[3]

There was some justification for Kim—he had kicked Lala Dinanath's boy off the trunnions—since the British controlled Punjab and Kim was British. Even though he was blackened by sun like any local; even though he spoke the local language by choice and struggled with his mother tongue in a shaky sing-song; even though he got along perfectly with the small boys in the market; Kim was still white—a poor white, the very poorest. The half-caste woman who looked after him (she smoked opium and pretended to run a second-hand furniture shop by the square where the cheap cabs waited) told the missionaries she was Kim's mother’s sister; but his mother had been a maid in a colonel's household and had married Kimball O'Hara, a young color-sergeant of the Mavericks, an Irish regiment. Later, he took a job on the Sind, Punjab, and Delhi railway, and his regiment returned home without him. His wife died of cholera in Ferozepore, and O'Hara turned to drinking and wandering along the line with their keen-eyed three-year-old baby. Organizations and chaplains, worried about the child, tried to help him, but O'Hara drifted away until he met the woman who smoked opium and picked up the habit from her, eventually dying like many poor whites in India. When he died, his estate consisted of three papers—one he called his 'ne varietur' because those words were written below his signature on it, another was his 'clearance certificate.' The third was Kim's birth certificate. He often said during his glorious opium hours that these things would help little Kimball become a man. He insisted that Kim should never part with them, for they belonged to a powerful piece of magic—magic like what men practiced over there behind the Museum, in the big blue and white Jadoo-Gher—the Magic House, as we call the Masonic Lodge. He said everything would work out one day, and Kim's horn would be lifted high between enormous pillars—monstrous pillars—of beauty and strength. The Colonel himself, riding a horse at the head of the finest regiment in the world, would look after Kim—little Kim who should have had a better life than his father. Nine hundred first-class devils, whose god was a Red Bull on a green field, would care for Kim if they hadn’t forgotten O'Hara—poor O'Hara who was a gang foreman on the Ferozepore line. Then he would weep bitterly in the broken rush chair on the veranda. So, after his death, the woman sewed the parchment, paper, and birth certificate into a leather amulet case which she hung around Kim's neck.

'And someday,' she said, trying to recall O'Hara's predictions, 'a great Red Bull will come for you on a green field, with the Colonel riding his tall horse, yes, and'—switching to English—'nine hundred devils.'

'Ah,' said Kim, 'I’ll remember. A Red Bull and a Colonel on a horse will come, but first, my father said, the two men preparing the ground for these things will arrive. That’s how, my father said, they always do it; and it's always like that when people work magic.'

If the woman had sent Kim up to the local Jadoo-Gher with those papers, he would have been taken in by the Provincial Lodge and sent to the Masonic Orphanage in the Hills. But she didn't trust what she had heard about magic. Kim had his own ideas too. As he reached his teenage years, he learned to steer clear of missionaries and serious-looking white men who asked who he was and what he did. Because Kim didn’t really do anything, at least not in a conventional sense. Sure, he knew the amazing walled city of Lahore from the Delhi Gate to the outer Fort Ditch; he was close with people who lived lives stranger than anything Haroun al Raschid imagined; and his life was as wild as something out of the Arabian Nights. But missionaries and charity organization secretaries couldn't see the beauty in it. His nickname in the wards was 'Little Friend of all the World,' and frequently, being agile and unnoticeable, he ran errands at night on crowded rooftops for sleek, stylish young men. It was definitely intriguing—he was aware of that much, as he had been aware of all the bad stuff since he could talk—but what he really loved was the thrill of the game itself: quietly moving through dark alleys and lanes, climbing up water pipes, taking in the sights and sounds of women on the flat roofs, and racing from rooftop to rooftop in the hot darkness. Then there were the holy men, ash-covered faquirs by their brick shrines under the trees by the river, with whom he was quite friendly—he would greet them as they came back from begging, and when no one was around, he would eat from the same plate. The woman who looked after him insisted tearfully that he should wear European clothes—trousers, a shirt, and a battered hat. Kim found it easier to slip into Hindu or Muslim clothing when he had certain jobs to do. One of the fashionable young men—who was found dead at the bottom of a well on the night of the earthquake—had once given him a complete Hindu outfit, the clothes of a low-caste street boy, which Kim hid in a secret spot under some beams in Nila Ram's lumberyard, beyond the Punjab High Court, where the fragrant deodar logs sit seasoning after they’ve drifted down the Ravee. When there was a job or a celebration happening, Kim would use his outfits, returning at dawn to the veranda, all worn out from racing alongside a wedding procession or shouting at a Hindu festival. Sometimes there was food at home; more often, there wasn’t, and then Kim would go out again to eat with his local friends.

As he drummed his heels against Zam-Zammah, he occasionally turned from his king-of-the-castle game with little Chota Lai and Abdullah, the sweetmeat seller's son, to make a rude comment to the native policeman guarding the rows of shoes at the Museum entrance. The big Punjabi grinned tolerantly; he knew Kim well. So did the water-carrier, splashing water on the dry road from his goat-skirt bag. So did Jawahir Singh, the Museum carpenter, who was bent over new packing cases. Everyone in sight recognized him except the country peasants, rushing to the Wonder House to see the things crafted by local artisans and others. The Museum showcased Indian arts and crafts, and anyone seeking knowledge could ask the curator for an explanation.

'Get off! Let me go!' shouted Abdullah, scrambling up Zam-Zammah's wheel.

'Your father was a pastry chef, your mother took the ghi,' sang Kim. 'All Muslims fell off Zam-Zammah a long time ago!'

'Let me up!' shouted little Chota Lal in his fancy embroidered cap. His father was probably worth about half a million pounds, but India is the only democratic land in the world.

'The Hindus fell off Zam-Zammah too. The Muslims pushed them off. Your dad was a pastry chef—'

He stopped because coming around the corner from the bustling Motee Bazar was a man unlike anyone Kim had ever seen. He was almost six feet tall, wrapped in layers of dirty fabric that resembled horse blankets, and none of it could be linked to any known job or profession. At his waist hung a long iron pencil case with an openwork design and a wooden rosary similar to those worn by holy men. On his head was a huge tam-o'-shanter hat. His face was yellow and wrinkled, much like Fook Shing, the Chinese shoemaker in the bazar. His eyes slanted upward at the corners and looked like tiny slits of onyx.

'Who is that?' Kim asked his friends.[8]

'Maybe it's a man,' said Abdullah, with his finger in his mouth, staring.

'No doubt about it,' Kim replied; 'but he's not like any man from India I've ever seen.'

'A priest, maybe,' said Chota Lal, spotting the rosary. 'Look! He's going into the Wonder House!'

'Nay, nay,' said the policeman, shaking his head. 'I don’t understand what you’re saying.' The constable spoke Punjabi. 'Oh, Friend of all the World, what does he mean?'

'Get him over here,' said Kim, jumping down from Zam-Zammah, kicking his bare heels. 'He's a foreigner, and you're a buffalo.'

The man turned helplessly and drifted toward the boys. He was old, and his woolen gaberdine still smelled of the stinking artemisia from the mountain passes.

'O Children, what’s that big house?' he said in pretty good Urdu.

'The Ajaib-Gher, the Wonder House!' Kim didn’t give him any title—like Lala or Mian. He couldn’t figure out the man’s beliefs.

'Ah! The Wonder House! Can anyone enter?'

'It's written above the door—everyone is welcome.'

'For free?'

'I come and go. I'm not a banker,' laughed Kim.

'Alas! I’m an old man. I didn’t know.' Then, fingering his rosary, he half-turned to the Museum.

'What is your caste? Where do you live? Have you traveled far?' Kim asked.

'I came through Kulu—from beyond the Kailas—but what do you know? From the hills where'—he sighed—'the air and water are fresh and cool.'

'Aha! Khitai' (a Chinese man), said Abdullah proudly.[9] Fook Shing had once kicked him out of his shop for spitting on the incense burner above the boots.

'Pahari?' (a hill guy), said little Chota Lal.

'Aye, child—a hillman from the hills you'll never see. Did you hear of Bhotiyal (Tibet)? I'm not Khitai, but a Bhotiya (Tibetan), just so you know—a lama—or, let’s say, a guru in your language.'

'A guru from Tibet,' said Kim. 'I haven't seen a man like that. Are there Hindus in Tibet, then?'

'We are followers of the Middle Way, living in peace in our monasteries, and I want to visit the Four Holy Places before I die. Now you, who are young, don’t know as much as I do, being older.' He smiled kindly at the boys.

"Have you eaten?"

He reached into his chest and pulled out a worn wooden begging bowl. The boys nodded. All the priests they knew begged.

'I don't want to eat yet.' He turned his head like an old tortoise basking in the sun. 'Is it true that there are many pictures in the Wonder House of Lahore?' He repeated the last words as if he were confirming an address.

'That's true,' said Abdullah. 'It’s full of heathen butts. You’re an idolater too.'

'Forget about him,' said Kim. 'That's the Government's house, and there's no idol worship inside, just a Sahib with a white beard. Come with me, and I'll show you.'

'Weird priests eat boys,' whispered Chota Lal.

'And he is a stranger and an idolater,' said Abdullah, the Muslim.

Kim laughed. "He's new. Go to your moms' laps and be safe. Come on!"[10]

Kim clicked through the self-registering turnstile; the old man followed and stopped, amazed. In the entrance hall stood the larger figures of the Greco-Buddhist sculptures created, scholars know how long ago, by forgotten craftsmen who were skillfully searching for that mysteriously transmitted Grecian touch. There were hundreds of pieces, friezes of figures in relief, fragments of statues, and slabs filled with figures that had decorated the brick walls of the Buddhist stupas and viharas in the North Country and now, excavated and labeled, were the pride of the Museum. In wide-eyed wonder, the lama turned to this and that, and finally paused in rapt attention before a large alto-relief depicting a coronation or apotheosis of the Lord Buddha. The Master was shown seated on a lotus, the petals deeply undercut as if almost separate. Surrounding Him was an adoring hierarchy of kings, elders, and ancient Buddhas. Below were lotus-covered waters with fish and water birds. Two butterfly-winged dewas held a wreath over His head; above them, another pair supported an umbrella topped by the jeweled headdress of the Bodhisat.

'The Lord! The Lord! It's Sakya Muni himself,' the lama half sobbed; and quietly began the amazing Buddhist invocation:—

'And He is here! The Most Excellent Law is here too! My journey has started off great. And what a task! What a task!'[11]

'Over there is the Sahib,' said Kim, as he quickly maneuvered among the cases in the arts and manufacturing section. A white-bearded Englishman was watching the lama, who solemnly turned to him, gave a salute, and after some clumsy movements, pulled out a notebook and a piece of paper.

'Yes, that is my name,' smiling at the awkward, childish print.

'One of us who went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Places—he's now the Abbot of the Lung-Cho Monastery—gave it to me,' the lama stammered. 'He talked about these.' His thin hand shook as it gestured around.

'Welcome, then, oh lama from Tibet. Here are the images, and I am here'—he looked at the lama's face—'to gain knowledge. Come to my office for a bit.' The old man was shaking with excitement.

The office was just a small wooden cubicle separated from the gallery filled with sculptures. Kim lay down, resting his ear against a crack in the heat-split cedar door, and, following his instincts, stretched out to listen and watch.

Most of the conversation went completely over his head. The lama, initially speaking slowly, talked to the curator of his own lamassery, the Suchzen, located across from the Painted Rocks, four months' march away. The curator pulled out a large photo book and showed him that very spot, sitting on its cliff, overlooking the massive valley of colorful layers.

'Ay, ay!' The lama put on a pair of Chinese horn-rimmed glasses. 'Here is the little door through which we bring in firewood before winter. And you—the English know about these things? The current Abbot of Lung-Cho told me, but I didn’t believe it. The Lord—the Excellent One—does He have honor here too? And is His life known?'[12]

'It's all carved into the stones. Come and see, if you're rested.'

Out shuffled the lama to the main hall, and, with the curator beside him, examined the collection with the reverence of a devotee and the keen appreciation of a craftsman.

Incident by incident in the beautiful story he recognized on the blurred stone, feeling puzzled here and there by the unfamiliar Greek style, but excited like a child at each new discovery. Where the sequence was missing, as with the Annunciation, the curator filled in the gaps using his pile of books—French and German, along with photographs and reproductions.

Here was the devoted Asita, similar to Simeon in the Christian story, holding the Holy Child on his lap while the mother and father listened; and here were events from the tale of the cousin Devadatta. Here was the evil woman who accused the Master of impurity, utterly confused; here was the teaching in the Deer-park; the miracle that amazed the fire-worshippers; here was the Bodhisat in royal form as a prince; the miraculous birth; the death at Kusinagara, where the weak disciple fainted; and there were nearly countless repetitions of the meditation under the Bodhi tree; and the reverence for the alms-bowl was everywhere. In a few minutes, the curator realized that his guest was no ordinary beggar, but a knowledgeable scholar. They started all over again, the lama taking snuff, cleaning his glasses, and speaking at breakneck speed in a confusing mix of Urdu and Tibetan. He had heard about the travels of the Chinese pilgrims, Fo-Hian and Hwen-Thiang, and was eager to know if there was any translation of their records. He inhaled sharply as he turned helplessly through the pages of Beal and Stanislas Julien. “It’s all here. A treasure locked away.” Then he composed himself to listen reverently to fragments quickly translated into Urdu. For the first time, he learned about the efforts of European scholars, who, with the help of these and many other documents, have identified the Holy Places of Buddhism. Then he was shown a big map, dotted and marked with yellow. His brown finger followed the curator's pencil from point to point. Here was Kapilavastu, here the Middle Kingdom, and here Mahabodi, the Mecca of Buddhism; and here was Kusinagara, the sorrowful place of the Holy One’s death. The old man bowed his head over the pages in silence for a moment, and the curator lit another pipe. Kim had fallen asleep. When he woke up, the conversation, still flowing, was easier for him to understand.

'And so it was, O Fountain of Wisdom, that I decided to visit the Holy Places that He walked—His birthplace, even Kapila; then to Maha Bodhi, which is Bodh Gaya—to the Monastery—to the Deer Park—to the site of His death.'

The lama quieted down. 'And I come here alone. For five—seven—eighteen—forty years, I’ve thought that the Old Law wasn’t being followed properly; it’s been covered up, as you know, with evil practices, charms, and idol worship. Just like the child outside just said. Yes, just as the child said, with but-parasti.'

'So it comes with all beliefs.'

'Do you think so? I read the books of my monastery, and they felt empty. The newer rituals we've taken on as part of the Reformed Law—they held no value to these old eyes either. Even the followers of the Great One are constantly at odds with each other.[14] It’s all an illusion. Yes, maya, an illusion. But I have another desire'—the wrinkled yellow face leaned in closer to the curator, and the long fingernail tapped on the table. 'Your scholars, through these books, have tracked the Blessed Feet in all their journeys; but there are things they haven’t uncovered. I know nothing—I truly know nothing—but I intend to free myself from the Wheel of Things by a broad and open path.' He smiled with simple joy. 'As a pilgrim to the Holy Places, I gain merit. But there's more. Listen closely. When our gracious Lord was still a young man and sought a partner, people in His father's court said He was too gentle for marriage. Do you know that?'

The curator nodded, curious about what would happen next.

'So they took on the triple challenge of strength against everyone. And during the Bow challenge, our Lord first broke the one they gave Him and asked for a bow that no one could bend. You know?'

"It's written. I've read it."

'And, overshooting all other marks, the arrow flew far beyond sight. Eventually, it fell; and where it landed, a stream broke out that soon became a River. By our Lord's grace, and the merit He gained before He freed Himself, anyone who bathes in it washes away all traces and blemishes of sin.'

'So it's written,' said the curator sadly.

The lama took a deep breath. 'Where is that River? Fountain of Wisdom, where did the arrow fall?'

'Alas, my brother, I don't know,' said the curator.

'Nay, if you’d rather forget—there’s just one thing[15] that you haven’t told me. Surely you must know? Look, I’m an old man! I’m asking with my head at your feet, O Fountain of Wisdom. We know He drew the bow! We know the arrow fell! We know the stream gushed! But where is the River? My dream told me to find it. So I came. I’m here. But where is the River?'

'If I knew, do you think I wouldn't shout it out loud?'

'With it, one finds freedom from the cycle of existence,' the lama continued, oblivious. 'The River of the Arrow! Think again! Perhaps just a small stream that’s dried up in the heat? But the Holy One would never trick an old man like that.'

'I don't know. I don't know.'

The lama brought his thousand-wrinkled face close to the Englishman's. 'I see you don’t understand. Since you’re not part of the Law, this matter is hidden from you.'

"Ay—hidden—hidden."

'We are both tied, you and I, my brother. But I'—he stood up with a flourish of the soft thick fabric—'I’m going to free myself. Come with me!'

'I am bound,' said the curator. 'But where are you going?'

'First to Kashi (Benares): where else? There, I will meet someone of the pure faith in a Jain temple in that city. He is also a Seeker in secret, and maybe I can learn from him. Perhaps he will accompany me to Bodh Gaya. From there, I will head north and west to Kapilavastu, and there I will search for the River. No, I will search everywhere as I travel—because the exact place where the arrow fell is unknown.'

'And how will you go? It's a long way to Delhi, and even farther to Benares.'[16]

'By road and by train. From Pathankot, having left the Hills, I came here in a light rain. It moves quickly. At first, I was surprised to see those tall poles by the side of the road rapidly grabbing their wires,'—he demonstrated the bend and spin of a telegraph pole flashing past the train. 'But later, I felt cramped and wanted to walk, as I'm used to doing.'

'Are you sure about your direction?' said the curator.

'Oh, for that one who just asks a question and pays money, and the designated people send everything to the correct place. I learned that much in my monastery from reliable sources,' said the lama proudly.

'And when are you leaving?' The curator smiled at the blend of traditional reverence and modern advancement that characterizes India today.

'As soon as possible. I trace the locations of His life until I reach the River of the Arrow. Additionally, there is a document that lists the train schedules heading south.'

'And what about food?' Lamas usually have a good amount of money on them, but the curator wanted to confirm.

'For the journey, I take up the Master's begging bowl. Yes. Just like He did, I too leave the comfort of my monastery. When I left the hills, I had a disciple with me who begged for me as the Rule requires, but while we were in Kulu, he fell ill with a fever and passed away. I no longer have a disciple, but I will take the alms bowl and allow the generous to earn some merit.' He nodded his head bravely.

Learned doctors from a monastery don't beg, but the lama was really passionate about this pursuit.

'Fine by me,' said the curator, smiling. 'Let me earn some credit now. We’re both craftsmen, you and [17] I. Here’s a new book of white English paper: here are two or three sharpened pencils—thick and thin, all good for a writer. Now lend me your glasses.'

The curator examined them. They were pretty scratched up, but their power was almost identical to his own pair, which he handed to the lama, saying: 'Give these a try.'

'A feather! A real feather on my face!' The old man turned his head happily and scrunched up his nose. 'I can hardly feel them! I can see so clearly!'

'They are made of crystal and will never scratch. May they help you to your River, for they are yours.'

'I will take them, along with the pencils and the white notebook,' said the lama, 'as a sign of friendship between priests—and now'—he fumbled with his belt, took off the open iron pen case, and placed it on the curator's table. 'That is a memory between you and me—my pen case. It’s something old—just like me.'

It was an ancient piece, Chinese, made of a type of iron that's not produced anymore; and the collector's heart in the curator's chest had been drawn to it from the very beginning. No amount of persuasion would convince the lama to take back his gift.

'When I come back after finding the River, I will bring you a written image of the Padma Samthora—like the ones I used to create on silk at the monastery. Yes—and of the Wheel of Life,' he chuckled, 'because we are both craftsmen, you and I.'

The curator would have held him back: there are few people left in the world who still know the secret of traditional brush-pen Buddhist pictures that are, in a sense, half written and half drawn. But the lama walked out, head held high, and paused for a moment in front of the large statue of a Bodhisattva in meditation before pushing through the turnstiles.

Kim followed like a shadow. What he had overheard excited him immensely. This man was completely new to all his experiences, and he intended to dig deeper: just like he would have explored a new building or an unfamiliar festival in Lahore city. The lama was his discovery, and he planned to claim it. Kim's mother had been Irish too.

The old man stopped by Zam-Zammah and looked around until he spotted Kim. The motivation for his journey had faded for a moment, and he felt old, lonely, and very empty.

'Don't sit under that gun,' the policeman said arrogantly.

'Huh! Owl!' was Kim's response on behalf of the lama. 'Sit under that gun if you want. When did you steal the milk-woman's slippers, Dunnoo?'

That was a completely baseless accusation made on the spot, but it shut Dunnoo up, who realized that Kim's loud shout could summon a crowd of troublemakers if necessary.

'And who did you worship inside?' said Kim kindly, squatting in the shade next to the lama.

'I didn't worship anyone, kid. I respected the Excellent Law.'

Kim accepted this new god without any feelings. He already knew a few dozen.

'And what do you do?'

'I beg. I just realized it's been a long time since I've eaten or had anything to drink. What's the tradition of charity in this town? Do people give in silence like they do in Tibet, or do they speak up?'

'Those who beg quietly suffer quietly,' said Kim[19], quoting a local saying. The lama attempted to stand but sank back down, sighing for his disciple, who had died in distant Kulu. Kim watched—his head tilted to one side, thoughtful and intrigued.

'Give me the bowl. I know the people of this city—all who are generous. Donate, and I will return it filled.'

Simply as a child, the old man gave him the bowl.

'Chill. I know the folks.'

He walked over to the open shop of a kunjri, a low-caste vegetable seller, which was located across from the belt tram line along Motee Bazar. She recognized Kim from before.

"Oho, have you become a yogi with your begging bowl?" she exclaimed.

'Nah,' said Kim proudly. 'There's a new priest in the city—a guy I've never seen before.'

'Old priest—young tiger,' the woman said angrily. 'I’m tired of new priests! They swarm over our goods like flies. Is the father of my son a fountain of generosity to give to everyone who asks?'

'No,' said Kim. 'Your man is more of a jerk than a holy man. But this priest is new. The Sahib in the Wonder House has treated him like a brother. Oh my mother, fill this bowl for me. He’s waiting.'

'That bowl for sure! That cow-bellied basket! You have as much grace as the sacred bull of Shiv. He’s already taken the best from a basket of onions this morning; and truly, I must fill your bowl. He’s coming here again.'

The big, gray Brahminee bull in the ward was pushing his way through the colorful crowd, a stolen banana dangling from his[20] mouth. He headed straight for the shop, fully aware of his privileges as a sacred animal, lowered his head, and huffed heavily along the line of baskets before making his choice. Kim's hard little heel shot up and hit him on his wet blue nose. He snorted in annoyance and walked away across the tram tracks, his hump shaking with anger.

'Look! I've saved more than enough to cover the cost of the bowl three times over. Now, mom, just a little rice and some dried fish on top—yes, and some vegetable curry too.'

A growl came from the back of the shop, where a man was lying.

'He drove away the bull,' said the woman quietly. 'It's good to give to those in need.' She took the bowl and returned it filled with hot rice.

'But my yogi isn't a cow,' Kim said seriously, making a hole with his fingers in the top of the mound. 'A little curry is nice, and a fried cake, and a bit of preserve would probably make him happy, I think.'

"It’s a hole as big as your head," the woman said irritably. But she filled it anyway with hot, steaming vegetable curry, placed a dried cake on top, and added a bit of clarified butter on the cake, then put a scoop of sour tamarind conserve on the side; and Kim looked at the meal with affection.

'That's good. When I'm at the market, the bull won't come to this house. He's a daring beggar.'

'And you?' laughed the woman. 'But speak kindly of bulls. Haven't you told me that one day a Red Bull will come out of a field to help you? Now keep everything straight and ask for the holy man's blessing upon me. Maybe he knows a remedy for my daughter's sore eyes. Ask him that too, O you Little Friend of all the World.'[21]

But Kim had danced away before the end of the sentence, dodging stray dogs and people looking for handouts.

'So we ask those who know how it works,' he said proudly to the lama, who widened his eyes at the contents of the bowl. 'Eat now—and I will eat with you. Hey, water carrier!' he called to the person pouring water by the Museum. 'Bring water here. We're thirsty.'

'We men!' said the water carrier, laughing. 'Is one drink enough for such a pair? Then drink, in the name of the Compassionate.'

He released a thin stream into Kim's hands, who drank in a traditional way; but the lama had to pull out a cup from his endless upper garments and drink ceremonially.

'Pardesi' (a foreigner), Kim explained, as the old man spoke in a language they didn't understand, clearly giving a blessing.

They ate together happily, finishing off the beggar's bowl. Then the lama took snuff from a heavy wooden snuff-gourd, played with his rosary for a bit, and then drifted into an easy sleep that comes with old age as the shadow of Zam-Zammah grew longer.

Kim wandered over to the nearest tobacco seller, a lively young Muslim woman, and asked for a cheap cigar from the brand they sell to students at Punjab University who adopt English habits. He then sat down, knees to chin, under the belly of the gun, smoking and thinking. The result of his thoughts was a sudden and quiet departure toward Nila Ram's timber yard.

The lama didn't wake up until the evening scene of the city was kicking in with streetlights coming on and white-robed[22] clerks and staff heading back from the government offices. He looked around in a daze, but no one noticed him except for a Hindu kid in a ragged turban and faded clothes. Out of nowhere, he bowed his head onto his knees and cried out.

'What is this?' the boy asked, standing in front of him. 'Have you been robbed?'

'My new chela (my disciple) has left me, and I don't know where he is.'

'And what kind of man was your disciple?'

'It was a boy who came to me in place of the one who died, thanks to the merit I earned when I bowed before the Law over there.' He pointed toward the Museum. 'He appeared to guide me on a path I had lost. He took me into the Wonder House, and through his conversation, I felt confident enough to talk to the Keeper of the Images, which lifted my spirits and made me strong. And when I was weak from hunger, he asked for me, like a student would for his teacher. He was sent away suddenly. He has suddenly left. I had planned to teach him the Law on the way to Benares.'

Kim stood in awe at this, because he had overheard the conversation in the Museum and knew that the old man was telling the truth, which is something a local on the road rarely shares with a stranger.

'But I realize now that he was sent for a reason. Because of this, I know that I will find the specific River I am looking for.'

'The River of the Arrow?' Kim said, smiling confidently.

'Is this another Sending?' shouted the lama. 'I've only spoken about my search to the Priest of the Images. Who are you?'[23]

'Your disciple,' said Kim simply, sitting on his heels. 'I've never seen anyone like you in my entire life. I'm going with you to Benares. Also, I think that a man as old as you, telling the truth to random people at dusk, really needs a disciple.'

'But the River—the River of the Arrow?'

'Oh, how I wish I had heard you talking to the Englishman. I was leaning against the door.'

The lama sighed. "I thought you were a designated guide. These things happen sometimes—but I am not worthy. So, you don’t know about the River?"

'Not me.' Kim laughed nervously. 'I'm searching for—for a bull—a Red Bull in a green field who will help me.' Like a boy, if a friend had a plan, Kim was quick to come up with one of his own; and, like a boy, he had actually spent up to twenty minutes thinking about his father's prediction.

"To what, kid?" said the lama.

'God knows, but that's what my father told me. I heard your conversation in the Wonder House about all those new, strange places in the Hills, and if someone as old and small—so accustomed to telling the truth—can set out for the small matter of a river, it seemed to me that I should also go traveling. If it’s our destiny to discover those things, we will find them—you, your River; and me, my Bull, and the strong Pillars and some other things that I can’t remember.'

'It's not pillars but a Wheel that I want to be free from,' said the lama.

'That's all the same. Maybe they'll make me a king,' said Kim, calmly ready for anything.

'I will teach you other and better desires on the path,' the lama said firmly. 'Let's go to Benares.'[24]

'Not at night. Thieves are out. Wait until morning.'

'But there’s no place to sleep.' The old man was familiar with the routine of his monastery, and even though he slept on the ground, as the Rule requires, he preferred a certain decency in these matters.

'We'll find a great place to stay at the Kashmir Serai,' said Kim, chuckling at his confusion. 'I have a friend there. Let's go!'

The hot and crowded bazaars blazed with light as they navigated through the throngs of people from all backgrounds in Upper India, and the lama drifted through it all like a man in a dream. It was his first experience in a large manufacturing city, and the packed tram car with its constantly squealing brakes scared him. Half-pushed, half-towed, he arrived at the high gate of the Kashmir Serai: that vast open square across from the railway station, surrounded by arched cloisters where camel and horse caravans rested after returning from Central Asia. Here, all sorts of Northern people were tending to ponies on leashes and kneeling camels; loading and unloading bales and bundles; drawing water for the evening meal at the creaky well-windlasses; piling grass for the screaming, wild-eyed stallions; scolding the grumpy caravan dogs; paying off camel drivers; hiring new grooms; swearing, shouting, arguing, and haggling in the crowded square. The cloisters, accessed by three or four stone steps, created a refuge amidst this chaotic scene. Most of them were rented to merchants, like we rent the arches of a viaduct; the space between each pillar was bricked or boarded off into rooms, which were secured by heavy wooden doors and bulky local padlocks. Locked doors indicated that the owner was away, and a few crude—sometimes very crude—chalk or paint marks indicated where they had gone. Thus: 'Lutuf Ullah is gone to Kurdistan.' Below, in rough verse: 'O Allah, who lets lice live on the coat of a Kabuli, why have you allowed this louse Lutuf to live so long?'

Kim, keeping the lama away from the excited people and animals, made his way down the corridors to the far end, closest to the train station, where Mahbub Ali, the horse trader, stayed when he arrived from that mysterious place beyond the Northern Passes.

Kim had many interactions with Mahbub throughout his young life—especially from the age of ten to thirteen. The big, burly Afghan, whose beard was dyed bright red with lime (since he was older and wanted to hide his gray hairs), recognized the boy's usefulness as a source of information. Sometimes, he would ask Kim to watch a man who had no connection to horses at all: to follow him for an entire day and report on everyone he spoke to. Kim would share his findings in the evening, and Mahbub would listen silently, without any response or sign. Kim knew it was some sort of scheme, but its value lay in not telling anyone but Mahbub, who rewarded him with delicious meals straight from the cookshop at the front of the serai, and sometimes even gave him up to eight annas in cash.

'He’s here,' said Kim, giving a grouchy camel a tap on the nose. 'Hey, Mahbub Ali!' He stopped at a dark arch and slipped behind the confused lama.

