Tabestan-e- Pish

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Chapter I: Drop by Drop
In the days when Persia was called Iran, a young man named Romeen married a young woman named Roxana in a traditional Moslem wedding ceremony. The newlyweds then bade farewell to relatives and friends and embarked on their honeymoon. They flew from Tehran to Shiraz and there rented a car. They lodged in a posh Shiraz hotel, dined in a magnificent restaurant, visited the tomb of Hafez and toured the splendors of Persepolis. They then headed north to see more of their country's attractions.

Happy in one another's caresses, they nonetheless felt an anxiety prevalent throughout the planet, but particularly in their region, as they drove through the desert highway to Yazd. These were extremely tense days; the war drums were beating at a faster and faster tempo. The newlyweds tried not to talk about world and regional events, but sometimes they had to voice their anxieties in order to obtain relief from thinking about them.

"If only the Americans knew what richness our culture has to contribute to humankind," commented Roxana, thinking of the wonders she and her husband had recently seen. "If only they knew that we too cherish the ideals of freedom."

"Presently, America is in cowboy mode," noted Romeen.

"Their would feel different if they looked at our miniatures," said Roxana, "and read the poetry of Hafez, Ferdowsi and Khayyam."

"Verses which put into words the heaven I feel in your presence," responded Romeen, speaking of the love poetry they had been reading in the evenings, just before eros.

Pretty, dark-haired Roxana smiled and cuddled up to her dark-haired husband, whose handsome face was without a beard or mustache. Romeen put his arm around her and drove on silently.

Several minutes later, something came into view up ahead. This sudden anomaly, a solitary human figure walking along the side of the road, caused Romeen to decelerate. As the car got closer, the human became recognizable as an elderly man clad in white garb with a white religious cap covering most of his white hair. The sight seemed a bit unusual, for he appeared to have few possessions, carrying only a small sack in a place where a car breakdown could be fatal. No cell phones here.

Roxana spoke with concern in her voice: "Romeen, look at the poor soul." Both wondered what would become of him, all alone in the middle of nowhere.

It was obvious to Romeen that Roxana wanted him to stop and see if the stranger needed help. Romeen himself felt the same inclination, although he so much wanted to be alone with Roxana. He continued slowing down until they had reached the elderly man and stopped on the road beside him. The elderly man continued walking. Romeen resumed the forward motion of the car, now slowly keeping pace with the old and frail pedestrian. Roxana covered her hair with her scarf, then opened her passenger-side front window.

"Agha," she said to him. "Are you stranded?"

The old man stopped and looked at the car and its occupants, but said nothing. After a few moments, Roxana added, "You seem lost in the desert."

"May we help you?" asked Romeen.

A smile came to the white-whiskered face of the old man. He said in a loud voice, "Spento-Mainyu," revealing to Romeen and Roxana, both of whom were well-educated, that the man was a Zoroastrian, an adherent of the only religion that had actually originated in Iran, thousands of years ago before there was even a Persian Empire.

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The old man spoke in a Persian that was regionally-accented yet clearly understandable to the city-dwellers from Tehran: "I am on my way to Chek-Chek, the Mountain of the Sacred Spring."

The place name rang a bell in the memories of Romeen and Roxana, but both had some difficulty recalling. After a few moments, Roxana announced, "Chek-Chek! Yes, I have heard of Chek-Chek. It is a place where Zoroastrians worship fire."

"We do not worship fire," responded the elderly spokesman for his minority group in a manner corrective yet not overly indignant.

Roxana had not meant to be impolite. Her early upbringing had taught her that Zoroastrians were polytheistic fire-worshippers; however, as she had matured and come into contact with urbanized Zoroastrians, she had learned that Zoroatrianism was every bit as monotheistic as the God of Abraham religions. Zoroatrianism had once reigned as the dominant faith in Iran, but it was now a minority religion whose members had been marrying among themselves ever since Iran had become Islamic fourteen centuries ago.

"We are going to Yazd," informed Roxana. She was not sure what to say next. She had a vague notion of Chek-Chek's locale as somewhat in the same direction the young couple was headed, but definitely off the main highway. She could not imagine how this frail old man was ever going to make it to his destination without some assistance. Concerned, she wanted to offer him a ride, but also felt that she must defer to her husband's wishes.

We cannot leave him here, thought Romeen. He looked at his lovely wife; she looked at him. Their desire to be alone together conflicted with their sense of obligation until Romeen offered, "You may come with us part of the way if you so wish."

The old man put his hands together and raised them in supplication. "Spento-Mainyu," he said again, then stepped feebly towards the car. Roxana opened the door and allowed him into the back seat. He entered with his sack. Roxana closed the door and he settled in. The car drove off with its third occupant.

"Thank you so much," said the old man. "My name is Porzand. I am a magi."

A magi, thought both Romeen and Roxana, a clergyman of the ancient faith.

"My name is Romeen," said the driver. "This is my wife, Roxana."

Speaking of the young wife's name, Porzand noted, "Daughter of Darius the Third and wife of Alexander the Curse." He sighed before adding, "If only she could have tamed the wild beast of Macedonia as Shahrzad tamed the vengeful Shahrizar."

Roxana enjoyed talking about the legendary past, if only as a way of forgetting the fearful present. As the vehicle and its occupants voyaged on, she conversed with the magi while Romeen silently kept his eyes to the road. Roxana was very interested in the ancient faith and asked him many questions about it. He answered her questions, expounding upon Asha, the Eternal Law; upon Vohu-Mano, the Good Mind; upon Kshathra-Vairya, the Perfect Strength, Omnipotence and Universal Sovereignty of the Lord. Romeen listened silently during the discussion; eventually though, he grew exasperated with all the talk on theology, which by its very nature is always inconclusive.

"Religion has failed us," he interjected.

"Why has religion failed us?" asked Porzand.

"Look at the state of our country," responded Romeen. "Nowhere else are the people as devoutly religious as in Iran. But have you ever driven a car or crossed a street in Tehran?

