The House of the Falcon

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The House of the Falcon Page 10

by Harold Lamb


  "What does he say?" Edith framed the question gently. She sensed the anxiety of Iskander, the patience of the silent watchers—the vital importance to them of the life of the white man.

  "The sands of life have not run out. And the wine vessel that held the wine is not broken." Iskander spoke slowly, with a kind of thoughtful exultation. "He who knows the sickness of the spirit has tended Dono-van Khan skillfully. We have come in time."

  Edith glanced swiftly at the Mohammedan physician. He was regarding her steadily, his dried lips framing soundless words. The other two, heavier men, bearing the stamp of authority, waited patiently. Edith's keen wit told her that they expected something of her, particularly the physician.

  "Mahmoud el Dar," Iskander spoke her thought, "the hakim. He is wise, very wise. There is no wisdom like to his."

  A breath of air passed through the stone chamber. The candles in the lamps flickered. And the shrouded light by the couch went out. It left the face of Donovan dark.

  "Hai!" muttered Iskander and two of the three watchers echoed his exclamation. The fatalism inbred in all followers of the Prophet had taken fire at the darkening of the lamp. Edith was alert, sensitive to all that passed in the chamber. She understood that her own life, to these men, was a slight thing beside the life of John Donovan.

  In the stone room of the garden house, isolated in the impenetrable hills, Mahmoud and those with him had treasured the life in the sick man, guarding it against her coming. Why?

  Mahmoud spoke.

  "He says," interpreted Iskander, "that the lamp was truly an omen. Yet not, of itself, an omen of death. Mahmoud is very wise. He says that a new lamp must be lit by your hand. Obey."

  As if she had been a child obedient to an older person, Edith took the bronze lamp the Arab gave her, and with a wisp of cotton ignited it from another candle. Then she removed of her own accord the shrouding cloth. Holding the bronze lantern, she turned to Iskander.

  "Tell me what you want done," she observed.

  By way of answer, the Arab gave a command and Aravang appeared carrying a burden which he set down beside Edith. It was the familiar medicine pail, still covered with its black cloth.

  "That is yours," Iskander pointed to it, "and you alone—among us four—understand its use. I have seen you tend the wounds of your servant, Aravang, when he was hurt at the inn."

  He nodded thoughtfully to himself, choosing his words with care and speaking the precise English that he had learned—as he had once admitted—when attached to a native regiment of the British army during the Persian campaigns of the Great War.

  "Of his own accord, Mees Rand, did Dono-van Khan come to Yakka Arik. No other ever came willingly into the barriers—no other multani, foreigner, at least. Because of certain things unknown to you it is necessary to kill those who spy upon Yakka Arik. Yet we had heard of Dono-van Khan, and once before then he had aided us. So we bargained with him, or he did with us, and we Sayaks helped him to fulfill his mission in the Hills. Now, he must fulfill his half of the bargain. He has given his word. We are waiting. And he is very ill. He must be made well."

  Edith was silent, looking at him questioningly. She wondered why Iskander called the sick man "khan" and why there was a barrier about Yakka Arik. The casual manner in which the Arab mentioned death as a penalty rather took her breath away. What manner of men were these who called themselves Sayaks? And what was Donovan?

  "In the time before the first of last winter," continued her interpreter, "Dono-van Khan again was brought here by one of the caravans to this house which is his home. But this time there was a heavy fever in him. An enemy of the Sayaks who knew that he meant to aid us poisoned him in the Kashgar bazaar. Because of the sickness, Mahmoud kept him here and we sent Aravang for his belongings that were left with a servant at Kashgar. The servant was faithless and it came to pass before long that Aravang tracked him down and punished him fittingly."

  Edith thought of Major Fraser-Carnie's narrative and sighed. She was gaining a first insight into the new world of Yakka Arik. It was hard for her to understand.

  "When the winter was passing, the fever grew and he was very weak. Mahmoud's remedies no longer availed because of a strange thing. The sickness was of spirit as well as body. Dono-van Khan had received word that the doors of his home in England were closed to him. He was very lonely and this weakened his spirit."

  Iskander stroked his beard thoughtfully, glancing at her to make sure that she understood.

