burning
mirror
an extract
 A
Story: Solomons jar
Eight p.m. Friday. The Jinn had
been in the jar for exactly three millennia. It sounded
simple when stated in historical terms like this, and in
one sense it was true. If the second hands on a tiny, hidden
clock were to have been watched constantly for three thousand
years, much as the Museum Curator was watching his wall-clock
at that very moment, then the seconds would have rolled
into minutes, the minutes into hours and so on. Neat rolls
of time, spiraling up all the way to heaven. But the Jinn
saw it differently, there in the darkness of the vial.
I have been put into this container
by my Master, Son Of David. In jar time, there is no space
and so I float along a fissure of infinite possibilities.
What appears to be smooth is, if viewed from my position,
a series of rugged mountain ranges that would take centuries
to crawl up. And so, the sides of the surahi, which once
were filled with the arak of princes, now form a world in
themselves. Every comma, every semi-colon, is a jinn-in-the-works.
I have been in such a place before - seven times, in all
- and this, to me, is not punishment but is rather, a normal
part of my manifold existence. In jar space, there is no
time and so while millennia might have passed by on the
outside, yet within the darkness I still bear the sweat-marks
of my Master's fingers upon my head. In my ears, the echo
of the laughter of his sixty-fifth concubine. The slap of
her skin tambourine. When next I shall mingle with the souls
of men, I know not. But whether it be ten minutes, or ten
thousand years, to me matters little, if at all.
[top]
The Curator shepherded the last
of the cleaners through the already half-closed side-door,
jangling his bunch of keys like a Victorian station-master.
It was a familiar ritual, as much a part of the involuntary
segments of his life as, say, brushing his teeth or eating
bread in the morning. The Closing-Up rite had melded into
the thrum of his daily inhalation and was on the way to
becoming myth (though the Curator knew that this might well
have taken another three thousand years). By which time,
of course, the small-boned man, along with his obsolescent
side-whiskers might have become part of the Great Sinai
Desert or else a speck in the eye of the whore on Main Street,
Sacramento, Calif. 1). The next part of the process would
be for him to switch off all the lights, retire to his tiny
room, and drink old coffee from a stained mug. The last
note in the tapping Arabesque of his polished floor day.
He closed the side-door, slid the bolts and then turned
three keys in three locks, each one twice. He re-attached
the keys to the large ring slung from his belt, removed
a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the top of his
bald pate. He peered at the stain, trying to focus, but
its edges were undefined and it extended through the white
cloth in all directions at once. He found himself gazing
into some non-existent distance. Not so much beyond the
stain, as between it. He flipped the hankie over and saw
that his sweat had seeped right through the material like
some kind of insidious salt cloud. A noise sounded from
behind him. He spun round, then rebuked himself for reacting.
It wasn't as if he was unused to the creak and sputter which
the old building generated as night crept along its wood
and glass and stone. There were so many halls, each arrayed
with dozens of cases, every one of which contained multiple
objects. He reminded himself that tonight
1 The name afforded to the western
part of the land-mass known until the late Twenty-First
Century as 'America'. The zone seceded from the main body
of the state after the Wars Of Intelligence, 2172-2181 and
2186-2190.
of all nights, it was imperative
that he keep a cool nerve. He held out both hands, carefully
inspecting the finger-tips for any sign of tremor. He blinked,
slowly, and exhaled. Allowing his arms to swing in measured
pendula, he walked over to the Temple Case.
[top]
The cabinet was the longest in the
museum. Running almost half the length of the room, it contained
relics thought to have been recovered from the Temples of
Jerusalem, both Old and New. Many of the contents had only
been discovered on recent archaeological digs, both beneath
the Old City of Rome and in the soil of a dried-up oxbow
lake by the Bosphorus. They accorded with the set of Temple
artifacts listed in the (possibly apocryphal) Books of Solomon
which themselves had been re-discovered by one Ben-i-Amin
Levi, an octogenarian Kabbalist while he had been poring
over one particularly faded set of punctuation-marks in
those Nag Hammadi Scrolls which had been thought to have
been burned by the wife of the peasant who had stumbled
across them in a jar beneath the sands of Egypt but which,
in fact had been sold by her to a Cairene manufacturer of
backgammon sets. 2 Among the golden brooches and cryptic
candelabras (each as accurately annotated as possible given
the circumstances, and pinned to the green felt of the cabinet
base) were several large porcelain jars. All the surahis
but one, were unstoppered. They were of different colours,
and each had a shape and design unique to itself. Spiral
serpents, reclining lions, abstract geometric patterns,
a fish … The Curator looked at each of the jars, in
turn as he had done every night and every morning for seven
years, ever since they had been brought to the museum. He
couldn't bear the thought of
2 Codex XVIII, Para 27 (see Bibliography.
Solomon, Jar of, Zaragossa Municipal Library, Sp.).
