The Djinn Falls in Love and Other Stories Page 15

  “You stay at home, Juan, I’ll take care of it.”

  “No, Opal, we’re a team.”

  “I can manage one case without my partner. You ought to be home.”

  Was Juanita imagining it, or was Opal’s face sad as she looked at him? In the light of the Christmas tree it was so hard to be sure, yet Juanita could have sworn that for a moment Auntie looked very old, and very sad...

  The point was, Auntie was going to leave. And Juanita hadn’t had time to really talk to her.

  She looked down at the crèche, displayed proudly on the side table. The angel had been added just the night before; Juanita stared at it a moment while gears turned in her head. When she looked up again, Opal was hugging Mama goodbye.

  Juanita darted into the kitchen. She seized a paper napkin and piled a handful of cookies into it. She ran out to the driveway, where Auntie Opal was getting into her car.

  “Auntie!” she called. “Wait a moment!”

  Auntie paused, but she was clearly in a rush. The door was open, the keys jiggling in her hand.

  “Auntie,” Juanita started, in a hurry, “I was remembering the Christmas just after Cisco was born. There was snow. It wasn’t a dream, Auntie, it was real and you were there. And I think you were making it snow.”

  Auntie buried her head in her hand. “I’m in a hurry...” she mumbled.

  “Auntie, are you an angel?”

  The tall woman started at that. She stared at Juanita, and then she laughed. “No, I’m not an angel. What’s that you’ve got in your hands?”

  Juanita hurried around the car to meet Auntie at the door. “Some cookies. Christmas cookies.”

  “Honey, I’ll be at your dinner table tomorrow.”

  “Still... Auntie, that snow...”

  “I’m not an angel.”

  “But you’re not human.”

  Auntie paused. She closed her eyes. “I’m not. You’re old enough to know.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “It is a long story. I will tell you tomorrow.”

  “That’s not an answer!”

  “No, it is not.” She took the cookies from Juanita’s hands.

  “I...” Juanita wanted, very badly, to swear for a minute, but she bit the urge back. “Drive safe,” she said, instead, as the car door shut.

  “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy the cookies.”

  “I will.”

  THE INSIDE OF her own living room seemed unfamiliar to her. Papa and Mama were talking on the sofa, and Juanita did not wish to eavesdrop. She had stepped out of a novel, a fairytale. She numbly knew that she needed to finish her ironing, so she entered the kitchen. Abuelita had settled herself at the table there to mind the sauces.

  She said something to Juanita. Again, Juanita did not quite understand, except that it was a question about Tia Opal. Automatically, Juanita replied, “Si, Abuelita.”

  It was inadequate, but Abuelita nodded and returned to her paperback. Juanita wondered, fleetingly, what the novel she was reading was about. Was it a story of perfume and riddles, following a someday queen through a desert palace?

  Juanita shuddered again, and she did not know why.

  She took up the cloth napkins and set them on the ironing board. Time to undo the work of a year. Time to apply heat very, very carefully. Later tonight, she would don her best dress, and drink coffee, and kneel and sing at Midnight Mass.

  JUANITA FEARED FOR Auntie Opal all through Christmas morning. Twice, in The Queen of Sheba, a character, laden with secrets, had sworn, “I’ll tell you all, when next we meet,” only to meet a sudden death mere pages later, usually in dramatic fashion. Juanita worried that something dreadful must have happened to her Auntie. She tried her best to distract herself by working her hardest – preparing the divinity, reheating the sauces, deviling the eggs, and laying it all out in picturesque fashion on the tablecloth that Juanita had ironed to perfection.

  When the feast was all laid out, Mama hugged Juanita around the shoulders, and said that this was a fine Christmas, and she was so proud of her young lady for helping. She had kissed Juanita’s forehead, and at that minute Cisco and Marco had run into the room, screaming for attention, so – as had happened since the moment of Cisco’s birth – Mama left Juanita to chase after her brothers.

  So it went. Juanita sighed, and took advantage of the reprieve to sneak into her room and steal away one or two more pages of Queen.

