Shamharush, King of the Jinn

On both sides of the road, trees stretched upwards into the sky. Even so, they still left room for a view of a few green mountain peaks that were shrouded in dark-gray clouds. As the thick cloud-cover moved slowly across the sky, it all suggested some terrifying, gruesome unknown. The greenness of the mountains kept moving upward till it blended completely with the dark clouds.

Two male passengers wrapped in their warm jallabas stood up. Helped by the father and driver, they managed to get the disabled young man off the bus. They sat him down by the roadside like some kind of sack. Without saying a word, he simply looked all around him, resigning himself to his fate with a stony indifference. As the men climbed back on the bus, the mother of the crippled young man blessed them for helping.

“All in God’s good cause!” one of the men replied, then covered his head with his jallaba hood.

He avoided looking at the mother; the only woman he ever looked at was his wife. At the same time, the driver’s assistant clambered up the back of the bus and started handing down some of the baggage. The woman and her husband took turns grabbing it. The bus driver remained silent as he watched the scene; he was smoking a cigarette, his elbows leaning on the wheel. The people sitting on the driver’s side looked out at the young man by the roadside, who was watching the driver’s assistant.

When the bus pulled away, the woman sat down beside her son on the pile of bags.

“Are you hungry, Sulaiman?” she asked.

“No. Have we reached Sidi Shamharush?”

“I don’t know, son,” the mother replied. “Ask your father.”

“Not yet,” the husband answered, without looking at them.

“We’re in Asni. The driver told me we still have seven kilometers to go to reach Imlil. From there we’ll go up to Sidi Shamharush.”

“Is there any kind of transport to Imlil?” asked the wife. “I can’t carry Sulaiman on my back the way I did when he was young. I’m old now, and he’s a young man.”

“Why are you acting so worried?” he replied. “I’ve been told that there are lots of trucks, taxis, and carts to take people from Asni to Imlil.”

The husband walked into the middle of the empty road and looked off into the distance to see if any other means of transport was coming. Nothing. There was only silence and the sound of birds chirping on the tree branches.

When a cart emerged from a dirt track in the closely packed trees, the woman sprang to her feet.

“A cart!” said the husband. “Stay there.”

“It isn’t as cold as we were told it would be,” the young man said.

“That’s right,” said the mother, “but Sidi Shamharush is surrounded by snow. We’re not there yet.”

She watched her husband silently as he walked toward the driver of the cart, which was being pulled by a donkey. The donkey seemed to be glued to the ground, so the driver set about dealing with the situation. The cart came to a stop in the grass beside the paved road. The husband now asked him to take them all to Imlil.

“I wish I could,” replied the man, “but this isn’t my cart. It belongs to the orchard’s owner. I wish I had a cart of my own! Are you going to Sidi Shamharush?”

“Yes, we are.”

“Don’t waste your time here. Go over there to the left, behind that white building. Do you see it? There you’ll find a stand with carts to take people to Imlil.”

The man hit the donkey with his stick and made a noise to get it moving again. The cart started off along the paved road. Meanwhile, the husband waited till a speeding car had passed, then came back.

“Wait for me,” he said. “I’ll go get a cart. I won’t be long. The carts are over there, behind that white building.”

“Ah, if only you could walk, Sulaiman!” said his mother as she watched the skinny donkey move away. “We could walk those few kilometers and save the money we’re going to have to pay the cart driver. But, with God’s will and the blessing of Sidi Shamharush, the King of the Jinn, you’ll be able to walk.”

When the cart arrived, Sulaiman’s eyes gleamed with joy. Soon he would be reaching Sidi Shamharush. After that, he’d be able to walk like everybody else. He could chase after the boys who kept yelling “Hey cripple!” at him. No one would be able to call him that anymore. He would not have to crawl; he, too, would be walking.

The cart-driver helped the husband. They grabbed the young man under his armpits, while his mother put her hands under his backside; his legs were splayed apart. His mother laid out a sheet in the cart, and they laid him on his back. The wood cracked. That made the donkey look back, as it twitched its ears and raised one of its hind legs.

“Are you in pain, son?” the boy’s mother asked him.

He shook his head. He was staring up at the verdant peaks shrouded behind the dark clouds. Up there was Sidi Shamharush. How many cripples he had made walk up there!

Now the piles of baggage were put on the cart, and the husband and the wife climbed up. The cart started climbing the narrow road toward Imlil. They heard a Jeep horn and made way for it; it was full of European men and women.

