Beast (11 page)

I roar.

The old one wanders off.

I eat my fill. As I leave, the jackals descend.

For two days I rest, satiated. On the third morning I rise for a leisurely walk. I spot three young bachelor lions traveling together across my pride's territory. I follow at a distance.

Roar.

That is the sound of my pride's male, as distinctive as his face. He must have heard these bachelors or smelled them or seen them, though he isn't anywhere in sight.

The largest of the three young males runs toward the roar. The two others trot along slowly, as do I — but I am always in hiding. Still, I stay as close as I dare. I must not miss a single second of what is about to happen. My hopes are a jumble I cannot untangle.

My pride's male stands in view now, large and
commanding. He charges the intruders. The young male turns fast and runs away. His companions run even faster. I stay hidden.

The ruling male allows the intruders to escape. He turns and walks off.

He still has his pride. The bachelors still have nothing. These are the customs: If I want my own pride, I must fight the ruling male for it. And I could never win against the male of my pride. I am alone.

Like the tiger.

I've seen only one tiger so far, and only three times at that. But he's always alone. He seems to prefer night hunting. And he swims in the huge river almost as though he likes it. Then he disappears into the jungle on the east side of the river. I'm grateful he never crosses to this side.

That side of the river is home to another kind of loner, too: the rhinoceros. I've watched them browse on twigs and grass, completely calm, even when the tiger passes.

But I am neither tiger nor rhinoceros. I am not meant to live alone.

I return to my rock ledge and sleep.

That night I wander for hours. The next morning, when I'm dozing in the sun, a lioness from my pride comes out of a thicket carrying a cub by its shoulders. Three other cubs follow on her heels. They don't see
me, but I'm delighted to see them. She's kept the cubs well-hidden these two months. Once I was sure I knew where they were, but when I got up the nerve to investigate, she had moved them. Only the matted grasses and milky musk told that they'd been there. I'm convinced she moved them every few days. But it's clear they can now move easily by themselves. The one hanging from her mouth thrashes after a while. She drops it, and it joins the others, running in crazy zigzags around her legs.

The lioness patiently leads her cubs to a new thicket. She licks them all over, then leaves.

Without hesitation, I go to the thicket. The small cubs rest on top of one another, in a pile. They come to attention and look at me with huge eyes. They hiss. I lie down with my jaw resting on the ground between my forepaws. The cubs jump and yowl around me, trying to scare me off. I stare at them calmly. Finally, one comes close and sniffs at my paw. I blink. The cub comes to my face. I lift my head as slowly as I can. The cub freezes. I lick his leg. He smells my face. Then he offers me his side. And I lick this small creature from shoulder to rump. The other three come along for their baths, despite the fact that their mother has just licked them. Greedy for attention. I roll them over with my muzzle. I rub my forehead on their fat milk bellies. Two males, two females. The males' jaws are
wider, but all have the most wonderfully expressive faces. One of the females grunts. I don't know what it means, but I get up quickly and leave.

That very night the weather changes. Rain comes in. It pours for days. But nothing stops me from watching the cubs. The lioness moved them after my first visit. Undoubtedly she picked up my scent. But I followed her to the little cave, where they've been ever since.

The cubs peek out into the rain now, one after another, and finally give in to their exuberance and romp outside, rolling on top of each other through the mud. I join in.

I visit them every day, some days twice, some days three times. They meow and leap on me in greeting. They lick my face. They attack my tail, and I flick it at them as though it's the fiercest snake. They are my joy.

Today I take a new route to the cave. A noisy buzz catches my attention. Bees swarm around a hollow tree. Their nest has been raided. Despite the rain, it's easy to follow the scent of honey to a hole in the ground. I dig furiously. The honey badger wakes and scrambles to get away. I bite into its back. The animal turns inside its loose skin and sinks its teeth into my nose. It scratches my cheeks with its enormous claws. I ignore the pain and open my jaws just enough to get a bigger bite, then I clamp down with all my might.
The badger goes limp instantly. I eat every part I can — my first wild kill other than mouselings—every part but the liver, the choicest morsel. I look around for any honeycomb that might remain. After all, it seems like a lifetime since I had a dessert, and honey is the best dessert. But the badger must have eaten all of it.

