The Gold of the Jinn

The Gold of the Jinn

The year was 1920. I, James Rutherford, was traveling with archaeologist Charles Kingsley to the Middle East on an expedition. The treasure of an Arab noble who had been killed in the Christian crusades of the past was our objective. Two years prior, the Great War had ended and Allied forces had occupied many of the territories under the wing of the Outtaman Empire, so though the native populace still thought ill of us (even more so due to their alliance with German and Austrian-Hungary which was in the process of being broken up into two separate countries,) we were still able to get into the country with little difficulty.

King Smithon was the aristocrat. Though not a figure too vital to the history of the Muslim-Christian conflict in that region, he was still powerful enough to own his own land, and slaves, and women (the latter two being quite disgusting practices I’m glad most of the civilized world has moved past.) He died in battle against the Christian Crusaders and, allegedly, after he breathed his final breathe his palace along with his treasures and any of his subjects unfortunate enough to be inside were swallowed up into the sand.

Many have chalked the palace’s collapse to a sink hole of sorts forming under it and the timing of said Collapse to mere coincidence. It seems logical, but many including Charles believed in an alternate theory. A supernatural one. It was said that many people back then, both Arab and European, accused King Smithon of being a magic user. A Warlock. In most situations, he would have been executed (most likely by stoning), but strangely he was kept alive. Some say it is because the Muslims needed as many wealthy landowners on their side as possible for their war against the Christians. Others say that none dared to accuse nor attempt to punish him due to being afraid of his immense power, but this is disputed due to the fact that one, most likely normal, Christian soldier was able to strike him down in battle. Take of that what you will.

Charles had brought a small piece of paper with him where he had written down a few spells that he said would help us with the supernatural aspect of this expedition. In addition, we brought the usual supplies, such as water canteens, food rations, flashlights, knives, guns, and ammunition in case we encountered something hostile. After acquiring two camels, we set out into the desert in the hope of learning more about King Smithon. They journey to the former site of Smithon’s palace was surprisingly short. We were only a day's ride into the desert by camel, but the unbearable heat and dryness, along with the lack of recognizable landmarks, raised my concerns. Charles made sure to berate me of my fears, saying that explorers like us have no time to have them and that we need to be ready to brace any dangers or sacrifice anything so that the human race could progress intellectually be it towards the bright future or to uncover our distant past. It’s quite the extreme position to take in my opinion, but I can respect his dedication to the profession.

Nothing was there when we got to the site where the palace used to be. It was just a dip between the dunes where the only thing at the bottom was more sand. I was quite perplexed. “Pardon me if I am insulting your sense of direction, but I do not believe we are in the correct area,” I asked Charles. “How so?” Charles replied.

“I do not see evidence of the Palace ever being here,” I said, wiping the sweat off my brow.

"Well, obviously not, you don't!" “It was all swallowed by the desert sands, fountain and roof included,” Charles yelled snidely. “I know,” I replied, “but shouldn't there be something left behind from where the Palace collapsed? Perhaps a shingle or some rubble that was thrown asunder as it was all falling? I suppose they could have been covered by blowing sand, but there should be at least a bit of that rubble poking out, and it’s not like some shingles and pieces of a wall or anything shy of a precious mineral could sell for that much. They would be too obscure or unrecognizable.”

Charles said, "You would be surprised James," as he started digging through his equipment bag, "even trash can be sold for a fortune if you are convincing enough." For example, I once saw a man sell off the broken handle of a rake to a rather young and inexperienced archeologist for a few thousand quid because be made it look weathered like a tool a human from either the late Paleolithic or Neolithic periods could have used. The possibility of having a relic from such an early stage of human history and solving the mystery of what it was tempted the Archeologist too much. Last I heard, he is still kicking himself over the foolish purchase and I’m sure the swindler who fooled him is still cackling his head off, but to get back on topic, I do not believe the absence of evidence you refer to James is due to those looting and selling what they could find. I propose that this is a matter of the supernatural.”

