“Do you mind,” Asaf said, “not singing?”
The King looked hurt. “Sorry, chum,” he said. “Thought a good old sing-song’d help pass the time.”
“You did, did you?”
“No offence, mate.”
“Quite.”
The King turned his head and looked out of the window. “I spy,” he said, “with my little eye, something beginning with S."
“Sand.”
“Too right, sport, good on yer. Your go.”
“No, thank you.”
“Fair enough.” The King sighed and opened a can of beer, which hissed like a bad-tempered snake and sprayed suds all over the place. Asaf wiped his eye.
“That’s another thing,” he growled. “This car smells like a brewery.”
“Glad you like it.”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. Can’t you wait till we stop?”
“Anything you say, boss.” He drained the can and chucked it out of the window. No point, Asaf reflected, in raising the subject of pollution of the environment and the recycling of scrap aluminium. Deaf ears.
“Not much further now, anyway,” the King said, “till we reach the first Adventure.”
Asaf applied the brakes, bringing the van to a sudden halt. “What do you mean,” he asked dangerously, “adventure?”
The King looked at him. “Gee, mate, this is a quest, right? You gotta have a few adventures in a quest. Don’t you worry, though, she’ll be right.”
“Who will?”
“It’ll all go beaut,” the King translated. “No worries on that score. Trust me.”
“I was afraid you’d say that.”
The next half-hour was relatively painless. True, the King hummed Do You Ever Dream, My Sweetheart in a Dalek-like drone under his breath, but with the radio and the groaning of the suspension over the rocky, potholed road, he was scarcely audible. It could have been worse, Asaf rationalised. It could have been My Way.
“Here we are,” the King said, pointing with his right forefinger into the middle of the trackless waste of their left. “Anywhere here’ll do.”
Asaf sighed and pulled over, leaving the engine running. “Now what?” he said.
The King chuckled. “You’ll like this,” he said. “Right up your alley, this is. Watch.”
A flicker of movement in the far distance caught Asaf’s eye. The King handed him a pair of binoculars, through which he could see a girl on a donkey being hotly pursued by three men on camels. The girl had a good lead on her pursuers, but they were gaining fast.
“The low-down is,” said the King, “the chick is the daughter of some Sultan or other, and the three blokes on the camels are wicked magicians. All clear so far?”
Asaf nodded.
“Well,” the King continued, “she’s running away from them because she’s just stolen the Pearl of Solomon, which gives them sort of magic powers. You go to meet her, she gives you a magic bow and three arrows. You fire the first arrow at the first magician—”
“Excuse me—”
“And,” the King continued, “he turns back into a beetle — that’s what he really is, you see, a beetle — and you tread on him and that’s that. You fire the second arrow—”
“Excuse me—”
“The second arrow at the second magician, and he turns back into a scorpion, which is his true shape, and you drop a rock on him. You shoot the third…”
“Excuse me,” Asaf shouted.
The King looked up. “Sorry, mate, am I going too fast? The first…”
“I won’t do it.”
The King stared at him with a wild surmise. The surmise couldn’t have been wilder if he’d just said that Dennis Lillee was a slow bowler.
“I don’t want anything to do with it,” the fisherman reiterated. “You’re asking me to aid and abet a theft, commit murder—”
“Jeez, mate, they’re insects.”
“Insectide, robbery with violence, obstruction of the highway and heaven knows what else, for no readily apparent reason—”
The King was almost in tears. “For crying out loud,” he said, “it’s a flamin’ adventure. What sort of a bloke are you?”
“Basically law-abiding,” Asaf replied coldly. “Has it also occurred to you that I might miss? With only a very scanty knowledge of archery and just three arrows—”
“It’s a magic bow, you dozy bastard!” the King yelled. “You can’t miss. Believe me.”
“It’s still wrong,” Asaf replied. “If there’s a dispute between these people, they ought to take it to the proper authorities.”
The donkey was quite close now, and slowing to a gentle trot. The camels, however, were accelerating.
“Look,” shouted the King. “Unless you rescue the chick, she won’t be able to give you the three white stones, which—”
“What three white stones?”
“The three magic white stones which have strange and supernatural powers, you stupid drongo!” the King snapped. “Of all the…”
Asaf sighed, and opened the door. “Oh, all right,” he said.
“But I’m not shooting anybody, and that’s final. You wait here and don’t interfere.”
He climbed out of the camper. His legs were stiff with cramp after the long drive, and his left foot had gone to sleep. He hobbled over to where the donkey had come to an expectant halt.
“Allah be praised!” the girl exclaimed. She was radiantly beautiful, and around her neck hung a single white pearl which shone with a strange inner light. “Quick, my prince, take this bow and—”
“Be quiet!” Asaf snapped. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.” He trudged past her and stood between her and the camels, which slewed to a halt. The lead camel-rider drew a curved blue sword and brandished it ferociously.
“Out of the way, infidel,” he snarled, “or I shall cut off your head!”
Asaf shook his head. “Don’t be silly,” he said briskly. “And for your information, I’m not an infidel.”
The camel-rider reined in his steed and frowned. “Yes, you are,” he said. “By definition,” he added.
“Rubbish.”
The other two camel-riders drew their scimitars and waved them, but with rather less enthusiasm.
Asaf didn’t move. “Well?” he said.
“Well what?”
“Ask me a question about Islamic belief and culture. That’ll show whether I’m an infidel or not.”
“It’s just an expression,” the second camel-rider started to say, but his superior shushed him.
“All right, Mister Clever,” said the first camel-rider. “What’s the first verse of the fortieth chapter of the Koran? You don’t know, do you? I thought you…”
Asaf cleared his throat. “This book is revealed by Allah,” Asaf recited in a loud, clear voice, “the mighty one, the all-knowing, who forgives sin and accepts repentance, the bountiful one, whose punishment is stern. Want me to go on?”
The camel-riders looked at each other.
“OK,” said the first camel-rider. “So you’re not an infidel. Now will you please shove off and let us get on with our work?”
Asaf stayed where he was. “Bet you don’t know the next bit,” he said.
The camel-rider glowered at him. "Course I do,” he said.
“Go on, then. Prove it.”
“Huh.” The first camel-rider sniffed. “There is no god but Him, all shall return to him, none but the unbelievers dispute the teachings of Allah—”
“Excuse me,” the second camel-rider interrupted.
The first camel-rider whirled round in his saddle. “What?” he said.
“It’s not teachings, it’s revelations. The revelations of Allah.”
The first camel-rider scowled. “It says teachings, son of a dog!” he growled. “Do you dare—?”
“Actually,” muttered the third camel-rider, “he’s quite right, it is revelations. Here, have a look. At the bottom of the second page, three lines up.”
“What!” roared the first rider. “You dare to contradict me, spawn of filth! I shall cut off—”
“Here, look for yourself, it’s there in black and…”
“He’s right, you know, Trev. It does say…”
There was the sharp, brittle sound of steel clashing on steel. Asaf sighed, shook his head sadly, and sauntered back to where the girl was waiting.