The dead have been dropping all night.
I wake before the sun is bright enough to cut across the horizon and I gather the pomegranate seeds scattered in front of my home—bright fruit that collects like a crimson puddle under the twisted tree. There are many seeds this morning, and the weight of the basket tilts me as I hobble back inside my cottage.
My daughter, Layala, is still sleeping in her cot as I sit down, joints clicking. I am only thirty, yet the years weigh heavier on me than they should, and I sigh as I pluck seeds out of the basket. They’re red and plump, these seeds, and leave my hands sticky. I press them between two pieces of wood and let the juice seep into a bowl. Each seed is a soul’s story, and every story must be told. As Hakawati Jinn, it is my duty to tell the stories of the dead and send the souls to final—and hopefully, peaceful—death.
When the seeds have been pressed into a ruby juice, I take a sip and wrinkle my nose. “Bitter today,” I mutter to myself, pouring honey into the cup. I stir, then take another drink.
The stories come in flashes, too quick for my mind to understand, and I’m too tired to try, but my magic is fast enough to catch them.
Snatches of a river flowing fast; the brown of a head topped with seaweed, floating on.
I catch the green of a tree and a swing hanging from a thick branch. I think I hear the growl of a bear. Or the clash of blades. But everything comes too fast, and there are so many stories to tell: stories of days and lives lived. I rarely ever see the last moments of death, thankfully.
My fingers bend and scrawl, weaving stories in the air. The words leave my fingers, curling into smoke. I drink more of the juice, weaving the smoky tales in the air with my other hand. The stories disappear almost as soon as they form, swallowed back into death.
Layala stirs, slipping out of her bed and padding around behind me in the kitchen. She says nothing as she sets a pot of tea to boil and begins making our breakfast.
I drink the last of the juice and, more out of habit than need, glance at the lone pomegranate seed I keep in a small glass jar on a shelf.
Layala’s father.
Those who have died by their own hand have no place in Mote. They are banished to Jahannam, to suffer eternal cold and perpetual executions. Preserving his soul seed was the only love I could show him after his death, to keep him in the Waiting Place of death rather than write his tale and send him to suffer.
He visits us sometimes, as happy as any dead could be.
As if thinking it conjures him, he ghosts into the cottage, his body more smoke and ash than flesh and blood.
“Illyas,” I say, rising to my feet.
He bends to kiss me, soft and, if not warm, then not the cold expected with the dead. And though his face fades through mine, I pretend I feel his solid flesh. “Always beautiful, Nadine,” he says, and his smile is sad.
“Sabah al-khair, baba,” our daughter greets, throwing her arms through the air as if to hug him. Good morning, father.
He can only keep his form a few minutes in a day, in the moments when the sun’s light turns from red and orange to its bright day colors.
“And how are my girls today?” he asks, as he does every visit.
“Good,” Layala says. “I’m going to see jido again today.”
My dead lover’s face stiffens at the mention of his father, but he forces a smile onto his face. “You should spend more time at home, with your mother,” he says, and I throw him a grateful look.
But before Layala can respond, Illyas disappears, as the sun’s light breaks through our windows and the morning is fully awake.
We both sigh, always wishing for just one more minute with him.
“I wish we could go into death,” Layala says. “You’re a jinn; you’re made of death itself. Are you sure there’s no way—”
“No, Layl. I’ve told you before. Jinns manage death; they don’t enter it or keep its company, not if they can help it.” I bite the tip of my tongue, tasting the lie that is far more bitter than the seeds I drank. You lie to keep her safe, to keep her from asking too many questions.
I hate lying to my daughter’s face, but her questions have plagued me for years. Ever since she was a child, she wanted to know: What was death like? Was it something you could take trips to? Could she visit it? What about the souls who don’t pass, could they be her friends? What magic did she have, being my daughter? Did she have jinn magic, too? Was there no way?
It’s better she knows as little as possible, even if she is half-jinn. She’ll likely never have my magic, and it’s best she doesn’t.
“I’m going to jido’s,” she says to me. “I’ll be gone all day.”
“Your father is right, you know. You should stay home more, learn a craft so you can support yourself when I die.”
“You’ll be around for many more years, maman. You just don’t like jido much,” she teases, kissing me on my head as she darts off to get dressed. “Besides, his garden needs work. The trees aren’t as tall as they should be, and the vines are choking them.” She flashes me a bright smile as she flutters through the house.
I glance back at that lone pomegranate seed on the shelf. He’s nothing like his father, and thank the heavens for that.
My daughter leaves the house in a flurry of color and voice. “Bye, maman!” she yells, barely throwing me a parting look. I give her enough time until she’s out of sight, then pull an empty bottle from a shelf, another one filled with honey, and a canteen of water.
