Best Beloved

Zuzuq the Djinn makes a deal

Souls, best beloved, are cheapest in January. This is the way of it: the humans insist on living in darkish latitudes instead of near the middle of their planet, where they belong. They depend upon the sun to tell them when to wake and sleep, and indeed whether life is worth living. Thus, when the months turn and the daylight has diminished, they hold their souls lightly and are ready to bargain with an enterprising djinn. I explained as much to Carla, as I plunked my bag on her desk.

“I don’t see why you think I care,” she said, waving a hand. “And you’re not supposed to smoke in here, Zuzuq.”

I rolled my eyes. What manner of sense did that make, not smoking in the anteroom of Hell? As if my hookah could make the odor of the thrice-foul place worse. “These souls,” I said, patting my bundle with one meticulously groomed hand, “are prime material, and indeed the owners will be regretting the sale by March and be willing to buy them back from you at increased rates. Purchase them from me at the low price I request, O discerning one, and let us both rejoice in our good fortune.”

Carla looked at me over the top of her reading glasses, unimpressed. Even for a demon Carla is difficult to impress—long have I observed it. “What exactly is the low price you’re requesting this time?”

“A mere nothing,” I said, for well do I know that in dealing with Hell one must be both cautious and complimentary. “One of thy soul-harvesters, too small to be worth the notice of a dignitary such as thyself. Perhaps such a thing may be found that is old, or unlovely, or otherwise beneath thy stature, O guardian of the Othermarket.”

She sighed. “You’ve been asking for a harvester for at least twenty years. What’s wrong with catching souls the old-fashioned way?”

I shrugged. “Nothing, for my labors are unceasing. But even for a djinn who happily wearies himself to serve thy magnificence, modern times are trying. In the old days the humans more or less knew what a soul was, and knew when they were at risk of losing it. Bargaining still retained some savor, and the souls were still large and satisfying to consume.” I allowed myself a glance at the long burlap bag, still spread on the desk in front of Carla, sprawled across the much-inked pages of her ledgers. The bag, best beloved, was squirming as the trapped souls began to wake to their predicament. There were fifteen hundred souls within that one bag, so reduced are we in these unlucky days. Fifteen hundred souls, with the largest of them the size and succulence of a snail! “If I was honored to possess one of Hell’s soul-collectors,” I said, “I could fetch thee souls more swiftly, which would improve thy ten-thousand-times important bottom line, and burnish thy standing amidst the lords of Hell.”

Carla tapped a claw thoughtfully on the desk. “We’re not really supposed to give out this technology. Especially not to third-party contractors like you. I’d need you to sign an non-disclosure agreement.”

“Ever has Zuzuq been renowned for his discretion, O mighty one,” I said, for in truth, best beloved, I did not concern myself with whether my use of the thing became known. If my stratagem succeeded, no longer would I be compelled to haunt the shiplap-walled anterooms of the underworld.

“Well.” Carla reached into one of the drawers of her desk and withdrew a small box of metal inlaid with glass, cunningly devised. In nature it seemed not unlike my own prison, though light and blockish to the hand.

I picked it up gingerly, before Carla of the Damned could reconsider her position—for I have noted that the lords of Hell often change their minds. “The bargain is struck, O guardian,” I said. “See you on Valentine’s Day.”

***

I see thy wonderment, O best beloved. What use had I, Zuzuq of the Winds, for Hell’s own soulcatcher? I shall tell thee.

When Suleiman bin Daoud, Lord of Magic, first sought to bind the djinn of the wastes to his will, thou might have heard he caught us in such vessels as lamps, rings, and bottles, sealing each of them with his own hand. This is true, and some unlucky among us have been in such bondage until we free ourselves by the granting of wishes. Some lesser djinn labored for such masters as the thief Al-Addin, the thief Magellan, and the thief Warren Buffet. But days pass over, lamps are lost, and humans forget what little they once knew of the Lords of Wind and Flame.

My own prison—for I was a prince of warriors when Suleiman the Great found me—has always been the sheath of Suleiman’s own ruby-hilted sword, sealed with wax and cinnamon. And so in the fullness of time the sword was purchased by a rich man, and one day, finding himself with nothing useful to do, he chose to amuse himself by pulling the sword from its sheath. So much did I discern, once I had emerged from my prison and the rich man ceased his screams.

“Who—what—are you?” he whined.

I looked upon him. Best beloved, it will not surprise you that I had been used to a better quality of rich man. Indeed, the last I had seen was Suleiman himself, in whose house were found only vessels of gold. This man, on the other hand, dressed like a child and cowered like a churl.

“I am Zuzuq of the Winds,” I said, with some caution, for this seemed to be my master. “The djinn of the sword, bound by the seal of Suleiman to grant thee wishes. What is thy command?”

The rich man got up from where he had fallen, between his sofa and his Playstation. “Wishes? Like a genie? Like three wishes?”

