Yet Rassa was not like them. He was neither fat nor discontented. And he was certainly unafraid.
Still, it appeared there was no turning back of the clock. The age of Greater Persia had passed. The rule of Pahlavi was gone. The timing of his birth had ensured that he would live his life in the mountains, herding sheep and plowing fields, and never sit on a throne.
It seemed ironic to Rassa that so much was left up to fate. Fate and the Master. Timing and place. They could all be so cruel, the young man had learned.
But still, life was good. Rassa said those words to himself every day. It wasn’t perfect; there was sadness; and no, he was not a prince; but that was all right; it didn’t matter anymore. Life was always worth living. And worth passing on.
And on this night, at this time, that was his only concern. His young wife. And their child. That was all that mattered to him now.
Rassa Ali Pahlavi, twenty-six and broad-shouldered, walked along the narrow trail that led through the trees, away from his village. Twilight fell quickly, and the shadows under the canopy grew dark as he walked. The jungle of trees along his path formed a perfect canopy over his head, and the air was musky and wet, almost salty from the wind blowing in from his back. Behind him, the briny salt flats ran parallel to the shore of the Arabian Sea, some twenty-one kilometers to the west, and the evening air carried the smell of salt water and decaying brine shrimp. The terrain between his village and the sea was steep and rugged, with narrow valleys and foothills rising from sea level to meet the peaks of the great Zagros Mountains, which acted as a barrier to the mighty storms that rolled in from the Persian Gulf, a wall over which the clouds couldn’t climb without dumping their load, leaving the valleys on the west side of the mountains rich and green and fertile and wet.
As Rassa moved off the trail and out from under the trees, the evening light broke through. He climbed a grassy embankment that looked over his village, a neat square of squat, clay houses, wood fences, and tidy courtyards surrounded by brick walls. The barnyards were filled with white and brown goats, dark-skinned children, gnarled plum and fig trees, and tangled grapevines, a hundred years old. To his back, the mountain rose above his village, marked by rich green grass and gray rock, with tiny pockets of snow in the highest crevasses left behind from the winter snows. The terrain sloped up to the mountain from his village in a near perfect half-bowl, rising ever more steeply until it merged with the rocks. An enormous wedge of granite, like a huge piece of rock pie, jutted at the peak of the mountain, almost twelve thousand feet up. Lower, on the southern tip of the bowl, a thick forest lay, with large oaks and tall pines swaying in the night, side by side.
Standing atop the rolling crown of the hill that looked over his village, the young Persian looked back to the west where the sun was now low, a deep orb of red on the distant horizon. He could see the haze and humidity rising off the warm waters of the Persian Gulf. The sun soaked through the wet air, blood red and warm.
Blood red and warm. Yes. That was right. Blood red and warm. Like the birth of his child.
Rassa thought of his wife, a woman he loved more than he loved himself, more than he wished to live. She was young; she was beautiful; she was everything to him. And as he stood there in silence thinking of her young face and anguished cries, as he pictured the consternation in the midwife’s dark eyes and the feel of her arms pushing him toward the gate, he felt a shudder run through him, and the sickness rose again.
His child was coming. On this night, it would be born.
Then he fell, his knees buckling, his arms heavy and weak. He put his hands together and bowed until his forehead touched the dirt.
He hunched there, unmoving, as the evening grew quiet and still.
Then he sensed it, a feeling, an emotion, he had not felt before, a peace, unexplained, from somewhere deep in his soul. And from his perch on the mountain looking down on his world, he felt a deep calm spreading over him. Then he heard the voice speaking as if to his very soul.
It was silent and peaceful, and he knew it was God.
“This thing that is about to happen, know that it is my will.”
Rassa gasped, his heart pounding, his chest tight as wire.
Then he held his breath and listened to hear the cry of his child.
* * *
Standing behind Elizabeth was the great gate that she had to walk through. It was wide and tall and made of ancient stone, heavy and beaten by the passage of men and time. Beyond the gate, a narrow pathway led down a long, winding trail that was covered with huge trees and tangled with deep brush. The path descended and grew dark and seemed to disappear in a mist. She turned and took a step toward it, and the mist seemed to grow darker and even more thick.
She turned back, facing the women who accompanied her to this entrance to the path, and she felt her heart break with the pain of saying good-bye.
If she could just know, if she could just be assured that she could come back one day. But there was so much uncertainty. Nothing was sure. So many had failed. Might she fail too?
