The Treasure of the Jinn

The year was 1920. I, James Rutherford was accompanying archaeologist Charles Kingsley on an expedition to the Middle East. Our goal was to uncover the treasure of an Arab noble whom had been struck down during the Christian crusades of ages past. 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.

The noble man was one King Smithon. 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.

In preparation of the supernatural element of this expedition, Charles had brought along a small paper where he had scribbled down a few spells that were said to aid us. We also brought the usual equipment; water canteens, food rations, torches, knives, guns and ammunition (in case we came across someone or something hostile) and after we acquired two camels we set off into the desert, hoping to uncover the secrets behind King Smithon.

They journey to the former site of Smithon’s palace was surprisingly short. No more than a day’s travel by camel into the desert, but my concern presented itself with the lack of any discernible landmarks and the seething heat and dryness we had to endure. 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.

When we came to where the palace once stood, there was nothing. It was just a dip between the dunes where the only thing at the bottom was more sand. I was quite confounded.

“Um, Charles,” I asked “pardon me if I am insulting your sense of direction, but I do not think we are in the correct area.”

“How so?” Charles replied.

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

“Well of course not you don’t!” Charles shouted snydly, “It was all swallowed by the desert sands, fountain and roof included.”

“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.”

“You would be surprised James,” Charles said as he put his equipment bag down and began to scrounge through it, “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 suppose if you believe in such things Charles,” I replied to him skeptically. 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. Most myths and legends I’ve heard, I’ve chalked up to nothing more than tales for telling lessons or entertaining, or perhaps some person in power had stumbled across some hallucinogenic substance and then decided to tell the town about what they thought 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! The structure looked as if it hadn't aged a day, though it seemed the beautifully painted designs along it’s walls had been scratched and faded by the sands and the ages.

“Come James,” Charles said as if what he just witnessed was mondane, “time for us to do some spelunking. Hopefully King Smithon’s riches and treasures still remain.”

I stuttered in amazement and then followed him. I had not followed Charles on all of his foreign escapades, so perhaps he knew more about the supernatural than he let on. Perhaps that is why he so strongly supported the theory (now fact) that Smithon’s palace had fallen to someone paranormal. 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.

Strewn across the halls of the Palace were the mummified bodies of all of King Smithon’s subjects unfortunate enough to still be in the Palace when it sank into the sand. 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 quierried allowed.

Charles responded by saying it wasn't. 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 was as if 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.

“Perhaps,” he muttered, “or perhaps 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. The skin of these people should be tinted beige or yellow as that is the color of the sand, but as you can observe, it isn't. Actually, it seems to be a crimson or maroon color. Something you wouldn't see unless you were in an environment rich with 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. It was a strange slither of a voice that was punctuated with a strange attempt at what sounded like an Arabic accent. “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. A million thoughts were darting through my mind, trying to find out what exactly was speaking 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.

Suddenly, the floor behind us began to collapse and form into a staircase leading into a dark abyss of a room. The voice floated out of there with the same sinister echo. “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.

The voice replied, “Then you will not obtain the treasures left behind by my summoner.” Right there, the suspicions we had about Smithon had been confirmed. He was a Warlock! And his death did cause the disappearance of the palace. 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.

“You two are the first live humans to have their eyes lay upon the treasure of King Smithon in centuries,” the voice wheezed. Charles and I looked over and saw that the room was suddenly filled with smoke. Out from where the fog was thickest walked out a most terrifying figure. 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. It walked with a hobble and on it’s knuckles, like a gorilla. It’s movements were stiff and jerky, like the spastic squirrels you would see in an American park. Everything about this creature sent chills down my spine. And then it opened it’s mouth to speak again, orchestrated by the serpentine movements of it’s mouth emulating how humans conjugate their words.

“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. As per law of us not favored by the great Creator, when we are summoned, we must follow every whim of our summoner. The orders of Smithon were simple. 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 was hoping that said speaker would be one competent in the magical arts, but I guess I deserve nothing but disappointment from you humans. I still struggle to understand why the Creator hold you apes to 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. I rather like the shine of Smithon’s precious metals and minerals. 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. The Jinn then continued it’s 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. I can read each and every one of you 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.

“Of all things in life, what do you value most? 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 keeping either me or my companion from shooting or bludgeoning you 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. 

Once again, the Jinn laughed it's insidious cackle.

“Don't humor me so mortal. Your weapons mean nothing to me. You cannot harm me. 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 stands there for a moment, debating what to do. 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…

“You have a deal Jinn,” Charles croaked reluctantly. 

The Jinn smiled a weird bastardization of a grin and hissed out a single “Pleasure doing business with you,” before dissolving into the dark. There was a long silence afterwards. We did not start actually moving the treasures until much later when the full moon’s light came out. We did not leave the palace until an escort from the British army came with enough equipment to transport the treasures back home. I thought that we were through with all this strangeness, but I was wrong.

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. His arms and legs became feeble as he began to lose muscle mass and bone density. He then became completely mute and finally went deaf as he began to stop responding to all noise stimuli and only reacted to anything he physically touched. All of this happened within only a week since we returned from the Middle East.

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 health? No, though he was reduced to a cripple, he still stayed healthy as a horse. No sickness had claimed him. What I believe it he actually gave to the Jinn was his abilities to explore and teach. It makes sense. Without the use of his eyes or ears, he couldn't see or discover anything new. Without the use of his limbs, he couldn't physically move himself or efficiently investigate anything. Without his voice, he could not pass on his knowledge, putting it to brail didn't work much better and the same went for morse code. 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. But I can definitely say one thing about Charles that will forever elevate him over predators like that thing.

He was a man of his word. Like he preached to me, he sacrificed everything in the pursuit of knowledge, and the betterment of mankind. I will forever commend that aspect of him. 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.

End.