Bearer of the Pearls

by Faust, Terry P. ;

  “Don’t go in there, Wendy!” Ben seized my shoulder and hauled me back.

  The glass pane in the top part of my window was broken, and something hovered outside. Something big, flat and rectangular—with frigging tassels all around its edge. The green light came together, and in a flash I heard the same nasty, “Ho, ho, ho,” I’d heard before. For a second I saw a misty face in front of the window—the giant genie from our doorstep. A charred cloth oven mitt covered one hand. The other held something, a burnt sack, that it pulled through the window as it flowed outside.

  The debris flying around my room fell to the floor. The tasseled flat thing outside the window sagged and wobbled under the genie’s weight, then shot out of sight. A carpet!

  Ben and I stood in my doorway, amazed, neither of us eager to go in.

  “The genie from the yard,” Ben said.

  “Was that thing outside the window what I think it was?” I asked.

  Ben hesitated and reluctantly nodded. “A flying carpet.”

  “I was kind of hoping it was just me.”

  “I think your room has been searched by a jinn.”

  “Searched?” I looked around. “Wrecked is more like it!”

  We carefully stepped in. There didn’t seem to be any leftover magic. My room was an utter mess. Drawers had been pulled out and my clothes and stuff had been emptied on the floor. My closet door was wide open and everything tossed out. Even my mattress had been flipped over and the sheets stripped off. It was scary. Up until now I had felt safe in this house—in my room. I shuddered. This was unfair. It was my room!

  The light from the hallway flicked on and we spun around.

  “What the devil happened here?” Mr. Preston asked from my doorway. His hair was crazy, and he looked pretty cranky. One good look at my room and he said, “Good God! What are you two doing?”

  Aunt Mary joined him.

  “Dad, it’s a long story. I don’t think you’ll like it,” Ben said.

  “I already don’t like it!”

  I was relieved Ben was trying to explain. I was so screwed up I’d just sputter if I tried.

  If Aunt Mary and Uncle Craig had doubts about letting me stay in their house before, this would not help. We went down to the kitchen and made hot cocoa with marshmallows while Ben told his parents what happened.

  “Genies?” Uncle Craig questioned and closed his eyes in disbelief. Ben left out Cathal and Her Ladyship. I began to think he should have left out the genies, too. His dad obviously didn’t buy it.

  “Ben, we have always encouraged your imagination and scientific investigations, but when things get broken and tossed around in the house, my patience wears thin. Tell me what really happened. I expect the truth.”

  “But Mr. Preston,” I said. “Ben is telling the truth.” I should have just kept my mouth shut. Sometimes I forgot I was a guest here.

  Mr. Preston gave me a hard look and scratched his chin. It had been a long story and Ben remembered more than I could. Had the genie thought I had the pearl he was looking for? Our mugs were empty. I could tell Mr. Preston was far from satisfied. We were all exhausted.

  “It’s late, and we’re tired,” Aunt Mary finally said. “We’ll talk about this some more in the morning, when we’re more awake.” She gave me a sympathetic look that I really appreciated.

  Ben nodded. “Wendy and I will clean up,” he said.

  “Remember to tape some cardboard over the window,” Uncle Craig said. “The replacement window is coming out of both of your allowances. Roughhousing and breaking windows is out of line.”

  My jaw dropped. I never “roughhouse”! But Ben kicked my ankle. “Okay,” he agreed.

  Uncle Craig seemed satisfied by Ben’s agreement, but then added, “Oh, and by the way, do either of you know what happened to our birdfeeder?”

  I looked at Ben and he looked at me. We shook our heads and said nothing.

  “I see.”

  * * *

  Ben patched my window and helped me clean up enough to get my bed back in shape. I didn’t see how I’d sleep tonight.

  Aunt Mary stuck her head in the door. “You know,” she said in a lowered voice to me, “Mr. Preston didn’t have any brothers or sisters when he was growing up. I had three: two brothers and a sister. Things sometimes got out of hand. Goodnight.”

  “Aunt Mary?”

  “Yes?”

  I smiled. “Thanks. Goodnight.”

  When she left, I straightened my blanket and said, “You know, Ben, you’re lucky. My mom would have never said that. She’d have thrown a fit.”

