The Iranian Special Forces had come back. Black uniforms. Darkened faces. No mercy. Only fear. They had accomplished their tasks, always deadly and thorough. Then came the American helicopters, terrifying as well, coming on the wings of black beasts with long stingers protruding from their noses and black guns spouting fire from their open helicopter doors.
The armies had come, just as the old men had said that they would. Although they had come looking for Pahlavi, it was the village children who had been killed.
Oh, the children! Why the children? And why only boys? It was madness! It was evil. But the villagers had seen evil before.
In the end it all came down to insha’allah. It had to be Allah’s will. Who were the villagers to presume they could understand his ways?
So the old men had been right. The name of Pahlavi was cursed. And now Azadeh was the last Pahlavi, which meant that she was cursed as well.
She knew that she couldn’t stay here. The soldiers would return. They would come looking for the young boy. They would come looking for her.
Two village men walked by her on their way up the road. Azadeh watched them hopefully as one of them caught her eye. The bearded man stared, then pointed at her, and the other man sneered. Making a slicing motion, he moved his hand across his face, drawing a line with his finger from his eye to his throat, indicating the scar of an outcast who had been banished from home. Then he pointed at her, making his message clear.
Azadeh glanced painfully toward the scorched tree that stood against the afternoon sun, its black limbs reaching upward like ebony fingers for the sky. Someone she didn’t know, an old man from the village council, had come and wrapped her father’s body in a blanket and dragged it away. Had she had the courage to watch, she would have seen the shallow trenches in the soft dirt form under her father’s burned and brittle legs, but instead she had kept her eyes on the black marks that had scorched the old tree, blankly staring at the singed leaves and blackened soil where the fuel had been spilled.
Azadeh glanced again at the tree, and then dropped her eyes to her lap.
No! This wasn’t insha’allah! This could not be Allah’s will! Allah would not have wanted all this misery, death, and fear.
And if Allah did, she didn’t love Allah. Not if this was Allah’s will.
The image of her father’s murder flashed again in her mind and she passed a trembling hand in front of her eyes, trying to push the memory away. But the memory was so vivid it was all she saw now: the expression on his face as the flames grew around the base of the tree, his clothes growing dark and then bursting into flames, his hair curling back, and the final sound of his cries.
She shook her head and focused, trying to think of something else, some kind of happy thought, a pleasant memory. She tried to think of his face in a peaceful context: cooking breakfast in the morning, fishing in the small stream on the south side of the village, working in his fields. She tried to think of him shearing their lambs, one of his favorite things to do. She tried to think of his strong hands, his shy smile, and his deep eyes. She tried to think of his rough cheeks, always stubbled, or the warmth of his arms as they wrapped around her shoulder when he kissed her goodnight. But she couldn’t picture any of it. All of the details were gone. It was as if he had vanished—as if he had never been. All she could picture was his suffering, the pain in his eyes. All she could hear was the fire and his cries.
She sighed in sadness, thinking of her father’s words. “Zaman šekast dâdan hame delšekastegi.” “Time defeats all heartbreaks.” He had tried to believe it. She had tried to believe it too. But she knew it was a lie, for this was a heartbreak that would never heal. Not completely. Not in this lifetime. It was a part of her now.
She lifted her eyes and gazed again to the sea. Behind her, the mountains rose up to meet the blue sky, which was growing cloudy as the wind picked up. A storm was brooding in the mountains up north, along the border, and it was headed her way.
Azadeh took a last look around her, and then took a deep breath.
No. This wasn’t right. This could not be Allah’s will.
So she sat, rebelling a moment, refusing to move. She knew what she had to do; she had known it all along. It wasn’t as if she had to make a decision. The decision had been made. There was nothing to think about, nothing to plan, no options to weigh. There was nothing left for her. She had no choice now.
The soldiers would return. She was an outcast. She had to leave.
