Chapter I: Part 1

THE STORY OF RUSTEM

AND OTHER PERSIAN HERO TALES

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THE STORY OF RUSTEM

AND

OTHER PERSIAN HERO TALES
FROM FIRDUSI

BY
ELIZABETH D. RENNINGER

ILLUSTRATED BY J. L. S. WILLIAMS

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1909

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Copyright, 1909, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
Published September, 1909

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DEDICATION

Once upon a time, not so many years ago, a librarian in one of our large cities conceived the idea of forming a hero club for the boys of her neighborhood. So it came to pass that for two years, every Wednesday evening, between thirty and fifty young heroes assembled in the club-room of the library to listen to the story of some great hero, told either by the librarian or by some visiting story-teller.

Now, as the object of the club was not only amusement, helpful entertainment, and inspiration, but also to influence the boys’ reading, they were introduced first to the Greek heroes: Theseus, Perseus, Hercules, Jason, and the heroes of Troy. And after these came the heroes of chivalry: Charlemagne, Roland, Oliver, Ogier the Dane, and the four Aymon brothers. Then followed Siegfried, King Arthur, and the Red Cross Knight. Yea, and even that gay little fellow in green—brave Robin Hood. And sprinkled in with these more or less mythological heroes were those of a more practical type: Father Damien, Livingstone, Lincoln, Peter Cooper, and a number of every-day heroes who so well exemplify the growth in heroic ideals in our century as contrasted with those of primitive times. Boy Heroes were also presented, and finally, in her search for good story-hour material, the librarian decided to introduce the boys to some of the great Persian heroes—they being not so well known.

And, since the boys’ delight in this series of stories really inspired the thought of making it possible for other story-tellers and older boys and girls to enjoy them too, therefore this book is appropriately and affectionately dedicated to the Hero Boys of the Bushwick Branch of the Brooklyn Public Library—a more appreciative and promising set of youths than whom never resolved to do, and dare, and be—good, practical, every-day heroes.

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FOREWORD

The aim of this series of stories which, through the medium of Firdusi, mirrors so fascinatingly the legendary history of Persia, has been, not only to provide for the story-teller a treasure-house wherein may be found pure gold, refined for ready use, every coin of which may be stamped with the narrator’s own individuality for the inspiration and entertainment of any group of children, but also, indirectly, to present to older boys and girls, in attractive form, the story of the Shah-Nameh in miniature.

When the material for the stories was originally collected, the author’s idea was simply to work out for her own use in story-telling to children a picture presentation of a delightful series of tales little known to the young. Accordingly, like the fabled busy bee, she scrupled not to enter the most exclusive Persian gardens, dipping into the cup of each bright posy containing the least mite of the sweets for which she was delving—her desire being to give to this particular jar of honey not the Atkinson, or the Mohl, or the Arnold flavor alone, but a composite which should be all of these, and yet distinctly individual and unique, the point of view being not the usual one of the translator, the paraphraser, or the raconteur working upon the lines of the epitomist, but rather that of the moving picture artist and the story-teller combined.

The debt of the author, consequently, is large, and acknowledgment difficult. For while original translators of the great epic, as Mohl, in French, and Atkinson and Helen Zimmern, in English—and Arnold in his noble poem “Sohrab and Rustem”—have contributed most liberally to this series of word-pictures, yet many additional treasures also have been discovered and secured, even from general works such as, for example, Benjamin’s “History of Persia,” and altogether from sources too varied and fugitive, and too thoroughly woven into the fibre of her own text, to be individually acknowledged. The debt, however, is none the less great.

It only remains to be said that if, when started upon their mission, these stories give to children at large as much pleasure as they gave to the particular group of “heroes” for whom they were worked out, they will not only justify their right of being, but also their method of preparation, which, though without scholarly pretensions, may yet serve to make better known and loved one of the masterpieces of literature, alas, too little familiar to-day even to grown-ups well versed in European classics.

E. D. R.

Northumberland, Pa., _September, 1909_.

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CONTENTS

Introduction
Kavah the Blacksmith
Feridoun the Glorious
Irij, a Gentle Hero
Minuchir the Avenger
Zal of the White Hair
Rustem the Wonder Child
Rustem the Young Warrior
Rustem’s Seven Labors, or Adventures
Rustem the Pehliva
Rustem’s Romance
Sohrab the Youth
Sohrab and the Warrior Maiden
The Wrath of Rustem
Rustem the Spy
The Combat of Sohrab Against Rustem
Siawush the Persian Sir Galahad
Rustem the Avenger
How Gew Helped a Hero-prince Unto a Throne
Later Feats of Rustem
Isfendiyar’s Seven Labors, or Heft-Khan
The Combat of Isfendiyar Against Rustem
The Death of Rustem

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ILLUSTRATIONS

“But thy doom is fixed, thou Cruel One, and even now the avenger’s hand
is at the door. Behold, and tremble!”

Then pressing the golden casket unto his breast, he spake unto God in
his grief

Then in graceful circles she swept slowly down unto the wondering
father

The two rode side by side into Zabulistan

Mad with pain, he sprang at Rustem like a wild elephant

And finally, in his perplexity, he consulted his astrologers

The days passed for both like a happy dream

They drew their long Indian swords and fell to work again

At evening they came unto a vast wood, reaching many leagues

Seated beside it a youth like unto a royal cypress

He discovered the magician deeply engaged in incantation and witchcraft

Isfendiyar seized his bow, and whiz! whiz! went a shower of arrows

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INTRODUCTION

The world has few great epics. In fact, it has been said that there are perhaps but six in all. Yet the materials for an epic are to be found among all nations in those traditions, half-fact, half-fiction, which cluster about the great national heroes whose deeds of prowess make the era in which they lived stand forth before our eyes, clear-cut and brilliant, the canvas filled from end to end with deeds of daring, scenes of love, violence, and romance which, through all ages, thrill and make their own appeal to the heart of man.

