Eye of the Forest (25 page)

“I’m fed up with turning people into dogs and cats.” Layla was answering the question Mr. Gaunt had been about to ask. “What the world doesn’t need are more dogs and cats. So I picked the animals they reminded me of. It so happened I also picked three of the world’s rarest animals. We can give the Central Park Zoo a call when we get home and they can come and collect them. It’ll be good for the reputation of the zoo and good for the breeding future of these animals. Don’t you think?”

Mr. Gaunt was on the verge of answering when his wife said, “Let’s get out of here. Before someone else shows up. I know there’s just the three of them you’ve seen, but you never know with a man like Virgil McCreeby.”

She turned him around and started them down the stairs. In the street outside, a man was standing next to Layla’s car and fiddling with the lock. Unfortunately for him, there was something lupine about his face, which is to say he reminded Layla of a wolf.

“Can you beat that?” Layla was outraged. “I’m actually sitting in the backseat, and he’s still trying to steal the car.”

At last, Mr. Gaunt managed to get a word in edgeways. “It’s dark. Perhaps he hasn’t seen you.” He was about to suggest that being turned into an animal — albeit a rare animal — was quite a severe punishment for auto theft, but Layla’s thoughts were already there ahead of him. “I think
what the world needs are a few less car thieves and a few more red wolves.”

She paused but before Mr. Gaunt could think to stop her, Layla’s focus word was already out of his mouth.

“NEPHELOCKOKKYGIA!”

The rare red wolf, once common in the river forests and swamps of the southeastern United States, barked loudly and then loped off into the streets of Brooklyn.

Layla slipped out of her husband’s body and into the car, where, once she was herself again, she unlocked the door to let him in. Silently, he got into the passenger seat, put on his seat belt and — since he didn’t actually hold a license himself — waited patiently for her to drive them home.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said quietly. “I mean the real you, not Mrs. Trump. You look … er … you look, great. Wonderful. Quite like your old self.”

“You really think so?”

But after a moment he let out a long sigh.

“What?” she asked, although the fact was she already knew the answer.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s what I mean,” she said, already regretting her anger and how she had dealt with those four miscreants — not because she thought they deserved some lesser punishment but because having been inside Mr. Gaunt’s mind, Layla now knew exactly what her husband thought of what she had done and, as a consequence, what he thought of her. In short he was afraid of her. Terrified. Because it’s no small thing for a
man to be married to a wife who can turn him into a rabbit or a sheep with just one word.

Mr. Gaunt tried to contain his fear, but it was no good. His hands were trembling and there was a film of sweat on his forehead. He was only human, after all.

“I’d never do something like that to you,” she said. “Surely you know that, Edward.”

“But the fact remains, you could,” he said. “In a moment of anger, you could transform me into anything you liked. Like my two brothers, Alan and Neil.”

“In case you’d forgotten, they were plotting to murder you, Edward,” said Layla.

“Yes, I know, and I was very grateful to you for saving my life.”

“Plus, they’re back in human shape now, aren’t they?”

“Yes. And they certainly learned their lesson. They’ll never do anything like that again. They’re the most loyal brothers anyone could have. But they do what they do out of fear of you. Not out of love for me. And I’m a little worried that the same thing might be happening to me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Suppose I disagreed with you about something.” “We never disagree.”

“But suppose we did. Like who to vote for in an election. I mean, you vote one way and I vote the other.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“I’m just a little worried that I may begin to feel I have to watch what I say and do. Just in case.”

“Just in case I turn you into an animal?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“Over something as trivial as who we’re going to vote for?” She shook her head. “It wouldn’t ever happen.”

“Something else then. Suppose I smacked one of the children.”

“We don’t believe in smacking.”

“All right, suppose I ever hit you,” said Mr. Gaunt. “If I was married to anyone else the worst that could happen is that they’d hit me back and maybe report me to the police. And deservedly so. A man should never hit a woman. But with you, the worst that could happen to me can’t even be guessed at. Since I’ve met you, Layla, you’ve turned people into dogs, cats. Our own cat, Monty, for example, used to be human. You’ve turned people into fleas, fish, parking meters, a cactus, cat litter, wombats, venomous shrews, wolves. You’ve even turned them into bottles of wine.”

“Which you drank.”

“Only to steady my nerves.” Mr. Gaunt paused. “But that’s not the only thing.”

“You mean there’s more?”

“One of the things we mundanes take for granted is the privacy of our own minds. It’s about all we mundanes have left that we can truly call our own. But my own inner domain of thought has been violated by you, Layla. Just as if you had read my private diary.”

“I’d never do something like that,” protested Layla.

“Maybe not. But a few minutes ago you were inside my mind. Albeit for a good reason. And now you know all my darkest secrets.”

