Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (15 page)

Lucifer narrowed his eyes and took a step toward Balaam. “All right!” he sneered, his voice piercing and mean. “I will give him a chance to prove he can be useful. I will give you a chance to prove you can do something right. But I will not be patient! Don’t let me down, Balaam. I am counting on you!”

Balaam backed up, feeling the cut in his chest. He had his instructions and he was not going to fail.

The day following Azadeh’s birthday, it started to rain as a foul-weather front moved in from the coast—wet, soaking, misty and cold. The ground became saturated and muddy, and a thousand tiny rivers of runoff spilled down from the mountains to join the stream that ran through the center of the village, swelling it to a frothy and muddy torrent of broken branches, silt, and debris. It rained hard all day, and by the time Rassa pulled in for the night, he was soaked to the skin, bone-tired and shivering with cold. He had spent the day moving his small herd of cattle into a lower pasture to inoculate and brand the heifers, work which had to be done to keep the cattle from getting hoof rot from the mud. By early morning, his raincoat had been soaked through and he had abandoned all pretense of trying to stay dry, spending his day wet and shivering from cold.

Azadeh was waiting for him at the kitchen table and she looked up as he walked into the room. She smiled, her face brightening as if a light had come on, her eyes wide and happy, her teeth flashing bright. Rassa stopped and looked at his daughter. How it warmed him just to see her! Her dark hair fell down to the middle of her back, and she was tall and strong. She had her mother’s olive skin, his eyes, and her grandfather’s strong cheekbones. Jumping up from the table, Azadeh ran to the stove and turned up the heat. “Poppa, I have some tea for you,” she said.

Rassa took off his wet coat and shook it out before hanging it by the oil furnace to dry. Then he sat on a three-legged stool and pulled off his leather boots. Azadeh worked over the stove, boiling some rice in water. “I would have had supper for you Father, but I didn’t know what time you would be in,” she said.

“That’s fine, Azadeh,” Rassa answered wearily. Shivering, he pulled off his wet shirt and grabbed a rough towel to dry his hair, then stood by the heater, reaching for its warmth. Despite almost being summer, it was cold outside, but that wasn’t unusual for the mountains had a mean streak when it came to weather. The higher elevation caused wide swings in the temperature and the rain might stay for days, even weeks, before finally pushing over the highest peaks to provide needed moisture to the dry valleys on the other side.

Rassa seemed stiff and unusually tired. Azadeh watched him for a moment then pulled off a fist-sized piece of bread dough from atop a warming pan she had placed near the stove, flattened it to the size of a dinner plate, then tossed it against the burning-hot side of the stove. The dough stuck to the dimpled side and immediately began to cook to a crisp and airy piece of pita bread. Two minutes later, she pulled the toasty bread off the side of the stove, cooked the other side, then cut it open and stuffed it with spiced beans and goat meat. She threw another piece of bread on the stove which they would eat later with honey and butter, selected a Lebanese orange from the copper bin, as well as some raisins and dates, then seasoned the rice with salt and butter, sliced some cheese and set the food on the table.

Rassa watched with pride but also sadness as she worked. It hurt him to come into a dark house and find her alone. She was alone far too much. She needed a mother. And little brothers and sisters to care for. She needed to spend more time worrying about her friends and less time worrying about him. She was so thoughtful of others, it was almost a fault, the way she jumped up, always willing to serve, and though she seemed content, Rassa knew that she wasn’t and it saddened him that she felt such a responsibility to keep her loneliness inside. She had fought the melancholy from the time she was a child, though she tried to be happy, always forcing a smile even when one didn’t come naturally.

“Men are that they be happy,” he remembered her saying one day.

Rassa had looked at her and then asked, “Where did you hear that, Azadeh?”

She thought a moment, then shrugged and pressed her lips. “I don’t know,” she replied.

As Azadeh grew, Rassa came to believe she would rather have needles driven under her nails than show him the sadness she hid inside.

