Kim

‘Is there no priest then in the village? I thought I had seen a great one even now,’ cried Kim.

‘Ay—but—’ the woman began.

‘But thou and thy husband hoped to get the cow cured for a handful of thanks.’ The shot told: they were notoriously the closest-fisted couple in the village. ‘It is not well to cheat the temples. Give a young calf to thy own priest, and, unless thy gods are angry past recall, she will give milk within a month.’

‘A master-beggar art thou,’ purred the priest approvingly. ‘Not the cunning of forty years could have done better. Surely thou hast made the old man rich?’

‘A little flour, a little butter and a mouthful of cardamoms,’ Kim retorted, flushed with the praise, but still cautious—‘does one grow rich on that? And, as thou canst see, he is mad. But it serves me while I learn the road at least.’

He knew what the faquirs of the Taksali Gate were like when they talked among themselves, and copied the very inflection of their lewd disciples.

‘Is his Search, then, truth or a cloak to other ends? It may be treasure.’

‘He is mad—many times mad. There is nothing else.’

Here the old soldier hobbled up and asked if Kim would accept his hospitality for the night. The priest recommended him to do so, but insisted that the honour of entertaining the lama belonged to the temple—at which the lama smiled guilelessly. Kim glanced from one face to the other, and drew his own conclusions.

‘Where is the money?’ he whispered, beckoning the old man off into the darkness.

‘In my bosom. Where else?’

‘Give it me. Quietly and swiftly give it me.’

‘But why? Here is no ticket to buy.’

‘Am I thy chela, or am I not? Do I not safeguard thy old feet about the ways? Give me the money and at dawn I will return it.’ He slipped his hand above the lama’s girdle and brought away the purse.

‘Be it so—be it so.’ The old man nodded his head. ‘This is a great and terrible world. I never knew there were so many men alive in it.’

Next morning the priest was in a very bad temper, but the lama was quite happy; and Kim had enjoyed a most interesting evening with the old man, who brought out his cavalry sabre and, balancing it on his dry knees, told tales of the Mutiny and young captains thirty years in their graves, till Kim dropped off to sleep.

‘Certainly the air of this country is good,’ said the lama. ‘I sleep lightly, as do all old men; but last night I slept unwaking till broad day. Even now I am heavy.’

‘Drink a draught of hot milk,’ said Kim, who had carried not a few such remedies to opium-smokers of his acquaintance. ‘It is time to take the road again.’

‘The long road that overpasses all the rivers of Hind,’ said the lama gaily. ‘Let us go. But how thinkest thou, chela, to recompense these people, and especially the priest, for their great kindness? Truly they are būt-parast, but in other lives, may be, they will receive enlightenment. A rupee to the temple? The thing within is no more than stone and red paint, but the heart of man we must acknow ledge when and where it is good.’

‘Holy One, has thou ever taken the road alone?’ Kim looked up sharply, like the Indian crows so busy about the fields.

‘Surely, child: from Kulu to Pathânkot—from Kulu, where my first chela died. When men were kind to us we made offerings, and all men were well-disposed throughout all the Hills.’

‘It is otherwise in Hind,’ said Kim drily. ‘Their gods are many-armed and malignant. Let them alone.’

‘I would set thee on thy road for a little, Friend of all the World—thou and thy yellow man.’ The old soldier ambled up the village street, all shadowy in the dawn, on a gaunt, scissor-hocked pony. ‘Last night broke up the fountains of remembrance in my sodried heart, and it was as a blessing to me. Truly there is war abroad in the air. I smell it. See! I have brought my sword.’

He sat long-legged on the little beast, with the big sword at his side,—hand dropped on the pommel,—staring fiercely over the flat lands towards the north. ‘Tell me again how He showed in thy vision. Come up and sit behind me. The beast will carry two.’

‘I am this Holy One’s disciple,’ said Kim, as they cleared the village-gate. The villagers seemed almost sorry to be rid of them, but the priest’s farewell was cold and distant. He had wasted some opium on a man who carried no money.

