The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  Rassa lifted a set of small earrings, holding them next to Azadeh’s cheeks. “These are beautiful,” he said hopefully.

  Azadeh smiled and agreed. “They are beautiful, Father.”

  “How much?” he asked the merchant.

  “Forty-five thousand rials,” the merchant answered. Fifteen American dollars. Rassa’s eyes dropped in a look of despair, and Azadeh watched him, her heart breaking. She heard the sound of the coins clinking in his pocket, and she knew he did not have enough money. What might he be holding? A few thousand rials? Not enough for the earrings. Not enough for anything.

  She would not get a present. It broke her heart—but not because of the present itself. She didn’t care about a birthday gift, at least not anymore. She cared only for her father and how he must feel. What a failure he must feel like! How disappointed and embarrassed! She watched him carefully, seeing the pain in his eyes, and for the first time she saw a look of complete despair. Everything he had, he had given to her. But it was not enough. He looked away in shame.

  She leaned tenderly toward him. “It doesn’t matter, Father,” she whispered. “I love you. That’s all that matters. I know we don’t have much money, but that is okay. Come on, let’s go home. It will be okay.”

  Rassa looked at her sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It has been a bad year. The cotton. The cows. We’ll do better this year. And then I will get you . . .” He gestured toward the shops and the brightly lit kiosks with their playful displays. “I’m sorry, Azadeh,” he repeated as he lowered his head.

  She took his hand and pulled him toward their home. “It’s okay, father. I really do understand.”

  They walked in silence, making their way up the dusty roadway that led to their home. At the top of the hill they stopped and turned back, looking down on their village. The wind had swept the skies clear, and the moon was bright and orange, a huge ball rising over the mountains. The lights from the village shone in the clear air, and a huge bowl of stars shined over their heads. The Milky Way was full and fat, a bright band of stars—it seemed a trillion in all. They looked at each other, and Azadeh forced a quick smile.

  “She is up there,” she whispered.

  “Who?” Rassa asked.

  “My mother.”

  Rassa slowly nodded his head. “I hope so,” he said.

  “I know you miss her, Father.”

  They looked at the sky a moment longer, then turned again for their home.

  They were just reaching the light of their front porch when Rassa turned and said, “You wanted something special, didn’t you.”

  Azadeh shook her head. Her father watched her, then pressed. “I could see it in your eyes. I could see it in your actions. Did I even come close to guessing what you wanted? I don’t think I did.”

  Azadeh was silent, hoping she would not have to tell him what she had been hoping for. “It was nothing, Father,” she answered coyly.

  “This is a special birthday. More so than most. I know you had your eye on something. You have asked to go to the market too many times over the past month or so. I have tried to figure out what you hoped for, but I have no idea. Fathers are not so good at these sorts of things; I think you see that by now. This is where you need a mother. She would know what to get you when I couldn’t figure it out.”

  Azadeh was silent.

  “What was it?” her father prodded.

  She kicked her sandaled feet through the dirt, then leaned and whispered in an embarrassed voice. He nodded slowly, a look of great sadness clouding his eyes. It would have been far too expensive. “I’m sorry,” he apologized for the last time.

  “I still love you, Father,” Azadeh teased in reply.

  * * *

  The two walked to the front door in silence. It was dark and late, and Azadeh got ready for bed while her father sat in his chair and read by the light of a small lamp.

  After she was asleep, he sat alone for a time, then pushed himself up from his chair and walked to his bedroom and stood by his bed. Leaning down, he pulled out a small chest from under the headboard, then extracted a hidden key from a wooden drawer by his bed. He opened the chest and extracted two American silver dollars, the only savings he had, the only wealth he had ever accumulated in his entire life. He fingered the coins. They were heavy and firm, and he held them tightly in the palm of his hand, then closed the chest and pushed it back under the bed.

  * * *

  Azadeh woke early. The sun was just breaking over the mountains, and the dawn was pink and dark purple from the clouds overhead. She heard her father working in the kitchen and smelled his special jelly rolls, her favorite treat. She lay on her pillow and smiled. She did love her father. He was the best father in the world. She knew she was blessed. It really was enough.

  She lay there a moment, enjoying the laziness of lying in bed, then threw back the covers and put her feet on the floor.

  She saw them on the dresser beside her, and her heart almost stopped. Two pearl-handled brushes and a gorgeous silver mirror. They had been laid on a deep purple cloth, and the silver handles glittered brightly in the morning sun.

  She didn’t move. She couldn’t move. For a long moment she just stared as her heart slammed in her chest. She glanced toward the door, to where her father worked in the kitchen, then back to her dresser where the beautiful brushes and hand mirror lay. She shook her head. Was she dreaming? Then she literally squealed. She reached out for the brushes, then suddenly pulled her hand back. She almost didn’t dare touch them. The joy was too great. It was enough just to look at them and know they were there. It was enough to know that she had them. That was enough for a while.

  She held her hand to her mouth, then jumped out of bed. She ran into the kitchen, slamming back her bedroom door. Rassa turned in surprise as she burst into the room. Running toward him, she jumped into his arms. Leaning into his neck, she buried her face against his shoulders and cried in his arms.