Epics are written, as a rule, in the infancy of a race, and they all have this in common, that they are not the invention of a single individual, but being founded upon national traditions, are handed down orally from one generation to another, until, in the fulness of time, one of the world’s great poets stretches forth his hand, gathers together all the beautiful flowers that have blossomed in the fancy of his people—as has been so happily said of Firdusi—and having breathed upon the precious blossoms, plants them in new beauty in the Gardens of Paradise, there to bloom on among the immortals, a joy and delight forever.

Among the truly great national epics, two fall to India—the Mahabharata and the Ramayana; two to Greece—the Iliad and the Odyssey; one to the North—the Nibelungenlied; and one to Persia—the Shah-Nameh.

The Shah-Nameh—without question the greatest of the Eastern epics—is seven times the length of the Iliad, being in fact much longer than the Iliad and the Odyssey together, comprising in all 60,000 couplets, and having occupied Firdusi thirty years in writing. The poem presents us, in most musical rhythm, with a complete view of a certain definite era of civilization—the Persia of the Heroic Age; an age of chivalry rivaling in mighty deeds of prowess and romantic interest the mediæval chivalry of Charlemagne and the glorious Peers of France. And, moreover, we have here a portrait gallery of distinct and unique individuals, the bright, particular star being Rustem, the great hero whose superhuman strength, courage, and loyalty prevented Persia, for hundreds of years, from falling into the hands of her foes.

In writing the Shah-Nameh it is said that, in addition to his poetic and historic incentives, Firdusi had a distinctly patriotic motive. For, being an ardent lover of things Persian, he hoped thus to keep alive in the hearts of his countrymen the glories of their ancestors, in order that they might not degenerate into mere puppets under Arab domination. Now that Firdusi had this end in view is shown not alone by the theme and spirit of the epic, but also by the diction employed, for the poet adheres rigorously throughout to the native Persian, using few Arabic words, the consequence being that no work in the literature of Persia is so free from foreign admixture as the Shah-Nameh.

Unfortunately, no complete copy of the great “Iliad of the East” is known to exist, though there are innumerable MS. copies, some of them wondrously beautiful, the scribes having used Egyptian reeds, and the blackest of ink which never fades; the writing being done on the nest of silk paper, powdered with gold and silver dust; the margins richly illuminated; the whole perfumed with sandal-wood, or some costly essence; and the title-page of elaborate design.

The best known translations of the Shah-Nameh are: an abridgment in prose and verse, by Edward Atkinson; Jules Mohl’s French translation, which is perhaps the most scholarly work; Helen Zimmern’s excellent paraphrase; the versions given in Reed’s Persian literature, Benjamin’s “History of Persia,” and various other partial adaptations.

As for Firdusi (Abul Kasim Mansur) the “Poet of Paradise,” who gave to the world the Shah-Nameh, many are the poetic legends that cluster about his name, making it extremely difficult to give any authentic account of his life. Authorities differ as to the exact date, but he is said to have been born at Shahdab, a suburb of Tus in Khorassan, somewhere about A. D. 930. His father’s name is quite unknown, but he seems to have been one of the Dihkan, or landed gentry of Persia. It is also said that he was a gardener, and that Firdusi received his name from the spot which he cultivated (Firdus, _i. e._, Paradise). However that may be, the legend goes on to relate that, it having been communicated to the father in a dream that his son would have a great future, he had given to Firdusi the best education the time and place could afford. The boy was carefully educated, therefore, in the Arabic language and literature, the Old Persian, and the history and traditions of his country.

Firdusi seems to have been a dreamy youth, for it is recorded of him that he spent many hours beside the canal which ran through his father’s grounds, perusing eagerly the old legends of the early wars of his country as exemplified in the splendid deeds of her heroes; or in dreaming of the great things which he, himself, meant to accomplish one day for the glory of Persia. Yea, and the lad was practical, too, for aside from his own personal dream of greatness, his great hope was that, having himself achieved, he might be able to build for Tus, his native city, a great dike of stone which should prevent the fearful inundations which, from time to time, wrought such devastation and ruin to the poor people of Tus.

Little seems to be known of Firdusi’s younger manhood, but it appears that his poetic gifts were early perceived and fostered, and that he spent not his time in idle dreaming. For suddenly it came to light that, while at the Court of Mahmud, the Sultan’s poets were laboring under the direction of that great patron of literature to produce from the records already accumulated a history of Persia in rhyme, all unaided, in an obscure village, one unknown to fame was attempting the same great undertaking. Now thus it came to pass that Mahmud who had the records, and Firdusi, who possessed the gifts, were brought together.

