The Mandala of Sherlock Holmes - Jamyang Norbu [107]
'Good, Holmes, good,' crowed Moriarty, 'but not quite good enough, if you will forgive me the remark. You have obviously not applied yourself with sufficient diligence to the teachings of our old Master. The little finger should have unfolded like the petals of the Utpala6 flower after the first rain, not hung hesitantly like a eunuch's lingam. So shall we try again?'
Again and again Moriarty attacked with the awesome power of the Stone, and again and again Sherlock Holmes threw up his psychic shield to protect the lamas and himself from annihilation. But it was tragically obvious that Moriarty was toying with Holmes and was — as he himself had earlier declared — using only a fraction of his power. Standing tall and erect, shining with vitality, he casually directed the murderous waves of energy at a rapidly weakening Sherlock Holmes.
Tears filled my eyes at the realisation that my noble friend was doomed, and with him the Grand Lama and the Lama Yonten; and then, of course, Thibet, that fascinating country to whose study I had devoted these many years of my life. Was it all to end in this manner? With myself lying useless and dying on the floor of this cold cavern, while Moriarty strutted about, brave as a cock on his own dung-hill, crowing his cock-a-doodle-doo of victory. It was hateful — intolerable. But what could I do? I could not even move. Or could I?'
Gritting my teeth I tried. I discovered that my entire body was useless and had no feelings nor functions, except for the right arm, which had retained some of its vitality — at least for the moment. Clawing the icy floor with my right hand I managed to slowly and painfully drag myself forward.
Moriarty had his back to me and was slowly advancing on Mr Holmes and the two Lamas, who were being flung further backwards in disarray after every shattering blow of the Power Stone. Oh, for my revolver! A weapon — anything. I looked about the cavern floor but could see nothing. Only my trusty old umbrella lay on the ice a littie away from me, where it must have fallen after I had been struck by the fire-ball. Moriarty now paused for a moment in his advance to make some more sneering, facetious remarks, that he obviously regarded as hilariously funny.
'Have you now had enough finger exercises, Holmes? I should really hope so, for I intend to make our next lesson a more difficult one. Now what shall it be? Ah! I have it. You'll love this one Holmes. In fact it'll warm the cockles of your heart. Ha. Ha. Ha.' As the cavern dome echoed once again with his laughter, a jet of multi-coloured fire shot forth from the Stone. 'Hell-fire, Holmes! Hell-fire! Ha. Ha.'
Only just in time Sherlock Holmes managed to make some occult gestures and raised his psychic shield before the flames struck — and engulfed it. For a moment I thought with despair that they had been consumed by the blaze. But then, through the raging flames, I was able to see that Mr Holmes and the lamas were safely ensconced within a dome of energy, and safe — at least for the present — while all round them raged this magical conflagration.
Gritting my teeth I managed to drag myself to where my umbrella lay — and secured it. What I was going to do with it I did not know, but I grimly dragged myself towards Moriarty. On reflection, I can really provide no explanation how my shattered, near lifeless body managed not to just give up and expire altogether, much less move forward in this fashion. It may have been the overriding hatred I felt for this evil, sneering blackguard, or even the great love and concern I felt for my companions, that provided me with the necessary inspiration and reserve of strength to go on.
Now, as I neared my nemesis, the fire increased in malevolent vigour and