Demons

by Gardner Dozois

  In the afternoon, my cousin Linda wanted to take Denise on one of those endless female shopping trips, looking at hundreds of wares in dozens of stores but probably not buying anything. On these safaris, my knees give out after the first hour, like those of an old prizefighter.

  I begged off and sneaked back to Maniu's concession. All that got me was another five dollars down the drain.

  I was to meet the girls at a souvenir and notion shop, combined with a branch post office, on Atlantic Avenue. While waiting, I looked over a bin full of junk rings, offered for a quarter each. They were little brass things set with pieces of colored glass, for the pleasure of vacationers' children. Some were elaborate, with coiled serpents or skulls and crossbones.

  I pawed over this stuff, not meaning to buy—our own children were much too grown-up—but to pass the time and muse on the costs, mark-ups, and profits of merchandising these things. Then I came upon one that did not seem to belong. I tried it on, and it fitted.

  Although dull and dirty like the rest, this ring was more massive. It felt heavier than one would expect of a brass ring of that size. That proved nothing; it could be plated or painted lead. It seemed to have once been molded in a complex design, but the ridges and grooves were so worn down as to leave only traces.

  The stone was a big green glassy lump, polished but unfaceted, with the original bumps and hollows preserved like those of a stream-worn pebble.

  I gave the cashier a quarter, put the ring on my finger, and met the girls. Linda started to tell me about the women's club meeting, at which she had persuaded me, with some cousinly arm-twisting, to speak. Then Denise spotted the ring.

  "Willy!" she said. "What have you done now?"

  "Just a junk ring out of the bin there, but it appealed to me. For twenty-five cents, what did I have to lose?"

  "Let me see," said Denise. "Hein! This does not look to me quite like what you call the junk. Look, we have just come from Mr. Hagopian the jeweller. Let us go back there and ask him wlmt it is."

  "Oh, girls," I said, "let's not be silly. You won't find a Hope diamond in a box of stuff like that."

  "As you were saying," she persisted, "what have we to lose? Come along; it's only a block."

  Hagopian screwed his loupe into his eye and examined the ring. "I won't guarantee anything," he said, "but it looks like real gold, and the stone like an uncut emerald. In that case, it could be worth thousands. It would of course take tests to be sure what this is. . . . Where did you get it?"

  "An unlikely place," I said.

  "This is pretty unlikely, too. For four or five hundred years, practically all gems used in jewelry have been faceted. Before that, they just smoothed them off and tried to cut out obvious defects, while keeping as much of the material as they could.

  "This kind of mounting goes back much further than that—unless somebody is making a clever imitation of a real ancient ring. If you would leave it a few days for assaying . . ."

  "I'll think about it," I said, taking the ring back. Hagopian might be perfectly honest (in fact, I think he was), but before I left anything with him I would check up on him.

  Next morning was overcast. When we went for our swim, there was Maniu, half buried in the sand, with just his upper body, arms, and head sticking out. He was ladling more sand over his torso. I asked:

  "Mr. Maniu, if you want the sun, why bury yourself? The sun can't get through the sand."

  "I have a theory, Mr. Newbury," he said. "The vital vibrations will rejuvenate you. Shall I see you at my concession today?" He grinned at me in a peculiar way, which led me to wonder if he slept in a coffin full of earth from Transylvania.

  "If it doesn't rain, maybe," I said.

  It did rain, so we did not go boardwalking. Denise wrote letters in the sitting room, while I took off my shoes and lay down on one of the beds for a nap.

  Then a rhythmic, squeaky sound kept waking me up. After I had jerked awake three times, I hunted down the source. It came from an aluminum-and-plastic rocking chair on the little terrace of our apartment. Chair and terrace were wet from the drizzle. Nobody was sitting in the chair, but it rocked anyway.

  Thinking that the wind was moving this light little piece of furniture, I moved the chair to a more sheltered part of the terrace and went back to bed.

  The sound awoke me again. I stamped out to the terrace. The chair was rocking again, although there was no wind to speak of. The mate to this chair, in a more exposed place, stood still. I cast a few curses against the overcast heavens, turned both chairs upside down, and returned to the bed.