And this having come to pass, Firdusi basked from this time forth in the royal favor. A beautiful house was given him by the Sultan, the walls of which were decorated with martial scenes painted by the great artists of Persia, in order to fire the imagination of the poet; the Bustan-Nameh, a collection of the chronicles and traditions of Persia, together with other valuable records were placed at his disposal; and thus, happily equipped and surrounded, the poet worked unhampered upon his great masterpiece. Yea, for thirty long years Firdusi wrought, and when at last the 60,000 couplets of the great Shah-Nameh were completed, he rejoiced, for was he not to receive a reward of a thousand pieces of gold for each thousand couplets? And with this princely sum could he not now carry out his long-cherished dream of a dike for his fellow-townsmen?

But, alas! Firdusi, while at the Court, had incurred the enmity of the Sultan’s prime-minister, who resented the fact that he, the great prime-minister, was not also mentioned in the eulogy to Mahmud which prefaced the great epic poem. Poisoning the mind of the Sultan against Firdusi, therefore, the spoiled favorite of the Court managed that the money promised the poet should be paid in silver instead of gold. Now Firdusi was at the bath when the money was brought to him, and in his anger at the insult thus offered him, he immediately divided the money into three parts, giving them respectively to the keeper of the baths, the seller of refreshments, and the slave who brought the money. “The Sultan shall learn,” he said proudly, “that Firdusi did not spend the labor of thirty years to be rewarded with silver.”

Of course this independence of spirit upon the part of Firdusi angered the haughty Sultan, who, when he learned that his gift had been despised, condemned the poet to be trampled to death by an elephant upon the following morning. But this vile deed came not to pass, for the outraged poet fled, first giving into the hands of the prime-minister a sealed paper containing a bitter satire upon Mahmud, which he desired to be inserted in the epic in place of his former eulogy.

The chronicles relate that, as a result of this most unfortunate incident, Firdusi, like Dante, became for long years an exile and wanderer, being driven by the persecutions of the Sultan from court to court, from country to country. Finally, however, after many weary years of banishment and harassing care, friends of Firdusi, with great difficulty, extorted from the Sultan a pardon, and the ill-starred poet, old and broken, returned unobtrusively to his native town. Here the days of the immortal bard soon drew to a close. It is related that, hearing a little child singing in the streets of Tus some of his own verses, his bitter wrongs and sufferings were so vividly recalled to him that he was seized with faintness, and, being carried to his home, soon after expired. His death occurred A. D. 1020, in the eighty-ninth year of his age. Being refused burial in sacred ground, the Sheik also declining to read the customary prayers over his grave, the old poet was buried in the beautiful garden where so hopefully he had dreamed the long, long thoughts of poetic youth. Now, alas! thus ended the earthly career of grand old Firdusi, the “Oriental Homer,” as he has been called; also greatest poet of Persia, and one of the greatest of all literature.

But, though Firdusi was now peacefully laid to rest, his story runs on. For, according to one of the legends, it is related that the Sultan, having at last learned of his minister’s treachery, banished him from his court forever. And not only this, for being stricken with remorse at having driven unjustly from his side the poet who had made his court “resplendent as Paradise,” as he himself had said, Mahmud determined to make reparation. Learning, therefore, that Firdusi was living obscurely at Tus, he sent him the long-delayed payment, together with camels loaded with princely gifts—but too late! The royal retinue met the funeral of the great poet at the city gates. Firdusi being no more, the Sultan’s gifts were offered to the poet’s daughter, by whom they were disdainfully refused. Other relatives, however, accepted the peace offering, building with it a bridge, the dreamed-of dike, and a house of refuge for travellers—all of which memorials are now gone.

But Firdusi’s fame lives on, growing brighter with the years. When the storm-tossed, unappreciated old poet, therefore, in self-justification said that he had written what no tide should ever wash away, what men unborn should read o’er oceans wide, he made no idle boast. For to-day not only Persian boys and girls, but the young people of the world—as well as all lovers of good literature—are reading with delight the fascinating legends of Persia, as mirrored forth in the Shah-Nameh, or Book of Kings, of the grand old poet, Firdusi the Persian.

KAVAH THE BLACKSMITH

Once upon a time, so the old chronicles relate, during the reign of Jemshid the Shah, there dwelt in the deserts of Arabia a King named Mirtas. Now Mirtas was rich in flocks and herds of goats, sheep and camels which yielded up a bounteous store of balmy milk; and this milk the generous King always distributed in charity among the poor. So God was pleased with Mirtas, and increased his favor upon him accordingly.

Now this King, smiled upon by the Almighty, had one priceless possession, his only son, Zohak, who, in his youth, seemed destined to rival his father in nobility of character. But, alas! upon this noble young cypress, so luxuriant in buds of promise, there suddenly fell a blight, disastrous alike to the house of Mirtas and to the land of Persia. And this is how it came about.

One day Iblis, the Evil One, roaming the earth in search of mischief, chanced to stray into the palace of Mirtas, and, in so doing, he happened upon the charming young Zohak. Now Iblis was disguised as a noble, and so eloquent and full of guile was his discourse, that the young prince, fascinated, eagerly besought his new friend to let the music of his voice continue to delight him.

Then Iblis, who saw here a fertile field for his guile, was pleased to see the charm work so well. So, his tongue dropping honey, he thus spake unto the youthful Zohak:

“O Pearl of the East, alas! for though I am master of still sweeter converse, I may not address it unto one so young unless thou wilt first enter into a solemn compact with me never under any pretence to divulge what I shall tell unto thee.”

