At Half Past Eight in the Morning

Aelten’s mobile rang insistently. Lying where he had collapsed on the chamber floor, he opened his eyes, powerless to move, his vision fading to black. With great effort, he reached for the device, fallen from his pocket nearby, fumbling with numb fingers to answer. It was Duman: “Hello, Aelten—art thou still asleep?”

Aelten, his voice broken and frail, replied, “No, Duman—I’m not asleep. A terrible thing has befallen me. Come to my home.”

Concerned, Duman pressed, “What’s happened?”

“Haste hither—thou shalt see for thyself,” Aelten murmured, silencing the device and closing his eyes again. Duman arrived within ten minutes. The gate, ajar since the previous night, stood unchanged. Entering the yard, he beheld the shattered windows, suspecting an explosion, but upon entering, saw nothing burned. Perplexed, he lifted Aelten, prone by the door, calling anxiously, “Aelten, Aelten—what’s wrong?” Aelten, roused by his voice, gazed at Duman’s face. Duman carried him to his room, laying him on the bed, asking, “What’s happened, Aelten—what’s this about?”

Aelten answered, “A black creature! It did this to me—the same that caused Ali and his friends’ deaths. It came to kill me too!”

“What dost thou say, Aelten? Why dost thou rave?” Duman exclaimed.

Aelten continued, “Last night, it slew the washer—for we touched Ali’s body. It was like a plague, intent on destroying all who touched him, but we were fortunate—it couldn’t attain its goal. A strange light killed it, else it would have claimed us all, and those who’d touch our forms!”

Bewildered, Duman faltered, “What meanest thou, Aelten? Who slew Ali?”

“I speak with clarity—not delirium,” Aelten affirmed. “A black being killed Ali and his companions.”

“What dost thou mean—a black being? Whence knowest thou this?” Duman pressed.

“When it assailed me last night, it spoke. I saw its face touching Ali’s corpse, and it pursued me yesternight,” Aelten explained.

Utterly confounded, Duman paused, then said, “Wait—I’ll fetch thee something to steady thy mind.” From the fridge, he poured a glass of juice, offering it to his friend. After drinking, Aelten said, “Stay—let me show thee.” He shed his garment, revealing his scorched chest to Duman, “See—my breast burns, yet my chest-hairs remain intact, like Ali’s body, charred but his locks whole. In the mortuary, when we cleansed him, his burns vanished, his form restored, but I hid it, fearing greater turmoil if known.”

“Well, what wilt thou do now? Is it over—no other will come for thee?” Duman asked.

“I know not—perhaps they will, but after that black being’s fall, someone appeared, bidding me find him, yet how, I know not,” Aelten replied.

Falling silent, both lapsed into quiet. After some minutes, Aelten, somewhat recovered, rose, “Come—let us venture out, perchance to find that person.”

“Whence shall we seek him?” Duman inquired.

“I know not—at least, let us fetch a glazier to mend all ere my kin return. Should they find this, I dread explaining,” Aelten said.

They departed. Aelten asked, “Do they not visit the grave today?”

“Aye—they’re there now. Shall we go?” Duman replied.

“Best we do—’twill occupy our minds,” Aelten agreed.

They veered toward the cemetery, Aelten suggesting shortcuts through back alleys. The final lane before it, ancient and lined with dilapidated buildings from a century past, loomed ahead. Passing, Aelten spied a blind crone and a mad girl, her head upon the elder’s lap. He could not look away. The girl’s eyes, closed, opened as he neared—blind as the crone, both fixed upon him. She pointed, uttering unintelligible words; the crone murmured beneath her breath. A burning sensation seized Aelten’s chest, so fierce he could not walk. Duman, noting his plight, grasped his hand, but Aelten’s weight overwhelmed him, and he collapsed, face-first in the lane, unconscious.

In his swoon, he traversed another realm, soaring swiftly, suspended in air, feet ungrounded, through a barren, scorching land of blackened, lifeless peaks, as if scorched. The earth beneath him moved without motion. Approaching twin mountains like a gate, he was drawn unwittingly within—yet two white lights, veined with black, repelled him from the threshold, guiding him back through the portal he’d entered. Rousing, he found Duman supporting him, dragging him forth. Gasping deeply, as if surfacing from water, he cried, “Duman, haste—bear me hence! I must to our quarter’s mosque!”

