The Djinn Falls in Love and Other Stories Read online

  First published 2017 by Solaris

  an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

  Riverside House, Osney Mead,

  Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  www.solarisbooks.com

  Cover by Sam Gretton

  Introduction copyright © 2017 Mahvesh Murad & Jared Shurin

  “The Djinn Falls in Love” copyright © 2017 Hermes

  “The Congregation copyright” © 2017 Kamila Shamsie

  “How We Remember You” copyright © 2017 Kuzhali Manickavel

  “Hurrem and the Djinn” copyright © 2017 Claire North

  “Glass Lights” copyright © 2017 J.Y. Yang

  “Authenticity” copyright © 2017 Monica Byrne

  “Majnun” copyright © 2017 Helene Wecker

  “Black Powder” copyright © 2017 Maria Dahvana Headley

  “A Tale of Ash in Seven Birds” copyright © 2017 Amal El-Mohtar

  “The Sand in the Glass is Right” copyright © 2017 James Smythe

  “Reap” copyright © 2017 Sami Shah

  “Queen of Sheba” copyright © 2017 Catherine Faris King

  “The Jinn Hunter’s Apprentice” copyright © 2017 E.J. Swift

  “Message in a Bottle” copyright © 2017 K.J. Parker

  “Bring Your Own Spoon” copyright © 2017 Saad Z. Hossain

  “Somewhere in America” copyright © 2017 Neil Gaiman

  “Duende 2077” copyright © 2017 Jamal Mahjoub

  “The Righteous Guide of Arabsat” copyright © 2017 Sophia Al-Maria

  “The Spite House” copyright © 2017 Kirsty Logan

  “Emperors of Jinn” copyright © 2017 Usman T. Malik

  “History” copyright © 2017 Nnedi Okorafor

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

  ISBN: 978-1-78618-048-3

  Contents

  Introduction - Mahvesh Murad and Jared Shurin

  The Djinn Falls in Love – Hermes

  The Congregation – Kamila Shamsie

  How We Remember You – Kuzhali Manickavel

  Hurrem and the Djinn – Claire North

  Glass Lights – J.Y. Yang

  Authenticity – Monica Byrne

  Majnun – Helene Wecker

  Black Powder – Maria Dahvana Headley

  A Tale of Ash in Seven Birds – Amal El-Mohtar

  The Sand in the Glass is Right – James Smythe

  Reap – Sami Shah

  Queen of Sheba – Catherine Faris King

  The Jinn Hunter’s Apprentice – E.J. Swift

  Message in a Bottle – K.J. Parker

  Bring Your Own Spoon – Saad Z. Hossain

  Somewhere in America – Neil Gaiman

  Duende 2077 – Jamal Mahjoub

  The Righteous Guide of Arabsat – Sophia Al-Maria

  The Spite House – Kirsty Logan

  Emperors of Jinn – Usman T. Malik

  History – Nnedi Okorafor

  About the Authors

  Also From Solaris

  Introduction

  Mahvesh Murad and Jared Shurin

  THIS BOOK HAS been a labour of love for almost two years, supported and encouraged by our friends, a globe-spanning cohort of author-scrounging scouts and the terrific people at Solaris, especially the infinitely supportive Jon Oliver.

  When we began, we had three goals:

  First, to use the central theme to showcase global storytelling. We wanted to demonstrate not only how the djinn unite disparate cultures, but also how they can inspire new and old voices from a variety of genres. This is one of the reasons we didn’t standardise the spelling across the book: every culture, every author, has their own djinn, jinn or genie.

  Second, to showcase the djinn themselves. The djinn are an element of folklore that seemed, to us, to have immense contemporary relevance. Whether as pranksters or partners, the djinn have a role in modern literature.

  We think we succeeded in both, and we know that we had a lot of fun trying. Our authors come from all around the world, and have brought to these pages a vast and wonderful variety of djinn. We have wish-granters and shape-changers, immortals and spirits, hoarders and hermits. They come in all shapes and sizes (even bottles), and are truly marvelous creatures.

  Our third goal, and it seemed minor at the time, was to find a title worthy of the work. This poor anthology suffered for long months under the half-serious title of Djinnthology. It wasn’t until Robin Moger introduced us to the divine work of the Egyptian poet Hermes, and “The Djinn Falls in Love”, that everything fell into place. Hermes’ extraordinary piece, straddling both tradition and contemporary twists, says everything we wanted – everything we needed – to say.

  Most importantly, the poem captures what we didn’t expect to find, assembling The Djinn Falls in Love: the empathy on display within this book. Perhaps this is the lingering impact of Richard Burton and Disney’s Aladdin and other Orientialist interpretations, but the djinn have always been firmly portrayed as the other. They are the magical not-us that lurk and bedevil, existing to trick and be tricked. But the origins of the djinn, at least according to the Qur’an, are far more complex. When Allah created man out of clay, Allah also created the djinn out of fire. We may stem from different materials, but in all the ways that matter we are very much the same.

