The Price of Freedom
United States Marine Brett Lardner walked through the crowded Souk al-Shorja marketplace in Baghdad, looking for a gift to bring back home to his fiancée. During his tour of duty in Iraq, he had learned a spattering of Arabic but not nearly enough to successfully haggle a bargain at the bazaar. When he found what he considered a perfect gift, a pair of pearl Farsi eshgh earrings, he was unable to drive the price down to a figure he could afford. Rather than look for a different, more affordable gift, he decided he would return to the market in three weeks' time. By then, he would have enough money to purchase the jewelry.
On his way back to the base, however, he passed a car on the side of the road that had been wired with an improvised explosive device. The bomb was detonated as he and another American soldier rode past. Although the explosion killed the driver, Lance Corporal Lardner, the passenger, was thrown clear. He woke up in a military hospital the next day with no memory of the incident.
"What am I doing here?" he asked a nurse who was changing the bag of his intravenous drip.
"You were injured in a car bombing," she replied.
"How badly was I hurt?"
"You were banged up quite a bit, but you'll live. In fact, after a few weeks of recuperation, you'll be sent home."
Although Brett was eager to return to his loved ones, he was disappointed that he would not be able to buy the earrings for his fiancée.
"I'm sure Samantha will forgive me," he told himself. "She'll be glad to have me come home in one piece, with or without a gift."
While recovering from his injuries in the hospital, Brett met a fellow patient who hailed from New England. Unlike the lance corporal's injuries, PFC Dermot McClusky's were psychological rather than physical.
"It's my nerves," the young private explained one day as the two men watched a televised soccer game in the hospital's recreation room. "I can't sleep at night unless I get medication. The doc is looking to send me stateside where I'll get treatment at a VA hospital."
"I'm due to go home next month myself. Maybe we'll be sent back on the same transport."
"Maybe. I'll bet you can't wait to see that girl of yours."
"That's for sure. I'm only sorry I have to go home empty-handed. I was returning from the marketplace where I was looking for a gift for her, when I was injured in a car bombing."
Despite the tranquilizers he had taken, Dermot suddenly became agitated.
"No, I can't," he mumbled under his breath. "It wouldn't be right."
"Is something wrong?" Brett asked. "You want me to get the nurse?"
"No. I'm fine," the private replied, reaching for his pack of Marlboros.
It was obvious that Dermot was lying, as he appeared to be under a great deal of stress. By the time the young man finished his cigarette, he appeared calmer.
"I ... uh ...," he stammered, as he stubbed out the butt in an ashtray. "I have something you can give to your fiancée. I bought it from a peddler a few months ago, but I don't really want it now."
"What is it?"
"Come on; I'll show you."
Brett followed McClusky back to the ward. With trembling hands, the nervous young man opened a duffel bag at the bottom of his small closet. He removed an item wrapped in a terrycloth towel, carefully unveiled it and put it on his bed. The intricately carved bronze oil lamp looked like a prop right out of a Thief of Baghdad movie.
"What was the name of the peddler who sold you that, Aladdin?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" Dermot demanded to know.
"Nothing," Brett said, quickly defending himself. "I'm only joking. The lamp is beautiful, but it does look like it came from the pages of a Thousand and One Arabian Nights."
"I bought it to send to my mother for her birthday," the private said, "but then I thought better of it. She's not one for antiques and such. Why don't you pick it up and take a good look at it?"
"Nah. It's sure to be out of my price range."
"Look, whatever you can give me for it—it's yours."
"I wouldn't want to take advantage of our friendship."
"You wouldn't be," Dermot argued, turning his head away as though embarrassed by the conversation. "See how beautiful it is. I'll bet your fiancée would fall in love it."
"It is a beauty," Brett concluded after he picked it up from the bed and examined it from several different angles. "But I've got to be honest with you. I've only got forty bucks on me."
"That's fine. Why don't you take the lamp with you now and give me the money whenever you get the chance."
"Don't be silly. I'm not going home yet. I can ...."
"I insist! Take the lamp with you."
"All right. I'll pay you tomorrow."
Brett was perplexed by the look of relief on the private's face. He wondered if McClusky's "nerves" might actually be a substance abuse problem and the forty dollars for the lamp would be used to feed his habit.
* * *
After paying for the lamp, Brett saw little of Dermot McClusky in his remaining time at the hospital. The private never took his meals at the same time as Lardner nor was he ever in his room when Brett stopped to see him.
It's almost as though he's deliberately avoiding me, the Marine thought. But why would he do that?
