Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “If St. Malo should shoot both or either of us now, that would tip off Ugly-face. He’d clear out. They’d never catch him.”

  “Ugly-face wouldn’t know,” Andrew answered. He, too, was thinking of Elsa. “He’s in the cavern, two miles away.”

  “No he isn’t,” said Tom.

  There would have been no sense in arguing that. Andrew glanced sideways and nearly jumped out of his skin. There stood Ugly-face, in the mouth of the cave, with his back to the faintly luminous hurrying clouds where the moon was fighting its way through for a moment. He was a silhouette; Andrew couldn’t see his face; but he was as unmistakable as the Great Pyramid. Shrouded in two of Andrew’s blankets, he looked like a big black-hooded ghost. He stepped out of sight, around the corner, along the ledge.

  “Damn him, he’s gone!” said Andrew.

  Tom asked: “No sign of Elsa?”

  “No. But I’ll go look.” Andrew returned after a minute. “No, no sign of her. I bet she’s safe in our cavern. Bompo Tsering’ll take good care of her. She was pretty well tuckered out. Let’s hope she’s asleep.”

  Tom grunted. It might have meant anything; Andrew wished to hell he would say what he did mean. There were sounds again in the tunnel. This time a man came carrying a lantern. Alone. Not St. Malo. He was another Tibetan. He wanted to know how many men there were.

  “Tell St. Malo he may count them if he comes alone,” Tom answered. “On your way, drag your rifle so we can hear you.”

  The man turned back, dragging the butt of his rifle along the tunnel floor. Tom crossed to Andrew’s side of the opening.

  “I guess St. Malo’ll come this time. Tell him I’ve gone to watch the hermit-feeding, so’s to give the alarm in case the monks learn where we are. Then tell him we’ve decided to bolt, and we advise him to. Say we’ll let him get the hell out past our cavern, first thing in the morning. Say we’ll give him some soft grub for the journey, provided he and his men unload their weapons and pass our cavern one by one at a walk. That ought to fool him.”

  “Okay,” said Andrew.

  Tom hesitated, so long that Andrew asked: “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. But see here: don’t mention Elsa.”

  “I won’t.”

  Tom walked out of the cave to follow Old Ugly-face around the corner of the cliff. Andrew, cursing Tom’s suspicion, waited, in pitch darkness, and after a long while St. Malo did come. He was carrying a lantern. He had a rifle, too, but he didn’t seem to expect to use it. Andrew, taking care not to startle him, told him to lay it down on the tunnel floor. He obeyed. Andrew said:

  “You’re covered, so no funny business.”

  St. Malo sneered: “What you need is brains. Why should I start anything? Where’s Tom Grayne?”

  Andrew delivered Tom’s message. He elaborated, remarking off his own bat that Ugly-face feared the hermit feeders might come scouting along the ledge, learn too much and turn out the whole monastery.

  “So the tip is to clear out. Beat it for the sky line.”

  “You’re remarkably thoughtful for me all at once,” St. Malo answered.

  But Andrew had expected that. He was ready for it. “We’re afraid you might not get caught by the monks. We don’t want a rat like you with eighteen men at our rear. We’ll give you until two hours after daylight to go past our cavern — not a minute longer.”

  St. Malo retorted: “What if I don’t choose to do it?”

  Andrew didn’t hesitate. “We’ve thought of that too. If you’re not in sight by two hours after daybreak, we’ll march. Our rearguard will shoot if they see you. Also, in that event, no handouts.”

  “I believe you’re lying,” said St. Malo.

  “Think it over.”

  “I will. Meanwhile, you may go to hell, Mr. bloody Andrew Gunning — you and Tom Grayne, both of you.”

  He retreated into the tunnel, backward, leaving the rifle where it lay. That was too obvious: one of St. Malo’s Tibetan riflemen was ambushed at the far end of the tunnel. Andrew ducked about a tenth of a second ahead of a bullet. Then he crept up to the tunnel mouth. Another bullet spat out of the darkness, but it missed him, and he got St. Malo’s rifle — a good one; it had a telescopic sight. Someone had another shot at him while he edged along the side of the cave to the ledge and rejoined Tom.

  “Where’s Old Ugly-face?” he asked.

