_ A week later came our opportunity of making this ascent of the
mountain, for now in mid-winter it ceased storming, and hard frost set
in, which made it possible to walk upon the surface of the snow.
Learning from the monks that at this season /ovis poli/ and other
kinds of big-horned sheep and game descended from the hills to take
refuge in certain valleys, where they scraped away the snow to find
food, we announced that we were going out to hunt. The excuse we gave
was that we were suffering from confinement and needed exercise,
having by the teaching of our religion no scruples about killing game.
Our hosts replied that the adventure was dangerous, as the weather
might change at any moment. They told us, however, that on the slopes
of this very mountain which we desired to climb, there was a large
natural cave where, if need be, we could take shelter, and to this
cave one of them, somewhat younger and more active than the rest,
offered to guide us. So, having manufactured a rougri tent from skins,
and laden our old yak, now in the best of condition, with food and
garments, on one still morning we started as soon as it was light.
Under the guidance of the monk, who, notwithstanding his years, walked
very well, we reached the northern slope of the peak before mid-day.
Here, as he had said, we found a great cave of which the opening was
protected by an over-hanging ledge of rock. Evidently this cave was
the favourite place of shelter for game at certain seasons of the
year, since in it were heaped vast accumulations of their droppings,
which removed any fear of a lack of fuel.
The rest of that short day we spent in setting up our tent in the
cave, in front of which we lit a large fire, and in a survey of the
slopes of the mountain, for we told the monk that we were searching
for the tracks of wild sheep. Indeed, as it happened, on our way back
to the cave we came across a small herd of ewes feeding upon the
mosses in a sheltered spot where in summer a streamlet ran. Of these
we were so fortunate as to kill two, for no sportsman had ever come
here, and they were tame enough, poor things. As meat would keep for
ever in that temperature, we had now sufficient food to last us for a
fortnight, and dragging the animals down the snow slopes to the cave,
we skinned them by the dying light.
That evening we supped upon fresh mutton, a great luxury, which the
monk enjoyed as much as we did, since, whatever might be his views as
to taking life, he liked mutton. Then we turned into the tent and
huddled ourselves together for warmth, as the temperature must have
been some degrees below zero. The old monk rested well enough, but
neither Leo nor I slept over much, for wonder as to what we might see
from the top of that mountain banished sleep.
Next morning at the dawn, the weather being still favourable, our
companion returned to the monastery, whither we said we would follow
him in a day or two.
Now at last we were alone, and without wasting an instant began our
ascent of the peak. It was many thousand feet high and in certain
places steep enough, but the deep, frozen snow made climbing easy, so
that by midday we reached the top. Hence the view was magnificent.
Beneath us stretched the desert, and beyond it a broad belt of
fantastically shaped, snow-clad mountains, hundreds and hundreds of
them; in front, to the right, to the left, as far as the eye could
reach.
"They are just as I saw them in my dream so many years ago," muttered
Leo; "the same, the very same."
"And where was the fiery light?" I asked.
"Yonder, I think;" and he pointed north by east.
"Well, it is not there now," I answered, "and this place is cold."
So, since it was dangerous to linger, lest the darkness should
overtake us on our return journey, we descended the peak again,
reaching the cave about sunset. The next four days we spent in the
same way. Every morning we crawled up those wearisome banks of snow,
and every afternoon we slid and tobogganed down them again, till I
grew heartily tired of the exercise.
On the fourth night, instead of coming to sleep in the tent Leo sat
himself down at the entrance to the cave. I asked him why he did this,
but he answered impatiently, because he wished it, so I left him
alone. I could see, indeed, that he was in a strange and irritable
mood, for the failure of our search oppressed him. Moreover, we knew,
both of us, that it could not be much prolonged, since the weather
might break at any moment, when ascents of the mountain would become
impossible.
In the middle of the night I was awakened by Leo shaking me and
saying--
"Come here, Horace, I have something to show you."
Reluctantly enough I crept from between the rugs and out of the tent.
To dress there was no need, for we slept in all our garments. He led
me to the mouth of the cave and pointed northward. I looked. The night
was very dark; but far, far away appeared a faint patch of light upon
the sky, such as might be caused by the reflection of a distant fire.
"What do you make of it?" he asked anxiously.
"Nothing in particular," I answered, "it may be anything. The moon--
no, there is none, dawn--no, it is too northerly, and it does not
break for three hours. Something burning, a house, or a funeral pyre,
but how can there be such things here? I give it up."