The day before he was scheduled to leave Iraq, Brett finally tracked him down. The change in Dermot's appearance and demeanor astounded him. Not only had the private put on some weight, but his skin had lost its pale, drawn look.
"There you are!" Brett exclaimed. "I've been looking for you for days."
The smile that had been on McClusky's face suddenly vanished.
"What do you want?" he asked with barely concealed suspicion.
"I came to say goodbye. I'm leaving tomorrow."
A smile softened the harsh lines on the private's face.
"It was nice knowing you," Dermot said as he reached out to shake Brett's hand.
"I also want to thank you again for letting me have that lamp so cheap."
Dermot's eyes looked away, and his hand fumbled in his shirt pocket for his pack of Marlboros.
"What's the matter? Have you changed your mind? Do you want it back?"
"No!" the private cried in a voice that had drastically risen not only in pitch but also in volume.
Now it was Brett's turn to be embarrassed.
"Well, I better get going. I still have to pack."
"I wish you the best of luck," Dermot said, again extending his hand.
As the private watched Lance Corporal Lardner disappear around the bend in the hall, he shook his head and frowned.
"If only there had been some other way ...," he mumbled.
* * *
Samantha Van Court paced the living room floor of her apartment, frequently glancing at the clock on the fireplace mantel. An hour earlier, Brett phoned to tell her he was on his way, and she expected him to walk through the door any minute. She had spent all the previous day preparing for his homecoming. The room was decorated with red, white and blue balloons and crepe paper streamers, and a hand-lettered sign proclaiming WELCOME HOME, BRETT was suspended above the bay window.
Since her fiancé had been in Iraq for the past year and their only communication was via Skype, she placed a fully decorated four-foot-high Christmas tree in the corner of the living room. Beneath it were five wrapped presents and a stocking filled with goodies. On the table were more presents, a birthday cake and a bottle of champagne chilling on ice. Although a party for friends and family was to be held the following day at his mother's house, Samantha wanted a private celebration for just the two of them that evening.
At the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, her heart fluttered. She stood in the middle of the room facing the front door.
Be calm, she told herself. There's no need to be nervous. You've know Brett since the second grade.
Still in uniform, the recently discharged Marine opened the door. He took one step over the threshold, and Samantha flew into his arms.
"I'm so glad you're home!" she cried.
"Not as glad as I am to be here."
When he finally broke the embrace and closed the door behind him, he spied the Christmas tree and presents.
"You shouldn't have!" he exclaimed, feeling guilty that he had only bought a single gift for her.
"You don't have to open them now. Sit down and relax first."
"Something smells good."
"I've got a roast in the crock pot."
A home-cooked meal. It was good to be home!
After dinner was finished, the presents opened and the champagne bottle emptied, Brett gave Samantha the gift he had bought from Dermot McClusky.
"Oh, how beautiful!" she said once the wrapping was removed.
"I wanted to get you a pair of earrings, but after the bombing I was unable to go back to the market."
"I've got dozens of pairs of earrings anyway. This is such a unique gift. I'm going to put it on the bookshelf where everyone can see it."
Although she made quite a fuss over the bronze lamp, her reaction was for Brett's benefit only. Privately, it reminded her of a cheap flea market find rather than an antique treasure. Still, it was a gift from her fiancé, and she would never let him know that she did not like it.
* * *
The next morning Samantha woke early and went out into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. While there, she prepared the ingredients for homemade blueberry pancakes. Once Brett got up, all she had to do was cook them on the griddle.
As she was drinking her first cup of coffee of the day, she picked up the oil lamp and examined it more closely.
I suppose it isn't that bad, she thought as she got a better look at the engraving. Maybe what I most dislike about it is that it will always be a reminder of Brett's tour of duty in Iraq. All those months of worrying whether he'd come back alive or not.
Out of idle curiosity, she removed the stopper from the top.
"Ugh! What's that smell?" she said, covering her nose with her hand to block the stench.
A strange hissing sound emanated from the lamp as a cloudy green steam escaped from the spout. Startled and nauseated by the noxious effluvium, Samantha dropped the lamp onto the floor. Within moments she was confronted with a semi-opaque man, more than six feet in height. Wearing a turban, vest and what could best be described as loose-fitting harem pants, he looked like one of Ali Baba's forty thieves.
"Oh, no! I had way too much champagne last night!" she said, assuming the ghost-like being was a figment of her imagination, a byproduct of her excessive consumption of Korbel.
"Another American!" the creature said with disgust, in a heavily accented voice.
"And who or what are you supposed to be?"
"Isn't it obvious? I came out of a lamp in a cloud of smoke. You figure it out."
