The Land Leviathan (A Nomad of the Time Streams Novel) (2 page)

Perhaps it is what I should have done, but, doubtless irrationally, I felt that I had a duty to Bastable to publish his account as it stood.

I could, were I trying to make money with my pen, write a whole book, full of sensational anecdotes, concerning my travels in China—a country divided by both internal and external pressures, where the only real law can be found in the territories leased to various foreign powers, and where a whole variety of revolutionists and prophets of peculiar political and religious sects squabble continuously for a larger share of that vast and ancient country; but my object is not to make money from Bastable’s story. I merely think it is up to me to keep my word to him and do my best to put it before the public.

Now that I have returned home, with some relief, to England, I have become a little more optimistic about China’s chances of saving herself from chaos and foreign exploitation. There has been the revolution resulting in the deposing of the last of the Manchus and the setting up of a republic under Sun Yat-sen, who seems to be a reasonable and moderate leader, a man who has learned a great deal from the political history of Europe and yet does not seem content just to ape the customs of the West. Possibly there is hope for China now. However, it is not my business here to speculate upon China’s political future, but to record how I traveled to the Valley of the Morning, following Bastable’s somewhat vague description of its location. I had gathered that it lay somewhere in Shantung province and to the north of Wuchang (which, itself, of course, is in Hupeh). My best plan was to go as directly as possible to Shantung and then make my way inland. I consulted all the atlases and gazetteers, spoke to friends who had been missionaries in that part of China, and got a fairly clear idea of where I might find the valley, if it existed at all.

Yet I was still reluctant to embark upon what was likely to be a long and exhausting expedition. For all that I had completely believed Bastable, I had no evidence at all to substantiate my theory that he had gone back to the Valley of the Morning, which, by 1973, would contain the Utopian city built by General Shaw, the Warlord of the Air, and called Chi’ng Che’eng Ta-Chia (or, in English, roughly Democratic Dawn City). Even if he had gone there—and found nothing—he could easily have disappeared into the vastness of the Asian continent and as easily have perished in one of the minor wars or uprisings which constantly ravaged those poor and strife-ridden lands.

Therefore I continued to lead my conventional life, putting the whole perplexing business of Captain Bastable as far into the back of my mind as possible, although I would patiently send his original manuscript to a fresh publisher every time it came back from the last. I also sent a couple of letters to
The Times
in the hope that my story of my meeting with Bastable would attract the attention of that or some other newspaper, but the letters were never published. Neither, it seemed, were any of the popular monthlies, like the
Strand
, interested, for all that their pages were full of wild and unlikely predictions of what the future was bound to hold for us. I even considered writing to Mr. H.G. Wells, whose books
Anticipations
and
The Discovery of the Future
created such a stir a few years ago, but Mr. Wells, whom I understood to be a full-blooded socialist, would probably have found Bastable’s story too much out of sympathy with his views and would have ignored me as cheerfully as anyone else. I did draft a letter, but finally did not send it.

It was about this time that it was brought to my attention that I was beginning to earn a reputation as something of a crank. This was a reputation I felt I could ill afford and it meant that I was forced, at last, to come to a decision. I had been noticing, for several months, a slightly odd atmosphere at my London club. People I had known for years, albeit only acquaintances, seemed reluctant to pass the time of day with me, and others would sometimes direct looks at me which were downright cryptic. I was not particularly bothered by any of this, but the mystery, such as it was, was finally made clear to me by an old friend of mine who was, himself, a publisher, although he concentrated entirely on poetry and novels and so I had never had occasion to submit Bastable’s manuscript to him. He knew of it, however, and had initially been able to give me the names of one or two publishers who might have been interested. Now, however, he approached me in the library of the club where, after lunch, I had gone to read for half-an-hour. He attracted my attention with a discreet cough.

“Hope you don’t mind me interrupting, Moorcock.”

“Not at all.” I indicated a nearby chair. “As a matter of fact I wanted a word with you, old boy. I’m still having trouble placing that manuscript I mentioned...”

