Chapter Eleven
The day after Azadeh’s fifteenth birthday, it started to rain as a front of foul weather moved in from the coast, wet and soaking and misty and cold. The ground became saturated and muddy, and a thousand tiny rivers of runoff spilled down from the mountains to join the stream that ran through the center of the village, swelling it to a frothy and muddy torrent of broken branches, silt, and debris. It rained hard all day, and by the time Rassa pulled in for the night, he was soaked to the skin, bone-tired, and shivering with cold. He had spent the day moving his small herd of cattle into a lower pasture to inoculate and brand the heifers, work that had to be done to keep the cattle from getting hoof rot from the mud. By early morning, his rain coat had been soaked through, and he had abandoned all pretense of trying to stay dry.
Azadeh was waiting for him at the kitchen table, and she looked up as he walked into the room, dripping and muddy. She smiled, her face brightening as if a light had come on, her eyes wide and happy, her teeth flashing bright. Rassa stopped and looked at his little girl. How it warmed him, how it brightened him just to see her. Her dark hair fell down to the middle of her back, and she was growing tall and strong, the tallest girl in her class. She had her mother’s perfect olive skin, his eyes, and her grandfather’s strong cheekbones. Jumping up from the table, Azadeh ran to the stove and turned up the heat. “Poppa, I have some tea ready for you,” she said.
Rassa took off his wet coat, shook it out, then hung it by the oil furnace to dry. Sitting on a three-legged stool, he pulled off his leather boots while Azadeh worked over the stove, boiling some water and rice. “I would have had supper for you, Father, but I didn’t know what time you would be in,” she said happily.
“That’s fine, Azadeh,” Rassa answered wearily. Shivering, he pulled off his wet shirt and grabbed a rough towel to dry off his hair; then he stood over the heater, feeling its warmth. It was cold, but that wasn’t unusual, for the mountains had a mean streak when it came to spring weather. The higher elevation caused wide swings in the temperature, and rain might stay for days, even weeks, before finally pushing over the highest peaks to provide needed moisture to the dry valleys on the other side.
Rassa walked stiff and cold and seemed unusually tired. Azadeh watched him for a moment. Turning away, she pulled off a fist-sized piece of bread dough from atop a warming pan she had placed near the stove. She rolled and flattened it to the size of a dinner plate, then tossed it against the burning-hot side of the stove. The dough stuck and immediately began to cook to a crisp and airy piece of pita bread. Two minutes later, she carefully pulled the toasty bread off the side of the stove, cooked the other side, then cut it open and stuffed it with spiced lamb and goat. She threw another piece of bread on the stove, which they would eat with honey and butter, then selected a Lebanese orange from the copper fruit bin, as well as some raisins and dates, seasoned some rice with salt and butter, cut some cheese, and set the food on the table.
Rassa watched with pride but also sadness as she worked. It hurt him to come into a dark house and find her alone. She was alone far too much. She needed a mother. And little brothers and sisters to care for each other. She needed to spend more time worrying about school and her friends and less time worrying about him and why her mother had died. She was so thoughtful of others, it was almost a fault, the way she jumped up, always willing to serve. And though she seemed content, Rassa knew she wasn’t, and it saddened him that she felt such a responsibility to keep her loneliness in. She had fought the melancholy from the time she was a child, though she tried to be happy, always forcing a smile when one did not come naturally.
“Men are that they might be happy,” she had once said.
Rassa looked at her and thought, then asked, “Where did you hear that, Azadeh?”
She thought a moment, then shrugged and pressed her lips. “I don’t know,” she replied.
As Azadeh grew, Rassa came to believe she would rather have needles driven under her nails than show him the sadness she hid inside.
