The Grave Robbers of Genghis Khan (3 page)

“It’s the surname of a famous writer,” said Philippa. “And it’s also the name of an island in the Caribbean. Next door to Antigua.”

Nimrod was impressed. “An island in the Caribbean with a volcano. The Soufrière Hills volcano. The Soufrière
Hills eruption, which began on July eighteenth, 1995, was the first in more than two hundred years. An even larger eruption occurred two years later, which caused the deaths of nineteen people. The professor, who was monitoring seismic activity with his wife, Björk, was hit by the pyroclastic flow and horribly burnt. One complete side of his face was burnt to a crisp. Which is why he wears the Harlequin mask. And why his wife left him, apparently: because she couldn’t bear to look at him.”

“Sounds a bit like the guy in
The Phantom of the Opera
,” observed John.

“Yes,” agreed Nimrod. “In a way. Except that the professor doesn’t hide himself away. He may have been horribly disfigured but he’s no recluse. His work is too important for him to stay out of the public eye.”

“So, this could be dangerous, after all,” said John. “This little excursion of ours. I mean, if the professor got it badly wrong once, then he could get it badly wrong again. And so indeed could you. For all we know, this whole mountain could be about to go bang. And then djinn or not, we’ll be history.”

Nimrod shook his head. “Really, John, there’s nothing to worry about. But if you’re worried, you can go back down to the car park and wait for us in the taxi.”

Philippa took off her glasses and started to polish the lenses, which was always a sign that she was feeling nervous.

“Good idea,” said Philippa. “Maybe it’s better if you do wait for us down there. But it’s all right to be scared, you know. Nothing to be ashamed of, bro.” She smiled a sarcastic smile
that helped to conceal her own fears. “I might be scared myself if I bothered to stop and really think about it.”

“Who said I was scared?” said John. Hoisting his backpack on his shoulder he started up the path again, overtaking Nimrod and leading the way up the rocky path. “All I said was, it could be dangerous. And it is. But I don’t mind a bit of danger. Never did.”

“By the way,” said Philippa. “Does the professor know that you’re a djinn?”

“No,” said Nimrod. “He thinks of me as gifted in the field of volcanology. But nothing more.”

Above the cloud line, they reached the top of the cone and stared down into the depth of what looked like a huge quarry: Most of this resembled a large dust bowl, but from a glowing hole at the foot of one of the sheer walls on the opposite side of the crater was emerging an enormous plume of gray smoke, like the biggest cypress tree anyone had ever seen. John looked up its vertiginous height and thought of “Jack and the Beanstalk” and half expected to see a boy climbing down from an unseen castle several miles above his head, with a goose under his arm.

“Holy smoke,” he exclaimed. “That is just amazing. Amazing.”

Philippa was experiencing the same sensation as her brother. The idea of the ash plume and its little glowing origin was utterly fascinating to her and reminded Philippa of the time, soon after she and John had lost their wisdom teeth, when the trail of smoke from Mrs. Trump’s cigarette had held such a strong fascination for her.

“Isn’t it just the most extraordinary thing you have ever seen?” said Nimrod.

“Yes,” agreed Philippa unhesitatingly. “It is.”

“I think it’s the rising column of smoke and ash that exerts such a strong effect on all djinn,” said Nimrod. “It touches something deep and primordial within us that no mundane being could ever hope to understand. That’s why I wanted to bring you two up here. So that you might understand exactly why it is that volcanoes are so special to our kind. And why it is that the destiny of our djinn tribe, the Marid, has always been inextricably linked to volcanoes.

“For it is written that when a sea of cloud arises from the bowels of the earth to turn the lungs of men to stone and the wheat in the fields to ash, then the Marid shall save the world from inflammable darkness.”

W
here is it written?” asked Philippa.

She thought it was a reasonable question but Nimrod didn’t answer. Her uncle had seen Professor Sturloson climbing up a long rope from the interior of Vesuvius, and was already hurrying down a desolate-looking path into the crater to greet him. Philippa and John followed him to a Matterhorn-shaped rock crest around which the professor’s rappel rope had been expertly tied and where a tall, blond-haired man was carefully monitoring Sturloson’s laborious ascent.

Philippa thought this tall man very handsome indeed.

“My dear Axel,” said Nimrod. “How are you? Permit me to introduce my nephew and niece, John and Philippa. Children? This stout fellow is Axel Heimskringla.”

The blond-haired man greeted Nimrod and the twins warmly in Icelandic but never took his blue eyes off the taut rope; and finally, a wiry-looking man, covered in dust and sweat and wearing a Harlequin’s black mask, appeared at
their feet, grunting loudly. He pulled himself up onto the Mars-like red dust of the crater path and sat down heavily.

