A Garden to the Eastward

by Harold Lamb

  "I don't know. Perhaps the wind."

  "It was no wind. Somebody played a tune on it!" Because the sick man hesitated, the operator was peremptory. "Is that French-speaking priest still around? No? You aren't sure? Well, take it down, Ilia."

  "The bell?"

  "The bell in the tower. Unship it—hide it away in a wagon, in the ambulance wagon. Then the devil himself can't send any messages by it."

  Having an explicit order, Svetlov moved away briskly. The operator thought: he's an automaton, has to be set going. Ceaseless vigilance is necessary to avoid mistakes. Now Anna was another head, of cabbage entirely. Even if she was a Bashkir girl of the green steppeland, she wanted to learn the hang of things. She would answer back until she understood.

  When Svetlov called Major Omelko, the Cossack was meditating in his blankets over a cigarette, while Anna prepared the morning tea and kasha. She liked to do this for him.

  "What's the matter with the bell?" Omelko objected immediately. "I heard it, but why shouldn't it ring at daybreak? It's an Armenian bell, and we have plenty of Armenians around here."

  He had no desire to go out into the wind to superintend the lowering of a hefty bronze bell.

  "It's an order."

  "It's a blind pig of an order." The Cossack made no move to stir out of his blankets.

  "You'd better get it down all the same," called Anna cheerfully, "or it may start ringing again."

  At that Omelko grunted and stretched himself and spat. Svetlov wondered what this front-line soldier thought about when he sat without reading or speaking, simply sat and looked into the distance. It needed a whip of the tongue to make this Ukrainian exert himself, now that he was finished with the military front and occupied a post of honor in charge of the transport and guards on this new front against the Barricades. Didn't he know that when the Barricades were broken down and the Soviet was freed, there would be peace?

  Mr. Parabat led Jacob over the tangle of woolen tent ropes of the Herki camp to the small sleeping tent of Mullah Ismail. They had to go around it to reach the entrance on the sheltered side, where a heavy canopy projected. The Mullah, Mr. Parabat explained, never kept guards at his door. But a massive figure reclined comfortably on the entrance carpet, intoning a song. Jacob caught familiar words: "Es geht mit gedämpftem Trommelklang."

  At sight of them Vasstan sat up. "God in heaven, the missionary and the banker. Too late and too little."

  A whiff of spirits came from him when he spoke, assuring them that Ismail was absent in conference with the heads of the tribes. He, Vasstan, was awaiting the outcome, and he invited the American Military Intelligence and the merchant made by British money to join his watch.

  "Not British money," Mr. Parabat murmured uneasily.

  "No? Enough of it you have here spent. Still, I predict a Soviet victory here."

  "Why?" Jacob asked.

  "Strange that this missionary who should give information always seeks it. Well, I answer you. Because the Kurds are sitting now in the cinema house, with Russian bayonets around them. My Assyrians also have joined forces with the Soviet power. Food and force are good arguments; to give food and threaten by force. An unanswerable argument, that, Captain Ide." The German was enjoying himself after silencing the Zoroastrian. "So I predict victory for the Soviet circus men here and in Iran where a strike has stopped the working of the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company. Also in Iraq, where the Kirkuk production has been struck also. The stoppage of oil hurts the British pounds sterling, or should I say dollars, Captain Ide? Is there such a strike in Baku, or Ploesti, under the Russians? Never! I have some ability to add facts together, as you know, Captain Ide, and I predict that before life is extinct in my carcase the British Empire will be reduced to a bankrupt borrower of American dollars. You agree, of course, Mr. Parabat?"

  Uneasily the Zoroastrian shook his head. With full daylight the wind was falling. Herki riflemen, their shawl turbans wrapped around their heads, had gathered to sit at a respectful distance from the three foreigners who were so obviously holding an important conference of their own at the entrance to Mullah Ismail's tent.

