The Brass Bottle

by F. Anstey

  CHAPTER XVII

  HIGH WORDS

  Once outside in the open air, the Jinnee "towered" like a pheasant shotthrough the breast, and Horace closed his eyes with a combinedswing-switchback-and-Channel-passage sensation during a flight whichapparently continued for hours, although in reality it probably did notoccupy more than a very few seconds. His uneasiness was still furtherincreased by his inability to guess where he was being taken to--for hefelt instinctively that they were not travelling in the direction ofhome.

  At last he felt himself set down on some hard, firm surface, andventured to open his eyes once more. When he realised where he actuallywas, his knees gave way under him, and he was seized with a suddengiddiness that very nearly made him lose his balance. For he foundhimself standing on a sort of narrow ledge or cornice immediately underthe ball at the top of St. Paul's.

  Many feet beneath him spread the dull, leaden summit of the dome, itsraised ridges stretching, like huge serpents over the curve, beyondwhich was a glimpse of the green roof of the nave and the two westtowers, with their grey columns and urn-topped buttresses and gildedpineapples, which shone ruddily in the sun.

  He had an impression of Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street as a deep, windingravine, steeped in partial shadow; of long sierras of roofs andchimney-pots, showing their sharp outlines above mouse-colouredsmoke-wreaths; of the broad, pearl-tinted river, with oily ripples and agolden glitter where the sunlight touched it; of the gleaming slope ofmud under the wharves and warehouses on the Surrey side; of barges andsteamers moored in black clusters; of a small tug fussing noisily downthe river, leaving a broadening arrow-head in its wake.

  Cautiously he moved round towards the east, where the houses formed ablurred mosaic of cream, slate, indigo, and dull reds and browns, abovewhich slender rose-flushed spires and towers pierced the haze, stainedin countless places by pillars of black, grey, and amber smoke, andlightened by plumes and jets of silvery steam, till all blended byimperceptible gradations into a sky of tenderest gold slashed withtranslucent blue.

  It was a magnificent view, and none the less so because theindistinctness of all beyond a limited radius made the huge City seemnot only mystical, but absolutely boundless in extent. But althoughVentimore was distinctly conscious of all this, he was scarcely in astate to appreciate its grandeur just then. He was much too concernedwith wondering why Fakrash had chosen to plant him up there in soinsecure a position, and how he was ever to be rescued from it, sincethe Jinnee had apparently disappeared.

  He was not far off, however, for presently Horace saw him stalk roundthe narrow cornice with an air of being perfectly at home on it.

  "So there you are!" said Ventimore; "I thought you'd deserted me again.What have you brought me up here for?"

  "Because I desired to have speech with thee in private," replied theJinnee.

  "We're not likely to be intruded on here, certainly," said Horace. "Butisn't it rather exposed, rather public? If we're seen up here, you know,it will cause a decided sensation."

  "I have laid a spell on all below that they should not raise theireyes. Be seated, therefore, and hear my words."

  Horace lowered himself carefully to a sitting position, so that his legsdangled in space, and Fakrash took a seat by his side. "O, mostindiscreet of mankind!" he began, in an aggrieved tone; "thou hast beennear the committal of a great blunder, and doing ill to thyself and tome!"

  "Well, I _do_ like that!" retorted Horace; "when you let me in for allthat freedom of the City business, and then sneaked off, leaving me toget out of it the best way I could, and only came back just as I wasabout to explain matters, and carried me up through the roof like a sackof flour. Do you consider that tactful on your part?"

  "Thou hadst drunk wine and permitted it to creep as far as the place ofsecrets."

  "Only one glass," said Horace; "and I wanted it, I can assure you. I wasobliged to make a speech to them, and, thanks to you, I was in such ahole that I saw nothing for it but to tell the truth."

  "Veracity, as thou wilt learn," answered the Jinnee, "is not invariablythe Ship of Safety. Thou wert about to betray the benefactor whoprocured for thee such glory and honour as might well cause thegall-bladder of lions to burst with envy!"

  "If any lion with the least sense of humour could have witnessed theproceedings," said Ventimore, "he might have burst withlaughter--certainly not envy. Good Lord! Fakrash," he cried, in hisindignation, "I've never felt such an absolute ass in my whole life! Ifnothing would satisfy you but my receiving the freedom of the City, youmight at least have contrived some decent excuse for it! But you leftout the only point there was in the whole thing--and all for what?"

