This is the first chapter of The Djinn, the second book of a trilogy that uses conventional fantasy tropes, like Rings of Power, to explore questions related to religion, identity, and purpose. The first book, Ithilæn, takes place in 12th century France, and explores Christian and pagan themes. The second book, The Djinn, is set in Afghanistan, Tibet and Mongolia. It explores Buddhist, Hindu and Zoroastrian themes, but is nevertheless a continuation of Ithilæn.
Version history
2022-11-28 2022-11-27 2022-11-21
2026-06-19
Chapter 1: The Girl With Sparks in Her Hair
“Can I watch the sun set from the western tower?” Maya assessed the sentry as she spoke. She had never seen him before, which was unusual. She knew everyone in Rupar. But he was a refugee who last spring arrived from Lahore, driven east by Khwarazmian raiders. He was welcomed into the city because he was healthy, beautiful and strong. A significant asset for the defense of the town. Maya saw an additional ineffable, quality in his soft, white – almost clear – aura.
Although they had never been introduced, the guard knew Maya was the Witch’s granddaughter because of her jade green eyes and the sparks that were flashing in her gnarly, black hair. Most people, even the Great Khan in Karakorum, feared witches. The guard, Ramindar, respected them. He hesitated to deny Maya’s request, lest he offend the Goddess she channeled.
Maya interpreted his hesitation as consent. She muttered “Thank you” and slid past him while he blinked. He never saw her move at all. Her magic was only strong enough to slow time for one or two seconds, but that was enough in situations like these.
In the autumn, when the sun was in the south, Maya liked to visit the West Tower, where the view of the Indus River was most beautiful. Her town was situated at a bend in the river: To the north and east she could see the Himalayas, where snow-capped peaks sparkled in the sunlight; to the west and south were fields of rice, which stretched to the horizon. She liked to go to the West Watch Tower, which was a storage room for the archers’ gear, wrap herself in a colorful cotton blanket, chat with the on-duty guard and watch the sun set.
Normally the on-duty guard would tease Maya about how her magical abilities were over-rated, if they existed at all. She ALWAYS denied that she had any magical abilities at all, but would inevitably use her power to surreptitiously help him with his chores. That was what the Goddess wanted.
That was the story Maya told herself.
Ramindar gazed out the window while Maya took her seat on a pile of jute blankets directly behind him. Maya wondered why he was scowling until she followed his gaze to a caravan of Persians, which was approaching from the west. Normally the arrival of Persian merchants elicited smiles, because they would arrive with treasures, like incense, rare metals and carpets. These they would trade for spices, precious stones and weapons. Tonight’s caravan was not typical. It had neither camels nor slaves, just six merchants in black cloaks, six lightly armed guards and a Zoroastrian priest. The guards walked in double file of three. Between them they carried a trellis made of cedar poles lashed together with hemp ropes. The trellis supported a small box shrouded in a velvet black cloth. Each guard was followed, exactly two paces behind, by a merchant. The procession was led by a thirteenth man, a Mage, who walked between two heavily burdened donkeys. The Persians moved lethargically: it was hot and their burden though tiny, appeared heavy.
The sun touched the top of the hills, which marked the western edge of the Indus valley. Though the Persians did not realize it, they had lost their race with the night: the town gates closed at sunset. They would have to camp outside the walls, probably in the Goddess’ temple on the shore of the Indus River. Not the worst outcome. The Goddess would favor them provided they didn’t offend her with a paltry offering.
Maya broke their brooding silence, “Ramindar, can you see the patches on the Persian’s eyes?”
The guard shrugged, “Sure.”
“The men on the left side of the box have patches on their right eyes …”
He caught her meaning and completed her sentence, “… and the ones on the right side have patches on their left eyes. I wonder why that is?”
“I know why.”
“What do you know, mantrika?”
“The Persians are wearing patches to protect themselves. The creature within the box they carry has an Evil Eye.” She could feel the creature’s power, even at this great distance.
“What kind of creature?” Ravindar looked down at Maya. He had an intent expression on his face.
