There is about this town, looked upon from the basin side, an appearance of death, yet the town is not dead, and not dying. For this town has lived and continues to live. Nurtured by what well of vitality no outsider can guess, it knows the hard-won secrets of survival. It lives, and yet now it fears. For armed men move along the southern road once more and the grapevine of the desert whispers a warning to the sentries in the mountains above the town…a warning of trouble, of men who come to capture or destroy or, simply…to change.
—
The man in the sheepskin short coat was cleaning a pistol, but beside him on a flat rock, and close to hand, lay another pistol, fully loaded. The man in the sheepskin short coat was not given to taking chances.
Along the banks of the tiny stream were scattered sixty-four men who were bathing, washing clothes, or cleaning their weapons. In the narrow-mouthed cove in the mountain wall four mounted men watched over a herd of horses.
At either end of the camp, well away from the stream and the small noises made by the working and resting men, were mounted sentries.
All the men were dressed alike in round sheepskin hats and poshteens, the knee-long sheepskin coat common to the area. All wore hand-stitched boots without heels. From time to time the man cleaning the pistol turned his head to look toward the sentries or at the blue wall that blocked the canyon.
There was no outward indication that the gate had been approached in many years, but the man cleaning the pistol was not given to accepting the appearance of things.
The waters of the stream were cold, clear, and fresh, flowing down from melting snows in the glaciers far above. All the way from Suchow there had been a scarcity of water and now the soldiers basked in the warm sun and drank deep and often of the stream.
There was about these men a tough competence, the appearance of battle-wise comrades who know their own strength and have confidence in their weapons.
The man in the short coat had a face darkened by desert sun, honed by wind to a bleak hardness. The shirt under the sheepskin was faded navy blue wool, the wide belt of hand-tooled leather clasped with a silver buckle kicked from the sand at the crossing of the Su-lo-ho.
A hired fighting man, a mercenary in the ever-changing armies of China, he had almost a year ago been given a mission that had more to do with lining the pockets of a general than with any military value. With thirty-two men he had started west from Kansu, but long ago that mission had been abandoned and now his little army, its numbers increased, functioned as an independent unit, existing by and for itself.
It has been said of China in the twenties and thirties that anyone who could feed an army could have one, and this was a force that lived well.
The beat-up, worn-out weapons which had been theirs at the start had been discarded for modern, more efficient weapons from a cache along the way or captured during the fighting. Their firepower had been increased by the addition of five light machine guns and two mortars. They had learned that care of their weapons came first, their horses second, and themselves third.
Only three of the number were Chinese. Six were Ladakhis from a country once part of Tibet. The Ladakhis were wanderers, mountaineers, and fighting men. Twenty-two were Torgut Mongols, scarcely changed from the time of Genghis Khan, twelve were Kazaks, nine were Tocharis, four were Lolos, fierce tribesmen from eastern Tibet, never conquered by the Chinese, and four were Buddhist monks. These monks were much more given to brawling and fighting than to prayer and meditation. The remainder were Tungans.
They were men from the bazaars of a dozen cities, men who had been camel drivers, yak herdsmen, thieves, and bandits. Of the original command only a few remained, and those the toughest and best. During the months that had passed they had won consistently in battle, had acquired better equipment, horses, clothing, and food than they had ever known, and they were a solid, closely knit group.
They fought for money and the goods they needed, taking what they could from the warring factions of China’s far west. On occasion they had brokered peace, or at least the temporary truce, based on their alliance with one side or another. And they avoided direct conflict with the powers that could destroy them, the Kuomintang, the Chinese Communists, and the Soviets.
The man in the sheepskin coat closed the cylinder of the first pistol and tried the mechanism. It worked smoothly, so he reloaded the gun and placed it on the flat rock. He began to strip the second pistol. This one was an automatic, smaller, more compact….This one was insurance.
The sentry nearest the wall spoke suddenly, sharply. The man with the pistol glanced up, waved a reply to the sentry’s signal, and resumed his work.
