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Title: The valley of eyes unseen
Author: Gilbert Collins
Release date: June 4, 2025 [eBook #76222]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Duckworth & Co, 1923
Credits: Tim Lindell, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE VALLEY OF EYES UNSEEN ***
THE VALLEY OF EYES UNSEEN
By GILBERT COLLINS
AUTHOR OF "FLOWER OF ASIA."
LONDON: DUCKWORTH AND CO.
3, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.2.
_First published in 1923._
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
_Made and printed in Great Britain by
The Birmingham Printers, Ltd.,
42-44, Hill Street and 82-84, Station Street,
Birmingham._
DEDICATION
TO BROADER UNDERSTANDING, DEEPER SYMPATHY,
AND UNTHREATENED PEACE
BETWEEN THE PEOPLES OF EAST AND WEST
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED.
THE VALLEY OF EYES UNSEEN
PROLOGUE
The tale begins in my rooms in Peking, in the north of China,
one bitter January morning many years ago. The scene is stamped
ineffaceably on my recollection, so that even without the help of
certain confirmatory details, such as the overturning of the coffee
pot, I am able to say with certainty that the hour of day was breakfast
time. The breakfast table was the central point of a triangle, formed
by the blazing fire in the grate and two ponderous oil stoves farther
out in the room; for this was in the punishing old days before that
gift of the gods, the steam-heated radiator, came to soften the arctic
rigours of a North China winter.
My number-one house boy had brought in the morning paper and laid it on
my table, but it was without any lively anticipation of delight that I
picked up the straw-blemished, hazily printed sheet. The local press
of the time was not of enthralling interest; and what news of the
outer world filtered through to our buried corner of Asia in erratic
dribbles was apt to be still further marred by the bold but not always
illuminating innovations of the Chinese compositors in setting English
type. I was idly turning over the spavined issue of this morning when
something caught my eye in the middle column of the middle page. A
moment later the sheet was fluttering to the floor, and a river of
boiling coffee sluiced out over the cloth of the breakfast table.
I picked up the fallen newspaper and began to read. The age-yellowed
sheet lies before me as I write, and the following, save for numerous
typographical errors which I have not copied, is an exact transcript of
the report that had given me this sudden start:--
"MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR IN SHANGHAI.
"DISTINGUISHED ORIENTALIST DEAD, IS REPORT.
"Our Shanghai correspondent writes: 'Mr. Ronald Mirlees, the
well-known author, was discovered dead in the Marco Polo Hotel of
this city, this morning about eight o'clock, under circumstances of
considerable mystery. The deceased was well known to the management
and staff, having frequently stayed at Marco Polo before, in
the intervals between his journeys to other localities of China
on research work. It is believed he had just returned from one
such expedition three months back, when he took possession of
the two first-storey rooms he was occupying at the time of his
death. Mr. Mirlees lived apparently much alone, hotel servants
state, remaining busy at work in his apartment all day and barely
desisting from his labours to take meals which were brought up to
him; indeed, house boy whose duty it was to attend to Mr. Mirlees
alleges that more than once he found the scholar at work in the
early morning, his bed not slept in; from which it is assumed at
the hotel that Mirlees was for some reason or other working against
time to complete one of those contributions to oriental research
with which his name has become associated.
"'When house boy entered Mr. Mirlees' apartment this morning he
found deceased at his writing desk apparently deep in composition.
Deceased's back was turned to the door, and not until the servant
had asked Mr. Mirlees what time to serve breakfast and received no
reply that he suspected anything was untoward. Then he approached
and saw. The boy becoming terror-stricken screamed for help, and
other servants rushed in, followed by Mr. Alexis Delabre (Manager,
Marco Polo Hotel), who overheard the boy's cries. Medical aid was
at once summoned, but quite unavailing, death having apparently
supervened several hours before as muscles of deceased were already
set fast in _rigor mortis_. Witnesses one and all lay especial
emphasis on gruesome nature of the discovery. The body, they
allege, was placed in so natural and lifelike an attitude that
until spectators had come right across the apartment and looked
from that side they were unable to credit they were looking upon a
corpse. Expression on features of dead man is stated to have been
one of extreme horror, not pain--witnesses are unanimous upon that
point--but sheer and unmistakable horror. Mr. Mirlees held a pen
in one hand and there were sheets of paper before him, but no mark
upon them. There, in fact, lies another mysterious feature of the
case. No trace can be found of the voluminous writings upon which
Mr. Mirlees is lately known to have been engaged. Only possible
explanation would appear to be that prior to his decease he had
forwarded his manuscripts elsewhere, and that he was meditating
composition of another when death overtook him. Medical evidence,
however, places hour of decease about two a.m., and why the defunct
man should remain at his desk far into the night without putting
pen to paper is another point which remains shrouded in obscurity.
"'No cause so far has been assigned for Mr. Mirlees' sudden end,
and the strange and tragic affair will of course necessitate
coroner's inquest. Mr. Mirlees was thought to be enjoying good
health, though his manner had been observed to be moody and
distraught for some time, as if he were prey to some severe mental
stress; this, however, is alleged by those who knew deceased
orientalist best to have been a not uncommon mood with him.'"
"Mr. Ronald Mirlees was a widower, having lost his wife in Shanghai
some years back, and so far as is known leaves no relatives to
mourn his loss. His death will be keenly felt among scholarly
circles of the Far East, however, and indeed of the East
generally, to whose researches in oriental art and archæology he
contributed matter of recognised value, though not a few of our
prominent sinologues were disposed to regard Mr. Mirlees' essays
as more brilliant and imaginative than sound. His best known and
most characteristic work was the volume entitled _Treasure of
Asia_, which appeared only last year, and as is no doubt still
fresh in the minds of our readers aroused a storm of controversy
not only on this side of the world, but also among the learned
societies of Europe and America. At the risk of repeating facts
already known we will here state that Mr. Mirlees' work embodies
much original matter of deep interest concerning the Buddhist
faith and Buddhist temples of China, dealing more particularly,
as the title indicates, with instances of treasure buried in and
around the ancient shrines. The deceased author's critics, and
there were many, challenged his statements on grounds of fact,
alleging that no authentic evidence of these supposed hoards
exists, and especially on the score of propriety, as they feared
that Mr. Mirlees' allegations would have the unfortunate effect of
attracting to this country an undesirable class of treasure-hunters
who would desecrate religious sites in the mere hope of gain. We
are happy to record that this fear has not been realised. Such
excavations as have been made have been carried out under the
auspices of duly authorised oriental societies, and though the
finds so far brought to light have not been extensive, they have
afforded considerable proof of the shrewdness and accuracy of Mr.
Mirlees' speculations. It is admitted at least that the deceased
scholar had opened up a branch of study of peculiar fascination: a
line of research which if not absolutely new, has so far never been
sufficiently explored; and there seems reason to anticipate that
later excavations will still further vindicate his arresting and
outspoken views.
"Mr. Mirlees had something of the scholarly recluse in his
disposition, and was personally known to but few residents in this
country; he was, nevertheless, well liked and admired by such as
were privileged to enjoy his friendship, and his death while still
in the prime of life--he was in his thirty-seventh year--will be
universally deplored."
The foregoing item of news came to me with a peculiar poignancy and
shock. I was one of those few persons quoted in the report as having
enjoyed the privilege of Mirlees' friendship. I had not known him
intimately, it is true, or for any great stretch of time, but there are
circumstances which cement friendship more swiftly by far than mere
knowledge of a man's history and companionship with him in the common
workaday run of the world. If to have shared a strange and perilous
adventure and to have escaped with him a horrible death by violence
be title to friendship, I was indeed the friend of Ronald Mirlees.
The details of this affair I have recorded elsewhere, and need not
recount at any length here. It is enough to say that after making
Mirlees' acquaintance in the queerest and most unconventional manner
I accompanied him on an expedition to an ancient Buddhist temple
some forty miles out from the city of Peking, where, by deciphering
the inscription carved on the inner surface of the great temple bell,
Mirlees hoped to locate a rich hoard of buried gems, an offering
to the shrine by some pious donor of the remote past. How we were
received by the last surviving priest of the sect, how he most subtly
and devilishly plotted to murder us both, how he lost his own life in
the attempt and was even instrumental in directing us straight to the
cache, and how we took possession and escaped with our bare lives,
pursued by a band of the local peasantry out to kill--these matters, as
I say, have been chronicled in another place.
After that episode Mirlees returned to Shanghai, which he was wont to
make his headquarters, and I heard no more of him until the publication
of that remarkable book entitled _Treasure of Asia_ sent his name
whooping round the erudite world. Our North China adventure was not
specifically recorded in that work: I imagine that Mirlees judged the
affair too recent to be safely alluded to, fearing lest our ownership
of the treasure trove be disputed; but it unquestionably afforded to
himself, if he needed such, a crowning proof of the soundness of his
views, to say nothing of ample funds wherewith to meet the expense of
publication.
The report of the inquest came a few days after the news of Mirlees'
death. Nothing had been found to account satisfactorily for this,
and the medicos were obliged to wrap their ignorance in a few foggy
generalities regarding obscure affections of the heart. The finding
would have far from satisfied public opinion at Home. It left me
distinctly sceptical even in so raw and haphazard a region as the
Far East. There was something hidden, some mystery left unravelled.
Mirlees' age had been correctly stated in the newspaper report as only
thirty-six years; he was, moreover, of that "hard-bitten" type which,
if it dies young, does so only by a violent or unnatural death.
I was still pondering the melancholy problem a week later when I
received from a firm of solicitors in Shanghai a letter stating that in
pursuance of the request made to them some days before by their client,
the late Ronald Mirlees, they were forwarding to me, separately, a
parcel which he had left in their charge. The lawyers added that while
respecting the promise Mirlees had extracted from them not to reveal
this matter to any third party, they relied on my honour to make public
any evidence the parcel might contain which would help the authorities
to arrive at some conclusion regarding Mr. Mirlees' mysterious death.
Of the contents of the package they themselves were totally ignorant.
A day after that the parcel arrived. I tore off the outer covering and
found inside it a bundle wrapped in stout oilskin, sealed at every
point and so enmeshed in cords that I could scarcely read the legend
on the two labels. They were addressed to me in a curiously scrawled
writing, and when I had taken off this cover, there dropped out a
small fat envelope in the same hand, but more recognisable to my eye.
It was, so far as I could remember, the writing of Ronald Mirlees.
"Dear Hugh Jevons" (ran the missive)--
"It becomes necessary that you should step in to help me a second
time--and a last time--in my life. I have not forgotten how you helped
me before. You were a solid man to me then, and it is proof enough.
I believe you a solid man still that I have picked upon you to be
custodian of my confidences now that I can no longer hold them myself.
You will understand what I mean, as you read on.
"In the first place, my number is up. I see death approaching as
clearly as you look to the rise of to-morrow's sun. But I do not intend
that my secret shall die with me. Some other human being must carry
on the knowledge I have gained during the past year, for I feel there
is more in my experience than mere marvel and mystery and adventure.
I feel, I _know_, that there is a purpose at work behind it all: that
the Great Artificer who planted us, bickering insects, upon this planet
never willed that such truths as I have unearthed should sink back
into oblivion after a man of the real, outer world has penetrated to
them--and sacrificed his life in the doing. It wouldn't square with my
idea of the Great Artificer.
"Not for your scholarship or your knowledge of the East have I chosen
you to be legatee of my secrets--you would hardly flatter yourself that
far. I was under no illusion as to your qualifications for partnering
me before--but you partnered me handsomely, for all that. You were
ready to listen to my theories at a time when men with far bigger
pretensions pooh-poohed them; you were intelligent enough to let my
brains do duty for the pair of us. The orthodox oriental societies were
not always that intelligent. For them, those pretty stones we picked
out from under the ruin of Lao Tien Ssu would be there now, and the
book which is my chief claim to be remembered would languish still in
manuscript. I must have told you that was how I utilised the bulk of
my share in the loot? Anyway, it was. _You_ helped me to the ownerless
gems, comrade. _You_ had a hand in financing _Treasure of Asia_. _You_,
therefore, have assisted materially in throwing light on this dim-lit
quarter of the globe. I've known respected God-fearing professional
orientalists who couldn't say as much--without a lie.
"Now I claim a bigger service of you. I've instructed my lawyers to
send you this packet only after my death. It was a pretty blistering
oath I collected from the senior partner of the firm, and I think he'll
respect it. What I want done with the manuscript is another story.
I will be perfectly frank with you. I consider it to be a dangerous
thing--unless rightfully used. You wouldn't carry fulminate of mercury
about in your pocket, would you? Well, I regard this manuscript as more
deadly than fulminate of mercury. I solemnly assure you that I believe
death began to close in upon me from the moment I resolved to make
a record of the events with which this manuscript deals. It sounds
fantastic, does it not? Perhaps you will alter your opinion as you read
on.
"But, you may ask, since I am convinced I am to die in any event, why
do I not publish the manuscript now? I answer that it is in the nature
of an act of submission. I swore to keep these matters secret from the
world. In intention, I broke my oath. The punishment at once gathered
over my head. I acquiesce in the justice of it. It is the difference
between the criminal who confesses on the scaffold and the coward
who professes innocence to the end, between dying contrite and dying
in revolt. I have chosen the former course. It still sounds wild and
incredible? That view, too, I think you will come to abandon.
"But, you say again, was it a comradely act to pass the narrative on
to you? I reply, not uncomradely. The detonator is harmless enough in
a situation where it cannot be touched off. So with this manuscript.
I am convinced, nay, certain, that no danger threatens you so long as
you hold the secret close in your own bosom. It is no blind unreasoning
malignance we have to deal with, but a sentient power, and as I now
see, a just one, meting out punishment only where there is guilt. I
have been guilty: therefore I am doomed. You, so long as you keep the
secret, are guiltless: you will be unharmed. Why, then, have I not
destroyed the manuscript and with it the risk of betrayal? Because, as
I have written before, I do not believe it was intended that the secret
should perish utterly for the outer world. Perhaps, in years to come,
the powers which forbade me to reveal these matters will lift the veto.
Should that occur, have no doubt that they will find means to convey
their will to you, they, who have found no difficulty in making known
to me, over a distance of untold miles, that I must die.
"Till then, comrade, lock this secret in the innermost recesses of
your soul. Hold the manuscript safe. Leave nothing to chance. Deposit
it under seal with your bankers or your lawyers, with instructions
that nothing is to be done with it without your express command, and
that should you die without giving that command, the package is to be
destroyed unopened. For I say again that there is a doom in it, a doom
which I now see approach me as clearly as I see from the window of this
hotel the big, butt-ended freighters swinging on the tide of Whangpu
River.
"As to the manuscript, every word in it is as true as our finite human
brains can know aught to be true. Nothing is written but what I have
seen with my own eyes or heard with my own ears. The narrative will
amaze you, doubtless, but I give you credit for the intelligence not
to meet it with a stupid unreasoning denial. Let me appeal to you to
put aside all your preconceived notions as to what is and what is not
in this queer, half-known quarter of the earth. Above all, banish
from your mind the least shadow of suspicion that I am either mad or
insincere. I am as sane as you are, and in dead earnest. Consider
the probabilities. Is it for one instant to be supposed that I, who
see death hard upon me, should write a monstrous hoax?--that I, who
came East when I was little more than a boy and have given my whole
working life to the search for hard facts regarding the East, should
now fritter my last hours on mere romance of the imagination?--that I,
who have boldly stated the truth as I found it, even though this often
exposed me to hostility and derision from the orthodox, timid-minded
scholars of this land, should abandon truth for falsehood at a moment
when I am due to appear before a Higher Tribunal which knows nothing
but eternal truth?
"I take my leave of you with every warm wish for your happiness. I am,
I may say, without kin of my own, and at about the time this package
arrives you will receive from the same firm of lawyers a notification
that I have named you my heir to such small parcels of this world's
goods as I possess. The property consists almost wholly of personal
effects, trophies, curios--some of them valuable, by the way--and
the copyright of my published works. The more precious part of my
belongings goes with this letter. I offer it to you not as proof of
the truth of my narrative, but as a gift made in good fellowship to a
comrade who risked his life with me in a quest few men in the world
would have taken on. But there is a condition attaching to the legacy.
I charge you that if at any future date it becomes possible, in the
manner I have hinted, for you to publish this manuscript, you should
do so, using what may be necessary of the proceeds from sale of the
contents of the accompanying box. Even should you print the narrative
on gold leaf and bind it in choicest silk, there will still be left
money enough to maintain you in luxury to the end of your days.
"Good-bye.
"Ronald Mirlees, known as Ran Mirlees, Master of Arts in the University
of Edinburgh, Scotland, and now resident in the Marco Polo Hotel,
Shanghai, China, this first day of January in the year of Our Lord
19--."
Enclosed in the package was a heavy skin box, about eight inches square
by four high. I opened this with a small key hanging by silk thread
from the lid, and at once sat back in my chair gasping and blinking
with astonishment. The casket was full to the brim with large uncut
diamonds, not one of them smaller than a marble and all apparently of
very fine quality. My skill in gems was not professional, but I could
see at a glance that these stones must be worth many thousands of
pounds sterling; and if I had been curious to read Mirlees' manuscript
before, now my eagerness was whipped to the point of fever. I tore off
the wrappings from the close-writ ten quarto sheets and began to peruse
them.
The house boy came in with a note from Randegger (my partner at the
office) inquiring rather acidly if I was ill. I looked up at the
clock. It was two in the afternoon. I then remembered that the boy
had entered the room some time before but that I had ordered him out
without hearing what he had to say. That must have been at tiffin
time: I had been reading for four hours solid, lost to all else in the
world. I sent a note to Randegger pleading urgent private affairs,
and resumed the reading of Mirlees' narrative. It was dark before I
had finished, for the manuscript, though not of an inordinate length,
was written, till quite near the end, in Mirlees' crabbed, scholarly,
meticulously fashioned hand, and did not admit of a rapid perusal. Nor
was the subject matter of a sort to encourage skipping. As I worked
from phase to phase of the amazing story it seemed to me that never
before in the history of written words could so strange, so incredible,
yet withal so convincing a record of events have been placed on paper.
Time after time I flung down the manuscript almost in anger--only to
pick it up a moment later and find the precise spot where I had left
off. Now I felt that I was in the grip of a tale of such force as only
the hall-mark of truth can give, now I seemed to be listening to the
ingenious but wild fancies of a madman. Here was human experience set
at naught, the history which has passed as certainty for two thousand
years brusquely picked up and thrown down gutted like cod under the
fishmonger's knife--and on what evidence? The statements of one man,
unsupported by a single witness. It was monstrous, unthinkable! No sane
person could have offered such testimony. It is a commonplace saying
that genius may come near to insanity. Mirlees possessed the brilliant,
bold, penetrating type of intellect which we are in the habit of
calling genius--that I had felt during my previous encounter with him.
Surely towards these his last days his brain had given way, and this
screed I was now perusing was the reflection not of his observations
and experience but of the disordered fancies of an unbalanced mind?
I came to the end of the manuscript and laid it down with a great
wave of pity for the dead man. As I did so, once more there caught my
eye the box of uncut diamonds, their brilliancy darting irrepressibly
through the crust of impurities that overlaid them. At least the writer
had vouchsafed some solid support for his statements, though he had
appealed to me not to regard the gems as such, or even to require proof
beyond his own written words.
Of the circumstances under which this amazing record is now laid before
the world I have written later. Of the truth and sanity, or otherwise,
of Mirlees' assertions, it shall be left to the reader to judge.
Here, then, follows the narrative of Ronald Mirlees, exactly
transcribed from his own manuscript which I received from the dead
man's lawyers more than thirteen years ago.
CHAPTER I
THE AFFAIR OF THE OPIUM HELL
My name is Ronald Mirlees, or Ran Mirlees as I have usually signed
myself under those contributions to the learned press of the East by
which I have chiefly picked up a living, and through which I am known
to a good deal wider circle of readers than ever I possessed friends.
I was born thirty-six years ago, son of a schoolmaster, on the fringes
of Paisley, in Scotland. After completing my schooling in that town
and my course at the University of Edinburgh, where I took the degree
of Master of Arts, I came to the East, a region of the globe which had
deeply fascinated me from boyhood up.
Arrived here, I at once plunged into the study of eastern languages
and history and religion which I had begun at Home, earning my bread
the while by odd jobs of journalism--though not always the brand of
journalism I should have chosen if I hadn't been starving when I did
it. Those early days were about the most desperately thin period of
a life which has never run to fat. Later on my name got to be better
known, and my pen better paid, and I might in time have aspired to a
sedate competence if I had been able to purvey the kind of orientology
the public expects. Unfortunately, I wasn't. That sort of orientology
I found to be too full of elementary error, too much given to vague
and shallow report compiled in the study with the help of other men's
books, to commend itself to me. I soon saw that such things as native
life and the native point of view couldn't be soundly written about by
any man who had not gone _fantee_ himself, for the information gets
very distorted even when it comes through the medium of servants and
hired teachers and the tame type of native who prides himself on his
foreign friends. The art of living "native" was about the first I set
myself to learn when I came to the country, and ever afterwards, when
I wanted facts, I dived into the raw mass of yellow humanity to get
those facts direct, and I passed them on exactly as they had come to
me. It was good orientology, but bad policy for a penniless journalist
largely dependent on the favour of his fellow scholars to get work at
all. I became an "outsider," a blackleg, in more or less perpetual bad
odour. It was annoying, naturally, for the accepted authorities to
have certain of their pet mis-statements, which had been handed down
from generation to generation after being blindly cribbed in the first
place from the writings of some sinologue long dead, abruptly exploded
by that one real, first-hand, naked fact I had collected from the
folk of the Far East in person. The wider my knowledge and experience
grew, the more of these venerable bearded errors I found it necessary
to kill off, and my popularity in learned circles steadily dwindled.
The culminating point came when I published my best known and least
conciliatory work under the title of _Treasure of Asia_. Every scholar
in the land, and a host of people who couldn't by any stretch of the
word be called scholars, attacked this hapless book virulently, yet
even within the past year facts have come to light which go far to
confirm those I had written.
The book brought me fame, or at least notoriety, but little else.
Certainly not money. Indeed, to the best of my belief, I lost
substantially over it. I never could give business correspondence the
applied study it no doubt deserves, and I'm afraid my publisher's
letters remained for the most part on my mantelpiece, half skimmed
through, wholly undigested, eventually to become spills. I have an
uncertain recollection of his telling me once that to produce _Treasure
of Asia_ the way I wanted it produced would mean selling the book
at a loss. Perhaps that's what happened. I cared little, for at the
beginning of our dealings I was, strangely enough, well off, as the
result of a risky but highly profitable investigation I had carried out
some months before. The proceeds of that adventure took wings and flew.
Soon I found myself drifting again towards the impecuniousness that has
been my normal condition through life. Also, I was getting restless,
short of patience, dissatisfied with the one bed I was sleeping in
night after night. Arrangements to publish _Treasure of Asia_ had
confined me a good deal to the European quarter of Shanghai, a city
for which I never harboured any great love, and I felt once more the
stirrings that have so often driven me up country to the wild interior.
I wanted to see life raw and naked again, to wrestle another fall with
those yet unprobed mysteries of the East that have always held such a
profound, half-grim fascination for me. My wife had died several years
before, and with her passed out the one tie that could have reconciled
me to fixture in one humdrum existence; since her death, indeed,
I'd been a planet with a zigzag orbit, halted only by shortage of
funds--and not always that.
I come now to my last adventure, beside which whatever I had met before
in the way of queer experience--and my life has embraced some very
queer experience--seems tameness itself: an adventure surely stranger
and wilder than ever fell to the lot of another man living or dead.
Let me say at the starting out that this narrative which follows is
literally true from beginning to end. It may, if ever it sees the light
of day, be disbelieved; it may even be laughed down as the vapourings
of a lunatic. That will not detract one jot from its truth. If I have
dwelt at length on my previous record, it is only for the purpose of
making my real position clear, and letting any reader of this narrative
see that if I have been regarded in the past as no true authority on
oriental matters, that was not because of my failure to write facts
about the East, but of my resolute refusal to perpetuate accepted
errors. Let this suffice for the present. Later on the time must
come when wider knowledge and exacter exploration will vindicate my
assertions up to the hilt.
* * * * *
It was a hot, moist, stifling evening of May. A dun haze lay heavy over
the river, where native junks and sampans and steam tugs were churning
the oily water into an evil-smelling froth the colour of coffee. Seldom
had the city of Shanghai so revolted me, and as I strolled along the
crowded Bund I reflected that I would give a king's ransom--if I
had it--to get out into open country or open sea and away from this
strident, feverish, dollar-grubbing prison on Whangpu River.
My footsteps led me to the side of Soochow Creek, across the bridge
and northward and eastward, beyond banks and wharves and godowns, into
a locality I remembered from having visited before, though I don't
suppose I could have mapped it with any pretension to accuracy. Nor
did I pay great heed to my direction, for I was weary, washed out
with boredom and the sickening, stewy heat, and walked slowly and
aimlessly. In time I found myself penetrating deeper and deeper into
a dense warren of native dives, cranky houses bulging out over the
grimy, narrow, snaking, flagged lanes and leaning one upon another
this way or that, like a row of soused revellers arm in arm. I must
have wandered some way through this maze, for it was now twilight, a
twilight still further deepened by the beetling houses and shop signs
in Chinese character which often hung so thick as to blot out entirely
the twisting riband of sky overhead. Then I came to that blind alley
which, though I little dreamed it then, was to prove the threshold of
the biggest and queerest adventure of my life.
Though hazy on a point of geography, I knew something of this
neighbourhood, with its opium-dens and gambling hells, and I
hesitated some minutes before advancing. That narrow cut seemed to
leave the wholesome world all behind it. There might be interesting
matters ahead, I felt, but there would very possibly be more danger
than interest, particularly for a man in European clothes. Almost
unthinkingly I ran my hand over the hip of my pongees. It seemed a
downright fatality. I wasn't in the habit of carrying firearms in a
city the size of Shanghai--unless I had some definite objective which
I knew to be risky. To-night I had nothing, yet some vague impulse or
other had caused me to slip a revolver into my pocket before coming out
from the hotel. That shooting-iron was at least as good an argument
as I could have on my side if I happened to get into an overheated
discussion, and it decided me to go forward.
The end of the alley was completely blocked by a double folding
door, with boss-shaped brass lock of native pattern. On this portal
I knocked. There was no reply. Then I tried the "opium-den" rat-tat,
a bit of special knowledge I had often found effective in the past.
Still the door remained close shut; but for certain muffled sounds of
revelry beyond it I should have concluded there was nobody to answer
my summons. At last, however, one half of the door came a few inches
ajar, and a puckered yellow face showed in the chink. Here, too,
there seemed an odd hint of the fatalistic. I'd never been to this
den before, yet I recognised the doorkeeper at once--perhaps from
some former visit to a dive of similar kind. The doorkeeper likewise
recognised me, and after some hesitation allowed me to enter.
There was a small porch behind the door, plunged in pitch dark, through
which we passed into the den itself. It was of the usual pattern
for places of the sort, but a good deal larger, and had also about
it palpable signs of foreign influence. The walls were lined with
squalid-looking couches, where natives in all degrees of robustness or
decrepitude reclined drowsily over their opium pipes, but the nave of
the dim-lit hall was dotted here and there with ramshackle tables and
chairs after the fashion of a European drinking hell, and at one end
was, apparently, a low stage, now screened off by a silk curtain across
which yellow dragons were chasing wisps of conventional whorled cloud.
Manifestly this half-breed den was wont to cater not so much for the
unsophisticated native as for the sea-going, semi-Europeanised type,
and for that queer underworld of foreigners of the beach-combing class.
Hence the dramatic stage and the grotesquely incongruous restaurant
tables, and the "fire-water" which I saw--and smelt even above the
sickly reek of opium--to be on sale in the place.
I sat down at one of the tables nearest the back of the hall, while a
boy brought me tea and melon-pips. He had proposed fire-water first,
but I thought not. The European who starts to swallow that unholy
preparation may as well throw in his hand. After a while an eerie
wailing of native violins rose from somewhere to one side of the stage,
and the curtain was drawn crosswise, revealing a girl posed for the
dance. She would have presented, to anybody enamoured of the type, an
attractively exotic figure, her long brown-black hair flowing loose,
her lithe limbs swaying to and fro with the evil grace of a snake,
her oblique almond-shaped eyes half closed, and small round breasts
heaving with an air of drugged passion. The dance was little more than
a succession of postures, involved, elaborate, voluptuous, sometimes
intentionally indelicate; and having watched many exhibitions of the
kind before, I was not a little weary of it by the end. This came in
the middle of an unusually plaintive scrape of the fiddles; the girl
broke off suddenly and sank to the stage in a tinkle of jewellery, amid
grunts of "_Hao! Hao!_" from all quarters. Then the company resumed
its pipes, and the grumble of talk that had slackened ever so slightly
during the dance grew loud again.
There were several other performances on the primitive stage, but
nothing that I could see of any novelty or interest, and I was sinking
steadily deeper into boredom. I'd already made up my mind to clear
out and look for adventure elsewhere, and was rising to do so, when
there came under my eye the first sight to hold it that evening. By
this time the room had filled up--though I could see no foreigner
besides myself--and taken on a brisker air. Some few of the smokers,
it is true, had dropped asleep and lay in queerly twisted attitudes
across the side-couches, but others had come instead to the stage of
exaltation. They sat up on the foot of the beds, drank from the chipped
water jug which a boy was carrying round, and breathed in deeply, with
that wild dilation of the eyes and glare of ecstasy of the opium fiend
which always, though I have seen it often enough to get hardened,
strikes me as such a loathsome distortion of the human countenance.
But it wasn't the opium smokers that had trapped my attention. What I
was looking at was a table a little way from mine, where two Chinese
sat in the most earnest conversation. You wouldn't have thought this
dive, given over as it was to amusement of a sort and debauchery of
a worse, was any manner of a place to do business in, but this pair
appeared to think so, for there they sat whispering and nodding and
wagging fingers at one another for all the world as if it were a
question of dethroning the Emperor. They were so placed that I had a
profile view of both faces, and even by the bad light of the place
I could see that one of these men was rather handsome, uncommonly
so for a Chinese, and handsome, too, with that queer approach to
the European type of beauty which will crop out now and again among
well-bred Chinks; whereas the other was of such a repellent ugliness
as not even I, in all my wanderings over the myriad-faced Land of Han,
had ever seen exceeded or even equalled. I watched this ill-assorted
couple slyly, and began to wonder what it could be that engaged them
in such a deedy talk. They spoke in very low whispers, with their
heads close together, and nobody in the room could have caught a word
of what they were saying; but for all that it came to me with a queer
sort of presentiment that there was foul play brewing. I scanned them
more closely. It appeared to me the good-looking Chink was pressing
some request upon the other, urging, arguing, now almost entreating;
but to every advance the ill-favoured fellow returned a stolid if not
absolutely ungracious refusal.
At this point the curtain drew back again from the stage and about half
a dozen girls, a good deal closer to a state of nature, as it seemed
to me, than their art really demanded, began a sort of choric dance
together. The measure started lazily enough, but quickened bit by bit
with the music, rising at last to such a pitch of frenzy that the whole
stage was one blurred whirl of flying beads and naked brown limbs. This
was clearly to be taken as the star show of the evening. Grunts of
approbation came louder and more frequent on all sides. Even the couple
I was watching looked up from their chin-wagging and stared at the odd,
wild spectacle on the stage. At last, with a concerted leap high into
the air, the dancers came to a halt and flung themselves down on to the
boards in a sort of tableau, a dusky picture of unholy seductiveness;
then the curtain was drawn amid loud barks of applause.
The drawing of the curtain threw everything into gloom until lamps
were brought in from somewhere behind the hall. It was in this short
interval of twilight that the ugly Chink made a sudden slight gesture,
as if to somebody at the far side of the room. So unobtrusive was the
movement that had I not been on the alert I should certainly not have
noticed it at all. As it was, the handsome fellow looked to be totally
unaware of anything wrong, for he plunged again into talk as earnest
as ever, while his companion answered him with an air of unshaken
determination. Then I realised the game. A third figure was edging
nearer and nearer the two, and I saw that this man was carrying, half
hidden in his ample sleeve, a stout, heavy bottle. The ugly Chink,
clearly, was talking to hold the attention of the handsome one while
the accomplice approached him from behind--with intent there was no
mistaking.
I called sharply to the prospective quarry, but too late. At this
very instant the lamps were obscured for another act on the stage.
The man with the bottle glided forward and aimed a savage blow at the
good-looking Chink. It fell on the back of his black skull-cap, with a
horrible hollow crack, and the man went down like a log. In a flash the
other had pounced upon him, tearing at his long robe as if to get at
something in the inner folds.
Now I knew well enough that in places of this kind, which are none
too wholesome for a European at the best, it would be sheer lunacy
to interfere in any and every quarrel that might break out between
natives. The only thing to do then is to get into the street, on your
belly if there's shooting or knife-throwing, in any case the quicker
the better. But there was a cold brutality and treachery about this
assault that set my blood boiling and stirred every ounce of the sense
of fair play that was in me. Moreover, I had taken a queer sort of
fancy to the handsome Chinaman. Perhaps it was because he left his
enemies so far behind in the way of looks, but I think also I was
attracted by the air of decency and straightforwardness which he had
and the others certainly had not. Anyway, I had thrown prudence to the
winds in an instant, and taken shares in the row to the full amount of
my capital. I sprang on to the ugly Chink and flung him off his victim,
then picked up the stunned man and backed towards the door with him in
my arms; but the tables and the thick crowd were all against escape
that way. Besides, the bottle man had edged round behind me, and there
I stood, carrying a helpless stranger, midway between two of the ripest
looking scoundrels in Asia. I saw that my one chance would be to get my
back to the wall and hold on until I could attract help, if any, from
outside. It was a slender hope, but the best that occurred to me at the
moment.
I rushed my burden to one of the side-couches and dropped him on to
a sleeping opium smoker, who rolled to the floor with a curse. The
next instant I was yelling at the top of my lungs, and the two Chinks
were making at me from different directions. Luckily, my father had
taught me as a boy the sovereign virtue of a straight left--a bit of
education that has stood me in better stead than all he ever imparted
out of his primers. I hit out, caught the nearest of my attackers on
the point of his weedy chin, and sent him spinning back amongst the
crowd. The other came on, and received a like dissuader from my right.
Neither blow was a true king hit, however, and neither Chink was
anything near knocked out: on the contrary, the setback only seemed
to have whipped up all the venom in the pair of them, and there they
crouched, spitting curses, amongst which I caught the repeated epithet
of "foreign devil." This was disquieting. So far, the sense of the
room seemed to be a sort of armed neutrality, but I knew that if this
villainous partnership succeeded in inflaming popular feeling on the
score of race, I shouldn't last the minute out. I yelled again for the
police, all I knew how.
The bottle man had dropped the bottle, and I caught the glint of a
knife in his hand. I snatched out my revolver. I had intended to use
this only in the last resort, but there was nothing else for it now.
The fellow sprang at me with a hiss, and I distinctly remember how my
slow, erring senses coupled that sound with the flash of the knife as
it swept up in a half-circle. I aimed as low as possible, but there
is no guaranteeing results in an affair like that. I am much afraid
the bullet took my gentleman in the entrails and put a period to his
crimes there and then. He had his revenge, however. With the firing of
that shot the sympathies of the room turned very definitely against
me. There was an ugly movement in the crowd. I swept the front rank
with my gun, and they drew back a little--only a little, but long
enough to allow me to dash forward and snatch the knife out of the dead
man's hand and get back to the couch by the wall. The crowd resented
this move. A howl of rage went up. Those in a position to know say the
howling of an angry Chinese mob is the most terrible sound in this
world, and I agree. The end couldn't be long coming. One rush, and I
must be overwhelmed and meet such a handling as the mind would not
picture. On they came. I fired into the brown--two, three, four, five,
six--and at the last report felt a sudden sharp sting in my wrist and
heard the empty revolver clatter to the floor. Somebody had thrown a
knife.
At this moment, when frankly my chances didn't look worth the hole in
a copper cash, help came from a quarter the very least expected. The
good-looking Chink sat up, as if roused to life by the repeated shots.
He stared about him for the bare fraction of a second, then leapt to
his feet. And now followed the most astonishing phase of the whole
fight. Darting to the nearest of the fallen, my new ally gripped him by
the ankles, and with a miracle of strength I should never have dreamed
possible in a man, jerked the limp body above his head and swung it
round and round. Twice this terrible human club fell, and twice a
swathe of men went down beneath it.
'This way,' he muttered to me in the vernacular, dashing out into the
room. The mob drew back, more from amazement than fear, leaving an
irregular path between the tumbled chairs and tables. I followed close
on my ally's heels. Now we had gained a small door on the far side, to
which he nodded. As I flung it open and dashed through I caught over my
shoulder a glimpse of the human mace swinging aloft again. My companion
had wheeled around, hurled the body at the nearest of the crowd who
were already closing in behind us, and followed me through the open
door, securing it after him.
Together we ran along a short dark corridor, thence out into the open
air. The lane in which we found ourselves was surprisingly broad, and
at the end of it, to my even greater astonishment, stood a petrol car,
a small vehicle, but as it looked to me in the half-lit street, richly
finished and built with an eye to speed. The engine throbbed into life
at the first swing of the crank, and an instant later we had sprung up
and were moving away from the scene of the fight. Our escape, from the
moment when my ally recovered consciousness to the time we boarded the
automobile, cannot have taken more than half a minute; and as I look
back upon it, even after this lapse of months, the whole business seems
like a swift, vivid dream.
For a while the warren-like ways of this unsavoury district were
against us, and I could see, over the folded hood of the car, a dim
swirling mob of pursuers and hear their howling with still that
high-pitched, unmistakable note of murder in it. Our position was
improved, but still nasty in the extreme. Even if we got away from
the mob, we should certainly be arrested by the police if caught, in
which event there would be several woundings and at least one death to
explain, and that, too, against a swarm of witnesses who would swear
our lives away without a tinge of compunction.
Luckily, the streets quickly widened, and my companion was a driver
of a thousand. Scores of foot-passengers and pole-bearing coolies and
native barrows he missed by a bare hair's breadth; several corners in
succession he took on two wheels, but never for an instant slackened
the pace; and within five minutes the last uneasy sounds of pursuit
had died away. Still we continued to press on. The pair of us seemed
to realise by silent agreement that it would be a good thing for us to
vanish at once into some burrow where we could take counsel together on
the best way to elude the allied hostility of Law and Disorder.
The Chinaman drove westward for some distance, into that part of the
city where I had crossed the Soochow Creek several hours before. Then
we turned south, and in a few moments were spinning down the broad,
bright-lit Nanking Road, with its queer blend of western paving with
eastern shops and their garishly carved and gilded fronts. Some way
farther on we turned east once more into the fringes of the French
Concession, and at last drew up at a compact bungalow standing in its
own grounds at the point where town and country meet.
We seemed to have been expected, for no sooner had the noise of our
horn broken on the quiet night than I saw a wide wooden gate swing
open, and my companion had driven the car straight into its garage.
The gate was immediately closed. Nobody watching in the street a moment
later would have had a notion of our arrival. There was no light
whatever to be seen in the house.
The Chinaman jumped down, leading the way along a path hidden in
shrubbery, into a side door of the bungalow. This opened on a long dark
passage. My companion disappeared down this, leaving me in charge of
the native servant who had opened the gate to us. Together we entered a
small room richly furnished in Chinese style, with one or two fine old
scroll-pictures hung round the walls, and cabinets through the glass
doors of which I could see a collection of carvings in choice white
jade, and on top of the cabinets several vases of Ming porcelain.
The boy left me for a moment, returning with hot water and lint and
bandages for my wounded wrist, which I had roughly bound with a
handkerchief. He made a swift workmanlike job of the stab--fortunately
it had touched no big blood--and withdrew, leaving me sitting in a wide
silk-cushioned settee of blackwood and wondering what breed of Chinaman
it could be that drove a car like Gordon Bennett and swung full-grown
bodies about his head like Eric Brighteyes.
The room, heavily shuttered, was lit by a hanging lamp of brass, worked
into the form of a dragon, which didn't give a very brilliant light,
but quite enough to show me my companion clearly when he returned a few
minutes later. I had gasped with astonishment earlier in the evening,
when I saw him do the Brighteyes act. Now I gasped again. He was the
same person, exactly, in externals, even to the sleek celestial grin on
his yellow face, and yet there was a palpable change in the whole air
of the man. I couldn't lay my finger on the difference, but it was the
difference between chalk and cheese. Then even the grin fell away from
him, and he smiled, a frank, open smile.
'Well, Mr. Ronald Mirlees!' he said.
The words had been spoken in the perfect English of a well-bred man.
CHAPTER II
FLIGHT
I could do nothing but sit back in my seat and gape stupidly, while he
continued to look at me with an air of quiet, friendly amusement.
'Well, Mr. Ronald Mirlees,' he repeated, 'we had a close call to-night.
But for the extremely sandy way you joined in on my side it would have
been closer. Come, let me thank you for saving my life.'
I got a sufficient hold on my wits to rise and take the hand he held
out to me.
'I think it's I that have to thank you,' I said. 'I'm no invalid, but
I don't reckon to be able to sling full-grown men about my head like
Indian clubs. As to coming in on your side, it was more than any decent
human being could have done to sit tight and watch those blackguards
rob you.'
'Had they done so,' he said, gravely, 'it would have interfered with my
plans seriously--vitally, Mirlees!'
'But how do you come to know my name?'
'Dear me,' he replied, with a wonderfully winning laugh, 'if such a
well-known orientalist as yourself wants to visit that sort of den
_incognito_, he must assume a character--like this.' He took the long
Chinese robe between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a shake. 'But
one moment,' he continued, stepping to the side of the room and drawing
a card from a case. 'That's me.'
I took the pasteboard slip from his carefully browned hands and read:
MR. SAUNDERS PHILIPSON.
There was nothing else, not even the Chinese equivalent of our foreign
names which we usually print for the benefit of servants and native
tradesmen who cannot read English.
'Now,' said Philipson, waving me back to my settee and taking a
chair himself. 'We are in an uncommonly nasty hole. That much is
self-evident. Two or three of the men I saw on the floor of that den
to-night looked as if they were never going to get up again, and the
fellow I was obliged to use as a weapon of defence was certain stone
dead before I touched him. A melancholy business, no doubt, but I would
sooner they than we.'
'I emptied every chamber of my gun,' I said. 'And it was too near to
miss. I don't know how many deaths there are among that crowd, but
there are six wounds.'
'Quite so. That means a most awkward investigation. Unless we take
steps we may both find ourselves in queer street. You see the force of
my reasoning?'
'Doesn't require much seeing. What do you suggest?'
'We must avoid appearing at that investigation.'
'Lie low, you mean, till it blows over. If you can put me up here for a
day or two--'
'Utterly hopeless,' said Philipson. 'There were men there who know me
well. The car must have been recognised. You too, I believe, left a
revolver behind. It will be simplicity itself to trace the pair of us.'
'Then let's go to the police and make a clean breast of it. After all,
you were the first attacked.'
'I was; but the evidence will lie heavily the other way. Those people
have their story composed and rehearsed by now, backed by a dozen
provably independent witnesses. Depend upon it. They will swear we
provoked a quarrel, and we ourselves must admit that we did the
killing, without a casualty on our side. It would look black against us
even in a consular court.'
I had to admit that the pronounced likelihood of this notion had
already struck me.
'Moreover,' he continued, eyeing me closely, 'I have the very strongest
reasons for not wishing my dealings with that gang to come out.'
'What are we to do, then?'
'Cut. We must be out of this house and away inside ten minutes,' said
Saunders Philipson with decision.
'H'm. If they can set the police after us they can have the stations
watched.'
'No need to depart by rail. Fortunately there is the river. We are
near it here. I have my own launch moored off the French Bund. In half
an hour I will undertake to get you well on your way to Wusung, and
after that, barring typhoons, we can please ourselves, up coast or
down.'
I shall have to say it before long, and I may as well say here that
there was something about this man entirely new to my experience. I had
been strangely attracted towards him even through a marvellously clever
Chinese disguise, and the feeling was intensified tenfold now that I
saw him as he really was. Before the week was out I had realised that
he was long and away the most remarkable man I had ever met, and as
this narrative develops it will be seen I wasn't alone in my opinion.
There was something about Saunders Philipson that came along like a
great burning enthusiasm and swept up your loyalty and your love,
something that literally compelled trust. It was his way, when his
friends were wavering and he wanted to tune up their resolve, to talk
to them; let him talk to you for five minutes and your brain began to
reject the possibility that he could fail.
I must have looked still undecided now, for he leaned over the
blackwood table between us and spoke, and as he spoke, my doubts melted
away like mist under the morning sun.
'Trust me, Mirlees,' he concluded, the words coming out in a crescendo
of intensity. 'Trust me, and by God, you shall never have reason to
regret it.'
'Very well,' I said. 'It's putting ourselves in the wrong, but I'm game
if you are.'
Philipson took my hand again and wrung it. 'We are going to be friends,
I can feel,' he said. 'Now, we shall look less suspicious if we are
both in the same costume, and though few would believe it, I can turn
you into a Chinaman quicker than I can get myself back into a European.
Come into this room.'
I followed him along the passage to a little chamber curiously like the
dressing room of a theatre, and there, with the help of Philipson and
his boy and a pile of native clothes and dyes and artificial pigtails,
I was soon as presentable a Celestial as it is possible for a European
to make himself. Philipson chuckled as he watched me hurry into the
Chinese dress.
'Not your first appearance in this rôle, Mirlees?' he said.
'Not by miles,' I replied, frogging up the grey _maokua_ at my left
shoulder. 'Fan, pipe--I think that's everything.'
In a few moments Philipson had put back the native touches on his own
exterior, two ricshas appeared at the door as if from nowhere, and we
were whirling off towards the French Bund. Nobody made any attempt
to molest us, but I had an uncomfortable sense--perhaps a fanciful
one--that our movements were being noted; at any rate, when we came to
the water's edge it was clear enough this was the case. There were two
natives lounging on the wharf. They gave no sign that they had even
seen us arrive, but for all that I noticed, when I looked back from the
sampan in which we were pulling out to the mooring place of the launch
that both these loafers had disappeared.
I heard Philipson laugh softly to himself. 'You saw that, Mirlees?' he
said. 'Those fellows have gone back to report.'
'But _they_ couldn't know anything about the dust-up of to-night?'
'Not yet, perhaps, but they very soon will. And our friends of the
opium-den will know that we have left by the launch, which those two
had been detailed to watch.'
'Perhaps I could help better, Philipson,' I said 'if I knew exactly
what we _are_ up against.'
'An organisation, Mirlees,' he replied. 'A large and powerful and
highly unscrupulous one, too I fear. But the story is a long one, and
unless I am much mistaken our time for the next hour or so is going to
be fully occupied with more pressing matters.'
On board the launch, a long clean-lined craft and, as I knew before
I'd been two minutes in her of great engine power, we found a native
on guard. The fellow challenged us sharply as our sampan drew near.
Philipson's answer was to order him to start up and cast off moorings;
we boarded the launch, paid the sampan man, and a moment later had
swung away down stream without lights. The engine purred gently and
musically, but a big arrowhead of foam that lay out at once from our
bow proved we were moving fast, if quietly.
'Luckily,' remarked Philipson, 'I had anticipated some such little
upset as this. The launch has been held ready day and night for the
past week, and I have no doubt Ah Sing at least is glad matters have
come to a head. Eh, Ah Sing?'
The native engineer looked back from his specklessly tended charge, and
we heard him take a long inbreath of gratification.
'Engine b'long all-same numbah-one plopah,' he said. 'Plenty
sparkum-juice hab got. Can go Canton if'm likee.'
'Perhaps so,' said Philipson, 'but I do not think we will, although it
is pleasant to reflect that we could if we chose.'
'It must be pretty pleasant altogether to own a plaything like this,' I
said, running an admiring eye along her beautifully stream-lined hull.
