Rudyard Kipling : The Complete Novels and Stories. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

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СКАЧАТЬ said Hurree Babu, resourceful as Puss-in-Boots. ‘That is eminent local holy man. Probably subject of my royal master.’

      ‘What is he doing? It is very curious.’

      ‘He is expounding holy picture—all hand-worked.’

      The two men stood bare-headed in the wash of the afternoon sunlight low across the gold-coloured grass. The sullen coolies, glad of the check, halted and slid down their loads.

      ‘Look!’ said the Frenchman. ‘It is like a picture for the birth of a religion—the first teacher and the first disciple. Is he a Buddhist?’

      ‘Of some debased kind,’ the other answered. ‘There are no true Buddhists among the Hills. But look at the folds of the drapery. Look at his eyes—how insolent! Why does this make one feel that we are so young a people?’ The speaker struck passionately at a tall weed. ‘We have nowhere left our mark yet. Nowhere! That, do you understand, is what disquiets me.’ He scowled at the placid face, and the monumental calm of the pose.

      ‘Have patience. We shall make your mark together—we and you young people. Meantime, draw his picture.’

      The Babu advanced loftily; his back out of all keeping with his deferential speech, or his wink towards Kim.

      ‘Holy One, these be Sahibs. My medicines cured one of a flux, and I go into Simla to oversee his recovery. They wish to see thy picture——’

      ‘To heal the sick is always good. This is the Wheel of Life,’ said the lama, ‘the same I showed thee in the hut at Ziglaur when the rain fell.’

      ‘And to hear thee expound it.’

      The lama’s eyes lighted at the prospect of new listeners. ‘To expound the Most Excellent Way is good. Have they any knowledge of Hindi, such as had the Keeper of Images?’

      ‘A little, maybe.’

      Hereat, simply as a child engrossed with a new game, the lama threw back his head and began the full-throated invocation of the Doctor of Divinity ere he opens the full doctrine. The strangers leaned on their alpenstocks and listened. Kim, squatting humbly, watched the red sunlight on their faces, and the blend and parting of their long shadows. They wore un-English leggings and curious girt-in belts that reminded him hazily of the pictures in a book at St. Xavier’s library: The Adventures of a Young Naturalist in Mexico was its name. Yes, they looked very like the wonderful M. Sumichrast of that tale, and very unlike the ‘highly unscrupulous folk’ of Hurree Babu’s imagining. The coolies, earth-coloured and mute, crouched reverently some twenty or thirty yards away, and the Babu, the slack of his thin gear snapping like a marking-flag in the chill breeze, stood by with an air of happy proprietorship.

      ‘These are the men,’ Hurree whispered, as the ritual went on and the two whites followed the grass blade sweeping from Hell to Heaven and back again. ‘All their books are in the large kilta with the reddish top,—books and reports and maps,—and I have seen a King’s letter that either Hilás or Bunár has written. They guard it most carefully. They have sent nothing back from Hilás or Leh. That is sure.’

      ‘Who is with them?’

      ‘Only the beegar-coolies. They have no servants. They are so close they cook their own food.’

      ‘But what am I to do?’

      ‘Wait and see. Only if any chance comes to me thou wilt know where to seek for the papers.’

      ‘This were better in Mahbub Ali’s hands than a Bengali’s,’ said Kim scornfully.

      ‘There are more ways of getting to a sweetheart than butting down a wall.’

      ‘See here the Hell appointed for avarice and greed. Flanked upon the one side by Desire and on the other by Weariness.’ The lama warmed to his work, and one of the strangers sketched him in the quick-fading light.

      ‘That is enough,’ the man said at last brusquely. ‘I cannot understand him, but I want that picture. He is a better artist than I. Ask him if he will sell it.’

      ‘He says “No, sar,”’ the Babu replied. The lama, of course, would no more have parted with his chart to a casual wayfarer than an archbishop would pawn the holy vessels of a cathedral. All Tibet is full of cheap reproductions of the Wheel; but the lama was an artist, as well as a wealthy abbot in his own place.

      ‘Perhaps in three days, or four, or ten, if I perceive that the Sahib is a Seeker and of good understanding, I may myself draw him another. But this was used for the initiation of a novice. Tell him so, hakim.’

      ‘He wishes it now—for money.’

      The lama shook his head slowly and began to fold up the Wheel. The Russian, on his side, saw no more than an unclean old man haggling over a dirty piece of paper. He drew out a handful of rupees, and snatched half-jestingly at the chart, which tore in the lama’s grip. A low murmur of horror went up from the coolies—some of whom were Spiti men and, by their lights, good Buddhists. The lama rose at the insult; his hand went to the heavy iron pencase that is the priest’s weapon, and the Babu danced in agony.

      ‘Now you see—you see why I wanted witnesses. They are highly unscrupulous people. Oh Sar! Sar! You must not hit holy man!’

      ‘Chela! He has defiled the Written Word!’

      It was too late. Before Kim could ward him off, the Russian struck the old man full on the face. Next instant he was rolling over and over down hill with Kim at his throat. The blow had waked every unknown Irish devil in the boy’s blood, and the sudden fall of his enemy did the rest. The lama dropped to his knees, half-stunned; the coolies under their loads fled up the hill as fast as plainsmen run across the level. They had seen sacrilege unspeakable, and it behoved them to get away before the Gods and devils of the hills took vengeance. The Frenchman ran towards the lama, fumbling at his revolver with some notion of making him a hostage for his companion. A shower of cutting stones—hillmen are very straight shots—drove him away, and a coolie from Ao-chung snatched the lama into the stampede. All came about as swiftly as the sudden mountain-darkness.

      ‘They have taken the baggage and all the guns,’ yelled the Frenchman, firing blindly into the twilight.

      ‘All right, Sar! All right! Don’t shoot. I go to rescue,’ and Hurree, pounding down the slope, cast himself bodily upon the delighted and astonished Kim, who was banging his breathless foe’s head against a boulder.

      ‘Go back to the coolies,’ whispered the Babu in his ear. ‘They have the baggage. The papers are in the kilta with the red top, but look through all. Take their papers, and specially the murasla (King’s letter). Go! The other man comes!’

      Kim tore up hill. A revolver-bullet rang on a rock by his side, and he cowered partridge-wise.

      ‘If you shoot,’ shouted Hurree, ‘they will descend and annihilate us. I have rescued the gentleman, Sar. This is particularly dangerous.’

      ‘By Jove!’ Kim was thinking hard in English. ‘This is dam-tight place, but I think it is self-defence.’ He felt in his bosom for Mahbub’s gift, and uncertainly—save for a few practice shots in the Bikaner desert, he had never used the little gun—pulled trigger.

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