by Talbot Mundy
The entire vision, and all the thoughts that accompanied it, lasted less than a minute. He knew that. With the other part of his mind he had been watching Bompo Tsering, who had taken the blanket roll off the bed and begun to unfasten the straps; he hadn’t finished undoing them when the vision faded. Less than sixty seconds. Whatever caused that vision, time had no part in it. What he had just now witnessed must have taken place on the previous night. He knew that too, although he didn’t know how he knew it. It just was so. Time, then, was only an illusion? God! Even trying to think about that made his head reel. But all the same, time can’t limit an idea. Time doesn’t alter the fact that a thing did happen. Andrew wasn’t an escapist. He wasn’t like the Grade B scientists, who stick their heads into realism but expose their fannies to the ridiculing blasts of reality. Miracle? Hell, there’s no such thing. Had the Lama Gombaria turned some occult trick with the aid of the folded paper? He experimented — clutched the paper in his pocket — drew it out — opened it — read it again. Nothing doing.
THE CAT CAME BACK TO ELSA. NO SIG.
But the vision did not return. He could remember every detail. But now it was a mere memory-picture, as different as a faded photograph is from the living model. The vision was gone.
He pulled out his pipe and sat reviewing the facts. Bompo Tsering fumbled with the blanket roll. The man from Koko Nor, on the floor in the corner, sat picking his teeth with a sliver of wild swan’s thigh bone. It had been specially blessed for that purpose; he kept it in a container made from a Japanese brass cartridge. He had a hollow back tooth that Andrew was going to have to pull before long to keep him from going haywire, but for the time being he was well occupied trying to dig out the devil that caused the pain. Bompo Tsering, on the other hand, needed watching, if for no other reason than because he had turned his back instead of facing Andrew while he undid the blankets.
Elsa. Andrew remembered that, once, on the way southward, in a place where they had found some dead tamarisk and had built a good fire for the first time in nearly a week, he had read to her, to keep her mind off the physical ordeal that was two or three days ahead. He had chanced on a passage in Goethe’s Faust:
“Shall here a thousand volumes teach me only
That man, self-tortured, everywhere must bleed, —
And here and there one happy man sits lonely?”
He had continued reading to her far into the night; but they had kept returning to that passage, discussing the evident truth that in the rhythm and tone of poetry there’s a mysterious magic that links thought with things unseen. It conjures new views. They pass in a moment but leave their mark on mind, so that nothing, not even a star, is ever again the same as it was. Flowers don’t smell the same. Music has higher meanings. Come to think of it, he hadn’t always repelled Elsa. He had always welcomed her into the inner mood of poetry that so thrilled him that he sometimes choked when he read it aloud. And while they talked, that night, he remembered how he saw a vision, like this one, of Tom Grayne, seated lonely in his mountain cavern, making a map from memory by guttering candlelight.
He had wondered then, as he wondered now: were he and Elsa the self- tortured, who bled? And was Tom Grayne the happy man who sat lonely? What is happiness? Did anyone know? Had anyone ever found it? Is there an actual difference between happiness and joy? He hadn’t asked Elsa whether she saw the same vision or pondered the same thought, because he knew how she hated clairvoyance, and he wanted to keep her thoughts as calm as possible. In fact, he had laid Goethe aside and read from Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. But he hadn’t read well, because of wondering, with half of his mind, whether her seeing a vision of Tom had caused him to see it; and whether the flow of poetry might be the agency that, for a moment, had suspended space and time. There might be a connection. He thought of it again now. He was willing to follow the mood of real poetry wherever that might lead. But there is unreal poetry, to be avoided like poison. Lots of it. Gutless, kiss-mammy, decadent stuff that can’t climb, even downhill — written by sirens who pose on rocks but wait for traffic signals from a Führer. He hated with all his heart and soul the thought of being misled, to a spiritual dead end, by the pipsqueak drum and fife bands that parade as the voices of God. Propagandists! Proletarian apologists! Liars! Treacherous bellwethers leading the sheep up the slope of a mechanical Olympus, where the butchers wait. God’s elect, the butchers! He felt anger rising — laughed at the anger, because he knew how useless it was. Anger is exactly what the Führers can exploit. But if a whole world once gets to laughing again —
Once more, sixty seconds. Time must be an elastic illusion. He had thought of a thousand things in sixty seconds. He had seen Hitler’s Mein Kampf like a dirty jest scrawled on the universal backhouse by a subhuman misanthrope. He had even reviewed in his mind the true and false poets, setting them on either side of an imagined pale, finding time to loathe Swinburne, to love Robert Burns, and to acknowledge a cagey respect for Walt Whitman.
