Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “What’s he saying?” Bulah Singh demanded. “If you can get this — I mean understand it — you can beat him at his own game! What’s he saying? — Give me my automatic!”

  Like force compressed beyond compression’s limit, Andrew’s inner laughter returned suddenly. As it did, the voice died to a harsh, hoarse whisper that rose and fell, continually waning until it ceased. Elsa’s hand within Andrew’s moved convulsively. Her lips moved. He knew she was saying the Lord’s Prayer. He made a sudden decision to pray too, for the sake of unity and friendship and because he vaguely felt he had been unkind and had mistrusted her. Besides, the thought of prayer felt clean. But why in silence? He prayed aloud:

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star!

  How I wonder what you are,

  Up above the—”

  Bulah Singh interrupted: “What in hell are you talking about! Have you gone mad?”

  And then Elsa: “Keep it up, Andrew! It’s the thought that counts. The words don’t mean a thing!”

  That spell was broken. But it re-awoke inward laughter. Consciously he ridiculed himself, and that was a relief like a pulled tooth. It was like waking from a nightmare. And as he watched, that pale face like a death mask began changing. It wasn’t only Andrew who observed it. The old magician appeared to lose physical strength. He resumed his seat at the desk between the blue lamps. He looked ghastly. He sweated. Transferred to his face was the tortured lonely murdered look of the apparition. Where the apparition had been, now was the wrinkled, astonishing face of Lobsang Pun. It was alive, alert, in motion. One quick glimpse, and it was gone. Then silence. Not even a drumbeat. All the brigands were down on their hands and knees.

  Andrew stole also that moment. He spoke quickly.

  “Good girl! Well done! Now! Tell Lung-gom-pa now is the time! Give us yaks, barley, sheep, butter — now — this minute — or I’ll tell his brigands where to look for the opium!”

  Elsa translated. The frightened brigands, hearing her voice, scrambled to their feet, too late. They didn’t hear what Elsa said. The magician turned his head slowly and gazed at Bulah Singh. It was an unspoken question.

  “Tell him,” said Andrew, “that man doesn’t know where the opium is.”

  The old magician smiled thinly when Elsa told him what Andrew had said. Bulah Singh spoke up, protesting:

  “You idiot! Do you think they’ll believe I don’t know? They’ll torture me! Do you think I’ll tell them nothing? Jesus Christ! I’ll tell them stuff about you that’ll—”

  He stopped suddenly, because Andrew had picked up the automatic from Elsa’s lap. He looked half incredulous, cunning, triumphant and then cautious as he listened:

  “Elsa, tell Lung-gom-pa we’ll take Bulah Singh with us. And this: We march at moonrise.” He reached for his watch. Every brigand in the room reached for his automatic. But Andrew only glanced at the time. He smiled. They all looked clownish and self-conscious. “That means half an hour from now. Repeat: Unless we’re on our way at moonrise, I will tell where the opium is.”

  The magician stared. He opened his mouth wide. His blasphemous lips framed the sacred syllable. He breathed it, murmured it, moaned it. His brigands joined in:

  “Aum-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m!”

  One thing now seemed sure. There would be no killing while that sound lingered on the air. Andrew put his arm through Elsa’s and spoke sharply to the Sikh:

  “Get a move on, you. Grab my other arm. We’ll go now while the going’s good.”

  CHAPTER 40

  So the second stage of the journey began, beneath an icy moon, in a moaning wind. The yaks and sheep were not too manageable; they didn’t relish a night march. Men and ponies had been well fed, not well rested. Bulah Singh, with his feet bandaged against the cold, rode one of von Klaus’s mules, taken from the brigands in trade for his automatic, which Andrew wouldn’t have let him have back in any event. He rode darkly alone in mid-column, at the tail of the little flock of loaded sheep. The mule and ponies could be trusted not to override the sheep. The yaks couldn’t. So Bompo Tsering led the way with the yaks, singing to keep dugpas from misleading him along the shadowy trail.