You risk your life every time you do. There are no rules, no regulations, only chaos and many quite avoidable deaths and injuries. The police are too busy arresting women for immodesty to establish order in automobile traffic. Iranians may praise God in the mosque, but they are devil-worshippers behind the wheel of a car."

"Things will change for the better," said the magi. "Hopefully, there is now enough Spento-Mainyu to induce the Return."

A superstitious messianist, thought Romeen.

"Return of whom?" asked Roxana.

"Shahrzad," replied the magi.

Romeen laughed before saying, "I have a sister, a cousin and an aunt named Shahrzad."

"I am speaking of Shahrzad of the Hazar Afsanah," said the magi with solemnity in his voice.
Hazar Afsanah, thought both Romeen and Roxana, the Thousand and One Nights.

"I remember that story," said Roxana. "Shahrzad saved her life by telling wondrous tales."
"It is more than a story," declared Porzand. "It is truth."

Disdainful of argument and always trying to be polite, Roxana ventured, "There is some historical record that Shahrzad actually lived long ago in the days of the Sassanian dynasty, before the Faith of the Holy Koran came to Persia. She saved her people by ending the wholesale slaughter of virgins."

"She will save her people again," announced the magi. "Her return is imminent."

Romeen could not refrain from scoffing: "Now I know you're sick in the head."

Roxana whispered, "Romeen," in a low voice of disapproval, but this did not dissuade her husband from continuing his tirade.

"Shahrzad is myth; the state of the world is reality. Look at where it's taking us. Nuclear non-proliferation is in total disarray. The prevailing rule is you're allowed to cheat if you don't get caught. There is no standard, only selective prosecution. We have four Russian-built nuclear facilities in our country. The Americans are not going to tolerate them. They will bomb us preemptively. If they don't the Israelis will. How are you going to stop that, magi? By rubbing a magic lamp and unleashing a genie?"

In a mild tone of voice, Porzand responded to Romeen's harsh rhetoric: "For many years now, I have been striving to bring salvation for my own land and for the rest of the world. I now believe that enough Spento-Mainyu has been accumulated so that I can succeed."

"I'm sorry, magi," said Romeen, "but I don't believe in miracles. I believe in science; and, as religion has failed us, so science has betrayed us. We are next in line to feel the fury of America, the land epitomizing high-technology. We will suffer the same devastation as Iraq, the land where civilization began."

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Romeen said nothing more. Silence reigned in the car for several minutes before Roxana, trying to smooth things over, resumed talking, this time about light-hearted topics. She conversed with Porzand over the Tales of Scheherazade: Aladdin and the Magic Lamp, Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Sinbad the Sailor and other marvelous collections from the days when caravans traversed the silk road. Porzand pulled a compact disk out of his small sack of possessions and offered it for playing. Roxana read the label: Scheherazade by Rimsky-Korsakov. She thanked Porzand and put the disk into the car stereo.

No one spoke as the music of Rimsky-Korsakov played on. Both Romeen and Roxana thoroughly enjoyed this classical piece that neither of them had heard for a long time. The melodious sounds of its various themes evoked in them images of a fabulous past.

Time passed; eventually the car came to within an hour's drive from Yazd. As they approached an intersection of the highway with a much less significant road off to the side, Porzand said to his hosts, "Please leave me off here."

Romeen slowed down, stopping at the intersection. Roxana asked, "Where is Chek-Chek?"

Porzand pointed to a distant mountain and said, "Over there."

It seemed a long way off. Both Roxana and Romeen wondered how the old man could possibly make it to his destination in the remaining hours before sundown. In addition, Romeen was beginning to experience pangs of guilt over his earlier tirade. Although not religious himself, he nevertheless respected people who were of such temperament, and felt that he had insulted this man for his beliefs.

"We'll take you all the way," announced Romeen, giving an apology as well as granting a favor. Noting the pleased expression on Roxana's face, it was quite evident to him that she agreed with his decision.

"That would mean going out of your way," noted Porzand.

"That's not a problem," said Roxana. "We're not really in that much of a hurry today."

Porzand folded his arms in prayer and declared, "Spento-Mainyu! Now I am convinced I have enough."

Romeen took the turn off onto the side road. They drove only a short distance before the pavement ended. Traveling on a dirt road, Romeen piloted while Porzand navigated.

The dirt road wound on and on, its roughness taking a toll on the vehicle. Romeen and Roxana were beginning to wonder if their good deed was going to get them into a predicament, when a network of dwellings high up on the edge of a cliff came into view.

"There is Chek-Chek," said Porzand, "where once a year, in the summer solstice season, Zoroastrians from all over Iran congregate for worship and festivity."

As they got closer, the lower portion of a long, winding staircase of stone steps could be seen, the incline stretching way up the side of the cliff. With Porzand directing, Romeen brought the car to a halt right next to the base of the stone steps.

The three got out of the car. Romeen and Roxana gazed in awe at the impressive ancient site, both pondering upon the massive expenditure of time and labor it must have taken to build such a monumental structure.

"Come with me now," said Porzand, "to the sacred spring. You have earned the right to view what other non-Zoroastrians are generally not permitted to view."

An interesting opportunity, thought both Romeen and Roxana; but their zeal was tempered with misgivings.

"We do not wish to impose upon the rituals of another religion," cautioned Roxana.

"You are not imposing," said Porzand. "In fact, your presence is almost a requirement. Your virtue on this day has tipped the scales in favor of salvation. The probability favors this as being the Day of Miracle."

Romeen was becoming exasperated again. "Have you ever seen a miracle?" he asked rhetorically.

"I have been working for the Miracle of the Return for many long years," answered Porzand.

"For the last three months, I have, with meager possessions, journeyed through the land of Persia, visiting its Fire temples and Towers of Silence, never begging, never requesting any help, yet always receiving assistance when it was needed. This is the last day of my journey, and you are the final contributors, allowing the Bridge of Chinvat to be crossed."

