The Nightjar and the Zahaan (zah-HAHN)

“Before stories were told, they were lived. And this is one of them.
Some say it never happened. Some say it still is.
I only say—listen.
For when the desert was younger, and beasts spoke human tongues,
Ashtira wandered the dunes one night...”

— Traditional Zahaan Story Opening

  Zahriq is an extremely popular and flavorful dessert. A sweet Talmar cheese pastry, made with semolina or shredded dough, soaked in honeyed syrup flavored with rosewater, saffron, and citrus, Zahriq is often served at fancy dinners, festivals, and especially during the winter solstice celebration known as Kalunat Ashtira. Not cloyingly sweet, layered, but light, the confection is like a well-told tale, as any local Zahaan would tell you.   It lingers on the tongue like memory, and—like any good tale—it has an origin worth the telling.   And in this, my friends, lies a story.  

The Nightjar

  Ashtira, the Goddess of stars that shine on warm desert nights, wandered the dunes one evening, when a wistful melancholy overcame her. Loneliness crept into her mind like a mouse to the crumbs of a forgotten feast. The realm of the gods, jewel bright and music-rich, had dimmed in her eyes—its hues faded, its songs hollow.   Seeking solace, seeking entertainment, seeking she-knew-not-what, she wrapped herself in her starlit cloak, and became a nightjar. With a flick of wing and will, she slipped into the mortal realm, passing from one desert to the next like a jasmine-scented breeze.   Ashtira first came upon a lone Talmar herder, seated by a flickering fire as her beasts roamed nearby, just out of reach. The night wind blew the loose strands of the girl's hair into twisting ribbons - but she never looked up.   "How alone," Ashtira though, and flew on.   Next, she drifted above a couple lying beneath the stars, sharing a blanket. Drawn to their closeness, she came near— but they lay unsleeping, untouching, their backs turned, and not a word passed between them.   "So distant," she sighed, turning away.   Passing a line of rock caves, she heard a voice raised in song. Curious, the goddess turned her flight and found a camel herder singing to the sky—a beautiful lament for a beloved beast, now returned to the desert earth. The grief in his voice poured over Ashtira like water on sand, soaking in with no place to go.   “Too much,” she whispered, and turned her wings toward silence.  

The Zahaan

  Ashtira turned to retrace her path when something caught her attention. A sound rode the wind—not grief, not silence, but something lighter, unfamiliar in its warmth. It rose from the dark like a spark from coals—brief, golden, and alive. Curious, she followed it, and beheld a small village, laughter spilling from it like lantern light through an open door. The divine nightjar flew closer.   People were gathered around a great Ruhamar tree at the center, their faces lit with joy as they listened to a woman seated at its roots. Smiles flickered like beacons, warm and genuine. Ashtira perched quietly in the branches above, watching. The listeners were hard-worn by life but radiant in the moment—old and young, all drawn together by the same thread of merriment.   At the heart of them sat a woman—older than young, but not yet elder. Whatever beauty the desert might have stolen from her face, joy returned in full measure as she spoke.   This Zahaan was called Nalira, and she wove her tales with deftness and delight. Stories of Mahadan princes, of clever farmers, of trickster beasts who mocked the mighty and outwitted the cruel. Her voice rose and dipped like a seasoned weaver’s shuttle, each word a thread of gold spun from the desert dusk.   From above, Ashtira listened—rapt, undone. The goddess of night was swept away on Nalira’s words, forgetting her sorrow. And when the Zahaan told a joke, the goddess’s own birdsong spilled from her beak like the first gentle rains—laughter born of stars and solitude.   Too soon, the lanterns began to dim, and the villagers drifted homeward, weary but light-hearted. Nalira offered one last tale, then bowed to the scattered applause, and made her way into the quiet.   Ashtira remained, silent and smiling, letting the joy linger like warmth in cooling sand. When the final light winked out and hush blanketed the village, the goddess took wing once more, comforted.   She took to the skies, joy kindling in her chest, already thinking of what she might give in return.  

The Gift

  Come dawn, Ashtira turned not to spell or starlight, but to Karethun—her cook of many recipes and few words. She charged him to create a dish of surpassing flavor and delicacy, one fit to carry her blessing.   “Craft it like a tale,” she said. “With the sweetness of memory, a whisper of sorrow, and the breath of a flower that blooms only at night. Let it comfort the weary and lift the joyful. Let it taste like stars, and carry the scent of the dunes at dusk.”   Karethun listened, as he always had, then reached for semolina, cheese, and memory. He stirred the stars into sugar, and sifted the night breeze. From the divine ovens he drew the finished dish and ladled the warm syrup over it, calling it zahriq, meaning golden blossom. With quiet satisfaction, he brought it to Ashtira.   She was greatly pleased. Pouring her magic into the dessert, she returned it to Karethun with a final instruction: deliver it to the Zahaan, and tell her only that it was a gift from a stranger who had laughed.   Karethun simply nodded, and set out at once.   Nalira was at the village hearth, watching over bread as it baked, when he arrived. Surprised by the visitor and the gift, she ate of the dessert—marveling at its savory sweetness, with just a touch of tang. With each bite, she grew brighter, until the others nearby had to shield their eyes. When the last morsel was gone, Nalira dissolved into starlight and vanished.   The onlookers turned to question Karethun—but he was already gone.   That evening, as the sun fell, the villagers saw a new cluster of stars rising in the night sky: shaped like a lantern, a guide for the soul-sick on long nights. Nalira had given joy without asking, and so the stars themselves made room for her.   And Karethun? He kept the recipe close, tucked among smudged notes and favorite spices. But good things do not stay hidden forever—and so, little by little, it found its way into kitchens and hearts, as all true gifts do.   So Nalira the Zahaan became the goddess of tales, of inspiration, and of poetry. For the gods do not always speak, but they listen—and when they are moved, they remember.   So it was told to me by one wiser, and now I leave it with you.