【荆棘鸟】第九章 04

As Fee began to walk across the ruins with Bob’s arm around her waist, Meggie looked after them, but she made no move to follow. Hughie appeared out of the dimming rain; Jack 1 nodded toward his mother and Bob. “Go after them, Hughie, stay with them. Meggie and I are going back to Drogheda, to bring the dray.” He let Meggie go, and helped her onto the chestnut 2 mare 3. “Come on, Meggie; it’s nearly dark. We can’t leave them out all night in this, and they won’t go until we get back.” It was impossible to put the dray or anything else wheeled upon the mud; in the end Jack and old Tom chained a sheet of corrugated 4 iron behind two draft horses, Tom leading the team on a stock horse while Jack rode ahead with the biggest lamp Drogheda possessed 5. Meggie stayed at the homestead and sat in front of the drawing room fire while Mrs. Smith tried to persuade her to eat, tears running down her face to see the girl’s still, silent shock, the way she did not weep.At the sound of the front door knocker she turned and went to answer it, wondering who on earth had managed to get through the mud, and as always astonished at the speed with which news traveled the lonely miles between the far-flung homesteads. Father Ralph was standing 6 on the veranda 7, wet and muddy, in riding clothes and oilskins. 
“May I come in, Mrs. Smith?” “Oh, Father, Father!” she cried, and threw herself into his astounded 8 arms. “How did you know?” “Mrs. Cleary telegrammed me, a manager-to-owner courtesy I appreciated very much. I got leave to come from Archbishop di Contini-Verchese. What a mouthful! Would you believe I have to say it a hundred times a day? I flew up. The plane bogged 9 as it landed and pitched on its nose, so I knew what the ground was like before I so much as stepped on it. Dear, beautiful Gilly! I left my suitcase with Father Watty at the presbytery and cadged 10 a horse from the Imperial publican, who thought I was crazy and bet me a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label I’d never get through the mud. Oh, Mrs. Smith, don’t cry so! My dear, the world hasn’t come to an end because of a fire, no matter how big and nasty it was!” he said, smiling and patting her heaving shoulders. “Here am I doing my best to make light of it, and you’re just not doing your best to respond. Don’t cry so, please.” “Then you don’t know,” she sobbed 11. “What? Know what? What is it—what’s happened?” “Mr. Cleary and Stuart are dead.” His face drained of color; his hands pushed the housekeeper 12 away. “Where’s Meggie?” he barked. “In the drawing room. Mrs. Cleary’s still out in the paddock with the bodies. Jack and Tom have gone to bring them in. Oh, Father, sometimes in spite of my faith I can’t help thinking God is too cruell Why did He have to take both of them?” But all Father Ralph had stayed to hear was where Meggie was; he had gone into the drawing room shedding his oilskins as he went, trailing muddy water behind him. “Meggie!” he said, coming to her and kneeling at one side of her chair, taking her cold hands in his wet ones firmly. 
She slipped from the chair and crawled into his arms, pillowed her head on his dripping shirt and closed her eyes, so happy in spite of her pain and grief that she never wanted the moment to end. He had come, it was a vindication 13 of her power over him, she hadn’t failed. “I’m wet, darling Meggie; you’ll get soaked,” he whispered, his cheek on her hair. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve come.” “Yes, I’ve come. I wanted to be sure you were safe, I had a feeling I was needed, I had to see for myself. Oh, Meggie, your father and Stu! How did it happen?” “Daddy was caught in the fire, and Stu found him. He was killed by a boar; it fell on him after he shot it. Jack and Tom have gone out to bring them in.” 
