The Weeping Ash (49 page)

“How long must we remain here?” she asked.

“Well,” said Miss Musson, “of course in the first place we have been waiting until Cal was quite recovered from his seizure and you from your fainting fit—”

“What a cursed
nuisance
he must find us,” burst out Scylla.

“Don't swear, child,” said Miss Musson equably. “In any case we would not have proceeded any farther until Rob was assured that all danger of pursuit had died down.”

“And then how will we go on?”

“Oh, pilgrim caravans pass by here, on their way to and from the great shrine at Hazrat Imam, north of us; many people consider the Holy Pir of Chaghlar quite as important a point of pilgrimage. The season for pilgrims has hardly begun yet; but it is odds that, sooner or later, we shall be able to attach ourselves to some party traveling to Kabul.”

“I see. How simple it sounds.”

Despite her two-day rest, Scylla felt tired to her bones at the thought of the many months' travel ahead, the great distances to be covered, over the mountains to Kabul, across the desert to Baghdad and on again to the Mediterranean. She said wearily, “I wonder Colonel Cameron does not simply entrust us to some caravan and then return to put matters right with the Bai.”

“No, he would not do that.”

“Ma'am,” said Scylla after a considerable pause, voicing a worry that had visited her, on and off, since her awakening. “Do you think that I, too, share Cal's affliction? Was my fainting fit a seizure like his?”

“No, it was not, child,” Miss Musson replied instantly and with certainty. “I wondered if you had been suspecting that! And indeed such a fear would not be surprising. But you showed none of the true epileptic symptoms. I think, indeed, what happened was that your terrible state of anxiety communicated itself to Cal—for there is no doubt that a strong sympathetic telepathy runs between you—do you not remember that occasion when he, playing truant in Umballa, got himself shut up in a palanquin and you nearly went mad with distress?—and I can remember many other such occurrences—so your state of agitation brought on his seizure, poor boy—and no wonder, for he was already in a fair degree of ferment over Sripana—and that, in its turn, rebounded on
you
.”

“Yes, I see. Thank you, ma'am. I am sure you are right.” Scylla sighed. “What a tedious pair we are.” But she was immensely relieved at this confirmation of what she had vaguely thought herself.

“Not tedious.” Miss Musson smiled slightly. “Now I believe you should drink a little goat broth and go to sleep again.”

“But—little Chet—you must have such a deal to do, ma'am—”

“Psha. The Therbah is looking after little Chet, very capably. He is the best baby in the world—no trouble to anybody.—Ah, here comes Cal with your broth. I am sure that you will wish to have a comfortable coze together, so I will leave you for the moment.”

Scylla, now accustomed to the dim light in the cave, perceived immediately that her brother was looking thin and pale. His faunlike pointed face was even more pointed than usual, for it had great hollows below the cheekbones; and his wide-set eyes under the soft black-winged eyebrows were tired and sad. His look of strain broke up, however, into an affectionate smile when he saw his sister recovered, and he squatted down by her and offered a steaming bowl, saying:

“Drink this disgusting beverage! I have done my possible by scattering wild herbs into it, but it still tastes to me like essence of old rope, if not something
much
worse.”

Obediently Scylla gulped it down, and agreed with his verdict.

“How
are
you, dearest Cal?” she asked, searching his face with anxiety.

He took one of her hands and clasped it in both of his.

“Oh, I shall come about!” The lightness of the tone could not disguise the real depth of his feelings. He added after a moment, “No, it is very bad. To tell you the truth, I feel as if I were being stretched on the rack all the time! I have written poetry about love so often, and so glibly, but, sister, you have no idea;
I
had no idea; no idea whatsoever! It is a terrible force; a
fever
. It really burns. And to know that I shall never see her again; ever—ever—
eve
r
—Oh, it is not to be borne!” he cried in anguish, and hid his face in his hands.

“I know,” said Scylla softly. “It is very bad. Poor Manny—” which had been her childhood name for him. She knelt up on the pile of feathers and put her arms around him. After a moment he turned his head speechlessly and rubbed his cheek against her hand.

