 Dedication, author's note, and introduction of Asha to the return of she. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Dedication, my dear Lang. The appointed years alas, how many of them are gone by, they mean Asha lovely and loving and ourselves alive. As it was promised in the caves of Kor she has returned again. To you therefore who accepted the first, I offer this further history of one of the various incarnations of that immortal. My hope is that after you have read her record, notwithstanding her subtleties and sins and the shortcomings of her chronicler, no easy office, that you may continue to wear your chain of loyalty to our Lady Asha. Such I confess is still the fate of your old friend, H. Reiter Haggard, Diggingham 1905. Notwith the view of conciliating those readers who on principle object to sequels, but as a matter of fact, the author wishes to say that he does not so regard this book. Rather does he venture to ask that it should be considered as the conclusion of an imaginative tragedy, if he may so call it, whereof one half has already been published. This conclusion, it was always his desire to write, should he be destined to live through those many years which an obedience to his original design must be allowed to lapse between the events of the first and the second parts of the Romance. In response to many inquiries, he may add that the name Asha, which since the days of the Prophet Muhammad, who had a wife so called, and perhaps before them, has been common in the East, should be pronounced Asha. Introduction Therely and indeed, it is the unexpected that happens, probably if there was one person upon the earth from whom the editor of this, and of a certain previous history, did not expect to hear again, that person was Ludwig Boris Holly. This too for a good reason, he believed him to have taken his departure from the earth. When Mr. Holly last wrote, many many years ago, it was to transmit the manic script of she, and to announce that he and his ward, Leo Vinci, the beloved of the Divine Asha, are about to travel to Central Asia in the hope, I suppose, that there she would fulfill her promise and appear to them again. Often I have wondered idly enough what happened to them there, whether they were dead or perhaps drowning their lives away as monks in some Tibetan Lama-series, or studying magic and practicing Asedicism under the tuition of the Eastern Masters, trusting that thus they would build a bridge by which they might pass to the side of their adored immortal. Now at length, when I had not thought of them for months, without a single warning sign out of the blue as it were, comes the answer to these wonderings. To think only to think that I, the editor aforesaid from its appearance suspecting something quite familiar and without interest pushed aside that dingy unregistered brown paper parcel directed in an unknown hand, and for two old days let it lie forgotten. Indeed there it might be lying now, had not another person been moved to curiosity, and opening it found within a bundle of manuscript badly burned upon the back, and with these two letters addressed to myself. Although so great a time had passed since I saw it, and it was shaking now because of the author's age or sickness, I knew the writing at once. Nobody ever made an age with that peculiar twirl under it except Mr. Holly. I tore open the sealed envelope, and sure enough the first thing my eye fell upon was the signature L.H. Holly. It is long since I read anything so eagerly as I did that letter. Here it is. My dear sir, I have ascertained that you still live, and strange to say I still live also for a little while. As soon as I came in to touch with civilization again I found a copy of your book Shee, or rather of my book, and read it. First of all in a Hindustani translation. My host, he was a minister of some religious body, a man of worthy but prosaic mind, expressed the prize that a wild romance should absorb me so much. I answered that those who have wide experience of the hard facts of life often find interest in romance. Had he known what were the hard facts to which I alluded, I wondered what that excellent person would have said. I see that you carried out your part of the business well and faithfully. Every instruction has been obeyed, nothing has been added or taken away. Therefore to you, to whom some twenty years ago I entrusted the beginning of the history, I wish to entrust its end also. We were the first to learn if she must be obeyed, who from century to century sat alone, clothed with unchanging loveliness from the sepulchres of core, waiting till her lost love was born again, and destiny brought him back to her. It is right, therefore, that you should be the first to learn also of Asha, Asiya, and the spirit of the mountain. The priestess of that oracle which sends the time of Alexander the Great has reigned between the flaming pillars in the sanctuary, the last holder of the scepter of Hesse or Isis upon the earth. It is right also that to you, first among men, I should reveal the mystic consummation of the wondrous tragedy which began at core, upper chance far earlier in Egypt and elsewhere. I am very ill, I have struggled back to this old house of mine to die, and my end is at hand. I have asked the doctor here, after all is over, to send you the record. That is unless I change my mind and burn it first. You will also receive, if you receive anything at all, a case containing several rough sketches which may be of use to you, and a system, the instrument that has always been used in the worship of the nature goddess of the Old Egyptians, Isis and Hathor, which you will see is as beautiful as it is ancient. I give it to you for two reasons, as a token of my gratitude and regard, and as the only piece of evidence that is left to me of the literal truth of what I have written in the accompanying manuscript, where you will find it often mentioned. You will also value it as a souvenir, I suppose, the strangest and loveliest being of whoever was or rather is. It was her scepter, the rod of her power, with which I saw her salute the shadows in the sanctuary, and her gift to me. It has virtues also, some part of Asha's might yet haunts the symbol to which even spirits bow, but if you should discover them, beware how they are used. I have neither the strength nor the will to write more, the record must speak for itself. Do with it what you like, and believe it or not as you like. I care nothing who know that it is true. Who and what was Asha, nay, what is Asha? An incarnate asset, a materialized spirit of nature and done foreseeing, the lovely, the cruel, and the immortal, and sold alone, redeemable only by humanity and its piteous sacrifice, say you, I have done with speculations who depart to solve these mysteries. I wish you happiness and good fortune, farewell to you and to all. El Horus Holly. I laid the letter down and filled with sensations that it is useless to attempt to analyze or describe. Open the second letter, of which I also print the contents emitting only certain irrelevant portions in the name of the writer as it will be noted your request me to do so. This epistle that was dated from a remote place upon the shores of Cumberland ran as follows. Dear sir, as the doctor who attended Mr. Holly in his last illness, I am obliged and obeying to a promise that I made to him to become an intermediary in a somewhat strange business, although in truth it is one of which I know very little, however much it may have interested me. Still, I do so only on the strict understanding that no mention is to be made of my name in connection with the matter or of the locality in which I practice. About 10 days ago, I was called in to see Mr. Holly at an old house upon the cliff that for many years remained untenanted except by the caretakers, which house was his property and had been in his family for generations. The housekeeper who summoned me told me that her master had but just returned from abroad somewhere in Asia, she said, and that he was very ill with his heart dying, she believed, both of which suppositions proved to be accurate. I found the patient sitting up in bed to ease his heart and a strange looking old man he was. He had dark eyes, small but full of fire and intelligence, a magnificent and snowy white beard that covered a chest of extraordinary breath, and hair also white, which encroached upon his forehead and face so much that it met the whiskers upon his cheeks. His arms were remarkable for their length and strength, though one of them seemed to have been much torn by some animal. He told me that a dog had done this, but if so, it must have been a dog of unusual power. He was a very ugly man, and yet, forgive the bull, beautiful. I cannot describe what I mean better than by saying that his face was not like the face of any ordinary mortal who might have met in my limited experience. Were I an artist who wished to portray a wise and benevolent, or rather grotesque spirit, I should take that countenance as a model. Mr. Holly was somewhat vexed at my being called in, which had been done without his knowledge. Soon we became friendly enough, however, when he expressed gratitude for the relief that I was able to give him, though I could not hope to do more. At different times, he talked a good deal of the various countries