Freedom Fighters

Turkey

The road they travelled was wide, the landscape desolate, almost lunar, and the truck thundered along at a fast pace. Their guide and driver was a cheerful and garrulous young Turk named Hasim, whom Salamiel had engaged after making discreet enquiries in the city. Hasim was clearly sympathetic to the Yarasadi, although he identified himself as Turkish. Daniel, unsure of the young man’s heritage, understood about a quarter of what Hasim said, as he spoke in a continuous babble that seemed to be half Turkish, half English. Hasim knew about the prophet Gadreel and accepted Salamiel’s story that they were a team of journalists researching the story for a Western magazine. Before leaving England, Shemyaza had bought an expensive camera, which Daniel now carried in its shop-new case.

The previous day, they’d met Hasim in a local bar in Istanbul, where Shem had made delicate enquiries about the best way to reach the Yarasadi prophet. It was clear that the subject was sensitive and that the Turkish authorities would discourage any Westerners from approaching the Kurdish rebels: that had been the way of things for many years in Turkey. Hasim told them they would need documents from the rebels to guarantee them safe passage through the mountains where terrorist units held sway, but being caught by the Turks with such papers would mean instant imprisonment and gruelling interrogation. Hasim suggested that they should drive to the city of Diyarbakir, where there was a large Kurdish population, including a number of Yarasadi. Here, a guide could be found to take Shem and his companions into the mountains. They would need someone who knew the safest routes, and who could direct them to the places they’d most likely run into Gadreel. Hasim warned them that the journey would be hazardous, especially once they reached the mountains, where what semblance of law and order remained in the lowlands had broken down altogether.

‘Terrible things have happened,’ he said. ‘Whole villages massacred. The Yarasadi have few friends because their acquaintance means trouble. I’ve heard that even other Kurdish factions view them with wariness.’

‘This Gadreel character must have stirred up what was already an explosive situation,’ Salamiel remarked.

Hasim nodded. ‘Yes. Neither the Turks nor the Babylonians look kindly on the way Gadreel has fired up this faction of the Kurds. The Turks, they say the Yarasadi are devil-worshippers and secret followers of the new king of Babylon. But from what we hear, Nimnezzar wants to rid the world of Yarasadi as well. Some say he is afraid of them.’

Salamiel peered at the others over the top of a newspaper. ‘Seems things are getting pretty hairy all around the Middle East at present. Another hotel has been bombed in Cairo. Wouldn’t want to be out there at the moment.’

Hasim rolled his eyes. ‘You have seen nothing yet, my friend.’

It would take several days to reach their destination.

Shemyaza had been subdued all day, since they’d left Istanbul. He sat beside the driver in the front of the truck, while Salamiel and Daniel sprawled out behind on blankets. There was no air conditioning in the vehicle and only the breeze from the open windows provided any relief from the heat. A tinny, meandering strain of Turkish music spluttered from Hasim’s cheap cassette player. Salamiel smoked a chain of vile-smelling cigarettes and flicked through the English papers they had brought with them from the hotel. Salamiel seemed happy to follow Shemyaza’s lead. He didn’t question anything and was apparently enjoying the trip, as relaxed as if they were simply on holiday. At one point during the morning, Daniel asked Salamiel quietly if he thought Shem was all right.

Salamiel glanced up at the back of Shem’s head, and pulled a wry face. ‘He’s fine. Leave him be, Daniel. He doesn’t need you to analyse him all the time. He’s just full of thoughts.’

What thoughts, though? Daniel wondered what was going through Shemyaza’s mind. They hadn’t contacted Enniel before leaving England, and when Daniel had suggested it, Shemyaza had almost snapped at him. ‘Enniel is not involved in this. None of them are. It’s my business.’

Daniel had been tempted to call Lily, but realised the consequences could be awkward. She would be concerned for his safety, and would therefore tell Enniel anything Daniel said to her. Perhaps Shemyaza was right. The Parzupheim should not be involved in this, nor any other sly Grigori cabal.

Daniel found it difficult to talk to Shem now. They behaved like awkward strangers with one another. Daniel could not help but be slightly offended that Shem had booked a twin room for Salamiel and himself in Istanbul, while installing Daniel in a single room next door. Once, they had been close, making plans in the dark of a shared bed, dreaming the future. Daniel wondered whether he himself was responsible for this estrangement. When he and Shem had met in London, he knew he’d been cold and defensive. As a result of that, Shem appeared to have shut Daniel out of his personal life, and Daniel’s pride wouldn’t let him broach the subject himself. He realised there was no point in brooding about it now. Other, more important matters, must occupy all their thoughts at present.

Daniel was uneasy about the journey. He was unsure whether Shem could maintain their safety or not, and knew that he would have to keep all his senses alert for signs of threat, on both a physical and psychic level. They were travelling into one of the most politically-sensitive areas of the world to look for someone who might well be nothing more than a terrorist. It hadn’t occurred to Shem that Gadreel might not welcome him with open arms.

Unable to elicit conversation from Salamiel or Shem and unwilling to listen to the prattle of the driver, Daniel dozed as they travelled. He picked up one or two vague psychic suggestions of threat, which seemed to involve a woman, but the information was too nebulous to interpret.

That evening, they stopped for the night at a small town. Here, ancient and modern Turkey again nestled uncomfortably side by side. This land had seen many empires rise and fall. Ottoman ruins lay everywhere, declining forlornly alongside the brash newness of petrol stations and glass-fronted shops.

Hasim arranged accommodation, while Daniel and the others waited at the truck. Daniel took out the camera and ran off a few shots of the landscape. He felt they should be keeping a record of their journey. Salamiel disappeared in search of more cigarettes, and Daniel used the moment of privacy to mention to Shem the psychic impressions he’d received.

