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Mount Farnas, also known as the "God-stricken div," has been a subject of ancient tales handed down through the generations. The legend speaks of a time long past when a colossal and grotesque div descended upon the region, instilling terror in the neighboring villages. It demanded the sacrifice of one thousand sheep daily as tribute. However, a pious traveler passing through noticed the kindness of the local villagers and implored for their salvation. In a breathtaking moment, a lightning bolt struck the monstrous div, transforming it into a stone, thereby ending its reign of terror. The legend speaks of a powerful bolt of lightning striking the menacing div, causing it to crash to the ground with a deafening roar. The impact created a vast pit, sending dirt and debris into the air. Only a portion of the div's skull and left knee emerged from the wreckage. Despite the seemingly ominous myth surrounding the area, the rich soil and delightful climate atop Mount Farnas soon drew the attention of settlers. Over time, a village flourished in the shadow of the div's gaping maw.

On that fateful morning, the expansive cerulean sky stretched overhead in all its glory. Those who cast their eyes upward even briefly were greeted by a vibrant little bird soaring towards the edge of the valley, its flight path daringly close to the rooftops of the neighboring homes. A closer observation would reveal that this avian companion was keeping a vigilant watch over a young boy navigating the winding alleys of Farnas, his destination being the cliff's edge. His name was Abtin, a twelve-year-old figure well-known to all in the village of Farnas. Yet, they remained unaware of the hardships he bore. As the village's sole orphan, Abtin lived without a designated guardian, relying on the meager earnings he derived from his work at the village blacksmith's shop.

Nestled in the heart of Farnas stood a modest two-story hut, Abtin's dwelling. The hut had been swiftly erected on the outskirts of the village, precariously perched between the last vestiges of the settlement and the precipitous cliffs that loomed nearby. The origin of Abtin's parents remained an enigma, shrouded in mystery, their history veiled in secrecy. The villagers held no knowledge of their roots, save for the fact that the couple arrived in Farnas when Abtin was a mere two-year-old. Such an occurrence was a rare sight in a village that rarely welcomed outsiders.

The family's appearance was in stark contrast to the native Farnas inhabitants. Their tanned complexions, especially that of Abtin's mother and her son, hinted at their southern desert heritage. Despite their efforts to assimilate into the community, their past and the reasons for their migration remained concealed in silence. Then, five years later, they disappeared without a trace, leaving Abtin behind. On that ominous evening, their family home was consumed by a suspicious fire, reducing the mud and wooden structure to nothing more than ashes and rubble. Abtin's miraculous rescue by the village carpenter was the only silver lining in this tragedy.

Despite the calamity that befell him, Abtin greeted the villagers with an eerie wisdom and a demeanor that defied the sorrow one would expect from such a loss. Soon after his parents' enigmatic departure, numerous community members reached out to offer Abtin a place alongside them. The village blacksmith was the first to extend an opportunity, inaugurating a new chapter in Abtin's life. With the villagers' support, Abtin erected his humble two-story dwelling, marking the beginning of his integration into the social fabric of Farnas. Thus, Abtin earned the respect of the community, all while keeping the secrets concealed within the walls of his father's house. Abtin's understanding of his parents was shrouded in vagueness and uncertainty, their memories elusive and few, and he held these thoughts close to his chest, sharing them with no one.

"Good morning, Kaveh!" Abtin greeted cheerfully.

"Good morning," Kaveh replied. "Heading to the valley again?"

"You know I have a date with the Spring Tree," Abtin said with a smile.

This brief exchange with Kaveh, the leather embroiderer's apprentice, was an almost daily ritual for Abtin as he made his way through the village. The Spring Tree, perched at the edge of the cliff above the div's gaping mouth, held a special place in Abtin's heart. Known for being the first tree to bloom every new year, it had earned its name. Abtin had formed a profound spiritual connection with this tree, guided by the most memorable words from his father: "A blue handkerchief with a silver dot signifies the gathering of family. Visit that Tree daily. Whenever you spot a blue handkerchief with a silver dot tied to its upper branches, it means the family will reunite soon."

Abtin repeated the mantra:

Blue handkerchief means...

The family gathers together.

For five years, Abtin diligently followed his routine, starting the day's work at the village workshop early in the morning. He tended to the furnace and sorted the day's orders before making his way back to the tree at the prearranged hour. As the years passed, the initial eagerness to leave Farnas in search of his parents sometimes waned, replaced by feelings of abandonment. He delved into his hazy memories, seeking solace, all while fighting to keep the intrusive thoughts of despair at bay.

There were moments when Abtin contemplated leaving Farnas, not to follow in his parents' footsteps, but to embrace the thrilling adventures he envisioned beyond the village's borders. However, more than reuniting with his long-lost parents, Abtin longed for the reassurance that he was not truly forsaken. His journey became a precarious balancing act, oscillating between love and resentment as he traversed the various emotional stations repeatedly over these past five years. As he moved, willingly and unwillingly, between the stations, Abtin remained steadfast in his quest for affirmation and hope.

