ARAVANG EXPLAINS
Donovan sat up suddenly and gripped the arms of his chair as if
confronted by a new and disturbing thought.
"You think, Miss Rand, that I am responsible for bringing you here? No.
Mahmoud and Iskander planned that while I was ill."
Edith was well aware of this, but a provoking elf of obstinacy kept her
from acknowledging it. After all, she thought, she had not accused him
of it.
"Please understand," he said slowly, almost painfully. "I would give an
arm if you had not been brought here. Miss Rand, you held me back from
death. I--I was probably headed for a Sayak grave--so Iskander says.
Tired, you know. When your face came before my eyes and I felt your
hands clinging to mine----"
"You didn't!" A rosy wave swept to the roots of Edith's hair. "You--you
must have dreamed that. It was Mahmoud who saved you."
He was silent, bewildered. He had not meant to hurt the girl, was
longing instead to comfort her. But his character was not schooled in
the varying moods of woman.
"No, you were the one. You asked me to help you. It brought me back,
to want to live. Don't you see? You were an angel. God knows, I've
cursed the men who brought you here." Bitterness crept into his low
voice. "It's been another misfortune that came of my mission here."
"Please don't say that." Edith did not like to see Donovan so downcast.
The man was strong--a leader among his kind, she had felt. Now he
seemed to abandon his thoughts to moodiness on her account.
"It's the truth. I've nothing left, no ties or hopes, except one.
And that you would despise, I think. Yes, you would. You are too
noble-hearted to do anything else. But, then you don't understand." His
jaw thrust forward and one lean hand clenched. "Still, I will give my
life to get you out of Yakka Arik and back--home. Yes, home. I haven't
been home for seven years. Well, no use thinking of that or wanting to
go, when I have no home. You have."
By a wayward twist of memory the thought of the young British subaltern
at the Maharaja's ball came to Edith. The officer had craved sight of
those he had left in England. "It must be terrible--to have no home,"
she murmured.
"Terrible? No. It is just being alone." He replied to her with an
effort, his mind clearly on other things. "But to lose the others--that
is hard." Donovan was speaking now with strong feeling held in check.
"During the War my father and brother went West. There were only the
three of us, you know."
"Oh!" Edith felt a quick impulse of sympathy. She tried to think of a
consoling word, and was silent. John Donovan, gazing out forbiddingly
at the lake, seemed to repel any such advance.
The girl had realized for some time that he was an Englishman. She
wondered if he, like his brother, had been in the army. She believed
that was the case. Certain mannerisms, a habit of authoritative
speech, attention to the little things that go to make comfort out of
hardships, indicated that this was so. But he did not care to speak
about himself.
Edith bent a tendril of hair about her finger and released it--a habit
of hers. Donovan watched her passively. During his illness the two had
been brought closely together. A word, an inflection, or a gesture
meant much.
"You think, then," she mused, "that it will be hard for me to leave
Yakka Arik."
He pointed up at the hills that surrounded Yakka Arik on three sides.
"I must tell you how useless it is to try, Miss Rand. A cordon of
armed guards extends all around us, each sentry within sight of his
neighbor. Where they are posted in the forest, a swathe has been cut in
underbrush from one to the other. I have seen graves in those cleared
spaces, where visitors came unbidden to steal through the lines."
"But at night--it might be possible to escape then."
"Nature has provided against that. Any one fleeing in the dark would
fall into the ravines or be caught by the cataracts. At best only a
little ground could be gained before morning. Then the men in the
upper lookouts on the summits would spot you. After that, you would be
tracked down."
It was hard for Edith to realize that she was actually a prisoner,
guarded by invisible eyes. She did not know how bitter the tribal
feuds of these mountains had been, and how keen were the eyes of the
sheep hunters who nursed long muzzle-loaders on dizzy elevations.
Inexperienced in this new life, she refused to accept Donovan's
warning, believing that he had not been wholly frank with her. "There
_must_ be some way in--and out--except across the bridge at the lower
gorge and through the mosque!"
Donovan smiled thoughtfully. "Once," he observed, "a man entered Yakka
Arik through a sheep path, that skirted the mosque by a ravine, under
the sentinel. The Sayaks call him 'the Vulture.' Now, his life is
forfeit if they ever find him and his followers. And I rather think
they will."
Edith shivered, as the menace that lay behind the sunny aspect of the
valley assumed reality. "Oh, it is terrible!"
"Life itself is terrible sometimes, Miss Rand. But Yakka Arik assumes
the guise of terror only to protect itself. What is strange to you is
commonplace to these men. Really, they only follow tradition, and the
law and faith of Yakka Arik are older than our faith, and"--he spoke
musingly--"the two are not so different, after all."
