Long before the detachment of Yezidi irregulars crossed the waters near the point where the Great Zab River disgorged her bulging foam into the long-drifting Tigris, Ashe had fallen asleep. Some silent will kept his arm around Jolo’s waist, his head resting on Jolo’s tireless back.
Ashe woke as Jolo brought the horse to a standstill. The anvil-hot sun, glowing rich and red, rose from the horizon. Jolo dismounted and raced forwards to kiss the ground where the sun’s rays touched the earth. He crossed his arms before his chest and bowed three times. He kissed his forefingers and brought them to his forehead. Then he pulled up the collar of his shirt and kissed that.
Ashe glimpsed this curious ritual between half-closed eyes. Was he dreaming?
Jolo rejoined his horse and apologised to Ashe. ‘It was not I who woke you, Tobbiash, but Sheykh Shems. He brings you light.’
The words meant nothing to Ashe, but he had a vague sense of déjà vu. ‘You know, Jolo, where I live in England, there was once a saint.’
Jolo listened eagerly. ‘Yes? Who was this holy man? Was he Ezidi?’
‘His name was Chad, or Caedda.’
‘Caedda. This word is like Kurmanji name, Khidr. Like our word for God: Khuda.’
‘I suppose it is. Chad, it is said, awoke at dawn and went outside to stand by a well. There he greeted the rising sun with hymns.’
Jolo’s eyes lit up. ‘Your saint in England. He is friend of Sheykh Shems. The sun is for everyone on earth. From here in the Sheikhan to you in England. When you visit shrine of Sheykh Shems, you may pray to your… Caedda. You may speak to him, and he will speak to you. Yes!’
‘That would be something.’
‘Your saint with Khuda in Paradise, Tobbiash. To him, years are nothing. Your Caedda is one of the living ones. He speak to you.’
Rain began to fall, heavily and sharply. Jolo led Bucephalus by the reins and his men followed in the blue dawn light. The detachment joined the old track west of Mosul, avoiding the new road that had brought so much harm. The track took them through wet cornfields and beanfields, their booted feet cushioned by the sweet-smelling clover called nofil that grew everywhere.
As the sun rose higher and ruddy continents of clouds streaked the sky, Ashe realised the desert was far behind – on the other side of the night; the blood and killing on another side of himself.
For the irregulars, the night had brought a small victory – amply justifying their recruitment and payment. The extremism of the jihadist – no stranger to the ways and history of the region – left Yezidi families with little choice but to resist where possible. Not being ‘people of the Book’, as Muslims are defined by the Koran, nor being Christians or Jews, Yezidis were continually exposed to ancient hatreds in Iraq, Turkey, Georgian Armenia, and Iran.
Ansar al-Sunna demanded an all-Islamic, fundamentalist state in Iraq. Christians might be subjected to dhimmitude – humiliating second- or third-class status – while Jews would barely be tolerated. For Yezidis there was no place at all: in the event of Ansar al-Sunna’s fulfilling its dreams, the only options for Yezidis who wished to stay in their homeland, would be to convert to Islam or be butchered. Yezidis had never willingly converted, and their enthusiasm for life and their faith had kept them alive.
The men now resembled a posse of pilgrims come to some sacred place, quite different from the furious force of the previous evening.
As they approached Bashiqa, Ashe was struck by the peculiar whitewashed cones, like little steeples, that adorned the shrines around the town. They rose out of the olive groves as if they too were paying homage to the sun.
Ashe felt a gentle hand touching his shoulder.
‘Tobbiash! Come!’
A golden light cast dappled shadows across the tiny stone room in which his camp bed had been placed. Squatting on a Persian carpet was an old lady, wide-eyed and grinning. Her face was like an old stone, cut with gorges and fissures, her eyes like suns.
She removed the silk scarf from around her greying hair, dipped it in a bronze bowl of water and wiped Ashe’s face as he perched on a low stool.
‘Welcome to Bashiqa, English gentleman. English gentleman very welcome here in home of my son. My son, Jolo’s cousin. He is with Khuda now. He waits for the Resurrection. He sit then in judgement on Saddam’s soul. Saddam kill my son. Yes.’
Tears came to the woman’s eyes. ‘I am Gulé, Englishman. I wash your clothes.’
Ashe sat up. ‘Gulé. You must forgive me. If I’d known, I would not have brought my dirty clothes into your good house.’
‘It is God’s will you come here. The Kochek tell us so.’
‘Kochek?’
‘He sees through this world. You have two eyes. He has other eyes, like peacock. Kochek know about you, Tobbiash! You come from bad happening in England. You are hurt, Tobbiash. You come to Sheikhan to find answer.’
The lady dipped her headscarf again in the bronze dish and wrung it out thoroughly before retying it about her hair. Gulé had once been a beauty. Now the beauty shone inside.