Alas! Zohak was guileless and simple of heart, and so, suspecting no evil, he sware unto Iblis that he would obey him in all things, for he believed him to be noble and good. Judge, then, of his surprise and horror when, the oath taken, Iblis said unto him:

“O Light of the Universe, thou who art fair and wise and valiant, give ear unto the voice of thy friend, and soon thy stately young head shall be raised above the stars. Listen! Thy father hath become old, and longeth to enter into his reward. While he liveth, necessarily thou wilt remain unknown. Let him, therefore, no longer stand in thy way. The robes of sovereignty are ready, and better adapted to thee. But raise thy hand, therefore, and the name of Mirtas shall be naught but a beautiful memory in the world. The leaves in the Book of Fate turn slowly, but who can change what is written on its pages?”

Thus spake wily Iblis and as the meaning of this fiendish suggestion dawned fully upon him it would be hard indeed to picture to you Zohak’s horror and dismay. Enough to say that at first he refused utterly to be a party to his father’s death, but, though the struggle was long and obstinate, Iblis finally terrified and subdued the youth by telling him that if he refused, his own life would be the forfeit. Then, in order to make it easier for him to agree to the proposal, Iblis assured Zohak that he need not perform the deed with his own hands, but merely consent to it.

So Iblis dug a pit on the pathway that led to Mirtas’s house of prayer, and covered it over with grass. And presently, when night was preparing to throw her dark mantle over the earth, as the King, according to his custom, was going unto the house of prayer, it came to pass that he fell into the pit, and his legs and arms being broken by the fall, he shortly after expired.

Thus, according to the legend, perished Mirtas, that father whose tenderness would not suffer even the winds to blow upon his son too roughly. And thus also Zohak, in his tender youth, sold himself unto the Evil One.

Now Iblis, having succeeded in getting Zohak into his power, continued to bestow upon him the most devoted attention and flattery, with the view of moulding him entirely unto his will. Among other things, therefore, he taught him the art of magic; and, having done so, he assured him that through it he should become the greatest monarch of his time. But though the ear of Zohak was ever open unto Iblis, he ruled his people in both good and evil, for he was not yet wholly given over unto guile.

Seeing this, therefore, Iblis imagined a new device in his black heart, for he was not yet satisfied with the degree of authority which he had obtained over the young King, desiring above all things to see him completely given over unto evil. Consequently, with this end in view, by the aid of magic, he took upon himself the form of an engaging youth, and, appearing thus before Zohak, he craved permission to serve him as director of the royal kitchen. Pleased with the guileless manners of the youth, and with the delicious and savory food which he caused to be spread before him, the King finally commanded that the keys of the great store-rooms be given him, and that he be allowed to reign supreme over the royal board.

You must know that up to this time, men had been nourished with bread, and fruit, and herbs alone; Iblis, however, prepared flesh for Zohak, and invented the art of cooking. And cunning indeed was this device, for the King was delighted with the new dishes made from every variety of bird, and four-footed animal, and lived but for each new repast. Every day, therefore, something dainty and rare was prepared for the royal table, and every day Iblis increased in favor, for the flesh gave unto the King courage and strength like unto a lion, and the fame of his table was great in the land.

But of all the new dishes prepared for the King, an egg was unto him the most delicious of all. “What can be superior to this?” he cried in ecstasy, rolling his eyes toward heaven, and heaving a sigh of profound content.

“Speak not so,” replied Iblis, smiling, “for to-morrow thou shalt partake of something still more savory.”

The next day, therefore, the magician of the King’s kitchen brought unto his majesty’s table delicious fare, served exquisitely to please the eye as well as taste, partridge and pheasant, a banquet for a prince. Then Zohak, delighted beyond measure, exclaimed impulsively:

“O Prince among Cooks, verily for this new wonder wrought in our behalf, whatsoever thou desirest, and I can give, is thine. Thou hast but to speak the word.”

Then Iblis, glad and little anxious, replied unto His Majesty that he had but one request—one unimportant wish. It was to kiss the mighty monarch’s naked shoulder—a mere whim!

So Zohak, unsuspicious, stripped his shoulders, glad to gratify a wish so flattering and so simple. Then cunning Iblis quickly stooped, and twice he kissed the King with fiendish glee, and, having done so, vanished from the sight of men.

But alas, alas for Zohak! for forth from his shoulders, at each salute, sprang hissing serpents, venomous and black, whose fiery tongues darted unceasingly about, as though in search of prey. And at this, imagine, if you can, Zohak’s horror and dismay! his angry cries of fear and rage! the frenzied haste with which he gave command to have the ugly creatures severed at the roots! But vain their utmost haste; vain all their zeal, for no sooner were the writhing things cut off, than quickly forth once more they sprang, like veritable jacks-in-a-box. And though the King’s servants wearied not, but struck again and again, and yet again, it was all to no purpose, for every time that the vile creatures were severed, they sprang forth bigger, blacker, and uglier than before, each new pair writhing and hissing yet more angrily, as though, like Iblis, they longed for naught so much as to lodge their poisonous venom deep in the hearts of men.

And now, indeed, was there tumult in the King’s court! And well was it for Iblis that, though the most diligent search was instituted, he was nowhere to be found throughout the whole dominion. Useless, therefore, was their search; and all to no purpose did the King’s ministers offer mountains of gold as a reward for him who should rid His Majesty of the awful evil laid upon him. In response to the proclamation the most celebrated magicians and wise men of the East flocked unto the court of Zohak, but, among them all, not one was found able to charm away the dreadful vipers.

