ENTER STEPHEN POYNING
The match I had struck to light my cigarette remained burning in my
fingers till it scorched them. I was waiting for Philipson to amplify
that last disclosure, but he appeared to be thinking of something else;
he had thrown back his head and was listening intently.
'Not a word now,' he whispered.
There was a knock on the door, and the innkeeper entered, laid four
bottles and two glasses on the table between us, and withdrew with that
queer bent-kneed bounce which natives use for a bow.
'Fortunately,' said Philipson, 'this inn has been patronised by
foreigners in the past, for whom the woman keeps a cellar. When we
arrived it was almost my first concern to explore it and take stock.
This is not a vintage claret, I am afraid, but it was the best quality
I could find.'
'You've made up for it in quantity, anyway,' I put in.
Philipson smiled. 'Have no fear,' he said. 'I fully understand that
the burden of consumption will rest upon me. It is, I may say, a
habit of mine to drink freely, and that of the best obtainable, on
all occasions. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than to drink large
quantities of good wine.'
I thought this was a pretty naive assertion for a man to make, but
Philipson seemed quite unconscious of anything queer about the
remark he had made. He poured out two glasses, pledged me politely,
and continued to sip with zest all the time he was talking. I fully
expected to see him get soused, but, far from that, beyond causing
him to speak with a little deeper earnestness, the wine left Saunders
Philipson entirely unaffected. His speech remained clear, with a sort
of musical, incisive clearness it always had, and the clarity with
which he unfolded his tale grew, if anything, as the night advanced.
'You are, I understand, pretty hard up at present, Mirlees?' he began,
coolly.
'That's so,' I replied, 'but I don't know how you came to understand
it.'
'Do not trouble to inquire. I know many things about many people that
would surprise them.' And with that he began to prove it, quoting facts
from my career since I had come East that I had thought unknown to
anybody but Ronald Mirlees.
'So you see,' he concluded, with a business-like pull at his glass, 'I
have a fair general idea of your status and antecedents. But it was
only last night I found out about you the fact that really concerns
me.'
'What was that?'
'That you are a comrade to be relied upon,' he said with the sincerest
and most matter-of-fact air in the world, 'and that you are free from
any absurd prejudice against the Asiatic as such.'
'What makes you think that?'
'Your actions have proved that you, at least, do not consider him less
worthy of consideration than a European. How many white men would have
stepped in to see fair play for a Chinese as you did last night?'
'Perhaps not many.'
'Very few indeed at the risk of their own lives. That fact alone would
have singled you out in my mind as the ideal man to help me.'
'What do you want me to do?'
'I want you to partner me in about the biggest adventure two men ever
undertook.'
'And you think I'd be more inclined to say yes because I'm on the
rocks?'
Philipson sat back in his chair with a frank smile. '_Touché!_' he
cried. 'I ought not to have mentioned the state of your finances, if
your being hard up disposes you to accept my offer, so much the better
for me, but candidly, I was not leaning on that. What I want is breadth
of mind, insight, sympathy, imagination. I can find any number of mere
situation hunters, but the man of sympathy is rare. To meet that man at
a moment when he is looking for an enterprise worthy of him I regard as
a piece of unparalleled good fortune. After all, why should you scrape
a livelihood writing for a public which can hardly understand you,
leave alone appreciate, when you might be bidding for real fame with
me?'
'You'd better let me have the story complete, Philipson,' I said.
'With all my heart. You had never heard of me before last night, I take
it?'
'Never.'
'It is not greatly to be wondered at. I have spent many years in the
East, but somehow the European centres never attracted me. Often I
have lived native for long periods together, and beyond the consuls
who have registered my name--though I never yet had to ask any other
service of them--I do not suppose a dozen men in all China know me.
