Stealing Sacred Fire

by Storm Constantine

  Long before dawn, the group’s firewood supply ran out, and they had to watch in dread as the flames sank lower, until only a crawling smoulder was left in their midst. The tall purple-blue flames outside the circle gave off no heat and gradually a numbing chill paralysed flesh and bone. Daniel could no longer feel his fingers or toes. Would they die of cold before their attackers gave up?

  When the first pale rays of dawn came to the stony valley, the djinn transformed themselves into smoky vapours and purled upwards into the sky. For nearly half an hour afterwards, everyone was too frightened to move and sat shivering in the circle. Nobody spoke. The horses were covered in a cold foam of sweat, their eyes rolling in their sockets.

  Eventually, Gadreel got up and went to the edge of the circle where she stood, hands on hips, staring out beyond the swords. After a few moments, she turned to the others. ‘It’s safe now. Some of you go and find some more fire wood. It’s too cold. We need warmth. Jalal, get someone to help you rub down the horses. We must walk them, warm them up.’

  While a couple of the Yarasadi ventured warily out of the circle, Tahira went to gather up the swords.

  ‘Are they spent?’ Gadreel asked.

  Tahira shrugged and held out the largest sword to her, which Gadreel took in her hand, hefting it like a familiar, well-loved weapon. She turned it this way and that, staring at the blade.

  ‘Well?’ Salamiel asked. ‘Will they be of use to us again?’

  Gadreel pulled a puzzled face. ‘I’m not sure. It’s almost as if their power has retreated into them in some way. They don’t feel empty, but neither do they feel… alive.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ Salamiel asked. ‘Look for Shem or wait here for him? Do you suppose he was attacked by djinn himself?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gadreel answered. ‘What do you think, Daniel?’

  Daniel screwed up his face in vexation. ‘I don’t think he was, but it’s difficult to tell. I don’t sense he’s in danger, but neither can I trace him. The light of him has become invisible to me.’

  ‘Well, that’s convenient!’ Salamiel said. ‘We need to get out of here quickly, and Shem’s disappeared!’

  ‘Perhaps I should go and look for him,’ Daniel said.

  ‘No,’ Gadreel snapped. ‘We mustn’t split up.’

  ‘Then we’ll all go!’

  Gadreel shook her head. ‘No. We’ll wait for him here. He knows where we are.’

  Salamiel sighed. ‘Well I, for one, am starving. Perhaps we should eat, then discuss what to do. Hopefully, Shem will have turned up again before we have to make any decisions.’

  Shemyaza knew he had to go into the mountains alone. He was not afraid of pursuit or attack. He was so close now. The terrain had changed dramatically, but he felt sure in his heart that over the next ridge, round the next corner, he would find evidence of his lost home. He trudged an uphill path towards the sky, towards the vulture-girdled peaks. He felt confident that once he reached the site of the valley of Kharsag, which he knew lay so close, the answers concerning the Chambers of Light would be given to him. He could not bring Daniel with him on this journey.

  Close, so very close. He could not believe there wouldn’t be some sign left of the garden, some impression left in the rocks of all that had taken place there, if only the channels cut by waterfalls.

  In the distance, it seemed a faint voice called out to him. He could not pay it heed. The dawn was beginning to bloom around him, and already the land was held in that surreal stillness that heralds the transition between night and day. The light was still grey on the mountain path. Shem did not recognise the terrain, but felt that it was familiar.

  Father, the prodigal has returned.

  In his mind, he saw again the fertile terraces of Kharsag, and screened by cedars, the great Mountain House of Anu. He saw the orchards, their trees heavy with fruit, and the serene, robed Anannage working among them, attended by their human labourers. He saw the tall, domed glass houses of obsidian, the coruscating waterfalls and the forests of cedar that hugged the mountainsides around the valley. So beautiful. He could almost drink in the memory of tranquillity as if it was borne on the air like the perfume of a woman walking some yards ahead of him.

  It could not be the same now, he knew, for the Anannage were millennia gone, but he hoped to find the ruins, ghostly outlines of habitation in the valley of the vanished settlement.