any one of them being stolen. It
would be worse than murder. It would be like pilfering a
myth. Stealing a soul. When he had reassured himself that
all the containers were present and unharmed, he came at
last to the final, the stoppered jar. It had a sinuous,
female shape and its long, slender neck rose high above
the others. The ancient porcelain was decorated in blue
fire designs. It was almost totally undamaged. He stood,
motionless beside the cabinet. At first, he had treated
the jar as just one more relic. He had known, even then,
that this was a lie. A necessary deception. He had behaved
like a fusty academic with a beautiful woman. He had tried
to ignore the surahi, yet his dreams had been filled with
its dancing, curvaceous form. Sometimes, it would melt in
reverse creation and assume manifold shapes, multiple existences.
Until at last, he could feel it taking the shape of the
Curator. Becoming, him. After a few months of this, he'd
had the security sensors around the cabinet enhanced, so
that even the most casual of glances, the tiniest of envies
would tend to set off the alarm. Then he had it arranged
so that when the bells did sound, they would cause a red
light to flash, on and off, in his office.
[top]
Every morning, he would arrive before
the post was delivered, and in the evening would exit the
building only after the last of the cleaners had left. Eventually,
even this had not been enough and he had begun, over the
past few weeks, to sleep behind his office, in a room hardly
bigger than one of the larger cabinets. He had made excuses
to his wife, saying that an extremely important consignment
had arrived at the Museum and that someone would be needed
to watch over it at night. 'Why you?' she had asked, 'Why
do you have to do it? Why don't they get someone else for
a change?' and he had replied, 'Who else would there be?
I have no choice.' In some ways he wasn't lying. And in
spite of the cramped conditions in his office, he had begun
to feel a new kind of freedom there, one which he could
never have had on the streets or in his home or in twenty
years of marriage. It were as though time, that most precious
of artefacts, had been suspended in the very substance of
the glass cases, the creaking wood pillars, the musty, unchanging
air. In the Museum, at night, the Curator felt he could
expand and fill himself. And yet, the facts remained solid,
outside of him. His marriage, his job, his body …
death. He shivered, though the night was warm, humid. He
felt as though all his life, he'd been dodging between pillars
of fear, hiding behind first one, then another till his
fear had trapped him in a temple of pillars. Perhaps that
was why he had become a curator. It was a safe job. Hermetic,
almost. He had slipped into it as he'd fallen into his marriage,
through a combination of lack of confidence and his wife's
need to dominate. He had never quite been able to handle
women. To play them like other men played the clarinet.
He gazed at the porcelain. It was familiar. Necessary. He
knew every crack, every glaze-line. He lived along one of
those random fissures. Nothing more. He felt an urge well
up in his chest. An urge to be inside. To get within. The
pressure forced itself out between his ribs and stretched
across the empty hall. It seemed as though his life up to
that moment had been merely a preparation for this night.
I am unaware of the difference between
night and day. I am of fire, and so I create my own light
in this place. What seems to be dark is thus illumined by
the undefined swathes of me. I have no idea where the jar
might be, nor does it really matter, since the reality of
that within the jar bears no relation to the world outside,
any more than does the entity within a man's head to the
grass beneath his feet. In some ways, I dwell within men's
heads while in others, I am the fracture between their souls
and their knowledge. I can be many things; an infinite number
of things; and I can be all of these, at once. This is especially
so, in the jar, since time and space here possess no properties,
either within themselves or between each other. If some
ignorant peasant were to break open the jar, then once again
I would enter the world of men as they see it and would
be able to mingle with them. But really, it makes little
difference since I can create my own courts within the darkness
that is light. I can cause my own Paradise in a jar.
