Mirrikh, or, A Woman from Mars/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI.
ON THE ROAD TO PSAM-DAGONG.
I said nothing about it to the Doctor, but I told Maurice all.
I was almost sorry that Mirrikh had not stayed in his sheepskins, that the caravan had not made a miss of it and dropped him somewhere else, for the next day found us mounted upon our mules plodding over the mountains, with their noses pointing toward Lh’asa instead of Bootan.
Words cannot express the utter amazement of Philpot and Maurice when they awakened to find my friend Mr. Mirrikh alive and seated comfortably on the k’ang by my side.
“Gad! No! I say, no! It can’t be!”
The Doctor was first to wake.
“What is the matter?” Mr. Mirrikh asked with his accustomed calmness.
“The matter! Great heavens, he wants to know the matter! Why man, you are dead! If you ain’t you ought to be, or I’m in the first stages of softening of the brain.”
But Maurice was different.
Perhaps he was only half awake, though, at the time. It was after Ah Schow, who had been awakened by the Doctor’s racket, gave one yell of terror at the sight of our guest and went flying out of doors. Ah Schow, be it understood, was a firm believer in ghosts, and of course he took Mr. Mirrikh for one. Indeed, I was not quite certain on the subject myself!
I can see that dear boy now, just as he looked when he started up. His eyes rested on the Doctor first, then they passed to my adept.
“Mr. Mirrikh!”
“Yes.”
“Not dead?”
“I am here, my friend. I have kept my appointment!”
“I knew it! Doctor, I told you so! I knew he would not fail us!”
He was wild in his enthusiasm—mad.
Then the Doctor!
I fancy I see him now, fumbling unsteadily in his tobacco pouch with that stub of a pipe he always smoked, his eyes fixed upon Mr. Mirrikh, to whom Maurice was pouring out words in the way he used to do, which I had tried in vain to make him do of late.
“I say, look here; give a fellow a show, will you, De Veber? Do you find it more convenient, Mr. Mirrikh, in traveling in this blasted country to freeze yourself like a side of beef and be forwarded by fast camel express?”
Mr. Mirrikh laughed shortly.
“Now, Doctor; now, Doctor! he exclaimed. “You are not sorry to see me alive, I trust?”
“I have nothing to say about that one way or the other,” replied the Doctor in his most positive fashion. What I say is this—and I stick to it—when I examined you last night you were dead.”
Again the adept gave his peculiar laugh.
“This is a strange country, Doctor,” he said lightly. “The strangest part of it is to see a dead man get hungry. I am most horribly hungry just now, so let us postpone further discussion till after breakfast, if it is all the same to you.”
But the discussion was not renewed.
The Doctor seemed to feel that he had made a blunder which would lower him in our estimation as a general “knowledgist,” and showed a disposition to drop the matter. As for myself, I maintained profound silence; not only on the subject of this marvellous resurrection, but likewise on all that Mr. Mirrikh told me after it took place.
Not that this amounted to much, I was full of amazement when he seized my hand and said warningly:
“Now Mr. Wylde, you have been brought face to face with a mystery which it has been the good fortune of but few of you earth dwellers to see. Be careful! No casting pearls before swine! I was determined to give you this satisfaction and I have done it; but such mysteries are not for all.”
It took me many minutes to collect myself, but I caught the spirit of his warning words, and was ready for him at last.
“What have you done? What does it all mean?” I demanded. “Who gave you the power to transcend the laws of Nature, to conquer death, to make yourself as a God?”
“You are wrong at the very outset,” he replied. “There is but one God, our Father Eternal in the heavens, and did you but acknowledge Him, you would be a happier man. Neither I nor any of His creatures can transcend the laws which He has ordained from the beginning; some understand them better than others—that is all.”
“You were not dead then?”
“No. Of course not. God alone has power over life and death.”
“But”
“Stay; do you know anything of the philosophy of the Buddhist adepts?”
“Very little.”
“Then to try to explain what you have seen is hopeless. To comprehend these things the mind needs long and careful training. Believe me when I say that this is but a tithe of the mysteries which I will reveal to you before we finally part.”
“Would that we might part now and forever—that your spell was removed from that dear boy,” I replied, bitterly.
“Do not say so. He has his work to do, you have yours.”
“Would that we had never met.”
“We were destined to meet. God willed it.”
“At least I was powerless to prevent it; but I earnestly beseech you to release my friend from the glamour you have cast over him, and go your own way.”
“No; I cannot. It is not to be.”
“It should be so if I could make it so.”
“That you cannot do!”
“I know it. I have tried.”
“And failed.”
“Hopelessly failed.”
And yet you do not seem to feel as hardly toward me as I should expect.”
“I have tried to do so, but even there I fail, and I do not know why I should, unless it is that you have cast some portion of your spell over me.”