"I think it is a reflection, and that if we were on the peak we should
see the light which throws it," said Leo slowly.
"Yes, but we are not, and cannot get there in the dark."
"Then, Horace, we must spend a night there."
"It will be our last in this incarnation," I answered with a laugh,
"that is if it comes on to snow."
"We must risk it, or I will risk it. Look, the light has faded;" and
there at least he was right, for undoubtedly it had. The night was as
black as pitch.
"Let's talk it over to-morrow," I said, and went back to the tent, for
I was sleepy and incredulous, but Leo sat on by the mouth of the cave.
At dawn I awoke and found breakfast already cooked.
"I must start early," Leo explained.
"Are you mad?" I asked. "How can we camp on that place?"
"I don't know, but I am going. I must go, Horace."
"Which means that we both must go. But how about the yak?"
"Where we can climb, it can follow," he answered.
So we strapped the tent and other baggage, including a good supply of
cooked meat, upon the beast's back, and started. The tramp was long
since we were obliged to make some detours to avoid slopes of frozen
snow in which, on our previous ascents, we had cut footholds with an
axe, for up these the laden animal could not clamber. Reaching the
summit at length, we dug a hole, and there pitched the tent, piling
the excavated snow about its sides. By this time it began to grow
dark, and having descended into the tent, yak and all, we ate our food
and waited.
Oh! what cold was that. The frost was fearful, and at this height a
wind blew whose icy breath passed through all our wrappings, and
seemed to burn our flesh beneath as though with hot irons. It was
fortunate that we had brought the yak, for without the warmth from its
shaggy body I believe that we should have perished, even in our tent.
For some hours we watched, as indeed we must, since to sleep might
mean to die, yet saw nothing save the lonely stars, and heard nothing
in that awful silence, for here even the wind made no noise as it slid
across the snows. Accustomed as I was to such exposure, my faculties
began to grow numb and my eyes to shut, when suddenly Leo said--
"Look, below the red star!"
I looked, and there high in the sky was the same curious glow which we
had seen upon the previous night. There was more than this indeed, for
beneath it, almost on a line with us and just above the crests of the
intervening peaks, appeared a faint sheet of fire and revealed against
it, something black. Whilst we watched, the fire widened, spread
upwards and grew in power and intensity. Now against its flaming
background the black object became clearly visible, and lo! it was the
top of a soaring pillar surmounted by a loop. Yes, we could see its
every outline. It was the /crux ansata/, the Symbol of Life itself.
The symbol vanished, the fire sank. Again it blazed up more fiercely
than before and the loop appeared afresh, then once more disappeared.
A third time the fire shone, and with such intensity, that no
lightning could surpass its brilliance. All around the heavens were
lit up, and, through the black needle-shaped eye of the symbol, as
from the flare of a beacon, or the search-light of a ship, one fierce
ray shot across the sea of mountain tops and the spaces of the desert,
straight as an arrow to the lofty peak on which we lay. Yes, it lit
upon the snow, staining it red, and upon the wild, white faces of us
who watched, though to the right and left of us spread thick darkness.
My compass lay before me on the snow, and I could even see its needle;
and beyond us the shape of a white fox that had crept near, scenting
food. Then it was gone as swiftly as it came. Gone too were the symbol
and the veil of flame behind it, only the glow lingered a little on
the distant sky.
For awhile there was silence between us, then Leo said--
"Do you remember, Horace, when we lay upon the Rocking Stone where
/her/ cloak fell upon me--" as he said the words the breath caught in
his throat--"how the ray of light was sent to us in farewell, and to
show us a path of escape from the Place of Death? Now I think that it
has been sent again in greeting to point out the path to the Place of
Life where Ayesha dwells, whom we have lost awhile."
"It may be so," I answered shortly, for the matter was beyond speech
or argument, beyond wonder even. But I knew then, as I know now that
we were players in some mighty, predestined drama; that our parts were
written and we must speak them, as our path was prepared and we must
tread it to the end unknown. Fear and doubt were left behind, hope was
sunk in certainty; the fore-shadowing visions of the night had found
an actual fulfilment and the pitiful seed of the promise of her who
died, growing unseen through all the cruel, empty years, had come to
harvest.
