Eye of the Forest (27 page)

“Could that be it?” said Dybbuk, and pointed to an inscription on the back of the door through which they had entered the dome over the rock.

“Yes. That must be it.”

They went to look at the inscription.

“That’s curious,” said McCreeby.

“What is?”

“The words of this inscription,” said McCreeby. “They’re in Spanish.”

“What’s curious about that?” said Dybbuk. “Everyone speaks Spanish in this country.”

“But not back in the mid-sixteenth century,” said McCreeby. “This is an Incan temple, after all. They spoke Quechuan. What’s more, the Incas never wrote anything down. Least of all in Spanish. They hated the Spaniards. The Spaniards had stolen their gold and killed their kings.”

“You’re forgetting Ti Cosi’s own chronicle,” said Dybbuk. “That’s in Spanish.”

“That was dictated to a Spanish priest,” said McCreeby. “For all we know it might even have been dictated in Quechuan. And translated by the priest.”

Dybbuk shrugged. “Then what’s the problem? You can read Spanish. So go ahead and read it.”

“Doesn’t anything of what I’ve told you strike you as being just a little strange?”

“Maybe if you read the inscription, I could decide for myself.” Dybbuk shot McCreeby a sarcastic sort of smile.

“Be patient, boy,” said McCreeby. “I’ll get to it.”

Dybbuk bit his lip. He disliked being called “boy,” as if he worked in the lobby of some expensive hotel, and he disliked being told to be patient by a mundane.
Him. Dybbuk, the djinn. AKA Jonathan Tarot, the television star. The son of Iblis, the Ifrit.
It was another reason for him to dislike Virgil McCreeby. Because by now, Dybbuk disliked McCreeby almost as much as he disliked the venomous pet spider the English magus kept in his shirt pocket. He disliked his fingernails, which were long and sharpened to points, like tiny swords, and he disliked the way McCreeby was forever filing them with an emery board. He disliked the way McCreeby reminded him of his son, Finlay, who Dybbuk had never really liked even when they’d been friends. He disliked McCreeby’s beard and his fat belly and tweed suits and his singsong, hoity-toity stage actor’s English accent. But he especially disliked McCreeby’s strange smell, which was referable to the ointment he rubbed on himself. McCreeby called it his flying ointment and it was made of moonlight, honey, and myrrh. It was nonsense, of course. McCreeby couldn’t fly. It was just something he said to make people think he was powerful. All part of the great magician’s pose. Back in Lima, when first
they’d arrived in the country, a hotel manager speaking to Dybbuk had mistaken McCreeby for his father and Dybbuk had felt like strangling him.

As McCreeby’s greedy eyes ran across the inscription, his lips muttered the words in Spanish. “Oh, I say, this is fascinating.” With fingers rippling excitedly, McCreeby took a notebook out of his pocket and began to write with the stub of a pencil. “It’s a set of instructions about what to do next to perform the ritual.”

Dybbuk sighed impatiently. “Well, what
do
we do? Are you going to tell me, or do I have to kick it out of you?”

McCreeby looked taken aback. “I say, there’s no need for that kind of talk,” he said. “Not after coming all this way together. I thought you and I were friends.”

“We are,” said Dybbuk. “I’m sorry. Tired, I suppose. Maybe it’s the altitude. I’ll feel better when I get my power back.” He smiled encouragingly at the older man. “I suspect we both will.”

McCreeby grinned back. “Quite. Well, let’s get to it. Where’s that backpack of mine?”

“Outside,” said Dybbuk. “I’ll go and get it.”

“Thanks. Decent of you.”

While Dybbuk went outside again, McCreeby mounted the steps, peered down the length of the gold tube, and shook his head in wonder. He looked at it for a moment and then, taking hold of the rod, shifted the top as per the instructions on the back of the dome door. “Extraordinary,” he muttered.

Dybbuk came back with the backpack.

“Now then,” said McCreeby. “If you would be kind enough to pass the pieces to me as I ask for them.”

Dybbuk opened the backpack and began to lay the pieces on the floor of the containment dome.

“The tears of the sun,” said McCreeby.

Dybbuk handed him two gold disks and McCreeby looked at them carefully. “As you can see, this is not a rod at all, but a tube. And, according to the instructions, we drop the first disk into the tube,” he said.

