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

seeks a River for his healing. Villages have almost come to blows over the honour of bearing it, for not only has the lama given them blessings, but his disciple good money⁠—full one-third Sahibs’ prices. Twelve miles a day has the dooli travelled, as the greasy, rubbed pole-ends show, and by roads that few Sahibs use. Over the Nilang Pass in storm when the driven snow-dust filled every fold of the impassive lama’s drapery; between the black horns of Raieng where they heard the whistle of the wild goats through the clouds; pitching and strained on the shale below; hard-held between shoulder and clenched jaw when they rounded the hideous curves of the Cut Road under Bhagirati; swinging and creaking to the steady jog-trot of the descent into the Valley of the Waters; pressed along the steamy levels of that locked valley; up, up and out again, to meet the roaring gusts off Kedarnath; set down of mid-days in the dun gloom of kindly oak-forests; passed from village to village in dawn-chill, when even devotees may be forgiven for swearing at impatient holy men; or by torchlight, when the least fearful think of ghosts⁠—the dooli has reached her last stage. The little hill-folk sweat in the modified heat of the lower Siwaliks, and gather round the priests for their blessing and their wage.

“Ye have acquired merit,” says the lama. “Merit greater than your knowing. And ye will return to the Hills,” he sighs.

“Surely. The high Hills as soon as may be.” The bearer rubs his shoulder, drinks water, spits it out again, and readjusts his grass sandal. Kim⁠—his face is drawn and tired⁠—pays very small silver from his belt, heaves out the food-bag, crams an oilskin packet⁠—they are holy writings⁠—into his bosom, and helps the lama to his feet. The peace has come again into the old man’s eyes, and he does not look for the hills to fall down and crush him as he did that terrible night when they were delayed by the flooded river.

The men pick up the dooli and swing out of sight between the scrub clumps.

The lama raises a hand toward the rampart of the Himalayas. “Not with you, O blessed among all hills, fell the Arrow of Our Lord! And never shall I breathe your airs again!”

“But thou art ten times the stronger man in this good air,” says Kim, for to his wearied soul appeal the well-cropped, kindly Plains. “Here, or hereabouts, fell the Arrow, yes. We will go very softly, perhaps, a kos a day, for the Search is sure. But the bag weighs heavy.”

“Ay, our Search is sure. I have come out of great temptation.”

It was never more than a couple of miles a day now, and Kim’s shoulders bore all the weight of it⁠—the burden of an old man, the burden of the heavy food-bag with the locked books, the load of the writings on his heart, and the details of the daily routine. He begged in the dawn, set blankets for the lama’s meditation, held the weary head on his lap through the noonday heats, fanning away the flies till his wrists ached, begged again in the evenings, and rubbed the lama’s feet, who rewarded him with promise of Freedom⁠—today, tomorrow, or, at furthest, the next day.

“Never was such a chela. I doubt at times whether Ananda more faithfully nursed Our Lord. And thou art a Sahib? When I was a man⁠—a long time ago⁠—I forgot that. Now I look upon thee often, and every time I remember that thou art a Sahib. It is strange.”

“Thou hast said there is neither black nor white. Why plague me with this talk, Holy One? Let me rub the other foot. It vexes me. I am not a Sahib. I am thy chela, and my head is heavy on my shoulders.”

“Patience a little! We reach Freedom together. Then thou and I, upon the far bank of the River, will look back upon our lives as in the Hills we saw our days’ marches laid out behind us. Perhaps I was once a Sahib.”

“Was never a Sahib like thee, I swear it.”

“I am certain the Keeper of the Images in the Wonder House was in past life a very wise Abbot. But even his spectacles do not make my eyes see. There fall shadows when I would look steadily. No matter⁠—we know the tricks of the poor stupid carcass⁠—shadow changing to another shadow. I am bound by the illusion of Time and Space. How far came we today in the flesh?”

“Perhaps half a kos.” Three quarters of a mile, and it was a weary march.

“Half a kos. Ha! I went ten thousand thousand in the spirit. How, we are all lapped and swathed and swaddled in these senseless things.” He looked at his thin blue-veined hand that found the beads so heavy. “Chela, hast thou never a wish to leave me?”

Kim thought of the oilskin packet and the books in the food-bag. If someone duly authorized would only take delivery of them the Great Game might play itself for aught he then cared. He was tired and hot in his head, and a cough that came from the stomach worried him.

“No.” he said almost sternly. “I am not a dog or a snake to bite when I have learned to love.”

“Thou art too tender towards me.”

“Not that either. I have moved in one matter without consulting thee. I have sent a message to the Kulu woman by that woman who gave us the goat’s milk this morn, saying that thou wast a little feeble and wouldst need a litter. I beat myself in my mind that I did not do it when we entered the Doon. We stay in this place till the litter returns.”

“I am content. She is a woman with a heart of gold, as thou sayest, but a talker⁠—something of a talker.”

“She