  Inspired by his audience, and elated by more than cognac, the German conjured up a word picture to frighten the Zoroastrian—of Soviet power reaching for and taking in the food-producing areas of the outer world in eastern Europe and here in the Middle East. Beyond that control, as in Greece and the remnant of Germany itself, the outer populations of the West were being crowded together, backed up against the seas, unable to grow food for themselves. "Elsewhere, beyond the new Soviet frontier, there is famine also in Bengal-India and the Chinese coast. As you should know, Mr. Parabat."

  The Zoroastrian touched Jacob, nodding slightly. Through the crouching tribesmen Paul was making his way toward the tent. At sight of Vasstan he hesitated, then knelt down by the nearest spectators.

  "At least peace itself has come to India," Mr. Parabat murmured.

  "Peace! Peace, my Zoroastrian money-changer, is no more than a dream, an opium dream of the world. At intervals between wars, there is a truce, yes." Hearing no denial, the German raised his voice. "War is the natural state of human beings, and as they change, so it also changes its shape. Now the Soviet uses biology instead of battles. I count populations, and I find already under its imperium perhaps two hundred and thirty million human beings. Soon will be added the hundreds of millions here and in India and China. Asia will be propagating its spawn, to bring pressure against the surviving democracies in the West. How many human beings in Anglo-France? Eighty-five million, penned in narrow industrial life."

  He seemed to strive to expand his own personality, to draw into it all the currents of conflict that besieged Araman, as if he himself were the dynamic mover of events and not a shell of a man made voluble by alcohol.

  Paul spoke beside him. "Colonel Vasstan, are you so sure the hundreds of millions in Asia will yield to military control?"

  Challenged, the German's head jerked around. "With what will they resist?"

  "Perhaps with their spirit; perhaps they will not resist, and not yield."

  "A young spiritualist. A non-resister!"

  Jacob remembered that Vasstan, who knew so much, was not acquainted with Paul, the son of Kaimars.

  "As you say, Colonel Vasstan, it will be a conflict between the spirit of Asia and the arms of the West."

  His quiet irritated Vasstan. "Behind the armies, my youthful prophet, ride the four horsemen of the Revelation. Will you resist them?"

  "We have known them also. But as Saint John spoke of them in his Revelation, they were four dark horsemen, Colonel. The first was conquest, the second war, the third famine, and the fourth was death. Only your European artists have painted four mythical horsemen riding abreast. In Revelation, the dark riders follow each other and conquest comes first, to be followed by war, and after that famine and then death."

  Listening closely, Jacob became aware that Paul was speaking to him as well as Vasstan and was watching movements outside the tent.

  "And if they do follow each other, my student of the Bible?"

  "Beware of conquest. For the others will come after."

  The German did not laugh. His keen mind caught at the reasoning. "And where will you escape the relationship between conquerors and subjects—in some form? Rule must be by the victorious state from above. Military authority must support it. Peace, you have bespoken. So! When did the world enjoy peace, except under a supreme armed state? The pax Romana came after the iron Roman legions; the Mongol peace after the conquests of Genghis Khan. And, if you will, British colonial peace, of the last century, came after the British ironclads."

  "There was peace, Colonel, before such organized war began."

  "Never so."

  "Before Babylon and Nineveh, and the first throwing ax and bronze swords."

  "Among primitives? Ach, the soldier was ignorant then."

  "Soldiers never existed then. They were created by the modern state."

&nb
sp; Vasstan seemed pleased. "Good, student. Yet you have yourself trapped. The state was in itself a product of warfare; the war leaders became the first kings and counselors. So says Keller——"

  "Darwin denied it, for he believed that intelligent man sprang from a gentle species, already knowing the order of society."

  "If so, Spencer says without war the world would still be inhabited by weak men sheltering themselves in caves."

  "And Nicolai says that warfare increased directly with growth of populations and indirectly with standards of living."

  "Who, I ask, was this Nicolai?"

  Paul smiled. "A German who escaped to Switzerland."

  "So! You would say that war grew out of society as it progressed and is not a natural heritage of the past?"

  "Someone wiser than I said that, Colonel."

  "Not a scientist."

  "It was my father, Kaimars."

  Now Jacob was certain that Paul, crouching apart from them, meant for him to hear what passed between them, and that Paul was talking against time, waiting for something unperceived by the foreigners.