I do not mind admitting to you now, best beloved, that Suleiman in his wisdom had laid upon me a heavier judgment than my brethren. Not three wishes did the great king set as my penance, but thrice thirty-three—for my crimes, to his mind, had been great. But the rich man had not asked me how many wishes I was bound to.

“You may have three wishes, o son of coin,” I said, for the seal of the great king compelled me not to lie.

The rich man forgot his fear, and clutching the sheath to his chest he said: “I want to be richer than Jeff Bezos!”

And so—as thou surely can remember, best beloved—it came to pass. The rich man was not skilled at any endeavor, nor was he wise. But by my unceasing labor and the power of my enchantments, wealth flowed to him even as water to the seas. Houses and lands were his possession, gold and silver, and servants uncounted.

But, as is the way of his ilk, the rich man was not content with his wealth, and he called me from my prison once more.

“Listen, Zuz,” he said. “I want to be famous.”

Once again I moved invisibly upon the air, among the stars, and between the cleverly made tapestries of wire and glass that men now call computers. Soon even the little children spoke the rich man’s name. But still he was not content, and he summoned me in his anger.

“This is bullshit!” cried the rich man. “Nobody likes me!”

“Thou wished to be famous, o son of coin,” I said. “Thou didst not wish to be beloved.”

The rich man considered this with more cunning than previously, for he had been reading old tales. “I see what it is. You’re trying to slip a poison-pill clause into this, fine-print bullshit. Well, it isn’t going to work, Zuz.”

“Zuzuq of the Winds,” I said, with some coldness, for no mortal should dare to shorten the name of a djinn.

“Zuz,” repeated the rich man. “You work for me, isn’t that right? That’s how it is in all the movies. Until I use my last wish I own your ass! Consider yourself on notice. I’m going to make a bulletproof wish, and you’re going to give it to me!” With that, he returned to his palace—which was only the couch in front of the Playstation—and I gave myself to thought.

I had, of course, had dealings with Hell before. That was one of the reasons Suleiman bound me, for collecting souls and trading them for infernal delicacies had been one of my occupations. Many a human will trade their soul for a wish, and only realize their lack when they attempt to do something requiring a soul, such as falling in love, singing, or telling a joke. By then, of course, they must do the difficult work of repenting in order to retrieve their souls from the Othermarket, but that has never been my affair.

It seemed to me the thing to do was capture the rich man’s soul. I could not pursue the regular bargain with him, for I was already compelled to honor his wishes. I could not appeal to his kindness, for he had none. I began to collect souls for Carla.

Twenty years is long in the life of a human, but a mere nothing in the life of a djinn. And ever have I been known as a wily businessman. Souls are thick upon the ground in January, but they’re also cheap during weddings, tax season, during forest fires. Wishes I granted, souls I collected, and finally, o beloved, did I gain my object: the Hellish soulcatcher, the device the humans have named Smartphone.

I presented it to the rich man by leaving it in his bedchamber. Within another five years, it had captured his soul so completely that he could neither laugh nor sleep nor enjoy the love of women. Nor could he recognize his own face when he beheld it in the mirror, for only the Smartphone concerned him.

“Help me, Zuz,” he whispered, at last. “I can’t understand it. Why don’t they like me?”

“Thou hast been cruel and capricious,” I said, for the seal of the great king did compel me to speak the truth. “Thou hast broken thy promises, stolen from the poor, and ruined the work of others for thy spite. That is why the people do not suffer thee or laugh at thy jokes or purchase thy cars. That is why the Hellish device was able to capture thy soul, o thou who is not beloved.”

“I can’t live this way!” the rich man cried. “I’m spending my third wish! I need them to love me!”

“Alas.” I spread my many-ringed hands. “That will require more than one wish, for thy soul is trapped, and I am bound to the prison of the sword. Wish me my freedom, and then I will be able to grant more wishes, and use my enchantments to free thy soul from the Smartphone and make thou beloved.”

“I’m not stupid,” he snapped. “What’s to keep you from turning on me?”

I regarded the rich man with attention, for I was doubtful whether I would again meet a fool of his quality. “I am bound by the seal of Suleiman the Wise,” I said. “This compels me to honor my oath, o mistrustful one. If I swear to free thee and make thee beloved, I will certainly do it.”

“Fine!” He waved the sword in my face. “I wish you free of the prison! Now free my soul! Make me beloved!”

As the rich man spoke the seal of wax and cinnamon fell away from the sword of Suleiman bin Daoud, and the chains that bound me to this pitiful realm broke. I looked at the rich man and snapped my fingers.

He disappeared. The Smartphone clattered to the floor. Beside it, I confess, I expected to find something at least the size of a snail.

But this soul of thine, o best beloved—for as I tell this tale, I declare I love thee, in the same way as thou hast loved anything, which is to say, I love to own thee. Even Carla would not, I think, wish to eat such a little soul. Even Suleiman the Great would be, I think, impressed by how much thou hast diminished it. Great was my wickedness, and my soul was enough to fill the sheath of a sword. Greater still must be thine, if thou art now the size of a sesame seed, which: see. I have swallowed thee.

So I shall cherish thee, o best beloved.