by Talbot Mundy
Peace, I have suffered seeking thee:
Life, I have sought to see thy star
That other men might see ...”
Trust Andrew to set a wild harp thrumming! Oh, Andrew, Andrew! Why did I never know until now!
Lung-gom-pa the magician felt the thought behind the chanted words. He recognized a force, as spiders in their webs perceive a change of a weather. He leaned forward, staring between the two blue glass lanterns that stood on the desk in front of him. On the table between the blue lanterns was a butter-lamp made from a human skull blackened by age and soot. Black-robed, on a black throne like a bishop’s, gaunt, emaciated, not without dignity, the magician gazed through sunken red-rimmed eyes that knew evil. They had sought evil, found it and seen. They were like ape’s eyes, only larger and more ancient-looking — old by some other measurement than years.
Von Klaus, standing beside a charcoal brazier, warming his fingers, felt tide of thought meet tide. He, too, was sensitive, but he had no magician’s genius for silence, nor any patience with what he couldn’t understand. Anything beyond his understanding was blind insolence. He would destroy it. Through a dry throat he scolded:
“One would think this Affenschwanz knew Nietzsche’s beyond good and evil!”
Elsa shuddered. Was Nietzsche’s ghost in the room? Had von Klaus read her thought — or she his?
Andrew’s face darkened. He growled at the German: “You’ve the sun in your eyes. Like you, this old devil confuses means with ends. But the ball’s yours. Kick off.”
“Sun in my eyes?” Von Klaus shook his head as if he thought Andrew had gone mad; “There is no such phrase in all Nietzsche’s writings. I know Nietzsche by heart.”
There began to be a rhythmic drumbeat. Very dimly there appeared a dark space where the wall against which the Tibetans leaned didn’t reach to the roof. The drumming came through that dark gap, probably from the magician’s real holy of holies where his trained assistants waited.
Andrew took the initiative. He signed to the young porter to set the locked canvas bag on the floor at the magician’s feet. Furtive, then frantic, like a long-gowned bogey stealing base the porter dumped his load — stuck out his respectful tongue at the magician — ran back to the door — threw himself on his face — covered his head with his coat and lay still. The door guard prodded him with a rifle, just to add to his terror. Andrew didn’t show his automatic, he only reached for it. The guard decided further prodding was unnecessary — retired to the door — leaned against it, doing his best to appear unconcerned, but watching Andrew sideways.
So it was safe to be truculent, in spite of that ominous drumbeat and the wordless tension. There was no actual crisis yet. Andrew’s face revealed relief. Von Klaus resented that. To help him to steal the upper hand he needed fear, strain, more tension. He tried barbed sarcasm:
“Kreuzblitzen noch einmal! Ausgezeichnet! An evil eye! An iron will! An Olympian scowl! You are familiar with Virgil? — Annuit et totum nutu tremefecit Olympum!”†
The gibe drew no retort. Andrew spotted its purpose to make him feel uncivilized — uneducated — ignorant — out of his class. He felt no impulse to retort in kind. If he had, he would have resisted it. He was aware of a quiet sensation like growing upward — not physically — not mentally — some other way, quite indescribable. He was getting a mental bird’s-eye view, beginning to feel he had the German’s number. But he had to be careful — cautious. He found that infernal drumbeat irritating. It was irregular. It was a kind of agitator intended to separate thought into its parts to fall, of their own nature, into pockets, there to be manipulated.
The magician sat still, staring at Elsa. A panther was the thought that crossed Elsa’s mind. A black panther afraid of the dark devil within himself. His eyes had a similar smoldering fire. But in actual appearance he more resembled an Egyptian statue in black marble, except for that fiery red fear in his eyes that were set too close together. What was he afraid of? In addition to the door guard he had ten men to protect him. So it couldn’t be physical fear — unless — unless — could he be one of those mystery priests, whose priesthood only lasts until its magic fails — and then they must die — at the hands of their guardians?
It seemed possible. The ten were armed and booted for outdoors, seated with their backs to the semicircular wall, to right and left of the magician. They were very evidently brigands, self-assured and well armed, wearing the stolen clothes of men of substance. But they also wore strange symbolic jewelry. They were something else besides brigands. Andrew stared at them one by one. Some dropped their eyes. Some didn’t. Elsa whispered:
“Poetry! Poetry!”