Those that do, know me, I fear, only too well. The gentry who chased us
last night in the launch are among that number. But to my story. At one
time and another I have done much exploration in the interior. I have
been in many places where I am convinced no white man has been before
or since. The routes taken by travellers like Huc and Sven Hedin and
the Prince of Orleans across the so-called "unknown" regions of Tibet
I would guarantee to follow blindfold. There is not much to be found
up there except snow and ice and scenery--that is, at least, by people
who are obliged to hurry straight across, on the stretch about their
food supply all the while. If the climate and the nature of the country
allowed one time to explore, I fancy a lot of strange things would
turn up. I found something very strange indeed, but it was only by the
merest accident.'
'What was it?'
'An _obo_. You know what that is, of course?'
'A Tibetan prayer-mound, isn't it?'
'Exactly. They are to be found sometimes even in the uninhabited
regions, having been erected by pilgrims crossing the heights. The
_obo_ consists of slabs of slate--which often lies ready to hand on
the mountain sides--set up like a house of cards and inscribed all
over with Tibetan characters. Most European explorers who come upon
one of them for the first time imagine they have got hold of something
noteworthy, but disappointment awaits them. That historic record they
thought they had discovered turns out, on examination, to be no more
than an endless reiteration of the Tibetan devotional formula, _Om Mane
Padme Hum_--"O the Jewel of the Lotus."'
'Yet you say it was something strange you found?'
'It was, indeed. At first, of course, I thought I had merely stumbled
on one of those conventional monuments of piety, put up by some
pilgrim on his way to Lhassa from the north and no more distinctive
than a roadside crucifix in Italy. But then it struck me that this was
well off the route that any pilgrim would be likely to take. There
is no recognised track, of course, in those wild regions, but there
are long grooves between the ranges of heights, and it is to these
enormous gutters that the traveller keeps if he values his life. Even
here progress is arduous in the extreme, for the surface is terribly
rough even when free from ice-crusts, and many of the grooves run
for hundreds of miles at an altitude never less than sixteen thousand
feet, with the accompaniment of constant hailstorms and snowstorms and
terrific cold. The _obo_ I found was not in one of these gutters. It
stood on a small patch of level rock at the end of a pass, in the midst
of a waste of rugged peaks looking for all the world like monstrous
frozen waves of the sea.
'I saw beside the monument what appeared to be bleached sticks of
wood, but I discovered my mistake as I came nearer. They were human
bones--the skeleton of one man. Now thoroughly curious, I examined the
inscription on the plaques of slate, and you may picture my excitement
when I found it was not the usual text, but a longish legend scratched
on the surface with, apparently, some sharp splinter of rock. I at
once made an exact copy of the whole--no easy task, I may say, for
the scratches had been very feebly made. At that time I did not know
Tibetan well, but I knew enough to realise that this inscription had
been written by the dead man--and not long before his death, to judge
by the quavering way the letters were formed--for the purpose of
leaving some message behind him. But what the message was, neither I
nor any man of my party could fathom.
'That expedition was the most disastrous I ever knew. We had abominable
luck with the weather and everything else; snowstorms beleaguered us in
the mountains so long that our supplies ran out, and we were reduced
to living on steaks--raw for the most part--hacked from the ponies
as they dropped dead one by one. My bearers treacherously deserted
me, and when at last I, the only white man of the party, staggered
down into the Tsaidam marsh country with one faithful usbeg who had
accompanied me from Kashgar, the pair of us were much nearer dead than
alive.
'My first move after getting back to civilisation was to seek an
interpretation of that legend. There are one or two European works
on Tibetan, and I collected these and brushed up my knowledge of the
language thoroughly; but after much hard study I found I was still
unable to make sense of the inscription. The words were simple enough,
but they seemed to resolve into phrases that would not come out by
any ordinary method of translation. I could see far enough into the
fog, however, to understand that this legend had been composed by a
monk, and I assumed that the wording must be couched in some secret
phraseology known only to the Tibetan priesthood. Without special
knowledge I could get no further. What was I to do? I dared not show
the inscription to any Tibetan of my acquaintance, for I had already
a shrewd suspicion that it contained facts I should desire to keep to
myself.
'I bethought me of Lhassa, the headquarters of the Tibetan faith.
