Beast (2 page)

I race to the animal enclosures beyond the mosque, to the camel-holding pen, hoping no one has beat me to the task. Preparing an animal for sacrifice is just as important a part of the feast as slashing its neck.

Kiyumars is already in the pen, stroking the large she-camel. But no one else is about. I join this servant with a silent nod. We've known each other all our lives—we played among the herds of goat and sheep together as children; we tend the gardens of Tabriz side by side as adults—we fall into an easy camaraderie now. Kiyumars puts henna on the head of the camel, turning her the orange color that guided my feet here now. All is well. I rub the camels eyelids with kohl. She is docile, more docile than I've known a camel to be. Kiyumars takes a sugar lump from his pouch and puts it in the camel's mouth. Ah, now I understand her cooperation, for I have a sweet tooth myself.

The necklace shines from the open box nearby. It is made of tiny mirrors set in red silk with gold embroidered leaves. Carefully I lift it with both hands and hold it under the camel's thick neck. Kiyumars
takes one end, and together we fasten the necklace in place. It hangs before her chest like a banner.

Kiyumars dips his hands in the henna again. He turns to the camel, about to rub color into her back, when he gasps.

I look over his shoulder. At first I cannot see it. But now halfway up her single hump a thin line shows, where the hair doesn't lie perfectly flat. It runs two hands-width long.

Kiyumars looks at me with frightened eyes.

We both know what the scar means. Someone cut fat from this camels hump, a practice of our people for millennia. But now we know, through the teachings of Muhammad, that the Merciful One expressly forbids it: Live animals are never to suffer at the hand of man. An old scar, to be sure. Nevertheless, this camel has been defiled.

“She appeared to be the finest camel, my prince. In the name of the Merciful One, this is truth.”

“Was no other camel brought here yesterday and prepared for sacrifice?” I ask, though I can see the holding pen is otherwise empty.

“She is the only one, my prince.” Kiyumars' voice shakes. An error regarding sacrifices could call for grave punishment. The local royal family holds to old Persian customs that go against Islam; they would have Kiyumars nailed by his ears to the wall out front
of the palace, just as they do to those who break the fast during the monthlong celebration of Ramadhan. I wince at the thought. My hand instinctively takes his upper arm and pulls him close. My chest swells with the need to protect Kiyumars.

But is it written anywhere that a camel who has been violated in this way cannot be sacrificed? I recall no such prohibition, though I have to admit I remember more of the Persian folktales in the
Shahnameh
than of the Arab holy words in the
Qur'an.

I could ask the
imam
—the prayer leader—just to be sure. But the Feast of Sacrifices is one of the two most important holy days of the lunar year —so the Shah should know the rules that govern it. Likewise, the Shah's son should know. Consultation would be a sign of weakness.

The answer must lie within me.

Think, Orasmyn.

This camel is imperfect. But all the camels in our herd have some defect or other. They have to. Such is the way of the world. This may be the best camel available, despite her scar.

Kiyumars puts both hands to his cheeks, forgetting the henna in his desperation and turning himself orange. “It is my thoughtlessness. Jumail is the only camel prepared for sacrifice. Forgive me, my prince.”

Jumail? This is the Arab word for “little camel,”
not the Persian one. This camel clearly belongs to Islam. I reach high and put my hands over her muzzle, trying to pull myself up so I can look into her eyes. The camel stares at me a moment, then blinks and jerks her head away. But she doesn't bare her teeth. Jumail is ready for sacrifice.

I scan my memory for wisdom from the
Qu'ran.
“The Merciful One forgives our dietary lapses more easily than most other lapses.”

“Yes,” says Kiyumars with hope in his voice.

Now I search my memory for wisdom from our people's traditions, wisdom my nursemaid Ava taught me. “And eating camel meat rekindles faith,” I say softly.

“The people will be grateful,” says Kiyumars. “Especially the sick, my prince.”

I think of the sick, for whom half the meat of this camel will be salted and set aside. They will chew it all year long for strength no other meat can give. Nothing would be gained by failing to sacrifice this beast.

