There was no way to tell where the truck was headed. There were no windows in the rear compartment, leaving them in total darkness, and the sound of rain hammering on the metal roof obscured all but the loudest city noises. The truck took several turns, and finally came to a halt after about twenty minutes. They heard the engine stutter and die, and then the sound of the front door being slammed. A moment later the rear door opened and the tall driver said something to the guard in their strange, indecipherable language.
There seemed to be some confusion or disagreement; the guard replied sharply in the same language, but the driver held firm, repeating what he had said the first time. He sounded greatly put out about something. Sid guessed that the truck had taken a wrong turn somewhere. The guard stood up with a grunt and hopped out of the truck to see what the problem was. The door was left open.
Sid, Rosie and the Baroness all strained to see what was going on, but there was nothing visible through the open door except rain and darkness. Suddenly there was a blinding white flash, like lightning, and an aborted shriek. For several long seconds, nothing more happened.
A face appeared at the door. It was the driver, drenched from head to toe. He had one of the mysterious flamethrowers in his hand. Sid’s heart sank. Rosie tried to yell through her gag, kicking out with her bound legs. But after regarding them all for a few moments, the killer put his flamethrower away.
“We must hurry,” the man said. “They shall come looking for us soon. There is much work ahead.”
It wasn’t until he began untying them that they realized they were being rescued by their own kidnapper.
* * *
“The rain is good fortune,” said the tall man, as he led the freed captives say from the truck to a waiting sedan, “No witnesses. Makes us difficult to trace, yes?”
“I’m confused,” said Rosie. “How many of you are there? First one of you guys brings us that glowing thingamajig, then another one tries to kill us. Now those other guys take the thing back and try to kidnap us, but you save us. Which side are you on, anyway?”
Before answering, the stranger started his car and abandoned the scene. They were on a deserted stretch of road, in an industrial area somewhere on the edge of the city. The man pointed his car back towards the bright lights of urban Shanghai.
“We are few. We have always been few. In China fewer still, no more than a hundred. But as in all lands, some follow law; others follow power. I am a simple businessman. I follow law.”
“And the Black Dragon,” said The Baroness, “what about him? He follows power?”
“No, miss. The Black Dragon Wo Then-Liang is power. We must stop him. If we fail, his power shall destroy all.”
Sid spoke next: “So you’re not from here? From China, I mean.”
The man sat up straighter in his seat, and a haughty tone entered his voice as he answered.
“No. Not Chinese. We are Chenggi, the People of Heaven. Our land is far from here, a place you would not know. My country is Chenggi-Lai.”
The name was wondrous, pronounced with subtle inflections that highlighted the high, clipped tone submerged in the Chenggi man’s speech. Sid thought it sounded enchanting, like something from a fairy tale.
“Chenggi-Lai.” Sid attempted to repeat the name just as the man had spoken it, but his tongue stumbled over the exotic inflections. It came out as “Shangri-La.”
The Baroness jerked to attention. “What did you just say?”
“Shangri-La.” Sid did no better the second time.
She remembered the book. The Baroness hadn’t looked at Strange Tales of the Orient in days. On the plane, she had only halfway read it, barely paying attention. It was a way to pass the time, to distract herself from the grim reality of their situation. But now she realized it was all in there: the lost civilization of Shangri-La, the white fire, statues that flew, magical stones, even a Glorious Dragon of Black Aspect. It was all true... well, maybe not the part about the yeti. But all the rest of it was true!
“Bartholomew St. Cyr,” she said abruptly. “We have to find him. He knows! He can help us!”
“Yes, miss, he can,” said the Chenggi. “That is where we go now. Bartholomew St. Cyr is a great friend. He helps Chenggi on the side of law. He is a man of honor, and we owe him much. Now we are hunted, you and I together. Only he can help us.”
