by Talbot Mundy
Andrew interrupted, low-voiced: “I’ve a hunch we can’t save Fritzyboy. I think I know what’s coming. He didn’t count on my men being—”
Von Klaus again, hoarse, harsh, gloating: “Blood on her knife! And without that opium, can her bastard become Dalai Lama? So does she love you? Hah! If you’d had the guts to shoot when I told you to shoot — but you hadn’t the guts! — Here she comes! Now!”
The door opened. Andrew’s right hand didn’t move. Two Tibetans entered dragging something between them through the dim gloom.
They weren’t self-respecting men. They weren’t peasants, brigands, gunmen. Shabbily clad, hangdog-looking, they were ragyabas. They stank. Only in time of death were such outcasts admitted across thresholds to do what must be done. They were dragging their burden between them, its heels to the floor. And in the doorway stood Bulah Singh, his dark face faintly outlined by the blue light but also touched with blood-red from the brazier glow. He swayed slightly on bandaged feet. One arm was around the shoulder of Andrew’s head man Bompo Tsering. His right hand was out of sight, behind the rifleman who had been sent to bring the woman.
“Andrew Gunning,” he said, “here’s where I buy your good will!”
Von Klaus gasped. The two stinking ragyabas dragged their burden past Andrew into the blue lamplight between von Klaus and the magician. There they raised it, holding it by the shoulders, face upward, so that the head and the wide-open lifeless eyes of Bulah Singh’s woman goggled upside down at the magician.
Her own knife had been driven to the hilt into her throat — so powerfully driven that no blood ran.
Elsa gripped Andrew’s arm. She didn’t mean to. She couldn’t help it. Andrew watched von Klaus. Von Klaus stared at the dead woman. The muttering drumbeat, as if it obeyed the magician’s will, quickened its tempo, grew louder. Bulah Singh, heavily leaning on Bompo Tsering, limping on bandaged feet came and stood beside Andrew, still hiding his right hand.
“Major von Klaus!” he said. “You sent my woman to kill me. Die, like the dog that you are — you double-crossing, God-damned Hun son of a bitch!”
He fired three shots into the German. He would have fired a fourth but Andrew was too quick for him and too astonishingly strong.
Left-handed, he snatched the repeating pistol. He nearly broke the Sikh’s wrist. Then he spoke quietly:
“One shot was plenty. Save your ammunition. Stand by.”
CHAPTER 39
It was Bulah Singh’s own repeating pistol. That set up a new chain of problems. But it was the wrong moment to ask how he got it from Bompo Tsering, who was on the far side of the Sikh, terrified by the magician’s stare, blankly non-committal, looking his stupidest — ready to run for his life and soul and hope of lives to come, if it hadn’t been for Bulah Singh’s left arm around his shoulder; that and secret curiosity in some way stabilized him. Everyone, even the old magician, waited on Andrew’s next move. The ten Tibetans sat fascinated, hands on holsters, leaning forward, ready to draw.
Andrew laid Bulah Singh’s automatic in Elsa’s lap and she let it lie there. She appeared not even to notice it. That relieved the tension. The ten brigands let go, lolled, relaxed, almost unconscious of their own reaction but tremendously impressed by Andrew’s disarming of Bulah Singh. The suddenness and skill, the lack of evident reason why he should have done it, mystified them. They were like spectators at a tragedy, spellbound. Andrew and their old magician were the irreconcilable forces of dramatic conflict, face to face in a setting of blue gloom.
The magician’s silence was like a monstrous spider’s, loaded with alertness but also with indecision. If he could only guess Andrew’s intention, he would know what to do. On the other hand, Andrew felt he knew exactly what to do. He must do it quietly, in the right order, without the slightest suggestion of haste. He knew the magician was trying to read his mind. He was very careful not to underrate his antagonist. Foremost in his thought, for the magician to read, was recognition of the old man’s prowess. There was no challenge, no irritation in that. Thought wasn’t flowing so fast as it did — not more than two or three thoughts now between muttering drumbeats; but they were concrete thoughts, definite, sharp-edged, having satisfying limits. He could understand them. He felt very pleased with Elsa because she wasn’t panicky. She sat still. If she was trying to guide him mentally he couldn’t feel it. He felt nothing from her but a warm glow of confidence. He knew he could count on her. She would wait to be told what to do and then do it.
