Legends claim that he shot from the womb laughing.
The priests were so scandalized by his laughter
They cast him out, newborn and naked to the wild,
But adopted, nursed to boyhood by a she-wolf.
I won’t tell you it isn’t true, but I heard something else
From an old immigrant, a retired poppy farmer from Badakhshan,
Lately an elder of a household in Fremont.
When I asked the old Pamiri what did they call the Sage,
He answered through his grandson and translator,
“Some call him Camel. Some call him Wolf.”
Afghans will tell you Zartosht was born in Balkh,
But the old Pamiri said no, he was from a low valley
Where the Pamir and the Hindu Kush meet,
Downstream from the lapis mines, the limestone caves.
Camel was a jovial boy. He was not afraid to laugh,
Not afraid to climb the slopes around his village.
He was trained in the ways of the priesthood.
His father was a priest, not always happy about Camel’s wont to wander
With village dogs, who trained him in their ways.
The priest did not understand his son, though he loved him.
The boy spoke strangely, oft in riddles — or hymns —
That only dogs seemed to understand.
Camel spent increasing time away from home as he grew,
Till his returns seemed like visits, and with gifts.
He brought home herbs, sacred Haoma, traded sandalwood,
Skins, carved bone and polished sky-stone.
Though at first he only traveled with dogs, he met others,
Herdsmen and traders, hunters and priests.
Villagers and herders saw silhouettes on ridge-tops
Of a boy among dogs — or wolves, and eerie man-howls.
They knew him as the dog boy from his associations,
And in time the Wolf, for the same reason;
But no, he was not nursed by a she-wolf.
He could never have survived the mountain winters.
I asked why the name Camel,
But I was given no answer. …