Kim by Rudyard Kipling (ebook reader with internet browser txt) 📕

child,” cried the importunate Jat over his shoulder, and then bellowed in Punjabi: “O Holy One⁠—O disciple of the Holy One⁠—O Gods above all the Worlds⁠—behold affliction sitting at the gate!” That cry is so common in Benares that the passers never turned their heads.

The Oswal, at peace with mankind, carried the message into the darkness behind him, and the easy, uncounted Eastern minutes slid by; for the lama was asleep in his cell, and no priest would wake him. When the click of his rosary again broke the hush of the inner court where the calm images of the Arhats stand, a novice whispered, “Thy chela is here,” and the old man strode forth, forgetting the end of that prayer.

Hardly had the tall figure shown in the doorway than the Jat ran before him, and, lifting up the child, cried: “Look upon this, Holy One; and if the Gods will, he lives⁠—he lives!”

He fumbled in his waist-belt and drew out a small silver coin.

“What is now?” The lama’s eyes turned to Kim. It was noticeable he spoke far clearer Urdu than long ago, under Zam-Zammah; but father would allow no private talk.

“It is no more than a fever,” said Kim. “The child is not well fed.”

“He sickens at everything, and his mother is not here.”

“If it be permitted, I may cure, Holy One.”

“What! Have they made thee a healer? Wait here,” said the lama, and he sat down by the Jat upon the lowest step of the temple, while Kim, looking out of the corner of his eyes, slowly opened the little betel-box. He had dreamed dreams at school of returning to the lama as a Sahib⁠—of chaffing the old man before he revealed himself⁠—boy’s dreams all. There was more drama in this abstracted, brow-puckered search through the tabloid-bottles, with a pause here and there for thought and a muttered invocation between whiles. Quinine he had in tablets, and dark brown meat-lozenges⁠—beef most probably, but that was not his business. The little thing would not eat, but it sucked at a lozenge greedily, and said it liked the salt taste.

“Take then these six.” Kim handed them to the man. “Praise the Gods, and boil three in milk; other three in water. After he has drunk the milk give him this” (it was the half of a quinine pill), “and wrap him warm. Give him the water of the other three, and the other half of this white pill when he wakes. Meantime, here is another brown medicine that he may suck at on the way home.”

“Gods, what wisdom!” said the Kamboh, snatching.

It was as much as Kim could remember of his own treatment in a bout of autumn malaria⁠—if you except the patter that he added to impress the lama.

“Now go! Come again in the morning.”

“But the price⁠—the price,” said the Jat, and threw back his sturdy shoulders. “My son is my son. Now that he will be whole again, how shall I go back to his mother and say I took help by the wayside and did not even give a bowl of curds in return?”

“They are alike, these Jats,” said Kim softly. “The Jat stood on his dunghill and the King’s elephants went by. ‘O driver,’ said he, ‘what will you sell those little donkeys for?’ ”

The Jat burst into a roar of laughter, stifled with apologies to the lama. “It is the saying of my own country⁠—the very talk of it. So are we Jats all. I will come tomorrow with the child; and the blessing of the Gods of the Homesteads⁠—who are good little Gods⁠—be on you both⁠ ⁠… Now, son, we grow strong again. Do not spit it out, little Princeling! King of my Heart, do not spit it out, and we shall be strong men, wrestlers and club-wielders, by morning.”

He moved away, crooning and mumbling. The lama turned to Kim, and all the loving old soul of him looked out through his narrow eyes.

“To heal the sick is to acquire merit; but first one gets knowledge. That was wisely done, O Friend of all the World.”

“I was made wise by thee, Holy One,” said Kim, forgetting the little play just ended; forgetting St. Xavier’s; forgetting his white blood; forgetting even the Great Game as he stooped, Mohammedan-fashion, to touch his master’s feet in the dust of the Jain temple. “My teaching I owe to thee. I have eaten thy bread three years. My time is finished. I am loosed from the schools. I come to thee.”

“Herein is my reward. Enter! Enter! And is all well?” They passed to the inner court, where the afternoon sun sloped golden across. “Stand that I may see. So!” He peered critically. “It is no longer a child, but a man, ripened in wisdom, walking as a physician. I did well⁠—I did well when I gave thee up to the armed men on that black night. Dost thou remember our first day under Zam-Zammah?”

“Ay,” said Kim. “Dost thou remember when I leapt off the carriage the first day I went to⁠—”

“The Gates of Learning? Truly. And the day that we ate the cakes together at the back of the river by Nucklao. Aha! Many times hast thou begged for me, but that day I begged for thee.”

“Good reason,” quoth Kim. “I was then a scholar in the Gates of Learning, and attired as a Sahib. Do not forget, Holy One,” he went on playfully. “I am still a Sahib⁠—by thy favour.”

“True. And a Sahib in most high esteem. Come to my cell, chela.”

“How is that known to thee?”

The lama smiled. “First by means of letters from the kindly priest whom we met in the camp of armed men; but he is now gone to his own country, and I sent the money to his brother.” Colonel Creighton, who had succeeded to the trusteeship when Father Victor went to England with the Mavericks, was hardly the Chaplain’s brother. “But I do not well understand Sahibs’ letters. They must