A short story set in the early days of Calormen. Learn of the founding of the First Temple of Tash and what became of its priests. The tale contains no violence or bad language but some details may be unsettling for young children. It is inspired by the deuterocanonical work 'Bel & the dragon'.
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THE FIRST TEMPLE OF TASH
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"The true desert may be found in a man's heart…"
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The events that follow happened long ago, in the early days of Calormen. Its people were farmers and brave horsemen back then; empire wasn't thought of. That was an era before wealth, standing armies, Tishrocs and Tashbaan. It was an age without the obscenity of slaves, avaricious tax collectors, or byzantine bureaucracy (1). Calormenes had what they grew, made or traded. Their fledgling taste for verse, music and poetry was of credit to them.
The sands of Hal Hallim were an area of desert, bordered by a fertile strip along a small river, the Asha Hal Farl. A small village nestled by the water, and enjoyed the benefit of fertile soil from the annual floods. The old folk who'd founded the village claimed to have encountered jinn (2), out there in the featureless, sandy plain. Naturally, Hal Hallim was shunned after dark. Jinn would confuse or bewitch unwary travellers, luring them to their deaths. When anyone found bones in the desert, bleached white by the pitiless sun, they knew that the jinn had been at work. That small village - Ashakoy - lived in harmony with its kinsmen in the other settlements. It acknowledged the leadership of the Beldi-Baskni (a sort of mayor) in what would one day become the city of Tashbaan.
"All troubles come from the desert" is a later Calormene adage. Perhaps those early rustics would have concurred? It came true during the last years of Flaima Khal-am, a great woman in Ashakoy. She was a grey-hair (a village elder) and, most importantly, a poet. Her work would resound down the centuries, first, in the oral tradition and then written down. Khal-am would be remembered as the greatest poet of the pre-imperial age. Wisdom shone through every verse that she ever wrote. Three priests, a father and sons, one day appeared out of the desert. They brought great news before the Orvam (a meeting of the village elders) which included that great thinker.
Yalanci, the older man, knew his business (having a wonderful line in theatrics). "We have crossed the dead land of the Hal Hallim," he addressed the gathering, "where the jinn dance and debauch like demons from the pit of Ashanguar". This was good stuff, for everyone enjoys a bit of drama, now and again.
"Hear him," said his sons solemnly, in well-practiced chorus.
"Yet they wouldst dare not lay a claw on a priest of Tash," Yalanci continued.
"Praise Him!" chanted the sons. Really, all that they lacked were tambourines.
"Out there, in the waste, Tash revealed a wondrous secret to us," said the chief priest. "We found a cave, where He showed us His back." The implication being that his front was too marvellous to see (or possibly too foul). Most of the elders gasped.
"We know of no cave in the Hal Hallim," said Flaima Khal-am.
"We watched as the sands poured from about it, like grains through an hour glass."
"Then this must be investigated," said the poet decisively, "tomorrow; when it is light!"
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"The worst wax fat whilst the blessed wane…"
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A small cave had indeed been exposed by the shifting of the sands. Whether Tash had, or had not, shown his self to the itinerant priests is something we'll never know. My own opinion, for what it is worth, is that they lied. What is sure, however, is that it became an important site. It was to be the first 'Temple of Tash', a small, ziggurat-like (3) affair no more than twenty feet high. Built of mud bricks it had a faint red tinge peculiar to the local soil, which hinted at its bloody heart. The cave itself was concealed inside the structure, going some small way into the ground. It became the inner sanctum of the priests.
The Calormene were a rude and carnal people back then and so their worship was of a rough and ready nature. They had a simple sacrificial system that everyone could understand. Pigeons, doves, and fowls were quickly despatched on the 'public altar' by the priests. A small fee was generally paid except by the very poorest. A dark patch stained the ground about the altar, which could never be scrubbed clean. A spotted trail led to the doorway of the temple. Pictures of the god Tash were painted on the wooden door frame. That horrid vulture's head and four arms with clawed hands would have sufficed to warn me about its nature. Strangely, it troubled neither the villagers nor their countrymen who began to make pilgrimages from distant parts. A heady scent of incense wafted continually through the open door and, just inside, one could make out a heavy leather curtain draped over the mouth of the cave.
For twelve years the family of priests lived on the bounty of worshippers. The father grew old and rotund; his robes became noticeably tighter and more expensive. The sons found wives from the village maidens and lived in large houses with flat roofs and internal courtyards. Rihap-cal-Tash (the servant of Tash) declared a tithe of ten percent to be paid by all from Ashakoy, great or poor. This, being the will of Tash, would be used to glorify his temple. There was some private grumbling about the tax because high spring floodwaters had spoilt some of the fields. A poor harvest was expected. Tash might have timed 'his' demand more thoughtfully.
