by Talbot Mundy
Blair lighted his cigarette, turning his back to the hot wind, to avoid answering. Grayne continued:
“None of my business—but—are you down here to see her? I mean, it might be damned unpleasant for you to have reports go in and—”
Blair interrupted: “Doris expects you back?”
“No.”
“She all right?”
“Yes. Doris won’t worry—or if she does she’ll send a servant to find out.”
“Write her a note,” said Blair. “I’ll send a servant with it. Say you’re staying for a few hours to oblige me. Write your report in my tent and put down every detail you can remember— conversations—minor incidents—omit nothing, no matter how unimportant, since Henrietta came to stay with you and Doris. If I’m not back by noon, or if I don’t send a message, you’d better take charge and either move my camp over the ford to yours or bring yours over here, no matter which. And if anyone asks for me, say I’ve gone looking for the Bat-Brahmin of Gaglajung.”
“That swine?”
“What do you know about him?” Blair asked.
“Oh, he’s a swine, that’s all. He’ll tell you nothing. He’s a saucy impostor, but he isn’t dangerous”! He makes too fat a living off the peasants to risk it by taking a chance with the police.”
“Where will I find him?”
“Lord knows. Anyone will tell you if you ride up to Doongar village. But you may find him at Ganesha’s shrine near where you shot the tiger last night. I’ll bet you one rupee to an anna a word that you get no information from him.”
Blair ordered his horse saddled and brought to the tent with a mounted sais to follow him. While he waited he searched his mind for something else to say to Grayne. But it seemed wiser to say nothing. He could hardly tell him about Taron Ling’s phenomenal tricks, and what else was there to say? Suddenly he saw Taron Ling in the distance, on a rock by the track toward Doongar, apparently sitting waiting for him.
“Help yourself to’ anything you need,” he said to Grayne. Then he mounted and rode away, into the scorching wind.
* * *
CHAPTER SEVEN
Truth clothes herself in mystery. Wherever ye see a mystery, seek Truth; and ye shall find it as ye found Hope, which none might have known were it not for despair.
—From the Ninth (unfinished) Book of Noor Ali
THE Rajput attendant who rode behind Blair sat splendidly, but his gray horse betrayed the condition of the man’s mind, a weird nervousness passing from rider to beast. The gray horse was as frantic as if tigers were about. He frightened the bay that Blair rode. But that did Blair good: he had to get complete self-mastery in order to control the animal.
A hundred yards before they reached the rock on which Taron Ling sat waiting the Rajput’s gray went mad—plunged—reared— cannoned into Blair’s horse—almost unseated him—broke a rein and bolted as if all the devils of hell were following. Taron Ling laughed. He was frugal of laughter: one scornful “Hah!” was all he needed to express his kind of amusement. Then he jumped from the rock and started walking rapidly, not toward Doongar village but along a winding track that led toward the dry river-bed, through sparse, hot jungle.
Blair followed, riding slowly in a cloud of flies that were as persistent and disturbing as his thoughts. He had no other weapon than a light riding-whip, and he had an acute premonition of danger. It occurred to him several times to return to the camp for his revolver, but he dismissed that thought after considering it. Taron Ling appeared also unarmed, and might not wait for him. He was not afraid of the man’s hypnotic tricks, extraordinary though they were. He felt fairly sure that, now he was on guard, such tricks would not succeed again. He had definite orders to walk straight into any trap he might see, and he felt equally sure he was being led into one—equally sure the Rajput on the gray had thought so too, and had welcomed his horse’s panic as the lesser of two evils, even if he had not deliberately encouraged the horse to bolt.
There was probably not much danger. He was under observation; he had a telegram in his pocket that said so; if anything should happen to him, somebody would soon know about it—follow up—rescue. He had a very small sense of his own personal importance in the scheme of things. He was a pawn in the game. The game was playing. He kept Taron Ling in sight until they came to the dry pool in the river-bed where he had shot the tiger the previous night.
