Marching Sands

by Harold Lamb

  “They don’t seem to have any especial religion, Miss Hastings—except a kind of morning and evening prayer.”

  “I’ve heard them chant the hymn. Timur says it was their ancestors’.” The girl sighed. “To think that we should have found the Wusun, after all. If only my uncle—” She broke off sadly.

  A step sounded outside the room and Garluk thrust his shaggy head through the curtain.

  “I come from the Gur-Khan,” he announced. “The Man-Who-Kills-Swiftly must come before Bassalor Khan.”

  “They are paging me,” said Gray lightly, in answer to her questioning look. “I’ve got to play lawyer. But I have an experiment to try. Don’t worry.”

  He rose, and she looked up at him pleadingly.

  “Come back as soon as you can,” she whispered. “I—it’s so lonely here. I was miserable until Timur told me they had heard shooting during yesterday’s sunset chant. I guessed it was you—”

  “My automatic,” explained Gray with a grin. “I missed Wu Fang Chien, which is too bad.” He was talking cheerily, at random, anxious to hearten the girl. She winced at mention of the fighting.

  “I’ll be back to report what is going on.”

  “If anything should happen to you—”

  “I seem to be accident-proof, so far.” He smiled lightly, masking his real feelings. “And there’s a plan—”

  “Come,” said Garluk. “Bassalor Khan waits at his shrine.”

  “I’ll have a better dinner to offer you,” Mary smiled back. “Don’t forget!”

  “I’ll make a note of it—Mary.”

  Gray stepped outside the curtain. In spite of his promise, he could not return to the girl’s room.

  He found Bassalor Danek waiting in a chamber under the temple, to which he was conducted by the impatient Garluk. The Gur-Khan was seated on a silk carpet beside an old man with a face like a satyr, whom Gray guessed to be Timur. They looked up silently at his approach. The tumani withdrew.

  At a sign from Bassalor Danek, Gray seated himself before the two. They regarded him gravely. He waited for them to speak.

  “Wu Fang Chien,” began the Gur-Khan at length, “will come to the hall to hear my word at sunset. His ill-will might bring the dark cloud of trouble upon my people. If I give you up, he will thank me and bring us good grain and tea from China in the next caravan.”

  He paused as if for an answer. But Gray was silent, wishing to hear what more the two had to say.

  “Yet, O One-Who-Kills-Swiftly,” put in Timur mildly, “you are of the race of the Kha Rakcha and she has found favor in our hearts. You say you came here to seek her. That is well. But we must not bring trouble upon our people. They have little food. There is none to place before the shrine of our race.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at a closed curtain. Here one of the Wusun stood guard. Gray guessed that this was their shrine. He was curious for a glimpse of it.

  “What is the will of the Gur-Khan?” he asked quietly.

  Bassalor Danek glanced at him keenly.

  “I have not made ready my answer, O Man-from-the-Outside. Wu Fang Chien cried that you had come unbidden to meddle with what does not concern you. The Kha Rakcha is very beautiful, and the light from her face will be an ornament to our shrine. You have said that you came to seek us. But that cannot be. For no word of us has passed the outer guards. Even the wandering Kirghiz that we see at a distance do not know us.”

  Gray had been waiting for a lead to follow. Now he saw his chance and summoned his small stock of poetical Chinese to match the oratory of Bassalor Danek.

  “Hearken, O Gur-Khan,” he said, and paused, knowing the value of meditation when dealing with an Oriental. Inwardly, he prayed for success in his venture, knowing that the fate of the girl depended greatly on what he said.

  “It is true,” he resumed, “that I was sent to seek the Wusun. Beyond the desert and beyond the border of Mongolia live a people whose fathers a very long time ago were the same as your fathers. They have means of seeing across great distances. They have the Eyes-of-Long-Sight. With these eyes they saw the Wusun in captivity, and they sent me with a message. This message I shall deliver when it is time.”

  Timur shook his gray head shrewdly.

  “Can a fish see what is on the land? A gazelle has keen eyes; but a gazelle cannot see across the desert, much less can a man. What you have said is not true.”

  “It is true. Not only can my people see beyond any distance, but they can hear. Behold, here is proof.”

