by Talbot Mundy
He arrived at a place where a track led up the cliff-side. There was a ledge, no great distance up, from which he should be able to see the entire grim panorama, so he climbed the track. Jonesey called to him that the track led nowhere, but followed him, since he insisted on taking it. He discovered that Jonesey had not lied — or had apparently not lied; there was the ledge, and beyond that nothing, so he sat down on a boulder, staring at the view.
Hearing Jonesey’s approaching footsteps, he gathered a handful of small rocks and began to pelt them at him.
“Stay below there!” he commanded. “Damn you, I want solitude!”
Jonesey turned back. “All right, Tiberius!” he answered. “All right! Consider yourself on Capri! But if you try to move out of my sight, I shall follow even if I have to shoot you in the leg to slow you down a bit.”
Gup watched him scramble up a boulder from which he could see the ledge, and for a moment or two he wondered in which direction he might move in order to escape out of sight, but he could see no way. The cliff rose sheer behind him. On his right, and in front, the ledge ended in air. It was only a big rock projecting from the cliffside. And he had been wrong in supposing he would be able to see the entire floor of the gorge; he could see less than half of it. However, it was a good enough place in which to sit and puzzle out what he ought to do.
And Love has more resources than the whole
Vast aggregate of nature and all things
That force has made and gathered.
As the hole Is to the spade, or as the song the diva sings
Is to the source of music, so are all
The fruits of being to the spiritual
Cause Which makes men be. Lo, he who loves may call
On That, whose instance knows no pause.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Swallow your dose and get a move on!”
DOWN the face of the cliff was a gash like the scar left by a thunderbolt. It ended in a jumble of broken rocks in which scrawny thorn-bush and starved weeds fought for a living. Gup sat near that, since it camouflaged him. There was no object in being difficult to see, except the satisfaction of annoying Jonesey — that and the habit that humans share with certain animals of liking to lie hidden in the Intervals of one mood and another. For a while he watched men like insects moving among boulders. They were as hard to explain as insects — streams of them going both ways to and from an opening in the cliff-face near the Ranee’s windows; it looked purposeless, and yet there was a suggestion of purpose. The silence was almost stupifying; the great gorge seemed to swallow sound and to change it, by an unearthly alchemy, into something of which space is made. The feeling of vastness and unreality kept on increasing. It was nightmare land.
So a voice meant nothing — not for a few moments. It was almost like the voice of conscience or a memory of speech heard long ago. It issued from behind him, as it might be from the air or from the solid cliff and it was almost toneless. It was so free from emphasis that it stole on the ear rather than spoke into it, with the result that Gup did not turn his head, even when he recognized it as the voice of some one hidden in the bush behind him.
“Think you’re out o’ luck, I suppose! You’re lousy with ut! All the luck of every idiot in India added into one heap wouldn’t match yours! If you look my way before I tip you to, I’ll brain you with a lump of rock, you ostrich! Got your head so stuck into the luck, you can’t see daylight! I’m Tom O’Hara.”
“Cheerio, Tom.”
“Shift yourself. Sit on that other rock, so that you can see me sidewise. Put your elbow on your knee — chin on your hand — hide your mouth and talk, don’t whisper.”
Tom O’Hara’s owl face peered out from a maze of weeds and thorns. He had on a turban with the green patch of a hajji who had made the holy pilgrimage to Mecca, and he appeared to be dressed in the rusty-brown garb of a Moslem mullah. His owl eyes were aglow with the fever of love of his job — a glow that any one may interpret as he pleases; under that turban it looked like religious frenzy, a sure passport in the Moslem hills.
“How did you find me, Tom? How did you get here?”
“Easy. Knew of this place long ago. I knew ut ‘ud come to this. I said ut. I wrote ut. By and by they’ll blame me for ut. Who cares? I’ve a girl in Copenhagen. They can send me the sack for a wedding gift, and I’ll turn farmer. Hell of a good place for raising cows is all that country around Copenhagen.”
“But how did you get in?”
