Page 47 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—O— ARTHUR

By the River Tigris, 1876

A ugust is the worst of times to travel from Nineveh to Castrum Kefa. It is less a month than an elegy for the vibrant songs of spring, a lament that floats through the desiccated stalks and brittle reeds bowed by the wind. Arthur eats little. It is hard to have an appetite when the sun is merciless. His diet consists of dates, flatbread, camel’s milk. They sleep during the day and proceed at night. In the darkness, the landscape changes, transfigured as if by a master illusionist. Under a moon that seems so close you can rise up on your toes and reach it with your fingertips, the world acquires a rare stillness. The stars glimmer like tiny translucent pebbles on the bed of a river, each holding its own secrets.

His guide warns him it is dangerous to ride after sunset. But Arthur loves the serenity, the starlight, the silence so profound he can hear the earth breathe, fully alive. So they keep going, two nocturnal travellers retracing ancient caravan routes, chance acquaintances on a journey they can neither agree on nor abandon.

Arthur knows that the ground they are crossing was not always a desert. Deep beneath the sand dunes are the remains of what were once the most advanced cities – lush, opulent urban centres flourishing in the fluvial deltas. All across this region the soil was rich and the climate beneficent. It could have easily sustained many generations to come. But the abuse of natural resources, the lust for power and dominance, and endless rivalries led to the decline of cities, and then came famine, flood and drought. The greediest kings corralled the rivers and the bloodiest wars were fought over water.

When Arthur first started studying the tablets, he used to think of civilization as a solid edifice, elegantly expressed in marble, wood, glass and metal. A feat of engineering, planning, design and construction. The triumph of humankind over nature. But now, as he traverses this desolate landscape, it seems to him that what they call civilization is, in truth, a storm in waiting. Powerful, protean and perfectly destructive, sooner or later it will burst free of its barriers and engulf everything in its insatiable path.

In the villages they pass through, they see sick people lying listlessly, their skins an alarming shade of blue. The stench, seeping out from closed doors, is unbearable. Arthur recognizes the signs – it is cholera. The pestilence that emerged from the plains of the River Ganges and borne by water has spread far and wide. His infant brother’s face appears in front of his eyes, the wound of his loss never healing.

‘We must fetch a doctor for them!’

Mahmoud shakes his head sadly. ‘No doctor will come here.’

Arthur watches the young guide raise his palms towards the skies and pray for the souls of the dead and the dying. Words in Arabic, rounded syllables strung together like beads on a rosary. It gives him comfort to see someone pleading with God for all those in need, regardless of race or creed, as this is an area where Muslims, Christians, Yazidis, Jews and Mandeans have for centuries lived side by side. If cholera does not pay heed to such differences, he feels, neither should the living. Yet, when he tries to join in the prayer, he cannot. He has witnessed too much hatred and bloodshed in the name of religion. A part of him still believes in a supreme being – the Creator of the universe and the source of moral authority. But a bigger part understands that he and God have long parted ways.

Faith is a bird, they say, and it cannot be kept locked up, however gilded you make its cage. Set it free, send it afar, and it may or may not return. Faith is a bird perhaps, but Arthur now regards it as a stuffed raven that stares down at him with its glassy eyes. It won’t ever take wing again, and it is hard to imagine that it ever did.

He rides his horse like one possessed, impatient to reach Castrum Kefa and see Leila one more time. Feeling guilty about imposing this breakneck speed on the young guide, he says, ‘You should return to your village, my friend.’

Mahmoud’s forehead creases. ‘You don’t want me?’

‘I can no longer pay you. I have run out of funds. Also, it is not safe. You should be back with your family.’

‘You have a family, too.’

‘Yes, and I will take every precaution to be united with them.’

Mahmoud draws a breath. ‘I do not mean to be rude, but why go to such trouble for a woman who will never be yours?’

It is a question Arthur cannot immediately answer. He swallows painfully, the corners of his mouth cracked and sore from the heat. ‘I just want to make sure she is safe and happy where she is.’

‘You know you are behaving like Majnun.’

‘Who is that?’

‘It is a famous poem: Layla and Majnun . Qays was in love with Layla and she loved him back, but they could never be together. She was married off to another. Qays lost his mind and so he became Majnun – the “possessed”. He turned into a poet and started wandering the desert, like a madman, consumed by thoughts of Layla, even though she was out of his reach forever – do you see the resemblance?’

Arthur smiles ruefully. ‘But I am no poet, my friend. I am just a devoted reader.’

