Kim, Rudyard Kipling [bill gates books to read .txt] 📗

brigades. It will disorganize all the summer reliefs, but we can’t help that. This comes of not smashing them thoroughly the first time. Eight thousand should be enough.”

“What about artillery, sir?”

“I must consult Macklin.”

“Then it means war?”

“No. Punishment. When a man is bound by the action of his predecessor⁠—”

“But C25 may have lied.”

“He bears out the other’s information. Practically, they showed their hand six months back. But Devenish would have it there was a chance of peace. Of course they used it to make themselves stronger. Send off those telegrams at once⁠—the new code, not the old⁠—mine and Wharton’s. I don’t think we need keep the ladies waiting any longer. We can settle the rest over the cigars. I thought it was coming. It’s punishment⁠—not war.”

As the trooper cantered off, Kim crawled round to the back of the house, where, going on his Lahore experiences, he judged there would be food⁠—and information. The kitchen was crowded with excited scullions, one of whom kicked him.

“Aie,” said Kim, feigning tears. “I came only to wash dishes in return for a bellyful.”

“All Umballa is on the same errand. Get hence. They go in now with the soup. Think you that we who serve Creighton Sahib need strange scullions to help us through a big dinner?”

“It is a very big dinner,” said Kim, looking at the plates.

“Small wonder. The guest of honour is none other than the Jang-i-Lat Sahib.”16

“Ho!” said Kim, with the correct guttural note of wonder. He had learned what he wanted, and when the scullion turned he was gone.

“And all that trouble,” said he to himself, thinking as usual in Hindustani, “for a horse’s pedigree! Mahbub Ali should have come to me to learn a little lying. Every time before that I have borne a message it concerned a woman. Now it is men. Better. The tall man said that they will loose a great army to punish someone⁠—somewhere⁠—the news goes to Pindi and Peshawur. There are also guns. Would I had crept nearer. It is big news!”

He returned to find the cultivator’s cousin’s younger brother discussing the family lawsuit in all its bearings with the cultivator and his wife and a few friends, while the lama dozed. After the evening meal someone passed him a water-pipe; and Kim felt very much of a man as he pulled at the smooth coconut-shell, his legs spread abroad in the moonlight, his tongue clicking in remarks from time to time. His hosts were most polite; for the cultivator’s wife had told them of his vision of the Red Bull, and of his probable descent from another world. Moreover, the lama was a great and venerable curiosity.

The family priest, an old, tolerant Sarsut Brahmin, dropped in later, and naturally started a theological argument to impress the family. By creed, of course, they were all on their priest’s side, but the lama was the guest and the novelty. His gentle kindliness, and his impressive Chinese quotations, that sounded like spells, delighted them hugely; and in this sympathetic, simple air, he expanded like the Bodhisat’s own lotus, speaking of his life in the great hills of Such-zen, before, as he said, “I rose up to seek enlightenment.”

Then it came out that in those worldly days he had been a master-hand at casting horoscopes and nativities; and the family priest led him on to describe his methods; each giving the planets names that the other could not understand, and pointing upwards as the big stars sailed across the dark. The children of the house tugged unrebuked at his rosary; and he clean forgot the Rule which forbids looking at women as he talked of enduring snows, landslips, blocked passes, the remote cliffs where men find sapphires and turquoise, and that wonderful upland road that leads at last into Great China itself.

“How thinkest thou of this one?” said the cultivator aside to the priest.

“A holy man⁠—a holy man indeed. His Gods are not the Gods, but his feet are upon the Way,” was the answer. “And his methods of nativities, though that is beyond thee, are wise and sure.”

“Tell me,” said Kim lazily, “whether I find my Red Bull on a green field, as was promised me.”

“What knowledge hast thou of thy birth-hour?” the priest asked, swelling with importance.

“Between first and second cockcrow of the first night in May.”

“Of what year?”

“I do not know; but upon the hour that I cried first fell the great earthquake in Srinagar which is in Kashmir.” This Kim had from the woman who took care of him, and she again from Kimball O’Hara. The earthquake had been felt in India, and for long stood a leading date in the Punjab.

“Ai!” said a woman excitedly. This seemed to make Kim’s supernatural origin more certain. “Was not such an one’s daughter born then⁠—”

“And her mother bore her husband four sons in four years all likely boys,” cried the cultivator’s wife, sitting outside the circle in the shadow.

“None reared in the knowledge,” said the family priest, “forget how the planets stood in their Houses upon that night.” He began to draw in the dust of the courtyard. “At least thou hast good claim to a half of the House of the Bull. How runs thy prophecy?”

“Upon a day,” said Kim, delighted at the sensation he was creating, “I shall be made great by means of a Red Bull on a green field, but first there will enter two men making all things ready.”

“Yes: thus ever at the opening of a vision. A thick darkness that clears slowly; anon one enters with a broom making ready the place. Then begins the Sight. Two men⁠—thou sayest? Ay, ay. The Sun, leaving the House of the Bull, enters that of the Twins. Hence the two men of the prophecy. Let us now consider. Fetch me a twig, little one.”

He knitted his brows, scratched, smoothed out, and scratched again in the dust mysterious signs⁠—to the wonder of all save the lama, who, with fine instinct, forbore