Beast (9 page)

Kiyumars' voice comes like warm rain to a dry garden. Oh, to speak with him again, to speak with my friend.

Djamchid, another servant, answers. They lament my disappearance. Kiymars scolds himself for not warning me more severely against the dangers from the wild cats brought in for the hunt. By the time the irony of his assumption hits me, the discussion has moved on to trouble with the Turks. Kiyumars overheard the Shah speak of coming war. Talk of
impending bloodshed from the Turks has surrounded me my whole life. This is a real concern, but maybe not as pressing as Kiyumars thinks.

I come closer, so that I can see into the pen now. Kiyumars and Djamchid work with Abdullah and four other Indian boys. It's been a week already. Precisely a week, for the hunting guests depart at dawn.

And, oh, perhaps my human part has been working all along; perhaps it kept track of the days and brought me back here in time. For an idea forms now, an idea that shakes me to the core of my being.

I hear the
pari
Zanejadu's words again: Only a woman's love can undo the curse.

I am lion. And I will die lion, for no human woman will ever love me.

But a week ago two lionesses accepted me. And I accepted them—more than I wanted to admit.

India is lion country. India is lion country. India is lion country.

O Merciful One, forgive me. For I know I can live that life. A lion's life.

The irony of the
pari's
curse finally hits me: The lion is king of beasts.

I stand taller to meet the challenge. I am the Prince of Persia, and I choose my destiny. I will go to India.

The departure of the Indian guests shines before me as what it truly is: an opportunity. I can follow them at
a distance all the way to the wilds where lions live. I don't have to travel that great distance alone.

This is, at last, a plan. The only plan.

With the realization comes impatience. I want to begin my new life. The
pari
ruined my old life, but she cannot ruin this one. I will fight her with all my might. I will learn to enjoy the company of lions. I will take my position as king of beasts.

This thought brings another: My ears, eyes, nose all pay attention. There is no lion in the area but me. The hunters must have killed them all.

They will kill me, too, if they see me.

If I run to the southeast, the Indian caravan will pass by me in a few hours.

I rise, prepared to leave, when I notice a flicker of light from my bedroom window. I cross the open area, passing by the pavilion where the body of my lioness lay last week, and stand under the window. Two bodies breathe within, the regular breath of sleepers. I rise on my hind legs and rest my front paws on the window ledge. Lit candles line the perimeter of the room. Beside each candle are three bowls: a large one with cut roses floating in water, a medium one with smoking incense stalks standing in sand, and a small one with balls of hardened honey rolled in crushed almonds. Mother and Father lie in my bed in each other's arms. Her hair
falls loose across her face; his face presses against her shoulder.

This room has become a shrine to call me back to them from whatever world I now inhabit. If I could see their beloved faces, I know they would speak of misery and of hope. Father and Mother deserve to know that I live still, though I cannot live as their son anymore.

I can never kiss them again. I can never allow myself to touch them. I cannot be Orasmyn. The loss blinds me for a moment.

When sight returns, I look back over my shoulder. There is no way to be sure that the people in the holding pen are not looking in this direction. The risk makes my upper lip curl under. I push off from my hind legs, balance for a moment with all fours on the ledge, and drop into the room.

Father groans in his sleep.

The
Shahnameh
lies on my reading platform, on the floor. With my bottom teeth, I flip open the cover. Then I use the very tip of my tongue to turn the pages. Page after page. Searching.

Father groans again and shifts, twisting his neck so that now, if his eyes open, he will see me. He will see lion.

I turn the pages faster. Finally I find the illustration I sought, the illustration I was admiring a week
ago: Bahram Chubina slaying the lion-ape. I leave the book open to that page.

That's when I see the new book beside the
Shahnameh.
It is
Gulistan
—
Rode Garden.
The author is Saadi. This must be the book of verse that Mother said she wanted me to read. How perfect for her to have chosen a book with the title of my beloved flower. Once upon a time, opening this book would most certainly have brought me laughter, for nothing is better than Sufi humor. Once upon a time.

Never again.

Father stirs. He is half awake.

