The Temple of the Ten/Chapter 5

WENTY minutes after the last shot was fired, Sir Fandi Singh and five men came riding in at top speed, to find the temple already taken.

The ten priests had fallen to the last man; stripped of their jeweled insignia, they were consigned to a burial party at once, and a swift search of the temple was made. The half-dozen Mongolian hags who did the work of the place were confined closely in one of the rear chambers, for they could not be trusted. Except for these the temple was empty.

Traces of other inhabitants were found—gorgeous clothes and jewels of women, for example; one of the hags confessed that these women had been taken to the lake of singing fish the previous night. What this meant was clear enough. Many rifles of Russian and German make were found, with ammunition; and the store-room was filled with luxurious supplies of all descriptions. The main hall of the temple, the place of worship of the tribe, was gaudy with Buddhistic images, many of them the fine jeweled brasswork of Tibet.

“Where's Severn?” asked Kilgore suddenly, missing the scientist.

“Down below,” said Day. “Said he wanted to see the dromedaries. There's nothing else to see in that place.”

“Very well—post sentries and join us there, immediately.”

With Fandi Singh, Kilgore went to the lower chamber in which they had surprized the ten priests. Both men were calm enough. They had no doubt that what Severn had told them was correct—that the caravan had been destroyed by the Darkan tribe. They knew that the telepathic powers of the priests were remarkable, and it was true that only five novices had been with the caravan ambushed by Sir Fandi.

They found Severn standing over that singular stone table about which the ten priests had been assembled. He had lighted more candles, and the chamber was dimly illuminated. It seemed some ancient place of worship abandoned in favor of the upper hall, Chinese fashion; except for the table and chairs it contained only ten pillars spaced at intervals. But these pillars were remarkable.

The lower portions of thee pillars were shaped in the form of dromedaries or camels, nearly full size; from the humps ascended stone columns to support the roof. Each pillar had obviously been carved from the living rock, as had the chamber itself.

Severn glanced up excitedly as the two men entered, and raised his hand.

“Look! I want you to notice something—this table! It's been hewn out of the bare stone, you see? And note its position, here at one end of the place. Does that suggest anything to you?”

Kilgore and Sir Fandi shook their heads.

“Not a thing,” said the Canadian.

He produced half a dozen packets of English cigarets, procured from the store-room, and tossed them wearily on the table. Severn brushed them aside with a gesture of swift irritation.

“But look again—can't you see that this room is like a church? That this table stands in place of the altar—what was anciently a table indeed? And now look at the under side of it”

Severn lighted one of the candles, whose soft, pigmented wax stained his fingers a vivid scarlet. Unheeding, he lowered it to the floor. Kilgore, catching a spark of his ardor, came to his knees and looked up at the under side of the table. Sir Fandi, a grim smile under his beard, dropped into a chair and lighted a cigaret.

“Inscription,” grunted the Canadian, and rose. “Looks like Manchu and Chinese, what?”

“Mongol, also Chinese,” corrected Severn, a flush of excitement in his face. “The Mongol is well preserved—I've been copying it. I can read nearly all of it. Listen!”

Kilgore opened a box of cigarets and flung himself into a chair. Sir Fandi watched the American, still smiling, yet mildly curious despite himself. Severn clutched at the tabletop, reading there what he had copied and written on the stone with red wax:

“The period name is gone but we don't need it—this thing was built by Ung-khan in the sixth year, a year of the Yellow Rat, and was dedicated on the first day of the eleventh month, a day of the White Cock. Understand what that means? Do you understand? It's the most ancient Mongol inscription we have, of course, but the name Ung-khan and the titles! Here is the significant title, from the Chinese text—the word ngu-se-ta! It's a representation of the Persian ustad, which in turn rendered the Hebrew rab or rabbi.

“Now wait! Here Ung-khan calls himself ngu-se-ta, or teacher, of God, and also beloved of Buddha. He was a lama, but also a Christian—a not uncommon circumstance among the Tatars.”

“What of it?” demanded Kilgore, smiling at the earnestness of Severn.

“What of it? Good, man! It confirms the old supposition—this Ung-khan was not only a hereditary lama of the form of Buddhism then extant here, but he was also the teacher of God! The Nestorian monks, finding him a lama or priest, reported that John Presbuteros”

“Prester John!” exclaimed Kilgore, snapping to his feet. “D'you mean”

“We're in the church of Prester John this minute—and”

Day appeared in the doorway with a cool interruption.

“And we're likely to stay there a of a long time,” he cut in. “Gentlemen, we've found mighty little loot in this place. I don't like to cut in upon a scientific discussion, but two things interest me a sight more than relies; first is loot, and second is the getaway. Do you chaps know what we're up against?”

Obviously Day had been doing some thinking. He went on stubbornly:

“Esrun, whoever he is, seems to have all the loot—let it pass. But this same Esrun, blast him, is going to signal the five novices who jumped poor Sheng Wu to get here and go up against us with the tribe. We can't hold out here indefinitely. Our one best bet is to find this chap Esrun and find him quick! Get me?”

