Call of the Djinn
by Sean Krummerich
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
The man’s deep, booming voice rang from his perch at the tower of the mosque, and traveled through the streets of al-Qahira as it had done five times every day for the previous fifteen years. All the citizens of the bustling village stopped in their tracks and heeded the man’s call. In homes, in schools, in the market, and elsewhere, people kneeled down and turned toward the east. They prostrated themselves, praying in the name of God, the benevolent and merciful. A few minutes later, their obligation having been fulfilled, the populace continued on about its business.
A tall and very thin middle-aged man, Ahmad ibn al-Ghazi by name, walked slowly down the tower steps. “Each time I make this trip, it seems to take a little longer,” he said softly to himself. He paused to scratch an itch on his graying beard. When he continued down the stairs, he felt a tug on his white robe. Turning around, he saw that the hem was caught on a crack in the stone on the stairway. He pulled it loose and continued, thinking, Ah, me. As long as I have been doing this, one might think that I might be able to avoid these hazards.
Some minutes later he opened the door to the main antechamber of the mosque, a spacious, silent room with a high arched ceiling and walls covered with tiled mosaics. The scent of recently extinguished candles still hung in the air. Upon stepping into the room, he was greeted by the imam, the leader of the mosque’s congregation, who emerged from behind the intricately carved wooden pulpit at the far corner of the chamber.
“Brother Ahmad, as always, a marvelous call to prayer.”
“I’m pleased that you liked it. Because it will be my last.”
“What?”
“You heard me. As of today, I’m resigning my post.”
“But why, Ahmad?”
“You know why. This is a decision that I made in my heart the night of the fire. I just haven’t been able to bring myself to go through with it until now.” He cast his head down slightly and sighed with the weight of a heavy heart.
“Perhaps,” the imam said with a mixture of consternation and consolation in his voice, “it’s because you know deep down that the muezzin’s role is the one to which God called you; and that God has not rescinded that call.”
“God’s call? What do I care what God wants for me?” Ahmad barked back, “That night, Imam, I saw my wife and my three children burn, and I could do nothing to save them!” Ahmad paused for a few seconds and rubbed his right arm, which was badly scarred and still pained him from that night several months earlier.
“You have endured much suffering, this is true,” the imam respectfully replied. “But if you are steadfast in your faith, God will see you through this time of trial.”
“God will do nothing of the kind! What kind of God would permit innocents to suffer and die in this way? This God is not worth serving. Perhaps...” — he let out a deep sigh — “Perhaps he doesn’t exist at all.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying!” exclaimed the imam, with a look on his face that reminded Ahmad of a child fearful of punishment for some misdeed.
“I do indeed,” said Ahmad. Choosing to cut short any further debate, he held out his hand to the imam and shifted the tone of his voice to one of gratitude. “For what it’s worth, Imam, I’ve truly enjoyed being in your company over the years.”
As he shook Ahmad’s hand, the kindly imam honored him by adding, “I will delay naming a successor for as long as I can, in case you change your mind.”
“I won’t. Goodbye.” Ahmad turned and walked out of the mosque.
The fiery Arabian sun was setting as Ahmad walked down the broad avenue, and the city was surrendering itself to the approaching shadow. As he walked along, he dwelled upon the events that had brought him to this point in his life. He continued upon this path for the better part of an hour before he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
In his daze he had traveled not to his intended location, the inn that had served as home to him for the past several months, but instead he found himself standing before the charred ruins of his former family home.
Ahmad could vividly recall that horrible night; how he had returned home from the mosque to find his entire home engulfed in flames. He’d heard his wife’s screams coming from the bedroom, where she and their six-month old daughter were trapped. He could still feel the flames licking his arms, as he’d frantically run into the house and tried to rescue them. He had just caught sight of his two sons, the elder holding the younger in his arms, when a fiery support beam collapsed, crashing down on top of the two boys. Ahmad could recall nothing further then, as he himself had collapsed from smoke inhalation, and was dragged from the scene by neighbors.
It did not matter to him that, as the constable had later told him, a knocked-over oil lamp had ignited the fire. His beloved family and his humble home were gone, now... gone forever. As the night’s events replayed themselves in his mind’s eye, Ahmad ibn al-Ghazi fell to the ground, weeping uncontrollably.
* * *
As day broke over the city gates, Ahmad loaded the last of his provisions onto the camel that had been assigned to his team within the caravan.
“Ahmad!” came a voice from behind him. He turned to see his cousin Khalid.
“So it’s true, what they are saying. You are leaving us. Where are you going, and when will you return?”
“Well, Khalid, the caravan is now traveling to al-Hajriyah. I don’t know yet if I’ll stay there or if I will head elsewhere.”
“My next question then would be, why?”
“I have lived out my entire life here in al-Qahira. It’s time I saw more of the wider world. And,” he sighed deeply, “there is nothing left for me here.”
“So, will you eventually be coming back home?”
“I don’t know. If so, not for a long while. Perhaps never.” He turned and embraced his cousin, saying softly, “Farewell, Khalid.”
Stepping back and looking into his older cousin’s deep, dark eyes, he saw the resolve there, so simply replied, “Farewell, Ahmad.”
“Make ready for departure!” called the caravan master up ahead. Ahmad cinched down the rope that held fast his belongings atop the camel’s back. Without looking back, he began walking steadfastly forward, finally having begun his journey away from the life he’d known.
As the sun continued its ascent, the members of the caravan began their long trek across the desert. Khalid stood at the city gate watching the party until it faded from sight at the horizon.
“May you find what you are looking for, Ahmad.” Khalid gently raised and then lowered his head, up and down, and then quietly turned to walk back toward his home.