“There are lots of Europeans up there, too,” the cart driver said. “They come here to climb the mountains; they’re everywhere. They use ropes to climb up to Sidi Shamharush, so he has laid a curse on many of them. They’ve fallen and died.”

“So why do they keep coming back?” asked the husband.

“They love mountain climbing, but they aren’t satisfied just with that. They do other bad things that displease Sidi Shamharush.”

Alongside the road were some white buildings hidden behind the trees, and huts and barns as well. Herds of cattle and goats pranced around the open spaces; some of them craned their necks to reach the dangling tree-branches.

“Ouch!” cried the young man as he fell backwards. His mother rushed to help him sit up. One of the cart’s wheels had fallen into a rut. The driver was used to such problems, so he paid no attention. He started hitting the donkey with his stick, and it stretched its head forward as it tried its utmost to pull the cart out of the hole. After the driver had hit it a number of times, it eventually succeeded, and the cart continued on its way.

“During the election campaign,” the driver told the husband, “they promised to fix this road, but they haven’t done it.”

“They promised us many other things as well,” the husband replied, “but they haven’t done any of them.”

“What can a dead man say to the people who are preparing him for burial? Not a single thing, of course! But God will repay both burier and buried!”

Another car passed them at full speed, pulling a trailer with a canvas cover.

“Are they Europeans, too?” asked the husband.

“Yes. You’ll see for yourself. We’re getting closer now.”

“I’ve been told that people ride mules up to the King of the Jinn.”

“Yes, that’s true. But most Europeans use climbing ropes. I’ll take you to a nice woman; you can rent a couple of mules from her. She’s from my tribe. Poor woman! All her relatives are dead, and she lives alone with the six mules. Oh, sorry, five. One of the dirty Europeans rented one six months ago, and both disappeared.”

“Even Europeans steal?”

“Tell me about it! But Sidi Shamharush won’t forget.”

“What’s the matter, Sulaiman?” the mother asked. “We’re getting closer, son. With God’s will and Sidi Shamharush’s blessings, you’ll be cured.”

Some houses and shops came into view on the left side. There were few people around. The cart went through an unpaved extension of the road that was full of stones and small, muddy puddles of stagnant water. The place was almost completely empty. There was a dirty square where some buses and donkey-carts were parked. The man hit the donkey with his stick and looked to the left, but there was no car or truck coming, just pedestrians. An old woman slipped into a puddle. A man rushed over to pull her out of the mud, but left without bothering to find out what she was going to do next.

The driver drove the cart to another square, one with short green plants on the side, and stopped. It was not all that far from the first square, which was covered in dung and animal remains. In the other unpaved square there were mounds of wet trash, as well.

“Come with me,” the driver told the husband. “Get the young man and your wife down. We’ll go see the woman to get you two mules. As I told you, she is a decent woman.”

Without saying a word the husband jumped down from the cart. He followed the driver along the narrow street until they reached an empty space where there was a mud-brick house; trees and mules were also visible. The cart-owner went in through the open door and brought out an old woman with a greenish-black tattoo on her chin. She did not speak Arabic, but spoke a few words in Tamazight before going back inside. She left it to the driver to untether two mules and get forty dirhams from the husband.

“She’s a nice woman,” the driver said. “You can keep the mules as long as you wish, but you need to take good care of them. They sell hay up there.”

“We’ll only stay for two days.”

“Visitors usually only stay one night. You’ll see how your son will be cured, God willing. Sidi Shamharush never dashes the hopes of anyone who comes to him asking for his help.”

The man urged the two mules into action. He slapped one of them on its rear with his hand while making a particular sound. With that, the two mules started moving obediently as though they were used to dealing with the driver. They kept going until they had crossed the clearing and were heading down the alley toward the square. They knew what their task was and would certainly perform just as well when they were going up to the mountaintop where the shrine of Sidi Shamharush, the King of the Jinn, was to be found.

The driver helped the father lift his son. The father grabbed him under his belly, and the mother put their baggage into one of the mules’ saddlebags, then got up on the other mule.

“Don’t worry about the young man,” the driver said. “He won’t fall off. The mules are very used to the road.”

He now hit the mule under the belly, making the same clicking sound as he did so. The mule started moving, followed by the second, which the mother was riding. Two hours later they reached the top of the mountain, where there were rooms for rent everywhere. There was a white dome, as well.

Some Europeans were skiing, while others crowded into the only bar. A short man came running over to the two mules, followed by three others. Together they eased the young man down and brought him to a place right beside the door of one of the rooms.

