‘And thus it was, O Fountain of Wisdom, that I decided to go to the Holy Places which His foot had trod—to the Birthplace, even to Kapila; then to Mahabodhi, which is Buddh Gaya—to the Monastery—to the Deer-park—to the place of His death.’
The lama lowered his voice. ‘And I come here alone. For five—seven—eighteen—forty years it was in my mind that the Old Law was not well followed; being overlaid, as thou knowest, with devildom, charms, and idolatry. Even as the child outside said but now. Ay, even as the child said, with bt parasti.’
‘So it comes with all faiths.’
‘Thinkest thou? The books of my lamassery I read, and they were dried pith; and the later ritual with which we of the Reformed Law have cumbered ourselves—that, too, had no worth to these old eyes. Even the followers of the Excellent One are at feud on feud with one another. It is all illusion. Ay, maya, illusion. But I have another desire’—the seamed yellow face drew within three inches of the Curator, and the long forefinger-nail tapped on the table. ‘Your scholars, by these books, have followed the Blessed Feet in all their wanderings; but there are things which they have not sought out. I know nothing,—nothing do I know,—but I go to free myself from the Wheel of Things42 by a broad and open road.’ He smiled with most simple triumph. ‘As a pilgrim to the Holy Places I acquire merit. But there is more. Listen to a true thing. When our gracious Lord, being as yet a youth, sought a mate, men said, in His father’s Court, that He was too tender for marriage. Thou knowest?’
The Curator nodded, wondering what would come next.
‘So they made the triple trial of strength against all comers. And at the test of the Bow, our Lord first breaking that which they gave Him, called for such a bow as none might bend. Thou knowest?’
‘It is written. I have read.’
‘And, overshooting all other marks, the arrow passed far and far beyond sight. At the last it fell; and, where it touched earth, there broke out a stream which presently became a River, whose nature, by our Lord’s beneficence, and that merit He acquired ere He freed himself, is that whoso bathes in it washes away all taint and speckle of sin.’
‘So it is written,’ said the Curator sadly.
The lama drew a long breath. ‘Where is that River? Fountain of Wisdom, where fell the arrow?’
‘Alas, my brother, I do not know,’ said the Curator.
‘Nay, if it please thee to forget—the one thing only that thou hast not told me. Surely thou must know? See, I am an old man! I ask with my head between thy feet, O Fountain of Wisdom. We know He drew the bow! We know the arrow fell! We know the stream gushed! Where, then, is the River? My dream told me to find it. So I came. I am here. But where is the River?’
‘If I knew, think you I would not cry it aloud?’
‘By it one attains freedom from the Wheel of Things,’ the lama went on, unheeding. ‘The River of the Arrow! Think again! Some little stream, maybe—dried in the heats? But the Holy One would never so cheat an old man.’
‘I do not know. I do not know.’
The lama brought his thousand-wrinkled face once more a handsbreadth from the Englishman’s. ‘I see thou dost not know. Not being of the Law, the matter is hid from thee.’
‘Av,—hidden—hidden.’
‘We are both bound, thou and I, my brother. But I’—he rose with a sweep of the soft thick drapery—‘I go to cut myself free. Come also!’
‘I am bound,’ said the Curator. ‘But whither goest thou?’
‘First to Kashi [Benares43]: where else? There I shall meet one of the pure faith in a Jain44 temple of that city. He also is a Seeker in secret, and from him haply I may learn. Maybe he will go with me to Buddh Gaya. Thence north and west to Kapilavastu, and there will I seek for the River. Nay, I will seek everywhere as I go—for the place is not known where the arrow fell.’
‘And how wilt thou go? It is a far cry to Delhi, and farther to Benares.’
‘By road and the trains. From Pathânkot,45 having left the hills, I came hither in a te-rain. It goes swiftly. At first I was amazed to see those tall poles by the side of the road snatching up and snatching up their threads,’—he illustrated the stoop and whirl of a telegraph-pole flashing past the train. ‘But later, I was cramped and desired to walk, as I am used.’
‘And thou art sure of thy road?’ said the Curator.
‘Oh, for that one but asks a question and pays money, and the appointed persons despatch all to the appointed place. That much I knew in my lamassery from sure report,’ said the lama proudly.
‘And when dost thou go?’ The Curator smiled at the mixture of old-world piety and modern progress that is the note of India to-day.
‘As soon as may be. I follow the places of His life till I come to the River of the Arrow. There is, moreover, a written paper of the hours of the trains that go south.’
‘And for food?’ Lamas, as a rule, have good store of money somewhere about them, but the Curator wished to make sure.
‘For the journey, I take up the Master’s begging-bowl. Yes. Even as He went so go I, forsaking the ease of my monastery. There was with me when I left the hills a chela [disciple] who begged for me as the Rule demands, but halting in Kulu awhile a fever took him and he died. I have now no chela, but I will take the alms-bowl and thus enable the charitable to acquire merit.’ He nodded his head valiantly. Learned doctors of a lamassery do not beg, but the lama was an enthusiast in this quest.
