The Jinn Daughter, page 13
“Ay, you!” a servant says, “with the cloak. Where are you going? Get back in the kitchens!”
“Hadayr,” I say. Yes, of course.
They don’t wait to see if I obey; they’re too busy scurrying around. Once outside, I run as if wolves are at my heels. Run back to my house, the sheikh’s weapons clinking against me.
He’s coming to kill me, and though I want to wring his scrawny little neck and be done with him, I know I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t because I need him to sacrifice himself for Layala. And that’s what I’ll get him to do.
22
I’m already home tending the fire when fists pound on my door again. Saqr hasn’t returned yet, either, and I’m wondering where he is.
I stifle a sigh and with a glance at Layala, I move to open the door. It’s Sheikh Hamadi.
“Move, move, jinn,” he says and pushes me out of my own doorway. Barging toward Layala, I can see his knees buckle, but he catches himself and kneels beside her.
“Laylaloon,” he sobs, taking her hand in his. “My little kushtbani.”
My anger with him melts just a bit seeing him so soft with Layala.
“You killed her,” he says, his voice gravelly, not looking up at me.
“She drowned,” I say, and the compassion I was just feeling for him hardens back into steel.
“You should have been with her! You should have done something, jinn!”
He’s on his feet now, barreling toward me. I grab a clay figurine and hold it before me. “One step closer and you’ll end up like those guards you sent after me.”
He freezes, eyeing the figurine. “I was wondering where those bastards got to,” he said. “But I’ll finish what they couldn’t.” He slaps the figurine out of my hand, and it shatters against the hard floor. “He’s dead now,” I say. “You killed him. I can’t put broken clay pieces back together and bring them to life.”
He ignores my words and moves to grab my arm, but I sidestep him and kick him in the back of the knee. I slip my hand around his shoulder and latch his neck in the crook of my elbow.
He’s on his knees, caught in my grip. And though he’s strong, he’s still an old, grieving man.
“You want Layala alive?” I ask.
“Y-yes,” he chokes.
“So do I,” I say, tightening my grip on him. He struggles, but he’s too weak against me. “I want you to die,” I say. “I want you to die so Layala can live.”
He gasps something, but I don’t catch his words.
“You have to agree to sacrifice yourself,” I say. “An angry or vengeful soul is no good to me. You have to sacrifice yourself and leave in love for her to be raised.”
“I-I will kill you, jinn,” he sputters.
“Give yourself,” I say. “For Layala.” I try to make my voice soft and soothing, to calm him.
His skin is turning paler than ever.
“Sacrifice yourself,” I say.
“For Lay-for Lay-Layala,” he wheezes.
“Yes, for Layala. Do you?”
“Y-y- …” Then he grunts and I know he’s agreed. His body slackens against mine.
But is he willing enough? Will this work? Did I make a mistake, forcing his hand like this?
I shove those thoughts out of my mind. This has to work. I loosen my grip on him, letting him catch his breath.
“I will be merciful,” I say. “And I will tell your soul’s story.”
His eyes are bright and wet as he glances back at me. “Te-tell her I l-l-love her. And Illyas. Tell him-tell him I love him …”
I soften my voice more. “I will do that.”
“I … tell Layala I-I would have done it again and again for her. She is worth more to me than the blood in my veins and the soul in my body.”
“I will make sure she knows, but I know she already does.”
The sheikh hangs his head, then raises it, looking ahead. I’m still behind him, waiting for him to release whatever anger is left in him, to accept his death and sacrifice.
“Do it, jinn,” he says, his voice gruff. “But always remember this, I do it for Layala, never for you.”
“I know.”
He nods once, then lifts his head so his chin is high in the air.
“For Layala,” he says. I grab his neck from behind and slide his family dagger across his throat.
I let Abu Illyas’s body drop to the ground and lay him flat before I drag him closer to the fire. Beside him is his soul seed. It’s in my hand before I know what I’m doing, and I place it on the shelf beside his son’s pomegranate seed. “Shukran, for your sacrifice,” I say. “It won’t be in vain.”
