The Five Fakirs of Faizabad (8 page)

E
ntering the old medina of Fez through a dome-shaped gate in a high white wall, Nimrod led the twins and Groanin through a succession of narrow, winding streets and covered, shadowy alleys that were full of shopkeepers, tourists, chickens, dogs, and donkeys. Wonderful smells of spices and herbs assailed their nostrils, while their ears were filled with sounds of music and commerce that had changed little in centuries.

The twins considered themselves well-traveled, but the medina was like nothing they had encountered before. It was, thought Philippa, like stepping back into one of the seven journeys of Sinbad or, perhaps, the tales of Aladdin
and Ali Baba. But Nimrod seemed to know the place like the back of his hand.

After ten or fifteen minutes, they arrived in a dusty, plain little square in the darkest and most ancient part of the medina, where Nimrod approached a small and very old-looking wooden door. And there he addressed his companions, who included Moo but not Zagreus, who had elected to remain in the hotel and watch
The Belly Factor
on television.

“This is it,” he said. “This is the place.”

“You mean this door?” asked Moo.

“It doesn’t much look like a rug emporium,” observed John. “It looks more like a prison.”

“Certainly somewhere secret,” said Moo.

“My dad used to work in carpets,” said Groanin quietly. But no one was listening. “He was a carpet fitter all his life.”

“This shop has been here for two thousand years,” said Nimrod. “Mr. Barkhiya is the direct descendant of the vizier of King Solomon.”

“You mean the chap in the Bible?” asked Moo.

Nimrod nodded.

“What’s a vizier?” asked John.

“A high-ranking minister or advisor to the king,” said Nimrod. “When Solomon died, Mr. Barkhiya and his family inherited the king’s famous flying carpet. Originally, this was an enormous blue rug, sixty miles long and sixty miles wide, and when it flew, it was shaded from the sun by a canopy of birds. Thousands of djinn and people could ride upon
it at any one time. On one occasion, so the story goes, the wind, which is not known for its patience, became jealous of Solomon and shook the carpet, and forty thousand people fell to their deaths.”

“That’s one way of trimming your frequent-flyer program,” observed Groanin.

“Over the years, the carpet has been cut up many times,” continued Nimrod. “Today all flying carpets are smaller pieces of the larger one once owned by Solomon. Of course in more recent times, flying on a carpet was deemed most unfashionable. And business was slow for Mr. Barkhiya. But all of that is different now. Which means that it may be hard to negotiate a fair price for exactly what we want. So it might be best if you say as little as possible while I’m bargaining with him. Because it’s certain that Asaf will want something more than just money. Is that clear?”

The twins nodded. “Clear,” they said in unison.

Inside, the rug emporium was more like a church — a huge, echoing, dark Byzantine church with a circular marble floor and many brass lamps hanging from a very high ceiling. The vast floor was surrounded with a series of enormous pillars that were unusual in that they appeared to be made out of giant rolls of carpet: a blue silk carpet with a gold weft.

Nimrod clapped his hands loudly, and lifted a hand in salute as a man wearing a plain white turban and silken white robes, who was seated cross-legged on a little square of blue carpet, floated across the floor toward them like a scoop of ice cream on a Frisbee.

“Peace be with you,” said Nimrod.

“And with you,” said the man.

Dismounting the carpet, which stayed floating several inches above the ground, the man bowed gravely and said:

“Let mountain and desert tremble. Let cities shudder and turn in fear of mighty Nimrod. Welcome, esteemed sir. Since I last saw you, great djinn, I have often thought of you and wondered how long it would be before you would come back to my humble establishment. And I bless this day, since we now meet again.”

Philippa shuddered to look at the man. Mr. Barkhiya had the nose and eyes of a hawk, a large gap between his front teeth, and a long black beard that was divided into two points like a pitchfork. He was not very tall but he carried himself like a man of enormous height, and his voice was as deep and almost as dramatic as that of a great orator.

“Permit me to introduce my nephew, John, and my niece, Philippa,” said Nimrod.

“I am your servant,” said Mr. Barkhiya, and he bowed again. “May both of you continue to live happily until the very distant hour of your death.”

“You too,” said Philippa.

“May I also present Lady Silvia Stone and my servant, Groanin.”

