C18 Chapter 18

Mother spent her time cleaning and cooking as a wife should, keeping her face covered to all but her husband and children, and even when she was in the privacy of home, she wore a scarf to cover her hair. Where Father taught Pari the stories and teachings of the Soduqir religion, Mother taught her how to be a proper woman. Pari learned to cook and sew and wash clothes. Mother demonstrated the appropriate way to tie a hijab around her head and neck so that it wouldn't fall off.

Pari's favorite days were when her mother took her into Kammun, where she could see all the people, smell the food, listen to the vendors yelling. Sometimes there were street performers, juggling or charming snakes with a long flute, and Pari's mother would stop for a minute or two and let Pari watch and gasp and applaud with the other spectators. On their way back to their small house in Isaf, Pari was always allowed to carry a basket of dried beans.

That was Pari's life ever since her older sister Leena had married and moved away to her new family's house, somewhere in the south. Pari missed Leena and often asked her parents to take her for a visit or to invite Leena for dinner. Father always said it was impossible and that she would understand when she was older and married.

Pari kept what memories she had of her sister close to her, replaying them often in her mind so that she wouldn't forget. She had already forgotten her older brother Iqbal, who had left home years ago before Pari could walk.

She was happy despite missing her sister and wondering about the brother she never knew. Father and Mother were kind, they loved each other, and they were better off than many families in Isaf. Sometimes during prayer, Mother would say, ”Thank God for Abdul's career, and that we don't go hungry. God is generous and merciful and has saved a once impoverished family from starving,” and she would touch her forehead and mouth with her thumbnail as she closed the prayer, and Pari followed her example.

One night, Father returned from work later than usual. Pari had waited for him with the Bagh'ra in her bed while Mother put away what was left of dinner and washed the dishes. It was hours after dinner when Father came home, and when he did, both Mother and Pari jumped to greet him.

”I'm sorry I'm late,” he said, slipping out of his coat. He fell into a chair. Mother said nothing and brought him a plate of cold dinner.

”Goodness, Abdul, did he have you write an entire book for him this time?” Mother asked.

Father took several bites of beans, rice, and goat, chewing slowly. When he had eaten half of it, he said, ”No writing today. A lot of reading.”

”What about?”

But Father shook his head and would say no more. Pari sat at his feet with the Bagh'ra in her lap, and Father looked down at her and smiled.

”Oh, my dove,” he said. ”I'm so sorry, I'm too tired to read tonight.”

Pari frowned and said, ”Please, baba, just a short one.”

Father finished his meal, and Mother took the dish, and Father motioned for Pari to climb onto his lap. She had not sat on his lap for a year or more, which to her was no different than forever. He picked up the heavy book and fingered through the thin pages, scanning the intricate calligraphy, then stopped near the end of the book.

He pointed to one of the words and said, ”Here, my dove. This word means prophet.” He took her finger and helped her to sound it out, letter by letter. ”Do you know the story of the last prophet?”

Of course, she did. Father had been reading the Bagh'ra to her since before she could speak, and the story of the last prophet was one of the most important in the whole book.

”No, baba,” she said.

Father turned back one page and studied the text before reading.

”And the enemies of God and His prophet had surrounded the mountain, and the prophet saw that his people were afraid, and he sent a prayer up to God and said, Great God, look down on us who are your chosen people and save us. Deliver us from this evil that threatens to take away our lives and our faith.

”And God answered the prophet saying, Jebreel, you are my prophet, and I have called you to this work. You have my Power and my love and the love of my people. The enemy may take your lives, but they cannot take your faith.

”And the prophet called up again to God and said, Should I abandon my people to certain death? Is the great God of the universe not able to save His people? For I have used the Power, God, and it has led us to this mountain with the enemy surrounding us on all sides, and we will surely die this day.

”And the fury of God came down upon the prophet and rebuked him, saying, Who was it that created all men? Who was it that created the four Powers? Who was it that set in motion the events that led you and my people to this mountain? Therefore do not doubt in the plans of God, Jebreel, for they are beyond your understanding and beyond the understanding of any other mortal man.

”And the people beheld angels descending from heaven, and they held trumpets and flaming swords, and they fell upon the enemy and slaughtered them, every one. And at last, the enemy was defeated, and the prophet fell upon his face and begged God for forgiveness.

”And when God heard his prayer, He spoke to the prophet, saying, Jebreel, rise and lead my people to the west until you come to the sea, and there you will build my kingdom. And until my people learn to trust in the ways of God and not question His great plan, the prophet and the Power he holds will remain hidden from the world. Thus saith the Lord God.”

Father closed the book, closed his eyes, and Pari looked up at him.

”Baba?”

