Kim

nest of pariah dogs.

Chapter 3

Yea, voice of every Soul that clung

To life that strove from rung to rung

When Devadatta's rule was young,

The warm wind brings Kamakura.

Buddha at Kamakura.

Behind them an angry farmer brandished a bamboo pole. He was a

market-gardener, Arain by caste, growing vegetables and flowers for

Umballa city, and well Kim knew the breed.

'Such an one,' said the lama, disregarding the dogs, 'is impolite to

strangers, intemperate of speech and uncharitable. Be warned by his

demeanour, my disciple.'

'Ho, shameless beggars!' shouted the farmer. 'Begone! Get hence!'

'We go,' the lama returned, with quiet dignity. 'We go from these

unblessed fields.'

'Ah,' said Kim, sucking in his breath. 'If the next crops fail, thou

canst only blame thine own tongue.'

The man shuffled uneasily in his slippers. 'The land is full of

beggars,' he began, half apologetically.

'And by what sign didst thou know that we would beg from thee, O Mali?'

said Kim tartly, using the name that a market-gardener least likes.

'All we sought was to look at that river beyond the field there.'

'River, forsooth!' the man snorted. 'What city do ye hail from not to

know a canal-cut? It runs as straight as an arrow, and I pay for the

water as though it were molten silver. There is a branch of a river

beyond. But if ye need water I can give that--and milk.'

'Nay, we will go to the river,' said the lama, striding out.

'Milk and a meal.' the man stammered, as he looked at the strange tall

figure. 'I--I would not draw evil upon myself--or my crops. But

beggars are so many in these hard days.'

'Take notice.' The lama turned to Kim. 'He was led to speak harshly

by the Red Mist of anger. That clearing from his eyes, he becomes

courteous and of an affable heart. May his fields be blessed! Beware

not to judge men too hastily, O farmer.'

'I have met holy ones who would have cursed thee from hearthstone to

byre,' said Kim to the abashed man. 'Is he not wise and holy? I am his

disciple.'

He cocked his nose in the air loftily and stepped across the narrow

field-borders with great dignity.

'There is no pride,' said the lama, after a pause, 'there is no pride

among such as follow the Middle Way.'

'But thou hast said he was low-caste and discourteous.'

'Low-caste I did not say, for how can that be which is not? Afterwards

he amended his discourtesy, and I forgot the offence. Moreover, he is

as we are, bound upon the Wheel of Things; but he does not tread the

way of deliverance.' He halted at a little runlet among the fields,

and considered the hoof-pitted bank.

'Now, how wilt thou know thy River?' said Kim, squatting in the shade

of some tall sugar-cane.

'When I find it, an enlightenment will surely be given. This, I feel,

is not the place. O littlest among the waters, if only thou couldst

tell me where runs my River! But be thou blessed to make the fields

bear!'

'Look! Look!' Kim sprang to his side and dragged him back. A

yellow-and-brown streak glided from the purple rustling stems to the

bank, stretched its neck to the water, drank, and lay still--a big

cobra with fixed, lidless eyes.

'I have no stick--I have no stick,' said Kim. 'I will get me one and

break his back.'

'Why? He is upon the Wheel as we are--a life ascending or

descending--very far from deliverance. Great evil must the soul have

done that is cast into this shape.'

'I hate all snakes,' said Kim. No native training can quench the white

man's horror of the Serpent.

'Let him live out his life.' The coiled thing hissed and half opened

its hood. 'May thy release come soon, brother!' the lama continued

placidly. 'Hast thou knowledge, by chance, of my River?'

'Never have I seen such a man as thou art,' Kim whispered, overwhelmed.

'Do the very snakes understand thy talk?'

'Who knows?' He passed within a foot of the cobra's poised head. It

flattened itself among the dusty coils.

'Come, thou!' he called over his shoulder.

'Not I,' said Kim'. 'I go round.'

'Come. He does no hurt.'

Kim hesitated for a moment. The lama backed his order by some droned

Chinese quotation which Kim took for a charm. He obeyed and bounded

across the rivulet, and the snake, indeed, made no sign.

'Never have I seen such a man.' Kim wiped the sweat from his forehead.

'And now, whither go we?'

'That is for thee to say. I am old, and a stranger--far from my own

place. But that the rail-carriage fills my head with noises of

devil-drums I would go in it to Benares now ... Yet by so going we may

miss the River. Let us find another river.'

Where the hard-worked soil gives three and even four crops a year

through patches of sugar-cane, tobacco, long white radishes, and

nol-kol, all that day they strolled on, turning aside to every glimpse

of water; rousing village dogs and sleeping villages at noonday; the

lama replying to the volleyed questions with an unswerving simplicity.

They sought a River: a River of miraculous healing. Had any one

knowledge of such a stream?

Sometimes men laughed, but more often heard the story out to the end

and offered them a place in the shade, a drink of milk, and a meal.

The women were always kind, and the little children as children are the

world over, alternately shy and venturesome.

Evening found them at rest under the village tree of a mud-walled,

mud-roofed hamlet, talking to the headman as the cattle came in from

the grazing-grounds and the women prepared the day's last meal. They

had passed beyond the belt of market-gardens round hungry Umballa, and

were among the mile-wide green of the staple crops.

He was a white-bearded and affable elder, used to entertaining

strangers. He dragged out a string bedstead for the lama, set warm

cooked food before him, prepared him a pipe, and, the evening

ceremonies being finished in the village temple, sent for the village

priest.

Kim told the older children tales of the size and beauty of Lahore, of

railway travel, and such-like city things, while the men talked, slowly

as their cattle chew the cud.

'I cannot fathom it,' said the headman at last to the priest. 'How

readest thou this talk?' The lama, his tale told, was silently telling

his beads.

'He is a Seeker.' the priest answered. 'The land is full of such.

Remember him who came only last, month--the fakir with the tortoise?'

'Ay, but that man had right and reason, for Krishna Himself appeared in

a vision promising him Paradise without the burning-pyre if he

journeyed to Prayag. This man seeks no God who is within my knowledge.'

'Peace, he is old: he comes from far off, and he is mad,' the

smooth-shaven priest replied. 'Hear me.' He turned to the lama.

'Three koss [six miles] to the westward runs the great road to

Calcutta.'

'But I would go to Benares--to Benares.'

'And to Benares also. It crosses all streams on this side of Hind.

Now my word to thee, Holy One, is rest here till tomorrow. Then take

the road' (it was the Grand Trunk Road he meant) 'and test each stream

that it overpasses; for, as I understand, the virtue of thy River lies

neither in one pool nor place, but throughout its length. Then, if thy

Gods will, be assured that thou wilt come upon thy freedom.'

'That is well said.' The lama was much impressed by the plan. 'We

will begin tomorrow, and a blessing on thee for showing old feet such a