  “I was too late,” Tom said. “Missed him. Gone to watch ’em feed the hermits, I guess. Did you talk to St. Malo? — Okay, let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Follow Ugly-face.”

  “We’ll have St. Malo at our backs,” Andrew objected. “If he didn’t fall for the bait, I’ll eat his rifle. He’ll come along behind us.”

  “Sure. That’s the idea. Let’s get well ahead of him.”

  They hurried along the ledge. Ten times Andrew could almost feel a bullet whizz by from behind. But he knew it must be imagination. Even if St. Malo were following, he couldn’t possibly have seen them; Tom and he couldn’t see each other. When Tom hesitated on the ledge to feel his way around an outleaning rock, Andrew bumped into him. Twice they almost fell together off the ledge. They didn’t overtake Ugly-face. He might have fallen into the ravine for all they knew. There was no place where he could possibly have hidden. He couldn’t have scaled the cliff, upward; there was no foothold; it was sheer wall, leaning slightly outward, and in places it was covered with ice.

  After a while they saw a light moving, far away where the ledge turned leftward in a wide arc toward the monastery. Tom stopped then, in the lee of a rock.

  “See ’em? That’s the happy-blessed-hermit-feeding-company-of-pilgrims-on- the-path. That’s what they call ‘emselves.”

  “Only one lantern,” said Andrew.

  “Yes, but twenty-five or thirty monks. The number varies.”

  “Weapons?”

  “You bet. Scared, too. They’d shoot at a shadow. They hate this job.”

  “Any place to hide near where the hermits are?”

  “Not that I know of. We’ve got to find Ugly-face. Quick. Come on.”

  There wasn’t a place where a bird could have hidden, all the way along that ledge until they reached the cliff that was pockmarked by hermits’ caves. The moon appeared again for a moment, so they could see the caves clearly. They were irregular, at different levels, some only reachable by footholds cut in the rock. The highest ones were open to the weather and seemed to be unoccupied. All the others, except one, were closed up with mud and stone masonry, leaving a hole, about five feet from the floor, barely large enough for a man to have pushed his head through. But the nearest cave seemed to have been broken into. There was no sign of hermits — no lights — no sounds.

  The approaching lantern was out of sight at the moment around a shoulder of the cliff. Tom and Andrew listened for sounds of St. Malo. They heard none. Then, suddenly, through the howling of the wind, they both caught the same sound at the same moment. It appeared to come from the direction of that one cave on the lower level that was only partially blocked up — the nearest one. They turned their flashlights on it. There was a gap in the masonry about three feet wide, extending to about two feet from the bottom. They only used their lights for about a quarter of a second. Both saw the same thing. A big hunk of rock appeared to raise itself and place itself exactly in the middle of the gap. It looked supernatural. Tom laughed:

  “I told you there’s no way to beat that old hellion! Come on, let’s go help him.”

  His Holy Diplomatic Eminence, the Ringding Gelong Lama Lobsang Pun, alias Old Ugly-face, was inside the hermit’s cave, busy immuring himself. First, though, he had pulled out from the cave the weather-mummied frozen carcass of a hermit, who had died since the last visit of the feeding patrol. He had dragged out the corpse through the gap made by brigands, who had searched the dead man’s cave for sacred objects such as brigands need to keep away the devils who would otherwise accumulate like flies on the fat of their sinful pursu
its. That carcass was good bait now. The oncoming monks would have to pause and say proper prayers, before pitching the remains over the cliff. It was a good enough bet for a prelate, wise in the ways of monks, that there, outside that cave, St. Malo would try to double-cross them all for much fine money.

  CHAPTER 54

  The moon had vanished. Old Ugly-face blinked at Tom’s flashlight, detesting it. He looked like a great grim apparition from another world, too wise in the ways of inferior mortals to feel surprised at anything; but annoyed. He made no secret of his disapproval. If he felt friendly, he dissembled. In his eyes there was, perhaps, no enmity; but he withheld his praise. Having to shout against the howling wind increased the suggestion of irritation.

  “Your being much presumptuous!”

  “Where’s Elsa?” Tom asked.

  Ugly-face retorted: “My knowing. Why your not knowing?”

