Dedication
For Maya and Gavin
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Part I: 1900–1908
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II: 1911–1914
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part III: 1915
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Helene Wecker
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Of all the myriad races of thinking creatures in the world, the two that most delight in telling stories are the flesh-and-blood humans and the long-lived, fiery jinn.
The stories of both humans and jinn are known for their changeability. A tale told by either race will alter as it spreads, the versions multiplying into a family of stories, one that squabbles and contradicts itself like any other family. A story will seem to pass out of telling, then suddenly resurrect itself, its old bones fitted with modern garments. And there are even tales that spread from one race to the other—though the versions are often so different that they hardly seem like the same story at all.
Consider, for instance, the story of the fisherman and the jinni. The humans tell it many ways, one of which is this:
Once, long ago, a poor fisherman stood at the edge of a lake, casting his net. His first two casts brought him nothing, but on the third he pulled from the water an old copper flask. Rejoicing, for the copper was worth a few coins, he pried the iron stopper from the flask—and out exploded a gigantic and rageful jinni. The jinni explained to the man that King Sulayman himself had caged him in the flask and then tossed it into the lake, knowing that even if the jinni should manage somehow to escape, the water would extinguish him at once. For hundreds of years the jinni had brooded upon his misfortune, until his hatred of humanity had grown so large that he’d vowed to destroy whoever released him.
The fisherman pleaded for his life, but the jinni refused to spare him. At last the fisherman begged the jinni to answer a single question first. Reluctantly, the jinni agreed. How, the fisherman asked, did you fit into that tiny flask? You stand before me an enormous specimen, and even your smallest toe would be enough to fill it. I simply won’t believe your story until I’m convinced you were inside the flask all along.
Furious at this doubting of his word, the jinni promptly dissolved into his insubstantial form and crowded himself back into the flask, saying, Now do you see, human?—whereupon the fisherman replaced the stopper, trapping the jinni once more. Realizing his mistake, the jinni begged the fisherman from inside the flask, promising endless jewels and riches if the man would only release him. But the fisherman, who knew better than to trust him, threw the flask and its inhabitant back into the lake, where it lies undiscovered to this day.
When told among the jinn, however, the tale sounds more like this:
Long ago there was a cunning human wizard, a many-times descendant of Sulayman the Enslaver, who learned of a lake where a powerful jinni lay trapped inside a copper flask. Rejoicing, for the wizard wished to bind a jinni as his servant, he disguised himself as a poor fisherman, cast a net into the lake, and drew the flask from the waters. He pulled out the stopper, and the gigantic jinni emerged before him.
Exhausted from his long years inside the flask, the jinni said, Human, you have released me, and I shall spare your life in gratitude.
At once the wizard cast off his fisherman’s rags. You shall serve me for all your days! he shouted, and began to cast the binding spell.
The jinni knew that if he flew away, the spell would only follow. So, quick as a flash, he shrank himself back into the flask, pulled the stopper in after himself, and used the flame of his body to heat the copper until it scalded the wizard—who unthinkingly hurled it away from himself, into the middle of the lake.
Nursing his burnt hand and his wounded pride, the wizard declared, Clearly this jinni would have been nothing but trouble. I shall find a better servant elsewhere. And he stalked off, leaving the flask beneath the waters—and inside it the clever jinni, who’d decided that even a cramped and solitary prison was better than a life as a slave.
There is another story shared by humans and jinn, one that also concerns iron and magic, vows and bindings. It is known by only a very few of both races, and guarded among them as a secret. Even if you were to find them, and earn their trust, it’s still unlikely that you’d ever hear the tale—which is told as follows:
Part I
1900–1908
1.
MANHATTAN, FEBRUARY 1900
A man and a boy exited the Third Avenue Elevated and walked westward along 67th Street, into the wind.
It was a frigid, blustery morning, and the weather had driven most of the city indoors. Those few who remained on the sidewalks stared at the man and boy as they passed, for they were an unusual sight in this Upper East Side neighborhood, with their long dark coats and broad-brimmed hats, their side-curls bobbing above their scarves. At Lexington, the man paced back and forth, squinting at the buildings, until at last the boy found what they were looking for: a narrow door labeled Benevolent Hebrew Aid Society. Behind the door was a flight of stairs, at the top of which was another door, the twin of the first. The man hesitated, then straightened his back and knocked.
Footsteps—and the door swung open, revealing a thin-haired man in rimless spectacles and a trim American suit.
If circumstances had been otherwise, the visitor might have introduced himself as Rabbi Lev Altschul of the Forsyth Street Synagogue, and the boy at his side as the son of a congregant, employed for the afternoon as a translator. The man in the suit, whose name
