The Golden Gazelle

A fantastical short story and tragic parable set in medieval Persia.

From the stillness of the courtyard, the prince hunted for stars. The tiny lights shone by the hundreds, cold and distant in the cloudless sky. Far below, the city slept. Its domes and spires were bathed in pearlescent moonlight, as if frozen in glass. The streets were empty by this hour, and the air carried no sound of life. Beyond the high walls, he could see only blackness. A breeze blew in from the east, and he could taste the desert on his tongue. God had not answered his prayers for rain.

Around him, the garden was fading. Leaves shivered and swayed, stiff and colorless. The fountains ran dry, stone lions silently guarding empty pools. He remembered the fragrance of jasmine and roses, but the flowers were gone now. Stunted in their climb, briars still clung to latticed windows, fusing with the stone as they hardened.

Tears stung at his eyes, but he wiped them away. Tears would not be enough to revive the land; the once plentiful fields had grown sterile, the earth parched, stricken with sickness and famine. During the day, beggars held out their hands for rice and coins. Fathers carried their dead children through the streets, and widows wept behind their husbands’ funeral processions, veiled in black. Every morning, young men sharpened their swords and spears, strapped on their shields and rode out, silent, through the gate. Only the dead had returned.

He sank down beside a fig tree, its branches now barren. He had prayed for weeks, and still God would not rescind His will. The Prince’s heart ached, and his eyelids were heavy from sleepless nights. The Shah was dying, the people had heard. Now all eyes had turned to him, and he had no words of comfort for them. He was lost. For hours, he waited, watching the stars. Finally, sleep took him.

He dreamed he wandered alone into the desert, too far to find his way back home again. Sand whipped around him and the dunes gave way beneath his feet. He stumbled blindly in the dark, his cries soundless in the howling storm. But there, he glimpsed something golden, shining through the swirling sands— a gazelle stood before him, like none he had ever seen before; a single golden horn grew atop its head, and its soft eyes beckoned him. The prince followed it to an oasis, safe and calm. Lush trees towered over deep pools of sparkling velvet, and he caught the scent of saffron.

It was the vizier who knew how to read dreams. The prince found the old man standing in the doorway of the Shah’s bedchamber, listening to his labored breathing. Beneath the vaulted ceilings, attendants dressed in stiff brocades gathered to fan their king. The Shah lay motionless, floating amidst tangled bedclothes drenched with sweat. He stared blindly upward, too taken by fever to recognize his own son when the prince touched his shoulder. The vizier pulled the prince aside, grey eyes solemn beneath knitted brows. He knew sentiment alone had not returned the prince to his father’s sickbed. The prince told him of the dream and the golden gazelle.

“Yes,” the vizier said, brightening as he stroked his long mustache. “I have heard of this creature, and it is said to be more precious than all the gold of the earth. Follow your vision, and our land will be restored. Go now, my prince. I will watch from the tower for your return.”

With that, the prince departed. Taking his father’s finest black horse, he left the city under cover of darkness and rode east into the desert. In the heat of the day, he navigated by the sun, and by night, the stars. For risk of losing his way, he would have been grateful to see any clouds, but the skies were clear in every direction. By the fourth night, he found the oasis, green palm trees and thick grass tucked away between sandy cliffs. The drought had not touched this place. Gratefully, he drank from the lagoon. Something golden reflected in the ripples, and for a moment, the prince thought coins blanketed the lagoon, that he had stumbled upon a wishing well. The prince looked up and gasped. It was the gazelle from his dream, standing still on the opposite shore. It stood larger than any other animal of its kind, with hair of purest white. Its golden horn shone as brilliantly as the finest plating; he could see patterns and knotwork as if etched, shimmering more intricately than the ceiling of any mosque or the walls of the palace.

He had succeeded as the vizier advised, and now he just had to find a way to return with the gazelle. Surely, such a magnificent creature could return the beauty to his land. He stood up slowly, his hands outstretched, heart racing as he approached it, wondering which way would be best to bridle the animal. At once, the gazelle took off, darting across the dunes at lightning speed. The prince climbed back onto his midnight steed and charged after it, churning dust clouds in their wake. Even at top speed, the thoroughbred’s hooves slipped in the shifting sands, and the prince eventually lost light of the gazelle.

He finally slowed his pace, wondering if he should wait for morning to search for the gazelle, wondering if it might have returned to the oasis. In the distance, a fire burned, and he veered off to investigate. He recognized the banners of his own army, flying from a hundred tents camped along the line of retreat. The invaders had seen their weakness, and they would not stop until the kingdom was overrun. A lone warrior sat nursing his wounds by firelight; his shield was dented and battered, his face caked with blood. Covering his face with his shawl to disguise himself, the prince rode up to the young man and called out to him.

“Good soldier, I wish you luck in battle. Blessings be upon you. Tell me, have you seen a magnificent creature run past? A white gazelle with a horn of gold?” he asked.