It looked different by day. Night’s loveliness was a dream that had vanished. The sun was well up. Shortening shadows lay on quartz sand, bleached and drab, except where it sparkled in sunlight: there the glare was painful. There was some relief from the choking hot wind, because of the curve of the tree-lined gorge that formed the river-bed beyond. Where Henrietta had descended in the moonlight from the flank of Gaglajung was a raw, dry scar of glaring boulders; and the stone where he and she had sat was a sun scorched lump of ruin, tumbled from a dead hill. It resembled a tooth.
The remains of the tiger were black with flies. A dozen vultures took wing clumsily— gorged, filthy scavengers that had stripped the dead brute’s bones as clean of flesh as the daylight had stripped the scene of romance. Gaglajung, up aloft on the right, resembled dry bones breaking through the back of a decaying hill.
Taron Ling, pausing in full sunlight and facing the gorge, shouted one bell-like monosyllable, as startling as a rifle-shot. It was. answered by another, like the bark of a wild dog.
Out from the throat of the gorge a man came walking handsomely with a mountaineer’s swing of the loins. He wore a loosely bound gray loin-cloth that revealed his right leg as high as the hip, bronzed and muscular. He looked like a dancer of heroic ballet parts, and carried a short stick like a marshal’s baton in his right hand, using that to salute Taron Ling; but to Blair he made no gesture of respect, although he walked up close to the horse and peered at the rider’s face. His eyes were as satyr-like as a he-goat’s.
“My chela,” said Taron Ling. “He will take take the horse now. He does what I tell him.”
THE chela seized the horse’s rein. Common riot-drill provided a very simple answer to that impudence. But to have kicked the man under the chin would not have revealed the whereabouts of Henrietta. Besides, it was of utmost importance to learn what Taron Ling, if followed, might be able to reveal. Blair was almost sure he saw a man’s face peering between two rocks in deep shadow on the flank of the gorge; there was more than one chance in a hundred that that might be one of the commissioner’s men. If not, it was at any rate a witness, who would report what lie had seen to someone and set rumor moving; rumor would provide a clue that might be followed; so that, whatever might happen, he would not disappear as Frensham, Henrietta and Chetusingh had done, leaving no clue at all. It seemed wise to ignore the chela‘s action for the moment; and it might not be a bad idea to let Taron Ling think he had established hypnotic control.
“You must come on foot now. He shall take the horse back with a message,” said Taron Ling.
“Message from whom?”
“From you.”
“To say where we’re going—”
“He will know what to say.”
“What?”
“He already knows it.” He had forgotten to mispronounce English—spoke it excellently.
Two heads showed in the shadow’s, quite distinctly, for a moment. With the corner of his eye Blair saw a hand steal like a snake’s head into the sunlight, spread all five fingers three times and withdraw. He knew that signal— answered it, pushing his helmet to the back of his head and wiping his forehead three times with a handkerchief.
It was safe to go forward: the Department was on the watch and would learn whatever happened. An involuntary shudder crept up his spine and along his shoulders, but he contrived to appear casual. He flicked flies off his face with his handkerchief, then treed his right foot from the stirrup.
“Well,” he said, “I’m curious. I’ll go with you.”
He dismounted. The chela led the horse away in the directi
on of the camp without waiting for further orders. Blair felt glad he had left Grayne in charge. Whatever verbal message the chela might deliver, even Grayne was hardly likely to accept it without suspicion if there was nothing in writing. Grayne might not be the kind of man who seizes responsibility and acts swiftly on suspicion, but he would either detain the chela or else send a servant or two to check up.
“I am ready. Which way?”
Taron Ling immediately turned his back and led up-gorge to the footpath that Blair had taken the night before with Henrietta toward the shrine where the mad hermit had blessed the tiger-skin. Taron Ling, too, had the stride of a mountaineer; he climbed fast. Blair took his own time about following, and let him wait at frequent intervals. He had a half-hope of getting word with one of the men whom he could distinctly hear following through the jungle on either flank, of the gorge. They were making too much noise, and there was no need, as he saw it, for more than one at the moment; he would have liked to send one of them back to the camp with a message to Grayne. He even sat down for a rest, several times, hoping one of the men would creep up close, but they kept their distance, waiting when he waited.
