The Land Leviathan

by Michael Moorcock

  Mr. Lu was moved to comment on my demeanour. “We Chinese are famous for our stoicism,” he said, “but we could learn something from your British variety!”

  “It’s not stoicism,” I said. “Merely a mood. I can’t explain it.”

  “Perhaps you sense good luck. I hope so.” He indicated the rocky hills on both sides of us. “A fairly large company of men has been moved up in the night. We are probably completely surrounded.”

  “Do they mean to attack, I wonder?” I glanced about, but could see no sign of the soldiers.

  “I would suppose that this manoeuvre is a precaution. They are probably still wondering if we are spies or part of a disguised army.”

  I now noticed that our men were betraying a certain nervousness, fingering their rifles and bandoliers, glancing around them at the rocks and muttering amongst themselves in an agitated fashion. Lu Kan-fon was the only person who seemed unconcerned; speaking rapidly, he gave orders for our pack horses to be loaded and, at first reluctantly, his men moved to obey. It was only when the last bundle had been secured and we prepared to mount that the soldiers revealed themselves.

  Unlike many of the government troops, these men wore uniforms which were distinctly Chinese—loose smocks and trousers of black, yellow, white and red. On the backs and fronts of the smocks were big circles on which had been printed Chinese characters, evidently giving the rank and regiment of the soldier. Some wore skull-caps, while others had wide-brimmed straw hats. All were clean-shaven and well-disciplined and all possessed modern carbines, apparently of German manufacture. While their guns were pointed at us, they were held at the hip rather than at the shoulder, denoting that no immediate harm was intended to us. Immediately, Mr. Lu held up his hand and ordered his men not to touch their own weapons, whereupon there emerged from behind a large bush a mounted figure of such splendid appearance that I thought at first he must surely be arrayed for a festival.

  He rode his shaggy pony slowly down the hillside towards us. He must have been well over six feet in height and with massive shoulders and chest. He was wearing a long brocade gown embroidered for about a foot round the bottom with waves of the sea and other Chinese devices. Over this was a long satin coat with an embroidered breastplate and a similar square of embroidery on the back, with the horseshoe cuffs, forced upon the Chinese by the Manchus when the present dynasty came to the throne, falling over his hands. High official boots, an amber necklace of very large beads reaching to his waist and aureoleshaped official cap with large red tassel, completed the costume. There was a large sword at his side, but no other visible arms, and he guided his pony with one hand while keeping the other on the hilt of the sword, somehow managing to retain an impressive dignity while the horse picked its way down to where we waited, virtually frozen in position.

  His face was expressionless as he rode into our camp and brought his mount to a halt, looking us over through his slanting, jet-black eyes. Mr. Lu and myself came in for a particularly close examination, and it was while the man was inspecting me that I decided to try to break the atmosphere and bowed slightly, saying in English:

  “Good morning, sir. I am a British citizen on a private journey with these traders. I regret it if we have inadvertently entered territory which you would prefer to remain untraveled...” My rather mealy-mouthed speech was interrupted by a grunt from the magnificent rider, who ignored me and addressed Mr. Lu in flowing Mandarin.

  “You know who I am? You know where you are? What is your excuse for being here?”

  Mr. Lu bowed low before speaking. “I know who you are, honourable one, and I most humbly ask your forgiveness for giving you the trouble of needing to inspect our little caravan. But we were traveling by train until yesterday when the train met an obstacle and was forced to return to the nearest town. We decided to continue overland...”

  “You were seen leaving the troop train. You are spies, are you not?”

  “Not at all, mighty General Liu Fang. The troop train was the only available transport. We are merchants: we are on our way to trade in Shantung.”

  “Who is the foreigner?”

  “An Englishman. A writer who wishes to write a book about our country.”