“And to you, traveler,” the soldier answered, binding his arm with strips of linen. “I thought the desert was playing tricks on me, but if you too have seen the gazelle, then I did not imagine it. I have heard word of such things from the nomads passing through here, but I thought it was nothing more than a story. They say anyone who carries a dagger fashioned from its horn will be invincible. If I could walk now, I would hunt it myself. We could use a weapon like that. If you hurry, you might catch it.” He pointed north across the dunes.

The prince thanked the warrior and bade him well, vowing to return with the golden horn to turn the tide of battle. Then he turned his spurs to the north and rode off as fast as his steed could carry him. By morning, he reached the steppe, where the sands gave way to firmer grasslands. His mount reared as the gazelle leapt suddenly from a thicket, and sped away again. Its horn was iridescent in the sunlight, an unparalleled alloy of gold and silver laced with orange and purple, deep hues of the sunrise. The prince galloped after the animal, and the chase began again. His horse’s hooves gained better ground here, but the gazelle still managed to outrun them. Disheartened, he sank back in his saddle, and thought of home; he could imagine now the pleas of the hungry, the wails of the sick, and the invisible silence of the dead emanating up from the city streets. And above them, his father would lay fevered, deaf and blind to his people’s cries. He prayed again, for all it was worth, hoping he might get another chance to capture his prize.

Before long, he found a village nestled in the shadow of the hills. The fields lay cracked and barren, littered with skeletal stalks left brittle by the heat. The orchards had withered, and the riverbed was empty, lined with thick mud. The prince passed a farmer, who looked gaunt and sullen as he sat by the river. Beside him, his oxen had dropped dead, skin and bones crumpled beneath the weight of wooden yokes.

“Good farmer, I pity your loss,” said the prince. “May mercy smile upon you. Tell me, have you seen a magnificent creature pass this way? I am looking for a white gazelle with a golden horn.”

“And to you, sir,” replied the farmer wearily. “Peace and blessings be upon you. I have seen such an animal, but I thought I’d gone mad from hunger. Our shepherds tell tales, but I never thought I’d see one alive. To wear its horn in hunting, they say, will allow the hunter to call any game to lay its life down willingly, and if the horn is buried in the earth, the must luscious fruit trees will grow and flourish evermore. I would go after it, but I am too weak, ” the farmer explained, licking his lips longingly.

He pointed toward the mountains, and the prince pressed on, thanking the farmer and promising he’d return with the horn to feed the village.

By evening, the mountains loomed ahead like dark sentinels, snowy peaks blood red in the dying sun. The prince’s steed had grown weary, and she panted and wheezed for breath, whinnying in protest as he goaded her up the steep cliffs. She quieted and dutifully obliged, carefully winding her way up the narrow pass. Thick trees towered over them, and the air grew cold and thin. The prince peered through the dusk as they climbed higher, scanning the trees for any sign of movement, a flash of white or gold. He wondered if he had made a mistake, if the gazelle had even passed this far. His head spun with the altitude, and he ached for water. His stomach was empty, the last of his provisions gone.

Without warning, the cliff gave way beneath them, and his steed struggled to keep her footing, throwing him violently to the rocks below as she reared on her haunches. He coughed and picked himself up, daring to grasp the reins again once the loose rocks had tumbled out of sight, and the ravine grew still once more. The horse limped and raised her hooves gingerly, her forelegs twisted and useless. She faltered, and the prince helped her lay down. She could not go on. Tears came to his eyes again, and he regretted having brought this upon her. He unbuckled the saddle carefully, removing all the bells and royal finery to leave her free. She’d been his father’s favorite horse since the prince could remember, and now he had failed her too. And for what, he thought. It had been hours, and he’d seen neither hide nor hair of the gazelle. He had given up on prayer, but as he lay against her heaving side, tenderly stroking her mighty head, he hoped God could forgive him this if He would grant him nothing else. He wept freely, feeling even lost than he had in the palace garden a week before.

Suddenly, the rocks shifted again. The prince leapt to his feet, curved blade already drawn and at the ready, should he have to face bandits or worse. A pale blur darted away as quickly as it had appeared, but the moonlight glinted off something golden as it disappeared into the forest. He ran after it through the brush, ducking branches and thickets as he raced after the creature on foot. He knew he would not see his steed again, but his grief was fleeting. His heart was in this now. This was his last chance. He would not let the gazelle escape him this time. He would not return to his father’s kingdom empty handed.

He ran all night, mustering all his strength to stay on the heels of the gazelle. Not once did he let it out of his sight. He followed it up and down, over roaring streams and sharp cliffs, across snow covered ridges, until the air grew warmer and humid. The trees thickened, and creepers hung from the canopy above. Around them, the forest buzzed with a multitude of birdcalls. The morning cast a green luster into the jungle world below, and insects played in the yellow sunlight, but the prince did not stop to notice. He dodged gnarled roots, crushing a sea of soft ferns beneath his feet as he bounded after the gazelle, a wild thing in his chase.

