fruitless. To my fortune, a dear friend miraculously locates the prize of my fixation. Being of devout Jewish faith, and learned in the foreboding legend of the Djinn, he bestows the treasure as a parting gift to our friendship.
The lure of 3 wishes is true. My considerations come from a lifetime of self debate.
With each request you make, the genie will issue a stipulation. My first request is for a set of keys that would allow the bearer visitation to other worlds, with a chance to circumvent the final stipulation of this encounter. Legend warns that after your third request is granted the genie will snatch away your soul. An even greater fear I have, is that a full onslaught of Djinn will cross over from their land into mine and overrun us, from the dangerous pact I’m involved with.
For my second wish I request the aid of allied forces that rival the Jinni shape shifters. The genie I’ve summoned, Cradle, dressed as a sheik, wearing a grey turban and black clothing, includes the beacon key. His chilling voice explains the two requirements I must meet as part of his stipulations…“Beyond the plain of winds, past the fiery mountains, nestled in the grove of mindlessness, is a doorway to the realm of our equals, the Naga. To gain their entrusted loyalty you must be an heir to their kingdom’s throne. Obtain the spirit of your firstborn with this key, and gift it to a Naga queen, then your son Prophecy will be conceived. The Naga can be insightful. Your mind will be resilient to their ways. Bring to me your son and I will overlook the final step.”
Reserving my last wish, I do as Cradle instructs. Now a more pressing decision haunts the rest of my days. To avoid losing my soul to the urn’s curse, I must freely offer my son’s life.
I am allotted as much time as needed, granted I remain focused on accomplishing the task. Having 6 days to return once the steps are complete, and my last request must be made, I travel by steed across the plain of winds, beyond the fiery mountains, to the grove of mindlessness. There I arrive at a forsaken orchard said to be forever cursed by a creature known as the darahgesent widow. It’s here that I and my stallion enter the Dragon Realm.
I am looked upon as a stranger when arriving on horseback at the first town. But the people are no different in appearance to humans. At the general store where my gold is accepted I purchase basic supplies. Inquiring about a geographer, I am referred to Henser, the horse tender, stationed on the opposite side of the settlement.
At sunset I arrive to a largely built man closing the stable doors.
“Where might I find a virtuous warrior for hire?” I inquire boldly.
With a hardened stare Henser pauses. His hand reaches for his side whip. In an instant he’s turned casting it toward me. Aimed for my neck, the braid snaps around the leather gauntlet armband strapped to my forearm, raised for protection. With dagger drawn, I slice the truss.
Henser’s struck impression toughens with the crack of his shortened instrument. I consider flinging the double-edged blade into my opponent. The rope dances as a hovering snake behind him. My flung dagger pins the cut end to the wooden door of the barn. Adrenalin pumps from my précised skill, honed during my long lived archeological carrier in the desert. Prepared to fling a second blade I wait, but Henser concedes.
“You have the skills! What is your business, to hire on a champion?”
“I am in search of an accomplished guardian, willing to protect my young son.”
“Your scent is sweet, stranger. If you venture beyond the Sandler Inn, you will be hunted down and eaten this very night. If you settle here in town, you will be sought after and eaten this very night. Return to the place where you have remained safe.”
“And would you eat me as I sleep?”
With trained eyes Henser admirably answers, “If I knew your name then I would hold no desire in consuming your flesh.”
“My name is Solomon. The warrior I seek must be willing to lay down his life for my firstborn, and heir to my prospective throne.”
“We are Naga, Solomon. To gain a loyal champion you will go to the inn I speak of. If the lore is true, there you will find Vasuki.” (Later I learn that Vasuki is a term for ruler, and that Naga’s prophecy is tied in with my visit.) Famished I accept Henser’s invitation to have supper at his back stable abode. His eyes are cold when we return to find my horse is missing. “You have a long journey ahead of you, Solomon,” Henser warns. “You gain an advantage, going by foot.”
Arriving at the inn safely, my heart is aflutter when I enter and behold Rechelle. She seems to instinctively know more about me than I do of her. By admitting to having detailed insight into my affairs, she reaffirms Cradle’s advice.