The horse trader, his elaborate Bokhariot belt undone, was lounging on a set of silk carpet saddle bags, lazily puffing on a huge silver hookah. He turned his head just a bit at the shout and, noticing only the tall, silent figure, let out a low chuckle from deep in his chest.[26]

'Wow! A llama! A red llama! It’s a long way from Lahore to the passes. What are you doing here?'

The lama held out the begging bowl automatically.

'God's curse on all unbelievers!' said Mahbub. 'I don't give to a lousy Tibetan; but ask my Baltis over there behind the camels. They might appreciate your blessings. Oh, horse-boys, here is a fellow countryman of yours. Check if he's hungry.'

A shaven, crouching Balti, who had come down with the horses and who was basically some kind of degraded Buddhist, fawned over the priest and, in thick guttural tones, urged the Holy One to sit by the horse-boys' fire.

'Go!' Kim said, giving him a gentle shove, and the lama walked away, leaving Kim at the edge of the cloister.

'Go!' said Mahbub Ali, going back to his hookah. 'Little Hindu, run away. God's curse on all non-believers! Beg from those of my followers who share your faith.'

'Maharaj,' complained Kim, using the Hindu form of address, and thoroughly enjoying the situation; 'my father is dead—my mother is dead—my stomach is empty.'

'Beg from my men among the horses, I say. There must be some Hindus in my group.'

'Oh, Mahbub Ali, am I a Hindu?' Kim asked in English.

The trader showed no signs of surprise but glanced intently beneath his thick eyebrows.

'Little Friend of all the World,' he said, 'what's going on here?'

'Nothing. I’m now that holy man's disciple; and we’re going on a pilgrimage together—to Benares, he says. He’s completely nuts, and I’m tired of Lahore city. I want fresh air and water.'

'But who are you working for? Why are you here with me?' The voice was harsh with suspicion.[27]

'Who else should I turn to? I have no money. It’s not good to go around without money. You’ll sell many horses to the officers. They’re really nice horses, these new ones: I’ve seen them. Give me a rupee, Mahbub Ali, and when I come into some money, I’ll give you a promissory note and pay you back.'

'Um,' said Mahbub Ali, thinking quickly. 'You've never lied to me before. Call that lama—step back into the dark.'

'Oh, our stories will match,' said Kim, laughing.

'We are going to Benares,' the lama said as soon as he grasped the meaning behind Mahbub Ali's questions. 'The boy and I. I’m going to search for a specific River.'

'Maybe—but what about the boy?'

'He’s my student. I think he was sent to lead me to that River. I was sitting under a gun when he unexpectedly showed up. Stuff like this happens to the lucky ones who are allowed guidance. But I remember now, he said he was from this world—a Hindu.'

'What's his name?'

'That I didn't ask. Isn't he my disciple?'

'His country—his ethnicity—his village? Muslim—Sikh—Hindu—Jain—low caste or high?'

'Why should I ask? There’s no high or low in the Middle Way. If he’s my chela—does—will—can anyone take him from me? Because, look, without him I won’t find my River.' He nodded his head seriously.

'No one will take him away from you. Go, sit with my Baltis,' said Mahbub Ali, and the lama eased away, comforted by the assurance.

'Is he not completely crazy?' said Kim, stepping back into the light again. 'Why would I lie to you, Hajji?'

Mahbub quietly took a puff from his hookah. Then he started, [28] almost in a whisper: 'Umballa is on the way to Benares—if you two are really going there.'

'Tck! Tck! I tell you he doesn’t know how to lie—as we both do.'

'If you’re willing to take a message for me all the way to Umballa, I’ll pay you. It’s about a horse—a white stallion I sold to an officer the last time I came back from the Passes. But listen—stand closer and hold up your hands like you’re begging—the pedigree of the white stallion wasn’t fully established, and that officer, who’s now in Umballa, asked me to clarify it.' (Mahbub then described the horse and the officer’s appearance.) 'So the message to that officer will be: "The pedigree of the white stallion is fully established." With this, he’ll know you’re from me. He’ll then ask "What proof do you have?" and you’ll respond: "Mahbub Ali has given me the proof."'

'And all for the sake of a white stallion,' said Kim, giggling, his eyes glowing.

'I'm going to share that background with you now—in my own way—and throw in some tough words too.' A shadow passed behind Kim, along with a feeding camel. Mahbub Ali raised his voice.

'Wow! Are you the only beggar in the city? Your mother is dead. Your father is dead. So is the case for all of them. Well, well—' he turned as he felt around on the floor beside him and tossed a piece of soft, greasy Muslim bread to the boy. 'Go and lie down with my stable boys tonight—you and the lama. Tomorrow I might have some work for you.'

Kim slipped away, bread clenched in his teeth, and, as he expected, he found a small wad of folded tissue paper wrapped in oilskin, containing three silver rupees—huge[29] generosity. He grinned and stuffed the money and paper into his leather amulet case. The lama, well-fed by Mahbub's Baltis, had already dozed off in a corner of one of the stalls. Kim lay down next to him and chuckled. He knew he had helped Mahbub Ali, and not for a second did he believe the story about the stallion's pedigree.

But Kim didn’t suspect that Mahbub Ali, known as one of the best horse dealers in Punjab, a wealthy and resourceful trader whose caravans traveled deep into the wilderness, was listed in one of the locked records of the Indian Survey Department as C.25.1B. Two or three times a year, C.25 would submit a little story—poorly written but really interesting—and usually, it was verified by the reports of R.17 and M.4, which made it quite true. The stories covered all sorts of obscure mountain principalities, explorers from nationalities other than English, and the gun trade; in short, it was just a small part of the vast amount of 'information received' that the Indian Government used. However, recently five kings, who had no right to form a confederation, were informed by a helpful Northern Power that news from their territories was leaking into British India. So, those kings’ prime ministers were quite upset and took action in the traditional way. They suspected, among others, the intimidating red-bearded horse dealer whose caravans cut through their snowy strongholds. In fact, his caravan that season had been ambushed and shot at twice on the way down, when Mahbub’s men took care of three strange thugs who might or might not have been hired for the job. Therefore, Mahbub avoided stopping at the unhealthy city of[30] Peshawar and traveled straight to Lahore, where he expected interesting developments given the nature of his countrymen.

And there was something with Mahbub Ali that he didn't want to keep a minute longer than necessary—a tightly folded piece of tissue paper wrapped in oilskin—an impersonal, unaddressed message, with five tiny pinholes in one corner, that scandalously revealed the five allied Kings, the supportive Northern Power, a Hindu banker in Peshawar, a company of gun-makers in Belgium, and an important semi-independent Muslim ruler to the south. This last part was R.17's doing, which Mahbub had picked up beyond the Dora Pass and was carrying in for R.17, who, due to uncontrollable circumstances, couldn’t leave his observation post. Dynamite seemed harmless compared to that report of C.25; and even someone from the East, with their views on time, could tell that the sooner it reached the right people, the better. Mahbub had no real desire to die violently because two or three family blood feuds across the border were left unresolved, and once those were settled, he planned to live as a fairly respectable citizen. He hadn’t passed through the serai gate since arriving two days ago, but he’d been flashy in sending telegrams to Bombay, where he had some money; to Delhi, where a sub-partner of his clan was selling horses to the agent of a Rajputana state; and to Umballa, where a British man was eagerly asking for the pedigree of a white stallion. The public letter-writer, who knew English, crafted excellent telegrams, like: ‘Creighton, Laurel Bank, Umballa.—Horse is[31] Arabian as already advised. Sorry for the delayed pedigree which I am translating.’ And later to the same address: ‘Much sorry for the delay. Will forward pedigree.’ To this sub-partner in Delhi, he sent: ‘Lutuf Ullah.—Have wired two thousand rupees to your credit at Luchman Narain's bank.’ This was all part of the business, but every one of those telegrams was debated and re-debated by people who thought they had a stake in it before they went to the railway station, accompanied by a silly Balti, who let all sorts of people read them along the way.

When, in Mahbub's own colorful way, he had clouded the wells of inquiry with a stick of caution, Kim had landed on him, sent from above; and, being as quick as he was unprincipled, Mahbub Ali, used to taking all kinds of bold risks, enlisted him on the spot.

A wandering monk with a low-caste boy-servant might catch a moment's attention as they roamed around India, the land of pilgrims; but no one would suspect them or, more importantly, rob them.

He asked for a new light-ball for his hookah and thought about the situation. If things went horribly wrong and the boy got hurt, the paper wouldn’t blame anyone. He would then head up to Umballa calmly and—at some risk of raising new suspicions—tell the relevant people his story in person.

But R.17's report was the core of the entire situation, and it would be very inconvenient if it didn't arrive. However, God was great, and Mahbub Ali felt he had done everything he could for now. Kim was the only person in the world who had never lied to him. That would have been a serious flaw in Kim's[32] character if Mahbub hadn't known that, for his own motives or Mahbub's business, Kim could easily lie like anyone else.

Then Mahbub Ali rolled into the inn and made his way to the Gate of the Harpies, known for their painted eyes that lure in strangers. He went out of his way to find a girl who he suspected was a close friend of a smooth-faced Kashmiri scholar who had intercepted his simple Balti regarding the telegrams. It was a completely foolish move; they ended up drinking perfumed brandy, which was against the teachings of the Prophet. Mahbub got incredibly drunk, and his mouth became loose, leading him to pursue the Flower of Delight in a state of intoxication until he collapsed among the cushions. There, the Flower of Delight, with the help of the smooth-faced Kashmiri scholar, searched him thoroughly from head to toe.

About the same time, Kim heard soft footsteps in Mahbub's empty stall. Surprisingly, the horse trader had left his door unlocked, and his men were busy celebrating their return to India with a whole sheep from Mahbub's haul. A smooth young guy from Delhi, carrying a bunch of keys that the Flower had taken off the unconscious man's belt, was methodically going through every single box, bundle, mat, and saddlebag that Mahbub owned, even more systematically than the Flower and the pundit were searching the owner.

'And I think,' said the Flower scornfully an hour later, resting one rounded elbow on the snoring body, 'that he’s nothing more than a pig of an Afghan horse dealer, with no thoughts other than women and horses. Plus, he might have sent it away by now—if it ever existed in the first place.'[33]

'Nay—in a matter involving Five Kings it would be next to his black heart,' said the pundit. 'Was there nothing?'

The Delhi man laughed and adjusted his turban as he entered. 'I looked between the soles of his slippers just like the Flower checked his clothes. This isn't the man, but someone else. I miss very little.'

"They didn't say he was the exact guy," the pundit said, thinking carefully. "They said, 'Check to see if he's the man, since our councils are in disarray.'"

'That northern region is packed with horse-dealers like an old coat is with lice. There’s Sikandar Khan, Nur Ali Beg, and Farrukh Shah—all leaders of caravans—who operate there,' said the Flower.

'They haven't come in yet,' said the expert. 'You need to catch them later.'

'Phew!' said the Flower with deep disgust, rolling Mahbub's head from her lap. 'I earn my money. Farrukh Shah is a brute, Ali Beg a show-off, and old Sikandar Khan—ugh! Go! I’m going to sleep now. This pig won't move until dawn.'

When Mahbub woke up, the Flower spoke to him sternly about the sin of drunkenness. Asians don’t show weakness when they’ve outsmarted an opponent, but as Mahbub Ali cleared his throat, tightened his belt, and stumbled out under the early morning stars, he came really close to doing so.

'What a trick for a young one,' he thought to himself. 'As if every girl in Peshawar doesn't do that! But it was nicely done. Only God knows how many more there are along the way who have orders to test me—maybe with a knife. So it looks like the kid has to go to Umballa—by train—because the writing is something[34] urgent. I'll stay here, chasing after the Flower and drinking wine like a true Afghan.'

He stopped at the stall right next to his. His men were there, fast asleep. There was no sign of Kim or the lama.

'Wake up!' He nudged someone who was sleeping. 'Where did the lama and the boy go who were here last night? Is anything missing?'

'Nah,' grunted the man; 'the old crazy guy got up at dawn saying he wanted to go to Benares, and the young one took him away.'

'The curse of God on all nonbelievers,' said Mahbub with enthusiasm, and climbed into his own stall, grumbling under his breath.

But it was Kim who had woken the lama—Kim with one eye pressed against a knot-hole in the floorboards, who had seen the Delhi man rummaging through the boxes. This was no ordinary thief flipping through letters, bills, and saddles—no simple burglar who slid a small knife sideways into the soles of Mahbub's slippers or picked the seams of the saddle-bags so skillfully. At first, Kim thought about raising the alarm—the long cry of 'cho-or—choor!' (thief! thief!) that lights up the serai at night; but he looked more closely, and, hand on his amulet, drew his own conclusions.

'It must be the background of that fake horse story,' he said, 'the one that I'm taking to Umballa. It’s better if we leave now. Those who search bags with knives might soon search bellies with knives. There’s definitely a woman involved in this. Hey! Hey!' he whispered to the light-sleeping old man. 'Come on. It’s time—time to go to Benares.'

The lama got up willingly, and they left the inn like shadows.

[35]

'This is the work of demons!' said the lama, pulling back from the deep, echoing darkness, the faint light of the rails visible between the stone platforms, and the complicated network of beams above. He stood in a massive stone hall that looked like it was paved with the deceased—third-class passengers who had bought their tickets overnight and were sleeping in the waiting areas. All hours of the day feel the same to Orientals, and their passenger flow is managed accordingly.

'This is where the fire trucks come. One waits behind that window'—Kim pointed to the ticket office—'who will give you a ticket to take you to Umballa.'

'But we're going to Benares,' he replied irritably.

'All set. Benares then. Hurry up: she's on her way!'

'Take the purse.'

The lama, not as accustomed to trains as he had pretended, jumped when the 3:25 a.m. southbound train roared in.[36] The sleepers came alive, and the station was filled with noise and shouting, calls from water and snack vendors, commands from local policemen, and loud cries from women gathering their baskets, families, and husbands.

'It's the train—just the train. It will arrive here. Wait!' Kim, surprised by the lama's incredible simplicity (he had given him a small bag full of rupees), asked for and paid for a ticket to Umballa. A drowsy clerk grunted and tossed out a ticket to the next station, only six miles away.

'Nah,' said Kim, looking it over with a grin. 'This might work for farmers, but I live in the city of Lahore. Nice job, babu. Now hand the ticket to Umballa.'

The clerk frowned and handed over the correct ticket.

'Now another one to Amritsar,' said Kim, who had no intention of spending Mahbub Ali's money on anything so basic as a paid ride to Umballa. 'The fare is this much. The little money you'll get back is just this much. I know the routes of the train... Never did a yogi need a chela as much as you do,' he said cheerfully to the confused lama. 'They would have kicked you out at Mian Mir if it weren't for me. This way! Come.' He returned the cash, keeping only one anna from each rupee of the Umballa ticket price as his commission—the age-old commission of Asia.

The lama hesitated at the open door of a crowded third-class carriage. 'Wouldn't it be better to walk?' he said softly.

A big Sikh craftsman leaned forward, showing his beard. 'Is he scared? Don’t be scared. I remember when I was scared of the rain. Come in! This is the Government’s work.'

[37]

'I’m not afraid,' said the lama. 'Do you have space in there for two?'

'There's not even room for a mouse,' shouted the wife of a successful farmer—a Hindu Jat from the wealthy Jullundur district. Our night trains aren't taken care of as well as the day ones, where men and women are kept in separate carriages.

'Oh, mother of my child, we can make room,' said the husband in the blue turban. 'Pick up the baby. It’s a holy man, can’t you see?'

'And my lap full of seventy times seven bundles! Why not invite him to sit on my lap, Shameless? But men are always like this!' She glanced around for approval. An Amritzar courtesan by the window sniffed behind her head drapery.

'Come in! Come in!' shouted a chubby Hindu moneylender, his folded account book tucked under his arm in a cloth. With a greasy smile, he said, 'It's good to be generous to the less fortunate.'

'Ay, at seven percent a month with a mortgage on the unborn calf,' said a young Dogra soldier heading south on leave; and they all laughed.

'Is it going to Benares?' asked the lama.

'Definitely. Otherwise, why would we be here? Come on in, or we'll be left behind,' shouted Kim.

'Look!' shouted the Amritsar girl. 'He has never been on a train. Oh look!'

'Nah, help,' said the farmer, reaching out a big brown hand and pulling him in. 'This is how it's done, dad.'

'But—but—I sit on the floor. It's against the rules to sit on a bench,' said the lama. 'Besides, it makes me feel cramped.'

'I say,' began the money-lender, pursing his lips,[38] 'that there isn’t a single rule of good living that these terrains make us break. We sit, for instance, next to all kinds of castes and people.'

'Yeah, and with the most outrageously shameless ones,' said the wife, scowling at the Amritzar girl flirting with the young sepoy.

"I mentioned that we could have taken a cart down the road," the husband said, "and that way we could have saved some money."

'Yes—and spent twice as much as we saved on food, by the way. We discussed that ten thousand times.'

'Ay, by ten thousand tongues,' he grunted.

'The gods help us poor women if we can't speak. Oh! He is the kind who won't look at or respond to a woman.' For the lama, bound by his rules, took no notice of her at all. 'And his disciple is like him?'

'Nay, mom,' Kim replied quickly. 'Not when the woman is attractive and, above all, kind to the hungry.'

'A beggar's answer,' said the Sikh, laughing. 'You've brought this on yourself, sister!' Kim's hands were clasped in a plea.

'And where are you going?' said the woman, giving him half of a cake from a greasy package.

'Even to Varanasi.'

'Jugglers, maybe?' the young soldier suggested. 'Do you have any tricks to pass the time? Why isn't that yellow guy answering?'

'Because,' Kim said firmly, 'he is sacred, and contemplates things that you can't see.'

'That might be true. We, the Loodhiana Sikhs,' he said emphatically, 'don't get caught up in doctrine. We fight.'[39]

'My sister's brother's son is a corporal in that regiment,' said the Sikh craftsman quietly. 'There are also some Dogra companies there.' The soldier glared, because a Dogra is of a different caste than a Sikh, and the banker chuckled.

'They all feel like one to me,' said the Amritzar girl.

"That we believe," the cultivator's wife scoffed darkly.

'Nah, but everyone who serves the Sirkar with weapons in their hands is, in a way, part of one brotherhood. There’s one brotherhood based on caste, but beyond that'—she looked around nervously—'there’s the bond of the Pulton—the Regiment—right?'

'My brother is in a Jat regiment,' said the farmer. 'Dogras are good people.'

'Your Sikhs at least believed that,' said the soldier, scowling at the calm old man in the corner. 'Your Sikhs thought that when our two companies came to help them at the Pirzai Kotal against eight Afreedee standards on the ridge just three months ago.'

He recounted a story about a border operation where the Dogra companies of the Loodhiana Sikhs had performed admirably. The Amritzar girl smiled, knowing that the story was meant to gain her approval.

'Alas!' said the farmer's wife at the end. 'So their villages were burned down and their little children were left homeless?'

'They had marked our dead. They paid a heavy price after we Sikhs had taught them a lesson. That's how it was. Is this Amritsar?'

'Ay, and here they cut our tickets,' said the banker, fumbling with his belt.

The lamps were dimming in the early morning when the mixed-race guard came around. Collecting tickets takes a while in the East, where people hide their tickets in all kinds of unusual spots. Kim showed his ticket and was told to get out.

'But I'm going to Umballa,' he protested. 'I'm going with this holy man.'

'You can go to hell for all I care. This ticket is only to Amritzar. Out!'

Kim burst into tears, insisting that the lama was like his father and mother, that he was the support for the lama's old age, and that the lama would die without his help. Everyone in the carriage urged the guard to be kind—the banker was especially persuasive—but the guard pulled Kim onto the platform. The lama blinked, unable to grasp what was happening, while Kim raised his voice and cried outside the carriage window.

'I am very poor. My father is dead—my mother is dead. Oh, kind people, if I’m left here, who will take care of that old man?'

'What—what is this?' the lama repeated. 'He must go to Benares. He has to come with me. He is my student. If there’s any money to be paid—'

"Oh, be quiet," whispered Kim; "are we royalty to waste good silver when the world is so generous?"

The Amritzar girl stepped out with her bundles, and it was on her that Kim kept his watchful eye. He knew that ladies like her were generous.

'A ticket—a little ticket to Umballa—Oh Breaker of Hearts!' She laughed. 'Do you have no kindness?'

'Does the holy man come from the North?'

'From way up North he comes,' shouted Kim. 'From the hills.'[41]

'There’s snow among the pine trees up North—in the hills, there’s snow. My mom was from Kulu. Get a ticket. Ask him for a blessing.'

"Ten thousand blessings," Kim exclaimed. "Oh Holy One, a woman has generously given so that I can come with you—a woman with a golden heart. I'm off to get the tikkut."

The girl looked up at the lama, who had automatically followed Kim to the platform. He bowed his head so he wouldn’t see her and mumbled in Tibetan as she moved on with the crowd.

'Light comes—light goes,' said the cultivator's wife harshly.

'She has earned merit,' replied the lama. 'It was definitely a nun.'

'There are ten thousand such nuns in Amritzar alone. Return, old man, or the train might leave without you,' cried the banker.

'Not only was it enough for the ticket, but for a little food too,' said Kim, jumping into his spot. 'Now eat, Holy One. Look. The day is coming!'

Golden, rose, saffron, and pink, the morning mists drifted away across the flat green fields. All of Punjab spread out in the splendor of the bright sun. The lama flinched a little as the telegraph posts passed by.

'The train is really fast,' said the banker with a condescending smile. 'We've traveled farther since Lahore than you could walk in two days: by evening, we'll arrive in Umballa.'

'And that’s still a long way from Benares,' the lama said wearily, mumbling over the cakes Kim offered. They all unpacked their bundles and had their breakfast. Then the banker, the farmer, and the soldier[42] got ready to smoke their pipes, filling the area with thick, acrid smoke, spitting and coughing but enjoying themselves. The Sikh and the farmer's wife chewed pan; the lama took snuff and counted his beads, while Kim, sitting cross-legged, smiled at the comfort of a full stomach.

'What rivers do you have near Benares?' the lama suddenly asked the carriage in general.

'We have Gunga,' replied the banker, once the small laughter had quieted down.

'What other options?'

'What else besides Gunga?'

'Nah, but I was thinking about a certain healing River.'

'That is Gunga. Anyone who bathes in her becomes clean and goes to the gods. I've made the pilgrimage to Gunga three times.' He looked around proudly.

'There was a need,' said the young soldier dryly, and the travelers' laughter shifted toward the banker.

'Clean—to return again to the Gods,' the lama muttered. 'And to go forth on the round of lives anew—still tied to the Wheel.' He shook his head in frustration. 'But maybe there's a mistake. Who, then, created Gunga in the beginning?'

'The Gods. What faith do you follow?' the banker said, shocked.

'I follow the Law—the Best Law. So it was the Gods that created Gunga. What kind of Gods were they?'

The carriage stared at him in disbelief. It was unbelievable that anyone could be unaware of Gunga.

'What—what is your God?' said the moneylender at last.[43]

'Hear!' said the lama, moving the rosary to his hand. 'Hear: for I speak of Him now! O people of Hind, pay attention!'

He started telling the story of Lord Buddha in Urdu, but got lost in his own thoughts and drifted into Tibetan and lengthy passages from a Chinese text about Buddha's life. The kind, patient crowd watched with respect. All of India is filled with holy men mumbling sermons in unfamiliar languages; shaken and consumed by their own passion; dreamers, chatterers, and visionaries: just as it has always been and will always be.

'Um!' said the soldier of the Loodhiana Sikhs. 'There was a Mohammedan regiment next to us at the Pirzai Kotal, and one of their priests—if I remember correctly, he was a naik—would speak prophecies when he was in a trance. But crazy people are in God's care. His officers let a lot slide with that guy.'

The lama switched to Urdu, realizing he was in an unfamiliar place. 'Listen to the story of the Arrow that our Lord shot from the bow,' he said.

This was much more to their liking, and they listened with interest as he spoke. 'Now, people of Hind, I'm going to search for that River. Do you know anything that could help me, because we are all in a difficult situation.'

'Only Gunga can wash away sin,' murmured the people in the carriage.

'Although we have great gods in Jullundur,' said the farmer's wife, looking out the window. 'Look how they have blessed the crops.'

'Searching every river in Punjab is no small task,' her husband said. 'For me, a stream that leaves good silt on my land is enough, and I thank Bhumia, the God of the Homestead.' He shrugged one knotted, tanned shoulder.[44]

"Do you think our Lord came this far north?" said the lama, turning to Kim.

'It might be,' Kim replied calmly, as he spat out red pan juice onto the floor.

'The last of the Great Ones,' said the Sikh confidently, 'was Sikander Julkarn (Alexander the Great). He paved the streets of Jullundur and built a huge reservoir near Umballa. That pavement still exists today, and the reservoir is still there too. I've never heard of your God.'

'Let your hair grow long and speak Punjabi,' said the young soldier jokingly to Kim, quoting a Northern proverb. 'That's all it takes to be a Sikh.' But he didn’t say this very loudly.

The lama sighed and pulled into himself, a dirty, formless lump. In the breaks of their conversation, they could hear the low humming—'Om mane pudme hum! Om mane pudme hum!'—and the heavy clicking of the wooden rosary beads.

'It annoys me,' he finally said. 'The speed and the noise annoy me. Also, my apprentice, I think we may have crossed that River.'

'Peace, peace,' said Kim. 'Wasn't the River close to Benares? We're still far from that place.'

'But—if our Lord came north, it could be any one of these little ones that we’ve come across.'

'I don't know.'

'But you were sent to me—were you sent to me?—for the merit I had earned over there at Suchzen. You came from beside the cannon—bearing two faces—and two outfits.'

'Peace. You shouldn't talk about these things here,' whispered Kim. 'There was only one of me. Think again and you'll remember. A boy—a Hindu boy—by the big green cannon.'[45]

'But wasn’t there also an Englishman with a white beard—holy—among images—who himself made my confidence in the River of the Arrow even stronger?'

'He—we—went to the Ajaib-Gher in Lahore to pray before the gods there,' Kim explained to the attentive group. 'And the Sahib of the Wonder House spoke to him—yes, that's true—as a brother. He is a very holy man, from far beyond the hills. Rest now. We will get to Umballa in due time.'

'But my River—the River of my healing?'

'And then, if it’s okay with you, we’ll go hunting for that River on foot. That way, we won’t miss anything—not even a small stream in a field.'

'But you have a search of your own?' The lama—very pleased that he remembered so well—sat up straight.

'Ay,' said Kim, going along with him. The boy was completely happy to be outside, chewing pan and meeting new people in the big, friendly world.

'It was a Bull—a Red Bull that will come and help you—and take you—where? I’ve forgotten. A Red Bull on a green field, wasn't it?'

'Nah, it won’t take me anywhere,' said Kim. 'It’s just a story I told you.'

'What is this?' the cultivator's wife leaned forward, her bracelets clinking on her arm. 'Are you both having dreams? A Red Bull in a green field, that will take you to the Heavens—or what? Was it a vision? Did someone make a prophecy? We have a Red Bull in our village behind Jullundur city, and he grazes by choice in the greenest of our fields!'

'Give a woman a folk tale and a weaver bird a leaf and a thread, and they'll create amazing things,'[46] said the Sikh. 'All holy people have dreams, and by following holy people, their followers gain that power.'

'A Red Bull on a green field, was it?' the lama repeated. 'In a past life, you might have earned some good karma, and the Bull will come to reward you.'

'Nah—nah—it was just a story someone told me—for a joke, probably. But I'll go look for the Bull in Umballa, and you can search for your River and take a break from the noise of the train.'

'It could be that the Bull knows—that he’s meant to guide us both,' said the lama, hopefully like a child. Then to the group, pointing to Kim: 'This one was sent to me just yesterday. I don’t think he’s of this world.'

'I've come across a lot of beggars and holy men, but I've never met a yogi or a disciple like this,' said the woman.

Her husband lightly touched his forehead with one finger and smiled. But the next time the lama would eat, they made sure to give him their best.

And finally—tired, sleepy, and dirty—they arrived at Umballa City Station.

'We're involved in a lawsuit here,' said the farmer's wife to Kim. 'We're staying with my husband’s cousin’s younger brother. There's also space in the courtyard for your yogi and for you. Will—will he give me a blessing?'

'O holy man! A woman with a heart of gold provides us a place to stay for the night. This Southern land is so generous. Look at how we've been taken care of since the morning!'

The lama bowed his head in blessing.

'To fill my cousin's little brother's house with useless people—'[47] the husband started, as he picked up his heavy bamboo staff.

'Your cousin's younger brother owes my father's cousin something from his daughter's wedding,' said the woman sharply. 'Let him use the food for that. I’m sure the yogi will beg.'

"Aye, I’m begging for him," said Kim, eager only to get the lama indoors for the night so he could find Mahbub Ali's Englishman and share the white stallion's pedigree.

'Now,' he said, once the lama had settled in the inner courtyard of a nice Hindu house behind the military quarters, 'I'm going to step out for a bit—to—to get us some food in the market. Don’t go wandering off until I’m back.'

'Will you come back? You will definitely come back?' The old man grabbed his wrist. 'And you will come back in this same form? Is it too late to look for the River tonight?'

'Too late and too dark. Take comfort. Think about how far you’ve come—already a hundred kos from Lahore.'

'Yeah—and farther from my monastery. Unfortunately! It's a big and frightening world.'

Kim slipped out quietly, just as ordinary as anyone who carries their own fate along with the fates of countless others. Mahbub Ali's instructions left him certain of where his Englishman lived, and when a groom drove a dog-cart back from the Club, it confirmed his guess. All that was left was to identify his target, so Kim crept through the garden hedge and hid among a bunch of plumed grass near the veranda. The house sparkled with lights, and servants moved around tables set with flowers, glass, [48] and silver. Soon, an Englishman appeared, dressed in black and white, humming a tune. It was too dark to see his face, so Kim, like a beggar, decided to try an old tactic.

'Defender of the Poor!'

The man stepped back towards the voice.

'Mahbub Ali says—'

'Hah! What does Mahbub Ali say?' He didn't even bother to look for the speaker, and that made Kim realize that he was aware.

'The lineage of the white stallion is fully established.'

'What proof is there?' The Englishman turned at the rose hedge beside the driveway.

