back as disguised as a cook and impresses Zahhak with wonderful dishes. As a symbol of his appreciation for his culinary skills, Zahhak grants the cook’s wish and allows him to kiss his shoulders. In an instant, two angry and hungry snakes grow where Ahriman has kissed Zahhak’s shoulders. The court’s surgeon rushes to Zahak and remove the snakes only to see them grow back immediately time after time. Ahriman then comes back, this time as a skilled physician, and convinces Zahhak that the snakes will only calm down if they are fed every day with brains of two young men. Otherwise, the hungry snakes will turn to Zahhak’s own brain and eat it instead.
For centuries Zahhak’s snakes are fed brains of young Iranian men – somethings never change – until a blacksmith by the name of Kaveh, enraged at losing his own sons to Zahhak’s snakes, starts a protest against him. This happens as Zahhak’s men capture Kaveh’s last son, in order to feed the snakes. Kaveh’s protest sparks an uprising against the Arab ruler. Soon after, Zahhak is overthrown and is left to be food for his own snakes.
A few years ago, a mysterious book was discovered, which immediately created a buzz in the Persian community. The book was discovered by an artist and is a collection of sketches, presumably by Kaveh, the blacksmith. The ancient drawings point to two very important issues. First, the possibility that Kaveh, a master blacksmith, might have planned to overthrow Zahhak for a very long time, perhaps at the time of his first son’s arrest and not after his last son was arrested, as previously thought. Second, that Kaveh, a master blacksmith, was relying on his own invention in his quest to end Zahhak, and that Kaveh’s amazing sketches are perhaps the earliest record of robot-like creatures any artist or craftsman has imagined.
These sketches, depicting early ideas for robot-like beings, are magnificent and were in fact the seed for the creation of the Aahangarz – a group of superheroes – with the mission of helping people who are fighting for justice.
“We still need you to be that courageous and excited...” I hear the echo in my head.
I close my eyes and begin to tell a new story in the language of the hearts:
“Namira wakes up. It is still dark. She tiptoes towards Asha-Behest’s cot.
“What is it Namira?” Asha says sitting up in his cot as if he has sensed Namira approaching.
“I just had another one,” Namira says as she extends her hands towards Asha.
“Close your eyes, let me see if I can get the location for us,” he says as he holds Namira’s hands in his and shuts his eyes.
This is their ritual every time Namira has a vision, which comes to her mostly in her sleep – though some come when she simply closes her eyes. In her visions she hears a cry for help, loud and clear, from a desperate soul and can recall every small detail except for the location. That is where Asha comes in. By holding Namira’s hands, he can locate the geography of her vision. This is his superpower.
“Got it, let’s go,” Asha says walking toward the rest of the cots in their humble cabin.
It takes only a few minutes to wake up the other Aahangarz and prepare for their mission. They gather in a circle and hold hands. As part of her superpowers, Namira can transfer them wherever they need to go once she gets her coordinates from Asha. It is like the teleport in Star Trek, only better.
When they arrive, the scene is crowded. There are people looking up screaming and crying. Some have gathered around a man and woman who have collapsed on the street pavement.
“Look, it is just like my vision,” Namira points to a tall building across the street.
A petit girl is hanging from the edge of a window, screaming.
“Let’s go!” Namira says as she grabs Kasra’s hand and they disappear in a flash.
The crowd notices the superheroes at the top of the tall building and goes wild.
“Get up, get up. Your daughter is being rescued. They are here!” someone yells to the couple collapsed on the pavement crying.
“Who, who is here?” The woman, the girl’s mother, asks as she tries to get up and look at where her daughter is hanging on to the ledge for her life.
Kasra kneels down on the roof, right above where the girl is hanging from just below.
“The Aahangarz, they are here.” The crowd chants: “Kasra, Kasra.”
Kasra, the hero with super strength, extends his hand towards the girl, grabs her arm, and pulls her up in an instant. Moments later, the girl is in the arms of her mother and father.
“Don’t go. Don’t go. We still need you. They are still here, look.” a young man yells as he runs toward the Aahangarz who are getting ready to leave.
Everyone looks towards the direction the young man is pointing. A group of thugs, clubs and knives in hands, are chasing a group of young boys and girls.
“They have been at it all day. No one is safe from their wrath. What is it that they want from our kids?” protests an older woman.
“They are thugs. They don’t need a reason for torturing our kids. They are paid to do so,” replies an older man.
“No thinking allowed – that is what these Zahhakies want from us. To be blind, deaf and dumb!” cries a young woman.
One of the boys falls down, as the thugs get closer. His friends stop to help him up and then all of a sudden a group of thugs catch up and start kicking and hitting them with their heavy clubs.
“Tirzaad, I need your help,” says the Deeve as he rushes over towards the scene.
While Tirzaad and the Deeve are busy fighting thugs, Kasra puts his magical boombox down and starts playing a tune. The sound of an ancient music, the one that accompanied Persian warriors thousands of years ago, fills the street. It is a heavenly sound, familiar to the hearts of these people, and it moves them. Everyone, old and young, marches towards the thugs. It takes only a few minutes for the Aahangarz to free the kids from the fists of the thugs and for the people to reach their youth and embrace them. Soon it is the thugs who are running for their lives. Everyone is cheering the Aahangarz.
The Aahangarz have succeeded again. They gather in a circle, hold hands and disappear in an instant with the help of Namira’s superpower.
The street is still filled with the sound of music that magically has lingered even though Kasra and his boombox are no longer present. It will stay here for a long time and after that it will stay in these people’s hearts forever, the music of victory.
I remember telling stories to my son when he was little. Every night this was our ritual – for me to read or tell him at least five stories before he falls asleep. I would make up stories, like the one I just told about the Aahangarz, in order to put him to sleep. At only five he had enough energy to become an honorary member of the Aahangarz! I pick up my head and look at Mom wondering if she liked my story.
“And the story of the young stays forever…” my mom says with her eyes again.
Then I suddenly remember that the Aahangarz were my son’s creation and I just happen to adopt them for my stories. Perhaps it is time we break the cycle and celebrate the new – we don’t even have to sacrifice the old – coexistence can be a beautiful reality.
“Now, isn’t it much better?” my mom asks with her eyes again.
“I feel better, though I’m not sure how I feel about my story?”
“You can work on that. The important thing is that you are once again your positive self.”
She has done it again, tricking me to become more optimistic!
“I love you.” I say with the language of hearts as I get up and walk towards the bathroom to wash up.
It is time to embrace the beautiful morning.
Notes
This is the second in a series of five books to come. If you have enjoyed reading this story, you can find additional information about this book and the future ones at mojdeh.com.
Copyright by Mojdeh Marashi 2011
Cover Image by Ala Ebtekar 2004 AlaEbtekar.com
About The Author
Mojdeh Marashi is a writer, translator, artist, and designer whose wo
rk is deeply influenced by the ancient and modern history of Iran. Her stories merge the world of magical realism in Persian literature that she grew up reading, the reality of the world she lives in today, and the utopia she dreams about. She was born in Tehran, Iran and moved to U.S. in 1977.
She is the translator (from Persian, with Chad Sweeney) of The Selected Poems of H. E. Sayeh: The Art of Stepping Through Time (White Pine, 2011). Her fiction was published in the anthology Let Me Tell You Where I’ve Been: Women of the Iranian Diaspora (University of Arkansas, 2006).
She holds an MA in Interdisciplinary Arts as well an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. She lives in Palo Alto, California.
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