Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  He shuddered again. The Jews have always been inquisitive of evil; more than any other people in the world they are shocked by it, and turn against it with loathing and violence when reaction sets in. According to Grim’s theory, that is the secret of the strength of their enduring race. It was surely the secret of Mordecai’s goings and comings, his strength and his weakness, his courage and his contradictory fears.

  “Raft knows enough about the Tantric mysteries to get himself admitted. Maybe he thinks through them he’ll find the clue to Sham-bha-la — same as you have to die to learn what the next world’s like. Maybe not — I don’t know. It was him that put ’em up to inviting me. He slips a note to me one night when we files out of the refectory after supper, two by two, him pretending to twist his ankle on a broken flagstone, so I’d pass him. ‘I’ll get you a pass to the show,’ was all he wrote in it; and me, I’m fool enough to think he’s acting white.

  “Next day after that they changed my cell mate. I was put in with a monk who had to tell me all the passwords. I’d ought to have seen through it. I’d ought to have noticed that you couldn’t lock the cell door. ‘Tweren’t the monk that stole my letter; he was snoring to beat ten when the door opened, and in come Rait — tip-toeing — shushing me. ‘Quiet!’ he whispers in English. ‘Have you a message from Jeff Ramsden?’

  “Like a fool I says,’Who’s Jeff Ramsden?’ He kids he can’t hear and stoops over me, groping with his hands.

  “`Didn’t Jeff send me a message by you?’ he asks, and when I says no, he goes out, silent as a ghost.

  “Who stole my letter if he didn’t? Sure, I couldn’t see him in the dark, but who else in the monastery could speak English, and knew you, and knew you might send him a message? All the same, I didn’t miss the letter yet; he’d taken it out of the tube, and the tube was still tied to my arm. He’s smart all right. But I’ll get him for it. The same feller ain’t going to sting me twice.

  “Next night was the ceremonies. Cavern. Dark place as old as the mountains. Not above half of the monks is admitted; none but blackbirds is allowed in there — one by one, down dark steps, and along a passage where there was masked monks standing in niches carved out of the rock, who took the password, and each password different. We had to go dead slow because of darkness, and a man in a mask at the entrance holds us up until the man ahead had gone some way along the passage, so there’s lots of room between us and I couldn’t hear whether my words was the same as other peoples’. Maybe not. I guess not — although I wasn’t suspicious until I reached the cavern and two monks in devil masks with horns on ’em led me away from all the others to a sort of platform on the left-hand side.

  “There I sits. And I tell you, I ain’t feeling good. There was no way out excep’ the way we’d come in, and between me and the entrance was about two hundred monks all squatting in rows with hoods over their heads — so I couldn’t tell which was Rait. You couldn’t see much anyhow. There was about a hundred little butter-lamps, set where the light would shine on a wall all carved with devils and colored something gorgeous — gold, red, blue — it was a wonder.

  “Next thing, about a dozen men in masks came up and stood behind me and on either side. You never saw such masks. But queerly enough that took some of the scare out of me. I’ve been into the secret caves of Lebanon, and into Hindu temples where they marry girls to brass gods; and in all those places, when you first get in they put you through some kind of initiation. I hadn’t missed that letter yet, and I was thinking if I flashed the Kun-Dun’s seal I’d be all right whatever happened. Down below there on the floor the monks all kep’ their heads bowed, so I bowed mine too, but that didn’t keep me from looking — three ways at once!

  “Presently a bell rings, and there’s silence. Door’s shut. Incense — and then what them savages call music — bells, drums, cymbals, trumpets and stringed instruments. I guess it was music. You can’t make any sense to it, but it fills a cavern first rate and brings the goose flesh out all over you, deadens your eardrums, makes you feel like you was dead and wish you wasn’t. Then there was chanting. Say, if anything ‘ud make a man believe in hell, that chanting would!

