Goddesses Never Die

by George B Mair

  ‘Lofty,’ said Grant quietly.

  ‘Okay. Lofty. Then Lofty’s also chartered a chopper for use tonight. He also has a permit to fly west. Only thing maybe government doesn’t know is that he aims to pick up a squad of hippies en route and land before dawn at Chagra.’

  Grant stared at her curiously. ‘How did you find out?’

  The girl’s hand fell across his arm and she squeezed it gently. ‘Let it ride that I’ve got some local pull.’

  Grant cast a fly. ‘You said you linked with S.E.A.T.O. or something?’

  ‘Or something,’ said Harmony. And then she smiled towards Grant’s lips, though he saw that her eyes were now as hard as flint. ‘But you ask too many questions, David.’

  The roads were atrocious, and not even sophisticated suspension fitted under the car could make the trip comfortable. Conversation became increasingly impossible as Charlie drove, apparently haphazardly, along side roads lurching across fields, bumping through occasional villages, and even, for one stretch of close upon a mile, along the bed of a shallow stream. Grant knew that police check points and barricades controlled almost all approaches to the Valley of Katmandu, but Lu with Charlie seemed to know how to avoid everything which mattered, and as dusk began to darken the mist which was clinging to high mountains the car swerved sharp right and drew up near a helicopter. It could have held more than ten passengers and although Grant was no expert at identifying the innumerable races of East Asia he guessed that the pilot was a mixed blood Chinese.

  Charlie and a member of the air-crew transferred their baggage, and minutes later the machine lifted almost vertically off. It flew at less than fifty feet and Grant saw that once again their route was keeping clear of even the smaller hamlets as the pilot navigated across undulating hilly country towards piling snow mountains which shimmered against strong moonlight. Harmony Dove had slept for most of the car trip, but now she was watching eagerly as they reached the snow-line and began to roar across frozen slopes gashed by deep ravines and all piling towards the stupendous massif of Nanda Devi. The snow was now reflecting moonlight with a brilliance which was incredible and the pilot wearing deeply dark polaroid glasses. On every side, so far as eye could see, they were surrounded by the unforgettable spectacle of glaciers or frozen lakes, terrifying precipices black where the snow had avalanched, or else shining like mercury mixed with pink marble, but always rising and falling in a bewildering maze of starkly gaunt mountain crests which could shimmer, almost like gold, as some trick of lighting occasionally warmed the ice into a carpet of glowing beauty.

  And then he glimpsed the most remarkable place he had ever visited and knew that he would never forget his first view of Chagra. The valley was hemmed in by a wall of snow mountains cleft by a narrow valley leaving only towards the south, where a white ribbon of river ran between steep cliffs, cut as though by a knife vertically through a conical mountain. He guessed that it might even be two hundred yards wide at the narrowest point, and even from the chopper everyone could see the surge of water against stone as the river burst out of the place with terrific force. It appeared to rise from glacier ice on the high peaks around, and at least fifteen other streams joined it in a weird herring-bone pattern which formed a natural irrigation project almost made to measure. Moonlight reflected from roof-tops several miles to the north, while below he marked a complex of buildings which reminded him of temples in Bankok with their yellow tiles, highly pitched gables, spacious courtyards and typically mixed up architecture drawn from Cambodia as well as India.

  The chopper had covered the last fifty miles at a height of over five hundred feet, but as it began to drop towards the courtyard the whole place was floodlit by lights which seemed to have been partially hidden inside tiny buildings designed to look like miniature temples and placed so as to cover the entire area. Grant automatically used a pair of glasses handed across by Lu and focussed on the crowd which was now slowly gathering below them. He felt the machine touch down and seconds later a gangplank had been moved into position by four young bearded men wearing robes which reminded him of the Moroccan Djellaba.

