New Suns Page 7

  When she caught sight of him her face lit up in joy. She almost broke into a run to meet him, but she stopped herself. She was finally starting to remember, Nuhu noted.

  “Husband, you’re home!” she said, and she rubbed at his arm as he stepped through the low wooden gate built into the compound’s wall. “I have missed you.”

  Nuhu forced a smile. The stories had not mentioned that all the attention she gave grew draining after a time. Such devotion was acceptable from a pet, but from a human—even if it was only a fox spirit wearing human form—it was unsettling. Hana was always eager to do his bidding; she never questioned or disagreed with him, but neither did she advise or correct him. She had no interests or opinions of her own, and her temperament never varied. There were no bad moods to be cautious of, no minor sulks to coax her from. The only time he had ever displeased her was when, a year into their marriage, he told her that he had decided to take another wife.

  For the first time, he witnessed the true wildness of the fox in her. Crying and howling, she had vowed to kill herself and any other woman who came near him. She had scratched at her face and chest with her claw-like nails until they were bloody with gouges. It took all night to calm her. By the next day, Hana’s wounds were healed as if they had never been, and her sweet disposition had returned. But Nuhu had not forgotten his terror. He never spoke of taking a second wife again.

  Now he gritted his teeth as she washed his feet in rosewater, an elaborate ritual that she performed every time he came into the house. He suffered in silence as she offered him plates of snacks and treats that she had prepared especially for him, but when she asked after his day he had to draw the line. The encounter with the spell was still too fresh with him.

  “Habibi, I am tired,” Nuhu said, forcing a light tone. “Could you perhaps draw me a hot bath? Make sure to fetch the water from the forest stream, just how I like it.”

  “Of course, my love,” Hana said in her sing-song voice and she darted off. It would take her a few hours to hand-draw water from the stream on the far side of the village, but he made sure to see her to the door and out of the compound. Only then did Nuhu call for a servant to bring him his son.

  Umar was just two months old but Hana had already stopped nursing him. That was another thing they hadn’t told him. Fox spirits did bear only male children, but they rarely raised them. All their devotion was reserved for their husbands.

  He could not believe how tiny the baby was, even at this age. And it was still a shock to see the two-month-old’s fine down of dusty red fur and his sharp yellow eyes. To hide his pointed ears, they kept a woollen cap low over his brows, even in the heat. But Umar gurgled like any other child. Nuhu waggled a finger at the baby’s face, careful not to let the child grab at it; his tiny teeth were already needle-sharp. He cradled the baby until it fell asleep in his arms. As Nuhu watched his son’s tiny face slacken, a warmth spread through his chest. He rubbed a finger against the soft fur on the baby’s cheeks. The spell’s words came back to him with force and he drew the child tighter to him, causing it to fret a little. He didn’t care what Grandfather said; no one would take this baby from him. No one.

  THE DJINN’S HEADQUARTERS was located on the top floor of a massive obsidian-faced building that dwarfed the skyline at the center of the capital city. After the spell’s visit, Nuhu had spent the next three days deep in thought. Finally, on the day he was to give up his son, Nuhu had persuaded his cousin Mohammed, who owned a commercial motorcycle, to make the two-hour journey from the village to the city.

  It was nearly noon when they arrived and the city was winding down for afternoon siesta. Nuhu knew the Djinn never took siesta—and his business was too urgent for protocol. They wove through the busy traffic of the capital, dodging cars, minibuses, and tricycles until they got to the tower. After promising to meet with him in front of the revolving doors in a few hours, Mohammed drove off.

  Nuhu spared a moment to take in the massive structure, a black finger whose tip was lost in the clouds. It was said the building had appeared overnight, and he marvelled at the power required to do something like that. Then remembering his purpose, he squared his shoulders and strode in.

  The lobby was as stark as the exterior. The walls were paneled in a dark wood and the carpet was an industrial iron grey. A row of black leather chairs lined one wall under a series of monochrome paintings that provided the only real color in the room. A spell in a black hijab sat behind a desk of white marble with a single bright red phone on its surface. She looked vaguely familiar, but Nuhu didn’t have time to parse why.

