The Jinn and the Dog

 by  Mason Bushell,

mint cordial

A perfect summer's afternoon for a barbecue, at least Andrew’s family thought so. A typical scenario, everybody wanted something, but nobody actually wanted to help make it happen. Nevertheless, it was nice standing in the sun while setting coals in the tray of the barbecue. With that done Andrew, put a quick-light charcoal bag on the coals, and took out his gas lighter. It was then, Fred the black Labrador, climbed from the sun lounger and hid underneath it. The garden was filled with clicking noises then, swearing as the lighter refused to ignite the bag. 

“Bloody things never works. Come on spark, you useless, mechanical, piece of crap,” Andrew complained while still pressing and clicking away at the device. Within five minutes, frustration overtook him, the lighter went flying over the sun lounger and disappeared into the hedge. 

“Woof,” barked Fred running after it. He came back and sat before his master with the light in his mouth. Andrew had taken a coin from his pocket. He’d found it in the park with a hair clip baring the name Talia. It depicted a horned creature surrounded by fire and the words of an ancient incantation. He’d found the coin in the park this morning.

“Good boy, Fred. I need this flaming guy to get the bloody barbecue lit, I think.” Taking the lighter from Fred, he handed him a biscuit and smoothed his head for a moment. Fred retreated to the sun lounger to enjoy his biscuit. Andrew held the coin, and read the incantation. “You won't help demon, I better go and find some matches.” Chuckling to himself he added, “Stupid thing.” on his way indoors. Never did he realise that the coin was a talisman. He didn’t even notice the air growing warmer, and the darkness beneath the sunbed turn orange.  

“Yes, you summoned me.” The Jinn walked to the edge of the sun lounger and peered out with a sigh. 

“What do you want?” he asked. The Jinn stood only five-inches tall and had muscles that looked carved from granite. Thanks to Talia, he was no longer dripping in flames. Sure, he could still conjure them, but she’d freed him of their curse. Now he stood wearing Bermuda shorts and sunglasses. Something he could never do before. Hearing some thumping about above him, he looked for the cause. He found the largest, blackest pair of nostrils he’d ever seen, hovering a centimetre from his head. They sniffed so vigorously that they sucked his flame ginger hair right inside the enormous nose. The Jinn pressed his hands against the wet, rubbery snout and pulled himself free. 

“Marvellous, I get summoned by nobody, and then rewarded by a doggy snot shampoo, just bloody marvellous,” he grumbled.  

“Sorry about that, old chap,” said the dog. Had Andrew been outside, he’d have heard the dog whine instead of hearing the words. 

“Don’t mention ­— " a loud sucking sound cut the Jinn off. All he saw was a massive pink tongue shoot out of the dog’s mouth, it slapped him off his feet as it licked him from head to foot. “The Jinn picked himself up, dripping wet with saliva. “If you kiss me again, I’m going to turn your tongue into bacon and use your teeth as piano keys got that?” 

“I’m a dog, I like licking things. What do you expect?” Fred climbed from the sun lounger and sat on the grass, his nose a centimetre above the Jinn. “What are you?” he asked.

“I’m a Jinn.” The little man conjured some heat to dry himself off. “Here eat this.” Summoning a white lozenge-shaped thing, he held it aloft.

“Why?” asked the dog.

“It’s a mint sweet. Your breath smells like a horse’s backside.” 

“Okay sorry.” The dog reached down with its jaws open and closed them on the mint. The Jinn yelped. 

“Bloody hell, dog. Watch what you bite, will you.” The Jinn rubbed his squashed fingers. Above him, the dog crunched the mint and swallowed it.

“You’re mighty stroppy for a little man, aren’t you?” he said. 

“So, would you be. I mean, you didn’t summon me, then you near sucked me into your nasal passages before half-drowning me with one hell of a French-kiss. I’m having a bad day.” The Jinn leant against the sun lounger with a sigh.

“French kiss, hey.” The dog paused to scratch himself, showering the Jinn with loose hairs. “You should see what my pack leader’s — ”

“Hell no! I do not want to know about the bedroom exploits of your humans, thank you very - bloody – much.” the Jinn brushed himself down. “And watch where you’re flinging your fur too. You’re damned lucky you’re not a fleabag.”

“Hey, who you calling a fleabag? I’ll have you know that I bathe regularly.” The dog laid down, setting his paws either side of the Jinn. 

“Good. I don’t suppose you know why I was summoned do you?” 

“I think my master was trying to make flames come out of that metal thing. When he does sausages usually fall out of it for me to eat.” The dog licked his lips. “I like sausages.”

“No doubt. I wouldn’t stay in this garden if I were you.”

“Why’s that, Jinn?”

“When humans can’t set fire to something, they’re so dumb that they resort to dangerous methods, and boom!” the Jinn raised his eyebrows.

“Right. When he comes out, I’m going indoors.” the dog looked toward the house. The sound of utensils bashing about could be heard inside. “So, you grant wishes, do you?”

“Something like that. You want something?”    

“A nice big bone would be great.” The dog looked hopeful. 

“Consider it done.” The Jinn winked. 