But Rassa knew it was there. He was not completely blind. He had noticed it even when he watched her play with her dolls as a child. Azadeh had always played the role of the mother, never the child or sister or friend. She would comfort her babies, sometimes crying for them, telling them that she loved them while holding them tight. As Rassa watched, he realized she was acting out all the things she hoped her mother would have said to her had she lived. And she mothered not only her babies, but every child within a mile of their house, as well as every stray dog or cat that wandered into the village. One day a few years before, Rassa had made the mistake of bringing a rabbit home from the market for supper. Azadeh had burst into tears and hidden in her room, refusing to come out until he had agreed they would let the poor creature go. So they had walked hand in hand to the fields behind their house, the rabbit inside a brown sack, and set the bunny free. The memory made Rassa smile, but it was a sad memory just the same. She felt everything so deeply that sometimes it caused him concern.
Azadeh spent long hours writing, sometimes poetry, sometimes in her journal, sometimes funny stories, few of which she would let Rassa read. One day, not long before, he had found a letter she had written to her mother and hidden inside her small desk. He read the words only once, but that was enough, for they had been burned in his mind.
Dear Mother,
I miss you. Sometimes I feel so alone. Father tries so hard, and I love him more than my heart can express, but I miss you too, Mother, and I wish you were here. Sometimes I think I feel you might be close to us. And sometimes I wonder, if you could hold me tight and talk to me, what would you say? Would you say that you love me? Would you say you are proud of me? I hope you are, Mother, because I have tried so hard.
Your loving daughter,
Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi
It tore Rassa’s heart to read what Azadeh had written. The words cut him deeply, and he would never forget them. But there was also a great pride in the reading, and he would always cherish her words.
Her mother would have been proud of her daughter; he was certain of that. And if somewhere she still existed, then he hoped she could somehow see what a treasure she had given him when she had brought this girl into the world.
* * *
As Azadeh finished preparing the meal, Rassa slipped into his bedroom and changed into dry clothes and warm stockings, then sat at the table and sipped at his tea. Azadeh put the food before him, then sat down beside him. Rassa reached out and took her hand. “Thank you, Azadeh,” he said.
She bowed her head politely. “You’re welcome, Father.”
The two ate slowly, talking little, both of them hungry. Then, full and warm, Rassa stood to help Azadeh with the dishes. He had recently installed a new hot water heater, and they savored the steaming water that poured from the tap, as contrasted with the lukewarm dribble they had lived with before. Rassa washed while Azadeh dried and put the dishes into the painted wooden cupboard.
“You know, Father, my friends would die if they saw this!” Azadeh teased as she set a plastic glass on the lower shelf. “A father doing dishes! What is this world coming to?”
Rassa only smiled, knowing it wasn’t as unusual as Azadeh might think. Once inside the home, the workings of the relationship between a man and wife were not what they used to be; there was a blossoming women’s rights movement abroad, and Rassa suspected he wasn’t the only man doing dishes that night. The law of Islam could be interpreted in many ways, and a sentiment of much more equality was taking hold in his land, if not in public, then in private; and Rassa knew that many of the religious police who strolled through the village with their black sticks and frowns were more henpecked at home than they would have ever admitted. This wasn’t Arabia, after all, with its Wahhabi Islam; this was Persia, a much more equal and gentle land.
Azadeh began to prattle as they worked. She would start another school year in a few weeks, and she could talk of little else. “Father, might I one day go down
to El-hiram to the School of the Masters?” she asked again. “I know you really liked it there. Might I go there too?”
Rassa lifted an eyebrow. “What have I always said?” he answered slowly.
“I must wait. I must be patient. But I too am a Pahlavi, Father, same as you, great-granddaughter of the Shah. I need a good education too! I’m bored in my school, and I want to learn more. I think I know as much as my teachers sometimes!”
Rassa nodded and smiled. It probably was true. “Insha’ allah,” he said.
Azadeh frowned in frustration. That’s what he always said. But she knew not to push it. She was young, but not foolish, and she knew when to hold her tongue.
“Come,” Rassa said to her, and he sat on the worn, vinyl couch. “Let’s read together, Azadeh, before it is time for bed.”
The two read together for an hour, then they repeated the words together as she kissed his cheek:
“Remember, I’ll be waiting when it comes,
Morning Light.”