* * *

When Scylla woke from her second sleep she was pronounced well enough to be introduced to her host, the Holy Pir; her awakening, fortunately, happening to coincide with one of his short daily periods of intermission from prayer.

Miss Musson escorted Scylla to the rock chamber generally occupied by the Pir; and on the way to it she was able to see for the first time the true extent and vastness of the cave system where they were quartered.

A whole mountainside, it seemed, was pitted by great natural vaults, which, in the course of many centuries, had been enlarged, added to, joined by passages, and made into dwelling places by countless generations of humans. Air holes and entrances at every level allowed light to penetrate to a greater or lesser degree. As Miss Musson had said, the passages delved far back into the mountain, but the chambers nearest the surface were the ones that had evidently been in most frequent use. At one time, it was plain, a huge multitude of people must have inhabited the place; it had been a whole city inside a mountain. Now the sole remaining inmates in this great hilly honeycomb were the Holy Pir and his disciple, who kept their quarters high up on the brow of the hillside. To reach this part the visitors must climb hundreds of worn rock steps, mostly inside the cave, but some of them winding among crags or crossing uncomfortably precipitous rock faces. At last they reached a small, chilly cavern, illuminated by three great round holes in the cliff, which, facing north, allowed in plenty of light and freezing air but no distracting sun. Here the Pir stood all day inside a kind of semicircular barrier, or desk, carved from the rock. With one hand he tinkled a tiny golden bell, with the other he swiftly flicked a set of ancient carved ivory beads along a string; and meanwhile he chanted continuous invocations, reciting the ritualistic words of prayer with incredible speed, acquired, no doubt, by long usage and familiarity. Cal was already in the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, he seemed thoughtful, soothed and calmed by the devout atmosphere and the peaceful murmuring of the holy recluse. Little Chet sat on Cal's lap, silently chewing the teething toy that the Bai's wives had given him, his round black eyes intently following the to-and-fro movement of the golden bell. Miss Musson sank matter-of-factly to the floor and Scylla followed suit, thankful to rest after the quite arduous climb.

About ten minutes later the Pir's chantings came to a stop. He brought his eyes back from the invisible distances they had been contemplating and laid down his bell. Picking up a censer full of incense that had been standing on his desk, he rotated it on its chain until blue coils of aromatic smoke drifted about the room and out of the window holes. Then, setting down the censer, he raised his string of beads and beckoned Cal to come to him. Cal rose obediently, holding the baby in the crook of his arm, and went forward to the desk; the Pir swung his rosary so that the beads touched Cal's forehead, while murmuring what was evidently a blessing; then he did the same to little Chet. Finally he beckoned to Miss Musson and Scylla, who approached and were blessed in their turn.

When this ceremony had been completed, the Pir's face broke into a smile. He was a very impressive-looking man; quite six feet tall, Scylla thought; his skin weathered almost to the color of old oak by exposure to mountain air. He wore a dark red wool robe, tied around the waist by a hair-rope girdle, and had on his head a pirpank, or conical hat, made of black wool. His face, Scylla thought, curiously resembled some old prints Miss Musson's brother Winthrop had had in his study, depicting those other Indians, the North American Comanches or braves. He had a long hooked nose and high, deeply undercut cheekbones; his aspect was proud and calm. When he smiled, Scylla noticed his large fine white teeth. She wondered how old he was; his face seemed hairless as from extreme age, but a long black braid hung down his back, under his cap. She suspected him to be far older than he seemed.

“Good evening, ladies,” said the Pir, startling Scylla nearly out of her wits. “How do you do, Miss Musson; I am happy that you have brought your young companion to visit me.” His smile became wider as he observed Scylla's look of astonishment. “You are surprised, miss, that I speak your language.”

Scylla blushed, feeling that she had been detected in discourtesy, and stammered an apology.

“His Holiness has traveled to many lands and speaks many languages,” Miss Musson explained suavely; the glint in her eye suggested to Scylla that she had deliberately withheld this piece of information in order to entertain herself by observing her young friend's surprise.

