PROLOGUE
Hugo Alexis Brentwood gave his assent to Agar Halfi, his right-hand man, to pitch their little camp by the side of the stream at the foot of the mountain. Just for one moment, the Hindoo looked at his master with half-closed eyes; his consent had been merely a mechanical inclination of the head, and Agar Halfi was quite sure that the Sahib was not listening.
Still, it was sufficient; such matters were always left in his hands, and really it was more a matter of form than anything else that he had asked. So without more ado he swiftly gave his orders to the half-dozen servants and carriers, and then busied himself in superintending the preparations for the evening meal. That, to his mind, was an important thing, for no man could work unless he were properly fed.
Meanwhile the leader of this small party leaned thoughtfully on his rifle and continued to gaze absently toward the western horizon, as though fascinated by the vivid sunset. He was in reality reviewing the past eight years of his life, spent in rough travel, and contemplating with some satisfaction the knowledge and experience which he had acquired thereby.
When he left England, those who knew him best—they were not many—regarded him as a man who, having given great promise as a psychologist, had discarded most Western theories, and side-tracked into occultism; which of course, from a Western scientific point of view, was mere superstition. His colleagues had put it down to the Eastern blood in him, concluding that his environment had not been strong enough to overcome his hereditary traits of mysticism.
But their point of view did not trouble him greatly. He had drawn his own conclusions, and having plenty of means at his disposal, had decided to make research, and gather facts for himself. His measure of success was more than he had hoped for; some of his theories he had proved up to the hilt; others had not been so satisfactory, but in any case, he now knew that psychology as understood by Western thought was a mere drop in the ocean, such a puny feeble creature, that it was a wonder it had any life at all.
Thus it was that at present he happened to be situated in wild Afghanistan, a country in which he had experienced many weird and strange things, not always to be found even by those who seek them.
At the present time he was not many days’ journey from the Persian border; and when at Herat, he had heard a lot of whispered talk concerning a cave in the mountains about forty miles further on. From what could be gathered, the place was stigmatised as haunted; but the people spoke of it as if half afraid to do so, and the information he could gather was meagre.
It appeared that at irregular intervals the lifeless bodies of people had been found there. This in itself was sufficient to give the place an evil repute, but it could hardly have accounted for the firmly implanted idea that the cave was under the influence of the Evil One. All the bodies had been mutilated in the same manner. In each case the throat had been torn as though with a sharp instrument; but the wound was a jagged one, such as no known weapon could inflict! No doubt it was this latter fact that caused the natives to condemn the cave as under the spell of the supernatural. At any rate, that was all he could get to know, so he had determined to go a little out of his direct course and examine the place.
It was the crackling of the fire and the clink of tin pots that brought him back to his present surroundings. It then immediately occurred to him that Agar Halfi had asked for orders to pitch camp. Remembering that, he turned his eyes to see what sort of a spot they were in, and after a cursory glance, nodded with approval.
The position selected by the Hindoo was a good one, being sheltered on two sides by the rocky base of the mountain which formed a right-angle, and flanked on a third side by a stream which bubbled swiftly down to the plains below in a northerly direction.
Satisfied, he took up his glasses and carefully surveyed the rugged Afghan landscape. At length his eyes rested on a portion of it which seemed to be of particular interest, for he looked at it long and steadily; then dropping his glasses, he gave a low exclamation of satisfaction. There could not be much doubt that this was the place he had set out to visit.
He was disturbed in his meditations by Agar Halfi informing him that supper was ready. Yawning, he slung his rifle on his back and stretched his tired limbs; then looking keenly at the wiry supple figure of the Hindoo, said:
“Agar Halfi, to-night we will rest; to-morrow you and I will visit yonder cave, and if there is a demon there, we will exorcise him.”
He laughed a little grimly as he spoke. He was barely thirty-five years old, and had not yet reached that age when men do not talk too confidently about those things which they have to tackle, however certain they may be of the issue. But there was some excuse for his confident tone. During his eight years’ sojourn, he had nearly always been successful in clearing up to his own satisfaction—if not always to the satisfaction of those concerned—the many weird cases that had come across his path, and he did not think then that a day would dawn when he would be baffled, and indeed narrowly escape with his life.
Agar Halfi—forty years if a day—shook his head gravely, and did not reply immediately. He was a mystic of the Eastern school, and once had been within the shadow of death, when probing too far into the mysteries of the underworld. There was a note of warning in his voice as he answered:
“Maybe, Sahib, we shall exorcise him, maybe not—maybe he will exorcise us! Who knows?”
A slight smile flitted across the white man’s handsome face at the Oriental’s quaint way of rebuking him, but it died almost immediately as on second thoughts he replied:
“True, my friend, you did well to chide me for my self-assurance. It is time experience of these things had taught me not to speak lightly of them. Still, let us eat and drink, then rest, or we shall be no more fit physically to do battle with this evil thing, than these poor natives are mentally.”
