Ahead of her, she saw a low wall before a courtyard, where a group of tall women sat upright, with legs apart, their strong feet firm against the ground. In front of them, a wanton array of sumptuous fabrics was cast. They did not look like typical Turkish women. Their faces and arms were bare, and covered in curling black tattoos. Heavy gold jewellery studded with hunks of lapis lazuli and turquoise adorned their ears, throats and nostrils. Their languorous movements and heavy yet sinuous bodies exuded an almost visible aura of sensuality. Melandra was suffused with disgust at the sight of them. They might have stepped from one of the stories about the Fallen Ones; lustful wantons who had seduced the sons of God. The women turned their heads to stare at her as she approached. Whores, Melandra thought. They are whores waiting for custom. She tossed back her head and forced herself to hold the long-lidded gaze of the women, filling her expression with contempt. Momentarily, all thoughts of her target were forgotten. Something about the whores’ confident stance made her feel uncomfortable. They radiated an essentially female power, as if they sucked it up through their feet from the earth itself to shine from their eyes and hang like an aura around their voluptuous bodies. She had read legends of the sacred prostitutes of ancient times. They would have been like this.
Closer now. The women seemed to be waiting for her. They would speak. One ran her fingers through her long, tangled hair, another fanned herself with a broad leaf. Melandra felt as if their sly gaze willed her to draw close to them. They whispered together softly, and each time one of them bent her head to murmur in the ears of another, Melandra heard the chime of tiny bells. When the breeze lifted the hair of the women, the air vibrated as if a rattle-snake had shaken its tail nearby.
One of them raised a hand and beckoned. Her hair was henna red and fell over her shoulders and breasts in a lascivious cloud. Almost hypnotised, and unable to pass by, Melandra halted before the group. Even seated, they seemed to tower over her. They stared at her in the manner that cats stare; inscrutable. It made her feel like a child again.
I have always been a child, she thought. Never a woman. The secret territories these harlots know are unknown to me.
Her mind felt hazy, overwhelmed by the chime of bells that jingled at the women’s wrists and ankles, and the perfumes exuded by their bodies: jasmine, sandalwood and clean sweat.
Swaying where she stood, removed from reality, Melandra was held in the snare of dark eyes. The women disgusted her no longer. She was envious of their pride and beauty. A desperate longing uncoiled within her, rising up from the empty pit that had lain within her all her life, poised to strike its venom into her heart. These women had power she had never had. She wanted to understand it, possess it.
The woman who had beckoned to her stared unblinkingly into Melandra’s eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Melandra found herself taking tiny steps, nearer and nearer. Her head was pounding, and pin-pricks of light sparkled before her eyes. She thought she must collapse, but then the woman reached out and touched her face. At once she felt strengthened; intoxicated perhaps, but nowhere near losing consciousness. Long, ring-encrusted fingers caressed her cheek, then curled behind her neck and pulled her closer. Melandra felt the moist heat of the woman’s sweet, spicy breath upon her lips. Her whole body tingled as if it was being stroked by loving hands. Melandra closed her eyes. Her lips met those of the nameless woman and for a timeless, endless moment, they kissed like lovers.
Melandra’s heart seemed to have stilled within her. She had no thoughts, no opinions, and had become a ringing nerve of pure sensation. Then the heat and perfume, the pressure of lips, drew away, and Melandra opened her eyes. The woman now stared down the street. The breeze blew the banner of her hair in the same direction. Melandra followed her gaze. A tall, white-clad figure stood motionless, some feet away, his back towards her. It was her target; the demon Shemyaza. Melandra began to walk towards him. She glanced back at the women behind her, but they ignored her now, staring only at the man in white. Shemyaza began to walk away, and Melandra followed him. She did not think about what had just happened.
Soon, the stalls became more widely spaced, until eventually, Melandra found herself walking along a narrow alley, tall buildings to either side, but no sign of human life. Sunlight came down in patches and her target moved through these golden pools, briefly blazing before swimming into shadow. She thought that he must be aware of her by now, but still he did not turn or change his pace. An ephemeral blade of panic touched its point against her heart: was she following him into danger? Perhaps he was totally aware of her pursuit and planned to lure her into some hidden spot, where his followers would jump her before she could defend herself. The feeling did not persist. Melandra became convinced the man ahead was unaware of her. His gait and posture were relaxed, as if he was taking a stroll to mull over some private thoughts.
