热闹中熄灭寂静中明亮的灯

优胜劣汰，适者生存，是自然界的法则。
生老病死，是生命的法则。
当死亡来临，我们该如何面对？
这篇小说留给我们无限的思考……

The Law of Life


(8月30日接土豆网管理员通知：您上传的节目中含有不宜公开的成分，请勿上传类似视频)——无语……

      The old Indian was sitting on the snow. It was Koskoosh, former chief of his tribe. Now, all he could do was sit and listen to the others. His eyes were old.  He could not see, but his ears were wide open to every sound.

"Aha." That was the sound of his daughter, Sit-cum-to-ha.  She was beating the dogs, trying to make them stand in front of the snow sleds.  He was forgotten by her, and by the others, too. They had to look for new hunting grounds. The long, snowy ride waited. The days of the northlands were growing short. The tribe could not wait for death. Koskoosh was dying.

The stiff, crackling noises of frozen animal skins told him that the chief's tent was being torn down. The chief was a mighty hunter. He was his son, the son of Koskoosh.  Koskoosh was being left to die.

As the women worked, old Koskoosh could hear his son's voice drive them to work faster. He listened harder. It was the last time he would hear that voice. A child cried, and a woman sang softly to quiet it. The child was Koo-tee, the old man thought, a sickly child. It would die soon, and they would burn a hole in the frozen ground to bury it. They would cover its small body with stones to keep the wolves away.

"Well, what of it? A few years, and in the end, death. Death waited ever hungry. Death had the hungriest stomach of all."

Koskoosh listened to other sounds he would hear no more: the men tying strong leather rope around the sleds to hold their belongings; the sharp sounds of leather whips, ordering the dogs to move and pull the sleds.

"Listen to the dogs cry. How they hated the work."

They were off.  Sled after sled moved slowly away into the silence. They had passed out of his life.  He must meet his last hour alone.

"But what was that?" The snow packed down hard under someone's shoes. A man stood beside him, and placed a hand gently on his old head. His son was good to do this. He remembered other old men whose sons had not done this, who had left without a goodbye.

His mind traveled into the past until his son's voice brought him back.  "It is well with you?" his son asked. And the old man answered, "It is well."

"There is wood next to you and the fire burns bright," the son said. "The morning is gray and the cold is here. It will snow soon.  Even now it is snowing. Ahh, even now it is snowing.

"The tribesmen hurry. Their loads are heavy and their stomachs flat from little food. The way is long and they travel fast. I go now. All is well?"

"It is well. I am as last year's leaf that sticks to the tree. The first breath that blows will knock me to the ground. My voice is like an old woman's. My eyes no longer show me the way my feet go. I am tired and all is well."

He lowered his head to his chest and listened to the snow as his son rode away. He felt the sticks of wood next to him again. One by one, the fire would eat them.  And step by step, death would cover him. When the last stick was gone, the cold would come. First, his feet would freeze. Then, his hands. The cold would travel slowly from the outside to the inside of him, and he would rest. It was easy…all men must die.

He felt sorrow, but he did not think of his sorrow.  It was the way of life.  He had lived close to the earth, and the law was not new to him.  It was the law of the body.  Nature was not kind to the body.  She was not thoughtful of the person alone.  She was interested only in the group, the race, the species.

This was a deep thought for old Koskoosh. He had seen examples of it in all his life. The tree sap in early spring; the new-born green leaf, soft and fresh as skin; the fall of the yellowed, dry leaf. In this alone was all history.

He placed another stick on the fire and began to remember his past. He had been a great chief, too. He had seen days of much food and laughter; fat stomachs when food was left to rot and spoil; times when they left animals alone, unkilled; days when women had many children.  And he had seen days of no food and empty stomachs, days when the fish did not come, and the animals were hard to find.

For seven years the animals did not come. Then, he remembered when as a small boy how he watched the wolves kill a moose. He was with his friend Zing-ha, who was killed later in the Yukon River.

Ah, but the moose. Zing-ha and he had gone out to play that day.  Down by the river they saw fresh steps of a big, heavy moose.  "He's an old one," Zing-ha had said.  "He cannot run like the others. He has fallen behind. The wolves have separated him from the others. They will never leave him."

And so it was. By day and night, never stopping, biting at his nose, biting at his feet, the wolves stayed with him until the end.

Zing-ha and he had felt the blood quicken in their bodies. The end would be a sight to see.

They had followed the steps of the moose and the wolves.  Each step told a different story.  They could see the tragedy as it happened: here was the place the moose stopped to fight.  The snow was packed down for many feet. One wolf had been caught by the heavy feet of the moose and kicked to death.  Further on, they saw how the moose had struggled to escape up a hill.  But the wolves had attacked from behind.  The moose had fallen down and crushed two wolves. Yet, it was clear the end was near.

