Then the faint rattle7 of oarlocks came to him and his hand tightened9 on the tiller. It was Aleck Curry10 again—Aleck and the man-hunter, Carter, hurrying to cut them off before they could leave the shore! And suddenly in fierce passion he wanted to shout back his defiance11 to them just as years ago—three days before he came to Five Fingers—he had felt the desire to kill the men who had driven his father into the forest. Something in these moments brought that day back to[269] him—a vivid memory of the big log behind which they were sheltered, and armed men in the thickets12, the blue jay screeching13 at them, his thirst and hunger and his father's pale, strong face waiting with courage for darkness to come; then the dusk, their escape on a log in the flooded river and their first fugitive16 camp in the big woods. How wonderful his father had been in those hours of peril17 which he as a boy could scarcely understand! And now he was lying at his feet, a pitiable wreck18 because of that same merciless and unfair law which had pursued him then——
Peter cried out. It was not much more than a throat sound, as if the smoke had made him gasp19 for breath. But a hand rose out of the darkness and touched him.
"Peter!"
"Yes, dad."
"It has all gone wrong, boy. If only I hadn't been so heartsick to see you—if I had never come back——"
Peter bent20 over and his hand rested tenderly against the face which Simon had cooled with ointment21.
"If you hadn't come I'd have lost all faith in the God you used to tell me about," he whispered. "I wanted to give up but Mona wouldn't let me. She said you would surely come. And this isn't half as bad as that day behind the log when I was a little kid. Remember how you cared for me then—kept me above water when we went into the river, caught rabbits for me to eat afterward22 and tucked me into bed every night near the camp-fire? Well, it's my turn now. And I'm[270] almost glad you're sick—just so I can show you how much I've grown up since that afternoon you sent me on alone to Five Fingers so many years ago. You lied to me then, dad. You made me believe you'd come back that night, or the next day. Haven't you ever been ashamed of that?"
The strain was gone from his voice. It was his dad he was speaking to again, his pal14 and comrade of the old days, and the thrill of that comradeship was stirring warmly in his blood.
"I knew Simon would give you a good home," said Donald. "And he has made a splendid man of you. But I'm sorry, Peter—sorry I came back. After all those years I was hungry to see you. I just wanted to look on your face and then go away again without letting you know. I didn't mean to break into your life like this——"
His hand was stroking Peter's and for a moment Peter bent down until his face was close to his father's. Donald was silent but his hand continued its caressing23 touch. After a little he said:
"Did I hear something, Peter?"
"I think it was thunder. A storm must be following in the trail of the fire."
"I mean out there—near at hand. It was like wood striking on wood."
He sank back and Peter reached down and made his head comfortable. "This makes me think of that last night in the woods when you tucked me in my cedar25-bough[271] bed and told me to sleep," he whispered gently. "And I'm telling you that now, dad. It's what you need. Try and sleep!"
Even as he spoke26 he heard the distant sound again and knew it was the clank of oarlocks. He fastened the tiller so that Simon's boat was heading for the open sea. Then he crept forward and returned with a blanket, and this blanket he quietly unfolded in the darkness, taking from it the weapon which Simon had loaded and placed there for his use. And Simon's words were running over and over in his head, as steady as the ticking of a clock. "Take care of him, Peter. It's your job now to beat the law."
As the minutes passed it seemed to Peter that sound became a living, stealthy part of the night, creeping about him in ghostly whispers, hiding behind the canvas sail, rustling27 where the water moved under the bow, purring at his feet and in the air. This impression of sound by its smallness and its secretiveness served to emphasize the hush28 which had fallen upon a burned and blasted world. Its muteness bore with it a quality of solemnity and a quickening thrill as if subjugated29 forces were muffled30 and bound and might unleash31 themselves without warning. In this stillness Peter heard the thunder creeping up faintly behind the path of fire. But the sound of the oar8 did not come again.
He strained his eyes to pierce the gloom even though he knew the effort was futile32 and senseless. The red[272] line of the fire was steadily33 receding34. In places it was lost. Where he had left the cliff and the sandy strip of beach was a black chaos, and it was this darkness with its silence which seemed to reach into his heart and choke him with its oppression and foreboding.
Through the stillness a sound came to him, floating softly over the sea, sweet and distant. His fingers slowly unclasped and he bowed his head. It was the bell over the little church of logs and Father Albanel was tolling35 it. Even now in this smoke-filled hour of the night he was calling the people of the settlement together that they might offer up in prayer their gratitude36 because homes and loved ones had been spared by the red death that had swept the land. It was like a living voice, gently sweet and soothing37 as it brought him faith and reverence38. There was a God! Every fiber39 in his body leaped to that cry of his heart. Without a God his father would have died, the whole world would have burned, there would be no Mona, no hope, no anything for him in the darkness of the freedom which lay ahead. His lips moved with Mona's prayer and he stood up quietly so that he might hear more clearly until the last peal40 of the bell died away. And when the gray silence shut him in again he felt as if a protecting spirit had come to ride with him in the gloom.
