Bottled

by Carol Riggs

  My attention is yanked outward as I sense chains of servitude crystallizing around me. The bonds constrict around my arms, against my will. No! I’ve tarried too long. Rehema won’t relinquish my bottle now. When I’m not Inside, human possession and knowledge are as good as a summoning when it comes to requirements for being my master.

  Rehema’s grin is awful to behold. She grips my bottle tighter. “Djinn. Fairy godmother. Magical spirit. Whatever you call yourself, you’re mine.”

  “Yes, Master.” The words force themselves past my lips, dragged out by the perverse laws of the bottle. In automatic mode, I press my palms together by my chest, then sweep them outward. My rings glint in the overhead lights. “Your wishes are mine to fulfill. I live to serve you.”

  She laughs. “That’s more like it. Now, since there’s no way I’m giving up this nifty new treasure, I want you to wipe out that approaching army. Kill whoever’s leading it.”

  “I can’t directly kill anyone. It’s against the laws of my servitude.”

  “Seriously?” she asks. “I can’t believe it. You’re worthless as a ladies’ maid and a djinn.” A scant moment later her expression turns sly, her eyes narrowing. “Can you kill someone indirectly, then?”

  Foul luck. She’s smarter than Bello ever was. Must I tell her I’m able to conjure lethal potions, vicious creatures, and deadly storms to cater to her homicidal desires? I despise carrying out such orders. Even so, while those methods of attack might work on the army, they won’t work on Faruq. Since he’s still alive, he must be under magical protection.

  A thunderous boom rattles the library, and Rehema and I flinch. The gates are under attack. Faruq and his convoy have arrived.

  “I can use indirect methods to kill someone,” I say, speaking fast. “But not in this case. May I suggest we instead travel to a place the convoy leader can’t track us? Think of somewhere you’ve always wanted to live. I could build you an instant palace there, one more suited to your personal tastes.” My words are grasping, desperate. It’s humiliating beyond belief.

  “Fine,” Rehema says, her eyes narrowed and glittering. “Take me to The Bahamas. I’ve wanted to go there my whole life. Or wait. Let’s try Hawaii first. One of the guards has been telling me amazing things about it lately.”

  “As you wish.” I have no idea what kind of country Hawaii is, or where it’s located. It doesn’t matter. Without delay, I dissolve us away from our current surroundings. Bello’s extravagant library vanishes. I filter images from Rehema’s thoughts as we transfer, that of tall ribbed trees topped with leafy fronds. Golden sand accumulates in thick masses under our feet. Sea waves splash into existence on our left. We leave the dimension of transfer space and merge into new surroundings of sun and salty breezes.

  As soon as I’m able, I retreat into my bottle.

  I throw myself across the cushions and slide open the drawer that holds Karim’s letter. Rolling onto my back, I press the folded parchment to my chest, lungs heaving. Its presence soothes me, helps me ignore the aching in my arms. My heart gallops like frightened horses in my chest. Heavens above! I’ve managed to escape Faruq once again.

  The image of blood swamps my memory and dilutes my relief.

  Bello’s blood.

  I envision his last breath, watch him die all over again. It’s no less gut-churning than experiencing it. On the heels of that image, Rehema shoots me over and over, a stuttering vision. It’s not something I wish to remember. In the past as a genie, I’ve been hacked at with a sword before, but never shot. For some reason the bullets felt much worse. Stronger, more painful.

  Without moving, I lie there inhaling scents of sage tea and spiced lamb and sweet sticky dates. The mirrored sections gleam around me. I’m grateful to be back Inside. It’s the only home I know. With any luck, Rehema won’t figure out how to summon me.

  My breathing settles. I unfold the letter and trace my fingers over the ka’dadd flower inked there. I admire Karim’s script, its precise formations. Many years before his mother died, she was adamant he learn to read and write. In contrast, the reason I have those skills is because I’m a genie. My tentmaker father and mother had no use for education. In the short time my servitude overlapped with our relationship, Karim was grateful to learn of my new abilities.

  Take heart, my beloved. I will find you.

  Above my head, the detested rasping occurs. The gong reverberates. I manage to toss my letter onto my table before I dissipate into serpentine smoke and writhe toward the stopper.

