Salman Rushdie: Luka and the Fire of Life

His voice strengthened, as if he had become more certain of the tale he was telling. ‘So we prospered,’ he went on, ‘but we also aroused the envy of our neighbours, and one of them, the giant, bird-headed fairy prince called -’ and here Dog the bear stumbled again – ‘um… ah… oh yes, Bulbul Dev, the Ogre King of the East, who sang like a nightingale but danced like an oaf, was the most envious of all. He attacked us with his legion of giants, the… the… Thirty Birds , beaked monsters with spotted bodies, and we, a dancing, golden people, were too innocent and kindly to resist. But we were stubborn folk, too, and we did not give up the secrets of the dance. Yes, yes!’ he exclaimed excitedly, and rushed on to the story’s end. ‘When the Bird Ogres realised that we would not teach them how to spin air into gold, that we would defend that great mystery with our lives, they set up a fluttering and a flapping and a screeching and a cawing so dreadfully terrifying that it was plain that Black Magic was afoot. Within moments the people of Qâf, shattered by the Ogres’ shrieks, began to crumble, to lose human form and become dumb animals – donkeys, marmosets, anteaters and, yes, bears – while Bulbul Dev cried, “Try to dance your golden dance now, fools! Try to jig your silver jigs! What you would not share, you have lost for ever, along with your humanity. Low, grubbing animals you will remain, unless – ha ha! – you steal the Fire of Life itself to set you free!” By which he meant, of course, that we would be trapped for ever, for the Fire of Life is no more than a story, and even in stories it is impossible to steal. So I became a bear – a dancing bear, yes, but a golden dancer no more! – and as a bear I wandered the world until Captain Aag caught me for his circus, and so, young master, I found you.’

It was just the sort of story Haroun would have told, thought Luka, a tall tale straight from the great Story Sea. But, when at last it was over, Luka was overcome by a strong feeling of disappointment. ‘So you’re both people?’ he asked regretfully. ‘You’re not really my bear and my dog, but enchanted princes in dog and bear suits? Am I supposed not to call you “Dog” and “Bear” but “Artha-whatever” and “Barak”? And here I am, worried sick about my dad, and now I’m supposed to worry about how to get you guys turned back into your real selves as well? You do know, I hope, that I’m only twelve years old.’

The bear came back down onto four legs. ‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘While I’m in bear form you can go on calling me “Dog”.’

‘And while I’m a dog,’ said the dog, ‘you can still call me “Bear”. But it’s true that, as long as we are here in the World of Magic, we would like to search for a way of breaking the spells that bind us.’

Nobodaddy clapped his hands. ‘Oh, good,’ he cried. ‘A quest! I do like a quest. And here we have a three-in-one! Because you’re on a quest, too, aren’t you, young fellow? Of course you are,’ he went on before Luka could say a word. ‘You want to save your father, of course you do. You want me, your detested Nobodaddy, to fade away, while your father becomes himself again. You want to destroy me, don’t you, young fellow? You want to kill me and you don’t know how. Except, as a matter of fact, you do know how. You know the name of the only thing in any world, Real or Magical, that can do what you desire. And even if you had forgotten what it was, you have just been reminded by your friend, the talking bear.’

‘You mean the Fire of Life,’ said Luka. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it? The Fire of Life that burns at the top of the Mountain of Knowledge.’

‘Bingo! Bullseye! Spot on!’ cried Nobodaddy. ‘The Towering Inferno, the Third-Degree Burn, the Spontaneous Combustion, the Flame of Flames. Oh, yes.’ He actually capered in delight, doing a soft-shoe shuffle with his feet, and juggling with his panama hat. Luka had to admit that this little dance was exactly the sort of thing Rashid Khalifa did when he was a bit too pleased with himself. But it was odder when you could see through the dancer.

‘But that’s just a story,’ said Luka faintly.

‘ Just a story? ’ echoed Nobodaddy in what sounded like genuine horror. ‘ Only a tale? My ears must be deceiving me. Surely, young whippersnapper, you can’t have made so foolish a remark. After all, you yourself are a little Drip from the Ocean of Notions, a short Blurt from the Shah of Blah. You of all boys should know that Man is the Storytelling Animal, and that in stories are his identity, his meaning and his lifeblood. Do rats tell tales? Do porpoises have narrative purposes? Do elephants ele-phantasise? You know as well as I do that they do not. Man alone burns with books.’

‘But still, the Fire of Life… it is just a fairy tale,’ insisted Dog the bear and Bear the dog, together.

Nobodaddy drew himself up indignantly. ‘Do I look,’ he demanded, ‘like a fairy to you? Do I resemble, perhaps, an elf? Do gossamer wings sprout from my shoulders? Do you see even a trace of pixie dust? I tell you now that the Fire of Life is as real as I am, and that only that Unquenchable Blaze will do what you all wish done. It will turn bear into Man and dog into Dog-Man, and it will also be the End of Me. Luka! You little murderer! Your eyes light up at the very thought! How thrilling! I am amongst assassins! What are we waiting for, then? Are we starting now? Let’s be off! Tick, tock! There is no time to lose!’

At this point Luka’s feet began to feel as if somebody was gently tickling their soles. Then the silver sun rose above the horizon, and something quite unprecedented began to happen to the neighbourhood, the neighbourhood that wasn’t Luka’s real neighbourhood, or not quite. Why was the sun silver, for one thing? And why was everything too brightly coloured, too smelly, too noisy? The sweetmeats on the street vendor’s barrow at the corner looked like they might taste odd, too. The fact that Luka was able to look at the street vendor’s barrow at all was a part of the strange situation, because the barrow was always positioned at the crossroads, just out of sight of his house, and yet here it was, right in front of him, with those oddly coloured, oddly tasting sweetmeats all over it, and those oddly coloured, oddly buzzing flies buzzing oddly all around it. How was this possible? Luka wondered. After all, he hadn’t moved a step, and there was the street vendor asleep under the barrow, so the barrow obviously hadn’t moved either; and how did the crossroads arrive as well, um, that was to say, how had he arrived at the crossroads?

He needed to think. He remembered the golden rule that one of his schoolteachers, the science master Mr Sherlock, a man with a pipe and a magnifying glass who always dressed too warmly for the climate, had taught him: eliminate the impossible, and what remains, however improbable, is the truth . ‘But,’ thought Luka, ‘what do I do when it’s the impossible that remains, when the impossible is the only explanation?’ He answered his own question according to Mr Sherlock’s golden rule. ‘Then the impossible must be the truth.’ And the impossible explanation, in this case, was that if he wasn’t moving through the world then the world must be moving past him . He looked down at his ticklish feet. It was true! The ground was slipping along beneath his bare feet, tickling him gently as it went by. Already he had left the street vendor far behind.

He looked at Dog and Bear, who had started behaving as if they were on an ice rink without skates on, slipping and sliding on the moving roadway and making loud, surprised protesting noises. Luka turned to Nobodaddy. ‘You’re doing this, aren’t you?’ he accused him, and Nobodaddy widened his eyes, spread his arms, and replied innocently, ‘What? Excuse me? Is there a difficulty? I thought we were in a hurry.’