John leaned a little closer, curious to see the full extent of the horrible burns that might lie behind the mask and saw an ear that was no bigger than a child’s.

“Snorri, my dear fellow,” said Nimrod. “I was holidaying in Sorrento with my niece and nephew and saw the ash cloud. So I thought I’d better come up here and take a closer look. Although not as close as you just did. What do you think? Is it safe?”

The professor said nothing until he had caught his breath and drank two whole quarts of water, and because of the mask it was difficult to tell if he had even registered Nimrod’s presence; but finally, he nodded wearily and said, “It looks safe enough for now, I believe. I took a lava sample. From a spot as near the fissure as I dared to go. Really, it’s quite imperative that I should have several more before I venture an opinion as to the volcano’s long-term future, but I was overcome by heat and exhaustion. I’m not the climber I used to be.”

Both the professor and Axel spoke with a strong Icelandic accent, which is a bit like a Scandinavian accent, but colder.

The professor lifted his arms and allowed Axel to untie the rope that was knotted around his middle. That was when John noticed the professor was wearing a single glove. At first, when it caught the sunlight, he thought it was a rhinestone glove, and it was another moment before he realized it was actually made of chain mail.

“Who is, dear fellow?” said Nimrod. “Who is? None of
us is getting any younger. I’m afraid my days of clambering up and down ropes like a monkey are behind me.”

“I’ll go,” said Axel, and fed the rope around his own waist.

The professor shook his head. “You can’t. You’re too heavy, my boy.”

“This is a good rope,” insisted Axel. “Should be no problem. Besides, you said yourself, it’s imperative that you get some more lava samples.”

“It’s not the rope I’m concerned about,” said the professor. “It’s the crater floor. I’m half your weight and underneath the dust, the floor felt very brittle. Like a honeycomb. You might easily fall through.”

John glanced over the edge of the path and thought it looked safe enough. The volcano wasn’t anything like what he had imagined. If it hadn’t been for the large column of smoke that emanated from the fissure in the crater wall, he might even have said it looked a bit boring. And stung by his sister’s suggestion that he lacked the nerve to climb an active volcano, he was determined to prove to his uncle — he really didn’t care what Philippa thought about him — that he could do a lot more than ascend the outside of Vesuvius; he could also descend into the inside of Vesuvius.

“Why not let me try?” said John. “To gather some more lava samples, you say? Well, I can do that. And the heat is hardly likely to worry me. After all I’m —”

Nimrod covered John’s mouth with his hand.

“You impetuous youth,” he said. “Professor Sturloson? This is my young nephew, John. And my niece, Philippa, his sister. Like most children they think they’re immortal.
Especially John. Anyone would think he had superpowers, the way he carries on. He hasn’t yet learned that he is just a human being like the rest of us, and nothing more. Eh, John?”

“If you say so, Uncle,” muttered John, remembering almost too late that these two humans were ignorant of the kind of beings Nimrod and his blood relatives were.

But Professor Sturloson was having none of it. He stood up, brushed off his clothes, which were those of an old-fashioned mountaineer — all gaiters, tweed, and flannel — and taking John’s hand in the chain-mail glove, pumped it furiously.

“Nonsense, Nimrod,” he said, and clapped John on the shoulder. “This
is
a brave lad. And you should be proud of him. Very proud. Of course, it’s quite unthinkable that one could actually permit a boy to go down there to do a man’s work but —”

“With all due respect, sir,” said John. “Now it’s you who’s talking nonsense. You said yourself it’s imperative you get more samples and that Dr. Kreimhingla was too heavy for the crater floor.”

“Heimskringla,” said Axel, trying to conceal his irritation. “My name is Heimskringla.”

“Well, if he can’t go, and you can’t go, and Nimrod can’t go, then that leaves me and my sister,” argued John. “And I’m not about to let a girl go down there when I can go myself.”

“Sexist,” said Philippa.

“Have you ever rappelled down a rope before, boy?” asked Axel. “It’s extremely dangerous. Rappelling is the
highest cause of fatality among mountaineers because it looks a lot easier than it is.”

“But it’s a lot easier than climbing back up,” added the professor.

“I can climb a rope,” insisted John. “I’m a boy. It’s what we boys do best. Sure, I wish I was a better climber.”

And muttering his focus word, which was ABECEDARIAN, he was. For such is the power of a djinn that new skills and knowledge can be instantly learned.

“But I think I know what I’m doing.”

And now, of course, he did.

John picked up a spare length of rope and began tying knots. “Here,” he said. “A three-wrap Prusik.” Untying the Prusik as quickly as he tied it, John began to tie another knot. “A French Prusik.” And then another: “A Munter hitch.”

“Impressive,” said Axel.

“A rolling hitch.” John was showing off now. “Can either of you do a rolling hitch?”

