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

“They are better than ten thousand doctors.”

“I say, if they comfort thee, I who was Abbot of Such-zen, will make as many as thou mayest desire. I have never seen thy face⁠—”

“That even the monkeys who steal our loquats count for a gain. Hee! hee!”

“But as he who sleeps there said,”⁠—he nodded at the shut door of the guest-chamber across the forecourt⁠—“thou hast a heart of gold⁠ ⁠… And he is in the spirit my very ‘grandson’ to me.”

“Good! I am the Holy One’s cow.” This was pure Hinduism, but the lama never heeded. “I am old. I have borne sons in the body. Oh, once I could please men! Now I can cure them.” He heard her armlets tinkle as though she bared arms for action. “I will take over the boy and dose him, and stuff him, and make him all whole. Hai! hai! We old people know something yet.”

Wherefore when Kim, aching in every bone, opened his eyes, and would go to the cookhouse to get his master’s food, he found strong coercion about him, and a veiled old figure at the door, flanked by the grizzled manservant, who told him very precisely the things that he was on no account to do.

“Thou must have? Thou shalt have nothing. What? A locked box in which to keep holy books? Oh, that is another matter. Heavens forbid I should come between a priest and his prayers! It shall be brought, and thou shalt keep the key.”

They pushed the coffer under his cot, and Kim shut away Mahbub’s pistol, the oilskin packet of letters, and the locked books and diaries, with a groan of relief. For some absurd reason their weight on his shoulders was nothing to their weight on his poor mind. His neck ached under it of nights.

“Thine is a sickness uncommon in youth these days: since young folk have given up tending their betters. The remedy is sleep, and certain drugs,” said the Sahiba; and he was glad to give himself up to the blankness that half menaced and half soothed him.

She brewed drinks, in some mysterious Asiatic equivalent to the still-room⁠—drenches that smelt pestilently and tasted worse. She stood over Kim till they went down, and inquired exhaustively after they had come up. She laid a taboo upon the forecourt, and enforced it by means of an armed man. It is true he was seventy odd, that his scabbarded sword ceased at the hilt; but he represented the authority of the Sahiba, and loaded wains, chattering servants, calves, dogs, hens, and the like, fetched a wide compass by those parts. Best of all, when the body was cleared, she cut out from the mass of poor relations that crowded the back of the buildings⁠—household dogs, we name them⁠—a cousin’s widow, skilled in what Europeans, who know nothing about it, call massage. And the two of them, laying him east and west, that the mysterious earth-currents which thrill the clay of our bodies might help and not hinder, took him to pieces all one long afternoon⁠—bone by bone, muscle by muscle, ligament by ligament, and lastly, nerve by nerve. Kneaded to irresponsible pulp, half hypnotized by the perpetual flick and readjustment of the uneasy chudders that veiled their eyes, Kim slid ten thousand miles into slumber⁠—thirty-six hours of it⁠—sleep that soaked like rain after drought.

Then she fed him, and the house spun to her clamour. She caused fowls to be slain; she sent for vegetables, and the sober, slow-thinking gardener, nigh as old as she, sweated for it; she took spices, and milk, and onion, with little fish from the brooks⁠—anon limes for sherbets, fat quails from the pits, then chicken-livers upon a skewer, with sliced ginger between.

“I have seen something of this world,” she said over the crowded trays, “and there are but two sorts of women in it⁠—those who take the strength out of a man and those who put it back. Once I was that one, and now I am this. Nay⁠—do not play the priestling with me. Mine was but a jest. If it does not hold good now, it will when thou takest the road again. Cousin,”⁠—this to the poor relation, never wearied of extolling her patroness’s charity⁠—“he is getting a bloom on the skin of a new-curried horse. Our work is like polishing jewels to be thrown to a dance-girl⁠—eh?”

Kim sat up and smiled. The terrible weakness had dropped from him like an old shoe. His tongue itched for free speech again, and but a week back the lightest word clogged it like ashes. The pain in his neck (he must have caught it from the lama) had gone with the heavy dengue-aches and the evil taste in the mouth. The two old women, a little, but not much, more careful about their veils now, clucked as merrily as the hens that had entered pecking through the open door.

“Where is my Holy One?” he demanded.

“Hear him! Thy Holy One is well,” she snapped viciously. “Though that is none of his merit. Knew I a charm to make him wise, I’d sell my jewels and buy it. To refuse good food that I cooked myself⁠—and go roving into the fields for two nights on an empty belly⁠—and to tumble into a brook at the end of it⁠—call you that holiness? Then, when he has nearly broken what thou hast left of my heart with anxiety, he tells me that he has acquired merit. Oh, how like are all men! No, that was not it⁠—he tells me that he is freed from all sin. I could have told him that before he wetted himself all over. He is well now⁠—this happened a week ago⁠—but burn me such holiness! A babe of three would do better. Do not fret thyself for the Holy One. He keeps both eyes on thee when he is not wading our brooks.”

“I do not remember to have seen him. I remember that the days and