Dogstar Rising

Chapter Eight




The mosque was within walking distance of the awama. On Friday morning traffic along Al Nil Street was a fraction of what it was on a working day. The riverbank recovered some of its natural state. It took him fifteen minutes, first he walked along the river towards Midan Kit Kat and then turned west and walked inland. The relaxed mood extended through the narrow streets. Proud men strolled along leading their young children. Onlookers gathered around a minibus that had been stripped to a skeleton and observed one man hammering it mercilessly. Finding the mosque became a matter of following the crowd. It was a large construction that looked as though it had not been finished. A basic rectangle of grey breeze blocks fenced out the area. Inside, a structure of newly set raw concrete rose up out of the ground topped by a wide dome. Alongside it the minaret seemed out of proportion and uneven as it climbed crookedly towards the sky. Wooden scaffolding was still in place on one side and jagged metal spikes stuck out of the sides, presumably to hold the final outer layer of cladding, when someone got around to finishing off the building. Along the front, metal poles supported a strip of corrugated plastic sheets that provided some shade. Beneath this was a row of simple taps and a drainage gutter where the faithful could perform their ritual ablutions before entering. Around the sides a skirt of scuffed bare ground divided the mosque from the surrounding wall and the road. The street and grounds were packed with people milling about. He looked around for Sami, but without luck. They should perhaps have arranged to meet elsewhere beforehand. To one side of the entrance he spotted a group of what looked like Central Security Forces heavyweights surveying the crowd. Pushing through, Makana made it as far as the shelter where he had a view of the interior through a barred window.

Fans revolved overhead while on a raised dais at the far end of the room, resplendent in white robes, sat the compelling figure of Sheikh Waheed. In his mid-fifties, he wore a wispy beard. His head was covered by a simple turban. An enormous leather-bound Quran rested on a sandalwood stand before him.

‘He is the Lord of the heavens and the earth and all that is in between them. Worship Him, then, and be patient in his service.’ Sheikh Waheed paused and raised his eyes above his reading glasses to look out at the crowd. Speakers attached to the outside walls made sure his words were carried to those standing in the grounds and the street beyond.

‘What greater suffering to inflict upon a parent but the bloody slaughter of a child? Is there one among you who cannot feel the pain of losing a son? Imagine the torment they must endure!’

There was a collective sigh of sympathy from the crowd. Around him Makana could hear people muttering angrily. A scuffle broke out to his right. The heavies from the front entrance moved in to drag the troublemakers away. Everyone fell silent as the sheikh began to speak again.

‘A ruthless murderer is amongst us. Is it any wonder, I ask myself, that people speak of these murders as an evil ritual? Who would dare, in this day and age, to sacrifice children? I ask myself, have we gone back to the Jahiliyya, the days of ignorance before the light of Islam touched mankind?’ A murmur of dissent passed through the audience like a restless pulse. ‘The bodies of innocent creatures, slaughtered like wild beasts.’ The sheikh’s voice trembled, his lips quivering with barely restrained fury. ‘Such deeds cannot go unpunished, surely?’

‘Revenge!’ someone shouted from Makana’s right.

‘Kill them all!’ came another.

‘Let them feel our pain.’

There were other voices, voices urging restraint, calm, but these were swamped by the flood. The men by the gate were grinning to one another.

Up on the podium the sheikh raised his hands for calm.

‘Patience.’ His voice shook. There was a touch of theatricality to him as he surveyed the flock gathered at his feet, crammed together shoulder to shoulder, kneeling or sitting on the carpets spread over the hard concrete floor.

‘Did the Prophet, May Allah bestow His blessings upon him, not spend twenty-three years awaiting the full revelation of the sacred text?’ he asked, tapping the book in front of him. ‘Then who are we not to heed the lessons of patience?’ The sheikh’s tone hardened. ‘Those who ask for restraint should know that injustice can be suffered only for so long.’ He held the crowd in his hands now. His voice rose, the little body rocked back and forth on the dais as if trying to wear its way down into the earth below.

‘When the fateful day arrives, woe to the unbelievers! Know that we send down to the unbelievers devils who incite them to evil. Therefore have patience: their days are numbered.’

Cries of ‘Allahu akbar’ resounded as the sheikh got to his feet. He moved with the speed of a much older man, bowing to allow his most fervent supporters to kiss him on both cheeks before vanishing through a gap in the crowd.

As the men poured out of the mosque into the street, their anger filled the air. Makana recognised the same Central Security Forces thugs he had seen earlier, huddled together around the entrance. Then he was swept along in the rush of men being herded around the gate. He followed along as they moved off, first in one direction and then another, as if unable to decide which way to go. Then the indecision seemed to resolve itself and the crowd began to move, led by the same small group of instigators. People tagged along, with young boys running alongside, others leaping on top of cars and shouting. The route twisted and turned, cutting down short, narrow streets. Their destination became apparent as they emerged into an open square and the high walls of a church came into view. Unlike the newly built mosque they had just left, this building was old and crumbling. Deep cracks zigzagged up the front wall. The yellowing paint and plaster had come away in large gouts.

