|
Chapter I: Drop by Drop
In the days of the Iranian theocracy, a
young man named Romeen married a young woman named Roxana in a
traditional Moslem wedding ceremony. The newlyweds bade
farewell to relatives and friends and embarked on their
honeymoon. They flew from Tehran to Shiraz and there rented a
car. They lodged in a posh Shiraz hotel, dined in a magnificent caravanesi, visited the tomb of Hafez and toured the splendors
of Persepolis. They then headed north to see more of their
country’s attractions.
Happy in one another’s caresses, they
nonetheless felt an anxiety prevalent throughout the planet, but
particularly in their region, as they drove through the desert
highway to Yazd. These were extremely tense days; the war drums
were beating at faster and faster tempo. The newlyweds tried
not to talk about world and regional events, but sometimes they
had to voice their anxieties in order to obtain relief from
thinking about them.
“If only the Americans knew what richness our
culture has to contribute to humanity,” commented Roxana,
thinking of the wonders she and her husband had recently seen.
“If only they knew that we too cherish the ideals of freedom.”
“America is presently in cowboy mode,” noted
Romeen.
“They would feel different if they looked at
our pictorial miniatures,” said Roxana, “and read the poetry of Hafez,
Ferdowsi and Khayam.”
“Verses which put into words the heaven I
feel in your presence,” responded Romeen, speaking of the love
poetry they had been reading in the evenings, just before eros.
Pretty, dark-haired Roxana smiled and cuddled
up to her dark-haired husband, whose handsome face was without
beard or mustache. Romeen put his arm around her and drove on
silently.
Several minutes later, something came into
view up ahead. This sudden anomaly, a solitary human figure
walking along the side of the road, caused Romeen to decelerate.
As the car got closer, the human became recognizable as an
elderly man clad in white garb with a white religious cap
covering most of his white hair. The sight seemed a bit unusual,
for he appeared to have few possessions, carrying only a small
sack in a remote region where the summer heat could be fatal.
Roxana spoke with concern in her voice:
“Romeen, look at the poor soul.” Both wondered what would become
of him, all alone in the middle of nowhere.
It was obvious to Romeen that Roxana wanted
him to stop and see if the stranger needed help. Romeen himself
felt the same inclination, although he so much wanted to be
alone with Roxana. He continued slowing down until they had
reached the elderly man; he stopped on the road beside him. The
elderly man continued walking. Romeen resumed the forward motion
of the car, now slowly keeping pace with the old and frail
pedestrian. Roxana covered her hair with her scarf, then opened
her passenger-side front window.
“Agha,” she said to him. “Are you stranded?”
The old man stopped and looked at the car and
its occupants, but said nothing. After a few moments, Roxana
added, “You seem lost in the desert.”
“May we help you?” asked Romeen.
A smile came to the white-whiskered face of
the old man. He said in a loud voice, “Spenta-Mainyu.”
Romeen and Roxana, both well-educated,
recognized the archaic term Spenta-Mainyu (the Spirit of Good),
and surmised that this man was an adherent of Zoroastrianism, a
religion going back thousands of years to a time before there
was even a Persian Empire.
The old man spoke in a Persian that was
regionally accented yet clearly understandable to the
city-dwellers from Tehran: “I am on my way to Chek-Chek, the
Mountain of the Sacred Spring.”
The name rang a bell in the memories of the
young couple, but both had some difficulty recalling its
significance as well as its whereabouts. Romeen and Roxana had a
vague notion of Chek-Chek’s locale as being somewhat in the
direction they were presently headed, but definitely off the
main highway.
“We are going to Yazd,” informed Roxana. She
could not imagine how this frail old man was ever going to make
it to his destination without some assistance. Concerned, she
wanted to offer him a ride, but also felt that she must defer to
her husband’s wishes. She was not sure what to say next.
We cannot leave him here,
thought Romeen. He looked at his lovely wife; she looked at him.
Their desire to be alone together conflicted with their sense of
obligation. Eventually, Romeen offered, “You may come with us
part of the way if you so wish.”
The old man put his hands together and raised
them in supplication. “Spenta-Mainyu,” he said again before
stepping feebly towards the car. Roxana opened the door and
allowed him into the back seat. He entered with his sack. Roxana
closed the door and he settled in. The car drove off with its
third occupant.
