Beast (10 page)

The morning sun heats the rock above me. I pant in my shallow hole. It has taken weeks to get this far. Full summer heat shimmers over the land. My thirst hurts. But I stay in this hole and sleep as much as I can.

Another night passes. Another day.

By the third afternoon I cannot bear my thirst. I creep from my hole and stretch. My wound heals well. I hardly limp as I walk, but I know enough not to try trotting.

The thickness and closeness of the trees to the north signal water. I walk until I find the stream, which has formed a small pool. The water is blessedly sweet. The lushness of India seeps down my throat, through my belly, into my limbs and tail. Despite my hunger, I am home.

Something flashes white in the trees. I hurry away. When nothing follows, I come forward slowly, eyes scanning the branches. And there they are, high up. A small party of monkeys. Fifteen, at least. They have enormous ruffs of gray hair around black faces. But, oh, maybe that isn't their real color at all—that is only the impoverished information that these eyes give. Maybe they are tawny, as I know I must be, for they look strangely lionlike. Even their tails end in a bushy tuft. Their fur is long and sleek. They are staring at me. Almost all of them at once. Wary. Wide-cheeked.

I sit on my haunches and look back at them. What wonders this great land holds.

At length the monkeys get bored with me; they play with one another. And now they put their hands to their mouths and spit out something that they munch on. They spit and eat and spit and eat until their cheeks are narrow. Ha! They stored food in their cheeks like pouches.

Food.

I take a whiff. Fruits. The smell is not attractive to my lion nose, but I must stay alive. I can eat fruits.

A small way back from the pool stands a clumping of bushes. Perhaps berry bushes. I walk there slowly, careful not to strain my thigh. Berry bushes, all right, but they've been completely stripped of fruit.

My head drops in disappointment.

A high, squeaky trill comes from nearby rocks. I creep slowly. A white-footed mouse sings as though to the moon that is just becoming visible in the darkening sky. I pounce. The mouse races off, safe. But the earth sinks under my feet. A burrow, an underground nest.

I dig up the mouselings and eat their bald bodies in one gulp. I test the ground. More tunnels and burrows. In all, I find six nests. Enough only to whet my appetite.

But now I have the energy to go searching. I trot slowly, aware of my wound, but urged on by necessity. I make no sound.

Little growls ahead. The smell of meat. I trot faster; my paws make a soft scrunch on the earth.

Two lion cubs gnaw on a large piece of meat. I come closer. They see me and run. I fall on the meat, the whole leg of a large deer, and eat greedily.

The cubs watch from a safe distance. But one is bolder. He crouches and creeps forward on large feet.

I snarl, and he races back to his twin. But soon he creeps toward me again, his face hungry. The dark spots on his forehead give him a look of worried
intensity. His mother will bring him food. No one will feed me. I snarl again. But the cub doesn't scare as easily now. He persists in coming forward. I growl. He settles himself on the other end of the leg and chews.

Now his timid twin joins him.

I give one last snarl, but make no move to chase them away. After all, what would I do if the bold one confronted me?

We eat with gusto, emitting little rolling growls and hums of pleasure.

Growl!

I get to my feet as fast as my wound allows. The cubs meow and whine.

The lioness approaches slowly, her head low, ears back, eyes wide open. She growls louder.

I am loath to leave while meat still clings to the bone of the deer, yet that growl is daunting. I run a fair distance, then stop and watch. A thin line of blood streams hot down my thigh again.

The cubs bang around their mother's legs now. They lick her face. Then they go back to the meat. The lioness looks long at me and growls. She turns and goes back a ways, picks up something in her mouth, and carries it to the cubs. Another leg. She drops it, flops down with a loud sigh, and eats.

Roar!

I run as fast as I can, crashing through the underbrush,
back up into the mountains from where I came. I find a wide ledge and collapse. Gradually, calmness returns.

That was the first true roar I've heard other than the ones I've produced myself. But I didn't stay long enough to see the lion who made it. My heart quickens again at the memory.

