Kim

'Hillwoman,' said Kim, with austerity that could not harden the

outlines of his young oval face, 'these matters are too high for thee.'

'The Gods be good to us! Since when have men and women been other than

men and women?'

'A priest is a priest. He says he will go upon this hour. I am his

chela, and I go with him. We need food for the Road. He is an

honoured guest in all the villages, but'--he broke into a pure boy's

grin--'the food here is good. Give me some.'

'What if I do not give it thee? I am the woman of this village.'

'Then I curse thee--a little--not greatly, but enough to remember.' He

could not help smiling.

'Thou hast cursed me already by the down-dropped eyelash and the

uplifted chin. Curses? What should I care for mere words?' She

clenched her hands upon her bosom ... 'But I would not have thee to go

in anger, thinking hardly of me--a gatherer of cow-dung and grass at

Shamlegh, but still a woman of substance.'

'I think nothing,' said Kim, 'but that I am grieved to go, for I am

very weary; and that we need food. Here is the bag.'

The woman snatched it angrily. 'I was foolish,' said she. 'Who is thy

woman in the Plains? Fair or black? I was fair once. Laughest thou?

Once, long ago, if thou canst believe, a Sahib looked on me with

favour. Once, long ago, I wore European clothes at the Mission-house

yonder.' She pointed towards Kotgarh. 'Once, long ago. I was

Ker-lis-ti-an and spoke English--as the Sahibs speak it. Yes. My

Sahib said he would return and wed me--yes, wed me. He went away--I

had nursed him when he was sick--but he never returned. Then I saw

that the Gods of the Kerlistians lied, and I went back to my own people

... I have never set eyes on a Sahib since. (Do not laugh at me. The

fit is past, little priestling.) Thy face and thy walk and thy fashion

of speech put me in mind of my Sahib, though thou art only a wandering

mendicant to whom I give a dole. Curse me? Thou canst neither curse

nor bless!' She set her hands on her hips and laughed bitterly. 'Thy

Gods are lies; thy works are lies; thy words are lies. There are no

Gods under all the Heavens. I know it ... But for awhile I thought it

was my Sahib come back, and he was my God. Yes, once I made music on a

pianno in the Mission-house at Kotgarh. Now I give alms to priests who

are heatthen.' She wound up with the English word, and tied the mouth

of the brimming bag.

'I wait for thee, chela,' said the lama, leaning against the door-post.

The woman swept the tall figure with her eyes. 'He walk! He cannot

cover half a mile. Whither would old bones go?'

At this Kim, already perplexed by the lama's collapse and foreseeing

the weight of the bag, fairly lost his temper.

'What is it to thee, woman of ill-omen, where he goes?'

'Nothing--but something to thee, priest with a Sahib's face. Wilt thou

carry him on thy shoulders?'

'I go to the Plains. None must hinder my return. I have wrestled with

my soul till I am strengthless. The stupid body is spent, and we are

far from the Plains.'

'Behold!' she said simply, and drew aside to let Kim see his own utter

helplessness. 'Curse me. Maybe it will give him strength. Make a

charm! Call on thy great God. Thou art a priest.' She turned away.

The lama had squatted limply, still holding by the door-post. One

cannot strike down an old man that he recovers again like a boy in the

night. Weakness bowed him to the earth, but his eyes that hung on Kim

were alive and imploring.

'It is all well,' said Kim. 'It is the thin air that weakens thee. In

a little while we go! It is the mountain-sickness. I too am a little

sick at stomach,'--and he knelt and comforted with such poor words as

came first to his lips. Then the woman returned, more erect than ever.

'Thy Gods useless, heh? Try mine. I am the Woman of Shamlegh.' She

hailed hoarsely, and there came out of a cow-pen her two husbands and

three others with a dooli, the rude native litter of the Hills, that

they use for carrying the sick and for visits of state. 'These

cattle'--she did not condescend to look at them--'are thine for so long

as thou shalt need.'

'But we will not go Simla-way. We will not go near the Sahibs,' cried

the first husband.

'They will not run away as the others did, nor will they steal baggage.

Two I know for weaklings. Stand to the rear-pole, Sonoo and Taree.'

They obeyed swiftly. 'Lower now, and lift in that holy man. I will see

to the village and your virtuous wives till ye return.'

'When will that be?'

'Ask the priests. Do not pester me. Lay the food-bag at the foot, it

balances better so.'

'Oh, Holy One, thy Hills are kinder than our Plains!' cried Kim,

relieved, as the lama tottered to the litter. 'It is a very king's

bed--a place of honour and ease. And we owe it to--'

'A woman of ill-omen. I need thy blessings as much as I do thy curses.

It is my order and none of thine. Lift and away! Here! Hast thou

money for the road?'

She beckoned Kim to her hut, and stooped above a battered English

cash-box under her cot.

'I do not need anything,' said Kim, angered where he should have been

grateful. 'I am already rudely loaded with favours.'

She looked up with a curious smile and laid a hand on his shoulder. 'At

least, thank me. I am foul-faced and a hillwoman, but, as thy talk

goes, I have acquired merit. Shall I show thee how the Sahibs render

thanks?' and her hard eyes softened.

'I am but a wandering priest,' said Kim, his eyes lighting in answer.

'Thou needest neither my blessings nor my curses.'

'Nay. But for one little moment--thou canst overtake the dooli in ten

strides--if thou wast a Sahib, shall I show thee what thou wouldst do?'

'How if I guess, though?' said Kim, and putting his arm round her

waist, he kissed her on the cheek, adding in English: 'Thank you

verree much, my dear.'

Kissing is practically unknown among Asiatics, which may have been the

reason that she leaned back with wide-open eyes and a face of panic.

'Next time,' Kim went on, 'you must not be so sure of your heatthen

priests. Now I say good-bye.' He held out his hand English-fashion.

She took it mechanically. 'Good-bye, my dear.'

'Good-bye, and--and'--she was remembering her English words one by

one--'you will come back again? Good-bye, and--thee God bless you.'

Half an hour later, as the creaking litter jolted up the hill path that

leads south-easterly from Shamlegh, Kim saw a tiny figure at the hut

door waving a white rag.

'She has acquired merit beyond all others,' said the lama. 'For to set

a man upon the way to Freedom is half as great as though she had

herself found it.'

'Umm,' said Kim thoughtfully, considering the past. 'It may be that I

have acquired merit also ... At least she did not treat me like a

child.' He hitched the front of his robe, where lay the slab of

documents and maps, re-stowed the precious food-bag at the lama's feet,

laid his hand on the litter's edge, and buckled down to the slow pace

of the grunting husbands.

'These also acquire merit,' said the lama after three miles.

'More than that, they shall be paid in silver,' quoth Kim. The Woman

of Shamlegh had given it to him; and it was only fair, he argued, that

her men should earn it back again.

Chapter 15

I'd not give room for an Emperor--

I'd hold my road for a King.

To the Triple Crown I'd not bow down--

But this is a different thing!

I'll not fight with the Powers of Air--