“Remember,” one of the women said, “this is the same plan our Parents experienced. And even though it will be painful, it will also be filled with joy.” Her eyes were moist, her face tender and yet also assured, perfect in the knowledge that this had to be. “This is the only source of true and eternal joy,” she added.
“I want to stay with you,” Elizabeth whispered, looking from one face to another. “I want to stay with all of you.” Then she broke into tears and fell into the arms of the woman closest to her.
“We will miss you,” the woman whispered. “We love you. But it is time to go. But return! We will be waiting for you.”
Elizabeth pulled away and stared into her eyes. “You are ready,” the woman whispered. “Now it is time. You must go.”
Elizabeth turned, feeling the pull of the gate and the pathway beyond. It waited, dim but promising, and she felt a quick shiver of both excitement and fear. So many she had loved had already passed through this gate, and she wanted to join them, to be with them. She felt a yearning, a tugging, to start her mission too.
Teancum stood off to one side, quietly waiting.
“I really want to follow Jehovah.” Her voice tore in her throat.
“He has shown you the way.”
“But I feel weak already.”
“Sometimes he felt that way too. But you will find strength inside you. You are stronger, much stronger, than you have ever conceived.”
“But there are times I might fail.”
“Then he will carry you.”
Elizabeth dropped her eyes. “I will try to be good.”
Teancum smiled gently, then took her hands and held them in a final good-bye.
Elizabeth pulled away, turning slowly to the Father, saving that farewell for last. He stepped forward and placed his hand on her shoulder, then leaned toward her, embraced her, and gently kissed her brow.
She took a quick breath and held it. She pressed her cheek against his chest and thought of a lifetime of his expressions of love and confidence, a lifetime of his promises that he would always be there for her.
Finally she swallowed, mouthed farewell, and turned for the gate. She took a step toward it, and the veil became whisper thin. She stood there a moment, a look of pain on her face, then turned back suddenly. “I know my mother will suffer to bring me into the world. She suffers even now. I feel it in my soul.”
“She will know of your true gratitude for the gift of life that she gives,” one of the women said.
“But how? How will she know?”
“She will see it the first time she looks into your eyes. She will see it and know the first time she sees you smile. She will know that you love her long before you can speak, for the Spirit will whisper your feelings to her when she sings to you in the dark. And one day, Elizabeth, you will know too. One day when you are a mother, you will catch a tiny memory of this time, and from somewhere inside you, you will know that y
our child loves you too.
“Now go. It is time. Time to step into the storm.”
She took the Father’s hand and squeezed it, then took a deep breath. “I’m ready,” she answered as she turned back to the gate.
But before she passed through, something else caught her eye, and she paused and looked through the veil that separated the worlds.
She saw her mortal father there, in the distance, a long way away. She smiled as she watched him, looking into his eyes. He watched her and gasped, as if she read his mind. She nodded to him in answer, then stepped through the gate.
* * *
The night fell. Rassa kept his head low in prayer, and it seemed to him almost as if time stood still. He wasn’t asleep, but he saw it as if it were a dream. The vision was bright, but still misty, as if he were watching through a great gulf of distance and time. He saw shimmering stairs, wide and gentle, leading to an enormous stone gate, a pathway winding to his left, and a row of tall, silver trees, glistening as if from a heavy rain. There was a dazzling light, bright like the sun, and he had to cover his eyes. And it all seemed so close. He almost reached out his hand.
A girl stood alone on the stairs. He saw the white dress, the dark hair, the thin arms and soft skin. Her eyes danced, and he saw the anticipation and excitement shining through. He almost gasped, and he shivered. She was so beautiful!
He watched her intently. Did she know he was there? Did she see him too?
She lowered her gaze and took a careful step toward the gate, a gaping hole leading to some unknown world. She paused and trembled, and then Rassa understood. She was excited, but scared, maybe even terrified. Yet she continued moving forward, unwavering, committed, so strong and sure!
And as he watched he felt a great urge to speak; he wanted to call to her. He opened his mouth, but his voice didn’t come.
But he knew, somewhere inside him, he knew that this was his child!
He didn’t understand how he knew it, but he knew it was true.
“This is your child!”
He trembled as he watched her move.
Then she stopped and glanced toward him and slowly lifted her head. She stared through the distance, looking into his eyes, then smiled and nodded to him. “Yes, it is true!”
He started and gasped. It was a moment of joy so intense, so powerful, so pure, he almost could not breathe.
She nodded to him, then glanced over her shoulder and waved to an unseen presence there. She turned back to him and smiled, then stepped through the stone gate.
