3 Great Thrillers

by Churton, Alex; Churton, Toby; Locke, John; Lustbader, Eric van; van Lustbader, Eric

  A contented-looking Jiddan appeared in the courtyard. Jolo patted Ashe’s back. ‘Now we enter Qapiya Sheykh Adi.’

  As they opened the sanctuary door beneath a Roman arch, Jiddan and Jolo kissed the threshold. Having crossed it, they gave their payment to a nun.

  The sanctuary hall was dark and cool. Five ancient pillars supported its centre. Above them hung chandeliers. A few candles were lit.

  Jolo whispered to Ashe. ‘See here! Hewdê Nasir el-Dîn.’ He pointed to a cistern. ‘Here Angel of Death come to clean his knife, when person dies in the world.’

  ‘He must be here now then.’

  Jolo shuddered. ‘Do you see him?’

  Ashe shook his head.

  ‘He does not want you to see him. So you are safe, Tobbiash. See! Behind that curtain: senjaq.’

  ‘Senjaq?’

  ‘Holy image.’

  ‘Can we see it?’

  Jiddan interjected. ‘Must be special person. Qewwals take care of senjaq on its journey. They show to faithful Yezidis. You not Yezidis.’ The Kochek hurried to the end of the hall, then turned left into another chamber. ‘There is tomb of Sheykh Adi.’

  Jiddan and Jolo circled the long stone slab three times and each tied a knot in one of the many colourful pieces of silk and cloth draped over the tomb. Jiddan spoke to a nun standing by a door on the left. ‘It is permitted.’

  The door creaked open.

  But for two rows of large earthenware jars, the chamber was empty. Ashe thought of the wedding at Cana.

  ‘Olive oil from sacred groves. For holy fires.’

  Jiddan and Jolo tiptoed to the bare rock that formed the sanctuary’s north wall. They plunged their wrists down into two holes in the rock, saying ‘behisht, dozhe’ three times.

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Behisht, dozhe?’ Jolo looked to Jiddan. The Kochek nodded. ‘It means “heaven, hell”.’

  ‘Like when you crossed the bridge earlier?’

  ‘A crossing, yes.’

  ‘Why do you do this?’

  ‘We always do this. It is right to do it. God knows the reason. What do we know of these things?’

  Back in the tomb chamber of Sheykh Adi, they were shown another door. Jiddan looked through it, then called to his party. ‘Tomb of Sheykh Hesen. Now you have seen.’

  Ashe was intrigued. ‘Not properly. May I look?’

  ‘Nothing to see,’ said the Kochek awkwardly. ‘We must hurry.’

  Ashe entered the small tomb chamber. Sheykh Hesen’s tomb did not have the appeal of Sheykh Adi’s, judging by the amount of cloth laid upon it.

  There was a small, modest door to the right.

  ‘What’s through there?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘May I open it?’

  ‘Not allow,’ said Jiddan, trying hard to sound friendly.

  Ashe showed no sign of moving. He remembered Gulé’s words about how coming to the Sheikhan was his destiny. ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘We have not seen tomb of Sheykh Obekr.’

  ‘Can you tell me about this door?’

  ‘Please, Tobbiash. Outsiders not allowed.’

  Richmond called Ashe. ‘Come on, Toby! Can’t you see the man’s upset?’

  Ashe felt a powerful impulse to go through the plain door.

  ‘Come on, Ashe! Or we’ll leave you behind!’

  ‘Please, Tobbiash. I must go.’

  Ashe turned back. The Kochek looked relieved. ‘We go back to suq.’

  As they hurried over the cool steps, Ashe confided in Richmond. ‘Any idea what’s through that door, Simon?’

  ‘Something to do with a cave, I think. But I never pursue the matter. It annoys them.’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to interfere.’

  ‘Try and remember, Toby, these people have had to fight for access to this place. It’s incredibly important to them.’

  ‘It could be incredibly important to me too.’

  ‘Curiosity, Toby, killed the cat.’

  59

  Beaming with pride, Jiddan pointed to two small braziers that lit the path across the stone forecourt. As Kochek, his job was to cut the wood. Around the braziers, the qewwals’ faces, framed by grey hair and matted beards, flickered in the firelight. While the musicians tightened their instruments’ skins over the flames, Ashe’s attention was caught by a stone building behind them. He asked Jolo if it was another sanctuary dedicated to a sheykh.

