The Nostradamus prophecies

19

Later that same night they helped Sabir out of the caravan and into the clearing. A couple of the men had constructed a litter and they lifted him on to it and carried him out into the forest and along a moonlit track.

Samana’s sister walked beside him as if she owned him, or had some other vested interest in his presence. Which I suppose she does, thought Sabir to himself. I’m her insurance policy against having to think.

A squirrel ran across the track in front of them and the women began to chatter excitedly amongst themselves.

‘What’s that all about?’

‘A squirrel is a lucky omen.’

‘What’s a bad one?’

She shot a look at him, then decided that he was not being flippant… ‘An owl.’ She lowered her voice. ‘A snake. The worst is a rat.’

‘Why’s that?’ He found that he was lowering his voice too.

‘They are mahrime. Polluted. It is better not to mention them.’

‘Ah.’

By this time they had reached another clearing, furnished with candles and flowers.

‘So we’re burying your brother?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you haven’t got his body? Just his hair?’

‘Shh. We no longer talk about him. Or mention his name.’

‘What?’

‘The close family does not talk of its dead. Only other people do that. For the next month his name will not be mentioned amongst us.’

An old man came up to Yola and presented her with a tray, on which was a wad of banknotes, a comb, a scarf, a small mirror, a shaving kit, a knife, a pack of cards and a syringe. Another man brought food, wrapped up in a waxed paper parcel. Another brought wine, water and green coffee beans.

Two men were digging a small hole near to an oak tree. Yola made the trip to the hole three times, laying one item neatly over another. Some children came up behind her and scattered kernels of corn over the heap. Then the men filled in the grave.

It was at that point that the women began wailing. The back hairs on Sabir’s head rose atavistically.

Yola fell to her knees beside her brother’s grave and began beating her breast with earth. Some women near her collapsed in jerking convulsions, their eyes turned up into their heads.

Four men, carrying a heavy stone between them, entered the clearing. The stone was placed on top of Samana’s grave. Other men then brought his clothes and his remaining possessions. These were heaped on to the stone and set alight.

The wails and lamentations of the women intensifi ed. Some of the men were drinking liquor from small glass bottles. Yola had torn off her blouse. She was striping her breasts and stomach with the earth and wine of her brother’s funeral libation.

Sabir felt miraculously disconnected from the realities of the twenty-first century. The scene in the clearing had taken on all the attributes of a demented bacchanal and the light from the candles and the fi res lit up the undersides of the trees, reflecting back off the transported faces below as if in a painting by Ensor.

The man who had presented Sabir’s testicles to the knife came over and offered him a drink from a pottery cup. ‘Go on. That’ll keep the mules away.’

‘The mules?’

The man shrugged. ‘They’re all around the clearing. Evil spirits. Trying to get in. Trying to take…’ He hesitated. ‘You know.’

Sabir swallowed the drink. He could feel the heat of the spirit burning away at his throat. Without knowing why, he found himself nodding. ‘I know.’