Beast (3 page)

Four years ago, when I was thirteen, Father's right-hand man, Shahpour, took me to the taverns a month after my circumcision. I tasted Christian wine, and Hebrew wine, too, though intoxicating drink is forbidden to all Islam. The Merciful One tries not to burden his faithful unduly with restrictions that are hard to obey, and He is all merciful in accepting us back when we have strayed. That straying was an experience to remember, or so said Shahpour. I fell asleep and had to be carried home; I can remember only the beginnings of the evening.

I am walking around the perimeter of the palace now. Enormous vats hang over open fires. The better parts of the mutton and camel meat are being roasted or salted for drying; the stomach and tails are boiling for the servants; and all the rest has gone into stews in these vats.
Ghorme sabzi:
minced parsley and cilantro, fenugreek and mint, all fried in olive oil, then cubes of meat simmered, then water and red beans added on top. All will be served on a bed of rice. The smell makes my mouth water. Fasting isn't required today, even of the
hajjiha
who actually slay the animals. Fasting is required only during the daylight hours of Ramadhan — fasting and contemplation. But most of the
hajjiha
who assisted at the sacrifice today will fast, I'm sure.

I breathe in the aromas of the meal, lingering especially over the many deserts made with honey. I love the candies of honey and almond the best.

Fasting is difficult. But that's what makes it worth doing. Discipline, self-restraint, generosity toward those who truly lack the necessities of life—that's what fasting is about.

The prayer leader's assistant cries out the
adhan
— the call to prayer — from the minaret, the tall mosque tower. Everyone takes a turn at the basins of fresh water that are lined up along the edges of the pavilion just for that purpose; we wash our face and hands and
run our wet fingers through the middle of our hair and over the tops of our feet. We face Mecca and make four
rakatha,
offering the midday prayers, our lips almost touching the ground, speaking softly to the world.

Men sit in circles around the
sophreh
—the sheets on the floor — careful to keep our feet from touching the cloth. Servants come with pots of rice, followed by others with pots of stew. They prepare the bowls at each table, rice on the bottom, stew piled high on top. When a bowl is offered to me, I find the strength to resist; I pass it on to the next man.

The women harpists take their positions at one corner of the pavilion. Though they are almost completely covered, their femininity prevails in the graceful music. They play harmoniously. Baskets of candies sit on the floor beside them, for the taking. I think of the sugar Kiyumars fed the camel as we dressed her for the sacrifice.

Sugar on a tongue, on my tongue, on a woman's tongue.

I excuse myself and walk the path, through the arch over the entrance to the walled park, out toward the Alborz Mountains. Mount Damavand looms in the distance, the air above it calm, though I know the earth within it can burn and bubble out and over its peak, down its sides. Once, a visiting Frenchman,
gazing upon our volcano, told Father it reminded him of Frenchwomen. He said they give the perfume of roses — and French roses are the best in the world — but they consume like lava.

Though he spoke in his own tongue, not my Persian tongue, I understood what he said, because I've studied Latin and the French of Paris, along with Arabic and Greek and Turkish, since I was small. The latter three languages, naturally, are essential for religious and commerce purposes. But Father believes it is impossible to know the heads of Europeans if you can't speak Latin, and impossible to know their hearts if you can't speak French.

I listened intently. I didn't believe what he said about French roses, of course, for how could they be better than my beloved
gulhaye sourkh?
But the part about women, that fascinated me.

The women of my country are not volcanic, I don't think. Oh, they are full of secrets to be discovered. But their secrets are like the secrets of the earth. The vale of Kashmir, in the eastern part of Persia, looks bleak and dead in the autumn. The fields turn silver. But I have walked through those fields; I have knelt among the diminutive lavender blossoms; my hands have swept away the brush from around the autumn wild crocuses with their orange-red stigmata and styles—the source of saffron. Sweet; savory;
sabzi
—spices. I will enjoy
discovering my wife's secrets, learning her perfumes.

“Prince! Prince Orasmyn!” Kiyumars runs up the path. “You can't go walking so far.”