23
I know I need to tell Illyas. And I need to find Layala’s soul in death.
I’ll try once more to get into death. Marrow and mud might get me in.
I raise my eyes to the heavens and pray, pray I will be able to enter death this day.
I have a few ghoul bones stored in jars, and I slip them into my pocket as I make my way to the cemetery. There, I chew on the bones, sucking the marrow out as quickly as I could, chanting and praying all the while. I drink from my canteen, filled with water from death’s river. And I eat the bones themselves, wincing as they slice down my throat to my stomach.
Let me in, death. Let me in. Let me in. Let me in.
I chant, and drink, and eat, and swallow grave dirt and stone and marrow and bone.
Just as I am about to give up, a tingle shoots through my body. I feel as if I’m underwater, drowning.
And as I’m gasping, I feel that familiar lighting strike through my body, and I enter the grayness and stillness of death.
Paths swerve ahead of me, each one going in a different direction, giving the illusion of choice. Birds the size of my fist flutter in the green-purple sky, clumps of feathers missing from their small bodies. A small fox, more a pale pink than the fiery orange of life, sits and watches me before turning his tail in my direction and sauntering away.
“Layala!” I choke as I stumble forward.
Death smells like rot, and I gag, dry heaving as I fall to my knees. I ignore the roiling nausea and force myself to stand. Swaying on my feet, my hands reaching out to grab something, anything, to not stumble and vomit all over. My knees almost buckle, but I catch myself and settle back into my stride.
“Illyas!” I cry. “Where are you?”
I hurry off, through death’s Waiting Place, through the stillness that weighs heavily around me.
“Illyas?” I call.
The Waiting Place, which should be filled with souls waiting to pass into Mote, is empty. The land is a small area, mostly made of watered-down colors, a pale imitation of life. Patches of grass more gray than green dot the ground, bending in a breeze I cannot feel. Flowers, white and gray and black and shades in between stand idly, as if waiting for permission to wilt and die.
The stones are cracked, the gaps wide enough I can fit my fist into them. And what used to be green is yellow now, yellow and brown and the color of rust. Even pieces of the sky are missing, leaving black spaces behind, like shards of glass.
Death is decaying. Death is decaying. Death is decaying.
I shove the thoughts away.
“Layl?” I call out, taking the handle of the single white door floating in a mist of clouds and water droplets.
The door opens and lets me through, revealing a town beyond. The streets are a pale blue, washed out gray cobblestone, with rows of pale gray light torches lining it. Small stone cottages sit connected to each other on either side of the streets, dull white light flooding out from the candles lit at their windows. The sky above me is a washed out purple, with clouds that look sickly in their off-whiteness and their shriveled, floating appearance.
“Layl? Illyas?” I call out, glancing into each window I pass.
Souls, like bodies, lay in beds or sprawled out on the cottage floors. A few sit in chairs, turning the pages of blank books, as if staring at the pages would make words appear.
“Layl!” I yell louder. “It’s maman!”
A bird the size of my palm darts before me, startling me back a step. It rests atop one of the tall torches, cocking its head as it follows my movements.
“Nado?” I hear a voice say. Then, “Maman!”
Two shadowy figures approach, and I run to them, stumbling over my own feet.
“Layala!” I cry, taking her into my arms, only for her to turn to smoke and reappear before me.
“Maman?” she says. “Why—”
“It’s death, baby, you have no body.”
I turn to look at Illyas, who’s frowning. “Nado,” he says. “Where have you been? I couldn’t visit you.”
“I couldn’t get in; death wouldn’t let me. But first,” I say, turning back to Layala. “Tell me, Layl. What happened at the river?”
But her lips curl up into a tight line, and she says nothing.
“Layl. You have to tell me.”
“I fell in, I think,” she says, but she’s not looking me in the eye. And her arms are crossed tight over her chest. “But I remember feeling a hand on my back.”
