【荆棘鸟】第九章 01

But it was 1930, and Drogheda knew all about the Depression.Men were out of work all over Australia. Those who could stoppedpaying rent and tying themselves down to the futility 1 of lookingfor work when there was none. Left to fend 2 alone, wives and childrenlived in humpies on municipal land and queued for the dole;fathers and husbands had gone tramping. A man stowed his fewessentials inside his blanket, tied it with thongs 3 and slung 4 it acrosshis back before setting out on the track, hoping at least for handoutsof food from the stations he crossed, if not employment. Humpinga bluey through the Outback beat sleeping in the Sydney Domain 5.The price of food was low, and Paddy stocked the Droghedapantries and storehouses to overflowing 6. A man could always besure of having his tuckerbag filled when he arrived on Drogheda.The strange thing was that the parade of drifters constantly changed;once full of a good hot meal and loaded with provisions for thetrack, they made no attempt to remain, but wandered on in searchof only they knew what. Not every place was as hospitable 7 orgenerous as Drogheda by any means, which only added to thepuzzle of why men on the track seemed not to want to stay. Perhapsthe weariness and the purposelessness of having no home, no  place to go, made them continue to drift. Most managed to live,some died and if found were buried before the crows and pigspicked their bones clean. The Outback was a huge place, and lonely.But Stuart was permanently 8 in residence again, and the shotgunwas never far from the cookhouse door. Good stockmen were easyto come by, and Paddy had nine single men on his books in theold jackaroo barracks, so Stuart could be spared from the paddocks.Fee stopped keeping cash lying about, and had Stuart make acamouflaged cupboard for the safe behind the chapel 10 altar. Few ofthe swaggies were bad men. Bad men preferred to stay in the citiesand the big country towns, for life on the track was too pure, toolonely and scant 11 of pickings for bad men. Yet no one blamed Paddyfor not wanting to take chances with his women; Drogheda was avery famous name, and might conceivably attract what few undesirablesthere were on the track. 
      That winter brought bad storms, some dry, some wet, and thefollowing spring and summer brought rain so heavy that Droghedagrass grew lusher and longer than ever.Jims and Patsy were plowing 12 through their correspondence lessonsat Mrs. Smith’s kitchen table, and chattered 13 now of what itwould be like when it was time to go to Riverview, their boardingschool. But Mrs. Smith would grow so sharp and sour at such talkthat they learned not to speak of leaving Drogheda when she waswithin hearing distance.The dry weather came back; the thigh-high grass dried out completelyand baked to a silver crisp in a rainless summer. Inured 14 byten years of the black-soil plains to the hey-ho, up we go, hey-ho,down we go oscillations of drought and flood, the men shruggedand went about each day as if it were the only one that could evermatter. This was true; the main business was essentially 15 to survivebetween one good year and the next, whenever it might be. Noone could predict the rain. There was a man in Brisbane called Inigo Jones who wasn’tbad at long-range weather predictions, using a novel concept ofsun spot activity, but out on the black-soil plains no one put muchcredence in what he had to say. Let Sydney and Melbourne bridespetition him for forecasts; the black-soil plainsmen would stick withthat old sensation in their bones. 
