Today was no exception. In a matter of minutes her phone buzzed with a reply: Snds intrst’g. Try . . .’ Followed by a complicated URL that probably led to one of the more esoteric search engines. Weasel regarded Google in much the same way that a submarine commander might regard a rubber duck.
The bus reached its stop at last, and Nadia bounded down the steps and set off for the quiet suburban mews where her flat was located. It was only one room with a kitchenette and bathroom off a kind of ‘L’ at the end, but she loved the place as only someone raised in a big house full of servants could. When she unlocked the door at the top of the stairs the flat seemed to surround her, begging to have the windows opened and the kettle on for tea. There was maid service once a week, so the place was immaculate, but the air felt stale and unused, and Nadia cranked back the two windows which looked out on a wilderness of roof tiles and antique chimney pots, put on the kettle, and opened the cupboard which she kept stocked with an assortment of freeze dried foods. While waiting for the water to boil she went over to the small desk and took the dust cover from her old Apple Mac and powered it up.
Just for fun she brought up Google and typed in ‘What kind of creatures have eyes like a cat and speak Arabic?’ Back came over eighty million responses in less than a second as the search engine proudly reported, the most relevant of which was probably that ‘the Prophet Muhammad was said to have loved his cat Muezza’. Shaking her head, Nadia went to prepare something to eat.
Later, she sat down, feeling the air in the flat now charged with a breathless excitement. As always, entering the Deep Web felt like opening a door into an enchanted castle. There was the sense that she might encounter anything at all, no matter how fantastic, as she carefully copied the url Weasel had given her and clicked ‘enter’. She blinked at the logo of the winged—was that a lion?—but entered her search, choosing the same wording as she had for Google. ‘What kind of creatures have eyes like a cat and speak Arabic?’
There was a brief pause, and then the screen dissolved into a blaze of shifting colours shot through with something like lightning bolts. Alarmed, Nadia reached for the touch pad thinking she’d encountered a virus, when the display softened and darkened until only a small disk of light was visible. This expanded and became a rectangular window looking onto a dimly lit street bordered by old brick houses. There was a tapping sound, and into view walked an old man with a long white beard down to his chest. He was dressed in a green robe that reached to his ankles and wore a turban of the same colour pushed back to reveal his high forehead. The tapping sound came from the cane—no, it was a staff he carried which accented every second step.
She’d heard of sites where everyone was represented by their own avatar, and she’d even visited a couple that Weasel had recommended, but this had none of the woodenness of animation she’d found there, it was like seeing an actual person. The old man stopped walking and turned until he seemed to be looking directly out of the screen. He had a pale complexion and such a depth of intelligence and warmth in his dark eyes that involuntarily she smiled.
‘Salãmun Alaykum,’ he said in an older form of the traditional Arab greeting, ‘Peace be unto you.’ His accent was odd, Nadia thought, sort of like the way Iranians spoke Arabic. Without thinking she responded, ‘And with you, peace,’ in the same language, immediately feeling foolish for having done so; this wasn’t a Skype conversation. So she was astounded when he responded with evident delight, in English this time, ‘Nadia Marabet. How fortunate to meet you at last.’
Totally dumbfounded, she could only sit there staring at the screen as the old man continued, ‘Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Green, Mr Green, or “Al Khidr” in your language, “The Green One”.’ He looked down at himself and smiled depreciatingly, ‘Yes, like my garment, I am afraid it has become something of a talisman.’
Nadia searched her display frantically. There was no trace of the Skype icon, and her webcam didn’t seem to be operating, how was this happening? Aloud she said, ‘Whoever-you-are, how are you talking to me, and . . . how did you know my name?’ Her finger hovered over the power switch while visions of secret government agencies bursting through her door flitted through her head like clips from a grade B action movie.
The old man was shaking his head as though he could see exactly what she was picturing. He held up one hand, ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let me explain. You asked an interesting question, did you not? About creatures with cat’s eyes? Who spoke Arabic?’
The question suddenly seemed ridiculous, but Mr Green appeared neither mocking nor patronising. ‘Well, yes,’ she said hesitatingly, ‘what I meant was . . .’ she got no further, for Mr Green was smiling and nodding.