Saying which, he led the way to their rough repast, which they made mostly in silence, excepting for occasional question and answer regarding their equipment, their stores, and things in general. When they had finished, the explorer brought out a pipe, which he carefully filled, and lying back on his elbow, began to smoke. The Hindoo, who did not indulge in the narcotic weed, rose and went on his usual evening mission to see that all was well for the night. When he returned, he piled fresh fuel on the fire, and squatting down—Eastern fashion—sat staring at the flames.
Brentwood, smoking retrospectively, watched him lazily for a time. At last he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and stifling a yawn remarked:
“The worst of this sort of case is, that one can get so little information—has to take so much on trust.”
Without moving his eyes from the fire, the Oriental replied:
“That is true, Sahib—the fact is, ignorance strikes terror into the hearts of these poor devils, and they think that if they speak too loudly, or say too much, the hobgoblin will lay in wait for them.”
“Unfortunately that is so,” answered his companion. “Also unfortunately, it has been the means of putting us more than once into a very tight corner.”
The Hindoo grunted emphatically. “A man can only die once, Sahib, and he will not die until his time comes.”
“True, my friend, but he can precipitate his end by acting rashly.”
“Also true, Sahib, but then, his time has come,” replied Agar Halfi with finality.
Brentwood yawned again; he was too tired to argue upon those lines, so getting his blanket, he rolled himself up, and with a lazy “good-night” prepared to settle down.
But sleep did not come to his tired eyes; his active brain would not rest, and try as he would, he could not shake off a dim feeling of depression. At last he raised himself on his elbow, and looking across the fire at the set face of his companion, said:
“What do you make of this cave business, Agar Halfi?”
The Hindoo, who had not moved since he sat down, raised his head mechanically, and looked at the speaker with vacant eyes. He had the blank expression of the somnambulist, whose mind—occupied with the internal workings of the brain—is dead to external influences. At length the light broke into his eyes, just as if his soul—being at a distance—had heard a call, and returned swiftly to its house of clay.
“Ah, Sahib, the time is inopportune; evil directions of the stars work against you, and, as I said when at Herat, we should have done well to have forgotten this place.”
“You are pessimistic,” replied Brentwood, in a tone of slight irritation. “Even if the stars are against us, it does not follow that their rays are fatal or that we cannot overcome the trend of their influence. Surely, Agar Halfi, you are falling back to the old fatalistic fallacy of your people?”
The Oriental’s eyes flashed a little in the firelight, as he answered in his grave voice:
“Now for certain the Sahib knows that Agar Halfi is no fatalist; he eradicated that doctrine from his soul long ago. But although the evil directions of the stars may be overcome by the wise and the good, does my friend think that the way to counteract them is deliberately to walk into the danger zone?”
“Perhaps I am over-confident,” replied the other meditatively; “but then I think differently to you. My English blood gives me thoughts of which you are unconscious. It is quite possible that one may enter the danger zone and still overcome the opposing forces.”
The Hindoo slowly shook his head. “Is it wise to risk the jaws of the tiger, when you can kill him from a safe distance?”
“Still, Agar Halfi, for better or worse we are here now, and we will make a bold bid to uproot this mystery. Once again, what is your opinion about it?”
“That we shall not come to grips with it!” he answered bluntly.
At this retort, Brentwood sat upright and stared surprisedly at his companion, who returned his look steadily.
“Do you mean that we shall not succeed in this matter?”
“I shall be satisfied if we both escape with our lives!”
The explorer looked at him closely for some time, and his face grew stern as the thought flashed through his mind that possibly the Hindoo would like to shirk this task; but he discarded it almost as soon as it was born, and said quietly:
“Agar Halfi, I have known you ever since I set foot in India over eight years ago. Since then, we have travelled together constantly, and, during that period, I have never known you to shrink once. Speak, what is in your mind?”
“You say, Sahib, that you have never known Agar Halfi to shrink once; true, neither will he shrink now; but he knows that there are forces at work here which are more powerful than the Sahib thinks, and—well, friend Brentwood, we are not Mahatmas.”
A grim smile turned up the corners of the white man’s mouth.
“Well, suppose I take your advice and turn back now?”
“Why waste words, Sahib? You know you will not turn back.”
Brentwood laughed in a low voice.
“That is true, my friend—I shall not turn back.”
“Nor will Agar Halfi,” replied the other stolidly. “Where the Sahib goes his friend and servant will go also. For he remembers that once, when fleeing from the wrath of the priests, into whose secrets he had dared to look too deeply, a white man gave him refuge, food, and clothing, and saved his life. Some day, perhaps, Agar Halfi will repay that debt—who knows?”