Outside the church a dark blue police pickup was parked. Uniformed men stood around it armed with riot sticks and shields as they eyed the approaching mob. A sergeant with a thick moustache stood with his hands on his hips.

‘Go on with you. We don’t want trouble here.’

‘There’s no trouble here,’ one man said, advancing on the sergeant. ‘The trouble is there,’ he said, pointing at the church. Then, as if released by a secret signal, the mob broke loose. Stones and bottles flew overhead. A tree nearby shook as it was stripped of a few handy branches that were waved in the air. Glass shattered. The policemen were nervously backing away, stopped only by the sergeant who had retreated behind them, where he remained, arms folded, cautioning them to stand firm. They were easily outnumbered ten to one. The mob seethed, hurling their anger at the church in a rain of bricks and bottles that shattered against the walls. As Makana skirted along the edge he caught sight of Sami, waving to him from the next corner beyond the church.

‘I didn’t think you would make it.’

‘Is it always like this?’ Makana asked.

‘It’s become regular Friday entertainment. They come in from all over the city to hear the sheikh speak, and it’s always provocative.’

Father Macarius was waiting for them nervously beside a large metal door that led into a walled compound adjoining the church. He ushered them quickly inside and bolted the gate behind them. Macarius was an impressive figure. Dressed in a black cassock that stretched down to his sandals, he was a tall, broad-chested man with a square jaw that looked as if it had been etched in the stone of his greying beard. According to Sami, he was a bit of a maverick. There was some long story about a scandal behind him. Apparently, he had been expelled from the church at one point, and then reinstated.

‘This is not the first time we have been attacked. It has become a form of diversion for young people. It is not their fault, in my opinion, but they are frustrated and easily led astray.’

Makana and Sami had to make an effort to keep up with the priest, who moved with lithe, athletic grace.

‘You can’t blame people for being concerned,’ Sami said to his back. ‘These murders have created an atmosphere of panic.’

‘That is exactly my point.’ Father Macarius spun on his heel to face them. ‘There is a need for calm thinking, rationality, but the government is taking a back seat. It is almost as if this unrest is of no concern to them.’

Sami was scribbling furiously in his notebook. ‘Are you accusing the government of turning a blind eye to the persecution of Christians in this country?’

Father Macarius smiled. ‘I said nothing of the kind, so please do not quote me as having said that. I merely ask the question of why nothing more is being done to catch the person responsible for these murders.’

‘And if the murderer is a Christian?’

Father Macarius turned his gaze on Makana. ‘The law must apply to all, regardless of their beliefs.’

The interior of the church was dark and cool. Bands of sunlight spilled through the hatched screens that covered the upper windows. A high gallery ran along both sides of the walls, culminating in a square tower that rose up at the far end. The air was laden with dust. The building was in a state of collapse by the look of it. Held together by heavy wooden scaffolding, timbers, rope, nails and a good deal of faith.

The noise of the crowd outside was diminishing.

‘They are growing bored,’ said Father Macarius. ‘Now their minds turn to other things. Their stomachs are hungry and a glass of tea would be nice after all that shouting.’

‘A lot of people would not take being attacked in such a good-natured way,’ said Sami.

‘I refuse to be bullied into retreating to the dark ages.’ Macarius gestured about him. ‘I built this church from a ruin. That was my promise to Pope Shenouda. Give me a place to stand, I said, and I shall build a tower to God. I did that and I shall defend it with my life.’

A large wooden screen ran along one wall. On it a series of small panels gleamed darkly like pearls inset in the brown, smoky wood. Icons. Flashes of gold paint, light and varnish brought the religious images alive.

‘We have been here for centuries,’ said the priest. ‘The Coptic church is living history, a connection to the ancient world of the pharaohs.’

Sami nodded and pointed. ‘What’s this one?’

‘Saint Anthony.’

The air carried the tarry smell of old wood, death and stale perspiration. The whitewashed walls bore the smudges of passing hands. Even the light seemed somehow to have arrived here from another century. The priest led the way along the display, pointing out the figures in the paintings.

‘Saint Nilus of Sinai, who prophesised the apocalypse; St Amun, named of course after the Egyptian God; St John the Small; St Shenouda.’ He ticked them off with a finger as they moved.

‘All of them were hermits, weren’t they?’

Father Macarius spoke over his shoulder without looking in Makana’s direction.

‘This church is dedicated to those who took themselves off into the desert in order to commune with God. It is the tradition to which I belong.’

‘You are a monk, then? Which monastery?’