Shem offered an unexpected response. ‘Yes, that will be the American woman.’

‘What American woman?’ Daniel asked. ‘What have you been keeping from me?’

Shem shook his head in irritation. ‘It’s nothing. I found her outside the hotel in Istanbul. She wanted to kill me.’

‘Shem! I can’t believe you haven’t mentioned this before! When did this happen?’

‘This afternoon.’

Daniel stared at him, wondering whether this was a joke.

Shem sighed deeply. ‘I’m changing, Daniel. I was drawn back to the city in spirit, and led the woman into the ancient heart. She is a follower of mine. And yet an assassin.’

Daniel tried to keep his voice even. ‘Where is she now?’

‘She won’t follow us — immediately. Daniel, you mustn’t worry. She’s not a threat. There are other things…’

‘What?’

‘This afternoon, something else intruded into my visions. I realised it’s something I’ve been dreaming of for some nights. Disturbing. It involves another Watcher. I couldn’t identify him, but he was in terrible pain — incarcerated, or being tortured. Would you see what you can pick up about that?’

Daniel nodded. ‘I’ll try. Information’s not coming through too well. Seems you’re picking up more than I am.’

Shem waved this remark away. ‘Just get on with it, Daniel. I don’t want your excuses.’

They are not excuses, Daniel thought. As time progressed, he was seriously beginning to wonder whether his talent was deserting him.

The following day, their journey towards the east began in earnest. It would have been easier to make the trip by plane, but Shem wanted to experience the country firsthand. He seemed to have no sense of urgency. Daniel was entranced by the landscape; here Shem’s heritage seemed very close. Despite the concessions to modernity, the land still retained the grandeur of its past, and a lot of its magic. A rolling vista of stone-strewn grassland stretched away to either side of the road. Occasionally, rocky outcrops rose up like heat-blasted, alien castles. Here, hidden within the scenery, lay the remains of the Hittite and Phrygian empires. Long before those races surged with conquering zeal across the Middle East, the Grigori had walked here. The remains of their civilisation had vanished. So many ruins; so many conflicting lives. Daniel extended his senses into the countryside and picked up fleeting images, but none that seemed particularly pertinent to their situation. Perhaps there was just too much information for him to interpret, and the important symbols were lost in a confusing maelstrom of ancient memories. Or perhaps the fault lay within himself.

Shemyaza sat in the front of the truck, his eyes closed. He was very conscious of Daniel behind him, this strange new Daniel who was as cold and distant as a star. He was concerned about Daniel’s claims of losing his psychic ability. Could it be possible? Daniel could not know how much Shem relied on him, while doubting his own powers. Shem couldn’t help feeling that Daniel’s insistence on having changed was his small act of rebellion for having been abandoned after what happened in Cornwall. And all that had come before it. Daniel had had five years to mull over those things. Shem could sense his bitterness. Now, all he wanted to do was turn to his vizier and say ‘Help me, I am afraid’, but he could not speak. The episode with the American woman had shaken him as much as he sensed it had shaken her. It had been unexpected, a total, disorientating yanking-back to act out an archetypal role. He’d had as little volition in it as she, as if they’d been the puppets of higher powers.

Shem opened his eyes, his head resting on his hand, his elbow on the rim of the open window. He gazed down at the blurred passing road, and it seemed an oily black streak was keeping pace with them. Shem blinked. He saw it was a black serpent, a cobra with folded hood that wriggled with unnatural speed beside the truck. As he stared at it, the serpent raised its head. ‘Shemyaza, I am the symbol of your doom. You journey towards your ultimate sacrifice. Have you no will of your own? Turn back. Turn back. Your father laughs down at you from Heaven.’

Shem uttered a sound of surprise, which prompted Salamiel to call, ‘What is it?’ from the back of the truck. Shem could not tell him. There was no serpent on the road, no sly hissing voice in his head, only his own doubts and fears. He closed his eyes again, resting his head against the back of the seat. He saw Ishtahar before him, as he’d known her so long ago. She walked past him in the oaty gloom of a room shuttered of sunlight, fanning herself with a palm frond. ‘Shemyaza, get rid of the boy. He watches us. You have no need of him now. You have me.’

Had she ever said that to him? He couldn’t remember. He had lost her and now he had lost Daniel. Perhaps it was preordained that he should fulfil the final agonies of his destiny alone.

Their next major stop was Sivas — at first sight a grim and forbidding town. The stark concrete buildings of the outskirts gave way to more historical sites in the centre, but apart from stocking up on supplies and a night in comfortable hotel beds, the group had no desire to linger. Daniel tried, and failed, to acquire some information about the Watcher whom Shem had glimpsed in dreams. Shem did not mention the subject that evening, and again seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts.

From Sivas they travelled to Elazig, entering the Tigris and Euphrates Basin. Daniel felt his skin tingle to the echo of a thousand memories. If he closed his eyes, he fancied he could hear the thunder of hooves as warriors poured across the landscape. Ragged banners waved and fell; blood was spilled in an eternal libation to lost gods. In contrast, and like so many of the towns they had passed through, Elazig seemed relentlessly modern and scoured of its ancient heart, but once its environs were left behind, it was clear that the truck was venturing into areas of Turkey unfrequented by casual tourists. Nearer Diyarbakir, the land became more rocky and barren, providing a scant living for smallholders and herders. The harsh terrain shimmered and baked beneath the summer sun.

The further east they travelled, the more the Turkish authorities became inquisitive about their presence. At every junction, armoured cars and troops could be seen, and there was a tangible atmosphere of tension in every small town they passed through. The truck was stopped continually, and dark faces, lean with suspicion, were forever peering into their belongings.