But Rassa knew it was there. He was not so blind. He had noticed it even while watching her play with her dolls as a child (something every little girl did, no matter where they lived in the world). Azadeh would comfort her babies, sometimes crying for them, telling them that she loved them while holding them tight. As Rassa watched, he realized she was acting out all the things she had hoped her mother would have said to her if she had lived. And she not only mothered her babies, she mothered every child that she met, as well as every stray dog or cat that wandered into the village. One day a few years before, Rassa had made the mistake of bringing home a live rabbit from the market for supper. Azadeh had burst into tears and hidden in her room, refusing to come out until he had agreed they would let the creature live. Walking hand in hand to the fields behind their house, the rabbit inside a brown sack, they had set the rabbit free.

And though the memory made Rassa smile, it was a sad memory just the same.

Azadeh spent long hours writing poetry and stories, few of which she would let Rassa read. But one day he had found a letter she had written to her mother and hidden inside her small desk. Feeling guilty, he had read her letter, the words burning in his mind.

Dear Mother:

It’s been awhile since I wrote a letter to you, but I just wanted you to know that I still miss you. Sometimes I feel so alone. Father tries so hard, and I love him more than my heart can express, but I miss you, Mother, and I wish that you were here. And though I know you are gone, sometimes I feel you might be close. And sometimes I wonder; if we could talk, if I could hear your words, what would you tell me? Would you say that you love me? Would you say that you are proud? I hope that you are Mother, for I have tried so hard.

Your loving daughter,

Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi

Although it tore Rassa’s heart to read what she had written, he cherished the beauty of her words.

And there was one thing of which he was certain; Azadeh’s mother would have been very proud. And if she was somewhere in the heavens, he hoped that somehow, through some miracle of Allah, that she might see the treasure she had created when she had brought Azadeh into the world.

* * *

As Azadeh finished preparing the meal, Rassa slipped into his bedroom and changed into dry clothes and warm stockings, then sat at the table and sipped his tea. Azadeh put the food on the table, then sat down beside him. Rassa reached out and took her hand. “Thank you, Azadeh,” he said.

She bowed her head politely. “You’re welcome, Father.”

The two ate slowly, talking little, both of them hungry. Then, full and warm, Rassa stood to help Azadeh with the dishes. He had recently installed a new hot water heater, and they savored the steaming water that poured from the tap instead of the luke-warm dribble they would get before. Rassa washed while Azadeh dried and put the dishes into the painted wooden cupboard.

“You know, Father, my friends would die if they saw this!” Azadeh teased as she set a plastic cup on the lower shelf. “A father doing dishes! What is this world coming to!”

Rassa only smiled, knowing it wasn’t as unusual as Azadeh might think. Once inside the home, the workings of a family were not what they always appeared to be. He also knew that many of the
mutawwa
who strolled through the village with their black sticks and frowns were more henpecked at home than they would have ever admitted.

Azadeh began to prattle as they worked. She would complete her final year of school in a few weeks, and she could talk of little else. “Father, might I one day go down to
El-hiram
to the School of the Masters?” she asked again. “That is where you went to the university, Father. Might I go there, too?”

Rassa lifted an eyebrow. “What have I always said?” he answered slowly.

“But I, too, am a Pahlavi, Father, same as you! Great-granddaughter of the shah. I need a good education! And I am capable . . . .” Her voice trailed off. She wanted to be careful. “Sometimes I think, Father, that even now I know as much as my teachers do!”

Rassa smiled. It probably was true. “
Insha’allah
,
”
he replied.

Azadeh frowned in frustration. That’s what he always said. But she knew not to push it. She was young, but not foolish, and she knew when to hold her tongue.

He leaned closer to her. “How are your English lessons with Omar’s son coming?” he asked in careful voice.

“He says I am his best student,” she answered in a whisper. Both of them knew the danger of learning English, and they couldn’t help but glance toward the windows.

“Hmmm,” Rassa seemed to think. “And do you find your teacher . . . acceptable?” he asked.

Azadeh looked away. They had talked about this so many times before.

Rassa waited, hoping for something more, then moved to the worn vinyl couch, pulled out a book he had already read a dozen times and started to read it once again.