As Abtin deftly skipped over the puddles of water, remnants of the previous night's rain, his gaze alighted upon one of the ominous "Eagle Bearers." This stout and unappealing man was clad in armor and iron from head to toe, with the emblem of an eagle with outstretched wings prominently displayed on his helmet. He lay sprawled on the cut trunk of a tree at the village square, his gray cloak enveloping him like a shroud, concealing the shivering of his unaccustomed body against the damp and chill in the air.

Reluctantly, Abtin halted and fixed his gaze on the out-of-place figure of the Eagle Bearer, a stark contrast to the serene surroundings. His count revealed about a dozen more of these misshapen individuals scattered throughout the village, patrolling with unwavering determination. Abtin had held a strong aversion to these individuals from the beginning. They exhibited no kindness towards any of the villagers, yet their grip was inexorable.

The group's leader, a towering man named Mordakh, had arrived in Farnas with the governor's orders, announcing that the kadkhoda had to cede governance of the village to him for an indefinite period. However, it became evident that Mordakh sought to shirk the more onerous aspects of his newfound role. The daily duty of inspecting each tradesman, overseeing new construction projects - including the establishment of a small stone fort for emergency shelter - all remained the kadkhoda's responsibility.

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Mordakh exhibited no interest in such matters. Abtin was convinced that the man relished the sensation of domination over others. He favored his own soldiers, dismissing the villagers' needs for an adequate share of food. Consequently, the kadkhoda embarked from Farnas to Pashiam, the seat of the governor's power, to plead his case in person. Yet, he never had the opportunity to meet with the governor, as his advisor informed him that Mordakh and his men had been dispatched to ensure the welfare and security of Farnas' inhabitants. The order was to be obeyed until updated instructions were issued from the governor.

But no one had heard anything of the impending danger that loomed on the horizon. One of the elder villagers expressed this harsh reality to his gathered companions:

"Politicians! They live in their own insular worlds, thinking we can decipher meaning from their actions. They lack the ability to empathize with others."

How long had it been since the Eagle Bearers' arrival? One month? Two? No - it had been four long months since Farnas, a secluded hamlet that had never witnessed a war in its centuries-old history, was "occupied" by these notorious men, as rumors would have it. Abtin narrowed his eyes and observed the stout Eagle Bearer closely. The man had his heavy ax, which he brought in for sharpening every week, strapped to his hip. He idly ran a hand along its gleaming blade while monitoring every movement in the field before him. Abtin pondered the potential issues he could incite later against this man and his comrades when, suddenly, the towering man's gaze pivoted until his eyes locked onto Abtin's own.

Abtin refused to yield to the pressure and instead offered a slight, knowing smile before nodding in the Eagle Bearer's direction. However, the man showed no reaction to this gesture. Moments later, he rose from his position and took an ominous step closer to Abtin. Fortunately, before he could take another step, Nana Ison materialized before him, clutching a fistful of dry wood and releasing a fierce bellow:

"Why are you sitting here? You came to help us, didn't you? Well, I'm an old woman, and I need to gather wood for my furnace. Get up and be useful, you colossal potato!"

The massive man was so taken back by Nana's fierce outburst that by the time his attention shifted from her, Abtin had disappeared into thin air.

"Phew... God, please don't let Nana Ison leave us anytime soon. This old woman has more courage than all the men in the village!"

"You can say that again. My father always said, 'this woman is something else.'"

Abtin couldn't help but chuckle at the vendors' words as he made his way through the marketplace. Wise Nana Ison, the oldest resident of Farnas, still possessed a fiery spirit that no one could match. Behind her stern facade, she had a heart of gold. Her sugary bread, a delicacy beloved by all, was a testament to her benevolence and love for her community. Through the small hands of Farnas's children, her love and generosity shone brightly on all occasions.

Nana Ison's wealth of tales numbered nearly a thousand, encompassing enchanting fairy tales and the rich historical tapestry of Farnas itself. Her stories captivated not only children but also drew a rapt audience from men and women alike. They would gather around her on chilly nights, seeking comfort by the ever-burning hearth of Nana Ison's House. Every year, on the eve of the revered Yalda night, known throughout Farnas as the 'night of casting away troubles,' she performed a sacred ritual. She would cast the sheep's bones, offered in sacrifice for a blessed winter, into the gaping maw of the God-stricken div. Three distinct taps on the gnarled trunk of the Spring Tree would resonate through the night as she chanted, 'Sweet life, sweet life, may we all remain resilient and joyful, singing of passion, recovery, and fleeting pains until the arrival of the next autumn.'