“The honor is all mine,” said Mr. Barkhiya.

“We’ve come about a carpet,” said Nimrod.

Mr. Barkhiya smiled as if such a thing was obvious. He bowed again and then lifted his arms.

“And when Solomon sat upon the carpet he was caught up by the wind and sailed through the air so quickly that he
breakfasted at Damascus and dined in Medina,” said Mr. Barkhiya. “And the wind followed Solomon’s commands.” The carpet seller grinned happily. “Of course you have come about carpets, my dear fellow. Why else would you be here? Just the one carpet, is it? I could perhaps let you have a discount for three. A very special price.”

While he talked, Mr. Barkhiya stroked one of the great blue carpet pillars, which rippled and undulated under his touch like a hide of some great beast. He nodded at John and Philippa. “Come, children, touch it.”

John and Philippa glanced at their uncle, who nodded his assent, and the twins stepped forward to rub their hands up and down the smooth surface of the blue carpet pillar. At the same time, Nimrod lifted the sesquipedalian binding that stopped the twins using their focus words. He wanted to make sure that they would feel the djinn power that was present in every fiber of the carpet.

“Is it not smooth?” Mr. Barkhiya asked John. “Is it not silky?” he asked Philippa. “Is it not marvelous? Is it not very special?”

The twins nodded.

“Very,” said Philippa.

“It’s like something alive,” observed John.

“There’s a vibration in every fiber,” added Philippa.

“Truly,” said Mr. Barkhiya. “But only a djinn such as yourself can feel this special vibration. I have never felt this sensation myself. I am merely the great carpet’s custodian. Not its master.”

“To weave such a carpet,” said Moo, “that must have taken a very long thread.”

“It is said that the thread used to make the first great flying carpet of Solomon was as long as eternity,” said Mr. Barkhiya. “And the carpet was handwoven by a thousand djinn.”

“And do you only sell to djinn?” said Moo. “Or to human beings, also?”

Mr. Barkhiya smiled his gap-toothed smile. “I regret, dear Lady Silvia, that only a djinn may control such a carpet as this, otherwise I should be delighted to sell you one, too. The tiny fragment of rug you saw me appear on earlier is as much as I am able to safely control myself. And even that is only thanks to my having been granted wishes by another grateful customer. Each knot of the carpet contains an uttered word of djinn power. What the djinn themselves call a focus word. Is it not so, Nimrod? And that this is where the power of the flying comes from. From the djinn power over mathematics and physics and the great Golden Ratio and the secret meaning of 1.61803.”

Nimrod nodded. “That’s quite right,” he said. “Many human beings have been killed trying to ride a flying carpet.”

“That’s a comforting thought,” remarked Groanin.

“I think an extra-large one for the great Nimrod, and two junior models, one each for your two young friends.”

“Very generous of you, Asaf,” said Nimrod.

Mr. Barkhiya said, “But you have not yet heard my price, O great one.”

“I’m listening, old friend.”

“Three wishes.”

“That is fair.”

“From each of you.”

Nimrod shook his head. “No. That is too much.” He nodded. “But the three wishes shall come from me.”

“Very well, I agree.”

“One more thing,” said Nimrod. “I know you to be a religious man, Asaf. And a man of your word. So, you must state your three wishes in advance and confine yourself to wishing for them and only them, by all that’s holy to you. Is that agreed, also?”

Asaf grinned. “Don’t you trust me, O great one?”

Nimrod shook his head. “You’re only human, my friend. It’s been my experience that wishing for whatever your heart desires is more than any mundane can cope with. And it is always wise to remember to be careful what you wish for just in case you get it.”

“True,” said Mr. Barkhiya. “For power of such greatness as yours, it is good that you counsel caution. I am a poor man of the desert; however, I have wished before, and I have survived the extraordinary magic. I have eight sons and fifteen grandchildren and it will be my wish that my family shall remain in happiness and health. And so that all djinn who come here may know that I am not a selfish man, it will be my wish that the king, too, shall remain in happiness and health.”

“And your third wish, Asaf?” asked Nimrod.

“Things have been difficult for my country of late,” said Mr. Barkhiya. “People are fearful. They are superstitious.
And of late, luck has not smiled on us. The crops lack rain. There is much unemployment. Our country has many enemies and owes much money to the World Bank. Good fortune seems to have deserted us.”

