The Devil's Guard, page 8
Once or twice I tried shouting again, and stopped to listen, but there was no answer. The snow was already knee-deep, and moderately firm, but drifted into waves that made progress in the dark increasingly difficult. I gave up hope of finding any one when I had reached where I supposed the entrance of the pass must be. At that point there seemed to be a veritable wall of snow, and I turned, cursing myself for a fool for having ventured out on such a mad quest, wondering how to find the way back. My own tracks were already covered. There was absolutely nothing visible; I could not see my hand before my face. There was just one chance in a thousand that my voice might carry down wind to the tent and waken some one, who would miss me and then show a light, so I began to yell. As I did so, something clutched my right foot.
I can feel the clutch now, when I think of it. It was like the hand of death. In imagination I felt myself falling over the edge of the ravine beside the road. But it was a horse's leg that tripped me, and I fell on the horse's stone-dead body. Groping, I felt a man's arm, and that brought me back to my senses; I pulled him up out of the snow, hugging him close to me to preserve what little life he had. He was a moderately heavy man, with a great weight of frozen snow in his whiskers, but I could not see even his outline. He lay in my arms like a child, and once or twice I thought he tried to speak.
I began to shout again, working my way cautiously toward where I supposed the tent was, trying to judge direction by the feel of the wind behind me and counting footsteps in order to estimate the distance. But once I paused with a foot over the edge of the ravine and only the force of the blizzard saved me from stumbling over; and the next thing I did was to crash into the rock wall on the opposite side of the road. I was abreast of the tent, although I thought I had only gone half-way, when Grim heard me shouting at last and I saw the warm glow of our lantern through the snow-white canvas.
The tent nearly blew away when Narayan Singh opened it to pull me in, and it took our united strength to get it closed again and laced up. The wind blew out the lantern and we had to work in the dark, like sailors aloft in an arctic sea. When we had the tent secured at last, and the lantern lit again, it took us half an hour of rubbing, slapping, rolling, brandy-dosing and questioning before we could get a word out of the man I had carried in. Then at last he spoke to us in English.
We asked him his name, and he said it was Mordecai. "Son-in-law of Benjamin of Delhi?"
"Sure!" he said. "You fellers—you know Benjamin? You seen my wife and kids?"
Chapter Seven—The strange tale told by Mordecai.
Around a virgin daughter of a king are guardian walls, and ere one cometh at the walls are fierce men. He must therefore be acceptable in all ways who shall enter in. So is it wonderful that God should cause His secrets to be guarded by ferocity, and that of many kinds? Else were it a too simple thing for fearful men to enter in and ravish. Lo, I tell you, there is nothing worth the winning that must not be won; and this also: he who hath the secret hath it by his own worth, and that proved.—From The Book Of The Sayings Of Tsiang Samdup.
His face was hollow and wan from long privation. When Grim and I knew him seven or eight years before he was a stocky sturdy individual, clean shaved, with a face not unlike Lenin's but better humored—nearly always smiling. Now he was a tortured wreck with a straggling black beard that partly concealed his thinness, and as full of fear as he had formerly been full of impudence.
It was a long time before he remembered me, and longer yet before he knew Grim. He was in terror of our two Tibetans, whom we kept away from him as far as possible, but there was only room for us all to sit chin by jowl with our heads exactly underneath the ridgepole. Nothing could persuade Mordecai to talk until we sent Tsang-yang and Tsang-Mondrong outside to dig themselves into the snow beside the ponies. Even so, he feared Narayan Singh and Chullunder Ghose—nagged them with insolent questions and tested their knowledge of Benjamin—before he consented at last to tell his story.
"Rait!" he said. "Yes, curse him! The swine calls himself Lung-tok. You listen. The Tibetans know a white man got through, and they're after him, searching all the inns and stripping travelers—strip a man naked and scratch him to see if the skin's white under the dirt. I was all right; I'd a letter for the Kun-Dun.[5] I delivered it. He treated me first class, same as he does every one who can get to him, but he asked who the chiling is who's in Tibet without permission. I didn't let on that I knew. After a bit the Dalai Lama gives it me in writing to go anywhere I pleased, me wanting to trade—so I told him. Gimme some more o' that brandy."
