Mirrikh, or, A Woman from Mars/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
ALIVE OR DEAD.
“Granted for argument’s sake that it was all true,” said the Doctor; “admitted that the stupendous claims of this man rest on a solid foundation; that the ravings of Swedenborg are cold facts; that the re-incarnation theories of Reynaud and Kardec have a leg to stand on; that spirits exist, invisible and intangible, bobbing about like so many shuttle cocks in the insuperable abysses of interplanetary space; admitting it all, even at the expense of making a pair of blooming idiots of ourselves, what are we going to do about it, George Wylde? That’s what I want to know.”
And in very truth the Doctor had propounded a weightier question than any of the astounding propositions of my man Mirrikh.
What were we going to do about it, sure enough?
“We can’t pick Maurice up bodily and run away with him, don’t you know,” continued the Doctor. “If the thing were possible why I’d be the first to do it, but the rub is, Maurice is a man and he won’t go.”
“And a very positive one, let me tell you.”
“Aye! Don’t I know it? By the living Cæsar! I pity him. I never realized the power of this hypnotism business as I do now.”
“You would, if you could have seen yourself, Doctor—you acted like a man clean gone with paresis.”
“Thank God I remember nothing at all about that part of it.”
“But you saw the bodies—you heard our talk.”
“In a half dazed way, yes. It is all a blur in my mind, Wylde; like a dream a fellow wants to remember and can’t, don’t you know? Heavens and earth! If we could only get away from this infernal place. What do you say to you and me”
“Don’t you suggest leaving Maurice!” I interrupted, frowning darkly. “If you have any plan to propose which will rescue that poor boy from Mirrikh’s clutches, why out with it; otherwise”
I paused abruptly, for a bell had sounded, a deep toned gong of enormous size which rested behind the gilded Buddha in the temple above us. Its clang sent a thrill of horror to my heart.
Instantly five yellow forms sprang to their feet and ranged themselves about the white altar, for we were again in that subterranean mausoleum beneath the shrine.
It was far on toward midnight; the day following our arrival at the lamasery was closing. Without, the cold was intense and the stars shining in that rarified atmosphere with a brilliancy of which few who read these lines can form the least idea.
We had seen nothing of Maurice since we left the vault hours before, nor of Mr. Mirrikh, nor of the girl Walla; even old Padma had vanished, and the only person who we could discover was the young lama, Ni-fan-lu. We had pushed through the deserted houses in the court, prowled about the temple, and explored the tower. Locked doors we found, and these probably concealed the objects of our search, but we knocked here and there—pounded on them—waiting in vain for a reply.
You see we had come back into the temple shortly after the termination of the conversation narrated in the previous chapter.
The Doctor was himself again as soon as we had passed the image, where Ni-fan-lu awaited us.
“Be brave my friends! ” said the adept. “Have patience to endure to the end. Think of what a glorious mission will then be yours, to father these stupendous and hitherto unknown truths!”
“Farewell, George!” added Maurice, wringing my hand. “Doctor, all good go with you! Once again before I take the final leap we shall certainly meet.”
I would have detained him, but I could not.
Let me show myself in all my weakness, I wept, I pleaded with him; by all the ties he held dear, I begged him to pause before it was too late.
Useless—quite useless!
“Don’t be absurd, old fellow! What are we here for?” was his only reply.
It was not like him. Though he never displayed the affection for me that I had foolishly shown toward him, he had ever been considerate of my feelings.
But as he turned away and walked arm in arm with the adept through the dim interior of the shrine, amid armored gods and green and red dragons, I felt a strange calmness creep over me, and I simply stood there with the Doctor on one side and Ni-fan-lu on the other, watching them as they went out of sight.
Night came on.
Still it was the Doctor and I, with occasionally Ah Schow and always Ni-fan-lu, whose stupidity was as vast when he did not want to talk as was his shrewdness when he did. Poor Ah Schow, who really tried to do his best to draw some information out of him, particularly on the subject of Walla had given up long ago in despair.
And so hour succeeded hour, until Ni-fan-lu, returning after a brief absence a little later than eleven o’clock, announced that we were sent for and were to go to the temple at once, which proved to mean that horrible mausoleum beneath it, for it was thither he conducted us and here we were.
Not a little to our surprise we found five yellow lamas seated upon the floor cross-legged as we entered.