She realised she was tired, and had perhaps been walking too long in the sun. It seemed as if she was moving in slow motion. When she looked up, a carpet hanging overhead seemed to flap at an unnaturally sluggish pace. She heard a delicate tinkling chime that seemed to keep time with her steps, as if she wore invisible bells around her ankles. Simultaneously, an oceanic rushing sound invaded her ears. It was quiet at first, hardly even a sound at all, but gradually built in intensity, as if she had two giant shells pressed against her ears. Then, a distinct salty smell, like the sea, washed over her, perhaps conjured by the ghosts of breakers in her ears. She thought that the man ahead of her nearly turned his head, although he did not look round. Her hand was damp upon the clasp of her bag. She thought about removing her weapon, for there were no people about. She could shoot him now quite easily.
He turned into another side street. Melandra walked into shadow. For a moment, it seemed there were stars in the afternoon sky above her. She should do it now; end the mission. She reached inside her bag to take out the gun, and her fingers curled around its hard handle. The sun must have penetrated the strengthened cloth, for the weapon felt absurdly warm and alive to her touch. She ran her fingers over it, trying to establish its familiar form in her mind. Something wasn’t right. Her exploring hand was running over what seemed to be a long, hard fleshy shape. Its surface covered in a loose, soft skin. It was full of living heat; she could feel blood coursing through its length. Where the muzzle of the weapon should be, she found a bulbous but delicate knob of flesh. Melandra realised what it was she was touching, and yet a surreal sense of indifference washed over her. A tiny voice within her cried out in disgust at the phallus in her grip. It should be a gun, this is not possible. But the voice was drowned out by the rushing in her ears, and the state of non-reality that enveloped her. Melandra withdrew her hand from the bag and let it dangle at her side. She kept on walking.
Her target’s pace was almost hypnotic. She felt driven to keep following him. A strong aroma of ozone and corn drowned out the smell of the sea. For a brief instant, she had the impression she was walking through a field of swaying wheat that was starred with blood-red poppies. The horizon seemed to rush out on all sides. She felt dizzy, blinked, and the narrow alley-way swam back into focus. The haunting sound of a woman’s voice came again, so close. Could it be her own voice singing? The images of the whores’ faces floated across her mind. The sensation of the kiss lingered on her lips.
Somewhere ahead, a door slammed and there was a sound of running feet, a short ripple of laughter sharply silenced.
Shemyaza paused ahead of her. He still did not look round. Melandra put out one hand to lean against the nearest wall for support. She felt breathless, and her heart was beating painfully in her chest. She could hear its soft yet urgent boom.
She watched as Shemyaza began to unwind the cloth from around his head. A wave of snow-gold hair tumbled down over the aching white of his robe. He shook his head, then continued walking down the alley. She could do nothing but follow. Now, her sandaled feet seem to follow the secret dance steps of the eastern women she had seen on the streets. Around he
r, the rushing sound had become the gossiping rustle of thick corn, overlaid by the chimes from her braceleted feet. She made music as she walked. Now she felt powerful like the whores, she felt alive.
Then, a flash of blinding whiteness dazzled her eyes. Something blocked her way. All the strange sensations ceased abruptly. She heard a dog bark somewhere and the wail of a peevish child.
She looked up to find the tall figure of Shemyaza before her. He had the most beautiful face she had ever seen; the face of a pharaoh or a god. His eyes, the deepest blue, stared unflinchingly into hers. His musky smell was overpowering; she could taste it, taste his spirit.
‘Who are you?’ Shemyaza asked her reasonably.
‘I am yours,’ she said. And the world transformed itself around her.
They lay down together in the corn. He held her gently, kissed her closed eyelids. ‘You are an angel,’ she said, and knew it to be true.
He lifted her dress and put his long hand flat against her naked belly. ‘And you are a woman of the earth.’
Melandra was a virgin. As she lay in Shemyaza’s embrace she thought about how she’d never considered how it would be when the time came for her to lose this maiden state. Against her instincts, nurtured by the beliefs of those who’d raised her, she realised that she was blessed, and being given an experience few women would enjoy. The pain was just a small spark that kindled a greater flame of pleasure within her. She gave herself up to the drunken delight of his body upon her. No thought of guns or killing, only simple, natural experience. She became pure feeling, devoid of intellect. The delicate petals of poppies drifted down upon her face. She was enfolded in feathers, in great wings.
He breathed a single word in her ear. ‘Ishtahar.’
Melandra woke up feeling cold. Before she even opened her eyes, she was aware of the rough sacking beneath her. Her dress was drawn up over her hips and her underwear had gone. She sat up abruptly, and saw that it was dark. Faint lights burned in some of the high windows of the buildings around her. She was alone.