“Oh, I don’t care about those,” said Layla. “Everyone has things like that.”

“Yes, but everyone usually manages to keep them private.”

Layla shrugged. “Sorry. But I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“The point is it happened once and it might easily happen again,” said Mr. Gaunt. “I simply can’t live with the thought that at any moment, you might come bursting into my mind, like someone gate-crashing a party, because you’d left your physical body somewhere else.”

“So, what are you saying?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Gaunt. “I surely don’t. But your magic is too rough for me.”

“It’s not magic,” insisted Layla.

“But that’s what it seems like to one such as me. And believe me, it’s pretty rough when a man ends his life as a dog or a cat.”

Layla was struck to the quick by what Mr. Gaunt had said, but being no less intelligent than him, understood exactly what he was talking about. And thinking herself no less kind than her softhearted husband, whom she loved deeply, Layla Gaunt promised to renounce her djinn power. Only this time it would be forever.

Solemnly, she held up her hand as if giving an oath in a court of law and spoke with great gravity.

“No more will I dim the sun at noon,” she said, “nor turn the grass the color red, nor call forth the mutinous wind, nor put the sea and sky against each other, nor make thunder, nor split an oak with fire, nor shake the trees, nor put men out of their senses, nor make music from thin air, nor make windows in men’s souls. This rough magic, as you call it, I here abjure. From now on, what strength I have’s my own. And let your indulgence, Edward, set me free. Hear me, God.”

She kissed her husband’s hand but there were tears in her eyes.

“Let’s go home,” whispered Mr. Gaunt.

Layla started the car.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“Now?” Layla sighed. “I’m just going to concentrate on being a wife and a mother. That’s what happens now.”

E
ntering the Eye of the Forest proved to be a lot quicker than leaving it. Or, put another way, coming out of the eye was many times slower than going into it. Nimrod and John, who had not yet been on the other side of the golden door, spent several moments looking around their surroundings with interest. Philippa spent those same moments looking puzzled. And so did Groanin. For instead of the large pile of mattresses Philippa’s djinn power had created to ensure that she, Groanin, Sicky, and Muddy had enjoyed a safe landing at the end of their rapid ascent up the chimney shaft, there were now several beds of very sharp nails, of the kind that are sometimes employed by ascetic Indian holy men, or fakirs, for lying on — much to the astonishment of the credulous.

“I wouldn’t have fancied landing on those very much, Miss Philippa,” observed Groanin. “Not without a suit of armor, anyway.”

“No, indeed,” agreed Philippa. “Odd, isn’t it?”

“What is?” inquired Nimrod, tearing his attention away from the shaft and the column of warm air that continued to blast out of it.

Philippa explained how the mattresses had been replaced by the beds of nails.

“Hmm,” said Nimrod. “Are you quite sure about that?”

“Of course, I’m sure,” said Philippa.

“No doubt about it,” confirmed Groanin. “You could ask Sicky and Muddy if they were here. They landed on them.”

Making a fist, Nimrod thought for a moment and then, uttering his focus word, opened the palm of his hand to reveal a black chess piece.

“What is it?” asked Groanin.

“It’s a chess piece,” said Nimrod. “From an English Staunton set, which is the best type, of course. A black queen, to be precise.”

“I can see that,” said Groanin.

“Then I wonder why you asked.”

“I meant, what are you doing with it?”

“Conducting an experiment, old fellow.”

Nimrod laid the chess piece on the ground and, with a piece of chalk from his pocket, drew a neat circle around it. No sooner was the circle complete than the black queen had turned into a white king.

“I thought as much,” he said. “It seems that when Manco Capac created this place he attached an Enantodromian wish
or binding to it. To protect it from the power of any other djinn.”

“What the heck is an Enantodromian wish?” said John who, despite once having read the
Shorter Baghdad Rules
from cover to cover, had never heard of such a thing. Although he did think he might have heard the word “Enantodromia.” Possibly it was some other djinn’s focus word.

“It’s quite simple really,” Nimrod said airily. “It means that whatever it is you wish for, you end up with the exact opposite. You wish for black, you get white, and so on. Manco Capac must have been quite a fellow. Quite a clever sort of wish really.”

“But the mattresses I wished for remained mattresses for much longer than that black queen remained a black queen,” objected Philippa. “Several minutes. Perhaps as long as half an hour.”

“Of course. The Enantodromian wish made by Manco is five hundred years old, which means it’s rather slower to take effect. Probably, when the binding was made, the effect was much quicker. Which was lucky for you. Otherwise you would all have had a very sticky landing.”

“And the chalk circle?” asked John.

“Completing a circle around something always speeds up a wish,” said Nimrod. “Especially an old wish. Didn’t you know that?”

“No,” said Philippa.

