pdouglas.thecodex-第50部分

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d。　〃And　no　smoking；　Philip。　They　will　smell　it。〃
　Philip　swore　and　put　the　pipe　away。　It　began　to　rain。　Carrying　Philip　proved　to　be　far　more　difficult　than　Tom　anticipated。　It　was　almost　impossible　to　haul　him　up　the　slippery　trails。　Carrying　him　across　wobbly　logs　laid　across　roaring　rivers　was　an　exercise　in　terror。　Don　Alfonso　kept　a　vigilant　eye　out　and　enforced　a　strict　regime　of　silence；　even　the　use　of　the　machete　was　forbidden。　Utterly　exhausted；　they　camped　that　afternoon　on　the　only　level　piece　of　ground　they　could　find；　a　wallow　of　mud。　The　rain　poured　buckets；　the　water　streaming　into　the　feeble　hut　Vernon　built；　and　the　mud　covered　everything。　Tom　and　Sally　went　off　to　hunt　and　wandered　through　the　forest　for　two　hours；　seeing　nothing。　Don　Alfonso　forbid　the　lighting　of　a　fire；　for　fear　of　the　smell。　Their　dinner　that　night　was　a　raw　root　that　tasted　like　cardboard　and　a　couple　of　rotten　fruits　riddled　with　little　white　worms。
　The　rain　continued　to　pour　down；　turning　the　streams　into　boiling　torrents。　Ten　hours　of　grueling　effort　carried　them　only　about　three　miles。　The　next　day　and　the　next　were　more　of　the　same。　The　hunting　was　impossible；　and　Don　Alfonso　could　not　catch　any　fish。　They　subsisted　on　roots　and　berries　and　the　odd　rotten　fruit　that　Don　Alfonso　was　able　to　scrounge　up。　By　the　fourth　day　they　had　managed　to　travel　less　than　ten　miles。　Philip；　in　his　already　half…starved　condition；　was　weakening　rapidly。　The　hollow　look　returned　to　his　face。　Unable　to　smoke；　he　spent　most　of　his　day　staring　up　into　the　jungle　canopy；　hardly　responding　when　spoken　to。　They　weakened　from　the　physical　effort　of　carrying　the　hammock　and　had　to　rest　ever　more　frequently。　Don　Alfonso　seemed　to　shrink；　his　bones　sticking　out　horribly；　his　skin　loose　and　wrinkled。　Tom　forgot　what　it　was　like　to　have　dry　clothes。
　On　the　fifth　day；　around　noon；　Don　Alfonso　called　a　halt。　He　reached　down　to　pluck　something　off　the　trail。　It　was　a　feather　with　a　tiny　piece　of　plaited　twine　attached　to　it。
　〃Mountain　Indians；〃　he　whispered；　his　voice　quavering。　〃This　is　fresh。〃
　There　was　a　silence。
　〃We　must　get　off　the　trail　now。〃
　Following　the　trail　had　been　bad　enough。　Now　walking　became　almost　impossible。　They　pushed　into　a　wall　of　ferns　and　lianas　so　thick　that　it　seemed　to　push　back　at　them。　They　crawled　under　and　climbed　over　fallen　trees；　waded　through　boggy　pools　with　the　mud　sometimes　to　their　waists。　The　vegetation　was　riddled　with　ants　and　stinging　insects；　which　when　disturbed　dropped　down　on　them　with　a　fury；　crawling　about　their　hair；　falling　inside　their　collars；　stinging　and　biting。　Philip　suffered　the　most　of　all　as　his　hammock　was　dragged　and　wrestled　through　the　dense　undergrowth。　Don　Alfonso　insisted　they　travel　off　the　trail。
　It　was　pure　hell。　The　rain　never　let　up。　They　took　turns　hacking　a　path　a　few　hundred　yards　long　through　the　dense　undergrowth；　then　two　of　them　would　carry　Philip　in　his　hammock　along　the　path。　There　they　would　stop　and　take　turns　cutting　another　hundred　yards　through　the　forest。　They　proceeded　this　way　at　the　speed　of　two　hundred　yards　an　hour　for　two　more　days；　without　a　single　letup　in　the　downpour；　wading　through　knee…deep　mud；　sliding　and　sometimes　crawling　uphill　and　falling　and　sliding　back　down　again。　Most　of　the　buttons　had　e　off　Tom's　shirt；　and　his　shoes　had　fallen　apart　so　badly　that　he　had　cut　his　feet　on　several　occasions　on　sharp　sticks。　The　rest　were　in　a　similar　state　of　raggedness。　The　forest　was　empty　of　game。　The　days　merged　into　one　long　struggle　through　twilight　thickets　and　rain…loud　swamps；　where　they　were　stung　and　bitten　so　continuously　that　their　skin　took　on　the　raw　texture　of　burlap。　It　now　took　all　four　of　them　to　lift　Philip；　and　sometimes　they　had　to　rest　for　an　hour　just　to　carry　him　a　dozen　yards。
　Tom　began　to　lose　all　track　of　time。　The　end　was　soon　ing；　he　realized：　the　moment　when　they　could　go　no　farther。　He　felt　strange；　light…headed。　The　nights　and　days　blended　into　one　another。　He　fell　in　the　mud　and　lay　there　until　Sally　pulled　him　up；　and　then；　half　an　hour　later；　he　would　have　to　do　the　same　for　her。