And I cannot believe the Merciful One would want Kiyumars to suffer for an innocent oversight. Indeed, if animals are not to suffer at the hand of man, how then can humans be allowed such suffering?

I fasten a necklace of bells around the camel, high
up and tight, so that it rides in front of the arch of her neck. Then I stand tall before my servant, my friend.

Kiyumars bows to me. When he rises, he smears the camels hump with henna, putting extra on the scar that disappeared with his first swipe. I add a strand of precious stones between the necklace of bells and the necklace of mirrors. After Kiyumars finishes coloring the camel's back, I spread the fine Kashmir shawl across her. She is ready.

Everything has been done correctly.

Or almost everything.

In an instant I am cold. It is nearly impossible to be cold anywhere in my country in the summer, even at the start of summer, even in Tabriz. Yet I shiver now. It is as though a tiny being flutters around my head, blowing and blowing. It as as though a storm begins.

T
he bazaar is thronged with the faithful, as always. But this morning they do not barter for cloth or copper vessels, for wool or carpets. And this morning the number of people is multiplied many times, for the women have come out of their homes to stand beside the men, and the
zarehun
—the farmers—have left the fields to take their place along the sides of the road. All have come out for the procession.

Little boys run before the
hajjiha—
the pilgrims—picking up small stones and sticks. Normally they use brooms to sweep the streets, but on the Feast of Sacrifices no brooms are allowed, because the broken needles left behind by sweeping might pierce the bare feet of the
hajjiha.
I am grateful; many times on my pilgrimage I walked for days. But I've been home long enough that my feet have grown tender again.

Behind the row of
hajjiha
comes the ram to be sacrificed by the local royals. Next comes the camel to be sacrificed by the Shah. A gap follows these two animals, a gap in which the bells of their necklaces jingle, happy and light. If they know they are to die, they must be filled with rapture at the prospect. To give ones life for the Merciful One, that is true privilege.

After the gap come the music makers: the men blowing
saz
— oboes — my favorite instruments, besides the human voice, that is. And one man playing the
kerna —
a trumpet as tall as he is. And then a row of men on kettledrums. This music isn't new. We hear it every night and at all festivals. And during the month of Ramadhan, we hear it before each dawn. Familiarity endears it to me. This is the music of my faith. I listen to it from my position far in the front of the procession and it is muted, like the sound of water in a river on the far side of a stand of trees. A smile swells my cheeks, though this is a solemn feast.

I know the Shah comes immediately behind the music makers, flanked by his most loyal servants. When we travel long distances, my father rides in the caravan with Mother. I used to ride there with them when I was young. But in processions, Father sits on a horse. Today it is a white horse, an Arabian, accustomed to the sands.

I was with Father when the messenger brought
this horse as an advance gift from one of the guests who will arrive tonight or early tomorrow for the weeklong hunt Father has organized. An even longer hunt will be arranged for the end of summer. A white horse augurs well; Father plans to ride it in the hunt. Today its tail is dyed red, along with the tails of all the other royal horses. I imagine the horse now, red tail held high, head higher. Father in his high crown, his
taj,
astride that horse—what a magnificent sight; Mother's heart must be near bursting from pride as she sits on the carpet in the caravan.

I hear the cries of the people who break jars and scatter the sugar that was in them beneath the feet of the royal horses. They wish my family well.

Then come the local royals, greeted warmly by the crowds, but not quite as warmly as the Shah, of course.

We stop at the appointed place in the street. Two barrels of water await us, two shining daggers, many empty bowls. The
hajjiha
surround the sheep and camel. The music makers back into the crowd. The royalty stops and dismounts.

Now it is the turn of the mourners. The rest of us stay silent as the castanets click. Men with their heads plastered in mud kneel and throw dirt upon themselves. Women loosen their braids and scratch their own faces. The penitents join them; flagellants nick the
front of their heads; blood streams down their chests. They beseech the Merciful One to purify them.