in which he had traveled, apparently for very many years, upon some strange quest that he never clearly done to me. Twice also, he became white-headed and spoke for the most part in languages that I identified as Greek and Arabic, occasionally in English also, when he appeared to be addressing himself to a being who was the object of his veneration, I might almost say of his worship. What he said then, however, I prefer not to repeat for I heard it in my professional capacity. One day he pointed to a rough box made of some foreign wood, the same that I have now duly dispatched to you by train, and giving me your name and address said that without fail it was to be forwarded to you after his death. Also, he asked me to do up a manuscript which, like the box, was to be sent to you. He saw me looking at the last sheets which had been burned away and said, I repeat his exact words. Yes, yes, that can't be helped now, it must go as it is. You see, I made up my mind to destroy it after all, and I was already on the fire when the command came, the clear unmistakable command, and I snatched it off again. But Mr. Holly met by this command, I do not know, for he would speak no more of the matter. I pass on to the last scene. One night, about eleven o'clock, knowing that my patience end was near, I went up to see him, proposing to inject some strictening to keep the heart going a little longer. Before I reached the house, I met the caretaker coming to seek me in a great fright and asked her if her master was dead. She answered no, but he was gone, had got out of his bed, just as he was, barefooted, left the house and was last seen by her grandson among the very scotch furs where we were talking. The lad who was terrified out of his wits, for he thought that he beheld a ghost, had told her so. The moonlight was very brilliant that night, especially as fresh snow had fallen, which reflected its rays. I was on foot and began to search among the furs, till presently just outside of them I found the track of naked feet in the snow. Of course I followed, calling to the housekeeper to go and wake her husband, for no one else lives nearby. The sport proved very easy to trace across the clean sheet of snow. It ran up the slope of a hill behind the house. Now on the crest of this hill is an ancient monument of upright monoliths set there by some primeval people known locally as the Devil's Ring, a sort of miniature stonehenge in fact. I had seen it several times and happened to have been present not long ago at a meeting of an archaeological society when its origin and purpose were discussed. I remember that one learned, but somewhat eccentric gentleman, read a short paper upon a rude hooded bust and head that are cut within the chamber of a tall, flat, topped Cromlik, or dolmen, which stands alone in the center of the ring. He said that it was a representation of the Egyptian goddess Isis and that this place had once been sacred to some form of worship or at any rate to that of a nature goddess with like attributes, suggestion which the other learned gentlemen treated as absurd. They declared that Isis had never traveled into Britain, though for my part I do not see why the Phoenicians or even the Romans who adopted her cult more or less should not have brought it here, but I know nothing of such matters and will not discuss them. I remembered also that Mr. Holly was acquainted with this place for he had mentioned it to me on the previous day asking if the stones were still uninjured as they used to be when he was young. He added also in the remarks struck me that Yonder was where he would wish to die. When I answered that I feared he would never take so long a walk again, I noted that he smiled a little. Well, this conversation gave me a clue and without troubling more about the footprints I went on as fast as I could to the ring half a mile away or so. Presently I reached it and there, yes there, standing by the Cromlik, bare-headed and closed in his night things only, stood Mr. Holly in the snow, strangest figure I think that ever I beheld. Indeed, never shall I forget that wild scene. The circle of rough single stones pointing upwards to the star-steering sky, intensely lonely and intensely solemn. The tall trilothon towering above them in the center, its shadow, thrown by the bright moon behind it, lying long and black upon the dazzling seat of snow and standing clear of the shadow so that I could distinguish his every motion and even the wrapped look upon his dying face, the white draped figure of Mr. Holly. He appeared to be uttering some invocation in Arabic I think, for long before I reached him I could catch the tones of his full sonorous voice and see his wavy, not stretched arms. In his right hand he held the loop scepter, which, by his express wish, I send to you with the drawings. I could see the flash of the jewels strung upon the wires and in the great stillness hear the tinkling of its golden bells. Presently too, I seemed to become aware of another presence, and now you will understand why I desiring must ask that my identity should be suppressed. Naturally enough, I do not wish to be mixed up with a superstitious tale which is, on the face of it, impossible and absurd. Yet under all the circumstances I think it right to tell you that I saw, or thought I saw, something gather in the shadow of the central dolmen, or emerge from its room chamber, I know not which for certain. Something bright and glorious which gradually took the form of a woman upon whose forehead burned a star-like fire. At any rate, the vision or reflection, or whatever it was, startled me so much that I came to a halt under the lee of one of the monoliths, found myself unable even to call to the distraught man whom I pursued. Whilst I stood thus it became clear to me that Mr. Holly also saw something. At least he turned towards the radiance in the shadow, uttered one cry, a wild, glad cry, and stepped forward, then seemed to fall through it onto his face. When I reached the spot the light had vanished and all I found was Mr. Holly, his arms still outstretched and the scepter gripped tightly in his hand, lying quite dead in the shadow of the trilothon. The rest of the doctor's letter need not be quoted as it deals only with certain very improbable explanations of the origin of this figure of light, the details of the removal of Holly's body, and of how he managed to satisfy the coroner that no inquest was necessary, the box of which he speaks arrives safely. Of the drawings in it I need say nothing, and of the scepter or scepter only a few words. It was fashioned of crystal to the well-known shape of the crocsonsata or the emblem of life of the Egyptians, the rod, the cross, and the loop combined in one. From side to side of this loop ran golden wires and on these were strung gems of three colors, glittering diamonds, sea blue sapphires and blood red rubies, while to the fourth wire that at the top hung four little golden bells. When I took hold of it first my arms shook slightly with excitement and those bells began to sound, a sweet faint music like to that of chimes heard far away at night in the silence of the sea. I thought too but perhaps this was fancy that a thrill passed from the hallowed and beautiful thing into my body. On the mystery itself as it is recorded in the manuscript I make no comment. Of it and its inner significations every reader must form his or her own gentleman. One thing alone is clear to me, on the hypothesis that Mr. Holly tells the truth as to what he and Leo Vincy saw and experienced, which I at least believe, that those sundry interpretations of this mystery were advanced by Asha and others, none of them are quite satisfactory. Indeed, like Mr. Holly I inclined to the theory that she, if I may still call her by that name, although it is seldom given to her in these pages, put forward some of them, such as the vague Isis myth and the wondrous picture story of the mountain fire as mere veils to hide the truth which it was her purpose to reveal at last in that song she never sang, the editor. End of the dedication, authors note an introduction of Asha, The Return of She, recording by Alex Klein. Chapter 1 of Asha, The Return of She This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Graham Redmond Asha, The Return of She by H. Ryder Haggard Chapter 1, The Double Sign Hard on twenty years have gone by since that night of Leo's vision, the most awful years perhaps which were ever endured by men, twenty years of search and hardship, ending in soul-shaking wonder and amazement. My death is very near to me, and of this I am glad, for I desire to pursue the quest in other realms, as it has been promised to me that I shall do. I desire to learn the beginning and the end of the spiritual drama of which it has been my strange lot to read some pages upon earth. I, Ludwig Horace Holley, have been very ill. They carried me more dead than alive, down those mountains whose lowest slopes I can see from my window, for I write this on the northern frontiers of India. Indeed, any other man had long since perished, but destiny kept my breath in me, perhaps that a record might remain. I must bide here a month or two till I am strong enough to travel homewards, for I have a fancy to die in the place where I was born. So, while I have strength, I will put the story