  "Mees Rand, what do physics—even the substances of Avicenna—avail when the mind itself is ailing? Mahmoud desired above all things to save Dono-van Khan, and I also—who am his friend—desired it. But to the white man this house was not like his home. Then out of the wisdom of the ancient Mahmoud came a thought. It was that the spirit itself of Dono-van Khan must be healed."

  Iskander Khan Edith regarded as a pagan, with blood on his hands. Aravang, she thought, was no better than a murderer. What made them so anxious to aid the sick man? She looked from Mahmoud, now heating something in a bronze bowl over the brazier, to the still face of Donovan.

  "It was the wisdom of Mahmoud," the mild voice of Iskander went on, "that sent me to Kashmir—to heal the loneliness of the white man. I went to find a spur for his spirit—a spur that would drive away the dark angel of death. The spur would be a woman of his own race and rank. The sight of her would make him wish to live. Aye—she would nurse him and make this place a home."

  "And so——"

  "You are here." Iskander folded his arms, a brief hiss of satisfied personal pride escaping his lips. "Zalla 'llahir alaihi wa sallam! The will of Allah is all-in-all. Behold, the sickness is of the spirit and so also is the spur. Hai—you are beautiful as a keen, bright sword. I have watched you, and I know—I know."

  Mechanically Edith placed the lamp by the couch and faced the Arab. She had been hurried hundreds of miles over mountain paths to serve Donovan—the man they called Dono-van Khan. At this thought she flushed and bit her lip.

  "Why did you choose—me?"

  "Hai! Does the falcon pause when a thrush is in sight? I chose the first white woman, strong, and fair of face. Likewise, it was said in Srinagar that you were skilled in tending the sick mem-sahib."

  Edith smiled bitterly, reflecting how it would astonish her worthy aunt to learn that her fancied ills coupled with the exaggerated respect paid the medicine chest had helped to carry off her niece. Iskander had seized her—daughter of Arthur Rand and an American citizen—as lightly as he would have pinioned a struggling bird, as callously as he had slain the two men in the Kashgar bazaar.

  She looked into the faces of the three. Iskander and the stout chieftain were conversing, utterly oblivious of her. Only Mahmoud regarded her intently, much in the manner of a surgeon surveying the subject of an experimental operation. A surge of rebellion swept through her.

  Another woman, less proud, might have congratulated herself on the temporary respite offered. But it was not in Edith's nature to be grateful for immunity or to forget a wrong done her. She was the daughter, young in years, of an aristocratic family, and her pride was still to be reckoned with.

  The pride of the Rands was not easily dealt with.

  "The skill of Mahmoud guarded the life of Dono-van Khan for the space that I was gone," Iskander was saying, "and now that my task is finished, yours is to begin."

  The hands of the girl clenched at her side; her body quivered, and her flushed face became all at once quite pale.

  "Do you think that I shall obey—you?"

  Mahmoud looked up from his task, struck by the change in her voice. Iskander rose from the stone flags and took a silent stride toward her, snatching from her the yashmak and cloak, baring her set face and torn traveling dress. In front of her eyes he lifted the whip that he still retained.

  "Aye, you will obey."

  His burning glance probed her, angrily. Her rebellion had stirred his hot temper.

  "You think I will be a—slave, Isk
ander?"

  The Arab was surprised that she smiled at him so coldly. Women of his race did not defy their masters. A lash of the whip, he thought, would wipe out the smile. And Edith read his thought easily.

  "If you strike me, Iskander, I shall kill you."

  She had not meant to say just that. A month ago she could not have said it. But she knew that it was true. Every fiber in her body was strung to revolt. Every instinct of nature was up in arms against the man who had said he was her master. She heard Mahmoud speak quickly and saw the Arab bend his head to listen.

  Edith felt all at once very unhappy and friendless. Bodily weariness beset her; even the aspect of the unconscious sick man appeared to her threatening—as the aspect of the other shrouded forms of the mountain side that had once entered her dreams. And, as in the dream, she wanted to cry out, to waken. The room, with the cloaked figures of the men, seemed at that instant as unreal as her dream of a month ago. Iskander addressed her quietly.