“A Djinn”. She spoke with a slight tremor in her voice.
“What is a Djinn? “
“A type of Deva.”
Ramindar whistled in dismay as he looked back at the approaching caravan, this time focusing his gaze on the shrouded box which bobbed on the trellis they carried. Maya wondered if he could feel the Djinn’s ancient and fundamental power. She could feel it probing for weaknesses that it could exploit to free itself. Its probes were like the flames of a dark torch casting tendrils into light.
Maya knew this because she experienced it. When the ancient power discovered Maya it infiltrated her body and soul, like burning bolts. And then it squeezed. Her body collapsed inward, her skin became clammy and cold, and her eyes were blinded by colored lights.
Set me free!
Maya gasped for air.
Set me free! I will reward you!
Maya began to move to the door, compelled by the Djinn’s will. Ramindar watched her shuffle like a sleep walker.
“Release the child!”
The Djinn released its grip and Maya fell onto a pile of coarse jute blankets. She thought, thank you Grandmother.
Ramindar stamped out the glittering pile of sparks that had scattered around where she fell, and then gently propped Maya up against the wall opposite the window. The tiny mirrors sewn into her skirt flashed brightly. He gently shook her. She straightened herself and said, “Ramindar, the Djinn is trying to escape. If it does escape, don’t look at it. It has an Evil Eye! Plug your ears! Close your eyes!”
“Of course, little witch.” Ramdinar began his sentence with a patronizing tone, glanced at the approaching party and ended on a serious note. He knelt down beside her, placed his hands on her shoulders and said, “How should I plug my ears, mantrika?”
Maya shrugged – not because she didn’t want to answer his question, but rather because it took effort to reply. The Djinn was pressing her. She could resist its entreaties, but that took effort and attention.
“How should I plus my ears, mantrika? How show I mask my eyes?”, Ramindar asked again.
Maya looked at Ramindar, his aura now muddied gray by fear. She said “Let me think.” Maya looked around and noticed a pile of scrap material which was used to bind groups of arrows together. She said, “We’ll use the jute …” she grabbed a candle. “… battened with wax. We’ll make wads for your ears and use this jute rag as a mask. Hurry. This must work. You may be the only survivor!”
How do you know he may be the only survivor? her grandmother asked with a thought.
I saw a picture in my head, Maya replied. Her vision of a corpse-strewn balustrade hadn’t been experienced as an event, but rather as a memory of the future, something she had always known and had just recalled. Not prescience – the sense looked backward in time from the future.
Ramindar ripped a jute bag into strands and began knotting them together for a mask while Maya pressed together tiny wads of wax for his ears. He fastened the mask around his forehead, just above his eyes. She handed him the earplugs. He idly played with them, periodically glancing out the window toward the approaching Persians.
The Djinn’s nagging power had disappeared. She wondered if her grandmother was protecting her. She rose and walked to Ramindar’s side, unsteady on her feet.
Ramindar exclaimed, “Hah! a Deva. This moment is magical. Imagine!” He cut off his enthusiasm when the implications of what he had said, occurred to him. He whispered to Maya, “How is it that such a powerful creature could be imprisoned by such ragged men?”
Maya was about to say that she didn’t know, when her grandmother presented her third eye with a vision of a royal chamber packed with lords, merchants and commoners. The walls were lined with soldiers. In the middle of the room was a glass and ebony-wood box shrouded in a mist of burning incense from Sheba.
Maya said, “The Djinn was tricked by a King named Sulayman.”
“You know this?”
“Yes. Yes.” Maya replied. Visions of the future were always opaque; this vision had the clarity of historical fact.
There was a loud crack.
Ramindar staggered for a moment and then came to himself. Maya leapt to his side. The two of them leaned out the window to get a better view what was happening. They watched in horror as the guard on the right front side of the Persian caravan hardened to stone, and then exploded into rubble and dust. The merchant who was shadowing the guard frantically grabbed the handle of the trellis even as the weight of guard’s stone grip pulled the trellis toward the ground. The trellis wavered and rebounded up, the moment the guard turned to dust, because of the effort of his counterpart in the opposing file to find equilibrium. The awkward movement lifted the shroud and revealed the Djinn’s cage: an ebony wood cube with barred windows on each face. The cube glowed red-black.
