Moses didn’t expect a warm welcome when he asked the strange woman for a tour of her home. The woman lifted her son and held him tightly. She attempted to retreat, but Moses blocked her path. They were at a standstill. He stood between her and the home, watching her look from left to right. She seemed frightened, but he didn’t care. Moses wanted her to hear him out.

“I grew up in this house,” he explained, disregarding that he held her as a captive audience. “We lost it when I was perhaps the same age as the child you embrace.”

He sensed that her narrow eyes warned against any threat to her child.

“Well, it’s my home now.” She scowled, but her firm demeanor did not seem authentic. She swallowed and glanced from side to side as if looking for something or someone. “My husband will be home soon. You’d better leave.”

Instead, he stepped closer to the door. He reached out to touch the wood frame. It was the same as he remembered. The dull brown varnish had not changed much in twenty years. “My father died five steps from this door.” He turned to her. “I witnessed it. My mother and I hid under the floorboards and watched a man plunge his knife into my father’s belly.”

“Why do you speak of this in front of my child?”

“He will not be a child long.” He approached her, and she retreated two steps. “The storm is coming. I must see the inside of your house.”

“I wish you to go now. My husband will be home soon.” Her voice was desperate. “He is a very violent man. He will shoot you where you stand.”

“My father did not deserve to die.” He took one more step closer. The walking stick in his hand pressed into the gravel.

“Did I kill him?” Her eyes shifted from the pebbles.

“No.”

“Then please leave us.”

He stopped his advance and stood with open arms at his waist as if to surrender. “I will leave if you’ll hear my story.” He paused, hoping his sincerity would soften her. “Then you will know that I mean no harm.”

She moved to the side and looked past him as if she considered running for the door. If she sidestepped him and ran, he doubted she’d beat him to the steps. He watched her eyes soften.

“I listen to your story, and you’ll leave?”

“Yes.” He smiled gently.

Slowly, she lowered the child and guided him behind her. He peeped around her thigh and stared at the strange man with curious eyes.

“First, my name is Moses.” He turned and walked toward the home. Two stairs led up to the door. He sat on the first, laying the stick flat across his lap. He waited patiently for the lady to edge closer.

She moved two steps and turned her head. She looked for something, perhaps someone to call to her aid. Two acres of land, primarily unharvested dry dust, lay between her and the nearest neighbor.

“My father was Kareem. Even though he was a spiritual man, he fought the war at Adwa.” He paused momentarily and dropped his eyes to her dusty sandals and amber-colored nails. “He made the mistake of telling his biggest secret to a friend. Soon after the war, his friend betrayed him. Ras Tessema sent his Imperial Bodyguard here for my father’s secret.”

The woman turned and peered down the dusty road behind her. A dry wind propelled the dust in all directions. She faced Moses again and glanced swiftly at the pouch hanging from his shoulder. Moses enjoyed reading her eyes. They betrayed her thoughts. The way they opened slightly wider whenever he said the word secret encouraged him to continue with his story.

“My father possessed something special. It was a parchment with words written in the fire language. He was a sworn protector of its secrets.”

“That language is not real,” she snapped, giving him a venomous stare.

Moses held his walking stick beside him. “I’m afraid it is very real.” He stared with cold eyes. “If read aloud, they will open gates where marching armies of God will enter this world and tear it asunder. They will bring fire and brimstone and turn stone into dust!” He sprayed saliva in his fervor. “My father could wield that power. He swore to protect it, and they killed him right there behind this door.”

The child clutched his mother’s legs.

“Stop it. You’re frightening my baby.”

Moses stood abruptly and stepped to her. She was motionless. “My father swore to protect the world. The words to do so are inside your home.” His voice was softer now. “I need them. The storm is coming.”

She lowered her head. “I’ve heard your story. Will you please leave?”

“I will go.” He moved aside, giving her a clear path to the door.

Still, she did not move. She kept her head lowered and started to sniffle.

“May I tell you my father’s last words to me?”

“What?”

“Do not conform to this world but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” His voice was almost a whisper now. “Then he said ‘twenty-one, eight, thirteen.’” He shrugged his shoulders. “I did just as he said. I transformed.”

She scuffed, kicking up dust as she moved to the door.

“Strange that he would give me those numbers. Don’t you agree?”

When she reached the door, the road behind Moses came alive. A four-door sedan with dusty windows had turned onto the property. Moses grinned, “Ah, the husband.”