“Thank you so much,” said the old man. “My
name is Porzand. I am a mage.”
A mage, thought
both Romeen and Roxana, a clergyman of the ancient faith.
“My name is Romeen,” said the driver. “This
is my wife, Roxana.”
Speaking of the young wife’s name, Porzand
noted, “Daughter of Darius the Third and wife of Alexander the
Curse.” He sighed before adding, “If only Roxana could have
tamed the wild beast of Macedonia as Scheherazade tamed the
vengeful Shahrizar.”
Scheherazade of the Hezaro Yekshab,
thought Roxana, the Thousand and One Nights.
Roxana enjoyed this mention of the legendary
past, partly as a way of forgetting the fearful present. She
found it interesting to be talking with a cleric of
Zoroastrianism, the only religion that had actually originated
in Iran. After dredging up recollections of what she knew on the
subject, she announced, “Chek-Chek! Now I remember! It is a
place where Zoroastrians worship fire.”
“Zoroastrians do not worship fire,” responded
the elderly spokesman for his minority group in a manner
corrective yet not overly indignant.
Roxana had not meant to be impolite. Her
early upbringing had taught her that Zoroastrians were
polytheistic fire-worshippers; however, as she matured and
came into contact with urbanized Zoroastrians, she learned
that Zoroastrianism was every bit as monotheistic as the God of
Abraham religions. Zoroastrianism had once reigned as the
dominant faith in Iran, but was now a minority religion whose
members had been marrying among themselves ever since Iran had
become Islamic fourteen centuries ago.
As the vehicle and its occupants voyaged on,
Roxana conversed with the mage while Romeen silently kept his
eyes to the road. Roxana asked the mage many questions about the
ancient faith. He answered her questions, expounding upon Asha,
the Eternal Law; upon Vohu-Mano, the Good Mind; upon
Kshathra-Vairya, the Perfect Strength, Omnipotence and Universal
Sovereignty of the Lord. Romeen listened silently during the
discussion. Eventually though, he grew exasperated with all the
talk on theology, which by its very nature is always
inconclusive.
“Religion has failed us,” he interjected.
“Why has religion failed us?” asked Porzand.
“Look at the state of our country,” responded
Romeen. “Nowhere else are the people as devoutly religious as in
Iran. But have you ever driven a car or crossed a street in
Tehran? You risk your life every time you do. There are no
rules, no regulations, only chaos and many quite avoidable
deaths and injuries. The police are too busy arresting women for
immodesty to establish order in automobile traffic. Iranians may
praise God in the mosque, but they are devil-worshippers behind
the wheel of a car.”
“Things will change for the better,” said the
mage. “Hopefully, there is now enough Spenta-Mainyu to induce
the Return.”
“Return of whom?” asked Roxana.
“Scheherazade,” replied the mage.
Romeen laughed before saying, “I have a
sister, a cousin and an aunt named Scheherazade.”
“I am speaking of Scheherazade of the
Hezaro Yekshab,” said the mage with solemnity in his voice.
“I remember that story,” said Roxana.
“Scheherazade saved her life by telling wondrous tales.”
“It is more than a story,” declared Porzand.
“It is truth.”
A superstitious messianist,
thought Romeen.
Disdainful of argument and always trying to
be polite, Roxana ventured, “There is some historical record
that Scheherazade actually lived long ago in the days of the
Sassanian dynasty, before the Faith of the Holy Koran came to
Persia. She saved her people by ending the wholesale slaughter
of virgins.”
“She will save her people again,” announced
the mage. “Her return is imminent.”
Romeen could not refrain from scoffing: “Now
I know you’re sick in the head.”
Roxana whispered, “Romeen,” in a cadence of
disapproval, but this did not dissuade her husband from
continuing his tirade.
“Scheherazade is myth; the state of the world
is reality. Look at where it’s taking us. Nuclear
non-proliferation is in total disarray. The prevailing rule is
you’re allowed to cheat if you don’t get caught. There is no
standard, only selective prosecution. We have Russian-fabricated
nuclear facilities in our country. The Americans are not going
to tolerate them. They will bomb us preemptively. If they don’t
the Israelis will. At best, Iran will endure a humiliation that
will strengthen the mullahs; at worst, Iran will end up as a
radiation dump. How are you going to stop that, mage? By rubbing
a magic lamp and unleashing a genie?”