Maya shoved Ramindar away from the window, her slight figure barely moving him, but moving him just enough. She shouted, “Ramindar, plug your ears! Close your eyes!”
Maya’s Grandmother’s voice rang loudly in her head, Granddaughter, be careful! The Goddess does not allow witches to compel anyone!
I’m saving his life!
What do you see?
Maya raced to the window, projecting what she saw to her grandmother.
We must replace the shroud or the Djinn will escape. This is not its time. You must free him.
[“The Djinn is a captive.”
“Tonight its captors will die.”
She remembered her vision of corpses lining Rupar’s walls.
Grandmother continued. Listen closely Maya. Tonight the Djinn’s captors will die, as will many others, but the Djinn will not be free. It is too stubborn to free itself. That is something you will do. I cannot tell you more because what happens next is only possibilities.
What? How?
You will understand when you understand. I have to go to the Swan Temple now; my fate is determined.
]
Ramindar tugged on Maya’s sleeve . He was bruised, and dazed, but his ears were plugged. He wore a jute kerchief over his head, which should have been covering his eyes.
Maya defied the Goddess’ protocol and snapped his eyes shut with a spell. He stumbled and fell.
“Maya, how dare …” His admonishment was cut short by the cry of an hysterical mother, “My child’s eyes have turned to malachite!”
Maya cast a sleep spell. Ramindar’s head fell forward and he crumpled into a ball on the floor. She sat cross-legged beside Ramindar’s crumpled body. She brought thumb and fingers together, the right in Prana Mudra, the left in Gyan Mudra, and began to slowly chant. The rush of people along the the walls quieted save for the sound of stumbling as her sleep spell took effect.
Maya breathed deeply for a moment to catch her breath and then listened. The town was quiet. There was not even the sound of frogs, flies or birds.
The Djinn shattered the silence. It shouted with a loud thought, I have been enslaved by Sulayman. Set me free and I will give you anything you want!
There was a red-black light emitting from the cedar box the Persians were carrying. With only five carriers, they stumbled awkwardly as the Mage moved to replace the carrier while avoiding the light of the Djinn’s evil eye, which was now emitting an angry red light from the uncovered box.
We must replace the shroud, grandmother said.
Maya projected that intention. The shroud barely moved – somehow the Djinn was resisting her. Her grandmother’s weak voice said in her head, Let me help you.
Maya replied, No grandmother, you mustn’t.
Her grandmother replied, We are each too weak, but together we are strong enough.…
Maybe.
Goddess willing.
Though they were fighting against wind and gravity and the Djinn’s force, Maya and her grandmother moved the shroud back into place. Th moment it was, grandmother’s diminishing force drained away entirely but the black-red light cast by the Djinn disappeared.
Maya collapsed onto the heap of jute blankets.
A blaring trumpet echoed throughout the ramparts.
Ramdindar arose, unaware that he had just been asleep. He said, “Take cover Maya. I must prepare to fight.”
The Persians had reassembled themselves and resumed their march to the West Gate, unaware they had already lost their race with the setting sun.
When the Persians got to the edge of the market square, a rectangle of sand and shells where the monthly market was held, the Captain of the Night Watch shouted, “Load your weapons!”
Ramindar placed an arrow in his bow and took his position behind a crenelation in the window.
The pitiful caravan arrived at the foot of the wall, at the exact moment the sun fell below the western edge of the river valley. The Persians looked like shades, silhouetted by the afterglow of the sun, which shone directly at their backs.
As the travelers came closer, the villagers became quiet, save for the quiet chants of the village priests.
The Captain of the Night Watch rose to speak, but did not. He saw no reason to waste his voice until the Persians were closer. When the travelers got within 100 paces of the gate the Captain shouted. “Stop.” The Persians obliged. They carefully placed the trellis and the box which imprisoned the Djinn onto the ground.
