Blow, Wind of God

I’m in Istanbul. My husband, Steve, has a conference in Izmir, near ancient Ephesus. As we flew in over this huge city, I kept thinking of a scene from Black Mountain, the third of my Glastonbury Grail books. My character, Old Teg o’ the Hills, arrived in Istanbul (formerly Byzantium, Constantinople) in 1541, at the height of Suleiman the Magnificent‘s rebuilding following the Muslim conquest of the capitol of the Eastern Roman Empire. The population then was about 700,000--more than Paris, Lyon and Venice combined! 
 
"London was but a poor village by comparison.

"Everywhere bridges and aqueducts were being constructed, even drains to carry away the waste! Great lords, their heads wrapped in silken turbans, were carried through the crowded streets in cushioned chairs born by slaves. Markets sold goods from every part of the world, including silks and spices from the East and beans from Arabia that the people were accustomed to roast and grind and steep in hot water. They made a strange dark beverage whose very aroma seemed to fill them with energy. Men gathered in 'coffee houses' set apart for the drinking of this beverage and much talk and business was conducted there."[1]
 
Teg was an old witch from the hills of Wales. At the end of Honddu Vale she came into possession of the ancient olivewood drinking bowl Colin had brought from Glastonbury--the Holy Grail. She is determined to master this thing of power and comes to Istanbul on her journey to the Holy Land to learn more of its origins. She takes refuge from a rain shower in the Haggia Sophia, a sixth-century church turned into a mosque by the Ottomans.
 
"My hand stole to the pouch at my waist. The olivewood cup seemed small and weak in the face of these who had conquered the greatest city in the world. Why, if the Christ was not able to protect even this ancient place of his worship from the coming of the Mussulmen, then was not their god—this Allah—the stronger? Why would I seek to know the power of a cup cast off by a god without the strength to protect his own city? I raised my chin at my own defiant thoughts.

"Winter rain pounded on the roof…Slowly I drew the cup from my pouch. The rich yellow wood caught the glimmer of a lamp through the thin fabric of the curtain. Or did it gleam of its own?

"At that moment the building trembled as in one of the earthquakes that are common in that region. A wind swept in from the street outside. I looked around, startled. The curtain that separated the men and women flapped wildly as if in a sudden storm. Sheets of rain poured through the door. Women cried out and reached for their children. Others pulled veils over their faces and cowered against one another. Infants wailed. Through the thin veil of the curtain, I saw men grasp at the small embroidered caps that covered their heads. Nevertheless some flew away across the hall like dead leaves caught in a gale and swirled up into the vaults. The lamps that were supposed to burn eternal went out, and the hall was plunged into a murky gloom, lit only by the huge windows of colored glass."[2]
 
The city I saw from my airplane window as I flew in has a population of 15.4 million—more than twenty times the population of Teg’s city. Since a 1928 constitutional amendment, Turkey has officially been a secular state, giving voice to freedom of religion, but promoting more freedom from religion in an effort to “modernize”. But the 21st century has seen a rise in Islam and autocratic government. As I watched the highrises and red rooves of the city below me, I found myself praying, “Blow, Wind of God, through this land. Call out a people for yourself. Give them boldness, courage and your protection. Send dreams and visions to point seekers to your salvation. Create in them a hunger to know you that will not rest until it is satisfied with the Bread of Life.”
 
The city is full of mosques. Several times per day we hear the call to prayer coming from multiple directions. It is a call to prayer for this country. Blow, Wind of God.



[1] Black Mountain, pp.264-5

[2] Black Mountain, p. 267