A ROUNDERHOUSE Joint
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خَلَقَ ٱلْإِنسَـٰنَ مِن صَلْصَـٰلٍۢ كَٱلْفَخَّارِ
[55:14] He created humankind from ‘sounding’ clay like pottery,
وَخَلَقَ ٱلْجَآنَّ مِن مَّارِجٍۢ مِّن نَّارٍۢ ١٥
[55:15] and created jinn from a ‘smokeless’ flame of fire.
It had been a blessedly slow night in the emergency room when the doors were flung open and a stretcher rushed in, the EMTs shouting for help. Doctors and nurses swarmed around it. A young man no older than twenty-two on it, in truly appalling shape: vicious cuts, bruises, and burns all across his body, a small towel the only thing preserving his modesty. The fingers on his hands had been broken in a dozen different ways, purple with hemorrhaging and cell death. An open gash in his leg was turning a sick shade of yellow. A set of rags were tied at an angle around his head, keeping a wad of gauze pressed over his left eye. It was turning red.
‘Transferred from another hospital’, the man with him had said. A scholarly type in his thirties, thick black hair and worried eyes as they watched the patient be lifted into a gurney and rushed into surgery. He introduced himself as Dr. Sadr. He refused to say which hospital, of course — but when he produced crisp, painstakingly-kept medical records with the name redacted and handed them over, the doctor got the message.
The surgery was brutal — fourteen hours, addressing the broken bones, internal bleeding, infected wounds. The mystery patient had suffered truly massive internal damage, bleeding into his abdominal cavity. The whip marks across his back had turned necrotic. And, of course, there was the matter of the eye.
“God forgive me.”
“Have you ever seen anything like this?”
“No. Look at it. It’s been pulverized.”
“The tissue is jelly. There’s no way this can be reconstructed.”
“That’s not our problem right now. Focus on making sure the socket isn’t damaged.”
“The socket is perfectly fine. No bleeding, no damage, it’s clean. This wasn’t an accident. You don’t get this kind of injury without trying to blind someone.”
“I said, it’s not our problem. Worry about keeping him alive.”
And so they’d continued, working through the night and into dawn, picking out shattering chunks of bone, suturing wounds together, applying disinfectant. The boy was strong — if he had been older, he might not have survived the injuries, let alone the stress of surgery. The patient’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell. Idly, the doctor wondered what he was dreaming about.
The boy in the cell was a handsome youth: curly-haired, olive skin marred by dark bruises across his face. Wriggling in his handcuffs, scowling and swearing and spitting at figures he couldn’t see.
The figures he couldn’t see were staring at him through the pane of glass. Dr. Parviz Sadr gently pressed the ice pack against his freshly-blackened eye. Director Malik was speaking with the police officer. A few stray words reached Sadr’s ears.
“Wallet… street child. Gangster, probably… twelve, thirteen. Injured two arresting officers.”
He knew the boy couldn’t see him, but he matched his gaze. Didn’t turn away, even as Malik approached.
“Let’s go?”
“Hold on,” the doctor remarked. Malik cocked his head.
“What are you thinking?”
“We know he’s a fighter, at least.”
“Ah.” Malik turned to the glass, inspecting the boy. “Why?”
“We need blood.”
“Sure. But why him?”
Sadr met the boy’s eyes. Even now, bound, bruised in a cell, there was a certain fire dancing in them.
“He has potential. He just needs something to believe in."
“Who are you?” the boy asked quietly.
Sadr looked at him. They were in his office — halfway a university professor’s office, stacked with bookshelves and loose papers, and halfway a lab, long steel tables and surgical lights.
“My name is Dr. Parviz Sadr,” he answered, smiling. “You stole my wallet and punched me in the head.”
“Sorry.”
Manners. Good.
“That’s okay. What’s your name?”
“Farhan.”
“Where are your parents?”
“They live in Khorasan.” It was the way he said it, with an ever-so-slight twinge in his voice, that tipped Sadr off.
“No, they don’t.”
Farhan looked at him reproachfully, then relented.
“No. They’re dead.”
Farhan’s nail pressed into his thigh as he said it. Another tic — focus on the physical pain, not the emotional. Push back the tears. Smart kid.
“I’m sorry to hear that. Do you have anyone you can live with?”
“No.”
“I see.”
Sadr waited patiently for the boy’s curiosity to pipe up.
“Where are we?”
