by Talbot Mundy
Tom shoved the letter into his pocket. The Tibetan messenger led one of the yaks toward him, blindfolded, because if a yak should see the act of mounting he would presently use his horns to get rid of his rider.
“Nobly Born, a good beast, who will carry you in comfort.”
Suddenly he saw Tom’s eyes. He stepped backward.
“Have I done wrong? Have I spoken offense?”
Tom vaulted on to the yak from behind.
“How far to the monastery?”
“Nobly Born, being downhill, it should take two-thirds of the time from daybreak until now. Your Honor’s eyes are angry. How have I given offense?”
“You haven’t. Walk beside me and let us talk as we go.”
CHAPTER 33. “Got to get into the monastery.”
DOWLAH was either an expert or immensely reckless horse man. He wasn’t more than two miles behind when Tom saw him crossing the sloping moraine where he had read Elsa’s letter. As he vanished again in the bed of the winding track, the snub-nosed, gently mannered Tibetan asked:
“Does Your Honor know who that is who follows?”
“Have you heard of Tum-Glain?” Tom answered.
“No.”
“Are you a monk?”
“Yes, of the Josays Sept, that used to keep the Thunder Dragon Gate, until these changes came to pass. Some of us began to wear lay clothing as a protest. Later, they forced us all to do that, and made us labor at the mean tasks. We, who used to receive the pilgrims and instruct them, are now rhagbyas, reckoned of no account. They even make us handle dead men’s bodies. They have taken away even our prayer wheels.”
Tom quoted the Tibetan proverb:
“Night follows the day, but day follows the night.”
“Nobly Born, this is a long night! Ever since the Holy Panchen Lama Rinpoche was driven away into exile from Tashi-lunpo by the blasphemers in Lhasa who control the army, there has been nothing like the old order. Foreigners came here — two factions — both claiming — we say falsely — high authority from Lhasa. But who has true authority in all Tibet since the Holy Dalai Lama Rinpoche died? Who knows? They have found none yet to replace him. No Tashi Lama! No Dalai Lama! No Thö-pa-ga! In all sacred Tibet, no voice of true authority that all may trust! No longer are the pilgrims sent away from here to the ends of the earth with blessed messages of peace and wisdom from the lips of the Thö-pa-ga.”
“Hasn’t Thö-pa-ga returned? I heard he had.”
“Nobly Born, yes — with a woman, of whom we know nothing except that Thö-pa-ga loves her. Why should he love a foreign woman? Is it the sign of the end of all things?”
“Where is the woman?”
“I don’t know. She was in the monastery. But I think now she is with Thö-pa-ga within the Thunder Dragon Gate. They say it. In the old days, none would have dared to take her in there. But our Abbot admitted those black devils of Böns to the monastery, because the Holy Panchen Lama Rinpoche said that there is no such thing as evil men, but only evil that corrupts men by illusion. Prayer and meditation might have conquered their evil. But there was too much evil, and they too fond of it. It was they and their cursed magicians who brought the shang-shangs hither, and put them within the Thunder Dragon Gate, so that no one else dared to enter. The shang-shang doesn’t harm them, because their souls are black.”
“Shang-shang? One or many?”
“One now. At first there were many. The dreadful monsters destroy one another unless prevented. Who is to prevent? The females kill the males, and it is said that the shamans can’t find any more males on the mountain-ledges. There were five left, and one little male that was harmless and very afraid. Four of them the shamans took to India, in baskets, I don’t know why. Some said it was to terrify His Holy Eminence Lobsang Pun. Others, that it was to greet Thö-pa-ga, who was known to be coming. Perhaps it was for both those reasons. But they left the great one within the Thunder Dragon Gate, with the one male — the very little one. She slew it. Nobly Born, she is enormous and old. She is the mother of all those others.”
“Whom do the Böns obey?” Tom asked. His eyes were as alert as his ears. He could still not see the monastery. Half a mile ahead, a thousand feet lower, the track divided left and right. The left-hand fork led upward, past a number of caves; but it seemed to lead downward again in the distance and to curve to the right to rejoin the other. Half-way along the right-hand track, he caught sight of a number of men on foot. It was only a quick glimpse, through a gap. He wasn’t sure how many.
The monk answered: “They obey Chou Wang, as I do also, since I must. Chou Wang ordered me to bring that letter to Your Honor.”
“Who are the men coming uphill toward us?”
“Nobly Born, I don’t know.”
“Which of the roads below should we take?”
“The one to the right is easier.”
“Let us take the left one swiftly. They behave like men who wish not to be seen.”
