Isaac Asimov & Robert Silverberg - The Ugly Little Boy

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2024-12-19 1 0 691.45KB 364 页 5.9玖币

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-JOSEPH CONRAD, The Nigger of the Narcissus

boy and the People still hunted in the western lands. The sea was huge

and dark and restless, and when the sunlight struck it in a certain way it

gleamed like strange liquid fire. To enter it was death, but to look upon it

was wonderful. He would never see it again; that much he knew. The lands

bordering the sea were held by the Other Ones now, and the People were

in retreat, steadily moving closer and closer each year to the place where

die sun is born. And even if the Other Ones were to disappear as suddenly

as they had come, Silver Cloud understood that he would have no hope of

returning to the coastal territory. He was too old, too lame, too close to his

end. It would take half a lifetime for the tribe to retrace its eastward path,

perhaps more. Silver Cloud did not have half a lifetime left. Two or three

years, if he was lucky: that was more like it.

But that was all right. He had seen the sea once, which was more than

anyone else in the tribe could say. He would never forget the scent of it, or

its great surging strength. Now he stood on the high ground overlooking the

encampment, staring out at the unexpectedly snowy plains-opening his

nostrils wide, breathing deeply, letting the musky odor of the sea rise to him

from below on the fumes from the melting snow. For just a moment he felt

young again.

For just a moment.

way?"

"This is the fifth week of summer, Silver Cloud."

He shrugged. "It can snow in the summertime as well, woman."

"In the fifth week?"

"In any week," said Silver Cloud. "I remember summers when the snow

never stopped, when it came day after day after day. You could see the

bright summer sun shining through it, and still the snow fell. And that was in

the western lands, where the summers are warmer than they are here."

"That was a very long time ago, before I was born. The summers are

getting better everywhere, so they all say, and it seems to be true. -You

should have let us know that snow was coming, Silver Cloud."

"Is that so very much snow? It's only a light little dusting, She Who

Knows."

"We could have put out the sleeping-rugs."

"For such a little dusting? Such a trifle of snow?"

"Yes. Who likes awakening with snow in the face? You ought to have

told us."

"It didn't seem important," said Silver Cloud irritably.

"You should have told us anyway. Unless you didn't know it was

coming, of course."

Who Knows, and was putting on lofty airs of wisdom as though the

Goddess had entered into her soul.

He glared at her.

"I knew that the snow was coming. But I knew also that it wouldn't be

worth mentioning. I felt the snow in my thigh, where the old wound is,

where I always feel the oncoming snow."

"I wonder if you really did."

"Am I a liar? Is that it?"

"You would have told us, if you knew snow was coming. You would

have liked having a sleeping-rug over you as much as anyone else. Even

more so, I think."

"So kill me," Silver Cloud said. "I admit everything. I failed to feel the

snow on the way. Therefore I failed to give the warning and you woke up

with snow on your face. It's a terrible sin. Call the Killing Society, and have

them take me behind the hill and hit me twelve times with the ivory club. Do

you think I'd care, She Who Knows? I've seen forty winters and a few more.

I'm very old and very tired. If you'd like to run the tribe for a while, She Who

Knows, I'd be happy to step aside and-"

"Please, Silver Cloud."

"It's true, isn't it? Day by day you grow ever more bright within with great

wisdom, and I simply grow old. Take my place. Here. Here." He undid his

place, now or after you're dead, and you know it."

"Then why have you come up here to bother me about this miserable

little snowfall?"

"Because it's the fifth week of summer."

"So? We've already discussed this. Snow can come at any time of the

year and you're perfectly well aware of that."

"I've looked at the record-sticks. We haven't had snow this late in the

year since I was a girl."

"You looked at the record-sticks?" Silver Cloyd asked, taken aback.

"This morning, you mean?"

"When else? I woke up, I saw the snow, and it frightened me. So I went

to Keeps The Past and asked her to show me the sticks. We counted

everything together. Seventeen years ago it snowed in the fifth week of

summer. Not since. -Do you know what else happened that summer? Six of

our people died in the rhinoceros hunt and four were killed in a stampede of

mammoths. Ten deaths in a single summer."

"What are you telling me, She Who Knows?"

"I'm not telling you anything. I'm asking you if you think this snow's an

omen."

"I think this snow is snow. Nothing more."

"Not that the Goddess may be angry with us?"

another good day. That's what I see, She Who Knows. If you see the anger

of the Goddess, show me where it lies." Indeed everything seemed

wonderfully peaceful to him down there. In the main encampment the

women and girls were building the morning fire. Boys too young to hunt

were wandering about nearby, rummaging through the light covering of

snow to gather twigs and bits of withered sod to be used as fuel. Off to the

left in the domain of the Mothers he saw the babies being given their

morning meal-there was Milky Fountain, that inexhaustible woman, with an

infant at each breast, and Deep Water was leading the toddlers in a circle

game, pausing now to comfort a small boy-Skyfire Face, it was -who had

fallen and barked his knee. Behind the place of the Mothers, the three

Goddess Women had built a cairn of rocks to serve as a shrine to Her and

were very busy at it: one of the priestesses setting out an offering of

berries, another pouring onto the bloodstone the blood of the wolf that had

been killed yesterday, a third kindling the day-fire. Over on the other side

Mammoth Rider had set up his workshop and was already turning out flint

blades, which he still made with perfect workmanship despite the palsy that

was steadily overtaking his limbs. Moon Dancer and one of her daughters

sat behind him, at work on their usual task of chewing hides to make them

soft enough to turn into cloaks. And far off on the horizon Silver Cloud saw

the men of the Hunting Society in the field, fanning out over the tundra,

commonplace thing and always would be, all the year round; the Goddess

had never promised anyone that the summer would be free from snow,

however kindly She had been in that regard in recent years.

