The Curse of Zohreh

by Sophie Masson

  ‘Well?’ the moth-thing said in its thin voice. ‘What’s the matter? What are you staring at?’

  ‘Forgive me,’ stammered Khaled, at last, ‘but I have never before seen –’

  ‘Seen what? A Jinn as splendid as me?’ The creature twirled its whiskers and looked mighty smug.

  ‘Yes,’ said Khaled, smiling inwardly. ‘This must be one of the tribe of House-Jinns,’ he thought. He had never met one before, though he’d seen them occasionally, just out of the corner of his eye, scurrying out of sight into shadows. House-Jinns didn’t have anything like the power of wild Jinns – they were too tame, and too limited, especially one as tiny as this. ‘You are of the Jinn?’ he went on. ‘I have never before imagined that Jinns could be as – as er … splendid as you,’ he finished hastily, echoing the Jinn’s own description of itself.

  ‘Well, you’ve been badly taught,’ said the Moth-Jinn, briskly. ‘Know that I am Farasha, of the mighty, learned tribe of Yakabikaj, protectors of all books against bookworms, silverfish and decay. I have been assigned to protect such books as are in this room. My eldest brother, General Bikaj, and his platoons protect all the books your family has in the library. You will have seen the spell invoking our aid, of course; it is written above the doors of the library.’

  There was indeed elegant scrolled writing above the library doors in the palace, but Khaled had never really paid attention to it. Now, though, he nodded, as Farasha went on, ‘No-one has visited this room for a very long time. It has bothered me. But that is over. Now you have come here at last to pay homage to me, Farasha, the guardian Jinn of these books, as you should, and ask me questions.’

  ‘Questions?’ said Khaled. He looked at the little Jinn. Was it possible that –?

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Farasha, with splendid self-assurance, ‘I give you permission to speak, and ask me what it is you wanted.’

  ‘Er –’ began Khaled uncertainly, then went on hurriedly, as Farasha’s whiskers quivered and his eyes flashed, ‘I was wondering, sir, if you might possibly be good enough to tell me whether, in your infinite wisdom and learned understanding, you have come across any information as to how curses can be unmade.’

  Well, it was worth a try. He thought he might have overdone the flattery, but the Jinn didn’t appear to find anything unusual in it.

  ‘I do not think that it is possible to undo a curse,’ said the Moth-Jinn. But its eyes were glittering with curiosity. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  Khaled sighed. ‘Because there is a curse on the al-Farouks and if it is not unmade, I may die on my fifteenth birthday.’

  ‘Dear me!’ said Farasha, his eyes popping. ‘What is said is said; what is done is done. You can no more change a curse than you can change a book once it is printed.’

  ‘But you can issue a new edition,’ said Khaled. ‘You can find new information you didn’t know when you first published the book, and publish again.’

  ‘I have never heard of this. It cannot be true. None of my books has ever been published again,’ said the Jinn firmly. (‘I’m sure they weren’t,’ thought Khaled.) ‘They were perfect to begin with. They cannot be improved or changed. That is the way of it. So it may well be with curses.’

  The Jinn’s words gave a strange kind of comfort to Khaled. If this pompous, naïve little creature in its piles of unread books thought that curses could not be lifted, then it was likely that they could. Even if it was difficult, or rare. It was likely the creature’s brother, General Bikaj, would know more. But he’d have to go carefully, if he wanted to find out something from the library Jinn. Farasha had likely only talked to him because he was a lowly creature, curious, bored and lonely, protecting dusty unread tomes. Bikaj probably had a much more interesting life and no need for conversation with humans. It was likely, if conceit was a failing of the tribe, that his vanity would be overweening in any case. He would need an intermediary …

  ‘Farasha, I wonder if I could ask a very great favour from you?’

  ‘A favour?’ squeaked Farasha rather eagerly. Then he pulled himself together, drawing himself up to his full – inconsiderable – height, as if remembering that he was a Jinn and should speak disdainfully to humans. ‘What sort of favour? And if I grant it to you, I would expect something in return. I would expect you to restore these books to the place they should have – an honoured space on proper shelves, in a room which is visited.’

