The names, characters, places and events in this story are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. All characters are over the age of 18. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Thank for reading and I hope you liked this tale. Please do leave a comment as I read all of them and take them all onboard.
MR. GINGER AND THE DJINN
Miss Paisley stood and stretched her back, wincing at all the aches and pains that had built up over the years. Decades, she reminded herself as her eightieth was in the rear view mirror. She leaned on her spade, looking out over her back yard. She'd planted out a row of carrots and earlier that afternoon had set out some canes for her rapidly growing beans. Now she wanted to dig over a small plot for potatoes. But her back was so stiff and aching. Not so many years ago, even five or six, she would have been finished by now and relaxing with a well earned coffee on one of her bentwood chairs on the porch. But eighty-one was a lot older than even seventy-six. Putting a hand to the small of her back, she grimaced as she flexed her spine, listening to it creak beneath her palm. Maybe she should leave it for tomorrow but she wanted to make the most of this lovely spring day.
She surveyed her lot and a little smile played over her lips. She was only eighty-one and hopefully there were several years left in her yet. But things were taking longer to finish than they used, she could not deny that. Perhaps it was time to start looking for a reliable young man to help with the heavier jobs -- like digging over the ground for potatoes? Old Mrs. Smith next door but one had hired the Myler kid and she told her that he was so reliable. Maybe she should have a word, see if he would help her, too. Yet pride and a refusal to give into her frailties stood in her way.
Picking up her spade, she crossed over to the potato bed and thrust the blade into the earth. Startled, she heard a little chinking sound. With a slight frown, one hand at the small of her back, Miss Paisley slowly crouched down and sifted through the dirt. After a moment, she saw a glint of reflected sunlight. Cautiously, her muscles groaning with exertion, she leaned forward and saw a piece of blue glass. Shifting position, she carefully wiggled the glass until she was able to pull an octagonal blue bottle from out the earth. Her face lit up with surprised delight and momentarily the years fell away and she looked almost like her much younger self again.
Slipping her glasses on, she saw that the bottle was intact and there was even the remains of a cork in the neck. Taking a rag from her pocket, she knocked the worst of the dirt from the bottle. It was a deep cobalt blue with the word 'POISON' embossed vertically down one side.
Miss Paisley's smile widened. "What a find. It's lovely."
She recalled that a drugstore had stood on this site up until the 1950s or early 1960s when old Mr. Ferguson passed away. And he'd been in his late eighties when he'd died. She remembered using the drugstore when she was a girl and young woman and her mother had sworn by Mr. Ferguson and wouldn't go elsewhere for her medicines. This particular bottle looked as if it dated from the 1890s or 1900s, something like that, certainly from before the Great War. And it was miraculously unbroken.
Taking her find, she crossed to her porch, climbed a few steps, and sat down at a small cast iron table with a sigh of relief. Her cat, Mr. Ginger, looked up from his sunny spot over by the steps, arched his back, stood and walked over, rubbing himself against her legs. Miss Paisley leaned over and rubbed behind his ears making Mr. Ginger purr with appreciation. Like herself, Mr. Ginger was getting on in years being eighteen which she knew was the equivalent of almost eighty-eight in human years so; in a way, he was even older than herself. He was still a beautifully marked ginger tabby with white collar and forepaws and Miss Paisley loved him so much.
Yes, loved wasn't too strong a word. She had lived in this town all her life and her mom's house where she had been born was only a couple of streets away. She passed it most weeks on her way to the library. She had bought this house almost fifty years ago when her grandmother died and left her a legacy. And that was that. It was great owning her own home but, in some ways, it had held her back as she had rarely left Ohio and never the continental US. Apart from a brief period in the sixties when she'd worn tie-dye skirts and taken part safely at the back of local Civil Rights or anti Vietnam War protests, she'd never raised a ripple. She'd worn flowers in her hair once but she'd never even considered burning her bra! Only once she had smoked a little pot with a bunch of hippies on their way to San Francisco but nothing stronger as the dope had made her feel nauseous. Now, too late, she wished she'd lived a little more dangerously.