  Andrew and Tom got the same hunch at the same moment: there was no time to lose. They barged into the cave and got busy. Andrew held the flashlight between his knees and passed the rocks. Tom laid two rocks in place. Old Ugly-face irritably pulled them down and began to replace them. There is probably an ordained angle at which hunks of diorite should block the opening of a hermit’s cave. But Old Ugly-face was petulant, tired, nervous. Tom resumed the work and spoke to him, in Tibetan:

  “Blessed-personage-acceptably-praying being more useful than ignorant laboring man.” Then in English to Andrew: “Give him the torch to hold.”

  Andrew gave the torch to Ugly-face and went on playing mason’s helper, passing the rocks as fast as Tom could lay them. There wasn’t room for both of them to work in the gap. Old Ugly-face held the torch steady but he kept up a continuous growl of objections.

  “Being danger in another’s duty,” he grumbled.

  But Tom was well posted in Tibetan proverbs. “Being duty in another’s danger,” he retorted.

  “Done badly. Their observing that wall not being properly build.”

  “Bless a blindness on them,” Tom suggested.

  “Devils using your mouth!” said Ugly-face.

  He began flicking his beads with his thumb. They clicked like something loose being flicked by the wind. Tom worked like wildfire, but the mud was dry and frozen. There was no means of wetting it. The stones wouldn’t stay in place without a lot of manipulating. The wall across the gap was only breast-high by the time they heard the chanting of the oncoming monks. They heard it in snatches because of the wind. Ugly-face switched off the light. They listened.

  It was difficult to see, but easy to imagine what was happening. In the face of every one of the hermits’ caves there was a hole about breast-high. Through that the hermit could pass out his water bottle to be filled. Then he could hold out one hand to receive his week’s supply of parched barley. The feeding patrol, chanting and spinning their prayer wheels as they came, paused in front of each cave just long enough for a mantra and for the hermit to stick out his arm to receive the supplies. The monks were in a hurry to get back to their nice draughty cells in the monastery. Besides, they were afraid of brigands, and not notably fond of hermits, whose disdainful austerity might be held to imply a rebuke of monkish luxury and sloth in spiritual exercises.

  So the procession came along fairly fast. It wasn’t more than fifteen minutes before their enormous, parchment-covered iron lantern cast its rays into the opening. Tom and Andrew had to step back. Someone cried out then and the procession halted while the lantern bearer examined the corpse of the hermit that Old Ugly-face had laid in the way.

  It was quite easy now to observe through the chinks in the rebuilt wall. There was an argument going on. The monks crowded one another for a look at the hermit’s body. They seemed to be wondering how it got there. The lantern bearer was the important man; he stood gesticulating in a long yakskin overcoat, giving orders that no one obeyed. Ugly-face seemed to understand every one of his gestures. He appeared to decide that he now knew enough. He retreated to the back of the cave and sat down.

  The lantern bearer’s autocratic gestures became unmistakable at last. He commanded one man to recite the ritual for such occasions. He commanded another monk — a huge fellow armed with a sword, to go and examine the cave from which that hermit’s body had been dragged. The monk refused. He was afraid. The lantern bearer struck him. All the other monks upheld the lantern bearer. So the big fellow with the sword came ahead, whirling his prayer wheel, clearly visible in silhouette against the lantern. His padded clothing and hood made him look bigger than he really was, but he was a giant at that. He looked like one of those tribesmen from the plains of northern Tibet, where the only possible survivors of the rigors of the climate are the stalwarts with huge lungs, big bones and iron physique.

  “I can count thirteen rifles,” Tom whispered.

  “Oh, for a baseball bat!” said Andrew.

  The big monk stuck his head and shoulders through the opening. His head was within two feet of Andrew’s. He had a face like a stone devil’s; stupid but more dangerous for that very reason. No predicting what a stupid man would do. But he couldn’t see into the dark. Suddenly he turned around and shouted to the lantern bearer that the cave was empty. He said something about brigands. The lantern bearer shouted and gestured, evidently ordering him into the cave, then turned his back to watch four monks roll the dead hermit’s body off the ledge. The giant watched that too, leaning against the rebuilt wall. Fearing the wall might collapse with his weight, Andrew leaned against it on the inside. The four monks seemed afraid to touch the hermit’s frozen body with their hands. They kicked it, spinning prayer wheels to ward off the devils that hang around corpses, while some of them chanted fragments of the Ritual for the Dead, until the corpse rolled over the edge.