‘That is well spoken. I am not much used to holy men, but respect is always good. There is no respect in these days—not even when a Commissioner Sahib comes to see me. But why should one whose Star leads him to war follow a holy man?’

‘But he is a holy man,’ said Kim earnestly. ‘In truth, and in talk and in act, holy. He is not like the others. I have never seen such an one. We be not fortune-tellers, or jugglers, or beggars.’

‘Thou art not, that I can see; but I do not know that other. He marches well, though.’

The first freshness of the day carried the lama forward with long, easy, camel-like strides. He was deep in meditation, mechanically clicking his rosary.

They followed the rutted and worn country road that wound across the flat between the great dark-green mango-groves, the line of the snowcapped Himalayas faint to the eastward. All India was at work in the fields, to the creaking of well-wheels, the shouting of ploughmen behind their cattle, and the clamour of the crows. Even the pony felt the good influence and almost broke into a trot as Kim laid a hand on the stirrup-leather.

‘It repents me that I did not give a rupee to the shrine,’ said the lama on the last bead of his eighty-one.

The old soldier growled in his beard, so that the lama for the first time was aware of him.

‘Seekest thou the River also?’ said he, turning.

‘The day is new,’ was the reply. ‘What need of a river save to water at before sundown? I come to show thee a short lane to the Big Road.’

‘That is a courtesy to be remembered, O man of good will; but why the sword?’

The old soldier looked as abashed as a child interrupted in his game of make-believe.

‘The sword,’ he said, fumbling it. ‘Oh, that was a fancy of mine—an old man’s fancy. Truly the police orders are that no man must bear weapons throughout Hind, but’—he cheered up and slapped the hilt —‘all the constabeels here-about know me.’

‘It is not a good fancy,’ said the lama. ‘What profit to kill men?’

‘Very little—as I know; but if evil men were not now and then slain it would not be a good world for weaponless dreamers. I do not speak without knowledge who have seen the land from Delhi south awash with blood.’

‘What madness was that, then?

‘The Gods, who sent it for a plague, alone know. A madness ate into all the Army, and they turned against their officers. That was the first evil, but not past remedy if they had then held their hands. But they chose to kill the Sahibs’ wives and children. Then came the Sahibs from over the sea and called them to most strict account.’

‘Some such rumour, I believe, reached me once long ago. They called it the Black Year, as I remember.’

‘What manner of life hast thou led, not to know The Year? A rumour indeed! All earth knew, and trembled.’

‘Our earth never shook but once—upon the day that the Excellent One received Enlightenment.’

‘Umph! I saw Delhi shake at least; and Delhi is the navel of the world.’

‘So they turned against women and children? That was a bad deed, for which the punishment cannot be avoided.’

‘Many strove to do so, but with very small profit. I was then in a regiment of cavalry. It broke. Of six hundred and eighty sabres stood fast to their salt—how many think you? Three. Of whom I was one.’

‘The greater merit.’

‘Merit! We did not consider it merit in those days. My people, my friends, my brothers fell from me. They said: “The time of the English is accomplished. Let each strike out a little holding for himself.” But I had talked with the men of Sobraon, of Chillianwallah, of Moodkee and Ferozeshah. I said: “Abide a little and the wind turns. There is no blessing in this work.” In those days I rode seventy miles with an English mem-sahib and her babe on my saddle-bow. (Wow! That was a horse fit for a man!) I placed them in safety, and back came I to my officer—the one that was not killed of our five. “Give me work,” said I, “for I am an outcast among my own kin, and my cousin’s blood is wet on my sabre.” “Be content,” said he. “There is great work forward. When this madness is over there is a recompense.”’

‘Ay, there is a recompense when the madness is over, surely?’ the lama muttered half to himself.

‘They did not hang medals in those days on all who by accident had heard a gun fired. No! In nineteen pitched battles was I; in six-and-forty skirmishes of horse; and in small affairs without number. Nine wounds I bear; a medal and four clasps and the medal of an Order, for my captains, who are now generals, remembered me when the Kaiser-i-Hind had accomplished fifty years of her reign, and all the land rejoiced. They said: “Give him the order of Berittish India.” I carry it upon my neck now. I have also my jaghir (holding) from the hands of the State—a free gift to me and mine. The men of the old days—they are now Commissioners—come riding to me through the crops,—high upon horses so that all the village sees,— and we talk out the old skirmishes, one dead man’s name leading to another.’