* * *
The little car drove to an address in the French Concession, just off the Avenue Joffre. Many of the houses in the area looked like smaller versions of the de Rothburg residence in New York, but Bartholomew St. Cyr’s home was something else altogether. A tall hedge blocked the view from the street, but behind that was a pretty garden where beautiful flowers in shimmering colors soaked up the rain. But while the garden was lovely, the house it fronted was absurd. It was a ridiculously ornate collision of eastern and western architecture, a tangled mass of balconies, balustrades and birdbaths slapped together at bewildering angles. It looked almost as if someone had dropped a temple from the walled city on top of a colonial mansion, with white Corinthian columns holding up a red and green pagoda roof. The Baroness was repulsed by it. Rosie wiped the rain from her eyes and thought it was the most beautiful house she’d ever seen.
A trim Eurasian gentleman with comically arched eyebrows and a fussy manner met them at the door. He took one look at the four sopping travelers and showed them inside at once, setting the ladies down by a warm fire in the parlor and promising dry clothes for everyone just as soon as he could announce them to the master of the house.
The interior of the mansion was even more peculiar than the outside. One wall of the parlor was dominated by an enormous cinnabar screen, upon which was carved an elaborate and somewhat filthy scene of Chinese ancients frolicking in various states of undress and arousal. Another wall bore masks of every size and description, terrifying ogres and monsters from all corners of Asia perched alongside white porcelain faces and wickerwork headdresses. The long, low table in the center of the room was piled with books on exotic subjects and supported fingerbowls full of almonds and watermelon seeds. Even the fire was decorated: some kind of fragrant incense had been inserted amongst the logs, throwing up gay green flames as it released a wonderful, heady aroma into the room. And there were cats. No fewer than four distinct felines, mostly tabbies in orange or brown, entered and left the room while they waited.
At last Bartholomew St. Cyr made his entrance, carrying one of the cats, a lovely brown thing with emerald eyes and tiger stripes. He was a silver-haired man, perhaps seventy years of age but quite spry and with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He wore a red and silver smoking jacket and sported a pipe, from which issued strands of sweet-smelling smoke.
“So you have come,” he said with a smile. “I was hoping you’d find your way here. Your friends will be pleased. Oh, I do hope you like cats. I always like to have cats about me. They really are such ciphers, aren’t they? They keep us mindful of the mysteries, don’t you know. Would you care for some watermelon seeds?”
“Our friends?” asked Sid, puzzled.
At that moment, Professor Armbruster and Captain Doyle entered the room. They were in good spirits — indeed, Sid could smell the good spirits on Armbruster’s breath as he spoke.
“Welcome, my dear Sidney, Rose and lady Angelica! Our kind host has been very kind indeed. He has a cellar full of the most amazing cognac. Simply amazing. Oh, wait until you hear what horrors we escaped today! You’ll never believe it. And how was your day at the Explorer’s Institute?”
Chapter XXIV
STRANGER THAN FICTION
—
BARTHOLOMEW ST. CYR was bombarded with questions from all sides: what did he know about Shangri-La, the singing stone, the missing Baron, the Black Dragon? He forestalled them all with a raised hand.
“Please, please, let’s be civilized,” he said. “Change into some dry clothes at once or your next question will be the way to the nearest hospital. Djali will fetch them for you.�
��
The valet Djali did as he was asked, and the party reconvened some minutes later in a lavishly appointed drawing room, all dressed in robes, kimonos or smoking jackets like a convention of Oriental playboys. St. Cyr was waiting for them, seated in a plush armchair with his lap full of dozing cats.
“Ah, that’s much better. Now, to business. First, I must tell you that I do not know what has become of Baron Franz, although we were great friends.” He turned to address Angelica directly. “It was I who sent your father on his expedition into the mountains, although I did not mean to. And when he returned, I helped him get the singing stone to safety aboard the Golden Star.” Sid and Rosie wore surprised expressions as the Chenggi nodded gravely. The Baroness’s eyes narrowed. Captain Doyle and Professor Armbruster had more cognac.
“Which reminds me,” St. Cyr continued, addressing the Baroness, “where is the singing stone? You don’t have to tell me precisely, just reassure me that it’s safely hidden away from that dreadful Black Dragon and his slobbering monsters.”