So the first thing was to make sure of Bulah Singh before he could recover self-command. When he did, he would be truculent. Bulah Singh wasn’t a maniac like von Klaus; he had no conviction of racial superiority. He was in that sense easier to manage than the German had been. At a higher state of evolution than the victim of his bullets, to a certain extent he could think. He was more open to argument. For the moment he was nursing his hurt wrist, half believing it broken, biting his lip, scowling. He needed a plain presentation of fact. Andrew spoke quietly:
“One word, or one move, and I’ll kill you.”
The Sikh appeared to believe. He made no comment.
“As dead as von Klaus and your woman.”
Again no comment. Reaction was taking care of Bulah Singh. No danger from him for a moment or two. The next two moves were as clear as though they were written on a board in front of Andrew’s mind. But they were more difficult — needed more caution. He had to save the magician’s face without implying for one moment that the magician had lost it. And he must remove the too suggestive evidence of death, that breeds death as surely as dirt breeds dirt. The sight of slain corpses never — since Cain slew Abel — never induced peace where there was no peace.
There was a dark stream of blood on the floor. It flowed from von Klaus’s head, past the magician’s feet, between him and Andrew. In that weird gloom it looked snake color, until it reached the short zone of the brazier light. It moved and it coiled like a snake. Where the light from the brazier touched it, it appeared to have blood-red eyes and a flickering tongue. Its slow flow measured the speed of thought — hundreds of thoughts, but the blood not yet far from where it started.
Solemn stuff, blood — the solemn substance of all necromantic magic. So above all now, no solemnity! Andrew smiled at the magician. He looked down at the blood, at the two dead bodies, and shrugged his shoulders. In smiling pantomime he suggested it might be the master magician’s pleasure to command what manifestly needed doing. Corpses dead by violence, in Tibet, are abominations not to be endured in the presence of self-respect. But can a general order his guns away and still give battle? Dead human blood was the stock in trade of the magician’s mystery. He sat still — silent. He didn’t yet understand Andrew’s smile. He wasn’t sure yet what Andrew intended. He feared for his dignity.
“Ask him,” Andrew said quietly, “doesn’t blood bring devils to cause confusion?”
Elsa, with closed eyes, translated. There was a barely noticeable change of tension. The magician’s authority had been appealed to. To be obeyed would be a good beginning; all tyrants make use of that entering wedge. His lips moved. He murmured a few words in Tibetan. One of the ragyabas instantly swung the woman’s corpse over his shoulder. The other picked up von Klaus. They carried away the bodies. One of them returned after a few moments and cleaned the blood off the floor, using a mop made of sheep’s wool that looked like a featureless human head. The other brought water in which the two of them wrung the mop. When they had finished they put their tongues out at the magician and retired backwards — leaving behind them, along with relief from the stench of their persons, a sensation as of a closed book, and of a new page in a new book opened.
“Very clever!” Bulah Singh whispered. “But now what?”
Andrew had waited for that. Instantly he completed the humiliation of Bulah Singh. He pointed to the wall with his left hand. He held his right fist poised suggestively at about the level of the Sikh’s liver.
“Go
and sit down over there. Don’t speak or move until you’re spoken to.”
The Sikh hardly hesitated. He studied Andrew for one moment and then hobbled away on bandaged feet. He sat down with his back to the wall. The ten Tibetans smiled. Henceforth, in that company, the Sikh would rate as Andrew’s subordinate — a mere killer, rebuked — without a chance to regain importance. The Sikh realized it. Cunningly he hung his head, to make Andrew believe he accepted defeat and was henceforth playing Andrew’s game.
The old magician studied the board and the pieces on the board. He was beginning to feel ready to answer Andrew’s opening gambit. He looked at the packages of sugar and the canvas bag they came in — then at Andrew — then again at the sugar. There was not in his mind one trace, one symptom of the law, which even animals obey, that he who accepts a gift accepts an obligation to the giver. No gratitude. Andrew’s sugar, if he could have his way, should be reckoned as tribute. It might be cunningly employed as evidence of Andrew’s fear — since who gives valuable gifts unless he thinks he must? Solemn, logical, realistic, untrue argument, older than Machiavelli — as old as sin.
