Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (116 page)

‘This were better in Mahbub Ali’s hands than a Bengali’s,’ said Kim scornfully.

‘There are more ways of getting to a sweetheart than butting down a wall.’

‘See here the Hell appointed for avarice and greed. Flanked upon the one side by Desire and on the other by Weariness.’ The lama warmed to his work, and one of the strangers sketched him in the quick-fading light.

‘That is enough,’ the man said at last brusquely. ‘I cannot understand him, but I want that picture. He is a better artist than I. Ask him if he will sell it.’

‘He says “No, sar,”‘ the Babu replied. The lama, of course, would no more have parted with his chart to a casual wayfarer than an archbishop would pawn the holy vessels of a cathedral. All Tibet is full of cheap reproductions of the Wheel; but the lama was an artist, as well as a wealthy abbot in his own place.

‘Perhaps in three days, or four, or ten, if I perceive that the Sahib is a Seeker and of good understanding, I may myself draw him another. But this was used for the initiation of a novice. Tell him so, hakim.’

‘He wishes it now  —  for money.’

The lama shook his head slowly and began to fold up the Wheel. The Russian, on his side, saw no more than an unclean old man haggling over a dirty piece of paper. He drew out a handful of rupees, and snatched half-jestingly at the chart, which tore in the lama’s grip. A low murmur of horror went up from the coolies  —  some of whom were Spiti men and, by their lights, good Buddhists. The lama rose at the insult; his hand went to the heavy iron pencase that is the priest’s weapon, and the Babu danced in agony.

‘Now you see  —  you see why I wanted witnesses. They are highly unscrupulous people. Oh Sar! Sar! You must not hit holy man!’

‘Chela! He has defiled the Written Word!’

It was too late. Before Kim could ward him off, the Russian struck the old man full on the face. Next instant he was rolling over and over down hill with Kim at his throat. The blow had waked every unknown Irish devil in the boy’s blood, and the sudden fall of his enemy did the rest. The lama dropped to his knees, half-stunned; the coolies under their loads fled up the hill as fast as plainsmen run across the level. They had seen sacrilege unspeakable, and it behoved them to get away before the Gods and devils of the hills took vengeance. The Frenchman ran towards the lama, fumbling at his revolver with some notion of making him a hostage for his companion. A shower of cutting stones  —  hillmen are very straight shots  —  drove him away, and a coolie from Ao-chung snatched the lama into the stampede. All came about as swiftly as the sudden mountain-darkness.

‘They have taken the baggage and all the guns,’ yelled the Frenchman, firing blindly into the twilight.

‘All right, Sar! All right! Don’t shoot. I go to rescue,’ and Hurree, pounding down the slope, cast himself bodily upon the delighted and astonished Kim, who was banging his breathless foe’s head against a boulder.

‘Go back to the coolies,’ whispered the Babu in his ear. ‘They have the baggage. The papers are in the kilta with the red top, but look through all. Take their papers, and specially the murasla (King’s letter). Go! The other man comes!’

Kim tore up hill. A revolver-bullet rang on a rock by his side, and he cowered partridge-wise.

‘If you shoot,’ shouted Hurree, ‘they will descend and annihilate us. I have rescued the gentleman, Sar. This is par-tic-ularly dangerous.’

‘By Jove!’ Kim was thinking hard in English. ‘This is dam-tight place, but I think it is self-defence.’ He felt in his bosom for Mahbub’s gift, and uncertainly  —  save for a few practice shots in the Bikaner desert, he had never used the little gun  —  pulled trigger.

‘What did I say, Sar!’ The Babu seemed to be in tears. ‘Come down here and assist to resuscitate. We are all up a tree, I tell you.’

The shots ceased. There was a sound of stumbling feet, and Kim hurried upward through the gloom, swearing like a cat  —  or a country-bred.

‘Did they wound thee, chela?’ called the lama above him.

‘No. And thou?’ He dived into a clump of stunted firs.

‘Unhurt. Come away. We go with these folk to Shamlegh-under-the-Snow.’

‘But not before we have done justice,’ a voice cried. ‘I have got the Sahibs’ guns  —  all four. Let us go down.’

‘He struck the Holy One  —  we saw it! Our cattle will be barren  —  our wives will cease to bear! The snows will slide upon us as we go home. . . . Atop of all other oppression too!’

The little fir-clump filled with clamouring coolies  —  panic-stricken, and in their terror capable of anything. The man from Ao-chung clicked the breech-bolt of his gun impatiently, and made as to go down hill.

‘Wait a little, Holy One; they cannot go far: wait till I return.’

‘It is this person who has suffered wrong,’ said the lama, his hand over his brow.

‘For that very reason,’ was the reply.

‘If this person overlooks it, your hands are clean. Moreover, ye acquire merit by obedience.’