They bowed to us respectfully, bobbing their shaven heads like so many porcelain mandarins, but they did not speak. Ni-fan-lu made a sixth and stationed himself at the foot of the stone staircase. On the other side of the long room, lying in a dark corner, was what I then took to be a bundle of sheepskins thrown down carelessly; in fact it was not easy to get a clear view of anything, for the only light was that shed by the small bronze lamp resting on the altar, where I had seen old Padma place it after he closed the last of the coffin drawers, whose gilded hieroglyphics were now staring us out of countenance. Wondering what all this portended, the Doctor and I just resolved ourselves into a ways and means committee and stood there talking together in low tones, when all at once, clang! went the great gong in the temple above and I felt instinctively that the critical moment was at hand.
“Gad, George! It’s too late! We can do nothing!” exclaimed the Doctor. “The long and short of it is they’re going to sacrifice that poor wretch. It’s all a part of their devilish heathen dogmas—I know!”
Alas for the narrow bigotry of our vaunted age of light! As if no poor wretch has ever been offered up as a sacrifice by the priests of Christ!
I shuddered, but made no answer. I was not my friend’s keeper. Mad or sane, he was a free agent according to his own statement, and I had no word of pleading or protest to offer which had not been already spoken. The die was cast. Maurice must go his own road.
Now as I raised my eyes I saw him descending, and found myself lost in wonder at the calm, determined look which overspread his handsome face.
First came old Padma, bearing in his hand an object which looked like a huge, golden ear-trumpet. Maurice followed, his black cloak trailing on the stones as he descended. Mr. Mirrikh came last, looking precisely as he always did.
As they advanced, the yellow lamas arranged themselves on either side of the altar, three and three, for Ni-fan-lu now joined the others. The Doctor and I alone seemed out of place. Now Maurice saw us at last and breaking away rushed toward me.
“Oh, George! My friend!” he burst out; “it is only you who stands between me and the most supreme happiness at this moment! I feel so sorry for you, George!”
I drew him aside and spoke for his ear alone; nor did any one show the slightest disposition to interfere.
“Is there nothing that I can say to move you, my boy? I whispered, controlling myself to an extent I would not have believed possible a moment before.
“Nothing, old friend, nothing.”
“What has this man told you that you are holding back? What is it that gives you the courage to pursue this mad adventure to its end?”
“I cannot reveal it, George—I have sworn not to. One thing I will say though, and I want you to understand it definitely. I shall be back here inside of a month—he has promised it, and you, George, must promise me to wait.”
“Maurice,” I answered, pressing his hand most affectionately, “I swear to you that so long as your body remains in the condition of the bodies in those boxes, I shall never leave it until I, myself, depart for that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveler returns.”
“I knew it, old fellow! I knew it! But for you, George, I could not muster up the courage.”
“Not that I expect, if you persist in your purpose, ever to see your body reanimated,” I added sadly; “but while there is a doubt, I am with you. My belief is that unless you instantly exercise all the force of your will to throw off the glamor this man has cast over you, my dear boy, you are hopelessly lost.”
“No, George, no! It cannot be. I am favored as never man was favored before—I am going to Mars and I shall return.”
“Maurice! Maurice! Will nothing arouse you?”
“I don’t want to be aroused.”
“There is just the trouble. You”
“Stop, George! This is all old ground, there is no profit for either of us in treading it again. Good-bye, old friend. God bless you! Good-bye!”
He tore himself away, though I tried to stop him. The next I knew he was shaking hands with the Doctor and the man Mirrikh had hold of me.
The instant his hand touched mine it was as though I had experienced a powerful electric shock. Through my brain some subtle magnetic current seemed darting—the same sensations shot down my back and into my legs and feet. I would have sprung toward Maurice, but to my horror found myself rooted to the floor with my eyes fixed upon his eyes and my tongue helpless; I could no longer speak.
“Farewell, friend Wylde,” he said, pressing my hand warmly. “Pardon me for rendering you powerless to defeat our plans. I have left you your intelligence, however—you shall see us go!”
I tried to speak—to curse him. Oh God! how hard I tried—how utterly I failed!
“Do not fear!” he added. “I swear to you by God eternal that Maurice De Veber shall return!”
Still I struggled—struggled with all the strength of my will—still I failed.
Now he withdrew his hand and raised it theatrically; mine, released, falling helplessly to my side.
“Write!” he said, a rapt expression overspreading his countenance. “Write and let the world know! Farewell, my friend! Farewell!”
He moved toward the altar before which old Padma now knelt in silent prayer.
My eyes followed him; though helpless physically, my brain was unaltered in its activity.
An immeasurable passivity seemed to have settled over me. No longer struggling, I watched with intense interest all that occurred.
As for the Doctor I knew later that he was in precisely the same condition. As I saw him then he stood there like a statue, motionless and silent. Could either of us question the reality of the occult after this?
For the space of a few moments all was silence. Maurice and the adept were kneeling at the altar by the lama’s side, evidently in prayer.
