Kim

charms. Remember what befell the Mahratta.'

'Then all Doing is evil?' Kim replied, lying out under a big tree at

the fork of the Doon road, watching the little ants run over his hand.

'To abstain from action is well--except to acquire merit.'

'At the Gates of Learning we were taught that to abstain from action

was unbefitting a Sahib. And I am a Sahib.'

'Friend of all the World,'--the lama looked directly at Kim--'I am an

old man--pleased with shows as are children. To those who follow the

Way there is neither black nor white, Hind nor Bhotiyal. We be all

souls seeking escape. No matter what thy wisdom learned among Sahibs,

when we come to my River thou wilt be freed from all illusion--at my

side. Hai! My bones ache for that River, as they ached in the

te-rain; but my spirit sits above my bones, waiting. The Search is

sure!'

'I am answered. Is it permitted to ask a question?'

The lama inclined his stately head.

'I ate thy bread for three years--as thou knowest. Holy One, whence

came--?'

'There is much wealth, as men count it, in Bhotiyal,' the lama returned

with composure. 'In my own place I have the illusion of honour. I ask

for that I need. I am not concerned with the account. That is for my

monastery. Ai! The black high seats in the monastery, and novices all

in order!'

And he told stories, tracing with a finger in the dust, of the immense

and sumptuous ritual of avalanche-guarded cathedrals; of processions

and devil-dances; of the changing of monks and nuns into swine; of holy

cities fifteen thousand feet in the air; of intrigue between monastery

and monastery; of voices among the hills, and of that mysterious mirage

that dances on dry snow. He spoke even of Lhassa and of the Dalai

Lama, whom he had seen and adored.

Each long, perfect day rose behind Kim for a barrier to cut him off

from his race and his mother-tongue. He slipped back to thinking and

dreaming in the vernacular, and mechanically followed the lama's

ceremonial observances at eating, drinking, and the like. The old

man's mind turned more and more to his monastery as his eyes turned to

the steadfast snows. His River troubled him nothing. Now and again,

indeed, he would gaze long and long at a tuft or a twig, expecting, he

said, the earth to cleave and deliver its blessing; but he was content

to be with his disciple, at ease in the temperate wind that comes down

from the Doon. This was not Ceylon, nor Buddh Gaya, nor Bombay, nor

some grass-tangled ruins that he seemed to have stumbled upon two years

ago. He spoke of those places as a scholar removed from vanity, as a

Seeker walking in humility, as an old man, wise and temperate,

illumining knowledge with brilliant insight. Bit by bit,

disconnectedly, each tale called up by some wayside thing, he spoke of

all his wanderings up and down Hind; till Kim, who had loved him

without reason, now loved him for fifty good reasons. So they enjoyed

themselves in high felicity, abstaining, as the Rule demands, from evil

words, covetous desires; not over-eating, not lying on high beds, nor

wearing rich clothes. Their stomachs told them the time, and the

people brought them their food, as the saying is. They were lords of

the villages of Aminabad, Sahaigunge, Akrola of the Ford, and little

Phulesa, where Kim gave the soulless woman a blessing.

But news travels fast in India, and too soon shuffled across the

crop-land, bearing a basket of fruits with a box of Kabul grapes and

gilt oranges, a white-whiskered servitor--a lean, dry Oorya--begging

them to bring the honour of their presence to his mistress, distressed

in her mind that the lama had neglected her so long.

'Now do I remember'--the lama spoke as though it were a wholly new

proposition. 'She is virtuous, but an inordinate talker.'

Kim was sitting on the edge of a cow's manger, telling stories to a

village smith's children.

'She will only ask for another son for her daughter. I have not

forgotten her,' he said. 'Let her acquire merit. Send word that we

will come.'

They covered eleven miles through the fields in two days, and were

overwhelmed with attentions at the end; for the old lady held a fine

tradition of hospitality, to which she forced her son-in-law, who was

under the thumb of his women-folk and bought peace by borrowing of the

money-lender. Age had not weakened her tongue or her memory, and from

a discreetly barred upper window, in the hearing of not less than a

dozen servants, she paid Kim compliments that would have flung European

audiences into unclean dismay.

'But thou art still the shameless beggar-brat of the parao,' she

shrilled. 'I have not forgotten thee. Wash ye and eat. The father of

my daughter's son is gone away awhile. So we poor women are dumb and

useless.'

For proof, she harangued the entire household unsparingly till food and

drink were brought; and in the evening--the smoke-scented evening,

copper-dun and turquoise across the fields--it pleased her to order her

palanquin to be set down in the untidy forecourt by smoky torchlight;

and there, behind not too closely drawn curtains, she gossiped.

'Had the Holy One come alone, I should have received him otherwise; but

with this rogue, who can be too careful?'

'Maharanee,' said Kim, choosing as always the amplest title, 'is it my

fault that none other than a Sahib--a polis-Sahib--called the Maharanee

whose face he--' 'Chutt! That was on the pilgrimage. When we

travel--thou knowest the proverb.'

'Called the Maharanee a Breaker of Hearts and a Dispenser of Delights?'

'To remember that! It was true. So he did. That was in the time of

the bloom of my beauty.' She chuckled like a contented parrot above

the sugar lump. 'Now tell me of thy goings and comings--as much as may

be without shame. How many maids, and whose wives, hang upon thine

eyelashes? Ye hail from Benares? I would have gone there again this

year, but my daughter--we have only two sons. Phaii! Such is the

effect of these low plains. Now in Kulu men are elephants. But I

would ask thy Holy One--stand aside, rogue--a charm against most

lamentable windy colics that in mango-time overtake my daughter's

eldest. Two years back he gave me a powerful spell.'

'Oh, Holy One!' said Kim, bubbling with mirth at the lama's rueful

face.

'It is true. I gave her one against wind.'

'Teeth--teeth--teeth,' snapped the old woman.

"'Cure them if they are sick,"' Kim quoted relishingly, "'but by no

means work charms. Remember what befell the Mahratta."'

'That was two Rains ago; she wearied me with her continual

importunity.' The lama groaned as the Unjust Judge had groaned before

him. 'Thus it comes--take note, my chela--that even those who would

follow the Way are thrust aside by idle women. Three days through,

when the child was sick, she talked to me.'

'Arre! and to whom else should I talk? The boy's mother knew nothing,

and the father--in the nights of the cold weather it was--"Pray to the

Gods," said he, forsooth, and turning over, snored!'

'I gave her the charm. What is an old man to do?'

"'To abstain from action is well--except to acquire merit."'

'Ah chela, if thou desertest me, I am all alone.'

'He found his milk-teeth easily at any rate,' said the old lady. 'But

all priests are alike.'

Kim coughed severely. Being young, he did not approve of her

flippancy. 'To importune the wise out of season is to invite calamity.'

'There is a talking mynah'--the thrust came back with the