I stopped at his first words, but now I walk again. It is not right that Kiyumars should tell me what I can or cannot do. I stretch my neck long in irritation.

“It isn't safe, my prince,” calls Kiyumars. He arrives at my side. “Come back with me.”

His earnestness brushes away my irritation. I laugh. “Isn't safe?”

Kiyumars pants as he catches his breath. “They've brought in lions and tigers from India.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the hunt, my prince. The Shah has vowed to kill a lion with his bare hands.”

I know that boast. Long ago lions roamed the plateaus of Persia, not just far in the east, near India, like today. Ancient kings — Darius and his son Xerxes and so many others—took pride in wounding them with arrows, then strangling them with their hands. I don't need to imagine the vile scene, for the
Shahnameh
has illustrations. Why, Bahram Gur even hunted down the dreadful karg, the legendary beast with a single horn long as a sword. Courage in the hunt is much valued.

As of tomorrow, I will need to make scarce of myself, so as not to shame my father in front of his
friends. My dear father, who loves me so, turns away in disgust when I refuse invitations to join the hunt. He says if I can thrill to hunt and battle on the pages of books, then I should thrill to it on the field.

I am already walking quickly back toward the palace, Kiyumars dashing along with me. In this hunting park there is no end to peacocks and ostriches, deer and wild boar. But Father likes to make his blood rush now and then. That's what he said to me the last time he brought in beasts of prey for the hunt. This park is so large that wild animals can be set loose, and still the game is difficult. Indeed, the last time beasts were brought here, the hunters saw neither the lion nor the tiger. The Indian servants had to catch them again and take them away after the week's hunt ended. For them it was easy: Indian hunting servants learn the ways of wild cats in childhood; their land overruns with lions and tigers.

Kiyumars looks over his shoulder, the whites of his eyes large.

“The beasts are deep in the hunting park, Kiyumars,” I say. “No one will see them today.”

Kiyumars blinks at me. “You're right, my prince. Tomorrow, though, the hunters will face the beasts.”

“I doubt it.”

“Our Indian guests are coming with elephants specially trained to drive prey toward hunters. The servants
have spent days filling barrels with water for them.”

Ah, so Father won't allow a repeat disappointment; this time he'll kill his lion.

We pass under the arch and out of the park. I turn to the north.

“Dare I ask where you're going, my prince?”

“I believe you've just asked, Kiyumars.” I laugh again at the worry on his face. Perhaps when I am Shah, Kiyumars will be my right-hand man just as Shahpour is to Father now. “Don't worry. I'll stay in the fruit and flower gardens.”

Kiyumars bows and leaves as I walk along paths beside a
maddi
filled with mountain water that runs so fast, it sings. The low mud walls around the garden I enter now could never hold back a lion. I pass
derakhte badam
—almond trees—and
anar
—pomegranates. I pass lotus trees, the symbol of fertility. If I were not fasting, I would chew on a
beh daneh
— quince seed — and the bitter aphrodisiac
sendjed
—Bohemian olive. This fruit-tree garden is sacred to me, thus I call it by the Arabic word — it is my
jannat,
my own Garden of Paradise. The
maddi
runs into a small, round pool with carved stones at the edges. I enjoy the scene: black rams chasing one another. The carver was playful.

My stomach growls. During the fasting of Ramadhan I always get through the daylight hours without eating by taking a nap in the afternoon. Now I
lie on the ground beside the pool and close my eyes.

The
adhan
wakes me, calling and calling from the minaret. It's late afternoon already, time for prayer. I wash my face in the pool. I wash the tops of my feet. I run my hands through my hair. I look in the waters.

The face of the camel shimmers.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head, then look again.

The camel lifts her upper lip. “Each animal has its way,” comes the watery voice.

My heart leaps to my throat. I want to look around, to search the bushes for the source of this voice, but my eyes hold fast now, they cannot stray. Everything in me knows: It is the reflection of the camel itself that speaks. The truth of the moment envelops me. My shock gives way to reverence. “Each animal has its way,” I echo.