He said no more, but held her and rocked her as if she were a baby until the heat of the fire partially 14 dried his shirt and hair and he felt some of the stiffness drain from her. Then he put his hand beneath her chin, tilted 15 her head until she looked up at him, and without thinking kissed her. It was a confused impulse not rooted in desire, just something he instinctively 16 offered when he saw what lay in the grey eyes. Something apart, a different kind of sacrament. Her arms slid up under his to meet across his back; he could not stop himself flinching 17, suppress the exclamation 18 of pain. She drew back a little. “What’s the matter?” “I must have bruised 20 my ribs 22 when the plane came in. We bogged to the fuselage in good old Gilly mud, so it was a pretty rough landing. I wound up balanced on the back of the seat in front of me.” “Here, let me see.” Fingers steady, she unbuttoned the damp shirt and peeled it off his arms, pulled it free of his breeches. 
Under the surface of the smooth brown skin a purpling ugly patch extended from one side clear across to the other below the rib 21 cage; her breath caught. “Oh, Ralph! You rode all the way from Gilly with this? How it must have hurt! Do you feel all right? No faintness? You might have ruptured 23 something inside!” “No, I’m fine, and I didn’t feel it, honestly. I was so anxious to get here, make sure you were all right, that I suppose I simply eliminated it from my mind. If I was bleeding internally I’d have known about it long before now, I expect. God, Meggie, don’t!” Her head had gone down, she was delicately touching 24 her lips to the bruise 19, her palms sliding up his chest to his shoulders with a deliberate sensuousness 25 that staggered him. Fascinated, terrified, meaning to free himself at any cost, he pulled her head away; but somehow all he succeeded in doing was having her back in his arms, a snake coiled tightly about his will, strangling it. Pain was forgotten, Church was forgotten, God was forgotten. He found her mouth, forced it open hungrily, wanting more and more of her, not able to hold her close enough to assuage 26 the ghastly drive growing in him. She gave him her neck, bared her shoulders where the skin was cool, smoother and glossier 27 than satin; it was like drowning, sinking deeper and deeper, gasping 28 and helpless. 
Mortality pressed down on him, a great weight crushing his soul, liberating 29 the bitter dark wine of his senses in a sudden flood. He wanted to weep; the last of his desire trickled 30 away under the burden of his mortality, and he wrenched 31 her arms from about his wretched body, sat back on his heels with his head sunken forward, seeming to become utterly 32 absorbed in watching his hands tremble on his knees. Meggie, what have you done to me, what might you do to me if I let you? “Meggie, I love you, I always will. But I’m a priest, I can’t…. I just can’t!” She got to her feet quickly, straightened her blouse, stood looking down at him and smiling a twisted smile which only threw the failed pain in her eyes into greater emphasis. “It’s all right, Ralph. I’ll go and see if Mrs. Smith can get you something to eat, then I’ll bring you the horse liniment. It’s marvelous for bringing out a bruise; stops the soreness much better than kisses ever could, I dare say.” “Is the phone working?” he managed to say. “Yes. They strung a temporary line on the trees and reconnected us a couple of hours ago.” But it was some minutes after she left him before he could compose himself sufficiently 33 to seat himself at Fee’s escritoire. “Give me trunks, please, switch. This is Father de Bricassart at Drogheda—Oh, hello, Doreen; still on the switch, I see. Nice to hear your voice, too. One never knows who switch is in Sydney; she’s just a bored voice. I want to put an urgent call through to His Grace the Archbishop Papal Legate in Sydney. His number is XX-2324. And while I’m waiting for Sydney, put me through to Bugela, Doreen.” 