We gave him food instead, and then a cigarette, which he smoked to the end. When he resumed his tale his voice had lost some of its hoarseness.
"Lung-tok, Rait calls himself. That's my name. The letter the Dalai Lama gives me's made out to Lung-tok. I've used that name in Tibet since the first time Benjamin sent me up there. Rait learned all about me in Simla, where I'm answering his questions and a Tibetan comes up and calls me Lung-tok. I didn't see no harm in telling him, not knowing yet that he was making plans to go to Lhassa, though I should have seen through it—him asking more questions than a Hindu lawyer, most of 'em about a place called Sham-bha-la. I got wise to him after a bit; and I'm as keen as what he is to find Sham-bha-la. Me, I goes to Benjamin and talks him into sending me to Lhassa—see?
"So I'm in Lhassa, and business ain't bad. I'd sold all I'd brought with me and put the money out at interest, so's Benjamin 'ud have a credit there to trade against. And talking around the bazaars and one thing and another, I hears of a feller named Lung-tok—which they think it's a coincidence there's two of us of one name and there's some mighty inquisitive questions asked. But I've that letter from the Kun-Dun, which makes me all right; and I says nothing about Rait. Not even if he'd stole my name, I wouldn't put him in bad—not in that country. But me, I'm out to find Sham-bha-la just as keen as he is.
"I ain't got no copyright on the name, you understand. But fifty fifty. If he's using my name, I've a right to sit in, haven't I? If he's found where Sham-bha-la is, I'm coming. There's old books in that place that 'ud fetch a fortune in New York.
"So I changes my name and lets a beard grow, meaning not to spoil his chances; but I takes along that letter from the Kun-Dun just in case of accident. I can pass for a Tibetan any time, and I takes the name of Shatra; but you never know what'll happen next up in that country, so I makes sure of the alibi by keeping the Kun-Dun's letter in a tube tied to my left arm.
"I found Rait in a monastery. And, same as I'd heard, he was showing 'em how to get gold out of the dirt they bring from Thok Jalung. The stuff's rich. They bring it all the way in baskets. They was losing more than half the gold, the way they roasted it, and even so it was good business; but he was showing 'em how to do it better— kidding 'em he'd learned the trick in China, where he said he'd been sold as a slave when he was two years old, along with his mother. He had the Chinese accent down fine. And another thing I'll give him credit for: he had 'em all believing he was taught in China by some kind of a living Buddha; he could talk 'em stupid when it came to arguing their own religion.
"Most of 'em had heard of me under the name of Lung-tok, though none of 'em had seen me, me not having visited those parts. So Rait has no trouble in getting away with my name, nor no trouble of any kind, since it's well known I'm 0.K. in Lhassa. I knew him first look I had at him, and he knew me. But I couldn't get to talk to him, and though I made him all allowance for the danger we was both in, all the same it struck me he weren't acting right. Mind you, I'm not saying it was him that set 'em all against me. It ain't easy to believe that of a white man. I'm just telling you what happened."
Memory of what happened made him shrink into himself. For a while he appeared to go mad, muttering Tibetan phrases, but Grim could not understand a word he said. It did not need much to make us all feel spooky, with that storm howling outside and the lantern casting shadows on the tent. "The wrong lodge!" said Chullunder Ghose, and Grim nodded. Narayan Singh swore Sikh oaths through his teeth and reached for the brandy, forcing some of it into Mordecai's mouth to keep him from groveling on the ground sheet with his hands over his eyes. When he sat up again at last he looked like a man recovering from epilepsy—weak, and afraid of the things he had seen in his fit. He began talking in a hurry, as if the sound of his own voice comforted him.
"They're all extremes," he said, gesturing with his head toward the north. "They're whites and blacks, and you can't tell which is which, till something happens. There's white Mahatmas, and black Mahatmas—and a kind of war going on between them behind the scenes. But nobody never sees them Mahatmas—or if he does, he don't let on. If a Tibetan's white—no matter if he don't wash— that don't mean nothing—that's climate and a bit o' superstition— you can trust him if he's white. And if he's black, you can't. The blacks are known as Red Hats, but that's only the name outsiders call 'em by. You can't tell which is which; there's blacks and whites all in one monastery. Say, are you going through the pass?" he asked suddenly.
I told him yes. He flew at once into a panic.
