The Librarians and the Lost Lamp by Greg Cox
Flynn couldn’t imagine why.
“How much further?” Khoja asked.
“Only the carpet knows,” Flynn replied, “and it’s not talking.” The levitating scrap continued to tug at him, like a bloodhound straining at its leash. “But it feels like we’re getting warmer.”
“You’d best hope so, Librarian,” the chief thief said ominously. “If it turns out that you’ve been leading us on a wild goose chase…”
A goose is not the bird we need to worry about, Flynn thought. He kept one eye on the sky and the other on the challenging path ahead, which left him wishing he had borrowed a Third Eye from the Library’s Optical Sciences gallery. Even without an extra eye, he doubted that they had seen the last of the roc, especially as they climbed higher toward its mountain aerie and the forbidden cave. Chances are, it will be showing up any minute now.
“Incoming!” Marjanah shouted. “Big bird at eleven o’clock!”
Called it, Flynn thought. Lucky us.
He couldn’t fault the keen-eyed kidnapper’s vigilance. Looking up, he spotted the roc swooping toward them with renewed ferocity. Its harsh caw echoed off the stony hills. The wind from its wings gusted against the hikers, blowing them backward into the granite slope on the right side of the ledge and churning up a cloud of dust and grit. Flynn threw up an arm to protect himself from the swirling debris. Shirin coughed hoarsely.
We’re dead ducks, Flynn thought, before swearing off avian idioms forever. On the bright side, I guess the Forty’s not claiming that Lamp today.
“Get it!” Khoja hollered. “Before it gets us!”
“I have a better idea.” Marjanah turned and shot the henchman behind her, who tumbled off the ledge toward the rocks below. The load of carpet fragments strapped to his back caused him to drift slowly downward like a leaf on the wind, presenting a tempting target for the hungry roc, which veered away from Flynn and the others to dive after the screaming morsel. Marjanah tucked her pistol back into her holster. “That should keep it busy for a few minutes at least. We shouldn’t waste them.”
If the cold-blooded tactic shocked Khoja, he didn’t let it show.
“You heard the Second,” he ordered. “Move it!”
Although shaken by the brutal murder, Flynn didn’t want to stick around, either. With nowhere to go but forward, the surviving members of the party scrambled up the trail faster than would have been prudent under less frantic circumstances. Flynn’s foot hit a loose patch of gravel and, losing his balance, he tottered on the brink of the precipice before Shirin grabbed his arm and pulled him to safety.
“Forget it,” she said. “You’re not leaving me alone with this bunch.”
Flynn’s heart was beating harder than the roc’s wings. “I wouldn’t think of it.”
Racing up the trail, they turned a corner to find themselves at a dead end. The curving path widened to form a large rocky ledge, the size of a backyard patio, which faced a looming wall of solid granite that blocked their path entirely. The ledge offered a great view of the island, including the cove a good ways off, but no protection from the winged monster pursuing them.
“Great,” Flynn said. “We’re stuck between a roc and a hard place.”
Shirin stared at him in disbelief. “Really? You had to go there?”
“How could I not? I mean, somebody had to say it.”
“That’s highly debatable.”
Khoja ignored their banter. “What’s this?” he demanded, glaring at the rock wall before them. “You’ve led us to our doom!”
“Not necessarily.” Flynn let the magical remnant pull him toward the seemingly impassable barrier. “Scheherazade did write that it was a hidden cave.”
“Then unhide it, Carsen,” Khoja barked. “Before we’re the next items on that monster’s menu.”
No pressure there, Flynn thought. He hastily examined the rock face, searching for a secret passage or lever, but came up empty. There weren’t even the usual enigmatic hieroglyphics to decipher. Where’s a puzzling pictograph when you need one?
“Get on with it, Librarian,” Marjanah said, “or I’ll feed you and your girlfriend to the bird myself!”
Flynn noted that the remaining henchman was backing away from her nervously, no doubt remembering how she had distracted the roc only minutes ago. “I’m not sure girlfriend is quite the right label. We’re still just getting to know each other.…”
“So not the point right now,” Marjanah said icily. “Show us the way, you babbling idiot!”