‘It’s of no consequence,’ shrugged Father Macarius as he turned, his eyes lingering on Makana for a moment. ‘Wadi Nikeiba. It no longer exists.’

They moved on until they came to the last wooden panel in the display. The paintings seemed to merge, blending into a constellation of suffering. It made Makana tired just to think of all that pain. But this last one intrigued him. Two figures shared a frame the colour of blood.

‘My namesake,’ explained the priest tersely. ‘Macarius the Great.’

‘What about the figure next to him?’

‘Ah . . . that is the Seraph.’ Macarius studied Makana carefully. ‘You are not a religious man.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘Does it matter?’ Makana glanced at the priest and noted a faint gleam of satisfaction.

‘You are sure that God does not exist?’

‘He may well exist, but I’d like to see evidence of his goodness.’

A smile played on the priest’s lips. ‘You would like to believe in a benevolent God?’

‘I don’t believe I am a bad person, Father. I try to be good, at least. I suppose I don’t see why God, assuming He exists, shouldn’t be satisfied with that.’

‘We are not children, but grown men, with responsibilities. Why should we expect God to be simple and straightforward?’

‘With all due respect, Father, that doesn’t prove anything.’

‘Do you not believe that God wishes to make us become better people by facing the difficulties He places before us?’

‘I think killing people in cold blood is a funny way of testing us.’

‘You are speaking of the murders,’ Macarius nodded. ‘Perhaps you came to this church to find out if we killed these boys in some kind of secret ritual?’

‘I don’t believe that nonsense, Father, but I would be interested in hearing your opinion. Do you think God is trying to teach us something by killing these children?’

Sami laughed nervously. ‘You’ll have to forgive my friend, Father. He has rather a singular way of expressing himself.’

The priest ignored Sami, his eyes remaining fixed on Makana.

‘Whoever is killing these boys will one day stand before God to answer for his crimes.’

‘That may be a little late for some,’ said Makana.

They had reached the end of the central nave. A set of stairs led upwards, the wood creaking as they climbed. The gallery led towards the back of the church while a ladder led up into the tower.

Macarius moved along carefully, examining the big windows for damage. From where they stood they could look down into the street in front of the church. The crowd had more or less dispersed. The police officers were removing their helmets and lighting cigarettes. From here they could also look down over the compound adjoining the church which contained a low, single-storey building along two sides. The roof was covered in tin sheeting that was patched up in places. Father Macarius led the way back downstairs. Through a curtain a doorway led into the building next door. A long, open space. The windows facing the street were all shuttered. Along the sides ran long trestles fashioned roughly from wood. On some of these mattresses had been rolled up.

‘This is our little boarding house. We take in children who have nowhere to go, or who cannot go home. We give them a place to sleep, clean water and clothes as well as food.’

‘Do you run this place by yourself?’ Makana asked.

‘We have volunteers to help with most things, including teaching.’

Father Macarius was already on the other side of the long, dark room, exiting through a doorway out into the compound. The high walls were topped with iron stakes and strands of wire whose barbs gleamed like silver teeth and made it look more like a fort than a place of worship. An ancient bus was parked against one wall, the word Delta just visible on its side through the sun-bleached paint. On the far side an open garage door admitted them to the other building, from which they could now hear excited shouts.

‘Twenty years ago there was a shoe factory here. When it became cheaper to import than to make them it was closed down. The family refused to sell and the place fell into ruin until I came along.’

‘They were Christians?’

‘Does that make a difference?’ The square jaw tilted like a rocky crag as a dark look clouded the priest’s face. ‘We must help one another in difficult times. If not . . .’ He left the sentence hanging.

Makana and Sami stepped in through the doorway to find themselves in a long, gloomy hangar. The only light entered through opaque sheets of corrugated plastic which alternated in places with the rusty tin of the roof. At the centre was a boxing ring, the ropes hanging slackly. The canvas stretched across its surface was scarred by zigzag sutures where rips had been sewn up by a clumsy surgeon. At the far end of the room were a couple of punchbags that sagged like paunchy old men; beyond that rows of shelves and benches were arranged along the walls. The whole place reeked of decades of sweat. It oozed from the walls and might have been painted on the floor in thick layers. A sign proudly read: Seraph Sporting Club. Below this an angel with flames for wings flew across the wall. Makana recognised the figure from the painting inside the church. The image was pockmarked in places where the plaster had fallen away, and the intensity of the colours had also faded with time to dull browns and reds. The face floated like a pale moon over a speckled desert landscape, which also contained a building tucked into a rocky hillside. Palm trees peeped over the white walls. It looked like a monastery. Perhaps the one Macarius had mentioned. Wadi Nikeiba. Underneath were letters from an alphabet Makana could not read.

‘We are at war, Mr Makana. It is as simple as that. A minority act, but it is the silence of the majority which is the real crime.’