  ‘Here we have ceremony. Holy waters.’

  ‘Where does the water come from?’

  ‘Kaniya Sipi. White Spring.’

  The Kochek nudged Jolo again, lest he say too much, then turned to Ashe. ‘Zemzem Spring is miracle of Sheykh Adi. Listen to qewwals, Tobbiash.’

  The musicians’ leader raised his tambour, then began a low-pitched chant in a major key. The rhythm changed abruptly into a melody as wild as any jazz improvisation. The tambours were thrust upwards and outwards in unison and the bodies of the qewwals swayed in time with the words, rhymes, cries and melismas of the piercing pipes. The valley answered in echoed chorus. Ashe was captivated, his body strangely stirred as if from a long sleep. Richmond tapped his foot.

  After the first chant, one of the seven qewwals began a prayer; others joined in.

  A syncopated beat. The music climaxed. Jiddan disappeared into the shadows. Ashe noticed dozens of seated Yezidis; they seemed to have come from nowhere.

  ‘What’s the song about, Jolo?’

  ‘Sheykh Adi established his path. When the path was made, on that day, the water of White Spring was made a… cure for all…’

  ‘Sickness?’

  Jolo nodded and passed glasses of dark coffee to Ashe and Richmond.

  Again the music reached a pulsing, wild crescendo. Its sense of soulful abandon suggested a depth to this religion not easy to grasp. Yes, there was pious mysticism, thought Ashe, but there was also something more elemental and physical too: a marriage of ‘heaven and hell’.

  Richmond gave Ashe a nudge and pointed to a party entering the forecourt. Leading the procession and carrying a bronze candelabra was Jiddan, with his rope and his hatchet tucked into a white woollen cummerbund. Behind him walked an extremely tall old man wearing a loose white turban that fell over his eyes. His white robe, white gaiters and red sash, which was wrapped round his waist and diagonally across his chest, reminded Ashe of the magi.

  Richmond whispered in Ashe’s ear. ‘Sheykh el-Wezîr – he’s the Mir’s deputy, what they call the mendûb, in Sinjar.’

  Ashe stared at him. The sheykh looked straight back into Ashe’s eyes: a clear, diamond stare. Ashe looked away.

  Behind the sheykh walked a teenage girl, wearing clothes that might have come from any high-street store: flared black cotton trousers, black sandals, and a loose orange-and-black paisley-patterned blouse. The V-neck was open, revealing a pearl necklace. Her hair was long, thick and black, made even longer by dyed sheep’s hair that had been tied in so that it flowed down her back almost to her ankles. Around her forehead the girl wore a bandana decorated with coins and red flowers.

  Her eyes were large and bright, like many Yezidis Ashe had encountered. Burning within those eyes, however, Ashe sensed a terrible grief – pain too great for one so young.

  As the little procession moved towards the stone building behind the qewwals, another figure came into view. Jolo grabbed Ashe’s wrist. ‘Laila! It is the princess!’

  Attired in a sleeveless abaya embroidered with silver and gold wave patterns, moons and dolphins, Laila was regal in bearing and captivating in appearance. First to fall under the spell of her high cheekbones, pharaonic eyes and long black tresses was Richmond. He turned to Ashe. ‘She’s a cousin of the Mir.’

  ‘Laila means “Morning Star”,’ added Jolo.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, Tobbiash. Laila is also name for Christian saint.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘You call her … Mary Magdalene.’

/>   The door of the stone building opened. Jiddan’s face appeared; his eyes flew from left to right. Somebody pushed him outside. Spotting the major, Jiddan hurried towards Ashe’s party.

  ‘Tobbiash! You come. Princess Laila wills it.’

  Ashe turned to Richmond. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Blame Jolo. He’s told her something about you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wouldn’t tell me. Go on!’

  Jiddan grabbed Ashe’s wrist and pulled him away from the crowd. The assembly gasped. An outsider brought inside the mysterious building was unheard of.

  Inside, the sheykh stood in a cramped space at the back, his hands crossed over his red sash, his eyes closed in communication with a higher power. Jiddan raised the candelabra above the heads of the assembly.

  Standing in front of a raised basin area was Princess Laila, her dark eyes fixed on Ashe. ‘Please do us the honour of witnessing our ceremony, Dr Ashe.’

