Chapter II: Old John Wrexham’s Diary

_20th Jany. 1822_

I wonder if any one who read these lines would ever believe that I,
John Wrexham, am writing naught but the sober truth. When I think
over the events of the last month, it seems to me as if it were all a
wild dream fantasy. And yet....

Islam Akhun’s story of a king and his army engulfed in the sands
and of the buried cities set me wandering, and lo! the city seems
to be there after all these hundreds of years, and I, John Wrexham,
am the first to have seen its gates. Or, stay, after what I saw in
the valley, perhaps it were more true to say the first living man,
for others less fortunate than myself would seem to have reached the
entrance to the Gates, to find them only the Gates of Death.

But I must stop me musing, and set down the bare happenings ere my
memory plays me tricks and fever come on anew.

It was the 2d December that I conceived my ill-fated trip, at least
it was ill-fated for Islam and Arslan Bai. Was it ill-fated for me?
Time alone can tell.

Northeast they pointed over the wastes of sand, and said that many
days out into the desert lay a buried city, rich with treasures,
in whose streets you might walk as though men left them yestereve,
and gather up riches if you could but escape from the wiles of the
spirits that guarded them, spirits that called you by name and bade
you stay.

No; they had never seen it, but in their grandfather’s father’s time,
one man, a treasure-seeker, one of the idle ne’er-do-wells that haunt
the villages fringing the waste sands, had gone out with other two
into the deserts in search of treasure, hoping perchance to gather in
a few days wealth beyond the wildest dreams.

Many days later he returned, a ragged skeleton, gaunt eyes and
blackened lips, nigh dead with thirst and fever. He died that night,
and ere he died, close to the road where the story-tellers found him,
he babbled a little of a gate, of armed men, of death.

None ever followed his quest: there are too many tales of hidden
cities and treasures all up and down this sunburnt land, and men
still fear the trackless deserts, as they did when Messer Marco Polo
traversed the desert of Lop, ‘so great that ’tis said it would take
a year and more to ride from one end of it to the other....’ And
still talk they of the spirits that Polo mentions in his travels,
which beguile men from their caravans and leave them to perish in the
sands, so that ‘in making this journey ’tis customary for travellers
to keep close together.’

What was it that stirred my mind, so that all night long, when men
and beasts lay sleeping, I sat wrapt in my furs in the cold wind
gazing out to the northeast pondering? Was it chance? Was it fate?
I know not, nor shall ever know, perhaps. But, ere the false dawn’s
faint light pearled the sky above me, I had made up my mind that,
come what might, I, too, would face the desert and see whether it
would reveal its secrets, or remain inscrutably mocking to the end.

Perchance my men thought I had been maddened by these same spirits
when, next day, instead of continuing our road, I said I had changed
my mind and wished to voyage northeast into the desert.

At first they refused to come, but finally, after much persuasion,
they agreed on my promise that when half our water was used we would
retrace our steps if naught had been found. The reward I spoke of,
the chance of hidden wealth, and the guarantee of return ere our
water failed, just outweighed their fears of the unknown desert of
death, and of the spirits of evil that roamed in it.

Even then only Islam and Arslan would accompany me. But, indeed, I
preferred a small party, since it was the less water to take. The
others of our party and some of my gear we left to await our return.
Not till the 11th December did we set forth--three men and three
camels, one laden with food and gear, and two with skins of water.

Our way at first was easy, over sand-dunes of no immense height,
though growing as we went, and we covered sixty miles in the first
four days. Nothing to see but sand, sand, sand, trackless and rippled
as the wild ocean’s wave. Since I possessed neither map nor guide,
I marched by compass, as might a sailor in an uncharted sea. Due
northeast from our starting-point was the direction I chose. The old
Chinese road lay southeast, and the men spoke of a track that led
northward, so that our route midway between the two should bring us
into the desert’s heart.

It was on the evening of the fourth day that, far off on the
northeast horizon I remarked what seemed like some faint cloud
hanging in the sky. After looking at it through my glass, I pointed
it out to Islam, saying, “Snow,” but he insisted it was but cloud.

But next evening again we beheld it, the same form, the same
direction, and not a cloud beside in all the brazen sky.