There was barely time to tell Martin King what had happened before Sydney was on the line, but one word to Bugela was enough. Gilly would know from him and the eavesdroppers on the party line, and those who wished to brave a ride through Gilly mud would be at the funerals. “Your Grace? This is Father de Bricassart…. Yes, thank you, I arrived safely, but the plane’s bogged to its fuselage in mud and I’ll have to come back by train…. Mud, Your Grace, m-u-d mud! No, Your Grace, everything up here becomes impassable when it rains. I had to ride from Gillanbone to Drogheda on horseback; that’s the only way one can even try in rain…. That’s why I’m phoning, Your Grace. It was as well I came. I suppose I must have had some sort of premonition…. Yes, things are bad, very bad. Padraic Cleary and his son Stuart are dead, one burned to death in the fire, one smothered 34 by a boar…. A b-o-a-r boar, Your Grace, a wild pig…. Yes, you’re right, one does speak a slightly bizarre English up here.” All down the faint line he could hear gasps 35 from the listeners, and grinned in spite of himself. One couldn’t yell into the phone that everybody must get off the line—it was the sole entertainment of a mass nature Gilly had to offer its contact-hungry citizens—but if they would only get off the line His Grace might stand a better chance of hearing. “With your permission, Your Grace, I’ll remain to conduct the funerals and make sure the widow and her surviving children are all right…. Yes, your Grace, thank you. I’ll return to Sydney as soon as I can.” Switch was listening, too; he clicked the lever and spoke 36 again immediately. “Doreen, put me back to Bugela, please.” He talked to Martin King for a few minutes, and decided 37 since it was August and winter-cold to delay the funerals until the day after this coming day. 
Many people would want to attend in spite of the mud and be prepared to ride to get there, but it was slow and arduous 38 work. Meggie came back with the horse liniment, but made no offer to rub it on, just handed him the bottle silently. She informed him abruptly 39 that Mrs. Smith was laying him a hot supper in the small dining room in an hour, so he would have time to bathe. He was uncomfortably aware that in some way Meggie thought he had failed her, but he didn’t know why she should think so, or on what basis she had judged him. She knew what he was; why was she angry? In grey dawnlight the little cavalcade 40 escorting the bodies reached the creek 41, and stopped. Though the water was still contained within its banks, the Gillan had become a river in full spate 42, running fast and thirty feet deep. Father Ralph swam his chestnut mare across to meet them, stole around his neck and the instruments of his calling in a saddlebag. 
While Fee, Bob, Jack, Hughie and Tom stood around, he stripped the canvas off the bodies and prepared to anoint them. After Mary Carson nothing could sicken him; yet he found nothing repugnant about Paddy and Stu. They were both black after their fashion, Paddy from the fire and Stu from suffocation 43, but the priest kissed them with love and respect. For fifteen miles the rough sheet of iron had jarred and bounced over the ground behind the team of draft horses, scarring the mud with deep gouges 44 which would still be visible years later, even in the grass of other seasons. But it seemed they could go no farther; the swirling 45 creek would keep them on its far side, with Drogheda only a mile away. 
They stood staring at the tops of the ghost gums, clearly visible even in the rain. “I have an idea,” said Bob, turning to Father Ralph. “Father, you’re the only one on a fresh horse; it will have to be you. Ours will only swim the creek once—they’ve got no more in them after the mud and the cold. Go back and find some empty forty-fourgallon drums, and seal their lids shut so they can’t possibly leak or slip off. Solder 46 them if necessary. We’ll need twelve of them, ten if you can’t find more. Tie them together and bring them back across the creek. We’ll lash 47 them under the iron and float it across like a barge 48.” 