  When the clock chimed, she dressed quickly, did her makeup without any help from Mama, and was pulling on her shoes when she heard the doorbell ring. Juanita paused, holding her breath, then finished pulling on her shoes and darted for the living room.

  Auntie Opal was standing there – always the first guest to arrive. Cisco ran up to hug her, and when Marco toddled to her, she picked him up with a laugh. She met Juanita’s eye, and said, “Juanita! Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas, Auntie! Thank you for the blouse.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Auntie sat down, still holding Marco on her lap. Papa chatted while he put on a record, and he thanked her again for taking on yesterday’s call. Mama turned to get the appetizers, but Juanita stopped her and said she would get them. On her way to the kitchen, she paused at the fully set table. She had an idea.

  She picked up a napkin and looked at it closely. She waited – she waited – but all that happened was that Mama asked her what she was looking at and Juanita put it down, blushing, and hurried to the kitchen.

  When Juanita returned with the appetizers, Abuelita had arrived, and took her traditional seat, with her lace shawl around her shoulders. She was speaking to Auntie Opal, and keeping an eye for upcoming guests. Juanita positioned herself behind Abuelita, in case her grandmother should need anything. But Abuelita seemed quite content, talking with all the dignity of a queen while she held the squirming baby Rosa in a tight grip of love.

  Juanita’s eyes fell on Abuelita’s shawl. She focused. She hoped...

  Something flickered in front of her eyes. A bread box? No – it was a ship at full sail, a Renaissance kind of ship, and Juanita heard the sailors wishing each other Feliz Navidad...

  “Juanita?” Auntie Opal’s voice cut into her thoughts. “What are you looking at?”

  She shuddered, and broke out of her trance. There was no iron for her to pore over here. But Auntie Opal, and her parents, were looking at her in such an odd way. Juanita jumped to her feet, made an excuse, and fled.

  She found herself in the kitchen again. She leaned against the counter and rubbed her eyes. Humiliated! Staring! Going loopy on Christmas day!

  And... for what? For a few seconds of some B-movie?

  She heard footsteps behind her.

  “Juanita,” said Auntie Opal. “You wanted to talk to me yesterday.”

  Juanita didn’t answer. She couldn’t think of what to say. Auntie cleared her throat.

  “There are some things now that you are old enough to know.”

  The girl turned around slowly. “What are you talking about?”

  Auntie beckoned with her fingers. They sat in the dining room. Juanita picked at the tablecloth. Auntie, too, took up the embroidered hem in her fingers. “You acted a bit odd ironing this yesterday.”

  “I...” Juanita thought of a way to hide this, but decided it was pointless. “I was seeing pictures on the cloth. Weird pictures.”

  “It’s the second sight,” Auntie said. “Your grandmother and your father have it, too.”

  Juanita lifted her head. “What?”

  “I had hoped you could... well, no matter. Your sight will be very strong.”

  “But – what was I seeing? I saw – I saw a fire spirit, sitting in a kitchen, and running out of a Spanish town, and a ship under sail...”

  Opal nodded. “That was me. That was my history.”

  “I don’t understand,” Juanita said.

  Opal took Juanita’s hand. “Look at the tablecloth,” she said, “and tell me what y
ou see.”

  “Why the tablecloth? It’s stupid,” Juanita said, turning crass to cover her confusion.

  “Some people see in water. You apparently use cloth. Be glad it isn’t animal entrails.” Juanita turned to the cloth – an empty space between two dishes – and focused. Opal squeezed her hand gently – and suddenly, Juanita saw.

  She saw a Mission bell tower, rising over the fields. She saw, standing in its shadow, two figures. One was an old woman who looked a bit like Abuelita. The other was the girl of fire.

  “A genie,” Juanita heard herself say.

  “Djinni,” Auntie Opal corrected, a thousand miles away.

  The djinni was weary, bent, and broken, kneeling on the ground while tears like glass fell onto the sand. There was a word: “Si, si.” Yes, yes. No other sound, but a sense of immense responsibility and weight, falling into Juanita’s consciousness as sure as a church bell’s toll.