down, or at least those parts of it that are most essential, for much can, or at any rate must, be omitted. I shrink from attempting too long a book, though my notes and memory would furnish me with sufficient material for volumes. I will begin with the vision. After Leo Vinci and I came back from Africa in 1885, desiring solitude, which indeed we needed sorely to recover from the fearful shock we had experienced, and to give us time and opportunity to think, we went to an old house upon the shores of Cumberland that has belonged to my family for many generations. This house, unless somebody has taken it, believing me to be dead, is still my property, and thither I travel to die. Those whose eyes read the words I write, if any should ever read them, may ask, Fort Shock. Well, I am Horace Holley, and my companion, my beloved friend, my son in the spirit whom I reared from infancy was, may is, Leo Vinci. We are those men who, following an ancient clue, traveled to the caves of Kerr in Central Africa, and there discovered her whom we sought, the immortal she who must be obeyed. In Leo she found her love that reborn callicrates, the Grecian priest of Isis whom, some two thousand years before, she had slain in her jealous rage, thus executing on him the judgment of the angry goddess. In her also I found the divinity whom I was doomed to worship from afar, not with the flesh, for that is all lost and gone from me, but what is sore as still, because its burden is undying, with the will and soul which animate a man throughout the countless eons of his being. The flesh dies, or at least it changes, and its passions pass, but that other passion of the spirit, that longing for oneness, is undying as itself. What crime have I committed that this sore punishment should be laid upon me? Yet, in truth, is it a punishment? May it not prove to be but that black and terrible gate, which leads to the joyous palace of rewards? She swore that I should ever be her friend and his, and dwell with them eternally, and I believe her. For how many winters did we wander among the icy hills and deserts? Still, at length, the messenger came and led us to the mountain, and on the mountain we found the shrine, and in the shrine the spirit. May not these things be an allegory prepared for our instruction? I will take comfort. I will hope that it is so. May I am sure that it is so. It will be remembered that in Coeur we found the immortal woman. There, before the flashing rays and vapours of the pillar of life, she declared her mystic love, and then in our very sight was swept to a doom so horrible, that even now, after all which has been and gone, I shiver at its recollection. Yet what were Asiel's last words? Forget me not. Have pity on my shame. I die not. I shall come again, and shall once more be beautiful. I swear it. It is true. Well, I cannot set out that history afresh. Moreover, it is written. The man whom I trusted in the matter did not fail me, and the book he made of it seems to be known throughout the world. For I have found it here, in English, yes, and read it first translated into Hindustani. To it, then, I refer the curious. In that house upon the desolate seashore of Cumberland, we dwelt a year, mourning the lost, seeking an avenue by which it might be found again, and discovering none. Here our strength came back to us, and Leo's hair that had been whitened in the horror of the caves grew again from grey to golden. His beauty returned to him also, so that his face was, as it had been, only purified and saddened. Well, I remember that night, and the hour of illumination. We were heartbroken, we were in despair. We sought signs, and could find none. The dead remained dead to us, and no answer came to all our crying. It was a sullen, august evening, and after we had dined we walked upon the shore, listening to the slow surge of the waves, and watching the lightning flicker from the bosom of a distant cloud. In silence we walked, till at last Leo groaned. It was more of a sob than a groan, and clasped my arm. I can bear it no longer, Horace, he said, for so he called me now. I am in torment. The desire to see Asia once more saps my brain. Without hope I shall go quite mad, and I am strong. I may live another fifty years. What then can you do? I asked. I can take a short road to knowledge or to peace, he answered solemnly. I can die, and die I will, yes, to night. I turned upon him angrily, for his words filled me with fear. Leo, you are a coward, I said. Cannot you bear your part of pain as others do? You mean as you do, Horace, he answered with a dreary laugh, for on you also the curse lies, with less cause. Well, you are stronger than I am and more tough, perhaps because you have lived longer. No, I cannot bear it. I will die. It is a crime, I said. The greatest insult you can offer to the power that made you to cast back its gift of life as a thing outworn, contemptible, and despised. A crime, I say, which will bring with it worse punishment than any you can dream, perhaps even the punishment of everlasting separation. Does a man stretched in some tortured den commit a crime if he snatches a knife and kills himself, Horace? Perhaps, but surely that sin should find forgiveness if torn flesh and quivering nerves may plead for mercy. I am such a man, and I will use that knife and take my chance. She is dead, and in death at least I shall be nearer her. Why so, Leo, for ought you know Asia may be living? No, for then she would have given me some sign. My mind is made up, so talk no more, or, if talk we must, let it be of other things. Then I pleaded with him, though with little hope, for I saw that what I had feared for long was come to pass. Leo was mad. Shock and sorrow had destroyed his reason. Were it not so, he, in his own way a very religious man, one who held, as I knew, strict opinions on such matters, would never have purposed to commit the wickedness of suicide. Leo, I said, are you so heartless that you would leave me here alone? Do you pay me thus for all my love and care, and wish to drive me to my death? Do so, if you will, and my blood be on your head. Your blood? Why your blood, Hoddis? Because that road is broad and too can travel it. We have lived long years together, and together endured much. I am sure that we shall not be long-parted. Then the tables were turned, and he grew afraid for me. But I only answered, If you die, I tell you that I shall die also. It will certainly kill me. So Leo gave way. Well, he exclaimed suddenly, I promise you it shall not be tonight. Let us give life another chance. Good, I answered. But I went to my bed full of fear. For I was certain that this desire of death, having once taken hold of him, would grow and grow, until at length it became too strong. And then, then I should wither and die who could not live on alone. In my despair, I threw out my soul towards that of her who was departed. Asia! I cried, If you have any power, if in any way it is permitted, show that you still live, and save your lover from this sin, and me from a broken heart. Have pity on his sorrow, and breathe hope into his spirit. For without hope Leo cannot live, and without him I shall not live. Then, worn out, I slept. I was aroused by the voice of Leo speaking to me in low, excited tones through the darkness. Horace, he said, Horace, my friend, my father, listen! In an instant I was wide awake, every nerve and fiber of me. For the tones of his voice told me that something had happened which bore upon our destinies. Let me light a candle first, I said. Never mind the candle, Horace, I would rather speak in the dark. I went to sleep, and I dreamed the most vivid dream that ever came to me. I seemed to stand under the vault of heaven. It was black, black, not a star shone in it, and a great loneliness possessed me. Then suddenly, high up in the vault, miles and miles away, I saw a little light, and thought that a planet had appeared to keep me company. The light began to descend slowly like a floating flake of fire. Down it sank, and down and down, till it was but just above me. And I perceived that it was shaped like a tongue or fan of flame. At the height of my head from the ground it stopped and stood steady. And by its ghostly radiance I saw that beneath was the shape of a woman, and that the flame burned upon her forehead. The radiance gathered strength, and now I saw the woman. Horace, it was Asia herself, her eyes, her lovely face, her cloudy hair. And she looked at me sadly, reproachfully, I thought, as one might who says, Why did you doubt? I tried to speak to her, but my lips were dumb. I tried to advance and to embrace her. My arms would not move. There was a barrier between us. She lifted her hand and beckoned, as though bidding me to follow her. Then she glided away, and, Horace, my spirit seemed to lose itself from the body, and to be given the power to follow. We passed swiftly eastward over lands and seas, and I knew the road. At one point she paused, and I looked downwards. Beneath, shining in the moonlight, appeared the ruined palaces of Coa, and there not far away was the gulf we trod together. Onward above the marshes, and now we stood upon the Ethiopian's head, and gathered round, watching us earnestly with the faces of the Arabs, our companions who drowned in the sea beneath. Job was among them also, and he smiled at me