Stealing Sacred Fire (9 page)

They walked into the shadow of
the lobby, where people were milling around makeshift stalls that
were adrift with pamphlets and posters. There were even T-shirts on
sale; samples pinned up on boards behind the stalls. ‘Where exactly
do your people come from?’ he asked her.

‘Our land is known by many
names, but never its own. It is dismembered.’

Shem eyed the red, gold and
green banners on the walls. ‘Kurdistan,’ he said. ‘Yarasadi equates
with Yezidi, Yaresan, yes?’

She smiled, shrugged. ‘We are
seen as Kurdish yes, but our blood-lines are older than the
Yezidis.’

‘You have kept very quiet about
it for a long, long time, then!’

She did not seem offended. ‘It
is only recently that we’ve discovered who we really are. We were
scattered, our memories taken from us, then a new prophet came. A
messenger from the Ancient Ones. We learned of our divine blood...’
She paused. ‘Now, you think we are crazy, as most of your people
do. But it is true.’

Shem frowned and shook his head
briefly. ‘I don’t think you’re crazy. Who is your prophet?’

‘Come, you will see.’ The girl
hurried off into the crowd and Shem followed her. They came into a
darkened hall, where a video was being shown on a large screen. The
sound system echoed and spluttered, competing with the constant
underlying hubbub of conversation. Westerners mingled with the
dark-skinned crowd; photographers, journalists and those who
followed causes. Children ran around, laughing and screeching,
oblivious of the serious subject of the meeting.

Shem forced himself not to turn
away from the scenes being shown on the screen. The introduction to
the film was clearly over: images of carnage dominated the
presentation; the bodies of children rotting in the streets; ruined
buildings; forlorn survivors wandering like zombies amongst the
remains of a community. It reminded him of times long past, when
his Nephilim sons had prompted the High Lord Anu to release the
Flood. Thousands of people had died then; pathetic corpses
waterlogged in mud.

‘Who did this?’ Shem asked in
clear, low voice.

The girl leaned towards him.
‘It is the handiwork of a man who calls himself the King of
Babylon.’

‘There is no Babylon,’ Shem
said. ‘Not any more.’

‘There is,’ the girl replied.
‘The king calls himself Nimnezzar.’

Shem raised his eyebrows. He
would need to find out about this king, but first there was other
information to gather. He smiled reassuringly at the girl. ‘Will
you tell me more about your prophet?’

The girl brushed a nervous hand
through her hair. ‘He came to us about the same time Nimnezzar
seized control of what was once Iraq. It was no coincidence. We are
a threat to this false despot, for we carry the true ancient blood.
He wants to eradicate us completely, but we too are strong, in a
different way. As his great foot stamps down to crush us, we
scatter and scamper away.’ She grinned, uplifted by the speech she
had made. ‘Now, a lot of us are here in England, seeking
support.’

‘And are you getting it?’

She pulled a wry face. ‘In some
areas.’

He reached out and with one
long finger briefly touched her cheek, smooth with youth. ‘I think
you’ve been here for a long time, young lady. Have you experienced
the atrocities first hand? I don’t think so.’

She narrowed her eyes at him.
‘So, what if that is true? I know where my roots lie.’

He raised his hands. ‘That was
not a criticism... er, you did not tell me your name.’

‘Meenah,’ she answered, clearly
uncomfortable with surrendering the information, but unable to stop
herself.

‘I am Shemyaza,’ he said.
‘Shem.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘An
odd name for an Englishman.’

‘I’m not English,’ he
replied.

More might have been said on
this topic, but Meenah grabbed his arm and pointed at the screen
with her free hand. ‘Look! There is our only hope of victory.’