He laughed softly.
“My dear sir, to hear you talk, one would think I was some cheap magician. I could no more cast a spell over you than you could cast one over me.”
“I am assured to the the contrary. The experience of the last hour proves to the contrary.”
“You do not believe that you saw what you actually did see?”
“No. I refuse to believe it. I utterly reject it.”
“Do you know the full meaning of what you saw?”
“Yes.”
“You do not.”
“I beg your pardon, I do.”
“I repeat, you do not. Mr. Wylde, let me tell you something. It will surprise you when I inform you that one hour ago I was in Benares in the private apartments of my friend, Radma Gungeet, whom I understand you have met since I was with you last.”
“That I know to be false.”
“On the contrary, you know nothing about it; moreover it is true.”
“But your body”
Bah! What is this earthly body? I speak of my astral body, which envelopes the soul, my real self. I am no more bound to this body than you are to the black gown you wear at the present moment, which, by the way, becomes you immensely. Why, I have not been with this body before for months. I dreaded the journey to this place and sent my body on ahead—that is all.”
“And it is quite enough!” I cried angrily. “I will hear no more of it. You have deluded me in some way. I am at a loss to tell how, but listen to your theosophic rubbish any longer, I won’t.”
He sighed, and turned away muttering:
“Useless, useless! They cannot understand. Will the time never come?”
This ended our conversation, for just then the Doctor woke up and the fun began.
Morning dawned—another day was upon us; after a long and heated discussion we were on the move again.
Not that Mr. Mirrikh joined in the argument. He said nothing, but walked out into the open as soon as I began it, remaining there until it was over.
The discussion was between Maurice, the Doctor and myself.
“It is no use, George; let that man be what he may, I shall go on,” Maurice had said. “He has made certain promises to me, set up certain claims. So far he has kept his promises and established his claims, and I propose to stick to him. You, if you like, can return to India. Please yourself.”
“I shall never return without you, Maurice,” I replied. “The future has nothing in store for me. Where you go, I go. At least I shall have the satisfaction of being at your side when the day of disaster comes, as come it surely will.”
He pressed my hand with unusual warmth, and that was the last of our discussion.
Soon Ah Schow brought the mules around to the door and we started down the mountain.
As there were only three mules, Mr. Mirrikh rode double with Maurice as far as the town of Zhad-uan, where a fourth was purchased, after which it was easier travelling, though it was all hard enough.
A hundred miles lay before us, Mr. Mirrikh said, and we took it for granted that he knew.
Now as I had been contemplating writing a detailed account of the manners and customs of this unknown land, I was not a little disappointed to learn that our way for the entire distance lay through an utterly desolate country; little less, in fact, than an endless series of broken mountain chains, sandy deserts and barren plains.
Zhad-uan was the frontier town of the region, and after a short stay we were on the road again.
Now from the moment we left the inn, Mr. Mirrikh conducted himself in every way like a human being—whether or not he was one, I had begun to feel grave doubts.
My philosophy was completely shattered, and even the Doctor was silent on the subject
To the outward observer we were simply four black lamas travelling with their servant. To ourselves we were a mystery—all except the Doctor, and I honestly believe that in spite of his protests he was glad of the decision to advance. I will do the man the justice to say that the advice he had offered to the contrary was expressed solely for our good.
We had with us everything needed to make us as comfortable as circumstances would permit; tent, cooking utensils, canned meats and vegetables. No one interfered with us, and I came to the conclusion that no one would to the end.
Not that we passed unchallenged.
At Zhad-uan, for instance, we were stopped and hurried before the Chinese governor of the town.
I thought that Mr. Mirrikh would take the initiative and suggested it.
“Show your passport,” he said. “Nothing else is necessary.”
I exhibited the paper to a fat mandarin with a tremendously long moustache, who sat before us on a bamboo chair, eating watermelon seeds and listening sleepily to his assistant who was interrogating Ah Schow.
It resulted just as usual. We had been through the same scene many times before, until now it had grown quite familiar.
The mandarin put on a pair of huge horn spectacles and glanced at the mysterious paper; his face giving no expression of his thoughts as he folded it up and handed it back.
“Peace be with you my lords lamas!” he said. “The way lies open before you—pass on.”
Easier said than done, for there are few countries on the face of the globe more difficult to travel in than eastern Thibet.
We were two days at Zhad-uan, staying at the hotel of Faith and Perseverance—so its name, translated, reads.
It required more faith than I possessed to make a hotel out of it, but there was a place for us to lie down and sleep, and that was about all we had looked for. Of course we had to cook for ourselves.
Down here in the valley the weather was warm and comfortable, but all around us we could see rising the snow capped peaks of the northern Himalayas, so we knew what we had to expect.