 

当鲍勃搂着妈妈的腰走过那片被毁灭的地方时，梅吉望着他们的背影，但是她没有跟他们去。休吉从迷膝的雨中出现了；杰克冲着妈妈和鲍勃点了点头。
　　"跟他们去，和他们呆在一起。我和梅吉回德罗海达把大车赶来。"他放开了梅吉，帮着她骑上了栗色牝马。"快点吧，梅吉，天快黑了。咱们不能让他们在这儿呆一夜，在咱们回来之前，他们也走不了。"
　　要在烂泥中赶大车，或驾任何车辆都是不可能的。最后，杰克和老汤姆在两匹牵引马后面用链子拴上了一张瓦楞铁皮，汤姆骑在一匹牧羊马背上牵着它们，杰克骑马走在前面，擎着一盏德罗海达最大的灯。
　　梅吉留在了庄园里，坐在客厅的火前。史密斯太太极力劝她吃点东西。她泪流满央地望着这姑娘默默地忍受着这个打击，既不动也不哭，前门的问环响了起来，她转身去开门，心中疑惑到底是谁竟然能穿过这片泥泞到这里来。在各个相距遥远的庄园之间荒僻的道路上，新闻传播的速度总是让人惊讶不已。
　　拉尔夫神父正站在廊槽下，他浑身湿漉漉的，溅满了泥浆，他穿着骑马服和油布雨衣。
　　"我可以进来吗，史密斯太太？"
　　"啊，神父，神父！"她哭喊着，扑进了他伸出的双臂中。"你怎么知道的？"
　　"克利里太太给我打了电报，我非常感激一位经理兼财产所有人的好意。我不得不离开迪·康提尼-弗契斯大主教，到这里来了。妙极了！你相信我一天得把这庆说上一百遍吗？我是飞来的。飞机在着陆的时候陷进了泥里，机头插进了地皮，所以，我还没有在地面上走，就知道它是什么样子了。天哪，多美丽的基里！我把箱子留在神父宅邸的沃蒂神父那里，从帝国饭店老板那儿讨了一匹马。他还以为我疯了呢，和我赌一瓶乔尼酒，说我根本穿不过这片烂泥呢！哦，史密斯太太，别这么哭了！亲爱的，世界不会因为一场火灾而完蛋的，不管这场火有多大！"他说道，微笑着拍了拍她那起伏不定的肩膀。"我在这里一个劲儿地解释，你却偏偏一个劲儿地不作声。千万别这么哭了。"
　　"这么说，你是不知道了，"她抽噎着。
　　"什么"知道什么？怎么回事--出什么事了？"
　　"克利里先生和斯图尔特死了。"
　　他的脸顿然失色，两手推开了女管家。"梅吉在哪儿？"他大声喊道。
　　"小的客厅里。克利里太太还在围场上守着尸体呢。杰克和汤姆已经去接他们了。哦，神父，尽管我很虔诚，可有时候我忍不住想，上帝太残忍了！为什么他非夺去他们俩的生命不可呢？"
　　可是，拉尔夫神父站在这里只是为了听梅吉在哪里的。他向客厅里走去，边走边脱下了雨衣，身后留下了一串泥迹。
　　"梅吉！"他一边说着，一边走到她身边，在她的椅子一侧跪了下来，把她那双冷冰冰的手紧紧地抓在他那湿漉漉的手中。
　　她从椅子里滑了下来，慢慢地倒在他的怀中，头枕在他那滴着水的衬衫上，合上了眼睛。尽管她痛苦、伤心，但是她感到非常幸福，希望这一刻永远也不要结束。他来了，这证实了他对他所具有的力量，她没有想错。
　　"我身上湿，亲爱的梅吉，你会沾上水的。"他低低地说道，脸颊贴着她的头发。
　　"没关系。你来了。"
　　"是的，我来了，我想肯定一下，你是否安然无恙。我有一种这里需要的感觉，我必须搞清楚。哦，梅吉，你爸爸和斯图！事情是怎么发生的？"
　　"爹被火赶上了，斯图找到了他，他是被一头公野猪弄死的；他射中了它以后，它压在了他的身上。杰克和汤姆已经接他们去了。"
