Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “Where is SHE?”

  He was a little man — the smallest in the room, and his voice was as tiny and mean as his English accent was ludicrous, stressing each syllable, querulous, excited, full of a kind of schoolmaster authority.

  “She sent us,” Jeff answered, and there was silence for the space of half a minute while they all considered the reply. Then:

  “That may be so,” a voice said from across the room. “How else should they know this place?”

  “Why did she send you?” asked the little man.

  He appeared to be in haste for information. Jeff obliged him.

  “She said to me and to this other man: ‘Obey me, and be rewarded. Tell those whom you will find in the place I name to follow you to where a fakir in the robe of Kali is performing feats. Follow the fakir to wherever he goes. He will lead to the place of the secrets you two men have seen.’”

  “You have seen? What have you seen? They say they have seen!”

  He translated the information into another tongue, and there was a chorus of exclamations. Then the little man said again —

  “What have you seen?”

  Jeff told him: “We saw the gold turn liquid and drop on the green anvil. We saw it turn to blinding light with a great explosion. We saw the place behind the wall, where the secret is and the men prepare it. But we only saw one bar of gold.”

  “Bah! Bah! Who cares for the bars of gold if we have the secret! Where is this place?”

  “The gold-light blinded us,” Jeff answered. “We were led. But the fakir knows the way.”

  “How should he know?”

  “He can make the dead talk,” Jeff answered with perfect irrelevance, and there was another pause while they considered that.

  Narayan Singh nudged Jeff. A man who had risen from the wall was walking toward them. He came close and looked into their faces, all unconscious of the sword that trembled on the Sikh’s thigh. They recognized their first prisoner whom Grim had let go. Without a word he returned to his place by the wall and then, standing:

  “That is so,” he said. “These are the same men. Their fakir makes the dead speak, having stolen that secret from the Nine or learned it from the books of Cyprian. One of them slew Kansa, our leader in Delhi, and they brought the corpse a distance in the cart with me. In the presence of all who were in the cart, Kansa spoke to me, being dead, bidding me obey these people.”

  He sat down. His speech, too, was received in silence.

  “Why does she not come to us ?” asked the man with the squeaky voice at last. And Jeff, primed an hour before by Gauri picking words from Ghandava’s lips, was ready with the answer:

  “She said if we would help her, we may become as you, members of your order, sharing in all things. So we help. It was she who went before us into the place where gold becomes light. She said she will be there waiting, only we must come soon.”

  “What sign did she give?” the big, bronze man demanded with a sneer.

  And for answer to that Jeff threw into the lap of the little man with the squeaky voice a golden skull twisted from the end of a necklace that morning in spite of Gauri’s protests. The little man considered it a minute. Then:

  “This is trite,” he said at last. “She would not have told the secret signs. See, all of you!”

  And he sent the gold skull passing around the circle from hand to hand, until it returned to his again.

  It was as clear as twice two, even to Jeff’s ponderous intellect, that these men were not being taken by surprise. Someone had been there already — someone at Ghandava’s instigation probably — warning what they could expect. They were like men strained to the start of a race, so keyed up by expectation that caution was irksome and at most perfunctory.

  However, there followed a debate, because some maintained that one of the messengers ought to be kept prisoner while individuals should be sent with the other to investigate the fakir and report. The majority were for obeying the summons immediately. They said She was a seeress and they said other things about her, that would not look well between the covers of a book, but that explained a great deal of their ritual and superstition. And at last the prisoner whom Ali had kept without water got tip on his feet.

  Jeff broke into a sweat, and Narayan Singh drew in breath sharply between his teeth, for on this man’s temper — so Ghandava said — more depended than was good to contemplate.

  But it seemed he was not so revengeful against Ali as to offset that against success: he spoke fluently in a tongue that not even Narayan Singh knew, apparently urging them to obey the summons and make haste — touching his own breast, as a man might who argues that his judgment of a situation was more trustworthy than others. They appeared to yield. Then the big bronze man who had acted janitor raised another point.

