Rassa smiled. “She is beautiful. She is Azadeh. Thanks be to God.” He lowered his arms and kissed the infant’s brow. She unconsciously tightened her lips into another tight O. “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 lowered her 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 to see how she is.”
Rassa felt his knees weaken. “She will be fine, though?” he asked anxiously.
“Insha’allah.” If Allah wills it.
The midwife studied the deep worry lines on Rassa’s face, then patted his arm, her hands heavy and strong. “She will be fine,” she offered as she gathered her things. “I have seen many worse. Birth and death, death and birth, the cycle of life carries on, and who are we to intervene in the will of God? 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, let her sleep, and keep her safe and warm, she will be fine, I am sure.”
Rassa swallowed hard. The midwife swept through the room one final time, then, her work complete, her things gathered, she let herself out the door.
Rassa returned to the bedroom. Sashajan opened her eyes as he walked into the room. “We have a family,” he murmured as he sat by her on the bed. “We are a family. God has blessed us. We have cause 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. For a long moment he stood there and watched them by the light of the moon, a soft, gentle glow that filtered through the window over the bed. The night was so quiet that if he didn’t move 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 was good. It wasn’t perfect, but on this night it was very close.
After some time, Rassa moved away from the bed, stripped off his clothes, and pulled on a long night shirt. Moving carefully, he lay down close to the child, anxious 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.
“This thing that is about to happen, know that it is my will.”
The words seemed to cut, and his heart leaped in his throat. 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 and again what God was trying to say. Eventually sleep overcame him, but he slept restlessly.
He woke early in the morning, at the first light of the sun. Moving carefully, he pushed himself out of bed, then turned to look at wife and daughter again. Azadeh was staring at him, her eyes dark and wide. 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 almost panicked, his heart racing, as he bent to her side. “Sashajan!” he whispered, trying to wake her.
But the blood clot had already lodged firmly in her brain. She never regained consciousness, and by afternoon, she was dead.
* * *
The next day, after the spiritual rituals and time of wailing were through, 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. The nearby cemetery was small and almost eight hundred years old, though the villagers always seemed to find room for one more. Tucked away in a small dell, the cemetery was a little square of grass completely out of sight from the village. The mountain villagers were practical people, having been taught by a hard life, and they accepted death easily. Because of this, they had intentionally placed the cemetery where it couldn’t be seen, for 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. He didn’t accept Sashajan’s death. Like his ancestors, the ancient Persians, he was romantic and soft hearted, and he missed his wife 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.
But 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 bloom, and the grass was green and full. By late summer, the cemetery would be covered with dead grass and brown plants, but for now it was beautiful, alive, and dark green.
Rassa led the mourners while desperately holding his child. Dressed in a white gown that flowed from her neck to her feet, she was a sparkle of brightness in a sea of dark turbans, long robes, black scarves, and 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 and rocked her to sleep. She watched him intently, looking up from his arms, and he couldn’t help smile as she stared into his eyes. “What are you thinking?” he wondered aloud. “What memories and emotions are you hiding behind that deep stare?”
Azadeh looked away, then yawned deeply, clenching her fists to her side. Though she fell asleep quickly, Rassa continued to hold her tight. The house grew quiet and dark, and the rocking chair creaked on the wooden floor. Rassa kissed her cheek softly, 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 offered to take the child. “It is not a man’s job to raise her,” she tried to explain.
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 Rassa fed her seemed to keep her satisfied. He watched her a moment, then shook his head.
Allah had sent Azadeh 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 day after that; a week, then a month, then another month after that. It was summer; it was fall; the snows came, then the spring. A year passed, then another, and the cycle repeated itself.
After a while, 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 anniversary of her death, Rassa left the child with 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 planted on his wife’s grave.
Azadeh grew as time passed, and Rassa continued to love her more than he loved anything, for the emptiness inside him seemed to fill when she was near.
Chapter Six
The war between good and evil had continued on the new battleground, and over time the spirits of darkness had taken a liking to the new place where they fought.
