The Jinn Daughter, page 2
“I wish …” she starts to say when we’ve eaten and she’s already moving about our house, pulling things off shelves and out of drawers. I notice how long her limbs are, how much bigger she fits into our one room cottage, like she’s outgrowing it far faster than she should. Even her cot, which suited her fine just a year ago, seems almost too short for her growing figure.
And then I wonder, is she outgrowing me, too?
My daughter doesn’t finish her sentence, only shakes her head and sits back in her chair, arms folded over her chest.
“I have wishes, too,” I whisper. “But they never come true.”
3
“Off to jido’s?” I ask, as Layala slips on her velvety blue robe. It’s the one she keeps for special occasions, though we rarely have those.
When was the last time we did anything special, except for her birthday? No wonder she spends more time outside our home than she does in it.
Layala nods, but her cheeks flush red with the lie. Perhaps I should send a hawk out to follow her. I decide I will. Just to make sure she’s safe.
As soon as she dashes out the door, barely a goodbye on her lips, I take a clay ochre-hued hawk from the shelf and run my hands over it. The clay is cool and smooth, but as I slide my fingers down the hawk’s back, the clay grows warm and quivers in my palm.
The clay hawk’s eyes flash open, and I set it down on the table, letting it grow to full size.
“Watch over my girl, Saqr,” I tell it, weaving the words in the air with my fingers and letting them sink into the hawk’s soft, downy feathers.
Saqr’s eyes glint, and in the next breath he’s out the door and streaking into the sky.
I grab my basket and go outside to gather the pomegranate seeds from the night before. The basket is heavy this morning, though there are fewer seeds than normal. Just some handfuls of dead souls. But as I carry the basket on my hip, my bones feel weighed down. I glance around to make sure I didn’t miss any of those unmistakable red seeds. To leave a seed behind is to delay a soul’s passage through death.
Satisfied I’ve gathered everything, I turn toward the house, passing by the rows of ghoulsbane Layala planted to ward off any stray ghouls passing my way. The air smells sweet, too, of lavender and honeymoss, of rose petals and everything else Layala planted over the years. Things she brought back to life, even when they were on the verge of dying.
Perhaps, perhaps she has magic in her after all …
I shake my head of the thought. She is human, not magic, only blood and flesh and bone.
But remember when she brought home a sapling that was so brown and dry it crumbled when you touched it? And she brought it back to life in three days?
I glance up at that sapling, now a tree standing sentry beside my cottage.
It wanted to live, like all life. Layala has no magic. And it is best she doesn’t.
But the thought feels wrong, weak, and I know—I know—it isn’t true.
Once inside my home, I shut the door behind me. My body feels slow, and my knees click as I sit down. Even my eyelids feel heavy, and I blink a few times, trying to keep my eyes from going dry. But being tired is no excuse, so I press the seeds into a juice, and I drink.
Every morning of every day for fourteen years, I’ve done this. Every soul that has died on this side of the ocean, in the towns stretching further than I’ve ever been or ever will be, I’ve helped pass on.
The stories today are sharp, cutting through me like daggers. I pour extra honey, stirring it in until I can no longer taste tart pomegranate, only the cloying sweetness of the fresh honey I bought just days ago from the market, and the surly lady who sold it to me. I paid double the coin for it than the villagers, I know, but the color was so rich I couldn’t resist.
“Jinn,” the woman said like a curse as she passed me the jar, pursing her lips in such a way I thought she was going to spit on me. But she turned her glance away from me, taking care not to touch me as I took the jar from her.
Back in my hut, in the middle of weaving the dead’s tales, I catch the tail of one story, and it surprises me. I know this woman, an old one from the village next door. She used to cook for my family when we were wealthy and jinns were respected. In the days when I was young and the world was fresh to me. A time that feels like generations ago but is barely three decades old. Like every other soul, her story is told through images, through symbols that make little sense, even when stitched together. But every soul has its own tale, and so the images of this woman’s life sharpen into the story of a pearl tree.
