‘True. That is true.’ Kim used the thoughtful, conciliatory tone of those who wish to draw confidences.
‘But by her lights she is most right-minded. She desires greatly that we should go with her to Buddh Gaya; her road being ours, as I understand, for many days’ journey to the southward.’
‘And?’
‘Patience a little. To this I said that my search came before all things. She had heard many foolish legends, but this great truth of my River she had never heard. Such are the priests of the lower hills! She knew the Abbot of Lung-Cho, but she did not know of my River—nor the tale of the Arrow.’
‘And?’
‘I spoke therefore of the Search, and of the Way, and of matters that were profitable; she desiring only that I should accompany her and make prayer for a second son.’
‘Aha! “We women” do not think of anything save children,’ said Kim sleepily.
‘Now, since our roads run together for a while, I do not see that we in any way depart from our Search if so be we accompany her—at least as far as—I have forgotten the name of the city.’
‘Ohé!’ said Kim, turning and speaking in a sharp whisper to one of the Ooryas a few yards away. ‘Where is your master’s house?’
‘A little behind Saharunpore,138 among the fruit gardens.’ He named the village.
‘That was the place,’ said the lama. ‘So far, at least, we can go with her.’
‘Flies go to carrion,’ said the Oorya, in an abstracted voice.
‘For the sick cow a crow; for the sick man a Brahmin.’ Kim breathed the proverb impersonally to the shadow-tops of the trees overhead.
The Oorya grunted and held his peace.
‘So then we go with her, Holy One?’
‘Is there any reason against? I can still step aside and try all the rivers that the road overpasses. She desires that I should come. She very greatly desires it.’
Kim stifled a laugh in the quilt. When once that imperious old lady had recovered from her natural awe of a lama he thought it probable that she would be worth listening to.
He was nearly asleep when the lama suddenly quoted a proverb: ‘The husbands of the talkative have a great reward hereafter.’ Then Kim heard him snuff thrice, and dozed off, still laughing.
The diamond-bright dawn woke men and crows and bullocks together. Kim sat up and yawned, shook himself, and thrilled with delight. This was seeing the world in real truth; this was life as he would have it—bustling and shouting, the buckling of belts, and beating of bullocks and creaking of wheels, lighting of fires and cooking of food, and new sights at every turn of the approving eye. The morning mist swept off in a whorl of silver, the parrots shot away to some distant river in shrieking green hosts: all the well-wheels within earshot went to work. India was awake, and Kim was in the middle of it, more awake and more excited than any one, chewing on a twig that he would presently use as a toothbrush; for he borrowed right- and left-handedly from all the customs of the country he knew and loved. There was no need to worry about food—no need to spend a cowrie139 at the crowded stalls. He was the disciple of a holy man annexed by a strong-willed old lady. All things would be prepared for them, and when they were respectfully invited so to do they would sit and eat. For the rest,—Kim giggled here as he cleaned his teeth,—his hostess would rather heighten the enjoyment of the road. He inspected her bullocks critically, as they came up grunting and blowing under the yokes. If they went too fast—it was not likely—there would be a pleasant seat for himself along the pole; the lama would sit beside the driver. The escort, of course, would walk. The old lady, equally of course, would talk a great deal, and by what he had heard that conversation would not lack salt. She was already ordering, haranguing, rebuking, and, it must be said, cursing her servants for delays.
‘Get her her pipe. In the name of the Gods, get her her pipe and stop her ill-omened mouth,’ cried an Oorya, tying up his shapeless bundles of bedding. ‘She and the parrots are alike. They screech in the dawn.’
‘The lead-bullocks! Hai! Look to the lead-bullocks!’ They were backing and wheeling as a grain-cart’s axle caught them by the horns. ‘Son of an owl, where dost thou go?’ This to the grinning carter.
‘Ai! Yai! Yai! That within there is the Queen of Delhi going to pray for a son,’ the man called back over his high load. ‘Room for the Queen of Delhi and her Prime Minister the grey monkey climbing up his own sword!’ Another cart loaded with bark for a down-country tannery followed close behind, and its driver added a few compliments as the ruth-bullocks backed and backed again.
