Gulzor

GULZOR
By René Maori
(Translated from Russian by Rene Maori)

Write only truth, O faithful pen, kalām,
Through ages' darkened depths lead us, kalām.
What once was hidden, make it plain today,
Unlock the past, its truths for us, kalām.

Long, long ago this was. Even my grandfather's grandfather told this tale. And to him – an old caravan leader, one hundred and twenty years of age. At that time in the Kyzylkum desert there were oases here and there, and water flowed in ditches. Villages stood everywhere and people dwelled therein. They raised sheep and traded with passing caravans. They lived well – the desert did not dare to enter their homes. Beyond the green pastures lay the sands. People ventured not into the sands, and the sand did not come to the people. Thus, it had always been.

There stood a village then, no better nor worse than others. And ordinary folk lived within. They angered not God and sinned no more than others. This village was called Gulzor, meaning flower garden. Flowers grew there beyond count. Tulips grew and roses too. And when spring came, poppies bloomed upon the roofs, and the whole village seemed like a flower garden.

In those times, in one house lived three brothers – Hasan, Husan, and Rustam. Born they were on the same day and at the same hour. Thus, always together they were. Together they worked, together they sang. The people loved these brothers, so they came for aid. Never did they refuse anyone. Kind they were, and brave.

But misfortune befell that village. The Black Death came for all plants. Whether brought by passing caravans or carried by desert winds, no one could say. Tree plague, they called this sickness then. Leaves on trees withered and blackened. Flowers perished, their once-bright heads drooping to the ground. Twisted, dried grapevine stems jutted out like the hands of the dead, caught by death in the desert. Wells and ditches ran dry. The wind gradually filled them with sand, as the desert began to reclaim this patch of earth. At night, the brothers heard sand rustling against their house walls, seeking to creep into every crack, door, and window. Come morning, they found small dunes at their threshold, which they swept away, again and again driving the desert from their home. But what can man do against nature?

A day came when water remained in but one well. All sheep had long been slaughtered, and hunger gripped Gulzor. Then the brothers decided to set forth, to seek another place to live. They loaded two camels and began their journey. Fifteen days and nights they walked through the sands. And on the morning of the sixteenth day they saw the city wall. So high that the hat fell off the head of anyone who wanted to see its edge. So long that ten days would be needed to ride around it. The brothers approached the iron gates. And the gates swung open hospitably before them. A wondrous city met their gaze. Fountains sprayed everywhere, scattering diamond-like drops shimmering in the sunlight. Shady nooks beckoned the travelers to lie down and taste rest.

People in white robes came to meet them. They bowed and led the brothers to the palace of the city's ruler. Never had the brothers seen such beauty. A palace of white marble stood in a pomegranate garden, and these marvelous trees, already heavy with fruit, continued to bloom, filling the air with an exquisite fragrance.

The young ruler of the city welcomed them warmly. He gifted them new clothes, seated them at a table laden with every delicacy - pilaf, shashlik, and shurpa. And such airy flatbreads were served! Never had the brothers tasted such white bread. Long, long did the feast last. Serving maids in shimmering garments changed dishes, brought sherbet in silver pitchers. Dancers with faces like houris delighted the eye. Then the brothers were laid to rest in a rich bedchamber, on high pillows and silken coverlets. And they slept as peacefully as they never had before in their lives.

Come morning, the ruler summoned them, and long did he inquire what misfortune had brought the brothers to his city. They, hiding nothing, told how it was. Of the plague they spoke, and of the famine. The ruler listened, his head bowed to his chest, and several tears rolled from his eyes. Like pearls they slid down his beard and fell upon his snow-white garment, leaving dark spots. A kind heart had the ruler. A happy man is always kind.

And he ordered a caravan prepared. Water-skins were filled, and bags with food. Much he gave, enough to last a whole year. And then, if Allah were merciful, perhaps the desert would retreat from the village, and trees would be reborn. To the brothers he gifted a golden cage, wherein sat snow-white doves, and said:

- If the plague leaves not your lands, send me letter with these doves. I shall dispatch a caravan to bring you all here. Here you shall live.

Showered with kindness, the brothers left the wondrous city and set out on their return journey. But not gratitude settled in their hearts, but burning envy.

- Is it just that some have everything, while others have nothing? - asked Rustam.

- No, it is not just, - answered Hasan and Husan. - All in the world should be equal - that would be just.

That's what they said. And when they returned to their village, they divided everything they had brought equally among everyone. There was enough food for a year. Though winter rain came, it could not fill the wells, nor did the trees and grasses come back to life. The houses sank halfway into the sand, and things became worse than before.

One day, while feeding the doves the remaining grain, Rustam began to ponder. The doves knew the way back. All that needed to be done was to tie a message to their legs and release them into the sky. In fact, there was no need to write anything at all, simply sending a dove would suffice. The ruler of the wondrous city would understand on his own that misfortune had not left Gulzor. Rustam called his brothers together to hold counsel.
- If we go there, we will become slaves, - said Hasan. - Where have you ever heard of foreigners being treated as equals? No, most likely, they will send us to toil, and our children will be forced to bend their backs from dawn till dusk for the rich citizens of that city.

- I don't trust that ruler either, - agreed Husan. - He didn't help our people out of pure kindness. All wealthy men think only of how to repay their expenses with interest.

- So, what should we do? - asked Rustam.

- The plague! - exclaimed Hasan, raising his index finger.

- The plague! - echoed Husan.

- Very well, - agreed Rustam. - We'll do just that.

He mixed crushed bark from an infected tree into the grain and scattered it for the doves. The doves pecked at it. Then the brothers released the doves into the sky, and they soared upward, turning white dots against the blue heavens until they quickly disappeared from sight.

A week later, the brothers gathered all the villagers, loaded up their camels, took water for fifteen days, and set out on their journey. They hoped that by the time they arrived, the plague would have done its work, and the city would fall into their hands. Envy often drives people to evil deeds, but sometimes those deeds turn out to be foolish as well.

When the Gulzor caravan approached the city gates, they found them open. Around the wall lay a dead desert, but it was also behind the wall. The fountains had fallen silent, the trees had shed their leaves and withered. But the most terrifying thing was that the tree plague, brought by the doves, had changed its nature. The Black Death had taken all the city's inhabitants. Along a sand-covered road, they entered the ruler's garden, but only black skeletons of pomegranate trees jutted out from the sand. The brothers entered the chambers, where here and there lay the bodies of servants and dancers. And in the farthest bedroom, they discovered the body of the ruler himself, his face frozen in a mask of sorrowful bewilderment.

In horror, the brothers rushed back to their caravan, only to see that the Black Death had already visited all the people from their village. One by one, they fell to the ground and became motionless. And behind them, through the open gates, the desert advanced, ready to swallow what little life remained.

Long ago this was. But human ingratitude was even earlier and will remain forever and ever.

Though you surpass the wisdom in each debate,
If friendship you betray for selfish gain,
Your worth among the living would be naught:
Ingratitude's the worst of all disdain.