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ARABS AND SCARABS

FEN sighed a little as he lay back among the pillows in the deck-chair and closed his eyes. His back hurt a good deal to-day. Beyond the awning the sun beat so mercilessly on the deck of the yacht that it made his eyes ache to look at it, and there was not very much else to be seen. Unless you could sit up, you could not see the stretches of blue Nile flecked with dahabiyeh sails, nor the pale, chalky bluffs crested with solemn date-palms. It is pretty dull, lying on your back all day while every one else goes ​ashore to poke among exciting ruins and buy queer things in the bazaar; especially if you are only seven and would like very much to be doing it yourself. So Fen did give a little sigh—though it was a very patient one.

The big steam-yacht lay motionless at anchor, with only the faint ripple of the sluggish current about her bows to break the silence of the hot mid-afternoon. Fen was lost in wondering what it would be like to go down into the dark, mysterious tomb of an ancient Egyptian king, when a slight, sharp sound at the yacht's side brought him back with a start from the place of his imagination to the heat and the blazing sunlight. In a moment more he became aware of a Head, which was calmly contemplating him over the rail. It was quite a nice Head—dark haired, bronzed by sun and salt air, clean-shaven, with a whimsical mouth, and gray eyes ​that were laughing, though the lips were not. The eyes were looking straight at Fen, glancing quickly from the serious little face, with its sensitive mouth and shining frame of red-gold hair, to the frail form lost among the many pillows. There was a rather puzzled expression in the level gaze of Fen's sober hazel eyes as he finally said:

"How do you do?"

"How do you do?" said the Head, in a nice, deep voice; "may I come on over?"

"Yes. Please do!" Fen rather wanted to see if there were any more to the Head, or whether it just floated about like a cherub. There was—a great deal more to it. When its owner had climbed to the deck, he proved to be an exceedingly tall, white-clad young man.

"Please, who are you?" asked Fen, after his eyes had traveled upward till they reached the Head again

​"First tell me about yourself," smiled the young man. "Are you all alone?"

"Yes," said Fen, "except for Mammy—but she's below—an' the crew, of course, but I don't ever see them. Mother an' everybody have gone ashore to see all kinds of wonderful things."

"Do they often do that?" inquired the young man, frowning a little; "go off and leave you? Wouldn't you like to see some of the wonderful things, too?"

Fen smiled rather wistfully.

"But I can't," he explained, "because of my back, you see. That's why we're here, I think, because the doctor said something about 'change of air' making me get stronger."

The young man's face grew very sympathetic.

"Yes, that's all very well," he argued gently; "but it seems too bad, you know, that they see everything, while you have ​to stay on board. I suppose they bring you lots of things and tell you all about it though, don't they?"

"I ask Sally to tell me what they see," said Fen, "but she can't very well. She just said they went down where it was awfully dark, an' a man shouted all the time, an' Father gave him some money when they came out. But isn't there more than that? She can't tell me afterward."

"Is Sally your sister?" asked the young man, ignoring Fen's question.

"No, she's my cousin—Larry is, too. Aunt Margaret has been very, very sick, and Mother took the children with us, so they wouldn't be in the way. Sally's almost nine, an' Larry's just my age, but he's very tall an' strong. Now I've told you all about us, so, please, who are you?"

"I," said the young man, suddenly and ​rapidly, "am a Blue Djinn, by name Siddereticus, and I—"

"What is a Djinn, please?" asked Fen.

"Don't tell me that you don't know what a Djinn is!" cried the young man. "You know what genii are, don't you, that come out of bottles with a cloud of evil-smelling black smoke?"

"Yes," said Fen; "they do it in 'Twilight Land.' Have you ever read that book?"

"They do, yes—there and elsewhere," said Siddereticus. "Well, a Djinn is very much the same sort of thing."

A troubled look came into Fen's eyes as he surveyed the young man's length.

"But did you come out of a bottle?" he asked.

"We-e-l-l," said the Djinn, "you know the way they always get rid of genii is to entice them back into their bottles, or through keyholes, or something of the ​sort. I'm a bit stiff and out of practice, but if you have a bottle anywhere about, I might try."

"But I don't want to get rid of you," said Fen, "an' 'sides, I haven't a bottle. Please sit down here where I can see you better. You're so very high, you know."

Laughing, the young man telescoped himself into a chair. Fen's eyes grew very perplexed again.

"But I always thought genii were all 'black an' horrible to look upon'; but you look just like anybody—that is," he added hastily, flushing a little, "not just like anybody, but like a person, you know."

"Ah!" cried Siddereticus, "I have to disguise myself, you see. Even in Egypt people would stare if they saw a Blue Djinn, with a rather greenish face and a long white beard, walking about. I have to make myself look like other people."

"Oh!" said Fen, slowly.

​"By the way," said the Djinn, "you haven't told me your name yet."

"It's Fenton Norvell, but they call me Fen."

"Then I shall call you Fen, likewise," said Siddereticus, with his grave smile.

"Please, Djinn," said the little boy, "have you ever been in those places where they are to-day—tombs of old, old kings, and cities where nobody lives?"

"Very often," replied Siddereticus, lighting a cigarette. He blew a thin cloud of smoke, and then went on, as though he were picking up the thread of a story.

