First Encounter

(where two old shaykhs in current time recall a very important meeting in their youth. This Jinn in the first book, Jinn Theory, is not fixed temporally, and appears in forms appropriate to the seeker)


1954 - Widad sped across the flat arid plane towards the low foothills of the distant mountain range, the wind whipping her mane and tail, her nostrils flaring in delight as her hooves pounded the dry earth and sent the dust flying. Her young rider Tursun was just fourteen years old. Widad was a magnificent horse, young and wild as Tursun himself, and he recognized to his secret delight that she was still part wild, though he would never tell his father about this.

There were times when Tursun could not control her, and then he had to just give her the wind and let himself go where she carried him. He trusted her completely, trusted the bond between them and knew she would never hurt him, never try to throw him. But still, he would never betray her secret to his father, the secret that she had defiantly resisted being broken by him and turned into a docile and obedient slave.

A far lesser horse by far than Widad had killed Tursun’s older brother just three years before when he foolishly tried to break her before he had won her trust, before she had come to love him. Tursun knew that any man who broke a horse would have nothing but a slave in that animal and that this was all most men wanted in a horse. Tursun knew many secret things about horses, despite his young age, things no one had ever told him, but that he knew just the same.

Widad was the most beautiful thing Tursun had ever seen in his life, her soft tan colored body, mane and tail the color of milk, and the startling black shocks streaking through the long tail and mane made her look almost other worldly. But today, Widad was behaving herself, possibly because she carried his friend as well who clutched at Tursun’s coat and laughed loudly as they tore through the desert towards the low rise of the first hills outside the city.

Tursun and Khosro had been thrown out of class again by the teachers. It wasn’t that they were bad students to be sure. But even in the holiest city of Shi’a Islamic scholarship, Qom where young men fought and almost killed themselves to succeed, to excel and show their devotion and piety, to rise with distinction and above all humility to the ranks of scholars themselves, there were those occasional fourteen year old boys who refused to submit themselves to the yoke of expectation, who refused to be broken and who remained in some ways wild to the ways of serious men.

Fathers worked relentlessly for many years pulling the right strings, calling in the thinnest of favors to ensure their sons had the best opportunities to advance in the vast clerical system that governed the religious and social life of Iran, knowing that their sons’ futures, and their own prestige and that of their families, and the assurance of their future financial security in their old age, depended on the success of their sons at these best schools. The most fortunate of these of course were the sons of the descendents of the Prophet, those clerics who wore the distinct black turbans and were a visible standard of excellence for all to observe and admire and hopefully, as best they could, emulate and walk in the shadows of the greatest teachers among them.

Tursun’s father wore the black turban and was a minor but comfortably ensconced cleric in the mosque. He was deeply humiliated and angered that Tursun’s lack of seriousness and failure to conform to the demands of hard work and propriety necessary, at the very minimum, to maintain one’s foothold in this ancient and powerful system, had made something of a spectacle of his son. And this spectacle caused the father no small embarrassment as he suffered repeated and increasingly aggressive and demanding inquiries and rebukes into why he could not control his own son. He had even beaten the boy mildly, but to no avail and nothing he said, no angry demands of his own, no pleading tears from his mother, no warning that he was ruining Khosro’s chances for success along with his own, none of these arguments seemed to get through to Tursun.

Khosro himself was not so fortunate. His father came from a line of very minor clerics in the lowest orders of the civic functions of the religious schools. It was this father’s loyalty and long standing devotion to that system that allowed Khosro, and at very great financial expense and sacrifice to his father and his mother’s family, to enter the educational system at a level the father himself had never attained, and that would put him in line for a comfortable position and elevation above the humble origins of his family. Khosro’s father was deeply hurt and disappointed and offended that his son did not appreciate his efforts, did not understand what was at stake and what sacrifices he and the boy’s mother had made to get him into that school and that their son did not make the best use of this precious opportunity.

And now, the boys had become something of a greater problem at school and were frequently skip their classes altogether when they weren’t actually asked to leave because they had pulled some silly juvenile prank. Khosro’s father threatened to separate the boys if they didn’t straighten out and if all his efforts came to nothing as his son squandered his only chance to enter the higher ranks of social and religious life. He knew his son was a good boy, and that is was Tursun who was the instigator in all this nonsense. And he knew that Tursun was a good boy too, at heart. He just didn’t take anything as seriously as he should and didn’t seem to understand what was at stake.

And there had been other complaints as well, more ominous in tone. There were those who grumbled that the boys did not take their religious obligations seriously and that flaunting the dignity of the school and the teachers, so many Sayyids among them, was open disrespect of religion and of the Prophet and of Allah himself. The words kafir and apostate and Shaytan were whispered among the sourest of the old clerics, while most of the younger ones, fathers themselves, dismissed these suggestions by reminding everyone that they had all been boys at one time and had no doubt long forgotten their own foolishness and disobedience.

And Tursun’s father threatened to take Widad away and sell her at the market to someone far away, knowing that the horse was the most important thing in his son’s life. But so far, he had been unable to carry through with this threat and so he increasingly was called to appear before one angry teacher after another and explain what was to be done about these two. It was already assumed by many at the school that the boys were just not cut out for clerical life and that they had best start scratching out a place for themselves elsewhere within society.

