The Flat Stanley Collection. Jeff Brown
The Genie King sent a thought to summon Prince Haraz, which is all such a ruler has to do when he wants somebody, and a moment later the young genie flew into the throne room, did a triple flip, and hovered in the air before the throne.
‘That’s no way to present yourself!’ The Queen was furious. ‘Really!’
Prince Haraz grinned. ‘What’s up?’
‘You are!’ said the King. ‘Come down here!’
‘No problem,’ said the Prince, landing.
‘It seems you have been playing a great many magical jokes,’ said the King, tapping the reports before him. ‘Very annoying jokes, such as causing the army’s carpets to fly only in circles, which made all my soldiers dizzy.’
‘That was a good one!’ laughed the Prince.
‘And turning the Chief Wizard’s wand into a sausage while he was casting a major spell, you did that?’
‘Ha, ha! You should have seen his face!’ said the Prince.
‘Stop laughing!’ cried the Queen. ‘Oh, this is shameful! You should be heavily punished!’
‘He’s just a boy, dear, only two hundred years old,’ said the King. ‘But I’ll –’
‘Who knows what more he’s done?’ said the Queen, turning to the Magic Mirror. ‘Magic Mirror, what other silly jokes has this fellow played?’
The Magic Mirror squirted apple juice all over her face and the front of her dress.
‘Oooooohh!’ The Queen whirled around. ‘Florts and collibots! I know who’s responsible for that!’
Prince Haraz blushed and tried to look sorry, but it was too late.
‘That does it!’ said the Genie King. ‘Lamp duty for you, you rascal! One thousand years of service to a lamp.’ He turned to the Queen. ‘How’s that, my dear?’
‘Make it two thousand,’ said the Queen, drying her face.
Almost a year had passed since Stanley Lambchop got over being flat, which he had become when his big bulletin board settled on him during the night. It had been a pleasant, restful time for all the Lambchops, as this particular evening was.
Dinner was over. In the living room, Mr Lambchop was reading and Mrs Lambchop was mending socks.
‘How nice this is, my dear,’ Mr Lambchop said. ‘I am enjoying my newspaper, and your company, and the thought of our boys studying in their room.’
‘Let us hope they are studying, George,’ said Mrs Lambchop. ‘So often they find excuses not to work.’
Mr Lambchop chuckled. ‘They are very imaginative,’ he said. ‘No doubt of that.’
In their bedroom, Stanley and his younger brother, Arthur, had in fact begun their homework. They wore pyjamas, and over his Arthur also wore his Mighty Man T-shirt, which helped him to concentrate.
On the desk between them was what they supposed to be a teapot – a round, rather squashed-down pot with a curving spout, and a knob on top for lifting. A wave had rolled it up onto the beach that summer, right to Stanley’s feet, and since Mrs Lambchop was very fond of old furniture and silverware, he had saved it as a gift for her birthday, now only a week away.
The pot was painted dark green, but streaks of brownish metal showed through where the green had rubbed off. To see if polishing would make it shine, Stanley rubbed the knob with his pyjama sleeve.
Puff! Black smoke came from the spout.
‘Yipes!’ Arthur said. ‘It’s going to explode!’
‘Teapots don’t explode.’ Stanley rubbed again. ‘I just –’
Puff! Puff! Puff! They came rapidly now, joining to form a small cloud in the air above the desk.
‘Look out!’ Arthur shouted. ‘Double yipes!’
The black cloud swirled within itself, and its blackness became a mixture of brown and blue. A moment more, and it began to lose its cloud shape; arms appeared, and legs, and a head.
‘Ready or not, here I come!’ said a clear young voice.
And then the cloud was completely gone, and a slender, cheerful-looking body hovered in the air above the desk. He wore a sort of decorated towel on his head, a loose blue shirt, and curious, flapping brown trousers, one leg of which had snagged on the pot’s spout.
‘Florts!’ said the boy, shaking his leg. ‘Collibots! I got the puffs right, and the scary cloud, but – there!’ Unsnagged, he floated down to the floor and bowed to Stanley and Arthur.
‘Who rubbed?’ he asked
Neither of the brothers could speak.
‘Well, someone did. Genies don’t just drop in, you know.’ The boy bowed again. ‘How do you do? I am Prince Fawzi Mustafa Aslan Mirza Melek Namerd Haraz. Call me Prince Haraz.’
Arthur gasped and dived under his bed.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ the genie asked. ‘And who are you, and where am I?’
‘I’m Stanley Lambchop, and this is the United States of America,’ Stanley said. ‘That’s my brother Arthur under the bed.’
‘Not a very friendly welcome,’ said Prince Haraz. ‘Especially for someone who’s been cooped up in a lamp.’ Frowning, he rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Florts! One thousand years, with my knees right up against my chin. This is my first time out.’
‘I must have gone crazy,’ said Arthur from under the bed. ‘I am just going to lie here until a doctor comes.’
‘Actually, Prince Haraz, you’re here sort of by accident,’ Stanley said. ‘I didn’t even know that pot was a lamp. Was it the rubbing? Those puffs of smoke, I mean, that turned into you?’
‘Were you scared?’ The genie laughed. ‘Just a few puffs, I thought, and then I’ll whoooosh up the spout!’
‘Scaring me wasn’t fair,’ said Arthur, staying under the bed. ‘I just live in this room because Stanley’s my brother. It’s his lamp, and he’s the one who rubbed it.’
‘Then he’s the one I grant wishes for,’ said Prince Haraz. ‘Too bad for you.’
‘I don’t care,’ said Arthur, but he did.
‘Can I wish for anything?’ Stanley asked. ‘Anything at all?’
‘Not if it’s cruel or evil, or really nasty,’ said Prince Haraz. ‘I’m a lamp genie, you see, and we’re the good kind. Not like those big jar genies. They’re stinkers! Take my advice and stay away from big jars and urns – and if you do see one, don’t rub it.’
‘Wish for something, Stanley,’ said Arthur, sounding suspicious. ‘Test him out.’
‘Wait,’ Stanley said. ‘I’ll be right back.’
He