  Chapter Ten

  Lucifer stood in the center of the village square, flanked by his two disciples. Balaam stood close, but the small one, Roth, kept back. Roth was a bent and broken spirit who had lost his lust for the fight and now spent most of his time sulking about the things he had lost, while toying with some of the evil mortals who had already fallen to his side. Indeed, Roth had reached a point where he didn’t much care if he destroyed any more souls, for he had become more interested in finding ways to pass the eternities of time, seeking any pastime that would provide a moment’s respite from the torturing knowledge that his misery would never end.

  The black centuries loomed forever before him. This was it. Forever. This was all he would have. This misery, this darkness—it was all he would know. Endless days. Endless years. His misery would never end.

  Lucifer watched Roth out of the corner of his eye. He hated all his followers (was there really anything he didn’t hate now?), but he hated Roth even more than most others. He considered him lazy and childish, a man who couldn’t

  be counted on, a man who was more interested in his own diversions than bringing souls to his side. Yet Satan had made a decision not to deal with his slothful servants for now. One day, when it was over, when the final battle was through, he would deal with Roth and the others like him. When that day came, he would punish them for their fickleness and lack of diligent service to him, for if there’s one thing Lucifer hated above everything else it was disloyalty. When it came time to punish them, Roth would suffer in ways he couldn’t even dream about now.

  But the time was not yet. Lucifer had more important work to do. He would have all of eternity to deal with lazy servants like Roth.

  Lucifer turned back to Balaam. Like Roth, he too had grown pale and thin, with bony fingers, thin arms and a long, slender neck. His face shimmered with darkness, like the reflection of water on a moonlit night, leaving a pale shadow that almost made him look dead. And there was a tension and anxiety in the movement of his head, as if he was always hungry, always l
ooking for the next meal, starving for the taste of joy, love, or success, but forever feeling famished. His hungry eyes betrayed him. Balaam could not be satisfied.

  The Master turned away from his servants to study the small village around him. He remembered it well, for he had been there many times, going back to the days when men were just emerging from their primitive shells. He had repeatedly caused anguish and suffering in this place, and he had some fond memories of this very square.

  The market was crowded, for it was Thursday afternoon and everyone was shopping, preparing for their holy day. Young children played in the streets, women walked by in dark scarves, only their eyes or faces exposed. On the corner a group of young men talked while they tossed a small leather sack between them, kicking it expertly with their feet. Throughout the market men haggled over prices and quantities, their voices rising and falling until the deal was done. Lucifer turned in a slow circle, taking in the ancient market, the mud and brick shops with their small apartments on the second floor, the dirty brick streets and tangled electrical wires that were strung overhead. He noticed the tattered banners that denounced the Great Satan, the old movie posters, and the corner latrines. Everything was an earthy brown: the dirt, the cobblestones, the houses and shops. To his back, the great mountain rose over the village. The peaks were still capped with snow, but the hills that sloped up to the rock were covered in deep green grass. He turned away, preferring to look at the shabby, manmade structures rather than the work of his enemy’s hand.

  Balaam stood in silence beside him. Roth remained in the background, his lower lip trembling, his eyes wide in fear.

  Like all the dark angels, Roth was accustomed to being sad and alone, for the dark angels hated each other as much as they hated themselves; and to be around these, the two masters, seemed to rip at his chest. It was painful to have them near him, like a knife in his heart, and he wished with all his being that they would leave.

  He kicked the dust anxiously and silently cursed his two masters’ names. Lucifer sensed it and glared at him, then took a quick step toward Balaam. “Where is she?” he demanded in a sour tone.

  Balaam pointed toward a gentle hill on the south end of the village. A row of small houses lined the road along the top of the hill. “She lives up there, with her father.”

  “And her mother?” Lucifer wondered.

  “She died shortly after her birth.”

  Lucifer sneered. “So she doesn’t have a mother. Well, isn’t that sad!” His face broke into a sharp grin, his lips curling upward, exposing his teeth. “That should make your task a bit easier, won’t it, Balaam.”

  Balaam looked away. So far it hadn’t, but he didn’t reply.

  Lucifer took in the dirty village, enjoying the sight of the run-down shacks for homes and dirt trails for streets. He studied the tar-paper rooftops, ancient mud-brick stores, and anti-U.S. propaganda that hung on almost every wall. There was no evidence of freedom in anything he saw, no indication of liberty or self-government. All was dark, brown, and ugly, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  The only thing that kept him going was his bitter hate—hate of his brothers and hate for their God. What man built, he brought down. What they created, he destroyed. If there was anything beautiful, he defiled it; anything innocent, he despoiled. If man were free, he brought bondage; where there was love, he brought lies. If he could not have happiness, then man would not have it as well. This is the thing that drove him to work so hard every day.

  Looking around the village, he realized there were few other places where the people had been so robbed of their right to free will. He smiled, satisfied, then thought again of the girl. “She lives on the hill?” he confirmed with a tilt of his head.

  “Yes, Master Mayhem,” Balaam replied.

