"Untethered" is a novel I wrote under the mentorship of renowned Canadian author Carrie Mac. The story follows an immigrant boy who, having lost his brother, believes he was taken by supernatural entities known as djinns. This narrative holds a special place in my heart, as it flowed effortlessly from my imagination. In just three months, I completed a 97,000-word manuscript, which I am currently refining for submission to publishers.
The novel explores themes of loss, cultural beliefs, and the immigrant experience, blending elements of magical realism with a profoundly personal exploration of grief and family bonds. Through Efes's journey, I aim to illuminate the complex intersections of cultural identity, superstition, and the universal experience of loss.
Source: Adobe Stocks
Prologue
Tendrils of mist crept between the headstones of the cramped village cemetery. The graveyard told the silent tales of generations interred in a tangle of bones and forgotten lives that lay stacked and slowly fading from memory.
The rusted stones were nameless guardians of the dead; some sprouted from the earth itself, others placed by grieving hands as markers. This made it easy to bury the newly departed atop those poor who came before.
"Ayse’s mother is possessed," Edibe's whisper hung in the air. “But Hodja will fix her..."
The rusted stones were nameless guardians of the dead; some sprouted from the earth itself, others placed by grieving hands as markers. This made it easy to bury the newly departed atop those poor who came before.
"Ayse’s mother is possessed," Edibe's whisper hung in the air. “But Hodja will fix her..."
I was five, nearly six, and delighted that my older friends had let me come with them, even if I was terrified of the graveyard. We had been playing hide and seek among the burials, although I stayed close to the gate, where I could bolt for home if fear overwhelmed me, or someone saw us there. We were never permitted to play in the graveyard and were only getting away with it that night because our parents were preoccupied with Ayse’s mother. Ayse wanted to be out with us, but when we went by her house to collect her, she told us she had to stay home.
"Yes, my mama told me too," said Kerime, her face all dirty from playing in the mud. Her clothes were messy, and she had scrapes on her arms and legs. The night's darkness was illuminated only by the full moon; its glow yelped that the rumours were true.
"Oooooo, spooky! Let's go and see." Rasim’s eyes sparkled. He was three years older. When he saw our fear, he said it again. This time it was an order. Not a suggestion. “Follow me. All of you..."
"No, no way!" Shivers raced down my spine. I didn’t want to see a djinn, but as everyone began walking, leaving me alone with nothing but the headstones for company, I ran after them, panting.
A single streetlight cast shadows across the cobblestones, its dim glow revealing the vines that crawled along the towering walls that surrounded Ayse’s family’s courtyard, the chatter from inside bouncing off its weathered stones. The big blue door stood open, revealing all the adults that had gathered, cigarette smoke wafting up from the crowd and creating a looming cloud overhead. The cows mooed in the barn in the courtyard as if they knew what would happen.
That night, children were strictly forbidden from the premises, though we crept around the back of the house, carefully navigating the garden's crumbling brick walls, to catch a glimpse through the window. We stayed out of sight but with a clear view of the exorcism happening inside.
Ayse’s mother stood, her back turned towards us, her body convulsing and twisting as if puppeteered by an invisible force. The Hodja stood across the room with the Quran in his hands, and the women, including Mom and Grandma, struggled to keep Pakize steady, their grips tight on her arms.
The wind screamed, rattling the windows and sending the beige cotton curtains billowing into the night as if trying to escape the room. I feared being swallowed by its enormous tulip patterns, which seemed to reach out like tentacles in the darkness.
"Qul a'uzu bi rabbi n-nas, Maliki n-nas, Ilahi n-nas," the Hodja chanted, his voice rising above the sudden cries of Pakize.
"Quiet!" Grandma, holding her arm, demanded, struggling to maintain her grip as Pakize thrashed and fought. Her head whipped from side to side, and her long hair tangled in the air. She let out a bone-chilling shriek directed at the Hodja. "You, you," she hissed before collapsing back onto the bed, laughter erupting from her throat.
I leaned down on the window outside, the other children pressing close beside me, as Pakize's words turned to venom. "Hodja, I will come to you in your bed tonight. When they find you, your tongue will be torn out, your eyes gouged from their sockets, and your body left as a hollow, bloodied husk.”
"Hear me, Djinn!" the Hodja bellowed. "Allah stands with me, and you shall not approach us! Abandon this woman at once, or face eternal damnation in the flames of hell."
Against my better judgment, I dared to look. Pakize rose from the bed, arms outstretched, before crashing back down, lifeless. Then, the window slammed shut, its glass shattering and raining down upon us as an invisible gale tore through the room. The wind fled, carrying with it a sinister, echoing laugh that promised its return.
I toppled to the ground from the stone wall, falling three times my height to the ground, the impact stealing my consciousness and the memories for the years that followed. Yet, even at age five, I understood that this night would be forever carved in my mind, the djinns becoming my deepest terrors.
