Pomegranate Sky

Prologue

Prologue

His body is aching, but he dare not stop. Three shadows

are gliding down the trail he has left behind.

The sun is sinking and crimson streaks the sky. It has

been years, but he remembers their breath on his face, the taunts whispered

in his ear. The red hot irons pressed to his chest, the needles pushed under

his nails. The old scars on his wrists are opening. They must not catch him

this time.

He speeds off-piste and plunges into powder. Snow sprays

and streams behind him, blazing a path of white on the darkening mountain.

But the shadows are even closer now. He can hear the slice of their skis,

feel their eyes. The chill wind carries the smell of sweat. He must ski

faster somehow.

Suddenly, something grips his chest, squeezing his

lungs. He cannot find air. His poles drop from his hands and he is falling.

The ground tips and swings back to catch him. His head is heavy and his body

feels broken.

He looks up. There are no more shadows, only swirling

cloud. Snowflakes touch his face. The mountains circle, the earth pulls

away.

His wife and daughter are beside him, their palms on his

forehead, his arms, his chest. The pain fades. He will rest here for a

while. He closes his eyes and sees the black-haired girl who has lost her

way and the child who knows not her name. He promises to watch over

them.

The last of the winter sun drowns in an ashen sky. The

wind rolls down from the summit and throws a blanket of snow over him.

Beyond the dark peaks of the Alborz is Tehran, city of

veiled women, toppled kings and ayatollahs, merchants and bazaars. In the

frozen gardens, children play late games of hide and seek amongst the frost

white cherry trees and suck the cold jewelled seeds of wild

pomegranates.