Presently they arose and faced us. The critical moment had come at last.
Now music soft, sweet and low, sounded through the subterranean chamber. It was produced by the six lamas; each held a small, one-stringed instrument, closely resembling the Chinese banjo, and as they struck the strings in concert it seemed to me that never had I heard such harmony—it was divine!
Meanwhile, Padma had taken up the trumpet-shaped implement and having opened the little golden door in the side of the altar, pressed the flaring mouth against it. To my surprise it remained fixed in its position after a moment, as though held by suction. Instinctively I seemed to understand that the little door communicated with the cavern beneath the temple; that this was the means by which they were to inhale the mysterious gas. Once in place the golden tube stood up about as high as a man’s waist, and I saw that the end was plugged. All appeared to be in readiness now, and old Padma drew back, murmuring some unintelligible sentences—his eyes were turned toward the adept—he pointed toward the tube with a wave of his wrinkled hand. Again Mr. Mirrikh spoke.
“Maurice De Veber, think well before you take the final step,” he said in clear, distinct tones. “What your friends refuse to believe, you know to be the truth. No persuasion of mine has urged you to this act. Say the word and I start on my long journey alone.”
There was no sign of wavering in Maurice’s voice as the answer came.
“I am going with you! ” he replied quietly. “Do not let us prolong this painful scene.”
“It is enough,” said the adept. “Friends, once more farewell!”
He stepped forward, bent over the tube, removed the plug, and fixing his mouth about the aperture drew three long, deep inhalations, after which he calmly restored the plug and stood aside.
“It is your turn now,” he said. “Have courage! Remember, there is a good God above us all!”
Helpless! Oh pitying Father! Why was I so helpless? How gladly would I have risked my life to rush forward and drag Maurice from the fatal spot!
Nor was I alone in my desire. Unknown to me there was present in that room another whose feelings were as intense as my own.
She came with a rush. She dashed between the lamas, sending Padma reeling back against the altar. With her long, black hair streaming behind her, she prostrated herself at Maurice’s feet.
“Ye gods!” I thought; “it is Walla!” For I now saw that what I had taken for the pile of sheepskins in the corner was none other than the girl whose life we had twice preserved.
“No! No! No! ” she cried, in tones so vehement that in spite of the spell which bound me I trembled. “No! you shall not! You must not! I love you! Oh, God, how I love you! Save him! Save him! Let it be me instead!”
Jealousy—mad jealousy seized me. I thought less of Maurice than of Walla Benjow, then! She go! Never! I struggled with my helplessness, struggled fearfully, and I think I had almost won the victory when I saw that it was too late.
Padma seized her. A few quick passes over that shapely head and the girl had ceased to rave.
Meanwhile Maurice never said anything. I saw and understood the look of amazement which came over his face—he had not even dreamed of such a possibility as this.
“Be good to her, George!” he called. “Good bye again old fellow! Good bye!”
It was done!
Unhesitatingly he removed the plug and inhaled the fatal gas!
Loud twanged the strings, and the voices of the lamas burst forth into a wild chant.
Vanished now was the power I had almost gained. Sight and hearing alone stood by me—I listened and looked—I saw Mr. Mirrikh sinking slowly to the stone floor.
His eyes were closing, his face had assumed a deathly whiteness, and—oh God! Maurice was going down, too! In an instant both lay prostrate at the altar’s foot.
Once I thought he looked toward me as the lids descended; there was deep affection in the look—there was also supreme confidence that I would keep my word and stand by him to the last.
Again my eyes were for him alone, but I think my brain must have been obscured, for I saw, or thought I saw, that the form of my friend was growing thin and shadowy, just as I had seen in the case of the adept in the alley at Panompin.
Was it this, or was it that a thin, white mist surrounded Maurice? It seemed to be gathering all about him—it was assuming the shape and outlines of a man. Presently it separated itself from the body entirely, rose up and stood above it, looking down.
Now there were two Maurices!
Wonderingly I sought the adept.
It was the same with him, but that I had seen before. He stood above his own body a perfect man.
“George, farewell! I am off for Mars!” spoke the old familiar voice as distinctly as I ever heard it speak; and I saw those shadowy forms rise together, slowly at first, then more rapidly, moving faster and faster, until
Heavens! Was it then but a dream after all?
I was quite myself again and standing close to the altar, upon which, cold and still, lay the body of Maurice De Veber, stretched out at full length.
The light burned low, the music had ceased, the yellow lamas had vanished; I saw only Padma and the Doctor at my side.
And Maurice? I had sworn never to leave that body!
Was Maurice alive or dead?