The Underground City, page 3
“Do you think Lewis got to the oasis?” queried Peter half an hour later, as Brian looked at his watch yet again.
“He should have,” was the answer. “If he didn’t, then I only hope he’ll have had the sense to obey the first rule of the desert.”
“What’s that?”
“Never get out of your car in a sandstorm.”
To be fair, it actually wasn’t Lewis’s fault that he left the car. As he’d brought a bottle of water and a six-pack of soft drinks with him plus a powerful torch and a good supply of comics to while away the hours until daylight, he’d settled down in the car quite happily at first, although it was definitely eerie with the wind and sand howling round outside. Without air conditioning, however, the inside of the car gradually became more and more uncomfortable. A fine dust laced the air and he shifted restlessly as it got hotter and hotter and as his throat dried up, gulped down more and more of the soft drinks until he saw, with a prickle of worry, that there were very few cans left. Not being able to see anything was scary as well. He tried hard to concentrate on the adventures of his hero, Superman, but every so often he lifted his eyes and frowned worriedly as gusts of wind rocked the car until he really thought that it might topple over.
A normal sandstorm might, indeed, have rocked the car a little but Lewis didn’t know that this was no ordinary sandstorm. The bedouin didn’t go to Al Antara after dark because they knew there was a djinn there and that it came out at night. It was not just superstition. They knew! From time to time, Mr Williams from the oil company tried to persuade them to return, rebuild the houses and make the oasis their home but they were always steadfast in their refusal. Mr Williams could say what he liked, but a djinn was, after all, a djinn.
As the 4x4 gave a particularly violent lurch, Lewis grabbed at the door for support. His hand hit the door handle and in a triumphant roar of wind and sand, he tumbled out into the storm. The door then slammed shut as the vehicle righted itself. Crying with frustration he tried to open it, and couldn’t. It must have stuck! Pulling his T-shirt over his mouth to keep out the sand, he felt his way round to the passenger door, tripping over his torch as he did so. He sighed with relief as he picked it up and stuffed it into his pocket. It would be getting dark soon and he’d need the light. Again he struggled to open the doors. He knew perfectly well that he hadn’t locked either of them but despite his frantic efforts, neither would budge. There was only one thing for it. He’d have to take shelter in one of the houses at the oasis for no one could survive for long in the suffocating air of such a storm.
Although Lewis didn’t have far to walk, the heat, the wind and the stinging sand scoured him like sandpaper. Desperately he stumbled on, quite unable to believe that this was actually happening to him. He managed to stiffen his resolve for a while by pretending that he was one of the heroes in his comic books but fear overtook him when he realized he was nearly exhausted and wouldn’t be able to go much further.
It was then that the old, worn stones of the huge well at Al Antara loomed before him and he sobbed with relief as his hands clutched thankfully at its rim. Water! He could smell it and was so thirsty that he could think of nothing else.
The water in the well was sweet, he knew, for the Arabs had offered him some to drink when he’d visited the oasis with his parents, a while back. It had been cold and delicious, and his mouth was so dry that he could hardly wait to taste it again. Confidently, he looked up through the gloom to the rickety, pulley-like affair that held the bucket and bit his lip in dismay as, amid the swirling sand of the storm, he saw a tangle of wreckage that sprawled crazily over one side of the well. It had been blown down by the force of the wind and although he grasped one of the wooden supports and tried to lift it, he found it surprisingly heavy. Even if I could manage to pull it up, he thought despairingly, the storm would probably just blow it over again.
There was, however, another way to get to the water; a more dangerous way. He looked over the edge of the well and there it was — a flight of stone steps that curved down its inner wall into the gloom. His parents, of course, had not allowed him to climb down the well but he’d often watched the Arabs clambering up and down if the bucket had stuck or the ropes got tangled. He didn’t give himself time to think. He knew he had to get down to the water, for never before had he had such a raging thirst. Swiftly, he swung his leg over the top and balanced himself shakily on the first of the steps that curved down in a gentle spiral towards the water. He knew he had to be quick. Daylight was starting to fade and in the desert, darkness falls swiftly.
