Beast (4 page)

I greet the man called Bahram, named after the greatest hunter among the
Shahnameh
heroes: Bahram Gur killed a dragon that devoured a youth. That's what Ardeshir is joking about now. “Have you seen the Shah?” I ask, barely controlling my urgency.

“He's risen high,” says Ardeshir mysteriously. When I look at him in bewilderment, he laughs again. “The Indian guests brought three elephants, each more enormous than the last. The Shah rides upon the neck of the hugest one.”

I look past the people in the pavilion, past the pigeon tower, toward the fields, where an elephant lumbers with my father. I run toward him.

But, no. What if I startle the animal and it tramples me? I see myself lying crumpled all night and my father in the morning killing me out of compassion. The
pari's
curse can be realized many ways.

I run back to the pavilion. “Ardeshir, will you come with me to see my father now? I desire your
presence.” I turn to Bahram. “Will you come, too? In the name of the Merciful One, I invite you both.”

“Of course, my prince.” Ardeshir takes in my face, which must speak volumes, for he blinks as though frightened himself. “Let us go.”

The men flank me and we walk toward Father, waving our arms slowly to catch his attention without alarming the elephant.

My caution turns out to be unnecessary. The huge bull elephant goes down on one front knee, then the other, exhibiting its perfect training. His eyes look ancient, though I guess he is no more than forty years old. Father throws his leg across the bull's head to one side and slides off. The bull takes advantage of the moment to dig his tusks into the earth, then he stands again and forages among the overturned roots with that one fingerlike protrusion at the end of his trunk.

Father comes close, his eyes bright with the excitement of guests, of preparation for the hunt he loves. “What is it, my son? Have you fallen into one of our great Persian rivers?” Father raises his brows playfully. Persia has no major rivers, a fact that makes transportation across our land more tedious than in many others. But Father has a happy spirit; he often makes light of our lackings.

I want to tell him about the curse; impatience almost loosens my tongue. But now I realize it was a
mistake to enlist Ardeshir and Bahram. Father and I need to talk privately—until then I must calm myself. “I waded in the pool of the fruit-tree garden,” I say, plucking at the wet cloth that clings to my chest.

“Something this elephant could appreciate,” says Father.

“What a magnificent beast.” Bahram reaches out, as though to touch a tusk. The bull turns his head toward him. Bahram retreats rapidly. “They painted him well.”

The elephant's head is decorated in reds and blues and yellows, fanning out from a central line down his trunk in symmetric swirls. Even the fronts of his ears are painted. His legs are broad like pillars—he could hold high any faith. The nails on his feet are huge, and several are split in the middle at the lower edge. He is used to walking on hard earth; crossing our desert must have been difficult.

Ardeshir smiles. “When I saw you from afar, sitting straight and tall on his massive neck, I thought of our people's hero Rustam, sitting on his brave and giant horse Raksh.”

“Exactly my thought,” says Bahram.

Fear rushes to my chest anew. Rustam's adventures in the
Shahnameh
are inscribed in my mind, all of them, including his downfall. The colossal Rustam, with the height of eight men standing on one another's
shoulders, made the error of sleeping with a Turan woman. Only once, but once was enough. Many years later, Rustam was in battle against a Turan warrior. He thrust a dagger in the warrior's chest, and in the moment before the young man died, father and son finally recognized each other.

“Look at me.” The words burst from my mouth on their own. “Oh, Father, look well at me.”

“I am looking, my son.”

“Do you recognize me?”

“Of course.” Father shakes his head in confusion, clearly not thinking of Rustam's grave flaw, of his tragic destiny.

“Remember who I am tomorrow, Father. Remember tomorrow.”

“I will always know who you are.” Father puts his arms around me and hugs tight, ignoring my wet clothing. He whispers in my ear, “Whether you ever hunt or not, Orasmyn, you are my beloved son.” His voice is gentle.

I know this. And now I think of Kiyumars, who might be cursed as well, who might also be slated for death at Fathers hand. “Promise me,” I whisper into his ear, “promise that tomorrow you will kill no man — no matter who that man may be.”

Father leans back just the slightest bit and tilts his head until our foreheads meet. “I have no intention of
killing anything but the game in the hunting park.”