So I go tardy to my cubs, but with a gift: I drop the liver on the ground, and they fight over it, more out of curiosity than anything else, for their mother still nurses them. And now theyVe discovered the evidence of my struggle with the honey badger. They lick the bite marks on my nose, the scratches on my cheeks. The bolder female, my favorite one, rakes her claws through my mane, getting out the dirt that's entangled where I cannot reach.

Grooming me; this youngster is grooming me.

A reedlike spirit within me cries. I stretch as long as I can, so as much of me as possible can receive their tender gift.

The cubs crawl all over me, tumbling happily, unaware of the tumultuous feelings in my chest. My little female hums, like the lioness back at the hunting park in Tabriz. And the amazing thought comes: In a few months they will eat meat. Then I can steal my favorite female. She can live with me, and I'll bring her the leftovers from her pride. And when she's adult, she'll hunt for both of us, for I have seen how
the male waits while the females hunt. It will come naturally to her. We will rub heads and groom each other and raise cubs and grow old together.

India holds the answer, after all.

I will overcome the worst of the
pari's
curse: I will not pass the rest of my life alone. I am Prince Orasmyn. I need nothing from my old life, I need no one.

Roar!

The mother lioness lunges at me.

I jump away.

We circle each other in front of the mouth of the cave. Already I hear the other lionesses running. Within moments my back is to the cave, and I'm surrounded on all other sides. The cubs whine and whimper in confusion. The adults growl and roar savagely, in synchrony. They snap at me. I whip myself around, roaring back as ferociously as I know how. One well-landed slash of their claws would cripple me for good. I am lion meat.

A cub runs between my legs. I trip and roll toward a lioness at one side. Astonishingly, she backs up with a growl. I get to my feet and run straight past her. The ruling male appears from nowhere—he runs after me. But he's not even trying to catch me. He chases at a slow pace. Just to let me know I don't belong, I'm not welcome. This is not my home.

I am lion, and I am not lion.

And I am alone.

The lionesses in Father's hunting park accepted me because there were no other males around. But in the wilds of India, no lioness will accept me. And even if one happened to, even if I stole that little female and made her mine, a bachelor lion would come along and take her away before long.

I am doomed to loneliness. And to living off the refuse of others.

The ruling male gives one final roar.

I feel the sound in my bones long after it dies from the air.

T
he cobra rears.

I am cornered under the low rock ledge where I slept last night.

The cobra's neck flattens into a hood almost as wide as my head. Its body bunches in zigzags under it, but I can tell it is long. Maybe twice as long as my body. A king cobra.

One bite would kill a man.

The urge to run tightens me like rock. I fight it. There is not enough room for me to pass safely. My jaw aches to roar, a wasted act on the deaf snake.

The snake head moves slightly, as though floating on a breeze I cannot feel. Its eyes hold me. It flickers a split tongue.

I don't know what to do. But I can't bear this waiting. I bolt.

And I'm free. Alive and well past the striking range of those fangs. I stop and look back.

The snake glides slowly into my spot. It coils up and lies still.

I have no idea why I am still alive. But I recognize the cobra's gesture as a farewell from India, appropriate, since I had already decided to leave. The territory of the small pride is two days' walk behind me.

I travel west, into Persia. My country offers no welcome; I don't harbor delusions. I go to Persia on a mission—to get the treasure waiting for me in the hunting park of Tabriz. What will come after that is beyond my ability to reason. My thoughts come to a halt. I know nothing except desire: I want that book from Mother.

I trot for days. Weeks. I don't know how long. Now and then I recognize a village from when I passed this way going to India. It seems I follow close to the same path in reverse, though not by design.