  Juanita did her best to describe it. Her faltering words seemed to get the main point, because Auntie Opal was nodding.

  Seeing her, sitting there so calmly, just unflappable... something boiled up inside of Juanita. She jerked her hand away. “What does it even matter to you?” she demanded. “What did I see?”

  “You saw a turning point in my career.” Opal leaned an elbow on the table. She suddenly seemed old – ancient, and exhausted. “You’ve studied the Missions in school, yes? Established by wise men, who sailed all the way from Spain?”

  Juanita nodded.

  “Those ships had their fair share of artifacts from the golden age... from when Spain spoke Arabic. I – or rather, my home – was one of them. I – the sole djinni on the ship, on the continent – I was there to grant wishes. And the wishes...” She sighed deeply. “I’m sure you’ve studied that time. Or read about it. Always reading.” She coughed. “It was a cruel time. An unjust place. A wise woman found me, and she made a wish that eclipsed all the others. She wished that I would serve justice in the pueblo. For as long as one stone stands upon another.”

  “Justice?” Juanita repeated. Opal nodded.

  “Wouldn’t you know it, the stones are still standing. The pueblo...” she gestured towards the window. Los Angeles, the flat, delicate whole, flickered in Juanita’s mind. “I’m still working.”

  Juanita’s mind tried to pick this apart, starting at something she knew. “Border work,” she said. “Then, yesterday, you weren’t joking?”

  Opal shook her head. “Borders are very tricky places. But I have an aptitude for them. And so does your father. And,” she added, “so do you.”

  Juanita shook her head again. “I don’t want it. I want...” She rubbed at her forehead, trying to focus on what she did want. She wanted the soft, yellowing paper of The Queen of Sheba, she wanted the thrilling, dangerous, but ultimately just world within. That was the adulthood she wanted. This was piling up on her too fast.

  “If it helps,” Opal said, “you won’t be alone. You have me, and your family. And there’s many more of us. Lots of djinn work in the film industry.”

  “I thought you said that you were the only one!” Juanita knew how whiny she sounded, but with all of these questions, what else could she do?

  “I was the only one then. Now, I am the first.”

  “What else? Who else?”

  “The world is bound with secret knots,” Opal replied. “Vampires in West Hollywood... hungry ghosts in Downtown... The list doesn’t seem to end. Honey?”

  Juanita hugged herself. It was too much, she was too young to deal with it. “I think I need to sit down for a while.”

  “Of course.” Opal tugged her hand as the girl stood up. “If you want to talk, I will be here.”

  Juanita nodded, meeting her eyes. It was good to have some things to rely on.

  She headed for her room. She could hear the other guests arriving. Her family would be kept busy – and she had a few minutes, at least, before duty clawed at her conscience again. The light was dim in the morning, but there was enough to read by. She sat on her bed and reached, her eyes closed, for The Queen of Sheba in its hiding spot.

  Juanita found her book, and she dug it up with one hand. She curled closer into her sheets. She caressed the cover, with its picture of a woman laden with jewels and robes of many colors. The pages, having been read so much, were turning wavy and yellowed. Juanita breathed the scent – and pictured the story. The Silver Palace. The swaying caravans. The face of the heroine.

  It was still there, for her, but dimmed, like a watercolor where it had once been an oil painting. Compared to a laughing spirit in a palace kitchen, and the weeping djinni in the shadow of the Mission...

  Juanita closed her eyes, and remembered snow. Well, that was something to be sure of. A memory, not a dream. It had been a wish granted – so the snow was gentle and sweet in its chill, nothing frightening at all. And the coffee before Midnight Mass seemed to linger on her tongue – bitter but strengthening. That was something else she could be sure of.

  She opened her eyes, kept one ear tuned to the noise of guests arriving, and began to read.

  The Jinn Hunter’s Apprentice

  E.J. Swift

  THE JINN HUNTER was late, and not what was expected.