sadly, and shook his head, as though he wished to accompany us, and could not. Across the sea again, across the sandy deserts, across more sea, and the shores of India lay beneath us. Then northward, ever northward, above the plains, till we reached a place of mountains capped with eternal snow. We passed them, and stayed for an instant above a building set upon the brow of a plateau. It was a monastery, for old monks droned prayers upon its terrace. I shall know it again, for it is built in the shape of a half-moon, and in front of it sits the gigantic ruined statue of a god who gazes everlastingly across the desert. I knew, how I cannot say, that now we were far past the furthest borders of Tibet, and that in front of us lay untrodden lands. More mountains stretched beyond that desert, a sea of snowy peaks, hundreds and hundreds of them. Near to the monastery, jutting out into the plain, like some rocky headland, rose a solitary hill, higher than all behind. We stood upon its snowy crest, and waited, till presently above the mountains and the desert, at our feet shot a sudden beam of light that beat upon us like some signal flashed across the sea. On we went, floating down the beam, on over the desert and the mountains, across a great flat land beyond, in which were many villages and a city on a mound, till we lit upon a towering peak. Then I saw that this peak was loop-shaped, like the symbol of life of the Egyptians, the crux and satyr, and supported by a lava-stem hundreds of feet in height. Also I saw that the fire which shone through it rose from the crater of a volcano beyond. Upon the very crest of this loop we rested a while, till the shadow of Asia pointed downward with its hand, smiled, and vanished. Then I awoke. Horace, I tell you that the sign has come to us. His voice died away in the darkness, but I sat still, brooding over what I had heard. Leo groped his way to me, and, seizing my arm, shook it. Are you asleep? he asked angrily. Speak, man, speak! No, I answered, never was I more awake. Give me time. Then I rose, and going to the open window drew up the blind and stood there staring at the sky, which grew pearl-hued with the first faint tinge of dawn. Leo came also and lent upon the window-sill, and I could feel that his body was trembling as though with cold. Clearly he was much moved. You talk of a sign, I said to him, but in your sign I see nothing but a wild dream. It was no dream, he broke in fiercely, it was a vision. A vision, then, if you will, but there are visions true and false, and how can we know that this is true? Listen, Leo, what is there in all that wonderful tale which could not have been fashioned in your own brain, distraught as it is almost a madness with your sorrow and your longings? You dreamed that you were alone in the vast universe. Well, is not every living creature thus alone? You dreamed that the shadowy shape of Asia came to you. Has it ever left your side? You dreamed that she led you over sea and land, past places haunted by your memory above the mysterious mountains of the unknown to an undiscovered peak. Does she not thus lead you through life to that peak which lies beyond the gates of death? You dreamed, oh, no more of it, he exclaimed. What I saw I saw, and that I shall follow. Think as you will, Horace, and do what you will. Tomorrow I start for India, with you if you choose to come, if not without you. You speak roughly, Leo, I said. You forget that I have had no sign, and that the nightmare of a man so near to insanity that but a few hours ago he was determined upon suicide will be a poor staff to lean on when we are perishing in the snows of Central Asia. A mixed vision, this of yours, Leo, with its mountain peak shaped like a crux and satyr, and the rest. Do you suggest that Asia is reincarnated in Central Asia as a female grand lama, or something of that sort? I never thought of it. But why not? asked Leo quietly. Do you remember a certain scene in the caves of Coa, Yonder, when the living looked upon the dead, and dead and living were the same? And do you remember what Asia swore that she would come again, yes, to this world? And how could that be except by rebirth, or what is the same thing by the transmigration of the spirit? I did not answer this argument. I was struggling with myself. No sign has come to me, I said, and yet I have had a part in the play. Humble enough, I admit, and I believe that I have still a part. No, he said, no sign has come to you. I wish that it had. Oh, how I wish you could be convinced as I am, Horace. Then we were silent for a long while, silent with our eyes fixed upon the sky. It was a stormy dawn. Clouds in fantastic masses hung upon the ocean. One of them was like a great mountain, and we watched it idly. It changed its shape. The crest of it grew hollow like a crater. From this crater sprang a projecting cloud, a rough pillar, with a knob or lump resting on its top. Suddenly the rays of the risen sun struck upon this mountain and the column, and they turned white like snow. Then, as though melted by those fiery arrows, the center of the excrescence above the pillar thinned out and vanished, leaving an enormous loop of inky cloud. Look, said Leo, in a low frightened voice. That is the shape of the mountain which I saw in my vision. There upon it is the black loop, and there through it shines the fire. It would seem that the sign is for both of us, Horace. I looked and looked again till presently the vast loop vanished into the blue of heaven. Then I turned and said, I will come with you to Central Asia, Leo. Domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Lars Rolander. Asia, The Return of She, by H. Ryder Haggard. Chapter 2. The Lamassery. Sixteen years had passed since that night-vigil in the old Cumberland House, and, behold, we too, Leo and I, were still traveling, still searching for that mountain peak shape like the symbol of life which never, never could be found. Our adventures would fill volumes, but of what use is it to record them? Many of a similar nature are already written of unbooks. Those that we endured were more prolonged. That is all. Five years we spent in Tibet for the most part as guests of various monasteries, where we studied the law on traditions of the Lamas. Here we were once sentenced to death in punishment for having visited a forbidden city, but escaped through the kindness of a Chinese official. Leaving Tibet, we wandered east and west and north, thousands and thousands of miles, so journeying amongst many tribes in Chinese territory and elsewhere, learning many tongues, enduring much hardship. Thus we would hear a legend of a place, say, nine hundred miles away, and spend two years in reaching it to find when we came there, nothing. And so the time went on. Yet never once did we think of giving up the quest and returning, since, before we started, we had sworn an oath that we would achieve or die. Indeed, we ought to have died a score of times, yet always were preserved, most mysteriously preserved. Now we were in country where, so far as I could learn, no European had ever set a foot. In a part of the vast land called Turkestan, there is a great lake named Malkash, of which we visited the shores. Two hundred miles or so to the westward is a range of mighty mountains marked on the map as Arkati Tau, on which we spent a year. And five hundred or so to the eastward are other mountains called Cherga, wither we journeyed at last, having explored the triple ranges of the Tau. Here it was that at last our true adventures began. On one of the spurs of these awful Cherga mountains it is unmarked on any map we well nigh perished of starvation. The winter was coming on, and we could find no game. The last traveler we had met hundreds of miles south told us that on the range was a monastery inhabited by llamas of surpassing holiness. He said that they dwelt in this wild land, of which no power claimed dominion, and where no tribes lived, to acquire merit with no other company than that of their own pious contemplations. We did not believe in its existence. Still, we were searching for that monastery, driven onward by the blind fatalis, which was our only guide through all these endless wanderings. As we were starving and could find no argles, that is fuel with which to make a fire, we walked all night by the light of the moon, driving between us a single yoke, for now we had no attendant, the last having died a year before. He was a noble beast, that yoke, and had the best constitution of any animal I've ever knew, though now, like his masters, he was near his end. Not that he was overladen for a few rifle cartridges, about 150, the remnant of a store which we had fortunately been able to buy from a caravan two years before. Some money in gold and silver, a little tea, and a bundle of skin rugs and sheepskin garments, were his burden. On, on we trudged across the plateau of snow, having the great mountains on our right, till at length the yoke gave a sigh and stopped. So we stopped also, because we must, and wrapping ourselves in the skin rugs, sat down in the snow to wait for daylight. We shall have to kill him and eat his flesh raw, I said patting the poor yoke that lay patiently at our side. Perhaps we may find game in the morning, answered Leo, still hopeful, and perhaps we may not, in which case we must die. Very good, he