Fire & Wind

by Leo Gher

Even the resourceful Mira Nadirov was not her usual self that Friday when she dropped off Conor and Rufet at the airport. In fact, he was irritated and flummoxed. The men were headed for the meeting in, of all places, Kars, Turkey. “You need to get some rest, Mira,” Conor said. “Two days of R&R at the cottage will get you back on track.”

  Relaxation was not what Mira wanted. Obsessive about control, Mira really didn’t like days off, and Conor’s insisting that she spend the weekend in Gobustan put her in a bad mood. In a rush to pick up Rufet, she’d forgotten her makeup bag. A mild panic attack ensued; the thought of facing the mirror for the next two days without cosmetics was depressing. To top it off, she couldn’t find her laptop. I’ve left it at the office, she guessed.

  In recent days, Mira had become preoccupied with the drama between her family and the Dark Triad. The constitutional crisis didn’t help. She realized that everything hinged on what Conor would say when he met with Guliyev. Once commitments were made, nothing could be unmade. Not being there to advise the young Kedar Bey was driving her to distraction.

  But Conor and Rufet were gone, and she was on her way to the cottage for some R&R. As soon as her driver reached the outskirts of the city, Mira found a way to put aside her anxieties and spend some time gazing at the countryside. By the time she was halfway home, she was cheery and daydreaming about her cousin and playmate, Zara Kedar, and simpler times long ago.

  Zara shouted out to her mother, “Ana, we are going to see the ghost dancers.”

  With that, we bolted out the door. It was our holiday ritual. As soon as we arrived at the Kedar summer cottage, Zara and I would head into the hills to what generations of our people called the Rock Garden. I shouted, “We’ll bring you some wildflowers, Aunty.”

  The long slope above the village was called Gobustan Hill. It was a landscape of rock and stone, but scattered within the harshness of the uplift there were many delicate plants and shrubs: ephemeral grasses, tender bushes, wormwood, honeysuckle, dwarf cherries, and wild pomegranates. After each ghost adventure, we’d pick whatever plants looked best and bring them home. Mother warned us, “They’re only for decorating, not eating!”

  We didn’t get far that first day. Outside, on the porch, my mother blocked our getaway, holding two sunhats. She said, “Not without your bonnets, Miss Zara, Miss Mira.” The temperature in the hills was always ten degrees cooler than the village, but the sun would blister your skin if you weren’t careful. Naturally, we whined about the hats. We were six, but there was no arguing with the two-fisted titan blocking our way. Once we got past the koi pond, and beyond the wooden fence, we cast the bonnets to the ground. We’d grab them up on our return, and then pretend we were obedient little angels home from an adventure. We were no angels, and our hot, pink, sunburned faces didn’t fool anybody.

  The ghosts were nothing more than prehistoric art on a limestone rockface – petroglyphs – and they were everywhere in our garden. Mother said they told the story of an ancient Azerbaijani civilization: primitive men hunting, warriors with lances at the ready, camel caravans, women gathering flowers, marriage ceremonies, oarsmen crossing a vast sea, constellations, stars, and animals of every sort, including porpoises and even whales. Years later, the Azeri government created the Gobustan State Reserve, and, after a time, it became a World Heritage Site. But for us, it was just the Rock Garden.

  We cheerily bounced through the hills and around the switchbacks until we found our special place – a massive pillar with a series of three cuttings that Zara fancifully called the ghost dancers. The figures depicted on the rockface were dancing, undeniably, but Zara was the only person who could see that they were dead. I always asked her, “How do you know they’re dead, Zara?

  My pretty cousin would shout out, “Their eyes are closed! Of course, they are dead!”

  My comeback each time was, “When I sleep my eyes are closed, and I’m not dead.”

  “It’s the way they’re closed, Mira.”

  She could see things I could not. Zara was weird in many ways. She imagined fireflies as specters flying in the night sky, and called them baby ghosts. Zara drew their faces in a little book she kept in her room and gave them names too. Once, she stole a sharp kitchen knife, sprinted past the koi pond, and then carved a baby ghost on the Oriental Planetree in the yard.