‘Wait, and we will all go to Shamlegh together,’ the man insisted.

For a moment, for just so long as it needs to stuff a cartridge into a breech-loader, the lama hesitated. Then he rose to his feet, and laid a finger on the man’s shoulder.

‘Hast thou heard? I say there shall be no killing  —  I who was Abbot of Suchzen. Is it any lust of thine to be re-born as a rat, or a snake under the eaves  —  a worm in the belly of the most mean beast? Is it thy wish to  —  ’

The man from Ao-chung fell to his knees, for the voice boomed like a Tibetan devil-gong.

‘Ai! ai!’ cried the Spiti men. ‘Do not curse us  —  do not curse him. It was but his zeal, Holy One! . . . Put down the rifle, fool!’

‘Anger on anger! Evil on evil! There will be no killing. Let the priest-beaters go in bondage to their own acts. Just and sure is the Wheel, swerving not a hair! They will be born many times  —  in torment.’ His head drooped, and he leaned heavily on Kim’s shoulder.

‘I have come near to great evil, chela,’ he whispered in that dead hush under the pines. ‘I was tempted to loose the bullet; and truly, in Tibet there would have been a heavy and a slow death for them. . . . He struck me across the face . . . upon the flesh . . .’ He slid to the ground, breathing heavily, and Kim could hear the over-driven heart bump and check.

‘Have they hurt him to the death?’ said the Ao-chung man, while the others stood mute.

Kim knelt over the body in deadly fear. ‘Nay,’ he cried passionately, ‘this is only a weakness.’ Then he remembered that he was a white man, with a white man’s camp-fittings at his service. ‘Open the kiltas! The Sahibs may have a medicine.’

‘Oho! Then I know it,’ said the Ao-chung man with a laugh. ‘Not for five years was I Yankling Sahib’s shikarri without knowing that medicine. I too have tasted it. Behold!’

He drew, from his breast a bottle of cheap whisky  —  such as is sold to explorers at Leh  —  and cleverly forced a little between the lama’s teeth.

‘So I did when Yankling Sahib twisted his foot beyond Astor. Aha! I have already looked into their baskets  —  but we will make fair division at Shamlegh. Give him a little more. It is good medicine. Feel! His heart goes better now. Lay his head down and rub a little on the chest. If he had waited quietly while I accounted for the Sahibs this would never have come. But perhaps the Sahibs may chase us here. Then it would not be wrong to shoot them with their own guns, heh?’

‘One is paid, I think, already,’ said Kim between his teeth. ‘I kicked him in the groin as we went down hill. Would I had killed him!’

‘It is well to be brave when one does not live in Rampur,’ said one whose hut lay within a few miles of the Rajah’s rickety palace. ‘If we get a bad name among the Sahibs, none will employ us as shikarris any more.’

‘Oh, but these are not Angrezi Sahibs  —  not merry-minded men like Fostum Sahib or Yankling Sahib. They are foreigners  —  they cannot speak Angrezi as do Sahibs.’

Here the lama coughed and sat up, groping for the rosary.

‘There shall be no killing,’ he murmured. ‘Just is the Wheel! Evil on evil  —  ’

‘Nay, Holy One. We are all here.’ The Ao-chung man timidly patted his feet. ‘Except by thy order, no one shall be slain. Rest awhile. We will make a little camp here, and later, as the moon rises, we go to Shamlegh-under-the-Snow.’

‘After a blow,’ said a Spiti man sententiously, ‘it is best to sleep.’

‘There is, as it were, a dizziness at the back of my neck, and a pinching in it. Let me lay my head on thy lap, chela. I am an old man, but not free from passion. . . . We must think of the Cause of Things.’

‘Give him a blanket. We dare not light a fire lest the Sahibs see.’

‘Better get away to Shamlegh. None will follow us to Shamlegh.’

This was the nervous Rampur man.

‘I have been Fostum Sahib’s shikarri, and I am Yankling Sahib’s shikarri. I should have been with Yankling Sahib now but for this cursed beegar (the corvee). Let two men watch below with the guns lest the Sahibs do more foolishness. I shall not leave this Holy One.’

They sat down a little apart from the lama, and, after listening awhile, passed round a water-pipe whose receiver was an old Day and Martin blacking-bottle. The glow of the red charcoal as it went from hand to hand lit up the narrow, blinking eyes, the high Chinese cheek-bones, and the bull-throats that melted away into the dark duffle folds round the shoulders. They looked like kobolds from some magic mine  —  gnomes of the hills in conclave. And while they talked, the voices of the snow-waters round them diminished one by one as the night-frost choked and clogged the runnels.

‘How he stood up against us!’ said a Spiti man admiring. ‘I remember an old ibex, out Ladakh-way, that Dupont Sahib missed on a shoulder-shot, seven seasons back, standing up just like him. Dupont Sahib was a good shikarri.’

