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

“Why did he not slay thee out of hand?”

“They are not so foolish. If I am taken in Delhi at the instance of lawyers, upon a proven charge of murder, my body is handed over to the State that desires it. I go back guarded, and then⁠—I die slowly for an example to the rest of us. The South is not my country. I run in circles⁠—like a goat with one eye. I have not eaten for two days. I am marked”⁠—he touched the filthy bandage on his leg⁠—“so that they will know me at Delhi.”

“Thou art safe in the te-rain, at least.”

“Live a year at the Great Game and tell me that again! The wires will be out against me at Delhi, describing every tear and rag upon me. Twenty⁠—a hundred, if 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 fingertip 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.23, 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 E.23. “What is thy scheme?”

“This comes next,” said Kim, plucking the thin body-shirt. E.23 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 paintbox and a cake of crimson lake.

“Art thou only a beginner?” said E.23, labouring literally for the dear life, as he slid out of his body-wrappings and stood clear in the loincloth 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. E.23 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