  The crowd, dressed in almost every variation of hippie rig, and including even uniforms from the Franco-Prussian war, divided to form a corridor leading towards the main ‘temple’ while Harmony led their tiny procession towards a cluster of people clustered formally at the top of the steps leading to the front entrance where an old woman was sitting dressed in a purple kafta from neck to ankle. Her hair was tinted auburn and her face lined with the hallmarks of both age and character. Her eyes were dark brown and Grant’s professional instinct told him that she had worn well, that there was no sign of senility, and that she was probably in full possession of all her faculties. The skin of her wrists, neck and cheeks was taut and there was no sign of flabbiness. The veins on the backs of her hands were healthy and she wore only a hint of make-up—some eye shadow, a suggestion of lipstick and a wisp of powder on her cheeks.

  Harmony bowed from the waist. ‘Greetings, Mother. We are honoured to be received again and I wish to introduce my friend, Dr. David Grant.’

  Grant sensed a warmth about this woman which was unexpected. ‘A pleasure, ma’am,’ he said at last.

  The old woman stared at him with interest and then spoke in English with a slight American accent. ‘Some people tell me that you have come to cause trouble. But if you come in faith and willing to learn you will be honoured by my friendship. So you will be the instrument of your own fate.’ She turned to a tall man standing by her side. ‘This is Mehmet Ali, my chief disciple. He will give you a room and we shall meet tomorrow, but for the moment you are dismissed. Your audience is over.’

  Grant bowed and turned towards Mehmet, who pointed towards a side door of the building behind him. He was suddenly tense for the first time in years. The Mother Goddess had an intelligence service and was no fool. She had personality, and she was ruthless.

  He now knew, and beyond doubt, that he was faced with the most delicate exercise of his career, that his life would depend on selling himself to a woman who had few illusions.

  His room was rich in colour, its walls hung with silk carpets and the floor dressed with a pink and blue rug from pre-war China. Mehmet handed him a slender glass. ‘Drink this, Doctor. It will help after your long journey.’

  Grant took it almost automatically and was asleep in less than thirty minutes. He heard nothing of the arrival of a second chopper, and slept while Lofty and a clique of muscle-bound bodyguards were organised into their rooms.

  Only then did the Mother Goddess retire and if Grant had heard her last words he would have slept less soundly. ‘Mehmet,’ she said softly as she paused by her bedroom door. ‘One of them will die. Pray that Our wisdom chooses wisely.’

  Chapter Seven – ‘Goddesses are old-fashioned, Doctor’

  Grant was wakened by Harmony Dove sponging his forehead with a square of towelling soaked in scented lotion. He felt wholly refreshed and was hardly surprised to discover that someone had unpacked his baggage, pressed his suits and plugged his Lectronic storage razor into a 200 A.C. power point while he slept.

  ‘You see,’ said the girl, ‘goddesses think of everything!’ She pressed an electric bell while Grant slipped a turtleneck over his head and slicked his hair. ‘But now let’s have breakfast. I’ve arranged to join you, unless you object, of course,’ she added.

  She was now wearing putty-coloured jodhpurs, soft leather boots reaching to mid-calf, and a yellow sweater. Her hair was clasped behind her neck by the usual brooch and he was seeing her for the first time with no make-up. Her skin was naturally fresh and clear below a thin tan while her eyes glowed with health and her lips were moistly crimson.

  He was sure that she was laughing at him, but decided to ignore it. Two bearers had laid breakfast on side tables and it was typically English, one half-grapefruit each, two plates of porridge beside dishes of salt and sugar, bacon and eggs on a hot plate, and creamy white morning rolls with
pats of butter and a dish of Chivers’ marmalade. ‘I had almost forgotten,’ he said, ‘that nowadays the best English food is to be had in the sub-continent. A hand-over from British imperialism.’

  Harmony nodded seriously. ‘We’ll give credit where credit is due. These pukka sahibs knew how to train their staff.’

  She switched on a portable transistor. ‘Thought you might like to hear the news. British short-wave world service. You’ll find we’ve got just about everything laid on here.’

  ‘We?’ said Grant.

  The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘They, if you like. But listen.’ She turned up the volume, and as Grant covered his porridge with salt he took in the headlines.

  Race riots in the States had hit a new high. Two Negro leaders and one right-wing Caucasian extremist had been killed, yet the President had hinted at worse to come, and the National Guard were taking over control of seventeen major cities.