He ignored my offer of a chair and remained standing.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve been meaning to speak to you for a month or two now, but to tell you the truth I’ve had no idea how to approach you. This must sound like damned interference and I’d be more than grateful if you would take what I have to say in the spirit it’s meant.”

He looked extraordinarily embarrassed, squirming like a schoolboy. I even thought I detected the trace of a blush on his cheeks.

I laughed.

“You’re making me extremely curious, old man. What is it?”

“You won’t be angry—no—you’ve every reason to be angry. It’s not that I believe—”

“Come on, out with it.” I put my book down and gave him a smile. “We’re old friends, you and I.”

“Well, Moorcock, it’s
about
Bastable’s manuscript. A lot of people—mainly in publishing, of course, but quite a few of them are members of the club—well, they think you’ve been duped by the chap who told you that story.”

“Duped?” I raised my eyebrows.

He looked miserably at the carpet. “Or worse,” he murmured.

“I think you’d better tell me what they’re saying.” I frowned. “I’m sure you mean well and I assure you that I’ll take anything you have to say in good part. I’ve known you too long to be offended.”

He was plainly relieved and came and sat down in the next chair. “Well,” he began, “most people think that you’re the victim of a hoax. But a few are beginning to believe that you’ve turned a bit—a bit eccentric. Like those chaps who predict the end of the world all the time, or communicate with the astral plane, and so on. You know what I mean, I suppose.”

My answering smile must have seemed to him a bit grim. “I know exactly what you mean. I had even considered it. It must seem a very rum go to someone who never met Bastable. Now you mention it, I’m not surprised if I’m the gossip of half London. Why shouldn’t people think such things about me? I’d be tempted to think them myself about
you
if you came to me with a story like Bastable’s. As it is, you’ve been extremely tolerant of me!”

His smile was weak as he tried to acknowledge my joke. I went on:

“So they think I’m a candidate for Colney Hatch, do they? Well, of course, I’ve absolutely no proof to the contrary. If only I could produce Bastable himself. Then people could make up their own minds about the business.”

“It
has
become something of an obsession,” suggested my friend gently. “Perhaps it would be better to drop the whole thing?”

“You’re right—it is an obsession. I happen to believe that Bastable was telling the truth.”

“That’s as may be...”

“You mean I should stop my efforts to get the account into print.”

There was a hint of sorrow in his eyes. “There isn’t a publisher in London, old man, who would touch it now. They have
their
reputations to think of. Anyone who took it would be a laughingstock. That’s why you’ve had so much trouble in placing it. Drop it, Moorcock, for your sake and everyone else’s.”

“You could be right.” I sighed. “Yet, if I could come up with some sort of proof, possibly then they would stop laughing.”

“How could you find the proof which would convince them?”

“I could go and look for Bastable in China and tell him the trouble he’s caused me. I could hope that he would come back to London with me—talk to people himself. I could put the matter into his hands and let him deal with his own manuscript. What would you say to that?”

He shrugged and made a gesture with his right hand. “I agree it would be better than nothing.”

“But your own opinion is that I should forget all about it. You think I should burn the manuscript and have done with it, once and for all?”

“That’s my opinion, yes. For your own sake, Moorcock— and your family’s. You’re wasting so much of your time—not to mention your capital.”

“I know that you have my interests at heart,” I told him, “but I made a promise to Bastable (although he never heard me make it) and I intend to keep it, if I can. However, I’m glad that you spoke to me. It took courage to do that and I appreciate that it was done with the best of intentions. I’ll think the whole thing over, at any rate.”

“Yes,” he said eagerly, “do think it over. No point in fighting a losing battle, eh? You took this very decently, Moorcock. I was afraid you’d chuck me out on my ear. You had every right to do so.”