  While the two watched curiously, Gray pulled his maps from his shirt and spread them on the floor before him. Bassalor Danek glanced from the paper to him expectantly.

  “Here is what we saw, with our Eyes-of-Long-Sight. See, here is the last village of China, Ansichow, and the desert. Here, by this mark, is where we knew Sungan to be. And beyond it is the River Tarim, as you know, and the Celestial Mountains. By this paper I found my way here.”

  Bassalor Danek fingered the map curiously. Then he shook his head.

  “This is a paper, like to those of the priests of Buddha. It is a kind of magic. With magic, much is possible. But these are signs upon paper. They are not mountains and rivers.”

  Gray sighed, confronted with the native incredulity of a map. The Wusun, despite their natural intelligence, were bound by the stultifying influence of generations of isolation. In fact, their state of civilization was that of the dark ages. It was as if Gray and Mary Hastings had wandered into a stronghold of the Goths.

  Still, he felt he had made a slight impression. He drew the field glasses from their case.

  “I have been given a token,” he explained slowly, making sure that the two understood his broken Chinese. “It is a small talisman of the Eyes-of-Long-Sight. With it, you can see what is far, as clearly as if it lay in your hand.”

  Timur stroked his beard and smiled.

  “It may not be. Even with magic, it may not be.”

  “Look then.” Gray lifted the glasses and focused them on the guard who stood by the shrine curtain. “With this you can bring the man’s face as near as mine.”

  He handed the glasses to Bassalor Danek, who turned them over curiously in his hand. Obeying Gray’s direction, he leveled them on the guard. The man stirred uneasily, evidently believing that some kind of magic was being practiced upon him. Bassalor Danek gave a loud exclamation and the glasses fell to his knees. He peered from them to the man at the curtain and muttered in his beard.

  “I saw the face within arm’s reach of my own,” he cried. “Truly, it is as this man has promised!”

  “Nay,” Timur objected. “The one by the shrine did not move, for I watched. It may not be.”

  Nevertheless, his hand trembled as he lifted the glasses to his feeble eyes. Gray helped him to focus them. He, also, gave an exclamation.

  For a while the two Wusun experimented with the binoculars, scrutinizing the walls, the floor and the rugs with increasing amazement. Gray kept a straight face. The glasses were powerful, with excellent lenses. The Wusun had never seen or heard of anything of the kind.

  “This is but a token,” he reminded them gravely, “of the Eyes-of-Long-Sight that my people have. If this talisman can bring near to you what is afar, do you doubt that we could know what is beyond the desert? Is not the coming of the White Spirit proof that we knew?”

  This was a weighty matter and Bassalor Danek and Timur conferred upon it, putting down the glasses reluctantly.

  “I know not,” hazarded Timur. Gray saw that his double question had confused them. To remedy his error, he turned to Bassalor Danek.

  “Keep these small Eyes-of-Long-Sight,” he said. “I give them to you.”

  Despite his accustomed calm, the chieftain of the Wusun gave an involuntary exclamation of pleasure. Gray pressed his advantage.

  “Further proof I will give, O Bassalor Danek. Draw the curtains of the shrine that I may see the god of the Wusun. Then I will show you that my people beyond the deser
t knew of the god.”

  He reasoned swiftly that the Wusun, if Timur’s account of their history had been correct, must have in their shrine some emblem of the Tatar deity—the god Natagai that Mirai Khan had described to him—or possibly some Mohammedan symbol. He rather guessed the former, since the Wusun had been isolated before the Moslem wave swept over Central Asia.

  “It is not a god, O Man-from-the-Outside,” demurred Timur. “It is a talisman of our fathers. Once, the Wusun had priests. In the time of Kubla Khan. Now, all that we remember is the hymn at sunset and sunrise. Almost we have forgotten the words. We have kept the talisman because once our priests, who were also warriors, cherished it.”

  Gray nodded, believing now that it was an image of Natagai, the Tatar war deity.

  “It is said,” continued Timur meditatively, “that the talisman was fashioned by a chieftain of our people. I have heard a tale from the elders that this khan lived when the Wusun were in another land, before they crossed the mountains on the roof of the world. Draw the curtain!”