  Rehema stands, one hand on a hip, waiting on the balmy beach. A hundred yards from her, waves crash into foam, and scantily-clad brown bodies meander along the surf’s edges. The placement of the sun tells me it’s early afternoon in this place.

  She holds up my bottle. “Is this a trick? I thought taking the stopper out of this thing would summon you, but it’s stuck, fused on here. Good thing I accidentally rubbed the right place on the neck below the stupid stopper. Why’d you sneak off like that—am I out of wishes?”

  “There’s no limit,” I say. “Unfortunately, your wishes are my ongoing command.”

  “Smart-aleck,” she says. “Listen up, Witch. I’d like a paradise house overlooking the ocean, with big picture windows and lots of potted plants. A Jacuzzi tub to soak in. A manicure and pedicure room with servants to—”

  “You’ll have to hire the servants. I can materialize objects, not people.”

  She glowers and continues. “I want a canopy bed with sheer purple drapes, and a kitchen with an oven that makes food on its own just by pushing buttons. That way I don’t need a bunch of nosy kitchen servants living with me. And I can get my ugali cooked right. Not scorched.” She throws me an excruciatingly pointed look.

  I half-listen as she prattles on. It doesn’t matter how much she describes her wishes. I’ll get the specifications straight from her mind, down to the last detail, whenever she decides to quit yammering. I don’t bother to correct her about the ugali, either. Let her magic oven prepare her food. It’s one less thing I’ll have to do.

  In a few minutes, I’m concentrating for all I’m worth. Palaces and houses are complex, massive things to form. Walls, beams, and broad windows. Arched entrances. Flowing draperies and Turkish rugs. Crystal chandeliers suspended over black leather sofas. Bright splatter paintings. Rehema’s décor and furnishings are a garish mix of futuristic 1977 styles sprinkled with the historical.

  I complete a series of legal permits and record them in a distant building. Rehema’s thoughts about these are vague, but enough for me to complete the task. Scrawled signatures appear, dates are stamped. Apparently modern construction requires a lot of permissions.

  When the palace is finished, I bow. Her residence stands behind a wrought-iron fence, white-stoned and shaded by a line of leggy palms.

  “You’re pretty handy to have around,” Rehema says with a smile. “Now make me a pile of money. I’ll hire guards and spa servants tomorrow. Oh, and whip me up some high-quality cocaine. I’m gonna throw a real cool party here this weekend. Get to know the neighbors.”

  “As you wish,” I respond. Because that’s what I’m supposed to say.

  Chapter 4

  While Rehema parties off and on with her new friends for the next five weeks, I keep myself occupied. I prefer not to see her much, and that seems to be a mutual sentiment. At least she allows me to spend time Inside, unlike Bello. Returning here revives me. It doesn’t eliminate my mysterious fatigue and aches—especially if I’ve fulfilled her self-centered wishes all day—but it does ease the discomfort.

  Propping my slippered feet on a pillow, I sip sage tea and try to ignore a lingering unsettledness in the back of my mind. I should feel more secure than I do. I’m locked in Rehema’s sturdy new safe. On this tropical island of Hawaii, I’m on the opposite side of the world from Kenya. I just wish Faruq didn’t haunt me. He tarnishes my dreams as well as taints my daily thoughts. I loathe that he has an influence over me even when he’s
not my master.

  Bah. I’m in need of a distraction.

  I survey my wall of compartments and pull one drawer open with my toe. Charcoal and parchment. Two stubs of charcoal remain, and a few blank sheets lie atop my stack of finished drawings. I need to replenish my supplies. Yesterday I heard one of the guards ask Rehema to borrow a “pen,” which resembled a short quill with a long-lasting reservoir of ink. I’d like to try my hand at one of those.

  My drawings compel me to sit up and thumb through them. They’re a collection of my attempts over the years…I’ve improved a great deal. I slip one out and study it. Karim, of course. It’s not an accurate likeness. Not bold and courageous enough, nowhere near handsome enough. His essence is difficult to capture. And, after so many years, his features are starting to blur in my mind. It’s terrible. I have to find him before the remembrance of his face dwindles into nothingness.