In a mild tone of voice, Porzand responded to
Romeen’s harsh rhetoric: “For many years now, I have been
striving to bring salvation for my own land and for the rest of
the world. I now believe that enough Spenta-Mainyu has been
accumulated so that I can succeed.”
“I’m sorry, mage,” said Romeen, “but I don’t
believe in miracles. I believe in science; and, as religion has
failed us, so science has betrayed us. We are next in line to
feel the fury of America, the land epitomizing high technology.
We will suffer a devastation worse than Iraq, the land where
civilization began.”
“That is why the Return of Scheherazade is so
urgent,” countered Porzand.
Romeen said nothing more. Silence reigned in
the car for several minutes before Roxana, trying to smooth
things over, resumed talking, this time about light-hearted
topics. She conversed with Porzand over the Tales of
Scheherazade: Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, Ali Baba and the Forty
Thieves, Sinbad the Sailor and other marvelous collections from
the days when caravans traversed the silk road. Porzand pulled a
compact disk out of his small sack of possessions and offered it
for playing. Roxana read the label: Scheherazade by
Rimsky-Korsakov. She thanked Porzand and put the disk into the
car stereo.
No one spoke as the music of Rimsky-Korsakov
played on. Both Romeen and Roxana thoroughly enjoyed this
classical piece that neither of them had heard for a long time.
The melodious sounds of its various themes evoked in them images
of a fabulous past. The reality of the present intruded as they
observed, carved into the mountainside in gargantuan Persian
script, the words, “The military supports the theocracy.”
Time passed; eventually the car came to
within an hour’s drive of Yazd. As they approached an
intersection of the highway with a much less significant road
off to the side, Porzand said to his hosts, “Please leave me off
here.”
Romeen slowed down, stopping at the
intersection. Roxana asked, “Where is Chek-Chek?”
Porzand pointed to a distant mountain and
said, “Over there.”
It seemed a long way off. Both Roxana and
Romeen wondered how the old man could possibly make it to his
destination in the remaining hours before sundown.
“We’ll take you all the way,” announced
Romeen. Noting the pleased expression on Roxana’s face, it was
quite evident to him that she agreed with his decision.
“That would mean going out of your way,”
noted Porzand.
“That’s not a problem,” said Roxana. “We’re
not really in too much of a hurry today.”
Porzand folded his arms in prayer and
declared, “Spenta-Mainyu! Now I am convinced I have enough.”
Romeen took the turn off onto the side road.
They drove only a short distance before the pavement ended.
Traveling on a dirt road, Romeen piloted while Porzand
navigated.
The dirt road wound on and on, its roughness
taking a toll on the vehicle. Romeen and Roxana were beginning
to wonder if their good deed was going to get them into a
predicament, when a network of dwellings high up on the edge of
a cliff came into view.
“There is Chek-Chek,” said Porzand, “where
once a year, in the summer solstice season, Zoroastrians from
all over Iran congregate for worship and festivity.”
As they drew closer, the lower portion of a
long, winding staircase of stone steps could be seen, the
incline stretching way up the side of the cliff. With Porzand
directing, Romeen brought the car to a halt right next to the
base of the stone steps.
The three got out of the car. Romeen and
Roxana gazed in awe at the impressive ancient site, both
pondering upon the massive expenditure of time and labor it must
have taken to build such a monumental structure.
“Come with me now,” said Porzand, “to the
sacred spring. You have earned the right to view what other
non-Zoroastrians are generally not permitted to view.”
An interesting opportunity,
thought both Romeen and Roxana; but their zeal was tempered with
misgivings.
“We do not wish to impose upon the rituals of
another religion,” cautioned Roxana.
“You are not imposing,” said Porzand. “In
fact, your presence is almost a requirement. Your virtue on this
day has tipped the scales in favor of salvation. The probability
favors this as being the Day of Miracle.”
Romeen was becoming exasperated again. “Have
you ever seen a miracle?” he asked rhetorically.
“I have been working for the Miracle of the
Return for many long years,” answered Porzand. “For the last
three months, I have, with meager possessions, journeyed through
the land of Persia, visiting its Fire temples and Towers of
Silence, never begging, never requesting any help, yet always
receiving assistance when it was needed. This is the last day of
my journey, and you are the final contributors.”