  “I can’t tell all that happened after that. It wouldn’t sound right. It was like the music — no way of describing it — rotten bad stuff, worse than anything I’d seen. (And I’ve seen plenty.) There was just enough of dim-colored light for you to see their heads all swaying, till it looked as if their heads weren’t any part of ’em; and after a while you could feel the magic of it, as if your senses all worked backward instead of forward. It felt like being the reflection in a looking-glass. It felt as if we’d all gone back together to the place where animals exist before they’re born. Horrible! — and me, I’ve seen the worst rites in the Hindu temples.

  “Suddenly a man showed up from nowhere — black — stark — naked, except he had a devil-mask on. King o’ Darkness. They all moaned at him. It was worse and worse. He swayed, and they swayed in time to him, until he had ’em all by the imaginations — and he pretty near got me, but I was hanging on to the multiplication table — thirteen times thirteen — working it out in my head to keep from being caught in that cursed magic. I can stick out most things, but it made you feel your head weren’t yours. Nor your soul neither.

  “There was lots more. So far they was only warming up. Maybe now I don’t remember all of it. After a while I guess it got me. I felt like a man under water, or in a dream or something. There was pressure on top of my head. I couldn’t move. Then all at once I come to — sudden — and I knew I was up against it! That King o’ Darkness faced my way and hollered, pointing at me with a kind o’ pitchfork. And they all hollered.

  “I talk Tibetan good, but I couldn’t make head or tail of what that King o’ Darkness said, nor what they all yelled back at him, excep’ that they was meaning me.

  “He kep’ on making stabs toward me. Then he was gone — sudden, like a shadow when you blow a candle out. No knowing where he went, nor how. Silence then, and you could hear it with your backbone. There weren’t no noise, nor nothing a man was used to. All like being dead — lonely — nowhere to go, and no reason for anything. Awful. I guess a cow feels that way in the shambles.

  “Then a man in a mask and a long black robe stood up and says — calm as if it bored him — there’s a chiling in the place. The minute he’d said it the band blared up and there was noise enough to burst your head. Them guys who was around me on the platform jerked me to my feet. They tore the clothes off me, along with that tube I had tied to my arm. I was stark naked — and them tearing my things to bits to hunt for something hidden in the seams.

  “The rest of ’em howled like maniacs. Like wolves they was. I knew they’d tear me in a minute. So I shouts for Lung-tok. I says Lung-tok knows me.

  “I’ve been laughed at — all Jews have — but never like that before. It made your blood run cold. There were’t so much as a sign from Rait, and I couldn’t tell which was him on account of their all having hoods. But I thinks, maybe he’s biding his time to help me sudden-like when it’ll do most good.

  “So I tells them I has a letter from the Kun-Dun — that’s the Dalai Lama. But the feller who’d tore the tube off my arm shows ’em the tube empty — and it struck me sudden, all of a heap, who’d swiped it.

  “Mind you, I can’t prove nothing. I’m not saying it was Rait. But if it wasn’t him, who else was it? And if it wasn’t him, why didn’t he speak a word for me or lift a finger? I called out to him again, and the whole lot mocked me— ‘Lung-tok! Lung-tok!’ — like lot o’ bull-frogs croaking.

  “I didn’t have time to do no thinking after that. They pitched me off the platform, same as you’d throw meat to tigers, and I don’t hardly know what happened; barring I was nearly torn to bits. I’m black and blue now, and that was best part of a month ago — I’ve lost count o’ the days. I fought a bit, until they near beat my brains out, and then I tried to sham dead, but it weren’t no use; they beat me until
they thought I was sure dead — and me, I think the same — and I was chucked into a dark hole.

  “When I come to I was lying legs upward in the hole, so cold I thought first I was frozen. It hurt that bad to move, I guess I fainted. When I came to again I was thirsty; I was that thirsty I had to move however bad it hurt. I gropes, and there’s bones. I takes one with me. I has to crawl out o’ the hole legs first.”

  “By and by I’m in the cavern. There’s seven butter-lamps burning in front o’ the carved wall, and I looks. It’s a man’s thigh bone in my hand. The lamps have been refilled, so there’s no guessing what time it is nor how long I’ve been in that sepulcher. No water. Nobody around. I drinks some of the butter from the lamps, and rubs the rest all over me, leaving only one lamp burning. Ever drink hot butter when you’re parched? Hoi-yee! I near went crazy! What I’d rubbed on warmed me and I didn’t hurt so much, but my head bursts every step I take. I looks for that passage we’d all come in by, and I was that out o’ my senses I was trying to remember all the Passwords — me, what couldn’t speak — stark naked — blood and butter — wanting to give passwords!