"Bridge of Chinvat?" mused Roxana. "Isn't that the bridge connecting Earth to Heaven, with those unable to complete the crossing falling off and descending into Hell?"

"Oh, yes, the Bridge of Chinvat!" interjected Romeen, speaking in a scoffing tone indicating that he regarded that particular belief as an absurdity. "I've read the myth. The evil man dies and is resurrected. In a dark cavern, the deceased one walks across a bridge over a chasm.

Because he has led a wicked life, the bridge narrows in width, becoming thinner and thinner until it is the width of a sword blade. Then, from out of the darkness, a hideously ugly old witch appears before him and says, 'I am thy evil deeds. Descend to the torments of Hell.' Terrified, the evil man loses his balance and plunges downward into the depths of a river of fire with devils and damned souls below."

Romeen continued: "The good man dies and is resurrected. He too walks across the cavern bridge over a chasm. Because he has led a virtuous life, the bridge remains wide and passable. Halfway across the bridge, a beautiful young woman appears before him and says, 'I am thy good deeds. Come with me to the blissful realm of Heaven.' She takes him by the hand, and together they walk across the bridge, exiting the cavern and entering into a paradise of lush verdure and flowing streams."

" That is imagery," explained Porzand, "true in a sense but not to be taken literally. When I said the Bridge of Chinvat is ready to be crossed, I was speaking metaphorically. Essentially, our religion speaks of a conduit between spiritual and material dimensions."

The old man began ascending the steps, beckoning for the young man and the young woman to follow him. Romeen and Roxana looked at each other, uncertain whether or not to comply. Roxana tipped the scales in favor of ascending the steps by saying, "We've seen Persepolis and Parsegard; right now we have the chance to see a wonder of the world before it becomes a tourist attraction."

The wife took her husband's hand and said, "Let's go." Romeen and Roxana then began their trek up the stone step way.

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When the healthy young couple overtook the frail old man, they deliberately kept to a slow pace so he could keep up with them. Romeen and Roxana were surprised, however, at Porzand's enthusiasm. Quite eager to get to the top, he never stopped to rest as they moved upward and onward along the extensive and winding pathway of stone steps. Several times Romeen and Roxana would pause, drink a little bottled water and look down at the grandeur below, viewing the rough road weaving its way through the desert valley nestled amidst barren mountains. Then they would resume the climb and catch up with Porzand, who always kept moving at whatever pace he could maintain.

At last the top came into view and the step way became a straight incline. The forward scene looked as though an entire village had been hacked into the side of the mountain. An entire network of dwellings were visible, but no other people could be seen.

They finally reached the top of the step way, entering onto a level-ground niche that was somewhat shaded by vegetation and the mountainside. To their left was an open space about six meters square; upon its floor lay an ornate carpet covered with intricate abstract white designs set in a green background, a Persian rug large enough to comfortably seat three people and just touching the tiled-wall portion of the mountainside. To their right was a brace of ponderous, soundly shut metal doors, apparently the entrance to a house of worship. Situated in the center and extending further to the right behind the house of worship, lush vegetation exuded its fragrance. From somewhere above, moisture continually seeped into the greenery, albeit only in small droplets.

"This is the Temple of the Sacred Spring," announced Porzand.

He stepped over to the closed double doors and removed an elaborate key from his sack. As he unlocked the double doors, Romeen demurred.

"Good magi, we are curious to see what lies beyond that door; but it is our understanding that this is a temple only Zoroastrians may enter. Just as a Zoroastrian would never be so profane as to visit the sacred shrines of Mecca, so too a Moslem must be respectful of the holy places of the ancient prophet of Iran."

" Once again you display Spento-Mainyu," said the magi. "Do not fear, you are both very welcome here. This is a special day, and your presence is needed."

The old man began pulling at the door handles, exerting what strength he had to open the double doors. The young couple assisted him in opening the doors wide and setting down buttresses at their bases to keep them in place. Peering inside, the trio viewed a temple sacristy discernible due to the merest sunlight let in by a window to the left. Porzand entered the sacristy; Romeen and Roxana followed.

Walking around the interior, they looked over their surroundings, observing a main room with most of the wall being cliffside and a smaller room with man-made walls. The window, a barricade of horizontal-and-vertical dark-metal bars spouting ornately-fashioned spikes at the top, opened to view some of the moist mountain-wall greenery. In the center of the main room was a bright-metal object about one-and-a-half meters in height; it consisted of ten or so rounded trays, circularly arranged and supported by crossed vertical appendages, bolstering a larger, near-perfectly-circular tray in the center atop which was perched a considerable basin. In the smaller room were dining utensils and, on the walls in glass-covered cases, a sizable number of precious books.

Porzand prepared beverage from a samovar. He got Romeen and Roxana to sit down on a bench in the smaller room and presented them cups of tea. As they sat and sipped, he expounded upon the legend of Shahrzad's return.

" Upon the death of Shahrzad's husband, King Shahrizar, zealous iconoclasts came to power. In the name of piety, they strove to destroy all artwork that was not abstract. In a series of rampages, they obliterated paintings and sculptures of human form; great quantities of classic artwork was irretrievably lost. In their eyes, Shahrzad, as the kingdom's foremost patron of the arts, epitomized all that was offensive to God. They vowed to tear her limb from limb. As she was no longer under royal protection, a howling mob of bloodthirsty fanatics forced her to flee to this place, the mountain of the drop-by-drop spring. The would-be assassins followed, and would have brutally murdered her had there not been a miraculous intervention. She vanished into the sacred spring, leaving only her clothes behind. Throughout the generations, her spirit has reappeared in all her angelic beauty. She has pledged to all those granted the gift of her ethereal revelation that she will return to the material dimension if enough Spento-Mainyu exists in the land of Zoroaster's birth to enable her to cross over from the spiritual plane. She will save Iran in this day and age as she saved Iran in the days of the Sassinids. Persia will become a land of freedom and a beacon to all the world. The land of Zoroaster shall brighten the skies with the Eternal Truth of Asha, the path of good thoughts and good words and good deeds."