Both fathers had discussed the need to begin searching in earnest for suitable wives for their boys, hoping to settle them down and remove them from the public eye and into more quiet forms of employment on distant family farms or in the bazaars. Perhaps, it was suggested by some, that since Tursun was so good with horses, he could go live on his maternal grandfather’s horse ranch and be far away and out of sight for good. But Tursun’s father could not abide this and so he promised to talk with his son, again, and to reel him in and force him to understand the need to get serious and diligently renew his studies.

These mad afternoon rides out into the desert would have to stop in favor of study, and the whispering rumors, like the filthy buzzing of flies that Tursun and Khosro had been riding out to the forbidden wells would absolutely have to stop. Those wells were haunted, they were not safe, and there had even been talk of a very great evil that lived in the waters there, an evil that no true Muslim would dare entangle himself within. Tursun’s father had spoken to Khosro’s father about this concern as well, hoping that if he could scare Khosro into refusing to go on these insane rides into the desert that perhaps Tursun would stop going as well. Tursun’s father had never dared to utter the word Jinn when warning his son about the wells, because he feared this might inspire and excite his precocious son’s imagination all the more and inflame him to seek out the truth of this place even if he had not already done so.

It was Friday, and Widad raced across the open plane towards the first rise of the low hills that fed into the mountains where there was yet snow on the highest peaks, even though the soft valleys of the foothills were densely carpeted with wildflowers. Tursun sensed a change in Widad’s body and the strength of her gait as she broke into a free run and he lost all control of her. She was going where she willed to take them, and it was almost as if she scented the nearness of an ancient home as she raced to regain something long lost and precious to her.

Perhaps Khosro sensed this too as he laughed wildly again behind him but clung all the more tightly to Tursun’s coat. Soon, the boys could see the ruins of the old wells and the tunnels that had for centuries carried water from the mountains to the city and had irrigated the fields outside its walls. Tursun had longed to come here, to explore and to see for himself if the wild legends were true, or if they were only stories made up to frighten schoolboys away from places of purely worldly danger. But as they neared the rough mounds and crumbling walls of the ruined wells, Widad hesitated in mid stride, and then stumbled, throwing Khosro and Tursun to the ground as she fell beside them and screamed in agony.

Tursun staggered to his feet and looked frantically around in horror as he saw Khosro lying motionless on the ground, and his beloved Widad struggling to get up, her front right leg clearly broken. Tursun growled in agony himself, sensing his beloved horse’s pain and terror and not knowing what to do, the tears welling in his eyes as he ran to his human friend first to see if he was alive. Khosro was breathing and nothing seemed broken and he soon came around and sat up, his eyes turning to Widad in sadness and disbelief, his lips trembling in wordless mumbling.

The beautiful animal just lay where she had fallen, now panting rapidly for air, her eyes and nostrils flaring and almost mad. Tursun stood up and started looking quickly around. For some reason, he thought they should get to the nearby well for water. That was what they needed, water. It made no sense but it seemed urgent. If he could get Widad some water, she might calm down. He did not even allow himself to think what this would mean, what his father would do with a horse with a broken leg. Water, they needed water and that was all he could think of.

So he helped Khosro limp to the well. At the well’s scared ancient rim, they peered over into the chasm but could not see the bottom as it disappeared in the narrowing black abyss of the system of tunnels. There was an old skin tied to a leather rope beside the well and Tursun lowered this into the darkness below, hoping it would reach the water and that it would be drinkable or at least cool and clean enough to clean their faces and cool down Widad’s heaving body. The boys worked in silence, their bodies shaking and neither daring to even look at each other much less speak. Then they heard the stiff dried skin hit the water below, but as Tursun leaned in to draw it out, he slipped and lurched into the well himself, dangling precariously as his fingers gripped the dry and flaking masonry.

Khosro cried out that they were lost, damned by God for their disobedience. And as he reached in to drag his friend out of the abyss, Khosro lost his footing and was pulled into the darkness by Tursun’s weight and the two fell headlong into the stagnant waters below. They hit the pool at the bottom of the well with a loud splash and though the water was not deep, it was enough to break their fall. They crawled out of the shallow pool into the opening that lead to the first gallery of tunnels off the main waterway.

The heavily musty scene was dimly lit by a feint eerie glow as phosphorescent lichen cast weak shadows and reflected patches of mineral on the ancient walls of the tunnel. The distant rhythmic echo of slowly dripping water seemed almost like a living voice, an otherworldly whisper that carried a message their ears could not understand.

Khosro sat down and began to weep, for themselves and for Widad laying alone and hurt by the entrance to the well above. “They were right.” He whimpered. “We should never have come here, and now Allah is punishing us and we deserve it!”

Tursun turned and glared at him, then continued looking around in silence, searching for a way out or at the very least, if they were indeed doomed to die here, he wanted to see what his tomb looked like. And he was trying desperately to block out the image of his beloved Widad, either dying or already dead above them with him unable even to comfort her. He said nothing to his friend, but let him sit there, lost in his own thoughts. But after a few minutes, Khosro found his courage and joined Tursun and the two began to gingerly explore the cavern of the tunnel as it opened into a series of large rough hewn tanks where water was kept and stored until needed.

