in Venice.”
“You lost Kublai Khan’s golden tablet of command?” Finlay was beside himself with outrage.
“You tell us a story like that,” said John, “and then you tell us you’ve lost the one thing that could help us defeat these warrior devil things? How dumb is that?”
“You’ve no idea how sorry I am,” confessed Marco, wringing his hands with remorse.
“You’re sorry,” said John, whose first thoughts were of Mr. Rakshasas. “One of these warrior devils just absorbed a good friend of mine. I don’t see how we’re ever going to bring him back unless we have that golden tablet.”
Nimrod greeted the news with calm, as did Philippa. There seemed little point in getting angry with Marco Polo. For one thing, he was an old man. For another, it was plain that Marco Polo was still managing to be quite angry with himself, even after seven hundred years.
“Please ignore my young friends,” said Nimrod. “They speak as young people often do, without the respect due to a man of your years and great reputation. If you could describe how you came to lose it, sir, we’d be grateful.”
“I was in a gondola on my way to the house of Cuzzo in Cannaregio, here in Venice,” said Marco. “To deposit the golden tablet of command in a bank vault there. The golden tablet was in a velvet bag. As I dismounted the gondola, there was a sudden swell of water and I lost my footing. The tablet slipped out of the bag and fell into the canal. The local boys dived in search of it for many days afterward, but it was never found. The water was too dirty and the mud much too deep. Without the golden tablet of command, the importance of my message is much reduced. But what am I to do? I fear it is lost forever.”
“If it is lost forever,” said Nimrod, “then so I fear are we.”
CHAPTER 22
AN ERUPTION OF LOGIC
Iravotum is the secret world known only to the djinn, which lies deep underneath what was once Babylon, in modern-day Iraq. It is a strange and frightening place, as both John and Philippa could easily have testified. Both of them were still haunted by their memories of the place and the things they had seen there. And always would be.
When human beings wish for bad things or in anger, sometimes those wishes come true, and Iravotum is the place where all those inclement wishes go, in the hope of being corrected. They seldom are. But it’s not just wayward wishes that end up in Iravotum. When old or very young djinn dream terrible dreams, sometimes those dreams become a ghastly reality, and these monsters from their sleeping minds must go to Iravotum, too.
Iravotum is also where a djinn — good or evil, but by ancient convention always a female — goes to become the most powerful djinn of all, the great Blue Djinn of Babylon; it is her spiritual home and it is where, from time to time, she must return to renew herself. For here, there exists a Tree of Logic that is a near relation of those other two more famous trees: the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, and the Tree of Life.
Everything in Iravotum is affected by the Tree of Logic. The air is full of the sweet scent of the tree’s blossom, which, like its fruit, lasts all year long. Even the local water is affected by the roots of this unusual tree. Little is known about why the Tree of Logic affects the mind and heart of a djinn. But what is certain is that it takes only thirty days for a djinn to become the creature of Logic and wholly indifferent to things like right and wrong.
It was said by a famous philosopher that Logic needs only to look after itself, and that next to it everything seems meaningless. This is the djinn way of administering the Law. But life isn’t always about doing what is logical. The freedom to do wrong is just as important as the freedom to do right. This is what makes life
interesting. And it was generally agreed that becoming the Blue Djinn required a considerable degree of sacrifice on the part of both good djinn and evil djinn. For it is no small thing to stop being what you are — be it benign Marid or despicably wicked Ifrit — and become something else. In effect, the process of becoming the Blue Djinn was almost to deny life itself.
Upon her arrival in Iravotum, almost the first thing Mrs. Gaunt did was to go into the garden and take a good look at the Tree of Logic, which, she knew, would work a powerful effect on her, and turn her from the nice, happy woman, who was the mother of two nice, happy children, into a being who was largely indifferent to anything but the administering of djinn justice.
It was a strange-looking tree, like nothing to be seen anywhere else on Earth. For one thing it was very old — much older than the oldest known giant sequoia — with gray-blue bark that was as hard as coral, and razor sharp-edged foliage that was a strange hue of blue-green. For another thing, one of the tree’s enormous roots, some of which were growing above the ground, strongly resembled the head of a fierce lion, while another resembled the face of a very beautiful woman. In fact, the more Layla Gaunt looked at the tree root, the more she was certain that this was the face of Ishtar herself, the first Blue Djinn of Babylon, who was once worshipped as the queen of heaven, and whose symbols were the lion and the color blue.
The next thing Layla did was to sack Miss Glumjob, grant the woman three wishes — something Ayesha, Layla’s predecessor, had neglected to do — and send her back to Greenville, North Carolina, which is where Miss Glumjob had come from. It only seemed fair after forty-five years of loyal service. Besides, Layla had brought her own future companion with her, a French Guianan peasant boy called Galibi who, because of a wicked diminuendo binding by Iblis, was currently imprisoned in a state of suspended animation as a kind of lifelike voodoo doll. As soon as she was the Blue Djinn and strong enough to overcome the power of Iblis, Layla was planning to take Galibi out of his cardboard box and turn him back into a living boy whom she might educate and eventually, after some years of service and companionship, send back into the world. At least that was her plan.
Layla tried not to think about what she had left behind her in New York, and she busied herself preparing for the elapse of thirty days and the precise moment at which she would become the Blue Djinn of Babylon. She made plans to change the famous hanging palace, so called because it used to hang on the edge of a precipice. Because Ayesha had never much cared for heights, she had used her powers to change it from the original palace built by King Nebuchadnezzar for Ishtar to an exact copy, in every detail, of Osborne House, which was the home of Queen Victoria for many years.