  Then at last the giant monk began to climb into the opening, but his long overcoat made it difficult, so he pulled down a couple of rocks. After that, he leaned through for another good look before climbing in, and Tom nudged Andrew. They timed the play perfectly. Tom’s right and Andrew’s left landed on the monk’s jaw on either side simultaneously like a couple of clubs. He collapsed. They dragged him through.

  “Lay him face downward,” said Tom. “Then he’ll give us warning — he’ll try to turn over before he yells.”

  That fellow didn’t stir for several minutes. There was no sound from Ugly face. Neither Tom nor Andrew had heard him come forward, but there he was, standing beside them within thirty seconds of their dragging in the monk. He had seen — sensed something. He knew something. He laid his hand on Andrew’s lips. He prodded Tom, for silence. Then he peered through the opening, spreading his arms to prevent Tom and Andrew from doing the same thing. So Tom pulled down a stone, and so did Andrew.

  St. Malo had come. He had one man with him, armed with a rifle. St. Malo also had a rifle. He looked like a Tibetan. He stood exactly in front of the opening of the cave, ten feet away, in the lantern light, and waited for the lantern bearer to accost him.

  Old Ugly-face laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. The strength of his grip was astonishing, but that was nothing compared to the daimonic vigor of his mind; it stirred something that responded. The thrill was commanding. It explained the difference between, say, a Napoleon and cannon fodder. The old Invincible was observing the enemy’s error, calculating accurately how to turn it to his own use. One knew that.

  The lantern bearer took his time about approaching St. Malo. St. Malo might be a leader of brigands. He took care to be covered by the rifles of the monks behind him. Other monks came crowding past and cut off the view from the cave. The wind wasn’t quite so gusty now, but the monks were chattering like ravens at a feast, so it was very difficult to hear what was said. Tom and Andrew heard snatches, and had to piece those together.

  There was no ceremony — none of those long-winded phrases that should precede any conversation between strangers in Tibet. St. Malo came straight to the point:

  “Your Holy Abbot the Lord Regent Ram-pa Yap-shi has
offered a reward in gold, for the capture and delivery alive of the deposed and now fugitive lama the ex-Lord Regent Lobsang Pun. I claim the reward.”

  The lantern bearer stepped on glare ice and very nearly fell off the ledge from excitement. All the other monks began to gabble advice. Some of them wanted to seize St. Malo and drag him away to the monastery to tell his story to the Lord Abbot Ram-pa Yap-shi himself. But St. Malo had arrogant guts in a crisis — insolence beyond measure. He took the high hand, in a loud voice, that reached the cave in wind-blown snatches:

  “After daybreak ... armed men from the monastery ... come where I direct ... Bring the reward ... gold ... English measure ... four loads ... Weighed in my presence.”

  There was some discussion of that. Then:

  “I will show you Lobsang Pun’s hiding-place. You shall also capture his accomplices ... foreigners ... may be lawfully slain ... ponies, yaks, stores ... no right to be in Tibet ... tell Ram-pa Yap-shi ... no tricks! ... No gold, no Lobsang Pun. Go tell him.”

  After that, there was a hot quarrel. The monks surrounded St. Malo. Some of them were packed so tight against the cave that Tom and Andrew had to support the rebuilt wall to keep it from falling inward. They were all shouting, which was why they didn’t hear the big prisoner. He had recovered consciousness and had to be jumped on, tied with his own girdle, gagged. That wasn’t easy in the dark. He was nearly as strong as both men together. Andrew hammered his jaw with a rock to get his mouth open, shoved a glove in his mouth and tied the gag in with a strip torn from his own clothing. Old Ugly-face offered one of Andrew’s blankets and they tied that around the man’s head. He didn’t smother, for some unfathomable reason.

  The monks had their way with St. Malo. He and his man stood them off for a minute or two; they realized that he wouldn’t be any use to them dead, so they weren’t too violent. They took his rifle away and forced him to go with them to the monastery, to tell his story and make his own terms with Ram-pa Yap-shi. They were so excited — only monks can get as excited as they were — that they forgot all about their missing giant. They didn’t even bother about feeding the last few hermits. They marched back toward the monastery, chanting, following the lantern bearer, with St. Malo and his man in their midst. Then the snow began falling — lots of it.