Kim
Swiftly Kim took up the money; but, for all his training, he was Irish enough by birth to reckon silver the least part of any game. What he desired was the visible effect of action; so, instead of slinking away, he lay close in the grass and wormed nearer to the house.
He saw—Indian bungalows are open through and through—the Englishman return to a small dressing-room, in a corner of the verandah, that was half-office, littered with papers and despatch-boxes, and sit down to study Mahbub Ali’s message. His face, by the full ray of the kerosene lamp, changed and darkened, and Kim, used as every beggar must be to watching countenances, took good note.
‘Will! Will, dear!’ called a woman’s voice. ‘You ought to be in the drawing-room. They’ll be here in a minute.’
The man still read intently.
‘Will!’ said the voice, five minutes later. ‘He’s come. I can hear the troopers in the drive.’
The man dashed out bareheaded as a big landau with four native troopers behind it halted at the verandah, and a tall, black-haired man, erect as an arrow, swung out, preceded by a young officer who laughed pleasantly.
Flat on his belly lay Kim, almost touching the high wheels. His man and the black stranger exchanged two sentences.
‘Certainly sir,’ said the young officer promptly. ‘Everything waits while a horse is concerned.’
‘We shan’t be more than twenty minutes,’ said Kim’s man. ‘You can do the honours—keep ‘em amused, and all that.’
‘Tell one of the troopers to wait,’ said the tall man, and they both passed into the dressing-room together as the landau rolled away. Kim saw their heads bent over Mahbub Ali’s message, and heard the voices—one low and deferential, the other sharp and decisive.
‘It isn’t a question of weeks. It is a question of days—hours almost,’ said the elder. ‘I’d been expecting it for some time, but this’—he tapped Mahbub Ali’s paper—‘clenches it. Grogan’s dining here to-night, isn’t he?’
‘Yes sir, and Macklin too.’
‘Very good. I’ll speak to them myself. The matter will be referred to the Council, of course, but this is a case where one is justified in assuming that we take action at once. Warn the Pindi and Peshawur brigades. It will disorganise all the summer reliefs, but we can’t help that. This comes of not smashing them thoroughly the first time. Eight thousand should be enough.’
‘What about artillery, sir?’
‘I must consult Macklin.’
‘Then it means war?’
‘No. Punishment. When a man is bound by the action of his predecessor—’
‘But C.25 may have lied.’
‘He bears out the other’s information. Practically, they showed their hand six months back. But Devenish would have it there was a chance of peace. Of course they used it to make themselves stronger. Send off those telegrams at once,—the new code, not the old,—mine and Wharton’s. I don’t think we need keep the ladies waiting any longer. We can settle the rest over the cigars. I thought it was coming. It’s punishment—not war.’
As the trooper cantered off Kim crawled round to the back of the house, where, going on his Lahore experiences, he judged there would be food — and information. The kitchen was crowded with excited scullions, one of whom kicked him.
‘Aie,’ said Kim, feigning tears. ‘I came only to wash dishes in return for a bellyful.’
‘All Umballa is on the same errand. Get hence. They go in now with the soup. Think you that we who serve Creighton Sahib need strange scullions to help us through a big dinner?’
‘It is a very big dinner,’ said Kim, looking at the plates.
‘Small wonder. The guest of honour is none other than the Jang-i-Lat Sahib (the Commander-in-Chief).’
‘Ho!’ said Kim, with the correct guttural note of wonder. He had learned what he wanted, and when the scullion turned he was gone.
‘And all that trouble,’ said he to himself, thinking as usual in Hindustanee, ‘for a horse’s pedigree! Mahbub Ali should have come to me to learn a little lying. Every time before that I have borne a message it concerned a woman. Now it is men. Better. The tall man said that they will loose a great army to punish some one—somewhere—the news goes to Pindi and Peshawur. There are also guns. Would I had crept nearer. It is big news!
He returned to find the cultivator’s cousin’s younger brother discussing the family law-suit in all its bearings with the cultivator and his wife and a few friends, while the lama dozed. After the evening meal some one passed him a water-pipe; and Kim felt very much of a man as he pulled at the smooth cocoanut-shell, his legs spread abroad in the moonlight, his tongue clicking in remarks from time to time. His hosts were most polite; for the cultivator’s wife had told them of his vision of the Red Bull, and of his probable descent from another world. Moreover, the lama was a great and venerable curiosity. The family priest, an old, tolerant Sarsut Brahmin, dropped in later, and naturally started a theological argument to impress the family. By creed, of course, they were all on their priest’s side, but the lama was the guest and the novelty. His gentle kindliness, and his impressive Chinese quotations, that sounded like spells, delighted them hugely; and in this sympathetic, simple air, he expanded like the Bodhisat’s own lotus, speaking of his life in the great hills of Such-zen, before, as he said, ‘I rose up to seek enlightenment.’