Taron Ling showed no impatience and no inclination to talk, until at last Blair stepped out on the level ledge where the shrine nestled against an almost sheer cliff. There was no sign of the mad hermit, but the Bat-Brahmin in freshly laundered white turban and loincloth came forward to meet them. He seemed to have been waiting within the shrine, he appeared so suddenly. He greeted Taron Ling like an old acquaintance and eyed Blair curiously, as if appraising his clothes for their value. In his eyes was the insolent audacity of the professional blessing- and cursing-monger, hard with avarice and,with experience of human gullibility.
He offered Blair no greeting but turned his back and led toward the shrine, Taron Ling tailing behind, so that Blair walked between the two men until they reached the shrine and the Bat-Brahmin faced about in the dim entrance.
There was an argument then. The Bat wanted Blair to take his boots off. He lifted one bare foot repeatedly, smiting the sole with the flat of his hand; but Taron Ling ridiculed him and tor a minute or two they looked like coming to blows, paying each other such scurrilous compliments that at last Blair intervened to restore peace. The dispute had served his present purpose; he had waited in the dim shrine entrance long enough tor the commissioner’s men to watch which way he took and who was with him. The Bat-Brahmin, as a notorious character, could hardly be improved on as a link in a chain of evidence. He had no objection to removing his boots. He had often done that in religious buildings. But it occurred to him to see what Taron Ling would do if he refused; so he ordered the Bat-Brahmin out of the way and told Taron Ling to lead on in. Taron Ling shoved the Bat aside roughly. The Bat screamed like a beast; his outraged eyes almost popped from his head, but he thought better of striking back although he raised his right hand. He entered last, muttering obscenities with lips that slobbered malice. He had mad eyes. He seemed to be on the verge of an epileptic fit. Taron Ling kept calling him names that might have made even a sane man mad with anger.
The shrine was not nearly large enough to be called a temple but it had beautiful fluted columns and its, walls were covered with carvings of the Hindu pantheon, the greater part of them monstrously obscene to western eyes. There was an atmosphere of peace, a reek of faded flowers, a heavy silence and, in the gloom at the rear amid the dimness of smoky oil-lamps, the genial image of the god Ganesha, elephant-trunked, pot-bellied, competent of judgment. The old mad hermit sat beside the image, too mad. too meditative to notice anyone except the Bat, at whom his eyes smiled like a child’s who sees his mother.
The back wall of the shrine was the mountain rock that had been quarried perpendicular and carved like the rest of the walls. It was impossible to see into the soot-black shadow behind the image, but it seemed strange.that the image should be set forth from the wall. It stood three feet forward from it. Taron Ling’s irreverence seemed more than casual: he even spat on the floor at the foot of Ganesha. But it was rather a serious matter for a police officer in uniform to invade such a place without definite orders to do it, and Blair hesitated, peering into the gloom, until he saw that behind the image the rock wall had been left uncarved.
There was a smooth place, of lighter color, of the same size as the image. At the base of the wall there remained a projecting ledge of the same height and width as the built up base in front of it on which the image actually rested and looked like an afterthought. In the rock wall, curiously placed amid the carvings, there were two big forged iron rings of ancient make and no obvious purpose. Blair, as he followed Taron Ling into the gloom, stumbled and nearly fell over a coil of thick rope.
Then there was another altercation with the Bat, who changed his mind about permitting sacrilege. He screamed at Taron Ling. He tried to get in his way. Taron Ling took him roughly by the singlet and tore it as he hurled him backward easily with one hand. According to Hindu religious law there is no worse crime than to strike a Brahmin, and Bats claim Brahmin privileges. But the old hermit took no notice, and there were no other witnesses. The bat stood aside, glaring and muttering, with the light from the entrance making him look half human and half shadow. Taron Ling sprang to the ledge behind Ganesha, placing a hand on the image to steady himself. He offered his other hand to help Blair. Blair thought he detected movement, but he was not sure. He accepted Taron Ling’s hand, and as he hauled himself up to the ledge, he too placed his hand on the back of the image. It did move. It rocked, almost imperceptibly. It rested, evidently, on a roller, or rollers, of stone or iron. Those rings in the wall were for the rope. Ganesha’s image could be hauled back flat against the wall and probably one man. or at any rate two, could do it.
