A Matter of Xwedodah

'Ah, so this Lydia in fact reminded you of your mother.'

'Yes, yes I suppose she did. Yes!' I held up my hands. 'Very well, Firuz, I admit it, yes, I can imagine lying with my mother. The thought fills me with desire as well as uneasiness. Yes. But ... how could I propose such a thing to her? We are mother and son. There has never been a hint of ... of that sort of thing between us. How can I go to her at this point and speak of xwedodah?'

'But her own parents, your grandparents, were mother and son. Has she ever spoken of their marriage with disapproval or revulsion?'

'Certainly not. She remembers them very lovingly, as do I, though my grandmother died when I was but a boy of five. My grandfather died four years ago.'

'Your grandfather never remarried?'

'Never.'

'Perhaps he felt as I do, that the intense love of xwedodah can never be followed by an ordinary marriage. But from what you tell me, your mother's experience, growing up in a mother-son xwedodah family, was wholly positive. Of all women, she is the most likely to embrace xwedodah with her own son. Go to her, Ardashir. Open your heart to her, tell her of your desire to follow Mazdayasna, to receive the blessings of xwedodah, for both of you. She is your mother, she will not scorn you.'

* * *

As Firuz left our house, my mind was a jumble of contending thoughts, my heart was in a tempest. I retired to my bedchamber and lay upon my bed, with a damp kerchief to cool my overheated forehead. Xwedodah with my mother! It was unthinkable. It was wrong, all religions said so ... all but Mazdayasna.

I loved my mother, of course, as a mother; and she loved me as a son - that bond between us had always been strong. As a child, I had always found safety and comfort in her arms: she was patient and understanding in a way that my blustery, salty, laughing, impulsive father sometimes was not. My father had not been given to public displays of affection, toward me or toward my mother: the Christians are not demonstrative that way. But she loved him, of that I am certain. Surely she still mourned for him, as I did. She had said nothing in the year since his death about remarriage, even as a remote possibility. It seemed doubtful that she wanted any man to fill my father's place in her bed, let alone her own son!

And yet, in that year, I had risen from being an underling in my father's wine concern to being its master. I had become head of our family, in the eyes of Greeks and Persians both. And in my mother's eyes as well: indeed, she encouraged me to take my proper place, to assert my will, both at home and in the business. I felt a new kind of respect and support from her. I was a man now, and she depended on me, to protect her, to make the wise decisions that would cause our family to prosper. Our relationship had changed: without losing any of the mother-son bond between us, I had taken on a new role towards her, and we both seemed to thrive in this, even amid our grief at the loss of my father.

I was not without sexual experience. I am not proud to say this, but I had visited, a few times, the brothels of Antioch, dragged there by a couple of sons of my father's business associates, who insisted that the women there would take me to paradise. I found the women sulky and unattractively thin. None stirred my desire like those flirtations with Lydia. The coition gave me physical release, but no joy. I paid the women extra, to salve my guilt at using them so sordidly. Then there had been my brief affair with Charista, our neighbour's pretty, plump servant girl. She wanted me to penetrate her only in her anus, so as not to get her with child. I broke it off when I found out she was also lying with a dozen other young men of the neighbourhood, as well as her master.

Lying on my bed now, I closed my eyes. As Firuz had suggested, I imagined my mother saying to me the things Lydia had said, approaching me from behind and pressing her soft, warm breasts and belly against my back, her arms encircling my waist, reaching down to my groin, fondling my phallus. 'I embrace xwedodah with you, my son', she breathed softly in my ear. I found my organ rapidly engorging, growing harder and larger than it had ever been. Something had shifted within me. I could now see my mother Rudabeh as a supremely desirable woman - far more thrilling than my memories of Lydia: her round face and double chin, her soft brown eyes, her playful smile, her thick braid of dark hair streaked with threads of silver, her ample, womanly figure. The mental barrier that, moments before, had seemed impregnable as a thick stone wall now crumbled within me like burnt eggshell. I knew not whether to welcome this sudden change or be terrified. With my heart pounding, I turned my mind's eye to her abundant hips; I imagined kneeling behind her and nuzzling my face deep between her huge, soft buttocks, like a small animal gratefully burrowing down into the earth to over-winter. I imagined myself moving my face slightly lower, reverently kissing her woman-flower, the entryway to the place that I had come from. Without a touch of my fingers, my phallus suddenly erupted, spewing seed into my loincloth, as pleasure beyond belief radiated through my body.