I feel the story, as if I’m living it myself, and I’m transported into a small garden—though I’m still in my own kitchen—and find a man standing in it.
The pearl tree stood alone in the center of a poor man’s garden.
It dropped iridescent pearls every morning, but if the man got too close, branches whipped out to slap him. Pearls at his feet, and not one to sell in the markets.
Still, the man tried every so often to snatch just one pearl. But each effort left him with a welt across the face and a gash on his arm.
One day, the man grew so angry he decided to cut down the tree. He took an axe to its roots, dashed them into pieces, and gathered the pearls. One basket, two, then three were filled.
The tree lay in ruin, its once proud trunk a stump in the garden. Its branches lay scattered about, hacked into pieces.
The man smiled to himself, thinking of all the riches he would buy. New teeth to replace the ones he had sold for a bit of coin to buy his food. New shoes to protect his rough bare feet from being cut on stones along the road. A new house with a roof that didn’t leak. And, most of all, a wife. A beautiful one, to be dressed in jewels and dresses fit for a rani.
But when the man checked on his baskets later in the day, he found nothing but ash. He pulled at his thin hair, ripping it out in clumps. Then he ran back into his house to cry.
And in the midst of his bawling, a knock sounded at his door.
He snatched the door open, finding the kingdom’s prince standing there.
“I have heard tales of a magic tree that drops pearls instead of leaves. Do you know of this tree?”
“Why do you ask?” said the man.
“I wish to plant it in my own gardens. I will pay handsomely for it.”
The old man glanced behind the prince, at the severed pieces of the pearl tree.
“You did this?” the prince said, following his gaze.
The man nodded, tears again welling up in his eyes.
“Stupid, stupid man,” the prince said. “Do you know what you’ve done? That tree, those pearls, they are the dead. The souls of our dead. Without that tree, the dead cannot pass to the next life. They will become ghouls, wandering the earth, wreaking havoc on it.”
And just as the man had hacked at the tree, the prince’s soldiers cut down the man and left him behind to rot. They gathered the pieces of the tree, hoping upon hope that there was some magic in the world that could heal it.
The story ends there, and I am none the wiser to its meaning. Still, I sense the woman clutching her story to her breast, worth more to her than gold to the living. Her dead spirit understands the tale more than my living one could. I sense her gratitude, like the sun’s warmth on a cold winter day, and then I feel the thread between us cut.
“Rohik ma’eek,” I whisper. Your soul be with you. She’s paid her way into Mote with the tale; she will have everlasting peace.
I turn back to my juice and drink the rest, weaving each story as lovingly as I can. The morning spreads apart into the afternoon before I am finished. Night falls, and still Layala hasn’t returned home. She’s never done this before, made a habit of coming home late, and panic stirs in my heart, in my belly. I feel as if I’ve swallowed stones and they’ve settled in my stomach, weighing me down.
Saqr? I think. Where is she? I pad over to the door, sticking my head outside. I glance expectantly at the stony pathway to our house, hoping to find Layala on it. But it’s empty save for a rabbit who hops away into the woods beyond. My breath is ragged now, and then I see a familiar streak in the sky.
Saqr shoots in past me through the door, landing deftly on the table.
“Tell me,” I demand, laying my hand lightly on his back. My mind links with Saqr’s. I see flashes of Layl as Saqr followed her. She walks through town, her velvet hood up to hide her face. Smart girl.
She walks into a ribbon shop, then out, leaving empty-handed. She wanders more around town, looking at the wares, her face always hidden from others’ eyes. Villagers mill past her, stopping at stalls, exchanging coins for goods as wares are bought and sold.
Until she stops at the edge of the market, and instead of turning back home, she continues on. She walks to the village over, her steps growing lighter, more skips than steps now. She’s happy.
Happier than I’ve seen her in a while, I realize.
And then she stops at a door, glancing around before she knocks, once, twice. The door swings open. I see a hand, pale with long fingers, grip my daughter’s arm and pull her in.