“Oh, Layl,” I say and want to squeeze her so tight.
“Maman, really, I drowned. It happens. I’m … happy. I can now take on Death’s mantle, I can have a purpose.”
“No, Layl, it doesn’t just happen. Tell me who pushed you. Tell me, because your jido sacrificed himself for you.”
Illyas goes still. “Nado?” he questions softly.
“I’m sorry, Illyas. Truly, I am.”
Layala screams.
“I died, maman. I died. I am meant to die!”
She’s on her knees now, hunching into herself. I want to take her into my arms, soothe her. But I can’t.
“Please, Layl, you have to tell me.”
“You!” she shouts and moves away from me. “You did this to him.”
“I have to raise you, Layl. And the only way—”
“No, you don’t. You should leave me dead. I was ready to die, maman. I didn’t want to, but then I did. And I’m—”
“No, no, Layl, no. You can’t die, not now,” I argue. “That can’t be. I found you. You should have been floating down the river or at its bottom. You can’t say you were meant to die if it wasn’t a natural death.”
“I don’t know, maman. I remember something pushing me in, then something else pulling me out, but I was fading.” She’s screwing up her face, and I know death makes it difficult to remember things, especially for a young soul.
She must note my strain, because she smiles softly. “It’s okay, maman. I should have been dead all these years. And Rami should not die. Sayil should not have to take Death’s mantle, not if I am willing.”
“But you’re not, Layl. You can’t.”
“Yes, maman, I am, and I will.”
“No, no, Layl, please,” I say, and I’m on my knees begging my own child to let me bring her back to life.
She kneels before me, and her voice is hushed now. “I’m sorry, maman, but I’m dead. I’m here, and I’m dead, and I’m with baba. And I’ll find jido.”
“I’ll be alone,” I say. “And you, you were to have a long, happy life.”
“I will, maman!” she says, laughing now. “Don’t you see? I will have a reason for my life. I will be Death.”
“You can’t stay dead, Layl. I can’t—I won’t accept that.”
My fingers itch to touch her, to pull her in to me. But I keep them at my side. “Listen, Layl, I am your mother, and nothing is more important to me than you. Nothing. Not my life, not even your father’s, nothing.”
Her face contorts and her shoulders shake, but in death there are no tears. My heart twists and I want to pull her out of death and sit her by the fire in our home and tell her that everything will be fine.
I get to my feet now, and I stare at Layl. “I am bringing you back to life, Layala. And so help me, you are going to stay alive this time.”
She looks at me with those wide, wide eyes. “Maman, no. I will drown myself again and again if I have to.”
“Layala,” Illyas says. “Your mother is right. She is giving you another chance—”
“Don’t you see?” Layala shrieks. “I want this. I want to be Death. I want the mantle passed to me. I want to do something with my life. And this is it!”
“No!” Illyas and I yell at the same time.
Layala takes a step back, and before Illyas can reach out for her, she’s running. Running away from us, her back the last I see of her before she disappears behind a cloud of mist.
Illyas turns to me, his eyes mournful. “Bring her back, Hakawati. If it’s the last thing you do.”
24
My hands know what to do before my mind does. Trailing her skin, I pour warm oil over it and rub herbs into the creases at her elbows, knees, and neck.
Her body lies before the fire, kept warm by the crackling flames. I tie her oiled hair in a braid as thick as my fist and wrap it around her head like a crown. The oil gives the strands a sheen, a mimicry of what it was in life. But no matter, her hair will soon be shiny and vibrant with life again.
Abu Illyas’s body is beside her. The back of his head, covered with hair white and thick, is a muddled purple color from the pooled blood. His back and shoulders are also a mottled purple and brown, but that makes it easier for me to insert a needle into his flesh and let out the blood I’ll need.
The worst part is letting my own blood. To do a proper raising, there has to be fresh blood for the body being raised.
I turn Abu Illyas’s body over and insert the needle into his back. The blood is dark and thick, and it drains into a bowl through a glass vial the needle is attached to.
