by Talbot Mundy
“May the stars and my karma forbid! I go under the belly of a te-rain, as I came. To Kalka I go; and thence by foot on the old road to Simla, where I know a man who will pay me to carry goods to the rajah of Spiti. That is a long journey and a difficult. I shall be well paid.”
Again Ommony translated.
“Ask him how and where he learned that trick of riding under trains,” said McGregor.
“Oh, as to that,” said Dawa Tsering, “there are few things simpler. In my youth” (he spoke as if he were already ancient, instead of perhaps two-or three-and-twenty) “I desired a woman of Spiti whose husband was unwise. He should have gone on a journey oftener. And he should not have returned in such haste. I wearied of his homecomings, so I lay in wait and slew him. And the rajah of Spiti, who is a jealous man — liking to attend to all the slaying in that country, which is nevertheless too much for one individual, even if he does have an army of fifty men — fined me three hundred rupees.* Where should I get such a fortune? Yet, unless I paid it, I should have to join his army and gather fuel, which is as scarce in Spiti as an honest woman. So I ran away. And after wandering about the Hills a month or two, enjoying this and that adventure, I reached Simla, where I met a man with whom I gambled, he offering to teach me a new game, not knowing we use dice in Spiti. And his dice were loaded. So I substituted mine. And when I had won from him more than he could pay, he offered to teach me his profession.”
“Gambling?” asked Ommony.
“Nay. I never gamble. I take no chances. I do the gods a favor now and then, since it seems from all accounts they need it, but I never trust them. That fellow told me of the te-rains that run from Kalka southward, to and fro, and of the many rupees that the passengers leave in their pockets while they sleep. He supposed I would undertake the dangerous part and thereafter share the loot with him, and he showed me how to hide under a te-rain until nightfall and then — but it was easy. And I found out after a while where he hid the half of our profits, which he claimed as his share after I had done all the climbing in and out of windows in the dark. So I took what he had hidden, and, what with my own savings, the total amounted to more than a thousand rupees. Then I returned to Spiti, and I buried the money in a certain place, and went to the rajah and lied to him, saying I had earned the amount of the fine as a wood-cutter but that a certain one (who was always my enemy) had stolen the money from me on the very first night that I returned. So the rajah transferred my fine to that other man, who had to pay it, and then, of course, I had to leave Spiti again — swiftly. That other man has many friends. But I will find a way to deal with him.”
“When did you first meet the holy Lama Tsiang Samdup?” Ommony asked.
“Hah! I returned to the te-rains, being minded to make a fortune, but the gods played a scurvy trick on me. I was doing nicely; but on a certain night a fool of a policeman pounced on me at an istashun* just as I was crawling in under the wheels.
He dragged me out by the leg, and it was not a proper time to kill him, since there were many witnesses. So I raised a lamentation, saying I would ride to Delhi to the bedside of a friend, and that I had no fare. And lo, the Lama Tsiang Samdup stepped out of the te-rain and paid my fare, praying that I would permit him thus to acquire merit. So I rode with him to Delhi, he questioning me all the night-long and I at my wits’ end to invent sufficient lies wherewith to answer him. And in Delhi I being a stranger in the city, he set out with me to help me find my friend; and, there being no friend, we naturally did not find him, whereat the Lama wept. So it seemed to me he was a man who needed someone to look after him; moreover, he was certainly a very rich man. And I had not yet thought of a way of defeating my enemy in Spiti. Restrain thy she-dog, Ommonee; I like not the look in her eye.”
Ommony put Diana outside with orders to guard the front door.
“How long ago did this happen?” he asked, forcing himself to look only vaguely interested as he resumed his seat.