While Romeen seemed unimpressed, Roxana was definitely enthralled. "This is Iran's time of direst need," she ventured. "If ever we did need a messiah, it is now."

Romeen looked at his wife and said, "Just because you want to believe in something, that won't make it true." He turned to Porzand and said, "Okay, let's see the proof."

"As you will," said the magi. "The calculation adds up to this being the day."

When the couple had finished their tea, Porzand collected their cups, washed them as well as the samovar and put the utensils away. He then brought out a copy of the Holy Gathas, the Zoroastrian Book of Chants, along with a large, rectangular box of matches.

"Our custom," said the magi, "is to light the temple flame and pray to the Eternal Being."

"Many religions have customs of that nature," said Roxana. "There is nothing superstitious in that."

The old man led the young couple over to the basin in the center of the main room. There he offered the matches to Romeen and said, "Here, man of science, light the flame and pray for truth being what you want it to be."

Romeen took out a match and held it to the box. Looking down into the basin, he saw that it contained thickly-spread flammable resin. Then he hesitated, not out of religious scruples, but out of fear of violating theocratic law and being subject to its punishment. For the first time he wondered if Porzand could actually be an undercover agent of the theocratic police. He turned to Roxana and said, "We should not have come here."

" There is no harm in what we are doing," she said. "If you don't light the flame, then I will.".

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Romeen definitely preferred that the wrath of theocratic law should fall upon him rather than his beloved. He lit the match. As he put the fire to the resin, he silently prayed to the Eternal Being that Iran may somehow break out of its trap. The basin interior lit up immediately, the fire reaching above the rim. For several minutes, the young couple watched the dancing flames while Porzand recited from the Gathas.

"If some in their righteousness and loving hearts appear to thee as truly-seeing and upright, O Lord, grant them in full all that their hearts desire; for I believe no prayer devout for truth can ever remain unanswered from Your side."

This seems pointless to me, thought Romeen. Yet, I wish it had meaning.

"Go outside now," instructed Porzand. "Rest upon the carpet, look to the sacred spring and pray for Shahrzad to appear."

The young couple exited the temple. In the pleasant open space, they removed their shoes and seated themselves on the carpet facing the open door. Minutes later, the old man came out of the temple carrying linen material in his arms. He handed Roxana the linen material along with a woman's comb and said, "This you must present to Shahrzad when she appears."

Romeen and Roxana saw that the cloth material consisted of a simple white towel and a colorful dress of ancient style. Unsure whether or not the old man was joking, Roxana asked as respectfully as she could, "Are you serious?"

"She will be naked when she appears," responded Porzand. "That is why only you are permitted to look upon her until she is fully clothed."

"Enough!" snarled Romeen. "I don't know what kind of deception you're planning to pull off, but I don't believe in miracles."

"Then believe in the subliminal manifestation of Divinity," propounded Porzand, "and let your wife's eyes vouch for the authenticity of a supernatural homecoming."

Porzand sat down in-between Romeen and Roxana so that all of them now faced the drop-by-drop spring. Romeen was irritated, but he settled upon letting the charade proceed, just wanting to get it over with.

"Pray to the Eternal Being," instructed the magi, "whether you call him Allah or Ahura Mazda." The old man then began chanting in Middle Persian, an archaic antecedent language not understood by either of the two young people.

Roxana, with the fervor of one who wanted to believe in something but was unsure of what to believe in, prayed aloud in modern Persian: "In the name of Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate, save my country."

A skeptical Romeen joined in, petitioning in a low voice, "Eternal Being, spare my wife the bitterness of disappointment."

Minutes passed as Porzand kept chanting ancient verses and Roxana prayed in silence. It all seemed absurd to Romeen, but then he noticed an increase in the frequency and amount of water dropping down from the spring's source high above. Hardly impressive at first, the rate of water flow gradually went from trickle to shower. Staring forward, they witnessed a puddle forming, reaching a maximum size, then maintaining equilibrium with the overflow by seeping down into hard-to-see clefts. Even to Romeen it seemed quite remarkable.

"Look down, man! Look down!" said Porzand in an emphatic voice. "We must both look down. Only the woman may view the advent of the Angelic One."

Romeen followed Porzand's lead and looked down at the carpet's designs, trying to humor the old eccentric. Roxana rose to her feet and moved a little closer to the now fast-flowing spring. She continued to stare forward, enthralled by the spring's phenomenal if not miraculous transformation. The water flow generated mist and soon acted as a visual obstruction to the mountainside vegetation it nourished.

Discerning something inside the shower, Roxana gazed at the torrent even more intently. Scrutinizing the strange arrival as it slowly coalesced into something material, Roxana was amazed to see what appeared to be a human form; specifically, that of an unclad human female.

This can't be, thought Roxana in dismay. Miracles just don't happen.

When the apparition became essentially cognizant, the water flow quickly slowed down, ceasing altogether within a quarter of a minute. An astounded Roxana viewed, standing before her, a totally nude young woman whose luscious brunette tresses and flawless olive complexion combined with her exquisite features to present the classical Persian beauty. The ethereal nymph smiled at the modestly-attired woman, beckoning Roxana to step forward towards her.

"Anaheita!" exclaimed Roxana, stating the name of an ancient female deity whose worship in Persia predated even the era of Zoroaster.

Hearing Roxana's metaphoric utterance, Romeen immediately raised his head and looked forward to the sacred spring, catching a glimpse of the naked woman while Porzand continued to avert gaze. The nude Venus immediately shifted her sights and glared at the man viewing her, thereby notifying Roxana that her husband was now taking in the scene. Roxana moved directly in front of Romeen, blocking his view and shouting to him, "Look down!"

Although truly amazed, Romeen complied and looked down at the carpet.

