Enter Djinn

Gwynn and Isabel enter slowly, Gwynn in he lead, and cough as they walk into a cloud of sugar sweet smoke.

The parlour is hung with heavy velvet curtains, permeated with the scent of musk and age. It is full of thick, cloudy smoke, curling around tables littered with silver spoons and discarded half full glasses of absinthe or wine, turning the candles into ghostly lights.

The air is stifling, hot as the desert beneath the sun, echoing with boisterous laughter and murmured conversations.

There are scantily clad figures in silk and fine suits, at various stages of profound intoxication, with lingering touches on elbows and knees, and low, velvety voices.

Navigating through the crowds is a journey through clouds of perfume, and like descending into a heated fog.

Gwynn and Isabel navigate their way to the bar with some difficulty, and Gwynn keeps a careful hand on her sleeved arm so they do not get separated.

The counter is sticky with spilled absinthe and brandy. The bottles lining the shelves behind it come in multiple shapes and sizes, like perfume or whiskey or oil bottles, with corks or lids, handles or none, with clear or frosted glass or opaque like porcelain.

Gwyn catches the scent of smoke and scorched sugar cubes from some niche behind the counter, as a cloud of amber smoke plumes like a large blossom.

As they take their seats on plush, dilapidated, velvet-cushioned stools, Gwynn asks, “Who are we looking for?”

Isabel raises her voice to be heard above the din of the parlour. “He’s an Arab, and very rich. He’ll be with an intimate company. He looks rather like a prince from the desert, Papa told me.”

They crane their necks above the crowd, but with the lightlessness and noise, it seems impossible that they will find the dreamer.

Through a haze of dim light and green tinted smoke, Gwynn can see shadows; the silhouettes of patrons milling before a stage that permeated the room with brassy music.

In the back of the parlour, Gwynn catches a glimpse of a golden silk swathed booth, between lascivious plumes of emerald tinted smoke, a party of turbaned men, and a tall, princely figure sitting in the middle.

“Is that him?” Gwynn asks, pointing to the man, sure that the smoke will hide the informal gesture. The man’s expression as his compatriots speak is one of practiced disinterest and reserved attentiveness.

Isabel subtly tilts her head in the man’s direction, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “Yes, it must be.” She pauses, her eyes narrow. “I’ve heard of him. He has very dubious origins. No one is sure where he’s from. There are only stories.”

A waiter makes his way across the bar, coming toward them with a tarnished silver tray, but Gwynn waves him away. “What stories?” Gwynn asks, turning to Isabel.

“Some say he is a runaway slave, and he liberated many slaves who came with him on a ship across the ocean. I heard he stole rubies from an Arab prince and was chased by all of his warriors into exile. One story says he was raised by tigers in the jungle, until some poachers found him and returned him to civilization.”

“And some say I am the son of a runaway Indian princess and a djinn,” says a voice behind them.

He looked exotic from across the room, but up close he looks regal and alien to Gwynn. The gentleman’s face beneath his turban is a startling shade of gold, with dark almond eyes and a smile like a sphinx.

“What is a djinn?” Gwynn asks, before he can consider the question. He is about to apologize, when the man smiles and replies.

“It is a thing made of fire, as angels are made of air, and man of earth. Creatures of ashes amd embers and black smoke. It is a deity that would offer you wishes. But they are unsafe wishes.”

“How can a wish be unsafe?” Gwynn asks. He can think of a few wishes he would make, were he given the chance.

“They are wishes with the sting of scorpion’s tail. They are like dreams that turn suddenly into nightmares, just when you are enjoying them.”

Art by Jullie Dillon

Text by Lucie MacAulay