Andrew had finally found some matches. Walking out into the garden he was hit by something so big and heavy that it knocked him flat. 

“Where in Madam Wiffen’s bloomers did that come from.” Andrew sat up holding his head. Across his stomach was a tyrannosaurus leg bone. “I must be going mad.” Kicking the bone off him, he watched a pleased looking Fred clamp his jaws on and drag the bone across the lawn. “Even you can’t manage a bone that big, old fellow.” Andrew looked about him on the way to the barbecue. There were no planes in the blue sky and no rational explanations for the bone. Dismissing it, he struck a match and held it to the quick-light bag. It didn’t ignite, the match went out.  

“Darling, hurry up with the barbecue. We’re hungry,” said his wife by the patio doors. 

“Bloody barbecue.” Andrew failed to light it with four more matches. “Alright, dear,” he said before marching around the house. 

The Jinn stood leaning on the leg of the sun lounger again. His eyes grew wide when the human man returned. He was holding a big red can with the word ‘petrol’ in white letters upon it. Even as he took flight, the Jinn saw him shaking some of the fuel into the bottom of the barbecue. 

“You summoned me, and I must tell you not to do that,” he said. His voice booming around the garden. Andrew looked about him, seeing nothing and nobody. Shaking his head, he opened the matchbox again. 

“Okay, barbecue, time to cook me some burgers, and fast.” 

“If you light that match, you’re going to cook the whole bloody garden in a microsecond,” warned the Jinn landing on the table beside the man. Andrew looked right at him blinked a few times and refocused on the task at hand.

“Little man in Bermuda shorts, the heat must be making me mad,” he mumbled. Striking the match, he heard a whoomph and then his world went – BANG! 

The barbecue blew apart in like an incendiary grenade. The lawn and hedges burst into flames as the quick-light bag flew over the neighbours like a stray comet.The sun lounger flipped over and Fred the dog streaked indoors. His last view was of the Jinn sailing threw the hedge with his boxer shorts on fire. 

In the midst of his burning garden, Andrew climbed, choking and coughing to his feet. His clothes and hair smoking, and he looked brassed off. 

“Tammy, dear, I’ve come to a decision,” he said.

“Yeah, what’s that?” she replied without coming outside.

“Bugger the barbecue, let’s go to MacDonald’s.” 

“Good idea, you bloody idiot,” the Jinn landed in a pile of leaf litter amid the bushes. At once he slapped the flames out of his Bermuda shorts. “It’s supposed to be me setting peoples pants on fire, not you.” Standing he looked straight into the eyes of a toad. 

“Croak … Bad day, friend? … Croak,” it said.  The Jinn looked daggers at it. 

“You hush and hop it.” 

The Jinn looked back to the fiery garden. “Well Fred, I told you so, ” he said before disappearing back from whence he came.

https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2019/07/the-heart-shaped-carving-in-old-oak-tree.html
https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2019/08/talia-and-jinn.html
https://cafelitcreativecafe.blogspot.com/2019/08/talia-and-jinn-2.html

Story goes Missing

by Gill James

mint cordial

“We’re going to have to close the main gates now,” said Tonga.

“But Bradley’s not here yet,” said Wimple.

“He’ll have the sense to shelter,” said Tonga. “He’ll know what to do in the storm.”

Wimple wasn’t so sure.  Bradley wasn’t always the most practical person. But they’d been lucky, year on year.  He’d always got through before the main gates were closed and he’d always got there in time to start the story-telling. There’d been storms before but never anything this bad. 

“Just go and do it,” said Tonga. 

Wimple scurried off in the direction of the main gate.

“Tonga says we’re to shut the gates down now,” he said to Rupert.  

The wind was really whistling now and the snow had more than half covered the entrance.    

“Right-o,” the guard answered. The gate clanged into place. Then there was a whirring sound. And then it was silent. The wind and the snow seemed to have stopped. All Wimple could hear now were the Yule songs and the sounds of people rushing backwards and forwards.  Now as well there were glorious smells. Roast hog. Mint punch. Cherry pies.  Somehow now that the noise had gone the food seemed even more enticing.

“I must say that’s a relief,” said Rupert.  “I was so worried the water would come into the warren and we would all be drowned.”

“But what about Bradley?” said Wimple.

“Bradley will be fine,” said Rupert. “The moon-folk will offer him shelter.”

Wimple hoped the guard was right. Yes, the moon-folk were generous enough if the stories about them were anything to go by. But would Bradley have the sense to seek one of them out?

A mouse in a footman’s uniform scurried by, carrying a tray of roast chestnuts.

Wimple’s mouth began to water.

Then the gong sounded.

Rupert rubbed his paws together. “Come on. Let’s go and eat.”

It was quite a good suggestion. The lobster soup was as delicious as usual. The hog had been cooked to perfection. The punch was sharp and warm at the same time. The pies were irresistible. Wimple managed six and only felt slightly sick afterwards. 

Tonga sighed. “It’s not the same without the stories though.”

“No, indeed not.” Rupert rubbed his eyes and looked as if he was going to cry.

