The Golden Apple of Shangri-La (3 page)

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, fuzzy-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."

Kella smiled sadly. "Shangri-La is my life now. I have a job to do. Good luck with changing your world, Rowena Fanshawe, and remember this: Women who try to succeed in a man's world often make the mistake of trying to be more like men. This is wrong. You must be more like a
woman
, for there is where your power lies."

*   *   *

With Von Karloff and his injured henchman bound in the hold, and Rowena, Reed, Professor Halifax and Jamyang in the cramped cockpit, the
Skylady
lifted free from its moorings in the village and turned to the south-west, where the mountainous wall was at its lowest. Rowena leaned from the cockpit to watch Kella waving, until she became a dot obscured by a sudden flurry of snow that caused the 'stat to lurch alarmingly. They scraped over the mountains and began to descend towards the distant warmer air.

Reed remained stubbornly quiet all the way to Shanghai, where he declared he had business. Jamyang said he was of a mind to explore also, and Professor Halifax was happy to return to where Von Karloff had kidnapped him. To Rowena's amazement, when they landed at Pudong Airship Ground, Reed turned the Prussian and his sole remaining thug loose.

“I thought you would be taking them back to London to answer for their crimes,” she said later, over a rum in the noisy Brethren Union Hall near the aerodrome.

Reed stared morosely into his chipped glass, picking at a plate of fried grasshoppers on the bar. “And what would be the point? You heard what Von Karloff said. He was in the employ of Walsingham the whole time. I have been made a fool.”

She laid a hand on his arm. “That's not true.”

He shrugged her off. “I'm afraid it is, Rowena. I have been given the appellation the Hero of the Empire, Britannia's champion, the great adventurer. I have circumnavigated the globe in Queen Victoria's name, crossed swords with villains such as Von Karloff in forsaken foreign fields. But we are all just being played off against each other, like pawns at Walsingham's hand.” He finished his drink and stood unsteadily. “But there are no heroes and villains. There is no black and white on Walsingham's board. There is only grey. Watch my bag while I visit the bathroom, please?”

She watched him weave through the busy bar and glanced down beneath his stool at his duffel bag, the thin rope fastener coming apart around the neck. Did something gleam within? Without even thinking, Rowena reached down and loosened the fasteners. And there it was, wrapped within a dirty linen shirt.

The Golden Apple of Shangri-La.

She stared at it for a long time, until she became aware of John Reed standing above her, suddenly sober. She looked up at him and recalled Kella waving at them until she became nothing in the sudden flurry of snow.

“The valley … Kella … they'll all be dead, now.”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes glowing in the reflected gas-light bouncing off the Apple's golden hide.

Rowena searched his eyes, but saw only the apple in their dark depths. “But why?”

Finally he met her gaze. “Cui bono.”

“To whose benefit?”

“I've been played for a fool, a pawn, once too often. It's time I took something back.”

She thought back to Reed emerging from the stone temple at the heart of Shangri-La, the sunlight playing on him, the bird darting about his head. When she thought he had returned the Golden Apple to its rightful place. She stood and began to walk away. Sooner or later, men lie. They always lie.