  “Excuse me,” Nuhu greeted politely. She turned her pupil-less eyes to him and he suppressed a shudder. “I would like to see your master.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry; without an appointment I cannot grant you entry.”

  Nuhu thought hard for a moment.

  “But I have a complaint.”

  The spell stared at him for a long moment. Clearly, no one had ever come in with a complaint before. Finally, she graced him with a wide mechanical smile and pressed a number on her phone.

  “Customer Service is on the thirtieth floor. Thank you for visiting us, Mallam Danbatta.”

  The lift slid open with a soft ping and Nuhu stepped on. Only as the doors slid closed did Nuhu realize he had not given the spell his name. A cold wave washed over him just as the door clicked open at the thirtieth floor.

  Nuhu hesitantly stepped out of the lift and took a moment to observe the quiet efficiency of the spells sitting at their cubicles as they conducted their duties. With a start, he realized they were all women. Come to think of it, Nuhu didn’t think he had ever seen a male spell. A long row of tinted windows at the far end of the room let in just enough light to signal daytime, while soft fluorescents above supplied the rest. The carpet here was a soft blue-green. It was hard to believe that unremarkable rooms like this controlled the lives of thousands of people who ordered their wishes through the Djinn.

  A spell in a grey kaftan and matching hijab walked up to him. Her pupil-less stare seemed to carry a hint of curiosity.

  “I understand you have a complaint?” she asked.

  “Yes, but I would like to see your supervisor,” Nuhu said.

  “I am head of this department. Perhaps I can help you?”

  “I am sorry. My complaint can only be resolved by your manager.”

  The spell’s face went blank for a moment, like a radio that had been turned off. When she became animated again, it was as if she had shifted to a different frequency.

  “My manager is unavailable at the moment,” she said cheerfully. “Why don’t you come into my office and we can discuss the issue?” Without waiting for his answer, she turned and glided deeper into the maze of cubicles. Nuhu had no choice but to follow.

  The office was a glass enclosure at the end of the room with only a desk, two chairs, and a file cabinet in the corner. On the desk was a manila file folder, and a red phone. She indicated that Nuhu should sit in the chair in front of the desk and took her place behind it. Clasping her hands together, she fixed Nuhu with an unblinking stare. “Would you please explain the situation?”

  Nuhu briefly considered apologizing and leaving, but he caught himself. This was his last resort. If this didn’t work, he would lose his baby. He explained as best he could, watching the spell for any signs of sympathy or understanding. Her expression of cheerful concern never wavered; she simply nodded. “Tell me more.”

  When he was done talking, the spell gave a final nod. “I am so glad you have brought this to our attention. What would you like to see happen here?”

  “I-I want to keep my son,” Nuhu said, blinking in incredulity. Hadn’t he been clear?

  “Let us review your file; perhaps there is something we can do.”

  Joy bloomed in Nuhu’s heart as he watched her open the manila file in front of her. From it she drew out a slim sheaf of papers.
Nuhu had never seen it before, but he knew what they were. His contract. Signed before he was born, it was every wish that he or anyone in his family had ever made on his behalf. He watched as she scanned through the papers, fighting the urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his trousers. He had worn his Friday best.

  “It seems you have not made a wish in four years. Why is that?” The spell fixed him with a look, and Nuhu quailed. Before getting his first Catalogue, he had only ever had one wish, and by the time his next Catalogue had come the following year, Nuhu had lost his taste for wishes; his fox bride was enough.

  “Well-well… that is… well, I-I already have everything that I need,” he stammered.

  The spell arched an eyebrow. The look of distant curiosity had returned. “You have no desires?”

  “Only to keep my son,” Nuhu said quickly.

  The spell frowned and looked through the sheaf of papers again. “The terms of the contract indicate that you are to yield your first-born child in payment for your bride. Normally, I would be able to offer you some compensation, but you have not placed enough wishes to qualify for any of our promotions or rewards. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.”