  "The master of wisdom has spoken anew. He says that if you are unwilling to aid Dono-van Khan, you will not avail to heal his spirit. Of what use is a blunted spur ? Mahmoud asks that you look carefully into the face of the sick Dono-van Khan and consider that, if you do not heal him, he may die."

  Still angered, she would make no response.

  Iskander motioned to the bed and withdrew slightly, eying the girl curiously—trying to understand the mood of the white woman that brooked no mastery.

  After a space his scowl lightened and he grunted to himself.

  "By Allah, the steel of my choosing is good."

  By the bright glow of the lantern she appeared as an image of sheer beauty, her wide eyes fixed on the sick man from the tangle of gleaming hair, her splendid body swaying with swift, troubled breathing.

  As Edith studied the unconscious face, reading the shadows under the closed eyes of Donovan and the message of the set mouth through which breath barely stirred, her mood changed. After all, the woman was very much like a child.

  And the instinct of womanhood—compassion at the sight of pain—was strong. She saw the head of the sick man move uneasily and his hand twitch on the blanket. Hesitantly, she took the hand in her own. Color flooded her cheeks and her eyes brightened.

  "Tell me what I can do for him," she said to Iskander.

  Under his mustache the Arab smiled. Verily, he reflected, Mahmoud was the master of wisdom: he had read with a single glance the heart of the woman.

  But under the compassion that had come to Edith Rand was another feeling. Donovan Khan seemed to be a leader of these men—Sayaks, or whatever they chose to call themselves. He had been the cause of her seizure. On his account Iskander had made of her what was little better than a tool, a slave.

  If he lived, Donovan Khan must atone for the wrong done her.

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE BRONZE BOWL

  "Dono-van Khan lies in a stupor," explained Iskander, "and Mahmoud knows that he must be aroused, so that he will exert his strength—the strength of the iron body—to live. When he wakens you must speak to him, and make him understand."

  Edith nodded. She had often heard physicians discuss the benefits derived from the determination of a patient to recover, in a dangerous stage of weakness. She watched curiously while Mahmoud pottered about his bowl.

  She had always fancied that Arabian physicians and Hindu yogis—she was somewhat vague as to the difference—practiced by means of native spells and incantation and such things. Now she learned from Iskander that the bronze bowl contained merely a heart stimulant.

  To Iskander, however, the arts of Mahmoud were little short of miraculous. Later, Edith came to understand that the physician's name was feared even in Kashgar as being connected with the caravan that had become a superstition in these regions.

  While the Arab chieftain raised the head of the sick man from the bed, Mahmoud calmly adjusted the lamp to throw a strong light on Edith. Following out his directions, she seated herself on the bed, taking Donovan's hands in hers.

  "When Dono-van Khan drinks," added Iskander, "he will waken. Then you must speak, so that he will desire to live."

  Edith assented, appreciating the necessity for rousing the patient. She watched Mahmoud turning the bowl of brown liquid in his fingers that were so thin the wrinkled skin seemed stretched tight over the bones. She held her breath as he pushed open the lips of the unconscious man. Then, taking a strip of clean cotton from his girdle, he dipped it in the bowl, squeezing drops of the liquid through the set teeth.

  Undeniably, she thought, the man was skillful. She wondered faintly at the assurance of this wrinkled man of medicine who used remedies not in the pharmacopoeia of European doctors; the conviction grew on her that Mahmoud, not Iskander, was master in Yakka Arik. The other native had left the room.

  Mahmoud uttered a low exclamation as Donovan's teeth parted, and straightway fell to stroking the throat and eyelids of his patient. Edith saw a flush come into Donovan's cheeks and perspiration start on his brow.

  The eyelids flickered and Mahmoud drew back with a sign to Iskander. "Dono-van Khan sees you," whispered the latter to Edith. "Now you must speak to him."

  Gazing full into the blue eyes, heavy with fever, that wavered as they sought her, the girl fumbled for words.

  "John Donovan!" she said faintly. "John Donovan!"

  The eyes of the sick man fixed upon hers and she thought his lips framed an exclamation. A sudden impulse drew the girl nearer to her patient.

  "Please," she breathed anxiously, "please hurry up and get well. I am going to nurse you."

