Beast (8 page)

The air also smells of humans. My muscles contract under my skin. Fear presses me to run.

But there's one more smell. A musky odor that confuses me with longing and unexplained dread. It comes from the men's pavilion.

I trot, ears alert, eyes continuously scanning the palace, the bushes, all the grounds. The pavilion's marble floor is cold under my thick, spongy pads. I feel uncertain, as though I'll slip, legs splayed to either side. I want to get away.

But that odor pulls me on.

She lies in the center of the floor. Her tail stretches out straight as an arrow. Her chest is pocked with holes. Dried blood mats her fur. It's dark, and I don't see as well as in daylight, but I recognize the sound and smell of death. I put my face to hers, and the flies disperse. My tongue runs along her jaw, up to her ear. To the two nicks.

My lioness.

She seems so much smaller in death, as though she shrinks. She seems delicate. And piercingly lonely.

Lions are cannibals, I know this now, for a part of me accepts this body as meat.

But another part of me moans the loss of a female — of this female — whom I realize I would have followed day after day had the elephants not come.

I am stupid with grief. I lie on the floor beside her. Insects move from her body to mine and back. Their wings go hush hush. The night air stings my open eyes. Finally, I shut them and sleep.

The footsteps belong to a man. He approaches the pavilion from the palace side. The body of the lioness lies between me and him. I know this man. Perhaps the
pari
guides the feet of the Shah, for it is not yet dawn and he carries no lantern—he can make out less in the dark than I can, I'm sure.

I see my lioness running for her life, then turning to face her tormenters — turning to face the Shah. But her jaws were more ferocious than he had imagined. So the arrows flew as she lunged at him. Arrows from his companions as well as from the Shah. My brave, lost lioness.

The Shah missed his chance to fulfill his destiny as ruler of all Persia—to kill a lion with his bare hands.

It is well past midnight of the second day since I found myself in lion form. The spell is strong. I remember the
pari
Zanejadu, her laugh, her words; only a woman's love can undo this terror.

No woman will ever love me.

The
pari
has won.

Yet, in a sense, it is I who won, for I am still alive.

The Shah's bare feet slap quietly on the marble. The insects investigate him; he swats with one hand, but still comes closer. He kneels beside my lioness.

I stand.

The Shah gasps loudly. His hands fly up beside his face. His mouth hangs open, as though he's shrieking silently.

I lower my head, offer my neck to his bare hands.

He doesn't move.

Nor do I.

He has stopped breathing. But now he takes in breath again and lowers one hand ever so slowly to rest it on the top of my head.

I wait.

“Master, is that you?” It is Shahpour's voice. He's running toward us. “What . . . ? Lion!” he shouts and runs back toward the palace.

The Shah's breath comes fast, in little bursts. “Beast,” he whispers. “Why? Why have you come?” He smells of pistachio, his favorite nut. He smells human, familiar, father, meat.

Loud voices come from the palace. I see torches.

Father puts his hands around my throat, reaching under my thick mane.

The men are coming.

Father's hands tighten.

And now I see the
pari's
curse realizing itself—I see the Shah standing over the body of Prince Orasmyn, looking at his own hands aghast. A father who has killed his son. An excruciating pain that can never lessen.

I butt him hard in the chest.

Father falls backward.

I run.

The men with torches are in the pavilion; they surround Father. Two brave souls peer out into the dark after me. But I am already past their line of vision, and no one dares chase a lion by night.

I run to the fruit-tree garden. The small pool shines black in the dimmest moonlight. I bend my forelegs and drink. I drink and drink until I slake this thirst.

If only the face of the
pari
would appear in the water, I'd drink it away. I'd obliterate it for all eternity.

I walk back toward the palace. The voices have died down; most of the men have gone back to bed. But three men with torches guard the body of my lioness.

I stay close to the wall of the hunting park, completely obscured in the dark, and go to the fragrance garden. I walk through
sewti,
which blooms white year round, especially toward the end of the rains. I walk through
mongra,
a yellow I will never again distinguish from gray.
Bholsari
and
chambeli
and
riabel
and
kuzah.
All the flowers I have tended with care, working alongside the
baghbanha
—the gardeners — alongside Kiyumars. I roll around the
gulhaye sourkh
— my dear, dear rosebeds — aching for the loss of so much, of everything gentle, everything good.

Yes, the
pari's
curse meant precisely this. For this is death, is it not? A lion may be the one beast that could never survive on the Shahs grounds — the grounds of the ruler of all Persia. He would always be hunting me down. The lion is banished. My father has killed his son.

I gather myself within this strange new skin and trot off to the north, along the path that leads forever to the mountains.

B
y full dawn I am in the mountains. Wilderness lies to the north—a great wilderness to hide me.

I need a plan — I need to gather my energies and forge ahead. I tell myself these things, yet I have no urge to act upon that knowledge; nothing perturbs me. My belly is still full. The world slows. For now I nap, basking in the open sunshine, far from any path humans might take, but close to water.

When I wake, I check my hands again—they are still paws. I knew they would be; by now I knew. I roll in the stream, then rise and crouch, rise and crouch, growling softly, thinking the words:

In the name of God, Most Compassionate, Most Merciful.

Praise be to God, Lord of the Worlds.

This bathing is my attempt at the
wudhu;
this growl, my attempt at prayer, pathetic though it be. I wonder how long it will take before I forget the words to
Al-Fatiha,
the opening of the
Qur'an.
May I not live that long.

I spend hours intently watching other animals: birds, insects, lizards, and snakes. The day lengthens.

