Marching Sands

by Harold Lamb

  The old city had been built in an oasis, apparently four or five centuries ago. Willows, poplars and tamarisks lined narrow canals that had been constructed through the ruins from the wells. By walling these canals with stone, the Wusun had kept them intact from the encroaching sand. There was even grass near the canals, and several flocks of sheep. The trees afforded shade—although the sun is never unendurable in the Gobi, owing to the altitude.

  The buildings of the city had been more than half enveloped by the moving sand that was swept into the walled area—so Garluk said—with each kara buran. Owing perhaps to the protection of the wall, the sand ridges around the inner city were higher than the ground within. So it was difficult to obtain a good view of the city from the surrounding country.

  Gray reflected that this must be why the Kirghiz had reported seeing only the summits of some towers; also, why he himself had taken the foliage that he made out through his glasses for bushes.

  The buildings of Sungan were ancient, and fashioned of solid sandstone so that, although partially covered with sand, their interiors—after the embrasures had been sealed—were reasonably comfortable and warm dwellings. Delabar had been correct in quoting the legend that there were extensive vaults and cellars in Sungan. The underground passages communicated from vault to vault—a system that was most useful in this region where the black sand-storms occur every day in the spring, early summer and throughout the winter.

  “Mighty good dugouts, these,” thought Gray. “The Wusun have certainly dug themselves in on their ancestral hearths. Wonder how they manage for food?”

  He asked Garluk this question. The Wusun responded that he and certain of his companions—the tumani—were allowed to go out on the plain through the lines of lepers and hunt the wild camels and gazelles of the plain. Also, the Buddhists maintained several shepherd settlements near the River Tarim, a journey of three or four days to the west.

  Some citrons, melons and date trees grew by the canals of Sungan. At times a caravan would come to Sungan from China bringing other food.

  Through his glasses, Gray made out the figures of lepers outside the wall. Garluk explained that these were “the evil fate of the Wusun.” They were put there to keep the Wusun within the wall. For centuries he and his people had been pent up. They were diminishing in numbers, due to the captivity. Occasionally some adventurous man would escape through the lepers and the Chinese soldiers, cross the desert to Khotan or Kashgar. These never returned. Death was the penalty for trying to escape.

  Gray scanned the ruins through his glasses. Women were cooking and washing near the canals. Men appeared from the underground chambers and went patiently about the business of the day. They seemed an orderly throng, and Gray guessed that Bassalor Danek ruled his captive people firmly. Which was well.

  He noticed pigeons in the trees. It was not an ugly scene. But on every side stretched the barren Gobi, encroaching on and enveloping the stronghold of the Wusun, the “Tall Men.” The same resignation and patience that he had noted in the eyes of Bassalor Danek were stamped in the faces of Garluk and his companions. They were olive faces, stolid and expressionless. Gray had seen the same traits in some Southern Siberian tribes, isolated from their fellows, and in the Eskimos.

  Among the notes, he afterwards jotted down some references for Van Schaick—on the chance that he would be able to get the data into the hands of his employers. Gray had a rigid sense of duty. His observations were fragmentary, for he lacked the extended knowledge of racial history and characteristics that Delabar was to have supplied.

  In spite of their confined life, the “Tall Ones” were above the stature of the average Mongol. Their foreheads did not slope back from the eyes as much as in the Tartar of the steppe, and the eyes themselves were larger, especially among the young women, who were often attractive in face.

  Language: the Wusun had all the hard gutturals, and the forcible “t” and “k” of the Mongol tongue; but their words were syllabic—even poetically expressive. Many myths appeared in their songs—references to Genghis Khan, as the “Mighty Manslayer,” and to Prester John, by his native name—Awang Khan of the Keraits.

  Intelligence: on a par with that of the middle-class Chinese, superior to that of the Kirghiz and Dungans of the steppe. Their characteristics were kindly and hospitable; their ideas simple, owing to the narrow range of objects within their vision. Of history and the progress of the world, they were totally ignorant, being kept so in accordance with the favorite practice of the Buddhists.

