sons. Moreover, my daughter has borne her man-child.’
‘Two arrows in the quiver are better than one; and three are better still.’ Kim quoted the proverb with a meditative cough, looking discreetly earthward.
‘True—oh, true. But perhaps that will come. Certainly those down-country Brahmins are utterly useless. I sent gifts and monies and gifts again to them, and they prophesied.’
‘Ah,’ drawled Kim, with infinite contempt, ‘they prophesied!’ A professional could have done no better.
‘And it was not till I remembered my own Gods that my prayers were heard. I chose an auspicious hour, and—perhaps thy Holy One has heard of the Abbot of the Lung-Cho lamassery. It was to him I put the matter, and behold in the due time all came about as I desired. The Brahmin in the house of the father of my daughter’s son has since said that it was through his prayers—which is a little error that I will explain to him when we reach our journey’s end. And so afterwards I go to Buddh Gaya, to make shraddha for the father of my children.’
‘Thither go we.’
‘Doubly auspicious,’ chirruped the old lady. ‘A second son at least!’
‘O Friend of all the World!’ The lama had waked, and, simply as a child bewildered in a strange bed, called for Kim.
‘I come! I come, Holy One!’ He dashed to the fire, where he found the lama already surrounded by dishes of food, the hillmen visibly adoring him and the Southerners looking sourly.
‘Go back! Withdraw!’ Kim cried. ‘Do we eat publicly like dogs?’ They finished the meal in silence, each turned a little from the other, and Kim topped it with a native-made cigarette.
‘Have I not said an hundred times that the South is a good land? Here is a virtuous and high-born widow of a Hill Rajah on pilgrimage, she says, to Buddh Gaya. She it is sends us those dishes; and when thou art well rested she would speak to thee.’
‘Is this also thy work?’ The lama dipped deep into his snuff-gourd.
‘Who else watched over thee since our wonderful journey began?’ Kim’s eyes danced in his head as he blew the rank smoke through his nostrils and stretched him [himself] on the dusty ground. ‘Have I failed to oversee thy comforts, Holy One?’
‘A blessing on thee.’ The lama inclined his solemn head. ‘I have known many men in my so long life, and disciples not a few. But to none among men, if so be thou art woman-born, has my heart gone out as it has to thee—thoughtful, wise, and courteous, but something of a small imp.’
‘And I have never seen such a priest as thou.’ Kim considered the benevolent yellow face wrinkle by wrinkle. ‘It is less than three days since we took road together, and it is as though it were a hundred years.’
‘Perhaps in a former life it was permitted that I should have rendered thee some service. May be’—he smiled—‘I freed thee from a trap; or, having caught thee on a hook in the days when I was not enlightened, cast thee back into the river.’
‘May be,’ said Kim quietly. He had heard this sort of speculation again and again, from the mouths of many whom the English would not consider imaginative. ‘Now, as regards that woman in the bullock-cart, I think she needs a second son for her daughter.’
‘That is no part of the Way,’ sighed the lama. ‘But at least she is from the Hills. Ah, the Hills, and the snow of the Hills!’
He rose and stalked to the cart. Kim would have given his ears to come too, but the lama did not invite him; and the few words he caught were in an unknown tongue, for they spoke some common speech of the mountains. The woman seemed to ask questions which the lama turned over in his mind before answering. Now and again he heard the sing-song cadence of a Chinese quotation. It was a strange picture that Kim watched between drooped eyelids. The lama, very straight and erect, the deep folds of his yellow clothing slashed with black in the light of the parao fires precisely as a knotted tree-trunk is slashed with the shadow of the long sun, addressed a tinsel and lacquered ruth which burned like a many-coloured jewel in the same uncertain light. The patterns on the gold-worked curtains ran up and down, melting and reforming as the folds shook and quivered to the night wind; and when the talk grew more earnest the jewelled forefinger snapped out little sparks of light between the embroideries. Behind the cart was a wall of uncertain darkness speckled with little flames and alive with half-caught forms and faces and shadows. The voices of early evening had settled down to one soothing hum whose deepest note was the steady chumping of the bullocks above their chopped straw, and whose highest was the tinkle of a Bengali dancing-girl’s sitar. Most men had eaten and pulled deep at their gurgling, grunting hookahs, which in full blast sound like bull-frogs.
on the road
At last the lama returned. A hillman walked behind him with a wadded cotton-quilt and spread it carefully by the fire.
‘She deserves ten thousand grandchildren,’ thought Kim. ‘None the less, but for me, these gifts would not have come.’
‘A virtuous woman—and a wise one.’ The lama slackened off, joint by joint, like a slow camel. ‘The world is full of charity to those who follow the Way.’ He flung a fair half of the quilt over Kim.
‘And what said she?’ Kim rolled up in his share of it.
‘She asked me many questions and propounded many problems—the most of which were idle tales which she had heard from devil-serving priests who pretend to follow the Way. Some I answered, and some I said were foolish. Many wear the Robe, but few keep the Way.’
‘True. That is true.’ Kim used the thoughtful, conciliatory tone of those who wish to draw confidences.
‘But by her lights she is most right-minded. She desires greatly that we should go with her to Buddh Gaya; her road being ours, as I understand, for many days’ journey to the southward.’
‘And?’
‘Patience a little. To this I said that my search came before all things. She had heard many foolish legends, but this great truth of my River she had never heard. Such are the priests of the lower hills! She knew the Abbot of Lung-Cho, but she did not know of my River—nor the tale of the Arrow.’
‘And?’
‘I spoke therefore of the Search, and of the Way, and of matters that were profitable; she desiring only that I should accompany her and make prayer for a second son.’
‘Aha! “We women” do not think of anything save children,’ said Kim sleepily.
‘Now, since our roads run together for a while, I do not see that we in any way depart from our Search if so be we accompany her—at least as far as—I have forgotten the name of the city.[’]
‘Ohé!’ said Kim, turning and speaking in a sharp whisper to one of the Ooryas a few yards away. ‘Where is your master’s house?’
‘A little behind Saharunpore, among the fruit gardens.’ He named the village.
‘That was the place,’ said the lama. ‘So far, at least, we can go with her.’
‘Flies go to carrion,’ said the Oorya, in an abstracted voice.
‘For the sick cow a crow; for the sick man a Brahmin.’ Kim breathed the proverb impersonally to the shadow-tops of the trees overhead.
The Oorya grunted and held his peace.
‘So then we go with her, Holy One?’
‘Is there any reason against? I can still step aside and try all the rivers that the road overpasses. She desires that I should come. She very greatly desires it.’
Kim stifled a laugh in the quilt. When once that imperious