  It seemed to me that I next woke up to find a strange man sitting on the other of the twin beds and looking at me.

  He was a man of average size, very swarthy, with a close-cut black mustache. His clothes were up-to-date but what I should call "cheap and flashy": striped pants, loud tie, stickpin, and several rings. (But then, Denise is always after me to buy more colorful clothes. She says a banker doesn't have to dress like an undertaker.) I also noted that the man wore a big, floppy panama hat, which he kept on his head.

  What makes me sure that this was a dream is that, instead of leaping up and demanding: "Who in hell are you and what are you doing here?" I just lay there with a weak smile and said: "Hello!"

  "Ah, Mr. Newbury!" said the man. He, too, spoke with an accent, although one different from Maniu's. "Peace be with you. I am at your service."

  I stammered: "B-but who—who are you?"

  "Habib al-Lajashi at your service, sir."

  "Huh? But who—how—what do you mean?"

  "It is the ring, sir. That emerald ring from the Second Dynasty of Kish. I am the slave of that ring. When you are turning it round thrice on your finger, I appear to do your bidding."

  I blinked. "You mean you—you're some sort of Arabian Nights genie?"

  "Jinn, sir. Oh, I see. You were expecting me to appear in medieval garb, with turban and robe. I assure you, sir, we jann are keeping up with the times quite as well as mortals."

  You might expect a suspicious, hard-headed fellow like me to scoff and order the man out. I have, however, come upon so many queer things that I did not dismiss Mr. al-Lajashi out of hand. I said:

  "What does this service consist of?"

  "I can do little favors for you. Like seeing that you are getting the choicest cuts of steak in a restaurant, or that you draw all aces and face cards in contract."

  "Nothing like eternal youth for my wife and me?"

  "Alas, no, sir. I am only a very minor jinn and so can do only small favors. The most powerful ones are all tied up with oil shaykhs and big corporations."

  "Hm," I said. "If I knew which super-jinn served which corporation, it should affect the securities of that—"

  "Ah, no sir, I am sorry; but that information is classified."

  "How long does this service last? Is it one of those three-wishes-and-out deals?"

  "No, sir. You remain my master as long as you keep the ring. When it passes to another, I pass with it."

  "How do you like your job, Habib?"

  Al-Lajashi made a face. "It depends on the master, like any other slavery. There is a jinn's liberation movement—but never mind that, sir."

  "Is there any way you can end this servile status?"

  "Yes, sir. If one of my masters is so grateful for services rendered that he is voluntarily giving me the ring, I am free. But that has not happened in three thousand years. You mortals know a good thing when you see it. You hang on to our service, even when you promise us liberty."

  "Let's get down to cases," I said. "There's a concessionaire . . ." and I told Habib about the purple pterodactyls. "The next time I take a chance with Maniu's rings, I want to win one of those things."

  Al-Lajashi took off his panama hat to scratch his scalp, disclosing a pair of small horns. "I think I can do it, sir. Leave it to me."

  "Don't make it too obvious, or he'll get suspicious."

  "I understand. Now, sir, pray lie down and r
esume your nap. I shall not disturb you again today."

  I did as he said and woke up normally. I could see no dent in Denise's bed where the soi-disant jinn had sat. I did not think it wise to tell Denise about my experiences. Instead, I worked on my speech to Linda's clubwomen.

  The next day was fair and breezy. Maniu was on the beach, all buried but his arms and head.

  "Good morning, Mr. Maniu," I said. "If you'll pardon my saying so, you give a slightly macabre impression."

  "How so, Mr. Newbury?"

  "You look as if somebody had put your severed head on top of that pile of sand."

  Maniu grinned. "Come to my concession this afternoon, and you shall see that my head is firmly affixed to the rest of me."

  So I did. My first three rings stuck at the square sections of the posts. Of my second three, one slipped down all the way. Of my third, two scored. The fourth time, all three rings fell to the base of the posts.

  Maniu stared. "My God, Mr. Newbury, you certainly have improved fast! Which pterosaur do you want?"