  Vasstan, angered, began to shout. "Conflict is inbred in us; the victor in that conflict lives, the loser dies. What does the American Military Intelligence think?"

  Jacob was thinking: the sky has cleared and the way is open up to the summit. He said, "I think Paul has spoken the truth. Warfare is an invention of society, and it has become the greatest activity of that society. But it's a truth we won't face. I mean that we'd have to break down the old progression of society toward war. We've tried limiting it without getting anywhere; we've tried balancing military powers and failed. The best we've evolved is a security council of certain nations, which is the old balance of power under a new name."

  "Then it is with me you agree?"

  "Only in that you can't stop the making of weapons, and if they're made, they will be used by somebody. What you can change is the mentality of men, even in a mass. Some groups exist today that have become incapable of taking up modern annihilation weapons to attack others. The Swiss and the Esquimaux aren't the only ones. I would say that the English and the Dutch and my own people have lifted themselves above any attempt to gain advantage by using modern weapons. There may be others. I don't know. But down the scale in intelligence, or whatever you choose to call it, there are still the great majority of peoples. Weapons exist—all kinds of 'em. And those others, who haven't had experience with utter destruction, or are afraid not to use the weapons, or have the callousness to try—they will still buy or make them and use them. Wars will not stop until the last strata of human beings down the scale of intelligence have tried modern arms and found them too destructive."

  "Until the Siberians and Patagonians and Pathans have gained the enlightened culture of Anglo-Americans?"

  "I wouldn't call it culture."

  "The missionary spirit then." Vasstan focused all his attention on Jacob. "Do you know what that means, when the next war is waged against the United States? I tell you. I have seen Jodi's comments on the general memorandum of your own Joint Chiefs of Staff. Aber, you have the true missionary spirit, so you make no move until you are attacked. Also, you have no half-serviceable intelligence operating in foreign countries, so inevitably you will not be aware of the time or power of the attack upon you, which will be by fissional energy rocket propelled. The first volleys of descending rockets will disintegrate your city centers along the seaboards, around the great lakes, and down the Mississippi region. Remember, this is what your own staff anticipates. Then, indeed, you will lose your industrial centers, and famine and pestilence will follow the deaths of scores of millions. Think you the remnant of you will have desire to continue to defend themselves?"

  "I think so."

  "Admirable spirit! But where will the remnant be? In the outer islands, like Hawaii, and in Alaska. Also scattered in the deserts and mountains. And of course sheltered in your great caverns, like the Mammoth. Also there will be some ships at sea. So will your people become like primitives again, sheltering in caves and heights, and seeking for food, cut off from knowledge of the outer world. As Spengler predicts, you will revert to the eternal peasant, digging in the bare soil."

  The eyes in the shaggy head glowed vindictively. "You will be reduced to existing like these tribal Kurds. No, you will be less than they, since they have learned to gather food skillfully, and they have no pestilence in their valleys. What power will be left to the mighty missionary American nation then?"

  To the prodding of his words Jacob made no answer. He thought: this man is helpless except for his mind, and his mind strains to hold its authority over us by words.

  "What will be left you?" Vasstan snarled.

  "When the earth has been shaken, and the cities of the nations fall, and the islands and mountains are not to be found as they were," said Paul gravely, "then the sovereignty of the earth will pass to the Lord. That is foretold in Revelation."

  "Lies!" shouted Vasstan. "Ancient lies!"

  Paul sprang up to look beyond the tent. The tribesmen were no longer listening to Vasstan. Enraged by this distraction, he raised his voice. "So, I am mistaken. It is this boy who is the missionary."

  Across the shredding mist overhead a shaft of light passed and vanished.

  Then an odd thing happened. Vasstan, finding himself ignored, opened his mouth to crush the listeners with words. His heavy body quivered. His voice came out in a scream, and he choked.

  "Please," Paul whispered, touching Jacob's shoulder, "come with me."

  He passed quickly through the tribesmen and Jacob followed, leaning heavily on his cane because his leg was stiff with long sitting. After them trotted Mr. Parabat.

