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.’