“Curious, aren’t you? I rode in, along with a dozen Shinwari headmen who would sell their souls for a half-chance to go raiding. They’re war-hungry — haven’t seen a sight of loot since the Amir poisoned his uncle. Your friend Rahman found ’em up-pass somewhere asking the way to this place. He brought ’em along; he had Pepul Das with him. And I’m a very holy gent from Samarkand, where I’ve been all winter, preaching ghasa (holy war). They naturally brought me with ’em. I’m that holy, though, I had to say my prayers, and I say ’em solitary, that being a special extra vow I took in Mecca, where the Prophet spoke to me in a dream by night, and any one who sees me praying has his luck queered permanent. I came and sat up here to look for you, and if your luck weren’t Allah’s own with diamonds on ut, I might be looking for a week. Who’s your friend on the rock?”
“One of his names is the mullah Ghulam Jan.”
“Not Jonesey? Lord, we are in luck! Has he finished those charts, I wonder? He’s been making ’em for three years. I’d give one eye to copy ’em. Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll swipe ’em — there were only two thieves crucified — I’m still living by my wits. Now gimme your news.”
“I am offered the command of an army.”
“I said ut! You accepted ut? You snapped ut?”
“Naturally not. What do you take me for?”
“I gave you credut for being two-eyed, you longfaced Caledonian! I wrote ut. I said: All that fellow Gup McLeod needs is a job o’ work. I told ’em: He’s a Covenanter out of employment. I said: Give him something difficult and dangerous to do, with peas in his boots and a hair-shirt, and he’ll spike hell’s cannons, but if you don’t, he’ll spike yours. And I made ’em listen — dammut! And here you are — and you turn the job down! You ostrich!”
“You want to see me invading India?” Gup asked, his lips white with contempt. There was no humor in him at the moment.
“Sooner see you try ut than see you sit here like a virgin Andromache waiting for your modesty to save your virtue! Nobody needs virgins nowadays. Listen, you anachronism — you Hielan’ hell-cat with a Covenanters’ muzzle! Get your claws out — get ’em busy!”
“How?” Gup asked him.
“First I’ll tell you why. They’ve kep’ this subskyrosavitch, which is Russian for a ten-ton censorship. The Punjaub is seething; ninety per cent, of the Sikhs are ready to revolt and raise bloody hell, and that’s not half of ut, there’s lots more, spoiling for self-rule. You know what that means — how many cutthroats that means? All right. The Amir of Afghanistan, with a new throne under him, mind you, that makes him feel like Pharaoh on a hot stove, knows about the Punjaub. He’s no Solomon, but he can pick ’em when the cards lie face-up. He’s heard of Mustapha Kemal and Mussolini. He knows Europe is stone-broke and sick o’ fighting. He’d be crazy if he didn’t cut loose! He’s all ready to come howling down the Khyber with a quarter of a million Afghans — into the Punjaub — and up with the Sikhs — Allah strafe India! Get me?”
“Yes,” said Gup, “I know that.”
“And you sit there mooning! And you offered the command of an army, by the best-looking woman east of Europe, full o’ money and notions — and the meat on the table — dammut! All you have to do is grab ut! You ostrich! Can’t you see, that if you take her army by the snoot — and you a known outlaw — nobody knows where you’ll lead ut! Will you march on Kabul? That’s what the Amir wants to know. And who tells? Is it likely he’ll waltz into India, with you and maybe fifty thousand Hillmen sweating blood f
or a chance to fall on his rear and loot his baggage trains? And are the Sikhs so crazy that they’ll take a chance until they know whether you’re for the Amir or ag’in’ him? Not much! Sikhs have had a taste or two o’ being bad boys all on their little lonesome! Oh, you ostrich! Think o’ Glint’s peeve when he learns it was Gup McLeod who saved India! We might pull strings and fix ut so that Glint has to be on parade when they make you K. C. M. G.! They’ll sure do ut! You can make ’em do ut! If they didn’t do ut, they might think you’d cross the Rubicon like Joan of Arc and rub their smellers in the dust!”
“Not so simple,” said Gup. “It’s her army, not mine.”
“And she a woman? And you looking like a flameheaded Launcelot out of a book by Dumas? Is there anything simpler? Ain’t it cushy? What do you want — a bath-chair and a trained nurse? Dammut! If I had your good looks, and, say, half o’ your luck, I’d lead a raid on Kabul that ‘ud make her army sick o’ fighting for a couple o’ generations! I’d make the Amir sick, too. And I’d make her sick o’ spending money! After that, if I liked her well enough, I’d set her to cooking and keeping house and milking a cow or two o’ mornings. If not — I’d let the Government have her for exhibit A, example one, o’ playing poker without knowing who she’s up against.”