The husband had jumped out of the car, it seemed, before the engine stopped. His dark jaws bulged from gritted teeth. The skin glistened under the Ethiopian sun. His nose swelled, and he stepped to Moses without closing the car door. Without looking at her, he ordered his wife. “Get inside.”

Moses was not intimidated by the husband’s glare. He expected the hateful stare. He flashed a condescending smile, hoping it would further annoy the husband. “I was just here waiting for you. I need to tour your home.”

The husband turned without a word and stalked away. From his arm swing, his military background was evident. He donned an unmilitary uniform, but the sleeve patch indicated that he functioned in some way that supported the rebellion.

Moses followed behind. The husband walked faster, his arm strokes sharpened. His steps became increasingly determined as his boots clunked against the stairs. Moses sensed the man’s anger.

“Is this enough?” His voice was inaudible to the woman’s husband.

“We need more fear,” responded a voice in the wind.

Moses stood on the top step, but the door was slammed shut in his face. “I won’t be long,” he yelled through the wooden barrier. “I just need to tour this place.”

After a moment of silence, the husband’s yelling and accusations seeped through the door. The founds of broken crockery followed. The wife cried out, “Not in front of the baby.”

Moses rapped on the door. “My friend,” he called desperately. “I lived here once. I believe something was left behind.”

The door opened to the width of the husband’s head. The barrel of a shotgun protruded. Moses smirked. The husband’s ire was to the extent of reckless murder. His rage, plus the fright from the wife and child, created a dense, visible energy.

“Almost there,” the voice encouraged Moses. “Fear and rage encircle this place.  Keep pushing him. Make him angrier. Make her more afraid.”

Moses smiled and looked past the gun barrel to his victim. “You will not shoot a butakah master in front of your house, will you?”

“Damn you, sorcerer,” the husband growled. “You will leave my home in a box.”

Moses shook his head and waved a finger. He spoke softer. “I will leave, walking on my two feet, but after I’ve entered your house and had my way with it.”

The husband squeezed the trigger. It did not budge. He pulled tighter, but still, nothing.

Gritting teeth replaced Moses’s smile. He gazed into the husband’s thunderstruck face with startling indifference. The husband’s eyes shifted down, then up. Bewilderment shadowed his face. He saw something – perhaps Moses’s horned companion standing a finger’s width from the gun barrel. Although transparent, the djinni’s energy was enough to distort the husband’s vision. The angry gunman tried the trigger again to no avail. His mouth gaped.

The djinni spoke. “We have enough.”

Moses turned. He held his staff parallel to the ground as he descended the stairs. “I will give you time to reconsider.”

The anger and fear manifested energy domed like a forcefield around the home. It was the hour of the sun. Three hours to maintain the tension, Moses told himself. He walked to the car and climbed to the roof, where he sat with folded legs. He was visible from the house's two front windows and, from time to time, saw curious eyes peering through. Each time, someone checked to see if he was gone, and the dome’s energy became more intense. During the hour of Mars, the sun began its descent. When it was Mercury’s hour, Moses climbed down from the car. The butakah master paced and planted the walking stick erect. Then he paced again and faced the house. His cane was centered between him and the house, and he used the shadow like a sundial. When the time was right, he reached for his japa beads. 

            “Om bum budhaaya namah.” On the chant at the final and 108th bead, rabbit-faced al-Miraj surrounded the walking stick. Each inflamed body hopped back and forth from the house to the stick. The singular horn centered in their skulls emanated a brightness when they moved closer to the dome.

Moses sensed the presence of his invisible comrade. He stood beside Moses, pulsating a heat that warmed Moses’s shoulder. “Lead them on,” Moses commanded.

The djinni took off, a dozen al-Miraj hopping along behind him. Their flaming bodies traversed the door before Moses opened it with a gentle push inward. Just inside, the husband was sprawled on the floor as though he had suddenly passed out. His shotgun lay beside him. Three al-Miraj circled about as Moses carried out his search. He assumed the others were in the back of the house as he went deeper inside. The wooden floor from his childhood memories was covered with a half dozen throw-rugs. In one corner, where a trap door should have been, sat two wooden chairs, a table, and a lamp. With a screwdriver taken from his satchel, he pushed them aside and pried at the wooden planks until they gave way. It had been easier to open when he was a boy. The same could be said about the crawlspace between the gravel and the floorboards.