Sir Fandi assented mildly.

“Quite right, gentlemen. I propose we abandon archeology in favor of defense”

“Very well,” snapped Kilgore, sitting down. “Sir Fandi, your report?”

“All went off excellently,” returned the Rajput. “We bagged the caravan complete—it will arrive here before daylight. I rode on with five men, leaving six to bring the camels”

“Lost four men, eh? Dashed good work you lost no more, Fandi,” said Kilgore.

“That gives us a total force of twenty-one Sikhs. But go ahead—pardon me.”

“We found ten girls with the caravan—fifteen camels in all. We shot every man in the crowd; the girls were all Mongol or Chinese. No one escaped. But we saw no sign of any flocks or herds or villages in the farther valleys. Beyond doubt, the tribe has gone bodily upon some such errand”

“As the destruction of Sheng Wu and the caravan,” added Day bluntly.

Severn dropped into a chair and took a cigaret. He was badly shaken by the supreme excitement of his recent discovery—and yet he realized they must forget the past and face the future. Kilgore glanced around, his face grave.

“Day has hit the mark, lads! We broke off a seance here; therefore Esrun will guess at what's happened—whether he can pick our brains or not, I can't say. Odds are he will instruct the novices with the tribe to come here and finish us off. If he directs the campaign, we're in for it, should we stay here!

“I'll take first shot; then you fellows speak your minds. We have two courses open. We can take the supplies here, load up the camels in the caravan and those behind the temple, and we may get clear away. Or else we may remain. In that case we'll have first to fight the Darkan tribe, then all the Mongols within a hundred miles—and we'll have no hope of succor or aid. Question—fight or run, Sir Fandi?”

“By the sin of the sack of Chitor!” swore the lordly Rajput angrily. “Am I a thief to come and strike in the night, and then run? I stay!”

“Same here,” said Day. “Besides, we haven't any loot to speak of, yet.”

Severn nodded. Kilgore lighted a fresh cigaret and also nodded.

“Unanimous. We stay! Having decided to remain, shall we strike out in the morning, leaving this citadel of defense unguarded, to polish off Esrun?”

Severn spoke up.

“You know where this Esrun is?”

“No. Somewhere about the lake in the box cañon. We'll have to find him. Both Sir Fandi and I have seen the lake, but we've not explored it.”

“You think he is one man, alone?”

“We think so. We really know very little; but that is the supposition.”

“Very well.” Severn, now quite cool, smiled in his gentle fashion. “I am not a fighter. I am an investigator, an explorer. I will go to the lake and find Esrun”

“Accepted, but you shan't go alone,” snapped Kilgore. “It's a damnable place; the night mist off the lake is anesthetic in effect, and there are rifts among the rocks that go down to smoke and fire in the earth's heart. I suggest”

“I go,” said Sir Fandi, stroking at his beard complacently. “If Mr. Severn will accept me, I can guide him to the lake.”

“Gladly!” assented Severn.

“So proposed and carried,” hurried on Kilgore. “Now, what about these ten girls who'll get here at dawn? What can we do with 'em?”

“Give them rooms to themselves,” spoke up Day, “explain matters, and supply 'em with guns. Believe me, these yellow women can fight! I know.”

So the matter was arranged, and in five minutes the comrades-in-arms were seeking rest for the remainder of the night.

Severn slept fitfully; indeed, his brain was too excited by what he had discovered to readily admit of slumber. He was anxious to make an exact copy of that bilingual inscription in the table or altar. He admitted that his theory had been hasty and presented certain difficulties; yet it carried out the statements of Polo, Rubruk and the invariably authentic Abu'lfaraj.

In his mind's eye he could see the wandering Nestorians converting the Mongol chief, baptizing him Yuhanna, consenting to his retaining the dual role of Christian and lamaistic priest, and reporting to their Bagdad metropolitan that this John the presbyter—for so they would translate the word lama—was a convert. A sound theory, for the Nestorians had metropolitans through China and Turkestan, and so strong a church that the plan had even been put forward of the Christian Mongols coming from the east to join the Crusaders in the recovery of Palestine.

And this, then, was the church of Prester John! Severn fairly ached to go over every inch of the place, get measurements and rubbings, confirm his hasty theory by sound investigation—but now time pressed. There was other and more immediate work to his hand, and he must do it first. Personal safety came ahead of theories.

So gradually his riotous brain quieted, and he slept. Yet in his slumber came dreams—begotten, as Freud might declare, of the eager impulses so firmly checked and denied. He saw a strange withered figure, its face as the face of some ancient mummy, white locks ragged about the sunken eyes, and across the breast, in letters of fire, the Mongol name of Esrun. The figure reached one skinny hand and gripped him by the shoulder

“All out!” came the voice of Day. “Up, Severn! Breakfast and daybreak!”