The old man began ascending the steps,
beckoning for the young man and the young woman to follow him.
Romeen and Roxana looked at each other, uncertain whether or not
to comply. Roxana tipped the scales in favor of ascending the
steps by saying, “We’ve seen Persepolis and Parsegard; right now
we have the chance to see a wonder of the world before it
becomes a tourist attraction.”
The wife took her husband’s hand and said,
“Let’s go.” Romeen and Roxana then began their trek up the stone
step way.
When the healthy young couple overtook the
frail old man, they deliberately kept to a slow pace so he could
keep up with them. Romeen and Roxana were surprised, however, at
Porzand’s enthusiasm. Quite eager to get to the top, he never
stopped to rest as they moved upward and onward along the
extensive and winding pathway of stone steps. Several times
Romeen and Roxana would pause, drink a little bottled water and
look down at the grandeur, viewing the rough road weaving its
way through the desert valley nestled amidst barren mountains.
Then they would resume the climb and catch up with Porzand, who
always kept moving at whatever pace he could maintain.
At last the top came into view and the step
way became a straight incline. The forward scene looked as
though an entire village had been hacked into the side of the
mountain. Numerous dwellings were visible, but no other people
could be seen.
They finally reached the top of the step way,
entering onto a level-ground niche that was somewhat shaded by
vegetation and the mountainside. To their left was an open space
about six meters square; upon its floor lay an ornate carpet
covered with intricate abstract white designs set in a green
background, a Persian rug large enough to comfortably seat three
people just adjacent to the tiled-wall portion of the
mountainside. To their right was a brace of ponderous, soundly
shut metal doors, apparently the entrance to a house of worship.
Situated in the center and extending further to the right behind
the house of worship, lush vegetation exuded its fragrance. From
somewhere above, moisture continually seeped into the greenery,
albeit only in small droplets.
“This is the Temple of the Sacred Spring,”
announced Porzand.
He stepped over to the closed double doors
and removed an elaborate key from his sack. As Porzand unlocked
the double doors, Roxana demurred.
“Good mage, we are curious to see what lies
beyond that door; but it is our understanding that this is a
temple only Zoroastrians may enter. Just as a Zoroastrian would
never be so profane as to visit the sacred shrines of Mecca, so
too a Moslem must be respectful of the holy places of the
ancient prophet of Iran.”
“Once again you display Spenta-Mainyu,” said
the mage. “Do not fear. You are both very welcome here. This is
a special day, and your presence is needed. Your increment of
goodness allows the Bridge of Chinvat to be crossed.”
“Bridge of Chinvat?” mused Roxana. “Isn’t
that the bridge connecting Earth to Heaven, with those unable to
complete the crossing falling off and descending into Hell?”
“Oh, yes, the Bridge of Chinvat!” interjected
Romeen, speaking in a scoffing tone indicating that he regarded
that particular belief as an absurdity. “I’ve read the myth. The
evil man dies and is resurrected. In a dark cavern, the deceased
one walks across a bridge over a chasm. Because he has led a
wicked life, the bridge narrows in width, becoming thinner and
thinner until it is the width of a sword blade. Then, from out
of the darkness, a hideous old witch appears before him
and says, ‘I am thy evil deeds. Descend into Hell by the weight
of thine evil.’
Terrified, the evil man loses his balance and plunges downward
into the depths of a river of fire with devils and tormented
souls below.”
Roxana was ashamed over what she perceived as
Romeen’s lack of respect for the mage’s beliefs. She did not
mind the fact that her husband was not of religious temperament
(she herself was a bit confused over religion), but she felt
that her husband was mocking this man for his convictions.
Giving an apology as well as counterbalancing the negative side
of the myth, she presented her knowledge of the myth’s positive
side.
“The good man dies and is resurrected. He too
walks across the cavern bridge over a chasm. Because he has led
a virtuous life, the bridge remains wide and passable. Halfway
across the bridge, a beautiful young woman appears before him
and says, ‘I am thy good deeds. Come with me to the Blissful
Realm of Ormuzad.’ She takes him by the hand. Together they walk
across the bridge, exiting the cavern and entering into a
paradise of lush verdure and flowing streams.”
