p&c.thunderhead-第101部分

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em。　Bill　Smithback　brought　up　the　rear；　his　unruly　hair　imprisoned　beneath　a　suede　cowboy　hat。　The　exhausting　course　of　antibiotic　treatment　he　and　Nora　had　undergone　ended　two　weeks　before；　but　beneath　the　hat　brim　the　writer's　skin　was　still　struggling　to　regain　a　healthy　color。　
　The　late　August　sky　was　sprinkled　with　light　cumulus　clouds；　drifting　over　a　field　of　brilliant　turquoise。　Wrens　flitted　about；　filling　the　sweet　little　canyon　with　their　bell…like　cries。　A　merry　stream；　shaded　by　fragrant　cottonwoods；　ran　sparkling　across　a　bed　of　soft　sand。　At　almost　every　bend　in　the　canyon　were　small　alcoves；　Anasazi　dwellings　tucked　inside　them：　none　more　than　two　or　three　rooms；　but　lovely　in　their　humble　perfection。　
　Nora　let　her　horse　keep　its　own　pace；　concentrating　on　nothing　but　the　sun　beating　down　on　her　denimed　legs；　on　the　murmur　of　water　nearby；　on　the　swaying　of　her　mount。　Every　now　and　then；　she　smiled　to　herself　as　she　heard　Smithback　behind　her；　leveling　curses　at　his　balky　mount；　who　stopped　frequently　to　nibble　a　patch　of　clover　or　bite　off　the　top　of　a　thistle；　pletely　ignoring　the　dire　threats　and　imprecations　of　his　rider。　The　man　just　had　no　talent　with　horses。　
　She　realized　how　lucky　she　was　to　have　him　here；　how　lucky　she　was　to　be　here　herself。　Briefly；　her　thoughts　returned　to　their　struggle　out　of　the　wilderness　a　month　earlier：　Smithback　weak；　Nora　herself　growing　steadily　weaker　as　the　fungal　infection　took　hold。　If　Skip　and　Ernest　Goddard　had　not　met　them　halfway　down　the　trail　with　fresh　horses…and　if　there　had　not　been　a　powerboat　waiting　at　the　trailhead；　or　helicopters　idling　at　Page…they　would　probably　have　died。　And　yet；　for　a　time；　Nora　almost　thought　it　would　have　been　easier　to　die　than　to　tell　Goddard　the　news：　how　their　incredible　discovery　had　turned　into　such　a　terrible　personal　tragedy　for　him。　
　Here；　thirty…odd　miles　northwest　of　the　ruin　of　Quivira；　the　countryside　seemed　built　on　a　smaller　scale：　friendly；　verdant；　well…watered。　John　Beiyoodzin　had　paused　in　his　long　story…he　had　paused　frequently　during　the　ride；　giving　his　narrative　time　to　sink　in。　
　As　they　rode　on　through　the　sunlit　silence；　Nora　allowed　her　thoughts　to　move　gradually　from　Goddard　to　her　own　father；　and　of　what　she　had　so　far　been　able　to　piece　together　of　his　own　last　trip　up　this　canyon。　He　had　taken　very　little　from　Quivira。　In　fact；　far　from　being　a　pothunter；　he　had　carefully　refilled　what　excavations　he　had　made　in　a　way　that　would　have　pleased　even　Aragon。　But　in　doing　so；　he　had　exposed　himself　to　a　concentration　of　the　fungal　dust；　and　grown　sick。　Riding　north　in　hopes　of　finding　help；　his　sickness　had　worsened　to　the　point　where　he　could　hardly　sit　his　horse。　Nora　wondered　how　he　would　have　felt。　Would　he　have　been　terrified？　Resigned？　As　a　child；　she　remembered　hearing　him　say　that　he　wanted　to　die　in　the　saddle。　And　he　had　done　just　that。　Or　almost：　eventually　being　too　sick　to　ride；　he　had　dismounted。　Then　he　turned　his　horses　free　and　waited　to　die。　
　〃It　was　my　cousin　who　found　the　body；〃　Beiyoodzin　said；　resuming　his　story。　〃It　was　lying　in　a　cave　at　the　top　of　a　small　rise。　Seemed　to　have　been　there　about　six　months。　The　coyotes　couldn't　reach　it；　so　it　hadn't　been　disturbed。〃　
　〃How　did　your　cousin　find　it？〃　Skip　asked。　
　〃Looking　for　a　lost　sheep。　He　saw　some　color　in　the　rock…shelter；　climbed　up　to　take　a　look。〃　Beiyoodzin　paused　to　clear　his　throat。　〃Next　to　the　body　was　the　notebook…the　one　Nora　has　now。　Sticking　out　of　the　front　shirt　pocket　was　a　letter；　stamped　and　addressed。　And　beside　him　was　a　satchel　holding　the　skull　of　a　mountain　lion；　inlaid　in　turquoise。　So　my　cousin　went　back　to　Nankoweap；　and　he　was　a　talker；　and　soon　the　entire　village　knew　of　the　dead　white　man　in　the　canyon　to　the　south。　And　because　of　the　turquoise　skull；　they　also　knew　this　white　man　had　found　the　city　we　had　kept　secret　for　so　many　years。〃　