  At this quick-witted piece of invention the legendary General Liu Fang showed a flicker of interest. He also appeared slightly mollified, for he had no reason to suspect I was anything but a neutral party in his territory (as, of course, I was) and probably thought it might be in his interest to cultivate the goodwill of one of the foreigners whose aid he was rumoured to be seeking.

  “Tell your men to disarm themselves,” he ordered, and Mr. Lu relayed the order at once. Scowling, his men unslung their guns and dropped them to the ground.

  “And where is your immediate destination?” said the general to me in halting French.

  I replied in the same tongue. “I have heard of a particularly beautiful valley in these parts. It is called the Valley of the Morning.” I saw no point in beating about the bush, particularly since I might not have another opportunity to discover the exact whereabouts of my destination for some time.

  General Liu Fang plainly recognized the name, but his reaction was strange. He frowned heavily and darted a deeply suspicious look at me. “Who do you seek there?”

  “No one in particular,” said I. “My interest in the place is purely, as it were, geographical.” I, in turn, noting his reaction, had become cautious of revealing anything more.

  He seemed to relax, momentarily satisfied with my reply. “I would advise you against visiting the valley,” he said. “There are bandits in the area.”

  I wondered to myself sardonically what he called himself, but of course let nothing of this show on my face as I said: “I am grateful for the warning. Perhaps with the protection of your army...”

  He gestured impatiently. “I am fighting a war, monsieur. I cannot spare men to escort foreign journalists about the country.”

  “I apologize,” I said, and bowed again.

  There was still considerable tension in the situation and I noted that the soldiers had not relaxed but were still pointing their rifles at us. There must have been at least a hundred of them in well-protected positions on both sides of the valley. The general returned his attention to Mr. Lu. “What goods do you carry for trade?”

  Mr. Lu had folded his arms. He said impassively: “Many kinds. Mainly articles of artistic interest. Statuettes, ceramics and the like.”

  “They will be inspected,” said the general. “Instruct your men to unload the goods.”

  Again Mr. Lu obeyed without demur. As his men began to unpack the bundles which they had so recently strapped onto the pack horses, he said to me in English: “We might escape with our lives, but not, I fear, our possessions...”

  “Silence!” said the general firmly. He rode forward to where Mr. Lu’s goods had been laid out, looked them over with the shrewd eye of a Chinese peasant woman inspecting fish in a market and then rode back to where we stood. “They will be requisitioned,” he said, “to help us win freedom from the Manchus.”

  Fatalistically, Mr. Lu bowed. “A worthy cause,” he said dryly. “The horses—?”

  “The horses will also be requisitioned. They will be of particular use...”

  It was at this point that he was interrupted by the sound of machine-gun fire and I thought at first that he had somehow given the signal for our slaughter. But the gunfire came from higher up the hillside and I saw at once that it was his men who were the target for the attack. My spirits lifted. Surely these must be government troops coming to our rescue!

  My relief was shortlived. Almost at once General Liu Fang shouted an order to his men and, head well down over the neck of his horse, spurred rapidly for the cover of some nearby rocks.

  It had begun to rain suddenly—a heavy, misty rain which acted like fog to obscure visibility—and I had no idea of what was happening, save that the general’s troops were firing on us.

  Mr. Lu’s men dived for
their own weapons, but half of them were cut down before they could reach their rifles. Those who remained snatched up their guns and sought what cover they could. Mr. Lu grabbed my arm and together we ran towards a depression in the ground where we might escape the worst of the concentrated fire from above. We flung ourselves down and buried our faces in the soft moss while the three-sided battle went on all around us. I remember noting that the machine-guns kept up an incredibly efficient chattering and I wondered how any Chinese army could have acquired such artillery (for the Chinese are notorious for the poor quality of their arms and their inefficiency in maintaining those that they have).

  Bullets thudded about us and I expected to be hit at any moment. I shouted over the noise of gunfire and the cries of the wounded. “Who are they, Mr. Lu?”