This is some kind of hologrammic sleight-of-hand, thought Romeen, still skeptical yet quite impressed by the trick's high-tech effectiveness.

After some trepidation, Roxana reverently stepped forward holding the linen in her outstretched arms. No longer an ethereal image, the flesh-and-blood individual reciprocated by extending her arms to receive the gift. When Roxana was close enough to touch her, this seeming incarnation of the mythical Anaheita took hold of the towel, pressed it to her body and began drying herself. Roxana stared at what she regarded as the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Then, her bedazzlement took another quantum leap as the Venus-Anaheita, now draped in the towel, spoke in a soft and melodious voice.

"Goddess Anaheita is an imaginary being. Shahrzad of the Thousand and One Nights is real."

Hearing the voice, Romeen could not refrain from looking up. As he witnessed his wife standing face-to-face with the newly-arrived other woman, he rose to his feet. Staring in fascination, he felt Porzand tugging at his pant leg and heard him say, "Look down! Look down!" This caused Roxana to turn around to see if, as she suspected, her husband was again tabooing with his eyes. Discovering that he was, she looked at him with a definite expression of disapproval, whereupon Romeen did an about-face, thereafter standing on the carpet while looking away from the scene.

Seen only by Roxana's eyes, the woman of great beauty, now adequately dried off, removed her towel and set it aside. Roxana dutifully offered her the exotic dress along with the accompanying undergarments. The just-showered woman drew the delicate comb out from the amongst the linen. After neatly fixing her long hair, she discarded the comb, then clothed herself in the majestic feminine apparel. Bearing the regal splendor of a queen from a by-gone era, she stood before her newly-appointed handmaiden who, with some difficulty, managed to ask, "Are you truly...Shahrzad...of the Thousand and One Nights?"

"Do you believe I am Shahrzad?" countered the fantasy incarnate.

At a loss for words, Roxana managed to reply, "I want to believe so."

For the first time, the vivacious woman actually touched the shy woman, gently putting her hands upon Roxana's shoulders.

"I am Shahrzad as real now as when I told the wondrous tales of the Thousand and One Nights to King Shahrizar," she declared.

She then hugged Roxana. The two remained locked in silent embrace for a few moments before Shahrzad whispered, "We must save our land from impending doom. With the help of the Wise Lord, we will succeed."

They separated and turned away from the spring. Facing the men, Shahrzad addressed Romeen and Porzand in a loud and commanding voice: "You may look now."

Romeen turned around. Porzand rose to his feet. The two men fixed their gazes upon the ravishing Scheherazade, who stood next to the modestly-attired Roxana.

Porzand called out pious exclamations of joy: "Blessed be Ahura Mazda! The prophecy has been fulfilled!"

Romeen could not help but think, If only our country could enter the Miss Universe pageant! Miss Iran would be sure winner with this Scheherazade as contestant.

Roxana looked at Scheherazade and asked, "What would you have us do?"

"Take me to the Fire Temple of Yazd," instructed Scheherazade, "where the Flame of Lamentation persists well into its Third Millennium."

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Eventually, Shahrzad turned from the glowing exhibit. The crowd gathered around her as she walked over to where the magi were standing. She halted in front of them, said hello to her personal acquaintances, Romeen and Roxana and Porzand and the Yazd Magi, then spoke to the crowd in general.

"As I gaze into the Sacred Flame, I see twelve thousand cowhide parchments containing the chapters to the Holy Avesta written in golden ink. I see the destruction of all but a small fraction of this precious wisdom."

The onlookers began asking theological questions, not of the magi but of this ravishing beauty who spoke like a visionary. One man asked, "What does the Magian Faith say about Heaven and Hell?"

"According to Zoroaster," answered Shahrzad, "when we die our essence leaves the body, and depending upon the choices it has made, either it will go to the House of Songs and Realm of Light (for those who choose good) or to the Realm of Darkness and Separation (for those who choose evil). Heaven and Hell are not described as physical places, but as timeless states of consciousness: either oneness with or separation from Ahura Mazda. Yet, as with the concept of angelic hierarchy, mythology crept into the Zoroastrian concept of afterlife, reaching its low point in the writings of Adra Viraf during the Sassanian dynasty."
The same man then asked, "And what of Reincarnation?"

Shahrzad answered: "There is only one hint of reincarnation in the Gathas, Verse Eleven of Yasna Forty-Nine. 'But souls whose inner light continues dim, who have not yet beheld the Light of Truth, unto this Home of Falsehood (this Earth) shall they return.' The clearly expressed idea of progress along the Path of Asha has much in common with the Hindu Law of Karma wherein reincarnation is a definite ingredient, yet Zoroastrianism neither affirms reincarnation nor denies it. If one thinks of reality in terms of time passages, then a soul might be bound to return because of something unsettled. It would be too much to say that Magian doctrine implies reincarnation, but it does leave room for it."

A woman raised her hand and meekly asked, "What does the Magian Faith say of the rights and duties of women in marriage?"

Shahrzad answered: "In Yasna Fifty-Three Zoroaster speaks of marriage. In Verse Three he addresses his youngest daughter, Pouro-Chista: 'Ahura Mazda has offered you a husband, a person who has deep attachment to Good Mind and Truth. Therefore, consult with your inner self and wisdom, and act through pure love and intuition.'

"In Verse Four Pouro-Chista replies, 'I have consulted my inner self, and I choose to accept him as husband and father to my children. I commit myself to being a righteous and deserving wife. May Ahura Mazda grant my descendents the glorious heritage of Vohu Mano and the blessing bestowed upon the followers of Asha.'

"In Verse Five, Zoroaster addresses all newlyweds. 'These words I speak to maidens truly wed and to their partners young; bear them in mind and understand them deep within your souls. Strive to surpass one another in Truth and Good Mind. Thus, both of you shall reap the rewards of love and happiness.'