Strange that he hadn't felt it coming toward them the night before,

though. Or had he, and not paid close attention? There were so many

aches and pains these days; it was harder and harder to interpret each one

of them.

But all seemed well, nevertheless.

"I'm going down now," he said to She Who Knows.

"I just came up here for a little quiet time alone. But I see that I'm not

going to be allowed to have it."

"Let me help you," she said.

Furiously Silver Cloud brushed away the hand she had extended toward

him.

"Do I look like a cripple to you, woman? Keep your hands to yourself!"

She shook her shoulders indifferently. "Whatever you say, Silver Cloud."

But the track down from the high ground was rough and troublesome,

and the light coating of melting snow hid some of the small treacherous

rocks from view and made them slick and slippery beneath his feet. Before

he had gone ten paces Silver Cloud found himself wishing his pride had

allowed him to take She Who Knows up on her offer. That would have been

anyway.

He was panting a little when he reached the bottom of the hill, and he

felt warm and sweat-sticky beneath his cloak of thick gray fur. But the

descent hadn't been too bad. He was still strong enough to hold his own.

Cooking smells reached Silver Cloud's nostrils. The laughter of children

and the piercing cries of infants drifted through the air. The sun was

climbing swiftly. A sense of well-being pervaded his spirit.

In three more days it would be time for the Summer Festival, when he

would have to dance in the circle and sacrifice a young bullock and rub its

blood on the chosen virgin of the year. And then take her aside and

embrace her to insure the success of the autumn hunt. Silver Cloud had

been a little uneasy as the time of the Summer Festival approached,

thinking that he was getting a bit too lame to do a proper job of dancing,

and perhaps might bungle the sacrifice of the bullock as he had once seen

another aging chieftain do long ago; and as for the embracing of the virgin,

he was a trifle uncertain about that part too. But in the warmth of the

morning all those fears dropped away. She Who Knows was becoming a

quavering old fool. The snow signified nothing. Nothing! This was a fine

bright day. For the People a glorious summer lay ahead, unfolding in ever-

increasing warmth.

What was this? Hunters returning so soon? And in such haste?

He shaded his eyes and looked into the sun. Yes, it was Tree Of Wolves

and Broken Mountain, running toward the camp with all their might and

calling his name as they ran. Tree Of Wolves was waving his spear about

in a frantic, almost crazy way; Broken Mountain didn't seem to have his

weapons with him at all.

They came staggering into camp and fell practically at Silver Cloud's

feet, wheezing, moaning, struggling for breath. They were two of the

strongest and swiftest of the men, but they must have run at full tilt all the

way back from the hunting field and they were at the end of their

endurance.

Silver Cloud felt a great uneasiness coming over him, driving away that

all-too-brief moment of joy and peace.

"What is it?" he demanded, giving them no time to catch dieir breath.

"Why are you back this early?"

Broken Mountain pointed back behind him. His arm was trembling like

an old man's. His teeth were chattering.

"Other Ones!" he blurted.

"What? Where?"

Broken Mountain shook his head. He had no strength left in him for

words.

"How many?"

Tree Of Wolves shook his head. He closed his eyes.

"Many," said Broken Mountain, finding his voice again suddenly. He

held up both his hands and flashed all his fingers-again, again, again.

"More than us. Two, three, four times as many. Marching from south to

north."

"And a little west," said Tree Of Wolves somberly.

"Toward us, you mean?"

"Maybe. Not-sure."

"Toward us, I think," said Broken Mountain. "Or us toward them. We

might walk right into them if we don't take care."

"Other Ones out here?" Silver Cloud said, as though speaking only to

himself. "But they don't like the open plains. This isn't their kind of country.

There's nothing for them here. They should be staying closer to the sea.

Are you sure about the feet, Tree Of Wolves? Broken Mountain?"

They nodded.

"They are crossing our path, but I think that they won't come toward us,"

said Tree Of Wolves.

"I think they will," Broken Mountain said.

"I think they don't know we're here."

"I think they do," said Broken Mountain.

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摘要：

-JOSEPHCONRAD,TheNiggeroftheNarcissusboyandthePeoplestillhuntedinthewesternlands.Theseawashugeanddarkandrestless,andwhenthesunlightstruckitinacertainwayitgleamedlikestrangeliquidfire.Toenteritwasdeath,buttolookuponitwaswonderful.Hewouldneverseeitagain;thatmuchheknew.Thelandsborderingtheseawereheldby...

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Isaac Asimov & Robert Silverberg - The Ugly Little Boy

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