Somewhere north of here, there is a group of men huddled by a fire, surrounded by groaning camels. They are camped next to a tangled, twisted tree, the only landmark for miles. Their faces are covered by tagelmusts, their bread is gritty from being baked in the sand. The moon is only half-full, and from time to time they glance at it, if only to reassure themselves it is still there. One of the men is certain that the tree holds three vengeful djinn, at least that is what a marabout told him in a village not far from here, albeit many many years ago. The others mutter in disbelief, but the root of fear has already taken hold in their minds. The fire dies down, the men all go to sleep one by one, and once the moon is covered by a black cloud, the three djinn appear, ghostly shadows swirling around the gnarled tree. However, they are not vengeful spirits, as suggested by the toothless marabout so long ago, but are rather indifferent to vendettas and drama. The three djinn whirl around for a few minutes, then disappear as the moon reemerges, unseen by human eyes.