Moniru began her writing career with the publication of a collection of short stories, Kanizu, in 1988. Her first novel, The Drowned, was published in 1989 and brought her recognition as a serious writer whose innovative style, structure, and subject matter distinguished her from other writers. Many of her themes deal with the village culture of southern Iran where she was born. She portrays the peoples way of life — their customs and superstitions, their poverty and hardship — in a way that is both real and fantastic. Ravanipur often weaves local histories, myths, and superstitions into her stories.
Her second novel, Heart of Steel, deals with the trials and tribulations of a modern woman writer in Tehran and employs experimental methods in style and technique. Her latest work, Nazlie, was published in 2003.
Moniru Ravanipur is among the most prolific and respected post-revolutionary Iranian writers. She has been successful in the treatment of the complex subjects of tradition and modernity, juxtaposing elements of both, and exposing them in all their contradictions without idealizing either.
This story is taken from the collection by the same title, Satan’s Stones, first published in 1991. It is the chilling account of a young woman who returns to her village and discovers that she is suspected of sinful behavior and must be forcefully “examined.”
SATAN’S STONES
The sputtering red minibus let her off at the roadside and continued its way to the northern villages. A wind, biting and cold from the north, beat the desert sand against her face and legs. Sheltering her face with her hand, she huddled up and set out toward the village, shrinking away from a wind that whipped about her shoulders.
She passed through the large white Satan’s stones that were scattered about for some distance around the village. No one knew in what distant time or with what enormous power Satan had thrown them into the desert. The shrieking of the wind swirled in her head, and a whirlwind seemed to be attacking the village. Like an old djinn with disheveled hair, it hid everything from view, a djinn who, with a voice unintelligible and frightening, sometimes calm and sometimes howling, was casting spells. Distraught and demented, when the spells did not work, it threw dust and debris into the air.
As she remembered distant fairy tales of childhood, a smile rested on her lips, and to relieve her legs from the driving sand, she stood in the shelter of a rock and gazed toward the village. The whirlwind swirled around her and the rock, as though it did not want her to reach the village. Maybe it was strong enough to lift her and the rock and toss them somewhere far, far away, turning her into a rock — a white rock — and when a camel driver’s children would pass it with their caravans, they would turn their faces away and, under their breaths, whisper a prayer.
She huddled against the rock and covered her ears tightly so as not to hear the terrifying sound of the wind, so she would not know whose fate was being sealed, or whom the stones were entreating to restore their original forms. She thought of the days when she was no more than a child, when the wind would peep through the cracks in the windows and doors into the darkness of the room. Her mother would say: “They are sighing. Satan’s stones are sighing, and when they have atoned for all their sins, you will see that the desert is full of people — men and women.”
She had come unannounced to make everyone happy. When she left, she hadn’t known it wasn’t like school, that she could return six months later to this very village she loved, where she could stay for two weeks. How quickly the time had passed in Shiraz, with its paved streets and countless trees — here this road was still rocky, full of Satan’s stones and the wailing of wind.
She peeked out from behind the rock. The whirlwind had released her and the rock. Unruly, spouting spells, it had headed west. It did not seem to have accomplished anything.
She clutched her bag firmly. Passing through the white stones, she set out toward the village. A biting cold wind hit her face. The ground was frozen, and the uncommon chill of this midwinter month had cracked the small stones. The wind blew into the palm grove near the village, and she could see the gnarled branches bending in every direction. The old djinn goes to the middle of the palm grove sometimes. It tugs at the tresses of the palms so they won’t give their crown of fruit to sinners during the date season, so that if they eat one, every single date they eat will ignite in their mouths. She drew near the first house — still mud brick! — with low doors and small windows, whose frames were only big enough for a head, unlike those open windows in Shiraz .. . in houses and classrooms . . .
She looked at the blue door of a mud brick house and saw that it was still there — that very sign put on the door of Setareh’s house at night. A djinn who is the protector of the village smells sin, and at night it marks every house where the smell of sin is concentrated. And who had ever seen this djinn?
Setareh, wearing a long orange dress, her black hair falling over her breasts, with kohl-lined hazel eyes, opened the low blue door. It was as though she had been waiting for her, waiting for her, and maybe through a crack of a window, as always, guarding the rocky path.
Setareh’s face lit up with a broad smile, and in the middle of the biting chill and the distant sound of the wind she cried: “Hello, Maryam...”
Two years had passed since the djinn who watched over the village had seen the shadow of a heavy cloud over Setareh’s house and appeared in the old matron’s dream. The old matron, who was the village matriarch, had pointed to the sky in broad daylight with five henna-dyed fingers; there wasn’t a single cloud. As punishment for loving a stranger, Setareh had been forced to come to this house — a house far from other houses. Two years ago, she had a house near the village square and lived with her mother. The stones that pelted the door and window of Setareh’s house day and night, and the way the village women shunned her, drove her old mother to bed. Three days after the old woman’s death, Gholam the Gendarme — who dropped by the village once every two months in a gendarmerie jeep — packed Setareh’s things to take her to the city. Although she didn’t love him, Setareh married him and settled down in this small mud-brick house.