Panting, I leapt out of my bed, removing my loincloth before the wetness soaked through to my robe, wiping myself clean and replacing it with a fresh one. With my heart still pounding, I bolted out of the house, and went down the street to the fire temple. I asked a mobad priest to make a fire offering on my behalf. Standing before the sacred fire, I let the flame's light and warmth cleanse me of impurity. I prayed from my heart to Anahita, that powerful female yazata to whom Ormazd has given charge of matters of sexual love and marriage. At length I felt a stillness and peace come over me. I remembered Firuz' advice, but I heard it now in my mind in Rudabeh's voice: 'Come to me, open your heart to me, I am your mother, I will not scorn you.'

Part 2: Rudabeh speaks

I was delighted that Ardashir was studying the Gathas, that he was taking the religious obligations of Mazdayasna so seriously. For my sake, he had left the life he knew among the Christians of Antioch and brought me back among the Persians. For my sake, he was trying to learn and follow the ways of my people, our people. I was deeply grateful: I could not ask for a better son. Ardashir had grown into such a splendid young man. My heart glowed with pride and wonder whenever I beheld him: had I really given birth to this magnificent being?

I was pleased as well by the somewhat fatherly relationship that was developing between my son and the magus Firuz. Ardashir was a man now, but a bit of fatherly advice and support would not go amiss for my orphaned son, particularly as it was coupled with sound religious instruction.

Well, I was pleased at first. But my mind easily inclines itself to worry. It is a habit of mind that, I suppose, comes naturally to a woman who has lost her mother and father, and then her husband. And so I began to worry that the magus might have ulterior motives in taking my son under his wing. Firuz was a widower, my brother Bamshad had told me, hinting that the magus might want me as a wife. Thankfully, it was not my brother's prerogative to dispose of me in marriage. That was my son's decision to make. But with this growing friendship between the magus and my son, was Firuz paving a path for his own marriage suit?

I honestly had nothing against the magus. He seemed to be a good man, and sincere. He was perhaps ten years older than me, but so had my husband Nichomachus been. Firuz was handsome enough, in a distinguished, silver-haired sort of way. Our families were comparable in dignity and wealth. On its face, the match was unobjectionable.

But I had lost my mother, father and husband. I could not bear to lose my son now as well. For remarriage would remove me from Ardashir's household and put me into a strange new household, with this stranger Firuz. I would still see my son ... from time to time ... but our lives would be effectively sundered; our close daily intercourse would be cut off. Since Ardashir's birth, I had kissed his lips every morning when he rose and every night when he went to bed; there would be no more such loving kisses if I were given to Firuz. I knew that I would have to remarry eventually. My son would soon take a wife as well. It is said that to remain unmarried for too long invites the devs. But, please dear Anahita, I prayed ... not yet! Do not take me away from my son just yet.

It was my serving maid Sepideh who noticed that, if one stands by the rear wall of the larder, one can overhear, through an air vent, the conversation in the main hall. And so, whenever Firuz visited us, I began sending Sepideh off to the market, whilst I settled into the larder to eavesdrop on the men's discourse. I was relieved to find that they spoke only of dry religious matters, no mention of marriage or of me. Until that day when the conversation turned to xwedodah.

* * *

Xwedodah.

With my son. Of course!

Such a blessed state.

It was the answer to my heart's prayers. My magnificent, loving, handsome, intelligent Ardashir ... could take me in marriage. I knew that, as his wife, I could love him and treasure him and make him happy as no other woman ever could. I was still of child-bearing age: I could give him children, as my mother had given children to her own son, my father. I could be a wife again, but without being given away to some stranger - I could make a family with my own precious son. The very best possible marriage, according to our religion. Why had I never considered the possibility before?

The reason became bitterly clear as I continued to listen at the vent: 'You cannot imagine loving your mother Rudabeh as a husband loves his wife?' asked Firuz. 'You cannot imagine lying with her, mingling your body with hers, begetting children upon her?'

'No! No I cannot,' my son answered indignantly. 'Forgive me Firuz, I was not raised with these customs ... Rudabeh is my own mother!'

I knew firsthand how the Greeks abhorred and reviled Persian xwedodah. My parents had not dared to let it be known in Antioch that they were mother and son: the Christian priests would have had them torn limb from limb in the public marketplace. That was the culture in which my son had been raised. He could never accept xwedodah with me.