‘And after?’ said the lama.

‘Oh, afterwards they go away, but not before my village has seen.’

‘And at the last what wilt thou do?’

‘At the last I shall die.’

‘And after?’

‘Let the Gods order it. I have never pestered Them with prayers: I do not think they will pester me. Look you, I have noticed in my long life that those who eternally break in upon Those Above with complaints and reports and bellowings and weepings are presently sent for in haste, as our colonel used to send for slack-jawed down-country men who talked too much. No, I have never wearied the Gods. They will remember this, and give me a quiet place where I can drive my lance in the shade, and wait to welcome my sons: I have no less than three—ressaldar-majors all—in the regiments.’

‘And they likewise, bound upon the Wheel, go forth from life to life—from despair to despair,’ said the lama below his breath, ‘hot, uneasy, snatching.’

‘Ay,’ the old soldier chuckled. ‘Three ressaldar-majors in three regiments. Gamblers a little, but so am I. They must be well-mounted; and one cannot take the horses as in the old days one took women. Well, well, my holding can pay for all. How thinkest thou? It is a well-watered strip, but my men cheat me. I do not know how to ask save at the lance’s point. Ugh! I grow angry and I curse them, and they feign penitence, but behind my back I know they call me a toothless old ape.’

‘Hast thou never desired any other thing?’

‘Yes—yes—a thousand times! A straight back and a close-clinging knee once more; a quick wrist and a keen eye; and the marrow that makes a man. Oh, the old days—the good days of my strength!’

‘That strength is weakness.’

‘It has turned so; but fifty years since I could have proved it otherwise,’ the old soldier retorted, driving his stirrup-edge into the pony’s lean flank.

‘But I know a River of great healing.’

‘I have drank Gunga-water to the edge of dropsy. All she gave me was a flux, and no sort of strength.’

‘It is not Gunga. The River that I know washes from all taint of sin. Ascending the far bank one is assured of Freedom. I do not know thy life, but thy face is the face of the honourable and courte ous. Thou hast clung to thy Way, rendering fidelity when it was hard to give, in that Black Year of which I now remember other tales. Enter now upon the Middle Way, which is the path to Freedom. Hear the Most Excellent Law, and do not follow dreams.’

‘Speak then, old man,’ the soldier, smiled, half saluting. ‘We be all babblers at our age.’

The lama squatted under the shade of a mango, whose shadow played checkerwise over his face; the soldier sat stiffly on the pony; and Kim, making sure that there were no snakes, lay down in the crotch of the twisted roots.

There was a drowsy buzz of small life in hot sunshine, a cooing of doves, and a sleepy drone of well-wheels across the fields.

Slowly and impressively the lama began. At the end of ten minutes the old soldier slid from his pony, to hear better as he said, and sat with the reins round his wrist. The lama’s voice faltered—the periods lengthened. Kim was busy watching a gray squirrel. When the little scolding bunch of fur, close pressed to the branch, disappeared, preacher and audience were fast asleep, the old officer’s strong-cut head pillowed on his arm, the lama’s thrown back against the tree bole, where it showed like yellow ivory. A naked child toddled up, stared, and, moved by some quick impulse of reverence, made a solemn little obeisance before the lama—only the child was so short and fat that it toppled over sideways, and Kim laughed at the sprawling, chubby legs. The child, scared and indignant, yelled aloud.

‘Hai! Hai!’ said the soldier, leaping to his feet. ‘What is it? What orders? … It is … a child! I dreamed it was an alarm. Little one—little one—do not cry. Have I slept? That was discourteous indeed!’

‘I fear! I am afraid!’ roared the child.

‘What is it to fear? Two old men and a boy? How wilt thou ever make a soldier, Princeling?’

The lama had waked too, but, taking no direct notice of the child, clicked his rosary.

‘What is that?’ said the child, stopping a yell midway. ‘I have never seen such things. Give them me.’