Moses lay flat to squeeze his body forward. He remembered how easy it was as a child to crawl under the floorboard. After a couple sneezes and wiping the spiderwebs from his face, Moses found the metal box. He wiped the box clean of dust and more webbing. Hardly more than the shape of the box was visible in the darkness, so the butakah master felt around the edges until he found the combination lock. Relief rushed into his chest. Remembering his father’s last words, Moses suspected his father had given him the combination to the lock.

Moses emerged from the crawlspace and opened the lock. His thoughts turned mournfully to memories of his father. Rummaging through the box, Moses found a wooden key. He raised it into the light. As he lifted the key, Krifly, his comrade, became visible through dense smoke descending into the room. Smoke covered his green-scaled body from the waist to the floor. His curled horns were slightly illuminated – indicating his pleasure.

“Krifla, I think I’ve found it.”

“Irmana awaits.” Krfla’s raspy voice sounded satisfied. “Now, you may free my sister.”

Moses sighed. With the djinni’s confirmation, the key grew hot in his hand. He dropped it and glanced at the burn mark in his palm. The pain darted from palm to wrist. The butakah master tried to recall a spell that might decrease the pain but could not. With his uninjured hand, he reached for the parchment inside the box. The letters written on the parchment were familiar. He had researched the fire language from treatises written by sages two hundred years ago. The studies were efficient enough to teach pronunciation but not meaning.  

“Do not read it,” cautioned Krifla.

Moses had not been initiated into the sacred fire cult or baptized in the Lake of Eidos. He knew the words, but only cult members could teach the inflections. Without the inflections, he could make errors in pronouncing sounds and alter the meaning of words.

“Patience,” the djinni muttered. “Free Irmana. She will guide you to the lake. There, you may join the Fire Brotherhood.”

Moses lowered his head and remembered Irmana’s promise to guide him to Lake Eidos. He anticipated access to the magical water in the lake. With the water on his astral body’s lips, Moses expected to execute powerful spells. He fancied the idea of increased power with the parchment in his hand. He sensed the vibrations rising from the letters. Just seeing them was enough to activate the power of the wooden key. But cautioned himself. He closed his eyes and whispered, “The farmer waits patiently through early and late rains for the precious produce of the soil.”

He closed the box and stood. I’ve passed the first temptation.

“You must go,” the djinni said. “Before you weaken further.”

Moses agreed. He was not immune to the fear and anger that had engulfed the home. His anxiousness was the first assault of the vibration, and more assaults would follow. He cradled the box and started to leave. Many years since he last stood inside that house. It was humbler back then. His parents could not afford the nice furniture that now filled the front room. Yet, as poor as they were, greed killed his father. Depression claimed his mother. All for what? The words on the paper in that box. The power of those words. Moses tried to focus on the here and now, but his mind drifted to the civil war. If Menelik had lived a thousand years, then the foul Ras Tessema and his avariciously contemptuous villain company would not have sought their coup d’état. The Derg would not have come to power, and his parents would be alive.

Moses hesitated as such thoughts washed over his mind. He stood over the husband’s unconscious body. The horned rabbits had increased in number. He was curious how the husband had come to this house and brought the affluent furniture into it. Was he a beneficiary of the government overthrow? What role did his father play in making Menelik’s successor so inept?

“You should order his death,” a voice said from behind.

Moses lowered his head. Revenge for his father was an honorable thought. Although this man may not have benefited from my father’s death.

“That matters not.”

Moses knew that the voice was not his friend’s. Someone else was there. Three al-mirajs paused and sat back on their hind legs. They peered up and into Moses’s face, wrinkled with indecision. More approached from behind, leaving the back room to join Moses. He heard movement – no doubt, it was the mother, released from the creatures’ trance. The horns at the center of their heads prepared to plunge into their victim’s soul. He needed only to command them. They were anxious to obey.

“He will feel nothing,” the voice said.

Moses looked behind him. A winged figure materialized from the shadow cast against the wall. He recognized the mark on the djinni’s bare chest. He was a fallen one, defeated, cast down, and relegated to human control. “You were not summoned,” Moses said firmly. “Why have you come?”

“Something called me.” The djinni walked closer. Moses did not budge or look the spirit in the eyes. “Rage and hatred circle this place. Where there is rage, I will follow.”