“An organization called the Office for the Reclamation of Islamic Artifacts.”
“A university?”
Sadr snorted. “Of sorts. More like a military unit, if I’m being honest. Though, I prefer to focus on the academic aspects, myself.”
“Why am I here?” Farhan was looking at him now, rich brown eyes reading his face. The boy was suspicious, wary.
“Farhan, have you ever killed anyone?”
“No!”
Unassuming, but a natural liar. Perfect.
“You’re here because I think you’re a very talented young man. And we can use that.”
“What do you want with me?”
Sadr didn't answer.
It had been two days later when the doctor sought out Dr. Sadr. He was in the hospital’s mosque. It was a quiet annex, mostly empty. No organized prayers were led here — just for patients and their families. Dr. Sadr was bowing with his nose against the carpet, deep in sajdah. The doctor waiting patiently for him to finish praying before speaking.
“Doctor Sadr?”
“Yes? Is everything alright?”
“Yes. The patient is awake now. You can see him—”
He didn’t even finish the sentence before Sadr pushed past him on his way out the door. He found him again in the hospital room. The nurses and doctors had been gossiping about the patient with no name. The son of a Saudi oil baron. A member of the Al-Quds Force. A spy. They knew the realistic answer was much more boring, and so enjoyed the small entertainment the fantasies offered. Now, they were simply gathered, staring through the glass.
Sadr was sitting on the chair next to the boy’s hospital bed, holding his hand. The boy was staring silently at the wall. The doctor entered, shutting the door behind him. Sadr didn’t turn to look.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He’s catatonic. Cataleptic, more accurately.”
“Why?”
He hesitated. “We’re not quite sure. It can be caused by any number of things — and with the amount of stress his body went through, there’s really no telling.”
“Will he wake up?”
“He might. We really can’t say for sure.”
“I see.”
The doctor stepped up, squeezing Sadr’s shoulder. “I encourage you to have belief, doctor. This is a condition of the mind. It can be resolved.”
That had been four months ago. Since then, they had tried all manner of treatments. Sedatives, barbiturates, sleep therapy, physical sensation. Even electroconvulsive therapy, strapping patches to him and turning up the voltage. Nothing had worked. The physical checkups went from daily to weekly. The staff moved on to other patients. They pretended not to notice Dr. Sadr sitting by the bed every day.
The doctor had asked him a question, once.
“Do you know what happened to him?”
Sadr shook his head. “Only he does.”
Farhan, of course, never answered.
ORIA training was an intensive program, designed to quickly impress onto any recruit the intricacies of their new station. And it worked. Year after year, soft recruits entered that squat office building in Tehran, and highly-trained soldiers left. There was no strict schedule; some recruits took years to train. The instructors had calculated that, on average, it took two years to transform an otherwise-ordinary civilian into an ORIA agent.
Farhan Moradi did it in eighteen months. The students were as varied as the course: most Iranians, of course, but a few Yemenis, Egyptians, Pakistanis, even a Saudi or two. Farhan never asked if they were Sunni or Shia — officially, ORIA was a pan-Islamic organization. Ignore the leadership structure, and one might even fool themselves into believing that were true.
Besides, there was too much to do to debate theology. Grueling physical training, intelligence-gathering, data analysis, firearm practice. They woke at dawn for prayers, ate their breakfasts, and the rest of the day was spent in their classrooms with their instructors, working together on analyzing an intercepted report. Breaking a cipher. Shadowing a tagged individual through the streets of Tehran. He was never told whether these reports, these suspects were real, and so he assumed they were.
But he didn’t take joy in the work, like some of the others did. They assembled and disassembled their firearms with near-religious devotion. No, his joy came from his lessons with Sadr. They would meet in his office every evening, and the doctor would explain things to him — geopolitics, philosophy, theology, eschatology. His favorite, though, was history.
“The Great Game, you see — the Russian Empire and the British, both seeking to secure a buffer state in Central Asia. The British were terrified of losing their cash cow of India, and the Russians feared the British would take their southern states…”
He would draw out maps, pointing out long-forgotten borders, explaining how the empires turned Persia into their chessboard.
Gesturing wildly, he’d excitedly discuss the Great Game. The British supporting the Arab Revolt against the Ottoman Turks with false promises. The British and the French dividing up the Middle East between them, borders and protectorates and mandates.
“Nevermind the people who lived there, of course,” he’d remark dryly.
