as blood. Then the night fell, changing the touch of the air, drawing
a low, even haze, like a gossamer veil of blue, across the face of the
country, and bringing out, keen and distinct, the smell of wood-smoke
and cattle and the good scent of wheaten cakes cooked on ashes. The
evening patrol hurried out of the police-station with important
coughings and reiterated orders; and a live charcoal ball in the cup of
a wayside carter's hookah glowed red while Kim's eye mechanically
watched the last flicker of the sun on the brass tweezers.
The life of the parao was very like that of the Kashmir Serai on a
small scale. Kim dived into the happy Asiatic disorder which, if you
only allow time, will bring you everything that a simple man needs.
His wants were few, because, since the lama had no caste scruples,
cooked food from the nearest stall would serve; but, for luxury's sake,
Kim bought a handful of dung-cakes to build a fire. All about, coming
and going round the little flames, men cried for oil, or grain, or
sweetmeats, or tobacco, jostling one another while they waited their
turn at the well; and under the men's voices you heard from halted,
shuttered carts the high squeals and giggles of women whose faces
should not be seen in public.
Nowadays, well-educated natives are of opinion that when their
womenfolk travel--and they visit a good deal--it is better to take them
quickly by rail in a properly screened compartment; and that custom is
spreading. But there are always those of the old rock who hold by the
use of their forefathers; and, above all, there are always the old
women--more conservative than the men--who toward the end of their days
go on a pilgrimage. They, being withered and undesirable, do not,
under certain circumstances, object to unveiling. After their long
seclusion, during which they have always been in business touch with a
thousand outside interests, they love the bustle and stir of the open
road, the gatherings at the shrines, and the infinite possibilities of
gossip with like-minded dowagers. Very often it suits a longsuffering
family that a strong-tongued, iron-willed old lady should disport
herself about India in this fashion; for certainly pilgrimage is
grateful to the Gods. So all about India, in the most remote places,
as in the most public, you find some knot of grizzled servitors in
nominal charge of an old lady who is more or less curtained and hid
away in a bullock-cart. Such men are staid and discreet, and when a
European or a high-caste native is near will net their charge with most
elaborate precautions; but in the ordinary haphazard chances of
pilgrimage the precautions are not taken. The old lady is, after all,
intensely human, and lives to look upon life.
Kim marked down a gaily ornamented ruth or family bullock-cart, with a
broidered canopy of two domes, like a double-humped camel, which had
just been drawn into the par. Eight men made its retinue, and two of
the eight were armed with rusty sabres--sure signs that they followed a
person of distinction, for the common folk do not bear arms. An
increasing cackle of complaints, orders, and jests, and what to a
European would have been bad language, came from behind the curtains.
Here was evidently a woman used to command.
Kim looked over the retinue critically. Half of them were thin-legged,
grey-bearded Ooryas from down country. The other half were
duffle-clad, felt-hatted hillmen of the North; and that mixture told
its own tale, even if he had not overheard the incessant sparring
between the two divisions. The old lady was going south on a
visit--probably to a rich relative, most probably to a son-in-law, who
had sent up an escort as a mark of respect. The hillmen would be of
her own people--Kulu or Kangra folk. It was quite clear that she was
not taking her daughter down to be wedded, or the curtains would have
been laced home and the guard would have allowed no one near the car.
A merry and a high-spirited dame, thought Kim, balancing the dung-cake
in one hand, the cooked food in the other, and piloting the lama with a
nudging shoulder. Something might be made out of the meeting. The lama
would give him no help, but, as a conscientious chela, Kim was
delighted to beg for two.
He built his fire as close to the cart as he dared, waiting for one of
the escort to order him away. The lama dropped wearily to the ground,
much as a heavy fruit-eating bat cowers, and returned to his rosary.
'Stand farther off, beggar!' The order was shouted in broken
Hindustani by one of the hillmen.
'Huh! It is only a pahari [a hillman]', said Kim over his shoulder.
'Since when have the hill-asses owned all Hindustan?'
The retort was a swift and brilliant sketch of Kim's pedigree for three
generations.
'Ah!' Kim's voice was sweeter than ever, as he broke the dung-cake
into fit pieces. 'In my country we call that the beginning of
love-talk.'
A harsh, thin cackle behind the curtains put the hillman on his mettle
for a second shot.
'Not so bad--not so bad,' said Kim with calm. 'But have a care, my
brother, lest we--we, I say--be minded to give a curse or so in return.
And our curses have the knack of biting home.'
The Ooryas laughed; the hillman sprang forward threateningly. The lama
suddenly raised his head, bringing his huge tam-o'-shanter hat into the
full light of Kim's new-started fire.
'What is it?' said he.
The man halted as though struck to stone. 'I--I--am saved from a great
sin,' he stammered.
'The foreigner has found him a priest at last,' whispered one of the
Ooryas.
'Hai! Why is that beggar-brat not well beaten?' the old woman cried.
The hillman drew back to the cart and whispered something to the
curtain. There was dead silence, then a muttering.
'This goes well,' thought Kim, pretending neither to see nor hear.
'When--when--he has eaten'--the hillman fawned on Kim--'it--it is
requested that the Holy One will do the honour to talk to one who would
speak to him.'
'After he has eaten he will sleep,' Kim returned loftily. He could not
quite see what new turn the game had taken, but stood resolute to
profit by it. 'Now I will get him his food.' The last sentence,
spoken loudly, ended with a sigh as of faintness.
'I--I myself and the others of my people will look to that--if it is
permitted.'
'It is permitted,' said Kim, more loftily than ever. 'Holy One, these
people will bring us food.'
'The land is good. All the country of the South is good--a great and a
terrible world,' mumbled the lama drowsily.
'Let him sleep,' said Kim, 'but look to it that we are well fed when he
wakes. He is a very holy man.'
Again one of the Ooryas said something contemptuously.
'He is not a fakir. He is not a down-country beggar,' Kim went on
severely, addressing the stars. 'He is the most holy of holy men. He
is above all castes. I am his chela.'
'Come here!' said the flat thin voice behind the curtain; and Kim
came, conscious that eyes he could not see were staring at him. One
skinny brown finger heavy with rings lay on the edge of the cart, and
the talk went this way:
'Who is that one?'
'An exceedingly holy one. He comes from far off. He comes from Tibet.'
'Where in Tibet?'
'From behind the snows--from a very far place. He knows the stars; he
makes horoscopes; he reads nativities. But he does not do this for
money. He does it for kindness and great charity. I am his disciple.