Eye of the Forest

  “And you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. I have a sore head but that will feel better the moment I’m back in my own body. So, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll go and take care of that and be back in a moment.”

  “Yes. Sure. Go ahead. Be my guest.”

  John felt something move inside the lamp and put it down on the ground while Nimrod went about reentering the lamp to reclaim his human shape. At the sight of yet more smoke emanating from the lamp, the Indians started shouting again, and it was clear to John that they were terribly frightened.

  “Serves you right,” John shouted at them. “That’ll teach you to go around hitting defenseless jaguars on the head, shooting arrows at them and throwing stones at little dogs.”

  Hector barked at the Indians in complete agreement. Now that he had his body back, he was feeling the pain of the stone that had hit him on the side.

  “And as for headhunting,” added John, “that really is totally unacceptable.”

  “They’re not headhunters,” said Nimrod, finally appearing in the flesh out of a cloud of smoke. “And, really not such a bad lot, either. These are Prozuanaci Indians. The same tribe as Sicky. Very different from the Xuanaci. It’s not their fault. They’re just a bit excited about what happened to that anaconda. You see, they worship a god who looks like a snake.” Nimrod smiled awkwardly. “Or at least they did. Look.”

  A large crowd of Indians was now approaching on their hands and knees.

  “I think we’re about to be worshipped,” he said.

  “Cool,” said John.

  “No, it’s not cool at all,” said Nimrod, and tutted loudly. “This is so embarrassing. I do hate it when people mistake me for a god. Of course, it’s inevitable when we’re obliged to perform transubstantiation in the open. I mean, for them we’re the nearest thing to a god they’ve probably ever seen.”

  “Sorry about that,” said John. “But there didn’t seem to be time to do anything more subtle.”

  “No need to apologize, dear boy. It can’t be helped. These things happen. Still, we’d best get out of here before this gets really serious. Offerings and sacrifices and that kind of thing. Heaven forbid that they should start another religion. We’ve got quite enough of those already.” Nimrod was already walking toward the jungle.

  “Wait,” said John. “What about the jaguar? We can hardly leave him there to get killed like his poor brother.”

  “No, you’re right. Not after all he did for us.” Nimrod urgently waved at John. “Well, do it, boy, do it. You have the power.”

  John nodded and, muttering his focus word, which was ABECEDARIAN, he made the stockade enclosing the big cat vanish in a purple puff of smoke. Hardly believing its luck, the jaguar galloped into the jungle without a backward glance at the now prostrate and loudly wailing Indians.

  “Why the purple smoke?” Nimrod asked John.

  “Because I still think they need to be taught a lesson,” answered John.

  Nimrod shook his head with disapproval. “I told you,” he said. “They’re not such a bad lot, the Prozuanaci.” He turned on his heel and walked on.

  John went running after him, followed closely by Hector the dog. “By the way,” said John. “I’ve got something important and extremely worrying to tell you. Philippa and Groanin and Mr. Vodyannoy and the others. They’ve gone. Disappeared without a trace. If these are the Prozuanaci, then I think they’ve been captured by some other Indians. I found stone statues of three Indians near our camp; they were covered with leaves. My guess is that Sicky showed them the tattoo on his belly. The one that turns living things that look at it to stone? Like Medusa, the Gorgon? And that their friends tried to bury them where they were because they were too heavy to carry back home.”

  “Is that so?” said Nimrod, quickening his pace. “That’s not good.”

  “And that’s just the half of it,” John said urgently. “I also need to tell you about Zadie. She’s a traitor. She’s the one who’s been making all these giant-sized animals.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Nimrod.

  John told him about the message he’d found on the leg of Zadie’s bat.

  “And you’ll never guess who the message was from,” added John. “Virgil McCreeby.”

  CHAPTER 11

  The Piranha Pool

  At least it’s stopped raining,” observed Groanin.

  “I don’t see how that helps our situation,” said Zadie through chattering teeth. “We’re still cold and wet. Too cold and wet to use our power to get out of here.”