     In the winter of 1932 the dry storms came back, along with bittercold, but the lush grass kept dust to a minimum and the flies weren’tas numerous as usual. No consolation 16 to the freshly shorn sheep,which shivered miserably 17. Mrs. Dominic O’Rourke, who lived ina wooden house of no particular distinction, adored to entertainvisitors from Sydney; one of the highlights of her tour program waspaying a call at Drogheda homestead, to show her visitors thateven out on the black-soil plains some people lived graciously. Andthe subject would always turn to those skinny, drowned-rat-lookingsheep, left to face the winter minus the five- and six-inch-long fleecesthey would have grown by the time summer heat arrived. But, asPaddy said gravely to one such visitor, it made for better wool. Thewool was the thing, not the sheep. Not long after he made thatstatement a letter appeared in the Sydney Morning Herald 18, demandingprompt parliamentary legislation to end what it called “graziercruelty.” Poor Mrs. O’Rourke was horrified 19, but Paddy laugheduntil his sides ached.“Just as well the silly bloke never saw a shearer 20 rip up a sheep’sbelly and sew it with a baling needle,” he comforted the embarrassedMrs. O’Rourke. “It’s not worth getting upset about, Mrs. Dominic.Down in the city they don’t know how the other half lives, andthey can afford the luxury of doting 21 on their animals as if they werechildren. Out here it’s different. You’ll never see man, woman orchild in need of help go ignored out here, yet in the city those samepeople who dote on their pets will completely ignore a cry of helpfrom a human being.”  Fee looked up. “He’s right, Mrs. Dominic,” she said. “We all havecontempt for whatever there’s too many of. Out here it’s sheep,but in the city it’s people.” 
      Only Paddy was far afield that day in August when the big stormbroke. He got down from his horse, tied the animal securely to atree and sat beneath a wilga to wait it out. Shivering in fear, hisfive dogs huddled 22 together near him, while the sheep he had beenintending to transfer to another paddock scattered 23 into jumpy littlegroups trotting 24 aimlessly in all directions. And it was a terriblestorm, reserving the worst of its fury until the center of the maelstromwas directly overhead. Paddy stuffed his fingers in his ears,shut his eyes and prayed.Not far from where he sat with the down-dropping wilga leavesclashing restlessly in the rising wind was a small collection of deadstumps and logs surrounded by tall grass. In the middle of thewhite, skeletal heap was one massive dead gum, its bare bodysoaring forty feet toward the night-black clouds, spindling at its topinto a sharp, jagged point.A blossoming blue fire so bright it seared his eyes through theirclosed lids made Paddy jump to his feet, only to be thrown downlike a toy in the heave of a huge explosion. He lifted his face fromthe earth to see the final glory of the lightning bolt playing shimmeringhalos of glaring blue and purple all up and down the deadspear of gum tree; then, so quickly he hardly had time to understandwhat was happening, everything caught fire. The last drop ofmoisture had long since evaporated from the tissues of that decayedcluster, and the grass everywhere was long and dry as paper. Likesome defiant 26 answer of the earth to the sky, the giant tree shot apillar of flame far beyond its tip, the logs and stumps 25 around itwent up at the same moment, and in a circle from around the centergreat sheets of fire swept in the swirling 27 wind, round and roundand round. Paddy had not even time to reach his horse. 
      The parched 28 wilga caught and the gum resin 29 at its tender heartexploded outward. There were solid walls of fire in every directionPaddy looked; the trees were burning fiercely and the grass beneathhis feet was roaring into flames. He could hear his horse screamingand his heart went out to it; he could not leave the poor beast todie tied up and helpless. A dog howled, its howl changing to ashriek of agony almost human. For a moment it flared 30 and danced,a living torch, then subsided 31 into the blazing grass. More howls asthe other dogs, fleeing, were enveloped 32 by the racing 33 fire, faster inthe gale 34 than anything on foot or wing. A streaming meteorscorched his hair as he stood for a millisecond debating which waywas the best to get to his horse; he looked down to see a greatcockatoo roasting at his feet.Suddenly Paddy knew this was the end. There was no way outof the inferno 35 for himself or his horse. Even as he thought it, a desiccatedstringybark behind him shot flames in every direction, thegum in it exploding. The skin on Paddy’s arm shriveled andblackened, the hair of his head dimmed at last by somethingbrighter. To die so is indescribable; for fire works its way fromoutside to in. The last things that go, finally cooked to the pointof nonfunction, are brain and heart. His clothes on fire, Paddycapered screaming and screaming through the holocaust 36. And everyawful cry was his wife’s name. 