The girl, gazing down the lake, saw a throng issue from the arch of the
mosque. A many-colored group of men, women and children emerged into
the village streets. The mosque _did_ seem a little like a church, with
its Sunday worshipers. Only the worshipers went every day. "It looks so
like a big cathedral," she reflected aloud "I wish I could understand!"
Donovan nodded sympathetically.
"Right! Only the whole of the valley is the cathedral, Miss Rand. We
are in one of the holy spots of ancient Asia itself--as ancient as the
Tartar hordes that once were driven past here by the Chinese, who built
the tower on the lower ravine. Remember that these mountain places are
considered sacred by the natives."
"I thought no Mohammedans ever lived above the Himalayas." Edith was
guilefully seeking the forbidden fruit of knowledge which Donovan had
denied her.
"Your wisdom is too young, Miss Rand. The forefathers of the Moslems,
the Uigurs and the Tartars had their birthplace in upper Central Asia.
And they had Yakka Arik. Now they come here from Arabia, Turkestan, and
the corners of Asia. The Arabs, Persians, Uigurs, Taghliks, and not a
few Afghans ride here in the pilgrimage caravans----"
"Sometimes called the 'caravan of the dead'?" she put in.
Donovan looked at her sharply, and a hard mask settled on his lean face.
"Those who ride in the caravan of the dead have offended against the
law of Yakka Arik. God grant you never come to know its meaning----"
He fell silent, his hands gripped tight together, sunk in meditation.
Edith was startled by the gravity of his low voice. She half put out
her hand to touch his, then drew back.
"I am so glad that I found you here," she said impulsively. "Mahmoud
and the others frighten me. They never even look at me, and I am sure
they have no sympathy at all. No one, even, except Iskander, comes to
the house." It was her way of offering him peace--with honor--of asking
him to trust her.
Donovan replied abstractedly, without weighing the possible effect
of his words: "You see, it's my house, given me because they've made
me _khan_--equal in rank to Iskander. They don't look at you because
you are unveiled in the house, and they don't come here on that
account--because, of course, they consider that you are mine and it's
contrary to the old Moslem law to visit where the women of the house
can be seen."
Edith caught her breath. So she was merely the property of Donovan
Khan! The Sayaks thought of her as his wife or--or slave! She recalled
the words of Iskander.
"Indeed," she observed frigidly, "haven't you told them that I am
an American? They must know I have friends, who may trace me to
Kashgar----"
Donovan shook his head thoughtfully.
"Any place but Kashgar, Miss Rand, where the Vulture roosts just now.
You are safer here. As for your nationality, if you will pardon me, it
is unknown here or in Central Asia generally."
"Is it?" Edith tossed away the tendril, feeling provoked the more
because instinct told her this was the truth. "We shall see. They may
learn what an American father will do for his daughter. But these
Sayaks--why do they keep me prisoner? For ransom?"
"Indeed not."
"As--as hostage?"
"Nearer right. Not exactly."
"Then what? You won't tell me!"
A shapely foot in a native sandal--Edith's shoes were being preserved
carefully against future need--began to tap the stone floor of the
balcony. Donovan noticed it with appreciation. Everything about her, he
reflected, was dainty. He did not interpret the animation of the foot
as a sign of danger.
"Your _friends_ seem to me very much like heathens, Mr. Donovan, in
spite of your defense of them. And I think that church is a _bad_
place."
"Well, they think of us as infidels. Yet, Miss Rand, the mosque and the
man who lives within it is one of the safeguards of Christianity. He is
the one more than any other whose friendship I must keep."
Craftily she sought for information about this man.
"He is not a Christian, is he? You always say, 'Perhaps'." Edith wanted
him to understand that he had not made peace. "You never say what I
want you to."
Donovan smiled doggedly. He did not understand the mood of the
girl--that she wanted him to confide in her, comfort her.
"Remember," he observed bluntly, "Mahmoud has done much for me. And
Iskander saved you--your life at Kashgar. He did the same thing for me,
too, at Kashgar, when the Vulture's friends pretty nearly succeeded in
poisoning me."
"But they are murderers and--and brigands. Aravang killed your servant."
He sighed. How was this girl, fresh from the outside world, to
understand the men of another race and the rigid laws of Yakka Arik?
"They have their code. An old one, Miss Rand. Before the coming of
Christ it was that of Christians. An eye for an eye--a blow for a
blow." Donovan pointed suddenly to the mosque. "That is not an evil
place. It is a temple of faith, and faith is not an evil thing."
"Then why can't I go there? To this man who is your friend?"