  Bukhari had been waiting in the arrivals lounge for over four hours with nothing but Martian coffee to combat his exhaustion. He watched the torrent of human cargo coming and going, greeting and parting. The thought of extending the Arwa’s stay for a single day longer gnawed away at him. Even worse was the prospect of the mission being cancelled altogether.

  Of all the ports they could have been stranded, it had to be Shanghai Hóng. The place was a certified congestion zone. Connecting local flights to interplanetary, this lounge alone saw a daily footprint of fifty thousand travellers, all of whom appeared to be crushed into the same hot, noxious space as Bukhari.

  He was interested in only one of them: Aamir Ridha Ajam, a venerable, respected man with a proven success rate in dealing with cases such as his.

  But Ajam did not arrive. What came instead was a shabby woman on a third-class flight from the Moon. She was wearing sunglasses, and her head and neck were swathed in greyish fur, in the style of a hijab. As she drew closer, the fur uncurled and Bukhari saw the ‘hijab’ was alive. The woman was carrying a ring-tailed lemur.

  A port official introduced them.

  “Captain Bukhari, this is your... guest.”

  Even in the overcrowded lounge, the official managed to keep her distance – the way everyone did these days – and hurried off at once.

  “What happened to Ajam?” he demanded.

  The woman pushed back her sunglasses, but did not look at him directly.

  “He was busy,” she said at last.

  “Busy?”

  “Occupied.”

  “I’m aware of the definition,” he said testily.

  She dug in her pocket for a piece of dried fruit, and fed it to the lemur.

  “You got me instead.”

  “And you are...?”

  “Fahima.”

  She blinked across her papers. He scanned through, checking the signatories closely. The paperwork said she was Earth-born, twenty-nine years of age, apprenticed to Ajam for the last three. Her parents were unknown.

  “I’ve not been to Mars before,” she said. I can tell, thought Bukhari. What kind of idiot brings sunglasses to Mars? But he restrained himself. He was still a captain, a leader, and a servant of God. He hadn’t entirely lost his dignity.

  The lemur reached out and tugged at his uniform lapels. He slapped its fingers away. The woman gave him a proper look, then, a nasty one.

  What a fuck-up, he thought. This voyage was meant to be the apex of the new renaissance, and here they were in the hands of an apprentice hunter and her glorified rat. Three months, his ship had been grounded. They’d missed the media slots, sponsorship from Earth was threatening to pull out, rent on the berth was spiralling and his crew – Allah deliver them – were halfwa
y to mutiny. They refused to sleep on board. Maintenance was carried out by a skeleton party. Since the last incident, a few were refusing to do their duties altogether.

  The crew now haunted the port in pairs, refusing to venture out alone. Some of them prayed, some of them drank themselves into stupors, and some of them no longer had the capacity for either.

  He blinked away the papers to find the woman watching him. Her irises were different shades: one brown, the other green. There was nothing reassuring about her presence, but perhaps that went with the trade. Immersion in the world of the spirit was bound to affect your social skills in earthly matters.

  “All in order?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “Let’s see it, then.”

  THE MAIN HANGAR was a vast construction, but so dense with activity that it appeared small. Tagging each other nose-to-tail, shuttle after shuttle skimmed inside, alighting like dragonflies on a pond. Announcements boomed across the hangar as engineers and robots rushed to unload cargo and refuel ships. But one part of the hangar was inert. Like a lone tree blasted by lightning, the dark, silent shell of the Arwa sat within an unspoken quarantine. Even the robots avoided her.

  The ship should have been a source of fascination. Pride of the Basra shipyards, the two-kilometre vessel was an architectural triumph inside and out. It had been designed not only for scientific research, but to host guests when it eventually reached its destination. The Arwa was to become Ganymede’s first permanent outpost, a fitting tribute to the Yemeni queen for whom the ship had been named.

  “We have research labs on board, exploration shuttles, mining and construction robots,” Bukhari explained. “The AI system is second-to-none. You have to understand, this mission has attracted some of the greatest minds in the system. It cannot be allowed to fail.”

  He looked pointedly at the apprentice, who made a vague noise of assent.