Mirrikh, or, A Woman from Mars/Chapter 22
CHAPTER XXII.
THE RETURN.
“Good evening, my children! The day is spent at last, but the sunlight will soon come again. Our time in this gloomy retreat grows short, and before we leave it forever, I would show you more of the mysteries of Nature; I am about to consult my spirit guides as to the proper steps to be taken in your case. Would it please you to be present and increase your store of wisdom? I do not urge it, I only suggest that wisdom, no matter how acquired, must ever assist in the progress of the soul toward that blessed Nirvana where we shall be in Buddha and his all-pervading essence more fully in us."
“By all means let us join him, George," said the Doctor. “Anything to break this infernal monotony. Shall I say yes?"
“Ask him if he cannot go through his ceremony right here,” I replied. “I do not want to leave Maurice just now.”
“But why not now as well at another time? You often leave him with Walla for hours together.”
“I do not know. I have strange feelings about Maurice to-night. It seems to me that a change is at hand; that before many hours the monotony of our existence here, which has been so irksome to us both, will be broken. I cannot explain my feelings, but I am determined to remain where I am.”
He raised no objection. He seldom did that now to anything, but turned to Padma and translated my reply.
Nor had the old lama, rather to my surprise, any objection to offer.
“What I am about to do can as well be done here as elsewhere,” he answered. “I leave you now, but I shall return presently. Remain as you are and try and bring your minds into a state of perfect quiescence.”
Thus saying Padma retreated, leaving the Doctor and myself to discuss the best methods of becoming quiescent—rather a difficult matter under the circumstances.
Walla at the time was seated upon the sandy floor close to the shelf of rock where Maurice’s body lay. She seldom spoke in these days, but seemed to live only in the contemplation of those cold, white features. Sincerely I pitied the girl. Far better for her would it have been had she remained among her own people. The education which she had received had done nothing for her but to make her discontented with the sphere in which her lot was cast, and foster within her hopes and aspirations impossible of realization; for what could she ever be to Maurice or Maurice to her, even if the miracle we hoped for should be accomplished and that body rise again?
How little the best of us can comprehend the future. What spiritual relation Maurice bore to poor Walla, God alone can tell; that her work for him was to be of the utmost importance will be seen before my story is at an end.
In less than ten minutes Padma was back again, and with him came a young lama whose name I have striven in vain to remember. He carried in his arms a heap of argols—part of the stores of the caves—which he flung down upon the sand with a sigh of relief.
“Are the others not to be with us?” asked the Doctor.
“No; they have retired to rest,” was the answer. “What we are now about to do can best be done in the presence of but a few. Indeed your own presence may interfere with matters to some extent, but I am determined that you shall see.”
I made no reply, for we had agreed to throw ourselves fully into the channels of Padma’s thought, whatever they might be. Indeed I shall even now forbear to comment upon the scene, but simply content myself with describing it as we saw it on that ever memorable night.
The first thing Padma did was to produce a small musical instrument resembling a drum head in shape; a wooden hoop with parchment covering. Seating himself in Oriental fashion, he spoke a few words to the lama who had scooped out a hole for the argols and started a blaze.
Immediately the lama threw aside his robe and we saw that he was entirely naked save for a strip of cloth about his loins; in this condition he seated himself cross legged before the fire and Padma ordered the Doctor to extinguish the wretched lamp which stood on the ledge near Maurice’s face. This action aroused Walla; she raised up and looked curiously at us. I doubt if she had even heard our conversation regarding the matter, for she seemed surprised, although she did not speak.
“It will be necessary for you to remain perfectly quiet,” said Padma. “To those who speak to you talk freely; otherwise say nothing—do not even move.”
“What the mischief!” muttered the Doctor. “Who is he talking about? Who is there to speak to us beside himself?”
“Peace!” cried the old lama peremptorily, his ears catching the murmur of the Doctor’s voice. “Peace, my children, or we cannot proceed.”
We were silent immediately, and Padma placing his drum head upon his knees, began monotonously beating it with two small sticks. There was no attempt at harmony, just a steady tap! tap! I could but think, as I watched him, that precisely such were the operations of the medicine men among our American Indians, and indeed the prophets of all primitive people, so far as my reading has shown me. Meanwhile his companion sat with folded arms, rocking his naked body to and fro, his eyes fixed upon the dull glow of the smoldering argols; occasionally his lips seemed to move.
Five—ten—fifteen minutes passed. We began to grow impatient, and the Doctor was in a dreadful fidget, for nothing whatever had happened. What we expected was that the lama would become entranced and begin speaking by what professed to be spirit inspiration. What actually did happen was something of a totally different sort.