      All the other men made it back to Drogheda homestead ahead ofthe storm, turned their mounts into the stockyard and headed foreither the big house or the jackaroo barracks. In Fee’s brightly litdrawing room with a log fire roaring in the cream-and-pink marblefireplace the Cleary boys sat listening to the storm, not temptedthese days to go outside and watch it. The beautiful pungent 37 smellof burning eucalyptus 38 wood in the grate and the heaped cakes andsandwiches on the afternoon tea trolley 39 were too alluring 40. No oneexpected Paddy to make it in.  About four o’clock the clouds rolled away to the east, andeveryone unconsciously breathed easier; somehow it was impossibleto relax during a dry storm, even though every building onDrogheda was equipped with a lightning conductor. Jack 9 and Bobgot up and went outside to get a little fresh air, they said, but inreality to release pent breath.“Look!” said Bob, pointing westward 41.Above the trees that ringed the Home Paddock round, a greatbronze pall 42 of smoke was growing, its margins 43 torn to tatteredstreamers in the high wind.“God Jesus!” Jack cried, running inside to the telephone.“Fire, fire!” he shouted into the receiver, while those still insidethe room turned to gape 44 at him, then ran outside to see. “Fire onDrogheda, and a big one!” Then he hung up; it was all he neededto say to the Gilly switch and to those along the line who habituallypicked up when the first tinkle 45 came. Though there had not beena big fire in the Gilly district since the Clearys had come toDrogheda, everyone knew the routine.The boys scattered to get horses, and the stockmen were pilingout of the jackaroo barracks, while Mrs. Smith unlocked one of thestorehouses and doled 46 out hessian bags by the dozen. The smokewas in the west and the wind was blowing from that direction,which meant the fire would be heading for the homestead. Fee tookoff her long skirt and put on a pair of Paddy’s pants, then ran withMeggie for the stables; every pair of hands capable of holding abag would be needed.In the cookhouse Mrs. Smith stoked up the range firebox andthe maids began bringing down huge pots from their ceiling hooks.“Just as well we killed a steer 47 yesterday,” said the housekeeper 48.“Minnie, here’s the key to the liquor storehouse. You and Cat fetchall the beer and rum we’ve got, then start making damper breadwhile I carry on with the stew 49. And hurry, hurry!”  The horses, unsettled by the storm, had smelled smoke and werehard to saddle; Fee and Meggie backed the two trampling 50, restivethoroughbreds outside the stable into the yard to tackle them better.As Meggie wrestled 51 with the chestnut 52 mare 53 two swaggies camepounding down the track from the Gilly road.“Fire, Missus, fire! Got a couple of spare horses? Give us a fewbags.”“Down that way to the stockyards. Dear God, I hope none ofyou are caught out there!” said Meggie, who didn’t know whereher father was.The two men grabbed hessian bags and water bags from Mrs.Smith; Bob and the men had been gone five minutes. The twoswaggies followed, and last to leave, Fee and Meggie rode at agallop down to the creek 54, across it and away toward the smoke. 
