# Mirrikh, or, A Woman from Mars/Chapter 6

CHAPTER VI.
STORM BOUND IN THE OLD STONE TOWER.
“Good evening, gentlemen. You tarry late in the forest. Let me advise you to seek shelter as soon as possible, for unless all signs fail a storm is at hand.”
It was Mr. Mirrikh who thus addressed our little party, as we all stood there staring at him like a parcel of geese, without even a word of thanks for what he had done.
The voice recalled me to myself and I hurried forward to greet him, offering my hand which he grasped cordially.
“My dear sir, how can we thank you?” I said. “Let me introduce you—the Rev. Miles Philpot, Mr. Mirrikh. Maurice, surely you have not forgotten Mr. Mirrikh so soon!”
It was a brave effort on my part, but alas! It came to nothing. They could not help staring at that face—no one could help it—I, myself, could not.
Maurice muttered something and extended his hand also, but Mr. Mirrikh seemed not to see it, while the Doctor just blurted out:
“Gad, where did you spring from? I’m awfully obliged to you for what you did, don’t you know, but that face of yours——”
“Yes, we are late!” I burst out in a voice which was intended to smother the Doctor’s impudent allusion, and did. “We were over at Ballambong and have been delayed, lost our way.”
He smiled at me kindly and then, without answering or even looking toward Philpot until it was done, took out the black cloth and quietly proceeded to ajust it about his
face.
“Now sir, you may look at me without disgust,” he said, coolly, addressing himself to the Doctor. “Possibly you are not aware of the danger you have escaped?”
It was well timed and recalled Philpot to himself.
“Indeed I am, and owe you a big debt of gratitude,” he hastened to say. “Pardon my curiosity, I——”
“Did you say you had missed your way, Mr. Wylde?” ​interrupted Mr. Mirrikh, turning his back squarely upon him.
“I fear so.”
“You wish to return to Angkor of course?”
“Of course.”
“Take my advice and make no such attempt,” he said hastily. “A storm of unusual violence is certainly approaching, and the best thing you can do is to get under cover as soon as you possibly can.”
“But where can we find shelter? In the wood-cutters’ village back there we shall hardly be safe.”
“I do not refer to the wood-cutters’ village,” he interrupted. “Keep directly on as you are going. About a quarter of a mile further and you will come to a hill upon which stands an old stone tower, once an observatory they say. It is a ruinous old affair, but it will afford you shelter. You had best be quick or you will be half drowned before you can make it. Good night.”
He turned to leave us, but I could not have him go so. The recollection of the bag preyed upon me. How guilty I felt. Did he know? Had he in addition to his other wonderful acquirements the power of reading men’s thoughts?
“Stay!” I exclaimed, “I feel that we have not half expressed our gratitude. If you had not happened along as you did—”
“But I did, and there’s been enough said already,” he replied. “I have been at Ballambong myself, and was on my way through the jungle to another ruin near here. Just as I heard your voices I happened to spy the man-eater. I have been tiger hunting many times in India, and have seen that trick played before. It was a fortunate thing for all of you that I happened to have this torch.”
“But will you not remain with us?” I persisted. “You stand in the same need of shelter that we do, surely,”
He shook his head, and smiled peculiarly.
“No, I do not fear the storm, I love it. What is so grand as to witness a conflict of the elements in a tropical forest? Nothing that I know of. It brings man to such a thorough realization of his own insignificance; besides I have a place of shelter in view, and shall surely reach it. Perhaps I may see you again before the storm is over. Until then, adieu!”
He bowed low, crossing his arms after the Eastern fashion, and before I could say another word, glided into the ​thicket and disappeared, leaving us stupidly staring at the place where he had stood.
Philpot was the first to break the silence.
“Well, upon my word!” he exclaimed, “if that fellow ain’t a puzzle there never was one in the world.”
“He’s a gentleman, at all events,” I replied coolly, “which, considering the way you acted, is more than I can say for you.”
“Come, come, George, none of that!” cried Maurice hastily.
“Thank you,” replied the Doctor. “Your remark is plainness itself, Wylde, and I am free to admit it is not undeserved.”
“The same may be said of me,” added Maurice. “I can never get used to that man’s face.”
“I’d give something if I could have touched it,” added the Doctor. “It’s painted, just as sure as you live.”
“Nonsense! It’s nothing of the sort,” I answered, testily. “Disease may have produced it, but fraud, never.”
“Don’t be too sure, Wylde,” said the Doctor.
