LOVE OF LIFE
That day he decreased the distance between him and the ship by three miles; the next day by two―for he was crawling now as Bill had crawled; and the end of the fifth day found the ship still seven miles away and him unable to make even a mile a day. Still the Indian Summer held on, and he continued to crawl and faint, turn and turn about; and ever the sick wolf coughed and wheezed at his heels. His knees had become raw meat like his feet, and though he padded them with the shirt from his back it was a red track he left behind him on the moss and stones. Once, glancing back, he saw the wolf licking hungrily his bleeding trail, and he saw sharply what his own end might be―unless―unless he could get the wolf. Then began as grim a tragedy of existence as was ever played―a sick man that crawled, a sick wolf that limped, two creatures dragging their dying carcasses across the desolation and hunting each other’s lives.
Had it been a well wolf, it would not have mattered so much to the man; but the thought of going to feed the maw of that loathsome and all but dead thing was repugnant to him. He was finicky. His mind had begun to wander again, and to be perplexed by hallucinations, while his lucid intervals grew rarer and shorter.
He was awakened once from a faint by a wheeze close in his ear. The wolf leaped lamely back, losing its footing and falling in its weakness. It was ludicrous, but he was not amused. Nor was he even afraid. He was too far gone for that. But his mind was for the moment clear, and he lay and considered.
The ship was no more than four miles away. He could see it quite distinctly when he rubbed the mists out of his eyes. But he could never crawl those four miles. He knew that, and was very calm in the knowledge. He knew that he could not crawl half a mile. And yet he wanted to live. It was unreasonable that he should die after all he had undergone. Fate asked too much of him. And, dying, he declined to die. It was stark madness, perhaps, but in the very grip of Death he defied Death and refused to die.
He closed his eyes and composed himself with infinite precaution. He steeled himself to keep above the suffocating languor that lapped like a rising tide through all the wells of his being. It was very like a sea, this deadly languor, that rose and rose and drowned his consciousness bit by bit. Sometimes he was all but submerged, swimming through oblivion with a faltering stroke; and again, by some strange alchemy of soul, he would find another shred of will and strike out more strongly.
Without movement he lay on his back, and he could hear, slowly drawing near and nearer, the wheezing intake and output of the sick wolf’s breath. It drew closer, ever closer, through an infinitude of time, and he did not move. It was at his ear. The harsh dry tongue grated like sandpaper against his cheek. His hands shot out―or at least he willed them to shoot out. The fingers were curved like talons, but they closed on empty air. Swiftness and certitude require strength, and the man had not this strength.
The patience of the wolf was terrible. The man’s patience was no less terrible.
For half a day he lay motionless, fighting off unconsciousness and waiting for the thing that was to feed upon him and upon which he wished to feed. Sometimes the languid sea rose over him and he dreamed long dreams; but ever through it all, waking and dreaming, he waited for the wheezing breath and the harsh caress of the tongue.
He did not hear the breath, and he slipped slowly from some dream to the feel of the tongue along his hand. He waited. The fangs pressed softly; the pressure increased; the wolf was exerting its last strength in an effort to sink teeth in the food for which it had waited so long. But the man had waited long, and the lacerated hand closed on the jaw. Slowly, while the wolf struggled feebly and the hand clutched feebly, the other hand crept across to a grip. Five minutes later the whole weight of the man’s body was on top of the wolf. The hands had not sufficient strength to choke the wolf, but the face of the man was pressed close to the throat of the wolf and the mouth of the man was full of hair. At the end of half an hour the man was aware of a warm trickle in his throat. It was not pleasant. It was like molten lead being forced into his stomach, and it was forced by his will alone. Later the man rolled over on his back and slept.
There were some members of a scientific expedition on the whale-ship Bedford. From the deck they remarked a strange object on the shore. It was moving down the beach toward the water. They were unable to classify it, and, being scientific men, they climbed into the whale-boat alongside and went ashore to see. And they saw something that was alive but which could hardly be called a man. It was blind, unconscious. It squirmed along the ground like some monstrous worm. Most of its efforts were ineffectual, but it was persistent, and it writhed and twisted and went ahead perhaps a score of feet an hour.
Three weeks afterward the man lay in a bunk on the whale-ship Bedford, and with tears streaming down his wasted cheeks told who he was and what he had undergone. He also babbled incoherently of his mother, of sunny Southern California, and a home among the orange groves and flowers.