　　他没有再说什么，只是搂着她，轻轻地摇着，就好象她是个孩子，直到火把他的衬衫和头发的一部分烤干。由于她身体的重量，他感到有点儿发僵。这里，他用一只手托着她的下巴，把她的头托了起来，直到她仰脸望着他，但是他没有想到吻她。这是一种复杂的冲动，并不是出于他内心的愿望，而是他看到她到双灰色的眼睛中蕴藏的感情之后所产生的某种本能的冲动。这是一种生疏的、非同一般的神秘的感觉。她的胳臂悄悄地从他的胳臂下面抬了起来，扣住了他的后背。他忍不住缩了一下，他忍不住，解释说后背觉得疼。
　　她往后退了一会儿。"怎么啦？"
　　"一定是飞机着陆时擦伤了我的肋骨。飞机的机身陷进基里陈年的烂泥中去了，这真是一次十分笨拙的着陆。我扑在前面的座背上保持平衡来着。"
　　"喂，让我看看。"
　　她手指沉着地解开了那件潮湿的衫衫的拍子，把衬衫从他的胳膊上褪下，又从他臀部后方拉了下来。在他那光滑的棕色皮肤上，有一条清晰而难看的紫红色斑痕，从肋骨下的一侧拉到另一侧；她屏住了呼吸。
　　"哦，拉尔夫！你就带着这伤一直从基里骑马来的吗？伤得多厉害啊！你觉得没关系吗？不觉得虚弱吗？你身子里也许有什么东西破裂了吧？"
　　"没有，我很好，没这种感觉。我急着赶到这儿，弄清你是不是安然无恙。我想，我脑子里根本就没有把这伤当成一回事。假如我有内出血的话，我想，我早就会知道的。上帝呀，梅吉，别碰！"
　　她已经低下了头，正在用嘴唇温柔地贴着那擦伤，手掌带着一种使他心荡神摇的感觉，顺着他的前胸滑到了他的肩头。他呆住了，感到很恐惧，想不顾一切地挣脱出来，用力扳她的头。可不知怎的，反而紧紧地抱住了她，仿佛有一条蛇紧紧地缠住了他的意志力，使他的意志窒息了。疼痛飞到了九霄云外，教会飞到了九霄云外，上帝也飞到了九霄云外。他寻到了她的嘴，迫使它拼命地张大，想要把她得到得越多越好。为了缓和他这张如饥似渴的狂劲，他把她抱得紧得不能再紧了。她把脖子给了他，袒露出了自己的肩膀；那里的皮肤冷冰冰的，比绸子还要光滑。这情形就象是越来越深地淹没在水中，透不过气，无能为力。精神上的巨大压力几乎把他完全压垮了，感官中突然之间好象瓷肆洋溢地充满了带苦味的浓酒。他想哭泣，在这致命的重负之下，继续拥抱下去的愿望渐渐地泄了劲儿。他将她搂着他那沮丧的身体的胳臂扳开，一屁股坐在自己的脚跟上，头垂在胸前，似乎在全神贯注地看着膝头上发抖的双手。梅吉啊，你对我做了些什么，要是我让你随心所欲的话，你又会对我如何呢？
　　"梅吉，我爱你，我将永远爱你。可我是个教土，我不能这样……我真不能这样啊！"
　　她很快地站了起来，拉直了她的罩衫，站在那里低头看着他，慌乱地微笑着，这只能使她眼中那看失望的痛苦显得更加醒目。
　　"好啦，拉尔夫。我要去看看史密斯太太是不是能给你搞些吃的东西，然后我给你把马匹用的涂抹剂拿来。它对促使擦伤结疤有奇效，我敢说，止痛的效力比亲吻要强得多。"
　　"电话能用吗？"他挣扎着问道。
　　"能用。他们在树上拉丁一条临时线路，两三个小时以前就给我们接通了。"
　　但是，她走后好几分钟，他还不能使自己完全平静地坐在菲的写字台
　　"交换台，请给我接中继线。我是德·布里克萨特神父，在德罗海达--噢，哈罗，多琳，我知道，你还在交换台。听到你的声音我也很高兴。"人们永远不会知道在悉尼交换台值班的是谁，只能听见她那叫人厌烦的声音。"我想给呆在悉尼的教皇使节大人打个加急直通电话。他的号码是1010--2324。多琳，在我等悉尼电话的时候，请给我接一下布吉拉。"
　　在接通悉尼之前，已经没有什么时间把发生的事告诉马丁·金了。但是通知布吉拉方面有一句便够了。基里将从他这里，以及电话共用线上的偷听者那里知道所发生的事的，而那些敢于骑马穿越泥泞的人会赶来参加葬札。