The smell of damp earth and stale water and mold was almost overpowering and the boys wrapped their turbans tightly against their mouths and noses just to breath against another smell. There were bats here too, the high pitched chitering of their speech thick and at times deafening in the air and their leavings heavy as mud in places beneath their feet. The two kept moving forward, deeper into the tunnel, hoping to see a light from above where the next well connected along the gallery might provide a way out.

Soon however, it became clear to Tursun that they had lost their way and he had become disoriented and could no longer tell what direction they were headed, if they were merely retracing their steps or where the next well might even lay. He really feared that they had stepped into the wrong tunnel and were only moving deeper into the mountain from which there would be no way out.

After what seemed like ages of time, the boys sat down to rest, having no idea what to do next. They sat in silence, despair and fear pulling them further away from each other and crippling their very thoughts. Perhaps they had dozed briefly, or entered some strange dark contemplative state, but suddenly they were startled out of their reverie and pulled to their feet by the sound of distant laughter, a laughter that echoed upon the dripping water and filled the cavern. For a moment wondered if they had really heard anything at all.

They leapt to their feet and looked at one another, their breath coming quickly as the petals of tinkling laughter again echoed in the cavernous hall. They stood and looked madly around but saw no one. Then they heard the sound of nearing footsteps splashing through water and then the figure of a man, his shadow cast against the weird lichen glow like a monster the size of ten men. And then the figure entered the cavern where the boys stood tensely waiting, their breaths trapped within their heaving chests.

Tursun and Khosro gazed in complete shock as the figure of an impeccably dressed Sayyid Ayatollah in dazzlingly clean robes walked slowly up to them and smiled. Neither boy moved, as the absolute impossibility of this scene crawled over their skin and threatened to drive them from consciousness. For although the figure looked like a man, he was clearly over seven feet tall, his back stooped against the arching curves of the cave walls. He entered the vaulted room where the two boys stood and straightened his body to his full height.

“Who are you?” Tursun gasped, his body shuddering in an effort that took every ounce of strength and determination he had.

“Your ears could not hear my name, nor your tongue speak it. So I will spare you the embarrassment.” The man smiled warmly.

“Blasphemy!” Khosro snarled with a desperate cry and then immediately regretted it, his eyes wild with unbelief at what he had said.

“Blasphemy that I am wearing these robes? Or blasphemy that you cannot speak my name? Or perhaps it is blasphemy that one such as myself dares to speak to the grand and imperial sons of Adam?” the man asked, breaking into a warm grin and eying the two with a shake of his head.

“These may indeed be blasphemy, I do not know really.” he said offhandedly with a wave of his hand. “But if they are, then I stand charged and guilty, and my only duty is to submit to my punishment. If however there are other forms of blasphemy at work here as well, then perhaps I will find good company in you two fine young sons of Adam in my condemnation.” The man said softly and then pulled up his robes and seated himself on the side of one of the catchment pools. Khosro and Tursun looked at one another and saw there was no recourse but to sit down too and regard this strange figure, hoping perhaps that they had fallen sleep and were merely delirious and might soon awaken.

“No boys, you are most assuredly wide awake and I am here before you, if not quite exactly as I seem. This” he said regarding his body and the draping robes, “is merely for the comfort of your fragile human eyes.” The figure sat regarding them fully for a moment, as if gathering his words.

“Let’s see, where shall we begin? Ah yes, two young boys. And a woman who sells her dowry, her only protection and support in the case of her husband’s death, to ensure that her son gets a good education so that he may become a respected cleric one day and rise above the honest but humble diggers in the soil from which he came. The boy does not study, he frequently is absent from his classes, he makes jokes about his teachers and incites other students to laugh at the teachers behind their backs. Yes, blasphemy, I think this is indeed blasphemy.” The man said nodding with satisfaction.

Khosro’s heart almost stopped beating in his chest and he and Tursun looked at one another and shook their heads, not believing what they were hearing.

“Another boy is the son of a Sayyid, but a Sayyid of modest means and attainments, and even more modest resources. This father has virtually sold himself into humiliation and penury in his desperate attempt to get his son admitted to the best schools in the city of clerics. He has begged and bothered every teacher for years while his son was still a child, trying to convince them what a brilliant student his son would one day become, how pious, what great and unusual potential his young son possessed.

Now however, this son appears mainly as the joke of the city, the class buffoon, and his father is humiliated and ridiculed all over town because his son has failed to live up to the expectations that the father insisted were in the boy and needed to be developed for the sake of them all. Hmm, yes, I believe this too is blasphemy.” The Jinn said, nodding again to himself at the obvious clarity of his own pronouncements.

Khosro and Tursun gazed on the creature who sat before them in horror, in part because of the otherworldly creature himself, but also from hearing their own deeds brought to light.