Gup scowled, although he liked the theory, and he loved Tom O’Hara. He suspected Tom would give him no false tips, even for the sake of statecraft. But it is not easy for a man like Gup to love a woman, lie to her, betray her and then laugh, not though he save her from ruin and death by doing it.
“I’d have to pledge my word,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“Go ahead then and pledge ut! Me, I’d pledge ut on a stack o’ Bibles — and I’d kiss her on the mouth and call her puss-in-the-corner names — I’d put a helmut on and get myself a ramping big horse — I’d talk about plundering India’s plains, to get the army gingered up — and I’d act that treasonable that they’d find a new name for ut! And all for the love of—”
Tom O’Hara hesitated. He was watching Gup’s face, his own eyes wide and his weird nose moving like an owl’s beak.
“For the love of country, honesty, or a woman — which?” Gup asked him.
“Nix on any of ’em! For the love of acting like a man! Will you do ut?”
Gup sat silent. It was not argument that reached him, it was contact with a friend whose purpose and integrity were flintlike. A spark had struck. He felt a new flame burning in him, as he sat toying with a rock that he tossed from hand to hand. He stood up. Suddenly he threw the rock; it smashed on the boulder below within a foot of Jonesey, who scrambled to earth in a hurry.
“I will do it,” he said calmly.
“I knew ut.”
“But listen, Tom, I”
“Dammut, don’t talk slop to me; I’ve a girl of my own in Copenhagen! You’re in love with her. I knew ut. Any ostrich could see that with his head in a barrel o’ saw-dust. Take a tip: if you’re only in love, get it over with and get out. But if you love her, use your whip! I don’t mean that too literal, but let her know who cooks the hash and who finds fault with ut — you get me? Women are like horses. Let ’em know who’s master — let ’em know ut, mind you, and no guessing — and there ain’t a thing they won’t do, nor a fence they won’t face for the sake of proving ‘emselves fit to look you in the eye.”
“Thanks, Tom. I dare say you know.”
“And here’s another tip for you: the Afghan Amir means ut. He means to invade India. He’s coming quick! Lottie Carstairs of Jullunder has a pipe-dream of a kingdom of her own between Afghanistan and India. Am I right? The Amir wants an empire — all the way to Delhi. Don’t argue with me — I know ut. And if you think the Amir hasn’t tried to win her alliance you’re as crazy as she’d be if she fell for ut. And if you think he hasn’t got some treacherous specimens cuckooed into her own nest, working against her, you’re just plain ignorant of how they play that kind o’ game.”
Gup paced along the ledge, stood staring and strode back. Then he picked up another rock for Jonesey’s benefit in case the Welshman should start up the track.
“Now, listen, Tom. If I do this I’ve got to lie to her. I’ve got to explain my change of front. An hour or two ago I refused her offer pointblank.”
“Easy. Glint has had you posted. There’s a reward out — five thousand rupees for you, dead or alive. You can say you saw me and I told you how your own crowd have condemned you without giving you the benefit of doubt.”
“Is it true?”
“True as I’m sitting here. The only friends you have left are the few you’d let sell you if it ‘ud save a ticklish situation. How many might that be — two — three men in Asia? Are you going? Take that fellow Jonesey with you and keep an eye on him; he knows me by sight, and I want to get my fingers on his charts.”
“All right, Tom.” Gup stared straight at him. “And thank you.”
The owl face nodded. The curved, beaklike nose spread slightly and a maze of wrinkles rippled upward as white teeth flashed in a cherubic smile. Then the face resumed its solemnity.
“Swallow your dose and get a move on!”
“All right, Tom.”
“And listen: watch that Dover woman. She’s as treacherous as Talleyrand and Judas Iscariot rolled in one, and she’s got more brains than either of ’em! Don’t forget now, that I said ut!”
