THE SCENE: Rostam, the great Persian hero, engages in a fight to the death with powerful demon. Rostam’s eventual victory is as much a victory over his own fear and despair as it is against the forces of darkness.
THE TEXT: Advancing to the cavern, he looked down
And saw a gloomy place, dismal as hell;
But not one cursed, impious sorcerer
Was visible in that infernal depth.
Awhile he stood–his falchion in his grasp,
And rubbed his eyes to sharpen his dim sight,
And then a mountain-form, covered with hair,
Filling up all the space, rose into view.
The monster was asleep, but presently
The daring shouts of Rustem broke his rest,
And brought him suddenly upon his feet,
When seizing a huge mill-stone, forth he came,
And thus accosted the intruding chief:
“Art thou so tired of life, that reckless thus
Thou dost invade the precincts of the Demons?
Tell me thy name, that I may not destroy
A nameless thing!” The champion stern replied,
“My name is Rustem–sent by Zál, my father,
Descended from the champion Sám Súwár,
To be revenged on thee–the King of Persia
Being now a prisoner in Mázinderán.”
When the accursed Demon heard the name
Of Sám Súwár, he, like a serpent, writhed
In agony of spirit; terrified
At that announcement–then, recovering strength,
He forward sprang, and hurled the mill-stone huge
Against his adversary, who fell back
And disappointed the prodigious blow.
Black frowned the Demon, and through Rustem’s heart
A wild sensation ran of dire alarm;
But, rousing up, his courage was revived,
And wielding furiously his beaming sword,
He pierced the Demon’s thigh, and lopped the limb;
Then both together grappled, and the cavern
Shook with the contest–each, at times, prevailed;
The flesh of both was torn, and streaming blood
Crimsoned the earth. “If I survive this day,”
Said Rustem in his heart, in that dread strife,
“My life must be immortal.” The White Demon,
With equal terror, muttered to himself:
“I now despair of life–sweet life; no more
Shall I be welcomed at Mázinderán.”
And still they struggled hard–still sweat and blood
Poured down at every strain. Rustem, at last,
Gathering fresh power, vouchsafed by favouring Heaven
And bringing all his mighty strength to bear,
Raised up the gasping Demon in his arms,
And with such fury dashed him to the ground,
That life no longer moved his monstrous frame.
Promptly he then tore out the reeking heart,
And crowds of demons simultaneous fell
As part of him, and stained the earth with gore;
Others who saw this signal overthrow,
Trembled, and hurried from the scene of blood.
Then the great victor, issuing from that cave
With pious haste–took off his helm, and mail,
And royal girdle–and with water washed
His face and body–choosing a pure place
For prayer–to praise his Maker–Him who gave
The victory, the eternal source of good;
Without whose grace and blessing, what is man!
With it his armor is impregnable.
– The Shahnameh, Abolqasem Ferdowsi, 10th Century AD