“The stork is pious. The crab is tenacious. The panther is proud and jealous.”

I know this. I know the way of each animal. Mother has told me these things, as every mother in my country tells her children. I am sick at what I know must come next. My mouth is dry, my throat parched. I lower my lips to the water, meeting the camel's muzzle. If only I could drink.

“The camel . . . say it, Prince Orasmyn . . . the camel . . .”

“The camel is vindictive,” I whisper, my own words trapping me. There has to be a way out. Perhaps I was wrong; perhaps the water holds not a spirit itself, but the image of a spirit standing behind me. I throw water over my shoulder and chant, “The dead are thirsty, be comforted, the dead are thirsty, be comforted.”

“I already drank my fill,” comes that voice.

I fall back on my heels and rock myself. This spirit will accept no comfort.

But, oh, the Merciful One is watching. He must be. I spring to my feet and begin my
rakatha
four. I press not only my forehead to the ground, but my nose and chin; I grovel in the dirt. In my fear I recall the teachings of my nursemaid Ava: I spit over my left shoulder, then my right, so the lurking devil won't distract me.

When I finish, I can't stop myself from kneeling and looking in the water again. My people speak of
parian
— fairies—who can be malicious or benevolent. The Zoroastrians believed malicious
parian
punished bad people and benevolent
parian
aided good people. Though I hold no Zoroastrian beliefs, even the
Qur'an
tells of
djinn,
spirits that cannot be seen in their own form, but can take on disguises. The
Qur'an
records the exact words of the Merciful One as spoken through the Angel Gabriel to the last true prophet Muhammad;
these spirits surround us. Many of them protect the creatures of the earth. “Did you protect the camel?” I ask the image in the pool.

“As poorly as you did,” comes the answer.

“I am sorry,” I whisper.

“You sacrificed a beast who knew suffering.”

I see the thin line of the scar across the camel's hump. “Yes,” I breathe. “I'm sorry.”

“All involved must pay retribution.”

“No,” I say quickly. Not Kiyumars. Please not Kiyumars. “I am the one who made the decision to sacrifice the camel in spite of the scar. It is my responsibility. Solely mine.”

“This is true. You consulted no one.” The camel's lip raises in a sneer again. “Prince that you are.”

I nod. “No one must pay but me.”

“You were tested, Orasmyn. A royal test. And you failed.”

Awe and dread twist my insides. “I will study the
Qu'ran
better. I will memorize all the rules. I will — ”

“You understand nothing. Recount the five basic principles of faith in your head.”

“I am recounting them,” I say.

“Tomorrow your father will slay you, as you have slain the camel. Today you suffer that knowledge. You suffer, like the camel.”

My hands grasp at the water, come away empty,
grasp again. The image disappears. “Come back. Don't curse me so.” I jump into the pool, reaching with both arms under the water. “Come back.” I thrash every which way.

Finally, I stand quiet.

I recount the five basic principles of faith, the fourth of which fills my head to the bursting point: Your actions will be rewarded or punished by divine justice.

The water is still.

T
he townsfolk have left, probably hours ago. But the hunting guests are arriving in droves. I run to the men's pavilion.

Shahpour, Father's most trusted companion, leans against a column, talking. In his hands is a white cup. “A treasure,” he says, holding it before his eyes. He bows in gratitude. “The Shah has none carved so beautifully.”

The Indian guest in front of him bows, as well. “Even the most powerful poison is rendered harmless if drunk from rhinoceros horn. A man as powerful as the Shah can use such protection.”

What else can rhinoceros horn protect against? And what other preventive measures does this guest know? But my goal now is to find Father as quickly as possible. I pass them and walk through the pavilion, searching.

“Orasmyn, is that you?” Ardeshir, a member of the royal family of Ashraf, takes me by the upper arms. “All wet? Don't tell me you've been fighting a water dragon in Lake Urumiyeh.” He laughs and reaches out to a man near him. “This is the Shah's son. Look, Bahram. Lake Urumiyeh may be too salty for fish, but our Orasmyn has hunted down a dragon there. He rivals your namesake in bravery.”