Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 (92 page)

He leaned toward the king, searching for any signs of hesitation. “You will do this?” he demanded.

“I swear that I will.”

“You swear it on our oath?”

“I swear it on my blood. The blood of my father. The blood of us all.”

The old man gestured toward the chamber where the king’s younger brothers were waiting. “You swear it on
their
blood!”

The king didn’t hesitate. Instead, he moved toward the old man and took him in his arms. Locking his hands behind the old man’s back, he squeezed tight, whispering the cold oaths in his ear.

The old man listened, then stepped back. Staring at the king, he pressed his dry lips in a cynical smile.

The king thought he understood all of the oaths that he had breathed. But the truth was, he didn’t. He hardly understood them at all. He was nothing but a mortal; he could never really know.

But the old man knew. He knew how important it was to hide their counsels from the Light. He knew how much the darkness was needed for their work. He knew that the source of the oaths stretched beyond the boundaries of time.

King Al-Rahman was not the first to share in the oaths and he would not be the last, but like all of the others who had known them, he had an exaggerated expectation of the part he would play. Yes, he was important, but how crucial could
one man
really be? Like all of the others, he would play his part and then fall away, his body placed in the ground to mold into rot.

Fools!
the old man thought in disgust. Arrogant, suffering, self-important fools! They actually thought that they mattered. Short-sighted, condemned fools!

The old man hid his disgust behind a blank face as he studied the king. Was this man worthy? Was he ready? Yes, he thought he was. How many of his family had he already killed? His father. His older brother. His brother’s children and wives. All of them were dead now.

No, that was not right. There was one, a young child, who had escaped.

But they would find him. They
had
to find him. And they would kill him when they did.

The old man smiled.

It was time to spread the cult. He patted the young king on his shoulder. “You know what to do,” he said.

The king swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against his tight throat.

The old man leaned toward him, his breath as dry as death. “The final attack, the most powerful devastation, is just a few hours away. You absolutely have to do this before your brothers find out what you’ve done. Some of them will help you. Some of them
are like you.
Go. Find out which of them are going to join you. Then take care of the rest.”

The king frowned and started walking toward his brothers down the hall. He tried to keep his step up, but his feet still seemed to drag. He felt so empty and lonely, so frustrated and cold. He wanted to get it over with. He was growing weary of this war.

The old man watched, reading the look on his face. He called out, “King Abdullah.”

The king stopped and turned around.

“After this thing against America, you know the next step, don’t you?”

The king stared, his face blank.

“Your filthy half-brothers, all those Shia, they will have to be put in their place. Claiming the authority of Allah when we all know that Ali, their first leader, was nothing more than a filthy liar. They’ve become chaotic and impossible, a pox upon you all. Your job won’t be over until we’ve taken care of them as well.”

The king took a step back. Yes, it was true he hated the Shia; he’d hated them since he was just a child. Every Sunni hated Shia.
Ahl al bayt. “People of the house [of the prophet]
” was their claim. How insulting! How absurd! All of them were liars and imposters.

But they were also Muslim brothers!

His heart sank again.

“How far—how long will this go on?” he muttered desperately, the hopeless thought escaping his lips before he could call the words back.

The old man considered the question, then smiled a wicked grin. “All the way,” he answered softly. “All the way until the end.”

They stood in the foyer on the first floor of the public housing building, a dreary high-rise identical to the four dozen other buildings around it. A blight on the city for more than three generations, the complex of poverty might have been the pride of some government bureaucrat back when it was built in 1960, but it was nothing but a fester of drugs, violence and criminal activity now.

In the lounge, six men spread out on a pair of stained couches, cooking heroin, playing cards, and calling filthy names to every girl who walked by. One of them tossed a knife, dropping it again and again on the floor, the curved tip sticking through the soiled carpet to the floorboard underneath. Another cleaned his gun, a Saturday Night Special with the serial number filed off. A Chicago Housing Authority security officer stood near the front door. The men seemed to ignore him, and he ignored them as well. A long-standing agreement stood between them: He looked away; they cut him in on the action. Sometimes they paid in cash, sometimes in women.