The Curator removed a small key
from the ring and unlocked the case. He reached out and
touched the jar. It was fingertip cool. The temperature
within the cabinet was maintained at a steady level, regardless
of room temperature. But then, he mused, the room temperature
was also kept at a steady level, winter and summer. His
mind flipped through the convolutions of a thousand realities,
each one hovering in its own, unique weather-pattern. He
wondered whether, within the jar, there existed still other,
air-conditioned boxes, right down to an infinitesimal room
where a bald, moustach'd, middle-aged museum curator was
busy wondering whether, within the jar …
Using both hands, he lifted the
surahi out and placed it on the glass. Without re-locking
the cabinet, he carried the jar from the gallery down the
corridor, his shoes tap-tapping on the newly-polished wood
of the floor. He cradled it to his chest. Like a baby, or
a heart attack. Once in his office, he carefully placed
the object on the centre of his desk, and switched the on
kettle. Rituals within rituals. Safe, he thought, as the
water began to hiss. He sat down. The top of the jar was
at eye-level. The thick bung which blocked its slender neck
was composed of multiple layers of some greasy material
wrapped, one upon the next, in infinite jamming roundels.
The blue flames burned along the porcelain. Kiln-fresh.
Repetitive pink motifs circled the belly of the jar. He
saw his face, his eyes, reflected in the cream white background.
Wondered if something was looking out at him. He pulled
himself away, went over to a shelf and took out a large
book. Sipping black coffee, the Curator read from the old
tome. Or rather, he traced his fingers along the esoteric
shapes and numbers within its pages.
[top]
Ah! The Incantation Of Harut and
Marut. 3 One of my favourites! The cantillations of the
upside-down twin angels, the magical duet of darkness. I
listen to the harmonics of chaos and realise that some thing
is about to happen. But wait! The imminence of change causes
its opposite to be manifest upon the walls of the jar. And
so I begin to wonder how a concept which is timeless and
without dimension could possibly be contained by the walls
of a porcelain jug. The walls themselves are full of tiny
holes, and yet I am unable to escape through these. It is
the incantation of my Master which holds me within this
jar.
A lamp of scintillation filters
down through the bung and fixes the entity which is me in
this limbo state. I recognise the sounds, as each breath
vibration slices through another strand of my Master's light.
Yeah! I shall soon be free.
The Curator finished reading and
reached out to remove the bung from the top of the jar.
3 For a discussion of the dichotomy
of the inverted angels of black magic, see Ahsen, Akhter
(1994), 'Illuminations On The Path Of Solomon', Lahore,
Pakistan, Dastawez Mutbuat.
He paused, his hand in mid-air.
The electric light was still on. He got up and plunged the
room into darkness. Since he had already switched off all
the other lights in the museum, the Curator found he was
totally blind. He stood, stock-still in the pitch, the only
sound that of his own breathing. Gradually, that too became
merged with the night. From somewhere, doubts began to slide
up the back of his neck. This whole thing, and his part
in it, was crazy. The jar had lain in the cabinet for years,
and he had walked past it countless times, one in the crowd,
merely. A spectator. The lie, again. He had wondered who
had removed the bungs from the other jars, and what had
become of them. And what had been released from the darkness
of their interiors. It had begun to obsess him. His days
had become filled with its strange shadow, its ancient light.
His nights hovered around the jar's rim, tantalising him
as he craned his neck to get a look inside. His mind ran
on automatic. The decision had been made gradually, over
the months, and any doubts were now like the breeze in a
candle flame. The Curator began to make out vague shapes.
He stumbled back to the desk and sat down. His breath echoed
in the jar of his body, and the harmonics danced along the
walls of the windowless room, chimed within the glass cases
with their spirit objects, blew cacophonies along the fissures
between the cracked paint and the sinews of the artist.
I pirouette on paradox. The impossible
is my domain. Thy wish is my command, Master; Thou commandest
that which I wish. Out of fire was I created, and change
is my essence. I am a shape-shifter. For a thousand years
and a day, I dwelt in a jar on the sand at the bottom of
the Arabian Sea, having been imprisoned there by one of
the sons of Noah just before the Flood. I was rescued by
another, weaker jinn who had been sent out by my Master
to search for me. In the exhalation of my Master's last
breath, was I confined to this jug, and soon shall I be
released again into the world of mass and time. My lifespan
has been extended beyond that which a normal jinn could
expect (for we have our own timescales, our own mortality).
