The master’s scream alarmed the entire house immediately.

The servants and wives came running in and, to their astonishment, found the merchant moaning on the floor. Jammal was gripping either at his face or at his waist, and to the anxious question: “What’s wrong with you, oh master?” he began groaning and cursing djinn and some pugnacious conscience, while alternating screams and foul words. To the timid suggestion to call for a doctor he ordered everyone to get out so unambiguously that the perplexed household had nothing else to do.

“Stop screaming,” advised the djinni to the moaning merchant when they remained alone in the room once again. “They may think you’ve gotten crazy. Just stand it, all right? Only a couple of blows more. It’s your own fault: you don’t want to do it out of your own good will, so maybe at least beating will affect you...”

With this the Slave of Justice sadly, but quite painfully struck the merchant on his back with his huge fist twice. Jammal gritted his teeth, refraining from screaming – indeed, it would be the last straw, in addition to all his troubles, to gain the reputation of madman!

In the morning, having examined his body that was aching after yesterday’s beating, the merchant, strange as it was, didn’t discover bruises or grazes, or any other traces of the punishment. It appeared that he should keep silent about the beating, and if the djinni decided to beat him again he was to tolerate it without a word. There were no traces! While people have long tongues... Jammal was not worried in vain. Soon the rumours of his oddities began spreading all over the city, and after that even if the merchant behaved quite normally those around him would certainly notice in his behaviour the signs of madness. Customers passed Jammal’s shop by, acquaintances avoided meeting him and when he invited them to visit they would refuse on various definitely invented excuses.

In his grief the merchant tried to go on a spree of drinking and revelling – in vain. A lot of people witnessed how Jammal, without any visible reason, spilled upon himself one after the other three cups of wine, forbidden by the Prophet, and then broke a big jug of the aforementioned drink, spattering with it all those assembled. And when the merchant tried to visit one dancer girl he knew, he disgraced himself much more: in the most crucial moment, when the clothes were thrown off, the Slave of Justice said plaintively: “Sorry, but I cannot allow this!” and hit the merchant straight in his crotch with all his might.

Jammal’s life became veritable hell. His faint attempts to defend himself led to nothing: the djinni was much stronger and what more – fought like a shaitan! Thus a month passed, then another one. The merchant grew thin and hollow-cheeked from such a life, notwithstanding that the djinni didn’t beat him as frequently any more and sometimes would even cheer him up: “Hold on, my friend! You are on the right way! Soon your torments will bear fruit!”

“Of course! If you beat up a man twice a day, even Iblis himself will gain the fruits of righteousness!” thought the merchant in his mind, dreaming secretly to get rid of the hated djinni. Finally he made a decision. First of all Jammal visited the renowned exorcist who lived at the south outskirts of Vlera.

“A charlatan,” announced Abd-al-Rashid confidently scarcely had they stepped at the threshold. “He doesn’t see me at all.”

“He’ll drive you away without looking at you!” objected the merchant in a whisper. Without much hope, however.

The djinni only snorted contemptuously in response.

Abd-al-Rashid proved to be right: the exorcist cavorted around till he fainted, smoked the entire house with stinky incenses, and yet the merchant returned home together with his Conscience. Nevertheless, now Jammal was clutching straws. He visited all the sorcerers, quacksalvers and hermits in the area, turned to a mullah, to a doctor... And he saw they didn’t believe him. They pretended, trying to draw as much money as they could out of the insane simpleton. The merchant no longer needed the djinni’s acrimonious comments to understand this.

Once there stopped in Vlera, in passing, the renowned mage Hussein al-Murally; having heard about his visit, the merchant rushed to the mage. The djinni was moving nearby, squinting gloomily at his ward and muttering: “Aren’t you ashamed? I wish you well, and you... Ungrateful!” From time to time he would give Jammal a cuff on his nape.

The merchant didn’t answer obstinately.

The great wizard had glanced at Jammal – more exactly, over his shoulder – just once, turned slightly pale and hurried to step farther from the merchant. As if from a leper. And then declared firmly: “You’ve come in vain. I cannot help you.”

“But king Suleiman knew how to confine djinn!” cried out the merchant in despair, seeing that hope, which had barely sparkled, was threatening to disperse. “I’ll pay you! I’ll shower you with gold!”

The mage stretched his arms to the sides: “Alas, oh my respectable guest. I am not king Suleiman.”

“But how can I get rid of him?”

“I don’t know. Someone else would deceive you, whereas I tell you honestly: I don’t know. And if anybody declares he’s able to help you, spit this liar in his eyes!”