‘Aha,’ said the lama, smiling, and trailing a loop of it on the grass:

‘This is a handful of cardamoms,

This is a lump of ghi:

This is millet and chillies and rice,

A supper for thee and me!’

The child shrieked with joy, and snatched at the dark, glancing beads.

‘Oho!’ said the old soldier. ‘Whence had thou that song, despiser of this world?’

‘I learned it in Pathânkot—sitting on a doorstep,’ said the lama shyly. ‘It is good to be kind to babes.’

‘As I remember, before the sleep came on us, thou hadst told me that marriage and bearing were darkeners of the true light, stumbling-blocks upon the way. Do children drop from heaven in thy country? Is it the Way to sing them songs?’

‘No man is all perfect,’ said the lama gravely, re-coiling the rosary. ‘Run now to thy mother, little one.’

‘Hear him!’ said the soldier to Kim. ‘He is ashamed for that he has made a child happy. There was a very good householder lost in thee, my brother. Hai, child!’ He threw it a pice. ‘Sweetmeats are always sweet.’ And as the little figure capered away into the sunshine: ‘They grow up and become men. Holy One, I grieve that I slept in the midst of thy preaching. Forgive me.’

‘We be two old men,’ said the lama. ‘The fault is mine. I listened to thy talk of the world and its madness, and one fault led to the next.’

‘Hear him! What harm do thy Gods suffer from play with a babe? And that song was very well sung. Let us go on and I will sing thee the song of Nikal Seyn before Delhi—the old song.’

And they fared out from the gloom of the mango tope, the old man’s high, shrill voice ringing across the field, as wail by long-drawn wail he unfolded the story of Nikal Seyn (Nicholson)—the song that men sing in the Punjab to this day. Kim was delighted, and the lama listened with deep interest.

‘Ahi! Nikal Seyn is dead—he died before Delhi! Lances of North take vengeance for Nikal Seyn.’ He quavered it out to the end, marking the trills with the flat of his sword on the pony’s rump.

‘And now we come to the Big Road,’ said he, after receiving the compliments of Kim; for the lama was markedly silent. ‘It is long since I have ridden this way, but thy boy’s talk stirred me. See, Holy One—the Great Road which is the backbone of all Hind. For the most part it is shaded, as here, with four lines of trees; the middle road—all hard—takes the quick traffic. In the days before rail-carriages the Sahibs travelled up and down here in hundreds. Now there are only country-carts and such like. Left and right is the rougher road for the heavy carts—grain and cotton and timber, bhoosa, lime and hides. A man goes in safety here—for at every few kos is a police-station. The police are thieves and extortioners (I myself would patrol it with cavalry—young recruits under a strong captain), but at least they do not suffer any rivals. All castes and kinds of men move here. Look! Brahmins and chumars, bankers and tinkers, barbers and bunnias, pilgrims and potters—all the world going and coming. It is to me as a river from which I am withdrawn like a log after a flood.’

And truly the Grand Trunk Road is a wonderful spectacle. It runs straight, bearing without crowding India’s traffic for fifteen hundred miles—such a river of life as nowhere else exists in the world. They looked at the green-arched, shade-flecked length of it, the white breadth speckled with slow-pacing folk; and the two-roomed police-station opposite.

‘Who bears arms against the law?’ a constable called out laughingly, as he caught sight of the soldier’s sword. ‘Are not the police enough to destroy evil-doers?’

‘It was because of the police I bought it,’ was the answer. ‘Does all go well in Hind?’

‘Ressaldar Sahib, all goes well.’

‘I am like an old tortoise, look you, who puts his head out from the bank and draws it in again. Ay, this is the road of Hindustan. All men come by this way …’

‘Son of a swine, is the soft part of the road meant for thee to scratch thy back upon? Father of all the daughters of shame and husband of ten thousand virtueless ones, thy mother was devoted to a devil, being led thereto by her mother; thy aunts have never had a nose for seven generations! Thy sister!—What owl’s folly told thee to draw thy carts across the road? A broken wheel? Then take a broken head and put the two together at leisure!’