Bompo Tsering was still leisurely unfolding blankets; he would steal a packet of razor blades presently from the pocket in the canvas carry-all. Strange how some men can’t resist trifles. Bompo Tsering could be trusted with any amount of money, barring the small change; he always tried to steal some of that. The man from Koko Nor had both thumbs in his mouth and was busily poking a devil with the swan’s thigh bone — very angry with the devil. A bell boomed in the monastery. It sounded far away like a bell buoy on a shoal. Suddenly there were Elsa’s eyes again, pleading and yet trying not to intrude. They were gone in a moment. Andrew felt a savage impulse to tell her to let him alone. But he suppressed that — turned the savagery on itself and let it strangle itself in a dark subconscious past, along with some men’s poetry, and Sunday School, and certain other things.
He was feeling chilly. He was getting rattled by his thoughts. It was time to do something. With the side of his eye he watched Bompo Tsering secrete a packet of razor blades. Good. That was a cue for the show-down with Bompo Tsering. But first he leaned over the bed and scratched another message on the wall, just to let Elsa know he wasn’t so dumb as she thought him:
Got second message. Okay.
Two or three days might pass before Elsa would occupy the room on her way northward, but there was not much risk of the message being noticed and rubbed out by the monks. They never cleaned their own cells. It wasn’t likely to occur to them to wash the wall of a room reserved for strangers.
He got off the bed and sat on one of the bent-wood chairs, lighting his pipe, crossing his legs. He ordered Bompo Tsering to dump the blankets on the bed.
“Never mind spreading them now. Bring me the pistol from my overcoat pocket.”
“Why, Gunnigun?”
“Because I say so.”
There was no noticeable guilty reaction. Bompo Tsering picked up the overcoat, groped in the pocket and pulled out the pine root, stared at it. He appeared genuinely puzzled. He glanced at the man from Koko Nor, who left off prodding his aching tooth and stared back blankly.
“Bring it here,” said Andrew.
Bompo Tsering obeyed. “Must being hot damn magic,” he said with conviction. Then, looking straight into Andrew’s eyes: “Gunnigun, this not my doing.”
“Why did you steal razor blades?”
“My not—”
“Give ’em here.”
Bompo Tsering, looking sheepish, produced the stolen packet. Andrew took it and slipped it into his pocket.
“Do you want to be sacked?”
“No, Gunnigun!”
“Do you want to be beaten?”
“No, Gunnigun! That not being too much, that little thing,
“Shut up!”
“Gunnigun, your not — ?”
“I said, shut up!”
Andrew glanced at what he had scrawled on the wall. Then he pulled out the Lama’s “mantra” from his pocket, unfolded it, studied it, returned it and stared grimly at Bompo Tsering.
“How many times have
I told you there’ll be a last time when you play tricks on me?”
“Too much times. Gunnigun, my not—”
“Shut up!”
“Yes, Gunnigun.”
“Open the shutter and throw that pine root through the window.”
Bompo Tsering obeyed. The wind blew out the lights.
“Close the shutter. Fasten it.”
Now there was total darkness. The man from Koko Nor breathed heavily and began tapping the floor with his blessed cartridge case, to keep devils away.
“My lighting lamp,” said Bompo Tsering.
“Stand still!”
“Gunnigun, what your doing?”