‘How interesting, how very interesting,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You know, in my travels I have seen many strange and wonderful things. Perhaps I might help you in your quest.’ A thought seemed to occur to him. ‘In fact, my house is just over here. If you would care to take tea with me?’
Nadia realised that she had entered into one of those virtual reality sites where you could move around at will, open doors and so forth, only she had never seen or heard of one as realistic as this. And how was this two way conversation working? She decided to play along. ‘Well, sure; I mean, I’d be honoured.’
‘Splendid, splendid,’ said the old man, ‘You do honour to my home.’ So saying he turned and approached one of the old brick houses which was set back from its neighbours behind a low brick wall. He opened a black iron filigree gate and proceeded in a stately fashion down a paved walk to a narrow iron-bound door, almost lost in a profusion of bordering ivy. Nadia found herself following close behind Mr Green, or at least the display gave that illusion, and she blinked in surprise as he extended his staff to the door, which obediently opened.
Nadia was unprepared for the opulence of the room into which she seemed to enter. One of the better Antique dealers in the West End might have been the source of that carved screen boasting an Oriental dragon two metres tall seemingly fashioned from a single piece of wood that glowed a deep red in the lamp light, or that incredibly delicate and flowing sculpture in what had to be pale green jade on a small ivory inlaid table in a corner. A low divan was drawn up alongside shelves filled with an assortment of leather-bound volumes and scrolls. The charm of the room came from the sense that these were pieces that were there to be lived with, for no other reason than their owner’s pleasure in their beauty.
For some moments Nadia simply stared around the room before she realised that the figure of Mr Green was standing to one side as though to gauge her reaction. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she burst out, ‘Where did you find them all?’
‘I was afraid it would seem to you too much like a museum,’ admitted her host, beaming. But you see, when one is as old as I it is comforting to have about oneself objects of similar antiquity.’ He gestured toward the end of the room. ‘It is a fine evening, would you perhaps like to take tea in my garden?’
‘That would be lovely,’ she found herself saying.
‘Come this way then,’ said Mr Green, and the display moved with him as he crossed the room and parted a curtain made of strings of tourmaline-coloured crystals that chimed softly.
The paved area thus revealed was covered by a large tent of a golden material that looked like silk, lit by several silver lamps hanging on chains that burned with a white flame. Only the motion of the canopy as it was stirred, perhaps by an errant breeze, showed that they were out of doors. There were a number of cushions scattered about on a large patterned carpet, and a low table upon which rested a brass teapot and two china cups. Again the figure of Mr Green stood to one side as if to give her a chance to respond
Nadia noticed a central fountain in the shape of a carved leaping fish. The musical sound of the falling water drew her like a magnet, and the display obediently moved to where she could look into the depths, where in and amongst the fronds of aquatic plants swam a half dozen of the most beautiful ornamental c
arp she had ever seen. Her host joined her by the pool, releasing from his opened hand a shower of breadcrumbs which the fish accepted with an indefinable air of good manners. Nadia watched entranced as the red-gold forms glided in and out of sight. ‘They used to be thought of as symbols of wisdom,’ said Mr Green, softly ‘but I keep them chiefly for their beauty, and because it is a species that does not know age; unlike myself,’ he added, smiling. ‘My garden pleases you, then? Come, let us take our ease.’
Nadia found that she was becoming uncomfortable sitting hunched over her Apple Mac, and on impulse she removed the two cushions from her tiny sofa, carefully lifted the laptop and set it on the floor in front of them. On the screen, Mr Green was gracefully lowering himself onto a pile of cushions near the tiny table. He picked up an ornate china cup from the table and nodded in her direction. ‘Is the tea to your liking?’ he asked politely.
She paused in the midst of settling herself cross legged on the sofa cushions, and looked down in surprise. Tea? She hadn’t made any, what was he on about? Then her nostrils were assailed by an unfamiliar but by no means unpleasant odour and she saw that resting on the hardwood floor next to her right knee was a delicate china cup, a twin to the one he held, filled to the brim with a clear golden liquid.