It had been a long time since Gholam the Gendarme had dropped by the village in the gendarmerie car for a ten-day stay. Setareh always stood behind the window — the closed window — and watched for the dust her husband raised in the distance as he came to the door.
Setareh’s friendship and congeniality were evident in the glow on her face and the sound of her voice. But she seemed to be afraid that someone would see her — see her talking with Maryam. She did not come out of the doorway; she stood right there, both hands on the doorpost, and smiled.
“Hello, Setareh! How are you? How is your son?”
“He’s fine, kind of you to ask — but how about you? How have you been?”
She was in a good mood, but she watched everything around her. She was afraid that the village matron, the old woman who smelled everything and seemed to be everywhere, would see her. How many times had the women been forced to sit in the village square and ululate toward Setareh’s house? Even Mother had joined them; they had taken her by force.
“Are you finished with school?”
“No, Setareh, it doesn’t end that fast. It will take eight years.” “Eight years is a whole lifetime
Setareh had not gone into the village in a long time. Every Thursday she went around the mud-brick houses to reach the graveyard and say a prayer over the graves of her dead. If it weren’t for Gholam the Gendarme with his rifle, and the bullets he had fired in the village square, the old matron could very well have had her paraded naked through the streets in front of everyone; she could have had her long black hair shaved off.
No one wanted to confront the old matron. It was she who had advised Mother not to send her to the port city. Mother had said: “She’s not going to a strange place — it’s her uncle’s house.” If it weren’t for Maryam’s uncle, who had lived in the city since his return from military duty and taken a wife from the port city where his children we
re educated, Maryam would never have been able to go to the port city and then to Shiraz.
Setareh’s eyes sparkled. She leaned her arm, covered with bracelets, against the door and seemed to be searching for something to keep Maryam, to draw her toward the house. And if she went into the house? She was frightened. She looked all around her. No one was there — only the whistling wind blowing dust and debris.
After a long time, Maryam’s uncle had come to the village with a bundle of souvenirs to talk with the old matron; her eyes had gleamed. Mother gave her lunch every day, and the other houses hosted the old matron every day, to ensure that food would remain plentiful on their tables; that, with her blessing, no one would get sick; that the rain would fall on time; and that the dead would rest in their graves.
Mary am had to leave. She had to break off this familiar, friendly exchange. She said good-bye and set off. The soles of her feet were freezing. A rough, abrasive wind beat against her face. A cow mooed in the distance. She had wasted too much time. She should not have stayed so long . . . Now she wanted to get home faster, to sit in a warm room beside a brazier full of charcoal and listen to the sound of a potato baking in the coals.
She reached the village square. The cold had blackened the familiar old tamarisk, and the tall narrow trunk of a palm with no top sank into the ground like an iron post on the left side of the square. The barefoot children rode stick horses made of palm tree branches, their cheeks red and their noses running. In a corner of the square, a small whirlwind played with dust and debris.
As she came nearer, the children stopped playing one by one and stared at her. She stretched out her hand to pat a little boy on the head. The little boy ran, and the others backed away on their wooden horses. A window facing the square opened, a woman put her head out and called: “Sardar, Sardar, come home!”
Maryam waved at the woman. She saw the woman’s frozen, disgusted look, saw her back into the house and slam the window shutters closed. Maryam was stunned. It was Zoleykha. Why didn’t she acknowledge her greeting? Maryam saw two other windows open, saw frowning women call their sons, look at her sourly, and slam the shutters.
This is where she used to play. Her childhood years were spent in this very square. And now she stood in the middle of it, amid frowning and closed windows. The children had run away, and the disgusted glare of the women remained in the square. Someone had certainly seen her talking and laughing with Setareh, a woman who had gotten pregnant by a stranger. She saw that they were watching her between the cracks behind closed windows. She was cold, and the whirlwind from the square was swirling around her legs, straining as if to lift her and carry her away, carry her where . . . where would it toss her?
She smiled faintly. She could say that Setareh had blocked her way, that her little boy was ill, that it was only hello, how are you; she could talk to her mother, and she could say . . . say what? What could she say?
She went on her way. The wind blew dried bits of dung along the ground. She hunched over, face-to-face with the wind. This cold had a nasty bite. The chill ran through her bones; it was different from the cold weather in Shiraz, where it drizzled continuously and you wanted to walk in the street, under the tall cypresses, where snowflakes fell softly on your face without getting you all wet, and the squares were all green, with tall water fountains and houses with big, windows . . . How far away that city was . . . how far.
The tap-tapping sound of a hand patting bread onto the walls of a kiln sent a pleasant warmth through her veins. She was in the village — the smell of fresh bread and a cow that mooed and a kiln around which women were gathering, waiting for a turn.
She saw the kiln from a distance, and the gathering of village women, and the old matron with her eternally black clothes, who was sitting over the kiln. She always wore black and she was always alone . . . the old virgin of the village . . . Mother used to say she devoted herself to the people, to the village. It went back many years to the time when tuberculosis had struck the village and a hungry black djinn had come from who knows where and was eating the flesh and blood of men. So the djinn would let the village alone, the old matron, who was fourteen years old in those days, sat before a water bowl. With an incantation that the matron before her had chanted, she saw and heard in the bowl of water that a fourteen-year-old girl must remain a virgin forever, so she did, and the black djinn turned white and harmless and stayed right there in the air of the village so he could prevent anyone from getting close to her.