“At least it does just so long as it is a perfect circle,” explained Nimrod. “And only a djinn can draw a perfect
circle with a free hand — which is to say without using a set of compasses. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” said Philippa. “I believe you did tell us that before.”

“When we were in Venice,” added John.

“It’s the perfection of the numbers in a perfectly drawn circle that helps an ancient wish to achieve its original result. Like giving an old man a stick to help him walk.”

“We get the point,” Groanin said sharply. “Sir.”

“Do you?” Nimrod smiled. “I wonder if that’s correct. You see the point, my dear Groanin, is this: There can be no more wishing from here on in. In case it turns out the wrong way.”

“You mean no djinn power?” said Groanin.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” said Nimrod. “John? Philippa? Is that quite understood by you both? Positively no unauthorized wishing.”

“Yes, Uncle,” they said meekly.

“But surely,” said Philippa, “all you have to do is think of what you want to come true and then wish for the exact opposite.”

“You might think that, yes,” said Nimrod. “But it’s not so easy to do in practice. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“But what if something goes wrong?” asked Groanin. “What if we need to protect ourselves? What if there’s some horrible great beastie lying in wait for us? Another zombie? Or a giant thingummy?”

“Then we shall just have to rely on our wits,” said
Nimrod. “And that remarkable arm of yours. You were right. It seems we will have need of you after all, Groanin.” He smiled kindly at Philippa. “Now, why don’t you show us this rope bridge you were talking about?”

Philippa led the way outside to the human-hair rope bridge where, to their surprise, on the edge of the yawning chasm that it spanned, they found a midget submarine. The hatches were open, and there was a large dent in the bow end, as if it had run into the ground at speed. But there was no sign of any water.

“This certainly wasn’t here before,” said Philippa, running her hand across the sub’s smooth metallic hull, which was completely dry.

“What the heck’s a midget submarine doing on dry land, anyway?” said Groanin. “It’s about as much use round here as a bicycle to a fish.”

“Precisely, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “You put it very well.”

“Do I?” Groanin looked pleased and confused at the same time. “Still doesn’t explain what it’s doing here.”

“My guess?” said John. “Buck, McCreeby, and Zadie were worried about crossing the chasm on this bridge.”

“Can’t say as I blame them,” said Groanin, staring uncertainly over the edge. Not only did the chasm drop hundreds of feet away into a cloud of mist, but the other end of the bridge itself could not be seen. “But I can’t for the life of me understand as how a submarine would have helped.”

“So they tried to get across the chasm using a small plane that Zadie created using her djinn power,” continued John. “But just as they got airborne, the Enantodromia took effect, and the plane turned into its exact opposite. A submarine. Luckily for them, they weren’t over the chasm when it happened. Which accounts for the dent in the bow.”

“That’s so crazy it makes perfect sense,” said Groanin. “Almost.”

“I think you’re right, John,” agreed Nimrod. “That must be exactly what happened.”

“Must have been quite a hard landing,” said Groanin.

“I’ll say,” said Philippa, and showed them some blood on her fingertips from when she’d touched the submarine’s hull. “Looks like someone got hurt.”

Nimrod tasted the blood on the submarine. “McCreeby,” he said.

“How can you tell?” asked John.

“Human blood is cooler than a djinn’s,” said Nimrod. “Saltier, too. Djinn blood tastes more sulfuric. Like a mixture of asparagus, pumpkin seeds, cabbage, garlic, beans, and broccoli.”

“Ugh,” said John, who hated vegetables and wondered how he could be a djinn at all if that was what his blood tasted like.

The four advanced to the stone anchor that marked the beginning of the bridge. There were two cables
acting as guardrails and another two at a lower level, which supported a footpath made of trimmed matting, also made of human hair.

“The Incas were fond of this sort of bridge,” said Nimrod. “Not least because they did not use wheeled transport. But more usually these bridges were made of woven ichu grass than human hair.”

“I’ve been wondering about that,” said Groanin.

“I imagine human hair makes it much stronger than a simple grass bridge,” said Nimrod.

“Well, let’s hope so, at any rate,” said Groanin. “I’m none too happy about going for a stroll along that thing.”

“I certainly can’t think of any other reason why anyone would want to make a bridge using human hair,” admitted Nimrod.

Groanin wiped his bare pate clear of sweat with his handkerchief. “Speaking as someone who’s a bit thin on top, neither can I.”

“So,” said Nimrod. “Who’s going to be first?”

No one spoke.

“I suppose it had better be me,” said Nimrod. “And try to look on the bright side, everyone. If there was anything wrong with the bridge, McCreeby and the others would hardly have chosen to use it, now would they?” He pointed along the sagging length of the bridge into the mist ahead of them. “After all, since they are not here on this side, we must presume they are already on the other side.”

“Yes,” said Groanin. “But the other side of what exactly?”