“I am making hot damn magic.”
“Peling magic?”
“Yes.”
“That being no good.”
“It will be no good for you, if you lie. Answer: whose pistol fired the shot through the window last night?”
“My not knowing.”
“I believe you:” Andrew felt fairly sure that Bulah Singh would keep his dupes as ignorant as possible of everything except what they were to do. And it is wise tactics to encourage the first glimmer of truth if you hope to hear more. “Who was told to fire the shot?” he demanded.
“My not firing it.”
“I believe you again. You couldn’t have fired it. Who was told to do it?”
The man from Koko Nor ceased breathing through his nose. He ceased tapping the floor.
“I know who did it,” said Andrew. “Answer this one, Bompo Tsering: shall the fool — who obeyed you — pay a penalty — for having done — what you would have punished him for not doing? Answer!”
Silence.
“You understood me. Speak! Did you not threaten this numskull that unless he obeyed, you would cause the police to arrest him for theft? Did you not say he would be thrown in prison for at least a whole year?”
That was a long shot, but a fairly safe one. The easiest way to persuade a homesick Tibetan to do murder or anything else would be to threaten dreadful confinement within prison walls; the mere suggestion would panic his wild-ass heart. Bompo Tsering didn’t answer. So the guess appeared to be good. Andrew followed up:
“Why did you give the order to shoot Lady Elsa?”
“My spirit being too good not wanting shooting other ladee.”
“So you did give the order. You admit that. Who told you to shoot Miss Nancy Strong?”
Silence.
“I know who told you.”
“Gunnigun, then why your asking?”
“Because I wish you to answer. And by God, if you don’t—”
“No, no, Gunnigun! No, no! My answering. Bulah Singh — big top policeman.”
“I believe you again. What did he promise you?”
“His saying, if my shooting other ladee, then can get going home. If not, then not get going — getting too much trouble.”
“So you changed it and ordered that other fool to shoot Lady Elsa?”
Silence.
“If you don’t answer, I won’t save you from the law.”
“Gunnigun—”
“What is the answer?”
“Yes, my doing that.”
“Well. Luckily for you there was too much hot damn magic around. So the shot missed. Bulah Singh made a fool of you. It was my pistol that was handed to you in the dark.”
“Uh-uh! My not touching it!”
“Liar! Someone gave it to you. You gave it to this other fool. Now then: where is the pistol?”
“My not knowing.”
“Ask that other fool what he did with it.”
“Gunnigun, why not your asking?”
“Because you are responsible. Ask him!”
There were murmurs in the dark-protests, questions, threats. Then suddenly:
“His lying. His saying—”
Andrew interrupted. “I have been making hot damn magic. I know where the pistol is.”
“Then, Gunnigun, why your asking?”
“Because I intend to be answered! Quick! Answer! Where did he put it?”
“damfool saying his throwing pistol in mud and then running away.”
“Do you realize that if that pistol should be found by the police, you and this other fool would be arrested, and taken back to Darjeeling and tried for your lives?”
“My not having doing nothing.”
“You’d get about ten years in prison. The other fool, about three years, for having done what you told him.”
“Gunnigun, your not—”
“I am going to punish you.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“Gunnigun, your not — ?”
“Light the lamps. All of them.”
Bompo Tsering groped for matches and obeyed. The man from Koko Nor, with his back in a corner, blinked wide-eyed like a suspicious owl — a blink, a long stare, a blink, a long stare. Bompo Tsering came back and stood before Andrew.
“I made magic on that wall,” said Andrew. “Look at it. The Lady Elsa shall find my pistol. She shall bring it to me, to save your neck and this other fool’s. And as a punishment to you, she shall return with us to Tibet.”
“But, Gunnigun—”
“She shall have your pony — the good one with the strong legs.”
“But, Gunnigun—”
“You yourself shall wait on her. You shall pitch her tent. You shall obey every order she gives you. And unless she gives a good report of you, Tum-Glain shall be told. And what he will do—”
“Oh, Gunnigun!”