Far mountain beyond a doubt. If there were no hidden cities, there
were at least strange hills, and snow hills must mean water. Even
Islam agreed now, though I saw he would liefer have found his city of
gold than all the snow hills of wild Asia.

We pressed on, and on the evening of the sixth day, as the sun was
sinking to his rest, perceived what I had sought all day in vain, the
faint lilac haze below the white that I have noted marks always the
lower hills below high snow.

The dunes were now greatly higher and more formidable, curved
half-moons of sand, most wearisome to the legs, and the camels showed
their distress from lack of water, since our scanty stock permitted
but a mouthful for the beasts.

On the eighth day the snow-peak gleamed more clearly, and in the
light of evening the low hills showed sharp and clear maybe a bare
thirty miles away.

Never a sign of water so far, and I thanked Providence greatly that
we had made sixteen days’ provision, though by now I felt assured
that we should discover some at the foot of the hills. The next three
days to the hills were in great measure easier, the dunes were daily
lower, but we had perforce to give part of our water to the camels.

On the evening of the eleventh day we reached the foot of the hills,
and then, alas! the foreboding that all day had clung to me was
realized. The wall of hills was, indeed, a wall, almost sheer scarped
cliff like the sides of an old Indian hill-fort, and many hundred
feet high, with naught at foot but a short slope of tumbled rock
half-buried in sand.

That night we camped below the gloomy cliffs, and I held that our
earliest preoccupation in the morning must be to seek water along
the foot. Surely somewhere the melting snow must find its way down,
unless it drained to the northward.

Next morning we travelled twelve or thirteen miles, always under
sheer scarped cliff, never a drop of water, never a sign of slope
that we might climb. We moved eastward, since from far off it had
seemed to me that the cliffs were lower that way. We had now but four
days’ scanty water left, and the heat of the desert, even at this
cold season, was causing some loss by sweating through the skins in
which we carried it.

Islam prayed me to start back forthwith making forced marches, but
I was sure that water was to be found. Arslan, moreover, said that
unless the camels could be fully watered they would die in the
desert, and with them we also should perish, leaving our bones to
whiten in the wastes of sand.

So next day again we started early, and all day travelled below the
unfriendly cliffs, but never finding water, until late in the evening
the camels, which till now had been barely able to drag their lank
limbs along, quickened their dragging pace; and presently Islam, who
was on ahead, called out loudly to me.

I hastened on to where he stood on a high rock, and saw before me a
narrow valley opening into the cliff, and in the bed of the valley a
little stream of clear water, and men and beasts drank their fill.

The cleft at whose dark mouth we stood was narrow, a bare twenty
paces wide, and with the same scarped sides of incredible height. It
wound away into the cliff, already partly hidden in the evening dusk,
though where we stood was yet lit with the sun’s last rays.

Reassured now by our find of water, we settled us down for the night,
and in the morning refilled all water-skins. The dawn light showed
a few stunted bushes and a dwarf tree or two, but no sign of human
beings.

Leaving Arslan to tend the beasts, which found some scant grazing in
the valley entrance, and taking Islam with me, I set about exploring
the cleft. It got more and more narrow and darker and darker, until,
after some three miles, we could touch the sides of smooth rock with
our outstretched hands, but never, never a place that a man might
climb. The cold was intense in this dark confined slit that knew the
warm sun but for a brief space each day.

Then, rounding a sudden corner, came we to the end. The narrow valley
opened upon a circus perhaps two hundred paces in diameter, sheer
cliffs around it. But oh! the wonder of that evil place.

The valley closed again, and there before us, carved at the foot of
the towering rock, was a gateway of old fashion with an inscription
and a design of serpents upon it.

But even more strange was the ground at our feet. For it was covered
with bones of men.

The bones were clean and white, and maybe old. But as we stood there
concealed in the narrow cleft, there was a rush above us and a great
white-necked vulture swept out from the cliff above, and then another
and then another, circling down and down on their wide outstretched
pinions.

We drew farther back into the shelter of the rock, thinking,
perchance, they were spying us after the fashion these birds have in
desert places where life is scarce, waiting on life for death to come.