'Mahbub Ali has given me this proof.' Kim tossed the bundle of folded paper into the air, and it landed on the path next to the man, who stepped on it just as a gardener came around the corner. As the servant walked by, he picked it up, dropped a rupee—Kim could hear the clink—and walked into the house without looking back. Quickly, Kim grabbed the money; but despite his training, he was Irish enough by birth to see silver as the least important part of any game. What he wanted was the tangible result of action; so, instead of sneaking away, he lay low in the grass and crawled closer to the house.

He saw—Indian bungalows are completely open—the Englishman head back to a small dressing room in a corner of the veranda that served as a half-office, cluttered with papers and dispatch boxes, and sit down to read Mahbub Ali's message. His face, illuminated by the bright light of the kerosene lamp, shifted and darkened, and Kim, accustomed like every beggar to watching faces, paid close attention.

'Will! Will, dear!' called a woman's voice. 'You[49] ought to be in the living room. They'll be here any minute.'

The man still read deeply.

'Will!' said the voice, five minutes later. 'He's here. I can hear the troopers in the driveway.'

The man rushed out without a hat as a large carriage with four local soldiers behind it stopped at the porch, and a tall, dark-haired man, standing straight like an arrow, stepped out, followed by a young officer who chuckled warmly.

Flat on his stomach lay Kim, nearly brushing against the large wheels. His guy and the black stranger exchanged a couple of sentences.

'Of course, sir,' the young officer replied quickly. 'Everything comes to a halt when it involves a horse.'

'We won't be more than twenty minutes,' said Kim's guy. 'You can take care of things—keep them entertained and all that.'

"Tell one of the soldiers to wait," said the tall man, and they both went into the dressing room together as the carriage rolled away. Kim saw their heads leaning over Mahbub Ali's message and heard the voices—one low and respectful, the other clear and commanding.

"It’s not a matter of weeks. It’s about days—almost hours," said the elder. "I’ve been anticipating this for a while, but this"—he tapped Mahbub Ali's paper—"seals the deal. Grogan is dining here tonight, right?"

'Yes, sir, and Macklin as well.'

'Very good. I'll talk to them myself. That issue will be brought up with the Council, of course, but this is a situation where we can assume immediate action is justified. Alert the Pindi and Peshawar brigades. It will disrupt all the summer relief efforts, but[50] we can't avoid that. This is the result of not defeating them completely the first time. Eight thousand should be enough.'

'What about the artillery, sir?'

'I need to consult Macklin.'

'So, that means war?'

'No. Punishment. When a person is constrained by the actions of those before them—'

'But C.25 might have lied.'

'He confirms what the other said. Basically, they revealed their intentions six months ago. But Devenish insisted there was a chance for peace. Naturally, they used it to strengthen their position. Send those telegrams right away—the new code, not the old one—mine and Wharton's. I don't think we should keep the ladies waiting any longer. We can figure out the rest over cigars. I had a feeling this was coming. It's punishment—not war.'

As the trooper rode away, Kim crawled around to the back of the house, where, based on his experiences in Lahore, he figured there would be food—and some information. The kitchen was packed with energetic kitchen helpers, one of whom kicked him.

'Aie,' said Kim, pretending to cry. 'I came only to wash dishes in exchange for a full stomach.'

'Everyone in Umballa is on the same mission. Get out of here. They’re coming in now with the soup. Do you think that we who serve Creighton Sahib need weird kitchen helpers to get us through a big dinner?'

'That's a huge dinner,' said Kim, looking at the plates.

'No surprise there. The guest of honor is none other than the Jang-i-Lat Sahib' (the Commander-in-Chief).[51]

'Hey!' said Kim, with the right tone of amazement. He had found out what he needed, and when the kitchen helper turned around, he was gone.

'And all this trouble,' he thought to himself, as usual in Hindustani, 'for a horse's pedigree! Mahbub Ali should have come to me to learn how to lie a little. Every other time I've carried a message, it was about a woman. Now it’s about men. Better. The tall man said they will unleash a great army to punish someone—somewhere—the news goes to Pindi and Peshawar. There are also guns. I wish I had gotten closer. This is big news!'

He came back to find the cultivator's cousin's younger brother discussing the family lawsuit in detail with the cultivator, his wife, and a few friends, while the lama was dozing off. After dinner, someone handed him a water pipe; and Kim felt really confident as he took puffs from the smooth coconut shell, his legs stretched out in the moonlight, his tongue occasionally clicking in comments. His hosts were very polite; the cultivator's wife had told them about his vision of the Red Bull and his possible connection to another world. On top of that, the lama was a fascinating and respected guest. The family priest, an old, easygoing Sarsut Brahmin, stopped by later and naturally started a theological debate to impress the family. By their beliefs, they were all on their priest's side, but the lama was the guest and the interesting one. His gentle kindness and impressive Chinese quotes, which sounded like magic spells, really delighted them; and in this warm, simple atmosphere, he blossomed like the Bodhisattva’s own lotus, sharing stories of his life in the great hills of Suchzen, before, as he said, 'I set out to seek enlightenment.'[52]

Then it turned out that back in those worldly days he was a pro at casting horoscopes and nativities; and the family priest encouraged him to explain his methods; each using names for the planets that the other could not understand, pointing up at the big stars as they moved across the night sky. The kids in the house pulled at his rosary without being scolded; and he completely forgot the Rule that prohibits looking at women as he spoke about endless snows, landslides, blocked roads, the distant cliffs where people find sapphires and turquoise, and that amazing high road that eventually leads into Great China itself.

'What do you think of this one?' said the cultivator to the priest.

'A holy man—a truly holy man. His gods aren't the true gods, but he's on the right path,' was the reply. 'And his ways of understanding births, though that's beyond you, are smart and reliable.'

'Tell me,' said Kim lazily, 'am I going to find my Red Bull in a green field, like you promised?'

"What do you know about your birth time?" the priest asked, puffing himself up with importance.

'Between the first and second rooster crows of the first night in May.'

'What year?'

'I don't know; but at the moment I first cried, the big earthquake hit Srinagar in Kashmir.' Kim learned this from the woman who took care of him, and she got it from Kimball O'Hara. The earthquake was felt in India and for a long time was a significant date in the Punjab.

'Ai!' a woman exclaimed excitedly. This seemed to confirm Kim's supernatural origin even more. 'Wasn't such a person's daughter born then—'[53]

'And her mother gave her husband four sons in four years—all expected to be boys,' cried the farmer's wife, sitting outside the circle in the shade.

'No one raised with knowledge,' said the family priest, 'forgets how the planets were aligned in their Houses on that night.' He started to sketch in the dust of the courtyard. 'At least you have a solid claim to half of the House of the Bull. What's your prophecy?'

'One day,' said Kim, excited by the impact he was having, 'I'll achieve greatness with a Red Bull on a green field, but first, two men will come in to prepare everything.'

'Yes: this is always how a vision starts. A thick darkness that slowly clears; then someone enters with a broom to prepare the space. That’s when the vision begins. Two men—you say? Yes, indeed. The Sun, leaving the House of the Bull, enters the House of the Twins. Hence the two men in the prophecy. Now, let’s think about this. Bring me a twig, little one.'

He furrowed his brows, scratched, smoothed out, and scratched again in the dust mysterious symbols—to the amazement of everyone except the lama, who, with a keen sense, chose not to interfere.

At the end of half an hour, he threw the stick away with a grunt.

'Hm. So say the stars. In three days, the two men will arrive to prepare everything. After them comes the Bull; but the sign opposite him is the sign of War and armed men.'

'There was actually a man from the Loodhiana Sikhs in the carriage from Lahore,' said the farmer's wife hopefully.

'Tck! Armed men—many hundreds. What concern[54] do you have with war?' said the priest to Kim. 'Yours is a red and angry sign of War about to break out very soon.'

'None—none,' said the lama sincerely. 'We only seek peace and our River.'

Kim smiled, recalling what he had overheard in the dressing room. It was clear that he was a favorite of the stars.

The priest nudged the rough horoscope with his foot. 'I can't see more than this. In three days, the Bull will come to you, boy.'

'And my River, my River,' begged the lama. 'I had hoped his Bull would guide us both to the River.'

'Alas, for that amazing River, my brother,' the priest replied. 'Such things are rare.'

Next morning, even though they were urged to stay, the lama insisted on leaving. They gave Kim a big bundle of food and almost three annas in copper coins for their journey, and with many blessings, they watched the two head south in the early light.

"Pity it is that these and others like them couldn’t escape the Wheel of Things," said the lama.

'Nah, then only bad people would be left on the earth, and who would provide us with food and shelter?' said Kim, happily stepping along with his load.

'Over there is a small stream. Let's check it out,' said the lama, and he led away from the white road across the fields, walking straight into a swarm of stray dogs.

[55]

'That person,' said the lama, ignoring the dogs, 'is rude to strangers, harsh with his words, and unkind. Pay attention to his behavior, my disciple.'

'Hey, shameless beggars!' shouted the farmer. 'Go away! Get out of here!'

'We're leaving,' the lama said with calm dignity. 'We're leaving this cursed land.'

'Ah,' said Kim, taking a deep breath. 'If the next crops fail, you can only blame yourself for what you said.'

The man shifted awkwardly in his slippers. 'There are so many beggars around,' he said, half apologizing.

'And how did you know we would ask you for help, O Mali?' Kim said sharply, using the name that a market-gardener hates the most. 'All we wanted was to see that river beyond the field over there.'

'River, really!' the man snorted. 'What city are you from that you don't know about a canal? It runs just as straight[56] as an arrow, and I pay for the water as if it were liquid silver. There's a branch of a river beyond. But if you need water, I can provide that—and milk.'

'Nah, we’ll go to the river,' said the lama, walking out.

'Milk and a meal,' the man stuttered, glancing at the unusual tall figure. 'I—I wouldn’t want to bring misfortune upon myself—or my crops; but there are so many beggars in these tough times.'

'Pay attention,' the lama said to Kim. 'He was pushed to speak harshly by the Red Mist of anger. Once that clears from his eyes, he becomes polite and friendly. May his fields be blessed. Don't judge people too quickly, O farmer.'

'I’ve met holy people who would have cursed you from the fireplace to the barn,' said Kim to the embarrassed man. 'Is he not wise and holy? I am his student.'

He held his nose up high and walked across the narrow edges of the field with a lot of dignity.

'There’s no pride,' said the lama, after a pause, 'there’s no pride among those who follow the Middle Way.'

'But you said he was low caste and rude.'

'Low caste I did not say, because how can something that doesn’t exist be labeled? Later, he corrected his rudeness, and I moved past the offense. Besides, he is like us, trapped in the Cycle of Life; but he doesn’t follow the path to freedom.' He stopped at a small stream in the fields and looked at the hoof-marked bank.

'So how will you know your River?' Kim said, sitting in the shade of some tall sugarcane.

'When I find it, I will surely gain clarity. This, I sense, isn't the right place. O tiniest among the[57] waters, if only you could tell me where my River flows! But may you be blessed to make the fields fruitful!'

'Look! Look!' Kim jumped to his side and pulled him back. A yellow and brown streak moved from the purple rustling stems to the bank, stretched its neck to the water, drank, and stayed still—a big cobra with wide-open, unblinking eyes.

'I don't have a stick—I don't have a stick,' said Kim. 'I'll get one and break his back.'

'Why? He is on the Wheel like us—a life going up or down—still far from salvation. The soul must have committed great evil to be trapped in this form.'

"I hate all snakes," Kim said. No amount of local training can erase the white man's fear of the Serpent.

'Let him live out his life.' The coiled creature hissed and partially opened its hood. 'May your release come soon, brother,' the lama continued calmly. 'Do you happen to know about my River?'

'I've never seen a man like you before,' Kim whispered, amazed. 'Can even the snakes understand what you say?'

'Who knows?'. He walked past the cobra's poised head, which was only a foot away. It flattened itself among the dusty coils.

'Come on!' he called over his shoulder.

'Not me,' said Kim. 'I go around.'

'Come. He won't hurt you.'

Kim paused for a moment. The lama supported his command with a monotonous Chinese saying that Kim thought was a charm. He complied and leaped over the stream, and the snake, in fact, showed no reaction.

'I've never seen a man like that.' Kim wiped the sweat from his forehead. 'And now, where do we go?'

'That’s for you to decide. I’m old and a stranger—far[58] from where I belong. If the carriage wasn’t filling my head with the sounds of devil-drums, I would ride it to Benares right now. . . . But by doing that, we might miss the River. Let’s find another river.'

Where the hardworking soil produces three or even four crops a year—filled with patches of sugarcane, tobacco, long white radishes, and nol-kol—they strolled all day, pausing at every sight of water; waking village dogs and dozing villages at noon; the lama answering the flurry of questions with unwavering simplicity. They were looking for a river—a river known for its miraculous healing. Did anyone know of such a stream? Sometimes people laughed, but more often they listened to the whole story and offered them a spot in the shade, a glass of milk, and a meal. The women were always kind, and the little children, like children everywhere, were alternately shy and bold. By evening, they were resting under the village tree in a small hamlet with mud walls and a mud roof, chatting with the headman as the cattle returned from grazing and the women prepared the last meal of the day. They had moved beyond the market gardens surrounding hungry Umballa and were among the expansive fields of staple crops.

He was a friendly older man with a white beard, used to welcoming strangers. He pulled out a bed frame for the lama, set warm cooked food in front of him, got him a pipe, and after the evening ceremonies wrapped up at the village temple, he called for the village priest.

Kim shared stories with the older kids about how big and beautiful Lahore is, about train rides, and other city experiences, while the men chatted slowly, like their cattle grazing. [59]

'I can't understand it,' said the headman finally to the priest. 'What do you make of this conversation?' The lama, having finished his story, was quietly counting his beads.

'He's a Seeker,' the priest replied. 'This place is full of them. Remember the one who came just last month—the faquir with the tortoise?'

'Ay, but that man had the right idea, for Krishna Himself appeared in a vision promising him Paradise without the burning pyre if he traveled to Prayag. This man isn’t looking for any god I know of.'

'Calm down, he’s old: he comes from far away, and he’s crazy,' the clean-shaven priest said. 'Listen to me.' He turned to the lama. 'Three kos (six miles) to the west, the main road to Calcutta runs.'

'But I would go to Benares—to Benares.'

'And to Benares also. It crosses all the rivers on this side of Hind. Now my advice to you, Holy One, is to rest here until tomorrow. Then take the road' (it was the Grand Trunk Road he was referring to) 'and check each river that it crosses; for, as I understand, the power of your River lies not in one spot or pool, but along its entire length. Then, if your gods will it, you can be sure that you will find your freedom.'

'That’s well said.' The lama was really impressed by the plan. 'We'll start tomorrow, and thank you for showing old feet such a short path.' A deep, melodic Chinese half-chant finished his sentence. Even the priest was impressed, and the headman worried about a bad omen; but no one could look at the lama’s simple, eager face and doubt him for long.

'Do you see my chela?' he said, diving into his snuff-gourd with a serious sniff. It was his job to return courtesy with courtesy.[60]

'I see—and hear.' The headman rolled his eye where Kim was talking to a girl in blue as she added crackling thorns to the fire.

'He also has his own quest. Not a river, but a Bull. Yeah, a Red Bull on a green field will someday elevate him to honor. I think he’s not completely of this world. He came out of nowhere to help me in this search, and his name is Friend of all the World.'

The priest smiled. 'Hey there, Friend of all the World,' he shouted over the sharp-smelling smoke, 'who are you?'

'This Holy One's disciple,' Kim said.

'He says you are a spirit.'

'Can you eat nuts?' said Kim, with a sparkle in their eye. 'Because I'm hungry.'

'It's no joke,' shouted the lama. 'There's an astrologer in that city whose name I can't remember—'

'That’s just the city of Umballa where we slept last night,' Kim whispered to the priest.

'Ay, Umballa was it? He made a horoscope and said that my student would find what he wanted in two days. But what did he have to say about the meaning of the stars, Friend of all the World?'

Kim cleared his throat and looked around at the village elders.

'The meaning of my Star is War,' he said arrogantly.

Somebody laughed at the small, worn figure walking confidently on the brick pedestal under the big tree. While a local might have rested, Kim's white heritage kept him standing.

"Yeah, War," he replied.

'That's a sure prediction,' a deep voice rumbled. 'Because there’s always war along the Border—as I know.'[61]

It was an old, frail man who had served the Government during the Mutiny as a native officer in a newly formed cavalry regiment. The Government had given him a good piece of land in the village, and although the demands of his sons, who were now old officers themselves, had drained his resources, he was still an important figure. English officials—even Deputy Commissioners—would divert from the main road to visit him, and during those visits, he would dress in the uniform of the past and stand stiffly like a ramrod.

'But this will be a huge war—a war of eight thousand,' Kim's voice pierced through the quickly gathering crowd, surprising himself.

'Redcoats or our own troops?' the old man snapped, as if he were asking an equal. His tone commanded respect from the men for Kim.

'Redcoats,' Kim said uncertainly. 'Redcoats and guns.'

'But—the astrologer didn't mention any of this,' the lama exclaimed, sniffling a lot in his excitement.

'But I know. The word has reached me, who am this Holy One's disciple. A war is coming—a war of eight thousand redcoats. They will come from Pindi and Peshawur. This is certain.'

'The boy has heard gossip,' said the priest.

'But he was always by my side,' said the lama. 'How would he know? I didn't know.'

'He'll be a clever juggler when the old man is gone,' the priest muttered to the headman. 'What new trick is this?'

'A sign. Give me a sign,' the old soldier shouted suddenly. 'If there were a war, my sons would have told me.'[62]

'When everything is set, your sons, without a doubt, will be informed. But it’s a long journey from your sons to the person who holds these things in his hands.' Kim got into the game, as it reminded him of times in the courier business, when, for just a few coins, he acted like he knew more than he actually did. But now he was in it for bigger stakes—the pure thrill and the feeling of control. He took a deep breath and continued.

'Old man, give me a sign. Do subordinates dictate the movements of eight thousand redcoats—with guns?'

'No.' The old man replied as if Kim were his equal.

'Do you know who He is that gives the order?'

"I've seen Him."

'Remember?'

'I have known him since he was a lieutenant in the artillery.'

'A tall man. A tall man with black hair, walking like this?' Kim took a few steps in a stiff, wooden manner.

'Ay. But that anyone may have seen.' The crowd remained breathless and still through all this discussion.

'That's true,' said Kim. 'But let me add more. Look now. First, the great man walks like this. Then he thinks like this.' (Kim traced a line across his forehead and downwards until it rested at the angle of his jaw.) 'Then he twitches his fingers like this. Then he pushes his hat under his left armpit.' Kim demonstrated the motion and stood like a stork.

The old man groaned, speechless with amazement; and the crowd shivered.

'So—so—so. But what does He do when He’s about to give an order?'

He rubs the skin at the back of his neck—like this.[63] Then he taps a finger on the table and makes a slight sniffing sound through his nose. Then he speaks, saying: "Discharge this regiment. Bring out those guns."

The old man stood up slowly and saluted.

'"For"'—Kim translated into the everyday language the deciding sentences he had heard in the dressing room at Umballa—'"For," he says, "we should have done this a long time ago. It's not war—it's punishment. Snff!"'

'That's enough. I believe. I've seen Him like this in the smoke of battles. I’ve seen and heard. It is Him!'

'I saw no smoke'—Kim's voice turned into the enchanting, rhythmic tone of a roadside fortune-teller. 'I saw this in darkness. First, a man came to clarify things. Then horsemen appeared. After that came He, standing in a circle of light. The rest followed as I've explained. Old man, have I spoken the truth?'

'It's Him. No doubt about it, it's Him.'

The crowd took a deep, shaky breath, shifting their gaze between the old man, who stood rigid, and the worn-out Kim against the deep purple twilight.

'Said I not—said I not he was from the other world?' cried the lama proudly. 'He is the Friend of all the World. He is the Friend of the Stars!'

'At least it doesn't involve us,' a man shouted. 'Oh you young fortune-teller, if your gift is with you all the time, I have a red-spotted cow. She could be a sister to your Bull for all I know—'

'Or I care,' said Kim. 'My stars don't worry about your cattle.'

'No, but she is very sick,' a woman interjected. 'My husband is a fool, or he would have chosen his words better. Tell me, will she recover?'[64]

Had Kim been an ordinary boy, he would have continued the game; but you can't live in Lahore city, especially near the faquirs by the Taksali Gate, for thirteen years without also understanding human nature.

The priest glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, with a hint of bitterness—a dry and withering smile.

'Is there no priest in the village? I thought I just saw a really important one,' cried Kim.

"Ay—but—" the woman started.

'But you and your husband hoped to get the cow cured for a handful of thanks.' The shot landed: they were well-known as the stingiest couple in the village. 'It's wrong to cheat the temples. Give a young calf to your own priest, and, unless your gods are really angry, she’ll start giving milk within a month.'

'A master beggar you are,' the priest purred approvingly. 'Not even the tricks of forty years could have done better. You've surely made the old man wealthy, right?'

'A bit of flour, a bit of butter, and a mouthful of cardamom,' Kim replied, blushing from the compliment, but still careful—'can you really get rich off that? And, as you can see, he's crazy. But it helps me while I learn the way, at least.'

He knew what the holy men at Taksali Gate were like when they talked among themselves, and mimicked the exact tone of their crude followers.

'Is his search for truth, or is it just a cover for something else? It could be treasure.'

'He's crazy—so often crazy. There's nothing more to it.'

Here the old soldier limped over and asked if Kim would take him up on his offer of staying for the night. The priest suggested that he should, but emphasized that the privilege of hosting the lama belonged to the temple—at which the lama smiled innocently. Kim looked from one face to the other and formed his own conclusions.

'Where's the money?' he whispered, signaling the old man to follow him into the darkness.

'In my heart. Where else?'

'Give it to me. Quietly and quickly give it to me.'

'But why? There's no ticket to buy.'

'Am I your disciple, or am I not? Don’t I protect your old feet along the journey? Give me the money, and I’ll return it at dawn.' He slid his hand above the lama's belt and took the purse.

'So be it—so be it.' The old man nodded his head. 'This is a huge and frightening world. I never realized there were so many people living in it.'

Next morning, the priest was in a really bad mood, but the lama was pretty happy; and Kim had a very interesting evening with the old man, who pulled out his cavalry saber and, balancing it on his bony knees, shared stories of the Mutiny and young captains who had been dead for thirty years, until Kim drifted off to sleep.

'The air in this country is definitely nice,' the lama said. 'I sleep lightly, like all old men do; but last night I slept soundly until morning. Even now, I feel sleepy.'

'Drink a glass of hot milk,' said Kim, who had brought a fair number of such remedies to opium smokers he knew. 'It's time to hit the road again.'

'The long road that crosses all the rivers of India,' said the lama cheerfully. 'Let’s go. But how do you plan to repay these people, especially the priest, for their kindness? They are merely worshippers, but in another life, maybe they will find enlightenment. How about a rupee for the temple? The place[66] inside is just stone and red paint, but we must recognize the goodness in people's hearts when it exists.'

'Holy One, have you ever walked the path alone?' Kim looked up suddenly, like the Indian crows fluttering around the fields.

'Surely, child: from Kulu to Pathankot—from Kulu, where my first disciple died. When people were kind to us we made offerings, and everyone was friendly throughout all the Hills.'

"It’s different in India," Kim said dryly. "Their gods have many arms and are cruel. Just leave them be."

'I would send you on your way for a bit, Friend of all the World—you and your yellow man.' The old soldier strolled down the village street, dim in the early morning light, on a thin, awkward pony. 'Last night stirred up the wells of memory in my hardened heart, and it felt like a blessing to me. Truly, there is war in the air. I can smell it. Look! I’ve brought my sword.'

He sat with his legs stretched out on the small animal, the large sword at his side—his hand resting on the hilt—glaring intensely over the flatlands to the north. "Tell me again how He appeared in your vision. Come up and sit behind me. The animal can carry two."

'I am this Holy One's disciple,' Kim said as they exited the village gate. The villagers looked almost regretful to see them go, but the priest's farewell was cold and distant. He had wasted some opium on a man who had no money.

'That’s well said. I’m not really used to holy men, but respect is always important. There’s just no respect these days—not even when a Commissioner Sahib[67] comes to see me. But why should someone whose destiny leads him to war follow a holy man?'

'But he's a holy man,' Kim said earnestly. 'Truly, in his words and actions, he's holy. He's not like the others. I've never seen anyone like him. We're not fortune-tellers, or performers, or beggars.'

'You're not, as far as I can tell; but I don't know about the other. He walks confidently, though.'

The morning's freshness encouraged the lama to move ahead with long, effortless, camel-like strides. He was lost in meditation, mindlessly clicking his rosary.

They followed the rough and worn country road that wound through the flat land between the lush dark-green mango groves, with the faint outline of the snow-capped Himalayas in the east. All of India was busy in the fields, with the creaking of well wheels, the calls of farmers managing their cattle, and the noise of the crows. Even the pony sensed the positive energy and nearly broke into a trot as Kim placed a hand on the stirrup leather.

"It makes me regret that I didn't give a rupee to the shrine," said the lama on the last bead of his eighty-one.

The old soldier grumbled in his beard, making the lama notice him for the first time.

"Are you looking for the River too?" he asked, turning.

'The day is fresh,' was the response. 'What use is a river if not to drink from before sunset? I'm here to show you a quick path to the Main Road.'

'That's a kindness to remember, O man of good intentions; but why the sword?'

The old soldier looked as embarrassed as a kid caught in the middle of a game of pretend.

'The sword,' he said, struggling to hold it. 'Oh, that was a[68] whim of mine—just an old man's whim. Honestly, the police make it clear that no one can carry weapons across Hind, but'—he perked up and patted the hilt—'everyone in the area knows me.'

'It's not a good idea,' the lama said. 'What benefit is there in killing people?'

'Not much—as far as I know; but if bad men weren't occasionally killed, it wouldn't be a safe world for defenseless dreamers. I'm not speaking from ignorance; I've seen the land from Delhi south soaked in blood.'

'What was that madness, then?'

'The gods, who sent it as a curse, alone know. A madness spread through the entire Army, and they turned against their leaders. That was the first wrong, but it could have been fixed if they had held back. Instead, they decided to kill the officers' wives and children. Then the officers came from across the sea and demanded an account from them.'

'Some rumor like that, I think, reached me once a long time ago. They called it the Black Year, if I recall correctly.'

'What kind of life have you led, not to know The Year? That's unbelievable! Everyone on earth knew and was scared.'

'Our earth has only shaken once—on the day that the Great One achieved Enlightenment.'

'Umph! I saw Delhi shake at least; and Delhi is the navel of the world.'

'So they turned against women and children? That was a terrible thing to do, and they can't escape the consequences.'

'Many tried to do so, but with very little success. I was in a cavalry unit at the time. It fell apart. Out of six hundred and eighty sabres that held firm—guess how many? Three. And I was one of them.'

[69]

'The greater benefit.'

'Merit! We didn’t see it as merit back then. My people, my friends, my brothers turned away from me. They said: "The English have had their time. Let each person grab a little for themselves." But I had spoken with the men from Sobraon, Chillianwallah, Moodkee, and Ferozeshah. I said: "Hold on a little and the tide will change. There’s no blessing in this." Back then, I rode seventy miles with an English lady and her baby on my saddle. (Wow! That was a horse fit for a man!) I got them to safety and then I returned to my officer—the only one of our five who wasn’t killed. "Give me something to do," I said, "because I’m an outcast among my own people, and my cousin’s blood is on my sabre." "Be patient," he said. "There’s important work ahead. When this madness is over, there will be a reward."'

"Ay, there’s gotta be a payoff once the madness is over, right?" the lama murmured, mostly to himself.

They didn’t give out medals back then to just anyone who happened to hear a gun go off. No! I fought in nineteen major battles, in forty-six skirmishes on horseback, and countless small clashes. I bear nine wounds; I have a medal, four clasps, and an Order medal because my captains, who are now generals, remembered me when the Kaiser-i-Hind celebrated her fifty years on the throne, and the whole country rejoiced. They said, “Give him the Order of British India.” I wear it around my neck now. I also have my jaghir (land grant) given to me by the State as a free gift for me and my family. The men from the old days—they are now Commissioners—come riding to me through the fields, high on their horses so everyone in the village can see us, and we talk about the old skirmishes, one dead man's name reminding us of another.

"And then?" said the lama.

'Oh, they leave afterwards, but not before my village has seen.'

'And in the end, what will you do?'

'I will eventually die.'

'What's next?'

'Let the gods take care of it. I've never bothered them with prayers, so I don’t think they’ll bother me. You see, I’ve noticed throughout my long life that those who constantly interrupt the higher powers with complaints, reports, loud cries, and tears are usually called up quickly, just like our colonel used to summon the slow-witted country guys who talked too much. No, I’ve never worn out the gods. They will remember this and provide me a peaceful place where I can rest my lance in the shade and wait to greet my sons: I have no less than three—ressaldar-majors all—in the regiments.'

'And they too, tied to the Wheel, move from life to life—from despair to despair,' said the lama under his breath, 'agitated, restless, grasping.'

'Yeah,' the old soldier chuckled. 'Three major sergeants in three different regiments. They gamble a bit, but so do I. They must have good horses, and you can't just take the horses like you used to take women. Well, my holdings can cover all of that. What do you think? It’s a well-watered piece of land, but my men cheat me. I don’t know how to ask for what's mine except by force. Ugh! I get angry and curse them, and they pretend to be sorry, but behind my back, I know they call me a toothless old ape.'

'Haven't you ever wanted anything else?'[71]

Yes—yes—a thousand times! A straight back and a snug knee once again; a quick wrist and a sharp eye; and the essence that defines a man. Oh, the old days—the great days of my strength!

'That strength is a weakness.'

'It has turned out this way; but fifty years ago, I could have proven it differently,' the old soldier shot back, digging his stirrup into the pony's thin side.

'But I know a River that heals greatly.'

'I’ve drunk Gunga-water to the point of bloating. All it gave me was diarrhea, and it didn’t help my strength at all.'

'It’s not Gunga. The river I know washes away all sin. Climbing up the far bank ensures your Freedom. I don’t know your life, but your face shows you are honorable and kind. You have stuck to your path, staying loyal when it was tough, in that dark year I now recall other stories from. Now take the Middle Way, which leads to Freedom. Listen to the Most Excellent Law, and don’t chase dreams.'

