The Golden Apple of Shangri-La Read online

  “How long until we hit the side of that mountain?” asked Reed.

  “You’re being awfully blasé about this,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “That’s because I have ultimate faith in Jamyang.”

  Rowena didn’t say that’s very good of you as you didn’t even know him until last night but instead made a swift estimation and said, “Perhaps twenty minutes, maybe half an hour if I kill the engines. Just enough time to turn around. But if we don’t do it now…”

  “No need,” said Jamyang, looking over her shoulder through the side window. “I think the fuses are about ready.”

  “What exactly is in those tubes, Jamyang?”

  “Gunpowder,” he just had time to say, then there were four sudden screaming noises, so close together as to form one unholy cacophony, and the Skylady suddenly lurched forwards and upwards, some invisible force pinning Rowena in the leather pilot’s seat as the wall of the mountain—now so close she could make out cracks and crevices in the rock—flew past as though a cine film of the sort they showed on summer nights in Hyde Park played at the wrong speed. Rowena forced her head to move to the right and she cursed as she saw flames. But the ‘stat wasn’t on fire—at least, not yet. The tubes the monks had screwed to the dirigible frame were spitting blue flames with such force that the Skylady was being forcibly thrown upwards. Suddenly they crested the top of the mountain into blue sky and brilliant sunshine flooded the cockpit. Within seconds of each other the tubes burned themselves out and quieted, and for a moment the Skylady hung in the air, as though the ‘stat itself could not believe the altitude it had achieved.

  Rowena opened her mouth to speak but felt suddenly choked. Gasping for breath, she looked in alarm at Jamyang who nodded. “Thin air. Bring down. Now.”

  “Down where?” she managed, following his outstretched arm. Then she gasped again, though from wonder rather than the thinness of the air. The mountain fell sharply away in front of them, a lost horizon hiding a secret marvel in the heart of the most inhospitable landscape on Earth.

  Shangri-La.

  Where the morning flight had been through the bitterest cold and most furious snow, Shangri-La seemed impervious to the Himalayan weather. It was a long valley, surrounded by the mountain range’s high peaks, which were indeed capped with snow. Thick clouds hugged the summits of the mountains, but they parted and dissipated overhead, allowing the unfiltered sunlight to flood the valley. And where all Rowena had seen since her arrival was rock and snow and scrubland, Shangri-La was a verdant paradise of meadows ablaze with colour, patchwork fields given over to swaying crops, blue pools and white foaming rivers. Orchards of trees groaned with fruit and herds of deer grazed the lowlands near the bank of the river, which began high out of sight in the mountains and disappeared into an underground channel. And in the middle of the valley were clustered simple houses, built around a large structure that must have been the administrative centre of the community.

  “By God, I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” breathed Reed as the Skylady began to descend towards the valley.

  “Are you a noble man?” Jamyang asked quietly.

  Reed placed his gloved hand over his heart. “A man is only as noble as others see him to be.”

  Jamyang nodded, apparently satisfied, though to Rowena this seemed a typically opaque answer. The Tibetan said, “Only a handful of men alive today know of Shangri-La. I have placed a great burden on your soul by showing it to you. I hope you are to be trusted with it.”

  “It’s miraculous,” Reed breathed. “It’s impossible.”

  “It’s in trouble,” said Rowena, pointing down the valley. Thin columns of smoke rose from the village, and tiny figures scurried between the burning dwellings.

  “Von Karloff!” Reed hissed. “The villain has beaten us here!”

  “But only just,” said Jamyang.

  Shedding his animal skins in the suddenly balmy atmosphere, John Reed reached for his pack behind the seats and withdrew his rifle, then checked the knives strapped to his thighs and boots. “Then let us show him that paradise is not his for the taking.”

  * * *

  Rowena nosed towards the village, peering through the rapidly-melting ice on the windshield towards the burning houses around the larger, temple-like structure. “How can an entire village, so cut off from the world, be populated only by women?” she said. “How do they survive, continue their lineage?”