Then the reason why revealed itself. Taron Ling stood astride of a dark hole, oval shaped and smooth edged—an undiscoverable hole to whoever regards a sacred image as a thing not to be moved or too closely examined. Taron Ling thrust a leg in the hole to show that there were steps beneath it. He tugged Blair’s arm and signed to him to go down.
“Go ahead.” Blair ordered.
He obeyed. For a moment Blair hesitated. Why not return to the entrance and try to signal to the men. whose job it was to keep him under observation, to come out of the jungle and follow? He could have done that in less than a minute. Not to do it was to add to the risk he was running. However, he decided those men probably knew their business or they would not have been picked for the job. and Taron Ling, with an arm up through the hole, seized his right foot to guide it downward to the top step. As long as Taron Ling was in front, not behind him, the odds were enough in his favor to make the risk worth taking. So he went into the hole, not sgueezing through too easily, and he discovered by their feel that the steps were of rough-hewn rock, irregularly spaced, descending at a steep angle. He was thirsty. He wished he had had a drink before he started out.
He could see backward up through the hole, but not downward. When he hesitated, Taron Ling from beneath took his foot and tried to guide it, but Blair kicked the hand away. Neither man spoke. The heat was suffocating. The dust of dry bat-dung rose with an acrid stench. Blair sat and groped downward one step at a time, beating his hands against the stone from time to time to get the bat-filth oft his fingers.
Trying to judge how far he had gone, he glanced upward and saw the Bat-Brahmin’s face—or he supposed it was his—a silhouette framed in the egg-shaped hole. After that it grew suddenly darker—then totally dark, and when he looked upward he could see nothing at all. The Bat had closed the opening. Taron Ling laughed, but the sound had no overtone: it was mirthless.
Then darkness became full of dread. Blair struck a match. Excitement glared in Taron Ling’s eyes. The match burned Blair’s fingers. He struck another, trying to see upward.
“Can you open that from below?” he demanded.
“No.”
“Is there another way out?”
“No.”
&nb
sp; “Any water?”
“No.”
The fear of thirst strikes panic. Blair started to climb upward, but Taron Ling’s hand clutched his ankle. He kicked hard. The man clung; he had the strength of a gorilla.
“You obey,” said his voice in the dark, “or you die.”
Blair sat on a step and struck another match. It showed him Taron Ling’s face, sweat-wet, grinning with intention. Murder? What for? Money? He had none.
“What do you want?” he demanded. Then the match went out. He struck another; there were eight or nine remaining.
“I will have obedience.” said Taron Ling.
He let go of Blair’s ankle and descended backwards on hands and knees into total darkness. When the match burned out he spoke:
“Obey me and live. Disobey me and die. You think”—his voice throbbed and boomed— “that you were followed here, because you saw a signal. You believe those men will come for you. eh? They are Wu Tu’s men and Zaman Ali’s. I taught them the police signals. Is it likely I should take such pains to trap you. and neglect that? The commissioner’s men and Howland’s men—oh yes, yes, I know Howland—have been misled. That was a little silly easy matter. You are at my mercy.”
“What do you want?” Blair repeated. It was no use wishing he had not come. It was no use waiting until thirst should begin to torture him. He must use his wits while he had any left, and that necessity began to restore his self-control.
“You obey me, not Wu Tu,” said Taron Ling’s voice.
Thoughts raced through Blair’s brain. Why had Taron Ling deliberately quarreled with the Bat-Brahmin? Had there been no other way of inducing the man to haul the image back over the hole and shut them in? As for thirst—his mouth was already dry from fear and the heat and the stench of bat-filth— Taron Ling, too, would feel that presently. Judgment, he knew, and logic are among the first of the human faculties that wilt and vanish under the strain of trespass amid psychic arts that deceive no one more than the practitioner. All competent policemen know that. But even a professed occultist, persuaded by his own hypnotic skill that he was almost superhuman, would be unlikely to defy thirst. Not even a madman would do that. Taron Ling did not seem to be quite mad—yet; the road where madness lies in wait is sometimes long and devious.