  Andrew brought up the rear, to prevent straggling. Elsa rode with him. For a long time they didn’t talk much. As almost always happens after a terrific ordeal there was a feeling of dissociation from events — of unreality — of something not quite like waking from a dream. They listened for random rifle shots — farewell salutes from the magician’s village, each whining bullet loaded with resentment, each echoing crack a threat of pursuit. But they were Tibetan brigands, too afraid of ghouls and of the homeless souls of murdered men to be likely to pursue through the darkness. Andrew said:

  “They know we’ll move slowly because of the sheep. Two miles an hour is our limit. They’ll count on overtaking us at their convenience. They’ll search for the opium first. The old magician doesn’t want us caught. He’s too sure we’d fix the blame on him for the loss of the opium. That might cost him his life — his power anyhow. So he’ll keep ’em looking for the damned stuff for several days. By that time we’ll have crossed the Shigatse. They won’t follow us across. It’s too dangerous this time of year. And there’d be too much risk of running into troops from Lhasa.”

  After that he was silent for a long time. Elsa was glad of it. It was enough to ride beside him. Her love for him seemed to be part of the mystery — part of the night. She must get used to it, now, under the moon and the stars. Secrets are more difficult to keep by daylight. She hugged her secret, as she hugged herself warm inside her overcoat. Andrew didn’t suspect it.

  She had learned a lot about Andrew. During the last few hours she had thought about him as never before. Her previous blindness seemed incredible. Cursed or blessed, whichever it was, and perhaps it was both, with clairvoyance and sensitivity and pride, how should she account for not having known she was in love? That was the bewildering thing. Why hadn’t she known? She could see now that she had been in love with him all along. O God, how glad she was she hadn’t known it sooner! If she had known, she could never have come with him on this expedition, even with the wild intention of releasing Tom Grayne from an unbearable yoke. It would have been unthinkable. What had given her the right — the moral right — to travel alone with Andrew had been the fact that they weren’t in love. Fact! What skittles facts are! Icicles that melt the moment truth appears!

  And now, would she have to confess to Tom that she loved Andrew? Tom would be sure to suspect it. But would it be any of Tom’s business? He would be right to suspect herself, yes, because it was true. It was true forever. But not Andrew. Andrew wasn’t in love. Had she any right to compromise Andrew — in exchange for his kindness — his generosity — his unwavering respect? As long as she was Tom Grayne’s wife, Andrew would treat her as Tom Grayne’s wife, no matter what passion might urge him to do. There would be no concessions. Andrew would lean backwards. The worst possible mistake would be to let Andrew even guess she loved him. He would dry up. He would govern himself so grimly that even if he were in love with her, he would deny love rather than intrigue against his friend — even if she were willing. She was unwilling. Death would be ten times welcome rather than anything shabby or underhanded. In fact, she wasn’t at all sure, nor was she disturbed by the thought, that death might not be the acceptable answer. She didn’t feel like dying. She was quite sure she wasn’t afraid of death. Surely she wouldn’t seek it. But she would rather die ten times over than betray Tom Grayne and Andrew — both or either of them. They were men of integrity. To betray them into a quarrel would be a dirty and abominable thing — a whorish thing. It made her shudder to think of it.

  Andrew’s character had steered them clear of the toils of Lung-gom-pa. Nothing else could have done it. She knew quite well what her own indispensable part had been, but it would have been quite useless without Andrew’s spirit — his indomitable integrity. Another man would have trimmed his spiritual sai
ls and have lined up with von Klaus and Bulah Singh, trusting to the future and some trick to dear that entanglement. Or he might have left Bulah Singh to make what terms he could with the magician. But in spite of the certainty that Bulah Singh would be treacherous at the first opportunity, Andrew had snatched him out of danger — brought him along — not trusted him but saved him. The most lovable thing about Andrew was that he didn’t suspect himself of being a hero in anyone’s eyes — least of all in his own.

  As it happened Andrew was still a little afraid he had done the wrong thing. He spoke of it after a while:

  “Hell! If I were only a killer. I’m not. I can’t persuade myself to take human life. I suppose it’s cowardice.”