  Ben just grunted and set down the stuff he was holding from my dresser. He whispered, “Wendy, you have to check your stuff.”

  “Huh?”

  He put his finger to his lips and shushed me. “What’s missing?” he whispered.

  I looked at the jumble still on the floor. I didn’t own much, so picking out my stuff in the devastation didn’t take much effort. I poked at my collection of mystery books. They were in a crumpled pile, pages spread open, spines cracked. The whole time I had spent in my “rough neighborhood,” I never had my room broken into. I picked up a wooden coat hanger and noticed my only decent dress crumpled and torn.

  Ben insisted, “There must’ve been something they wanted.”

  My stuffed camel looked up from the floor, its sad mismatched eyes barely visible, like the cloth lids were almost shut against the pain. Its insides had been torn out. The jinn ripped it open. Then I realized what was missing. The bag of marbles I had put on the camel’s back were gone. I wanted to cry. “They got my marbles. They were my grandma’s.”

  “Marbles?” Ben asked. “Marbles from where? Where did you get them?”

  “My grandmother left them to me. I never used them much. I just rolled them around on the floor when I was little.”

  I picked up my poor gutted camel. Sawdust trickled out of him. His black eyes seemed to open and were sparkling now. I wiped back a tear. “I kept them on his back. I pretended they were treasure my dad had sent back from Iraq with my camel.” I held what was left of my camel and it calmed me down. It always seemed to. But it was sad. I didn’t know if it could be restuffed.

  “Iraq!” Ben nearly shouted. “The marbles came from Iraq?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. My grandma lived in Mississippi. Do you think the pearl was in with my marbles?”

  Ben looked puzzled and hesitated. “Pearls are soft gems. You wouldn’t want them knocking against hard glass marbles. It could chip the surface. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, maybe she didn’t know about pearls.” I clutched what was left of my camel and stroked its head. Oddly, the mess in my room no longer looked impossible. I felt an energy overcoming my sadness and fear.

  “Is there anything else missing?” he asked.

  “The insides of my camel. The frigging genie cut him open.” I looked at the camel’s empty middle. “Do you think he thought a pearl was inside?”

  “Possible.” Ben looked over the camel and poked a finger into it. I pulled it away. I didn’t know why exactly, other than it felt wrong. It was all I had from my dad. Only the head had some stuffing left and I tried to hold it so none ran out.

  Ben suddenly got a curious expression and leaned in close to look at the camel’s head. “Wendy, where did this camel come from?”

  “I don’t know. My dad gave it to me. He sent it back from his last tour. He mailed it to me.”

  “From where, exactly?”

  “Baghdad.”

  Ben held the camel’s head and stared into its black eyes. “The Yetima and its sister pearl, the Heart.” He said this to himself and looked up at me with a huge grin. “Wendy. I think we have what the jinn was looking for.”

  Fifteen

  The Pearls

  The jeweler’s glasses Mr. Abuzzahab wore to examine my camel’s eyes were weird miniature binoculars attached to his regular glasses. If he wasn’t so intense, he would have looke
d totally ridiculous. In fact, add the glasses to his round body, long gray beard, bald head, and big nose, and you’ve got a cross between a space telescope and Santa Claus. But he handled what was left of my camel with great care. I liked him.

  His East Lake Street jewelry shop was tiny, but Oliver told us he was the best person to talk to about pearls. Of course, Oliver would say that—Mr. Abuzzahab was his uncle. Werling, Oliver, Ben, and I crowded around his cluttered worktable in the back of his shop.

  Mr. Abuzzahab tipped my camel’s head this way and that and shined a light on its eyes, careful not to let stuffing leak out. He gently pinched material away from the pearls to examine them. He looked to me and said, “May I remove them?” He held my camel’s sad head and made like he was plucking an eye out.

  I hesitated. There was not much left holding them in place. I nodded.

  He put on thin, white gloves and carefully took the pearls out and put them in a felt-lined tray.

  Soldering irons and blowtorches sat next to the tray on the wooden table. Spidery clamps held jewelry repairs. Shelves of bracelets and necklaces surrounded us. He adjusted a lamp to shine onto the eyes. It made a special pool of light in his dim back room.