Thither I went, posing as a Chinese convert anxious to qualify for
monastic orders, and by virtue of a handsome solatium to the abbot
of a big monastery I gained admittance. There I learned many strange
things, Mirlees, but little that was of any use to me. Before long
I became convinced that the peculiar form of language in which my
legend had been written was not known at Lhassa. But the time I spent
there was not wasted. I discovered the monastic meaning of two vitally
important words in the inscription, which, translated into ordinary
Tibetan, came out as "Phagspa" and "Shigatse." That gave me the clue.
The legend had been written by a monk of the monastery of Phagspa, in
the city of Shigatse, and thither I must go for further enlightenment.
I went. Here I found far greater difficulty in obtaining admission, and
it was only by heavy bribery I was able to do so at all. Also, I was
obliged to take a vow to reside in that gloomy monastery for ever. All
went well for a while, and most hopefully for my quest. There _was_
a secret form of language used by the inmates of that place, and it
was not long before I began to acquire the elements of a vocabulary
in it. Yet despite my utmost care, I could not remain there without
arousing suspicion. From the questions I was obliged to ask, put them
as artlessly as I might, the monks soon gathered that there was some
ulterior motive in my coming, that I possessed a secret which they
would very strongly desire to discover. I was watched night and day.
The position became unbearable. At last one of the priests who had
been detailed to instruct me in the religious observances of the place
intruded on my privacy in a most exasperating fashion, and it ended in
blows. Several other monks came to this fellow's aid. Well, you have
seen me in a ruction, Mirlees. I seldom enter such an affair without
leaving my mark on it. I knocked down two of the Tibetan clergy and
threw a third against a great wooden pillar so violently that I fear he
perished as a result. That was the end of my novitiate as a lama. I had
to run, barely getting out with my life and the precious inscription,
which I always carried sewn into my inner garment.
'I pass over my escape back into China, which was a ghastly experience
enough, and took months of forced marches. But I had what I wanted.
Arrived in Shanghai, I sat down to translate my legend, and found
I could now piece it together without difficulty. And here is the
translation.'
Philipson took from his wallet a small folded slip, but paused before
flattening it out.
'I must have your solemn promise of secrecy, Mirlees,' he said. 'I
have risked my neck twice for this little handful of words, and I do
not choose to share it with any human soul besides yourself. Are you
agreeable?'
I gave the assurance he wanted, and Philipson, leaning over the table,
read in a clear whisper the following remarkable statement:
"I, Sbrang Chikya Lama, being a priest of the holy brotherhood of
Phagspa in the city of Shigatse, having now come to the end of this
incarnation, do hereby declare:
"That having strayed from the caravan in which I journeyed with others
despatched by the Ocean Priest" (Dalai Lama) "from Lhassa to the Son
of Heaven" (Emperor of China) "who holds sway in the north, I lost my
way in the mountains, and was mad with the madness of high places"
(height-sickness) "and came at last after many wanderings and grievous
pains to the land of the beings of ghostly face, who dwell by the river
of white gems under skies where birds fly bigger than the children of
men. And I descended into the valley which lies towards the setting
sun, but having seen from afar the beings of ghostly face and becoming
greatly afraid lest they, evil spirits, should enthral me to an evil
_karma_" (conduct of life) "I fled swiftly into the mountains again
ere they beheld me, and crossed again the great snows, hoping that in
time I might meet pilgrims of our own faith who should relieve me of my
distress. But I have seen no men, only the yak and the eternal snows,
and being now blinded with the snows and ready to die for want of food
and shelter, have written these words for warning lest any of the true
brotherhood should stray from this spot towards the setting sun and
should meet the devils of ghostly face and come to evil at their hands.
"Now to the Jewel of the Lotus I commend my spirit and pray I may
be born again in seemly shape and nearer to the blessed Nirvana"
(nothingness) "which sets a period upon life and death and rebirth."
Philipson carefully folded and replaced the paper, and looked
searchingly into my face.
'What do you make of that?' he said.
'About the queerest statement I ever came into contact with,' I
replied. 'How do you interpret it yourself?'
