Beast (5 page)

The rice is served in large bowls. I look around. Kiyumars is at the far end of the pavilion, ladeling
abghosht
from the cooking vat into serving bowls. I get up from my place on the floor and walk around the outside of the pavilion, the muscles of my stomach tightening so hard, I think I may double over. My feet rush at the last moment, so that I knock another servant boy, who falls against Kiyumars' arm. Kiyumars laughs good-naturedly. He looks at me in surprise. “My prince?”

I back off, shaking my head at Kiyumars' obvious lightheartedness. I am alone in this curse, at least. The
pari
has spared Kiyumars. At least that. My relief is sharply lonely.

Shahpour puts his arm around my waist from behind. “Come, Orasmyn. Your father waits for you.”

Father, at last. I clasp Shahpour's hand in both mine. “Where?”

“In the mosque.” Shahpour looks at me strangely. “Are you all right, my prince?”

I free myself from his arm and hurry along the path.

A servant girl walks by with a basket of fresh dates and figs sitting on slices of cucumber. I snatch a handful of the dates. I stare at them, momentarily off balance from my own sudden impulse. My fast should not end until tomorrow. But these dates lure me. And, yes, for good reason: Dates are a remedy against poisons and certain sorceries. Thanks be to the Merciful One for allowing me to take this path, to
pass by this servant girl. I bite a date, then shove all of them into my mouth. I can barely chew, my mouth is so full. The sugary juice shocks my tongue. My stomach constricts with the need for more — for a whole meal.

The mosque has four
iwanha
— deeply vaulted arched portals. I wipe date juice from my beard with my open hand, then enter through the
iwan
closest to the palace. Father's shoes are pushed neatly against the entrance wall. The basins of water that always stand at the ready for the faithful glow gold in a faint light. Father is seated on the carpet in the
mihrab
—the niche in the wall that faces Mecca. This is where the
imam
stands to deliver his sermon during the Friday prayer service. The curved walls of the
mihrab
help reflect his voice so that even the women in the mezzanine above can hear. Now, though, the mosque is empty, but for Father and me.

A candle burns nearby and lights up Father's face and the Arabic calligraphy on the wall behind him. Ants attack the dead body of an
aqrab
—a scorpion — in the corner. I hurry to the carpet and sit on my heels.

“Speak, Orasmyn.”

“I am cursed.”

“Who cursed you?”

“A
djinn,”
I say, using the word of the
Qu'ran
here in the mosque rather than the word
pari
of my people.
“I allowed a defiled camel to be sacrificed today. I brought the curse upon myself.”

“You had a reason for this?” Father's voice is steady, but I saw his involuntary wince when I said the word
djinn.
And he cannot hide the small twitch of his lips.

“I had a reason. But I was wrong.”

Father sits silent for a moment. He never would have had the poor judgment I displayed this morning. He would have known the exact words of the
Qur'an.
He would have followed the ritual in every detail. He would have known what a Shah should know, what a Shah's son should know. I look away in shame, as much as fear.

“The sacrifice is to the Merciful One, not to any
djinn,”
says Father at last.

I turn back quickly to him.

“It is for the Merciful One to forgive, in his infinite compassion,” says Father. “It is for the Merciful One to quell the
djinn
's curse.” He leans toward me until his eyes are only a hand's distance from mine. “What is this curse?”

“You will kill me tomorrow.”

Fathers breath escapes with a groan. “I feared this. When you spoke so strangely today, I feared this.” He clenches his jaw, and I see a muscle ripple along the right side of his jawline. He takes the candle
and holds it close to the carpet. “This was woven in neighboring Heriz.”

My eyes follow the moving candle flicker.

“These canals abound with fish. These gardens are decorated with birds and deer and flowering shrubs and blossoms. A peaceful garden. One that you, my son, might have designed.” His fingertips run like animal feet across the weft of red and yellow cotton. “See here?” Fathers fingers trace the brocading of silver and gold silk on the thin wool pile. “Ducks lie in waiting for the fish to swim around the corner.” He looks up at me again. “But the fish never do.”

My lungs swell with the determination in his voice. I leap ahead of his words to their intent — for I am the prince, I should find my own solution. “I will lock myself in my room. I will let no man enter after midnight.”

“Excellent,” says Father. “Stay within and pray. The Merciful One will hear you.” Father holds the fist of his right hand cradled in the palm of his left. “I will enlist Shahpour. He'll lock me in my own room with your mother, who will likewise lock me in her arms. And in the morning, Shahpour will come get me and stay by my side all through the hunt.”

“How long will we keep apart, Father?”

“The
djinn
said I would kill you tomorrow, precisely tomorrow?”

“Those were the words.”

“Then you must pray all day, Orasmyn. And I must not come anywhere near you until after midnight tomorrow.”

“Yes,” I say, listening to his words, words that match my plan exactly. If only we can hold firm to this plan, we can thwart the
pari's
curse.

“Be in your room by the last ritual prayer tonight.”

“I'm going immediately.”

We hug.

I exit quickly, rushing past the bookshelves, out through the same
iwan
I entered by. Two men walk the path toward me. But I can tolerate no delay. I duck into the shadows of the mosque and pad along its side, then cross the
ziyada
—the outer court—and run over the dirt that still holds the sun's warmth. The crowds will be easy to skirt around if I make a route through the rose garden. I run in that direction, my feet growing lighter as my hope grows. Already I am promising myself that I will not stop at the fourth
rakat
in the evening's prayers. Tonight I will keep bowing and praying and bowing and praying until I fall asleep on the floor of my room. My plan is good. We will not fail.