“But I am sure. Remember I have seen it in the daylight.”
“You are wrong, Doctor,” added Maurice. “You are certainly wrong, and George is just as certainly right. Did you in your travels ever see anything like it before?”
“Never!”
“Or hear of any disease which could produce it?”
“I am certain there is none. In my younger days I devoted a year or two to the study of medicine—that was before I thought of the pulpit. I can assure you both that disease never made that face what it is.”
“In other words, it is as unaccountable to you as to Wylde and myself; as unaccountable as the man’s sudden appearance among us. Of course, he was not at Ballambong, or we should have seen him, and, even if he was, why should he go beating his way through the jungle instead of choosing the path?”
“Conundrums, everyone of them, and I am not Yankee enough to be good at guessing,” replied the Doctor.
But I had not regained my temper yet, for the recollection of the bag still troubled me.
“Explain the mystery or not, as you can,” I said, “the fact remains, Philpot, that the man saved your life, and you were barely civil to him in return.”
​“Confound it, Wylde, why do you keep harping on that?” he answered almost hotly. “Do you make no allowance for a fellow’s astonishment? I’ll bet you a shilling when you first saw that face you were as much taken aback as I. You’ve said enough—let it rest.”.
“Yes, and while you two are squabbling, what is to hinder the tiger from returning?” put in Maurice. “I move we get out of this.”
“It is time,” I answered, dryly. “Look! The storm is almost upon us. Which way shall we go?”
“To the old stone tower,” said Maurice promptly. “We shall do well to follow his advice.”
“We’ll do it!” exclaimed the Doctor. “We’ll take his advice, and, by the eternal gods, if he does favor us with another call, I’ll have his secret out of him, or know the reason why.”
We now hurried on, crossing the swampy stretch in the path before us as best we could. Fortunately, it was of no great extent, and we soon found ourselves upon rising ground.
Clearly there was no time to be lost, for the sky had now assumed an inky blackness, and there was barely light enough to enable us to see our way.
“If we don’t find his tower we are going to be in a sweet fix;” growled Philpot, after a little. “Hark! Did you hear that? Boys, I tell you there’s no time to lose.”
It was thunder this time. A growl, a low rumbling followed by a faint breath of wind which struck our faces with refreshing coolness in that moist, stifling heat.
Suddenly there was a rush among the bushes ahead of us, and some animal dashed across our path, disappearing in the thicket beyond, while the shrill screams of paroquets and birds whose notes were unknown, told us that we were not the only creatures in the jungle in dread of the approaching storm.
“Run!” cried Maurice. “Every moment is precious.”
I felt my heart sink as we dashed ahead.
What if we had missed the tower? What if we were to be forced to brave the fury of this storm in the forest? Yet, after all, why should I care—I, who felt no interest in life?
And, as we ran, I could not but think of Mr. Mirrikh. Were there actually other ruins hidden in the jungle? Surely ​he would not venture among the wood-cutters, with every probability of receiving even a ruder reception than he had experienced at the hands of the Panompin mob.
I was deeply puzzled. More so, far more so, than I had shown to my companions. I half expected, I own, to see him suddenly spring out upon us again. I would not have been surprised if I had spied him flying through the air above our heads like the witches of old. But I kept my thoughts to myself, and we hurried on.
Soon the wind had increased to a gale, and the giant trees of a belt of woodland which we had now entered bent beneath it. The thunder, too, was growing deafening, with claps alternately loud and stifled, short and prolonged, sharp and crackling, while blinding flashes of light illuminated our surroundings with terrible distinctness, only to make the darkness more profound when the change came.
But, as yet, no rain—that was still in reserve. Come it must, we knew, and we ran with all speed, peering about for the hill which Mr. Mirrikh had described.
“It’s no use, George! Either there is no tower, or we must have passed it!” cried Maurice.
The words were no more than spoken, when a frightful crash resounded through the forest, and a flash of unusual intensity showed us a gigantic tree whose trunk our united arms could not have encircled, topple and fall directly before us, bringing down with it a mass of orchids and other parasitic plants, while a colony of monkeys which had taken refuge among its branches, scampered away, screaming and chattering to seek other shelter. It is needless to say we were brought to a halt.
“Merciful God! but this is terrible!” cried the Doctor. “We are safe nowhere. Ha! here comes the rain at last!”
He was right. First great drops against our faces, then a torrent, then a flood. It was the first storm of the season and if there were any worse before the dry months came again, I thank God I was not there to see.