The flapping of mighty wings heralded the return of the roc, which soared up from below to reclaim the sky above the exposed ledge. A human leg dangled from its beak as it circled around to come at the party again.
“Point taken.” Flynn ran his hands over the rough stone, finding no telltale cracks or seams. His desperate mind turned to The Arabian Nights for inspiration. What would Sinbad do?
“No,” he realized, “not Sinbad.”
Hidden caves were more Ali Baba’s thing.
“Open sesame!” he commanded, and stepped back in anticipation.
Nothing happened. The dead end stayed dead.
“Open sesame!” he tried again, more in panic this time. “Open rye … barley … poppy seed…”
“Not in English!” Shirin shouted. “Old Persian!”
Shirin rushed forward and addressed the wall in flawless ancient Persian.
All at once, the solid rock shimmered like a mirage, fading away to reveal the mouth of a cave. Darkness waited beyond the entrance, but there was no time to wonder what lay within the cave, not when the roc was swooping down for the kill.
“Inside!” Khoja shouted unnecessarily. “Hurry!”
The party stampeded into the cave, shoving past each other in order to get away from the voracious roc. It would have been an ideal opportunity for him and Shirin to try to slip away from their captors, Flynn observed, if not for the giant bird out to eat them. He would have to look for another chance to turn the tables on the Forty, and the sooner the better.
Maybe the cave had a back door?
The roc cawed in frustration as the tiny humans vanished into the cave, whose entrance was not nearly wide enough for the giant bird to pass through. It squeezed its head into the cave and snapped its beak at the tasty morsels just beyond its reach. Its strident cries echoed through the cave, accompanied by the sound of angrily flapping wings outside on the ledge. Flynn and the others backed away from the angry roc’s head, putting more distance between them and that beak.
“Thanks for the emergency translation, by the way,” Flynn said to Shirin. “You probably couldn’t tell, but I was getting a little rattled out there.”
“Is that so?” she said diplomatically. “I had no idea.”
Khoja intruded on their moment. “Well done, you two. I take back some of the vile things I was just wishing on you.”
“Only some?”
“Don’t press your luck, Librarian,” Khoja said. Turning away from the entrance, he peered into the waiting shadows. “Now then, what have we here?”
Flashlights clicked on, illuminating a wide tunnel leading deeper into the mountain. Here we go again, thought Flynn, who was starting to feel more like a spelunker than a scholar. Unlike the cliffside burial chambers back in Iran, however, this looked and felt more like an actual cave than a crypt. No artwork adorned the rough stone walls. The floor was bumpy and uneven. This was not a royal tomb decked out to honor the memory of a beloved sultana; this was a hole for hiding loot, magical or otherwise.
“Step carefully, everyone.” Flynn felt obliged to warn the others before anyone went rushing off to search for the Lamp. “There could be booby traps ahead.”
“An excellent point,” Khoja said. “You go first.”
“Somehow I knew you were going to say that.”
Borrowing a flashlight from the last of the henchmen, Flynn advanced cautiously into the cave, with Shirin sticking close to him. “Not another ghoul, please,??
The tunnel led to a natural stone bridge across a seemingly bottomless chasm. Barely two feet in width, the bridge triggered Flynn’s natural fear of heights, which had already gotten a workout on the narrow ledge they’d climbed to reach the hidden cavern, not to mention that burning rope ladder earlier. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he led Shirin out onto the bridge while wondering, not for the first time, why the nameless builders of lost tombs, temples, and treasure troves never seemed to take reasonable safety precautions into account.
Would it have killed them to have installed a guard rail or two?
The chasm was a gaping wound in the solid rock, dropping steeply into Stygian darkness. A loose pebble, dislodged by Flynn’s boot, rolled off the bridge into the abyss. Flynn listened, but never heard it hit bottom. Finding it all too easy to imagine pointy stalagmites waiting to impale him if he slipped, he was tempted to crawl across the bridge on his hands and knees just to be safe, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do so in front of Shirin and the others. As the Librarian, he did have a certain dignity to maintain … sort of.