  Jamyang said, “They do not need to. Those who spend time in the valley say time moves differently here. Some of those who dwell here have done so for many years … centuries, even. And they grow old at a snail’s pace!”

  “Great Scott! It is no wonder they live in secrecy!” said Reed, slamming ammunition into his rifle.

  “They may be almost immortal, but they are still human,” said Jamyang. “They say the women of Shangri-La will welcome to their arms only men who are strong and resourceful enough to breach the valley’s defences … thus the purity of their race is assured. And they only ever give birth to girl children.”

  “A kind of natural selection, as old Darwin has bent my ear about on more than one occasion,” said Reed.

  “Perhaps they will expect you to help further their race, given you are the vaunted Hero of the Empire,” said Rowena with a small smile.

  Reed shot her a look, but there was no time for a riposte, because they were now at the outskirts of the village, and the sight sickened Rowena to her stomach. There were half a dozen men, rampaging through the village, dragging the women from their huts and ravishing them there on the ground. At the midst of it all stood the arrogant Prussian himself, hands on his hips. To one side was Professor Halifax, slumped by a well, his head in his hands.

  “At least the Professor seems to be an unwilling conscript to this hellishness,” said Reed. He turned and opened the side windshield, letting in the fragrant, warm air, and leaned out, taking aim with his rifle. His first shot hit one of Von Karloff’s men square in the forehead as he tore like an animal at the simple dress of a young woman.

  “Can you handle a gun?” said Rowena to Jamyang.

  “I have devoted my life to non-violence,” he said.

  “Then take the wheel,” she said. “Keep it tight to starboard and we’ll describe a tight circle over the village.”

  Rowena opened her window and took up her pistol, taking careful aim and bringing down another of Von Karloff’s men, as Reed found another target. Von Karloff’s men were in disarray, looking wildly up at the Skylady , and the Prussian frowned and called his men to rally, pointing down to the river bank and the shelter of a copse of trees. Von Karloff tugged at Professor Halifax’s shoulder, but Rowena fired again, narrowly missing the Prussian’s outstretched hand. Von Karloff recoiled as though burned, and fled with his men, leaving Halifax where he slumped, as Reed and Rowena emptied their guns into the escaping villains.

  * * *

  When she decided to follow in her father’s rapidly fading footsteps and become a ’stat pilot, Rowena knew she was handicapped from the very start. Very few women became pilots. When she turned up at the Union Hall of the Esteemed Brethren of International Airshipmen and said she wanted to sign up they laughed at her and told her to go home and find a husband.

  But Rowena persevered. She could already fly—did she not have her father’s blood coursing in her veins?—but that wasn’t enough. She had not just to match the men at their own game, she had to beat them. So she learned to handle a gun, taught herself to hold her liquor, and realised that to be a true ’stat pilot she had to leave the conventions of polite society on the ground.

  Thus, her head reeling—though not unpleasantly—with absinthe one winter night in a flea-bitten Budapest hotel, she had allowed a sweet-talking American adventurer named Louis Cockayne to guide her unsteadily to his room and peel off her britches and shirt, all the while believing his murmured proclamations of love as she lay down for him. And when she woke, f
uzzy-headed and naked in a tangle of bedsheets in the morning, Louis Cockayne had gone, leaving only the scent of his cologne and the bar-bill behind.

  The lies he had whispered, amplified by the green fairy perched on her shoulder, stung her badly, but it was a lesson learned. Once you lived your life in the skies, love was for the birds alone. She hardened her heart and, like Cockayne and those who lived their lives in the skyways, embraced personal gratification and freedom over moral fibre.

  Which, she had to admit, was a lot more fun.

  * * *

  Rowena took the wheel from Jamyang and brought the Skylady down in the centre of the village, an Eden despoiled by Von Karloff and his gang. Reed and Jamyang threw down the anchors and Rowena slid down the mooring rope to properly secure the ‘stat to the large stone well behind which Professor Halifax cowered.

  “Reginald!” called Reed. “What on Earth brings you here with that fiend?”

