Tears of the Simorgh - Chapter 1

Zaal, the son of Saam, the warlord of Sistan, the protege of Simorgh, the mystical bird who raised him must embark on a journey across ancient Persia to find the great bird who has disappeared

The desert sun is merciless, it beats down on you with almost physical power, pressing you down, crushing you, as if it wants to reduce all life to crystalized grains of tiny sand. But what are we, mere mortals but grains of sand to the gods? Have they not created us for their amusement? And we go on with our lives, oblivious to our insignificance, dung beetles rolling their precious jumble of life's flotsam up an ever-steeper hill, hoping to reach a far summit we all know to be out of reach, walking inexorably towards the cool embrace of death, and sweet release from the scorching heat of the sun. For all men are born of darkness and it is to darkness that they must return. 

But I digress, it is perhaps delirium born of dehydration, or perhaps the loneliness of the desert has finally taken my mind, taken it to the cool subterranean vaults of the underworld where surely my spirit will also make haste if I do not find water and shelter soon. 

A vagabond this is, you might say, you who are, by the magic of writing privy to the innermost workings of my soul. A man outcast by kith and kin, left to wander the wastelands of Sistan, for indeed, in this bleakest of god forsaken lands it is that I now sojourn, in search of a friend lost to me and whom I am resolved to find with the most frightening resolve, for if I fail, Earan will fall and darkness, the darkness of death will descend upon us all.

But you are wrong, I, the writer of these lines am no vagabond, I have left the mighty citadel of Zabul not as an exile but as a Pahlavan, a hero, a chosen of Mithras the great god, the sleepless one, the wielder of the bull-headed mace, the destroyer of deevs and the protector of man. I am Zaal, the son of Saam, the son of Nariman, the son of Garshasb, father to Rustam, master of Sistan and protector of Earan. But that is of little importance now, for I am alone and close to death and my bones will be claimed by the desert sand and vultures shall pick the flesh off them and the wind shall build a burrow upon my remains and hyenas shall mourn my passing or rather mock it, chuckling around it under the moon and chuckle they should, for I am a fool and deserve a fool's death. Yet I am a stubborn fool, and I trudge on.

I have been trudging on for more than a week now, and the desert has no bounds. It has been three days since I last saw a living soul and left him for dead. I erected a barrow for him, as best as I could with my bare hands, and I buried his sword with him, for he was a brave soul, not many people dare to challenge Zaal to a fight, or perhaps he was desperate, I will never know, for courage and desperation are often a hairsbreadth apart.

A sound shatters the stillness of the desert, a thunderclap, drowning the howling wind and the sound of my own boiling blood. I raise my eyes and before me it stands in all its cruel majesty, mount Taftan, the dormant volcano where I first met my friend. It was at the foot of this mountain where my father left me. A baby, helpless and innocent, but for the crime of being born with white hair. A spawn of the Deevs they said, and out of shame, the mighty warlord Saam left his firstborn son to die. The gods however had different plans. Such an easy death would rob them of much entertainment and entertainment aplenty I was destined to offer them. So, they sent Simorgh, the mighty eagle to find me, and he, who has never pitied prey took me in his steel talons and lifted me to his lair atop the dormant volcano. He showed me to his hungry offspring and when they opened their beaks to receive my tender flesh, he admonished them, and I became their brother. On raw meat I was raised, half chewed by that mighty beak, dripping with blood and I grew and became strong, and I learned the tongue of Simorgh, the ancient tongue, the language of gods and the Deevs, and I learned to listen to the wind, to hear in it the will of the beyond, to see in the clouds messages written for no man and to hunt and to kill and be one with this barren world so far from the softenss of humanity and so close to the hard finality of death. 

But Simorgh taught me more than to survive, the great eagle is deathless and even time shies away from counting his years. All the knowledge of the universe he shared with me and when finally, after fifteen years my father and his army came searching for me, I stood proud before them, hair still white, wrapped in foul smelling leather but radiant in countenance and Saam, that mighty warrior clad in shining armor slid down from his warhorse and dropped to his knees in front of me. Since then, I have neither bowed my head nor bent the knee to anyone except to the Shah, the anointed of the wise god Ahuramazda himself, to whom all Earan owes reverence and by the grace of whom, by his Farr, divine protection is bestowed upon this inhospitable land.