A long silence followed the Hindoo’s last remarks, and they both looked at the fire, neither desiring to speak. At length the Oriental raised his hand, and said gravely:
“Listen, Sahib, and I will tell you a legend of these mountains.”
Brentwood inclined his head in assent, and the Hindoo continued:
“Far away in the bygone past, there once lived a wizard, who practised his rites under the shadow of one of the great Persian kings. This man was a very wise and good one, who lived a clean, upright life, and always strove to do his best to uplift the people of his country. So great was his power, and so well-beloved was he of the people, that they said he was the far-famed Zoroaster come back to earth again.
“He was strong and handsome, and though barely forty years of age, he had guided the councils of the king for many years with his wisdom, and they were close friends. But his life was not fated to be a smooth one, indeed it was to end in pitiful tragedy.
“Now there resided in the palace a sister of the king, who was a sorceress. Through her brother, she wished to rule the kingdom, and no doubt would have done so but that the power of the wizard barred the way. Several times had she tried to thwart him, but her arts and spells were impotent against the white magic which he used. She was evil as well as beautiful, this sister of the king, and, in her great jealousy, she determined to encompass the downfall of the one man who stood in the way of her ambition.
“One day she made excuse to her brother the king, saying that she wished to retire for a period from the court, in order to seek solitude to enable her to gain strength in the magical arts. She obtained his consent, and for a whole month no one saw nor heard of her. What happened during that period is not written, but when she came back she had changed. There was more magnetism in her eye, more subtle power in her voice, and, what was more, she returned not alone! Dwelling in her private chamber which she used for magical ritual was a familiar demon, in the form of a huge vulture-like roc, that had evil gleaming eyes, and followed her about like a shadow. Such, Sahib, had been the fruits of her sojourn in the wilderness.
“With the aid of the familiar, the sorceress found means to enforce her wicked will. She caused the wizard to fall in love with her, knowing that thus she would deprive him of his control of powers which enabled him to hold his high station. At first, being long estranged from things of the flesh, he resisted the influence; but gradually the spell worked into his system, and at last he fell a victim to the passion she had created in him.
“Now she knew that his doom was sealed, that she had him in her grasp. Gradually his control left him, he lost his power and fell into disgrace. Too late he realised that he had been duped. In the bitterness of his downfall he changed visibly; black evil rose up in his heart, and he craved for revenge.
“But in the midst of her triumph the sorceress was to taste the bitter cup. Unwittingly she had wrought her own ruin, for, in making the wizard fall in love with her, she had discovered too late that she really and truly loved him. Now she could not undo the spell she had set in motion, and things must perforce take their course.
“One night, longing to see him, she sent a message asking him to meet her alone. That was just what the man wanted—an opportunity—and while he said he would come, he wondered at her rashness. They met, and so great was her passion for him, that she forgot all else; but revenge was uppermost in the wizard’s heart, and he strangled her. Then he fled across the border to these mountains, where he knew he would be safe from the pursuit and vengeance of her brother the king. Safe indeed was he on that score, but he reckoned without the power of the Evil One with whom the sorceress had made the compact in the wilderness. The Master of Evil had not cast his nets in vain.
“One morning, just before the dawn, the wizard awoke in his cave, with the uncomfortable feeling that he was not alone, that another presence was near him. As he opened his eyes, he saw dimly outlined the shape of a great bird, perched on one of the rocks, staring triumphantly at him with malignant eyes.
“He trembled with fear, for he realised now that his doom was sealed; that his time had come. With a hoarse, chuckling shriek the monster drew near to him. He tried to rise, but the power of the demon embodied in that dreadful shape held him terror-stricken. Nearer and nearer it drew, its cruel merciless eyes gloating over the hideous work it was about to perform.
“At length it reached him. There was a terrible cry as of one in the death throes, followed by a horrid mocking laugh, and all was silent.”
Agar Halfi paused, then continued:
“Such, Sahib, is the legend of these mountains, that has been handed down in the mystic schools of the East, and it is said that the soul of the sorceress haunts the caves, seeking her lover. At these periods her familiar appears in the form of the roc, and kills human beings who are unfortunate enough to come within the zone of its evil influence. And this will go on, until sometime in the dim future—as it is said—the wizard will again come to earth, and slay the demon which was let loose from the world of darkness by the sorceress. Then, and not till then, will these two unfortunates be released from their earth-bound condition, and be able to unite once more on the higher planes of the spiritual spheres.”
Brentwood sat silent for a while, thinking, and the Hindoo relapsed into himself again, his eyes fixed absently on the fire.
When the explorer spoke it was in a subdued tone:
“That sounds very much like the antics of the hobgoblin we have come to lay, Agar Halfi?”