From behind the shaking curtains came one volley of invective. It did not last long, but in kind and quality, in blistering, biting appropriateness, it was beyond anything that even Kim had heard. He could see the carter’s bare chest collapse with amazement, as the man salaamed reverently to the voice, leaped from the pole, and helped the escort haul their volcano on to the main road. Here the voice told him truthfully what sort of wife he had wedded, and what she was doing in his absence.
‘Oh, shabash!’140 murmured Kim, unable to contain himself, as the man slunk away.
‘Well done, indeed? It is a shame and a scandal that a poor woman may not go to make prayer to her Gods except she be jostled and insulted by all the refuse of Hindustan—that she must eat gâli [abuse] as men eat ghi. But I have yet a wag left to my tongue—a word or two well spoken that serves the occasion. And still am I without my tobacco! Who is the one-eyed and luckless son of shame that has not yet prepared my pipe?’
It was hastily thrust in by a hillman, and a trickle of thick smoke from each corner of the curtains showed that peace was restored.
If Kim had walked proudly the day before, disciple of a holy man, to-day he paced with tenfold pride in the train of a semi-royal procession, with a recognised place under the patronage of an old lady of charming manners and infinite resource. The escort, their heads tied up native-fashion, fell in on either side the cart, shuffling enormous clouds of dust.
The lama and Kim walked a little to one side; Kim chewing his stick of sugar-cane, and making way for no one under the status of a priest. They could hear the old lady’s tongue clack as steadily as a rice-husker. She bade the escort tell her what was going on on the road; and so soon as they were clear of the parao she flung back the curtains and peered out, her veil a third across her face. Her men did not eye her directly when she addressed them, and thus the proprieties were more or less observed.
A dark, sallowish District Superintendent of Police, faultlessly uniformed, an Englishman, trotted by on a tired horse, and, seeing from her retinue what manner of person she was, chaffed her.
‘O mother,’ he cried, ‘do they do this in the ’zenanas?141 Suppose an Englishman came by and saw that thou hadst no nose?’
‘What?’ she shrilled back. ‘Thine own mother has no nose? Why say so, then, on the open road?’
It was a fair counter. The Englishman threw up his hand with the gesture of a man hit at sword-play. She laughed and nodded.
‘Is this a face to tempt virtue aside?’ She withdrew all her veil and stared at him.
It was by no means lovely, but as the man gathered up his reins he called it a Moon of Paradise, a Disturber of Integrity, and a few other fantastic epithets which doubled her up with mirth.
‘That is a nut-cut [rogue],’ she said. ‘All police-constables are nut-cuts; but the police-wallahs are the worst. Hai, my son, thou hast never learned all that since thou camest from Belait [Europe]. Who suckled thee?’
‘A pahareen—a hillwoman of Dalhousie, my mother. Keep thy beauty under a shade—O Dispenser of Delights,’ and he was gone.
‘These be the sort’—she took a fine judicial tone, and stuffed her mouth with pan—‘These be the sort to oversee justice. They know the land and the customs of the land. The others, all new from Europe, suckled by white women and learning our tongues from books, are worse than the pestilence. They do harm to Kings.’ Then she told a long, long tale
to the world at large, of an ignorant young policeman who had disturbed some small Hill Rajah, a ninth cousin of her own, in the matter of a trivial land-case, winding up with a quotation from a work by no means devotional.