Azadeh smiled, touched her heart, then ran off to bed. “Think about the School of the Masters!” she called over her shoulder as she turned the light off in the hall.
* * *
The night fell cold and dark, with a steady drizzle that seemed to soak up the light. The quarter moon, low and yellow, was completely hidden above the thick clouds, and the wind blew in sudden gusts, pushing the drizzle through the trees.
The stranger waited in the darkness beyond the light that emitted from the house. He watched from the shadows as they read and stomped his feet impatiently. He had killed the dog already, so she wouldn’t be making any noise, and he smiled as he remembered the wet cut of the knife across the mangy dog’s throat. The first kill of the nighttime. Other kills lay ahead.
“That is fine. Take your time,” the dark voice whispered in his head. “I have prepared you for this moment. Now you must do as I say!”
“I will, Master,” the slender man cried. “I promise, Master, just tell me what to do.”
The angry voice hissed inside him, dark and evil and cruel. An agreement had been made between them. Now it was time to act.
The small man hunched in the shadows, rainwater dripping off his hair and down his neck, soaking the shirt on his back. His face was thin and hungry, his eyes dark and narrow, and his nose flared with each breath, causing a mist in the air. He waited, then started humming an old song from many centuries before, an oath of the ancients who had once ruled the earth. “I am evil,” he whispered in a raspy voice to himself. “I am evil, this I know. And now this evil comes.”
His eyes glinted, cold and dark in the freezing rain. He was nearly mad, almost drooling, completely out of his mind.
But the dark spirits that possessed him didn’t care about his weakened mind. He would do what they told him, and that’s all they cared about.
* * *
The hours passed. The house fell dark and silent. The rain backed off, the clouds broke, and the dull moon shone overhead. Still the man waited, his legs cramped, his feet cold, his hands numb and clammy inside his coat pockets. He fingered the knife as he waited. The entire village was silent. “It is time,” the voice said.
The man pushed himself up from the shadows and moved silently toward the house. He approached the back door, staying near the shadows of the trees that lined the backyard. His eyes had adjusted to the night, and he saw without using a light. Stepping over the dead dog, he moved to the back door.
It was unlocked. He knew it would be. No one secured their doors in this town. He cracked the door, then waited, listening in the dark. He pushed another inch and waited, then pushed his head inside.
A fire was burning in the oil heater, and the room was almost steamy-warm. A small light glowed from the other end of the hallway, casting a dim shadow through the room. He sniffed the air and listened. He had to be very careful. He must not fail his master. He must not fall short of his goal.
“Kill it . . . kill it . . . kill it . . .” the chant began again in his head. “Kill it . . . it will hurt us! We want it to be dead!”
The man stood without moving, only his head and shoulders inside the house; then he slowly pushed back the door and entered the room. He pulled the knife from its sheath; the nine-inch blade glistened red in the dark. He tried to wipe off the dog’s blood, but it was already dry, so he licked the blade to wet it, then wiped it again on his pants. He moved his head left and then right, then took a step toward the hall. Stopping at the door on the back wall of the kitchen, he held his breath. Which was the father’s bedroom? This had to be it! Pressing his ear against the door, he listened but didn’t hear anything. The light shined from behind him, a small bulb glowing yellow at the end of the hall, and he turned and walked silently toward it. A single twenty-watt bulb burned in the bathroom, and he quietly pushed the button to turn the light off. A thick darkness enveloped the interior of the house, and he waited without moving until his eyes had adjusted again, then moved back to the bedroom at the back of the kitchen. He sucked in a quick breath and held it, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, moved the doorknob. The door creaked as he pushed it open an inch. Inside, he could hear the man breathing, deep and heavy and slow. He pulled the door shut again and moved to the other bedroom at the end of the hall, next to the bathroom where he had turned off the light.
He held the knife ready, then placed his hand on the doorknob, turned it gently, and pushed it back. The room was dimly lit from a night light on the other side of the small bed. He listened, then moved inside the room, holding the knife in both hands.
