“Don’t look at anything,” he advised. “Just keep going.” He passed Moran his water bottle and the DCI took a furtive swig.
“Thanks.” Moran returned the bottle and mopped his brow. “It’s getting warmer.”
And it was. As the trees thinned, their breath became laboured. Dracup’s lungs felt starved of oxygen, as if some unseen process was greedily drawing all the air to itself.
They emerged from the glade into a flat, empty space. Dracup raised his hand. “Wait.” He pointed to the ground. Moran followed his finger and saw the problem. The footprints had disappeared. The plain ahead was covered, not with the now familiar layers of ash and bone, but with a fine, orange dust. As they stepped onto its surface their feet left only the faintest of marks.
Moran peered into the distance and caught Dracup by the arm. “Hold on.” He pointed a thin forefinger. “Take a look over there, would you, and tell me I’m not seeing things.”
Dracup looked. In the distance he could see a faint, green phosphorescence, quite different to the buried ziggurat’s luminosity. It seemed localised; the light did not spread across the landscape but remained static, like a theatre spotlight picking out the leading actor in a play. He took a deep breath. Whatever it was, that’s where they needed to be. Like a beacon, its magnetism was irresistible.
“She’ll be there,” Dracup said.
The smell grew ever stronger and Dracup was compelled to follow Moran’s example, removing his jacket and partially covering his face with the material. He kept his eyes on the vision ahead, his fear for Natasha tempered with a powerful curiosity.
Moran broke the silence. “It’s a tree.”
Dracup squinted at the brightness and the object swam suddenly into focus. Moran was right. A magnificent tree, stretching its branches high into the fetid atmosphere. They were close now, perhaps a few hundred metres. The tree was standing in its own circle of light, the ground within alive with plants, flowers and shrubs of many different varieties. The scent was overpowering but Dracup had forgotten his discomfort. He held his jacket loosely by his side and gaped at the oasis of life surrounding the tree. He could hear birdsong, musical and delightful to the ear, the humming of bees, the gentle sigh of a warm midsummer breeze. But his attention was on something else: in the centre of this pool of fecundity, legs crossed, head tilted slightly to one side as if listening to a favourite story, was Natasha.
Sara led Farrell through the empty corridors. She felt very alone. Farrell touched her shoulder. “Wait.” He stopped and cocked his head to one side, listening. Sara’s shoulder tingled where his hand had rested. She clamped her teeth to her bottom lip angrily. What sort of a woman was she? How could her emotions be so wayward? In that moment she saw her future clearly. She murmured a prayer of thanks and gave Farrell a non-committal smile.
“It’s all right. It’s coming from the chamber of worship,” she told him. “They’ll be there until midnight.”
“Who?”
“My brothers and sisters.”
“Your family…”
“Yes. Farrell — we have to keep moving.” Fearful of the Al-Qaida presence and Kadesh’s security squads she held her breath, praying as she walked. Be there. Be there.
Hurrying around the next corner her prayer was answered. Jassim was striding towards them, staff tapping the ground as he went. Relief exploded through her. She ran to him and clasped his hand. “Jassim! Thanks be to God!”
“Who’s this?” Farrell said. His hand strayed under his jacket.
Sara caught the movement. “No, Farrell! It’s okay.” Her eyes filled with tears. Jassim, Jassim. You have done the right thing…
Jassim held her tightly. “Praise Him that it is I who found you and not Kadesh, my sister.” He turned to Farrell. “Mr Farrell,” he said gently, “I am no threat. I have something to show you.”
Dracup hung back. Natasha seemed unaware of their presence.
“Careful,” Moran said, resting a restraining hand on Dracup’s shoulder. “Don’t wake her suddenly.”
Dracup’s mouth was dry. He turned to the DCI. “Do you think she’s all right?”
Moran rubbed his cheek thoughtfully. His skin looked grey, the colour of ash. “I’ll take a look from the other side.” He walked around the tree, taking care not to let his feet stray into the light. Dracup waited for his return.
“Well?”
The inspector shook his head. “She’s awake. Eyes open. I don’t think she saw me.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t think she can see me.”
“I’m going in,” Dracup said. He didn’t care what happened as long as he could just hold Natasha, tell her everything was all right. Daddy’s here, he mouthed silently. I found you.
“Go on, then.” Moran gave him an encouraging smile.
Dracup moistened his lips. He reached a hand into the circle. It felt warm and pleasant. He turned to Moran. The policeman nodded. Dracup withdrew his hand, and walked slowly forward, bracing himself for — what? He realised he had closed his eyes. He felt the sun on his face, a soft wind against his forehead. He opened his eyes and his chin dropped in astonishment.
He looked round to give Moran a thumbs up, but Moran was indistinct, a mere shadow behind a curtain. Dracup looked at the tree, amazed at the size and shape of the leaves, the abundant fruit hanging in great fertile clumps from every branch, and the sheer girth of the trunk.It was alive in a way he could not find words to describe. And then it came to him: The Tree of Life. With the memory came a vague uneasiness. He placed his hand on the bark. It pulsed under his fingers. He pulled back in surprise, but felt immediately drawn to reconnect to the sudden burst of energy he had felt emanating from the wood. This time he let his hand remain. This is — amazing. He had never felt so alive; he could feel the blood travelling through his veins and arteries, the oxygen inflating his lungs, the small movements of a million cells and processes within. He was alive. He almost laughed aloud. Alive!
Dracup sank to the ground and listened to the sound of life. He was vaguely conscious of Natasha’s presence, but the motive that had impelled him to enter the circle was now forgotten in the extraordinary sensations running through his body. Somewhere in the recesses of his subconscious he heard another voice. It was insistent, grating. He wanted it to stop. It was spoiling everything. And then he remembered, with a sudden sharp clarity: Moran. He turned his head. There was Natasha, his daughter. He reached out. “’Tash. It’s me.”
The girl looked at him. “Hello, Daddy.” She smiled. “I like it here, don’t you?” She frowned, a little furrow in her forehead. “You’re thin. You need to eat.”
Dracup’s head was clouded. He couldn’t think. “Yes, darling. I do. But—”
“Can we stay? Please?” Her eyes were appealing to him. “No one will hurt us here.”
“I–I know, ’Tash. I’m not sure—”
Dracup!
The voice in his head was louder now. Perhaps he should listen. Talk to it. “What is it?” he shouted.
Hold onto the girl and I’ll help you… Feel for my hand.
What hand? Dracup looked. Nothing made sense.
“Don’t shout, Daddy. You need to be quiet here.”
Draaaacup!
“Here, Daddy.” Natasha held out a fallen fruit. It was large and pear-shaped, but a deep, purple colour. The juice ran onto Natasha’s fingers. She raised her hand to lick the juice.