Then her mood changed, and she bade one of the escort ask whether the lama would walk alongside and discuss matters of religion. So Kim dropped back into the dust and returned to his sugar-cane. For an hour or more the lama’s tam-o’-shanter showed like a moon through the haze; and, from all he heard, Kim gathered that the old woman wept. One of the Ooryas half apologised for his rudeness overnight, saying that he had never known his mistress of so bland a temper and he ascribed it to the presence of the strange priest. Personally, he believed in Brahmins, though, like all natives, he was acutely aware of their cunning and their greed. Still, when Brahmins but irritated with begging demands the mother of his master’s wife, and when she sent them away so angry that they cursed the whole retinue (which was the real reason of the second off-side bullock going lame, and of the pole breaking the night before), he was prepared to accept any priest of any other denomination in or out of India. To this Kim assented with wise nods, and bade the Oorya observe that the lama took no money, and that the cost of his and Kim’s food would be repaid a hundred times in the good luck that would attend the caravan henceforward. He also told stories of Lahore city, and sang a song or two which made the escort laugh. As a town-mouse well acquainted with the latest songs by the most fashionable composers,—they are women for the most part,—Kim had a distinct advantage over men from a little fruit-village behind Saharunpore, but he let that advantage be inferred.
At noon they turned aside to eat, and the meal was good, plentiful, and well-served on plates of clean leaves, in decency, out of drift of the dust. They gave the scraps to certain beggars, that all requirements might be fulfilled, and sat down to a long, luxurious smoke. The old lady had retreated behind her curtains, but mixed most freely in the talk, her servants arguing with and contradicting her as servants do throughout the East. She compared the cool and the pines of the Kangra and Kulu hills with the dust and the mangoes of the South; she told a tale of some old local Gods at the edge of her husband’s territory; she roundly abused the tobacco which she was then smoking, reviled all Brahmins, and speculated without reserve on the coming of many grandsons.
Chapter V
Here come I to my own again—
Fed, forgiven, and known again—
Claimed by bone of my bone again,
And sib to flesh of my flesh!
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me ...
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I’m off to the styes afresh.
The Prodigal Son.142
Once more the lazy, string-tied, shuffling procession got under way, and she slept till they reached the next halting-stage. It was a very short march, and time lacked an hour to sundown, so Kim cast about for means of amusement.
‘But why not sit and rest?’ said one of the escort. ‘Only the devils and the English walk to and fro without reason.’
‘Never make friends with the Devil, a Monkey, or a Boy. No man knows what they will do next,’ said his fellow.
Kim turned a scornful back—he did not want to hear the old story how the Devil played with the boys and repented of it—and walked idly across country.
The lama strode after him. All that day, whenever they passed a stream, he had turned aside to look at it, but in no case had he received any warning that he had found his River. Insensibly, too, the comfort of speaking to some one in a reasonable tongue, and of being properly considered and respected as her spiritual adviser by a well-born woman, had weaned his thoughts a little from the Search. And further, he was prepared to spend serene years in his quest; having nothing of the white man’s impatience, but a great faith.
‘Where goest thou?’ he called after Kim.
‘Nowhither—it was a small march, and all this’—Kim waved his hands abroad—‘is new to me.’
‘She is beyond question a wise and a discerning woman. But it is hard to meditate when——’
‘All women are thus.’ Kim spoke as might have Solomon.143
‘Before the lamassery was a broad platform,’ the lama muttered, looping up the well-worn rosary, ‘of stone. On that I have left the marks of my feet—pacing to and fro with these.’
He clicked the beads, and began the Om mane pudme hum’s of his devotion; grateful for the cool, the quiet, and the absence of dust.
One thing after another drew Kim’s idle eye across the plain. There was no purpose in his wanderings, except that the build of the huts near by seemed new, and he wished to investigate.
They came out on a broad tract of grazing-ground, brown and purple in the afternoon light, with a heavy clump of mangoes in the centre. It struck Kim as curious that no shrine stood in so eligible a spot: the boy was observing as any priest for these things. Far across the plain walked side by side four men, made small by the distance. He looked intently under his curved palms and caught the sheen of brass.
‘Soldiers. White soldiers!’ said he. ‘Let us see.’
‘It is always soldiers when thou and I go out alone together. But I have never seen the white soldiers.’
‘They do no harm except when they are drunk. Keep behind this tree.’
