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Jinn Struck
by Javad Mohsenian

Nearly everyone has heard of Karbelai Sid Hussein, who lived not long ago in the small but ancient city of Jahrom, in southern Iran. Well-known as the town’s barber, Karbelai was also the dentist and general surgeon.  During his lengthy career he extracted at least one tooth from most of Jahrom’s adults and circumcised the entire male population within a radius of twenty kilometers.
 Upon being confronted with an excruciating toothache in his cluttered office, Karbelai simply reached for his rusted old pliers and relieved the pain for good.  There was no need to make an appointment and one would never receive a bill; one simply paid as one could.
Many beneficiaries bragged about the ceremonial circumcisions performed by Karbelai.  Prideful parents threw elaborate parties on such festive occasions, offering expensive gifts to the honored surgeon. 
 Karbelai’s surgical fame spread across the region.  He treated wounds and blemishes with bandages that had been sterilized in the sunshine.  Clients from surrounding villages came to him so he could remove horrible waterborne parasites lodged under their skin.  Jars containing these “treasures” decorated the shelves of his barbershop and were a testament to his medical skill.  Nane Ghassem, the town’s well-regarded midwife, had delivered nearly every child around, but would always consult Karbelai Sid Hussein when there was a difficult birth.
 In addition to these responsibilities he also managed two public baths in his neighborhood. If it wasn’t for the assistance of his son, Ahmad, and his wife, Zainab, he could not have juggled all these projects.
 Yet Karbelai’s résumé didn’t end there.  He was in fact most famous for being the only jinn geer in the city: the only man fearless and knowledgeable enough to catch ghosts and free the souls of the possessed. 
Many people in Jahraom claimed to have encountered ghosts.  The shifting sands outside the city had covered many a graveyard during the long centuries, so who could indeed say that ghosts had not lost their way to their sepulchral homes?  Those citizens with serious illnesses that wouldn’t respond to herbs or home remedies blamed the “evil eye” or malevolent spirits.  No one doubted; all were sympathetic.  When traditional cure-alls such as sacrifices, vows, and donations to holy sites failed, sufferers turned to Karbelai.
 Over the years he had developed specific methods of catching haunts.  He would hang colorful Persian carpet covered with a long white curtain in the hallway or side yard of his home.  The patient would sit on one side of the curtain, within a circle of long sewing needles imbedded in the rug.  Karbelai would chant and weave his spells on the other side of the barrier.  His paraphernalia included a whip, a pair of scissors and a whistle.  Of course he also had a long tongue--an elaborate vocabulary—and many ancient magical tomes of doubtful provenance.
 Karbelai would begin with a prayer in Arabic and then, with his eyes full of tears, he would ask the prophet and his grandson, the slain Imam Hussein, to not let him down.  He was Ostad Karbelai Sid Hussein after all, he reminded the spirits.  He was a maestro, an expert and spiritualist, which was very important in influencing and hypnotizing his subjects.  They could not help but be impressed, because he was a descendent of Mohammad and he had gone on pilgrimage to the holy burial site of the third Imam in Karbela-Iraq, where he had received his therapeutic skills upon touching the elaborate maajer covering.
After all the religious ceremonies, he would blow a special wooden whistle and call on the wraiths, talking to them and making snipping motions in the air with his scissors, threatening to clip their wings.  He would also inform them that he would hide the name of Allah along with special prayers all over the house.
 Invariably the patient’s head would begin to feel lighter and lighter.  Once he felt stronger, he would jump out of the circle of needles and curse the devil.  He also thanked Allah--and Karbelai--for freeing his soul.
 Indeed, Karbelai’s fame spread so far that one day he was called to the estate of Hajji Ali, where an infestation of ghosts was plaguing the residents.
* * *
Hajji Ali was the richest man in the city.  He owned so many properties, farms and orchards that he could not keep track of them.  Hundreds of farmers and servants maintained his properties.  Many of the villagers owed their livelihood to him.  His residence, located on the middle of groves of fruit trees, was more a mansion than a house.
Karbelai knocked on the huge wooden doors, decorated with metalwork, adorning the front of the house.  A servant opened the portal for him.  Bearing a satchel of accoutrements he walked grandly in though the stable, following the man past the household’s horses, donkeys, sheep and goats.  Beyond this lay an exterior courtyard in which a fountain sprayed.  Through another smaller pair of doors, Karbelai entered the main part of the house. 
Here a large living room and an adjacent dining area stood on a raised section of flooring in the midst of an elaborate garden where several man-made waterfalls, surrounded the rooms and were splashing into huge pools full of fish.  Through the vegetation, which bore flowers unknown even to Karbelai, an experienced herbalist, he caught glimpses of a magnificent building whose walls were decorated with intricate gatch and stucco, and turquoise blue mosaic tiles.  Karbelai climbed many steps to enter the exotic living room, located on top of a large cellar.  Tall rectangular, state-of-the-art badgeers extended from the roof, catching breezes and directing them into the living area.