"Zoroaster is saying that marriage is a commitment from both parties, the repercussions of which will be felt throughout the ages. Nowhere does he say that the wife is to be the abject slave of her husband. The Prophet of Iran does not give a blueprint for living a good marriage, only a guiding principal."

From this statement, Shahrzad digressed into a theological generalization: "Indeed, religion itself is not meant to provide detailed answers to the problems one faces in everyday life; rather, it is meant to provide a solid moral foundation upon which the individual can properly choose to do what in right in changing circumstances. Rules and regulations governing people's lives occasionally require amendment. There is much guiding wisdom and classic poetry in the Koran, but when you base any society upon a defined set of transgressions and punishments meant for a totally different era, then you deny contemporary relevance to genuinely religious writings, nullify their inspirational value, and freeze that society's progress on multiple fronts."

All the listeners were truly enthralled, eager to hear more of what Shahrzad had to say. But their attentions shifted as a group of four men, a mullah in clerical robes along with his entourage of plainclothes theocratic police, entered into the Temple. The sudden arrival of these authorities triggered a tense stiffening-up among the listeners, including Romeen and Roxana, who immediately recognized the mullah and his entourage as the same enforcers they had seen last night in their hotel lobby.

Standing just inside the Temple, the mullah looked with hard, cold eyes at the group of Moslems touring the site of what he regarded as a relic of antiquity that should have been obliterated like the Afghan Buddha statue. As long as these Moslems kept this visit to a fire temple on the same plane as a visit to Persepolis, the mullah, while somewhat disgusted by their ungodly interest in such polytheistic remnants, could voice no objection. But for some time he had been sensing that here, within the walls of this fire temple, there existed a potential threat to the world order he emphatically believed in and vowed to protect.

"Welcome, good mullah," greeted the Yazd Temple magi, "to this house of worship. You will find no enemies here."

Speaking to the small crowd of Moslems rather than answering the magi, the mullah declared, "It says in the Sacred Writings that Jews and Zoroastrians are the greatest enemies of Islam."
Romeen, aware of that quotation, thought, Although literally that is what it says, you are taking the passage out of context, mullah. His fear for the safety of himself and his wife prevented him from voicing any scriptural corrections.

"But here in the ancient city of Yazd," noted Porzand, "Jews and Zoroastrians and Christians and Moslems have all lived together in peaceful coexistence for many centuries."

"And the current president of Israel was born in Yazd," said the mullah as if to counter that argument."

Shahrzad stepped a few paces closer to the mullah and, calm and smiling, addressed him: "Do you know the story of the Enchanted Prince of the Black Isles?"

Most of the onlookers cringed at the apparent brazenness on the part of this mysterious woman. The mullah himself raised eyebrows as if somewhat startled but more than ready to punish any kind of defiance.

"The Black Isles were a place much like Yazd," Shahrzad continued, "a place where Jews and Magians and Nazarenes and Moslems all lived in peace and harmony under the rule of a benevolent prince. But then, a sorceress cast a spell upon the young prince, transforming him into a block of marble from the waist down while he remained a man from the waist up. At the same time, all of his subjects were transformed into fish. There were four kinds of fish, each kind with a different color, each color representing one of the kingdom's four religions: the Jews were yellow, the Magians (who were thought to worship fire) were red, the Nazarenes were blue, and the Moslems were white."

"Who are you?" demanded the mullah in the harsh voice of one who does not play games.
"My name is Shahrzad," she answered in a pleasant tone of voice.

The mullah pointed to the glass-encased fire and angrily shouted, "You know full well that it is an affront to Almighty God for a Moslem to even enter into this temple of fire worshippers!"
"Then why have you entered?" she calmly inquired.

This was too much. The mullah was now determined to arrest this rash entity he was now confronting. He thundered, "I am here to save my people from being led astray!"

She held her own against a man not to be trifled with: "No one is being led astray in this temple. These good people are merely curious about the faith of their ancient ancestors, and we are here to answer their questions."

The mullah sensed an opportunity. A infidel proselytizer, he thought.

"You are not a Moslem, then?" he queried in the cautious tone of one ready to spring a trap.
"No," she calmly replied, leaving it at that.

I cannot arrest her for apostasy, thought the mullah, unless she is Moslem-born.
"Are you a Bahai?" the mullah asked, thinking he might be able to initiate steps towards arresting her if she belonged to that heretical offshoot of Islam which counted Zoroaster as one of the prophets in a flagrant contradiction of the Koran.

She again gave a laconic, "No."

"Good mullah," intervened Porzand, "in keeping with the spirit of azadi, the reason for our revolution against the shah, the Islamic Republic of Iran guarantees freedom for religious minorities. It is written into our constitution which is based upon the Koran."

Looking at Porzand and the Yazd magi while pointing to Shahrzad, the mullah asked, "Was she born a Zoroastrian?"

"Yes," replied the Yazd magi, nodding his head in the affirmative.

"In that case, show me her identification card," the mullah demanded.

The implications of the mullah's order jolted Romeen and Roxana as well as the two magi. Each of the four was about to verbally defend Shahrzad, but was preempted by Shahrzad herself.

"I have no identification card," said the mystic woman.

I've got her! thought the mullah.

Porzand intervened: "Good mullah, we are in the process of preparing the official documentation identifying her as a member of our community."

[jjbb]

"Unacceptable," declared the mullah. "If she is truly Zoroastrian-born, then she must already have in her possession a card identifying her as such." The mullah extended his arm as if to grab hold of Shahrzad. Romeen instinctively moved forward as if to counter him, but was immediately blocked by one of the powerfully-built bodyguards. The mullah did not actually touch the mystic woman, but he did announce, "Moslem-born woman, I arrest you for the crimes of Apostasy and Disturbing of Public Opinion."

Collective groans permeated the room. Both magi wailed in sorrow. Romeen and Roxana stood in stunned silence.The taller Shahrzad and the shorter mullah stood facing each other, the mullah grinning, Shahrzad looking back at him with no trace of fear in her countenance. The bodyguards stood ready to pummel anyone daring to interfere with the arrest.

