Sievek{322}ing Pollard
WHEN Dr. Julian Sylvester arrived at Doiran, he took a room at the house of{323} Draco’s mother, and his mule1 was put to grass in the fields behind the town. Draco, rather shy, but hot with curiosity, carried his baggage upstairs—a large trunk, six wooden boxes clamped with iron, and a small sack of provisions. Placing these on the floor against the wall, he turned to leave, but stopped when Sylvester called him.
“You speak Greek, eh?” asked the doctor.
“Yes, sir, and Bulgarian as well.”
“Well, I’m going to stay here a week—see? And I want you to get me a young and strong guide—a man who knows the country—every yard of it. I’m collecting butterflies and taking photographs.”
Draco’s face lit up and shone.
“See here—this is the kind of thing,” said Sylvester, going down on his knees and opening one of the wooden boxes with a key he took from his pocket. “By the way, what is your name?”
“Draco.”
“Draco—right. Well, mine is Sylvester.”
“Xilvesta?”
“That’s near enough. Now, Draco, look at these bottles. Butterflies—all butterflies, see? And here are some photographs I took outside Salonika. I want more butterflies, more photographs. Ten drachm? a day for the man who’ll come with me and show me where to find what I want.”
“I’ll come, sir.”
“Will you? Yes, I think you’ll do. You look strong enough.{324}”
Draco was dark and bronzed and tall. He had quick, restless eyes, and a smile that said: “How fine it is to be alive!”
“Well, that’s a bargain, see?” said Sylvester. “We’ll start to-morrow at six.”
If ever there was a man made for the open air, that man was Draco. He accepted his mother’s cottage as one of the unavoidable evils of life. And he was a born hunter. His eyes swallowed everything, and his quick elastic2 step was as graceful3 as the walk of a thoroughbred. His mind was stored with facts. To look at his eager face with its large, vehement4 eyes and sensitive mouth—all so desperately5 alive—was to receive the impression that here was a man who, even in his sleep, could never be entirely6 at rest. The sun, one felt, was in his blood. He was as unstable7 and fluid as quicksilver.
Sylvester took to him at once, and in their day-long walks over the lonely, uninhabited mountains he learned many curious things from the man who, engaged as a servant, at once became a friend.
It was during one of these walks that, peering over a precipitous cliff, they saw a golden eagle standing8 on a ledge9 below them. They lay watching it for a long time, the almost vertical10 sun smiting11 their prone12 bodies.
“Its nest is sure to be somewhere near, Draco. I would give a hundred drachm? to get a photograph of the female sitting on her eggs.”
“That is the female,” said Draco, who was examining the bird through Sylvester’s field-glasses.{325}
Presently, the great bird rose, flapped its heavy, bright wings, and flew upwards13 until it had reached a ledge thirty feet below the two watchers. There, just visible, was its nest.
“Ah!” breathed Sylvester, drawing himself away, and sitting down well out of sight of the eagle. “Can it be done, Draco? Can we get down to her?”
Draco was still looking down at the bird, his face alive with excitement. He stayed there a long time. When, at length, he joined Sylvester, his face and bared chest and arms were covered with sweat. He pressed his hands to his forehead.
“Yes, it can be done. But we shall want ropes. I could climb down with the camera, fix it up a yard or two from the nest, return here and pull up the rope. After that, it’s simply a matter of waiting for her to settle again. The only thing is—have you got enough tubing? I reckon you’ll want about thirty-five feet.”
“Oh yes: I’ve plenty of tubing. It’s a great find this, Draco. If only we can pull it off, see? Now, what do you say?—shall we leave it till to-morrow, or go back home now, get our ropes and tubing, and come back this evening an hour or so before sunset?”
“Just as you like. But this evening would be a splendid time; for we shall then have the sun shining straight on the nest.”
As he spoke14, he again pressed his hands against his forehead. He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“You look a bit overwrought, Draco. Are you feeling all right?”{326}
“Well, it’s my eyes. The sun has got into them. My head aches a bit—but it’s nothing.”
They made their way down the hot, broken rocks until they saw Doiran, white and gleaming, at their feet. Beyond was the wonderful blue lake, and beyond the lake rose the Belashitza Mountains cutting the sky with their fanged15 crests16.
“How wonderful it is!” exclaimed Sylvester.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I never, never get tired of it. I was born down there.”
It was now midday and the sun was at its hottest. The atmosphere danced before them liquidly. No birds sang, for it was Pan’s hour. The sun had smitten18 that world to silence.
Five hours later they were again climbing the mountains. Draco’s head was one intolerable ache, but he made no complaint. He had been like this before; it would soon pass.
But when they had nearly reached their destination, he was compelled to stop and lie down in the shade of a rock.
“You are feverish19, Draco, see?” said Sylvester. “You really ought not to have come out a second time. You’ve got a touch of the sun. Look here: we’ll go back and come again to-morrow.”
“No,” said Draco, “no.”