'I take it to mean that somewhere amongst those tremendous ranges there
is a valley of which the world so far knows nothing. Also that that
valley is inhabited.'
'By "devils of ghostly face"?'
'A white race might be called so by the writer of the legend.'
'H'm. A pretty tall order, Philipson,' I said. 'Where could they have
come from?'
'That remains for me to find out.'
'But what can the fellow have meant by birds bigger than the children
of men?'
'Possibly some great vulture or eagle which he had never seen in his
own country. You must remember the poor wretch had been wandering
alone over the mountains--for how long we don't know, and that he was
starving and exhausted. No doubt to his fevered eyes the birds looked a
good deal bigger than they really were.'
'But the river of white gems?'
'Ah, there we come to a real difficulty. I have pondered that phrase
for weeks together, and the only explanation I can think of is this:
the strayed priest struck a mountain stream, which he could see flowed
down into the valley, and knelt beside it to drink. It must have been
then that he noticed the white gems in the water, and the white gems, I
take it, must have lain thick for him to notice them at all.'
'What do you suppose the white gems to be?'
'There is only one kind of white gem that is found in the beds of
streams, Mirlees--the diamond. That one fact ought to render this
valley a highly attractive locality, though for my part I may say I
intend to explore it quite independently of the hope of opening up a
new diamond field.'
'If there were diamonds there, isn't it likely the priest would have
brought some away with him?'
'He may have done so. I noticed none near the skeleton, but then I was
not looking for anything of the sort, and may easily have missed them.
He may have dropped them during his retreat through the mountains.
Likeliest of all, he may have been too terrified at the sight of the
"devils of ghostly face" to trouble about collecting gems.'
I sat drumming my fingers on the table. It was a wild and fantastic
enough story in all conscience, and they would be bold gamblers who
staked much on its truth.
'Well, what do you say?' I heard Philipson's crisp, keen voice.
'I see pretty enormous obstacles. In the first place, supposing you
could find the place where the legend was written--'
'Never fear. I nearly lost my life on that trip, but I kept my head
through it all. I made a large-scale plan of the neighbourhood, and
mapped every mile of my journey down country. I will guarantee to take
you to that heap of slates direct--or as straight as the mountains
permit.'
'How is it, then, if the place is so easy to find, it's never been
found and made known? I've trekked with the Tibetan caravans before
now, many times, but never have I heard mention of such a monument.'
'You hardly would. My _obo_ is right off the track that caravans or
even explorers would be likely to follow. Even if the heap of slates
were found, that would not help in the least. I was determined that
if there were any great discovery to be made beyond those mountains
it should be mine only. As soon as I had copied the inscription I
erased it. As it stands at this moment, that cairn would be taken to be
just the common type of Tibetan _obo_ with its legend obliterated by
weather.'
'You seem to meet every objection, Philipson,' I said. 'But frankly, as
man to man, do you really expect to find this supposed valley with its
white race?'
'Why not? If that poor devil of a priest could find it, travelling
alone and on foot, without equipment and without food, it will say
little for my capabilities as an explorer if I cannot do as much with
all the outfit for a cross-mountain expedition. Whatever happens,
I shall never rest now till I have settled the question one way or
the other, or left my bones up on those heights in the attempt. Why,
Mirlees, an adventure like this is worth risking a dozen lives for. It
will be the most wonderful exploration in history.'
Saunders Philipson's manner was always openness itself, yet had he
deliberately sought around for the most cunning way to win me over
he couldn't have brought forward a stronger argument than this. The
lure of the thing was irresistible. Already I saw myself bringing
back the secret of this hidden land to the outer world, and heard
my name ringing round the planet, and saw the faces of some of my
former critics among the orientalists. These folk had set me down as a
reckless liar in the past. Now they would have something really to get
excited about.
'I'm in it with you Philipson,' I said at last, 'in it to the death.
But there's the rub--the possible death. Nasty accidents have been
known to happen up on that roof of the world. I haven't money enough to
pay the lawyer's fee for writing a will, but there are some manuscripts
among my baggage that I don't want lost, still less stolen and printed
under another man's name. I'd give a good deal to return to Shanghai
before we start.'
