Eye of the Forest (6 page)

“That’s such a cool story,” said John.

Mr. Vodyannoy winced. The word “cool” was anathema to a djinn like him for whom heat is everything. He scratched his beard and hesitated just long enough for Faustina to take up the story.

“Several weeks ago,” said Faustina, “some valuable artifacts, including a rare golden staff of Incan origin and several
khipu,
were stolen from the Ethnological Museum in Berlin.”

“What’s a
khipu?”
asked Philippa.

“Khipus
were an Incan method of recording, a sort of abacus made of ropes,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “But rather like the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics two centuries ago, no one
really knows what they mean. You could say that until someone discovers the equivalent of the Rosetta stone, they’re likely to remain one of the ancient world’s last great mysteries.”

“The museum in Berlin has almost three hundred of them,” said Faustina. “It’s the largest collection in the world, so I didn’t think too much about it when the theft was first brought to my attention.”

Faustina nodded at the newspaper in John’s hand.

“However, when I saw the picture of the Eye of the Forest in that newspaper, I realized these two events might be connected. And straightaway, I decided to come here and speak to Nimrod and Mr. Vodyannoy, who is an expert in Incan matters.”

“Not such an expert,” Mr. Vodyannoy said modestly. “If I was more of an expert I might know the meaning of the
khipu.”

“It was my hope to arrive here and use one of Mr. Vodyannoy’s special talking boards to try to speak to Manco Capac’s spirit myself,” said Faustina. “To ask for some clarification regarding the
Pachacuti.
He was a powerful djinn, after all, and it is always prudent to take djinn promises regarding such things seriously. But it seems I’m too late. It seems that someone has already taken this opportunity for their own selfish purposes and squandered it.”

Faustina looked pointedly at John, who felt himself color with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” said John. “But I really had no idea.”

Faustina brushed aside his apology with a wave of her hand as if it was of little or no consequence.

“Until now the secret of where the Eye of the Forest was to be found has been vouchsafed only to the Blue Djinn of Babylon in an ancient copy of Father Diego’s map,” she said.

“So you’ve got the map,” said John. “Well, that’s something.”

“Yes, I have a map,” said Faustina, “but sadly not the chronicle describing Manco’s
kutumunkichu
ritual. Nor anything about the
Pachacuti
— the promised destruction. I might have assumed that whoever found the Eye of the Forest had stumbled onto it by accident. But the theft of these Incan artifacts would suggest that someone has devised another means of finding the Eye. Clearly its location is a secret no longer. Perhaps someone has managed to decode a message contained in one of those
khipu
to mount an expedition to find the Eye of the Forest. Someone with a knowledge of the esoteric. But who that someone is, or what their motive might be, I have no idea.” She looked squarely at Nimrod. “I had hoped that Manco Capac, you, Nimrod, or you, Mr. Vodyannoy, might have been able to shed some light on the matter.”

Nimrod took the newspaper from John, looked closely at the picture of the South American explorers, read the caption naming them, and then shook his head. “I can’t say that any of these people are familiar to me.” He handed the paper to Mr. Vodyannoy. “Frank?”

Mr. Vodyannoy glanced at the picture and shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“No, I thought as much.”

Faustina let out a heavy sigh and, taking Nimrod and Frank Vodyannoy by the hand, she said, “Gentlemen, as you know, I have only been the Blue Djinn of Babylon for a very short while. And I hesitate if it seems like I’m stating the obvious to more mature and experienced djinn such as yourselves, but it seems to me as though someone must travel to South America as soon as possible with the aim of preventing the
Pachacuti
promised by Manco Capac.”

“I agree,” said Mr. Vodyannoy.

“Without question,” said Nimrod.

“I can’t tell you how relieved that makes me feel,” said Faustina, whose extensive studies of
The Baghdad Rules
had enabled her to resist the cold voice of Logic, and unlike previous Blue Djinn, to retain her feelings. “Knowing that I can rely on the both of you. Frankly, I have been at my wit’s end about what to do.”

“Do you really think that Manco Capac could still destroy the world?” Philippa’s voice was full of doubt.

“It may just be a legend,” said Nimrod. “Then again, Manco was a very powerful djinn and I’m not sure we can afford to take the risk. You see, Philippa, it’s always difficult making prophecies. Especially the kind of prophecies that involve trying to foretell the future. For this reason, djinn very rarely make prophecies. But when they do, it’s usually best to pay attention to them.”