But he must love. It is not written that his lust
Shall be the law of heaven. Crave he for the fruit
Who tilled no tree — the weariness and dust,
The seeming for a moment and the bruit
Of tasteless victory are his, since Fortune drew
Him to the lists of disillusionment to earn
Through failure Faith — that Phoenix, born anew,
Whose magic is so simple to apply, so hard to learn.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“You are the least touchy — the least violent — the least unreasonable man I know!”
“You are to come with me,” said Gup. He was another man; he whistled as he walked, and Jonesey had to hurry to keep up with him.
“Why this sudden interest in my society?” asked Jonesey. “It is merely minutes since I was a spiritual stink under your nostrils. I suspect you of enmity, by Allah, veiled and vile. It was just now as frank as a Durham bull’s.”
“I have slightly changed my mind about you,” Gup answered.
“Oh. What shall I do about that, I wonder? Allah! Nothing is more uncertain than the temper of these Nordic blonds; the only certainty about it is, that they will first get thoroughly self-righteous and then commit atrocity in the name of virtue. I prefer animals as less exasperating; however, you were going to tell me — ?”
“This,” said Gup. “From now on I expect you to report to me direct. If I as much as suspect you of not doing that—”
He hesitated. However, he had to begin. A commander-in-chief — more particularly of an army of lawless mountaineers — must be ruthless in enforcing discipline. He must apply the very principles he hated. In the name of right he must do wrong.
“I will send you,” he said, “to where you may discover which is the true religion, even if I have to kill you with my own hand.”
Jonesey’s brown eyes wondered at him, but Jonesey’s face was lighted with mischievous amusement, two sides of his character, almost like two colors, vying for supremacy, not blending — not able to blend — and both controlled by something else.
“You Nordics,” he retorted, “are in love with violence. That is because you violently hate your own shortcomings, instead of being amused by them as a sensible person would be. However, I can lie like Ananias. Very well, sir, I am at your service. I will report to you direct. I swear I will report to you direct. Shall I call you your Majesty — Cæsar — Imperial Highness?”
“You may call me Gup Bahadur.”
“That is rather a good name, Gup Bahadur. It doesn’t mean anything, but in the long run nothing means a
nything, so what’s the odds? Shall I tell you the actual truth for once — just this once — naked truth as near as I can tell it?”
He stopped, persuading Gup to face him. He leaned on his long staff, peering into Gup’s eyes. He resembled a monk more than ever; the wrinkles on his weathered skin were like writing on parchment — cryptic written statement of his unbelief in everything that the beautiful brown eyes had seen, and that the satyr’s ears had heard; nevertheless of his faith in something. The faith had baffled him; it was there but he could not grasp it with his intellect.
“If you make good as Gup Bahadur I will serve you as one man seldom serves another. By your eyes I can see you have crossed a Rubicon. And you won’t turn back. I am as big a fool as you are; I also refuse to turn back. And fools are happier than wise men, until folly and wisdom meet in one big melting-pot; we call it death. I have studied all religions and all governments. I have read and talked philosophy until my eyes burned and my throat was as dry as leather. Fortunately spittle comes to its own rescue, even after such a course as that, so I spat on all of them!”
He spat by way of illustration, exceedingly wetly and loosely, in the Moslem fashion that expressed scorn beyond control. Then he went on:
“I eliminated all the nonsense. There was this left: every man his own hero, his own guide and his own redeemer. But I am a bad guide except over mountains. As a hero, I find there are holes in me; I don’t hold heroism. And I can’t redeem a billy-goat. Nevertheless, I refuse to be robbed of amusement, and I find life interesting. Then what?”
He prodded the ground with his staff, leaned on it, straightened himself and continued:
“Nothing left but this: I will find some one else who shall be a hero, a guide, a redeemer. I will not believe in him, of course; that would be too stupid.
But I will act as if believing in him. When he falls down, I will leave him flat and find another. Or look for another; they are not easy to find. In that way I shall amuse myself, and I may learn something worth knowing. I will place at the service of such a man all my incredulity, my knowledge of things that are not what they seem to be, my expensive experience of man’s ingratitude, my immodesty, my genius for lying, my irreverence, and no small zeal. But beware of my zeal; I leave nothing undone; I make mistakes as accurate in detail and as hard to undo as a treasury statement. Do you wish to be that hero? Would you like me to think myself—”