“Nevertheless, promise me. No matter what you may think the man has done. No matter what anyone else says to you. No matter what. You cannot kill a man tomorrow, friend or foe, royalty or servant.”

“I promise. But tell me, son, what do you fear?”

“I've been told you will kill . . . someone tomorrow. Someone you don't want to kill.”

“I will kill no one!” Father's arms flex across my back. “Come talk to me later. Tonight. Explain what this is all about.”

Father keeps promises. His words should wrap me in safety. Yet this promise brings no respite. My teeth clench.

The bull elephant trumpets.

The blare is astonishing, resounding. All of us run.

“Do not be afraid,” calls a slim boy with a red turban. He speaks in halting Arabic. He has come running from the animal holding pen. “Kooma saw me and gave greeting. That is all.” The boy bows to the ground, then gets up and dashes past, to the great elephant. He pulls a long stalk of
naishakar
—sugarcane — from the cloth bag that hangs across his shoulder.

The elephant Kooma chomps the stalk. It disappears into his mouth in jerks.

“That's Abdullah,” says the Shah. “He trained Kooma for the hunt.”

“Is that so?” says Bahram.

Abdullah bows. “I have the honor of being Kooma's
mahout,”
he says, using the word from his native Indian tongue. “I am his caretaker and trainer for life. Come, Kooma, show your respect.” He slaps the elephant low on the trunk.

Kooma stretches his trunk forward a tremendous length.

We step farther back.

Abdullah smiles. “He is showing off. An Indian elephant has a much longer trunk than an African one.”

“So you are his
mahout.
How does one train an elephant?” asks Ardeshir, approaching the elephant once more.

Abdullah bows to Ardeshir now. “Is it permitted that I work as we talk?”

“Certainly,” says the Shah.

We come close, so we can listen easily. Elephants are native to much of India, but not to Persia. None of us is very familiar with them, I venture.

Abdullah takes a half coconut shell out of his cloth bag and scrapes Kooma's skin in larger and larger circles. “A bull is more difficult to train,” he says proudly. “I walked Kooma back and forth between two trained cows to teach him obedience.”

“And when he did not obey . . . ?” asks Ardeshir.

“Kooma loves sugarcane.”

The men laugh.

I cannot laugh. My mind is on the camel, Jumail, who loved sugar lumps, on the image of that camel in the pool waters.

Abdullah scrapes more vigorously with the coconut shell. He goes around to the other side of Kooma. We hear the noise of the shell on the thick, wrinkled skin. Kooma takes a step forward, a step backward, rocking his enormous weight in obvious pleasure. His eyes close.

The power of this beast commands my attention. Kooma opens his eyes and seems to look right at me. His gaze is cold, as though he knows of my wrongdoing to the camel, as though he would do me harm. It takes all my willpower not to back away.

Abdullah passes under Kooma's legs and out to our side again. I realize he did that simply to impress us. He flashes stained black teeth in a grin; his gums are red from chewing betel leaves. Then he takes a flask and cloth from his bag. He walks along Kooma's side dribbling oil. The olive smell is so rich, it cuts through the grassy scent of elephant. Abdullah swabs Kooma's skin with the oil, moving the cloth in those circles again. “I set dogs loose to yap and run around Kooma's legs.”

“Did they dare to go under him, like you did?” I ask.

Abdullah looks at me with bright eyes. He's happy
to have his little display of bravery—or recklessness—acknowledged. “These dogs do not think of risk. That is why they are good at the hunt. They face tigers without retreating.”

“But Kooma doesn't have to take on the dogs, surely,” says Bahram.

“Kooma must work with the dogs. He needs to work well, not be disturbed. He must not flinch when they bark.”

“And Kooma learned this easily?” asks Ardeshir.

“Kooma is even-mannered, though he is but twenty years old.”

“Twenty,” I say. “Is that all? He's so tall, I thought he must be twice that.”

“He will be the grand old man when he is forty,” says Abdullah. “He will retire by then.” He goes around Kooma's other side to spread the oil and rub again.