Every sunrise a new magician, every sunset failure reported; this was the record of the wretched days of Zohak the King from this time forth, until hope was almost dead in his heart. Then one day, as the unhappy monarch sat upon his gorgeous throne, sunk in the most abject misery, Iblis, in the guise of a skilled physician, once more presented himself before the King, and, after examination and mature deliberation, thus spake the cunning one unto his prey:

“O Shelter of the Universe, I have searched the heavens diligently concerning the horrible evil which hath fallen upon thee, and in thy horoscope I read a bitter tale. For behold, in the Book of Fate it is written that from this time forth thou shalt be known among men as the ‘Serpent King,’ since the stars have decreed that the hissing, writhing vipers shall remain connected with thee throughout thy life, involving thee in perpetual misery. Hope not, therefore, by the arts of magic to avert thy fate, for charms are of no avail when pitted against the stars.”

Alas! As Zohak heard this dire interpretation of his horoscope, he uttered an exceedingly bitter cry, and gave himself up utterly to despair; seeing which, Iblis smiled, for he knew that the hour of his triumph was near. Concealing his satisfaction, however, he thus spake unto Zohak:

“O Heaven Accursed, despair not yet so utterly, for one faint ray of hope saw I glimmering for thee from afar, which, if thou wilt, thou mayest cause even yet to burst forth into a sunbeam of promise. For lo, it is written, that if yonder writhing creatures be fed daily upon human brains, which would be the same unto them as poison, in the course of time they may die; at any rate, in this way only can thy life be prolonged and made easy. It is for thee to decide.”

So, having thus cunningly lodged this evil suggestion in the mind of the King, Iblis once more vanished, evidently through the ceiling, for there floated down thence unto the ears of the unhappy monarch the mocking refrain:

“If life hath any charm for thee,
The brain of man their food must be!”

Now the truth was, Iblis hated the human race, and he was, therefore, greatly delighted to think that as a result of his cunning, in time a great portion of mankind would be destroyed by the dreadful serpents. For well he knew that Zohak had now become so desperate that he would do anything to obtain release from his misery. What he did not know was that all his craft and cunning were powerless to affect God’s plans for the children of Adam.

But alas for Zohak! And alas also for his subjects! For the chronicles relate that from this time forth was he given over wholly unto evil, and that each sunrise saw two young men of the flower of the land slain to gratify the furious hunger of the serpents. And lo! the fear of the King was great in the land.

Nor did the fame and fear of the Serpent King confine itself to his own borders. Alas, no! for Persia was also to suffer at his hands. And now you must hear something of the Shahs of Old, but particularly of the great Shah, Jemshid, whose fate was so closely bound up with that of Zohak.

In the old chronicles of Persia we read that Kaimurs was the first Shah of Iran, and that he was chosen by the people to rule over them. Prior to his time, each man lived for himself, in the most primitive way, owning allegiance to no one but Ormuzd, the great God of the Persians.

Now the legends tell us that Kaimurs was so wise and good that even the animals assembled to do him homage, and to help fight his battles. Yea, it is even said that, when he was crowned, great lions and tigers came forth from their lairs in the distant forest, and that with them there crouched low before the monarch wolves and leopards, together with the fierce wild boar, and the fleet-footed ass of the desert. A strange coronation pageant, surely!

But Kaimurs was loved by men, as well as beasts, and so he prospered and grew strong. Unfortunately, however, he had one very powerful enemy, the great King of the Deevs, who ruled over Mazinderan, a province to the north of Kaimurs’s kingdom. And since not only Kaimurs, but, later on, many other of the Shahs and heroes of Iran were called upon, again and again, to battle with this wily race, you will be interested to hear what they were like.

Well, these wicked Deevs, according to the descriptions given of them, appear to have been a strange mixture of man, and animal, and evil spirit. They walked upright, like men, but were possessed of horns, long ears, and tails; and many of them are described as cat-headed. Great numbers of them too are said to have been small and black, but there were also many giants among them, and as one and all of them were past masters in the arts of sorcery and enchantment, it required very great courage indeed to fight against them, since in battle they could, at will, call up whirlwinds and great fires, while they, themselves, could vanish whenever it pleased them to do so. You can easily understand, therefore, that it took the courage of a real hero to go forth to battle against the Deevs.

This, however, Kaimurs’s subjects were called upon to do, since a day came when the King of the Deevs sent out against Iran a great army of cat-headed men, giants, and other monsters of horrible aspect, with the command utterly to subdue the land. Now in this emergency, the son of Kaimurs, who was very brave, was sent at the head of a large army to repulse the invading host. But alas! the young prince was slain at the very beginning of the battle, and his army scattered unto the four winds. Then was Kaimurs forced to flee, and Persia was given over unto the Deevs.

Now long and bitterly did the Shah of Iran grieve for the loss of his son, and the overthrow of his kingdom. But presently, in the far-off cavern where he lay hid from his enemies, he heard the voice of the Angel Serosch, which said unto him:

“O Beloved of Ormuzd, come forth into the sunshine of the world, for lo! victory lieth in the hands of thy grandson. Send him forth, therefore, to grasp it.”

So Kaimurs took heart, and calling before him his dearly loved grandson, the youthful Husheng, he commanded him to go forth to meet the mighty Deevs in the name of Ormuzd the Blessed, who promised a sure victory unto his children.

Before going, however, Husheng, who was wise, as well as valiant of heart, in addition to his loyal subjects, summoned to his assistance all the wild beasts of the forests, and even the birds of the air, whose duty it was to confuse the foe by flying in their faces, and by making fearful swoops at their eyes.