The voice and a venomous whip-cracking came out of a pillar of dust fifty yards away, where a cart had broken down. A thin, high Kattiwar mare, with eyes and nostrils aflame, rocketted out of the jam, snorting and wincing as her rider bent her across the road in chase of a shouting man. He was tall and gray-bearded, sitting the almost mad beast as a piece of her, and scientifically lashing his victim between plunges.

The old man’s face lit with pride. ‘My child!’ said he briefly, and strove to rein the pony’s neck to a fitting arch.

‘Am I to be beaten before the police?’ cried the carter. ‘Justice! I will have Justice—’

‘Am I to be blocked by a shouting ape who upsets ten thousand sacks under a young horse’s nose? That is the way to ruin a mare.’

‘He speaks truth. He speaks truth. But she follows her man close,’ said the old man. The carter ran under the wheels of his cart and thence threatened all sorts of vengeance.

‘They are strong men, thy sons,’ said the policeman serenely, picking his teeth.

The horseman delivered one last vicious cut with his whip and came on at a canter.

‘My father!’ He reined back ten yards and dismounted.

The old man was off his pony in an instant, and they embraced as do father and son in the East.

CHAPTER 4

Good Luck, she is never a lady,

But the cursedest quean alive.

Tricksy, wincing, and jady—

Kittle to lead or drive.

Greet her—she’s hailing a stranger!

Meet her—she’s busking to leave!

Let her alone for a shrew to the bone

And the hussy comes plucking your sleeve!

Largesse! Largesse, O Fortune!

Give or hold at your will.

If I’ve no care for Fortune,

Fortune must follow me still!

—The Wishing Caps.

Then, lowering their voices, they spoke together. Kim came to rest under a tree, but the lama tugged impatiently at his elbow.

‘Let us go on. The River is not here.’

‘Hai mai! Have we not walked enough for a little? Our River will not run away. Patience, and he will give us a dole.’

‘That,’ said the old soldier suddenly, ‘is the Friend of the Stars. He brought me the news yesterday. Having seen the very man Himself, in a vision, giving orders for the war.’

‘Hm!’ said his son, all deep in his broad chest. ‘He came by a bazar-rumour and made profit of it.’

His father laughed. ‘At least he did not ride to me begging for a new charger and the gods know how many rupees. Are thy brothers’ regiments also under orders?’

‘I do not know. I took leave and came swiftly to thee in case—’

‘In case they ran before thee to beg. O gamblers and spendthrifts all! But thou hast never yet ridden in a charge. A good horse is needed there, truly. A good follower and a good pony also for the marching. Let us see—let us see.’ He thrummed on the pommel.

‘This is no place to cast accounts in, my father. Let us go to thy house.’

‘At least pay the boy then: I have no pice with me, and he brought auspicious news. Ho! Friend of all the World, a war is toward as thou hast said.’

‘Nay, as I know, the war,’ returned Kim composedly.

‘Eh?’ said the lama, fingering his beads, all eager for the road.

‘My master does not trouble the Stars for hire. We brought the news—bear witness, we brought the news, and now we go.’ Kim half-crooked his hand at his side.

The son tossed a silver coin through the sunlight, grumbling something about beggars and jugglers. It was a four-anna piece, and would feed them well for some days. The lama, seeing the flash of the metal, droned a blessing.

‘Go thy way, Friend of all the World,’ piped the old soldier, wheeling his scrawny mount. ‘For once in all my days I have met a true prophet—who was not in the Army.’

Father and son swung round together: the old man sitting as erect as the younger.

A Punjabi constable in yellow linen trousers slouched across the road. He had seen the money pass.

‘Halt!’ he cried in impressive English. ‘Know ye not that there is a takkus of two annas a head, which is four annas, on those who enter the road from this side-road. It is the order of the Sirkar, and the money is spent for the planting of trees and the beautification of the ways.’

‘And the bellies of the police,’ said Kim, skipping out of arm’s reach. ‘Consider for a while, man with a mud head. Think you we came from the nearest pond like the frog, thy father-in-law. Hast thou ever heard the name of thy brother?’