Then it came out that in those worldly days he had been a master-hand at casting horoscopes and nativities; and the family priest led him on to describe his methods; each giving the planets names that the other could not understand, and pointing upwards as the big stars sailed across the dark. The children of the house tugged unrebuked at his rosary; and he clean forgot the Rule which forbids looking at women as he talked of enduring snows, landslips, blocked passes, the remote cliffs where men find sapphires and turquoise, and that wonderful upland road that leads at last into Great China itself.
‘How thinkest thou of this one?’ said the cultivator aside to the priest.
‘A holy man—a holy man indeed. His Gods are not the Gods, but his feet are upon the Way,’ was the answer. ‘And his methods of nativities, though that is beyond thee, are wise and sure.’
‘Tell me,’ said Kim lazily, ‘whether I find my Red Bull on a green field, as was promised me.’
‘What knowledge hast thou of thy birth-hour?’ the priest asked, swelling with importance.
‘Between first and second cockcrow of the first night in May.’
‘Of what year?’
‘I do not know; but upon the hour that I cried first fell the great earthquake in Srinagur which is in Kashmir.’ This Kim had from the woman who took care of him, and she again from Kimball O’Hara. The earthquake had been felt in India, and for long stood a leading date in the Punjab.
‘Ai!’ said a woman excitedly. This seemed to make Kim’s supernatural origin more certain. ‘Was not such an one’s daughter born then—’
‘And her mother bore her husband four sons in four years—all likely boys,’ cried the cultivator’s wife, sitting outside the circle in the shadow.
‘None reared in the knowledge,’ said the family priest, ‘forget how the planets stood in their Houses upon that night.’ He began to draw in the dust of the courtyard. ‘At least thou hast good claim to a half of the House of the Bull. How runs thy prophecy?’
‘Upon a day,’ said Kim, delighted at the sensation he was creating, ‘I shall be made great by means of a Red Bull on a green field, but first there will enter two men making all things ready.’
‘Yes: thus ever at the opening of a vision. A thick darkness that clears slowly; anon one enters with a broom making ready the place. Then begins the Sight. Two men—thou sayest? Ay, ay. The Sun, leaving the House of the Bull, enters that of the Twins. Hence the two men of the prophecy. Let us now consider. Fetch me a twig, little one.’
He knitted his brows, scratched, smoothed out, and scratched again in the dust mysterious signs—to the wonder of all save the lama, who, with fine instinct, forbore to interfere.
At the end of half an hour, he tossed the twig from him with a grunt.
‘Hm. Thus say the stars. Within three days come the two men to make all things ready. After them follows the Bull; but the sign over against him is the sign of War and armed men.’
‘There was indeed a man of the Ludhiana Sikhs in the carriage from Lahore,’ said the cultivator’s wife hopefully.
‘Tck! Armed men—many hundreds. What concern hast thou with war?’ said the priest to Kim. ‘Thine is a red and an angry sign of War to be loosed very soon.’
‘None—none,’ said the lama earnestly. ‘We seek only peace and our River.
Kim smiled, remembering what he had overheard in the dressing-room. Decidedly he was a favourite of the stars.
The priest brushed his foot over the rude horoscope. ‘More than this I cannot see. In three days comes the Bull to thee, bay.’
‘And my River, my River,’ pleaded the lama. ‘I had hoped his Bull would lead us both to the River.’
‘Alas, for that wondrous River, my brother,’ the priest replied. ‘Such things are not common.’
Next morning, though they were pressed to stay, the lama insisted on departure. They gave Kim a large bundle of good food and nearly three annas in copper money for the needs of the road, and with many blessings watched the two go southward in the dawn.
‘Pity it is that these and such as these could not be freed from the Wheel of Things,’ said the lama.
‘Nay, then would only evil people be left on the earth, and who would give us meat and shelter?’ quoth Kim, stepping merrily under his burden.