Philipson shook his head gravely. 'Most perilous,' he said. 'The gang
we escaped last night will know at any moment now that the down coast
scent was false--if indeed they have not learned as much already. They
will concentrate on Shanghai till a fresh trail is picked up. For
either of us to show his face in the city at present would be suicidal.'
'By the way, Philipson, who _are_ the gang?'
'H'm. Of course. I did not tell you. They are members, Mirlees, of
a large and powerful secret society, whose headquarters are at the
monastery of Shigatse, in Tibet. During my novitiate I gathered that
there was something of the sort in existence, though no mention of
it was ever made to me. I fancy it started there centuries ago, as a
purely religious organisation, but that it has since extended over
China and taken on a character the very reverse of religious, though
it still preserves the ancient hidden form of language which was used
by Sbrang Chikya on the _obo_. I have been able to discover one or two
things about the society since my return to Shanghai, but I little
dreamed its agents were actually in the city and had marked me down for
destruction.'
'You're sure of that?'
'I recognised one of my former fellow monks during our encounter in the
opium hell.'
'What were you after there?'
'Facts. Since I got the translation of the legend I have been
constantly on the look out for confirmation of it, however slight. It
seemed impossible that a race like this people of the legend should
lie hidden in their valley through the centuries without at least some
vague tradition of their existence developing in neighbouring lands. I
had heard of no such tradition, but other men might. I made veiled but
thorough inquiries among natives who have used the caravan routes of
the interior a good deal, and at last came upon a man who professed to
know something about it. We were to meet in that den, then go on to his
house. I now see the whole scheme. The monks at Shigatse had divined
from certain questions I put to them that I was on the track of some
land of gems in the interior, which had originally been discovered by
one of their own fraternity. They wanted to filch my information and
revenge themselves upon me for entering their monastery and penetrating
some of _their_ secrets under false pretences. The fellow who was
to give me information was put up as a trap, to get hold of this
inscription and these--'
Philipson threw himself back in his chair, staring at the wall above
my head. He then began feverishly turning over the papers he had drawn
from his wallet.
'What's wrong?' I cried.
Philipson glared at me in a sort of suppressed fury. 'This is wrong,
Mirlees,' he muttered between his teeth. 'The man you are partnering
yourself with is about the clumsiest fool in Asia. When I came away
from my house I thought I had all my papers with me. But I had not. One
packet is missing--the one containing half the maps of my journey down
country.'
'That's essential, of course?'
'Vital. It's this end of the trail I've left behind. The other I might
dispense with--with extreme good luck I might find the _obo_ from
memory if I had a correct start. As it is, I would not guarantee to get
within a hundred miles of it.'
'H'm. Perhaps you'd better let me risk Shanghai after all, Philipson,'
I said. 'I could get the maps as well as settle my own affairs.'
He remained staring at the wall. 'Plucky of you to volunteer, Mirlees,'
he said at last, 'but if either of us is to go, I might every bit as
well go myself. Both of us would stand an excellent chance of being
murdered.'
At this moment there was a violent commotion outside our room.
Philipson shot the papers back into his pocket and sprang up, covering
the door with a revolver, as I could see, through the silk of his
jacket. We heard scuffling footsteps and the voice of the Chinese
landlady raised in strident wrath. Philipson tiptoed to the door,
opened it quietly, and peered out, while I followed him, peeping over
his shoulder. With the woman was a boy of about twenty-one, in Europe
clothes and, apparently, a genial phase of alcohol, bowing and scraping
to her like a dancing master and talking a sort of high-falutin jargon
of which she couldn't possibly have understood two words.
When he had satisfied himself there was nobody else, Philipson stepped
out on to the broad landing, with me at his heels. The newcomer turned
and faced us. He was short, well-knit, clad in smartly cut pongees that
had suffered a little, it seemed, from his adventures of the evening;
and as he bowed to us--with just a suspicion of a lurch--his regular,
freckled features broke into a smile that disclosed two rows of very
small white teeth. Whatever the fellow was, he was no hobo--that much I
saw at once.