“Oh, maybe a year ago — or longer. The time passes. I agreed to serve the Lama for a while, although he wearied me with his everlasting lectures about merit, and the Wheel, and the gods know what else. Also he keeps low company — actors and singers and such folk. When he left me at Tilgaun on his way northward I was well content to rest from him a while. He gave me money, of which he has plenty although he is much too careful with it; and there were good-looking girls at the mission, which is a marvel of a place with a high wall. But I saw how to climb the wall. So it came about that there was trouble between me and Missish-Anbun — she who is Abbess of the place — a bold woman, who was not afraid to stand up to me and speak her mind. Lo, I showed her my knife and she laughed at it! I speak truth. So by the time the Lama came back from the North I was a by-word and a mockery among the people of Tilgaun, who are a despicable lot but prosperous, and full of a notion that Missish-Anbun is the cause of all good fortune. And she, of course, being a woman and unmarried (which is witchcraft) told tales to the Lama about me when he returned; whereat he (the old fool!) was distressed, saying he was answerable, in that he had left me there during his absence. He spoke much about the Wheel, and merit, and responsibility. And I, who cannot help liking the old fool, although I laugh at him — and at myself for eating rebuke from him — was ashamed. Aye, I was ashamed. He made me promise to perform acts of repentance — as he said, to offset my own sins — but as I think, because he had a use for me.
“And now he had Sam-ding with him, the chela, whom all men in that part regard as a reincarnation of some ancient prodigy who has been dead so long that his bones must have dissolved into powder. (But the priests tell just such tales, and who can say they are not true?)
“And there was much excitement over a piece of green stone. It had disappeared from somewhere up North, although none mentioned the name of the place whence it had come, but I had heard something, and the rest I saw. There had come a man from Ahbor to the mission, dying of a belly-wound, and if my advice had been asked he would have been left to die outside the wall, because those Ahbors are devils. I have heard they eat corpses, which is a dog’s business, and I know none dares to enter their country. But Missish-Anbun is mad, and she took him into the mission, where they stitched up the belly-wound and tried to make him live. But he died, and they found the stone in his clothing, and Missish-Anbun kept it. There was much talk about the stone, for the most part nonsense; some said this, and some said that, but it was clear enough that whoever really owned the stone had set inquiries going and a rumor had been spread that there was danger in possessing it.
“I had made up my mind to steal the stone from Missish-Anbun and discover how much it might be worth to a man of some skill in bargaining; for it seemed to me there could not be much danger to me as long as I had my knife. — Where is my knife, Ommonee? Presently? Well, don’t forget to return it to me. That knife and my future are one.
“As I was saying, I was about to steal the stone. But a girl in the mission — one whose virtue I had satisfactory reason to suspect — forestalled me. She took the stone and ran with it toward the house of Sirdar Sirohe Singh, who is a prince of devils, and a father of lice, and no good. (He had warned me to leave Tilgaun, and I had told him who his father was.)
“And there had come a rat of a man named Tin Lal to Tilgaun, too much given to asking questions. Him I was minded to slay, because that girl, whose virtue I say was not such as others seemed to think, no longer smiled at me when I sat in the sun near the mission gate, but took more notice of Tin Lal than was seemly. Night after night I had waited for her, and it came to my ears too late that there was a reason, that concerned me, for the smile in Tin Lal’s impudent eye. I whetted the edge of my knife on a stone by the image of the Lord Buddha that is set into a niche in the mission wall.
“But the girl stole the stone and ran off with it, and Tin Lal waited for her at a narrow place where the path to the sirdar’s house runs between a cliff on the one hand and a deep ravine on the other — a place where the eagles ne
st and there is mist ascending from the waterfall below. He pushed her into the ravine and climbed down after her, taking the stone. And then he disappeared. And Sirdar Sirohe Singh, who is a dog — whose liver is crawling lice — whose heart is a dead fish, accused me of the deed. There was talk of bringing me before the rajah, and there was other talk of driving me away.
“Nevertheless, I had promised the Lama I would wait for him in Tilgaun. I was not minded that my time had come. Moreover, I am one who keeps promises. So I slew the loudest talkers — very secretly, by night; and after that there was not so much insolence toward me when I passed up and down the village.
