Turnabout by Adar Darnov
“Stone or clay?”
“I think both. But first I will work with the clay.” She smirked at me.
Would she sculpt a man of clay? “Paris, then. Perfect for both of us.”
“You know Paris?”
“Enough to like its style.”
Something brushed my arm, and the self-satisfied Gypsy jinni sat down on the other side of me. I blinked twice at her (poof!) materialization.
She smelled of sweet tobacco with an under-scent of garlic. Her skirt and blouse were a fiesta of colors, and she had at least two pounds of silver jewelry on her. Grandmother jinni wasn’t playing needy beggar woman today.
I said, “Hola, abuela.”
“Grandmother? We are not alike. I am from the sacred fire, you are from clay.”
“I meant it as a title of respect.”
“Then it is acceptable.”
“So why are you here, grandmother?”
She thrust out her breasts, pushing out the front of her wide-necked Romani blouse. “I come to advise Yenifer, as you call her.” She tapped my hand with a forefinger sporting a snake ring, its eye a blue gem. “Why do you not honor the ritual?”
“Why follow a ritual that punishes you?” I asked.
Yenifer sucked in a noisy, despairing breath. “The Time Ruler will punish me for not making his wish.”
The Gypsy rubbed her own cheek, frowning in thought. “Yet this has not happened.”
“No, it could be said I have been rewarded.” This seemed to make Yenifer more anxious than happy.
“Glad you think so,” I said, taking full credit for improving her life. “This Time Ruler is your god?”
The Gypsy jinni glared at me. “We have the same God, man of clay, but use a different name. Our Time Ruler is a wali, a saint.” She pulled a clay pipe from a pocket of her billowy skirt and began loading it with tobacco from a drawstring bag. “Perhaps Time Ruler uses the two of you. But take caution. Time Ruler’s attention is not always pleasant.”
“Before we reached Spain, Yenifer’s attention wasn’t exactly a delight for me.”
The Gypsy threw her head back and guffawed. Yenifer smiled as if I had praised her.
I asked, “So why did your Time Ruler pick me?”
“Perhaps it is because you do not fear change.” She glimmered a catlike smile at me. “Perhaps fire is needed to bake clay.”
“Or clay is needed to give fire a purpose.”
Yenifer asked, “What will you do in Paris, Layton?”
“Improve my French. And maybe I’ll learn to sculpt pastries. What woman could resist me then?”
“So you go to Paris for me?”
“In a heartbeat, Dulcinea.”
Yenifer peered around me at her Gypsy advisor. “He thinks to change me.”
“No,” I said. “I cannot change your jinni nature. Paris is a good city for you. There you can learn sculpture. And I’m addicted to éclairs.”
The old woman lit her little clay pipe. She nodded at the Guadalquivir. “The river always looks the same, but the water is ever-changing. Perhaps you two will renew the ritual.”
“Maybe we’ll make marmalade from sour fruit.”
When Yenifer frowned, not understanding me, I pointed to the riot of oranges rotting under a nearby tree. “No one gathers them because they’re too bitter to eat. But you can make marmalade out of them. So let’s sweeten your ritual.”
The no-nonsense Gypsy jinni nodded. “Rent an apartment in Montparnasse. The cemetery there is home to the Génie de Sommeil Eternel.” She pointed her pipe stem at Yenifer on the other side of me. “This statue will bring you power.”
“We won’t live together in Paris,” I said. “When we didn’t here, the urn stopped stalking me. That’s progress. Besides, Yenifer will want to live her own life and have her own studio.”
Yenifer sat rigid, staring up into the bottomless blue sky. “Why are you so generous to me, Layton? I grant you a wish only because I must.”
“And I’ve noticed you stopped asking me to make one. Why be kind to you? Because I’m free to do so. Besides, a ritual without generosity in it is a hollow, useless habit.” I leaned toward her. “By the way, can you help me find a present for Steph? She’s got a wedding coming up.”
“Is that your wish?” she asked with a mischievous smile.
“No, just a friendly request for help.”
The Gypsy jinni blew out a stream of white pipe smoke. It waggled in the warm air and shaped into a hooded cobra. “And if she decides not give you this help?”
“She has that right. It was a request, not an order.” I turned to Yenifer. “If being chained to me bothers you, then just tell me to make a wish, and I’ll do it.”
Yenifer folded her hennaed hands and stayed silent.
A Smokeless and Scorching Fire
written by
Erin Cairns
illustrated by
Kyna Tek
* * *
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Erin Cairns is a gypsy: born in Johannesburg, South Africa, she started school in New Jersey, and finished her formal education in Texas. Her love of stories started at a young age when her father read his favorite books aloud to the family. The tradition is alive and well, although it is now rationed to holidays, when the family gathers together.
Erin has been writing stories and receiving rejection letters for years. In an attempt to be rational about her love of writing, she studied at the University of Texas at Dallas in a completely unrelated field. She concurrently ran the UTD writers group, when she decided that if she still had stories of her own to tell, she should start telling them to anyone who would sit still long enough to listen.
Between making animations and games, and selling sculptures to local galleries, she enjoys scaring the neighborhood children with horror stories.