She had worked for years as an accounts clerk for a local firm selling and fixing farm machinery, making out receipts and chasing unpaid invoices. The job was as boring as it sounded but it was a steady income. However, when the firm was bought out by a larger company from Indiana, she had been made redundant as had several others. Fortunately, she had quickly found a part-time position at the library and that gave her enough to live on as she had scrimped and saved and paid off her mortgage early. She had raised money for the volunteer fire department and was a big contributor to the Methodist church's bake sales and helped out sorting donations at the Goodwill. A useful life but not exciting. However, this was small town Ohio so what did she expect?
But that wasn't important. She had never married and was too old-fashioned to just live with a man. Her mom would have been so disappointed in her if she had done that. And her boss, Mr. Oldham, at the farm suppliers was a committed hard shell Baptist so might have made things difficult. So now she was the stereotypical old lady spinster living alone with only her cats for company. Thinking about it, she was content with her lot but she had never known the passion and ecstasy of true love. She sighed. She could have done more; she should have done more. Yet, it was far too late to change and you don't get second chances in this life.
"What have we here?" she said to Mr. Ginger, "Let's find out."
The cat looked up at her silently. She rubbed the bottle with her rag, making it shine in places, then took a corkscrew from the multitool on her tabletop and carefully pulled the cork. She didn't expect to find any liquid as it must have long evaporated but she wanted to wash out the bottle later on. It would look good on her kitchen windowsill where it would catch the morning sunlight.
Miss Paisley almost screamed and dropped the bottle onto the porch's wooden floor. A wisp of cerulean blue vapor issued from the bottle's neck, rapidly thickening and boiling up and up, making a plume up to the porch's ceiling. It was an impossible amount for the small bottle to hold. Yet more and more fumes boiled out, the smoke gradually solidifying. There was a smell of old spices that reminded her of something long forgotten. Finally the blue smoke coalesced into a manlike form. Mr. Ginger arched his back and hissed but held his ground. Gradually, what appeared to be eyeholes and a mouth emerged from the bluish smoky vapors. The fumes yawned widely, blinked a couple of times and two tendrils of smoke stretched out like arms.
"Greetings, human! My name is Zazzomathad. I am a djinn and I have been trapped in that bottle for over a hundred years. I give you many thanks for freeing me," the djinn spoke with a pleasant but slightly foreign accent.
Miss Paisley likewise opened and closed her mouth in astonishment.
"How... how... how did you get trapped in that bottle?" she finally managed to ask.
The smoky vapors looked downcast. "As well as being a druggist, Mr. Ferguson was an occultist of some renown. He even had a partial copy of Ludvig Prinn's forbidden De Vermis Mysteriis and used a chant therein to summon me and ensnare me in that bottle. I was too slow with my warding spell. He wanted to harness my powers for his own ends."
Zazzomathad smiled. "However, you have today freed me from my restraints so I bid you a good day and I will depart for the City of Brass." The djinn turned to leave.
Miss Paisley raised a finger. "Wait! Before you go, don't I get three wishes?"
Zazzomathad sighed. "I had hoped you would just let me depart. Yes, I can grant three wishes but they have to be reasonable. For example, I cannot grant immortality, bring world peace or build a bridge from Boston to Ireland just so you can drive across the Atlantic for a pint of Guinness or whatever."
She thought for a moment. A drop of Guinness did sound good.
"Remember, choose wisely," Zazzomathad reminded her. "And don't bother asking for a djinn and tonic. That got stale centuries ago."
"Could I wish to have my youth and beauty back again? You've no idea how hard it is being old," she said.
The djinn smiled. "You would be surprised. I am over a thousand years old. However, I can grant that wish -- it is a very common request." With that, he made a complex series of gestures.
