Steve Doyle

The Magic Lamp

I wish I never laid eyes on this lamp!

Of course that one won’t come true. I’m all outta wishes. The name’s Defoe and I’m a thief—at least I was a thief—but not just an ordinary thief. I was a specialist. I dealt in merchandise difficult to move. Not that it was heavy or fragile or anything like that. Just that it moved in a very tight market. Any clown can fence TVs or watches but how many buyers can you find for a crown that belonged to a Czar of Russia with a price tag of $75 million? And how do you keep such a sale quiet? First thing everyone asks is ’Where’d you get it?’. “Well, uh, my grandfather was a guest of the Czar and it was customary in 1914 for the royal family to gift an heirloom to people they entertained at the Winter Palace.” Riiiight.

Most of my clients know the stuff is hot but they’ve got reputations as fine, upstanding citizens who simply can not be caught receiving stolen goods. So you gotta convince ’em there’s no possible way they coulda known. Once you’ve done that they’re happy. You can’t beat human greed.

Collectors are the best. They get so obsessed with their collection they stop asking questions. You got a piece they need? They don’t care where it came from; all they care about is how much it’ll cost ’em to have it.

One such customer came right to mind as soon as I spotted the Bastard. I’m not talking about the child of an unwed mother here; Bastard is a type of sword also known as a hand-and-a-half. It was designed to replace the two-handed great sword which was not really useful in battle. Anyone who could move at all could usually get outta its way and it left the holder unable to carry a shield. Knights needed something they could wield with one hand but would give ’em a two-handed grip for delivering a death blow. I had a client specifically looking for one of these. If I was lucky the shop owner would think it was just another long sword. I could steal it without actually stealing it.

One look at the price tag killed that hope. I’d haveta get it the other way. But was it authentic or a knock-off? While I pondered that question the proprietor headed my way. I pretended to be very interested in the small brass oil lamp sitting on the mantle shelf below the sword.

“It’s functional.” The old man smiled like an idiot. “Made of heavy brass. The wick length is adjustable. The opening is large for easy filling and it uses ordinary lamp oil.”

I was glad he was talking about the lamp. Maybe he hadn’t seen me checking out the sword. For fifteen dollars I couldn’t go wrong. I asked him to gift wrap it for me, which gave me time to prepare his store for an evening visit. His locks were child’s play. There was an alarm, but the wiring stood in plain view. Snip. No problem. I paid the man for the lamp and went on my merry way.

At 2:00 in the morning everything was dark and quiet. I worked the lock on the front door and ever so slowly pushed it open. Silence. I didn’t figure anyone woulda noticed the alarm wire I’d cut earlier, but you never know. My penlight provided just enough for me to avoid tripping over stuff as I crept across the room to my prize. I carefully lifted it from the wall.

Click.

I didn’t need anyone to tell me what that was. “How long have you been sitting here in the dark?”

“Oh, a little while now.” The old man spoke very slowly. “I saw you eyeballing that sword and knew you didn’t care a hoot about the lamp you bought. After you left I took a good look around. When I saw your electrical work I figured you’d be back.”

Here I was, holding what could be considered the most dangerous type of sword ever made. Of course, it would be extremely unwise to pit a blade, however deadly, against a firearm. I let the heavy thing clatter at my feet.

Then a gasp followed by the shotgun hitting the floor. I spun around to see the old man clutching his chest, a look of pain and horror contorting his face. He needed medical attention, but I had no time for that. I grabbed the ancient sword and booked it out of there.

“Sixteenth century German.” My client examined the sword carefully. “Here are the chequered arms of Bavaria. And here’s the mark of the smith, the crossed flails of Diefstetter of Munich. Melchoir or possibly his son Ulrich. How much?”

“Eight Gs.”

“Seven.”

“Seven and a half.”

“Seventy-three hundred.”

“Sold.” We shook hands and he paid me. In cash.

Sometime afterward I sat around not doing much of anything when something drew my eye to the lamp which I had placed upon the mantle. I thought it might shine nicely if polished, so I picked up a clean rag and began running it over the brass.

I nearly dropped the thing when smoke began pouring out of it. I put it on the coffee table and watched as white plumes spewed forth. I moved to open a window because the room was filling up. I turned around and collided with something that knocked me backwards to the wall and onto the floor. I blinked my eyes and sat staring as the fog cleared to reveal the image of a giant.

At first all I could see were these silly slippers that curled upwards at the toes. Gradually his legs came into view. They were enormous and covered with loose silk the color of which seemed to fluctuate between pink and red. A gold belt around his waist led to a muscular stomach. Huge arms were folded across his massive chest. I got the feeling he could break me in half like a twig. A Moroccan fez adorned the top of his big bald head.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

When I could finally make out his face I thought he might actually be contemplating breaking me in half like a twig. He scowled and his eyes seemed ablaze. “I can hardly believe it myself.” He had the deepest voice I ever heard. “But I am free from that lamp and apparently have you to thank for it. It is within my power to grant you no less—and no more—than three wishes.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I am not.”

I briefly thought about the old guy from whom I’d bought the lamp and whom I had left in all probability to die. But only briefly. “Okaaaay; I want to be rich and idle and to live many years.”

“Those are your wishes?”

“That’s them.” I thought they were pretty good wishes.

“They shall be granted.”

“When?” I wasn’t buying any of it.

Just then came a pounding on the front door, followed by a booming voice. “Police, Defoe! Open up! We’ve got you on film for that robbery! The old man died, Defoe. You’re looking at hard time!”

I looked with astonishment at the giant. He pointed at the lamp. “Quick, change places with me. You’ll be able to hide in there. It’s your only chance!”

Panicked, I hastily agreed. Smoke filled the room again and when it cleared I was wearing the ridiculous Arabian outfit, all the way from the fez to the funny shoes. My room had become like the great hall of a palace lavishly furnished. A huge oriental rug covered the entire floor. I beheld treasure chests lining the walls, overflowing with riches: gold and silver, rubies and emeralds, diamonds and pearls. I stared at it all with wonder.

Then I heard a tremendous crash, followed by a rush of footsteps and a flurry of voices. “Where is he?”

“Give it up, Defoe!”

“Check upstairs!”

“Nothing here, Boss.”

“Empty here, too.”

Soon all was quiet again as the police went looking for me elsewhere. I’m sure they’ve given up the search by now—I mean, it’s been almost three hundred years.

I wish I never laid eyes on this lamp!