  Khaled hesitated. His father had obviously not thought the dull books in here warranted any exposure at all – but then, there were many rooms in the palace he could arrange to have shelves put up in.

  ‘I promise,’ he said.

  ‘I will hold you to that promise,’ said the Jinn. ‘Now, what is the favour you wanted to ask?’

  ‘Will you please be kind enough to introduce me to your brother Bikaj? I am so impressed by your fine qualities and I would very much like to make the acquaintance of –’

  That seemed to have been the wrong thing to say. The creature drew itself up. Its whiskers quivered indignantly, its ragged wings flapped. ‘Impudent human! My brother is a great general, who commands great platoons. You do not ask to make his acquaintance, as if he could be your equal. You humbly beg to be allowed to come into his august presence!’ His whiskers quivered with manufactured anger, but his eyes were full of eagerness and curiosity.

  ‘As you wish,’ said Khaled. ‘I do beseech you, kind Farasha, to deign to beg leave of your august brother the General, Lord of the Library, that he might consent to bestow on me, his humble servant, the immense grace and favour of a few seconds in his company.’

  ‘Hmm, better,’ said the creature, ‘though not quite long enough, and with not enough flourishes of rhetoric and syntax and graceful phrasing. For a son of the Shayk, you have a lot to learn. You should avail yourself of the opportunity right now to look at some of the books I protect, whose inimitable style will show you just what it is you are lacking. Why, even a fraction of –’

  ‘Please, Farasha. Will you put my humble request in the best and most convoluted – I mean, gracious and beseeching – language, and convey it to your most marvellous brother, all-knowing Lord of the Library?’

  ‘Do you promise that if I do so, I and my charges will be taken from this exile?’

  ‘I do,’ said Khaled fervently.

  ‘Do you promise furthermore to have a spell of invocation to me, Farasha, of my choosing, written above the door of the room where we will be?’

  ‘I promise,’ said Khaled.

  The Jinn hesitated, then suddenly burst out with, ‘Do you promise that I can help you, too?’

  Khaled smiled. ‘Of course, Farasha. Just as you wish.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Farasha, and vanished, so rapidly and unexpectedly that Khaled was left blinking stupidly at the spot where the Jinn had been, for almost a full minute. When he’d recovered his senses, he shouted, ‘Hey, wait, when will you do it? And when can I –’

  But there was silence. Total, dusty silence.

  Five

  The flying carpet had proven to be a lot more comfortable than Husam had feared. Riding high and smooth in the clouds, they might as well have been sailing in a well-appointed cruise ship, insulated against the elements.

  The worst moment had been when they took off – suddenly, jerkily, and straight up. Mind you, he would have felt the same gut-churning fear if it had been a plane. He liked it when his feet were firmly planted on the ground. It just wasn’t natural for human beings to be flying high above the earth in any kind of contraption, no matter what gung-ho engineers or Jinns told you. He had closed his eyes and muttered several prayers under his breath, clicking at the prayer beads he held in one hand. When the carpet had finally straightened and smoothed out, he’d opened his eyes and seen, through the bubble of protection, a strange sight. Moving alongside them was a blurred, narrow grey face, half-visible through a white trail of vapour.

  ‘Don’t stare. It’s a wind-spirit, and they can be rat
her proud,’ hissed Kareen from her seat at the carpet’s controls. ‘It’s a servant of Rorokidul’s and will see us safely to our appointed path in the clouds, in a dimension midway between the human world and the spirit world.’

  ‘Well away from plane flight paths, I hope,’ said Husam a little faintly. ‘I’d rather not see them hurtling past us.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kareen. ‘We will travel in a quiet passageway of time and space. No human being knows it.’

  Time passed. All that could be seen through the bubble was thick white cloud which encased them as if in swathes of silk. Below them, the sea must be prowling, but Husam could neither hear it nor see it. No sound penetrated their strange vehicle. For a time, Husam slept, lulled by the almost complete isolation. When he woke, he saw Kareen was looking at him. She was grinning.