When he was informed that the stone had been seized by the Black Dragon not an hour earlier, the Orientalist scholar turned grim.
“Oh dear,” he muttered, “Oh dear, oh dear... that is the worst possible news. You don’t seem to realize it, my pets, but you have just informed me that the world as we know it is doomed.”
* * *
“The world doomed?” exclaimed Professor Armbruster. He was incredulous. “My dear sir, explain yourself! Who is this Black Dragon, anyway?”
St. Cyr frowned thoughtfully. “I do not know the full story, despite twenty-five years of study. I dare say there are things even Nenn Si-Lum here doesn’t know, and he’s been standing right at the Black Dragon’s side.” It was the first time they’d heard the Chenggi’s name. Sid was suddenly embarrassed that he hadn’t thought to ask.
“This we know,” said Nenn Si-Lum, “The Black Dragon has a plan. Today he rules Chenggi-Lai. But he wants the world. His plan requires the singing stone. It is the final piece. Now he has it, and his plan is complete. Very soon, none shall be able to stop him.”
“If that’s the case, why didn’t you kill him in the temple?” asked Rosie. “You were standing right next to the big creep!”
“He is... protected. He cannot be killed. The Black Dragon is immortal.”
A pall fell over the room. Even Professor Armbruster and Captain Doyle became subdued.
“This is getting ridiculous,” said the Baroness. “I think you’d both better start from the beginning.”
“Quite so, quite so,” agreed St. Cyr. “There is nothing more we can do tonight anyway, not in this weather. The beginning, then. My goodness. That was quite a long time ago...”
Bartholomew St. Cyr shooed the cats off his lap, took a long drag from his pipe, and began.
“Shangri-La, or Chenggi-Lai as the natives call it, is the hidden jewel of Asia, an idyllic land bordered on all sides by high mountains. It is all but inaccessible to the outside world. But a flourishing civilization arose there, growing in nearly total isolation for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. They protected their land against invasion through the use of magic, or what looked like magic: a terrible, all-consuming white fire and great stone dragons which flew through the air like birds.” The visitors nodded; these things they had seen with their own eyes.
“In the eleventh century... A.D. that is,” he continued, “An exile — a kharpat — came down from the mountains into India, bearing a beauteous amulet that glowed and made a humming sound.”
“The singing stone!” interjected Rosie.
“Close, my pet, but not quite. I’ll get to that. The amulet traded hands several times over the next two hundred years, until it came into the possession of Ando Chee, a wealthy trader and explorer not unlike our lovely and brilliant Baroness here.” Angelica de Rothburg had been complimented all her life, but this one caught her by surprise. She blushed as the old man winked at her.
“Ando Chee set out to find Shangri-La, the source of his new treasure. He managed to find the place after a long, perilous journey, and met the Glorious Dragon of Red Aspect, Shei Pua-Lao, prince of Shangri-La. He was welcomed into the Red Dragon’s presence, and even treated as a royal guest... but this was a terrible mistake. Once granted access to all of Shangri-La, Ando Chee soon discovered the source of their supposed magic: seventeen great machines which lit the valley at night, defended it with the white fire, and did many other wondrous things. They even enabled the wearer of the amulet to move solid objects using only his mind. And at the heart of each machine was a singing stone, like the one you carried here.”
“Cheng-Dal-Ruk,” Nenn interjected. The Chenggi man now picked up the narrative, speaking in somber tones.
“Cheng-Dal-Ruk, the Gift of Heaven. The holy men say it fell from the sky long ago, before time itself. For many ages it lay deep inside the earth, as a child in the womb, until born into the valley of Chenggi-Lai.”
“From the sky, you say?” The Professor’s mind churned. “Of course... a meteorite! Galvanized, perhaps, by the heat and pressure of the earth’s mantle and then thrust back to the surface to rise with the Himalaya Mountains.”
Nenn did not respond to that, but continued his tale. “Cheng-Dal-Ruk has many aspects. In green it gives power; in blue, reflection. The stone can only be worked by itself. By its own red aspect. Using shards of red stone, our forefathers divided Cheng-Dal-Ruk into eighteen great pieces. These are the singing stones, the source of Chenggi-Lai’s power and glory.”