热爱生命
这一天,他和那条船之间的距离缩短了三英里,到了第二天,他又继续缩短了两英里――因为他现在就和比尔先前一样在地上匍匐前进,到了第五天晚上的时候,他发现那条船离他仍然有七英里的距离,而他每天的进程还不到一英里。幸好深秋的天气依旧晴朗,他又继续爬,一次又一次地晕死过去,可一醒来他又继续地往前爬,不停地回头张望着;而那头病狼也在不停地咳嗽着,发出艰难的喘息声,可依然紧紧地尾随其后。他的膝盖――就和他的双脚一样――早给磨得血肉模糊,其实他一早就撕下了背后的衬衣裹住了膝盖,可都没有用,他一路爬下来,他身后的苔藓和岩石上也就留下一道触目惊心的血渍。有一次在他回头的时候,他看见那头饿狼正在贪婪地舔舐着他的血渍,一时间他清楚地意识到自己的结局――除非――除非他先把那头狼解决掉。就这样,―幕从来没有上演过的求生悲剧开始了――病人在前面爬,瘸腿的病狼尾随其后,两个生灵就这样在荒原里拖着垂死的躯壳,随时准备猎取对方的生命。
如果这是一头健康的狼,他也觉得没有什么;可是,一想到自己要葬身狼腹,就是眼前这头令人作呕、病恹恹的饿狼,他就觉得非常厌恶。要知道他可是一个非常讲究的人。他又开始胡思乱想起来,人也因幻觉的影响变得迷糊起来,他神智清醒的时间也愈来愈少,愈来愈短。
他有一次在昏迷中被耳边传来的喘息声惊醒;那只狼很快一跛一跛地跳开,由于身体虚弱,那头狼还失足摔了一跤,那样子可笑极了,可他却笑不起来。倒不是因为他害怕,事情到了这田地他早就不害怕了。不过,在这瞬间他的脑筋很清楚,他躺在地上仔细地思考起来。
那艘船就在离他还不到四英里的地方。他使劲揉了揉眼睛,那艘船清晰地出现在他眼前。可是,他再也爬不完这四英里的路程了,他很清楚自己的身体状态,因为就算是半英里的路程他也爬不了了。可同时他也非常镇静,因为他想活下去。他已经经历了千辛万苦,他不想就这样死掉。命运对他实在太苛刻了,可他就是不愿意俯身受死。这是一种近乎疯狂的想法,可就算他无法逃脱死神的魔掌,他仍然要去抗争,要让自己活下去。
他闭上眼睛,设法使自己平静下来,不敢有丝毫的松懈。令人窒息的疲倦像涨潮一样,从他身体的各处涌过来,他还是顽强地打醒精神,不让自己被疲倦淹没。这种要命的疲倦,就像大海一样,一浪又一浪地涨过来,一点一点地吞噬着他的意识。有时候,他被完全淹没其中,就这样默默地漂游;而有时候,凭借着一种奇异的心灵作用,他又找回了些许的精神力量,更加坚毅地前进。
他一动不动地仰面躺着,耳边传来病狼一呼一吸的喘气声,并且这声音正慢慢地向他逼近。狼愈走愈近,好象过了很久一样,但是他始终躺着没有动。这时狼已经到了他耳边,那条粗糙的狼舌头就像砂纸一样蹭着他的两腮。他的双手一下子就抓了过去――或者说是他的意志力迫使他的双手抓过去。他的手指弯曲得就像鹰爪一样,可是他却抓了个空,敏捷和准确是需要力气的,而他偏偏就没有力气。
那头狼的耐心真是令人可怕,而他的耐心同样令人可怕。
这一天,有大半天的时间他就这样一动不动地躺着,努力不让自己昏迷过去,静静地等着那只想一口吃掉他,他也想一口吃掉的动物。有时候当疲倦袭来,他会昏昏沉沉地做起长长的梦。然而,不管他是醒着还是做着梦,他一直在等待着那阵喘息的声音,还有舔过来的粗糙舌头。
他并没有听见那喘息声,当他从梦中慢慢苏醒过来的时候,他感觉那头狼正在舐着他的一只手。他依然静静地等着。狼牙已经轻轻地扣在他的手上,压力感渐渐加强,那头狼正在尽最后一点力量把牙齿咬进它等了很久的猎物上。可是他也同样等了很久,那只撕裂的手一把扳住了狼的下颚。就这样,狼在微弱地挣扎着,那只手也在无力地扳着,慢慢地,另一只手也腾了过来掐了过去。在争斗了五分钟后,那人已经把狼压在了身下,并利用身体的重量将狼死死地按在下面。他双手的力量不足以掐死那头狼,可他的脸已经紧紧地贴在了狼的咽喉上,一堆狼毛也扎进了他的嘴巴里。半小时后,他感到一小股暖和的液体慢慢流进了他的喉咙,那感觉可真难受,就好像铅液被硬灌到了他胃里一样,完全是靠他的意志给硬灌下去的。后来,他翻了一个身,仰面睡着了。
“贝德福号”捕鲸船有几个科学考察队的队员,他们从甲板上望见岸上有一个奇怪的物体。他正在朝沙滩下面的水面挪动。他们没法分清他到底属于哪一类动物,但是,他们都是研究科学的人,因此他们就划了一条捕鲸艇到岸上察看。接着,他们就发现了一个活着的动物,可是很难把他称之为人。因为他已经瞎了,并且丧失了神智,可就是这样,他就像一条大虫子一样在地上不断地蠕动。他用的力气大半都不起作用,但是他却始终没有放弃,只见他不停地扭转身体,蜿蜒地前行,一个小时下来,他能爬上二十英尺的距离。
三星期后,这个人躺在“贝德福号”捕鲸船的一个铺位上,眼泪顺着削瘦的面颊淌了下来,他说起了他的身份,还有他经历过的一切。同时,他又口齿不清地谈到了他的母亲,谈到了阳光灿烂的南加利福尼亚,以及在桔树和花丛中的家园。