  It had weirdly contorted, blank eyes, so I asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Me.”

  “You’re a ghost dancer?”

  “You know that I am,” Zara insisted, “I can close my eyes and be with them anytime I want.”

  I screamed back, “You cannot!” That’s how it would go – two six-year-olds arguing about life and death in the summer sanctuary of our family cottage.

  Once at the outcropping, we would play Queen of the Zebeqis. Zara was always the queen, of course, and I was her handmaiden. What we loved most, however, was the music we created in our garden.

  There was a broad, flat rock at the base of the petroglyphs that we called our jingling stone. It was a natural gemstone that made tambourine-like sounds when struck at different thicknesses along its length. Ana told us it was Gaval Dash (whatever that was) and said it was found nowhere else on earth. It sounded perfect for our game, and we played our music for an hour before returning home.

  That day, just as we were retrieving our sunhats in the yard, Zara said, “You know, Mira, I foresee things, feel things others do not.” She said it with such certainty I did not doubt that it was true. Now, 20 years after my sweet cousin’s death, I tremble angrily at that memory, and those words haunt me still.

  Gobustan, a bucolic village on the Caspian coast about 60 kilometers south of Baku, had always been the ancestral home of the Kedars and the Nadirovs. Most of the Kedar family had long ago moved to Baku, but many Nadirovs had stayed behind, including Mira’s parents, Georghe and Ana. They were tied to country ways and their friends of seven decades. They still lived in their family home at the center of the town, but, after Zara’s death, had also taken possession of the Kedar cottage. Conor wanted nothing to do with the place, but Mira found it a peaceful, breathing space from the din of Azeri politics and quarrelsome élites of Baku. Georghe had rebuilt the cottage, refurbished the grounds, and had added new security fencing on the perimeters.

  As was her habit, Mira hoped to avoid her parents during the weekend, so she instructed Rayna to drive straight to the cottage. When they reached the security gate, the feelings of dread had been lifted. Time alone was a luxury. Tali was safe and secure in Baku, Conor was off to Turkey, and Mira didn’t have to make any decisions for the next few days. It was wine time.

  After dinner, and remembering her daydreaming whimsy, Mira decided to visit the Rock Garden. “I’m going for a walk,” she called out.

  Rayna, who was in the kitchen cleaning up, shouted back, “Not without me.” Rayna was more than a secretary, more than a cook. The 27-year-old was Mira’s Ranger-trained bodyguard.

  “I’m just going into the hills, Rayna. I’ll be back in 30 minutes.”

  “What’s up there?”

  “Just youthful memories… maybe a wild boar or two, a few snakes, and lizards. Nothing I can’t handle.” As she thought about it, she wasn’t so confident about the braggadocio, but she needed some private time.

  Rayna bounded into the living room with a small walky-talky, and said, “Take this. Our phone service is not working as it should. This thing has a locator. I can find you if anything should happen.”

  “You’re such a worrier, Rayna.”

  “It will be dark in less than an hour.”

  “I’ll just need space and quiet. Besides, I have someone to guide me home.”

  That response did not reassure the ever-cautious Rayna, “Who’s that?

  “A ghost dancer.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” replied Rayna. “But I’ll turn on the light just the same.”
Then she slipped a flashlight into Mira’s coat pocket.

  As Mira stepped onto the porch, she remembered the old skirmishes with her mother about sunhats. But it wasn’t summer, of course, and the air was chilly, so she wrapped a knitted scarf around her collar and fastened her parka. The sun was dropping on the horizon, and as she looked upward toward the Rock Garden, the fading light painted the rim in blood reds and burnt oranges. Mira sensed childlike adventure once again.

  The sweet whiff of honeysuckle – most potent when the shadows of light are long – filled the air. It didn’t take any time at all for Mira to find the jingling stone, and she grew excited because she knew the ghost dancers were near. Would it be the same, she wondered? Though she had imagined it many times, Mira had not walked this path in years.

