Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (87 page)

Think you our Lord came so far north?’ said the lama, turning to Kim.

‘It may be,’ Kim replied soothingly, as he spat red pan-juice on the floor.

‘The last of the Great Ones,’ said the Sikh with authority, ‘was Sikander Julkarn (Alexander the Great). He paved the streets of Jullundur and built a great tank near Umballa. That pavement holds to this day; and the tank is there also. I never heard of thy God.’

‘Let thy hair grow long and talk Punjabi,’ said the young soldier jestingly to Kim, quoting a Northern proverb. ‘That is all that makes a Sikh.’ But he did not say this very loud.

The lama sighed and shrank into himself, a dingy, shapeless mass. In the pauses of their talk they could hear, the low droning  —  ’Om mane pudme hum! Om mane pudme hum!’  —  and the thick click of the wooden rosary beads.

‘It irks me,’ he said at last. ‘The speed and the clatter irk me. Moreover, my chela, I think that may be we have overpassed that River.’

‘Peace, peace,’ said Kim. ‘Was not the River near Benares? We are yet far from the place.’

‘But  —  if our Lord came north, it may be any one of these little ones that we have run across.’

‘I do not know.’

‘But thou wast sent to me  —  wast thou sent to me?  —  for the merit I had acquired over yonder at Suchzen. From beside the cannon didst thou come  —  bearing two faces  —  and two garbs.’

‘Peace. One must not speak of these things here,’ whispered Kim. ‘There was but one of me. Think again and thou wilt remember. A boy  —  a Hindu boy  —  by the great green cannon.’

‘But was there not also an Englishman with a white beard  —  holy  —  among images  —  who himself made more sure my assurance of the River of the Arrow?’

‘He  —  we  —  went to the Ajaib-Gher in Lahore to pray before the gods there,’ Kim explained to the openly listening company. ‘And the Sahib of the Wonder House talked to him  —  yes, this is truth  —  as a brother. He is a Very holy man, from far beyond the hills. Rest thou. In time we come to Umballa.’

‘But my River  —  the River of my healing?’

‘And then, if it please thee, we will go hunting for that River on foot. So that we miss nothing  —  not even a little rivulet in a field-side.’

‘But thou hast a Search of thine own?’ The lama  —  very pleased that he remembered so well  —  sat bolt upright.

‘Ay,’ said Kim, humouring him. The boy was entirely happy to be out chewing pan and seeing new people in the great good-tempered world.

‘It was a Bull  —  a Red Bull that shall come and help thee  —  and carry thee  —  whither? I have forgotten. A Red Bull on a green field, was it not?’

‘Nay, it will carry me nowhere,’ said Kim. ‘It is but a tale I told thee.’

‘What is this?’ the cultivator’s wife leaned forward, her bracelets clinking on her arm. ‘Do ye both dream dreams? A Red Bull on a green field, that shall carry thee to the Heavens  —  or what? Was it a vision? Did one make a prophecy? We have a Red Bull in our village behind Jullundur city, and he grazes by choice in the very greenest of our fields!’

‘Give a woman an old wife’s tale and a weaver-bird a leaf and a thread, they will weave wonderful things,’ said the Sikh. ‘All holy men dream dreams, and by following holy men their disciples attain that power.’

‘A Red Bull on a green field, was it?’ the lama repeated. ‘In a former life it may be thou hast acquired merit, and the Bull will come to reward thee.’

‘Nay  —  nay  —  it was but a tale one told to me  —  for a jest belike. But I will seek the Bull about Umballa, and thou canst look for thy River and rest from the clatter of the train.’

‘It may be that the Bull knows  —  that he is sent to guide us both,’ said the lama, hopefully as a child. Then to the company, indicating Kim: ‘This one was sent to me but yesterday. He is not, I think, of this world.’

‘Beggars a plenty have I met, and holy men to boot, but never such a yogi nor such a disciple,’ said the woman.

Her husband touched his forehead lightly with one finger and smiled. But the next time the lama would eat they took care to give him their best.

And at last  —  tired, sleepy, and dusty  —  they reached Umballa City Station.

‘We abide here upon a law-suit,’ said the cultivator’s wife to Kim. ‘We lodge with my man’s cousin’s younger brother. There is room also in the courtyard for thy yogi and for thee. Will  —  will he give me a blessing?’

‘O holy man! A woman with a heart of gold gives us lodging for the night. It is a kindly land, this land of the South. See how we have been helped since the dawn!’

The lama bowed his head in benediction.

‘To fill my cousin’s younger brother’s house with wastrels  —  ’ the husband began, as he shouldered his heavy bamboo staff.

‘Thy cousin’s younger brother owes my father’s cousin something yet on his daughter’s marriage-feast,’ said the woman crisply. ‘Let him put their food to that account. The yogi will beg, I doubt not.’

‘Ay, I beg for him,’ said Kim, anxious only to get the lama under shelter for the night, that he might seek Mahbub Ali’s Englishman and deliver himself of the white stallion’s pedigree.

‘Now,’ said he, when the lama had come to an anchor in the inner courtyard of a decent Hindu house behind the cantonments, ‘I go away for a while  —  to  —  to buy us victual in the bazar. Do not stray abroad till I return.’

‘Thou wilt return? Thou wilt surely return?’ The old man caught at his wrist. ‘And thou wilt return in this very same shape? Is it too late to look to-night for the River?’

‘Too late and too dark. Be comforted. Think how far thou art on the road  —  an hundred kos from Lahore already.’

‘Yea  —  and farther from my monastery. Alas! It is a great and terrible world.’

Kim stole out and away, as unremarkable a figure as ever carried his own and a few score thousand other folk’s fate slung round his neck. Mahbub Ali’s directions left him little doubt of the house in which his Englishman lived; and a groom, bringing a dog-cart home from the Club, made him quite sure. It remained only to identify his man, and Kim slipped through the garden hedge and hid in a clump of plumed grass close to the veranda. The house blazed with lights, and servants moved about tables dressed with flowers, glass, and silver. Presently forth came an Englishman, dressed in black and white, humming a tune. It was too dark to see his face, so Kim, beggar-wise, tried an old experiment.

‘Protector of the Poor!’

The man backed towards the voice.

‘Mahbub Ali says  —  ’

‘Hah! What says Mahbub Ali?’ He made no attempt to look for the speaker, and that showed Kim that he knew.

‘The pedigree of the white stallion is fully established.’

‘What proof is there?’ The Englishman switched at the rose-hedge in the side of the drive.

‘Mahbub Ali has given me this proof.’ Kim flipped the wad of folded paper into the air, and it fell on the path beside the man, who put his foot on it as a gardener came round the corner. When the servant passed he picked it up, dropped a rupee,  —  Kim could hear the clink,  —  and strode into the house, never turning round. 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 veranda, 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 veranda, 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. That 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 Suchzen, 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?’