McCreeby held the disk above the tube, lining up the edges of the matching perimeters. Then he let it go. For a moment the disk stayed where it was before settling a little and then sliding perfectly down the length of the tube with an audible and metallic sigh.

“Look at that,” he said with admiration. “The extraordinary precision of those Incan craftsmen. Quite takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

Dybbuk made a noise like a bassoon and rolled his eyes up to the top of his long-haired head. “If you say so,” he said.

“I do say so,” said McCreeby. “Now then. The second disk goes in after the first.” He took the next disk and dropped it down the tube. Once again it looked like a perfect fit. “Marvelous. It won’t be long now. Your djinn power, and me with the power of making gold.” McCreeby chuckled and rubbed his hands. “Now then. If you could hand me that rather wonderful-looking gold staff.”

Dybbuk picked up the staff. It was heavy, about fifteen inches long and two inches in diameter. At the top was a squat little Incan god wearing a semicircular sort of crown, like a risen sun. The god was quite ugly and bowlegged and, under his crown, had earlobes as big as turkey wattles, which contained studs of jade and lapis lazuli. The rod itself was perfectly cylindrical, as if milled on a machine and, as he handed it over, Dybbuk noticed that the diameter of the rod was about the same as that of the disks. Small though it was, it weighed more than five pounds.

“We’ll just check the mechanism, shall we?”

“Mechanism? What mechanism?”

McCreeby took the staff and, having consulted his notebook, turned the body of the god through ninety degrees. There was an audible click and the rod fell away in his hand. “This mechanism,” said McCreeby.

“Neat,” admitted Dybbuk. “But why does it do that?”

“Well,” said McCreeby, “the idea is that we insert the gold rod into the gold tube. I imagine it will fit perfectly, like the two gold disks. When we decide that we’re ready, we twist the body of the god, which releases the rod, and it falls down the length of the golden tube. It’s my guess that the tube is as tall as this mountain, which means that by the time the rod reaches the bottom of the tube, and collides with those two disks, it will be traveling as fast as a bullet in a gun barrel. Well, almost.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, all we have to do now is attach the third disk to the bottom of the rod.”

“How are we going to do that?”

“Again, I’m just guessing here, but I imagine the disk is magnetic.”

“But pure gold’s not magnetic,” said Dybbuk.

“No, well, obviously the rod is not made of pure gold,” said McCreeby. “Gold is not a metal that’s of much use in magic. Except as an end result, of course. We like to make gold. Not use it for something else. If this were real gold, we’d hardly be dropping it down a tube into the bowels of the earth. No, I imagine the rod is made of lead. Lead is much more useful for an alchemist. There’s so much more you can do with it.”

Dybbuk nodded. It all sounded quite convincing to him.

“Now then,” said McCreeby. “Please hand me the third disk. The heaviest of the three.”

“Three
disks?” Dybbuk frowned. “But there were only two.”

“No, no. There are three.” He paused as Dybbuk began to search his backpack for the third disk. “There were always three disks. Surely you remember.” He paused. “Look, don’t muck around. A joke’s a joke, but we’re supposed to be performing an important and sacred ritual here. I distinctly remember Nimrod’s nephew giving you three disks.” He snapped his fingers at Dybbuk impatiently.

“I’m not mucking around,” said Dybbuk.

He started throwing things out of the backpack all over the dome in his desperation to find the missing disk. By the time the backpack was empty, he was furious. “It’s not in here.”

“It must be,” said McCreeby, coming back down the steps.

“See for yourself.” Dybbuk turned the empty backpack upside down over McCreeby’s head.

Irritated, McCreeby snatched it from Dybbuk’s hand and searched all of the pockets. “It’s not there,” said McCreeby.

“I told you,” said Dybbuk.

“What are we going to do? We can’t complete the ritual without the third disk.”

Dybbuk thought for a moment.

“Do we really need the third disk?” he asked. “I mean, we’ve got two down there already. What’s a third one going to achieve? Perhaps it’s just a spare.”

“Rituals involve observing a prescribed procedure for conducting a ceremony,” McCreeby said stiffly. “You can’t mix and match those parts that suit you and those parts that don’t. That third disk might well be the most important of all our Incan artifacts.”