The snow was red ahead of them. Then they heard the sounds of battle.  He and Zing-ha moved closer, on their stomachs, so the wolves would not see them.  They saw the end. The picture was so strong it had stayed with him all his life.  His dull, blind eyes saw the end again as they had in the far off past.

For long, his mind saw his past. The fire began to die out, and the cold entered his body.  He placed two more sticks on it, just two more left. This would be how long he would live.

It was very lonely. He placed one of the last pieces of wood on the fire.  Listen, what a strange noise for wood to make in the fire.  No, it wasn't wood.  His body shook as he recognized the sound…wolves.

The cry of a wolf brought the picture of the old moose back to him again.  He saw the body torn to pieces, with fresh blood running on the snow.  He saw the clean bones lying gray against the frozen blood.  He saw the rushing forms of the gray wolves, their shinning eyes, their long wet tongues and sharp teeth.  And he saw them form a circle and move ever slowly closer and closer.

A cold, wet nose touched his face.  At the touch, his soul jumped forward to awaken him. His hand went to the fire and he pulled a burning stick from it.  The wolf saw the fire, but was not afraid.  It turned and howled into the air to his brother wolves. They answered with hunger in their throats, and came running.

The old Indian listened to the hungry wolves.  He heard them form a circle around him and his small fire.  He waved his burning stick at them, but they did not move away.  Now, one of them moved closer, slowly, as if to test the old man's strength.  Another and another followed.  The circle grew smaller and smaller.  Not one wolf stayed behind.

Why should he fight?  Why cling to life?  And he dropped his stick with the fire on the end of it.  It fell in the snow and the light went out.

The circle of wolves moved closer. Once again the old Indian saw the picture of the moose as it struggled before the end came.  He dropped his head to his knees. What did it matter after all?  Isn't this the law of life?

一位印第安老人正坐在雪地上，他叫科斯库什，部落的前首领。现在他所能做的就是坐着听其他人的，眼睛已经老得看不见了，可是他的耳朵却很灵敏，什么声音都能听到。

“啊哈！”这是他女儿西特克姆的声音，她正在赶狗，试图让它们都站到雪橇前面去。她已经忘记了他，别人也忘记了他。他们得去寻找新的打猎场所，长途的跋涉就要开始了。北部地区的白昼在变短，部落的人不能等死，而考什克库什正在渐渐地死去。

冻僵的动物毛皮发出的僵硬的噼啪声告诉他，首领的帐篷正在被拆掉。首领，是一位强有力的猎手。他是科斯库什的儿子。科斯库什被留下来慢慢地死去。

女人们正在干活，老科斯库什听到他儿子让那些女人快点干活的说话声。他努力地听着，这是他最后一次可以听到这声音了。一个小孩哭了起来，一个女人轻声唱起了歌，让孩子安静下来。孩子叫库提，老人心里想——那是个多病的孩子——他很快就会死去的，人们会在冻土上烧出一个小洞，把他埋在里面，还会用石头盖住他那幼小的身体，以免被狼吃掉了。“那又怎么样呢？小孩活了几年，到头来不也得死吗？”

科斯库什听着其它的声音：男人们把坚韧的皮绳子绑在雪橇上，捆住了自己的东西，他们响亮地抽着皮鞭子，命令狗们拖动着雪橇跑起来。

“听那些狗的嚎叫声！它们是多么厌恶这工作！”

人们出发了，雪橇一辆接着一辆慢慢地滑走了，他们从他的生活中消失了，他只能独自面对这最后的时光。

“但是那是什么呢？”有一个人的鞋把雪给压实了，他就站在科斯库什的旁边，温柔地把手放在他苍老的头上。他的儿子是会做这种事的。他想起了那些被自己的儿子丢下，连声再见都没说的老人们。他追忆起了往事，直到儿子的声音唤醒了他。

“你还好吗？”儿子问。

“很好。”老人答道。

“你旁边有木头，把火烧得旺点，”儿子说，“早上天有点阴，很冷，就要下雪了。现在已经下起来了。是啊，现在已经下起雪了。”

“部落的人都等急了，他们拉的东西很多，没吃什么东西，肚子饿扁了，要走很长的路，要快点赶路。”

“是啊。”

“我现在就得走了，一切都好吧？”

“很好。我已经是风烛残年了，一阵风就能把我打倒在地上。我的声音弱地象个老女人一样，眼睛再也看不清脚下的路了。我只是有点累，其它一切都很好。”