  This was undeniable. With the exception of Sicky, they were all imprisoned in a wooden cage that was partly underwater in a large cave that overlooked the Xuanaci village. Fed by a mountain stream, the water in the cave pool was freezing.

  “Do you think they know?” Philippa asked Zadie. “About djinn being made of fire? And that younger ones like us are powerless when we’re cold?”

  “I don’t know,” said Zadie, and told herself it hardly mattered since soon enough Virgil McCreeby would surely realize what had happened and come and rescue her. After all that she had done to help McCreeby’s expedition — the gigantist binding on Sicky’s centipede and the mosquitoes, and then the anaconda, to say nothing of the poison frog she had put in Mr. Vodyannoy’s camp bed — they simply had to come.

  “They’ll come soon,” she muttered through cold, clenched teeth. “They’ll come. They have to.”

  “Yes, well, let’s hope they do,” said Groanin, who presumed wrongly that Zadie was talking about Nimrod and John. “Otherwise some of us will be shorter by a head. Like those poor blighters on the wall.”

  Groanin nodded up at a collection of shrunken human heads that was hanging on the cave wall immediately above Sicky and the box containing Pizarro’s skull. Sicky himself had been tied up and placed inside a sack, which was a wise precaution given the terrible, medusan properties of the tattoo on his belly. It seemed that the Xuanaci had no wish to be turned into stone statues of themselves.

  “I don’t think that’s what they’ve got planned for us, Mr. Groanin,” said Muddy. “There’s no honor in taking a bald head or a girl’s head. Not for proud warriors like the Xuanaci. No, I’m thinking we’ve got only half of this pool to ourselves. There’s a wooden barrier dividing it in two. See? Only it’s more like a sliding door that can be opened.”

  “Yes, I was wondering about that,” admitted Groanin, peering over the wooden barrier into the water. “The water on the other side appears to be quite warm. I can feel it on my face.”

  “If only we were in that half of the pool,” said Philippa. “Then we could be warm and use djinn power to get ourselves out of here.”

  “If we were in that half of the pool, we’d be dead,” said Muddy.

  “How’s that?” asked Philippa.

  “The other half of the pool is filled with piranha,” Muddy explained.

  “You what?” exclaimed Groanin.

  “A fish with an appetite for meat that’s as big as its teeth,” said Muddy. “Word piranha means ‘fish with teeth.’ A school of the biggest piranha can eat a living cow in minutes. Like shearing a sheep.”

  “I know what piranha are,” moaned Groanin. He glanced over the barrier and then at Muddy. “Are you quite sure about that, pal? You’re not just winding me up? I mean, the water looks peaceful enough. Doesn’t it?”

  “At first I wasn’t sure,” said Muddy. “Then a few minutes ago, I saw something come up and look at me, like it was me looking at fish in a restaurant.”

  But Groanin wasn’t yet convinced. “You’re joking,” he said.

  “No joking.”

  Muddy leaned over the barrier, spat copiously into the warmer water and, for a fleeting moment, Groanin was reminded horribly of the disgusting way that Muddy made chichai beer. But the very next second, several sets of extremely sharp teeth rose to the surface and began to chew the air expectantly. Hundreds of other fish quickly joined them so that the water almost
seemed to be boiling with fish.

  “See?” said Muddy.

  “Flipping heck,” yelled Groanin. “Here. You don’t think they mean to — to slide open that door, and let them lunch on us, do you?”

  “I reckon that’s the idea,” said Muddy. He thought for a moment and then sighed. “You know? Is a pity we are on the menu and not them. Piranha is pretty good eating fish. In my time I cooked and ate plenty.” He laughed almost philosophically. “I guess it’s their turn now.”

  Groanin gulped loudly. “If I ever get out of this, I swear I’ll never eat fish and chips again.”

  While Muddy and Groanin had been discussing the proximity of the piranha, Philippa had been paying more attention to their surroundings. The unguarded cave was illuminated by a burning torch on the wall.

  “If we could only get to that torch,” she said. “We could make a fire and warm ourselves up.” She looked at Groanin. “How’s that superstrong arm of yours, Mr. Groanin? Do you think you could break open the door of this cage?”

