This, Arbeely thought, is very, very impossible.
“Tell me where the wizard is,” the man said, “so I can kill him.”
Arbeely gaped at him.
“He trapped me in human form! Tell me where he is!”
The tinsmith’s mind began to race. He looked down at the soldering iron, and remembered that strange foreboding he’d felt before he touched it to the flask. He recalled his grandmother’s stories of flasks and oil lamps, all with creatures trapped inside.
No. It was ludicrous. Such things were only stories. But then, the only alternative was to conclude that he’d gone mad.
“Sir,” he whispered, “are you a djinni?”
The man’s mouth tightened, and his gaze turned wary. But he didn’t laugh at Arbeely, or call him insane.
“You are,” Arbeely said. “Dear God, you are.” He swallowed, wincing against the touch of the soldering iron. “Please. I don’t know this wizard, whoever he is. In fact, I’m not sure there are any wizards left at all.” He paused. “You may have been inside that flask for a very long time.”
The man seemed to take this in. Slowly the metal moved away from the tinsmith’s neck. The man stood and turned about, as though seeing the workshop for the first time. Through the high window came the noises of the street: of horse-drawn carts, and the shouts of the paperboys. On the Hudson, a steamship horn sounded long and low.
“Where am I?” the man asked.
“You’re in my shop,” Arbeely said. “In New York City.” He was trying to speak calmly. “In a place called America.”
The man walked over to Arbeely’s workbench and picked up one of the tinsmith’s long, thin irons. He gripped it with a look of horrified fascination.
“It’s real,” the man said. “This is all real.”
“Yes,” Arbeely said. “I’m afraid it is.”
The man put down the iron. Muscles in his jaw spasmed. He seemed to be readying himself for the worst.
“Show me,” he said finally.
Barefoot, clad only in an old work shirt of Arbeely’s and a pair of dungarees, the Djinni stood at the railing at Castle Gardens, at the southern tip of Manhattan, and stared out across the bay. Arbeely stood nearby, perhaps afraid to draw too close. The shirt and dungarees had come from a pile of old rags in the corner of Arbeely’s workshop. The dungarees were solder-stained, and there were holes burned into the shirtsleeves. Arbeely had had to show him how to do up the buttons.
The Djinni leaned against the railing, transfixed by the view. He was a creature of the desert, and never in his life had he come so close to this much water. It lapped at the stone below his feet, reaching now higher, now lower. Muted colors floated on its surface, the afternoon sunlight reflecting in the ever-changing dips of the waves. Still it was hard to believe that this was not some expert illusion, intended to befuddle him. At any moment he expected the city and water to dissolve, to be replaced by the familiar steppes and plateaus of the Syrian Desert, his home for close to two hundred years. And yet the moments ticked away, and New York Harbor remained stubbornly intact.
How, he wondered, had he come to this place?
The Syrian Desert is neither the harshest nor the most barren of the Arabian deserts, but it is nevertheless a forbidding place for those who do not know its secrets. It was here that the Djinni was born, in what men would later call the seventh century.
Of the many types of djinn—they are a highly diverse race, with many different forms and abilities—he was one of the most powerful and intelligent. His true form was insubstantial as a wisp of air, and invisible to the human eye. When in this form, he could summon winds, and ride them across the desert. But he could also take on the shape of any animal, and become as solid as if he were made of muscle and bone. He would see with that animal’s eyes, feel with that animal’s skin—but his true nature was always that of the djinn, who were creatures of fire, in the same manner that humans are said to be creatures of earth. And like all his brethren djinn, from the loathsome, flesh-eating ghuls to the tricksterish ifrits, he never stayed in any one shape for very long.
The djinn tend to be solitary creatures, and this one was more so than most. In his younger years, he’d participated in the haphazard rituals and airborne skirmishes of what could loosely be called djinn society. Some minor slight or squabble would be seized upon, and hundreds of djinn would summon the winds and ride them into battle, clan against clan. The gigantic whirlwinds they caused would fill the air with sand, and the other denizens of the desert would take shelter in caves and the shadows of boulders, waiting for the storm to pass.
But as he matured, the Djinni grew dissatisfied with these diversions, and took to wandering the desert alone. He was inquisitive by nature—though no one thing could hold his attention for long—and rode the winds as far west as the Libyan Desert, and east to the plains of Isfahan. In doing so, he took more of a risk than was sensible. Even in the driest desert a rainstorm could strike with little warning, and a Djinni caught in the rain was in mortal danger. For no matter what shape a Djinni might assume, be it human or animal or its own true shape of no shape at all, it was still a living spark of fire, and could easily be extinguished.
But whether luck or skill guided his path, the Djinni was never caught out and roamed wherever he would. He used these trips as opportunities to search for veins of silver and gold, for the djinn are natural metalsmiths, and this one was unusually adept. He could work the metals into strands no thicker than a hair, or into sheets, or twisted ropes. The only metal he could not touch was iron: for like all his kind, he held a powerful dread of iron, and shied away from rocks veined with ore in the way a man might recoil from a poisonous snake.
One can wander far and wide in the desert without spying another creature of intelligence. But the djinn were far from alone, for they had dwelt as neighbors with humans for many thousands of years. There were the Bedouin, the roving tribes of herdsmen who scratched out their perilous existence on what the desert had to offer. And there were also the human cities far to the east and west, which grew larger every year, and sent their caravans through the desert between them. But neighbors though they were, both humans and djinn harbored a deep distrust of each other. Humankind’s fear was perhaps more acute, for the djinn had the advantage of invisibility or disguise. Certain wells and caves and rock-strewn passes were considered habitations of the djinn, and to trespass was to invite calamity. Bedouin women pinned amulets of iron beads to their babies’ clothing, to repel any djinn that might try to possess them, or carry them away and turn them to changelings. It was said among the human storytellers that there had once been wizards, men of great and dangerous knowledge, who’d learned to command and control the djinn, and trap them in lamps or flasks. These wizards, the storytellers said, had long since passed from existence, and only the faintest shadows of their powers remained.
But the lives of the djinn were very long—a djinni’s lifespan might last eight or nine times the length of a human’s—and their memories of the wizards had not yet faded to legend. The elder djinn warned against encounters with humans, and called them conniving and perfidious. The wizards’ lost knowledge, they said, might be found again. It was best to be cautious. And so interactions between the two races mostly were kept to the occasional encounter, usually provoked by the lesser djinn, the ghuls and ifrits who could not keep themselves from mischief.
When young, the Djinni had listened to the elders’ warnings and taken heed. In his travels he’d avoided the Bedouin, and steered clear of the caravans that moved slowly across the landscape, bound for the markets of Syria and Jazira, Iraq and Isfahan. But it was perhaps inevitable that one day he should spy upon the horizon a column of some twenty or thirty men, their camels