“That’s interesting,” said Moo. “This is what I suspected all along.”

“But this is one of the reasons I came here in the first place,” Nimrod told Asaf. “To consult with the English fakir who lives at the top of Jebel Toubkal. If Lady Silvia here is right, it’s not just your country that feels its lack of luck. Many others do, too.”

“I would change that.”

“You ask the impossible, Asaf,” said Nimrod. “Even I don’t have the power to fix all your country’s ills.”

“I believe I have a way. So this will be my third wish, Nimrod.”

“How?” asked Nimrod. “This interests me a great deal, Asaf. How would you change the luck of your country?”

“I will not say that it would change things in your country, Nimrod,” said Asaf. “But it will certainly change things here. We are a simple people and some sort of a sign is needed that perhaps things are improving in my country. I think that the sign I would give with my third wish might change this perception. The ancient Romans had a saying:
cum mula peperit.
You will find this strange, Nimrod. But that will be my third wish. This is how it will be, O great djinn?”

Nimrod nodded. “This is how it will be, Asaf. As you wish.
Cum mula peperit.”

M
r. Barkhiya took Nimrod and the others up to the rug emporium rooftop, where, in the late afternoon sunshine, his sons were spreading out the three carpets that had been bought. The biggest of the carpets — Nimrod’s flying carpet — was about a thousand square feet and as blue as a sapphire. Under the hot Moroccan sun, the gold thread woven into the carpet seemed to glow like it was molten metal. Moo and Groanin sat close to the center of the carpet, which seemed like the safest place, and patiently awaited takeoff.

The emporium’s rooftop was castellated like a fortress and was the highest in all of the old city so that local people might not be alarmed at the sight of a carpet ascending into the sky. The El Moania hotel was several miles away, although its distinctive pyramid shape was clearly visible on the horizon.

“If the carpet has not flown for a while,” explained one of the sons, “then you should always leave it in the sun for a
few minutes to warm the fibers up. Djinn power relies on heat, yes? Especially the heat of the sun?”

John nodded. “Yes,” he said.

“You will wish to personalize your carpet,” said the man. “Make it so that only you can fly it. In which case you must spill your blood upon it. For then your djinn blood will become part of the carpet. And the words of power will always be yours to command.”

Mr. Barkhiya’s son, who was called Mustafa, produced a large hat pin that he handed to John expectantly.

“What, now?” John stared at the hat pin.

“As good a time as any,” said Nimrod. He took the hat pin from John, stabbed his thumb with it, and let a ruby of blood drop on the shining blue silk of the largest carpet. “And you certainly wouldn’t want another djinn to steal it, would you?”

Philippa pricked her finger in turn and handed the hat pin back to her brother.

“I hate needles,” mumbled John.

“Do hurry up, John,” said Nimrod.

“Don’t be such a wuss,” said Philippa and, taking the hat pin back again, she grabbed her brother’s finger and pricked it for him before he could protest.

“Ouch,” said John. “That hurt.”

Philippa squeezed his finger hard and dropped some of John’s blood onto the third carpet.

“By the way,” said Nimrod. “You’d better let me have some of that blood. Just in case.”

“Just in case of what?” asked John.

“Just in case I need to fly your carpet myself,” said Nimrod.

He ordered the two smaller flying rugs to be rolled up and placed on top of the larger one and, with he and Moo and Groanin and the twins now seated on the huge blue square of silk carpet, the English djinn muttered his focus word. A second or two later, the carpet started silently to rise into the air like a very well-behaved helicopter.

“Marvelous,” said Moo, glancing over the carpet’s edge at the retreating medina. “I never thought to fly on a real magic carpet.”

“Don’t say that word,” muttered Groanin.
“Magic.
It irritates the boss. And I wouldn’t want him irritated when he’s flying. It’s been a while since he flew anything other than a will-o’-the-wisp.”

“Oh, right,” said Moo. “Sorry. But I don’t think I’ve had as much fun as this since I was a little girl, when I rode on an elephant at the London Zoo.” She smoothed the carpet with the palm of her hand and thought it smoother than the fur of the cleverest cat that had ever lived.

