There was a fisherman so poor that he could only afford to cast his net four times a day. He had a wife, three children, and a policy: four casts, no more. Whatever the sea gave him in four casts was enough. Whatever it didn't, they went hungry.
One morning, he cast his net for the first time and pulled up a dead donkey. He untangled the carcass, repaired his net, and cast again. The second time, he pulled up a pot full of mud and broken pottery. The third time, stones and shells and river-bottom rubbish.
The fisherman stood on the shore and looked at the sky. "God," he said, "you know I only cast four times. Three are gone. Let the fourth be enough."
He cast the net. When he pulled it in, it was heavy. Heavier than any fish. He hauled it onto the beach and found, tangled in the mesh, a brass bottle sealed with a lead cap stamped with the seal of Solomon.
The fisherman turned it over. It was old — ancient. The brass was green with age. The seal was intact. Whatever was inside had been there for a very long time.
He pried off the cap.
Smoke poured out — not ordinary smoke, but smoke with intention, smoke that climbed and thickened and shaped itself against the sky until it became a figure. The jinni stood taller than the minarets, his head in the clouds, his feet on the beach. His eyes burned like coal fires. His voice shook the sand.
"FISHERMAN," the jinni said, "PREPARE TO DIE."
The fisherman fell to his knees. "Why? I freed you! You should be grateful!"
The jinni's laugh was like thunder rolling across the sea. "Let me tell you a story, fisherman. When Solomon — peace be upon him — sealed me in that bottle, I was angry but patient. During the first hundred years, I swore that whoever freed me would receive all the gold in the world. No one came.
"During the second hundred years, I swore to open for my rescuer all the treasures of the earth. No one came.
"During the third hundred years, I swore to make my rescuer the most powerful king on earth, and to grant three wishes besides. No one came.
"During the fourth hundred years, I grew angry. So angry that I swore to kill whoever freed me — and to let them choose only the manner of their death. That is the reward of four hundred years of patience. Now choose how you wish to die."
The fisherman's mind raced. He was old, poor, and standing before a being that could crush mountains. He had no weapon, no magic, no army. He had only his words.
"Before I choose," the fisherman said slowly, "I have one question. And I swear by God that I need an honest answer."
"Ask," said the jinni.
"Were you really inside that bottle? You are enormous. The bottle is... small. I don't believe you actually fit inside it. I think you were hiding behind a rock and the smoke was just a trick."
The jinni's eyes narrowed. "You doubt me?"
"I do. No being your size could fit in a bottle that size. It's physically impossible."
"IMPOSSIBLE?" The jinni roared with offended pride. "Watch."
The great figure dissolved into smoke. The smoke spiraled, thinned, and poured back into the bottle — every last wisp, sucked inside like water down a drain. From inside the bottle, the jinni's muffled voice called: "Do you believe me now?"
The fisherman slammed the lead cap back on the bottle. He pressed the seal of Solomon firmly into place.
"I believe you," the fisherman said. "And there you'll stay."
The jinni screamed. The bottle shook. The fisherman held it firmly.
"Let me out," the jinni begged. "I'll give you gold."
"You promised to kill me."
"I'll grant wishes. Three wishes. Ten wishes!"
"You had four hundred years to plan your gratitude and you chose murder. Why would I trust a second chance?"
The jinni fell silent. Then, in a voice stripped of all bluster, he spoke: "You are right. I let rage consume the gratitude I should have felt. In four hundred years, I became the worst version of myself. I am ashamed."
The fisherman sat on the sand, the bottle in his lap. He was a patient man — patience was all he had. He listened.
"Free me," the jinni said quietly. "I give you my word — my true word, not my angry word — that I will help you. Show you something that will change your life. If I break this promise, may Solomon's seal bind me for eternity."
The fisherman thought for a long time. He looked at the bottle, at the sea, at his torn net and his empty bucket. He thought about his children and their hungry eyes.
He opened the bottle.
The jinni emerged — smaller this time, no taller than a palm tree. His eyes were dimmer, his voice gentle.
"Come," he said. "Bring your net."
He led the fisherman to a lake in the mountains that no one knew about. The water was crystal clear, and in it swam fish of four colours — red, white, blue, and yellow. Each colour was worth a fortune in the sultan's market.
The fisherman cast his net and pulled up four fish, one of each colour. The jinni vanished and never appeared again.
The fisherman took the fish to the sultan, who had never seen anything like them. The sultan rewarded him with wealth enough for ten lifetimes. The fisherman's children grew up educated, well-fed, and kind.
And the fisherman never cast his net more than four times a day. Enough remained enough. That was his real magic — not the jinni, not the fish, but knowing when he had what he needed.