But no, instead they fluttered down on the farther side, and gathered
in ill-omened circle about something. Islam plucked my sleeve. “Come
away, quick! Come away! ’Tis a place of ill-omen; these be spirits
more like than birds.”

But my curiosity was awakened, and, shaking him off, I advanced. As
I got close the vultures flapped heavily away, and I saw what their
foul wings had hidden. It was a man’s body, of recent date, with no
signs of death’s grim decay, and the birds had not yet had time to
disfigure it, so that I could see clearly what manner of man he was.
A young man but--_white_--as white as I am. And of the manner of his
death there was no doubt, for driven through his throat was an arrow,
and below him on the ground was a pool of blood which had not yet
dried, for when I tried to move him to see his hands it showed wet
still.

I say his hands, for he lay stretched face upwards, but with his arms
twisted under him, and then I perceived that his hands were bound
behind him.

There were no clothes to show what class of person he had been;
whoever had slain him had stripped off all he had.

I considered him with care. Features clear-cut like a statue of
old time, with short dark-brown curls. Then I noticed the arrow.
Black-shafted and steel-barbed, with white marks upon the shaft.
Writing surely in some strange tongue.

Islam by now had recovered a little of his courage and came over, but
just as he reached me a sudden sound above us caused us to fly in
unreasoning panic to the cleft whence we had emerged. It was but one
of the heavy flying vultures, but it was some time ere we breathed
easily again.

I stared out once more over the evil-smelling place of stone and sand
and bone, dazzling white in the sun between the walls of black rock.
Over against us the gateway loomed sinister and silent. The great
stone portals were closed, nor were there windows, save on either
side some arrow-slits as of an archer’s gallery cut in the rock.

“Let us go,” said Islam, “before we also are slain. Whoever killed
that yonder must be within the gates.”

But curiosity was stronger in me at that moment than fear.

“Stay you here, Islam,” I said, “and if aught moves at the gate be
ready to shoot.” He was fumbling with his old matchlock.

Then, despite his appeals, I returned to the body with eyes fixed on
the arrow-slits, ready to flee at sight or sound. But nothing moved
nor stirred.

I studied the arrow again, and then tried to pull it out. It was of
unfamiliar type, and might give the key to much. But I could not draw
it forth, and so was forced to put my knee upon the dead man’s chest,
when presently, with some exertion of strength, I pulled it through.
It had been shot from behind, and, entering to one side of the spine,
stood out a foot and more beyond the throat.

As I stood holding it in my hand there was a crash like thunder, and
I leapt across the open space like a deer to the cloud of smoke where
Islam crouched behind a rock holding his smoking piece.

“Something moved in that slit,” he gasped, and turned to flee.

Discretion seemed the better part of valour, and I followed him down
the narrow waterway, splashing through the little pools, leaping from
stone to stone.

But still I wonder whether he truly saw anything, or if his fancies
overcame him.

By the entrance we found Arslan, who had heard not the shot,
peacefully preparing food by the camels.

Islam contrived to scare him into the same unreasoning frame of mind
as himself. Although I desired much to remain, there was no staying
them, nor could I continue there by myself. Also, there was some
reason, doubtless, in their arguments, three men against a savage
tribe; ’twas poor odds in our favour. Speedily we roped up our
gear and once more set out across the desert, as I judged, in the
direction whence we had come.

Ploughing through the sand, I pondered over the events of the
morning, but nothing could I understand. Of one thing alone I was
assured, that the dead man was of some people I had never met in
Asia. There are fair-skinned people a many there, but none to compare
with him I had seen. Could he, perchance, have been a European? But
had such a one been in the country, I must surely have heard of him.
Save for myself, no European had been known up there.

When we halted that night, I studied the lettered arrow again, for
the lettering seemed familiar. Finally, I recognized the unfamiliar
script--the letters were Greek. My studies had long since fled, but
there was no mistaking some of the letters, for not knowing the which
my father had ofttimes caned me. I was clear bewildered by now. What
folk could these be in the heart of the great desert with arrows
lettered in Greek?

As I write, the arrow is by me, sole token of my journey, sole
witness of my tale.