  “Well, Uncle?” Oliver said, but Mr. Abuzzahab held up a hand for quiet and gave the camel’s eyes an even closer look with a magnifier. We all leaned closer, too.

  Mr. Abuzzahab finally sat back. “Where did you get these?”

  “My dad sent them to me from Baghdad,” I said. “In the camel, like you see.”

  He hummed and rubbed his eyes. “And you think they are the Yetima and the Heart?”

  I looked at Ben, who simply shrugged. I said, “Well, we don’t know, not really. I mean, we don’t have a certificate or anything. We thought maybe you could tell.”

  He jiggled his head and snorted. “I think you’re joking with me.”

  Oliver spread his hands out and tried to show his honesty. “We’re not joking, Uncle. You can see they are pearls.”

  “Yes, they are pearls, valuable pearls, but the Yetima is a legend. It’s a story, a parable.” But Mr. Abuzzahab picked up the magnifier and lowered his head for yet another look.

  “Do they fit the descriptions of the Yetima and the Heart?” Ben asked.

  Mr. Abuzzahab filled his lungs and whistled. “Without a doubt, they could have been made for the story. But still . . . I will have to check for size and roundness. The Yetima was absolutely perfect. Even so, from what I see here, you have two exceptional pearls. Baghdad to Minneapolis, huh? Well, stranger things have happened. Archaeologists in Israel just found a pearl earring dating back to Roman times. It was under a parking lot next to the walls of Jerusalem’s Old City. It was a fantastic find. These . . .” he pointed to the camel’s eyes. “These, I have no way of dating. But, judging by their size and beauty, there must be some record somewhere. You are a very lucky young lady.” He gave me a warm smile. “I’d be happy to make inquiries on your behalf.”

  I didn’t feel particularly lucky, but I smiled back.

  “We appreciate your offer, but right now we don’t want to draw attention,” Ben said.

  Mr. Abuzzahab looked at each of us in turn. “You honestly believe they are connected to the pearls of old? The Yetima?”

  “We don’t know,” Ben said. “But someone broke into our house.”

  “Call the police,” he said.

  I said, “And tell them a genie on a flying carpet tried taking them? Not likely.”

  “A what?”

  Ben grimaced at my goof, but Werling jumped in, “It’s complicated, Mr. Abuzzahab.”

  “Well, I can lock them in my safe if you need a place to keep them. You don’t want to leave them lying about.”

  “Wendy?” Ben said. “They’re yours. What do you want to do?”

  I picked up my poor camel and looked at its empty eye sockets. I thought of my dad. “Please put his eyes back.”

  Mr. Abuzzahab did so and handed me my camel. The eyes gave me a strange sense of strength, just like Dad used to. What made him send this to me? I wished I understood. I wished I understood why he left Mom and me to go back to Iraq. But I’d always felt calm and strong holding my orphan camel. Locking it up in a cold, dark safe didn’t feel right.

  “I think the pearls came to me for a reason. I’ll keep them until things make sense. Thank you, Mr. Abuzzahab.”

  Mr. Abuzzahab nodded and pulled at his beard for a moment. “Perhaps you are right. You apparently know the story of the Yetima. But do you know the fabled power of Iblis?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Shaytaan, he is called—king of the bad jinn. He is a sorcerer, and he hates humans. He brings forth all that is evil in the jinn.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Why hate humans?”

  “According to legend, the jinn were created first, before man. Both jinn and humans were given the power to choose their own way—good or evil. God asked the jinn to accept man as equal and some jinn felt they were better, as if they should be first in God’s eyes. Those jinn refused.”

  “All of them?” Werling asked.

  “No, but Iblis fanned the flames of conceit in many. They have hated humans so long they have forgotten that we are their brothers and sisters.”

  This was all too bizarre. Nobody said anything for a time, and I wondered if Mr. Abuzzahab believed the tale more than he let on.

  Werling spoke up. “Shaytaan? Sounds like Satan.”