  He felt swamped by an inconsolable homesickness. I want it all back! And yet, the last time he had been here, his people had burned his body and imprisoned his soul. Should he not also think of that?

  Echoes of his own torment rang from crag to crag, thin as a baby’s scream. A dancing figure, cloaked in ragged feathers, seemed to shimmer just ahead of him, leading him on, a vague shadow flickering rapidly on the edge of his perception. If he blinked to clear his sight, it became more indistinct.

  He took the key crystal out of his pocket and held it up before his eyes. ‘What am I doing here?’ he asked it, as if the stone would speak back to him. ‘Lead me to Kharsag.’

  No voice came from the stone, but a cold whisper echoed in Shem’s mind. The crystal became warm in his hands, and a pinprick of light glowed at its heart. ‘Heaven has gone, Shemyaza.’

  ‘I must see where it once lay.’

  The crystal glowed red, as if a heart beat deep within it. ‘Your father, Anu, brought me to this place. He was the keeper of the key, as you are now. Through my power he created Kharsag in this land of Eden. I was taken from my place by the first keeper and carried to safety when the Chambers were sealed.’

  ‘Was Anu the first keeper of the key?’ Shem asked.

  ‘There have been many keepers, many fathers. The cycles of time repeat themselves.’

  ‘Are the Chambers of Light here in Eden?’

  ‘No. Kharsag was but a replica of the Chambers in stone, leaf and life-giving water.’

  ‘Then where are the original Chambers? I must take you back there, open them…’ He rounded a corner, one hand against the cold rock, and there the path seemed to rise up and end. Shem’s heart beat faster. Here it was; the lip of the valley. For a moment, he stood still, fighting a maelstrom of nausea, dizziness and excitement. He put the crystal back into his pocket and made himself walk forward, pushing through the air.

  He could see that a wide pathway led around the perimeter of the valley, lined with sentinel stones that did not look naturally-formed. Just a few more steps and the site of his old home would be revealed.

  He faltered on the path. What had they done?

  The valley lay below him; it had once been a bowl of fertility. Now, spreading wide, the land was thorned with a chaotic mass of metallic structures that looked like the tortured skeletons of monsters, their flesh long stripped away by the acid blue flames that burned like neon in the pre-dawn twilight.

  What had once been Paradise was now a desolate vista of gas fields. Miles and miles of them, the land abused and gouged to surrender the sacred flame. Heaven had been destroyed.

  Shem squatted down in horror, his hands pressed against the dirt. What had he expected to find: a mirage of the past, ghosts enacting bygone rituals? Not this. Certainly not this. He took the crystal from his pocket once more to ask questions, seek answers, drowning in despair.

  A series of metallic clicks sounded around him. Shem stiffened. The crystal lay cold and dead in his hand, mere stone. He recognised the sound behind him. Too late… Slowly, Shemyaza looked over his shoulder.

  Around the perimeter of the valley, the rising sun, which was just lifting through a valley in the peaks, reflected off a host of guns. Still forms surrounded him, their weapons all pointed right at him.

  Shem felt confused. What was this? It did not form part of what he’d expected to find in this place.

  A tall figure stepped forward from the shadow of a rock. It was robed in black, the head covered but for the eyes. Shem sensed the presence of corrupt power. He saw no point in rising or speaking; if t
his person wanted to communicate with him, they would have to initiate the contact.

  For what seemed like minutes, the figure appraised him. Then spoke. ‘What is your name?’

  Shem knew that these people had been looking for him. They’d known where to find him. ‘You know who I am,’ he said, sneering, ‘but who, might I ask, are you?’ He expected a blow, but the man before him made no aggressive move.

  ‘I represent King Nimnezzar of Babylon.’

  ‘Good!’ Shem stood up, and the soldiers around him moved their weapons nervously. He raised his arms. ‘There is no need for this. I have long wanted to meet the man who claims to be of sacred blood.’ He put his hands on his hips and fixed the tall robed figure with steady eyes. ‘Is your king responsible for the depredations we see in this sacred place?’ He indicated the valley behind him.