"You can't! You're mad! Turn back, I tell you! If they'd skin you, that 'ud be a mild thing! They hunted me over the passes to Leh— and I give 'em the slip there—thought I had. They found me, damn 'em, but I got a horse. I'd no money left—only some bread in my pocket. I rode like hell all over the Dras plateau and the horse dying under me mile after mile, me keeping life in both of us by cursing Rait! Snow was coming, but I see if I could make the Zogi-la first, snow 'ud save me, like a door shut in their faces. And I made it! Krishna! Ach ihr liebo Gottes Menschen! Yoi-eh-h-h! Listen to me! Through the Zogi-la I come—at midnight—and the storm behind me! Then the horse died. How long ago was that? Where am I, anyhow? Gimme some brandy."
His mind wandered again. He relapsed into gibbering madness, leaning his back against my knees, his eyes staring into vacancy, his hands warding off imaginary specters. Chullunder Ghose seized his hands and slapped the backs of them. Narayan Singh covered him with an extra overcoat. Grim forced brandy between his lips; and after a while the brandy brought him around.
"What was I telling you? Rait? He's rotten! I've seen 'em flog men—and women too, till they looked like great worms writhing in purple mud—and that's too good for Rait! Mind you, I don't say, even now, he did it. We'll talk, though, him and me—alone somewheres—if I have to find Sham-bha-la first! Damn his eyes, he maybe thought I'd tip off the Tibetans he was white. He ain't white! Me and Rait has a talk—felt coming. You think what you like about it. If I prove it on him—
"The monks was all friendly to me, and they're hospitable. I'm put to share a cell with one of 'em, and he—a lazy, good-for-nothing sort of bum that 'ud rather talk all night and eat all day than read his books. He's not much good at reading anyhow, but he's good natured, so I figures I'll do myself a turn by showing him the Kun-Dun's letter, me holding my thumb over where it says my name is Lung-tok. After that I asks him about Sham-bha-la, and he says it isn't a place at all, but a kind of state of consciousness like getting drunk—only, drinking's vicious, whereas Sham-bha-la isn't. He laughs then about Raid—Lung-tok he calls him—wanting to get to Sham-bha-la, and we has a drink together which is against the rules, him humming a song about chang and pretty ladies. Chang is the kind of beer they drink. It's potent, some of it."
There came a more than usually violent gust of wind that seemed to shake the earth. It screamed among the rocks and Mordecai shuddered with terror. "That's them! That's them! I heard 'em! I tell you, they wasn't a mile behind me! They'll have fought their way through, same as I did! Give me a gun, somebody!"
We could not quiet him until Narayan Singh crawled out and pretended to scout through the storm. When he came back with ice on his beard he reported that dawn was breaking but the storm was growing worse. We put the lantern out to save oil, but then it was almost pitch-dark in the tent and Mordecai, laughing hysterically at his own fear, urged us to light it again.
"They got caught in the drifts!" he said. "Let's hope! There's a place where the wind comes three ways, freezing cold, and nearly blows you off your horse. That's where the pass turns sharp to your left, and on your right—" He shuddered again. "What was I sayin? Oh yes, me and the monk. He must have told about that letter from the Kun-Dun, which was what I hoped he'd do. Just to prevent accidents I wanted 'em all to know I stood O.K., without having to show my credentials, which might have made it bad for Rait. You see, I could prove my name was Lung-tok, and he couldn't, and if they'd once begun to suspect him he'd have been up against it.
"They was more friendly to me than ever when it got known. I had that letter from Kun-Dun—that's the `Presence'—what they call the Dalai Lama. Some of 'em asked to see it, but I only showed the tube what it was in. And somebody told Rait. I'll give him credit for being smart! He guessed it was made out to the name of Lung-tok. And not long after that there was some Tantric ceremonies. Ever heard of 'em? Black stuff."
He shuddered again. The Jews have always been inquisitive of evil; more than any other people in the world they are shocked by it, and turn against it with loathing and violence when reaction sets in. According to Grim's theory, that is the secret of the strength of their enduring race. It was surely the secret of Mordecai's goings and comings, his strength and his weakness, his courage and his contradictory fears.