Dybbuk turned and faced the inscription on the door as if hoping for some kind of clue about what to do next. “What does this say, anyway?”

“Mostly, it’s a description of what to do,” said McCreeby. “Disk two follows disk one, the way to release the rod from the restraining little god at the top. The last part I really
don’t understand.
‘Si el fulgor de mil soles fue a reventar a la vez en el cielo, que seria como el esplendor del podero… .’
Roughly translated it means something like ‘If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst at once into the sky, that would be like the splendor of the mighty one.’”

“Whatever that means,” said Dybbuk. “A nice tan, I guess.”

“I rather think the mighty one was Manco Capac,” McCreeby said. “But it might well be you, too, if we manage to pull this off. You, my dear Buck, might be the mighty one. But we simply have to find that third disk or we can’t be sure of anything.”

Dybbuk smacked his own forehead. “Of course,” he said. “The third disk. I bet I know where it is. In the avenue of vampire plants. It must have slipped out of your backpack when you fell. It’s probably still lying on that path. One of us will have to go back and get it.”

“It won’t be me,” said McCreeby. “I haven’t forgotten what happened to that pig thing.”

“It’s called a tapir,” Dybbuk said wearily.

“Well, whatever you call the thing, it was a supersize Coke for those creepy plants.” McCreeby shook his head. “Look, I’m older than you. And tired. It’s an hour’s walk back down to that path. And an hour back. That’s nothing to a young chap like you, Buck. Besides, you’re quicker than me. More agile. That gives you a much better chance of dodging those poison darts.”

Dybbuk thought for a moment and then yawned. “I think
you should go and get the disk. You see, now that you’ve told me what to do, you’re more expendable than I am.” He smiled a crafty sort of smile. “Look here. Suppose something were to happen to me. You do want three wishes, don’t you?”

“You cowardly little swine,” said McCreeby.

“Or maybe six wishes, like I said before.” He shrugged. “As many as you like.”

“You must think I’m an idiot,” said McCreeby. “We both know that a fourth wish given by the same djinn will undo all the previous three.”

“All right, all right. I tell you what. You go, and as soon as I get my power I’ll go and sort Zadie out. She’ll give you three wishes, just like we figured at the beginning of this expedition.”

“I thought you said Zadie was dead.”

Dybbuk grinned awkwardly. “I just said that so we wouldn’t waste any time trying to release her.”

“Poor Zadie,” said McCreeby.

“Poor Zadie nothing. She was driving us crazy, and you know it.” He shook his head. “Besides, it was obvious there was no way to cut her loose from that bridge without ending up the same way ourselves.”

McCreeby smiled wryly. “You’re really quite ruthless, aren’t you?” he said. “I can see you are your father’s son. Yes, indeed, I shall have to be careful of you, Buck.”

Dybbuk’s grin dried on his face and then disappeared. “What do you know about my father?”

“I know who he is,” said McCreeby. “And what you are, son of Iblis. Two djinns, not one. Half Marid, and half Ifrit. Jekyll and Hyde. Like twins. Good and bad. In fact, I rather think that the twins the prophecy speaks of are both you, dear boy.”

“If you know all that, then I wonder why you don’t just do what you’re told,” said Dybbuk. “Look here, you’ll be fine. You can wear some of that Incan armor we found in one of the other buildings. There’s even a shield you can carry.”

“All right, I’ll go,” said McCreeby. “But just remember this: You swore an oath on your mother’s life to give me three wishes if I helped you. Well, I’m helping you. I expect you to keep your word.” Ominously, he added, “And, if she knew, your mother would expect the same of you. While I’m gone, I suggest you think about that promise. And what it might mean. To her and to you.”

M
y feet hurt,” said Philippa, and sat down heavily at the side of the yellow stone path.

“Everyone’s feet hurt,” said John.

“I’m not at all surprised,” said Zadie. “We’ve been walking for hours.”

“What did you expect on an expedition into the Amazon jungle?” demanded John. “A chauffeur-driven limo?” He was still adjusting himself to the idea that Zadie was not the same person she had seemed to be before.

Zadie shook her head and shrugged. “Sorry,” she said. “I was just saying.”