  Unexpectedly, she heard a door slam in the far distance and twisted around to see if she could catch the cause. As Mira looked in the direction of the cottage a flash of light – blue light pierced the night sky. She was startled at first, but then she recalled what Rayna had said. It was nothing: the porch fixture coming on, an electrical discharge of some sorts. As she climbed upward, it was hard to find the right path, and there was a reek of rotting food in the air. Mira thought, the wild boars have turned over a garbage can along the trail. That was a bit disconcerting, so she took out her flashlight and pointed it along the near path. Then she sniffed deeply, searching for a hint of pigs – nothing at the moment.

  When Mira located the ghost dancers just beyond the next switchback, the sky was bright enough to recognize the rockface – the 2000-year-old images were still dancing around the campfire. Mira laid one hand gently on the first dancing ghost and then swept across the others playfully. It was a carefree remembrance of Zara, and it filled her with happiness.

  There was one last thing she wanted to do. Mira stepped down to the base of the rock and found the jingling stone. A moment later, strange sounds echoed throughout the hills. It was the beguiling beat of tambourines in perfect Muğam rhythm. Her recollection complete, Mira decided to head back down.

  Just before Mira had finished her descent, she stopped to admire the playground of her youth, and, for just a fleeting moment, to think about the cousin she so loved. She turned off the flashlight so she could admire the stars and the cobalt sky. After a full turn, Mira’s gaze settled on the cottage, and that’s when she noticed a strange glow on the third floor. It wasn’t the porch light that Rayna had promised, but a bluish radiance… flickering high above, splendid and alluring. It seemed to be growing and shrinking and moving – a changeling without boundaries. Mira’s heart jumped at the phantasm. And then it was gone. Her mind peaked with unanticipated possibilities. She raced to the cottage. The slamming door startled Rayna, “Oh, good. You’re back.”

  Mira asked, “Rayna, have you been upstairs?”

  “No, I’ve been reading here in the kitchen.”

  Curious to no end, Mira headed for the staircase, “When I was coming home, just outside the fence, I saw a light on the third floor.” That troubled the always alert Rayna because she had armed the security system shortly after their arrival. Had someone entered the house before their arrival?

  “Mira, I’m going with you.” She retrieved her gun. “Let me go first.”

  Mira didn’t argue. After searching all the rooms upstairs, Rayna was satisfied. “Maybe it was the motion light outside, maybe a bird flying by triggered the beam, or maybe it was lightning in the distance.” The last room they had investigated was Zara’s old bedroom. Once Rayna had finished her search, she said, “Looks okay,” and then she headed downstairs to check the first floor.

  Mira decided to stay behind. “I’ll be down in a few minutes, Rayna.” As she looked around, the clutter of memories was everywhere. Then she heard the rustling of leaves outside. Intuitively, she turned off the bedroom light, walked to the window, and peered out across the grounds.

  That’s when she saw the blue presence again. At first, it was nothing more than a faint shimmering, but almost immediately it morphed into a figure, gossamer and gray. A woman, the thought zipped through her head. The figure was standing next to the koi pond. It appeared to be sweeping up debris, and there was another figure nearby, a child. Mira held her breath recognizing the ancient heartbreak about to unfold again. Her mind reeled. She knew she was tired and stressed out. This can’t be happening!

  Next, the phantom turned to the entry gate. It was slightly ajar, and ever so slowly, it began swinging inward. Something or someone was pressing on the door from the outside. As it opened more fully, two brutish figures startled her, and the phantom tripped while backing away. Mira sensed menace and terrible helplessness. There was a struggle, and then a moment later, the woman was on the ground in a fetal position, bleeding out, dying. Another shade swooped down from the house and snatched up the child. An instant passed, and then abruptly, all disappeared.

  Again, the leaves rustled, so Mira looked upward at the top-most branches hoping to see the ghost. But there was nothing there. But that’s when she heard a voice ever so softly saying, “Protect the child. Protect the child.”

  She was startled. Had she lost her mind? Or is it all just my imagination? Mira struggled mightily between the probable and the incredible: doors slamming, voices from the trees, spectral figures wandering the yard, protect the child? One minute she was dismissing the fantasies, and in the next, she was rationalizing about this waking dream.

