Kim by Rudyard Kipling (best reads of all time .txt) 📖

in that dead hush under the pines. “I was tempted to loose the bullet; and truly, in Tibet there would have been a heavy and a slow death for them ... He struck me across the face ... upon the flesh ...” He slid to the ground, breathing heavily, and Kim could hear the over-driven heart bump and check.

“Have they hurt him to the death?” said the Ao-chung man, while the others stood mute.

Kim knelt over the body in deadly fear. “Nay,” he cried passionately, “this is only a weakness.” Then he remembered that he was a white man, with a white man’s camp-fittings at his service. “Open the kiltas! The Sahibs may have a medicine.”

“Oho! Then I know it,” said the Ao-chung man with a laugh. “Not for five years was I Yankling Sahib’s shikarri without knowing that medicine. I too have tasted it. Behold!”

He drew from his breast a bottle of cheap whisky—such as is sold to explorers at Leh—and cleverly forced a little between the lama’s teeth.

“So I did when Yankling Sahib twisted his foot beyond Astor. Aha! I have already looked into their baskets—but we will make fair division at Shamlegh. Give him a little more. It is good medicine. Feel! His heart goes better now. Lay his head down and rub a little on the chest. If he had waited quietly while I accounted for the Sahibs this would never have come. But perhaps the Sahibs may chase us here. Then it would not be wrong to shoot them with their own guns, heh?”

“One is paid, I think, already,” said Kim between his teeth. “I kicked him in the groin as we went downhill. Would I had killed him!”

“It is well to be brave when one does not live in Rampur,” said one whose hut lay within a few miles of the Rajah’s rickety palace. “If we get a bad name among the Sahibs, none will employ us as shikarris any more.”

“Oh, but these are not Angrezi Sahibs—not merry-minded men like Fostum Sahib or Yankling Sahib. They are foreigners—they cannot speak Angrezi as do Sahibs.”

Here the lama coughed and sat up, groping for the rosary.

“There shall be no killing,” he murmured. “Just is the Wheel! Evil on evil—”

“Nay, Holy One. We are all here.” The Ao-chung man timidly patted his feet. “Except by thy order, no one shall be slain. Rest awhile. We will make a little camp here, and later, as the moon rises, we go to Shamlegh-under-the-Snow.”

“After a blow,” said a Spiti man sententiously, “it is best to sleep.”

“There is, as it were, a dizziness at the back of my neck, and a pinching in it. Let me lay my head on thy lap, chela. I am an old man, but not free from passion ... We must think of the Cause of Things.”

“Give him a blanket. We dare not light a fire lest the Sahibs see.”

“Better get away to Shamlegh. None will follow us to Shamlegh.”

This was the nervous Rampur man.

“I have been Fostum Sahib’s shikarri, and I am Yankling Sahib’s shikarri. I should have been with Yankling Sahib now but for this cursed beegar (the corvée). Let two men watch below with the guns lest the Sahibs do more foolishness. I shall not leave this Holy One.”

They sat down a little apart from the lama, and, after listening awhile, passed round a water-pipe whose receiver was an old Day and Martin blacking-bottle. The glow of the red charcoal as it went from hand to hand lit up the narrow, blinking eyes, the high Chinese cheek-bones, and the bull-throats that melted away into the dark duffle folds round the shoulders. They looked like kobolds from some magic mine—gnomes of the hills in conclave. And while they talked, the voices of the snow-waters round them diminished one by one as the night-frost choked and clogged the runnels.

“How he stood up against us!” said a Spiti man admiring. “I remember an old ibex, out Ladakh-way, that Dupont Sahib missed on a shoulder-shot, seven seasons back, standing up just like him. Dupont Sahib was a good shikarri.”

“Not as good as Yankling Sahib.” The Ao-chung man took a pull at the whisky-bottle and passed it over. “Now hear me—unless any other man thinks he knows more.”

The challenge was not taken up.

“We go to Shamlegh when the moon rises. There we will fairly divide the baggage between us. I am content with this new little rifle and all its cartridges.”

“Are the bears only bad on thy holding? said a mate, sucking at the pipe.

“No; but musk-pods are worth six rupees apiece now, and thy women can have the canvas of the tents and some of the cooking-gear. We will do all that at Shamlegh before dawn. Then we all go our ways, remembering that we have never seen or taken service with these Sahibs, who may, indeed, say that we have stolen their baggage.”

“That is well for thee, but what will our Rajah say?”

“Who is to tell him? Those Sahibs, who cannot speak our talk, or the Babu, who for his own ends gave us money? Will he lead an army against us? What evidence will remain? That we do not need we shall throw on Shamlegh-midden, where no man has yet set foot.”

“Who is at Shamlegh this summer?” The place was only a grazing centre of three or four huts.”

“The Woman of Shamlegh. She has no love for Sahibs, as we know. The others can be pleased with little presents; and here is enough for us all.” He patted the fat sides of the nearest basket.

“But—but—”

“I have said they are not true Sahibs. All their skins and heads were bought in the bazar at Leh. I know the marks. I showed them to ye last march.”

“True. They were all bought skins and heads. Some had even the moth in them.”

That was a shrewd argument, and the Ao-chung man knew his fellows.

“If the worst comes to the worst, I shall tell Yankling Sahib, who is a man of a merry mind, and he will laugh. We are not doing any wrong to any Sahibs whom we know. They are priest-beaters. They frightened us. We fled! Who knows where we dropped the baggage? Do ye think Yankling Sahib will permit down-country police to wander all over the hills, disturbing his game? It is a far cry from Simla to Chini, and farther from Shamlegh to Shamlegh-midden.”