  “And what do they call her?” he demanded in a deep snarl.

  “Her name was Elizabeth in the other world. They call her Azadeh Ishbel down here.”

  Lucifer looked surprised and then swore, shaking his head in disgust while staring at Balaam with a critical eye. “You don’t see it, do you, Master Balaam! You are so stupid you missed the significance of her name!”

  Balaam stared ahead blankly as the knot in his gut tightened up.

  “Ishbel is the Greek variation of Elizabeth,” Lucifer announced with revulsion. “That hardly seems like a coincidence. Was her father inspired? Did he hear whispers from God?”

  Balaam shook his head, for he had not seen the connection. And though he considered himself a master of every language, able to tempt and deceive with just the right word or phrase, the ancient meanings of her names had completely escaped him. He looked down, embarrassed and ashamed. He was reminded once again that he was not the king, that Lucifer was his master and would always be so.

  He bowed toward the fallen son of the morning. “Master, why her father selected her name, I could not say with any authority. I have only recently found her. I would have to spend some time searching and see what I can find.”

  Lucifer growled, a familiar animal sound from his throat. “All right then, you do that. Now where is the one I came here to see?”

  Balaam turned and nodded toward a slender man who sat on the edge of the street. He was tall and lanky, all arms and legs, with a rough face and long nose and a wild, bushy beard. His hair rolled in greasy locks over his eyes, and he leered from underneath the dark curls. He sat on a low stool beside a small cart of poorly packaged cigarettes. A handwritten sign advertised his wares: “Cigarettes! Tobacco! Rolling Paper!” A small metal box sat at his feet, and every few minutes he would open it up and count the money again, as if some unseen hand might have stolen from him. A group of three young boys ran up; one extracted an orange from under his dark shirt. The man took the orange, shook his head in mock disgust, then reached into his own shirt pocket and extracted three smokes. He handed them to the boys, who took them and ran.

  Lucifer studied the stranger, thinking back, knowing he had seen him sometime before, but in this world or the previous he could not tell. Balaam stepped toward the Master, keeping his voice low. “His name is Abd al Rahman Al Than,” he said. Abd al Rahman, son of Qasim, tribe of Than.

  Lucifer turned toward Balaam. “I don’t care who he is! I don’t care about his name. Just tell me the things I need to know!”

  Balaam nodded eagerly, then jerked his head toward Roth. “He plays with him sometimes. He can get into his mind.”

  Lucifer turned toward Roth, who kept his eyes low, then nodded toward the mortal again. “I’m not impressed,” he said in disgust. “I mean, look at him. He is stupid. And lazy. He’s just like you, Roth! This mortal isn’t a leader. No one is going to listen to him! What can he offer us? What influence can he possibly have?”

  Balaam shot a cold glare at Roth. “Let me handle this!” he seemed to scream at him with his eyes. Roth nodded and stepped back into the shadows again. “The mortal will listen to Roth,” Balaam explained as he turned to his master. “The mortal listens for his voice. He even tries to make contact with him.”

  Lucifer turned his dark eyes on Roth. “He will listen to you?” he demanded.

  Roth glanced toward Balaam, then anxiously nodded his head. Lucifer moved toward the trembling devil and drew up to his full height. He stood majestic, even beautiful, his black hair falling to his shoulders, his face dark and alive. Roth fell to his knees at the Great Master’s splendor and majesty. Balaam cringed but a little, for he had seen it before, and he knew the Great Master could hide his ugliness for only a short time. His mind shot back to the first time he had seen Satan change. The image of the bloody pig’s head was forever burned in his mind.

  “So tell me then, Roth,” Lucifer mocked with a sneer. “What have you ever convinced this man to do?”

  “Master,” Roth stammered in reply, “I am but a humble servant. I don’t claim to have the powers you do . . .”

  “Yes, yes, of course. But what have you done? Quickly now, Roth, and don’t waste my
time!”

  The fallen angel fell back, unable to respond, and Balaam moved forward, standing at Lucifer’s side. “May I speak for him?” he begged. Satan sneered at Roth, then turned toward the former teacher in the greatest premortal university. “Master Mayhem,” Balaam began, his voice pleading now, “the mortal is not particularly bright; I think we all can see that. But we don’t need a leader for what we want him to do. As I said, Master Mayhem, he will listen to Roth. They have a special relationship, one that is truly unique. The mortal is a deviant with a dark place in his heart drawn to any kind of pain or abuse. He loves to inflict it. Animals. Small children. He has done many things. And the society he lives in allows him to take advantage of their silence, for he can instill in them a fear that keeps them quiet, it seems. And while it is true, Master Mayhem, that Roth spends most of his time with his diversions, he can speak to this mortal, he can get in his mind. This mortal knows his voice. And if the mortal will listen and do what he says, then why can’t we try it? What do we lose if we give Roth a chance?”

  Lucifer narrowed his eyes and took a step toward Balaam. “All right,” he sneered, his voice piercing. “I will give him a chance to prove he can be useful to me. I will give you a chance to prove you can do something right. But I will not be patient. If he screws this thing up, I will take care of this myself. So 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.