Emerging from the comforting embrace of these cherished memories, Abtin found himself just beyond the village, retracing his steps along the well-worn path leading to the mouth of the rock. His humble wooden hut, its second floor precariously perched upon the first, came into view. On the second level, a small, unevenly constructed porch extended from the side facing the village, while another overlooked the valley. Abtin often used the village-facing porch for reading and contemplation, losing himself in the pages of books or pondering the uncertainties of the future. The valley-facing porch, on the other hand, was his sanctuary for deeper, more profound musings and artistic endeavors—those moments when silence and unwavering concentration were of the essence. Here, he meticulously crafted wooden and stone statues inspired by the ancient chronicles and legends he had immersed himself in.

If Abtin had the pleasure of hosting a guest that evening, their gaze would be met with a captivating display of statues. There stood an impressive array, each meticulously crafted from a medley of wood and stone, showcasing an array of deer, lions, and even the fierce, mythical dragons. Among them, gallant warriors of ages past, plucked from the annals of history and legends, loomed in various sizes and materials, scattered throughout the space. As the years passed, Abtin's artistic prowess steadily ascended to new heights. Ardeshir, the village's seasoned carpenter and, in many ways, Abtin's closest resemblance to a 'supervisor,' recognized his exceptional talent. Ardeshir proposed the notion of accepting commissions on Abtin's behalf, yet Abtin respectfully declined. He found contentment in his occupation as the village blacksmith, earning a wage sufficient to meet his needs, and cherishing the freedom to spend the remainder of his days crafting without the weight of obligation.

"Whose statue is this?"

"Arash. Isn't it evident from the bow?"

"You're right. Although, you could have portrayed his bow with even greater finesse. My realization came just moments after I posed the question.”

"How did you discern it?"

"You've captured the sheer determination in his expression quite flawlessly."

As Abtin continued the conversation, his thoughts drifted back to a recent exchange with Ardeshir. Over the course of these five years, he had matured well beyond his years in more ways than one. Once, the sight of his village peers, teenagers toiling alongside their parents, would kindle a feverish envy deep within him. He could now admit to himself that what he felt was unmistakably jealousy. However, that fever had long since abated.

At times, however, a bitter current would sneak into his thoughts, and he would entertain notions that his parents did not harbor genuine love for him, that they might not even be his true parents, along with a multitude of darker speculations. In these moments of introspection, his inner optimism would intervene, offering solace and the possibility that unforeseen circumstances had befallen his parents. The discussions of a return and the shared private sign they had spoken of, served as a reminder to reconsider his perspective on his family. Abtin's uniqueness, with his darker skin setting him apart from the other residents of Farnas, never led to any differential treatment from the townspeople. In fact, Abtin would later discover that Ardeshir's role included encouraging everyone to treat him like any other teenager, neither with undue kindness nor unnecessary strictness, to prevent spoiling or weakening him, or to shield him from frustration and isolation.

These small gestures from Ardeshir gave rise to Abtin's optimistic theory, vividly etched in his mind. According to this hypothesis, Ardeshir was the officially sanctioned guardian, effectively succeeding his parents in their role. Consequently, they ensured he was never alone. Although no theory could be without its imperfections, the overall idea served as mortar, filling the gaps in the palace of his thoughts, making life more bearable. Yet the pessimist within him wielded a relentless hammer, perpetually echoing the phrase 'head buried in the sand!' in the depths of these contemplations.

Amidst this inner turmoil, Abtin continuously sought reassurance that his parents had not abandoned him. Often, during the stillness of the night, he would furrow his brow and close his eyes, attempting to recollect cherished childhood memories—a tangible testament to his parents' love. Invariably, these memories would lead him to a dam of fire, with only the roof of his house collapsing upon him in the absence of those who should have protected him, saved only by the miraculous presence of Ardeshir.

Five full years had passed, marked by a rollercoaster of hope and despair, and Abtin now found himself unsure of whether he approached the Spring Tree filled with hope or perhaps a subtle, mocking disappointment—or merely out of habit. At times, he envisioned himself as a fragile elderly man, standing beside the tree, his future grandchildren by his side, gazing at its branches through dim, aged eyes. He often reminded himself that it was his modest collection of books at home, half of which had been thoughtfully procured by Ardeshir, that kept him from losing his mind. On some nights, an inexplicable fire seemed to course through his veins, an unspoken sensation that he dared not share with anyone, lest his grip on reality be called into question: In the darkest hours, everything before him appeared as vivid as daylight.

Abtin's thoughts usually wandered, their course meandering and fragmented. However, on this occasion, it didn't take long for a peculiar sight to capture his attention. The muddy grass surrounding the entrance steps bore signs of heavy trampling, and the left-hand rail of the stairs had been dislodged and tilted, as if it had absorbed a forceful impact. His brow furrowed, and he approached the stairs with measured steps. Leaning over the damaged fence, he observed the sturdy oak wood now contorted into a curve, clearly bearing a trace of blood—a vivid crimson mark etched upon it.