Almost every night since the nuclear detonation in Washington, D.C., there had been riots in the ghetto, but the police had finally retaken control and the smell of pepper spray had begun to dissipate, though a faint whiff of smoke still drifted in the air. To the men’s right, one of the elevator doors was jammed open—it had been a long time since it had worked—and the other elevator door opened and closed with regularity as it moved the building occupants up and down.

Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi stood before the older woman. It was the first time in her life she had ever seen a black woman this close, and she couldn’t help but stare at her beautiful skin. The woman’s hair was braided and wrapped in silver beads. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, but they smiled with a dazzle that somehow made Azadeh feel good. Azadeh was taller than the other woman by an inch or two, but both were slender and small-boned. Each of them fidgeted anxiously as they studied each other.

Then, without any apparent reason, the black woman broke into a smile. Leaning toward Azadeh, she pulled her close and held her a moment longer than two strangers would have normally embraced.

Mary Shaye Dupree, the older woman, pulled back. “Welcome, Azadeh,” she said.

Azadeh bowed, an overly dramatic move that bent her almost in half. “Miss Dupree,” she answered, her English almost perfect, at least these few words, for she had practiced the introduction a hundred times. “My name is Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi. Thank you for inviting me here.”

The woman smiled again, white teeth and full lips. “You call me Mary, or Mary Shaye, but not Miss Dupree, all right?”

Azadeh nodded slowly. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

“Not ma’am, now. It’s just Mary.”

Azadeh nodded. “Just Mary,” she repeated, her face growing confused.

The black woman laughed, then lifted a small present she held in her hand. “I got this for you, Azadeh. It isn’t much.” She hesitated, gesturing to the crumbling surroundings around her. “I don’t have much, you understand, but I wanted to give you something.”

Azadeh stared at the gift, her eyes growing bright. She had been given a gift only one other time in her entire life and, thinking of the golden headband her father had given her on her eighteenth birthday, she shuddered. She thought of the night on the mountain, the night she had been driven from her home, the rain that turned to snow, the cold, being lost, the hopelessness and despair. She thought of her father and the stranger, and how the precious gift had reappeared. She trembled as she remembered, then turned toward Mary. “For me?” she asked haltingly. “But Miss Dupree—Mary, I don’t have you anything.”

“That’s OK, baby. I didn’t expect you to.”

“For me? You are certain?” Azadeh repeated.

“Yes. For you, baby. But don’t get your hopes up, it isn’t much, all right.”

Azadeh bowed again. “Thank you, Miss Dupree.” She spoke slowly and carefully, struggling to pronounce every word.

Mary Dupree reached out and lifted the young woman, tugging on her shoulders. “You don’t do that,” she told her. “Don’t you bow to me. You’ve got no reason to bow to anyone. You understand me, girl?”

Azadeh nodded, though she didn’t. She didn’t understand at all. Mary Dupree might as well have been asking her to quit breathing as to ask her not to bow. She had been bowing at the waist since she was a little girl. Her father had insisted. It was how it was done. “Persians are gracious people,” he had told her. “We are not too proud to bow.”

She stared blankly at Mary, her mind racing, suddenly confused. “Yes,” was all she answered.

Mary nodded, watching Azadeh’s face closely, then pointed to herself and said, “Mary, OK? You call me Mary. And you don’t bow to me. I’m not your master. I’m your mother now—‍”

Azadeh took a sudden breath. She had never had a mother, not since the day she was born. It was a nice thought, and she appreciated it, but this woman would never be her mother, no matter how she tried.

Mary continued to watch her closely. “I understand,” she said as if she had read Azadeh’s mind. “Maybe not your mother. But that’s OK. I’ll be something. We’ll worry about that later.” She nodded to the present. “Go ahead,” she said.

Azadeh glanced at the small gift. Mary followed her eyes. “Really, it isn’t very much,” she repeated. “I get along, but it isn’t like, you know, the good Lord has blessed me in many ways, but not with a lot of money. I mean, look at this place.” She tilted her head toward her surroundings, the peeled wallpaper, the cracked linoleum, the dirty floor.