'No doubt,' assented Philipson. 'But the worst of a modern invention is
that unless you corner it, anybody else can use it too. That applies to
other things besides motor boats, such as----'
Philipson had taken the tiller and was steering with a coolness and
dash that reminded me forcibly of his driving. Also he seemed to be
gifted with the eyes of a cat. We shot in amongst barges, sampans,
junks, tugs, steamers--all the medley of eastern and western craft that
crowd the winding Whangpu River--some of them lighted, others a mere
blotch of deeper black against the dark stream; some of which we missed
by inches, others literally scraped with our streaks. As we rounded the
curve and headed eastward I noticed that Philipson had his eyes fixed
on the north bank in a long tense stare.
'Telephones,' he said, shortly.
'Eh? Oh, you mean----'
'That the gentlemen who were watching this launch have probably
telephoned to the headquarters of the gang, which are, I believe, not
far from that den where we had such an unpleasant experience to-night.
It is admirably up-to-date of such people to adopt western devices,
but it may prove awkward enough to us. Now it only remains to be seen
whether they have got the information through quick enough to be of
use.... H'm, I feared as much. You see what I mean, Mirlees, when I
say that launches are a game two sides can play at. They must have had
theirs waiting too.'
We had come to a pool where the stream broadens greatly and is deep
enough to float ocean-going ships close in shore. We saw several fast
at their wharves on the south side. The north bank was crusted thick
with native shipping, and between shore lights and lights afloat the
river here was thrown into a wan, treacherous illumination. I had
followed Philipson's stare with my eyes: now I saw what he was looking
at. Something swift and black had detached itself from the mass and was
shooting out across our course.
'Ah Sing--engine,' said Philipson quietly. 'Mirlees, take the tiller.
Bring us as near them as you dare, but for God's sake do not give us a
leak, or we are done. Here is a revolver. Remember, though, we must not
risk the noise of shots unless hard pressed.'
I did as I was bid, while Philipson himself took the boathook and
crawled forward, where he crouched low on our decked-in bow. Soon I
saw the wisdom of his plan. It was typical of the man. His mind always
seemed to be made up the instant a fresh problem presented itself, and
his policy was usually a sudden original move, bold to the point of
impudence. On this occasion it met with brilliant success. There were
at least five men on the other launch, against our three, and had we
merely tried to dodge them, it's likely we should have been grappled,
boarded, and overpowered, or at least forced to use firearms and thus
bring out the river police. As it was, the very unexpectedness of our
attack threw the enemy into confusion and enabled us to get clean away,
so that watchers on shore could hardly have been aware of the little
drama that was being played in midstream. What actually happened is
this.
I ran our boat straight at the other, then at the last moment put the
helm hard down. A figure had sprung up in the bows of the enemy craft,
clearly intending to leap aboard of us, but he had reckoned without
Philipson and his boathook. Philipson also sprang to his feet, caught
the opposing bow-man full in the stomach, and hurled him backwards
into the river. There were the odds evened by one at the very outset.
The boats came together with a loud scraping clatter, and I saw two
natives seize our gunwale while a third, erect behind them, drew back
for a leap. Ah Sing pluckily gripped one man by the throat and dragged
him on to our boat, where the pair tumbled into the well and rolled
over and over, fighting like terriers. I was holding revolver and
tiller in my right hand. With my left I struck out, caught the second
gunwale man between the eyes and had the satisfaction of seeing him
stagger back, half overturning the man behind him. The check was only
momentary, however, for the fellow was up and inboard of us before I
could strike again. I saw a short club raised above my head, and threw
up my left arm in defence, but I never felt the blow fall. The man was
suddenly snatched away from in front of me. Philipson, having finished
his business in the bows, had rushed aft and seized my attacker by
the waist and lifted him off his feet as if he had been a child. Then
for the second time that evening I witnessed an exhibition of this
man's superhuman strength. He gave the body a sudden swing and hurled
it back on to the other boat with such terrific force that the fellow
overshot the mark altogether, sweeping one of his comrades overboard
with him. Next, pretty much as if he had been playing skittles, Mr.
Saunders Philipson stooped into the well, where Ah Sing had finally
got a strangle hold on _his_ antagonist, detached the two men, picked
our enemy up and threw him far out into the stream, where his sudden
yell was cut short in a great splash. The whole thing was over in a few
seconds, most of the enemy in the water, and the one native left aboard
of their boat unable to do more than throttle his engine and back and
circle to pick up the men overboard. We had broken away, and shot down
stream with a good start. Our leader put back the boat hook in the
rack under our gunwale and briefly inquired if anybody was hurt.
Ah Sing rubbed his ear with a hand that came away blood-stained from it.
'Dat piecee men,' he observed judicially, 'plenty stlong toosum-box hab
got. Him muchee bitum!'
'I will dress that for you in a minute, Ah Sing,' said Philipson
gravely. 'Give me the tiller, Mirlees. We are by no means out of the
wood. Those fellows may go ashore and telephone Wusung to have a police
boat waiting for us. Or they may--yes, by Jove, they are!'
I peered out astern, straining my ears. It was true. The other launch
was coming swiftly down stream in our wake.
'You think they can catch us?' I said.
'You saw for yourself the speed of that boat when she came out from the
bank. I know her of old. The one thing on the river that can beat her
is our own, and that not by a great deal. With the twist of the river I
question if we shall have the advantage at all.'
He dived forward through the cabin and returned with a stout square
board, which, with the help of Ah Sing, he wedged firmly athwart-ship
behind our engine.
'Bullets,' he explained. 'It may take the sting off them, at least, and
save us from getting winged. They will not dare to fire on this part
of the river, for fear of bringing the police about their ears--it is
obvious they do not want that any more than we do. But when we come to
the empty reaches lower down they may not be so squeamish. You know
the river, Mirlees?'
'Pretty fair.'
'Right. It is half ebb now. We draw barely two feet. Do not be afraid
to go inside the beacons if there is a good cut-off to be effected. I
had better dress Ah Sing's ear while I have the chance. Come along, my
faithful fellow.'
I sat well down to the steering that boat out of Whangpu River. It was
the reverse of a pleasure. We were soon come to the deserted reaches
Philipson had spoken about, and I wondered how long it would be before
the boat behind began to shoot. I could hear the hum of their engine
above ours--they were clearly gaining on us. The frequent bends were
robbing us of our advantage of superior speed, and steer straight as I
might I couldn't prevent it. Many times have I cursed the snakiness of
Whangpu River when crawling up it in steamers and impatient to be at
the end of a voyage, but never had I cursed it as I did that night.
Philipson's head appeared through the low doorway as he crept aft. At
the same instant a sharp crack rang out behind, and a long white streak
flashed on to the inside of our gunwale. Philipson bobbed back: for one
fearful moment I thought he was hit. But it wasn't that. He reappeared
with a Winchester rifle.
'This must be kept down, Mirlees,' he said, 'or at least replied to.
Crouch when I fire--the flash will give them a good aiming point.'
He laid the barrel across our gunwale, which, so smoothly were the
engines running made a fair rest, and fired. There was no result beyond
that two shots came from the other boat and we heard a bullet sing over
our heads.
'They too, it seems,' said Mr. Saunders Philipson deliberatively, 'have
fallen into the error of aiming high. Now the great thing in life,' he
observed as he reloaded, 'is to ... be wise ... from our failures ...
so!'
As a vindication of Philipson's philosophy it was immense, though I
was a good deal too scared to appreciate philosophy at the time. It
isn't pleasant to be pot-shotted, even in the vague light of night,
particularly when, apart from the risk to our own skins, one unlucky
bullet might have ruined our engine or our hull and left us at the
mercy of a shipload of bloodthirsty pirates. There was a shriek of pain
from behind us, followed by furious yells, and the firing held off.
'That has balanced the account for the time being,' said Philipson,
resuming the tiller himself. 'But I have a horror of bloodshed. If I
can possibly get away without firing another shot you may trust me to
do so.'
He was equal to his word. He handled that superb boat in a way that
made my best efforts look childish, and though after a while our
pursuers loosed off at us again, we were drawing too far ahead for the
gunning to be deadly. The stream continues to wind until it meets the
sea, but under Philipson's hand our course couldn't have been far short
of a straight line; curve after curve he sheared away with consummate
skill, as if he could not only see in the dark but sense the depth of
water under us; and though once we did plough mud with our keel, the
check was no more than momentary, and we had forged over into deep
water again. Once, too, we burst clean through a string of lighters
dropping down on the tide blind as ourselves, and I heard their towrope
rattle sharply along the roof of our cabin as we shot under it.
At last we came abreast of the junk fleet you can generally count on
finding anchored at the mouth of the river. Beyond that, open sea
and safety. Thanks to Philipson's brilliant boatcraft we had drawn
so far ahead of the other launch that the noise of her engine was
indistinguishable from ours, and I should have reckoned that with one
good spurt we might now show our enemies a clean pair of heels. Much to
my surprise, Philipson ordered Ah Sing to throttle down to half speed.
'It is risky, admittedly,' he said, 'but it will be safer in the long
run.'
A hoarse shout of triumph announced that the other launch had sighted
us. They came on cock-a-hoop, gaining fast and firing as they came.
Philipson now opened our throttle bit by bit, and we drew away, heading
south-east. In five minutes our speed was at full again, in fifteen the
sounds of pursuit were dying in the distance, until we could hear them
no longer. My companion now took a sharp turn, doubling back north-east
for a minute or two, then shut off our engine altogether; and there we
lay, rising and falling gently on the dark swell of the outer sea.
'You know where we are, Mirlees?' said Philipson suddenly.
'I should say off the south point of the old Quarantine Island,' I
replied.
'Exactly. And where do you suppose the other boat is?'
'God knows. But what are we hanging about here for?'
'In order to give our pursuers a good lead on their totally false
scent. As soon as they are well past we will get along. What were they
to suppose when I allowed them to view us making for the south end of
the island? Obviously that we intended to go down coast--Ningpo, I
fancy, is the port that will occur to them, as there is no likelihood
of weather. They will pursue for some way on the chance of our petrol
giving out. Then, when they find they do not pick up the sound of us
again, they will assume we are clear away south. They will return at
once to headquarters and warn Ningpo by telegraph--they have agents
there, never fear. Meanwhile, it behoves us to select some other
destination.'
'Where d'you propose?'
'What do you say to Nanking?'
'That must be a day's run, even at the best pace we can screw out of
her.'
'Why not? We have the fuel, and you may depend I have not been so
careless as to come away without food. Also, the farther afield
we go, the less likely are we to be available for the inevitable
inquiry into that awkward affair of to-night. Nanking appeals to me
as the ideal place for our purpose. It is a huge straggling city with
miles of country within its walls. It offers every facility for a
sudden departure by rail or water, should we have warning of pursuit.
The police will hardly look for us there, since the only people in
a position to give information regarding our movements will be of
opinion--for the time at least--that we are down coast. You, should you
find that the shooting affray has blown over, may return to Shanghai by
train at any time you like. I would advise you not to be in a hurry,
though. I am afraid, Mirlees, that by your magnanimous rescue of me
to-night you have made yourself obnoxious to some of the most dangerous
people in Asia. Were you to return to Shanghai now, I frankly could not
promise you a peaceful life--or for that matter life at all.'
It wasn't a particularly comforting argument, but it struck me as being
sound. 'Nanking be it then,' I said. 'We'll see to the future later.'
'And a wise decision, in my view,' said Philipson cheerfully, opening
the throttle and turning the boat's head north.
We skirted the Quarantine Island on its seaward shore, then headed
west for the estuary of Yangtze River. Philipson steered by the stars
and checked his course roughly by a pocket compass, but he would have
needed to be a pretty lubberly navigator to miss that enormous mark.
Suddenly he looked up.
'Forgive me, Mirlees,' he said. 'The rush of events has caused me to
forget my duties as host. Just go into the cabin and help yourself to a
meal. Ah Sing will give you everything you want.'
Now ravenously hungry, I didn't wait for a second invitation. The cabin
of the launch I found to be a surprisingly roomy apartment, with a
handy collapsible table amidships and broad lockers lining the sides.
Ah Sing was evidently schooled to do more than run engines, for he had
put up a capital collation of fresh cold meats and salad and white
wine, laid out amongst spotless napery and dainty table furniture.
In the roof of the cabin there was an electric globe which Ah Sing
switched on after carefully shutting the after door, and I noticed
mattresses and sheets and pillows rolled up on the ends of the lockers
against bed-time. Altogether, this launch would have been a cosy home
for a holiday, let alone a craft to run for your life in. I fell to,
ate like a savage, then put on a pipe and went aft to relieve Philipson
at the tiller.
All night we sped up into that greatest of China's waterways, the three
of us standing successive tricks of two hours each, and by daybreak
we had pierced the estuary to a point where the shores-a green-brown
line low down on either bow--began to be visible again. Mile after
mile we flung behind us; more and more we seemed to be in a river
rather than a sea. As the vast estuary narrowed, so all the divergent
tracks of up-river traffic drew in together; now we passed within
hail of an occasional steamer, and before long saw away to starboard
the eternal procession of junks as they hugged the north shore to
avoid the down-rolling volume of the stream. Philipson's knowledge of
the river seemed to be exact to the last detail; many of the shore
villages he named as we swept past were quite unknown to me, though I
recognised the Treaty Port of Chinkiang on our starboard bow early in
the afternoon, and wanted no telling when, at the fall of dusk, we drew
near the end of our long stage.
Well throttled down, we crept past Nanking Bund, giving it a wide
berth, then headed straight in for a creek Philipson had chosen as
being secluded enough for our business. Here we halted in midstream
while the pair of us changed into European clothes, and gently paddled
the launch inshore. You couldn't have hit on a better place for a
furtive landing. There was a queer old inn, big, rambling, well tucked
away, with its garden running down to the willow-shrouded bank, and
water enough in the creek to allow of our putting the launch right in,
so that we could step from the cambered roof of her cabin on to the
grey lichened garden wall. We gave out to the native proprietress that
we were merchants down stream from Hankow on a vacation, and engaged a
bedroom each--Ah Sing would sleep on board--and a sitting room in the
wing of the building overlooking the water; and there, after we had
fed, Philipson pushed a box of cigarettes towards me and sat back in
his chair with a strangely serious air.
'I owe you an apology, Mirlees,' he began.
'What on earth for?'
'I am afraid I have misled you.'
He sprang up, glided to the door as noiselessly as a cat, and flung it
open. I had heard nothing myself, but I now caught a glimpse of the
lady of the house withdrawing, feather dust-whisk in hand, to the far
end of the landing.
'Note one,' muttered Philipson, closing the door and resuming his seat.
'That woman needs watching. But, as I was saying, I fear I have not
been altogether frank. I led you to suppose that I was coming here
to escape the consequences of our little brawl last night. That was
only partly true. This Nanking journey is only the first stage of a
much longer one I am making--so long that the distance would probably
surprise you.'
'H'm. _How_ long?'
'Only time can measure the exact length,' said Saunders Philipson, 'but
I should estimate it at nearer three thousand miles than two.'
CHAPTER III
ENTER STEPHEN POYNING
The match I had struck to light my cigarette remained burning in my
fingers till it scorched them. I was waiting for Philipson to amplify
that last disclosure, but he appeared to be thinking of something else;
he had thrown back his head and was listening intently.
'Not a word now,' he whispered.
There was a knock on the door, and the innkeeper entered, laid four
bottles and two glasses on the table between us, and withdrew with that
queer bent-kneed bounce which natives use for a bow.
'Fortunately,' said Philipson, 'this inn has been patronised by
foreigners in the past, for whom the woman keeps a cellar. When we
arrived it was almost my first concern to explore it and take stock.
This is not a vintage claret, I am afraid, but it was the best quality
I could find.'
'You've made up for it in quantity, anyway,' I put in.
Philipson smiled. 'Have no fear,' he said. 'I fully understand that
the burden of consumption will rest upon me. It is, I may say, a
habit of mine to drink freely, and that of the best obtainable, on
all occasions. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to drink large
quantities of good wine.'
I thought this was a pretty naive assertion for a man to make, but
Philipson seemed quite unconscious of anything queer about the
remark he had made. He poured out two glasses, pledged me politely,
and continued to sip with zest all the time he was talking. I fully
expected to see him get soused, but, far from that, beyond causing
him to speak with a little deeper earnestness, the wine left Saunders
Philipson entirely unaffected. His speech remained clear, with a sort
of musical, incisive clearness it always had, and the clarity with
which he unfolded his tale grew, if anything, as the night advanced.
'You are, I understand, pretty hard up at present, Mirlees?' he began,
coolly.
'That's so,' I replied, 'but I don't know how you came to understand
it.'
'Do not trouble to inquire. I know many things about many people that
would surprise them.' And with that he began to prove it, quoting facts
from my career since I had come East that I had thought unknown to
anybody but Ronald Mirlees.
'So you see,' he concluded, with a business-like pull at his glass, 'I
have a fair general idea of your status and antecedents. But it was
only last night I found out about you the fact that really concerns
me.'
'What was that?'
'That you are a comrade to be relied upon,' he said with the sincerest
and most matter-of-fact air in the world, 'and that you are free from
any absurd prejudice against the Asiatic as such.'
'What makes you think that?'
'Your actions have proved that you, at least, do not consider him less
worthy of consideration than a European. How many white men would have
stepped in to see fair play for a Chinese as you did last night?'
'Perhaps not many.'
'Very few indeed at the risk of their own lives. That fact alone would
have singled you out in my mind as the ideal man to help me.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'I want you to partner me in about the biggest adventure two men ever
undertook.'
'And you think I'd be more inclined to say yes because I'm on the
rocks?'
Philipson sat back in his chair with a frank smile. '_Touché!_' he
cried. 'I ought not to have mentioned the state of your finances, if
your being hard up disposes you to accept my offer, so much the better
for me, but candidly, I was not leaning on that. What I want is breadth
of mind, insight, sympathy, imagination. I can find any number of mere
situation hunters, but the man of sympathy is rare. To meet that man at
a moment when he is looking for an enterprise worthy of him I regard as
a piece of unparalleled good fortune. After all, why should you scrape
a livelihood writing for a public which can hardly understand you,
leave alone appreciate, when you might be bidding for real fame with
me?'
'You'd better let me have the story complete, Philipson,' I said.
'With all my heart. You had never heard of me before last night, I take
it?'
'Never.'
'It is not greatly to be wondered at. I have spent many years in the
East, but somehow the European centres never attracted me. Often I
have lived native for long periods together, and beyond the consuls
who have registered my name--though I never yet had to ask any other
service of them--I do not suppose a dozen men in all China know me.
Those that do, know me, I fear, only too well. The gentry who chased us
last night in the launch are among that number. But to my story. At one
time and another I have done much exploration in the interior. I have
been in many places where I am convinced no white man has been before
or since. The routes taken by travellers like Huc and Sven Hedin and
the Prince of Orleans across the so-called "unknown" regions of Tibet
I would guarantee to follow blindfold. There is not much to be found
up there except snow and ice and scenery--that is, at least, by people
who are obliged to hurry straight across, on the stretch about their
food supply all the while. If the climate and the nature of the country
allowed one time to explore, I fancy a lot of strange things would
turn up. I found something very strange indeed, but it was only by the
merest accident.'
'What was it?'
'An _obo_. You know what that is, of course?'
'A Tibetan prayer-mound, isn't it?'
'Exactly. They are to be found sometimes even in the uninhabited
regions, having been erected by pilgrims crossing the heights. The
_obo_ consists of slabs of slate--which often lies ready to hand on
the mountain sides--set up like a house of cards and inscribed all
over with Tibetan characters. Most European explorers who come upon
one of them for the first time imagine they have got hold of something
noteworthy, but disappointment awaits them. That historic record they
thought they had discovered turns out, on examination, to be no more
than an endless reiteration of the Tibetan devotional formula, _Om Mane
Padme Hum_--"O the Jewel of the Lotus."'
'Yet you say it was something strange you found?'
'It was, indeed. At first, of course, I thought I had merely stumbled
on one of those conventional monuments of piety, put up by some
pilgrim on his way to Lhassa from the north and no more distinctive
than a roadside crucifix in Italy. But then it struck me that this was
well off the route that any pilgrim would be likely to take. There
is no recognised track, of course, in those wild regions, but there
are long grooves between the ranges of heights, and it is to these
enormous gutters that the traveller keeps if he values his life. Even
here progress is arduous in the extreme, for the surface is terribly
rough even when free from ice-crusts, and many of the grooves run
for hundreds of miles at an altitude never less than sixteen thousand
feet, with the accompaniment of constant hailstorms and snowstorms and
terrific cold. The _obo_ I found was not in one of these gutters. It
stood on a small patch of level rock at the end of a pass, in the midst
of a waste of rugged peaks looking for all the world like monstrous
frozen waves of the sea.
'I saw beside the monument what appeared to be bleached sticks of
wood, but I discovered my mistake as I came nearer. They were human
bones--the skeleton of one man. Now thoroughly curious, I examined the
inscription on the plaques of slate, and you may picture my excitement
when I found it was not the usual text, but a longish legend scratched
on the surface with, apparently, some sharp splinter of rock. I at
once made an exact copy of the whole--no easy task, I may say, for
the scratches had been very feebly made. At that time I did not know
Tibetan well, but I knew enough to realise that this inscription had
been written by the dead man--and not long before his death, to judge
by the quavering way the letters were formed--for the purpose of
leaving some message behind him. But what the message was, neither I
nor any man of my party could fathom.
'That expedition was the most disastrous I ever knew. We had abominable
luck with the weather and everything else; snowstorms beleaguered us in
the mountains so long that our supplies ran out, and we were reduced
to living on steaks--raw for the most part--hacked from the ponies
as they dropped dead one by one. My bearers treacherously deserted
me, and when at last I, the only white man of the party, staggered
down into the Tsaidam marsh country with one faithful usbeg who had
accompanied me from Kashgar, the pair of us were much nearer dead than
alive.
'My first move after getting back to civilisation was to seek an
interpretation of that legend. There are one or two European works
on Tibetan, and I collected these and brushed up my knowledge of the
language thoroughly; but after much hard study I found I was still
unable to make sense of the inscription. The words were simple enough,
but they seemed to resolve into phrases that would not come out by
any ordinary method of translation. I could see far enough into the
fog, however, to understand that this legend had been composed by a
monk, and I assumed that the wording must be couched in some secret
phraseology known only to the Tibetan priesthood. Without special
knowledge I could get no further. What was I to do? I dared not show
the inscription to any Tibetan of my acquaintance, for I had already
a shrewd suspicion that it contained facts I should desire to keep to
myself.
'I bethought me of Lhassa, the headquarters of the Tibetan faith.
Thither I went, posing as a Chinese convert anxious to qualify for
monastic orders, and by virtue of a handsome solatium to the abbot
of a big monastery I gained admittance. There I learned many strange
things, Mirlees, but little that was of any use to me. Before long
I became convinced that the peculiar form of language in which my
legend had been written was not known at Lhassa. But the time I spent
there was not wasted. I discovered the monastic meaning of two vitally
important words in the inscription, which, translated into ordinary
Tibetan, came out as "Phagspa" and "Shigatse." That gave me the clue.
The legend had been written by a monk of the monastery of Phagspa, in
the city of Shigatse, and thither I must go for further enlightenment.
I went. Here I found far greater difficulty in obtaining admission, and
it was only by heavy bribery I was able to do so at all. Also, I was
obliged to take a vow to reside in that gloomy monastery for ever. All
went well for a while, and most hopefully for my quest. There _was_
a secret form of language used by the inmates of that place, and it
was not long before I began to acquire the elements of a vocabulary
in it. Yet despite my utmost care, I could not remain there without
arousing suspicion. From the questions I was obliged to ask, put them
as artlessly as I might, the monks soon gathered that there was some
ulterior motive in my coming, that I possessed a secret which they
would very strongly desire to discover. I was watched night and day.
The position became unbearable. At last one of the priests who had
been detailed to instruct me in the religious observances of the place
intruded on my privacy in a most exasperating fashion, and it ended in
blows. Several other monks came to this fellow's aid. Well, you have
seen me in a ruction, Mirlees. I seldom enter such an affair without
leaving my mark on it. I knocked down two of the Tibetan clergy and
threw a third against a great wooden pillar so violently that I fear he
perished as a result. That was the end of my novitiate as a lama. I had
to run, barely getting out with my life and the precious inscription,
which I always carried sewn into my inner garment.
'I pass over my escape back into China, which was a ghastly experience
enough, and took months of forced marches. But I had what I wanted.
Arrived in Shanghai, I sat down to translate my legend, and found
I could now piece it together without difficulty. And here is the
translation.'
Philipson took from his wallet a small folded slip, but paused before
flattening it out.
'I must have your solemn promise of secrecy, Mirlees,' he said. 'I
have risked my neck twice for this little handful of words, and I do
not choose to share it with any human soul besides yourself. Are you
agreeable?'
I gave the assurance he wanted, and Philipson, leaning over the table,
read in a clear whisper the following remarkable statement:
"I, Sbrang Chikya Lama, being a priest of the holy brotherhood of
Phagspa in the city of Shigatse, having now come to the end of this
incarnation, do hereby declare:
"That having strayed from the caravan in which I journeyed with others
despatched by the Ocean Priest" (Dalai Lama) "from Lhassa to the Son
of Heaven" (Emperor of China) "who holds sway in the north, I lost my
way in the mountains, and was mad with the madness of high places"
(height-sickness) "and came at last after many wanderings and grievous
pains to the land of the beings of ghostly face, who dwell by the river
of white gems under skies where birds fly bigger than the children of
men. And I descended into the valley which lies towards the setting
sun, but having seen from afar the beings of ghostly face and becoming
greatly afraid lest they, evil spirits, should enthral me to an evil
_karma_" (conduct of life) "I fled swiftly into the mountains again
ere they beheld me, and crossed again the great snows, hoping that in
time I might meet pilgrims of our own faith who should relieve me of my
distress. But I have seen no men, only the yak and the eternal snows,
and being now blinded with the snows and ready to die for want of food
and shelter, have written these words for warning lest any of the true
brotherhood should stray from this spot towards the setting sun and
should meet the devils of ghostly face and come to evil at their hands.
"Now to the Jewel of the Lotus I commend my spirit and pray I may
be born again in seemly shape and nearer to the blessed Nirvana"
(nothingness) "which sets a period upon life and death and rebirth."
Philipson carefully folded and replaced the paper, and looked
searchingly into my face.
'What do you make of that?' he said.
'About the queerest statement I ever came into contact with,' I
replied. 'How do you interpret it yourself?'
'I take it to mean that somewhere amongst those tremendous ranges there
is a valley of which the world so far knows nothing. Also that that
valley is inhabited.'
'By "devils of ghostly face"?'
'A white race might be called so by the writer of the legend.'
'H'm. A pretty tall order, Philipson,' I said. 'Where could they have
come from?'
'That remains for me to find out.'
'But what can the fellow have meant by birds bigger than the children
of men?'
'Possibly some great vulture or eagle which he had never seen in his
own country. You must remember the poor wretch had been wandering
alone over the mountains--for how long we don't know, and that he was
starving and exhausted. No doubt to his fevered eyes the birds looked a
good deal bigger than they really were.'
'But the river of white gems?'
'Ah, there we come to a real difficulty. I have pondered that phrase
for weeks together, and the only explanation I can think of is this:
the strayed priest struck a mountain stream, which he could see flowed
down into the valley, and knelt beside it to drink. It must have been
then that he noticed the white gems in the water, and the white gems, I
take it, must have lain thick for him to notice them at all.'
'What do you suppose the white gems to be?'
'There is only one kind of white gem that is found in the beds of
streams, Mirlees--the diamond. That one fact ought to render this
valley a highly attractive locality, though for my part I may say I
intend to explore it quite independently of the hope of opening up a
new diamond field.'
'If there were diamonds there, isn't it likely the priest would have
brought some away with him?'
'He may have done so. I noticed none near the skeleton, but then I was
not looking for anything of the sort, and may easily have missed them.
He may have dropped them during his retreat through the mountains.
Likeliest of all, he may have been too terrified at the sight of the
"devils of ghostly face" to trouble about collecting gems.'
I sat drumming my fingers on the table. It was a wild and fantastic
enough story in all conscience, and they would be bold gamblers who
staked much on its truth.
'Well, what do you say?' I heard Philipson's crisp, keen voice.
'I see pretty enormous obstacles. In the first place, supposing you
could find the place where the legend was written--'
'Never fear. I nearly lost my life on that trip, but I kept my head
through it all. I made a large-scale plan of the neighbourhood, and
mapped every mile of my journey down country. I will guarantee to take
you to that heap of slates direct--or as straight as the mountains
permit.'
'How is it, then, if the place is so easy to find, it's never been
found and made known? I've trekked with the Tibetan caravans before
now, many times, but never have I heard mention of such a monument.'
'You hardly would. My _obo_ is right off the track that caravans or
even explorers would be likely to follow. Even if the heap of slates
were found, that would not help in the least. I was determined that
if there were any great discovery to be made beyond those mountains
it should be mine only. As soon as I had copied the inscription I
erased it. As it stands at this moment, that cairn would be taken to be
just the common type of Tibetan _obo_ with its legend obliterated by
weather.'
'You seem to meet every objection, Philipson,' I said. 'But frankly, as
man to man, do you really expect to find this supposed valley with its
white race?'
'Why not? If that poor devil of a priest could find it, travelling
alone and on foot, without equipment and without food, it will say
little for my capabilities as an explorer if I cannot do as much with
all the outfit for a cross-mountain expedition. Whatever happens,
I shall never rest now till I have settled the question one way or
the other, or left my bones up on those heights in the attempt. Why,
Mirlees, an adventure like this is worth risking a dozen lives for. It
will be the most wonderful exploration in history.'
Saunders Philipson's manner was always openness itself, yet had he
deliberately sought around for the most cunning way to win me over
he couldn't have brought forward a stronger argument than this. The
lure of the thing was irresistible. Already I saw myself bringing
back the secret of this hidden land to the outer world, and heard
my name ringing round the planet, and saw the faces of some of my
former critics among the orientalists. These folk had set me down as a
reckless liar in the past. Now they would have something really to get
excited about.
'I'm in it with you Philipson,' I said at last, 'in it to the death.
But there's the rub--the possible death. Nasty accidents have been
known to happen up on that roof of the world. I haven't money enough to
pay the lawyer's fee for writing a will, but there are some manuscripts
among my baggage that I don't want lost, still less stolen and printed
under another man's name. I'd give a good deal to return to Shanghai
before we start.'
Philipson shook his head gravely. 'Most perilous,' he said. 'The gang
we escaped last night will know at any moment now that the down coast
scent was false--if indeed they have not learned as much already. They
will concentrate on Shanghai till a fresh trail is picked up. For
either of us to show his face in the city at present would be suicidal.'
'By the way, Philipson, who _are_ the gang?'
'H'm. Of course. I did not tell you. They are members, Mirlees, of
a large and powerful secret society, whose headquarters are at the
monastery of Shigatse, in Tibet. During my novitiate I gathered that
there was something of the sort in existence, though no mention of
it was ever made to me. I fancy it started there centuries ago, as a
purely religious organisation, but that it has since extended over
China and taken on a character the very reverse of religious, though
it still preserves the ancient hidden form of language which was used
by Sbrang Chikya on the _obo_. I have been able to discover one or two
things about the society since my return to Shanghai, but I little
dreamed its agents were actually in the city and had marked me down for
destruction.'
'You're sure of that?'
'I recognised one of my former fellow monks during our encounter in the
opium hell.'
'What were you after there?'
'Facts. Since I got the translation of the legend I have been
constantly on the look out for confirmation of it, however slight. It
seemed impossible that a race like this people of the legend should
lie hidden in their valley through the centuries without at least some
vague tradition of their existence developing in neighbouring lands. I
had heard of no such tradition, but other men might. I made veiled but
thorough inquiries among natives who have used the caravan routes of
the interior a good deal, and at last came upon a man who professed to
know something about it. We were to meet in that den, then go on to his
house. I now see the whole scheme. The monks at Shigatse had divined
from certain questions I put to them that I was on the track of some
land of gems in the interior, which had originally been discovered by
one of their own fraternity. They wanted to filch my information and
revenge themselves upon me for entering their monastery and penetrating
some of _their_ secrets under false pretences. The fellow who was
to give me information was put up as a trap, to get hold of this
inscription and these--'
Philipson threw himself back in his chair, staring at the wall above
my head. He then began feverishly turning over the papers he had drawn
from his wallet.
'What's wrong?' I cried.
Philipson glared at me in a sort of suppressed fury. 'This is wrong,
Mirlees,' he muttered between his teeth. 'The man you are partnering
yourself with is about the clumsiest fool in Asia. When I came away
from my house I thought I had all my papers with me. But I had not. One
packet is missing--the one containing half the maps of my journey down
country.'
'That's essential, of course?'
'Vital. It's this end of the trail I've left behind. The other I might
dispense with--with extreme good luck I might find the _obo_ from
memory if I had a correct start. As it is, I would not guarantee to get
within a hundred miles of it.'
'H'm. Perhaps you'd better let me risk Shanghai after all, Philipson,'
I said. 'I could get the maps as well as settle my own affairs.'
He remained staring at the wall. 'Plucky of you to volunteer, Mirlees,'
he said at last, 'but if either of us is to go, I might every bit as
well go myself. Both of us would stand an excellent chance of being
murdered.'
At this moment there was a violent commotion outside our room.
Philipson shot the papers back into his pocket and sprang up, covering
the door with a revolver, as I could see, through the silk of his
jacket. We heard scuffling footsteps and the voice of the Chinese
landlady raised in strident wrath. Philipson tiptoed to the door,
opened it quietly, and peered out, while I followed him, peeping over
his shoulder. With the woman was a boy of about twenty-one, in Europe
clothes and, apparently, a genial phase of alcohol, bowing and scraping
to her like a dancing master and talking a sort of high-falutin jargon
of which she couldn't possibly have understood two words.
When he had satisfied himself there was nobody else, Philipson stepped
out on to the broad landing, with me at his heels. The newcomer turned
and faced us. He was short, well-knit, clad in smartly cut pongees that
had suffered a little, it seemed, from his adventures of the evening;
and as he bowed to us--with just a suspicion of a lurch--his regular,
freckled features broke into a smile that disclosed two rows of very
small white teeth. Whatever the fellow was, he was no hobo--that much I
saw at once.
'Good evening, gentlemen,' he said. 'Would you believe it, this
flinty-hearted Hebe actually denies me access to my own rooms!'
The proprietress likewise turned to us, with shrill protest. 'Dis man
he no hab pay money!' she screamed. 'No more long time can stay in dis
house.'
The youth threw up his hands disdainfully, as if surprised. 'How
paltry!' he exclaimed. 'To break the harmony of our relations over a
few wretched dollars which I do not for the moment happen to possess!'
Philipson had been taking stock of the youth very comprehensively,
though he didn't appear to be aware of it.
'What's your name?' demanded my friend.
The newcomer returned Philipson's keen look with equal directness,
raising his eyebrows slightly. 'Abruptly asked, if I may say so,' he
remarked. 'My name is Stephen Poyning, at your service'--and with this
he fetched a rather grandiose sweep of the topee he was holding in his
hand.
'How much do you owe her?'
Poyning faced the landlady. 'Prithee, woman,' he said, 'state the
extent of indebtedness.'
'Dis man he no hab pay fifty dollar!' she returned.
Philipson pulled a wad of notes from his pocket, counted out five of
ten dollars each, pushed them into the landlady's hand and took her
by the shoulders and directed her downstairs with a good deal more
determination than gallantry.
'Now, sir,' he said, turning to Poyning, 'having relieved your
immediate needs, I venture to inquire what is your business here.'
Poyning fanned himself elegantly with his hat. 'There lies the whole
pathos of the situation,' he said. 'I have none. My occupation up to
this time has been merely the search for business, the quest of some
small nook in the great world machine of labour. I may say that the
quest has been diligently prosecuted, but utterly barren of result.'
'H'm. You cannot get a job.'
'The merchant princes of this land, sir, have been but very faintly
impressed with the desirability of enlisting my services. In
Shanghai--would you credit it?--I could scarce get them to believe I
was not in jest; and here, too, beyond the offer of a post to pack
frozen game in a warehouse--side by side, I believe, with native
operatives--nothing whatever has presented itself. And I, gentlemen,
took a first at the University of Oxford.'
'Come into this room,' said Philipson, leading the way.
Poyning followed. On seeing the quartette of bottles on the table his
eyes lit up. 'One who understands the art of living, I observe,' he
said. 'And now, worthy Macedonian, what can I do to vent my gratitude
for your most timely loan?'
Philipson was staring at the youth very hard. 'Gift,' he corrected,
shortly. 'Usury is not among my failings.'
Poyning bowed again. 'And a bourgeois pride is not among mine,' he
said. 'Gift be it called, then, which is the more noble, and moves me
to livelier thanks. How can I translate them into action?'
'Wait here for a few moments,' said Philipson, moving suddenly to the
door. 'Stay in this room, the pair of you, till I come back.'
As soon as he was gone I motioned our visitor to a chair. 'You're a
pretty cool hand,' I said. 'D'you always call people fancy names?'
'The wrathful Hebe, cupbearer to gods? The appellation was perhaps
rather daring than apt.'
'For some reason best known to yourself you also called my friend
"worthy Macedonian."'
He screwed a glass into his eye and rounded on me with an expression of
astonishment--whether feigned or genuine I couldn't tell.
'Dear me,' he said, 'can it be that the allusion was lost upon you? And
yet you would appear from your externals to be a man of some culture.'
'May be,' I said, nettled at his bland impudence, 'but what has that to
do with it?'
'Possibly your studies have at some time or other taken you into that
temple of learning known as the British Museum?'
'They have, but I still don't see what the devil you're driving at.'
'Curious,' observed Poyning. 'The Grecian type of your friend's
beauty--our friend's, if I may say so--is so marked that it struck
me at once. An idle fancy of mine, of course, but the reason I
addressed him as worthy Macedonian was that his features bear a perfect
resemblance to the busts of Alexander the Great.'
CHAPTER IV
THE QUEER EPISODE AT NANKING
It was such a far-fetched observation to make that I thought the boy
must be more elevated than he looked, but if he was, he could at least
keep himself in hand. Finding me silent, he made no advance from his
side, but took a cigarette from his own case and lit it; and there we
sat smoking in silence until Philipson returned.
The moment he entered the room I could see by his face that he had
taken one of those sudden resolves I was already beginning to get
accustomed to.
'So you have been looking for work, Poyning,' he began, 'and you have
found none?'
Poyning solemnly inclined his head. 'The dismal situation is as I
have already painted it,' he said. 'You gentlemen, no doubt skilled
observers of the East and its peculiarities, can perhaps suggest the
reason of my failure? Tell me, is there anything in my appearance that
might be expected to militate against success?'
Philipson seemed to find this funny, for I noticed he was biting his
lip when he answered. 'If you will allow me to say so, Poyning,' he
said, 'you are about the last type in the world the merchant princes of
this country are looking for. Still, there are other employers besides
the merchant princes. Perhaps I can offer you something to go on with.
Would you care to earn a thousand dollars?'
'By any task a man of delicacy may fittingly undertake.'
'It is certainly a matter of delicacy--so much so that I must stipulate
for absolute secrecy before I let you hear a word about it. Will you
swear?'
'By all the powers of beauty and light!' said Stephen Poyning, so
religiously that you might have thought he was going to cross himself.
'It is also a matter of extreme danger.'
'Not more perilous, I fancy,' returned Poyning suavely, 'than the
grisly spectre of starvation which hangs over me at this moment.'
It was, as I say, a high-falutin manner of talk that this little
exquisite used, but there was something in his demeanour that soon made
me begin to have hopes of him; and I believe Philipson had come to
similar conclusions a good deal quicker than I had.
'Very well,' he said. 'The business is this. We two have vitally
important affairs to transact in Shanghai, but it is not feasible for
either of us to return in person. Our matters must be seen to through
an agent, and even he, I may tell you at the outset, stands quite a
good chance of coming to grief at the hands of the same men who will
be on the watch for us.'
Poyning clasped and unclasped his small womanly hands. 'It sounds by
far the most interesting thing I have yet heard in China,' he mused.
'Now listen closely,' said Philipson, 'for I am going to give you your
instructions. The people of this inn think we are on a pleasure trip
from Hankow, and you must do nothing to undeceive them. You will slip
out secretly to the railway station and catch the down train, which
leaves this place at midnight. That will get you into Shanghai by seven
in the morning. It is probable that the station will be watched, so
be on your guard. You will let your ricsha-boy pull you away in the
direction of the European quarter--which he will do of his own accord
since you are a foreigner--but not until you come to the river will you
tell him to go to the Marco Polo Hotel, and not too loudly then. That
is where my friend was staying before we left. You will clean up and
have breakfast, then see the manager in your own room and explain to
him that my friend has been called away to Canton on urgent business
and that you have come to settle his account, pack his belongings,
and put them into store. My friend will give you a note and detailed
instructions as to what he wants done. This will take you till ten
o'clock. You will then go out and buy a good second-hand suit case
without any initials on it--or at least you must studiously avoid one
with your own.'
Poyning had sat quite still, with an air of some concentration. He now
looked up inquiringly.
'Because your initials happen to be the same as my own,' added
Philipson rather brusquely. 'Saunders Philipson is my name, and my
friend is Ronald Mirlees--so steer clear of R.M. too. You will then
go to Obermeyers, on the Bund, and buy a good chronometer and a
sextant. You will then go to the Bank of Cathay, where you will cash
a big cheque for me--or rather exchange it for a letter of credit on
the Bank's Chungking branch: I will give you a note to the manager.
You will then return to the Marco Polo Hotel and confine yourself to
your room till after dark. Then take a ricsha down to Bubbling Well
and proceed to the New Highgate Road on foot. The last bungalow on
the right hand side is mine. You will approach with extreme caution,
taking particular care that you are not shadowed. Go not to the front
door, but to the side, and give five sharp taps--like this.' Philipson
knocked with his knuckles on the table, repeating the signal twice.
'My boy, Lo Eng, will let you in. He speaks good English, so you will
have no difficulty with him. You will tell him I have gone away for an
indefinite period, and that he is to shut the house and return to his
people; if he does not hear from me in six months, he is to hand over
my belongings to the manager of the Bank of Cathay, who is my executor.
Lo Eng is to give you a packet of papers marked "B," and in proof of
good faith you will show him this seal. You will then get away from
the bungalow unobserved, return to the hotel and settle up there, and
catch the eleven o'clock train back. It is of the utmost life-and-death
urgency that nobody should trace you from my house to the station or
from the station here. Is that clear?'
'Lucid as Helicon itself,' said Poyning, removing his eyeglass and
wiping it with a handkerchief of perfumed silk.
'Then let me hear what you are going to do.'
It surprised me a little to hear Philipson make this demand. He had
rattled off his string of orders so fast that I expected he would at
least give the youth something in writing, however cryptic, to remember
them by. But my real surprise came when Poyning recited the whole, not
only accurately, but, as far as I could myself remember, in Philipson's
own words.
The latter sprang to his feet. 'Excellent,' he said. 'You already
begin to justify my belief in your capability. Those are your marching
orders, then. Carry them out as exactly as you have rehearsed them, and
payment awaits you on your return.'
'If I might suggest two amendments--' began Poyning.
'What do you mean?'
'This. My own rooms in Shanghai are still, I regret to say, unsettled
for. I propose to utilise part of the day in closing them. For this
purpose I should be glad of certain of those thousand dollars in
advance. The opportunity of withdrawing from that hub of commerce
in strict honour and solvency may not present itself to me again,
gentlemen. It must be grasped now.'
'Then you are not going back to Shanghai eventually?'
'I do not regard that as at all probable.'
'What are you going to do here?'
'I was not, to tell the truth, proposing to remain in this picturesque
but somewhat unpromising field of labour, either.'
'Indeed. Well, it is no affair of mine, Poyning, but if I could put
you in the way of a berth, I would--particularly if you carry out this
commission of mine satisfactorily. Have you any idea _what_ you are
going to do?'
Poyning's small freckled features wrinkled into a grin. 'I think it is
more than possible,' he said, 'that I shall accompany you to Chungking
and those more distant regions which you will be visiting in the near
future.'
Philipson set down his glass with a clatter. 'What the devil do you
know about our intentions?' he said sharply.
'I pretend to no exact knowledge,' replied Poyning, waving his
small hand, 'but I should be dull indeed if I had gathered no
inkling from what you have told me. You see, Philipson, I'm no fool,
though my classical qualifications may not seem an asset in the
pork-packing circles where I have vainly hawked them. You are going to
Chungking--your letter of credit betrays as much. But the amount of the
cheque which you will give me to change and the length of time you will
be away seem to me to indicate that your true objective lies beyond
that port: that you have, in fact, some rather considerable expedition
in view.'
'Suppose we have. What use do you think you could be to us?'
'There, again, a little elementary thought solves the conundrum for
me. The fact that you are obliged to take such detailed precautions
in order to get away from this area with a whole skin argues that you
would be none the worse for the company and support of a person who,
though he should not be the one to proclaim it, is a good shot with
small arms and no worse afflicted with cowardice than most.'
'I see,' said Philipson, drily, glancing at the watch on his wrist.
'_We_ are to benefit by the arrangement, eh?'
'To the extent I have indicated,' retorted Poyning, quite unabashed.
'My profit from the enterprise, on the other hand, will be co-equal
with yours. The great wildernesses of earth, gentlemen, have always
called to me, and those lands which you are going to visit beyond
Chungking will answer very nicely, I've no doubt, to the description
of a wilderness. I would go forth into it with you. If you gratify my
ambition, there is _my_ half of our mutual gain.'
Philipson looked at his watch again. 'No time to go into the matter
now, anyway,' he said. 'You must catch to-night's train without fail. I
will get ready the things you are to take, and Mirlees will tell you in
the meantime what he wants done in Shanghai.'
While Philipson was busy at a side table with pen and ink, I gave
Poyning my instructions for the safeguarding of my slender properties.
He listened quietly, repeated word for word what I had said, and tapped
his forehead as a man might the lid of a cash-box after locking away
valuable securities in it.
'Now, Poyning,' said our leader, returning to the middle of the room,
'here is money for your expenses and purchases, the note to my bank,
the cheque, and my seal. I am also advancing you two hundred dollars
out of your honorarium. That enough? Right. As to whether you join
forces with us for good, I say nothing yet. I like the look of you and
I like the sound of you, but I do not take you right into my concerns
until I have some solid proof of your steel. Get away to Shanghai and
bring off these commissions successfully, and I shall be open to admit
that you are a man worth my while taking on a mission which, to say no
more of it, will want men of no ordinary temper. Good luck and God be
with you!'
Poyning took his leave of us much in the grand manner, but as I looked
at his face it seemed to me that underneath that mask of the exquisite
there was something of shrewdness and sand that would go a long way and
not be lightly turned back. He slid quietly downstairs and we heard no
more of him. Soon after he had gone I went along to my bedroom--for I
was dog-tired--leaving Philipson deep in thought and the contemplation
of two fresh bottles of wine which he had had brought up.
And now I come to the first of those mysterious episodes that happened
on our journey up country and bear, as I now see, so profoundly on
the queer adventures we were to meet with afterwards. I have made my
account of this with great care and constant reference to the very
clear recollection of the event my memory retains; and I don't think
that in what follows there is one jot more or less than I actually
observed.
I don't know whether it was because of the heat, which was steamy and
penetrating, or because of the mosquitoes that had already come up in
clouds from the swampy land bordering the creek; but weary as I was,
I couldn't sleep a wink. I lay tossing and turning and going over in
my mind our jumpy experiences of the past forty-eight hours, and the
longer I lay, the more feverishly alert I grew. Every noise of the
night, the mumble of talk from the servants' quarters at the far end
of the inn, an occasional clanging ricsha-bell away in the city, the
screech of an early cicada on the lawns, even the subtle hiss of water
among the roots of the willows beneath our wall--all came to my ears
magnified about fourfold. When Philipson withdrew to his bedroom some
hours after I had left him, the noise he made was relatively deafening.
I heard him throw himself on to the bed with a jangle of springs, and
then lay dozing, praying for sleep but more honestly inclined to swear
at my insomnia.
At last, opening my eyes, I saw there was a curious light outside the
window, so bright that at first I thought some native house on the
other side of the creek must be going up in flames. I got out of bed
and looked on to the verandah that ran along outside our wing of the
inn. Then I saw where the illumination came from: it was the moon, full
and brilliant, which had climbed round to that side of the building
and was bathing the creek in a glory of silver and gold. Without the
distraction of stewy heat and savage mosquitoes it would have been a
picture to paint or write poetry about.