  The professor fell to his knees before his saviours, gabbling about how he had encountered Von Karloff in Shanghai and the Prussian had taken him prisoner to utilize his archaeological know-how on the nefarious raid on Shangri-La.

  “You could have refused,” said Rowena, looking around to where the women helped their fallen, ravished comrades.

  “He would have killed me,” said Halifax wretchedly.

  There were perhaps a hundred women living in the community, all frozen in that wondrous flush where youth and maturity combine, all beauteous. They had neither the Oriental features of the Tibetans nor the angular features of the English, but were somewhere between, speaking of a dash of all the peoples of the world in their lissome bodies and even, pleasant faces. They seemed to be nominally led by a dark-haired woman dressed in a simple silk shift who greeted the newcomers warily.

  She introduced herself in perfect English as Kella, and when Rowena—for it was she Kella looked to as the authority of the small group, rather than John Reed, which Rowena could tell rankled him to no end—had convinced her that they were of honourable intentions and were, in fact, pursuing Von Karloff, she welcomed them with the offer of milk and honeydew.

  Jamyang graciously declined and murmured to Rowena, “Drink and eat not in Shangri-La, lest you would remain here for several lifetimes.”

  Instead, they considered Von Karloff’s position, half a mile away in the copse of trees.

  “For what purpose does he commit these atrocities, at such effort?” Rowena wondered.

  “Simple,” said Kella, and led them into the large stone structure at the centre of the village. It was as a shrine or holy place, lit by burning braziers, and at the centre of it was a raised dais.

  “It has sat here, safely, for many years, that to which we devote our extended lifetimes,” said Kella. “A gift from God, held in trust by the women of Shangri-La until such time as mankind is ready to receive it.”

  “What kind of gift?” Rowena said.

  “The Golden Apple of Shangri-La,” said Halifax miserably. “And now it is gone with that vagabond. You are familiar with the tale of the Tower of Babel?”

  Rowena was, in passing, and Reed excitedly recounted in detail how the ancient Babylonians had wished to build a structure to scrape the underside of Heaven itself, not in glory to God but as a show of humanity’s strength and invention.

  “When God caused the Tower to fall he wished upon man the confusion of languages,” said Kella. “Where one tongue was spoken among the remnants who had survived the Great Flood, now a multitude of clamouring languages divided humanity. But the situation was not to be permanent.”

  “This Apple…?” said Rowena.

  Kella nodded her beautiful head. “God gifted mankind the Golden Apple, which removes the barriers of language. It was kept here in Shangri-La, to which it also gives the bounty of lush protection from the Himalayan winter. When mankind is ready, the Golden Apple will once again unite the nations of the world in one tongue.”

  They exited the temple and surveyed the copse where Von Karloff’s men could be seen peering from the trees. By now they would have realized that even with their losses they still outnumbered the crew of the Skylady . Rowena shivered. Was the air several degrees cooler than when they had landed, though the sun still burned high in the sky?

  “Shangri-La will die without the Golden Apple,” said Kella, as though reading Rowena’s mind. Even as she spoke the wind became colder and flurries of snow drifted at the far reaches of the valley.

  “Winter is coming to Shangri-La,” said Halifax soberly. “Even its removal from the temple is already having effects.”

  “But why would he do this?” Rowena said. “He is a collector, first and foremost, an archaeologist. Even Von Karloff has boundaries.”

  “Cui bono,” said Jamyang quietly.

  Reed scratched his chin. “Latin. You are most learned, friend Jamyang.”

  Rowena glared at him. “And it means…?”

  “To whose benefit? The Golden Apple is a great prize, but you are right, Rowena. Even men like Von Karloff know when they are going too far. Perhaps he is not acting merely on his own volition.”

  She began to reload her pistol. “We must get the apple back, before he leaves the valley. Then we can work out who is pulling his strings, if anyone.”

  * * *

  Rowena kept the Skylady stocked with several pistols and a rifle, and she took the bigger weapon and outfitted Halifax—though he protested that he was merely an academic—and Kella and two of her Shangri-La women with the remaining handguns.