A strange sight, therefore, must have been Husheng’s army, when drawn up in battle array; but a yet more terrible thing to see was the mighty host of advancing Deevs, enveloped as it was in lurid flames and clouds of smoke. But the sight caused brave Husheng not a tremor, so filled with courage and the certainty of victory was he.

And, in the fiercely contested battle which ensued, so great was the heroism of the Persians, inspired as they were on all sides by their brave young leader, that not even the Deevs could stand before them. Husheng himself, also, performed marvels in valor, slaying in single combat, not only the King of the Deevs, but also the most important members of his family. Whereupon, in dismay, the remnant of the Deevs betook themselves to ignominious flight. Howbeit, few escaped; for, by the orders of Husheng, they were pursued by the tigers, wolves, and panthers, which tore them to pieces as they fled.

It was indeed a glorious victory, and as a result of it, the kingdom of Persia was at last secure; and from this time forth, under Husheng’s mighty sway, civilization grew apace, reaching at last a climax in the long reign of Jemshid, who was grandson of the valiant Husheng.

Now it is related of Jemshid that for seven hundred years he sat upon the throne of light, during which time Persia enjoyed her Golden Age of prosperity. And not only was Jemshid girt about with power and glory, but the whole world was happier for his sake; since, smiled upon by Ormuzd, during all this period, no one died or was ill, and the King, along with his subjects, remained ever in the prime of youth and strength, old age, death, pain, and sorrow being unknown.

During this period, also, the Deevs were subservient unto the great Shah, building for him magnificent palaces, inside of which were lofty halls with springing fountains, silken carpets covering soft divans on which to lie, and walls hung with pictures, embroidered silks, and jewelled hangings, all of which were fashioned by the Genii. They also erected for Jemshid a most glorious throne, upon which they transported him from one city to another in the twinkling of an eye. Now so gorgeously beautiful was this throne that it became the wonder of the world.

Jemshid, however, was not a valiant warrior like Husheng, but a builder of civilization. He first separated men into classes, divided the year into periods, encouraged building, and likewise is credited with the discovery of perfumes, the art of healing, the invention of ships, and many other useful means of benefiting mankind. It was he also who instituted the Neurouz, or New Year, at the time of the spring solstice, a festival still celebrated in Persia with many ceremonies during ten days.

You will not be surprised to hear, therefore, that Jemshid’s power increased continually; for, learning of his wisdom and goodness, men flocked unto his standard from all corners of the earth. And small wonder, since he was indeed a most beneficent and glorious King. But alas! the time came, so the legends tell us, when Jemshid’s head was turned by the height of power that he had reached. Then it came about that pride took possession of the heart of the King, and he forgot unto whom he owed his power and the source of his blessings. It is even said that the time came when, so great was his arrogance, he beheld only himself in the world, and he named himself God, and sent forth his image to be worshiped.

Alas for Jemshid! When the Mubids, who are astrologers and wise men, heard this decree of the King, they bowed their gray heads in sorrow, for they feared that the downfall of the Shah was near, since, forgetting his Creator, he assumed himself to be the sole architect of his greatness. But their words of wisdom only resulted in driving the King, who seemed possessed of an evil Deev, into still greater folly.

So there finally came a day when Jemshid commanded by proclamation that all his subjects should assemble in the great square in front of the royal palace, and there, at the appointed hour, a wonderful scene took place.

Howbeit, in order to appreciate what happened, you must know that the Deevs had made of the royal abode a palace like unto a fairy dream. Indeed yes; for all the outside walls, we are told, were covered with beautifully painted tiles, while the many windows and balconies were made of fretted stone work, encrusted with cut and polished glass, so that the whole glorious building, whose towers seemed almost to pierce the heavens, glittered and sparkled as though besprinkled with diamonds.

But in front of the beautiful palace, there glittered something still more gorgeous: it was the throne of the mighty Jemshid, studded, not with glass, but with every precious stone you have ever heard tell of, and a great many that you have not. In fact, so resplendent was it when lit up by the brilliant Eastern sunshine, that it became almost too dazzling for mortal eyes.

On the morning in question, however, the gorgeous throne was empty, though about it were stationed, as guards, a great company of cat-headed Deevs, gigantic Afreets, and fearsome-looking Jinns; while the magnificent, jewel-studded awning was held in place by graceful Peris, a kind of fairy. All of which indicated that the Shelter of the Universe would soon appear.

But though yet quite early, already every inch of standing room in the great square, as far as the eye could see, was crowded with dark faces and eager, upturned eyes. So impatient were the people to behold the Glory of the World and to learn his purpose in so calling them together!

And presently, the trumpets having been sounded, and the tom-toms beaten, the glorious Jemshid deigned to gladden the eyes of his loyal subjects. Slowly he mounted the gorgeous throne, and, as he did so, all the people fell on their faces before him, performing obeisance. As they rose to their feet, however, so majestic and magnificent was Jemshid’s presence that, with one accord, the people burst forth into a loud and prolonged “Bah! Bah!” of admiration, which form of expressing astonishment and pleasure is said to be customary among the Persians still to-day.

But you must hear how Jemshid looked to cause such a “Bah! Bah!” of approval. Well, to begin with, the great Shah wore many silken coats, one over the other, and a beautiful fur mantle outside all the rest. As for his gorgeously embroidered, baggy trousers, behold, they were tight at the ankles, while his slippers were of pure gold. Yes, and upon his head he wore an immense, many-colored turban, in the front of which blazed a huge diamond, set about with rubies and pearls. As for the rest, he was tall, and dark, and majestic, looking every inch a king.