Then, suddenly, I became conscious of voices farther along the
verandah. I couldn't distinguish the words, but I knew at once the
language was not English. Nor was it any dialect of Chinese I ever
struck, and I have heard and spoken most. All caution drowned in a
prickling curiosity, I stepped noiselessly out on to the verandah
and peeped round the jutting stone jamb of the window. Now I saw the
speakers, and at the sight I could have cried out in my astonishment.
There were two figures, a man and a woman. The former looked to me
uncommonly like Saunders Philipson, dressed as I had left him a few
hours before. The real stunning surprise for me, however, was in the
appearance of the woman. She was no dusky, cramp-footed native, but
manifestly European, tall, queenly, with bare head and loose gown, and
so far as I could distinguish her features, of a remarkable beauty.
I drew back into cover of my window and stood there with thumping
heart, a pitiful mess of indecision. Philipson was, as I had already
learned, a queer fellow. He had betrayed pronounced eccentricity
in the direction of strong drink; now I saw him in his even queerer
relations with women. Who the beautiful stranger was or whence she
came, I couldn't conceive, but it seemed plain enough she must have
been there by assignation. She could only have got on to that verandah
through his sleeping chamber, for I had heard Philipson lock the door
of the sitting room before he retired, and I had certainly been too
wide awake for anybody to pass through my room without my knowledge,
even had the door not been secure on the inside, which it was. There
was no other way.
What should I do? If this was merely some clandestine romance of
Philipson's, I had a shrewd notion he would take any interference
from me vastly amiss, perhaps even to the length of breaking with me.
And yet I had to admit that the time, and our circumstances, seemed
strangely out of tune with secret love affairs. A sudden fear took hold
of me. I had already seen Philipson once the victim of treachery. Could
it be that our enemies had discovered our whereabouts and set another
snare, this time in more crafty and seductive shape?
What I should have done I don't know, but at that moment there was
a gentle knock at the bedroom door. This clinched my suspicions. I
snatched up a revolver and faced round, demanding who was there. No
answer came, but the knock was repeated. Then I realised that it was
the peculiar five taps--Philipson's own code--that had been given. I
tiptoed to the door, unbolted and pulled it ajar, covering the aperture
with my gun. An instant later I had lowered the muzzle, for there
stood Ah Sing, shivering and hoarse with excitement.
'Hab look-see master him window,' he whispered, stabbing with his
finger in the direction of Philipson's room. 'Him talkee-talkee some
_tai-tai_ my no sabbee. My no likum dat. My tinkee him talkee-talkee
some dam bad man him come hit master one big whop!'
Ah Sing, then, from his post on board the launch, had also observed
this mysterious visitor, and to his faithful mind had occurred at once
the same suspicion of a decoy. That decided me. I would risk any row
with Philipson rather than let him be held in talk on the verandah
while all kinds of villainy might be hatching behind him. I peered
along the shadowy landing, but could see nobody. Perhaps already an
enemy had gained entrance to Philipson's bedroom, where no doubt his
precious papers were left unguarded.
Followed by Ah Sing, I ran along to the door and listened. There was
no sound whatever. I tried the door: it was locked. I rapped, using
Philipson's knock, first softly, then louder, and at last called him by
name. There was no reply. Now thoroughly scared, I sent Ah Sing round
through my bedroom to warn his master from that side. He was back at my
side a few seconds later, his eyes staring, his mouth agape.
'Hab look-see master no hab see!' he panted.
It was at this instant that something inside the bedroom moved. I heard
a soft, uneven step, the key was turned in the lock, the door came
slightly open, and the muzzle of a revolver appeared round the style.
I sang out sharply:
'Philipson!'
One instant after that the door was swung wide, and we stood face to
face. I say we stood, though it would be nearer truth to say that I, at
least, staggered.
Philipson was in pyjamas. His hair was tousled down over his face and
his eyes, which he rather dazedly rubbed with his free fist, were
blinking and heavy-lidded, as of a man just roused from deep sleep.
CHAPTER V
THE MISSION OF STEPHEN POYNING
For the better part of a minute my tongue simply refused duty. I could
no more than stand and gape, while the blood buzzed in my ears and the
dim-lit doorway of Philipson's room seemed to rock sideways. Like words
spoken in a dream I heard Philipson demand what was up, and Ah Sing's
quaint pidgin-English as he panted out his version of the story.
Philipson started back as if he had been struck. His face was in
shadow, but I had an impression that his features were working, the
way of a man not quite in command of himself. That lasted for only
a few seconds, however. When he spoke again it was in the brisk,
matter-of-fact tones he would have used to order a fresh can of
lubricant for the launch.
'Odd,' he muttered. 'Odd, and nasty in the extreme! God knows who those
people could have been. I had reckoned with a native organisation,
Mirlees, but nothing more. If there are Europeans in it too--'
'Then it--'
I broke off suddenly. Neither then nor thereafter could I imagine what
it was, but something from outside myself seemed to close my lips
by force, and there came down over my brain a most uncanny sense of
hesitation and bewilderment.
We had all three rushed out on to the verandah, and stood listening,
peering out and around in every direction. There was no sound, no sign
of movement anywhere; the creek lay like a riband of orange-tinted
silver in the staring moonlight, from Nanking itself came scarcely a
murmur of noise. It was the short hour when even a vast Chinese city is
quiet between the clamour of two days.
Ah Sing kept watch for the rest of that night, but there was hardly
need--I remained vividly awake myself every minute of the time. In the
morning I rose so utterly limp that Philipson diagnosed fever from the
mosquitoes--which had bitten us both pretty voraciously--and dosed
me with a quinine mixture into which I suspect he had dropped some
pleasant opiate. At any rate, it wiped the restlessness out of me as if
with a sponge, and I slept sound till lunch.
But if I was below par, Philipson himself seemed at the very pitch of
his form, alert, vigorous, in the best of spirits. He busied himself
at the table with maps and calculations and expense-sheets, and from
an occasional remark he rapped out to me I knew he was in a downright
itch for the hour of Poyning's return. The one thing that seemed equal
to allaying his impatience during that day of forced delay was wine.
Saunders Philipson consumed, I believe, seven bottles between breakfast
and dinner time, and the proprietress was already predicting the
exhaustion of her modest cellar.
Neither Philipson nor I alluded once to the episode of last night,
yet I fancy it was in the thoughts of both of us. From time to time
throughout the day he would shoot sudden glances towards the balcony,
as if the affair had occurred to his mind; and I couldn't help
connecting his overpowering excitement of to-day with what had happened
in the night watches. For my part, I could think of little else. That
two strangers should have gained access to the verandah without our
hearing them approach was hardly less a matter for surprise than alarm.
An active man might, it's true, have shinned up the wooden pillars and
drawn his accomplice after him with a cord, yet even this supposition
seemed wild enough to me when I remembered that one of the intruders
was a woman. Or at least, I could have sworn at the time that it was
a woman. Could it be the whole thing was an illusion--that I was half
asleep when I looked out, and that my dreaming eyes had turned some
short-coated Chinaman into Saunders Philipson and his taller accomplice
into that mysterious lady of the long robe? If so, it was an astounding
coincidence that both Ah Sing and myself should fall into the same
remarkable error. Then again, who were these prowlers of the night?
It wasn't like the enemies we had known--to be scared off by the mere
sound of our voices, yet that alone is what could have happened. While
we were talking at Philipson's door, they must have taken fright and
escaped down the balcony pillars and right round the hotel by way of
the water's edge. This might even have been done with the connivance
of those inside, and there recurred rather significantly to my mind
Philipson's remark that the proprietress of the inn would want watching.
Altogether, it was about as dark and mysterious a business as you could
well conceive, and I was glad, after tiffin, of a relief from puzzling
over it any longer. Philipson began to communicate his plans to me, to
outline the route he proposed we should take, and to go into details
of equipment, service and cost. As I listened to his quiet, confident
words and followed the lines he drew across the map with such assurance
and evidently first-hand knowledge of the country it represented,
my own nerves forsook me, and before long I felt as confident and
enthusiastic as himself. That was always the way with Saunders
Philipson. His enthusiasm was more than contagious, it was epidemic;
and he seemed to be gifted with so keen a zest of life that he spoke
with enthusiasm of any subject he judged worth speaking about at all.
We dared not go out of the inn, of course, or even away from our wing
of it. Meals were brought up to the sitting room, while Ah Sing fed
himself in the cabin of the launch. The engineer-cook had come for
orders that morning, and I could see that he, like myself, preserved
an uneasy recollection of last night. There was fear in his eyes, the
vague terror of a man who is frightened of something to which he cannot
give a name; and it was not until Philipson took him by the shoulders
and shook him and ordered him with fatherly severity not to be a
gaping fool that the normal grin of adoration came back into Ah Sing's
face. Then he went about his business and took, as I thought, a sound
common-sense refuge from his terrors in hard work. Whenever I looked
down from our verandah during the day I saw Ah Sing pottering to and
fro with broom and rag, scouring the already speckless launch till she
shone again.
I turned in after dinner for a little sleep against the watches we were
to stand through the night. This programme of Philipson's we carried
out, but with no recurrence of the alarm. Ah Sing remained on guard
on the deck of the launch till one, then came up to wake Philipson,
who stood a trick till four, rousing me at that hour to see us safely
through the twilit marches of dawn. At about half-past six o'clock I
was putting on a last pipe before breakfast when I heard a step along
the landing, and Philipson entered my room.
'If he has succeeded,' he burst out abruptly, 'he will be here at any
minute, and we shall start to-night with the fall of dusk. If not--'
'You think he's likely to have failed?'
'Honestly, I do not. I liked that boy from the moment I set eyes on
him. That is why I took the trouble to verify his pretensions. I had
collected all the available information about Stephen Poyning within
five minutes of seeing him.'
Philipson stepped out through my window and walked to the end of the
verandah, where it was blocked in by a cheek of brick wall. He peeped
stealthily round the angle, then started back.
'Coming!' he muttered.
I took Philipson's place and a peep for myself. From this point a
stretch of the winding creekside road into the city was visible, and
along it, at a distance, I saw a ricsha approach at the walk. In it sat
a huddled figure I recognised as Stephen Poyning. The road was already
crowded with native traffic, but as I continued to look I noticed
another ricsha, about a hundred yards farther off, which seemed to be
keeping the first in sight and regulating its pace so as to remain at
an even lapse behind.
'He's being followed,' I said.
Philipson pulled me away and stared eagerly round the angle of the
building. For a few moments he watched, intently silent, and when he
drew back it was with an expression of mingled seriousness and relief.
'You recognise the man behind?' he queried.
I took a closer look. 'Eh? Isn't it--'
'Lo Eng. My number-one boy. Something has gone awry. Also, Poyning is
hurt--there is a bandage under that topee of his.'
We stepped back into the sitting room, where Philipson swiftly laid out
a small surgical outfit and summoned a servant, bidding him fetch hot
water. The boy who brought it had hardly disappeared when there were
heavy, ill-guided steps on the stairs without, and Poyning, pale as a
corpse, his pongees plastered with mud and dust, staggered in. He set
down a suitcase he was carrying, wincingly removed his helmet, and sank
into a chair.
Philipson laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. 'Not a word, young man,'
he said, 'till I have plugged that hole in your head.'
Poyning's white features broke into a drawn grin. 'Bacchus before
Æsculapius, my dear sir,' he said. 'Give me a drink!'
I mixed him a stiff champagne and brandy, which he swallowed at a
go, and then Philipson, with the speed and firm skill of a surgeon
and more than a woman's tenderness, bathed and dressed an ugly gash
over the boy's forehead. He lay back for some moments with his eyes
closed, while a spot of colour came slowly into his cheeks; then sat up
and demanded a cigarette, which having received and lighted, Stephen
Poyning plunged without further ado into his tale. Lo Eng had meanwhile
entered the room. Philipson pointed to a chair, on the edge of which he
sat, demurely listening.
'I reached Shanghai North Station at about half-past seven yesterday
morning,' began Poyning. 'If there was one native watching the gates,
there were a dozen, but these people all seemed to be there on
legitimate business--I certainly saw no sign of any of them following
me. I got to the Marco Polo Hotel in the unobtrusive manner prescribed
by you, cleaned off the travel stains, took nourishment, invited the
manager to my room, and settled Mirlees' debt. The manager seemed, if
I may say so, relieved to see his money. The instructions regarding
your manuscripts, Mirlees, have been carried out to the letter, and
your other treasures are stored in the warehouse next door; here are
the keys, and the receipts for your chattels and your accommodation
charges. Here, Philipson, are receipted bills for the chronometer
and sextant, which you will find in that suit case--intact, I trust,
though it must be confessed they received some brusque jolts during
the later developments of my adventure. Here is the letter of credit
on Chungking, which the manager of the Cathay Bank made out in his
private sanctum and handed to me with very excellent good luck to you,
Philipson, and a hope that the inquiries from your well-wishers in
Shanghai would not prove too searching. I did not, to be candid, know
what in Hades he was driving at, but I winked in the sophisticated
manner of one who did, and the genial financier seemed very well
satisfied.'
Philipson whistled softly. We exchanged glances.
'I pass,' resumed Poyning, 'to the really momentous phase of the
expedition.
'I left the hotel at half-past eight, when twilight was falling--as the
late Tennyson sang--and reached the fair pleasaunces of Bubbling Well
about half an hour afterwards. Here I dismissed my ricsha-coolie, much
to his chagrin--it was ten minutes, in fact, before I could shake the
ardent fellow off--and loitered along waiting for a suitable person to
ask my way. This took some time, as all the white community seemed to
be at mess, and I deemed it impolitic to seek guidance from a native.
At last I got the required direction, and struck out on foot. I had
not marched far down the New Highgate Road before I saw that I was
followed. It was a Chinese, a pretty well-nourished subject of medium
stature, who dogged my steps, keeping about twenty yards behind. He
made no attempt to conceal himself, and when I drew up short, came
straight on.
'"You wanchee find some housum dis road?" he said, debonairly enough.
"My gib you look-a-look anybody housum. My sabbee anybody housum allee
same-same."
'"Very obliging of you," I said, "but who might you be?"
'"My b'long Misser Philipson numbah-one boy," he said. "Him housum burn
down so my no hab housum lib jus' now."'
Philipson whistled again, louder.
'"You sabbee Misser Philipson?" continued my would-be cicerone. "You
sabbee where him gone jus' now?"
'"Never heard of him," I said. "What's your name?"
'"My b'long all same Lo Eng," replied the fellow, with an expansion of
his already wide mouth. "My wanchee sabbee where master hab gone. Jus'
now no can tell him him housum burn down."
'Well, gentlemen, God knows I am no purist, but I could not bring
myself to regard that man's conversational style as good English--which
you told me Lo Eng spoke. He had given the name correctly, true, but
I remained profoundly unsatisfied with his bona fides. I got rid of
him, strode on down the road, and soon came to a house which had been
gutted. Yes, alas, Philipson, it was only too true. Standing guard in
the road were two Sikh policemen, whose presence had the desirable
effect of finally scaring away my plausible informant--or so I thought.
He had followed me thus far, but when I looked round a moment later he
had melted into the atmosphere. I walked on briskly, came to a bend
in the road, and sprinted down it on noiseless toes. It had occurred
to me that I might get to the house from across the fields behind it
without apprising the Law; and this I was able to do, though I could
have wished for a drier route. I wallowed perdu in mud and luxuriant
vegetation for about ten minutes, then, thinking all clear, crept
towards the charred ruin. I had actually got into the garden when I
heard a scuffle somewhere behind me. I fancy the police must have heard
it too, for there were footsteps on the gravel walk in front of the
house. Then came, from behind, a curious gurgling noise, then a dull
thud, then silence. A hand grasped my arm.
'"Come, sir," whispered a voice, and I felt myself dragged into a
clump of laurels. I was subtly aware that my present companion was a
friend, and I followed him without question. We crouched together for a
while, until the police, presumably supposing they had been deceived,
scrunched back into the road. He then put his lips to my ear.
'"I am Mr. Philipson's boy, sir," said he, in excellent English. "You
have some message for me?"
'"What is your name?" I asked him.
'"Lo Eng. You have a sign from my master?"
'I gave him the seal to feel, and I heard him murmur his satisfaction.
"Listen," he said, "Those devils set fire to the house a few hours
after the master went. I took the papers out of the safe, but
everything else was destroyed."
'"You are to give me the bundle marked with a letter B," I said.
'He took out a thick wad, and handed me an envelope from among them.
"Those are the ones," said he. "There is nothing else in the house,
for I have searched it. Please tell the _Lao Yeh_ I did everything
possible to protect his property, but they had lined the walls with
kerosene, and all went up very swiftly. Since then I have watched here
for my master. Those villains have also watched. One of them followed
you down this road to-night. I recognised him from the night of the
house-burning. I heard him tell you he was Mr. Philipson's boy. When
you ran, you thought you had left him behind, but you had not. He
followed you across the fields, so close that he could have killed you.
But I was just behind him."
'"Where is the fellow now?" I whispered.
'My ally drew me deeper into the shrubbery, where I kicked against
something soft. "He will not follow you any more," he said. "Help me to
cover him up, lest the police find him."'
At this point Lo Eng sat a little farther forward on the edge of his
chair, and broke in, with extreme deference.
'That man struggled very hard, master,' he said sweetly. 'I discovered
afterwards that I had strangled him.'
Philipson gravely nodded, and Poyning resumed his story.
'Lo Eng showed me a way across to the main traffic routes without
touching the New Highgate Road at all, and left me. I caught an inward
bound cabriolet to the city, cleared my own debit at the Eastern Seas
Hotel, collected my bag from the Marco Polo and settled up there, and
eventually reached the station with fifteen minutes to spare. I had
been zealously on the watch for followers all the way, and could have
pledged my faith that I had none; and yet, as I paced the platform, to
my supreme disgust I saw that two natives in the throng at least were
taking an abnormal amount of interest in my movements. They had been
over against a fruit stall in full view of the wicket I should have to
pass, but when they saw me, they edged unmistakably in my direction. I
walked up and down twice: they moved _pari passu_. I realised that if
I boarded the Nanking train, even if they did not follow me I should
have given away the route you had followed--always supposing these men
had connected me with you, which seemed tolerably plain. Then a device
occurred to me. There was a local train standing in the station. It was
due to leave for Wusung at ten-fifty. I regarded this as proof that
the gods were on my side. I went to the booking office and bought a
ticket for Wusung, intending to board that train, walk straight through
it, and gain my own by way of the track, trusting to providence and a
villainously illuminated station; but my two rascals were too quick for
me. I saw them get into a compartment about four distant from mine. The
situation, gentlemen, was growing strained, and I had already decided
not to travel at all that night, but to slink back into the city and
try again later, when yet another subterfuge came to my mind. I knew
that I could not leave that train without detection--at any rate so
long as it stood in the station. But if I waited until it started, and
then jumped, I might yet outwit the enemy. This course I followed,
though without the smooth success I had hoped. I waited too long before
jumping, and came the very disastrous cropper which resulted in this
bloody cockscomb you have been good enough to patch for me; and even
at that sacrifice I did not elude my two ruffians. As I fell I had a
blurred consciousness of other bodies falling from the train, and I
know that they fell with more agility than I did, for they were up and
upon me in an instant. I began to lay about me, but not dangerously,
for my head was swimming and I had frankly given up hope of getting out
of the imbroglio alive, when I realised that there was more in it than
at first appeared. There were three mirky shapes on that mirky railway
track--we were over a hundred yards out of the station--but one of
them was fighting on my side. I plucked up heart, and gave one of the
roughs such a taste of the fighting blood of the Poynings that he fell
backwards across the metals, struck his head, and lay still. The other
appeared to have had the worst of it with my ally, and the next thing I
knew, I had grabbed the suitcase and was bundling back along the track
with Lo Eng--to whose battling abilities throughout I would take this
occasion to bear the very warmest testimony. You'd better ask him what
happened after, for the world was waltzing around me again, and my
recollection becomes valueless as evidence.'
Lo Eng waited for a sign from Philipson, then delivered himself to this
effect:
'I feared that Mr. Poyning would be followed back into Shanghai, so
I followed him myself, all the way to the station. There it was as I
feared. I do not know how those men knew he was the gentleman they were
looking for, but they did know. I could see that he knew he was being
observed by them too. They were so intent on Mr. Poyning that they did
not see me get into the next carriage of the Wusung train. When they
jumped out, I jumped also. Then we fought, as Mr. Poyning has said, and
left those two men on the rails and ran back to the Nanking train. It
was just moving. He was so injured that he could not get up from the
ground, so I climbed into the train with the suit case and pulled him
up behind me. It was very difficult to do, and by the time we were on
board, the train was moving too fast for me to get off again. I had no
ticket, but Mr. Poyning paid my fare to the conductor. Then I bound
his head, which was bleeding, and he fell asleep until we reached here
this morning. We have not been followed since.'
Philipson rose from his chair and patted the servant's shaven head.
'You have done well, Lo Eng,' he said. 'You are a boy to be proud of.'
The expression of dog-like fidelity on the man's face deepened. 'Master
is going up country?' he said.
'Such is the case, Lo Eng,' replied Philipson, his eye twinkling.
The boy looked down at his demurely folded hands. 'There is no house in
Shanghai for me to guard now,' he murmured. 'The car was destroyed too.'
'Eh? That's the way the wind blows, is it? Very well, we shall be glad
of such a trusty servant, I have no doubt. You will go down and stay on
board the launch with Ah Sing now, and wait for orders.'
As soon as Lo Eng was out of the room, Philipson took Poyning's hand
and shook it. 'I am eternally beholden to you, Poyning,' he said
warmly. 'You have handled this business not only with discretion but
with a most commendable quantity of pluck. You had better lie down now
till breakfast is ready. After that, we will go into the future.'
'Well,' said Philipson to me, when we were alone, 'what think you?
Should we take the youth into partnership?'
'Seems to me,' I said, 'the question is, will he take us?'
Philipson had unlocked the suit case by the key Poyning left with him,
and was unwrapping the instruments from several yards of cotton wool.
Both came out quite undamaged.
'I am inclined to think,' said Saunders Philipson deliberatively, 'that
that _is_ the more correct way to put it.'
CHAPTER VI
HOW WE JOURNEYED TO THE OBSCURE TOWN OF KIAI
When Poyning came in to breakfast, much renovated, we sat down to one
of the jolliest meals I ever remember. Philipson steered clear of
the subject of our forthcoming journey yet, but kept up a brisk fire
of yarns of his former experiences in the East; and I for one had to
admit that if I flattered myself I knew something about the great
yellow lands from Ladakh on the roof of the world to Kamchatka of the
frozen north, my knowledge was mere schoolboy geography to Saunders
Philipson's. Then we pushed away our plates and lit up, and Philipson
plunged into the business ahead of us, laying the whole story before
Poyning exactly as I had heard it myself. The junior partner listened
with the sort of negligent alertness he had shown when taking his
orders for the Shanghai commission, but I could see, underneath this,
that the story excited him a good deal more than it had me.
'Well, there you are, Poyning,' concluded our leader, 'You know all
the ascertained facts now. It will be a dangerous, death-or-glory
business--but at least a profitable one, if my suspicions are well
founded.'
The boy shrugged his shoulders. 'Diamonds would be an agreeable
incidental, certainly,' he said, 'but I should be perfectly ready to
risk my life going to that valley if there were no mention of gems in
the legend at all.'
Poyning said this in such a serious and decided tone that you might
almost have fancied he meant more than he said.
'Then you're with us?' queried Philipson.
'I am,' said Stephen Poyning firmly.
We shook hands on the bargain and swore, all three of us, to tear the
mystery out of that shadowy land behind the mountains or add our names
to the long list of explorers who have died of curiosity.
The day was spent in a lively bustle of preparation. If Philipson
was upset over the destruction of thousands of pounds' worth of his
property in Shanghai, he gave precious small sign of his chagrin; on
the contrary, he seemed to look on that business as a useful warning
not to underestimate the vigour and vindictiveness of our enemies. As
for the bi-lingual Lo Eng, he proved himself a pearl of price. All
that day he was in and out of the city buying stores, thus enabling
the rest of us to lie doggo--no small boon to folk in our case. Backed
by Philipson's deep purse he procured food, petrol, and ammunition
with despatch and discretion--so much so that I don't think even the
hawk-eyed customs officers, always watchful for the gun-runner and
opium-smuggler and similar law-breakers, ever knew of our stay in the
port. But to make sure of secrecy, when the time came to leave we
stole out of our creek propelled by the pair of small oars the launch
carried; and I've no doubt that in the fickle light before moonrise we
passed easily enough for one of the innumerable native boats thronging
the mouth of the inlet and the margins of Yangtze River itself.
We rowed well out into the stream, turned our nose westward, and
proceeded on a throttled engine until we had left Nanking a mile or
two over our quarter. Then began our long tussle with the down-rolling
might of Yangtze Kiang. Philipson made for the north bank, where,
thanks to our shallow draught, we could hug the shore even closer
than the interminable string of native junks, which, like ourselves,
were there to avoid the full strength of the current. These craft we
overhauled by the hundred, and now and then passed the lights of a
river steamer out in midstream going three miles to her two. Philipson
kept the tiller, Poyning and I sat down in the well, while Ah Sing
tended the engine and Lo Eng, in the cabin, got ready the beds against
such time as we should turn in. My last recollections before dropping
off in my bunk were the lady-like snores of Poyning as he lay tucked up
opposite me, and the chuckle of the wine which Philipson--tiller in one
hand and drinking outfit close by the other--poured out for himself. He
hadn't forgotten this among the preparations for departure--I think,
indeed, that before squaring up with mine hostess of Nanking, Saunders
Philipson bought the remainder of her cellar in a lot.
Poyning being a casualty, he was to stand no watch that night, and
the rest of us arranged the spells so that of Philipson and Ah Sing,
our best navigators, always one was at the helm. I completed my first
trick with the latter at four o'clock. It wasn't yet dawn, but there
had already sprung out of the east a wide fawn-coloured wash which
battled with the light of the setting moon. On our starboard bow
stretched untold miles of flat rice-land, broken here and there by
trees that seemed to rise straight from the silver bosom of the flood.
Great sailing junks, with their steep poops and huge chocolate lugsails
and three masts raking like the ribs of a fan, loomed vague and dark
against the neutral tints of the river. Then, in a wink, the moon
whitened, there was a glory of brightness over the mighty expanse of
water in our wake; and where one instant before all had been veiled in
a gossamer grey mist, now everything took on sudden startling tinges of
orange, opal, and pink. The greenery of the river bank became a golden
green, the vast flood flared up into bright mustard, and hull and mast
and sail of the native shipping sharpened into clean-cut blotches of
Vandyke brown. Wisps of smoke rose from the poop braziers of these
craft as the blue-cottoned junkmen cooked their breakfast, and now and
again a shrill chanty came to us across the water as they put out the
long bow-sweep and pulled upon it three and four abreast.
Philipson was in rare spirits when he came aft to relieve me. I stayed
with him a few minutes while he picked up his landmarks and reckoned
the amount of westing we had made in the night.
'Seventy miles if it is an inch,' said Saunders Philipson. 'The best
she has ever done.'
'Where d'you expect to fetch to-day?'
'Kiukiang, bar hitches. By about dusk. And Hankow the same time
to-morrow. It could not fall out better. All serene, Mirlees. Get your
sleep, for we shall want that cabin to feed in before long.'
The day passed without event, and so close to our leader's schedule
that we might have been a passenger service. Hour after hour we forged
ahead, the engine running smoothly and tirelessly as the wings of
the great gulls over our heads, and a little before nightfall we had
drawn within view of the hills that reach away south of Kiukiang. Here
we tied up in an inlet at one end of the bund, and slept on board,
creeping out again before the break of day, and pushing on up stream
till dusk.
At last, two ranks of light like the lamps of a long street began to
blink out of the grey shadows ahead, and we came into a great expanse
of water swarming with craft of every conceivable build, from liner and
ocean-going tramp down to the lorchas and wupans and crazy houseboats
of the amphibious population of these parts. To the right of us lay
Hankow, with its long bund and its hulks running out into the river
and its opulent business houses behind; on the southern bank, the
battlemented, sombre city of Wuchang.
We drew opposite a small native wharf on the south side, then turned
and ran straight in.
'Luckily,' said Philipson to me, 'I have good and discreet friends
hereabouts. Otherwise it would be awkward. The boat will have to go up
on the slips.'
I gave him a look of surprise.
'Put your hand down here,' said Philipson quietly.
He had stooped into the well and lifted out a small bit of
bottom-boarding. I felt below it, and drew up my hand wet to the wrist.
There were four or five inches of water inboard of us.
'It is obviously small,' he muttered, 'but we must overhaul the boat
before we go on. It will never do to try the rapids higher up with a
gap in our strakes.'
The yard we had come to was capitally suited to our ends, being shut
in on all sides except for a narrow water frontage; and even that was
still further secluded by two timber partitions running out like the
walls of a fives-court. The place, moreover, afforded easy and secret
access to a native inn outside the city wall, where Philipson told us
we were to spend the night. The proprietor of the yard had clearly had
truck with Philipson before, since he greeted him with marked respect
and more than a shade of fear.
'The good Charon seems to know you, Philipson,' said Poyning, as we
stood together on the jetty, while three coolies hauled the launch out
of the water with a small capstan of native pattern.
'He does,' replied our leader. 'I had the good fortune to save him
from the headsman some years ago, under circumstances that will not
bear repeating. He has shown his gratitude by helping me several times
since. Now, to business. You two can be of no use to me here. You had
better get along with Lo Eng to our quarters for the night. He will
give you a meal, but do not wait for me. I shall possibly be late.'
Philipson was. We had finished our meal and smoked many pipes before he
arrived, a little after midnight.
'Rather worse than I thought,' he said, setting ravenously about a cold
chicken and a bottle of hock.
'What's wrong with her?'
'A leak just under the forefoot. We must have started a plank when we
struck the other boat in Whangpu River, and gradually opened it out
while we drove up stream. There is a good deal of sunken driftwood in
the river at most times--I expect you heard her bump against it?'
'Time and again, but never very hard.'
'Exactly. It would not hurt a sound boat, but with the strake already
loose it is only a matter of keeping on long enough to develop a nasty
hole. Luckily we spotted it in time.'
'All right now?'
'I fancy so; but it is impossible to say, working with their wretched
lamps. I must go over her thoroughly by daylight. Better turn in now,
Mirlees, as I shall want you at dawn. It becomes necessary for me to
cross to the Hankow side, on business which I shall certainly get
through more safely in native garb. Also I should be glad of a reliable
companion in case of accidents, and as a European and a Chinese moving
about together are likely to attract a degree of notice we can very
well do without, I shall be glad if you will don that Chinese costume
which suits you so well. Poyning will meanwhile keep to this side and
watch out of window for any suspicious boat on the river.'
He rose from the table, threw off his clothes, wrapped himself in a
long cotton gown, and was at once asleep on the couch in his corner
of the room. Poyning and I--we were all three sleeping in the one
chamber--had soon followed suit. There was a deal of noise in and
about the inn, but I don't think we heard much of it: certainly I
did not. It seemed to me I had only just lain down when I was shaken
by the shoulder, and saw Philipson standing by my bed, fully dressed
in the rig in which I had first seen him. I hastily made up to match
from a bundle Lo Eng had brought from the launch, and after swallowing
biscuits and a cup of wine we went down into the yard together. Here I
got something of a shock. Our launch was gone, and another had taken
her place.
Philipson squeezed my arm. 'We had to paint the new plank we put in
last night,' he whispered, 'and I thought it would be advisable to do
the rest of the hull while we were at it--in another colour. Those
dummy wash-streaks forward, too, they transform her considerably, do
they not? If there is a description of us about, it may be as well not
to answer to it. Hullo, here is our boat. Not another word of English
now till we are alone again!'
We entered the sampan he had engaged, and were sculled out across the
two miles of stream through a wonderful morning, fine and clear, with
a fresh easterly breeze. Even as early as this there was a loud hum of
activity abroad; the daily round of the great river port had already
begun, and the bustle was still further increased by the arrival of a
river steamer which had drawn up to her hulk just as we pushed in to
the north bank. We saw the gangplanks swing down and a throng of native
passengers surge across them. Philipson had been scanning the crowd,
but he suddenly dropped his eyes to the bottom of the boat and muttered
an order to the boatman. We turned up stream, taking advantage of any
and every craft that lay there or passed, to keep ourselves hidden from
the shore, and at last reached a jetty about a quarter of a mile from
the point where we had originally purposed landing. Here my companion
ordered the sampan to wait, and we sprang ashore and straight into two
native "chairs"--capital conveyances for a furtive mission, since they
were completely closed in--and were borne into the dense warrens of the
native city of Hankow by a twisting route that soon robbed me of all
sense of direction. I felt my chair set down, and stepping out found we
were in a squalid courtyard walled in on three sides by native houses.
Philipson took my arm and led me through a low doorway in one of the
walls, thence along a narrow winding alley, from the end of which we
ascended a flight of rickety wooden stairs. There was a door at the
head of these, upon which Philipson knocked softly, and I noticed that
the signal he gave was his own peculiar five taps. A house boy came, to
whom my companion muttered something in the vernacular which I couldn't
catch; then the servant took us through a bare ante room, and withdrew
deeper into this queer, secret dive.
Philipson put his mouth to my ear. 'Treat this man with the profoundest
respect,' he whispered. 'He possesses ideas that would do credit to any
European revolutionary. The Manchu Dynasty have had a price upon his
head for years.'
The door opened, and a small wizened Chinaman appeared in the aperture.
Taking cue from Philipson I bowed low to him, and we exchanged
compliments in the official dialect of Peking, which he spoke with a
musical perfection. He drew my companion through into the inner room,
closing the door behind them; and there I heard the pair in an agitated
mutter of conversation for the best part of twenty minutes. Whatever
it was Philipson wanted, he had apparently prevailed upon the rat-like
little fellow to give him, for when he came out he was carrying under
his arm something wrapped in cloth, angular, the size of a largish
attaché case, and apparently heavy. We took an elaborate ceremonial
leave, got downstairs and regained our chairs, and within half an
hour were harking back across the river, again taking advantage of
every floating thing that could screen us from the bank. Ah Sing was
standing watch at the yard when we arrived, peeping through the holes
in a curtain of old tarpaulins he had rigged up. Philipson ordered me
to join Poyning in the inn and get breakfast while he overhauled the
launch, promising to follow as soon as he had finished.
We were still at the meal when Philipson came in.
'All's well,' he cried cheerfully. 'She is tight now--tighter, in fact,
than she was before!'
Poyning didn't appear to share the exultation of our chief. He was
rolling his eye round the bare room of the inn with an expression of
boredom. 'A simple, homely interior,' he said 'but already I find its
charm beginning to pall. When do we tempt the deep again, Philipson?'
'Dusk to-night,' replied the leader briskly. 'I had not intended to
leave this place by daylight in any case, less still now that I know
our enemies have reached Hankow.'
'You've seen them?'
'I have; and they may have seen me, though Mirlees will tell you that
I did my best to avoid this by sheering off on another tack. It is
possible, Poyning, that you do not yet fully realise the determination
of that company. They are not to be put off by temporary setbacks.
After your brush with two of their number on the permanent way in
Shanghai it was only a matter of time for them to track us to Nanking,
and from Nanking here. Moreover, it now becomes more than a question
of stealing my papers and my secret. Every victory we have gained will
only aggravate their hostility. The agents detailed to destroy us
will fail to do so at peril of their own lives from the organisation
behind them, and they will leave no chance neglected. They will ransack
this neighbourhood for us; their sentry may be watching our yard with
a glass at this moment--in which case he will not see much. But if
we move out in daylight, our boat is bound to be observed, and will
certainly be followed. If, on the other hand, we succeed in getting
away from here unobserved, we are now coming to parts of the river
where it will be more and more difficult for them to follow, or to get
warnings on ahead of us by telegraph. I am convinced that the delay
will be worth while in the long run.'
We accordingly sat down to wait, not even venturing outside our room,
while Ah Sing kept to his spying post in the yard. Never have I known a
day drag so; it would be hard to say which of us was most relieved when
night fell, and we could throw down the canvas screen from the launch
and heave her down into the water.
We slunk darkly away up stream. If there were watchers, we seemed to
have eluded them. By nine o'clock the long lights of Hankow were fading
in our wake, and by half-past we had come to a reach strangely deserted
and silent after the bustle of the great hub of Chinese riverine
traffic. We drove ahead at full speed, Philipson steering.
Suddenly he pricked up his ears. 'What's that?' he cried.
We all sat listening. I heard nothing, but about a minute later there
came, carried far across the still water, a distinct gunshot, and
another after about the same interval.
'Odd!' muttered Philipson. 'If we were at sea you might say somebody
was trying to make distress signals.'
Poyning had stood up, and was peering over the edge of the wash-streaks
forward. 'There's a curious light in the river straight ahead,' he
cried. 'Great Scott, it's a boat on fire!'
We all looked now, and there, sure enough, was a big sailing junk
drifting down upon us, broadside on and plainly out of control. Dense
smoke bellied from her midships, and by the tongues of flame that
licked up through it we caught momentary flashlight glimpses of her
crew crowding into stem and stern in a panic to get away from the heat.
They kept up the minute guns till we were within hail, then raised a
chorus of piteous yells.
It was a dilemma. Our own safety rested upon secrecy and speed, and we
were in no sort of position to stop for crews of shipwrecked natives.
At the same time, to leave them unhelped would be to give them the
alternative of a horrible death by fire or the very slim chance of
swimming ashore across a mile of strong current either way. We could
see no sign of a smaller boat--apparently the junk hadn't one.
Philipson stood staring at the lurid picture. 'Nothing for it,' he said
suddenly. 'Yellow or white, it is all human life. I will take them off,
and put ashore at the first opportunity.'
Poyning had run forward and was kneeling behind the dummy wash-streaks,
boathook in hand. The next instant he had dropped flat to the deck.
'Down, everybody!' he yelled. 'That fire's a fake!'
Three or four shots crashed out, and Lo Eng slid into the well with a
short gasping cough. We had all ducked at Poyning's cry, and Philipson
put the tiller hard down, but too late. The way on the launch took us
right alongside before she could be turned, and two figures leapt up
rifle in hand from behind the junk's house and dashed for us, firing
as they ran. Poyning sprang to meet the first, grappled, and thudded
with him down on to the deck; the other came on, took these two in his
stride like a hurdler, and rushed aft for our engine. For an instant
I saw the fellow outlined against the fire on the junk. Then came a
deafening report, something scorched my cheek, and I felt a sting like
an exaggerated pinprick in my shoulder. I fell forward, but in the very
act of falling I instinctively clutched at his knees as he stood on the
cabin roof, and heaved with the last ounce of strength left in me. I
think the fellow must have gone overboard, but I don't rightly know.
Everything round me became a spongy grey mist. The flashes and reports
mingled in a sort of wild, hell-begotten dream. I must have fainted
then, for when I next remember, there was a marked change in the aspect
of the fight. I myself lay sprawling across the cabin roof--apparently
just as I had collapsed. When I lifted my head I realised that we were
backing away from the junk and that somebody in our bows was crouching
behind a thing that spat fire with a stuttering roar. I saw the great
mainmast of the junk totter and fall, dashing the remains of the fire
into the water with a smoky hiss, and heard, or thought I heard, a
shrill scream of agony and terror from many throats. I rested on my
elbows, staring stupidly, while the flame from our bows played over the
junk like a hose; then I must have lost my senses for a second time....
When I came to, I was lying on a locker in the cabin, while Philipson
leaned over me and dabbed something cool on my bare shoulder, which was
aching and stinging abominably.
'A nasty jag, Mirlees,' he said as he dressed the wound. 'That bullet
was in two minds whether to expand or not. Luckily it has left the
bones alone.'
'Who else is hurt?' I queried. 'I saw Lo Eng go down.'
'He has a hole through the apex of his right lung. Nothing desperate,
but he will require careful nursing.'
'And you? What's that on your wrist?'
'A mere graze. But the same shot punched a piece out of the tiller,
which I must fish without loss of time, or we shall be having a snap in
a crisis.'
Philipson continued at work all the time he was talking, swiftly
and skilfully. Where he picked up his knowledge of surgery I don't
know, but I fancy it would have been equal to the emergencies of a
battlefield. He was just completing a sling for my arm when Poyning's
face, the natural freckles supplemented by a liberal sprinkling of
powder-flecks, appeared through the cabin door.
'Come and watch the casualties, Poyning,' said our leader. 'I will
relieve you as soon as I have patched the steering-gear.'
Poyning took his place beside me, and squatted in silence, mopping his
face with a handkerchief. On the opposite locker Lo Eng was asleep,
breathing peacefully.
'Philipson tackled him while you were aswoon,' said Poyning at length,
nodding to the boy, 'and gave him a cooling mixture which put him
off at once. The managing director's bedside manner is distinctly
attractive to watch, Mirlees, I assure you.'
'You're not hurt?'
'I'm tattooed blue with powder-spirts like any Polynesian, but
Philipson hopes it will wash out in after years. Beyond that I am
suffering from slight muscular strain and grave loss of self-respect.
I fought to-night as no gentleman fights. I--er, bit my antagonist.
His gun fell overboard in the course of our struggles, and shortly
afterward he fell overboard after it.'
'Tell me what happened,' I said. 'It seems I went green right in the
middle of it.'
'My own recollection is none too clear,' replied Poyning. 'One of the
boarding party got past me, and I heard him fire. That, apparently, is
when you were hit. It was just at this point that I rolled my opponent
into the water. I heard another splash after that. Then Philipson
yelled to me to come and take the tiller. He had reversed the engine,
and we were drawing away. Philipson ran forward and began, as it seemed
to me, to pull the launch to pieces. Something came up with a clank,
and before you could say knife or any other abrupt monosyllable he had
entered upon a new campaign with--ye gods!--a maxim gun. It was one
of the pleasantest surprises of my life to learn that we had such an
armament on board.'
I heard Philipson chuckle in the doorway.
'I was unaware of it myself till yesterday,' he said, stooping to
enter. 'I could never understand why this boat was a little down by the
head, but when we took out that damaged plank, I saw quickly enough.
There is a false bulkhead forward of the cabin, and behind that a
machine gun mounted on a vertical slide built into the hull. When you
take away the deck planking above it the thing can be raised to fire
over the bows. I give you my word, the whole contrivance is highly
ingenious. When I discovered that we had such a treasure I at once set
about getting it in working order. That is what kept me so late in the
yard last night. The bearing parts were somewhat rusty, but they worked
again with persuasion and grease. All that then remained was to find
ammunition--a problem which at first seemed formidable enough. But
there again my incomparable luck was with me. I have had a good deal
to do with revolutionary activities in this country at one time and
another, for the subject is one which interests me. I happened to know
that one of my former acquaintances, to whom I had been of service,
was now skulking in Hankow, awaiting the next chance to gratify his
life-long ambition of overthrowing the Manchu Dynasty. That man's
vocation as a rebel conspirator obliges him to deal in such things as
maxims and ammunition for the same, and if there were any contraband
stocks in Hankow, he would know where they were. At any rate, now that
I had found the gun, the opportunity to secure some was too good to be
missed, and was worth even taking a certain risk for. Things turned
out better than I had hoped. He had ammunition in his own den, and on
my paying a liberal contribution to the "cause" he brought himself to
part with two belts--though in point of fact I imagine he anticipated
his quarters were to be raided in the near future and was rather glad
to get rid of the damning evidence. I knew well enough without taking
measurements that the ammunition would fit our gun.'
'How did you know that?'
'I had a strong suspicion that both came into this country in the same
gun-running. The venerable desperado we visited in Hankow, Mirlees,
was the man from whom I purchased this boat. That was in Canton two
years ago. He had in hand at the time as pretty a little armed rising
as you could wish to see. Unfortunately the plot was discovered at the
last moment, and my friend was obliged to leave in such haste that he
could not even get to his own private launch. So he did the next best
thing--sold her to me. He was much surprised to see me this morning,
but even more so when I told him I had discovered the hidden gun. At
first he wished to buy the launch back. I said that I could not spare
it. He pressed his point. I hinted with all possible delicacy that
if he were so importunate the imperial authorities might get to hear
of his whereabouts. At last he made the best of it, sold me two belts
of ammunition at an exorbitant price, and I took it across the stream
and installed it in our bows. I think you will admit that measure of
precaution was well justified by the event.'
'And may be again,' said Poyning. 'Is there any ammunition left?'
'One belt, but I do not anticipate needing it. Something seems to tell
me that we have seen the last of our enemies for a season. There will
at least be no survivors from this affair to report where we are. Those
junks are very heavy, and they sink quickly when they are wounded
below the waterline. I cut a plank out of that one. I can forgive most
things, but not treachery.'
'It was a pretty cute idea,' I said, 'the junk in distress.'
'Brilliant,' he agreed, heartily. 'They must have guessed we should be
upstream from Hankow before long. No doubt they had been hanging about
here at anchor, and started their dummy fire as soon as they heard our
engine. Without a fast boat of their own--their launch, I fancy, is
still far down the river--it was about the best ruse they could have
chosen for coming to grips with us on the water. With ordinary luck
they must have succeeded.'
My wound healed quickly, and on the third day after the fight I was
able to move about in fair comfort. We had now come to the stiffest
spell of our river journey--the ascent of the beautiful but perilous
Yangtze Gorges. These famous localities are too well known from books
of travel to need expatiating on here. Suffice it to say that we had
passed in a few hours from reedy flats and swamps into a region of
tremendous limestone cliffs, sometimes rising naked into the sky like a
rock wall built by the Titans, sometimes cleft most picturesquely with
gullies of pine and bamboo and orange-trees or bearded with clematis
and fern. Not that we had much opportunity to admire the scenery. Our
whole attention was usually concentrated upon getting that launch
safely past dangerous whirlpools and snag-bottomed shallows into the
comparatively peaceful water beyond. Philipson had well chosen his time
for the attempt. The annual rise of the river, while it had already
deepened the worst shoals, had not yet come to the tremendous pitch
it reaches in autumn, when the mere force and volume of the water
crushed into these jaws a few hundred yards wide blocks all progress
for a span of months. As it was, our ascent was a wild, touch-and-go
affair throughout, and I hardly knew whether to marvel more at the
capabilities of our boat or the consummate nerve and skill of Saunders
Philipson in handling her. There was the usual assembly of junks at
the foot of each gorge, waiting their turn to be "tracked"--which is
to say, hauled up through the racing water by big gangs of coolies
harnessed to bamboo ropes ashore; and as we came along and set about
ascending on our own motor power, tremendous yells went up from the
trackers and the crews of the waiting junks and the sailors of the
red-hulled lifeboats. These outcries may have been a warning to us,
but I think rather that to the eyes of these primitive, superstitious
folk we appeared a devil-boat, a phantom living through water that
would have destroyed any craft of this world.
One after another we took the dreaded gullies between the
mountains--Niukan, Mitan, Wushan, the Wind-Box Gorge and the "Old
Horse"; and when finally we reached Chungking, nine days after leaving
the plains, I imagine we had accomplished a feat never before known in
the history of Yangtze Kiang. Here Philipson had the launch thoroughly
overhauled and put into store. Often during the next few weeks as we
crawled up the rapid-fretted Kia Ling River, a tributary of Yangtze,
in a native boat, we pined for that queenly little craft we had left
behind. It was impracticable to take her farther, however, for here at
Chungking, our last halting place with any pretensions to civilisation,
we were obliged to lay in most of the stores for our cross-continental
march--tents, blankets, water-proofs, cooking gear and what all; and
this left precious little room to spare even in the big junk we now
chartered.
You shall lose sight of us during this tedious and uneventful last lap
up stream. It is enough to say that we appeared to have shaken off
finally the gang which had pursued us with such dogged hatred--it may
be they continued their search up the main stream of Yangtze River--and
that by the middle of June we had come to the small obscure town of
Kiai, where we engaged ponies and grooms and now, a party ten strong,
struck out westward across "unknown" Asia.