He took the torch from his pocket and flicked the light on the worn steps that jutted out from the wall. Fortunately, the well was wide and the steps broad enough to give him a welcome sense of security. Thank goodness his mother couldn’t see him now, he thought, as he started downwards. She’d totally freak!
Despite the desert heat, the air in the well was cool and moist. He breathed it in gratefully as he followed the staircase down, but as he went further and further into the depths, the walls seemed to close in on him and at one stage he wondered if he’d ever reach the bottom. The torchlight, however, gave him confidence and eventually he reached the last step where a wide ledge gave onto a pool of dark water that lapped softly against the steep walls that encircled it. The well, he thought, must be fed by a spring of some sort, for the pool looked deep.
It was a strange feeling, being at the bottom of the well and he shivered slightly as he looked up at the far-away circle of dim light above his head. The distant noise of the storm echoed eerily down the shaft and as he flashed his torch over the water, he knew instinctively that this was an ancient place … perhaps as old as time itself.
Although he hadn’t consciously thought about it, Lewis had meant to kneel at the edge of the water and drink from his cupped hands. Instead, he found himself sliding forward so that he lay stretched out over the worn, old stones at the water’s edge. However, even as he leant forward and plunged his face into the pool, he thought he saw a movement below the surface, the glimpse of a face that wasn’t his and a swirl of water that bubbled and surged triumphantly around him. There was something in the pool!
He scrambled to his feet in panic, backing away from the edge, his breath coming in fearful, heaving gasps. He pushed a lock of wet hair from his face and stared at the rippling water in horror, wondering what nameless monster lurked in its depths.
Nothing, however, happened and as the pool returned to normal, his heart gradually stopped thumping. Nevertheless, he looked around fearfully, wondering what to do next. The trouble was that he was still thirsty for he hadn’t had time to drink more than a mouthful. Dare he risk it? He moved forward and, kneeling down, slapped the surface of the water with the flat of his hand.
Nothing stirred and he relaxed as common sense told him that it could just have been his own reflection that he’d seen — and if the well was, indeed, fed by an underground spring then there was probably nothing strange in the upward surge of bubbles. Warily, he leant forward again, ready to throw himself backwards should he see anything. But there was nothing and he dipped his cupped hands into the water time after time until he could drink no more.
The pool remained calm as he got to his feet and it was only when he looked up that he realized that darkness was indeed falling. With a final glance at the pool, he turned to the rising circle of steps that wound its way upwards. Suddenly, he wanted more than anything else to be out of the confines of the well and with the torchlight cutting a bright swathe out of the darkness, he half ran and half scrambled upwards towards the fading circle of light that spelt safety.
The Arabs and the oil company rescue team arrived at Al Antara at much the same time. The storm was still raging when the camels padded up to the oasis, the sand-laden wind shrieking in fury around them as the bedouin, wrapped to the eyes in their red-checked head-gear, couched their camels among the palm trees and looked around fearfully.
“The well, Hassan,” said the sheikh, his voice muffled by the tearing wind. “We’ll find him by the well.”
Lewis saw them through the storm and relief flooded through him for he hadn’t much relished the thought of spending the entire night in the choking heat. He pulled his T-shirt from his face and stood up but even as he got to his feet, the headlights of a fleet of rescue vehicles pierced the driving, swirling sand. The sheikh lifted a warning hand and the bedouin waited by their camels as the Englishmen piled out of their vehicles and ran towards Lewis.
“Water,” one of them shouted, “bring some water!”
“It’s okay, Mr Williams,” Lewis said. “I found the well. I’m all right!”
He sounded so cocky that Gareth Williams was sorely tempted to give him a good telling off there and then. Driving his father’s car at his age! Of all the stupid idiots!
He was furiously angry but bit back his words as he glimpsed the Arabs and it was only their presence that stopped him from giving Lewis a real mouthful. Curbing his temper with an effort, he walked across to the bedouin and, recognizing old Sheikh Rashid, shook his hand.