Farhan drank it all in. Even when he’d gone to school, this wasn’t what they had taught. The scale of the injustices were staggering. This was their mission — to right these wrongs. To take back what had been taken from them. After every lecture, slipping into the dark hallways and going back to his barracks, he’d feel the fire in his veins.
“General?”
Malik looked up from the dossier on his desk. Reconnaissance data from an agent in Turkey, observing the movement patterns of what was almost certainly a PENTAGRAM agent.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and Sadr slipped through. The office was neatly decorated — display and antique weapons along the walls, a painting or two here and there. A large wooden desk dominated the room. There was a framed photo of Malik and his son and daughter on it.
“Parviz. Sit. What can I do for you?” he said, folding up the dossier and putting it away.
Sadr slid into one of the chairs opposite the desk. “Project ALIM is coming along very nicely. My research team expects results on materials testing on the sword by the end of the month.”
“That’s excellent.”
A moment of silence.
“I went to visit him today.”
Malik sighed internally.
“Any improvement?”
“No. He still won’t respond to anything or anyone.”
Malik nodded slowly, processing the information he’d heard a thousand times already.
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Yes.”
“I hope you realize it wasn’t your fault, Parviz.”
Sadr laughed.
“I’m glad you think so. But it was all of our faults.”
Malik’s brow furrowed. “How’s that?”
Sadr threw him a look. “My god, Malik. He’s a just a boy. When I was his age I was still learning about organic chemistry in school. And we have him triapsing around the world, killing for us.”
“If you remember, he was killing well before we took him under our wing. Where do you honestly believe he would be if we hadn’t stepped in? In a gang? In the gutter?”
Sadr’s response was quiet. “I know he wouldn’t have been in Aswan.”
Malik was silent for a moment before continuing. “I don’t want you for a second thinking I don’t think this is horrible. But this is not a unique horror. We have agents that don’t come back from missions. We have agents whose bodies we find years later. I’m not saying this isn’t horrible. But look at it in perspective. At least he’s alive.”
“He was my responsibility, Malik. Mine. This is on my soul.”
Malik sighed in frustration. “Then what do you plan to do about it?”
Sadr went silent again, and for a moment, Malik thought he had overstepped. He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples with his fingers and preparing to gently but firmly apologize when the doctor spoke again.
“What do you know about Project HĀJIS?”
Malik’s eyes widened. His next words were slow and carefully chosen.
“A shelved project from my predecessor, from when our policy towards the djinns was more active pursuit. Bonding a djinn to a person, creating an akhī ʾl-jinnī. A man working in tangent with a djinn, not ruled by it, but co-operating. Control over fire.”
“Do you know why it was shuttered?”
Malik waved a hand. “Political winds. The imams insisting that associating with the djinn is devil worship. Nevermind the fact that they have been here far, far longer than we have, nevermind that they worship the same God we do. It was simply no longer politically viable.”
Sadr was pulling something from his jacket, now — a manilla folder, paper stuffed neatly inside of it.
“But the underlying science was sound, yes? Successful?”
“Parviz…”
“Tell me.”
“It was. There were a handful of successes — some of our finest agents. But—”
“I’ve been reading the old papers. It was said that bonding with the djinn was a last resort. But that it worked.” He flicked through the folder until he arrived at what he wanted. “Look. Case o56, Qassem. I quote: ‘Nerve damage previously extensive enough to render him unable to eat or bathe himself without assistance.’ Previously. He underwent the procedure and he was fine, better than he was before!”
“As I recall, he also incinerated someone before wresting control over his powers.”
“Because the djinn was uncooperative. Why wouldn’t it be? They’re memetic beings, they don’t like the idea of being bound to a physical form. Of course it’d rebel.”
“Correct. So I don’t understand the point of this conversation.”
Sadr was quiet for a second.
“I did a research project on a djinn house once. Years ago. But we kept up communications.”
“Parviz!”
“— imagine, Malik! A superhuman soldier!”
“Are you outside of your head?”
“Are you? You’re leaving this opportunity on the table because, what, clerics on television are railing against something they don’t know exists? I shouldn’t have to remind you that we are not an arm of the Iranian government anymore. We shouldn’t be beholden to their whims.”
“Don’t pretend to lecture me on how I lead. And don’t pretend you’re doing this because of the advantage it offers. You’re doing it to soothe your soul.”