Within the jar, I am almost immortal. Here, I am closest
to my Creator. But my eternity is finite, and soon I shall
be freed into decay. He who will release me, shall be my
Master. I shall render power unto my Master. I shall venture
into the cracks of his soul, and there will I vanish. Through
my non-existence, will he perceive of his own existence.
In this way, am I sometimes glass, sometimes mirror. He
will come to realise that my commands - his wishes - cut
both ways. A paradox. For just as Humanity was created from
mud, to partake in the essence of God through leaf, stone
and artifice so were the jinnaat formed from flame and may
re-join the One through ambiguity. We are the mirrors of
creation, blown in hot fractal madness. Our freedom sails
in the wind.
[top]
The Curator placed his right hand
over the neck of the jar, while with the left, he pinned
the vase to the table. The bung (he had never touched it
before) felt oily, yielding, beneath his palm. He wondered
what it was made of. An image of snakes slithered through
his skin. He withdrew. Though they were not cold, he blew
into his hands as though they were, and tried again. He
gripped the bung, and pulled. It was stuck. His fingers
kept slipping off. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket,
he tugged and twisted simultaneously, switching hands after
several attempts. As it slid away from the porcelain, it
seemed to disintegrate and he let it fall. A loud pop sounded
from outside of him. A blinding light filled his eyes and
in the light he had a momentary vision of the infinite regression
of time and space, before a whoosh of air gathered up the
streets, the museum, the room, the cabinets, the jar. He
felt the light enter him and fill him with its clarity.
He felt himself break apart and come together again. All
of his possible existences fragmented and then evanesced
in the light. But in between fragmentation and re-union,
something had changed. Something in the core of his being.
Then the light faded and died and the Curator sank into
a state which might have been sleep, but which might also
have been non-existence.
When he opened his eyes, everything
was pink. The jar lay on its side on the table before him.
A long, grin-shaped crack ran from bottom to top and blue
porcelain flakes had scattered onto the wood. He reached
out and touched the jar with the tips of his fingers. It
rocked from side to side, and then became still. Sand on
wood. It held no mystery. He felt his joints move stiffly
as he walked towards the door. A mauve luminescence streamed
in through the high windows. Dawn was breaking over the
museum. He walked down the hall, passing by the gray shapes
of cabinets, statues, jars, and in one smooth movement,
he threw open the outer doors. Stepped out. Closed his eyes.
Inhaled. Let the breeze slip over his face. He opened his
eyes and descended the steps. At the bottom he paused for
a moment and then turned to the right. Behind him, the doors
lay wide open. The streets were deserted, except for the
odd lone figure trudging back from some sweatshop night-shift
or other. He entered an early-morning café and sat
down. The only customer. Ordered an espresso from the blonde
waitress. Watched her as she disappeared into the kitchen
at the back. Ran his finger along the wood of the table.
Listened to the sound of the coffee-machine. Smelled the
aroma of morning cigarettes. Everything seemed so real.
She brought his coffee in a demitasse cup balanced on a
brass tray, and again he watched her as she went over to
the counter and sat on a stool. Crossed her legs. She took
out a cigarette. He felt the movement of her muscles, the
feel of her hair against the skin of her scalp. He saw through
her eyes. Morning blue. In a harmony of mirrors, he saw
himself. The same, and yet not the same. The coffee tasted
pungent, in the pink dawn light. She was having difficulty
lighting the cigarette. They were alone in the café.
Just him and the waitress and the steaming, bubbling coffee
machine. He put down his cup. Met her eye. Looked away.
Then picked it up again but did not sip. Met her eye, got
up, went towards her. Saw her, seeing him. Blue-on-pink.
Held out his hand, the fingers steady, porcelain. Flicked
the lighter. She craned her neck and her hair fell across
her olive skin. Just so. She inhaled, twice. Sat back. Removed
the cigarette. Looked him full in the eyes, and smiled.
But already he was smiling back at her. From somewhere down
the street, the strains of an old clarinet filtered through
the morning. Single notes. One after the next. Pure, melismatic.
His smile broadened. The Curator was free.
The End
[top]
|
