Beast (13 page)

And once I am human again, I will take my bride and return to the company of humans, to the community that is my birthright.

It is time now to tend to my gardens. I nose through the daylily shoots on the north border of the property. There are hundreds. I leave dozens undisturbed, so they can keep multiplying, but the rest I dig up and pile at the edge of the rose garden. I scratch the dirt close to the base of each rosebush, just enough to set in the daylily roots so that their tops will be barely covered. Daylilies form an ideal ground cover for a rose garden. They reduce both the need to water and the diseases that afflict roses so easily.

The job consumes the entire day. By the time I've finished, my hunger is fierce.

Tonight will be good hunting.

But first things first.

I go to the moat and perform the
wudhu.
Then I walk inside the castle to the library.

I face the southeast window, toward Mecca, and lower my nose to the floor, keeping my legs rigid. I do not crouch, for crouching is too easy in feline form. Hanging forward like this is difficult; it helps me remember that I must be ready to sacrifice all for the Merciful One. I pray.

Finally, I'm ready for the treat. I walk slowly around the library.

A few days ago I finished reading a book by the Greek philosopher Aristotle. The book still lies on the chair, where I left it. I nudge it with my muzzle until it sticks out over the edge, then I take it between my teeth and walk to the shelves. I rise on my hind feet, tilt my head as far as it can go to one side, and try to slide the book back on the shelf. It drops to the floor.

For a brief moment I indulge in pointless anger. I am like the worst of criminals, deprived of both hands, despised by the masses. Indeed, my punishment is even more cruel, for I am completely isolated from both the masses and family. I lift my head and roar.

Then I calm myself.

I wedge the book between my paws and press until the bound edge pushes upward. I take it again between my paws and try to replace it on the shelf. After the fourth attempt, the book stays.

It's time to select another book, for these books give my only opportunity to keep language strong inside me, language, which is the human vehicle for prayer — my lifeline. While I regularly reread
Gulistan,
I alternate my other reading between books for pleasure and books for research. The Aristotle book gave pure pleasure — mental gymnastics. Today I should begin a book of the other sort.

My eyes scan for a volume that might tell of sorcery, of fairy spells and how to break them. It isn't that I fool myself into thinking I will find a novel way to undo the
pari's
curse. No. The fairies of the Europeans have little in common with the Persian ones. Rather, a book of that sort would make me feel less alone. For the very existence of such a book would mean that others have suffered like I do.

Perhaps others have formed plans of escape.

Perhaps they have succeeded.

I shudder as I pass the shelf of Chinese books. Rumi and Saadi, the great poets, survived Mongol invasions, but those invasions destroyed whole populations of Persian cities. For this reason Father never allowed Chinese books in our palaces.

I walk quickly back to the shelf that holds the Aristotle book and read each title nearby.

Clouds darken the room a little. A storm comes. Though my gardens are already speckled with flower buds, winter hasn't completely given up yet. I must hurry, or I'll lose all chance to read today. My eyes alight on a leather cover embossed with beautiful lettering.
Aeneid.

I open and read, concentrating hard so that my eyes can follow the print:

Arma virumque cano Troiae qui primus ab oris

Italiam fato profugus Laviniaque venit . . .

The poet sings of a man tossed about on land and sea by the anger of the goddess Juno, so that he leaves his home in Troy and goes to Italy, where he suffers much in war before finally founding a city.

I, too, have traveled far, always tormented by the harshest anger of the
pari.
The hero of this poem interests me. I read on, turning the pages carefully with the very tip of my tongue touching the smallest part of the corner of each page. I read of Aeneus' shipwreck and how the gods disagree and of this hero's going onshore in Africa. But when I get to the part where Aeneus slays a deer, hunger stops me.

The room has darkened considerably, anyway. My eyes become unruly.

