by Ian Richards
Martell could imagine. In the short time he had been there he had already begun to feel a sense of cloying claustrophobia.
‘And you, Mr. Silvertongue? How long have you been here?’
‘That’s a good question, sir. It’s hard to tell precisely. Time is funny in Marshwood, you see. It doesn’t flow the same way as it does in the human world. I should say a very long time though.’
‘And did Firefox kidnap you, too?’
‘Me, sir? Oh no. I came willingly.’
‘Willingly?’ Martell almost fell back in his chair with surprise. How could this sad, spindly old man have come here of his own volition? ‘Willingly, Silvertongue? Really?’
‘Oh yes. Only a few were of us were actually brought here by force. Most came to answer the challenge because they chose to. Lord Firefox promised to share the spoils of the house with whoever could unlock its secrets for him. Unfortunately, I could not. And so I find myself here, waiting tables and organizing the master’s affairs. It is by no means a nice life, Mr. Martell, but I knew the risk when I accepted the challenge. I believed that the potential reward outweighed any imprisonment.’
‘You really came here by choice? But why?’
‘Why? Because I was an old man with nothing to lose. And with the greatest of respect, sir, has nobody told you what Marshwood can do? Once its doors are unlocked all of existence becomes one’s personal playground. Imagine the thrill of opening one door into Faerie, and another into the South American rainforest, and another into past. Imagine visiting Ancient Rome one day and the twenty-third century the next.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘There are rumors that some of the doors open onto places that mortal minds can’t even conceive of. The edge of the universe itself. The afterlife. Imagine, Martell, walking amongst the dead, reunited with everyone you ever loved.’
Martell shook his head. ‘If it’s the afterlife you want Mr. Silvertongue, I’m sure that working for your master will get there soon enough. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Suddenly I don’t feel much like talking any more.’
Silvertongue hovered in the doorway, the expression on his face caught midway between disappointment and embarrassment. Eventually he spoke again. ‘Very good, sir. Goodnight, sir.’
And with that he left the room.
25 - The Genie
Tony Lott and Vanessa Kouris’s trek around London town wound down like a pocket-watch running out of ticks. After watching the magician in Covent Garden they took a stroll along Shaftsbury Avenue, towards the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus. The evening had offered them a welcome distraction from their troubles, but slowly, inevitably, reality began to return. It was a sobering process. As the wind picked up, their thoughts turned to the matter of the night ahead. The temperature was nearing freezing and staying out on the streets any longer ran several risks, including hypothermia. Though Tony knew deep down what he thought they should do next, he felt reluctant to articulate it—afraid that once the words were out the spell would be broken. He hated the idea of returning to the real world. That meant Martell was still missing, Krook and Kepler were still after them, they were homeless and cold and almost out of money. No, he wanted the night to last forever. He wanted to be lost in the same whirl of laughter and smiles and lights and music that had swept them up earlier. London town in all its glory. Fun and youth and shambolic magicians producing streams of colored handkerchiefs forevermore.
Vanessa had been pondering their situation, too. She suggested booking themselves into a hotel. ‘We need to get out of this cold’ she said, pulling her coat tighter around herself. ‘I could use glamours to get us past the front desk.’
The suggestion caught Tony off-guard. A deep sigh sent a plume of breath rising up from his mouth. It was time to tell her. ‘I’ve got a different idea, Vanessa. I think we should go back to The Wand and gather our thoughts.’
Vanessa laughed. ‘Gather our thoughts? Are you daft? How exactly are you going to gather your thoughts with Mr. Krook’s knife lodged in your windpipe?’
The sharpness of her tone annoyed him. It was a sensible suggestion. The Gnarled Wand had been a good hiding place so far, and even with Krook and Kepler looking for them, he was confident they could sneak in through the back without being noticed. Besides, they were more likely to find a way to Marshwood using the books in there than they were hiding out in a dingy hotel.