‘Yonder is a small stream. Let us look,’ said the lama, and he led from the white road across the fields; walking into a very hornets’-nest of pariah dogs.
CHAPTER 3
Yea, voice of every Soul that clung
To Life that strove from rung to rung
When Devadatta’s rule was young,
The warm wind brings Kamakura.
Behind them an angry farmer brandished a bamboo pole. He was a market-gardener, Arain by caste, growing vegetables and flowers for Umballa city, and well Kim knew the breed.
‘Such an one,’ said the lama, disregarding the dogs, ‘is impolite to strangers, intemperate of speech and uncharitable. Be warned by his demeanour, my disciple.’
‘Ho, shameless beggars!’ shouted the farmer ‘Begone! Get hence!’
‘We go,’ the lama returned, with quiet dignity. ‘We go from these unblessed fields.’
‘Ah,’ said Kim, sucking in his breath. ‘If the next crops fail, thou canst only blame thy own tongue.’
The man shuffled uneasily in his slippers. ‘The land is full of beggars,’ he began, half apologetically.
‘And by what sign didst thou know that we would beg from thee, O Mali?’ said Kim tartly, using the name that a market-gardener least likes. ‘All we sought was to look at that river beyond the field there.’
‘River, forsooth!’ the man snorted. ‘What city do ye hail from not to know a canal-cut? It runs as straight as an arrow, and I pay for the water as though it were molten silver. There is a branch of a river beyond. But if ye need water I can give that—and milk.’
‘Nay, we will go to the river,’ said the lama, striding out.
‘Milk and a meal,’ the man stammered, as he looked at the strange tall figure. ‘I—I would not draw evil upon myself—or my crops; but beggars are so many in these hard days.’
‘Take notice,’ the lama turned to Kim. ‘He was led to speak harshly by the Red Mist of anger. That clearing from his eyes, he becomes courteous and of an affable heart. May his fields be blessed. Beware not to judge men too hastily, O farmer.’
‘I have met holy ones who would have cursed thee from hearthstone to byre,’ said Kim to the abashed man. ‘Is he not wise and holy? I am his disciple.’
He cocked his nose in the air loftily and stepped across the narrow field-borders with great dignity.
‘There is no pride,’ said the lama, after a pause, ‘there is no pride among such as follow the Middle Way.’
‘But thou hast said he was low caste and discourteous.’
‘Low caste I did not say, for how can that be which is not? Afterwards he amended his discourtesy, and I forgot the offence. Moreover, he is as we are, bound upon the Wheel of Things; but he does not tread the way of deliverance.’ He halted at a little runlet among the fields, and considered the hoof-pitted bank.
‘Now, how wilt thou know thy River?’ said Kim, squatting in the shade of some tall sugar-cane.
‘When I find it, an enlightenment will surely be given. This, I feel, is not the place. O littlest among the waters, if only thou couldst tell me where runs my River! But be thou blessed to make the fields bear!’
‘Look! Look!’ Kim sprang to his side and dragged him back. A yellow and brown streak glided from the purple rustling stems to the bank, stretched its neck to the water, drank, and lay still—a big cobra with fixed, lidless eyes.
‘I have no stick—I have no stick,’ said Kim. ‘I will get me one and break his back.’
‘Why? He is upon the Wheel as we are—a life ascending or descending—very far from deliverance. Great evil must the soul have done that is cast into this shape.’
‘I hate all snakes,’ said Kim. No native training can quench the white man’s horror of the Serpent.
‘Let him live out his life.’ The coiled thing hissed and half opened its hood. ‘May thy release come soon, brother,’ the lama continued placidly. ‘Hast thou knowledge, by chance, of my River?’
‘Never have I seen such a man as thou art,’ Kim whispered, overwhelmed. ‘Do the very snakes understand thy talk?’
‘Who knows?’ He passed within a foot of the cobra’s poised head. It flattened itself among the dusty coils.
‘Come thou!’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Not I,’ said Kim. ‘I go round.’
‘Come. He does no hurt.
Kim hesitated for a moment. The lama backed his order by some droned Chinese quotation which Kim took for a charm. He obeyed and bounded across the rivulet, and the snake, indeed, made no sign.
‘Never have I seen such a man.’ Kim wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘And now, whither go we?’
‘That is for thee to say. I am old, and a stranger—far from my own place. But that the rêl-carriage fills my head with noises of devil-drums I would go in it to Benares now … yet by so going we may miss the River. Let us find another river.’