The Captain of the Watch asked, “Where are you from?”
A Mage stepped forward. At at a distance he looked more like a beggar than a magician. His gown, fine cotton embroidered with gold and silver thread, was now tattered; his beard was unkempt and dusty; his peaked wizard’s hat came down to his eyes; and his left eye was covered by a patch. He spoke in a weak, wavering voice, that nevertheless resonated clearly through the quiet dusk air. He said, “We are from Baghdad.”
“How did you get here?”
“By way of Herat and Balkh.”
“What is your mission?”
“We are bringing a gift from the Caliph Al-Musta’sim to Ogedei Khan.”
“Ogedei is dead.”
“We did not know this. Who is Great Khan?”
“Töregene, Ogedei’s wife, is steward for Güyük.”
“Our gift is for Güyük Khan.”
“What is this gift?”
“A Deva, imprisoned by the wise King Sulayman.”
“A Deva?!” The guard was skeptical.
“I am bound by a spell to tell the truth about this matter. Do not doubt me.”
“Why does the Caliph wish to gift Güyük Khan a Deva?”
“That is the Caliph’s business.”
“Why is a Zoroastrian Mage serving an Islamic Caliph?”
The Mage paused before answering. He replied quietly, “My brothers are the Caliph’s prisoners. Please give us food and shelter. Would you risk the wrath of both a Khan and a Caliph, but obstructing our mission?”
[“Here is my seal.” The Persian presented the guard with a seal that had the radius of two hands. On it was etched the clearly visible words, written in Farsi, Arabic, Turkic and Hindi, “Free passage on pain of death” The decree was punctuated with the seal of the Caliph of Baghdad.]
[The seal itself was a horde, which was proof enough of its authenticity. – I forget what this means.]
The Captain of the Night Watch replied, “It is past sunset. Our gates are closed. We will not let you in to our town. But we will lower a basket of food to you over the northern wall. There, on the shore of the Indus River, you will find the Swan temple. You can stay for one night.”
The Mage replied, “We would prefer the comfort of an Inn. We will pay generously for good lodging.”
The Captain of the Watch winced, regretting his next words. He said, “We will send soldiers to the temple tomorrow at midday. If you are still there they will kill you.”
“Please shelter us …”
“Go! Do not forget to make an offering to the Goddess. She favors figs, apricots and myrrh.” The Captain of the Night Watch signaled that the conversation was over by crossing his arms over his chest.
The Persians listlessly fell into formation, picked up the trellis and mournfully shuffled north along the dusty clay-red path that led to the Indus River. They stopped briefly by the north wall to collect the supplies the townsfolk had lowered, then disappeared into shadows cast by shrubs which lined the river bank.
The entire garrison followed them with their gaze. No one moved; nothing more was said.
The archers stood down and the morning watchmen returned to their homes.
The Captain dismissed the Morning Watch and ordered the Town’s two gates to be fortified with temporary wooden braces.
That night clouds rolled in from the west, hiding the moon and leaving the valley covered in darkness, save for the weak light of the village watch fires. Few slept. The woman withdrew to the inner town, because their restless children distracted the soldiers; most other people huddled near the walls, trying to be near the garrison should something dangerous and violent happen.
Maya walked along the top of the rampart. It was made of powdery gray clay and was wide enough that two people could walk side by side. The soldiers on guard were tired and bored. They let her pass without comment. She moved to her second favorite hide-out, a storage room attached to the north wall. There she stood on the tips of her toes and looked out toward the Swan Temple. The temple was at the bottom of an embankment, built directly into the river. She could not view it directly; she only saw reflections caused by the red and yellow light of a campfire.
§
Dawn broke bleak and gray. The townsfolk huddled on the northern wall and watched the shadows of the tree-lined river for several hours after sunrise, surprised that no merchants appeared from the temple. The crowd murmured loudly when it was discovered that the food they left outside the northern gate at dawn had not been claimed.