“Ohe — but I was weary of Tilgaun! And when the Lama came he at first believed I had slain the girl and stolen the stone. But he is not entirely a fool in all respects, and the chela Samding has more brains than a grown man with a beard down to his belly. It was the chela who said that if I had in truth stolen the stone I would certainly have run away with it and not have stayed in Tilgaun like an eagle hatching eggs. And the Lama, having listened to a million lies and discovered the truth like a bird in the mist among them, told me I might earn much merit by following the trail of Tin Lal to the southward and recovering the stone. The Lama Tsiang Samdup said to me, ‘Slay not, but obtain the stone from Tin Lal and I will pay thee more for it than any other dozen men would pay.’ And he named a price — a very great price, which set me to dreaming of the girls in Spiti, and of a valley where I am minded someday to build a house.
“So I, having furthermore a grudge of my own against Tin Lal, agreed, and I followed the rat Tin Lal to Delhi, where, as I have told you, I saw him, through the shop-window where the snake is, sell the stone to Chutter Chand, the jeweler.
“But the Lama and Samding had come to Delhi likewise, and to them I told what I had seen, having lost sight of Tin Lal in the crowd. And now give me back the knife, Ommonee, that I may hunt for Tin Lal. I have an extra grudge against him. Has he not robbed me of the price the Lama would have paid me for the stone? Ohe — my honor and my anger and his end are one! Give me the knife, Ommonee.”
The Hillman smiled winningly, as one who has talked his way into a hard man’s heart. He held his hand out, leaning forward as he squatted on the mat.
“Tin Lal is in the jail,” said Ommony.
“Oh, is that so? That makes it easy. I will wait outside the jail. They will not keep him in there forever.”
“What is that house, where you tried to kill me this afternoon?” Ommony asked.
“A place kept by Tibetans, where the Lama stays when in Delhi. That is where the actor people come to see him.”
“Why did you attack me?”
“Why not? You had said, the Lama shall have the stone. Therefore it was clear to me that you must have it. Therefore, if I should take it from you I could sell it to the Lama. I am no fool!”
Ommony, with something like contentment in his eye, began to translate for the benefit of the others as much as he could remember of Dawa Tsering’s tale, tossing occasional questions to the Hillman to get him to repeat some detail. It was the company the Lama kept that seemed to interest him most.
“If you like,” said McGregor, when the tale was finished, “I’ll have those Tibetans searched.”
Ommony was about to refuse that offer, but his words were cut short by an uproar on the porch. Diana — on guard and therefore unable to be tempted from her post — was barking like a battery of six-pounders. He strode into the hall and listened — heard retreating footsteps — someone in no hurry pad-pad-padding firmly on soft-soled shoes toward the garden gate.
He opened the door. Diana glanced angrily at a long, narrow, white envelope that lay on the porch floor under the electric light, and resumed her furious salvoes at the gate.
“So-ho, old lady — someone you knew brought a letter, eh? You weren’t indignant till he threw it down and retreated. You never said a word while he was coming up the path.” He wetted his finger and tested the hot night air. “Uh-huh — wind’s toward you — recognized his smell — that’s clear enough. All right — good dog — on guard again.”
He picked up the envelope and walked into the house. “Did you tell the Lama where you were coming tonight?” he asked, standing over Dawa Tsering, looking down at him.
“Aye. I did. Why not? How should I know, Ommonee, that this was not a trap — and I with no knife to hack my way out of it! Suppose that you had thrown me in the jail — who should then have helped me unless the Lama knew? I am no fool.”
“Did you tell him I said he shall have the green stone?”
“Nay! How often must I say I am no fool! Would he buy the stone from me, after I had told him you said he shall have it?”
“The letter! The letter!” exclaimed Mrs. Cornock-Campbell. “Are you made of iron, Cottswold? How can you hold a mysterious letter in your hand without dying to know what is in it? Give it to me! Let me open it, if you won’t!”
Ommony passed it to her. John McGregor lit another cigarette.
CHAPTER VII. “Sarcasm? I wonder if that ever pays.”
It is the teaching of financiers and statesmen, and of them who make laws, and of most religionists, that of all things a man should first seek safety — for his own skin — for his own money — for his own soul. Yet I find this teaching strange; because of all the dangers in the universe, the greatest lies in self-preferment.