No, we feared no more, not even when with the dawn rose the roaring
wind, through which we struggled down the mountain slopes, as it would
seem in peril of our lives at every step; not even as hour by hour we
fought our way onwards through the whirling snow-storm, that made us
deaf and blind. For we knew that those lives were charmed. We could
not see or hear, yet we were led. Clinging to the yak, we struggled
downward and homewards, till at length out of the turmoil and the
gloom its instinct brought us unharmed to the door of the monastery,
where the old abbot embraced us in his joy, and the monks put up
prayers of thanks. For they were sure that we must be dead. Through
such a storm, they said, no man had ever lived before.
It was still mid-winter, and oh! the awful weariness of those months
of waiting. In our hands was the key, yonder amongst those mountains
lay the door, but not yet might we set that key within its lock. For
between us and these stretched the great desert, where the snow rolled
like billows, and until that snow melted we dared not attempt its
passage. So we sat in the monastery, and schooled our hearts to
patience.
Still even to these frozen wilds of Central Asia spring comes at last.
One evening the air felt warm, and that night there were only a few
degrees of frost. The next the clouds banked up, and in the morning
not snow was falling from them, but rain, and we found the old monks
preparing their instruments of husbandry, as they said that the season
of sowing was at hand. For three days it rained, while the snows
melted before our eyes. On the fourth torrents of water were rushing
down the mountain and the desert was once more brown and bare, though
not for long, for within another week it was carpeted with flowers.
Then we knew that the time had come to start.
"But whither go you? Whither go you?" asked the old abbot in dismay.
"Are you not happy here? Do you not make great strides along the Path,
as may be known by your pious conversation? Is not everything that we
have your own? Oh! why would you leave us?"
"We are wanderers," we answered, "and when we see mountains in front
of us we must cross them."
Kou-en looked at us shrewdly, then asked--
"What do you seek beyond the mountains? And, my brethren, what merit
is gathered by hiding the truth from an old man, for such concealments
are separated from falsehoods but by the length of a single
barleycorn. Tell me, that at least my prayers may accompany you."
"Holy abbot," I said, "awhile ago yonder in the library you made a
certain confession to us."
"Oh! remind me not of it," he said, holding up his hands. "Why do you
wish to torment me?"
"Far be the thought from us, most kind friend and virtuous man," I
answered. "But, as it chances, your story is very much our own, and we
think that we have experience of this same priestess."
"Speak on," he said, much interested.
So I told him the outlines of our tale; for an hour or more I told it
while he sat opposite to us swaying his head like a tortoise and
saying nothing. At length it was done.
"Now," I added, "let the lamp of your wisdom shine upon our darkness.
Do you not find this story wondrous, or do you perchance think that we
are liars?"
"Brethren of the great monastery called the World," Kou-en answered
with his customary chuckle, "why should I think you liars who, from
the moment my eyes fell upon you, knew you to be true men? Moreover,
why should I hold this tale so very wondrous? You have but stumbled
upon the fringe of a truth with which we have been acquainted for
many, many ages.
"Because in a vision she showed you this monastery, and led you to a
spot beyond the mountains where she vanished, you hope that this woman
whom you saw die is re-incarnated yonder. Why not? In this there is
nothing impossible to those who are instructed in the truth, though
the lengthening of her last life was strange and contrary to
experience. Doubtless you will find her there as you expect, and
doubtless her /khama/, or identity, is the same as that which in some
earlier life of hers once brought me to sin.
"Only be not mistaken, she is no immortal; nothing is immortal. She is
but a being held back by her own pride, her own greatness if you will,
upon the path towards Nirvana. That pride will be humbled, as already
it has been humbled; that brow of majesty shall be sprinkled with the
dust of change and death, that sinful spirit must be purified by
sorrows and by separations. Brother Leo, if you win her, it will be
but to lose, and then the ladder must be reclimbed. Brother Holly, for
you as for me loss is our only gain, since thereby we are spared much
woe. Oh! bide here and pray with me. Why dash yourselves against a
rock? Why labour to pour water into a broken jar whence it must sink
into the sands of profitless experience, and there be wasted, whilst
you remain athirst?"
"Water makes the sand fertile," I answered. "Where water falls, life
comes, and sorrow is the seed of joy."
