The monsoon had arrived late this year, but arrived it did, and to the people of Mallianwala, it was most welcome. Harpreet was worried. Local merchants had been speaking of an approaching drought making its way up from the south. Drought meant food would become unaffordable, and unaffordable food meant Harpreet and her family would go hungry. But luckily, by the grace of Waheguru, the approaching drought was halted by the cascading rains blessing the boundless Indo-Gangetic plains of Northern India. No, Harpreet was worried for an entirely different reason.
Aamir, the older brother of Harpreet’s best friend Zainab, was seriously ill. The whole of Mallianwala could hear his panicked wailing at unseemly hours of the night. The first time it happened, Harpreet had mistaken the pain-stricken cries for the local Muezzin. It had been a week since, and the poor boy was still unwell. According to Zainab, he had even become uncontrollably violent, forcing her father to make the difficult decision to confine Aamir to his room.
Harpreet had never talked with Aamir at great length. Like most of Mallianwala’s Muslim population, Aamir and his father worked for Harpreet’s father. The daughter of a Sikh landowner conversing with the son of a Muslim peasant would be the scandal of the decade, but that didn’t stop Harpreet from catching a glimpse of the muscular boy with black wavy hair whenever she could. In the real world, a Muslim would never marry a Sikh. However, the real world didn’t apply to Harpreet’s fantasies.
And so, when Zainab told Harpreet about her brother’s condition, it was Harpreet herself who pleaded on Zainab’s behalf, asking her father to see what he could do for the poor boy. As always, Harpreet’s father gave in to the demands of his princess. The very next evening, Harpreet’s father called a village meeting. Women weren’t usually allowed to attend such a meeting, but seeing as it was being held in her family’s courtyard, Harpreet eavesdropped from her bedroom.
The local Mullah had concluded Aamir was possessed by a jinni, evidenced by the scar running down his cheek after being scratched for reciting his holy book. The men decided the best course of action would be for Aamir’s father to travel to the city in search of an exorcist. Harpreet’s father generously agreed to accompany him and cover the costs of the journey. They set out the following morning and returned by nightfall.
It wasn’t every day something this eventful occurred, and nearly the entire village had gathered to witness the exorcism. Harpreet could even spot a few unfamiliar faces in the crowd. Intrigued spectators from some of the neighbouring villages, perhaps. Children watched from the rooftops while men and women crowded around the wall, demarking the boundary between the private domain of Zainab’s family and the public domain of Mallianwala. Fortunately, with the help of Zainab, Harpreet was able to sneak in and get the best view: a small window in the far corner of Aamir’s room.
Harpreet watched Aamir lying face down on his charpoy as his father, her father, and the Mullah entered the room along with a fourth man she didn’t recognise. Harpreet deduced he was the Exorcist her father went to fetch. Aamir let out a long, inhuman groan, which almost sounded like the whimper of a wounded wolf. Aamir’s mother, who was standing by the door, tried rushing into the room to tend to her only son but was quickly shooed away by her husband.
The Mullah began reciting verses from his holy book, which roused the sleeping Aamir, the four men surrounding the charpoy, ready for anything that might happen. Suddenly, Aamir’s back arched upwards, and his head slowly turned towards the newcomer. Harpreet gasped.
Aamir’s eyes were no longer the beautiful bright hazel she was used to; instead, they were a deep crimson red like the blood of a slaughtered animal. His pupils were absent, making it impossible to tell what he was looking at. For all she knew, he could be staring directly at her. Or rather, it was staring directly at her. This was no longer the muscular boy with the black wavy hair but something else entirely: a demon.
The Demon began to slowly uncurl itself and rise up, like a puppet being lifted by its head, its limbs hanging limp in the candle-lit room until it was levitating two inches above the charpoy staring down at the four men. Sweat trickled down the side of Harpreet’s face. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Fear forced her eyelids open, freezing her to the spot.
The Demon started talking in a language Harpreet had never heard Aamir speak before. A language nobody had spoken before. Except for the Exorcist, for he not only understood what the Demon was saying but was speaking back to it in the same strange language. Harpreet had visited the city often, but she’d never heard a language with a melody quite like this. Everyone was startled yet entirely engrossed in the conversation they couldn’t understand. Even the Mullah’s attention was stolen away from his recitation as he remained fixated on the creature floating before him.
The Exorcist and the Demon went back and forth for several minutes. All was silent save for the whispers travelling through the gathering crowd, the gentle whistling of the wind passing through the trees, a clap of thunder in the far distance and the pitter-patter of the monsoon rain slapping against the ground. The Exorcist let out a sigh of disappointment, the kind of sigh one lets out when their hand is forced.
With a nod from the Exorcist, each father grabbed one of the Demon’s arms, dragging it off the charpoy and onto its knees. The Demon let out a blood-curdling laugh, which reverberated loudly into the midnight sky, blowing out the candles and bathing everything in the moon’s glow.
The Exorcist folded up his sleeve, concentration etched into the wrinkles of his face as he forced his hand down the Demon’s throat as it began to violently choke. To Harpreet’s amazement, the Exorcist was almost elbow-deep, which should have been impossible unless he could shrink his arm on demand. She was either dreaming, or her eyes were deceiving her. The Demon tried to shake free, but struggling against Harpreet’s father proved futile.
The Exorcist began to pull his arm back out, dragging something along with it. Now it was removed from Aamir’s body, the Demon looked like a dark cloud, letting out a deafening shriek as it attempted to resist the Exorcist’s grip. Meanwhile, Aamir fell unconscious at the foot of the charpoy, his parents immediately rushing to his side.
The Exorcist walked towards the window, the same one Harpreet and Zainab were crouched behind, the shrieking cloud in hand. As he got closer, Harpreet could finally make out what looked like a face with the sharp teeth and pointed ears of a cat. Once the Exorcist reached the window, he launched the dark cloud towards the sky, Harpreet and Zainab ducking to avoid the ungodly monstrosity.
As the shrieking faded away into the distance, so too did the fear and tension of the past week. The ordeal was finally over.
“And you’re certain this is all true?” asked Captain Robertson.
“Most definitely,” verified the Duke.
“I see… so what of Spring-Heeled Jack?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Whatever Spring-Heeled Jack may be, it must have something to do with Mr Dame, hence why I ordered him to be brought to England.”
“I understand, but where do I fit in with all this?”
“You’re the most important part, Captain. We need you to gain as much information as you possibly can about our friend, Mr Dame, and determine if there is indeed a link between him and Spring-Heeled Jack. In essence, your orders are to spy on him. I didn’t tell you this before because I wanted to see for myself if the reports were true. Today’s events proved that.”
It was all made clear now. Captain Robertson wasn’t just being brought home to be put on guard duty but was instead being made part of something far greater. But did he really have it in him to be a spy? And could he really betray his friend’s trust?
“Is that clear, Captain?”
“Yes, Mr Secretary.”
To be continued…
This is part of a larger series called Midnights in London
Your writing skills, without exaggeration, are phenomenal, Masha Allah. The historical knowledge, wit, creativity, eloquence, uniqueness. If you don’t enter that Amaliah writing competition (whose deadline is swiftly approaching) then I will have failed as a… teacher. Somehow.
Don’t worry, Sensei. I’ve already submitted my entry 🙂