The monk made no objection. That, in a Tibetan, was remarkable. All three monks went to great pains to keep out of sight, from above or below, until the loaded yaks and unloaded ponies began to scramble up the steep left-hand fork behind a fanged screen of enormous boulders.
“You are afraid of those fellows?”
“Nobly Born, we Josays never know nowadays what to expect. They shoot us one at a time, for no reason at all except that we are faithful and say our prayers. If we are seen speaking together they shoot us.”
“Who do?”
“Chou Wang and his followers, who declare they are Chinese, although we doubt it. They seem to us like foreigners from some other country. Perhaps devils. They throw our shot bodies, while they are still warm, to the shang-shang. Does Your Honor know that shang-shangs are the images in this world of the monsters that pursue the dead through all eternity? Who shall be saved from shang-shangs in the other world, whose body has been mauled by them in this present life?”
“Why haven’t you run away?”
“We are the faithful. We await the coming of the Holy Panchen Lama Rinpoche, or of his delegate the Holy Lobsang Pun, to restore the old order. Lobsang Pun sent word. He promised it shall not be long now. Should he come here and find no faithful?”
“How many are you?”
“Nine-and-forty. We were eighty.”
“Why do you trust me with these confidences?”
“Why not? We faithful await a messenger from Lobsang Pun Rinpoche, who isn’t likely to send any one we know, lest the messenger should be recognized by the Böns and slain. I have never before heard the name Rajah Dowlah. How should I know Your Honor’s business? You speak and you look like one who has authority. You might be the messenger, to say His Holiness is coming. If not, no matter. What harm could you do?”
Tom pulled out his permit with Lobsang Pun’s seal and signature. He unfolded it and held it in front of the monk’s eyes.
The monk stared. He almost went mad. He jumped, danced, slapped his thighs, thrust forward his forehead for Tom to touch it with the seal. He held it pressed against his forehead as long as Tom would let him. The other two came scrambling over rocks to see what the excitement was about, saw the seal and signature, and began chanting. All three laid their foreheads on the ground until Tom ordered them to get up.
“My name isn’t Dowlah. I am Tum-Glain. Here, you see it written. That man who rides the road below us is Dowlah. They who are coming toward him on foot are probably some of the Böns who brought Thö-pa-ga. They have been sent secretly by a man named Noropa, who may be with them. Have you faithful any weapons?”
“Only such as these things, and no powder! We are men of peace, not killers, such as Böns are.”
“Would you fight, if I would lead you?”
“No, Nobly Born. We aspire to merit, on the Middle Way.”
“Would you kill a shang-shang?”
“We are not killers of anything.”
“What if I should do it?”
“We would bles
s you!”
“You three, with the yaks and ponies, go as fast as you can to the monastery. Get your forty-nine together, if you can, and tell them I’m the man who saved the Holy Lobsang Pun from two of the shang-shangs that the Böns took to India! Tell them I’m coming to kill the big one! Wait now — wait a minute! Secretly if possible, get word to that woman who came with Thö-pa-ga. Say to her you have spoken with Tum-Glain. In proof of it, give her this.”
He opened Elsa’s bag, groped at random and found a little red vanity-case. The monk hid it in the voluminous bokkus above his belt.
“There is magic in that bag. Good white magic, blessed by His Holiness Lobsang Pun. Take care that she gets it, and no one else sees it. Tell her Tum-Glain is close at hand and very pleased with her. Repeat that.”
“Tum-Glain is close at hand and very pleased with her.”
“Right. If you faithful want to acquire great merit, and to receive the thousand-fold-fruitful-blessing of the Holy-Panchen-Lama-Rinpoche-Representative Lobsang Pun — in person, mind you, he shall bless you in person, touching you with his right hand — then obey that woman! Do whatever she tells you! For every act of obedience with which you obey her, I will demand, for each of you faithful, one thousand blessings from Lobsang Pun Rinpoche! Now hurry!”
Tom set the example. He was out of the monks’ sight in thirty seconds, keeping his head and shoulders low as he clambered diagonally, zigzag, downward, toward the point where he estimated Dowlah would meet the men coming uphill. He scrambled, slid, fell, clambered and arrived in time to look down from a ledge and see Dowlah talking to Noropa. There were seven others. They turned and led the way down hill, Noropa leading, Dowlah bringing up the rear. Tom scrambled along the ledge. He shouted:
“Dowlah!”
Almost too late. A machine-gun from behind some rocks on Tom’s left ripped out half a belt that mowed down all the Tibetans and Dowlah’s pony. Noropa was the first to be hit. Dowlah crawled out from under his pony, took cover, and climbed until Tom could take him by both hands and haul him to the ledge.
