Kim. Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг

light, with a heavy clump of mangoes in the centre. It struck Kim as curious that no shrine stood in so eligible a spot: the boy was observing as any priest for these things. Far across the plain walked side by side four men, made small by the distance. He looked intently under his curved palms and caught the sheen of brass.

      ‘Soldiers. White soldiers!’ said he. ‘Let us see.’

      ‘It is always soldiers when thou and I go out alone together. But I have never seen the white soldiers.’

      ‘They do no harm except when they are drunk. Keep behind this tree.’

      They stepped behind the thick trunks in the cool dark of the mango-tope. Two little figures halted; the other two came forward uncertainly. They were the advance-party of a regiment on the march, sent out, as usual, to mark the camp. They bore five-foot sticks with fluttering flags, and called to each other as they spread over the flat earth.

      At last they entered the mango-grove, walking heavily.

      ‘It’s here or hereabouts—officers’ tents under the trees, I take it, an’ the rest of us can stay outside. Have they marked out for the baggagewaggons behind?’

      They cried again to their comrades in the distance, and the rough answer came back faint and mellowed.

      ‘Shove the flag in here, then,’ said one.

      ‘What do they prepare?’ said the lama, wonderstruck. This is a great and terrible world. What is the device on the flag?’

      A soldier thrust a stave within a few feet of them, grunted discontentedly, pulled it up again, conferred with his companion, who looked up and down the shaded case of greenery, and returned it.

      Kim stared with all his eyes, his breath coming short and sharp between his teeth. The soldiers stamped off into the sunshine.

      ‘O Holy One,’ he gasped, ‘my horoscope! The drawing in the dust by the priest at Umballa! Remember what he said. First come two—-ferashes—to make all things ready—in a dark place, as it is always at the beginning of a vision.’

      ‘But this is not vision,’ said the lama. ‘It is the world’s Illusion, and no more.’

      ‘And after them comes the Bull—the Red Bull on the green field. Look! It is he!’

      He pointed to the flag that was snap-snapping in the evening breeze not ten feet away. It was no more than an ordinary camp marking-flag; but the regiment, always punctilious in matters of millinery, had charged it with the regimental device, the Red Bull, which is the crest of the Mavericks—the great Red Bull on a background of Irish green.

      ‘I see, and now I remember,’ said the lama. ‘Certainly it is thy Bull. Certainly, also, the two men came to make all ready.’

      ‘They are soldiers—white soldiers. What said the priest?

      “The sign over against the Bull is the sign of War and armed men.” Holy One, this thing touches my Search.’

      ‘True. It is true.’ The lama stared fixedly at the device that flamed like a ruby in the dusk. ‘The priest at Umballa said that thine was the sign of War.’

      ‘What is to do now?’

      ‘Wait. Let us wait.’

      ‘Even now the darkness clears,’ said Kim. It was only natural that the descending sun should at last strike through the tree-trunks, across the grove, filling it with mealy gold light for a few minutes; but to Kim it was crown of the Umballa Brahmin’s prophecy.

      ‘Hark!’ said the lama. ‘One beats a drum—far off!’

      At first the sound, carrying diluted through the still air, resembled the beating of an artery in the head. Soon a sharpness was added.

      ‘Ah! The music,’ Kim explained. He knew the sound of a regimental band, but it amazed the lama.

      At the far end of the plain a heavy, dusty column crawled in sight. Then the wind brought the tune:—

       We crave your condescension

       To tell you what we know

       Of marching in the Mulligan Guards

      To Sligo Port below.

      Here broke in the shrill-tongued fifes:—

      We shouldered arms, We marched—we marched away From Phœnix Park We marched to Dublin Bay. The drums and the fites, Oh, sweetly they did play, As we marched—marched—marched—with the Mulligan Guards!

      It was the band of the Mavericks playing the regiment to camp; for the men were route-marching with their baggage. The rippling column swung into the level—carts behind it—divided left and right, ran about like an ant-hill, and …

      ‘But this is sorcery!’ said the lama.

      The plain dotted itself with tents that seemed to rise, all spread, from the carts. Another rush of men invaded the grove, pitched a huge tent in silence, ran up yet eight or nine more by the side of it, unearthed cooking-pots, pans, and bundles, which were taken possession of by a crowd of native servants; and behold the mango-tope turned into an orderly town as they watched!

      ‘Let us go,’ said the lama, sinking back afraid, as the fires twinkled and white officers with jingling swords stalked into the mess-tent.

      ‘Stand back in the shadow. No one can see beyond the light of a fire,’ said Kim, his eyes still on the flag. He had never before watched the routine of a seasoned regiment pitching camp in thirty minutes.