“Oh, but there’s more, so much more! One of the top teachers in the whole city, a Grand Ayatollah, walks into a class devoted to the study of human morality and ethics. He seats himself on his cushions and notices a most unusual and unpleasant sensation. Somehow, a rather large goose’s egg has made its way into the cover of his cushion and the crushed mess soils his robes but not his dignity. The ayatollah says nothing, he does nothing, refusing to allow the perpetrators the satisfaction of seeing him jump up and make a fool of himself before the class. The Sayyid delivers a particularly lengthy class that day, then goes home to wash himself thoroughly before the evening prayer. What could this be? I do not know about you son’s of Adam, but to me, a mere Jinn created of fire, this is blasphemy!” the Jinn said indignantly, as Khosro began to weep silently and Tursun hung his head.

”And being a mere Jinn, I have perhaps a broader understanding of blasphemy than two such as yourselves. Two boys, two very bright boys after all who truly do possess as much potential in the world as they choose to exercise, two such boys are punished and sent to work on farms doing honest but menial work that never allows them to exercise their minds and develop themselves the ways their Creator intended. This, this one such as myself thinks is blasphemy too.

“But blasphemy though it is, it is a mild sort of blasphemy indeed compared to that of thoughtless disrespect and lack of appreciation for ones parents and their sacrifices and the pain and confusion this causes them. It is blasphemy to flaunt the gifts of Allah and not use them as He intended. Your disobedience and lack of respect has caused pain and humiliation to many people, and that lack of obedience has now caused your beloved horse to lie dying in the dirt above our heads.” The Jinn added sadly, looking gravely at the two boys whose shoulders shook in silent agonizing tears.

“Sir, we are despicable fools.” Tursun whispered. “We, we are so sorry.” He gasped through his constricted throat.

“Too late, too late for that my young friend. Sorry is when you catch your mistakes and turn from them before others are hurt. But even though it is too late, there is always time to learn.” He added.

“What, what do you mean?” Khosro mumbled, glancing furtively up at the Jinn, not daring to look him full in the face.

“I mean that the future always begins today, never in the past. You can never undo what has been done, but you can create a new life upon the ruins of today and heal the pain you have caused others.” The Jinn said solemnly.

“How do we know you are telling us the truth and not tricking us? My teachers say the Jinn are evil and that they work the biding of Shaytan to lead mankind astray.” Tursun said sullenly, regretting his words in the light of the truth the creature had said so far, but fearing to really trust him.

“You are wise young Tursun. Indeed many of my kind are no friend of the sons of Adam and work to do them harm, to lead him astray as you suggest. It is not right for mankind to seek out the company of my kind. But there are times when we are commanded to offer special kinds of aid to those in need, aid that is not generally available through the usual means of human activity. But you may demand a proof and you are within your right to do so. Do you demand a proof of me, young Tursun?” the Jinn said kindly.

“Yes, yes I do.” Tursun said innocently, his eyes locked on the creature seated before him. The Jinn nodded and came to stand before the boys. He smiled once, his black eyes shimmering, and then he glanced upwards as a shaft of light suddenly fell upon them lighting the area where they sat. There was a stomping on the earth above their heads and then came the sounds of a horse nickering and whinnying.

“Widad!” the boys shouted in unison, looking up to see the horse peering down at them from the opening of the well not thirty feet above their heads.

“But how?” Tursun cried. “We walked for hours and left this place, how can we be back here? And Widad! Her leg was broken, I saw it! It’s not possible!” Tursun almost screamed his questions while the two boys laughed and wiped the tears of joy from their eyes.

“Not possible perhaps for you Sons of Adam, but for those of my kind, Allah has been most generous in His gifts.” the Jinn said bowing widely, “But this gift comes at a very great price.” He added hesitantly, and the two boys stopped laughing and regarded him, fearing that now might come the dark current of this encounter where the Jinn might claim their souls or draw them into some horrible pact.

“Yes, there is indeed a pact offered. You asked for a sign, a proof of my good will, and you have it. Your horse Widad is healed and whole, and wholesome, with no touch of the other world about her. We are even. But a door has been opened to you in this place, a door you may choose to enter or not. That is your free will.

You may return to the city and take up your lives as you have always lead them, almost. Never again will you be innocent and unknowing of the pain and humiliation your parents and teachers and others unknown to you have suffered on your behalf, to help you with no gain for themselves in the bargain other than pleasure and satisfaction in seeing your advancement.”

“Yes, we want a second chance!” Khosro cried excitedly jumping up and rushing to the Jinn and then stopping, knowing he would never dare to touch the creature.

“It is not so easy as that young friend. And the door that is open to you now has many corridors. You may return to the city and take up once again the path of your lives and try to do better, be better sons, better students, seek forgiveness from those you have wronged. And you may hope for the best that your lives as such may give you. Or ---“the Jinn inclined his head suggestively towards Tursun.

“Or what.” Tursun responded, wholly gripped by something he did not even begin to understand but which filled him with a very great hope, more hope than his life had ever afforded him before.

“Or you may choose to repay your debts by entering the service of others who go astray and foolishly harm themselves and those around them.” The Jinn said gravely, hoping the boys understood, even just slightly, the implications of this suggestion.