Still the tapping of the drum continued, until the strain grew fearful and each tap seemed to burn its way into my brain like red hot iron. For relief I removed my eyes from the rocking body of the lama and looked at Walla. Her head was bowed low upon her breast. She seemed to be asleep.
“Look! look!” breathed the Doctor before I could move my eyes back to the lama again.
I looked and saw that a change had come; a change the meaning of which, I at least, should be able to recognize even if the Doctor could not; the body of the lama had ceased to move and around it a whitish mist was gathering; this rapidly increased in density until it became a great oblong ball of light, which bounded up and down upon the sand for a few seconds and then vanished like a flash.
“Children you must not speak!” whispered Padma; “but for your interruption the spirit would have succeeded. No matter; it will come again.”
“Materialization, by Jove!” breathed the Doctor almost inaudibly, but held his tongue after that.
In a moment the light appeared again and this time there was no bounding about. Padma beat his drum faster and faster and then suddenly ceased altogether. As he did so we saw the figure of a man rise at the feet of the lama; sink back again, rise a second time and stand erect. To our intense astonishment this person was almost a counterpart of Padma himself; not only in point of age and features, but in dress. Without even glancing in our direction, he walked with firm tread toward the old lama who bowed low before him; extending his hand he raised Padma, embraced and kissed him; then side by side they walked together into the shadows of the cave and disappeared.
I looked at the Doctor triumphantly, only to find him staring at me.
“Just as I saw it at the inn of Zhad-uan” I whispered, forgetting Padma’s injunction of silence; but the Doctor did not answer and for excellent reason. A ball of light, precisely similar to the other, was hovering at my feet.
Breathlessly we watched it, but after a few seconds it disappeared. I remembered Mr. Mirrikh’s injunction and whispered to the Doctor to turn his head away; but this, it seemed, was not necessary, for at the same instant I saw what appeared to be a mass of moving white drapery upon the floor, and suddenly a female form rose up and approached my companion with outstretched arms.
“Miles—Miles, my boy, don’t you know me?” I heard her whisper in hoarse, sepulchral tones.
“My mother!” burst from the Doctor. He started up and drew back in terror.
Instantly the white figure sank down and seemed to de-solve into nothingness; but there was the naked lama crouching by the fire still, his eyes closed, his head bent forward upon his breast. To all appearance he was sound asleep.
“You fool!” I whispered. “Why did you do so? If that was indeed your mother’s spirit she surely would have done you no harm.”
He brushed his hand across his face which I could see was damp with perspiration.
“George, if we are going mad, then God help us! If that was my mother’s spirit, then I am a fool! Anyhow, she is the last person I want to see.”
“As far as that is concerned you probably know your own business best. Did she resemble your mother?”
“She did—most decidedly.”
“She was certainly a woman of advanced years. I noticed her bent form and her thin features. One thing is sure, she could speak English, and what’s more she knew your name.”
He muttered something which I did not catch. I would have questioned him further, but the sound of footsteps announced that Padma was returning, and I forbore.
The old lama came alone, seated himself before the fire and took up his drum.
“My children, we may speak a few words now, while the spirits renew their forces,” he said. “Have you also had visitors from the world unseen?”
“There was a female here,” replied the Doctor, curtly. “As to where she came from probably you know best.”
“Where could she have come from? Is there a woman in this cave beside your companion who sits behind you?”
“She was not the one.”
“Then indeed you have beheld a spirit. Did she not inform you who she was?”
“No,” replied the Doctor, so savagely that Padma sighed and resumed his drumming, nor did I attempt to interfere, or even to ask what had become of the form which walked away with him and failed to return.
Ten minutes more elapsed and then the light again appeared hovering about the slumbering lama; the drumming came faster and faster and the end was the same as before, but this time it was a young man who rose up, and to my intense excitement I saw that he wore a black dress coat and trousers, with snowy shirt front and polished boots. In short he was in European dress, when no such clothes, let it be remembered, were in the possession either of the Doctor or myself.
We watched him breathlessly. For a few seconds he seemed to totter, his hands went up and he began to rub his eyes.
Presently he moved forward with uncertain step, as a man might walk when treading on thin ice, and extending his hands toward me, repeated in that same sepulchral voice, a single word:
“Papa! Papa!”
I was upon my feet in an instant; every drop of blood in my veins seemed turned to fire. I was expecting spirits, I had even thought of several of my defunct friends whom I should have been pleased to see, but I had never thought of this.
“Who—who are you?” I gasped. “In God's name tell me—can it be”
“Can it be that I am your boy, papa? Yes; I am no one else!”
He caught both my hands and held them. His were icy cold, but they were flesh and blood.
“Willie!” I murmured.
“Yes, Willie—your son. I am ever with you, papa. This trial is soon to pass. Do not fear.”