The artistry of this epic falls short of the
Shahnameh,
certainly, and its passion in comparison to that of
Gulistan
is like a candle flicker to the sunlight. Nevertheless, it holds my attention. I leave the book on the floor, where I've been crouched reading it, and I take a dry quill from the desk and drop it on the open page to save my spot if a breeze should come. I lower my head and rest first one cheek on the page, then the other—giving thanks to the author and to the Merciful One for allowing me to read.

I pad outside to the brambles and move under them. I am as low to the ground as I can go—as low as the lioness who I watched hunt the stag in the
hunting park of my own palace in Tabriz. Beyond the brambles in this direction lies a quiet forest.

Instantly my spirit transforms; away from the castle my needs and pleasures belong to the lion that I am. Alert. Powerful. I am at home in these woods. And it feels good.

Within moments musty fungus smells invade my nostrils. The earth is rooted up here. I follow a path of fresh holes. The wetness of the earth in this part of the world never ceases to amaze me. Dead wood has been overturned not long ago. Ants scurry to rebuild their disturbed nests. I follow the path more quickly, for I recognize the signs.

And there's the wild boar. He sees me, despite the storm clouds that gather to block the sun. He is easily twice the weight I was in man form, with tusks as long as my front paw. Without warning, he runs at me and he is swift.

I flee toward the castle. The hooves of the beast pound behind me. He gains on me. I leap onto a low tree limb, climb to a higher branch, crouch.

The boar runs stupidly past.

I stay unmoving for a long while.

He is gone. French boars are huge compared with Persian ones. Their tusks are absurdly long. The depth of his footprints should have told me that this one was too large for me to attack. I have accumulated
knowledge over the past two and a half years and I have discovered that certain feral instincts take over at unexpected times. But now and then I ignore information that I should be using. This was such a time.

I killed a young boar last autumn—a very small boar. The Merciful One forbids the eating of pork, and as a man I never tasted it. But my lion eyes saw food. And in the
Shahnameh,
Bizhan hunts a boar — why, even the great Rustam roasts a wild boar. So the Merciful One forgives me, I am sure. That illustration of Rustam is one of my favorites, all gold and metallic green.

I miss colors.

The ground is far below, but I am calm. Trees don't present problems to me anymore. I don't prefer them as a place to rest, but I also don't hesitate to use them when the need arises, going for low, slanted branches if possible. I look around now. All I can see in the dimming light are more trees.

And a badger. It has come to eat the roots left behind by the boar. Funny little opportunist. Its long, grizzled fur is caked with mud. It's been wading in the pond nearby. My lungs swell as the short legs carry the stout body closer. I know my range well, so I wait, patient.

Rain falls softly, and the temperature plummets. If
it keeps up, the branch will grow slippery with ice and I'll lose my grip.

And, oh, an ice storm could damage my roses. The buds are close to blooming. I should return to the castle and cover them with the piles of crushed oak leaf that I brushed together when cleaning out the perennial garden.

But I'm hungry. And this badger cannot take forever to come within range.

Still, the badger does take its time. My patience wanes. Now it noses through a low bush, eating hard, dried-out bilberries. Closer. Closer.

I position myself in a crouch, ready.

The rain turns to sleet. The branch grows slick.

I leap.

Too soon. The beast turns and waddles furiously toward what I now see is the opening of his burrow.

I remember the bite of the honey badger back in India—the day the lion cubs groomed me, the day I was driven from my pride. I stop and watch the badger disappear into the burrow.

I could dig it out. But it isn't worth facing those teeth.

I lick my own nose as though I've been bitten.

The wind is high. I walk through the woods again, on the lookout for signs of the boar.

It snows now. A silly little roebuck huddles under
a bush, eyes closed against the wind, almost as though he's offering himself.

I kill the miniature deer with one bite to the throat. The snow comes thick, driven by the wind. I'm dragging the roebuck whole between my front legs back to the castle. I will stash him in the entranceway while I cover the rosebushes with mulch.

That's when I hear the whinny.

The man sits astride the skittish horse, trying to calm her. But the mare has caught my scent or the scent of the dead roebuck or both, and is half crazed by the storm, anyway. She tosses her head and rears, wild-eyed.