And he tried to rise; but, his legs crumpling20 up beneath the weight of his body, he fell down and lay full-length on the bare rock.{327}
Sylvester sat down by his side, took off his coat, folded it into a pillow, and placed it beneath Draco’s head.
For half an hour they remained in silence; then:
“I feel better now,” said Draco.
“Good. But you mustn’t go any farther. Do you feel fit to walk back?”
“You go alone—to the nest, I mean. Can you climb down the rope and up again?”
“Oh yes: I’ve done that sort of thing many a time.”
“Well, you go alone. I’ll wait here until you return. As soon as it gets cool I shall feel much better. You are bound to come this way on your way back.”
“Very well, I’ll do that. Sure you’re well enough to be left alone?”
Draco, his eyes large and bloodshot, glanced at his companion and laughed.
“Of course. This is not the first time I’ve been left alone in the mountains.”
Sylvester disappeared round the corner, and Draco, closing his eyes, soon fell asleep. He breathed heavily, and for two hours he did not move. The air grew cooler, and the sun was lurching fantastically behind the mountain-tops when he awoke. The pain had gone, but he awoke with an acute feeling of apprehension21. For a moment or two, he could not remember where he was or how he came to be there. Then, remembering Sylvester,
“It’s time he was back,” he said to himself.{328}
He looked at the sun: in an hour it would be dark.
Scrambling22 to his feet, he hastened up the mountain, his heart beating rapidly with a fear that he had never felt for himself. He blamed himself for allowing Sylvester to go alone, for, after all, it was a job for two men. Increasing his pace every minute, he reached the place, breathless and alarmed.
The rope was there. One end of it was securely fastened round a boulder23. Lying down at the edge of the cliff, Draco peered over and saw the other end of the rope resting on the ledge; by its side was the camera. But there was no sign of Sylvester.
“Dr. Sylvester! Dr. Sylvester!”
But the great spaces swallowed up the sound of his voice. A vulture swam past him and disappeared. Again he called and, straining, listened. No answer. No sound. Almost mad with a fear that crawled into his very vitals, he shouted again and again without pause.
Dark blue shadows crept out of the rocks; the purple sky darkened. He could no longer see the ledge below him.
It was then that his nerves conquered him and he became their victim.
He rose and, running, retraced25 his steps. Anxiety made havoc26 of his reason. If only he knew the worst! Almost blindly he ran, but instinct and knowledge guided him.
Half-way down the mountains he pulled him{329}self up suddenly. He had thought himself incapable27 of further suffering, but now he felt a pain like a fretted28 blade sawing at his brain. Why, they would say that he had murdered Sylvester! Who would believe his story? Would even his mother believe it? It was as clear as the sun. He had taken Sylvester up into the mountains, had robbed him, and then thrown him over the cliff! His body would never be found in those inaccessible29 heights!
He stood, chilled and trembling. Oh, God! if he only knew!
Then reason left him. He scrambled30 hither and thither31 on the rocks on hands and knees, calling “Sylvester! Sylvester!” as he went. His hands and knees were bleeding, and something like blood seemed to be washing about within his brain. Occasionally, he stopped with exhaustion32, but on each occasion before he had got back his breath he started again, saying aloud: “I must waste no time. Where is he? Where is he?”
The inhumanly33 human cry of jackals desolated34 the night. He paused and imitated them. Then, having scrambled faster and faster in the dark, he lay full-length, his airless lungs seeming to be about to burst open his great, hairy chest.
The pale-green dawn came up the sky and washed the rocks with its colour. Looking around him he saw close at hand the rope by which Sylvester had climbed down the face of the cliff. The place seemed friendly: here he could find release.
He stepped to the edge of the cliff and looked down. A fain{330}t mist clouded the hollow below where his companion was lying. For a moment he swayed, and then, with a start, drew back. He tried to totter35 over the brink36, but could not. Something held him back—fear!
With an effort he fixed37 his mind on death and on the desire for death. And again he tried to let his body go. But it hung stupidly back: he had a coward’s body.
He would try another way. Having walked fifty paces away from the cliff’s edge, he turned about and began to run, his crimson38 hands and knees dropping blood as he went. As he neared the edge, his body instinctively39 tried to stop. But it was too late, the momentum40 he had gathered was too great. Mind had conquered matter, and he ran and vanished into space.
At that moment, Dr. Sylvester, tired and weary-eyed, entered the cottage of Draco’s mother. He had been walking all night.
THE END
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1
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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2
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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3
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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4
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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5
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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6
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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7
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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8
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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9
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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10
vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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11
smiting
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的现在分词 ) | |
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12
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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13
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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14
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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15
fanged
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| adj.有尖牙的，有牙根的，有毒牙的 | |
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16
crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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17
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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18
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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19
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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20
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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21
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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23
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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24
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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25
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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26
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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27
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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28
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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29
inaccessible
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| adj.达不到的，难接近的 | |
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30
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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31
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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32
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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33
inhumanly
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| adv.无人情味地，残忍地 | |
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34
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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35
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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36
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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37
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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38
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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39
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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40
momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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