“I shall make you a copy of the map I have that describes how to find the Eye of the Forest,” Faustina told Nimrod. “If necessary, you must if possible create a binding that renders the Eye secure. But, at all costs, you must if possible try to stop these foolish explorers from even entering the Eye.”

“And if they have already done so?” asked Mr. Vodyannoy.

“Then you must follow them and, at the very least, if it does lead to the lost city of Paititi, you must try to stop them from reaching it and from executing the
kutumunkichu
ritual. Is that clear?”

“Quite clear,” said Nimrod, and bowed gravely to the Blue Djinn of Babylon, blessed be her name.

“There is one more service you can perform while you are up the Amazon,” said Faustina. “A useful ecological service.”

“Name it,” said Nimrod.

“It will not have escaped your attention that, at present, none of us are able to create the whirlwinds by which we djinn normally travel. I have done some research in the library at Iravotum and it seems there is a giant tree in the upper Amazon called the lupuna. This tree contains certain ancient properties that affect the atmosphere. Unfortunately, deforestation in the Amazon jungle has meant that loggers and lumberjacks have started chopping down lupuna trees, with the result that we can no longer control the whirlwinds we create. So, I would like both of you to plant some new
lupuna trees. And to find a way of protecting them against the loggers.”

“Consider it done,” said Mr. Vodyannoy.

“We’ll leave immediately,” said Nimrod.

“Wait a minute,” said John. “I feel like I’m the one who set all of this into motion by summoning Manco Capac with the talking board. So I’m going with you.”

“Me, too,” said Philippa. “Because I go where he goes.”

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” said Mr. Vodyannoy.

Nimrod sighed. “But I suppose you’d find a way to come, anyway, even if I tried to prevent it.”

“You bet we would,” said John.

“Faustina?” said Nimrod. “It’s up to you to decide.”

“No sacrifice is too great where the future of the world is concerned,” she said. “If John or Philippa feel inclined to risk their lives to prevent the great destruction, then so be it.”

“What about your mother?” said Nimrod. “We’ll have tell her you’re going to South America.”

“As it happens, right now she’s in South America herself,” said Philippa.

“She’s in Brazil, having plastic surgery,” said John.

“Yes, of course,” said Nimrod. “I’d forgotten. Your father then. We’ll have to tell him something.”

“We’ll leave a note for him,” said Philippa. “We’ll tell him that we’ve gone to Brazil to visit Mother.”

“Half the time he doesn’t know where we are, anyway,” said John.

“All right.” Nimrod sounded reluctant. “If you’re sure.”

“There’s one more thing,” said Philippa. “If I go, then Zadie has to come, too. I made her a binding promise that I would bring her along.”

John stayed silent.

“Very well,” said Nimrod. “I suppose it might be useful to have another djinn in our party.” Zadie whooped with delight.

“What about you, Faustina?” asked John. “Are you coming?”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” said Faustina. “While the
Pachacuti
affects both good and evil tribes of djinn, my position still requires that I don’t get involved other than to order you to try to prevent it.”

“She’s right,” said Nimrod. “It’s important that Faustina remains at a distance. There are some evil djinn who might think that the destruction of the world — even a destruction that would include them — is something to be welcomed.”

“This is going to be fun,” declared Zadie.

“It won’t be any picnic, you know,” declared Mr. Vodyannoy. “We’ll be going to one of the most inhospitable places on earth. It’s not called the rain forest for nothing. It rains in the Amazon. A lot. As a result it can be cold and wet, and you know what that means. The use of djinn power may be uncertain. For you younger djinn, at any rate. Giant anacondas, bull sharks, vampire bats, electric eels, bird-eating spiders, and let’s not forget
el Tunchi.”

“El Tunchi?”
asked Zadie. “What’s a
tunchi?”

“Let’s hope you never find out,” said Mr. Vodyannoy.

Nimrod smiled. “Groanin won’t like this trip. He won’t like it at all. Groanin simply hates snakes.”

This prompted Mr. Vodyannoy to continue with his catalog of South American hazards. “Horror show,” he said. “Not just snakes. Poisonous tree-frogs, killer bees, monster alligators, piranha fish, big fierce jaguars — the one in the trophy room is considered small — and headhunters.”

