I walked with Zarathustra the other night. We kicked off our shoes and walked along the shore of the Caspian Sea, breathing in the cool, wet air, and letting the sand stick between our toes. It was my first time there, and he hadn’t been in a while, so it left the both of us in awe.

We spoke a bit, though even as a prophet and a poet, he preferred to let that which was unsaid say it all. Understandable, with the great language barrier between us: his English was a bit weak, and I certainly couldn’t say I knew any Avestan. What he could express to me, though, was so extraordinary that I didn’t regret not knowing his native tongue.

Even though he didn’t mind answering me, I generally avoided asking too many questions. Perhaps it was poor judgment for me, as a journalist, but Zarathustra was a wonderful conversation partner, even with the many silent moments, and I wanted to be careful not to wear out my welcome. It was my first time meeting him; if I was polite enough, I could save my particularly profound questions for later times.

His voice was truly a thing of beauty. His English was heavily accented, of course, but his voice was of a deep warm tone, the kind that could be described as ‘earthy.’ It was very calming, and I could hear why he gained so many followers; not to say that the religion was based on his voice alone, but the sound did perfectly complement his philosophies. If he made more speeches these days, maybe he would have more followers.

As we walked, I told him of some of his successors in religion, of the eras that followed his own. Though he listened intently, I had the impression that he already knew all of this. I think he just enjoyed hearing different versions, even if mine was largely unbiased. I was attempting to keep my opinions out of the summary, lest I say something to his dislike.

We finally settled at a point on the shore where we could dip our feet in the sea. As we sat in the damp sand and relaxed, my breathing synchronized with the waning of the water, and I noticed his did, as well.

“Asha,” I said. Though very little air passed over my vocal cords, the word seemed so loud, as if the whole world could hear me. “Truth. Order.”

He nodded, signifying that he was thinking the same thing. I had a moment of self-doubt—obviously, the prophet who wrote at such length of the concept would be thinking of it. He would always be thinking of it. But I let the moment pass, as my remark didn’t seem to annoy him.

“Do the new prophets speak of asha?”

His eyes sparkled, and he turned to the sky. I followed his gaze, letting my eyes fall upon the crescent moon.

“They speak of what they see,” he told me. His voice was quiet, unlike mine. “I can think of no greater asha.”

I looked to my right, back to him, though he continued to stare at the moon. “And what of someone who speaks of what they see in a war time? It is a truth, but it is about a chaos. What then?”

“That is still asha. You know that. So long as it is a truth, it cannot be druj.”

Though his voice remained level, I couldn’t help but think I’d offended him by asking for such an apparent answer. I blushed.

His eyes went to his right, where a small group had started a bonfire, yet he spoke to me: “Do not feel shame. You said nothing wrong.”

This surprised me enough that my face cooled. I regained my composure before further commenting.

“So long as one’s mind can be clear of great passion,” I mused, also looking to the fire, “they have, and are, the truth.”

Naturally, I was speaking only to myself. I wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. Thus, he gave no reply, though he did hum softly in recognition.

We rose simultaneously shortly after that, saying nothing else, and walked to join the teens dancing around their fire. Zarathustra simply sat down again, observing, but I danced with them in nonverbal socialization.

I’m not sure how much time went by before my departure, but after a while I broke away from the group, saying ‘Namaste’ to Zarathustra—at this he gave a grand smile—and again walked along the shore of the Caspian Sea. When my mind was finally empty and I cared not about my destination, I found myself in my house, leaving a trail of sand on the tile floor behind me.