The Djinn Beneath the Orchard

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There was a town called Al-Rafaq, nestled in a forgotten valley where the moon never looked quite right—always too low, too close, like it was watching. No maps showed Al-Rafaq, and its orchards grew pomegranates so red they looked like wounds.

Every child was warned: “Never eat the fruit from the tree with silver bark. That is where the djinn sleeps.”

But children grow curious.

When Miriam turned twelve, she dared her brother Samir to pluck one. He refused. So she went alone, under a sky stretched thin with clouds like torn linen. She found the tree—pale as bone, humming beneath its bark—and picked a single pomegranate.

It bled down her hands.

That night, her dreams were wrong. She saw a man with no eyes and a mouth stitched into a grin. His voice slithered into her thoughts:

“Thank you for waking me.”

The next morning, the town’s wells ran dry. Goats turned up with their eyes gouged out. Babies would not stop crying.

And Miriam began to change.

She spoke in riddles. She said things that hadn’t happened yet. She tore apart birds to read their bones. Her brother watched her drift further away, eyes turning a molten gold at dusk. Once, he caught her whispering to the orchard. It whispered back.

Old men with amulets tried to banish whatever had entered her. They died within a week, each found bloated and smiling, eyes wide open in terror.

It was then the townsfolk remembered the tale—the real one, never told to children.

That tree had grown from the last tear of a djinn who devours destinies, one of the Ifrit al-Khufash—a bat-winged tribe of desert spirits that twist time and fate. This one had been bound beneath the tree by a magician who died screaming. The tree’s fruit were anchors to its prison. Miriam had broken the seal.

But what stepped out was not the djinn itself. It was its echo. Its shadow. The real one had no form, no voice. It lived in choices, in unseen hinges of reality.

And so Miriam stopped aging. Samir noticed it first, then others. She stayed twelve.

Decades passed. Al-Rafaq withered. The orchard grew. Every year, another tree with silver bark. Another red fruit.

The last time Samir saw her, she stood beneath a gibbous moon that blinked once.

“Miriam,” he asked, “what are you now?”

She smiled, eyes black as tar.

“I am the djinn’s dream of being human.”

Then she vanished, and the town began to forget it ever existed.

She picked the fruit, woke a shadow, and became the dream that dreams us back.

Note:
Thank you for reading “The Djinn Beneath the Orchard”! This is a story in a series created for avid readers and English learners who want to enjoy captivating tales while practicing their language skills. Stay tuned for more stories and language tips to enhance your journey!

Explore more short stories in English and Spanish by visiting the section:
Short Stories / Cuentos Cortos

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When the world feels dull, your mind restless, or your heart heavy, let a story be your escape. Just one page, one sentence, one word—and suddenly, you’re somewhere new, where imagination breathes life into the ordinary and turns the simplest moments into magic.

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