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I wonder if I could get you a permit for The House in the Woods while you re waiting to fix up your men and route for Shipki." He explained and of course I jumped at the chance. It belonged, he said, to a man named Rup Singh, a pandit, or learned man of Ranipur.
I want you to give a message to a man you know who should be expecting to hear from me. Tell him I shall be at the Tashigong Monastery when he reaches Gyumur beyond the Shipki. Tell him I have the information he wants and I will willingly go on with him to Yarkhand and his destination. He need not arrange for men beyond Gyumur. All is fixed.
You float on the surface where the little bubbles of foolish dream are about you and I cannot reach you then." "How can I compel myself to the deeps?" "You cannot. It will come. But when you have passed up the bridle way and beyond the Shipki, stop at Gyumur. There is the Monastery of Tashigong, and there one will meet you "His name?" "Stephen Clifden. He will tell you what you desire to know.
I had been staying in Ranipur of the plains while I considered the question of getting to Upper Kashmir by the route from Simla along the old way to Chinese Tibet where I would touch Shipki in the Dalai Lama's territory and then pass on to Zanskar and so down to Kashmir a tremendous route through the Himalaya and a crowning experience of the mightiest mountain scenery in the world.
But Simla is also a gateway to many things to the mighty deodar forests that clothe the foot-hills of the mountains, to Kulu, to the eternal snows, to the old, old bridle way that leads up to the Shipki Pass and the mysteries of Tibet and to the strange things told in this story.
I passed down the tumbled steps that had been a stately ascent the night before and made my way into the jungle by the trail, small and lost in fern, by which we had come. Again I wandered, and it was high noon before I heard mule bells at a distance, and, thus guided, struck down through the green tangle to find myself, wearied but safe, upon the bridle way that leads to Fagu and the far Shipki.
Of these two Rup Singh's ancestor was one. And in his thirty fifth year the Maharao died and his beauty and strength passed into legend and his kingdom was taken by another and the jungle crept silently over his Hall of Pleasure and the story ended. "There was not a memory of the place up there," Olesen went on. "Certainly I never heard anything of it when I went up to the Shipki in 1904.
I sprang down the road and mounted, giving the word to march. The men shouted and strode on our faces to the Shipki Pass and what lay beyond. We had parted. Once, twice, I looked back, and standing in full sunlight, she waved her hand. We turned the angle of the rocks. What I found what she found is a story strange and beautiful which I may tell one day to those who care to hear.
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