Kim by Rudyard Kipling (top 100 novels .TXT) 📗

need be—will have seen me slay that boy. And thou art useless!”

Kim knew enough of native methods of attack not to doubt that the case would be deadly complete—even to the corpse. The Mahratta twitched his fingers with pain from time to time. The Kamboh in his corner glared sullenly; the lama was busy over his beads; and Kim, fumbling doctor-fashion at the man’s neck, thought out his plan between invocations.

“Hast thou a charm to change my shape? Else I am dead. Five—ten minutes alone, if I had not been so pressed, and I might—”

“Is he cured yet, miracle-worker?” said the Kamboh jealously. “Thou hast chanted long enough.”

“Nay. There is no cure for his hurts, as I see, except he sit for three days in the habit of a bairagi.” This is a common penance, often imposed on a fat trader by his spiritual teacher.

“One priest always goes about to make another priest,” was the retort. Like most grossly superstitious folk, the Kamboh could not keep his tongue from deriding his Church.

“Will thy son be a priest, then? It is time he took more of my quinine.”

“We Jats are all buffaloes,” said the Kamboh, softening anew.

Kim rubbed a finger-tip of bitterness on the child’s trusting little lips. “I have asked for nothing,” he said sternly to the father, “except food. Dost thou grudge me that? I go to heal another man. Have I thy leave—Prince?”

Up flew the man’s huge paws in supplication. “Nay—nay. Do not mock me thus.”

“It pleases me to cure this sick one. Thou shalt acquire merit by aiding. What colour ash is there in thy pipe-bowl? White. That is auspicious. Was there raw turmeric among thy foodstuffs?”

“I—I—”

“Open thy bundle!”

It was the usual collection of small oddments: bits of cloth, quack medicines, cheap fairings, a clothful of atta—greyish, rough-ground native flour—twists of down-country tobacco, tawdry pipe-stems, and a packet of curry-stuff, all wrapped in a quilt. Kim turned it over with the air of a wise warlock, muttering a Mohammedan invocation.

“This is wisdom I learned from the Sahibs,” he whispered to the lama; and here, when one thinks of his training at Lurgan’s, he spoke no more than the truth. “There is a great evil in this man’s fortune, as shown by the Stars, which—which troubles him. Shall I take it away?”

“Friend of the Stars, thou hast done well in all things. Let it be at thy pleasure. Is it another healing?”

“Quick! Be quick!” gasped the Mahratta. “The train may stop.”

“A healing against the shadow of death,” said Kim, mixing the Kamboh’s flour with the mingled charcoal and tobacco ash in the red-earth bowl of the pipe. E, without a word, slipped off his turban and shook down his long black hair.

“That is my food—priest,” the jat growled.

“A buffalo in the temple! Hast thou dared to look even thus far?” said Kim. “I must do mysteries before fools; but have a care for thine eyes. Is there a film before them already? I save the babe, and for return thou—oh, shameless!” The man flinched at the direct gaze, for Kim was wholly in earnest.

“Shall I curse thee, or shall I—” He picked up the outer cloth of the bundle and threw it over the bowed head. “Dare so much as to think a wish to see, and—and—even I cannot save thee. Sit! Be dumb!”

“I am blind—dumb. Forbear to curse! Co—come, child; we will play a game of hiding. Do not, for my sake, look from under the cloth.”

“I see hope,” said E23. “What is thy scheme?”

“This comes next,” said Kim, plucking the thin body-shirt. E23 hesitated, with all a North-West man’s dislike of baring his body.

“What is caste to a cut throat?” said Kim, rending it to the waist. “We must make thee a yellow Saddhu all over. Strip—strip swiftly, and shake thy hair over thine eyes while I scatter the ash. Now, a caste-mark on thy forehead.” He drew from his bosom the little Survey paint-box and a cake of crimson lake.

“Art thou only a beginner?” said E23, labouring literally for the dear life, as he slid out of his body-wrappings and stood clear in the loin-cloth while Kim splashed in a noble caste-mark on the ash-smeared brow.

“But two days entered to the Game, brother,” Kim replied. “Smear more ash on the bosom.”