'Good evening, gentlemen,' he said. 'Would you believe it, this
flinty-hearted Hebe actually denies me access to my own rooms!'
The proprietress likewise turned to us, with shrill protest. 'Dis man
he no hab pay money!' she screamed. 'No more long time can stay in dis
house.'
The youth threw up his hands disdainfully, as if surprised. 'How
paltry!' he exclaimed. 'To break the harmony of our relations over a
few wretched dollars which I do not for the moment happen to possess!'
Philipson had been taking stock of the youth very comprehensively,
though he didn't appear to be aware of it.
'What's your name?' demanded my friend.
The newcomer returned Philipson's keen look with equal directness,
raising his eyebrows slightly. 'Abruptly asked, if I may say so,' he
remarked. 'My name is Stephen Poyning, at your service'--and with this
he fetched a rather grandiose sweep of the topee he was holding in his
hand.
'How much do you owe her?'
Poyning faced the landlady. 'Prithee, woman,' he said, 'state the
extent of indebtedness.'
'Dis man he no hab pay fifty dollar!' she returned.
Philipson pulled a wad of notes from his pocket, counted out five of
ten dollars each, pushed them into the landlady's hand and took her
by the shoulders and directed her downstairs with a good deal more
determination than gallantry.
'Now, sir,' he said, turning to Poyning, 'having relieved your
immediate needs, I venture to inquire what is your business here.'
Poyning fanned himself elegantly with his hat. 'There lies the whole
pathos of the situation,' he said. 'I have none. My occupation up to
this time has been merely the search for business, the quest of some
small nook in the great world machine of labour. I may say that the
quest has been diligently prosecuted, but utterly barren of result.'
'H'm. You cannot get a job.'
'The merchant princes of this land, sir, have been but very faintly
impressed with the desirability of enlisting my services. In
Shanghai--would you credit it?--I could scarce get them to believe I
was not in jest; and here, too, beyond the offer of a post to pack
frozen game in a warehouse--side by side, I believe, with native
operatives--nothing whatever has presented itself. And I, gentlemen,
took a first at the University of Oxford.'
'Come into this room,' said Philipson, leading the way.
Poyning followed. On seeing the quartette of bottles on the table his
eyes lit up. 'One who understands the art of living, I observe,' he
said. 'And now, worthy Macedonian, what can I do to vent my gratitude
for your most timely loan?'
Philipson was staring at the youth very hard. 'Gift,' he corrected,
shortly. 'Usury is not among my failings.'
Poyning bowed again. 'And a bourgeois pride is not among mine,' he
said. 'Gift be it called, then, which is the more noble, and moves me
to livelier thanks. How can I translate them into action?'
'Wait here for a few moments,' said Philipson, moving suddenly to the
door. 'Stay in this room, the pair of you, till I come back.'
As soon as he was gone I motioned our visitor to a chair. 'You're a
pretty cool hand,' I said. 'D'you always call people fancy names?'
'The wrathful Hebe, cupbearer to gods? The appellation was perhaps
rather daring than apt.'
'For some reason best known to yourself you also called my friend
"worthy Macedonian."'
He screwed a glass into his eye and rounded on me with an expression of
astonishment--whether feigned or genuine I couldn't tell.
'Dear me,' he said, 'can it be that the allusion was lost upon you? And
yet you would appear from your externals to be a man of some culture.'
'May be,' I said, nettled at his bland impudence, 'but what has that to
do with it?'
'Possibly your studies have at some time or other taken you into that
temple of learning known as the British Museum?'
'They have, but I still don't see what the devil you're driving at.'
'Curious,' observed Poyning. 'The Grecian type of your friend's
beauty--our friend's, if I may say so--is so marked that it struck
me at once. An idle fancy of mine, of course, but the reason I
addressed him as worthy Macedonian was that his features bear a perfect
resemblance to the busts of Alexander the Great.'