"Love is the law of life," broke in Leo; "without love there is no
life. I seek love that I may live. I believe that all these things are
ordained to an end which we do not know. Fate draws me on--I fulfil my
fate----"
"And do but delay your freedom. Yet I will not argue with you,
brother, who must follow your own road. See now, what has this woman,
this priestess of a false faith if she be so still, brought you in the
past? Once in another life, or so I understand your story, you were
sworn to a certain nature-goddess, who was named Isis, were you not,
and to her alone? Then a woman tempted you, and you fled with her
afar. And there what found you? The betrayed and avenging goddess who
slew you, or if not the goddess, one who had drunk of her wisdom and
was the minister of her vengeance. Having that wisdom this minister--
woman or evil spirit--refused to die because she had learned to love
you, but waited knowing that in your next life she would find you
again, as indeed she would have done more swiftly in Devachan had she
died without living on alone in so much misery. And she found you, and
she died, or seemed to die, and now she is re-born, as she must be,
and doubtless you will meet once more, and again there must come
misery. Oh! my friends, go not across the mountains; bide here with me
and lament your sins."
"Nay," answered Leo, "we are sworn to a tryst, and we do not break our
word."
"Then, brethren, go keep your tryst, and when you have reaped its
harvest think upon my sayings, for I am sure that the wine you crush
from the vintage of your desire will run red like blood, and that in
its drinking you shall find neither forgetfulness nor peace. Made
blind by a passion of which well I know the sting and power, you seek
to add a fair-faced evil to your lives, thinking that from this unity
there shall be born all knowledge and great joy.
"Rather should you desire to live alone in holiness until at length
your separate lives are merged and lost in the Good Unspeakable, the
eternal bliss that lies in the last Nothingness. Ah! you do not
believe me now; you shake your heads and smile; yet a day will dawn,
it may be after many incarnations, when you shall bow them in the dust
and weep, saying to me, 'Brother Kou-en, yours were the words of
wisdom, ours the deeds of foolishness;'" and with a deep sigh the old
man turned and left us.
"A cheerful faith, truly," said Leo, looking after him, "to dwell
through aeons in monotonous misery in order that consciousness may be
swallowed up at last in some void and formless abstraction called the
'Utter Peace.' I would rather take my share of a bad world and keep my
hope of a better. Also I do not think that he knows anything of Ayesha
and her destiny."
"So would I," I answered, "though perhaps he is right after all. Who
can tell? Moreover, what is the use of reasoning? Leo, we have no
choice; we follow our fate. To what that fate may lead us we shall
learn in due season."
Then we went to rest, for it was late, though I found little sleep
that night. The warnings of the ancient abbot, good and learned man as
he was, full also of ripe experience and of the foresighted wisdom
that is given to such as he, oppressed me deeply. He promised us
sorrow and bloodshed beyond the mountains, ending in death and
rebirths full of misery. Well, it might be so, but no approaching
sufferings could stay our feet. And even if they could, they should
not, since to see her face again I was ready to brave them all. And if
this was my case what must be that of Leo!
A strange theory that of Kou-en's, that Ayesha was the goddess in old
Egypt to whom Kallikrates was priest, or at the least her
representative. That the royal Amenartas, with whom he fled, seduced
him from the goddess to whom he was sworn. That this goddess incarnate
in Ayesha--or using the woman Ayesha and her passions as her
instruments--was avenged upon them both at Kor, and that there in an
after age the bolt she shot fell back upon her own head.
Well, I had often thought as much myself. Only I was sure that /She/
herself could be no actual divinity, though she might be a
manifestation of one, a priestess, a messenger, charged to work its
will, to avenge or to reward, and yet herself a human soul, with hopes
and passions to be satisfied, and a destiny to fulfil. In truth,
writing now, when all is past and done with, I find much to confirm me
in, and little to turn me from that theory, since life and powers of a
quality which are more than human do not alone suffice to make a soul
divine. On the other hand, however, it must be borne in mind that on
one occasion at any rate, Ayesha did undoubtedly suggest that in the
beginning she was "a daughter of Heaven," and that there were others,
notably the old Shaman Simbri, who seemed to take it for granted that
her origin was supernatural. But of all these things I hope to speak
in their season.
Meanwhile what lay beyond the mountains? Should we find her there who
held the sceptre and upon earth wielded the power of the outraged
Isis, and with her, that other woman who wrought the wrong? And if so,
would the dread, inhuman struggle reach its climax around the person
of the sinful priest? In a few months, a few days even, we might begin
to know.
Thrilled by this thought at length I fell asleep. _