Saqr’s view shifts, now glancing through the window of the house. Layala is inside, sitting by a fire, her cloak off. Her face is in full view of a boy. Just as I expected.
But this is no ordinary boy. He is one made of smoke, hair tipped with flames. His face is pale, his eyes dark, and his teeth shine with silver. He is no ordinary boy, for he is a jinn.
And some jinns are trouble.
4
It’s morning. I pace my one-room house, waiting for my daughter to return. But she doesn’t.
Go fetch her, I think. But then she’ll know you’re spying on her.
No! You are the mother, not her; you decide what she does.
And in another thought, I think, leave her be. She will tell you all when she is ready. Trust your child.
And so, I let her be, for now. But I have a mother’s worry flowing through my veins, so I awaken the hawk once more.
“Saqr,” I say, “Go find Layala.”
The hawk leaves, and I continue my pacing. Do I walk to the next village? Leave our cottage at the edge of the woods and search for my child? Or do I trust she will make good decisions?
Didn’t you make horrible, stupid decisions when you were just a bit older than her?
Saqr returns a while later, and I lay a hand on him. The images come in snatches, as if he darted around, looking for a better vantage point.
She’s asleep, her cloak draped over her fully clothed body, the fire burning bright.
So, Layala spent the night at the jinn boy’s house.
The jinn sits in his chair, watching her, stoking the flames of a fire every so often to keep it from burning too low. I narrow my eyes at him, even though I’m only seeing him through Saqr’s memory.
Saqr picks up a stick and flings it at the window, then hides from view. He perches on a tree branch, looking into the house. Layala stirs, then notices the morning light shining through the window.
I can’t hear what she says, but I see her lips move. Her eyes are wide and she’s shaking off the jinn’s grasp on her arm.
I think I see her mouth ‘I have to go.’
Saqr’s memory cuts off then, and a breath later, his body is quivering, hardening, and he is clay again. I set him up on his shelf and go outside to gather the morning’s seeds.
I’m sitting at my table, drinking pomegranate juice, when Layala rushes in through the door.
“I was worried all night,” I tell her, my voice calm, even though I note a little shakiness to it. I pull up a chair and pat it, inviting her to sit.
She remains on her feet. “I fell asleep at jido’s,” she lies, not meeting my gaze.
“I see. Did you eat yet?”
She shakes her head, now picking at the edge of our small wooden table. “I’m going to rest,” she says.
“I thought you slept at your grandfather’s?” I put a hand to her head, as if feeling for fever. “Are you unwell?”
“No, just tired,” she mutters, and her cheeks flush red. I let her go; best to not press her and have her shut herself off from me.
No, let her come to me with her heart’s secrets in her own time.
Layala undresses and slips into bed, facing away from me. I bend over her, tucking the covers under her chin and around her slender body, just as I did when she was younger.
“I love you, maman,” she says, whispering into her pillow. “I’ll never do anything to hurt you.”
I’m surprised by this, but only kiss her soft cheek, still round with baby fat yet to shed. “I know, hiyati.”
I stoke the fire to make sure she’s warm, then slip outside. The air is cold, and I wrap my maman’s old cloak tight around me. I long for the feel of the warm earth under me, for Illyas’s smile, for his reassuring words.
I make a snap decision and steal back into the house, taking jars and water, before padding toward the cemetery and back into death.
Illyas finds me, as usual.
“Hiyati,” he says, “what’s wrong?” His brows are furrowed as he tries to draw me close, but our bodies aren’t flesh enough for that. Instead, he leads me to a crumbling tower and has me sit down. The pale ground is made of tiles, cracked and cool, flowers and weeds growing through the cracks. Death mimics life, but it’s never the same.
“It feels strange here,” I note, glancing around. Even death has movement, but it’s still—too still—and it’s missing the something that gives it a semblance of life.
“It’s new,” Illyas agrees. “A few of the others stuck here wanted to build a town.” He shrugs, but he’s still watching me with worry deep in his eyes. We are in … I’m not sure what, but it’s a town, more a village, and it’s beautiful, at least for death.