Nenn’s voice dropped and became steely as he continued.
“The power of Cheng-Dal-Ruk knows no limit. This...” — he placed his flamethrower on the table — “contains only the smallest sliver. A mere pebble. A flying dragon-ship is animated by a single piece no larger than a man’s fist. But a singing stone, a true singing stone, could light this entire city for eternity, or flatten it in an instant. I have heard the Black Dragon say as much.”
Captain Doyle had been munching on watermelon seeds throughout this narrative. He started abruptly at Nenn’s remarkable assertion, dropping the bowl of the seeds onto the floor.
“Just one?” he said, astounded. “And you let that madman take it from us?”
“And you said there are eighteen of them?” added the Professor. He was turning pale.
“There were,” said Bartholomew St. Cyr, “Once. But Ando Chee stole one of them, the most treasured of all. It was unique: the only stone in golden aspect, too valuable even for use in the great machines. He moved it with his mind, taking it from under the Glorious Dragon’s nose and out of Shangri-La. But Ando Chee died soon afterwards, in Nepal. Only his writings survived; the singing stone was never found. It was said that the stone crumbled to dust after leaving the valley of Chenggi-Lai, that in golden aspect it could not survive the outside world.”
“A great loss,” said the Chenggi. “After that there was war. A long, terrible war. The house of Shei was toppled. The house of Wo took its place. But not before the singing stones were all lost, stolen away and scattered by warring factions or foreign interlopers.”
“That’s one heck of a story,” said Sid, enchanted. “But it’s all ancient history. How does this Wo Then-Liang character enter into it?”
“Wo Then-Liang is Glorious Dragon of Black Aspect. He is our prince. He rules Shangri-La. But this should not be. It violates our most ancient law. He is kharpat. Exiled.”
“I can explain,” said St. Cyr. “By the time Wo Then-Liang was born, knowledge of the singing stones and their power had passed into legend. Shangri-La had regressed, becoming just another tribal kingdom with a grandiose mythology. But Wo Then-Liang was a great scholar. He reopened the old archives, studied the ancient chronicles, learned all about the singing stones and what they could do. He planned to find the stones and restore the lost glory of Shangri-La. But when the high lamas tested his fitness to rule, as they test all young princes, he failed. He was marked a Black Dragon, viol
ent, avaricious, unworthy despite his brilliance. And in accordance with their laws, he was cast out of the country forever.”
The Chenggi again took up the story: “The Black Dragon’s father, Wo Sen-Dhapp, Glorious Dragon of Blue Aspect, was taken by heaven in the year 1851.” Several eyebrows were raised at that, but nobody interrupted; Sid and the Baroness each thought they’d misheard. “He left three sons. Wo Then-Liang was banished, so Wo Then-Mi, of red aspect, took the throne. He died. Wo Then-Krung, of green aspect, followed. He too died. For the first time in six hundred years, we had no prince.”
“And then, from nowhere, the exile Wo Then-Liang returned, bearing three of the singing stones! He flew into the valley atop a great stone dragon that breathed white flame. Who would deny him when he made such an entrance, and at such a moment of crisis? Who could? He seized the throne without opposition. This was in the year 1852.”
“Now just a minute,” Sid began. “We saw him. He can’t be more than forty years old!”
“Please, young sir. We must complete the tale. Yes, the year was 1852. For more than eight decades, the Black Dragon has ruled Shangri-La with an iron fist, learning to use the singing stones for his own ends. He has rebuilt the ancient machines and invented new ones. He cannot be killed, he does not grow old, and every time he finds another singing stone, his power increases.”
“The Black Dragon sends us out into the world,” said Nenn, scratching absently at a cat’s ears. “We are traders, simple businessmen. So we say. But really we are spies and criminals. Some spread the Dragon’s influence into other lands, working through underworld gangs. Others find the singing stones and bring them to him. When he has all seventeen stones, he can rule the world. Seventeen. No less. He had only sixteen, until tonight.”
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