CHAPTER VII
STORM AND PERIL AND STRESS
We began our land journey in high spirits. Whatever perils nature might
be holding up her sleeve, our human enemies were left far behind; and
it wasn't till now that I realised fully the racking strain of suspense
we had undergone since we fled for our lives out of Shanghai. Good was
it, too, as we advanced in file, to look back over our shoulders at the
sturdy bearers and the wiry hill-ponies that carried the outfit for
our expedition. But most satisfactory of all was the thought that we
were travelling with Saunders Philipson. Poyning and I had now reached
the pitch of confidence when a man believes in his leader's ultimate
success as a certainty. The Chinese servants had known Philipson longer
than we, and their trust in him seemed by that much the more implicit.
Even the native bearers, after a few days of the master who seemed
to know their wants so well and speak their language so fluently and
pick out their small shirkings with such intimate comprehension, were
beginning to fall under the magic of his radiant personality.
The third night out, we pitched camp and dined in the nearest approach
to elegance we were to know for many a long day. Lo Eng excelled
himself in the kitchen--we hadn't yet reached the period of canned
foods--and Philipson produced three bottles of red wine which he called
upon us to help him empty.
'Let us clean it up,' he cried. 'We cannot count on re-stocking the
bins for many months--which will fall upon me, at least, with grave
hardship--but it will be merely teasing ourselves to make these bottles
spin out for a day or two. Besides which, corked wine is never nice.
Come, let us pledge success to our journey in a good deep pull!'
It sticks in my mind very clear, that scene round the camp fire.
Behind us rose great hills of red rock, now deepened by the failing
light to a crimson as dark as the wine of our toast, and sweeping away
in majestic ranks on either side of the pass through which we should
work westward. The natives were squatting round their fire a little
way off, cooking their evening meal and, I'm afraid, burning slips of
joss-paper to scare off evil spirits of the hills; while the ponies,
picketed at some distance beyond the bearers, were pulling contentedly
at the scant grass of the highlands. Beside the tarpaulin that served
us for tablecloth, Poyning, with a quaint hint of dandyism in his
rough mountaineering rig, sat puffing at one of his carefully hoarded
cigarettes through a dapper little ivory and amber holder. At this time
he still possessed his eyeglass, though I fancy it subsequently went
the way of so much more gear that we scattered along that desperate
trail. Philipson, who never smoked except to sustain some native
guise, was leaning forward, the light of the fire leaping over his
clean-chiselled features; and as he laid down his aluminium wine cup
after pledging a swift and successful trek to us all, he began to speak.
'Listen to me, you fellows,' he said earnestly. 'This is going to be
the biggest adventure any man here has ever undertaken. It will also be
the most dangerous. The journey to the _obo_ alone is severe enough,
and what lies beyond that, God knows, though from what I remember of
the look of the mountains it will be far more difficult than anything
this side. But if you follow me heart and soul, I believe I can lead
you over to the valley beyond. Trust me as you would trust the eternal
truths of life, and I shall not fail you. I know I can carry it
through!'
His voice rang, his eyes gleamed, his hands clutched and unclutched,
and altogether Saunders Philipson looked like a man inspired--which,
for my part, I fully believe he was.
A moment later he was pouring out the last of the claret with a calm
judicial air. 'Do not be alarmed if I have my dramatic moods,' he said.
'I should not speak as I do unless I felt the truth of every word
I say. Now you had better turn in, for I am going to work you hard
to-morrow. Let me give you this advice at the starting out: never be
afraid of a long march. My experience of these mountains tells me that
the man who gets through is he who makes a dash for it. It is like a
bayonet charge over open country--the quicker you cross, the safer.'
We made the long stage he foretold, and several longer after that.
Hour upon hour, hour upon hour we rode up precipitous gullies and
down seemingly impossible ravines, but always drew higher in the long
run. The mere exertion of sitting our ponies was tremendous. I soon
came to realise that never before, in a life that would be reckoned
abnormally strenuous, had I really known what fatigue meant, and
Poyning was worse off than I; but weariness never seemed to show itself
on Philipson. At the first sign of flagging anywhere, he was to hand,
helping or exhorting or bullying as the case appeared to him to demand,
and getting us on the move again when you would have said flesh and
blood could endure no more. His genius for organisation was no whit
inferior to his energy, and his sense of country more astonishing than
either. Time and again, when we had come to a sheer blind alley in the
mountains and were at the end of our strength, Philipson divined a way
out, found the necessary pass himself by searching on foot, and brought
us safe over. The distances we travelled in a day were incredible. On
one occasion we must have covered forty-five miles between sunrise and
sundown, and that over some of the roughest and steepest country we had
yet struck. Before the end of this stage Poyning was in a collapse,
so weary that he could no longer keep his saddle; whereupon Philipson
dismounted and walked beside him, holding the boy up, and for the last
mile more than half carrying him in his arms. Yet I noticed it was
Saunders Philipson who did most of the work in camp that night--the
bearers themselves were dead beat--and that Philipson was first up in
the morning, field glass in hand, scouring the mountainside for the
easiest route. I couldn't help reflecting what a magnificent leader in
war this man would have made. Good troops would have followed him to
the very ends of the earth.
I soon saw, too, the wisdom of his policy of taking mountain ranges at
a run, for here we were, with the summer still before us, and the first
great barrier range behind. The country began to descend, the going was
easier and faster, and after a few days' march down a long slant we
came within view of our first big landmark. I heard the bearers raise
a shout and saw them throw out their arms, pointing. There, still far
ahead, was a curious bluey shimmer on the rough yellow face of the
earth. Philipson was scanning this through the glasses.
'What do you make of it, Mirlees?' he cried.
'It ought to be the head waters of the Yellow River,' I replied.
'Right. Or rather, the upper waters. The actual sources are about seven
days farther on. When we reach them I can promise you a breather of
three whole days.'
All fell out as he foretold. We encamped beside the Hsing Hai, or
"Starry Lakes," which, rising out of springs in the plain, form the
beginnings of that mighty flood known many hundreds of miles farther
east as China's Sorrow. Plain the country is called by courtesy only,
for it stands at a level higher than the highest peaks of Great
Britain, and can be conceived as a plain only by contrast with the
great mountain ranges to north and south. Here we rested three days.
To me, at least, the time was one of delight; it had long been my
ambition to explore the source of the most lawless river in the world;
my notebook was almost a fixture on my knee, and I reflected that if
the expedition brought nothing else, it would at any rate enable me to
offer the geographers a few hard facts in place of the mess of theory
and surmise-at-a-distance that makes up our knowledge of this region.
Poyning spent most of the three days asleep, while Philipson was busy
with Lo Eng overhauling stores and looking for fresh bearers. The men
of Kiai had only contracted to come this far, but partly by enhanced
rewards and partly by a judicious blend of threat and blandishment
Philipson prevailed on them to stay with us until relieved. The new
company, of ten men, we raised at length from a wretched hamlet on
the foothills southward of the lakes. They were _tagliks_ (hillmen)
of indeterminate race and small prepossession, and they hadn't been
with us long before they gave us ample reason to regret the sturdy
Ssuchuanese whose place they had taken.
At dawn on the fourth day we struck out westward again, at the best
pace we could make. Speed was vital, in fact, for we should soon be at
heights where the "hot" weather nights are arctic and winter allows
nothing human to live. It was Philipson's purpose to hold on this
course until we cut across the route of his former journey, then to
work by means of his maps to the _obo_ among the mountains. Before
we had travelled many days the country was rising sharply again, its
aspect changing from hour to hour. The scattered tamarisks of the
plateau were left far behind, now nothing grew to soften the staring
nakedness of red sandstone and green slate but here and there a patch
of wiry, bleached grass, out of which the ponies could get but a meagre
supplement to the limited fodder we carried. Now and again we sighted
the beautiful yellow-brown wild ass, sometimes the fleeting form of
some type of antelope, while at night we were glad of our camp fire not
only for its warmth, but also for the protection it gave us against
the wolves we heard howling hungrily around us. Gradually, however, as
we drew higher and higher, even these signs of life dropped out of the
vast desolation, and we saw nothing but an occasional herd of yak, the
wild bull of Tibet.
This creature is one of the riddles of the animal kingdom. While of a
size and strength and savagery that would enable him to hold his own in
a lion country, he yet elects for some unfathomed reason to herd far
up the steeps of these Tibetan mountain ranges, where no other animal
barring polar bears and arctic foxes could live to dispute with him the
stunted pasture I have already mentioned. He is coated with long wool
which sweeps the ground on either side of his magnificent trunk, and
lives through the coldest winter at an altitude where even the summer
nights bring with them a temperature well below zero Fahrenheit. I have
dwelt on the queer habits of the yak because it was in our encounter
with one of the species that Saunders Philipson showed himself in a
light that almost set me wondering whether he was mortal man like the
rest of us. It was more than amazing. It was uncanny.
Uncertain as we were whether our canned stuff would last out the trip,
we were constantly on the alert for a chance to supplement it with game
of the country; and when we sighted a fine herd of yak at feed plumb in
the middle of our path one day, we decided to halt the caravan and try
a shot. Yak beef, I may remark, is a good deal better than pony-steak,
and in those cold dry altitudes will keep indefinitely.
There was no cover within close range of the herd, nor was there need
of any: the yak continued to feed after observing us, as if totally
indifferent to our approach, and I make no doubt they had never seen
human beings before. I had loaded my .45 and was edging nearer, with
Philipson and Poyning on my heels.
'Careful aim, Mirlees,' whispered Philipson to me. 'Those brutes are
not usually dangerous till they are wounded. You know where to put your
shot?'
'Just behind the shoulder is best, isn't it?'
'The only place. As for the bony parts, you might as well loose off
into a concrete wall. Now is your chance.'
I picked out a magnificent bull standing broadside on to us, and fired
at about fifty yards. The beast threw up its head with a snort of
wrath, but didn't appear to be wounded dangerously, let alone mortally.
Philipson snatched the rifle from my hand, loaded and fired again, but
it was too late. The herd, ten or eleven in number, had seen where the
attack came from. They put down their heads and charged. I yelled to
the bearers for more rifles, but the bearers had dropped everything and
scattered, leaving the ponies to stampede in terror with all our gear.
There was nothing for it now but to stampede ourselves, which we did,
heading instinctively for the shelter of a great boulder at some
distance from the spot where I had fired. Poyning and I reached it
abreast, but as I glanced back over my shoulder I saw to my horror that
Philipson hadn't followed. He stood out in the open, rifle in hand,
loading and firing rapidly, it is true, but with no more precipitation
than if he had been at the butts.
'Good God!' yelled Poyning. 'The man will be trampled flat!'
In an instant he had wheeled and dashed back, waving his arms and
shouting, as if in a wild hope to stem that terrible charge. He
might as well have shouted at a typhoon of the China seas. Philipson
continued to fire. He must have got in three shots before the rush
drew near, and the main herd swerved and went wide; but the wounded
bull came on alone, bellowing with fury. He was within ten yards of
Philipson when a shot took him between the forelegs, and I could see
that at last he was checked. The great brute swung to the right,
straight at Poyning, who leapt aside but stumbled in the doing and fell
heavily to earth. The next instant he was on his back, helpless, while
the monster drew up and lowered the enormous horns to gore.
Then ensued the most amazing sight these eyes of mine have ever beheld.
In a flash Philipson had dropped his rifle and dived forward, gripping
the horns of the yak at their tips. I expected to see him instantly
tossed high in the air, but this didn't happen. The yak paused, as
if bewildered to find this weight drop suddenly from nowhere on to
its horns. Then it seemed to me that the beast _could not move_. It
pawed the earth restlessly with its hind hoofs, but the fore hoofs
remained quite still, as did the monstrous head. You would have said
some instantaneous catalepsy had turned the animal's forequarters to
stone. I stood still, gazing, spellbound by the sight, and there, for
a span of seconds that seemed hours, we were in a tableau: Poyning
motionless and apparently stunned, the huge yak held by the horns,
Philipson holding it, and staring between the brute's eyes with a look
of tremendous, overpowering concentration.
It was a movement of Poyning's that brought me to myself. He rolled
suddenly towards the rifle. I dashed in and snatched it up and had my
cartridge in the chamber, when the yak gave a queer sort of whistling
groan, swayed slowly to one side, and fell with a thud that made the
earth jump under our feet. I fired at the same instant, but I know
the brute was dead before my bullet struck. It lay still. Saunders
Philipson was lying beside it, white as the snow on the peaks above us,
a thin trickle of blood coming from his nostrils.
In an agony of alarm I dragged him aside and rested his head on my
sheepskin coat. I was afraid at first his tremendous effort had
ruptured some blood vessel and that he would be beyond the reach of my
rough-and-ready attentions there in the wilderness. Poyning had now got
his senses fully back, and together we felt Philipson's heart--which
was beating weak and slow--and chafed his wrists and plied him with
brandy from Poyning's flask; and after some time it seemed the life
was flickering up in him again. The blood had dried quickly on his
lip, and the faintest tinge of red was coming back into his face. In
my travels at one time and another I've seen a good deal of woundings
and miscellaneous injuries to the human frame, yet I couldn't put down
Philipson's unconsciousness to any definite physical hurt. Rather he
seemed to me to display the sort of symptoms you might expect from a
man in an absolute nervous prostration.
At last, to our unspeakable relief, he stirred, sat up, and stared
round him.
'Eh? Oh, yes, I remember,' he muttered. 'The yak-herd.'
Poyning was on his knees beside him. 'Philipson,' he said hoarsely,
'you pulled me out of that at your own life's risk. I shall not forget
it. How do you feel now?'
Philipson was struggling to his feet. 'It is nothing,' he said quietly.
'You would have done as much for either of us. But we really must be
more careful in future. It was--' he glanced at the dead yak--'as much
as I could do to hold that beast.'
'Good God, man,' I cried, 'it was amazing! Six ordinary men couldn't
have held it!'
Philipson gave me a queer enigmatic smile. 'Be just, Mirlees,' he said.
'Give the yak his due. See here.' He stooped over the great beast and
pulled the clotted hair aside from its breast. 'If the brute had not
received this injury I am much afraid he would have thrown me half way
along the pass.'
'But your hands!' exclaimed Poyning, pointing to Philipson's bruised
and blackened fingers and the blood that had oozed out from under every
one of his ten nails. 'You must have put tremendous force into it! You
must have the muscles of a Hercules!'
Philipson's answer was to pull up his sleeves, revealing arms that
were muscular and shapely, but a good deal smaller than those of many
a professional athlete. 'If it were a question of muscle,' he said,
'even a badly hit yak would be too much for the hero you mention. But
the good gods have given us other powers. I used mine to-day. Let us be
thankful that I had them to use. Now for re-assembling the camp.'
We recovered the stampeded ponies, helped by Ah Sing and Lo Eng, who
had been far in the rear at the time of the brush, leading one of the
baggage animals that had gone lame and could carry no load. One by one
we got the lot, but the bearers were harder to collect. I noticed a
couple of them skulking shamefast in the middle distance, and thought
at first they were watching me; then I saw it was Philipson they were
looking at, with eyes of awe and fear. When at last they had gathered
into a sulky knot, Philipson summoned them to approach. They hesitated,
then, obviously in spite of themselves, slunk up to our leader, who
addressed them in their own dialect. I didn't know enough of this to
follow his words closely, but there was no mistaking the gist. The
hillmen were manifestly ill at ease. They shifted their weight from
one foot to the other. Under the swarthy skin and life-long dirt of
their faces a paleness became apparent. With a miserable cry one of
them dropped to his knees, head to earth, and the rest followed suit,
groaning and whining. Still the level, hard voice of Saunders Philipson
kept on. It was like some long, blighting curse to listen to. He
pointed to the yak, apparently drawing a parallel from its fate, and at
last strode up to the grovelling hillmen, stretching his blood-crusted
hands over their heads and raising his voice to a startling, terrible
shout. At this moment I happened to glance at Poyning. I may have been
mistaken, but I thought he trembled. Then I noticed I was trembling a
little myself.
Philipson ceased, motioning the bearers back to their work, and they
scuttled off, clearly relieved to find themselves still alive.
'Those fellows will behave better in future,' said our leader, turning
to us. 'They know now that the next man to fail in his duty dies. I
have also taken the precaution of making them understand that I am
bullet-proof, in case one of them should be tempted to seek revenge
with a gun.'
We halted while the bearers cut up the slain yak and prepared the
meat for transport. Ah Sing and Lo Eng were superintending the work,
in their capacity of non-commissioned officers, and I heard them
haranguing the bearers in a style the very reverse of sympathetic.
They had learned how the hillmen deserted in the hour of danger, and
I anticipated that for the next few days those bearers would have a
thin time of it. But when Ah Sing came to me a few minutes afterwards,
there wasn't much of the bullying ganger about him. Instead, he looked
strangely uncomfortable.
'My no likum dis, Misser Mirlee,' he said, shaking his head. 'My long
time sabbee master him plenty stlong. Jus' now my tinkee him too muchee
stlong.'
'What gives you that impression, Ah Sing?' I said.
His voice took on a tone of awe. 'Jus' now my look-see dat piecee
yakkum,' he said, with his hand held edgewise to his own poll. 'Him
neckee bloke-um hab got!'
Deeper and deeper we plunged into the mountain fastnesses. It was clear
from the temperature our cooking water boiled at that we had risen
to a great altitude, and Poyning and I were already troubled with
height-sickness. Philipson concocted from his medicine chest a tonic
that quickly reduced the fever, but we still had great difficulty in
getting our breath in the rarefied air, and there was worse to come,
for our route lay far higher yet. Moreover, to advance had become a
matter of the utmost hardship. Whereas on the lower levels we had
climbed under clear skies, now the heavens were frequently clouded over
black from horizon to horizon, bringing fierce squalls of snow or hail,
and a biting wind was in our teeth all day, though calming down usually
at nightfall. Philipson was working towards the _obo_ very much as if
it were a point in the ocean and he a mariner steering a course to it;
he used his maps as a chart and checked our position by observations
whenever the sky cleared. The lie of the land necessitated constant
changes of direction, and sometimes we had even to deviate from
Philipson's former route, which, it will be remembered, he had followed
on foot; but never would our leader consent to leave the course laid
down on his maps unless it was physically impossible to get the ponies
along it. As it was, our journey took us up and down steeps which rise
in my mind to this hour like a ghastly dream--one of those nightmares
when you imagine yourself to be clinging fly-like to a vertical wall
at dizzy heights. But for the energy and skill and implacable resolve
of Saunders Philipson I am perfectly certain we should never have
got through at all, and even he couldn't prevent the ponies from
succumbing one by one to the tremendous work on scant fodder. Also, two
of the _tagliks_ lost their lives in one day, slipping under their load
and falling down a deep ravine.
Worst of all, the _obo_ hadn't appeared, although by Philipson's
calculations we should have found it by now. Philipson kept up a
dogged confidence, but I could see that even he was getting uneasy. He
decided, before casting around, to push straight ahead for one more
day's march. This we did, and it was our worst day yet. Two ponies
dropped dead, and two of the remaining bearers disappeared--where, we
never discovered, though it is likely they lay down to the drowsy rest
from which there is no awakening, and were quietly left by their own
fellows. At last Philipson, who was on foot ahead, halted with a great
cry.
'This is the pass,' he shouted. 'The _obo_ is at the top end of it.'
But when we came to the place it was five or six feet deep in drifts,
and nobody short of a diviner could have said whether the _obo_ was
there or not. It was too late to investigate now: dark was coming on.
We retreated down the rugged slope and pitched camp.
That night our thermometer went down to five degrees below zero, but
the morning rose clear, with the warmest sun we had known for a week
past. The whole party set to work digging, with any tool that came to
hand, but it was to the sun we owed our discovery. Brisk runnels of
water began to tinkle away down the slope, the face of the snow sagged
and caved, until there appeared, fully thirty yards from the scene of
our blind efforts, a curious green blotch against the white. Philipson
ploughed through the soggy mess towards it with a whoop of exultation,
and a moment later the three of us were dancing round the _obo_,
cheering like schoolboys. There was no doubt about it being the one we
sought: you could see plainly the zigzag scratches where Philipson had
scraped off the dead man's message.
We were now in a regular fury to be gone. Perhaps not two days off was
the end of our quest, the rim of that mysterious depression we had come
so far to find. Philipson at once laid out his compass and set a course
due west; but at that moment I observed a strange commotion among the
bearers. They were gathered in a group at some distance from where we
stood, and I saw one of them point to the sky with an expression of
downright terror. Excited as I was, I half expected to see one of the
monstrous birds of the legend flap out over the peak surrounding us,
but it wasn't that. It was a black cloud, no bigger than the cloud of
holy writ, but curiously distinct from anything I had ever seen before.
It was expanding swiftly under our eyes, and looked, on a gigantic
scale, exactly like a big blob of ink that has fallen on to a blotter.
But the really astonishing thing about it was the speed with which it
was approaching.
'Great Scott!' gasped Poyning. 'It's coming up as fast as a train!'
If I hadn't seen this type of cloud before, Philipson evidently had,
and recognised it for something dangerous. He instantly ordered the
tents, which had just been taken down, to be opened out and erected
again length-wise--one wall of canvas five or six-fold and about six
yards long. Every rope and peg we possessed we used to secure this one
shelter, and concentrated our whole camp under the lee of it. These
preparations were rushed through, but none too soon. With a shriek the
storm was upon us, first a terrific blast of wind, then a withering
burst of hail, then thunder; and after a while, when the very snow was
scoured off the barren steeps by the force of the tempest, blinding
clouds of sand and grit that stung the skin like spirts of flame. It
was a brand of storm, as I say, new to my acquaintance, and even in the
rush and howl of it all I couldn't help noticing with astonishment that
although the thunder crashed like the splitting asunder of mountains,
we saw from first to last no sign of lightning.
We crouched under the barrier, European and native alike, and I wasn't
long in seeing the point of lumping all our canvas together. Any one
tent by itself would have gone whirling on the wings of the storm, but
this reinforced wall, though the canvas bulged as if it would split and
the poles bent like reeds in a current, held; and after withstanding
its first fury, gathered strength from the storm itself. Snow and sand
banked up against it, forming a drift some seven feet high, behind
which, so long as the wind kept to the one quarter, we could laugh at
it.
The storm didn't rise. Nor did it abate. When once the thunder had
passed, which was about an hour after the first squall, the wind
settled down to blow steadily, gale-strong, through the night. And that
was a night of horror. By what I judge to have been ten o'clock we were
as near frozen to death as men can be and still live, for the canvas
wall, though a capital bulwark against the wind, was of little efficacy
against the cold. Our thickest blankets might have been summer muslins.
Then once more we had reason to bless Philipson's uncanny foresight.
He had insisted on adding the yak-hide to our gear, though I remember
thinking at the time that it was folly to burden ourselves with a thing
of such weight; now I knew that the foolishness had been mine. As soon
as the storm burst we had given our one remaining pony the yak-hide for
a rug. The poor beast whinnied pitifully when we took it off him, but
it was his life or ours. Philipson, Poyning and myself got into the
great woolly hide, turned inside out--it was ample to hold the three of
us--and slept in fair warmth.
At last there came a little lightening of the dense gloom, which having
reckoned to be daybreak, we rose to take stock of our situation. The
pony was dead, as we knew he must be, frozen stiff and hard as iron.
The Chinese servants and the bearers all appeared to have survived
the night without frostbite; they had pooled their sheepskins and
rolled themselves into one composite knot of humanity, which, in the
circumstances, was about the wisest thing they could have done. The
storm was still blowing great guns, and even by that mirky light we
could see an alarming change in the face of the mountain; nothing but
lumpy drifts everywhere, and every crevasse filled with treacherous,
powdery snow. Worst and crowning disaster, our chronometer and watches
were ruined. The all-penetrating dust which had been swirling in eddies
and back-washes behind our shelter all night had not only filled our
eyes and ears and mouths; it had got into every piece of clockwork we
possessed. In future we should be reduced to guessing time from the
sun, if visible, and our position in a land as unmapped as the ocean,
by the roughest of dead-reckoning from distance travelled.
The wind fell about mid-day, letting down a brisk fall of snow for
some three hours; then the sky cleared, and we were shown the full
direness of our calamity. Advance or retreat was out of the question
till the snow thinned, and we set about pitching a camp in the normal
pattern--pulling down our canvas wall and resolving it into three
tents. This kept us busy till dark. An atmosphere of utter dejection
was everywhere, which even Philipson's dogged energy and inspiration
couldn't lift. For myself, it was useless to deny I had ceased to
believe we could win through. Our one great hope had failed us: we had
been counting all along on "summer" weather, whatever the difficulties
of the route; but this terrific blizzard proved that such reliance had
been mere vain imagining. I could see Poyning was a prey to similar
gloomy forebodings, and I knew from the look of the hillmen that if we
got any more help from them it would only be because of their mortal
terror of Saunders Philipson. The Chinese servants alone seemed to have
no thought of retreat. They wore the fatalistic look of men reconciled
to death, and content to humour their master's madness to the end.
That night there was again a terrific frost, but sheltered as we now
were by a canvas wall on all sides, we felt it far less than before,
and reckoned to make do with the yak-hide spread out mattress-wise
underneath us. At last, however, the cold awakened me, and sitting up,
I was a good deal startled to see that the flap of the tent was open.
I crept to it and looked out. In a direct line, and no great distance
away, was the bearers' tent; and it seemed to me that instant that a
figure was disappearing through their door. This was disquieting. If
the hillmen deserted--as I made little doubt they would if a chance
presented--they would get no wages except by robbery. Could it be that
the man I saw retreating into their tent had just visited ours, and
left the flap unfastened in his hurry? I turned to rouse Philipson and
report my suspicions. This was queerer still. Philipson's place on the
yak-hide was empty.
Now thoroughly puzzled, I wrapped my sheepskin tight round me and
stole out. I could see nothing, and heard nothing at first but muffled
snores and the swish of the night wind. Then there seemed to mingle
with these sounds a low mutter of talk, some way away. I crept towards
the sound. As I drew near, pausing at every step to listen, the noise
resolved itself into something strangely familiar, which yet for the
life of me I couldn't place. I was now so close that I could hear the
words. I stood racking my brains to remember where I had heard the like
before. Then it came to me, in about as curious a way as you could
imagine. I had been feverish all day; now my eyes played me a trick; I
began seeing things. The scene was transformed. The shadowy snow-draped
mountain side became the verandah of our inn at Nanking, and I was
listening again while Philipson spoke in that strange tongue that had
so baffled me. The vision faded, but parts of it stood clear. I was
actually looking at Philipson now. I had stolen to a sharp bluff of
rock and was peeping round the angle of it; and there, not twenty paces
from me, assuredly was Saunders Philipson; beyond him, half hidden
by his form, something tall and white. Then he himself was hidden in
darkness, as was everything else, for a cloud crossed the moon. At the
same instant there came a violent puff of wind. When the moon shone out
again I could see columns of snow, tall and white, being whirled up on
all sides.
I withdrew softly towards the tent, but before I reached it there were
quick footsteps behind me. I swung round.
'What the devil are you doing here, Mirlees?' demanded Philipson.
'I woke and found the tent-flap open,' I said, 'and came out to see
what was up. But what are you doing yourself?'
He pointed to the sky, where black clouds were gathering as the wind
freshened. 'It sounded to me as if the storm was blowing up again,'
he said. 'If it comes on like yesterday we shall have to get up and
rearrange the tents.'
There was nothing to be said to this. It was a perfectly sound
explanation. The only thing was, it was false. What Philipson's object
could be in lying to me I couldn't fathom, though I lay awake pondering
the mystery long after he was asleep; this much I knew, that for
Saunders Philipson to depart from the truth, there would have to be
some extremely potent cause. The wind continued to blow in gusts, but
at last died down altogether, and I fell into a deep sleep myself.
When I woke, Philipson had already left the tent. I could hear him
rapping out sharp orders to the bearers, and on going outside myself, I
found him energetically superintending the work of striking camp. For
the leader of an expedition in such dismal straits as ours he seemed in
wonderful spirits. The hillmen were not so cheerful. They wore a look
not only of despair but evident terror, and one glance was enough to
tell me we were going to have trouble with them.
I bore a hand in getting the tents down, but suddenly there caught my
eye something on the ground which held me stock-still, staring. It was
a trail of footsteps in the snow, a double trail, as of someone going
and coming; and it drew a straight line from the door of the bearers'
tent to the very spot where I had stood last night when I peeped round
the angle of rock. That vague form disappearing into the tent hadn't,
then, been a trick played on me by my fevered eyes. Philipson had had
another watcher.
We used our last sticks of fuel for a fire to cook breakfast, and when
we had finished the meal, one of the bearers cringed up to Philipson
and knelt down, beating his forehead on the ground. The man spoke,
still with that curiously fixed expression of despair and fear that
I had noticed on the faces of them all. Philipson heard him out, and
dismissed the fellow with a quick word, whereupon he sprang up with
alacrity and ran back to his fellows.
'You understand what the man said?' queried Philipson, turning to us.
'Not a word.'
'He voiced the unanimous desire of the gang to leave our service and go
home. I told him they would be allowed to do so.'
The pair of us looked at him in surprise. 'Great Scott!' exclaimed
Poyning. 'What on earth for?'
'Because,' replied Philipson, very positively, 'it was the one thing on
this earth to do. I know that breed. I can stand the six of them in a
row and shoot them here if I like, but neither I nor anybody else can
make them follow us farther.'
'Yet you thought we should have no more trouble with them?'
'I did. At that time they feared me more than anything else in the
world. Now a greater terror has arisen.'
'Why, what's up with them?'
'They believe the mountains are haunted hereabouts. One of them got up
in the night and saw a devil.'
I gave an involuntary start, and I am sure Philipson noticed it. I
felt his eyes were keenly on me. 'Superstitious cattle, are they not,
Mirlees?' he said. 'But one thing is absolutely certain: it is a waste
of time trying to remove their superstition by argument. I shall pay
them off and let them go.'
Poyning looked bewildered. 'How in Hades are we to get the gear along?'
he said.
'Hump it ourselves. There will still be five of us to share it.
Moreover, we can reduce the gear. _We have not much farther to go._'
'What's told you that?'
The words were out before I realised I had said them. Philipson looked
at me, and for one instant there seemed almost a shadow of suspicion,
of defiance, in his eyes. But only for an instant. When he answered me,
he might have been a city man mentioning the hour of a train.
'Plain common-sense,' said Saunders Philipson.
CHAPTER VIII
HOW WE CAME TO THE VALLEY OF GREAT BIRDS
'Put it to yourselves as rational men,' he said. 'The Tibetan Sbrang
Chikya, who died on this spot, had strayed from his caravan, and he
must have strayed a long way, since we are far west of any caravan
route that I know of. Why he came in this direction, which was the
least likely to lead to safety, I do not know, but it is probable that
the mountains remained wrapped in cloud and he lost his bearings, only
to pick them up again when he got down into the valley and saw the
sun. You will remember he describes the valley quite definitely as
west of this spot. But we must assume from the fact that he had left
the caravan presumably without preparation of any sort that he had
little food with him, and how far could a man travel like that in these
mountains? Certainly not much farther than we are from the nearest
caravan route at this moment. Therefore I say the valley of great birds
cannot be much beyond this point. Is not that sound logic?'
There was no denying it was.
'Then let us get on at once and find the valley.'
'Before the snow clears?'
'If we wait for that we may be merely waiting for a fresh fall. We must
make a dash for it. The sooner we are off these heights the better.
Never fear, I will find you a track!'
We paid off the bearers and parted company with them for ever. If I
wanted proof that Philipson really believed we were near the end of the
trail, the way he dismissed those hillmen would have convinced me: he
not only gave them more than the stipulated wage, but all the surplus
gear which, in his view, we should no longer require. They then filed
off down the pass, heading north-east. We ourselves divided the rest of
the baggage into five packs, and struck due west by Philipson's compass.
And now we came to a stretch of our journey beside which the worst
that had gone before was mere pastime. Strive as I may, I cannot get
clear in my mind the events of the next few days. I wouldn't even be
sure how many days we travelled, for it is all a blurry nightmare to
me, with nothing remaining distinct but a ghastly memory of constantly
increasing cold and misery and exhaustion. What few facts rise up
vaguely out of the confusion I have tried to re-assemble and set down
in order, but I will stake nothing on them. It may be we didn't travel
far as distance would be measured on the flat. There was no flat in
that country to measure the distance on. All was sheer cliff or
tremendous wall-sided ravine. The greater part of the time we seemed to
be crawling along a mere thread of projecting ledge and looking down
into awful abysses of rock and snow; and most perilous of all were the
rare places where our route looked to be easier. We halted before one
such, which I should have said was a moderately passable snow-paved
surface of rock, but after some hesitation Philipson shook his head
and turned aside. We climbed a rugged scarp to the left, from which we
could overlook the way we should have taken, and coming at length to a
ledge broad enough to stand the five of us, Philipson stopped, picked
up a fragment of rock, and heaved it over the cliff side. The stone
clattered hoarsely down, then disappeared in the fluid powdery snow,
which closed silently in over it so that you wouldn't have known the
surface had been disturbed.
'It is well that I did not let you go on,' muttered Philipson. 'That
means deep snow--an enormous drift in a ravine. Not one of us would
have come out of it alive.'
He led on, picking a way with extreme care and, as it seemed to me, a
perfectly uncanny instinct for safety, but at the best our advance was
no more than a laborious crawl. Though the snow had evaporated off the
more exposed faces of the mountain, the treacherous, swallowing drifts
were everywhere, and there was a fantastic suggestion about it all of
crossing a flooded country by shallows. Time and again we halted while
Philipson, mistrusting even his own intuition, hurled great stones
into the crevasses to estimate whether they were "fordable" or not.
Our last fire had been at the pass of the _obo_, and there, from the
temperature of our boiling water, we calculated the elevation to be a
little over eighteen thousand feet; and I am certain that from that
point, though there were some deceptive drops, we worked in the long
run considerably higher. Height-sickness and the consequent fever
were now a normal state for us all, and though we benefited by the
sedatives that Philipson dispensed, we remained in a sort of chronic
delirium. So rare was the atmosphere that even the exertion of our
creeping advance brought on a terrible breathlessness and distress;
blood trickled continually from our noses and ears, and we had to call
a halt at least once about every fifteen minutes. These rests we took
standing. Philipson would let nobody lie down till night fell; then two
men remained awake at a time, to rouse the others before they had slept
too long. We dared not allow any man to lie still for more than an hour
at a stretch, or thereabouts, for as I have said we had no watches,
for fear he shouldn't wake at all; and I am convinced Philipson would
have had us push on night and day but for the sheer impossibility of
negotiating those dizzy slants and ledges in the dark.
At last, weary beyond imagination, but with a tremendous thrill of
renewed hope, we came into a long gully in the mountains. It ran
between two vertical walls of rock, and though it descended sharply for
a considerable way ahead, we could see nothing beyond it but a blaze
of golden sky where the sun was setting. By common consent we halted
in silence, and stared, and stared. I have never been nearer tears in
my life. I seemed to lose my grip. Here, it looked, the mountains came
to an end. There was a valley ahead, or at least a depression; if we
had not found the object of our quest, we were to find relief from the
frightful cold and exhaustion and height-fever of the last few days.
'It appears,' said Philipson, in a queer, hollow voice, 'that we are
going to see our goal before long. Keep well in behind me.'
He advanced cautiously, sounding the gully with the butt of his rifle
as he went. Now in the far distance we could see peaks again, but they
were right across in the eye of the sun; it became increasingly plain
there was lower ground between us and them. Philipson would halt from
time to time, and stare before him fixedly. Then we saw him drop the
rifle and tear out his field glasses from their case. He swayed where
he stood. A moment later he had turned a dead-white face to me and
handed me the binoculars without a word. I took them mechanically and
raised them to my eyes. Now it was I who staggered. The sun was by
this time sunk half below the distant peaks, and its dazzle had faded.
There, moving across the gold-washed sky, were several black specks,
far away, but having through the glasses all the appearance of enormous
birds.
Poyning had snatched the binoculars out of my hands and was looking for
himself. It was the last thing he did that day. His strength, which he
had forced to uphold him by an effort of will for which I should never
have given him credit when he entered our lives at Nanking, now broke
down utterly; he fell in a heap, unconscious, and though we managed to
bring him to with the last drain of brandy we possessed, he was unable
to move hand or foot. He lay in the snow crying like a child. It wasn't
emotion--just his nerve-control completely gone.
Philipson looked at him and at me. 'It is a pity,' he said. 'We must
push on for the hour of dusk that is left--it may mean a couple of
thousand feet downwards. I cannot let him sleep here.'
Then without another word Saunders Philipson picked up Stephen Poyning
and carried him in his arms. Lo Eng and I shared his pack in addition
to our own loads. It was in vain for me to offer to take a turn with
Poyning. Philipson grunted angrily.
'Keep your breath for breathing, Mirlees,' he snapped. 'It is as much
as the three of you can do to move as it is. We must get on the fastest
we can.'
I picked up his rifle and took the lead myself, feeling the way as he
had done. At the end of the gully we had plainly come to the end of the
heights, and there, deep down before us, we could see a blur of light.
It was gloriously easier going now. The mountain side was steep, but
of a fairly good surface, and we made capital headway. The relief was
unspeakable, and came with startling quickness as we worked down off
that frightful roof of the world into the denser air below. We filled
our lungs with it again and again, and I felt it intoxicate me like
wine. Saunders Philipson carried his burden for fully an hour and a
half, and only stopped then, I am convinced, because dark had fallen.
We pitched camp and put Poyning to bed, then turned in ourselves. There
was no danger in sleep now. We lay down in our sheepskins and slept
till the sun was high in the heavens of a glorious day.
And now we experienced for the first time the full thrill of our
discovery. We were at the gates of an unknown land, a valley in this
tremendous upheaved region of Asia which had remained hidden from
the rest of the world all down through the ages. From where we stood
outside our tent we could see the whole depression in a wonderful
bird's eye view; above us, stupendous peaks towering into the sky,
snow-clad and dazzling and looking not a musket-shot away; below, a
long even expanse of snow running straight down to the line where snow
left off and green vegetation began; farther down still, the cup of
the valley, ringed round completely by mountain slopes like the one we
stood on, a smiling green hollow, with a large lake in the middle of it
and evident signs of human habitation. We could see through the glasses
that the buildings of the city were uniformly white, but we were as yet
too far away to descry anything more definite about them.
Poyning was vastly the better for his long sleep, and as eager to
push on as I was, and though Philipson maintained outwardly the
business-like air of reserve that had never entirely left him, I could
see he was in a tremendous exultation. As he might well be. To have
brought us safely over that journey from Nanking to the spot where we
now stood was a feat bordering on the miraculous, and if there was
another man on this earth that could have done it, I had not heard of
that man.
'Breakfast first,' he said, smiling. 'None of us can afford to take
liberties with himself after what we have been through. Then we will go
down and explore, but we will load the rifles first. After all, we know
little of these people. Who can predict what kind of welcome they will
give us?'
After-events showed that we couldn't. Little did we dream how we were
to be received by the folk of the valley, or even how we were to get
over the last lap of our tremendous journey.
We made a meal of yak beef--the leathery stuff seemed much tastier
now--packed up the two tents, and set out. Philipson's plan was that
we should stalk the strange people very circumspectly, so that if they
seemed hostile, we could at least beat a retreat up the mountain side
as Sbrang Chikya had done; in which case it would be well not to have
scrapped our gear. The stuff was a boon to us, later on, but by no
means in the way we had expected.
We had been marching down the steep slant for about an hour when
Philipson halted and looked from one side to the other with an air of
considerable uneasiness. We asked him what was awry.
He continued halted and looking, and then: '_That!_' he cried,
stretching an arm out over the great expanse of snow.
At first I could see no reason for alarm, but after a minute or two I
became aware that something was happening to the snow. A broad patch
at about a hundred yards to our left moved. It slid downward for a
few feet, then halted; and I remember having at the moment a sort of
fantastic impression that the snow was gifted with sense and stopped
because we were looking at it. I had had many fancies, wilder even than
that, during the past few days, and I make no doubt the others had too.
But what Philipson now saw alarming in a little shifting snow, I hardly
understood. It looked harmless enough to me.
'I have noticed that once or twice since we started this morning,' he
said, 'and I do not like it. There has been an unusually heavy fall--no
doubt it came with the blizzard the other night. The mountains are
top-heavy. There it is again!'
This time it looked more pronounced, and a lot less innocent. Almost up
to where we stood the snow began to slide slowly and gently downward,
a few feet at a time, then halting, but always resuming its curious
motion at shorter intervals. Looking all round us, we saw that the
slide was becoming more and more general; as far as the eye could
reach, the great white mantle was sliding and stopping, sliding and
stopping, rucking up here and there over a rise in the ground, with an
effect like a gentle swell of the sea. Then at last my fuddled wits
began to grasp what was really happening. There were millions of tons
of snow on that vast mountain side. The layers next the earth were
melting, causing the great mass to lose its grip. It would all slide
soon. There would be an avalanche.
'Quick!' cried Philipson. 'If we have something to keep us afloat we
may have a chance--otherwise none. Take off your packs!'
We opened out the two rolled tents and folded them flat, into a sort
of raft about five feet square, ribbing this with the tent-poles and
rifles laid crosswise on the under side and lashing the whole tightly
with guy ropes. There was barely time to complete the work before the
rush was upon us, swirling round us thigh-deep for all the world like
the urge of a strong current sweeping in over flat sands. We flung
ourselves on to the raft, which immediately started to ride down on the
shifting snow. For perhaps a minute the motion was pleasantly gentle.
Philipson took advantage of this breather to allot us positions: he
himself sat forward, holding the stoutest of the tent-poles, which
he had kept out, in his hands like a paddle; Poyning and I were just
behind him, gripping the ropes with one hand and Philipson's sheepskin
with the other; while the two Chinese servants squatted behind us,
their orders being to hang on like leeches themselves and catch any man
who might be jolted out of his seat and swept backwards.
It was a good move, turning our gear into this queer, toboggan-like
contraption: without it, we should have sunk into the rapidly
deepening, down-sliding mass, and been smothered in an instant. As
it was, our raft for a time rode the avalanche to admiration, being
too broad to sink in, and checked by the rib-like poles and ropes
that went under it from adding the speed of sliding to the pace
already given it by the moving snow. Soon, however, matters changed
considerably for the worse. The avalanche was gaining force and volume,
but with a decrease in the slant of the mountain side the resistance
was increasing, so that there became more and more evident a tendency
for the surface snow to roll on over that deeper down. Three times
we were struck by a heavy wave from behind and well nigh "pooped."
More than once, grazing it by inches, we shot past a sharp snag of
upstanding rock, against which the snow was breaking and spouting into
the air in a high cascade.
It couldn't last. I imagine the avalanche had now reached a slope
of the mountain not normally covered at all, and as the deep surge
shallowed out, its surface broke, like rapids of a river. The gentle
rustle of the snow when it started to move had now risen to a hoarse
roar, like the roar of the sea but with a strange muffled note in it
more terrible than the crash and boom of surf. Philipson stuck doggedly
to his steering pole, but there was no steering our crazy craft in that
awful race. Jolt after jolt shook us, and at each one I saw Poyning and
Philipson swing to and from me, as if we were on elastic. The ribs were
clearly fetched adrift; there was no longer anything to stop the raft
doubling up and being submerged. At last, with a fearful jerk, we were
shot clean into the air. The shock of pitching threw me backwards, but
I felt nobody behind me. Ah Sing and Lo Eng were gone.
'She will smash up now,' yelled Philipson over his shoulder. 'When it
comes, keep your limbs stretched out stiff!'
The crash came almost as he spoke. The raft heaved up, then plunged,
and I found myself whirled down in a tremendous roaring, suffocating
mass of snow, with nothing in my hand but a fretted rope's end. I
spread-eagled myself and stiffened my arms and legs, and I imagine it
was to that I owed my life; for though I was often submerged to the
point of stifling, I remained near the surface for the most part, and
could get a deep breath now and again when some sudden upheaval of the
snow-torrent threw me to the top. Once my heel struck something hard,
and the leg became numb and dead from that instant on. Had I been
rolling in a ball it might have been my head, in which case I should
certainly not be putting this record on paper now.
I felt myself sink suddenly deeper. The snow rushed over me, I was
madly fighting for breath, with a bewildered sense of plunging into the
very bowels of the sea, at frightful speed. Then came a blinding flash
of light in front of my eyes....
I must have lain unconscious for an hour, for that's the time Poyning
said it took him to find me. He had been much luckier. When the raft
broke up the main portion of it remained, apparently, under his body
and kept him riding afloat for fully a minute after the rest of us had
disappeared. Philipson he lost sight of just after me, but he himself
had been supported by the canvas to the end, until, with a blow that
winded him but did nothing worse, he was brought up sharp in a hollow
far down the mountain side.
The place where I lay was about two feet deep, but the snow was fast
sagging and melting. I must have rolled here after the avalanche had
knocked the senses out of me. I lay on my back in the soggy snow while
Poyning opened my sheepskin and felt me all over for broken bones.
Wherever his fingers pressed I ached and throbbed; the ankle I had
struck in my descent was hurting abominably, and for some minutes I
thought I should never rise from my back again. Poyning took off the
boot and gaiter and wrapped round a rough-and-ready cold compress made
out of a handkerchief and a handful of snow, which was a wonderful
relief; and after a bit, with his help and using as a crutch the rifle
he had picked up from the wreck of the raft, I found I could stand and
just hobble.
The change from higher up the mountain was little short of astounding.
In those few minutes we had passed from the arctic zone to the
temperate, and farther down still there appeared to be yet greater
transitions. Even here the air was oppressively hot to the lips after
the icy heights we had crossed. The point we stood on was plainly a
grassy slope well below the snow line, where the descending avalanche,
thinning over some miles of snowless ground, had petered out by sheer
force of distance. It was well nigh impossible, looking at this regular
scarp, to realise the tremendous ruggedness and cold and rarified air
of the mountain above, though the snow-clad pinnacles which ringed
round the valley still looked deceptively near. Below us stretched the
valley, broad, fertile, watered by the intensely blue lake plumb in
the middle, and to judge by the warmth where we stood far above it, at
least sub-tropical in climate. The white-walled city on the fringes of
the lake was now much more distinct, and beyond this we saw, rising out
of the grassy plain, several of the gigantic birds we had sighted from
the gully last night.
Our first concern was to find what had happened to Philipson and the
Chinese servants. From where we stood we scanned the slope in all
directions, but could see no sign of any one of them. We then began
a methodical search, binding together our two cast sheepskins and
standing them up sheaf-wise for a landmark on the hillside, and working
slowly up and down the slant at about thirty yards apart. I've said
the mountain here was regular, which it was in the main, though there
were any number of shallow basins in which an army of men could have
concealed themselves by lying flat; but as we searched dip after dip
and drew blank, lower and lower fell my hopes. Our comrades must have
sunk into deep snow as soon as they fell off the raft, and even had
they escaped death by battering in the avalanche, they must have met
it quickly by suffocation. Somewhere under that great white cloak on
the mountain side they lay, and not until the snow was gone, it seemed,
should we find their bodies. Yet we kept searching still, hoping
against hope, and so intent on the task that we were lost to what was
happening behind us.
I heard Poyning raise a sharp cry. He was looking back over our tracks
towards the place where we had left the sheepskins. There, gathered in
a knot, were some half dozen tall, white-robed strangers, who stared at
the filthy and unsightly garments, then at us their possessors, plainly
in an extremity of surprise.
But if the strangers were surprised, we were startled. The appearance
of them was matter for amazement indeed. Of the whole half dozen
not one stood, I judge, less than six feet three or four inches in
height, and the impression of great stature was accentuated by the
fact that they all wore long flowing robes the hem of which swept
the fast-melting snow at their feet; but it was their faces that set
me gaping. Anybody with experience of native races knows that the
Mongolian countenance, though it may vary greatly, always preserves
certain contours and exaggerations which are unmistakable. These men
were no Mongols. Nor was their skin, though ripely tanned by sun and
wind, of the peculiar Mongol pigment. These men were a Caucasian
stock. The hair of their bare heads, too, crisp and wavy and of a rich
chestnut brown shading off into black, spoke plainly of Aryan races and
the West.
