Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (7 page)

Sashajan smiled, her dark eyes beaming brightly. She drew a contented breath, then held out her hand and Rassa touched her fingers lightly as he sat on the edge of the bed. The smell of talcum powder and olive oil rose from his new baby’s body. The child was sleeping, her lips puckered into a tiny circle, her hands clenched into tight fists at her chest, as if she were bracing from some unseen blow. She was wrapped in a cotton blanket, her legs tucked tightly against her body. Her head was covered in dark hair, thin as silk, and the midwife had already pinned a tiny white ribbon on the crown of her head.

The young parents stared at the baby. Neither one of them spoke. Rassa felt a shiver run through him as the peaceful feeling settled again.

Sashajan looked at him, thirteen hundred years of tradition pressing heavily on her mind. “You have a daughter,” she said, her voice quiet and apologetic. It was, after all, a wife’s duty to produce a fine son.

Rassa stared at the child, thinking of the vision he had seen. “Yes, I know,” was all he said.

Sashajan began to question, then glanced nervously to the midwife, who had stopped her work and placed her hands on her hips, ready to defend the young mother if Rassa were so foolish as to say the wrong thing. Sashajan turned from the midwife and dropped her dark eyes. “You wanted a son!” she said simply.

“No!” Rassa answered. “I want
this
child.”

Sashajan looked up quickly, her eyes filled with relief. She squeezed the tip of his fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered. There was far more meaning in her expression than most could understand, for it was a seal of their commitment, a commitment which surpassed the boundaries of their culture, the boundaries of their people’s traditions or time.

Rassa stared at the infant that slept at Sashajan’s breast. Reaching down, he lifted her carefully and pulled her into his arms. The baby remained still, and he bent and whispered quietly into her ear. “
I witness that there is no god but Allah, and I witness that Mohammad is the messenger of Allah.
” Words from Mohammad himself. It was the desire of all Muslims that these would be the first words a child would hear from their father’s mouth as well as the last words that they would utter or hear before death. Rassa repeated, “
I witness that there is no god but Allah
,” then pulled his head back to look into his child’s face.

She slept peacefully, taking shallow breaths, light as a bird sleeping in the palm of his hand. He placed his little finger inside her palm and the baby girl instinctively grasped it, her tiny fingers unable to extend around his finger. Then she opened her eyes and stared at him blankly. Her eyes were dark and deep, her face calm and unmoving, as if she were intent on keeping her thoughts to herself. Rassa stared at her and wondered how much was going on inside her head? Did she understand things . . . did she remember things? Is that why God made His infants unable to communicate? Did a child only watch and learn, or did they already know? Was she learning or forgetting during these first few days on earth?

Sashajan watched Rassa, then moved closer to her child. The infant turned toward her and it seemed that she smiled. Her lips turned upward, her eyes brightened, and her face seemed to beam. “Did you see that, Rassa!” Sashajan cried in delight, “she smiled at me, Rassa. I know that she did.”

Rassa didn’t answer and Sashajan glanced toward him. “Do you think she knows I’m her mother?” she asked.

Rassa answered slowly. “I don’t know, Sashajan.”

Sashajan lifted her finger to touch her new baby’s cheek. Rassa watched her a moment, then lifted the child to his face. He dropped his mouth to her neck, feeling the softness and warmth of her flesh on his lips. “I saw you,” he whispered so that Sashajan couldn’t hear. “But where did you come from? I do not understand.”

Sashajan glanced up, a questioning look in her eyes. “Rassa?” she asked him, “what are you saying?”

Rassa looked at his wife. She looked so young and so small, as if she had shrunken from the experience of delivering their child. She was pale and shaking, and Rassa knew that she was weak. He turned back to his child. “We will call her Azadeh Ishbel,” he announced, lifting her to present her to the heavens. “
Freedom is my oath to God
.”

Sashajan leaned forward and placed her head next to his. “‘
Freedom is my oath to God
.’ Yes, Rassa, that is a good name. There is something about her—it seems to fit her perfectly.”