I am cold again—that sudden, inexplicable cold that seized me in the holding pen with Kiyumars this morning. I look around at the crowd. A peasant rubs the amulet that hangs from his neck to protect against the evil eye. The woman standing next to him touches the wrist of her small daughter, then puts her hand on the ground to transfer any evil that would prey on her child into the harmless, unharmable dirt. We are all quivering at the sight of so much sorrow—the penitents' sorrow.

At last the calamity criers grow quiet. I fold my hands in front of me and step to the side as the other
hajjiha
turn the sheep and the camel toward Mecca. A barrel of water is set before each animal. They drink greedily. The sheep stops quickly, but the camel keeps drinking, in her huge capacity. She drinks half the barrel and is still going. People fidget; the camel drinks. If she finishes the barrel, that might mean she could have drunk even more. It is wrong to sacrifice an animal without first giving it cool waters to slake its thirst. Compassion allows for no less.

I step forward and look into the barrel. The camel has drunk three-fourths of the water and is still drinking. Drinking and drinking. The
hajjiha
instinctively move closer together. The camel lifts her head
from the barrel, and the sun glints off the drops caught in her muzzle hairs. The
hajji
on the other side of the camel peeks into the barrel now. He turns to us and nods; the camel has been satisfied, and water still remains. As the
hajji
beside me lets out a sigh, I realize I, too, have been holding my breath.

Now two
hajjiha
pick up the daggers and take their posts beside the animals. The
imam
steps to the front and leads us in prayer. We make our bows to thank the Merciful One for accepting the sacrifice. I bow, too, but I rise quickly, careful not to linger. If Mother is watching, she will not be able to pick me out from the other
hajjiha;
she cannot try to send me her strength. My own strength thickens my arms and neck.

The camel throws her head up, takes a step backward. Perhaps she sensed the change in the crowd? Perhaps she's seen what a dagger can do? In this instant, I know her fear. My hand reaches out to rest on her flank, a feeble attempt to console her.

The daggers make a single gash to the neck. I fight the urge to look away. My throat, my cheeks, my eyes sting with sympathy. I force myself to keep my hand on her flank.

The sacrifice is good; neither the head of the sheep nor that of the camel is severed. The blood is caught in the huge pottery bowls held beneath the wounds. The sweet smell of the blood turns my stomach. All
the
hajjiha,
all of us together, help the animals sink to their knees, then, finally, rest on their sides.

A spasm shakes the belly of the huge camel. My hands want to comfort her again; I kneel on them to hold them back, for comfort now would be inappropriate—this death is sacred.

The Kashmir shawl on the camels back comes away. My throat tightens in worry, but the scar on her hump is invisible. Her eyes stay open —even the inner eyelid that protects against blowing desert sands doesn't lower. Yet she is dead, for the
hajji
who held his hand on her heart has withdrawn.

The butchers have already begun their work. The skins are peeled off carefully. They will be saved for a rug, in the case of the sheep, and vests and shoes, in the case of the camel. Now the butchers pull out the intestines and coil them into bowls. They will be dried, and pieces will be given to anyone who wants to attach them to a wall to ward off the evil eye, a custom that goes back centuries, long before Islamic times. The right eye of the sheep is scooped out. It, also, will be dried, then sewn into the bonnet of the new baby in the local royal family, to ban ill luck. Women come forward now with armfuls of cotton. They soak up the sheep and camel blood.

The royal cooks skewer the
halal
meat—the sacrificial meat —on sticks and carry it to the pits specially
prepared in my garden. The people follow in two streams along the street, the men on one side, the women on the other.

I walk without speaking to anyone, absorbed in the crowd. Gradually I slough off the sadness in my heart that comes at every sacrifice.

We pass the tavern run by Christians, who look out the window at us. I look back with equal interest. The writings of Rumi, the best-loved mystic of Islam, teaches that all religions are true: Muslim, Christian, Hindu, Buddhist, Jew — all worship the one and only God. Still, I don't know any of the faces in that tavern — I've never had a Christian friend. Often the tavern clients raise a glass in greeting to the passers on the street, but no one dares salute today. The Feast of Sacrifices sobers everyone.