— from The Book of the Sayings of Tsiang Samdup
THE letter was written on the same long, ivory-colored paper as that which had reached McGregor’s office in the silver tube, but this time it was not European hand writing, although the words were English. Someone more used to a brush, such as the Chinese use, and who regarded every pen-stroke as a work of art in true relation to the whole; had taken a quill pen and almost painted what he had to say, in terse strong sentences.
“To Cottswold Ommony, Esquire,
“At the house of his friend.
“May Destiny mete you full measure of mercy. The piece of jade is neither yours nor mine. By deeds in the valley of indecision a soul ascends or descends. You are one to whom reward is no inducement; to whom honor is no more than wealth a pleasing substitute for right doing. There is nothing done in this life that is not balanced by justice in the lives to come and the ultimate is peace. So do. And not by another’s hand are deeds done; nor is the end accomplished without doing all that lies at the beginning. Thus the beginning is the end, and the end the beginning, as a circle having no beginning and no end, from which is no escape but by the Middle Way, which lies not yonder but at the feet of him who searches. Take the stone to Tilgaun, which is one stage of the journey to the place whence it came. From Tilgaun onward let those be responsible on whom the burden falls. There is danger in another’s duty. Peace be with you. Peace give you peace that you may multiply it.
“Tsiang Samdup.”
Mrs. Cornock-Campbell read the letter aloud. Not smiling, she passed it to Ommony and watched his face. He read it twice, frowning, and gave it to McGregor, who emitted his staccato, fox-bark laugh, which Diana heard and answered with one deep musical bay from the porch. “That links him technically-tight,” said McGregor, folding the letter with decisive finger-strokes and stowing it into his pocket. “Where did he learn to write such English?”
“Oxford,” said Ommony. “He took D.D. and LL.D. Degrees, or so Marmaduke told me. We’re not the only section of humanity that runs to Secret Service, Mac. We look for one thing, they for another. There isn’t much they don’t know about us, along the line that interests them.”
Mrs. Cornock-Campbell looked incredulous.
“A Ringding Gelong Lama — an English Doctor of Divinity? Wonders don’t cease, do they! What could he gain by taking that degree? Amusement? Are they as subtle as all that?”
“Subtle, yes. Amusement, no,” said Ommony, frowning darkly. “How spike the guns of the persistent missionary, unless they know how the guns are loaded? That’s the gist of one of his letters t
o me. But damn the man! Why couldn’t he meet me by appointment instead of writing this stuff? I’ve suspected him for some time of—”
Mrs. Cornock-Campbell laughed. “He evidently knows you, Cottswold, better than you know him.”
“Know him? I’ve never met him!” Ommony retorted. “I saw him today for the first time, from behind a brass Buddha in Chutter Chand’s shop. There’ve been lots of times when he ought to have met me, to talk over details in connection with the trusteeship, but it all had to be done by correspondence. He has set his signature to every paper I drew up, and he has agreed to every proposal I have made. Confound him! Why is he afraid of me? Why couldn’t he come in, instead of leaving that fool letter on the door-step?”
“Wise letter!” (Mrs. Cornock-Campbell went back to the piano. None but Rimsky-Korsakov could describe her sensations.) “He evidently knows how to manage you. Do you ever bet, John? I will bet you five rupees I know what’s next!”
John McGregor drew a five-rupee note from his pocket and laid it on the piano. Mrs. Cornock-Campbell began playing. Dawa Tsering, his head to one side like a bird’s, watched her fingers, listening intently.
“There are devils inside the machine,” he said after a while. “Give me my knife, Ommonee, and let me go.” But Ommony, pacing the floor, both hands behind him, frowning, took no notice of anyone. He was away off in a realm of conjecture of his own.
“Remember: I stand to lose five dibs!” McGregor remarked at the end of five minutes. “Suppose you put me out of agony. I’m Scots, you know!”
“Damn!” Ommony exclaimed. “Why can’t he take me into his confidence? I hate to suspect a man. Pen and ink anywhere?”
“I lose,” said Mrs. Cornock-Campbell, nodding toward a gilt-and-ivory writing desk against the wall. “Take back your five rupees, John. You’ll find a five of mine being used as a book-mark in one of those volumes of Walter Pater on the shelf. Put something in its place.”