‘And who was he? Leave the boy alone,’ cried a senior constable, immensely delighted, as he squatted down to smoke his pipe in the verandah.

‘He took a label from a bottle of belaitee-pani (soda-water), and, affixing it to a bridge, collected taxes for a month from those who passed, saying that it was the Sirkar’s order. Then came an Englishman and broke his head. Ah, brother, I am a town-crow, not a village-crow!’

The policeman drew back abashed, and Kim hooted at him all down the road.

‘Was there ever such a disciple as I?’ he cried merrily to the lama. ‘All earth would have picked thy bones within ten mile of Lahore city if I had not guarded thee.’

‘I consider in my own mind whether thou art a spirit, sometimes, or sometimes an evil imp,’ said the lama, smiling slowly.

‘I am thy chela.’ Kim dropped into step at his side—that indescribable gait of the long-distance tramp all the world over.

‘Now let us walk,’ muttered the lama, and to the click of his rosary they walked in silence mile upon mile. The lama, as usual, was deep in meditation, but Kim’s bright eyes were open wide. This broad, smiling river of life, he considered, was a vast improvement on the cramped and crowded Lahore streets. There were new people and new sights at every stride—castes he knew and castes that were altogether out of his experience.

They met a troop of long-haired, strong-scented Sansis with baskets of lizards and other unclean food on their backs, the lean dogs sniffing at their heels. These people kept their own side of the road, moving at a quick, furtive jog-trot, and all other castes gave them ample room; for the Sansi is deep pollution. Behind them, walking wide and stiffly across the strong shadows, the memory of his leg-irons still on him, strode one newly released from the jail; his full stomach and shiny skin to prove that the Government fed its prisoners better than most honest men could feed themselves. Kim knew that walk well, and made broad jest of it as they passed. Then an Akali, a wild-eyed, wild-haired Sikh devotee in the blue-checked clothes of his faith, with polished-steel quoits glistening on the cone of his tall blue turban, stalked past, returning from a visit to one of the independent Sikh States, where he had been singing the ancient glories of the Khalsa to College-trained princelings in topboots and white-cord breeches. Kim was careful not to irritate that man; for the Akali’s temper is short and his arm quick. Here and there they met or were overtaken by the gaily dressed crowds of whole villages turning out to some local fair; the women, with their babes on their hips, walking behind the men, the older boys prancing on sticks of sugar-cane, dragging rude brass models of locomotives such as they sell for a halfpenny, or flashing the sun into the eyes of their betters from cheap toy mirrors. One could see at a glance what each had bought; and if there were any doubt it needed only to watch the wives comparing, brown arm against brown arm, the newly purchased dull glass bracelets that come from the North-West. These merry-makers stepped slowly, calling one to the other and stopping to haggle with sweetmeat-sellers, or to make a prayer before one of the wayside shrines—sometimes Hindu, sometimes Mussalman—which the low caste of both creeds share with beautiful impartiality. A solid line of blue, rising and falling like the back of a caterpillar in haste, would swing up through the quivering dust and trot past to a chorus of quick cackling. That was a gang of changars—the women who have taken all the embankments of all the Northern railways under their charge—a flat-footed, big-bosomed, strong-limbed, blue-petticoated clan of earth-carriers, hurrying north on news of a job, and wasting no time by the road. They belong to the caste whose men do not count, and they walked with squared elbows, swinging hips, and heads on high, as suits women who carry heavy weights. A little later a marriage procession would strike into the Grand Trunk with music and shoutings, and a smell of marigold and jasmine stronger even than the reek of the dust. One could see the bride’s litter, a blur of red and tinsel, staggering through the haze, while the bridegroom’s bewreathed pony turned aside to snatch a mouthful from a passing foddercart. Then Kim would join the Kentish-fire of good wishes and bad jokes, wishing the couple a hundred sons and no daughters, as the saying is. Still more interesting and more to be shouted over it was when a strolling juggler with some half-trained monkeys, or a panting, feeble bear, or a woman who tied goats’ horns to her feet, and with these danced on a slack-rope, set the horses to shying and the women to shrill, long-drawn quavers of amazement.