  ‘These are the gas fields of the king,’ answered the man.

  ‘I am curious as to why a man who claims to be the descendent of angels should rape their holy ground.’

  The robed figure narrowed his eyes, but would not respond to the accusation. ‘You are to come with us,’ he said. ‘Shemyaza.’

  ‘I know that,’ Shem answered.

  The robed man reached out and with a deft hand, plucked the crystal from Shem’s hold. ‘This I will look after for you.’

  ‘Take it,’ Shem said. ‘If Nimnezzar is what he claims to be, he should be the first to fathom its secrets.’

  There was no time to think of Daniel and the others. What had happened above the ruins of Kharsag had been preordained. Shem could tell that some of the Babylonians were Magians, and that they were not afraid of him; quite the opposite. As they escorted him down the mountain path towards a waiting army truck, Shem considered that King Nimnezzar might see him as a threat and want to dispose of him or incarcerate him. How must he behave in Babylon — as a king or a captive? Shem wasn’t sure. Destiny unfurled his path before him; he could only follow it, whether in faith or not. If the Chambers of Light had once existed in Eden, they were no more. He could only hope the end of his task lay in Babylon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alliance of Angels

  The woman sat in the hallway drinking a glass of milk. It seemed a quaintly childish thing to do, yet the woman was far from a child. Waiting to check in, behind a line of impatient guests, Cameron Murchison watched the woman drink. She sat beside a table on which a display of dried flowers stood. It was the kind of table found around hotels; people sat at them for brief moments as they waited for elevators or fellow guests. Murchison saw the woman’s throat moving as she tilted back her head. It seemed, for a brief moment, as if a faint, purple light danced around her head.

  He was tired. The plane had been full to capacity and he’d had the misfortune to be seated near to a woman carrying a baby that whined peevishly and continually. Once they landed, the heat of Egypt had sapped his strength; his mind felt muzzy. The increase in political troubles meant that visitors from overseas had to be escorted by police to their hotels. Security was high upon the streets, the atmosphere fervid. The visitors’ coach drove steadily through streets blanketed with thick smoke, in which the smell of burning flesh simmered faintly. An occasional gun-shot coughed in the distance. Down side-streets, people could be seen running in chaotic crowds, for no apparent reason. Some erupted from an alley-way and collided with the coach, banging their hands upon its sides, leaving dents. Women held screaming children up to windows. ‘Take my baby. Save my baby.’ Murchison could only turn away from these appalling things; helpless.

  More than once he had thought ‘What am I doing here?’ and for just a few seconds panic had welled within him, and he had wanted to catch the next flight home. Then the inner need, the sureness he’d felt, which had compelled him to travel here despite the dangers, had reasserted itself and he’d known that soon the purpose of his flight would be revealed to him. It was like being a pilgrim to a holy land, and he had no doubt that, in some way, the ancient soil and sand of Egypt was holy to him. He was looking for the face of the pharaoh Akenaten in the crowd; the face that had drawn him here; long and faintly smiling.

  The milk-drinking woman, he supposed, was similar in appearance to an ancient Egyptian. She was seated, yet still appeared to be very tall. Her dark auburn hair was cut square onto her shoulders. She wore no make-up, yet her features were strong, the lips full, brows heavy. It was impossible to guess her age; she could be anything from twenty to forty, exuding an aura of both youth and maturity. Her hand around the glass was like a man’s hand, sure and tanned. She was not beautiful, but extraordinary. If he’d had a sister, she might well have looked like this woman.

  Was that the secret? A lost heritage? A forgotten family? It seemed he had left any remaining grip on reality back in England.

  Murchison smiled to himself. He had come to the front of the line now, and the formalities of mundane life must be attended to. When he had to sign his signature, the shape of his name felt unfamiliar to his hand. But what did he want to write instead? His thoughts were obscured; a troubled, cloudy sky. Outside, a siren wailed.