Andrew resumed his chanting:
“ ... Bearing the discipline of earth
That earth, controlled, may bring forth flowers.
O may our labors help the birth
Of nobler souls than ours.”
The magician slowly unfroze, in silence, as if he thawed reluctantly into a less impersonal condition. He became angry, breathing heavily. He appeared to believe Andrew’s chant was rival magic — possibly more potent than his own. His nostrils dilated. His movement was subtle, a hardly noticeable menace, like a cobra’s. But he didn’t dare — yet — or else didn’t choose — yet — to join issue — lock ranks — struggle — force against force. He thought of it — his eyes revealed that — but he didn’t do it. With loaded silence he appeared to be deliberately tempting Andrew into some kind of magical mental trap. It was like the pull of a magnet. In that dim blue light it suggested an octopus under the sea. But he played safe when Andrew’s last syllable died on the air. He droned the sacred monosyllable that is said to join heaven and hell and to release powers that be for purposes to come. White — black — priest — magician — they all use it:
“Aum-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m-m!”
Andrew seized the initiative. “Ask him,” he said calmly, “do we meet here as friends to exchange courtesy and to do each other kindness?”
Elsa cooed approval. “Andrew, who told you!”
“Say, would you mind—”
“Oh! I shouldn’t! All right, I won’t do that again!”
She translated his words into singsong Tibetan. The brigands smiled; the magician knew that without glancing at them; he appeared to resent it as a smear on his dignity. When he answered, after a pause, he spoke more to his own men than to Elsa. Andrew didn’t catch the reply, but it might be important, so he asked:
“What did he say?”
Von Klaus answered before Elsa could get a word in: “He speaks like Goethe. He says: Sie ist im Geisteslande jung geworden! Donnerwetter, was ist denn los?† Is this a seance?”
“You know less Tibetan than I do,” Andrew retorted. “I don’t care a damn what you think he said.”
The German stared, stroking his beard: “It was from her I got it. We must use her. Sie ist eine Geisterseherin. I warned you. I was here first. I dealt the cards. I know what will happen unless—”
He paused, expectant. But again he had failed to draw Andrew’s fire. Andrew repeated the question:
“What did Lung-gom-pa say?”
Elsa answered: “He said: ‘My heart beats like a bird’s.’” She almost closed her eyes. “I don’t know what he meant by that. But he is afraid — I don’t know what of.”
Von Klaus nodded and spoke with dark significance: “He fears me! Not without reason!”
All the Tibetans understood there was a mental duel between von Klaus and Andrew. Like their magician they awaited the outcome. Like the watchers of a cockfight they, not the cocks, knew what the fight was about, for whose profit. They smiled at Elsa, like connoisseurs. But something indefinable was lacking. Elsa didn’t fear them physically at the moment.
Andrew gave her another sentence to translate: “Tell him it’s our custom — yours and mine — to talking sitting down. Ask where are his manners?”
“May I put it less bluntly?”
“
No. Say it the way I said it.”
She obeyed. Von Klaus clucked priggish disapproval of such a flagrant breach of etiquette. But the effort to embarrass Andrew by encouraging Tibetan resentment failed of its purpose. The magician murmured to the brigand at his right hand. He promptly signaled to the door guard. The door guard laid down his rifle and brought forward the only two chairs in the room. He had to carry them one at a time; they were heavy — not so large, but almost as elaborate as the magician’s throne. High-backed, carved, important-looking chairs.
“Stolen,” said Andrew, low-voiced; he couldn’t resist the silk-smooth feel of old carved wood; he caressed a carving with his thumb. Signing to Elsa to be seated, he took the chair beside her. That left von Klaus standing and staring so hard that Elsa wondered whether she and Andrew looked as ghastly as he did in the wan blue light. Or was the German seeing things? Andrew grinned unfriendly at him:
“Your move. We’re waiting.”
The German hesitated, vilely angry. He would have liked to shoot, if his eyes told the truth. Elsa whispered:
“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not—”
Irritated, Andrew said grimly: “Cut that! You’ll spoil my style. I’ve got Fritz on the run!”