　They　arrived　at　an　open　area　where　a　giant　tree　had　fallen；　opening　a　hole　in　the　forest　canopy。　The　ground　around　it　was；　for　once；　relatively　level。　The　giant　tree　had　fallen　in　such　a　way　that　it　was　possible　to　shelter　under　its　enormous　trunk。
　Tom　could　barely　walk。　By　silent　mutual　consent；　they　all　stopped　to　camp。　He　felt　so　weak　that　he　wondered　if；　once　having　lain　down；　he'd　be　able　to　get　up　again。　With　the　last　of　their　strength　the　group　cut　poles　and　laid　them　against　the　trunk；　thatching　them　with　ferns。　It　seemed　to　be　around　noon。　They　crawled　underneath　and　huddled　together；　lying　directly　on　the　wet　ground　in　two　inches　of　mud。　Later；　Sally　and　Tom　made　another　attempt　at　hunting；　but　they　returned　well　before　dark　empty…handed。　They　huddled　under　the　log　as　the　long　darkness　descended。
　By　the　dying　light　Tom　examined　his　brother　Philip。　He　was　in　a　desperate　condition。　He　had　been　running　a　fever　and　had　bee　semicoherent。　There　were　great　hollows　where　his　cheeks　used　to　be　and　heavy　rings　under　his　eyes；　his　arms　were　like　sticks　with　swollen　elbows。　Some　of　the　infections　they　had　so　carefully　treated　had　reopened；　and　fresh　maggots　were　there。　Tom　felt　his　heart　breaking。　Philip　was　dying。
　Tom　knew；　in　his　gut；　that　none　of　them　was　going　to　be　leaving　that　miserable　little　clearing。
　The　listless　apathy　of　incipient　starvation　overtook　them　all。　Tom　lay　awake　most　of　that　night；　unable　to　sleep。　The　rain　lifted　during　the　night；　and　when　dawn　came　the　sunlight　broke　over　the　treetops。　For　the　first　time　in　weeks　he　could　see　blue　sky…spotless　blue　sky。　Sunlight　streamed　down　through　the　opening　in　the　treetops。　Banners　of　light　caught　columns　of　insects；　turning　them　into　whirling　tornadoes　of　light。　Steam　rose　from　the　giant　log。
　It　was　so　ironic：　The　break　in　the　trees　framed　a　picture…perfect　view　of　the　Sierra　Azul。　Here　they　had　been　struggling　for　a　week　in　the　opposite　direction；　and　the　mountains　looked　even　closer　than　ever：　the　peaks　rising　through　tatters　of　cloud；　as　blue　as　cut　sapphires。　Tom　no　longer　felt　hungry。　This　is　what　starvation　does　to　you；　he　thought。
　He　felt　a　hand　on　his　shoulder。　It　was　Sally。
　〃e　over　here。〃　She　spoke　in　a　grave　voice。
　Tom　was　suddenly　afraid。　〃It's　not　Philip？〃
　〃No。　It's　Don　Alfonso。〃
　Tom　got　up　and　followed　Sally　down　the　length　of　trunk　to　where　Don　Alfonso　had　laid　his　hammock　directly　on　the　wet　ground。　He　was　lying　on　his　side；　staring　at　the　Sierra　Azul。　Tom　knelt　and　took　his　withered　old　hand。　It　was　hot。
　〃I　am　sorry；　Tomasito；　but　I　am　a　useless　old　man。　I　am　so　useless　that　I　am　dying。〃
　〃Don't　talk　like　that；　Don　Alfonso。〃　He　put　his　hand　on　Don　Alfonso's　forehead　and　was　shocked　by　the　heat。
　〃Death　has　e　calling；　and　one　cannot　say　to　Death；　'e　back　next　week；　I'm　busy。'　〃
　Did　you　dream　of　St。　Peter　again　last　night　or　something？〃　Sally　asked。
　〃One　does　not　need　to　dream　of　St。　Peter　to　know　when　the　end　has　e。〃
　Sally　glanced　at　Tom。　〃Do　you　have　any　idea　what　he's　got？〃
　〃Without　diagnostic　tests；　Woodwork；　a　microscope　。。。〃　He　swore　and　stood　up；　fighting　a　wave　of　faintness。　We've　had　it；　he　thought。　It　made　him　angry　in　some　vague　way。　It　wasn't　fair。
　He　brushed　those　useless　thoughts　out　of　his　head　and　checked　on　Philip。　He　was　sleeping。　Like　Don　Alfonso　he　had　a　high　fever；　and　Tom　wasn't　even　sure　he　would　ever　awaken。　Vernon　got　a　fire　going　despite　Don　Alfonso's　muttered　entreaties　not　to　light　one；　and　Sally　brewed　a　medicinal　tea。　His　whole　face　had　sagged；　collapsing　inward；　the　skin　losing　its　color　and　taking　on　a　waxy　hue。　His　breathing　was　labored；　but　he　was　still　conscious。　〃I　will　drink　your　tea；　Curandera；〃　he　said；　〃but　not　even　your　medicine　will　save　me。〃
　She　knelt。　〃Don　Alfonso；　you've　talked　yourself　into　dying。　You　can　talk　yourself　out　of　it。〃
　He　took　her　hand。　〃No；　Curandera；　my　time　has　e。〃
　〃You　can't　know　that。〃
　〃My　death　was　foretold。〃
　〃I　don't　want　to　hear　any　more　absurdities。　You　can't　see　into　the　future。〃
　〃When　I　was　a　little　boy；　I　had　a　bad　fever；　and　my　mo