Mirrikh, or, A Woman from Mars/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X.
RESURGAM.
They were gone.
The last camel had departed, the tail of the hindmost mule had vanished over the rocky ridge, a hundred feet or so above the inn, which formed the apex of the mountain pass, Zhad-uan; the shrill “sok! sok!” of the K’ambas was heard no more.
Inside the inn Maurice, Dr. Philpot, and your humble servant stood leaning against the k’ang, contemplating the lifeless body of Mr. Mirrikh, which, still enveloped in its sheepskin covering, lay upon its side at our feet.
Thus we had been standing for a good ten minutes; thus Ah Schow found us still standing when he returned from the stable after feeding the mules with barley, begged almost for its weight in Chinese sapeks from one of the camel drivers of the caravan, for we had seen the last of our own supply. Thus, perhaps, we might have kept right on standing and staring for the rest of the night, but for the Doctor’s habit of rising to the situation, no matter how bad it might be.
“Blow me, boys, if this isn’t the rum go, you know!” he exclaimed at last.” “You could have knocked me over with a feather, Maurice, when you came in singing out that Mirrikh was dead.”
“It’s a serious business, Doctor! A serious business,” replied Maurice gloomily. “You must admit it’s pretty hard on a fellow to have all his plans knocked in the head.”
“Best thing that ever happened you,” I said decidedly.
“Same here!” added the Doctor. “Thank God we’ll see the last of this crazy business now, and start back for Calcutta before we become corpses ourselves.”
But Maurice never answered. Instead, he gave me one of his reproachful looks which always had the effect of turning me to his side.
“Philpot, are we going to inquire into the business or take it for granted that he is dead?” I demanded.
“Why of course he is dead.”
“Ah Schow says he couldn’t make out what was supposed to be the matter. That human sheep who first broke in on us, just said the body had been given them by some lamas in Bootan, with orders to leave it at this inn."
Now this was all we could make out of Ah Schow’s version of the affair, and we had no doubt he told us all that had been told to him.
Strangely enough, it seemed to us, after the body had been brought in, not one of the caravan people would enter the place.
The lamas of Bootan had told them to leave the corpse here, and here they proposed to leave it. Beyond that they had nothing to say.
And it seemed very, very strange to me then, that their arrival should have been so nicely timed as to find us at the inn ready to receive the body. It was, however, to be least among innumerable strange happenings present in my thoughts, before many days had passed.
Now they were all gone and we were alone with our dead; for if not ours, whose was it, I should like to know?
Positively it almost seemed as though Mr. Mirrikh meant to give us another of his surprises; as though the whole matter had been pre-arranged.
“Look here, boys, we’ll soon settle the question!” exclaimed Philpot, after we had indulged in some further discussion. “Let’s pull off some of these coverings and see what our Martial friend is made of. It won’t take me two seconds to tell if he has passed in his checks or not.”
There could be no objection to this idea. Nothing could be more important than to have the question settled once and for all.
We all lent our aid and removed the sheepskin without much difficulty, despite of the fact that it had been securely sewed round the body.
Yes, it was Mirrikh. Not in the dress in which we had last seen him, but, like ourselves, attired as a Thibetan lama, with shaven head, black cloak and all. You may be very sure the Doctor pulled aside the shirt to see if the strange discoloration extended down upon the breast and shoulders, but it did not. Below the neck Mr. Mirrikh’s body was almost as white as my own.
Of course the face had been carefully examined first of all. It was half covered with the black cloth mask, just as he liked to keep it, and so cold that at first the Doctor declared that the flesh was frozen, then in a minute changing round and being just as positive that it was not; and we all fell to wondering why it was not, and I can only add that I am wondering still.
Now Philpot’s medical skill came in play beautifully.
“He’s as dead as a smelt,” he exclaimed, after a most careful examination. “There ain’t the slightest doubt about it. What can it mean?”
“Can you distinguish no heart action?” asked Maurice gloomily.
“Not a murmur! Try for yourself.”
Maurice bent over the bared breast and remained with his ear down for fully five minutes, during which time the Doctor was holding his pocket mirror to the lips, trying at the same time to find the pulse, although he had done all this before..
Dead!
Such was the final verdict.
My friend Mirrikh lay a corpse; thrown at our feet, as one might say, in derision of our stupendous folly.
Could we hope to play Hamlet without Hamlet?
Decidedly this was the last act in the drama, just as the Doctor had said. At least that is what I thought when finally, sometime after midnight, I stretched myself out upon the k’ang to try and obtain a little sleep before morning came; for, after a long discussion, we had decided to turn our mules’ noses back in the direction of Bootan with the rising of to-morrow’s sun.
Maurice was asleep already. He had dropped off just as soon as he lay down—something very unusual for him.
Ditto the Doctor; but he always kept one eye open, was continually rousing up, putting a pinch of tobacco into his pipe and puffing vigorously, until the next one knew, with the pipe within easy reach of his hand he would be snoring again.
Ah Schow was asleep too, but then the faithful Celestial never lost an opportunity for slumber.