He was seated upon a rock in a shaded place near the stream. It was cool, and the breeze from off the mountain was pleasant. His back was toward the empty space of the Taklamakan Desert, which lay, a low and shimmering brightness, beyond the trees.
When he lifted his eyes again there were three men entering the trees, and they rode horses that could only be from the Kara Shahr or Bar Kol oases, noted throughout western China for their fine animals.
What was the old saying about tribute to the emperors of China? Horses from the Kara Shahr, melons from Hami, grapes from Turfan, and girls from Kucha.
For the emperors, nothing less than the best of everything.
The riders stopped, uncomfortably aware of being surrounded by armed men and waiting for him to respond to them. Deliberately, he continued to work upon the pistol. Two of the men were Europeans, that in itself a surprise.
“All right, gentlemen. What the hell do you want?” As he spoke he looked up, sweeping them with a glance.
One of the men was tall, stooped, wearing glasses. “This is…well, it is unexpected. We had no idea…I mean, we did not expect a white man.”
Or perhaps they had sent out the two Europeans precisely because he was a white man. He peered down the gun barrel, checking its cleanliness. “All right, what’s on your mind?”
“As a matter of fact, we are preparing for an attack.”
“So?”
“We…well, we hoped we might prevail upon you to ally yourself with us.”
“How would that benefit me?”
The little man interrupted. “It is a matter of survival, my friend. Together we might cope with the situation. Alone you would be defeated.”
“You assume too much. First, that I should remain here to receive an attack, and second that we should be defeated. The assumption is unwarranted and altogether stupid.”
The little man stiffened. “Stupid? When you would be outnumbered ten to one?”
The man in the sheepskin short coat glanced over his shoulder and gestured, speaking sharply as he did so. A Torgut Mongol walked over and placed a Czech light machine gun on the rock.
“We have several of these and mortars. I know the force you expect to attack. They are a hungry rabble. My men are better trained, better equipped, more efficient in every respect.
“However, when we are rested we shall ride on. Marshal Chu will not arrive in time to disturb us, and I am sure he would like to avoid such a meeting.”
The three exchanged glances. Obviously the meeting was not proceeding as they had intended, and the obvious unconcern of the commander of the small force worried them.
“Perhaps if you could come into the town,” the tall man suggested, “we could talk to greater advantage.” Then realizing his oversight, he added, “I am Phillip Laurent, and this is Signor Villani…and Mr. K’o.”
“I am Medrac,” the man with the pistol replied.
“It is a French name, is it not?”
“I’m an American, not that it means anything out here.”
“Marshal Chu is going to attack us if we do not agree to his demands. He wishes our young men for his army, and our women. He has also made demands on our flocks, and his force is noted for their looting.”
“The precedent is timeless. It is the way of armies.”
Villani nodded. “I agre
e. The Huns—”
“Signor Villani”—Laurent was impatient—“this is not the time for a dissertation.”
“You have come to request a favor.” Medrac slipped the clip into the automatic and stowed it away under his coat. “So far you have said nothing to the point.”
“Mr. Laurent or Mr. K’o,” Villani said, “are more competent to discuss that aspect than I.” His manner became pompous. “I am accustomed to dealing with matters after the fact. After all, I am an historian.”
“Which probably means that you are an artist in ignoring all that does not conform to the truth as you wish to see it. I have small use for historians.”
“We are not here to discuss history,” Laurent said stiffly. “No doubt this officer—” He hesitated delicately. “What is your rank, sir?”
“Rank is only important to martinets or officers’ wives.” Paul Medrac got to his feet. “I take it you have remained undisturbed for some time?”