Rassa smiled. “She is beautiful. She is Azadeh. Thanks be to God.” He lowered his arms and kissed the infant’s brow and she unconsciously tightened her lips into another tight circle. “Azadeh, I love you,” he whispered as he placed the child in her mother’s arms. “And though I don’t understand where you came from, still I welcome you here.”

* * *

Before she left, the midwife pulled Rassa into the next room and spoke to him in a low voice.

“It was a difficult birth,” she said wearily. “She is young, but not strong. It was very hard for her.”

Rassa looked worried. “What do I do?” he asked anxiously.

“Let her rest. Keep her warm.
Don’t
let her out of bed. I will come by first thing in the morning and see how she is.”

Rassa felt his knees weaken. “She will be fine, though?” he asked anxiously.

“
Insha’allah.
” “If God wills it.”

The midwife studied the deep worry lines on Rassa’s face, then patted his arm, her hands heavy and strong. “I have seen many women worse,” she offered as she gathered her things. “Birth and death. Death and birth. The cycle of life carries on. Who are we to intervene in the will of God? But she is young and there is no reason to assume she will not mend in the next day or two. But she needs time to rest and recover from all the life she has lost. I can’t do that for her, Rassa, and neither can you. But if you let her rest and keep her warm, she will be fine, I am sure.”

Rassa swallowed hard. The midwife swept through the room one final time, then her work was complete, she let herself out the door.

Rassa returned to the bedroom. Sashajan opened her eyes as he walked in. “We are a family,” he muttered as he sat beside her on the bed. “God has blessed us. We have reason to rejoice.”

Sashajan nodded wearily. “I love you, Rassa,” she whispered as he gently stroked her hair. She fell asleep almost instantly. Rassa sat on the bed and held her hand as the child, wrapped in her soft cotton blanket, slept at her side. Sashajan eventually rolled away from him and he tucked the covers around her back, then placed the baby beside her so that she could nurse. For a long moment he watched them by the moonlight, the night so quiet that he could hear Azadeh breathe.

He was a man. He had a daughter and a beautiful wife. And one day he was certain that he would also have a son.

Life wasn’t perfect, but on this night at least, it was very good.

After some time, Rassa moved away from the bed, stripped off his clothes and pulled on a nightshirt. Moving carefully, he lay down close to the child, eager to keep her warm against the cool mountain air. As he lay on his back and wearily closed his eyes, he suddenly remembered the silent words again.

“
What is about to happen, know that it is my will.”

He felt his chest tighten and his mouth seemed to grow dry. It was a warning, he realized, and for the first time he grew scared.

He lay tense; his eyes open, staring into the dark, wondering again what God was trying to say. But eventually sleep overcame him and he slept restlessly.

He woke at the first light of the sun. Moving carefully, he pushed himself out of bed, then turned to look at his wife and daughter. Azadeh was staring at him, her eyes dark and wide. She followed his movements as he walked around the bed. Sashajan was still asleep and he bent carefully to kiss her cheek. It was cold, almost clammy, and he carefully studied her face. Her lips were tight and so dry that they almost looked blue. He placed his hand on her forehead and felt the shiver of cold. He panicked, his heart racing, as he bent to her side. “Sashajan!” he whispered, trying to wake her.

But a blood clot had already lodged firmly in her brain.

She never regained consciousness and by afternoon, she was dead.

* * *

After the spiritual rituals and cleaning of the body had taken place, Rassa led a procession of mourners up a winding, dirt trail. Behind a small hill, ancient stones had been set into the soil in an intricate pattern, establishing the area as holy ground with the same rights and benefits as a mosque. Tucked away in a small dell, the cemetery was a little square of grass completely out of sight from the village. Although it was small and almost 800 years old, there was always enough room for one more. The mountain villagers were practical people, having been taught by hard life, and they accepted death easily. Out of sight, out of mind, was their thinking when it came to their dead and once the mourning was over there was no need to be reminded of those who were no more.