“Un château!”
—a castle—the man shouts, as if to the horse.

I make my way under the brambles, drop the roebuck, and follow horse and rider, staying low, though the snow comes so hard, I don't believe this man would be able to see me even if I stood tall so long as I stayed close to bushes.

The man dismounts and, with difficulty, leads the panicked mare into the stable. He pulls a cloth from his pocket and winds it around the poor mare's head so that she cannot see. She stops moving instantly. He pats her withers and spreads a blanket over her back. Then he takes a halter from the saddlebag and slips it over her head, tethering her to a post. He pulls off the bridle and bit, gives her a parting pat on the side of
her neck, then leaves, closing the stable door behind him. He knocks on the front door of my castle, though it stands open. In French he asks, “Is anyone there?” His accent is pure Parisian. He bangs with both fists now, calling loudly. Finally he enters.

A man walks in my home.

I run to a window and look in. He's out of sight, still calling from the entrance hall. Now he turns and rushes outside. Has he recognized some trace of me? I stay against the wall, crouched low.

He scurries through the woods, bending often, picking up bits of wood. He goes back to the castle, his arms piled high. He puts down the wood and pulls the door shut behind him.

From the window I watch him build a fire in the large hearth.

It's been years since I've sat by a fire.

Oh, the winter here hasn't been harsh. It snows often, but the sun comes out brilliantly day after day, and the air is never mean, like in the country I passed through to get here. Still, the damp cold can penetrate my fur and make me shiver. Especially at night.

A fire.

The man shakes the snow off his cloak and wide-brimmed hat. He spreads the cloak over a chair and perches the hat on a tall corner of the chairback. Next, he takes off his shoes and stockings, then his outer clothes. He stretches them on the floor in front
of the fire. An oil lamp rests in a holder to the side of the fireplace. He lights the wick and carries the lamp ahead of him as he goes into the chapel. He doesn't pray, though. He merely looks around. And now he's going into the library. I watch him kneel on the floor and pick up the book I was reading. He places it carefully on the desk, not disturbing the open page. I like the respectful way he touches the books. O Merciful One, if only I could talk with this man. A discussion about anything, any little thing, man to man.

A small rumble starts in the back of my throat. This is my voice — not fit for conversation.

I realize I've raised my head way far high. If the man turns this way, he'll see me. I lower my shoulders until my eyes barely see over the window ledge. My mane still protrudes above it, but it is so covered with snow, I doubt it will draw his attention.

The man goes from room to room, calling. Then he climbs the stairs.

I sleep in the southeast room upstairs, so that I can look out over my rose garden before shutting my eyes and so that I can wake at the first hint of dawn and face Mecca. A blanket lies in a crumpled heap in the middle of the floor of my bedroom. That's what I sleep on. Will he see bits of my fur?

There are weapons in this house: knives, swords, guns.

And the man probably carries a pistol himself.

I run from window to window, anxious to see this man the moment he comes back downstairs.

Now his lamp flickers as he descends the staircase. His face is wary. He wanders into the larder. He comes out with a small booty and carries it to the table near the fireplace. He pulls up a chair. Then he goes back to the larder. He comes out with a bottle of wine and a bowl.

He lays dried fruits in the bowl, covers them with wine, then waits. While he waits, he drinks from the bottle. After a long time, he picks up the now plumped-up fruits and chews big.

Then he stands before the fire, slowly turning. He's drying out the underclothes he wears, toasting himself. Finally, he climbs the stairs again.

I listen, hoping to hear evidence that he sleeps. But, though the snow has stopped, the wind has gained momentum, and I hear nothing but the slapping of branches against one another. I go inside via the corner window that I broke the very first time I entered this castle, for I cannot pull the massive door open with my jaws. Once this man leaves, though, I'll be able to open the door from the inside, pushing outward. Then I'll let it stay slightly ajar as before, so that I can come and go as I please.

Once this man leaves. For he will leave. There's
nothing here to hold him. He came only because he got lost in the storm.