  At the command the guard drew back the heavy folds of brocade. Gray saw a stone altar, covered with a clean cloth of white silk. On the cloth stood a cross.

  CHAPTER XXI

  Mary Makes A Request

  The cross was jade, in the shape of the medieval emblem—the Greek cross. Before it burned a candle. Gray stared at it silently while Timur limped forward and trimmed the wick of the candle.

  “We do not remember the faith of our fathers,” the old Wusun said sadly. “But we have kept the talisman. It is not as strong as the bronze Buddha of Wu Fang Chien. We will not give it up, although he has asked to buy it. Truly, no man should part with what was precious in the sight of his fathers.”

  Thoughts crowded in upon Gray. Was this the cross left by a wandering missionary—one of those who followed the footsteps of Marco Polo? Were the ancient Wusun the Christians mentioned in medieval legends as the kingdom of Prester John, sometimes called Presbyter John? The Wusun had been warriors. Was the symbol of the cross adapted from the hilt of a sword? Was it one of the vagaries of fate that had brought the cross into the hands of the Wusun, who were descendants of the Christians of Europe? Or had they of their own accord become worshipers of the cross? What did it mean to them?

  He recalled the sunset hymn. Was this their version of the vespers of a forgotten priest? He did not know. The problem of the cross existing among the remnants of the Wusun remains to be solved by more learned minds than his. It was clear, however, that beyond the cross they retained no vestige of their former religion.

  Abruptly his head snapped up.

  “I promised you, Bassalor Danek,” he cried, “that this would be a symbol. As I have promised, you will find it. We—who are of the same fathers—have also this talisman of our God.”

  The Wusun stared at him. There was a ring of conviction in Gray’s words. He recalled Delabar’s words that the talisman of the Wusun had earned the captive race the hatred of the Buddhists. He saw now how this was. Fate—or what the soldier esteemed luck—had put an instrument into his hand. For the defense of the girl. He must make full use of it.

  He pointed to the jade cross.

  “The Kha Rakcha and I are of the same blood as the Wusun. We came in peace to seek you. The Kha Rakcha claims your protection. Will you not grant it? Thus, I have spoken.”

  Bassalor Danek folded his lean arms, tiny wrinkles puckering about his aged eyes.

  “I hear,” he said. “The tale of the Eyes-of-Long-Sight is a true tale. But this thing is another tale. Have you a token to show, so that we may know that it, also, is true?”

  In the back of Gray’s mind was memory of a token. Something that Mary had mentioned. In his anxiety, he could not recall it.

  Thus did Gray miss a golden opportunity. If he had been alone, his natural quickness of thought would have found an answer to the Gur-Khan’s question. With the life of the girl he loved at stake, he hesitated.

  It was vitally important that Bassalor Danek should believe what Gray had said about the cross. Believing, he would aid them, for he reverenced the cross. Doubting, they would be exposed to the wiles of Wu Fang Chien.

  “If I spoke the truth in one thing, O Gur-Khan,” he parried, “would I speak lies concerning another?”

  “The two things are not the same,” put in Timur, logically. “The talisman is precious—like to the gold in the sword-hilt of Gela. Yet what is it to you?”

  “It is the sign of our faith. It is the talisman of Christianity.”

  “I know not the word.”

  “You know the name of the ancient khan of the Wusun—Awang Khan?”

  Gray hazarded a bold stroke, on his knowledge of the legend of Prester John of Asia. Timur considered.

  “The name is not in our speech,” he announced.

  Bassalor Danek looked up sagely.

  “You speak of faith, O One-Who-Kills-Swiftly. Is that a word of a priesthood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then,” said Bassalor Danek gravely, “it is clear that your talisman is not like to this. Nay, for the only priesthood is that of the false Buddhists.”

  “Our faith is different from theirs—even as a grain of sand is different from a drop of clear water.”

  The Gur-Khan’s hand swept in a wide circle.

  “Nay. What can we see from Sungan save the grains of sand? Everywhere, beyond, is the Buddhist priesthood. We have seen this thing. It is true.” He lifted his head proudly. “Behold, youth, here is the talisman of a warrior. From chieftain to chieftain, it has been handed down. It is the token of a chieftain. Of one who safeguards his people. None can wear it but myself, or another of royal blood who has fought for his people.”

