# Mirrikh, or, A Woman from Mars/Chapter 1

MIRRIKH.
BOOK I.
LEVITATION.
CHAPTER I.
PANOMPIN.
In 1870 I was at Panompin.
But for this—and it was only by accident that I chanced to be there—my part in the singular adventures which I am about to narrate would never have been played.
Not that there existed any reason why I should not be at Panompin in the year mentioned; still it seemed strange to be wandering alone about the streets of the Cambodian capital free from all responsibility, when only two short months before I had been loaded down with a burden of care which promised to be never-ending, and I would just as soon have thought then of going to the moon.
Permit me before proceeding any further to introduce myself.
I am George Wylde, ex-American Consul at Swatow. The addition of the prefix to my official title was purely of my own seeking. I felt that I had seen enough of Swatow, and of China too, for that matter. I resigned simply because I wanted to get away.
My reasons—well, I suppose they must be stated, and I may as well undertake the disagreeable task first as last. I had trouble with my wife, serious trouble which had been constantly increasing during the five years of our married life. This trouble had culminated in a way that would ​have wrecked the lives of most men. My wife appropriated as much of my personal property as she could readily lay her hands upon, and in company with an English adventurer left Swatow for parts unknown.
Thank God there were no motherless children left behind her, our only offspring had been taken from us before we left New York.
How she wept on that cold October afternoon when we laid the little fellow in Greenwood! How she clung to me, how—but there, I have no more to say about it. When she went I swore that I would tear her image alike from my heart and memory—that I would never raise my finger to find her. I simply let her go.
It was getting dark when I returned from my spin on the Mesap that evening, and in Cambodia the twilight does not last long. I remember I had considerable difficulty in making my way among the mass of native boats which lined the shore, and was not a little preplexed to find the particular float from which I had started, for the low, bamboo huts, with their sloping roofs of thatch all looked alike to my unaccustomed eyes, and it was difficult to tell one from the other. At last, however, I found it, and making fast, leaped ashore.
Lighting a cheroot I drew on my coat and soon found myself strolling leisurely along the principal street of Panompin, elbowed by Chinamen, Klings, Siamese, all easily distinguishable from the native Cambodians by their peculiar costumes and facial distinctions. I was intent upon my thoughts, which concerned chiefly the contents of the windows of the bamboo shops beside me, for just then I was contemplating a descriptive work upon the manners and customs of Farther India; and I had long since accustomed myself to habits of observation; for a traveller with a retentive memory even the most casual stroll is never taken in vain.
The main thoroughfare of the city runs north and south along the river, and I had proceeded for a considerable distance—was almost in sight of King Norodom’s palace, in fact, when a person brushed past me who certainly was neither Chinese, Kling nor Cambodian, and at the same time was as different from a European as an Englishman from a citizen of Timbuctoo.
A man dressed after the fashion of the wealthy native ​gentleman of Calcutta, half European, half Oriental. But for the somewhat exaggerated white turban which covered his head, there was nothing about his apparel which need have attracted attention in the streets of Panompin or any other city in the East, save in one particular—the whole lower portion of his face, from the nose down, was concealed behind a black silk covering that extended high up on the cheeks, being secured by cords passing around the ears. The cloth did not cover the ears, but fitted close beneath them; it also passed completely around the neck, concealing it from view, which left only the upper part of the face visible. This was yellowish—not yellow as a Chinaman’s face is yellow, but more like a Cuban’s, or Spanish American’s. The eyes were small, black and piercing, yet mild and full of intelligence. Certainly there was nothing disagreeable about the face—what was to be seen of it, at least—rather the reverse.
I was puzzled. Women with partially veiled features are no novelty to an old traveller like myself; but a man—well, here was something I had never seen before.
But my interest in this mysterious individual was not long enduring. In a moment or two I had dismissed him from my thoughts with the conclusion that he probably had excellent reasons for covering the lower part of his face. “Some dreadful disfigurement,” I reflected, for such things are common enough in the East; and I sauntered on.
My mind was in that peculiar frame which often seizes us after some great calamity. We know that the worst has happened; we comprehend that the long anticipated has at length been realized; that we are upon the other side of the mountain of awful possibilities conjured up during weeks, months, years, perhaps, of anxious expectation, and we say to ourselves that it is all over, it cannot be changed; if there is no hope at least no cause for further anxiety exists. There are states when the over-taxed brain demands rest and will have it. I was in such a state just then.