  "That one, please," I said, indicating a long-beaked Pteranodon.

  Maniu got down the prize, folded the wings, and showed me how to extend them again. "Come back tomorrow," he said. "You will never repeat this feat, ha-ha!"

  "We shall see," I said. I bore my prize home, to the acute discomfort of Denise. She did not like the stares we got on the boardwalk, with that thing under my arm.

  The next day, I was back, despite Denise's protest: "Willy, you big pataud, where would you put another of those monstrosities?"

  "I'll find a place," I said. "This ganif has challenged me, and I'll show him."

  And I did, coming away with a fanged Dimetrodon.

  The following day, Maniu was not in his usual place on the beach. I took another nap after lunch and awoke to find al-Lajashi in the room.

  "Mr. Newbury," he said, "shall you make another attempt on Mr. Maniu's prizes?"

  "I thought of doing so. Why?"

  "There may be difficulty, sir. Mr. Maniu is furious with you for winning two of his lizard-bats. He hardly ever gives one up."

  "Stingy fellow! He told me three were won a few days ago."

  "He lies. I doubt he has given out one all this season."

  "So what?"

  "He has rented the services of one of my fellow jann to protect him."

  "Does that mean you won't be able to make the rings go over the posts?"

  "Oh, I am thinking I can still do it, although not so easily. But this other fellow may make you trouble."

  "What sort of trouble?"

  "I do not know. But ibn-Musa can surely harass you."

  "Why can't you protect me, as the other jinn does Maniu?"

  "I cannot be everywhere at once, any more than you can. If he uses a phenomenon on the material plane over which I have no control, I cannot stop him."

  "Where did Maniu get his spook? From another ring?"

  "No, sir. He leased him from that astrologer on the boardwalk, Swami Krishna. The astrologer's name is really Carlos Jimenez, but no matter. He uses this jinn to make some of his little astrological predictions come true. Are you still determined to try your so-called luck again?"

  "I am," I said.

  When I bought rings from Maniu and began tossing, the rings did not fly so surely as before. They wobbled about in the air and hesitantly settled over the posts. I spent several dollars before I got my three rings over all three posts. When one ring started to fall to the base of the post, it fell partway, started to rise again, and bobbed up and down a couple of times before completing its descent.

  Maniu watched it, chewing his lower lip. I could imagine two invisible entities struggling with the ring, one trying to push it down, and the other, to raise it off the post.

  I walked off with a fine Rhamphorynchus, the one with a little rudder on the end of its tail. The waxy spikes of Maniu's whiskers quivered like those of a cat.

  I wanted to sail. The day after I won my third prize, I found the boat I wanted. It was a sixteen-foot centerboard sloop, the Psyche, which the Ramoth Bay Sailing Club had for rent. Ocean Bay is built on a long spit of land, with the Atlantic on one side and shallow Ramoth Bay on the other.

  That day, however, there was a flat calm. Since the boat had no motor, there was no point in taking it out. Instead, I went back to the boardwalk and won another pterodactyl. Maniu hopped up and down with excitement.

  "It is unheard of!" he said. "You must have supernatural aid!"

  "Don't you want me to play any more?" I asked innocently. He knew perfectly well that I had the help of my jinn—ibn-Musa would have told him—and I knew that he knew.

  To tell the truth, I was losing enthusiasm for collecting these bulky objects. I suppose some childish spirit of rivalry kept me trying to put one more over on this con artist.

  I surmised that, however much Maniu hated to lose his pterodactyls, neither did he wish to lose the money that my visits brought him, not to mention the publicity. The prizes probably cost him no more than I paid in throwing fees.

  Red-faced, Maniu mastered his conflicting feelings. "No, no, nothing like that," he said. "Come as often as you like. I am a I fair man."

  That evening was the women's club meeting. We got dressed up and had dinner at Linda's house with her and her husband. They brought us up on the local gossip: how one of the councilmen had been caught with his hand in the municipal till, and about the motorcycle gang suspected of local depredations. Then we went to the little auditorium.