“You cannot know” he continued “all of what this means now. But if you do choose this door, the whole of your lives will be shaped and molded in this great gift to humanity, this giving of your own self and efforts to help others before yourselves. This is what your lives will become, and all the demands of that service will take precedence and importance over everything large and small that you may personally wish to do. All that you ever know and love must serve this calling, or it must be abandoned. You will not be able to help all people, but certain ones will fall by design into your sphere and you will be called to shed the very blood of your souls to help them if it must be so. And though it will be more painful than you can possibly imagine, there will be greater joy in this than most humans will ever know in a lifetime.

But you will not be alone, and you will be girded with understandings and aid you could never imagine to help you.” the Jinn asked, glaring at them, trying to read the level of comprehension ion their young faces.

“Is this, did you make this decision yourself Sir?” Tursun asked respectfully.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. You must know, I have come to you because we are similar, you boys and I, and no other could have helped you as I can. Yes, I came to you, I drew you here to this well, you did not stumble upon me by accident. This is the way things must always seem to the unknowing eye, but there is always a secret meaning to all things, and I am your secret, your small secret, should you decide to accept me and enter the service of the other beings you will meet upon your path.

Khosro stared at Tursun and then at the Jinn. “Sir, I have no idea what any of this means, but my heart tells me to say yes, yes, with all of my being I say yes and I will do all that you say.” He said earnestly as Tursun looked at his friend and nodded, glad to see him take this, glad to see that he had come to the same decision as he had, but that he had made it on his own and not merely thrown in with him.

“And I as well.” Tursun replied, nodding to his friend and clasping his shoulder and giving it a firm shake.

“Good. Then what I say to you is to return to school and work harder than you have ever dreamed of working before. You may not understand this now, but it is the key to everything you will ever do in the future. But it is only the beginning. Wait, be patient, and learn. Look upon every page you read as secret instructions of the deepest importance. Be kind and gracious to all, for you are their slaves, as you serve their Creator. And I will move you in ways often mysterious to you, but you will know it is I who moves you, in Allah’s name as it is Him alone I serve.”

Then without a further word, Khosro and Tursun found themselves again on the surface of the earth beside the well where Widad was drinking happily from the old skin that sloshed water from its sides. Then they climbed onto her warm soft back, and slowly road back to the city without exchanging a single word.

NAZER SILMI - Jinn Sanctuary

(Sequel to book 1, JINN SANCTUARY - this Jinn is fixed temporally but can move through time and is a Watcher who has lived on the earth for a very long time, never interfering with the great events of history but observing them all and occassionally mentoring individuals.

CHAPTER 10 -

Azami didn’t see Suhayl waiting for him when he entered the hammam and he was too angry and exhausted to wait or look for his friend. They’d catch up somewhere and if Suhayl had gotten here earlier and was farther along in his bath, so be it. So he stowed his clothes and other things he carried in the locker, secured the key to the chain he wore around his neck and entered the first room of the baths, the petemal cloth secured snuggly around his naked body.

He entered the hot room and immediately began to relax as soon as he sat down on the huge hot slab heated by underground coals. He felt like he could almost melt here and fall asleep and had to rouse himself as the super heated steam air permeated body and soul. He thought back on the day. It had been a good enough day, even with the ribbing he had taken by the men in the café. Everything had been okay until he was accosted by Sadri on the sidewalk and reminded, once again, that the world was still consumed by a storm that was building on the horizon of each day like a bank of thunderheads. And all the books and articles and conferences attended by his friends at the university would not dispel those clouds and the storm they heralded.

Eventually Azami crawled to his feet and made his way sluggishly towards the washing tubs. He declined the rough hands of the scrubber today, but succumbed to a long wash and soak at the tubs before passing on towards the moment of truth: the icy bucket of water to be poured over his head to cool his body down and wash the last of the impurities away. This process was far more than any simple bath and broke down all the tensions and stress that his muscles carried and allowed all the anger and rage to flow away down the drains leaving nothing but a soapy trail. Almost.

As he made his way down past a couple of the private bathing cells, he caught the bobbing light of candles coming from one of the rooms. He glanced in and saw a man, a very tall man standing in the center of the room completely naked, his back facing the doorway and the body cloth laying discarded on the floor. The man stood with his legs apart and his arms raised high in the air. He was magnificently, powerfully built, but it was not the roping sinew and knotted muscles of his body that caught Azami’s attention and caused him to stop and stare at the man. It was the tattoos. Tattoos that most Muslims believed to be haram, forbidden by the Prophet. The rippling blaze of red and yellow flame danced along the arms and across his shoulder and down the center of the man’s torso front and back and flowed down his legs and onto his feet. They were clearly the work of a master, a maze of stunning beauty that coursed over the man’s flesh like another kind of skeleton.

Just then, another man came into view. It was one of the scrubbers and he hoisted a large wooden bucket of water and heaved it over the man’s body. As the water splashed over his back, the tattooed man gave a loud satisfied shout. A trick of the flickering candlelight perhaps, or the running movement of water as it trickled and flowed over the super heated skin, but Azami could have sworn that the flames burst to life to move and ebb over the man’s flesh with an eerie luminosity as he writhed and almost danced with pleasure under the icy water. Then he turned and Azami saw his face and recognized instantly the man Nazer Silmi who he had met with Zafer Yilmaz at the café today. The man glanced sharply towards him with a nodding grin and then quickly grabbed up his body cloth and secured it around his waste and disappeared into one of the side halls.