Diyarbakir was a city of contradictions. It was contained within a wall of black basalt, built in Byzantine times; one of the oldest cities on earth, with a violent and dramatic history. Hasim provided a tour lecture, gabbling the names of lost empires: Urartian, Assyrian and Persian. Alexander the Great had once conquered this city, when it had been known as Amida. It was now hard to credit that such exotic people had ever once thrived there. Over the years, the city had spilled out of the walls, and its outskirts consisted of the now familiar modern, concrete buildings. Tower blocks soared in the pulsing heat. The city walls were punctuated by four main gates, as well as several smaller ones. Its remaining length was dotted with defensive towers. Hasim explained that a large Turkish military installation lay to the south, while to the north a NATO airbase provided a constant back-drop din of screaming jets and throbbing helicopter blades.

The atmosphere in the city was chaotic; fume-gushing traffic hurtled around them in disorganised, honking streams. Nearer the centre, the modern buildings concealed edifices of ancient times, although there was evidence of extreme poverty and squalor along the narrow streets that coiled away from the main thoroughfares. The heat was almost unbearable and, to Daniel, the heavy, tense ambience of the place was equally oppressive. Here, Kurdish refugees had flocked for over a decade, driven from their homelands by war and persecution. They regarded Diyarbakir as their capital city, but the might of powerful nations around them denied them autonomy. Hasim installed his charges in one of the better hotels and went off scouting for a guide.

Daniel sat in his room drinking heavily sweetened tea. A fan turned lazily in the air above him, complemented by a raging air conditioning unit that provided physical relief in equal measure to aural discomfort. They had reached the first of their destinations, but Daniel was anxious about what might come after. After all he’d seen and heard, it seemed the Yarasadi would be too concerned with their political troubles to accept Shemyaza as a representative of all they worshipped. Would they be seen as madmen or, worse, people who mocked the conflict of the Kurds? They had become distanced from the object of their journey, caught up in the grinding cruelty of the real world, where nations were oppressed and irreplaceable ancient sites violated and destroyed. The faint psychic impressions Daniel received only served to emphasise these things. The eternal conflict of angels seemed rarefied and unimportant in comparison.

In the next room, Shem lay on his bed while Salamiel went out sight-seeing. He longed to bang on the wall to summon Daniel, needing help to banish the whispering, deceitful voices in his head. Only your death can bring back the knowledge of the past. Your soul must be snuffed out like an exploding sun. Run away from it, Shemyaza. Disappear into the world. Become Peverel Othman again. It is what you really want. You’re not a saviour, you never wanted to be. Others have shaped you in the image of their desires.

In the past, when he’d been assailed by doubts, Daniel had been there to reassure him. Why couldn’t he simply go into Daniel’s room now and tell him the truth of how he felt. It seemed impossible. He must find Gadreel instead.

In the morning, Hasim took them to a tea-garden; an oasis of calm in a shaded courtyard, separated from the noise and smoke of the street outside by thick walls. Here groups of young Kurds in Western-style clothes sat chatting together. Some sat alone, engaged quietly in studies, drinking Coke or small glasses of sweet tea. Daniel was struck by the way that the sexes mingled here without stricture; Kurdish women were not generally secluded or veiled.

Hasim led them to a table beneath the branches of a spreading tree, and here introduced them to a young Yarasadi named Yazid, who was sitting waiting for them. Daniel was surprised by Yazid’s appearance, for he was quite pale of skin with thick, dusty blonde hair and dark blue eyes. His lively manner and fine features combined to make him very attractive. After the introductions were made, and everyone was seated with a drink before them, Yazid explained that he was eager for Westerners to witness the atrocities against his people first-hand and was therefore more than happy to take them into the mountains. He told them proudly that he was a peshmerga — a warrior committed to the struggle against oppression.

Shemyaza questioned him carefully about Gadreel. ‘Your prophet has made astonishing claims — that you are descended from the angels. I thought the angels were spiritual beings.’

Yazid nodded earnestly. ‘We were led to believe that, yes. The memory of our history has been hidden from us, but Gadreel made us remember. It is important that the whole world understands what is happening here. In the past, the Ancient Ones were wiped out and now we, their descendants, suffer the same fate. It must not happen. You will tell of our troubles, so people will know.’

Yazid owned an ancient Transit van — even more rickety than Hasim’s vehicle — into which they piled their belongings. After bidding farewell to Hasim, who seemed as grieved to see them leave as if they were life-long friends, they began their journey further east. Yazid said they should go to the town of Van, on the shores of Lake Van, a vast inland sea surrounded by mountains. Here, he would be able to make provisions for them to make contact with Gadreel’s immediate followers, who were the only people who could feasibly arrange a meeting with the prophet.

The roads were now almost impassable, so full of pot-holes that the travellers felt as if their insides were bruised by the constant jolting. The landscape became even bleaker. Yazid drove through the sites of military attack, Kurdish villages and towns reduced to rubble. Daniel felt as if he were travelling through the scenes of a post-Holocaust movie. The world had been scoured of greenery and those who survived had to scavenge in order to live. He forced himself to look upon the horrifying scenes: people squatting in the ruins of their homes that had been bulldozed flat; children riddled with disease from impure water; casualties of the fighting hobbling around with missing limbs and ruined faces. The people they saw sometimes had blond or red hair with green or blue eyes: true Kurdish stock with the physical traits of their long-forgotten ancestors still visible upon their bodies. Despite their adversity, the people were cheerful and welcoming. Daniel felt humbled by their spirit, then felt guilty, for his feelings seemed absurdly patronising. Shem seemed particularly disturbed by the torment he witnessed, perhaps because it evoked memories of what had happened to his half-human children many millennia before. Only Salamiel seemed unmoved by all they saw.

