‘Your dream is to become a Za’skar warrior to help your village in Khor. But it requires true patience to rise in this city,’ I finally answer. ‘Clearly, that’s a quality I lack, but you – I trust you to have that patience.’
‘Trust.’ Arezu is sceptical. ‘You trust me?’
‘Of course.’
A silence settles. Arezu opens her mouth several times but stops, as if afraid to break the odd peace we share, as if we both are obliged in our roles to constantly push and pull at each other.Speak, I will her.
‘It feels strange not being in Khor tonight; our storytellers rivalled those on the Camel Road,’ she finally says.
‘No, they did not. Ours were—’ I blurt and stop myself.
‘You are doing that again.’ She presses as if this is what she had hoped for. She shoves my arm. ‘Don’t you miss your tribe?’
I glance down, admitting, ‘I hardly remember them.’
‘One does not need to remember to miss someone. I hardly remember my own.’
Something clicks within me, as if the odd emotions untangle into fine threads. I do not recall much of Uma’s tribe, but Arezu is right; at the mention of Tezmi’a, there is an ache there, deep inside, echoing a call.
I surprise myself by reaching out, tapping Arezu’s chin up. ‘When I miss home, I look to the sky.’
She blinks. ‘That’s odd. The sky is the sky.’
‘Perhaps, but someone told me – someone who I no longer recall, but whose folktales have stayed with me, even as I fight against them; I think, in this moment, I am grateful I have them – she said there is comfort that the sky in its magical symmetry is shared by all, even home. The sky gilds the same sunrise, sunset and moon. The same constellations peeking slantwise against the black.’
‘And you say you do not have stories,’ Arezu answers in a sad sort of understanding. To my surprise, she leans her head against my shoulder. ‘It’s okay, master. Sometimes remembering those stories can be painful.’
My throat clogs. How does she know – how does this girl, years younger – know the pain in my heart before I speak? Why cannot I understand hers? Why am I so selfish?
She gives me one of those smiles, too small for a girl with so much life burning inside her. ‘Tell a story,’ she urges.
I am more than a master to them, even if unwilling. They give me titles I don’t deserve, in foolish hope.
‘Perhaps I know one tale,’ I announce. ‘My overseer said that stories carry us through the night’s death to light.’
‘I did say that,’ Overseer Yabghu interrupts from behind me.
‘She’s going to tell a story,’ Arezu tells him before I can stop her. My pazktab students run to gather other students, some who had been part of our squadron.
I prepare myself to do this. If I do not have my own kindnesses to share, I have the kindness of the dead who entrusted me with it.
Then my overseer is beckoning other warriors to hear the folktale: Katayoun, Aina, Dil-e-Jannah, Adam, Aizere and so many more until they are a sea of flesh. I see even Cemil, who does not sit but leans against the bramble, arms crossed, watching me silently. At the sight of him, fear rises up my throat, but I raise my hand and point at the circle.In our duel, he spoke of what happened to his people, but he had never heard what happened to mine. This might be the first time any of these warriors have heard a tale coloured by Azadniabad.
From the corner of my eye, No-Name wears long monastic robes and gawks in reproach. ‘You should not do this. Do not comfort the students or warriors. You do not need friends,’ she warns. ‘I am here, yet you do not rely on me – the one who has accompanied you in your loneliest moments, your entire life.’
But the homesickness rifling my chest tells me that my students give me peace. At this, No-Name covers her mouth as if that idea will make her vomit. ‘Stop, please,’ she begs and her form ripples, toppling off the tree. ‘I-I cannot control who I can be...’ Her voice disappears, body changing.
In her stead stands a young woman with watery grey eyes like weak milk-tea, a stern mouth and furred robes. I cannot place her name but her mouth opens, smirking. ‘My apprentice,’ she says.
I watch her as the crowd forms. My fingers stretch toward the constellation, ablaze in pink dew.
‘Magicians are attracted to children; they hope to deceive them through their loneliness. But the tale I tell you tonight is one of companionship, one of comfort, to save you in this long night. Gather round and let me speak to you of the khan of nur, the mighty Simorgh, who never flew below her abode, for she scoffed at mankind’s greed to conquer. In this vast and strange world, let us pretend that all is well, war does not exist, our tribes huddle around a fire, and we are warm, and safe. Let us hold hope between us, and let me, master, and today, chief folkteller, speak of the healing firebird that saves us all.’
They lean forward in anticipation. My head pounds, my lips move, but they do not belong to me. I simply watch the woman of my past, shaped by No-Name, stealing her words:
‘The Simorgh was a Bird King whose abode was the Heavenly Sea, in a tree which contained the seeds of all sustenance. Whenever the Simorgh flew to the tips of the Tree of Knowledge, one thousand branches snapped, and the seeds pattered into the water, nourishing our valley with plants, here and there, before it was destroyed by raids. The mystical bird raised the worthiest Eajiz warriors in secret,within her Mist Mountains, using her nur – she was a Heavenly blessing at times of revolution. Her strength belongs to the ones who move from land to land; who walk with the wind and speak to the animals. She has watched the world burn thrice over. When the Tree of Knowledge she rested upon caught alight from the Divine’s punishment, burning the universe and herself, she was reborn to tell the tale, living with an indestructible wisdom. As she witnessed Prophet Nuh’s Great Flood, she let herself sink in its waters, reborn again to warn of its lessons.’
As I spin the tale, I look at the pazktab students, praying my words provide the companionship that my body cannot. I wonder, did my elders ever feel this sweetness? Was this why my tribe spoke stories by night? But why had Uma refused to tell a story? Had the stories lost their magick in a world that bent it for its own purposes? Had she forsaken the words because they held no more meaning after bitter life had had its way with her?