They stepped behind the thick trunks in the cool dark of the mango-tope. Two little figures halted; the other two came forward uncertainly. They were the advance-party of a regiment on the march, sent out, as usual, to mark the camp. They bore five-foot sticks with fluttering flags, and called to each other as they spread over the flat earth.
At last they entered the mango-grove, walking heavily.
‘It’s here or hereabouts—officers’ tents under the trees, I take it, an’ the rest of us can stay outside. Have they marked out for the baggage-waggons behind?’
They cried again to their comrades in the distance, and the rough answer came back faint and mellowed.
‘Shove the flag in here, then,’ said one.
‘What do they prepare?’ said the lama, wonder-struck. ‘This is a great and a terrible world. What is the device on the flag?’
A soldier thrust a stave within a few feet of them, grunted discontentedly, pulled it up again, conferred with his companion, who looked up and down the shaded cave of greenery, and returned it.
Kim stared with all his eyes, his breath coming short and sharp between his teeth. The soldiers stamped off into the sunshine.
‘O Holy One!’ he gasped. ‘My horoscope! The drawing in the dust by the priest at Umballa! Remember what he said. First come two—ferashes144—to make all things ready—in a dark place, as it is always at the beginning of a vision.’
‘But this is not vision,’ said the lama. ‘It is the world’s Illusion, and no more.’
‘And after them comes the Bull—the Red Bull on the green field. Look! It is he!’
He pointed to the flag that was snap-snapping in the evening breeze not ten feet away. It was no more than an ordinary camp marking-flag; but the regiment, always punctilious in matters of millinery, had charged it with the regimental device, the Red Bull, which is the crest of the Mavericks—the great Red Bull on a background of Irish green.
‘I see, and now I remember,’ said the lama. ‘Certainly it is thy Bull. Certainly, also, the two men came to make all ready.’
‘They are soldiers—white soldiers. What said the priest? “The sign over against the Bull is the sign of War and armed men.” Holy One, this thing touches my Search.’
‘True. It is true.’ The lama stared fixedly at the device that flamed like a ruby in the dusk. ‘The priest at Umballa said that thine was the sign of War.’
‘What is to do now?’
‘Wait. Let us wait.’
‘Even now the darkness clears,’ said Kim. It was only natural that the descending sun should at last strike through the tree-trunks, acros
s the grove, filling it with mealy gold light for a few minutes; but to Kim it was crown of the Umballa Brahmin’s prophecy.
‘Hark!’ said the lama. ‘One beats a drum—far off!’
At first the sound, carrying diluted through the still air, resembled the beating of an artery in the head. Soon a sharpness was added.
‘Ah! The music,’ Kim explained. He knew the sound of a regimental band, but it amazed the lama.
At the far end of the plain a heavy, dusty column crawled in sight. Then the wind brought the tune:—
We crave your condescension
To tell you what we know
Of marching in the Mulligan Guards
To Sligo145 Port below!
Here broke in the shrill-tongued fifes:—
We shouldered arms,
We marched-we marched away.
From Phoenix Park146
We marched to Dublin Bay.
The drums and the fifes,
Oh, sweetly they did play,
As we marched—marched—marched—with the
Mulligan Guards!
It was the band of the Mavericks playing the regiment to camp; for the men were route-marching with their baggage. The rippling column swung into the level—carts behind it—divided left and right, ran about like an ant-hill, and ...
‘But this is sorcery!’ said the lama.
The plain dotted itself with tents that seemed to rise, all spread, from the carts. Another rush of men invaded the grove, pitched a huge tent in silence, ran up yet eight or nine more by the side of it, unearthed cooking-pots, pans, and bundles, which were taken possession of by a crowd of native servants; and behold the mango-tope turned into an orderly town as they watched!
‘Let us go,’ said the lama, sinking back afraid, as the fires twinkled and white officers with jingling swords stalked into the Mess-tent.
‘Stand back in the shadow. No one can see beyond the light of the fire,’ said Kim, his eyes still on the flag. He had never before watched the routine of a seasoned regiment pitching camp in thirty minutes.