The Hindoo shrugged his shoulders, which was characteristic of him; beyond that he gave no reply.
At length the explorer settled himself down once more, and this time he slept. Little did he know what would transpire before the sun rose over the eastern rim. Far less did he guess that he would never set foot in the cave he had come to explore, or of the manner in which they would meet the hobgoblin they had set forth to lay.
For a time Agar Halfi sat motionless, staring into the flames. He was far from easy. He knew that his companion was liable to a violent end from weird and unnatural causes, under the influence of the evil directions from the planet Neptune, which were now beginning to operate in his life. Particularly was this so at the periods of the conjunction and opposition of the lights in the angles, and this very midnight they would be conjoined in the north angle, below the earth!
What could have possessed the Sahib that he should court danger at such a period? He shook his head gloomily. It would have been well, as he had said, if the explorer had forgotten the existence of this place. Moreover, he felt that a powerful influence was around, over which he had no control, and there was something sinister in the atmosphere, like the deadly silence that foreshadows the tropical storm.
The Hindoo had determined that sleep should not close his eyes that night. He knew instinctively, as well as from experience, that evils of this kind struck at the moment when least expected, and that, when the world was wrapped heaviest in sleep, just before the dawn. Yes, he would remain on guard through the night, and prepare for an attack, as far as he was able. To his mind there was no question that instead of being hunted, the evil—whatever it was, and he had made a good guess as to that—was going to hunt them! How far in his judgment he was wrong, subsequent events will show.
Moving quietly, he deftly drew the signet ring from the little finger of the sleeper’s right hand, and, resuming his seat, began to slowly roll it between his palms, while, in a subdued voice, he chanted strange words. With his eyes staring fixedly at the fire, he continued this curious ritual for nearly fifteen minutes, and then, extracting a small packet from the bosom of his garment, he carefully emptied some of the contents into the fire.
For some seconds a thin, straight column of dark green smoke ascended into the air. Then it burst into lurid flame, the tongues of which darted fiercely outward, enveloping the man in a blaze of light. Agar Halfi never moved, but continued to chant in a monotonous tone, still rolling the ring in his hands. Gradually the flames sank back, and the fire resumed its normal proportions. Then, and not till then, did he cease his ritual.
For a moment he glanced at his sleeping companion, then stealthily replaced the ring without disturbing him. Building up the fire afresh, he had one look around to see that all was right, and settled down to his night watch.
How long Agar Halfi sat thus he did not know; for the very thing happened which he had determined to prevent—he slept. The next thing he remembered was being wide awake, staring into the darkness. The fire had sunk low, and it must have been somewhere near the dawn.
He had a dim idea that some sound had awakened him, and while he sat trying to recollect it, his eyes rested on the sleeping form of the explorer. He looked at him mechanically for a moment, then suddenly he noticed that his face was not a natural colour; it had a pale, greyish hue, and the features were drawn as though in suffering.
The Hindoo moved, with the intention of rising and going over to examine him; there was something which was not quite as it should be. He had, however, hardly reached his feet when a horrible chuckling sound, which made his flesh creep, caused him to turn quickly, his hand on his yataghan. Nothing? He could have sworn that he saw a huge dark shadow receding into the night. He looked keenly into the gloom, trying to follow it, when once more that uncanny sound caught his ear, causing his gorge to rise, and this time it subconsciously awoke some dim memory in his mind. But that had no time to come to the surface, for immediate action was required. The cry came again as if from behind him. He faced around, and this time there could not be any doubt about it; a monstrous shape was hovering over the sleeping white man, who lay with his left arm outstretched, as if to ward something off, and his right hand firmly grasping his throat, while a look of intense horror transfixed his countenance.
Agar Halfi stood as though paralysed, his eyes riveted on the scene, and great drops of perspiration broke out all over him. Surely, he thought, the evil death is upon us? Then a faint hope began to filter into his mind—the Fire Charm which he had wrought! Ah, but would it avail? He could only wait in mute agony and see, some unknown force held him impotent; he could not move.
Look! A great shadowy beak, beneath two awful orbs, was slowly drawing near to the explorer’s throat. The Hindoo shook in his fear, as he helplessly waited for the end. He had resigned himself to the inevitable, when once again that horrible chuckle smote his ear, this time swelling into a hideous screech, half-laugh, of baffled rage, dying away into a plaintive wail.
Then the spell broke; the shadowy shape seemed to melt into thin air. With shaking limbs Agar Halfi stepped across the dying fire, and, dropping on his knees, gazed into the death-like features of his companion. He moved the right hand from the unconscious man’s throat, and started back in amazement. Across it was a jagged blood-red line, but no blood flowed from it. Surely, thought the Hindoo, this is the evil of the legend! And as he gazed horror-stricken, the first faint shafts of sunlight heralded the coming dawn.