She looked up at the crooked beams of the stamped mud ceiling: “Very well, Andrew!” But her lips moved: “Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses—”
She felt gay — light-hearted. She was praying for balance — fighting an impulse to laugh — hysterical because she and the magician were the only ones who knew what was going on. She subdued the impulse to laugh, but she couldn’t help smiling. She loved Andrew. Loved him. Secretly. Forever and ever. It was irresistibly comical that neither he nor the magician knew that. She and the magician were at opposite ends of a universe, like plus and minus, so near that they could almost touch each other and so distant that they couldn’t meet for all eternity. All the magician’s brigands smiled when she did. But that wasn’t such a good idea; the magician didn’t like it. He was growing restless. It might be that he resented the lessening tension. Perhaps it made him feel less supernaturally vile. He loved vileness. But he wasn’t beyond good and evil, because he hated good. You can’t hate what you have risen beyond. That was another reason why it was difficult not to laugh. But what the magician did have was such strength of silence that Elsa’s emotion wavered on the verge of tears. That was another strange thing. She felt sorry for the old man — wondered whether he was hungry, unaware that she herself was famished.
Andrew asked suddenly, aloud, in English: “What are we waiting for?”
Von Klaus answered irritably: “For my interpreter of course! What is your hurry?”
Then something happened as things do in dreams. The brigand farthest from Von Klaus, at the end, on the magician’s left, leaned forward. His shoulders were invisible in shadow. His flat face dimly shone in the blue light, smiling as only Tibetan and Chinese faces can, like a mask that signified pure humor, implying no opinion, no relevancy, simply enjoying fact:
“His being dead,” he said sweetly. He might have loved the interpreter. He didn’t look at the German. He watched Elsa, as if that helped him to recall forgotten English words. Then awkwardly, he added: “Being dying too much soon this afternoon now big bird eating feeneesh.”
Elsa suddenly knew how the interpreter had died. She didn’t see. She knew. She almost fainted. But Andrew didn’t notice that; his eyes had met the German’s: “Did you get that?” he asked. “He says your interpreter’s dead.”
The German straightened himself. He took it well — a mite too well. It crossed Andrew’s mind to quote Latin back at him — summa ars est celare artem — but it felt better to wait. The German’s jaw fell, just a trifle. His eyes narrowed, hardly noticeably. He clenched his fists; the skin turned white under the pressure. He shrugged his shoulders. There was a glint in his hard eyes. It was pretty good acting.
“Schweinhunde! Treacherous devils!” He swallowed, seeming to be trying to read Andrew’s mind. “Do you believe it?” he asked earnestly. “Or are they—”
Andrew’s answer, to the point though it was, revealed nothing of Andrew’s thought, belief or disbelief:
“On our way this evening we passed the village burial ground. A fresh corpse had just been thrown to the dogs.”
“Did you look at the corpse? Did you go near?”
“No, I sent flowers,” said Andrew. He felt glad then that he hadn’t quoted a Latin cliche.
“Careful!” Elsa whispered. “Careful!” She knew von Klaus asked nothing better than an excuse to fly into a rage. She couldn’t sit quiet and let Andrew blunder into a false move. But the warning was too late. Von Klaus began to work himself into a passion:
“Oh! Sarcasm! Eh? Malice! So! The mark of a lying coward! I suspected you from the first, Andrew Gunning! Now I accuse you of having caused the death of my interpreter — in order to—”
Andrew interrupted: “You damned fool!”
“Wahrhaftig! I was damned — when I neglected to kill you on sight like the insolent swine that you are! It is due to your treachery that now I have no automatic! It is too late to remedy that. But have you not enough intelligence to perceive this is the end?”
“End of what?” said Andrew.
“The end of us! Do you wish to die of crushed testicles, with red-hot charcoal at your toes and fingers? If it is true that they have killed my Chinese servant, then it is clear they are playing with us. They amuse themselves. This is all prearranged. They intend to torture us presently. Why wait for that? Do me the favor, will you, to shoot first the magician. After that, you may kill your woman. Then me. Or — if you lack the necessary courage, lend me your weapon. I will shoot him, her, you, and then myself, in that order!”
“You promise?”
