presumed it was. As he lifted down the crate and raised the lid, it occurred to him that it would be as well to remember that. It was, he felt, something that might eventually slip his mind, if he wasn’t careful.
‘Cluck,’ said the hen.
‘Wait right there,’ Akram replied, and he darted into the back room to fetch the egg.
Three days after his escape from the palm-oil jar, he’d heard a rumour that Ali Baba had vanished. This information had left him very much in two minds. On the one hand he could forget all about it, make a fresh start and try and build a new life for himself somewhere far away. That was, he knew, the sensible thing to do - and completely impossible. Just because he’d escaped from his own particular story didn’t change the fact that he was a storybook character, and a villain into the bargain. You can get the character out of the story, but not the story out of the character; all his instincts and reflexes were conditioned - more than that; blow-dried, permed and set - in accordance with his Character. Even if he’d really wanted to run away and set up a little bicycle repair shop somewhere - was that what he really wanted? He really had no idea - he was no more capable of doing it than a lawyer of twenty years’ standing could say ‘That’s all right, mate, it’s on the house’ after a half-hour interview. The fact had to be faced; he had about as much free will as a trolley-bus, and that was how it would always be. Unless …
On the other hand - on the third finger of the other hand, to be exact - there was the matter of King Solomon’s ring. He’d seen for himself that it was tricksy, in a way that he couldn’t quite understand. It had changed the rules. It had broken the story. He wanted it.
When, on further investigation, he found that Ali Baba had taken the ring with him, along with a connoisseur’s collection of other magical hardware from the Thieves’ hoard, he realised that, as far as alternatives were concerned, he was driving a tram down a one-way street. He’d have to go after Ali Baba, kill him and take the ring. The ring was his only chance - no assurances, but he had to try, just in case the ring might be able to change stories and break patterns. And Ali Baba; he had no choice in that respect, either. As long as Baba was alive, the story wasn’t over. And it had to be murder, because that was the only sure way to deny him the happiness ever after that sealed the story and made it immutable. No earthly use to him Baba dying if it was in bed, fifty years later, in the bosom of his loving family and surrounded on all sides by wealth and good fortune. No; he had to get to Baba before he died in the course of Nature, and cut his throat. Neglect that, and he might as well find himself a large earthenware jar and wait for the hot water.
So here he was.
‘There you go,’ he said to the hen, and pointed. ‘Sit.’
The hen looked at him.
As well it might. The egg was, if anything, slightly bigger than the hen; it would have to sit astride the blasted thing, like a very small child on a very round pony. Well; if that was what it took…
He concentrated. He fixed the hen with his eye. Blood-crazed dervishes in old Baghdad had seen that look in Akram’s eye and immediately fled, packed in dervishing and become chartered surveyors. The hen blinked, swallowed twice and scrambled up onto the egg.
Here he was; and until he could find the bastard (which would take some doing; Reality, he’d discovered to his dismay, is big) there was nothing for it but to tuck in, keep his head down and earn a living. His old trade was out; this side of the border was far more complex and difficult to cope with than the simple world he’d come from, and under these circumstances a career as risky as thieving would be asking for trouble. But kebab houses are more or less the same on either side of the line; he’d seen the notice in Mr Faisal’s window, applied and got the job. For
‘Cluck,’ said the hen.
‘Wait right there,’ Akram replied, and he darted into the back room to fetch the egg.
Three days after his escape from the palm-oil jar, he’d heard a rumour that Ali Baba had vanished. This information had left him very much in two minds. On the one hand he could forget all about it, make a fresh start and try and build a new life for himself somewhere far away. That was, he knew, the sensible thing to do - and completely impossible. Just because he’d escaped from his own particular story didn’t change the fact that he was a storybook character, and a villain into the bargain. You can get the character out of the story, but not the story out of the character; all his instincts and reflexes were conditioned - more than that; blow-dried, permed and set - in accordance with his Character. Even if he’d really wanted to run away and set up a little bicycle repair shop somewhere - was that what he really wanted? He really had no idea - he was no more capable of doing it than a lawyer of twenty years’ standing could say ‘That’s all right, mate, it’s on the house’ after a half-hour interview. The fact had to be faced; he had about as much free will as a trolley-bus, and that was how it would always be. Unless …
On the other hand - on the third finger of the other hand, to be exact - there was the matter of King Solomon’s ring. He’d seen for himself that it was tricksy, in a way that he couldn’t quite understand. It had changed the rules. It had broken the story. He wanted it.
When, on further investigation, he found that Ali Baba had taken the ring with him, along with a connoisseur’s collection of other magical hardware from the Thieves’ hoard, he realised that, as far as alternatives were concerned, he was driving a tram down a one-way street. He’d have to go after Ali Baba, kill him and take the ring. The ring was his only chance - no assurances, but he had to try, just in case the ring might be able to change stories and break patterns. And Ali Baba; he had no choice in that respect, either. As long as Baba was alive, the story wasn’t over. And it had to be murder, because that was the only sure way to deny him the happiness ever after that sealed the story and made it immutable. No earthly use to him Baba dying if it was in bed, fifty years later, in the bosom of his loving family and surrounded on all sides by wealth and good fortune. No; he had to get to Baba before he died in the course of Nature, and cut his throat. Neglect that, and he might as well find himself a large earthenware jar and wait for the hot water.
So here he was.
‘There you go,’ he said to the hen, and pointed. ‘Sit.’
The hen looked at him.
As well it might. The egg was, if anything, slightly bigger than the hen; it would have to sit astride the blasted thing, like a very small child on a very round pony. Well; if that was what it took…
He concentrated. He fixed the hen with his eye. Blood-crazed dervishes in old Baghdad had seen that look in Akram’s eye and immediately fled, packed in dervishing and become chartered surveyors. The hen blinked, swallowed twice and scrambled up onto the egg.
Here he was; and until he could find the bastard (which would take some doing; Reality, he’d discovered to his dismay, is big) there was nothing for it but to tuck in, keep his head down and earn a living. His old trade was out; this side of the border was far more complex and difficult to cope with than the simple world he’d come from, and under these circumstances a career as risky as thieving would be asking for trouble. But kebab houses are more or less the same on either side of the line; he’d seen the notice in Mr Faisal’s window, applied and got the job. For
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