‘Is that what this is about,’ Makana asked, ‘preparing people for war?’

‘I tell young people to be careful when they go outside. Our women have to put up with insults when they walk in the streets. They have their hair pulled, the crosses torn from their necks. Such barbarism. Where is the merciful and compassionate Islam that history has taught us?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not the right person to answer that question, Father.’

‘This is my proudest achievement, a gym for boys of all ages. We do not discriminate. People can train no matter if they are Muslims or Christians, or anything else for that matter.’

Makana recalled Eissa, the boy from the café under the Blue Ibis offices. A group of young men were sparring, shadow-boxing, moving back and forth, throwing punches, ducking and weaving. Father Macarius was speaking again.

‘Children run away because they have no choice. The home becomes a prison in which all kinds of abuse takes place. No one can protect you from your family. They spend their days wandering the streets, and sleeping rough at night. We give them a place to stay, and food to eat.’

Makana’s attention was drawn to the wall where a row of photographs hung. The older ones were in cheap frames. Others were simply pasted to the grubby plaster. Some were clippings from newspapers, frayed and yellowed with age. One of these showed a young Father Macarius, barely recognisable in singlet and shorts, gloved fists raised in front of him as if taking aim at the photographer. There were pictures of boys young and old. Championships. Pictures of the church in better days, gleaming white with old horse-drawn carriages, a policeman in a tarboosh. There were other pictures, of picnics and riverboat outings. A catalogue of young men who had passed through this shed on their way to adulthood.

‘Ah, Antun,’ Father Macarius said. ‘Are those for tomorrow’s fight?’

‘Yes, uh . . . Father.’ A diminutive young man of about nineteen with haunted eyes. He seemed to have some difficulty speaking. He paused to set down a plastic basket filled with laundry. On the top lay a stack of flyers. Macarius held one out to Makana. It was simply done. The logo of the club ran along the top and underneath it read: Under 16s Championship.

‘We hold these from time to time. It gives the kids something to look forward to.’

Antun picked up his basket and moved off, glancing over his shoulder as he went.

‘You didn’t finish telling me about the Seraph.’ Makana tapped the logo on the flyer which was a reproduction of the angel mural on the wall.

‘The Seraph?’ The big priest frowned, unclasped his hands behind his back and folded his arms over his broad chest. Makana wondered if priests were allowed to play sports. There didn’t seem to be any real reason why not.

‘The word means, Those Who Burn. The seraph is a creature that lives in heaven, close to God. They have eyes all over their bodies and are said to be like dragons, or snakes, with six wings. Amongst the angels they rank most highly.’

‘What are those?’ Sami pointed at the wooden figures suspended from the girders supporting the roof.

‘Oh, yes, they are quite unique,’ said Macarius. ‘You can read their names: Hassan, Safwat, Ali and Kamal. I am afraid that Antun has not finished carving the latest victim, Amir.’

Following his gaze, Makana spotted the boy who had been carrying the laundry. He was now seated in the far corner, whittling away at a lump of wood.

‘You mean, these figures are angels representing the boys who were murdered?’

‘You may have heard that there has been something of a miracle here recently. The sighting of an angel?’

‘It was in the papers,’ said Sami.

‘You mean, people really believe there is an angel floating around up there?’ Makana asked.

‘It brings comfort to a lot of people,’ said Father Macarius.

It made as much sense as anything, thought Makana, as he reached for his cigarettes. He wondered what the implications were of murdered Muslim children being turned into Christian angels. His old distaste for religious belief rose in him. Angels and demons seemed a perfect excuse to keep people on their knees with their eyes shut and their hands clasped together in the dark.

‘Not in here, please,’ Macarius shook a finger in front of Makana’s nose. ‘I try to discourage the boys from such habits.’

Makana watched a young boy pummelling a punchbag. He was skinny, a collarbone sticking out through the arms of his worn singlet as sharply as a knife.

‘Earlier you said the police haven’t paid much attention to these murders,’ said Makana.

‘None at all,’ said Father Macarius. ‘It’s as if they don’t care. If it was their children things would be different.’

‘I’m sure,’ nodded Makana. ‘Did some of the victims stay here?’

‘All of them, as far as I know, passed through at some time.’

‘Do you think these killings could in some way be directed at the church?’

‘A way of paying us back for trying to help? Yes, it is possible. Everyone is afraid. Muslim and Christian. This is not a good time. This whole area could explode at any moment and when it does, God help us all.’ Father Macarius shook his head in dismay. ‘I understand your point of view, Mr Makana, perhaps better than you think. I too, ask myself why the Almighty puts these terrible trials before us, and the only answer I have is that it is to test us, to make us ask ourselves what kind of men we are.’ The fierce gaze bored into Makana as he shook his hand. ‘That is the only question that matters: what kind of man are you?’