The Land Leviathan (A Nomad of the Time Streams Novel) (6 page)

The booty was collected quickly and Una Persson mounted her sleek stallion without another glance at me, riding off through the rain. One of her silent warriors brought me a horse and signaled for me to climb into the saddle. I did so with eagerness, for I had no intention of becoming separated from the beautiful bandit leader—she was my first real link with Bastable and there was every chance she would take me to him. I felt no danger from these rascals and had an inkling that Una Persson was, if not sympathetic, at least neutral with regard to me.

Thus, surrounded by her men, I followed behind her as we left that little vale of death and the remnants of Mr. Lu’s party and cantered along a narrow track which wound higher and higher into the mountains.

I was hardly aware of the details of that journey, so eaten up was I with curiosity. A thousand questions seethed in my skull— how could a woman who had been described by Bastable as being young in the year 1973 be here, apparently just as young, in the year 1910? Once again I experienced that almost fearful
frisson
which I had experienced when listening to Bastable’s speculations on the paradoxes of Time.

And would Democratic Dawn City—Chi’ng Che’eng Ta-Chia—that secret Utopian revolutionary citadel be there when we arrived in the Valley of the Morning?

And why was Una Persson taking part in China’s internecine politics? Why did these tall, silent men follow her?

I hoped that I would have at least some answers to these questions when we arrived in the Valley of the Morning, but, as it emerged, I was to be in several ways disappointed.

It was after dark by the time that we reached Una Persson’s camp and the rain had fallen ceaselessly, so that it was still difficult to make out details, but it was obvious that this was no City of the Future—merely the ruins of a small Chinese township with a few houses still inhabitable. For the most part, however, the soldiers and their women and children lived in makeshift shelters erected in the ruins, while others had set up tents or temporary huts similar to the Mongolian yurt. Cooking-fires guttered here and there amongst the fallen masonry and half-burned timbers which spoke of some disaster having befallen the town fairly recently. Much of the ground had been churned to mud and was made even more treacherous by the arrival of our horses. As I dismounted, Una Persson rode up and pointed with a riding-crop at one of the still-standing houses.

“You’ll be my guest for supper, I hope, Mr. Moorcock.”

“You are kind, madam,” I replied. “But I fear I am not properly dressed to take supper with such a beautiful hostess...”

She grinned at the compliment. “You are picking up Chinese habits of speech, I see. Your clothes were rescued. You’ll find them in your room. San Chui here will show you where it is. You’ll be able to wash there, too. Until later, then.” She saluted me with the crop and rode off to supervise the unloading of her spoils (which also consisted of most of the weapons which had a short while ago belonged to Mr. Lu’s and the general’s men). I had an opportunity to see one of the machine-guns I had initially only heard and was astonished that it was so light and yet so capable of dealing out death with extraordinary efficiency. This, too, was of a completely unfamiliar pattern. Indeed, it was the sort of weapon I might have expected to find in a city of the future!

San Chui, impassive as his comrades, bowed and led the way into the house, which was carpeted in luxurious style throughout but was otherwise of a somewhat Spartan appearance. In a room near the top of the house I found my baggage and my spare suit already laid out on my sleeping-mat (there was no bed). Shortly afterwards another soldier, who had changed into a smock and trousers of blue linen, brought me a bowl of hot water and I was able to get the worst of the mud and dust off my person, find a reasonably uncrumpled shirt, don the fresh suit and walk down to supper safe in the conviction that I was able to make at least an approximate appearance of civilized demeanour!

I was to dine alone, it seemed, with my hostess. She herself had changed into a simple gown of midnight-blue silk, trimmed with scarlet in the Chinese fashion. With her short hair and her oval face she looked, in the light of the candles burning on the dining-table, almost Chinese. She wore no ornament and there was no trace of paint on her face, yet she looked even more beautiful than the first time I had seen her. When I bowed it was instinctively, in homage to that beauty. The ground-floor room held the minimum of furniture—a couple of chests against the walls and a low Chinese table at which one sat cross-legged on cushions to eat.