  ‘We’re nearly at Jumana, sleepy one,’ she said. ‘You see, it all went well. I know what I’m looking at, me, when I look at machines.’

  As she spoke, the carpet suddenly lurched and jerked. ‘What on earth –’ shouted Husam, but he did not finish his sentence. The carpet plunged, so swiftly that it was like going down in a lift. White clouds flew past the bubble at an astonishing rate, then turned into hazy blue; and in less time than it takes to think it, the ground appeared beneath them, flying up towards them, or so it seemed. Husam fell over. He struggled to get up, but could not keep his balance.

  Kareen Amar was hitting out at the carpet birds’ eyes, their heads, their feet, but nothing was working. She was obviously in a panic. Flames shot out from her fingers; she was yelling something unintelligible. But still the carpet inexorably descended.

  Suddenly, there was a jolt. The stench of burnt wool filled their nostrils. Kareen shrieked jumbled words. The carpet jerked, heaved, then all at once flopped. It rolled in on itself, sweeping Husam and Kareen towards the middle, tumbling over each other. It jerked again, heaved, then came down with an almighty thud that jarred Husam so hard it actually made his teeth rattle. The bubble of protection melted away, and they found themselves deposited in damp sand at the edge of the sea.

  Kareen was the first to recover. She scrambled to her feet, hair on end, sparks flying off it, eyes glittering with rage. ‘Stupid heap of rubbish!’ she shrieked, striking out at the carpet with her foot. ‘Stupid thief, stealing it before it was properly finished!’

  Husam did not make the obvious retort. He was too shaken. ‘The Light be praised, we are still alive,’ he said, at last, and bending down, touched his forehead to the sand in thankfulness. Then he sat up, and looked around.

  They had landed near a disused, barnacle-encrusted pier. In the distance could be seen wooden ships tied up at quays, and crowds of men unloading great bales of goods. They were in a variety of dress: loincloths and turbans and pants and headdresses, their weathered brown skin shining in the sun.

  ‘This isn’t Jumana,’ said Husam rather glumly. ‘But at least it’s a port. Let’s go and ask someone where we are.’

  Kareen strode towards the quay, her wiry red hair bouncing with determined purpose on her shoulders, every stride showing a grim determination. ‘If she had either the apprentice Enchantress, or the unfortunate thief under her hands at the moment, then woe betide them,’ Husam thought, amused. Kareen Amar had lost face, the worst thing that could happen to a Jinn – even more so when it was her own fault.

  ‘You want to know where you are?’ said the bare-chested sailor they accosted. He grinned, showing the stumps of broken teeth, and pushed back the dirty red and white checked cloth that was wrapped around his head. ‘Where did you land from? The moon?’

  Husam gritted his teeth. ‘My friend, where are we?’

  ‘Shideh, of course,’ said the other, after a long, hard look at Husam. ‘Shideh, biggest port in Parsari, and biggest dump in the world.’ Without another word, he turned his back on them and resumed unloading bags of charcoal, his muscles rippling under his sweating skin.

  ‘Shideh!’ said Husam and Kareen together.

  ‘Well, I suppose it could be worse,’ Husam went on. ‘Jumana is directly across the gulf from Shideh. We can easily get there.’

  ‘The carpet cannot fly; it will have to be repaired,’ said Kareen sulkily. ‘And I do not know how to do that.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to go by ship,’ said Husam. ‘But first, we must send a telegram to Abdullah al-Farouk, to tell him we will be late. He would doubtless send a boat over to meet us, but I think the sooner we get there, the better. We will arrange passage on the next ship.’