  A lead weight settled in Nuhu’s stomach. Desperation overwhelmed him; he wanted to leap to his feet and scream. Then a thought struck him.

  “But my son is no child. He is not human.”

  The spell blinked at him, her face slack with astonishment. Just then, the phone on her desk rang. The spell picked it up and after a moment or two, put it back down.

  “I think you may need to speak with my manager,” she said.

  THE ROOM WAS white. Floor to ceiling, it was covered in some sort of sheet or tile that fit seamlessly and gave no impression of angles or perspective. It was like stepping onto a blank canvas, and it made Nuhu’s head hurt to look at it. Ambient light from no direct source filled the room. In the center of it—or what Nuhu assumed was the center; he had no real way of judging distance in this space—a small man in a white djellabiya floated in mid-air, his legs crossed in the lotus position. He was tiny, no bigger than a small child, and though his face was seamed with thousands of wrinkles, he seemed ageless.

  “Welcome Mr. Danbatta,” said the Djinn. “Please, come in.”

  Nuhu realized he was still standing in the lift. The spell had ushered him into it and pressed a red button which was on its own pad, separate from the bank of other buttons. He stepped cautiously into the room. Behind him the lift slid shut, and the room became a featureless white space once more.

  He took off his cap in deference and greeted politely. The small man returned the greeting and waved a hand at a red armchair in front of him. Nuhu was certain the chair hadn’t been there a moment before. The Djinn waited for Nuhu to sit before speaking again.

  “I understand you want to discuss your account,” he said. Nuhu shifted uncomfortably, his throat suddenly dry.

  “I have come to beg you: Please, spare my child,” Nuhu said. He could feel a lump of tears at the back of his throat.

  The Djinn sighed and tugged at his long white beard.

  “Would that I could,” he said. The boredom of a thousand lifetimes leaked through his voice. “This is all in the contract, Mr. Danbatta. That child is mine by rights.”

  “He is not even human. He would be of no use to you.”

  The Djinn laughed, an oddly hollow sound. “For a moment, I thought you might have something new to say… Look, you may have sullied yourself through your animal union with the fox, but your abomination of a child is still a human spirit. I can always find use for him. The contract stands, I’m afraid.”

  Nuhu thought of his tiny, beautiful, helpless son as nothing but a tool in the Djinn’s employ. Anger flared in him and he stood.

  “No! I refuse to accept this!” he shouted. “You promised us freedom, yet you are no better than the masters. Nothing has changed. We are slaves to you as surely as we were to them.”

  The Djinn cocked a shaggy white eyebrow. “How so? I provide you everything you desire through the Catalogue.”

  “You fulfil our desires, but not our needs.”

  The Djinn shrugged at that. “What can I say? Humans are such short-sighted creatures...”

  “You will not take my baby,” Nuhu said. “You will have to kill me first.”

  The Djinn was suddenly standing in front of Nuhu, his face inches away. His expression grew ugly and Nuhu saw the ancient creature behind the human mask.

  “I cannot kill you, Mr. Danbatta, but I can hurt you,” it said with soft menace. “And should you try to stop me from taking what is mine, I will.”

  “If you could hurt me, you would have done so already,” Nuhu said, and he felt the truth of his words as he spoke them. “You have no power over us. None except what we give you, year after year. That is why you send us the Catalogues.”

  The Djinn stared hard at him for a moment, then he burst into laughter. He laughed so hard his tiny frame shook.

  “Well done, Mr. Dambatta. I knew there was a reason I liked you,” the Djinn said when he could finally catch his breath. A chair matching Nuhu’s appeared behind the Djinn, and he sat down on it. “So, now you understand. But that still does not free you from the contract you signed. Your child is due for collection today.”

  “No. You may have our liberty, but you have no claim on my son.” As Nuhu spoke, another realization hit him.

  “Why is that, Mr. Danbatta?” The Djinn seemed genuinely eager to hear Nuhu’s next statement.

  “I saw my file, and I saw that my parents made a wish for me—a boy child—and in exchange, you took their only living daughter. She’s still here, isn’t she?”