I take the book in my mouth and spring out the window in one huge leap.

B
y day I trot along out of sight behind trees and bushes and the numerous boulders that lie close to the path the caravan follows. When we come to towns, the Indian travelers pass through, stocking up on foods, while I give wide berth, staying in the shadows.

I learn quickly that domesticated cats are easy prey. The lesson scared me at first, because my nursemaid Ava used to say that anyone who killed a cat would die. Dogs tied up outside houses at night are likewise easy, and that was a worse lesson — a repulsive lesson. Ava said dogs have seven souls, so they must be killed seven times to really die. If she was right, multiple souls haunt me now.

These beliefs of ancient Persia mix uneasily with the Muslim religion of my heart, yet both of them grow dearer to me with each leonine act that distances me forever.

Or maybe not forever. The book I took from the palace,
Gulidtan,
lies hidden under a slab rock within the Shah's hunting park. The verses await a self that can open it and drink thirstily.

Would that such a self should survive and conquer.

But for now the self that owns me travels toward lion country, for that self quenches thirst with the blood of dogs.

The dogs must belong to Christians and Jews, since dogs are too dirty an animal for Muslims to keep. Kiyumars and I once petted a Christian dog in the bazaar when we were small. Shahpour made us bathe from head to foot before we were allowed to pray again.

The luxury of eating only tied-up animals allows me time to find water before meals and perform my version of the
wudhu
and say the prayers. Still, I fear I will never be cleansed.

After many days of winding downward through gaps and passes in the mountains, the path comes out on the great central plateau that fills much of Persia. I stand at the northwest corner of this plateau, breathing slowly in the hot, dry air. Mountain ranges extend south and east. And I know that far, far to the east another mountain range runs north to south, so that Persia is bordered by a ruggedness that suits my people.

My chest swells eagerly. The plateau holds plenty
of small game, roebucks and hares. I recognize it as my natural habitat. If I can only learn to hunt minimally well, the plateau will be welcoming.

But there is no denying that from here on, the opportunities for cover diminish. Beyond the plateau lies the even hotter desert, where, with the exception of oases—which are quite dependable—bushes and even thickets are hard to find.

I have no choice but to strike out on my own.

If I stay in the foothills and head east until I reach the mountain range that runs north-south, then follow those mountains south, I can find India for sure.

I pace. The idea of leaving the caravan irritates me and, yes, it frightens me. But it shouldn't. I am not human; these Indians are not company for me. They would kill me if they caught sight of me following them.

Or maybe they would imprison me? Maybe they would put me in one of their empty wooden lion cages and cart me to a wilderness?

I can't know.

I watch the caravan head onto the plateau, then I turn and run due east.

In the next few weeks I take to traveling mostly by night, with naps in the daytime. The pattern is difficult for me; I see somewhat better by day. But I adopt this habit for two reasons. First, the heat increases as
the summer passes—and my tolerance for heat inside this hair coat is minimal. But, more important, few humans are about at night.

In the settlements nearest to the foothills, the air is heavy with the smells of traditional dishes, like
esfenaj surkh kardeh
— spinach with onions and turmeric. The vegetables don't attract me in the least, however. I eat cats and dogs. Sheep and goats would be easy prey, too, for there are abundant herds everywhere. But I know I cannot travel if I have a large meal. And I must keep traveling. If there is any promise left in my life, India holds it.

I pass nomadic tribes, women in black robes, men in flowing white with head scarves. The largest of their camels are piled high with heavy carpets, ready to be spread out on both sides of any path they cross so that passing travelers find an instant
souk
— market. I do not raid their domesticated animals — not even the rabbits. These beasts are part of their livelihood, minimal as it is; they are not mere pets. I've been told that nomads sometimes live for months on nothing but dates and camel's milk.

But there's another reason: The nomads, unlike the townspeople, might recognize the work of a lion and hunt me down.

The mountains seem never ending, even to these new eyes of mine that can see so far. Finally, after
days of travel, another range cuts across them. I follow the new range southward along the eastern border of my dear Persia. Nothing is a marker of when to cross these mountains and head into India, into lion country. So I keep going south, into the searing heat.