  He, too, used the secret language but his argument was plain enough. He demanded that Jeff and Narayan Singh be tied and put in his charge. That was agreed to. He had copper-wire in his hand in readiness to tie their wrists together, but the other man who had been prisoner forestalled him with thick twine. He refused to tie their bands behind their backs, as the other wanted to, arguing that that would attract attention passing through the streets, but lashed Jeff’s right wrist to Narayan Singh’s left. Then someone gave them a basket to carry between them with a cloth thrown over it so that their wrists were hidden.

  There was no more said. The man who had tied them lost apparent interest and mingled with the others. The big bronze man leered threateningly in Jeff’s face and pointed toward the door, following about one stride behind with the evident intention of killing at the first suspicion of trickery, and the others filed out one by one in solemn procession led by the smallest man of all, who had spoken first.

  Seventy men in single file, headed by two stalwarts carrying a basket between them, would arouse comment anywhere but in Benares. There, there are fifty more astonishing processions on almost any day of the year, and all are so absorbed about the business of their own escape from Maya that none disturbs himself about the other man’s affairs. They were not even noticed. If one thing about them were remarkable it was that they excited no remarks, despite the yellow smocks and the caste-mark of their dreadful goddess; and when they filed through a gate into a temple-yard and vanished they passed from the mind of the crowd as well.

  It was a yard like any of a hundred in that city of clustered shrines. Four walls, carved deep with the forgotten stories of a thousand gods, enclosed an oblong space paved with heavy blocks in front of a temple whose every inch was carved in high relief — and all so black with age and dirt that none might read what legend it embodied. It was hidden lore, as safe from public knowledge as the books whose ashes lay in Cyprian’s kiln, or as the Mysteries of the Nine themselves.

  But on the temple steps in front of the portico a part was being enacted that anyone might interpret how he chose.

  A fakir smeared with ashes, and as nearly naked as the law permits, with more meat on his well-ribbed frame than the ordinary run of fakirs boast, was doing tricks with three skulls before a spell-bound gathering of nondescripts. It was amusing stuff, and the effect on the audience was like champagne, laughter being ten times welcome in a place where all else is so serious as in Benares.

  For a while he would keep the three skulls circling in the air in the way that any common juggler can contrive; but then, with both arms suddenly extended to their limit, he would cause the game to cease and the skulls came to a dead rest facing the audience, one on the palm of each extended hand and the third on his plain black turban.

  Then each skull talked to each, or tossed amusing scraps of wisdom to the audience.

  It was perfect foolery, so masterfully done that folly seemed no part of it. To an audience asking only to believe, and dreading more than anything to criticize, it was inspired — miraculous — in keeping with the place — undoubtedly contrived by unseen Powers.

  The advent of the seventy in yellow, with two stalwarts b
earing a basket at their head, was so plainly a religious portent that the audience, already enraptured, now gave double credence — a condition that reverted on the seventy, causing them, if not to believe in the fakir’s occult powers, at least to credit his authority.

  The fakir set the jawless skulls again in motion and the seventy sat down to see. Then a fat man with a naked stomach, his sanctity expressed by ashes, and a pink silk turban crowning all, came and sat in front of the fakir , below him on the paving stones, facing both him and the audience. And while the three skulls bobbed and circled in air the fat man spoke in Hindustance, which was the only language likely to be understood by more than a handful of any Benares audience.

  “Hear what she says!” he whined in a nasal singsong. “Who is she ? Let any ask who dares! Where is she ? Let him tell, who can find her! What says she ? The skulls will tell! Now listen!”

  They ceased from circling in air and rested as before on the fakir’s head and his extended hands. The fakir’s ashen face was motionless, and no breath seemed to come and go now through his slightly-parted lips. Only his head jerked suddenly from side to side from one skull to the other, so that all eyes followed his. He appeared to be wondering as much as they did at the dead things’ hollow voices.

  Hollow they were — maybe to cover mispronunciation and croaking, as may be forgiven dead things. And as each one spoke, it moved, not much, but enough to suggest an unseen lower jaw — although if the fakir’s hands moved too no one observed it. Not even his head seemed to nod, to account for the movement of the skull that rested on it. The fakir said never a word.