Softly he spoke to his father but there was no answer. Exhaustion41 and the peace of the open sea had overcome the stricken man and he was asleep.
[273]
Encumbered42 by stillness and smoke, the night passed with appalling43 slowness. The distant thunder with its promise of rain died away. Half a dozen times Peter lighted matches and looked at his watch. At last it was three o'clock and the horizon of murk and smoke that shut him in receded44 as dawn advanced. Then came a sudden keen breeze, like the last sweeping45 of a great broom, and he could see the coast. His own heart was thrilled by the sight of it, for behind the menacing headland of barren rock that rose like a great gargoyle46 hundreds of feet above the lower cliff was a strip of water which he had once hazarded in a dead calm and which led back half a mile between towering walls of rock and naked ridges into that very chaos of wildness which he had wanted for a hiding-place.
Scarcely had this moment of exultation47 possessed48 him when the wind died again. At the same time a clearer light diffused49 itself over the sea. The horizon drew itself back like a curtain and half a mile away he saw an object that sent his heart into his throat.
For a few moments he neither moved nor seemed to breathe as he stared at a swiftly approaching skiff. Then he looked at his father. Donald McRae had not awakened50. A livid scar lay across his eyes as if a red-hot iron had burned out his sight. His hands were blistered51, his lips were swollen52 and his neck and shoulders were scarred and covered with the ointment which Simon had used. Yet—even then—his father slept! The horror of it choked Peter and his soul cried out[274] for vengeance53 against those who had made this wreck of a man. He turned and his hand rested upon his rifle. He no longer feared the law or Aleck Curry or Carter, the ferret. His desire at first was to kill them. With astonishing calmness he waited, watching the approaching skiff. When it was two hundred yards away he picked up his rifle.
He chose the small of Aleck's back for his first shot and raised his gun. In the same moment he observed that with Carter in the stern and Aleck amidships the bow of the skiff was high out of water. It was this situation which saved Aleck and Peter's first bullet crashed through the boat an inch or two below the water line. He followed with two other shots. The effect was almost instantaneous. Aleck Curry lurched away from the oars54 and the skiff came within an ace15 of upsetting. In another moment the quick-witted Carter had called Aleck into the stern and there both crouched55, their combined weight raising the shattered bow above the water line while Carter stripped himself of his shirt.
The shots roused Donald, and with an effort he drew himself up beside Peter.
"What is it?" he demanded. He turned his scarred face toward Peter and then with a strange cry covered his face with his hands. "My God, I can't see!" he cried. "Peter—I can't see!"
In that darkest moment of his life Peter thanked God the wind came and filled the sail of Simon's boat and[275] that neither Carter nor Aleck Curry shouted after them or made a sound that his father might hear, and like an inspiration a lie came to his lips—he had done some poor shooting at a flock of mallards! He spoke cheerfully of his father's efforts to see, telling him it would be days before he could hope for vision when his eyes were swollen and scarred by burns. And Donald, seeing nothing of the agony in Peter's bloodless face, smiled cheerfully up at the clearing sky in spite of his pain. He did not mind so much about his hands, he said, but it was a hardship to have his eyes covered as Peter was bandaging them now because he wanted to see as much as he could of his boy in the short time they would be together. There was a note of happiness in his voice which was in strange contrast to the pathos56 of his appearance and his helplessness.
And Peter fought to keep up that spirit of cheer and of gladness that was in Donald McRae's heart. But his own heart was breaking—for he knew that his father was blind.
Hours later Simon's boat came stealing back to shore in the sunless dusk of the evening. This time the sail was down and with muffled oars Peter rowed cautiously for the break in the cliff. Blended with the deepening shadows of the sea, he worked his boat into the narrow maw of the crevasse57 whose rock walls rose two hundred feet over their heads. In utter darkness, with the thin streak58 of light far above, he felt his way for half an hour. Then the fissure59 widened and after another[276] fifteen minutes of slow progress its walls bulged60 outward, losing themselves in the gloom, and ahead stretched the hidden inlet, smothered61 on all sides by precipitous crags and cliffs and towering forest ridges.
On a narrow strip of sand he grounded the boat and lighted the lantern which Simon had placed in the outfit62. Its illumination threw up grimly the black shadows about them, and questing among these, he found huge masses of torn and twisted rocks so wildly thrown together that among them were many little caverns63 and grottoes thickly carpeted with white sand. One of these he chose for a camp, but not until he had gathered an armful of bleached64 driftwood and had started a fire did he return to the boat. It was then, in the yellow light of flaming cedar and pine, that he noted65 a strange and startling change had come over his father. Donald McRae no longer bore the appearance of a sick man. He stood straight and was breathing deeply. His lips were smiling as he faced Peter and quite calmly he removed the bandage from his eyes.