“What befell thee, Aelten—why swooned thou? Why sudden haste to the mosque?” Duman pressed.

“No time for words—I must reach it swiftly. Go thou to the cemetery—I’ll meet thee there anon,” Aelten replied.

Freeing himself from Duman’s grasp, he set out. Duman followed, “Stay—I’ll join thee—I’ll not go yonder.”

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Aelten halted him, “I must go alone—I’ve other tasks.” Parting, Duman reluctantly turned toward the cemetery, while Aelten hailed a carriage, hastening to the mosque. Upon entering, his chest’s pain eased. The Grand Mosque, ancient, built five centuries past, stood hallowed. The lights had bidden him linger there till nightfall, for no sable beings could breach it—protected by a singular sanctity, it seemed a place apart.

Nigh dusk, fear gnawed at Aelten like a parasite, wrestling within. He deemed remaining absurd—perchance he’d dreamed, never entered that realm, felled merely by yesternight’s blow. Yet its import eluded him. Unable to tarry, he departed for home, no escape in sight, not awaiting Duman’s return. He pondered what to tell him, unable to confess his dream. Thus preoccupied, he found himself before his abode. Unlocking the yard gate, he entered, and what he beheld in the hall stunned him—two beings, akin to the sable entity, yet not so dark, gray-hued, fangless, with but two horns, their eyes red but unblazing, unlike its fiery gaze.

His worst fear materialized—it was no dream, but reality. Aelten knew he’d reached his end, awaiting their assault, for flight was none. Yet what he dreaded came not—the beings bowed before him. One, named “Rudin,” spoke, “We shall not harm thee—we are thy servants, charged to shield thee from the Black Jimmianuns.”

Speechless, for their words baffled him, Aelten stood agog, until “Esmar,” the other Jimmianun, continued, “We are those two lights that drew thee from the Jimmianun realm, bidding thee seek the mosque and wait.”

Aelten, roused, grasped their meaning and identity, asking, “Why do the Black Jimmianuns seek me? What deed have I wrought?”

Rudin answered, “Thou hast entered their domain—we, bound by pact, should have yielded thee, yet a decree bade us return thee to thy world, not theirs.”

“By whose command?” Aelten queried.

“By our Sovereign’s,” Esmar replied.

Protesting, Aelten cried, “I entered not their land of mine own will! Was’t my choice? I knew naught—why should I be surrendered?”

Rudin explained, “Thou bearest their mark—hence, we must deliver thee.”

“What mark?” Aelten demanded. “I bear none!”

“Thy breast, my lord!” Rudin said. “The scar thereon is their sign.”

“I sought not this—the sable being assailed me!” Aelten protested.

“We know,” Esmar said, “yet in our world, when a mortal bears a faction’s mark, he must be given o’er.”

“’Tis unjust!” Aelten cried. “If I’ve done naught, why yield me?”

“’Tis the Blacks’ cruelty,” Esmar replied. “We guard the human realm, thwarting their malice, yet such mishaps sometimes befall.”

“What now?” Aelten asked. “Will ye yield me?”

“Nay, my lord—we shall not,” Rudin assured.

“Thanks be to God,” Aelten sighed, easing somewhat, pondering their words. “What of your pact—why break it for me?”

“’Twas the Naqibs’ command—we cannot defy their will,” Rudin explained.

Baffled by the Jimmianuns’ discourse, Aelten pressed, “What now transpires?”

“The Blacks will pursue thee,” Esmar warned, “waging war for their grudge against us.”

Hearing he’d be hunted, Aelten faltered, “How long can we flee?”

“We know not—they may arrive any moment,” Rudin replied.

Trembling, Aelten asked, “What meanest thou—‘any moment’? What must we do?”

“We must quit thy home,” Rudin said, “for the Blacks have come here—they’ll find thee easily; ’tis simplest here.”

“Let us return to the mosque—they cannot enter,” Aelten suggested.

