The Ranges of Dena

By Kiarash Karimian Dowlatabad

Avazollah

They say life in the village toughens you up. And if you're born among nomads, Darwin’s law of natural selection reveals itself more clearly: the weaker ones fall ill early, and often die.

“Avaz” was the child God gave to Yadollah and Teygol as a replacement for their one-year-old son, who had died from fever and a cough. Yet, in this divine exchange, it seemed God had forgotten to include a full mind. What He did give Avaz was a sturdy, illness-resistant body.

From early childhood, it was clear: the boy was wild, unruly, and destined for trouble. He didn’t speak. He usually wore a pair of red pants his father had brought from the lowlands for his older brother, Mokhtar—one leg torn—and a shirt he always wore inside out. He had black plastic sandals, one always missing a strap, and a thick stick he never let go of, which he used to chase and scare sheep through the herd. The poor herding dog found no rest from this boy.

The shepherd, Tileh Gorg, had warned Yadollah a thousand times to keep that troublesome devil-seed away from the herd.

Ilda, the wise old woman of the tribe, who had delivered half of the nomads and treated most of their ailments until they reached the city, made Avaz a herbal decoction from plants native to the Zagros Mountains. Teygol would give it to him every morning so the tribe could have a few hours of peace.

For a short while, the boy would sit still. But before noon, he’d grab his stick and be back among the sheep, hurling stones at the poor shepherd’s dog—a dog who, by all appearances, would have preferred to wrestle with bears and wolves than deal with this unruly child.

Morad was a young man who had just returned from military service. With no money to start a shop in the city, he loaded goods onto donkeys and mules and delivered what the tribes had failed to procure during their seasonal migrations.

One of his donkeys even carried medicine. During his service, he had worked as a pharmacy guard and had picked up the names of a few medications from doctors and nurses. With the posture of an experienced healer, he would prescribe them in improvised doses to desperate nomads.

Most of his remedies hadn't caused much trouble, aside from Karamat's case. Karamat was given five laxatives a day between noon and evening prayers and would have missed several days of prayers if not for Ilda’s miraculous oak bread.

Some people even felt better. Whether it was the medicine or just coincidence, only God knew. Even in Karamat’s case, Morad claimed his prescription helped the illness flush out faster. He said the man’s dry skin and sunken eyes were symptoms of a foreign disease doctors used to call the Spanish flu.

Unlike Yadollah, who disliked Morad and mocked him over Karamat’s diarrhea in their own tribe, many people from other tribes treated Morad’s word as gospel. He had passed his mandatory military service in the city, wore city clothes, and even wore glasses. His sharp mind for persuasion and his uncanny understanding of each family’s needs made him popular—especially among the Kei Givis, where it was rumored that Morad’s remedies and Mullah Hassan’s prayers had helped Kei Qobad father a son.

Even the mullah himself credited Morad's medicine for that miracle.

Ka Dahrob, Yadollah’s grandfather and the elder of their clan, was deeply respected among the Tirtaji people. He had been a legendary marksman—some said he could shoot an egg at the maximum range of a Bren rifle.

Though his eyesight had faded slightly, every year when the tribe returned from the summer pastures, he would take his walnut-stocked Bren—gifted by Hadi Khan, the head of the Tirtaji tribe—along with his grandson Shokrallah and a few young men, and go hunting for ibex in the Dena ranges.

He always returned with a kill. No one remembered a time Ka Dahrob had ever failed to bring back the second bullet unused.

“Once I miss with my first shot, I’ll hand over the Bren to my successor.”

This was a famous line of Ka Dahrob, known throughout the BoyerAhmadi tribes.

He had chosen the name "Avaz" for Yadollah’s son. Children in the tribe, however, called the odd boy “Doodoo.”

Some said it was because of the perpetual stream of snot bubbling and bursting from his nose. But the more accepted reason was that, since he couldn’t speak, he would launch his one-boy charge at sheep and kids with his stick, yelling “Doooo!”—and so they called him Doodoo.

Mullah Hassan used to call him "Avazollah" and even prayed for his healing—at least until the ram incident.

The mullah considered the boy a divine test for Yadollah.

He had Quranic knowledge and would spend each Muharram with a different tribe—answering religious questions, performing marriages, and overseeing funeral rites.

With the alms and donations he collected over seven years, he bought a ram and entrusted it to the shepherd, Tileh Gorg.

Spring was near, and the mullah was hoping his ram would produce offspring. But Tileh Gorg came one day with dreadful news: Doodoo had struck the ram so hard with his stick that it had died instantly—without even a chance to be properly slaughtered for Halal meat.

Apparently, the ram had butted the boy from behind, and Doodoo, in his wild state, had replied with his infamous club.

From that day on, the mullah declared that Yadollah must have committed an unforgivable sin—for God to take away a healthy son and replace him with this mindless devil.

He no longer even called him Avazollah—the godly name he once bestowed on the boy. Not even Avaz, the name Ka Dahrob had chosen. Just “the beast.”

Spurred on by the mullah, the other children of the tribe had beaten Doodoo with sticks a few times—but he had retaliated with stones, splitting heads, and even landing one in the mullah’s side.