  "What doth it signify why the whole populace should come forth toacclaim thee and do thee honour, so long as they did so?" said Fakrash,sullenly. "For the report of thy fame would reach Bedeea-el-Jemal."

  "That's just where you're mistaken," said Horace. "If you had not beenin too desperate a hurry to make a few inquiries, you would have foundout that you were taking all this trouble for nothing."

  "How sayest thou?"

  "Well, you would have discovered that the Princess is spared alltemptation to marry beneath her by the fact that she became the bride ofsomebody else about thirty centuries ago. She married a mortal, oneSeyf-el-Mulook, a King's son, and they've both been dead a considerabletime--another obstacle to your plans."

  "It is a lie," declared Fakrash.

  "If you will take me back to Vincent Square, I shall be happy to showyou the evidence in your national records," said Horace. "And you may beglad to know that your old enemy, Mr. Jarjarees, came to a violent end,after a very sporting encounter with a King's daughter, who, thoughproficient in advanced magic, unfortunately perished herself, poor lady,in the final round."

  "I had intended _thee_ to accomplish his downfall," said Fakrash.

  "I know," said Horace. "It was most thoughtful of you. But I doubt if Ishould have done it half as well--and it would have probably cost me aneye, at the very least. It's better as it is."

  "And how long hast thou known of these things?"

  "Only since last night."

  "Since last night? And thou didst not unfold them unto me till thisinstant?"

  "I've had such a busy morning, you see," explained Horace. "There's beenno time."

  "Silly-bearded fool that I was to bring this misbegotten dog into theaugust presence of the great Lord Mayor himself (on whom be peace!),"cried the Jinnee.

  "I object to being referred to as a misbegotten dog," said Horace, "butwith the rest of your remark I entirely concur. I'm afraid the LordMayor is very far from being at peace just now." He pointed to the steeproof of the Guildhall, with its dormers and fretted pinnacles, and theslender lantern through which he had so lately made his inglorious exit."There's the devil of a row going on under that lantern just now, Mr.Fakrash, you may depend upon that. They've locked the doors till theycan decide what to do next--which will take them some time. And it's allyour fault!"

  "It was thy doing. Why didst thou dare to inform the Lord Mayor that hewas deceived?"

  "Why? Because I thought he ought to know. Because I was bound,particularly after my oath of allegiance, to warn him of any conspiracyagainst him. Because I was in such a hat. He'll understand all that--hewon't blame _me_ for this business."

  "It is fortunate," observed the Jinnee, "that I flew away with theebefore thou couldst pronounce my name."

  "You gave yourself away," said Horace. "They all saw you, you know. Youweren't flying so particularly fast. They'll recognise you again. If you_will_ carry off a man from under the Lord Mayor's very nose, and shootup through the roof like a rocket with him, you can't expect to escapesome notice. You see, you happen to be the only unbottled Jinnee in thisCity."

  Fakrash shifted his seat on the cornice. "I have committed no act ofdisrespect unto the Lord Mayor," he said, "therefore he can have no justcause of anger against me."

  Horace perceived that the Jinnee was not altogether at eas
e, and pushedhis advantage accordingly.

  "My dear good old friend," he said, "you don't seem to realise yet whatan awful thing you've done. For your own mistaken purposes, you havecompelled the Chief Magistrate and the Corporation of the greatest Cityin the world to make themselves hopelessly ridiculous. They'll neverhear the last of this affair. Just look at the crowds waiting patientlybelow there. Look at the flags. Think of that gorgeous conveyance ofyours standing outside the Guildhall. Think of the assembly inside--allthe most aristocratic, noble, and distinguished personages in the land,"continued Horace, piling it on as he proceeded; "all collected for what?To be made fools of by a Jinnee out of a brass bottle!"

  "For their own sakes they will preserve silence," said Fakrash, with agleam of unwonted shrewdness.

  "Probably they would hush it up, if they only could," conceded Horace."But how _can_ they? What are they to say? What plausible explanationcan they give? Besides, there's the Press: you don't know what the Pressis; but I assure you its power is tremendous--it's simply impossible tokeep anything secret from it nowadays. It has eyes and ears everywhere,and a thousand tongues. Five minutes after the doors in that hall areunlocked (and they can't keep them locked _much_ longer) the reporterswill be handing in their special descriptions of you and your latestvagaries to their respective journals. Within half an hour bills will becarried through every quarter of London--bills with enormous letters:'Extraordinary Scene at the Guildhall.' 'Strange End to a CivicFunction.' 'Startling Appearance of an Oriental Genie in the City.''Abduction of a Guest of the Lord Mayor.' 'Intense Excitement.' 'FullParticulars!' And by that time the story will have flashed round thewhole world. 'Keep silence,' indeed! Do you imagine for a moment thatthe Lord Mayor, or anybody else concerned, however remotely, will everforget, or be allowed to forget, such an outrageous incident as this? Ifyou do, believe me, you're mistaken."