We started at daylight, presenting quite an imposing appearance as we rode through the crooked streets out of town.
Men stared, women and children crowded to the doors of the low, smoke begrimed houses; not a few beseeched our prayers as we passed, for Ah Schow, the rascal, had given it out that we were lamas whose prayers were most powerful, especially in healing the sick.
In fact we were often called upon to pray by these people and for that purpose each of us carried a copper prayer wheel which we ground industriously when occasion required, always winding up with the assurance that Buddha had heard and would grant the request.
All that day over the plain, resting at night in our own tent at the foot of the loftiest mountain I had yet seen.
Morning found us ascending the foot hills, and by noon we reached the beginning of a pass between two snowy peaks, the bed of some ancient river certainly, where huge boulders and masses of broken rock lay heaped in inexplicable confusion with a narrow trail winding in and out.
This was our road, according to Mr. Mirrikh—we were trusting entirely to his guidance now.
“Seems to me it would have paid you better to have made one jump from Benares to Psam-dagong,” I said in a sarcastic moment.
“And left you to struggle with all these dangers alone?” he replied. “You do not do me half justice, Mr. Wylde.”
“Do you mean to say that you knew you would meet us at the inn?”
“Most certainly I did.”
“And your body?”
“Was delivered there by my orders, of course.”
“Upon my word you timed it well then.”
“Such was my intention.”
“How did you manage?”
“No matter now. The Doctor is trying to overtake us. We will talk of this some other time.”
Maurice’s mule was decidedly the best, and, as usual, had gone ahead. Mr. Mirrikh and I followed, while the Doctor and our Celestial cuisiniere had fallen behind.
“Do you know, Wylde, we are running head first into a snow storm?” called the former as he spurred up the slope. “What do you think about it Mr. Mirrikh? Am I not right?”
The adept surveyed the clouds, which for some time had been gathering.
“There certainly is a storm approaching,” he said at length. “I have been blind not to notice it before.”
“I saw it half an hour back,” said the Doctor, proudly, “and I’ve been trying ever since to force this lazy brute along so as to overtake you. Is Maurice far ahead?”
I pointed upward. There, fully two hundred feet above us, was Maurice mounted on his mule, moving at a snail’s pace it seemed, but it was rapid compared with our own.
“We ought to warn him. What are we to do, Mr. Mirrikh?”
“Do the best we can. There is a guard house at the summit of the pass—we can spend the night there.”
“Yes, and be most deucedly uncomfortable till morning. You say there is no town between this and your lamasery?”
“None.”
“Of course you know?”
“I should know. I have passed this way before.”
“Seems to me,” said the Doctor, in his most sarcastic manner, “that when I get ready to drop down on Jupiter, I’ll take devilish good care to select a better place to fall in than Thibet.”
“You will find no such place on the planet Jupiter as Thibet;” replied the adept, calmly.
“Oh, dear! Is that so? Of course you know.”
“I have been there.”
“I find no more difficulty in believing that assertion than some others you have made.”
“That I come from Mars for instance?”
“For instance!”
“Jupiter,” continued Mr. Mirrikh, paying no attention to the Doctor’s offensive manner, “is now passing through a geologic age corresponding with the earth’s Tertiary period. There it is all summer, all—I beg your pardon, Mr. Wylde. For once I forgot myself. You do not like to hear me talk of these matters. I will stop.”
“Go on, if you wish,” I replied. “I have nothing to say, except that you must not expect me to believe you.”
“Oh, don’t stop! Don’t stop!” said the Doctor. “I’m deeply interested. No doubt you’ve been to Mercury and Saturn as well as old Jove; like as not a comet or two has been honored by your presence. It will be worth all this mad journey has cost friend George, to have your personal experiences on the other side of the moon!”
And so it went all through the first part of the time we travelled with Mr. Mirrikh; yet I never saw the man out of temper or even ruffled once.
Usually he and Maurice kept together, the Doctor and I being left to keep each other company as best we could.
Long and earnest were the conversations those two held. What were they talking about? I never knew—do not know now.
The Doctor was right about the snow storm.
That night saw us imprisoned in the guard house at the top of the pass with a perfect blizzard in full operation outside.
Of course if I was writing a book of travels in Thibet it would be scarcely en regle to shift my scenes thus abruptly; but this is not a book of travel, and although my notes are fairly bursting with incidents, I am trying in my feeble way to treat of the occult, and to the occult my story must be confined.
I ought, however, to say a descriptive word about these guard houses, which, like the inns already described, are found all over Eastern Thibet. Although actually a Chinese institution, and supposed to be kept in repair by the government—they are intended to be on all the great roads at a distance of two miles apart—it is only once in awhile you meet one in shape to afford even shelter from a shower, and that is why the Thibetans, who know by sad experience what it is to depend upon the Chinese government for anything, have established the inns and try to make them what the guard houses should be but are not.