“So be it, but I carry the big kilta. The basket with the red top that the Sahibs pack themselves every morning.”

“Thus it is proved,” said the Shamlegh man adroitly, “that they are Sahibs of no account. Who ever heard of Fostum Sahib, or Yankling Sahib, or even the little Peel Sahib that sits up of nights to shoot serow—I say, who, ever heard of these Sahibs coming into the hills without a down-country cook, and a bearer, and—and all manner of well-paid, high-handed and oppressive folk in their tail? How can they make trouble? What of the kilta?”

“Nothing, but that it is full of the Written Word—books and papers in which they wrote, and strange instruments, as of worship.”

“Shamlegh-midden will take them all.”

“True! But how if we insult the Sahibs’ Gods thereby! I do not like to handle the Written Word in that fashion. And their brass idols are beyond my comprehension. It is no plunder for simple hill-folk.”

“The old man still sleeps. Hst! We will ask his chela.” The Ao-chung man refreshed himself, and swelled with pride of leadership.

“We have here,” he whispered, “a kilta whose nature we do not know.”

“But I do,” said Kim cautiously. The lama drew breath in natural, easy sleep, and Kim had been thinking of Hurree’s last words. As a player of the Great Game, he was disposed just then to reverence the Babu. “It is a kilta with a red top full of very wonderful things, not to be handled by fools.”

“I said it; I said it,” cried the bearer of that burden. “Thinkest thou it will betray us?”

“Not if it be given to me. I can draw out its magic. Otherwise it will do great harm.”

“A priest always takes his share.” Whisky was demoralizing the Ao-chung man.

“It is no matter to me.” Kim answered, with the craft of his mother-country. “Share it among you, and see what comes!”

“Not I. I was only jesting. Give the order. There is more than enough for us all. We go our way from Shamlegh in the dawn.”

They arranged and re-arranged their artless little plans for another hour, while Kim shivered with cold and pride. The humour of the situation tickled the Irish and the Oriental in his soul. Here were the emissaries of the dread Power of the North, very possibly as great in their own land as Mahbub or Colonel Creighton, suddenly smitten helpless. One of them, he privately knew, would be lame for a time. They had made promises to Kings. Tonight they lay out somewhere below him, chartless, foodless, tentless, gunless—except for Hurree Babu, guideless. And this collapse of their Great Game (Kim wondered to whom they would report it), this panicky bolt into the night, had come about through no craft of Hurree’s or contrivance of Kim’s, but simply, beautifully, and inevitably as the capture of Mahbub’s faquir-friends by the zealous young policeman at Umballa.

“They are there—with nothing; and, by Jove, it is cold! I am here with all their things. Oh, they will be angry! I am sorry for Hurree Babu.”

Kim might have saved his pity, for though at that moment the Bengali suffered acutely in the flesh, his soul was puffed and lofty. A mile down the hill, on the edge of the pine-forest, two half-frozen men—one powerfully sick at intervals—were varying mutual recriminations with the most poignant abuse of the Babu, who seemed distraught with terror. They demanded a plan of action. He explained that they were very lucky to be alive; that their coolies, if not then stalking them, had passed beyond recall; that the Rajah, his master, was ninety miles away, and, so far from lending them money and a retinue for the Simla journey, would surely cast them into prison if he heard that they had hit a priest. He enlarged on this sin and its consequences till they bade him change the subject. Their one hope, said he, was unostentatious flight from village to village till they reached civilization; and, for the hundredth time dissolved in tears, he demanded of the high stars why the Sahibs “had beaten holy man”.

Ten steps would have taken Hurree into the creaking gloom utterly beyond their reach—to the shelter and food of the nearest village, where glib-tongued doctors were scarce. But he preferred to endure cold, belly-pinch, bad words, and occasional blows in the company of his honoured employers. Crouched against a tree-trunk, he sniffed dolefully.

“And have you thought,” said the uninjured man hotly, “what sort of spectacle we shall present wandering through these hills among these aborigines?”

Hurree Babu had thought of little else for some hours, but the remark was not to his address.

“We cannot wander! I can hardly walk,” groaned Kim’s victim.

“Perhaps the holy man will be merciful in loving-kindness, sar, otherwise—”

“I promise myself a peculiar pleasure in emptying my revolver into that young bonze when next we meet,” was the unchristian answer.

“Revolvers! Vengeance! Bonzes!” Hurree crouched lower. The war was breaking out afresh. “Have you no consideration for our loss? The baggage! The baggage!” He could hear the speaker literally dancing on the grass. “Everything we bore! Everything we have secured! Our gains! Eight months’ work! Do you know what that means? ‘Decidedly it is we who can deal with Orientals!’ Oh, you have done well.”

They fell to it in several tongues, and Hurree smiled. Kim was with the kiltas, and in the kiltas lay eight months of good diplomacy. There was no means of communicating with the boy, but he could be trusted. For the rest, Hurree could so stage-manage the journey through the hills that Hilás, Bunár, and four hundred miles of hill-roads should tell the tale for a generation. Men who cannot control their own coolies are little respected in the Hills, and the hillman has a very keen sense of humour.

“If I had done it myself,” thought Hurree, “it would not have been better; and, by Jove, now I think of it, of course I arranged it myself. How quick I have been! Just when I ran downhill I thought it! Thee outrage was accidental, but onlee me could have worked it—ah—for all it was dam’-well worth. Consider the moral effect upon these ignorant peoples! No treaties—no papers—no written documents at all—and me to interpret for them. How I shall laugh with the Colonel! I wish I had their papers also: but you cannot occupy two places in space simultaneously. Thatt is axiomatic.”