  “I do not know, Mr. Moorcock. All I do know is that whereas we might have escaped with our lives, we now stand a very good chance of being killed. They doubtless consider it more important to destroy General Liu Fang than to save us!” He laughed. “I regret that I shall be forced to return your fee—I have not kept my part of the bargain. Your chances of finding the Valley of the Morning have become exceptionally slender. My protection has proved inadequate!”

  “I am forced to agree with you, Mr. Lu,” said I, and would have continued had I not recognized the distinctive sound of a bullet striking flesh and bone. I lifted my head, thinking at first that I had been hit, but it was Mr. Lu. He must have died instantly, for he had been shot not once but twice, almost simultaneously, in the head.

  I had an immediate sense of grief, realizing how much I had enjoyed the sophisticated company of the Chinese, but the sight of his ruined head sickened me and I was forced to avert my eyes.

  The death of Mr. Lu seemed to be a signal for the fighting to stop. Shortly afterwards the sound of gunfire ended and I lifted my head cautiously to peer through the drifting rain. Death was everywhere. Our own men lay amongst the scattered and broken remains of the works of art they had carried for so long and so far. A few had once again laid down their weapons and were raising their hands high above their heads. General Liu Fang was nowhere to be seen (I learned later he had kept riding, abandoning his men to their fate), but the warlord’s soldiers lay in postures of death everywhere I looked. I rose, raising my own hands. There came a few more isolated shots and I surmised that, in Chinese fashion, the wounded were being finished off.

  I must have waited for at least ten minutes before I got my first sight of our ‘rescuers’. They were all mounted, all wearing leather caps of a distinctively Mongolian appearance and all carried light rifles of a decidedly unfamiliar pattern. Their loose shirts were of silk or cotton and some wore leather capes to protect themselves against the worst of the rain, while others wore quilted jackets. They were mainly good-looking Northern Chinese, tall and somewhat arrogant in their bearing, and none had pigtails. Most had armbands as their only insignia—a fanciful design consisting of a circle from which radiated eight slender arrows. I knew at once that they could not, after all, be government troops, but were doubtless some rival bandit army either fighting for themselves or allied with the government troops against General Liu Fang.

  And then their leader rode into sight from out of the misty rain. I knew it must be the leader from the way in which the other riders fell back. Also it was rare to see a handsome black Arab stallion in these parts and that was what the leader rode. Slender, a graceful rider, dressed in a long black leather topcoat with a narrow waist and a flaring skirt, a broad-brimmed leather hat hiding the face, a long Cossack-style sabre hanging from a belt of elaborately ornamented silk, the bandit chief rode towards me, lifted the brim of the hat away from the face and showed evident, and almost childish, amusement at my astonishment.

  “Good morning, Mr. Moorcock.”

  Her voice was clear and well-modulated—the voice of an educated Englishwoman (though bearing perhaps the slightest trace of an accent). She was young, no older than thirty at very most, and she had a pale, soft complexion. Her eyes were grey-blue and her mouth was wide and full-lipped. She had an oval face which would have been merely pretty had it not been for the character in it. As it was, I thought her the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her slightly waving black hair was short, framing her face but barely touching her shoulders.

  And all I could blurt out was: “How do you know my name?”

  She laughed. “Our intelligence is rather better than General Liu Fang’s. I am sorry so many of your men were killed—and I particularly regret the death of Mr. Lu. Though he did not know that it was I who attacked, we were old friends and I had been looking forward to meeting him again.”

  “You take his death rather casually,” I said.

  “It was a casual death. I have not introduced myself. My name is Una Persson. For some months we have been harassed by General Liu and this is the first opportunity we have had to teach him a lesson. We were originally coming to find you and take you with us to the Valley of the Morning, but I could not afford to miss the chance of ambushing such a large number of the general’s troops.”

  “How did you know I sought the Valley of the Morning?”

  “I have known for at least a month. You have made many enquiries.”