“No, I’m sorry,” said John. “There was no need to bite your head off like that.”

Nimrod anxiously inspected the way ahead. He was eager to keep on going but recognized that his companions needed a rest. “All right,” he said. “We’ll have a
fifteen-minute break. But that’s all. We can’t afford to waste any more time.”

Groanin sat down beside Philippa and mopped his brow with a handkerchief the size of a pillowcase. “I can’t decide which feels worse,” he said. “My feet or my stomach. I say, boss, I’m not half hungry.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a while before the next meal,” said Nimrod. “If Dybbuk and McCreeby manage to set that bomb off you won’t notice you’re hungry.”

“Haven’t you heard? An army marches on its stomach.” Groanin’s stomach proceeded to rumble very loudly. “And in case you hadn’t noticed, this one is becoming mutinous.”

Meanwhile, Philippa had pulled off her walking boots and socks and was inspecting her feet, prompting John to hold his nose.

“My feet do not smell,” protested Philippa.

“Everyone’s feet smell,” said Groanin. “Of cheese, mostly.” He unlaced his own boot and stared unhappily at a sock that looked greasier than a fish-and-chips wrapper. “I say, everyone’s feet smell. T’ain’t natural to have feet that don’t pong a bit after a bit of a route march. I know mine do. Like a strong English cheddar. Or a nice bit of Stilton. Or maybe a slab of Yorkshire blue. There are times — this being one of them — when I get a whiff of my own feet and I think to myself, if only I had some bread and pickles, some radishes and spring onions, and a pint of bitter beer.” Groanin grinned at the thought of eating his own feet. “Yes, indeed,
there are times when I think that my feet’d make a mighty good lunch.”

“Ugh, Groanin,” said John. “That’s disgusting.”

“To you, maybe. But no one’s asking you to eat with me, are they? I say, you’re not invited to the handsome spread me and my feet are putting on.”

Zadie picked up Philippa’s boot and looked at it critically. “Your boots don’t look as comfortable as mine,” she remarked. “But we’re exactly the same size. Would you care to wear mine?”

Philippa smiled and delved into her own backpack. “That’s kind of you, Zadie,” she said. “But I thought I’d wear these for a while.” She took out a pair of gold-colored shoes. “They’re fantastically comfortable. And what’s more, they don’t smell of cheese. They smell of wild strawberries.”

“It’ll make a pleasant change from cheese, I suppose,” said John.

“Strawberries is all very well,” said Groanin. “But they’re not what I’d call a square meal. Strawberries is not very substantial.”

“May I?” asked Zadie.

“Sure.” Philippa handed Zadie the shoes, and the other djinn pressed them to her nostrils.

“Oh, my goodness, these smell wonderful,” said Zadie. “I don’t think I ever saw a pair of shoes that were as fragrant as these.”

“Strawberries come from the genus
Fragaria,”
Nimrod said absently. “Which comes from
fragans,
meaning odorous. Everyone eats strawberries today, of course, and yet, in parts of South America, they were considered poisonous until the mid-nineteenth century.”

“There’s not many people what know that,” said Groanin, and pulled a face. “But I don’t know why.”

“These shoes are like a breath of summer.” Zadie took another deep breath from the inside of the shoes. “The curious thing is that you can even taste the strawberries.” Zadie handed them back to Philippa. “Where did you get them? New York? Fifth Avenue? Somewhere expensive, I’ll bet.”

“Actually, they were a present from someone,” said Philippa, slipping on the shoes. “When we were in China. A great djinn called Kublai Khan gave them to me.”

“What,
the
Kublai Khan?”

“Yes.” Philippa stood up. “You know, it’s odd, but now that I’ve got these on I feel I could walk forever.”

“Got a spare pair there, have you?” asked Groanin. “Because my poor dogs are barking like the Oakley Hunt hounds. I swear, they feel like they walked to Tipperary and back. I wish …”

“Don’t,” said Nimrod. “Remember what I said. Nobody wishes for anything. No matter what the provocation.”

“In case you’d forgotten,” said Groanin. “I’m the one person in this team who doesn’t happen to be a flipping
djinn. And therefore what I wish for me and my feet is of absolutely no consequence to anyone.”