  “I am the skull of Akbar!” said the left-hand skull.

  “I am the skull of Iskander!” replied the right-hand one.

  “And ye were two fools!” croaked the upper, all eyes watching it as the fakir turned his upward.

  “I had gold in my day!” announced the Akbar skull.

  “I had more! I had more!” the thing that named itself Iskander answered. And the audience thrilled. They were Hindus. Neither of those famous kings had been of their faith.

  “Where is the gold now?” croaked the upper skull. “I buried mine!” said Akbar.

  “I buried mine!” Iskander answered.

  “Where?” demanded the skull on top.

  “I forget!” said the right-hand skull.

  “I lost the secret!” said the one on the left.

  “I keep the secret!” croaked the upper one.

  “Who art thou?” asked the Akbar skull.

  “I am a woman in a leopard-skin! I am she who knows the secret! They who have the right should follow me!”

  “Yes! Whoever is not afraid of the spirits that guard the secret, follow!” piped the fat man; and the greater part of the audience trembled, glancing sidewise at one another and remaining seated. They were no such fools as to trespass into ancient secrets. Some began to run away, fearing sorcery.

  Tossing the skulls from hand to hand the fakir disappeared into the temple. The courtyard emptied. The men in yellow, led by Jeff and Narayan Singh carrying the basket, followed the fakir one by one. Another of India’s every-day marvels was a thing gone by, to be discussed and magnified and finally forgotten or else woven into the fabric of religious legend.

  Jeff and Narayan Singh walked swiftly. They wanted to speak, but did not dare, for they could not outdistance the bronze man at their heels; and the others came equally fast, breaking into a run as the fakir disappeared down an opening in the hollow-shaped floor of a dark chamber.

  The fakir was all alone, and seemed in haste. (No sign of the fat impresario.) In darkness they could hear the fakir’s naked feet shuffling along an echoing tunnel, and the big bronze man urged Jeff and Narayan Singh to run. Jeff kicked something, and a hollow rattle announced a skull bouncing away in the dark ahead of him. The bronze giant’s toes struck another one, and a man somewhere behind them kicked the third. The fakir had abandoned his dead oracles! He appeared to be in full flight.

  That was too much for the giant. He thrust Narayan Singh aside and rushed by, following by ear, bellowing back to the crowd to hurry after him. And as the first half-dozen forced themselves between Narayan Singh and the right-hand wall the blade of a knife passed between his wrist and Ramsden’s. The thongs that held them together parted, and a voice said:

  “Wisely, sahibs ! Hold the basket as before!”

  They turned to look, but could not see. The tunnel was alive with men who hurried by them, until every man of the seventy had passed, excepting one. He tugged at them.

  “Now turn back!” he urged excitedly.

  “Who are you Jeff asked, but he could not answer. The Sikh had him by the throat and was burning the darkness with his eyes, trying to recognize him.

  “Quick! Who are you?” Jeff repeated.

  As he spoke the faint reflection of a far-off flash of light lifted the darkness, like summer-lightning. Simultaneously Jeff and the Sikh recognized the prisoner whom Ali had kept dry. He was scared — in pain because of fingers clutching at his throat — but unmistakable. The Sikh let go.

  “Quick! Come away!” he gasped, pulling at them,

  ...wads down a gun-barrel, until it ceased in what seemed vacuum. Lungs ached, and they retched; but a blast of air ice-cold by contrast, came whistling back, providing breath, but no other surcease, for they heard like a flood at war with fire the seething roar of water, and the earth’s foundations seemed to shake beneath them.

  “Are you there?” yelled Jeremy, groping wildly for his friends.

  Narayan Singh gripped him by the shoulder, and the two turned back for Jeff. They stumbled on him, wrapped in death-grip with his adversary. The Sikh’s foot struck home into the bronze giant’s stomach. Jeff’s fist, breaking from a python-hold, descended like a poleax on the giant’s neck, and in a second the three were careering headlong for the tunnel’s end with the pressure of a full gale and the roar of a boiling flood so near behind them that in their spines they knew the very feel of death. By the arms the two dragged Jeff waist-deep out of surging water that followed and swamped the hollow temple floor, and the three fell all together gasping in the sunshine on the portico.