The bridge was less than twenty yards long and, in reality, took only a few minutes to cross, but Flynn let out a huge sigh of relief as he and Shirin reached the other side, followed closely by their captors. Continuing on, they discovered a large, roomy grotto that appeared to be yet another dead end. Not a single lamp was in view, only rows of large ceramic jars lining the perimeter of the chamber. Each jar was roughly waist high and identical to the others, lacking any distinguishing labels or markings. Jagged stalactites hung from the ceiling like the fangs of some giant petrified carnivore.
“If and when we get out of this,” Shirin said with a shudder, “I’m going to want plenty of sun and wide-open spaces. A beach, maybe, far from caves and cliffs.”
“It’s a date,” he said.
“A date-date?” she asked. “Just to be clear.”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
Khoja and his crew entered the grotto after them, clearly unwilling to let their reluctant “guides” out of their sight. “I wouldn’t be making any long-term plans just yet,” Khoja cautioned them. “There’s a fine but crucial line between optimism and false hope.”
The First of the Forty surveyed the grotto with interest, but prudently refrained from rushing to root through the jars in search of the Lamp. For better or for worse, he had evidently taken Flynn’s warning about booby traps to heart.
“So … jars,” he observed. “A good many jars.”
“Thirty-eight,” Flynn guessed. He quickly counted them to confirm his theory. “As in the story of ‘Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.’ As you recall, your illustrious predecessor, the original captain of the thieves, hid thirty-seven of his men in oil jars just like these as part of a diabolical plan to get revenge on Ali Baba for stealing their ill-gotten booty. He had only thirty-seven men left,” Flynn felt obliged to explain, “because he’d already beheaded two of his own men for failing to lead him to Ali Baba earlier.”
The surviving minion glanced furtively at Marjanah. Although nearly twice her size, and built like a bouncer, he had to be feeling a bit expendable himself by this point, or so Flynn assumed.
“I’m familiar with the story,” Khoja said dryly.
“Then you remember that the thirty-eighth jar was actually filled with sesame oil, which a clever servant girl—named Marjanah, as it happens—used to drown the lurking thieves by pouring the oil into the other jars, thereby saving Ali Baba and his household from being slaughtered in their sleep.”
“Not one of our finer hours,” Khoja conceded. “If the tales are to be believed, that is.”
“Scheherazade hasn’t led us astray yet.” Flynn worked his way around the circumference of the grotto, rapping his knuckles against each jar and listening for echoes. When he was done, he couldn’t resist grinning in vindication. “Just as I expected: all the jars but the first one are empty.”
Khoja approached the jar in question. “Perhaps the Lamp is hidden in this jar, then, submerged beneath the oil?”
“No way,” Flynn scoffed. “That would be too easy.”
Khoja glowered at Flynn. “Then what do you suggest, Carsen?”
“My best guess? We take our cues from the original story and divide the oil equally between all thirty-eight jars.”
“Which would accomplish what, precisely?” Khoja asked.
“Beats me,” Flynn said, “but, in my experience, these kind of quests almost always involve tests and puzzles as well as traps, as though they were devised by the world’s first and most devious game designers.” He cast a disparaging look at the modern-day remnants of the Forty. “The problem with relying on guns and knives and threats all the time is that it takes the place of thinking and learning.”
“Do tell,” Marjanah said, scowling.
Flynn tapped his skull—which, unlike the thirty-seven jars, was far from empty. “This is how you solve problems, not through brute force or intimidation.”
“I don’t know.” Marjanah drew her knife. “I can think of a few problems I could easily solve with this blade.”
For a second, Flynn feared he’d gone too far, but Khoja reached out and placed a restraining hand on her arm, which she grudgingly lowered. Her baleful expression remained in place, however.
“Very well, Carsen,” the First of the Forty said. “Demonstrate just how good your brain is.”