They had come here seeking the past, and maybe they had found it. But not in the way they’d imagined.

The countryside around them changed, becoming more mountainous; rugged and sparsely populated. The journey now became slower, owing to the increasing deterioration of the roads and more frequent check-points. On nearly every occasion, the travellers were grilled by suspicious guards as to why they were in the area. Now, their story had to be changed. They were a group of post-graduates from an English university, travelling to Old Van to visit the ancient tombs there. Yazid seemed unperturbed by these interrogations; Salamiel barely held his contempt in check, while Shem acted indifferently. Daniel, sometimes, felt sickened by the atmospheres he picked up. He could sense that violence was never far from the soldiers’ thoughts.

Finally, they reached Van, approaching it in the late afternoon. The town was like so many others they had passed through; modern and grid-like, held in the splendid cup of the mountains. Both Daniel and Salamiel voiced their disappointment about the towns they’d visited. They had expected softly decaying cities of minarets and domes; not miles of concrete and glass. Yazid explained that Van’s appearance was mainly due to a serious earthquake which had devastated the town in the 1950s and had destroyed what remained of the ancient buildings there. Old Van, the original town, had been demolished by war in the early twentieth century, although ghostly remains of it still existed, arrayed around the Rock of Van, a huge natural formation that rose up beside the lake. The new town did boast an airport, and Yazid told them that there would be more amenities for travellers.

As they drove in, the great Rock of Van was visible from the road, rising up from the sprawling remains of the old town. Shem began to speak quite openly about how this site had once been the location of an ancient Grigori stronghold, during the time of the wars after the Flood. ‘I have read the ancient manuscripts that describe it. Rituals were held on the shores of the lake, in the early morning and evening when the water shone like gold. The towers of the ancient city rose up around the Rock, and there was a palace built upon it, crawling over the stone like moss.’

Yazid eyed him speculatively as he spoke, but did not comment. Daniel was sure the young Kurd was privately surprised and intrigued by what he heard. Shem made no attempt to hide the fact that he was directly connected with the ancient race. Daniel wondered whether Shem was dropping these clues into the conversation deliberately, in the hope that Yazid would report them back to Gadreel’s followers.

In Van, the group booked into a comfortable hotel, where Yazid told them he would take them into the mountains the following morning. Yazid disappeared before dinner, presumably to contact the people they had come to meet.

In the morning, their journey resumed, taking them higher into the mountains, heading south towards Babylonia. Here, the landscape seemed so vast; it was as if they were exploring a new world. Rolling grassy slopes reached up to distant peaks that were capped with glowing snow. After a day or so of slow travelling along less-frequented and therefore nearly impassable routes, they passed the invisible boundary between the countries. There was a check-point, but Yazid bribed the Babylonian guards effortlessly with the money and cigarettes that Shem gave to him for that purpose. The guards seemed bored and swallowed without question the story that Shem and the others were archaeologists, intent on exploring the ancient tombs and wall-painted caves that were hidden amid the rolling landscape.

They drove slowly now, under cover of darkness, resting during the day. Often, when the gradient of the treacherous road permitted it, Yazid turned off the truck’s engine and they rolled and bumped along in silence. Yazid never used the headlights, seemingly navigating by instinct alone. Overhead, the sinister throb of helicopters trailed them like powerful predators. Salamiel made jokes that at any moment they might drive into a Babylonian patrol that would be more officious than the Turkish border guards. Daniel suspected that in some ways Salamiel relished the idea of conflict. Yazid, however, seemed to know the mountains tracks so well they managed to avoid any horrifying confrontations. Perhaps it was down to luck rather than strategy.

Now, they travelled through more abandoned villages, where the buildings looked as if they’d been clawed by frenzied monsters. Yazid wept openly as he described the atrocities that had been committed against innocent people. Entire communities had been gassed or shot; he also spoke vaguely of other, less tangible attacks.

‘The weapons are evil and cruel,’ he said, ‘but those from the fire are worse.’

‘Those from the fire?’ Daniel said.

‘Djinn!’ Yazid replied, in a defensive tone as if his passengers would not believe him.

‘Djinn are used in attacks?’ Salamiel said from the back of the truck. He glanced at Shem who was sitting beside Yazid up front, his arm along the back of the seat.

‘I have heard of that,’ Shem said. ‘More precisely, the rumour is that Nimnezzar’s Magians invoke djinn into the Babylonian soldiers. I’m not convinced of this. It could just be an exaggerated story.’

‘You have not seen it,’ Yazid said.

‘Is he one of ours, Shem?’ Salamiel said. ‘This new king?’

Shem shrugged. ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to find out.’

Early one evening, Yazid announced they were only a few kilometres away from the village where they would meet with Gadreel. This news heightened everyone’s spirits.

Daniel felt now as if the weight of history, the history of Shem’s people, was pressing like a crowd of ghosts upon his mind. The setting sun brought out the hectic colours of the mountains; copper lichened with verdigris; rocks of poison-green malachite, and blood-streaked porphyry. The air was almost narcotic with the scents of greenery and summer flowers crushed by the delicate hooves of goats. The sheer rocks, veined with their ophidian colours, reminded Daniel of the serpentine cliffs at the Lizard peninsula in Cornwall, where Shemyaza had reclaimed his divine kingship. Perhaps the last thing the exiled Grigori had seen when they’d left these lands were the splendid colours of the mountains. The serpentine cliffs would have been their first sight of England too, when they made landfall at the Lizard. Was that part of what had drawn the giant race to those shores?

The village was half-ruined and many people appeared to be living in tents among the rubble. Smoke rose from cooking fires into the evening air, along with the cries of playing children. Women and men were dressed alike in army fatigues; the garb of modern warriors.

