04-in a far country-第3部分

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toils　and　troubles　ere　they　died。　He　shrank　away　from　the　clammy

contact　as　they　drew　closer　and　twined　their　frozen　limbs　about　him；

and　when　they　whispered　in　his　ear　of　things　to　come；　the　cabin　rang

with　his　frightened　shrieks。　Cuthfert　did　not　understand…　for　they

no　longer　spoke…　and　when　thus　awakened　he　invariably　grabbed　for

his　revolver。　Then　he　would　sit　up　in　bed；　shivering　nervously；　with

the　weapon　trained　on　the　unconscious　dreamer。　Cuthfert　deemed　the　man

going　mad；　and　so　came　to　fear　for　his　life。

　　His　own　malady　assumed　a　less　concrete　form。　The　mysterious

artisan　who　had　laid　the　cabin；　log　by　log；　had　pegged　a　wind…vane

to　the　ridgepole。　Cuthfert　noticed　it　always　pointed　south；　and　one

day；　irritated　by　its　steadfastness　of　purpose；　he　turned　it　toward

the　east。　He　watched　eagerly；　but　never　a　breath　came　by　to　disturb

it。　Then　he　turned　the　vane　to　the　north；　swearing　never　again　to

touch　it　till　the　wind　did　blow。　But　the　air　frightened　him　with　its

unearthly　calm；　and　he　often　rose　in　the　middle　of　the　night　to　see　if

the　vane　had　veered…　ten　degrees　would　have　satisfied　him。　But　no；

it　poised　above　him　as　unchangeable　as　fate。　His　imagination　ran　riot；

till　it　became　to　him　a　fetish。　Sometimes　he　followed　the　path　it

pointed　across　the　dismal　dominions；　and　allowed　his　soul　to　become

saturated　with　the　Fear。　He　dwelt　upon　the　unseen　and　the　unknown　till

the　burden　of　eternity　appeared　to　be　crushing　him。　Everything　in

the　Northland　had　that　crushing　effect…　the　absence　of　life　and

motion；　the　darkness；　the　infinite　peace　of　the　brooding　land；　the

ghastly　silence；　which　made　the　echo　of　each　heartbeat　a　sacrilege；

the　solemn　forest　which　seemed　to　guard　an　awful；　inexpressible

something；　which　neither　word　nor　thought　could　compass。

　　The　world　he　had　so　recently　left；　with　its　busy　nations　and　great

enterprises；　seemed　very　far　away。　Recollections　occasionally

obtruded…　recollections　of　marts　and　galleries　and　crowded

thoroughfares；　of　evening　dress　and　social　functions；　of　good　men

and　dear　women　he　had　known…　but　they　were　dim　memories　of　a　life　he

had　lived　long　centuries　agone；　on　some　other　planet。　This　phantasm

was　the　Reality。　Standing　beneath　the　wind…vane；　his　eyes　fixed　on　the

polar　skies；　he　could　not　bring　himself　to　realize　that　the

Southland　really　existed；　that　at　that　very　moment　it　was　a…roar

with　life　and　action。　There　was　no　Southland；　no　men　being　born　of

women；　no　giving　and　taking　in　marriage。　Beyond　his　bleak　skyline

there　stretched　vast　solitudes；　and　beyond　these　still　vaster

solitudes。　There　were　no　lands　of　sunshine；　heavy　with　the　perfume

of　flowers。　Such　things　were　only　old　dreams　of　paradise。　The　sunlands

of　the　West　and　the　spicelands　of　the　East；　the　smiling　Arcadias　and

blissful　Islands　of　the　Blest…　ha！　ha！　His　laughter　split　the　void　and

shocked　him　with　its　unwonted　sound。　There　was　no　sun。　This　was　the

Universe；　dead　and　cold　and　dark；　and　he　its　only　citizen。　Weatherbee？

At　such　moments　Weatherbee　did　not　count。　He　was　a　Caliban；　a

monstrous　phantom；　fettered　to　him　for　untold　ages；　the　penalty　of

some　forgotten　crime。

　　He　lived　with　Death　among　the　dead；　emasculated　by　the　sense　of

his　own　insignificance；　crushed　by　the　passive　mastery　of　the