I raid the pet population for food again. And sometimes I indulge myself and creep close to a dwelling even when I'm not hungry, close enough to hear the people call to one another in early evening. They share the
tanour
—the flatbread I love—as they tell of the day just past and plan out the day to come. Because the Shah's family moved from palace to palace, I am familiar with many varieties of my native
tongue. I used to find some of them coarse. Now they are all pure and fine, like the desert sands. I listen as long as I dare.

I am not crying. Listening to human language doesn't even hurt. I feel nothing.

India couldn't host me. Maybe no place can. Maybe I will spend the rest of my existence alone.

When the snow falls, my heart quickens. I steer clear of settlements now, for my tracks in this white fluff would lead to a wide-scale hunt, I'm sure. Excitement grows as I near Tabriz. Mother and Father won't be there, of course. The Tabriz palace stands empty in winter. But that's best, for seeing either of them would shatter this blessed numbness that shields me from pain.

I enter through the eastern wall of the hunting park, reveling just briefly, just for a tiny moment, in the fantasy of returning home. A surprised buck gives a delicious meal, the first truly satisfying one in so long, and ridiculously easy to catch. When I finish, I move heavily. Particular trees are familiar now.

The slab of rock is exactly where I remembered it. The book lies there innocently, as though it's trivial, frozen into the dirt under the rock. My
Gulistan.
Though I haven't even read it, in this moment it is all that I cherish. I dig the book free, careful not to damage it, and burrow my way under the bottom, snow-laden
branches of a pine. I set the book on the ground and sink beside it, ready to sleep with my head resting on its cover.

Rattle.

I cannot see in the pitch-dark under this snow house, but I know that sound: a crested porcupine. The rattle is close and grows louder. I jump to my feet and crash out through the branches.

But the book still lies in the porcupine's lair. Precious book. Stupid me.

There's no chance of sneaking in without the porcupine knowing. Stupid, stupid me.

I growl. When the porcupine doesn't emerge, I plunge back through the branches.

Pain pierces my right front paw, explodes up through my leg. I scream as I search. Here it is, my book, my
Gulistan.
I take it in my jaws and tumble quickly out again. More pain in my rear. Bursts of heat.

I limp to another pine nearby and burrow under, this time advancing tentatively, smelling for the fruity odor of porcupine. Nothing but the scent of dried needles.

I bite porcupine quills from my flanks and from my paw. Four altogether. I must have practically stepped on the cursed creature. My wounds flame. I moan myself to sleep.

My flank heals quickly, but my paw swells and oozes pus. I lick it roughly between feverish naps. For a long time I stay in the shelter of the pine, going out only to stretch and eat snow. I'm lucky that the buck was so large; several days pass before hunger gnaws at me again. By this time, though, my paw is on the mend.

I leave the pine boughs and walk west, the book in my mouth. Soon I'm at the palace. I wander through my private
belaq,
then out into the public gardens, and, finally, to the rose garden. The snow is not deep, and I can easily see that these bushes have been tended carefully—pruned and mulched in preparation for winter exactly as I would have ordered. Kiyumars has been faithful.

Life has gone on here without me. And it will keep going on without me.

As though I'm dead. The man is dead.

The lion lives. And nothing makes sense.

The sun sets, the night blows frigid, the moon cuts the star-filled sky, the sun rises again, and still, I sit in this rose garden with the book in my jaws, stiff in every joint. Do I await inspiration? Has Orasmyn become such a fool that he simply waits for answers to come? Even the patience of the Merciful One must be taxed.

I lay the book on the ground and do my
rakatha.
I
pray inside my head. When I finish, I listen to my thoughts. All they can whisper is,
Guthaye sourkh —
roses.

Am I losing my mind?

But the whisper continues, light and sweet, with the charm of a woman's words to a small child. They are like salve.

I remember the French man who walked here with my father years ago and boasted that French roses were the best in the world. And the book I hold in my mouth is named
Gulistan —Rose Garden.

Prickles of hope go up my neck, hum in my ears, tingle in my mouth.