I prepare the herbs—mixes of ones so old they’re dust, but still potent. Herbs fresh from the woods beyond the cabin, dirt taken from the old cemetery behind my home. Water from the well, mud and clay kneaded together as if I’m baking bread. Heat from the fire and steam from a kettle boiling over it, ash from wood just burned. Marrow from animal bones, salt to sprinkle in.
The bodies were all made of Earth, which gave flesh and bone. The bodies were given souls made of Sky. Blood was brought to life by Fire and Sea.
And so, Death asked her friends, creatures of stone and sand and clay, water and foam and flame, breath and dirt. She asked them for their help.
Earth fashioned a being made of clay and sand and made golems.
Sea made a creature of salt and water and made marids.
Sky took air and cloud wisps and rain and made ghouls.
Fire took ash and smoke and made jinns.
I coat Layala’s body first with ash, marring her clean skin with dark smudges. Then I layer her with the mud and clay, a thick coat that would have stiffened her joints if they weren’t already stiff.
The herbs and dirt I mix in with the water. Her mouth, shut in death, I have to pry open with a silver spoon. I pour the liquid down her throat, knowing it will only settle in her stomach. The marrow I then mix with the salt and coat her mouth in it. I bring the kettle to her face, a mimicry of breath and air, and let the steam coat her skin, her mouth, settle around her nose.
The sun fades in through the window, and the moon takes over in the sky. And then the moon skips across the sky, until the sun retakes its place, and still I work.
I reach up for the shelf and take Abu Illyas’s soul seed down. I lay it gently in a flat dish beside Layala’s hand.
That seed I will eat, and I will learn Abu Illyas’s soul’s story. And it is that story I will weave into Layala’s soul, to become part of her.
I bleed myself.
I lean against the foot of the table, facing Layl, and watch as bright red blood flows out my arm through a glass needle. My blood fills a bowl as deep as my wrist, and then I take another bowl to fill.
The lightheadedness comes in waves. My vision blurs. I see spots, and then nothing. I know if I try to stand, I will stumble, so I stay sitting and hang my head down between my knees, the urge to vomit overwhelming me.
Sweat pours down my face, and my body flashes between feeling hot and cold, numb and tingly.
And still, I bleed myself. The second bowl fills up and I take another one, placing the needle’s other end into it.
My blood is coming out slower now, my body fighting to keep it in my veins.
A moan escapes from my lips. I am on my hands and knees now, though I want to lie down and go to sleep.
I reach out for Abu Illyas’s soul seed, feeling for it with my fingers.
It’s a bit cool to the touch, rubbery-skinned. I pop it into my mouth and bite down. The tartness floods my tongue and I chew until my teeth grind the seed into pieces, then I swallow.
The stories flood me. I clutch at one, only to find it tugged out my grasp. My mind can’t keep them straight. There are flashes of steel and metal, of wood and ash, of greens and greys and browns and whites.
I see brushstrokes of blood. Smears of ash on skin.
The stories are a jumbled mess that make no sense. I feel pain, a pain so deep I think I will either be consumed by it or grow so numb, that I am nothing but an abyss. My heart aches the way it never has before, aches more than seeing Layala dead, more than when Illyas died. More than when my family was imprisoned. Aches more than all the pain I have ever felt added together.
And the pain gnaws at me. Every thought is threaded through with that pain. My body feels on fire, feels burned and bled and raw and beaten. My soul itself feels as if it’s being buried and buried and buried again under fire and steam and heat and ash.
And that could only mean one thing—his soul is in Jahannam. His soul seed is unusable.
I remember something my maman told me once, when I was young. Your soul seed carries all your good and all your bad within it. Enough wrongdoings, and your seed will end up in Jahannam, unable to pass onto Mote. So be good, child, do good, and keep the bad few and far in between.
I gasp, ripping the needle out of my arm. Crawling to Abu Illyas, I check on the bowls filled with his blood. The blood is dark and too thick to do much with.