She was asleep, her face down, her dark hair spread out across the pillow, the covers tucked almost up to her chin.
“Kill it . . . kill it!” the voice started chanting again. “Do what I tell you. This is what I brought you here for. Do what I tell you, and you will be mine. We will live together forever! Now do what I say!”
This wasn’t the first time the man had listened to the evil voice that growled from time to time in his head, but this is the first time the voice had asked him to do such a . . . permanent thing. The man hesitated a moment. Could he really kill her? Could he really plunge the knife?
But the devil inside him had become his best friend. He was his comrade, his companion, the only ally that he had, and he would do as it told him. He no longer felt he had a real choice.
“Look at it!” the voice hissed. “Look at it sleeping! It is innocent now, but it won’t stay that way forever. Believe me, it will fight us, it will haunt us one day. It will grow strong and wise, and we must kill it while we can! Take your knife and do it. Kill it before it is too late!”
The man nodded, hesitating, as he looked at the child, seeing a glimpse of the perfection that lay in her soul. He could barely make out her closed eyes in the darkness. Her face was peaceful and calm.
He faltered a moment. She was so beautiful! How could she be so dangerous? She was so young and so childlike. What real threat could she hold?
“KILL IT!” his master screamed. “Do what I tell you or you will suffer, I swear!”
The man raised the knife slowly.
“Kill her!” it cried.
The man sniffled, then grimaced. He would do as he was told. He held the knife in a death grip, and it trembled in his quivering hand. He reached up with his other hand to steady it and took another step toward the bed.
Then he saw it and froze, almost hissing in dread. A tiny light, like a star, began to shine over the bed. The light grew from a soft glow to a shimmer; then the angel appeared, surrounded by fire and a radiant power. The light was so bright! How it hurt him! He wanted to flee! The angel was dressed in a white robe with a silver hood pulled over the crown of his head, and a single star, like a diamond, shone from a golden headband. He lit up the room with his power and the flaming sword in his hand.
“Teancum!” the spirit inside the mortal muttered in bitter rage and dark fear.
The angel took a step toward him. “I know
you,” he said. His voice was like thunder, and it rolled through the night.
The mortal wanted to run, but the spirit held him, not letting him flee as the other spirits rallied inside him, speaking for the first time. “We have nothing to do with you, Teancum,” the spirits all cried. “This is not your battle. We have come for the girl.”
The angel rose up in power and pointed at them. “You will not touch this child,” he commanded. “Her name is Elizabeth, and she is my friend!”
The mortal man cowered, and it was he who spoke to the angel now. “But we must,” he whispered slowly, his voice hoarse and dead. “Our masters will hurt us if we don’t do as they say . . .”
The angel took a position over Azadeh and raised the sword above his head. There was a soft swoosh, like night lightning, as the sword stroked the air. “YOU WILL NOT HARM THIS CHILD!” he commanded again. “Now go back to your master! Go back to your hell!”
The angel grew suddenly taller and more brilliant, shining as white as the sun.
The mortal felt the heat from his power and fell back in pain. The fire seemed to surround him. He was consumed by the flame. The angel shook the silver hood from his head, and his fine hair trailed back, blowing over his shoulders as if from an invisible wind. His blue eyes were so piercing they seemed to cut through his soul. “GO!” he commanded, and even the earth seemed to shake. “In the name of my Master, I command you to leave.” The angel stood there, unflinching, as if he were ready to spring.
The spirits recoiled, then cried out and departed, leaving the mortal alone. He felt the dark world fall around him, then the crushing weight of desertion and the emptiness of despair. He was alone now. They had left him. The angel moved to stand over his head.
The mortal stumbled backward like a coward, reaching for the bedroom door. The angel lifted his arm and pointed at him, and he squealed in fear. Scrambling like a rat, he ran through the door.
* * *
Neither Azadeh nor her father ever wakened that night, and though Rassa noticed the back door was open when he got up the next morning, he had no way of knowing what had taken place in his daughter’s room.
The Great and Terrible Page 27