'Go ahead and speak, old man,' the soldier smiled, giving a half salute. 'We all just chatter at our age.'

The lama squatted under the shade of a mango tree, its shadow creating a checkered pattern on his face; the soldier sat rigidly on the pony; and Kim, checking for snakes, lay down in the space created by the twisted roots.

There was a sleepy buzz of small life in the hot sun, a cooing of doves, and a lazy drone of wheels across the fields. Slowly and impressively, the lama began. After ten minutes, the old soldier slid off his pony to listen better and sat with the reins around his wrist. The lama's voice wavered—the[72] pauses grew longer. Kim was busy watching a gray squirrel. When the little, scolding bundle of fur, pressed close to the branch, disappeared, both the preacher and the audience had fallen fast asleep, the old officer's strong head resting on his arm, the lama's head thrown back against the tree, where it looked like yellow ivory. A naked child toddled over, stared, and, driven by some sudden impulse of reverence, made a solemn little bow before the lama—but the child was so short and chubby that it toppled over sideways, and Kim laughed at the sprawled, chubby legs. The child, startled and outraged, yelled out loud.

'Hai! Hai!' said the soldier, jumping to his feet. 'What's going on? What are the orders? . . . It’s . . . a child! I thought it was an alarm. Little one—little one—please don't cry. Did I fall asleep? That was really rude of me!'

'I’m scared! I’m really scared!' shouted the child.

'What is there to be afraid of? Two old guys and a kid? How are you ever going to be a soldier, little prince?'

The lama had also woken up, but without directly acknowledging the child, he clicked his rosary.

'What is that?' the child exclaimed, cutting off a scream. 'I’ve never seen anything like this. Give it to me.'

'Aha,' said the lama, smiling and dragging a loop of it across the grass:

The child screamed with joy and grabbed at the dark, shiny beads.[73]

'Oho!' said the old soldier. 'Where did you get that song, you who look down on this world?'

"I learned it in Pathankot—sitting on a doorstep," said the lama shyly. "It's good to be kind to babies."

'As I recall, before we fell asleep, you told me that marriage and having children obscure the true light, creating obstacles on the path. Do children just fall from the sky in your country? Is it the way to sing them songs?'

'No one is completely perfect,' said the lama seriously, rewinding the rosary. 'Now go to your mother, little one.'

'Hear him!' said the soldier to Kim. 'He feels guilty for making a child happy. There was a really good person lost in you, my brother. Hey, kid!' He tossed a coin to the child. 'Treats are always nice.' And as the little figure danced away into the sunlight: 'They grow up and become men. Holy One, I regret that I dozed off during your preaching. Forgive me.'

'We are two old men,' said the lama. 'The blame is mine. I paid attention to your talk about the world and its craziness, and one mistake led to another.'

'Hear him! What harm do your gods suffer from playing with a baby? And that song was really well sung. Let’s continue, and I’ll sing you the song of Nikal Seyn before Delhi—the old song.'

And they emerged from the shadow of the mango grove, the old man's high, sharp voice echoing across the field, as he recounted, sorrowful wail after sorrowful wail, the story of Nikal Seyn (Nicholson)—the song that people still sing in Punjab today. Kim was thrilled, and the lama listened intently.

'Ahi! Nikal Seyn is dead—he died before Delhi![74] Lances of North take revenge for Nikal Seyn.' He trembled as he said it, emphasizing the trills with the flat of his sword on the pony's rear.

'And now we come to the Big Road,' he said, after receiving Kim's compliments; the lama was notably quiet. 'It's been a long time since I've traveled this way, but your boy's words inspired me. Look, Holy One—the Great Road, which is the backbone of all of Hind. For the most part, it’s shaded like this, with four rows of trees; the middle road—all hard—carries the fast traffic. In the days before trains, the Sahibs traveled up and down this road by the hundreds. Now there are only country carts and similar vehicles. On the left and right, there’s the rougher path for heavy carts—carrying grain, cotton, timber, bhoosa, lime, and hides. A person can travel safely here—there's a police station every few kos. The police are liars and extortionists (I would patrol it with cavalry—young recruits under a strong captain), but at least they don't allow any competition. All kinds and castes of people move here. Look! Brahmins and chumars, bankers and tinkers, barbers and bunnias, pilgrims and potters—everyone is coming and going. It feels to me like a river from which I'm pulled away like a log after a flood.'

And honestly, the Grand Trunk Road is an amazing sight. It stretches straight, carrying India's traffic for fifteen hundred miles—like a river of life that you can't find anywhere else in the world. They gazed at the green-arched, shaded stretch of it, the wide, busy expanse dotted with leisurely people; and the two-room police station across the street.

'Who is fighting against the law?' a constable called out with a laugh, noticing the soldier's sword. 'Isn't the police enough to take care of the wrongdoers?'[75]

'It was because of the police that I bought it,' was the reply. 'Is everything going well in Hind?'

'Ressaldar Sahib, everything's going well.'

'I’m like an old tortoise, you see, who sticks its head out from the shore and then pulls it back in. Yes, this is the path of Hindustan. Everyone takes this route. . . .'

'Son of a pig, is the soft part of the road meant for you to scratch your back on? Father of all the shameful daughters and husband of ten thousand worthless ones, your mother was devoted to a devil, led there by her mother; your aunts have had no sense for seven generations! Your sister—What foolish bird told you to drag your carts across the road? A broken wheel? Then take a broken head and put the two together at your leisure!'

The voice and a sharp crack of a whip echoed from a cloud of dust fifty yards away, where a cart had broken down. A slender, nervous Kattiwar mare, with fiery eyes and flared nostrils, burst out of the mess, snorting and flinching as her rider pulled her across the road in pursuit of a shouting man. He was tall and gray-bearded, controlling the nearly wild horse like it was an extension of himself, skillfully striking his target amidst the chaotic movement.

The old man's face brightened with pride. 'My child!' he said briefly, trying to bend the pony's neck into a nice arch.

'Am I really going to be beaten in front of the police?' yelled the carter. 'Justice! I demand Justice—'

'Am I going to be stopped by a yelling monkey who annoys ten thousand sacks right in front of a young horse? That's how you ruin a mare.'

'He's telling the truth. He's telling the truth. But she sticks by[76] her man,' said the old man. The cart driver rushed under the wheels of his cart and then threatened all kinds of revenge.

'They are strong men, your sons,' said the policeman calmly, picking his teeth.

The horseman gave one final harsh swing with his whip and approached at a gallop.

'My dad!' He pulled back ten yards and got off his horse.

The old man jumped off his pony right away, and they hugged like a father and son in the East.

[77]

'Let’s continue. The River isn’t here.'

'Hai mai? Haven't we walked enough for a bit? Our River isn't going anywhere. Just be patient, and it will provide for us.'

'That,' said the old soldier suddenly, 'is the Friend of the Stars. He brought me the news yesterday. I saw the very man Himself in a vision, giving orders for the war.'[78]

'Hm!' said his son, with a deep voice. 'He heard a rumor at the market and took advantage of it.'

His father laughed. "At least he didn’t come to me begging for a new charger and God knows how many rupees. Are your brothers' regiments also under orders?"

'I don't know. I took time off and hurried to you just in case—'

'If they ran ahead of you to beg. Oh, gamblers and spenders! But you’ve never actually ridden into battle. You definitely need a good horse for that. A good companion and a good pony for marching too. Let’s see—let’s see.' He tapped on the pommel.

'This isn't the right place to settle our differences, Dad. Let's go to your house.'

'At least pay the boy then: I have no money with me, and he brought good news. Hey! Friend of all the World, a war is coming just as you said.'

'Nah, as far as I know, the war,' replied Kim calmly.

'Eh?' said the lama, playing with his beads, excited for the journey.

'My master doesn't bother the Stars for money. We brought the news—just know that we brought the news, and now we're leaving.' Kim half-crooked his hand at his side.

The son tossed a silver coin into the sunlight, grumbling something about beggars and street performers. It was a four-anna piece, and it would feed them well for several days. The lama, noticing the shine of the metal, murmured a blessing.

'Go on your way, Friend of all the World,' said the old soldier, turning his skinny horse. 'For the first time in all my life, I have met a true prophet—who wasn't in the Army.'[79]

Father and son swung around together: the old man sitting as upright as the younger.

A Punjabi officer in yellow linen pants lounged across the road. He had watched the money go by.

'Halt!' he shouted in an authoritative tone. 'Don’t you know that there’s a fee of two annas per person, which comes to four annas, for those entering the road from this side street? It’s the order of the government, and the money is used for planting trees and beautifying the area.'

'And the bellies of the police,' said Kim, skipping out of reach. 'Think about it for a moment, man with a muddy head. Do you think we just came from the nearest pond like your father-in-law, the frog? Have you ever heard the name of your brother?'

'And who was he? Leave the boy alone,' shouted a senior officer, clearly amused, as he sat down to smoke his pipe on the porch.

'He took a label from a bottle of soda water and stuck it to a bridge, collecting taxes for a month from everyone who passed, claiming it was the government's order. Then an Englishman showed up and knocked him out. Ah, brother, I’m a city crow, not a village crow!'

The policeman stepped back, embarrassed, and Kim laughed at him all the way down the road.

'Was there ever a disciple like me?' he said playfully to the lama. 'Everyone on earth would have picked your bones within ten miles of Lahore city if I hadn't protected you.'

'I think to myself whether you're a spirit sometimes, or maybe an evil imp,' said the lama, smiling slowly.

'I am your follower.' Kim fell into step beside him— that unique stride of a long-distance traveler everywhere.[80]

'Let's go for a walk,' murmured the lama, and to the clicking of his rosary, they walked in silence for mile after mile. The lama, as usual, was lost in meditation, but Kim's bright eyes were wide open. This wide, cheerful river of life, he thought, was a huge upgrade from the tight and busy streets of Lahore. There were new people and new sights at every step—castes he recognized and castes that were entirely unfamiliar to him.

They encountered a group of long-haired, strongly scented Sansis carrying baskets of lizards and other unclean food on their backs, with their lean dogs sniffing at their heels. These individuals stuck to their side of the road, moving at a quick, sneaky jog, and all other castes gave them plenty of space since the Sansis are seen as deeply polluting. Behind them, striding wide and stiffly through the strong shadows, still feeling the memory of his leg irons, walked someone recently released from jail; his full stomach and shiny skin proving that the Government fed its prisoners better than many honest people could feed themselves. Kim recognized that walk well and made a broad joke about it as they passed. Then an Akali appeared— a wild-eyed, wild-haired Sikh devotee in the blue-checked clothes of his faith, with polished steel quoits gleaming on the cone of his tall blue turban, coming back from a visit to one of the independent Sikh States, where he had been singing the ancient glories of the Khalsa to college-educated princes in top-boots and white-cord breeches. Kim was careful not to irritate him; the Akali's temper is short and his arm quick. Here and there, they encountered or were overtaken by brightly dressed crowds from entire villages turning out for some local fair; the women, with their babies on their hips, walking behind the men, while older boys pranced on sticks of sugarcane, dragging crude brass models of locomotives sold for a halfpenny, or reflecting sunlight into the eyes of their betters with cheap toy mirrors. One could instantly see what each had bought, and if there was any doubt, it was only necessary to watch the wives compare, brown arm against brown arm, the newly purchased dull glass bracelets that came from the North-West. These merry-makers moved slowly, calling to one another and stopping to bargain with sweetmeat sellers or make a prayer at one of the roadside shrines—sometimes Hindu, sometimes Muslim—which the low castes of both faiths shared with beautiful impartiality. A solid line of blue, rising and falling like the back of a hurried caterpillar, swung through the quivering dust and trotted by to a chorus of quick cackling. That was a group of changars—women who manage the embankments of all the Northern railways—sturdy, broad-shouldered, strong-limbed, blue-petticoated earth-carriers, hurrying north with news of a job, wasting no time on the road. They belonged to the caste whose men are not counted and walked with squared elbows, swinging hips, and heads held high, as suits women who carry heavy loads. Soon after, a marriage procession would converge on the Grand Trunk, bringing music and shouts, and a fragrance of marigold and jasmine even stronger than the dust. One could catch a glimpse of the bride’s litter, a blur of red and tinsel, swaying through the haze, while the bridegroom's flower-adorned pony turned aside to snatch a bite from a passing fodder cart. Then Kim would join in the cheerful fire of good wishes and bad jokes, wishing the couple a hundred sons and no daughters, as the saying goes. Even more interesting and worth shouting about was when a wandering juggler with some half-trained monkeys, or a wheezing, weak bear, or a woman who tied goats' horns to her feet and danced on a slack rope, caused the horses to shy and the women to burst into high-pitched, drawn-out cries of amazement.

The lama never looked up. He didn’t notice the money-lender on his scruffy pony, rushing by to collect harsh interest; or the loud, deep-voiced little group of native soldiers on leave, happy to be free from their trousers and puttees, and saying the wildest things to the respectable women around. He didn’t even see the seller of Ganges-water, and Kim thought he would at least buy a bottle of that valuable stuff. He focused intently on the ground and walked steadily hour after hour, his mind occupied elsewhere. But Kim was overjoyed. The Grand Trunk at this point was built on an embankment to prevent winter floods from the foothills, so it felt like walking slightly above the land, along a grand corridor with all of India spread out left and right. It was lovely to see the many-yoked grain and cotton wagons crawling along the country roads: you could hear their squeaky axles from a mile away, coming closer until, with shouts and curses, they climbed up the steep slope and drove onto the hard main road, drivers yelling at each other. It was equally beautiful to watch the people, little clusters of red, blue, pink, white, and saffron, turning to go to their own villages, scattering and getting smaller in twos and threes across the flat land. Kim felt all these things, even though he couldn’t express his feelings, so he contented himself with buying peeled sugar-cane and generously spitting the pith along his path. From time to time, the lama took snuff, and finally, Kim couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

'This is a great place—the land of the South!' he said. 'The air is nice; the water is good. Right?'

'And they are all trapped in the Wheel,' said the lama. 'Trapped from life to life. None of them has seen the Way.' He shook himself back to this world.

'And now we’ve walked a long way,' said Kim. 'We should be arriving at a resting spot soon. Should we stop there? Look, the sun is setting.'

'Who will host us this evening?'

'That’s all the same. This country is full of good people. Besides,'—he lowered his voice to a whisper,—'we have money.'

The crowd grew larger as they approached the stop that signified the end of their day’s travel. A row of stalls selling basic food and tobacco, a pile of firewood, a police station, a well, a horse trough, a few trees, and some trampled ground scattered with the black ashes of old fires are all that you find at a parao on the Grand Trunk, not to mention the beggars and the crows—both looking for food.

By this time, the sun was shining golden rays through the lower branches of the mango trees; the parakeets and doves were returning home in droves; the chattering, gray-backed Seven Sisters, discussing the day's adventures, walked back and forth in pairs and threes almost under the travelers’ feet; and rustlings in the branches indicated that the bats were getting ready to head out for the night. [84] The light quickly gathered itself, briefly painting the faces, the cart wheels, and the bullocks' horns as red as blood. Then night fell, changing the feel of the air, casting a low, even haze, like a delicate blue veil, over the landscape, and highlighting the sharp scents of wood smoke, cattle, and the delicious aroma of wheaten cakes cooked in ashes. The evening patrol rushed out of the police station with important coughs and repeated orders; and a glowing charcoal ball in the cup of a roadside carter's hookah burned bright red while Kim's eye automatically followed the last flicker of the sun on the brass tweezers.

The life of the parao was very similar to that of the Kashmir Serai, just on a smaller scale. Kim jumped into the joyful chaos of Asia, which, if you’re patient, will provide you with everything a simple person needs.

His wants were few because the lama didn't care about social status, so food from the nearest stall would do. However, for the sake of comfort, Kim bought some dung-cakes to make a fire. All around, people moved in and out around the small flames, calling out for oil, grain, sweets, or tobacco, bumping into each other as they waited their turn at the well. Beneath the men's voices, you could hear the high-pitched squeals and giggles of women from stopped, covered carts, whose faces were meant to stay hidden in public.

Today, educated locals believe that when their female relatives travel—and they do travel quite a bit—it’s better to get them there quickly by train in a properly enclosed compartment; this practice is becoming more common. However, there are always those who stick to the traditions of their ancestors, and especially the older women—who tend to be more traditional than men—who, towards the end of their lives, go on pilgrimages. These women, being aged and less desirable, don’t really mind unveiling under certain circumstances. After their long time in seclusion, during which they’ve stayed connected to numerous outside interests, they enjoy the energy and excitement of the open road, the gatherings at the shrines, and the endless possibilities for gossip with other like-minded older women. Often, it serves a long-suffering family well for a strong-willed, outspoken elderly lady to make her way around India in this manner; after all, pilgrimage is pleasing to the Gods. So, throughout India, whether in the most remote areas or the busiest, you’ll find a group of older servants nominally in charge of an elderly lady who is somewhat shielded and tucked away in a bullock cart. These men are serious and discreet, and when a European or a high-caste local is nearby, they take great care with their charge; but in the everyday chaotic circumstances of pilgrimage, those precautions can be neglected. The old lady is, after all, very much human and wants to experience life.

Kim noted a brightly decorated family bullock cart, featuring a canopy with two domes, resembling a double-humped camel, which had just been pulled into the landing area. Eight men accompanied it, and two of them were armed with rusty sabers—clear indicators that they were in service of someone of importance since ordinary people don’t carry weapons. A growing mix of complaints, commands, and jokes, along with what would be considered offensive language by a European, came from behind the curtains. Clearly, this was a woman who was accustomed to being in charge.

Kim looked over the group critically. Half of them were thin-legged, gray-bearded Ooryas from down-country. The other half were rugged, felt-hatted hillmen from the North; that mix told its own story, even if he hadn’t overheard the constant bickering between the two groups. The old lady was heading south for a visit—probably to a wealthy relative, most likely to a son-in-law, who had sent an escort as a sign of respect. The hillmen were probably from her own tribe—Kulu or Kangra people. It was clear she wasn’t taking her daughter down for a wedding, or the curtains would have been drawn and the guard wouldn’t have let anyone near the car. A cheerful and lively woman, Kim thought, balancing the dung-cake in one hand, the cooked food in the other, and guiding the lama with a gentle nudge. He sensed there might be something to gain from the meeting. The lama wouldn’t help him, but as a dedicated chela, Kim was thrilled to ask for two.

He built his fire as close to the cart as he could, waiting for one of the guards to tell him to move. The lama dropped tiredly to the ground, like a heavy fruit-eating bat hiding, and went back to his rosary.

'Stand back, beggar!' The command was yelled in broken Hindi by one of the hillmen.

'Huh! It's just a hill guy,' Kim said over his shoulder. 'Since when do the hill folks own all of India?'

The reply was a quick and impressive outline of Kim's family background for three generations.

'Ah!' Kim's voice was sweeter than ever as he broke the dung-cake into small pieces. 'In my country, we call that the start of love talk.'

A sharp, thin laugh came from behind the curtains, pushing the hillman to take another shot.[87]

'Not so bad—not so bad,' Kim said calmly. 'But be careful, my brother, or we might feel tempted to throw a curse or two back. And our curses have a way of hitting close to home.'

The Ooryas laughed; the hillman jumped forward threateningly; the lama suddenly lifted his head, bringing his large tam-o'-shanter cap into the bright light of Kim's newly started fire.

"What is it?" he asked.

The man stopped as if he had been turned to stone. 'I—I—am saved from a great sin,' he stuttered.

'The foreigner has finally found himself a priest,' whispered one of the Ooryas.

'Hai! Why hasn't that beggar-kid been properly taught a lesson?' the old woman cried.

The hillman stepped back to the cart and quietly said something to the curtain. There was complete silence, then a low murmur.

'This is going well,' thought Kim, pretending not to see or hear anything.

'When—when—he has eaten,' the hillman flattered Kim, 'it—it is requested that the Holy One will have the kindness to talk to someone who wishes to speak with him.'

'After he eats, he'll sleep,' Kim replied with an air of superiority. He wasn’t sure what had changed in the situation, but he was determined to take advantage of it. 'Now, I’ll get him his food.' The last sentence, said loudly, ended with a sigh that hinted at weariness.

'I—I and the others from my community will consider that—if it’s allowed.'

'It's allowed,' Kim said, with even more superiority than before. 'Holy One, these people will bring us food.'

'The land is good. All the southern region is[88] good—a vast and challenging world,' mumbled the lama drowsily.

'Let him sleep,' Kim said, 'but make sure we have enough to eat when he wakes up. He’s a very holy man.'

Again, one of the Ooryas spoke dismissively.

'He’s not a fakir. He’s not just some down-country beggar,' Kim said sternly, looking up at the stars. 'He’s the most sacred of holy men. He’s above all castes. I am his disciple.'

'Come here!' said the flat, thin voice from behind the curtain; and Kim came, aware that unseen eyes were fixed on him. A skinny brown finger adorned with rings rested on the edge of the cart, and the conversation flowed this way:

'Who is that?'

'An exceptionally holy person. He comes from far away. He comes from Tibet.'

'Where in Tibet?'

'From behind the snow—from a very distant place. He knows the stars; he creates horoscopes; he interprets birth charts. But he doesn't do this for money. He does it out of kindness and great charity. I am his student. I am also known as the Friend of the Stars.'

'You are not a hillman.'

'Ask him. He'll tell you I was sent to him from the stars to show him the end of his journey.'

'Humph! Think about it, kid, I'm an old woman and not completely foolish. I know lamas, and I respect them, but you are no more a legitimate student than my finger is the pole of this wagon. You are a casteless Hindu—a brazen and shameless beggar, likely hanging around the Holy One for personal profit.'[89]

'Don't we all work for something in return?' Kim quickly adjusted his tone to match that different voice. 'I've heard'—this was a guess—'I've heard—'

"What have you heard?" she snapped, tapping her finger.

'Nothing that I really remember, but some chatter in the markets, which is probably a lie, that even Rajahs—small hill Rajahs—'

'But nonetheless of good Rajput blood.'

'Definitely of good lineage. That they even sell the more attractive of their women for profit. Down south, they sell them—to landlords and the like—all of Oudh.'

If there's one thing the small hill Rajahs deny, it's this accusation; but it's something the bazaars believe when they talk about the mysterious slave trade in India. The old lady explained to Kim, in a tense, angry whisper, just what kind of malicious liar he was. If Kim had suggested this when she was younger, he would have been beaten to death that same evening by an elephant. This was completely true.

'Oh no! I'm just a beggar's kid, just like the Eye of Beauty said,' he cried out in dramatic fear.

'Eye of Beauty, indeed! Who am I that you should throw such flattering words at me?' And yet she laughed at the long-forgotten phrase. 'Forty years ago, that might have been true. Yes, thirty years ago. But it’s the fault of this wandering around Hind that a king's widow has to rub shoulders with all the lowlifes and be mocked by beggars.'

'Great Queen,' Kim said quickly, noticing her shaking with anger, 'I am exactly what the Great[90] Queen says I am; but still, my master is holy. He has not yet received the Great Queen's order that—'

'Order? Me, asking a Holy One—a Teacher of the Law—to come and talk to a woman? No way!'

'Feel sorry for my foolishness. I thought it was stated as a command—'

'It wasn't. It was a request. Does that make it all clear?'

A silver coin clinked on the edge of the cart. Kim picked it up and bowed deeply. The old lady understood that, as the eyes and ears of the lama, he needed to be honored.

'I’m just a disciple of the Holy One. Maybe he’ll come after he’s eaten.'

'Oh, villain and shameless rogue!' The jeweled forefinger waggled at him disapprovingly; but he could hear the old lady's chuckle.

'Nah, what's going on?' he said, slipping into his most soothing and intimate tone—the one he knew few could resist. 'Is—is there a need for a son in your family? Speak openly, because we priests—' That last part was a straight copy from a faquir at the Taksali Gate.

'We priests! You’re not old enough to—' She cut off the joke with another laugh. 'Believe me, every now and then, we women, oh priest, think about other things besides children. Plus, my daughter has had her baby boy.'

'Two arrows in the quiver are better than one; and three are even better.' Kim quoted the saying with a thoughtful cough, glancing quietly down at the ground.

'True—oh, true. But maybe that will happen. Definitely, those Brahmins from the countryside are completely worthless.[91] I sent them gifts and money and gifts again, and they predicted.'

'Ah,' Kim said with obvious disdain, 'they predicted!' A professional couldn't have done it any better.

'And it wasn’t until I remembered my own gods that my prayers were answered. I picked a lucky time, and—maybe your Holy One has heard of the Abbot of the Lung-Cho lamassery. It was to him I brought my request, and, as expected, everything happened just as I wanted. The Brahmin in my daughter's son's father’s house has since claimed it was through his prayers—which is a small mistake that I’ll explain to him when we reach our destination. So afterwards, I will go to Buddh Gaya to perform shraddha for my children’s father.'

'We’re going there.'

'Doubly lucky,' chirped the old lady. 'At least a second son!'

'O Friend of all the World!' The lama had woken up, and, just like a child confused in a strange bed, he called for Kim.

'I’m coming! I’m coming, Holy One!' He hurried to the fire, where he found the lama already surrounded by dishes of food, the hillmen clearly adoring him and the Southerners looking displeased.

'Go back! Withdraw!' Kim shouted. 'Do we eat in public like dogs?' They finished the meal in silence, each slightly turned away from the other, and Kim ended it with a locally made cigarette.

'Have I not said a hundred times that the South is a good place? Here is a virtuous and high-born widow of a Hill Rajah on a pilgrimage, as she says, to Buddh Gaya. She is the one who sends us those dishes; and when you are well rested, she would like to speak to you.'[92]

'Is this also your work?' The lama dipped deep into his snuff-gourd.

'Who else has looked after you since our amazing journey started?' Kim's eyes sparkled as he exhaled the foul smoke through his nostrils and lay back on the dusty ground. 'Have I not made sure you’re comfortable, Holy One?'

'A blessing on you.' The lama lowered his serious head. 'I've known many men in my long life, and quite a few disciples. But to none among men, if you're indeed born of a woman, has my heart opened up as it has to you—thoughtful, wise, and polite, yet a bit of a mischievous spirit.'

'And I have never seen a priest like you.' Kim considered the kind yellow face, examining it wrinkle by wrinkle. 'It’s been less than three days since we started this journey together, but it feels like it’s been a hundred years.'

'Maybe in a past life, it was allowed for me to have helped you in some way. Maybe'—he smiled—'I saved you from a trap; or, having caught you on a hook when I wasn't so wise, I threw you back into the river.'

'Maybe,' Kim said quietly. He had heard this kind of speculation over and over from many people whom the English wouldn’t consider imaginative. 'Now, about that woman in the bullock cart, I think she needs a second son for her daughter.'

'That's not part of the Way,' sighed the lama. 'But at least she's from the Hills. Ah, the Hills, and the snow of the Hills!'

He got up and walked over to the cart. Kim would have given anything to join him, but the lama didn’t invite him; and the few words he overheard were in an unfamiliar tongue, as they spoke some common language of the mountains. The woman seemed to be asking questions that the lama thought about before he replied. Occasionally, he heard the lilting rhythm of a Chinese quote. It was a strange scene that Kim observed with his eyes half-closed. The lama stood very upright, the deep folds of his yellow clothing trimmed with black in the light of the parao fires, just like a knotted tree trunk cast in the shadow of the long sun, as he addressed a flashy lacquered ruth that burned like a multi-colored gem in the same uncertain light. The patterns on the gold-embroidered curtains oscillated, melting and reforming as the folds shook and fluttered in the night breeze; and when the conversation grew more serious, the jeweled forefinger emitted small sparks of light between the embroideries. Behind the cart was a wall of indeterminate darkness speckled with tiny flames and filled with half-seen shapes, faces, and shadows. The sounds of early evening had settled into a soothing hum, with the deepest tone being the steady munching of the bullocks on their chopped straw, and the highest being the tinkling of a Bengali dancing girl’s sitar. Most men had finished eating and were deeply inhaling from their gurgling, grunting hookahs, which sounded like bullfrogs when in full blast.

At last, the lama came back. A local man followed him, carrying a thick cotton quilt, and carefully laid it out by the fire.

'She deserves ten thousand grandchildren,' Kim thought. 'Still, if it weren't for me, these gifts wouldn't have come.'

'A virtuous woman—and a wise one.' The lama relaxed, loosening up slowly, like a slow-moving camel. 'The[94] world is full of kindness for those who follow the Way.' He tossed a good portion of the quilt over Kim.

'And what did she say?' Kim got wrapped up in his part of it.

'She asked me a lot of questions and brought up many issues—most of which were just pointless stories she had heard from devil-serving priests who pretend to follow the Way. I answered some, and I dismissed others as foolish. Many wear the Robe, but few actually follow the Way.'

'True. That's true.' Kim used the thoughtful, calming tone of someone trying to earn trust.

'But by her standards, she is completely reasonable. She really wants us to go with her to Bodh Gaya; her path aligns with ours, as I understand, for many days’ journey to the south.'

'So?'

'Just be patient for a moment. In response, I said that my search was more important than anything else. She had listened to many silly stories, but she had never heard the great truth about my River. That's just how the priests from the lower hills are! She knew the Abbot of Lung-Cho, but she had no idea about my River—or the story of the Arrow.'

'And what?'

'I talked about the Search, the Way, and things that were helpful; she just wanted me to be with her and pray for a second son.'

'Aha! "We women" only think about children,' said Kim sleepily.

'Now that our paths cross for a bit, I don't think we're straying from our quest if we join her—at least until—I can't remember the name of the city.'[95]

'Ohe!' Kim said, turning and speaking in a low, urgent whisper to one of the Ooryas a few yards away. 'Where's your master's house?'

'A little behind Saharunpore, in the fruit orchards.' He named the village.

'That was the place,' said the lama. 'For now, at least, we can go with her.'

'Flies are drawn to dead animals,' said the Oorya, in a distracted voice.

'For the sick cow, a crow; for the sick man, a Brahmin.' Kim spoke the proverb casually to the shadowy tops of the trees above.

The Oorya grunted and kept quiet.

'So, we're going with her, Holy One?'

'Is there any reason not to? I can still step aside and explore all the rivers that the road crosses. She wants me to come. She really wants it a lot.'

Kim stifled a laugh in the quilt. Once that commanding old lady got over her natural awe of a lama, he thought she’d probably be worth listening to.

He was almost asleep when the lama suddenly said a proverb: 'The husbands of the talkative have a great reward in the afterlife.' Then Kim heard him sniff three times and drifted off, still chuckling.