“ — isn’t the half of what I will do to you before he gets second chance. Now spread my blankets on the bed.”
“Yes, Gunnigun.”
“Spread your own blankets on that stone dais.”
“Yes, Gunnigun.”
“That other fool may sleep on the floor.”
“Yes, Gunnigun.”
“Get me that book out of the carryall pocket.”
“Here it is, Gunnigun.”
“Set two of those lamps in the niche at the head of the bed.”
“Yes, Gunnigun.”
“Now pull off my boots.”
The proud Bompo Tsering knelt and obeyed.
“Gunnigun — !”
“What now?”
“Your not telling Ladee Elsa about that our having—”
“It depends on you.”
“My being too much ashamed before her being woman.”
“Take care then that she doesn’t complain, even once — just only once — about your behavior on the journey. If I hear no complaints I will bear your request in mind. Give my boots to that other fool. Tell him to clean them. Then turn in.”
“Yes, Gunnigun.”
Andrew bolted the door, rolled under the blankets, pulled his overcoat over him and lay thinking for a minute or two. He felt damned lonely. He made a deliberate effort to see Elsa’s eyes, but he had no success — none whatever. The only mental picture he could summon from the vasty deep of consciousness was the mere memory-image of Bulah Singh, facing him in his own room in the hotel in Darjeeling.
For the rest, his thoughts scattered themselves — wondering what Lewis was doing — was the snow really out of the passes — were the ponies too fat — what luck would he have getting extra ponies for Elsa’s baggage. There was nothing to be gained by that kind of thinking.
So he opened Sir Thomas Browne’s Religio Medici at random and read until he fell asleep with the lights burning. He dreamed that the old Lama Gombaria was brewing poison in the monastery cellar, for Bulah Singh to take all the way to Shig-po-ling, to put into Tom Grayne’s tea. Elsa was imploring Gombaria not to do it, so the Lama and Bulah Singh both threw poison at him, Andrew. It made a noise like beaten brass, and he awoke to hear the monastery bells ringing.
Bompo Tsering opened the shutter. It was daybreak; the sun was touching the peaks of the far-off mountains of Nepal. Andrew went and stood half naked at the window relishing for a moment the clean
chill of the wind on his skin as he peered down into the gorge, eight hundred feet, sheer. To his right, not fifty feet below, was a ledge that served as passage between a dormitory and another building. There was a group of monks on the ledge; they looked like vultures getting ready for the news of a death, preening themselves. He recognized two of them. They had been all winterlong in Mu-ni Gam-po’s monastery. He chuckled.
“The obligation is silence!” he said aloud.
“What your saying, Gunnigun?”
“Let not your left hand know what your right hand doeth!”
“My not understanding.”
“Let’s go — while the going’s good.”
“Hot damn! — Breakfus’?”
“No. We will cook our own, somewhere beside the road, where there’s a stream to wash in. Step lively — pack up the bedding. Hold your tongue on the way out.”
CHAPTER 23
A day’s drive north of Darjeeling. Darkness. Stillness of dying night. A screen door slammed. Nancy and Elsa came out, still sleepy, from the guest bungalow at the Jesuit Mission. Dawn broke, that moment, on distant mountain peaks.
“There, Nancy! Look! Oh, God! Look! Nancy! There’s the Roof of the World! Oh, come too! Say good-bye to all this! Come with us!”
“I think I feel the tug as strongly as you do,” said Nancy. “But it’s the old story. I am too conceited to come. I imagine responsibilities. Oh dear. If only Karl Marx had studied that daybreak instead of the books in the British Museum!”
“Damn him!” said Elsa, with all her heart. Unconsciously, but strongly, she associated Karl Marx with her hosts of the previous night. She was conscious of it as soon as she had damned Marx, and felt vaguely ashamed of herself. Jesuits claim that Karl Marx only imitated, converted and perverted what they knew and practiced before he was born or thought of.