  “I already tried, miss,” Groanin said ruefully. “But whatever this enclosure is made of, it’s too strong for me.” As if to demonstrate the hopelessness of the task she was suggesting, he took hold of the cage and attempted, without success, to pull two of the bars apart.

  “It’s lignum vitae,” said Muddy. “A local wood that’s almost as strong as metal.”

  Philippa examined the material that lashed the wooden struts of the cage together. “And what is this cord made of?” she asked Muddy.

  “Is made from plaited leaves of coconut palm,” said Muddy.

  She nodded.

  “Now all we need is a saw,” muttered Zadie.

  “We already have a saw,” said Philippa. “In fact, we have hundreds of them.” She pointed at the other half of the pool where the piranha were at last beginning to calm down. “All we have to do is to persuade them to start work. And, like any other workers, all they need is an incentive.”

  “Is that a joke?” asked Zadie. “If so, it’s not a very funny one.”

  “It’s no joke,” insisted Philippa. “I was thinking that a little blood dropped onto those cords lashing the wooden bars together just above the water line might persuade them to start biting.”

  Groanin inspected the bars and nodded. “By heck, you’re right, miss,” he said. “It might just work, at that. With their razor-sharp teeth they could gnaw through them bindings in no time. And then I might push these bars apart.”

  “Exactly,” said Philippa.

  “In the absence of another plan,” said Muddy, “the ingenuity of using piranha teeth to get us out of this cage is terrific. Not to say, most ironic.”

  “I think it’s a preposterous idea,” scoffed Zadie.

  “The only question,” said Philippa, ignoring her fellow female djinn, “is where we are going to get a supply of blood. Does anyone have a pin? Or some other small sharp object?”

  “You mean something other than Miss Zadie’s tongue?” Groanin asked.

  “Very funny,” sneered Zadie, who was feeling too cold and guilty to have much of a sense of humor.

  But no one had anything small and sharp.

  “How are we going to get blood if we don’t have a pin?” demanded Zadie.

  “I’ve an idea,” said Muddy. “Mr. Groanin. You must please to punch me on the nose, please.”

  Groanin winced. “I couldn’t possibly, old chap,” he said. “I say, I couldn’t possibly punch you on the nose.”

  “Sure you can,” said Muddy, and pushed his face toward Groanin. “Nothing to it. You just gotta punch me. You know how to punch me, don’t ya? You just put your fingers together, make a fist, and land me a blow.” He closed his eyes. “Come on, Mr. Groanin. Punch me on the nose.”

  Groanin made a fist and looked at Muddy uncertainly.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I can’t hit an unarmed man. It’s just not British.”

  “Sure you can. Tell me. What soccer team do you like?”

  “Manchester City, why?”

  “Well, maybe if I insult you then maybe you’ll find it easier to hit Muddy, yeah?” Muddy slapped Groanin lightly on the cheek. “Maybe then you can hit me, you stuck-up English slaphead. You pompous British donkey. You dumb ugly gringo, you.” He slapped him again, a little harder this time. “And by the way, Manchester City is a really bad team. Next to Manchester United, they are a bunch of losers.”

  “Now steady on, Muddy,” said Groanin, coloring a little. “You’re talking about a great soccer team.”

  “Manchester City couldn’t beat an old carpet,” said Muddy. “Better hit me soon, old-timer, or I’m going to hit you.”

  Groanin shook his head. “Still not working,” he said.

  And then Zadie punched Groanin hard, on the nose.

  “Yaroo!” Groanin pressed both fingers to his nose. “What did you do that for? You daft bat.”

  “Zadie,” said Philippa. “Why did you hit Mr. Groanin?”

  “Why? To save time, that’s why. All that polite English ‘I couldn’t hit you, Muddy, old chap.’”

  Groanin touched his nose with his fingers and then looked at the blood on them. “Flipping heck,” he said. “I think she broke my nose.” He stared bitterly at Zadie. “No one could accuse you of being polite. You’ve been a right nuisance since you came along.”

  “What’s done is done, I suppose,” said Philippa, and helped the hapless English butler to direct some of the blood from his nose onto the plaited palm leaves lashing the wooden beams of the cage together.