‘Not as good as Yankling Sahib.’ The Ao-chung man took a pull at the whisky-bottle and passed it over. ‘Now hear me  —  unless any other man thinks he knows more.’

The challenge was not taken up.

‘We go to Shamlegh when the moon rises. There we will fairly divide the baggage between us. I am content with this new little rifle and all its cartridges.’

‘Are the bears only bad on thy holding?’ said a mate, sucking at the pipe.

‘No; but musk-pods are worth six rupees apiece now, and thy women can have the canvas of the tents and some of the cooking-gear. We will do all that at Shamlegh before dawn. Then we all go our ways, remembering that we have never seen or taken service with these Sahibs, who may, indeed, say that we have stolen their baggage.’

‘That is well for thee, but what will our Rajah say?’

‘Who is to tell him? Those Sahibs, who cannot speak our talk, or the Babu, who for his own ends gave us money? Will he lead an army against us? What evidence will remain? That we do not need we shall throw on Shamlegh midden, where no man has yet set foot.’

‘Who is at Shamlegh this summer?’ The place was only a grazing centre of three or four huts.

‘The Woman of Shamlegh. She has no love for Sahibs, as we know. The others can be pleased with little presents; and here is enough for us all.’ He patted the fat sides of the nearest basket.

‘But  —  but  —  ’

‘I have said they are not true Sahibs. All their skins and heads were bought in the bazar at Leh. I know the marks. I showed them to ye last march.’

‘True. They were all bought skins and heads. Some had even the moth in them.’

That was a shrewd argument, and the Ao-chung man knew his fellows.

‘If the worst comes to the worst, I shall tell Yankling Sahib, who is a man of a merry mind, and he will laugh. We are not doing any wrong to any Sahibs whom we know. They are priest-beaters. They frightened us. We fled! Who knows where we dropped the baggage? Do ye think Yankling Sahib will permit down-country police to wander all over the hills, disturbing his game? It is a far cry from Simla to Chini, and farther from Shamlegh to Shamlegh midden.’

‘So be it, but I carry the big kilta. The basket with the red top that the Sahibs pack themselves every morning.’

‘Thus it is proved,’ said the Shamlegh man adroitly, ‘that they are Sahibs of no account. Who ever heard of Fostum Sahib, or Yankling Sahib, or even the little Peel Sahib that sits up of nights to shoot serow  —  I say, who ever heard of these Sahibs coming into the hills without a down-country cook, and a bearer, and  —  and all manner of well-paid, high-handed and oppressive folk in their tail? How can they make trouble? What of the kilta?’

‘Nothing, but that it is full of the Written Word  —  books and papers in which they wrote, and strange instruments, as of worship.’

‘Shamlegh midden will take them all.’

‘True! But how if we insult the Sahibs’ Gods thereby? I do not like to handle the Written Word in that fashion. And their brass idols are beyond my comprehension. It is no plunder for simple hill-folk.’

‘The old man still sleeps. Hst! We will ask his chela.’ The Ao-chung man refreshed himself, and swelled with pride of leadership.

‘We have here,’ he whispered, ‘a kilta whose nature we do not know.’

‘But I do,’ said Kim cautiously. The lama drew breath in natural, easy sleep, and Kim had been thinking of Hurree’s last words. As a player of the Great Game, he was disposed just then to reverence the Babu. ‘It is a kilta with a red top full of very wonderful things, not to be handled by fools.’

‘I said it; I said it,’ cried the bearer of that burden. ‘Thinkest thou it will betray us?’

‘Not if it be given to me. I will draw out its magic. Otherwise it will do great harm.’

‘A priest always takes his share.’ Whisky was demoralising the Ao-chung man.

‘It is no matter to me,’ Kim answered, with the craft of his mother-country. ‘Share it among you, and see what comes!’

‘Not I. I was only jesting. Give the order. There is more than enough for us all. We go our way from Shamlegh in the dawn.’

They arranged and re-arranged their artless little plans for another hour, while Kim shivered with cold and pride. The humour of the situation tickled the Irish and the Oriental in his soul. Here were the emissaries of the dread Power of the North, very possibly as great in their own land as Mahbub or Colonel Creighton, suddenly smitten helpless. One of them, he privately knew, would be lame for a time. They had made promises to Kings. To-night they lay out somewhere below him, chartless, foodless, tentless, gunless  —  except for Hurree Babu, guideless. And this collapse of their Great Game (Kim wondered to whom they would report it), this panicky bolt into the night, had come about through no craft of Hurree’s or contrivance of Kim’s, but simply, beautifully, and inevitably as the capture of Mahbub’s faquir-friends by the zealous young policeman at Umballa.