“Since 1892,” Villani replied proudly. “That was the last time we were attacked. We have, I believe, developed survival to a fine art here. In fact, we are dedicated to it. As you can see, our town is remote, far from the beaten track, and out of the mainstream of events. Consequently we feel no need to share in wars, famines, epidemics…nor to pay duties or taxes. We particularly,” he added, “dislike taxes.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“We have received a demand from Marshal Chu,” Laurent persisted. “Three days ago an advance party appeared, and they informed us that Chu was advancing with a vast army—”
“Six hundred men.”
“—and that we must provide them with quarters, food, recruits, and women. Otherwise they would capture, loot, and burn our city.”
“We have never paid tribute,” Villani said, “not even to the Mongol khans.”
“We have strong walls,” Laurent added, “and an ample food supply.”
The walls did not interest Medrac, but the food supply did. Walls are of little use against a determined enemy and there is no more determined attacker than a lean and hungry soldier outside a fat and prosperous city.
He was far more interested in the people themselves than in the walls, for the strength of a city or a nation does not lie in its guns or walls, but in the hearts and backbones of its people.
“You will join us, then?”
“Nothing I have said implies any such decision. You ask me to risk my life and the lives of my men….What do you have to offer?”
“But you’re a white man!” Laurent protested. “There are white women here! I…we thought surely…”
“You were mistaken.” Medrac picked up the other pistol from the flat rock and returned it to its holster. “I’m not of the opinion that a white woman suffers any more from rape than a Chinese or a Mongol. So if you have any idea of trading upon any inclination of European chivalry, forget it. Such a sense in me is comfortably dormant.
“Furthermore, let me tell you this: I have here one of the toughest, best-trained outfits of fighting men in Asia. We are few in numbers, but competent. I shall not risk their lives without reason.
“However, I am willing to entertain an offer for our services, but before you decide upon the size of the offer, let me point out a simple fact. If we want your town, we will take it.”
Mr. K’o cleared his throat. “If price is a consideration, I believe we can talk to some purpose.”
“Price is the consideration. And may I suggest you begin with your best offer? We can grade it up from there.” Medrac glanced at K’o. “I am sure we will continue to understand each other.”
Laurent started to interrupt, but Mr. K’o spoke quickly. “You will accept an invitation to my house? I am but a guest in the city, but my poor house is at your disposal. Shall we say, for dinner?”
“You are a guest? How long have you been here?”
Mr. K’o smiled. “Twenty-seven years.” His eyes twinkled. “At eight, then?”
“At eight.”
Medrac watched them ride away, then turned to the stocky Chinese with the scarred face. “Chen, I want five men in that town within the hour. They will go quietly to shop for fruit, and to inquire about horses.
“While doing this they will check the defenses of the town and the morale of the people. Also, how many Europeans? Have they modern weapons? How long since a caravan was here? They will be back no later than seven o’clock with the information.”
Chen departed and a tall young Mongol came swiftly up. “Shan Bao, take four men and swing around behind the town. Check the canyons leading into the mountains and get a rough estimate of the flocks. I have an idea you’ll find a number of connecting valleys and canyons, rich in grass and water. Don’t take more than two hours. I want this information before I enter the town.”
Seating himself again, Medrac drew from a musette bag a handful of maps. Each was a beautifully drawn map of some section of Sinkiang, and two of them were very good maps of the region where they now camped. A Chinese in Lanchow had provided these maps.
To the north and some distance away was the vast, salt-encrusted bed of old Lop Nor, the vanished lake. Rumor had it that the lake was filling with water again after many centuries. The Cherchen-darya River was to their west, and behind the nearby town loomed the massive rampart of the Altyn Tagh. Beyond that range lay Tibet, or to be more specific, that region of Tibet called the Chang Tang, and relatively unknown.
The town behind the pale blue wall was marked on no map at all, and from here the town might easily have been passed by as merely another of the ancient ruins everywhere along this route. Yet it presented a new factor, and a disturbing one, intriguing to the mind of any curious man. This town was a relic, something left over from the past, yet obviously not without some contact with the outside world, as illustrated by the presence here of Laurent and Villani.