Ahmad trudged slowly over the sand dune. In one hand he held the rein of his pack animal, following a few feet behind him. With the other hand he pulled his robe over his head, seeking to shield himself from the sun’s oppressive rays. And to think I used to complain about the heat in the bazaar! he thought. If only my wife could see me now!
As the burning sun beat down on each man and animal in the caravan, and hot winds blew up off the desert, penetrating into every fiber of their being, Ahmad could see that all present began to betray their intense craving for some sort of relief. Ahmad whispered aloud, “I would give just about anything for some more water right now!”
But the caravan master kept tight control over their water supply, stingily rationing it out. They did, after all, have a limited supply, and it had to last until they reached al-Hajriyah, over one hundred and fifty miles away.
For a span of hours that appeared to pass like weeks, the caravan continued its march across the punishingly hot desert. Finally, when Ahmad felt he could go no farther and was nearly falling over from exhaustion, the order came from the front of the line to halt and make camp for the night. The famished Ahmad greedily lapped up his share of water, and consumed his meager evening meal within seconds. Soon afterward, he curled his weary body up on the mass of old clothing on the sands, which served as his bed, and began yet another night of fitful slumber.
Not long after he’d drifted off to sleep, he was awakened by a soft voice calling to him from over the dunes. He looked up at the sky, and divined that it was shortly after midnight. Ahmad slowly rose and followed the sound of the voice, which continued and whose enticement he found himself unable to resist. He wandered several hundred feet away from the camp, eventually coming to a halt along a large sandstone boulder. There, straight in front of him stood his beloved wife, her long, curled raven hair wafting in the night breeze. She extended her right forefinger and beckoned to him.
It can’t possibly be real, Ahmad thought to himself. He rubbed his eyes, yet she was still standing there when he opened them. The rational part of Ahmad’s mind went back to sleep, and his longing took him. He reached out and touched her hand.
At the very moment his hand touched hers, the desert wind began to blow like a gale, the sands rose up, and Ahmad found himself in the middle of a sandstorm the like of which he had never seen nor heard of. And with the rise of the tempest, the figure of his wife immediately vanished, and the howling sands obscured sight of all else.
While the wind continued to pick up speed, Ahmad took a step or two forward, lost his footing, and fell to the ground. Unable to find something to anchor him, he began to tumble across the dunes. Suddenly, an old piece of wood flying through the air struck the back of his head, and all went dark for Ahmad.
* * *
“Ouch!” said Ahmad, as he slowly rose to his feet, rubbing the bump on the back of his head. Looking up at the sky, he determined it was about mid-day. All around him, he could see nothing but sand. It slowly dawned on him that he had no idea where he was or where the caravan was. Even if I could find my way back to the camp, he reflected, the caravan would undoubtedly have moved on by now. Hm-mm. Lost in the desert, no food and no water. He stood up and looked all around himself, turning in a wide circle. There’s nothing to do now but lie down and await death.
Yet something inside him urged him to keep moving, a thin sliver of belief in a chance of rescue.
For several hours, he wandered the desert, having made a wild guess as to which direction might lead him to the caravan. But when his endurance slipped away, Ahmad fell to the ground in a delirious heap. Lying face down, he lifted his head and opened his eyes, wondering what would be the last thing they would see before they closed for the last time. And there, no more than a league in front of him, he saw water.
A mirage, no doubt, he thought, trying to focus in on what lay before him. Remembering an old proverb, “It’s better to die on one’s feet,” he stood up and shambled toward the water. As he approached, he saw that it appeared to be a wide river. And not much farther in the distance, he could see a cluster of buildings along the bank of the river, with tall ships anchored near the shore.
A port town? he wondered. In the middle of the desert? Now I know that I have lost my senses! Ahmad approached the shore and drew handfuls of the water into his mouth. It’s pure, fresh water, no less, he exclaimed to himself. Once he had drunk his fill, he proceeded into the town.
The shadows cast by the setting sun preceded Ahmad into the town’s center. It seemed to Ahmad as if his shadow were even more eager than he was to divine the mystery of this settlement. To his left, he saw a rug shop closing for the night. The scent of roasting quail wafted from a house farther down the street. Walking a few feet in front of Ahmad was a young man whose arms were laden with small logs, probably to be used for firewood. From a side street, Ahmad heard a creaking coming from a cart, full of what appeared to be chairs and divans, which was being pulled away from the direction of the port.
As he stood there taking all of this in, he was suddenly jostled from behind.
“Oh, pardon me, sir,” said a man who passed him and continued on down the street.
“A very convincing mirage!” said Ahmad softly to himself.
As he walked farther down the street, he spied a tavern, which he quickly entered. He sat down at an empty stool and addressed the man behind the bar.
“Strange place for a town, in the middle of the desert, far off the caravan trails. How does such a settlement survive?”
“We do well enough for ourselves,” the bartender replied, eyeing Ahmad with a look of anticipation that Ahmad was not entirely comfortable with. “After all, we don’t have to worry about competition from major trading centers like al-Hajriyah.”
“Right. Anyway, I’ve had a really hard time of it lately, and I could do with a draught of the strongest drink you have.”
“As you wish,” said the bartender as he filled a mug with a dark brown liquid slightly thicker than an al-Qahira ale. “Here you go, sir,” he added, handing it to Ahmad, “one Peaceful Slumber.”
Ahmad took a long draft out of the mug, and in moments, felt his entire body shake, and a fiery sensation welled up in the middle of his chest.
“Well, that is strong! Why do you call it a ‘Peaceful Slumber’?”
“You should be able to tell... right about...” — he paused for a second — “now.”
Ahmad suddenly felt extremely lightheaded atop the stool. As the room started to spin about him, he lost his balance and began falling, in slow motion, toward the floor. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was the blurry image of the bartender grinning at him.
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Sean Krummerich