  Ashe was attracted to her superior smile and subterranean voice; the kind that could reach far into a man’s soul. ‘Delighted, Your Highness.’

  ‘Dr Ashe, it is our wish that you understand that it is one of the five obligations on a Yezidi to choose what we call a Brother – or Sister – of the Hereafter. The sister must be from the family of a sheykh. I am of such a family, Dr Ashe. I am to be Rozeh’s Sister of the Hereafter.’

  ‘Rozeh?’

  ‘The girl you have seen with us. The tie between us has existed before this life, and it will exist after this life. I will serve my Sister, Rozeh, and she will make offerings as she may and as custom dictates. I will care for Rozeh and she will seek guidance from me as she may and as God wills.

  ‘I shall be present at her marriage and should she die before me, I shall be with her then. I shall know her after my death as I knew her before she was born.’

  Laila then stepped back, revealing a stone basin surrounded by large slabs. At its centre, a small fountain of water bubbled up from below. Jiddan, steering Rozeh by the shoulders, brought her to Laila. Shy and respectful, Rozeh looked downwards, but Laila gently took her chin and raised her head. Their eyes met. Rozeh’s sad face broke. Tears welled in her eyes as Laila said a few words, softly, in Kurmanji.

  Laila reached her right hand into the basin, filling her palm with water from the White Spring. Rozeh stooped to drink the water from the palm of the princess. The door to the building opened and Rozeh left with Laila by her side.

  Ashe went back to Richmond’s side, in the forecourt. He turned to see Laila’s gold-sandalled feet approaching him. Her face wore a look of concentrated interest that singled Toby Ashe out from every man in the world.

  ‘Your Highness.’

  ‘Please don’t call me that, Tobbi. Call me Laila. I’m a modern girl.’

  Laila tossed off her sandals, turned to the assembly, then called out a half dozen girls from the crowd, pointing wilfully. The crowd drew back to create space for dancing. Richmond’s eyes could not leave the princess. Ashe whispered into his ear. ‘I’m off to the Shrine of Sheykh Shems. It may be my last chance.’

  Richmond nodded, his gaze fixed on the princess’s nimble feet. Then he looked at Ashe. ‘Toby, you don’t believe that stuff about talking to long-dead saints do you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Richmond was mesmerised by the princess. Her arms were raised and she was slapping a small tambourine as her body entwined those of the other girls. So distracted was he that he failed to notice the small group of Yezidi auxiliaries who were pushing their way through the crowd towards himself and Jolo. Jolo greeted them warmly. Hearing their news, a huge grin lit up his face in the firelight. He turned to Richmond and began whispering. Richmond’s face broadened into a smile of deep satisfaction.

  ‘What is it, Simon?’

  ‘Jackpot, Toby. But it can wait.’ Richmond pointed at his watch. ‘Exit in one hour.’

  60

  His mind racing, Ashe made his way through the flame-speckled valley towards Mount Meshet in the south. Aware of a presence, he looked behind him. Nothing.

  The rising earth gave way to a series of stone steps. Stubbing his toe, he let out a suppressed screech. He felt a warm hand on his left shoulder.

  ‘I think you need a guide. The steps up to Sheykh Shems are very steep. It is a holy walk. Pilgrims must suffer a little before the blessing.’ She took his hand. ‘You can’t go through life as if you were afraid of its fire.’

  ‘Think I haven’t been burned already?’

  ‘Little scars.’

  ‘Probably.’ She let go of his hand.

  Ashe looked into Laila’s eyes. She came down onto the step he was balancing on. The step was tiny, the slope severe.

  Ashe could feel her breathing; he could feel her heart pounding. He could feel the heaving of her body. She touched his chest, and whispered, ‘Will you hold me, if I fall?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  She raised her arms around his neck and pulled his face toward hers. ‘I’m falling, Tobbi.’ She kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘There. I want to thank you, Tobbi.’

  ‘For what? I don’t know you.’

  ‘I want to thank you. For something you’re going to do for me.’

  ‘Ah…’

  ‘You have seen Rozeh?’

  ‘She seems sad.’

  ‘Her father, Saddiq, he was Jiddan’s younger brother. Jiddan’s brother was murdered last month, in Mosul. Rozeh’s mother too. Her name was Qoteh. They were slaughtered, Tobbi, like beasts. Slaughtered by butchers.’