 

但是，就在1930年，德罗海达尝到了经济萧条的滋味。全澳大利亚的男人都出门找工作。在无工可做的时候，那些无力偿付租金的人都在徒劳无益地找寻着工作。人们纷纷抛儿弃女，自顾自了。那些住在地方自治地上的小棚屋里的妻儿老小排着大队领取施舍，那些当父亲的、做丈夫的出门四处流浪去了。男人在启程之前，将他的基本必需品打在毯子里，用皮条拴好，背在后背上，希望他所经过的牧场即使不能雇佣他，至少能搞到点儿糊口的吃食。他们背着包袱卷，从人们常来常往的道路上穿过内地，在悉尼市过夜。
　　食物的价格很低，帕迪把德罗海达的食品室和仓库都装了个满满腾腾的。每个人到了德罗海达之后，都能把自己的旅行食品袋塞满。奇怪的是，纷至沓来的流浪者们总是不断地变化着；他们一旦用热气腾腾的好肉填饱肚子，并装满了路上用的口粮以后，并没有恋栈不去的意思，而是四处云游，寻求只有他们自己才知道的东西。无论如何，不是每个地方都象德罗海达这样乐善好施，这里的人只是对这些赶路的人何以没有留下来的意思而感到大惑不解。也许是因为无家无业、无处可去而产生的厌倦和漫无目的，才使他们不停地漂泊吧。大部分人都挣扎着活下去，一些人倒下去死了，要是乌鸦和野猪还没有把他们吃得只剩下一副骨架。人们便将他们掩埋掉。内地是一片广袤无垠而又偏远寂僻的地方。
　　斯图尔特又被无限期地留在家里了，商厨房门不远的地方总是倚着一支猎枪。好的牧工很容易雇到，帕迪那本花名册表明，破旧的新牧工工棚里住进了九个单身汉，因此，斯图尔特可以从围场上腾出手来，菲无法保管那些到处乱放的现款，为了安全起见，她便让斯图尔特在小教堂的祭坛后面做了一个暗柜。流浪者中坏人很少。坏人宁愿呆在大城市和乡间大镇；对于坏人来说，赶路的生活太纯洁、太寂寞，缺少那些乱七八糟的东西。然而，帕迪不想让他家里的女人冒险，这是谁都不会抱怨的。德罗海达声闻遐迩，对路上那些少数不法之徒是很有诱惑力的。
　　那年冬季风暴十分厉害，有些是干风暴，有些是湿风暴。接踵而至的春夏两季，雨量十分丰沛，德罗海达的草场长得比往年都要期待盛，都要深。
　　詹斯和帕西正在史密斯太太的厨房的桌子上刻苦地学习着相应的课程，眼下，他们在热热闹闹地说着当他们到将要寄宿的里佛缪学校时，会是个什么样子。不过，这种谈话会使史密斯太太大冒其火，他们已经学会了在她能听得到的地方不说离开德罗海达的话。
　　天又旱了起来，在无雨的夏天里，没膝深的草全都干了，被炙烤得打了卷儿，发着银白的光。由于在这片黑壤平原上生活了十年，他们对这种反反复复忽干忽浑的现象已经习以为常。男人们只是耸耸肩膀，四处走动着，就好象它不过是一件总要发生的事情一样。真的，这里主要的营生基本上就是在一个好年景和下一个好年景之间设法生存下来，不管它将是什么样的气候。谁也无法预言雨水之事。布里斯班有个叫因尼格·琼斯的男人，在长期天气预报方面还算有两下了，他运用的是太阳黑子活动的新方法。可是，一来到黑壤平原，对他说的话推都不大相信。让悉尼和墨尔本的小姑娘们毕恭毕敬地听他的天气预报吧，黑壤平原的人们是死抱着他们那种深人骨髓的陈腐观念不放的。