  “The door was shut, but it opens easy. There’s a monk in the first niche in the passage. There’s a lamp, and he’s sitting there telling his beads. I walks rights up to him, and he’s so scared he can’t yell. I guess I was a picture! He grabs me, but I’m greased good — and he hurt me that bad where he gripped, I’d ha’ killed my mother! I swats him with the thigh bone. But I weren’t so sure his skull was broke, so I takes his staff, what had an iron spike to it, and prods him. Then I takes his clothes. I’m wearing what’s left of ’em now.

  “I made it quick. There was a storm outside, and that helps. I ate snow. By and by I finds some water in a horse trough near the stables. I guess I drunk enough to swim in. Then I was able to think. There was lots o’ monastery servants saw me, but they couldn’t see me good, ‘cause it was snowing, and I’m dressed like a monk, so nobody says a word. I took a horse out o’ the stables. And I knew where they kept the loaves of bread all stacked in a shed outside the kitchen. I had to break the lock, but that was easy. So I had bread.

  “I reckoned it wouldn’t be long before they’d find that monk; unless he was there for punishment they wouldn’t leave him more than four hours, and it might be two. I makes the horse step lively, and the snow coming from behind me covers up the tracks.

  “But I had to sleep, you understand, and I had to feed me and the horse after the bread give out. And I’d no money. So I acts the monk at wayside inns, begging and blessing the nemo — that’s the landlady — and telling her she’ll have children. Any one could see I’d been beaten half-dead and was running, but the monks are always having fights among themselves and that’s nobody’s business.

  “Storms — you never see the like of ’em — wind blowing the snow along in clouds, and the tracks covered as soon as a horse makes ’em. But they’re after me. I’m fired at. One night they come on me when I’m sleeping in an inn, but I’d blessed that nemo special. I slips out while they’re beating her to get the information, and she’s yelling so they can’t hear me lock the door on them. I set a log against it. Then I takes a change o’ horses, leaving my old tired one. I’d ha’ cut the throats of all the horses excep’ the one I took, but if I’d wasted time looking for a knife I might ha’ lost out.

  “The worst part was to find the way. The snow don’t lie deep on the plains, but it hides the trail and it chokes the passes. If you don’t find the right gap, and have your luck with you at that, you’re done for. My bruises pained me so I felt like quitting, but I’ve a wife and daughters — and I was cursing Rait, and that kept life in me.

  “I’d have lost the way sure, only I got thinking again after a bit and let them show me. I reckoned they’d know I was making for Ladakh, and they’d keep on going until they caught up. I hid beside the road and let them go by — eight of ’em, armed with rifles. Then I followed.

  “Nobody looked to see me come along behind. But of course they was first at the inns, so I had to be smart with the nemos; they’d been warned to keep a lookout. I tells ’em I’m the monk the chiling half-killed and I’m racing to keep my brother monks from committing the sin of retribution — which is the way they talk and don’t act. The nemos understand all right, and one of ’em gives me a nice long knife. I promises her two sets o’ twins in three years.

  “It’s all talk that them passes can’t be crossed in winter. A Chink army did it. So did a Sikh army — but they lost out and two-thirds of ’em died. Sven Hedin did it. Me, I’ve done it. But you have to kale pe a, as the Tibetans say — go slowly. You need guts. Them Tibetans what was hunting me left first-class tracks for me to follow, and in one place I come on a load of barley they’d cached, so me and the horse fed good. But I had to keep my eyes open, knowing they’d give up looking for me sooner or later and turn back.

  “That come near doing for me. I never thought there’d be more of ’em coming along behind. First I knew, I was fired at. Then they’d shot the horse, and you can hear a rifle miles away. Back come the men I’m following — slow, because it’s all a horse can do to climb, but coming; and them behind me coming fast. I’m three parts dead anyhow, so I took a chance.”