“As salaam aleikum, Sheikh Rashid,” he smiled.
Sheikh Rashid touched his forehead. “Wa aleikum as salaam,” came the response.
“Thank you for coming out in such weather. We appreciate your being here and I will tell Mr Grant personally of your efforts on behalf of his son.”
“It’s nothing,” the sheikh disclaimed politely. “I saw him as he passed our tents.”
“Come here, Lewis,” Williams called, “and thank Sheikh Rashid for coming out in the shimaal to rescue you.”
As Lewis stammered his gratitude, the sheikh stiffened suddenly and took a step backwards. A curious expression crossed his face and ignoring Lewis’s outstretched hand, he bowed low. Very low.
Williams looked shrewdly at the old sheikh. Now what was up, he wondered. But the sheikh said nothing and the cars were waiting.
“Fii amaan illah,” Williams said, unsure now as to whether to offer his hand or not.
“Fii amaan al kareem, Mr Williams,” came the response and the sheikh held out his hand to him. Gareth shook it warmly and thanked the sheikh again for his help. Nice old chap, he thought, as he turned to take Lewis’s arm. His lips tightened. The sooner he got him back to the township the better. Goodness knows what his father was going to say when he heard the story!
Battling the howling wind, Gareth Williams guided Lewis across the sand to the vehicles and, bundling him in, struggled round to the driver’s door. The Arabs stood as he had left them, watching their departure. He gave a final wave and, slamming the door shut, took off in a swirl of dust.
Even as they left, the force of the wind seemed to quieten. Williams pondered over the old sheikh’s odd behaviour as they drove back through the waning storm; their powerful headlights throwing into relief the moving, rippling sea of streaming sand that half obliterated the serrated ridges of the track. Half an hour, he reckoned, and they’d be home. Thank goodness they’d managed to find Lewis so quickly. But why had Rashid refused to shake the boy’s hand?
Back at the oasis, the huddled group of bedouin watched the red rear-lights of the 4x4s disappear into the night and made to mount their beasts.
Sheikh Rashid, however, gripped his camel’s halter and led the animal towards the dim outline of the ruined houses that loomed vaguely among the trees.
“Father,” Hassan gasped, running after him and grabbing his sleeve. “Father, where are you going? We can’t stay here at night, you know that! What about the djinn?”
His father turned and looked at them all as they stood amid the waving palms. “The djinn has gone,” he said calmly. “We can now return to the village of our ancestors and sleep safely.”
“But, Father,” Hassan gulped, “how do you know the djinn has gone?”
“You have much to learn, my son,” his father replied. “I looked into the eyes of that boy and the djinn looked back at me.”
“So that’s why you bowed to him as though he were a great sheikh!” Hassan said, his eyes sharpening. “I wondered at that!”
“So did Mr Williams,” Sheikh Rashid smiled, “and he will wonder even more when I tell him tomorrow that we want to leave our tents and move back to Al Antara.”
5. The Djinn
Robert Grant relaxed as the flight attendant removed the remains of his meal. He was completely exhausted. The Bahrain trip, he reflected, had really worn him out. Thank goodness for the chance to snatch a few hours sleep. He looked at his son who had been remarkably quiet since they’d boarded the flight. He must be missing his friends already, he decided. So many of them had called to say goodbye that they’d been late checking in.
“You all right, Lewis?” he asked casually.
“Yeah.”
“It’ll be nice to see your mum, won’t it? I talked to her this morning. She’s coming to the airport to meet us. She says she’s rented a lovely house for us. It belongs to an Edinburgh professor who has gone to America for a year. It even has its own library!”
“Yeah.”