  "Truly, it would be a terrible thing to incur the wrath of the LordMayor," said the Jinnee, in troubled accents.

  "Awful!" said Horace. "But you seem to have managed it."

  "He weareth round his neck a magic jewel, which giveth him dominionover devils--is it not so?"

  "You know best," said Horace.

  "It was the splendour of that jewel and the majesty of his countenancethat rendered me afraid to enter his presence, lest he should recogniseme for what I am and command me to obey him, for verily his might isgreater even than Suleyman's, and his hand heavier upon such of the Jinnas fall into his power!"

  "If that's so," said Horace, "I should strongly advise you to find someway of putting things straight before it's too late--you've no time tolose."

  "Thou sayest well," said Fakrash, springing to his feet, and turning hisface towards Cheapside. Horace shuffled himself along the ledge in aseated position after the Jinnee, and, looking down between his feet,could just see the tops of the thin and rusty trees in the churchyard,the black and serried swarms of foreshortened people in the street, andthe scarlet-rimmed mouths of chimney-pots on the tiled roofs below.

  "There is but one remedy I know," said the Jinnee, "and it may be that Ihave lost power to perform it. Yet will I make the endeavour." And,stretching forth his right hand towards the east, he muttered some kindof command or invocation.

  Horace almost fell off the cornice with apprehension of what mightfollow. Would it be a thunderbolt, a plague, some frightful convulsionof Nature? He felt sure that Fakrash would hesitate at no means, howeverviolent, of burying all traces of his blunder in oblivion, and verylittle hope that, whatever he did, it would prove anything but someworse indiscretion than his previous performances.

  Happily none of these extreme measures seemed to have occurred to theJinnee, though what followed was strange and striking enough.

  For presently, as if in obedience to the Jinnee's weird gesticulations,a lurid belt of fog came rolling up from the direction of the RoyalExchange, swallowing up building after building in its rapid course; oneby one the Guildhall, Bow Church, Cheapside itself, and the churchyarddisappeared, and Horace, turning his head to the left, saw the murkytide sweeping on westward, blotting out Ludgate Hill, the Strand,Charing Cross, and Westminster--till at last he and Fakrash were aloneabove a limitless plain of bituminous cloud, the only living beingsleft, as it seemed, in a blank and silent universe.

  "Look again!" said Fakrash, and Horace, looking eastward, saw the spireof Bow Church, rosy once more, the Guildhall standing clear and intact,and the streets and house-tops gradually reappearing. Only the flags,with their unrestful shiver and ripple of colour, had disappeared, and,with them, the waiting crowds and the mounted constables. The ordinarytraffic of vans, omnibuses, and cabs was proceeding as though it hadnever been interrupted--the clank and jingle of harness chains, thecries and whip-crackings of drivers, rose with curious distinctnessabove the incessant trampling roar which is the ground-swell of thehuman ocean.

  "That cloud which thou sawest," said Fakrash, "hath swept away with itall memory of this affair from the minds of every mortal assembled to dothee honour. See, they go about their several businesses, and all thepast incidents are to them as though they had never been."

  It was not often that Horace could honestly commend any performance ofthe Jinnee's, but at this he could not restrain his admiration. "ByJove!" he said, "that certainly gets the Lord Mayor and everybody elseout of the mess as neatly as possible. I must say, Mr. Fakrash, it'smuch the best thing I've seen you do yet."

  "Wait," said the Jinnee, "for presently thou shalt see me perform a yetmore excellent thing."

  There was a most unpleasant green glow in his eyes and a bristle in histhin beard as he spoke, which suddenly made Horace feel uncomfortable.He did not like the look of the Jinnee at all.

  "I really think you've done enough for to-day," he said. "And this windup here is rather searching. I shan't be sorry to find myself on theground again."

  "That," replied the Jinnee, "thou shalt assuredly do before long, Oimpudent and deceitful wretch!" And he laid a long, lean hand onHorace's shoulder.

  "He _is_ put out about something!" thought Ventimore. "But what?" "Mydear sir," he said aloud, "I don't understand this tone of yours. Whathave I done to offend you?"