"That temple—when you come near it, the great columns tower up and up against the blue sky; they are taller than the tallest palms on the bank there. They are covered all over with hieroglyphics—carved figures of birds and beasts and men—round and round the column as far up ​as you can see. Just the sky, and the desert, and the columns that are almost as old as the desert itself. And the wind blows and the sand drifts and covers up the great stone lions at the portal, and they lie buried and hidden for centuries. The storks fly across to fish in the Nile, just the way they did when the temple was being built, three thousand years ago; and within, the mighty statue of the god Osiris holds up its hand silently and forever."

Siddereticus paused to relight his cigarette.

"Oh!" cried Fen. "Oh! They never told me things like that!"

"And the tombs," Siddereticus went on. "They are dug into the very heart of the rock. You go down and down, and by the flickering light of your candle you see the paintings on the walls—clear and bright after thousands of years. Pictures of battles and feasts, kings and gods and ​men. Your candle throws long, queer shadows across the wall, and you can see only a very little way ahead of you, till another stone stairway plunges you into the depths again. Then at last you come to a place where there is no stair; and looking down into a silent, black well, you know that there below in the gloom stands the sarcophagus of the king."

Siddereticus, whose voice had sunk to a mysterious undertone, paused and then said abruptly:

"But nobody can really tell you about it. You have to see it."

"Oh," sighed Fen, "I wish I could!"

"So do I," said Siddereticus; "but it means riding a very bumpy donkey for an hour in the heat."

"An' I couldn't possibly do that! You aren't the kind of Djinn that has magic carpets, are you?" inquired Fen, rather diffidently.

​"How I wish I were! Unfortunately, the Blue Djinns have nothing to do with magic carpets and such. They are not so powerful as some of the genii."

"I suppose you've seen lots of Arabs—I mean scarabs," said Fen, presently, bringing his mind back from wistful imaginings. "Could you tell me about them?"

"Scarabs?" said the Djinn. "Indeed I have seen scarabs—and Arabs, too, for that matter. I believe," he added, looking vaguely around the deck, "that I could get a scarab or two for you now."

Taking his hands from his pockets, where they had been for some time, he rose to his feet, and passing his open hand over his closed one, he muttered "Moya sukhua!" which was the first thing that came into his head and happened to mean "hot water" in Arabic. Then he opened his hand and extended it to Fen, with four scarabs—beautiful bits of blue and green, ​with delicate carving—lying on the palm. Fen's eyes opened wide in wonder, the color came and went in his cheeks, and it was not until the young man dropped the handful into his lap, saying, "There you are!" that he could exclaim:

"How did you do it?"

"Djinns can do lots of things," smiled Siddereticus.

Fen looked at the scarabs for a long time, touching them gently, while a little smile flickered now and again across his face.

"What is the carving on the bottoms of them for?" he asked.

Well, you see," explained Siddereticus, "the Egyptians thought that scarabæi—which are just plain beetles!—were sacred, so they made these little images of them out of clay, and wore them always, like talismans. When they died, ever so many scarabs were buried with them.

​The kings put their cartouches on the bottom—a sort of seal, you see. Each Pharaoh had his own cartouche—a lot of hieroglyphics carved on his scarabs, and statues, and his tomb, and whatever else belonged to him, so that every one knew at once whose it was."

At last Fen handed the scarabs back to Siddereticus with a little sigh.

"Oh, those are yours!" said the Djinn; "I can get more when I want them." And even as he spoke, he held a tiny blue one between his thumb and finger.

"Oh!" cried Fen, laying his head back against the pillows, bewildered, "you are wonderful! And are these really and truly mine?" he added, in a rather awed voice.

"I'm afraid I can't get you an Arab," said Siddereticus, looking vaguely about him again; "but I can fetch quite a splendid creature—a slave of mine, in fact."

​The young man glanced hastily over the rail, and then, turning his back to it, clapped his hands three times and said something in a strange language. Fen's eyes shone—in "Twilight Land" people always clapped their hands to summon slaves. But now over the side appeared a most gorgeous personage. His fez was of the richest scarlet, his jacket was curiously braided with gold, about his waist was an ample red sash, and a long, curved sword swung at his side. His white teeth gleamed in sharp contrast to his dark-skinned face and short black mustache. Fen, entirely speechless, gazed at this picturesque creature, to whom Siddereticus was speaking in low tones and with frequent gestures. The man, glancing quickly at Fen as he replied, drew his scimitar. Up it wheeled in a shining arc against the cobalt sky. And then and ​there the obliging slave went through an exhibition of sword-play, stamping and slashing and lunging with enthusiasm, while Fen, who by this time would not have been surprised had the deck opened and swallowed both Siddereticus and the swordsman, watched entranced, with shining eyes. Finally, having put all the fancy touches he could think of into his performance, the man made a low bow both to Fen and to his master, at a word from whom he vanished over the side.

"And I must disappear, too," said Siddereticus.

Fen caught his hand.

"No!" he cried; "you mustn't go away, Siddereticus! You must stay—always!"

"I shall come back again, never fear, Effendi," said the Djinn. Taking a notebook from his pocket, he scribbled a few lines, and, folding the paper, stuck it in ​the crack of a deck-house window. Then, bending suddenly, he kissed Fen's forehead, and was gone before the child could speak.