  While in the U.K., things in some respects were worse; there seemed to be almost total lack of communication between many leftist trade-union secretaries and the formal machinery of government. Sterling was on the point of being once again devalued while the Prime Minister and the Chancellor had never been more unpopular. Yippies, hippies, pseudo-scientologists and a horde of plain ‘antis’ had staged demonstrations outside the embassies of the world’s greatest powers and not even the London police had been able to prevent damage to property. A government broadcast was scheduled for that same evening and news flashes would be read on a special service six hours later. Paris, Bonn, The Hague, Rome and Moscow all seemed to be in the grip of similar internal disturbances, and rumour had it that the hot line was again in use between the Kremlin and Washington.

  China, Albania and Cuba now appeared to be the only areas where discipline continued and most of South America had been gripped in epidemics of general strikes which had grounded aircraft, frozen train services, and even halted off-loading of ships in almost every major port.

  Harmony switched off while Grant lit his first cigarette and sipped his second cup of coffee. ‘See what I was getting at?’ she said quietly. ‘And not even you knew what was brewing when you took off for your trip. How come?’

  Grant shook his head. The news was shocking. But it was equally true that not one rumour of trouble on anything like this scale had reached A.D.S.A.D. or his leave might have been cancelled. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘But clearly there’s some central control.’

  ‘And equally clearly,’ said Harmony dryly, ‘there is an incredible loyalty among the people who started all this. And a loyalty which breaks down barriers like nationality or race. The scene seems set for global war. And if Lu’s or my own bets are accurate the key to the whole set-up is right here.’

  There was a pause while Grant gazed round the room. ‘Bugs,’ he said at last. ‘You suggested that they had everything. How are they on monitoring bedrooms?’

  The girl became serious. ‘As good as the next person, I should say. But it hardly matters, since this time everyone on our side will be playing with the cards face up.’

  ‘And am I on your side?’ asked Grant. It was the cue for which he had been waiting and the air had to be cleared.

  Harmony paused for a long minute before she spoke, and when she did her opinions were short and to the point. ‘The Mother Goddess is now almost a friend, since this is my own fifth trip and we’ve come to know her pretty well. But she knows some other people even better. And when it comes to the crunch a lot will depend on what she decides. So that is how things stand at present and if you’re wise you’ll wait till she opts to work out her own ideas before you say anything else.’ She poured a fourth cup of black coffee—the fuel, she explained, which kept her going. ‘One other little thing which should make your day. Lofty also touched down during the night with eight or ten queers and things. So the day looks like being fairly interesting. Especially,’ she added dryly, ‘since the old lady has laid on an interview for both of you after luncheon.’

  ‘And until then?’ said Grant.

  ‘Until then we stay put. No sense in bumping into some tyke who might start something, and strangers aren’t encouraged to wander.’

  She turned to a cupboard which had escaped Grant’s attention, and when she opened the doors he saw a hi-fi stereophonic apparatus which would have rated an alphaplus in any groove jockey’s pent-house. She swiftly fingered through a library of tapes and slipped on an L.P. ‘Mantovani,’ she smiled. ‘“The World’s Favourite Love-songs”. Someone told me that “Hear my song, Violetta” was one of your favourites, while “You are my heart’s delight” just sends me. So we break even. Okay.’

  *

  She slipped on to Grant’s knees and curled herself against him while Mantovani’s incomparable music opened with ‘And this is my beloved’. She seemed content to relax, and while the last bars of her own favourite closed the score she was singing quietly in a rich mezzo-soprano which somehow lulled even Grant into a sense of total contentment.

  And then her mood changed. She darted towards the cupboard, switched tapes which had been made from the latest Decca series and waited for Grant’s favourite song from My Fair Lady. ‘Dance,’ she whispered, and while she waltzed with almost professional polish she continued to sing ‘I could have danced all night’.

  The girl had a gift of swinging a man’s moods to her own whims, and when she rounded off with ‘When I grow too old to dream’ she had built up a magic and sense of pure romance which could end only as it did—in a long session locked together between freshly laundered sheets which had been replaced by two house-boys while they amused themselves.