‘We’ll be careful, Vanessa.’
‘Will we now?’
‘Of course we will.’
‘Tony, listen to me. Krook and Kepler are dangerous. They wanted to kill you before you whisked those antiques out from under their noses. Can you imagine what kind of mood they’re in now? I promise you, chimney sweep, if you go back to Dover Street bad things will happen.’
‘Vanessa, please … We don’t have time to hide. We have to find Martell.’
She stopped dead on the pavement and folded her arms. The wind whipped her hair across her face. ‘No,’ she said.
The words stung like a slap to the cheek.
‘No?’
‘No,’ she repeated, shaking her head for emphasis. ‘Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Last night Mr. Krook almost killed us. I’ve no desire to experience that again.’
‘But think of everything waiting for us at The Wand. Think of all Ebenezer’s books. If we don’t find the way to Marshwood, at least we might be able to find out what these antiques are. If they’re as powerful as the genie then we might be able to get to Martell that way.’
‘You can do what you like,’ she said, her voice wobbling slightly. ‘But I am not going back to Dover Street tonight. It’s too dangerous. Also …’ Her voice ran away from her. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going back and if you want to then you can go there yourself.’
Tony didn’t know what to say. They had spent such a nice evening together, to see it spiraling away like this felt sickening. He couldn’t control what was happening; he knew he had no chance of changing her mind, and at the same time that his own opinion was unshakable, too.
They had reached a stalemate. For the longest time they stood in silence on the street, staring at each other in hopelessness.
‘Please,’ Vanessa said eventually. ‘Don’t.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
He turned away, and though he longed to hear her footsteps chasing after him, he knew that he wouldn’t.
When he eventually dared to look back Vanessa had gone.
She had disappeared into the darkness so completely it was as if she had never been there to begin with.
Tony shivered as he walked.
It was a cold night, all right.
*
He took a double-decker east, away from the postcard prettiness of the West End and deeper into the congested slums of Aldgate, Whitechapel and Mile End. When he got to Dover Street he hurried to the entrance of The Gnarled Wand and rapped his knuckles on the glass door.
On the other side of the street Martell’s Antiques stood still and silent in the gloom. He could hear the awning flapping softly in the breeze, a soft, leathery sound, like bat-wings. After a few moments Trina opened the door and he slipped inside. She embraced him at once.
‘Tony, my lord. What happened to you? Where’s Vanessa?’
He told her and Ebenezer his story over mugs of hot chocolate in the back of the shop. By the time he had finished their faces were grave with concern.
‘You almost died, Tony’ said Ebenezer, shaking his head with dismay. ‘Vanessa was right. You should have stayed away.’
‘But the books, Ebenezer—’
‘The books,’ he scoffed. ‘We’re talking about your life, Tony. Dover Street is the first place those men are going to look for you. Trina and I have seen them a couple of times today already.’
‘They came into the shop,’ Trina added. ‘They were pretending to look at tarot cards, but they were really looking for you. I got the impression they knew you’d been here.’
‘I did, too’ said Ebenezer. ‘Tony, you can stay here tonight, but in the morning you have to go away. We can give you some money if you need it, but it’s not safe for you to be here any longer.’
Afterwards, upstairs in a box-like bedroom that smelt of rain, Tony stood by the window and looked out at the shop he had once called his home. The poster Krook and Kepler had put up in the window was still there, an ugly blemish that he longed to rip off and send spiraling up into the night sky.
He missed Vanessa.
He knew that she had been right, that he should never have come back.
But he couldn’t spend his life running. Not while Martell was in danger. She didn’t know how much he meant to him. He was everything—the one person who had ever cared.
Would he see her again? He hoped so. He imagined her turning up in the morning, fully refreshed after a good night’s sleep in whichever 5-star hotel she had tricked her way into. Good morning, chimney sweep, still alive I see? I wonder for how much longer. He liked the idea. He would take whatever insults she hurled at him with a smile because he would be so pleased that she was back, that she was by his side, on his team, ready to help find Martell once and for all.
