the red one(红色的那人)-第18部分
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and； below the riffles； anchor… ice arose from the river bottom and coated
the surface with crystal scum。 Night and day the rim…ice grew； till； in
quiet places； it extended out a hundred yards from shore。 And Old
Tarwater； with all his clothes on； sat by the stove and kept the fire going。
Night and day； not daring to stop for fear of the imminent freeze… up； they
dared to run； an increasing mushiness of ice running with them。
〃What ho； old hearty？〃 Liverpool would call out at times。
〃Cheer O；〃 Old Tarwater had learned to respond。
〃What can I ever do for you； son； in payment？〃 Tarwater； stoking the
fire； would sometimes ask Liverpool； beating now one released hand and
now the other as he fought for circulation where he steered in the freezing
stern…sheets。
〃Just break out that regular song of yours； old Forty…Niner；〃 was the
invariable reply。
And Tarwater would lift his voice in the cackling chant； as he lifted it
at the end； when the boat swung in through driving cake… ice and moored
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to the Dawson City bank； and all waterfront Dawson pricked its ears to
hear the triumphant paean：
Like Argus of the ancient times； We leave this modern Greece； Tum…
tum； tum…tum； tum； tum； tum…tum； To shear the Golden Fleece；
Charles did it； but he did it so discreetly that none of his party； least
of all the sailor； ever learned of it。 He saw two great open barges being
filled up with men； and； on inquiry； learned that these were grubless ones
being rounded up and sent down the Yukon by the Committee of Safety。
The barges were to be towed by the last little steamboat in Dawson； and
the hope was that Fort Yukon； where lay the stranded steamboats； would
be gained before the river froze。 At any rate； no matter what happened to
them； Dawson would be relieved of their grub…consuming presence。 So
to the Committee of Safety Charles went； privily to drop a flea in its ear
concerning Tarwater's grubless； moneyless； and aged condition。 Tarwater
was one of the last gathered in； and when Young Liverpool returned to the
boat； from the bank he saw the barges in a run of cake…ice； disappearing
around the bend below Moose…hide Mountain。
Running in cake…ice all the way； and several times escaping jams in the
Yukon Flats； the barges made their hundreds of miles of progress farther
into the north and froze up cheek by jowl with the grub…fleet。 Here；
inside the Arctic Circle； Old Tarwater settled down to pass the long winter。
Several hours' work a day； chopping firewood for the steamboat
companies； sufficed to keep him in food。 For the rest of the time there was
nothing to do but hibernate in his log cabin。
Warmth； rest； and plenty to eat； cured his hacking cough and put him
in as good physical condition as was possible for his advanced years。
But； even before Christmas； the lack of fresh vegetables caused scurvy to
break out； and disappointed adventurer after disappointed adventurer took
to his bunk in abject surrender to this culminating misfortune。 Not so
Tarwater。 Even before the first symptoms appeared on him； he was
putting into practice his one prescription； namely； exercise。 From the
junk of the old trading post he resurrected a number of rusty traps； and
from one of the steamboat captains he borrowed a rifle。
Thus equipped； he ceased from wood…chopping； and began to make
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more than a mere living。 Nor was he downhearted when the scurvy
broke out on his own body。 Ever he ran his trap…lines and sang his
ancient chant。 Nor could the pessimist shake his surety of the three
hundred thousand of Alaskan gold he as going to shake out of the moss…
roots。
〃But this ain't gold…country；〃 they told him。
〃Gold is where you find it； son； as I should know who was mining
before you was born； 'way back in Forty…Nine；〃 was his reply。 〃What was
Bonanza Creek but a moose…pasture？ No miner'd look at it； yet they
washed five…hundred…dollar pans and took out fifty million dollars。
Eldorado was just as bad。 For all you know； right under this here cabin；
or right over the next hill； is millions just waiting for a lucky one like me
to come and shake it out。〃
At the end of January came his disaster。 Some powerful animal that
he decided was a bob…cat； managing to get caught in one of his smaller
traps； dragged it away。 A heavy snow…fall put a stop midway to his
pursuit； losing the trail for him and losing himself。 There were but several
hours of daylight each day between the twenty hours of intervening
darkness； and his efforts in the grey light and continually falling snow
succeeded only in losing him more thoroughly。 Fortunately； when winter
snow falls in the Northland the thermometer invariably rises； so； instead of
the customary forty and fifty and even sixty degrees below zero； the
temperature remained fifteen below。 Also； he was warmly clad and had a
full matchbox。 Further to mitigate his predicament； on the fifth day he
killed a wounded moose that weighed over half a ton。 Making his camp
beside it on a spruce…bottom； he was prepared to last out the winter； unless
a searching party found him or his scurvy grew worse。
But at the end of two weeks there had been no sign of search； while his
scurvy had undeniably grown worse。 Against his fire； banked from outer
cold by a shelter…wall of spruce…boughs； he crouched long hours in sleep
and long hours in waking。 But the waking hours grew less； becoming
semi…waking or half…dreaming hours as the process of hibernation worked
their way with him。 Slowly the sparkle point of consciousness and
identity that was John Tarwater sank； deeper and deeper； into the
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profounds of his being that had been compounded ere man was man； and
while he was becoming man； when he； first of all animals； regarded
himself with an introspective eye and laid the beginnings of morality in
foundations of nightmare peopled by the monsters of his own ethic…
thwarted desires。
Like a man in fever； waking to intervals of consciousness； so Old
Tarwater awoke； cooked his moose…meat； and fed the fire； but more and
more time he spent in his torpor； unaware of what was day…dream and
what was sleep…dream in the content of his unconsciousness。 And here； in
the unforgetable crypts of man's unwritten history； unthinkable and
unrealizable； like passages of nightmare or impossible adventures of
lunacy； he encountered the monsters created of man's first morality that
ever since have vexed him into the spinning of fantasies to elude them or
do battle with them。
In short； weighted by his seventy years； in the vast and silent
loneliness of the North； Old Tarwater； as in the delirium of drug or
anaesthetic； recovered within himself； the infantile mind of the child…man
of the early world。 It was in the dusk of Death's fluttery wings that
Tarwater thus crouched； and； like his remote forebear； the child…man； went
to myth…making； and sun…heroizing； himself hero…maker and the hero in
quest of the immemorable treasure difficult of attainment。
Either must he attain the treasure … for so ran the inexorable logic of
the shadow…land of the unconscious … or else sink into the all…devouring
sea； the blackness eater of the light that swallowed to extinction the sun
each night 。 。 。 the sun that arose ever in rebirth next morning in the east；
and that had become to man man's first symbol of immortality through
rebirth。 All this； in the deeps of his unconsciousness （the shadowy
western land of descending light）； was the near dusk of Death down into
which he slowly ebbed。
But how to escape this monster of the dark that from within him
slowly swallowed him？ Too deep…sunk was he to dream of escape or feel
the prod of desire to escape。 For him reality had ceased。 Nor from within
the darkened chamber of himself could reality recrudesce。 His years
were too heavy upon him； the debility of disease and the lethargy and
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torpor of the silence and the cold were too profound。 Only from without
could reality impact upon him and reawake within him an awareness of
reality。 Otherwise he would ooze down through the shadow…realm of the
unconscious into the all… dark
