Kim - Rudyard Kipling (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📗

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 Chilianwallah, 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 Memsahib and her babe on my saddlebow. (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 kind, 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 Kaisar-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 jaghir20 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 courteous. 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 grey squirrel. When the little scolding bunch of fur, close pressed to the branch, disappeared, preacher and audience were fast asleep, the old officer’s