Ayesha, the Return of She by H. Rider Haggard (red scrolls of magic .txt) 📗

built on the face of the opposing precipice. At the foot of these I bade farewell to Oros, who at our parting smiled benignantly as on the day we met.

“We have seen strange things together,” I said to him, not knowing what else to say.

“Very strange,” he answered.

“At least, friend Oros,” I went on awkwardly enough, “events have shaped themselves to your advantage, for you inherit a royal mantle.”

“I wrap myself in a mantle of borrowed royalty,” he answered with precision, “of which doubtless one day I shall be stripped.”

“You mean that the great Ayesha is not dead?”

“I mean that She never dies. She changes, that is all. As the wind blows now hence, now hither, so she comes and goes, and who can tell at what spot upon the earth, or beyond it, for a while that wind lies sleeping? But at sunset or at dawn, at noon or at midnight, it will begin to blow again, and then woe to those who stand across its path.

“Remember the dead heaped upon the plains of Kaloon. Remember the departing of the Shaman Simbri with his message and the words that she spoke then. Remember the passing of the Hesea from the Mountain point. Stranger from the West, surely as to-morrow’s sun must rise, as she went, so she will return again, and in my borrowed garment I await her advent.”

“I also await her advent,” I answered, and thus we parted.

Accompanied by twenty picked men bearing provisions and arms, I climbed the ladders easily enough, and now that I had food and shelter, crossed the mountains without mishap. They even escorted me through the desert beyond, till one night we camped within sight of the gigantic Buddha that sits before the monastery, gazing eternally across the sands and snows.

When I awoke next morning the priests were gone. So I took up my pack and pursued my journey alone, and walking slowly came at sunset to the distant lamasery. At its door an ancient figure, wrapped in a tattered cloak, was sitting, engaged apparently in contemplation of the skies. It was our old friend Kou-en. Adjusting his horn spectacles on his nose he looked at me.

“I was awaiting you, brother of the Monastery called ‘the World,’” he said in a voice, measured, very ineffectually, to conceal his evident delight. “Have you grown hungry there that you return to this poor place?”

“Aye, most excellent Kou-en,” I answered, “hungry for rest.”

“It shall be yours for all the days of this incarnation. But say, where is the other brother?”

“Dead,” I answered.

“And therefore re-born elsewhere or perhaps, dreaming in Devachan for a while. Well, doubtless we shall meet him later on. Come, eat, and afterwards tell me your story.”

So I ate, and that night I told him all. Kou-en listened with respectful attention, but the tale, strange as it might seem to most people, excited no particular wonder in his mind. Indeed, he explained it to me at such length by aid of some marvellous theory of re-incarnations, that at last I began to doze.

“At least,” I said sleepily, “it would seem that we are all winning merit on the Everlasting Plane,” for I thought that favourite catchword would please him.

“Yes, brother of the Monastery called the World,” Kou-en answered in a severe voice, “doubtless you are all winning merit, but, if I may venture to say so, you are winning it very slowly, especially the woman—or the sorceress—or the mighty evil spirit—whose names I understand you to tell me are She, Hes, and Ayesha upon earth and in Avitchi, Star-that-hath-Fallen——”

(Here Mr. Holly’s manuscript ends, its outer sheets having been burnt when he threw it on to the fire at his house in Cumberland.)