by Talbot Mundy
“Nancy! Come here! Look! Andrew got my message! Here is his answer! Scrawled on the wall below the picture!”
Nancy’s face assumed a mask-like expression. She was not very good at assuming indifference. She was depending on the momentum of events rather than on any skill of her own to get Elsa into the mood for what was coming. “Does he say he received the telegram?” she asked, guarding her voice.
“He says he got both messages! Both! Was there more than one telegram?”
“No. Didn’t I tell you? Morgan Lewis asked Mu-ni Gam-po to spatchcock our ‘cat’ message into his routine telegram to Gombaria. That was all. A telegram addressed direct to Andrew might have made the Sikkim police inquisitive. With no other motive than to do their duty they might easily force the Indian Government to stop you and Andrew from crossing the frontier.”
“Then the other message must have been the mental one I sent him! He did get it! Nancy, he got it! It worked!”
“Well? Why not? I suspected it would reach him.”
“When? When did you suspect it? You never mentioned it to me.”
“Three nights ago — when you sent it, with your hands over your face, at my fireside, while we were talking about the pistol, just before you and I went to bed.”
“Nancy!”
“Yes?”
“Are you imagining things? That can’t be right. It’s impossible. Wasn’t Andrew here the night after he left Darjeeling?”
“Yes. Only one night. He left here at daybreak. I enquired when we arrived this evening.”
“Then how can he possibly have got my message? If he had got it on the way, at the time when I sent it—”
“Then he would almost certainly have turned back,” said Nancy.
“There are two messages on the wall, one above the other. The first reads: Hurry forward. Don’t let them delay you. Below that, there’s an arrow pointing to the figure 2, and then the second one. It reads: Got second message. Okay. — Nancy, do come and look.”
“Why? I can take your word for it.”
“But, Nancy, if Andrew did get my mental message, in this room, after he received the telegram, then it must have been almost one whole day after I sent it!”
“Well?”
“How is that possible? It isn’t possible. It can’t be.”
Nancy checked an impulse to explain too much, too soon. Truth can’t be taught. But it is learnable. She came back with a question: “Would you describe Andrew as clairvoyant?”
“No, I don’t think so. Perhaps just a little bit. Sometimes he seems to know what one is going to say before one says it. But Andrew doesn’t invite that kind of intimacy. That was the first time I ever dared to try to send a message to him. I wouldn’t have then, if you hadn’t been reading the riot act about my meekness. And it did seem so important that he should know about the pistol.”
“There are two reasons why I think you reached him,” said Nancy. “Andrew loves poetry. I don’t mean merely likes — he loves it.”
“He never even tries to write it,” said Elsa.
Nancy retorted irritably: “Andrew thrills to the spirit that poetry brings into consciousness even more than most music does. It’s the old story of the man of action revering spiritual thought but despising its mouthpiece: the man at arms and the noncombatant chaplain. Andrew is too inherently courteous to admit it, even to himself, but he considers a poet a kind of weakling without the dignity to resist emotional impulse.”
Elsa agreed: “Andrew resists all his impulses, except the generous ones. One can almost see him hold them off and look at them as if they were something offered for sale.”
“Exactly,” said Nancy. “Poetry thrills him. It awakens his consciousness, but simultaneously reveals to him his own shortcomings. So he resists the very force that makes him able to distinguish between good and evil. There is nothing unusual about that. To a greater or lesser extent we all do it. We won’t let truth into our consciousness, because it shows us the humiliating meanness of the lies we live by.”
“Do you mean by that, that Andrew is a liar, or that he’s clairvoyant?”
“Both,” said Nancy. “Unwillingly in each instance. If he weren’t a liar he wouldn’t be human. He has set his strength against clairvoyance. But no lover of poetry ever lived who could shut out clairvoyant visions. If he is vicious, vile visions. If he drinks, drunken visions. If he is honest, true visions. One can tell almost anyone’s true character by the kind of poetry he loves.”
“Andrew loves strong poetry,” said Elsa. “He despises what he calls kiss- mammy stuff, and decadence, and phony realism. He says the test of poetry is that you must hear the wild harps thrumming when you chant it aloud. — But what is your other reason for thinking he really saw my message?”
“Your motive,” Nancy answered. “It was almost totally unselfish, as far as I can judge. And Andrew’s situation. Being in this room must have brought you into his thought. Mere memory would do that. The monks here do almost- nothing but experimental thinking. It isn’t very spiritual, but they create a maelstrom of thought that attracts all sorts of phenomena — good, bad, indifferent — just the opposite of the Jesuits.”
“We had a dose of Jesuits,” said Elsa. “It was impossible to think there — I mean — well, we talked about it — you explained it.”
“It was good for you,” Nancy retorted. “Elsa, unless you learn how to guard your thought against intruding influences, even better than the Jesuits guard theirs, you would be far better off among Jesuits than at the mercy of your own craving to be of some use in the world. Better a bigoted disciplinarian than no guide. One’s personal opinion, no matter how obstinate, is as porous as a sponge. It absorbs whatever it is soaked in. Squeeze it, and out come its secrets.”