[Midtown Dreams: The realization that death was a better option. Perhaps the word is acceptance. The feeling is deterministic ]
After much haggling, it was decided that a slave be sent to investigate and report on the state of the Persian camp. The chosen slave – a man from the Sindh who had been captured at the sack of Lahore four years earlier – was chosen. The slave was old and survived by begging, so would be missed by no one. He walked slowly toward the temple, his right hand touched the town wall as he descended the narrow stony path to the Swan Temple, more for grounding than balance.
He was terrified.
[He stumbled because he looked only askance (away from the river), trying to avoid, in every way possible, the bad magic imprisoned in the ark the Persians carried. The townspeople tensely watched his progress.]
The slave hesitated at the crest of the embankment for several moments. The townspeople threatened him and threw rocks at his feet, but to little effect: he was paralyzed by his fear of what was in front of him.
His nerve broke.
He leapt off the Temple’s marble staircase into a gully, and leapt into an irrigation channel. He stumbled down the channel until it intersected a goatherd’s path, which though hardscrabble followed the river to its headwaters in the Himalaya mountains. It was a suicidal choice. Without the protection of a village it would be very difficult for even a healthy young man to survive in that remote, wild land. The slave was barely clothed and limped because of weak knees.
[He preferred the death ahead of him to the one he anticipated in the Swan Temple.]
The crowd looked for the next person to send out, and settled on a Dalit convicted of a religious crime, although the judgment against him had not yet been confirmed by a Mamluk judge.
After consultation with the village elders, the Chaudhuri who ruled Rupar offered to drop the conviction if the man would investigate the Persian camp. After a brief though heated family conference, the Dalit’s wife was offered in his stead; the headman and elders agreed. The wife’s family did not agree, but their objections were ignored.
The Dalit woman was pushed out of the north gate by four soldiers, two armed with long, rusty knives and two with cudgels.
The pathetic woman walked slowly toward what she thought was her death, muttering prayers while clutching and unclutching her hands. She hugged the wall so closely that the brass mirrors on her skirt made a grating noise as she progressed. When she reached the staircase that folowed the side of the river embankment down into the Temple, she paused to remove her shoes.
[Her children could be heard wailing from the inner town, where they were imprisoned in a pen with chickens, to keep them from chasing after her. She stumbled when the twig she was using for support splintered, but continued forward, tremulously, toward the top of the stairs that followed the side of the river embankment to the temple.]
To everyone’s surprise, when she began to descend the staircase she was greeted by Maya’s grandmother. To onlookers she appeared out of nowhere; but Maya saw that she had been hiding behind a bench at the entrance to the Temple and had frozen an instant of time to make her appearance more dramatic. She wore a shalwar kameez made of dusty red cotton, her pants were dyed yellow-ochre. These colors were offset by a saffron colored silk shawl, which she wrapped around her neck and head.
The old witch blocked the path of the untouchable woman. She said, “Stop. Wait here. Let me investigate.” The Chaudhuri, livid at having his authority challenged by the witch, raised his voice and told the Dalit woman to continue, but he was shushed by the crowd. They trusted the old witch’s judgment in magical matters.
The Untouchable woman, uncertain what to do, stayed where she was. That was good enough for Grandmother, whose only wish was to stop the Dalit woman from proceeding.
Grandmother Kokila sent a thought out to Maya, Granddaughter, come here. Her aura – a rainbow – burned more brightly than it ever had. She channeled the Goddess and the world-spirit. But her own spirit was frail. She was being entirely supported by the power she channeled; she was otherwise drained.
Maya exited the town from the northern gate and carefully made her way down the river path. Her passage was noted by the gaping townspeople.
When she reached the top of the embankment, Grandmother Kokila greeted her. She said, “This is very dangerous, Granddaughter. Let us investigate together. I will need your assistance. Please hold this for me, so I can take your arm.” Maya took the proferred satchel , and slung it over her shoulder. She held out her right arm out to her grandmother, for balance.