　　"是阁下吗？我是德·布里克萨特--是的，谢谢您，我已经安全抵达，但是机身已经陷在泥浆里了，我不得不乘火车返回了--是泥浆，阁下，泥--浆！不，阁下，这里在下雨，什么东西都寸步难行。我不得不骑在马背上从基兰博赶到德罗海达的，这是下雨时唯一可试的办法--这就是我给您打电话的原因，阁下。我还是来一下好。我想，我一定是有过某种预感……是的，情况很糟糕，糟透了。帕德里克·克利里和他的儿子斯图死了，一个是在大火中烧死的，一个是被公野猪压死的……公-野-猪，大人，一头野猪……是的，您说得对，在这里不得不讲一种有点儿稀奇古怪的英语。"
　　通过声音微弱的叫话，他能听到沿线的偷听者的喘息声，他不由地咧嘴笑了笑。你总不能冲着电话大喊大叫，让所有的人都必须挂上电话--偷听是基里向它的急于交际的公民们提供的唯一乐趣，它具有群众性--不过，只要他们挂上电话，那使节大人就会听更清楚些了。"阁下，蒙您的允许，我将留下主持葬札，并且确保这位寡妇和遗孤们安然无事……是的，阁下，谢谢您。我尽快赶回悉尼。"
　　交换台也在听着。他拍了拍电话叉杆，马上又说道："多琳，请再接回布吉拉。"他和马丁·金谈了几分钟，并且决定：由于时当八月，科塞未来，葬礼将在后天举行。尽管遍地泥泞，还是有许多人愿意来参加葬礼，并用准备骑马到这儿来的，但这是一件既缓慢又艰巨的事。
　　梅吉拿着马匹涂抹药回来了，但并没有替他涂抹的打算，只是默默地把药瓶递给了他。她突然告诉他，史密斯太太正在小餐厅里给他准备一餐热气腾腾的晚饭，还需一个小时，因此他还有时间洗个澡。他不安地意识到，从某种意义上来说，梅吉认为他使她大失所望了。但是他不知道她为什么要这样想，或她是从哪种角度来判断他的。她知道他是干什么的，为什么她要生气呢？
　　在朦胧的晨色中，那小小的队伍护送着遗体来到了小河旁，停了下来。尽管河水依然没有漫过两岸，但是基兰河已经变成了一条涨得满满的、水流湍急的、有30英尺深的河流了。拉尔夫神父骑着那匹栗色牡马游了过去，和他们见了面。他的脖子上围着圣中，他的职业用品装在一个马错里。菲、鲍勃、休吉和汤姆围站在一边。他拉下了盖着遗体的帆布，准备给他们施涂油礼。给玛丽·卡森涂过圣油之后，什么也不能使他感到恶心了；但是，他发现帕迪和斯图的身上没有任何使人感到厌恶的地方。他们的外表都呈现出黑色，帕迪是让火烧黑的，斯图是由于窒息而发黑的，但是，那教士还是满怀着热爱和尊敬吻了他们。"
　　那张粗糙的铁板拖在一套牵引马的后边，在地皮上发着刺耳的扎扎声，蹦蹦跳跳地走了15英里，在泥浆地上拉出了深深的沟槽。几年之后这些沟槽依然可辨，甚至在其他季节，地上长满了草的时候，依然看得出来。不过，他们似乎不能再前进了，打着漩涡的小河把他们远远地留在了它的一侧，虽然这里离德罗海达只有一英里路。他们站在那里，呆呆地望着魔鬼桉的树冠，尽管下着雨，但那些树冠依然清晰可辨。
　　"我有个主意。"鲍勃转身对拉尔夫神父说道。"神父，你是唯一骑着精力充沛的马的人，事情得靠你了。我们的马只能在这条小河里游个单程--它们在泥地和寒冷中奔波之后，已经没劲儿了。请你回去拿几个44加仑的空汽油桶，把盖子密封住，使它们不可能漏水成松脱。如果必要的话，就把它们给焊上。我们需要12只，假如你找不到更多的汽油桶，十只也行。把它们绑在一起，带过小河来。我们把它绑在铁皮下面，象乘驳船一样漂过去。"
　　拉尔夫神父二话没说，就按他的嘱咐去办了；