  On the plane, he’d drifted in a hypnogogic state, dreaming of boiling clouds tumbling across the heavens, of tornadoes, and hurricanes. He’d had to swim through torrential rain, blind, and had looked up into the deadly crest of a tidal wave. Storms, changes. Perhaps it could be interpreted as cleansing.

  Murchison expected the woman he’d seen to have disappeared by the time he’d finished with the hotel receptionists, but he found that she was still sitting in the same place. He’d have to walk past her to reach the elevators.

  She’d finished her milk, and the glass now stood on the table by her elbow. She was staring straight ahead at the wall, as if deep in thought, as if trying to remember something. When Murchison drew abreast of her, she looked directly at him. A smile hovered on her mouth, uncertain. Her brows drew together. She’d seemed to recognise him, but now clearly thought she was mistaken.

  Murchison paused. He could walk past now. It was in his nature to do that, for generally he disliked potentially embarrassing situations. But still, he paused. His mouth opened of its own volition and uttered a greeting. For a moment he thought, we are meant to meet here, then dismissed the idea. From the expression on the woman’s face it seemed she was equally confused.

  ‘Forgive how this sounds,’ Murchison said, ‘but I get the feeling I know you. I’m Cameron Murchison.’ He held out his hand.

  The woman stared at it for a moment, then took it. Her palm was cold and wet, presumably from her drinking glass, but her grip was firm. ‘I must admit you look familiar, yet I don’t know your name. Are you in pharmaceuticals?’ Her accent was English, yet Murchison would have sworn she was of a more exotic blood.

  Murchison grinned. It was surprisingly easy to conduct this conversation. He knew that soon they would be drinking together in the bar. ‘No, not exactly. I’m in the medical profession; gynaecology.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ve met at a conference, then.’ She smiled more easily. ‘Lydia March.’

  ‘Here for business?’

  Again her heavy brows drew together, and her eyes became reflective as if, for just a moment, she was confused, unsure. ‘Well… I… just fancied a holiday, and Egypt has always fascinated me.’

  ‘Me too,’ Murchison said. ‘It was rather a last moment decision flying out here.’

  ‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ She shrugged. ‘Well…’

  ‘Look, I could do with a drink. How about you?’

  She stared at him, so he babbled on. ‘I could just drop my luggage off in my room and meet you in the bar. What do you think?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, OK. I must admit I feel slightly at a loose end right now.’

  On the way up in the elevator, Murchison’s face grew hot. Would Lydia March think he was simply trying to chat her up? He was never so forward. Perhaps she would now discreetly go to her room, or venture outside into the turbulence of the city, unne
rved by an importunate male. Was his purpose in being here simply to find a new, more impulsive side to himself? He would be the first to admit that might be an improvement.

  The bar was dark yet airy, huge brass fan blades turning on the ceiling. The air conditioning made it almost cold, like a tomb. Copies of mummy cases, layered with gold paint, were positioned around the walls.

  At first, Murchison thought his assumption had been correct and Lydia March had disappeared, then he saw her sitting at a table in the shadowy corner, beneath a canopy of palm fronds that rose from a gigantic urn. She smiled up at him, and in response to his enquiry, requested a glass of white wine.

  At the bar, he wondered whether he should tell her the way he was feeling, that he was sure they were somehow destined to meet. No, it sounded too melodramatic, the worst of chat-up lines.

  When he returned to the table, she took the wine from him and sipped it, then placed the glass carefully in front of her. ‘You know, she said, ‘this is most peculiar, and you’ll no doubt think I’m mad, but I can’t help feeling we were somehow… well... supposed to meet here.’ She grinned cautiously. ‘Is that too bizarre?’

  He wriggled in his seat opposite her. ‘No, not at all. I was thinking the same thing, actually, although I didn’t think I’d have the guts to say it.’

  Lydia March leaned forward. ‘Tell me, why are you here in Cairo? Why are you really here?’

  Murchison sighed. ‘It sounds insane. A day or so ago, I had an extraordinary day, and simply had a compulsion to come to Egypt. It was almost — and this sounds the most insane thing of all — as if I was summoned or drawn here.’