The mullah spent days healing with Ilda’s salves and a cane Morad had brought from the city.

By early summer, rumors had spread through the Kei Givis that Yadollah’s son was possessed by a jinn.

Wherever Mullah Hassan went, he now claimed the jinn had entered the boy’s body. Morad, apparently still bitter over Yadollah’s past mockery of his failed laxative, didn’t mind adding fuel to the fire.

At first, Ka Dahrob’s tribe didn’t take it seriously, assuming the mullah was just bitter over the ram. But when a leopard attacked Tileh Gorg’s herd, the murmurs grew louder. Within two days of the first attack, the leopard had taken Karamat’s goat. Some said it was a curse, a heavy omen on the tribe. But the mullah said: “It’s the boy. He brings misfortune.”

After the third leopard attack, even Zoleikha’s mother—who had promised her daughter to Mokhtar—turned her face away from Teygol, especially after the mullah said he would not perform their wedding ceremony.

The tribe left for the lowlands earlier than planned to avoid further leopard attacks. But the beast had caught the scent of blood.

On the third night, the leopard killed Tileh Gorg’s dog—and injured the shepherd too.

Ka Dahrob and Shokrallah set out into the mountains to hunt the predator.

By then, no one dared meet Yadollah’s eyes—let alone speak to him.

Tileh Gorg claimed the attacking leopard was black. That gave the mullah’s jinn theory even more traction.

Then, in the dead of night, the sound of Ka Dahrob’s Bren rifle echoed through the hills—and the tribe rejoiced.

But the crack of Shokrallah’s powder rifle that followed shortly after stunned everyone. Had Ka Dahrob missed?

Now, everyone believed the leopard was no beast—but a demon in disguise.

Ka Dahrob had ordered the tribe to pack up before dusk and set out at dawn into the plain. If the leopard followed, with no place to hide, he would see and hunt it down.

But the mullah insisted: it wasn’t a leopard at all—it was a jinn. And as long as its kin, the cursed child, was among them, it would never leave.

By afternoon, Morad arrived on his frail donkey, saying he had been summoned by Shokrallah to treat Tileh Gorg’s wounds.

That night, while Ka Dahrob was away, the men of the tribe surrounded Yadollah:

“Either you do something,” said Karamat, coached by the mullah, “or the tribe will.”

With a nod from the mullah, Morad adjusted his glasses, scratched his narrow and thin mustache, and said:

“We all know the mullah is a man of God. God gave Kei Qobad a son through his prayers. I once saw his face in the moon in a dream. He desires only our worldly and eternal well-being."

The audience showed their approval. Morad continued, "If Yadollah also wants what’s best for the tribe, he won’t drag the leopard after us.”

Tileh Gorg, still groaning in pain, added:

“Yadollah, don’t bring the leopard after us.”

And the voices of the others rose in agreement.

The mullah even claimed someone had told him that Ka Dahrob was ashamed to have this devil’s seed in his bloodline, though he concealed it to spare Yadollah shame.

Yadollah had no choice.

He looked to Mokhtar in desperation.

Mokhtar’s eyes were on Zoleikha.

Morad gave him half the painkillers he had brought and said,

“If Ka Dahrob were in your place, he’d do the same.”

Yadollah poured the medicine into Doodoo’s bowl of milk. At dawn, he sent Teygol and Mokhtar ahead with the others.

But he didn’t roll the mat or fold the tent.

He added honey and clotted cream to the milk—Doodoo’s favorites—and placed it beside him. He rested the boy’s head on his lap and told him a story until he fell asleep. Then, with tears in his eyes, he followed the tribe.

By midday, Ka Dahrob and Shokrallah followed the leopard’s trail into the plains.

Outside the tent, Doodoo lay bloodied and still.

Teygol, who had noticed Yadollah was walking without the boy, had returned at dawn—and was now wailing over her son’s body.

Doodoo still gripped his stick. Ka Dahrob, his eyes brimming, pulled the torn red pants back over the boy’s wounded leg.

One black sandal lay beside the tent. The milk bowl upside down on the other side.

The Bren rifle roared once more across the plains.

Shokrallah had finished off the shot-wounded, half-dead leopard inside the tent—the one battered hard by the boy’s stick.

Teygol no longer cried.

No more tears. No more screams.

Her once tightly-braided hair blew wildly in the wind.

The wind howled through the ranges of Dena.

Doooooo...

Doooooo...

And Morad never returned from the city again.

Author’s Note

In Persian, “Avaz” means replacement, suggesting that this child was given by God in place of the one lost. The addition of “-ollah” (of God) by the religious mullah was a divine framing: Avazollah, “God’s compensation.”

“Kei” (also spelled Kay or Kay) is an ancient prefix in Persian used before the names of mythic kings: Kei Qobad, Kei Kavoos, Kei Arash. In this story, “Kei Givi” refers both to this tradition and to one of the four main tribes of the BoyerAhmadi.

“Ka” is a respectful Lori (Lurish) title meaning elder or wise man, used here in Ka Dahrob.

“Tileh Gorg” literally means wolf cub in Lori, which is a subtle irony—he is a shepherd, meant to guard sheep, but named like a predator.

By Kiarash Karimian Dowlatabad