replied. Then let us die. It is the last resource of failure. We shall have done our best. Certainly, Leo, we shall have done our best, if sixteen years of tramping of the mountains and through eternal snows in pursuit of a dream of the night can be called best. You know what I believe, he answered stubbornly, and there was silence between us, for here arguments did not avail. Also, even then, I could not think that all our toils and sufferings would be in vain. The dawn came, and by its light we looked at one another anxiously, each of us desiring to see what strength was left in his companion, wild creatures we should have seemed to the eyes of any civilized person. Leo was now over forty years of age, and certainly his maturity had fulfilled the promise of his youth, for a more magnificent man I never knew. Very tall, although he seemed spare to the eye, his girth matched his height, and those many years of desert life had turned his muscles to steel. His hair had grown long like my own, for it was a protection from sun and cold, and hung upon his neck a curling golden mane, as his great beard hung upon his breast, spreading outwards almost to the massive shoulders. The face, too, what could be seen of it, was beautiful, though burnt brown with weather, refined and full of thought, somber almost, and in it clear as crystal, steady as stars, shown his large gray eyes. And I, I was what I've always been, ugly and hercute iron gray now also. But in spite of my sixty odd years, still wonderfully strong, for my strength seemed to increase with time, and my health was perfect. In fact, during all this period of rough travels, although now and again we had met with accidents which laid us up for a while, neither of us had known a day of sickness. Hardships seemed to have turned our constitutions to iron, and made them impervious of to every human ailment. Or was this because we alone amongst living men had once inhaled the breath of the essence of life? Our fears relieved, for notwithstanding our foodless night, as yet neither of us showed any sight of exhaustion, we turned to contemplate the landscape. At our feet beyond a little belt of fertile soil began a great desert of the sort with which we were familiar, sandy, salt and crusted, treeless, waterless, and here and there streaked with the first snows of winter. Beyond it, eighty or a hundred miles away, in that lucent atmosphere, it was impossible to say how far exactly rose more mountains, a veritable sea of them, of which the white peaks soared upwards by scores. As the golden rays of the rising sun touched their snows to splendor, I saw Leo's eyes become troubled. Swiftly he turned and looked along the edge of the desert. See there, he said, pointing to something dim and enormous. Presently the light reached it also. It was a mighty mountain not more than ten miles away that stood out by itself among the sands. Then he turned once more and with his back to the desert stared at the slope of the hills along the base of which we had been traveling. As yet they were in gloom for the sun was behind them, but presently light began to flow over their crests like a flood, down its crypt, lower and yet lower, till it reached a little plateau, not three hundred yards above us. There, on the edge of the plateau, looking out solemnly across the waist, sat a great, ruined idol, a colossal Buddha. While to the rear of the idol, built of jello stone, appeared the low crescent-shaped mass of a monastery. At last, cried Leo, O heaven, at last! and flinging himself down, he buried his face in the snow, as though to hide it there, lest I should read something written on it, which he did not desire that even I should see. I let him lie a space under standing what was passing in his heart, and indeed in mine also. Then, going to the ark, that poor brute, had no share in these joyous emotions, but only loathe and looked round with hungry eyes. I piled the sheepskin rugs onto its back. This done, I laid my hand on Leo's shoulder, saying in the most matter-of-fact voice I could command. Come, if that place is not deserted, we may find food and shelter there, and it is beginning to storm again. He rose without a word, rushed the snow from his beard and garments, and came to help me to lift the jock to its feet, for the worn-out beast was too stiff and weak to rise for of itself. Glancing at him covetly, I saw on Leo's face a very strange and happy look, a great piece appeared possessing him. We plunged upwards through the snowy slope, dragging the jock with us to the terrace where on the monastery was built. Nobody seemed to be about there, nor could I discern any footprints. It was the place but a ruin. We had found many such, indeed this ancient land is full of buildings that had once served as the homes of men. Learned and pious enough, after their own fashion, who lived and died hundreds or even thousands of years ago, long before our western civilization came into being. My heart, also my stomach, which was starving, sank at the thought, but while I gazed out fully, a little coil of blue smoke sprang from a chimney, and never, I think, did I see a more joyful sight. In the centre of the edifice was a large building, evidently the temple, but nearer to us I saw a small door, almost above which the smoke appeared. To this door I went and knocked, calling aloud, Open, open, holy llamas, strangers, seek your charity. After a while there was a sound of shuffling feet, and the door creaked upon its hinges, revealing an old, old man, clad in tattered yellow garments. Oh, is it? Who is it? he exclaimed, blinking at me through a pair of horn spectacles. Who comes to disturb our solitude, the solitude of the holy llamas of the mountains? Travellers' sacred one, who had enough of solitude, I answered, in his own dialect, with which I was well acquainted. Travellers who are starving and who ask your charity, which, I added, by the rule you cannot refuse, he stared at us through his horn spectacles, and able to make nothing of our faces, let his glance fall to our garments, which were as ragged as his own, and of much the same pattern. Indeed, they were those of tibetan monks, including a kind of quilted petticoat and an outer vestment, not unlike an eastern bernouse. We had adopted them because we had no others, also they protected us from the rigours of climate and from remark. Had there been any to remark upon them? Ay, you llamas, he asked doubtfully, and if so, of what monastery? Lama sure enough, I answered, who belonged to a monastery called the World, where alas, one grows hungry. The reply seemed to please him, for he chuckled a little, then shook his head, saying, It is against our custom to admit strangers, unless they be of our own faith, which I am sure you are not. And much more is it against your rule, holy Kubligan, for so these abbots are entitled, to suffer strangers to starve, and I quoted a well-known passage from the sayings of Buddha, which fitted the point precisely. I perceive that you are instructed in the books, he exclaimed with wonder on his yellow-wrinkled face, and to such we cannot refuse shelter, come in, brethren of the monastery called the World, but stay, there is the jar, who also has claims upon our charity. And turning he struck upon a gong or bell, which hung within the door. At the sound another man appeared, more wrinkled, and to all appearance older than the first, who stared at us open-mouthed. Brother, said the abbot, shut that great mouth of yours, lest an evil spirit should fly down it, take this poor jock, and give it fodder with the other cattle. So we unstrapped our belongings from the back of the beast, and the old fellow, whose grand eloquent title was Master of the Herds, led it away. When it had gone, not too willingly, for our faithful friend disliked parting from us, and distrusted this new guide, the abbot, who was named Kuwen, led us into the living room, or rather the kitchen of the monastery, for it served both purposes. Here we found the rest of the monks, about twelve in all, gathered round the fire of which we had seen the smoke, and engaged one of them in preparing the morning meal, and the rest in warming themselves. They were all old men, the youngest could not have been less than 65. To these we were solemnly introduced, as brethren of the monastery called the world, where folk grow hungry, for the abbot, Kuwen, could not make up his mind to part from this little joke. They stared at us, they rubbed their thin hands, they bowed and wished us well, and evidently were delighted at our arrival. This was not strange, however seeing that ours were the first new faces which they had seen for four long years. Nor did they stop at words, for while they made water hot for us to wash in, two of them went to prepare a room, and others threw off our rough hide boots, and thick outer garments, and brought us slippers for our feet. Then they led us to the guest chamber, which they informed us was a propitious place, for once it had been slept in by a noted saint. Here a fire was lit, and wonder of wonders, clean garments, including linen, and all of them ancient and faded, but of good quality, were brought for us to put on. So we washed, yes, actually washed all over, and having arrayed ourselves in the robes, which were somewhat small for Leo, struck the bell that hang in