“Nancy, there must be lots of exceptions to that. Andrew can keep secrets. So can you. I can read some people’s thought without even trying. I can read Tom’s almost always. But Andrew’s never — not when he covers up.”
“Andrew is like anyone else,” said Nancy. “The only possible protection — the only one — against mental intrusion, burglary, bullying, blackmail, propaganda, tyranny, dictatorship — is to be a soul and to be conscious of it. Control your person, instead of the other way around. Don’t be a tail trying to wag the dog, or an orchestra trying to direct the conductor.”
“Nancy, are you sure it wasn’t you who sent the mental message to Andrew?”
Nancy smiled. She didn’t answer the question directly: “I was minding my own business. Let me tell you what I think happened.”
“I wish you would. I feel as scared, inside me, as if I had broken a law. Oh, Nancy, I don’t want to be clairvoyant! I don’t! I won’t! I hate it!”
“Chickens,” said Nancy, “can’t get back into the egg. They must learn to take care of themselves. Shall I tell you what I think happened?”
“Yes! Please!”
“Andrew must have been thinking of you, or he would not have written the first message on the wall. Later, he received the telegram. Very likely Gombaria brought it to him. It would be just like Gombaria to make a mystery about it. He experiments. Gombaria is a very expert manipulator of mental atmosphere.”
“Atmosphere?”
“Yes. That is only a phrase. One has to use words to suggest meanings that words can’t convey. Gombaria can, and perhaps did, create a psychic field in which phenomena can easily occur. That is another phrase. It is worthless except as a hint. The reading of the telegram would direct Andrew’s attention instantly and very strongly to you. The suddenness, and unexpectedness would shock him enough to make him let go of his own thoughts. He would see your thought. He couldn’t possibly keep it out of his consciousness. I believe he would see your mental picture before he would see you. That would be normal.”
“But, Nancy! Twenty hours after I sent it?”
“Why not? Time has nothing to do with it. That is one of the many reasons why time — and fact-bound intellectuals can�
��t grasp clairvoyance. It is why professional clairvoyants almost always prove unreliable.”
“You mean fortune tellers?”
“Yes. They become confused when they try to translate infinity into time. But there is another reason: the economic one.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Humanity is gradually, very slowly evolving toward pure super- consciousness, in which there can be no such concept as profit and loss. On the intermediate levels, such as you and I can reach, the profit and loss illusion puts up a fight. It tempts us with suggestions that lead into disastrous mental quicksands, in which we flounder and lose all sense of direction. That is the meaning of the temptation of Jesus by the devil.”
“But can the world be run on any other basis than profit and loss?”
“Of course it can’t, as long as people are hypnotized by the personal profit and loss illusion. Every materialistic effort to change conditions only provides different opportunities for exploitation. The old exploiters become the new victims, and vice versa.”
“Then what is the answer?”
“Gradually, as we struggle upward toward soul consciousness, the illusion loses its hypnotic grip. We begin then to be free to think clearly and to solve problems sanely. We leave off trying to fill holes with shadows. Instead, we fill them with ideas that develop their own substance. But it follows that a clairvoyant — seeing on a spiritual plane but working for material personal profit — and especially for dishonest profit — is committing spiritual treason. That is why gamblers and spies and criminals who use clairvoyance, as many of them consciously do, invariably meet disaster. Clairvoyance perverted to treacherous ends becomes spiritual suicide. Sometimes it leads to the madhouse. It is always, without any exception — without any possible exception — ruinous to the one who misuses it.”
“God!” said Elsa. “Nancy — tell me — did I misuse it when I sent that message to Andrew?”
“Don’t be silly. Relatively speaking, it was an unselfish message. None of us humans can be quite unselfish as long as we have our personalities to care for. But you were not trying to make a profit or to mislead Andrew. You were trying to give him information, weren’t you? Now tell me something.”
“What? I’ll tell you anything I know.”
“Did you know that Bompo Tsering was the go-between who ordered that pistol shot fired at you?”
“Yes. When he opened the window, and Andrew spoke to him, I knew it then. I knew it even before that. That was why I wanted to speak to him. I was quite sure he was up to mischief.”
“Did you hope, when you sent the message, that Bompo Tsering would be punished for his treachery?”
“I never even thought of it. My only impulse was to tell Andrew what had happened. To protect him. I mean, so that he could protect himself.”
“That is what saved Andrew.”
“How do you mean that, Nancy? I don’t understand you.”
“It is a good example of how clairvoyance works when there is no vindictive, or envious, or profit-seeking motive. Probably — of course I can’t be quite sure about this, but probably Andrew would have turned back if he had got your message at once. That might have been disastrous. It would have frightened Bulah Singh, who would almost certainly have tried to save himself by accusing Morgan Lewis of connivance in a plot to cross the frontier. That would have done Bulah Singh no good, but it would have been the end of Andrew’s expedition.”
“I still can’t see why Andrew didn’t get my message the moment I sent it.”
“Because your impulse to protect him did protect him.”
“How?”