The bright morning woke both people and animals alike. Kim sat up, stretched, and felt a rush of excitement. This was truly experiencing the world; this was life as he wanted it—busy and loud, the tightening of belts, the urging of oxen, the creaking of wheels, the lighting of fires, cooking food, and new sights around every corner. The morning mist lifted in a swirl of silver, and the parrots flew off in loud green flocks towards a distant river. All the wells nearby started working. India was awake, and Kim was right in the thick of it, more alert and more excited than anyone else, chewing on a twig he would soon use as a toothbrush; he borrowed from all the customs of the country he loved. He didn’t have to worry about food—no need to spend a single coin at the busy stalls. He was a disciple of a holy man taken in by a determined old lady. Everything would be prepared for them, and when politely invited, they would sit down to eat. As he cleaned his teeth, Kim giggled at the thought—his hostess would definitely make the journey more enjoyable. He looked over her oxen as they approached, grunting under their yokes. If they went too fast—which was unlikely—there would be a nice seat for him along the pole; the lama would sit next to the driver. The escort, of course, would walk. The old lady, naturally, would talk a lot, and from what he had heard, that talk wouldn’t be lacking in spice. She was already barking orders, giving speeches, scolding, and, to be fair, cursing her servants for being slow.

'Get her her pipe. For the love of the Gods, get her her pipe and shut her annoying mouth,' shouted an Oorya, tying up his messy bundles of bedding. 'She and the parrots are the same. They both screech at dawn.'

'The lead oxen! Hey! Look at the lead oxen!' They were backing up and turning around as a grain cart's axle caught them by the horns. 'What on earth are you doing?' This was directed at the grinning cart driver.

'Ai! Yai! Yai! There goes the Queen of[97] Delhi to pray for a son,' the man called back over his heavy load. 'Make way for the Queen of Delhi and her prime minister, the gray monkey climbing up his own sword!' Another cart filled with bark for a tannery down south followed closely behind, and its driver threw in a few compliments as the oxen backed up repeatedly.

From behind the shaking curtains came a burst of insults. It didn't last long, but in its intensity and sharpness, it was more than anything Kim had ever heard. He watched the carter's bare chest deflate in surprise as the man bowed respectfully to the voice, jumped down from the pole, and helped the escort pull their explosive figure onto the main road. Here, the voice honestly revealed what kind of wife he had married and what she was doing while he was away.

'Oh, great!' murmured Kim, unable to contain himself, as the man slunk away.

'Well done, indeed? It’s a shame and a scandal that a poor woman can’t go to pray to her gods without being pushed around and insulted by all the scum of Hindustan—that she has to take abuse like men take ghee. But I still have a spark left in me—a word or two well spoken that fits the occasion. And I’m still without my tobacco! Who is the one-eyed, unlucky fool that hasn’t prepared my pipe yet?'

It was quickly pushed in by a hillman, and a stream of thick smoke from each corner of the curtains indicated that peace was back.

If Kim had walked proudly the day before as a follower of a holy man, today he strode with even more pride in the midst of a semi-royal procession, enjoying a recognized spot[98] under the patronage of an old lady with charming manners and limitless ingenuity. The escort, their heads wrapped in the local style, lined up on either side of the cart, kicking up huge clouds of dust.

The lama and Kim walked a bit to the side, with Kim chewing on his piece of sugarcane and not moving aside for anyone below the rank of a priest. They could hear the old lady's voice chatter continuously, like someone husking rice. She instructed the escort to tell her what was happening on the road; as soon as they were clear of the parao, she threw back the curtains and looked out, her veil covering a third of her face. Her men didn’t look directly at her when she spoke to them, keeping some semblance of propriety.

A dark, sallow District Superintendent of Police, perfectly dressed in uniform, an Englishman, rode past on a weary horse, and noticing from her entourage what kind of person she was, made fun of her.

'O mom,' he shouted, 'do they really do this in the zenanas? What if an Englishman passed by and saw that you had no nose?'

'What?' she shrieked back. 'Your own mother has no nose? Why say that out loud?'

It was a decent response. The Englishman raised his hand like someone who had just been struck in a sword fight. She laughed and nodded.

'Is this a face that can make someone abandon their morals?' She pulled back her veil completely and looked at him intently.

It wasn't beautiful at all, but as the man grabbed his reins, he called it a Moon of Paradise, a Disturber of Integrity, and a few other silly names that made her burst into laughter.

'That is a nut-cut' (rogue), she said. 'All police constables[99] are nut-cuts; but the police guys are the worst. Oh, my son, you haven’t learned all that since you came from Belait (Europe). Who raised you?'

'A pahareen—a hillwoman of Dalhousie, my mother. Keep your beauty in the shadows—O Giver of Joy,' and he was gone.

'These are the kind'—she took on a serious tone and stuffed her mouth with bread. 'These are the kind who oversee justice. They know the land and its customs. The others, fresh from Europe, raised by white women and learning our languages from books, are worse than a plague. They do harm to Kings.' Then she shared a long, elaborate story with everyone about an uninformed young policeman who had upset some minor Hill Rajah, a distant cousin of hers, over a trivial land issue, ending with a quote from a book that was definitely not religious.

Then her mood shifted, and she asked one of the escorts to check if the lama would walk alongside her to talk about religion. So Kim fell back into the dust and returned to his sugarcane. For an hour or more, the lama's tam-o'-shanter appeared like a moon through the haze; and, from everything he heard, Kim gathered that the old woman was crying. One of the Ooryas half-apologized for his rudeness the night before, saying he had never seen his mistress in such a good mood, attributing it to the presence of the strange priest. He personally believed in Brahmins, though, like all locals, he was well aware of their cunning and greed. Still, when the Brahmins irritated his master's wife with their begging and she sent them away so angry that they cursed the entire[100] entourage (which was the real reason the second off-side bullock went lame and the pole broke the night before), he was ready to consider any priest of any other denomination, in or out of India. Kim agreed with wise nods and pointed out that the lama took no money, and that the cost of food for both him and Kim would be repaid a hundredfold in the good luck that would follow the caravan from that point on. He also shared stories about Lahore city and sang a couple of songs that made the escort laugh. As a town mouse well-acquainted with the latest songs from the most fashionable composers—most of whom are women—Kim had a distinct advantage over men from a small fruit village behind Saharunpore, but he let that advantage speak for itself.

At noon, they stopped to eat, and the meal was good, abundant, and nicely served on clean leaves, away from the dust. They gave the leftovers to some beggars to make sure everyone was taken care of, then settled in for a long, relaxing smoke. The old lady had stepped behind her curtains but joined in the conversation freely, with her servants arguing and contradicting her, as servants often do in the East. She compared the coolness and pines of the Kangra and Kulu hills with the dust and mangoes of the South; she shared a story about some old local gods at the edge of her husband’s territory; she criticized the tobacco she was smoking, insulted all Brahmins, and speculated openly about the arrival of many grandsons.

[101]

'But why not sit and rest?' one of the escorts said. 'Only the devils and the English wander around aimlessly.'

'Never befriend the Devil, a monkey, or a boy. No one knows what those guys will do next,' said his companion.

Kim turned away in disdain—he didn't want to hear the same old story about how the Devil toyed with the boys and felt sorry for it—and wandered aimlessly through the countryside.

The lama walked after him. All day long, whenever they passed a stream, he paused to look at it, but never received any indication that he had[102] found his River. Slowly, the comfort of speaking to someone in a sensible way, and being recognized and respected as her spiritual guide by a well-bred woman, had shifted his focus a bit from the Search. Moreover, he was ready to spend peaceful years in his quest; he didn’t share the white man's impatience, but had a deep faith.

"Where are you going?" he called after Kim.

'Nowhere in particular—it was a short walk, and all of this'—Kim waved his hands around—'is new to me.'

'She is undoubtedly a wise and insightful woman. But it’s difficult to think clearly when—'

'All women are like that.' Kim spoke as if he were Solomon.

'Before the lamassery was a wide platform,' the lama muttered, twisting the well-used rosary, 'made of stone. On that I've left the imprints of my feet—walking back and forth with these.'

He clicked the beads and started the 'Om mane padme hum' of his devotion, thankful for the coolness, the quietness, and the lack of dust.

One thing after another caught Kim's wandering eye across the plain. He had no real reason for his exploration, except that the huts nearby looked new, and he felt curious to check them out.

They emerged onto a wide stretch of grazing land, brown and purple in the afternoon light, with a dense cluster of mango trees in the center. Kim found it odd that there was no shrine in such a prime location; the boy was as observant as any priest about these matters. Far across the plain, four men walked side by side, appearing tiny in the distance. He looked closely under his curved palms and caught a glimpse of brass.[103]

'Soldiers. White soldiers!' he said. 'Let's take a look.'

'It's always soldiers when you and I go out alone together. But I've never seen the white soldiers.'

'They don't cause any trouble unless they're drunk. Stay behind this tree.'

They stepped behind the thick trunks in the cool shade of the mango grove. Two small figures stopped; the other two moved forward hesitantly. They were the advance party of a regiment on the move, sent out, as always, to mark the campsite. They held five-foot sticks with fluttering flags and called to each other as they spread across the flat ground.

At last they entered the mango grove, walking slowly.

'It's around here somewhere—officers' tents under the trees, I guess, and the rest of us can stay outside. Have they set aside space for the baggage wagons in the back?'

They called out again to their friends in the distance, and a rough reply echoed back, faint and softened.

'Stick the flag in here, then,' said one.

'What are they making?' the lama said, amazed. 'This is a vast and frightening world. What does the flag represent?'

A soldier jabbed a stick a few feet away from them, grunted in frustration, pulled it back, talked to his companion, who scanned the shaded area of greenery, and gave it back.

Kim stared wide-eyed, his breath coming in quick, sharp gasps. The soldiers marched off into the bright sunlight.

'O Holy One,' he gasped, 'my horoscope! The drawing in the dust by the priest at Umballa! Remember[104] what he said. First, two—ferashes—come to prepare everything—in a dark place, just like at the start of a vision.'

'But this is not vision,' said the lama. 'It's just the world's illusion, nothing more.'

'And after them comes the Bull—the Red Bull on the green field. Look! It's him!'

He pointed to the flag that was waving in the evening breeze just ten feet away. It was just an ordinary camp marking flag, but the regiment, always precise about uniform details, had decorated it with their regimental emblem, the Red Bull, which is the crest of the Mavericks—the big Red Bull on a backdrop of Irish green.

'I see, and now I remember,' said the lama. 'It's definitely your Bull. And yes, the two men came to get everything ready.'

'They are soldiers—white soldiers. What did the priest say? "The sign across from the Bull is the sign of War and armed men." Holy One, this relates to my Search.'

'True. It is true.' The lama gazed intently at the device that glowed like a ruby in the dusk. 'The priest at Umballa said that yours was the sign of War.'

'What should I do now?'

'Hold on. Let's wait.'

'Even now the darkness is lifting,' said Kim. It was only natural that the setting sun would finally shine through the tree trunks, across the grove, flooding it with dusty golden light for a few minutes; but to Kim, it felt like the fulfillment of the Umballa Brahmin's prophecy.

'Hear that!' said the lama. 'Someone is beating a drum—far away!'

At first, the sound, faintly floating through the calm[105] air, sounded like a heartbeat in the head. Soon, it became sharper.

'Ah! The music,' Kim said. He recognized the sound of a military band, but it astonished the lama.

At the far end of the plain, a thick, dusty column appeared. Then the wind carried the music:—

It was the Mavericks band leading the regiment to camp; the soldiers were marching with their bags. The flowing line moved into the flat area—carts following behind it—split left and right, scurried around like an ant hill, and . . .

But this is magic!' said the lama.

The flat land was dotted with tents that appeared to rise directly from the carts. Another group of men flooded into the grove, quietly set up a large tent, and quickly erected eight or nine more beside it. They dug out cooking pots, pans, and bundles, which were claimed by a[106] crowd of local servants; and suddenly the mango grove transformed into a well-organized town right before their eyes!

'Let's go,' said the lama, sinking back in fear, as the fires flickered and white officers with clinking swords walked into the mess tent.

'Stand back in the shadow. No one can see past the light of a fire,' said Kim, his eyes still focused on the flag. He had never watched a skilled regiment set up camp in thirty minutes.

'Look! look! look!' said the lama. 'Over there comes a priest.'

It was Bennett, the Church of England chaplain for the regiment, limping in dusty black. One of his parishioners had made some rude comments about the chaplain's courage; to prove them wrong, Bennett had marched along with the men that day. His black outfit, gold cross on the watch-chain, hairless face, and soft, black wideawake hat would have identified him as a holy man anywhere in India. He settled into a camp chair by the mess tent door and took off his boots. A few officers gathered around him, laughing and joking about his experience.

'The way white men speak has no dignity at all,' said the lama, who judged solely by tone. 'But I've looked at that priest's face, and I believe he is knowledgeable. Do you think he'll understand what we're saying? I want to share my Search with him.'

'Don't talk to a white man until he's eaten,' Kim said, referencing a common saying. 'They'll chow down first, and—I don't think they're great to ask for help. Let's head back to where we can rest. After we eat, we'll come back. It was definitely a Red Bull—my Red Bull.'[107]

They were both clearly distracted when the old lady's team served their meal; so nobody broke their silence, because it's not good to upset guests.

'Now,' said Kim, picking his teeth, 'we'll go back to that place; but you, O Holy One, need to wait a little way off, because your feet are heavier than mine and I'm eager to see more of that Red Bull.'

'But how can you understand the conversation? Walk slowly. The road is dark,' the lama replied uneasily.

Kim set the question aside. "I marked a spot near the trees," he said, "where you can sit until I call you. No," he added as the lama protested in some way, "remember this is my Search—the Search for my Red Bull. The sign in the Stars wasn't meant for you. I know a bit about the customs of white soldiers, and I always want to see new things."

'What do you not know about this world?' The lama sat quietly in a small dip in the ground, not a hundred yards from the mound of mango trees silhouetted against the star-filled sky.

'Stay until I call.' Kim darted into the twilight. He knew there were probably sentries around the camp and smiled to himself as he heard the heavy boots of one. A boy who can sneak across the roofs of Lahore on a moonlit night, using every little shadow and corner to throw off his pursuer, is unlikely to be stopped by a line of trained soldiers. He paid them the compliment of crawling between a couple of them, and, running and pausing, crouching and dropping flat, made his way toward the lit mess tent where, pressed close behind the mango tree, he waited until some chance word would give him a way to return.

The only thing on his mind now was getting more information about the Red Bull[108]. For all he knew, and Kim's limitations were as unpredictable and sudden as his moments of brilliance, the men—the nine hundred complete devils of his father's prophecy—might pray to the beast at night, just like Hindus pray to the Holy Cow. That would at least make perfect sense, and the Padre with the gold cross would be the right person to ask about it. On the flip side, remembering the serious-faced padres he had dodged in Lahore, the priest could also be an annoying busybody who would insist he learn. But hadn't it been shown in Umballa that his sign in the sky foretold war and armed men? Wasn't he both the Friend of the Stars and of everyone, filled to the brim with terrifying secrets? Finally—and this was the underlying theme of all his rapid thoughts—this adventure, even though he didn’t know the English word for it, was an incredible thrill—a wonderful continuation of his old escapades across the rooftops, as well as the realization of a grand prophecy. He lay flat on his stomach and wriggled toward the mess tent door, a hand on the amulet around his neck.

It was just as he thought. The officers prayed to their God; in the middle of the mess table—its only decoration while they were on the move—was a golden bull made from treasures taken from the Summer Palace in Beijing—a red-gold bull with its head down, rearing up on a field of Irish green. The officers raised their glasses to him and shouted excitedly.

Now, Reverend Arthur Bennett always left a mess after that toast, and since he was a bit tired from his march, his movements were more abrupt than usual. Kim, with his head slightly raised, was still staring at his totem on the table when the chaplain stepped on his right shoulder blade.[109] Kim flinched from the leather, and rolling sideways, took down the chaplain, who, always a man of action, grabbed him by the throat and nearly choked him. Kim then kicked him desperately in the stomach. Mr. Bennett gasped and doubled over but didn’t loosen his grip, rolling over again and silently dragging Kim to his own tent. The Mavericks were relentless practical jokers, and it occurred to the Englishman that staying silent was best until he had thoroughly investigated.

"Why, it’s a boy!" he exclaimed, pulling his prize into the light of the tent-pole lantern. Then, shaking him roughly, he shouted, "What were you doing? You’re a thief. Choor? Mallum?" His command of Hindustani was quite limited, and the annoyed and disgusted Kim intended to stick to the role he'd created for himself. As he caught his breath, he was concocting a believable story about his connection to some kitchen worker, all while keeping a close watch on the chaplain’s left armpit. The opportunity arose; he ducked for the doorway, but a long arm shot out and grabbed his neck, snapping the amulet string and clutching the amulet.

'Give it to me. Oh, give it to me. Is it gone? Hand me the papers.'

The words were in English—the sharp, rough English of the locals—and the chaplain flinched.

'A scapular,' he said, opening his hand. 'No, it's some kind of pagan charm. Why—do you speak English? Little boys who steal get punished. You know that?'

'I don’t—I didn’t steal.' Kim writhed in distress like a small dog eager for a thrown stick. 'Oh, give it to me. It’s my charm. Don’t take it from me.'[110]

The chaplain didn't pay any attention, but went to the tent door and called out loudly. A somewhat overweight, clean-shaven man showed up.

'I need your advice, Father Victor,' said Bennett. 'I found this kid outside the mess tent in the dark. Normally, I would have scolded him and sent him on his way because I think he’s a thief. But it looks like he speaks English, and he seems to value some kind of charm around his neck. I thought maybe you could help me.'

Between him and the Roman Catholic chaplain of the Irish group, there was, according to Bennett, an unbridgeable gap, but it was clear that whenever the Church of England faced a human issue, it was likely to reach out to the Church of Rome. Bennett's public disdain for the Scarlet Woman and everything she represented was matched only by his private admiration for Father Victor.

'A thief speaking English, huh? Let’s check out his charm. No, it’s not a scapular, Bennett.' He extended his hand.

'But do we have any right to open it? A good spanking—'

'I didn't steal,' Kim protested. 'You've kicked me all over my body. Now give me my charm and I'll leave.'

'Not so fast; let’s take a look first,' said Father Victor, casually unrolling poor Kimball O'Hara's 'ne varietur' parchment, his clearance certificate, and Kim's baptismal certificate. On this last one, O'Hara—under the mistaken belief that he was doing something great for his son—had scribbled over and over: 'Look after the boy. Please look after the boy,'—signing his name and full regimental number.

'Powers of Darkness below!' said Father Victor,[111] passing everything over to Mr. Bennett. 'Do you know what these things are?'

'Yeah,' said Kim. 'They're mine, and I want to leave.'

"I don't quite get it," Mr. Bennett said. "He probably brought them on purpose. It might be some kind of begging trick."

'I never saw a beggar less eager to stick around with his company than that. There's the start of an intriguing mystery here. Do you believe in Providence, Bennett?'

"I hope so."

'Well, I believe in miracles, so it’s all the same. Powers of Darkness! Kimball O'Hara! And his son! But he's a local, and I actually saw Kimball marry Annie Shott myself. How long have you had these things, kid?'

'Ever since I was a little baby.' Father Victor stepped forward quickly and opened the front of Kim's upper garment. 'You see, Bennett, he's not very black. What's your name?'

'Kim.'

'Or Kimball?'

'Maybe. Will you let me leave?'

'What else is there?'

'They call me Kim Rishti. That is Kim of the Rishti.'

'What is that—"Rishi"?'

'Eye-rishti—that was my dad's regiment.'

'I get it, Irish.'

'Yes. That’s how my dad told me. My dad, he has lived.'

'Where has they lived?'

'Has lived. Of course he is dead—gone.'[112]

'Oh. That's your blunt way of saying it, huh?'

Bennett interrupted. 'I might have done the boy a disservice. He’s definitely white, but clearly neglected. I’m sure I must have hurt him. I don’t think spirits—'

'Get him a glass of sherry, then, and let him sit on the cot. Now, Kim,' continued Father Victor, 'no one is going to hurt you. Drink that down and tell us about yourself. The truth, if you don’t mind.'

Kim coughed a bit as he set down the empty glass and thought things over. This seemed like a moment for caution and creativity. Young boys who hang around camps usually get sent away after a beating. But he hadn’t gotten any punishment; the amulet was clearly working in his favor, and it seemed like the Umballa horoscope along with the few fragments he could recall from his father's ramblings fit together perfectly. Otherwise, why did the heavyset padre look so impressed, and why did the skinny one give him the glass of hot yellow wine?

'My dad has been dead in Lahore since I was pretty young. The woman ran a junk shop near where the horse-drawn carriages are.' Kim started off quickly, uncertain of how much truth would help him.

'Is that your mom?'

'No'—with a look of disgust. 'She left right after I was born. My dad got these papers from the Jadoo-Gher—what's that called?' (Bennett nodded) 'because he was in—good standing. What do you call that?' (Bennett nodded again). 'My dad told me that. He also said, and the Brahmin who drew in the dust at Umballa two days ago said, that I would find a Red Bull in a green field and that the Bull would help me.'[113]

'A phenomenal little liar,' Bennett muttered.

'Powers of Darkness below, what a country!' murmured Father Victor. 'Go ahead, Kim.'

'I didn’t steal anything. Besides, I’m currently a disciple of a very holy man. He’s sitting outside. We saw two guys come with flags, getting the place ready. That always happens in a dream, or because of a—a—prophecy. So I knew it had come true. I saw the Red Bull in the green field, and my father said: "Nine hundred real devils and the Colonel riding on a horse will look after you when you find the Red Bull!" I didn’t know what to do when I saw the Bull, but I left and returned when it was dark. I wanted to see the Bull again, and I saw it again with the—the Sahibs praying to it. I think the Bull will help me. The holy man said so too. He’s sitting outside. Will you hurt him if I call him out now? He is very holy. He can witness to everything I say, and he knows I’m not a thief.'

'"Officers praying to a bull!" What on earth do you think of that?' said Bennett. '"Disciple of a holy man!" Is the kid crazy?'

'It's definitely O'Hara's kid. O'Hara's kid teaming up with all the forces of evil. It's exactly what his dad would have done—if he were drunk. We should probably bring in the holy guy. He might have some insights.'

"He doesn't know anything," Kim said. "I’ll show you him if you come. He’s my master. Then we can go afterwards."

'Powers of Darkness!' was all Father Victor could say as Bennett walked away, confidently gripping Kim's shoulder.[114]

They found the lama where he had fallen.

'The Search is over for me,' shouted Kim in the local language. 'I’ve found the Bull, but who knows what happens next. They won't hurt you. Come to the fat priest's tent with this thin guy and see how it all ends. It's all new, and they can’t speak Hindi. They’re just uncared-for donkeys.'

'Then it's not right to make fun of their ignorance,' the lama replied. 'I'm glad if you're happy, chela.'

Dignified and unsuspecting, he walked into the small tent, greeted the Churches as a Churchman, and sat down by the open charcoal brazier. The yellow lining of the tent, illuminated by the lamplight, made his face appear red-gold.

Bennett looked at him with the indifferent attitude of someone who categorizes most of the world as 'heathen.'

'So, what happened at the end of the search? What gift did the Red Bull bring?' The lama spoke to Kim.

'He says, "What are you going to do?"' Bennett was looking uncomfortably at Father Victor, and Kim, for his own reasons, stepped in as the interpreter.

'I don’t understand what this fakir has to do with the boy, who is probably just being used or is in on it,' Bennett started. 'We can’t let an English boy—If he really is the son of a Mason, it’s best if he goes to the Masonic Orphanage as soon as possible.'

'Ah! That's your opinion as Secretary to the Regimental Lodge,' said Father Victor; 'but we might as well tell the old man what we're planning to do. He doesn't seem like a bad guy.'[115]

'In my experience, you can never truly understand the Oriental mind. Now, Kimball, I want you to tell this man exactly what I said—word for word.'

Kim took in the main point of the next few sentences and started like this:

'Holy One, the skinny fool who looks like a camel says that I am the son of a wealthy man.'

'But how?'

'Oh, it’s true. I’ve known it since I was born, but he could only find out by tearing the amulet from my neck and going through all the papers. He believes that once you're a Sahib, you’re always a Sahib, and between the two of them, they plan to keep me in this regiment or send me to a madrissah (a school). It’s happened before. I’ve always avoided it. The fat fool is set on one idea, and the camel-like one has another. But that doesn’t matter. I might spend one night here and maybe the next. It’s happened before. Then I’ll run away and come back to you.'

'But tell them that you are my student. Tell them how you came to me when I was weak and confused. Tell them about our Search, and they will definitely let you go now.'

'I already told them. They laugh and talk about the police.'

'What are you saying?' Mr. Bennett asked.

'Oah. He only says that if you don’t let me go, it will mess up his business—his urgent private affairs.' This last bit was a memory of a conversation with a Eurasian clerk in the Canal Department, but it just made him smile, which annoyed him. 'And if you actually knew what his business was, you wouldn’t be so eager to interfere.'[116]

'What is it then?' asked Father Victor, feeling a connection as he looked at the lama's face.

'There’s a river in this country that he really wants to find. It was created by an arrow that—' Kim tapped his foot impatiently as he translated in his mind from the local language to his awkward English. 'Oh, it was made by our Lord God Buddha, you know, and if you wash in it, you’re cleansed of all your sins and made as pure as cotton wool.' (Kim had heard mission talk before.) 'I am his disciple, and we have to find that river. It’s extremely valuable to us.'

"Say that again," Bennett said. Kim complied, adding more details.

'But this is terrible blasphemy!' cried the Church of England.

'Tck! Tck!' said Father Victor sympathetically. 'I'd give a lot to be able to speak the local language. A river that washes away sin! So, how long have you two been searching for it?'

'Oh, it's been so many days. Now we want to leave and search for it again. It's not here, you know.'

"I understand," Father Victor said seriously. "But he can't stay with that old man. It would be a different story, Kim, if you weren't a soldier's son. Let him know that the regiment will look after you and make you the best man you can be. Tell him that if he believes in miracles, he has to believe that—"

'There's no need to take advantage of his gullibility,' Bennett interrupted.

'I'm not doing that at all. He must think that the boy coming here—to his own regiment—to find his Red Bull is some kind of miracle. Just think about the odds, Bennett. This one boy in all of India, and our regiment of all places on the route for him to cross paths with! It's just meant to be. Yes, tell him it's Kismet. Kismet, mallum?' (Fate! Do you get it?)

He turned to the lama, to whom he might as well have been talking about Mesopotamia.

"They say,"—the old man's eyes lit up at Kim's words,—"they say that the meaning of my horoscope has been fulfilled, and that being drawn back—though, as you know, I left out of curiosity—to these people and their Red Bull, I have to go to a madrassah and become a Sahib. Now I'm pretending to agree, because at worst it will only mean a few meals away from you. Then I’ll sneak off and head down the road to Saharunpore. So, Holy One, stay close to that Kulu woman—don't stray far from her cart until I come back. Without a doubt, my sign is of War and of armed men. Look how they've given me wine to drink and put me on a bed of honor! My father must have been someone important. So if they elevate me among them, great. If not, that’s fine too. However it turns out, I’ll rush back to you when I’m tired. But stay with the Rajputni, or I’ll miss your presence... Oh yes," said the boy, "I’ve told him everything you asked me to say."

'And I can't see any reason why he should wait,' said Bennett, searching in his trouser pocket. 'We can look into the details later—and I'll give him a ru—'

"Give him some time. Maybe he cares about the kid," Father Victor said, briefly stopping the clergyman's movement.

The lama pulled out his rosary and tipped his large hat brim down over his eyes.[118]

'What does he want now?'

'He says'—Kim raised one hand. 'He says: Be quiet. He wants to talk to me alone. You see, you don't understand a single word of what he says, and I think if you keep talking, he might give you really bad curses. When he picks up those beads like that, you see, he always wants silence.'

The two Englishmen sat in shock, but there was a look in Bennett's eye that hinted at trouble for Kim once he felt comfortable with the religious influence.

'A Sahib and the son of a Sahib—' The lama's voice was rough with pain. 'But no white man knows the land and its customs like you do. How is it that this is true?'

'What does it matter, Holy One: but remember it’s only for a night or two. Remember, I can change quickly. It will all be as it was when I first spoke to you under Zam-Zammah the great gun—'

'As a boy in the attire of white men—when I first visited the Wonder House. And a second time you were a Hindu. What will the third incarnation be?' He laughed sadly. 'Ah, student, you've wronged an old man because I cared for you.'

'And mine to you. But how could I know that the Red Bull would lead me to this situation?'

The lama covered his face again and nervously shook the rosary. Kim squatted next to him and grabbed a fold of his clothing.

'So now it's understood that the boy is a Sahib?' he continued in a low voice. 'A Sahib like the one who kept the statues in the Wonder House.' The lama's experience with white men was limited. He seemed to be repeating something he had learned. 'So, it’s not appropriate for him[119] to act differently than the Sahibs do. He needs to return to his own people.'

'For a day and a night and a day,' Kim begged.

'No, you don't!' Father Victor saw Kim moving towards the door, and blocked the way with his leg.

'I don’t get the customs of white people. The Priest of the Images in the Wonder House in Lahore was nicer than the skinny one here. They’re going to take this boy from me. They’re going to make a Sahib out of my disciple? Woe is me, how will I find my River? Don’t they have any disciples? Ask.'

'He says he’s really sorry that he can't find the River anymore. He asks, why don't you have any followers and keep bothering him? He wants to be free of his sins.'

Neither Bennett nor Father Victor found any quick answers.

Said Kim in English, upset by the lama's suffering: 'I think if you let me go now, we can leave quietly and not steal. We'll look for that River like before I was caught. I wish I hadn't come here to find the Red Bull and all that stuff. I don't want it.'

'It's the best thing you've ever done for yourself, young man,' said Bennett.

'Oh my goodness, I have no idea how to comfort him,' said Father Victor, closely observing the lama. 'He can't take the boy with him, and still, he's a good man—I truly believe he's a good man. Bennett, if you give him that rupee, he'll totally curse you!'