But it felt unrealistic.
What reason did she have to come back? Him? A gormless chimney sweep who had ignored her pleas when all she was trying to do was save his life?
He moved away from the window and towards the bed. The springs groaned as he sat down. The box of antiques rested beside him. This was what he had risked their lives for last night. A hodgepodge of battered objects that he lacked the skill or the knowledge to use. The boots, for example. He was reasonably certain that they were of the seven-league variety—that each stride would transport him great distances—that if he wanted to he would be able to run to Wales in a matter of minutes. But that was a guess. He didn’t know for sure, and remembered enough of Martell’s warnings to know that uninformed experimentation and magic did not go together. After all, who knew what would happen if he actually did pull on the boots? Would he start to fly? Would he turn invisible? Would he disappear in a puff of smoke?
He moved through the antiques one by one, assessing their features and wondering about the secrets they held. The pocket watch. A notebook overflowing with indecipherable scribbles.
The lamp. That strange, awkward thing that somehow had a genie concealed within it.
After a momentary pause—a split-second of doubt—he lifted it carefully from the box and held it up to the light. It gave no outwardly impression of importance. It was old and scuffed and had a dent on one side. Brass, he reasoned, though its poor condition made it hard to tell at first. With a bit of effort it could probably be made to shine up nicely. It might even show a bit of sparkle. But the slightest rub would summon the genie, and then what was he supposed to say? Sorry, I was just making your lamp a bit more presentable, don’t mind me. That wouldn’t go down well. Genies hated being imprisoned—at least the ones he had read about in stories did.
And yet he was curious to see the creature again, he couldn’t deny that. His memory of the last appearance had been distorted by his pounding head and muddled thoughts. He bit his lip. Thinking back he couldn’t remember much about the genie at all apart from its looming size and the smell of peaches that had accompanied it. Had it been angry to be summoned? Bitter? Resentful? He couldn’t tell: the genie had granted his wish and then disappeared again, seemingly unwilling to explain itself any further. He wondered if calling it out now would be a mistake. There was a chance it would react badly to be bossed around by a twelve-year-old boy from East London. Perhaps the stories were wrong—perhaps it would crush him for daring to disturb its slumber.
Weren’t there other stories, too? About trickster genies? Cunning creatures who granted wishes that backfired on their human masters?
He couldn’t contain his curiosity any longer. Ever so gently he let his fingers slide over the lamp, tracing its dents and contours with a scholarly curiosity. Even before he had finished a steady plume of smoke began to rise from its tip. This time it was a sweet lime-green in color. It was accompanied by the scent of mint and tea-tree oil, a delicate, tingly perfume that hung suspended in the air and tickled Tony’s nose.
In moments, smoke had clouded the room.
The genie hovered in front of him, arms folded, its small eyes regarding Tony closely. It was wrapped up in veils of green smoke that twisted around his cloudy form like slow-moving snakes.
‘I am the genie of the lamp.’ The voice was soft yet firm: the sound of faraway thunder. ‘Your wish, master, is my command.’ He bowed lowly. The smoke surrounding him continued to billow.
‘You were orange earlier,’ Tony said.
It was the first thing to come to mind. As opening lines went, he had known better.
‘I was,’ the genie answered. ‘And now I am not.’
Tony nodded. For all he knew genies often changed color. Perhaps they got bored easily or didn’t like to repeat themselves.
‘I’m Tony,’ he said eventually, unsure whether or not to extend his hand.
The genie bowed again. ‘Master.’
‘What’s your name?’
There was a pause before the genie answered. It appeared suspicious of him.
‘My name, master?’
‘Yes. What do people call you?’
The smoke continued to seethe. His answer was almost a hiss.
‘They call me slave, my lord.’
‘Slave?’
‘They call me slave for that is what I am.’