Azadeh watched him, then moved toward her bedroom. “Think about the School of the Masters!” she called over her shoulder as she turned the light off in the hall.

* * *

The night fell cold and dark with a steady drizzle that seemed to soak up the light. The quarter moon, low and yellow, was completely hidden above the thick clouds, and the wind blew in sudden gusts, pushing the drizzle through the trees.

The stranger waited in the darkness beyond the lights that fell from the house. He watched them from the shadows, peering through the window while stomping his feet impatiently. He had killed their dog already and he smiled as he remembered the wet cut of the knife across the mangy dog’s throat.

The first kill of the nighttime. Other kills lie ahead.

“
That is fine. Take your time,
” the dark voice whispered in his head. “
I have prepared you for this moment. Now you must do as I say!
”

“I will, Master Mayhem,” the slender man cried. “I promise, Master Mayhem, just tell me what to do.”

The angry voice hissed inside him, dark, evil and mean. An agreement had been made between them. Now it was time to act.

The man hunched in the shadows, rainwater dripping off his hair and down his neck to soak the thin shirt on his back. His face was thin and hungry, his eyes dark and narrow. His nose flared with each breath, misting the air. He waited, then started humming an old chant from many centuries before, an oath of the dark ones who ruled the earth with blood and terror. His eyes glinted, cold and dark in the freezing rain. He was nearly mad, almost drooling, completely out of his head.

But the dark spirit that possessed him didn’t care about his weakened state of mind. Would he do what he was commanded? That was all he cared about now.

* * *

The hours passed and eventually the house fell dark and silent. The rain stopped, the clouds broke, and the dull moon emerged overhead. Still the man waited, his legs cramped, his feet cold, his hands numb and clammy inside his coat pockets. He fingered the knife as he waited. The entire village was silent. “
It is time,
” the voice inside him finally said.

The man emerged from the shadows and moved silently toward the house. He approached the back door, staying near the shadows of the trees that lined the courtyard. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he saw well enough without using any light. Stepping over the dead dog, he moved to the back door.

It was open. He knew it would be. No one locked their doors in the village. He cracked the door, then waited, listening in the dark. He pushed another inch and waited, then stuck his head inside.

A fire was burning in the oil heater and the room was almost steamy warm. A small light glowed from the other end of the hallway, casting long shadows across the kitchen. He sniffed the air and listened. He must be careful. He must not fail.

“
Kill it
. . .
kill it
. . .,” the chant started inside his head. “
Kill it . . . she will hurt us! Kill it! We want her dead!
”

The man stood without moving, only his head and shoulders inside the house, then slowly pushed the door back and stepped into the room. He pulled the knife from its sheath and, even in the dark, the nine-inch blade glistened red with the dog’s blood. He tried to wipe it off, but it was dry, so he licked the blade to wet it, then wiped it on his pants as he stepped toward the hall.

“
Kill it! Kill it!
” the voices kept chanting in his head. “
Kill her. Take her. Feel the warmth of flowing blood!
”

The man narrowed his eyes and kept on walking. “Lucifer,” he whispered without realizing it.

He stopped at the first door in the hall and held his breath. Which was the father’s bedroom? Which was the girl’s? He had to get it right. Pressing his ear against the door, he listened, but didn’t hear anything. The light shone from the end of the hall, a small bulb glowing yellow, and he turned and walked toward it with light feet. A single 20-watt bulb burned in the bathroom and he quietly pushed the button to turn it off. Thick darkness enveloped the interior of the house and he waited without moving until his eyes had adjusted once again, then moved back toward the first bedroom. He sucked in a breath and held it, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved the doorknob. The door creaked as he pushed it open just an inch. Inside, he could hear the man breathing, deep and heavy. He slowly pulled the door closed and moved to the bedroom down the hall.

He held the knife ready, then placed his hand on the handle, turned it gently and pushed the door back. The room was dimly lit from a nightlight on the other side of the small bed. He listened, then moved inside the room, holding the knife in both hands.