At last I sleep.

When I wake, it is night. Something's wrong. I check this body, which is now familiar. My wound doesn't bleed; my belly is almost full. Yet something is definitely wrong. There is a noise in the back of my head. A rhythmic noise I cannot quite recognize.

I sleep again.

I wake to the midday sun. My belly lies heavy on the warm rock. From this vantage point I can see a long way. But I don't care to. And that noise is louder — each beat is like a word. Yes, I can discern it now:
taj
—crown—a single word chanting over and over inside this wide head of mine. I close my eyes and drift in and out of sleep.

For days I stay that way. Three days. Six. I lose count. I am thirsty. My belly is empty. But nothing stirs me from this rock.

The cubs allowed me to eat because they thought they had no choice.

The lioness allowed me nothing.

The chant in my head mocks me.
Taj.
The image of
Father in his royal garb fills my head so that I can see nothing else. I will never wear a crown, either in Persia or here in India. All that travel to get here was pointless.

I might as well lie on this rock until the sun dries me to a hairy hide.

I sleep. Day and night.

My sight blurs. My ears dull. My tongue swells.

I sleep.

Or am I dead?

The question isn't even interesting.

The sun blankets me. Cooks me. Prepares me as a sacrifice.

This all began with the Feast of Sacrifices. With the offering to the Merciful One. I have been transformed, from the one who offers to the offering itself. But to whom am I being sacrificed? To the
pari?
The remnant of spirit that remains in me rebels. I would rather be food to a tiger than strengthen the powers of that
pari.

The chant in my head changes:

There is only one God, and that is God.

And all else but God is nothing.

There is only one God, and that is God.

And all else but God is nothing.

There is only one God, and that is God.

And all else but God is nothing.

It goes on and on and on and on. The words lose their meaning, but they keep going. They carry me beyond their sense. They carry me someplace new. Someplace euphoric.

I rise on unsteady feet in a state of intoxication. The steepness of the mountain and the emptiness of my body should pitch me over the rocks to my death. But this thought brings no fear. I know my feet will prevail. I descend without mishap, half floating, half dancing.

I go to the pool in the stream and drink. The chant in my head has been replaced with my senses. I see and smell and hear everything. For a moment I believe I glimpse
tawhid
—the unity that bridges the distance between human and God.

A little way back from the edge of the water I find a pile of rotting figs. Whoever gathered these must have been interrupted. They are not fit for consumption by anything but garbage eaters now. I swallow one, willing myself not to taste or smell, mastering these senses. My stomach writhes at the nasty intrusion. But the fig stays down. I swallow another. And another. Slowly I eat the entire pile.

It takes only a day of drinking and digesting to clear my mind. I am Orasmyn. I need no one's help. I can do this.

O
ver the next few months I trail the lion family, whose members meet at random intervals, then disperse over their territory. There's one large male with tufts at his elbows, three females, a young male of perhaps a year with a light muzzle, and the two cubs, who are weaned and spend most of their day playing. It's a small pride, I have learned through investigation. Neighboring prides live to the east and south, across the swirling river that must be the Indus. I've found them by their roars, observing from a hiding place. The east pride has seven lionesses and numerous cubs. The south pride is even larger. Each pride avoids the others, roaring loudly whenever they happen to come within sight of one another.

The largest pride has three adult males; the middle
pride, two; and the pride I follow has only one. Perhaps the number of males tolerated depends on the number of females. Whatever the case, I am quite sure I cannot be adopted by the small pride. That first roar I heard from the unseen lion gave me that message. Still, I can learn from the small pride. That's my goal. And nothing can stop me from thinking of them as my pride.

I learn to scratch my ears with my hind paws. I practice strutting, like a male before a female. I rake my claws downward on tree trunks to sharpen them. I roar in the early morning. I flick my ears to get rid of invading flies. I retreat to the shade of a dried-out sunken riverbed at noon. I even sniff at the branches where males have urinated, and I train myself to spray urine and anal gland secretions around the perimeter of the small outcropping of rocks where I prefer to sleep. No one else would want this place; still, my strong odor marks it as my territory just in case.