Why could not I sleep like the rest?
Why must I lie there as the weary moments dragged by, tossing uneasily upon the k’ang?
Not that I expected to sleep when I lay down; on the contrary, what surprised me was the way the Doctor and Maurice went off and the soundness with which they were sleeping now.
Then I fell to dreaming—waking dreams I mean, for I am ready to make a solemn affidavit that I never closed my eyes that night.
I must talk about these dreams for a moment. I can remember each thought of the many which flitted through my brain, with a distinctness so vivid that it sometimes seems as though some occult influence had photographed them upon the page of memory. I had little belief in the occult then—it is different now.
It appeared to me somehow as if the room was filled with shadow forms—phantoms, if you will—certainly not seen with my natural eyes; yet see them I most assuredly did.
How?
God knows! Let those who can fathom the mysteries of the super-sense explain.
I only tell what happened, I am simply a recorder, and I write my record truly. Make what you like out of it—explain it in whatever way suits you best.
Dreams, dreams, and yet surely it was not all a dream.
I was standing near on the k’ang listening to Maurice’s steady breathing and the Doctor’s occasional snorts, when all at once I saw a form in white flit past me and approach the corpse.
Was I startled?
No! I declare solemnly I was not; and when I tried to move and found that a power over which I had no control held me down, I never made another effort. I could not disturb myself—I tried it and failed; a strange calmness seemed to have taken possession of my soul.
Not like the shadows I had been seeing was this. Oh, no! It was something altogether of a different sort.
It was the form of a woman of tall, stately figure. Her dress was marvellous in its whiteness—“shining exceeding white as snow so as no fuller on earth can white them,” I found myself involuntarily murmuring, quoting from that sacred book which I had ever regarded with contempt. Over her head a veil of some filmy material was thrown which practically hid her features. She raised her hands and threw the veil toward me as she glided past—I felt its touch upon my face—it was real!
“Maurice! I must wake Maurice!” flashed over me. “I must know whether these are dreams or not!”
Useless! If a mountain had stood there ready to fall and crush me, I could neither have moved nor spoken a word.
With a quick, gliding motion the veiled woman now approached the body of Mr. Mirrikh, and bending down began making passes over the face, exactly as I have since seen a hypnotizer work upon his subject.
I watched her. Never for an instant were my eyes removed from her. She was wondrously beautiful—divine!
Moment succeeded moment. Still the veiled woman was there—still those slender, snow white hands moved to and fro over the face of the corpse.
Presently a strange thing occurred—so strange that it were better omitted, were it not that I have sworn to keep nothing back.
Now as I watched the veiled form, I perceived that it was growing smaller—growing thin and vapory, just as I had seen Mr. Mirrikh turn into vapor in the alley, at Panompin, on that ever memorable night.
Then, all in an instant, the hands ceased to move and the form sank down upon the floor, an unmeaning mass of white drapery, which for a second seemed to glow with singular phosphorescence, and then
Presto!
It was gone!
The veiled woman was no longer there!
Terror now seized me. I tried again to move—to reach Maurice and awaken him, but a power incomprehensible still held me down.
I was conscious, yet helpless. My soul was keenly alive to everything, but the power of controlling the body it inhabited seemed to have been taken away.
There was just one thing I could do and that was to keep my eyes fixed upon the particular spot on the floor where the vapory form had vanished.
Soon I beheld a round phosphorescent spot of light, which seemed to exactly fill the space upon which my vision was concentrated and no more.
Slowly it increased in size, until it was as big, perhaps, as a large cocoanut and of about the same shape.
Now it changed—changed so suddenly that I neither saw nor knew how the change came.
A human head was there—it was the head of a man—it was the head of Mr. Mirrikh—the face was partly yellow—partly black!
Eyes, nose, mouth—every feature was perfect, yet there was nothing but the head resting on the floor.
Suddenly the eyes turned toward me and fixed themselves on my own. Then I saw the lips move, and as distinctly as I ever heard human lips utter sounds, I heard him say:
“Mr. Wylde, I greet you! This is the way we come up!”
Did I answer?
Never!
To save me from death I could not have spoken.
I saw the head rise—saw bust and shoulders form from filmy vapor. Next, he was there on his hands and knees, and then with a sudden spring he leaped to his feet and stood beside his own corpse—a man!
“Turn your head the other way, Mr. Wylde. You have seen all that is best for you to see,” he said in that calm way which I remembered so well.
Now I was as powerless to remain without motion as before I had been powerless to move—my head seemed to turn of its own accord.
“Wylde! Wylde! Wake up! Wake up, man!”
Merciful God, had I been asleep? Was it a dream again? Do not ask me, for I do not know!
All I can say is that I sprang from the k’ang my own master, and found myself facing that man of mystery, weighed down by a sense of awe.
It was Mirrikh—Mirrikh in the flesh—Mirrikh alive—the same Mirrikh who had talked with us in the tower.
I turned my eyes, seeking the corpse.
It had disappeared.
