The Phantom of the Temple

'I'll take good care of myself! Thanks ever so much!’

The crooked alley the boy took him to was lined by one-storeyed houses with sagging mud walls and roughly-made thatched roofs. After he had pointed out a some­what larger house half-way down that had a pointed roof vaguely reminiscent of a Tartar tent, the boy scurried away. The only people about were three Tartars, squat­ting with their backs against the wall opposite the house of the sorceress. They wore baggy leather trousers with broad belts; their muscular torsos were bare. The mid­day sun shone on their round heads, closely shaven but for one long lock of hair at the back. When Ma Joong passed them, one said in broken Chinese to his com­panions, 'She even receives Chinese scum nowadays!’

Studiously ignoring the insult, Ma Joong pulled the greasy door-curtain aside. In the dark interior he vaguely discerned two shapes huddled over a small fire that was burning in a hole in the floor of stamped earth. Since they didn't pay the slightest attention to him, he sat down on a low stool just inside the door opening. He couldn't see much, for his eyes had not yet adjusted them­selves after the glare of the sun outside. The cool air was scented with an outlandish incense that reminded him of a pharmacy; he thought it might be camphor wood. The hooded figure squatting with her back towards him kept up a long monologue in a foreign, guttural tongue. It was an old crone, clad in a Tartar felt coat. The woman facing her on the other side of the fire seemed to be seated on a low chair. He couldn't make out her shape, for she was entirely enveloped in a long, shapeless cloak that hung from her shoulders down to the floor. Her head was bare; a mass of long, black hair cascaded down over her shoulders and half screened her downcast face. The sorceress was listening to the voice of the old crone, which droned on and on.

Ma Joong folded his arms. Settling down for a long wait, he surveyed the scanty furnishings. Against the wall behind the sorceress stood a low, roughly-made plank bed, flanked by two bamboo tabourets. On one stood a brass hand-bell with a long, elaborately moulded handle. From the wall above the bed two large rolling eyes stared down at him. They belonged to a more than lifesize pic­ture of a fierce god, painted in full colours. His long hair stood on end, forming a kind of nimbus round the large head. One arm brandished a strange-looking ritual weapon; in his left hand he held a cup made of a human skull. The obese red body was naked but for a tiger skin wound round the loins. A writhing snake hung round his shoulders. Was it the effect of the flickering fire, or did the gaping mouth with the lolling tongue move in a derisive sneer? He got a fleeting impression that it wasn't a picture at all, but a statue. He couldn't be sure, for behind the monstrous deity there were only dark shadows.

Annoyed, he averted his eyes from the repulsive sight and scanned the rest of the room. In the far corner lay a heap of rubbish. Animal skins were piled up against, the side wall, beside it stood a large water container of beaten brass. Feeling increasingly ill at ease, he drew his jacket closer round his shoulders, for it was actually getting chilly now. Trying to think of other, more pleasant, things, he reflected that Tulbee wasn't so bad, after all. He ought to look her up some day and take her a few presents. Then he thought of the woman called Jade, and of her mysterious message which they had found in the ebony box. Had she been saved after all, and where could she be now? Jade was a beautiful name, suggesting cool, aloof beauty. ... He had a feeling that she was a most desirable woman. ... He looked up. The voice of the old crone had ceased at last.

A white hand appeared from the folds of the cloak enveloping the sorceress. She stirred up the fire with a thin stick, then drew with the red-glowing tip a few diagrams in the ashes, whispering to the crone. The old woman nodded eagerly. She laid a few greasy coppers beside the fire, scrambled up with a grunt and disappeared through the felt door-curtain.

Ma Joong went to get up to introduce himself, but the sorceress lifted her head, and he sat down again abruptly. Two large, burning eyes were staring at him. The same eyes that had glared at him that morning in the street. She had a very beautiful but cold face, and her bloodless lips were curved in a disdainful sneer.

'Did you come to inquire whether your girl still loves you, Mr Official?' she asked in a deep throaty voice. 'Or did your boss send you to find out whether I am practis­ing witchcraft, forbidden by your laws?' She spoke faultless Chinese. As Ma Joong stared at her, dumb­founded, she continued: 'I saw you, Mr Official, all dressed up. This morning, when you were following your boss, the bearded judge.'

'You have sharp eyes!’ Ma Joong muttered. He drew his stool up closer to the fire which was burning low. He was at a loss how to begin.

'Speak up, what brought you here? I haven't been receiving stolen goods. See for yourself!’

She stirred up the fire, and pointed with the stick at the corner.

Ma Joong gasped. What he had taken for a heap of rub­bish now turned out to be a pile of human bones. Two skulls seemed to grin at him with their toothy mouths.

On top of the skins lay a row of human thighbones beside a broken pelvis, blackened by age.

'A blasted cemetery!’ he exclaimed, horrified.

'Aren't we living in a cemetery, everywhere and always?' Tala scoffed. 'The living are outnumbered by the dead by uncounted myriads. We, the living, are here on sufferance. Better keep on good terms with the dead, Mr Official! Now, what is your business?'

Ma Joong took a deep breath. There was no need to beat about the bush with this extraordinary woman. So he said curtly: 'A vagabond named Seng-san was mur­dered last night, outside the east gate. He—'