by Harold Lamb
Hamar glanced at him curiously.
“A church. Nay, are there not temples enough for your liking about here?”
“Does a horse like the meat of a tiger?”
The minstrel fingered his guitar with a sigh. Suddenly Khlit found the man's faded, green eyes peering into his own.
“Yet you like danger, Khlit, khan, and the thrill of clashing swords. Tell me, why did you not heed the warning of Lo Ch'un and leave this place before the feast of tomorrow? What matters Nur-Jahan to you? Our lives will be worth little more than the sand of the alley by another sun.”
“Bah, minstrel,” grunted the Cossack, “shall I ride hence while the woman—mischief-maker though she be—stays? Truly, it will not be easy to escape with whole skins on the morrow. Think you Nur-Jahan is still in Khoten?”
Hamar nodded.
“Aye, the Persian is shrewd. Doubtless she has learned of the watch the bonpas keep on the place. If there be a way hence, she will find it.”
He glanced again at Khlit thoughtfully.
“It is written that a diamond shines from a heap of dirt. Nay, khan, the woman reaches out to the rule of an empire with her small hand. She will have great honor—or death. And the issue lies on the dice of fate. Harken, khan. Sher Afghan, the husband of Nur-Jahan, still lives. Chauna Singh is faithful to him. What if Sher Afghan is slain by Jahangir, the Mogul?”
“Then Nur-Jahan will be free.”
“But Chauna Singh? Since the name of Ind has been, a Rajput is faithful to his lord.”
Khlit made no response. But he did not forget the words of Hamar.
The circle of the window darkened. Twilight was casting its veil over the city. From somewhere came the sunset cries of a mullah. Hamar rose and, striking flint on stone, lit a candle. In an adjoining room Khlit heard the wailing of a woman in grief. The sound had persisted for some time.
Hamar had paid no attention to it. Men were thronging into the place from the street, and the room below was a tumult of a score of tongues. Still the wail went on, shrill and dismal.
With an oath the Cossack sprang up and pushed through the curtains. Following the sound of the crying woman, he came to another chamber like the one he had left. Within he saw a carpet spread, and on the carpet a man.
Beside him kneeled the woman who had beckoned Lo Ch'un from the tavern the night before. Her hair was disordered in grief and the stain on her cheeks showed vivid against a pallid skin. She raised inflamed eyes to the Cossack.
What drew Khlit's gaze and brought a second oath to his lips was the sight of a bonpa mask placed over the face of the man on the rug. It was the first that Khlit had seen, but he did not mistake it.
“Hide of the devil!” he muttered, for the painted fabric leered at him grotesquely.
Something in the loose position of the man's limbs and his dirty silk tunic aroused his suspicions.
Stepping over the prostrate form, Khlit lifted the black mask. The distorted face of Lo Ch'un stared up at him, eyes distended and flesh purple. It needed no examination to show that Lo Ch'un had been dead for some time—and Khlit remembered the long wailing of the woman.
“How was this done?” he asked the woman.
She shook her head mutely, not understanding what he said. Khlit perceived the end of a silken cord hanging from Lo Ch'un's mouth. The cord, he saw, was attached to a gag which had been forced far down the tavern keeper's throat.
Khlit flung the mask into a corner and turned from the room. Hamar looked up questioningly as he entered.
“Hey, minstrel,” grinned Khlit, “there is a notable physician in the temple of the bonpas who has devised a cure for tongue-wagging. Doubtless—after the tidings brought to the temple by the man of Bator Khan—the priests thought he was too free with their secrets.”
“A fool has paid for his folly.”
Khlit reflected moodily that Lo Ch'un had been slain in a room adjoining theirs without the sound of a struggle. They must have been within a score of feet when it was done. Yet they had not been molested. He scowled as he thought how the hand of the priests was everywhere in Khoten. Doubtless the men in the temple knew where they—Hamar and Khlit were—and, knowing, waited. For what? For the feast of the morrow, when the death of Nur-Jahan was planned?
The words of Hamar returned to his memory. They were four against many, and their foes were not to be seen.