The men were very silent that night, and their one thought seemed to
be to put as many miles of sand as possible between themselves and
the ill-omened cliff that faded behind us against the darkling sky.

Next day we started at dawn, and, as the light grew, I noticed that
here and there among the sand-dunes were rock outcrops, which we had
not seen coming. But the little stream had disappeared in the thirsty
sand when we had gone a dozen miles, and once again there was no
water save what the camels carried.

It was on the second evening that misfortune showed her ugly head.
Arslan was troubled concerning one of the camels which paced very
slowly. That night it refused the oil and the handful of grain we
gave it, and laid its head on the sand, as these beasts do when they
are sick.

The next morning it could scarcely walk, and ere evening it died.
Here was, indeed, a serious loss, since we must part with either our
gear or much of our water.

However, we reckoned that we had a sufficiency of water. The skins
had been refilled ere we left the hills, and we had been but twelve
days coming, while we had still thirteen days’ supply. Even though
our present route were somewhat longer, we should reach the main road
in another ten days, eleven at most.

So, next morning, abandoning the dead camel and its load, we started
on again. The wind, which had hitherto been little, freshened, and
ere midday we were in the midst of a blinding sandstorm, and, though
it cleared by evening, we covered but a few miles.

That day the second camel sickened, and within two days was dead.
Thus were we forced to abandon the most of our gear. With naught save
the scantiest food for ourselves and some powder and ball, we could
just load enough water for seven days on the camel. By the evening of
the seventh day we should surely reach the old Chinese road.

But once more sandstorms delayed us. Then two days later our last
camel sickened. We dragged it along all next day, but it died that
evening.

I calculated that we were now not much more than forty miles from the
road. There was nothing for it but to take as much water as each man
could carry in a goatskin, with a scanty ration of food, abandon our
gear, and plod on.

Whether it was that something had affected my compass, or whether in
the sandstorms my computation of distance was inaccurate, I cannot
say, but after traversing another thirty miles there was but a cupful
of water left, and nothing in front but sand-dunes--high ones--a bad
sign, since toward the desert’s edge they grow lower.

The rest of the journey was a nightmare that I cannot write. Arlsan
went mad and refused to move, so that we had perforce to leave him
while we struggled on seeking water and help. Two days later Islam
collapsed, and I pushed on alone, and at dawn found myself among
trees and fainted. When I came to, I found a wandering shepherd
pouring water on my face.

When I was somewhat recovered, I had vast difficulty in getting him
and his friends to come with me to search for Islam, but at last the
sight of my money persuaded them. Following my tracks (by great good
fortune the wind had dropped), we found Islam still breathing, but
unconscious. Whether he was already weakly I cannot say, or whether
the prolonged strain had been too much for him I know not, but he
never recovered consciousness, and died that night. I could not
induce them to go any farther, nor, indeed, was there any possibility
of finding Arslan alive.

I made my way back westward, and found that I had reached the road
seventy miles from where we had set out, which accounted for the
extra length of our journey. I picked up my other men and the rest of
my gear. Since Islam and Arslan were dead, I said naught to any man
of our adventures beyond our failure to discover any ruined city, and
our terrible journey back.

Some day I hope to go back and find out the secret of those unknown
hills, but for the moment I feel drawn once more to look upon my kith
and kin, and I shall make my way back to India and refit.

Wrexham closed the ragged diary and looked up. “Well,” he said in his deliberate way, “and that is what I call the ‘once,’ which is nothing. When I’ve had a drink, I’ll tell you about ‘twice,’ which, according to the expert, is merely coincidence. Manœuvre the whiskey, will you, Alec?”

Forsyth got up and opened the bottle and some sodas.

“Your old great-great-uncle either ought to have been a journalist, or else he found something d----d quaint. Have you got the arrow at home?”

“No. I suppose it was stolen from his kit. He evidently had it with him all right, unless, as my great-grandfather seemed to think, he invented the whole yarn under the influence of fever.”

I filled my glass. “It’s the queerest tale I’ve heard for years. Of course, all deserts are full of fables, and I remember reading of the one your great-great-uncle mentions of the king and his army who were buried in the sand.”

Wrexham sipped his drink. “Well, now, I’ll get on with the second part, which is where I come in.”