* * *
Rassa felt his chest tighten and a rush of blood flow to his head. A shadow fell over him, and the enormous space between them seemed to grow suddenly more vast and powerful, a billion miles, a billion days. The vision faded quickly and soon it was gone.
Rassa found himself kneeling in the darkness, his head touching the ground. The night had settled around him, and the hilltop was dark. The evening wind blew, chill and dry from the mountain, and he felt a cold shiver run up his spine.
He didn’t move, his eyes closed, his head touching the soft grass. Finally, he took a deep breath, bringing himself back to this world, then pushed himself to his feet and turned and ran through the night down the hill.
Chapter Five
Rassa Pahlavi ran through the streets of his village toward his home. The half-moon had climbed and was now a burnt orb in the eastern sky, just barely above the rocky peaks of the mountains. The air was calm, the sky was crystal clear, and the stars were shining brightly, for it was almost midnight. Dogs barked as he passed, and he could hear the sheep bells sounding from the pastures to the east; but the baked brick and stone streets were deserted and dark.
He paused on the cement step outside his front door, then let himself in. He walked through the simple kitchen, past a set of wooden chairs and an old table, a worn vinyl couch and small TV, then stopped at the door to his bedroom and listened. He could hear movement and the sound of water being poured into a steel basin, then laughter, then hushed voices, then the cry of a child. He bowed his head and took a breath, then pushed the door open.
Sashajan was sitting on their bed holding their child in her arms. He moved quickly to her. Her face, though drawn and weary, could not hold back her joy as she leaned to the side, her cheeks touching the top of her daughter’s soft hair. The midwife worked around them, cleaning and preparing the sheets for the crib. Rassa glanced to her as she pulled a clean cotton cloth across a small mattress and placed it inside the wicker bed, a homemade crib Rassa had constructed from dry reeds and cattails he had pulled from the banks of the small stream that ran through the center of the village. He caught her eye and mouthed a quick “thank you,” then turned back to his wife and child.
Sashajan smiled, her dark eyes beaming brightly. She drew a contented breath and held out her hand. 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 O, her hands clenched into tight fists at her chest, as if she were bracing for some unseen blow. She was wrapped in a soft 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 pearl in her hair.
As the young parents stared at the baby, neither of them spoke, and 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, even apologetic, knowing it was a wife’s duty to produce a fine son.
Rassa stared at the child. “Yes, I already know.”
Sashajan began to question, then glanced nervously at 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 tips 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 that surpassed the boundaries of their culture, the boundaries of their people’s traditions or time.
Rassa stared at the infant who slept at Sashajan’s breast and thought again of the vision he had witnessed, then he reached down and gently placed his hands under the child, lifting her carefully and pulling her into his arms. The baby remained still as he bent and whispered quietly into her ear. “I witness that there is no god but Allah, and I witness that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.” The call to prayer, sacred and holy, words of the prophet himself. It was the desire of all Muslims that these would be the first words a child would hear from her father’s mouth, as well as the last words she would utter before death. Rassa repeated the testimony, “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. She felt as 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 barely able to extend around his finger. Then she opened her eyes and stared at him blankly, her eyes 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 inside her head. Did she understand things; did she remember things she could not talk about? Is that why God made his infants unable to communicate? Did a child only watch and learn, or did she already know? Was she learning or forgetting during these first moments on earth?
Sashajan watched Rassa, then moved closer to her child. The tiny baby 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?” Sashaja
n cried in delight. “She smiled at me. I know she did.”
Rassa didn’t answer, and Sashajan glanced toward him. “Do you think she knows that I’m her mother?” she asked.
Rassa answered slowly. “I don’t know, Sashajan. I really don’t know.”
Sashajan lifted her finger to touch her new baby’s cheek. Rassa watched her a moment, then lifted the child to his face. “I saw you,” he whispered, dropping his mouth to her neck, feeling the softness and warmth of her flesh against his lips. “I saw you, my child; but I do not understand. Where did you come from? Where did you live before? I have never been taught that! I do not understand.”
Sashajan glanced up, a questioning look in her eyes. “Rassa,” she asked him, “what are you talking about?”
Rassa looked at his wife. She looked so young and so small, as if she had shrunk from the experience of delivering their child. She was pale and shaking, and Rassa knew she was weak. He turned back to their child. “We will call her Azadeh Ishbel,” he announced. “Freedom is my oath to God.” He lifted the tiny girl in his arms, offering her to the heavens. “Azadeh, we will call you. That will be your name.”
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.”
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