“That is moralistic mythology written long
after the time of Zoroaster,” explained Porzand. “It is imagery, not
meant to be taken literally. When I said the Bridge
of Chinvat is ready to be crossed, I was speaking
metaphorically. Essentially, our religion emphasizes virtue over
faith.”
The old man began pulling at the door handle,
exerting what strength he had to open the double doors. The
young couple assisted him in opening the doors wide and setting
down buttresses at their bases to keep them in place. Peering
inside, the trio viewed a temple sacristy discernible due to the
merest sunlight let in by a window to the left. Porzand entered
the sacristy. Curiosity won over Romeen and Roxana; after a
slight hesitation, they followed.
Walking around the interior, they looked over
their surroundings, observing a main room with most of the wall
being cliffside and a smaller room with man-made walls. The
window, a barricade of horizontal-and-vertical dark-metal bars
spouting ornately-fashioned spikes at the top, opened to view
some of the moist mountain-wall greenery. In the center of the
main room was a bright-metal object about one-and-a-half meters
in height; it consisted of ten or so rounded trays, circularly
arranged and supported by crossed vertical appendages,
bolstering a larger, near-perfectly-circular tray in the center
atop which was perched a considerable basin. In the smaller room
were dining utensils and, on the walls in glass-covered cases, a
sizable number of precious books.
Porzand prepared a beverage from a samovar.
He got Romeen and Roxana to sit down on a bench in the smaller
room and presented them cups of tea. As they sat and sipped, he
expounded upon the legend of Scheherazade’s return.
“Scheherazade’s husband, King Shahrizar, died
in deep remorse over the evil he had committed in the slaying of
his sequential wives. Upon his death, zealous iconoclasts came
to power. In the name of piety, they strove to destroy all
artwork that was not abstract. In a series of rampages, they
obliterated paintings and sculptures of human form; great
quantities of classic artwork were irretrievably lost. In their
eyes, Scheherazade, as the kingdom’s foremost patron of the
arts, epitomized all that was offensive to God. They vowed to
tear her limb from limb. As she was no longer under royal
protection, a howling mob of bloodthirsty fanatics forced her to
flee to this place, the mountain of the drop-by-drop spring. The
would-be assassins followed, and would have brutally murdered
her had there not been a miraculous intervention. She vanished
into the sacred spring, leaving only her clothes behind.
Throughout the generations, her spirit has reappeared in all her
angelic beauty. She has pledged to all those granted the gift of
her ethereal revelation that she will return to the material
dimension if enough Spenta-Mainyu exists in the land of
Zoroaster’s birth to enable her to cross over from the spiritual
plane. She will save Iran in this day and age as she saved Iran
in the days of the Sassanians. Persia will become a land of
freedom and a beacon to all the world. The land of Zoroaster
shall brighten the skies with the Eternal Truth of Asha, the
path of good thoughts and good words and good deeds.”
While Romeen seemed unimpressed, Roxana was
definitely enthralled. “This is Iran’s time of direst need,” she
ventured. “If ever we needed a messiah, it is now.”
Romeen looked at his wife and said, “Just
because you want to believe in something, that won’t make it
true.” He turned to Porzand and said, “Look, we have too many
messiahs. The Jews have their Elijah, the Christians have their
Second Coming, the Shiites have their Mahdi, and the stargazers
have their extraterrestrials.”
“It is true that messianism is not unique to
any particular culture,” responded Porzand. “Yet Magian
messianism is different from the others in the sense that it is
not preordained; rather, it is dependent upon Spenta-Mainyu
being strengthened enough by human goodness to prevail over its
opposing force, Angro-Mainyu. Zoroastrianism centers on Free
Will rather than Predestination.”
When the couple had finished their tea,
Porzand collected their cups, washed them as well as the samovar
and put the utensils away. He then brought out a copy of the
Holy Gathas, the Zoroastrian Book of Chants, along with a large,
rectangular box of matches.
“Our custom,” said the mage, “is to light the
temple flame and pray to the Eternal Being.”
“Many religions have customs of that nature,”
said Roxana. “There is nothing superstitious in that.”
The old man led the young couple over to the
basin in the center of the main room. There he offered the
matches to Romeen and said, “Here, man of science, light the
flame and pray for the truth to be what you want it to be.”