"You're a genie," Samantha replied. "And a sarcastic one, at that. But since you're not real, why am I talking to you?"
"You doubt your own eyes?"
"After finishing half a bottle of ...."
The sound of the bathroom door opening meant Brett was awake. Samantha put the stopper back into the top of the lamp. With a rapid whoosh rather than a slow hiss, the genie returned to his bronze domicile. Shaking her head, hoping to clear her muddled brain, she turned on the stove and began making pancakes.
"Good morning, beautiful," Brett said, putting his arms around her as she cooked and planting a kiss on the side of her neck. "What's that horrible smell?"
"Oh, just some eggs in the refrigerator that went bad. Have a seat. Breakfast is almost ready."
Once the coffee and pancakes were ready, she got a bottle of Log Cabin syrup out of the cabinet and sat down next to her fiancé.
"What's the lamp doing in the kitchen?" he asked.
"I was just looking at it. Where did you say you got it?"
"From one of the other patients at the hospital."
"And he just happened to have a lamp with him that he wanted to sell?"
"No. He told me he bought it for his mother and then changed his mind about giving it to her. Why do you ask?"
"No special reason. It's such an unusual gift. I'm curious about it."
Having grown up together, Samantha knew Brett better than anyone else did. She could tell from the expression on his face that he was unaware of the inhabitant of the lamp—if he existed at all.
"Want another cup of coffee?" she asked once Brett had finished his last pancake.
"Not today. I have to see someone about a job this morning."
"Why the rush? You just got home yesterday."
"We have a wedding and a honeymoon to pay for. Remember?"
"Don't forget your parents are expecting us for dinner."
Brett smiled. He assumed his fiancée and mother had planned a party for him, but he would not spoil the surprise by mentioning it.
"Don't worry. I should be back by noon."
Once he left, Samantha showered, dressed and cleaned the apartment. Although there was no outer sign of her turmoil, she fought the inexorable urge to try to summon the genie again. It was a battle she soon lost. After finishing her morning chores, she went to the kitchen, picked up the lamp and removed the stopper. Again, the foul odor and green smoke were harbingers of the creature's arrival.
"So you now believe I exist?" he asked.
"Not completely. Maybe I'm losing my mind. How does this work? Do I have one wish? Three? More?"
The genie sniggered with derision.
"It's always the same with you humans. You want something for nothing. And Americans are the worst. Want, want, want, want, want."
"Do all genies have such a bad attitude or just you?"
"I've been imprisoned in a lamp for almost a thousand years, forced to endure insufferable, greedy people like you, and you wonder about my attitude?"
"How did you become a genie anyway? Were you caught visiting someone in the sultan's harem?"
"That's another thing I hate about humans. It's always sex with you. Isn't it? No, I was a member of the Nizari Ismailis, more commonly known as the Hashshashin."
"I read about them. They were a group of assassins in ancient Persia."
"I was a Fida'is, a devotee of Hasan-i Sabbah. His headquarters was at the castle of Alamut, the eagle's nest in Elburz Mountains. Our worst enemies were the Turkish Seljug sultans in Persia. I was proud to be an assassin. I knew what was expected of me. I was to die by the dagger during the act of assassination and then go to paradise."
"An smelly oil lamp is not my idea of paradise," Samantha said, capable of sarcasm herself.
"I was sent to kill a Fatimid caliph, but I was caught by his vizier, a man of powerful magic, who cursed me to become a genie."
"Is there any end to your sentence?"
"I will remain a prisoner until such time as an owner of the lamp gives his—or her—life for me."
"What?"
A malevolent smile appeared on the genie's face when he saw the fear in Samantha's eyes.
"That's right. If I am to go free, you must die."
"Well, forget about it. I'm certainly not going to kill myself to set a self-professed assassin loose on the world."
"Don't be so sure. I can make you do as I desire."
Still in possession of free will, Samantha put the stopper firmly into the lamp, effectively banishing the genie to his bronze prison.
"We'll just see about that!"
* * *
Somehow Samantha managed to make it through Brett's surprise welcome home party without anyone suspecting the inner struggle she endured to convince herself that there was no genie and that the events of the morning were caused by the emotional overload of her fiancé's brush with death during the car bombing and his subsequent return from war.
Everything is fine, she assured herself. There's no need to worry. Brett is safe at home now. In less than a year, we'll be married, and our life can go on as planned.
By the end of the night, she had nearly convinced herself.
After taking melatonin to help her sleep, Samantha drifted off around two in the morning. At three, however, she woke up in a cold sweat from a terrifying dream.