Still, the town must have been known in the days of the caravans before the springs dried up and Lop Nor vanished. So how had it been forgotten? And there were white women here, too. But why not? There were white women in Tashkent, Samarkand, and probably in Aksu. So why not here?
Thoughtfully, Medrac considered the situation. The trek from lower Kansu to this point had been long and hard, and during the first part there had been almost continual fighting. Due to some luck they had been able to resupply ammunition for their rifles, but their food supply was running short. If they stopped here it would give them a much-needed rest and a chance to renew their supplies and repair equipment.
As for Marshal Chu, Medrac had learned of him long ago. The old bandit leader was no bargain. They had so far not crossed trails, but Chu was shrewd, cunning, and capable as a military man. He had no political convictions, no leaning toward the Communists and less toward Chiang Kai-shek. But Marshal Chu’s weapons were worn and old, his equipment was in bad shape, and his men were the rag ends of a half-dozen bandit forces.
The Mohammedan outbreak had come on the heels of earlier fighting, putting too many strong forces in the field with which he could not cope. Also, the Russians were showing indications of moving into Sinkiang, which they had been trying to do off and on for a couple of hundred years—whenever, in fact, their country grew strong. Russia had always, whether czarist or Soviet, wanted this area, three times larger than greater Germany.
If Chu could take the town behind the blue wall he might settle down in that relative obscurity and outlast the current chaos. Chiang Kai-shek had failed to live up to his promises with twenty years in which to do it, his regime was coming apart at the seams, and now disturbing reports of a full-scale Japanese invasion were filtering in from Peking and Shanghai. The people of China were looking for relief, and Marshal Chu wanted a storm cellar to last out the trouble.
Shan Bao rode in at a spanking trot and dropped to the ground, executing a smart salute. He was a lithe, quick man with intelligent eyes, and he cared little for anything but riding or fighting.
“You were right,” he said, “there
are many deep, well-watered canyons. It is impossible to reach them by circling, but we could see into some of them. They have herds of sheep, goats, yaks, and camels, and there are a number of great orchards and vineyards. This is a very rich village, sir!”
“Anything more?”
“There are well-traveled trails leading into the mountains, but the way to all the trails is through the city.”
“Any fortifications on the hills?”
“I believe so. There were rows of rocks that might be natural, but I believe are in part constructed, and there are clumps of trees and brush that might offer a hiding place for men or guns.”
“Thanks. You’ll be in command while I’m in the town. I’ll take Jepsun and six men with me.”
He walked out to the edge of the trees, and looked toward the town. Already the gate was only a darker shadow against the wall. Medrac felt a growing excitement. A forgotten city on an abandoned caravan trail!
Down the long basin behind him the rays of the dying sun touched the distant yardangs of the Taklamakan with a fringe of crimson. Shadows crept out from the ancient hills, and far off, the towering mass of a great, snow-covered peak gleamed like a great white tower above the basin. Far out over the wastes, a jackal called.
To the north and east there was a dark blotch on the gray face of the desert. This was one of the great forests of reeds that covered what had been an ancient lake—reeds that were sixteen to twenty feet high; once lost in that forest no man could find his way out. It was said that many of them grew from a deep slush, crusted over enough to bear a man’s weight in places, but if a man fell through it was like quicksand, and there was no escape.
The jackal called again. Medrac walked back and sat down. Jepsun would come soon with his horse, and they would ride to the strange gates…and beyond them.
COMMENTS: Although there is no hint that mercenary Paul Medrac is the youthful narrator of the last draft of the Samsara fragment, at one time, at least some of the pages you have just read were intended to be part of that story of reincarnation. The City of the Blue Wall was likely intended to be a repository of information that allowed the “arrived” reincarnated people to learn more about the process of reincarnation and their greater purpose.
Volume 1: Unfinished Manuscripts, Mysterious Stories, and Lost Notes from One of the World's Most Popular Novelists Page 45
