In his grief the merchant tried to go on a spree of drinking and revelling – in vain. A lot of people witnessed how Jammal, without any visible reason, spilled upon himself one after the other three cups of wine, forbidden by the Prophet, and then broke a big jug of the aforementioned drink, spattering with it all those assembled. And when the merchant tried to visit one dancer girl he knew, he disgraced himself much more: in the most crucial moment, when the clothes were thrown off, the Slave of Justice said plaintively: “Sorry, but I cannot allow this!” and hit the merchant straight in his crotch with all his might.

Jammal’s life became veritable hell. His faint attempts to defend himself led to nothing: the djinni was much stronger and what more – fought like a shaitan! Thus a month passed, then another one. The merchant grew thin and hollow-cheeked from such a life, notwithstanding that the djinni didn’t beat him as frequently any more and sometimes would even cheer him up: “Hold on, my friend! You are on the right way! Soon your torments will bear fruit!”

“Of course! If you beat up a man twice a day, even Iblis himself will gain the fruits of righteousness!” thought the merchant in his mind, dreaming secretly to get rid of the hated djinni. Finally he made a decision. First of all Jammal visited the renowned exorcist who lived at the south outskirts of Vlera.

“A charlatan,” announced Abd-al-Rashid confidently scarcely had they stepped at the threshold. “He doesn’t see me at all.”

“He’ll drive you away without looking at you!” objected the merchant in a whisper. Without much hope, however.

The djinni only snorted contemptuously in response.

Abd-al-Rashid proved to be right: the exorcist cavorted around till he fainted, smoked the entire house with stinky incenses, and yet the merchant returned home together with his Conscience. Nevertheless, now Jammal was clutching straws. He visited all the sorcerers, quacksalvers and hermits in the area, turned to a mullah, to a doctor... And he saw they didn’t believe him. They pretended, trying to draw as much money as they could out of the insane simpleton. The merchant no longer needed the djinni’s acrimonious comments to understand this.

Once there stopped in Vlera, in passing, the renowned mage Hussein al-Murally; having heard about his visit, the merchant rushed to the mage. The djinni was moving nearby, squinting gloomily at his ward and muttering: “Aren’t you ashamed? I wish you well, and you... Ungrateful!” From time to time he would give Jammal a cuff on his nape.

The merchant didn’t answer obstinately.

The great wizard had glanced at Jammal – more exactly, over his shoulder – just once, turned slightly pale and hurried to step farther from the merchant. As if from a leper. And then declared firmly: “You’ve come in vain. I cannot help you.”

“But king Suleiman knew how to confine djinn!” cried out the merchant in despair, seeing that hope, which had barely sparkled, was threatening to disperse. “I’ll pay you! I’ll shower you with gold!”

The mage stretched his arms to the sides: “Alas, oh my respectable guest. I am not king Suleiman.”

“But how can I get rid of him?”

“I don’t know. Someone else would deceive you, whereas I tell you honestly: I don’t know. And if anybody declares he’s able to help you, spit this liar in his eyes!”

“And to kill? Is it possible to kill him?!” cried out the merchant desperately, feeling how the reproaching glance of Abd-al-Rashid sent shivers down his spine.

“It is said djinn were killed by an enchanted weapon. If the wound is serious enough, the fire that substitutes their blood leaks out – and the djinni turns to a handful of ashes.”

“Where?! Where can I find such a weapon?!”

The merchant couldn’t get rid of an odd feeling. A surprising feeling. Unusual. Blood rushed to his face, and there was a gnawing in his heart. Maybe he was sick?

“Excuse me, oh my respectable guest,” the mage shrugged. “If I knew...”

The door closed.

However, evidently there was a witness to this talk, who had quite keen ears and an equally long tongue. Because the very next day there came to Jammal an antiquarian and brought a rusty dagger, claiming that the dagger had a spell on it, and with it to slaughter any djinni was piece of cake. After this people would come in flocks, offering the merchant all sorts of rubbish at exorbitant prices. And each of them swore on his father’s memory and his mother’s honour that it was exactly his weapon that was fit to disembowel the djinni’s flaming guts. Watching how Jammal drove away the next fraud Abd-al-Rashid would only make a squeamish grimace: “These ones definitely have no conscience!”

Finally the merchant decided to leave Vlera for a little house on the beach, at the mountainous peninsula of Karaburuni that bordered Vlera Gulf on the South-West. He decided to leave the business to his eldest son and have a rest. Gradually the rumours would settle, excitement would calm down and it would become possible to come back as if nothing had happened. And the djinni... Well, what about the djinni? Strange as it was, Jammal got used a bit to the constant presence of Abd-al-Rashid. It’s true that a man can get used to everything.

“That’s right,” approved the djinni of his intentions. “Have a rest, think about your soul. It would be also nice to go to hajj to Mecca. But this is later on.”

For a week Jammal was just resting, doing nothing and recovering from the insanity of the last months. He hurried to send his servants away, remaining alone, not counting the djinni. However, the life of a hermit soon bored the merchant who was active by nature, and he began conversing with Abd-al Rashid more and more frequently. Formerly the merchant had despised fairy tales, but now he would eagerly listen to the djinni’s stories about the days of old, about his service at king Suleiman’s; yet about the cause of his imprisonment into the amulet the djinni preferred not to speak. The sandy shore where they now would walk together was desolate, Jammal could not worry that somebody would hear their conversations and once again consider the merchant to be insane. Besides, the even sound of the waves calmed him down, returning peace of mind and immersing him in a meditative state which hadn’t been characteristic of the merchant before.

One day they wandered farther than usual.

...From the sand there stuck out a half-covered jug. Its plug was coated with red tar with the print of some seal. The merchant squatted down and looked closely. The writings on the seal reminded very much the squiggles on the plate of the amulet where there had languished Stagnash Abd-al-Rashid.

“Don’t open it!” cried out the djinni.

“And why is this?” inquired Jammal suspiciously. Reason prompted: he should act to spite Abd-al Rashid. It wouldn’t be worse, while better...

Anything’s possible!

“Don’t, I beg you... Who knows who sits in this jug?”

The merchant snorted contemptuously: “What a Conscience you are! To liberate you one should come running, whereas another poor wretch – ‘who knows who’! Aren’t you ashamed?!”

The djinni lowered his eyes. In his swarthy face there was reflected an inner fight; yet in a minute the eyes of the Slave of Justice brightened.

“You’re right, oh my saviour. And I’m not. If your heart is prompting you this, liberate the prisoner without fear. And forgive me for my silly advices!”

The tar was cracking under the blows of a large pebble. With a slight effort the merchant pulled out the plug. Raised the jug that had been dug out beforehand, turned it upside down. Clapped on its bottom.

Out of the jug poured some muddy slush.

“What muck... Probably the wine has turned sour.”

The puddle at his feet wavered, curled up in a ball. A moment – and a lame dwarf was cavorting before stunned Jammal. The dwarf’s hair stuck out like needles, his mouth was stretched to the ears, baring widely spaced but sharp teeth.