Unseen Consequences
Whispers From the Stone Throne
An anthropologist’s pact with the king of jinns
In the shadows of the Moroccan Atlas Mountains, a village lay wrapped in whispers and chilling folklore, its inhabitants occasionally glancing towards the steep trails leading to Mount Toubkal. Anas, a young and curious student of anthropology from Marrakech, had heard the ancient tales of Aït Mizane’s supernatural guardian — Chamharouch, the King of jinns. It was said that Chamharouch ruled from a massive rock halfway up the mountain, a place where no human dared to tread after dusk.
Fascinated by the lore, Anas decided to venture to this forbidden shrine during his field study, hoping to demystify the legend, and perhaps document an untouched part of Moroccan heritage. The locals warned him, their voices heavy with dread, but the allure of uncovering hidden truths proved too strong.
He set out at dawn, his backpack filled with essentials and a small, leather-bound notebook. The path was rough, winding through lush valleys and barren, rocky outcrops. By noon, Anas reached the large, flat stone said to be the court of Chamharouch. Offerings of milk and dates adorned the area, untouched and seemingly watched over by unseen eyes.
Feeling a chill despite the midday sun, Anas sat to rest, his gaze fixated on the inscriptions etched into the stone. They spoke of pacts and promises, of respect and fear. As he traced the lines with his fingers, the wind seemed to carry murmurs, a warning to leave that he dismissed as tricks of his mind.
Night approached faster than Anas anticipated. Deciding against heading back in the dark, he set up a small tent, reassuring himself that the legends were mere stories to keep the curious at bay. However, as the veil of night deepened, so did the intensity of the whispers, now clear and commanding.
“You trespass, son of the plains,” a voice hissed, as ethereal as the wind yet as piercing as the cold. Anas, paralyzed with fear, could see nothing but felt an oppressive presence enveloping his tent.
“I seek knowledge, not to intrude,” Anas stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
“Knowledge… comes with a price,” the voice replied, its tone a mixture of amusement and malice.
“What price?” Anas asked, his curiosity overcoming his dread.
“An offering of your truths, your fears, and a pact to serve as my scribe,” the voice demanded. The air grew colder, and Anas felt a weight on his chest, suffocating, relentless.
Desperate, Anas agreed, spilling his deepest fears into the darkness. He spoke of his fear of obscurity, of never making a mark on the world. As he confessed, the oppressive weight lifted, and the air warmed. A pact was made, and Anas knew his life was no longer his own.
When morning came, the villagers found Anas at the base of the shrine, his eyes wide with unspeakable knowledge. He returned to Marrakech, his work taking a dark turn. His writings spoke of the unseen and hidden fears of man, guided by a hand not entirely his own.
Thus, Anas became the voice of Chamharouch, the King of jinns, his life a testament to the ancient pact made on that fateful night. His tales, disturbing yet compelling, warned all who read them of the price of forbidden knowledge. And high in the Atlas Mountains, the whispers continue, a reminder of the king who reigns in shadow.