Romeen took out a match and held it to the
box. Looking down into the basin, he saw that it contained
thickly spread flammable resin. Then he hesitated, not out of
religious scruples, but out of fear of violating theocratic law
and being subject to its punishment. For the first time he
wondered if Porzand might actually be an undercover agent of the
theocratic police. He turned to Roxana and said, “We should not
have come here.”
“There is no harm in what we are doing,” she
said. “If you don’t light the flame, then I will.”
Romeen definitely preferred that the wrath of
theocratic law should fall upon him rather than his beloved. He
lit the match. As he put the fire to the resin, he silently
prayed to Whatever-Higher-Force-Existing that Iran might somehow
break out of its trap. The basin interior lit up immediately,
the fire reaching above the rim. For several minutes, the young
couple watched the dancing flames while Porzand recited from the
Gathas.
“If some in their righteousness and loving
hearts appear to thee as truly-seeing and upright, O Lord, grant
them in full all that their hearts desire; for I believe no
prayer devout for truth can ever remain unanswered from Your
side.”
This seems pointless to me,
thought Romeen. Yet, I wish it had meaning.
“Go outside now,” instructed Porzand. “Rest
upon the carpet, look to the sacred spring and pray for
Scheherazade to appear.”
The young couple exited the temple. In the
pleasant open space, they removed their shoes and seated
themselves on the carpet facing the open door. Minutes later,
the old man came out of the temple carrying linen material in
his arms. He handed Roxana the linen material along with a
woman’s comb and said, “This you must present to Scheherazade
when she appears.”
Romeen and Roxana saw that the cloth material
consisted of an ornately designed towel along with a colorful
dress of ancient style. Unsure whether or not the old man was
joking, Roxana asked as respectfully as she could, “Are you
serious?”
“She will be naked when she appears,”
responded Porzand. “That is why only you are permitted to look
upon her until she is fully clothed.”
“Enough!” snarled Romeen. “I don’t know what
kind of deception you’re planning to pull off, but I don’t
believe in miracles.”
“Then believe in the subliminal manifestation
of Divinity,” propounded Porzand, “and let your wife’s eyes
vouch for the authenticity of a supernatural homecoming.”
Porzand removed his shoes and sat down
in-between Romeen and Roxana. All of them now faced the
drop-by-drop spring. Romeen was irritated, but he settled upon
letting the charade proceed, just wanting to get it over with.
“Pray to the Eternal Being,” instructed the
mage, “whether you call him Allah or Ahura Mazda.” The old man
then began chanting in Middle Persian, an archaic antecedent
language not understood by either of the two young people.
Roxana, with the fervor of one who wanted to
believe in something but was unsure of what to believe in,
prayed aloud in modern Persian: “In the name of Allah, the
Merciful, the Compassionate, save my country.”
A skeptical Romeen joined in, petitioning Transcendence in
a low voice: “Spare my wife the bitterness of
disappointment.”
Minutes passed as Porzand kept chanting
ancient verses and Roxana prayed in silence. It all seemed
absurd to Romeen, but then he noticed an increase in the
frequency and amount of water dropping down from the spring’s
source high above. Hardly impressive at first, the rate of water
flow gradually went from trickle to shower. Staring forward, he
witnessed a puddle forming, reaching a maximum size before
maintaining equilibrium with the overflow seeping down into
hard-to-see clefts. Even to Romeen it seemed quite remarkable.
“Look down, man! Look down!” said Porzand in
an emphatic voice. “We must both look down. Only the woman may
view the advent of the Angelic One.”
Romeen followed Porzand’s lead and looked
down at the carpet’s designs, trying to humor the old eccentric.
Roxana rose to her feet. She slipped into her shoes and moved a
little closer to the now fast-flowing spring. She continued to
stare forward, enthralled by the spring’s phenomenal if not
miraculous transformation. The water flow generated mist and
soon acted as a visual obstruction to the mountainside
vegetation it nourished.
Discerning something inside the shower,
Roxana gazed at the torrent even more intently. Scrutinizing the
strange arrival as it slowly coalesced into something material,
Roxana was amazed to see what appeared to be a human form;
specifically, that of an unclad human female.