Now came a lightning flash hardly equal to its predecessor, but of vastly more interest to us.
“Look! look! shouted Maurice. “The tower!”
We saw it before he spoke, otherwise we might never have seen it at all, for in a second all was darkness and the thunder rolling and crashing again.
​“Forward!” cried the Doctor. “I saw the hill and a flight of stone steps leading up.”
We leaped over the fallen tree and following the Doctor soon found ourselves at the beginning of steps leading up a hill which must surely have been artificial. It was about one hundred feet in height and cut in terraces paved with stone. Up upon these terraces four staircases led—I describe the place as I saw it afterward—solid stone affairs having hand-rails, ornamented with lions, beautifully carved, and at the top stood a large circular tower of considerable circumference, completely overgrown with shrubs and vines. On the level space about it dozens of great trees had forced their roots down between the blocks of the pavement and were now swaying wildly before the blast.
“By gracious! Mirrikh was right George!” cried Maurice, as we gained the platform at the top of the steps. “Here is the tower, sure enough!”
“But the door—where is the door!” shouted the Doctor, his words scarcely distinguishable above the howl of the storm.
We ran entirely around the building before we found it, and then it was just about where we had started from, half hidden by a mass of vines which hung trailing down from the stones above.
It was I who made the discovery; pushing the vines aside we made our way into a circular enclosure, from one side of which a flight of stairs led up into the tower; the only peculiar feature it possessed, except a huge stone image of Buddha which occupied a sitting position in a niche to the right of the staircase. A veritable colossus, three times life size, but in a sad state of delapidation, being minus a leg, an arm and the better part of the nose. In front of the pedestal was a circular depression in the stone floor half filled with bits of charcoal, and behind the image Maurice found quite a pile of dry brush wood which showed that this was not the first time the old stone tower had served as a shelter. Meanwhile the storm raged more fiercely than ever and the continual crashing of thunder was something awful to hear.
Involuntarily I thought of Mr. Mirrikh and wondered where in that wilderness beneath us he was just then. There was no other building upon the platform—that I had already made sure of—so if he was actually near us, and I half suspected it, his hiding place must be in the tower itself.
​“Thank God we are here!” exclaimed Philpot—somehow his pious ejaculations always sounded to my ears like profanity—“or rather thank your friend with the black and white face. I only hope he has got so good a shelter. I say, De Veber, lend us your shawl, will you? The rain is beating in through the doorway in a perfect torrent. It will break it a little, and cut off the draught. Ye gods! but ain’t it cold!”
It was exceedingly cold and we, in our wet garments, were shivering in a way horribly suggestive of fever.
Maurice brought out his brandy flask which helped us in imagination, if not in fact, and while Philpot busied himself in hanging the shawl, he and I raked out the charcoal from the hole before the image, brought wood from the corner, and as I had my matches in a waterproof case, we soon experienced the comfortable sensations of a crackling blaze; which not only served to dry our clothes and warm us up, but made things cheerful with its light.
Not that all these things were done in a moment. By no means. When we entered the tower we were in total darkness and it was only by lighting match after match that we were able to make out anything at all. Now the fire was blazing merrily and I lighted my pipe, and Maurice his cheroot—the Doctor sponging on my friend for his smoke as usual—and we all seated ourselves on the stone floor beside it, well satisfied with our snug retreat.
“We’re in for a night of it,” said Philpot, “and upon my soul we might have a worse place. Look at his nibs scowling down at us there! To think of men being fools enough to worship that block of stone.”
He was looking up at the big image which returned his gaze with a stony stare, as the flashes from the fire played grotesquely upon its battered face.
“He is God to his worshippers, at all events,” said Maurice, dreamily.
“And as good a one as the invisible Jehovah of the Jews and Christians,” retorted Philpot. “There, I have said it—don’t one of you dare to give me away boys.”
And then, as though in rebuke of his blasphemy, came a crash of thunder which was truly terrible. It seemed to shake the old tower to its very foundation stones.
“Enough!” I cried. “Enough! Let us have no more of it. Though I may be to a certain extent in harmony ​with your views, let us at least respect the prejudices of our fellows. Nor have I gone so far yet as to deny the existence of a ruling power. There must be some guiding hand which controls the vast machine we call the universe.”
“Good, George!” exclaimed Maurice. “Good! It is the first time I ever heard you admit even that much.”
And in truth it was a night which would have made most men chary of denying the existence of their God.