“Certainly! Yes! Of course! What do you think?”
Andrew smiled. “Not that I give a damn. Because it’s no dice. But you wouldn’t keep your promise. You might kill the magician, and perhaps me. Then you’d be on top, wouldn’t you? Suppose you tell ’em what’s in my bag who put it there — why — who the stuff’s for — and who paid for it!”
Von Klaus shrugged his shoulders, disgusted: “Die of torture, since you wish it. I don’t even know enough Tibetan to ask these devils why they killed my interpreter.”
“We’ll soon find that out,” said Andrew. He glanced at Elsa. She put the question straight to the magician. He murmured to the brigand beside him. The entire proceedings did seem prearranged. The brigand began to speak as if he had it all by heart. Elsa interpreted, phrase by phrase:
“Von Klaus’s dead interpreter was Chinese—”
Andrew interrupted: “Not Japanese?”
“He says Chinese. The interpreter, whose name was Fu Ling—”
Andrew interrupted again: “Well, I’ll be damned. I might have guessed that. I didn’t. Fu Ling — Washington, D.C. — San Francisco — Berlin — London. Good guy. Too bad he’s dead. But go on — I’m listening.”
“Fu Ling tried to persuade the magician Lung-gom-pa to agree to waylay you and me, and kill us, and steal the contents of this bag. But — he says — Lung-gom-pa used magic and perceived there were seven reasons each containing seven other reasons why not. He means the magician was unconvinced. Therefore, instead, they tortured Fu Ling, to make him tell all he knew about von Klaus and about you and me. But Fu Ling died too quickly, telling nothing.”
Von Klaus interrupted: “He must have swallowed slow poison. Damn him, he stole mine!”
Elsa continued: “This man says ravens instead of vultures are pecking Fu Ling’s body — and that is proof that Fu Ling’s soul is destined for hell. Now Lung-gom-pa wishes to know, and he asks: What can we tell him about von Klaus, who is a peling and talks incomprehensibly about religion?”
Andrew didn’t exactly stiffen, but something happened to him. Elsa almost physically felt the spark of intuition leap into his mind. He laid his hand on her
s, unaware of it, although it made her heart leap like a caught bird. Andrew was like a still hunter — no, he wasn’t, he was like a cross-examiner at a court trial spotting a crucial point. She wondered what he had discovered. But he guarded his thought. He waited for Von Klaus to brag and blunder — not many seconds — Von Klaus couldn’t resist that impulse:
“Herr Gott! All this Umschweif! Let me tell it. I already said this old Schwarzkünstler† is afraid of his own magic — and of me!”
“Why were you afraid of Fu Ling?” Andrew asked him.
It was a palpable hit. The German hesitated. He looked startled. “Me? Fear my interpreter?”
“They tortured him — to suit your book. Why?”
Von Klaus hit back: “Herr Gott! Have you gone mad from fear of torture? You accuse me of — has the altitude gone to your head? Or — no! I know the answer! Of course yes! Sol! Of course! Why didn’t I think of it! Opium! So you are a drug addict? You have been using what you have in that bag!”
But he failed flatly to unmask Andrew’s strategy. Andrew touched the canvas bag with his toe, reflectively. “Has that brigand done talking?” he asked.
The brigand had not done talking. When Elsa questioned him he spoke so rapidly that she kept asking him to pause, to let her interpret:
“He says: this peling von Klaus came here several weeks ago with his Chinese interpreter, bearing credentials from Lhasa. Good credentials. Here, in this village he imposed himself as an official guest, making many demands. Peling though he is, he has received the hospitality due to a nobleman. But this continually happened—”
Von Klaus cut in with a sneer: “Will you listen to muck? Perverted sex is all they think about! I warn you: this won’t be fit for any woman’s ears unless she is a nymphomaniac. He is going to lie about my relations with Bulah Singh’s woman.” He went through the motions of wringing ullage through his fingers.
“What we’d like to know,” said Andrew, “is why you turned in Fu Ling.”
“That man will tell you nothing but lies.”
“Well, let’s hear ’em anyhow.” Andrew tossed an off-hand question for Elsa to ask: “Has Bulah Singh’s woman been receiving bribes from von Klaus?”
