carpenter, Your Specialness,’ he whispered.
The sultan held up a finger.
‘A chair,’ he went on, ‘that is powered by clockwork, and that can travel through time.’
‘Through…’
‘ Time . A chair that can travel through time.’
‘But… but… but, Your Magnificence,’ squirmed the clockmaker.
The sultan brushed him away with his hand.
‘Fail me,’ he said with almost no interest, ‘and every member of your family shall be hunted out and slain, and their bones boiled down!’
The next thing he knew, the clockmaker was in his workshop with a royal command, and with a problem the size of the sultan’s ego itself.
‘How will I ever make a clockwork chair that can travel through time?’ he asked his assistant. ‘I have a single month to complete the task. Disappoint the sultan, and he’ll swipe off my head, and that’s just the start.’
The clockmaker’s assistant sighed.
‘The only way to accomplish this feat is to enlist the help of a jinn,’ he whispered.
‘What nonsense are you uttering?’
‘The soul of a jinn,’ the assistant explained… ‘You will need to trap a jinn and to harness his soul.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Well,’ said his assistant, ‘as everyone knows full well, jinn can travel through the atmos, from one sphere to the next.’
‘A clockwork chair powered by means of a jinn?’
The clockmaker’s assistant sniffed.
‘Indeed, master.’
‘But how would I get my hands on a jinn?’
‘With a trap.’
‘And how would I trap myself a jinn?’
‘With a narwhale’s tusk, of course.’
There were many things unknown and misunderstood at the time in which the clockmaker lived. But one of them, thankfully, was not how to trap a jinn using a narwhale’s tusk.
An hour or two in the magicians’ market, and the clockmaker had all the equipment necessary to catch himself a jinn, and to enslave it to his cause.
Turning on his heel, he set off into the desert, where the jinn liked to spend their nights sprawled out on the cool, empty sands.
In one hand he had a basket of green chillies finely chopped and, in the other, a bowl of camphor. And strapped to his back was a narwhale’s tusk, the long twisting strand of ivory catching the last strains of evening sunlight.
A few miles from town, the clockmaker set up a camp.
He collected a little firewood and dried palm fronds, lit a fire, and threw the camphor onto the flames.
A cloud of pungent smoke billowed out over the desiccated sands, dissipating into the night.
The clockmaker waited, as he had been told to do by the jinn-catching expert in the magicians’ bazaar.
He waited and waited, and eventually fell asleep.
Just after dawn, as he made up his mind to return home, he heard a rattling sound.
It grew louder and louder, until it seemed as though each grain of sand for a thousand miles was shaking.
Boom ! Boom ! Boom !
The clockmaker feared an invading army was marching towards him.
Raising a hand to his brow he scanned the horizon.
Nothing.
But the booming went on, the desert shuddering.
Peering with all his might, the clockmaker spied a dust cloud far away. It was heading towards him.
Again, he scanned the distance, squinting into the blinding light.
Eventually, he saw it. Or, rather, he saw something:
A pair of feet as big as boulders, gunmetal grey and moving one after the next.
Above them were the legs and the body, the arms and the head. Colossal, unyielding, imposing in the most debased of ways.
The clockmaker would have run, but his gut told him to hold fast. Terrified, he waited until the immense figure was looming over him. One more step and he would have been crushed into dust.
The creature, a jinn called Mezmiss, stopped an inch away.
Its shadow fell upon him – freezing and dark, it stank of death and destruction.
‘Who dares summon me, Mezmiss, Master of all Jinn?’ cried the monster.
The clockmaker stepped back, hoping to escape the fearful shadow. But, as soon as he
The sultan held up a finger.
‘A chair,’ he went on, ‘that is powered by clockwork, and that can travel through time.’
‘Through…’
‘ Time . A chair that can travel through time.’
‘But… but… but, Your Magnificence,’ squirmed the clockmaker.
The sultan brushed him away with his hand.
‘Fail me,’ he said with almost no interest, ‘and every member of your family shall be hunted out and slain, and their bones boiled down!’
The next thing he knew, the clockmaker was in his workshop with a royal command, and with a problem the size of the sultan’s ego itself.
‘How will I ever make a clockwork chair that can travel through time?’ he asked his assistant. ‘I have a single month to complete the task. Disappoint the sultan, and he’ll swipe off my head, and that’s just the start.’
The clockmaker’s assistant sighed.
‘The only way to accomplish this feat is to enlist the help of a jinn,’ he whispered.
‘What nonsense are you uttering?’
‘The soul of a jinn,’ the assistant explained… ‘You will need to trap a jinn and to harness his soul.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Well,’ said his assistant, ‘as everyone knows full well, jinn can travel through the atmos, from one sphere to the next.’
‘A clockwork chair powered by means of a jinn?’
The clockmaker’s assistant sniffed.
‘Indeed, master.’
‘But how would I get my hands on a jinn?’
‘With a trap.’
‘And how would I trap myself a jinn?’
‘With a narwhale’s tusk, of course.’
There were many things unknown and misunderstood at the time in which the clockmaker lived. But one of them, thankfully, was not how to trap a jinn using a narwhale’s tusk.
An hour or two in the magicians’ market, and the clockmaker had all the equipment necessary to catch himself a jinn, and to enslave it to his cause.
Turning on his heel, he set off into the desert, where the jinn liked to spend their nights sprawled out on the cool, empty sands.
In one hand he had a basket of green chillies finely chopped and, in the other, a bowl of camphor. And strapped to his back was a narwhale’s tusk, the long twisting strand of ivory catching the last strains of evening sunlight.
A few miles from town, the clockmaker set up a camp.
He collected a little firewood and dried palm fronds, lit a fire, and threw the camphor onto the flames.
A cloud of pungent smoke billowed out over the desiccated sands, dissipating into the night.
The clockmaker waited, as he had been told to do by the jinn-catching expert in the magicians’ bazaar.
He waited and waited, and eventually fell asleep.
Just after dawn, as he made up his mind to return home, he heard a rattling sound.
It grew louder and louder, until it seemed as though each grain of sand for a thousand miles was shaking.
Boom ! Boom ! Boom !
The clockmaker feared an invading army was marching towards him.
Raising a hand to his brow he scanned the horizon.
Nothing.
But the booming went on, the desert shuddering.
Peering with all his might, the clockmaker spied a dust cloud far away. It was heading towards him.
Again, he scanned the distance, squinting into the blinding light.
Eventually, he saw it. Or, rather, he saw something:
A pair of feet as big as boulders, gunmetal grey and moving one after the next.
Above them were the legs and the body, the arms and the head. Colossal, unyielding, imposing in the most debased of ways.
The clockmaker would have run, but his gut told him to hold fast. Terrified, he waited until the immense figure was looming over him. One more step and he would have been crushed into dust.
The creature, a jinn called Mezmiss, stopped an inch away.
Its shadow fell upon him – freezing and dark, it stank of death and destruction.
‘Who dares summon me, Mezmiss, Master of all Jinn?’ cried the monster.
The clockmaker stepped back, hoping to escape the fearful shadow. But, as soon as he
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