Where the hard-worked soil gives three and even four crops a year—through patches of sugarcane, tobacco, long white radishes, and nol-kol, all that day they strolled on, turning aside to every glimpse of water; rousing village dogs and sleeping villages at noonday; the lama replying to the vollied questions with an unswerving simplicity. They sought a River—a River of miraculous healing. Had any one knowledge of such a stream? Sometimes men laughed, but more often heard the story out to the end and offered them a place in the shade, a drink of milk, and a meal. The women were always kind, and the little children as children are the world over, alternately shy and venturesome. Evening found them at rest under the village tree of a mud-walled, mud-roofed hamlet, talking to the headman as the cattle came in from the grazing-grounds and the women prepared the day’s last meal. They had passed beyond the belt of market-gardens round hungry Umballa, and were among the mile-wide green of the staple crops.
He was a white-bearded and affable elder, used to entertaining strangers. He dragged out a string bedstead for the lama, set warm cooked food before him. prepared him a pipe, and, the evening ceremonies being finished in the village temple, sent for the village priest.
Kim told the older children tales of the size and beauty of Lahore, of railway travel, and such like city things, while the men talked, slowly as their cattle chew the cud.
‘I cannot fathom it,’ said the headman at last to the priest. ‘How readest thou this talk?’ The lama, his tale told, was silently telling his beads.
‘He is a Seeker,’ the priest answered. ‘The land is full of such. Remember him who came only last month—the faquir with the tortoise?’
‘Ay, but that man had right and reason, for Krishna Himself appeared in a vision promising him Paradise without the burning-pyre if he journeyed to Prayag. This man seeks no god who is within my knowledge.’
‘Peace, he is old: he comes from far off, and he is mad,’ the smooth-shaven priest replied. ‘Hear me.’ He turned to the lama. ‘Three kos (six miles) to the westward runs the great road to Calcutta.’
‘But I would go to Benares—to Benares.’
‘And to Benares also. It crosses all streams on this side of Hind. Now my word to thee, Holy One, is rest here till to-morrow. Then take the road’ (it was the Grand Trunk Road he meant) ‘and test each stream that it overpasses; for, as I understand, the virtue of thy River lies neither in one pool nor place, but throughout its length. Then, if thy gods will, be assured that thou wilt come upon thy freedom.’
‘That is well said.’ The lama was much impressed by the plan. ‘We will begin to-morrow, and a blessing on thee for showing old feet such a near road.’ A deep, sing-song Chinese half-chant closed the sentence. Even the priest was impressed, and the headman feared an evil spell: but none could look at the lama’s simple, eager face and doubt him long.
‘Seest thou my chela?’ he said, diving into his snuff-gourd with an important sniff. It was his duty to repay courtesy with courtesy.
‘I see—and hear.’ The headman rolled his eye where Kim was chatting to a girl in blue as she laid crackling thorns on a fire.
‘He also has a Search of his own. No river, but a Bull. Yea, a Red Bull on a green field will some day raise him to honour. He is, I think, not altogether of this world. He was sent of a sudden to aid me in this search, and his name is Friend of all the World.’
The priest smiled. ‘Ho there, Friend of all the World,’ he cried across the sharp-smelling smoke, ‘what art thou?’
‘This Holy One’s disciple,’ said Kim.
‘He says thou art a būt (a spirit).’
‘Can būts eat?’ said Kim, with a twinkle. ‘For I am hungry.’
‘It is no jest,’ cried the lama. ‘A certain astrologer of that city whose name I have forgotten—’
‘That is no more than the city of Umballa where we slept last night,’ Kim whispered to the priest.
‘Ay, Umballa was it? He cast a horoscope and declared that my chela should find his desire within two days. But what said he of the meaning of the stars, Friend of all the World?’
Kim cleared his throat and looked around at the village gray-beards.
‘The meaning of my Star is War,’ he replied pompously.
Somebody laughed at the little tattered figure strutting on the brickwork plinth under the great tree. Where a native would have lain down, Kim’s white blood set him upon his feet.
‘Ay, War,’ he answered.
‘That is a sure prophecy,’ rumbled a deep voice. ‘For there is always war along the Border—as I know.’