The guard house we had come upon was, however, one of the best of its class. Picture to your mind a square, box-like structure, about twenty feet each way, one story in height, built of mud and whitewashed. There was a large door in front and two rooms within, opening off each side of the hall which was supposed to accommodate our mules, and I must confess did, and very comfortably too. The rooms were small and each had its window and k’ang, while in addition was a wooden bench running around the walls and painted bright red with Thibetan characters cut in the wood, meaning, according to Mr. Mirrikh, “the sublime ruler of the Flowery Kingdom, trusted sincerely that his elder brother might enjoy a comfortable night’s rest.”
Outside, the walls were decorated with rude paintings, dragons, horsemen and grinning gods with huge moustaches being scattered freely over the whitewash; on the walls within were pictorial representations of sabres, bows, arrows and spears, supposed to take the place of armed soldiers to defend the traveller from the robbers with which all Thibet is infested, though, strangely enough, we never encountered them once.
“By Jove, quite Chinese, you know!” exclaimed the Doctor, when he saw these pictured weapons. “They are to scare the robbers off!”
Such was actually their purpose; but the only purpose they served that night was to amuse Maurice, who spent a good hour studying them while dreaming over his pipe.
This was after we were comfortably housed and supper eaten. Meanwhile the storm, of which we had already had a taste, being in it half an hour before we reached the guard house, was raging furiously outside.
The Doctor as usual, had laid down to sleep on the most comfortable part of the k’ang, Mirrikh was seated crosslegged facing him, busy writing in that same little book about which I had made such a stir in the old tower at Ballambong. I was pacing the floor lost in thought apparently, but actually watching the man as he wrote. I had watched him before and more than once I questioned him about those strange characters and the language they represented, but I never succeded in getting any information worth recording here.
“It is my native language,” he replied, the first time I asked him. “You cannot understand it, Mr. Wylde.”
“Learned on Mars?” was my incredulous query.
He assured me that it was so, and probably my manner of receiving the statement was what prevented me from getting further particulars. Often since I have wished that I had acted differently and learned something definite about the matter; but I neglected my opportunity and can only add that upon another occasion he told me the characters were entirely arbitrary and in no sense an alphabet, being rather stenographic—each expressing a word, several words, a thought.
How the wind howled! I can hear it now! Nor was it any wonder, when you stop to consider that we were, as I learned later, over 11,000 feet above sea level; fortunately we were under the shelter of a lofty peak which towered far above us on the northwest, and what was more to the point, a perpendicular wall of rock at least one hundred feet high rose directly behind the guard house—the location had been chosen, no doubt, for that very cause.
Cold? Well, make no mistake on that score! The k’ang was almost useless to one three feet away. I had sent Ah Schow out to throw an extra sheepskin over my mule who was far from being in condition, poor brute, and was just wondering why he did not come in again, when all at once Mr. Mirrikh leaped from the k’ang with a startled cry.
“Merciful heavens!” he exclaimed, “this is terrible!”
“What?” cried Maurice, turning suddenly around.
“Got a fit, Mirrikh?” asked the Dortor, lazily, never stirring from his comfortable roost on the k’ang.
For the moment the adept did not answer, but just stood there with his eyes fixed on nothingness, an expression of unmistakable horror mingled with deep pity plainly pictured upon his face.
“What is it? What is the matter? Speak,” persisted Maurice.
He sighed and raised his head slowly. Then up came one hand which was brushed before his eyes.
“Gentlemen,” he said, with more agitation than I ever afterward saw him display, “we are needed outside. There is human life in peril; if there is yet time I propose to save it; who will go?”
“Go where? What can you mean?” I exclaimed.
“I mean that on a ledge a little off the road on the other slope of this ridge there is at this very moment a woman—she is freezing rapidly—she sits beside a man—I think the man is already dead, or at least dying—he is an old man—I can see his grey hair—he—ah! She calls! She calls! Come! Come! Wylde! Come Mr. De Veber—before it is too late.”
He threw his cloak about him, over that drew a sheepskin coat and rushed to the door, nearly falling into the arms of Ah Schow who was just coming back from his visit to the mules.
“Out of my way!” he shouted. “Why do you block my path? De Veber are you never going to make a move?”
Maurice seized his gun and was ready, for he had not removed any of his outer wraps.
“Mad! Mad! Ye Gods! I’m buried with a lot of lunatics!” cried Philpot, “For heaven’s sake don’t you desert me, Wylde. I had some hope that you and I, at least, might get back to civilization again.”
“I’m with Maurice,” I answered hurriedly, and losing no time rushed out to face the storm.