A round wooden bowl full of bread sat beside the old matron. Everyone gave her their first loaf of baked bread. Maryam sped up. She saw wooden trays of dough beside women waiting their turn, and women who had seen her turned around one by one and watched her.
Before she reached the tall familiar bread kiln, she said: “Hello . . .”
The women kept their eyes on the old matron’s face, some of them shifted in discomfort, and they said softly, under their breath: “Hello . . .”
The old matron, with sharp pursed lips and a look that pierced like a drill, stared into Maryam’s eyes. Her tattooed hairless eyebrows were raised. The green star on her chin twitched as if talking to itself. Two red ringlets were affixed to her hard, bony temples. From underneath her black veil, her long thin hair, like red bloody snakes, stretched to the ground.
Maryam collected herself under the old matron’s hard and heavy gaze. For a moment she remained confused, saw the old matron give a woman a threatening hand gesture, and heard her say: “What’s wrong with you? Are you dumbstruck? Did you see the Virgin Mary or something?”
She saw the old matron’s sneer, saw the woman who gave her a ball of dough. The old matron’s wrinkled brown hands patted out the dough. The other women drew their veils over their faces and busied themselves with their work. From the corners of their eyes, they watched her leave.
She had gone a few steps when she heard the dry sound of the old matron’s ululation, which ricocheted off her back like a whip. Cold as ice, horror ran through her soul, and she heard the women’s small titters, as if they were laughing at Setareh.
Under the heavy stares of the women, Maryam retreated into an alley, an old familiar alley that seemed to have become even narrower and darker with the winter’s cold. She leaned against a wall. She closed her eyes and opened them an instant later, terrified. She feared that the walls would come forward and crush her. She shook her head vehemently, and then, at the thought of the distant city with its tall cypress trees, a faint smile appeared on her face.
She continued and came to another alley. The doors to the houses were open, with elk and deer horns mounted over them, symbols to drive away any calamity or disaster. It would take eight more years to become a doctor, and then she would return to the village, and maybe she could patiently remove these talismans one by one from the houses . . . She would open a place and get help from the girls in the village . . . She had seen what the old matron had done with the woman next door. Five years ago, when the woman had gone into labor, the old matron had waved the branch of a date palm that she had lit in the brazier. She had waved it through the air in the room so that the djinn who threatens women in childbirth would let go of the woman’s liver. She had seen the woman lose her voice in pain and beg, her body convulsing, that salt be poured on the fire again. She had seen the old matron, at the cry of the baby, cram a fistful of burning cow dung between the legs of the woman, and she had heard the cries of the woman.
From the bend in the alley, she saw their house, with antlers mounted over the door, which, as usual, was open. Her gaze slid down the door and she took a deep breath. It seemed as though the door had been freshly painted. Blue. She smiled, seeing a rooster perched on the low courtyard wall, and a chicken, pecking the ground next to the wall, lifted its head up for the rooster.
She went through the courtyard door. The whole place was unkempt and disorderly. Chicken droppings and dried-up dung were scattered everywhere. She saw her mother bent over the well drawing water
. She was preoccupied. Her profile was thin and gaunt. Maryam walked quickly toward the well and said excitedly: “Hello . . . Mama.”
Mother shook her head hard, as if to drive away a hallucination, but a moment later she turned back and straightened, joy lighting up her face. She dried her hands on the hem of her petticoat and suddenly paused in hesitation. Maryam ran toward her and saw the stinging bitterness in her face. Stunned and tired, she looked at her, not knowing what to do.
“How are you, Mama? Y-you’re not feeling well?”
Maryam threw her arms around Mother’s neck and kissed her. Mother drew back slowly, imperceptibly, and asked hoarsely: “When did you get here?”
“Now, just now.”
Mother took her bag. “It’s a good thing you came . . . very good.”
She seemed to be talking to herself. Maryam looked at her. Her hair had turned completely white; her thin, sad lips were pressed together. They went toward the room together.
“Mama, has something happened in the village?”
“No . . . why do you ask?”
Mother’s voice was hoarse and rusty. She wouldn’t look at Maryam. She was listening to the sounds outside. She seemed to be apprehensive. They reached the room. Mother put the bag in a corner, sat beside the brazier, and pushed back the ashes in it with some tongs. She seemed to be keeping busy so she wouldn’t have to say or hear anything. The silence began to make Maryam anxious.
“Is there fighting in the village?”
Mother emptied a tin of charcoal into the brazier. She put a glowing ember on the charcoal and started fanning it. “No, what fighting?”
She was evasive and reticent in her answers. Maryam wanted to say that the old matron had ululated, but she could not; sweat broke out on her brow. She was embarrassed. Mother pursed her lips and lit the charcoal in the brazier.
“How long will you be here, dear?” “Two weeks.”
Strange Times, My Dear Page 20