I responded to him with skepticism, "I suppose if you believe in such things Charles." Though I had been raised a catholic, I never really bought into things of the paranormal nature before that expedition, I had never been fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to experience an act of God. I scoffed at sightings and stories of ghosts and cryptids as nothing more than modern folklore. The majority of myths and legends I've encountered, I've dismissed as nothing more than stories meant to teach or entertain, or perhaps a powerful individual discovered a hallucinogenic substance and decided to tell the town what they saw. That sentiment of mine was vanquished that day once Charles pulled that scroll out of his pack and finished reciting a phrase written on it in Arabic.

The ground began to rumble. I struggled to keep my balance as Charles stood there as stable and stoic as he did before those words left his mouth. From the middle of the bottom of the decline between the dunes we stood between opened a hole. From that hole, I still cannot believe this even as I write this down, the Palace of King Smithon began to rise! Despite the fact that the structure's beautifully painted designs on its walls appeared to have been scuffed and faded over time and sand, it appeared as though the structure had never been used. Charles told James to come, "Time for us to do some spelunking," acting as if what he had just witnessed were mundane. Hopefully King Smithon’s riches and treasures still remain.”

I followed him after I stuttered in awe. I had not followed Charles on all of his foreign escapades, so perhaps he knew more about the supernatural than he let on. It's possible that's why he was so supportive of the now-factual theory that someone supernatural had taken over Smithon's palace. Just what? We were bound to discover, but before that, we had to experience what might have been the most morbid scene I can ever recall.

The mummified remains of all of King Smithon's subjects, who were unfortunate enough to be inside the Palace when it sank into the sand, were strung across the halls. Their skin was plastered onto their bones, their eyes were sunken, an expression of terror was forever engrained onto their faces. When Charles and I examined the bodies, we found out something that in hindsight was obvious, but all the more disturbing. These people were very much alive before they were pulled under the sand. This was not a raid in which after everyone in the palace was slaughtered, the foundation was somehow weakened and then swallowed. This was an instantaneous event in which the Palace and its inhabitants were suddenly dragged under and all trapped inside slowly drowned in the sand.

“Was this the doing of a sinkhole?” I wanted to be allowed. Charles stated that it was not in response. I asked him how he knew that and he replied by saying “Another reason I refuted the sinkhole theory is because sinkholes big enough to swallow structures like this simply don't appear in deserts. Adding to that fact, other architects have tried to dig for the Palace, but have never found it. It appeared as though the Palace had never existed. “Are you saying that the Palace was disintegrated and then rematerialized by that phase you spoke?” I asked him, bewildered at what he was implying.

He murmured, "Perhaps, or maybe it was dragged into another realm of our existence." Perhaps Heaven or Hell or something more along the lines of what the Mythoses the Irish or Norse Pagans described.” I asked him how he came to that conclusion in which he answers: “Take a gander at the bodies again. Take into account how human skin takes on the hues of things like sand or mud when it’s preserved in it. Because the sand is that color, the skin of these people ought to be yellow or beige. However, as you can see, it is not. Actually, it seems to be a crimson or maroon color. Something that you wouldn't see unless you were in a place with a lot of red clay. Sure enough, on my second investigation of the bodies, their skin was tinted a reddish color.

“How very peculiar,” I announced, “the plot thickens.”

“Indeed,” Charles replied solemnly as if he realized the gravity of the situation, as if he had just been informed of a grave tragedy. “‘Tis why it’s important for us to explore bizarre occurrences such as this James,” he began to preach “Perhaps we could prevent whatever happened here from happening somewhere else. Hell, we might have just discovered another world or dimension entirely. Perhaps this could even be evidence of a Multiverse.”

I then took a moment to say a quip: “Well sir, assuming how you treated the sudden erection of this place from the ground as something somewhat normal and are only now acknowledging the possible grimness of the situation, I assume you have more authority of the diagnosis of this situation than I ever will.”

Suddenly, a strange voice began to echo throughout the palace. A strange attempt at what sounded like an Arabic accent was punctuated by the strange slither of a voice. “You foolish mortals,” it began, “you somehow know how to use magic, yet you haven't the faintest of understanding of the realms beyond yours. Like a child reciting propaganda, they know what to say, but do not understand the further complexities and implementations brought on by what marches off their tongue.”