"What's wrong?" Brett asked sleepily.
"I had a nightmare that I jumped off a tall building."
"It's just a dream," he said, putting his arm protectively around her torso. "Go back to sleep, honey."
Samantha did as he suggested, but her slumber was not a restful one. For the remainder of that night, as well as every night that followed, her dreams were plagued by horrific visions of suicide. Drinking antifreeze, slitting her wrists, hanging from a rope, turning on her car in a closed garage, drowning herself in the ocean—these were just the more common methods she envisioned. There were others far more bizarre but no less effective. And always there was the unseen but keenly felt presence of the genie guiding her hand.
These nighttime terrors soon took a toll on Samantha's waking hours. Afraid of her nightmares, she rarely slept. Exhaustion led to nervousness and loss of appetite; and not eating right, she began to lose weight.
Brett worried about his fiancée's deteriorating health. Since his suggestions that she see a doctor were ignored, he sat her down for a heart-to-heart discussion.
"Something's obviously not right," he contended. "You can't hide it from me. I hear you wake up crying in the middle of the night. If you're sick, you've got to tell me."
"There's nothing wrong with me—not physically, anyway."
Brett waited patiently for her to explain.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," she finally blurted out in a rush of tears. "Ever since you gave me that oil lamp, I've been losing my mind!"
"What has the lamp got to do with how you're feeling?"
As calmly as possible, Samantha told Brett about her encounter with the genie and his declaration that she would have to kill herself in order for him to achieve his freedom. Her fiancé was stunned.
"A genie?" he asked with disbelief. "Where is the lamp now?"
"In the attic."
"Would you go get it? I want to see it."
Sincerely believing the trouble was in her mind and not in the lamp, Samantha nonetheless did as he asked. While she was in the attic, Brett realized how much her symptoms resembled Dermot McClusky's. Had the private been afraid of the lamp as well? That would explain why he had been willing to sell it so cheaply.
Dermot wasn't doing me a favor. He was anxious to get rid of it.
Samantha returned several minutes later with her fiancé's gift in hand. Brett took it from her and removed the stopper, intent on proving that no mythical creature existed. Both of them were taken aback by the odor and the appearance of the Persian assassin.
"It's true!" the former Marine exclaimed. "You didn't imagine it."
"Ah! Finally! Someone with a modicum of intelligence," the genie said with his usual contempt for humans. "Well, are you ready to set me free yet, or must I increase the pressure?"
"You've been causing Samantha to have those frightening nightmares."
It was a declarative sentence, not an interrogative one.
"Of course."
"Why?" Brett inquired.
"Because unlike in popular fiction where genies grant the owners of the lamp three wishes, my wish is the only one that matters here. I desire my freedom, and for me to obtain that, this young woman must die."
If he were armed, Brett, an ex-military man, would have shot and killed the genie—if that was even possible. However, in the absence of a gun, he resorted to the only weapon at his disposal: he put the stopper back in the lamp.
"I still can't believe any of this is happening," Samantha declared in a dazed state of mind.
"We both can't be hallucinating. No, he's real, all right. We've got to get rid of the lamp."
"How do we do that?"
"I don't suppose we can melt it down. That would require a furnace capable of immense heat. Maybe we can bury it somewhere."
"And risk having some innocent person find it? I couldn't do that. Besides, if he can get to me in my dreams, he might eventually force me to dig up the lamp again."
"Give it to me. I'll get rid of it."
"But if I give it to you, you'll be the owner. The genie will try to force you to kill yourself then."
"I'm a United States Marine, for Christ's sake," Brett laughed. "I've spent a tour of duty in Iraq. I think I can handle the nightmares."
In an attempt to prove her faith in the man she loved, Samantha complied with his request.
"Here," she said, handing it over. "The lamp is now yours."
* * *
After calling on assistance from an old friend in the Coast Guard, Brett traveled in a helicopter, flying low over the Atlantic Ocean.
"How much farther do you want to go?" the friend asked after they had long lost sight of land.
"This is fine. The water ought to be deep enough."
Brett removed the oil lamp from his backpack and tossed it into the water. This far out, he doubted anyone would ever find it.
"You had me worried there," the pilot joked, assuming the bronze lamp contained ashes to be buried at sea. "I was afraid you were going to toss a murder weapon into the ocean."
"No questions asked. Remember? You agreed."
"Yeah. I know. I owed you a favor. Now, we're even."
Glad that he was not party to an illegal action, the Coast Guard pilot turned the helicopter around and headed back to shore.