Armed peshmergas halted the truck and spoke to Yazid in Kurmanji, the local Kurdish dialect. Yazid answered their questions, constantly pointing at his passengers as if to illustrate a point. Eventually, they were allowed to pass on.

Yazid parked up and left his companions in the truck, while he went to speak with a group of men who’d watched their arrival with interest. Presently, he returned and led the group into one of the ruined buildings where men and women were clustered around a fire. They were all clearly peshmergas, dressed in military clothing and surrounded by weapons. The walls of the room were pocked with bullet-holes, and the windows were broken, with rough sacking taped over them. A broken child’s toy lay in the corner of the room. Daniel had to shut his mind down in order to prevent any stray memory of whatever tragedy had taken place there intruding into his consciousness. Lowering his guard even for a moment meant he was swamped with a sensation of terror; screams of pain reverberating through his brain.

When Shem and the others entered the room, its occupants all began to speak at once, gesticulating wildly. Yazid answered back, with equally expressive gestures. Eventually, he turned to Shem. ‘I have explained your situation and these people are happy to let you stay here.’

Shem frowned. ‘Are they Yarasadi?’

‘They are friends of the Yarasadi,’ Yazid replied enigmatically.

‘When will we meet with Gadreel?’

‘Soon, soon. You must wait here.’

One of the group, an attractive woman in her thirties, bade Shem and his companions be seated. She told them in clear English that her name was Fatime and offered them the hospitality of her hearth. This last comment was accompanied by a wry grin to indicate she was aware she didn’t have much hospitality to give. Her skin was as pale as Yazid’s, although her hair was a dark reddish-brown, complemented by green eyes. She told them that as well as being a freedom-fighter for her people, she was a doctor, who over ten years ago had trained in France. She was in charge of this small settlement, caring for the injured refugees and soldiers who sought sanctuary there. Shemyaza told her they had brought supplies with them from Istanbul, so Yazid went back to the truck and unloaded what remained of the luxuries they’d purchased. While the assembled company passed round raki and beer, and distributed packets of cigarettes, Fatime initiated conversation with her guests. She admitted she was sceptical that Gadreel would meet with them.

‘Few have met him,’ she said. ‘He is the mountain goat, the eagle, resting rarely. Some say he is not human at all.’

Shem raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? Why?’

She shrugged. ‘He never shows his face. Perhaps it is hideous.’

‘Or the face of an angel,’ Salamiel suggested.

Fatime narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Some might say you have the face of an angel.’

He grinned, shrugged.

‘You are not Yarasadi,’ Shem said. ‘Are there any here?’

Fatime shook her head. ‘No, they are in the mountains, further south. You have to remember that Yarasadism is not like the other beliefs of our people. For thousands of years there have been the Alevi, the Yezidi and the Yaresan, but Yarasadism is new. Gadreel tells us it is very old, and perhaps it is, or perhaps it is just a new banner from which to draw strength. People of all faiths are drawn to it. They say they have woken up from the sleep of centuries.’

‘But not you?’ Shem asked.

Fatime pulled an expressive face. ‘By birth, I am Alevi, but my beliefs now are political rather than religious. If Yarasadism can help my people to win their eternal fight, I have no argument with it.’

The next morning, after an uncomfortable night spent on a concrete floor wrapped in blankets, Shem and his companions discovered that Yazid had disappeared during the night, along with his truck. Salamiel and Daniel were suspicious of this, but Shem thought that Yazid must have gone to seek his people and tell them about the strange Westerners who were asking for their prophet.

Over a sparse breakfast of bread and goat-cheese, washed down by sweet tea, Shem asked Fatime how long they should expect to wait for Gadreel’s people.

She smiled. ‘I have no idea. You will just have to be patient.’

Daniel watched Shem covertly. He sensed the mounting anxiety within him, and a sense of confusion. They should speak — he knew they should — but how could he break down the invisible wall that had come to separate them?

On the evening of their second day at the village, Daniel wandered off alone into the nearby crags, although he was tailed by several children and a three-legged dog. He emerged from a narrow pathway between high rocks to a natural look-out that hung high above a mountain valley of tough grass. Mountains rolled away into the distance. It was a dreaming landscape, seemingly oblivious of the human conflict taking place within it. Daniel put his hands against the ancient rocks, trying to project his mind back to when Shem’s people had made their mark in this land, but he could not extend his senses beyond the mundane. He knew that in some way he was deliberately ‘shutting down’. Perhaps he had been too affected by reality recently. He realised how different he was to the gauche youth whom Shemyaza had taken away from Little Moor. Never then could he have imagined being where he was now. For the first time in months, he thought of his sister, Verity, and had an urge to contact her. Was their father still alive? Homesickness swamped him. He yearned for the mellow glow of an English summer evening and the smallness of life in his old home. Kurdistan was stark and terrible and unremittingly honest in revealing humanity’s failings. These mountains were washed in blood, and had been for millennia. The ambitions Shem had had in England seemed irrelevant here. What significance could the mythical conflict of angels have to people who daily had to fight for their lives? Daniel shuddered in the breeze that came down from the mountains. He felt like an impostor here.

A small hand tugged at his t-shirt. ‘Danee-ell, Danee-ell.’ He looked down and saw a grubby-faced girl smiling up at him; gaps in her teeth which he hoped were the result of growing rather than some obscene injury. She was dressed in a tattered, colourless dress, which was too big for her, and a brightly-embroidered purple jacket. Daniel recognised her as one of the children who had followed him from the village; he could see her companions giggling and shy, hiding among the rocks behind him.

He ruffled the girl’s hair. ‘Hi.’

She held out a bunch of wilting, tiny flowers to him and chattered to him in Kurmanji. Despite the language barrier, he could tell she sensed his sadness and sought to cheer him. Tears came to his eyes and he pressed the fingers of one hand against them.

