“May as well go on!” J. D. said.
They went on, their shadows dancing at their feet, toward the last resting place of the Lis. Joan was quiet, nervous, pale. J. D., a little anxious, watched her closely without appearing to watch her at all.
He thought the strain of the quest had been almost too much for her, and that the prospect of its ending had weakened her resistance. Added to this was the fear that she had searched in vain, that Li Hung Chang was really dead, and her sister with him. J. D. himself was afraid they would find it so.
“Not much to see, is there, Joan?”
“We’ll have to find the way in.”
They found the entrance to the tombs at the bottom of a short flight of steps, guarded by twin open-mouthed dragons to scare away evil spirits, roofed with a great block of stone that held a statue of Buddha.
But the entrance was sealed, impassable. It was closed by a door of bronze on massive hinges, inscribed with characters neither of them could decipher. Nothing less than a charge of dynamite would move it by force, and they saw no other way of moving it.
“Unless,” J. D. suggested, “that statue has anything to do with it.”
“Try,” Joan said, rather listlessly.
He jumped, gripped the edge of the stone, pulled himself up beside the Buddha. “What d’you suggest, Joan?”
“Oh, anything. Twist its head.”
J. D. took the great head between his hands, exerted a steady pressure. He felt it give, and with a hollow clang the door below swung open.
“That was a good guess,” he said lightly. Dropping down, he took Joan’s arm, and together they faced the gloom beyond the door.
“It’s so dark,” Joan said, hesitating. Her experience in the underground chamber in Shanghai had made her nervous where darkness was concerned.
“I brought a torch,” J. D. said. “Tombs are dark places.” He played the light on the stone floor, and they went forward slowly. The door clanged shut behind them.
“Should have thought of propping it open,” J. D. said lightly, feeling the girl start. “But there’s sure to be some way of getting out, so don’t worry.” He rapped with one heel on the stone, and a hollow boom answered him. “It was walking on this that did it. Anyway, we’ll see what’s to be seen. You’re not afraid?”
Her face was dim in shadow, but he saw her smile with some of the old joyous recklessness. “No. Or only that we’ve followed a false trail.”
They went forward some distance between the sculptured walls, into a hall where the gods of Old China sat staring calmly at things unseen by mortal eyes. Dust on the floor softened their footsteps; almost unconsciously, they spoke in whispers, reluctant to break the silence of the dead. For the dead of a score of centuries were about them, the dead of the family of Li.
Old men and women, maidens and boys and babies, they seemed to watch these two intruders and wonder what brought them here. They were neither friendly nor hostile, but serene. So Joan whispered, glancing about her as the white beam of the torch crept here and there among the coffins in their stone niches.
“We have to find Li Tzu,” J. D. said softly. He bent a little to peer at a coffin. “They’re all named, you see. And he’ll be among the latest left down here, if not the latest.”
They found the coffin of Li Tzu at the feet of a god in the far shadows of the hall. They read his name in golden lettering on the inlaid aromatic wood, and knew that here lay the last key of the six that opened the door to the treasure of the Soapstone Buddhas. Yet they hesitated a moment before using it. Then the girl touched J. D.’s wrist.
“You remember the message?”
“ ‘Look where Li Tzu, my father, looks. Read and obey,’ ” J. D. said thoughtfully. “Judging by the position of the coffin, he’s looking at the ceiling, isn’t he?” He flashed the white beam of the torch upward, played it on the arched stone twenty or more feet above the coffin. They caught the flash of letters of gold, and he steadied his hand. Together they read the message and the curse.
“ ‘These are the words of Li Hung Chang, spoken before the spirits of his ancestors. If there is evil in your heart, turn away before you do greater evil, and are cursed. If there is good, open the coffin beneath, fearing nothing, and follow the road to which it is the gate.
“ ‘If there is evil, and you follow the road, may you, and your sons, and your sons’ sons, be cursed for ten thousand generations. May your wives and your daughters know shame, and your spirit and the spirits of your descendants be forever prey to the Spirits of the Lower Kingdom.
“ ‘May your name be a spitting and an execration throughout all China, and the names of your ancestors. These are the words of Li Hung Chang. Read and obey.’ ”
For some time J. D. and the girl were silent, while still the light of the torch played on the golden lettering, and the words of Li Hung Chang gleamed down at them from the cold gray stone, like bars of sunshine on a storm-dark sea.
It seemed that the quiet dead watched them as they stood there in the back-flung shadow of the torch and the hand that held it, and wondered about them, crowding nearer in the gloom.
“It seems peculiar,” J. D. said at length. “I mean, the Chinese are so reverent about their dead.”
“It’s horrible,” Joan said. Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Let’s go out, Dave, please. If Elaine is here, she’s dead. In a way, I hope she is dead, though that may seem strange.
“It’s so dark in here, so cold! I think these old dead people are all laughing at us, and joking among themselves. Can’t you hear them whispering, whispering—” She ended shakily, staring with wide eyes of horror into the shadows.
J. D. slipped an arm about her waist. “H’sh!” he said soothingly. “Keep a grip on your nerves, Joan.” He pressed her close to him, and felt her yield much as a child might, fearful of the dark. “Remember I’m with you.”
She laughed, a little unsteadily. “I’m sorry. I’ll try, to be brave.”
“Of course, I’ll bring you out if you really want to go, and if we can get out.”
“No, I’m all right now. Open the coffin.”
He hesitated. “You’re sure you’re not afraid?”
“We have no evil in our hearts,” she said gravely. She glanced about her into the darkness that concealed the coffins. “I think they know, too.”
J. D. nodded, bent over the coffin of Li Tzu, lifted the lid. It lifted easily, on smooth hinges. The girl uttered a little startled cry. The coffin was empty. More, it had no bottom but a flight of steps that ran downward from it into darkness. An odor of dampness came to them, and a cold breath like clammy fingers upon their cheeks.
“So this is the road we have to follow,” J. D. said. “Feel ready for it, Joan?”
“Yes,” she answered, a note of returned courage in her voice.
II
Side by side they stepped into the coffin and went slowly down, the light of the torch guiding their feet Above them, the lid thudded into place, bringing to birth queer echoes to play about in spaces unseen, unguessed, to die reluctantly to silence.
There were few more than a dozen steps, ending in a passage with a floor of clay and walls and a roof of unhewn stone. The walls oozed moisture, and the roof; and here and there the light of the torch shone redly back at them from puddles on the floor.
The air was stale and heavy as the air of an underwater cavern, and seemed to press close about them, chokingly. The mud of the floor clung to their feet, and in places J. D. splashed through inches of water with Joan in his arms.