The Genesis Secret

33

Rob had been in Dahuk for ten days. The taxi driver from Habur had refused to go any further.

At first Rob had been reasonably content with this. Dahuk was a likeable and animated Kurdish city: poorer than Sanliurfa, but without the sense of brooding Turkish oversight. Dahuk was also enticing because the Yezidi were a visible presence. There was even a Yezidi cultural centre-a big old Ottoman house on the outskirts of town, ramshackle and noisy. Rob spent the first few days hanging around the centre. It was full of beautiful dark-haired girls with shy smiles and long embroidered dresses and laughing lads with Barcelona football shirts.

On the wall inside the centre’s hall was a striking picture of the peacock angel, Melek Taus. When he first saw it, Rob had stared at it for a good ten minutes. It was a strangely serene image, the demongod, the fallen angel, with his splendid tail of emerald and aquamarine. The tail of a thousand eyes.

The Yezidi at the centre were wary but not that unfriendly. The moustachioed Yezidi men gave him tea and pistachios. A couple of them spoke faltering English, more than a few spoke German. They told him this was because there was a strong Yezidi presence in Germany. ‘We have been destroyed everywhere else, we have no future here, now only you Christians can help us…’

What the Yezidi would not do was discuss the finer points of their faith. As soon as Rob started asking about the Black Book, or Sanliurfa, or the sanjak, or the worship of Melek Taus, the expressions turned to scowls, or disdain, or a defensive incomprehension. And then the moustached men got shirty, and stopped handing over saucers of pistachios.

The other sticking point was Lalesh itself. It turned out-and Rob was annoyed at himself for his lack of prior information, for rushing into this so impetuously-that no one actually lived in Lalesh. It was a sacred city in the truest sense of the phrase: a ghost town for angels, a city for exclusively sacred things: holy spirits, ancient texts, venerable shrines. The villages around Lalesh were busy and thronging, but the Yezidi only went into Lalesh itself to pray or worship, or for festivals, which would make any outsider conspicuous.

Moreover, just getting to Lalesh for a non-Yezidi was a difficult and even dangerous task, it seemed. Certainly no one wanted to take Rob. Not even after a hundred-dollar bribe. Rob tried more than once. The taxi drivers just looked at his money mistrustfully, and said a curt ‘La!’

By the tenth night Rob felt like giving up. He was lying on his bed in his hotel room. The city was noisy and fervid outside. He went to his open window and gazed across the concrete rooftops and the dark winding alleys. The hot Iraqi sun was going down over the grey-gold Zagros Mountains. Old women in pink headscarves were hanging out washing next to enormous satellite dishes. Rob could see plenty of church spires amongst the minarets. Churches of the Gnostics maybe. Or the Mandeans. Or the Assyrian Christians. The Chaldeans. There were so many ancient sects here.

Closing the window to block out the evening call to prayer, Rob returned to his bed and picked up his mobile. He found a good Kurdish network and called England. After a few long beeps Sally came on the line. Rob expected his ex-wife to be her usual curt but polite self. But Sally was oddly warm and enthusiastic: then she explained why. She told Rob she had met his ‘new girlfriend’ and actually liked her, a lot. Sally told Rob she approved of Christine, and that he must have finally returned to his senses if he’d started dating real women, not those bimbos he normally went for.

Rob laughed and said he’d never regarded Sally as a bimbo; there was a pause, and then Sally laughed, too. It was the first laughter they had exchanged since the divorce. They chatted some more, as they had not chatted in quite a while. And then Rob’s ex-wife handed the phone to their daughter. Rob felt piercingly sad when he heard his daughter’s voice. Lizzie told her dad that she had been to the zoo to see ‘nanimals’. She said she could raise her arms right above her head. Rob listened with a mixture of joy and grief and he said he loved her and Lizzie demanded daddy come home. Then he asked her if she had met the French lady Christine. Lizzie said yes and she really liked her and mummy liked her too. Rob said that was great, and then he blew a kiss to his giggling daughter. He rang off. It felt slightly weird, his new girlfriend and his ex-wife making friends. But it was better than mutual animosity. And it meant there were more people looking after his daughter when he wasn’t there.