I eye the gate circling the town and the fence it’s attached to. Both stand three heads higher than I am tall. It’s been years since Illyas and I broke into places we shouldn’t be in, giggling from the thrill of chasing each other into ramshackle houses and walled-up gardens.
I glance around, expecting to see huts thrown together, built out of what the land gave and what could be gathered in the woods and tied or nailed together with scraps. Instead, the houses are in neat rows, gardens and trees planted in sections of raised earth. Vines grow on the houses’ stone walls, a neat cloak protecting the stone from being bleached by rain and sun. The faint scent of jasmine wafts over me.
I scan for movement, but the town is as still as an empty grave. Stiller even, because even graves have crawling worms.
Despite the beauty, the town feels dead. Nothing stirs, not a leaf, not the grass, not a curtain behind an open window. There’s a layer of dust on everything, as if the town were abandoned. Or frozen in time.
It reminds me of the glass globe filled with little specks suspended in water that Layala’s jido, Abu Illyas, gave her when she was much younger. She would shake the globe, watching the little white specks settle on the miniature village set inside the sphere. Then she would shake it again, laughing as her head bounced back and forth. I smile at the memory, at how a simple little toy could bring her so much joy.
There’s nothing sentient around that I can see. Not a lone rabbit nibbling on a plant or a bird resting on a branch.
I shake my head of my thoughts and memories. “She’s in love with a jinn boy,” I say.
“Who? Layala?” he says, his eyebrows furrowing deeper.
I nod. “I saw them, through Saqr. She spent the night with the boy.”
He tenses.
“She kept her clothes,” I add quickly, but it does little to ease the tension rippling through his body. “But she lied to me.”
“Who’s the boy?” he asked, his voice gruffer than I’ve heard it in a while.
“I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”
Illyas gives a sharp nod, his frown carved as though in stone. “I’ll wring his neck if he does anything to hurt her.”
I snort. “You and me both, hiyati. The last thing I’d want is for her to fall pregnant at barely fifteen.”
Both our faces flush; our second-greatest mistake, and greatest joy, has been Layala. Born to young parents who knew nothing of the world, never mind raising a child, Layala tore out of me, bright red and screaming, on a night just shy of my sixteenth birthday. Illyas was three years older and he fainted at all the blood. I remember cleaning my daughter’s face of my insides while fanning him with a slip of paper.
Illyas reaches over to hover his lips over mine, and for a moment, I feel a memory of his warmth. Then it is snatched away, and lightning strikes through my body.
Something is pulling my soul back into my body.
I gulp in harsh, cold air and flick my eyes open, only to find my daughter standing before me. Her face is twisted in anger, her hands planted firmly on her hips.
“Maman,” she says, and it sounds like she’s accusing me of something. “What are you doing?”
I sniff and get to my feet, dusting dirt off me. “I needed some fresh air,” I say. “I guess I fell asleep.” I realize the sun is setting now, the air much colder than before.
She narrows her eyes at me, as if not quite believing what I say. “I woke up and you weren’t there,” she accuses. “I waited, thinking you went for a walk, but you never came back.”
Her gaze lands on a clump of drooping flowers near a gravestone, and she reaches out for them. Her hands hover over the petals, and slowly, slowly, the stems straighten.
No. Please, no. Let her not have an ounce of magic in her veins. Let her live a long, normal life.
“Well,” I say, reaching my hand out so she can help me up, distracting her. The flower wilts again, and Layala turns to me. I grunt, heaving my weight forward to stand. “Long day, I suppose. Help your maman to the house, then,” I add, leaning on her strong young figure. Going into death wears the body out more than I like to admit to myself.
Back in the house, I set a kettle to boil, not tired enough to sleep. Layala sits beside me, legs curled under her. She picks at her nails, a habit she has only when something is on her mind. The air is thick with herbs and the scent of rose petals, all picked from our garden.