“So the dogs don't flinch around tigers and Kooma does not flinch around the dogs.” The Shah walks close and puts a hand on Kooma's trunk, looking up into his eye. “But how will Kooma act around tigers?”

Abdullah comes under Kooma's belly again. He puts the flask and cloth away in his bag. “Kooma leads the hunt in the Gir Forest, where both tigers and lions prey. He has earned the title Kooma the Brave.”

“Good. For tomorrow I fulfill my destiny as ruler of
all Persia. Tomorrow these hands kill a lion.” The Shah brushes elephant dirt from his palms. He turns to me. “We will talk later. Don't forget. For now, let us go back and greet the guests who are still arriving.”

“And enjoy the guests who have already arrived,” says Ardeshir.

“To be sure, my good friend.” The Shah walks toward the pavilion with Ardeshir at his side and Bahram behind him.

I can hear Ardeshir talking about the habits of lions, and Father exclaiming in interest. I don't want them to go off without me, especially Father, yet I am drawn to the elephant. To the skin that now glistens with oil. To the eyes that seem so small in that weighty head.

“Do not be afraid,” says Abdullah, the same words he said when he ran past us before.

This elephant is mild-mannered, well trained. But Abdullah is right: I feel danger. Life-threatening danger. It is not the curse of the
pari
that alarms me now, though that torment lies in wait in the back of my mind until I can speak with Father alone tonight. No, the danger I sense in this moment comes from Kooma.

“Touch him.”

I dare to put my hand on Kooma's trunk where Father put his. Kooma waits. Both my hands run down his tusk. The tip is jagged. Fear shoots from the
back of my neck, up behind my ears. I walk around the front of Kooma and inspect the other tusk. It ends sharp but smooth.

Abdullah is at my shoulder. “He may have hit a large rock when he was digging for roots once. Or he may have broken the tip of that tusk in a battle with another bull.”

“Would he battle a lion or a tiger?”

“His job is to drive them out of their hiding places toward the hunters.”

“But if he had to, would he battle a lion or a tiger?”

“He would not back down.”

“Would he battle a man?”

Abdullah's face goes slack. His eyes grow guarded. “You have nothing to fear from Kooma. He is well trained.”

I nod. “Thank you, Abdullah, for the reassurance.” I turn my back on the beast and run as fast as I can after the men. I must stay by Father's side until we have a chance to speak. And in the meantime, I must rack my brain for a way to undo the
pari's
curse.

W
e are seated in the garden pavilion, clusters of men on the floor, talking with our heads almost touching. I don't want to be here — despite my fasting today, all hunger has fled in the wake of the curse. My entire body is tense with the effort of playing host. And a poor host I am, anyway, for the curse has deafened my ears so that these men have to repeat what they say to me several times before I finally understand and give an appropriate, if brief, response.

The smell of
sib
— apple—permeates the breath of the rich Persian merchant to my left. He must have chewed the dry fruit on his journey here, for our midday meal had no apple. I smell
syah-dane
— fennel — on the breath of the Indian man to my right. His teeth are as black from chewing these seeds as the teeth of Abdullah, the elephant trainer. And maybe, just
maybe, his breath also carries a hint of
sir
—garlic. I never eat garlic or even onions, unless they are cooked until they become transparent and their sweetness emerges. I heed the old Persian warning against the way hot spices can excite the flesh. Hindus heed this warning, too, or so I thought. Our guest must be daring.

The
adhan
sounds, at last. Sunset comes late at this time of summer. The men have been waiting for the call to prayers, so that they can eat once more.

I am here in this pavilion for my private reason: Kiyumars. I searched for him this afternoon and I couldn't find him. He's likely to help in serving the dinner meal now, though. I have to talk with him —I have to find out if the
pari
sought him out, after all —if he, too, is cursed because of my poor decision. And if so, what the nature of that curse may be. I must help him.

The men around me rise as one and perform the
wudhu
in the water basins, which have been refilled with fresh water. We bow, only three
rakatha
this time. The ritual prayers cover me, like a cloak. The smell of
abghosht
—mutton on the bone cooked with white beans and spinach—brings tears to my eyes. This food would have been delicious to the innocent self I was but yesterday, the self who deserved nourishment.