Standing, she turned for the wreaked house and made her way through the debris the soldiers and scavengers had left behind. Moving into the kitchen, she found a stranger still there, a few pieces of silverware protruding from the old woman’s clenched fist. Azadeh stared at her defiantly and the old woman stepped back, and then suddenly turned away. Azadeh watched in silence as the old woman left the house.
Moving down the narrow hallway, Azadeh stepped over pieces of broken furniture and spent carbine shells, making her way into the back bedroom, where she quickly looked around. The floor was covered with the tattered remains of her mattress, broken pieces of plaster, torn curtains, and pieces of old clothes.
She sat down near the window. Then she saw the old burlap sack where she had hidden the clothes. Crawling toward it, she picked it up and held it in her lap. The string around the opening of the sack had been pulled open, and it appeared to be stuffed with nothing but old, tattered rags. Pulling on the pieces of cloth, Azadeh emptied the contents onto the floor. Underneath the rags she had hidden her father’s leather jacket and a pair of thick boots.
She pulled on the boots, then stuffed the coat back inside the burlap sack and tucked it under her arm. The rough burlap scratched her skin, but she hardly noticed as she stepped cautiously back down the hall.
Reaching the kitchen she paused a moment, then passed through the archway and onto the porch.
Azadeh walked away from her home, keeping her head low. Her neighbors ignored her as she made her way to the narrow road that dropped over the hill to the village below. At the base of the hill, the suq was completely deserted. All the stalls were empty, the movable kiosks out of sight. There would be no open market today. Azadeh walked around the three-foot-high brick wall that identified the market. For some reason she couldn’t identify, she did not want to go in. Before her, to the west, she could see the rolling hills descending toward the waters that the Saudis had recently started calling the Arabian Gulf, but that everyone else still called it the Persian Gulf. Behind her, the el Umma rose in the afternoon sun, and Azadeh stopped and turned to look on it a moment, the old guard tower jutted out of the rich valley soil, the granite walls the same color as the mountains behind, the bulwark deep gray though spotted in places with black moss. Azadeh knew that it had been one of her father’s favorite places to be. She squinted at the tower. “You did not warn him,” she whispered, as if it could understand. “He was your friend. You didn’t warn him. You failed in your task.”
She stared at the tower as if expecting a reply. “It’s OK,” she then whispered. “I forgive you anyway.”
Turning her back on the tower, Azadeh started walking, leaving the village behind. The terrain sloped gradually toward the sea, and she picked up the winding road leading to the main highway that ran north and south along the foothills of the great Zagros Mountains. As she walked, she kept on the left side of the road, using the well-worn pathway, though she tended to stay closer to the protection of the tree line and bushes.
She moved quickly, for the way was downhill, and the sun dipped toward the horizon, growing into a bloated red orb until the village and the rising guard tower were left behind.
In the final turn in the road, Azadeh Ishbel Pahlavi glanced back at the village for the last time. She reached into her pocket for her golden headband. It wasn’t there. Her heart sank into her chest. Her only treasure, lost in the chaos. She dropped her head, a single tear upon her cheek. Like everything else she had ever loved, it was gone forever.
* * *
As Azadeh walked away from the village, a shadow stood unseen near the top of the hill. He watched her intently as she walked down the path, noting the slump of her shoulders and the slow drag of her feet. Eventually the road turned, and the young girl walked out of sight.
The dark spirit, Balaam, remained alone in the shadows for a very long time.
He had once been a great teacher. He had once held such control. Once his great voice had sounded through the halls of evil power. But now he was nothing, his voice having become coarse and scratchy, as if he were always out of breath. Pale-skinned and dull-eyed, he was shrunken, hopeless and completely miserable. Condemned forever to wander the endless expanse of this world, he clawed constantly at the ankles of those he had once loved, scratching and pawing to drag them into hell. It was a bitter, dark and dejecting work, completely devoid of any sense of satisfaction, meaning or worth. But it was all he had. It was what he had chosen to do.