  Iskander touched her arm.

  "Say that you need his protection, Mees Rand," he whispered. "Then the spirit of Dono-van Khan will fed the spur."

  "I want you to help me, Donovan Khan," she cried. "You will help me, won't you?"

  Donovan raised his head slowly and looked around inquiringly at Mahmoud and Iskander, his gaze returning to the girl. After a moment he closed his eyes. At this, the physician motioned her away and Iskander murmured.

  "Inshallah!"

  Edith was aware that Mahmoud worked steadily over Donovan, rubbing his limbs skillfully, and moistening his brow. Some of the candles had gone out, leaving the stone chamber in semi-gloom except for the couch. Time passed slowly while the physician hovered over the couch and Iskander remained sunk in thought. Outside the curtained entrance she heard the footfalls of some one, perhaps a guard. But no one entered. Presently Mahmoud covered the sick man very warmly with thick woolen robes and beckoned her.

  "Sit by the bed," instructed Iskander, "and when the white man arouses, speak to him again. Do not leave him. If he wakens and looks for you and sees you not, he will believe that what has passed has been a dream, what you call a vision, Mees Rand."

  Mahmoud glanced at her warningly.

  With that the two left her in the stone chamber. Edith did as she had been told, perching herself on a carved tabouret to watch and wait. She saw that Donovan was breathing very slowly and weakly. He seemed unconscious. One hand lay outside the coverlet. Edith regarded it tentatively, then took it in her clasp.

  Very insufficient and hesitating she felt, watching the wasted face of the white man. She distrusted her own ability to help in any way. But she had come to believe in Mahmoud's skill.

  Hope was arising within her. Before her eyes Donovan had emerged from the last stage of exhaustion. She prayed that he would live.

  The light across the bearded face before her was changing. Looking up, Edith perceived that the embrasures of the room had turned from black to gray. The room grew colder. Then she started upright.

  So near it seemed almost over her head came the blast of the trumpets.

  The clarion note rose and fell, now beating at her senses, now dwindling away into space.

  The half light of early dawn was creeping into the stone chamber. And Donovan's eyes had opened and were fastened on her.

  Edith caught her breath, uncertain whether to r
emain where she was or to call Mahmoud. She decided to remain. Iskander had been positive. But the girl was troubled by the great need to serve the sick man. Mechanically, she patted the hand she held.

  Donovan looked at her steadfastly, at her face, and the hand that stroked his gently. Soon she saw that his lips were moving, and bent nearer to listen. Her quick ears caught the words.

  "Who—are—you?"

  Edith wondered what to say, her pulse quickening as she hesitated.

  "Miss Rand," she ventured finally, and felt that it was absurdly formal and purposeless. Donovan appeared to ponder it. She wondered if he had heard. When his eyes closed she was alarmed, and tugged at his hand. At this he looked up and she sighed with relief.

  "Please don't go to sleep again," she cried softly. "Don't you understand? You must get well—to help me."

  He was silent at this, as if the words had been too much for his weakened comprehension.

  "Help you?" he murmured, eyes closed.

  "Yes," she breathed.

  Silence followed, but she knew now that he was awake, groping slowly for thoughts, striving to connect ideas with a kind of patient, dogged determination. Edith understood now why Iskander had remarked upon the strength of John Donovan.

  "You must rest," she warned.

  He was quiet for a long time. Chin on hand, she gazed out into the circle of the window over the bed. No glass was in the embrasure, and the morning breeze swept mildly into the room. She could see the red flame of sunrise painted on the shape of a wandering cloud. The sky was fast becoming blue. Edith was cold and very tired.

  "Help you," the murmur reached her again. So faint that she wondered if she really had heard it. The brow of the man was puckered as if in an effort of the mind. Edith realized that this must not be permitted. So she began to stroke his forehead with her free hand. This seemed to calm him. Before long Donovan's breathing was regular and she knew that he slept. But she did not leave his side nor release his hand.

  The struggle of the past night had wrought upon her strongly. The reality of John Donovan was becoming part of her life. A deep, contented glow was in her breast, arising from the consciousness that she had helped him. She had done what Mahmoud had asked of her. She already felt a sense of ownership in the sick man.

 

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