The journey ahead is much anticipated.
ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR
Kyna Tek was born in 1980 at an unnamed refugee camp in Thailand along the Cambodia and Thailand border. Kyna’s family eventually immigrated to Tempe, Arizona where he grew up a typical ’80s kid playing videogames, watching movies, and reading comics.
It wasn’t until he attended college that he discovered his passion for drawing and painting. He immersed himself in studies of the arts and his skills grew exponentially.
After graduating from college he has continued honing his craft and discovering where he fits in the illustration world. He enjoys pursuing his ever-continuing education through self-study and creating inspired illustrations in the fantasy and science fiction genre.
A Smokeless and Scorching Fire
The civilians were dancing on the train again, their feet stomping to the heartbeat of the engine. Forced to sway to the rhythm by the movement of the train, Deacon crushed a sunflower seed between his thumb and index finger. An old woman seated across the aisle fanned herself with a handful of reeds. She glared openly at him.
“Bloody inspections,” she muttered to her daughter-in-law, whose head was bowed in respect and submission to her elder. “Isn’t enough the factory’s going to be shut down, but they sent a djinn to do it? Bad manners. Bad luck.”
She spoke Usu, a working-class language, and one that Deacon had been punished for learning. It was the one part of him the conditioning couldn’t reprogram—language. He betrayed no indication that he understood, but kept himself busy with the sunflower seeds he had bought at the city-station.
He wasn’t like these people. He didn’t dress in the body-hugging fashions, and if his loose black clothing didn’t set him apart, his pale skin and gray eyes certainly did. He hated his eyes, the mark of his inhuman origin. He knew how flat they looked, shallow and artificial.
It had been the first mark of his insanity. Engine
ered humans didn’t have opinions on physical appearance. Deacon wasn’t even sure when his madness began. Conditioning should have scrubbed his self-awareness away.
He crushed another seed, rubbing it into a prickly paste.
The passengers stomped their feet down harder. The whole carriage rocked with the frenzy of their excitement. How could something that moved so slowly be so loud? He listened idly to the life around him, pretending to be immersed in the shine of his own black shoes.
The old woman was still complaining about his presence. “It should be on one of the Sand-Beetles. It’s not right they put it here, with us.”
Ah. She took pleasure in misusing the Usu pronouns, neutering him with language. The cruelty of it stung more than her ill-informed slurs about his job, or his origin. The factory wasn’t his destination. His journey would take him to the desert. The factory was just a stop along the way.
He had begged carefully for this assignment. Traded contracts with other Inspectors and negotiated with the Administration. Not once did he let them know he wanted this. Wanting wasn’t allowed to his kind.
When he closed his eyes, he could see the endless sand, and himself, walking against the wind with his slim, empty briefcase. The sun would beat down on his skin, turning it from pale to bloody, raw, red. But the pain would be nothing. The starvation and dehydration, he would barely notice. It was a walk in the sunshine compared to the re-conditioning he would face if he returned to headquarters and confessed his malfunction. Again, another symptom of his insanity: He did not want to be conditioned. The pain. The illness. The invasion.
With great effort, he turned his attention away from his madness to the gossip in the cabin. This carriage held a fragment of a wedding party meeting up in the mountains, readying themselves for negotiations and introductions to new family members. What could they offer? What would they accept?
The best stories were shared in families. Remember when mama washed the floor with papa’s best bottle of kashaka? It peeled holes in the linoleum and she was drunk just off the fumes! Remember when Eliza wanted that boy from the—
“Cheap!” a young voice engaged him in the Official language, tearing him from the gossip about people he didn’t know and would never meet. Deacon raised his eyes to find a young boy, only eight or nine, holding out a bouquet of wilting flowers. Stubbornness prematurely aged the boy’s face. He shook the flowers insistently. “Cheap!” he repeated.
“Come away from him!” the old woman called out in Usu. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to speak to ghosts?”
The boy turned to her. “Then will you buy them, grandmother?” he asked in the same language. “If you had the credit, you would spend it on skin-cream.”
Her lips ballooned out and her eyebrows descended sharply. From kindly matron to formidable matriarch, the change was fluid, immediate, and well practiced. “You speak to elders like that, you little bastard?”
This theater interfered with the natural rhythm of the train now. People strained their necks and backs to see the scene unfold, deciding on which side they would take. The ecosystem changed, the feet stomping out the dance around their vehicle seemed to rise to a frenzy, though Deacon knew it echoed only in his mind.
He hated confrontation. Another symptom of his madness. The desert, remember the desert. It waited. Calm. Empty. Silent.
“How much?” he asked in Official, trusting that the boy knew that much of his language at least.
The boy glanced back, surprised. “Cheap!” he repeated.
“How much?” Deacon waved a blank chip at him, its denomination waiting to be determined.
“Thirty,” the boy said.
A Smokeless and Scorching Fire by Kyna Tek
An outrageous price. But Deacon was rich. Beyond rich. He had the wealth of the Administration at his fingertips, and what else would a djinn spend it on? Around him, his traveling company quieted. Intent on the transaction.
