The Ghosts of Zargos

The Ghosts of Zargos

“So these ghosts” said Shu Ping, “these ghosts”, he repeated to make sure he got my attention, “what were they doing way out there? and I've never heard of a ghost donkey before, in anybody’s experiences, ever”, he emphasised

And to be honest I didn't really know, and I was a little annoyed at her question like she was challenging my ability to distinguish between reality and the possibility of spirits existence however far fledged it sounded.

The cheek of it I thought, after all Shu Ping is herself a fictional narrator, mentor type character that I created in order to help in my storytelling and a voice of reason if you will.

But I am getting ahead of myself and apologise if this squabble, this internal spat appears confusing to you listening to this tale.

Allow me to explain and introductions made so as to satisfy your curiosity and then after that, I will continue with the tale, or should I say Shu Ping will continue with telling the tale.

I am a writer of short stories for I have neither the confidence nor patience to write novels. Shu Ping interjected rudely. “and don’t forget lazy!”

I am also an avid journaler, well I think I am anyways. In my storytelling I was attracted to the idea of a fictional character narrator if you will, to play a major part in the ‘telling’. Probably a bit like a compere, the master of ceremonies in a show or event of multiple facets.

I am also, in spite of my years, new to the artistry of short story writing which came about not so long ago when I decided to keep the journal and in doing so discovered a writing habit that gave me immense satisfaction and an incredible passion for journaling. This tool gave me the ability to express and explore myself in a way that was safe from the critical eyes of others.

Now, Shu Ping Is of Chinese origin, wise, familiar with classical history and more importantly very familiar with my thinking. She, for Shu Ping Is she (her pronoun) and far more qualified than me to put things in a perspective than myself as I am at times impossible in an overly romantic way.

Needless to say, Shu Ping exists in me and having been given the role has embraced her task with at times unbridled enthusiasm and a bit more licence than I originally intended.

Which brings me back to the beginning of the story where Shu Ping questioned my revelation of a ghost donkey that appeared with four other ghosts, and in an environment that was unfamiliar to myself and Shu Ping herself, for it took place far from both our cultural environments.

Taking her cue Shu Ping began the tale. “Well then let me continue with the tale, and by the way, seeing as you tried to make an ass out of me with your comment about my unbridled enthusiasm, I will request you stick to the writing, and I will do the telling”

“So, to get back to the tale”, shooting me with a ‘don't you dare’ look, “and recap the events as they unfolded”

So, it was said Shu Ping in her narrators voice, that Mustafa needed some time out, time away from the pressures of his studies, people and the turmoil of the city. He was raised in conflict existing in the tensions of centuries and the persecution of his people which hung over the band like a poison cloak, a dark cloud of awful sadness.

What better way to escape the oppressive heat and tension then to take off to the forests and just hunt. Hunting, the past time with his ancestors and a favourite of his grandfather who used to take Mustafa with him in his earlier years and when grandfather still have the energies to hike the trails in the mountains.

Cradled in his arms, he carried the old shotgun, a magnificent old piece worn but still ornate but just a little heavy. A burden he carried with the strength of loyalty. As much as he loved the old gun, it's memories it's dependability to fire without fail, “one day, mused Mustafa, one day I will get something lighter”.

“It was a clearing said Shu Ping pausing for dramatic space, “just an open area in the mountain scrub and along an ancient well-worn trail winding its way over the hills amongst the trees.

It was hot and at first, he thought it was a distortion of the heat haze, he shook his head thinking to clear his vision because he couldn't believe at first what he was seeing. What he did see would normally cause you to panic and dive for cover. But somehow, he sensed a calm and no threat. For down the trail, about 80 yards away were four people and a donkey.

In spite of the shock of encountering people on this lonely trail he felt calm, a strange calm, especially, as his eyes focused, he noted the two were woman and all of the group wore clothes that denoted they were nomads or possibly mountain dwellers. The donkey was leading the group, indicating that it was familiar with the trial and as the group drew a little closer, he noted the weariness on their faces and that their eyes were fixed beyond him with the exception of the donkey who looked at him for but a moment and then looking back at the group paused and the group stopped.

Was it the heat, the surprise, Mustafa forgot the customary greetings and just stared. The group, as if taking the cue from the donkey, unburdened their packs, bundles they carried and sat down on them, with exception of the older man of the two who at first leaned on his staff, and then moved to sit on the one solitary boulder in the area easing himself slowly onto it with an almost inaudible sigh of relief.

Mustafa remained transfixed, so unsure of what he was seeing yet felt frozen and so was his tongue. His brain however raced with questions, but more importantly his senses, his hearing, his focus, his smell felt heightened, incredibly! But it was his feeling that was the most heightened. He felt immense sadness, compassion that he had forgotten in the numbness to the life of his city existence. And despite the heat, although cooler here in the foothills of Zargon, he felt a chill run through him, a chill that tingled every nerve in his body, for in that moment he realised he was seeing something that wasn’t there. Ghosts? Spirits, Jiin?.. the scary names of those somethings that spoke of the otherworld, the other world that the contemporary mind of a young person, who had categorised life into compartments but now was faced with? Unreality?

Why? what is this? he thought, and why here and why me? And who, who in the name of what is all good were these people? He felt just a tinge of comfort when he realised that was a phrase grandfather used when they walked and talked and he taught in the early days, when he had Mustafa’s attention and company.

And then, like a switch, he felt an overwhelming curiosity that transcended the intimacy of the moment and his rational mind wrestled with the intimate colour of his vision and he moved. Not fast, nor with stealth, but carefully he slowly walked to the group. Its was as if he wasn’t there, and for a fleeting second, he asked himself, am I the ghost?  For they didn’t notice, not a flicker of recognition to his presence.

Sitting on a pack, closest to him was the older of the women. Her faced lined, her hair white, she was dressed in a robe that was not unlike the nomad except it was different, actually a bit like the Bakhtiari, one of the last of the surviving nomads of the Zagros, but older, perhaps a little finer. She was listening to the younger women who conversed with the group quietly, also oblivious of his standing there.

Compelled by his rational mind, desperate to settle the struggle in his mind about ghosts, Mustafa reached down to the shoulder of the unflinching od woman and touched he shoulder gently.

That chill, remember? mentioned, became instantly intense, he froze, his brain felt numbed, because as he touched her shoulder, his hand went through as if what he was seeing wasn’t there. She was there, he saw her, his mind acknowledged, but there was no tangible response. And it was at that point he knew he was in the presence of ghosts.

In the intensity of this encounter, realising he was standing amidst ghosts, that once his heart settled, that he found his voice and speaking the customary greeting in a somewhat croaky voice. He wasn’t acknowledged, he didn’t exist, not to them anyway, but he was noticed.

Looking to the trail standing close by in front of the ghosts of Zagros, the Donkey had turned his head towards him, its ears erect as listening.

“The donkey saw him, heard him and in this bizarre moment in time, as Mustafa and the donkey locked eyes it was if there was an exchange of minds and message”.

“It was then that Mustafa realised that the group of nomads these displaced people were ‘invisible’ to the minds and eyes of the people and in that they had no voice. He understood to that the donkey, a lowly beast had carried the burden up to a point where he could go no further”.

And it was then that he felt the weight of his grandfather’s gun, and realised it was not going to get any lighter.