Babshah continued her tale. ‘With their powers, the jinn weaved illusions and deceit, shapeshifting to trick even their own kin. They traversed vast distances in the blink of an eye up to the cosmos; they eavesdropped on the murmurs of Heaven’s affairs. Such arrogance invoked the wrath of the Divine. The angels were commanded to cast the jinn tribes into the hinterlands and oceans beyond mortal sight.’
Though its body was still, an icy white mist poured from the beast’s mouth, like a river, and the cold of it stroked against my mask. Instead of fleeing, I bent my legs and leapt over the mist – as if a fire-being myself – so fast that I didn’t feel the icy burn before dropping and rolling to my feet.
The crowd gasped at the trick. I unclasped my fur vest, flapping it with a whip of my arm like a crow’s wing.
‘Thus, the Veil between Seen and Unseen was drawn, hiding the jinn from human eyes, except when they shapeshifted into animals. Yet, they linger, tempting the hearts of humans with worldly desires away from Prophet Father Adam’s and Nuh’s teachings.’
I partitioned the vest like a Veil between the karkadann and myself before shrinking on to all fours.
‘Shunned from the Seen world, many jinn reside in some matters of forgotten objects, from desolate mountains to needles, and under trees – from the demonic dîv to the accursed marid, to ghûls, sil’a and karkadann.’
Babshah’s telling followed my silent crawl.
‘Beware, young ones. Lest you fall prey to the beasts who devour souls. Or worse, the jinn’s enchantments tempting humans into black magick, a type of forbidden power that does not use faith or the Heavens, but instead mischief and deceit. For once ensnared by the jinn, escape is a distant dream.’
I crawled behind the karkadann as it rumbled toward Babshah, bewitched by her tale. Had such a beast in its long existence ever heard a story spun from humans about its own jinn-kind?
I mouthed a prayer, by praising the Divine, into my hands. Then I blew across the karkadann’s hide, and it writhed from the effect of the prayer, its hooves staggering before it turned around. It stamped a thick foot, readying to charge toward me.
Babshah held up one finger.One chance, she signalled.
I squared my shoulders and whistled for my buzzards. With a final loop of my cord, the two birds dove into the beast, swiping and raking talons. The karkadann swung its horn to swat them. With the beast’s head lifted up, it charged at me.
I ran forward and propelled my foot off the nearest boulder for height. My body spun and, in the air, I notched the arrow above my shoulders, shooting backwards. The arrow buried itself into the soft underside of the beast’s risen neck, which yielded until the shaft disappeared.
Babshah neared the end of her tale.
With a broken mew, the karkadann stilled and collapsed. Its body melted into the shadows, leaving only a curved, shimmering horn. According to Babshah’s legends, a karkadann’s horn, when ground and brewed, cured any illness.
I landed in a crouch. ‘And,’ I proclaimed the final words. The buzzards rose forward, and the other birds flocked into the pasture. They squawked a haunting harmony. ‘Perhaps there is a jinn amongst us, sitting before the woodland.’
Without my realising, the tribe’s older warriors had joined the gathering. I spotted Uma, her mouth parted in delighted shock, and the khan beside her, eyes crinkling. I couldn’t recall my mother’s happiness until now.
‘Our jinn huntress,’ the khan declared, lifting the horn relic and my
hand.
‘No, our folkteller,’ Babshah Khatun corrected her husband.
Never had my kinsmen smiled at me. No one flinched at seeing the birds surround me.
‘Sister!’ Haj pulled me to his chest. My heart flapped wildly at the honorific. He lifted me on to his shoulders. ‘Our folkteller,’ he shouted. My milk-siblings swarmed us, echoing the chant, asking how I’d challenged the beast. My jaw ached from the urge to grin.
That day, with blood and story, I began to win the hearts of my tribe, and they mine. If only this peace had lasted.
The following year, every holy Friday after eventide prayers, I narrated stories with Babshah Khatun. As the years wore on, I grew taller than my uma. While training with Babshah, my tribesmen came to look forward to my tales, nameless though I was.
Every Flood Festival after we’d come of age to begin warrior duties, my milk-siblings engaged in the tradition of milk threading. I awoke on my thirteenth festival at dusk, peeking out from behind the folds of my tent to see my cousins lined up beside their fathers, holding thread dyed amber from mare milk, while chugging down honey-sweetened yak kumis.
Afterwards, Hawah came to our yurt, beaming with arms dyed in swirling gold, and a silver ornamental headdress woven with feathers over her braids. It struck me how her cheeks no longer wobbled; her square jaw was prominent; her tawny features sharpened out.
‘Aysenör’s daughter, are you coming to play mountain polo with us? The local garrison guards are joining us,’ she said.
My gaze lingered on the headdress. ‘Is that a gift?’
‘My dada traded for it,’ she answered.
On her newly dyed arms, I saw symbols of feathers, the shape of Nuh’s ark, and even seventy-seven swirls. Envy burned through my blood. Not for the first time, but with real fury, I wondered, why didn’t I have a father to bestow gifts? To dye me? To name me?