  Elsa kept silent. She remembered she mustn’t praise him. If she should tell him he wasn’t a killer because he wasn’t capable of cowardice he would shut up like a clam; his thoughts would be driven back into himself behind that veil that she could never penetrate. Silence was better — silence, the stars, and the magic of frosty moonlight. It wasn’t long before he began talking again. He seemed to find comfort in thinking aloud:

  “Suppose I’d left Bulah Singh. They might have tortured him to find out what became of the opium. But I think not. He’d have pretended he knows where I dumped it. He’d have bargained with the brigands and trusted to luck. You know of course why he killed that woman?”

  He waited for an answer. She had to speak.

  “Bompo Tsering said she tried to kill him. Wasn’t that the reason?”

  “Part of it. I got the whole story from Bompo Tsering while they were loading the yaks and sheep. Bulah Singh was through with the woman. She’d gone her limit for him. She was no more use to him, but she might be dangerous because she knew too much about him.

  So his scheme was to take the child and to leave her behind. She’d doped it out. She and the child both screamed the accusation at him when she showed up. Bompo Tsering believes they’d read Bulah Singh’s thought — something like tapping his mental telephone. Anyhow, she and Bulah Singh had a battle of words to get control of our Tibetans. They bid high. Both sides promised anything. But she made the mistake of telling our men that you and I were on the coals already, being tortured by Lung-gom-pa. That gave Bulah Singh his chance to play Sir Galahad. He did such a spellbinding job of it that they held the woman. They gave him her knife and said: ‘Kill her!’ He did. I guess he wasn’t squeamish. After that, Bompo Tsering felt he could trust him, so he gave him back the automatic. We know the rest.”

  “But, Andrew, what became of the child? Surely they didn’t kill the child? Bulah Singh didn’t, did he?”

  “No. The brat ran away. Bulah Singh tried to get them to catch him, to bring with us. He’s like von Klaus, but a bit more subtle, with an obstinate one-plan mind. He still hopes to persuade me to try to substitute that young monster for the Dalai Lama.”

  “But, Andrew, where is the child? What happened to him?”

  “I don’t know. I told you: he ran. Perhaps Lung-gom-pa might take him on as an apprentice. He’s the type. But Bompo Tsering thinks Bulah Singh may have made a last-minute deal with one of the brigands to bring the little brute along after us. He swears we haven’t seen the last of him.”

  “Do you believe that, Andrew? You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “I never believe what I believe. I’m one of them there hopers. Bulah Singh did talk with one of the brigands while my back was turned. I’m counting on old man Shigatse. It’s one hell of a river. Once across, we’ll be rid of pursuit.”

  “But isn’t there a ferry?”

  “There won’t be, once we’re on the far side. I’ll see to it.”

  Silence again. Elsa thought of scores of questions that she didn’t dare to ask. She thought of things she was aching to tell. But questioning or telling might make Andrew close his mind. So they rode without speaking for a long time until he unexpectedly broke the silence:

  “I suppose you saw what I did — that face in the magician’s chamber? I can see it now without trying to. I could carve it in wood. It was one hell of a God-damned face. I guess I’m going to have to carve it, to forget it — to get it out of my system. What did you make of it?”

  “Did you see only one face?”

  “I saw two. I guess we all did. But I’m speaking of the first one. It burned itself on to the brain like magnesium light. That was plain black magic. Call it hypnotism if you want to play ostrich. Hypnotism is the charlatan highbrow’s false name for a lot of boloney. It’s an easy word for intellectuals to hide behind.”

  Elsa forced herself not to answer. She was almost bursting with excitement. For the first time Andrew seemed to be drawing aside, if only ever so little, that veil behind which his purposes lurked — purposes that never appeared except as forthright actions, done, unexplained. Even those few words almost stopped him. He seemed to suspect he had said too much. But she waited in silence. So after a minute or two he continued.”

  “Barring unimportant details, we had an example tonight of the inside workings of all priestcraft and all politics.”