“Pssst.”

I stop. “Who's there?”

“Ahi! You're a man. I heard only footsteps. I didn't
know.” The woman's voice comes from beyond the rosebushes just ahead.

A woman shouldn't go alone in the garden. She is suspect. Still, the weakness of her voice moves me. I enter the garden. “What's the matter?”

“Excuse my boldness, but I am in need of immediate aid.”

I take a few hesitant steps toward the bush. And now I see: The basket of fruits and cucumbers lies toppled on the ground. One fig has split, its numerous seeds wet and naked to the air, pungent. My nostrils prickle. My senses are heightened, as during the fasting of Ramadhan. This must be the servant girl I passed on my way to the mosque. I hurry around the roses.

She sits with her knees pulled to her chest and her face tucked under. “Don't look upon me, please, kind sir. My clothes are ripped. My
chador
is gone.”

I go down on one knee beside her. “Are you hurt?”

She doesn't answer. The pins that held her hair up have come away. Braids hang down her back, all the way to the ground. Between them I see smooth, dark skin. Her clothes have been reduced to rags.

“I'll find Ayeh.” Ayeh is the head of the women servants; this girl is her charge. “I'll send her to help you.”

“No.” The girl tilts her head up just enough so that
I see her frightened eyes. “Please don't leave me like this. What if he comes again?”

Now the scene makes sense. Of course I cannot leave her alone. “What animal attacked you?” I peer around at the bushes, from which the savage beast might still be watching.

“None,” she says. “It was a man.”

Anger bubbles up from my stomach, souring my mouth. “Who? Who did this to you?”

“No one would believe me.”

“I will. Tell me.”

She whispers, but so softly, I cannot catch the name.

I put my ear close to her mouth.

She falls against me, and my hands catch her instinctively. Now her arms circle my neck, and her face nuzzles in the hollow of my throat. “Carry me to safety.”

I have never touched an adult woman who was not in my family. My arms burn with energy. “Who?” My voice catches on the single word.

“Who?” she echoes, her lips moving against my neck. “Do you mean who am I?”

I had meant who was her attacker, but now I can see that I should have had compassion for the victim, not just rage for the criminal. Shame reduces me, makes me compliant. I stand, holding her in my arms like a small child. “Who are you?” I say as gently as I can.

“Zanejadu,” she breathes. Her breath is roses. Her voice is harps. Her name is familiar.

Zanejadu.

I look down at this woman curled against my chest and try to place her name.

She sighs and arches slightly.

I glimpse the curve of her breast, a hint of black. My head feels light. I cannot think straight, I cannot take my eyes from her flesh. This is the effect of fasting, I'm sure. The skin of her hand on my neck is thick as rose flesh — as
gule sourkh.
This is dream.

But the pulse in my temples is loud and real. Temptation must be fought. I should pray, but I cannot even make the
rakatha,
for I cannot put down this unfortunate woman.

Where is my faith? Oh, that the basic principles should recount themselves, permeating my being.

Nothing enters my head.

My groin throbs.

Let me find that rage that consumed me only moments ago. “Who did this to you?”

“Orasmyn,” she whispers. “The prince.”

“I am Orasmyn,” I say stupidly.

She is kissing my neck. “You did this. You.”

“I did what, Zanejadu?” Zanejadu! The sorceress
pari
who tried to seduce the heroes Isfandiyar and Rustam. I drop her. “Wicked
pari
, you would trap me now.”

“Foolish prince,” she says with a sneer, “you are already trapped.”

“I'll get free.”

“With your fathers plan?”

Did she follow me to the mosque? Was she perhaps one of the ants feeding on the dead scorpion, listening as we talked? “It is my plan, not Father's, and it will work.”

“Proud, stupid Orasmyn. Jumail was a she-camel. Only a woman's love can undo the curse. And no woman will ever love you.”

“My mother loves me.”

The
pari
laughs and gives a little yank to my beard. “You know the love I mean. Your skin trembled under my kiss.”

I turn and run. Rose thorns stab through my feet, but I run fast. I look over my shoulder. She is gone, vision of iniquity, yet she lingers, she coats me. I run as though for my life, I run, and . . .

SLAM.

S
omething crawls across my cheek. Delicate. It hesitates, then crawls again. I feel it lightly, strangely, as though it walks from hair to hair. Six legs. How extraordinary, that I can detect six legs. It crawls toward my open mouth. I jerk my head.

That didn't feel right. My head is heavy. A huge, doughy lump.

The insect is gone. I open my eyes. Clouds thinly veil the moon. Slowly the form of leaves darkens against the night air. I am outside. The perfume in the air tells all: I am in the rose garden.

Memory strains, but no recollection comes. Only the sense that I shouldn't be here, a vague worry I cannot understand.

My skin crawls as though I'm blanketed in insects.

I roll onto my stomach. My whole body is heavy.
Exhaustion closes my eyes. It makes no sense to fight it. The servants will come looking for me soon enough.

I surrender myself to sleep.

•  •  •

A crow caws loudly. A crow's caw is a prayer to the Merciful One.

I open my eyes to the haze of predawn. Dawn comes! Soon the
imam's
helper will call out the
adhan
for morning prayer. Memory returns like a desert wind that would steal the breath from every living creature. Everyone in the palace will rise for prayer. Father will rise. I must get to my room and lock myself in.

Or this will be the day that I die.

I lift my head to look around, and fall with its weight onto my back. I rise to my shoulder.

Horror! The body of a lion stretches out before me. The beast has made it over the high wall of the hunting park.