The scenes of brutality and
death had been replaced by the image of a vast gathering, much like
the one they were attending now, but this one was being held
outdoors, beneath the merciless canopy of a foreign sky. Hot
sunlight shone down upon sharp, grey rocks that were virtually
covered by a seated crowd. Some were dressed in Western clothes,
while others were adorned with colourful ethnic costumes. All were
paying rapt attention to the speaker, who stood high above them; a
lone figure silhouetted against the unbearable blue. But that was
not the prophet. Meenah explained the great man would not
communicate directly with crowds, although he always stood silently
watching on as his followers relayed his words to the masses. Shem
tried to discern details of the one who stood tall with folded arms
behind the animated speaker. The prophet was disguised; wrapped in
a black robe that flashed with metallic embroidery. His head was
entirely covered by a scarlet scarf. Shem’s body went utterly still
as if, for a moment, his heart ceased to pump, but listened. He
recognised that figure, and for a moment could not think from
where. Then he remembered. The TV screens before he’d been caught
up in the demonstration. He could discern no details about the
figure on the rocks, but he just knew that it was the same
person.

‘What is the name of your
prophet?’ he asked Meenah.

‘Gadreel,’ she replied with
feeling.

‘Gadreel,’ Shem echoed in
barely more than a whisper. ‘That is the name of a fallen
angel.’

Meenah glanced at him sharply.
‘Is that so?’ She shrugged. ‘To us, Gadreel was the name of one of
the Ancient Ones with Shining Faces. I suppose you Westerners would
call them angels. The Yarasadi worship the Ancient Ones; we are
descended from them.’

Shem nodded. He knew that the
people of Kurdistan were descended from those who had perhaps
served the race Meenah called the Ancient Ones. Interbreeding would
have taken place after the Fall. What amazed him was that this
knowledge was becoming public. Perhaps it was a result of what had
taken place in the underworld of Cornwall, five years before.
Somehow, he had released the information into the unconscious mind
of the world, and perhaps the person who had styled himself prophet
of the Yarasadi had somehow picked up on it. England was far from
Kurdistan, and the links between the two countries might seem
negligible, but a faction of the Grigori had fled to this island
many millennia ago and had brought their sacred knowledge with
them, hidden it in the bones of the land. Since reawakening, Shem
had looked for changes here in England, some sign that his
experience in the underworld had been beneficial, but perhaps the
seeds of his work had taken root in the homeland, the cradle of all
civilisations.

Meenah took Shem’s silence for
scepticism. ‘The Ancient Ones existed as people of flesh and
blood,’ she said. ‘You can believe it or not, I don’t care, but it
is true. They were wiped out, their knowledge lost. Perhaps the
same thing happened to them that’s happening to us now. There are
always cycles in history.’

Shem smiled at her. ‘I don’t
dispute it.’ He directed his attention back to the screen. Had
another of his brethren reappeared as a prophet to these people?
What was he trying to accomplish? The Grigori had always hidden
themselves in the world, yet here was a man who used the name of
one of the Fallen Ones, blatantly telling forbidden truths to the
descendants of people who had once served the Anannage. Perhaps he
was deluding himself and was as human as Meenah herself, yet
looking at the imposing figure on the screen, Shem did not think
so. He recognised the charismatic presence of another Grigori. The
Parzupheims of the world must know about this. Why had they done
nothing? It didn’t make sense. He realised this could be another
example of a Watcher undergoing a period of awakening. Perhaps,
like Shem and Salamiel, Gadreel had only recently remembered who
and what he was. Shem wanted a good, close-up look at the figure,
but the cameraman seemed to be at the back of the crowd with
limited zoom facility. Cheap camcorder perhaps.

‘Do you think we’ll get a
closer look at Gadreel on this film?’ Shem asked.

Meenah shook her head. ‘No. He
discourages revealing his identity. Not many people have met him
personally. He has an elite company around him that disseminates
his word among his followers. He has to be careful, for obvious
reasons.’

‘You have not met him yourself,
then?’

She scowled at him. ‘Of course
not. I’ve been studying at university over here for the last three
years.’ She turned back to the screen. ‘But I’m going over there
for the millennium. Nothing could keep me away, not guns, not
borders, not even the threat of death.’

‘Why? What’s going to
happen?’

She glanced at him sideways.
‘We won’t know until it does happen, but it will be...
unimaginable.’

The video finished and the
screen went dark. Lights came on in the hall, and people began to
drift to the back, where a shutter was being lifted to reveal a
refreshments counter. ‘Coffee?’ Shem asked.

Meenah looked around for a few
moments, again as if searching for friends, then nodded. ‘OK.’

