Once again she had politely - almost sweetly - blocked my questions. I decided to proceed on a new tack.
'This village has sustained a bombardment by the look of it,' I said. 'Have you been attacked?'
She answered vaguely. 'It was attacked, yes. By General Liu, I believe, before we arrived. But one gets used to ruins. This is better than some I have known.' Her eyes held a distant, moody look, as if she were remembering other times, other ruins. Then she shrugged and her expression changed. 'The world you know is a stable world, Mr Moorcock, is it not?'
'Comparatively,' I said. 'Though there are always threats, I suppose. I have sometimes wondered what social stability is. It is probably just a question of point of view and personal experience. My own outlook is a relatively cheerful one. If I were, say, a Jewish immigrant in London's East End, it would probably not be anything like as optimistic.'
She appreciated the remark and smiled. 'Well, at least you accept that there are other views of society. Perhaps that is why Bastable talked to you; why he liked you.'
'Liked me? It is not the impression I received. He disappeared, you know, after our meeting on Rowe Island -without any warning at all. I was concerned for him. He was under a great strain. That, I suppose, is the main reason why I am here. Have you seen him recently? Is he well?'
'I have seen him. He was well enough. But he is trapped -he is probably trapped forever.' Her next phrase was addressed to herself, I thought. 'Trapped forever in the shifting tides of Time.'
I waited for her to elaborate, but she did not. 'Bastable will tell you more of that,' she said.
'Then he where?'
She shook her head and her hair swayed like the branches of a willow in the wind. She returned her attention to the meal and did not speak for a while as we ate.
Now I had the strange impression that I was not quite real to her, that she spoke to me as she might speak to her horse or a household pet or a familiar picture on her wall, as if she did not expect me to understand and spoke only to clarify her own thoughts. I felt a little uncomfortable, just as someone might feel who was an unwilling eavesdropper on an intimate conversation. Yet I was determined to receive at least some clarification from her.
'I gather that you intend to take me to Bastable - or that Bastable is due to return here?'
'Really? No, no. I am sorry if I have misled you. I have many things on my mind at present. China's problems alone… The historical implications… The possibility of so much going wrong… Whether we should be interfering at all… If we are interfering, or only think we are…' She lifted her head and her wonderful eyes stared deep into mine. 'Many concerns - responsibilities - and I am very tired, Mr Moorcock. It is going to be a long century.'
I was completely nonplussed and decided myself to finish the conversation. 'Perhaps we can talk in the morning,' I said, 'when we are both more rested.'
'Perhaps/ she agreed. 'You are going to bed?'
If you do not think it impolite. The dinner was splendid.'
'Yes, it was good. The morning…'
I wondered if she, like Bastable, was also a slave to opium. There was a trance-like quality in her eyes now. She could hardly understand me.
'Until the morning, then,' I said.
'Until the morning.' She echoed my words almost mindlessly.
'Good night, Mrs Persson.'
'Good night.'
I made my way back upstairs, undressed, lay myself down on the sleeping-mat and, it seemed to me, was immediately dreaming those peculiar, frightening dreams of the previous night. Again, in the morning, I felt completely refreshed and purged. I got up, washed in cold water, dressed and went downstairs. The room was as I had left it - the remains of the previous night's dinner -were still on the table. And I was suddenly seized with the conviction that everything had been abandoned hastily - that I had also been abandoned. I walked outside into a fine, pale morning. The rain had stopped and the air smelled fresh and clean. I looked for signs of activity and found nothing. The only life I could see in the village consisted of one horse, saddled and ready to ride. Soldiers, women and children had all disappeared. Now I wondered if, inadvertently, I had sampled some of Mr Lu's opium and had dreamed the whole thing. I went back into the house calling out:
'Mrs Persson! Mrs Persson!'
There were only echoes. Not one human being remained in the ruined village.
I went out again. In the distance the low green hills of the Valley of the Morning were soft, gentle and glowing after the rain which must have stopped in the night. A large, watery sun hung in the sky. Birds sang. The world seemed to be tranquil, the valley a haven of perfect peace. I saw not one gun, one item of the spoils which the bandits had brought back with them. The cooking-fires were still warm, but had been extinguished. The mud was still thick and deep and there was evidence of many horses having left the village fairly recently.
Perhaps the bandits had received intelligence of a large-scale counter-attack from General Liu's forces. Perhaps they had left to attack some new objective of their own. I determined to remain in the village for as long as possible in the hope that they would return.
I made a desultory perambulation of the village. I explored each of the remaining houses; I went for a walk along the main road out of the place. I walked back. There was no evidence for my first theory, that the village had been about to suffer an attack.
By lunchtime I was feeling pretty hungry and I returned to the house to pick at the cold remains of last night's supper. I helped myself to a glass of the missionary's excellent Madeira. I explored the ante-rooms of the ground floor and then went upstairs, determined, completely against my normal instincts, to investigate every room.
The bedroom next to mine still bore a faint smell of feminine perfume and was plainly Una Persson's. There was a mirror on the wall, a bottle of eau-de-Cologne beside the sleeping-mat, a few wisps of dark hair in an ivory hair-brush on the floor near the mirror. Otherwise, the room was furnished as barely as the others. I noticed a small inlaid table near a window leading on to a small balcony which overlooked the ruins of the village. There was a bulky package lying on the table, wrapped in oilskin, tied with cord.
As I passed it on my way to look out of the window I glanced at the package. And then I gave it very much of a second glance, for I had recognized my own name written in faded brown ink on yellowed paper I Just the word 'Moorcock'. I did not know the handwriting, but I felt fully justified in tearing off the wrappings to reveal a great heap of closely written foolscap pages.
It was the manuscript which you, its rediscoverer (for I have no intention of making a fool of myself again), are about to read.
There was a note addressed to me from Bastable - brief and pointed - and the manuscript itself was in the same writing.
This must be, of course, what Una Persson had been referring to when she had told me that Bastable had left something of himself behind in the Valley of the Morning. I felt, too, that it was reasonable to surmise that she had meant to give the manuscript to me before she left (if she had actually known she was going to leave so suddenly).
I took the table, a stool and the manuscript on to the balcony, seating myself so that I was looking out over that mysteriously deserted village and the distant hills containing the valley I had sought for so long, and I settled down to read a story which was, if anything, far stranger than the first Bastable had told me…
Book One
The World in Anarchy
1. THE RETURN TO TEKU BENGA