　　1932年的冬天，又刮起了干风暴，而且天气奇寒，可是茂盛的草地上的尘土却减少到了最低限度，苍蝇也不象往常那样多得数不胜数了。这对那些生气勃勃的、悲惨地被剪去了毛的绵羊可不是什么好事。住在一幢不甚豪华的木房中的多米尼克·奥罗克太太很喜欢延纳来自悉尼的来访者；她的旅游日程中最精彩的项目之一就是拜访德罗海达庄园；向她的来访者表明，即使是远在这块黑壤平原上，有些人也在过着一种高雅的生活。话题总是要转到那些清瘦的、落汤鸡似的绵羊身上。冬天，羊群被剪去五、六英寸的羊毛，炎热的夏季一到便会长出来。但是，正如帕迪非常郑重地向一位这样的来访者所说的，这样有助于得到质地更好的羊毛。重要的是羊毛，而不是羊羔。在他发表了这番议论之后不久，《悉尼先驱晨报》发表了一封来信，要求敦促议会立法以结束其所谓"牧场主的残酷"。可怜的奥罗克太太吓了，可是帕迪却笑得肚子发疼。
　　"这个蠢家伙还从来没有见过牧工划破羊肚子，用一根打包用的针缝起来的事哩，"他安慰着惶惶不安的奥罗克大太。"这不值得烦恼，多米尼克太太。他们住在城里，不知道另一半人是怎么生活的，他可以不惜花费地宠着他们的牲口，就象宠孩子似的。一离开城市可就不一样啦，在这儿，你从来没见过一个需要帮助的男人女人或小孩会被置之不顾，可是在城里，同样是这些宠溺爱畜的人却对一个人求助的哭喊不闻不问。"
　　菲抬起头来。"他说得对，多米尼克太太，"她说道。"不管是什么东西，一多就不值钱了。这里羊多城，城里人多。"
　　八月的一天，当一场大风暴平地而起的时候，只有帕迪一个人远在野外。他翻身下马，把那牲口紧紧地拴在树上自己坐在一棵芸香树下，等待暴风过去。五条狗都在他的旁边挤作一堆，浑身在发抖，而他本打算转移到另一个围场去的绵羊却心惊肉跳地、仨一群俩一伙地四散逃开了。风暴来得十分可怕，它积蓄着猛烈异常力量，直到大旋风的中心直逼到头上才开始发威。帕边用手指堵住了耳朵，紧闭着双眼，默默地祈祷着。
　　在他坐着的地方，脱落的芸香树叶在上旋的狂风中不停地籁籁作响，不远的地方有堆死树桩和圆木，周围长着根深的草，在这堆发白的、枝枝杈杈的东西中间有一棵粗大的枯桉树，裸露的树干高耸40英尺，直指漆黑的云团，尖而参差不齐的顶端又细又长。
　　漫天乱闪的蓝色闪电极明亮耀眼，透过帕迪紧闭的眼皮的剌着他的眼睛，使他倏地跳了起来，紧接又象个小玩偶似地被一声巨大的爆炸声震倒在地上。他从地上抬起脸来，看见最后一下壮观的闪电在那棵枯枝树的顶端四周跳闪着，发出耀眼的蓝紫色的光晕；随后，还不等他明白出了什么事，所有的东西刹那间都被烧着了。那些腐朽之物的组织中，最后一滴水份早已被蒸发殆尽，四处蔓生的草非常深，干得象纸。大地就象是给天空一种挑战的答复，那棵大树的顶端吐出长长的火焰；与此同时，它四周的圆木和树桩也烧了起来。围绕着这个中心，一圈大火在旋风中向外席卷而去，一圈一圈地扩展着，扩展着，扩展着。帕迪连走到他的马前的时间都没有了。
　　被烤干的芸香树也燃着了，它那湿嫩的树心往外渗着树胶。帕迪放眼看去，四下都是厚厚的火墙；树林在熊熊地燃烧着，他脚下的草也呼呼作响，冒起了火苗。他听见自己的马在嘶叫着，这叫声使他的心都快跳出来了。他可不能眼巴巴地看着这可怜的畜生拴在那里，孤弱无助地被活活烧死。一条狗狂曝了起来，这狂曝声变成了象人一样的痛苦的尖叫。有那么一会儿，它狂窜乱跳着，就象一个跳动着的火把，随后，慢慢地倒在了火焰熊熊的草地上。其他那些惨叫着四处逃去的狗被飞速蔓延的火吞没了，大火乘风，比任何长眼生翅的东西都要快。当他正站在那里盘算哪条路离他的马最近的时候，席卷而来的大火刹那间就把他的头发烧焦了。他低头一看，只见脚下一大片美冠鹦鹉被烤得吱吱作响。