“Devil take it all!” he grumbled, for the thing was preying on his nerves somewhat. “Let us go below and eat, minstrel. Thus we will have a full meal under our belts. And it will be better so.” “I will not eat,” said Hamar, “but I will go with you. If the bonpas have marked Nur-Jahan's death for the morrow we have little to fear tonight.”
With that the two descended to the tavern.
Unwatched by Lo Ch'un, a motley crowd was drinking and gorging at will. The women of the house were scattered among the benches, aiding the merriment with shrill laughter. Some looked up drunkenly at his entrance.
“Fill yourselves, dogs,” muttered Khlit, “there will be none to tally the drinks—”
He broke off abruptly and clutched Hamar's arm. Among a crowd of men across the men he caught the veiled figure of Nur-Jahan, with bearded Chauna Singh towering at her side.
“Here be our comrades, minstrel,” he whispered. Hamar thrust his way through the crowd.
Then, as they approached the girl, she dropped her veil and smiled at them. Khlit heard Hamar draw in his breath in sharp surprise. Truly, it was a strange thing, for Nur-Jahan was a Mohammedan and it was forbidden to such to show their faces before the eyes of strange men.
Chauna Singh flushed angrily, for Nur-Jahan was wife to his lord, Sher Afghan, and it was not fitting that she should be seen by the drunken men of the brothel. He made as if to clutch her veil, but she stayed him with a whisper, speaking softly to Hamar also.
“Is the girl mad?” growled Khlit to the minstrel. “She hides herself for a day and two nights. Then, lo, she shows herself to these cattle. Look yonder!”
Hamar looked and saw the eyes of the men in the room turn to Nur-Jahan and stare hotly. The girl's beauty stood out among the miserable women of the place in sharp contrast. A silence fell on the tavern.
Men pushed wine cups away from lips and gazed at Nur-Jahan narrow-eyed. Bearded hillmen muttered to themselves. A sheepskin-clad giant rose unsteadily, his pock-marked face flushed with drink, and lurched forward, grinning.
The fitful light of the place—from candle and hearth—gave the dark countenance of the girl a witchery that stirred the pulses of those who watched.
“She says,” the minstrel whispered to Khlit, “that she wishes these dogs to see her beauty, that they may know her tomorrow.”
“They seem little disposed to wait until the morrow, Hamar,” said Khlit grimly.
He sensed trouble in the air, for the men were pressing closer. The Khirghiz giant planted himself in front of Nur-Jahan, his small eyes alight.
“Ho, comrades!” he bellowed. “A dainty morsel is here. By the bones of Satan, this is a face to delight the gods!”
Khlit moved closer to Chauna Singh. He was angry at Nur-Jahan's prank. Not content with the enmity of the priests, the girl had dared the lawless crew of the tavern. She smiled at them coldly. And some who stared at her moved uneasily under her glance. Here, they thought, was no common courtesan. What manner of woman was she?
Thus it happened that while some pushed forward with silent intentness, others hung back, measuring the stature of Chauna Singh and Khlit and the bearing of the girl.
“Drink, men of the caravan trails!” cried the girl in her clear, commanding voice. “It is written that wine is the sweeper-away-of-care! Give them wine,” she ordered the slaves. “Tomorrow they will see that which they will tell their children, and it will be a tale of many moons. Ha! Life is sweet when such deeds are in the air.”
Her cry pleased many of the watchers and they roared approval.
“Lo Ch'un is dead—there
be none to guard the wine!” cried one.
Over their heads Khlit could hear the faint wailing of the woman by the body. He glanced at Nur-Jahan curiously. Mad the girl might be, but she was fearless.
Then silence fell again as the Khirghiz drunkard stretched out a heavy hand toward Nur-Jahan. She drew back swiftly and touched Chauna Singh on the arm.
“Strike this dog,” she cried softly, “but do not slay him.”
At the words the scimitar of the Rajput flashed in front of her. No time had the Khirghiz to draw weapon. Khlit saw the scimitar turn deftly and smite the forehead of the man with the flat of the blade.
The knees of the Khirghiz bent under him and his bulk dropped heavily to the floor.