“Headhunters?” exclaimed Philippa. “In this day and age? I don’t believe it.”

T
hey flew by passenger jet to Lima, the capital of Peru, which is a very nice city and full of extremely friendly people. Unfortunately, these were not always to Mr. Groanin’s taste.

“I wish people would stop smiling at me,” he complained upon arrival at their hotel, the five-star Primer Paraíso Excelente con las Campañas Encendido, in Lima city center. “It makes me nervous. Like they all know something I don’t. I can’t abide people who look happy all the time. I say, I can’t abide people who are always happy. Give me men about me who scowl and are miserable. You know where you are with a man who looks gloomy. Give me a man from Manchester every time, not these smiling rogues.”

“Speaking for myself,” said Philippa, “I like people to look happy. It makes me feel all warm inside.” She went out
onto the balcony of her suite, which had a superb view of the main square and the cathedral across the street.

“I’m not in the least bit warm,” said John. “Being so close to the equator, I thought it would be hot here in Peru. But it’s actually kind of chilly. The minute I got off the plane I felt my power diminish a little.”

“Horror show,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “Most people make that mistake about Lima. It’s really not that warm here. And all because of the cold Humboldt Current that runs along the Peruvian coast.”

Groanin consulted the thermometer on the wall. “Sixty degrees Fahrenheit,” he said. “I’ll grant you, this is a few degrees off being perfect. But I prefer it like this to being too hot or too cold. If you ask me, hot weather is the great enemy of civilization. No culture that’s worth a spit can survive where it ever goes much above seventy. That’s what makes England the most civilized place in the world. Because the weather is always fair to middling.”

“Same old Groanin,” said John.

Zadie did a little tap dance across the floor with excitement. Chilly or not, she seemed delighted to be on an adventure in Peru with John and Philippa and Nimrod and Groanin and Mr. Vodyannoy.

“So what’s our next move?” she asked Mr. Vodyannoy.

Mr. Vodyannoy pointed at the Lima Cathedral, which, especially at night when it is lit up and glows like burnished gold, looks more like a presidential palace than an important church. “We go in there,” he said, looking at his pocket
watch. “We have an appointment with Francisco Pizarro. In thirty minutes.”

“Francisco Pizarro?” exclaimed Philippa. “But he’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I sincerely hope so,” said Mr. Vodyannoy.

As they walked across the main plaza with its ornamental fountain and palm trees, Mr. Vodyannoy took a deep breath.

“Horror show,” he said. “It’s good to be back in Peru.”

“What does that mean?” asked John. “Horror show? You say it kind of a lot, Mr. V.”

“Not ‘horror show,’” said Mr. Vodyannoy.
“Khorosho.
It’s Russian. It means ‘well,’ or ‘okay,’ or ‘right then.’ It’s a habit and I’m afraid I don’t always know when I’ve said it.”

“
Khorosho,”
said John.

“Pizarro,” Philippa interrupted. “He was Spain’s most notorious conquistador, right?” Mr. Vodyannoy nodded.

“That’s right. Francisco Pizarro arrived here in Peru in 1531 with just one hundred and sixty-eight Spaniards. At first, they and the Incas kept their distance. Then, in 1532, Pizarro led his men up into the Andes to meet the Incan king, Atahualpa, who was camped with an army of almost one hundred thousand men following a great military victory over his brother and rival, Huascar. Curiosity about these strange foreigners and their horses, which the Incas had never seen before, got the better of Atahualpa and
he came to take a closer look at them, at which point Pizarro and his men took the king prisoner and killed some five thousand of his retainers. They were, of course, interested only in gold and promised to release the king if he paid them a ransom. So the king promised to fill the room in which he was held prisoner with treasure, and was as good as his word. Sadly, the Spaniards were not. And as soon as the room had been filled with gold they executed poor Atahualpa. So began the conquest of Peru and the near extermination of the Inca people by the Spaniards.”

“He sounds really horrible,” said Philippa.

“Oh, he was,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “Although by the standards of the day, he wasn’t much more horrible than anyone else. Atahualpa himself was no saint. Having founded this city, which used to be called the City of Kings, and ordered the construction of the cathedral where we’re going now, Pizarro ended up fighting with some of his own men and was murdered by his fellow Spaniards in 1541.”

“Serves him right,” said John.

