without questioning? How annoying Kiyumars can be.
But I understand: Kiyumars worries that a guest has lost his way. Heâs giving Roya instructions and hurrying ahead to the gate. He will come through in a moment. He will see me.
I race back to the water. I crouch and go under the bridge, my face half in the water, my distended belly touching the streambed. Iâm past the wall now. Royaâs back is turned to me. She walks toward the palace. Who else is about?
âIs someone there?â calls Kiyumars. I pinpoint hisvoice: Heâs standing on the inside of the wall, at the edge of the stream, just a few paces from the bridge.
Stupid birds, who endangered me so.
Birds. Thatâs it. I slouch out of the water and make a dash for the fat, round tower where the pigeons live. The sides are speckled with openings in the stones, perches for the birds. Thereâs a door at the bottom so that servants can scoop out the droppings and spread them as fertilizer on the melon beds. Perhaps a thousand pigeons call this tower home. The door is closed, but not latched. I dig at its bottom edge with my claws. It comes open. I go inside and work my paw under the door to pull it closed. It swings open again. I need to wedge it in place.
My paws have sunk to the ankle in pigeon droppings. Someone must have scooped out the bottom within the past week, for Iâve seen the droppings much deeper than this before. The pungent, unpleasant scent makes me woozy. I scrape one forepaw through the muck to form a little wall at the door opening. Now I pull the door shut again and work my paw out from underneath. The door stays, sealed by the muck.
Did anyone see me?
No one screamed. No one shouted.
But even if no one saw me enter the tower, I must have left paw prints. The dirt is dry and hard, but mypaws were sopping wet from the stream. O Merciful One, bring a wind. Dry my prints. Blow them away. Be merciful.
The pigeons coo nervously from their perches above me. But they donât take to the air. Pigeons are placid, thanks be to the Merciful One.
I yawn, though Iâm not tired. And I stretch. First, with all four paws close together, my head down, and my back with its midpoint high. Next, with my front paws stretched forward, my shoulders low, my rump high, and my back arched with my belly close to the ground. My claws extend, and the muck enters between my toes. The stretches leave me feeling absurdly, unreasonably calm.
I drop to my side, rest my chin on my crossed front paws, and sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Death
T he adhan for the morning prayers wakes me. For a second Iâm lost in the hot dark, then I remember where I am. I lift a hand. Though I cannot see, I know immediately from the weight: It is not hand, but paw.
I am still lion; the pariâs curse endures, though a full day passed.
The realization neither shocks nor saddens me. This is simply fact. I drift in and out of sleep.
Pigeons are smelly. I am smelly, smeared with their droppings. I snort to clear my nose, but the same odor reenters.
On and off all day, voices come. The servants. The hunters. The imam and his helper on the way to the mosque. Many pass by the pigeon tower, but no one stops. People must be searching for me, but I cannotmake out what anyone says. The pigeons keep up a continuous muffled din of stupid warbles.
I hear the adhan for the noon prayers, the afternoon prayers, the sunset prayers, and the night prayers. Between the calls, I sleep. There is a strange solidity to my sleep, as though nothing can truly bother me. Almost a drugged sleep, like when I was a child and my nursemaid Ava had me drink thick, sticky liquids that tasted awful but numbed me for days. There is also a timelessness to my sleep. Were it not for the adhan, here in the darkness of the tower Iâd have no sense of time passing. And I wouldnât care. Perhaps I am fundamentally lazy.
Or perhaps digesting this much meat takes too much blood from my brain,
But I understand: Kiyumars worries that a guest has lost his way. Heâs giving Roya instructions and hurrying ahead to the gate. He will come through in a moment. He will see me.
I race back to the water. I crouch and go under the bridge, my face half in the water, my distended belly touching the streambed. Iâm past the wall now. Royaâs back is turned to me. She walks toward the palace. Who else is about?
âIs someone there?â calls Kiyumars. I pinpoint hisvoice: Heâs standing on the inside of the wall, at the edge of the stream, just a few paces from the bridge.
Stupid birds, who endangered me so.
Birds. Thatâs it. I slouch out of the water and make a dash for the fat, round tower where the pigeons live. The sides are speckled with openings in the stones, perches for the birds. Thereâs a door at the bottom so that servants can scoop out the droppings and spread them as fertilizer on the melon beds. Perhaps a thousand pigeons call this tower home. The door is closed, but not latched. I dig at its bottom edge with my claws. It comes open. I go inside and work my paw under the door to pull it closed. It swings open again. I need to wedge it in place.
My paws have sunk to the ankle in pigeon droppings. Someone must have scooped out the bottom within the past week, for Iâve seen the droppings much deeper than this before. The pungent, unpleasant scent makes me woozy. I scrape one forepaw through the muck to form a little wall at the door opening. Now I pull the door shut again and work my paw out from underneath. The door stays, sealed by the muck.
Did anyone see me?
No one screamed. No one shouted.
But even if no one saw me enter the tower, I must have left paw prints. The dirt is dry and hard, but mypaws were sopping wet from the stream. O Merciful One, bring a wind. Dry my prints. Blow them away. Be merciful.
The pigeons coo nervously from their perches above me. But they donât take to the air. Pigeons are placid, thanks be to the Merciful One.
I yawn, though Iâm not tired. And I stretch. First, with all four paws close together, my head down, and my back with its midpoint high. Next, with my front paws stretched forward, my shoulders low, my rump high, and my back arched with my belly close to the ground. My claws extend, and the muck enters between my toes. The stretches leave me feeling absurdly, unreasonably calm.
I drop to my side, rest my chin on my crossed front paws, and sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Death
T he adhan for the morning prayers wakes me. For a second Iâm lost in the hot dark, then I remember where I am. I lift a hand. Though I cannot see, I know immediately from the weight: It is not hand, but paw.
I am still lion; the pariâs curse endures, though a full day passed.
The realization neither shocks nor saddens me. This is simply fact. I drift in and out of sleep.
Pigeons are smelly. I am smelly, smeared with their droppings. I snort to clear my nose, but the same odor reenters.
On and off all day, voices come. The servants. The hunters. The imam and his helper on the way to the mosque. Many pass by the pigeon tower, but no one stops. People must be searching for me, but I cannotmake out what anyone says. The pigeons keep up a continuous muffled din of stupid warbles.
I hear the adhan for the noon prayers, the afternoon prayers, the sunset prayers, and the night prayers. Between the calls, I sleep. There is a strange solidity to my sleep, as though nothing can truly bother me. Almost a drugged sleep, like when I was a child and my nursemaid Ava had me drink thick, sticky liquids that tasted awful but numbed me for days. There is also a timelessness to my sleep. Were it not for the adhan, here in the darkness of the tower Iâd have no sense of time passing. And I wouldnât care. Perhaps I am fundamentally lazy.
Or perhaps digesting this much meat takes too much blood from my brain,
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