As he raised his sceptre, therefore, commanding silence, the tumult at once ceased, while all awaited breathlessly his words. But the great Jemshid merely asked his people a simple question. He said:

“Long, long, O my people, have you basked in the sunshine of a Golden Age. Now tell me, unto whom do you owe this marvellous prosperity?”

In response to this query, at once the air rang with shouts of, “Hail unto Ormuzd the Blessed! Hail unto the great God of the Persians!”

Alas! This was not the reply that the arrogant Jemshid had desired or expected, so with a frown as black as the cloud of smoke which one could see curling lazily up into the blue from the great volcano Demavend, not far distant, the great Shah thundered forth at his people:

“O Foolish Ones, blind as moles or worms, know you not, then, that there is but one God of the Persians, even Jemshid the Glorious? Bow the knee unto him, therefore, and not unto Ormuzd.”

Now the wonder of such arrogance held the great crowd breathless for one intense moment; then, suddenly, a shiver ran through the vast multitude, and the cry went up: “Demavend! Look at Demavend! The volcano! Oh, the volcano!” Then all eyes turned unto the mountain. And lo! the snow-covered crest was all aglow with dusky red, while a huge black cloud issued from the crater, and moved with lightning speed down toward the plain, finally hovering like a great black bird of ill omen over the awe-struck people, who turned in their terror for aid unto Jemshid.

But in vain, for even as his subjects gazed upon him, the grandeur and glory of the proud king vanished as if by magic. There was no thunder and no lightning, but suddenly, without a sign of warning, the gorgeous palace fell silently into a heap of unsightly ruins; the gem-studded throne, the wonder and glory of the world, crumbled into a heap of worthless dust; and Jemshid’s royal robes became fluttering rags, such as the very beggars of the streets would disdain.

However, this was not the most terrible thing that happened upon that eventful day, for along the ground glided venomous snakes and loathsome lizards, which quickly sprang up out of the ruins, while down from the black clouds there rained a veritable army of huge scorpions, tarantulas, and swiftly running centipedes.

Now it is unnecessary to say that very soon these loathsome creatures had the great square to themselves, for verily in their mad terror and anxiety to escape, the people fairly flew from the spot. And thus ended their allegiance to Jemshid, for recognizing in the day’s happenings a sure sign of the displeasure of Ormuzd the Blessed, they cried out in their anger that they would no longer obey Jemshid as their Shah, since through his pride and presumption he had forfeited the favor of the Almighty.

So it happened that the people of Iran and Turan, having heard that in the land of Arabia there reigned a monarch mighty and terrible unto his foes, now turned unto Zohak, and Jemshid, fleeing upon his milk-white charger before the Arab host, became a wanderer upon the face of the earth, without a friend, and with many foes. And Zohak, the Serpent King, ruled in his stead.

But though the royal wanderer carried a high price upon his head, the chronicles relate that for the space of twice fifty years no man knew whither he was gone, for he hid from the wrath of the Serpent King. Howbeit, such was the zeal of his enemy, that in the course of time Jemshid could no longer escape the spies of Zohak, who finally captured him, as he wandered upon the shores of far Cathay, and brought him in triumph before the Serpent King.

Yea, like the narcissus bent with heavy dew, oppressed with shame, his hands behind his back, and ponderous chains passing from neck to feet, thus stood before the cruel King the once so glorious Jemshid. But alas! the sorry sight awakened in the breast of Zohak not the lightest thrill of pity as, gazing with a scornful smile upon the fallen monarch, tauntingly he said:

“O Lord of the World, and Heaven, behold thy worshippers at thy feet! But—where is thy diadem? thy throne? Where is thy kingdom now? Where thy sovereign power? Alas, I see them not!”

At this cruel speech, the drooping figure straightened, and kingly Jemshid, gazing unflinchingly into the serpent eyes of his tormentor, thus calmly spoke:

“O Serpent-haunted One, unjustly am I brought in chains before thee, betrayed, insulted—thou the cause of all. Feign not, therefore, to feel my wrongs, but work thy cruel will, and thou shalt see that still I am a King.”

Imagine Zohak’s rage at this defiance mixed with royal scorn! His inward fury! Though smiling, still he said:

“Most Kingly King, bereft of throne and power, one thing at least remaineth yet unto thee: to choose the manner of thy passing. Shall I behead thee, stab thee, impale thee, or with an arrow’s point transfix thy heart? What is thy kingly choice?”

Now seeing the evil intent of the King, and scorning to cringe before a thing so base, Jemshid, raising high his royal head and smiling proudly, said:

“O Slave of Iblis, since I am in thy power, do with me what thou wilt. Why should I dread thy utmost vengeance? Why express a wish to save my body from a moment’s pain? True, I have lived too long, but Jemshid’s memory in the world will live, undimmed by thee.”

Then Zohak, realizing from these words that it was not in his power to break the spirit of proud Jemshid, resolved upon a most horrible deed of vengeance. Ordering, forthwith, that two planks be brought, the royal prisoner was fastened between them, and his body divided the whole length with a saw, making two figures of Jemshid out of one.