"Raft knows enough about the Tantric mysteries to get himself admitted. Maybe he thinks through them he'll find the clue to Sham-bha-la—same as you have to die to learn what the next world's like. Maybe not—I don't know. It was him that put 'em up to inviting me. He slips a note to me one night when we files out of the refectory after supper, two by two, him pretending to twist his ankle on a broken flagstone, so I'd pass him. `I'll get you a pass to the show,' was all he wrote in it; and me, I'm fool enough to think he's acting white.
"Next day after that they changed my cell mate. I was put in with a monk who had to tell me all the passwords. I'd ought to have seen through it. I'd ought to have noticed that you couldn't lock the cell door. 'Tweren't the monk that stole my letter; he was snoring to beat ten when the door opened, and in come Rait— tip-toeing—shushing me. `Quiet!' he whispers in English. `Have you a message from Jeff Ramsden?'
"Like a fool I says, `Who's Jeff Ramsden?' He kids he can't hear and stoops over me, groping with his hands.
"`Didn't Jeff send me a message by you?' he asks, and when I says no, he goes out, silent as a ghost.
"Who stole my letter if he didn't? Sure, I couldn't see him in the dark, but who else in the monastery could speak English, and knew you, and knew you might send him a message? All the same, I didn't miss the letter yet; he'd taken it out of the tube, and the tube was still tied to my arm. He's smart all right. But I'll get him for it. The same feller ain't going to sting me twice.
"Next night was the ceremonies. Cavern. Dark place as old as the mountains. Not above half of the monks is admitted; none but blackbirds is allowed in there—one by one, down dark steps, and along a passage where there was masked monks standing in niches carved out of the rock, who took the password, and each password different. We had to go dead slow because of darkness, and a man in a mask at the entrance holds us up until the man ahead had gone some way along the passage, so there's lots of room between us and I couldn't hear whether my words was the same as other peoples'. Maybe not. I guess not—although I wasn't suspicious until I reached the cavern and two monks in devil masks with horns on 'em led me away from all the others to a sort of platform on the left-hand side.
"There I sits. And I tell you, I ain't feeling good. There was no way out excep' the way we'd come in, and between me and the entrance was about two hundred monks all squatting in rows with hoods over their heads—so I couldn't tell which was Rait. You couldn't see much anyhow. There was about a hundred little butter-lamps, set where the light would shine on a wall all carved with devils and colored something gorgeous—gold, red, blue—it was a wonder.
"Next thing, about a dozen men in masks came up and stood behind me and on either side. You never saw such masks. But queerly enough that took some of the scare out of me. I've been into the secret caves of Lebanon, and into Hindu temples where they marry girls to brass gods; and in all those places, when you first get in they put you through some kind of initiation. I hadn't missed that letter yet, and I was thinking if I flashed the Kun-Dun's seal I'd be all right whatever happened. Down below there on the floor the monks all kep' their heads bowed, so I bowed mine too, but that didn't keep me from looking—three ways at once!
"Presently a bell rings, and there's silence. Door's shut. Incense— and then what them savages call music—bells, drums, cymbals, trumpets and stringed instruments. I guess it was music. You can't make any sense to it, but it fills a cavern first rate and brings the goose flesh out all over you, deadens your eardrums, makes you feel like you was dead and wish you wasn't. Then there was chanting. Say, if anything 'ud make a man believe in hell, that chanting would!
"I can't tell all that happened after that. It wouldn't sound right. It was like the music—no way of describing it—rotten bad stuff, worse than anything I'd seen. (And I've seen plenty.) There was just enough of dim-colored light for you to see their heads all swaying, till it looked as if their heads weren't any part of 'em; and after a while you could feel the magic of it, as if your senses all worked backward instead of forward. It felt like being the reflection in a looking-glass. It felt as if we'd all gone back together to the place where animals exist before they're born. Horrible!—and me, I've seen the worst rites in the Hindu temples.
"Suddenly a man showed up from nowhere—black—stark—naked, except he had a devil-mask on. King o' Darkness. They all moaned at him. It was worse and worse. He swayed, and they swayed in time to him, until he had 'em all by the imaginations—and he pretty near got me, but I was hanging on to the multiplication table—thirteen times thirteen—working it out in my head to keep from being caught in that cursed magic. I can stick out most things, but it made you feel your head weren't yours. Nor your soul neither.