the room, and were conducted by a monk who answered it, back to the kitchen, where the meal was now served. It consisted of a kind of porridge to which was added new milk brought in by the master of the herds, dried fish from a lake, and butter tea. The last two luxuries produced in our special honor. Never had food tasted more delicious to us, and, I may add, never did we eat more. Indeed, at last I was obliged to request Leo to stop, for I saw the monks staring at him, and heard the old Abbot chuckling to himself. Oh, the monastery of the world where folk grow hungry, to which another monk was called, master of the provisions, replied uneasily, that if we went on like this, their store of food would scarcely last the winter. So we finished at length, feeling as some book of maxims which I can remember in my use, said all polite people should do, that we could eat more, and much impressed our hosts by chanting a long Buddhist grace. Their feet are in the path, their feet are in the path, they said, astonished. Yes, replied Leo, they have been in it for sixteen years of our present incarnation, but we are only beginners, for you holy ones know how star-high, how ocean-wide, and how desert-long is that path. Indeed it is to be instructed as to the right way of walking therein, that we have been miraculously directed by a dream to seek you out, as the most pious, the most saintly, and the most learned of all the llamas in these parts. Yes, certainly we are that, answered the Abbot Quen, seeing that there is no other monastery within five months' journey, and again he chuckled. Though alas, he added with a pathetic little sigh, our numbers grow few. After this we ask leave to retire to our chambers, in order to rest. And there, upon very good imitations of beds, we slept solidly for four and twenty hours, rising at last perfectly refreshed and well. Such was our introduction to the monastery of the mountains, for it had no other name, where we were destined to spend the next six months of our lives. Within a few days, for they were not long in giving us their complete confidence, those good-hearted and simple old monks told us all their history. It seemed that of old time there was a llamasry here, in which dwelt several hundred brethren. This indeed was obviously true, for the place was enormous, although for the most part ruined, and as the weather-worn statue of Buddha showed, very ancient. The story ran, according to the old Abbot, that two centuries or so before, the monks had been killed out by some fierce tribe who lived beyond the desert, and across the distant mountains, which tribe were heretics and worshippers of fire. Only a few of them escaped to bring the sad news to other communities, and for five generations no attempt was made to re-occupy the place. At length it was revealed to him, our friend Ku-en, when a young man, that he was a reincarnation of one of the old monks of this monastery, who also was named Ku-en, and that it was his duty during his present life to return thither, as by so doing he would win much merit and receive many wonderful revelations. So he gathered a band of sealots, and with the blessing and consent of his superiors, they started out, and after many hardships and losses found unto possession of the place, repairing it sufficiently for their needs. This happened about fifty years before, and here they had dwelt ever since, only communicating occasionally with the outside world. At first their numbers were recruited from time to time by new brethren, but at length these ceased to come, with the result that a community was dying out. And what then, I asked? And then the abbot answered, Nothing. We have acquired much merit, we have been blessed with many revelations, and after the repose we have earned in Devachan, our lots in future existences will be easier. What more can we ask or desire removed as we are from all the temptations of the world? For the rest, in the intervals of their endless prayers, and still more endless contemplations, they were husbandmen, cultivating the soil, which was fertile at the foot of the mountain, and tending their herd of jerks. Thus they wore away their blameless lives until at last they died of old age, and as they believed, and who shall say they were wrong, the eternal round repeated itself elsewhere. Immediately after, indeed on the very day of our arrival at the monastery, the winter began in earnest with bitter cold and snowstorms, so heavy and frequent that all the desert was covered deep. Very soon it became obvious to us that there we must stay until the spring, since to attempt to move in any direction would be to perish. With some misgivings, we explained this to the Abadquan, offering to remove to one of the empty rooms in the ruined part of the building, supporting ourselves with fish that we could catch by cutting a hold in the eyes of the lake above the monastery, and if we were able to find any on game which we might trap or shoot in the scrub-like forest of stunted pines and junipers that grew around its border. But he would listen to no such thing. We had been sent to be their guests, he said, and their guests we should remain for so long as might be convenient to us. Would we lay upon them the burden of the sin of inhospitality? Besides, he remarked with his chakka, We who dwell alone like to hear about the yet other great monastery called the world, where the monks are not so favored as we who are set in this blessed situation, and where folk even go hungry in body, and, he added, in soul. Indeed, as we soon found out, the dear old man's object was to keep our feet in the path until we reached the goal of truth, or, in other words, became excellent lamas like himself and his flock. So we walked in the path, as we had done in many other lamasery, and assisted in the long prayers in the ruined temple, and studied the conjure or translation of the words of Buddha, which is their Bible and a very long one, and generally showed that our minds were open. Also we expounded to them the doctrines of our own faith, and greatly delighted were they to find so many points of similarity between it and theirs. Indeed, I am not certain, but that if we could have stopped there long enough, say, ten years, we might have persuaded some of them to accept a new revelation of which we were the prophets. Further, in spare hours we told them many tales of the monastery called the world, and it was really delightful and, in a sense, pious to see the joy with which they listened to these stories of wondrous countries and new races of men. They who knew only of Russia and China and some semi-savage tribes, inhabitants of the mountains and the deserts. It is right for us to learn all this, they declared, for who knows, perhaps in future incarnations we may become inhabitants of these places. But though the time passed thus in comfort, and indeed compared to many of our experiences in luxury, oh, our hearts were hungry, for in them burned the consuming fire of our quest. We felt that we were on the threshold. Yes, we knew it, we knew it, and yet our wretched physical limitations made it impossible for us to advance by a single step. On the desert beneath fell the snow. Moreover, great winds arose suddenly that drew those snows like dust piling them in heaps as high as trees beneath which any unfortunate traveler would be buried. Here we must wait, there was nothing else to be done. One elevation we found, and only one. In a ruined room of the monastery was a library of many volumes, placed there doubtless by the monks who were massacred in times by gone. These had been more or less cared for and rearranged by their successors, who gave us liberty to examine them as often as we pleased. Truly, it was a strange collection, and I should imagine of priceless value, for among them were to be found buddhistic, syvastic, and shamanistic writings that we had never before seen or heard of, together with the lives of a multitude of bodhisattvas or distinguished saints written in various times, some of which we did not understand. What proved more interesting to us, however, was a diary in many tomes that for generations had been kept by the Kubligans or Abbots of the Old Larmusry, in which every event of importance was recorded in great detail. Turning over the pages of one of the last volumes of this diary, written apparently about 250 years earlier, and shortly before the destruction of the monastery, we came upon an entry of which the following, for I can only quote from memory, is the substance. In the summer of this year, after a very great sandstorm, a brother, the name was given, but I forget it, found in the desert a man of the people who dwell beyond the far mountains of whom rumors have reached this Larmusry from time to time. He was living, but beside him were the bodhisattvas of two of his companions, who had been overwhelmed by sand and thirst. He was very fierce looking. He refused to say how he came into the desert, telling us only that he had followed the road known to the ancients before communication between his people and the outer world ceased. We gathered, however, that his brethren with whom he fled had committed some crime for which they had been condemned to die, and that he had accompanied them in their flight. He told us that there was a fine country beyond the