Her heart hammering as though it meant to leap from her chest, Nadia cautiously reached out with a finger and touched the thin line of gold on the rim. It certainly seemed real enough, she thought desperately, perhaps she had absent-mindedly made some tea and . . . sure, replied a sarcastic voice inside her head, and while you were at it the cup as well. That never came from IKEA, genius. The cup was hexagonal below the gilded rim and decorated with fantastic curlicues of blue foliage. It looked incredibly old. Feeling as though she were crossing some kind of line she reached out and picked it up carefully by its delicate handle, raised it to her lips and took a cautious experimental sip.
The temperature was perfect, just hot enough to sting a little, and the taste was like the odour, spicy and unfamiliar. A feeling of warmth began at the back of her throat and quickly spread to her entire body, and she felt the tenseness leave her neck and shoulders. The colours of the canopied garden on the screen were deeper and the details sharper, and the water falling from the ornamental fountain seemed to be playing a soft tune like a music box wound backwards. She was listening entranced when she became aware that Mr Green had asked her a question. ‘Sorry?’ she said, shaking herself out of her reverie.
‘I was asking, unnecessarily it seems, if the tea was to your liking,’ the old man said gently. ‘So. Let us return to your question. You wished to know what a being might be who had cat’s eyes and spoke Arabic. Have you yourself ever encountered such a one?’
Nadia took another generous sip of the fragrant tea and set the cup down, absently noting that it seemed as full as before. She felt as if she were visiting relatives, sitting cross legged on a pile of cushions and being served tea with interminable courtesies and elaborate questions about the health of her family, her studies, and so on until the reason for her visit could be broached. She realised with no surprise that Mr Green’s last question had been in Persian accented Arabic and she replied in the same language, telling him of her encounter with the young man called Monkey and describing his extraordinary agility and appearance as carefully as she could.
As she spoke the face of her host became grave, and when she was finished speaking he sipped his own tea and was silent. An errant gust of wind stirred the yellow canopy overhead with a sound like muted thunder. A thought occurred to her. ‘A woman I work with told me she overheard one of the workers there refer to Monkey (it didn’t sound so bad in Arabic, Al Qerd) as “Obeah”, which she said meant . . .’
‘. . . connected with a spell or enchantment,’ Mr Green finished wearily. ‘Yes, I know the word, and that person may have been nearer the truth than your brother Salim.’ He was silent a while longer and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘Nadia,’ he said, ‘What do you know of the Jinn?’
‘What?’ exclaimed Nadia in surprise, ‘You mean a jinni like in the story of Ma’aruf the Cobbler?’
Mr Green smiled and his eyes sparkled briefly. ‘Do you tell me you young people still read that old book?’ he exclaimed.
‘My brother Salim used to read The Tales of the Thousand and One Nights to me when I couldn’t get to sleep,’ replied Nadia, mystified, ‘but those are only stories, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, something like that; travellers’ tales, stories from the bazaar. I’m afraid the beings called Jinn are quite real, my dear. And it appears that you have one such locked up in that . . . place, and locked up—here is the worst part—in a form not his own . . .’ As if in counterpoint there was a sudden rumble of something like thunder and the light darkened for an instant as a gust of wind invaded the garden, making the lamp flames leap and tremble. Mr Green held up an admonitory hand and said, ‘Peace, Brothers,’ seemingly to the empty air, and the disturbance subsided. He looked intently at Nadia, his expression grave.
Nadia took a long sip of her tea, her mind racing. This was just too fantastic! Sitting here in her flat discussing a jinni as if such things actually existed with the image of an old man on a computer screen . . . yet the warmth of the tea made it all seem quite reasonable, somehow, as if she were in a particularly vivid dream. ‘What did you mean when you said, “a form not his own”, Mr Green?’ asked Nadia, feeling a sudden chill as an idea occurred to her. ‘What does a jinni look like, then, really?’