After five days, there was no sign of Gadreel or any of his immediate followers. Shem and Salamiel questioned Fatime every day until she became impatient with their demands. She did not know where the Yarasadi were. Perhaps they were too far away to receive the messages, or else engaged in combat. Daniel could sense she was really quite exasperated by Shem’s constant questions. Daily, she had to deal with the influx of refugees that trailed in from routed villages in the mountains. Her scant medical staff was over-worked with too few supplies. Sometimes, gunfire could be heard echoing from peak to peak.

One day, her natural courtesy deserted her. ‘What is so important about one man?’ she snapped. ‘If you are here to report on our troubles, look around you. This is what should be taken back to the West!’ All around her, the injured lay on make-shift beds among the ruins, or sat before meagre fires, staring into the smoke with blank eyes.

‘We will take it back!’ Shem answered. ‘We shall do more than that.’

Fatime shook her head and walked away from him. Watching, Daniel could tell she thought Shem cared nothing for her troubles.

Daniel offered to help wherever he could, although he found it difficult to deal with the human pain of mutilated orphans and grieving women disfigured by appalling chemical burns. It was not the physical injuries that affected him, but the strong psychic effluvia of defeated despair and overwhelming grief.

On one occasion, he assisted Fatime to clean up the wounds of a young boy who had been brought in with a group of peshmergas. They had found him in the ruins of a smoking village. The boy’s legs were hideously mangled, although Fatime told Daniel that she would use a poultice of local herbs on the injuries, which might prevent the need to amputate the limbs. Daniel doubted that the boy would ever walk again.

As they knelt together, mixing the poultice, Fatime said to Daniel, ‘Your friends have some business with Gadreel they are not speaking of.’

And Daniel had to answer, ‘Yes, they have.’

‘They know him already.’

Daniel looked into her eyes. ‘They know of him, Fatime. It is an old business. Very old.’

‘They are different from you.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. They are like Gadreel, or rather they hope Gadreel is like them.’

‘What are they?’

Daniel was silent for a while. ‘Long ago, their people came from these mountains.’

Fatime stared at him for a few moments, then changed the subject. ‘Here, open that jar for me. I need a handful of the leaves.’ Daniel realised she did not really want to know the truth, perhaps because she already suspected it.

Another week passed by, then another. Daniel and Salamiel occupied themselves by helping Fatime around the settlement. Salamiel spoke to Fatime often about the struggles of her people. Daniel detected a sub-text. Did Salamiel feel that Shem’s task was to become involved in the conflict? Daniel couldn’t dispel the impression this was so. He finished off the last of the films they had brought with them, tempering heart-rending shots of human misery with compositions of ragamuffin children grinning against the soaring landscape. The gap-toothed girl, Adina, who had once offered him flowers for his hurts, had become his shadow, having developed a strong crush on him. He knew that when the time came for them to leave, he would find it very hard to leave her behind in this place.

Each morning, Shem wandered off alone into the mountains, returning at sunset. He barely spoke to his companions. Salamiel confided to Daniel that he thought Shem was a maelstrom of doubts. ‘We are wasting time here. Why is he stalling?’

Daniel answered carefully, aware that Salamiel was liable to turn on him very quickly. ‘But we can’t really do anything until we’ve made contact with the Yarasadi. We have to wait here.’

‘Nonsense!’ Salamiel said. ‘He could show them his power instead of hiding it. Gadreel and the Yarasadi would no doubt appear with miraculous speed if Shem would only take control of the situation.’ He paused, then said, ‘Speak to him, Daniel. Only Anu knows what’s going on in his head.’

Daniel shrugged. ‘I can’t, Sal. He won’t let me.’

‘Then what are you here for?’

As the days passed, Salamiel’s comments became more waspish. This did not help to restore Daniel’s confidence in his unreliable psychic sight.

Daniel knew that Shem was becoming increasingly impatient about Gadreel’s failure to appear, which was reflected in the terse manner with which he interrogated Fatime. Salamiel was convinced that Yazid had simply dumped them and had perhaps had not even contacted the Yarasadi. ‘Perhaps we should be looking upon ourselves as hostages now,’ he said.

Shem could not even articulate his feelings to himself. He was continually drawn to the mountains, almost as if, should he sit in solitude long enough, something would be revealed to him. He watched Daniel develop friendships with the Kurds, and recognised the barbs of jealousy in his heart. When the child Adina put her arms around Daniel and nestled against him, Shem yearned to be in her place. Daniel was his strength, his psychic eye. But it had been plucked out.

In the past, this area had been where Shem’s Nephilim sons had fought the might of the High Lord Anu. If he sat down and closed his eyes, he could almost hear the echoes of war still reverberating among the soaring crags. It was in mountains like these that he had made his final stronghold, where he’d taken Ishtahar in the last days of their life together. If he stared at any sheer cliff, he could almost see the fortress; a stark outline of cyclopean blocks; flat towers crowned with spreading spikes that were the rafters of the rooftops. Ishtahar had betrayed him there, by fleeing to Kharsag, where she’d revealed the whereabouts of Shemyaza’s stronghold to Anu. She had condemned him to a horrifying death, and yet some part of him still loved her. He knew her actions had been the result of seeing the monster of hate and anger that he’d become. He could not blame her for her treachery. These mountains were full of her fragrance, her presence. He remembered that in lulls between the fighting, when his mood had swayed back to something like his former self, he and Ishtahar had strolled together among the valleys, gathered flowers and made love in the lush grass. The memories were too painful.

One day, Salamiel trailed Shem from the village and came upon him in his silent meditations. Saying nothing, Salamiel sat down beside him on the rock, staring out over a narrow gorge, where far below water spumed and crashed. Eventually, Salamiel broke the silence. ‘Shem, we can always go back.’