  The contributors saw this too. In Kamila Shamsie’s “The Congregation”, the divide between humanity and the djinn is as thin as cloth, as close as a shadow. When a young boy stumbles between worlds, he finds, not monsters, but the missing parts of his own family. Catherine Faris King’s “Queen of Sheba” also features a djinn as (adopted) family. As a young woman looks for magic in escapist fantasy, she discovers that the fantastic surrounds her already. In Neil Gaiman’s “Somewhere in America”, a stand-alone extract from American Gods, a visitor to one of the most bustling cities in the world finds companionship not with other people, but with an equally lonely djinn. These djinn are not the predatory devils that we’ve been led to believe: they are flawed, warm and human.

  Several of the stories reverse the traditional roles. In Kuzhali Manickavel’s elegant “How We Remember You”, it is the humans that are tricksters and tormenters, poking and prodding at their companion. Is it the classic cry for help? Yet even in this – quite sinister – inversion of the classic relationship, there’s no lack of empathy. Amal El-Mohtar’s prose-poem “A Tale of Ash in Seven Birds” takes a more sweeping view of the relationship between djinn and human, in an epic tale of the rise, fall and appropriation of civilization. All from the djinn’s perspective, it also portrays humanity as the other – it is we that lurk in the dark spaces.

  Kirsty Logan’s “The Spite House” again takes the djinn’s perspective. In this clever tale – seeded with plausible false histories – the reader is introduced to the djinn’s burden, the horrible loss of agency that comes not from relying on wishes, but by seemingly granting them. Helene Wecker’s “Majnun” similarly shows the djinn not as a homogeneous block, but as individuals – with their own, often conflicting, motivations. We are the chaos and release they need, claims one of Wecker’s djinn. But is that relationship symbiotic or parasitic, and what does that role mean for the djinn themselves?

  Monica Byrne’s “Authenticity” is the most explicit (pun intended) picture of the relationship between dj
inn and human; although, like many of the other stories in this volume, it is not what it initially seems. Byrne’s story of experience-seeking cultural tourists juggles both empathy and shame, and its twist-ending wickedly turns the camera back on the reader.

  Several of the stories combine the djinn with the tropes and settings of science fiction. E.J. Swift’s “The Jinn Hunter’s Apprentice” posits a space-faring far future, if one still marred by very Earthly religious and cultural divides. The troublesome djinn of the Arwa demonstrate that our worldly problems cannot simply be left behind – and also that the opportunities of the future belong to all of us. Jamal Mahjoub’s deliciously cyberpunk “Duende 2077” is set much closer to the present, painting a bleak picture of a fractured theocracy, technological isolation and social destruction. Mahjoub’s story uses djinn in the abstract, the name itself evoking the rebellion hidden in dark places.

  Usman Tanveer Malik’s “Emperors of Jinn” explores the age-old Pakistani rural feudal system by asking questions about possession, ownership and power. Saad Z. Hossain’s “Bring Your Own Spoon” moves forward in time, taking place in a subcontinent where humans and djinns must struggle for survival, both meager shadows of what they once were but now existing on the same plane, alongside each other. Sophia Al-Maria’s “The Righteous Guide of Arabsat” is a pulpy, tongue-in-cheek – but also frightening – look at a man’s fear of female sexuality and how that fear can be a danger to women. Nnedi Okorafor’s “History” features a famous pop star who believes her own power to be enough to control where her ambitions may take her, though where that may be is influenced by greater magical forces.

  A few other stories also examine the loss of agency by positioning djinn as objects. The djinn in James Smythe’s cunning “The Sand in the Glass is Right”, though central to the story, never says a word. Instead, the story examines the self-destructive nature of absolute power; demonstrating how access to wishes means not fulfillment of one’s dreams, but descent into recursive nightmare. K.J. Parker’s “Message in a Bottle” examines the role of djinn more abstractly, expanding and investigating on that single, critical moment of choice. A man – clever, self-conscious and only slightly pure of heart – is faced with a terrifying decision. Before him – in a bottle, of course – sits absolute salvation or total destruction. What does he do? What would you do?

  Sami Shah’s “Reap” also examines that moment of decision and the dehumanising effect of absolute power. In his harrowing story, drone operators – with the power of life and death from half a world away – encounter a force that they cannot understand. The soldiers’ psychological detachment, the screen they hide behind, is shattered when they lose that control, when their lives suddenly become the playthings of others.

  Claire North’s “Hurrem and the Djinn” may be – on the surface – the most traditionally Burton-esque story of them all. This discursive, rhythmic story flows like a missing fragment from the 1001 Nights. But despite the impressive stagecraft – with sound, fury and many, many djinn – North’s story is not quite what it seems. As daunting as North’s djinn may be, this is a story – again – about human beings.

  Maria Dahvana Headley’s wonderfully rhythmic “Black Powder” delves into the American past, with bullets and a gun as captivity for something powerful, proving that djinns really are unencumbered by culture or vessels. In J.Y. Yang’s “Glass Lights”, it is emotion and wanting that is magic enough, and not nearly enough.

  These writers looked into the djinn and saw, not monsters, but people. The djinn here are partners and family members, enablers and neighbours, friends, brothers, taxi drivers and even, as the title implies, lovers. They are the other halves of ourselves – close enough to reflect our sins and virtues, but far enough to give us the distance to see clearly.