“But you are a man; my Willie was but a baby!”
“Has time ceased, papa? Think of the years?”
“Yet not enough for this change.”
“Enough and more than enough in the realm of spirit. Good-night, papa. Think as kindly of mama) as you can!”
He was going down! Slowly his form sank before my eyes until nothing but the head remained visible on the sand.
“Good-night, dear papa! Good-night!”
Then the head vanished like a puff of smoke!
“By the immortal Cæsar! I’ve nothing to say after that!” exclaimed the Doctor. “Have you a son dead? Say yes, and I’m a Spiritualist from this moment.”
“I have.”
“And his name—but look! Look!”
He paused suddenly and pointed to Padma, who had arisen and drawn nearer to us.
The cause was plain enough. Between the old lama and the fire stood two hideous forms. They were men of low stature, with enormous heads, ugly and misshapen, great bulging eyes and fearful mouths. They kept moving round and round in a circle, darting towards us glances of malignant hate.
Immediately Padma produced his prayer wheel and began grinding it furiously, calling out unintelligible sentences in Thibetan. After a moment the two forms sank down and vanished, upon which the old lama gave a sigh of relief.
“They are the spirits of the ancients,” he said; “once dwellers in this cavern, where they still linger near their bones. They saw their opportunity and seized it, but we cannot profitably converse with such as they, so I bade them begone.”
“Whence comes this wonderful gift, father?” I asked. “Explain something of the nature of the phenomena. Was that indeed my son with whom I spoke?”
“The gift comes from heaven, as do all the gifts we possess, my child. As for your son you should be the best judge. I do not even know that you have a son.”
“I lost a son—an infant.”
“Nothing is lost. If you ever had a son you have him still; the mere fact of his being unable to control the material body is nothing. What can annihilate a human soul? Nothing; not even the will of Buddha. He can absorb, it is true, but I say again, nothing is lost.”
“But my son was but an infant when he left me—it is not so long ago.”
“Infants born of intelligent parents soon become men and women in the realm of spirit. A few years at the most almost always suffices. Often it is but a few months.”
“You speak as with knowledge. With my people it is different. While many claim to believe in the existence of spirits, few think of them as other than intangible and wholly incomprehensible beings, whose lives are passed in eternal rest or eternal suffering. For one to lay claim to any accurate information in the matter, is only to excite ridicule or persecution for none will believe their claim.”
“I speak as with knowledge, my son, because I have knowledge. The realm of spirit is everywhere. Men may question its existence, but this can only be for a short time while they remain grossly material in their nature. As for your eternal rest, I cannot understand it any more than I can your notion of eternal punishment. Does the sun ever rest? Does the earth ever cease its revolutions, or the stars their own proper motion? Man is born to be useful, and rest, which is but a state of mind rather than a condition, can only come through constant activity in one’s sphere of use. I can see it. in no other light. As for the other—punishment may indeed be eternal to such as cannot lay aside gross and material thoughts; the punishment of remaining in them, with the spiritual surroundings which such thoughts must of necessity bring; but beyond that I cannot understand you. Is it of arbitrary punishment by the will of the Supreme that you speak?”
“It is, father—such are the teachings of our priests.”
“Then most grossly are they in error, most densely must their minds be steeped in spiritual ignorance. Have they no spirit guides to teach them better? I cannot understand such a condition of affairs. In this land the masses know but little of such matters; it is true, but with the lamas it is different. I might say further that we do not always deem it best to raise men above their sphere, but we never wilfully deceive as your priests must surely do, for they cannot themselves be ignorant of the truth.’*
“I think they are, as you view it, father. Some of them are most worthy men; but tell me whence comes the power to take on the material body in which these forms have appeared to us?’*
“I care not to fully explain. What are our bodies but condensations of certain molecules? Mind controls matter. If disembodied intelligences so will it, what is to prevent the hasty condensation of the molecules and the formation of a temporary body in any shape they desire to assume?”
“And this is the way the phenomena we have witnessed was accomplished?”
“It is.”
“But those hideous creatures, whence came they? By whose will were they sent here?”
“That is different. They were not sent here, they were here already, as I have told you; have been here for thousands of years, perhaps. Possibly they were able to draw strength from the dry bones which lay scattered all about us. It may be so.”
“But their hideous faces? Were there ever men such as they?”
“Very possibly those were not their true faces, but such as correspond to their present state.”
“Correspond to their state? I do not understand you.”
“Yet it is simple. In the realm of spirit a man appears to others as he really is, spiritually. Thus a vile man would appear hideous to your eyes, while to himself he seems just the reverse.”
“Do our fears create forms?” asked the Doctor breaking in suddenly.