Of royal descent, as a non acting queen, we spend a thousand years together using her ability to shift time. With my newly acquired set of keys we discover the different ages.
She and I locate Prophecy’s spirit. We settle on a realm named Liberty, which shall be his home. There she gives birth to my firstborn son. This fulfills only a portion of the instruction given by Cradle. The Djinn are a conniving breed which cannot be trusted. We seek a secretive organization to monitor Prophecy and guard the keys until he comes of age.
Now I am obligated to return to the age of old. There is more which I believe I could have done to postpone my fate, and the fate of our world. But my heart instructs that I have lived long enough. It is time to step down, so that my ulterior destiny may be fulfilled. Rechelle accompanies me, up to the point at which I am imprisoned. I see to it that she is looked after and kept safe. Both she and the urn settle into a place in time when I am still a young man, living on my father’s estate. I can’t bear to give up my firstborn and face the penalty for my requests.
In my slow decline (from two souls occupying the same occurrence of time) I stand before the genie within the urn, and use my last wish. In it I state that Cradle and I switch places. As part of the pact, I request that Cradle watch over the urn, should my younger self need guidance. In addition, young Solomon would be the next one to face the Jinnaye challenge.
Djinn are hollow, without souls, and so I enter the bondage Cradle previously served, resting inside a sarcophagus within the urn. My inner being has been stripped away from me by this soul snatcher, having the power to maintain my essence and thwart the dual consequence. My physical traits are changed. I am a creature, and must wait as the current Djinn of the urn.
Understand this. Now times have changed. This is my middle life.
Before discovering the legend of the urn, and setting out on a lifelong quest to find it, I’m raised motherless on my father Shomer’s estate.
Once a month I journey for supplies to the distant city of Souk.
While shopping the crowded marketplace, I spot an ancient clay pot with unique pictographs etched into its surface. This item has an overwhelming appeal. The trader, wearing a wrapped grey turban and clothed in all black, requires two months’ wages by payment of gold to purchase the relic. But the price is too high. My offer to barter with other goods is refused.
When returning home I acquire a second job on another nearby estate.
When the month is up I have saved enough for the urn, should it still be there.
My hopes of attaining the treasure are high on my long journey to market. I’ve convinced myself that no one would pay the merchant’s asking cost.
Returning to the stall, the item is gone. The master tells, “If you’ve come for the king’s idol, you are too late.” Learning the prize is lost, all enjoyment withers. “But I know where you might find it…” his smile is sharp with this conclusion.
Nodding to the stand beyond the busy walkway I turn…to feel love’s bite. Her body clothed in a blue-silk garment, draped as a robe. The upper portion of her face is exposed, revealing smooth skin soft as creamed coffee, slightly raised eyebrows golden from the sun, and piercing pupils encased in blue-sapphire that tunnel into my heart.
Walking to her my attention is committed. The once-packed causeway is em
pty. She and I meet alone in the marketplace. The world is completely quiet.
Placed on the velvet cloth that’s covering a wooden table in front of her is the urn. Its image is vague. I’m graced by the sweet calming fragrance of desert flowers blooming on a damp spring morning, drifting with a cool breeze. The delicate draft, gracing my cheeks, chills my nose with its inhale.
“I knew you’d return to me,” she whispers in a tongue she and I alone understand.
I estimate that all of the world’s gold would be insufficient for the acquisition of her favor, if I cannot attain her approval admirably. I sense her admiration and long to maintain it. I must find a way to fulfill every wish she could ask of. She is what I will forever cherish.
There is something she wants of me. I in turn submit this grand proposal:
“I will build a glorious kingdom for you.”
She tests my fortitude with fixed eyes. Uniquely whispering, she adds:
“I know you will, my love. I give you this, to represent my unquestioning faith. Decipher the message. Then return to me in one year.” Reaching out I accept the urn.
Crowds of busy merchants push past me, as I’m taken by confusion. Forced to turn away, I look back to see she is gone. The urn I hold tight, blanketed with her blue-silk veil. The gold (intended for bargaining purposes) is still in my pocket, with