“Who’s there?” Charles called out. I began to pull out the pistol I had brought along. My mind was racing with a million different ideas as I tried to figure out what it was that was saying to us. Cultists? Bandits? Ghosts? It could have been Lucifer himself for all I knew. The voice was certainly terrifying, but strangely alluring to be so.

The floor behind us began to collapse suddenly, forming a staircase that led into a dim room. The same ominous echo followed the voice as it left the room. “Come and see adventurers,” it beckoned.

“And what if we don't,” I said with a tremble in my voice. Charles looked back at me with a scowl.

"Then you will not obtain the treasures left behind by my summoner," the voice replied. Right there, the suspicions we had about Smithon had been confirmed. He was a Warlock! The palace also vanished as a result of his death. But why?

We were bound to have our queries answered as Charles once again called out to me with a “Come James,” and began his descent down the sandstone staircase with lit torches struggling to beat back the dark and caution in our steps.

At the bottom of the stairs was a large room. At the opposite end of the room were jewels and gold and silver all reflecting the torch light. Also revealed by the glimmering light were statues and paintings miraculously unharmed and unaged. It was the find of the century, we thought believing that we could analyze these and the bodies upstairs to unlock the preservative abilities of wherever these things went. The valuables also tantalized our senses. Each of the metal coins were the purest we have ever seen, as if there was no filler in them. The jewels had no blemishes and I could faintly see my reflection in them even at the distance I was at and in the dark we were in. The paintings and sculptures we made with the realism and expertise not seen in any art created on Earth thus far. The paintings leaped out at you like the Figures of the Sistine Chapel, but had none of the strokes or blemishes of a painting. The looked like a perfect cut out of reality as we perceived it. The sculptures were much of the same, looking as if they were men and women made of smooth stone. It was unbelievable. It was an almost Heavenly moment, one broken once again by the voice and the appearance of the origin of it.

The voice wheezed, "You two are the first living humans to have laid eyes upon the treasure of King Smithon in centuries." Charles and I looked over and saw that the room was suddenly filled with smoke. A terrifying figure emerged from the thickest part of the fog. It’s body was riddled with jaundice infected skin plastered upon a muscles-less body much like if one were to animate one of the mummified bodies on the floor above. It’s limbs were unnaturally long and spindly to the point where it had to hunch itself over in order to walk within the room. Flicking and wrapping around it’s legs was a snake-like tail that perfectly matched it’s thin, light yellow hide. Between it’s shoulders was a viper-like head, same fangs and piercing eyes, but like the rest of it’s body, that disgusting, diseases skin was stretched over it. Like a gorilla, it walked with a hobble and on its knuckles. It’s movements were stiff and jerky, like the spastic squirrels you would see in an American park. I was shaken to my core by this creature in every way. The serpentine movements of its mouth mimicked the way humans conjugate their words as it opened its mouth once more to speak. “I am the Jinn, Aljashe,” the thing greeted, “centuries ago, I was plucked from the bowels of Hell via a summoning ritual conducted by King Smithon. When we are summoned, we are required to comply with our summoner's every whim, as is the law for those who are not chosen by the great Creator. Simple were Smithon's orders. With his dying breath, I was to wisk his treasures into this secret room and then drag his palace into the sands and then to whence I came, only returning if one spoke a certain magic phrase. I guess I deserve nothing but disappointment from you humans because I was hoping that the aforementioned speaker would be skilled in the magical arts. It still baffles me why the Creator regards you as apes on such a high pedestal. I was still too shocked by the initial appearance to fully discern what it said in that moment, only being filled in about it by Charles after we left the Palace. Charles, of course, stood steadfast in front of the creature, this Jinn. He began to converse with it.

“Did King Smithon also Order you to guard his treasures?” He queried.

“No,” the Jinn responded, “but I like to indulge in the sin of greed. The gleam of Smithon's minerals and precious metals fascinates me quite a bit. His art collection is also quite nice to look at. For being so primitive, you humans do have quite a good taste in such things. Perhaps because you all act based more on emotion and less on logic.”

