ALAI BALA SLEEPS
It had rained and ceased raining that evening as it usually did in
Srinagar. Mist, tinted flame color by the setting sun, was twining
around the rocky base of Jyestharudra's pinnacle. The melancholy call
of the boatmen in the _doongas_ came over the water as Monsey drifted
about, alone except for his paddler, on the lagoon.
Edith had left him in a black mood. He lay back on the cushions of the
_doonga_, his powerful body tense, a cigarette half bitten through in
his nervous lips. Overhead the panoply of sunset, spreading across the
arch of the sky, reflected itself on the lagoon.
Boats moved slowly under the rickety bridges. Not without reason is
Srinagar called the Venice of India. Distant spots of purple that were
iris beds growing over graves winked down at the twilight city.
While Monsey meditated, the ragged Kashmiri boatman propelled his craft
slowly toward the bazaar quarter with its yawning shop fronts, its raft
of vessels crowding together, and its poppy-covered, tumble-down roofs.
"Where will the sahib go?" the man ventured at last, feeling the inner
impulse of hunger.
"To purgatory, or Abbas Abad's," growled Monsey. "Take your choice."
A moment later the gondola drew up at a painted flight of steps.
Glancing about the canal keenly, Monsey left the boat, tossing its
proprietor a coin. Stepping forward with the assurance of one who knew
the way, he entered a ramshackle wooden structure that had once been a
bright pink but was now the hue of a very dirty and diseased carnation.
Stooping under an openwork balcony he pressed onward in semidarkness
rife with a pungent odor.
This smell came from a native woman lying huddled on some mats, puffing
a spluttering opium pipe with a child at her breast Monsey kicked the
woman aside, the movement drawing a wearied cry from the baby. To
silence it, the Kashmiri placed the pipe at its lips. A single breath
of the smoke and the child subsided into a drugged sleep.
Monsey ascended a dark flight of steps to an upper room lighted by a
yellow hanging lamp and apparently without access to any fresh air.
On a bundle of quilts in one corner the form of a girl was coiled--a
satin-clad form with spangled, velvet bodice and flooding brown hair
escaping under a cap of tarnished cloth of silver.
The pale olive countenance of the woman--a Georgian--was lax in
sleep--it might well have been judged pretty otherwise. Circles were
under the closed eyes, stained lips parted over fine teeth. An aroma
of musk and rose scent exuded from her body. Mingled with the stale
perfume was the stringent fragrance of a Turkish hubble-bubble, at
which a man puffed. He glanced at Monsey casually, from half-closed
eyes.
"_Nasha_ or opium?" he remarked.
"Neither," said Monsey curtly. They both spoke Turki. Apparently they
were on familiar terms. The man's face was the hue of the girl's, only
the skin was creased and pinched as if from exposure to hot winds. His
heavy eyes were bloodshot; a red fez rested on straggling, curly black
hair.
"As you please," he muttered. "What was your fate?"
Leaning back on the quilts, he eyed the gurgling water pipe. His dress
had once been immaculate white duck, girded by a brilliant shawl belt.
The open collar disclosed a round, muscular throat rising from a stout
chest.
"An evil one, Abbas." Monsey sank upon the quilts and tossed away the
burned stub of his cigarette savagely. The woman stirred, opened tired
eyes, and hunched away from the men, to fall into her disturbed sleep.
"I played my cards and they lost. I tell you, they lost."
"I hear. It is fate. Did you think the beautiful _Americain khanum_
would want you for a husband?"
"Why not?" Monsey scowled. "Other women have loved me--and they were
better than this----"
He looked at the drowsy woman sardonically. The Turkoman--he
was actually an Alaman, a Russianized Mohammedan of the Turki
race--shrugged powerful shoulders.
"I saw her passing in the boat, my friend. Nay, I believed not she
would be a wife to you. Who was the native soldier?"
"Orderly to the British major--the son of a dog. He will not leave the
woman."
"Therein he shows his wisdom." Abbas bared stained teeth. "So they do
not trust you, despite your French manners and your patrician Russian
birth? Eh?"
Monsey--perhaps the name had once been spelled otherwise--looked up
coldly. His dark eyes were dangerous. "At least," he smiled, "I know my
own birth. _I_ am not a jackal, born in a gully."