And yet, Firuz pressed on. In response to the magus' bold questions, I heard my son describe me as comely, beautiful even. My heart soared. Then I heard about his not-so-innocent flirtations with that minx, the merchant Grypos' wife.

'So this Lydia in fact reminded you of Rudabeh?' Firuz asked.

'Yes, yes I suppose she did,' Ardashir conceded. 'Yes! Very well, Firuz, I admit it, yes, I can imagine lying with my mother. The thought fills me with desire as well as uneasiness.'

My heart beat wildly in my bosom. Which one would win out in my son's soul: desire or uneasiness? Ormazd or Ahriman? Was he my Ardashir, or was he Athanasius?

As Firuz took his leave, I quietly withdrew from the larder and took up my customary afternoon spot by the pool in the courtyard, spinning my distaff of flax into thread. Waiting, hoping for Ardashir to come to me. Minutes passed. An hour passed. It seemed that uneasiness had won out.

How disastrously wrong my worrying mind had been! Firuz had no designs on me at all: he still mourned for his late sister-wife, and could not bear to think of remarriage. He only wanted to teach my son good thoughts, good words and good deeds. I should have done more to encourage my son's friendship with this good man, this wise teacher of Mazdayasna. But no, it would have made no difference, I sadly concluded. For all of Ardashir's willingness to embrace Mazdayasna, the habit of mind that saw xwedodah as repellant was too firmly ingrained in his soul.

Part 3: Ardashir speaks

It was late afternoon when I returned from the fire temple. My mother Rudabeh was sitting and spinning in her sunny corner of our courtyard. My heart pounded as I approached her, unsure of what to say. I sat down beside her, pouring myself a cup of cool wine to steady my nerves.

'Your lesson with the magus went well today, my son?' My mother's voice was shaky, her skin was flushed. Was she upset about something? No, she seemed ... pleased, excited, expectant.

'Yes, er, he is very helpful.'

'He is a very good man, I think. I am pleased that he has befriended you.'

A horrifying thought suddenly crossed my mind: did my mother admire Firuz, as a woman admires a man? Could she be looking upon him as a potential suitor? I felt a searing pang of jealousy. Was I already thinking of her as my woman?

'And it gratifies me deeply,' she continued, 'your interest in learning and following the teaching of Mazdayasna, my son. What did you discuss today?'

'Today we spoke of the, er, the bonds of family lineage that link one's fravashi to the world, and how these bonds are strengthened by, er, xwedodah.'

'Ah, xwedodah,' she smiled enigmatically, expectantly, waiting for me to say more. Indeed, I thought to myself, my mother is a strikingly beautiful woman. Any man would be fortunate to have her as a wife. Could that man truly be me?

'Er, I am wondering, mother ... if you ever, er, sensed a special bond between your parents, since they, er, had ... such a marriage.'

She set down her spindle and distaff. 'Yes, son. Yes. Very much so. I could see that they adored each other. When I was a girl, and I made friends among the Greek, Jewish, and Persian maidens of Antioch, I was shocked to find families where the wife railed against her husband, or the husband beat his wife. But between my parents there was nothing but tenderness and mutual support - and desire. The joyful noises they made in their bedchamber at night, ay!' She shook her head chuckling, wiping a tear from her eye. 'The love they had for each other as mother and son only seemed to strengthen the love they had as wife and husband. I loved your father. He was kind to me. But yes, my parents' marriage seemed to have an intensity and depth that your father and I never had, sadly. Even before the illness that made him impotent.'

'Father, impotent? I knew he could not beget a child, but ... that means ... you haven't ... all those years? Well ...' I cleared my throat, blushing, and tried to return to the topic. 'Indeed ... what you tell me of your parents' marriage confirms what Firuz told me about his own xwedodah. His wife was also his sister, did you know that?'

'Yes ... I ... believe I had heard that. From someone. It is a blessed state, xwedodah, so I have heard. And so I observed with my own mother and father.'

'A couple that marry that way ... in xwedodah ... if their marriage endures for four or more years ... they become completely righteous, and are assured of entry into paradise. Or so Firuz tells me.'

'Blessed is the woman who is given in marriage to her father, her brother ...' she looked me in the eye, 'or her son.'

My heart was pounding with joy. 'Could you be happy ... in such a marriage, mother?'

'Oh son, YES! I could be very happy indeed. And I know I could make you happy as well. I would be the very best wife to you - the most loving, the most devoted. My son, you have only to ASK!'