  “Your name is familiar—where have I heard it...?” Slowly it dawned on me. “Bastable mentioned you! The woman on the airship—the revolutionist. Una Persson!”

  “I am an acquaintance of Captain Bastable.”

  My heart leapt. “Is he there? Is he in the Valley of the Morning as I suspected?”

  “He has been there,” she agreed. “And he has left something of himself behind.”

  “But Bastable? What of him? I am anxious to speak to him. Where is he now?”

  And then this mysterious woman made the most cryptic utterance she had made so far. She shrugged and gave a little, tired smile, pulling on her horse’s reins so that the beast began to move away. “Where indeed?” she said. “It is not a question easily answered, Mr. Moorcock, for we are all nomads of the time streams...”

  I stood there, puzzled, chilled, miserable and too weary to question her further. She rode to where Mr. Lu’s goods lay scattered about and beneath the corpses of men and horses. She dismounted and stooped to inspect one shattered figurine, dipped her finger into the hollow which had been revealed and lifted the finger to her nose. She nodded to herself as if confirming something she had already known. Then she began to give orders to her men in rapid Cantonese dialect which I could scarcely follow at all. Carefully, they gathered up both the fragments and the few figurines which were still unbroken. It did not take a particularly subtle intelligence to put two and two together. Now I knew why Mr. Lu had taken such an oddly circuitous route and why he had been eager to leave the troop train as soon as possible. Plainly, he was an opium smuggler. I found it hard to believe that such an apparently decent and well-educated man could indulge in so foul a trade, but the evidence was indisputable. For some reason I could not find it in my heart to loathe the dead man and I guessed that some sort of perverted idealism had led him to this means of making money. I also had an explanation of the general’s interest in Mr. Lu’s goods—doubtless the bandit chief had guessed the truth, which was why he had been so eager to “requisition” the articles.

  The booty was collected quickly and Una Persson mounted her sleek stallion without another glance at me, riding off through the rain. One of her silent warriors brought me a horse and signaled for me to climb into the saddle. I did so with eagerness, for I had no intention of becoming separated from the beautiful bandit leader—she was my first real link with Bastable and there was every chance she would take me to him. I felt no danger from these rascals and had an inkling that Una Persson was, if not sympathetic, at least neutral with regard to me.

  Thus, surrounded by her men, I followed behind her as we left that little vale of death and the remnants of Mr. Lu’s party and cantered along a narrow track which wound higher and higher into th
e mountains.

  I was hardly aware of the details of that journey, so eaten up was I with curiosity. A thousand questions seethed in my skull— how could a woman who had been described by Bastable as being young in the year 1973 be here, apparently just as young, in the year 1910? Once again I experienced that almost fearful frisson which I had experienced when listening to Bastable’s speculations on the paradoxes of Time.

  And would Democratic Dawn City—Chi’ng Che’eng Ta-Chia—that secret Utopian revolutionary citadel be there when we arrived in the Valley of the Morning?

  And why was Una Persson taking part in China’s internecine politics? Why did these tall, silent men follow her?

  I hoped that I would have at least some answers to these questions when we arrived in the Valley of the Morning, but, as it emerged, I was to be in several ways disappointed.

  It was after dark by the time that we reached Una Persson’s camp and the rain had fallen ceaselessly, so that it was still difficult to make out details, but it was obvious that this was no City of the Future—merely the ruins of a small Chinese township with a few houses still inhabitable. For the most part, however, the soldiers and their women and children lived in makeshift shelters erected in the ruins, while others had set up tents or temporary huts similar to the Mongolian yurt. Cooking-fires guttered here and there amongst the fallen masonry and half-burned timbers which spoke of some disaster having befallen the town fairly recently. Much of the ground had been churned to mud and was made even more treacherous by the arrival of our horses. As I dismounted, Una Persson rode up and pointed with a riding-crop at one of the still-standing houses.

  “You’ll be my guest for supper, I hope, Mr. Moorcock.”