  "Divinely gifted was he who said: 'Beware of losing hearts inconsequence of injury, for the bringing them back after flight isdifficult.'"

  "Excellent!" said Horace. "But I don't quite see the application."

  "The application," explained the Jinnee, "is that I am determined tocast thee down from here with my own hand!"

  Horace turned faint and dizzy for a moment. Then, by a strong effort ofwill, he pulled himself together. "Oh, come now," he said, "you don'treally mean that, you know. After all your kindness! You're much toogood-natured to be capable of anything so atrocious."

  "All pity hath been eradicated from my heart," returned Fakrash."Therefore prepare to die, for thou art presently about to perish in themost unfortunate manner."

  Ventimore could not repress a shudder. Hitherto he had never been ableto take Fakrash quite seriously, in spite of all his supernaturalpowers; he had treated him with a half-kindly, half-contemptuoustolerance, as a well-meaning, but hopelessly incompetent, old foozle.That the Jinnee should ever become malevolent towards him had neverentered his head till now--and yet he undoubtedly had. How was he tocajole and disarm this formidable being? He must keep cool and actpromptly, or he would never see Sylvia again.

  As he sat there on the narrow ledge, with a faint and not unpleasantsmell of hops saluting his nostrils from some distant brewery, he triedhard to collect his thoughts, but could not. He found himself, instead,idly watching the busy, jostling crowd below, who were all unconsciousof the impending drama so high above them. Just over the rim of the domehe could see the opaque white top of a lamp on a shelter, where a pigmyconstable stood, directing the traffic.

  Would he look up if Horace called for help? Even if he could, what helpcould he render? All he could do would be to keep the crowd back andsend for a covered str
etcher. No, he would _not_ dwell on these horrors;he _must_ fix his mind on some way of circumventing Fakrash.

  How did the people in "The Arabian Nights" manage? The fisherman, forinstance? He persuaded _his_ Jinnee to return to the bottle bypretending to doubt whether he had ever really been inside it.

  But Fakrash, though simple enough in some respects, was not quite such afool as that. Sometimes the Jinn could be mollified and induced to granta reprieve by being told stories, one inside the other, like a nest ofOriental boxes. Unfortunately Fakrash did not seem in the humour forlistening to apologues, and, even if he were, Horace could not think ofor improvise any just then. "Besides," he thought, "I can't sit up heretelling him anecdotes for ever. I'd almost sooner die!" Still, heremembered that it was generally possible to draw an Arabian Efreet intodiscussion: they all loved argument, and had a rough conception ofjustice.

  "I think, Mr. Fakrash," he said, "that, in common fairness, I have aright to know what offence I have committed."

  "To recite thy misdeeds," replied the Jinnee, "would occupy much time."

  "I don't mind that," said Horace, affably. "I can give you as long asyou like. I'm in no sort of a hurry."

  "With me it is otherwise," retorted Fakrash, making a stride towardshim. "Therefore court not life, for thy death hath become unavoidable.'

  "Before we part," said Horace, "you won't refuse to answer one or twoquestions?"

  "Didst thou not undertake never to ask any further favour of me?Moreover, it will avail thee nought. For I am positively determined toslay thee."

  "I demand it," said Horace, "in the most great name of the Lord Mayor(on whom be peace!)"

  It was a desperate shot--but it took effect. The Jinnee quailed visibly.

  "Ask, then," he said; "but briefly, for the time groweth short."

  Horace determined to make one last appeal to Fakrash's sense ofgratitude, since it had always seemed the dominant trait in hischaracter.

  "Well," he said, "but for me, wouldn't you be still in that brassbottle?"

  "That," replied the Jinnee, "is the very reason why I purpose to destroythee!"

  "Oh!" was all Horace could find to say at this most unlooked-for answer.His sheet anchor, in which he had trusted implicitly, had suddenlydragged--and he was drifting fast to destruction.

  "Are there any other questions which thou wouldst ask?" inquired theJinnee, with grim indulgence; "or wilt thou encounter thy doom withoutfurther procrastination?"

  Horace was determined not to give in just yet; he had a very bad hand,but he might as well play the game out and trust to luck to gain a straytrick.

  "I haven't nearly done yet," he said. "And, remember, you've promised toanswer me--in the name of the Lord Mayor!"

  "I will answer one other question, and no more," said the Jinnee, in aninflexible tone; and Ventimore realised that his fate would depend uponwhat he said next.