So perished the great Jemshid, because he was presumptuous, and in his pride would have lifted himself above his Maker. But the good deeds which he wrought in the first half of his reign have caused his name to live, and even to-day the Persians look back with pride unto the splendor of their country in the days when the great Shah Jemshid sat upon the throne of light, comparing it with the glory of King Solomon.

But Persia groaned under the tyranny of Zohak, who day by day continued to pile evil upon evil until the measure thereof was full unto overflowing, and darkness had settled over all the land because of his wickedness. Shedding blood had now become the evil King’s pastime, and he hesitated not at committing every species of crime, until despair filled all hearts.

“The serpents still on human brains were fed,
And every day two youthful victims bled;
The sword, still ready, thirsting still to strike,
Warrior and slave were sacrificed alike.”

Howbeit, things could not go on thus forever, and so, in the course of time, thanks unto Ormuzd, there sprang forth from among the Persians a hero who should avenge the wrongs of his countrymen, and add new lustre unto the glory of Persia. And of this you shall hear.

For behold, it happened that, all unheeded by Zohak, there lived in his dominion at this time a man named Kavah, a blacksmith, remarkably strong and brave, and possessing a large family of fair sons, who were the joy of his life. One by one, however, they were taken from him to be killed to feed the King’s serpents, until but one remained unto him, and finally the lot fell also unto this last of his sons to meet a like death. Then Kavah arose in his wrath and sought the court of the Shah.

But you will not be surprised to learn that about this same time, Zohak was having evil dreams; and so, oppressed by terrors of conscience, he called together an assembly of his nobles, and insisted that they sign a document asserting that he, Zohak, had ever been unto Persia a just, wise, and beneficent King. And behold, it was even as this remarkable paper was being signed that the cry of one who demanded justice was heard at the gates.

Wishing to show unto his nobles, therefore, that he stood ever eager to do justice, Zohak commanded that the petitioner be brought immediately into the audience-room. And lo! Kavah, the avenger, stood before the King, and the assembly of the nobles. Now so terrible was the aspect of this deeply wronged man that, for a moment, all gazed at him in wonder. Then Zohak, the Serpent King, opened his mouth and thus addressed the sturdy Kavah:

“O Brawny One, I charge thee give a name unto him who hath done thee wrong!”

Then Kavah, knowing by the two writhing serpents that it was the Shah who questioned him, smote his head with his hands and uttered a savage cry. But, by a mighty effort, regaining his self-control, he once more faced the King calmly, as he said:

“O Serpent King, thou beholdest before thee Kavah the blacksmith, a blameless man, who hath come into thy presence to sue for justice. And lo! it is against thee, O King, that I raise my cry, and with reason. Seventeen brave sons have I called mine, yet to-day but one remaineth alive, and even now the mouths of thy brain-devouring serpents yawn to feed upon him also, to still their demon hunger. Thou art the King, ’tis true, but why on innocent heads cast fire and ashes? If Iblis, for thy evil deeds, hath given unto thee the form of hissing dragon, why to me be cruel? Why give the brains of my fair sons as serpent food, and then dare prate of doing justice? But thy doom is fixed, thou Cruel One, and even now the avenger’s hand is at the door. Behold, and tremble!”

Now so fierce and sudden was this assault that Zohak, appalled by the rage and sorrow of a father whose language sounded indeed like a cry of doom, at once ordered that the son of Kavah be brought forth and restored unto him. Then, regaining somewhat his arrogance, he bade the brawny smith inscribe his name upon the lying register, already signed by some of the mightiest nobles of the land.

But Kavah, when he learned the purport of the register, hesitated not, but turned wrathfully upon the assembled nobles, crying indignantly:

“O Feeble-hearted Ones, are you then men, or what, leagued with this human monster? Only a common man am I, and yet never will I lend my hand unto such a lie, and no more shall you, nobles though you be!”

Seizing the hated register, therefore, to the astonishment of all, Kavah tore it fiercely into bits, and trampled it under his feet with rage and scorn. Then, pausing not, he strode forth from the palace, taking his rescued son with him. And so majestic and fearless was his bearing as he passed, that none, not even the King, dared raise a finger to detain him.

So, feeling that at last the time had come for action, from the palace, Kavah went straight unto the marketplace. Here he rehearsed unto the people what wrongs the nation suffered, urging them to shake off the yoke of the cruel Serpent King, who was not even of their land. And so confident of success was Kavah, so eloquent and so brave, that multitudes, whose children had been sacrificed unto the brain-devouring vipers, flocked eagerly about the blacksmith, shouting madly: “Justice! Give us justice!”

Then Kavah, feeling the need of a standard about which the people might rally, took off the leathern apron wherewith blacksmiths cover their knees when they strike with the hammer, and, raising it aloft upon the point of a lance, cried out joyously:

“Behold, O my countrymen, the banner which shall lead us on to victory, delivering us from out the hands of the cruel Serpent King.”

Then a glorious shout, the music of which reached even unto the palace, went up from the people, who thronged eagerly about their brave and brawny leader, mad for revenge. So Kavah led them forth from the city bearing aloft his standard—that standard which, later on, adorned with gold and jewels, and called the “Flag of Kavah,” became a sacred symbol, honored by every Persian king in succeeding generations as the true sign of royalty.

But Kavah knew that not unto him was it given to be the real liberator of Persia from the tyranny of Zohak. He had kindled the flame of revolt, but a greater than he must make of the spark a devouring fire. Howbeit, the hero was ready, as you shall hear, thanks unto Serosch, the blessed Angel of Pity.