Groanin closed his eyes. “You ask me,” he said, “carpets is for covering floors with. Or vacuuming. Not gallivanting about the world upon. It isn’t natural.”

“Do shut up, Groanin,” said Nimrod, and steered the flying carpet in the direction of the El Moania hotel.

“I didn’t understand Asaf Barkhiya’s third wish,” said Philippa. “It was in Latin, wasn’t it?”

“
Cum mula peperit?
” said Nimrod. “Yes. It’s Latin. And if you had ever attended a decent school where they taught anything other than so-called ‘computer skills,’ you might also know that it means ‘when a mule foals.’“

“That’s a wish?” said John. “Sounds more like a riddle.”

“In a way it is,” said Nimrod. “A mule is —”

“The sterile hybrid of a horse and a donkey,” said Philippa. “They do teach us biology.”

“That’s something, I suppose,” said Nimrod. “Then you might also know that it’s almost impossible, biologically speaking, for a mule to give birth. But it does happen. Once in a blue moon.”

“So, when it does happen,” said Moo, “word will quickly get around that something pretty special has happened. Which Asaf hopes will be seen as a cause for some optimism in the country at large.” She nodded. “Yes, I can see how that might work. Very clever of him, really.”

Nimrod stopped the flying carpet outside the hundredth floor of the El Moania and because there was no window — Groanin having leaned on it earlier and pushed it out of the frame — it was a simple matter for all except Moo to climb back into the room where Zagreus had remained behind watching television.

“Pack your bags,” Nimrod told everyone. “We’re leaving.”

“First sensible thing you’ve said since we got here,” said Groanin. “Thank goodness we won’t have to carry the bags all the way down those stairs.”

“Hey, what about the hotel bill?” said Zagreus.

“He’s right, we should leave them something,” said Philippa.

“The bill?” exclaimed Groanin. “For what? Ruining my boot? Making us climb a hundred flights of stairs? Confiscating my food supply? I’ve stayed in better prisons than this place.”

“John?” asked Nimrod. “What do you think?”

“Well, it was certainly an experience,” said John. “I don’t think I’ll ever complain in a hotel again. That is, as long as I don’t ever have to come back to this particular hotel. I thought the Oasis Guesthouse in Bumby was bad. But this place is terrible.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the Oasis Guesthouse in Bumby,” insisted Groanin. “Leastways not unless there’s a Jinx staying there.”

“Speaking for myself,” said Philippa, “I think I’ve learned to appreciate how well-off I am and what a good hotel is. It’s been an education, all right.”

“Ah,” said Nimrod. “Experience. Education. The all-important words. In which case we should certainly leave something to cover the bill. Experience and education are in short supply these days and are always worth paying for. After all, anyone can stay in a good hotel. But it takes a very special kind of person to stay in the worst hotel in the world.”

“You don’t half talk some nonsense,” muttered Groanin, and pulled his bowler hat tight about his ears.

“Quiet, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “Or I shall turn you back into a garden ornament.” And, taking out his wallet, he thumbed several banknotes onto the table. “It’s a pity more
people don’t get a chance to stay here. And then they might be a little happier with their lot in life.” He shook his head. “But perhaps when we return to Fez, we’ll stay in the Morisco Palace Hotel, after all.”

Zagreus, who didn’t have any bags, switched off the television and bounded out of the window, onto the carpet beside Moo.

“Is it safe?” he asked, stretching out and leaning his head on John’s rolled-up carpet.

“Isn’t that a question you should ask
before
you step out of a hundredth-floor window and onto a flying carpet?” Groanin threw Nimrod’s bag out of the window, then his own, and climbed out beside the Jinx. He was followed by the twins and, last of all, Nimrod himself.

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Zagreus. “But then as someone who’s neither properly dead nor properly alive, it’s easy for me not to pay too much attention to these things. If I fall a hundred floors, I’m not sure I’ll be any worse off than I am now. Can you say the same?”

Nimrod laughed at the sight of Groanin’s obvious discomfort and set a course for the Atlas Mountains.

“Nimrod, you haven’t yet explained why this man we’re going to see is so important,” said Moo as they climbed higher into the sky above the city. She tied a ribbon over her straw hat and under her chin so that the hat would not blow off her head.

“And how a butler comes to be a fakir,” said John.