“Hast thou met—a physician of sick pearls?” He switched out his long, tight-rolled turban-cloth and, with swiftest hands, rolled it over and under about his loins into the intricate devices of a Saddhu’s cincture.

“Hah! Dost thou know his touch, then? He was my teacher for a while. We must bar thy legs. Ash cures wounds. Smear it again.”

“I was his pride once, but thou art almost better. The Gods are kind to us! Give me that.”

It was a tin box of opium pills among the rubbish of the Jat’s bundle. E23 gulped down a half handful. “They are good against hunger, fear, and chill. And they make the eyes red too,” he explained. “Now I shall have heart to play the Game. We lack only a Saddhu’s tongs. What of the old clothes?”

Kim rolled them small, and stuffed them into the slack folds of his tunic. With a yellow-ochre paint cake he smeared the legs and the breast, great streaks against the background of flour, ash, and turmeric.

“The blood on them is enough to hang thee, brother.”

“Maybe; but no need to throw them out of the window ... It is finished.” His voice thrilled with a boy’s pure delight in the Game. “Turn and look, O Jat!”

“The Gods protect us,” said the hooded Kamboh, emerging like a buffalo from the reeds. “But—whither went the Mahratta? What hast thou done?”

Kim had been trained by Lurgan Sahib; E23, by virtue of his business, was no bad actor. In place of the tremulous, shrinking trader there lolled against the corner an all but naked, ash-smeared, ochre-barred, dusty-haired Saddhu, his swollen eyes—opium takes quick effect on an empty stomach—luminous with insolence and bestial lust, his legs crossed under him, Kim’s brown rosary round his neck, and a scant yard of worn, flowered chintz on his shoulders. The child buried his face in his amazed father’s arms.

“Look up, Princeling! We travel with warlocks, but they will not hurt thee. Oh, do not cry ... What is the sense of curing a child one day and killing him with fright the next?”

“The child will be fortunate all his life. He has seen a great healing. When I was a child I made clay men and horses.”

“I have made them too. Sír Banás, he comes in the night and makes them all alive at the back of our kitchen-midden,” piped the child.

“And so thou art not frightened at anything. Eh, Prince?”

“I was frightened because my father was frightened. I felt his arms shake.”

“Oh, chicken-man!” said Kim, and even the abashed Jat laughed. “I have done a healing on this poor trader. He must forsake his gains and his account-books, and sit by the wayside three nights to overcome the malignity of his enemies. The Stars are against him.”

“The fewer money-lenders the better, say I; but, Saddhu or no Saddhu, he should pay for my stuff on his shoulders.”

“So? But that is thy child on thy shoulder—given over to the burning-ghat not two days ago. There remains one thing more. I did this charm in thy presence because need was great. I changed his shape and his soul. None the less, if, by any chance, O man from Jullundur, thou rememberest what thou hast seen, either among the elders sitting under the village tree, or in thine own house, or in company of thy priest when he blesses thy cattle, a murrain will come among the buffaloes, and a fire in thy thatch, and rats in the corn-bins, and the curse of our Gods upon thy fields that they may be barren before thy feet and after thy ploughshare.” This was part of an old curse picked up from a faquir by the Taksali Gate in the days of Kim’s innocence. It lost nothing by repetition.

“Cease, Holy One! In mercy, cease!” cried the Jat. “Do not curse the household. I saw nothing! I heard nothing! I am thy cow!” and he made to grab at Kim’s bare foot beating rhythmically on the carriage floor. “But since thou hast been permitted to aid me in the matter of a pinch of flour and a little opium and such trifles as I have honoured by using in my art, so will the Gods return a blessing,” and he gave it at length, to the man’s immense relief. It was one that he had learned from Lurgan Sahib.

The lama stared through his spectacles as he had not stared at the business of disguisement. “Friend of the Stars,” he said at last, “thou hast acquired great wisdom. Beware that it do not give birth to pride. No man having the Law before his eyes speaks hastily of any matter which he has seen or encountered.”

“No—no—no, indeed,” cried the farmer, fearful lest the master should be minded to improve on the pupil. E23, with relaxed mouth, gave himself up to the opium that is meat, tobacco, and medicine to the spent Asiatic.

So, in a silence of awe and great miscomprehension, they slid into Delhi about lamp-lighting time.