“They do,” replied Padma;” or rather they draw about us spirits of corresponding natures; but I must talk no more. There are yet other spirits who would appear, and—ha! We have talked too long already! Those fiends have gained control of the forces again!”
A wild, unearthly cry, sounding as at a distance in the depths of the cave, suddenly rang out. Instantly came an answering cry—then another and another until similar cries were coming from all directions. Now they seemed close to us; again, they would retreat and die away in the distance. Some were like the human voice, others like the cries of animals; one in particular, which kept coming and going, was startlingly like the whining of a dog in distress. Padma meanwhile had resumed his prayer wheel and was grinding vigorously, having enjoined upon us on no account to speak if we valued our lives and reason. As for Walla, she was evidently either asleep or entranced, for through it all she never moved. For perhaps ten minutes these strange sounds continued. Padma seemed to be making but little progress in laying the spirits which were supposed to haunt the cave.
Suddenly I felt the Doctor's trembling hand lightly touch my arm. He was pointing toward the fire, out of which I could now dimly discern hideous faces peering at us by dozens. Not only were they in the fire itself, but around and above, coming and going, flitting about in every direction. For the most part they were recognizably human faces and evil-looking beyond description. Not a few animal faces were mingled with them, however; these were not the faces of modern animal forms, but looked as though they might have escaped from the pages of some geological text book, freely illustrated with prehistoric creatures. They seemed to come and go, as did also the more human faces, with a sort of pulsation; beside this the whole mass of faces had a rotary movement with the fire for its axis. Words fail when I attempt to express the horror which seized me as I gazed.
“By heavens, Wylde, this is worse than the D. Ts!” whispered the Doctor.
Was it the mere act of speech which did the mischief?
I cannot answer; I only know that instantly as the Doctor uttered these words, the whole mass of heads and faces seemed to detach itself from the fire and come bounding toward us over the sand, enveloped in a milky cloud, while the cave fairly rang with wild yells and hideous screeches.
We sprang to our feet and backed against the wall, for retreat was impossible. I do not pretend to analyze the Doctor’s feelings, but I know that for the moment my fear was intense, and I found myself doing what I had not done since my childhood—repeating the prayer for God’s protection which I had learned to lisp at my mother’s knee.
“Away! Away you devils! Get back to hell!" roared the Doctor.
Then above the terrific din which filled the cavern, old Padma’s voice could be distinguished uttering unintelligible words in clear distinct tones.
Suddenly the voices ceased and there was only the old lama’s audible; for a moment the bounding mass seemed to halt in its advance, though the movement of the faces still continued. Then all at once the whole was obliterated and we were facing Padma; his eyes were blazing with passion, his face livid with rage.
“Fools! Madmen!” he burst out. “Would you endanger your own lives as well as mine? So much for attempting to instruct such minds as yours in our occult mysteries. It is enough! My guide spoke truly when he warned me against you. Let your fate be upon your own heads!”
In vain the Doctor stammered words of apology, but the venerable lama seemed not to hear.
Striding toward his entranced subordinate, he made a few hasty passes about his head, whereupon the lama’s eyes were opened and he staggered to his feet, reeling like one intoxicated; most surely would he have fallen had not Padma caught him in his arms.
“Speak to him! Pacify him!” I whispered to the Doctor. “Our lives depend wholly upon him.”
“Can’t do it,” was the reply. “Better wait until he has quieted down a bit. He is too furious to listen to any explanation now.”
Fatal error! That the Doctor lived to repent his decision we shall presently see.
But the opportunity was lost, for without speaking again, Padma, still supporting the young lama, retreated in the direction of his own quarters and we were left alone.
I hastened to light the lamp, for the fire was now dying down; as I did so I instinctively glanced at Maurice’s face and thought I could discern a change.
I shouted to the Doctor, and held the lamp closer.
Just then Walla roused up, rubbed her eyes and in a trembling voice asked what the matter was; the Doctor put the same question, for he was already at my side.
“Look! look!” I exclaimed. “Moisture on the forehead!”
“Don’t deceive yourself, George; it is all your excited imagination. No! By the gods, it’s a fact!”
At the same instant I felt a rush of cold air pass my face and even as we looked the eyelids began to twitch.
We gazed in breathless silence. I could see Walla’s big, black orbs dilate. I could hear the quick beating of my own heart.
Suddenly a convulsive shudder was seen to pass over the body; the eyes opened and fixed themselves upon mine.
“Maurice! Maurice!” I shouted, springing forward.
But Walla was before me. With a wild cry she flung herself upon his breast.
Now indeed were we face to face with a mighty mystery; now indeed was the promise of the man Mirrikh fulfilled.
If his words were truth, if my own strange experiences were facts and not fancies, then Maurice had returned from Mars.