The Golden Road
by Cecil Corwin
While mysterious voices thunder from the skies and a Name is etched in lightning, Colt fights the battle of Good and Evil high up among the mapless mountains at the roof of the world.
Illustrations by Bok
Out of the myth of night and language there come strange tales told over wine. There is a man know as The Three Cornered Scar who frequents a Village spot famed for its wine and raconteurs, both of which are above the average.
The Three Cornered Scar favored us by a visit to my table and ordering, during the course of his story, five half-bottles of house red to my account. The wine is drunk up and the story told.
Chapter I.
Colt was tired. He was so bone-broke weary that he came near to wishing he was dead. It would have been easy to die in the snow; heaps in the way seemed to beg for the print of his body. He skirted crevasses that were like wide and hungry mouths.
This was Central Asia, High Pamir, a good thousand miles from any permanent habitation of the human race. The nomad Kirghiz population had been drained away to the Eastern front, civil and military authorities likewise. Colt himself was the tragic, far-strayed end of the First Kuen-Lung Oil Prospecting Expedition, undertaken by a handful of American volunteers on behalf of the Chungking government.
Estimating generously, his assets were five more days of scanty eating. And an eternity of sleep under the glaring stars of the plateau—?
He had struck, somehow, an easier way across the snow-covered, rocky wastes. There was a route to follow, a winding, mazy route that skirted the Alai Range's jagged foothills and slipped through Pass Tengis-Bai. Old memories of maps and trails swirled through Colt's tired head; he bore North for no better reason than that he could guide by Polaris, low on the horizon. Colt was headed, with a laugh and a curse, for Bokhara.
Colt marched through the first watch of the night, before the smiting cold of space descended on this roof of the world; then he would sleep, twitching with frost. He would wake eight hours later, a stone, a block of wood, to unkink his wretched muscles, shoulder his pack and march under the naked, brassy sun.
The Parsees said that this High Pamir was the cradle of human life, that from here had sprung the primals who proliferated into white, yellow, black and brown. To the southwest, at the same thirteen-thousand elevation, was the Valley of the Oxus, a green ribbon in the steel-grey and bone-white of the plateau. To the north-east were the great peaks—Everest, Kunchunjungra, K4—that started where other mountains ended, shooting from seventeen thousand up to unthinkable heights, sky-piercing.
Night and day scarcely interrupted the flow of his thoughts. His waking fantasies and his dreams alike were brutish longing for warmth and comfort, bespelled remembrance of palmier days. He woke to find an ear frost-bitten, dead marble white without sensation, killed by cold.
It came to him slowly, the idea forcing its way through the numbed machinery of his brain, that he was following a path. This easier way across the plateau could be nothing but one of the historic caravan routes. Over this trail had gone a billion feet of beasts and men, and his own had found their way into the ancient grooves. Colt was content with that; going by the sun and stars was good, compass better, but best of all were the ways that men had taken and found well-suited.
There were animal-dropping before him now and then, once a fragment of broken crockery. He doubled his pace, from a slow plod to a loping, long-strided walk that took much of his husbanded wind. Finally he saw the print in a snowbank that spelled Man. It was a shod foot's mark, light and side-stepping. As he watched a puff of wind drifted it over with dry, gleaming snow.
Colt found a splash of milk against a rock, then the smell of camel clinging about a wiry shrub.