With trembling voice, I said the sacred words that Firuz had taught me: 'Mother, give yourself to me then, to mingle our bodies, so that we become righteous and obtain a place in paradise, so that we please Ormazd and frustrate Ahriman.'

'You speak in righteousness, my son,' she answered according the sacred formula. 'I will give myself to you to mingle our bodies.'

Stunned at what had just taken place between us, I took her hands in mine, and we both laughed for joy. I felt giddy, like an over-excited child at Novruz festivities. She leaned in towards me, her eyes half-closed, and I kissed her, sealing our betrothal. My mother had often kissed me upon my lips - but this was unlike any kiss we had shared before, growing in sweetness and passion the longer it lasted, her mouth opening to mine, our tongues mingling - and it lasted for a very long time. We paused to catch our breath. Then I kissed her some more, needing to feel our mouths united in this intimate communion. And though our kissing now was unlike anything I had known before, I was aware that the lips now kissing me were the same familiar, beloved lips that had been kissing me all my life. This familiarity was oddly thrilling, far beyond what I could have imagined. As I held her in my arms, and she returned my embrace, I felt the delicious softness of her plump body, her large, warm breasts pressing against my chest, her heart sweetly pounding against mine, my hands running over the rolls of flesh on her back, which I could feel beneath her silk robe. I treasured her comforting scent, kissing her forehead and her hair, her eyes, her ears, her neck. My phallus was hard against her belly, and she chuckled, patting it gently.

'It seems my precious little boy is all grown up, and eager to do manly things', she sang playfully.

'Let us not put off the date of our wedding, mother! Let us go to uncle Bamshad's at once and announce our betrothal. Firuz will likely be there. He can tell us the first auspicious day for the wedding. It need not be a large or elaborate wedding, so long as it is speedy.'

* * *

As it turned out, the wedding was quite large: for uncle Bamshad insisted that an opulent celebration was just what was needed for me to establish a good reputation among my fellow merchants of Ecbatana. It was also quite elaborate: Firuz explained that, because this was a particularly sacred xwedodah, between mother and son, a number of special rites had to be observed, in addition to the ordinary wedding ceremony, requiring the offices of no less than four magi, plus a small army of mobads. Fortunately though, it was also speedy: Firuz consulted our horoscopes and determined that the most auspicious date was a mere six days after mother and I announced our betrothal, and he and Bamshad moved heaven and earth to make all the arrangements and ensure the attendance of key guests.

The strong reluctance I had felt when Firuz first suggested mother-son xwedodah had completely evaporated: I was now, as Firuz had predicted, as eager as any bridegroom on earth. And my mother, it seems, had never felt any such reticence: from the moment the idea of xwedodah with me had entered her mind, she welcomed it wholeheartedly. Nevertheless, in the six days from betrothal to wedding, we resolved not to lie together - we both thought it best to wait till we were lawfully wed with all proper observances, so that we might receive the full blessing of Ormazd, and so that we could mingle our bodies without restraint or inhibition.

But that forbearance did not preclude kissing. Every minute we had alone, mother and I spent embracing and kissing ... deep soul-searching, toe-warming kisses that made my phallus harder than a marble pillar - and, so it felt to me, nearly as large - dripping seed, eager for Rudabeh's plump body. She in turn was delighted by my excitement, confessing that my kisses made her woman-flower moisten, arousing her with desire unlike anything she had ever felt before. As we embraced, her body exuded a delicate enticing scent, like a heady, musky apricot wine, familiar somehow, yet inflaming my senses, intoxicating me, tantalizing me like a half-remembered erotic dream.

At last, the day came. The sacred fire was brought into our home. An egg was passed round our heads to absorb any misfortune and then dashed to the ground. As we recited our vows, the Magi tied our hands together with seven loops of the sacred cord, while Mobads chanted the Yatha Ahu Vairyo. And to symbolize the xwedodah double-bond between us, a golden chain was fastened round our hands as well. Then Firuz pronounced the blessing: 'May the Creator, the omniscient Lord, grant you a progeny of sons and grandsons, daughters and granddaughters, ample wealth, friendship, strength, long life and an existence of 150 years! May this most righteous xwedodah confer limitless blessings of Ormazd upon you both, and utterly confound the power of Ahriman!' My mother and I, laughing, threw grain over each other, and then we ate food together from the same dish. The feast now began. The wedding fish were served out to all the guests, and toasts were offered. Uncle Bamshad's toast made much of the fact that our family lineage was replete with many xwedodah marriages, and now Rudabeh and I were strengthening it even further.