Moses said nothing. Although he did not expect Katanikotael’s visit, he should have. The djinni was close enough to whisper in Moses’s ear. “Go ahead – destroy him. Do it now before the fear and anger dissipate.”

Moses’s heart raced. He tried to remember everything he learned about the djinni. Katanikotael was predictable, as were most of the shaitan race. He spoke in the left ear and presented reasonable arguments for Moses to avenge his father’s death.

“In the end, he caused his own death.” The djinni moved to the limp body. “His arteries are already clogged. His anger has done more than what you would do to him.” The shaitan squatted and extended his wings the length of the husband’s body. “Let us show him real anger in the next world.”

The sound of tiny feet, light against the floor, captured Moses’s attention. He turned to the child entering the room. Moses read the child’s eyes. They looked beyond him and focused on something other than his father. Judging by the boy’s expression, the widening eyes, and the gaping mouth, Moses realized the child was looking at the twelve creatures lined on either side of his father.

“Very good,” the shaitan said. “The child will watch as you did when they killed your father. This is justice.”

Perhaps the djinni was correct. Justice came in different forms. Differentiating between revenge and justice had become difficult, but the child awakened something inside him. The coldness of heart and the heat from the rage around him were weakened by the unintimidated innocence in the child’s eyes. Moses stepped to the child cautiously – toe to heel. “Hi, little one.”

The child did not move.

“Do not give in to your weakness,” Katanikotael yelled to Moses.

Moses took a knee. “Do you see that shadow beside your father?”

The child nodded.

“Are you afraid of it?”

The child whispered, “No.”

Moses was relieved. The child was too young to fear the unknown. Moses anticipated that his curiosity would remedy the rage and fear that engulfed the home. He twisted his body to view the spirits. There were nine horned rabbits now. The djinni stood with folded black wings.

“He likes to go by the name Taniko,” Moses said to the child. His eyes focused on the creature’s leather face. Fangs glowing pale white, he sidestepped the horned rabbits. There were four of them now.

“But if you use his true name,” Moses continued, placing his hand on the child’s shoulder, “you can stop him where he stands.”

The shaitan hesitated at those words. Moses saw the desperation flare in his flaming eyes as if an accelerant had been thrown in them. His hands lifted as if to try to stop Moses from saying the magical words.

“Katanikotael, mis bon tistu.”

It was too late. The smoke that circled his feet lifted to his waist and solidified like cement around him. The djinni was transfixed.

Moses was satisfied. But the commotion from the back room warned him that the mother had come out of the trance. He suspected she’d soon gather her wits and search for the child. Her fright and desperation would re-energize the dissipating dome. Moses was suddenly determined to end this adventure.

I’ve passed the second trial.

He turned to the child and smiled gently. “When I was a boy your age, I stood where you are now and watched my mother bring into this house a Christmas tree. Have you seen a Christmas tree?”

The boy whispered, “No.”

“My father did not like it but allowed it that once. It had many lights. It was beautiful.”

He looked from the child to the spellbound djinni. Katanikotael squirmed as if trying to escape invisible chains.

“Can you think of something wonderful?”

The boy nodded.

“What was it?”

The boy sniffled. “A puppy. It had floppy ears.”

“Good. I need you to think about that puppy – try to remember those floppy ears.”

Katanikotael growled, anticipating what Moses whispered. “Damn you, son of Adamu.”

“When I leave,” Moses said gently, “I want you to say those words, and that shadow will go away.”

The boy looked at the djinni. His mouth gaped. He toyed with his trouser drawstring.

Moses stood. “Do you remember the words?”

The boy nodded.

“Don’t stop thinking about those floppy ears.” Moses stepped away from the child. He heard the mother’s footsteps and walked faster.

Katanikotael yelled. “You are a fool, son of Adamu.”

Moses did not turn. He passed the husband. The al-miraj were gone. Reaching for the door, he held the box tight against his chest.

“This child cannot prevent my return.” Katanikotael’s desperate voice followed Moses through the door. “I will haunt him in his dreams!”

The mother entered the room just as Moses closed the door behind him. The child spoke the words. “Ya illah ha il la lah.”

Moses descended the steps. The tension surrounding the house had dissipated as if sucked away in a vacuum. He retrieved his walking stick and raced to the road. Once on the dusty road, he glanced back at the house. He was satisfied, never to see it again. The dome vanished, and the starry sky hung over the house as if nothing had disturbed the placid night.