Osborne House was not to Layla Gaunt’s taste. It was much too “old lady,” with fussy curtains, tassels, gloomy oil paintings, and chintzy-looking furniture. And she decided that she would replace Osborne House with something else. Ishtar’s original palace was still an option, of course. That was always there, and the matrix for any other palace created by the incumbent Blue Djinn. But all djinn carry a “dream house” in their heads, which is usually an image of how they tend to decorate the interior of their so-called magic lamps that are, of course, very much bigger on the inside than the outside. Nimrod’s dream house was the famous pavilion on the English coast at Brighton; Mr. Rakshasas’s dream house was a famous old library, in London’s St. James’s Square. But Layla Gaunt’s dream house was going to be something very different from these.
She had always loved a house called Fallingwater, built by the famous architect Frank Lloyd Wright in 1939. This house was built in a series of cantilevered concrete “trays” over a waterfall on Bear Run, a rushing mountain stream. Ever since she’d seen a picture of it as a child, Layla had wanted to live in that house. This was her chance, and it seemed a small compensation for what she had been obliged to give up.
Fortunately, Ayesha’s library was a good one and there were several books about America’s most famous architect, with many pictures of his best-known house. And Layla was able to study these carefully before destroying Osborne House and focusing all of her djinn power on the creation of its replacement. It was the work of several hours and left her feeling so exhausted that she had to delay the creation of the contents and furnishings until several days later. But after three weeks she felt quite at home, which, of course, was only the effect that Iravotum was having on her. The real Layla could never have felt at home without her husband and the children, not to mention Mrs. Trump, Monty the cat, and all her smart New York friends.
“I like your house,” said a girl’s voice. “It’s very — organic. I approve. I’m not so sure I wouldn’t choose to live in a house like this myself. Who knows? Maybe I will.”
Layla, who was reading a newspaper in her magnificently appointed new living room, looked up from the photograph of Jonathan Tarot that was printed on the page, and fixed Faustina with a stare like a cat. “What on earth are you doing here?” she asked.
“Well, that’s a fine way to greet someone you haven’t seen for more than twelve years,” said Faustina.
“Yes, I’d forgotten you’d only disappeared,” admitted Layla.
“Most people had, I think,” said Faustina. “Although not your brother, Nimrod, and your son and daughter. It was them who rescued me.”
“Rescued?” Layla sounded surprised. “You mean you’re not one of those indeterminate wish thingies that exist in the forest on the other side of the palace wall?”
“No. I’m the real thing.” Faustina held out her hand. “See for yourself.” Layla took her hand, and Faustina shivered. Layla’s hand was hard and cold, and Faustina imagined her heart was already in the same state.
“So you are,” said Layla. “How about that? So you managed to find your body again.”
“Yes,” said Faustina. “Or rather, they did.”
“Well, good for you.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me how your family is?”
“How is my family?” Layla asked coolly.
“Fine. They send you their love. And hope to see you very soon.”
Layla said nothing.
“Like I said, Nimrod and Philippa found my body,” Faustina continued. “It was in a catacomb somewhere in Italy. And then John and Mr. Rakshasas came and brought my spirit back from my aunt’s house, in Bannermann’s Island. They’ve been wonderful. Especially John. He’s very brave. Very good-looking, too. But I expect you’re proud of them all.”
“Seems like they went to a lot of trouble,” said Layla, “to remedy something you brought on yourself, Faustina. Whatever possessed you to do such a stupid thing in the first place? To possess the prime minister?”
“Youthful high spirits?”
“You’re just like your brother.”
“Not quite.”
“Well, I hope you’ve learned your lesson. You should count yourself lucky that they all bothered to find you again. Why did they?”
“They hoped to replace you with me,” said Faustina. “As Blue Djinn of Babylon.”
“And what makes them think I want to be replaced?” said Layla. “I like it here.” She looked around, caught the sound of the waterfall in her ears, and nodded her approval. “It’s rather nice, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps you’re forgetting something,” said Faustina. “I was the anointed one. Not you.”
“That was before you disappeared,” said Layla. “Before you were presumed dead, Faustina.”
“Well, clearly I’m not, Mrs. Gaunt.”
“Layla. Just Layla will do fine. So where does all that leave us?”
“You tell me, Layla.”
“I’d say you were too late,” Layla said coldly. “The show’s moved on. I am the Blue Djinn now. If I were you, I’d tell myself I’d had a lucky escape and go away from here and live my life.”
“I don’t agree.”
Layla shrugged, indifferent to something as ordinary as Faustina’s disagreement.
“Let’s deal with this logically,” said Faustina.
“By all means, let’s.”
“You promised Ayesha to take over when she died, right?”
“It was a solemn promise given in the last conversation she and I ever had.”
“But I took an oath before you and was anointed by Ayesha herself. I don’t remember it myself. But my mother always said I took an oath.”
“How is your mother?”
“She worries. About my brother, Dybbuk.”
“Good idea. To worry about him. That boy is trouble. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Meaning?”
“Like father, like son.” Layla smiled thinly. “It will end in tears, you mark my words. He’ll use up all his power, and then” — she snapped her fingers — “poof. Like that. The fire that burns inside him, it will go out. Have you ever seen a djinn who’s lost all his power?”
“No.”
“It’s a sad sight. Like seeing a toothless lion. Quite pathetic.”
Faustina sat down in a chair opposite Layla.
“We’ve strayed from the subject,” she said. “We were talking about my anointment as Blue Djinn by your own mother. Which is why you were invited to that ceremony. Words were said. Important words. An oath was taken. By me. Not you. I take it you remember?”
“There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”
“And you’ve been here how long?”
“Twenty-six days.”
“Therefore you’re not what you claim to be. You’re five days short of actually being the Blue Djinn. Can we agree on that also?”