当儿子骑马走了的时候，他垂下头听着雪花飘落的声音。他又摸到了身边的木柴，木柴会一根根烧光，而死亡会一步步靠近他，最后一根木柴烧光的时候，寒冷就会来临，那时他的脚会先被冻僵，然后是手。寒冷会慢慢地从外侵入体内，那时他就会安息了。这很平常，老人早晚都得死。

他感到难过，但他并不去想这些伤心事。这就是生活。他活得离大地很近，这条法则于他而言并不新鲜，这是人类的生命法则。大自然对人并不留情，她并不会为个人着想，她关心的只是群体、种族。

对于老科斯库什来说，这是个深刻的问题。他这一生中见过许多例证，早春的时候，树木会腐烂掉，新生的绿叶象人的皮肤一样柔软光鲜；变黄枯萎的树叶又会落下，这就全成了历史了。

他往火堆里又放了一根柴火，开始回忆起自己的过去。他也曾经是一位伟大的首领，他度过了许多美好的时光，食物充足，到处欢声笑语，人们酒足饭饱，剩下的食物都烂掉了，动物多得可以不杀，自由地奔跑，女人们养了很多孩子。他也看到了没有食物的日子，人们饥肠辘辘，鱼群不再回来，动物难以捕捉。

动物已经有七年没有来了。这时，他想起当自己还是个孩子的时候，看到过狼群咬死了一只驼鹿。他和朋友金哈在一起。后来，他在育肯河边被杀死了。

那天，他和金哈出去玩，在河下游，他们看到了一只又大又重的驼鹿的脚印。“这是一只老驼鹿，”金哈说，“它不能象其它驼鹿一样跑得那么快了，它掉队了。狼群把它和其它的驼鹿分开了，狼群不会放过它的。”

果然，狼群不分昼夜地咬它的鼻子，咬它的脚，一直跟着它到最后。

金哈和他感到体内的血流加速了起来，结局值得一看。

他们一路追踪狼群和驼鹿的踪迹，每一个脚印都讲述着不同的故事。他们可以目睹到这场悲剧的发生，这是驼鹿停下来搏斗的地方，雪地上压下了许多脚印，一匹狼被驼鹿沉重的脚给踢死了。往前他们又看到驼鹿是如何挣扎着逃上了一座小山，但是狼群从背后袭击了它。很明显结局快到了。

前面的雪地都被染红了。接着，他们听到了打斗的声音，不只是狼的长啸声，还有它们锋利的牙齿咬在鹿肉上发出的杂乱的声音。他和金哈趴在地上靠近了些，这样狼群就不会发觉他们了。他们目睹了结局，而这画面是如此震撼人心，他一辈子都不会忘记。他那双模糊不清的瞎眼又看到了遥远过去发生的那一幕。

他的脑海里长久地回忆着过去。火要灭了，寒冷侵袭进了他的身体，他又添上了两块木柴，只剩下两块了。这就是他最后的时光了。

他感到非常孤独，又在火上放上了一块木柴。听！木柴在火上发出了多么奇怪的声音！不，那不是木柴，当他听出了那声音的时候，身体不由得一颤。狼群！

狼的嚎叫声又使他想起了那只老驼鹿临死前的画面。他看到驼鹿的身体被撕成了碎片，鲜血在雪地上流成了河。他看到了被狼舔得干干净净的骨头，就堆在被冻住的血块旁。他看到了灰色狼群奔跑的身影，眼睛闪亮，伸着长长的湿淋淋的舌头和锋利的牙齿。他看到它们围成了一圈，靠得越来越近了。

一只冰凉的湿鼻子碰到了他的脸，这一碰，他精神一振，一下就醒了过来，伸手从灰堆里抓起了一根燃烧着的木棍。狼看到了火，但是并没有害怕，转过身，仰天对着它的同伴嚎叫了起来。它们饥饿地回应着跑了过来。

老印第安人听着饿狼的脚步声，听到它们在他和小火堆的周围形成了一个包围圈，他冲着它们挥舞着燃烧的木棍，但它们并没有离开。这时，其中的一匹狼慢慢地靠近了，好象要试试老人的力气。其它的也跟了过来。包围圈越来越小，狼全上来了。

为什么要搏斗呢？为什么要苟延残喘呢？他扔掉一头还在燃烧的木棍。木棍落在雪地里，火完全熄灭了。

狼群的包围圈靠得更近了，老印第安人又一次看到了那只驼鹿在临死前拼命挣扎的一幕。他把头埋在了膝盖里。反抗究竟有什么意义呢？这不是生命的法则吗？