Axel looked abashed. “Er, no,” said Axel.

“And there are easier ways to climb a rope than what I saw you doing just now, Professor,” said John. “I would have assumed that knowing how to rappel, you would have brought some mechanical ascenders.”

It was hard to tell if behind the mask the professor looked abashed or not; but he certainly sounded abashed. “
Nei
,” said the professor.

“Then it’s fortunate I brought my own rig.” John dropped his backpack onto the ground and took out a Petzl Corax
harness, several carabiners, a handful of ascenders, fingerless climbing gloves, an ice ax, and a helmet.

“I see you came prepared, bro,” said Philippa.

“We can hardly argue with a man who brought his own harness,” said the professor. “Nimrod, you didn’t tell us the boy was so proficient.
Hann er alveg litla hetja
.”

“Among all his other accomplishments, it quite slipped my mind,” said Nimrod.

“As long as it’s the only thing that slips,” observed Philippa, “then he’ll be okay, I guess.”

While John got into his climbing harness, she gave him a skeptical look.

“Do you really know what you’re doing?” asked Philippa.

“You know I do,” answered John. “You most of all.”

Philippa nodded. Now that she stopped to think about it, she realized that her twin brother was right, for all twins, be they djinn or no, possess curious powers over nature and often have the true knowing of things that could not be known by means other than what might be called telepathy.

“All right,” she agreed. “I guess you do know what you’re doing.”

Only when John was secure on the rope and standing on the edge of the crater rim ready to rappel down onto the floor of the volcano almost a hundred feet below, did he start to feel a little nervous. Because of his wish
he knew
what he was doing; but knowing and feeling are two different things. And nearly all of his confidence was inside his brain rather than in his hands and his feet. This was hardly
surprising and probably just as well. For as the late Mr. Rakshasas once said, “A man who is not afraid of the sea will soon be drowned.”

Axel clipped an asbestos-lined rock sample bag and telescopic scoop to John’s harness while the professor advised him on what to do when he reached the bottom.

“
Hlusta.
Stay as close to the crater wall as possible,” he said. “The dust is treacherous and shifting underfoot, like a sand dune. What you need to do is traverse the length of the wall toward the fissure. The nearer you get, the warmer the rock will become to the touch. When it starts to feel hot, or you’re as near to the ash plume as your lungs can bear, hammer a piton into the wall and then descend on the rope a little. There’s a small, fresh lava flow underneath the plume. It’s important you recognize the difference between rock and lava, John, because only fresh
pahoehoe
lava gives us a precise idea of what’s happening underground.
Pahoehoe
lava is smooth and billowy and undulating, like it’s some sort of curtain material. In fact, it’s molten rock, and about twelve hundred degrees centigrade, so for Pete’s sake don’t touch it with your hand. Use the sample scoop. Find a toe or lobe on the edge of the main flow and pour some water on it. This should break it off the flow and allow you to pick it up with the scoop.

“Now: some do’s and don’ts,
hugrakkur ungur vinur minn.
Do pay attention with all your senses. If you feel vibration in the wall of the crater, assume the worst and make your way back. The same goes if you hear an explosion. Try not to put too
much weight on the ground under your feet. The ground might be thin and you could go straight through. Even if you didn’t fall in, the hole you make would create enough oxygen to cause a sudden flash flame that would surely incinerate you, my boy. And watch that the rope doesn’t rest somewhere too hot and start to melt. It’s nylon, see? And nylon melts when it gets hot. Just like your papa’s shirt when your mama gets careless with the iron.”

John nodded gravely. His father had never worn a nylon shirt in his life, but that was beside the point now.

“But the thing you really have to watch out for is gas. It’s the gas that’s most likely to kill you, boy. And I’m not talking about the smell of sulfur and rotten eggs and all that
kjaftœði.
I’m talking about something much worse. Carbon dioxide. You can’t smell CO
₂
. And you can’t taste it. But it’s denser than air and you might see it moving on the ground like a river of smoke. So keep your eyes peeled. And of course if you start to feel very sleepy, that’s a sure sign that CO
₂
is affecting you. If that happens, you move the other way as quickly as possible.”

Professor Sturloson shrugged. “Well, there’s a lot more hazards I could describe but that’s probably enough to be going on with.”

“Light my lamp,” exclaimed Nimrod, “I swear if I hear of another life-threatening hazard, I won’t let the boy go down there at all.”

“It’s all right,” insisted John. “I’ll be careful. Depend on it.”

Stepping out was the worst part because this was the moment he was handing over his life to the equipment he’d created from thin air. John checked his locking carabiner and the figure-of-eight it secured and then, putting more weight on the rope, he leaned back and began walking his way over the edge and down the sheer crater wall.