A creeper caught his foot, pulling him to the ground, and the more he struggled, the more entangled he became. For a moment, he thought a python had ensnared him, and he swung violently at its coils. By the time he had cut himself free, the gazelle was gone.

At once, a weariness overtook him, and he sank to the earth. He found a stream to quench his thirst, though that was little comfort. He had lost the gazelle again, and without its golden horn, there was no way he could fulfill his promise to the starving farmer or the wounded soldier. He had abandoned his father, the vizier, and his own people. Stranded hundreds of miles from his homeland, there was no way he could bring the rain, or even a cupful of this water back to restore the land he left behind. He felt as if he had been gone for years. It occurred to him by the time he did return home, he would find nothing but bones and sand, or a foreign banner planted in the dust of his beloved city. He walked, tired and aimless, deeper into the jungle.

He was surprised when he stumbled upon an ascetic, thin and wasted, sick with disease and parched throat.

“O great sage,” the prince began weakly. “May only the highest blessings befall you. I have been tracking a most magnificent quarry, a white gazelle with a golden horn. I pray you may have seen it.”

“And to you, brother,” the holy man said, bowing from his seat against a banyan tree. “God’s grace be upon you. I have seen what you seek. I did not know whether it was some spirit casting illusions on me, but if so, we are both under its spell. I have read from the masters, that to drink from a cup carved from its horn will heal any sickness and make the drinker live forever. I did not think such immortality was possible in this world. I would seek it myself, if I were not plagued with fever. ”

Inspired, the prince promised the ascetic he would return with the horn and heal his fever. The ascetic pointed the way the gazelle had gone, and the prince descended into the valley.

There, in a grove, he finally found the gazelle from his dream. The creature had lodged its single golden horn between the woven branches of an ironwood tree. It tried to pull itself free but to no avail. The prince unsheathed his sword and approached the gazelle, ready to kill it and take the horn. Before the prince could enter the grove, a tiger crept from the jungle, licking its chops as it eyed the gazelle. Before the tiger could strike, the prince leapt from his hiding place. A flash of steel, a swipe of the mighty tiger’s paws, and the beast slumped to the ground, dead. The prince wiped the blood from his blade, fearing it might taint the sacred power of the gazelle’s horn.

Suddenly, the gazelle spoke, pleading to be freed. The prince helped pull the animal free, and it thanked him for saving. Turning its soft eyes upon him, the gazelle asked what it could do for him in return. Guilty, the prince confessed he had tracked it with the intention to slaughter it for its horn. He told the gazelle he had to defend the weak, feed the hungry, and heal the sick.

“Why have you not already?” asked the gazelle. The prince was confused.

Suddenly, it turned into a beautiful woman, wild eyed with golden hair and a silver jewel on her forehead.

“This is my true face,” she told him, “but I have taken many”. Before his eyes, the creature changed into the warrior, the laborer, and the ascetic he had seen before, before shifting back into her true form.

“You chased me blindly, and you have caused death, sickness, and let your own hunger fester,” the gazelle explained, her tone gentle but distant. “You, a strong armed warrior did not raise your sword to help those that needed it. You who are clad in silk and jewels, did not give to the needy. You who have your health, did not stop to help the sick. In your foolishness, you have traveled hundreds of miles. Where is your poor father’s beloved horse that carried you swift and steadfast without complaint? Where are your people now? What will they think when they hear their prince has abandoned them? To take my horn would be of no use to you. Severed from my body, it will blacken and turn too brittle to craft a blade from. Hollow it into a trumpet, and the sound will drive living things away, cause the land to grow barren, the trees sterile. Carve a cup from my horn, and it will turn water to poison at the first touch. I cannot give you what you want. If you had shown just one kindness, given something of yourself, if what little you had, I would have revealed myself to you. I can work no miracles for you now.”

Humbled, the prince bowed before the creature and begged to be forgiven. When he raised his head again, she had transformed back into the great gazelle and she bade the prince climb onto her back.

Together, they rode faster than the strongest stallion, the swiftest ship, and the wind itself back to the prince’s kingdom. Before them, the city lay in ruins, its citizens weak and hungry. The vizier met him at the gates, and gave him the news his father had died. The prince walked with the gazelle, at the head of his father’s funeral procession, and as he walked, he cast off his crown and his jewels. At the funeral banquet, the prince stripped his tables to feed the hungry. He stopped to offer the sick a drink of water and tend the wounded. As the invaders broke the castle walls, the prince strapped on his armor and rallied the last of his soldiers to take one final stand.

The gazelle shed a single tear for the prince. He bowed before it one last time, and waited for it to gallop away safely. Then he drew his sword and prepared for the end.