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t made a move yet,” said Reed as they crouched behind a small hillock, a mere fifty yards from the copse. “We took down four of the crew; I saw Von Karloff flee with two more. What of his team of sherpas, I wonder?”

  “They would not have ventured into the valley,” said Jamyang. “They will be waiting at the mountain pass to the north-west of the valley.”

  The sky above them was darkening as thick clouds gathered, and Rowena felt the cold more keenly now. Reed risked raising his head above the hillock and called, “Von Karloff! You know who I am! Surrender!”

  “I wish to parlay,” came the answer in English but with clipped, Germanic tones. “I have three men injured. We cannot make it back across the mountains.”

  “It’s a trick,” whispered Rowena. “He surely doesn’t care about his men.”

  Reed narrowed his eyes. “How many can we take in the Skylady , Rowena?”

  She did a quick headcount. “Seven at a push. If we return the Apple the air here should be warm enough to get us over the mountains, but only just. There are too many of us if Von Karloff has three men.”

  “We can’t take you, Pieter,” called Reed. “There’s one too many.”

  There was a pause, then a sudden shot rang out, startling them all into dropping down behind the hillock. Von Karloff called out, “My mistake. I miscounted. I have two injured men.”

  “Bastard,” said Rowena.

  “Bring back the apple and we’ll talk,” shouted Reed.

  “I cannot,” said Von Karloff from the trees. “I have been entrusted with the task of taking home the prize. Failure is not an option.”

  “Is it worth your life?” called Reed.

  There was a further pause. “You tell me.”

  Reed looked quizzically at Rowena, and Jamyang murmured, “Cui bono.”

  “To whose benefit?” said Rowena. “Ask him who he’s working for.”

  "Whatever your paymaster is offering for this piece, it isn’t enough," shouted Reed. "Who is it, anyway, Pieter? The Brass Caliph? Esther LeGris? The Duke of Wessex?"

  There was harsh laughter from the trees, already losing their leaves in the cold wind. "Do you really want to know? It’s Walsingham."

  Reed stood, shrugging off Rowena’s hand on his arm, brandishing his rifle at the copse. "You lie! Come out here, Von Karloff, or we’ll come in there and Shangri-La shall be your mausoleum." Then Rowena gasped as he began to fire a volley of
bullets into the trees.

  When Reed’s cartridges were spent he slumped to his knees, as Von Karloff cautiously emerged from the thicket, his arms aloft and a glinting orb gripped in one hand. Behind him limped a thick-set man with blood-soaked trousers and a worried look on his face.

  "Calm yourself, I’m here," said Von Karloff. "And good news; you have one less passenger to worry about."

  * * *

  Von Karloff submitted himself to their control and Rowena had him and his remaining thug securely tied with ropes while Reed relieved him of the Golden Apple of Shangri-La. It truly was beautiful to behold, reflecting the dulling sunshine and gathering clouds above them. But with each step back towards the village centre the winter seemed to relinquish its tightening grip on the valley, the wind grew warmer, the dying flowers began to bloom again.

  Reverently, Reed held the apple in both hands and walked towards the open door of the temple. He emerged from the shadowy depths a moment later, bathed in sunshine, a small yellow bird fluttering about his head. "It is done."

  Kella took his hands as he approached and searched his eyes with her own. "Stay," she murmured. "At least for a while. Let me thank you, and leave something of yourself to behold. Your daughters would be something to behold."

  Reed smiled sadly. "Would that I could. England needs me."

  Rowena suppressed a smile of her own, at the thought of Dr John Reed siring children with Kella or any other woman. They said that men wanted to be him and women wanted to be possessed by him, but that was just another lie. Kella turned to Rowena. "Shangri-La could use a woman of your bravery."

  Rowena shook her head. "It is paradise here, but it is not my home. It may not be perfect out there, but it could be."

  Kella took her hands. "I was not born in Shangri-La, and though it is many of your lifetimes since I came here, I can imagine the outside has not changed much. Men fancy they rule the world, but only because women let them think that."

  "It is changing, slowly. Why not come to see it? I would gamble that the world would change quicker, and for the better, with you in it."