“Hear, hear,” said Groanin. “Now you know what we were up against. Spanish Armada? 1588? They tried to invade England. But we saw them off. No thanks to you Yanks. Just like in 1939. Where were you then, eh?”

“The United States didn’t exist in 1588,” said Philippa. “The USA didn’t exist until 1776. So we couldn’t have helped even if we’d wanted to.”

“That’s a feeble excuse,” muttered Groanin.

“Anyway, Pizarro was buried in the cathedral,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “And today his tomb is one of the main tourist attractions. However, that’s not where his remains really lie. His true remains are kept hidden elsewhere in the cathedral. Which is why we’re going there now.”

They walked into the cathedral and went up to the archbishop’s office, where they were met by a priest with bright blue eyes and a black mustache shaped like a toothbrush. Philippa thought he looked a bit like Charlie Chaplin. Groanin thought he looked like someone else. Mr. Vodyannoy introduced the priest as Father Polzl. Father Polzl shook everyone’s hands warmly and welcomed them to Peru.

“Mr. Vodyannoy and I are old friends,” Father Polzl told the children. “After the last earthquake he helped to repair a number of cracks in the walls of the cathedral.” He smiled warmly at Mr. Vodyannoy. “It gives me such enormous pleasure to be able to do you a good turn, Frank.”

“It’s really just a precaution, Father,” said Mr. Vodyannoy. “But as you know, where we’re going this sort of thing sometimes comes in handy. If we run into any trouble, it might make a useful offering. In which case, I’ll certainly replace it with an exact copy.”

“Say no more, my friend, say no more. Mum’s the word, eh? Please. Come this way. He would be no loss to anyone, I think.”

Father Polzl led his six guests into a small private chapel where a polished wooden box about the size of a soccer ball
stood on a little oak table. He went over to the table, crossed himself devoutly, and opened the box. Inside lay a yellowing human skull.

Zadie gasped. John whistled. The Father smiled.

“Whistle away, young man, whistle away,” the Father said indulgently. “And well you might. For this is the head of none other than the first governor general of Peru, Don Francisco Pizarro Demarkes himself, which was discovered hidden away in the crypt underneath the main altar as recently as 1977.”

“Ugh,” said Philippa, turning away.

“Wow,” said John, staring into the box. “Did someone cut it off?”

“That’s generally the best way to remove a head,” observed Groanin. “Where’s the rest of him when he’s at home?”

“In a separate box,” said the Father. “Also in the cathedral.”

“Ask a stupid question,” muttered the English butler.

“Why do you keep them separately?” asked Zadie.

“Because that’s how they were found,” explained Father Polzl. “There’s an inscription on top confirming it’s Pizarro’s head, as you can see for yourselves. But we also had it verified by a forensic scientist. Just to make absolutely sure.”

“Well, you wouldn’t want to make a mistake about that kind of thing, would you?” muttered Groanin.

Nimrod seemed to be more interested in the box than in the skull. “That’s curious,” he murmured. “It appears to be made of wood from a lupuna tree.”

“Look, there’s a sort of hole in it,” said John, who was only interested in the skull. “What’s that from, Father Polzl? A bullet? A sword?”

“It is said that Pizarro, his sword stuck fast inside the poor man he was in the process of stabbing, was struck on the head with a water bucket, which knocked him to the floor.”

“I’ve heard of water on the brain,” said Groanin. “But I never knew it was fatal.”

The Father crossed himself again. “While lying there, he was stabbed by up to twenty of his former followers. All of them Christians and Spaniards I regret to say, although, of course, he was hated in equal measure by the poor Incas he had robbed and persecuted with such wanton cruelty. Perhaps them most of all.”

“What did they fight about?” asked John. “The Spaniards, I mean.”

“The same thing men always fight about. Power. Money. Revenge. Pizarro died as he had lived in this much-abused country. By the sword.”

The Father closed the box and handed it carefully to Mr. Vodyannoy who, finding the object heavier than he had expected, proceeded to give the ancient-looking box to the stronger Mr. Groanin.

“Just what I always wanted,” muttered Groanin. “You shouldn’t have, really.” And then: “Is there a gift card?”

“But I don’t understand,” said Philippa. “Why on earth do we need to bring along Pizarro’s skull?”

“Haven’t you heard, Miss Philippa?” said Groanin. “Two ‘eads are better than one. Even an ‘ead with an ‘ole in it. I say, even an ‘ead with an ‘ole in it.”