  That Allah created humans and djinn is known. That we live in tandem to them, parallel to their lives yet asked to not reach out to them, is also known. But what if those lines blur? What if, sometimes, the membrane between the worlds trembles, weakens, allows us a look into the other world; a glimpse into beings who are like us and not us, made of a smokeless fire that can consume us? What if, given our differences, we find that we are, even so, able to fall in love?

  Editors’ note

  Djinn, jinn or genie, every culture has their own interpretation.

  Accordingly, we have left the choice of how to address them – and, more importantly, how to spell them – to the individual authors.

  The Djinn Falls in Love

  Hermes

  A djinn I am.

  My fetters may be broke but

  still they wrap round wrist and ankle:

  every djinn’s possessed.

  The comet they speak of and know not where it falls,

  the love that glows like a lantern down a road which

  means nothing to the fearful:

  Those passing see it as a mount, which keeps you clear of sword and spike

  but holds you up to arrows;

  I pass, my shade lashed to my foot, love eating my soul like an acid;

  The dunes change places in the night without my leave;

  The walls around me and their guards in watches

  cannot halt the full moon’s coming to my heart

  before it’s even risen and I’ve seen it and

  its silver floods my soul.

  Here it is with a mattock, shattering everything inside me.

  Translated by Robin Moger

  الجنيّ يقع في الحب

  أنا جنيّ، قد تكون أصفادي مكسورة،

  لكنها لم تزل حول معصميّ وكاحليّ، كل جنيٍّ مملوك.

  الشهب التي يتحدثون عنها، ولا يعرفون أين تسقط.

  الحب الذي يتوهّجُ كفانوسٍ على سبيل، لا يعني شيئا للخائفين،

  يراهُ العابرون، كحصان، يحصّنك من السيوف والخناجر

  لكنه يكشفك للسهام.

  أمضي وخيالي، مربوطٌ بقدمي، الحبّ يأكل روحي كحمض

  الكثبان تغير أمكنتها في الليل، دون إذني

  الأسوار المحيطة بي، والحرس المتناوبون عليها

  لا تمنع البدر الرائع من الوصول إلى قلبي

  حتى قبل أن يشرق وأراه

  وتغمر فضته روحي

  ها هو بالفأس، يكسّر فيّ كل شيء.

  The Congregation

  Kamila Shamsie

  WHEN QASIM WOKE up, the others were gone already. The ropes strung across the bed frame beside him were still swaying in the breezeless summer morning; it had only been a few moments since his father had hoisted himself out and started towards the mosque for the dawn prayer. Why didn’t they wake me? he wondered, slipping his feet into his shoes and walking in the direction of the mosque. It was too dark to see more than a few feet in front of him, but he knew the way from memory. He stopped, looked up at the sky thick with stars. It was too early for the morning prayer. He looked back towards the house, considered going indoors to wake his mother or sister or aunt, but reminded himself he was no longer a child and walked on.

  Winter had long since ended, but he still felt a chill as he passed the shrine of the Sufi saint, Gulab Baba. On one side of the shrine a graveyard had grown up. In death the saint’s followers would be as near him as in life; as the graveyard grew, it had surrounded the Tree of Blessings with its branches covered in infants’ clothes, some bright with colour, their shapes intact, others little more than sun-bleached rags. Women stayed up all night praying in Gulab Baba’s shrine. When they were rewarded with the child they’d previously been unable to have, they brought the clothes their infants wore in the first weeks of their lives and hung them on the branches of the tree in thanks. All this Qasim knew, though it was too dark to see anything but the outlines of branches �
� little torsos impaled on them, arms hanging limply. There was still no breeze.

  The mosque was only a short distance from the shrine. As he approached it, he saw the men had already lined up for prayer, and ran to find a place on the carpet. It had been changed overnight. Previously it had been green with red flowers along the border; now the border was yellow with motifs of red flame, a repeating pattern of arched black doorways running in rows along it. The spacing was such that each worshipper stood in his own doorway. Perhaps news of the beguiling new carpet was what had brought everyone here, early and in such numbers – he had never seen the mosque so crowded. The thicket of men around him was so great he couldn’t see the imam, but that didn’t matter. He brought his hands to his chest, said the words of prayer with the men around him. When it was time to kneel he was a fraction later than the others, so engrossed was he in the new pattern of the carpet, its vibrant colours, the depth of its darkness. And so there was a moment when everyone was kneeling and he alone stood tall. Then he saw it. The feet of every man in the congregation were turned backwards at the ankles.

  Qasim had lived his whole life in the village, had been born after his mother spent the night praying to a saint who knew how to speak to jinn and ask them to intercede with the angels to give her a child. So there was no fear in him, only curiosity. Here in a mosque they must be the good jinn – the Parees, the Rooh – and not the Shaitan. Though even as he thought that, he understood that the world was never so simple – many of the men who came to this mosque were steeped in evil. And jinn were very much like men in nature, except perhaps a little more fiery in temperament: they were made from smokeless fire while men were made from clay. He dropped to his knees, was lowering his head to the ground when the worshipper to his right whispered, “Don’t let your forehead touch the darkness.”