LITMIR.BIZ

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thy hair over thy eyes while I scatter the ash. Now, a caste-mark on thy forehead.’ He drew from his bosom the little Survey paint-box and a cake of crimson lake.

      ‘Art thou only a beginner?’ said E.23, labouring literally for the dear life, as he slid out of his body-wrappings and stood clear in the loin-cloth while Kim splashed in a noble caste-mark on the ash-smeared brow.

      ‘But two days entered to the Game, brother,’ Kim replied. ‘Smear more ash on the bosom.’

      ‘Hast thou met—a physician of sick pearls?’ He switched out his long, tight-rolled turban-cloth and, with swiftest hands, rolled it over and under about his loins into the intricate devices of a Saddhu’s cincture.

      ‘Hah! Dost thou know his touch, then? He was my teacher for a while. We must bar thy legs. Ash cures wounds. Smear it again.’

      ‘I was his pride once, but thou art almost better. The Gods are kind to us! Give me that.’

      It was a tin box of opium pills among the rubbish of the Jat’s bundle. E.23 gulped down a half handful. ‘They are good against hunger, fear, and chill. And they make the eyes red too,’ he explained. ‘Now I shall have heart to play the Game. We lack only a Saddhu’s tongs. What of the old clothes?’

      Kim rolled them small, and stuffed them into the slack folds of his tunic. With a yellow-ochre paint cake he smeared the legs and the breast, great streaks against the background of flour, ash, and turmeric.

      ‘The blood on them is enough to hang thee, brother.’

      ‘May be; but no need to throw them out of the window…. It is finished.’ His voice thrilled with a boy’s pure delight in the Game. ‘Turn and look, O Jat!’

      ‘The Gods protect us,’ said the hooded Kamboh, emerging like a buffalo from the reeds. ‘But—whither went the Mahratta? What hast thou done?’

      Kim had been trained by Lurgan Sahib; and E.23, by virtue of his business, was no bad actor. In place of the tremulous, shrinking trader there lolled against the corner an all but naked, ash-smeared, ochre-barred, dusty-haired Saddhu, his swollen eyes—opium takes quick effect on an empty stomach—luminous with insolence and bestial lust, his legs crossed under him, Kim’s brown rosary round his neck, and a scant yard of worn, flowered chintz on his shoulders. The child buried his face in his amazed father’s arms.

      ‘Look up, Princeling! We travel with warlocks, but they will not hurt thee. Oh, do not cry…. What is the sense of curing a child one day and killing him with fright the next?’

      ‘The child will be fortunate all his life. He has seen a great healing. When I was a child I made clay men and horses.’

      ‘I have made them too. Sír Banás, he comes in the night and makes them all alive at the back of our kitchen-midden,’ piped the child.

      ‘And so thou art not frightened at anything. Eh, Prince?’

      ‘I was frightened because my father was frightened. I felt his arms shake.’

      ‘Oh, chicken-man,’ said Kim, and even the abashed Jat laughed. ‘I have done a healing on this poor trader. He must forsake his gains and his account-books, and sit by the wayside three nights to overcome the malignity of his enemies. The Stars are against him.’

      ‘The fewer money-lenders the better say I; but, Saddhu or no Saddhu, he should pay for my stuff on his shoulders.’

      ‘So? But that is thy child on thy shoulder—given over to the burning-ghat not two days ago. There remains one thing more. I did this charm in thy presence because need was great. I changed his shape and his soul. None the less, if, by any chance, O man from Jullundur, thou rememberest what thou hast seen, either among the elders sitting under the village tree, or in thy own house, or in company of thy priest when he blesses thy cattle, a murrain will come among the buffaloes, and a fire in thy thatch, and rats in the corn-bin, and the curse of our Gods upon thy fields that they may be barren before thy feet and after thy ploughshare.’ This was part of an old curse picked up from a faquir by the Taksali Gate in the days of Kim’s innocence. It lost nothing by repetition.

      ‘Cease, Holy One! In mercy, cease!’ cried the Jat. ‘Do not curse the household. I saw nothing! I heard nothing! I am thy cow!’ and he made to grab at Kim’s bare foot beating rhythmically on the carriage floor.

      ‘But since thou hast been permitted to aid me in the matter of a pinch of flour and a little opium and such trifles as I have honoured by using in my art, so will the Gods return a blessing,’ and he gave it at length, to the man’s immense relief. It was one that he had learned from Lurgan Sahib.

      The lama stared through his spectacles as he had not stared at the business of diguisement. [disguisement.]

      ‘Friend of the Stars,’ he said at last, ‘thou hast acquired great wisdom. Beware that it do not give birth to pride. No man having the Law before his eyes speaks hastily of any matter which he has seen or encountered.’

      ‘No—no—no indeed,’ cried the farmer, fearful lest the master should be minded to improve on the pupil. E.23, with relaxed mouth, gave himself up to the opium that is meat, tobacco, and medicine to the spent Asiatic.

      So, in a silence of awe and great miscomprehension, they slid into Delhi about lamp-lighting time.

      ▲▲▲

Chapter 12

      Who hath desired the Sea—the sight of salt-water unbounded?

      The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber wind-hounded?

      The sleek-barrelled swell before storm—gray, foamless, enormous, and growing?

      Stark calm on the lap of the Line—or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing?

      His Sea in no showing the same—his Sea and the same ’neath all showing—

      His Sea that his being fulfils?

      So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise Hill-men desire their Hills!

      ‘I have found my heart again,’ said E.23, under cover of the platform’s tumult. ‘Hunger and fear make men dazed, or I might have thought of this escape before. I was right. They come to hunt for me. Thou hast saved my head.’

      A group of yellow-trousered Punjab policemen, headed by a hot and perspiring young Englishman, parted the crowd about the carriages. Behind them, inconspicuous as a cat, ambled a small fat person who looked like a lawyer’s tout.

      ‘See the young Sahib reading from a paper. My description is in his hand,’ said E.23. ‘They go carriage by carriage, like fisher-folk netting a pool.’

      When the procession reached their compartment, E.23 was counting his beads with a steady jerk of the wrist; while Kim jeered at him for being so drugged as to have lost the ringed fire-tongs which are the Saddhu’s distinguishing mark. The lama, deep in meditation, stared straight before him; and the farmer, glancing furtively, gathered up his belongings.

      ‘Nothing here but a parcel of holy-bolies,’ said the Englishman aloud, and passed on amid a ripple of uneasiness; for native police mean extortion to the native all India over.

      ‘The trouble now,’ whispered E.23, ‘lies in sending a wire as to the place where I hid that letter I was sent to find. I cannot go to the tar-office in this guise.’

      ‘Is it not enough I have saved thy neck?’

      ‘Not if the work be left unfinished. Did never the healer of sick pearls tell thee so? Comes another Sahib! Ah!’

      This was a tallish, sallowish District Superintendent of Police,—belt, helmet, polished spurs and all,—strutting and twirling his dark moustache.

      ‘What fools are these Police Sahibs!’ said Kim genially.

      E.23

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