Shem glanced at him, his expression unreadable. ‘I can’t. I wish I could.’

‘Tell me what you’re thinking.’

Shem shook his head. ‘Nothing. Just remembering.’

Salamiel was silent for a moment, then said, ‘I’ve been thinking about what we should do. It’s obviously a waste of time hanging around here. I think we should take some action.’

Shem raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh? Such as what?’

‘Perhaps we could go to Babylon.’ He was clearly fighting to keep his voice calm, but an almost fanatical light had come into his eyes. ‘Shem, it is time for you to use your power. You are the divine king of angels. Isn’t your job to change the world? You must rise up as the warrior, not the peace-maker. That has been tried and failed. We should go to Babylon and claim its armies for your own.’

Shem laughed incredulously. ‘No, Sal. That doesn’t feel right to me. I just have to find Gadreel. I have to find my brethren.’

Salamiel snorted in contempt. ‘How long must we wait? What is going to happen?’

‘I don’t know. Daniel will discover this for me.’

‘Daniel!’ Salamiel’s voice was full of scorn. ‘Shem, why do you keep him by you? He’s told us hardly anything of use recently, and let’s face it, he doesn’t even warm your bed for you any more. I think you’re more than capable of taking on Daniel’s role yourself. You are Shemyaza, more powerful than anyone.’

Shem narrowed his eyes and his voice became harder. ‘How little you know me, Salamiel. I don’t ever want to hear you speak of Daniel like that again.’

‘Someone has to point out the obvious to you,’ Salamiel answered, but the fire had gone from his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I only have your interests at heart.’

Shem shook his head once more, and stood up. ‘I have to speak to that woman again. Let’s go back.’

Shem had left Fatime alone for a few days, but when he returned to the village, he marched straight up to her and announced, ‘We can’t stay here for ever. We need your help. I’d like you to send another message to Gadreel for us.’

‘I have sent messages,’ Fatime replied curtly, ‘and have received no answer. He might not come. You must face this.’

‘Send another message,’ Shem said. ‘I will pay for it.’

Fatime shrugged. ‘Waste your money, then. I will do as you ask.’

That night, after a brief private discussion, Salamiel and Daniel demanded that Shemyaza sit down with them to discuss what they should do next. The supplies they had brought with them had run out and they were now a burden on Fatime’s limited resources. Shem was all for heading off into the mountains with the help of one of Fatime’s people. He felt sure they could pay someone to guide them. Salamiel pointed out that they had no money left, and suggested they return to Van, in the hope of making contact with a Yarasadi there. Also, there were banks in Van where they could withdraw further funds.

‘We are wasting our time here,’ Salamiel said.

Daniel felt Salamiel was right. ‘We’ve got to face it: Gadreel doesn’t want to know about us.’

Shem shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. We can’t give up. We are meant to be here. Gadreel will come.’

Fatime had strolled over to where they sat, clearly interested in the outcome of their conversation. It didn’t take long to work out she’d been eavesdropping for some time. ‘Your companions are sensible, Shemyaza. You should return to Van. Afterwards, if you still want to go down to the plains of Babylon, one of my people could guide you further south to the foothills, but first you will need supplies and transport. Your safety cannot be guaranteed.’

‘Two more days,’ Shemyaza said. ‘Then we shall see.’ He looked up at Fatime. ‘We shall repay you in full measure for your hospitality.’

Fatime made a dismissive gesture. ‘No. There is no need.’

When she walked away, Daniel went after her. He touched her arm to get her attention. ‘I know how much you are helping us,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Helping you?’ Fatime looked puzzled. ‘I have done little. You, Daniel, have done more these last weeks to help me.’

Daniel shook his head. ‘No. You could have used us as hostages, Fatime. I’m not blind to the fact you are willing to let us walk out of here back to Van. You wouldn’t let us walk out alone either, would you. Why?’

She smiled. ‘Instinct. Maybe. You could never be hostages.’ She glanced back at Shemyaza and Salamiel. ‘Your friends, they frighten me, Daniel. But they belong here.’ With that, she held up a hand to silence any more questions and walked quickly away.

 

The two days passed, and as Daniel expected, there was still no sign of the Yarasadi. Fatime offered to lend them a jeep and a guide to return to Van, although she told them there had been some trouble on the road out of the mountains and some of it might be impassable.

‘We have no choice,’ Salamiel said.

Daniel could tell that Shemyaza felt disheartened by Gadreel’s failure to appear. He had no doubt imagined some dramatic reunion when everything would fall into place. To Daniel, Gadreel’s decision to keep a distance indicated that he could not be a reawakened Watcher as Shem had thought. He was probably nothing other than a Kurdish peshmerga, who had simply adopted a name he considered to be powerful.

At dusk, they loaded their possessions into the covered jeep. Most of the people seemed sorry to see them go. Fatime embraced Daniel and wished him luck. Adina clung to his legs, weeping, until Fatime prised her away and led her to a group of women nearby. Daniel knew he could not take her with them; they had no idea what would happen to them or where they’d end up. He made a firm decision that, once he returned home, he would try to help her people, in whatever way he could. If he returned home. With this thought, his mind became utterly still. For the first time, he considered leaving Shem behind. His role as vizier seemed to have disappeared. He had lost the keenness of his psychic sight. Shem needed a new vizier. Perhaps he would find one in these mountains, some native of his ancient homeland. Daniel rested his forehead against the canvas of the jeep, pretending to be engrossed in fixing it to the vehicle’s frame. It’s finished, he thought. I’ve played my part.

‘Daniel?’ Shem’s hand curled around his shoulder. ‘What’s wrong?’