Azami staggered to one of the wash basins and sat down. He had almost passed out, but what had happened. For a moment it had seemed that the air in the hammam had slipped like a cracked mirror in a broken frame and he was not sure what he had seen. But he had almost lost his breath in the vision of Nazer Silmi and the cascade of flames that danced over his body. Perhaps it was the heat, too much heat on a cold night. Or the rage and the lingering touch of an anxiety attack Azami had barely escaped out on the street in his encounter with Sadri. Azami took a deep breath and went down the hall to the cooling room where Suhayl jumped up and called him to a place near the back wall.

Azami just sat quietly for a moment, not even looking at his friend. Strange. He had seen something very strange in that room and Nazer Silmi knew he had seen it. Azami could tell by the odd mischievous smile that lit up the other man’s face, and the speed with which he had grabbed up his towel and disappeared.


CHAPTER 11 -


“Azami, you look like you just watched the ground open up in front of you and a big scaly hand grab for your throat. What’s wrong?” Suhayl asked, slicking his long wet blond hair back and rubbing the fragrant oil into his stinging scrubbed flesh.


“Maybe I did.” He was about to continue when a figure appeared in the doorway of their small hot room and the two men looked up. Nazer Silmi walked silently towards them and sat down on the stone bench between then, grinning in some private mirth.

“So, Azami, thought you’d have a nice soak did you? Always pleasing after a long conversation.”

“Yeah.” Azami mumbled, finding the fantastical vision of the man in the candlelight etched into his mind.

“Cool tattoos man, very cool.” Suhayl said as he admired the intricate flames that traced the lean muscular frame.

“Thanks, I am rather attached to them!” Nazer laughed heartily at his own joke and then eyed Azami again.

“They’re haram.” Azami mumbled, wishing Nazer Silmi would just disappear and let him relax and hopefully forget the weird vision of living flames dancing where he knew they could not exist.

“Well, that haram tattoo thing, depends on who you are. I’m alright with them. And they really are a part of me, you know?” he added darkly, clearly pushing Azami’s buttons as he had earlier in the café.

Suhayl, this is, I’m sorry brother, I don’t recall your name. Suhayl, I met the brother earlier today in the café.”

“Nazer Silmi, I am Nazer Silmi. Salaam aleikum.” He smiled and extended a hand towards Suhayl.

“Wa salaam. Suhayl Sutton. Nice to meet you.” They shook hands and then slipped momentarily into their own thoughts.

“Who is Abdul Hasîb?” Nazer Silmi said softly, his voice firm and commanding. Azami almost jumped, startled from his thoughts by the sudden question.

“What? Oh, a guy from school, how, why do you ask?” Azami felt his pulse begin to race as once again, everything began to recede from his thoughts but this strange man sitting next to him.

“I saw you talking to him on the street. Do you know him well?”

“When did you see me talking to him? That was just before I came here.” Azami’s body became tense and he was beginning to feel trapped and his curiosity about Nazer Silmi was quickly fading and being replaced by the desire to get away from him as fast as possible.

“I saw you talking to him on the street, I saw you push him and he almost fell. I take it you do not like this Abdul Hasîb?”

“No, no I don’t. Like you said about the guys in the white in the café, that’s where he’s at it seems. Although when I first met him at school a few months ago, he wasn’t like that. But where were you? I didn’t see anybody on the street and when I got here, you were already ----“

“I saw you on the street, Leave it at that.” Nazer Silmi said in a strange sharp tone that left no room for further discussion. “This Abdul Hasîb and his brother Abdul Khâfid, they’re bad news boys and are likely to end in a really ugly way. You seem like a good kid Azami. I’d stay away from the slaves of the Reckoner and the Abaser if I were you.” And with that he stood up and disappeared out the door without another word.

“What was that all about?” Suhayl was fascinated by his friend’s odd acquaintance and was sorry to see him leave.

“I have no idea. But I will find out. Oh, I will find out.”

CHAPTER 12 -

After he left the hammam, Nazer Silmi trudged home through the driving snow, pulling his coat and scarf closer around his neck. He hated snow. Not the look of it, but the feel of it on his skin, the temperature, the invading dampness of each tiny flake as it sought to enter his flesh and collide in a primordial battle of wills with his deepest inner nature.


He climbed the narrow external wooden staircase and finally reached the door of his small garret apartment. Once inside, he immediately threw off his wet outer clothes and lit a few small candles. Then he took off his shoes and socks and rolled up his sleeves and crouched on the hearth in front of the cold remains of his morning fire. Gazing into the darkness he breathed deeply and rubbed his hands quickly over his face and then quickly thrust his open palms outwardly over the darkened logs that still lay on the grate. Instantly a fierce blaze erupted over the logs and filled the hearth with the light and warmth of fire.

“That’s more like it!” he smiled as the heat warmed his flesh and spoke to the rugged tattooed warren of flame that caressed his arms and disappeared into his shirt sleeves and down the collar at the back of his neck and throat. He stared a bit longer into the hot white center of the blaze and then smiled.

