Day of the Djinn Warriors (9 page)

Mr. Rakshasas nodded. “It’s time we were leaving,” he said. “We’ve a good deal of traveling to do to get back to the Temple of Dendur.”

They set off without further delay, canoeing back to Newburgh in the breaking morning light and then boarding an early commuter train that was bound for New York City. While the train rocked along, Mr. Rakshasas told Faustina what would happen when they got back to the temple in the museum.

“The three of us will go back to John’s house,” he said. “Sure, with any luck, Nimrod and Philippa will have already arrived back from London with your body, Faustina. As soon
as we’re all tucked up and snug in our human shapes again, you can decide your next course of action while the rest of us figure out what to do about Leo’s little problem.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rakshasas,” said Faustina. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you and to John. Most of all, I am really looking forward to there being some color in my life again.”

It was midmorning by the time they reached the Metropolitan Museum again, where the attendants’ strike was still in progress, but they thought no more about it until they reached the door of the Temple of Dendur, which would have allowed the three djinn to leave the spirit world and reenter the living world of physical matter. There a rude shock awaited them, for, blocking the door, was the same gray, strange-looking figure with the sword. He was positioned with his back to the door, as if on the lookout for something.

“That is one of those creeps I saw in China in that underground cavern,” whispered Faustina. “That’s one of the zombies I was telling you about.”

“Can we get past him?” John asked Leo.

“I don’t think so,” Leo whispered back. “Not without being attacked and absorbed. Like those others I told you about when we were here before.”

“What are we going to do?” said John. “We can’t get back into our bodies again unless we leave through a temple.”

“If only we knew what this fellow wanted,” said Mr. Rakshasas. “Perhaps I should try to talk to him.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” warned Leo.

“Maybe I can reason with him,” said Mr. Rakshasas.

“Honestly,” said Leo, “I think you’d be making a fatal mistake.”

“Who is this guy?” John shook his head with anger and frustration. They were so near home and yet, while this figure remained in their way, blocking the door to the temple, they were still so far.

T
here were twenty thousand people in Madison Square Garden, and it seemed to Nimrod and Philippa that most of them were on Sam’s side, for they had greeted his arrival in the ring with deafening cheers.

Groanin climbed into the ring to a chorus of loud whistles and boos, some coins, and several pieces of an orange peel.

“Pay no attention to them,” said Philippa as she and Nimrod followed Groanin to his corner. “Sam just wants them here to scare you.”

“Look here, Miss Philippa, why ever did you say I’d fight him? I’m no wrestler. You know that.” Groanin pointed at Sam, who was flexing his not inconsiderable shoulder muscles for the entertainment of the crowd. “He knows that, too, which is worse.”

“Of course,” said Philippa. “He’s expecting to wipe the floor with you. To tie you in knots and use your head as a
paperweight. Like he said. Only you have a secret weapon he won’t be ready for.”

“What secret weapon?” demanded Groanin.

“Your new arm, of course,” said Philippa. “The one we gave you back in India to replace the one you’d lost. It’s much stronger than a normal human arm. That’s what he won’t be expecting.”

“She’s right,” said Nimrod. “I’d forgotten about that. Sam thinks you’re just a normal human.”

“And don’t forget,” added Philippa, “that when Samael fought Jacob in the Bible, the result was a draw. And think about this: Jacob wasn’t even the strong one. That was his brother, Esau. Jacob was the smooth one.”

“Well done, Philippa,” said Nimrod. “I’d forgotten that, too.”

“I hope you two are right,” said Groanin, and threw off his cape. “After all, it’s my head he’s planning to use as a paperweight.”

As well as transporting them all miraculously to Madison Square Garden, Sam had made sure that he and Groanin were wearing suitably theatrical costumes. Sam himself was wearing a splendid white, diamond-encrusted cape and a matching spandex leotard. He looked every inch the good guy. It was equally clear, however, that Sam had meant Groanin to look exactly like the villain of the contest: Groanin was wearing a black spandex leotard and a necklace of white skulls around his neck. There were even little skulls on the laces of his black wrestling boots.

Groanin advanced to the center of the ring and shook hands with his grinning opponent. He went back to his corner trying to smile with confidence, but it came off looking thuggish and sinister. A piece of orange peel hit him on the back of the head. The bell rang to begin the contest.

