Stanley and the Magic Lamp

Once upon a very long time ago, way before the beginning of today’s sort of people, there was a magical kingdom in which everyone lived forever, and anyone of importance was a genie, mostly the friendly kind. The few wicked genies kept out of sight in caves or at the bottoms of rivers. They
had no wish to provoke the great Genie King, who ruled from a palace with many towers and courtyards and gardens with reflecting pools.

The Genie King was noted for his patience with the high-spirited genie princes of the kingdom, but the Genie Queen thought he was much
too
patient with them. She said so one morning in the throne room, where the King was studying reports and proposals for new magic spells.

“Discipline, that’s what they need!” She adjusted the Magic Mirror on the throne room wall. “Florts and
collibots! Granting wishes, which they’ll be doing one day, is serious work.”

“Florts yourself! You’re too hard on the lads,” said the King, and then he frowned. “However, this report here says that one of them has been behaving very badly indeed.”

“Haraz, right?” said the Queen. “He’s a
real
smarty!”

The Genie King sent a thought to summon Prince Haraz, which is all such a ruler has to do when he wants somebody, and a moment later the young genie flew into the throne room, did a triple flip, and hovered in
the air before the throne.

“What’s up?” he asked, grinning.

“You are!” said the Queen. “Come down here!”

“No problem,” said Haraz, landing.

“It seems you have been playing a great many magical jokes,” said the King, tapping the reports before him. “Very
annoying
jokes, such as causing the army’s carpets to fly only in circles, which made all my soldiers dizzy.”

“That was a good one!” laughed Haraz.

“And turning the Chief Wizard’s wand into a sausage, while he was casting a major spell? You did that?”

“Ha, ha! You should have seen his face!”

“Stop laughing!” cried the Queen. “This is shameful! You should be severely punished!”

“He’s just a boy, dear, only two hundred years old,” said the King. “But I’ll—”

“Who knows what more he’s done?” The Queen turned to the Magic Mirror. “Mirror, what other
dumb jokes has Haraz played?”

The Magic Mirror squirted apple juice all over her face and the front of her dress.

“Ooooohh!” The Queen whirled around. “Florts and collibots! I know who’s responsible for that!”

Prince Haraz tried to look sorry,
but it was too late.

“That does it!” said the Genie King. “Lamp duty for you, you rascal! One thousand years of service to a lamp.” He turned to the Queen. “How’s that, my dear?”

“Make it two thousand,” said the Queen, drying her face.

Almost a year had passed since Stanley Lambchop had gotten over being flat, which he had become when his big bulletin board had settled on him during the night. It had been a pleasant, restful time for all the Lambchops, as this particular evening was.

Dinner was over. In the living room, Mr. Lambchop looked up from his newspaper. “How nice this is, my dear,” he said to Mrs. Lambchop, who was darning socks. “I am enjoying my paper and your company, and our boys are studying in their room.”

“Let us hope they are,” said Mrs. Lambchop. “So often, George, they find excuses not to work.”

Mr. Lambchop chuckled. “They
are
imaginative,” he said.

In their bedroom, Stanley and his younger brother, Arthur,
were
doing homework. They wore pajamas, and over his, Arthur also wore his
Mighty Man T-shirt, which helped him to concentrate.

On the desk between them was what they supposed to be a teapot—a round, rather squashed-down pot with a curving spout, and a knob on top for lifting. A wave had rolled it up onto the beach that summer, right to Stanley’s feet; and since Mrs. Lambchop was very fond of old furniture and silverware, he had saved it as a gift for her birthday, now only a week away.

The pot was painted dark green, but streaks of brownish metal showed through. To see if polishing
would make it shine, Stanley rubbed the knob with his pajama sleeve.

Puff!
Black smoke came from the spout.

“Yipe!” said Arthur. “It’s going to explode!”

“Teapots don’t explode.” Stanley rubbed again. “I just—”

Puff! Puff! Puff!
They came rapidly now, joining to form a small cloud in the air above the desk.

“Look out!” Arthur shouted. “Double yipes!”

The black cloud swirled, its blackness becoming a mixture of brown and blue, and began to lose
its cloud shape. Arms appeared, and legs, and a head.

“Ready or not, here I come!” said a clear young voice.

Now the cloud was completely gone, and a slender, cheerful-looking boy hovered in the air above the desk. He wore a sort of decorated towel on his head, a loose blue shirt, and curious, flapping brown trousers, one leg of which had snagged on the pot’s spout.

“Florts!” said the boy, shaking his leg. “Collibots! I got the puffs right, and the scary cloud, but— There!” Unsnagged, he floated down to the floor and bowed to Stanley and Arthur.

“Who rubbed?” he asked.

Neither of the brothers could speak.

“Well,
someone
did. Genies don’t just drop in, you know.” The boy bowed again. “How do you do? I am Prince Fawzi Mustafa Aslan Mirza Melek Namerd Haraz. Call me Prince Haraz.”

Arthur gasped and dived under his bed.

“What’s the matter with him?” the genie asked. “And who are you, and where am I?”

“I’m Stanley Lambchop, and this is the United States of America,” Stanley said. “That’s Arthur under the bed.”

“Not a very friendly welcome,” said Prince Haraz. “Especially for someone who’s been cooped up in a lamp.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Florts! One thousand years, with my knees right up against my chin. This is my first time out.”

“I must have gone crazy,” said Arthur from under the bed. “I am just going to lie here until a doctor comes.”