“Bismi’allah, ir-rahman, ir-rahim.” His lips moved reverently over the sacred words, then he plunged his hands into the crackling blaze and brought forth a handful of flame and rubbed it three times over his hands, washing them thoroughly as it burned away his thoughts and memories of the day. Then he brought a handful of flame up before him and buried his face three times in the cleansing wrath that ignited his soul and quickened his deepest nature. He proceeded then to cleanse his mouth and nose in this manner as well. The tattoos on his arms burst to life in anticipation as he brought his arms to the hearth and washed the flesh with the searing blaze and laughed in pleasure as the images leapt from his arms and danced in wild frenzy with the fiery mass of the hearth, then he completed the singular wudu of the jinn by washing his head and ears and scrubbing his feet as well. He sighed again and withdrew from the hearth and made his ritual prostrations in much the same way as do the sons and daughters of Adam. Then he retired to the couch to make his dua to his Lord.

Guidance, that was all he asked, all he ever wanted. And it always came, as the flames danced over his body and quickened his primordial soul, the guidance always came, and he never faltered. As his mind sunk into the dark silence, again, a face floated on the of his thoughts. The young man from the café, Azami. He must reveal himself to Azami and then discover what this unique configuration of man and jinn would mean. It was always thus with those of his kind who lived among humanity and provided whatever was needed, whatever was willed by the Guide of all creation. Azami was a good kid, a good soul, but he was by no means an innocent. This was good. Nazer Silmi smiled and nodded in the darkness. He was the same among his own kind.

CHAPTER 14 -
As he sat smiling to himself, lost in thoughts of the first girl in his life that had captured his thoughts and refused to release them, it took several moments before he roused himself and registered the sound of sirens encroaching on the dusky silence of the mosque and bring his mind to full awareness. Sirens! Fire sirens! Sirens coming closer and obviously right on this very street!


Azami tore out of the mosque and down the street without even slipping on his shoes and coat, oblivious to the freezing cold. Wherever those sirens stopped, he’d know the people inside, had probably been inside and spent time with the residents or owners of those shops. As he got half way down the street he saw where the fire engines had stopped and his heart sunk, they were right in front of Rafiq’s carpet and antique store. He picked up his pace until he stopped dead in his tracks, seeing the fire patrol officers running not towards Rafiq’s side of the street, but to his own, toward Ramsay Hamza’s bakery, the bakery that had been his home for the last six months and where he worked with the older man, assisting him and learning every aspect of his business and becoming his good friend along the way.

“No, oh no! God no!” he cried as he careened up to the front of the shop and saw the roaring flames tearing through the glass front of the shop and the upper windows of the apartment. Piles of glass from all of the windows lay at his feet and already the men from the engines were opening their hoses in a desperate attempt to combat the blaze. He tried to barge into the shop through the smoke but the patrol officers grabbed his arms and forcefully held him back.

“Ramsay Hamza!” he screamed, hoping the older man could hear him and had made it out safely. “Where is he? Where’s Ramsay Hamza?” he yelled desperately.

“We’ve seen no one. No one’s come out. You can’t go in there, it’s too dangerous. If somebody’s in there, we’ll find them.” One man yelled as he released Azami and returned to the truck and grabbed an armful of tools.

Azami took the opportunity to dart inside the burning building. Ramsay Hamza had to be inside. Where else would he be? He had said nothing about going anywhere and he never strayed far from this street or Rafiq’s shop, and the store across the street was dark and shuttered for the night and Rafiq was nowhere in sight.

Azami charged through the storefront and saw the flames nearing the ovens. Instantly he knew he had to get to the gas spigots. Behind the back wall of the retail part of the shop were the gas lines, and he was just able to get those turned off before he heard the fire officers charging in behind him. Then he disappeared up the back steps leading to the apartments, looking over his shoulder he saw the staircase behind him swallowed in flames as it consumed the lower part of the retail area of the shop.

“Ramsay Hamza! Are you here? Can you hear me, where are you?” he yelled as loudly as he could, praying it was not too late and that his friend and mentor was still alive and not overcome by the deadly heat.

He got into the apartment, but it was already filled with smoke and the heavy air was suffocating. He felt the hair on his arms singe as he pulled the front of his shirt over his face shielding his mouth so he could take in what dwindling oxygen was left. He looked everywhere, but there was no sign of Ramsay Hamza. He heard a loud crash and knew that the bathroom windows had blown out. Good and bad, he thought. More oxygen for me, and the fire. He raced to the bathroom but saw no one. He had looked into every room on this floor and was about to give up and try to make his way back downstairs, when he remembered that the stairs were now engulfed in flames and there was no hope of getting back to the first floor that way. He thought about trying to make his way to the back stairs or going to one of the rear windows and jumping. It was only two stories and he’d probably survive, even if he broke a bone or two.

But the smoke had now become overbearing and he couldn’t tell where the back hall where the windows looking out onto the alley was and he was getting dizzy and very tired. He tripped and staggered along for a few paces, bracing himself against the wall. The flames were in the room now, he could hear the roar, louder and louder like a deafening red hot wave steadily advancing and ready to wash over him. He stumbled again and this time crashed to the floor. But he just didn’t have the strength to stand up, or even to try to save himself. Every ounce of strength was consumed by the wracking coughs that convulsed his body.