“Good luck, Groanin,” said Nimrod, and pushed him out of his corner. “You’ll need it.”

Sam held out his hand. Groanin took it politely, only to find himself tossed through the air like a boy backflipping into a pond on a hot summer’s day. Philippa and Nimrod closed their eyes for a moment as Groanin landed flat on the canvas with a crash that was louder than a grand piano falling out of a sixth-floor window, and lay still.

The referee began to count. Sam was already walking triumphantly around the ring acknowledging the cheers of the crowd. Philippa and Nimrod each opened one eye. And eventually, but rather reluctantly, so did Groanin.

“Get up, Groanin,” yelled Nimrod. “Or you’ll be counted out.”

“Yes, sir,” said Groanin, and, like a drunken man, he staggered to his feet only to be booed loudly and then felled again by a mighty forearm smash from Sam.

“Sam’s not exactly what I’d call angelic,” observed Nimrod, “is he? But he seems to understand how to please an American audience.”

Philippa, who was hating every moment of this contest, shook her head and rubbed the tears from her eyes. Watching Groanin thrown around like a rag doll was awful
to her, especially as it had been she who had volunteered him for the fight. And yet Philippa still thought Groanin could defeat Sam. She leaned forward under the rope and yelled at the prostrate butler, “Use your arm, Groanin. The next time that big ape takes a swing at you, block it with your arm.”

Groanin struggled to his feet and Sam, cocky now, and thinking he might finish the contest quickly, started to bring his elbow down hard on top of Groanin’s shoulders, like a sledgehammer. Except that before the blow landed, Groanin lifted his arm over his head, to protect himself.

It was as if Sam had hit his elbow against an iron bar. Grimacing with pain, he lurched around the ring holding his arm against his body, and howling, almost as if he had broken it. He hadn’t, but it was certainly badly bruised.

“Now pick him up and throw him,” yelled Philippa.

Once again Groanin did as she had suggested and, with his more powerful arm, sent Sam flying vertically through the air. The angel landed on the canvas with the sound of a huge door slamming shut in some giant’s castle. The crowd went mad.

“Now get him around the neck,” yelled Philippa, “and pin his shoulders on the canvas until the ref counts three.”

Groanin grappled the burly angel to the canvas and pressed him down with all his strength.

“One …” said the ref, and slammed the canvas with the flat of his hand.

“I do believe Groanin is going to win this,” observed Nimrod.

“Two …” said the ref, and slammed the canvas again.

Sam made a superhuman effort to lift himself up but there was nothing he could do against the huge strength of Groanin’s arm. Then, with an almighty gasp, his whole body seemed to go limp and he conceded defeat.

“Three!”

Groanin had won. The ref lifted his arm in the air.

“The winner!” he yelled.

Philippa grabbed Nimrod and hugged him. “He did it!” she cried. “He did it!”

They climbed into the ring and while Philippa hugged the butler, Nimrod lifted his other arm in triumph. “Well done, Groanin,” he said. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sam stayed down for a moment, then rolled onto his ample stomach and shook his head in disbelief before banging his fist angrily on the canvas.

“I hope he’s only angry with himself,” said Nimrod. “It doesn’t do to upset an angel. Just look what happened in Egypt. Not to mention Sodom and Gomorrah. Angels can be sore losers.”

Groanin blinked some sweat out of his eyes and when he looked at Philippa again they were all transported back to the Carthusian catacombs in Malpensa. He was wearing
his normal butler’s clothes again, and Sam was seated on a shelf between two corpses, looking thoroughly miserable.

Philippa put her hand on the angel’s shoulder. “Never mind, Sam,” she said, and tried to think of something nice to say. “I liked your costume. It was very … angelic.”

“I’m not much of an angel,” he said, “if I can’t trounce some poncy English butler in a wrestling match.”

“Never underestimate an English butler,” said Nimrod. “They are the janissaries of civilization.”

“I don’t even know where St. Bruno is,” said Sam with a loud sigh. “You know? The chap whose bones I’m supposed to be looking after? You were right about that. All the labels got mixed up back in 1750, see? And I kind of lost track of him. I’m a hopeless failure.”

“I think I might be able to help you there,” said Nimrod. He picked up one of the still-burning candles and walked back down the corpse-lined corridor. “Most of these chaps are monks, from the look of them.”