"At last we are home," he spoke softly. "And just beyond you—I see your mother!" Instantly he seemed to sense the shock of those words to Peter, for he said: "Don't let that frighten you, lad. Every day and night she is at my side. Only—now—she is nearer!"
He reached out his hands and almost fiercely Peter's arms closed about him.
Donald stroked his hair. It was the old caress24, and he spoke to Peter as if to a little boy again.
[277]
"You're not afraid, Peter?" he asked.
"Afraid——"
Peter's heart stopped beating.
"They can't hurt you," said Donald soothingly66. "I won't let them do that, Peter."
Peter drew slowly away. His face was gray in the firelight and in his eyes was a growing horror. He tried to speak but no words came from his lips. Donald's scarred face was strangely tranquil67. It seemed to Peter that years had dropped away from it. In it was no fear, no sign of strain, no consciousness of the terrible hours they had passed through or of the tragic68 future which lay ahead. And the truth came to Peter, a suspicion at first, a whisper, growing and overwhelming him until at last it was a dizzying sickness that set him swaying on his feet. In this hour Donald McRae was not the man who had returned after years of wandering to see his boy. His mind had gone back. It had returned to the days of Peter's childhood and his voice was repeating words almost forgotten—a sacred promise of days when Peter had built mighty69 castles in the air and his father had helped him plan them with the understanding smile that was on his lips now.
For he was saying: "They won't hurt a boy, Peter. We'll get away. And then we'll go through the big woods to the mountains just as we've always wanted to do."
Peter raised clenched70 hands to his face to stifle71 his agony.
[278]
In the torturing slowness of the hours which followed Donald McRae lived again in the precious years when Peter was a boy, recalling forgotten incidents as if they had happened yesterday, bringing forth72 their old dreams, painting their pictures of the future as he had done so often with Peter at his side in the afterglow of evenings long ago. And Peter, with his soul torn and bleeding, talked with him. Together they were hunting again. They followed the old trap-lines. They heard the song of birds and planted seeds and flowers in the little garden back of their cabin home, and Peter was kneeling at his father's knees when he said his prayers at night. These things Peter had dreamed of and treasured in his years at Five Fingers, but now they were horrors—coming out of the past with a voice that trembled with the thrill and joy of a strange madness.
At last Donald slept. It was after midnight and the last embers of the fire had burned out. Peter rose to his feet and walked up the shore, staring into darkness. The rock walls that inclosed the inlet rose sheer above him, making of the place a deep and sombrous pit. He could see the stars and their distance lent an abysmal73 solitude74 to the gloom. About him was no movement and no stir of life; the water lay still; no whisper came from dark forests on the ridge3 tops; the black walls were dead and in the soft sand his feet alone disturbed the sepulchral75 quiet.
To Peter this strangeness seemed naturally a part[279] of the change that had come into his life. Everything was changed. His world had gone into atoms and now it was reassembling itself; and with deadened emotions, almost dully, he was beginning to accept it. His yesterdays, it seemed, had existed an infinitely76 long time ago. Five Fingers was no longer home or a necessity and even Mona seemed a vast distance away from him in these hours when his own soul was remolding itself to fit the grimness of a new existence. His mind no longer questioned the path he was to take and no shadow of revolt rose in it.
One thought was as steadfastly77 fixed78 in him now as life itself. He belonged to his father and his father belonged utterly79 to him. He must go on with him, care for him, fight for him, save him from that one dread80 brutality81 of the law if his own life paid the forfeit82 in the end. That was settled. Even his love for Mona could not change that duty and older love which urged him. It was more than a resolution; it was as immutably83 a part of him as the beating of his heart and his own flesh and blood.
The stars faded and day broke swiftly above the walls of the inlet. He returned and found his father on his hands and knees groping in the sand. He was gathering84 sticks and placing them with the remnants of last night's fire, and when he heard Peter's footsteps he paused in his labor85 and raised a face out of which once more the years of grief and hopelessness seemed to have gone.
[280]
"Are you hungry, Peter?" he asked.
And Peter, as he knelt beside him, knew that he was speaking to Peter the boy and not to Peter the man.
Together they built the fire.
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1
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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6
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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7
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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10
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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11
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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13
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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14
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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17
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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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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27
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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28
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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31
unleash
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| vt.发泄，发出；解带子放开 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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fiber
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| n.纤维，纤维质 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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41
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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42
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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gargoyle
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| n.笕嘴 | |
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exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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48
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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49
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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50
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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51
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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52
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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53
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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54
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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crevasse
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| n. 裂缝，破口；v.使有裂缝 | |
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58
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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fissure
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| n.裂缝；裂伤 | |
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60
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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61
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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62
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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abysmal
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| adj.无底的，深不可测的，极深的；糟透的，极坏的；完全的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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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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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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immutably
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| adv.不变地，永恒地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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