Chapter 8

Of all the daughters of Sheba, Najran is the fairest.... [N]ever shall I forget the vista of that charming valley wreathed in the morning mists.... Day by day ... I feasted my eyes on the great valley trending through the mountains to the sea of sands, the Empty Quarter.

                                                                        – Harry St. J. Philby, 1939

            Frank Devereaux, Bill Semple and I arrived in Najran about 18 hours later. Najran, home of the ancient tribe of Yam, was South Arabia's first Christian city. It also once had a substantial Jewish community, historically linked with the Jews of neighboring Yemen. Both the Christians and the Jews were gone now. In the seventh century, Umar ibn al-Khattab, the second Muslim caliph after the death of the Prophet Muhammad, had the Christians of Najran deported to Mesopotamia, on the grounds that no non-Muslims – not even People of the Book, like Christians and Jews – should live in the Arabian heartland. Somehow the Jewish community managed to keep their heads down and remained in Najran until the 1930s, when Saudi forces captured Najran. The few hundred remaining Jews then fled to Aden, and eventually found their way to Israel.

            Najran nevertheless was still a diverse city. All its inhabitants were now professed Muslims, but the population was a mix of three versions of the faith; a plurality were your run-of-the-mill Shiites, the next largest community was Sunni (of various schools) and the third group were Zaidi Shiites (a Yemeni persuasion). I tried to ignore the religious hodge-podge in Najran, but sometimes this was hard to do.

            A Saudi Arabian Government Hummer picked us up at the airport. We headed west, up the wadi, or dry river valley, into the city proper. Before too long we were unloading our bags in our rooms at what could only be described as a prince's palace. High tan walls surrounded a veritable jungle of towering date and Washingtonia palms, dreamy acacias and a wealth of other arid-zone foliage. Impressive fountains sprayed water into the air at various strategic spots in the compound. At the very middle was a gleaming white mansion, complete with house servants and other attendants.

            Within an hour, we had cleaned ourselves up and rendezvoused in the sitting room, where several American embassy personnel and a handful of unidentified Arabs awaited us. A black abaya, or women's outer robe, had been discreetly left on my bed, in the hope I would choose to make things easy for the authorities and cover myself up. I had ignored the robe and dressed in jeans and a work shirt. No one commented as I entered the sitting room. We had some serious work ahead of us, and I wasn't in the mood to play dress-up to assuage traditional Saudi sensitivities. 

            An embassy attaché made the introductions, and then Frank gave them some background on me. He made it clear without saying so explicitly that everyone should cooperate with me 100 percent. It was at that meeting that I met Mubarak Awda, the guide who was to take us to the caves where the jinn photo had supposedly been taken.\

            Awda was a serious young man, who had a vaguely familiar look about him, though there was no way I could have ever met him before. His eyes seemed extremely black and yet almost glowing; it gave him a kind of charisma that was striking.

            We drank traditional Arabian coffee in tiny cups. I was happy to be once again sipping that lightly roasted, unsweetened brew and savoring its cardamom tang – so different from the intense, sweet, high-octane flavor of Turkish coffee that I knew from Beirut and Cairo.

            The American embassy offered us logistical support for our trek into the caves. They didn't seem to know what we were looking for, but were happy to assist. I'm sure the Secretary of State had put in a good word for us.

            We agreed to set out for the cave network after lunch. The drive would only be an hour or so. We could spend five or six hours in the caves, then call it a day. (Famous last words?)

            I was glad to be back in Najran; it was a colorful city, and I liked the people. It was a fairly diverse metropolis by Saudi standards, perched as it was on the edge of Yemen, close to the mountains and on the brink of the great sand sea. But some less pleasant memories of my years in Arabia kept trying to surface. I repressed them relentlessly.

           

            When I got back to my room, jet lag caught up with me, and I crashed for two-hour nap. When I could sleep no longer, I went back downstairs to the sitting room. Bill Semple was the only one there, sitting in an overstuffed easy chair. I sat down on a couch opposite him.

            “Emily,” he said, “I can sense you think I'm a bit of a kook.... No, no, that's OK.... I get that from a lot of people. I've been working with victims of alien encounters for years, and it's not something most people can take seriously. Initially I was practicing conventional psychotherapy, but everything changed when my wife experienced an abduction episode. Sandy was staying alone at our cabin in the Adirondacks; I had some important work to do in Manhattan at the time.”

            He seemed to be reliving the experience as he spoke. His eyes became moist, and it was hard to doubt his sincerity. He went on:

            “Sandy is a very level-headed person. She is an architect, and she doesn't go in for sci-fi or fantasy. That's why it was so hard for me to understand when she phoned me in the middle of the night and told me what had happened to her.

            “She was reading in bed, at about one in the morning, when the entire cabin was bathed in a purple light. She got out of bed and went out to the living room. Suddenly the light disappeared and all outside the windows was pitch black. When she returned to the bedroom, there seemed to be someone standing there by the bed. It was a black shadow, humanoid in shape, and it was moving somewhat nervously.