Abbas Abad Mustieh'din exhaled the smoke from his lungs and his
faded eyes blinked. _"Khei'leh khoûb, Effendi, khei'leh, khoûb!"_ he
murmured. ("Very well, my good master, very well!")
"Nor," continued Monsey ironically, "am I a monkey, clad in the
garments of gentlefolk, my betters."
Willful and domineering, he was irritated at himself, at Edith Rand.
The remarks of Abbas had added fuel to the fire. Like many men of
narrow mind, the Russian lacked humor. He was not a man to swallow a
jest lightly. With his faults, however, he was not lacking in courage.
He faced the Alaman, smiling but watchful.
A dull red flooded into the seamed countenance of Abbas. The artificial
pride, common to those who mimic the personality of their superiors,
had been touched. One powerful hand clasped the turquoise-inlaid hilt
of the dagger in his girdle.
Monsey dropped a hand into the pocket of his jacket and waited. The
pocket bulged, and the bulge pointed toward Abbas. For a long moment
the Alaman eyed his friend, the coat of his friend--under which he knew
a serviceable revolver was turned toward him--then his brow cleared and
he raised an empty hand, palm up.
"_Bismillah!_ Why should I cut open your throat? I need you. You
need me. But keep your tongue in your mouth, or one day it will be
slit--thus!"
Monsey had relaxed his vigilance for an instant at the overture. The
dagger of Abbas flashed out and passed across his companion's breast.
Monsey stared down grimly at his jacket. The cloth over his heart had
been slit deftly, yet he had felt no prick on his skin.
Abbas replaced the knife in his girdle, grinning, well pleased with
himself. He clapped the stem of the pipe to his lips and inhaled,
slapping Monsey on the knee with his heavy palm.
"Eh--you have seen what you have seen. Be wise, oh, be wise. By the
seven hells of purgatory, you are no fool. Or I--Abbas Abad--would not
walk in your shadow. Come, my cherished _gentleman_. Hearken. Have
you given up your lust for the girl? Are you willing to listen to the
wisdom of Abbas, your friend? I, who sent you a letter clear across
the ocean--I, who paid a scribe well to write your name and address in
English. Would I have done that if I had not wanted you? The time is
ripe for us to sell our merchandise. Aye, the markets of Samarkand and
Kashgar will pay good prices for women. And for such a one as yonder
_Americain_----"
"Bah--I tell you she is mine. Abbas, would you fly a falcon at a hare
when a young deer is marked down?"
"Why not, my Excellency? We must eat. We have no money."
"Abbas, you are a fool. The American father is rich. He can pay--more
than the price of six light-haired Georgian women at Stamboul." The
Russian's dark eyes were calculating. "He would fill both your hands
with gold pieces."
The Alaman grunted skeptically.
"What would it avail me, if my head were cut off? The days are past
when we might garner white women openly for slaves." He shook his
head. "Nay, I will take a serpent from its hole with my bare hand, but
a white woman I will not touch. With my own ears I heard the cannon
of the French warships battering the gates of Constantinople. The
Protector of the Faithful is but a shadow and the cloak of Islam is
rent asunder. I know, I know."
"All this," said Monsey impatiently, "is idle talk. Abbas, there is a
place where the hand of the Englishman does not reach. You know, for
you lay hid there many months."
"Above?" Abbas pointed upward and to the north.
"Aye--beyond the Hills. Once the Cossack posts were set there, like the
links of a strong chain. Now, the chain is broken. The tribesman grazes
his cattle over the ashes of camp fires. The priests of Islam chant
their prayers unheard, save by true believers. You have seen that,
Abbas!"
"It is true."
Monsey tapped his chin reflectively with lean fingers.
"No American consul is within a thousand miles. Do you think I am a
child, wet with mother's milk, to want to make the American girl a
slave to sell at a price? Not when I love her, as I do. Allah, and all
his saints!--she is beautiful. I have been thinking."
The Alaman was silent, pondering. Monsey, who had been the link by
which he sold the choicest of his women to be "servants" of the Russian
officers on the border during a former régime, never spoke idly. The
dissolute gentleman--once an officer himself--had profited much by
Abbas. But the shrewd merchant was cautious lest the whims of his
companion should involve him in needless trouble.