“That doesn’t make me wrong!”
They stared at each other across the desk defiantly for a few seconds, shoulders raised. Then, gradually, their postures eased. Malik’s voice softened.
“You’re the scientist. I’m not going to stop you. But think about this, Parviz. Think about what kind of life you’d be consigning him to. What if he wants to leave, one day? Start a family, have children? You can’t exactly do that when you’re a walking bomb.”
There were a few moments of silence before.
“He’s a believer. It’ll have been worth it, to him.”
Most of the recruits did their Friday prayer at headquarters. Leaving was a pain; cards needed to be scanned, security codes updated, authorizations processed. It was easier to simply find a few minutes and slip down to the small carpeted room that passed for a mosque.
But Farhan and Sadr always left. The senior scientist’s card was always good, and so he’d slip out onto the street, the teenager chasing behind him. They’d filter into the crowd and let it carry them to the local mosque — take their shoes off, make wudu, let the water wash over their hands and feet and face. Then find a space near the front, kneeling and listening to the sermon, making their prayer together.
More often than not, the khutbah touched on their work — maybe not directly, but passing comments about the West, America, Iran and its place, the place of her people. How they had God on their side. How they had been wronged, and it was their work to make things right.
If they had looked at each other’s faces, they might have seen the glowing pride of knowing their work was good. Of belief. But neither did; they were too focused on the sermon.
Afterwards they’d rise, put their shoes on, filter back out onto the street. Fridays were a holy day, and there was always a sense of celebration in the air. People smiled more, were happier when haggling in stores or hawking their wares. Families would be returning home to share a meal together. The meals at headquarters were consistently middling, so occasionally the two of them would spend a few minutes at a cafe, eating in comfortable silence. Farhan was a shy young man; he didn’t talk much.
Eventually, they’d finish and return to headquarters. A guard would unlock the gate for them, and they’d separate at the elevator; they both had their duties to attend to. But Sadr always smiled, brushed Farhan’s hair out of his eyes, and kissed him on both of his cheeks.
“You’re doing well. I’m proud of you.”
And Farhan would silently nod, not bothering to hide his smile in the elevator ride down.
After six months, Farhan Moradi awoke in a jungle.
It was a lush, green jungle, and he was lying on his back in a clearing. The trees rose overhead, and all around, he could hear the trilling of life: birds chirping, animals chasing one another through the undergrowth. The dense canopy blocked out any sunlight — leaving only the light from the campfire.
It was a small campfire — a few sticks thrown on top of some kindling, and the whole thing set alight. The smoke spiraled up from it as it crackled and hissed — and then it spoke.
“Hello.” It was a warm, rich voice, not at all how one expects a fire to sound.
Farhan raised an eyebrow.
“Hello. This isn’t real, is it?”
“In the realm of thought, where intellects entwine. Here resides your essence, within the mind's design.”
“I’m dreaming, then.”
“Not a mere vision, but where your soul resides. Within the chambers deep, where thought and spirit coincide.”
Somewhere, he could hear chanting, and the beating of drums. He looked down. He was sitting on nothing, he realized — beyond this patch of clearing, the floor gave way to an impossibly empty abyss, scattered with stars.
“And then what are you?”
“First I — what memories linger in your keep?”
He thought quite hard.
“Aswan, surveilling the museum. Then being arrested, dragged away and thrown into a van. The prison. The colonel.” The sensation came rushing back all at once, the pain, the agony. “Oh, God. The coals. The water. The coffin. Oh, God.” He began breathing heavily, panting.
“Calm, calm — all past, and now you sleep.”
“Am I… dead?”
“In this astral realm, neither Jannah's bliss nor Jahannam's plight. Here, betwixt realms, we meet, conversing in twilight's light.”
“What are you?”
The fire smiled, to the extent a fire can. “A jinn I am, unseen by mortal sight,”
He appraised it. “You don’t look like a jinn.”
“And your frame shows no sign of torture’s design.”
He appraised himself. His cuts and wounds were mostly healed — no open wounds, but scars everywhere, decorating his torso. He raised a hand to his eye. The socket felt empty. The memory of the power drill came rushing back.
“Save for that, I offer my sincere decline.”
He nodded. “Clearly some time has passed. How much?”
“Six moons passed, from Aswan's shore you were brought. Returned to Tehran's embrace, waking sought.”
“I’m in a coma?”