  Arms and implements: limited to the bow, and the iron sword with tempered point. They had seen firearms in the possession of the Chinese guards, but were not allowed to own them. For cultivation, they dragged a rude wooden harrow by hand, and used a sharply pointed hoe of iron. As to cooking—this was done with rudimentary utensils, such as copper pots purchased from the Chinese, makeshift ovens in the sand, and spits over an open fire.

  As to religion, Gray was destined to make a curious discovery, as surprising as it was unexpected, but one that was beyond his limited knowledge to explain.

  Such were the Wusun, as Gray saw them.

  Garluk broke in on his thoughts with a guttural exclamation.

  “How can you see so far,” he demanded, “when we can not see?”

  Gray smiled and was about to hand the Wusun his glasses when he checked himself. The binoculars might prove useful later, he thought. As it happened, they did.

  Meanwhile, Gray’s mind had reverted to the thought that was last with him when he had gone to sleep the night before and was first to come to him with awakening. He had neither washed nor eaten, but he would not delay.

  “Take me to the white woman,” he ordered.

  Still staring at him in bewilderment, the two hunters led him down the stairs, through a postern door, and out on the sand. After a brief word with some older Wusun who were squatted by the tower, Garluk struck off through the ruins, waving back the throngs that came to gaze at Gray.

  The American noticed that there were few children. Some of the women carried water jars. They were not veiled. They wore a loose robe of clean cotton—he learned that they worked their own looms, of ancient pattern—bound by a silk girdle, and covered by a flowing khalat. All were barefoot.

  Gray was conducted to a doorway, outside which a tumani stood, sword in hand. After a brief conference with his guides, the guard permitted them to enter. Throughout his stay in Sungan, Gray was watched, quietly, but effectively.

  His heart was beating fiercely by now, and he wanted to cry out the name of the girl. He walked down into semi-darkness. A smell of musk and dried rose leaves pervaded the place. A woman rose from the floor and disappeared into the shadows. Presently Garluk drew aside a curtain. Gray entered what seemed to be a sleeping chamber and found Mary Hastings standing before him.

  “Captain Gray!” she cried softly, reaching out both hands. “Last night they told me you were here. Oh, I’m so glad!”

  He gripped the slim hands tightly, afraid to say what came into his mind at sight of the girl. She was thinner and there were circles under the fine eyes that fastened on him eagerly.

  He could see her clearly by the glow from a crimson lamp that hung overhead. The room was comfortably fitted with rugs and cushions. A jar of water and some dates stood near them.

  “How did you get here?” she echoed. “Where is Sir Lionel?” A shadow passed over her expressive face. “I saw the attack on the caravan. Did he—”

  “Sir Lionel made his way back to me,” said Gray, his voice gruff and tense. “He was the only survivor of the caravan.”

  “Then he is dead,” she responded slowly. “Or he would have come with you.” She bit her lip, bending her head so that Gray should not see the tears in her eyes. “Oh, I have feared it. The Buddhist priests said that their guards would find and kill him. An old man of the Wusun who speaks Turki repeated it to me.”

  Gray was glad that Mary was prepared, in a measure, for the death of
her uncle. He had found the sight of her distress hard to bear. He turned away.

  “Yes. Sir Lionel died—bravely.”

  She released his hands, and fumbled with a torn little square of linen that had once been a handkerchief.

  “Oh!”

  Fearing that she would break down and weep, Gray would have left the room, but she checked him with a gesture. She looked up quietly, although the tears were still glistening on her eyelids.

  “Please, Captain Gray! I’ve been so—lonely. You won’t go away, just for a while?”

  For a while? He would have remained at her side until dragged away, if she wished it so. He saw that she had changed. Some of the life and vivacity had been driven from her delicate face, leaving a wistful tenderness.

  He himself showed little sign of the hardships of the last two days, except a firmer set to the wide mouth, and deeper lines about the eyes. He was unshaven, as he had been for some time, and the clothing on his rugged figure was rather more than usually the worse for wear.