  There presently Chullunder Ghose, still smeared with ashes and half- naked, came to them with the erstwhile prisoner in yellow trying not to appear to walk with him. The babu was triumphant, the man in yellow sheepish, hiding fear under a veneer of pride.

  “Where is Ali?” gasped Narayan Singh.

  “Gone!” said Chullunder Ghose. “Sahibs , all is lost but honor!” Nonchalantly he toyed with one great emerald ear-stud. “Am unfortunate babu, but there are compensations. Devil, being slow on foot presumably, takes hindermost fugitive who is too fat to run — sometimes! There are exceptions. Am same. Exceptional this time — very!”

  “Where has Ali gone?”

  “Where does flame go when any person blows out candle? To where it came from, I suspect. Verb. sap . Ali did come from Sikunderam, same being suitable environment for gent of his kidney. Ali said to me: ‘May Allah do so to this son of my mother, and more likewise, if those sahibs are not asking for destruction. I have lost too many sons. What shall I do about it? There will be police investigation and many corpses to explain.’ — And this babu, being abject individual, had access of enlightenment, plus memory of much experience with legal luminaries. Am known to the police. Same is reciprocal. Police are also known to me. Nice, isn’t it” he asked, turning the emerald toward the sunlight.

  He was ordered bluntly to explain himself, and to cut the explanation short.

  “Am not explainable,” he answered. “Am portion of riddle of universe, but capable of genius on occasion. It occurred to this babu that you are very ballistic sahibs — oh yes, very — likely to be spat forth same as bullets from throat of any cataclysm. Yes — am optimist. Having assisted Jeremy sahib to juggle with skulls in temple compound, am henceforth capable of believing anything — even that Jeremy sahib will survive underworld explos
ions. Ergo — sahibs , there is no hurry; I tell you Ali has vanished; so has everybody! — ergo, it occurred to this babu most opportunely that scapegoat is needed to obsess intellect of seriously exercised police, who will be spurred to indiscreet enquiries by higher-ups in club armchairs. Who better than Ali? What solution better than elopement to Sikunderam? No sooner thought than said — for a price! Good counsel in emergency is surely worth two emeralds, but an Afghan is more thrifty than Scotchman, Jew, Armenian and Greek combined, plus Yankee trader thrown in. He would only part with one! Pretty, isn’t it? Worth, what would you say? How much?”

  “Come now, come — what happened?” Ramsden demanded.

  “Solution happened, sahib , this babu advising, Ali making much haste to elope with lady. Thus. The Gauri knew too much. Too much knowledge, in brain of lady of her mode of living, leading to blackmail sooner than later always, same leading to inveiglement in nets of the police, — distance should therefore lend enchantment to otherwise somewhat faded charms of said enchantress. Nicht wahr ? She has dowry — less one emerald, surrendered as extremely meagre fee to this babu, who explained to her that unless she shall hide her charms in Sikunderam with Ali, who will make her, perhaps and perhaps not, queen of many cutthroats, the police will inevitably capture her and take the jewelry. And to Ali this babu remarked that unless he shall take the Gauri with him, she will most certainly betray to the police his weakness for butchering inoffensive members of Hindu religious sect. And as for the maid, let Ali’s son take her, she also knowing too much. Advice was accepted — on spot — instantly. Three-fold solution — very excellent. Ali has a wife, who has a dowry. One son has a wife, who has youth and good looks. The other surviving son has an example. They are gone — northward. Can you beat it? as Jimgrim would remark.”

  “Where are King and Grim?” demanded Jeff.

  “Hunting for me, sahib . They are very angry. I cannot imagine why. They suspect me of complicity in flight of Ali. Most unreasonable. I am here to beg your honors’ confidence — and some additional emolument, not as inducement — oh, no, most unnecessary! — but by way of reward in advance for holding my tongue! Am not altruist,” he added significantly.