‘Be it so,’ said the Curator, smiling. ‘Suffer me now to acquire merit. We be craftsmen together, thou and I. Here is a new book of white English paper: here be sharpened pencils two and three—thick and thin, all good for a scribe. Now lend me thy spectacles.’
The Curator looked through them. They were heavily scratched, but the power was almost exactly that of his own pair, which he slid into the lama’s hand, saying: ‘Try these.’
‘A feather! A very feather upon the face!’ The old man turned his head delightedly and wrinkled up his nose. ‘How scarcely do I feel them! How clearly do I see!’
‘They be bilaur—crystal—and will never scratch. May they help thee to thy River, for they are thine.’
‘I will take them and the pencils and the white note-book,’ said the lama, ‘as a sign of friendship between priest and priest—and now—’ He fumbled at his belt, detached the open-work iron pencase, and laid it on the Curator’s table. ‘That is for a memory between thee and me—my pencase. It is something old—even as I am.’
It was a piece of ancient design, Chinese, of an iron that is not smelted these days; and the collector’s heart in the Curator’s bosom had gone out to it from the first. For no persuasion would the lama resume his gift.
‘When I return, having found the River, I will bring thee a written picture of the Padma Samthora46—such as I used to make on silk at the lamassery. Yes—and of the Wheel of Life,’ he chuckled, ‘for we be craftsmen together, thou and I.’
The Curator would have detained him: they are few in the world who Still have the secret of the conventional brush-pen Buddhist pictures which are, as it were, half written and half drawn. But the lama strode out, head high in air, and pausing an instant before the great statue of a Bodhisat in meditation, brushed through the turnstiles.
Kim followed like a shadow. What he had overheard excited him wildly. This man was entirely new to all his experience, and he meant to investigate further, precisely as he would have investigated a new building or a strange festival in Lahore city. The lama was his trove, and he purposed to take possession. Kim’s mother had been Irish too.
The old man halted by Zam-Zammah and looked round till his eye fell on Kim. The inspiration of his pilgrimage had left him for a while, and he felt old, forlorn, and very empty.
‘Do not sit under that gun,’ said the policeman loftily.
‘Huh! Owl!’ was Kim’s retort on the lama’s behalf. ‘Sit under that gun if it please thee. When didst thou steal the milk-woman’s slippers, Dunnoo?’
Th
at was an utterly unfounded charge sprung on the spur of the moment, but it silenced Dunnoo, who knew that Kim’s clear yell could call up legions of bad bazar boys if need arose.
‘And whom didst thou worship within?’ said Kim affably, squatting in the shade beside the lama.
‘I worshipped none, child. I bowed before the Excellent Law.’
Kim accepted this new God without emotion. He knew already a few score. 47
‘And what dost thou do?’
‘I beg. I remember now it is long since I have eaten or drunk.
What is the custom of charity in this town? In silence, as we do of Tibet, or speaking aloud?’
‘Those who beg in silence starve in silence,’ said Kim, quoting a native proverb. The lama tried to rise, but sank back again, sighing for his disciple, dead in far-away Kulu. Kim watched—head to one side, considering and interested.
‘Give me the bowl. I know the people of this city—all who are charitable. Give, and I will bring it back filled.’
Simply as a child the old man handed him the bowl.
‘Rest, thou. I know the people.’
He trotted off to the open shop of a kunjri, a low-caste vegetable-seller, which lay opposite the belt-tramway line down the Motee Bazar. She knew Kim of old.
‘Oho, hast thou turned yogi with thy begging-bowl?’ she cried.
‘Nay,’ said Kim proudly. ‘There is a new priest in the city—a man such as I have never seen.’
‘Old priest—young tiger,’ said the woman angrily. ‘I am tired of new priests! They settle on our wares like flies. Is the father of my son a well of charity to give to all who ask?’
‘No,’ said Kim. ‘Thy man is rather yagi [bad-tempered] than yogi [a holy man]. But this priest is new. The Sahib in the Wonder House has talked to him like a brother. 0 my mother, fill me this bowl. He waits.’
‘That bowl indeed! That cow-bellied basket! Thou hast as much grace as the holy bull of Shiv.48 He has taken the best of a basket of onions already, this morn; and forsooth, I must fill thy bowl. He comes here again.’
The huge, mouse-coloured Brahmini bull of the ward was shouldering his way through the many-coloured crowd, a stolen plantain hanging out of his mouth. He headed straight for the shop, well knowing his privileges as a sacred beast,49 lowered his head, and puffed heavily along the line of baskets ere making his choice. Up flew Kim’s hard little heel and caught him on his moist blue nose. He snorted indignantly, and walked away across the tram-rails, his hump quivering with rage.
‘See! I have saved more than the bowl will cost thrice over. Now, mother, a little rice and some dried fish atop—yes, and some vegetable curry.’
A growl came out of the back of the shop, where a man lay.
‘He drove away the bull,’ said the woman in an undertone. ‘It is good to give to the poor.’ She took the bowl and returned it full of hot rice.
‘But my yogi is not a cow,’ said Kim gravely, making a hole with his fingers in the top of the mound. ‘A little curry is good, and a fried cake, and a morsel of conserve would please him, I think.’