There was a level of resentment in this pronouncement that Tony didn’t like. He considered asking the genie if he had ever had a real name—something he could call him that was a bit better than ‘slave’—but decided not to push the matter any further. This felt like rocky ground and he had no desire to stay there any longer than necessary.
‘I wanted to thank you for saving my life yesterday. I’m grateful. I owe you one.’
The genie bowed again. ‘Your wish is my command.’
Tony nodded. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘about these wishes—I take it I only get a few of them, right?’
‘Three,’ the genie answered. At once three candle-shaped objects appeared in front of him. The first disappeared in a puff of grey smoke. ‘You have used one. Two remain.’
‘And I can wish for anything I like?’
‘Within reason, master. I am forbidden to harm any living creature. I cannot bring the dead back to life. And I cannot grant more wishes than the three you have been promised. Anything else is acceptable.’
He felt a burst of excitement in his chest. ‘So you could find someone if they are missing? You could bring my uncle back?’
‘I could,’ the genie nodded. ‘Were he still in this world.’
Still in this world … So Vanessa was right. The discovery deflated him more than he had thought. What was he supposed to do now? He hadn’t imagined that rescuing Martell would be easy, but to learn that even a genie couldn’t help him … He tried to put aside his disappointment and make the most of this opportunity to speak with the creature.
‘Tell me then, genie, what’s your story?’
‘My story, master?’
‘I’ve never met a genie before. Where do you come from? What’s your life like?’
The genie seemed bemused to be asked such a question. A wave of his arm vanished the remaining candles. ‘Master, I am your humble servant. Surely my story is of no consequence to you?’
Tony shuffled back on the bed. ‘Well, you’re wrong, because it is. And please stop calling me ‘master’. It makes you sound like a butler or something.’
‘Very well … master.’
Did he just catch a glimmer in the genie’s eyes? He thought that he did.
‘Very funny,’ Tony said. ‘You’re a right comedian, you are.’
‘There was a girl with you yesterday.’ The genie frowned. ‘A young girl with dark hair. I carried her to saf
ety, too. She is not here today?’
He felt a pang of guilt. ‘Vanessa? No, she’s not, genie.’
‘I see. And she is an associate of yours?’
‘She’s my friend.’ His eyes lowered to the floor. ‘At least, she was.’
The genie smiled sympathetically. ‘I had a friend once. Being apart from someone you care for can be painful, can it not? The place in your heart that your friend once occupied becomes heavy with emptiness. It is terrible. I hope for your sake that she returns to you soon.’
‘Thanks,’ Tony said, and again he found his thoughts drifting back to the way he had left Vanessa in the middle of the street … her insistence that returning to The Wand was an act of suicide … Trina and Ebenezer agreeing with her …
The genie was still hovering patiently in front of him.
‘You said you lost a friend too,’ Tony said, making eye contact once more. ‘Who was that?’
‘Hassan.’ There was a solemnness to the genie’s voice now. A heaviness. ‘He was a young boy of your age. He found my lamp in a bazaar in the city of Medina some three thousand years ago. I became his servant, he became my master.’
‘Have you had many masters over the years?’
‘Hundreds, my lord. Most have been cruel, greedy men who sought to bring down their enemies or make their fortunes. Some were kind but still cared only about fulfilling their own selfish desires. Hassan was the first to take pity on me. His first wish was for a magic carpet and we spent an entire year travelling from city to city, exploring the world as if it had been designed for our own personal entertainment. Hassan was an orphan, he had no other family. And so we became each other’s worlds. We became friends. Best friends. He let me spend time outside of my lamp and I showed him all the wonders of the universe. That first year we spent together was the happiest of my long, lonely life.’
As the genie talked the smoke surrounding him seemed to be becoming thicker. Though Tony didn’t say anything he sensed that the genie was drifting away into memories of another time. He could almost feel the desert sunshine on his skin, taste the flavors and spices of exotic marketplaces.