Coffee purchased, they went to
sit in a side room, where long tables had been set out. The room
had at some time perhaps been used for religious purposes; the
tall, narrow windows were arched, admitting a diluted sunlight over
the heads of those seated at the tables.

Meenah frowned into her drink.
‘Why are you so interested in our troubles? What are you after?’
Later, she would wonder at the strange influence this handsome
stranger seemed to have had over her.

Shem had no doubt that
generally she was far too sensible to be so open with a man she did
not know, and who set alarm bells of self-preservation ringing
madly within her. ‘I thought you wanted people to be
interested.’

‘Of course we do, but your
interest seems… different. What are our problems to you?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that
a racist remark, Meenah?’

She smiled, in spite of
herself, ducked her head. ‘Maybe. As I said, most people think
we’re crazy. Just another crackpot religion to cause trouble in the
world.’

‘Well, they’re very stupid,
then. The worship of angels is the most ancient of all, and it is
true they are rumoured to have lived in your ancestral lands. If
you believe they existed at all. Archaeologists and scholars are
still desperately trying to prove it, although the archaeological
establishment takes a dim view of innovative ideas.’

Meenah rolled her eyes. ‘Of
this we know!’

Shem folded his hands together
on the table in front of him, and leaned forward. ‘So, what can you
tell me about the King of Babylon?’

Meenah pulled a sour face. ‘He
was originally just a nobody way down in the ranks of a repressive
regime, but he clearly had ambitions and — may his name be cursed —
he does have charisma. About four years ago, he instigated a
revolution in his country. Publicly, he says he wanted better for
his people, but we know the truth, for our prophet told us. He
believes his destiny is to rebuild the great empires of the past,
when human kings were guided by the knowledge of the Ancient Ones.
He envies and fears my people, because we carry the blood in our
veins that he covets. The West wants to keep him sweet, and won’t
believe, or rather ignores, the atrocities his military commit. So
many of our villages have been destroyed, women and children
tortured and killed.’

‘That sounds a familiar story,’
Shem said.

The girl sneered. ‘Oh, it is,
but this man is different, more dangerous. Our prophet told us that
Nimnezzar believes he is a direct descendent of the race who were
known as the Arallu. Demons. They were the spawn of the Ancient
Ones who turned away from the Light and took human wives. Nimnezzar
claims they were not evil, but somehow martyrs for a human cause.’
She uttered a scornful sound. ‘Now can you understand why we detest
him so much?’

Shem nodded encouragingly.
‘Yes, I understand.’ Privately, he considered that Meenah’s people
were undoubtedly descended from the same stock as Nimnezzar,
because as far as he was aware only the rebel angels bred with
humans, although it was clear the Yarasadi viewed things
differently.

Meenah’s hands flexed into
fists involuntarily on either side of her coffee. ‘He lies so well!
People believe it readily! He promises a Golden Age of prosperity,
so people are flocking beneath his banners. They are converting
from Islam back to old faiths of the Magian priests. They worship
fire again in the deserts. My people see this as a great blasphemy,
for Nimnezzar is a follower of the Lie rather than the Truth. For
thousands of years, and despite persecution, we have practised the
old beliefs, in the right and proper manner. Muslims all over the
world, but particularly in Egypt and Turkey are incensed by
Nimnezzar’s effrontery. They know he wants these countries to be
part of his empire, because of their history and ancient sites. We
are caught between all these opposing powers.’ She sighed. ‘We need
allies, powerful allies…’

‘Hmm,’ Shem said. ‘I see.’ He
paused. ‘What do you know of Babylon itself?’

Meenah rolled her eyes. ‘I have
heard that it is wondrous. Nimnezzar has reconstructed the Tower of
Babel there, and other ancient monuments. It was built so quickly,
Nimnezzar must have had the help of djinn. Or so people say.’

Shem smiled down at her. ‘A
city built by fire demons! What do you believe?’

The girl narrowed her eyes a
fraction. ‘I think there is more truth in myth than people want to
admit. It’s just been distorted over the centuries.’

Shem nodded. ‘Oh, I agree with
you… What else can you tell me about this king who commands
demons?’