It was an old, withered man, who had served the Government in the days of the Mutiny as a native officer in a newly raised cavalry regiment. The Government had given him a good holding in the village, and though the demands of his sons, now gray-bearded officers on their own account, had impoverished him, he was still a person of consequence. English officials—Deputy Commissioners even — turned aside from the main road to visit him, and on those occasions he dressed himself in the uniform of ancient days, and stood up like a ramrod.
‘But this shall be a great war—a war of eight thousand,’ Kim’s voice shrilled across the quick-gathering crowd, astonishing himself.
‘Redcoats or our own regiments?’ the old man snapped, as though he were asking an equal. His tone made men respect Kim.
‘Redcoats,’ said Kim at a venture. ‘Redcoats and guns.’
‘But—but the astrologer said no word of this,’ cried the lama, snuffing prodigiously in his excitement.
‘But I know. The word has come to me, who am this Holy One’s disciple. There will rise a war—a war of eight thousand redcoats. From Pindi and Peshawur they will be drawn. This is sure.’
‘The boy has heard bazar-talk,’ said the priest.
‘But he was always by my side,’ said the lama. ‘How should he know? I did not know.’
‘He will make a clever juggler when the old man is dead,’ muttered the priest to the headman. ‘What new trick is this?’
‘A sign. Give me a sign,’ thundered the old soldier suddenly. ‘If there were war my sons would have told me.’
‘When all is ready, thy sons, doubt not, will be told. But it is a long road from thy sons to the man in whose hands these things lie.’ Kim warmed to the game, for it reminded him of experiences in the letter-carrying line, when, for the sake of a few pice, he pretended to know more than he knew. But now he was playing for larger things—the sheer excitement and the sense of power. He drew a new breath and went on.
‘Old man, give me a sign. Do underlings order the goings of eight thousand redcoats — with guns?’
‘No.’ Still the old man answered as though Kim were an equal.
‘Dost thou know who He is then that gives the order?’
‘I have seen Him.’
‘To know again?’
‘I have known Him since he was a lieutenant in the top-khana (the Artillery).’
‘A tall man. A tall man with black hair, walking thus?’ Kim took a few paces in a stiff, wooden style.
‘Ay. But that any one may have seen.’ The crowd were breathless-still through all this talk.
‘That is true,’ said Kim. ‘But I will say more. Look now. First the great man walks thus. Then He thinks thus. (Kim drew a forefinger over his forehead and downwards till it came to rest by the angle of the jaw.) Anon He twitches his fingers thus. Anon He thrusts his hat under his left armpit.’ Kim illustrated the motion and stood like a stork.
The old man groaned, inarticulate with amazement; and the crowd shivered.
‘So—so—so. But what does He when He is about to give an order?’
‘He rubs the skin at the back of his neck—thus. Then falls one finger on the table and he makes a small sniffing noise through his nose. Then He speaks, saying: “Loose such and such a regiment. Call out such guns.”’
The old man rose stiffly and saluted.
‘“For”’—Kim translated into the vernacular the clinching sentences he had heard in the dressing-room at Umballa—‘“For,” says He, “we should have done this long ago. It is not war—it is a chastisement. Snff!”’
‘Enough. I believe. I have seen Him thus in the smoke of battles. Seen and heard. It is He!’
‘I saw no smoke’—Kim’s voice shifted to the rapt sing-song of the wayside fortune-teller. ‘I saw this in darkness. First came a man to make things clear. Then came horsemen. Then came He, standing in a ring of light. The rest followed as I have said. Old man, have I spoken truth?’
‘It is He. Past all doubt it is He.’
The crowd drew a long, quavering breath, staring alternately at the old man, still at attention, and ragged Kim against the purple twilight.
‘Said I not—said I not he was from the other world?’ cried the lama proudly. ‘He is the Friend of all the World. He is the Friend of the Stars!’
‘At least it does not concern us,’ a man cried. ‘O thou young soothsayer, if the gift abides with thee at all seasons, I have a redspotted cow. She may be sister to thy Bull for aught I know—’
‘Or I care,’ said Kim. ‘My Stars do not concern themselves with thy cattle.’
‘Nay, but she is very sick,’ a woman struck in. ‘My man is a buffalo, or he would have chosen his words better. Tell me if she recover?’
Had Kim been at all an ordinary boy, he would have carried on the play; but one does not know Lahore city, and least of all the faquirs by the Taksali Gate, for thirteen years without also knowing human nature.
The priest looked at him sideways, something bitterly—a dry and blighting smile.