As Balaam watched Azadeh leave the village, Lucifer emerged from the shadows and moved to his side. Balaam turned to face him, his head moving anxiously on his thin neck. Lucifer stared a long moment, looking down from the hill. “How many years have you been watching her?” he hissed sarcastically. “Yet you haven’t stopped her. In fact, it would seem you’ve accomplished nothing at all.” He stopped and glared at Balaam, his face painted in hatred now. “You remember Roth?” he asked icily, the threat quiet but clear.
“Yes,” Balaam quickly defended himself in fear. “But at least I’ve made her miserable. Sometimes that is all we can do.”
Lucifer shook his head. It was not nearly enough. “Those we can’t destroy, we can cause to suffer, but I want more for her. She doesn’t have much, but she honors what she has. She stays true. She has not faltered.”
Balaam shook his head. There was no answer for that.
The two spirits stood in silence as the coming storm gathered around them and darkened the light. Lucifer looked up at the weather and smiled testily. “I would churn it,” he whispered. “I would sharpen the elements to hedge up her way.”
Balaam nodded. Yes, he could do that, but it would not be enough. “Give me time,” he muttered anxiously to his master. “I will get her.”
Lucifer shook his head. Frowning, he motioned. “Can you feel them?” he whispered, leaning closer to his slave.
Balaam barely nodded, a fearful move of his head.
“He is out there,” Lucifer hissed. “He’s out there. With her father. They will help her, I’m sure.”
Balaam stood silent. The servants from the other side made their work so much more difficult. And they seemed to have grown even more powerful, or at least more willing to demonstrate the power they had.
Lucifer clenched his fist and cursed bitterly. “I hate her,” he whispered, staring at the empty road.
Balaam didn’t answer.
Didn’t they hate them all?
THREE
As the sun sank toward the horizon, a north wind picked up until it was blowing down from the mountains in cold gusts that snapped at Azadeh’s clothes. The clouds were rolling in, and she stopped to study the darkening sky. The first layer of thin cirrus clouds had already passed overhead, and heavy, darker clouds were beginning to droop along the tops of the highest mountain ridges. Turning, she saw that the snow-topped peaks behind her were already shrouded in fog. Even as she watched, the temperature dropped and the air grew heavy with mist. It would start raining soon, she thought, putting her father’s coat on. Although thankful for its warmth, she also realized it wouldn’t be enough to get her through the night. Not if it was raining. Not without some kind of shelter overhead. She looked quickly around, and then heard a crash of thunder as the mist fell lower on the mountains, moving down through the canyons to roll along the foothills.
The road was empty, the sun had set, and the twilight was growing dim as the bloated clouds moved west, robbing the evening of its remaining light.
Pulling up her leather collar, Azadeh ducked her head and pulled her chador tightly around her neck. Having lived in the mountains, where the winters were long, the summers short and intense, Azadeh knew how unpredictable the weather could be. It usually snowed in her village during Nō Rūz, the Iranian New Year’s celebration in the last week of March, and it wasn’t unusual for it to freeze again by the first week of September. And she knew how dangerous an autumn storm could be. She had seen them sweep in from the north, bitter and cold, and drop five inches of hail and frozen sleet before they blew out again. She knew the temperature on the mountain could drop forty degrees in a matter of hours.
Looking around, she realized for the first time that she had absolutely no plan. She had no idea where she could go or what she should do. Her only objective up to this point had been to get away from the village.
She remembered briefly the man who had sneered at her while running a finger from his eye to his throat, and she shuddered, the overwhelming loneliness washing over her again.
She was durandâxte. An outcast. She understood how it worked, for she had seen others cast out from the village before—a woman caught in adultery, a younger girl who’d been raped, a son who’d refused to marry the girl his father had chosen for him—the reasons for being durandâxte were many, but the results were the same. “Stay and we’ll kill you. Go and you might live. Where you go or how you live, we don’t care anymore. You are durandâxte, it matters not, but you must leave us now.”