  Vasstan hesitated, then, sensing a new movement in the encampment, lurched up to peer around him. At once he noticed that throngs of tribesmen were moving toward the bell tower where a crowd had collected. Planting his feet firmly in the snow, he remained where he was, to watch for the explosion he anticipated among the high-strung Kurds.

  The blue of the sky showed through the thinning mist; from the steaming summit of Araman came elusive flashes of light, as if the sun were reflected on something moving. Jacob guessed that the bronze reflector must be in motion, in clear sunlight above him. Someone was trying to signal through the curtain of the mist.

  "They are coming down," Paul told him, waiting for Jacob to catch up.

  On a shoulder of the rock, near the summit, figures moved, descending.

  "Vishtapa—the one you call the Watchman. I sent a call to him this morning before he left the fire."

  "By the bell?"

  "How else? He will need help to descend, and it is dangerous. But what else could I do?"

  For an instant Paul stopped to watch the throng pressing around the bell tower. Herki tribesmen were arguing heatedly with the Cossack Omelko at the small entrance of the tower. Up in the open bell chamber teamsters were at work attaching ropes. Jacob sensed that the Kurds were both curious and angry at this invasion of the tower. After a searching glance, Paul hurried on.

  As he did so he explained. He was afraid of the temper of the Kurds in the gathering. What the appearance of the Elder would accomplish he could not foretell; but the Kurds would listen to a voice from Araman, and Mullah Ismail, at least, could be influenced. "His voice will be that of the Kahangan, the old ancestors. They will not hear me in council, Mr. Ide—I am too young."

  Hastily Paul whispered his fears, watching each passerby to be certain he was not overheard. The Kurds were being manipulated to their destruction as a people; they had arms and would use them on the slightest sign of violence; those weapons they must put aside. They could trust neither the new Democratic party sponsored by Tiflis nor the vague assurance of independence that had come from Baghdad. Their only chance lay in joining together, in keeping peace, and, regardless of British or Russian pressure, putting their case before the Security Council of the United Nations. If they could get word through to the outer
world. "If only a voice from Araman could be heard!"

  "There's a chance of that."

  "You don't know my people, Mr. Ide! To agree together and to keep quiet and wait, that is the last thing they will do."

  At the wire entrance Sergeant Daniel and his Assyrian veterans stood guard. Jacob noticed that they had their rifles again. After a second's hesitation the old Assyrian allowed his two friends to pass in, but they stopped Mr. Parabat.

  As they stepped through the door of the cinema hut, the talk ceased as if at a signal gong. Jacob had time only for a glance at the blank screen overhead, the fine carpet spread over the dirt, at the dozen chieftains of Kurdistan separated into groups. At the elbow of Mullah Ismail sat his son Baba Beg tense with excitement, beside the minstrel with the scarlet headcloth. No one seemed to heed an orderly in Russian uniform with a tray of tea glasses and cake. Jacob saw no sign of another Russian present—apparently the chieftains had been left to themselves in the hut.

  Then Paul, answering a challenge from the Ghazi, was speaking, gesturing, making clear that the Elder of Araman would enter the camp in an hour or more. This had an instant effect, and even the Ghazi threw himself back against a cushion to meditate. But Ismail's eyes Were on the American, and he asked a question of Paul. His thin face had the weariness of incessant care and little sleep.

  In contrast, Baba Beg sat like a statue, anxious and proud, a rifle over his slender knees.

  "We cannot stay here." Paul turned swiftly to Jacob. "But Mullah Ismail has greeted you in God's name. He has seen no American before, yet he has heard your people are friendly. Now he asks if you have any message for the Kurds."

  Jacob questioned the youth with his eyes.

  "You must speak, Mr. Ide. Every minute of quiet now is an advantage to us. Only, tell them the truth. There must be some hope you have for us." Paul's voice was thin with strain, and abruptly he cried a word to the listeners.

  It flashed through Jacob's mind that Paul had planned this since the sounding of the bell. For a moment he studied the faces turned to him, trying to read them. In that poor light he sensed only their tension—the brittle edge of anxiety. He thought of Araman. But what could he say of that to men who had reverenced Araman for generations ?