Dorothy Mcintosh - The Witch of Babylon

“Where exactly are we going then? I don’t want to head off on some wild goose chase,” Ward said.

Eris spoke to the older man. He got out his cellphone and placed a call, speaking rapidly in Turkish, and spoke to Eris again.

“He’s in one of two places,” Eris said, “the villages of Yazilikaya or Ayazinköyu. Mazare has watchers in both locations. They think he’s holed up somewhere for the night and won’t make a move until morning. If he tries to leave they’ll keep him captive until you arrive.”

Ward’s face reddened in annoyance at the vagueness of the answer and at having to cede control to Eris, who had command of the language.

“You’re referring to Tomas Zakar?” I directed this to Ward.

He hesitated then decided to give me the truth. “He’s here, not in

Iraq as you believed. Thought he could put one over on us I guess.” I still had strong doubts about this but kept them to myself. The food arrived. A couple of appetizers, one served with cacik, a yogurt dip, along with stuffed eggplant, pilav, and doner kebab, a phenomenally tasty grilled lamb dish. We raced through the meal, as Ward was anxious to get away.

Back in the car I was once again stuck in the middle between Eris and Lazarus. Our original driver had disappeared and Mazare took the wheel, pushing the car to top speed. His companion followed behind in a blue Ford Econoline van. It would never keep up with our Merc, I thought.

I hated the scent of Eris’s spicy perfume and the unpleasant proximity of the jester’s hard, angular form. I remained wide awake for the entire ride despite the late hour, my internal clock thoroughly blown from the flight.

Through the front windshield I could see light beginning to filter through the eastern sky with the approach of dawn. We were in hilly country—reddish ground, tufts of dark green scrub, and vegetation punctuated by ravines and occasional stretches of fruit orchards and farms. I felt another tug at my heart. What I wouldn’t give to have the freedom to get to know the country.

I kept my eye out for road signs, trying to get a sense of where we were headed. At one point we skirted a major city, Eski˛sehir, then continued east on the E90 highway. I realized soon after that we’d lost the van. As we approached a town about twenty minutes later, our driver turned around and spoke to Eris. “We’ve reached Çifteler,” she said to the rest of us. “We turn here.”

We veered off to the right onto a one-lane paved road until we reached a settlement. The car jerked to a halt, and Mazare pointed to a clutch of buildings ahead. “Yazilikaya,” he said. We got out of the car.

“Which way?” Ward asked testily. Mazare must have understood some English because he again pointed ahead. The sight took my breath away. A gently sloping hill rose before us, dotted with rustic, tile-roofed houses and outbuildings. Behind them reared a high ridge of cliffs made up of rock towers, soft volcanic stone shaped by wind and water over millennia into gigantic sculptures. Centered in the ridge and rising almost the full height of the cliffs, at least sixty feet, a magnificent tomb face had been carved into the rock. It took the form of a simple rectangle with a peaked roofline. The rising sun shone directly on its surface, the pink tones of the stone dazzling my eyes. With the special effects of the morning light and the contrast between the tomb and the rough surrounding stone, it looked as though a magic doorway had just appeared on the cliff face.

We circumvented the village, the few people about at this hour paying us no heed. I assumed they’d long grown used to tourists. As we got closer I could see the structure was covered with intricate geometric designs and at its base was a deep niche. There was only this facade; the interior had never been completed.

Ward couldn’t resist stopping in front of it. “The tomb of Cybele,” he said, indicating a series of markings. “This is one of the best examples of Phrygian writing to be found.” He turned to me. “You know the story of Cybele?”

“Some of it,” I said, remembering what Phillip Anthony had told Laurel and me.

“She was a sister goddess to Ishtar, and like her, an emblem of fertility and blood lust. In a jealous rage Cybele slaughtered the woman her lover Attis desired. Attis severed his own genitals with a sharp flint in despair.” Ward smiled. “Not a lady you’d want to tangle with.”

We left the monument behind and walked toward a staircase hewn into the rock face. Eris walked beside Mazare, speaking quickly to him. Lazarus positioned himself at the rear of our little delegation. We reached the staircase and began to ascend. The stairs were uneven, crumbling in many places, and no handrails had been provided. Corrugated walls of rock towers hemmed us in on either side, making the path seem like a cathedral aisle. The scene resembled some wild, inspired Gaudi fantasy.

Even this early in the morning the heat was sweltering and Ward, the least agile of us, huffed and puffed. I’d taken a position directly behind him and noticed his legs shaking, either because of the physical effort or, more likely, fear of the height. Every so often a gap in the rock walls would open, the path dropping away sharply. One little push, that’s all it would take and he’d plummet over the side. I could scramble down after him, get his phone, and try to run. Maybe. But Eris and Lazarus would be after me like a pack of dogs.

The stairs led to a natural archway in the cliff and through it shone a circle of azure sky. When we emerged out the other side we found ourselves on the flat crest of the ridge. Ruins of an acropolis stretched before us. Stone altars and strange robed figures with conical hats had been carved in relief out of the rock face. A faint wind ruffled my hair. I was awestruck by the enchantment of the place.

Our guide waved us over and crouched beside another section of cliff edge. Eris bent down and peered over. “There’s a ledge jutting out from another tomb entrance about thirty feet down. Lazarus and I can check it out.”

Ward flicked a glance my way and said, “No. One of you has to stay with me.”

I swore silently under my breath. For a fraction of a second I’d hoped the group would divide and I’d be left alone with him.

We watched as Eris picked her way down. With her strong, athletic body it took her no time at all to reach the extension of rock. As she stepped on the platform the guide’s phone rang. He had a short, terse-sounding conversation then yelled down to Eris.

She swore and began climbing back. “Mazare’s told me they’ve just sighted Tomas at the other village,” she shouted up to us.

Ward rounded on Mazare and hurled a series of accusations at him, punctuated by some choice obscenities. The guide spit words back at him in Turkish.

“I’m getting sick of this.” Ward glared at Eris when she reached the top. He looked ready to hit her. “They told us Zakar was here.”

She’d had enough and laid right back into him. “What he actually said was Tomas had been seen here last night. Look at this land—it’s full of caves and twisted rock formations; Tomas could easily have slipped away. At least they’ve found him again. Dump your tantrums and focus on us getting over there before we miss him a second time.”

Seeing the sense of this, Ward swallowed his rage and we hurried back to the cars.

Mazare drove again. The big Merc tore along unpaved roads, rocks and grit slamming into the undercarriage, the vehicle swinging wildly and spraying dirt at the turns. Soon we arrived at another village much like the one we’d just left. The van had somehow made it here before us. It was parked, empty, at the side of the road. Eris, Ward, and our guide huddled together for a few minutes, talking among themselves.