But night, when it finally comes to the mountain, comes all at once, in a hurry, carrying unfamiliar noises that press upon my isolation. All of me longs for company, the comfort of community. I wander silently, alert for dangers, searching until I find a protected ledge. The rock is warm under my belly. After awhile, I sleep.

The sound of scampering feet wakes me. My eyes adjust quickly to the night. A young hyrax runs across my ledge. It darts, rodentlike, to the low bush on the other side and feeds, oblivious of me. Five more young come racing after it, chasing each other in glee. They are no larger than my paw.

I lift my head to watch better.

Two of the creatures notice me. The hairs on their backs near their scent glands rise, creating a light spot. I stay perfectly still, and they return to feeding and intermittent playing.

Now two adults come along, the size of rabbits. Their pelts are thick. I wonder how they manage in
this summer heat. My own hair is shorter and thinner than theirs by far. One of the adults sees me and stops. It waits, chin whiskers twitching. Then it comes several steps closer and stops again.

Its curiosity delights me. But a sense of mischief enters me. I roar. The hyrax practically flips over itself backward and disappears. My roar grows as my mouth opens wider. It lasts a good thirty or forty seconds, rocking me sideways. When my jaw finally shuts, there is no trace of animal nearby. I would laugh if I could.

That roar was powerful and majestic —and exceedingly loud. It carried far. I get to my feet and climb higher into the mountains. I don't stop until morning.

Days pass. Sleep alternates with short, erratic meanderings. The only consistency to my day is immersion in mountain pools at dawn and dusk followed by prayer, such as it is, and long drinks. No thirst I ever had as a human compares with my leonine thirst.

Hunger finally comes again — and with it, ever-clearer thoughts. I try my luck at catching lizards; my luck is nonexistent. One day. Another. I look around and realize my hunger has led me back down to the foothills, where the game is more plentiful. Yet still I catch nothing.

By daylight I hurry along, my head upright and high, my ears cocked forward. All my senses sharpen, as they do when I fast during Ramadhan. But I am not light-headed, as I am then. I am tight and ready. I am hungry.

And I am a dreadfully poor hunter.

I can hardly sleep anymore. I roll in water and pray and wander, disoriented.

Think, Orasmyn.

I stop, sit on my haunches, and watch.

After a few hours, I see a large black bird rise to the sky. A second follows. Vultures. I am already trotting toward the spot they took off from. It takes a half hour to get there. The carcass of the mongoose has been ripped open. It's a big one. Its bloody flesh glistens. My mouth drools for that flesh.

A jackal slinks out of the bushes far ahead of me, close to the mongoose, tail bushy, stripes pale. Then three more. They rush at the carcass, which is barely enough for a small meal for me.

I growl deep in my throat.

The jackals face me in surprise. I remember how my lioness hunted upwind of the stag — how her strategy depended solely on sight and sound. Now these jackals have failed to even use sight — for they should have looked back over their shoulders before leaving the safety of the bush.

But, then, they never expected a lion.

They stand in a row, and one lets out a long, wavering howl. The others join, repeating four times, ending in a series of quick yelps. Its an eerie cry. If I didn't see them for myself, I would have guessed there were many more of them.

I roar.

The jackals are gone by the time my jaw closes. Only now do I realize that the instant I first saw them I should have flattened myself and crept up on them. A jackal meal would have been much more hearty than this mongoose snack.

The vultures have picked out the liver, the eyes, the entrails, but the skeletal frame is whole except for a split in the backbones, up high. I eat the flesh, cracking the bones and swallowing everything that will go down. The mongooses distended stomach remains intact. I rip it open with a claw. A barely digested snake curls there.

I eat the snake, the stomach, the pointed head and long tail and grizzled fur of the mongoose, and reflect upon the probable drama. The mongoose surprised the snake. Then somehow it managed to break its own neck. Perhaps the snake had a part in it — causing indigestion with a toxin, or simply making the animal clumsy around its full belly. The vultures discovered the dead mongoose. And the jackals waited for the
vultures to finish. Their fearsome howl is deceptive, if that's the case: for they are not bold. Then came the lion.

The snake, the mongoose, the vultures, the jackals, me —all caught in an endless cycle of bloodied jaws and claws.

But at least the lion has the respite afforded by a distended belly after a gargantuan meal. If only I can learn to shake off the lethargy that follows a gorging, I can perhaps hold on to my human mind. I can think the thoughts of a man.

But at this moment my stomach still has room for more meat. If I see the jackals again, I will attack. I will eat jackal.

And now I realize I shouldn't have made such short work of the mongoose meal; I should have left something other than this mess of scattered teeth and bone splinters. Something to lure the jackals back.

I am inept.

And I have eaten again without the
wudhu
first, without prayer. If I had stopped to find a stream and roll in it, then pray, the jackals would have eaten all the meat. But that isn't what made me eat so quickly. No, I didn't even think of that when I ate. I simply ate. There was food; I was hungry.

The lion in me prevails not only over body, but over spirit. I fool myself to hope otherwise.

I walk to the bush the jackals were hiding under before and nestle in. I sleep.

When I wake, it's night, and an edginess makes me jump to my feet. I peer through the dark. Nothing's watching me, yet somehow I am certain I have to get moving.

I trot quickly. After a few hours the wild yields to trees arranged in orderly rows with aromatic shrubs in between. A garden. One of mine. The palace itself is quiet, but voices come from the holding pen. It is suicidal to be here—but I am drawn forward. Night cloaks me, at least. I stay close to the wall along the hunting park, every part of me at the ready. My mind possesses a clarity of thought I have not had since I woke that first night in lion form. The closer I get to the human trappings from my old life, the more acute that clarity grows. Near the little bridge I crouch and listen.