Smoke in the Sand--Part One

This is a story I started writing back in May...I got quite a bit done before my muse took an extended vacation. I just recently picked it back up, and I'll be posting it up here in installments--it's not quite a novel, but it is written in sections. This was fun to write...it started like many of my stories with two words: a story. I had no idea what it would become, but I'm quite thrilled with the direction it decided to take. Anyhow, here it is, and I hope you enjoy it!


Smoke in the Sand

Part One: A Story


A story. Two very simple words to start a very complicated tale. Allow me to introduce myself. I am A'hala A'lak'bar, and I am six hundred, sixty-six years old. I see you chuckle, or perhaps your eyes become shuttered. The number of the beast, you think. I say don't be ridiculous. There is no association with numbers other than what you give them. But I digress. My age is nearly irrelevantat least, the specific number is. The simply fact that I am several hundred years old is what is relevant.

I have been around for a long time. A very long time, as you can see. And unless something miraculous occurs, I will be around for an even longer amount of time. I am a djinn, and this is my story.

I was born to the maidservant of Her Excellency, Sultaña Dazh'ta the Beautiful. She was secretly married, my mother, to a lieutenent in the sultaña's royal guard. Fortunately for my mother, the sultaña was a romantic at heart, and assisted Maman in keeping me a secret. Unfortunately, the sultaña's father was not so romantic. When he discovered my existence, and my mother's secret liason, it was all the sultaña could do to have him exile our little family instead of throwing us to the mherons, his preferred executioners.

My mother used to tell me stories about the mherons, great and terrible beasts who would come and get me if I didn't go to bed, or finish my supper, or listen to the Amah. I never knew what they were, only that they were big, scary, and dangerous. Our caravan--we joined a caravan after our exile--traveled through the Northern Desert, where the only dangerous creatures were snakes and people. The caravan that took pity on us was of the Baz'hir clan, nomads who made a living breeding horses and telling fortunes.

We traveled constantly, never stopping for more than a week, and then only at an oasis or city. The caravan was divided into a specific heirarchy, with each person assgned a role. There was an Amah who watched over all the children, a group of hostlers who cared for the horses, our leader of course, and his advisors, and all the other necessary positions. My father was part of the caravan's defenses, and my mother played the citar when we stopped at cities and villages.

As a child, I helped gather scrub brush and animal droppings for fires. When I reached my tenth year, it was time to find my calling. The three Di'xhas, the ancient women who chose people's occupations, discovered that I had an aptitude for the magical arts of conjuration and divination--in other words, by the time I turned ten, I had accidentally conjured an oasis, spoken with the ghost of one of our elders, and caught a glimpse of our next stop in the shimmering heat waves along the road.

Matay'an, the oldest of the Di'xhas, took me under her wing, doing her best to teach my the diviner's art. It was difficult, for our magics were of different elements. I was a hot, dry, desert magic, full of fire and gusting winds, while Matay'an was from the mountains, and her magic was the moist, wet magic of root and loam. We came up with a method, though, ta ht didn't cause the clash of our respective gifts. She would explain the process and demonstrate the effect, but allow me to find the best path for my magic to take.

My most precious memory of this process was teh first day I intentionally used my gift. I was two months past my tenth rain, and Matay'an had been trying to teach me for the past month. To both of our frustrations, everytime she laid her magic on me or tried to send it through me so I could see how it felt, everytime, it tried to smother me, filling my lungs with dank earth. Likewise, my magic burned her, drying her powers like a fiery kiln. But one day, after a month of this fruitless frustration, Matay'an came up with a new idea.

When I arrived in her tent, she bade me sit on the opposite side from her. Then, when we were settled, she began to speak.

"A'hala," Her voice was as rich as the fertile earth of her magic. "Your magic is as different from mine as the night is from day. And yet, it is similar. Now, close your eyes, and breathe." She guided me through the breathing excercise, helping me align my magic with my mind. The feeling was incredible. I could feel the golden-hot threads of my gift unsnarling and smoothing out, binding together in an unbreakable cord that ran through my entire body, flowing up from my feet, passing through my center, and culminating in two pulsing points of power nestled in my hands.

Matay'an smiled. I could feel it rather than see it, but I also felt something else, something green and damp. I opened my eyes slowly. Laced with the red-gold threads of my power, my vision focused on the figure across from me. Matay'an was wreathed in a sparkling nimbus of green, with the brown roots of her gift twining through it. Surprised, I looked down at my own hands and gasped. They were wreathed in a similar glow, only a brilliant gold instead of green, and the lines streaking through it were burning red.

I looked back at Matay'an and she met my gaze with another smile. I could sense the pride rolling off her, and I smiled back. Then she spoke again, her calm voice guiding me gently.

"Now, focus on an empty space, wherever your magic will be most comfortable, and let it go. As you release it into your space, concentrate on what you want it to show you. You must concentrate."

I closed my eyes again, focusing on the empty air in the center of the tent. It was hot, as always, and my gift loved the heat. As I centered my gift on the space, I thought of my mother, and wondered what she was doing. The pulse in my hands stretched, lengthening into narrow cords that fanned out, covering the empty space. I opened my eyes to look, loving the feel of magic pulling out of my body. There, in the once-empty air before me, was a shimmering golden window, and inside that window was the image of Maman, sitting out in front of our tent, her glittering needle passing swiftly through a pile of fabric on her lap. Her head turned slightly, as if she heard something. A smile graced her features as my father walked into the picture. I watched for another several seconds before my concentration wavered and I lost the image.

Mildly irritated by my loss of concentration, I glanced over at Matay'an. She was watching me with great pride, and I could feel her approval washing over me like a gently waterfall. My disappointment faded as she told me how impressed she was, and how proud she was that I managed to maintain a clear image on my first try.

After this experience, I practiced every chance I got. My skills grew, and after a few years, I was one of the most skilled seers in our caravan. My conjuration skills were growing as well, but I focused more on the divination. The real fun, however, started when I was about sixteen years old, and I learned that divination could lead to all sorts of interesting problems.