  The effect was electric, which is to say it was as if someone had directed a strong electric current into the water containing the school of ferocious piranha. One moment there was barely a ripple on the surface, and the next, it was as if the water itself had come alive and was tearing at the bloody lashings.

  “I think that’s enough blood,” Philippa told Groanin.

  “Right, miss.” Groanin pinched his nose. But there was still so much blood flowing from his nostrils that it was impossible to stop more of it from dropping off his fingers and onto the sliding barrier separating them from the piranha fish. Instinctively, Groanin turned away and made his way to the opposite end of the pool. Yet more blood dropped into the water.

  “I said that’s enough,” said Philippa.

  “I can’t help it, miss,” said Groanin. “Only it seems to me that if she hadn’t hit me quite so hard, I wouldn’t be bleeding quite so bleeding much.”

  Muddy looked at the lashings on the wooden cage. “But it’s working,” he said. “Them fish are chewing up the bindings like it’s fresh meat.”

  Philippa cheered.

  “I hate to rain on your parade,” said Zadie. “But it’s not just the cage they’re chewing. Look.” She pointed at the wooden barrier separating them from the hungry piranha.

  Muddy looked and then groaned. “She’s right,” he said. “They are chewing the bindings on the barrier, too.”

  “You mean the barrier that’s keeping them piranha away from us?” Groanin asked through his bloody fingers.

  “That’s right. There’s too much blood in the water. The craziness of these fish is terrific.”

  Experimentally, Philippa pressed lightly at the barrier. “The question is,” she said. “Which is going to give first? The bindings on the cage or the bindings on the barrier.”

  “That’s just marvelous,” moaned Groanin. “To be fish food, at my age. I might have known something like this was going to happen when I came to South America.”

  The barrier shifted ominously.

  “They’ll be through in a minute,” said Muddy.

  “Quick, Groanin,” said Philippa. “Have another try at pulling these bars apart.”

  “Very well, miss.” Groanin took hold of the wooden bars and pulled. “They’re shifting. Quick, Miss Philippa. Squeeze through.”

  But Zadie was there ahead of her, climbing up onto Groanin’s shoulders without apology, and pulling
herself through the wooden bars. Philippa quickly followed. The two girl djinn picked themselves off the cave floor and stared into the seething water.

  The barrier shifted again.

  “It looks like it’s going to give at any moment,” said Zadie. “I’d say you’ve got about sixty seconds to get your butts out of there before you’re history.”

  “Go on, Muddy,” Groanin shouted bravely, and pulled the bars again. “On you go.”

  Muddy scrambled through the wooden bars and slid onto the stone floor. As soon as he was on his feet he turned and took hold of the bars, holding them apart so that Groanin might escape. But he wasn’t nearly as strong as Groanin. Few human men were.

  “If your limey stomach wasn’t so fat,” said Zadie, “you would probably be out by now.”

  “I’ll give you fat in a minute,” said Groanin. He grunted as he pushed his head and shoulders through the bars.

  At last the barrier gave way.

  “Push, Groanin, push,” shouted Philippa.

  With a loud grunt, Groanin lifted himself up and out of the water. For a moment the bars seemed to tighten around his waist, before, with a superhuman effort, he pushed them down and then lifted his legs clear of the water and the piranha. All except one, which had a tight grip of his trousers and, it seemed, a small part of Groanin’s behind.

  “Yaroo!” yelled the butler as he rolled onto the floor.

  Zadie bent down to observe the piranha more closely as, flapping like a letterbox in a strong breeze, the metallic-looking fish kept its jaws tight on what it had hoped would be its next meal.

  “Don’t just look at me like it’s in an aquarium,” said Groanin. “Get the brute off me.”

  Zadie stood up and turned away as if she cared nothing for the English butler’s obvious discomfort. She walked to the edge of the cave and looked out. “Get it off yourself,” she said.

  Meanwhile Muddy kicked at the fish, which, like a cartoon bulldog, remained stubbornly attached to Groanin’s substantial behind.

  “Yaroo!” he yelled again as the piranha’s prognathous bite tightened desperately.