  That night, Mira thought about the events long and hard but said nothing to Rayna. Secretly, she declared to herself, Real or not, I’ve got to warn Conor.

  5

  The Ibex Head

  Six hundred miles due west of Baku stands the city of Kars, Turkey. Remote and secluded, it lies on a Central Asia plateau known as the Armenian Highlands. It is an ideal meeting place for those who value secrecy and pursue destiny.

  As superintendent of the Kars airport, Mrs. Hazinedar was used to seeing foreigners come and go when the ski resorts were open, December through March. But it was never this busy in October; the snowfalls were at least six weeks away. Both Mrs. Hazinedar and her air traffic controller would cope with the traffic influx, but they were more than curious about these strangers, who were mostly security personnel. Today, the airport had five charter flights scheduled in the morning, four from Ankara and the other from Tbilisi, and of course, there was the daily Turkish Air flight from Istanbul.

  Seated at the tower console, Aisha was currently dealing with a Cessna business jet coming in for a landing, “Zümrә XLS-4, standby. Break-Break.” At an altitude of 1,750 meters, Kars-Harakani regularly experienced morning fog, but by 10:00 the tarmac was usually clear. There was a pause in communication with the pilot as Aisha checked the radar for any unexpected runway trouble. Though it was late morning, condensed stratus clouds had formed over the region, and a low, white haze still lingered over the airport, “Zümrә XLS-4, cleared to land, Runway 2 south.” Aisha gave a thumbs-up to her boss.

  “That’s the last of the charters for today,” said Hazinedar, “now just the afternoon TA at 16:00.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “That’s when it’s supposed to get really busy, big shots arriving all day. These early flights are security details, mostly from Ankara.”

  “The president here?”

  “Not Turkey’s, but I think Guliyev of Azerbaijan for sure.” It was only conjecture, but three jets offloading security forces was ample clue. Then there was the armored black limo. It had the Azerbaijani flag flying on the hood ornament and the Presidential seal on the driver-side door – dead giveaways. The fourth jet from the west was Turkish military, probably the escort for a high-level minister.

  “And this one coming in?”

  “I don’t know for sure.” The super glanced out the tower window to see if she could catch a glimpse of the plane. The muddled troposphere was getting worse. “Private jet – th
e Bey of one of the Azeri Houses, I suppose.” Hazinedar thought about which one of the elderly gentlemen it might be, secretly hoping to meet him and have a tour of his luxury aircraft.

  Just then one of the ground crew began reporting “a situation” on the tarmac. “Samir says there are two men on the runway. It looks like security, but he isn’t sure. He thinks they might be coming toward the tower.”

  “Turkish or Azeri?”

  There was a brief moment as the controller listened, then, “He couldn’t say. One is strange looking, a tall thin man with a bushy red mustache.”

  The Cessna Citation XLS-4 landing was top-of-the-line. The furnishings were all custom made by Bradington Young: the seating was nickel leather, the side tables Persian walnut, the carpeting hair-on-hide cream. Mrs. Hazinedar would have enjoyed a tour, but the Zümrә company jet would not be on-ground long enough for her to wrangle an invitation.

  On board were four crew members and two passengers: Conor Kedar and Rufet Qurb. Because they wanted to avoid Armenian radar along the way, the circuitous route from Baku to Kars took more than four hours. They stopped in Tbilisi, Georgia, to refuel and file an alternative flight plan; other than that, it was a quiet yet entertaining ride. Once they achieved cruising altitude, Rufet uncased the rifle he had inherited from his grandfather. It was an antique Weatherby bolt-action model that had been used on family hunts for generations. Rufet had brought it along just in case there was an actual hunt. For the next 90 minutes, Rufet regaled young Conor with one Caucasus Mountain adventure after another. “A noble quest,” that was the stated purpose of the Presidential invitation Conor had received one week ago, “a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to hunt the wild Bezoar Ibex, the ancestor of all domestic goats.” House Kedar could not refuse such a summons under any circumstances. After a couple of hours, Rufet ran out of hunting stories, and both men fell asleep.