Anxiety flashed into Donovan's tense face. Edith mistook it for anger.
"Because I say so! You must not try to learn the secret of the Sayaks."
The familiar ring of command was in his low voice. The girl's chin went
up stubbornly and the gray eyes became cold.
"Very well," she said.
Donovan nodded in relief. He did not understand that, instead of
consent, Edith's words meant that she was fully determined to disobey
him. She would go to the mosque. Nothing would prevent her, now that
Donovan, who should--so she reasoned--have been frank with her and
trusted her instead of his Sayak friends, had forbidden it. And at the
same time she would appeal to the man of the mosque to help Donovan and
herself.
Unaware that Edith had made up her mind to do the very thing he was
most anxious she should not do--the thing that could ruin her prospect
of escape from the lake, Donovan proposed that they should go below to
their quarters.
"I'm devilishly hungry," he said cheerfully, "and Aravang must have
lunch ready. I think I smell baked fish."
"I'm not hungry," she assured him coldly.
The girl remained on her perch when Aravang appeared for the sick man.
Later, when Donovan sent the native to convey to her by signs that
lunch was waiting, she shook her head.
For the first time she noticed that Aravang had a large bird on his
wrist. It was a goshawk, hooded. Its powerful claws gripped a glove on
the man's hand. The slave started at sight of the girl.
Aravang had evidently planned a little of his favorite diversion,
while his mistress was below stairs. Edith stared at the falcon
curiously, surprised at its tameness. Hawks, she had always thought,
were wild and not subject to domestication. Its hooked beak and sharp
talons appeared menacing.
Suddenly she beckoned the native.
"Aravang," she said, "I know you are not as ignorant as you want to
seem. You know some English. Even if you can't speak it very well. Now,
please pay attention. No one else will tell me anything. So you must."
The falconer grinned, one hand gently stroking the feathers of his pet.
He could not have understood Edith's words, but he was obedient to the
change in her voice. She faced him, one finger raised, as if he had
been a child.
"Now listen." Edith spoke very slowly and distinctly. "Aravang, who is
Dono-van Khan?" She lifted her brows and pointed to the stairway. "Who
is he?"
"Dono-van Khan."
Edith was momentarily halted but not defeated. "Is he a real khan? Is
he a khan among the Sayaks?" She nodded toward the distant mosque.
An expression of apprehension crossed the man's open face. He cast a
wary eye at the stairs. "Sayak, no," he muttered. "Khan, yess."
Edith understood by this that Donovan was not a member of the religious
brotherhood of Yakka Arik, but was held in esteem by them.
"What is a khan?" she whispered. "A chief?"
The last word did not penetrate to Aravang's understanding. He shifted
his feet uneasily, handling the bird. Then he made a vocular effort.
"Mees _effendi_, Mees Rrand." He planted a fist on his own chest.
"Me--_kul_! Dono-van Khan--_manaps_."
"What is that?"
Aravang was stumped. He could not explain. He shook his shaggy head and
extended a pleading hand, to show his helplessness and his desire to
serve his mistress. Then his broad face brightened.
"_Manaps_," he repeated and pointed to the hawk.
"A falcon?" She recalled that Iskander had termed him this, and she
thought of the blue letter that had come to Monsey--"The Falcon is on
the wing."
So, Monsey had been warned that Donovan was alive.
At this, Aravang excelled himself. He drew an imaginary sword and swung
it viciously at an invisible enemy, repeating the native word, as if it
were a charm. He darted a scarred finger at the mosque from which the
throng of men and women was still emerging.
"Iskander, Dono-van Khan, _manaps_. Mees _effendi_, thus--you look!"
Abruptly, he whisked the hood off the goshawk and slipped the silver
chain from its claw. For a second the falcon hesitated. Then, with a
_whirr_ of wings, it soared up from the balcony.
Edith watched it circle into the sky with the velocity of an arrow. The
only other winged thing in sight was the black vulture, a carrion bird.
Ordinarily, perhaps, the hawk would not have attacked such a thing.
But now it was ravenous, having been starved by Aravang to the proper
point. And the native had trained his birds well.
In the space of a few swift moments the falcon had got above the
vulture, which now began to fly toward the pines, evidently sensing
some danger; and Aravang's pet had flashed down, striking the black
bird with beak and tearing claws.
Edith saw the dying bird fall into a garden not far away. The hawk
circled down close upon it. She looked up. Aravang had gone to redeem
his pet.
In the room below the girl found Donovan standing by the table where
the lunch was set He had not touched the food, waiting until she should
come.
His lean face, and bright, deep-set eyes made her think of the hawk.