The Lonely Mazār

The man’s voice fills the air, nasal and monotonous. As light wanes and the distant horizon prepares to swallow the last slice of evening sun, the prayer soars over the graves, freshly dug plump ones and flat, settled ones, reaching out to the lopsided ladder of the railroad in the steppe.

Constantly disturbed by the wind, a blanket of dust moves across the yellow brick cemetery. Like a cloud of faded ochre, it ripples in the air and sweeps the mortar joints, the marble tombstones, coating silver crescents and plastic flowers by the graves. The cemetery is far away from the city, and trips to bring fresh flowers would mean hours lost in the commute, so why bother? Plastic flowers look almost as good, and last forever. A nifty hack, and the dead won’t mind.

The man’s voice becomes hoarse and thick, his broad meaty shoulders quivering, and I hold back from the circle of his grief, from the tousled new grave where he kneels.

Aysūlu. 2001 – 2023. Rest, beloved sister.

Silently, I look at the mourning man. I have known him all my life, but I have never seen him like this before – split open with anguish, raw heartbeat bleeding out into the dust-sprinkled air. He moans and mutters, his forehead pressed against the marble headstone.

“Bismillah. Qara jer habar bermesin, äumin.”

I know why he fears the black earth. Many years ago, when we were all children, we lived in a world full of batyrs and witches, ghosts and nymphs: surrounded by ancient gods that our elders believed in, steeped in the legends they told us. Like the one about the lonely mazār in the steppe, its curved outline blacker than the black heavens, stark and ominous in the faded light before darkness closes in around the lost nomad. A front door without a house, only brick walls framing a bed of earth under the open sky, and a crescent moon guarding the sleeper from harm.

Our elders thought the mazār a safe place to spend the night, when evil spirits turn familiar roads into dark labyrinths of lurking peril. Yet we would frighten each other with stories about Jalmauyz Kempır, a mighty pagan goddess turned into a wicked crone, her crooked chin nestled above her sagging neck, broken teeth sticking out of her gums like jagged headstones. She haunts the graveyards, slithering out of sight of the crescent moon, burrowing into graves for corpses to suck on – mostly women. And when she is refreshed with their chilled blood, she makes her way onto the surface; and at night, those she left behind rise again – beautiful empty maidens who bring warm-blooded men for Jalmauyz Kempır to drain.

Perhaps this was what first got the man into religion: fear that has a name is easier to fight. Little by little, the god he began to worship became skin-crawlingly different from the mellow deity that our potbellied imam exalted at Eid, and the spring festival Nauryz which takes root in the pagan worship of spirits. Ours is a lumpy mash of faiths and rituals.

No; this new god was vengeful, harsh, and unforgiving, ready to rain death on anyone who disobeyed their stringent laws.

One by one, the man slaughtered the tender nymphs that glided in our dreams: their flowing hair tangled and torn, bodies bruised and bloody, all sacrificed to make way for the new despotic god. And when the nymphs were dead, he moved on, pious and inspired. No wonder he stands now in front of the messy grave, thinking of the sister wrapped in a white shroud far below, with a necklace of violets on her white throat: his parting gift to cleanse her of her sins.

The last crumb of the sun has dropped behind the steppe. Light disperses, and shadows thicken around the mazār; the man suddenly shivers, the moisture on his face no longer tears.

I am glad he went for the simple white shroud. Had there been a sealed coffin, I could not have clawed my way up, gasping and pushing until I broke the doughy surface. My blood would still swish around inside me, cold and slimy, and violet bruises would still bloom on my skin. I would not stand behind the man, watching the succulent veins pop on his neck, granting him one last breath before I take him to the Goddess to drain.

***

Läilä Örken has a PhD in law and works in the field of international relations. In the evenings, she writes fiction and is working on a novel. Her stories appear in the 'Eunoia Review', ‘Bright Flash Literary Review,’ 'Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder', and elsewhere.