“If you had loaded your thought with malice against Bompo Tsering — or with opinions about what Andrew should do — or with some profit motive, you would have robbed the message of its protective element.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Paradoxically, because time is not an element in clairvoyance, the message could select the right time. And because space is not a limitation of clairvoyance, it could select the line of least resistance and reach him here, at the proper moment, where it is easier than in most other places for a psychic incident to happen. The wrong motive would have spoiled that — might have prevented it altogether.”
The old chauffeur opened the door and stood, shawled and breathing Leninism through his loyal nose, awaiting orders. He made a jerky gesture with his head. Nancy nodded. He went out, closing the door with a thud that verged on the edge of the brink of insolence and needed benefit of doubt to save even that verdict.
“I told him to let me know,” said Nancy, “before going to find out whether Gombaria is ready to receive us.”
“He seems awfully angry.”
“Yes. He thinks Gombaria should come humbly. He considers my dignity is being disregarded. And he knows that searchers will visit this room in our absence.”
“Had we better lock our bags before we—”
“No. Leave them open. Be generous. Save Gombaria’s monks from the indignity of picking locks. They wouldn’t dream of taking anything. They will only look. Gombaria likes to know everything — everything — and to tell nothing.”
“He sounds a bit unscrupulous,” said Elsa.
“Well, he is, and he is not,” Nancy answered. “He is like all the rest of us — a human being in search of his soul. Sometimes I suspect him of delaying the search for the sake of intellectual amusement. But not always. And he sends children to my school when he considers them too intelligent to become monks. So I mustn’t be too critical.”
“Broad-minded enough to send children to your school?”
“Yes, and to pay generously.”
“But so stupid that he spies into handbags?”
“We all average out,” said Nancy. “Remember: philosophy is not virtue. Gombaria knows one very important thing that you haven’t learned yet.”
“What is that?”
“Not to expect too much from people. And not to expect too little from life, but to insist on more and more intelligent enjoyment of every moment that he lives. — I hear my old tiger coming back, so wrap yourself in a shawl. It will be cold in the corridors. Are you ready? It is very bad manners to keep the ruler of a monastery waiting.”
CHAPTER 25
Elsa began to feel terrified. The fear was inside her, subjective, not due to physical surroundings. It was a wordless sensation, unexplainable, comfortless. It brought up memories of punishment at school — a helpless dread. But she acted brave, like a novice in no-man’s land. She and Nancy followed the old turbaned chauffeur along dim, draughty corridors.
She didn’t for one second doubt her intuition that Nancy was leading her to an experience that would mean farewell — perhaps to Nancy. Farewell, and a new unknown beginning. It was a sensation of lonely dread. But curiosity was stronger than dread — much stronger. She knew that Nancy was also hard-pressed to subdue emotion.
Nancy said never a word as the old Mahratta’s lantern danced in time to his martial stride, making weird shadows leap on the walls. Their footsteps rang with a kind of frosty brittleness. There were echoes. Somewhere ahead in the gloom a monk with spinning prayer wheel was leading the way through hewn tunnels; they saw his back as he turned corners, up and down masonry stairways that followed the pattern of the mountain top to which the buildings clung.
They passed, in almost breathless silence, through a long, dim room where Elsa recognized two monks from Mu-ni Gam-po’s monastery. There were dozens of monks in the room, perhaps a hundred of them, all lined against the walls beneath faded banners and shadowy oil paintings. The two whom she knew made no sign of recognition. One of them had carried charcoal and hot water to her cell all winter in Darjeeling. She had talked with him many a time. The other one had been too talkative. He had brought her the ancient books from Mu-ni Gam-po’s library, and he had marveled that a girl should know Tibetan. He loved to watch her turn it into English, and was pleased because she used a brus
h to write with, on parchment paper, so that each letter and each word was a thing of beauty. He had wanted to stay in the room and singsong the Tibetan text that he knew by heart. He had been hard to get rid of. But now, standing against the wall, with incongruous Jodhpur riding breeches showing under his long traveling coat, he was as blank-faced and immobile as if he had never seen her.
They had to pass through the refectory to reach the room where Gombaria awaited them — long tables, backless benches, a rancid reek of butter, an image of Chenrezi looming in the gloom. Then another narrow tunnel, hewn through a projection on the face of the cliff. It opened into a foursquare chamber, half rock, half masonry, with a door at the farther end, but no window. Stifling, silent, cold. There they were kept waiting. The monk who had led the way stood telling his beads, facing the door with his back toward them.
“This,” said Nancy in an almost inaudible voice, “is where Lopsang Pun received initiation from his own great teacher.”
“You mean where we stand now?”
“No. In the chamber beyond that door.”
Silence. An insufferable tension. Then:
“Who was his teacher?”
Nancy, for once, seemed at a loss for words. Then, suddenly, as if angry at the question: “Who taught Jesus — Pythagoras — St. Paul?”
Silence again, Elsa studying Nancy’s face that was lighted from below by the old Mahratta’s lantern. It was like a wonderfully cut cameo on soot-black jet.
“Nancy, are you an initiate?”
“Sh-s-sh!”
“But are you?”
“No.”
The monosyllable forbade more questions. But Nancy suddenly relented, or perceived an opportunity. She added, slightly louder, so that each word was distinct and the monk might have heard, had he listened:
“By their fruits ye shall know them. And by yours they will know you.”