This can’t be,
thought Roxana in dismay. Miracles just don’t happen.
When the apparition became essentially
cognizant, the water flow quickly slowed down, ceasing
altogether within a quarter of a minute. An astounded Roxana
viewed, standing before her, a totally nude young woman whose
luscious brunette tresses and flawless olive complexion combined
with her exquisite features to present the classical Persian
beauty. The ethereal nymph smiled at the modestly attired woman,
beckoning Roxana to step forward towards her.
“Anaheita!” exclaimed Roxana, stating the
name of an ancient female deity whose worship in Persia predated
even the era of Zoroaster.
Hearing Roxana’s metaphoric utterance, Romeen
immediately raised his head and looked forward to the sacred
spring, catching a glimpse of the naked woman while Porzand
continued to avert gaze. The nude Venus immediately shifted her
sights and glared at the man viewing her, thereby notifying
Roxana that her husband was now taking in the scene. Roxana
moved directly in front of Romeen, blocking his view and
shouting to him, “Look down!” Although truly amazed, Romeen
complied and looked down at the carpet.
This is some kind of holographic
sleight-of-hand, thought Romeen,
still skeptical yet quite impressed by the trick’s high-tech
effectiveness.
After some trepidation, Roxana reverently
stepped forward holding the linen in her outstretched arms. No
longer an ethereal image, the flesh-and-blood individual
reciprocated by extending her arms to receive the gift. When
Roxana was close enough to touch her, this seeming incarnation
of the mythical Anaheita took hold of the towel, pressed it to
her body and began drying herself. Roxana stared at what she
regarded as the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Then,
her bedazzlement took another quantum leap as the
Venus-Anaheita, now draped in the towel, spoke in a soft and
melodious voice.
“Goddess Anaheita is a yearning. Scheherazade of the Thousand and One Nights is
a reality.”
Hearing the voice, Romeen could not refrain
from looking up. As he witnessed his wife standing face-to-face
with the newly arrived other woman, he rose to his feet. Staring
in fascination, he felt Porzand tugging at his pant leg and
heard him say, “Look down! Look down!” This caused Roxana to
turn around to see if, as she suspected, her husband was again
tabooing with his eyes. Discovering that he was, she looked at
him with a definite expression of disapproval, whereupon Romeen
did an about-face, thereafter standing on the carpet while
looking away from the scene.
Seen only by Roxana’s eyes, the woman of
great beauty, now adequately dried off, removed her towel and
set it aside. Roxana dutifully offered her the exotic dress
along with the accompanying undergarments. The just-showered
woman drew the delicate comb out from amongst the linen. After
neatly fixing her long hair, she discarded the comb then clothed
herself in the majestic feminine apparel. Bearing the regal
splendor of a queen from a by-gone era, she stood before her
newly-appointed handmaiden who, with some difficulty, managed to
ask, “Are you truly…Scheherazade…of the Thousand and One
Nights?”
“Do you believe I am Scheherazade?” countered
the fantasy incarnate.
At a loss for words, Roxana managed to reply,
“I want to believe so.”
For the first time, the vivacious woman
actually touched the shy woman, gently putting her hands upon
Roxana’s shoulders.
“I am Scheherazade as real now as when I told
the wondrous tales of the Thousand and One Nights to King
Shahrizar,” she declared.
She then hugged Roxana. The two remained
locked in silent embrace for a few moments before Scheherazade
whispered, “We must save our land from impending doom. With the
help of the Wise Lord, we will succeed.”
They separated and turned away from the
spring. Facing the men, Scheherazade addressed Romeen and
Porzand in a loud and commanding voice: “You may look now.”
Romeen turned around. Porzand rose to his
feet. The two men fixed their gazes upon the ravishing
Scheherazade, who stood next to the modestly attired Roxana.
Porzand called out pious exclamations of joy:
“Blessed be Ahura Mazda! The prophecy has been fulfilled!”
Romeen could not help but think, If only
our country could enter the Miss Universe pageant! Miss Iran
would be sure winner with this Scheherazade as contestant.
Roxana looked at Scheherazade and asked,
“What would you have us do?”
“Take me to the Fire Temple of Yazd,”
instructed Scheherazade, “where the Flame of Lamentation
persists well into its Third Millennium.”
|