Nimrod frowned. “Break is over,” he said, and picked up his backpack.

“Slave driver,” muttered Groanin.

On they trudged. Although in Philippa’s case, she felt more as if she were walking on air.

After another hour or so they came around a corner to see where the yellow stone path led through an avenue of tall, sinuous plants. It wasn’t the pink flowers of the plants they noticed first, or even their uncanny, sinister movement so much as the man dressed in full Incan armor who was crawling on the ground among them. Cowering behind a large rectangular shield, he appeared to be looking for something.

“That’s Virgil McCreeby,” said John.

“Yes,” said Nimrod.

“He seems to be afraid of something,” said Groanin.

“It’s those flowers,” said Philippa. “They’re like blowpipes.”

“Thus the armor and the shield,” said Nimrod. “Those plants must be firing poisonous darts.”

As if to confirm Nimrod’s theory, several darts hit McCreeby’s Incan shield and bounced off it with a metallic sound, like raindrops hitting a corrugated iron roof. McCreeby yelped cravenly. And then whooped as his fat fingers chanced onto what he was obviously looking for. A gold disk.

“That’s one of the tears of the sun,” said Zadie, recognizing it immediately. “I stole them from the Peabody Museum, in New Haven.”

“They must have dropped one of them the first time they came past here,” said Philippa.

“Most likely they were running away from those plants,” agreed Nimrod.

“And now he’s come back for it,” added Philippa.

“Then we’re not too late,” said Nimrod. “They have yet to complete the ritual.”

Still whooping, and now clutching the gold disk, McCreeby picked himself up off the path and retreated to a position of safety on the far side of the vampire plants and about thirty yards away from his pursuers. He was just about to run away when Nimrod shouted at him.

“McCreeby, wait a minute, please.”

McCreeby turned and, seeing Nimrod, waved him forward. “Come over here and have a chat, why don’t you?” he said.

“I think not,” said Nimrod. “We’ll just stay here for now. Until we figure out a way past these poisonous plants.”

McCreeby laughed. “Not just poisonous, I’m afraid. They drink blood. But I should still like to collect one. It would be interesting to see their effect at the Chelsea Flower Show. And I think I’d need more than green fingers to cultivate one. Don’t you?”

One of the vampire plants nearest to McCreeby spat a dart that fell just short of his shield.

“See what I mean?” said McCreeby. “Well, maybe you’ll find some armor. Then again, maybe not. You know, I wonder why you don’t make a wish to get rid of them or me and have done with it.” McCreeby searched the sky above him as if looking out for some form of djinn attack from the air.

“I wanted to give you a chance first,” said Nimrod, bluffing. “To make amends.”

“Decent of you, old boy, I’m sure. By the way, it’s a relief and a pleasure to see you’re okay, Zadie. No hard feelings, I hope. It certainly wasn’t my idea to leave you behind.”

“No hard feelings, Virgil,” said Zadie.

“This is your last chance, McCreeby,” said Nimrod. “Put the disk down and give up. Or I’ll turn you into that toad I mentioned the last time we spoke.”

But McCreeby shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t buy it, Nimrod. If you haven’t put the hex on me or these vampire plants yet it’s because there’s a jolly good reason. Quite possibly you can’t. Wait a minute — yes. Now I understand everything. Zadie wished for a plane and we ended up trying to fly in a midget submarine. Not very successfully. That’s it, isn’t it? There’s something about coming through the Eye of the Forest. Something about it that means you don’t dare use your power.” McCreeby chuckled. “Oh, my goodness, how very unfortunate for you all.”

“Listen to me, McCreeby,” said Nimrod. “Just for a moment, please.”

“A matter of life and death, is it?” McCreeby’s tone was mocking.

“No, it’s more important than that. Please listen.”

“What, no more threats to turn me into a toad? That wasn’t very polite, you know, Nimrod. Not very polite at all.”

“Listen to me, McCreeby. You’re probably not aware but this entire area is one huge chunk of uranium. Those yellow stones you’re standing on? They’re uranium, too. That’s the power you’re planning to call on with the
kutumunkichu
ritual. Atomic power. This whole mountain is a natural nuclear reactor that’s been undergoing one continuous chain reaction over several centuries. I think the three tears of the sun are made of polonium, lithium, and steel. The Incan rod you’ve got is also made of uranium. Probably even purer than the stuff we’re both standing on.”