Nimrod stopped in front of one of the older-looking skeletons.

“But this one is especially interesting,” he said. “He’s holding a skull in his hands. That usually means something important. And look here. That piece of rusting metal on top of his head. If I’m not mistaken it’s supposed to be a little crown of seven stars.
A crown
. That means something important, too.”

Sam stood up, a smile spreading on his big face. “Are you sure?”

At that precise moment, the skeleton’s head fell onto the floor like a coconut dropping from a tree.

“I’d say old Bruno just gave you the nod on that one, Sam,” said Groanin.

Nimrod picked up the ancient skull and wiped some of the dust off it. “Someone’s written something on his head,” he said, putting on his glasses. “It’s a bit faint.
‘Sancti Brunonis Confessoris, qui Ordinis Carthusianorum fuit Institutor.’
” Nimrod tossed Sam the skull. “No doubt about it, Sam old chap. This fellow is St. Bruno, all right.”

“St. Bruno,” said Sam, cradling the skull. “You’ve found him.”

Nimrod wiped his hands on the handkerchief Groanin now handed him.

“How can I thank you?” said Sam. There were tears of gratitude in his eyes. “I thought I’d never find him again.”

“Well, you can start by letting us take our friend out of here,” said Nimrod.

“Of course you can,” said Sam. “We had a deal. Your butler won the fight fair and square.”

Nimrod and Groanin went back up the corridor and picked up the stretcher bearing Faustina.

“If there’s ever anything you need,” said Sam. “Anything. Just call me. And I’ll be there.”

“That’s good to know,” said Nimrod.

“Yeah, you’re an angel,” said Philippa.

H
e doesn’t look much like a zombie to me,” objected John.

They remained in the temple, unable to travel through its all-important doorway, now blocked by the figure with the sword, and into the living physical world of color. He stood with his back to them, facing the Sackler Wing of the museum, as if his purpose was to prevent anybody or indeed any spirit from using the temple to enter the ethereal world.

“I think you’ve been watching too many movies,” John told Faustina.

“Oh? And what’s a zombie supposed to look like?” she asked.

“A mindless, shambling, decaying human corpse with a hunger for human flesh,” said John. “Everyone knows that.”

“Now who sounds like he’s been watching too many movies?” said Faustina.

“This guy doesn’t look like a corpse,” said John. “And he sure doesn’t want to eat people.”

“When I used the word ‘zombie,’ it was the shambling, mindless qualities I had in mind,” said Faustina. “Hey, you might make a decent zombie yourself, John.”

John could see he wasn’t about to get the better of Faustina in an argument. To that extent she reminded him a lot of his own sister.

“Perhaps he’s a ghost zombie,” she said. “And instead of consuming human flesh, he consumes ghosts and spirits. That’s what you said, isn’t it, Leo? That he absorbs spirits?”

“That is correct, miss,” said Leo.

“Ridiculous,” said John. “I never heard of such a thing.”

“Sure, if you want to hear a pointless argument,” said Mr. Rakshasas, “just listen to the cat and dog having a conversation.” He chuckled quietly. “Whatever he is, this fellow is in our way. As I see it, we either have to find another temple through which to enter the spirit world, or find a way around our friend here.”

“There’s not another temple like this in the whole of North America,” said John.

“Isn’t there one in South America?” asked Faustina. “Or maybe Central America?”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Rakshasas. “The question is, can we afford to take the time to get all the way down there and then come all the way back here to collect our bodies?”

“He’s right,” said John.

“Yes, I’d forgotten you’re in a hurry to get rid of me,” Faustina told John.

“You’re bolting your door with a boiled carrot, Faustina,” said Mr. Rakshasas. “So why bother to make us break it down?”

Faustina was silent for a moment. “One of us should probably distract him,” she said.
“The zombie.”
She looked at John and squared her jaw as if defying him to disagree with her again. “So that the other two can make a getaway.”

“I’ll do it,” said John. “It’s only right that it should be me. After all, I’m the quickest.”

Mr. Rakshasas sighed and laid a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Prudence dictates that it might be inconvenient if you were absorbed by this zombie fellow.
I’ll go.”

Mr. Rakshasas raised his hand to stop John’s objection.