slumbering　ages。　The　magnitude　of　all　things　appalled　him。

Everything　partook　of　the　superlative　save　himself…　the　perfect

cessation　of　wind　and　motion；　the　immensity　of　the　snow…covered

wildness；　the　height　of　the　sky　and　the　depth　of　the　silence。　That

wind…vane…　if　it　would　only　move。　If　a　thunderbolt　would　fall；　or

the　forest　flare　up　in　flame。　The　rolling　up　of　the　heavens　as　a

scroll；　the　crash　of　Doom…　anything；　anything！　But　no；　nothing

moved；　the　Silence　crowded　in；　and　the　Fear　of　the　North　laid　icy

fingers　on　his　heart。

　　Once；　like　another　Crusoe；　by　the　edge　of　the　river　he　came　upon　a

track…　the　faint　tracery　of　a　snowshoe　rabbit　on　the　delicate

snow…crust。　It　was　a　revelation。　There　was　life　in　the　Northland。　He

would　follow　it；　look　upon　it；　gloat　over　it。　He　forgot　his　swollen

muscles；　plunging　through　the　deep　snow　in　an　ecstasy　of　anticipation。

The　forest　swallowed　him　up；　and　the　brief　midday　twilight　vanished；

but　he　pursued　his　quest　till　exhausted　nature　asserted　itself　and

laid　him　helpless　in　the　snow。　There　he　groaned　and　cursed　his

folly；　and　knew　the　track　to　be　the　fancy　of　his　brain；　and　late

that　night　he　dragged　himself　into　the　cabin　on　hands　and　knees；　his

cheeks　frozen　and　a　strange　numbness　about　his　feet。　Weatherbee

grinned　malevolently；　but　made　no　offer　to　help　him。　He　thrust　needles

into　his　toes　and　thawed　them　out　by　the　stove。　A　week　later

mortification　set　in。

　　But　the　clerk　had　his　own　troubles。　The　dead　men　came　out　of　their

graves　more　frequently　now；　and　rarely　left　him；　waking　or　sleeping。

He　grew　to　wait　and　dread　their　coming；　never　passing　the　twin

cairns　without　a　shudder。　One　night　they　came　to　him　in　his　sleep

and　led　him　forth　to　an　appointed　task。　Frightened　into　inarticulate

horror；　he　awoke　between　the　heaps　of　stones　and　fled　wildly　to　the

cabin。　But　he　had　lain　there　for　some　time；　for　his　feet　and　cheeks

were　also　frozen。

　　Sometimes　he　became　frantic　at　their　insistent　presence；　and

danced　about　the　cabin；　cutting　the　empty　air　with　an　axe；　and

smashing　everything　within　reach。　During　these　ghostly　encounters；

Cuthfert　huddled　into　his　blankets　and　followed　the　madman　about

with　a　cocked　revolver；　ready　to　shoot　him　if　he　came　too　near。　But；

recovering　from　one　of　these　spells；　the　clerk　noticed　the　weapon

trained　upon　him。　His　suspicions　were　aroused；　and　thenceforth　he；

too；　lived　in　fear　of　his　life。　They　watched　each　other　closely

after　that；　and　faced　about　in　startled　fright　whenever　either

passed　behind　the　other's　back。　The　apprehensiveness　became　a　mania

which　controlled　them　even　in　their　sleep。　Through　mutual　fear　they

tacitly　let　the　slush…lamp　burn　all　night；　and　saw　to　a　plentiful

supply　of　bacon…grease　before　retiring。　The　slightest　movement　on

the　part　of　one　was　sufficient　to　arouse　the　other；　and　many　a　still

watch　their　gazes　countered　as　they　shook　beneath　their　blankets

with　fingers　on　the　trigger…guards。

　　What　with　the　Fear　of　the　North；　the　mental　strain；　and　the

ravages　of　the　disease；　they　lost　all　semblance　of　humanity；　taking　on

the　appearance　of　wild　beasts；　hunted　and　desperate。　Their　cheeks

and　noses；　as　an　aftermath　of　the　freezing；　had　turned　black。　Their

frozen　toes　had　begun　to　drop　away　at　the　first　and　second　joints。