Without enquiry, she handed me a glass of Madeira and I thanked her. Sipping the wine, I found it to be amongst the very best of its kind and I complimented her on it.

She smiled. “Don’t praise my taste, Mr. Moorcock. Praise that of the French missionary who ordered it in Shanghai—and who is still, I suppose, wondering what has become of it!”

I was surprised by her easy (even shameless) admission of her banditry, but said nothing. Never having been a great supporter of the established Church, I continued to sip the missionary’s wine with relish, however, and found myself relaxing for the first time since I had left civilization. Although I had so many questions to ask her, I discovered myself to be virtually tongue-tied, not knowing where to begin and hoping that she would illuminate me without my having to introduce the subject, say, of Bastable and how she came to know him. The last I had heard of her she had been aboard the airship which had, in the year 1973, dropped a bomb of immense power upon the city of Hiroshima. For the first time I began to doubt Bastable’s story and wonder if, indeed, he had been describing nothing but an opium dream which had become confused with reality to the extent that he had introduced actual people he had known into it.

We seated ourselves to eat and I decided to begin in a somewhat elliptical manner, enquiring, as I sampled the delicious soup (served, in Western fashion, before the main courses): “Any news of your father, Captain Korzeniowski?”

It was her turn to frown in puzzlement, and then her brow cleared and she laughed. “Aha! Of course—Bastable. Oh, Korzeniowski is fine, I think. Bastable spoke well of you—he seemed to trust you. Indeed, the reason that you are here at all is that he asked me to do a favour for him.”

“A favour?”

“More of that later. Let us enjoy our meal—this is a luxury for me, you know. Recently we have not had the leisure or the means to prepare elaborate meals.”

Once again she had politely—almost sweetly—blocked my questions. I decided to proceed on a new tack.

“This village has sustained a bombardment by the look of it,” I said. “Have you been attacked?”

She answered vaguely. “It was attacked, yes. By General Liu, I believe, before we arrived. But one gets used to ruins. This is better than some I have known.” Her eyes held a distant, moody look, as if she were remembering other times, other ruins. Then she shrugged and her expression changed. “The world you know is a stable world, Mr. Moorcock, is it not?”

“Comparatively,” I said. “Though there are always threats, I suppose. I have sometimes wondered what social stability is. It is probably just a question of points of view and personal experience. My own outlook is a relatively cheerful one. If I were, say, a Jewish immigrant in London’s East End, it would probably not be anything like as optimistic!”

She appreciated the remark and smiled. “Well, at least you accept that there
are
other views of society. Perhaps that is why Bastable talked to you; why he liked you.”

“Liked me? It is not the impression I received. He disappeared, you know, after our meeting on Rowe Island—without any warning at all. I was concerned for him. He was under a great strain. That, I suppose, is the main reason why I am here. Have you seen him recently? Is he well?”

“I have seen him. He was well enough. But he is trapped—he is probably trapped forever.” Her next phrase was addressed to herself, I thought. “Trapped forever in the shifting tides of Time.”

I waited for her to elaborate, but she did not. “Bastable will tell you more of that,” she said.

“Then he
is
here?”

She shook her head and her hair swayed like the branches of a willow in the wind. She returned her attention to the meal and did not speak for a while as we ate.

Now I had the strange impression that I was not quite real to her, that she spoke to me as she might speak to her horse or a household pet or a familiar picture on her wall, as if she did not expect me to understand and spoke only to clarify her own thoughts. I felt a little uncomfortable, just as someone might feel who was an unwilling eavesdropper on an intimate conversation. Yet I was determined to receive at least some clarification from her.

“I gather that you intend to take me to Bastable—or that Bastable is due to return here?”

“Really? No, no. I am sorry if I have misled you. I have many things on my mind at present. China’s problems alone... The historical implications... The possibility of so much going wrong... Whether we should be interfering at all... If we
are
interfering, or only think we are...” She lifted her head and her wonderful eyes stared deep into mine. “Many concerns— responsibilities—and I am very tired, Mr. Moorcock. It is going to be a long century.”