  Six

  When she’d arrived in the port of Shideh, Soheila had been utterly dismayed by its size. Great ocean-going dhows and sambuks rode high above the water, each one a different, lucky colour, with an all-seeing eye painted on its prow, to keep watch in the deep waters of the Shining Sea that led to Alhind. Smaller, lighter vessels, designed for the much shorter, much less dangerous trip across the Parsarian Gulf, flaunted a variety of coloured sails and sputtering engines; vast, rusty metal container ships, which carried goods from Rummiya and Radentengan and many other places beyond Dawtarn el ’Jisal, lay down one end of the harbour; and little tin boats making the journey up and down the Shideh River to the port, ducked and weaved amongst their great creaking, groaning cousins. And the noise! And the crowds! There were people from all the corners of the globe, it seemed to Soheila as she fought her way through the sweating press of sailors, labourers, porters, merchants and hawkers, trying to decide which ship’s captain she should approach. If she’d had time and the heart to marvel, she could have spent hours looking at it all, at the human variety that flowed like a vast multicoloured sea over the wharves of the largest port in all of Parsari. But she had neither. All she could think about was getting as quickly as possible across the gulf.

  She had thought she’d soon find a berth, but what she didn’t know was that there was a great over-abundance of workers at the port of Shideh, and not enough work to go around. She went along the row of Jumana-bound boats, asking timidly if there was any work available. Most of the captains didn’t even bother to answer; they glanced at her, saw a slight, skinny youth, and waved her away instantly. Those who did answer told her to get lost, couldn’t the kid see they were busy, and they didn’t take on scrawny rats in any case. Soheila could feel rage and panic mounting up in her like bile. She made wilder and wilder promises but nobody took any notice – they were too busy loading and unloading and gossiping at the tops of their voices. She was lost, in truth, in this vast crowd, and she had no idea of what to do.

  For the first time, a sense of her own helplessness and ignorance overwhelmed her. Brought up in remote Sholeh, she had had no idea of what to expect in the big city. She had expected her determination would just see her get what she wanted. She had not bargained on not even being able to get across the water!

  She was turning away from another fruitless encounter with another indifferent, harassed sailor when she saw an odd pair walking along the wharves: a fiercely moustached, henna-bearded tall old man in the black robes of a desert nomad, and a wild-looking red-headed foreign woman with a sharp nose and wearing an odd assortment of clothes. They were carrying heavy bundles, and looked rather uncertain as they gazed about them. The red-headed woman wandered off to look at one of the ships. An idea leapt into Soheila’s mind. She dashed over to the old man.

  ‘Sir, are you looking for passage on a ship across the gulf?’

  The old man looked sharply at the young boy. ‘Yes, we are.’ He spoke halting Parsarian, with a rather thick accent. ‘An Ameeratan accent,’ thought Soheila, delighted, ‘or at least from one of the lands of Al Aksara.’

  ‘Sir, it is not easy to get passage, especially for foreigners,’ she said in a boy’s voice. ‘You need a middleman to negotiate these things.’

  The old man raised his eyebrows and looked at the thin boy. ‘And you think you can do it?’

  ‘Sir, I know I can. That is my job. That is what I have been doing these many
months,’ Soheila lied, fluently, grinning cheekily up at him, fully in her role as the street urchin Payem.

  Husam smiled. ‘I suppose everyone’s got to live. What is your price then, boy, to help us negotiate?’

  ‘Passage to Jumana with you.’

  The old man looked at the boy sharply. ‘Passage to Jumana? But I thought you were working here as –’

  ‘Yes, but it does not pay much, sir. I need better work. I know there is a great deal of work over there, well-paying. And I want – I need to earn a lot more money than what I’ve been getting.’

  ‘You are also very young,’ said the old man, critically. ‘Not more than twelve, I would think.’

  ‘Thirteen, sir. Old enough to work, in my situation. I am an orphan. I came here from the mountains to try and find work. There is none here. My only hope is Jumana the White, where everyone can find a job.’

  The old man nodded, his eyes softening. Soheila saw that she had touched him, and she was fiercely glad. Of course, she still had to negotiate a deal with some ship’s captain, but that would be easy enough. Everyone knew ship’s captains were grasping individuals. They did not care about helping the poor and desperate, but were happy enough to pocket money from more wealthy travellers.

  ‘Very well,’ said the old man, ‘find us a ship, and a good deal. I will pay your passage.’