But Rassa wasn’t like his people. And he didn’t accept Sashajan’s death. Like his ancestors, the ancient Persians, he was romantic and soft-hearted, and he missed her so much that his heart ached in his chest, each beat pounding at him like a drum of pain and despair. He hardly saw the sunlight around him, so thick was the blackness inside.

And though he didn’t see it, it was a beautiful day, warm and sunny, with a light breeze from the sea. The sycamore trees were in full color, and the grass was still green and full. In another month, the cemetery would be covered with dead grass and brown plants, but for now it was beautiful, alive and green.

Rassa led the mourners while desperately holding his child. Dressed in a white gown that flowed from her head to her feet, she was a sparkle of light in a sea of black turbans, long robes, dark scarves and long veils.

Rassa laid Sashajan to rest, somehow believing he would see her again, then dropped a handful of dirt on her pine casket and walked away, following the winding path that led to his home.

That night, he held his newborn baby in his arms while feeding her a bottle. She watched him intently and he couldn’t help but smile as she stared into his eyes. “What are you thinking?” he wondered. “What emotions are you hiding behind that deep stare?”

Azadeh looked away, then yawned deeply, clenching her fists to her side. She fell asleep quickly and Rassa held her tight. The house grew quiet and dark, the rocking chair creaking on the wooden floor. Rassa kissed her cheek then sang in her ear:

“The world that I give you

Is not always sunny and bright.

But knowing I love you

Will help make it right.

“So when the dark settles,

And the storms fill the night,

Remember I’ll be waiting

When it comes,

Morning Light.”

* * *

Two weeks after the funeral, Sashajan’s sister came to him and insisted that she be allowed to take the child. “It is not a man’s job to raise her,” she demanded.

Rassa turned away and looked at Azadeh sleeping contentedly in her crib. She had grown full and healthy in her first few days of life and the formula that he fed her seemed to keep her satisfied. He watched her a moment, then shook his head.

Allah had sent her to him. She was all he had left. He would keep her and raise her. It was Allah’s will.

* * *

The next day came and then passed, then another after that. A week, then a month, then another month came and went. It was summer, it was fall. The snows came, and then the spring, then another spring after that.

Rassa fell into a routine. And though he had opportunities to remarry, he never could find the heart, for the image of Sashajan’s face never quite left his dreams. Every year, on the week of the anniversary of her death, he left the child at Sashajan’s sister and disappeared for a day of private mourning. No one knew where he went, though a few of his friends tried to guess, and when he returned he always brought wildflowers, which he placed on her grave.

Azadeh grew into a stunningly beautiful young woman. Rassa continued to love her more than he loved anything, for the emptiness inside him seemed to disappear when she was near.

And the time that passed soon slipped into years.

Eighteen years had passed since the night Major Brighton had stood outside his son’s bedroom door, listening to the frightening wind while fighting the silent fear.

Since that night, he had left his assignment at the White House to lead a fighter squadron in Alaska, came back to Washington, D.C., to be fill the dreaded staff job at the Pentagon, then down to take command of the First Fighter Wing at Langley Air Force Base, where he earned his first star. From Langley, the new general took an assignment at NATO, then back to the Pentagon (very happy that he and Sara had decided to keep the old house), then on to Central Command where he’d overseen aerial operations over Southwest Asia, the most hostile and war-torn region on earth.

The day he earned his second star, he got another call from the White House. A new president had come to power. The president knew of General Brighton.

It was time for him to come back to Washington, D.C.

* * *

Major General Brighton stood at the office window of his home in Chevy Chase, the old plantation house that had been the family home for almost half of his military career. Everything about it was familiar. The smell. The old wood. The creak on the stairs. The slope of the basement floor. Although they had moved every couple years, it seemed they always ended up back here and his family considered the Victorian house to be their permanent home. It was full of happy memories and he was glad to be back in the old house.

He looked out on the city, seeing the glow from the lights on the National Mall, thinking of the huge floodlights that illuminated the grounds around the White House where he worked once again. He had a slightly larger office than he had before, though it was still tiny compared to others he had occupied throughout his military career. The underground parking lot was larger now, the environment more chaotic, the security procedures he had to go through every day far more thorough.