He rolled over onto his back and watched as the flames drew nearer, marveling in his near delirium at their staggering beauty, the power and majesty of the blaze and his utter helplessness before it. His mind wandered momentarily to Hijab Girl and her beauty that he knew now he would never be able to explore, to reach out and touch and maybe see that strange little half smile of hers light up that beautiful face in response to some action or clever word of his own. He looked again at the flames, and wondered in awe at the swirling mass as it bobbed and flickered before him and the pounding drum beat of his pulse in his arms and the sides of his forehead, almost a martial cadence, beautiful and savage in its own way. He looked again, and he blinked hard and tried to wipe the smoke from his eyes.

It appeared that the flames in front of him were congealing and ebbing into a form and a face, dozens of faces emerging and then melting back into the white hot center only to appear again. Laughing faces, dying faces, angry faces, faces that seemed to peer into his own in curiosity and sadness. Azami laughed, thinking he must be near death and not even caring. He just wanted to lay there and watch the flames as they transformed into a million fantastical scenes in front of his clouded eyes. It almost didn’t seem as hot as before, and he almost didn’t care if they even found him in time or not.

So close, never before had he been this close to open flame, felt the imminent kiss of its countless tiny tongues on his heated flesh. Even when his parents had been killed, he had not been this close to the flames. Is this what they had seen in their last moments? Was it the last mercy from Allah that you became so distracted by the beauty and spectacle of the flames that you lost even your fear of the agonizing grip of death on the body and soul? He looked again and saw the fire congealing once more into new fantastical shapes. He almost thought he saw the form of a solitary man amidst the swirling abyss, almost thought he saw a particular face, a strangely familiar face. Yes! There was a face! A face he had seen before. The man Nazer Silmi from the café and the hammam, the man covered in flame tattoos.

Azami thought perhaps he was already dead as the manlike form of flame emerged from the mass that swirled through the room and actually appeared to draw close and reach out a hand to him. Through the smoke and tears and nearing hallucinations of death, Azami thought he could see the eyes of the man, and his mouth curling in a broad smile as his hand reached out to Azami’s own. Azami was barely able to lift his arm and raise his hand to the man of flames that looked so much like Nazer Silmi. He reached out as the fingers of flame grasped his own and the shimmering tattooed flames danced to life along the man’s arm and flowed down over his hands to grasp Azami’s almost lifeless fingers.

Azami waited to see if this would be his final moment as the flames overcame him for the last time. But there was a strange sense of peace and coolness as the flames from the man’s arms, the tattoos flowed over his own flesh and coiled around his wrists and forearms like the writhing bodies of coiling snakes.

“Get up.” a voice in the flames said commanded. “You have to rise and follow me out of here, I can’t carry you as I am. If you can’t walk, then crawl behind me and I will lead you out. But stay right behind me and don’t stray from my wake.”

Azami tried to heave himself up to his feet, but he couldn’t. So he did as the voice instructed. He crawled like a dying infant behind him as the swirling flame with the shape of a man strode through the blaze, now and then stretching out an arm and brushing the flames aside with his hand. Strangely, in the form’s wake, it was much cooler than it had been, and Azami could breathe a little better and his strength grew. Finally he was able to stand and the two made their way to the back stairs and out the small back door into the cool night air. Azami stumbled down the stairs and fell into the alley rolling and coughing. But as his head and vision cleared and he looked around, the man of flames was gone. But Azami knew what he had seen, just as he knew what he had seen that night in the hammam.

He looked down at his wrists and arms and gasped. Expecting to see horrible blistering burns and peeling flesh from the creature’s touch, instead he saw the twining flames coiled around his own wrists and flowing up his arms. Cool and quiet, the tattoos of flame were now his own, just like those on the arms of Nazer Silmi.

As his head cleared, he started to run to the front of the shop to see if the fire engineers had begin to contain the blaze. But a shadow emerged from the darkness and spoke.

“Ramsay Hamza is okay. He’s out in front with friends. He wasn’t here when the fire started. And they’re containing the blaze. Alhamdu’lillah, the damage is not as bad as it seemed from the amount of flame and smoke. You can repair, all is not lost.” Nazer Silmi said calmly, now once again appearing as an ordinary man no different from any other in form and nature.

“This? What in Allah’s name are you? Is this your doing? Azami growled coughing through his raw smoke ravaged throat.

“What I am, make no mistake, is indeed in Allah’s name. And this, is not my style.” Nazer Silmi said darkly, eyeing the scene and reading, what, Azami had no idea.

“Not your style?”

“No.”

“What exactly is, your style?”

“From the looks of your arms, I’d say you’ll find out soon enough.” Nazer Silmi said laughing.

“What the hell does this mean? I don’t understand.” Azami rubbed his arms and stared at the flame tattoos in disbelief, and then he slumped to the ground, overcome at last by smoke, and exhaustion, and a very bizarre strain on his human nerves.

“Good question my young friend.” Nazer Silmi said softly, hoisting Azami over his shoulder. “A very good question. We’ll have to just wait and see what that means, and then get to work.” He knew Azami could not hear him, that the boy had slid into a healing oblivion.