Stealing Sacred Fire (32 page)

Long before dawn, the group’s
firewood supply ran out, and they had to watch in dread as the
flames sank lower, until only a crawling smoulder was left in their
midst. The tall purple-blue flames outside the circle gave off no
heat and gradually a numbing chill paralysed flesh and bone. Daniel
could no longer feel his fingers or toes. Would they die of cold
before their attackers gave up?

When the first pale rays of
dawn came to the stony valley, the djinn transformed themselves
into smoky vapours and purled upwards into the sky. For nearly half
an hour afterwards, everyone was too frightened to move and sat
shivering in the circle. Nobody spoke. The horses were covered in a
cold foam of sweat, their eyes rolling in their sockets.

Eventually, Gadreel got up and
went to the edge of the circle where she stood, hands on hips,
staring out beyond the swords. After a few moments, she turned to
the others. ‘It’s safe now. Some of you go and find some more fire
wood. It’s too cold. We need warmth. Jalal, get someone to help you
rub down the horses. We must walk them, warm them up.’

While a couple of the Yarasadi
ventured warily out of the circle, Tahira went to gather up the
swords.

‘Are they spent?’ Gadreel
asked.

Tahira shrugged and held out
the largest sword to her, which Gadreel took in her hand, hefting
it like a familiar, well-loved weapon. She turned it this way and
that, staring at the blade.

‘Well?’ Salamiel asked. ‘Will
they be of use to us again?’

Gadreel pulled a puzzled face.
‘I’m not sure. It’s almost as if their power has retreated into
them in some way. They don’t feel empty, but neither do they feel…
alive.’

‘So what do we do now?’
Salamiel asked. ‘Look for Shem or wait here for him? Do you suppose
he was attacked by djinn himself?’

‘I don’t know,’ Gadreel
answered. ‘What do you think, Daniel?’

Daniel screwed up his face in
vexation. ‘I don’t think he was, but it’s difficult to tell. I
don’t sense he’s in danger, but neither can I trace him. The light
of him has become invisible to me.’

‘Well, that’s convenient!’
Salamiel said. ‘We need to get out of here quickly, and Shem’s
disappeared!’

‘Perhaps I should go and look
for him,’ Daniel said.

‘No,’ Gadreel snapped. ‘We
mustn’t split up.’

‘Then we’ll all go!’

Gadreel shook her head. ‘No.
We’ll wait for him here. He knows where we are.’

Salamiel sighed. ‘Well I, for
one, am starving. Perhaps we should eat, then discuss what to do.
Hopefully, Shem will have turned up again before we have to make
any decisions.’

Shemyaza knew he had to go into
the mountains alone. He was not afraid of pursuit or attack. He was
so close now. The terrain had changed dramatically, but he felt
sure in his heart that over the next ridge, round the next corner,
he would find evidence of his lost home. He trudged an uphill path
towards the sky, towards the vulture-girdled peaks. He felt
confident that once he reached the site of the valley of Kharsag,
which he knew lay so close, the answers concerning the Chambers of
Light would be given to him. He could not bring Daniel with him on
this journey.

Close, so very close. He could
not believe there wouldn’t be some sign left of the garden, some
impression left in the rocks of all that had taken place there, if
only the channels cut by waterfalls.

In the distance, it seemed a
faint voice called out to him. He could not pay it heed. The dawn
was beginning to bloom around him, and already the land was held in
that surreal stillness that heralds the transition between night
and day. The light was still grey on the mountain path. Shem did
not recognise the terrain, but felt that it was familiar.

Father, the prodigal has
returned.

In his mind, he saw again the
fertile terraces of Kharsag, and screened by cedars, the great
Mountain House of Anu. He saw the orchards, their trees heavy with
fruit, and the serene, robed Anannage working among them, attended
by their human labourers. He saw the tall, domed glass houses of
obsidian, the coruscating waterfalls and the forests of cedar that
hugged the mountainsides around the valley. So beautiful. He could
almost drink in the memory of tranquillity as if it was borne on
the air like the perfume of a woman walking some yards ahead of
him.

It could not be the same now,
he knew, for the Anannage were millennia gone, but he hoped to find
the ruins, ghostly outlines of habitation in the valley of the
vanished settlement.