Every　movement　brought　pain；　but　the　fire　box　was　insatiable；　wringing

a　ransom　of　torture　from　their　miserable　bodies。　Day　in；　day　out；　it

demanded　its　food…　a　veritable　pound　of　flesh…　and　they　dragged

themselves　into　the　forest　to　chop　wood　on　their　knees。　Once；　crawling

thus　in　search　of　dry　sticks；　unknown　to　each　other　they　entered　a

thicket　from　opposite　sides。　Suddenly；　without　warning；　two　peering

death's…heads　confronted　each　other。　Suffering　had　so　transformed　them

that　recognition　was　impossible。　They　sprang　to　their　feet；

shrieking　with　terror；　and　dashed　away　on　their　mangled　stumps；　and

falling　at　the　cabin's　door；　they　clawed　and　scratched　like　demons

till　they　discovered　their　mistake。



　　Occasionally　they　lapsed　normal；　and　during　one　of　these　sane

intervals；　the　chief　bone　of　contention；　the　sugar；　had　been　divided

equally　between　them。　They　guarded　their　separate　sacks；　stored　up

in　the　cache；　with　jealous　eyes；　for　there　were　but　a　few　cupfuls

left；　and　they　were　totally　devoid　of　faith　in　each　other。　But　one　day

Cuthfert　made　a　mistake。　Hardly　able　to　move；　sick　with　pain；　with　his

head　swimming　and　eyes　blinded；　he　crept　into　the　cache；　sugar

canister　in　hand；　and　mistook　Weatherbee's　sack　for　his　own。

　　January　had　been　born　but　a　few　days　when　this　occurred。　The　sun　had

some　time　since　passed　its　lowest　southern　declination；　and　at

meridian　now　threw　flaunting　streaks　of　yellow　light　upon　the　northern

sky。　On　the　day　following　his　mistake　with　the　sugarbag；　Cuthfert

found　himself　feeling　better；　both　in　body　and　in　spirit。　As

noontime　drew　near　and　the　day　brightened；　he　dragged　himself

outside　to　feast　on　the　evanescent　glow；　which　was　to　him　an　earnest

of　the　sun's　future　intentions。　Weatherbee　was　also　feeling　somewhat

better；　and　crawled　out　beside　him。　They　propped　themselves　in　the

snow　beneath　the　moveless　wind…vane；　and　waited。

　　The　stillness　of　death　was　about　them。　In　other　climes；　when

nature　falls　into　such　moods；　there　is　a　subdued　air　of　expectancy；

a　waiting　for　some　small　voice　to　take　up　the　broken　strain。　Not　so　in

the　North。　The　two　men　had　lived　seeming　eons　in　this　ghostly　peace。

They　could　remember　no　song　of　the　past；　they　could　conjure　no　song　of

the　future。　This　unearthly　calm　had　always　been…　the　tranquil

silence　of　eternity。

　　Their　eyes　were　fixed　upon　the　north。　Unseen；　behind　their　backs；

behind　the　towering　mountains　to　the　south；　the　sun　swept　toward　the

zenith　of　another　sky　than　theirs。　Sole　spectators　of　the　mighty

canvas；　they　watched　the　false　dawn　slowly　grow。　A　faint　flame　began

to　glow　and　smoulder。　It　deepened　in　intensity；　ringing　the　changes　of

reddish…yellow；　purple；　and　saffron。　So　bright　did　it　become　that

Cuthfert　thought　the　sun　must　surely　be　behind　it…　a　miracle；　the

sun　rising　in　the　north！　Suddenly；　without　warning　and　without　fading；

the　canvas　was　swept　clean。　There　was　no　color　in　the　sky。　The　light

had　gone　out　of　the　day。　They　caught　their　breaths　in　half…sobs。　But

lo！　the　air　was　aglint　with　particles　of　scintillating　frost；　and

there；　to　the　north；　the　wind…vane　lay　in　vague　outline　of　the　snow。　A

shadow！　A　shadow！　It　was　exactly　midday。　They　jerked　their　heads

hurriedly　to　the　south。　A　golden　rim　peeped　over　the　mountain's

snowy　shoulder；　smiled　upon　them　an　instant；　then　dipped　from　sight