Daniel paused for a moment, wondering whether he dared to speak his mind. Then the words were being spoken, almost independently of his will. ‘Shem, I think I’ll be going home.’

Shem was silent as he considered this statement, then he laughed softly. ‘That’s good news. I know you feared we’d all get killed up here.’

‘No. I mean soon. Now. I don’t want this any more.’

Shem sighed impatiently. ‘We’ll return to Van, and see what happens. Something will happen. I’m sure of it.’

Daniel pulled away angrily. ‘Will you listen to me for once? I’m going back to England. I could get a flight out of Van to Istanbul. It’s over, Shem. I don’t belong with you any more.’

People around them had stopped what they were doing to listen to the argument. Fatime sucked pensively on a cigarette nearby, her eyes narrow and watchful.

‘You can’t go back,’ Shem said quietly. ‘There’s nothing there for you. Your place is with me.’

‘No. I’ve changed. I’m no use to you now. I’m not the Taliesin I was to you in Cornwall. Give me one last thing. Give me the money to get home.’

Shem’s hands shot out and grabbed Daniel’s wrists. He pulled Daniel towards him, making him wince in pain as the bones in his wrists ground together. ‘You are not trying, Daniel! You’re forsaking your duty!’ He shook Daniel like a rat in the jaws of a dog.

Salamiel sauntered over to them. ‘Let him go, Shem. He may be right. We’re all exhausted. Let’s talk about this back in Van.’

Shem uttered an angry cry and threw Daniel against the side of the jeep. But for this movement, the entire camp around them had become still. Children watched with wide eyes.

Salamiel thrust himself between them and tried to break Shem’s grip on Daniel’s arms. Daniel struck out with his feet and caught Shem on the shin, which prompted him to transfer his grip to Daniel’s throat.

Salamiel punched at Shem’s face, yelling, ‘You’ll kill him, for Anu’s sake! Shem, let go!’

Daniel flailed and hit out with his arms, striking Shem around the head. He retched and gasped in Shem’s hold. So, Shemyaza would kill him now. Was this the end of it? He became overwhelmed with a numbing lethargy, and could no longer feel the pain of suffocation. Sound became faint in his ears, replaced by a rushing like the sea. His vision blurred. Then, Shemyaza had let him go, almost as if something else had attracted his attention.

Daniel slumped to his knees, wheezing and coughing, his hands against his throat. Salamiel and Shemyaza were like giants before him; inhuman and terrible, their hair coiling like snakes around their heads and shoulders in the evening breeze.

‘Daniel.’ Salamiel squatted down before him, took his face in his hands. ‘Are you all right?’

Daniel swallowed painfully and croaked, ‘Yes.’ He was surprised by this unexpected show of concern, but let Salamiel help him to his feet. Daniel could not look at Shem. Wiping his eyes to clear his vision, he saw ghosts everywhere; dark shapes that had melted out of the dusk. They seemed be floating down from the rocky crags around them; black cloth swirling round them like wings. One of them came towards the jeep, and Daniel saw it was not a ghost at all, but a man dressed in a dark robe with a red scarf wrapped around his head. They had come then, at last: Yarasadi. Daniel knew it had been decided for him: he would not be going home just yet.

Shem had already caught sight of the robed figures. He had straightened up and now stepped forward to address the one who seemed to be the leader of the group. Fatime, however, intervened, moving quickly to place herself between Shem and the stranger. She spoke to the leader in rapid Kurmanji and then turned to Shem. ‘These people are Yarasadi. It is unclear whether they are here because of the messages, for they claim to know nothing of them, but they do wish to speak with you.’

‘Is Gadreel with them?’

Fatime shook her head. ‘No. But that is not unexpected. Nobody meets Gadreel.’

Shem clawed his fingers through his hair impatiently. ‘Where is Yazid? Did he reach them?’

Fatime again spoke to the Yarasadi in their own tongue. ‘They will not answer clearly. They say there is someone they must take you to.’

Shem nodded. ‘That must be Gadreel. Tell them we will go with them gladly.’

Fatime studied Shem for a moment. ‘You have to understand, these people are an elite group. I do not know their activities and cannot vouch for your safety if you go with them.’

‘I understand, but we must still go.’

Daniel knew Shem well enough not to expect an apology for his attack. To Shem, there seemed to be no difference between an act of cruelty or of love. The atmosphere in the jeep as they set off from Fatime’s village was tense and silent. Salamiel seemed embarrassed or guilty about the episode and would not speak to Daniel, although he did offer a reassuring pat upon the shoulder as they climbed into the back of the jeep. Shem said he would drive, although one of the Yarasadi — a woman — climbed into the front seat beside him, presumably to act as guide. They could see little of their new companion, as she was disguised by her costume and the light now was dim. If she could speak English, she clearly did not intend to do so, and directed Shem by gestures and sharp remarks in Kurmanji. She kept her gun upright between her robe-swathed knees; a fearless female who had no anxiety about travelling with three male strangers. The other Yarasadi disappeared back into the shadows of the rocks.

They drove through the night, along mountain roads that looked — and felt — as if they had not been travelled by wheeled vehicles for centuries. Progress was slow and on several occasions the company had to alight from the jeep to manhandle it out of a deep rut in the road.

Daniel knew that he could no longer avoid speaking to Shem about their relationship. Shem’s unexpected violence hid more than mere annoyance that Daniel wanted to leave him. At one time, their alliance had been intense and passionate, but it had been spoiled by Shem’s long recuperation from his ordeal in Cornwall. Daniel wondered whether his withering psychic ability was something to do with the fact that he and Shem had become estranged. If he was to remain part of the Grigori’s destiny, then he must face the resentments that had built up within him, and break down the barriers of hostility. How and when he had yet to work out.