Their leader, a magnificent old man who topped even his fellows by
a few inches, was grey and austere, and he stood there with his
beautifully chiselled features turned towards us in a long stare of
inquiry. Then words passed between him and the others--apparently his
attendants--and one of the most youthful looking took a few steps in
our direction and hailed us. The words were spoken in a clear, resonant
voice, totally unlike the throttled utterance of Asia, but listen
closely as I might I couldn't place the language. We remained halted,
wondering what was going to happen next. It was impossible to tell from
the cold impassive demeanour of the strangers whether their attitude
was intended to be hostile or friendly, but I knew well enough that the
words that had been spoken were a command. The situation was getting
irksome. Our comrade lay somewhere on that hillside, perhaps dying, and
every instant we wasted here we might be throwing away his life.
'Plenty of time to converse with these statuesque heroes later,' said
Poyning, turning away. 'I'm going to look for Philipson.'
But the newcomers seemed to think otherwise. Three of them ran up
and stood between us and the mountain top, waiting for the others to
approach, which they at once did, the tall greyhead leading. They spoke
to us again in that strange tongue I couldn't place.
Then I tried my stock of languages, which, so far as regions between
the Caspian and the China Sea are concerned, is richer than most men's.
I spoke to them in Tibetan, Mongol, several brands of Chinese, Turki,
even in dialects of the Khirghiz Steppes that I had picked up some
years before, but all to no effect. I made all kinds of excursions into
sign language, but I was in such a fever of impatience that I make no
doubt my gestures became merely wild and unintelligible.
At last I could stand it no longer. 'You fools!' I blurted out in
English. 'The man's dying, and here are we gabbling like a lot of
fishwives!'
With that I broke away from them. It was a futile step. Two of them
were upon me in an instant, pinioning my arms in a grip of steel. Even
without my game ankle I shouldn't have stood an earthly chance with
those giants. I was dragged back into their midst. They spoke to us
sternly, in the same elusive tongue.
Suddenly, Poyning began to struggle in the grasp of two of the men who
had also seized him, and uttered some words that at once struck my ear
with a curiously familiar note. I stared at him, as did the strangers,
but a moment after they had released his arms and were nodding their
heads with some appearance of comprehension. They answered him,
speaking slowly and distinctly.
I listened to the halting dialogue, and the longer I listened the more
familiar the sounds became. It was something that had reached my ears
before, and that recently. Then, with a violent start, I remembered
where. This language, or something very like it, was the one I had
heard Philipson use on the balcony of Nanking, and again in the pass of
the _obo_.
'What the devil are you talking to them, Poyning?' I cried.
He turned to me with an uncommonly excited look. 'It seems that my
qualifications can be of use in the East after all,' he replied. 'I
have been speaking to these men in Greek.'
Then it dawned on me. That was why the language had seemed so strangely
familiar. I knew Greek, but not the Greek that Poyning spoke. I had
learned to pronounce my Greek in the straightforward, almost phonetic
manner of a schoolboy of the nineties. Poyning, coming later, had been
taught the pronunciation that modern pundits imagined to have been
used in the days of Pericles and Aristotle. Here was a race speaking
Greek--apparently ancient Greek--in a way that Poyning, if with
considerable difficulty, could understand. It must have been the most
triumphant vindication of an educational theory in history.
'I have told them we have comrades yet to pick up,' said Poyning, 'and
I have given parole that we will not run away. These people will help
us search.'
'But how in the name of riddles did you tumble to what they're saying?
I don't understand a word of it.'
'Nor could I for some time. It's a much more melodious version of the
language than ours, and there are words I have to guess the meaning of,
but once I got a hint what to listen for, it began to come clearer.
God knows who these people are, Mirlees. They're certainly speaking
classical Greek.'
The strangers, directed by the tall greyhead, got into extended order
with the silent precision of men accustomed to discipline, and worked
slowly up the mountain side. We were soon back into deep snow, and it
was hereabouts we made our first discovery--a melancholy one. A brown
hand was sticking out of the white pall. A moment later I was looking
at the dead bodies of our two Chinese servants, the faithful Lo Eng and
Ah Sing. They were bruised all over, but it seemed they had met their
end by suffocation under the overwhelming torrent. A space was bared on
the hillside, and the dead men laid out on it.
Poyning turned to me, his face twisted with grief. 'Philipson must be
lower down--buried, too, or we should have seen him,' he said.
He spoke something to the old greyhead, who ordered the party to turn
about. I now saw a body of men about thirty strong approaching, some
of them bearing litters. How they had come to know they were wanted
I couldn't fathom. The body of our comrade must soon come to light
now, if only by reason of the melting of the snow, which was happening
so fast that the lower slopes of the mountain already ran brisk with
runnels of water. And yet the search was a long one. From the way the
snow lay it had plainly been deflected this way and that by the varying
slant; Philipson's body had no doubt been carried far to one side.
It was a shout from one of the newcomers that announced he had been
found. I hobbled towards him, looking, yet fearing to look; but at this
moment there was a most queer and unexpected diversion. Several of the
valley men had run up and were on the spot before I could get near. I
heard a cry go up from among them. They drew back, one and all, and
_fell to their faces in the snow_.
The sight pulled me up standing, but only for a moment. In my own
excitement I didn't stop to wonder what it could mean, but pushed
eagerly to the front and knelt beside our leader. To my unutterable
joy he was alive. The face was white and drawn, the lips an ugly blue,
but I wanted only a glance to tell me the breath was still in his
body. Then, suddenly, I felt myself grasped by the shoulder. The tall
greyhead stood over me and pulled me angrily away. There was no arguing
the point. I was dragged back to a spot some distance off, whither the
whole party, with the exception of greyhead and two men I took to be
physicians, followed. Poyning had now arrived, and he too was sternly
motioned not to approach.
He faced the stranger nearest him and put an indignant query. The man
appeared to be, like all the rest, in a state of excitement barely
controllable, but he muttered something in answer to Poyning, and I
knew by Poyning's face that the hearing was good.
'Philipson will live, according to this fellow,' he said, 'but we are
forbidden to go near.'
We clasped hands in silence. Never till then had either of us realised
to the full, I fancy, what Saunders Philipson meant to us--how we
little short of worshipped the man, and what an irreparable calamity
his death would have been. For myself, I felt at the same time a sort
of vague, unreasoning jealousy against these strangers who seemed
determined to take him from us. Something similar was clearly passing
through Poyning's mind.
'These people, Mirlees,' he said to me after we had been kept standing
there a matter of five minutes, 'are behaving with a coolness that
comes perilously near to cheek. Damn it all, whose friend _is_
Philipson?'
It seemed to me that the tall greyhead, who had joined us, started
slightly at the name. He was scanning our faces with a curious
intentness. Poyning spoke to him, whereupon he took on for the first
time a faint flicker of a smile, and answered my companion with words
in which I caught a note of sympathy; then his features resumed their
stern, statuesque calm, and he reminded me of nothing so forcibly as
some beautiful Grecian marble in a gallery.
'Whatever the reason is,' I whispered, 'they seem to be vastly taken
with him. You weren't here when they found his body. Poyning, every man
jack of them plunked down on to his face!'
He gave me a queer look. 'I wonder,' he said, slowly, 'whether
Philipson knew more about this place than he ever told us? Supposing,
for instance, he had ever been here before--'
I instinctively turned my eyes towards the spot where Philipson lay.
Although we weren't allowed to approach, no attempt was made to
prevent us from looking at what was going on; and as we were barely
twenty yards away, I can vouch pretty confidently for what I saw. The
physicians had laid their case of salves and bandages on a cloth on
the wet ground, and had placed against each of Philipson's wrists a
cubical box in dark wood, about the size of a studio camera. The notion
that at once occurred to me was some form of electric battery, but
later I had reason to believe that explanation fell very far short of
the truth. A moment's reflection would have told me this now, for no
sound came from the boxes, and no application of the crude material
force we call electricity could have caused our comrade to revive as he
now did. His limbs were stirring, and I distinctly saw his lips move.
The physicians detached the boxes and replaced them in one of the
larger caskets. They were talking to Philipson now, and _he was
answering them, with perfect fluency, in the language of this valley_.
At last the physicians rose to their feet, made a profound genuflexion,
and beckoned to the bearers of a sumptuous litter, who had come up the
hillside towards them. Two other litters bore the dead bodies of Ah
Sing and Lo Eng, and a fourth I was given myself, since with an ankle
like mine I could hardly hope to complete the long tramp down into the
city on foot. Philipson's litter travelled well ahead of us, and I saw
that a bodyguard had at once formed round it.
As we neared the city, I realised more and more that my first
impression of it had erred greatly on the side of undervaluation. If it
seemed imposing from a distance, now it was of a magnificence hardly
to be conceived. Every building was of pure white marble, which must
have been plentiful in the surrounding mountains, and of a severe
beauty and grandeur that simply took my breath away. You had no need
to ask yourself where this architecture had come from. It was Greek,
magnificently and marvellously Greek. Long, broad avenues of marble
delicately cambered, and fringed with pollarded cypresses of a variety
I'd never seen before, ran between the lines of buildings rectangularly
as in the newest Yankee city, but broken here and there by gardens
of sub-tropical plants. Carved work in a perfection of outline
abounded everywhere, in ram's-horn and fruit-basket capitals of the
columns, in gleaming white statuary by the wayside, in marble friezes
and caryatides of the buildings. You would have called this city a
magnified and transfigured vision of Athens in the golden age, yet here
and there were places where the architects had seemingly experimented
with foreign styles. More than once my eye caught a glimpse of winged
figures in bas-relief and the florid honeysuckle decoration, and those
impulses, if my memory serves me, came out of ancient Assyria.
We were soon into a part of the city that was thickly populated, and it
was plain our coming had thrown the people into an intense excitement.
We too had a bodyguard now; nobody was let come near, yet despite
the distance and the mask-like reserve that seemed to be the common
attribute of the whole people, we knew we were being scanned with a
mighty, repressed curiosity. We could see this also: whatever about our
comrade caused him to be saluted with reverence by the scouts on the
mountain, that emotion was shared by the populace down here, among
whom word of us seemed to have spread like blown fire in a brushwood.
Philipson's litter was about fifty yards ahead. As it passed, the city
folk one and all prostrated themselves, and the spectacle of these
people lowering their heads to earth before a stranger from the outer
world was, to say no more of it, a striking one. The crowd, indeed,
would have been imposing in any situation, for they were about as
splendid a collection of human beings as I ever beheld, or could dream
of. The long flowing robe, great stature, and clean-cut beauty of
feature seemed to be universal; and so close the adherence to type that
it struck me at once a newcomer's prime difficulty among this people
would be the distinguishing one face from another. "Doubles," thought
I, must be plentiful, and I found afterwards that this was indeed so.
The valley couldn't have been more than a few thousand feet above sea
level, for down here the air seemed to us, after our mountaineering,
of a tropic heat. We were forced to discard our heavy clothes one by
one, and these loathsome, travel-polluted rags the attendants solemnly
carried for us. We must have cut a boorish and grotesque figure among
these clean, graceful giants of the valley, but never a smile met us
over our ridiculous appearance; if we had aroused a burning curiosity,
little showed itself on the faces of these people but a grave, silent
dignity amounting almost to awe.
We passed on, as if in some fantastic sleep-walking. One day gone,
we had been fighting for bare life in regions of terrible cold and
appalling desert solitude; now we were plunged into the midst of what
was plainly one of the highest civilisations this world has seen. Time
and again I tapped my knee sharply with the rifle that lay beside me
on the litter, to make sure it wasn't all a delirious mirage of the
mountains, but the vision, if vision it was, wouldn't disperse.
Poyning walked with wide-open eyes, muttering continually to himself.
'It can't be real, you know,' I heard him say. 'We shall wake in a
minute--in the snow. The gods are laughing at us. They've dropped us in
a dream valley, peopled with phantom Olympians!'
'How in the name of mystery do these people come to be buried here?' I
said. 'Why has the world never heard of them?'
Poyning pulled his wits together with an effort. 'That's as deep a
riddle to me,' he replied. 'But from what I remember of those ghastly
heights--supposing we _have_ left them--I should say the world hasn't
had much chance to look into the matter.'
I followed his gaze round the vast amphitheatre of mountains, which
towered into the sky on every side of the valley. I am no geologist,
and never harboured any kindness whatever for the layman who holds
forth on sciences outside his ken. For that reason I offer no
explanation as to how this broad, deep depression originally came to
exist in the heart of the greatest upheaved region on our planet. I
will be content to record soberly and barely what my own eyes saw: that
the valley was completely mountain-locked, and apparently couldn't
have been approached from any point with much less than the tremendous
difficulty and hardship we ourselves had experienced in getting here.
Then, in one breath, the pair of us raised a cry.
Away to the west, a flock of the gigantic birds were flying. And now,
from this point in the centre of the valley, we were near enough to
realise fully the stupendous proportions of those creatures. Not only
were they bigger by far than any bird now extant in the outer world:
they must have eclipsed even the greatest of the winged reptiles that
have come down to us fossilised in the Jurassic lime-stones. Poyning
had halted, grasping the edge of the litter and staring spellbound. One
of the attendants jogged him gently by the elbow, and pointed ahead,
but Poyning shook the man off, sweeping the western sky with his arm
and uttering something in the language of the valley. I saw the ghost
of a smile on the attendant's face, and heard him answer.
Poyning stumbled on, biting his lips.
'What does he say?' I cried. 'Have they a name for the things?'
'Yes,' said Stephen Poyning, 'and a very simple one. They are not birds
at all. They are men.'
CHAPTER IX
THE WOMAN OF MYSTERY
I stared at the great wheeling, swooping forms till I thought my eyes
would have dropped out of my head. We moved on, but I was still gazing
when the low gable of a building came between and shut them from our
view, yet not by any manner of means could I bring myself to believe
I'd been looking at men. That could only mean men flying on artificial
wings. The flight of those creatures was, on a grand scale, the
graceful, easy, perfectly poised flight of a gull or a swallow, which
no human ingenuity could imitate. Clearly Poyning had mistaken what the
attendant said to him--an explanation credible enough when I remembered
that he himself admitted there were words in the language of this
people that he could merely guess. And there, for the time being, I had
to be content to let the mystery rest.
The crowd had steadily grown denser as we advanced, and our bodyguard
had more and more difficulty in screening us from close scrutiny. The
cumulative effect of these ranks upon ranks of gigantic folk was most
peculiar: it gave me the impression that I was of dumpy stature, while
Poyning, as I noticed from my place on the litter, looked a downright
dwarf against such a background. In all that throng I saw no full-grown
man under six feet, many stood well above, and giants of seven feet
were by no means rare. Everywhere we saw the bare heads of dark brown
or black hair, the wonderfully chiselled clean-shaven faces, and the
penetrating black eyes of the men who had first met us on the hillside.
There were women in the crowd, too, clad not greatly unlike the men,
but whereas the hair of the latter usually reached no lower than the
shoulders and was sometimes even shorter, the women wore theirs in
luxuriant coils bound over the nape of the neck. It was impressive and
profoundly fascinating to watch these people. Not only was there on
every face a dignity which, while it never became solemn, broke into
lighter shades very seldom indeed, but the whole concourse moved with a
superb, willowy grace that to my mind was poetry itself.
At length we came to a halt. Philipson's litter detached itself
from the procession and disappeared through the pillared portals of
a broad-faced building that reminded me of "restorations" of the
Erechtheum of Athens, while we passed on to a house of similar cast,
but smaller and plainly of less importance. The building was of one
tallish storey, approached by a flight of low steps in white marble;
Ionic columns supported the massive portico, with its blank cornice and
gently gabled roof, and behind this, in the wall proper, a door of
some dark wood gave entrance to the interior.
The tall greyhead, whose name we had discovered to be Kalliboas--that
is the nearest I can get in our letters to the very musical way we
always heard it pronounced--now led through to rooms that had been made
ready for us. They were severe and undecorated, these chambers, but
after the barbarisms of camp life in the Tibetan mountains they seemed
absolutely luxurious. The walls were all plain marble, built in great
blocks beautifully smoothed and united by a white cream-like mortar,
very little of which appeared, however, as the blocks fitted almost
face to face. The floor was likewise marble, bare except for here and
there a rug about half an inch thick, made of a fabric that was put to
a variety of uses in the valley. It seemed to me to be a sort of linen,
extremely soft and fine in texture, and so woven and interwoven as to
give it the stoutness of felt. This same lawn-like material was used to
upholster the couches, the only furniture, which were built of the same
dark wood as the house door. We discovered afterwards that chairs were
unknown, and that the tables used for meals consisted of low platforms
placed between the couches, the diners always reclining to take their
food.
It seemed strange there should be no tables of our pattern, if only
for writing purposes, but the explanation was stranger than the fact.
Writing was comparatively neglected. I found out before I had been in
the valley long that there was a drama among that community, and an
exuberant literary art, but these were practised for the greater part
orally and in public; and so keen were the powers of memory commonly
possessed, that writing for the sake of recording accurately was hardly
necessary. What writing was done mainly took the form of decorative
carving on stone. We had passed close by several examples of this on
our way into the city, and if we still harboured any doubt as to the
true origin of the language, those inscriptions finally dispelled it.
The styles of chisel-writing were many, from straight-lined majuscules
to the most ornate and flowing hand, but the base of it all was
unquestionably the alphabet known to the world at large as Greek.
Two sandalled attendants appeared, crossing the marble floor with
scarcely a sound, and to these Kalliboas turned us over with orders
to see to our wants. We were taken to one side of the building, where
we found a row of baths, each built into the floor and filled with
enough warm water to float a grown man--even one of the giants of the
valley--comfortably. The attendants relieved us of the rest of our
travel-smirched rags, laid down a pile of towels of the ubiquitous
linen-like stuff, and with a word to Poyning, whom they had discovered
to be our linguist, they went.
Poyning crowed with delight as he stared at the water. I am open to
admit that I was grinning--at Poyning. I couldn't help it. When I
remembered the dandy figure he'd cut during the earlier stages of the
expedition, and saw him now after weeks of forced abstention from
washing, the contrast was irresistibly absurd. His hide was scaly with
filth.
Poyning glared at me. 'They don't appear to go in for mirrors here,
Mirlees,' he said rather severely, 'or you'd see you are in a pretty
loathsome condition yourself.'
I looked round the bathing chamber. 'They don't seem to go in for soap
either,' I said, 'and that's worse.'
'Eh? No, apparently not. The fellow made no mention of what we were to
wash with. I suppose the idea is to lie and soak. Here goes!'
He flung himself into the water and stretched his limbs with renewed
crows of delight.
I watched him for a moment or two, until something in his appearance
attracted my gaze more insistently, and I stared with such intentness
that Poyning demanded what was up.
'What does the water feel like?' said I.
'Gorgeous. Why?'
'Look at yourself, man!'
Poyning looked. He jumped out of the water as if he had been stung,
then stared down at his own limbs and up at me in bewilderment.
Ye gods!' he gasped. 'You saw me before I got in, Mirlees. I'm not
dreaming, am I?'
'If you are, I am too. You were filthy as any Tibetan. It must be
something in the water.'
I got into one of the other baths, and saw the same startling
purification overtake my own grimy limbs. I am convinced, too, the
water had not only the trick of cleansing like magic, but some strange
healing virtue; it left the body with a sense of supreme comfort, the
skin soft and smooth; and if there was any unpleasant after-effect, I
never observed it, though I used these baths daily from that time on.
As I lay there, the dull throb of my injured ankle melted gradually
away, not to return. And perhaps the queerest part of it all was that
the water looked as clean when we got out as when we got in.
At the very moment we had dried ourselves the attendants reappeared
without being summoned, in a way that reminded me strongly of the way
the litter-bearers turned up on the hillside; and we were taken into
an adjoining chamber and helped off with the formidable stubble then
disfiguring our chins. Here again that strange healing water took
the place of soap. A white marble basin of it was given us, together
with a curious sort of vegetable sponge and half a dozen razors with
straight handles of rock crystal, looking more like surgical knives
than an outfit to shave with. Yet we had to admit that the operation,
which one of the attendants performed for us, was swift, painless, and
effective. The servants now brought us each a suit of the very simple
lawn garments and sandals we had seen everywhere, which having put on,
we were taken back to the main hall to eat.
The meal was simple in the extreme, consisting only of delicate white
birds and plain vegetables, yet I had never in my life eaten tastier
food. The birds were rather larger than pigeons, and the vegetables,
though I couldn't give a name to one of them, seemed not greatly unlike
the lettuces and artichokes and what not that figure in our European
bills of fare. In the method of cooking, however, there must have been
a wide divergence, for though the stuff was presented quite plain,
somehow or other a most exquisite flavour had been imparted to it. I
may say here that every meal we afterwards ate in the valley was hardly
less simple than this one, and that we throve mightily on the plain
diet. The natives themselves regarded anything in the way of elaborate
food with absolute detestation, and even their banquets were what we
should call Spartan in their simplicity.
After the discomforts of camp life we made no bones about eating a meal
lying down, but it took us aback to find nothing was given us to eat
with. Even in the roughest stages of our tramp across the mountains
we'd never been reduced to less than a clasp-knife. The food now laid
before us, however, had already been divided into handy mouthfuls,
and was moreover totally free from grease, and we soon got over our
scruples at adopting what appeared to be the custom of the valley--to
eat with the fingers. We ate, and continued eating in a fashion that
must have startled the attendants, for they had to reload our platters
three or four times before we were satisfied. There was no other
course, or anything else at all except a white wine, which was mildly
intoxicating but didn't arouse, so far as I could ever detect, any
inclination to drink more.
Poyning pushed away his platter with a long sigh. 'So much for the
belly-need,' he said. 'I would the hunger for knowledge could be as
easily sated. It's about time the elderly gentleman who calls himself
Kalliboas came back to enlighten us a little on this valley of the
Grecians.'
'I can't get it comfortably settled in my mind they are Greek,' said I,
'or how in Hades they got here, or how long they've been in residence.'
'For that matter,' replied Poyning, 'I can't altogether rid myself of
an idea that we shall wake up on those ghastly mountains in a minute.
But if it is real, these people are certainly Greek. I'm an honours
man, Mirlees, but I may tell you I little expected ever to meet my
old Olympians in the flesh. We must ply the ancient Kalliboas when he
comes. I'd also be glad to hear how Philipson finds himself.'
But we were to make no more discoveries that day. The long-delayed
reaction against our tremendous exertions and perils of the past few
days was hard upon us. We must have fallen asleep simultaneously, and
been carried to bed by the attendants, in a log-like insensibility; and
then we slept the clock round _twice_. Whether it was wholly a natural
sleep, or in part prolonged by artificial means for our benefit, I
don't know; I have a very shadowy recollection of coming half awake
once and seeing Kalliboas beside my couch and hearing him speak to me,
but I didn't wake fully till the sun was high, and then I learned on
the indisputable testimony of the servants that it was the third day
from our falling asleep.
We were now both as full of energy as we had been at the beginning
of the expedition, to say nothing of ravenously hungry again; and we
breakfasted on food similar to that of our first meal. Hardly had we
finished eating when Kalliboas appeared.
The old man saluted us with the stern courtesy he invariably showed,
and began to talk to Poyning, slowly, in the language of the valley.
The conversation had to be translated to me sentence by sentence,
but by the end of it I was already beginning to get a hint of the
modifications I must make in _my_ Greek to follow the speech of these
people. I may say that within a week I was able to stumble along with
it myself a little, and before the month was out I could understand
most of what was said to me.
Our first inquiry was, of course, for Philipson.
'You will see him to-day,' said Kalliboas.
'Is he well?' demanded Poyning.
The old man made some answer at which Poyning started slightly.
'What does he say?' I cried.
'Philipson's perfectly well, according to him. But I notice _he speaks
of him as the Prince_.'
We remained staring at one another for an instant. 'And I have more
than a notion the old gentleman does not welcome questions on the
subject,' continued Poyning quietly. 'We must go slow.'
I too had noticed an enhanced stiffness in the old man's manner, as if
he was a little scandalised, and he had certainly looked very straight
at us when the name Philipson caught his ear. Why this should be so I
couldn't guess, but there was very palpably something about him that
warned us to drop the subject. Poyning accordingly did so, and began
asking the old man questions about himself and the city in general. He
answered frankly enough for the most part, though we didn't take long
to grasp that there was a point beyond which we weren't going to get
enlightenment from him. What we did learn was this.
All the people of the valley bore names which, like his own, would
be recognised easily enough as Grecian by any student of classical
antiquity. Kalliboas was headman of a ward of the city, and as such
wielded considerable power. He was responsible to the rulers--Poyning
told me he used a plural here, but omitted to specify who the rulers
were--for the education of all children and for the administration
of the laws. It was astonishing to us to hear him describe this
legal system. No copy of the statutes, said Kalliboas, existed in
writing. They were carried in the memories of the people--not only
of the rulers and headmen of wards, but also of the common people,
being taught to children as soon as they came to a comprehending age,
so that most citizens could repeat the laws of the city by heart.
It seemed incredible that any state, however small, could be run on
such lines, but Kalliboas assured us the system worked smoothly and
well. The laws, he said, were not a whit the less existent for being
unwritten, and they were backed by a very strong public opinion; each
child received such education and training in matters of conduct that
when he grew up he knew better than to transgress against what the
general sense held to be fitting behaviour. If he did, officers were
detailed to remonstrate with him, and Kalliboas told us that on more
than one occasion in the history of the community the delinquent had
been able to bring forward such valid reasons for his unorthodox act
as to cause the law to be altered. From a sort of grim horror the old
fellow betrayed when he spoke of wrong-doing I inferred that crime in
our sense of the word was very rare; and he left on our minds a vague,
fearful impression as to what happened when the state was driven, in
the last resort, to enforce its will.
I had at first been inclined to picture Kalliboas as a priest, but I
soon found that was a misconception. In this community there was no
priesthood strictly on all fours with that of the outer world, for the
very simple reason that there was no religion--or at least nothing
in the way of religious dogma imposed upon the people. Absolute free
thought regarding the position of man in the universe was enjoyed and
encouraged, and though, as we found when we were able to go into the
subject more deeply, the great mass of the people held unanimous views
on such matters, it was only because the wonderful knowledge possessed
by their scientists and commonly shared by the whole community tended
to lead them in the one direction. I shall write more about that
scientific knowledge later on.
Kalliboas startled us a good deal when he told us he was ninety-seven
years old, but there could be no doubt about the figure, for Poyning
got him to repeat it. Though grey-haired, he stood as straight and
moved as supply as an active man of middle age.
'There were many old men among the people you saw when you were
brought here,' he said. 'Some well beyond one hundred years. We are
born into this valley in health, and live in harmony with nature, and
are without sickness.'
It occurred to me afterwards to wonder why the people, if they were
such a healthy race as Kalliboas represented, had never overflowed the
margins of the valley; and I hadn't studied them long before I came to
suspect they had some very effective method of keeping the population
stationary, though what it actually was I never discovered.
'What do you call your state?' inquired Poyning.
'We call it Hellas.'
'That is what in our country we call Greece. But there is still a
Greece, far beyond the mountains, which is the same country as the
Hellas of old.'
I saw Poyning's face suddenly fixed in a gape of amazement.
'What is it?' I cried.
'He says,' replied Stephen Poyning, '_that they are well aware of
that_.'
There were two of us open-mouthed now. It was our first inkling that
this hidden race had knowledge of the outer world. Had we known then
how that knowledge was obtained, I make no doubt we should have gaped
more.
'How did your people come here in the first place?' asked Poyning at
length.
'Our forefathers came over the mountains,' replied Kalliboas.
'And are we the first strangers who have ever penetrated into the
valley?'
It seemed to me that Kalliboas was looking very queerly into Poyning's
face when he said this. Also, the old man's manner had grown suddenly
stiff, and he now rose as if ignoring the question or not hearing it at
all.
'Come,' he said. 'It is commanded that to-day you shall witness an
important event in our history. We will depart.'
It was a day of brilliant sunshine. Outside the guest-house we found
the broad streets thickly lined with city folk, who presented a
distinctly imposing effect with their universal white robes and bare
heads. The crowd was plainly excited, yet there was always that air
of grave restraint about them, and though conversation was general it
never rose above a loud hum. We followed Kalliboas to a point where
the buildings fell away on all sides, leaving a big circular space
paved with marble and ornamented in the centre by a statue I took
to represent the Winged Victory. Thus far, but not a step farther,
the crowd came. I saw no cordon barring the way, and heard no order
given: they simply seemed to stop of their own accord, and I could
only suppose it was one of those strange unwritten laws we had heard
about that forbade them to advance. We ourselves passed on into a
neighbourhood where the architecture increased in size and splendour,
and at last came to a halt before the largest, certainly the most
magnificent building we had yet seen. Like all the others, it was pure
white marble, of perfect proportion and design, yet the carving of
its Corinthian capitals and friezes in high relief distinguished it
even in a city of superb architecture. I would say, without fear of
exaggeration, that it was the greatest masterpiece of chisel-work now
extant upon this earth.
A large throng had ranged themselves on the steps before the building,
and from their age and imposing mien I inferred these men to be the
dignitaries of the city; yet even among persons of such obvious
consideration the arrival of Kalliboas created a stir. Our coming was
the signal for the whole body to mount the steps and into the building.
We found ourselves in a large hall filled with soft light from windows
of wonderful carven tracery at the sides, and floored with marble slabs
so broad that for some time I couldn't detect a join. There was a
solemn hush in this chamber, where all remained in perfect stillness.
Never have I felt so lost as then, when we stood, Poyning and I, in the
midst of this levée of giants, many of whom topped me by a head, while
Poyning could hardly have reached to the level of their breasts. There
was a long wait, then, at some sign I couldn't see, the assembly moved
forward with a curious whisper of soft leather sandals over the marble
floor.
We filtered through a cloister of marble pillars into an inner hall,
larger than the first and dimmer. Each man now dropped to his knees,
whereupon we, at a sign from Kalliboas, did likewise; and as everybody
remained kneeling, I was able by leaning to one side to see across the
hall where two thrones, both occupied, faced us. There advanced from
one side an immensely tall figure, whom I shall call the high priest,
though as I have already noted in the case of Kalliboas the term
priest is really a misnomer. The seated forms rose and knelt before
the thrones, still facing us. I caught the gleam of something bright
against one of the dark heads. It was a circlet of gold. The man who
wore it raised both hands and removed this from his head, handing it
to the high priest, who straightway laid it on the brow of the other.
There could be no doubt what we were looking at. It was a ceremony of
abdication.
At this point the scene became wrapped in a curious mistiness, to which
for some moments I couldn't assign a cause. Then I saw it was a very
fine gauze curtain that had swung silently across the building between
us and the two thrones. I was so engrossed in this that I didn't notice
what was happening behind, but when I looked again, one of the figures
had vanished, leaving the throne empty. The high priest now withdrew to
the side of the hall, whence he returned leading by the hand a woman,
tall and queenly, as could be seen even at that distance and in that
twilight, who mounted the vacant throne. The pair stood together, then
knelt, when once again I saw the gleaming circlet of gold removed and
proffered to the high priest, who laid it on the brow of the woman.
Then came across the dead silence a mutter of words solemnly intoned,
which continued for some minutes, after which the kneeling pair resumed
their thrones.
Of that much I have written confidently, but of what followed I cannot
be so sure, though I have striven my hardest to extract a coherent
picture of it from my jumbled recollection. Somewhere in the great hall
arose an elusive, solemn music, like instruments played with muted
strings. Then not only did the scene before us grow clearer by reason
of the lifting of the gauze curtain, but in some mysterious way the
whole place was suffused with brighter light. For perhaps ten seconds
those two magnificent figures were clearly visible to our eyes. I
remained staring, fascinated, until I realised that all the rest of the
assembly had laid their foreheads on the cold marble floor.
I have a confused sense of pacing back towards the doorway and the
brilliant outer sunlight, and of Poyning's dumbfounded look as he
walked beside me in the middle of the crowd. I knew that he, like
myself, had recognised the newly throned prince as the man we had known
as Saunders Philipson, but the other and more startling recognition
he couldn't have made. It was that, I imagine, that caused me to need
Poyning's supporting arm on the way out: things were swimming round me.
In the brief interval of light, before I bowed my head with the rest, I
had looked upon and remembered the countenance of that glorious woman.
And unless I had gone blind or mad, _she was Philipson's mysterious
visitor of Nanking_.
CHAPTER X
THE SECRET OF THE HIDDEN RACE
Kalliboas led us back to our quarters profoundly impressed, but a good
deal more mystified by the double rite we had witnessed. It seemed to
have left him, too, in a frame of mind more solemn than usual, and
when at last we ventured to ask him questions he almost gave me the
impression that he judged the event too sacred to be talked about. He
then told us, briefly, that we had seen the coronation and betrothal of
the new Prince of the state, and at once drew behind that impregnable
barrier of reserve which I couldn't for the life of me bring myself to
assault. And not another word did we get from him. This was unfortunate
for our peace of mind, for when we reached the guest-house Kalliboas
abruptly left us and we saw no more of him for several days.
I sat on the edge of the couch racking my brains for a solution of the
mystery, but the more I pondered, the more bewildered I got. Not till
now had I felt to the full the loss of that great clarifier of the
brain, tobacco: I would have given worlds for a good leaf to compose
my jumbled ideas over. But tobacco there was none. During the last
stages of our ghastly journey across the mountains we were completely
out of it, and the weed seemed to be unknown here in the valley. I
remember reflecting how queer it was that a people plainly so skilled
in the arts of life shouldn't have discovered it, and promising myself
that if opportunity offered I would one day go out into the valley,
where it might be the tobacco plant grew wild and unheeded, and come
back to them like a new Raleigh bringing that one vice of this world
which is a virtue.
On the second day, Kalliboas still being absent, I fell to wondering
what was the reason of it, and why he had been so chary of telling us
anything about the abdication ceremony after we had apparently been
counted fit persons to witness it. To this also I could find no answer
at the time, though after-knowledge made the matter clearer. Kalliboas,
as I now see, was closely occupied elsewhere, and I don't even know
that his desertion of us was intentional.
However these things might be, it seemed my best plan to get ahead
with the language, so that I might dispense as soon as possible with
Poyning's sentence-by-sentence translations. I told Poyning, who told
one of the attendants that I wanted a language professor, and the
request was acceded to without much difficulty.
I now made swift progress indeed. At Edinburgh I had enjoyed some
repute as a Grecian, and though my knowledge had become heavily
overlaid with the many oriental tongues I had studied in the meantime,
I now found it came back to me easily enough. The prime trouble was, of
course, pronunciation, but when we were stumped over this we referred
to Poyning, or, if he was out of the room, resorted to writing. And
thereby hangs an incident which, as it turned out, I was to be most
unpleasantly reminded of later.
When we came down in the snow-slide most of our possessions naturally
went missing, but I had been carrying what I regarded as my most
precious piece of property next to my skin. That article, a hide-bound
notebook, I still possessed. In it were recorded the events of our
journey, and since arriving in the city I had filled several pages
with our more recent experiences. Now, when I needed paper to write
the disputed sentences of Greek, I produced this notebook and used a
blank leaf at the end of it, and I couldn't help noticing that the old
man who was teaching me stared very straight at that volume. At the
time I took this to be caused by the sight of a strange foreign object,
but afterwards I was driven to suspect there was more in it than that,
and that I should have been wiser to call for a slate--which was the
implement used by the folk of the valley on the rare occasions when
they wanted to write.
As day followed day and still Kalliboas didn't appear, we got more
and more tired of this virtual captivity, and at last Poyning told
one of the attendants point blank that we must go out for exercise.
The attendant took us, not to the street, but to a courtyard of the
building, and remained close beside us with a purpose there was no
mistaking. Poyning demanded of the man we should go farther afield,
but he gravely shook his head and replied that it was the order of
Kalliboas we should wait his return here. There was no getting over
this. We knew little enough of the valley, but we had gathered that
Kalliboas figured importantly in it, and I think both of us felt he was
a person whose orders it would be extremely unhealthy to disregard;
so we bowed to the inevitable with the best grace possible, which, to
tell the truth, was an uncommonly bad one. Poyning paced up and down
continually, like a caged wild cat, and seemed to have matters on his
mind that he wouldn't confide even in me. I also spent a deal of time
in the courtyard, from which we could catch glimpses of the populace
without, and hear their subdued talk and see from time to time in the
distant sky the monstrous bird-shapes that were still an unsolved
riddle to us, but for the most part I buried myself in the study of the
language, where, at least, there was satisfaction to be got out of this
harassing delay.
Of Philipson we saw and heard absolutely nothing. I was peevishly
inclined to blame him for this, but Poyning, despite his own nerves,
took a more generous view.
'Depend upon it, Mirlees,' he said, 'Philipson would come if he could.
I have a pretty shrewd notion there is more happening in this valley at
the moment than we know anything about.'
'What's to prevent him coming?'
'I make no dogmatic assertion. But from what I saw of that rather
picturesque ceremony the other day I would venture a hypothesis that
the said and so-called Philipson, having been for reasons best known to
themselves received by this people with such extraordinary favour, is
now state property and no longer master of his own movements. That's my
way of it, anyhow.'
At last, on what I think was the eighth day, Kalliboas came. He seemed,
or it may be pretended himself totally unconscious of our burning
impatience to get out, greeting us as if he had only been an hour gone;
and when lunch was brought in, with an additional couch for him, he
reclined there slowly and delicately sipping his wine and eating as if
it were no way unusual for strangers to be brought into the city and
imprisoned after getting the barest glimpse of it.
'We have many things to ask you, Kalliboas,' burst out Poyning at last.
The old man returned a suave, measured reply, which I found to my
delight I could understand.
'I await your questions,' he said.
'Your people are of Hellene descent, are they not?'
'Hellene blood runs in our veins.'
'So. Now we ourselves know the original Hellas, which is many thousands
of miles from this country. How did your people come here?'
'Have no fear, the time is not distant when you shall learn of our
origin. But tell me, how did yourselves come to this country? Was it by
design or did you stumble upon us?'
I am tolerably sure Kalliboas was already in possession of all the
facts about this, and that he merely wanted to hear our version of it.
Yet he started and bowed his head realistically enough when Poyning
mentioned Philipson.
'Our comrade,' said the former, 'came of a set purpose. He had
discovered evidence that somewhere in this region lay a valley
inhabited by an unknown people. He determined to search for that
valley. Together with us and the two native servants who are now dead
he set out across the mountains.'
'What guided you here?' demanded Kalliboas.
'A monument in the mountains, on which was a record of this land. The
writing had been made by a priest who penetrated into the valley but
retreated at once into the heights, where he perished. We found the
monument again, and from there struck across the mountains until we
were carried down into this valley by the snow.'
The mention of the _obo_ had put the old man into a perturbation which
even his mask-like reserve couldn't altogether hide.
'Do others of the outer world know of this monument?' he said with a
curiously grim inflection.
'We do not know. When our comrade found it on his former coming he
copied the inscription and then effaced it, so that probably only we
know what was written.'
'How, then, did they obtain their knowledge, those other men?'
'What other men?'
'They from whom you fled when you came hither.'
Kalliboas may, of course, have learned of this matter from Philipson.
On the other hand, he may not.
'I cannot tell,' said Poyning, staring at the old man. 'But in some way
they had come to suspect the existence of this valley, and believed our
comrade had more exact knowledge. They strove to steal his secret. But
tell me, Kalliboas, are we the first men from the outer world whom you
have seen?'
The old man shook his head. 'There was one before,' he said.
'What manner of man was he?' cried Poyning with a curious eagerness.
'He was tall, and of a fair skin like yourselves.'
'Then he was _not_ the native priest who made the inscription?'
'He whom we knew was no priest.'
'Whom you _knew_? Then he too has departed again?'
'On a long journey. He died in this land.'
'He is buried here?'
'We judged him to have been a man of standing in his own country, and
our rulers decreed that his tomb should be of a fitting splendour.'
'Where is it?'
'It stands on the foothills southward of the valley.'
'When did this stranger come?'
'Some years gone--ten, eleven years.'
'How long had he been here when he died?'
'But a few months.'
'How did he die?'
'No man saw his end. The body was found on the hills, unwounded, and
word passed in the city that the stranger had died from a bursting of
the heart, in climbing.'
Poyning rapped out these enquiries in a way that got me distinctly
alarmed. It seemed inevitable the old man must resent being thus
brusquely cross-examined--there is no other word to it--and I noticed
that he was indeed scanning Poyning's face with that curious intentness
he had shown when the subject of former explorers first came up. I did
my utmost to catch Poyning's eye and warn him to go lightly, but his
head had fallen to his breast.
'You are much concerned for the stranger who died,' said Kalliboas at
last.
Poyning looked up and gave the old man a look as straight as his own.
'He may have been of our race,' he said. 'We would at least go to his
tomb to pay honour to the dead.'
'So,' said Kalliboas. 'But it may not be yet. The foothills to the
southward are still impassable by reason of much snow which has
recently fallen. But come, it is the will of the Prince that I should
show you our city. You have asked to know more of the great birds you
have seen in the valley, and to learn how our people first came here.'
We followed him into the open and struck out westward on foot, skirting
the margin of the lake and making towards a broad grassy plain from
which we could see the gigantic birds rising into the air. News of us
was, of course, by this time general in the city, and I noticed that as
soon as we emerged from the guest-house we were watched at courteous
distance by a considerable crowd, who only desisted when Kalliboas
ordered certain city wardens--the closest approach to police I ever
saw in the valley--that we were to be pursued no farther. We must have
walked a mile at a round pace--the old man was astonishingly vigorous
for one of his age--and at last drew near enough to discern the true
nature of these gigantic wing-flapping figures.
'Then they _are_ men!' cried Poyning.
'Not so,' replied Kalliboas. 'They are boys. This is the school where
our people are taught the art of flight.'
We were so close now that we could see several pairs of great wings
lying on the ground beside a knot of youths in white skin-tight attire.
They were gathered round an older man, whose voice we heard raised
in the level tones of a set lecture. Our arrival caused no little
commotion: the boys drew away from their tutor and ranged themselves in
a half-circle, staring towards us with the liveliest curiosity. I make
no doubt we were more interesting to them even than the art of flight
was to us.
As Kalliboas approached, all saluted him with a profound obeisance,
which having gravely acknowledged the old man obtained a pair of the
great wings and had them held up while he explained the principle of
their use. Much that he told us of the origins and development of
flying in the valley I omit for brevity's sake. Suffice it to say
that the people had, some hundreds of years back, after a long and
systematic study of the feathered creation, begun experimenting in
wing-building for themselves, designing their implements so as to unite
the best points they had observed about the wings of the best-flying
birds. They were soon in possession of a wing that would support the
flier in the air, but the perfecting of the pattern and the elimination
of accidents had been a work of years, and to this day experiments were
still made. The wings we saw were of a very thin, very tough skin,
ribbed with some rigid horn-like substance which Kalliboas told us
was hollow and hermetically sealed full of a light gas. The buoyancy
thus derived was merely an adjunct, however, and should one of the
ribs become punctured and the gas escape, the flier was in no danger
of falling, since he depended for support in the air almost entirely
on wing-purchase. When in use the wings were worn on the shoulders,
being hinged together by a most ingenious device on the principle of a
ball-and-socket joint; there were thong loops on the under side of the
main rib, through which the arms of the wearer could be slipped in or
out at will, and lower down a light framework serving as a rest for the
feet during flight. The distance from tip to tip of the wings Kalliboas
showed us was something over twenty feet.
When he had explained their construction he bade the tutor select a boy
to demonstrate how the wings were used. A youth of about sixteen years
was chosen. As he came forward, I noticed a faint trace of a smile on
the face of the tutor, and when the demonstrator had donned his wings
and stood waiting, the other pupils broke into a downright cry of
derision.
The tutor quelled this outburst, and turned to us.
'I have chosen this boy, O Kalliboas,' he said, 'that the strangers may
see what our least skilful can do. He is my most backward scholar. See,
he waits for a favourable wind. No bird does that.'
The youth flushed on hearing these words. He at once put his wings
into a vigorous commotion, then threw his weight forward, poising on
tiptoe at about forty-five degrees, and in another instant had swung
clear of the ground. The wind-puff came, on which he soared almost
still, and had risen to a hundred feet in surprisingly little time.
When the current failed he climbed with a flapping of his wings to
another, higher and higher, until at last the tutor had to shout at
the top of his lungs to make the boy hear. It was a command to descend
and demonstrate the way of other manœuvres, which the boy did, gliding
down, wheeling, plunging, soaring, and finally, at a word from the
instructor, coming to within about ten feet of earth. He then seemed
with a sudden effort to shake the wind out of his sails, so to speak,
and alighted so gently that I didn't hear his sandals touch the ground.
Whatever the tutor may have thought of the performance, to our eyes
it was bewildering, marvellous. I had all I could do to refrain from
clapping my hands.
'Tell me,' cried Poyning, 'how far can these boys travel on their
wings?'
'But a little way,' replied the old man. 'I do not think there is one
student in the school who could fly out of this valley without becoming
weary. But when long distances are to be flown we use other wings than
these.'
He spoke a few words in a low tone to the instructor, who nodded
and gave a curt order to the boys nearest him. They ran to a large
pavilion-like building near where we stood, threw open the doors,
and carried out a pair of wings wider and apparently much heavier
than those we had seen. I noticed at once that at the point where
they joined, instead of the simple metal hingeing there was a curious
shield-shaped contrivance, about eighteen inches broad by nine deep.
'These wings,' said Kalliboas, 'demand higher skill and strength
than the others. No student is permitted to touch them until he has
thoroughly learned to fly by his own exertions.'
The tutor himself had donned the wings and risen into the air with an
ease and grace beside which, as we now saw, the performance of his
pupil had been merely elementary. For about five minutes he amazed us
by evolutions that brought my heart into my mouth time and again: he
somersaulted like a gymnast, tumbled like a tumbler pigeon, swooped
almost to the level of our heads, then rocketed up as if he had
been shot out of a catapult, and finally seemed to poise dead still
in mid-air. He was making some readjustment of the wings. These
immediately began to flap with swift sweeps, and the flier to hurtle
down wind at a prodigious speed. During the few short minutes we
watched him he must have traversed the whole width of the valley. He at
last re-approached, glided to within a few feet of us, gave the wings
that curious shake we had seen the student employ, and sank gently to
earth.
When the wings had been taken off him and laid on the ground I examined
that queer "carapace" at the hinges, but could come to no intelligent
conclusion about it. Two thin bars of metal the colour of aluminium
but, I imagine, much tougher, projected from the shallow carvel-sided
box and were hinged to the main ribs of the wings. It was through these
the power came, obviously, but whence that power arose in the first
place--
I turned to Kalliboas with an inquiry on my lips, but the look of him
froze me to silence.
'Come, let us go,' he said peremptorily, and led us back across the
plain. I was vividly conscious, as I had been conscious before, of
something in his manner warning me that it would not only be useless
but unwise to press him further. Clearly that strange force was a
secret we weren't to be allowed to penetrate. The visit had one
profitable sequel, however. Both Poyning and I extracted a promise from
Kalliboas that we should learn to fly ourselves, and learn we did,
making a beginning the very next day. But our experience in the air,
and the queer consequences that arose from it, I reserve for a later
chapter.
Such, then, was the mystery of the gigantic birds that had been seen in
the air over this land of secrets and possibly far away from it, for it
seemed likely from what Kalliboas told us that at one time and another
scouts had been sent beyond the confines of the valley. I fancied then
that this might account for the knowledge these people possessed of
outside countries, but I know now that they had other and stranger
resources.
We came in time to a neighbourhood near the middle of the city, which
we hadn't yet visited, and here Kalliboas led us into a great walled
courtyard, circular in shape, its centre an obelisk rising high out
of the marble floor. The monument was beautifully carven from top to
bottom in Greek character, so freshly preserved that I believe we could
have read it without the help of Kalliboas. The old man was looking at
the inscription with an expression of the profoundest reverence.
'On this stone, strangers,' he said, 'is recorded how our people first
came to the valley. It would take long to repeat all the tale as it is
written, so I will tell it you in my own words, more briefly. You are
perhaps familiar with the name of the great hero of old, Alexander of
Macedon?'
'He is known to us as the great Alexander,' replied Poyning.
'Mankind called him great, and with reason, for assuredly he was the
greatest man this world has produced. To us of the valley his memory
is a sacred thing. He was the founder of our race.'