He felt swamped by an
inconsolable homesickness. I want it all back! And yet, the last
time he had been here, his people had burned his body and
imprisoned his soul. Should he not also think of that?

Echoes of his own torment rang
from crag to crag, thin as a baby’s scream. A dancing figure,
cloaked in ragged feathers, seemed to shimmer just ahead of him,
leading him on, a vague shadow flickering rapidly on the edge of
his perception. If he blinked to clear his sight, it became more
indistinct.

He took the key crystal out of
his pocket and held it up before his eyes. ‘What am I doing here?’
he asked it, as if the stone would speak back to him. ‘Lead me to
Kharsag.’

No voice came from the stone,
but a cold whisper echoed in Shem’s mind. The crystal became warm
in his hands, and a pinprick of light glowed at its heart. ‘Heaven
has gone, Shemyaza.’

‘I must see where it once
lay.’

The crystal glowed red, as if a heart
beat deep within it. ‘Your father, Anu, brought me to this place.
He was the keeper of the key, as you are now. Through my power he
created Kharsag in this land of Eden. I was taken from my place by
the first keeper and carried to safety when the Chambers were
sealed.’

‘Was Anu the first keeper of
the key?’ Shem asked.

‘There have been many keepers,
many fathers. The cycles of time repeat themselves.’

‘Are the Chambers of Light here
in Eden?’

‘No. Kharsag was but a replica
of the Chambers in stone, leaf and life-giving water.’

‘Then where are the original
Chambers? I must take you back there, open them…’ He rounded a
corner, one hand against the cold rock, and there the path seemed
to rise up and end. Shem’s heart beat faster. Here it was; the lip
of the valley. For a moment, he stood still, fighting a maelstrom
of nausea, dizziness and excitement. He put the crystal back into
his pocket and made himself walk forward, pushing through the
air.

He could see that a wide
pathway led around the perimeter of the valley, lined with sentinel
stones that did not look naturally-formed. Just a few more steps
and the site of his old home would be revealed.

He faltered on the path. What
had they done?

The valley lay below him; it
had once been a bowl of fertility. Now, spreading wide, the land
was thorned with a chaotic mass of metallic structures that looked
like the tortured skeletons of monsters, their flesh long stripped
away by the acid blue flames that burned like neon in the pre-dawn
twilight.

What had once been Paradise was
now a desolate vista of gas fields. Miles and miles of them, the
land abused and gouged to surrender the sacred flame. Heaven had
been destroyed.

Shem squatted down in horror, his hands
pressed against the dirt. What had he expected to find: a mirage of
the past, ghosts enacting bygone rituals? Not this. Certainly not
this. He took the crystal from his pocket once more to ask
questions, seek answers, drowning in despair.

A series of metallic clicks
sounded around him. Shem stiffened. The crystal lay cold and dead
in his hand, mere stone. He recognised the sound behind him. Too
late… Slowly, Shemyaza looked over his shoulder.

Around the perimeter of the
valley, the rising sun, which was just lifting through a valley in
the peaks, reflected off a host of guns. Still forms surrounded
him, their weapons all pointed right at him.

Shem felt confused. What was
this? It did not form part of what he’d expected to find in this
place.

A tall figure stepped forward
from the shadow of a rock. It was robed in black, the head covered
but for the eyes. Shem sensed the presence of corrupt power. He saw
no point in rising or speaking; if this person wanted to
communicate with him, they would have to initiate the contact.

For what seemed like minutes,
the figure appraised him. Then spoke. ‘What is your name?’

Shem knew that these people had
been looking for him. They’d known where to find him. ‘You know who
I am,’ he said, sneering, ‘but who, might I ask, are you?’ He
expected a blow, but the man before him made no aggressive
move.

‘I represent King Nimnezzar of
Babylon.’

‘Good!’ Shem stood up, and the
soldiers around him moved their weapons nervously. He raised his
arms. ‘There is no need for this. I have long wanted to meet the
man who claims to be of sacred blood.’ He put his hands on his hips
and fixed the tall robed figure with steady eyes. ‘Is your king
responsible for the depredations we see in this sacred place?’ He
indicated the valley behind him.

‘These are the gas fields of
the king,’ answered the man.

