August 1947. The leashes of the Doberman and the Mastiff strained tightly against the hand of their master. The creature made of smokeless fire issued a command. “Shadow! Echo!” The animals relaxed their haunches and awaited their duty with hushed expectancy. The tide of the ocean began to recede from the shore to reveal her watery treasures. ‘Ifreet was focused on something entirely different. He watched the blue dome patiently as it changed from cobalt to ultramarine; from ultramarine to shades of purple. Dusk began to advance quickly like an alternating tetrapod gait. Fixing his gaze on the horizon, the keyholes of his eyes reacted to the welcome of darkness. The keyholes dilated to reveal small flames of fire, which began to quarrel with madness. Releasing his grip on the leashes, he issued a second command: “Send the message!” The dogs leapt quickly to the edge of the shore. As the Doberman and Mastiff barked the sound was carried along the waves to distant headquarters. ‘Ifreet let out a vicious laugh. “Let this history unfold!” September 1947. The Eurasian Hoopoe sat quietly upon his designated perch as he waited for his audience with Gabriel. He had paused at the courtyard to drink from the flowing fountain reserved for the orange-crested messengers of the Lord of the Alamin. It was his first visit to the domain of the One of Unknown Substance. From the shadows of the vast corridor he saw two columns of animals advancing to flank his perch. On the one side were a colony of meerkats from Africa, on the other, a long line of Indian grey mongoose. The hoopoe sat a bit taller and feathered his crown a bit wider. Gabriel appeared and simply stated, “What brings you to the court of Al-Khabeer?” The Hoopoe began to speak bravely. “I have been travelling along the roads, streams and railroad tracks, which lead into the Punjab. There is a noted movement of scorpions and snakes into what is becoming a hub of human activity. They line both sides of the roads and the railway tracks. They are in abundance within the rocks along the stream beds. The scorpions are jumping onto the cargo and the serpents are coiling into the cooking pots.” The Hoopoe cleared his throat to speak further when Gabriel lifted a hand to bid him silence. “You speak of that which is already known and of things which are to come. The British have split the land to look like Abraha’s nose. Ten million travellers will attempt the journey. Of these, one million souls will travel beyond the isthmus. Return to your wandering ways. Learn from what you observe.” As he left, the meerkats stood like sentinels while the mongoose pranced about. “May Allah sanctify His secret!” they shouted in one accord. March 8, 2013. The latest voyage of the dusk treaders began. One of the jinni traveled in style. He rode upon a beautiful red flying carpet, a miniature of the one used by Prophet Suleiman. Picking up a few of his relatives along the way he had cracked a lop-sided smile as they neared Lahore. “There is a reason why Pakistan has such a bountiful supply of dung. How would we feed our pets if it were not for Pakistan?” The jinni laughed and then threw their arms up in glee. Oh, what fun was to be had in the next 24 hours! These were not the jinn of the clan that proclaimed Da’iyah. In the Muslim neighbourhoods surrounding the Joseph Colony, the flying jinni stationed themselves near the doors of the homes over which the name of Allah was rarely invoked. As dusk settled, children played in the streets, unaware of the malevolence around them. The jinni silently crossed the thresholds. Some chose to linger near the smell of food, awaiting an opportunity to enjoy a meal as uninvited guests. A few jinni chose to set up shop near the areas where men relieve themselves of impurity. Two or three flew to the nearest cemetery. Other jinni settled into the marital beds. They relished the moment when they could pollute the blood of men. Polite company will not discuss the manner in which jinni enjoy a ménage-a-trois. And 24 hours was all the time the jinni needed to manipulate their audience. March 9, 2013. Dusk had not yet settled when Ibrahim heard the voice of his grandfather calling to him. “Yusuf, it is time to recite the Qur’an. Yusuf entered the small home, closing the door behind him. His grandfather patted the seat of the small three-legged stool, which was next to his chair. “Come now, what shall we recite together today?” Yusuf thought for a moment. “Will the table soon be set for our dinner?” Ibrahim carefully held back a smile. “Your mother is just now preparing the herbs for the meat. We have time to recite Surah Al-Ma’idah.” Grasping his grandson’s small hand, the voices moderated and mingled until they resonated as one voice. The flavours of cooking began to waft into the room. For Yusuf, this was the best part of his day. Yusuf and his grandfather had just finished reciting ayat 82 when they noticed the sound of many feet outside their door. Getting up quickly, Yusuf opened the door to take a look. He saw the faces of his neighbours. But somehow, they looked like a skulk of foxes moving down the street. A raspy voice beckoned him. “Come and join us. We are going to destroy the homes of the Christians.” Slamming the door, he looked at his grandfather with fright. That night, Yusuf watched as the light from the fires cast a strange glow across his bed. The smell of burning plastic mingled with that of kerosene and debris. Cries filled the air. He watched as his grandfather bowed in prayer. Straining to hear, he heard the recitation of Al-Kursi. His grandfather then recited Al-Mu’awwidhatayn. Refuge. He had a place of refuge. But what of the poor Christians? The writer is a freelance journalist and author of the novel Arsenal. She can be reached at tammyswof@msn.com