But then it occurred to him that maybe it was time he was ‘there’: maybe it was time he went back home. Maybe he should just quit. The story hadn’t panned out as he’d hoped. He hadn’t even made it to Lalesh, but it didn’t look like there was any point anyway. The Yezidi were too opaque. He couldn’t speak enough Arabic or Kurdish to get beyond their ancient obscurantism. How could he hope to unlock the secrets of a six thousand year old faith by just pottering around this ancient city saying ‘Salaam’? He was stymied; his hopes were dwindling by the hour. Sometimes that happened. Sometimes you didn’t get the story.

Grabbing his door key, Rob left his hotel room. He was hot and bothered and he needed a beer. And there was a nice bar on the corner of his street. He slumped into his usual plastic seat outside the Suleiman Café. Rob’s temporary friend, Rawaz the café owner, brought him some chilled Turkish beer, and a saucer of green olives. The life of the Dahuk streets passed on by. Rob rested his forehead in his hands and thought again about the article. Looking back on his determined and impulsive excitement at Isobel’s house, he wondered what he had really wanted. Some mysterious priest to explain everything, perhaps in a secret temple, with savage carvings on the wall. And flickering flames from the oil lamps. And of course a couple of handy devil worshippers, happy to be photographed. But instead of realizing his naive journalistic dream Rob was drinking Efes beer and listening to gaudy Kurdish pop from the music store next door. He might as well have been in Sanliurfa. Or London.

‘Hello?’

Rob looked up. A young man was standing, slightly hesitantly, by his table. He wore clean jeans and a well-pressed shirt. He had a round face. He looked scholarly. Geeky even. Yet prosperous and kind. Rob asked the man to sit down. His name was Karwan.

Karwan smiled. ‘I am a Yezidi.’

‘OK…’

‘Today I go to the Yezidi cultural centre and some women told me about you. An American journalist. Wanting to know about Melek Taus?’

Rob nodded: mildly embarrassed.

Karwan went on. ‘They said you were staying here. But they say you might go soon, because you were not happy.’

‘I’m not unhappy. I’m just…frustrated.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am writing an article. About the Yezidi faith. You know, what you guys really believe. It’s for a British newspaper. But no one will tell me, so it’s a little frustrating.’

‘You must understand why this is.’ Karwan leaned forward with an earnest expression on his face. ‘For many thousands of years, mister, we have been killed and attacked for what we believe. What people say we believe. The Muslims kill us, the Hindus, the Tartars. Everyone says we worship Shaitan, the devil. They kill us and drive us away. Even Saddam killed us, even our fellow Kurds they kill us, Sunni and Shiite, they all kill us. Everyone.’

‘But that’s why I want to write my article. Tell the real story. What the Yezidi really believe.’

Karwan frowned, as if he was deciding something. He was silent for more than a minute. And then he said, ‘Yes, OK. This is how I see it. You Americans, the great eagle, you helped the Kurds, and you have protected the Yezidi people. I see American soldiers, they are good. They really try to help us. So…now I will help you. Because you are American.’

‘You will?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes and I will help you because I studied one year in America at Texas University. This is why my English is not so bad. Americans they were good to me.’

‘You were at UT?’

‘Yes, you know? The cowhorns. In Austen.’

‘Great music in Austen.’

‘Yes. A nice place. Except,’ Karwan nibbled an olive, ‘except women in Texas have the most enormous asses. This is problem for me.’

Rob laughed. ‘What did you study, at UT?’

‘Religious anthropology. So, you understand, I can tell you everything you need to know. And then you can go away and tell everyone we are not…Satanists. Shall we start?’

Rob reached for his notebook; he ordered two more beers. And for an hour he plied Karwan with questions. Most of the information he already knew, from Isobel, and from his own research. The origins of Yezidism and the Cult of Angels. Rob was slightly disappointed. But then Karwan said something which made him sit up, very straight.

‘The tale of the Yezidis’ origin comes from the Black Book. Of course the Black Book has gone now but the story is handed on. It tells us we have a distinct…bloodline, it shows how we are different from all other races.’

‘How?’

‘Maybe it is best expressed in a myth, in Yezidi myth. In one of our creation legends there were seventy-two Adams, each Adam more perfect than the one before. Then the seventy-second Adam married Eve. And Adam and Eve deposited their seed in two jars.’

Rob interrupted, his pen poised over his notebook. ’Two jars?’