He tapped the amount into the chip, and gave it to the boy who promptly pushed it through the scanner hung around his neck while Deacon tried to select a flower. They were all exquisitely ugly, drooping in the heat.
To his surprise the boy shoved the now-blank chip as well as the whole bouquet onto his chest. Deacon barely had time to clasp his hands around the bundle of stems before the boy raced away down the compartment, dodging the frenzied dancers.
The old woman attempted to trip the boy with her cane, but he jumped lithely over this obstacle and the carriage door closed behind him.
Deacon felt rather foolish now, with his bundle of crushed flowers. They smelled like fried food and sickly perfume. He turned this unexpected purchase around in his hands, exploring the strangeness of it. Native plants certainly, by the waxy leaves and spiny petals. Water-efficient traits.
Would there be greenery then, scattered in the sands? He hadn’t imagined that.
And the sounds began again. The women muttering about the upcoming celebrations, the wealth sure to be on display. The men grumbling out stories and opinions to anyone who would listen. Deacon felt the thick leaves between his thumb and forefinger. Barely sixteen breaths passed before the door slid open again, slamming against the frame as a burly man burst into their midst. Big and square. Brown. Muscled and scarred from hard labor. His face creased with unkindness.
He scanned the gathering.
“Where’s the boy?” he asked the rest of the car in Usu. Nobody answered, just stared at him. Even the old lady’s lips tightened. Information was notoriously hard to get out of the working class, but a question required truth from an Inspector. Deacon considered fighting the conditioning to keep silent, but even as resistance strayed through his thoughts, his stomach began to roil, and the phantom daggers of pain began to dig through his scalp.
Lying, even by omission, was not worth the pain. He needed to save his strength. “He went that way,” Deacon said, pointing to the door the boy had left through.
But the man caught sight of the flowers in Deacon’s hands. He gestured rudely toward them. “Stolen. Take.” His Official sounded even worse than the little thief’s. Official was a clean language, free from the guttural inflections he clipped into the syllables.
Shrugging, Deacon held out the flowers, but the old woman interfered again. “He’s an Inspector, you fool. He’s already paid for them.”
The stranger scowled, and took a step forward to see Deacon clearly. Behind him, a woman appeared in the cabin’s open doorway. She surveyed the crowded carriage with disinterest and distaste.
But she captured everyone else. Even the presence of the loud, aggressive man faded beside her.
Her dark hair was bound in plaits by copper wire, and caught by tiny leaves forged from gold. Each strand glimmered with hints of red henna. She swayed hypnotically to the beat of the train, seeming to slow even its frantic pace.
She wore a bride’s veil that hooked over her ears and the bridge of her nose, but the sheer fabric did nothing to hide her face.
It served as only a token attempt at modesty.
“Don’t look at her,” the old woman muttered to her daughter-in-law, loud enough to warn everyone in the cabin. “That’s Mahati’s woman.”
Mahati’s woman stood no taller than Deacon, but she stood with a dignity that gave the impression of height. She wore a dress of intricate chainmail, links of silver wire and drops of metal bead that rippled with a delicate sound when she moved. A light cotton shift kept the metal off her skin and accented the extreme contours of her body.
None of this caught his attention more than her eyes.
Elaborately outlined with kohl, they found him immediately. An expression of understanding, of some deep communication, gleamed in those eyes when she fixed her gaze on him.
She walked forward, past the man who said something to try and stop her progress. She brushed him off like a safari fly and sa
t beside Deacon.
“What use does a ghost have for flowers?” Mahati’s woman asked, her husky voice lending an exotic lilt to her Official.
“What use does anyone have for flowers?” he returned flatly.
She laughed, as if he had said something funny. He tracked the arch of her jaw, calculating the slope of her neck. She was a creature of pure mathematics. To anyone else she might have been beautiful, but he had not yet lost that much of his sanity.
And he remembered the desert. In the sand, his flesh would be stripped away by the winds, ravaged by sand-beasts who wouldn’t care that he had been engineered.
“Take them,” he said, thrusting the bouquet out to her. “I don’t know why I bought them. I didn’t know they were stolen.”
She hesitated, her eyes traveling to his face.
“Don’t you dare, Axeonos,” her companion said sharply, but he made no move toward Deacon. He feared the djinn as well, it seemed.
She took the bouquet. In these crowded quarters, with the afternoon sun still glaring through the windows, sweat shone on everyone’s skin.
But not hers. In the first-class carriages, the heat never made it past the doors. Her cold fingers brushed against his skin as she withdrew the bundle of waxy leaves.
Immediately silence engulfed their fellow travelers. Deacon gazed around at their audience, and followed their attention back in time to see the man’s face darken with anger. The woman relaxed against the bench, and through her gently shifting veil Deacon could see a dangerous smile, badly-hidden triumph.
The man started to shout, not in Usu or Official, but some derivation of a mountain language.
“Is something wrong?” Deacon asked the woman.
“Nothing at all, alma-ami,” she said sweetly, taking his hand in her own.
My Soul. The endearment was stressed. He tried to pull his hand away, but she didn’t let go. “What is wrong?” he asked the still-silent train.
Writers of the Future Volume 34 Page 4