“Got your Mauser?” he asked, panting. There was blood on his knees from the climb.
“Lie still.”
Six men climbed down from the machine-gun nest into the narrow road-bed to examine their victims. They were dressed in padded khaki uniforms without insignia, and woolen puttees — short, stocky-looking fellows, as active as cats. Tom crawled along the ledge, making too much noise over loose rock. There was a tumbled heap of boulders between him and the spot he had marked down as the machine-gun nest. Holding his breath, and with the Mauser ready, he peered over — eyes to eyes, breath to breath with a Japanese who was looking to see what made the noise. The Mauser’s muzzle touched the Jap’s nose.
“Shoot, you idiot!”
But it was Tom’s left fist that sent the Jap sprawling head-over-heels into the hollow, where a Japanese machine-gun lay in place on its tripod in a gap between boulders. Tom jumped on to him. He wasn’t hurt much. He had a knife, but no pistol. He shouted, once, but a kick in the ribs stopped him and the shout didn’t seem to be heard by the men below. Dowlah scrambled down into the hollow and went straight for the machine-gun. Tom objected — with the Mauser.
“Come here, Dowlah. Stand there. Keep still.”
Instead of admitting that he knew Japanese, Tom tried the Japanese with Tibetan, getting no more response than an ambiguous grin. He tried English. The grin changed to a defensive, tight-lipped alertness. So he continued in English, speaking slowly:
“You are one of Naosuki’s men. Don’t lie about it. I know. He calls himself Chou Wang. This man is Rajah Dowlah, to whom Naosuki sold the plans of the fortifications of Kobe. The evidence against Naosuki is already in the hands of the Japanese Foreign Office. Naosuki is a traitor to his Emperor.”
“Who are you?”
“A traveler. Perhaps you have heard of Eiji Sarao? Knowing I was on my way to join an expedition, Eiji Sarao asked me to find you people, and to say that as many of you as are found in Naosuki’s outfit will be handed over to your own government. Unless you, too, are traitors to your Emperor, you will separate yourselves from Naosuki.”
“Why he — Eiji Sarao not make that in writing?”
“Eiji Sarao is dead,” Tom answered. “That was his dying message. Get down there and tell those others!”
“Why should they believe?”
“Dowlah,” said Tom, “go down there with him, establish your identity, and tell them.”
“What do you take me for?” asked Dowlah.
“I won’t tell you again, I’ll kick you down there.”
“Why didn’t you let them shoot me in the first instance? Is this your bucolic idea of a joke?”
“One — two—”
Dowlah obeyed. Because his knees hurt him he let the Japanese help him down the face of the steep ledge. Tom covered him with the machine-gun. It was in good order and perfectly placed; it could sweep the road below in either direction. There was a small box of ammunition. Two loaded Japanese military rifles lay on a blanket behind a boulder. Below, Noropa’s body lay, more hideous in death than when alive. Dowlah talked like a machine-gun, too fast, very nervous and too emphatic.
Tom couldn’t hear what he said. He lowered his voice — lowered it again. He appeared to be bargaining like a huckster, and the Japs, clustered around him, seemed in doubt what to do. At last he climbed back, swearing savagely at the pain in his knees.
“They want us to come and confront Naosuki.”
“Do you dare?” Tom asked him.
“No. He’d shoot me on sight. Those men admit they were acting on Naosuki’s orders to blow me to hell.”
“Will you go if I go with you?”
“No, you madman! I might have convinced Naosuki he’s mistaken in mistrusting me if you hadn’t told that fellow what I’ve done. You blew my last chance, and your own, too, when you did that, damn you!”
“Okay, I’ll go alone,” Tom answered.
“You are absolutely mad,” said Dowlah. “Pogal! You have la rage — hydrophobia!”
Tom unloaded both the Japanese rifles. He smashed one rifle against a rock. He used the other as a club to break the lock of the machine-gun. Then he smashed that rifle, too.
“Play your own game, Dowlah.”
“Curse you. You might at least have let me have one of those weapons.”
“Taking no chances on you, Dowlah.”
“Chances? But you go with those men?”
“Sure thing. Got to get into the monastery.”
CHAPTER 34. “Any dog can kill!”
THERE were outcrops of onyx. A two-mile march into a valley that roared with the hurrying water of scores of streams. Stone bridges, well built. The monastery came suddenly into view around the thousand-foot high corner of a cliff that curved like the handle and blade of a sickle. There were splits in the face of the cliff; rough trails marked by chortens, vanished into them.