“It must be so, John,” he said. “You see, it’s not just your life you’re putting at risk. It’s Philippa’s, too. Ask yourself this: How would she get her power back from your body if you weren’t there to help her do it?”

Recognizing the wisdom of what the old djinn had said, John nodded. “You will be careful, won’t you?”

“Sure, I’ll be careful,” said Mr. Rakshasas. Under his breath he added, “But if you go mowing the grass in the middle of a horse race, there’s always a risk you’ll get
trampled on.” He pointed into the dark shadows of the temple doorway. “You two hide in there,” he told John and Faustina. “And then when I’ve got him distracted, make a run for it.”

“Good luck,” said John.

“The boy will do his best for you,” Mr. Rakshasas told the Ka servant of the temple.

“What did he mean by that?” John asked Faustina when they were hidden in the shadows.

Faustina shrugged. “You know better than I do what he’s like.” She bit her lip and it was plain that she understood what John still did not: that Mr. Rakshasas did not expect to survive his encounter with the zombie. “I don’t understand half of what he says.”

John smiled and got ready to run.

Mr. Rakshasas was already standing immediately behind the zombie. He spat on his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. Then he cleared his throat, and said, “Would you mind getting out of me way, you great big ugly lummox, you?”

The creature shifted on each foot and, as it turned slowly to face Mr. Rakshasas with its staring, doll-like eyes, John was obliged to admit to himself that it looked more like a zombie than anything else he could think of. Only now that he saw it more closely, he could hardly fail to recognize that the creature’s narrow eyes, high cheekbones, and drooping Charlie Chan mustache marked it as being Chinese. A
Chinese zombie. Well, why not? China must have zombies, just like everywhere else.

The zombie’s eyes may have remained blank but they seemed to function well enough, for the creature lunged at Mr. Rakshasas with one big arm and sought to grab him. Mr. Rakshasas ducked under the arm and hobbled quickly out of the temple and into the museum. The creature turned and pursued him.

“Come on,” said John. “Let’s go.”

John took Faustina’s hand and they ran out of the temple and down the steps onto the marble floor of the Sackler Wing, disappearing as they entered the physical world. As they ran, they shouted at the zombie, hoping to distract it and draw it away from the pursuit of Mr. Rakshasas. But the creature did not even look around, for there was nothing to see, of course, and much faster than before it was advancing upon the old djinn who, quite on purpose, had run through the cold water in front of the temple and then a current of air-conditioning in order to remain tantalizingly visible to his pursuer.

Suddenly, the zombie seemed to accelerate, almost as if some kind of electrical current were carrying it forward. At the same time, Mr. Rakshasas stopped to catch his breath and look around. John cried out with horror at what he saw was about to happen.

“Mr. Rakshasas, look out!” he yelled.

The next second, the zombie collided with the old djinn.
But it did not knock him over. Nor did it pass harmlessly through the spirit of Mr. Rakshasas. One moment the thin, half-visible shape of Mr. Rakshasas was almost there, and then it was not. He disappeared completely, as if absorbed by the zombie, which continued on its way for several more feet and then walked around the corner.

John and Faustina stopped running and waited to see if Mr. Rakshasas would make himself nearly visible again. When he did not, John and Faustina shouted his name several times. Minutes passed and nothing happened.

“It was just like Leo said. He got absorbed by that thing.”

Still holding hands, they crossed the floor and went back up the steps to the Temple of Dendur where they could see Leo staring anxiously out of the door and into the museum. As they came between the pillars of the temple, John and Faustina became visible again.

“You should go,” Leo told them. “In case that zombie comes back again.”

“We can’t go without him,” insisted John.

“It’s what Mr. Rakshasas would have wanted,” said Leo. “He knew what he was doing. That’s why he did it. So you two children could get away.”

John shook his head. “This can’t be happening,” he said unhappily. “I don’t believe it. Not Mr. Rakshasas.”

Faustina squeezed his hand and then put her arms around John’s neck. “Leo’s right, John,” she said. “We have to go,
and go now. Before it comes back and does the same thing to us that it did to Mr. Rakshasas.”

“You don’t understand,” said John. “He’s my friend. I can’t leave my friend.”

“It’s too late, John,” she said. “He’s gone. Mr. Rakshasas is dead.”