“It differs from person to person,” Charles responded. The Jinn then began to laugh with a hellish cackle. It made my muscles tense up and cause me to fall on my bum, something that doesn't feel the best, especially on stone. After that, the Jinn carried on its conversation with Charles. “Don't make me laugh with your false view of individuality,” it sneered, “I have existed long enough to see the same traits and tropes repeated in all of you humans. You all try to act like you are your own, but in reality, you chimpanzees are nothing but the same pattern repeated over and over for time memoriam. Each and every one of you reads to me like a book. For example, you and your bumbling fool of a partner back there are the Stoic Traveler and his Idiot bard. You pull the weight while the bard gives you emotional and moral validation to push you though doing whatever deed you must overcome even though you don't need it.”

I was quite insulted by the Jinn’s words, but couldn't help but nod in agreement. Charles was not phased. I believe that his only focus was how to get that treasure from the Jinn.

“Pray tell Aljashe,” Charles asked, “what could I do to make you forfeit that treasure?”

“What do you value most?” the Jinn spoke with a strange imitation of a smile on his snake-like face.

“What do you mean?” Charles queried.

What do you place the highest value on in life? It doesn't have to be something of monetary value, nor does it have to be physical. Whatever it is, I want it. And if you do not give it to me, then the palace and the treasures within will once again be pulled into Hell, never to see Earth’s sun again.”

"And what is stopping me or my companion from shooting or pounding you to death and then taking the treasure for ourselves?" Charles threatened, glancing back at me to subliminally order me to get up and get ready for a fight.

The sneaky grin of the Jinn returned once more. “Don't humor me so mortal. Your weapons mean nothing to me. I can't hurt you. In every way conceivable, I am above you and this world, so either you give me what you value above all or everything you see here disappears forever.”

Charles considers his options while briefly standing there. The Jinn glared at him and flicked it’s forked tongue as if to tell him to hurry up. It stayed like this for what felt like an eternity and then…

Charles croaked reluctantly, "You have a deal, Jinn."

Before disappearing into the gloom, the Jinn gave an odd bastardized grin and hissed, "Pleasure doing business with you." After that, there was a prolonged silence. When the light from the full moon emerged much later, we did not actually begin moving the treasures. We did not leave the palace until an escort from the British army came with enough equipment to transport the treasures back home. I was wrong to think that all of this strangeness was over for us. Once we returned to Britain, Charles began to undergo what seemed to be rapid aging. Cataracts rapidly grew over his eyes turning them into soulless grey orbs. He started to lose muscle mass and bone density, which made his arms and legs weaker. He then stopped responding to all noise stimuli and only reacted to anything he physically touched, eventually becoming completely mute and deaf. Within a week of our return from the Middle East, all of this occurred. I knew that Charles’ tragedies had to be related to the deal he made with the Jinn, but I hadn't the slightest what he gave it. His condition? No, though he was reduced to a cripple, he still stayed healthy as a horse. He had not succumbed to illness. He probably gave the Jinn his capacity for exploration and instruction. It makes sense. He couldn't see or hear anything new because he didn't have eyes or ears. Without the use of his limbs, he couldn't physically move himself or efficiently investigate anything. He couldn't pass on his knowledge without speaking, and using morse code and brail didn't help much either. His passion and purpose had been taken just so he could back evidence of the peculiar experience we had. And seeing as how the Palace of King Smithon still stands, he also allowed future generations to study it further.

It was only a few years after his last expedition that Charles finally passed away. I believe that his loss of purpose and independence finally got to him and he just gave up. It’s a shame. Charles, though brash at times, was a damn good man. He did not deserve a fate as horrible as this. What makes me sick is that bastard demon is probably laughing that same sickening cackle over this fact also. However, there is one thing I can say about Charles that will always place him above predators like that. He kept his promises. He gave up everything for the sake of knowledge and the advancement of humanity, as he preached to me. That aspect of him will always be praised by me. Hopefully, the knowledge that came with what he brought back with his sacrifice will be wasted. It would certainly be a good way to spit in that Jinn’s face for it’s injustices.

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