The Great Stone of Power, propelled by the impetus of Moriarty's fall, sailed slowly through the air, glittering like the reflection of a full moon on the broken surface of a surging river – straight past the demonic creatures and the conflagration, through the collapsing wall of the psychic dome – and plump into Sherlock Holmes's hands.

As Moriarty scrambled up from the floor, he visibly began to diminish and distort, till soon he was the old, ugly, crooked, bent, scarred, and lame bounder that we had known before. He looked about him confusedly but when he saw Mr Holmes coolly holding the Power Stone, his eyes opened wide with alarm. The alarm was justified, for the infernal fire and the hellish creatures around Holmes now turned their attention to Moriarty and suddenly surged towards him.

'No! No!' he wailed in terror, but they smashed headlong into him. For a brief moment Moriarty burned – and in seconds was only bones. These disintegrated, leaving a puff of smoke and fire which sped away with the other flames and creatures into the distance, and disappeared.

'NOOOOOOoooooopoooooooo…' the echoes of Moriarty's last desperate wail finally receded, and there was silence, and, at last, peace.

Sherlock Holmes walked slowly over to the monolith and replaced the stone. Then he quickly came over to where I lay on the floor, now at peace with myself, and reconciled to stepping onto another stage on the Wheel of Life. Kneeling beside me he inspected my wound anxiously. The Lama Yonten and the Grand Lama crouched beside him, their eyes filled with solicitude.

'I trust that my services have proved satisfactory, Sir?' I managed to whisper, my lips now experiencing the icy chill that had gripped the rest of my body.

'More, much more than satisfactory, my friend.' Mr Holmes's clear, hard eyes were dimmed, and his firm lips were shaking. 'Do not give up hope yet. There is a chance…'

'No, Mr Holmes,' I interrupted. 'There is no time. I only ask you to give a fiill report of my service to Colonel Creighton. Also, if it would not be too much trouble, could you please scatter my ashes over the river Ganges. I am a scientific man but… but one cannot be too sure about everything. Now farewell, good Sirs.'

'There must be something we can do,' said Holmes in a despairing voice that wrung my heart.

'Perhaps there is…' said the Lama Yonten hesitantly, '… beyond the portals of the mandala. But how…'

'Of course,' cried Holmes, snapping his fingers. 'I remember the tale. We can but try. Come, Your Holiness. Only you can save our friend now.'

He led the Grand Lama by the hand to the stone platform. The lad seated himself, in fiill lotus position, before the Stone of Power, and closed his eyes in meditation. Sherlock Holmes crouched beside him and whispered into his ear. Whatever Mr Holmes was attempting, I knew that it would be too late, for I was fast slipping into unconsciousness. My vision began to blur until everything took on a far-away, dream-like quality; so much so that it is with much hesitation, and indeed against all my training as a scientific observer and recorder, that I now set down on paper what I beheld – or imagined I beheld – subsequently. I lay no claims of truth on the matter. Perhaps it was a hallucination. Let the reader take it as he will.

My fading vision was somehow compelled towards the Great Stone of Power, whose luminosity now strangely seemed to be the only thing of substance or reality around me. The light of the Stone gradually changed, becoming darker, but no less luminous. This wonderful phenomenon increased, until I realised that I was peering into some kind of dark, radiant opening. The black hole gradually increased in size until it filled the entire cavern – and then beyond it. Lying on my back and looking up I seemed to behold an endless and wonderful night sky, unlimited by any horizons, or the usual restrictions dictated by the limitations of the human eye.

This immense space was not static, but churned, nay, seethed with energy and movement, like gigantic whirlpools and waterspouts in a storm-tossed sea. The centre of this oceanic space seemed to tear open, giving birth to another vortex that gradually filled the previous space. Seven times it happened in all, till seven endless vortices, one within the other, stretched out millions upon millions of miles to whatever eternity lay in this universe of God's creation.

Then from the centre of the ultimate vortex emerged a small point of light, that, moving forward, gradually grew in size, till it was possible to appoint a definite shape to it. It seemed like a distant mountain, floating by itself-like Mount Kinchenjoonga seen from Darjeeling, that often floats serenely above a sea of monsoon clouds; or like Mr Jonathan Swift's 'Flying Island of Laputa'. The edges of this mountain-like shape glowed with a ring of fire, while its surface glittered with multi-coloured points of light.

As it came lower I could see that the shape was actually a kind of city – a celestial city, with soaring towers and marvellous palaces piled, en echelon, on each other like a Thibetan monastery – indeed like the Potala – but infinitely larger and higher. Millions of points of light flashed from every part of this city, while the many spires and curved pagoda roofs gleamed like molten gold. The city rested on a colossal circular platform many, many miles in diameter surrounded by rings of multicoloured fire that seemed to provide it with its vital source of levitational and motive power.

Of course. A Mandala).

A roar like that of a thousand giant Thibetan trumpets reverberated through the air as it slowly descended, burning so brightly with flashing, moving lights that my senses failed me for sometime. Then I felt myself rising towards the lights, which, strangely enough, did not discomfort me in spite of their awesome brilliance and energy. Then the brilliance changed to a comfortable glow like that of a well-lit room, and I imagined figures moving around me. I may have dreamt it for the figures, though vaguely human, were enormous – at least ten feet tall and clad in strange suits of iridescent armour, and grim helmets crested with nodding plumes of fire. Of course, the statues in the cavern! That's why I was dreaming all this. One of the figures walked silently over to my side and bent down. His face was that of a warrior, noble and stern, but he smiled kindly at me and put his hand on my eyes. I slept.

I dreamed I was lying on a high altar surrounded by faceless, white robed priests, who cut my body open with shining knives of Kght, and poured liquid fire inside me. But I felt no pain and I slept again.

23 His Last Bow

I opened my eyes to see larks flyinghigh above in a clear blue summer's sky.

I 'Ah, Hurree. You are awake,' Sherlock Holmes's reassuring voice came from dose beside me. He was sitting near where I lay on the grassy slope of a sun-drenched hillside, smoking his pipe contentedly. I was confused, but strangely did not care very much. I just felt wonderful to be alive. I touched my chest. There was no wound there – not the least trace. Had it all been but a dream? As I pressed my right hand on my chest I felt a twinge of pain in the hand – where a foot had trodden on it.

'Moriarty!'

'He has passed on to another existence, Hurree. Do you not remember how you tripped him up when he was preparing to deliver his coup de grace? If they had such a thing as a public museum in this country, that's where your umbrella ought to be.'

Hearing our voices, the Grand Lama, the Lama Yonten, Tsering and Kintup now came up the hill from a small campsite just below. The Grand Lama came and draped a white silk scarf around my neck to thank me for saving his life. The Lama Yonten, looking none the worse for his ordeal, took my hand warmly and shook it again and again. Tsering and Kintup were very happy to see me up and alive, though ever after they stood in great awe of me, most certainly from hearing an exaggerated account of my feats in the cavern from an excited Lama Yonten, who had blown the story totally out of proportion in the recounting. All my efforts to set the record straight proved futile, even detrimental, since the two fellows attributed my protests to what they considered my natural modesty, and added it to their list of my virtues.