Again I laughed. “I’m not that much of a lunatic, as you can see. I haven’t lost all my common sense. But doubtless anyone with common sense would listen to me and become convinced that I
was
a lunatic! Whether, however,
I
have enough common sense to put the whole obsession behind me is quite another matter!”

He got up. “Let’s stop talking about it. Can I buy you a drink?”

For the moment it was obviously politic to accept his offer so that he should not think I had, after all, taken offense. “I’d be glad of one,” I said. “I hope the other members aren’t afraid that I’m about to run riot with a meat-axe or something!”

As we left the library he clapped me on the shoulder, speaking with some relief. “I don’t think so. Though there was some talk of chaining down the soda siphon a week or two ago.”

I
only went back to the club once more during that period and it was noticeable how much better the atmosphere had become. I determined, there and then, to give up all immediate attempts to get Bastable’s story published and I began to make concrete plans for a trip to China.

A
nd so, one bright autumn morning, I arrived at the offices of the Peninsular & Oriental Steam Navigation Company and booked the earliest possible passage on a ship called the
Mother Gangá
, which, I gathered, was not the proudest ship of that particular line, but would be the first to call at Weihaiwei, a city lying on the coast of that part of Shantung leased to Britain in 1898. I thought it only sense to begin my journey in relatively friendly country where I could seek detailed advice and help before pressing on into the interior.

Mother Gangá
took her time. She was an old ship and she had evidently come to the conclusion that nothing in the world was urgent enough to require her to hurry. She called at every possible port to unload one cargo and to load another, for she was not primarily a passenger ship at all. It was easy to see why she rid herself of some of her cargoes (which seemed completely worthless), but hard to understand why the traders in those small, obscure ports should be prepared to exchange something of relative value for them!

I was prepared for the slowness of the journey, however, and spent much of my time working out the details of my plans and poring over my original shorthand notes to see if Bastable had told me anything more which might offer a clue to his whereabouts. I found little, but by the time I disembarked I was fit (thanks to my habit of taking plenty of exercise every day on board) and rested and ready for the discomforts which must surely lie ahead of me.

The discomfort I had expected, but what I had not anticipated was the extraordinary beauty and variety of even this relatively insignificant part of China. It struck me as I went up on deck to supervise the unloading of my trunks and I believe I must have gasped.

A huge pale blue sky hung over a city which was predominantly white and red and gold—a collection of ancient Chinese pagodas and archways mixed with more recent European building. Even these later buildings had a certain magic to them in that light, for they had been built of local stone and much of the stone contained fragments of quartz which glittered when the sun struck them. The European buildings were prominent on the waterfront where many trading companies had built their offices and warehouses and the flags of a score of different Western nations fluttered on masts extended into the streets, while the names of the various companies were emblazoned in their native alphabets and often translated into the beautiful Chinese characters, in black, silver or scarlet.

Chinese officials in flowing robes moved with considerable difficulty through throngs of sweating, near-naked coolies, British and Chinese policemen, soldiers and white-suited Europeans, sailors from a dozen different countries—all mingled casually and with few outward signs of discomfort in what seemed to me, the newcomer, like some huge, dream-like rugger scrum.

A young Chinese boy in a pigtail took me in charge as I left the ship and shepherded me through the throng, finding me a rickshaw and piling me and my luggage aboard until the wickerwork groaned. I put what I hoped was an adequate tip into his outstretched hand and he seemed delighted, for he grinned and bowed many times, uttering the words “God bless, God bless” over and over again before he told the celestial between the rickshaw’s shafts that I wanted to go to the Hotel Grasmere, recommended by P. & O. as about the best British hotel in Weihaiwei.

With a lurch the rickshaw set off, and it was with some astonishment that I realized a moment or two later that I was being pulled by a slip of a girl who could not have been much older than sixteen. She made good speed through the crowded, narrow streets of the city and had deposited me outside the Grasmere within twenty minutes.

Again my donation was received with near ecstasy, and it occurred to me that I was probably being over-generous, that a little money would go a very long way for the average Chinese living in Shantung!