Mr Green regarded her, his head tilted as if debating how best to answer. ‘It is said that the Jinn were made of fire, as humans were made from the clay of the earth. A jinni is invisible to human eyes, when he is in his own realm. In your world, he may take any form he wishes, as fire does, unless constrained by some spell, bound to appear in a certain guise and no other. That is a great wrong! Nadia, I say that you, and not only you and your brother, but everyone there, is in terrible danger!’
At his words an icy feeling filled Nadia’s abdomen, warring briefly with the warmth of the tea. ‘Danger? What danger?’ she asked, the tea cup rattling as she set it down abruptly.
‘If someone were to imprison you in an earthen jar, so that you had to live there for years, feeling your bones grow in the shape of the jar, and your natural form corrupted and changed forever, what would you do to that person, should you escape?’
‘But if he—if the Jinni is under some kind of spell, how can he escape?’
Mr Green spread his hands with a sad smile. ‘Spells wear out, Nadia, unless they are constantly renewed. The being you call Monkey is changing, even now, from the human form he was given. It begins with the eyes, which as you tell me are no longer quite human. When he gets free entirely, his vengeance upon those whom he feels imprisoned him will be most terrible.’ As he spoke the image on the screen seemed to seethe and crackle, and there was again a sound like muted thunder.
Gradually the disturbance subsided, and Mr Green sat studying her as if waiting for some particular response.
‘Can’t you help?’ she burst out finally, ‘I mean, you seem to know so much about . . . these sorts of things, surely you could . . .’
‘I?’ Mr Green laughed ruefully, ‘This is a thing not of my making, still less of my mending. No, I rather think it is you who must set it right.’
Nadia sank back on the cushions, suddenly terrified. ‘Me? How am I to do that? Why me?’ she sputtered.
The old man spread his hands as if the answer was obvious. ‘It was you who saw what no one else could see,’ he said calmly, ‘It was you and no other who sought for guidance in the world of the Jinn.’
‘This?’ protested Nadia, her voice going up an octave. ‘This is the INTERNET!’
Mr Green shrugged. ‘Call it what you will. Nadia, you must listen. There may not be much time. If the being you call Monkey sheds human blood he will be barred from his true homeland forever. For the Jinn, there is no worse fate.’
Nad
ia, near to tears, said, ‘But I don’t know anything about spells and stuff like that! What can I do?’
‘Monkey must be bound again,’ Mr Green said softly, inexorably. ‘Bound and taken to a place neither mountain nor plain, at a time neither day nor night. Only in such a place may he be set free.’
‘Bound? How? And then how can he be set free?’
Mr Green sighed as if in conclusion to a long, difficult task. ‘As to the second, when the time arrives, you must look for the answer within yourself. As to the first . . . finish your tea, and I will tell you.’
Obediently she raised the cup to her lips and drained it, too numb to register that when she had done so her hand was suddenly empty. Then she bent her head to the glowing screen of her laptop.
Hours afterwards she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, totally exhausted but unable to sleep. The taste of the tea still lay on her tongue, and the memory of the virtual encounter with the enigmatic Mr Green remained between her and the reality she had known like a waking dream. Finally she slept, only to dream again.
She was ten years old and on a school trip to the New Forest to visit the mink farm . . . wandering down the aisles, past cage after cage of the long, sinuous, sharp toothed animals chittering angrily, desperately as they ran back and forth, doubling on themselves, faster and faster, looking for a loose board, a hole, any way out. Her classmates had quickly become bored, and wandered back to the bus for their packed lunches, while she’d stood mesmerised before a cage where one, the biggest, crouched motionless, staring out at her with eyes like black jewels . . . ‘Sredni Vashtar’ she’d breathed, the name of a polecat ferret worshipped as a god by an invalid little boy in a story she’d read and loved . . . and of itself, it seemed, her hand had reached out and manipulated the simple lock on the door . . . and then she was running, running down the aisles, opening cage after cage, the minks pouring out like a lustrous dark shining waterfall, out of the door to the surrounding woods, and standing out of breath in the doorway, hearing the shouts of alarm from the adults behind her, and that one, Sredni Vashtar, had paused on the edge of the trees and looked back . . . straight at her, she was certain, and oh, she had wanted more than anything to follow him . . .
The Girl with the Peacock Harp Page 22