The Fisherman and The Jinn

The old fisherman has had another shitty day, hauling up the dead detritus of the sea. He's already cast his net three times; four's his limit. Why? He doesn't remember, but that's it, one to go. He tucks up his shirttails, wades in waist-deep, casts again for the thousand-thousandth time, give or take a throw or two. He waits for the net to sink. He can feel fish swimming between his legs, tickling his cods. Praise God, the bountiful sea. But this time his net snags on the bottom. It's not fair. He works his scrawny old ass to the bone, and what does he have to show for it? Wet rags and an empty belly. Even if he caught a fish, what would he do with it? He'd sell it to a rich man, go hungry and cast his net again. His existence is a ceaseless punishment. He throws off his clothes and dives under. The net's about all he's got in the world; he has to rescue it.

This time it has caught a brass jar with a lead stopper. Looks old, maybe he can sell it in the copper market. It's heavy, not easy to drag it out of there; he nearly drowns trying, and the net gets shredded. Maybe there's a jinn inside, he thinks. If he doesn't kill me, maybe I can wish for enough money to be free from these stupid labors, eat other people's fish. Or get my youth back, the old dangler functioning again. New teeth. The apple of Samarqand to cure my crotch itch. A young, beautiful wife who talks less. A rich princess maybe. Rule a kingdom. Ride horses. Kill a few people. Sure enough, the lead seal has been stamped with an ancient seal ring. For once in his life he's in luck. He gets out his knife but then has second thoughts. If there's a jinn bottled up inside, squashed in there for centuries, he could be in a pretty explosive mood. Life's shit, sure, but does he really want to end it and no doubt in some horrible way only jinns can imagine? But what other way does it ever end? Even now he can feel things in his bones that suggest bad times coming. Best to take a chance. He scrapes away at the lead stopper until he pries it loose.

What comes out might be smoke, it might be dust, smells like death. Maybe just somebody's ashes. But the muck continues to curl out of the neck of the jar, slowly rising into the sky over him and spreading out over the sea, more and more of it, until that's all he can see. The sun's blotted out, the sea's brighter than the sky, it's as if the world is turning upside down. Then the dark mist gathers and takes shape, and suddenly, with a great clap of thunder that sets his knees knocking, there's a monstrous jinn standing there, feet planted in the shallow waters at the shore, head in the clouds, eyes blazing like there's a fire in its head, its teeth big as gravestones, gnashing. Sparks fly. If the old fisherman had any boots, he'd be quaking in them. As it is, naked still from his dive, he's trembling all over like a thin, pale jellyfish. The jinn, in a pent-up rage, kicks the brass jar far out to sea. There goes his ticket to the copper market. The jinn might be talking to him, but he can't hear a thing. He's pissing himself with terror, his ears are popping, his tongue is dry, his jaws are locked as if hammered together. "What? What?" he croaks at last. "I said," says the jinn, his voice like the wind on a violent day, "make a wish, Master! Choose carefully, for I've time for only one!"

Master? Ah, it's true then, the old stories, it's really happening. He's just been making a list; he can't remember it. Wealth, yes, heaps of it. But of what use is wealth if he dies before he can spend it? Likewise bedding down with princesses. Marrying a princess without youth would be like fishing with a torn net. But wishing for youth without a princess would be like casting his net on the desert. Can he wish for more wishes?

"You cannot, Master, as I will not be here to fulfill them! Make haste while there's time!"

"Oh, I don't know! I can't think! I wasn't ready for this!"

The jinn is bigger and scarier than ever. He has long snaky hair and claws where his fingernails should be. But he's harder to see. It's as if his edges are dissolving. There's less of him even as there's more of him. Come on, think, think! The end of all disease? World peace? No, fuck the world! It's his turn! How about healthy and alert and virile for at least 200 years: Is that one wish or several? And what would happen when the 200 years were up, how could he face that? What about simply a long life, get it going, what the hell, see what happens? He knows what happens. Just prolonging the misery. Some sort of toy? A flying carpet? An invisible cloak? A bottomless beer jug?

"Hurry, Master! Before it's too late!"

"I'm too old to hurry, damn it!"

The jinn is huge now. Almost as big as the cloud from which he was formed. But you can see the sun shining through him, and the fire in his eyes has dimmed to a flicker. His voice has become thin and echoey, his face is losing its features, his extensions are growing vague, bits and pieces blowing away when the wind blows. Which may be only his own heavy breathing.

"I know! Power! I want power! No! I want endless joy!"

"What... ?"

"Endless joy! I want--!"

"I can't he-ea-ar you-u-u-u...!"

"Wait! Stay where you are! Joy! Just make me happy!"

Nothing left of the jinn now but a few beardy wisps floating in the breeze, and then they too fade away.

"Please! Come back, damn it!" he cries. "At least mend my net!"

But the jinn is gone. Not a trace. It's too late. Praise God, fucked again. The old fisherman hauls on his shirt with its wet tails, rolls up the rotten shreds of his net. On the sand, he spies part of the stamped lead seal. Ah. So he got something out of the encounter after all. A story. You see this lead seal? Let me tell you what happened. Trouble is, he's told too many stories like it before, none of them true, so no one will believe him now. Why would they? He wouldn't believe himself. They might even put him away. Lock him up as an old loony. He is an old loony; he wouldn't have an argument. And even if they did believe him, they'd want to know what he did with the jar. They'd think he stole it and would cut off his hands for thieving. Fuck that. He pitches the lead seal into the sea. He'll repair his net and have another go tomorrow. Maybe he'll catch a mermaid.

Come on, think, think! The end of all disease? World peace? No, fuck the world! It's his turn! How about healthy and alert and virile for 200 years: Is that one wish or several?