"Once beyond the Kashmir frontier, we would be safe, Abbas," muttered
the white man. "Fraser-Carnie--a disciplined numskull--would not dare
send any of his few men into the Hills--if, indeed, he could trace us.
The Kashmir government would not bother its head. And we would return
the woman----"
He shrugged
"For a price," grinned Abbas. "Oh, undoubtedly we would."
"Rand would pay the price. He could. I tell you, I want the woman."
"For a time--yes. You tire of them quickly. As I have seen."
"Abbas, you are a thrice-born fool. Think you I would run such a risk?
Nay, my plan is otherwise."
"I heed, Excellency!"
"If we carry off the woman--you and I--there must be no accusation of
brigandage. Am I a bazaar thief, or a lawless hill chief? I tell you, I
will marry the American woman. I will find means to make her submit. A
missionary can be found in Kashgar. By God, Abbas, do you think I would
have risked my neck to come back here, if I had not seen her and wanted
her at Quebec?"
The Alaman listened intently. For the first time he seemed to approve.
"This is wisdom--perhaps," he grunted. "Speak!"
Monsey's expressive eyes glowed. After his fashion he loved Edith, and
her curt dismissal of his suit had angered him. "After the marriage
we can talk terms with the father. If he will not pay well for his
daughter's freedom, he will pay to have her restored to him. I will
see to that." He laughed and stretched his arms, good-humored again.
"Abbas, my dog, luck is setting my way again. I shall do it."
"Who knows what is before him?" The Alaman shrugged. "There is much
danger and also much profit at stake. Has your wisdom found a way to
take the woman to the Hills?"
"Said I not my star was rising, O one-of-small-wit? To-morrow night
is the ball of the Maharaja. I am bidden, because of"--he hesitated
and his eyes darkened--"old ties. Well, it is our _kismet_. I shall
dance with the woman. She has promised, and she will keep her word. The
father has not yet arrived; the aunt is a fool. We will walk in the
garden, she and I----"
Glancing around cautiously, he lowered his voice. Abbas bent his
bearded head to listen. For several moments Monsey talked, gesturing
vividly, his purpose strong upon him. An able man, strong-willed, he
had gambled with the finer ties of life--rank--honor. Now his mind was
twisted, his thoughts bent inward. Perhaps Abbas Abad was the better
man of the two. He at least had not forsaken his heritage for a mess of
pottage. He had never been otherwise than he was--a slave dealer, of
Asia.
"This is wisdom," muttered the Alaman, "and our need is great. Yet the
danger also is great."
"Abbas, my luck is good. I feel it. Come, we will try the dice of fate!
This woman of yours has slept through our talk. She would not have
wakened if I had slain you. We will hear what she has to say----" he
touched the passive girl with his foot, then shook her by the shoulder.
"Confound your opium, Abbas! Alai Bala!"
She stared up at him sleepily, too drowsy to rise. The Alaman looked on
curiously.
"Alai Bala!" commanded Monsey, "hearken! Your master and I are of two
minds. Shall we abide in this hole or ride to the Hills?"
The girl seemed not to comprehend. She shook her head slightly.
"Speak, my pretty parrakeet," purred Abbas. "Come, my gentle dove, my
jewel of jewels, my priceless pearl of beauty! You have heard, O offal
of the bazaars, harlot--scum of paradise, my saintly _houri_----"
"The Hills," murmured Alai Bala wearily. "This is an evil place: let us
ride to the Hills----"
She sank at once into her interrupted slumber, her _kohl_-stained face
pallid, and her breathing laboring from tormented lungs. Monsey nodded
agreeably. "My luck holds."
Abbas glanced up shrewdly. "You would have let her decide, _effendi_?"
Monsey turned away. "Certainly--as I said."
He disappeared down the stairs. His footsteps died away and the room
was silent except for the gurgle of Abbas' pipe. Presently the shrill
cry of the sick child sounded from below. It ceased, and Alai Bala
twisted uneasily in her sleep.
Abbas looked from her to his pipe. The murmur of the chanting boatmen
came to his ears, mingled with another chant.
"_Allah il akbar_," came the murmur. "Allah, the Great. There is no god
but Allah----"
It was the hour of sunset prayer.