            “Sandy said she closed her eyes and then opened them again, sure that the shadow figure would be gone. But it was still there, facing her. It reached out and touched her face, and she lost consciousness. When she awoke, she was naked, and was lying in a kind of bathtub, filled with some kind of thick, green liquid. The walls of the room were like glass or transparent plastic. Beyond the walls was a workroom or lab of some sort, and about a dozen creatures were moving about, doing various tasks. She had trouble seeing them clearly. They were humanoid in shape, but smallish, somewhat silvery and definitely out of focus.

            “There were strange noises in the room where she lay, various beeps and tones, in sequences. She had no idea what their purpose was. She tried to climb out of the green liquid, but she was held there somehow. Sandy lost consciousness again, and when she awoke, she was back home in her bed in the cabin – though still naked: apparently they had kept her night clothes.

            “For days afterwards, she could still hear those beeps and tones. She is fine now, but her experience made me want to learn more. I began treating victims of alien abductions. I eventually became something of an expert on the subject and wrote a few books. And so I showed up on the radar screen of the White House.”

            I was stunned by Bill's account, for reasons I could not really fathom. Perhaps what seemed strangest to me was that I could picture myself in Sandy's place. I could see the workroom, the tub, everything so very clearly. It was almost as if it had happened to me.

            The U.S. Embassy provided us with a black Suburban SUV, which carried us up into the mountains. The cave entrance was hidden from the road. We had to hike up a crumbled bluff in a particularly trackless part of the chain north of the city. The opening was small, concealed behind a granite boulder. We pulled our gear from the vehicle and prepared to enter the cave. We were dressed in caving coveralls and helmets.

            The team consisted of Frank Devereaux, Bill Semple, Mubarak Awda and me, plus two cavers from the Saudi Geological Society. The SGS members were Jim Lasser, a world-class caver/geologist from the U.K., and Mahmoud Bakhashaf, an expert on the cave systems of southwest Arabia.

            Devereaux took Semple, Adwa and me aside. “We're fairly certain this is the cave where the photo was taken. No point in sharing any of the background with the geologists at this point. Let's just see what we can find.”

            We walked over to Bakhashaf and Lasser, who were readying the gear.

            “I don't know this cave,” Bakhashaf said. “I'm sure it's like others to the west of here, though.”

            Lasser nodded. “It has to be. There's not much geological variety in this area.”

            “All the same,” Bakhashaf said, looking at us three amateurs, “I want you to be very careful. Stay behind us, and whatever you do, don't get separated from us. These cave networks can get pretty complicated, and it's easy to get lost.”

            We nodded gravely. No way we were going let these two guys out of our sight!

            Our guides hoisted their packs, slung static rope loops over their heads, and taking the lead, they entered the cave mouth. We four followed, ducking down as we passed into the darkness. Our Petzl helmets were mounted with headlamps and their beams crisscrossed in the murk as we made our way into the passage. Once inside, the head room improved and we were able to stand. The tunnel had a diameter of about three meters. We were in what Lasser told us was a horizontal lava tube of great antiquity that extended deep into the mountainside. We headed east.

            The cave began a downward tilt about 100 yards in, and while the downhill trek was a piece of cake, we all thought about how it would be tougher going when we headed back. We soon came to our first fork, as the passage split into two tunnels.

            “Take the right one,” Devereaux said. “Whenever we come to a split, take the tunnel to the right.” He offered no explanation.

            We took the right fork and trudged on. The surface warmth had dissipated and the cave became cool, even downright chilly. I was glad to be wearing an undersuit and coveralls. I had plenty of time to reflect on our situation, on my situation, as we trekked through the tunnel network. I had my doubts about where the White House was taking us on this one, but I tried not to second-guess them. I just focused on my own situation, and how bizarre it was that I was back in Arabia and playing spelunker. While my mind wandered, my eyes caught a shape in the shadows ahead of us.

            “Look!” I cried out. “There's someone down there!”

            The black, human-like shape shimmered and then disappeared beyond a bend in the cave. My skin crawled. Yes, I shivered, and not from the cold. I was like a kid, creeped out by the thought of the boogeyman in the closet. What's the matter with you, Goddard? Pull yourself together!

            Devereaux looked at the cavers: “Did you see that? Is someone else in here with us?”

            “I doubt it,” said Lasser, but his face showed confusion.

            “Wait here,” Bakhashaf said, and sprinted down the tunnel. He vanished around the bend. There was a rushing sound, like a cold wind, then silence.

            We stood there staring at each other.

            “I'll go,” said Adwa. He strode briskly down the tunnel and was gone.

            About a minute later, he returned, supporting Bakhashaf, who staggered and shook his head. “What happened?” Bakhashaf muttered. “What happened?”

            We gathered round him. His face was pale as a sheet.

            “I was chasing the shadow,” he said. “Then it was gone, and I was in this vortex... the floor had dropped out from under me, and I was spinning like crazy. Then suddenly I was back in the tunnel, and everything was normal again.”

            I looked at Awda. “What did you see?” I asked him.

            “Nothing odd. Except Mahmoud. He looked dizzy as hell, and had his arms stretched out like this.” He demonstrated with a crucifixion pose.
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