They listened to each other's breathing for three to five full minutes. Then the lama lifted his head and looked out into the vastness and emptiness.[120]

'And I follow the Way,' he said with bitterness. 'The sin is mine, and the punishment is mine. I convinced myself—for now I see it was just a lie—that you were sent to help me in the Search. So my heart went out to you for your kindness, your politeness, and the wisdom of your young years. But those who follow the Way must not let any desire or attachment distract them, as that is all an illusion. As says...' He quoted an ancient Chinese text, supported it with another, and backed these up with a third. 'I strayed from the Way, my student. It wasn’t your fault. I took joy in the beauty of life, the new faces on the roads, and in your happiness at seeing these things. I was pleased with you when I should have focused on my Search and my Search alone. Now I am sad because you are gone, and my River is far from me. It is the Law I have broken!'

'Powers of Darkness below!' said Father Victor, who, experienced in the confessional, sensed the hurt in every word.

'I realize now that the sign of the Red Bull was a sign for me as much as for you. All Desire is red—and wicked. I will do penance and find my River by myself.'

'At least go back to the Kulu woman,' said Kim, 'otherwise you'll get lost on the roads. She'll feed you until I come back to you.'

The lama waved a hand to indicate that the issue was finally resolved in his mind.

'Now,'—his tone changed as he faced Kim,—'what will they do with you? At least I might, by doing good, make up for past wrongs.'

'Make me a master—so they think. The day after tomorrow I return. Don’t be sad.'[121]

'What kind? One like this man or that man?' He pointed to Father Victor. 'One like those I saw this evening—men wearing swords and walking heavily?'

"Maybe."

'That's not good. These men chase after their desires and end up feeling empty. You shouldn't be like them.'

'The Umballa priest said that my Star was War,' Kim interrupted. 'I’ll ask these idiots—but honestly, there’s no need. I’m going to run away tonight, because all I wanted was to see new things.'

Kim asked Father Victor two or three questions in English and translated the answers for the lama.

Then: 'He says, "You take him from me and you can't say what you'll turn him into." He says, "Tell me before I leave, because it's not a small thing to raise a child."'

'You'll be sent to a school. We’ll see how that goes later. Kimball, I guess you want to be a soldier?'

'Gorah-log (white folks). No way! No way!' Kim shook his head vigorously. There was nothing about him that was drawn to drill and routine. 'I will not be a soldier.'

'You'll be what you're told to be,' Bennett said; 'and you should be thankful that we're going to help you.'

Kim smiled with understanding. If these men were under the illusion that he would do anything he didn't want to do, so much the better.

Another long silence followed. Bennett fidgeted with impatience and suggested calling a guard to remove the faquir.

'Do they give or sell knowledge among the Sabibs? Ask them,' said the lama, and Kim interpreted.[122]

'They say that the teacher gets paid, but the regiment will cover that. What’s the point? It’s just for one night.'

'So, the more you pay, the better the education you get?' The lama ignored Kim's plans for an early departure. 'There's nothing wrong with paying for knowledge; helping the ignorant gain wisdom is always a good thing.' The rosary clicked rapidly like an abacus. Then he turned to face his oppressors.

'Ask them how much money they offer for wise and suitable teaching, and in which city that teaching is provided?'

'Well,' said Father Victor in English when Kim translated, 'that depends. The regiment would support you while you're at the Military Orphanage, or you could get on the list for the Punjab Masonic Orphanage (not that he or you'd understand what that means); but the best education a boy can get in India is, of course, at St. Xavier's in Partibus in Lucknow.' This took some time to explain, as Bennett wanted to keep it brief.

"He wants to know how much?" Kim said calmly.

'Two or three hundred rupees a year.' Father Victor was way past being surprised. Bennett, feeling impatient, just couldn't get it.

'He says: "Write that name and the amount on a piece of paper and give it to him." And he says you need to write your name underneath because he plans to write you a letter in a few days. He says you are a good man. He says the other man is a fool. He is leaving.'

The lama stood up abruptly. "I'm following my Search," he shouted, and then he disappeared.

'He's going to run straight into the guards,' yelled Father Victor,[123] jumping up as the lama walked out; 'but I can't leave the kid.' Kim made a quick move to follow, but stopped himself. There was no sound of danger outside. The lama was gone.

Kim settled himself calmly on the chaplain's cot. At least the lama had promised to stay with the Rajput woman from Kulu, and everything else mattered very little. It made him happy that the two padres were obviously excited. They spoke softly for a long time, Father Victor suggesting some plan to Mr. Bennett, who appeared skeptical. All of this was very new and intriguing, but Kim was feeling sleepy. They called men into the tent—one of them was definitely the Colonel, as his father had predicted—and they asked him a ton of questions, mostly about the woman who took care of him, all of which Kim answered honestly. They didn’t seem to think the woman was a good guardian.

After all, this was his latest experience. Sooner or later, if he wanted, he could retreat into vast, gray, shapeless India, away from tents, padres, and colonels. In the meantime, if he wanted to make an impression on the Sahibs, he would do his best to impress them. He was also a white man.

After a lot of conversation that he couldn't understand, they handed him over to a sergeant, who had strict orders not to let him get away. The regiment would head to Umballa, and Kim would be sent to a place called Sanawar, partly funded by the Lodge and partly by donations.

'It's amazing, Colonel,' said Father Victor, after talking nonstop for ten minutes. 'His Buddhist friend has disappeared after taking my name and address. I can't figure out[124] whether he’s going to pay for the boy's education or if he's planning some kind of witchcraft on his own. Then he turned to Kim: 'You'll end up being thankful to your friend the Red Bull. We’re going to make a man out of you at Sanawar—even if it means turning you into a Protestant.'

"Definitely—most definitely," said Bennett.

'But you’re not going to Sanawar,' Kim said.

'But we're going to Sanawar, little man. That's what the Commander-in-Chief ordered, and he's a bit more important than O'Hara's son.'

'You will not go to Sanawar. You will go to the war.'

There was a burst of laughter from the packed tent.

'When you know your own regiment a little better, you won't mix up the march with the battlefield, Kim. We hope to go to "the war" sometime.'

'Oah, I know all that.' Kim pulled back his bow again, taking a chance. If they weren't heading to war, at least they had no idea what he had overheard during the conversation on the veranda at Umballa.

'I know you aren't at the war right now, but I'm telling you that as soon as you get to Umballa, you'll be sent to the war—the new war. It's a war of eight thousand men, plus the artillery.'

'That’s clear. Do you add prophecy to your other talents? Take him with you, Sergeant. Get a suit for him from the Drums and make sure he doesn’t get away. Who says the age of miracles is over? I think I’ll head to bed. My poor mind is getting tired.'

At the far end of the camp, quiet like a wild animal, an hour later sat Kim, freshly cleaned all over, in an awful stuffy suit that scratched his arms and legs.[125]

'A really amazing young guy,' said the Sergeant. 'He shows up with a yellow-headed buck-Brahmin priest, wearing his father's Lodge certificates around his neck, talking about who knows what regarding a red bull. The buck-Brahmin disappears without any explanations, and the kid sits cross-legged on the chaplain's bed, predicting bloody war to everyone. India’s a crazy place for a God-fearing man. I'll just tie his leg to the tent-pole in case he decides to go flying. What did you say about the war?'

'Eight thousand men, plus weapons,' Kim said. 'You'll see very soon.'

'You're a comforting little imp. Lie down between the drums and go to sleep. Those two boys next to you will watch over you while you rest.'

[126]

In the morning, the column stopped. A camel driver handed the Colonel a letter. He read it and talked to a major. Half a mile behind, Kim heard a loud and cheerful noise coming towards him through the thick dust. Then someone slapped him on the back, shouting, 'Tell us how you knew, you little rascal! Dad, see if you can get him to spill the beans.'[127]

A pony trotted alongside, and he was pulled up onto the priest's saddle.

'Now, my son, your prophecy from last night has come true. Our orders are to board the train at Umballa for the front tomorrow.'

'What is that?' said Kim, since 'front' and 'entrain' were new words to him.

'We're going to "the war," as you called it.'

'Of course you’re going to the war. I said that last night.'

'You did; but, Powers of Darkness, how did you know?'

Kim's eyes lit up. He pressed his lips together, nodded, and communicated a lot without saying a word. The chaplain continued through the dust, while privates, sergeants, and junior officers pointed out the boy to each other. The Colonel, leading the group, looked at him with interest. "It was probably just some gossip," he said, "but still—" He gestured to the paper in his hand. "Damn it, the decision was only made in the last forty-eight hours."

'Are there many more like you in India?' Father Victor asked, 'or are you just an exception to the norm?'

'Now I've told you,' said the boy, 'will you let me go back to my dad? If he hasn't stuck with that woman from Kulu, I'm worried he might die.'

'From what I saw of him, he can take care of himself just as well as you can. No. You've brought us good fortune, and we're going to help you become a man. I'll take you back to your luggage cart, and you'll come to see me this evening.'

For the rest of the day, Kim found himself a subject of notable attention among a few hundred white men. The story of his arrival in camp, the revelation of his background, and his prophecy had only grown with each telling. A large, shapeless white woman on a pile of bedding curiously asked him if he thought her husband would return from the war. Kim thought seriously about it and said that he would, and the woman gave him food. In many ways, this big gathering that played music at intervals—this crowd that talked and laughed so easily—reminded him of a festival in Lahore city. So far, there was no sign of hard work, and he decided to enjoy the spectacle. In the evening, bands came out to greet them, playing music as the Mavericks entered camp near the Umballa railway station. It was an interesting night. Men from other regiments came to visit the Mavericks, and the Mavericks went out visiting on their own. Their guards rushed out to bring them back, meeting guards from other regiments doing the same thing; after a while, the bugles sounded wildly for more guards with officers to manage the chaos. The Mavericks had a lively reputation to maintain. But they lined up on the platform the next morning in great shape; and Kim, left behind with the sick, women, and boys, found himself excitedly shouting farewell as the trains pulled away. Life as a Sahib was entertaining so far, but he approached it with caution. Then they marched him back under the supervision of a drummer-boy to empty, lime-washed barracks, where the floors were littered with rubbish, string, and paper, and the ceilings echoed his solitary footsteps. Native style, he curled up on a stripped cot and went to sleep. An angry man stomped down the veranda, woke him up, and announced he was a schoolmaster. This was enough for Kim, and he retreated into himself. He could barely understand the various English police notices in Lahore city because they affected his comfort; among the many guests of the woman who took care of him was a strange German who painted scenery for the Parsee traveling theater. He told Kim that he had been 'on the barricades in Forty-eight,' and therefore—at least that’s how it seemed to Kim—he would teach the boy to write in exchange for food. Kim had only gotten as far as recognizing single letters but didn’t think much of them.

'I don’t know anything. Just leave me alone!' said Kim, sensing trouble. Then the man grabbed him by the ear and dragged him to a room in a distant wing where a dozen drummer-boys were sitting on benches, telling him to be quiet if he couldn’t do anything else. He managed that quite well. The man went on explaining something with white lines on a blackboard for at least half an hour, while Kim resumed his interrupted nap. He greatly disapproved of the current situation, as this was exactly the school and discipline he had spent two-thirds of his young life trying to avoid. Suddenly, a brilliant idea struck him, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

The man waved them off, and the first to jump through the porch into the bright sunlight was Kim.

''Hey! Stop!' said a high voice behind him. 'I have to keep an eye on you. I'm ordered not to lose sight of you. Where are you going?''

It was the drummer-boy who had been hanging around him all morning—a chubby, freckled kid of about fourteen, and Kim hated him from the tips of his boots to his cap ribbons.

'To the bazaar—to get sweets—for you,' said Kim, after thinking for a moment.

'Well, the market is off-limits. If we go there, we'll get in trouble. You come back.'[130]

'How close can we get?' Kim didn't understand what bounds meant, but he wanted to be polite—for now.

''How near? How far, you mean? We can go as far as that tree down the road.''

'Then I'll go there.'

'All right. I'm not going. It's too hot. I can watch you from here. It's no use running away. If you did, they'd recognize you by your clothes. Those are military uniform pieces you're wearing. There isn't a guard in Umballa who wouldn't send you back faster than you started out.'

This didn't impress Kim as much as the fact that his clothes would wear him out if he tried to run. He slumped against the tree at the corner of a bare road leading to the bazaar and watched the locals passing by. Most of them were low-caste barrack servants. Kim called out to a sweeper, who quickly responded with unnecessary rudeness, thinking that the European boy couldn't understand. The quick, dismissive reply surprised him. Kim poured his frustration into it, grateful for the recent opportunity to insult someone in the language he was most comfortable with. "And now, go to the nearest letter-writer in the bazaar and tell him to come here. I need to write a letter."

'But—what kind of white man's son are you, that you need a market letter-writer? Isn't there a teacher in the barracks?'

'Ay; and Hell is full of the same kind. Do as I say, you—you Od! Your mother got married under a basket! Servant of Lal Beg' (Kim knew the god of the sweepers), 'handle my business or we will speak again.'

The sweeper hurried away. 'There's a white boy by the barracks waiting under a tree who isn't a[131] white boy,' he stuttered to the first bazaar letter-writer he found. 'He needs you.'

'Will he pay?' asked the neat scribe, tidying up his desk and organizing his pens and sealing wax.

'I don’t know. He’s not like other boys. Go and see. It’s definitely worth it.'

Kim fidgeted with impatience when the slim young Kayeth came into view. As soon as his voice could reach him, he unleashed a stream of curses.

'First I will take my pay,' the letter-writer said. 'Harsh words have made the price higher. But who are you, dressed like that, to speak like this?'

'Aha! That's in the letter you’re going to write. Never was there such a story. But I'm in no rush. Another writer will do just fine for me. Umballa city has as many as Lahore does.'

'Four annas,' said the writer, sitting down and spreading his cloth in the shade of an empty barrack wing.

Mechanically, Kim squatted next to him—squatted like only the locals can—despite the awful, clingy pants.

The writer glanced at him.

'That's the price to ask of masters,' said Kim. 'Now, give me a real one.'

'One and a half annas. How can I be sure, now that I've written the letter, that you won't just take off?'

'I can't go past this tree, and I also have to think about the stamp.'

'I don’t get any commission from the price of the stamp. Once again, what kind of white boy are you?'

'That will be mentioned in the letter to Mahbub Ali, the horse dealer in the Kashmir Serai in Lahore. He is my friend.'[132]

'Wow, just wow!' the letter-writer whispered, dipping a pen in the inkpot. 'To be written in Hindi?'

'Definitely. To Mahbub Ali then. Let's go! "I traveled with the old man to Umballa on the train. At Umballa, I shared the news about the bay mare's pedigree."' After what he had witnessed in the garden, he wasn't about to write about white stallions.

'Slow down a bit. What does a bay mare have to do... Is it Mahbub Ali, the great dealer?'

'Who else? I've been working for him. Get more ink. Again. "I did it as instructed. Then we walked to Benares, but on the third day we encountered a certain regiment." Is that noted?'

'Ay, "pulton,"' murmured the writer, fully attentive.

"I entered their camp and got caught, and thanks to the charm around my neck, which you know about, it was confirmed that I was the son of someone in the regiment: as the prophecy of the Red Bull stated, which was common talk in our market." Kim paused to let this sink in for the person reading the letter, cleared his throat, and continued: "A priest dressed me and gave me a new name... But one priest was a fool. The clothes are really heavy, and I'm a Sahib, but my heart is heavy too. They send me to school and beat me. I don't like the air and water here. So please come and help me, Mahbub Ali, or send me some money because I don't have enough to pay the writer of this letter."

'"Who writes this?" It's my own fault that I got tricked. You're as clever as Husain Bux, who forged the Treasury stamps at Nucklao. But what a story! What a story! Is it true by any chance?'

[133]

'It's not worth lying to Mahbub Ali. It's better to help his friends by lending them a stamp. I'll pay you back when the money comes.'

The writer let out a skeptical grunt but pulled a stamp from his desk, sealed the letter, handed it to Kim, and left. Mahbub Ali was a powerful name in Umballa.

"That's how you earn a good reputation with the Gods," Kim yelled after him.

'Pay me double when the money arrives,' the man shouted back.

'What were you talking to that guy about?' said the drummer-boy when Kim returned to the veranda. 'I was watching you.'

'I was just talking to him.'

'You talk the same as a Black person, don't you?'

'Noah! Noah! I only speak a little. What should we do now?'

'The bugles will sound for dinner in half a minute. My God! I wish I had gone up to the front with the regiment. It’s terrible doing nothing but school down here. Don’t you hate it?'

'Oh yes!'

'I’d run away if I knew where to go, but, as the guys say, in this damn India you're just a prisoner on the loose. You can’t escape without getting caught and brought back immediately. I’m really sick of it.'

'You’ve been to Be—England?'

'Well, I only came out last troop season with my mother. I should think I have been in England. What an ignorant little brat you are. You were brought up in the gutter, weren't you?'

'Oah yes. Tell me something about England. My dad is from there.'[134]

Though he wouldn't admit it, Kim clearly didn't believe a word the drummer-boy said about the Liverpool suburb that was his England. It helped pass the heavy time until dinner—a pretty unappetizing meal served to the boys and a few invalids in a corner of a barrack-room. If he hadn't written to Mahbub Ali, Kim might have felt quite down. He was used to the indifference of native crowds; but this intense loneliness among white men was getting to him. He felt grateful when, later in the afternoon, a big soldier took him over to Father Victor, who lived in another wing across a dusty parade-ground. The priest was reading an English letter written in purple ink. He looked at Kim more curiously than ever.

'And how do you like it, my son, as far as you've gotten? Not much, huh? It must be really hard—very hard for a wild animal. Listen now. I have an amazing letter from your friend.'

'Where is he? Is he okay? Oh! If he knows how to write me letters, then everything is fine.'

'So, you like him?'

'Of course I like him. He liked me.'

'It looks like that. He can’t write in English, right?'

'Oah no. Not that I know, but of course he found someone who can write in English very well, and so he wrote. I really hope you understand.'

'That makes sense. Do you know anything about his financial situation?' Kim's expression indicated that he did not.

'How can I know?'

"That's what I'm asking. Now listen, if you can make sense of this. We'll skip the first part...[135] It's written from Jagadhir Road... "Sitting by the roadside in deep thought, hoping to earn your Honor's praise for this action, which I recommend you undertake for the sake of Almighty God. Education is the greatest blessing if it's of the best kind. Otherwise, it’s of no earthly use." Honestly, the old man hit the nail on the head with that one! "If your Honor kindly provides my boy with the best education at Xavier" (I assume that's St. Xavier in Partibus) "according to our conversation dated in your tent on the 15th" (that adds a business-like touch!) "then Almighty God bless your Honor's success to the third and fourth generation and"—now listen!—"trust in your Honor's humble servant for adequate compensation of three hundred rupees a year for one expensive education at St. Xavier, Lucknow, and allow some time to send the same through the courier to any address in India that your Honor shall specify. This servant of your Honor currently has no place to lay his head, but is going to Benares by train due to the harassment from an old woman who talks too much and is not eager to stay in Saharunpore in any domestic role." Now what on earth does that mean?

'She has asked him to be pure—her clergyman—at Saharunpore, I think. He wouldn’t do that because of his River. She did talk.'

"It's clear to you, right? I can't make heads or tails of it. 'So going to Benares, where you'll find the address and send money for the boy who is the apple of my eye, and for God's sake, please carry out this education, and your petitioner, as duty-bound, shall always pray earnestly. Written by Sobrao Satai, Failed Entrance Allahabad University, for the Venerable Teshoo Lama, the priest of Suchzen looking[136] for a River, care of Tirthankers' Temple, Benares. P. S.—Please note the boy is the apple of my eye, and the money will be sent via hoondie at three hundred a year. For God's sake.' Now, is that absolute madness or a business offer? I ask you, because I'm completely at my wits' end."

'He says he will give me three hundred rupees a year, so he will give them to me.'

'Oh, is that how you see it?'

'Of course. If he says so!'

The priest whistled, then he spoke to Kim as an equal.

'I don't believe it; but we'll see. You were going off today to the Military Orphanage at Sanawar, where the regiment would take care of you until you were old enough to enlist. You'd be raised in the Church of England. Bennett set that up. On the other hand, if you go to St. Xavier's, you'll get a better education and— and can have the religion. Do you see my dilemma?'

Kim saw nothing except a vision of the lama heading south on a train with no one to ask for help.

Like most people, I’m going to take my time. If your friend sends the money from Benares—dark forces below, where can a street beggar find three hundred rupees?—you’ll head to Lucknow, and I’ll cover your fare, because I can’t use the subscription money if I plan, as I do, to convert you to Catholicism. If he doesn’t send it, you’ll be sent to the Military Orphanage at the regiment’s cost. I’ll give him three days to come through, though I don’t believe it will happen. Even then, if he falls behind on payments later on… but it’s out of my hands. We can only take one step at a time in this world, thank God! And they sent Bennett to the front and left me here. Bennett can’t expect everything.[137]

"Oh yes," said Kim vaguely.

The priest leaned forward. 'I'd pay a month's salary to understand what's going on in that little round head of yours.'

"There’s nothing," Kim said, scratching. He was wondering if Mahbub Ali would send him even a whole rupee. Then he could pay the letter-writer and send letters to the lama in Benares. Maybe Mahbub Ali would visit him the next time he came south with horses. Surely he had to know that Kim's delivery of the letter to the officer in Umballa had sparked the big war the men and boys had talked about so loudly over the barrack dinner tables. But if Mahbub Ali didn’t know this, it would be really risky to tell him. Mahbub Ali was hard on boys who knew, or thought they knew, too much.

'Well, until I hear more news'—Father Victor's voice broke the daydream—'you can go ahead and play with the other boys. They'll show you something—but I don't think you'll enjoy it.'

The day dragged on endlessly. When he wanted to sleep, he was told how to fold his clothes and set out his boots, with the other boys making fun of him. Bugles woke him at dawn; after breakfast, the schoolmaster caught him, shoved a page of nonsense characters in front of him, gave them meaningless names, and hit him for no reason. Kim thought about poisoning him with opium he borrowed from a barrack-sweeper but realized that since they all ate at the same table publicly (something Kim found especially disgusting, as he preferred to eat alone), it could be risky. He then tried to escape to the village where the priest had attempted to drug the lama—the [138] village where the old soldier lived. But sharp-eyed sentries at every exit stopped the little scarlet figure. His trousers and jacket made him feel confined, so he gave up the plan and relied, Eastern-style, on time and chance. Three days of suffering passed in the large, echoing white rooms. He walked out in the afternoons under the watch of the drummer-boy, and all he heard from his companion was a few useless words that seemed to make up most of the white man's abuse. Kim had known and despised them for a long time. The boy took his silence and lack of interest personally and beat him, which was understandable. He didn’t care about any of the markets that were allowed. He called all natives 'niggers'; yet servants and cleaners insulted him to his face, and, misled by their respectful demeanor, he never understood. This somewhat comforted Kim about the beatings.

On the morning of the fourth day, a sudden realization hit the drummer. They had gone out together to the Umballa racecourse. He came back alone, crying, with news that young O'Hara, whom he hadn't really been doing anything with, had called out to a guy on horseback with a bright red beard; that the guy had then used a particularly sticky whip on him, picked O'Hara up, and taken off at full speed. This news reached Father Victor, and he frowned, pulling down his long upper lip. He was already quite startled by a letter from the Temple of the Tirthankers in Benares, which included a native banker's note for three hundred rupees, along with a surprising prayer to 'Almighty God.' The lama would have been more upset than the priest if he knew how the bazaar letter-writer had translated his phrase 'to acquire merit.'[139]

'Powers of Darkness below!' Father Victor struggled with the note. 'And now he's gone off with another one of his morning friends. I don’t know whether I’ll feel more relieved to get him back or to have him gone. He’s beyond my understanding. How the devil—yes, he’s the one I mean—can a street beggar gather money to educate white boys?'

Three miles away, on the Umballa racetrack, Mahbub Ali, riding a gray Cabuli stallion with Kim sitting in front of him, was saying:

'But, little friend of the whole world, I have my honor and reputation to think about. All the officers in every regiment, and everyone in Umballa, knows Mahbub Ali. People saw me pick you up and discipline that boy. We can be seen from far across this plain right now. How can I take you away, or explain your disappearance if I set you down and let you run off into the fields? They would lock me up. Be patient. Once a Sahib, always a Sahib. When you grow up—who knows—you’ll be grateful to Mahbub Ali.'

'Take me past their guards so I can change this red. Give me money and I'll go to Benares and be with my lama again. I don’t want to be a Sahib, and remember I delivered that message.'

The stallion jumped around wildly. Mahbub Ali had carelessly pressed the sharp stirrup into his side. (He wasn’t the modern, smooth-talking horse dealer who wears English boots and spurs.) Kim figured out what that betrayal meant.

'That was a minor issue. It was right on the main road to Benares. By now, the Sahib and I have completely forgotten it. I send so many letters and messages to people asking about horses that I can hardly keep one straight from the other[140]. Was it something about a bay mare that Peters Sahib wanted the pedigree for?'

Kim realized the trap immediately. If he had said 'bay mare,' Mahbub would have figured out that the boy was suspicious from how quickly he agreed to the change. So, Kim responded:

'Bay mare? No. I don’t forget my messages like that. It was a white stallion.'

'Ay, it was. A white Arab stallion. But you wrote bay mare to me.'

'Who cares to tell the truth to someone writing letters?' Kim replied, feeling Mahbub's hand on his heart.

'Hey! Mahbub, you old rascal, stop!' shouted a voice, and an Englishman zoomed by on a small polo pony. 'I've been chasing you all over the place. That Cabuli of yours can really move. Is it for sale, I guess?'

'I have some young talent coming up made by Heaven for the delicate and challenging polo game. He has no equal. He—'

'Plays polo and waits tables. Yes. We know all that. What on earth do you have there?'

'A boy,' Mahbub said seriously. 'He was being beaten by another boy. His father used to be a white soldier in the big war. The boy was a child in Lahore city. He played with my horses when he was little. Now I think they will make him a soldier. He was just captured by his father's regiment that went off to war last week. But I don't think he wants to be a soldier. I'll take him for a ride. Tell me where your barracks are, and I'll take you there.'

'Let me go. I can find the barracks by myself.'

'And if you run away, who will say it's not my fault?'[141]

'He'll run back to his dinner. Where does he have to go?' the Englishman asked.

'He was born in the land. He has friends. He goes where he wants. He is a sharp guy. It only takes changing his clothes, and in an instant, he would look like a low-caste Hindu boy.'

'No way he would!' The Englishman looked at the boy with scrutiny as Mahbub walked toward the barracks. Kim gritted his teeth. Mahbub was teasing him, just like untrustworthy Afghans do; because he continued:

'They will send him to a school, make him wear heavy boots, and wrap him up in these clothes. Then, he will forget everything he knows. So, which of the barracks is yours?'

Kim pointed—he couldn’t speak—to Father Victor's wing, all staring white nearby.

'Maybe he'll be a good soldier,' Mahbub said thoughtfully. 'At the very least, he'll be a good orderly. I had him deliver a message once from Lahore. It was about the lineage of a white stallion.'

Here was a deadly insult added to a deadlier injury—and the Sahib to whom he had cunningly given that war-making letter heard it all. Kim saw Mahbub Ali suffering for his betrayal, but for himself, he saw only a long gray stretch of barracks, schools, and barracks again. He looked at the clear-cut face with desperation, hoping for any sign of recognition; but even at this moment, it never crossed his mind to beg for the white man's mercy or to betray the Afghan. Mahbub stared intently at the Englishman, who stared just as intently at Kim, who was trembling and at a loss for words.

'My horse is well-trained,' said the dealer. 'Others would have kicked, Sir.'

'Ah,' said the Englishman at last, rubbing his pony's[142] damp shoulders with the end of his whip. 'Who turns the boy into a soldier?'

'He says it was the regiment that found him, especially the padre of that regiment.'

'There’s the padre!' Kim gasped as Father Victor approached them from the porch, without his hat.

'Powers of Darkness below, O'Hara! How many more mixed friends do you have in Asia?' he shouted, as Kim slid down and stood helplessly in front of him.

'Good morning, Padre,' the Colonel said cheerfully. 'I know you by your reputation. I meant to come over and introduce myself earlier. I'm Creighton.'

'Is this about the Ethnological Survey?' Father Victor asked. The Colonel nodded. 'I'm really glad to meet you then; and I owe you some thanks for bringing back the boy.'

'No thanks to me, Padre. Besides, the boy wasn't going anywhere. You don't know old Mahbub Ali'—the horse dealer sat still in the sunlight. 'You will when you've been at the station for a month. He sells us all our junk. That boy is quite the curiosity. Can you tell me anything about him?'

'Can I tell you?' gasped Father Victor. 'You’re the one person who could really help me with my problems. I have to share this! Seriously, I’m about to burst if I don’t tell someone who understands the local people!'

A groom came around the corner. Colonel Creighton raised his voice, speaking in Urdu. "That's great, Mahbub Ali, but what's the point of telling me all those stories about the pony? I won't pay more than three hundred and fifty rupees."

'The Sahib is a bit hot and annoyed after riding,' the horse dealer said, smirking like a privileged jester. 'Soon, he’ll see my horse's strengths more clearly.[143] I’ll wait until he’s done talking with the padre. I’ll wait under that tree.'

'Damn you!' The Colonel laughed. 'That's what happens when you look at one of Mahbub's horses. He's a total leech, Padre. So if you have some time to kill, Mahbub, I'm here for you, Padre. Where's the boy? Oh, he's off chatting with Mahbub. Strange kid. Could you send my mare around out of sight?'

He sat down in a chair that provided a clear view of Kim and Mahbub Ali talking under the tree. The padre went inside for some cheroots.

Creighton heard Kim bitterly say, "Trust a Brahmin before a snake, a snake before a harlot, and a harlot before an Afghan, Mahbub Ali."

'It's all the same,' the great red beard shook solemnly. 'Kids shouldn't see a carpet on the loom until the pattern is clear. Trust me, Friend of all the World, I'm doing you a big favor. They won't turn you into a soldier.'

'You clever old sinner,' thought Creighton. 'But you're not too far off. That kid can't be wasted if he really is as good as they say.'

'Hold on a second,' called the padre from inside, 'I’m just getting the case files.'

'If you receive the favor of this bold and wise Colonel Sahib through me, and you are honored, what thanks will you give Mahbub Ali when you become a man?'

'Nay, nay; I begged you to let me take the road again, where I would have been safe; and you have sold me back to the English. What will they pay you for blood-money?'[144]

'A cheerful young demon!' The Colonel bit his cigar and turned politely to Father Victor.