Karwan nodded. ‘These jars were sealed for nine months. When the jars were opened, the jar containing Eve’s seed was full of insects and terrible things, snakes and scorpions. But when Adam’s jar was opened, they found a lovely boy child.’ Karwan smiled. ‘The boy was called Shahid ibn Jayar-“the Son of the Jar”. And this name is also used for the Yezidi. You see: we are the Sons of the Jar. These children of Adam became the ancestors of the Yezidis. Adam is our grandfather. Whereas all other nations are descended through Eve.’

Rob finished scribbling his notes. A white UN Chevrolet was trundling across the junction opposite the café.

Karwan said, quite abruptly, ‘OK. That is that! Now I must go. But, mister, the Yezidi at the centre, they also tell me you want to go to Lalesh, as well? Yes?’

‘Yes. I do! But everyone says it’s dangerous. They just won’t take me. Can it possibly be arranged?’

Karwan curved a smile. He was nibbling discreetly on another olive; he cupped his hand, and deposited the olive stone on the edge of the ashtray. ‘I can take you there. We are having a festival. It is not so dangerous.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow. Five a.m. I will meet you here. And then I will bring you back. And then you can go and write about us, in that famous newspaper The Times, in England.’

‘That’s great. That’s fantastic-shukran!’

‘Good.’ The young man leaned and shook Rob’s hand. ‘Tomorrow we meet. Five a.m. So we must sleep now. Goodbye.’ And with that he stood up and disappeared along the sultry road.

Rob guzzled the last of his beer. He was happy. He was almost very happy. He was going to get the story. The first man to visit the sacred capital of the Yezidi! Our man with the Cultists of Iraq. He almost ran back to the hotel. Then he phoned Christine and excitedly told her the news; her voice sounded worried and pleased at the same time. Rob lay back on the bed with a smile, as they talked: he was going home soon, and he would see his daughter, and his girlfriend-with the job safely done.

The next morning Rob found Karwan waiting, as promised, by the café tables. Parked by the shuttered café was an old Ford pickup truck: loaded with flat bread, and fruit in plastic sacks.

‘Fruit for the festival,’ said Karwan. ‘Come. Is not very much room.’

There were three of them squeezed in the cabin of the truck. Karwan, Rob, and a whiskery old guy. The driver was Karwan’s uncle, it seemed. Rob shook hands with Karwan’s uncle, and Karwan said, ‘He has only crashed three times this year. So we should be OK.’

The truck rattled out of Dahuk up into the mountains. It was a long and spine-jarring journey, but Rob didn’t care. He was surely close to his story.

The road led up into pine forests and oak woods. As they ascended, the grey morning air began to clear. The sun was coming up bright and warm. Then the road dipped into a vivid green valley. Poor but pretty stone houses stood over rushing streams. Dirty children with dazzling smiles rushed down to the truck and waved. Rob waved back and thought about his daughter.

The road went on, and on. It snaked around a great mountain. Karwan told Rob the mountain was one of the Seven Pillars of Satan. Rob nodded. The road negotiated rushing rivers, on rickety wooden bridges. And then at last they stopped.

Karwan nudged him. ‘Lalesh!

He’d made it. The first thing he saw was a strange conical building, its roof oddly fluted. There were more of these conical buildings, placed around a central square. This central plaza of Lalesh was alive with people: parading and chanting and singing. Old men were walking in single file, playing long wooden flutes. Rob got out of the truck, along with Karwan, and watched.

A black-cloaked figure emerged from a grimy building. He walked over to an array of stone pots from which small fires were billowing. More men, in white robes, processed behind.

‘These are the sacred fires,’ said Karwan, gesturing at the yellow flames dancing in the stone pots. ‘The men must circle the sacred fires seven times.’

Now the crowd pressed forward, calling out a name. ‘Melek Taus, Melek Taus!’

Karwan nodded. ‘They are praising the peacock angel, of course.’

The ceremony continued. It was picturesque, and strange, and oddly touching. Rob watched the bystanders and the onlookers: after the initial flurry of ceremonial, many ordinary Yezidi had moved on to nearby patches of grass and the hillsides overlooking the conical towers of Lalesh: they were laying out picnics of tomatoes, cheese, flatbread and plums. The sun was high in the sky. It was a warm mountain day.