“Exactly?” said Nimrod. “I believe we are inside a djinn-made world. Manco Capac’s djinn world.”

“You mean this is like the inside of a djinn lamp?” asked Philippa.

“Exactly so. Only much, much bigger. And it’s now clear to me that, in the beginning, anyway, Manco Capac must have been a much more powerful djinn than anyone has ever suspected.”

“Then how’s Groanin still alive?” asked John. “Humans can’t exist inside a djinn lamp.”

“They can’t,” said Nimrod. “But perhaps the sheer scale of this djinn-made world is what allows him to breathe. On the other hand this may be the actual cave system through which Manco Capac and his brothers and sisters moved from the djinn world into a human world. Which in itself is highly unstable. Not to say, dangerous. These two worlds should never be connected.”

“The underground chimney,” said Philippa.

“Yes, it must be,” agreed Nimrod.

“Well, that’s all right then,” said Groanin. “For a moment there I was worried I was in trouble.”

Nimrod put his foot on the bridge and, turning to look at the others, said, “Leave a space of about ten feet between each of us, so as to spread the load. Groanin? You bring up the rear. And try not to look down.”

“Yes, sir.”

As they started to walk on the bridge it began to wobble. At first the wobble was no more than a sideways oscillation, but gradually it began to sway like a pendulum.

Groanin stopped walking. “It’s a bit wobbly,” he observed.

“It’s nothing more than a positive biofeedback phenomenon,” declared Nimrod. “Also known as synchronous lateral excitation.”

“It’s still wobbly,” grumbled Groanin as he started walking again. “I say, it’s still wobbly.”

“Groanin’s right,” said John, “the sway is increasing.” He looked over the edge and felt his stomach sink inside his body, almost, he thought, as if gravity had an increased effect while he was so high above the ground. Not that he could even see the ground below. It was like walking down the aisle of a flying plane in which the rest of the plane had been removed.

“Those Incas must’ve had nerves of steel,” said Groanin. “Either that or the designers were having a laugh at our expense.”

“Try not to walk in step,” said Nimrod. “That should help to break up the amplitude of the bridge oscillations.”

“He means it’ll stop wobbling if we stop marching,” said Philippa, who always understood what Nimrod was saying better than any of the others.

Nimrod’s suggestion seemed to fix the problem of the wobble and they made slow but steady progress along the rope bridge.

Each time Philippa put her hand on the silky smooth black handrail, she wondered about the many Incas whose hair had gone into its making. Had they been dead when their hair was taken, or alive? She’d read about the human sacrifices of the Aztecs. Hearts cut out of living victims at the tops of pyramids and horrible things like that. Had the Incas also practiced human sacrifice, like the Aztecs? She thought about asking Nimrod and then decided against it in case the explanation was more than she could cope with.

After a while, she became aware that she was out of breath and that the route along the bridge was getting more difficult. The bridge was going up. The air was getting colder, too. She turned around, nodded at Groanin, and saw that the stone anchor that marked the beginning of the bridge and the midget submarine next to it had disappeared into the mist. With only mist ahead of them, it was almost as if the bridge was suspended by nothing. This she found more than a little disconcerting.

“Keep up, Groanin,” she said. “I can hardly see you.”

“Doing my best, miss,” he said, panting audibly. “I don’t know whether it’s exertion or fear that’s making me breathe so hard. I can’t say I like this place very much. If it is a place. Being neither here nor there, it’s like being in limbo.”

“That’s a happy thought,” said Philippa, and winced as she felt the vibration of something heavy strike one of the rope bridge’s handrails. And then again.

“Everyone take a tight grip of a handrail,” shouted Nimrod.

“Why? What’s happening?” yelled Philippa.

“I could be wrong,” said Nimrod, “but it feels as if someone — probably McCreeby — is trying to cut the bridge, with a machete.”

“Did you have to say that?” moaned Groanin. “I say, did you have to tell me? I’m a much happier man when I’m an ignorant one.”

As all four of them took a firm grip of the handrail, they felt another powerful vibration of something striking it hard. And then, just as suddenly, the vibrations stopped. For a moment, everyone remained braced for a fall. But the bridge remained suspended in the air.

“It’s stopped,” said John.

“Thank goodness,” said Philippa.

“Talk about white knuckles,” said John, inspecting his two fists, which were still clenched on to the handrail. “My heart feels like it’s in my mouth.”

“Mine feels like it’s trying to climb out of my ear holes,” said Groanin. “If I do catch sight of my heart, I’m going to strangle the thing just to put it out of its misery.”

“I wonder what it really was,” said Nimrod. “That vibration.”

“Please don’t,” pleaded Groanin. “I don’t think I could bear it. If you say McCreeby’s gone to fetch a sharper machete, I think I shall just jump and have done with it.”