The Listener
The Listener
ای دیو سپید پای در بند
Ay dīve sepīde pāī dar band,
Oh white demon with feet in chains
ای گنبد گیتی ای دماوند
Ay gonbade gītī, ay Damāvand
Oh celestial dome, Oh Mount Damāvand
Down from the mountain she came, seen afar as a mirage, all shimmering and heat distortion. A brilliant whiter than white against the shifting hills of broken slate; hills around the base of the soaring mountain beyond. We thought she was the Adjudicator come to hear our confessions.
None of us had ever seen the Adjudicator. We knew that he cared and that an agent of truth had come among us. We had our teeth ready, we waited at the edge of our village and watched the pale dot meander closer, resolving into a woman. None of us had ever seen the Adjudicator, but we knew he was male. This was simply a Listener, and so we hid away our teeth and our secrets. She came right up to our gathering of farms and huts, politely bowing low. We were obliged to feed her and to offer her rest, though there was still work to do, chores to be done. Her frail, pink eyes were disturbing. They wandered and rolled in their sockets. She was not blind, but she could see only smudges and shadow. She wore her ears after the fashion of her kind, pinned back, baring the ruddy conchs of her inner flesh shamelessly. She carried a sword and a bowl, for alms and for food.
She asked us who owned the land and we told her. It was not ours to have, but ours to work. We were poor peasants clawing in the dirt. Our secrets were petty and small. She did not come to hear our problems; she asked us about our master. We spoke in polite tones and gave her directions to the landlord's estate. And all the while she drank our soup and fingered the hilt of her sword, thumbing over the fork there to make it sing sofly; to make the dog whimper in the corner.
We offered her the straw in the barn for the night, but she would not stay and left with much thanks. We were glad to see her go, and we swept the floor clean after her passing. We shuddered and gossipped then. Her eerie thin skin, her wispy hairs. Like a ghost, sickly and pale. And oh how polite, sugar wouldn't melt in her mouth. We were glad to see her go, and we swept out the shadows after her passing. We agreed that they should stay with their own kind, away from decent folk. Don't they know how uncomfortable they make people? We nodded to each other that she made our skin crawl. And thanks to God that she didn't try to touch us. We were glad to see her go, and we whipped the dog she stooped to pet in her passing. A Listener is bad luck.