　His　voice　trailed　away　for　a　moment　before　returning；　softer；　more　thoughtful。　〃This　was　not　a　city　of　our　ancestors。　Those　few　who　had　been　there…my　grandfather　was　one…said　it　was　a　city　of　death；　of　oppression　and　slavery；　of　witchcraft　and　evil。　There　are　stories　in　our　past　of　a　people　who　came　out　of　the　south；　who　enslaved　the　Anasazi；　and　forced　them　to　build　these　great　cities　and　roads。　But　they　were　destroyed　by　the　very　god　who　gave　them　power。　Most　who　went　to　the　city　came　back　with　ghost　sickness　and　soon　died。　That　was　many；　many　years　ago。　None　of　my　people　have　returned　to　the　city　since。　Until　recently。〃　
　Beiyoodzin　deftly　rolled　a　cigarette　with　one　hand。　〃The　discovery　of　the　body　caused　a　problem　for　the　tribe；　because　the　secret　of　the　city　lay　with　the　body　of　the　man。　To　reveal　the　presence　of　the　body　would　be　to　betray　the　secret　of　the　city。〃　
　〃Why　didn't　you　just　destroy　the　letter　and　notebook？〃　Nora　asked。　
　He　lit　the　cigarette；　inhaled。　〃We　believe　that　it　is　extremely　dangerous　to　handle　the　effects　of　the　dead。　It　is　a　sure　way　to　get　ghost　sickness。　And　we　all　knew　what　the　white　man　had　died　from。　So；　for　sixteen　years；　the　body　lay　there。　Unburied。　It　just　seemed　that　the　simplest　thing　to　do　was　to　do　nothing。〃　
　Beiyoodzin　stopped　his　horse　abruptly　and　turned　toward　Nora。　〃That　was　wrong。　Because　we　all　knew　that　the　body　in　the　cave　had　a　family。　That　somebody　loved　him；　wondered　where　he　had　gone　and　whether　he　was　still　alive。　It　was　cruel　to　do　nothing。　Still；　doing　nothing　seemed　the　easiest；　safest　course　of　action。　But　doing　nothing　caused　a　small　imbalance。　And　this　imbalance　grew；　and　grew；　until　it　ended　in　you　ing　here　and　all　these　terrible　killings。〃　
　Nora　reined　in　her　own　horse　beside　Beiyoodzin's。　〃Who　mailed　the　letter？〃　she　asked　quietly。　It　was　the　question　she　had　been　burning　to　ask　for　many；　many　weeks。　
　〃There　were　three　brothers。　They　lived　in　a　trailer　outside　our　village　with　their　alcoholic　father。　The　mother　had　run　off　with　someone　years　before。　These　were　smart　boys；　though；　and　they　all　got　scholarships　and　went　down　to　Arizona　for　college。　They　were　hurt　by　this　contact　with　the　outside　world；　but　hurt　in　very　different　ways。　Two　of　the　boys　dropped　out　and　came　back　early。　They　were　disgusted　with　the　world　they　had　found；　and　yet　changed　by　it。　They　had　grown　restless；　angry；　eager　for　the　kind　of　wealth　and　power　that　you　can't　e　by　in　a　village　such　as　ours。　They　no　longer　fit　in　with　the　rest　of　my　people。　They　began　turning　from　the　natural　way　of　things；　searching　out　forbidden　knowledge；　learning　forbidden　practices。　They　found　an　old　man；　an　evil　man…a　cousin　of　the　man　who　murdered　my　grandfather。　He　helped　them；　revealed　to　them　the　blackest　of　all　the　arts。　The　village　began　to　shun　them；　and　they　in　turn　rejected　us。　In　time；　they　turned　to　the　greatest　taboo　of　all…the　ancient　ruins…and　eagerly　picked　up　what　dark　hints　of　its　history　still　remained　among　our　village。　
　〃The　third　brother　graduated　and　came　back　home。　Like　the　other　two；　there　were　no　jobs　here　for　him；　and　no　hope　of　finding　one。　Unlike　his　other　brothers；　he　had　converted　to　the　Anglo　religion。　He　despised　our　beliefs　and　our　fear　of　ghost　sickness。　He　thought　we　were　superstitious　and　ignorant。　He　knew　of　the　body　in　the　cave；　and　he　felt　that　to　leave　it　there　was　a　sin。　So　he　searched　out　the　body；　carefully　arranged　the　man's　possessions；　covered　the　body　with　sand；　planted　a　cross。　And　he　mailed　the　letter　at　a　trading　post。〃　
　Beiyoodzin　shrugged。　〃Of　course；　some　of　this　is　just　my　guess。　I'm　not　sure　why　he　sent　the　letter。　He　couldn't　have　known　if　it　would　ever　reach　its　destination；　sixteen　years　after　it　had　been　written。　Maybe　it　was　to　atone　for　a　wrong　he　perceived。　Or　maybe　he　was　angry　at　what　he　thought　were　our　superstitions。　Perhaps　he　did　the　right　thing；　I　don't　know。　But　what　he　did　caused　a　terrible　break　with　the　other　two　brothers。　There　was　drinking；　there　was　an　argument。　They　accused　him　of　betraying　the　secret　of　the　city　to　the　outside　world。　And　the　two　brothers　killed　the　third。〃　
　Beiyoodzin　fell　into　another　silence。　He　turned　his　horse's　head　and　they　resumed　their　slow　journey　up　the　canyon；　the　horses　splashing　across　the　stream　at　each　ben