Read Online Fiction River: Fantasy Adrift by Fiction River - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Fiction River
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
almond trees where the jinn assumed his corporeal shape.
No longer a he, but a she. The jinn had become a jiniri.
And it pissed her off.
The jiniri ’ s captor was a vudu priest, and now he sat on his customary throne, a canvas folding chair stolen from the backyard of an American diplomat ’ s house where the mother of his friend ’ s nephew worked as maid, cook, laundress, and nanny for two hundred dollars per month. Here, under the thickest tree, where the shadows hung heavy, the vudu priest received his audience of believers.
The jiniri was not one of them.
And yet the priest called her to him. Because he owned her. For now.
The priest swung his dreadlocks about him, sprinkling the saturated air with more wetness, along with his stink of sweat and farts and dead fish. He scraped dominoes from a wooden board and chinked the chips into a burlap sack. His deep, throaty laugh thundered in the almond grove. Losing always amused him. He ’ d never lost, and his grin said that he never intended to. A slice of jagged teeth, broken off from the dried meat his followers fed him in return for the favor of his spells, slashed across his swarthy face.
“ You called? ” the jiniri said through lips touched with salt—yes, she had lips now. A steady seabreeze ruffled the long fringes of her golden hair.
His laughter shifted into a howl. “ You will call me master, ” said the vudu priest who owned her with a possessive heart.
She would not. He was not her master. But she had no choice. She had lost her free will long ago.
Her essence of jinn—not jiniri—never.
The vudu priest turned to the human fallen to his knees opposite the board of dominoes. The challenger. The fair winner, but the actual loser. The whites of his eyes shone, and he quivered like a fish out of water as he pointed a shaking arm at the jiniri.
“ Come, ” said the priest to his challenger, “ look at my genio . ” See the real power behind vudu , is what this display was all about. Never dare to challenge the priest.
She knew his words and his thoughts. Whether jinn or jiniri, she could understand any language. Language wasn ’ t the problem. The problem was that she hated being called a genie. It was a term of the west, this wet place of eye-hurting color and light, of constant noise of speeding wheels, of concrete buildings stacked into towers and sprouting quills of rebar that made them look like dolls stuck with pins. This was the signature of the west, and all of it reminded her of how displaced she was, how far from home, far away in the east. All she wanted was to go back home.
But the vudu priest had stolen her wings that first time he called her up from her well of essence. He ’ d stolen her vessel that the American diplomat had stolen from the jinn ’ s ancient homeland and then carried around the world to eventually lodge here in this frenetic place.
She would get her wings back.
She would go home.
And regain her free will in her natural shape. She was jinn. Not this vudu-induced shape of a temptress.
She writhed and twisted and bucked against the tethers that held her to her captor, but she could not break them.
Even so, the anger that drove her no longer seemed as great as the fury that shone from her captor ’ s coal-black eyes. The jiniri who ’ d once been a jinn had once been owned by a sultan who ’ d raged through his harem quarters with his saber, skewering helpless women who scattered from his way, but not fast enough—all in the name of displeasure. That sultan ’ s wickedness was nothing compared to the evil that radiated from the vudu priest who ’ d used his black magic to change the jinn ’ s corporeal form into this beastly she entity—a jiniri.
Dreadlocks dripped, quivering, in a ring of fury around the bulging neck muscles of the vudu priest, a refugee from Haiti, allowed to stay here in the Dominican Republic because no one was brave enough to kick him out. The domino challenger today had
No longer a he, but a she. The jinn had become a jiniri.
And it pissed her off.
The jiniri ’ s captor was a vudu priest, and now he sat on his customary throne, a canvas folding chair stolen from the backyard of an American diplomat ’ s house where the mother of his friend ’ s nephew worked as maid, cook, laundress, and nanny for two hundred dollars per month. Here, under the thickest tree, where the shadows hung heavy, the vudu priest received his audience of believers.
The jiniri was not one of them.
And yet the priest called her to him. Because he owned her. For now.
The priest swung his dreadlocks about him, sprinkling the saturated air with more wetness, along with his stink of sweat and farts and dead fish. He scraped dominoes from a wooden board and chinked the chips into a burlap sack. His deep, throaty laugh thundered in the almond grove. Losing always amused him. He ’ d never lost, and his grin said that he never intended to. A slice of jagged teeth, broken off from the dried meat his followers fed him in return for the favor of his spells, slashed across his swarthy face.
“ You called? ” the jiniri said through lips touched with salt—yes, she had lips now. A steady seabreeze ruffled the long fringes of her golden hair.
His laughter shifted into a howl. “ You will call me master, ” said the vudu priest who owned her with a possessive heart.
She would not. He was not her master. But she had no choice. She had lost her free will long ago.
Her essence of jinn—not jiniri—never.
The vudu priest turned to the human fallen to his knees opposite the board of dominoes. The challenger. The fair winner, but the actual loser. The whites of his eyes shone, and he quivered like a fish out of water as he pointed a shaking arm at the jiniri.
“ Come, ” said the priest to his challenger, “ look at my genio . ” See the real power behind vudu , is what this display was all about. Never dare to challenge the priest.
She knew his words and his thoughts. Whether jinn or jiniri, she could understand any language. Language wasn ’ t the problem. The problem was that she hated being called a genie. It was a term of the west, this wet place of eye-hurting color and light, of constant noise of speeding wheels, of concrete buildings stacked into towers and sprouting quills of rebar that made them look like dolls stuck with pins. This was the signature of the west, and all of it reminded her of how displaced she was, how far from home, far away in the east. All she wanted was to go back home.
But the vudu priest had stolen her wings that first time he called her up from her well of essence. He ’ d stolen her vessel that the American diplomat had stolen from the jinn ’ s ancient homeland and then carried around the world to eventually lodge here in this frenetic place.
She would get her wings back.
She would go home.
And regain her free will in her natural shape. She was jinn. Not this vudu-induced shape of a temptress.
She writhed and twisted and bucked against the tethers that held her to her captor, but she could not break them.
Even so, the anger that drove her no longer seemed as great as the fury that shone from her captor ’ s coal-black eyes. The jiniri who ’ d once been a jinn had once been owned by a sultan who ’ d raged through his harem quarters with his saber, skewering helpless women who scattered from his way, but not fast enough—all in the name of displeasure. That sultan ’ s wickedness was nothing compared to the evil that radiated from the vudu priest who ’ d used his black magic to change the jinn ’ s corporeal form into this beastly she entity—a jiniri.
Dreadlocks dripped, quivering, in a ring of fury around the bulging neck muscles of the vudu priest, a refugee from Haiti, allowed to stay here in the Dominican Republic because no one was brave enough to kick him out. The domino challenger today had
Similar Books