  Mordecai covered his eyes with his hands. Unable to shut out the mental picture of that chance he took, he gestured as if thrusting it away from him and then went on talking rapidly.

  “There was a precipice to one side — sheet ice, most of it. Over I goes. Thinking of it’s worse than doing it. I’d took the bag of barley with me, so I falls softer sometimes than others. And I sticks the knife into the ice. That helps.

  “There’s a ledge, and it ain’t much, but I lies there and they can’t see me. I chucks the bag over. The barley’s all spilled and the bag’s busted, so it falls all spraddled out and maybe it looks like me from way up top there. They rides around to come at me from down below — and that’s a half-day’s journey.

  “Climbing back was worse. But there was that dead horse, and I was starving hungry. I gets up there after a while, and there weren’t much of the knife left, me using it to dig holes in the ice and hang on, but I cuts off chunks of meat and eats a lot of it. I guessed they’d started home again; they’d reckon I was stone dead on the ledge, not finding me below there; so by and by, of course, they’d see the horse I’d cut the meat from, and I couldn’t help leaving a track in the snow.

  “I lost the way, and it stormed, covering up my tracks and theirs, too. That looks like the end of it. I’m weak and I’m getting light-headed now. I keeps talking to my wife, and there’s a dish of hot curry in front of me just out o’ reach — me hurrying to catch it — reaching out and falling. When I’m pretty near ready to quit, I hear wolves. Then I sees ’em. They’re down yonder, fighting over a dead horse — so that’s the trail, and the Tibetans are along ahead of me again. That horse’s leg was broke, and his insides was still warm, so they ain’t so far ahead.

  “Them wolves slunk off when they see me coming, so I cuts as much meat as I can carry and makes Leh on foot, digging into the snow at night and following their tracks all day long — me in a hurry to get some good grub and a bed to lie in. You get sick of raw horse.

  “It didn’t storm no more, so following was middling easy, except where the wind blew the snow in drifts; so by and by I sees Leh — down a valley in the distance. I come pretty near not making it. I lies down and cries like a fool. I has to sleep one more night in the snow, and next morning I can hardly drag myself along.

  “There’s a Ladakhi in Leh — a Moslem, who’s a friend of mine. He takes me in and says nothing, but he brings me all the tales that’s going round. I’m sick and he’s pretty good for a Moslem; he has his three wives ‘tend to me, and one of ‘em’s only a child — fourteen-fifteen — thereabouts. She’s jealous of the other two.

  “Them Tibetans, what’s been hunting me, means wintering in Leh. They don’t fancy the road back over the passes. And th
em not having caught me, the folks at home’ll say I bribed ’em. They figure to go back and pick up my bones in the spring.

  “But I’m not feeling good and the Ladakhi gets a doctor for me — a Moslem. He’s a top-notcher, but inquisitive, and, not being told nothing, he talks. So the Tibetans hear of it.

  “Ladakh’s British, more or less. There’s a British resident, and a Moravian mission, and astronomers up at the observatory. The Tibetans don’t dare do much openly.

  “First they tries aconite, sending a woman to bribe that young wife to put the stuff in the soup the doctor orders for me. But my Ladakhi friend, he has suspicions; and I’ve done him good turns. So has Benjamin. So he feeds me rice, him cooking it, and lets the doctor see the soup. When he beat that young new wife you could have heard her yell a mile off.

  “Next they tries to set my friend’s house afire. He’s hospitable, but there’s a limit to anything, you understand. I might have appealed to the British resident (and he ain’t a bad sort) but it ‘ud have meant answering too many questions, besides never being able to leave Delhi again without being watched. So my friend gives me a horse and some food, and I’m off. I gives him a draft on Benjamin to pay my board and lodging.

  “Comes five of the Tibetans after me, reckoning they’ll catch me their side of the Zogi-la.

  “They pretty near did. That horse weren’t up to much, though I gives him all my bread. The storm comes in the nick o’ time. It sweeps along behind us, and they daren’t no more turn back into it than what I did. I’ve a notion some of ’em went over the ravine, where the pass turns sharp and the wind comes at you three ways. It was pitch-dark.