I was completely nonplussed and decided myself to finish the conversation. “Perhaps we can talk in the morning,” I said, “when we are both more rested.”

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “You are going to bed?”

“If you do not think it impolite. The dinner was splendid.”

“Yes, it was good. The morning...”

I wondered if she, like Bastable, was also a slave to opium. There was a trance-like quality in her eyes now. She could hardly understand me.

“Until the morning, then,” I said.

“Until the morning.” She echoed my words almost mindlessly.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Persson.”

“Goodnight.”

I made my way back upstairs, undressed, lay myself down on the sleeping-mat and, it seemed to me, was immediately dreaming those peculiar, frightening dreams of the previous night. Again, in the morning, I felt completely refreshed and purged. I got up, washed in cold water, dressed and went downstairs. The room was as I had left it—the remains of the previous night’s dinner were still on the table. And I was suddenly seized with the conviction that everything had been abandoned hastily—that I had also been abandoned. I walked outside into a fine, pale morning. The rain had stopped and the air smelled fresh and clean. I looked for signs of activity and found nothing. The only life I could see in the village consisted of one horse, saddled and ready to ride. Soldiers, women and children had all disappeared. Now I wondered if, inadvertently,
I
had sampled some of Mr. Lu’s opium and had dreamed the whole thing! I went back into the house calling out:

“Mrs. Persson! Mrs. Persson!”

There were only echoes. Not one human being remained in the ruined village.

I went out again. In the distance the low green hills of the Valley of the Morning were soft, gentle and glowing after the rain which must have stopped in the night. A large, watery sun hung in the sky. Birds sang. The world seemed to be tranquil, the valley a haven of perfect peace. I saw not one gun, one item of the spoils which the bandits had brought back with them. The cooking-fires were still warm, but had been extinguished. The mud was still thick and deep and there was evidence of many horses having left the village fairly recently.

Perhaps the bandits had received intelligence of a large-scale counter-attack from General Liu’s forces. Perhaps they had left to attack some new objective of their own. I determined to remain in the village for as long as possible in the hope that they would return.

I made a desultory perambulation of the village. I explored each of the remaining houses; I went for a walk along the main road out of the place. I walked back. There was no evidence for my first theory, that the village had been about to suffer an attack.

By lunchtime I was feeling pretty hungry and I returned to the house to pick at the cold remains of last night’s supper. I helped myself to a glass of the missionary’s excellent Madeira. I explored the anterooms of the ground floor and then went upstairs, determined, completely against my normal instincts, to investigate every room.

The bedroom next to mine still bore a faint smell of feminine perfume and was plainly Una Persson’s. There was a mirror on the wall, a bottle of eau-de-Cologne beside the sleeping-mat, a few wisps of dark hair in an ivory hairbrush on the floor near the mirror. Otherwise, the room was furnished as barely as the others. I noticed a small inlaid table near a window leading onto a small balcony which overlooked the ruins of the village. There was a bulky package lying on the table, wrapped in oilskin, tied with cord.

As I passed it on my way to look out of the window I glanced at the package. And then I gave it very much of a second glance, for I had recognized my own name written in faded brown ink on yellow paper! Just the word “Moorcock”. I did not know the handwriting, but I felt fully justified in tearing off the wrappings to reveal a great heap of closely written foolscap pages.

It was the manuscript which you, its rediscoverer (for I have no intention of making a fool of myself again), are about to read.

There was a note addressed to me from Bastable—brief and pointed—and the manuscript itself was in the same writing.

This must be, of course, what Una Persson had been referring to when she had told me that Bastable had left something of himself behind in the Valley of the Morning. I felt, too, that it was reasonable to surmise that she had meant to give the manuscript to me before she left (if she had actually known she was going to leave so suddenly).

I took the table, a stool and the manuscript onto the balcony, seating myself so that I was looking out over the mysteriously deserted village and the distant hills containing the valley I had sought for so long, and I settled down to read a story which was, if anything, stranger than the first Bastable had told me...