Roxana looked at Romeen, thinking, Do something, my husband. Save her, somehow, or forever be disgraced in my eyes.

Romeen looked at the tough guy challenging him, his mind taking into account all the situation's factors while trying to decide upon a course of action. Romeen was younger than any of the goons facing him, but each of them was considerably heftier than he. This clerical entourage was not composed of young novices inexperienced in the art of smashing heads, but practiced bruisers, veteran skull-smashers who had been practicing their craft since the overthrow of the shah.

Roxana looked around at the other people who had so recently been such ardent listeners. You herds of sheep! she mentally chided before thinking, What can I do? What can any of us do?

The face-off remained like a coiled spring about to unwind until Shahrzad turned from the mullah, stepped over to Romeen and said, "There is little you can do." She then turned to a tearful Roxana and said, "Don't worry. All will be well." Shahrzad turned again, faced the mullah and said, "Let us go quietly."

She walked out the door along with the enforcers. Roxana thought, Is she insane?

Everyone followed the mystic woman and exited the temple. The crowd stood outside at the top of the steps as Shahrzad descended the steps with her captors.

At the bottom of the steps, Shahrzad turned and faced the group that had listened to her recital. She raised her arm to wave good-bye, but before she could do so one of the theocratic policeman pushed her and snarled, "Get moving!" The listeners, as a group, lurched forward and cried out in collective protest, as if momentarily acting out a fantasy of deliverance.

"What you are doing is totally against Islam!" shouted one man. "You are undoing the civilizing influence of centuries!" shouted another.

Roxana was still crying when she heard her husband click on his cell phone. She looked at him as he dialed the number and awaited response. The ringing went on as he anxiously murmured, "Please answer, please answer." Eventually, Romeen heard an answering "Hello" and immediately recognized the voice as that of his sister in Tehran.

"Shahrzad," he said, "I must talk to father."

Over the cell phone, Romeen heard his sister's response from Tehran: "Father's away now. He should be back this evening."

"I must talk with him," said Romeen in an excited voice. "As soon as he gets home, tell him to stay put. I will call back."

"Romeen," asked his sister Shahrzad in a concerned voice, "is everything okay?"

"Roxana and I are okay," he replied. "It's something else. There is a legal case that father must get involved in. I'll explain everything this evening."

Romeen clicked off his cell phone and returned it to his suit pocket. He looked at his tear-eyed wife and said, "My father was once a high-ranking judge. He still has enough prestige to save her."

Although grateful that Romeen was at least trying to help, Roxana nevertheless continued to feel intense pangs of sorrow and loss. She bemoaned, "Shahrzad was granted only a brief moment to deliver her message. A door of hope opened just ajar, revealing the Holy Spirit before snapping shut."

[jjbb]

[jjbb]

The trio disembarked from the car. The last one out, Roxana, removed the novelty item from its wrappings. "The Fravahar," she said, proudly displaying the stone candleholder to her husband. The three of them walked towards the temple with Romeen's wife holding and keeping clearly visible the ancient Iranian symbol.

A crowd of several dozen people, mostly adolescents and young adults, was camped out upon the steps. A few of them held signs saying, "Azadi." As a congregation, they listened to the dynamic orator who stood at the top of the steps, a young man clad in bohemian-student garb. He spoke in an impassioned voice without the benefit of microphone yet loud and clear.

"We are at a crossroads in time. This may be our last chance. If the Guardian Council succeeds in rendering the parliamentary elections a sham, then we will no longer be the Islamic Republic of Iran. We will instead be the Caliphite of Iran; in effect, the monarchy restored, albeit with a new dynasty."

As Romeen and his two female companions passed by these demonstrators, the orator shifted attentions. He pointed to Roxana and announced, "The Fravahar!" Roxana halted out of politeness. She displayed the Fravahar, turning in an arc to encompass all present. The orator cordially motioned for her to come over to him. She did so. "May I hold the Fravahar for a moment?" he asked. She replied, "Yes, you may," and handed it over.

Holding the Fravahar at its center with two hands, one covering the upper portion of its statue of the Prophet of Iran and the other covering the lower portion, the orator displayed the spread stone wings whose tips were candleholders. He extolled the congregation: "This is the symbol of the Iranian nation. It has been so for thousands of years."

In response, the crowd cheered and clapped. The orator was about to return the candleholder when Roxana reacted, "No, you keep it. You can do much more good with it than I can."

Romeen, Roxana and Shahrzad departed from the outside crowd. At the entrance to the Fire Temple, Romeen commented to his two companions, "The sons and daughters of the revolutionaries who overthrew the monarchy are now trying to overthrow the theocracy. It shows that revolutionaries should not have children, because when they do they breed counter-revolutionaries."

The three of them entered into the Fire Temple. Inside, they found only Porzand, standing in the back by the wall, and a woman on her knees facing the Sacred Flame. Roxana approached the kneeling woman, who was wearing a headscarf, winter coat, bluejeans and sneakers.

This might be the Mystic Woman, thought Roxana, somehow freed from prison by her own wit and wile.

Roxana moved forward; she halted just behind the woman who seemed to be praying. She waited about a minute before asking with trepidation, "Shahrzad of Chek-Chek, have you returned to us?"

The woman rose to her feet, turned around, and pulled back her headscarf, revealing herself to be a young and pretty brunette. Sadness was evident in her countenance as well as her voice when she answered, "I have not seen Shahrzad of Chek-Chek since I was released from prison."

"What!" exclaimed Roxana. "You have seen her?"

"More than seen her," said the woman., "I was close to her for five months."

"When you were you released from prison?" probed Roxana.

"Yesterday," she informed, speaking in the morose tone of one experiencing survivor's guilt.
Roxana took a few moments to organize her questions. She first asked, "What is your name?"

"Anaheita," she answered.

Roxana introduced with words and gestures: "I am Roxana... .This is my husband Romeen... This is my sister-in-law Shahrzad... Do you know Magi Porzand?"

