Диссертация (Семиотические основания жанра авторской (литературной) англоязычной сказки (на материале текстов сказок XX – XXI вв.)), страница 37

It’s not fair. He works his scrawny old ass to the bone, and what does he have toshow for it? Wet rags and an empty belly. Even if he caught a fish, what would he do with it?He’d sell it to a rich man, go hungry, and cast his net again. His existence is a ceaselesspunishment. He throws off his clothes and dives under. The net’s about all he’s got in theworld, ha has to rescue it.This time it has caught a brass jar with a lead stopper.

Looks old, maybe he can sell it inthe copper market. It’s heavy, not easy to drag it out of there, he nearly drowns trying, and thenet gets shredded. Maybe there’s a jinn inside, he thinks. If he doesn’t kill me, maybe I canwish for enough money to be free from these stupid labors, eat other people’s fish. Or get myyouth back, the old dangler functioning again. New teeth. The apple of Samarcand to cure mycrotch itch. A young beautiful wife who talks less.

A rich princess maybe. Rule a kingdom.Ride horses. Kill a few people. Sure enough, the lead seal has been stamped with an ancientseal ring. For once in his life he’s in luck. He gets out his knife, but then has second thoughts.If there’s a jinn bottled up inside, squashed in there for centuries, he could be in a prettyexplosive mood. Life’s shit, sure, but does he really want to end it, and no doubt in somehorrible way only jinns can imagine? But what other way does it ever end? Even now he canfeel things in his bones that suggests bad times coming.

Best to take a chance. He scrapes awayat the lead stopper until he pries it loose.What comes out might be smoke, it might be dust, smells like death. Maybe justsomebody’s ashes. But the muck continues to curl out of the neck of the jar, slowly rising intothe sky over him and spreading out over the sea, more and more of it, until that’s all he cansee. The sun’s blotted out, the sea’s brighter than the sky, it’s as if the world is turning upsidedown.

Then the dark mist gathers and takes shape and suddenly, with a great clap of thunderthat sets his knees knocking, there’s a monstrous jinn standing there, feet planted in theshallow waters at the shore, head in the clouds, eyes blazing like there’s a fire in its head, itsteeth, big as gravestones, gnashing. Sparks fly. If the old fisherman had any boots, he’d bequaking in them. As it is, naked still from his dive, he’s trembling all over like a thin palejellyfish.

The jinn, in a pent-up rage, kicks the brass jar far out to sea. There goes his ticket tothe copper market. The jinn might be talking to him, but he can’t hear a thing. He’s pissinghimself with terror, his ears are popping, his tongue is dry, his jaws are locked as if hammeredtogether. “What? What?” he croaks at last. “I said,” says the jinn, his voice like the wind on aviolent day, “make a wish, Master! Choose carefully, for I’ve only time for one!”Master? Ah, it’s true then, the old stories, it’s really happening. He’s just been making alist, he can’t remember it.

Wealth, yes, heaps of it. But of what use is wealth if he dies beforehe can spend it? Likewise, bedding down with princesses. Marrying a princess without youth187would be like fishing with a torn net. Bit wishing for youth without a princess would be likecasting his net on the desert. Can he wish for more wishes?“You cannot, Master, as I will not be here to fulfill them! Make haste, while there’stime!”“Oh, I don’t know! I can’t think! I wasn’t ready really for this!”The jinn is bigger and scarier than ever.

He has long snaky hair and claws where hisfingernails should be. But he’s harder to see. It’s as if his edges are dissolving. There’s less ofhim even as there’s more of him. Come on, think, think! The end of all disease? World peace?No, fuck the world! It’s his turn! How about healthy and alert and virile for at least twohundred years: is that one wish or several? And what would happen when the two hundredyears were up, how could he face that? What about simply a long life, get it going, what thehell, see what happens? He knows what happens.

Just prolonging the misery. Some sort oftoy? A flying carpet? An invisible cloak? A bottomless beer jug?“Hurry, Master! Before it’s too late!”“I’m too old to hurry, damn it!”The jinn is huge now. Almost as big as the cloud from which he was formed. But youcan see the sun shining through him and the fire in his eyes has dimmed to a flicker. His voicehas become thin and echoey, his face is losing its features, his extensions are growing vague,bits and pieces blowing away when the wind blows. Which may only be his own heavybreathing.“I know! Power! I want power! No! I want endless joy!”“What…?”“Endless joy! I want - !“I can’t he-ea-ar you-u-u-u…!”“Wait! Stay where you are! Joy! Just make me happy!”Nothing left of the jinn now but a few beardy wisps floating on the breeze, and thenthey too fade away.“Please! Come back, damn it!” he cries. “At least mend my net!”But the jinn is gone.

Not a trace. It’s too late. Praise God, fucked again. The oldfisherman hauls on his shirt with its wet tails, rolls up the rotten shreds of his net. On the sand,he spies part of the stamped lead seal. Ah. So, he got something out of the encounter after all.A story. You see this lead seal? Let me tell you what happened. Trouble is, he’s told too manystories like it before, none of them true, so no one will believe him now. Why would they? Hewouldn’t believe himself. They might even put him away. Lock him up as an old loony.

He isan old loony, he wouldn’t have an argument. And even if they did believe him, they’d want toknow what he did with the jar. They’d think he stole it and cut off his hands for thieving. Fuckthat. He pitches the lead seal into the sea. He’ll repair his net and have another go tomorrow.Maybe he’ll catch a mermaid..