His father sighed as he watched his son bury his head in a comic. Couldn’t Lewis find something decent to read instead of comics? When they finally moved to Aberdeen he’d really have to be around for him more. Take him to football matches and the like; he might even take him fishing. He wanted to do all these things but the pressure of work was enormous. He’d been really angry when he’d got back that morning and Williams had told him about the desert escapade. He sighed. Lewis had been left to his own devices for far too long and his grandmother’s illness hadn’t helped. His wife, Margaret, had had to stay in Edinburgh to be near the hospital and he supposed that they’d all stay there for a few months. It might actually work out quite well, he thought. He’d managed to get Lewis a place at George Heriot’s, his old school, until Christmas. With any luck, he mused, he’d have found a suitable house in Aberdeen by then. His thoughts drifted and as unresolved problems floated round his mind, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Lewis lifted his eyes from his comic. He could tell from his father’s steady breathing that he was asleep. He looked unseeingly at the back of the chair in front of him, his face set and his eyes petrified. How it had happened, he hadn’t a clue. In fact, he couldn’t believe it even now, but memories of that morning were still vivid in his mind. He’d been brushing his teeth and when he rinsed his mouth and looked at the mirror he had almost died of fright for it wasn’t his own reflection that stared back at him but the face of a rather sour-looking old man.
“Good morning, Lewis,” the man in the mirror said. “Er … may I introduce myself? My name is Casimir. Prince Casimir, actually.”
Lewis did the first thing that came into his head. He grabbed the bar of soap and scrubbed the mirror with it but when he wiped just a little of it off to have a peek, he could see that the awful man was still there.
“I’m afraid I can’t be wiped away that easily, Lewis,” Casimir sneered. “I’m inside you, you see.”
“Well, get out of me,” Lewis shot back at him. “I don’t want you inside me! Get out, right now!”
“No, I don’t think so. You see, Lewis, it suits me to live inside you.”
Memories of what he had read in Peter’s comic suddenly came back to him with sickening clarity. It couldn’t be, surely! “A djinn!” Lewis gasped in dawning understanding. “You’re a djinn!”
Casimir looked offended. “Well, sort of,” he admitted. “Actually, I’m a magician,” he said shortly, “but if it suits you to call me a djinn then so be it.”
Lewis’s mind winged its way back to the face he had glimpsed in the swirling waters of the well. “It was you, wasn’t it?” he said, looking appalled. “You were in the well! I saw you in the water!”
“If you don’t mind, we won’t talk about the well,” the face scowled fleetingly.
“What’ll we talk about then? What do you want?”
“I think I want to be you, Lewis,” Casimir answered gently. “You see, I need a body to live in and you are suitable in so many ways. Young, not too bright, doting family …”
“No way!” said Lewis, furious at being termed ‘not too bright.’ He rushed back to his room and, searching frantically through the pile of comics that he was taking with him on the flight, found the one that Peter had given him the day before. “It says here that djinns, genies, whatever you call yourself, can grant wishes. Nothing about taking people over! This is my body, I’ll have you know, and I’m keeping it!”
Casimir’s eyes hooded as he foresaw trouble ahead. Lewis wasn’t going to be the pushover he’d thought and the last thing he wanted him to do was tell the whole story to his parents. They’d make enquiries at Al Antara and he frowned at the thought of the mistake he’d made there; for, triumphant in his freedom, he’d looked at the old sheikh through Lewis’s eyes. And the sheikh had known him. Much better to compromise, he thought wisely. Make a bargain. After all, he was sure to win. No youngster could hope to outwit him. It would all come to the same thing in the end and wishes seemed as good a way as any of keeping this young hothead on a string.
“Shall we make a bargain, Lewis?” he suggested. “I will grant you one wish every day and if, by any chance, I can’t do what you ask then my magic will revert to you. If you can’t make a wish, however, I will take over your body and I will live in it for ever.”
Lewis thought about it. It seemed a fair deal. There were millions of things in the world to wish for, after all, and he was quite sure that if he put his mind to it he would be able to think of something the magician couldn’t do. Like moving mountains! I mean, surely this old man couldn’t shift something like Mount Everest … but still …
“I don’t know,” he said doubtfully. “I don’t really want anybody living inside me. Why don’t you just get lost! Or find somebody else!”