* * *
Paradoxically, the bad dreams Brett had been having since Samantha gave him the lamp intensified rather than diminished after he disposed of it. The visions of suicide became so real that he could actually feel the pain of the razor blade as it sliced into his flesh, the chafing of the rope around his neck as it cut off his air supply, the bite of the bullet as it pierced his temple and entered his brain and the searing heat of the flames as they burned his flesh.
I don't know how much more of this I can take, he thought when he woke up in the early morning hours on the verge of panic.
The physical injuries he had suffered as a result of the car bombing paled in comparison to the mental anguish caused by the genie. It was no wonder his health deteriorated rapidly. Within a matter of weeks, he was a mere ghost of his former self.
Samantha was not the only one to worry about him. Family and friends were also anxious about his wellbeing. While most feared he suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, others speculated it might be cancer or possibly AIDS caused by the blood transfusion administered after the explosion.
"What do the doctors say?" Brett's mother demanded to know.
"They can't find anything physically wrong with him," Samantha answered truthfully.
"I find that hard to believe. One look and you can plainly see he's not well."
Although the couple knew there was no practical way of eliminating the source of the ailment, they sought to find relief from the symptoms. A psychiatrist at the VA hospital, believing he was helping a Marine get over his experiences in Iraq, prescribed a strong tranquilizer, which he assured his patient would calm an active volcano. The medication did help him sleep for longer periods, but it did not completely eliminate the nightmares. Still, he showed some signs of improvement. His appetite returned and he gained back a few of the pounds he had lost.
"See," Brett boasted to his fiancée, "I told you I could take anything that genie could dish out. I'm getting stronger every day."
"Maybe we should get out of the house more often," Samantha suggested. "It might take your mind off things. You went to work as soon as you returned from Iraq. Maybe you need to relax and enjoy yourself."
The following week—during which time Brett had no nightmares—the couple went out to dinner with the intention of going to the movies afterward. When they emerged from the restaurant after paying the check, they discovered it was raining heavily.
"You wait here under the awning," Brett said, pulling his jacket over his head. "I'll get the car."
The temporary respite from the genie's nocturnal pressuring came to an abrupt end. With his guard down, Brett received the full force of the creature's ability to control his mind. His training and experience as a Marine aside, he could not fight the irresistible urge to take his own life. With no thought of his fiancée or of himself, he stepped out in front of an approaching SUV.
Samantha's screams rent the night as she raced through the pelting rain to be at Brett's side.
"I'm so sorry! I couldn't stop!" the driver, Eunice Bundy, a fifty-eight-year-old grandmother of three, hysterically cried. "He walked right in front of my car."
Samantha squeezed the driver's hand, a silent signal that she did not hold Eunice at fault.
"Can someone call an ambulance?" the young woman cried to the growing crowd of onlookers.
Half a dozen people immediately took out their cell phones.
"Brett! Can you hear me? Brett!"
Her heartrending entreaties fell on deaf ears. Brett Lardner was no longer breathing. Drenched to the skin, the sobbing woman cradled her fiancé's head in her arms, the tears on her cheeks blending with raindrops, as she listened to the sound of the approaching sirens.
When the ambulance arrived, Samantha cried in Eunice Bundy's arms, certain the man she loved was dead.
"I've got a pulse," one of the paramedics announced.
Samantha's heart filled with hope. Not only was Brett still alive, but when he was placed on a gurney his eyes fluttered open.
"You gave me quite a scare," Samantha said after the emergency room physician released Brett Lardner from the hospital later that night. "I thought I'd lost you."
"You can't get rid of me that easily."
While she was sure his words were meant to comfort her, oddly enough, they had the opposite effect.
* * *
When the morning sunlight filtered into the room through the white lace curtains, Samantha woke up to an empty bed.
Where is Brett? she wondered.
She called out to him, but there was no answer. As she was putting on her bathrobe, she spied his cell phone on the bedside table.
"He wouldn't have gone anywhere without his phone."
After contacting his parents, his employer and his closest friends, Samantha came to the conclusion that her fiancé was missing. Despite rigorous attempts to locate him, Brett Lardner was never found. Eventually, he was declared legally dead, and Samantha met and married another man. But until the day she died peacefully in her sleep at the age of eighty-six, she never stopped loving or wondering what had become of him.
Meanwhile, a thousand-year-old Persian assassin, having taken refuge in Brett's body, lived out a normal lifespan in the employ of various terrorist groups in the Middle East while the soul of the former Marine was kept prisoner in a bronze oil lamp at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
For fun, Salem once turned himself into a genie. But being Salem, he had to live in the penthouse of an upscale oil lamp.