Positively I could not think connectedly for five minutes upon any subject without that sensation of tightness above the eyes which tired brain-workers know so well. Even to speculate upon the mystery of that covered face made my head ache, and I therefore dismissed the subject abruptly and turned my attention to the shop windows again, wandering on through the crowd until I found myself at last in the ​neighborhood of the pagoda, a ruinous old affair, that I had already visited, surrounded by image houses, in one of which is an immense gilded Buddha with mother of pearl finger nails and eyes.
Both the mound upon which it stands and the pagoda itself are built of curious little bricks, and from the summit of the former a splendid view of the city, and even as far as the great Makong river, can be had. Any one is at liberty to visit the pagoda; the prejudices of religion sit very lightly upon these Cambodians. I was just debating whether it would not be a good idea to climb the steps and look down upon Panompin by moonlight, when a sudden shouting behind aroused me from my reverie and set me on the alert at once.
There was some excitement further down the street; I could see an angry crowd surging, and almost in the same instant I caught sight of a tall figure running toward me. It was the man with the concealed face.
Off the main street lights were not plentiful. Looking back I now perceived that the mob was coming in my direction; but I had scarcely time to reflect upon this when the man was at my side and I saw that his face was no longer hidden.
As any attempt to describe my amazement when I looked upon that face would fail to do it justice, I will simply state that the object of the singular mask was now apparent. The lower part of the face was beardless and black.
“Friend, you are an Englishman—for God’s sake help me!” he exclaimed, pausing for an instant. “I met with an accident back there—they are chasing me—they may kill me unless I can manage to get out of their sight.”
What had happened to the man? His turban was gone as well as his mask, his clothing was torn and covered with dust. As he stood beside me I noticed that he carried a small hand bag—the kind that we Americans call a “grip sack”—on one side of which was a splash of blood.
Now, I thought I knew something about a Cambodian mob, for only the week before I had seen an unfortunate Chinaman chased through the streets of Panompin and almost torn limb from limb, though for what offense I did not learn, and I saw at a glance that unless something was done, and that pretty quickly, the man who had appealed to me would be beyond need of help.
As it happened, the residence of the American Consul was ​not far distant, and by good fortune the consul was my most valued friend. If I could contrive to get this man to the consulate he was safe for the time being at least.
“This way,” said I, without an instant’s hesitation, pointing toward a street leading off on our right. The next moment we were running side by side with the shouts of the mob ringing in our ears.
“Where are you taking me?” he demanded in excellent English.
“To the American consulate. It is but a few steps.”
“Good! I shall be safe there. It was only an accident, and I am sure no one can regret it more than I do.”
“What happened?” I asked, eyeing him curiously.
For a moment he made no answer but turned a pair of deep set, black eyes upon me with a persistence of gaze positively painful. In vain I tried to withdraw my own eyes from his, but it was quite impossible. I had heard of men who could fascinate by a look. Was I face to face with such a person now? Be that true or false, the face before me was certainly a puzzle—a wonder if it was natural, which I could scarcely credit then.
The line of demarcation was wavy, running just below the ears, half way toward the nose, and then striking obliquely downward to the corner of the mouth, being the same on both sides. Above the line the skin was yellowish white, lighter about the forehead than lower down; below the line the darkness suddenly became an intense black; this included the lower lip and chin, part of each cheek and the throat. I wondered if it extended to the body, but the fact that the hands were of the same shade of color as the forehead seemed to indicate that such could not be the case. Altogether the face was an enigma; yet there was nothing repulsive about it. Nothing could make that face repulsive, for the features were singularly perfect and beneath the heavy eyebrows beamed the intelligence of those peculiar eyes. Have I mentioned that the hair was long, straight and intensely black?
A moment passed and he removed his gaze, to my great relief.
“I have a defect of sight,” he said calmly. “In crossing the street back there I accidentally stumbled over a little girl whom I did not see. I fancy she was not much hurt, but as I stooped down to help her up two fellows set upon me ​and before I knew it I was down myself—the only wonder is they did not kill me. I thought they would. You can see with what effect I was forced to use my only weapon, this bag.”
