“It’s where you touched the rock — the walls are composed of much salt,” Jassim said. “After the flood the rivers moved. They left behind these tunnels we are walking through.”
Ruth’s gaze traversed the sheer walls to their right where the first of the tombs was visible, cut from the rock like a toothless mouth. Soon, as their eyes became accustomed to the reduced light, others became visible above and below. Every opening was delimited by a frieze of worked stone, each scored by the mason’s artful markings; they were pictures of another age, repositories of ancient lives lived in obedience to their fathers. Ruth watched Natasha. The girl was silent, taking it all in.
“Are there dead people in there?” she asked in a whisper.
“They are our forefathers — they have served in past ages and have gone to their rest. There is nothing to fear from them.”
“It’s creepy.”
“Now look over there.” Jassim pointed ahead to where the wall curved gently, sweeping back on itself to form a wide U-shaped bend. Natasha craned her neck. “No, higher. See where the shadow lies across the last opening. Look to the left.”
Ruth heard Natasha give a little gasp. Now it was clear. The rock face of the extended crescent was covered in drawings of such intricacy that the images appeared to have a life of their own. There were many scenes: sprawling gardens populated with lush vegetation and exotic plants; a king and queen seated on two thrones of startling artistry, bejewelled and clothed in the bright, opulent garments of royalty; a city of evident prosperity under siege from an army of strange, winged creatures; a map of the heavens, each constellation glowing with an eerie blue brightness. But the most striking of all was the centrepiece: a huge, barge-like ship afloat on an empty sea. It was set in a circular frame, each segment of which represented some interior detail of the vessel. And such detail! Ruth had lost herself here on many occasions, slipping away from her brothers and sisters, finding herself guided inevitably to this spot.
“What do you think?” Jassim asked Natasha. “Do you know what this is?”
“It’s Noah. Noah and the Ark,” Natasha said slowly, but Ruth noticed that her eyes never left the paintings and that she was gently humming to herself, caught up in the spectacle.
They watched in silence for a long time. Ruth knew that the longer you looked, the more the paintings seemed to take on a life of their own, until you could feel the wind in your face, the swell of the great ship beneath you, the smell of the warm animal dung floating up from the huge decks beneath. The effect was hypnotic.
“Noah was our father,” Jassim said. “His family were the only survivors of the world before the flood. A world that God judged.”
Ruth found a projection of stone, worn smooth by centuries of spectators, and settled herself on it. She motioned to Natasha. “Come.”
The girl came meekly and sat beside her, Jassim’s voice an aural backdrop to the picture show unfolding before them. Ruth put her arm around Natasha’s shoulders and closed her eyes, stepping into the familiar story as if into the presence of a much-loved friend.
“Noah was a wise man, walking closely with God — and for this reason he was shunned by the people,” Jassim said. “The world was corrupt, degraded. It deserved judgement. But God remembered Noah. He warned Noah of what was to come and commanded him to build a boat, the like of which had never been seen before. His family came with him — they were aboard when God shut the door and let the waters collapse upon the Earth.” Jassim paused, moved by the recollection. “From the old world Noah had gathered many things onto the boat, many sacred things that had been revered from far off times. They were not to perish, but to be preserved until the end times, until the world would again face judgement.” Jassim turned to Ruth. “We are part of that.”
“You are Noah’s children,” Natasha murmured.
“All the peoples of the world are Noah’s children, Natasha,” Ruth said. “A testament to God’s mercy. But we are pure, set apart for God.”
“We are the Korumak Tanri,” Jassim said quietly.
Natasha whispered in Ruth’s ear. “What does it mean?”
“We are those who do his will. We are the keepers of the sacred things. His caretakers,” Ruth replied. “It is our destiny. Until the fulfillment of prophecy.” She looked at Jassim.
Her brother nodded slowly. “Yes. The time is upon us. The father has come home. Now his sceptre must also return.”
“What’s a sceptre?” Natasha looked away from the wall for a moment, a frown creasing her unmarked forehead.
Ruth looked at Jassim. She had never seen her brother’s face more serious. More awestruck.
“It is a symbol of power. Of authority.” Jassim spoke solemnly, his eyes fixed on the paintings.
“Like a king,” Ruth whispered to Natasha.
“Like a king,” Jassim agreed. “The king’s sceptre will return; the awaited sign that the end of the ages is near.”
After a while Jassim called them away. Ruth felt she was rising reluctantly into consciousness from a particularly pleasant dream, the characters and scenery flowing into one another like colours in a child’s painting. Her footsteps were light as they picked their way back along the labyrinthine walkways; she felt cleansed by the experience, spiritually recharged.
When they reached the stream, Ruth found her water jar and allowed Natasha to sit and dip her toes. She watched the child skim a stone, languidly, carelessly, as if her thoughts were elsewhere, exercising her new skill with an indifferent movement of her wrist. Ruth knew what she was thinking. The paintings always had that effect. Even now she felt soporific, sluggish; there was the usual reluctance to return her mental faculties to the present.
Jassim took her arm. “Ruth.” His eyes fixed on hers. There was something in his tone. At once she was alert.
“What? What is it?”
Jassim took her hands in his own and held them. It was a gesture of sympathy which, combined with his expression, implied a degree of helplessness, an inability to change something in her favour. “Ruth. Your sister—” He paused briefly then took a decisive breath. “Sara is coming home.”
Chapter 15
Dracup parked the car outside his old house. He had passed another sleepless night, haunted not only by Natasha’s but now by Sara’s disappearance. He had tried to push thoughts of her aside — he needed the thinking space more than anything else — but his emotions refused to be tamed. He pulled himself together with an effort. This wasn’t going to be easy. He checked his appearance in the mirror and wished he hadn’t. It would have to do.
“Hello.” Dracup gave it his best shot, stretching his facial muscles into something he hoped resembled a confident smile.
“Hi.” Yvonne studied his expression briefly. “You’d better come in.”
Dracup stepped into the hall. Strange how a once familiar place could change. It didn’t smell the same. Houses adopted the smell of their occupants but his contribution was long gone, superseded by whatever equivalent Malcolm’s sweat glands were programmed to generate. And there was something else missing; the smell of a child. Toys, paints, Mr Foamy bath bubbles. Yet he could feel Natasha’s presence. Her reading folder lay on the telephone table. A teddy bear sat on the window ledge in silent witness to the household’s youngest member. He accepted Yvonne’s offer of a seat, strangely formal, and watched her arrange herself equally formally in the armchair as if about to embark on a conversation with her financial consultant. She had lost weight and the strain was showing around her eyes, where dark circles had appeared, a foretaste of a future where such marks would be a permanent feature.