“He was a fool!” cried Nur-Jahan aloud. “Harken, men of the desert, I am she who is called Nur-Jahan, Light of the Palace. Look well, for you may not see my face again. I go from Khoten tomorrow, at the feast of Bon. Come to the feast, for there will be a sight worth seeing.”
With that she turned swiftly and disappeared up the stairs. Chauna Singh followed with a black glance at the gaping crowd. Khlit watched until he was sure none of the caravan men would molest them further. Gradually they returned to their cups and their talk.
Khlit sought and found the joint of meat he had come for. Hamar had gone, and he ate alone, being hungry. His thoughts turned on the whim of Nur-Jahan. She had shown her face to these men willfully. They were, without doubt, devotees of Bon. Surely Nur-Jahan had a reason for what she did.
What was it? At that time Khlit did not know.
XI
The midday sun was hot over Khoten's hovels and temples on the noon appointed as the feast of Bon. From the taverns and caravansarys issued a motley crowd—thin-boned Arabs, squat Khirghiz hillmen, hawk-faced Usbeks—a smattering of Hindus, cleanly robed. And as they pressed into the streets leading to the temple of Bon, there came the low thrumming of stone drums beaten within the building.
The sound of the drums passed through the sand-swept alleys, out beyond the groves of wild poplars, leaves a-droop from lack of wind—out to the shimmering waste of the desert of Gobi to the north and the level plain that led to the mountains of the south.
Dimly in the heat haze these mountains were to be seen— gleaming snow summits flashing into the blue of the sky. The narrow embrasures of the temple looked out upon the hills. Men whispered to each other that the fetishes of the sanctuary faced toward the mountains, where was the home of the god Bon.
About the temple courtyard a throng was gathered, pushing and elbowing for a sight of the cleared space before the gate of the structure. A group of bearers set down the palanquin of a Chinese mandarin and escorted the stout silk-clad and crimson tulip-embroidered person of their master through the onlookers, striking aside those who stood in their way with their wands.
A continuous hubbub swelled over the monotone of the drums. By now half the men and women of the city were in the square before the temple—sleepy-eyed and quarrelsome from the revelry of the night before.
Bands of the black hats were passing through the streets. They were pale men, evil-eyed and complacent. Merchants still journeyed to the square, for it paid to be friendly with the folk of the black hat on the feast day of Bon. Votaries of the god went eagerly, driven by the blood-lust which yearned to see certain of their fellows marked for death.
In the throng were those who had come to Khoten with Nur-Jahan—Chauna Singh, watchful and silent, disdainful of the multitude of low-caste—Hamar walking as if in a trance—Khlit, apparently oblivious of what passed, but inwardly observant.
The Cossack was ill-pleased with their position. He had seen enough of the handiwork of the bonpas to know that their lives were put to the hazard. Bator Khan was dead; but other servants of the priests, he knew, were not lacking. Any Arab or Khirghiz in the throng might be the bearer of a knife destined for them.
A crowd always disturbed the Cossack of the Curved Saber. Here there was no room for swordplay—no chance to set a horse to gallop and meet an enemy as he liked to do. He put little faith in his pistols.
Left to himself, Khlit would have ventured on a dash from the city, mounted on his pony. But the party of Nur-Jahan was certainly shadowed by the priests—after the scenes in the tavern the night before there would be small difficulty in that.
So long, however, as Chauna Singh and Hamar remained with the girl, he was grimly resolved to see the matter through. He would not let the Rajput say that he had drawn back from danger.
“Give way, O born-of-a-dog and soul-of-swine!” snarled the Rajput at those in front as he drew Nur-Jahan forward.
Hamar and Khlit pressed after them.
Oaths and threats greeted their progress. But here and there were men who had been in the tavern the evening before, and these whispered to their neighbors, so that many turned to look after the girl. In this way they pushed to the first rank of watchers in the temple courtyard.
The crowd was already stirred by the ceremony of the priests. Khlit saw men staring, rigid-eyed, and others muttering fragments of prayers. The throb of the drums beat into his ears.
“It grows time for the servants of Bon to speak to us,” he heard a Dungan say. “The dance is near its ending.”
For the first time he had sight of what was going on in front of the temple.