'What are the letters that the overweight priest is waving in front of the Colonel? Stand behind the horse as if you're looking at my bridle!' said Mahbub Ali.

'A letter from my lama that he wrote from Jagadhir Road, saying that he will pay three hundred rupees a year for my schooling.'

'Oho! Is old Red Hat like that? Which school?'

'God knows. I think in Nucklao.'

'Yes. There's a big school there for the sons of Sahibs—and half-Sahibs. I've seen it when I sell horses there. So the lama also loved the Friend of all the World?'

'Ay; and he didn't lie, or send me back into captivity.'

'It's no surprise the padre can't figure it out. He talks so quickly to the Colonel Sahib.' Mahbub Ali laughed. 'By Allah!'—he glanced around the veranda for a moment—'your lama has sent me what looks like a promissory note. I've had a bit of experience with hoondies. The Colonel Sahib is examining it.'

'What good is all this to me?' said Kim tiredly. 'You’ll leave, and they’ll send me back to those empty rooms where there’s nowhere decent to sleep and where the boys hit me.'

'I don't believe that. Be patient, kid. Not all Pathans are untrustworthy—except when it comes to horses.'

Five—ten—fifteen minutes went by, with Father Victor speaking passionately or asking questions that the Colonel replied to.

'Now I've shared everything I know about the[145] boy from start to finish, and it feels like a huge weight off my shoulders. Have you ever heard anything like it?'

'Anyway, the old man has sent the money. Gobind Sahai's promissory notes are solid from here to China,' said the Colonel. 'The more you learn about locals, the less you can predict what they'll do or not do.'

'That's comforting—from the head of the Ethnological Survey. It’s this mix of Red Bulls and Rivers of Healing (poor soul, God help him!) and promissory notes and Masonic certificates. Are you a Mason, by any chance?'

'By Jove, I am, now that I think about it. That's another reason,' said the Colonel, lost in thought.

'I'm glad you see a reason in it. But like I said, it's the mix of things that I can't wrap my head around. And him prophesying to our Colonel while sitting on my bed with his little shimmy torn open, showing his white skin; and the prophecy actually coming true! They'll sort all that nonsense out at St. Xavier's, right?'

'Sprinkle him with holy water,' the Colonel chuckled.

'Honestly, I think I should sometimes. But I'm hoping he'll be raised as a good Catholic. What worries me is what will happen if the old beggar—'

'Lama, lama, my dear sir; and some of them are gentlemen in their own country.'

'The lama, then, doesn’t pay next year. He’s great at making business decisions on the fly, but he’s bound to die someday. And taking a non-believer's money to provide a child with a Christian education—'

'But he clearly stated what he wanted. As soon as he realized the boy was white, it seems he made his plans accordingly. I'd give a month's salary to[146] hear how he explained everything at the Tirthankers' Temple in Benares. Look, Padre, I don’t claim to know much about the locals, but if he says he’ll pay, he will—whether he’s dead or alive. I mean, his heirs will take on the debt. My advice to you is to send the boy down to Lucknow. If your Anglican chaplain thinks you’ve gotten one over on him—'

'Bad luck for Bennett! He got sent to the front instead of me. Doughty declared me medically unfit. I'll kick Doughty out of the group if he makes it back alive! Surely Bennett should be satisfied with—'

'Glory, you take the religion. Absolutely! Honestly, I don’t think Bennett will mind. Just blame me. I really recommend sending the boy to St. Xavier's. He can travel as a soldier's orphan, so you won’t need to pay for the train fare. You can get him a uniform from the regimental fund. The Lodge won’t have to cover his education, which will put them in a good mood. It’s really easy. I need to head to Lucknow next week. I’ll take care of the boy on the way—I'll have my servants look after him, and so on.'

'You're a good person.'

'Not at all. Don’t make that mistake. The lama has sent us money for a specific purpose. We can’t really return it. We’ll have to do what he says. Well, that’s settled, right? Can we say that on Tuesday, you’ll hand him over to me at the night train heading south? That’s only three days. He can’t do much damage in three days.'

'It's a relief, but—this right here?'—he waved the note in his hand—'I don't know Gobind Sahai, or his bank, which could just be some hole in the wall.'[147]

'You’ve never been someone in debt who’s beneath others. I can cash it for you if you want, and send you the receipts in the right order.'

'But with all your own work too! It's asking—'

'It's really not any trouble at all. You see, as an ethnologist, this is very interesting to me. I'd like to take note of it for some government work I'm doing. The way a regimental badge like your Red Bull turns into a kind of fetish that the boy follows is quite fascinating.'

'But I can't thank you enough.'

'There's one thing you can do. All of us Ethnological guys are as jealous as jackdaws of each other's discoveries. They don't matter to anyone except us, of course, but you know how book collectors are. So, don't say anything, directly or indirectly, about the Asiatic side of the kid's character—his adventures, his prophecy, and all that. I'll figure them out from the boy later on and—you get it?'

'I will. You’ll do an amazing job with it. I won't say a word to anyone until I see it in print.'

'Thank you. That really touches an ethnologist's heart. Anyway, I need to get back to my breakfast. Good heavens! Is Old Mahbub still here?' He raised his voice, and the horse dealer stepped out from under the tree's shadow. 'So, what is it?'

'About that young horse,' said Mahbub, 'I believe that when a colt is born to be a polo pony, instinctively following the ball without any training—when such a colt knows the game intuitively—then it's a serious mistake to train that colt for a heavy cart, Sahib!'

'So I agree, Mahbub. The colt will only be used for polo. (These guys only think about horses, Padre.) I’ll catch up with you tomorrow, Mahbub, if you have anything you want to sell.'

The dealer tipped his hat like a cowboy. 'Just hang tight for a bit, Friend of all the World,' he whispered to the distressed Kim. 'Your fortune is made. Soon you'll head to Nucklao and—here's something to pay the letter-writer. I’m sure I’ll see you again, many times,' and he rode off down the road.

'Listen to me,' said the Colonel from the veranda, speaking in the local language. 'In three days, you will come with me to Lucknow, seeing and hearing new things the whole time. So sit tight for three days and don’t run off. You will go to school in Lucknow.'

'Will I meet my Holy One there?' Kim whimpered.

'At least Lucknow is closer to Benares than Umballa. You might go under my protection. Mahbub Ali knows this, and he will be upset if you go back to the road now. Remember—I've heard many things that I won't forget.'

'I will wait,' said Kim, 'but the guys will beat me.'

Then the bugles sounded for dinner.

[149]

'Now I’ll pay,' said Kim confidently, 'and now I need another letter written.'

'Mahbub Ali is in Umballa,' said the writer cheerfully. He was, due to his position, a source of general misinformation.

'This isn’t for Mahbub, but for a priest. Grab your pen and write quickly. "To Teshoo Lama, the holy one from Bhotiyal searching for a river, who is now in the Temple of the Tirthankers at Benares." Get more ink! "In three days, I will be going down to Nucklao to the school at Nucklao. The school's name is Xavier.[150] I don’t know where that school is, but it’s in Nucklao."'

'But I know Nucklao,' the writer interrupted. 'I know the school.'

'Tell him where it is, and I’ll give you half an anna.'

The reed pen wrote busily. 'He can't be mistaken.' The man looked up. 'Who is watching us from across the street?'

Kim looked up quickly and saw Colonel Creighton in tennis shorts.

'Oh, that's some guy who knows the heavy priest in the barracks. He's calling me over.'

'What are you doing?' said the Colonel, when Kim trotted up.

'I—I’m not running away. I’m sending a letter to my Holy One in Benares.'

'I hadn’t thought of that. Did you say that I’m taking you to Lucknow?'

'Nah, I haven't. Read the letter if you're unsure.'

'Then why did you leave out my name in writing to that Holy One?' The Colonel smiled a strange smile. Kim gathered his courage.

'Someone once told me that it's not wise to write down the names of strangers involved in any situation, because naming names can lead to many good plans falling apart.'

"You've been well taught," the Colonel replied, and Kim blushed. "I left my cigar case on the padre's veranda. Bring it to my house this evening."

'Where's the house?' Kim asked. His sharp instincts told him he was being challenged in some way, so he stayed alert.[151]

'Ask anyone in the big bazaar.' The Colonel walked on.

'He forgot his cheroot case,' Kim said as he came back. 'I need to bring it to him this evening. That’s all my letter says except, three times, "Come to me! Come to me! Come to me!" Now I’ll buy a stamp and mail it.' He stood up to leave, and as an afterthought, asked, 'Who’s that angry-looking Sahib who lost the cheroot case?'

'Oh, he’s just Creighton Sahib—a very foolish guy, who is a Colonel without a regiment.'

'What’s his business?'

'God knows. He's always buying horses he can't ride and asking riddles about the works of God—like plants, stones, and people's customs. The dealers call him the father of fools because he's so easily tricked about a horse. Mahbub Ali says he's crazier than all the other Sahibs.'

'Oh!' said Kim, and left. His training had given him some insight into character, and he believed that fools aren’t provided with information that leads to summoning eight thousand men, along with weapons. The Commander-in-Chief of all India doesn’t speak, as Kim had heard him speak, to fools. Nor would Mahbub Ali have changed his tone, as he always did when he mentioned the Colonel's name, if the Colonel were a fool. Therefore—and this made Kim skip—there was a mystery somewhere, and Mahbub Ali probably acted as a spy for the Colonel much like Kim had spied for Mahbub. And, similar to the horse dealer, the Colonel clearly respected people who didn’t seem too clever.

He was glad he hadn’t revealed what he knew about the Colonel's house[152]. And when he got back to the barracks and realized he hadn’t left any cheroot-case behind, he smiled with joy. This was a guy just like him—a tricky and indirect person playing a secret game. Well, if he could be a fool, so could Kim.

He showed no reaction when Father Victor, for three long mornings, talked to him about a whole new set of gods and goddesses—especially a goddess named Mary, who, he learned, was the same as Bibi Miriam in Mahbub Ali's beliefs. He showed no emotion when, after the talks, Father Victor took him from shop to shop buying supplies or when jealous drummer boys kicked him for going to a better school; instead, he waited with genuine interest for whatever would happen next. Father Victor, a good man, took him to the station, placed him in an empty second-class carriage next to Colonel Creighton's first-class, and said goodbye with sincere warmth.

'They'll turn you into a man, O'Hara, at St. Xavier's—a proper white man, and I hope, a decent one. They know all about your arrival, and the Colonel will make sure you’re not lost or misplaced anywhere along the way. I've tried to give you an idea about religious matters—at least I hope I have—and you'll remember, when they ask you about your religion, that you're a Catholic. It's better to say Roman Catholic, although I’m not a fan of that term.'

Kim lit a stinky cigarette—he had made sure to buy a supply at the market—and lay down to think. This lonely moment was so different from that joyful trip in third class with the lama. 'White people don’t get much enjoyment from traveling,' he thought. 'Oh my! I move from one place to another like it’s just a game of kickball.[153] It’s my fate. No one can escape their fate. But I’m supposed to pray to Bibi Miriam and I’m a white person'—he looked at his boots with regret. 'No; I’m Kim. This is the vast world, and I’m just Kim. Who is Kim?' He pondered his own identity, something he had never done before, until he felt dizzy. He was just one tiny person in this chaotic world of India, heading south to a destiny he didn’t know.

Right now, the Colonel called for him and talked for a long time. From what Kim understood, he was supposed to work hard and join the Survey of India as a chain-man. If he did really well and passed the necessary exams, he would earn thirty rupees a month at seventeen years old, and Colonel Creighton would make sure he found a good job.

Kim initially pretended to understand maybe one word out of three in the conversation. Then the Colonel, realizing his mistake, switched to fluent and colorful Urdu, and Kim felt satisfied. No one could be a fool who understood the language so well, moved so softly and quietly, and whose eyes were so unlike the dull, fat eyes of other Sahibs.

'Yes, and you must learn how to create images of roads, mountains, and rivers—to keep these images in your mind until a good time comes to put them on paper. Maybe someday, when you're a chain-man, I might say to you while we’re working together: "Go over those hills and see what’s on the other side." Then someone will say: "There are dangerous people living in those hills who will kill the chain-man if he looks like a Sahib." What then?'

Kim thought. Would it be safe to return the Colonel's lead?[154]

'I would share what that other man had said.'

'But if I answered: "I'll give you a hundred rupees for knowing what's beyond those hills—for a picture of a river and some news about what the people are saying in the villages there"?'

'How can I know? I'm just a boy. Just wait until I become a man.' Then, noticing the Colonel's furrowed brow, he added: 'But I believe I could earn the hundred rupees in a few days.'

'Which way?'

Kim shook his head firmly. 'If I explained how I would earn them, another guy might hear and get in my way. It's pointless to give away knowledge for free.'

'Tell me now.' The Colonel held up a rupee. Kim's hand reached out for it but then fell back.

'Nah, Sir; no. I know the cost of the answer, but I don’t understand why the question is being asked.'

'Take it as a gift, then,' said Creighton, throwing it over. 'You have a good spirit. Don't let it get dulled at St. Xavier's. There are a lot of boys there who look down on black men.'

'Their moms were market ladies,' said Kim. He knew well there is no hatred like that of the mixed-race person for his brother-in-law.

'That's true; but you are a Sahib and the son of a Sahib. So, never look down on the black men. I've seen young men just starting their government jobs pretend not to understand the language or customs of black men. They had their pay reduced for their ignorance. There’s no greater sin than ignorance. Remember that.'

Several times during the long twenty-four[155] hours' journey south, the Colonel called for Kim, always expanding on this latter topic.

'We're all tied together, then,' said Kim finally, 'the Colonel, Mahbub Ali, and I—when I become a chain-man. He'll use me like Mahbub Ali did, I think. That's good if it lets me get back on the road again. These clothes aren't getting any more comfortable with wear.'

When they arrived at the busy Lucknow station, there was no sign of the lama. He held back his disappointment as the Colonel packed him into a ticca-garri with his neatly arranged belongings and sent him alone to St. Xavier's.

'I won’t say goodbye, because we’ll see each other again,' he exclaimed. 'Again and again, if you have a good spirit. But you haven't been tested yet.'

'Not when I brought you'—Kim actually dared to use the tone of equals—'a white stallion's pedigree that night?'

“There's a lot to be gained by forgetting, little brother,” the Colonel said, giving Kim a look that seemed to bore right through his shoulder blades as he hurried into the carriage.

It took him almost five minutes to get himself together. Then he breathed in the fresh air with appreciation. "What a vibrant city," he said. "Richer than Lahore. The markets must be amazing! Driver, take me for a quick ride through the markets here."

'My order is to take you to the school.' The driver used 'thou,' which is disrespectful when referring to a white man. In the clearest and most fluent way, Kim pointed out his mistake, climbed onto the box seat, and, with perfect understanding established, drove for a couple of hours up and down, estimating, comparing, and enjoying. There is no city—except Bombay, the[156] queen of all—more beautiful in her bold style than Lucknow, whether you see her from the bridge over the river, or from the top of the Imambara looking down at the gilt umbrellas of the Chutter Munzil and the trees in which the town is nestled. Kings have adorned her with fantastic buildings, equipped her with charities, filled her with pensioners, and soaked her with blood. She is the center of all idleness, intrigue, and luxury, and shares with Delhi the distinction of speaking the only pure Urdu.

'A fair city—a beautiful city.' The driver, being from Lucknow, was happy with the compliment and shared many amazing stories while an English guide would have focused on the Mutiny.

'Now we will go to the school,' Kim finally said. The large old school of St. Xavier's in Partibus, with its clusters of low white buildings, sits on extensive grounds across from the Gumti River, not far from the city.

"What kind of people are they inside?" said Kim.

'Young Sahibs—all troublemakers; but to be honest, as I drive many of them back and forth from the train station, I have never seen anyone with the potential to be a more perfect troublemaker than you—this young Sahib I am currently driving.'

Naturally, since he was never taught to see them as inappropriate, Kim had chatted with a couple of lighthearted ladies at the upper windows on a certain street, and, of course, in exchanging compliments, he had done quite well. He was about to respond to the driver's latest rudeness when his eye—it was getting dark—caught sight of a figure sitting by one of the white plaster gate pillars in the long stretch of wall.[157]

'Stop!' he shouted. 'Stay here! I'm not going to school right away.'

'But what's going to make up for all this back and forth?' said the driver irritably. 'Is the kid crazy? Last time it was a dancer. This time it’s a priest.'

Kim was in the road, moving straight ahead, patting the dusty feet sticking out from under the dirty yellow robe.

'I have waited here for a day and a half,' the lama's calm voice began. 'Actually, I had a disciple with me. The one who was my friend at the Temple of the Tirthankers gave me a guide for this journey. I traveled from Benares by train when I received your letter. Yes, I am well-fed. I don’t need anything.'

'But why didn’t you stay with the Kulu woman, O Holy One? How did you get to Benares? I’ve felt heavy-hearted since we parted.'

'The woman tired me out with her nonstop chatter and her requests for gifts for children. I distanced myself from that group, letting her earn some goodwill through her giving. At least she is generous, and I promised to return to her house if I ever needed to. Then, feeling alone in this vast and daunting world, I remembered the train to Benares, where I knew someone in the Tirthankers' Temple who was a Seeker, just like me.'

'Ah! Your River,' said Kim. 'I had forgotten the River.'

'So soon, my student? I have never forgotten it; but when I left you, it seemed better for me to go to the temple and seek advice, because, you see, India is very vast, and it’s possible that wise men before us, maybe two or three, have recorded the location of our River. There is a discussion in the Temple of the Tirthankers on[158] this matter; some saying one thing, and others another. They are polite people.'

'Fine; but what are you doing now?'

'I earn merit by helping you, my student, gain wisdom. The priest of the group that serves the Red Bull told me that everything should be as I wanted for you. I sent money to cover a year’s expenses, and then I came, as you see me, to wait for you to enter the Gates of Learning. I have waited a day and a half—not out of any personal affection for you—that isn't part of the Path—but, as they said at the Tirthankers' Temple, because since money was paid for learning, it was right for me to oversee the outcome. They cleared up my doubts very well. I was worried that I might have come because I wanted to see you—misled by feelings of affection. That’s not the case. . . . Also, I am troubled by a dream.'

'But surely, Holy One, you haven't forgotten the Road and everything that happened on it. Surely it was just a little to see me that you came?'

"The horses are cold, and it's past their feeding time," complained the driver.

'Go to hell and stay there with your no-good aunt!' Kim spat over his shoulder. 'I'm all alone in this place; I don’t know where I'm going or what will happen to me. My heart was in that letter I sent you. Aside from Mahbub Ali, who's a Pathan, you're my only friend, Holy One. Please don’t completely leave me.'

"I've thought about that too," the lama said in a shaky voice. "It's clear that from time to time I will gain merit—if by then I haven't found my River—by making sure that your path is rooted in wisdom. I don't know what they'll teach you, but the priest told me that no son of a Sahib in all of India will be better educated than you. So from time to time, I will come back. Maybe you'll be like the Sahib who gave me these glasses"—the lama carefully wiped them—"in the Wonder House at Lahore. That's my hope because he was a Fountain of Wisdom—wiser than many abbots... Or maybe you'll forget me and our meetings."

'If I eat your bread,' Kim exclaimed passionately, 'how will I ever forget you?'

'No—no.' He set the boy aside. 'I have to go back to Benares. Now that I understand the ways of letter writers in this country, I'll send you a letter from time to time, and I'll come to see you whenever I can.'

'But where should I send my letters?' cried Kim, clutching at the robe, completely forgetting that he was a Sahib.

'To the Temple of the Tirthankers in Benares. That’s the place I’ve chosen until I find my River. Don’t cry; because, you see, all Desire is an illusion and just another tether to the Wheel. Go to the Gates of Learning. Let me see you go... Do you love me? Then go, or my heart will break... I will return. I promise I will come back.'

The lama watched the ticca-garri roll into the compound and walked off, sniffing between each long step.

'The Gates of Learning' closed with a loud bang.

The country boy has his own ways and customs that are different from anyone else's; his teachers connect with him in ways an English teacher wouldn’t understand. So, you[160] probably wouldn't be very interested in Kim's experiences as a St. Xavier's student among two or three hundred bright youths, most of whom had never seen the ocean. He faced the usual consequences for breaking the rules when there was cholera in the city. This was before he learned to write proper English, so he had to find a bazaar letter-writer. He was, of course, charged for smoking and for using language that was even more colorful than what St. Xavier's had ever encountered. He learned to wash himself with the same meticulousness as a native-born, who secretly thinks of the Englishman as somewhat dirty. He played the typical pranks on the patient coolies pulling the fans in the dorms where the boys talked through the hot nights until dawn; and silently he measured himself against his self-reliant peers.

They were the sons of lower-ranking officials in the Railway, Telegraph, and Canal services; of warrant officers who were sometimes retired and sometimes acting as commanders of a feudal Rajah's army; of captains in the Indian Marine, government pensioners, plantation owners, shopkeepers from the Presidency, and missionaries. A few were cadets from old Eurasian families that had established themselves in Dhurrumtollah—Pereiras, De Souzas, and D'Silvas. Their parents could have easily sent them to be educated in England, but they preferred the school that had educated them, and generation after generation attended St. Xavier's. Their homes stretched from Howrah, where the railway workers lived, to abandoned military posts like Monghyr and Chunar; forgotten tea plantations towards Shillong; villages where their fathers owned large tracts of land in Oudh or the Deccan; mission stations a week away from the nearest railway; and seaports a thousand miles to the south, facing the fierce Indian waves; and cinchona plantations further south. The mere stories of their daily journeys, which to them were just routine, would astonish a Western boy. They were accustomed to traveling alone through a hundred miles of jungle, where there was always the thrilling possibility of encountering tigers; but they would no more have swum in the English Channel during an English August than their brothers across the world would have remained still while a leopard sniffed at their palanquin. There were boys of fifteen who had spent a day and a half on a small island in the middle of a flooded river, taking charge, as if by right, of a group of panicking pilgrims returning from a shrine; there were older boys who had commandeered a chance encounter with a Rajah's elephant in the name of St. Francis Xavier when the rains had washed out the road to their father's estate, and nearly lost the massive animal in quicksand. There was a boy who claimed, and no one doubted him, that he had helped his father fend off a swarm of Akas with rifles from the veranda during the days when those headhunters were bold enough to attack isolated plantations.

And every story was shared in a calm, even voice of the locals, mixed with quirky reflections, unconsciously borrowed from local caregivers, and phrases that clearly had just been translated from their everyday language. Kim observed, listened, and approved. This wasn’t the dull, one-word chatter of drummer-boys. It described a life he recognized and somewhat understood. The atmosphere fit him well, and he thrived little by little. They gave him a white drill suit as the weather warmed up, and he celebrated the newfound comfort in his body just as much as he enjoyed using his sharpened mind[162] on the tasks they assigned him. His quickness would have impressed an English teacher; but at St. Xavier's, they are aware of the initial surge of minds shaped by the sun and environment, just as they understand the gradual decline that kicks in at twenty-two or twenty-three.

Nonetheless, he remembered to stay humble. When stories were shared about hot nights, Kim did not dominate the conversation with his own memories; because St. Xavier’s looks down on boys who completely embrace the local culture. You must never forget that you are a Sahib, and that one day, after passing exams, you will be in charge of the locals. Kim noted this, as he started to grasp where the exams would take him.

Then came the holidays from August to October—the long break caused by the heat and the rains. Kim was told that he would head north to a place in the hills behind Umballa, where Father Victor would make the arrangements for him.

'A barrack-school?' Kim said, who had asked a lot of questions and thought even more.

'Yes, I guess so,' said the master. 'It won't hurt you to stay out of trouble. You can go up with young De Castro as far as Delhi.'

Kim thought about it from every angle. He had been careful, just like the Colonel suggested. A boy's vacation was his own business—that’s what his friends had told him—and attending a barrack-school would be torture compared to St. Xavier's. Plus—this was the real kicker—he could write. In three months, he had figured out how people could communicate without involving a third party, for the price of half an anna and a bit of skill. No word had come from the lama, but the Road still lay ahead. Kim longed for the feel of soft mud squishing between his toes, just as he craved mutton stewed with butter and cabbage, rice sprinkled with fragrant cardamom, saffron-colored rice, garlic, and onions, and the tempting greasy sweets from the markets. They would serve him raw beef on a plate at the barrack-school, and he would have to sneak a smoke. But still, he was a Sahib and was at St. Xavier's, and that jerk Mahbub Ali... No, he wouldn't impose on Mahbub's hospitality—but then... He thought it over alone in the dormitory and realized he had been unfair to Mahbub.

The school was deserted; almost all the teachers had left. Colonel Creighton's train pass was in his hand, and Kim felt proud that he hadn't blown Colonel Creighton's or Mahbub's money on wild living. He still had two rupees and seven annas to his name. His new bullock trunk, labeled 'K. O'H.,' and bedding roll were in the empty sleeping room. "Sahibs are always attached to their luggage," Kim said, nodding at them. "You will stay here." He stepped out into the warm rain, grinning mischievously, and headed for a specific house whose exterior he had noted down some time ago.

'Arre! Do you know what kind of women we have in this area? Oh, what a shame!'

'Was I born yesterday?' Kim squatted in a traditional way on the cushions of that upper room. 'A little dye and three yards of cloth to back up a joke. Is that too much to ask?'

'Who is she? You’re quite young, as gentlemen go, for this kind of trouble.'

'Oh, her? She's the daughter of a schoolmaster for a regiment in the barracks. He has[164] punished me twice because I climbed over their wall in this outfit. Now I would go as a gardener’s boy. Old men are really jealous.'

'That's true. Hold your face still while I dab on the juice.'

'Not too black, Naikan. I wouldn’t want to come across to her as a racist term.'

'Oh, love overlooks all of that. And how old is she?'

'Twelve years, I think,' said the shameless Kim. 'Put it on her chest too. Her dad might rip my clothes off, and if I'm all messed up—' he laughed.

The girl worked diligently, dipping a piece of cloth into a small dish of brown dye that lasts longer than any walnut juice.

'Now send out and get me a cloth for the turban. Woe is me, my head is completely unshaven! And he will definitely knock off my turban.'

'I’m not a barber, but I’ll manage. You were born to break hearts! All this pretending for just one evening? Remember, this stuff doesn’t wash off.' She shook with laughter until her bracelets and anklets jingled. 'But who’s going to pay me for this? Even Huneefa herself couldn’t have given you better stuff.'

'Trust in the Gods, my sister,' said Kim seriously, twisting his face as the stain dried. 'Besides, have you ever helped to paint a Sahib like this before?'

'Never, for sure. But a joke isn't cash.'

'It's worth a lot more.'

'Child, you are undoubtedly the most shameless son of the devil I have ever known to waste a poor girl's time with this game, and then to say: "Isn't the joke enough?" You will go very far in this world.' She gave the dancing girls' salute in mockery.

'All one. Hurry up and give me a rough haircut.' Kim shifted from foot to foot, his eyes shining with joy as he thought about the good days ahead. He gave the girl four annas and ran down the stairs like a low-caste Hindu boy—perfect in every detail. A cookshop was his next stop, where he indulged in extravagant and greasy luxury.

On the platform at Lucknow station, he saw young De Castro, covered in prickly heat, get into a second-class compartment. Kim took a spot in a third class and was the life of the party. He told everyone that he was an assistant to a juggler who had left him behind because he was sick with fever, and that he would meet his master in Umballa. As the passengers in the carriage changed, he switched up the story or added details from his imagination, which had been held back by speaking native languages for so long. That night, no one in all of India was as happy as Kim. When he got to Umballa, he got off and headed east, splashing through the soggy fields to the village where the old soldier lived.

About this time, Colonel Creighton in Simla got a message from Lucknow saying that young O'Hara had gone missing. Mahbub Ali was in town selling horses, and one morning, the Colonel shared the situation with him while they were riding around the Annandale racecourse.

"Oh, that's nothing," said the horse dealer. "People are like horses. Sometimes they need salt, and if it's not in the troughs, they'll scrape it up from the ground. He's gone back to the Road for a bit. The madrissah tired him out. I knew it would. Next time, I'll take him on the Road myself.[166] Don't worry, Creighton Sahib. It's like a polo pony breaking loose to learn the game on its own."

'So, you think he's not dead?'

'Fever might kill him. I’m not worried about the boy otherwise. A monkey doesn’t fall from trees.'

Next morning, on the same route, Mahbub's stallion ran alongside the Colonel.

'It’s just as I thought,' said the horse dealer. 'He has come through Umballa at least, and there he wrote me a letter after finding out in the market that I was here.'

'Read,' the Colonel said, feeling relieved. It was ridiculous that someone in his position would take an interest in a country-bred drifter, but he recalled the conversation on the train and had often found himself thinking about the strange, quiet, confident boy in the past few months. His avoidance, of course, was incredibly disrespectful, but it showed some creativity and guts.

Mahbub's eyes sparkled as he rode out into the center of the small, crowded plain, where no one could approach unnoticed.

"The Friend of the Stars, who is the Friend of everyone in the World—"

'What's this?'

'A name we give him in Lahore city. "The Friend of all the World is getting ready to go back to his home. He’ll return on the chosen day. Please have the box and the bedding-roll sent for; and if there has been an error, let the Hand of Friendship help avoid the Whip of Calamity." There is still a bit more, but—'

'No worries, just read.'[167]

'"Certain things are not known to those who eat with forks. It is better to eat with both hands for a while. Speak soft words to those who do not understand this so that the outcome may be favorable." Now the way that was expressed is obviously the letter-writer's doing, but notice how cleverly the boy has arranged it so that no clue is given except to those who understand!'

'Is this the Hand of Friendship to avoid the Whip of Disaster?' laughed the Colonel.

'Look how smart the boy is. He would go back to the Road again, just like I said. Not knowing your trade yet—'

"I'm not really sure about that," the Colonel muttered.

'He turns to me to broker peace between you. Isn’t he smart? He says he will come back. He’s just refining his knowledge. Think about it, Sahib! He has been at school for three months. And he’s not limited to that little bit. For my part, I’m happy: the pony is learning the ropes.'

'Aye, but next time he shouldn't go alone.'

'Why? He went alone before he came under the Colonel Sahib's protection. When he enters the Great Game, he has to go alone—alone, and at the risk of his life. Then, if he spits, sneezes, or sits down differently from those he is observing, he could be killed. Why stop him now? Remember how the Persians say: The jackal that lives in the wilds of Mazanderan can only be caught by the hounds of Mazanderan.'