Wimple really did feel sick now. What if something had happened to Bradley?

“Could we tell our own stories?” said Rupert.

Tonga frowned and scratched his forehead.. “I don’t see why not. Would they be interesting enough, though?”

Rupert shrugged. “We could give it a go, I suppose.” He took his bugle and gave it three quick blasts.

All of the other small animals and elven folk stopped talking.

Rupert cleared his throat. “Ladies, gentlemen, elven folk, fellow burrow dwellers. Our story laureate has not yet arrived. We trust that the moon-folk will have sheltered him from the storm. But we think we should go ahead with the story-telling.  So we invite each and every one of you to contribute one story. A success story.  Or something funny that happened to you.  Maybe a time when you were greatly surprised."

There was silence at first.

Then there were some whisperings.

“Rubbish, that, about the moon-folk,” Wimple heard one of the young voles whisper. “There ain’t no such thing. If Bradley’s out in this storm, he’s done for.”

Wimple hoped the vole was wrong. 

At last though, a tiny dormouse put up his hand.

Tonga nodded to him.

“Please sir,” said the dormouse. “I can tell a story!”

“Get to it then young man. Everybody listen up.”  

The dormouse told his story about the time a domestic cat hunted him. The cat had been frightened by a dog and dropped the dormouse but not before he had been taken two miles away for home. The dormouse had had quite a few adventures trying to find his way home. Then a young elf told about the time she had fallen into a rain puddle and had been helped out by a frog. A young frog volunteered the story of how a princess kept kissing him and then complained that nothing had happened. “She wanted me to turn into a prince, I think,” said the frog. 

Soon the stories were flowing one after the other. Wimple helped himself to several more mint punches. They made him relaxed and sleepy. He kept dozing off and somehow the stories got mixed up with his dreams.

Suddenly, though, he awoke with a start. There was a loud knocking at the main entrance to the burrow.

Rupert, who also appeared to have been snoring gently, suddenly  jumped up and rushed off with his bunch of keys towards the main gate.   

Wimple’s little heart was beating fast as he listened in to the conversation going on at the gate. He’d recognise that voice anywhere. Bradley! And those other people must be moon-folk. He’d never seen them before. He hid behind one of the drapes so that he could look at them without them seeing him.

They were strange creatures. They were completely hairless and did not appear to wear any clothes. They moved very gracefully and they glowed like moonbeams.

“Come out from behind that curtain, Wimple. I can see you. Now, what can you offer a poor starving fellow to eat on this fine Yule Eve?”

Bradley sat himself down by the fire.

Wimple still couldn’t move. He was so fascinated by the moon-folk.  They floated round Bradley, moving silently.

“I didn’t think they really existed,” he said.

Bradley laughed. “Every story you hear is true, in its own way.” He took a goblet of steaming mint punch that a young elf offered him. He took a sip and closed his eyes. “Ah. That’s better.” 

A red squirrel bounded up with a plate containing roast hog sandwiches and two cherry pies. Bradley nodded his thanks.

Wimple watched as the moon-folk seemed to evaporate with the steam for the punch. They floated up the chimney and although the flames form the fire touched them they didn’t get burnt.      

“Where did they go?” he asked nobody in particular.

“Like all stories, they fade,” said Bradley.

“Aren’t they real?” asked Wimple.

“They’re as real as all stories,” said Bradley.

“Well, did they help you in the storm?” asked Tonga. “Didn’t they give you shelter?”

Bradley shrugged. “The storm wasn’t so bad really. The snow was soft, though, and it was difficult to see and to move quickly. The moonbeams showed me the way.”

He'd called them moonbeams. Perhaps it was just the moon that lit his way. The moon-folk had all disappeared now. It was impossible to examine them any further. He would never know now. Had they ever actually been there? 

“I suppose the young’uns will be too tired for Yule Eve stories now,” said Bradley as he finished the rest of his second cherry pie.

“Oh, we’ve had some stories,” said Tonga. He told Bradley how lots of people had offered their own stories.

“Splendid!” said Bradley. “Then I will tell you just one Yule Eve story and the rest will do for Yule Day. “Get everybody organised, Tonga.”

Tonga rounded up all of those who not yet scurried of to their sleeping places. Wimple was amazed that so many of the youngsters were still awake.

“Ah yes,” said Bradley as he looked at his young audience. “Young people are always the best at appreciating stories.”

But not just the young people, thought Wimple, curling up his toes in excitement. What was Bradley going to tell them?

“My story tonight is from another world a little bit like our own but the animals don’t talk there. It is a story about a very special baby. An angel - this is a messenger from the god that those people worship, a most beautiful creature with great silver and gold wings – had told the mother that she was going to give birth to that god’s son.” Bradley paused to take another sip of his mint punch.

Wimple’s toes curled even further. This was going to be a good one.  

About the author  

Gill James writes longer fiction for children and young adults and shorter fiction for adults.  

She edits and publishes for Bridge House Publishing, Café Lit, Chapeltown and the red telephone.   

See all of her publications on her Linked-in profile or her blog http://www.gilljameswriter.eu/