  I am no public speaker. With a written text, I can give a fair rendition, remembering to look up from the paper now and then, and not to drone or mumble. But without a manuscript, rhetorically speaking, I fall over my own big feet. This time, I had my talk, written out, in the inside pocket of my jacket.

  When the ladies assembled, there was the usual tedious hour while minutes were read, the treasurer's report was presented, delinquent members were dunned for their dues, committees presented reports, and so on.

  At last the chairman (I absolutely refuse to say "chairperson") called me up and gave me a flowery introduction: ". . . and so Mr. Wilson Newbury, first vice president of the Harrison Trust Company, will speak to you on the importance of trusts to women."

  I stepped up, put on my glasses, and spread out the sheets of my manuscript on the lectern.

  The sheets were blank.

  I may have goggled at them for only a few seconds, but it seemed an hour. I instantly thought: this is one of ibn-Musa's tricks.

  Such reasoning, however, was of no help in getting me off the platform. There was nothing for it but to make the speech without this aid. I plunged in.

  It was a pretty bad speech, even though I knew my subject, liven Denise, who is as loyal as can be, hinted at that later. But I got through my main points:

  ". . . Now—ah—let me tell you about it—uh—reversionary living trusts, tlmm. Ah. They combine some of the—ah—features of revocable and—uh—irrevocable trusts. This is—umm—a—er a temporary trust, often called the—ah—the 'Clifford trust,' after a taxpayer who um—ah—in—uh—1934, fought the IRS to a standstill. Such a—ah—trust . . ."

  I finished at last, submitted to the insincere congratulations of the ladies, and went back to the apartment with Denise. When I looked again at my manuscript, all the writing was back in place.

  Next day, I went to Maniu's for revenge. I got it, too. I came away with two purple pterodactyls, leaving Maniu practically frothing with ill-concealed rage.

  The following day, since the weather looked suitable, I called the Ramoth Bay Sailing Club to confirm our reservation of the Psyche. On our way thither, Denise kidded me some more about the vagaries of English, which insisted on pronouncing the name SIKE-ee instead of the more logical French psee-SHAY.

  "I'm sure Socrates wouldn't have known whom you were talking about in either case," I said.

  "Willy, darling," said Denise, suddenly serious. "Are you sure you ought to ta
ke this boat out? The wind is pretty brisk."

  "A mere ten to fifteen knots, and steady," I said. "You've sailed with me before, haven't you?"

  "Yes, but—somehow I don't think this will turn out well."

  I passed that off as women's intuition, which is wrong more often than not. People remember the times it works and forget those it fails.

  We found the two young men in charge of the boats installing the sails, oars, life preservers, fire extinguisher, and other things called for by the maritime codes. In half an hour we were bowling along on Ramoth Bay under that brisk but soft, steady breeze abeam—a sailorman's ideal.

  "Sun's over the yardarm," I said. "Let's break out the chow."

  We had sandwiches, fruit, and enough whiskey to make the world look good but not enough to interfere with conning the boat. Denise unwrapped and sorted and poured. I raised my paper mug and said: "Here's to my one true love—"

  Then, from an easy twelve-knot breeze, it hit us. A tornado or hurricane must be something like that. It came without warning, wham!, whipped the tops off the little waves, and hit our sails broadside.

  I was a couple of seconds slow in starting the main sheet. Denise screamed, and over we went. Away went lunch, whiskey, and all, and away went Mr. and Mrs. Newbury into the water.

  Luckily, we came down on top of the mainsail instead of under it. As soon as I got myself untangled from the lines and sail and coughed out the water I had inhaled, I grabbed for oars and life preservers, which were floating away to leeward.

  The blast had died as quickly as it had risen. We thrashed around, collected such gear as was still afloat, and held onto the hull, now lying peacefully on its side.

  It occurred to me that all my sailing experience had been in keeled boats. Such boats cannot capsize, because the weight of the keel rights them again. A centerboard boat, however, easily overturns when a squall hits it, unless you are very spry at letting out the main sheet. And you cannot right the thing again while wallowing around in the sea.