McCreeby continued chuckling. “Don’t stop. I’m enjoying this. It’s very entertaining.”

“It’s my guess that there’s some kind of barrel or pipe into which you have to put two of those disks. The third you probably attach to the Incan staff, which you then fire along the pipe and straight into the heart of this uranium mountain.”

“This is really ingenious,” said McCreeby. “I’m impressed. You’re not just a pretty powerful djinn; you’re a pretty powerful djinn with a good imagination.”

“Listen to him, please, Virgil,” said Zadie. “It’s true.”

“When the rod hits the mass of uranium rock, the whole mountain goes critical,” said Nimrod. “The uranium molecules will become so excited they start to boil.”

“And so they blow up. Is that right?”

“Not quite. That’s where the tears of the sun come in. By itself the whole mountain would become massively radioactive, but without an atomic explosion. To make that happen you need those disks. Look, McCreeby, I’m not a nuclear engineer. Left apart, all the various pieces are harmless, but when you bring them together you have a very big bang, indeed. I think it’s the tears of the sun that will start a chain reaction and cause the mass of uranium — namely the mountain — to blow itself to pieces. And not just the mountain. The whole country. The whole hemisphere. You’re talking about an explosion that would be a million times bigger than the first atomic bomb.”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense. Are you really telling me that the Incas knew the secret of atomic energy, Nimrod? You must take me for an idiot, old boy.”

“Manco Capac was a very powerful djinn. Even you should know that’s true, McCreeby. Throughout history there have been several djinn who knew the secret of nuclear fission hundreds of years before humans learned it. And the idea of you carrying out the
kutumunkichu
ritual, like Manco? This was all Ti Cosi’s idea for getting revenge on the Spanish conquistadors. To bring about the
Pachacuti.
The great destruction. This is what it’s all about. You’re not completing a ritual to give yourself the power to make gold, McCreeby, or to help Dybbuk to recover his djinn power. You’re building an atomic weapon that is going to destroy the world.”

“I can’t see how it’s got anything to do with the real world. We’re in a different dimension, aren’t we?”

“There’s another way in here that doesn’t require one to enter through the Eye of the Forest,” said Nimrod. “This world and our world are connected. And that means they’re both at risk of destruction.”

McCreeby made a show of looking at his watch. “Nimrod? What can I say? It’s been fascinating. Really. And I’d love to stay here chatting with you. However, I must be getting along. Dybbuk is expecting me, with the third disk.”

And he turned around and walked away.

“We simply have to stop him from completing the ritual,” said Nimrod, as they watched McCreeby start laboriously back up the hill toward the lost city of Paititi.

“But how?” said Groanin. “We can’t get past those horrible aspidistras. And you said, none of you can afford to use your power for fear of it turning out wrong.” He shook his head. “That’s the thing about you djinn that annoys me the most. It always seems that when you need your power the most, it’s never there. I can’t remember the number of times this sort of thing has happened.”

“Shut up, Groanin,” said Nimrod.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll have to risk it,” said Nimrod. “Let’s see now. If I wanted to wish for a cup of coffee, I’d wish for — what?”

“A cup of tea?” suggested Groanin.

“QWERTYUIOP!” said Nimrod, and a bucket of mud appeared on the path in front of them.

Groanin dipped a finger into the mud and licked it. “Well,” he said. “It does have two sugars, the way you like it, sir.”

“I don’t see how that helps,” said John.

“It was an experiment,” Nimrod said irritably. “In opposite wishing. I was wishing for a cup of tea in order that I might end up with a cup of coffee.”

“Well, it didn’t work,” observed John.

“So, if you wanted a cat,” said Philippa, “would you wish for a dog or for a mouse?”

“You see the problem exactly,” said Nimrod.

Philippa shot John a sarcastic smile as if to underline the fact that she understood something that her twin brother didn’t.

“The difficulty lies in how to properly fix the front of your mind on the thing you don’t want, if the thing you do want is somewhere at the back of it.”

“Sort that one out,” muttered Groanin. “If you can.”