  Was he trying to get her to tell what she knew? Was he pumping her? She didn’t yet dare to accept the challenge. It was quite possible that he was tempting her into an argument so that he might grind his baffled emotions against her mysticism. Presently, since she said nothing, he made another downright statement:

  “We’re all in the same boat, doing the same damned thing. We either make mental pictures, or else we have ’em made for us. One or the other. We create, or we don’t. The cave men did it. Moses forbade it. So did Mohammed. But we all do it. We’re either potter’s thumb or else the molded plastic. Get that? Shape or be shaped. Magic — white or black — Christian or pagan — ancient or modern — is the acquired ability to create and project a mental image that suggests to other people what to believe and how to behave.”

  Elsa listened, too excited to trust herself to speak. Her voice might have betrayed her. Andrew was heading straight into her new holy of holies. Did he know it? Anyhow, silence was the best way to persuade him to continue. Presently he did, looking up at the moon as he rode. His face shone.

  “A black magician purposely creates a fear image — fear — violence — need — hunger — sickness — death — all that stuff. That living dead face that we saw was Lung-gom-pa’s picture of God. His God’s a devil. If you analyze it far enough, it’s himself. That was his own inside portrait. But I’ll bet you not one of us saw the same face. I doubt we heard the same words. Lung-gom-pa projected his own composite mental picture of himself, his teacher, his black mahatma and his father the Devil all combined in one. But what each of us saw was a symbol of his own fear and his own hate. He made us do it. He used the drumbeat to work up emotion. He’s an expert mental technician. But his fundamental principle’s the same as any political priest’s or boss-gangster’s — it’s the same for instance as Hitler’s bogey picture of the Jew — or the Sunday School picture of a devil with horns.”

  Elsa couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Andrew, don’t you think the magician had help?”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Is it the wrong time to try to explain what I’ve — what I’ve discovered quite recently?”

  “All depends. Is it first-hand? Or did someone tell you.”

  “Both. First I was told. Then I tried — and discovered.”

  “Ummn. Go ahead. I’ll listen.”

  But was he listening? She was afraid he had retired behind a veil of skepticism into that unexplorable where he kept his passion. It was no use guessing — no use hesitating — no use trying to choose the right words. Elsa plunged in:

  “Andrew-suppose you say ‘Jesus’ to someone. What happens? Instantly that person’s concept of Jesus presents itself to him as a mental picture. He can’t help it. It happens. It’s either the child Jesus, or the Teacher on the Mount, or the crucified or the resurrected Jesus — or perhaps a target Jesus that he doesn’t believe in — tha
t he hurls his hatred at. Perhaps it’s a dead Jesus — crucified dead, buried and done for. But whoever hears the name Jesus sees an instantaneous mental picture.”

  “Yes, I guess that’s so. I see a picture of Jesus as soon as you mention him.”

  “You can’t help it, Andrew. And you act accordingly. That mental image is an actual structural part of your subconsciousness. So whatever the word Jesus means to you in terms of past experience becomes available to you. To the extent no more, and no less — that the Christ Force and the name Jesus are associated in your consciousness, that Force is yours — your own! It becomes your guide, your immediate standard of values. That is why it’s so tremendously important to form strong mental images. Is that clear?”

  “Sure. That’s another way of saying what I said. Create your mental images or else some charlatan’ll do it for you. So Jesus — to me — is pretty much of a fighting cue. Right off the bat I suspect anyone who yawps about Jesus. It’s all right as a cuss word.”

  “You call it a fighting cue? What kind of fight? Can you tell me?”

  “Sure. Why not. It makes me want to vomit on the swine who’ve made Jesus’s name a synonym for cruelty — lies — aggression — injustice — rant — cant — damned hypocrisy — and—”

  Elsa’s gay laugh interrupted: “Andrew, what’s wrong with it? Haven’t you won any fights?”

  He almost drew aside the veil over his thoughts. Almost. She felt it. But she felt it close again.

  “I’ve had some lickings, too,” he answered.

  He was ready to dry up. She swiftly changed her tactics: “Andrew — didn’t you see more than one face in the magician’s chamber?”

  “Yes. I said so.”