Together they crossed the crest of the embankment and slipped into a gully that arced around the Swan Temple.
It was only two days before the start of Ashvin, and the Sharada Navaratri festival, so the stairs were lined by lanterns. The temple was at the bottom of the stairs. The temple was a simple affair – a squat coarse wooden structure perched like a dock on the edge of the Jhelum River. The opposite side connected to a line of hedges, which demarcated the boundary of the town.
The Temple’s only decoration was a mandala mosaic comprised of several thousand small pieces of broken colored glass.
Maya slipped and then regained her balance, after nearly tumbling down the wet, mossy stairs.
Grandmother Kakila sharply inhaled and said, “look”. Maya turned to where her grandmother was pointing, at a small shelter behind the wall of the temple, a dry lip of land at the edge of a mangrove swamp. She saw piles of dust and stone that were the crumbled remains of the Persians. As she watched a slight breeze blew dust from the surface of the rubble. The breeze revealed the stone head of the Mage, which had not yet turned to powder. He had an expression of wide-eyed terror on his face. The west-wind gusted and the sand sculpture dissolved into dust.
“Will that happen to us, Grandmother?”
“No. The Djinn cannot harm us in that way.”
“Why not?”
“Because we channel the Goddess.”
“A few paces further away, the rest of the Persians were collapsed into a grotesque heap of powdery stone. The ark, which lay in the center of this mess, had shattered, but the glass and ebony box in which the Djinn was imprisoned had tumbled, intact but uncovered onto the ground. The box glowed with the black-red light of the Djinn’s aura. It stained the temple walls like intense, angry sunlight.
Maya carefully moved forward in order to inspect the box more closely, partially shielding her eyes as she did so. On the top of the box there was a picture of Indra, King of the Devas. It was an odd picture. Normally Indra was depicted riding his vahana, a three headed elephant, with a scepter or sword in his right hand. In this picture Indra looked like a woman. He – or perhaps she – was represented in enamel, reclining on a throne, surrounded by symbols of power: a lightning bolt, a sword and a scepter. On the side of the box there was a carving of a bull that wrapped around one edge. The bull’s mouth was on the neck of a scorpion. The scorpion’s tail wrapped around the box ultimately reaching for the white bull’s heart from behind.
[Picture] [The image of the scorpion eating the bull eating the scorpion is Zoroastrian/Mithraic.]
The indentations caused by the strokes of the carving knife were carefully painted in a fashion which accented the light and shadows; as a result the scene stood out in sharp relief against the wooden background. Metal grills, the bars of a miniature prison, were on all side faces of the box; the box itself was lying askew; three sides were visible to her.
While Maya carefully studied the Djinn’s prison, the Dalit woman tremulously approached the top of the hill, only because she was hectored by the crowd, which was throwing stones. Maya knew full well the danger that the old woman was in: if she crossed the top of the valley, she would see the Djinn’s aura, or one of its reflections, and die. Maya grabbed a shawl that lay by her feet, beside a pile of dust that was once a guard, and flung it over the Djinn’s prison box.
At that moment the terrified Dalit woman appeared at the crest of the river valley.
Maya waved her to the ground shouting, “cover your eyes; cover your ears; fall to the ground!” The wretched woman collapsed in terror. As Maya secured the shawl onto the Deva’s prison, the Untouchable woman rested upon on a rock, facing the town. The only sounds were the banging of the wooden boats in the dock behind the temple, the lapping of the River, and periodic shouts from the town.
The Djinn’s voice boomed out of its prison. “Set me free! I am Abdullah bin Al Mansur. I am the Djinn who raised the Tabriz mountains. Set me free or I will kill you all!”
The Djinn’s voice so startled Maya that she stumbled, but did not fall.
The Dalit woman dove into the brambles on the town side of the temple entrance, trying to hide herself from the people of the town, and the Djinn.
Maya, startled, stepped back two steps from the Djinn’s prison, but never glanced away from it. She gathered herself and replied, with a voice that was bolder than she felt, “Deva, why should I set you free when I don’t even know why you are imprisoned? Perhaps you deserve your fate.”
