Page:Weird Tales Volume 10 Number 6 (1927-12).djvu/14

 counted domes and pinnacles of prodigious Atlanâat; we have seen the incredible bulk of Angkor towering above the jungles of Siam; within the red walls of holy Marrakesh we have been the friends of princes, and in Khotan the khan esteems us."

"And what do we seek?"

"Who knows what we seek, saidi? In the tombs of the Kings of Pegu we found cool, unblinking sapphires, and great rubies that smoldered like the embers of a plundered city; and in far-off Java, in mysterious Borabador we found gold that ancient smiths had tormented into odd shapes for the pleasure of forgotten princes. Lost and obscure lands have disgorged treasures to us, who knew not what we sought, and cared not for what we found."

"And where are we going, Haaji?"

"Where the will of Allah leads us, in search of we know not what. And who am I to know more?" concluded the old man with finality, as one coming to the end of a lesson well recited.

"In search of I know not what, to be found I know not where," murmured Landon to himself.

"Saidi," began the pilgrim, "there is something which you seek. Can you not trust your servant? Have I not served you well?"

"Well and faithfully, Ismeddin," replied Landon. "What do I seek? What does anyone seek who wanders over the earth?"

"But you have nothing to seek, master. You are wealthy beyond reckoning; you have seen war and adventure; in Herat you have a palace and the daughter of an emir; and the princes of Asia are your friends, from holy Marrakesh to Turkestan. Tell me, saidi," persisted the old man.

"Very well then, Ismeddin! I am on the trail of a phantom. A vision, a legend, an apparition whose traces I have found everywhere, whose presence I have found nowhere. And what I have in Herat of the Hundred Gardens is not enough for me. To say more would be madness. Now bring me my journal, Haaji, and then inspect the sentries. Remember, a hundred lashes for any who sleep on post tonight."

When Ismeddin left, Landon devoted himself to his journal, writing of Mosul, and the mound of Koyunjik, in whose base were the ruins of palaces, and the monstrous effigies of winged bulls whose human heads wore long curled beards, and were crowned with tall miters: solemn, awful images which archeologists had not been able to induce their laborers to disturb. And he regarded with curiosity the clay tablets he had found in the rubbish of the excavations that afternoon: tablets of sun-dried clay, inscribed with cuneiform characters and stamped with seals among whose devices he recognized the Tree of Life. But he could not name the king who knelt and worshiped a woman mounted on a lion.

Three clay tablets. All that remained of lofty walls and great palaces and high towers; three clay tablets, and the solemn winged bulls.

It was most unlikely that anyone could have passed the outposts and the encampment as well. And yet Landon sensed a presence. He glanced over his shoulder; moved away from the wall of the pavilion; resumed the writing of his journal; arose from his work, made a circuit of the pavilion, re-entered, and returned to his task.

The thump-thump of an atabal rolled up from the encampment; and then came a monotonous, guttural chant, and the beating of hands and the stamping of feet in unison. His men were diverting themselves with unsavory songs, to whose cadence one of their number burlesqued the steps of a Cairene dancing girl.

Presence, indeed! What if Ismeddin had seen the master glancing