Good enough to outsmart you, Flynn hoped. Eventually, in theory …
An empty canteen was drafted into service to transfer the oil from the full jar to the others. Flynn offered the container to Marjanah. “Would you care to do the honors, like your namesake?”
She sneered at the suggestion. “Do I look like a servant girl to you?”
“Just a thought,” he said, backing off. “No offense intended.”
“Let me help,” Shirin volunteered. “And, by the way, that resourceful servant girl is the true hero of the story if you actually pay attention. It’s an honor to emulate her.”
Working together, the two scholars uncapped the first jar. Still worried about booby traps, Flynn braced himself for an unpleasant surprise, but all they encountered was the distinctive aroma of perfectly preserved sesame oil wafting up from the jar, which was filled almost to the brim. He swept his gaze over the thirty-seven empty jars waiting to be filled and silently groaned in expectation. This was going to be a long and tedious chore.
“What are you waiting for?” Khoja demanded. “Get going.”
Carefully, methodically, Flynn and Shirin went about the task, slowly doling out equal measures of the oil to each jar, one after another, round after round. The job was just as time-consuming and monotonous as Flynn had anticipated, so he was actually getting a bit bored by the time the oil was almost at the same level in all three-dozen-plus jars. He figured one more canteen of oil into the final jar would do the trick—if there was actually a trick to be done.
“Here goes nothing,” he whispered to Shirin. “Hope this wasn’t a huge waste of time.”
“You’re the Librarian,” she said. “You know what you’re doing.”
He appreciated the vote of confidence as he poured one more measure of oil into the final jar, bringing its contents up to same level as in all the other jars, plus or minus a drop or two. He held his breath.
But not for long.
A rumbling noise, as of ancient gears creaking back to life, emanated from beneath the floor of the grotto, as the redistributed weight of the oil tripped some concealed mechanism. Flynn glanced up nervously at the overhanging stalactites, worried he might have been tricked into setting off a long-slumbering deathtrap, but then Shirin shouted and pointed at the first row of jars.
“It’s working! Something’s happening!”
The first jar sank into the floor of the grotto, revealing a hidden staircase leading down into the interior of the mountain. Flynn, who loved unco
A nicely effective deathtrap might have been better for the world, he thought. If not for us personally.
“Bravo, Carsen.” Khoja applauded Flynn’s efforts. “I should never have doubted you. Perhaps we of the Forty have come to rely on blades and bullets too much. I’ll have to exercise my brain and think carefully about my wishes once we have a genie at our command.”
“Our wishes,” Marjanah corrected him.
“Naturally,” he said, “although rank does have its privileges, as does the chain of command. Remember that, Second of Forty.”
“Always,” she said. “How could I forget?”
Flynn didn’t want to imagine what Khoja, let alone his bloodthirsty Second, might wish for should they acquire the Lamp. Even putting aside the highly alarming possibility that the reputedly fearsome Djinn might gain his freedom and run amuck, the Forty were not the kind of people who were likely to wish for puppies, sunshine, or world peace.
“Let’s find out where these stairs lead.” Khoja gestured at Flynn and Shirin. “After you, of course.”
A flickering golden light radiated from somewhere beyond the foot of the stairs. Flynn was grateful for the extra illumination as the party descended the slablike stone steps toward whatever lay below. Dust and cobwebs indicated that nobody had come this way in a long time, while the fact that the steps were far from well worn suggested that the hidden staircase had never seen a lot of foot traffic, even back in the days of Aladdin and his Lamp. Despite the ever-increasing peril, Flynn had to marvel at this amazing discovery.
“Just think,” he said. “We’re literally walking in the footsteps of Sinbad and Ali Baba.”
Shirin looked equally awed. “How many people today can say they’ve done that?” She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Flynn. I mean it.”
Iron braziers, mounted on the walls of the cavern, flared to life one after another, guiding them onward. Flynn speculated that the torches had been ignited by the same mechanism he had just triggered upstairs in the grotto. It was even possible that the flames were being fueled by oil tapped from the jars, via some newly activated system of gravity-powered pumps.