The Oath of Crossing the Salt Desert

The black wind from the Kavir Salt Desert hovered outside Farha Village all night. By dawn the next day, the water level of the tributary of the Helmand River had dropped by half. The reeds along the riverbank were dotted with fine salt grains, and even the most drought-tolerant camel thorns hung their tips listlessly. The pomegranate orchard in the center of the village, said to have been planted by Ahura Mazda, the God of Light, had lost its former vitality—its pomegranates, which should have hung heavily on the branches, now had wrinkled skins, and the sweet fragrance that had lingered in the air year-round was replaced by a choking smell of sulfur.

The village chief's cowhide tent was packed with people. The coughs of the elderly and the sobs of women mingled, creating an oppressive atmosphere. In the center of the tent, the fire in the hearth flickered weakly like a candle in the wind, casting light on anxious faces. "The black wind of Apaosha never comes empty-handed," the white-haired village chief said, gripping his cane so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "What he wants is the Dew of Life—it's the root of this orchard! Without it, the orchard will turn to salt lumps, and we'll all die of thirst on this land."

A rustle suddenly came from the corner of the tent. Farzad stood up, his blue cotton robe still stained with pomegranate leaf juice—he had just returned from the orchard, where he had tried to water the withered branches with spring water. This twenty-year-old young man was the thirty-seventh generation guardian of the pomegranate orchard. His palms were covered with fine calluses from years of tending to the fruit trees, and his eyes held a calmness beyond his years. "I'll go to the salt desert," he said in a soft but firm voice that cut through the tent like a stone dropping into still water, silencing everyone instantly.

"No!" The village chief slammed his fist on the ground. "The Kavir Salt Desert is a 'tomb of life'! The sun can melt iron there during the day, and the cold wind can crack rocks at night. Countless caravans have gone in and never come out!" Farzad bent down to pick up a withered pomegranate petal from the ground. Though wilted, it still carried a faint fragrance. "But we can't hand over the Dew of Life. It's something our ancestors guarded with their lives—it's the sweet fruit in the children's bowls, the running water in the river. I'll find Mithra's Covenant Stone. Legend says it can subdue the spirit of drought. It's our only hope."

On the evening before his departure, the village chief called Farzad to his tent. He took a palm-sized copper plate from a camphor wood box. Polished until it shone like a mirror, the plate was carved with delicate sun patterns and adorned with three small copper bells around its edges. "This is the Guide Copper Plate," the village chief said, his voice trembling as he pressed the plate into Farzad's palm and stuffed a handful of dried pomegranates into his cloth bag. "When exposed to moonlight, the patterns will glow and point to the Spring of Rebirth—only by drinking its water can you withstand the salt desert's heat. Remember, Mithra values sincerity above all else, more than gold itself."

Farzad slung his cloth bag over his shoulder, hung the copper plate at his waist, and stepped into the salt desert at sunset. The moment he entered, a wave of heat engulfed him. The salt crust under his feet glowed with dazzling white light under the sun, and the distant horizon  was distorted into shimmering waves—mirages that lured people to their deaths. The hot wind carried salt grains that stung his face like needles. Gritting his teeth, he pressed on, his feet sinking into the cracks of the salt crust at every step. When he pulled them out, his soles were covered in white salt frost.

On the first night, he leaned against a windbreak salt rock and slowly chewed on dried pomegranates. The sweet-tart pulp slid down his parched throat, bringing a trace of comfort. He took out the Guide Copper Plate, but under the faint starlight, its sun patterns remained dim. The howl of an unknown beast echoed in the distance, mixed with the whimper of wind passing through salt cracks—like the sigh of an old man. By noon the next day, the sun hung overhead like a red-hot fireball. His water bag was long empty, his lips cracked and bleeding, and he felt dizzy with every step. He fell onto the salt crust, the scalding grains burning his arm. As his consciousness faded, the copper plate at his waist suddenly trembled slightly.

By then, the moon had quietly risen. Its cold light fell on the copper plate, and the sun patterns suddenly lit up with golden light, their tips pointing to a depression in the southeast. Summoning his last strength, Farzad crawled over and found a clear spring in the center of the depression—its surface glistening with fine silver light, the Spring of Rebirth. He threw himself forward, cupping the water with his hands and drinking deeply. The sweet spring water slid down his throat, instantly dispelling the heat and exhaustion. Even his cracked lips began to heal.

In the evening of the third day, Farzad finally reached the center of the salt desert. On a flat salt plain stood a man-high grayish-green stone, carved with a spreading eagle and a rising sun—the symbol of Mithra, the Covenant Stone he sought. Unlike the cold salt crust around it, the stone felt warm to the touch. He reached out excitedly to touch the sacred carvings, but a bitter cold wind suddenly blew from behind, carrying salt grains that stung his back.

"Foolish boy," Apaosha's voice rasped like sandpaper, heavy with suffocating pressure. Farzad turned to see the black-robed figure floating in mid-air, black mist seeping from the hem of his robe. Wherever the mist touched, the salt crust frosted over. "Do you really think a cold stone can stop me?" Apaosha sneered. His robe suddenly twisted into a whirlwind, trapping Farzad in its center. "By dawn tomorrow, Farha Village's river will turn to salt, its pomegranate orchard to dead wood, and those children will beg me for a drop of water—all because of your foolish choice today."

The whirlwind spun faster, flapping Farzad's robe and making it hard to breathe. Gazing at the Covenant Stone, he suddenly remembered the village chief's words before he left: "Mithra guards covenants, and he guards sincerity—sincerity can awaken the stone." He fumbled in his cloth bag and pulled out his last handful of dried pomegranates. He had saved them specially—each one carried the scent of Farha Village's sun and river, the fruit of the villagers' sweat.

Facing the whirlwind, Farzad scattered the dried pomegranates before the Covenant Stone. His voice was hoarse but unwavering: "This is not a cold stone—it's a covenant to guard the land! These dried pomegranates hold the sincerity of Farha Village's people—the smiles of elders sharing fruit with children, the hope our ancestors guarded for generations! Mithra, if you can see this sincerity, please help us!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, the Covenant Stone erupted into a brilliant golden light, cutting through Apaosha's black robe like a sword. The shadow under the robe let out a shrill scream, and the black mist dissipated rapidly in the light. "I will not give up!" Apaosha's voice faded away as he turned into a wisp of black wind, swept away by the salt desert's hot wind and vanishing into the sky. The golden light gradually faded, and the stone returned to its warm state. But Farzad could feel a warm power within it, flowing along the salt desert's veins toward Farha Village. Leaning against the stone, he watched the faint glow of dawn break in the distance and smiled—a tired but determined smile.