‘Every Yezidi,’ Karwan told Rob, ‘must, at some point in life, come here to Lalesh. To make a pilgrimage to the tomb of Sheikh Mussafir. He established the ceremonies of the Yezidis.’

Rob edged closer to peer through the dingy doorway of a temple. Inside it was dark: but Rob could just discern pilgrims wrapping coloured cloths around wooden pillars. Others were laying bread on low shelves. On one wall Rob saw writing that was distinctly cuneiform: it had to be cuneiform: the very oldest, most primitive alphabet in the world. Dating back to Sumerian times.

Cuneiform! As he ducked out of the temple again, Rob felt a thrill of privilege just to be here. It was a miraculous survival: the city, the faith, the people, the liturgy and ritual. And it was an admirable survival, too. The whole atmosphere of Lalesh, the festival, was lyrical, poetic, and preciously pastoral. The only menacing aspects were the lurid and sneering images of Melek Taus, the ubiquitous devil-god, who was pictured on walls and doors, even on posters. Yet the people themselves seemed friendly, happy to be out in the sun, happy to be practising their peculiar religion.

Rob wanted to talk to some Yezidi. He persuaded Karwan to interpret: on one patch of grass, they found a jocular, middle-aged woman pouring tea for her children.

Rob leaned in and said, ‘Tell me about the Black Book?

The woman smiled, jabbing a finger at Rob quite vigorously.

Karwan interpreted her words. ‘She says that the Black Book is the Bible of the Yezidi, and it is written in gold. She says you Christians have it! You English. She says you took our holy book. And that is why the westerners have science and education. Because you have the book, that came from the sky.’

The woman smiled warmly at Rob. And then she bit into a fat tomato, spilling vivid red seeds down her shirt, making her husband laugh very loudly.

The ceremony in the square was nearly over. Young girls and boys in white were in the central space, finishing their spiralling dances around the sacred flames. Rob regarded them. He took some discreet photos with his camera-phone. He scribbled some notes. And then, when he looked up, he noticed something else. Quite unremarked by the bystanders all the elite old men were ducking, one by one, into a low building at the far end of the square. Their action seemed somehow furtive, clandestine. Or at least significant. There was a guard at the door of this low building, though there were no guards on any of the other doors. Why was that? And the door they were using was itself marked out from the others. It had an odd black snake set beside it in stone. A long snake symbol right by the door.

Rob felt the tingle. This was it. Rob had to find out what was going on. He had to get in that mysterious door. But could he get away with it? He glanced around. Karwan was now lying back on the grass, dozing. The truck driver was nowhere. Probably asleep in his cabin. It had been a long day.

This was Rob’s chance. Right now. Sloping down the hill, he crossed the square briskly. One of the chanting boys had dropped his white headdress by the well beneath the spring. Rob checked left and right, and snatched the garment up and put it over his head. Again he checked. No one was looking. He slunk towards the low building. The guard was on the door: he was about to close the door. Rob had just one chance. He muffled and concealed his lower face with the white cloth, then darted over the threshold into the temple.

The yawning guard stared vaguely at Rob. For a moment he seemed puzzled. Then he shrugged and shut the door behind them. Rob was inside the temple.

It was very dark. The acrid smoke of the oil lamps fugged the air. The Yezidi elders were lined up in rows, chanting, murmuring and singing very quietly. Reciting prayers. Others were on their knees, kowtowing and bending: touching the floor with their foreheads. A blaze of light filled the far end of the temple. Rob squinted to see through the smoke. A door had briefly opened. A whiterobed girl was bringing an object covered in a rough blanket. The chanting grew a little louder. The girl set the object down on an altar. Above the altar the gleaming image of the peacock angel stared down at them all, serene and superior, disdainful and cruel.

Rob moved forward to get as close as he could without drawing attention to himself, desperate to see what was hidden underneath the blanket. He edged closer and closer. The praying and chanting grew louder, yet darker. Lower in tone. A hypnotic mantra. The lampsmoke was so thick it was making Rob’s eyes itch and weep. He rubbed at his face and strained to see.

And then girl whipped away the blanket, and the chanting stopped.

Sitting on the altar was a skull. But it was like no skull Rob had seen. It was human, yet not human. It had curved slanted eye sockets. High cheekbones. It looked like the skull of a monstrous bird, or a bizarre snake. Yet still it was human.

Then Rob felt a hard knife blade: pressed cold against his throat.