Poyning's face was blank with incredulity. 'What you say is new to us,
Kalliboas,' he said. 'History as we know it records that Alexander came
far into the East, but never so far as this.'
'There is much in the life of our founder which your history does not
tell, I believe,' returned the old man, with a shade of irony. 'What is
the account your historians give you of his death?'
'He died at Babylon,' said Poyning, 'of a fever. This happened in the
three hundred and twenty-third year before what we call the Christian
era. Alexander of Macedon was never within a thousand miles of this
valley.'
The old man seemed more deeply moved than I had yet seen him. For a
moment the statuesque reserve was gone, his face flushed, his eyes
blazed, his usually suave gestures took on a sudden convulsive anger.
Then the mask had fallen again, but when he spoke it was still with a
stern conviction which proved beyond all doubt that whether we believed
his words or not, Kalliboas profoundly believed them himself.
'It is a lie,' he said. 'It is the greatest delusion in the history of
the world. Listen, strangers, and you shall know the truth, even as it
is written on this stone.
'In the year of which you speak, Alexander of Macedon was returning
from greater conquests than mankind had ever known, but it is not for
the magnitude of his victories this man should be revered. He was more
than conqueror. For years he had seen visions of a splendid future for
the world, of a uniting of its forces, of a fusion of the peoples of
the East whom he had conquered with the peoples of the West from whom
he sprang, a union without which the races of this earth would ever
remain in half-complete fruition. It was to the realisation of this
ideal that he devoted his life and his mighty spirit.
'What came of his projects, perhaps even your historians know.
Gradually, sorrowfully, our great founder saw that the world of his
day was not ripe for his ideas; his own people regarded them as fond
imaginings. They saw in him only the marvellous leader, the means to
certain victory and boundless plunder for themselves. Disillusionment
more and more bitter came upon him: the visions which had inspired his
vast conquests fell away one by one as he understood they could not be
carried into effect. Worse, his sympathy with the peoples of Asia led
to jealousy, discontent, then plots among his own followers. Their love
for him had waned, their faith given place to greedy ambition and lust.
At his bidding ten thousand of his men took wives from among the women
of the East, but to them it was still the light union of conqueror
with slave chosen from the conquered race. His best friend among the
generals of his army, Hephaistion, had died, leaving him almost alone
in the midst of a swarm of traitors awaiting only the moment to revolt.
'There had been many designs upon his life. At the city of Babylon a
plot was laid to slay him by secret poison, and when knowledge of
this came to him and he learned that the most fulsome among all his
courtiers, the infamous Antipater, was ring-leader in it, his mighty
heart broke. He determined to flee from this hotbed of treachery,
strike out into the unknown, and found a new kingdom where the
barbarian jealousy of Europe against Asia should not be. The plot gave
him an opportunity. The poisoned food was privily destroyed, but the
king feigned to have eaten of it and to be dying. His common soldiers,
loyal to him still but understanding the true greatness of his mind no
more than the generals, were admitted to the presence for a last view
of their commander, who simulated approaching death before them.
'Then came the end. One plot had been met by another. Secretly, the
King's place on the royal couch was filled by a youth like to him in
form and feature even as his own beloved Hephaistion had been, who
had died of a sickness two days before. The body of the dead youth
was shrouded with a pall, and it may be that your historians record
the truth, that no man ever saw the face of Alexander after his
death. The King himself lay hidden in the innermost apartments of the
palace, while the news of his death was noised abroad. There was, as
he had anticipated, small difficulty in withdrawing secretly from the
city. When asked who should succeed him he had answered, "The best
among you," well knowing that among those he left behind there was
none worthy to rule a satrapy, much less the empire; and he had truly
foreseen that in the confusion of the fight for pre-eminence which
would break out as soon as his death was announced, he might depart
without knowledge or suspicion.
'With a small faithful band the King left that polluted court of
Babylon and journeyed swiftly eastward. He had resolved to go beyond
the uttermost limits of his former campaigns, that no tidings of
him might reach back to the cities of Persia and give rise to fresh
plottings and strife, yet even so his passing was not wholly unknown.
The wild races which dwell to the west of us recognised him as the
great Grecian conqueror, and paid him divine honour, so that to this
day they call by the name of Alexander all things noble and great. So
much we know from our scouts, who have at rare intervals visited those
regions.
'The band, Grecians and their Asian wives, came at last to the great
mountains which encircle our city. They suffered grievous hardship and
peril, and their numbers were reduced by their sufferings, but there
was ever with them the leader whose mighty soul could sustain armies,
and in the end some fifty men and women reached this valley. Dreams had
told the King that there lay a fertile land beyond the great snows, and
this, it seemed to them all, was the land which the King had dreamed.
Here he built his city, and I tell you, strangers, that there stand
in the city to this day stones which the great King had touched with
his own hands. These names'--Kalliboas pointed to the marble pedestal
of the obelisk--'are the names of those devoted men and women who
followed him across the wilds. Here they settled and prospered, and we
who dwell in the valley to-day are their descendants.
'The King lived to see the young state multiplied far beyond the
numbers which had accompanied him, and when at a great age he died, he
left these words with his people.'
Kalliboas again pointed to the obelisk, and read, word for word, this
astounding passage:
'"Not until the world is ripe to hear shall the secret of this land
be made known to the world. In my life I have striven to unite the
races of Europe and Asia, but I have failed, for the world was not
ready. Barbarism and jealousy were too heavy upon it: the world has not
understood my thoughts. But there shall arise in the years to come a
generation more enlightened. Till then, I charge ye my people to hold
aloof from the world. I go now to the nether shades, but I shall come
again. Let you and your children's children remember."'
The old man shot a keen glance from one to the other of us. 'This is
strange hearing to you, doubtless?' he said.
'It is monstrous!' I cried. 'It is impossible! We have been taught--our
people have believed down through the ages that the man we call
Alexander the Great died in Babylon, and that his body was borne in an
alabaster coffin to his own city of Alexandria, which stands beside
the Nile. There, our historians say, it was laid with great pomp and
ceremony in the mausoleum called Sema.'
'That a coffin was carried from Babylon into Egypt on a car of gold
and that it was deposited in our King's own city,' said Kalliboas,
'we ourselves know. That it was the body of Alexander was universally
believed by his generals, and by his Baktrian wife Roxana, who at the
time of his supposed death lost no time in murdering her rival the
Persian Stateira, that her own son might succeed to the empire. Our
King thought well to leave the murderess to a vengeance which was not
long in overtaking her crime. He himself was already gone far eastward
when that funeral procession set forth from Babylon towards the west.
The body contained in the coffin was the body of a youth whose name,
Krantor, has perhaps never been heard by you.'
We were silent for fully a minute. It was staggering enough to have the
history I had believed as gospel thus torn to shreds; but when I came
to reflect that I, Ronald Mirlees, had stumbled into company with a man
who was not only to penetrate this mystery but seemed to be himself so
strangely involved in it, I had some difficulty in fetching a breath.
'Tell me, Kalliboas,' I said at length, 'what manner of man do you
conceive our comrade to be? To us he is known as a traveller in the
East--for my part I believe him to be of my own race, which the world
calls British. For what reason have your people received him in such
honour and placed him so high?'
Kalliboas looked at me with surprise in which there was more than a
hint of disdain. 'Can it be,' he said, 'that among those from whom you
come there is so little knowledge of the great conqueror? Is there no
statue, no carving upon metal or stone, which enables you to recognise
our King?'
'You mean--' we cried together.
'I say,' broke in Kalliboas, 'that the man whom you call by your
barbarian name of Philipson is no other than our own lost King who has
returned to us after the years, Alexander of Macedon.'
Nothing was said by anybody as we walked back to our quarters.
Kalliboas, as it seemed, was quite content to let us believe his
amazing statement or not as we chose. We were silent because we simply
found no words to say. From that far-off day beside Yangtze River,
when Poyning had addressed Philipson as Macedonian and justified his
impertinent fancy by the fact that our comrade's features bore a
striking resemblance to those of the great Grecian conqueror, I had
pondered much in my mind upon the nature of Saunders Philipson. More
than once already in this narrative I have recorded things which argued
him to be far out of the common run of men. His astonishing physical
beauty--not to be totally extinguished even by the very skilful native
disguise I'd first seen him in--the force and intensity of his mind,
his almost superhuman determination in following an object he had set
his heart on, his strange power of inspiring affection and faith, his
stupendous bodily strength--all had got me and kept me speculating in
a vague, perhaps even fantastic strain about him. But that he should
regard himself as the living incarnation of one of the greatest figures
in history, and that the people most interested in such a reincarnation
should promptly accept him as such--this set my brain whirling again.
'You have added enough to your knowledge of us for one day, strangers,'
said Kalliboas, when at last we had reached the guest-house. 'Let me
now learn something from you. What moved you to accompany our King
hither?'
It was on the tip of my tongue to blurt out something which, as I now
see, would have been extremely impolitic, but luckily Poyning broke in.
'We are of a race which delights in strange adventures,' he said. 'When
our comrade unfolded this adventure to us we readily joined him, for we
believed he was a man who would accomplish much.'
This answer seemed to please Kalliboas greatly. 'You had faith in our
King?' he queried.
'We had great faith, which was justified, for I do not think any other
man in the world could have brought us over the mountains as he did.
But now, Kalliboas, it is long since we saw him.'
The old man drew back his head sharply.
'Surely,' went on Poyning with a little heat, 'we have some claim upon
him? We risked our lives in coming here, when few men even of our race
would have followed him on a journey so full of uncertainty and danger.
Though he is your King, to us he is still our comrade, with whom we
went through much, and whom we greatly love. He, surely, will not deny
us an audience?'
I don't know that the old man approved of Poyning's free words, but he
seemed to relax a little at the evident sincerity with which they were
spoken.
'Our own people, even our greatest, have audience with the King
seldom,' he said, rising. 'Inquiry shall nevertheless be made.'
When Kalliboas had gone, Poyning sat for a long time on the edge of a
couch, drumming his fingers on his knees. I spoke to him once or twice,
but he returned nothing but absent monosyllables, and I could see from
the look on his face that his thoughts were neither clear nor pleasant.
'This will never do, Mirlees,' he burst out at last.
'What do you mean?'
'We must have a plan--present a united front. We were within an ace of
disaster to-day. When he asked our reason for coming here, you very
nearly let him know _your_ reason. I could see it.'
I began to catch Poyning's drift. 'That would be unwise, of course,' I
said.
'Unwise? It would be suicidal. I've had my eyes open since we came
here, Mirlees, and I can see this much with absolute certainty: we
are not _personæ gratæ_ in this state. The people greatly rejoice at
getting back their King, as they call him--but they would sooner have
had him come alone. There's a palpable atmosphere of suspicion wherever
_we_ move.'
'You think so?'
'I do most decidedly. Look at the facts. These people find us,
strangers, on the hillside. What is the first thing they do? They take
very good care that we shall not run back by the way we came. It is not
till they find Philipson also, and recognise him for their lost King,
that things become easier for us. Why? Because, I take it, they thought
we were his servants like the Chinese and might be trusted not to run
away. But as soon as they learn more about us, suspicion brews again,
and we are under arrest for a week. Then, apparently, Philipson having
vouched for us, we are given more freedom and shown more secrets. I
don't imagine that would have happened unless they were satisfied those
secrets were safe in our keeping, and what does that mean? _That we
must stay here for ever._'
This was putting the situation in an unpleasant light indeed. 'We shall
have to have a say in that,' I said.
'Agreed. But how?'
'You think they'll keep us by force?'
'God knows. But I begin to fear this people, Mirlees. There is a cold
magnificence about them and their city that oppresses me. I feel they
are benevolent to a point, but that beyond it they could be unpleasant
in a way we don't dream. How do you suppose they've kept their secret
from the world for twenty-two centuries? The impassable mountains
would account for it to a great extent, but even we know of two men
who have strayed into this valley from the outer world. Kalliboas
admits the coming of one--why, I don't know, unless he thought the tomb
these people have for some reason or other built for the stranger is
so conspicuous that sooner or later we should find it for ourselves,
and all about it. But who's to know there were no other strays? There
may have been many in the course of the centuries. Some may have been
content to spend the rest of their lives here, but what of those who
wanted to go back? They never left this valley alive, Mirlees--only the
one man, the Tibetan who built the _obo_, and that perhaps only because
he ran before they saw him. Had others got out alive, this valley would
not have remained secret from the world. Then again, doesn't it strike
you as queer that a man who could get over those mountains on foot and
alone should die of heart-failure climbing the foothills this side?
What was that man doing when he died?'
Poyning was striding swiftly to and fro, clenching and unclenching his
hands in a curiously agitated fashion. Suddenly he halted, and stared.
There, framed in the doorway, stood Kalliboas.
'Inquiry has been made,' he said. 'You are to be received by the King
within a few days.'
Poyning bowed in silence, and the old man was gone.
'It's a tall order,' said Poyning with a queer look at me, 'but I
wonder if our ancient friend knows English?'
'I'm beginning to be shy of assigning limits to our ancient friend and
his people,' I said. 'But for the future we shall do well to discuss
private matters in a whisper. I never heard Kalliboas approach then.'
'Neither did I. But it was uncommonly odd he should turn up at the
moment he did. This place gets on my nerves, Mirlees. Thank God we're
to see Philipson. We may be able to catch some hint of what these
people intend to do with us. But we must take care not to give him or
anybody else the slightest inkling that we want to leave the valley,
and if ever you had an idea of writing a book about it, for God's sake
keep the ambition dark!'
The promised audience with Philipson was the better part of a week
in coming, but at last, one morning just after we had finished
eating, Kalliboas came to announce the King was waiting us. We were
swiftly carried in litters to the royal palace, where we mounted the
magnificent marble steps, and passed into an outer hall, and there,
at the bidding of Kalliboas, took off our sandals and followed him to
the inner apartments. Kalliboas immediately threw himself on to his
face, signalling us to do likewise. It seemed a pretty squalid thing to
grovel in this fashion to a man with whom we had travelled so far on a
footing of perfect comradeship, but I think we both realised it would
be a bad move to demur.
We heard light steps across the hall, and felt ourselves touched on
the shoulder. There stood Saunders Philipson before us, his long white
robes setting off his face and figure to admiration. He greeted us with
that wonderful grace he always had, bade Kalliboas go, and a moment
later was chatting with us as frankly and informally as if the strange
wheelings of fortune of the past weeks had never been.
He had motioned us to the lawn-covered couches of the apartment, three
of which were laid so close together in a triangle that we could speak
quite comfortably without raising our voices. We talked English.
'How do you find yourselves?' was Philipson's first question.
'We are very well looked after,' I said. 'But we ought rather to
inquire for your health. You caught it pretty hot in the snow-slide,
Philipson.'
He seemed to cast his mind back, as if to something that had happened
a great while ago. 'Ah, yes,' he said. 'The avalanche. If it had not
been for my two faithful comrades I do not know that I should be here
now. I have heard how you got the search party and found me. That adds
one more to the already long list of services for which I have to thank
you.'
'We did little,' said Poyning. 'But the doctors who attended you did
much. It amazed us, Philipson, to see the way you recovered.'
As Poyning spoke I saw him raise his head. His eyes opened in a wild
glare of stupefaction. He was looking at something over my shoulder.
Then I swung round on my couch, and looked for myself, and came near
fainting.
_The Chinese servants, Ah Sing and Lo Eng, stood behind me._
CHAPTER XI
THE HALL OF WANDERING SOULS
I rose to my feet and swayed like a drunken man, a furious throbbing in
my temples and buzzing in my ears. For an instant I fancied we were the
victims of an illusion; yet the men looked solid enough, and there was
no doubting the way Ah Sing dropped a knee to the floor and saluted us
with his old ingratiating grin.
Philipson turned to the servants. 'You are to speak to Mr. Mirlees,' he
said, 'and convince him you are real.'
'You, Lo Eng,' I said, 'do you remember what happened to you?'
'When we got well, Mr. Philipson asked for us,' he replied with
dignity. 'We live in the palace and wait upon him.'
'What about you, Ah Sing?'
The Celestial's grin broadened. 'Ah Sing fallum one big bang,' he
said. 'Him tinkee die. Nex' time him sabbee, _tai-fu_ hab come, makee
numbah-one topside pidgin. Gib Ah Sing plenty good dlink. Jus' now him
headum walkee plopah, no makee seeck.'
Then the pair of them withdrew. As body-servants to Philipson they were
clearly enjoying some consequence, and I couldn't help feeling that in
the bow they gave us there was just a shade of patronage.
'What does it mean?' I cried, staring at Philipson. 'We thought those
men were dead. They _were_ dead--or what we've always been taught to
call dead.'
'That is just the crux of the matter,' he replied, gravely. 'What one
has been accustomed to regard as death. The world we came from is
rather easily satisfied on that point, but the physicians of my people
here hold other views.'
I noticed throughout this interview that Philipson had dropped into
speaking of the people of the valley as his, as if he had never
belonged to the outer world. Also, while I have written his words in
fluent English, this was not how we heard them. Often he paused at a
loss for an expression, and strange though it seemed to us, it was none
the less manifest that Saunders Philipson was already beginning to
forget the English tongue.
He must have sensed what was passing through my mind. 'And how do _you_
manage with _our_ language?' he inquired.
'Poyning had it pat almost from the first,' said I. 'I've got a decent
hang of it myself now--like him, I'd learned the language at school,
and I had only to adapt it the way it is pronounced here. But you,
Philipson, were perfectly familiar with both words and pronunciation
before you came.'
He started at the directness of the remark. 'You knew that?' he queried
sharply.
'I heard you speaking to the doctors who attended you on the mountain
side,' I said, 'and--'
His eyes were on my face as palpably as if he had touched me with his
fingers. 'And--and that,' I concluded, 'seemed pretty conclusive.'
Philipson preserved a tense silence for about half a minute, as if
debating with himself.
'You have been faithful comrades to me,' he said at last, in a low,
earnest voice, 'and it is time for you to know the whole truth. That
you have not learned it from me before is only because I was myself
not sure--only the upshot of this adventure could reveal the truth,
and before I have finished you will confess that I had good reason for
hesitating to speak out. It is enough to say that I knew I was more
than I purported to be when I met you. Upon you I practised a deception
which I have practised on the world at large--if deception it could
be called. I told you my name was the rather humdrum British one of
Saunders Philipson. That was the name I had adopted in England, where
I was educated and became a naturalised Englishman. But I was not of
English birth. I was born in Greece, near the modern city of Salonika,
and was known to the people of that region as Alexandre Philipides. The
surname had been borne by my family from very early times, and was held
by us, among other evidences, to indicate our descent from the ancient
kings. From my boyhood I had brooded deeply on the circumstance of my
ancestry. I had also dreamed strange visions--I think your English
expression "voices" would best describe these visitations--all of
which seemed to tell me my destiny lay in the East, where some great
mystery lay waiting to be revealed to me. Sometimes there would seem
to be a voice speaking in my ear and calling to me, sometimes a human
figure rose before my eyes, and once, gentlemen, I solemnly assure you
that I dreamed a vision of the magnificent panorama of this valley
exactly as it burst upon our view when we emerged from the mountains a
few weeks ago.
'By the time I came to man's estate my impulse to travel in the East
was irresistible, and my parents being then both dead, I set out on my
quest. In my mind I had put together all the evidence of my visions,
and it seemed to me that somewhere among these tremendous mountains lay
the heart of the mystery which I was destined to discover. I explored
the wild interior of Asia in a way that no other man living has done,
and then at last I came upon that strange inscription of the obo.
You already know how I secured an interpretation of it, and you need
not be told of the exultation I felt when I recognised in it a solid
confirmation of all that my visions had told me. Then, Mirlees, as if
the gods were determined to aid me, they threw you in my path, and
later, you, Poyning. Your help, I thought, would be precious, and if
you will allow me to say so, I was not wrong in my expectations. I made
known to both of you the secret of the obo, which I knew to be sound
fact, but said nothing of my "voices," which, real as they were to me,
might only have disposed you to believe you were dealing with a madman.
Then again, at Nanking, I had a vision so vivid that it convinced me
finally I was following no mere chimera; and again in the pass of the
_obo_ came a visitation that I could not doubt.'
Philipson paused, eyeing me very keenly before he resumed his
narrative. I imagine he was wondering how much I knew or suspected of
these affairs already.
'Though,' he continued at length, almost hastily, 'once more I shrank
from communicating a matter so wild and incredible. And from then on,
that vision was before my eyes night and day, leading me by safe paths.
Otherwise, not I nor any other man of this earth could have found a way
as I did over that last awful wilderness of snow. The rest is known to
you. We came to the rim of the valley, and I knew it was the valley
of my dreams. I think I should have told you everything on that last
morning, but then came the avalanche, and after that, as you saw, I
was borne away from you in the midst of a bodyguard. There now seemed
to ensue several periods of unconsciousness, which I found afterwards
were part of the treatment given me by our physicians, and when at last
I came to my normal self I learned that I had been chosen King of this
city. I asked for you and for my servants. The latter were brought to
me a day later. I did not know then that they had been picked up on the
hillside for dead, so their appearance did not greatly surprise me. I
then inquired why you had not come to me. I was informed that the Nine
Shadows advised delay. It was my first knowledge of the existence of
that body, but from the way their name was mentioned I realised they
were a force to be reckoned with, and subsequent developments have more
than confirmed me in the belief. Bit by bit I have come to understand
my position. I can tell you it is by no means so simple as might have
appeared to a casual onlooker the other day when I was crowned and
publicly betrothed to a maiden of the ancient blood royal.'
'You mean your power is limited?' put in Poyning.
Philipson leaned further forward and sunk his voice lower. 'The
situation seems to be this,' he said. 'The Nine Shadows are
all-powerful. As soon as they had satisfied themselves I was the
true Alexander who should come, they advised the reigning Prince,
Kalliphanes, to abdicate. "Advise"--that is the word generally used of
the acts of the Nine, but I have already apprehended that it might be
bad for the man who neglected that advice. Although Kalliphanes retired
with apparently good grace, I do not know that he is reconciled to his
retirement. He has behind him a faction, some of whom even question
my claim to the throne, and though he can do nothing so long as the
Nine are with me, I am disposed to venture little authority on my own
account until my position is more securely established. So you see,' he
concluded, 'it is not all honey to be King of the lost city of Hellas.
But now tell me something about yourselves. What have you been doing
all this while?
'We saw the abdication ceremony,' said Poyning, 'but after that
Kalliboas disappeared and we were little better than prisoners for
about eight days. When he came back he told us it was your wish that
we should see the city. We have already seen much. We have had the
mystery of the great birds cleared up for us, and we have been taught
something of the art of flight, and we know what it says on the obelisk
of Alexander.'
'That was good,' said Philipson with quiet enthusiasm. 'There you went
to the very heart of our existence. So now you have seen the devils
of ghostly face and the great birds. What else does the legend speak
about? The white gems--have you seen them?'
Philipson saw by our faces we had not.
'Then it is obvious you have not yet visited any of our private
dwellings,' he said.
'How does that follow?'
'If you had, you would have seen the children playing with the white
gems very much as your English children play with marbles. They come
from the river which flows into the lake from the north-east. Sbrang
Chikya was quite right about it. Diamonds as big as walnuts roll down
its course by the hundred; the bed of the lake must be thick with them.
You must ask Kalliboas to take you there, but I would suggest you do
not betray any great excitement about the stones. Although my people
do not hold such things precious they know that in the outer world the
greed of men for diamonds passes all understanding; and they regard
that lust with the utmost horror and contempt.'
'That matter is still a great riddle to us,' I said. 'We've had plenty
of hints that your people are not unaware of what is going on outside
the valley. How is that knowledge obtained?'
His voice became suddenly graver. 'If I tell you here,' he said, 'you
will not be able to believe. Kalliboas will show you for yourselves,
and much more to astonish.'
We left Philipson shortly after this. His forecast was abundantly
fulfilled. We did see much to astonish us, and much that I but vaguely
understand to this day. I saw with these eyes the method by which
this strange people informed themselves of the events of the rest of
the earth--a sight which leaves me still amazed and bewildered, even
sceptic; and yet on the other hand there remains the undoubted fact
that they _were_ aware of what was transpiring beyond their mountain
barriers. Of that, at least, I am certain.
The day after our audience with Philipson, Kalliboas came to our
quarters and bade us get ready to accompany him. It seemed clear enough
now that Philipson's influence was making itself felt: more and more
candidly did the old man answer our hosts of questions, and he even
volunteered information on many strange matters the mere existence of
which we hadn't suspected.
Through the streets, fragrant with the aromatic scent of the bordering
trees, we followed him on foot to a place about a quarter of a mile
from the royal palaces, where we came to a courtyard into which, as it
seemed, the populace weren't allowed access. It was a vast enclosure,
with walls nowhere less than fifty yards from the group of buildings
in the middle of it, and each of these was a good deal bigger than any
single structure we had yet seen. In the main building, too, there was
a marked difference in the design of the interior, its halls--and it
had many--being built one within another like kernels of a nut. Some
chambers through which we passed, though panelled and paved with the
magnificent marble we had grown familiar with in our own guest-house,
were manifestly laboratories, containing scientific apparatus of a
pattern entirely new to us; and in one passage near the centre of the
building we came upon a superb life-sized statue of the Pallas Athene,
a deity I don't remember, curiously enough in a city given over to
mental culture, to have seen portrayed elsewhere.
Kalliboas whispered to us here that we must preserve unbroken silence
until we emerged again from these inner chambers. For myself, I found
this injunction none too easy to obey: I could have cried out time and
again with amazement over what we saw. In the first place I couldn't
for the life of me fathom how these enclosed halls were lighted and
ventilated, yet they were both. Sweet air, and a queer diffused rosy
illumination pervaded them all, though I felt no draught that could
have accounted for the clean atmosphere nor saw any lamp that could
have furnished the light.
We had now entered a square corridor the wall of which was built
with many cubicles, all small and furnished with bier-like couches
of marble upon which lay forms in varying degrees of inertia. Some
were already still and pale as the marble all round them, so that
you would have said life was extinct, but in others we saw the
trance-production--for such it was--in actual process. As the subject
lay down on the couch he fixed his eyes on a curious bright blue
spark in the low ceiling, produced I don't know how, but apparently
by some cut gem illuminated from behind. I looked at one of these
things for some minutes, and most strange the appearance of it was:
although the light in its immediate neighbourhood was brilliant, in
some mysterious way this did not radiate, so that the rest of the
niche was no whit the brighter for it. The state of trance appeared
to be secured very easily, and very profoundly. In one case we halted
outside a recess while its occupant was in the act of lying down. He
took no notice whatever of us, but at once concentrated his gaze on the
blue spark in the ceiling and barely half a minute later was rigid,
of a dead-pallor, deep in the self-induced sleep. They were all ages,
these trance-subjects, from fresh youth to grey hair; yet on all their
features I noticed the one stamp of profound spirituality. Some of
them moved their lips in sleep, muttering, and we came to one recess
where an attendant had seated himself beside the trance-subject and was
listening closely to his words--but not writing anything down.
The next chamber inward was the hub of the whole building. It measured
about twenty yards square, and contained absolutely nothing beyond a
pedestal of solid marble surmounted by a big globe of some glassy
substance which radiated that curious rose-tinted light I had noticed
everywhere throughout the building. The sight of this lamp was ordinary
enough, but when I came to reflect what it meant, I could have fallen
down in my astonishment. In the corridor of recesses we had just left,
we had seen a brilliant blue light that didn't radiate. Here was a
soft rosy light which had been visible to us for the last half-hour,
_through endless walls of solid marble_. I had this explained to me
afterwards, but I must in common honesty confess the explanation was
beyond my scant scientific understanding, and the mystery of how
this people contrived to enhance or stifle the radiation of light
at will--to reverse, in fact, what we regard as the eternal laws of
physics--remains a mystery to me still.
Kalliboas now took us back to the courtyard, and across to another
building, from which came a subdued hum of voices. On entering the hall
we discovered a large gathering of youths seated on low benches, and a
tall greyheaded old man not unlike Kalliboas in appearance addressing
them. This, it seemed, was the tutor. At a sign from Kalliboas the
lecture went on, and although this elder spoke a good deal less
measuredly than our old guide, I found I could understand him with a
fair fluency. He was explaining to his students the secrets of the
human mind; from time to time he would call out a pupil, hypnotise
him with astonishing ease, and demonstrate to the rest the strangely
exaggerated powers of a person in hypnosis. Then students were set to
hypnotise one another, the most skilful being greeted with acclaim by
their fellows, and the least accomplished, whose laborious long-drawn
efforts reminded me acutely of performances I had seen on the public
stage in Europe, witheringly derided for their clumsiness. A youth
Kalliboas described to us as leader of the school succeeded in reducing
no less than six of his fellows simultaneously--an amazing exhibition;
he seemed to retain absolute control of their minds, plunging them
just as deeply into the sleep as he chose, and toying with his power
as a child may play with a coloured balloon. So lightly hypnotised was
one boy that I thought the operator had failed to put him to sleep at
all, and I remarked as much to the tutor, who shot me a curious little
glance, half amused, half malicious, and requested me to question the
youth.
This took me distinctly by surprise. I had imagined that all that was
claimed for the youth was that he had been successfully hypnotised by
his fellow student, in which case he might obey any command given him
by the latter, but wouldn't necessarily be susceptible to any words
of mine. Now it seemed the tutor wanted to represent him as not only
hypnotised, but clairvoyant.
I felt Poyning jog my elbow. 'Ask him,' he whispered in English, 'what
the ground is like near the tomb on the southern foothills.'
As I put the question I knew the eyes of both Kalliboas and the tutor
were on me very keenly. The boy hesitated for fully a minute, then
murmured that streams were pouring swiftly down the slope. 'I see also
men working,' he added.
I glanced at Poyning. His face expressed dry scepticism. I felt
incredulous myself, and inclined to be angry into the bargain. I could
hardly have believed that this people, who had so much to show that was
genuinely wonderful, would descend to trickery for so paltry a purpose
as impressing strangers, yet it seemed clear enough that was what had
happened. The supposedly hypnotised boy had thought--hence his long
hesitation--what the hillside at that point would most probably be like
now, and was offering his mere guess as an act of second sight. In any
case the test was unsatisfactory, as we had no means of verifying his
statement. This I pointed out to Kalliboas, and the tutor again gave
me that little half-malicious glance, which only deepened my suspicion
that we were being bluffed. Before very long I was wishing I'd kept my
suspicions under my own hat.
'We will give the stranger more convincing proof,' said the tutor,
rather grimly, and began questioning the hypnotised youth himself.
'What does the stranger carry under his robes?' he asked.
Without a moment's hesitation came the answer: 'He carries a book.'
'Of what kind?'
'Not our fashion.'
'What does it contain?'
'Much writing.'
'What does the writing say?'
'It is in an unknown tongue.'
There was a pause. I thought now that I could see through the whole
ingenious trick. The tutor could have got the knowledge of my
notebook in two ways: he might have seen the outline of it under
my garments--though I didn't look down, and am unaware that it was
particularly noticeable--or he may have learned from Kalliboas, who
might easily have got it from my own language tutor, that I was in
the habit of writing notes and carried the record next my skin. The
very fact that the tutor had suggested to his student the idea of
something under my garments argued that he himself had foreknowledge of
the book, and that he was passing the knowledge on by a simple act of
thought-transference. But for what followed I was quite unprepared.
The tutor placed a slate and a stylus in the boy's hand.
'You will now,' he said very firmly, 'copy the last of the writing that
you see.'
To my amazement the pupil at once began to write, slowly and
laboriously. He filled about three lines, then stopped short.
'Why do you write no more?' demanded the tutor.
'There is no writing after.'
'What are the words you have written?'
'I do not understand.'
The tutor handed the slate to me. 'Is that, stranger,' he said, 'the
writing you have made in your book?'
I took the slate, and at the same instant nearly dropped it. The
writing had manifestly been copied line for line like a drawing, and
without comprehension of its meaning, yet it was perfectly legible. It
read:
"Poyning rather pointedly asks _why_ we are not allowed to visit the
tomb on the southern foothills."
I remembered that as the last entry I had made, and I could have kicked
myself for making it, still more for having it brought to light now. We
had by this time come, as I have already remarked, to the stage when
we could believe pretty well anything of this uncanny people. What if
they knew English? The sentence I had written was not particularly
incriminating, but quite enough to give a hint of our mistrust, and to
arouse mistrust in return.
To my surprise, Poyning seemed rather gratified than alarmed over the
upshot of the affair. When he had read the writing he gave Kalliboas a
very straight look in which there was almost a touch of defiance, and
told him coolly enough that we were now satisfied with the test. Then
we withdrew.
If the old man's suspicions had been awakened he concealed them to
perfection. He threw himself on to a couch in the sunshine and began to
talk as if nothing out of the common had occurred.
'You have understood all that you have seen to-day, strangers?' he
inquired.
'Not everything,' said I. 'In the recesses that surround the great hall
many had cast themselves into the false sleep. To what end?'
'In that way,' replied the old man, 'we are able to know matters which
take place at great distances from this city. Otherwise how should we,
who have never visited the world of the outer peoples, know what they
do?'
'Do you mean to say you _do_ know?' cried Poyning.
Kalliboas bowed his head. 'It is even so,' he said. 'And is that
strange hearing to you?'
'Strange! It is impossible!'
There was a shade of the pity that is akin to contempt in the old man's
answer. 'Why impossible?' he said quietly. 'Can it be that you are so
steeped in ignorance as not to know that by far the greatest power
upon this earth is the mind of man? Which is master of the world--man
or the forces of nature, the sentient mind or the blundering violence
that acts it knows not how? Even your peoples of the outer world, who
have not studied these matters, have advanced thus far: to know that
mind may control matter and act far from the human brain which is its
source. How much more should we know of the powers of mind, who have
lived in this valley untouched by the lust and greed and superstition
which have kept you barbarous, and down through the centuries have
steadily pressed onwards in the search for light? The art of projecting
the human soul was very early understood and practised among us.
To-day, we have brought it to a high effectiveness.'
'But how is it done?' I cried.
'You have even now seen our wise ones at work,' said Kalliboas. 'They
induce the false sleep, and while the body lies on the couch, the soul
goes wandering forth over the world. The sleep affects different of our
wise ones in different ways. In some there is what we call the shadow
soul, which goes abroad while the brain which gave it birth remains in
relation to it at home, active, causing the lips to speak. A recorder
is always beside those wise ones during their sleep. Others, who are
the more numerous, only at the awakening know what they have seen, and
record for themselves. Every day our wise ones are at work in those
halls. Their visions are collected and compared; thus we build up a
complete picture of the world. Not that the picture'--the old man's
words rang out in scorn--'is often to be looked upon with profit, save
as a warning to ourselves. Well we know how your peoples have lived and
died in a squalid turmoil of cruelty and hatred and intolerance; how
you have spurned and persecuted your wise and noble, and exalted your
knaves; how jealousy and suspicion are rife among your races, how far
you yet stand below the ideals our great founder held. But not wholly
profitless are the soul-wanderings of our wise ones. Through them we
learn of the few discoveries made by your few philosophers--though in
truth there is little you discover which was not already known to us
many centuries ago.'
'Tell me, Kalliboas,' I said, 'are only your wise ones skilled in
mind-projection?'
'Indeed, no,' he replied. 'Only those judged to possess strength,
however, are elected novices at the Hall of Wandering Souls, to become
eventually our wise ones, our scouts over the rest of the earth.'
'And when one of your wise ones has projected his soul,' I inquired,
'could he be seen by any person of the outer world?'
'Only to the eyes of the soul can the soul be visible. How many of your
outer world possess such vision? Yet to one possessing it, the vision
must seem as real as an actual bodily presence.'
'And could any other person see it?' I said, concealing my eagerness
with an effort.
The old man's glittering puce-black eyes were looking clean through me.
'The point is an obscure one,' he said, 'and our wise men hesitate to
pronounce upon it. We have strange evidence both for and against.'
There was again that unmistakable hint in his manner that to question
him further would be useless, and so far as solving the mystery of the
queer episode at Nanking went, I had to be content then with what I had
heard. I was determined to find out, however, how this people explained
Philipson's advent to them from the outer world. It was too much to
suppose that men so astonishingly advanced in exact knowledge would
base their expectations on the mere traditional prophecy of Alexander
before his death.
Kalliboas answered me without hesitation. 'Our wise ones suppose,'
he said, 'that this universe in which we live is composed of a
finite number of elementary forms, which act and react upon one
another perpetually. Therefore the number of possible regroupings and
chains of events is limited. But the time in which they so react is
infinite. Therefore every event which happens must have happened an
infinite number of times before, and will be repeated an infinite
number of times in the future--not only that exact event, but others
approximating to it in all degrees of similarity. Thus, the existence
of our great founder upon this earth, being one of that limited number
of possible events, is repeated after the comparatively short lapse of
twenty-two centuries, which in the life-history of the universe is a
mere moment. But there is a difference. Then he came to this valley a
great conqueror despairing of the world and mankind. Now he has come to
find his own lost people.'
Poyning glanced at me. 'Pretty odd,' he muttered in English, 'to meet
old Nietzsche's Eternal Recurrence so far from home as this!'
Kalliboas cocked his ear at the name. 'That philosopher of yours has
indeed rediscovered old truths,' he said. 'But it is better to discover
old truths than to repeat old lies.'
'Your people, then,' said Poyning, 'were looking for the return of the
King. Yet was it not strange they all should recognise him immediately
they saw his face?'
Kalliboas rose in silence and led the way to another part of the
courtyard, where we came in front of a grotto-like chamber. There
was only one object here--a statue about half life-size, apparently
in iron having the surface treated in some way to resist rust. The
features were a marvellously exact image of Saunders Philipson,
and that was startling enough; but what astonished me more was that
the statue seemed to be supported on one wire little thicker than a
knitting-needle.
'We have many images of our great founder,' said Kalliboas, 'with which
all our people are perfectly acquainted, but we value none so much as
this. It was made by his friend Deinokrates, the sculptor, one of that
faithful band who followed him here.'
'But--but how is it supported? One wire is not enough to hold its
weight?'
There was a fleeting light of amusement over the old man's austere
face. 'The wire is there to hold it down,' he said. 'It was an idle
fancy of the sculptor's. The roof of this chamber is of great slabs
of the stone that attracts iron, which was dug from the mountains
westward. Do not go near if you have anything of iron about your
persons.'
Before leaving Kalliboas that day we walked with him along the eastern
margin of the lake, and came to a tall circular tower in white marble,
which was visible from a considerable distance away. We ascended this
by an inner stairway and at last stood upon the roof, where we found a
sentinel and one of the most ingenious devices imaginable. The platform
was surrounded by a parapet about breast-high, topped by a continuation
in some transparent pebble-like rock, while outside this was a similar
parapet in the same material, the two arranged so as to act as a
continuous telescope. How the difficulty of varying focus was overcome
I couldn't understand, but the fact remains that in whatever direction
we looked the surrounding valleys and foothills--even the upper slopes
of the mountains themselves--seemed amazingly near to us.
The words of Kalliboas sounded behind us in a sort of grim caress. 'See
now, strangers,' he said, 'is it even as the student told when he cast
his mind out over the valley?'
Poyning was staring southward. 'There are men,' he said in a queer
voice. 'What do they do?'
'They build a wall to protect the tomb. Since the great snow fell, new
streams have burst out of the mountains in that quarter. Our engineers
are busy with works to direct the water down to the lake by channels
where it shall not injure the crops of our valley. Now it flows
lawlessly, and though the tomb which you see is founded in solid rock,
we have judged it wise to build the protecting wall.'
Poyning remained staring through the crystal for some time,
particularly towards the tomb and the direction from which we ourselves
had entered the valley. I imagine we were both thinking that probably
from this tower our first approach was signalled; and I know I was
wondering how it came about, since a watcher was apparently posted here
always, that the approach of the Tibetan, Sbrang Chikya, could have
escaped observation.
We descended from the tower and followed Kalliboas to a point on the
north-eastern bank of the lake. The stream which entered here was of
no great dimension, but even so, it flowed fast enough to have flooded
the entire valley in a few weeks but for--as I imagine--the enormous
degree of evaporation caused by the bone-dry climate, and the extensive
irrigation works into which the water of the lake was deflected.
Suddenly, with a heavy swirl, there arose in midstream a gigantic fish,
which made straight for the bank where we stood. So startling was the
creature's appearance and so swift its approach that I must confess
for an instant I'd half an inclination to run, and I noticed Poyning
took a quick step backwards from the water's edge. Then we realised
our mistake. It was no fish at all, but a man, completely clad in a
close-fitting diving costume; there were circles of transparent horn
over the eyes, and gloved receptacles for the arms, but the legs went
into one great sleeve stiffened to copy the tail of a fish; and we saw
it was from this the diver got his power in swimming, an evolution he
performed with singular ease and speed. How he was able to breathe and
to sink at will we had no thought to examine then: our attention was
very fully absorbed by a basket the man had been carrying in his hands
under water and now laid on the bank.
He rolled out, divested himself of the fish-like skin--which he was
able to do without assistance--and made a profound obeisance to
Kalliboas.
'This fellow,' said the latter, turning to us, 'is to our children the
most beloved man in the city. It is his duty to swim to the bed of the
river and the lake and gather for them these pretty playthings.'
Kalliboas stooped over the basket, took out a handful of pebbles, and
handed them to me. They were curious pebbles, looking like scarred
rough glass, but now and then out of the roughness came a fierce flash
of light as the sun's rays caught an exposed face. There was no room
for doubt about these things. They were large diamonds.
Poyning took one of them, as if to examine it, and as he did so I felt
him nudge me very gently.
'Would it not be easier,' he said, 'to get the stones by dragging the
river for them?'
Then for the first and last time in our acquaintance Kalliboas
chuckled. It was a grim chuckle, but the nearest approach to tenderness
I ever knew him show.
'The children value the stones more for having been obtained in this
way,' he said. 'Often they come to see Old Fish diving for them.'
He scooped up another large handful and gave me. 'Take as many as you
can carry,' he said, the grim half-smile still on his features. 'It may
be that children in the city will ask you for them. It is true that in
the world from which you have come men commit crimes to obtain these
things, but you at least are above such temptation.'
Was it a hint, a threat that we were never again to see lands where men
take the lives of their fellows for these bits of crystallised carbon?
CHAPTER XII
DISASTER
Strangely enough, from that day onwards our circumstances seemed to
improve all round. If we had seen ourselves encircled in mystery, and
detected vague menaces in what we had heard, now it became increasingly
apparent that for some reason or other we were looked on more
favourably by the people of the valley. That atmosphere of suspicion,
which I had come to feel no less than Poyning, was melting away. We had
several audiences with the "King," as we found ourselves dropping into
the way of calling Philipson, and though he said little to us of the
inner politics of the city, we gathered he was steadily consolidating
his position and winning over the disaffected party of Kalliphanes.
He even told us one day that he thought he could now count on the
unanimous support of the Nine Shadows, and considerably startled us by
mentioning that Kalliboas was one of that sinister secret body. The
names of the rest I never learned, though it is likely I saw and spoke
to all before the end of my sojourn in Hellas.
Towards his old comrades, in private at least, Philipson's manner was
always as affable and unpretending as if the great change had not come;
yet I couldn't help noticing as time went on that he was sinking deeper
and deeper into the austere spirit of this land and leaving off one by
one his old traits of an adventurer with a dim future. Also, behind
all his friendliness, there seemed to peep out a shadow of anxiety
for us; and though he never betrayed the fact in words, I felt he was
hoping that we, like himself and his Chinese servants, should gradually
throw down roots here and lose our desire to return to the outer world.
The notion appalled me, yet I couldn't doubt it had entered the mind
of Saunders Philipson. Everything that could be done to attract us
towards this land was being done; we were given more splendid quarters,
our servants were increased, we were presented to all the highest
nobles--and, as I noticed with alarm, to their daughters; during one
week of festival, when there were dramatic and musical performances and
banquets and exhibitions of dancing and Olympian games, we took our
place among the first of the land; and generally we were advanced to a
state little short of princely ourselves.
We were even instructed in the elements of mind-culture, though it must
be confessed our success was meagre. Clairvoyance and soul-projection
were utterly beyond us, and even as hypnotic subjects we were both
highly unsatisfactory. The professors complained of the difficulty
of putting us asleep, though it's true they never entirely failed
to do this, even at the first--that is, the most difficult trial, of
which I retain a most agonising recollection. I think the difficulty
of reducing me on that occasion was really responsible for the awful
sense of mental strangulation I felt: it was like being surrounded
by clouds of intense darkness, which seemed to _drench_ my brain and
bring all thought to a frozen standstill. Poyning was hypnotised at
the same time, and on comparing notes afterwards I found his symptoms
had been pretty similar to my own. This the professors attributed,
unflatteringly enough, not to the strength of our will power, but to
the sluggishness of our wits: so unresponsive were we, they said, that
they had to resort, as it were, to a sort of mental bludgeoning by
sheer force.
One consolation we had, however, and that was the rapid progress we
made in the art of flight. And thereby hangs an episode which was to
turn the whole stream of our fortunes.
We had been learning to fly for some weeks now. Our great difficulty
at first, I need hardly say, was to overcome our amazement at finding
we actually could rise from the ground on wings, and even when we had
got the better of this it was some time before we could bring ourselves
to ascend to any height. There must have been always lurking at the
back of our heads the notion that if we lost control, we should stand
a better chance of escape by being at a low altitude. In point of
fact, quite the reverse was really the case: greater experience would
have told us, as the tutors did tell us, that a few hundred feet
between us and earth would afford a breathing space in which to recover
wing-purchase, whereas twenty feet would certainly not; but it must
be remembered the art was utterly strange to us, and that we started
handicapped with all the pedestrian prejudices of the biped without
feathers.
After a few days we gained confidence, and with this growing
proficiency came to me at least a tremendous keenness for the sport. I
wouldn't have missed my morning fly for all the rest of the day, for
over and above its mere fascination it took us up into the bracing
air of the higher levels, and by dint of the magnificent exercise it
afforded, kept us in the very cream of condition and muscular strength.
One morning, when we were beginning to manage our wings with some
pretensions to skill, we were flying together over the school at about
three hundred feet from the plain, when Poyning suddenly headed off
towards the city.
'Where are you going?' I shouted.
'Home,' he yelled back. 'I want to see what our house looks like from
up here.'
I'd never seen anybody fly directly over the city, and I had good
reason to believe there was a law forbidding it. I called to Poyning to
come back, and heard a faint cry from below, which also I imagine was
a command to turn about, but Poyning was by this time drawn well ahead
and apparently out of earshot. Cursing his foolhardiness I gave chase,
moved, I've no doubt, by a sort of schoolboyish idea that if there was
going to be a row it would be shabby to back down out of it; and very
soon we were soaring over the very heart of the great sea of white
buildings.
Now our troubles began. We were fairly well acquainted with the city as
it appeared from the ground level: from above, there was a bewildering
similarity about those marble roofs and courtyards. We wheeled round,
until Poyning thought he had descried our house from the maze, and with
a shout to me he began to descend, confidently enough. Then, suddenly,
he checked his flight.
'This is the wrong place,' he cried, and I saw him flap his wings in an
effort to get up again.
But it was too late. He had no room to manœuvre. His wing-tip struck
the great eave of a building at the edge of the courtyard, and to my
horror I saw his arms fly up and his body shoot straight down, dropping
to the marble paving with a thud that turned me sick to hear.
I managed to alight without mishap, and a moment later was tearing off
my wings and running to his assistance. Poyning lay on his side, in the
tangled wreck of his gear.
'It's only my foot,' he groaned, but as he said the word he rolled over
and fainted.
In a few seconds I had his body clear of the mess and was examining
him for injuries. Poyning came to himself almost at once, but when I
touched his right ankle he winced and uttered a sharp cry.
'Better get a litter, Mirlees,' he muttered between his clenched teeth.
'There's a bone broken.'
At this moment I heard a sound of light footsteps behind me, and
looking round beheld a woman, who had apparently just emerged from the
pillared doorway of the building. Poyning raised himself on one elbow,
staring at her as at some enthralling vision, and I'm afraid I so far
forgot my manners as to do likewise. The sudden apparition of such
beauty as hers might have set any man off his balance. It robbed me
of speech. The woman's skin was white as the marble everywhere around
us, her eyes more deeply purple than the skies out of which we had
fallen, her features of a clean-chiselled magnificence that literally
struck the breath from your lips as you beheld, while her hair, pure
blue-black in hue, tumbled over her shoulders in cascades of sombre
splendour. There was no mistaking the identity of that woman. She was
the princess of the blood royal, to whom we had seen Saunders Philipson
betrothed.