“Mr. Burton is the great-grandson of the famous English explorer and Orientalist Sir Richard Burton,” said Nimrod.
“The man who was one of the first translators of the
Arabian Nights.
Inspired by his illustrious ancestor, Mr. Burton studied Arabic and Urdu at Harvard University and then went to live with holy men in India, where he met Mr. Rakshasas, who was persuaded to take the young man under his wing and teach him many ancient secrets and several esoteric mysteries.

“In return, Mr. Burton was, for twenty years, butler to Mr. Rakshasas. Then, according to what I was told by Mr. Rakshasas, Mr. Burton had some sort of vision and decided that he should go and become a holy man himself. Some people call these holy men sadhus or gurus, and some call them swamis or yogis. The most important thing is that Mr. Burton became an ascetic, which is to say that his life became one of abstinence and hardship, all with the aim of attaining wisdom and enlightenment. For many years now Mr. Burton has lived at the top of Jebel Toubkal, which is the highest peak in the Atlas Mountains, not seeing anyone, not saying anything, and not eating or drinking anything. In other words, he became a kind of fakir. And it is certain no one knows more about fakirs than he.”

“He doesn’t eat anything?” said Groanin. “Nothing at all? Not even a cup of tea?”

“So far as I know,” said Nimrod.

“He sounds a bit mad to me,” said Groanin. “I mean, what’s the point of being alive if you can’t eat? Or drink? You might as well be dead. Anyway, how are we going to get any information out of this character if he doesn’t say anything? Have you thought of that, sir?”

“There are more ways of communicating with someone than just speech,” said Nimrod.

“For you, maybe,” grumbled Groanin. “Personally, I’ve always found speech is quite adequate for making myself understood.”

After an hour’s flying, they reached Jebel Toubkal, the highest peak in the Atlas Mountains. But at the summit of the mountain, which is 13,665 feet high and shrouded with clouds, there was no obvious sign of the English fakir. And, dismounting the flying carpet, they spread out to search the summit and its environs.

“Perhaps he went on holiday,” suggested Groanin.

Moo shivered. “I wish I’d brought a coat,” she said.

And because Philippa liked Moo and could already feel her own djinn powers starting to wane in the cold of the mountaintop — for djinn are made of fire — she quickly muttered her focus word and made warm fur coats, one for Moo and one for herself.

“Don’t worry,” she told Moo. “It’s not real fur,” and wondered why Moo looked a little disappointed.

“I like that,” said Groanin. “She gets a warm coat but not me.”

“Too late, I’m afraid,” said Philippa. “My power’s gone.” “Mine, too,” admitted John.

Groanin glanced at Nimrod. “No chance you making me a fur coat, is there, sir?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to look for something warm in your suitcase?” asked Nimrod.

Groanin shrugged and then opened his case. But there was nothing that looked like it might make the butler feel any more comfortable. “I packed for a hot climate,” said Groanin. “Not a perishing cold one.”

“We’re supposed to be looking for some sign of Burton,” said Nimrod. “Not a vest or a pullover.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” said Groanin, rubbing his hands together.

Then John shouted from a place several yards away that was hidden in the mountaintop mist. “I think I’ve found something,” he said.

“Where are you?” said Nimrod.

“Here,” said John. “A few yards down the south-facing slope, there’s a pile of stones.”

When they found John, he was halfway up a little pyramid of rocks and taking hold of what looked like a tall, thin tree that was growing out the top of it. Except that it wasn’t a tree at all but a rigid length of thick rope. John peered up the rope into the depths of the mist above his head and then tugged it experimentally.

“It seems to go up for quite a way,” he said.

“Well done, John,” said Nimrod. “I should say there’s a very good chance that you’ve found Mr. Burton.”

“What? You mean he’s up there?” Groanin sounded outraged. “At the top of that rope?”

“Of course,” said Nimrod. “Where else would he be?”

Groanin smiled a wry smile. “Where else indeed?” He shook his head. “You make it sound almost normal. Just don’t expect me to climb up there, sir. I’m a butler, not
a chimpanzee.” He glanced sideways at Zagreus when he said this.

“What an unimaginative fellow you are sometimes, Groanin,” said Nimrod. “Who on earth said anything about climbing up there? Why climb when we can fly?”