One morning I smell the sea, the Arabian Sea of the Indian Ocean. It's time to change course. And though I would normally stretch out now for a nap, the thought of India, the hope of company at long last, precludes sleep.

The mountains are lower here than I had feared, and the trees are taller and more numerous. Everything beckons me. I travel eastward again, panting, at a quiet trot all day, stopping only to drink. I trot at night and into the next day, the next evening, a regular, mesmerizing trot. India opens to me. India. I will make this new life the best it can be.

SSSS!

A leopard.

I stop, stock-still. The air around me seems to keep moving in the rocking rhythm that cushioned me only a moment ago. My eardrums hum. I feel cut off, unreal. So unreal that fear doesn't enter. Thought forms cold and organized.

The leopard is alone and clearly taken by surprise. It stands no higher than my shoulder, with a slim, long body. It shows huge fangs.

I don't know how to fight, even if that was my inclination,
which it isn't. Rather, I want to turn tail and run. But I am sure that
leopard runs faster than me, especially since I've been traveling without sleep for two days. If the leopard wants a fight, there's no way to avoid it. And at least I have the benefit of size. I wait.

The air stills.

And now a rancid odor comes. The smell of fear.

The big, spotted cat springs easily into the tree beside it. It leaps from bough to bough. It stops and looks down on me. It hisses again, a warning I recognize now as defensive.

Nevertheless, I make a wide arc in my path so that I do not pass within lunging range of that cat. I run quickly, then gradually slow down to my trot.

I am lion. I may well be the fiercest predator of this land. Perhaps of any land. The fiercest predator other than humans, that is. My head extends forward. I can do this. I can be lion with no one's help. I am royal. I prowl.

Then I remember tigers. As large as lions, and faster. While the reality of the leopard somehow brought no fear, the crystal thought of a tiger brings shivers.

Fear is not my strongest feeling now, though; I am hungry. My stomach grew accustomed to my sneaky, opportunist ways on this journey: It contracted only when I saw a human settlement that I could raid. But now it's unruly, as though the encounter with the leopard has excited it. My last meal was two nights ago — a small cat, a morsel. Night will come soon. I want to eat before I find a place to sleep. I must hunt.

I stop and listen.

Before long I hear quick thuds. Hooved animals. Maybe luck is with me and some lone boy leads a goatherd through these foothills. I lope toward the sound.

Wild goats. And they spotted me before I spotted them. Or maybe they smelled me. They leap nimbly and swiftly, despite their stout bodies. I run behind, but halfheartedly, for I am sleepy and they know the terrain. They are far ahead now.

Except for one big male. He lags at the rear, foraging at leisure.

I rush him.

He turns to me and lowers his head, with two corkscrew horns. He charges.

I turn away in amazed terror, but too late. A horn catches my left rear thigh. It rips into me with seering pain. I yank my thigh free. The goat comes at me again. I growl, a shrieking scream of a growl.

The goat stops, stamps, snorts. Then leaves.

The hole in my thigh is deep and wide, but the wound may not be as grave as it is painful, for as I lick, the blood stops flowing.

This is a lesson, O great hunter Orasmyn: Never attack dangerous beasts unless they are weak.

Another lesson: Don't assume they are weak.

I loll onto my back and would sleep, when I remember the leopard. And tigers. The night holds predators, predators who see better in the dark than lions.

But maybe even lions hunt at night. After all, I look for food whenever I can, night or day, regardless of the limitations of my sight. Maybe this behavior conforms to lion behavior.

And maybe this night holds lions who would hunt me now — for with my wound, I might be prey, rather than friend, to them.

I get to my feet with difficulty and limp to the nearest group of boulders. They are arranged poorly, however, with no natural hole or cave. But I cannot search further. This much activity has already made my wound bleed again. I dig into the earth under a boulder—but, though I am an excellent digger, the earth is exceedingly hard. When I'm out of energy, I settle in. I lick my wound until I fall asleep.