‘It is a hole as big as thy head,’ said the woman fretfully. But she filled it, none the less, with good, steaming vegetable curry, clapped a fried cake atop, and a morsel of clarified butter on the cake, dabbed a lump of sour tamarind conserve at the side; and Kim looked at the load lovingly.
‘That is good. When I am in the bazar the bull shall not come to this house. He is a bold beggar-man.’
‘And thou?’ laughed the woman. ‘But speak well of bulls. Hast thou not told me that some day a Red Bull will come out of a field to help thee? Now hold all straight and ask for the holy man’s blessing upon me. Perhaps, too, he knows a cure for my daughter’s sore eyes. Ask him that also, 0 thou Little Friend of all the World.’
But Kim had danced off ere the end of the sentence, dodging pariah dogs50 and hungry acquaintances.
‘Thus do we beg who know the way of it,’ said he proudly to the lama, who opened his eyes at the contents of the bowl. ‘Eat now and—I will eat with thee. Ohé, bhisti!’ he called to the water-carrier, sluicing the crotons51 by the Museum. ‘Give water here. We men are thirsty.’
‘We men!’ said the bhisti, laughing. ‘Is one skinful enough for such a pair? Drink, then, in the name of the Compassionate.’52
He loosed a thin stream into Kim’s hands, who drank native-fashion; but the lama must needs pull out a cup from his inexhaustible upper draperies and drink ceremonially.
‘Pardesi [a foreigner],’ Kim explained, as the old man delivered in an unknown tongue what was evidently a blessing.
They ate together in great content, clearing the begging-bowl. Then the lama took snuff from a portentous wooden snuff-gourd, fingered his rosary awhile, and so dropped into the easy sleep of age, as the shadow of Zam-Zammah grew long.
Kim loafed over to the nearest tobacco-seller, a rather lively young Mohammedan woman, and begged a rank cigar of the brand that they sell to students of the Punjab University who copy English customs. Then he smoked and thought, knees to chin, under the belly of the gun, and the outcome of his thoughts was a sudden and stealthy departure in the direction of Nila Ram’s timberyard.
The lama did not wake till the evening life of the city had begun with lamp-lighting and the return of white-robed clerks and subordinates from the Government offices. He stared dizzily in all directions, but none looked at him save a Hindu urchin in a dirty turban and Isabella-coloured53 clothes. Suddenly he bowed his head on his knees and wailed.
‘What is this?’ said the boy, standing before him. ‘Hast thou been robbed?’
‘It is my new chela [disciple] that is gone away from me, and I know not where he is.’
‘And what like of man was thy disciple?’
‘It was a boy who came to me in place of him who died, on account of the merit which I had gained when I bowed before the Law within there.’ He pointed towards the Museum. ‘He came upon me to show me a road which I had lost. He led me into the Wonder House, and by his talk emboldened to speak to the Keeper of the Images, so that I was cheered and made strong. And when I was faint with hunger he begged for me, as would a chela for his teacher. Suddenly was he sent. Suddenly has he gone away. It was in my mind to have taught him the Law upon the road to Benares.’
Kim stood amazed at this, because he had overheard the talk in the Museum, and knew that the old man was speaking the truth, which is a thing a native on the road seldom presents to a stranger.
‘But I see now that he was but sent for a purpose. By this I know that I shall find a certain River for which I seek.’
‘The River of the Arrow?’ said Kim, with a superior smile.
‘Is this yet another Sending?’ cried the lama. ‘To none have I spoken of my search, save to the Priest of the Images. Who art thou?’
‘Thy chela,’ said Kim simply, sitting on his heels. ‘I have never seen any one like to thee in all this my life. I go with thee to Benares. And, too, I think that so old a man as thou, speaking the truth to chance-met people at dusk, is in great need of a disciple.’
‘But the River—the River of the Arrow?’
‘Oh, that I heard when thou wast speaking to the Englishman. I lay against the door.’
The lama sighed. ‘I thought thou hadst been a guide permitted. Such things fall sometimes—but I am not worthy. Thou dost not, then, know the River?’
‘Not I.’ Kim laughed uneasily. ‘I go to look for—for a bull—a Red Bull on a green field who shall help me.’ Boylike, if an acquaintance had a scheme, Kim was quite ready with one of his own; and, boylike, he had really thought for as much as twenty minutes at a time of his father’s prophecy.
‘To what, child?’ said the lama.
‘God knows, but so my father told me. I heard thy talk in the Wonder House of all those new strange places in the Hills, and if one so old and so little—so used to truth-telling—may go out for the small matter of a river, it seemed to me that I too must go a-
travelling. If it is our fate to find those things we shall find them—thou, thy River; and I, my Bull, and the Strong Pillars and some other matters that I forget.’
‘It is not pillars but a Wheel from which I would be free,’ said the lama.
‘That is all one. Perhaps they will make me a king,’ said Kim, serenely prepared for anything.
‘I will teach thee other and better desires upon the road,’ the lama replied in the voice of authority. ‘Let us go to Benares.’