With a grace I cannot hope to describe she knelt beside Poyning, her
features melting into a look of compassion that almost made me regret I
wasn't the injured party myself.
'It is the little stranger,' she murmured musically. 'He has been bold
enough to soar into the heavens like Ikaros of old, and like Ikaros he
has fallen.'
She rose suddenly to her feet, and clapped her hands, whereupon several
attendants hurried out, manifestly scandalised, to the injured man.
Then a physician appeared, to whom the Princess turned with an air of
haughty command.
'There is an injury to the little stranger's foot,' she said. 'You will
bind it here, and as you value my favour you will give him no pain in
the binding. You will then see him borne to his own house and tend him
till he is recovered.'
The physician lowered his forehead almost to the pavement and at once
knelt on one side of Poyning, the Princess kneeling on the other. While
his foot was being put into a padded splint she laid her wonderful
white hand on his brow. I saw her speak to the physician, then to
Poyning, in a tone so low that I could only catch the tail end of what
she said. She was looking into his eyes with an expression that seemed
most curiously to combine tenderness with an astonishing intensity of
will.
'Have no fear for your injury, little one,' she said slowly. 'Our most
skilful healers will give you of their utmost skill, and within three
days from now you will walk and fly again. These things will assuredly
be as I have said. Farewell!'
Poyning's lips began to move, but I heard no sound come from them.
Bewilderment and frank adoration struggled for the mastery of his
face; and if there was any shadow of pain, I didn't see it. His broken
foot he seemed to have forgotten. A moment later the Princess had
disappeared. Poyning was raised on a litter borne by eight attendants,
and we moved off towards our own quarters.
Kalliboas, unusually stern and grim, was there almost as soon as we.
He had evidently heard of our flight over the city and our descent
into the courtyard of the royal palaces--that was the place where we
had blundered; yet beyond directing the physicians who were to treat
Poyning, he said no word.
And now once more I witnessed an exhibition of the amazing surgery of
these people of the valley. I can be perfectly sure of every word I
write about it, for I saw the whole thing from no farther away, this
time, than the side of the couch on which my companion had been laid.
The broken bone had been set before he left the royal courtyard, and
that ingenious padded splint was not removed now. The physicians bathed
the leg above and such surfaces of Poyning's ankle as were exposed, in
warm water which I shrewdly suspected to be merely a more concentrated
essence of the healing water we used in our baths. Then two of the
curious wooden boxes were produced and laid one on either side of
the damaged foot. The physician fixed into each a silver appliance
shaped for all the world like a boat-rowlock--I imagine a specially
fashioned "lead" was kept for various parts of the body--slid the horns
of the rowlock over Poyning's leg just below the calf, and made some
adjustment of the silent "battery." This was left in position for fully
half an hour, then removed.
The physician gave Poyning a draught from a small vial, and began
to speak to him. I heard the same words spoken over and over again,
from which I knew hypnotism formed part of the treatment and that a
suggestion was being made to the patient.
'You will now sleep,' the level, monotonous voice said. 'On awaking you
will be already well towards recovery. The bone will be united and the
pain and swelling vanished. In three days from now you will set your
foot to the ground and you will find it strong as ever. These things
cannot possibly happen otherwise, for thus it has been said and the
speaking is true. You will now sleep. On awaking--'
This went on for two or three minutes, and I veritably declare I was
almost asleep myself. I pulled myself up with an effort, and noticed
that the physician had passed from assurances to questions; he was, as
it were, driving the suggestion home.
'What will you do now?' he demanded.
'I am going to sleep,' came the drowsy voice of Poyning.
'And on awaking?'
'I shall be already well towards recovery.'
'And after three days?'
'I shall set my foot to the ground. It will be strong as ever. In three
days....'
Poyning's words ran off into an incoherent mumble. Then silence. The
physician turned to me.
'He will sleep for twenty-four hours,' he said. 'Try not to wake him
before, and when he wakes, tell him nothing of what I have said to him
now, for he will not remember. But in three days his other soul will
remember for him, and he will walk again.'
That night Kalliboas came to me as I sat alone in our guest-room, and
rated me soundly for allowing Poyning to stray from the flying school,
and over a forbidden quarter at that. The old man seemed to regard
me, being a good deal the elder, as responsible for both of us; and I
judged well at that moment to pretend a contrition I assuredly didn't
feel. I particularly wanted to be in the good graces of Kalliboas, for
I was determined to extract from him the secret of those mysterious
boxes, if it were humanly possible. But it wasn't.
'They contain,' said the old man icily, in answer to my question, 'a
force not to be understood of untaught minds. Beware lest you pry too
deeply into our secrets, stranger, and the knowledge be too strong for
you.'
With that he was gone, leaving me to solve the riddle as best I
might. I lay awake hour after hour, striving to imagine what that
force could be, and when at last I had exhausted every possibility
suggested by my scant knowledge of natural science, and come to the
only conclusion left, I had to confess that my solution was more
bewildering than the riddle itself. Kalliboas had mentioned, as I
remembered, what he conceived to be the greatest force in the world,
and I had long suspected that those healing boxes and the mechanism of
the power-driven wings were only different manifestations of the same
thing. It seemed to me that by some wizard process--perhaps analogous
to the way electricity is imprisoned in the material substances of an
accumulator--_both had been charged with the force of the human mind_.
Poyning awoke in the following forenoon, remembering nothing of what
had happened after he swallowed the draught. I stayed beside his
couch most of that day, doing what I could to cheer him, but Poyning
was curiously moody and depressed, and beyond remarking absently once
or twice that Philipson's betrothed seemed to him to be an uncommonly
pleasant lady and that it was a lucky disaster, after all, that had
dropped him into the wrong courtyard--I didn't think worth while to let
him know the views of Kalliboas on this point--he said little.
The second day passed in the same way, without event or visitors,
but during the second night a rather unusual thing happened. I heard
Poyning talking in his sleep. Our bedchambers lay cheek to cheek, and
we always slept with merely a hanging curtain over the doorways--there
were, indeed, no internal doors in the building; and as I lay awake
somewhere after midnight I caught a distinct whisper of talk from
Poyning's room. I had slept by his side for many weeks during our
journey across the mountains, and had often listened to his small
lady-like snores; but never in all my experience of him had I heard
Poyning utter one word of dream-talk. What struck me as additionally
strange about the affair of this night was the way the sound came to
me. Generally, I have found that when a man talks in his sleep the
talk is continuous. Poyning's was disjointed, for all the world like a
dialogue of which the one half has been blotted out.
On the morrow I watched him closely, for I was greatly curious to see
whether that post-hypnotic suggestion the physician had left imprinted
on his mind was going to work. Normally, of course, I should have
had no doubt of it, for I know something of the queer phenomena of
hypnotism; but it is one thing to be enjoined to wind up the clock or
post letters, and quite another to be told that in three days you will
recover from a broken ankle. Very soon I saw something was stirring in
Stephen Poyning. His manner became more and more excited, and at last,
about eleven o'clock, he threw the sheet off his injured foot and felt
it tentatively.
'It's sheer black magic and devilry, of course,' he muttered, 'but--'
He was tugging at the fastenings of the splint. I next heard that
ingenious contrivance clatter on the marble as he tossed it out of bed.
'I shan't want _that_ any more, I can feel. Now let's see--'
He had set his foot to the floor and was very gingerly trying his
weight upon it. The next moment he was standing. I hurried to him and
gave him my arm.
'For God's sake be easy on it!' I cried. 'If you break the bone again
it'll take months to mend.'
He threw off my arm impatiently. 'Many thanks, Mirlees,' he said, 'but
I don't think I require any. Isn't it amazing? The Princess Helene said
I would walk again in three days, and--'
'How do you know her name is Helene?' I demanded.
Poyning gave me a queer look. 'Eh? That is her name, anyhow,' he said.
'Didn't you know?'
'I didn't. And I'm hanged if I can fathom how you did. I've never heard
her name mentioned.'
He ran his fingers through his hair in a curiously abstracted manner.
'That's odd,' he muttered. 'You must have forgotten. If Kalliboas
hadn't mentioned the name to the pair of us I should hardly know it
myself, should I? But I say, look at this, Mirlees!'
He was skipping round the floor, pausing now and then on one leg to
flex and unflex the ankle which three days ago had been broken.
We were so familiar with the city by this time that we often went out
without Kalliboas or any other attendant, but up to the present, save
on one occasion, it had always been by day. That one exception was a
week or two before Poyning's accident. Where he went I don't know, but
he told me next day--I was abed and asleep before he came back--that he
had been out to see the valley by moonlight. Now, on the first night
after his recovery, I noticed he had again left the house by himself.
The same thing happened on the following night, and once or twice again
afterwards. I began to get uneasy. I was still sore, I suppose, over
the wigging he'd let me in for by foolishly flying over the city, but
there was more in it than that. For some time past I had been conscious
of a change in Stephen Poyning. That overlay of "exquisiteness" the boy
had had when we brought him out of China was pretty well all rubbed
off; he was hardening up under experience, developing a will of his
own--and a secretive one, it seemed to me; and with Ronald Mirlees,
at least, he was drifting out of touch. It seemed incredible this
could happen with two men living together as we were in the midst of a
strange race, but it was a palpable fact nevertheless, and it hurt me
a little, though naturally my own pride kept me from saying anything
to Poyning on the subject. When, however, about the eighth night in
succession he took himself off alone after dark, and I saw one of
our attendants slip out behind him, I judged the affair had gone far
enough. If there was any spying to be done, I would take a hand in it
myself.
I slid noiselessly out into the courtyard and the street, which was
fickly illuminated by a young horned moon. Poyning I couldn't see; but
the attendant was just ahead of me, advancing furtively and taking
advantage of the shadow of every building he passed. To move silently
in the sandals worn in the valley was easy enough; moreover, there were
still a few belated foot-passengers abroad--it was only about eleven
o'clock, but the city folk were for the most part early bedgoers and
early risers--and I don't think the watcher suspected he was being
himself watched. After some while, however, the chase brought me to a
quarter of the city entirely deserted, and I had to let him get farther
and farther ahead. I noticed, too, that the moon was now in front of
me instead of behind, as at starting; our course had swept round in
a half-circle. He disappeared under a dark portico and was entirely
lost to my view for about two minutes. I edged nearer, keeping as much
as possible in under walls and trees of the roadside. At last, some
thirty yards ahead, a figure emerged and peered in every direction
as if to satisfy himself he was not observed. A wall here ruled off
the broad street into a sort of blind square. I saw the figure draw
in under that wall, set his foot, apparently, on a plinth about three
feet from the ground, then swing himself to the top and disappear over
the other side. I may say, however, that I can be none too sure of his
movements, for the moonlight was treacherous, and the effect of the
man's white garments against the all-prevailing marble of the city was
such that I had often to strain my eyes to keep him in view at all.
I crept up to the wall and listened, but could hear no sound. Now it
seemed I must take a bold step or lose my quarry altogether. I found
the plinth, rested my foot on it, and threw myself up. The wall, I
found, was surmounted by a feather-edged coping so broad and gently
sloped that it might have been the glacis of a fortification rather
than the sept of a courtyard. As a point to spy from it was ideal. I
lay quite still, peeping over the inner edge. At some way off rose the
mass of a block of buildings, glistening white and majestic in the
silvery light, but nearer to where I lay was a small pavilion with
domed roof supported by fluted pillars. Out of the shadow of this
structure suddenly emerged a figure, but I was now so near that I saw
immediately by his height it wasn't our tall attendant. An instant
later I had recognised the man as Stephen Poyning. Of the attendant I
could see no vestige either in the courtyard inside the wall or the
street without.
Then, from the far side of the court, appeared another figure--a
woman's. She swept across the gleaming marble pavement with the grace
of a goddess and the silence of a ghost, and soon I knew who she was,
for with that superb face turned towards me, what light there was
fell directly upon it. This was the woman who had come to Poyning's
help on the day of his accident, whom he called the Princess Helene,
Philipson's plighted queen.
Now followed the queerest part of the whole affair. To say I was
embarrassed would be scarcely correct: it frightened me.
With a little cry of joy the woman ran up to Poyning and folded him in
her arms and kissed him passionately on the lips. Poyning reached up
his arms, and placed them round her neck, and kissed her again; and
there the pair remained, locked in one another's embrace, for fully
a minute. I imagine that no scene in which that superb creature took
part could appear undignified, or this would have appeared so--even
ludicrous, for the crown of Poyning's head could hardly have reached
higher than the level of her lips, and as she stooped to kiss him he
seemed literally lost in the loose shimmer of her white robe. I could
hear nothing of what Poyning said, if he said anything, but from her
came the repeated cry, accented in an ecstasy of tenderness:
'My little one! My little one!'
They withdrew into the shadow of the domed pavilion, and I heard their
voices in low, earnest talk. I had seen enough--too much; I dropped
noiselessly into the street and stood there under the wall, quivering
with astonishment and alarm.
What utter folly, what unheard-of treachery was this? Of the woman
I knew nothing definitely beyond that she was betrothed to the
new sovereign of the state. Yet from vague allusions dropped by
Kalliboas--though Poyning was wrong in stating that Kalliboas had ever
mentioned the woman's name in my hearing--I had gathered something
regarding her status. There dwelt in the palaces, it seemed, several
maidens of the ancient blood royal in its purest. By long tradition
they were vowed to take no husband but the reigning prince, who chose
from among their number on ascending the throne, and this, as we had
seen, happened recently at the time of the abdication ceremony. The
rest would now remain true to a vow of celibacy till a new prince
succeeded. How the line was maintained, or what happened to these
maidens with their advancing years I never discovered, though I suspect
there was a mystery enshrouding them more amazing than any other in
all this amazing land, and that by some wizard tampering with what we
regard as nature's laws they preserved their youth far beyond the span
given to mortal women. But now, with this woman newly betrothed, or it
may have been wedded--the exact force of the union I didn't know--to
the man we had called Philipson, and indulging a secret passion with
Poyning--a mere adventurer like myself--I could see nothing ahead of
us but certain destruction, from which it would be equally futile and
monstrous to expect the Prince to save us.
I was so staggered by what I had seen that I even forgot the need of
concealment; and when, some minutes later, Poyning made his retreat by
the way he had come, he almost fell on me. He recoiled in astonishment,
and something he was carrying tinkled to the ground.
'Mirlees!' he gasped. 'What are you after here?'
'I ought to ask you that,' I retorted. 'Good God, man, d'you want to
ruin the pair of us?'
'I see,' he almost sneered. 'My coming here is likely to run you into
danger too. Is that the reason you thought it worth while to spy on me?'
'Not altogether,' I said, keeping my temper with difficulty. 'You were
followed from the house by one of our servants. I followed him, to see
what he was up to. I thought it was him I'd tracked here. Not until I
got to the top of that wall did I see it was you. And I'd give a good
deal _not_ to have seen what I've seen to-night.'
'Really? I don't understand how it concerns you.'
'Good God!' I cried hotly. 'I should have thought Philipson was worth a
little better treatment than that. He's kept pretty much on the square
with us--'
'Philipson? What's he to do with it?'
'_What!_ If a man I'd thought my friend fooled around with _my_ wife--'
'Wife? You're mistaken, Mirlees. The lady I've just left is not
Philipson's wife.'
'Huh! Affianced wife, then. What's the use in quibbling?'
'She is not even that.'
'D'you mean to tell me we didn't see him betrothed to her?'
'We certainly did not. Helene is a twin sister of the Princess. The
resemblance is exact enough, though, I'll admit.'
This might have been true or not, but it was certainly new to me. 'Why
didn't you tell me before?' I said.
'You hardly gave me a chance,' replied Poyning coldly. 'You seemed so
ready to believe me a cad.'
'I'm sorry for that,' I said. 'But you know what that woman is. Have
you considered what's likely to happen to both of us--and perhaps
Philipson too--if you're caught in a business like to-night's?'
'I know a good deal more of her than you do, Mirlees,' he said quietly.
'I know that I love her more than my own body and soul, and that if
loving her means death to me I shall meet it--with open arms.'
I was silent for some moments. There was a ring in Poyning's words that
I knew, that told me beyond any shade of doubt that he was fallen into
the state which knows no prudence nor does it listen to logic.
'But remember,' he continued, 'it's my risk, not yours. If I come to
grief over this, I fail to see why you should be any the worse off
unless you're caught in it with me. Now let me go. I'm going to run
into fresh danger.'
'Where are you going?'
'Listen, Mirlees. We all three had an object when we came on this
adventure. Philipson's was a lost kingdom, yours a great discovery,
mine--my own quest. I'm going on it to-night.'
'What is it?'
'I'm going to the tomb on the southern foothills. Don't ask me why,
for I can't tell you, and don't try to come with me. If there's danger
attaching to it, I'll face it alone.'
I stood still, considering the position. Stephen Poyning, aged about
twenty-one, well favoured in mind and body and with all the world
before him, was saying yes to a perilous adventure. Myself, thirty-six,
a widower, with something at least of my life-work behind me and no
very great prospects of happiness in front, was declining the gambit.
Had it been daylight I've no doubt he would have seen me redden a
little.
'I don't know that it's altogether outside the scope of _my_ quest,' I
said.
He paused, undecided. 'What do you mean?' he queried.
'This. I don't attach as much importance to that grave as you seem to,
Poyning, but the identity of the stranger who lies in it is still a
riddle I'd be sorry to leave the valley without solving. I therefore
suggest that if anybody's to go to the tomb at all, we might as well
both go.'
For all his valiant flourishes I caught a note of relief in Poyning's
answer. 'You're a good fellow, Mirlees,' he said, 'and I've talked
like a yahoo to-night. But why should you risk your life too--for I'm
convinced it may easily amount to that?'
I picked up the lanthorn--it was a lanthorn--that he had dropped.
'Let's get away,' I said, 'or it will be daylight before we're out of
the city.'
'Very well,' he assented, 'though frankly I'd rather you didn't.' He
was groping on the pavement at his feet. 'Wait a minute, or I shall be
no better off than I was last time.'
'You've been there before?'
'Some weeks ago. But the place was very effectively locked. Now--ah,
here it is.' He picked up a long silvery-looking strip of metal and
slipped it into the bosom of his robe.
'How far is the tomb?'
'Five good miles, not counting climbing. It took me four hours before,
but then I lost time finding the way.'
We set off at once through the silent streets of the city, stealing
from shadow to shadow and pausing every now and then to assure
ourselves that the attendant, who had so mysteriously disappeared, was
not following us now. If he was, I never from first to last detected
the least trace of him. We made fair time, considering the need of
caution, and were soon come to the standing crops southward of the
city, then on to the grassy foothills. For all the signs of life we
saw, we might have been in the middle of a desert.
Poyning's recollection of the ground stood him in good stead. He had
learned on his former sally that the best way to find the tomb was to
strike for the new stream that had recently burst out of the mountains
and follow it up. This water, though much shrunken from what it had
been when we saw it from the watch-tower, still showed well in the
moonlight, and sounded distinctly on the still night air, and we found
it without much difficulty. The going was bad, however; over and above
the earthworks which the engineers had thrown up, the hillside itself
was rough and strangely soggy for ground at such a slant, and it must
have been fully two hours before we sighted the tomb. It rose from
behind a low hump on the hillside, a small but beautifully designed
building, with pillars and steps in the eternal marble; except that
the entrance in the middle of the façade was a good deal larger in
proportion, the structure might have passed for a model of our own
house. Poyning discovered the aperture for the key, thrust in the
long silver bar, tried it one way and another, and I heard the gentle
screech of metal against metal. We leaned our shoulders against the
dark teak-like wood. It gave. The tomb was open before us.
'Wait,' I said, catching his arm. 'There's no need to scatter clews
abroad.'
With that I carefully confused our tracks round the door, loosened
my sandals, and stepped out of them barefoot on to the lowest marble
stair, motioning Poyning to do the same. Then we entered.
The mausoleum was in pitchy darkness, for there was no aperture but
the door, and that we shut as soon as we had passed inside. I heard
Poyning's heart pounding, and saw his hand shake like a man in an ague
as he struck a light with his flint--the people of the valley used a
very ingenious implement of this type to kindle fire--and lit the lamp.
He held it up, and together we swept our gaze round the interior of the
tomb.
There was little to see. The floor, walls and ceiling were plain
polished marble, while the nave was almost filled by a bier, of the
same material but beautifully carved with groups representing, as it
seemed to me, ancient myths of the nether world. Upon this rested
a sarcophagus, in shape surprisingly reminiscent of an Egyptian
mummy-case, and fashioned of an opaque plaster so cunningly finished
that at the first glance you would have said that it too was solid
marble.
Poyning stared at this for fully a minute, his features drawn into an
expression I had never seen on them before. He then raised the lamp
to the blank walls, and we scanned them closely all over, but it was
Poyning who spotted the inscription. I had to look twice before I could
locate it at all--the carving was so fine and small. It was a short
legend, but it seemed to me to compress into ten short words a whole
world of grimness.
"A stranger strayed into the valley and died. Disturb him not."
That was all: no date appeared, no name, no clew of any sort to the old
tragedy.
Poyning continued to examine the interior of the tomb inch by inch.
Suddenly I saw him drop to one knee.
'Come round to this side,' he said, in a high, cracked voice.
He was pointing to something on the marble floor. There was no
mistaking that mark. It was the print of a bare foot, larger than
Poyning's but not so large as mine.
'It isn't fresh,' said Poyning. 'Nor is it very old. Somebody else has
been here, recently, somebody who also preferred to leave no trace of
his visit. Only he wasn't quite careful enough. What did he come for?'
'God knows.'
'I think I do, too. It seems pretty evident.'
'What do you mean?'
Poyning rose and tapped the sarcophagus. 'This was not here when we
came into the valley,' he said. 'It's been made since. Why? Hide the
lamp, Mirlees. I'm going out.'
I screened the light under my robe, while Poyning opened the door and
left the chamber. When he returned he was carrying a heavy snag of
stone.
'This appears to be the only way now,' he muttered, and to my dismay
began to tap the plaster casing, first gently, then harder. The white
material cracked right across. Poyning laid down the stone and tugged
at the broken plaster with his hands. A big, cup-shaped shard came
away. He bent over the exposed face, and staggered back with a hoarse
scream. It is scarce to be wondered at that Poyning did this.
There was an inner casing of some crystal-like material, also moulded
to mummy-case shape, and through this we could see distinctly--even
too distinctly--the head of the dead man. The body had evidently been
embalmed with skill, for the face was preserved as if life had only
just gone out of it. That rather added to the ghastliness. I have said
I do not wonder that Poyning screamed. I could have screamed aloud
myself, for on those dead features was imprinted the most intense
despairing horror I have ever seen: it was the countenance of a damned
soul being dragged down into hell. At the moment of death, I imagine,
those eyes had been wide and staring, for it had been necessary to sew
the lids together to close them. But most frightful of all, to both
of us, was the identity of that face. In spite of all its horrible
distortion, it was quite unmistakably the face of an older Stephen
Poyning.
He stared transfixed at the apparition for a moment, stooped and kissed
the crystal casing above the forehead, and rushed out of the tomb.
I replaced the broken plaster, cleared away as best I could the
evidences of our invasion, and followed him, going back to lock the
door when I had got the key from Poyning. Not a word did he utter as we
hurried sliding and stumbling down the hill. When I told him to wash
the mud from his sandals in the rushing stream he did so mechanically,
in silence, and strode on, his face set in a granite mask that
concealed anguish and horror alike.
I judged well to approach our house with extreme caution. The breaking
of the plaster envelope to the sarcophagus might remain undiscovered
for years, but it also might come to light to-morrow, in which case
our having been abroad would naturally draw the first suspicion upon
ourselves. Poyning, however, seemed to have thrown prudence behind him.
He stalked up the steps as if the hour had been noon, flung open the
doors and entered.
None of the attendants appeared to be about, or even awake, and I had
certainly seen nobody outside the house. It looked as if we had been
lucky enough to elude observation from start to finish of the gruesome
adventure.
Poyning was in the very act of striking his flint when I snatched it
out of his hand. 'It's late, you know, old man,' I said. 'Better go to
bed in the dark to-night.'
Even as I said this I had a most strange and uncanny sense that we were
being looked at. I peered all round the dark central hall of the house,
but could see nothing; at last, however, against the slender white
pillars that marked the entrance to our inner chambers and were faintly
discernible even in the gloom, my eyes came to rest on something a
shade whiter. There was at the same moment a sharp sound like the hiss
of a snake. Then I'm afraid my nerves, already strung taut by what we
had seen that night, got the better of me.
'Who's there?' I cried, in a voice I wouldn't have known for my own.
There came no answer. I struck the flint I had taken from Poyning, and
kindled the big hanging lamp over my head.
The flame flickered, then rose steadily, and as the chamber grew
brighter a tall form stood out clear between the pillars of the party
wall. It was Kalliboas, his great frame quivering, his stern features
livid with fury.
CHAPTER XIII
SUSPENSE
For one instant I had a thought of trying to carry it off on an
assumption of innocence, but Kalliboas very soon convinced me of the
futility of that.
'So,' he hissed, his long arm thrown out towards us, 'it is thus you
requite our hospitality, men of the outer world! Thus do you flout the
will of our rulers, thinking that by a childish deceit your impious
deed shall remain hidden! Blind fools, because you have chosen a time
after darkness fell, do you fondly imagine you have not been seen by
our eyes from your going to your coming back? Have you not learned that
we of the valley see far, needing no light of sun or moon to see by?
Have you not understood that the commands of the Nine, who graved upon
the stranger's tomb their behest that his body remain inviolate, are
commands to be disobeyed only on pain of death--and worse than death?
You have understood, strangers, yet you have disobeyed!'
The wrath of the old man was so terrible to behold and feel, his words
came out in such a scorching torrent, that I literally bowed my head,
as if under a sudden tempest. I had no answer to make, no plea, and
would have had none even if I hadn't been scared out of my wits by the
old man's threats--which I am not ashamed to confess I was. If anything
had been lacking to tell me our number was up, the fact that Kalliboas
had, for the first time in my knowledge of him, named the Nine Shadows
specifically, would have done so: no longer was there need to hide
from us the hand of that dread body. We shouldn't live to spread the
knowledge.
But if I was cowed, Poyning seemed not in the least disposed to be. He
rushed up to the old man, his fists clenched, his face pale as death,
and for a moment I thought he was going to hurl himself upon him; but
he checked, and poured out a torrent of words no whit less furious than
those we had just heard. It was the cry of a creature at bay, seeing
death ahead but very fully determined to make a fight for it.
'Hospitality!' he cried, swinging round and pointing towards the
south. 'In ancient time it was a sacred duty to your people: _there_
is how you practise it to-day! Truly, you have improved upon the old
custom of your race! A stranger came into the valley, as it has been
written, seeking rest from the weariness of his travel. You gave him
rest--the rest from which there is no awakening. But it happens that
after many years the stranger's son has come into this valley, seeking
him. To the stranger's son you lie, without seeming to lie. No man,
say you, was near the stranger when he died--truly said, for you of
your great wisdom can slay without poison or steel. But it may be
that the son shall see the body of his father and learn the manner of
his death--therefore you hide your crime. Indeed you are a righteous
people, that the discovery of murder is so repellent to you! Justly you
shun contact with the outer world and its misdeeds--'
'Silence!' thundered Kalliboas. 'Silence, or it were better for you
never to have been born! Here shall you remain, not setting foot over
the threshold, while it is decided what shall become of you. Strive not
to flee--as well strive to escape from the bowels of yonder mountains!
You have defied the Nine, and the Nine shall settle your fate!'
With that he was gone, leaving on my mind, at least, a very distinct
impression that the end would not be long coming. Poyning threw himself
on to a couch, where he sat a long while in silence, his head buried in
his hands. When he looked up, all the fury of passion was gone out of
his face, and a deep-lined sorrow had taken its place.
'It's my doing, Mirlees!' he groaned. 'I have dragged you into this.
Forgive me!'
'There's nothing for me to forgive you about,' I said. 'I came into the
business with my eyes wide open. Had I known as much as I do now, I
should have joined you more readily still.'
'It's decent of you to say that,' he replied, 'even if it isn't all
true. But there's a good deal you don't know. Nor could I tell you
before, for it was a matter I talked about to nobody--it concerned my
father's honour.'
'That _is_ a point I'm still in the dark upon,' I observed.
Poyning sat twisting and untwisting his hands. 'It's an old story,' he
said at last, 'and till now it has been a mysterious one even to me.
You remember, back in China--my God, it seems ages ago!--I told you and
Philipson I'd an ambition to explore these wildernesses. Neither of you
pressed me for my exact motive, and I should not have told you if you
had. But I had a very particular reason indeed.'
He paused, with a twitching of the lips, but after a while seemed to
regain his grip, and continued in a steady voice.
'My father was an officer in the Indian Army, a good soldier, I
believe, but never popular in his regiment. Men were inclined to look
askance at him because of his strange, moody, mystic temperament. These
traits became more pronounced in him after my mother's death, which
occurred when I was born. He had always been deeply interested in
oriental religions, and knew more of such matters than it is usually
thought good for a European to know. There were even whispers--no
doubt the sort of silly gossip which will gather round a man of his
type--that he dabbled in eastern sorceries and devil-worship. All this
tended more and more to make him a lonely man. Then came his mysterious
disappearance. He was stationed on the frontier at the time, and
had obtained six months' leave to go up country--as he gave out, to
investigate certain obscure native traditions with a view to writing
an account of them. My father crossed the frontier from Kashmir, having
no other European with him, and from that point all trace of him was
lost. Time went on, his leave expired, but my father never returned
to his regiment. In the case of any other man his disappearance might
have been explained by some climbing accident or encounter with wild
beasts, but my father's reputation being what it was, stories began to
be whispered about him. His name fell under a cloud. It was commonly
believed that he still lived, and had buried himself among a native
tribe in the wilderness where they practised the devilish cults in
which he was known to have been interested.
'I was at school in England, and could do little towards clearing my
father's name. Only on the rare occasions when officers who had known
him were on leave could I make any inquiries at all, but one man, a
Major Fetherston, with whom my father had been more intimate than
with anybody else in India, showed me a letter he had received from
him just before his departure for the interior. This gave me a new
clew. My father's last letter to me had mentioned that he was going
up country to investigate native traditions, but in this letter to
Major Fetherston he actually specified the tradition. In former trips
over the border, he said, he had come across a curious story, to the
effect that somewhere far eastward of the mountains lay a large valley
inhabited by ghosts, who lived in temples of white stone and possessed
the power of transforming themselves into great birds. The tradition
seemed so strange and unusual, wrote my father, that he was going to
try and get more information about it. Major Fetherston gave me that
letter. His manner was very kind, but it was clear enough to me that he
shared the common view that Major Poyning had committed what, in the
case of a private soldier, would be called desertion.
'The years passed. Never another hint of my father's fate reached me,
but I resolved that when I grew up I would find out the truth about
him, and that until his name was cleared, I would mention my father to
nobody. Then, how to get to the East? Most of my small patrimony had
been swallowed up in my education. Also, even if I could get to India
it would be difficult to prosecute the search there without giving out
that I was the son of a man disgraced. At last, however, I got into
touch with an old scholar who was going to China to collect materials
for a book on eastern history. This seemed my chance. I had read over
and over again my father's letter to Major Fetherston, with the help
of maps, and it seemed to me, since this valley of ghosts was supposed
to be far _east_ of the mountains, that my father must have penetrated
into Tibet, and that country could be approached quite as well from the
China side as from India. So I closed with the old historian. I was to
serve him as secretary for a year, by the end of which time I had no
doubt I should have found something to support me until the opportunity
came to go inland and follow my quest at closer quarters. We sailed
together to Shanghai, but there, on the day after landing, he died
very suddenly, leaving me on the rocks. How I hawked my learning in
vain round the Treaty Ports you already know. The night I met Saunders
Philipson I was at the end of my tether and desperate; I had expended
my last dollars on a bend with two officers off a river steamer, fully
intending to go to the British Consul next morning and present myself
as a beachcomber in want of a passage home. Philipson's commission in
Shanghai I naturally jumped at, and then, when I heard that he was
going up country to investigate a legend apparently identical with what
I had been brooding over for years, believe me, Mirlees, I very nearly
collapsed. I fancy that one fact has done more to establish my faith
in a Providence than all the chapels I ever attended at school and the
'Varsity.'
He stopped, with an air so grave you would never have believed this was
the same casual young exquisite we had picked up at Nanking. If the
adventure had done nothing more for Stephen Poyning, it had deepened
his draught considerably.
'Then,' he resumed at length, 'when we reached this place and found
there _had_ been a previous explorer, and a European at that, I felt I
was near the end of my quest. I see now quite clearly that Kalliboas
recognised me almost at once from my likeness to my father. It was no
more than a vague suspicion at first, of course, but once I realised
that he was deliberately putting obstacles in the way of our visiting
the stranger's tomb, my suspicions began to take shape. Since then I
have worked with one end: to unravel that secret. My first attempt was
a failure, as I told you to-night. No doubt Kalliboas was aware of it,
and no doubt the cold-blooded old fiend laughed to himself to think
the locked door and the plaster casing would always prevent me from
learning the truth. But he had reckoned without my ally.'
'You mean--'
'The Princess Helene. God knows what I've done to earn it, Mirlees, but
Helene loves me a good deal more than she respects Kalliboas.'
'But how did you come to see her? I take it that is where you've been
prowling these nights?'
Poyning looked uncomfortable. 'It's a queer thing for any sane man to
tell,' he said, 'a very queer thing, but this is my version of it. On
the second night after my accident, Helene came to me in a dream so
vivid--well, it seemed too vivid to be merely that. She stood beside my
bed and spoke to me, telling me again very positively that in another
day I should walk. When she went away, I seemed to follow her, and
hear her speak of herself as the Princess Helene. Then the vision, or
whatever it was, faded away, and when I woke in the morning, I was
well enough convinced it was no more than a common dream. But then, by
the accident of talking to you, I discovered I knew her name and you
did not. That set me thinking. Could there be, I wondered, more in it
than I had supposed? I determined to put it to the test. The road I
went with her in the dream had remained quite clear in my mind, and I
followed it to the point where the vision faded. I was amazed to find
everything fit in exactly, even down to the wall we had stood under
together. I climbed that wall, Mirlees, and I found Helene--certainly
real this time--waiting for me on the other side. It was then that I
learned her name was indeed Helene, and that she was twin sister of the
Princess Euphrosune. We met at the same place on the following night,
and every night since, and she has told me many things known to hardly
a soul in this valley but the Nine Shadows. My inquiries naturally
enough were mainly for the stranger who had come here before. Helene
had seen him, and remembered him. He was a man, she said, very like
me in face, though much older. He came into the valley alone, nearly
dead with exhaustion, and was tended and hospitably entertained; none
of the secrets of the valley, however, were explained to him. He knew
nothing of the Hall of Wandering Souls, or that languages of the outer
world are understood there--which is a fact, Mirlees, incredible as
it may seem--and as he could not speak the language of the valley,
communication with him was conducted mostly by signs. After a time the
stranger wanted to go back by the way he had come, but he was made to
understand that he must remain. He persisted, however; left his house
one night after dark and struck out for the mountains southward. His
body was discovered on the foothills next day.'
'How did he die?'
'Helene says that was never known. According to her view, no action had
been decreed by the Shadows, but one of them took the law into his own
hands and--_acted_.'
'Then--then it _can_ be done?'
'I solemnly believe, Mirlees--though I would never expect any man who
had not been here to believe it--that to prevent my father escaping
from this valley and betraying its secret to the world, he was
murdered, by some tremendous concentration of will power acting over a
distance. It may even be, by the way, that the Tibetan Sbrang Chikya
was similarly made away with, though I have gathered no information
about him. The killing of my father gave rise, apparently, to
considerable dissatisfaction, and the Nine decided to make amends--as
if amends could be made for a cold-blooded murder!--by burying the
stranger in state. Who the murderer was, too, I cannot find out from
Helene. But I have my own suspicion.'
'Who?'
'Kalliboas.'
If this was so it would explain much. Admitting the amazing manner
of the murder as a fact, if Kalliboas had indeed committed it he
might well wish to hide the crime from the son of the murdered man,
particularly as his action had been repudiated by the dread Nine. He
might even have prevailed upon the rest to sanction shrouding the body
in that opaque plaster case, taking advantage of the dangerous state of
the hillside as a pretext for delaying our visit to the tomb until the
work was complete.
'Well,' I said at last, 'we've thrown down the gauntlet to Kalliboas
now. What do you propose to do?'
'Nothing,' said Poyning. 'At least for the present. I've ruined you,
Mirlees, and if I'm not careful I shall ruin Philipson too--without
bettering my own prospects one scrap. What he told us of his position
here is more than confirmed by what I have learned from Helene. Our
coming to the city has given rise to dissension and intrigues which
had never been known in its history before. The Kalliphanes faction,
who deny Philipson's claim to the throne, are desperately afraid our
discovery of the valley will eventually lead to its being invaded by
the outer world at large, and they will stick at nothing to prevent
this. They are using the fear of it as a lever to win over the Nine,
urging that if Philipson were the true Alexander he would not have
brought danger--meaning us two--into the state from without. It is no
pretended fear of theirs, either, nor confined to their faction. It was
strong enough, as I believe, to cause Kalliboas to murder my father on
the mere suspicion that he was trying to escape from the valley.'
'Pretty ghastly outlook for us if _we_ try to escape,' I said.
Poyning was staring straight ahead of him, as if into the far future.
'For me there will be no escape from this valley, Mirlees,' he said. 'I
shall not attempt it.'
'D'you mean you'll be content to stay here always?'
'Here, or anywhere else Helene may be. I never loved a woman before,
but I love one now. I love her more than my life, more than my honour.
I shall never go back to the world to clear my father's name now.
Even if it were possible for me to get out of the valley alive--which
I don't think it is--I would not go. I shall stay here and see the
business through. They may kill me for resisting the Nine, but till
they do I shall demand and continue to demand that my father's murderer
be punished. They may kill me on the score of Helene. She is looked
upon by these people as little short of divine. God knows what is to
happen to the stray foreigner who has dared to love her. And you,
Mirlees, what will you think of me? If you try to escape you will be
left to do it alone.'
'It won't be the first time in my life I've been in that situation,'
I said. 'As for you, and Philipson too for that matter, it seems to
me circumstances have been too strong for the both of you. Philipson
may have known more than he chose to tell me, but he can hardly have
guessed that if he brought me into this valley I should be unable to
get out. And you weren't to know you would meet your fate here.'
Poyning's face brightened immeasurably. 'Then you don't think the worse
of me for it?' he cried.
'There's one thing about me you seem to forget, Poyning,' I said, '--if
you ever knew it. I loved a woman myself once. That was my wife. When
she died, ten years ago, I prayed for death too. I've often prayed for
it since, and if there hadn't been my work still to live for, I think I
should have helped myself to an answer to the prayer before now. But
there was my work--the digging out of obscure facts about the East--and
that's what led me here. Just at present the chances seem to be against
my getting back to the outer world and publishing an account of this
valley, but if ever I'm able to do that, never fear but I shall let
it be known the late Major Poyning met his death trying to return to
his regiment like a good soldier. If I meet my own death here, it may
bring me nearer to the only woman I ever loved. So there appear to be
compensations either way.'
He took my hand in silence, and wrung it warmly.
'Come,' I said at length, 'if there are only a few days left to us we
shan't materially extend them by staying awake all night.'
With that I turned in and slept--not well, it is true, but soundly
enough to hear nothing of what happened during the night. That
something had happened was very plain. Poyning had vanished. His
bedchamber was empty and bare, and not a word could I extract from the
one solemn attendant left to me--the rest were gone--as to what had
become of him. Moreover, looking out through the tracery-windows of the
house, I observed several stalwart figures disposed about it. At first
I couldn't understand what these men were doing, but it soon broke upon
me. They were my guards. I was a prisoner, in solitary confinement.
I must confess that Poyning's disappearance affected me with a peculiar
sense of horror. There could have been hardly an hour between our
going to bed and daylight, yet in that time he had been spirited
away, without a cry, without a sound, and for all I knew he might
be dead at this moment. I had put up a bold face to him when he was
with me, perhaps as much for the purpose of encouraging myself as
him, but I now began to be attacked by a vague uneasiness of mind.
The attendant warned me not to attempt to go out, but that warning
struck me as superfluous. The main door of the house had been shut
and locked, and although I could hear no sound from without I knew
well enough that the cordon of sentries was still surrounding the
building. There, all day, I sat still or strode up and down in that
lonely twilit house, sinking steadily lower in spirits, until by real
twilight of the outer day I was in such a terrible depression as I
had never known before. I couldn't account for it. My situation was
perilous enough in all conscience; I might be led out to execution at
any moment; but I had often faced death before--I had faced it many
times on this adventure--with a light heart. Now abject terror, quaking
cowardice--all the torturing emotions with which a craven spirit views
danger--seemed to be rushing over me in waves.
Then, with a sudden thrill of horror that well nigh made me scream
aloud, I realised the truth. Somewhere, I knew not where, the dark
powers possessed by these people were being set in motion against me.
I cannot hope to adequately portray my feelings--there are no words
in our language equal to that terrible anguish of mind. At times I
seemed to be undergoing agonies of alarm like those I had felt on
the first occasion I was hypnotised in the Hall of Wandering Souls:
the blackness of darkness that surrounded and penetrated my brain,
and a ghastly _physical_ impression of falling miles through space;
but what I had experienced then was mere play to what I felt now. I
could not have believed it possible for human personality to plumb
such abysses of anguish, for the sensations I underwent were deeper,
intenser by far than anything I had ever dreamed; and beyond that,
there was a terrifying distinctiveness about this awful obsession. It
was a feeling of fear, yet it was not fear; it was like an epitome of
all the stabbing sorrows of a lifetime, yet it was more than any human
sorrow; and over all, that frightful sense of mental strangulation, as
though it were my _soul_ that was writhing in the grip of some soul far
mightier, which must soon crush it to nothingness and death.
What I did during this time I do not know, but afterwards, from the
fact that both my legs were black and blue, I concluded I must have
been from time to time beaten to my knees by the anguish of horror
that surged over me, and that time after time I struggled again to my
feet. Suddenly, after how long I cannot determine, the clouds lifted:
my brain became clear and untroubled, and to my amazement I found
myself in an excellent cheerfulness. The house was now quite dark, but
the darkness did not distress me, nor had any shadow of fear remained
on my mind. To my even greater astonishment I noticed I was healthily
tired; and without more ado I went to my bedchamber, threw myself on to
my couch, and slept a sound untroubled sleep till broad daylight. On
awaking I was still in such buoyant spirits that I almost fancied the
experience of yesterday must have been some elaborate delusion: that my
sudden imprisonment and Poyning's uncanny disappearance had so preyed
upon my mind that I had unconsciously magnified a mere ordinary fit of
the blues into those horrors I have so feebly described.
As the day advanced, this impression deepened: I felt comparatively
happy, and rambled round the now tiresome apartments, whistling to
myself, and wondering what I should do in the event of my escaping from
this beautiful but terrible valley. I fell to speculating upon what
would be the end of Stephen Poyning--supposing he still lived. Would he
remain in this city for the rest of his life, counting the outer world
well lost for the boon of being near the woman he loved; and could
it by any conceivable chance be possible that the dread Nine would
pardon him and consent to his marriage with a woman who was to them,
apparently, little less sacred than the goddesses of old Greece? What
was Philipson doing? Was he aware of my captivity--was there any help
to be expected from him? Could it be that he _was_ helping me--that
he had set his powers of mind, which I knew to be tremendous, working
against the forces that willed to destroy me, and that _that_ was the
reason of my sudden release from the great mental anguish of last night?
Then, towards twilight, began again that terrible obsession. It came
more swiftly this time, was more intense and, I believe, lasted
longer. I will pass over the blinding, staggering horror of those
hours. The details, indeed, I but remember vaguely myself; but I will
say this much with assurance: the priests of the religions of this
world, when they represented eternal punishment as a thing of burning
fire and bodily torture, confessed themselves to be folk of a feeble,
half-formed imagination; for there are gulfs of spiritual anguish
into which humanity can be plunged more terrible by worlds than the
materialistic hells of theology. When the first waves of depression
swept over me I was taken with a mad desire to rush out into the open
and die there--but I found I couldn't make one step towards the door,
leave alone break it open. I screamed to the attendant to let me
out--but I never heard the scream.
When I came to myself I was lying on a couch, and I noticed immediately
that not only my robe but the lawn covering of the couch itself was
wringing wet--drenched with the cold sweat of terror. The first thing I
did on rising was to take off my sandal and with the buckle pin score
two deep scratches on the marble wall of the chamber. I did this under
a curious impulse to keep tally of the days of my captivity, and it is
that record alone which enables me to say how long I was imprisoned;
afterwards morning and evening became blurred in my memory in a sort
of incoherent jumble of horror. I made several attempts to escape
during what I will call the "lucid intervals," but the only escape
from that house was by way of death, and that I couldn't bring myself
to seek. Behind all the anguish and horror of those days there seemed
to gleam a small spark of hope, and though the "lucid intervals" grew
shorter and the attacks of mental anguish longer as time went on, I had
formed an idea, and clung desperately to it, that there was a mind--or
minds--fighting for me. And looking back over the ghastly episode now,
I consider this view to be the true one, for on no other supposition
can I explain the periodic respites from torment at all.
Thus far, I am aware, I shall have severely strained the credence of
any reader of this narrative, yet what follows is stranger still.
Those who have read what I have written of the strange spiritual power
possessed by the people of this valley may find an adequate explanation
there; others, having regard to the terrible experiences through
which I had passed during the last few days, may prefer to think my
overwrought brain was no longer capable of recording sane impressions.
I set down my account of the affair not in full confidence that it
will be accepted as truth, and I offer no explanation whatever, but
write what I solemnly believe to be the bare facts as they presented
themselves to my senses.
It was, by the scorings on the wall, the sixth night of my captivity.
That day I had been prey to the longest and severest attack of mental
anguish yet, but at what I take to have been about nine in the evening,
this had suddenly lifted, leaving me in a buoyancy of spirit likewise
more pronounced than I had known from the beginning. I had retired to
bed, and lay for a long time wondering whether this abrupt lightening
of the gloom meant that I was to be tortured no further, when a female
figure noiselessly entered my room. The bedchamber, I may say, was at
the side of the house, and was illuminated during daytime by a window
of open marble tracery built into the wall, through which the beams
of the moon, now nearing the full, eerily filtered. The woman glided
towards me, and stood so close that I had no difficulty in recognising
her as the maiden of Poyning's adventure on the last night we spent
together.
'Princess Helene!' I gasped.
Her wonderful features broke into a smile. 'You have mistaken me,
stranger,' she whispered. 'I am Euphrosune, wife of the Prince.
Hearken! You have been in great danger, and you are in great danger
still. You cannot fail to know that attempts have been made to kill
you?'
'Only too well,' I said. 'Tell me, was it Kalliboas?'
'We will speak no ill of Kalliboas,' she replied solemnly. 'Kalliboas
is dead. Seek not the manner of his death, for these are terrible
matters and not good to be spoken of.'
'And Poyning?'
'The little one lives. My sister loves the little one, and no harm will
befall him so long as we three, the Prince and my sister and I, live to
shield him. But there are grave perils that beset us all. Your coming
to the city from the great world without has set our rulers one against
the other: we are in the cross-currents of a stormy sea. It is well
that you should leave us, stranger.'
A tremendous new hope rose in me.
'You will help me to escape?' I cried in a hoarse whisper.
'There is one thing that can enable us to do that,' she said. 'My
husband has told me that among the race from whom you come, oaths are
sacred. If we contrive your escape, will you swear never by word or
deed, now or henceforth, to betray the existence of our country to any
man of the outer world?'