“But surely the police—” I began, when he immediately interrupted me.
“The police? They would give me no help. You are an intelligent man. I need not call your attention to the fact that my face is peculiar. I usually hide it, but they tore off its covering, and nothing else was needed to set them upon me like a pack of wolves. Are we almost there?”
“We ought to be within a stone’s throw of it now,” I replied, when it suddenly dawned upon me that I had made a mistake. Instead of taking the street on which the consulate was situated, I had unwittingly turned down the next one, and now it seemed almost too late to repair my blunder, for the mob had turned the corner, and, catching sight of us, were rushing on like so many mad dogs, shouting as they came in a fashion that was anything but reassuring.
“This is a bad business. We are going wrong!” I burst out.
I could feel his hand tremble as he clutched my arm.
“Don’t tell me that,” he panted. “You don’t know what it is to be differently made from other men. My friend, I have been through this sort of thing before—one cannot always hope to escape.”
“Before matters come to a crisis they shall have the opportunity of looking down the muzzle of my revolver,” I answered. “Look, here we are on the wrong street—we must cut across somehow to the next.”
“And then?”
“Then we shall be directly in front of the consulate.”
“It must be done. Look behind there—you can see we have only a moment. Shall we try this alley? It may take us through.”
The alley was a narrow passage between two of the largest houses I ever remember observing in Panompin. It was dark at the entrance and barely wide enough for us both to walk abreast, but down at the further end a flickering light dimly burned.
Positively I can’t say whether I gave assent or not; I only remember that the next moment we were running along the alley and I was beginning to fancy that we had ​given our pursuers the slip, when my hopes were dashed by hearing their shouts behind us. Klings, Chinamen and Cambodians were pouring into the alley like sheep.
The situation had now grown desperate. My singular companion saw this as well as I.
“Too bad! too bad!” he muttered. “My plans are ruined. See, friend, we’ve made another blunder. Here’s a wall which neither of us can climb.”
I gave an exclamation of disgust, for directly in front of us stretched the wall, a good twelve feet high, cutting off our retreat completely. We had run into a veritable cul-de-sac.
“It means fight now!” I exclaimed. “I’ll stand by you. Are you armed?”
“No, no! If I was I would not shoot down one of those poor wretches for the world.”
“You must do something quickly.”
“And you?”
“I am not afraid of them.”
“I wish I could help you,” he said, eyeing me strangely. “If you do not fear for yourself, I fear for you. I am the taller. Perhaps I can spring up and catch the top of the wall and so pull you after me.”
He dropped the hand bag upon the ground and leaped up, missing the coping of the wall.
“No use!” he exclaimed. “They are here! May God help you my friend, I cannot—therefore I leave you. A thousand thanks for your kind intentions. Farewell!”
What ailed me—what ailed my man with the parti-colored face?
It would have been useless to ask me then, for at that time even the claims of the Buddhist adepts were unknown to me.
If any one had attempted to describe what happened as something actually having taken place, who would have been readier than I to set him down as a lying imposter or a fool; and yet—
But I find it quite impossible to speak as I could wish. Here is what occurred under the wall at the end of the alley, as I saw it—nothing less, nothing more.
Astonished at the words of my strange companion, knowing as I knew that the next moment must bring me face to face with the mob even then rushing down the alley, I was ​about to speak, when it suddenly struck me that the man's face had undergone a change.
It was growing thin and shadowy, his whole body also seemed to be assuming a certain vapory indistinctness, to become etherealized, so to speak.
As he stood there motionless before the wall, I gazed at him in speechless amazement. Was it actually as I saw it, or was the trouble with my own brain?
He seemed to be sinking slowly downward, his feet and legs disappeared, seemingly dissolving as he went, until nothing but the head rested on the ground.
I was horrified, amazed beyond all telling.
Meanwhile every surrounding object retained its distinctness—the lantern above the wall burned as brightly as before.
From that dreadful head I struggled to remove my gaze in vain. Thinner and still more shadowy it became, until suddenly, as a puff of wind wafts away the last flickering flame of a burnt-out candle, it vanished.
The man had faded away before my eyes, leaving me to face the mob alone.