Here, on many silk cushions, sat Hajji Ali, a portly man whose normally merry face was creased with care, with deep circles under the eyes.
“Magnificient!” Karbelai breathed to his host.  “A superb dwelling!”
Hajji waved a dismissive hand.  “Yes but the problem is that no one dares come in here after dark because of the ghosts!”
Frowning, Karbelai sat down beside his host to listen.
“Anything we leave out,” said Hajji, “bread, food, fruit, pastries, anything, simply disappears.  The greedy ghosts soak the dates in sesame paste and throw the pits all over the floor!  Thursday nights, just before the weekend, are the worst.  Orange peels everywhere!”
Karbelai clucked in sympathy.
“Mind you, I’ve not seen any spirits myself, but my servants and maids swear that they have, and heard them, too.  My wife simply won’t come in here alone without a guard and a large hand lamp.  I’ve had to put the place off limits after sunset.  I tell you, I’ve even had the wind catchers on the roof blocked, because my chief servant says he’s sensed ghosts flocking toward my lovely house from every direction.”  He leaned toward Karbelai.  “You have got to do something!”
“Well, of course, I will try, Honored One.”
“You must do better than that.  I promise you not only a year’s supply of rice and wheat, but also ten gold coins from the Ghajar Dynasty, embossed with the image of their founder, Agha Mohammad Khane Ghajar.”  He sat back in triumph.
Karbelai drew in his breath.  Such riches!  “I will not fail,” he said, meeting Hajji’s eye.
* * *
The very next Thursday night, the eve of customary Moslem day of rest, the day people visited their ancestors in the cemeteries, Karbelai was once more in Hajji Ali’s opulent living chambers.  It was widely believed that the ghosts had more freedom on Thursday evenings and traveled in groups.
Karbelai had made all the necessary preparations in advance.  Among his equipment were several large burlap bags in which he meant to capture the ghosts and prevent their escape.  He also brought his oft-blessed copy of the Koran and a number of other prayer books, along with a few hand-written, worm-eaten and moldy manuscripts.  He spent all night praying and reciting many blessings and benedictions, focusing on those specifically designed for the purpose of getting rid of jinn.  He puffed his words and blew his breath to every corner of the halls, and hid special prayers, written down in advance, in secret spots.
In the early hours of the morning, confident that all of the surrounding spirits had been swept up, he lit one of the lights and tied up the burlap sacks so any captured ghosts would be unable to escape.  The bags all felt empty, but he knew better: ghosts have no weight.
Summoning Hajji Ali, Karbelai said: “All the evil shadows have been trapped.  Those roaming free will never dare to show themselves in the future.”
Elated from Hajji’s effusive praise and thanks and gift of weighty gold coins, Karbelai left the mansion.  It was nearly time for him to oversee the daily opening of the public baths, his usual morning chore.
* * *
The men’s public bath sat close to the entrance of the ancient city’s roof-covered bazaar.  The streets there were not lit, and most citizens shunned the place at night for fear of drifting demons.  Shadows moved around Karbelai’s antique oil lamp like a flickering army of phantasms.  Karbelai met no one on his way, but had no fear.  He had walked this route at this hour daily for years.  In fact, he liked the privacy and quiet.  On reaching a ramshackle bridge over a tiny rivulet, he untied the burlap bags and shook out their evil contents into the dark, sluggish water.
He inserted an old brass key into the heavy lock of the bathhouse’s double doors, evoking as he did the name of god several times in both Arabic and Farsi.  He also breathed a protective incantation against the machinations of Satan, who was always around for sabotage.
The screech of the door opening into the dark hall beyond was disconcerting and creepy, but tonight Karbelai had a heart of a lion.  He lit the wall candles.  At the end of the hall he entered a circular cloakroom that was divided into different sections.  Cold and silent now, the room would not see the morning’s first guests for hours yet.  The little pond in the middle of the floor displayed a tiny fountain and a number of colorful goldfish, which gaped pink mouths at him, hoping to be fed.
He decided to freshen up and wash away the long night’s tiredness.  After removing his clothes, he wrapped himself in the customary long red garment and then opened the door to the interior of the bath, a large rectangular chamber surrounded by showers with a khazineh--a heated pool.
He lit all the lights and added oil to a few lamps that had burned low.  After trying all the showers he decided they were all hot enough and ready for the day’s bathers.  He stood under one and allowed the water to cascade over him.  It felt so good, and he was so tired.  Exorcizing ghosts wasn’t easy for a man of his age.  He washed his sparse white hair with a paste of ground lotus tree leaf, and then stepped into the heated pool.  He had barely settled into it when he heard the sound of a splash.