Much to Maya’s surprise the spirit replied with a quiet voice, “I was captured 2,222 years ago by the trickery of Sulayman, He punished me because I refused to acknowledge the authority of Allah. When the Hashim overthrew the Ummayads, my prison became the property of the Caliph of Baghdad.”
“Do you worship Allah?”
The Djinn did not reply.
His silence irked her. She said, “I don’t believe your story. It is incomplete. I sense that you are prideful and vain. Could you also be a liar?”
[“Only Allah or another Djinn can kill me.”
“So you acknowledge that Allah is more powerful than you?”]
“I have no need for lies. I am far too powerful.”
“If you are so strong how can you be imprisoned at all?”
“Through deceit and magic.”
“Why did the Caliph send you to Karakorum?”
“Vengeance. Once in Karakorum the Mage was instructed to set me free, so that I would destroy the Great Khan. If I did that, he promised me my freedom.”
Maya’s next question was spoken like a statement, “You are not truthful. You are a trickster. But the magic that traps you in this box forces you to answer my questions truthfully, doesn’t it?”
“Of course. I have been imprisoned in accordance with the will Allah, who demands the truth.”
It made no sense to Maya that this powerful spirit could be contained by a small glass and ebony wood box. There was more to this story. She asked, “Deva, you must answer me this: will you try to kill me if I set you free?”
“Maybe. If you deserve it.”
“How will you know?”
“The same way as you would, by your aura.”
“Will you kill innocent people?”
“No. I can only harm those who deserve punishment. I have no power against innocence.”
“Are there people you know you will kill if I set you free?”
“Yes. All of the descendants of those who betrayed me. But I will not seek them out. I will only kill them if I chance upon them.”
“Are you capable of mercy and forgiveness?”
“Yes. But like us all, I am also an agent of fate.”
“You mean karma.”
“Perhaps.”
“Am I innocent?”
“I cannot tell.”
“Hurry. Set me free! I will reward you beyond your wildest imaginings.”
“Abdullah bin Mansur, I am a child. How can I cancel a spell caste by Sulayman?”
“Maya, look at my cage, come closer.”
His voice compelled her. She walked up to the shroud and bent over.
[Just as she was about to remove it, she caught her self, barely, and shouted to the townspeople, “I am going to look at the imprisoned Deva. If you look, your eyes will turn to malachite, and then you will turn to dust and blow away.” There was a tumult as the townspeople scrambled out of sight. The Captain was the last too disappear. He was still under the Djinn’s spell, so had to be dragged to safety by his friends.]
She pulled the shroud away.
The Djinn’s prison glowed an angry black-red. Maya bent down to look through the bars. A strand of hair brushed against a bar and was immediately incinerated. The interior glowed like a smith’s fire.
“Set me free!”, the Djinn shouted. Not a request. A command.
She was compelled but also held back by Grandmother Kokila. The pull of forces made her body shake.
She struggled toward the Jhelum River. She slipped down the moss covered staircase, and then slipped and dove. Once immersed, the power of the Goddess infused her and the Djinn withdrew its control. Grandmother Kokila also withdrew her support. Protecting Maya from from Abdullah bin Mansur had drained her.
Maya’s brown eyes opened wide as she had a realization. “Hah! Abdul bin Mansur, I know how to set you free.”
“And regain my powers?”
“Yes.”
“How? How?!!!”
“Your prison and your freedom are the same thing. To have your powers you must renounce them.”
“SET ME FREE, NOW!!!!”
“No! I cannot interfere with your fate. I am a servant of the Goddess.”
The Djinn roared until the Earth shook. Its aura glowed pure black light. Some dry leaves on the ground started to smoulder from the heat. The sparks in Maya’s hair danced wildly.
There was nothing to do but wait. She reached out to Grandmother Kokila. “Grandmother, your life force is very weak.”
“My time has come, my pup, my mandala.”
“No!”