  The girl noticed a new light in his eyes—somber, even dogged. There was something savage in the determination of the hard face, born—although she did not know it—of his knowledge that the life and safety of Mary Hastings was now his undivided responsibility.

  CHAPTER XX

  The Talisman

  “Poor Uncle Lionel,” she said sadly, “he never knew that—the Wusun were here, as he had thought they would be.”

  “He will have full credit for his achievement when you and I get back home, out of Sungan, Miss Hastings.”

  She looked at him, dumbly grateful. Gone was all the petulance, the spirit of mockery now. But her native heritage of resolution had not forsaken her.

  “Thank you for that, Captain Gray. I—I was foolish in disregarding your warning. I was unjust—because I wanted Uncle Singh to be first in Sungan.” She sighed then tried to smile. “Will you sit down? On a cushion. Perhaps you haven’t breakfasted yet. I have only light refreshments to offer—”

  A fresh miracle was taking place before Gray’s eyes. He did not know the courage of the English girls whose men protectors live always in the unsettled places that are the outskirts of civilization.

  His nearness to the girl stirred him. Her pluck acted as a spur to his own spirits. In spite of himself, his gaze wandered hungrily to the straying, bronze hair, and the fresh, troubled face.

  Unconsciously, she reached up and deftly adjusted a vagrant bit of hair. He wanted to pat her on the back and tell her she was splendid. But he feared his own awkwardness. Mary Hastings seemed to him to be a fragile, precious charge that had come into his life.

  He drew a quick breath. “I am hungry,” he lied.

  She busied herself at once, setting out dates and some cakes. While he ate, she barely nibbled at the food.

  “Now,” he began cheerfully, having planned what he was to say, “I’m indebted to you for breakfast. And I’m going to question you.”

  He realized that he must take her mind from the death of her uncle.

  “How have our new allies, the Wusun, been treating you, Miss Hastings?”

  “Very nicely, really. But not the priests. They took all my belongings except a little gold cross under my jacket. You see, the priests came with the—the lepers who attacked us.”

  Gray nodded.

  “And the Buddhists seized me, not the poor, sick men. They carried me off after gagging me so I couldn’t call out.”

  “Wu Fang’s orders.”

  “They took me down into some kind of a tunnel and kept me there until the shooting had ceased. They were escorting me along the passages when we met a party of Wusun, armed with bows. They talked to the priests, then they seemed to become angry, and the Buddhists gave me up. I don’t know why the Wusun wanted me.”

  Glancing at the beautiful girl, Gray thought that the reason was not hard to guess. He did not then understand, however, the full significance that the woman held for the Wusun.

  “Perhaps they recognized you as a white woman—one of their own kind,” he hazarded.

  She shook her head dubiously.

  “I thought the Wusun did not know any other white people existed, Captain Gray. One of them—I heard them call him Gela, the Kha Khan—was a young man, as big as you, and not bad looking. He was angriest of all—with the priests, that is, not with me.”

  Gray frowned.

  “Gela led me to the council hall of the ‘Tall Ones,’” she continued, looking at him in some surprise, for the frown had not escaped her. “There I found old Bassalor Danek. I could not speak their language, but Uncle Singh taught me quite a bit of the northern Turki. Bassalor Danek was really a fine old chap, but I like Timur better.”

  “Timur?” he asked. “One of the tumani?”

  “I don’t see why you don’t like them. They helped me. No, Timur seems to be a kind of councilor. He’s white haired, and limps. But he speaks broken Turki, which I understand. So—I have been well treated, except that they will not let me out of this building, which belongs to Bassalor Danek.”

  “What did the Turki-speaking fellow have to say for himself?”

  “He asked my name. Of course he could not pronounce it, so he christened me something that sounds like Kha Rakcha. I think Kha—it’s a Kirghiz word, too—means ‘white’ in their tongue.”