The words fell on my ears like a physical blow. My new-born hope was
dashed rudely to the ground. In a flash I saw all my ambition fail: all
the perils and hardships I had undergone in coming to this amazing land
were undergone in vain if I were debarred from making it known to the
world; never should I reap the rewards and fame of a discovery beside
which whatever of discoveries I had made before--I, who had given my
life to the making of discoveries in little-known lands--would seem
humdrum and small; never should I see my name on the title page of the
greatest book of exploration ever printed. I think she must have also
learned from the Prince what my life-work in the outer world had been,
and that she was aware of the struggle going on within me.
'Listen, stranger,' she said, speaking with an intensity of earnestness
and persuasion. 'From that far-off day when our Prince, in the life
that was before, bade us keep our land secret from the world, never
have we risked contamination with the outer peoples. Year after year,
century after century, have we reverenced this command, and taught
it to our children as soon as they were old enough to understand, so
that it has become the first law of our existence. You, stranger, have
learned how by the skill of our wise ones we know what passes in the
world without. You have seen, too, something of our life, and how wide
is the gulf, not yet to be bridged, between us and the outer world.
Our Prince came to this valley at the first fleeing from the brutish
intolerance of men. Has the world yet cleansed itself of that stain?
Well we know that it has not. Well we know that were our existence
known to the world, many are the things in this valley which the world
would look upon with covetousness and lust: those glinting pebbles
alone, which we give to our children to play with, would draw from the
very ends of the earth its lowest and worst. Terribly do our people not
less than our rulers fear that pollution. It must not be!'
'And if I swear the oath?'
'The Prince will contrive your flight. When you have gone, there will
be great tumult in this valley--it may even be that the Prince's own
life will be in danger. But he will quell that uprising. He will make
known to our rulers and if need be to our people that the secret of
this valley is safe with you for ever--he will pledge his own sacred
word.'
'And if I refuse to swear?'
'Can the Prince set at naught the command which he, in his former
coming, gave us? Can he imperil the existence of his own people?
Without an oath of secrecy, by all you hold most sacred, the Prince
will not, cannot, countenance your return to the world without. And
should you try to escape by your own devices, even though we will it,
we may be powerless to save you from swift destruction.'
I remained gripping the coverlet of my couch as if it were my great
chance slipping away from me. 'So be it,' I groaned at last. 'I swear
by all I hold most sacred, never by word or deed, now or henceforth, to
betray the existence of this country to any man of the outer world.'
'It is bravely said. At this time to-morrow, then, be ready to step
out of this house and leave the valley for ever. And now, stranger,
farewell. Only once again will you see me in this life, and then it may
be that you shall not know it is I.'
She made a queenly gesture, and I, stirred by a sudden impulse of
gratitude, had risen from my couch and stretched out my hand to take
hers and raise it to my lips. You who have read thus far will now
understand what I mean when I say I have set down this incident not in
confidence that it will be believed.
_My hand passed through hers, and through her body, and I stumbled
heavily against the marble wall of the room._
CHAPTER XIV
HOW I CROSSED THE MOUNTAINS
As I have already written, I offer no explanation of the incident with
which my last chapter closes, but whatever it was, it caused me to
do something I had certainly never done before over a mental shock.
I must have fainted. When I recovered consciousness I was lying on
the marble floor of my bedchamber, chilly and stiff, and with a very
palpable throbbing of my forehead, where, on examination, I discovered
a big bruise. So much for the outside of my head. Within, my brain was
also throbbing, partly with bewilderment, but a good deal more with
exultation. I might be the sport of an hallucination, but I flatly
refused to believe it had no foundation in fact. If I didn't know, I
_felt_ that help was coming.
I rose silently to my feet and stole across to the tracery-window.
From that spy-hole I could see two of the watchers standing at some
distance away, motionless but clearly awake, alert but seeming to have
no suspicion that anything out of the common had happened inside the
house. They could have heard neither my talk nor the thud I must have
made when I fell. I then crept back to my couch, and went carefully
over the events of the night. I wanted to fix them on my brain, for I
had a very pronounced impression they were going to be of use to me. I
determined, too, that to-morrow I would get ready to escape exactly as
if the chance were really on its way.
The day passed without much in the way of incident, but it was one of
the most exciting I ever spent, and long before nightfall I was in
a downright fever. I watched myself minutely for any recurrence of
the great depression, but there was no hint of it; my brain remained
clear, my spirits buoyant, and had it not been for the very noticeable
discoloration of my bruised knees, I should have found it difficult to
believe I'd been through the unspeakable tortures of the past week.
There was one fact that struck me at once as unusual--even significant.
My attendant, or gaoler as he was now become, had been accustomed to
occupy one of the servants' chambers at the back of the house; here he
took his meals and slept, entering the living rooms only to bring me my
food. To-day the fellow posted himself on a couch in the main hall and
remained there practically all the time. I pretended to take no notice
of his presence, but I couldn't fail to see the meaning of it; and the
thought raised my hopes still higher. It looked as if there _was_ a
plot on foot to further my escape, and my enemies, having got wind of
it, had ordered this fellow to remain where he would be in a better
position to raise an alarm.
The man said not a word to me all day, but sat for the most part still
as a statue, and as handsome. He was only a servant in this valley of
Olympians, but he had a face that in any drawing room in Europe would
have forced the eyes of every man and woman upon him like a magnet.
At somewhere near eight o'clock, he brought his evening meal to the
main hall, laid it on the low table, and began to eat. I withdrew to
my bedchamber as if to sleep, though I'd not yet eaten my own supper,
which I was in the habit of taking about nine. After a while I became
conscious of a curious stillness in the large room. I crept to the
doorway and peeped between the curtain and the marble jamb. To-night
the great hanging lamp had been lit, and was filling the place with a
soft fragrance usual with the luminant oils used in the valley, and by
the light of this lamp I could see my gaoler quite clearly--could see
his face and the uncommonly languid expression it wore. The man was
dozing. Two minutes later he was asleep, and five after that, I knew
from the deep stupor he had fallen into that his food had been drugged.
So far so good. Now to get out. I rapidly searched him for the keys
of the building. They were not on him. Nor could I find them in his
quarters. I made a swift exploration of the whole place, but so far as
escape went, I seemed to be no better off with my gaoler insensible
than before: the main door, and the one other door at the back of
the house, were locked, and far too strong to be forced. However,
the drugging of the attendant proved that friends were stirring for
me--very capable friends at that, for the tampering with this man's
food could only have been effected by extreme craft and daring; and I
must apparently possess myself to sit down and wait to be rescued.
The hours dragged on, each seeming a week. I was getting desperate. I
watched that attendant's face for any sign of returning consciousness,
and had he given it, I veritably believe I should have strangled him
in cold blood. But he remained quite motionless, sprawling on the
couch where he had eaten, and at last, to my inexpressible relief, I
heard a gentle grating sound in the front of the house. A moment later
the main door came ajar. I stared at the form that sidled through
the opening, but though his face seemed curiously familiar to me, I
couldn't recognise him at first. His skin was of the usual fairish
tint of the valley, his lawn robes might have been the garments of any
casual passer-by in the street, and if his hair was a little straighter
than that commonly seen about the city, it was at least cut to the
common pattern. Yet for all the cosmetics and pomatums he had lavished
on himself, I'm much afraid his low stature and high cheekbones would
always militate against Lo Eng looking like a genuine native of Hellas.
'My master's wish, sir,' he said, in his quaintly exact English, 'is
that you should follow me at thirty paces without seeming to follow.'
In an instant I had darted into my bedchamber and snatched up the very
small bundle I purposed to take on my flight, and had followed Lo Eng
into the open air. There was no sound, no sign of movement; I think
I have mentioned that it was rare for the citizens of the valley to
be abroad long after nightfall, and it was now, I judge, about eleven
o'clock. Even the sentries outside the house appeared to have been
withdrawn, but as I stole across the courtyard I saw this was not so.
I couldn't understand at first those white heaps lying on the marble
flags; then I saw they were my guardians. Whoever had attended to the
drugging had carried out the work comprehensively and well.
The light was uncertain, but I had no difficulty in keeping Lo Eng's
swiftly retreating figure in view. At last he stopped, and when I came
up with him I found two litters waiting. These we entered and resumed
our rapid journey across the city and out towards the plain beyond;
soon, peeping through the curtains, I saw we had come to the outskirts,
and some while after that we were clear of houses altogether. The
bearers halted. As I climbed out of my litter I saw them drop
simultaneously with their faces to the earth. A figure had emerged from
a grove of fruit trees, approaching us, and a moment later Saunders
Philipson was grasping my hand; he bade the bearers withdraw, then
began to speak, hurriedly and earnestly.
'Listen closely, Mirlees,' he said, 'for everything depends on speed.
If you are to leave this valley you must leave immediately. Are you
prepared to risk it?'
'Anything is to be preferred to my last week,' I said.
He laid his hand on my shoulder. 'I am to blame for that,' he said,
'I who brought you here. But then--ah, it was all so vague and
uncertain--how could I know? However, that is past. I am doing what
I can to make amends. Believe me, Mirlees, it is not without risk to
myself that I am helping you to get back to your own world. When the
populace learn that you are gone, fear of invasion from without may
overwhelm even their devotion to me, and if both the people and the
Nine turn against me, I am like to lose kingdom and life in an hour.
After Poyning and you broke into the tomb, Kalliboas went straight over
to the party of Kalliphanes, and worked for the death of you both.
But'--here Philipson passed his hand over his brow, as if recollecting
something he would have been glad to forget--'there were powers in
this valley greater than those of Kalliboas. My rival's faction have
made great head, none the less, and at this moment my fate actually
swings in the balance. However, I am prepared for either destiny. Many
times you risked your life helping me to a kingdom, Mirlees, and I will
cheerfully risk mine helping you out of it. Now, as to affairs in the
outer world. When you reach Chungking, show this seal to En Chin, and
he will hand over the launch to you--it may be of service. Here is a
signed deed of gift which makes you the possessor of that boat and such
monies as still stand to my credit in the Bank of Cathay. There will
be more than enough to repay you for the time you have spent on this
adventure, though your services to me not all the money in Asia could
requite. But one thing--as you value your life, be constantly on guard.
The enemies who tracked us up from the sea may have lost sight of us,
but they have not forgotten. They will wait years for vengeance if
necessary, and it is possible that watchers have been left at the last
point to which they followed us, on the chance of our returning by the
same way. You may even deem it safer to avoid Chungking altogether--to
strike northward for the Koko Nur route across Mongolia--that I must
leave to your own judgment. But wherever you go, as soon as you enter
the known world again, beware of the Holy Brotherhood of Shigatse!'
'That's well enough,' I said, 'but I have to get to the known world
first. I seem to remember that the trek this way was tremendously
difficult, even with a party of us to help one another.'
At this moment there was a sound of footsteps approaching. Philipson
drew me swiftly in under the shadow of the orchard, and we waited, with
held breath. Then I felt him give my arm a gentle squeeze.
'Friends,' he muttered. 'All's well. Come with me.'
I followed him out on to an open plot of grass land, where we found two
men carrying between them something like an enormous cigar. This they
laid on the ground, and one of them turned and came towards me with
outstretched hand.
'After many days, Mirlees,' said Stephen Poyning. 'You've just got
out?'
'Not half an hour ago.'
'It's my first night loose too. I've put it to good use. Philipson
didn't want to take more servants into his confidence than he could
help, so I went with Ah Sing for this.'
He pointed to the cigar-shaped object, which I now saw was a folded
pair of wings of the largest type, fitted with that peculiar "carapace"
above the hinges.
Philipson had stooped in silence, and was examining the structure all
over.
'You should be a skilled flier by now, Mirlees?' he said briskly,
looking up.
'Pretty fair with the wings of the school. I've never used this
pattern.'
'Kneel down here, and I will show you the difference. These are harder
at first, but afterwards there is no comparison--they will carry you
far faster, and the greater wing-purchase will give you longer rests.
On these wings, barring accidents, you should get over the worst of
the heights before daylight. Then the dawn-wind will set in from
due west--your very course--and blow steadily all day, as it almost
invariably does at this time of year. With the help of that and the
power you should get so far across by sunset as to be well down off the
ridges and over a spot where you may risk resting in the open. As soon
as you come into inhabited country again, burn the wings and make your
way on foot. There--it's risky enough, but our people have often done
as much and more. What do you say?'
'How about the cold?'
'I have prepared for that. Here is one of the suits used by our own
fliers when they go over the heights. Once you have put it on you must
get out of this valley quickly, however, or the heat of it may overcome
you.'
'And the power?'
'That is quite easy. This lever sets it in action, this connects it
with the rib; both are moved by the right hand reaching up, the arm
flexed double.'
Simple as the device obviously was, I didn't care to trust my life to
it without trial. Philipson noticed my hesitation.
'Never fear, Mirlees,' he said. 'You shall take a preliminary turn
here--but it must be a short one. If you do not think you can manage
the wings, come down again, and I will hide you until I can devise
other means for your departure.'
'And you, Philipson?' I said. 'You remain here?'
His voice sank to a solemn whisper. 'It is my destiny,' he said. 'I
remain for good or ill. My servants also--they are already married to
women of my people.'
'And you, Poyning?'
'I have not changed, Mirlees,' he said. 'I shall never change.'
I shook the both of them by the hand, then called up the Chinese
servants and bade them good-bye also. Philipson helped me into the
suit, a light garment but astonishingly warm, which fitted close to the
body all over, leaving nothing exposed but the mask of the face; round
my waist were strung my little bundle, a parcel of food, a packet of
rough silver, and a flint with which I was to burn the wings when they
had served my purpose. The latter were then opened out and strapped to
my shoulders, and everything was ready for the attempt.
Despite the ghastly experiences of my imprisonment, I felt surprisingly
vigorous and alert, whipped up, I've no doubt, by excitement; and
though I found these heavier wings were indeed harder to use than the
unpowered type--particularly when it was a question of first getting up
from earth--I managed to rise on a light puff of wind and swept round
once or twice with fair ease. The power was easy to manipulate in the
extreme. I had barely moved the second lever when I heard something
swing into place with a sharp clink and felt the wings suddenly begin
to flap without any help from my arms. Though I had seen this pattern
of wing before and speculated long on its secret, I must admit my
first experience of it at close quarters filled me with the utmost
stupefaction. That strange power-box, emitting nothing but a faint
clutter which was almost drowned in the rustle of the wings themselves,
was working strongly and steadily within two feet of my head, yet not
for all the wealth in the world could I more than vaguely guess how.
Amazement gave way almost at once to confidence. It was incredible,
of course, that I should really be able to cross tremendous ranges
of mountains on this apparatus, yet I know that at that moment I was
profoundly convinced I could. Then, remembering Philipson's injunction
I turned off the power; even so I was astonished to find how far my
wings had taken me from the spot where Philipson and Poyning stood
waiting.
I drew near, hovering in the way I had been taught, and swept my gaze
back over the lost city of Hellas where it rose calm and magnificent,
its white roofs gleaming in the moonlight. At that instant I saw
something that set my pulses tingling with more than the exhilaration
of flight. Away over the city, three or four black bat-like shapes had
appeared in the sky. In a second I had begun to rise again, wheeling
round short.
'Look towards the city!' I cried. 'Good-bye and good luck to you all!'
I heard a sharp answering cry from below--
'Fly for your life!'
That was the last word I was ever to hear from the lips of the man I
had known as Saunders Philipson.
My mind had been instantly made up. As in a lightning flash I saw my
escape, which by this time had become a mad, overwhelming desire in me,
suddenly threatened by those sinister shapes against the wan-gold sky
of the night. All the horrors of my captivity of the past week rose
again before me, and I determined I would make my dash for freedom
now, pursuers or none, and that I would never be taken alive. So, with
Philipson's last cry ringing in my ears, I pushed back the power-lever
of the wings to its fullest, and swept furiously away into the night.
I climbed fast, but long before I got into the cooler air above I was
perspiring from every pore; the material of that garment, I imagine,
must have been treated by some cunning chemical process, for it seemed
to envelop the whole body in a strong glow of heat. And then began a
chase which, like so much more I experienced on this adventure, would
need the pen of a Poe or a De Quincey to describe. For some time I
flew on in a downright delirium, unable to think this flight was not
another wild, fantastic dream. The wonderful thrill of hurtling through
the air at such speed; the uncanny power of these wings that bore me
so easily and so well; the contrast between this swift retreat and
our plodding, agonising tramp over the snows a month or two back--all
combined to destroy my belief in the reality of what was happening. I
had risen above the highest point of our route in what seemed a few
minutes--though it can hardly have been less than an hour--and was
whirling at a prodigious pace over the long gutter-like depressions
which, fortunately for me, preserve in this region a general
east-by-west trend. On either hand towered majestic peaks, wilder and
grander in this eerie light even than they had looked to our fevered
eyes when we came, and though my own altitude was far below their
summits I knew I must be little short of four miles above sea level.
Height-sickness I certainly felt: I could taste blood as it trickled
down over my lips, and my breath came in long, violent gasps; yet this
malady seemed to attack me far less dangerously than when moving on the
ground--which I attributed in some degree to the glow of warmth I felt
all over me from my clothing, and to the fact that I kept my arms for
the most part through the thong loops of the wings, thus producing a
violent exercise and augmented body-heat.
I had glanced back several times for any sign of pursuit, but there
was none. No doubt it was that that made me over confident. I must
certainly have relaxed my vigilance, for now, suddenly looking up, I
saw quite distinctly a figure flying ahead of me. How that form could
have got past without my having any suspicion, I was utterly at a loss
to imagine, yet there it was; and more uncanny still was the fact that
when I now looked behind I saw _three_ figures only a few hundred yards
from me. These were apparently the three pursuers I had seen over the
city.
I plunged furiously on. It seemed certain enough that if four enemies
could "bracket" me in this way both behind and in front, they would
have small difficulty in heading me off if I turned out of my course;
moreover, to do that would necessitate climbing over the enormous
ridges to north or south, at a height where the thin air might and
probably would cause me to collapse altogether. In any case, safety lay
to the east, safety and inhabited if uncivilised lands, and I knew that
every minute was bringing me a mile nearer to it.
The mysterious chase went on. I don't think my pursuers were any longer
gaining on me from behind, but I seemed to be steadily closing up
with the figure in front, and was at last so near that I could almost
distinguish the outlines of the body borne by those wings. It may be
the moonlight and the wild frenzy of the escape deluded me, but the
longer I looked the deeper grew my impression that what I saw was the
figure of a woman. Moreover, though I was now a good deal nearer to
this figure than to those behind, it seemed curiously less distinct,
and grew less and less distinct the nearer I came. At any other time
this would no doubt have amazed me, but amazement was a faculty of
which I was no longer capable.
Then the figures behind grew indistinct also. They seemed to be melting
into a veil of grey mist, which was approaching me a good deal faster
than they. Then all became dark, the moon was blotted out, and I
realised what that strange mistiness really meant.
With a blow that struck like something solid the tempest overtook me,
hurling me forward with a frightful access of speed. I summoned every
ounce of strength and nerve that was in me, and hung on. In an instant
I was whelmed in the blackness of the Pit, whirled literally like an
autumn leaf in a scurry of wind, conscious of nothing but the screaming
wrath of the elements all round me and blank despair within. This, it
seemed, was the end of all. I had lost control, was borne on and held
up by the strength of the storm alone; sooner or later some devilish
caprice of the wind must drop me, as a wanton child may break a
plaything it is tired of, and then it would only be a matter of moments
for me to be dashed against the cliffs and crags of the mountain side
and find a death mercifully instantaneous. To steer was utterly out
of the question, even to keep my equilibrium impossible; once I was
tossed high and flung over and over like a bounding ball, until my head
spun and my eyes were full of blood and I thought the straps of the
wings must tear out the shoulders from my body; yet even here the very
force of the tempest was my salvation, for though I fell, long before I
neared the face of the mountain I had been caught up in a fresh blast
of wind and hurled forward more furiously than before.
How long the storm lasted I would hesitate to guess within hours,
but this much I can be tolerably sure of: that of all the amazing
experiences I underwent during my quest of the lost land of Hellas,
nothing came so near the miraculous as my escape through that
tremendous tempest on a pair of artificial wings the use of which I
did not fully understand. That I escaped at all I can only ascribe to
the marvellous skill with which the wings had been constructed: they
resisted that frightful wind by yielding to it; so well-knit were they,
so cunningly blending rigidity with elasticity, so cleverly copying
the wings of the feathered creation, that I imagine I must have been
pretty much like a gull in a hurricane at sea, whirled along helpless
on the storm, but at last recovering wing-purchase and flying again on
its own power. Not least astonishing was the fact that through all that
terrific buffeting by the wind the mechanism of my wings had remained
unbroken and continued to work--to that also I no doubt owed in part
my deliverance from a ghastly death on the crags.
At last the wind suddenly fell, in the abrupt way these mountain
tempests will drop; the sky had cleared and the moon shone out again,
and by its light I could see the mountains below me white with great
drifts of snow. Of my three pursuers and the mysterious figure who
had preceded me there was no sign, and who they were or whether they
perished in the storm I was never to know; but I don't fancy the form
in front of me met with destruction, or could do so in the nature
of things. When I say I believe that form was no bodily presence at
all, but a vision sent to guide my escape, not to hinder it, I may be
charged with superstition. If so, it won't distress me, or even shake
my belief.
I came to a stretch of mountain that looked tolerably even, and decided
to make a landing, for I was not only exhausted but ravenously hungry.
I succeeded in alighting, and there, without even trying to loosen my
wings, I squatted under them in the snow and ate several handfuls of
food from the bundle strapped at my waist. The cold was terrific--far
more than I had felt it in the air; and a moment later when I struggled
to my feet and strove to ascend, I was within an ace of final disaster.
So stiff had I grown even in that brief interval of rest that I came
near crashing for want of a few sweeps of my wings to get me clear of
the earth. Luckily, I had just strength enough to reach up and touch
the power-lever. The broad wings answered faithfully to it, and within
a few moments I was hurtling towards safety again as fast as ever.
That was the last descent I was going to risk until I had done with
flying for good. I knew that while I might yet remain in the air a long
while, my strength was no longer to be trusted for purposes of rising
again. Moreover, barring the danger of absolute collapse, those wings
were the very best means of locomotion I could have wished, and might
save me many weariful weeks of tramping over the pitiless heights.
A wind rose with dawn, not like the tempest of the night, but the
steady day-wind of summer, and on this I made marvellously good
progress. I kept at barely a hundred feet from the mountain, and though
there was no descent appreciable to the eye in that enormous elevated
region, I knew by the rising temperature of the air that I was getting
down. Beyond that, I knew little of what happened to me during that
day. I flew on and on, in a sort of half coma. At times, I veritably
believe, I was asleep, and had there been any more demanded of me
than simply to rest on my wings, I must have assuredly come to grief.
It was hunger that drove me down at last. I was now past the limits
of weariness, but I was hungry as I had never known hunger before.
How long I had been in the air I couldn't even guess from my own
recollection of the day, but I remember being drowsily amazed to notice
that the sun was now beginning to dip behind the highest peaks westward
of me. Also, I had a hazy impression of having once or twice during
the last hour caught glimpses in the distance of what might have been
rude human habitations. The time was come to destroy my wings, and seek
shelter and rest.
I got to earth, loosened the straps and struggled out of them, and
looked around for fuel. There was a fair quantity of coarse withered
scrub sticking up through the snow here, and I soon had a pyre built
big enough for my purpose. On to this I dragged the wings and held
my flint ready to kindle the strange sacrifice. Up to the present,
be it noted, I had acted under a sort of blind impulse to perform a
duty, as required of me by my oath; I didn't think, I couldn't. The
long-deferred sleep was sweeping over me in waves; I was hard put to
it to stand, and I retained just sufficient consciousness to know that
if I fell I should lose it immediately. Then, however, as I stared
at those wings, sleep for a moment retreated again, pushed back by
an overwhelming curiosity. I could not bring myself to destroy that
marvellous mechanism without one last attempt to probe its secret. I
knelt beside it and began tugging at the power-box with my hands. I
could make no impression either upon the box or the slender connecting
rods that protruded from it. Time was short. The irresistible sleep
might come upon me at any instant. I found a fragment of rock about as
big as my clenched fist and set about breaking the box open with that.
Standing at the head of the folded wings I raised that stone and hurled
it down on to the wings with all the strength left in me. The next
instant I was hurled down myself, while something spread itself above
me, darkening the sky, and then was gone. _The wings had sprung up and
flown away._
I lay on my back, gasping. Of all the uncanny shocks ever meted out to
a human being, I question whether any could have been more startling
than that one of mine on those lonely mountain slopes. For an instant
I was veritably inclined to believe those wings embodied not only
a mysterious force, but a sentient mind and will, and that finding
themselves attacked they had sprung up to attack me. It was a fantastic
notion, yet at the time and in the circumstances I imagine anybody
might have been excused for harbouring it. What had really happened, of
course, was simple enough. In trying to wrench open that box with my
hands I had unwittingly pressed it down on to the brushwood; the jar
of the stone forced it down still farther, thus causing the levers to
turn and setting the power in action, and the wings, obeying the law of
their construction, had immediately unfolded and started to flap.
At first I thought the apparatus must come to earth for want of
guidance, but there I had greatly under-estimated the cunning of the
builder. So perfectly poised were the wings that they preserved their
equilibrium from the start, automatically, and all the difference the
absence of my weight seemed to make to them was that they rose far
more swiftly and easily. They had lain on the pyre of scrub pointed
due west, which direction they kept, and I wasn't long realising
those wings would come to earth only when the power in them was
exhausted. How long that would take I had no notion, but when they
finally disappeared into the sunset they appeared to me to be working
as strongly as ever. Somewhere, no doubt, far out on those trackless
mountain wildernesses, buried in blown dust and driven snow, there
lies the wreck of certainly the most amazing and ingenious device ever
perfected by the brain of man.
I was staring blankly after my lost pinions when I became aware that
a party of natives were spying me from behind a big boulder at some
distance away. I called to them, but they seemed a good deal readier
to run away than come near; it was pretty obvious they had witnessed
my dealings with the automaton and set me down for a wizard of the
mountain conjuring up familiar devils. Like Saunders Philipson, I knew
something of this breed and how to treat them; and without taking any
further notice of them I turned away and lit my fire and sat warming
myself and counting over one or two pieces of my rough silver. It had
the desired effect: they gradually gained heart and drew near. I told
them I was a traveller who had strayed from my party, and that being
without food and seeing the great bird perching on the mountain I
had attacked it with a stone, but that it had escaped from me. They
listened politely if awesomely to my tale but obviously didn't believe
it, and without Philipson's very serviceable rough silver I don't
imagine I should have got much help from those natives. As it was, they
helped me down to their wretched hill-village, and thence, after I had
rested several days, set me on my way back towards civilisation. The
journey, which took three or four weeks on foot, was totally devoid
of incident, and I pass it over in silence; but before leaving this
phase of my adventure I will record one thing which may be of interest
as indicating, however roughly, the geographical position of the lost
city of Hellas. Since my return to the outer world I have made many
calculations of the distance I covered in making my escape. The result
is pretty amazing, but I have checked and re-checked my reckonings--the
journey there as against the journey back--and if the figures err, it
is probably on the side of under-statement. During the eighteen hours
of my flight from Hellas to the point on the mountain side where the
party of natives found me, I must have travelled not less than _nine
hundred English miles._
I hurry on to the end, for I know that little time is left to me to
complete this record. At Chungking the boatman, En Chin, handed over
the launch on production of Philipson's seal, and believed readily
enough that I was the sole survivor of our party--a tale to which my
extremely weather-beaten appearance must have lent support. From En
Chin I learned that only two days after we left for Kiai a Tibetan had
come to him inquiring our whereabouts. En Chin had had his instructions
from Philipson, however, and observed them; said we had gone on up the
main stream, destination unknown; and he thought the man had then left
in that direction, for he saw or heard no more of him.
I spent a day overhauling the launch, engaged a native to help me
run her, and went to bed in En Chin's house by the waterside. That
night I dreamed of Hellas, long and confusedly. The city was in vast
turmoil, out of which emerged at last the face of Saunders Philipson,
sombre and foreboding--I almost felt in my dream that he was striving
to warn me against something. I woke with a start, full of a strange
but very urgent impulse to get gone. I rose, roused En Chin and my
native boatman, threw some provisions into the launch and ran her down
from the yard into the river. I had made most of my other preparations
overnight, and within five minutes we were dropping down stream,
drifting, for there was little petrol to be got so far inland and I
wanted all I had for the rapids below. It lacked still an hour or two
till dawn, but suddenly, a little while after we had left, we both
noticed a queer light in the sky behind us. I didn't know the cause of
it then. Some weeks later I learned that En Chin's house had caught
fire and been destroyed, with many other native houses, barely an hour
after our departure. It may have been accidental, but I don't think so.
Arrived at last in Shanghai, I settled down in my old hotel, living
very quietly--but not for want of funds; setting aside Philipson's bank
balance, which was substantial, that little bundle I had kept by me all
the way back from Hellas would, I knew, see me through to the end of my
days in a good deal greater affluence than I wanted. I heard no mention
anywhere of the affair that had immediately preceded our flight from
Shanghai, and it seemed that so far as the police were concerned, that
episode had been let drop. I soon got to know, however, that in other
quarters it was neither forgotten nor forgiven.
Three days after I arrived, a shot was fired at me from the window of
an empty house in the suburbs. The police investigated that matter,
but they never knew who fired the shot. I knew without investigation.
A week later, returning to my hotel after dark, I was very cleverly
lariated and three-parts strangled by two natives, one of them I fancy
a Tibetan, working from a dark doorway; and two days after that, as I
walked in broad daylight down a crowded street in the Chinese city, a
knife whizzed past my ear and buried itself an inch deep in a pillar of
hard wood.
From that time onward attempts on my life were frequent.
I drew more and more into seclusion, keeping to my rooms at the hotel
for days together, yet even here I wasn't safe. One day, when lunch was
brought up to me--I never used the public rooms for meals--I noticed
as I shook some cayenne pepper from the caster that the stuff was
curiously light in tint. Now since my return I had often dreamed of
Hellas both by night and day, and before long it became too obvious
to escape remark that shortly after these dreams I was invariably in
danger from my enemies. Coincidence, or some subtle warning conveyed to
me from that mysterious land beyond the snows--I've no time to discuss
the point now; but the fact remains that on the night before I detected
that curious pallor about the cayenne pepper, I had dreamed of Hellas
very vividly indeed. I called up the manager, and had the stuff
analysed. The chemist reported a rare and very deadly alkaloid, the
name of which I have forgotten. The manager of the hotel was greatly
distressed. He investigated the business thoroughly, but without
discovering any hint as to how the poison could have been introduced
into my private pepper-caster. The chef and all the servants had
been with him a long time, bore excellent characters, and denied all
knowledge of the attempted poisoning. The manager at last offered me a
solatium to say nothing of the affair. I refused his money, of course,
and wouldn't even let him sack the cook, but that night, alone over a
briar, I thought out the whole position.
By midnight I had come to a pretty far-reaching decision--no less than
to write a full and accurate account of my visit to the lost land of
Hellas. My reason for doing this was simply that I was unwilling my
secret should die with me. That I must die before long, I was fully
convinced. My enemies had made it quite clear to me by this time that
they would only be satisfied with my death. I might--though this is
doubtful--prolong the hunt by fleeing from China, but that I declined
to do. The great Yellow Land which has been the subject of my life-work
has been my home for many years now. I have few friends in it, but none
at all outside, and there is at this moment, I believe, no relative of
mine left living. I would stay where I was, and pray that time might be
left me to complete the record.
I write these final words as fast as pen will travel over paper, for I
know the end is near.
I began to write, working night and day whenever my brain was clear
enough to think and remember. It was not so always. I think it was on
the night I finished my chapter describing our descent into the valley
of great birds that the first attack came upon me. I have no time here
to describe the visitation, nor is there need, for it was a recurrence,
three-fold intensified, of that paralysing oppression of spirit I had
known during my imprisonment in Hellas. I knew what it meant. I was
paying the penalty of my broken oath, to a people more terrible by far
than any secret organisation of natives in the outer world. Almost have
I expected to see materialise, in this room where I write, the tall,
stern, accusing finger of some wise one from the Hall of Wandering
Souls, but that horror at least has been spared me. As before, the
onsets have steadily increased in fury, but as before they have been
intermittent; and it is during the dwindling intervals of peace that I
have rushed on with this narrative, to which I now write _finis_ as the
crowning work of my life....
May God have mercy upon my soul.
EPILOGUE
So ends, in a hand markedly hurried and scrawled in comparison with the
earlier portions of the manuscript, the narrative which was brought
into my room on that bitter Peking morning so long ago: a narrative
which, leaving out of consideration the ingenious but confessedly
fictitious compositions of the professional romancers, struck me and
strikes me still as the most remarkable record of human experience ever
set down in black and white. I have already written, in my preface to
the manuscript, that the reader must judge for himself of its truth
or falsity; but I may perhaps fittingly add a few lines as to my own
view and the circumstances under which this narrative now comes to be
published.
Firstly, regarding Ronald Mirlees, the writer of the manuscript. I had
had personal experience of him in the past, and found him to be a man
of the staunchest trustworthiness. No one who had known him would, I am
convinced, ever credit that he could be guilty of deliberate falsehood;
indeed, his greatest handicap in advancing his repute among scholarly
Europeans of the East had been a too dogmatic manner of stating what
he believed to be the truth. Critics who were reluctant to accept the
fruits of his researches on sight he treated invariably with a cavalier
outspokenness approaching to contempt--an attitude which may have been
at times in some degree provoked, but was certainly not calculated
to make him popular with other orientalists. As for engineering an
elaborate hoax and planting it on a former friend and comrade in
adventure, I should eternally believe him incapable of this, if only
for the reason that to the best of my knowledge he was totally devoid
of a sense of humour. So much for the character of Ronald Mirlees.
Then as to his proofs. These are admittedly scanty. Yet the uncut
diamonds which he sent to me were real enough and, as I found when I
came to have them polished and weighed, of extraordinary value. This
fact alone must be accepted as ample evidence that he had visited a
region yet undiscovered by the world. As is well known, there are
tracts of the wild mountainous land to the west of China where valuable
minerals are found in plenty--particularly the minor precious stones
such as amethyst and jade; but anything like the rich diamond field
from which these magnificent stones must have come has certainly not
yet been brought to light.
Next, I endeavoured to find out something about the men whom Mirlees
describes as having accompanied him on his adventure, paying a
special visit to Shanghai for this purpose. At the Consular offices
I discovered that a British subject named Stephen Poyning had indeed
been registered as a newcomer to China but very shortly before the
time when Mirlees' narrative begins; and some months later an Indian
Army friend employed in the Intelligence Department at Delhi, to whom I
had written for information, replied that there _was_ a Major Poyning
who had mysteriously vanished from his regiment on the frontier some
years before. Of the man known as Saunders Philipson I was able to
collect several scraps of hearsay. Most of the evidence represented
him as a person of wealth and extraordinary habits, believed to be
profoundly versed in the languages of the East and to have spent
much time travelling as a native in the interior. He had apparently
shunned European society even when resident in the Treaty Ports, and
what few men had known him were unanimous in describing him as a dark
horse--"shady" even was the expression used by one of my informants.
The manager of the Bank of Cathay told me that he had known Saunders
Philipson, but not intimately, and that he believed him to be now
absent on one of those long journeys up country which had been
customary with him for years: beyond that, I would of course understand
the affairs of his clients were not a matter he could disclose to
strangers. I did not deem it discreet to push my inquiries further in
that direction, but so far, I had to confess that the evidence bore out
well enough the truth of Mirlees' narrative.
I pass on to his discovery of the highly civilised white--or rather
hybrid--race hidden away in a valley of Central Asia. This would seem
on the face of it to be an astonishing claim, yet when I came to weigh
up the probabilities I found myself less and less confident to reject
it out of hand. In the first place, Mirlees' story seems to me to be
told with a plain straightforwardness that has the distinct ring of
truth. Secondly, we of the outer world know practically nothing of
those regions through which he travelled, and are therefore hardly in
a position either to indorse or contradict any assertion regarding
them. The profundity of our ignorance can perhaps be represented by
an illustration. If half a dozen ants were set down at intervals on
one side of Hyde Park, and crawled once to the other side, but avoided
the central area altogether, their tracks might very well stand for
the mere threads of country observed by the half dozen or so white men
who have ever won across the barren heights of Northern Tibet; and the
ants' knowledge of Hyde Park at the end of their journey would be fully
as extensive as our acquaintance with that other region of the globe.
Moreover, no one familiar with the writings of our greatest authorities
on Central Asia--allowing that any man can be counted an authority
on lands which remain to this day practically unexplored--need be
reminded that among the native tribes of the lower, inhabited districts
there are persistent traditions of buried and lost cities. And from
what known history tells of Greek penetration into the regions around
ancient Baktria--the modern Balkh--it would seem not too great a
stretch of the imagination to suppose that other bands of adventurers
thrown off from the main current of Alexander's advance penetrated
farther east still.
But admitting the existence of the Greek-descended race to be possible,
one comes to the real strain to credence when Mirlees goes on to say
that this nation had been founded by Alexander the Great _in person_.
I am open to admit that I was at first disposed to put aside this
notion as the merest, wildest legend, unsupported by historic fact or
even probability. After a while, however, it began to appeal to me
with a peculiar fascination, which deepened the more I pondered over
it. I became interested. I ordered in books for which the stores of
our far corner of the world were seldom troubled and had to keep me
waiting long. They arrived at last, however, those tomes of ancient
history, and I devoured every word that has come down to us regarding
the last years and the last hours of the great conqueror; yet nowhere
in any authentic record was I able to find one fact by which the claims
of this lost race of Hellas could be disproved. To their theory of
Alexander's "death," history itself would seem if anything to lend
colour. We know that there has been down through the ages an uneasy,
vague feeling that the fever which was supposed to have carried him
off was insufficient to account satisfactorily for his end; that long
after the event there persisted a widespread suspicion that the real
cause was poison. We know that the conqueror's features were remarkably
like those of his friend Hephaistion, and from this may reasonably
assume that his was a type of personal beauty not uncommon among the
Macedonians who followed him into Asia. It is tolerably well vouched
for, too, that the commanders of his army were at the time engrossed
one and all in their own greedy designs on the empire; they _wished_
Alexander dead, and seeing that no live Alexander came forward to
refute the story of the dead one, it would hardly have occurred to
them to stop and verify that the body on the royal bier was really
Alexander's and not that of a "double" from among his own comely Greeks.
I had also to confess that the reason given by the people of Hellas for
Alexander's abdication from the world seems plausible enough. Even a
cursory reading of the history of his last years makes it quite clear
that the great conqueror was a disappointed, a disillusioned man. He
wept not because--to quote the tag of our schooldays--there were no
more worlds to conquer, but for the failure of the great ideal which
had inspired his conquest of this one: a union of the races of East and
West not only by political fusion but by actual inter-marriage, and an
overthrow for good and all of the barbarous fetich which would set the
people of either continent necessarily in a position of superiority to
the other. It may even be that among ourselves the time will come when
this humane ambition is held, more than all his marvellous military
adventures, to be his true claim to the title "great." During his life
Alexander strove to put the ideal into effect; and history tells us
how he failed. His ideas were many centuries ahead of his time; there
seems likelihood, indeed, that were he alive now--leaving aside for
a moment his supposed reincarnation in the person of the man called
Philipson--he would find the world little farther advanced towards a
liberal and truly civilised outlook on these questions than in his own
day. His generals gave lip-service to the ideal of race-fusion, but
it was from mere submission to the will of the king, and without true
sympathy or understanding.
But that Alexander, despairing of his followers and abandoning the
struggle against intolerance, gathered a handful of enlightened spirits
and voluntarily disappeared from the known world to found a new kingdom
in the unknown, remains to my mind a riddle which written history is
incapable of solving. The historians who place his death in Babylon in
the year 323 B.C. wrote merely what was currently believed
in their day. Mirlees, in the foregoing remarkable narrative, records
the belief of a people in the secret interior of Asia that Alexander
brought his small band of faithful to that fertile valley in the midst
of the eternal snows, where his ideal of blending European with Asiatic
blood might be realised without interference from the outer world. It
will be noticed, however, that Mirlees does not quote proofs beyond the
universal belief of the people of the valley, the inscription on the
obelisk, and the statue said to have been by the hand of Dinocrates. Of
these, the first two do not appeal to me as strong evidence. Supposing
the original settlers were Macedonians, it is quite possible that
among their descendants the tradition may have arisen in the course
of the centuries that among those who first came to the valley was
Alexander himself, and that this tradition finally crystallised into
accepted history. Probably, too, it was at some such later date as this
that the obelisk recording the tradition was erected: Mirlees, it will
be remembered, describes the carving on the monument as easily legible,
which could hardly have been the case had it dated from Alexander's
own time. The statue, however, is a much harder nut to crack. From its
perfect resemblance to the features of Saunders Philipson, who, as
Poyning noticed on first seeing him, was astonishingly like the extant
effigies of Alexander, it seems likely that the statue was done from
life, and it certainly must have been done in the valley, since the
first settlers would neither want nor be able to carry a heavy iron
image across the mountains. Altogether, after a long examination of the
evidence, I was driven to the conclusion that while it might be rash to
allow the claim of the people of Hellas, it could be scarcely less rash
to deny it.
To the remarkable powers of mind with which Mirlees credits this
people, again, it would seem unwise to oppose a blank unbelief.
Admitting that they had lived secluded from the world for twenty-two
centuries, undistracted by the wars and turmoils and oppressions which
have crippled the rest of humanity during the same period, one might
not unnaturally expect that their energies, turned inwards, would lead
them to great advances in science and the arts. The race, it must
be remembered, brought into the valley the highest civilisation then
known to the world, and thereafter, to build upon this solid basis the
wonderful superstructure of enlightenment which Mirlees describes,
would be merely a question of time. In two things, the art of flight
and the prolongation of human life, they appear after all only to
have anticipated by some centuries the surprising discoveries made by
ourselves during recent years. In psychics, a marvellous advancement is
ascribed to them, but is this beyond belief? We ourselves have sanely
and soberly studied the subject for barely half a century, yet already
we have made some progress; we have even recorded cases of projected
personality, though in most instances the act was probably involuntary
and the power unreliable. Is it too much to suppose that a race
originally of great intellectual and nervous force, which had studied
these matters for centuries, should have so perfected their control of
the human mind as to be able to launch it forth _at will_? I think not.
Nor, I fancy, is it unthinkable that an actual visible shape of the
projected personality might appear to the person who was the subject of
the visitation. But that the mind-wizards of Hellas, by willing such a
visitation and infusing it with hostile intention, should be able to
cause the death of the person visited--on this point, I must confess, I
am sceptic.
That brings me to the death of Ronald Mirlees. Frankly, in spite of the
mysterious and inexplicable nature of his end, which baffled doctors
and public alike, I incline to think that he himself was under a
delusion as to its cause--particularly as a far simpler explanation
occurs to me. Men of Mirlees' stamp, who in their quest of knowledge
plunge into the perilous underworld of native life, with its secret
organisations and obscure religious cults, often meet with a fate as
dark as the matters they went out to explore. Many such cases lie
buried in the dusty official files of the East. Sometimes it is a
jealously guarded secret filched, sometimes a criminal betrayed to
justice, but always there is the possibility that sooner or later the
rash foreigner who has ventured into such deep waters will pay for his
temerity with his life. Mirlees, as I knew, was in the habit of thus
diving into the underworld, where his knowledge of native life and
language enabled him to move in a way that would have been possible to
few other foreigners living; and he was, as I also knew, a man utterly
devoid of fear and not greatly gifted with common prudence. In this
manuscript he represents himself as having incurred the wrath of a
secret, semi-religious society whose members were also on the track of
the hidden land of diamonds. Blood had been shed--it may have been the
blood of men highly placed in the organisation; and his story of the
renewed attempts on his life when he had ventured back into China bears
to my mind the character of extreme probability. Also, I am inclined
to believe that one of these attempts finally succeeded. The murder
may have been effected by means of some subtle native poison which no
European doctor could detect--it will be remembered that he records
an attempt of the kind as having been already made and frustrated.
His own belief--that he was being done to death by mental force
acting at a great distance--seems wild enough, but by no means hard
to understand after the experiences through which he had passed. The
amazing powers of the people of Hellas had obviously left a profound
impression upon his mind, so much so that he was able to put forward
the astonishing hypothesis that the mechanism of those artificial
wings on which he fled from the valley was actuated by _isolated brain
force_; the grim mystery surrounding the death of Major Poyning would
still further deepen this impression; and Mirlees' dream-interview with
the Princess Euphrosune--I prefer to regard this as merely a dream,
since at his meeting with Saunders Philipson on the following night
the latter appears to have made no mention either of it or of Mirlees'
supposed oath of secrecy--may well have rendered the delusion complete.
All this, taken in conjunction with the cumulative horror of the
several attempts on his life, would seem to me to afford an adequate
explanation of Mirlees' extraordinary belief.
I come, in conclusion, to my reason for now breaking the silence of
thirteen years and giving Mirlees' manuscript to the world. When the
document reached me I read it several times from beginning to end, with
astonishment that deepened rather than dwindled, and then put it away
in a place of safety as the writer had requested. This was not because
I believed--to quote Mirlees' words--there was "a doom in it"; as I
have made clear in the foregoing paragraph, I found myself unable to
accept that theory. But there were other considerations. It seemed to
me that the statements made by Mirlees were so daring, so sensational,
so flatly contradictory of what has passed for history during two
millenniums, that they would be greeted with incredulity--perhaps even
resentment--on all sides, and that the ultimate result would be to
damage Mirlees' well-earned repute as an orientalist and scholar. There
were, as I knew, rival "authorities" who would possibly even welcome
such an opportunity to throw discredit on the whole of his life-work.
Now, however, the aspect of affairs is rapidly changing. With the
great strides recently made in the art of air-travel it seems likely
that before long the last secrets of this vast continent of Asia will
be wrenched from her. Where previously a mere handful of indomitable
adventurers have been able to cross the awful heights of Northern Tibet
on foot, taking months of the most tremendous exertion and peril in the
crossing, soon the perfected swift planes of modern explorers will be
traversing that unique region of the globe in a few days. Then the race
which Mirlees describes as lurking hidden beyond the great mountain
barrier will be discovered willy-nilly to the world at large; and it is
my most earnest wish that the fame of having first placed upon record
a description of this people and their supposed origin and history
should be awarded to the man who struggled so gallantly and suffered
so much in winning through to their secret land. I knew Mirlees as a
trusty comrade, a brilliant scholar, and a most disinterested seeker
after truth. He deserved greatly of his fellow man for his services in
exploring and making better known these little-known portions of the
earth, and it is no more than common justice that the credit for his
last and greatest discovery should go to him and no other.
Whether subsequent exploration will confirm his assertions, only the
future can show. For myself I will say candidly and without fear of
derision that I believe that somewhere deep amid the mountain solitudes
there _does_ exist that Navel of Light; that it is peopled by a race
from whom the outer world has much to learn, not only in scientific
ingenuity but in breadth and humanity of ideas; that it is ruled by
a modern Greek of great personal beauty and strength of body and
mind, whom the folk of Hellas believe, rightly or wrongly, to be the
reincarnated personality of their great founder. Whether my belief is
warranted or not, let the reader of this narrative decide. I have done
my part in publishing, literally and without so much as the addition
or removal of one comma, the manuscript which reached me from the
representatives of Ronald Mirlees shortly after his lamented and most
mysterious death.
_Terminat hora diem: terminat auctor opus._
* * * * *
DUCKWORTH'S FICTION.
THE GREAT MOMENT
BY ELINOR GLYN
THE PRIMROSE PATH
STORIES BY ARTHUR MILLS
THE MARSDEN CASE
BY F. M. FORD (FORD MADOX HUEFFER)
OUT OF BONDAGE
BY OLIVE MARY SALTER
THE ROAD BY LADY DOROTHY MILLS
BODIES AND SOULS
BY SHAW DESMOND
THE VALLEY OF EYES UNSEEN
BY GILBERT COLLINS
REVOLVING LIGHTS
BY DOROTHY RICHARDSON
BLOWING WEATHER
BY JOHN T. MCINTYRE
* * * * *
THE VALLEY OF EYES UNSEEN
_By the same Author._
FLOWER OF ASIA
A NOVEL OF NIHON.
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