  ‘Because they were Yezidis?’

  ‘Because they were Yezidis.’

  Ashe knew no words of comfort equal to such a loss.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything. I have seen into your eyes. I believe you can help. Help me do what is best for her. Rozeh is talented. She wants to serve people, to be a doctor. I want her to be a doctor, Tobbi. Please help me!’

  Ashe sighed. ‘I don’t know, Laila. Honestly, I don’t know how I can help. If it’s money, I can—’

  ‘Of course it’s not money! Tobbi, take her to England with you! She can get her education. I will watch over her, through you.’

  Ashe thought for a moment. ‘I could speak to the ambassador, I suppose. If you wrote to him.’

  ‘I will write to him. I will write to Prince Charles. I will write—’

  ‘It’s difficult. You know what happens with official channels. Anyhow, we’re leaving for Mosul soon.’

  ‘Mosul? I had hoped…’ She clasped his hand to her breast. ‘You do this service for me and for Rozeh and for your soul. The angel will smile on you. Now, go! Go to the mazar of Sheykh Shems. The guardian is waiting for you. Go! I will wait.’

  The mazar door creaked open. Ashe closed it carefully behind him. The candlelit chamber was immediately filled with a great gong-like voice as the guardian’s mighty grip enveloped Ashe’s hands.

  ‘I greet thee well, Dr Ashe. I am Khidr, son of Khudêda, Sheykh el-Wezîr. Greetings in the name of Sheykh Shems. A great pleasure for me to show you a treasure of my people.’

  ‘Where my heart is, there my treasure is also.’

  The sheykh smiled and bowed his head. ‘Quite so. You think it is because of Jolo Kheyri that I agree to meet you here?’

  ‘That is my information.’

  ‘It is not entirely correct. You see, I know an Englishman who is in Baghdad. For many years he has been a friend. He is much interested in my people. I think you have met him recently.’

  ‘Cray—’

  ‘Please! Names can be dangerous, Dr Ashe. Security is important – even here in Lalish. You heard the gunfire in the valley?’

  ‘Earlier this evening?’

  The sheykh nodded.

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘Security. That is why the major has joined us this evening. That is one reason for your visit to us. Now, the Englishman in Baghdad knows you are here. It was he who first suggested we meet. He said that you w
ould appreciate the life we lead.’

  ‘True. I’m fascinated.’

  ‘And in that fascination lies a deeper reason for your visit.’

  ‘Maybe. But tell me, how did… “the Englishman” tell you I was here?’

  ‘Really, Dr Ashe!’ The sheykh patted his hip. ‘We know what a mobile phone is for – even if we must communicate in code!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Forget it. It’s easy to forget the modern world in Lalish.’

  Ashe laughed. ‘It’s easy to forget everything in Lalish!’

  ‘Quite. We come to Lalish to remember, to bring something special to mind we have forgotten. Now, when the Englishman tells me your name, it is not new to me. I remembered it.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘My people value knowledge. You write books, Dr Ashe. Our Mir, Tehsin Beg, is very educated, a university man. He has knowledge of the things you write: things of science and the spirit. I for myself follow the tradition of my forefathers. I do not rely on books.’

  ‘We think that by writing we make things real and permanent.’

  ‘Yes. But our words are in our eyes and our hearts. We learn from mind to mind, from lip to ear. When we speak of holy things, this comes not from paper but from the heart of the tradition.’

  ‘When I write, I try to get at the facts beyond the legend.’

  The sheykh laughed. ‘In these parts, Dr Ashe, fact becomes legend very quickly! Your people are concerned with what can be seen; we are interested in what cannot be seen. When a man dies, he disappears from here. We see only a very, very small part of a life. Legend makes up for deficiency of fact. Men have ceased to believe in the beauty of the impossible. They try to work miracles with explosives.’

  The flame ate gradually into the taper, crackling about the bronze candelabra.

  ‘I am the leader of the Shemsani sheykhs, Dr Ashe. Without Sheykh Shems, I am nothing. Sheykh Shems was also wezîr of Sheykh Hesen, whose tomb you have seen. He is also Sheykh Shemsê Tebrizî. Do you know the works of Mawlana Jalal al-Din Rumi?’

  Ashe smiled with an ironic twinkle. ‘The Sufi poet and mystic? Doesn’t everybody?’