Melandra jumped up, skidding on the sacks, and pulled down her dress. Her face was flaming. What had happened to her? How could she have allowed it to happen?
In numb despair, she ran back the way she’d come, expecting threatening figures to jump out at her at any moment. She couldn’t believe that she’d allowed Shemyaza to seduce her. Yet wasn’t that his original evil? She had given up the most precious gift to him, her enemy, and he had taken it cruelly and left her abandoned in a potentially hostile environment. His vile hand-maidens had initiated her violation even before he looked upon her face.
Melandra reached the end of the alley, already trying to decide before she turned the corner which direction she could take. And yet, amazingly, when she stepped out into the next street, she found she was back where she started. There was the café where she’d sat earlier, and there was the hotel where Shemyaza was staying.
Melandra ducked back in to the alley to catch her breath and try to calm her mind. ‘Bastard!’ she hissed and punched the wall with a closed fist. He had mocked her, shown her his power and she, believing herself immune, had fallen beneath his unholy spell. She cringed inside to think what Nathaniel Fox would say if he knew of this. She had failed in her duty, soiled herself in God’s eyes. Shemyaza must know what he’d done to her. It was abominable.
‘Right,’ she said aloud, spreading her hands on the air before her. ‘Get a grip of yourself. It’s not over yet.’
She peered round the wall at the hotel. Its doors stood open, and a few people were talking just inside the entrance. Melandra felt her skittering heart turn to steel. She would kill him now. She did not care if she was caught. He had defiled her, in body and mind; rendered her worthless.
Calmly, she walked towards the hotel. People moved aside to let her enter the lobby. She brushed her hair back behind her ears and marched purposefully up to the reception desk. A thin Turkish youth stood behind it. He smiled at her in open friendliness.
‘Good evening,’ Melandra began. ‘I’m looking for a friend of mine who I believe is staying here. Mr Jacobs. Michael Jacobs.’
The youth frowned, shook his head, with a moue of apologetic denial.
Melandra sighed. ‘I know he’s staying here. Perhaps he’s using his… professional name.’ She leaned on the desk and smiled widely, with what she hoped was charm. ‘Look, I’ll describe him. He’s very tall, with long blond hair. Handsome, I suppose. Travelling with two companions?’
The youth thought for a moment, then grinned and nodded. ‘Yes, yes, Mr Shenley. He’s gone now, I’m afraid.’
‘Gone?’ Melandra’s heart stilled for a moment. Then she collected herself. ‘He’s checked out, then. When?’
The youth nodded. ‘This morning, Miss. Very early.’
Melandra stared at the youth. ‘That’s impossible,’ she said. ‘I saw him coming out of the hotel this afternoon. Would you check for me please?’
The youth shrugged. ‘He left, Miss. He and his companions hired a truck and drove out of the city this morning. I helped them load their bags. You must have been mistaken about seeing him. I’m sorry.’
Melandra couldn’t prevent herself from drooping over the desk. Her mind felt as if it had just been put into a liquidiser. Don’t think about this yet, she told herself. Stay calm. Get information.
She raised her head. ‘Have you any idea where Mr Shenley was heading?’
Again, the youth shrugged. ‘He didn’t say exactly. But they took supplies, even blankets. Looked like a long journey.’
Melandra tapped the counter with one hand. She sighed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Miss?’ The youth looked expectant.
Melandra found him some coins in the bottom of her bag and threw them over the desk. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
Outside, she stood in the street, tears running uncontrollably down her face. Devil, demon. What had seduced her? Possibly not even flesh and blood. She must find him now and finish her task. It was her destiny. It was war.
Back in her hotel, she drank an entire bottle of wine and, her nerves calmed, called Nathaniel Fox. It was early morning in New York. It surprised her how easily she kept the panic and horror from her voice as she reported that Shemyaza and his companions had fled.
‘Was he aware of your presence?’ Fox demanded.
Melandra ignored the faint note of criticism. ‘No. Unless he’s psychic, of course.’
Fox laughed dryly. ‘We have to assume he has some inkling of your presence.’ He paused. ‘You said he drove out of the city. We can only presume his destination is the east. Given his affluence, it’s strange he hasn’t flown out of the city. Are you sure he left in a truck?’
‘As sure as I can be,’ Melandra answered. ‘Perhaps you should put some of your spies on to it.’
Fox’s voice was clipped. ‘He’ll be making for the whore of cities, Babylon. You will be contacted with further instructions.’
The line went silent.
Melandra stared angrily at the phone for a moment, then replaced the handset.
Chapter Nine
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.’
Stealing Sacred Fire Page 12