An array of the black hats was sounding long trumpets, echoing the note of the drums—an insistent clamor that harped upon one note insidiously. Before them whirled and tossed a throng of the masked priests. In the center of the dances was the form of a woman, bare of clothing to the waist and streaked with blood.
Khlit watched the scene indifferently. It was evil mummery, this prostrating before a hidden god. Almost he laughed at panting priests in their painted masks. But, hearing the beat of the drums, he kept silence.
And, as at a signal from within the temple, the dancers ceased, flinging themselves on the ground.
A voice issued from the dark gateway of the temple, a voice measured and calm.
“On the summits of Himachal,” it said, “is the abode of Bon, the Destroyer. There is the seat of happiness, the shrine of the ages. In the silence of the mountains the avalanches reveal the anger and power of the gods.”
“Himachal!” the shout was taken up by the crowd. “In Himachal is life and the blessed death!”
Khlit caught Chauna Singh's eye and smiled without merriment. “Has Nur-Jahan come hither to be slain easily, as a white dove is caught by a falcon?” he growled.
Chauna Singh shook his head moodily.
“Nay, khan, I know not. It was her will to come. The city is guarded and we may not escape. But here is an evil place. Yet would she come, saying that we might yet live. Could I do otherwise? I am her man.”
“Does she hope to awe these carrion with the name of Jahangir?”
“Nay,” the Rajput grunted distastefully. “The Mogul is a stripling—and his power is distant.”
“Then, what will we do?”
“Watch!”
“Aye—but not for long.” Khlit motioned over his shoulder. Men of the black hats were edging through the crowd. “Look yonder.”
“I see.” Chauna Singh turned his back deliberately. “Nur-Jahan has ordered that where she goes we must follow. Mark that, khan.”
The voice within the temple rose to a hoarse cry. Khlit understood little of what it said, but the crowd surged excitedly.
“And the way to the hills is open,” he heard. “Whoever offers his life to Bon—be he slave or khan—he will be put upon the path that leads past the shrine of Kedernath, by the lake of Lamdok Tso, to the home of the gods—”
A man sprang forward from the throng and cast himself in the sand before the woman.
“A sacrifice!” the gathering roared. “A life given to Bon.”
Khlit saw the priests go to the man and take his weapons from his belt. Then he was led within the temple.
The Cossack snarled at the sight. Devilwork
, he thought. The impulse to cast away life in religious frenzy was bred in the blood of the men around him.
Nur-Jahan's hand clutched him swiftly.
“Come,” he heard her whisper. “In this way we may win free!”
He caught at his sword-hilt, for the black hats about him had pressed closer. Nur-Jahan's words had set him to thinking swiftly. He saw the girl, followed by her companions, step from the crowd.
Khlit stooped in the throng for a moment. Then he sprang erect and leaped after the others.
Nur-Jahan's silvery voice came to his ears. The girl was standing among the priests before the gate of the temple.
“A sacrifice to Bon,” she called clearly. “I, Nur-Jahan the fair, offer myself to go into the mountains.”
He saw Hamar's sensitive face pale and Chauna Singh scowl, as he joined them. The priests stared at them from their masks. A roar broke from the crowd.
“It is Nur-Jahan!” he heard. “She of the tavern! Here is a fitting one to wander into the snows!”
The cries were taken up by others, stirred by zeal. Khlit wondered if it was for this that the girl had shown herself in the tavern. As he wondered, he was caught by the priests.
“To Himachal!” the crowd roared, as the black hats hesitated, glancing at the gate. “We will see them put afoot and weaponless at the foot of the holy hills. Let the men accompany her. Ho—she will be well attended in death!”
The eyes of the crowd were fixed in the black gate of the temple where was the hidden priest of Bon. A brief silence. Then:
“Let Nur-Jahan be the sacrifice! Let the gods have the flower of the Mogul! We will see her put afoot in the hills, in the snows! None may molest her—she belongs to the gods!”
It was the cry of the camel-men who had seen the beauty of the girl the night before.
The shout was taken up by the multitude. The priests stepped forward and seized the four. At this there was a roar of approval.
“Bon has taken the woman!” shrieked a man. “Her limbs will wither in the snows!”