But it had dawned on Andrew that logic and mirth can’t coexist. Like death and life, they deny each other. All logic, and all realism leads to tyranny and death. Mirth leads to freedom and life. So tyrants murder mirth as being treason to their logic. Mirth is white magic.
“Quick!” said Andrew. “Say this in Tibetan: The magician so wise that he can make the devils of the mountains fly away with a load of opium, surely can make other devils reveal where the opium is!”
Elsa half opened her eyes — translated. Andrew restrained a smile for the sake of the magician’s dignity. He let his eyes laugh, for the magician’s private information. Then he turned on Bompo Tsering, giving the magician time to weigh implications. Bompo Tsering almost jumped out of his skin when Andrew spoke to him, low-voiced:
“You! What happened?”
It was like turning on a faucet. Speech poured out. It had been prepared. It was ready. “Gunnigun! My giving Bulah Singh his pistol because that woman coming. Her calling him bad names too much. Her wanting us Tibetans helping her to castrating him, then kill him. But your having ordered us our guarding him. And Gunnigun, his saying that woman your enemy. So our holding her. His using her knife, killing her too much.”
The truth. No doubt of it. But not the whole truth.
“What became of the child?”
“His running away.”
Also, clearly not the whole truth. But Elsa had finished translating. In another moment the magician might see a flaw in Andrew’s strategy. Now, before thought could organize against him, was the right split-second to force the main issue. He spoke fiercely to Bompo Tsering:
“Get out of here! Now. Get the men and ponies ready to march.”
“But, Gunnigun! Being too much dark night! Their needing rest! Our needing food to take along—”
“Be ready to march at moonrise! Will you obey? Or—”
“My obeying! My going now! My doing!”
“Take that porter with you.”
Scared nearly out of his wits, Bompo Tsering showed his tongue to the magician and was gone. In a moment he was kicking the porter up off the floor. The door guard tried to stop him. Andrew, laughing again with his eyes, said to the magician in English:
“Let both men out!”
Elsa translated. His authority again appealed to, the magician nodded. He slightly raised his right hand. The door opened, admitting a welcome blast of clean cold air. Then it slammed shut. There was a moment’s silence. The magician spoke then — one word — in Tibetan.
“He asks ‘Why?’” said Elsa. “I believe he means why did you send away Bompo Tsering?”
Andrew knew he had won. His smile now was triumphant.
“Ask him: Does he want my men to hear all about the opium? If so, I’ll send for them to come back and listen.”
Bulah Singh cackled a curt laugh: “ Clever! Krishna! Yes! Who would have thought of it!”
The brigand who knew a few words of English leaned forward, pointing his finger at Andrew:
“You! Your knowing where is — that — that stuff! Your saying — your showing us! Your making us look-see!”
The magician rebuked him, but he looked mutinous. He began to whisper to the next man. Andrew made his last move but one. The magician’s eyes betrayed that he knew himself checkmate even before Elsa had finished saying what Andrew told her to say.
“When we entered the village we saw yak-dung and the hoofprints of yaks in the mud.”
The magician nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Did not those yaks belong to the peling von Klaus, who is now dead?”
Another hardly perceptible movement of the old magician’s head acknowledged the fear that if he should deny the fact there might be worse to come.
“How many yaks are there?”
Silence. But suddenly Bulah Singh piped up again. “Ten yaks! I asked von Klaus at the village gate. He boasted: ten yaks — two mules — twenty sheep.”
The brigand who knew English interrupted loudly:
“Yux belonging us now!” Then he whispered to the brigands near him. They put their heads together. They appeared to agree. But the old magician had understood Andrew. Cautiously, carefully, feeling his way in the hope of seeing an alternative, he surrendered inch by inch to Andrew’s terms. He angrily commanded silence, with a bark like an angry leopard’s. The whispering ceased. He must have made a secret signal then, because the muttering drumbeat swelled to a low thunder and died down again. Andrew stole that dramatic moment:
“Tell him,” he said cheerfully, “I want all ten yaks loaded with barley. I want ’em now. That will be a small thing in return for all this sugar. The yaks cost him nothing. I also want the twenty sheep belonging to von Klaus, each sheep loaded with all the butter it can carry.”