Another thunderclap. A simpler soul might have though the great mountain angry, one steeped in philosophy might say that thunder often hits near high peaks. The first man is a superstitious idiot and the second one only partially right. High peaks often draw lightning, especially when the clouds are low, but today, there are no clouds in the sky, and I recognized the thnder for what it was. A beacon. Calling me to the place where it all started, where I met Simorgh and where a helpless toddler destined for death became the guardian of an empire. No, death would not claim me this day, and with firm steps I walked towards the mountain.

There are mountains and mountains, some you can ascend easily despite their height, others are not meant for mortals. Taftan was of the latter sort. When Saam and his army, guided by a divine dream came looking for me all those years ago, these war hardened men could find no way up the steep, shiny black basalt, so my father sat there at the foot of the mountain and wept and prayed until Simorgh had pity on him. I, however, knew the mountain as a man knows the house in which he has grown up and what's more, have never set much stock in either tears or prayer. The gods do what the gods please and in general are not moved by human wailing and moaning. So, despite the approaching darkness, I found the familiar cracks in the rock and started my painstaking journey upwards. Inch by inch I crawled up the scalding hot, glass smooth surface, inch by inch I was removed from the desolate world of death below and closer to that realm where one, if he stills his mind, can hear the whisper of gods.   

 

Memories flooded my mind as I crawled upwards. Memories are the constant companions of the lonely traveller and I am no stranger to them, but as I ascended higher, these memories took on unfamiliar shapes, instead of my father's familiar face I saw a corpse, still wearing the armor I buried him in but with a leathery face, long sharp teeth and hollow, black eye sockets from which shone an unholy light. To stare into them was to stare into the abode of Ahriman, the dark spirit. My mother was there too, but I had never known her, dead as she was before Saam brought me back from the mountain to be recognised as his son and rightful heir. But there she was, a woman clad in robes of mourning whose face, try as I might, I could not see. Rudabeh, my beloved wife sat beside her, also clad in mourning clothes, in her hands she held a silver tray covered in a heavy black velvet cloth and with bloodred tears streaming down her cheeks she offered me the tray. I touch the cloth and it is freezing cold and lifting it I see the dead head of my son Rustam. I shake my head and climb on, there is evil in this place that I once called home and the nearer I get to the summit, the stronger its presence becomes, sucking all joy from the very air and the dead rock which is no longer hot, but rapidly cooling in the early night. I don't know how long I have been climbing, darkness is all around me, but this darkness, it is not the absence of light, it is its anathema and it is reflected in my heart. I once heard a Magi, a mystic of the mountains far to the west of Sistan talk about hell. He claimed to have seen it in his trances induced by the holy drink Homa, he had seen a glimpse the abode of the Deevs and te experience had left him scarred and he said that his hair had all become white like mine as a result. I asked him what it was like and he could say only two words, darkness and hunger. Now I know that he was not lying. I am in hell and may Mithra, Sorush and all Yazatas have mercy on my soul. My body does not tire, at least not as normal bodies do. This is the boon of Anahita, given to my ancestor Garshasb for killing the Azhi, the great dragon named Sruvar who had fouled her sacred spring and it has been passed down over generations. But although my limbs are not tired, a heaviness hangs on my heart and every inch I climb further, it is through sheer willpower. Is there even an end to this infernal climb? I do not know how long I have climbed, but it has been some time since a great silence has descended upon the mountain. No longer does the wind howl, nor do I even hear my own breath, there is no light, no sound, only a dark, leaden numbness coursing through my body and darker thoughts lapping against my skull. And then I smell it, sulfur, acrid and stinging, its smell clings to the back of my throat, almost gagging me. Instinctively I almost bring my hand to my nose, almost letting go of the meager handhold separating me from a death two thousand yards in the making. But a small ray of joy takes life in my heart, the mountain is still there and I am near its summit. Endless minutes crawl by as I inch myself higher, closer to the source of darkness and the suffocating stench, and finally, my fingers touch a ledge. I heave myself up and stand on top of mount Taftan. Darkness is below me and above me and to my right and left,but straight ahead, where once I remember was a lake of the purest water, is now an ocean of fire, red hot tendrils clawing forth from the very bowels of the earth and disappearing high above me into the darkness, burning brightly and then disappearing into its vastness. It is as if the very mountain is battling the darkness that has descended upon it, struggling to guard a shred of warmth and light against its encroachment. The mountain is losing and silhoutted against the flames I see a dark figure. Its back is to me, but somehow I know that it is smiling. And then it turns and I stare upon the face of death.