“Do shut up, Groanin,” said Nimrod.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’d better take it and get back to the hotel.”

“Yes, sir.” And still carrying the lead-lined box containing the conquistador’s skull, he shimmered out of the little chapel.

“My butler,” Nimrod said to Father Polzl, as if that was explanation enough.

Father Polzl smiled. “He’s quite a card, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but not always the winning kind,” said Nimrod.

They stayed talking to the Father for another fifteen minutes until it was time for him to go and conduct mass. The cathedral was already filling up with people for whom Pizarro was just an unpleasant name in history. And having thanked the Father for his help, the five djinn went outside and onto a plaza made chillier by the spray from a fountain that seemed to have its own police guard.

“So what’s the head for, Mr. V?” asked John, bursting with curiosity. “A gift for the headhunters, perhaps?”

“There are no headhunters in South America,” insisted Philippa. “Possibly, there never were. Most likely, it was just a story invented by explorers who wanted to make a bigger deal out of coming here.”

Mr. Vodyannoy said nothing to Philippa, preferring to
answer John’s question than to argue with his sister. “If ever we come across Manco Capac,” he said, “or any of his descendants — most of the Indian tribes in the upper Amazon are probably related to the Incas — it might be very useful to be able to hand over the head of the Incas’ greatest enemy.”

“But Manco himself died long before Pizarro came to Peru,” said Philippa. “In which case Pizarro’s name will probably mean nothing to him.”

“Must you be so literal, Philippa?” exclaimed Nimrod. “Try to remember that you are a djinn, not an attorney in a court of law. Given Manco Capac has almost certainly returned from the dead, I think we can agree that he might be capable of almost anything, don’t you?”

“Good point,” said Philippa. “Sorry. Since that time I spent in Iravotum, I still get bogged down with logic sometimes.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Nimrod. “I’d quite forgotten about that.”

“I wish I could,” said Philippa.

Mr. Groanin walked slowly back to the hotel with the box containing Pizarro’s skull under his arm.

“The things you get asked to do when you’re a butler for a djinn,” he muttered to himself. “I feel like flipping Hamlet walking around with old Yorick here.”

Seeing a café, he decided to stop for a quick drink, thinking it would be nice if someone waited on
him
for a change. Groanin sat down at an outside table and, seeing a waiter, he
was about to order a cup of tea until concern about the local water quality prompted him to change his mind and order a lemonade instead. And while he waited for the waiter to return, he started to think about how lemonade is made: from adding lemon to water and heating the result. But suppose, thought Groanin, the water came straight out of the Amazon, for instance? And did they actually boil it? Was the lemonade in Peru safe to drink? These were the questions that occupied poor Groanin’s mind in the time it took for the waiter to return with his lemonade. By which time he’d thought better of drinking it.

“Blast this country,” he muttered, and stood up. “I should have ordered a beer. They boil that.” He was about to leave when he noticed, at the next table, a very attractive woman weeping copious amounts of tears. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked. “I say, miss, what’s the matter with you?”

The woman pointed to the other side of the main plaza. To Groanin’s surprise, she spoke good English. “Do you see that man in the red jacket,
señor?”
she said. “He just ran away with my handbag.”

“You’re joking,” said Groanin. “You mean he stole it? In broad daylight?”

The woman blew her nose and then nodded. “It had my whole life in it. My purse. My keys. My phone. Everything. I really don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Groanin stared into the distance. “The fellow in the red shirt, you say?” The woman nodded. “Wearing the blue
trousers?” The woman nodded again. Groanin placed the antique box containing Pizarro’s skull on the table in front of her. “Stay there,” he said. “I said, stay there. I’ll sort this out. I’m English.” And with that, Groanin walked swiftly across the plaza in the direction of the man in the red shirt. He was a sucker for a pretty face.

When he was halfway across the square, Groanin turned and looked back. The woman was standing up, watching him, as if hoping he was going to recover her handbag. Groanin waved and walked on. But now that he was nearer, he saw that the man in the red jacket was actually a man in a ceremonial military uniform. Under his arm he had a tall red hat with a plume on it and the only bag he was carrying was the cartridge bag on his Sam Browne military belt. The man was a policeman. Groanin gulped as he realized he’d been had and ran back to the café, but the woman was gone. And, what was worse, the box containing the skull was gone, too.