But what was she to do, out here all alone? A woman—any woman, but especially one who was barely of age—couldn’t just trot around the countryside without an escort. She couldn’t drive, she had no money and no way to get around. Worse, she had no friends or relatives she could turn to, no one who could help her at all.
For the first time since leaving the village—really for the first time since watching her father die—Azadeh started thinking, her mind clearing enough to recognize the danger she was in.
She needed help. Someone to turn to. She could not survive on her own.
But no one would help her . . . .
She shuddered suddenly, but not from the cold.
* * *
Lucifer watched and walked beside her, then turned to Balaam. “What is the worst decision she could make now?” he asked in a patronizing tone. “What is the worst thing she could do, as far as we are concerned?” Lucifer already knew the answer, but did his slave know? It was a test. He always tested. It made him feel good. It was part of how he controlled.
Balaam stood beside him, his weak shoulders slumping, his eyes burning with a pathetic desire to please. He stared down at Azadeh with a dark, hateful frown. “I don’t know,” he muttered fearfully, terrified of disappointing his Master but more afraid of his punishment if he were to say the wrong thing.
Lucifer hovered over him, and Balaam felt his cold breath, like a chill of stale air escaping from an old grave.
Balaam looked away. He hated being with Lucifer. It hurt him inside. His eyes were so piercing, his power so complete, it was like falling into ice water—it sucked the very life out of his core. Lucifer was never kind to his angels; he distrusted, even hated, all of his followers. And Balaam was no different, he was hated as well.
Balaam’s head fell.
Then he tightened in panic as Lucifer drew near. Balaam took a breath and held it to brace himself for the scorn.
“I asked a simple question!” Lucifer sneered. “What is the worst thing the mortal could do now? Where is the one place we don’t want her to go?”
Balaam’s fists clenched with tension as he suggested, “The American mentioned Khorramshahr. She would find safety there.”
“Yes!” Lucifer shouted in a sarcastic reply. “Yes! He got the answer. Someone give this lad a reward!” He loomed over Balaam, a master over a child. “Now think, then,” he continued with a hateful sneer, “we don’t want her to go to Kh
orramshahr. Where could we tell her to go?”
Balaam thought, then shook his head. He simply didn’t know.
“Where is the most immediate danger? Where would she almost certainly be killed?”
Balaam’s face remained blank, and Lucifer swore. “Idiot!” he screamed. “How could you be such a fool? Who does the young girl trust now? Who is the only friend she has? Omar, you idiot. Isn’t that clear? And where are the soldiers? They are at Omar’s house! He isn’t there. He is hiding. But they are waiting for him there. They are searching and waiting; they know he was involved. So if we can lead Azadeh to Omar, the enemy soldiers will find her, for they are waiting there.”
Balaam nodded eagerly. Yes, that was true.
Lucifer pushed Balaam aside. “Stand back and listen, my child, and if you listen, you will learn.” He grew very serious and took a step toward Azadeh.
Walking beside her, Lucifer leaned toward her ear. His robes moved around him, blowing back as if from some unseen storm. His eyes glared as he watched her; then he started to speak. His voice was gentle and sweet. “Omar will help you. You must go to him, my dear. You have no one else. No where to go. It is the only safe place to be. Go there, and go quickly, do not think more on this, dear. You must go to Omar! What other choice do you have?!”
Lucifer spoke to her softly, keeping a constant drumbeat of lies in her ear.
* * *
Azadeh considered her situation, her heart heavy, her mind weak. But the only person she could think of was Omar, her father’s best friend, the bear of a man who liked to meet with her father on the ancient guard tower, the mysterious companion who had occasionally visited their home. A gruff man, all business, a man who reeked of wealth and power, Omar had shown an occasional interest in her. He had been kind, had brought her books and items of clothing: a chador or small scarf, once even a new pair of shoes.
Wrath & Righteousnes Episodes 01 to 05 Page 32