He was flabbergasted to see another man in the steaming pool, a man he could barely see on the dim light, a stranger.  How could he have missed seeing this fellow?
Grinning in a friendly way, the man addressed him.  “Salom Karbelai, how are you today?”
“I salom you as well, friend.  I am quite well.  I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of knowing you.”
“I know you, however.  You are a famous man in the area.  Everyone knows you.  You cut everyone’s hair and you are a doctor and surgeon. you also treat the jinn-struck, do you not?”
Karbelai smiled in a self-deprecating manner.  “I do a little bit of everything.  I try to be useful to God’s subjects. I see you are an early riser, too, Mister.”
“I decided to keep you company today.  I didn’t want you to be alone in the early hours of the morning after your efforts at Hajji Ali’s home.”
How in the name of the Prophet could this fellow know where Karbelai had been?  “Well, thank you, but solitude doesn’t bother me,” he said, hoping the other man would take the hint.
He didn’t.  “But you are looking very tired,” said the stranger, shifting his position in the pool.  His skin looked oddly scaly in the flickering light.
“Yes,” said Karbelai, noticing this with a medical man’s curiosity.  “I had a busy night.”
“My dear Karbelai, you are no longer young.  You should get your nightly sleep.  You should not be doing so many different things.  And you shouldn’t place your feet in everyone’s shoes, nor pry into things that do not concern you.”
Karbelai licked his lips.  Was this odd person threatening him?  He decided not to respond.  Instead, he plugged both ears with his fingers and submerged his entire body in the water three times.  Now he was taher— fully clean—ready for the morning observances.
As if reading his thoughts, the stranger said, “I guess you still haven’t had your morning prayer?”
“I’d better rush, before the sun rises.”  Karbelai stepped out of the pool.
He couldn’t help feeling a bit concerned when the man likewise rose from the pool and followed him, making strange clock-clock sounds as he walked.
 Karbelai turned to his companion and opened his mouth to speak.  But his words strangled in his throat.  The man, naked, had hooves instead of feet!
“Karbelaei, I need a Kiseh Kesh to help wash me up, but I guess your workers don’t start until later.”
“Um, I’ll see if the workers have arrived,” said Karbelai.  “Why don’t you, uh, wait here?”
Out in front, Karbelai was relieved to see a worker preparing for his daily chores.  This must be someone his son had hired, because Karbelai couldn’t place him.
“You won’t believe what I saw inside!” he said, wiping perspiration from his brow.
“What did you see, Karbelai?”
“A man with hooves!  As god is my witness!”
The man frowned.  He lifted his right leg, pulling back his pantaloons.  “Was it like this?”
Goggling, Karbelai saw that the man’s leg ended in a massive, black hoof instead of five human toes.  He bolted, with the laborer’s laughter echoing behind him.
Outside, the sun had not yet risen.  Karbelai had barely reached the exit when he saw the day’s first customer coming in.  This, thank Allah, was Mash Hassan, a man he knew.
“Stop, don’t go in, wait.”
“What is the matter, my friend?”
“There are demons in there, Mashadi, demons!  I swear!  They look like men but they have hooves instead of feet!  Like a horse!”
“Well, that certainly is ominous!”
“Yes, I believe they want revenge because I have deprived them of access to Hajji Ali’s food and drink!”
“Terrible,” said Hassan.  “Hooves, you say?”
“In god’s name, yes.”
“Like. this?”  Mash Hassan raised his leg.
Karbelai shrieked and fled, all but naked, into the shadow-swept alleyways.
Heart pounding and drenched with sweat he ducked into maze like kouchehs, soon becoming disoriented but not daring to stop.  Stones cut his feet but he ran on toward his barber shop.  His heart pounded like a caged animal.  Abruptly a figure on a donkey materialized out of the gloom.  It was his next-door neighbor, Ghassem Agha, headed for market.
“Oh, Ghassem Agha, you don’t know how happy I am to see you!  Allah save me, I am dying.”  He rested his head on the donkey’s blanket in Ghassem’s lap.
“My dear Karbelai, what is the matter?”
Karbelai gulped for breath.  “You won’t believe me, Ghassem.  At, the public bath.  I saw not one, not two, but three men with hooves, just like your donkey.”
“I believe you,” Ghassem said sympathetically, stroking his friend’s head.  “You know too much about spirits for me not to believe you.”  He stepped down from the donkey.  His feet hit the ground, clock-clock!
“Hooves, like This?”
Karbelai fled for his life.  He stumbled and fell on his face.  His lamp broke into pieces and he was completely in the dark.  He seemed to be in a roof covered, filthy cul-de-sac, with no way out.
Footsteps: clock-clock!  Clock-clock!
In the morning Karbelai’s son, Ahmad, found his father’s corpse, tattooed with hoof-marks.