  It’s doubtful Rehema will allow me to search for him. I hesitate to ask. She’s not exactly an approachable woman. Perhaps I can do some sleuthing on the sly when I’m Outside…if she ever lets me remain in the human realm for longer than ten minutes. I’m not sure which is worse—spending time with her as my master, or not being able to continue my goals.

  I grab a charcoal nub and start a new portrait, keeping “bold” and “courageous” in the center of my thoughts. Karim’s eyes command attention. His dark hair curls to his shoulders. His jaw is square, his cheekbones high on his shaven face. The aristocratic Arabian. Born as an only child into privilege, and yes, a trifle strong-willed and spoiled. We were raised so differently.

  Near the stopper, a rubbing occurs, and the gong vibrates. Rehema. I disperse into smoke before I can set down my charcoal.

  My feet sink into the plush carpet of Rehema’s bedroom. She’s dressed in a bright floral dress, her feet shod with jeweled sandals. The booming music and sloppy laughter of a party echo from the rest of the house.

  “I need more money,” Rehema says. “And I’m sick of having to ask you for it every time. Make me another safe, one that fills itself back up every time I use it. You can do that, right?”

  I try not to grimace, and fail. Those kinds of ongoing wishes require more effort and drain my power on a constant basis. The worst was the colossal invisibility spell my old Arabian master affixed to his desert palace.

  My bottle forces me to answer with the truth. “I can do it, although such magic ends when you’re no longer my master. That includes your food-producing oven.”

  She waves a multi-ringed hand. “Nothing’s going to end. You aren’t getting off the hook that easily. You’ll be my slave forever. Now make me that safe.”

  I begin forming what’s in her thoughts. The safe makes its appearance in the shape of a huge pink pig. The snouted grin looks sinister, ghoulish. I try to shrug off an uneasy feeling. What did she mean by her “slave forever” statement? I don’t like the sounds of that. Oh, relentless sands of Arabia, I hope she doesn’t think to wish for a longevity elixir. Unlike a killing potion I can conjure to dispose of someone, preparing a potion for extended life would require her to commit horrible acts to collect the ingredients. I don’t want to bestow final power to seal a concoction like that. I’d sooner die than tell her how to make the elixir of life.

  Not that I’ll have a choice.

  “Perfect,” Rehema says when I finish the pig safe. She withdraws a handful of bills from a drawer in its portly stomach, and saunters to her armoire for a packet of powder. “Too bad I can’t refill my coke supply like that, but I’d rather not have a big illegal stash lying around. Even if it is locked up.”

  “That makes good sense, Master. Enjoy your party,” I say, ready to be dismissed.

  She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t think ‘enjoy’ is the right word. It’s hard to understand these people’s choppy, strange way of talking. And I think they’re just coming for the booze and the drugs.” Looking deflated all of a sudden, she heads for the door.

  Her disappointment isn’t my problem. She has released me from her services, and it’s my duty to leave. I return to my bottle well before her orange-manicured hand reaches the knob.

  * * *

  Rehema summons me a handful of days later. She’s sitting on her bed. Her dark hair is unbraided and disheveled, the house is silent. I stand for a while watching her twirl my bottle in her hands, until my patience runs out. Surely she summoned me for a reason.

  “Is there something you desire?”

  She shrugs. It’s a twitch, almost a spasm. “I don’t know. What would you want?”

  I open my mouth to answer but no sound comes out. Me? I want many things. Karim. Release from my eternal bondage. Faruq obliterated off the face of the earth. Respite from the constant shooting pains in my arms and shoulders. To be able to touch someone, and have them touch me. To have a reason to dance and laugh and shout for joy.

  It’s nice she asked. On the other hand, I don’t know that I want to tell her such deep things, the desires close to my heart. Perhaps she’s asking because she’s under the influence of her drugs, or maybe her words are a ruse of some kind. Yes, that must be it. It’s a trick.

  “It’s your wishes I’m bound to fulfill,” I say. “Not mine.”

  She looks up with brows gathered, eyes blazing.

  I add with haste, “But I wouldn’t mind having a pen and some drawing paper. And I like that puzzle cube in your sunroom with the colored squares on it.”

  “Oh, the Magic Cube. You can have it, along with a pen and paper. Do you like games?”