‘I am curious as to why a man
who claims to be the descendent of angels should rape their holy
ground.’

The robed figure narrowed his
eyes, but would not respond to the accusation. ‘You are to come
with us,’ he said. ‘Shemyaza.’

‘I know that,’ Shem
answered.

The robed man reached out and
with a deft hand, plucked the crystal from Shem’s hold. ‘This I
will look after for you.’

‘Take it,’ Shem said. ‘If
Nimnezzar is what he claims to be, he should be the first to fathom
its secrets.’

There was no time to think of
Daniel and the others. What had happened above the ruins of Kharsag
had been preordained. Shem could tell that some of the Babylonians
were Magians, and that they were not afraid of him; quite the
opposite. As they escorted him down the mountain path towards a
waiting army truck, Shem considered that King Nimnezzar might see
him as a threat and want to dispose of him or incarcerate him. How
must he behave in Babylon — as a king or a captive? Shem wasn’t
sure. Destiny unfurled his path before him; he could only follow
it, whether in faith or not. If the Chambers of Light had once
existed in Eden, they were no more. He could only hope the end of
his task lay in Babylon.

The woman sat in the hallway drinking a
glass of milk. It seemed a quaintly childish thing to do, yet the
woman was far from a child. Waiting to check in, behind a line of
impatient guests, Cameron Murchison watched the woman drink. She
sat beside a table on which a display of dried flowers stood. It
was the kind of table found around hotels; people sat at them for
brief moments as they waited for elevators or fellow guests.
Murchison saw the woman’s throat moving as she tilted back her
head. It seemed, for a brief moment, as if a faint, purple light
danced around her head.

He was tired. The plane had
been full to capacity and he’d had the misfortune to be seated near
to a woman carrying a baby that whined peevishly and continually.
Once they landed, the heat of Egypt had sapped his strength; his
mind felt muzzy. The increase in political troubles meant that
visitors from overseas had to be escorted by police to their
hotels. Security was high upon the streets, the atmosphere fervid.
The visitors’ coach drove steadily through streets blanketed with
thick smoke, in which the smell of burning flesh simmered faintly.
An occasional gun-shot coughed in the distance. Down side-streets,
people could be seen running in chaotic crowds, for no apparent
reason. Some erupted from an alley-way and collided with the coach,
banging their hands upon its sides, leaving dents. Women held
screaming children up to windows. ‘Take my baby. Save my baby.’
Murchison could only turn away from these appalling things;
helpless.

More than once he had thought ‘What am
I doing here?’ and for just a few seconds panic had welled within
him, and he had wanted to catch the next flight home. Then the
inner need, the sureness he’d felt, which had compelled him to
travel here despite the dangers, had reasserted itself and he’d
known that soon the purpose of his flight would be revealed to him.
It was like being a pilgrim to a holy land, and he had no doubt
that, in some way, the ancient soil and sand of Egypt was holy to
him. He was looking for the face of the pharaoh Akenaten in the
crowd; the face that had drawn him here; long and faintly
smiling.

The milk-drinking woman, he
supposed, was similar in appearance to an ancient Egyptian. She was
seated, yet still appeared to be very tall. Her dark auburn hair
was cut square onto her shoulders. She wore no make-up, yet her
features were strong, the lips full, brows heavy. It was impossible
to guess her age; she could be anything from twenty to forty,
exuding an aura of both youth and maturity. Her hand around the
glass was like a man’s hand, sure and tanned. She was not
beautiful, but extraordinary. If he’d had a sister, she might well
have looked like this woman.

Was that the secret? A lost
heritage? A forgotten family? It seemed he had left any remaining
grip on reality back in England.

Murchison smiled to himself. He
had come to the front of the line now, and the formalities of
mundane life must be attended to. When he had to sign his
signature, the shape of his name felt unfamiliar to his hand. But
what did he want to write instead? His thoughts were obscured; a
troubled, cloudy sky. Outside, a siren wailed.

On the plane, he’d drifted in a
hypnogogic state, dreaming of boiling clouds tumbling across the
heavens, of tornadoes, and hurricanes. He’d had to swim through
torrential rain, blind, and had looked up into the deadly crest of
a tidal wave. Storms, changes. Perhaps it could be interpreted as
cleansing.