“It’s not very expensive,” one of the men told the father. “You can stay here as long as you like. God willing, your son will be cured. Sidi Shamharush has a deal with our grandfather. If your intention is good, your son will certainly be cured. You must doubt neither our grandfather’s ability nor the promise Sidi Shamharush gave him.”

“Who could have any doubts, Sir?” the father said.

“Many people do, and our grandfather has managed to cause them all sorts of problems. Can you believe that the Minister of Islamic Affairs and the Minister of Tourism have tried many times to take this place over? Do you know what the result has been? Of course not! I’m not scared of anybody, so I’m quite willing to tell you. Any employee of these two ministries who has tried to accomplish that has been punished, suffering either an injury, fracture, or some other misfortune. Now that they’ve realized what they’re dealing with, they won’t be trying it again. So, let your intentions be genuine. Put your whole trust in the promise that the King made explicit to our grandfather.”

“We have no doubts, Sir,” said the husband, looking at his wife, who was trying to cover her son with a wool blanket. “That’s why we have endured such a hard journey.”

“Give a baraka tip to the servants of this holy place,” the man went on. “You’ll pay the rent when you decide to leave. Everything’s here–hay for the mules, and a barn.”

With that, he pointed to a site covered with pine trees, behind which were patches of white snow with black spots sprinkled throughout. The father nodded, then handed each of them a dirham.

“What’s this supposed to be?” said the man waving the dirham. “Are you kidding? I’m afraid your intention isn’t pure.”

“Who would dare to jest in front of such a holy place?” the father commented.

“Then find some more dirhams. Ask your wife to prepare you some hot tea. It’s very cold. Go and get warm, or you’ll catch cold.”

“Okay, Sir.”

He gave the man some more dirhams, then joined his wife. The other three men were standing a little distance away. As they chatted in front of the dome, they seemed unconcerned about what was happening and quite willing to trust their friend.

“Sulaiman can crawl on his own inside the room now. When shall we take him to the dome?”

“I didn’t talk to the man about it. Go in and make us some hot tea.”

“All right. Come inside and get out of the cold.”

In the morning, Sulaiman crawled his way to the dome of Sidi Shamharush, the King of the Jinn, with his mother walking beside him. Other cripples were there as well. From time to time his mother made him some tea and ka‘b al-ghazal cookies, but his teeth were hurting and so he couldn’t chew them. The mother learned from conversations with the other cripples’ families that some of them who had visited the place many times were still not able to stand up. But in fact, Sidi Shamharush knew what he was doing.

In the evening, Sulaiman crawled back to the room with his father and mother, and they shared food with a woman whom the mother had met at the dome. A widow, she was living with her brother who had a crippled son. In fact, she was the one who had told the mother that they had been visiting the shrine for two years. Only the will of Sidi Shamharush determined that the boy would not stand on his feet this year.

“We can’t stay more than two days,” said the husband. “You know I can’t pay more.”

“Poor Sulaiman!” the mother said. “If his father were rich, he could sacrifice a bull to Sidi Shamharush.”

“Sidi Shamharush doesn’t need a bull. He’s King of the Jinn. Do you realize that he owns all the sea-pearls and golden cities? He only walks on musk and amber.”

“But sacrificing a bull in front of Sidi Shamharush’s dome is the right and proper thing to do.”

Sulaiman was listening to what they were saying and staring at his spindly legs. Looking through the crack in the door at the dark night outside, he imagined an army of jinn invading their tiny room; at their head was an old jinni with a tail and two horns. He would extend his long, bright-nailed hands toward Sulaiman’s spindly legs. “Stand up!” he would say in a soft voice. The army of jinn would leave, and Sulaiman would stand up, push the door with his strong foot, and walk out into the dark.

“Drink your tea,” his mother told him. “You need to get some sleep. We have only one day left, and we’re going to spend it in the dome. God willing, my son Sulaiman, you’ll be cured.”

Next morning, one of the dome’s servants knocked on the door. The mother went to open it, then came back and disappeared to talk to her husband. When the man saw the husband, he gave a lazy yawn.

“Are you going to stay,” he asked, “or are you leaving?”

“We’re only going to spend one more day here till my son can stand up.”

“What matters is that, even if he doesn’t stand up today, he’ll stand up somewhere else. You need to know that the last bus for Asni is at 6:30 p.m. Maybe, if your son doesn’t stand up here today, he’ll stand up on the bus. That’s often happened.”

“But what if he doesn’t stand up on the bus?”

“Come back next spring. There are periods when Sidi Shamharush is absent, but no one knows when.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

At 2:00 pm that day, the two mules were again proceeding downhill.