mountains, fertile, but plagued with draughts and earthquakes, which latter indeed we often feel here. The people of that country were, he said, warlike and very numerous, but followed agriculture. They had always lived there, though ruled by cons who were descendants of the Greek king called Alexander, who conquered much country to the southwest of us. This may be true, as our records tell us, that about two thousand years ago an army sent by that invader penetrated to these parts, though of his being with them nothing is said. The stranger man told us also that his people worship a priestess called Hesse, or the Hesea, who is said to reign from generation to generation. She lives in a great mountain, apart, and is feared and adored by all, but is not the queen of the country in the government of which she seldom interferes. To her, however, sacrifices are offered, and he who incurs her vengeance dies, so that even the chiefs of that land are afraid of her. Still their subjects often fight, for they hate each other. We answered that he lied when he said that this woman was immortal, for that was what we supposed he meant, since nothing is immortal. Also we laughed at his tale of her power. This made the man very angry. Indeed, he declared that our Buddha was not so strong as this priestess, and that she would show it by being avenged upon us. After this, we gave him food and turned him out of the lamasery, and he went, saying that when he returned, we should learn who spoke the truth. We do not know what became of him, and he refused to reveal to us the road to his country, which lies beyond the desert and the far mountains. We think that perhaps he was an evil spirit sent to frighten us in which he did not succeed. Such is the praises of this strange entry, the discovery which, vague as it was, thrilled us with hope and excitement. Nothing more appeared about the man or his country, but within a little over a year from that date, the diary of the Abbot came to a sudden end, without any indication that unusual events had occurred or were expected. Indeed, the last item written in the parchment book mentioned the preparation of certain new lands to be used for the sowing of grain in future seasons, which suggested that a brethren neither feared nor expected disturbance. We wondered whether the man from beyond the mountains was as good as his word, and had brought down the vengeance of that priestess called Hissia upon the community which sheltered him. Also, we wondered how we wondered who and what this Hissia might be. On the day following this discovery, we prayed the Abbot Quen to accompany us to the library, and having read him the passage, asked if he knew anything of the matter. He swayed his wise old head, which always reminded me of that of a tortoise and answered. A little, very little, and that mostly about the army of the Greek king who is mentioned in the writing. We inquired what he could possibly know of this matter, whereas Quen replied calmly, In those days, when the faith of the Holy One was still young, I dwelt as a humble brother in this very monastery, which was one of the first built, and I saw the army pass, that is all. That, he added meditatively, was in my fiftieth incarnation of this present round? No, I'm thinking of another army in my seventy-third. As a student of their lives and literature will be aware, it is common for Buddhist priests to state positively that they remember events which occurred during their previous incarnations. Here Leo began a great love, but I managed to kick him beneath the table, and he turned it into a sneeze. This was fortunate, as such ribald merriment would have hurt the old man's feeling terribly. After all, also, as Leo himself had once said, surely we were not the people to mock at the theory of reincarnation, which, by the way, is the first article of faith among nearly one-quarter of the human race, and this not the most foolish quarter. How can that be? I asked for instruction, learned one, seeing that memory perishes with death. Ah, he answered, rather holly, it may seem to do so, but oftentimes it comes back again, especially to those who are far advanced upon the path. For instance, until you read this passage, I had forgotten all about that army, but now I see it passing, passing and myself with other monks standing by the statue of the big Buddha in front yonder and watching it go by. It was not a very large army, for most of the soldiers had died, all been killed, and it was being pursued by the wild people who lived south of us in those days, so that it was in a great hurry to put the desert between it and them. The general of the army was a swarthy man. I wish that I could remember his name, but I cannot. Well, he went on. That general came up to the Lamasuri and demanded a sleeping place for his wife and children, also provisions and medicines and guides across the desert. The abbot of that day told him that it was against our law to admit a woman under our roof, to which he answered that if we did not, we should have no roof left, for he would burn the place and kill every one of us with a sword. Now, as you know, to be killed by violence means that we must pass sundering carnations in the forms of animals, a horrible thing, so we choose the lesser evil and gay way, and afterwards obtained a solution for our sins from the great lama. Myself, I did not see this queen, but I saw the priestess of their worship, Alas, Alas, and Quinn beat his breast. Why, Alas, I asked as unconcernly as I could, for this story interested me strangely. Why? Oh, because I may have forgotten the army, but I have never forgotten that priestess, and she has been a great hindrance to me through many ages delaying me upon my journey to the other side, to the shore of salvation. I, as a humble lama, was engaged in preparing her apartment when she entered and threw aside her veil. Yes, and perceiving a young man, spoke to me, asking many questions, and even if I was not glad to look again upon a woman. What? What was she like? said Leo anxiously. What was she like? Oh, she was all loveliness in one shape. She was like the dawn upon the snows. She was like the evening star above the mountains. She was like the first flower of the spring. Brother, ask me not what she was like. Nay, I will say no more. Oh, my sin, my sin! I am slipping backward, and you draw my black shame out into the light of day. Nay, I will confess it that you may know how vile a thing I am. I, whom perhaps you have thought wholly like yourselves, that woman, if woman she were, lit a fire in my heart which will not burn out. Oh, and more, more! And Quinn rocked himself to and fro upon his stool, while tears of contrition trickled from beneath his horn spectacles. She made me worship her, for first she asked me of my faith, and listened eagerly as I expounded it, hoping that the light would come into her heart. Then, after I had finished, she said, So, your path is renunciation, and your nirvana a most excellent nothingness, which some would think is scarce, worthwhile, to strive so hard to reach? Now, I will show you a more joyous way, and a goddess more worthy of your worship. What way, and what goddess, I asked of her. The way of love and life, she answered, That makes all the world to be, that made you, O seeker of nirvana, and the goddess called nature. Again I asked, Where is that goddess? And behold, she drew herself up, looking most royal, and touching her ivory breast, she said, I am she. Now kneel you down, and do me homage. My brethren, I knelt, yes, I kissed her foot, and then I fled away, shamed and broken-hearted, and as I went, she laughed, and cried, Remember me when you reached Devachan, O servant of the Buddha, saying, For though I changed, I do not die, and even there I shall be with you, who once gave me worship. And it is so, my brethren, it is so, for though I obtained a solution for my sin, and have suffered much for through this, my next incarnation, yet I cannot be rid of her. And for me the utter peace is far, far away, and when placed his withered hands before his face, and sobbed outright. A ridiculous sight truly, to see a holy kubligan, well on the wrong side of eighty, weeping like a child over a dream of a beautiful woman, which he imagined he had once dreamt in his last life more than two thousand years ago. So the reader would say, But I, Holly, for reasons of my own, felt deep sympathy with that poor old man, and Leo was also sympathetic. We patted him on the back. We assured him that he was the victim of some evil hallucination, which could never be brought up against him in this or any future existence, since, if seen there were, it must have been forgiven long ago, and so forth. When his calm was somewhat restored, we tried also to extract further information from him, but with poor results, so far as the priestess was concerned. He said that he did not know to what religion she belonged, and did not care, but thought that it must be an evil one. She went away the next morning with the army, and he never saw or heard of her any more, though it came into his mind that he was obliged to be locked in his cell for eight days to prevent himself from following her. Yes, he had heard one thing, for the abbot of that day had told the brethren. This priestess was the real general of the army, not the king or the queen, the latter of whom hated her. It was by her will that they pushed on northwards across the desert to some country beyond the mountains, where she desired to establish herself and her worship. We asked if there really was any country beyond the mountains, and Quinn answered warily that he believed so. Either in this or in a previous life, he had heard that people lived there who worshipped fire. Certainly also it was true that about thirty years ago a brother who had climbed the great peak gondor to spend some days in solitary meditation returned and reported that he had seen a marvelous thing, namely a shaft of fire burning in the heavens beyond those same mountains, though whether this were a vision or what he could not say. He recalled, however, that about that time they had felt a great earthquake. Then the memory of that fancied transgression again began to afflict Quinn's innocent old heart, and he crept away lamenting and was seen no more for a week, nor would he ever speak again to us of this matter. But we spoke of it much with hope and wonder, and made up our minds that we would at once ascend this mountain. End of chapter 2 of Asha the Return of She by H. Ryder Haggard. Read by Lars Rolander. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Asha the Return of She by H. Ryder Haggard. Chapter 3 The Beacon Light A week later came our opportunity of making this ascent of the mountain. For now in mid-winter it sees 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, always poorly, 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 decide to climb, there was a large natural cave, where, if needed 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 rugri tent from skins and laden our old yoke, now in the best 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 midday. Here, as he had said, we found a great cave of which the opening was protected by an overhanging 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 on which we lit a large fire, and in a surveyed 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 eaves, feeding upon the mosses in a sheltered spot, where in summer a streamlet ran. Of these we were so fortunate to kill too, for no sportsman had ever come here, and there were tame enough poor things. As meat would keep forever 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 sapped 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 warm, 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, whether we said we would follow him in a day or two. Now at last we were alone, and without wasting an instant began our scent of the peak. It was many thousand feet high, and in certain places deep 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. Jonder, I think, and he pointed north by east. Well, it's 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 above sunset. The next four days we spent in the same way. Every morning we crawled up those wearsome banks of snow, and every afternoon we slid and took banged 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 a sense 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 rest 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 burns, 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 tomorrow, 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 evoke, 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 yoke? 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 summited 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, yoke 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 yoke, for without the warmth from his 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, saved the lonely stars, and heard nothing in that awful silence, for here even the wind made no noise as it slid across the snows. A custo 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 crest 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 again, its flaming background, the black object became clearly visible, and Lou, it was the top of a soaring pillar surmounted by a loupe. Yes, we could see its every outline. It was the crook sansahta, the symbol of life itself. The symbol vanished, the fire sank. Again it placed up more fiercely than before, and the loupe 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 searchlight of a ship, one fierce ray shot across the sea of a mountain tops, and the spaces of the deserts, 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, scanting food. Then it was gone as swiftly as it came, gone to where the symbol and the veil of flame behind it, only the glow lingered a little on the distant sky. For a while there was silence between us, then Leo said, Do you remember horrors, 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 plate of death? Now I think that it has been sent again, in greeting to point out the path to the place of life, where I shall dwells, whom we have lost a while. 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 paths 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 foreshadowing 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 snowstorm 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 ark, we struggled downward and homewards, till at length out of the turmoil of 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 midwinter, and oh, the awful wariness of those months of waiting, in our hands was the key, gender amongst those mountains lay the door, but not yet might we set that key within its lock, for between us and thee 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 vials 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 banged up, and in the morning no 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 snow 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 a time had come to start. But wither go, you, wither go, you, asked the old Abbot in dismay. Are you not happy here? Do you not make great strides along the path, as be known by your pious conversation? It's not everything that we have your own. Oh, why would you leave us? We are wonderers, we answered, and when we see mountains in front of us, we must cross them. Quen 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, by the length of a single barley-corn. Tell me, that at least my prayers make accompany you. Holy Abbot, I said, a while 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 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 perhaps think that we are liars? Brethren of the great monastery called the world, Quinn 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'd sought die is reincarnated 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 karma 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 has been humbled, that bro 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 reclaimed. Brother Holly, for you as for me losses our only gain, since thereby we are spared much flow. Oh, bide here and pray with me. Why dash yourselves against the rock? Why labour to put water into broken jar, whence it must sink into the sands of profitless experience, and there be wasted, whilst you remain a thirst? Water makes the sand fertile, I answered, where water falls, life comes, and sorrows is the seed of joy. Love is the law of life, broken 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 your brother, who must follow your own road. See now what has this woman, this priestess of a fourth 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 Goddesses 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 Devashan, 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 reborn, 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 Tristan, we do not break our word. Oh, then, brethren, go keep your trust, 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 decide to live in 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. 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 Quinn, yours were the words of wisdom, ours the deeds of foolishness. And with the deep sigh the old man turned and left us. A cheerful faith truly, said Leo, looking after him, to dwell through eons 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 bad world and keep my hope of a better. Also, I do not think that he knows anything of Asha 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 foresight wisdom that is given to such as he oppressed me deeply. He promised us sorrow and bloodshed beyond the mountains, ending in death and rebirth 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 Quence that Asha was the goddess in old Egypt to whom Calicratus 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 Asha, or using the woman Asha, and her passions as her instruments, was avenged upon them both at Cor, 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 couldn't 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 fulfill. 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 equality 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, Asha 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 scepter, and upon earth wielded the power of the outraged Isis, and with her that other woman who wrought the wrong, and if so, with the dreed, inhuman struggle reaches climax around the person of the sinful priest. In a few months, a few days even, we might begin to know. Thrilled by this sorted length, I fell asleep. End of Chapter 3 of Asha the Return of She by H. Ryder Haggard Read by L. Rolander