Azadeh looked around. “It is beautiful,” she said.

Mary stared, then broke into a smile. Could she be serious? Could this be beautiful to Azadeh? Could this place be that much better than the place she had left?

The look on Azadeh’s face assured her it was.

Oh, girl
, Mary thought,
where did you come from? What was it like over there?
She pressed her lips together, then again nodded to the present. “Open it,” she said.

Azadeh lifted the small package. It was wrapped with plain white typing paper and tied with a small bow made of blue string. She carefully pulled back the paper, taking her time so as not to tear it, then pulled out a small velvet box. Mary smiled as she watched her, almost squealing with anticipation. Azadeh sensed her excitement and started bouncing, moving from one foot to the other.

She flipped the velvet lid open. It contained a small silver ring. No stone or other ornament, just a simple silver band.

Mary lifted her own finger to show an identical ring on her right hand. “Twinners,” she said happily.

Azadeh hesitated. She didn’t understand the word, but she clearly got the meaning. And Mary’s excitement was infectious. Azadeh couldn’t help but laugh. Gently she pulled the ring out of the velvet box, glanced to Mary’s hand to check which finger she wore it on, then pushed the silver ring onto her pinky finger too.

She looked up and smiled. “Thank you,” she said.

Mary nodded, clearly very pleased with herself. “You’re welcome, Azadeh,” she answered, nodding at the open box again.

Azadeh looked down and noticed a piece of paper tucked inside. Lifting it, she unfolded the paper and spread it out. Mary looked away for a quick moment, seemingly embarrassed. “I didn’t do all that good in school,” she said in a soft voice. “It’s not like I’m a famous poet or anything. But sometimes I write. Sometimes it’s the only way I have of expressing myself. I wanted to tell you something and this seemed to be the best way.”

Azadeh looked at the quarter-sheet of paper and started reading slowly. The script was small and written in a delicate hand.

Your mother kissed your soft skin

Before God called her home to rest

Now at night I’ll kiss your forehead

And try to do my best

Because she’s watching from the heavens

Hoping I can fill her part

So I will love you like your mother

And mend your broken heart

Azadeh finished the poem and then just stared at the paper, keeping her face toward the floor. When she looked up, she smiled weakly.

“I know it’s no good,” Mary explained shyly. “I only wrote it last night. I could do better if I had more time. But, I don’t know, it seemed to say what I wanted it to. I just hope you understand.”

Azadeh nodded. “Thank you, Mary.”

Mary nodded. Azadeh smiled again, her dark eyes wide. Looking at her, Mary realized once again how startlingly beautiful she was. She moved toward her, took her by the shoulders, and looked into her face. She studied the dark hair flowing out from under the scarf, then moved her gaze down to the beautiful eyes and soft skin. The oval face. Thin arms and slender fingers. “Oh no, child,” she muttered as she stared. “This isn’t good. Not good at all.” Glancing over her shoulder, she shot a deadly look at the men who were lounging on the filthy couches. “We’re going to have to be careful, Azadeh. Really careful. Understand?”

Once again Azadeh had no idea what she was talking about.

Mary stared at her another moment, then took her by the hand, moved to the elevator, and punched the button for the fifth floor. “Come on,” she said. “Let me show you your new home.”

* * *

Mary led Azadeh into the apartment. The young girl carried two worn pieces of luggage—one over her shoulder, the other one in her hand. Together they contained everything she possessed in the world. Reaching toward her, Mary took the bags and placed them on the floor as they passed through the front door.

The apartment was warm and clean. A small window over the kitchen sink looked out on the next high-rise building and a narrow alley five floors below. The furniture was worn and covered in assorted brown fabrics, none of which really matched. The linoleum was clean and slippery from polish, the kitchen chairs chrome with plastic coverings, the kitchen table just large enough for two people. The entire apartment smelled like cinnamon and coffee, and Azadeh drew a deep breath as she walked in.