Since the very beginning, Master Balaam, the great teacher who had fallen in the premortal world, had been free to wander and roam, free to tempt, harass, and cause suffering. Those he couldn’t tempt he would try to bring suffering and pain. And like all those who had been cast to earth before the first man was put here, like those who had sacrificed their very salvation for He Who Tells Lies, like those who had been damned to wander, hopeless and furious and alone, Balaam was also hollow and desperate and bitter with wrath. His only pleasure came in raging against that which was good, and he found particular satisfaction in finding and tormenting friends from before, those who had worked for the downfall of his master, which had led to his downfall as well. And Balaam wasn’t alone in this search. Many fallen angels spent their time looking for old friends they had known from the premortal world.
They remembered these old loved ones. And they hated them now to the core.
Through the years, Balaam had claimed many souls—a hundred, a thousand, he really didn’t know, for once he had destroyed them they were quickly forgotten. But through all the centuries Balaam particularly remembered the brothers that had caused him such pain. He knew that they were being saved for the last days, and once the true gospel was restored to the earth he began to search for them.
And when he finally found them, a cold chill ran through his heart.
Though Luke and Ammon had been born into a strong family, he was still optimistic he could lead them to his master, the father of lies. Good old Samuel, on the other hand, hadn’t been as lucky as Ammon and Luke. He was alone—and even better, his father was one of the selfish and lazy who had barely qualified to go to earth.
Balaam’s lips curled upward as he thought about Sam. He would be easy; indeed, he was almost now in his grasp. The other brothers, Luke and Ammon, would be more difficult, but if there was one thing Balaam had learned it was to not to give up. Think of Judas, he said to himself. Think of David; think of a million other souls. Many of the great ones had fallen. Certainly Luke and Ammon were reachable. He and his fellow angels had been destroying God’s children for a very long time now, and they had mastered the art. The fact that the brothers had been saved for the last days only made his task easier. With the world so evil, what chance did they have?
After finding the brothers, Balaam had concentrated on locating their sister, Elizabeth, too, searching the world until he had found her. Now if he could just bring them all to Lucifer, how sweet that would be!
Balaam scowled as he thought of the work he must do.
* * *
During the millennia that had passed since Balaam had been cast down to earth, he had spent his time roaming from one place to another, working to perfect the temptations that could cause men to fail. Through the years, he had seen it all. There was no pain or disappointment, no depravity or torture, no betrayal, hate, or hurt he had not taken part in.
Balaam thought back with pride on what he and his fellow angels had done. He had been there and cheered when Cain had lifted the stone against his brother. He had witnessed Abel’s blood flow and learned the power of greed. Soon after, he and his friends had discovered the astonishing power of lust and its incredible potential to destroy the families of God. It was a short step from lust to far greater sins, and within a short time there was no aberration or depravity they had not introduced to the world. In one particularly brilliant display, Balaam had convinced a young mother to sacrifice her own children to some pagan god, a moment he remembered with particular satisfaction. And the people had called it religion! Even Lucifer had laughed. Balaam then remembered doubling over in laughter in the days of Noah, when the people refused to repent even when faced with enormous floods. How many children had perished, drowned in the flood of their parents’ sins?
Over time, the followers of Satan developed a real love for the blood and horror of war. How many battles had they started—then watched the outcome with glee? Armies were their playthings, the cries of the dying sweet music to their ears, and, in his memory, Balaam could smell the smoke from the fires and the stench of dead flesh. He could hear the cries of broken mothers when their children were tortured or taken as slaves.
Then, on a warm night in April, Satan and his followers had screamed with rage as the angels sang together, giving praise to their God.
Christ had been born in a stable. Their mortal enemy had arrived.
Later, when the darkness fell over Gethsemane, they had watched in despair as Christ paid the price of all sins, buying the redemption they could no longer have. Time had stopped, and they quivered as he groaned from the weight. His head bowed, the angels waited, and the blood seeped from his pores. How long it had lasted, none of them knew, but when it finally ended they knew the war had been lost.
The moment brought such a fury from their master that he almost went mad. In his unspeakable wrath, he reached out to strike back in the only way he knew how. He whispered his promptings in the ears of the soldiers, inciting blood lust against the Christ. Then he stood back and mocked when Christ was placed upon the cross, the skies growing dark as he danced in glee on the hill.
But after two days of storms, the morning dawned bright and clear. Christ emerged from the tomb, and the sun rose again.
* * *
As Balaam thought back on the time he had been condemned to wander the earth, he looked around, taking in all the changes he had seen in his day. He had seen great civilizations rise and fall and great rivers change their courses. He had seen deserts grow out of marshlands and the seas flood their coast. He had seen many changes. The earth was now growing old. And the day was soon coming when the King would return.
