Page 20 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

H— NARIN

By the River Tigris, 2014

‘ T ell me the story of the Flood …’

‘What do you want to know about it, my heart?’

‘How did it start?’

‘With a single drop of water.’

Grandma cranes her head as if to see better through a keyhole into some other space. ‘It fell from the infinite skies – a harbinger of what was to come. No one paid it any attention, of course. Then it started to rain in earnest, and it didn’t stop for days and nights. The rivers rose, the land disappeared. Many died, but we Yazidis were saved thanks to a brave woman – her name was Pira-Fat .’

‘Wait! What happened to Baba Noah and the Ark?’

‘That was the first Flood, Tofanê Neb? Noh – it affected the children of Adam and Eve. As I told you before, we descend from Adam alone; Eve was not involved in our creation. The second Flood impacted the Yazidis, but we survived.’

‘How?’

‘Thanks to Mother Pira-Fat. She could float above the waters like a bird or a butterfly or an angel, you might also say. In her hands she held a glass jar. She put our seeds there, and after the waters retreated she planted our seeds, and so we grew back like plants and populated the earth again.’

‘So there were two Floods, then?’

‘At least two, for sure. But when I was a girl I heard community elders say, actually, there were three – if not more.’

Narin sighs. ‘I just don’t understand why God keeps doing this.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I mean, afflicting us with storms and torrents.’

‘Well, others might say it is His way of punishing humans for going astray. The waves are sent down to clean the sins of mankind. But I don’t believe that God in His benevolence and forgiveness is trying to hurt us. I believe the Deluge was an unavoidable calamity. You can also call it Fate. Also, don’t forget, it takes a while for things to settle. This world, like goat’s milk yogurt, will not solidify for quite some time.’

Narin smiles. ‘You think the earth is a tub of yogurt?’

‘Oh, definitely … It ferments, it thickens, and, although it is solid now, it can never forget that it was once liquid.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means it’s still roiling inside. We don’t hear it but there’s water underneath, churning. There are cycles in nature, cycles in history. We call them dewr . Between the end of an era and the beginning of a new one, there’s always a period of confusion, and those are the hardest times, may God help us all.’

‘Are we now in one of those periods?’

‘I think so, that’s why we must carefully study the past. The stories of our ancestors are the roots that hold us up through tempests and high winds.’

Narin subtly touches her right ear: there is a buzzing inside, and it bothers her, but she doesn’t want to mention it, as if saying it aloud will give it more power, more life. Instead she asks, ‘So what happened after each Flood?’

‘What happens after catastrophes? Those who survive nurse their broken hearts and start all over again, as one always does, as one always must.’

The only furniture of any value in the house is an oak chest painted in orange and green. Grandma keeps her dowry here, and all their valuables: crocheted doilies, embroidered towels, silk scarves, golden bracelets that were given to her as wedding gifts long ago … Narin has rummaged through its contents many times since she was little. Among the miscellaneous items that the chest guards is a qanun , carefully preserved. It is engraved with geometric motifs and covered with ivory, and there are tortoiseshell picks with which to pluck its strings. It is said to have been brought from Istanbul more than a century ago. This is the instrument that got Narin’s father interested in music when he was a boy.

The qanun is very old but not as old as Narin’s favourite object, which is trussed up like a baby, swaddled in white linen, wrapped with a red ribbon. A curious gift from the past. Searching the chest now, Narin takes out the bundle. Inside is a slab of clay with wedge-shaped symbols on both sides. It was given to her great-great-grandmother Leila, and she brought it with her when she left Nineveh and journeyed up the River Tigris, settling in Castrum Kefa. Ever since then it has been passed on to the next generation as a family heirloom. Narin knows that, though made of simple earth, it is very important. No one else in the village owns anything like it. Even though she cannot properly read either the Turkish or the Kurdish alphabet, Grandma has memorized quite a few of the arcane signs on its surface, thanks to her grandmother, and these she has taught to Narin. The child can thus intuit some of the shapes, though she has no idea of the story that the tablet holds.

‘Tell me about your grandmother Leila.’

‘My dapir …’ says Grandma with a smile, and pauses as if she has said it all. ‘She was so beautiful – eyes like a donkey’s –’

‘Hah!’

‘Child, don’t laugh. The donkey has the prettiest eyes. Leila’s hair was long, black, silken – a patch of night sky. But, most importantly, she was a talented healer.’

Narin rests her chin on her palm. ‘Same as you!’

‘No, no. My gift, which, like hers, belongs to God alone, is piffling compared with my grandmother’s. Your ancestor Leila was a diviner – a faqra. ’

‘What is that?’

‘A seer who knows things that others do not. Remember, though, there are many in this world who claim to be augurs but are charlatans, in truth. My grandmother was one of the genuine ones.’

Narin leans forward to hear better. There are so many high-pitched sounds that she struggles to pick up, though she can still follow lower-frequency sounds, and her grandmother’s voice, thankfully, is one of those.

‘It’s part of our tradition. Ko?ek or faqra for females, chavron for both men and women. They are all respectable, virtuous people. I still remember the famous ones from my childhood – Ko?ek Shamo, Ko?ek Silo, Ko?ek Hajo … Nowadays there are fewer. Since time immemorial our people have understood and respected this gift, and Leila undoubtedly had it.’

Narin presses her lips together, thinking. Grandma’s next words take her by surprise.

‘It can be painful, though, the gift. They go into a trance. Some fall to the ground, shaking like a leaf caught in a windstorm. You cannot touch them, the convulsions are that strong. Others start speaking in foreign tongues that no one can understand. Diviners are remarkable people – they can see what’s coming, but that’s not a small burden.’

‘How can they speak other languages?’

Grandma sucks in a lungful of air. ‘When they’re in a half-conscious state, they change. In that moment even a slender faqra can lift a heavy sack as if it were a feather. Stranger things are known to have happened.’

Narin cannot imagine, however hard she tries, her great-great-grandmother balancing weighty sacks on the tips of her fingers.

‘You may struggle to believe me. Remember, though, what defies comprehension isn’t the mysteries of the world, but the cruelties that humans are capable of inflicting upon each other.’

The silence extends for seconds.

‘Grandma, did you ever witness Leila making predictions?’

‘No, I never did. By the time I was born she had long stopped.’

‘But why?’

Grandma touches the tattoo on her face, as if to make sure that it is still there.

‘Because Faqra Leila saw something … something terrible … and it happened exactly the way she had prophesied. It happened in a place called Nineveh. After that, she couldn’t do this any more.’

The comment sends a jolt of alarm through Narin. ‘What was it – that terrible thing?’

Grandma looks away, perhaps finding the question irrelevant or impossible to answer, but then she speaks, her voice mellow, though with an edge.

‘They say when you have a vision that is too harrowing to put into words, it will leave you scarred forever. Leila gave up forecasting the future and she wished her descendants to give up the practice, too – to save us the pain. Since then, we’ve become water-dowsers. We can find rivers and streams under the ground and we can also treat certain ailments, but the women of this family will not and do not divine any more.’