I take the stony pathway at the back of the house and head straight for the cemetery. It’s filled with chipped tombstones wearing moss shoulders and spiderwebs. No flowers or notes mark any grave anymore; the cemetery has long been forgotten. Which is why it’s perfect for my escapes into death. I lean back against a tree and spy a fox watching me. The burbling stream beyond chuckles, far enough away that I don’t see it through the thick tree branches, but close enough that I hear it and smell how cold it is. It is fed by death, with waters that run silver at night and gold in the morning. The same waters I keep Illyas’s seed in to keep it from rotting.
The fox cocks its head at me, his snout curled up in a characteristic smile. “Come to see me walk into death, little one?” I ask. It dashes off, bushy tail hanging low.
I fill the empty jar with dirt from a grave, mix in the honey and water, and drink. My mouth fills with granules of stone and sand, and I try not to chew any, only swallow. The honey does little to mask the taste, but it’ll do.
While the dirt water sloshes in my stomach and I feel the weight of stones settle in me, I press my hands to the ground and let the cold of the earth seep into my skin. It’s familiar, this feeling of being one foot in the warmth of life and the other in the cold of death. I feel comforted, just as I did when I sat in my own maman’s lap as a child, as she told me the stories of our people and the magic running in our veins.
Lightning strikes through me, a jolt to my body as I enter death. And Illyas is there to greet me, as he always does. He’s a shadow first, then the smoke curls in around him and I can just make out his features. He’s smiling, as usual, his hand outstretched. I pretend to take it, though my hand goes through his.
“Hakawati,” he says, calling me by my title rather than my name. “Hiyati.” My life.
It’s pale in death, any color so watered down it’s more an insult to the color it mimics. There are trees, though, pale green leaves with bark the color of faded animal hide. And the sky is so muted, I’m never sure whether it’s blue or gray or a dirty white.
“Illyas,” I say, letting him guide me to a bench. Death surprisingly has small comforts for those who can’t or won’t pass on to Mote or Jahannam. “How are you?”
He laughs, the sound gravelly but warm, like honey mixed with crushed spices. I want to hold him like he used to hold me when he was alive. But bodies move and fit differently in death, less flesh and more ash. “As good as can be. And you?” He leans close and reaches a hand out, as if to brush the hair off my forehead. I don’t feel his skin, but there’s still a trail of warmth. I want to lean my cheek into his touch, to rest my weight against him.
“Well enough. Your daughter threw animal shit at some boys who were bothering her yesterday. I don’t know if I should encourage her fiery personality or douse it,” I say, laughing.
Illyas chuckles, but there’s a tightness in his face. “She should be careful,” he says. “She’s still your daughter, and they don’t take kindly to that.” He brushes a hand across my face again, and I pretend I can still grasp his scent.
“There’s so much I want to tell her,” I admit, “but I don’t know if I should. And I’ve told her so many lies over the years. How do I undo that?”
He says nothing, and when I try to move in closer to his chest, we fade into each other, smoke curling into smoke. We pull back, our bodies regaining substance. It’s as if we repel each other, our skin, our bodies refusing to meld the way they did when Illyas was alive. I swallow a scream of frustration.
At least you can see him, talk to him, even if you can’t touch him or smell him.
“Hakawati, tell her a story,” Illyas says, interrupting my thoughts. “You’ve spun her tales since she was in the cradle; she will feel your meaning, even if she doesn’t understand it. Weave her a story and see what she says.”
“She’ll roll her eyes and ask to go to her grandfather’s house. She has little patience for me lately.”
He shakes his head. “She reminds me of me when I was her age. I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”
“I loved you at that age,” I say, reaching out for his hand. I let mine hover over his so we feel each other’s warmth.
“Loved?” he echoes, smirking. “Not anymore?”
I crack a smile. “You know you’re my one and true love.”
He smiles wide, but then his expression sobers. “You shouldn’t be alone anymore. Layl is getting older. She will one day leave home to start her own. What will you do then?”
“Visit you more often.”
Illyas huffs at that. “You should find someone. You should,” he repeats when I twist my face up in a “no.”
“I remember you being rather jealous of a certain Ihab in the village,” I tease, “when he gave me flowers during the midsummer festival.”
His sudden bark of a laugh spears through my heart. “I was young. And I seem to recall you encouraging him, just to make me jealous.”
“I might have,” I say with a smile. “I don’t remember.”
“Lies. You remember everything.” The lines around his eyes crinkle, as if he were still made of true flesh. I want to hold him, feel him, skin on skin. Instead, I get to my feet and try to numb the raw pain in my chest.
“I should return. The sun will be setting soon.” Time works differently in death than in life, at once faster and slower. I already feel sluggish, the effects of death tugging at my soul, trying to pull it from my body and claim it.
“I’ll walk you home,” he says, and we both smile, because there’s no leaving death for Illyas tonight, not until the sun wakes up in life and he can steal away for a few minutes.
I hover my lips at his cheek in the mimicry of a kiss.
“Goodbye, Hakawati,” he says. “I’ll miss you until next time.”