  “It’s not a coincidence,” Mr. Abuzzahab said. “Christians have their own stories of the fall. Iblis is the king of the jinns. In his pride, he opposed God’s will and was called Shaytaan ever after. The good jinn shun him and want nothing to do with him. He teaches the bad jinn sorcery. A scholar of Islam might understand more. I am only a poor jeweler.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Abuzzahab,” Ben said. He sounded anxious to leave, and I agreed with him one hundred percent. The dark, tiny room was now distinctly spooky. We all said goodbye.

  Mr. Abuzzahab stopped us with a raised hand. “A warning,” he said. “The legend of the Yetima said the pearls were the treasure of a pious man who chose to reject Iblis, so they may have power against evil. But your burglar is cunning. If he is jinn, he would not give up. And he would use tricks and force. You must beware.”

  Mr. Abuzzahab’s front door bell jingled. “Ah. I have a customer. If I’ve answered your questions, please, let me walk you to my door.”

  Werling started to follow, but Ben pulled him back.

  “What the . . . ?” Werling started, but Ben held him.

  “Thank you, Mr. Abuzzahab. If you don’t mind, we’ll stay back here and think about what to do.”

  “As you wish.” He looked puzzled but passed through the opening.

  I peeked around the corner. If Mr. T had twin brothers, they’d be in front of Mr. Abuzzahab’s jewelry counter, looking impatient. They both had Mohawk haircuts, wore leather vests and tighter-than-tight pants. Huge loops of gold hung from their ears. These guys didn’t look totally human.

  Oliver peered over my shoulder and whispered, “I have a bad feeling.”

  Werling took a quick glimpse. “Take away their poor fashion sense and they might be okay . . . but probably not.”

  “Is there a back door?” Ben asked Oliver.

  Oliver said, “Yes.” He pointed to a hall that led back, past file cabinets.

  Out front, Mr. Abuzzahab said, with surprising warmth, “Gentlemen, may I help you?”

  We quietly made our way down the hall. The steel door at the end had three deadbolt locks, a crossbar, and no window. Oliver unlatched the locks and raised the bar, but Ben stopped him from swinging it open, and cracked the door a fraction of an inch. On tiptoe, I looked over his head. The genie twins from our front yard, the ones that chased us, stood in the alley, arms crossed, luckily looking away from the door. Five or six hellhounds were with them. Ben softly closed the door again and muttered, “Genies.”

  We relocked the door and he
aded to the front.

  Mr. Abuzzahab was telling the two strange customers about rings. They had to be genies themselves. I figured if they knew we were there, they would get around Mr. Abuzzahab and come for us. One of the guys had a high nasal voice with a Scottish accent and wanted to know about diamond rings. Fitting a ring on his sausage-sized fingers would be a major job.

  “These genies figure they can get in a little shopping while on the job?” I whispered. Ben peeked out at them some more.

  Mr. Abuzzahab slipped back into our room and poked around on a shelf. Ben tugged on his sleeve and drew him away from the door. “Mr. Abuzzahab. We need to get past those two out there.”

  “Past them? What do you mean? Is there a problem?”

  Werling said, “Those jinn you were talking about . . .” He slanted his eyes to the front counter and the jeweler’s customers.

  Mr. Abuzzahab watched his pantomime with a puzzled expression. Then it clicked for him and he laughed. “You are worried about Bruce and Nigel?” He really laughed at this. “You don’t have to worry about them.”

  “What’s so funny back there?” either Bruce or Nigel, I couldn’t tell which, called from the counter.

  Mr. Abuzzahab laughed so hard he had difficulty talking. “Come. Come out, and I’ll introduce you.” He herded us all out in front of him.

  Bruce and Nigel looked as confused as Mr. Abuzzahab had at first. Four red-faced teenagers and a laughing jeweler must have been an interesting sight. Mr. Abuzzahab caught his breath, wiped his eyes, and introduced us. Then he explained our suspicions about them being evil genies. Bruce, who had the orange Mohawk, rolled his eyes and laid his huge paw on Ben’s shoulder. “That’s priceless, mate.”

  Nigel patted Bruce’s arm. “Does this big boy look like he’d fit in a bottle?”

  I felt pretty stupid. But on the other hand, he had not said he wasn’t a genie.

  * * *

  We hung around the shop with Nigel and Bruce. They seemed totally concerned with finding the right rings and I got into their enthusiasm, admiring their ring choices, or making suggestions. They were getting married.