Balaam shook his head in anger, his dark eyes burning bright, then snarled in fury, a hot stench of dead breath. He thought of the young ones he had been looking for, then turned to look for his master. Time was growing short, and they had much to do.
* * *
Balaam found Lucifer in a dark room, casting his temptations over his flock, draping them in a cold and passionless blanket of sin and despair. He approached the Master carefully, bowing almost to the floor. “Master,” he whispered in a cowering voice.
“Yes!” Lucifer demanded as Balaam crawled to his side.
“If I could, Master Mayhem,” Balaam driveled. “I have something for you.”
Lucifer turned toward him, his eyes cold as wet stones. Balaam looked away, unable to look into those dark eyes. “Master,” he began, “I have found the three brothers I have been looking for.”
“So?” Satan sneered. “What concern are they to me?”
“Master . . . if you will recall, these were some of the most valiant. They fought bravely against you. And now they are here.”
Lucifer growled, a hollow and evil sound from his chest. “There are hundreds, even thousands, who have been saved for this day. I hate every one! Why are you wasting my time? Go! Do your work. You know what to do.”
Balaam shrank back from the rage in Lucifer’s voice. It hurt him; it burned him like a hot knife in his chest. But he had an idea, and if his master would just give him time. . . .
“Master Mayhem!” he pleaded, his head almost touching the ground. “I have also located the girl. Do you remember, Master Mayhem, the vision you saw? It was only a glimpse, but parts of it were true, and this young child, this young girl, she is important to them. She is one of the chosen, one of those who made a covenant with the Father about what she will do on the earth. But if we could destroy her, it would help our work now.”
The Master turned toward him. “What are you talking about?”
Balaam almost quivered, the knife cutting deeper inside. The Master stared at him, bent on reading his thoughts. “Yes,” he finally answered, “I remember her now. And yes, we must destroy her. Now what do you
propose we do?”
Balaam clasped his hands together. “I know someone,” he stuttered. “His name is Roth. He is one of your angels. . . .”
Lucifer frowned wickedly. “I know Roth,” he said.
“Yes, Master. He is slow. He is lazy. But I think he could help.”
Chapter Seven
The ground above the Agha Jari Deh Valley rose sharply to the west. There, on a rocky spot looking over the neat and well-organized village, an ancient guard tower rose like an arm and fist from the ground. The tower was made of stone cut from the mountain and stood almost sixty feet above the sloping terrain. The base of the tower was some thirty feet square, with granite walls six feet thick. Inside the walls was a large and high-ceilinged room. A single metal door allowed access to the room, and a narrow set of wooden stairs along the back wall led to the top of the tower. In ancient days, the tower had been manned constantly to warn villagers of an impending attack. In those early years, the population of the village was small enough that most of the women and children could be crammed inside the base of
the tower, where they would huddle listening to the sounds
of the battle outside.
The tower, known as el Umma, or the community, had fallen into deep disrepair through the years. The huge metal door was nearly rusted off its hinges, and the steps were so dry and rotten they creaked and groaned mightily under even a little weight. But the tower was one of Rassa’s favorite places to think, and through the years he had retreated there many times to ponder and pray.
The day before Azadeh’s fifteenth birthday, he got up early one morning and hiked the steep trail that led to el Umma. Azadeh was sleeping, and he knew he had an hour or so before she would wake. It was early spring, but the hay was coming near to full, and his day would be busy, for there was much work to do.
Rassa climbed to the top of the tower just as daylight was beginning to break. Inside, el Umma smelled of mold and dust and ancient, rotting wood. Every ten or twelve feet the walls were scorched and blackened from where oil-soaked torches had been attached to the walls, suspended by steel latches that were embedded into the mortar and stone. But even without a torch, four-inch slits in the rock walls provided a dim light to illuminate his way up the stairs. He climbed carefully, testing each stair, though he was familiar with most of the weakest boards. The sun was just rising between two of the highest peaks when he emerged at the top of the tower, where a round rampart with a short wall provided a barrier to keep him from stepping into space. Rassa knelt, facing Mecca, and bowed his head for prayers, then sat back and leaned against the tower, with the rising sun to his back.
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