and then you know who I am, and then we exchange views and documents and those-all things. And so it is with any other man of us. We talk sometimes about turquoises and sometimes about tarkeean, but always with that little stop in the words. It is verree easy. First, “Son of the Charm,” if you are in a tight place. Perhaps that may help you—perhaps not. Then what I have told you about the tarkeean, if you want to transact offeecial business with a strange man. Of course, at present, you have no offeecial business. You are—ah ha!—supernumerary on probation. Quite unique specimen. If you were Asiatic of birth you might be employed right off; but this half-year of leave is to make you de-Englishised, you see? The lama, he expects you, because I have demi-offeecially informed him you have passed all your examinations, and will soon obtain Government appointment. Oh ho! You are on acting-allowance you see: so if you are called upon to help Sons of the Charm mind you jolly well try. Now I shall say good-bye, my dear fellow, and I hope you—ah—will come out top-side all raight.’
Hurree Babu stepped back a pace or two into the crowd at the entrance of Lucknow station and—was gone. Kim drew a deep breath and hugged himself all over. The nickel-plated revolver he could feel in the bosom of his sad-coloured robe, the amulet was on his neck; begging-gourd, rosary, and ghost-dagger (Mr. Lurgan had forgotten nothing) were all to hand, with medicine, paint-box, and compass, and in a worn old purse-belt embroidered with porcupine quill-patterns lay a month’s pay. Kings could be no richer. He bought sweetmeats in a leaf-cup from a Hindu trader, and ate them with glad rapture till a policeman ordered him off the steps.
▲▲▲
Chapter 11
Give the man who is not made
To his trade
Swords to fling and catch again,
Coins to ring and snatch again,
Men to harm and cure again,
Snakes to charm and lure again—
He’ll be hurt by his own blade,
By his serpents disobeyed,
By his clumsiness bewrayed,
By the people mocked to scorn—
So ’tis not with juggler born.
Pinch of dust or withered flower,
Chance-flung fruit or borrowed staff,
Serve his need and shore his power,
Bind the spell, or loose the laugh!
But a man who, etc., Op. 15.
Followed a sudden natural reaction.
‘Now am I alone—all alone,’ he thought. ‘In all India is no one so alone as I! If I die to-day, who shall bring the news—and to whom? If I live and God is good, there will be a price upon my head, for I am a Son of the Charm—I, Kim.’
A very few white people, but many Asiatics, can throw themselves into a mazement as it were by repeating their own names over and over again to themselves, letting the mind go free upon speculation as to what is called personal identity. When one grows older, the power, usually, departs, but while it lasts it may descend upon a man at any moment.
‘Who is Kim—Kim—Kim?’
He squatted in a corner of the clanging waiting-room, rapt from all other thoughts; hands folded in lap, and pupils contracted to pin-points. In a minute—in another half second—he felt he would arrive at the solution of the tremendous puzzle; but here, as always happens, his mind dropped away from those heights with the rush of a wounded bird, and passing his hand before his eyes, he shook his head.
A long-haired Hindu bairagi (holy man), who had just bought a ticket, halted before him at that moment and stared intently.
‘I also have lost it,’ he said sadly. ‘It is one of the Gates to the Way, but for me it has been shut many years.’
‘What is the talk?’ said Kim, abashed.
‘Thou wast wondering there in thy spirit what manner of thing thy soul might be. The seizure came of a sudden. I know. Who should know but I? Whither goest thou?’
‘Toward Kashi’ (Benares).
‘There are no Gods there. I have proved them. I go to Prayag (Allahabad) for the fifth time—seeking the road to Enlightenment. Of what faith art thou?’
‘I too am a Seeker,’ said Kim, using one of the lama’s pet words. ‘Though’—he forgot his Northern dress for the moment—‘though Allah alone knoweth what I seek.’
The old fellow slipped the bairagi’s crutch under his armpit and sat down on a patch of ruddy leopard’s skin as Kim rose at the call for the Benares train.
‘Go in hope, little brother,’ he said. ‘It is a long road to the feet of the One; but thither do we all travel.’
Kim did not feel so lonely after this, and ere he had sat out twenty miles in the crowded compartment, was cheering his neighbours with a string of most wonderful yarns about his own and his master’s magical gifts.
Benares struck him as a peculiarly filthy city, though it was pleasant to find how his cloth was respected. At least one-third of the population prays eternally to some group or other of the many million deities, and so revere every sort of holy man. Kim was guided to the Temple of the Tirthankers, about a mile outside the city, near Sarnath, by a chance-met Punjabi farmer—a Kamboh from Jullundur-way who had appealed in vain to every God of his homestead to cure his small son, and was trying Benares as a last resort.
‘Thou art from the North?’ he asked, shouldering through the press of the narrow, stinking streets much like his own pet bull at home.
‘Ay, I know the Punjab. My mother was a Pahareen, but my father came from Amritzar—by Jandiala,’ said Kim, oiling his ready tongue for the needs of the Road.
‘Jandiala—Jullundur? Oho! Then we be neighbours in some sort, as it were.’ He nodded tenderly to the wailing child in his arms. ‘Whom dost thou serve?’
‘A most holy man at the Temple of the Tirthankers.’
‘They are all most holy and—most greedy,’ said the Jat with bitterness. ‘I have walked the pillars and trodden the temples till my feet are flayed, and the child is no whit better. And the mother being sick too…. Hush, then, little one…. We changed his name when the fever came. We put him into girl’s clothes. There was nothing we did not do, except—I said to his mother when she bundled me off to Benares—she should have come with me—I said Sakhi Sarwar Sultan would serve us best. We know His generosity, but these down-country Gods are strangers.’
The child turned on the cushion of the huge corded arms and looked at Kim through heavy eyelids.
‘And was it all worthless?’ Kim asked, with easy interest.
‘All worthless—all worthless,’ said the child, lips cracking with fever.
‘The Gods have given him a good mind, at least,’ said the father proudly. ‘To think he should have listened so cleverly. Yonder is thy temple. Now I am a poor man,—many priests have dealt with me,—but my son is my son, and if a gift to thy master can cure him—I am at my very wits’ end.’
Kim considered for a while, tingling with pride. Three years ago he would have made prompt profit on the situation and gone his way without a thought; but now, the very respect the Jat paid him proved that he was a man. Moreover, he had tasted fever once or twice already, and knew enough to recognise starvation when he saw it.
‘Call him forth and I will give him a bond on my best yoke, so that the child is cured.’
Kim halted at the carved outer door of the temple. A white-clad Oswal banker from Ajmir, his