  For the first time he showed Gray a smaller cross, fashioned from gold that hung from a chain of the same metal across his chest under the cloak.

  “Because I am khan of the Wusun, this thing is mine,” he added. “If my father and his before him had not been strong warriors, the Wusun would have passed from the world as a candle is blown out in a strong wind.”

  “Aye,” amended Timur. “It is a sign of the rank of the Gur-Khan. Has it not always been thus?”

  Both men nodded their heads, as at an unalterable truth. Age and isolation had made their conceptions rigid. The safety of the Wusun was their sole care.

  “Your sign is not like to ours,” said they. “Is the moon kindred to the sun because both live in the sky?”

  “There is but one Cross,” cried Gray.

  They shook their heads. How were they to alter the small store of belief that had been their meager heritage of wisdom?

  “You are not kin to us, but the Kha Rakcha is a woman, and so may become kin to the Wusun,” announced Bassalor Danek. “Go now, for we must weigh well our answer to Wu Fang Chien.”

  Gray rose, his lips hard.

  “Be it so,” he said slowly. “If it is in your mind that you must yield to Wu Fang Chien, give me up into his hands. I will take a sword and go to seek him. Keep the Kha Rakcha safe within Sungan. She is, as you have seen, the White Spirit. Her beauty is not less than the light of the sun. Guard her well.”

  Gray had spoken bitterly, feeling that he had failed in his plea. He had not sensed the full meaning of the other’s words. He knew that his own death would be the most serious loss to the girl. Without him she was defenseless.

  He did not want to leave her. She had been so childlike in her reliance upon his protection. And he was so helpless to aid her.

  But Gray had weighed the odds with the cold precision that never left him. There was a slight chance that he might be able to kill Wu Fang Chien, and if so, Mary might be safeguarded.

  He walked away from the shrine, and, unconsciously, bent his steps toward the house of Bassalor Danek, where the girl was. Then he turned back, resolutely. He could not see Mary now. She would guess instantly—so quick was the woman’s instinct—that something was wrong.

  Gray retraced his steps to
the tower and to his own chamber, where he would await the decision of the Gur-Khan.

  For the space of several hours the two Wusun debated together. They glanced from time to time at a water clock that creaked dismally in the corner furthest from the shrine. Their brows were furrowed by anxiety as they talked.

  Outside the sun was already past its highest point, and the sands burned with reflected heat. The people of Sungan had taken shelter under the canal trees and in the underground buildings. Even the dogs and the lepers were no longer to be seen. Quiet prevailed in Sungan, and in the armed camps of the guards without the wall.

  No glimmer of sunlight penetrated into the shrine of Bassalor Danek. The attendant lighted fresh candles and stood motionless. Then he stirred and advanced to the doorway. He uttered a gruff exclamation.

  Mary Hastings pushed past him and stood gazing at the two Wusun.

  “Timur!” she cried. “Where is the One-Who-Kills-Swiftly?”

  The councilor of Sungan glanced at her wonderingly. She was flushed, and breathing quickly. Her bronze hair had fallen to her slim shoulders. Tall and proud and imperious, she faced him—a lovely picture in the dim chamber.

  “He said that he would return to me,” she repeated. “And he has not come. Well do I know that this could only be because of something evil that has happened. Where is he?”

  The two were stoically silent. She approached them fearlessly. To the guard’s amazement, she stamped an angry foot, her eyes wide with anxiety.

  This, to the guard, was something that should not be permitted in the high presence of the Gur-Khan. He laid a warning hand on her shoulder. Startled, the girl drew back and struck down his arm. Abashed by her flaming displeasure, the warrior glanced at Bassalor Danek.

  The Gur-Khan frowned.

  “Touch not the Kha Rakcha, dog!” he growled. “Soon the woman is to be allied to me by blood.” Then to Mary: “It is not fitting, maiden, that even one such as you should come to this place in anger. Cover then the flame of spirit with the ashes of respect.”

  Timur interpreted his stately speech. But the girl was wrought up by fear for Gray. Not until he had failed to rejoin her did she realize how much his coming had meant.