Kim Rudyard Kipling (web ebook reader .TXT) 📖

saw it! Our cattle will be barren⁠—our wives will cease to bear! The snows will slide upon us as we go home⁠ ⁠… On top of all other oppression too!”

The little fir-clump filled with clamouring coolies⁠—panic-stricken, and in their terror capable of anything. The man from Ao-chung clicked the breech-bolt of his gun impatiently, and made as to go downhill.

“Wait a little, Holy One; they cannot go far. Wait till I return,” said he.

“It is this person who has suffered wrong,” said the lama, his hand over his brow.

“For that very reason,” was the reply.

“If this person overlooks it, your hands are clean. Moreover, ye acquire merit by obedience.”

“Wait, and we will all go to Shamlegh together,” the man insisted.

For a moment, for just so long as it needs to stuff a cartridge into a breechloader, the lama hesitated. Then he rose to his feet, and laid a finger on the man’s shoulder.

“Hast thou heard? I say there shall be no killing⁠—I who was Abbot of Such-zen. Is it any lust of thine to be reborn as a rat, or a snake under the eaves⁠—a worm in the belly of the most mean beast? Is it thy wish to⁠—”

The man from Ao-chung fell to his knees, for the voice boomed like a Tibetan devil-gong.

“Ai! ai!” cried the Spiti men. “Do not curse us⁠—do not curse him. It was but his zeal, Holy One!⁠ ⁠… Put down the rifle, fool!”

“Anger on anger! Evil on evil! There will be no killing. Let the priest-beaters go in bondage to their own acts. Just and sure is the Wheel, swerving not a hair! They will be born many times⁠—in torment.” His head drooped, and he leaned heavily on Kim’s shoulder.

“I have come near to great evil, chela,” he whispered 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.59 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 cheekbones, 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