But none of it means anything, for I continue to blunder as a hunter. I race at my prey too soon. Or they hear me coming when I'm still far away.

When the lionesses bring down a kill, I watch from a safe distance until they've left. Then I hurry to the carcass before the other carrion eaters can get there.

My pride's territory is rich with game; I thank the Merciful One for this every day. They need never
cross the Indus River into the other prides' territories. That first meal I had with the cubs turned out not to be deer, though there are many deer in these woods, particularly a tiny, swift kind that barks when its frightened. No, that meal was antelope, the largest kind I've ever seen. I easily recognize the carcass of most kinds of animals that live here now — no matter how little remains. To the south, where many bamboo grow, herds of wild oxen feed on the tender shoots. And there is even a kind of wild ass, quite light in color, and small. They run in pairs or in groups of five or six. I watched a lioness bring down a colt, but there was nothing left after the pride had finished feeding — nothing for me.

The trees teem with monkeys —not just the lionlike ones I saw on first arriving here, but also ones with funny short tails that curl upward in a single loop. These monkeys, too, carry food in pouches inside their cheeks. I almost caught a youngster once, and in his surprise, he spit a wad of lizard and seeds and insects, which I promptly ate. And then there are the monkeys that like to swim. They're noisy and quarrelsome, and the young ones continually chase each other. I gave up on trying to catch them long ago. But I never stop watching them. They can scream at each other over a favorite resting spot on a limb or a piece of fruit or anything, then the
next moment they sit calmly side by side and groom each other's fur lovingly.

The members of my pride groom each other, too, especially the lionesses.

I close my eyes and remember Father hugging me, Mother holding my hands within hers. The memory seems a fantasy.

One day the lead lioness of my pride goes after a huge ox. I watch from a perch in a distant tree. Normally my pride feeds on calves, for the adult oxen have gigantic horns. This one is no exception. I tense at the danger, but also at the anticipation of a feast. The past week's food has been meager for me. Hunger is strong.

The lioness creeps close, slowly, ever so slowly. Then she springs into a run. The ox bolts, and the lioness drives him toward another lioness, lying in ambush, who rushes at him. I've seen this kind of maneuver before, of course. But the ox doesn't behave like a deer or antelope; he doesn't back up. He thunders straight on, head lowered, right for the second lioness.

A third lioness rises from the grass immediately beside the ox. She is the one who gave birth almost two months ago. Her belly skin has flapped since then, weighted down with her swollen mammaries. She shouldn't be here now — she shouldn't be in this
danger. The ox would have trampled her if the lead lioness had driven him only slightly more to the left. He will kill her now. I leap from the tree. But before I can advance much, she springs onto his neck from the side. The ox flings his thick head with tremendous force, sending the lioness flying. But the first lioness is already attached to his rump, riding there, above the kicking hooves. And the second lioness has him by the throat. The third lioness jumps into the fray again.

The end is swift.

I retreat and climb the tree again to watch, overcome with admiration for their courage and intelligence. They communicated strategy to each other; they must have. That cooperation couldn't simply have been a product of the moment.

If only I could learn to communicate with them. If only I could be accepted into the pride.

They tear the limbs free and drag away as much of the carcass as they can.

I drop from my tree and run quickly to the remains, only to find a very old male lion also running to it. He is alone, clearly a nomad. He opens his black black muzzle to show fangs that are worn down to stumps. He roars at me.

I see this grandfather's ribs, and somewhere inside me the urge to be charitable stirs.
Zakat.
Yes, that is
one of the pillars of my faith: Give to the poor. Oh, yes, Orasmyn still lives within me. Hungry though I am, I back up in gratitude to the Merciful One, who allows me this opportunity.

Soft yips come from bushes to the side. I recognize them instantly: jackals. They are grouping.

I look at the old lion. We both know that if I leave this meat to him, the jackals will take it from him, anyway. He is doomed.