“Nay—’tis closed to us now,” Esmar countered. “Their human thralls have seized it—they’d take thee there.”

“Best we go to our orchard—beyond the city, they’ll take longer to find us,” Aelten proposed.

Without demur, Rudin agreed, “So be it.”

Esmar approached; Aelten, recoiling in fear, stepped back. “My lord, permit us—we must bear thee hence,” Esmar said. Rudin and Esmar embraced Aelten, vanishing. Ere he grasped their method, Aelten found himself in his orchard, astounded. “How wrought ye this?” he asked Rudin.

“’Tis among our gifts—we traverse anywhither at will,” Rudin replied.

Amazed, Aelten admired this power, yet his fear outweighed such wonder.

Night fell when Rudin warned, “Methinks they trace us.” Esmar affirmed, “They have.”

As he spoke, a dense sable mist, like fog, materialized mid-orchard. Four Black Jimmianuns emerged. Rudin shielded Aelten behind him. One Black, in their tongue, addressed Rudin; he answered in human speech, “We’ll ne’er yield what ye seek. He is Hagan’s trust unto us—slay us ere ye take him.” The Black, its voice harsh and deep, struggling in human words, growled, “Ye’ve sunk so low as to speak the usurpers’ tongue. Do as ye will, but yielding this usurper would have spared ye days more of life.”

Charging Rudin, it struck. As it assailed, Rudin shed his form, as did the Black, both clashing like lightning. Esmar guarded the remaining three. The skirmish was brief—the Black fell, resuming flesh, extinguished like dying coal, its form crumbling to ash. The other three, seeing its fall, attacked Esmar and Rudin. Esmar, too, became lightning, engaging them.

Aelten witnessed marvels beyond dreams, terror gripping him wholly. Moments later, all three Blacks fell, reduced to ash. Esmar and Rudin resumed their forms. “We must flee hence,” Rudin urged.

Aelten, heartened by their might, agreed, “So be it.” They embraced him, departing—for lingering risked a Black onslaught, ensuring his doom. The Whites, with Aelten, appeared in a narrow lane, blocked by five Blacks. Their leader demanded, “Yield the usurper—we’ve breached the peace. Surrender the Adam’s son, and save yourselves.” Rudin retorted, “I’ve no patience for thy repeated demands—do thy worst.”

The Black sneered, “Ye traitors to Jimmianuns, Hagan’s thralls, shame our race. Hagan’s era ends—he’ll be our slave, as will humankind. Hagan and his kin can do naught—our lord shall reign o’er Earth and all its beings.”

Rudin laughed, “Aina hath tasted heaven’s vengeance once. Ye’re her pawns—she’ll doom ye as she did our forebears. Fools, ye trust one cast out by the Milakafs—our ancestors’ slayer. She knows their might, yet ye delude yourselves, thinking her deeds free ye. Togus will not permit it.”

Furious, the Black struck Rudin; he countered instantly, Esmar joining. The others assailed the Whites. A fierce clash ensued, vaster than the orchard’s fray. Clouds gathered, terrifying lightning struck. Amid their strife, a sable-clad man, bearing a long, jeweled beard, emerged from behind a wall. Casting back his hood, he intoned a potent spell. Rudin and Esmar, corporealized, fell, immobile as if muscle-bound. From his cloak, the man drew a dagger, handing it to the Black leader, who loomed o’er them, glaring at Rudin, “I warned thee—yield the man. Ye’ll not prevail.”

Gripping the blade fiercely, he plunged it into Rudin’s heart, withdrawing it with haughty pride. Rudin ignited, vanishing as ash. Striking Esmar likewise, he felled him too. The Blacks advanced on Aelten. Seeing the Whites’ fall and the Blacks’ charge, Aelten turned to flee, but their leader, lightning-fast, struck him, hurling him to the lane’s end. Crashing against the wall, Aelten collapsed. The Black approached as he struggled to open his eyes—darkness reigned, all lost. Seized by the neck, Aelten was lifted to its face; as it gaped, a mighty white light appeared, pulverizing the Blacks. The sable man, beholding it, fled. Aelten fell, unconscious anew at the light’s sight.