Elsa translated. Andrew continued:
“He and his men may keep whatever else von Klaus had with him, including firearms, ammunition, and money. But as for the opium — which was in this bag until the lord magician made the devils change it into sugar — I wash my hands of it. It is the lord magician’s. Let him command or not command the devils to produce it or not to produce — as he pleases!”
Elsa was heard to the end in silence. But then the storm broke. All ten brigands stood up and shouted. One of them flourished a Mauser. The one who knew English shouted:
“Your will staying here until our having that!”
The drumbeat swelled again. Through the tumult Bulah Singh called hoarsely to Andrew: “Give me my automatic! This means they’ll put hot charcoal to your feet and fingers! They mean to know where the opium is!”
That wasn’t such a bad guess. One brigand strode to the brazier. He stirred it with an iron poker and blew on it until it glowed crimson. Then he shook the poker at Andrew.
“Elsa,” said Andrew, “go up close to the magician and ask: Shall I tell them — or tell him — where the opium is?”
She obeyed. The brigands stared. The tumult died down, but not quickly enough even for the nearest brigand to overhear what Elsa said. She returned and sat down in the chair.
“You’re not scared?” Andrew asked.
“No. Why should I be?”
She loved him too much to be scared of anything at that moment. Andrew patted her hand on the chair-arm. He did it unconsciously, and she knew that. She was glad with all her heart that her love was secret from him. If Andrew knew, it might confuse and make him self-conscious. His whole attention was on the magician, which was where it should be. He didn’t even know he had spoken to Elsa. Now he heard Bulah Singh speaking:
“Give me my automatic! We’ve got to shoot our way out!
He heard the words — understood — but took no notice. The old magician arose slowly to his feet and there began to be a new unearthly artificial silence, separated into measured spaces by the drumbeat. He had some secret way of controlling
the drumbeat. The brigands recognized the changing rhythm. It was an overture to something that they knew too well. It frightened them. There was a chilly sensation like the moment before hail. There came a noise like the rattle of dry bones and a moaning like that of the wind on the hill where they bury the dead. Andrew spoke without knowing it:
“Don’t let this scare you. Grab hold of me if you want to.”
He laid his hand on the chair-arm. Elsa pushed hers under it. His fingers closed on hers. Her lips moved. Silently, inside himself, where secret laughter was the fuel of a new, unconquerable fire, he began singing ribald nonsense:
“The French they are a funny race —
Parlez-vous!
They fight with their feet and—”
Even that ceased. The old master hypnotist’s mental rhythm overwhelmed mere words. Something was happening. Something like a tidal wave in consciousness. It was impossible to tell how the magician did it, but it felt mechanical — almost electric — as if he knew some way of agitating the glands that govern fear. He pointed at empty space. His brigands began to see what they knew he willed they should see. He chanted, in ancient Tibetan, the language that devils use who sinned so vilely that they may not be reborn but spend eternities in quest of still human souls whose bodies they can seize for a little while and use for a little evil in the dark.
And then — as the Tibetans saw it and lent it material substance, Andrew and Elsa saw too. It was into the dark that the magician pointed — the dark corner where the zone of firelight ceased and there was dim blue gloom. All the Tibetans moaned. The door guard let his rifle fall to the floor with a crash. The magician croaked like a raven — chanting — pausing — chanting. In dim blue darkness a pale disembodied face took form. Bulah Singh spoke hoarsely:
“Give me my automatic!”
It was a face so saturated with the cruel loneliness of death that Andrew’s blood ran cold. It was like a death mask. Only it lived. Its eyes opened. They were cold pale green. Its mouth moved, like a murdered mouth that licked dead lips for the lingering taste of hatred that could not die. Then it spoke, in the ancient Tibetan that only the magician understood. Its voice came from nowhere — from everywhere — from all over the room. It seemed to fill the room with a sepulchral sound that had no echo.
