Sentry, pass him through!
Drawbridge let fall--He's the Lord of us all--
The Dreamer whose dream came true!
The Siege of the Fairies.
Two hundred miles north of Chini, on the blue shale of Ladakh, lies
Yankling Sahib, the merry-minded man, spy-glassing wrathfully across
the ridges for some sign of his pet tracker--a man from Ao-chung. But
that renegade, with a new Mannlicher rifle and two hundred cartridges,
is elsewhere, shooting musk-deer for the market, and Yankling Sahib
will learn next season how very ill he has been.
Up the valleys of Bushahr--the far-beholding eagles of the Himalayas
swerve at his new blue-and-white gored umbrella--hurries a Bengali,
once fat and well-looking, now lean and weather-worn. He has received
the thanks of two foreigners of distinction, piloted not unskilfully to
Mashobra tunnel, which leads to the great and gay capital of India. It
was not his fault that, blanketed by wet mists, he conveyed them past
the telegraph-station and European colony of Kotgarh. It was not his
fault, but that of the Gods, of whom he discoursed so engagingly, that
he led them into the borders of Nahan, where the Rahah of that State
mistook them for deserting British soldiery. Hurree Babu explained the
greatness and glory, in their own country, of his companions, till the
drowsy kinglet smiled. He explained it to everyone who asked--many
times--aloud--variously. He begged food, arranged accommodation,
proved a skilful leech for an injury of the groin--such a blow as one
may receive rolling down a rock-covered hillside in the dark--and in
all things indispensable. The reason of his friendliness did him
credit. With millions of fellow-serfs, he had learned to look upon
Russia as the great deliverer from the North. He was a fearful man.
He had been afraid that he could not save his illustrious employers
from the anger of an excited peasantry. He himself would just as lief
hit a holy man as not, but ... He was deeply grateful and sincerely
rejoiced that he had done his 'little possible' towards bringing their
venture to--barring the lost baggage--a successful issue, he had
forgotten the blows; denied that any blows had been dealt that unseemly
first night under the pines. He asked neither pension nor retaining
fee, but, if they deemed him worthy, would they write him a
testimonial? It might be useful to him later, if others, their
friends, came over the Passes. He begged them to remember him in their
future greatnesses, for he 'opined subtly' that he, even he, Mohendro
Lal Dutt, MA of Calcutta, had 'done the State some service'.
They gave him a certificate praising his courtesy, helpfulness, and
unerring skill as a guide. He put it in his waist-belt and sobbed with
emotion; they had endured so many dangers together. He led them at
high noon along crowded Simla Mall to the Alliance Bank of Simla, where
they wished to establish their identity. Thence he vanished like a
dawn-cloud on Jakko.
Behold him, too fine-drawn to sweat, too pressed to vaunt the drugs in
his little brass-bound box, ascending Shamlegh slope, a just man made
perfect. Watch him, all Babudom laid aside, smoking at noon on a cot,
while a woman with turquoise-studded headgear points south-easterly
across the bare grass. Litters, she says, do not travel as fast as
single men, but his birds should now be in the Plains. The holy man
would not stay though Lispeth pressed him. The Babu groans heavily,
girds up his huge loins, and is off again. He does not care to travel
after dusk; but his days' marches--there is none to enter them in a
book--would astonish folk who mock at his race. Kindly villagers,
remembering the Dacca drug-vendor of two months ago, give him shelter
against evil spirits of the wood. He dreams of Bengali Gods,
University text-books of education, and the Royal Society, London,
England. Next dawn the bobbing blue-and-white umbrella goes forward.
On the edge of the Doon, Mussoorie well behind them and the Plains
spread out in golden dust before, rests a worn litter in which--all the
Hills know it--lies a sick lama who seeks a River for his healing.
Villages have almost come to blows over the honour of bearing it, for
not only has the lama given them blessings, but his disciple good
money--full one-third Sahibs' prices. Twelve miles a day has the dooli
travelled, as the greasy, rubbed pole-ends show, and by roads that few
Sahibs use. Over the Nilang Pass in storm when the driven snow-dust
filled every fold of the impassive lama's drapery; between the black
horns of Raieng where they heard the whistle of the wild goats through
the clouds; pitching and strained on the shale below; hard-held between
shoulder and clenched jaw when they rounded the hideous curves of the
Cut Road under Bhagirati; swinging and creaking to the steady jog-trot
of the descent into the Valley of the Waters; pressed along the steamy
levels of that locked valley; up, up and out again, to meet the roaring
gusts off Kedarnath; set down of mid-days in the dun gloom of kindly
oak-forests; passed from village to village in dawn-chill, when even
devotees may be forgiven for swearing at impatient holy men; or by
torchlight, when the least fearful think of ghosts--the dooli has
reached her last stage. The little hill-folk sweat in the modified
heat of the lower Siwaliks, and gather round the priests for their
blessing and their wage.
'Ye have acquired merit,' says the lama. 'Merit greater than your
knowing. And ye will return to the Hills,' he sighs.
'Surely. The high Hills as soon as may be.' The bearer rubs his
shoulder, drinks water, spits it out again, and readjusts his grass
sandal. Kim--his face is drawn and tired--pays very small silver from
his belt, heaves out the food-bag, crams an oilskin packet--they are
holy writings--into his bosom, and helps the lama to his feet. The
peace has come again into the old man's eyes, and he does not look for
the hills to fall down and crush him as he did that terrible night when
they were delayed by the flooded river.
The men pick up the dooli and swing out of sight between the scrub
clumps.
The lama raises a hand toward the rampart of the Himalayas. 'Not with
you, O blessed among all hills, fell the Arrow of Our Lord! And never
shall I breathe your airs again!'
'But thou art ten times the stronger man in this good air,' says Kim,
for to his wearied soul appeal the well-cropped, kindly Plains. 'Here,
or hereabouts, fell the Arrow, yes. We will go very softly, perhaps, a
koss a day, for the Search is sure. But the bag weighs heavy.'
'Ay, our Search is sure. I have come out of great temptation.'
It was never more than a couple of miles a day now, and Kim's shoulders
bore all the weight of it--the burden of an old man, the burden of the
heavy food-bag with the locked books, the load of the writings on his
heart, and the details of the daily routine. He begged in the dawn,
set blankets for the lama's meditation, held the weary head on his lap
through the noonday heats, fanning away the flies till his wrists
ached, begged again in the evenings, and rubbed the lama's feet, who
rewarded him with promise of Freedom--today, tomorrow, or, at furthest,
the next day.
'Never was such a chela. I doubt at times whether Ananda more
faithfully nursed Our Lord. And thou art a Sahib? When I was a man--a
long time ago--I forgot that. Now I look upon thee often, and every
time I remember that thou art a Sahib. It is strange.'