“How do you do, sir—Your Holiness.” Scylla curtsied politely. “It is very kind of you to—to allow us to visit your retreat.”

“I am very happy to be visited.”

The Pir's eye rested on little Chet. “Especially by young persons and children.” He studied the baby gravely for a few minutes and then remarked:

“Would you have any objection, Miss Musson, if I performed a simple test on the baby?”

Even Miss Musson appeared slightly puzzled at this. “A
test
, Your Holiness? No, I see no reason to object, but—what kind of a test?”

The Pir walked to a cavity in the rock wall and delved about in it. Glancing around his sanctum, Scylla noticed that it was furnished with all kinds of sacred odds and ends, on rock shelves and in corners—brass goblets, full of moldering grain, highly colored cakes, copper jugs of oil, sacred images, cloth paintings attached to the walls, bells, antelope horns, gongs, scrolls, lamps, and little pots of yak butter.

Presently the Pir withdrew his head and shoulders from the closet and lifted out a flat basket containing an odd mixture of articles—three or four horn cups, a couple of what looked like aged, brittle loincloths, three or four rosaries, half a dozen small ivory images, a couple of scrolls, two snuffboxes.

“This should really be done after much prescribed ritual and several weeks of prayer,” he observed, carrying the basket across the room and setting it down in front of the baby. “But as I am not quite certain how long I am to have the pleasure of your company on my mountain, it is perhaps best to conduct the test without so many preliminaries; it is quite valid in all circumstances.”

He watched intently as little Chet, delighted at the sight of so many new, interesting, and unfamiliar objects all set within his reach, studied the contents of the basket absorbedly.

Scylla had been on the point of asking what the test was intended to prove but, seeing from the Pir's expression how much importance he evidently ascribed to its outcome, she closed her lips again and, like the other three, concentrated her attention on the baby.

Presently, with a crow of pleasure, little Chet reached out a hand to finger one of the rosaries. Then he grasped the handle of a cup and thumped it gently up and down. Then he found a bell which gave out a sweet tinkle when he shook it, so he waved it lustily, laughing with joy.

The Holy Pir sighed and gently undid the small brown fingers from the bell handle. “No, my friend,” he said, patting Chet's head while he picked up the basket, “you are a good boy and a clever boy, but you are not the boy I am looking for,” and he carried the basket across the room and restored it to its place in the rock cleft.

“May one ask,” inquired Miss Musson when he returned and sat down cross-legged, “what would have been the result if Chet
had
been the boy you were seeking, Your Holiness?”

“He would have been my successor as keeper of this shrine,” the Pir explained. “As you may know, the shrine has had a guardian for many hundreds—perhaps thousands—of years. When one guardian dies, his spirit is rehoused in another body and returns, in course of time, to its place.”

“How can it be proved that it is the right spirit?” inquired Cal, greatly interested.

“Why, as you just saw! A child who is claimed to be the new Holy Pir will be able to select, without hesitation, all the articles that have belonged to his predecessors.”

“I see; how uncommonly neat! But I do detect a difficulty here, sir,” Cal pointed out. “After all, you aren't dead yet! So how could your spirit be rehoused in little Chet here?”

The Pir sighed again. “I am afraid you may be right, my son. It is so seldom that a baby as young as that visits my mountain that I thought, perhaps, by some happy dispensation, it might have been vouchsafed that my successor had arrived
before
I had died, so that I myself would be permitted to train him.”

“But that would mean sharing one soul between two bodies,” objected Cal.

“Such a situation
might
be covered by various sections of the holy writings,” the Pir assured him. “I am not certain that it
has
happened, but it would not be impossible. However it was not to be!”

“I must acknowledge, I am greatly relieved at that!” divulged Miss Musson. “I do not doubt that Colonel Cameron would be delighted to be rid of our charge in such a respectable way as discovering that he was the reborn guardian of a mountain shrine in Central Asia, but as
I
have undertaken to see that little Chet receives the education of an English gentleman at Eton, it must have been a decided setback to
my
plans for him.”