  “Rakcha is western Chinese for some kind of spirit,” assented Gray, interested. “So they’ve named you the White Spirit—or, in another sense, the White Woman-Queen. Your coming seems to have been an event in the affairs of the Wusun—”

  “That is what Timur said.” She nodded brightly. “He is one of the elders of the kurultai—council. I hope I made a good impression on him. He seemed to be friendly.”

  “I think,” pondered Gray seriously, “that you have made a better impression than you think. That helps a lot, because—” he was about to say that his own standing with the Wusun was none too good, thanks to Wu Fang Chien’s enmity, but broke off. He did not want to alarm her. “Because they’ve let me come to see you,” he amended awkwardly.

  The girl’s vigilant wits were not to be hoodwinked.

  “That’s not what you meant to say, Captain Gray,” she reproached him.

  “It’s true—” he was more successful this time— “that your coming probably earned me a respite.”

  “A respite?”

  When is a woman deceived by a man’s clumsy assurance? Or when does she fail to understand when something is kept back?

  “Captain Gray, you know something you won’t tell me! Did the Wusun threaten you?”

  “No. They shielded me—”

  “Then you were in danger. I thought so. Now what did you mean by—respite?”

  Instead, Gray told her how he had found his way into Sungan, omitting the details of the fighting, or his own achievement. Mary considered him gravely chin on hand.

  “I prayed that you would follow our caravan,” she said. “I wished for you when every one was fighting so. Somehow, I was sure that you would reach Sungan. You see, you made me feel you were the kind of man who went where he wanted to go.”

  Gray looked up, and she shook her head reproachfully.

  “You’re just like Uncle Singh. You won’t tell if there’s any danger. Will not the Wusun protect us from the priests?” She stretched out a slim hand appealingly. “There’s just the two of us left. Shouldn’t you be quite frank with me? Now tell me what you meant by ‘respite!’”

  He cordially regretted his unfortunate choice of the word. Perforce, he told her of Wu Fang Chien and the dispute in the council.

  “So you see, our case comes up for trial tonight,” he concluded. “It’s a question of the Gur-Khan’s authority against the power of Wu Fang Chien. I’m rooting for old Bassalor Danek. I think he’ll treat us well. For one thing because he’s curious about us. In a way, we’re his guests. I hope he checkmates Wu, because—to be frank—we’re better off in Sungan than with the Buddhists.”

  T
his time she was satisfied.

  “Of course,” she nodded. “Wu Fang Chien would not let us go free easily. He would have to answer, then, for the attack on the caravan. To answer to the British embassy.”

  Gray reflected that they were the only survivors of the fight and that the Chinese could not afford to permit them to escape.

  “I’ll appear to argue for immunity—our immunity—tonight,” he smiled.

  “Are you a lawyer, Captain Gray?” The girl tried to enter into the spirit of his remark. “Have we a good case?”

  “Chiefly our wits,” he admitted. “And perhaps the tie the Wusun may feel for us as a kindred race.”

  “Splendid!” She clapped her hands. “I think you’re a first-rate attorney.”

  Gray recalled the majestic face of Bassalor Danek, and the anger of the Wusun at the entrance of Wu Fang Chien.

  “They made some kind of a covenant, didn’t they, with the Chinese Emperor?”

  “Timur said it was an agreement by which the Wusun were to keep their city inviolate, and not to leave its boundaries. Even the invading sands have not dislodged them. Timur described them as numerous as the trees of the Thian Shan, the Celestial Mountains, at first. Now only a few survive. The Chinese have posted lepers around them.”

  Gray nodded. Slowly the history of the Wusun was piecing itself out. A race descended from invaders from Europe before the dawn of history, they had allied themselves with the might of Genghis Khan and earned the enmity of the Chinese. Since then, with the slow persistence of the Chinese, they had been confined and diminished in number.

  “You remember the legend of Prester John—in the middle ages,” continued the girl eagerly. “Marco Polo tells about a powerful prince in mid-Asia who was a Christian. I have been thinking about it. Isn’t the word Kerait the Mongol for Christian? Do you suppose the first Wusun were Christians?”