”Mm.”

”What then?”

He shrugged one shoulder. ”My work today reminded me of that story. That is all. The Holder of Space will remain hidden until the Last Days. It is written.” He kissed Pari's forehead and set her on the floor with the Bagh'ra and retired to his bedroom.

”Off to bed now, Parwana,” said Mother, and she helped Pari to bed and blew out her lamp.

Pari lay in bed with open eyes and an excited mind. It was the first time her father had shown her how to read a word. Could she remember the sounds each letter made? He had only shown her once. She crawled out of bed and found the flint to light the lamp. The Bagh'ra was in the front room, and she tiptoes to take it back to her nightstand.

The lamplight flickered. Pari opened the book to where she thought her father had been reading. She scanned the pages, inspecting them for any familiar squiggles. Toward the back, she found it. She stared closer as the wick on the lamp shortened, and the light grew dimmer. The word for prophet was different than the other words. She turned the small knob on the lantern to lengthen the wick, and the flame grew brighter.

The Bagh'ra was written in black ink, but each time the word prophet was written, the ink was dark purple. It was almost impossible to tell, and Pari wondered why they would make the distinction at all. Father would know because he wrote and read things for a living. She would ask him in the morning.

She closed the heavy book, and one of the covers knocked against the lamp. It toppled off the nightstand and shattered on the floor, spilling oil in a wide puddle that quickly became covered in flame.

What happened after that, she was never able to recall in its entirety. Perhaps it was because she was young; maybe it was her mind blocking the memories to save her from the pain. But she did remember a few parts, and they were enough to bring her to tears whenever she thought about that night.

Pari shrieked and took the blanket from her bed to lay it over the fire, trying to smother it. The sheet caught fire, and Pari backed away. By the time she thought to call for her parents, the flames had devoured the curtains and were now working on the ceiling.

The smoke was thick, and Pari coughed as she cried out. Father grabbed the door handle from outside and cursed, then kicked open the door with his foot. He spit in his palm, and steam rose from the burn. He picked Pari up and carried her outside.

”Stay there!” he said and returned to the house.

Something in the house popped, and flames erupted from the roof with a whrooofff. A wall fell inward. Mother screamed from inside. Father didn't. The rest of the house fell in flames, and Pari was an orphan. The people of Isaf stopped making curtains and roofs from flax after that day.

Pari started that fire every night for the rest of her life. Every night she knocked over the lamp, every night she failed to put out the flames, every night her father carried her to safety, every night her parents burned to death.

At a sad, slow sound, Pari woke in the middle of the night, thinking she was still ten years old for a moment, living with her uncle and cousins, sleeping in a bed far too small for her. With time, the dream faded as it always did. She put a hand on Sallah, who lay beside her.

Without opening her eyes, she listened to the darkness, searching for the sound that had woken her. She thought it was moaning. She lay still, listening, still mostly asleep.

Scratching on wood. Soft crying.

Pari opened her eyes and raised her head. She squinted her eyes. The sounds continued with gentle scratching on a wall somewhere nearby, and with it a sad tone that was definitely a man's voice.

”Sallah,” she whispered. She shook his shoulder.

He groaned and rolled onto his side, facing away from her.

”Sallah, wake up.”

”Hm, I'm hm...”

The strange crying stopped, as did the scratching. Pari frowned and stepped out of bed, her bare feet stepping silently on the wood floor. She walked toward where she thought the noise had come from, toward the washroom. In the hallway, she placed her ear on the wall to the left of the washroom door and listened.

”What are you doing?” Sallah mumbled.

Pari looked back at him through the bedroom door. ”There was something here.

Scritch-scritch. Pari gasped.

”There! Did you hear it?”

”It's a mouse,” said Sallah. He groaned and rolled over, pulling the sheet around him. ”Come back to bed.”

Pari waited for a moment more, but there were no more noises, neither scratching nor moaning. She returned to bed, though she stayed attentive.

”We've never had mice. There aren't any mice in the temple.”

”Pari, I'm sure there are ways for a mouse to get into the temple, and definitely into our apartment. I have to wake up early.” With that, Sallah said no more and was asleep within a few seconds.

Pari listened for several more minutes, but the place was silent, and soon sleep came back for her as well, along with a dream of flames.

The next morning she woke with Sallah and prepared a simple breakfast of naan and honey. Sallah ate quickly.

”I wish you didn't have to leave so soon,” Pari said as Sallah dressed. ”You just got back.”

”It's just a meeting.” Sallah pulled a white cotton cap over his curly hair. ”I'll be back tonight.” He took Pari's face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. ”I love you.”

”I love you,” Pari said, and Sallah left and closed the door behind him.