  The sun was high in the south and blazing through the slats of their blinds when the girl lit a final cigarette, sat up in bed and gathered Grant’s pyjama jacket around her shoulders. ‘Nearly zero hour, David. And I don’t want to say anything to influence you. We tick on the same wavelength. Everything happens at the same time. We sense when things matter and we react to the same ideas. I told you we couldn’t work as a team without a lot of togetherness. But now I’ve no doubts. So a shower, a snack luncheon, and then Operation Lofty! Think you can cope?’

  Grant cupped her chin in his hands and slowly kissed her lips. ‘After that I can cope with anything,’ he said gently. And for the first time he felt that perhaps, after all, he might trust her.

  She was leaving the room when a thought crossed his mind. ‘Charlie and Lu?’ he asked. ‘Are they also in purdah?’

  She shook her head. ‘Charlie is never in purdah. He is everywhere.’

  ‘And Lu?’

  ‘You have the most godawful habit of asking questions,’ she said at last. ‘See you.’

  The door opened while she spoke and a table was set for luncheon, a cup of Scotch broth, slices of cold roast beef, boiled ham and tongue, a plate of mangoes, and digestive biscuits with Camembert cheese. There was also a bottle of Carlsberg lager, fresh orange juice and a glass of milk. A serviette was embroidered with the initial ‘D’, and there was only one snag. A brief note had been propped against a jar of chutney and its message was much to the point.

  You will be received by the Mother Goddess in exactly thirty minutes.

  You must be prepared to answer all questions and act in all matters according to Her orders.

  Mehmet Ali appeared as a time-piece struck fourteen hours and his manner was unexpectedly formal. ‘You have been treated as an honoured guest, and now you will have a chance to repay the kindness. So it is suggested that you behave with consideration for the position in which you will shortly find yourself.’

  Grant was sipping the remains of his orange juice when Mehmet handed Harmony a knife sheathed in hide. ‘The Goddess suggests that you carry this. It is always possible that you may need it.’

  ‘A little old-fashioned,’ said Grant. ‘No guns?’

  The Turk’s lips flickered and a glint of amusement lightened his eyes. ‘Goddesses are old-fashioned, Doctor. And it may interest y
ou to know that guns have been forbidden in this valley for the last thirty-five years.’

  ‘Why are you so sure?’ Grant watched Harmony slip the weapon under her skirt. ‘Maybe one has been overlooked.’

  Mehmet again smiled. ‘Miss Dove was right in saying that you ask too many questions. But I’m prepared to humour you. Every guest sleeps well during his first night here because the sleeping draught we give guarantees that.’ He paused. ‘Your own intelligence will now have told you that we use the time to make sure that unknown visitors carry nothing which could seriously inconvenience us.’

  Grant risked one last question. ‘Then why the knife?’

  ‘Because,’ said Mehmet softly, ‘someone may shortly be obliged to use it.’

  He pointed towards the door with a gesture which was unmistakable. Time had run out and Grant followed him into the courtyard.

  Chapter Eight – ‘Your fate will be less easy’

  There had been many highlights in Grant’s life, and a cameo of weird events flashed through his mind as he turned into the brilliance of a noon-day sun playing upon hundreds of men and women placed in disciplined order like actors in the finale of a multimillion screen spectacle: unconscious men on the floor of Moscow Kremlin’s torture tower; Maya dancing Swan Lake on Margaret’s Isle in Budapest; Krystelle luring scores of demented men to a horrible death in the grotto near St. Thomas; his climb up the side of a well in Switzerland and the duels which he had fought with top men from SATAN. Perhaps he remembered most of all his incredible affair with Jacqueline, the girl with two faces, and a party in the Élysée Palace when a President had almost been murdered. But nothing could compare with the barbaric magnificance of the scene which rocked his senses as he adjusted his dark glasses and saw his first real glimpse of what had been described as medieval Asia.

  Crowds were fifteen or twenty deep round three sides of the square with most men dressed in the saffron-coloured robes of Buddhist monks, though a few had shaven heads and many wore beards which reminded him of Old Testament prophets. Women were clad in everything from Nepalese tribal rig with crimson or blue skirts to golden saris and even kimonos from Japan.