“Yes. I did save you, just now, which is why I’m dying now not at the end of the festival as I planned. Well worth it, don’t fret. Remember,. next time its all up to you.”
“Grandmother …”
The Djinn interrupted with a loud thought, “Mantrika, what do you mean ‘leave my powers behind’?”
She hesitated to reply, but decided it did not matter whether she trusted the Djinn or not. She said, “Abdullah, you must separate yourself from your power. Leave your magic in your prison. It should be easy to do. The box is designed to make it that way. “
“I … I understand.” The Djinn replied, its hesitating voice full of uncertain intention.
There was another long pause and then the Djinn started to laugh with a bellow that made the town’s wall shake and the river foam. As the laugh grew louder, the shroud that covered the Djinn’s tiny oak and gold prison began to glow – not with the black-red aura that had killed the Persians, but a bright cherry red aura, like something picked off of a rainbow. Then the Djinn began to take shape. He wore a turban on his head, his long pointed beard had beaded gold threads woven into it, he had, rings on every finger, and on his right hip he had strapped a fierce looking scimitar. His skin hung in long folds, like dough. He had lost weight during his captivity. The folds of his stomach eventually gave way to red striped linen pants that were baggy around the upper thigh and tight around the calves. His calves tapered into tiny feet covered in green felt shoes with curled toes.
Although he was gigantic to Maya he did not seem formidable.
The Djinn laughed mightily as he picked her up by her shoulders, using the forefinger and thumb of his right hand and placed her onto his left shoulder.
He put her down again, with a red gleam in his eyes. “Give me a moment little witch, while I’ll teach these peasants respect.”
With these words Abdullah stepped – or more accurately floated – towards the nearest parapet, raised his fist in the air and slammed it down with all of the force that an angry demon can muster. The air was filled with the deep sound of vibrating stone.
The Djinn shouted with a loud voice, “Now I will now kill you all!”.
The Djinn’s bellow turned into a wail of despair as he deflated back into his prison.
Maya covered it with her shroud.
The Djinn bellowed, “How dare…”
Maya, her mind focused on her dying Grandmother retorted, “Shut up! You are the author of your imprisonment!”
“Arggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!”
Maya wrapped the Djinn’s prison it up tightly, picked it up and prepared to return to town.
“What now?”, she thought.
Grandmother Kokila surprised her with a response. “Set the Djinn free by delivering it to the Khan in Karakorum.”
“I don’t want to leave Jhelum. I don’t want to leave you.”
“Witch. Deva” the townspeople cried.
Grandmother spoke her final words. “Now I die and the townspeople have rejected you. You cannot free the Djinn, but you can allow it to be freed by fulfilling its destiny.”
With these words Grandmother Kokila died. With her back to the Temple and town boundary she looked up. Townspeople had crowded to the top of the River embankment, peaking down at the Temple.
With the half fallen body of Grandmother in her arms she turned to face the Town. Grandmother was whisper light.
A shadow of a figure rose tall. It was the Captain of the Day Watch. He shouted down at her, “Stay, witch. We have not decided if you can return.”
The Watch archers, with great effort cocked their bows.
“Run child! Take Abdul bin Mansur to Karakorum. They will kill you if you stay. Leave me as I fall. The Goddess with protect me and you. Goodbye.”
OUTTAKES
[Maya tries to find her grandmother for solace but can’t find her. She discovers her grandmother’s corpse. Initially she thinks she’s been killed by the Djinn, but realizes that channeling the Goddess wears you out. She realizes that she is alone and abandoned, and bonds with the Djinn.]
[Outtake to somehow use: Maya looked down at the body … It was a young women, probably of her age. She had fallen while running. Her legs were long and spindly, her torso relatively short. She wore a blue and white shalmar kameez. From a distance Maya could not make out her face, so she knelt down beside her. The view was in profile, from the left. She tried to lift the head to turn it, but it was too heavy. The stone was marbled, brown but with tints of color that echoed those on the clothes the young woman had been wearing.
With a gasp she recognized the clothes as the same ones as she was wearing, and that the face was her own.]
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