Anaheita stepped forward and spoke directly to Roxana's sister-in-law. "You are a Shahrzad? For five months we prisoners were granted the blessing of another Shahrzad. She told us many tales, and invited us to contribute tales of our own. I had the honor of adding my tale to her collection."

"What is your tale?" asked Shahrzad.

Porzand intervened: "Let's all go and sit down over there, where we can comfortably listen to Anaheita's tale."

Romeen, Roxana, Shahrzad and Anaheita all shifted to a side region of the temple. Porzand fetched five cushions. Anaheita found comfortable seating to address the small but captive audience. Porzand and the Sharifis gathered around to listen to her.

Shahrzad, remembering that, in the many tales of the Thousand and One Nights, the title was more often a person's occupation rather than a person's name, asked, "Anaheita, what is you tale called?"

Anaheita answered, "The Story of the Belly Dancer."

For the first time, Porzand and the Sharifis saw Anaheita smile. She rose to her feet, opened up her coat and struck up the pose of a professional dancer. She stood there posing for a few moments, then sat down again. Romeen, Roxana, Shahrzad and Porzand listened attentively as Anaheita began the Story of the Belly Dancer.

"I was born in Isfahan one year after the revolution. My earliest memories are of the war years. When I was quite little, my father died as a soldier in the war against Iraq, leaving behind an impoverished wife and daughter. My mother had it quite rough, struggling to find odd jobs to feed and clothe me. When I was ten, a rare opportunity presented itself: a Turkish hotel owner visited Isfahan and took an interest in my mother. He offered her work at his hotel in Turkey. She gladly accepted. Mother and I traveled overland to the Aegean coast of Turkey. There in Kusadasi, a lovely beach resort town close to many impressive archaeological sites, my mother took a job as a maid in a hotel.

"The next eight years of my life were pretty good, even though we remained poor. I grew up in the idyllic setting of Kusadasi, where jobs abounded during the summer. I adapted to my new and much freer environment, perfecting my Turkish, preserving my Persian, and learning English in school. I took advantage of numerous interactions with tourists to become fluent in English and to pick up smatterings of Greek, French and German. Partly as a move to supplement the meager family income and partly out of love for the art, I became a proficient belly dancer. I got the chance to show off my skills and earn a little money at hotel performances.

"I graduated from high school and spent one last tourist season with friends and family in Kusadasi. Towards the end of the summer, I was offered a contract to become a member of a belly-dancing troupe headquartered in Istanbul. I read the contract carefully; it looked good and I signed. Early that autumn, I said good-bye to friends and family and departed for Istanbul, there to begin a belly-dancing career that I planned to happily work at for the next few years, in the process making good money and having opportunities to travel. I was determined to enjoy my years of youth.

"

[jjbb]

I became part of a sorority of belly-dancers and made many friends. I had a sequence of boyfriends, nice flings but of the kind not meant to last. About half the time I spent in Istanbul, the other half on tour. The longest tour was for five months in the U.S.A. In Los Angeles, our performances were captured on film and made into a movie, a feature presenting dances of the harem-fantasy variety as well as individual dances wherein each of us was allowed to exhibit what she did best. A sizable number of VCR and DVD recordings were made of this excellent movie. I was proud of these audio-visuals and glad they were being produced in both the American and the European formats. I took a sizable quantity of them back home to Istanbul.

"Those were good times for me, but after Nine-Eleven things began to go downhill. The terrorist attack had devastating repercussions on the tourist trade in Turkey. We always did our best to create a magnificent floor show, but often we would find ourselves performing in nightclubs with three out of four tables empty. We were offered the chance to make some music videos of the Britney Spears variety, and, being hard pressed economically, we as a group accepted. We made several overtly erotic dance music videos. I considered them entertaining perhaps but not artistic; but then, neither did I consider them pornographic, as they contained neither graphic sex nor nudity.

"Four years after I joined the troupe, I received a letter from my mother. She said she wanted to return to Isfahan and spend the last days of her life there among friends and relatives in the place where she had been born and raised. This came as a shock to me, for I was unaware that my mother had any serious medical problems. I immediately called her up and requested (actually, I insisted) that she come to Istanbul; I would pay her expenses.

"She came to Istanbul and stayed with me. I took her to several doctors, and discovered that her liver was rapidly deteriorating to the point where she probably did not have much longer to live. Her only hope was a risky liver transplant, which was very expensive and required her being on a waiting list for a donor. I tried to talk my mother into taking the chance, but she was adamantly opposed to that course of action, regarding as obscene the very thought of having another person's organ transplanted inside her, foreign tissue prone to rejection by the new host. She preferred to die peacefully among relatives in the place of her pleasant childhood memories. I eventually accepted my mother's reasoning, not really knowing how we could afford a liver transplant anyway.

"It was slack time for my dance troupe's employment; so, I told them that I had to leave for awhile and return to Isfahan with my mother, who by this stage could hardly sit up in a chair. My friends all wished me luck, and we said our good-byes with tears and kissing. One month before the Roman New Year, I went with my mother to the Istanbul airport. We both had Iranian passports; we were still Iranian citizens. We flew to Tehran on Turkish Airways, and then to Isfahan on Iran Air.

"I spent my mother's last days with her in the same place we had spent the first ten years of my life. I renewed acquaintances with relatives I had not seen or heard from in twelve years. They talked a lot about my father. I felt both sadness and pride when I saw his picture on a billboard, eulogizing him as a martyr who had died defending his country.

I did some touring with my mother. Isfahan is indeed a beautiful city, with its Safayeed Palace as a vision of paradise, its Mosque as a reach to Heaven and spectacular acoustics, its bazaar as a friendly place where merchants offer tea to prospective customers and sip with them over a haggle. I remember so vividly the winter solstice evening, when I witnessed sunset with my mother from the bridge over the river, and prepared myself for the last good-bye.