“Yes, but let us stray, for now fate has decreed. Dr. Sadr, our guide, has facilitated our meet, indeed. To bargain, to negotiate, my hand I extend: a pact, a bond, our destinies to blend. ”
“What kind of procedure?”
“Your form is intact, but your spirit is adrift. An unpowered vessel; I offer a guiding lift.”
The boy stepped back. “You’re talking about possessing me. Go to Hell.”
The fire snorted. “Nay, not mere usurpation, a tale more refined, Possession, within my grasp, a deed aligned. To seize thy form, a theft of sovereign reign, Yet this, a symbiosis, our essences twain. Into thy being, I merge, a unity divine, A bond of souls, in this realm, entwined.”
“And why would I do that?”
“To reignite your flame, I shall endeavor, Your spark dimmed, your essence untethered. Within you, no fire dances, no guiding glow, A form of clay, dampened, as humans often know."
“Will it wake me up?”
“Oh, indeed it shall, unlocking boundless might. Humans, though capable, are veiled in finite plight — but with me intertwined, flames within shall rise. From your very essence, potent power implies. To read souls like texts, before your sight they lay. With fire's fervor, wisdom shall light your way.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
“Materiality, a realm of divine artistry. A world of beauty, bestowed by the Almighty. To feel its touch, my sole desire, plain and true. No more, no less, in this earthly milieu.”
“Are you lying?”
The fire smiled sadly.
“Truth's tongue binds me, falsehood I cannot weave, For such deceitful arts, we jinn were not conceived.”
The pair sat in silence for a second.
“Would you be a voice in my head?”
“Nay, merely a fragment within your soul's embrace.”
“I don’t know that I want fire to be a part of me.”
The fire scoffed in indignance. “And what is the reason for this ill-given grace?”
“You’re destructive, aren’t you?”
And before he could protest, the boy was lifted into the air. The fire followed him, leaping from the campfire in a ball of flame. They rose, up and up through the canopy, into the air. He looked around. They were indeed in some kind of starry abyss. Every so often, a strike of lightning would break across the emptiness, lighting it up. The jungle spread out below them, seemingly hanging in the middle of nothing.
“Fire is destructive, you say so bold?”
And in a moment, the forest went ablaze. It started from everywhere and nowhere, leaping from tree to tree and engulfing the entire jungle in a fiery blaze. The flames licked higher and higher. Farhan turned away, shielding his eyes.
“You’re not exactly disproving my point.”
“Stare and behold.”
And in a moment, the fire died again, snuffed out. A graveyard of trees were left, burnt to cinders, lying over one another as they decomposed in rapid-time. The plant matter crumbled to pieces, fertilizing the new soil, where more ferns and saplings pierced through the soot. Creatures emerged from their burrows, trodding over the open landscape. The saplings grew and grew into new trees, depositing new seeds — different now, stronger, hardier. The new animals moved in, tigers and elephants and birds and bears, taking refuge in the now-open jungle.
“Indeed, fire brings ruin, as you impart. Yet it births life, fostering growth's art. Without its fervor, all remains still, unmoved. But with fire's dance, change is thus proved.”
“Though it scorches, its warmth is also known—”
His mind flashed back to hot coals, scattering across his back and charring his skin as he screamed.
“A paradox embodied, in flames it's shown.”
And then a heated metal rod being pressed against one of his open wounds by a doctor, sealing and cauterizing the flesh with a hot sizzle.
A house on fire, mother rushing out while holding her child.
The same mother and child, sleeping in a tent, warmed only by the small campfire outside.
He looked at the flames all around him, licking at his fingers and toes, bathing him in warmth.
“So you can heal me, then? Make me as I was?”
“To all my ability.”
“Then take me, before I change my mind.”
Again, the fire smiled.
“A wise decree.”
The boy opened his eyes.
He was in a hospital room, lying on a bed. Two men were in front of him.
“Parviz. General.”
Sadr smiled warmly. “Welcome back, Farhan.”
One hand snaked up to his left eye — it felt odd. Heavy. Warm. Someone passed him a mirror, and he raised it up.
The eye in his left socket was made of some light stone. The pupil burned with some kind of flame. It was odd. But he could see.
“I understand if you’d prefer to hide it,” Sadr said. He passed him an eyepatch, and Farhan affixed it around his head.
“How do you feel?”
He thought about it for a second.
“Hollow.”
Part I | Part II
