It all started when
I went to my auntie’s village. It was in
the middle of August. I was laying on the rooftop of my auntie’s hut, in the
bed where we once slept to escaping the heat of the house. The gentle fresh
breeze was relaxing, and my eyes wandered among thousands of glittering stars.
The Moon was full, and the village and its surrounding gardens and fields and
mountain were lit brightly by its light.
I could even see a flock of sheep and goat just outside the village. I
saw a shooting star ascend. Of course I knew this was impossible, but just the
thought of it was exciting. I knew from experience with stars that we can be
tricked by our senses. You know, if you stare at stars for a long while where
the sky is covered with them, you feel they are coming so close that you could
pick one up with your fingers, and even cry, “Ouch! I burnt my finger again”.
I decided to venture
outside the village, as I had to get back to the city fairly soon and knew I
may not get another chance. I climbed
down from the rooftop and then the mud-built house, and after a short while found
myself walking towards the mountain. It looked so different at night. I knew my
way as climbing the mountain had been one of my favourite ways to spend an
afternoon. But still I felt cautious, and I decided to go as far as the
fountain where I used to swim while on my way back to the village. It was
located midway to top of the mountain, behind a huge rock. I climbed the mountain slowly, immersed in a
mysterious feeling of being there in middle of the night on my own, when I heard
a gentle song. I felt as though it was coming through the breeze from the
mountain. At first, I thought that I
was imagining it. But as I approached
the fountain, I heard the singing song more clearly. I found myself standing
next to a rock, looking at the fountain. It was shining and dancing with small waves under unusually bright moon-light.
Suddenly, I saw the Moon stand out of the water. I was made breathless by this magic scenery.
Streams of water gushed off her milky coloured skin, and after a few moments they
narrowed to a trickling that reminded me of how our rivers dried up after the
heavy floods of the spring. Drops of water hung on, reluctant to leave her
milky skin, but eventually rolled down and disappeared into the fountain.
She stood motionless, her feet still under
water. Her waist narrowed, but a
defining curve and long but not narrow legs disappeared in the water. Her
shiny, dark, straight long hair lay on her back and drops of water dripped down
over her. I could see her wine coloured
lips, hymning. Her deep eyes stared up
at the mountain, towards the highest cliff where a pair of eagles was
nesting. Maybe she was crying, but I
could not be sure. She was there at the heart of the mountain, in the tearful
eyes of the mountain, or maybe her tears mingled with his.
Now, after many years, I understand this look.
It seemed that she was talking, the kind of talk lovers do when they cry. But that talk is soothing and brings
togetherness, and hers was different. She was silent, but with a silence more
expressive than words. Yes, It was that
kind of feeling in her eyes, the kind of feeling that remains in the deepest
recesses of our being unless it can be shared with another who feels it. But who could be this other for her?
Suddenly, a small stone fell from
under my feet and rolled down towards the fountain. In a moment all of my thoughts evaporated.
She turned back and saw me, stared at my eyes, blushed, and then left the pool
like an ascending star to hide behind a cloud.
That night, no one saw the moon. I understood why she blushed. Her secret was revealed, but only to me. Any
time the Moon is full and looking at the mountain, she blushes. But because no
one knows the real story, they make stories up.
That night I kept looking at the cloud behind which the Moon had taken
refuge. Maybe it was for just a moment,
or maybe it was more. But then, there she was. There were no clouds or stars,
not even sky; even time had gone, and we were left with her eyes. They took me
to a land I had long forgotten. I saw
two exhausted armies facing on another and agreeing to settle their frontier
dispute with an arrow, which would be released by a Persian champion. Wherever
it landed was destined to become the frontier of Iran.
I was witnessing the birth of a
legend. Arash the archer, a knight of the land, had volunteered to release the
arrow. He was an old man with long, wavy, grey hair hanging around his neck, a
man well known for his cavalier attitude.
He had the scars of many wars on his body and a wounded heart that was
still bigger than life itself. He
removed his armour and let the quiver rest on his bare back. He said farewell to his friends, the knights
of battlefields whose intimacy and sacrifices he knew well.
Silent tears ran down his sun burnt face and
curled on the wrinkles beneath his thick grey eyebrows. He was their champion.
If anyone wanted to find him in battle, they had only to search for the most
dangerous, deadliest and bloodiest scenes and would see him covered in blood
and sweat, off or on his horse, fighting his way forward. But now he was silently crying, and they
didn't know why. Were these tears of
excitement from having had the honour of deciding his land’s frontiers? Or was
he afraid of failing in his mission? This was impossible; no one had ever
traced fear in him, and even when he was afraid he was a master of disguising
it. No one could answer for the tears
but himself. Arash knew that his arrow should go farther than he could imagine
an arrow can fly, but he also knew that this distance had a cost. He placed his bow in his hand, slung the
quiver onto his back and walked to the top of the hill. His freshly wounded
chest was covered in sweat, and his bared skin chafed red under the pressure of
the leather strap.
He stood at the top of the hill. He heard nothing but the wind walking through
his hair and the neighing of horses in the distance, and looked back at the
Iranian army watching him in silent excitement.
For a little while, the flashes of bared swords in the scourging sun
absorbed his attention. How far could he shoot the arrow? How far can we travel
safely? How far can we take our flocks for grazing? A few soldiers whispered
among themselves. If it is not far enough, how will we feed our families?
Another added: Although he was one of our greatest champions, the spring of his
youth is gone. Isn’t it selfish of him
to volunteer for such a vital matter? Why did they let him do it? But other soldiers who had fought next to
Arash in many wars didn't even look back. Their knight, who they knew so well
and loved so much, was now standing next to a wild and lonely tree. Its hard,
twisted branches reminded them of his battle-hardened body.
He no longer looked at the army or his warrior
friends, nor even at the immediate hills, mountains and valleys. He was looking
somewhere further, so far that he could only see it through his imagination. He
was looking at the long-gone wonder years of his childhood. He saw the first time he tried to mount his
father’s horse and fell off the other side.
He remembered the stories of his mother, told after dinner while he lay
on her lap. He felt her fingers slip through his long hair when they were
sitting out in the cool nights of the summer, under a roof of stars. And he saw
the Moon, lighting the field alight, and he saw his old white sheepdog on the
grass, just next to the flock, licking his hands.
Now he could hear himself bidding farewell to
his mother’s stories with the warmth of his breath and with the sound of his
heart. The tears on his face had dried
in the wind, but as he closed his eyes and imagined the wonder years of the
children who were going to live in peace, without fear of raids but without
him, new tears followed the routes of the old. He turned back and looked down
at the enemy’s soldiers. Their children
will become free too, he thought. Then
he raised his head and looked deep into the valley, to where he could see no more.
He pulled an arrow out of his quiver. He
placed it on the string of his bow and drew it back. He drew every bit of life
from every bit of his body into the arrow.
It had become the meeting place of his soul and body in their most
selfless forms. And when he felt he had recruited all his strength, he released
the arrow. It left the bow like a wild
river gushing down into a valley, but even faster, like thunder when its anger
shakes the mountains. After journeying a day and a half, it finally landed on a
walnut tree. Arash, still holding his
bow, fell off the rock. His skin opened its last wound and a stream of blood
drew a rose on the soil. His eyes
remained open, staring in the direction of the arrow’s flight. His silvery hair
still danced in the breeze on his bleeding chest. Arash had become Arash the
legendary archer.
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