　　帕迪蓦地悟到，这就是末日了。在这个地狱里，他和他的马都没有出路。甚至就在他这样想的时候，身后的那片未开垦的处女地已经是四面大火了，桉树在哔哔剥剥地爆着。帕迪胳臂上的皮肤已经在皱缩、变黑，头上的头发终于在其他更明亮的东西之下变得模糊不清了。这样的死法是难以形容的，因为火是从外往里烧的。最后死去的是大脑和心脏，它们终将会被烧得失去作用的。衣服冒火的帕迪在这片火的大屠杀中跳着，不停地尖叫着，而那可怕的声声惨号都是在呼唤着他妻子的名字。
其他的男人都赶在风暴之前回到了德罗海达庄园，将马放进了牲畜围场。有人向大宅走去，有人向牧工工棚走去。在菲的那间灯火通明的客厅里，木柴在乳白和粉红相间的大理石壁炉里烧得啪啪作响。克利里家的小伙子们都坐在那里，侧耳倾听着风暴；这些天来，谁都不敢冒险到外面去看一看。壁炉里燃烧着的桉木散发着好闻的辛辣味儿，竿茶推车里堆满了蛋粒和三明治，十分诱人。谁都不指望帕迪能回来吃茶点了。
　　大约4点钟的时候，云层向东方滚滚而去，大家都不由自主地松了口气；尽管德罗海达的每座建筑物上都装了避雷什，可不知怎的，每逢干风暴来临，谁也无法泰然处之。杰克和鲍勃站了起来，说是到外面去透透新鲜空气，但实际上是想去松弛一下压抑的呼吸。
　　"看！"杰克指着西边说道。
　　围绕着家内圈地的树林上正在升起一大股青铜色的浓烟，它的上缘被扯成了横向的烟带。
　　"耶稣呀！"杰克喊道。他跑进了屋里，直奔电话机。
　　"起火了，起火了！"他冲着话筒喊道。仍然留在房间里的人转过身来，目瞪口呆地望着他，他随后又跑到外面观望去了。"德罗海达起火啦，火势很大！"接着，他便挂断了电话；这就是他需要向基里交换台，和沿线那些电话铃一响就习惯地抓起来听的人们说的话。尽管从克利里家到德罗海达以来，基里地区从未发生过大火灾，但是，这种例行做法他们还是知道的。
　　小伙子们分头去骑马，牧工们从牧工棚里挤了出来。与此同时，史密斯太太打开了一间仓库，搬出了十几条麻袋。烟是在西边，而风正在从那个方向吹来，这就意味着，火将会向庄园推进。菲脱下长裙，穿上了帕迪的马裤，随后和梅吉一起向马厩跑去；现在需要每一双能搬动麻袋的手。
　　在厨房里，史密斯太太把炉膛里的火拨旺，女仆们动手从天花板的钩子上取下大罐子。
　　"亏得我们昨天杀了一条小公牛，"女管家说道。"明妮，这儿是酒库的钥匙。把我们所有的啤酒和兰姆酒都取来，然后，在我们炖牛肉的时候，你们动手做饮料面包。要快，快！"
　　由于起了风暴雨惶惶不安的马已经闻到了烟味，很难上鞍，菲和梅吉骑上了那两匹又踢又蹬、难以驾驭的良种马，从马厩里分到了院子中，以便更好地控制住它们。当梅吉全力对付那匹栗色牝马的时俟，从基里方向的路上脚步沉重地跑来了两个流浪汉。
　　"起火了，太太们，起火了！还有两匹多余的马吗？给我们几条袋子。"
　　"顺那条路到畜牧围场去。老天爷呀，我希望你们谁也别在那边被火烧着！"梅吉说道，她还不知道她父亲在那儿呢。
　　那两个人急忙从史密斯太太那儿抓来了几条麻袋和水袋，鲍勃和男人们已经走了有五分钟了。那两个流浪汉尾追而去，菲和梅吉是最后离开的。他们飞马向小河驰去，越过了小河，消失在冒烟的方向。