'True. It is true, Mahbub Ali. And if he comes to no harm, I don’t want anything more. But it’s really rude on his part.'

'He doesn't even tell me where he's going,' said Mahbub. 'He's no fool. When his time is up[168] he will come to me. It's time the pearl healer took him under his wing. He’s maturing too fast—at least, that's how the Sahibs see it.'

This prophecy was fulfilled exactly a month later. Mahbub had gone down to Umballa to pick up a new shipment of horses, and Kim met him on the Kalka road at dusk riding alone, asked him for some change, got cursed at, and responded in English. There was no one nearby to hear Mahbub's gasp of surprise.

'Oho! And where have you been?'

'Up and down, down and up.'

'Come under a tree, out of the rain, and tell me.'

'I stayed for a while with an elderly man near Umballa; then with some friends' family in Umballa. I traveled with one of them all the way to Delhi to the south. It’s an amazing city. After that, I drove a bullock for an oilman heading north, but I heard about a huge feast happening in Puttiala, so I went there with a firework-maker. It was a massive celebration' (Kim rubbed his stomach). 'I saw Rajahs and elephants adorned with gold and silver decorations; they set off all the fireworks at once, which resulted in the deaths of eleven people, including my firework-maker, and I got blown across a tent but was unharmed. Then I returned to the relay with a Sikh horseman, for whom I worked as a groom to earn my keep; and that’s how I ended up here.'

'Well done!' said Mahbub Ali.

'But what does the Colonel say? I don't want to be punished.'

'The Hand of Friendship has kept the Whip of Calamity away; but next time, when you take the Road, I'll be with you. This is too soon.'

'It's late enough for me. I've learned to read and to[169] write English a bit at the madrassah. Soon, I'll be fully a Sahib.'

'Hear him!' laughed Mahbub, watching the small soaked figure dancing in the rain. 'Salaam—Sahib,' he said with a mocking salute. 'So, are you tired of the Road, or will you come to Umballa with me and help with the horses on the way back?'

'I’m coming with you, Mahbub Ali.'

[170]

Kim responded with the old saying, 'I will change my beliefs and my bed, but you have to pay for it.'

The dealer laughed so hard he almost fell off his horse. At a store on the edge of the city, the change was made, and Kim stood up, at least on the outside, as a Muslim.

Mahbub rented a room across from the railway station, ordered a cooked meal of the best quality with almond-curd sweets (we call it balushai) and finely chopped Lucknow tobacco.

'This is better than some other meat I had with the Sikh,' said Kim, grinning as he squatted, 'and definitely they don’t serve anything like this at my madrassah.'[171]

'I want to hear about that same madrissah.' Mahbub stuffed himself with big chunks of spiced mutton fried in fat with cabbage and golden-brown onions. 'But first, tell me everything, honestly, about how you escaped. For, O Friend of all the World,'—he loosened his tight belt—'I don't think it happens often that a Sahib and the son of a Sahib runs away from there.'

'How should they? They don't know the land. It was nothing,' said Kim, and started his story. When he got to the part about disguising himself and the meeting with the girl in the bazaar, Mahbub Ali lost his seriousness. He laughed out loud and slapped his thigh.

'Well done! Well done! Oh, great job, little one! What will the turquoise healer say to this? Now, slowly, let's hear what happened next—step by step, leaving nothing out.'

Step by step, Kim shared his adventures between coughs as the rich tobacco filled his lungs.

'I said,' grumbled Mahbub Ali to himself, 'I knew it was the pony breaking loose to play polo. The time has come—only he needs to learn his distances, pacing, and the use of his rods and compasses. Listen up. I've kept the Colonel's whip off your back, and that's no small favor.'

"Yeah." Kim exhaled calmly. "That’s all true."

'But it shouldn’t be assumed that this coming and going is good in any way.'

'It was my vacation, Hajji. I was stuck for so many weeks. Why shouldn’t I escape when the school was closed? Look at how I, either relying on my friends or earning my keep, like I did with the Sikh, have saved Colonel Sahib a lot of money.'[172]

Mahbub's lips twitched beneath his neatly groomed Muslim moustache.

'What are a few rupees?' the Pathan said casually, spreading his hand. 'To the Colonel Sahib, he spends them for a reason, not out of any affection for you.'

'That,' Kim said slowly, 'I knew a really long time ago.'

'Who said?'

'The Colonel Sahib himself. Not in those many words, but clear enough for someone who isn't completely clueless. Yeah, he told me in the downpour when we went to Lucknow.'

'Alright. Then I’ll tell you more, Friend of all the World, even though I’m putting my head on the line by doing so.'

'It was given to me,' said Kim, with great enjoyment, 'in Umballa, when you picked me up on the horse after the drummer-boy beat me.'

'Speak a little more clearly. Everyone else might lie except you and me. Because your life is just as much at risk if I decide to lift my finger here.'

'And I know this too,' said Kim, adjusting the burning charcoal ball on the grass. 'It’s a really strong bond between us. In fact, your connection is even stronger than mine; because who would notice if a boy was beaten to death or maybe thrown into a well by the roadside? Many people here, in Simla, and across the mountains would instead ask: "What happened to Mahbub Ali," if he was found dead among his horses. The Colonel Sahib would definitely look into it. But again,'—Kim's face scrunched up with cleverness,—'he wouldn’t investigate for too long, or else people would wonder: "What does this Colonel Sahib have to do with that horse dealer?" But I—if I were to live—'[173]

'As you would surely die—'

'It might be, but I believe that if I lived, I would be the only one to know that someone came at night, like a common thief, to Mahbub Ali's room in the inn, and killed him, either before or after that thief thoroughly searched his saddle-bags and between the soles of his slippers. Would I even tell the Colonel this, or would he say to me—(I still remember when he made me go back for a cigar case he left behind)—"What does Mahbub Ali matter to me?"'

Up went a thick cloud of smoke. There was a long pause; then Mahbub Ali said in admiration: 'And with all of this on your mind, do you really sleep and wake up again among all the little sons of the Sahibs at the madrissah and quietly accept lessons from your teachers?'

'It's an order,' Kim said flatly. 'Who am I to challenge an order?'

'A total pro of deception,' said Mahbub Ali. 'But what's this story about the thief and the hunt?'

'What I saw,' said Kim, 'the night my lama and I stayed near your place in the Kashmir Serai. The door was left unlocked, which I don’t think is your usual practice, Mahbub. He came in as if he knew you wouldn’t be back anytime soon. I was looking through a knot-hole in the plank. He searched for something—not a rug, not stirrups, not a bridle, or brass pots—something small and very well hidden. Otherwise, why would he poke with a metal object between the soles of your slippers?'

'Ha!' Mahbub Ali smiled gently. 'And seeing these things, what story did you create for yourself, Well of the Truth?'

'None. I placed my hand on my amulet, which always rests next to my skin, and, recalling the lineage[174] of a white stallion that I had bitten out of a piece of Mussalmani bread, I headed to Umballa, realizing that a heavy responsibility was on my shoulders. At that moment, if I had chosen, your life could have been in danger. It would have just taken telling that man, "I have a document here about a horse that I can't read." And then?' Kim glanced at Mahbub from beneath his eyebrows.

'Then you would have drank water twice—maybe three times, afterwards. I don't think more than three times,' said Mahbub simply.

'It's true. I thought about that for a bit, but mostly I thought that I loved you, Mahbub. That's why I went to Umballa, as you know, but (and you don't know this) I hid in the garden grass to see what Colonel Creighton Sahib would do when he read the white stallion's pedigree.'

'And what did he?' Kim had cut off the conversation.

"Do you share news for love, or do you sell it?" Kim asked.

'I sell and—I buy.' Mahbub took out a four-anna coin from his belt and held it up.

'Eight!' said Kim, automatically following the vendor's instinct of the East.

Mahbub laughed and tucked the coin away. 'It's way too easy to trade in that market, Friend of all the World. Tell me out of love. Our lives are in each other's hands.'

'Very good. I saw the Jang-i-Lat Sahib (the Commander-in-Chief) come to a big dinner. I saw him in Creighton Sahib's office. I saw the two reading the white stallion's pedigree. I heard the specific orders given for the start of a major war.'

'Hah!' Mahbub nodded with deep eyes ablaze.[175] The game is well played. That war is over now, and the evil, we hope, was stopped before it could grow—thanks to me—and you. What did you do later?'

'I used the news to grab some food and gain respect from the villagers in a town where the priest drugged my lama. But I took the old man's purse, and the Brahmin couldn't find anything. So the next morning, he was mad. Ha! Ha! And I also used the news when I got caught by that white regiment with their Bull!'

'That was foolishness.' Mahbub frowned. 'News isn't supposed to be tossed around like dung-cakes, but used wisely—like bhang.'

'So I think now, and honestly, it didn't help me at all. But that was a long time ago,'—he tried to wave it all away with a thin brown hand,—'and since then, especially during the nights under the fan at the school, I've thought a lot.'

"Is it okay to ask where the thoughts of the Heaven-born might have taken him?" said Mahbub, with a touch of sarcasm, smoothing his red beard.

'It's allowed,' said Kim, mimicking the same tone. 'They say at Nucklao that no Sahib should tell a black man that he has made a mistake.'

Mahbub's hand dove into his chest because calling a Pathan a 'black man' (kala admi) is a serious insult. Then he remembered and laughed. 'Go ahead, Sahib: your black man is listening.'

'But,' Kim said, 'I'm not a Sahib, and I admit I messed up when I cursed you, Mahbub Ali, that day in Umballa when I thought a Pathan had betrayed me. I was out of my mind; I had just been captured, and I wanted to kill that low-caste drummer-boy. I'm saying now, Hajji, that[176] it was a good thing; and I can see my path ahead leading to a great opportunity. I will stay in the madrissah until I'm ready.'

'Well said. Especially distances and numbers and how to use compasses are important to learn in that game. One waits in the Hills above to show you.'

'I will learn their teachings on one condition— that my time is completely mine when the madrissah is closed. Please ask the Colonel about that for me.'

'But why not ask the Colonel in the Sahib's language?'

'The Colonel is a servant of the Government. He can be sent anywhere at a moment's notice and has to think about his own career. (Look at how much I've already learned at Nucklao!) Also, I've only known the Colonel for three months. I've known Mahbub Ali for six years. So! I'm going to the madrissah. At the madrissah, I will learn. In the madrissah, I will be a Sahib. But when the madrissah closes, I have to be free and can go among my people. Otherwise, I will die!'

'And who are your people, Friend of all the World?'

'This amazing and beautiful land,' said Kim, waving his paw around the small clay-walled room where the oil lamp in its nook burned thickly through the tobacco smoke. 'And, on top of that, I want to see my lama again. And also, I need money.'

'That's what everyone needs,' Mahbub said with a hint of sadness. 'I'll give you eight annas, because you don't make a lot of money from horses’ hooves, and it should be enough for several days. As for everything else, I'm good with it, and we don't need to discuss it further. Hurry up and learn, and in three years, or maybe even less, you’ll be able to help—even me.'

'Have I been such a bother until now?' said Kim, with a boy's giggle.[177]

'Don't give answers,' Mahbub grunted. 'You are my new horse-boy. Go sleep among my men. They are near the north end of the station, with the horses.'

'They'll beat me to the south end of the station if I show up without permission.'

Mahbub felt in his belt, wet his thumb on a cake of Chinese ink, and pressed the impression onto a piece of soft local paper. From Balkh to Bombay, people recognize that rough print with the old scar running diagonally across it.

'That’s enough to show my boss. I’ll come in the morning.'

'Which way?' said Kim.

'By the road from the City. There is only one way, and then we go back to Creighton Sahib. I've saved you from a beating.'

'God! What does a beating matter when the head is just hanging off the shoulders?'

Kim quietly slipped out into the night, walked halfway around the house, staying close to the walls, and headed away from the station for about a mile. Then, taking a wide detour, he made his way back at a relaxed pace, since he needed time to come up with a story in case any of Mahbub's people asked questions.

They were set up on a patch of unused land next to the train tracks, and since they were locals, they hadn't unloaded the two trucks that held Mahbub's animals among a shipment of local horses purchased by the Bombay tram company. The leader, a frail-looking, sickly Muslim man, immediately confronted Kim but calmed down when he saw Mahbub's signature.[178]

'The Hajji has given me his favor and service,' said Kim irritably. 'If you doubt this, just wait until he comes in the morning. In the meantime, I want a spot by the fire.'

Followed the usual pointless chatter that every low-caste native has to engage in on every occasion. It faded away, and Kim lay behind the small group of Mahbub's followers, almost under the wheels of a horse truck, covered with a borrowed blanket. Now a makeshift bed among rubble and waste on a damp night, squeezed between overcrowded horses and unwashed Baltis, wouldn’t appeal to many white boys; but Kim was completely happy. A change of scene, service, and surroundings were the lifeblood of his little world, and thinking of the tidy white beds at St. Xavier's all lined up under the fan brought him joy as intense as reciting the multiplication table in English.

'I’m really old,' he thought sleepily. 'Every month I get a year older. I was really young and foolish when I delivered Mahbub's message to Umballa. Even when I was with that white regiment, I was young and small and lacked wisdom. But now I learn every day, and in three years, the Colonel will take me out of the madrissah and let me travel on the Road with Mahbub, looking for horse pedigrees, or maybe I’ll go on my own; or maybe I’ll find the lama and go with him. Yes; that’s best. To walk again as a chela with my lama when he returns to Benares.' The thoughts came more slowly and disconnectedly. He was drifting into a beautiful dreamland when he heard a whisper, thin and sharp, cutting through the monotone chatter around the fire. It came from behind the iron-skinned horse-truck.

'He's not here then?'

'Where else would he be but partying in the City? Who looks for a rat in a frog pond? Come on. He’s not our guy.'

'He can't go back past the Passes again. That's the rule.'

'Get a woman to drug him. It only costs a few rupees, and there’s no proof.'

'Except for the woman. It has to be more certain; and remember the bounty on his head.'

'Ay, but the police have a long reach, and we are far from the Border. If only we were in Peshawar now!'

'Yeah—in Peshawar,' the second voice scoffed. 'Peshawar, full of his relatives—full of hiding spots and women behind whose clothes he'll hide. Yeah, Peshawar or Hell would work for us just as well.'

'So, what's the plan?'

'O fool, haven't I said it a hundred times? Just wait until he lies down, and then take one clean shot. The trucks are between us and anyone chasing us. We just need to run back along the lines and leave. They won't know where the shot came from. Stay here at least until dawn. What kind of faquir are you to tremble at a little bit of waiting?'

'Oho!' thought Kim, behind closed eyelids. 'Once again it’s Mahbub. A white stallion's pedigree isn’t exactly a good thing to sell to Sahibs! Or maybe Mahbub has been sharing other news. Now what should I do, Kim? I don’t know where Mahbub stays, and if he comes here before dawn, they’ll shoot him. That wouldn’t do me any good, Kim. And this isn’t something for the police. That wouldn’t benefit Mahbub at all; and,' he nearly giggled out loud, 'I can’t recall any lesson at Nucklao that would help me.[180] Allah! Here is Kim and over there are they. So first, Kim has to wake up and leave, so they won’t suspect anything. A bad dream wakes a person—like this—'

He tossed the blanket off his face and jumped up suddenly with a horrible, bubbling, pointless scream like someone from Asia waking up from a nightmare.

'Urr-urr-urr-urr! Ya-la-la-la-la! Narain! The churel! The churel!'

A churel is the uniquely malevolent ghost of a woman who died during childbirth. She haunts isolated roads, her feet are turned backward at the ankles, and she leads men to suffer.

Louder grew Kim's trembling howl until he finally jumped to his feet and sleepily stumbled away, while the camp muttered curses at him for waking them up. About twenty yards further up the line, he lay down again, making sure the whisperers could hear his grunts and moans as he settled back in. After a few minutes, he rolled toward the road and quietly slipped into the deep darkness.

He paddled quickly until he reached a culvert and ducked behind it, his chin even with the coping stone. From here, he could see all the night traffic without being seen himself.

Two or three carts rolled by, making jingling sounds as they headed to the suburbs; a coughing police officer and a couple of hurried pedestrians who sang to ward off evil spirits. Then, the sound of horse hooves on the pavement echoed.

'Ah! This is more like Mahbub,' Kim thought, as the animal flinched at the small head above the drainage ditch.

'Ohe, Mahbub Ali,' he whispered, 'be careful!'

The horse was pulled back almost on its hindquarters and directed towards the culvert.

'Never again,' said Mahbub, 'will I ride a worn-out horse[181] for night work. They pick up all the bones and nails in the city.' He bent down to lift its front foot, which brought his head close to Kim's. 'Get down—stay low,' he muttered. 'The night is full of eyes.'

'Two men are waiting for you behind the horse trucks. They’re going to shoot you while you're lying down because there's a bounty on your head. I heard this while I was sleeping near the horses.'

'Did you see them? ... Hold still, Lord of Devils!' This was said furiously to the horse.

'No.'

'Was one dressed like a fakir?'

'One said to the other, "What kind of faquir are you, to shiver at a little watching?"'

'Good. Go back to the camp and lie down. I’m not dying tonight.'

Mahbub turned his horse around and disappeared. Kim raced back down the ditch until he got to a spot across from his second resting place, quickly crossed the road like a weasel, and wrapped himself in the blanket.

'At least Mahbub knows,' he thought happily. 'And he definitely spoke like someone who was expecting it. I don't think those two guys will gain anything from tonight's watch.'

An hour went by, and despite his best efforts to stay awake all night, he fell into a deep sleep. Occasionally, a night train thundered by just twenty feet away, but he had the typical indifference of someone from the East to simple noise, and it didn't even disturb his dreams.

Mahbub was definitely not asleep. It really annoyed him that people outside his tribe, who had nothing to do with his casual relationships, were after him for his life. His first instinct was to move to a lower point, work his way back up, and surprise his well-wishers[182] from behind to take them out. But then he realized, with regret, that another part of the Government, completely unrelated to Colonel Creighton, might want explanations that would be difficult to provide; and he knew that just south of the Border, they make a ridiculous fuss over a dead body or two. He hadn't been bothered like this since he sent Kim to Umballa with the message, and he hoped that suspicions had finally been shifted away from him.

Then a brilliant idea hit him.

'The English always tell the truth,' he said, 'so we in this country are always made to look foolish. By Allah, I will tell the truth to an Englishman! What good is the government police if a poor person from Kabul gets robbed of his horses right in front of them? This is just as bad as Peshawar! I should file a complaint at the station. Even better, I’ll go to some young Sahib on the Railway! They are eager to help, and if they catch thieves, it reflects well on them.'

He tied up his horse outside the station and walked onto the platform.

'Hullo, Mahbub Ali!' said a young Assistant District Traffic Superintendent who was waiting to head down the line—a tall, blond, horsey guy in dirty white linen. 'What are you doing here? Selling weeds—right?'

'No; I'm not worried about my horses. I'm here looking for Lutuf Ullah. I have a truckload up the line. Could anyone take them out without the Railway's knowledge?'

'You shouldn't think that, Mahbub. You can file a claim against us if they do.'

'I saw two men crouching under the wheels of one of the trucks for almost the whole night. Faquirs don’t steal horses, so I didn’t think much of it. I needed to find Lutuf Ullah, my partner.'

'Seriously? And you didn’t even think about it? Honestly, it’s almost a good thing I ran into you. What were they like, huh?'

'They were just beggars. They’ll probably just take a bit of grain from one of the trucks. There are plenty on the way. The government won't even notice the aid missing. I came here looking for my partner, Lutuf Ullah—'

'Forget about your partner. Where are your horse trailers?'

'A short distance from the farthest spot where they make lamps for the trains.'

'The signal box. Yes.'

'And on the rail closest to the road on the right side—looking up the line like this. But about Lutuf Ullah—a tall guy with a broken nose, and a Persian greyhound—Aie!'

The boy quickly ran off to wake up a young and eager policeman because, as he said, the Railway had faced a lot of thefts in the goods yard. Mahbub Ali chuckled in his dyed beard.

'They will walk in their boots, making noise, and then they will wonder why there are no fakirs. They are very clever guys—Barton Sahib and Young Sahib.'

He waited around for a few minutes, expecting them to hurry up the line ready for action. A small engine rolled through the station, and he caught a glimpse of young Barton in the cab.

'I did that kid a disservice. He’s not completely an idiot,' said Mahbub Ali. 'Using a fire engine to catch a thief is a new twist!'[184]

When Mahbub Ali arrived at his camp at dawn, nobody considered it necessary to update him on the events of the night. Nobody, that is, except for a small horse-boy, recently promoted to serve the important man, whom Mahbub summoned to his small tent to help with some packing.

"It’s all clear to me," Kim whispered, leaning over the saddle bags. "Two gentlemen arrived on a train. I was darting around in the dark on this side of the trucks while the train moved slowly back and forth. They attacked two men sitting under this truck—Hajji, what should I do with this lump of tobacco? Should I wrap it in paper and put it under the salt bag? Yes—and then they struck them down. But one man went after a gentleman with a faquir's buck's horn" (Kim was referring to the joined black-buck horns, which are the only weapon a faquir has)—"blood was shed. So the other gentleman, first knocking his own man out cold, hit the attacker with a small gun that had fallen from the first man’s hand. They all went wild, as if they were all crazy together."

Mahbub smiled with a peaceful acceptance. 'No! That’s not really insanity (madness, or a case for the civil court—the word can be understood in both ways) as it is a crime (a criminal case). A gun, you say? Ten years in prison.'

'Then they both lay still, but I think they were almost dead when they were put on the train. Their heads moved like this. And there is a lot of blood on the line. Come and see?'

'I have seen blood before. Jail is definitely the place—and they will definitely give fake names, and no one will find them for a long time. They were not my friends. Our fates seem tied together. What a story for the gem healer! Now quickly with[185] the saddle-bags and the cooking pot. We’ll get the horses and head to Simla.'

Quickly—at least as quickly as the locals understood speed—with long explanations, complaints, and a lot of talk, the messy camp packed up while constantly checking for forgotten items. They led the half-dozen stiff and restless horses along the Kalka road in the fresh morning after the rain. Kim, seen as Mahbub Ali's favorite by anyone who wanted to get on his good side, wasn't asked to help. They moved at a leisurely pace, stopping every few hours at roadside shelters. Many Westerners travel along the Kalka road; and, as Mahbub Ali says, every young Western man thinks of himself as a horse expert and, despite being deep in debt to moneylenders, pretends to consider buying one. That's why one Western man after another, riding in a carriage, would stop and start a conversation. Some would even get out of their vehicles to check the horses' legs, asking silly questions, or, out of ignorance of the local language, unintentionally offending the unflappable trader.

'When I first dealt with Sahibs, back when Colonel Soady Sahib was the Governor of Fort Abazai and flooded the Commissioner's camping ground out of spite,' Mahbub confided to Kim as the boy filled his pipe under a tree, 'I didn't realize how much they could be fools, and that made me angry. Like this—' and he told Kim a story about a term that was used mistakenly and in complete innocence, making Kim burst into laughter. 'Now I see, however,'—he slowly exhaled smoke,—'that they are like all men—in some matters they are wise, and in others they are incredibly foolish. It's very foolish to use the wrong word with a stranger; because even if your intentions are pure, how is the stranger to know that? He’s more likely to seek the truth with a dagger.'

'True. True talk,' Kim said seriously. 'People talk about a cat when a woman is giving birth, for example. I've heard them.'

'Therefore, in a position like yours, it's especially important to remember this with both kinds of faces. Among Sahibs, never forget that you are a Sahib; among the people of Hind, always remember that you are—' he paused, with a puzzled smile.

'What am I? Muslim, Hindu, Jain, or Buddhist? That's a tough question.'

'You are undoubtedly an unbeliever, and because of that, you'll be damned. So says my Law—or at least I think it does. But you are also my Little Friend of the World, and I love you. So says my heart. This issue of beliefs is like horses. The wise person knows horses are valuable—that there's a profit to be gained from all of them; and I, for my part—but I am a good Sunni and dislike the men of Tirah—I could believe the same about all Faiths. Clearly, a Kattiawar mare taken from the sands of her homeland and moved to the west of Bengal struggles—nor does even a Balkh stallion (and there are no better horses than those from Balkh, if they weren't so heavy in the shoulders) hold much value in the vast Northern deserts next to the snow-camels I've seen. So I say in my heart that Faiths are like horses. Each has its own worth in its own land.'

'But my lama said something completely different.'

'Oh, he is an old dreamer from Bhotiyal. My heart feels a bit upset, Friend of all the World, that you would see such value in a man who is so little known.'[187]

'It's true, Hajji; but I do see that worth; and my heart is drawn to him.'

'And his to yours, I hear. Hearts are like horses. They come and go regardless of the bit or spur. Shout to Gul Sher Khan over there to secure that bay stallion's pickets more firmly. We don’t want a horse fight at every stop, and the dun and the black will be locked in a little. . . . Now listen to me. Is it important for your peace of mind to see that lama?'

'It's one part of my connection,' said Kim. 'If I don't see him, and if he's taken away from me, I'll leave that madrissah in Nucklao and, once I'm gone, who will be able to find me again?'

'It's true. No colt was ever held on a lighter heel rope than you.' Mahbub nodded his head.

'Don't be afraid.' Kim said as if he could vanish at any moment. 'My lama has told me that he will come to see me at the madrissah—'

'A beggar and his bowl in the presence of those young Sa—'

'Not all!' Kim interrupted with a snort. 'Their eyes are blue and their nails are stained with low-caste blood, many of them. Sons of metheeranees—brothers-in-law to the bhungi' (sweeper).

We don’t need to go through the rest of the family history; but Kim made his point clearly and calmly, chewing on a piece of sugar cane as he spoke.

'Friend of all the World,' Mahbub said, handing the pipe to the boy to clean, 'I've come across many men, women, and boys, and quite a few Sahibs. Never in my life have I met such a mischievous one as you.'

'And why? When I always tell you the truth.'

'Maybe the very reason is that this world is full of danger[188] for honest men.' Mahbub Ali got up from the ground, tightened his belt, and walked over to the horses.

'Sell it?'

There was something in the tone that made Mahbub stop and turn. 'What new trouble is this?'

'Eight annas, and I’ll tell you,' said Kim, grinning. 'It affects your peace.’

'O Shaitan!' Mahbub handed over the money.

'Do you remember the little incident with the thieves in the dark down there at Umballa?'

'Seeing that they wanted to take my life, I haven't completely forgotten. Why?'

'Do you remember the Kashmir Serai?'

'I will twist your ears in a moment—Sahib.'

'No need—Pathan. Just that the second faquir, who was beaten senseless by the Sahibs, is the guy who came to search your bulkhead in Lahore. I recognized his face when they helped him onto the engine. The exact same guy.'

'Why didn't you tell me before?'

'Oh, he will go to jail and be out of trouble for some years. There's no need to say more than what's necessary at any one time. Besides, I didn't need money for snacks back then.'

'God is generous!' said Mahbub Ali. 'Will you one day sell my head for a few sweets if the mood strikes you?'

Kim would remember for the rest of his life that long, lazy journey from Umballa, through Kalka and the nearby Pinjore Gardens, up to Simla. A sudden flood in the Gugger River swept away one horse (the most valuable one, of course) and nearly drowned Kim among the dancing boulders. Further up the road, the horses were spooked by a Government elephant, and since they were in great condition after eating plenty of grass, it took a day and a half to gather them all back together. Then they ran into Sikandar Khan coming down with a few unsellable horses—leftovers from his string—and Mahbub, who has more horse-handling skill in his pinky than Sikandar Khan has in all his tents, insisted on buying two of the worst ones. That meant eight hours of tricky negotiation and endless tobacco. But it was all pure joy—the winding road, climbing, dipping, and sweeping around the rising slopes; the morning light shining on the distant snow; the cacti stacked tier upon tier on the rocky hillsides; the sounds of a thousand water channels; the chatter of the monkeys; the solemn deodars climbing one after another with their drooping branches; the view of the Plains stretching far beneath them; the constant twanging of the tonga horns and the wild rush of the led horses when a tonga rounded a bend; the stops for prayers (Mahbub was very religious during breaks, with his chanting and loud calls when time allowed); the evening chats at the resting spots, when camels and bullocks chewed their cud together and the serious drivers shared the latest news of the journey—all these things lifted Kim’s spirits to song within him.

'But when the singing and dancing are over,' said Mahbub Ali, 'comes the Colonel Sahib's, and that's not so nice.'

'A beautiful land—a truly stunning land is this of Hind—and the land of the Five Rivers is more beautiful than all,' Kim half sang. 'I will go into it again if Mahbub Ali or the Colonel makes a move against me. Once I'm gone, who will find me? Look, Hajji, is that the city of Simla? Wow, what a city!'

'My dad's brother, who was an old man when[190] Mackerson Sahib's well was new in Peshawar, could remember when there were only two houses in the area.'

He took the horses off the main road and into the lower Simla bazar—the busy maze that rises from the valley to the town hall at a steep angle. A person who knows how to navigate this place can easily avoid the police in India’s summer capital; the way the verandas connect with one another, the alleyways lead into each other, and the hideouts link together is brilliantly clever. This is where those who serve the bustling city live—rickshaw pullers who ferry the beautiful ladies at night and gamble until dawn; grocers, oil sellers, souvenir vendors, firewood dealers, priests, pickpockets, and local government workers: here, courtesans discuss what are believed to be the deepest secrets of the India Council; and all the sub-sub-agents of numerous native states gather here. Mahbub Ali also rented a room here, which was much more securely locked than his place in Lahore, in the house of a Muslim cattle dealer. It was a place of wonders too, where a Muslim horse boy would go in at twilight and an hour later come out as a Eurasian lad—dyed by a Lucknow girl with the finest color—in ill-fitting shop clothes.

'I have talked with Creighton Sahib,' said Mahbub Ali, 'and once again, the Hand of Friendship has kept the Whip of Calamity at bay. He says that you have completely wasted sixty days on the Road, and it's too late now to send you to any hill-school.'

'I’ve said that my holidays are mine. I don’t go to school twice. That’s one part of my agreement.'

'The Colonel Sahib doesn't know about the contract yet. You are to stay in Lurgan Sahib's house until it's time to go back to Nucklao.'[191]