After much pleading, Arthur manages to convince Mahmoud to return to his people. Under a sickle moon he canters, determined to continue on his own. Across the desert to Aleppo is 350 miles on horseback. The next day, without a shelter or shade, the sun is fierce, and the wind refuses to cease, whistling profanities. Arthur listens, trying to decode the signs.

The Ancient Mesopotamians saw portents everywhere – in the glow of embers in the hearth, the murmurations of starlings in the skies, the swirls of smoke from incense burners, the fall of Knucklebones in the dust, the formations of the clouds … They read omens in the intestines of sacrificial animals, the contours of spilt flour, the patterns of oil on water … No one was indifferent to the auguries: kings and servants, all yearned for a glimpse of the unseen. Partly because they understood how fragile life is and how close the breath of death. And partly because they retained a naive hope that, despite the inequalities and injustices of this world, someone or something from another realm might give them counsel and assistance in their hour of need.

The sound of galloping interrupts Arthur’s thoughts. Someone is following him. His pulse beats in his throat, his fingers tighten around the dagger in his belt. Not that he knows how to use it. The stranger keeps approaching, spurring his horse to full speed.

‘Who’s there?’ Arthur yells. ‘I am armed, I warn you!’ It is foolish to shout in English, but he cannot help it.

A few seconds later, Arthur hears a familiar voice.

‘It is me! Mahmoud.’

The young Arab has not left him.

Touched by his selflessness, Arthur bites the tender inside of his cheek and says, ‘I told you to go back, my friend.’

‘And I told you that you were not made for the desert. Someone needs to keep an eye on you.’

Illness creeps upon Arthur like a sucking louse, unnoticed until the damage is done. All this while he has managed to avoid dangers and diseases, but it seems his luck is coming to an end. His limbs feel heavy, and his mouth filled with salt. Nausea, belly cramps, fever. Dysentery is not deadly, provided it is treated quickly enough, and the patient gets enough rest and water. But he has lost precious time, and there are no doctors for many miles.

‘You need to stop,’ says Mahmoud. ‘You cannot go on like this.’

‘Not now. We are very close.’

The sun beats down. Sliding in and out of consciousness, Arthur clutches the reins.

The trail expands and stretches in front of him in dizzying cycles. Mahmoud keeps talking by his side, as if words have healing properties and silence would be life-threatening. When he runs out of things to say in English, he reverts to Arabic. Arthur listens to the cadence of his voice, finding a sense of peace in this language he does not understand.

‘Castrum Kefa!’ Mahmoud points at the ancient city appearing on the horizon, with its limestone cliffs and thousands of caves. ‘We are almost there.’

Covered in dust and sweat, Arthur can barely stand. He slumps forward over the horse’s neck. If it weren’t for his guide, riding close by, he would have tumbled off.

A shepherd’s hut is the only dwelling in sight. Mahmoud carries him inside. They lay Arthur on a straw mattress, where he shivers even as his body burns.

‘I must get help.’ Mahmoud rushes out the door. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

The shepherd watches over this unexpected guest for a while, but he must tend to his flock, and so he leaves.

Alone in the room, in the throes of fever, Arthur sees his mother, young and winsome even when bundled up in a thick, filthy coat with bulging pockets, and her feet encrusted with the effluent and mud of the Thames. It is snowing, the world is beautiful and cold and cruel. His children appear amidst the swirling flakes, playing by a pond, floating wooden toy boats. Smiling, he waves at them, though they do not seem to notice him. As he bends to splash his face with water, he catches a reflection in its mirrored surface. Two figures stand behind on each side of him, their elbows touching. His wife wears black widow’s weeds. The faqra , by contrast, is clad in white.

Within seconds he starts to vomit.

It is in that moment that a shadow sidles into the room – a thief. Darting, soundless, he moves like a rodent. He flicks no more than a glance at the sick man in bed, moaning. Turning his back, he rifles through Arthur’s jacket and empties the satchel – a notebook, a handkerchief, a child’s drawing, a bag of dates … Upset by the meagreness of his findings, he curses. Then he grabs the leather boots dropped in a corner. Just as he is about to leave, he catches sight of the blue tablet. He revolves the artefact in his hand this way and that. It doesn’t seem like anything of value, but he likes the colour. Perhaps he can smash it into pieces and use them to make rings. Or maybe he can sell it for a few coins. And so he also takes the lapis lazuli slab that a junior scribe has dedicated to a forgotten goddess, the stone still warm from Arthur’s touch.