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"A fool may speak a truth; the crafty always lie…"
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Sarai Calkoy was generally regarded as a gossip. It's an unkind word sometimes applied to those we dislike and it often reeks of sexism. Nonetheless, in this instance, it was accurate. There was nothing more that Sarai loved than spreading a secret or being first with some tasty morsel of news. One afternoon she was out delivering bread to her cousin, the goatherd, for she was by no means all bad merely indiscreet. She went out of her way, intending to leave a loaf in the box by the temple.
As Sarai trod the well-worn track she gasped and halted. There was something going into the temple. Now, what it was, I don't know. It didn't resemble the depictions of Tash but mayhap it was one of his dark legion? Certainly, if one can be judged by one's companions, then there was little good to be said of Tash. The beast had two arms and two legs, was feathered like a bird, and had the head of some great cat. It smouldered like it had been rescued from a fire and damped. A charnel house smell meandered on the soft breeze. Whatever the monster was, it disappeared inside the ziggurat.
"…and so I saw Tash himself (praise be)!" Sarai concluded. Quite why she thought she'd seen Tash was known only to herself. Sometimes we refuse to see what is really in front of us. At other times we must open our eyes and comprehend. If you will bear with me, allow me to illustrate: I once saw the devil. There; I've said it. Now, I don't mean that I literally saw a horned being with hooves and a trident, like some image from a medieval fresco. Nor do I mean that I saw someone and figuratively knew them to be devilish. I mean that I looked at someone and knew that the devil stared back at me out of that face, at that moment. For a most unwise person it was a rare occurrence of discernment on my part. Sarai, by contrast, couldn't see literally what had been in front of her.
The villagers looked doubtfully at each other and some rolled their eyes. Tashhalem, youngest of the priests, nudged his brother, unseen. "This could be handy" he whispered.
"People of Ashakoy, hear me, for this is a sign; Tash Himself has favoured our sister, Sarai. He is pleased with our generosity and pours his benisons upon us like the sun o'er the grain-fields. This afternoon we, the priests of the great Tash, will go to his temple and commune with him. Join us at dawn with your offerings!" Rihap-cal-Tashflung his hands in the air and then sank to his knees in worship.
'What very convenient timing; I wonder what they paid her?' thought Flaima Khal-am.
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"When you have seen the light do not choose to walk in darkness"
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Most of the village turned out long before it was light. Carts and donkeys were loaded with offerings of fowl, fruit, wine and bread. The more affluent rode horses beautifully groomed. The women wore garlands of blooms about their necks, mostly Afhalni flowers. There was a carnival atmosphere, even if some harboured doubts about Sarai's veracity. Children carried great green leaves to wave in a parade before the temple door.
It was after dawn and still chilly when the procession reached the temple. Youngsters walked in the vanguard wafted their leaves. The women shook timbrels and bells in celebration. There was no sign of the priests. Could they be inside and actually in the presence of Tash? It was the children that first saw something was wrong for they halted and some cried. The dark, broad smear about the altar was thick, fresh and sticky. It led in a wide trail to the temple door.
"What, by the blessed pigeons has happened?" asked the headman. He was a burly fellow of sixty, usually unshakeable. "Ugh, let me not look on such a thing again!"
In the end it was Flaima Khal-am and two of the younger men who ventured into the temple. She came out visibly shaken. "They're dead; it's…horrible, truly horrible". One of the new widows ran towards the temple door but the poet caught her by the shoulders. "You should not have to look on that," she said gently.
The altar was taken down, cast inside the temple door, and then the place was sealed up. Sand was shovelled over the bloody ground to hide the scene of the murders. The ziggurat was given a wide berth thereafter and eventually its mud bricks perished into a mound. The roving sands covered it until it became no more than an unloved feature in the desert. I'd like to say that the people learned from it but no blame was apportioned to Tash. After the murders many publically expressed doubts about the priests' probity. It was felt that they'd brought it on themselves. The truth was however more complex. The taal-intkhalam – or hill of revenge – marked the grave of the three fools who had sought to profit from one demon then found another.
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THE END
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Notes:-
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All quotes in the section headings are from Flaima Khal-am's most famous work 'The narrow gate to wisdom' (British Library collection).
1 A term meaning unnecessarily complex proceedings or bureaucracy; the Ottoman Turks seemed to suffer from this too.
2 Jinn (Djinn, Genies): supernatural creatures first recorded in pre-Islamic folklore
3 Ziggurat: A building with successively receding stories or levels; steps, in this instance.