  “Yes. Games keep me occupied between wishes.” I have no idea what’s ailing her. Her generosity is a little frightening. Yet it might be a good time to muster the nerve to request a day off. She wouldn’t have to know why.

  She squints up at me. “Yes, I suppose it gets lonely in there.” To my dismay, her face crumples. Her lips go slobbery, her eyes watery. “Bello…he was always so sweet to me. I didn’t mean to kill him. I was just so angry at both of you, at what I thought was going on. I want you to bring him back to me. I wish for him to be alive again.”

  “I can’t do that, Rehema,” I say, my voice soft.

  Her eyes search mine. “Please. I’ll give you anything you want.”

  Ah. She was offering me things to buy my favor. But it doesn’t work that way. My restrictions are merciless as far as the finality of death goes. I take a fortifying breath. “If you want to know my desires, Master, I’m craving a day off to visit other countries, but I’m afraid I can’t bring people back to life for you. Not Bello or anyone else. I’m sorry.” Camel’s dung. Did I just apologize to this irritating woman?

  She gives a soul-wrenching moan. “I miss him so much. I want to see him again.” She flops sideways into a bedraggled heap. “I loved him,” she cries. “I loved him…”

  A lump rises up that I can’t swallow down. “I think he loved you, too.”

  She cries harder. “Shut up. Make me a big supply of coke, and get outta my face.”

  “As you wish.” I take a slight bow. Without further words, I conjure her a large tin of white powder onto the bedside table. Then I slip out to the sunroom. I retrieve a pen, a tablet of paper, and the puzzle cube before returning to my prison.

  The cube mesmerizes me for days. While Rehema is presumably occupied with her drugs, I twist sections around, trying to line up colors on each side of the cube. There must be a trick to solving this thing. I think it might be smarter than I am. Over the centuries, I’ve gathered many things into my compartments, some found items, some gifts from my masters. This puzzle is without a doubt one of my more intriguing diversions.

  On the eighth day, the game’s novelty wears off. Where’s Rehema? It feels too quiet out there. Surely she and her friends have finished the cocaine by now. Maybe she’s partying at someone else’s dwelling. I shouldn’t care, since she’s leaving me alone. My arms ache less. But the image of her emotion-raw face lingers in my mind. I suppose she’s a human with kinder feeling
s after all, and she misses Bello. As I miss Karim.

  At least I cling to a slim hope that Karim is still alive.

  All interest in games deserts me. I pull out Karim’s letter and curl up on the cushions with his words. My interior lighting dims to a soft glow, adjusting to my reduced activity. I drift off, yearning to dream long and vividly of my lost love.

  Images begin to form. I’m smiling as I pad barefoot down the path. He waits by the stone well.

  Moonlight shimmers on his dark hair and across his broad shoulders. He stands by the garden well as he has on other nights, and I start to run to him. But my legs don’t want to work. They churn in slow-motion, and the harder I strain, the farther away Karim becomes. His edges fade, merging with the jasmine and the roses, blurring with the blue globe thistle. Time warps him. Centuries crumble the garden into clumps of sod and plant debris. I’m alone, surrounded by pools of blood and grotesque pig leers.

  I awaken with a start. Karim’s letter rustles beneath my hand. I shake the cobwebs of dreams and forgotten spaces from my head. My body is stiff. My inner timepiece tells me I’ve slept longer than a few hours, although I don’t know exactly how long. When I slumber, time is skewed. Days turn into months or years in the human realm. A century can easily morph into three.

  So where is Rehema? Is she not able to get to her safe to summon me?

  She may have used too much of that white powder. Nasty substances, drugs. Long ago a former master was obsessed with opium, and it finally claimed his life. There’s nothing I can do now except wait.

  I stretch. I fill the hours playing cards and drawing. The writing pen is a marvelous new tool. After that, I wrestle with the Magic Cube and play with Chinese domino tiles. When I drink my tea, I long for mint rather than sage. I sleep when I’m bored. My bottle gets knocked over on occasion, rolling sideways while I float right-side-up, suspended on my nest of cushions and pillows. There are vibrations, thumps, and other motions in the human realm, but no one rubs that spot of thick glass near the stopper.