  “Perhaps…” The Djinn leaned back and steepled his fingers, a smile creeping over his face. “I have so many employees.”

  “You signed a contract with Nuhu Aliyu Danbatta the son of Ahmed Mahmood Danbatta—but I am not his son, am I?”

  The Djinn’s smile grew into a grin of ghoulish glee. “No, you are not. Your father could not sire sons, no matter how many wives he took. And I can do many things, but even I cannot create human spirits.”

  “Who am I, then?” Nuhu asked, his mind reeling. “Whose child am I?”

  “No idea. When I first started, I’d take the children myself. But the organization has grown so quickly, and your people are so eager to give up your children for a bit of material comfort…” The Djinn shrugged and spread his hands. “I don’t really handle the paperwork anymore.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Nuhu, sadly. “Your contract with me is void. Take back your fox wife, leave me my child.”

  “Of course,” The Djinn stood with an inexplicable air of satisfaction. “After all, my purpose has only ever been to serve the desires of men.”

  From somewhere behind him, Nuhu heard the lift ding open. The spell he’d seen in the lobby emerged; she was holding his son, Umar. Face to face, Nuhu could see how much she resembled his father in a way he never had. She smiled as she handed the child to him.

  “Is she happy here? With you?”

  “Happier than she would ever have been among your people,” the Djinn said. “I have always known the value of women.”

  Nuhu didn’t know what to say to that, so he nodded dumbly. He wasn’t sure what was what anymore—and he realized that he no longer cared. Cradling his precious son, he turned and went home.

  unkind of mercy

  Alex Jennings

  IT TOOK JOHNNY a long time to find work after we moved to the city. He is kind of set in his ways, and more than anything he likes to have a beer and watch the game, you know? Comedy hadn’t been going so well, and it had been a while since I went to see him at one of his shows because God knows I work an awful lot. I mean I literally clean up shit for old folks at the Home down on Magazine Street, and we’ve only got the one car, and being on the goddamn bus for that long can be just exhausting.

  At first, even the bus seemed all glitzy and glam, but Johnny wa
s just like, “A bus is a bus. You sound like Clotile.” You know. From the Boudreaux and Thibodeaux jokes? She’s married to one of them, I can’t remember which, and hearing him say that made me feel like a bumpkin. Sure enough, getting on the bus the next morning was not glitzy at all. I had to admit to myself that I am what you would call one of the working poor. Still, that is my choice. I didn’t grow up poor—my daddy wasn’t an astronomer or nothing, but he had a good job working cranes offshore.

  Don’t misunderstand. Johnny is so not a negative person. He does not take the air out of things or crap all over stuff just to do it. He was just not feeling good about things because he was doing mics five and six nights a week, and Bill Camden had moved out to L.A. sooner than anyone expected so he wasn’t here to book Johnny on his show, and his partner, Kenny, never thought Johnny was all that funny, and so Kenny was not all hot to book Johnny on Laughter’s Lane or on Three Phony Cacophony like Bill would have done.

  People think Johnny is doing a character, but he’s not. Not quite. I mean he was a Juggalo when we met, with the greasepaint and the Faygo and all, but the smoke from those bonfires in the woods got in his bones and so to me he smelled like a party. The moment we met, I looked in his eyes and saw that even though he was nobody, he was a fucking star. People just needed to change the right channel in their brains to see his shine. And he’d make them.

  ANYWAY, AFTER JOHNNY said that thing about the bus, I started noticing little things that kept my feet on the ground. Like, it didn’t take long to start saving money for a car with what I make at the Home, and I can feel that car getting closer, you know? But, for instance, the litter. People litter more here in a way that they don’t in Laffy, and definitely not in New Iberia, right? It’s like a right here. In his act, Bill says it’s a sign of manhood or something—? Virility. I was waiting for the bus awhile back and this black guy dropped a cold drink can next to the trashcan and this older black guy started giving him a hard time about it, and then they both stopped short and just laughed like it was the funniest thing. The attitude was, Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we cared about this? It bothered me and it bothers me still.