Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror - Chris Priestley [42]
The boy at the head of the gang shouted at the girl, waving at her, pointing at her, shooing her. An idea formed in Francis's head that he could help her. He could be a hero - a real hero. The notion amused him.
Francis walked towards the group of children as they began to take aim with their stones. He had expected them to scatter as he approached, but they seemed far less intimidated by him than they were by the girl.
'Leave her alone,.' said Francis as he approached.
They looked blankly at him and Francis looked away to the girl and smiled in an effort to comfort her. When he looked back at the children, the boy who seemed to lead them was holding a large knife and jabbing the air between them. The ferocity of this small boy fascinated him. Francis cocked his head, peering at him, then he turned his back on the boy and began to walk towards the girl, who, infuriatingly, began to run as he approached her.
Francis chased the girl out into the flat rubble-strewn desert. Each time he was about to catch up with her, she put on another burst of speed, until he started to become annoyed. The sun hammered down mercilessly and Francis's eyes were stinging with salty sweat.
'I'm not going to hurt you,.' he said, gasping, taken aback by the pleading tone of his own voice.
'I want to help you.'
As he strained to put one last breathless effort into catching her, he stood on a stone, stumbled, twisting his ankle painfully, and came to a panting halt. The girl stopped too. She turned and looked at him from under her heavy eyebrows. A voice sounded behind Francis and he turned round.
A long way off, standing between them and the village, was the gang of children who had been attacking the girl. Their leader was shouting at Francis and waving at him, shouting words he did not understand, though he could tell they were not complimentary.
There was something ridiculous about this little boy, made even smaller by perspective, goading Francis and beckoning him to come back. Francis smiled and limped over towards the girl, who now made no effort to run away. The children began to stoop down and pick up stones. Francis could see the sunlight glint on the boy's knife, but he felt no fear.
'You needn't be afraid,.' he said. 'They won't hurt you while I'm here.' For the first time, the girl's expression seemed to lighten as her frown dissolved and she looked up. Francis basked in the glow of his good deed.
* * *
Arthur Weybridge had stopped drawing and, wondering where Francis was, had strolled through the village, up on to a small hill that shelved away sharply towards the desert.
What a magical place it was. The faint sound of children shouting was all that disturbed the tranquillity and he was struck by the contrast with how things had seemed when they had first come here. The memory of that attempted visit came back with sudden clarity - not just the commotion over the unfortunate death, but the remarkable fact that he had distinctly heard someone in the crowd utter the word 'jinn'. Did these people really believe in genies? Then something caught his eye and, squinting into the blazing sunlight, he was shocked to see Francis some way off. He was not alone.
Arthur Weybridge tried to shield his eyes from the sun's glare. What on earth was Francis doing out there? Did he not realise how hot it was? And just exactly who or what was that with him? Why could he not focus on them? And what were those children shouting and waving about so hysterically? A strange dread began to come over Arthur. The word jinn flashed unbidden into his mind once more.
When he had first heard the word, it had summoned up an Arabian Nights image of a genie in a bottle. But Arthur knew there were other jinn; there were evil jinn: there were the faithless shaitan, the shape-shifting ghul - ghoul, as we have come to call it - haunter of graveyards and barren places.
Arthur's eyes widened in horror and he began to run. The group of children