tw.thestoneoffarewell-第105部分

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　　To　give　in。　To　just　stop　fighting。。。
　　It　had　a　pacific　sound　to　it；　like　a　sad　but　pretty　song。　It　seemed　a　gentle　promise；　a　kiss　before　sleeping。。。
　　Simon　was　falling　forward。　Shocked　into　alertness；　he　threw　out　a　hand　and　steadied　himself　against　the　trunk　of　a　skeletal　birch。　His　heart　was　beating　very　swiftly。
　　He　saw　with　astonishment　that　snow　had　gathered　thickly　on　his　shoulders　and　boots；　as　though　he　had　stood　m　this　place　for　a　long　time…but　it　had　seemed　like　the　merest　instant！　He　shook　his　head　and　slapped　at　his　cheeks　with　gloved　fingers　until　the　stinging　brought　life　surging　back　through　his　body。　He　growled　at　himself。　To　almost　fall　asleep　standing　up！　To　freeze　on　your　feet！　What　kind　of　a　mooncalf　was　he？
　　No！　He　growled　again　and　shook　his　head。　Binabik　and　Sludig　had　said　he　was　almost　a　man：　he　would　not　prove　them　wrong　so　easily。　It　was　cold　and　he　was　hungry；　that　was　all。　He　would　not　cry　and　give　up　like　a　lowly　apprentice　scullion　locked　out　of　the　kitchen。　Simon　had　seen　and　done　many　things。　He　had　survived　worse　than　this。
　　But　what　should　he　do？
　　He　couldn't　solve　the　lack　of　food　immediately；　he　knew；　but　that　wasn't　so　bad。　One　thing　Binabik　had　said　that　Simon　remembered　very　well　was　that　a　person　could　go　a　long　time　without　food；　but　could　not　survive　a　single　night　in　the　cold　without　shelter。　For　this　reason；　the　troll　always　said；　fire　was　very；　very　important。
　　But　Simon　had　no　fire；　nor　could　he　make　one。
　　As　he　considered　this　grim　fact；　he　kept　walking。　Despite　the　fast…　increasing　darkness　he　hoped　to　find　a　better　camping　place　before　he　stopped。　The　snow　was　falling　faster　now；　and　at　the　moment　he　was　slogging　along　the　bottom　of　a　long；　shallow　canyon。　He　wanted　to　find　higher　ground；　someplace　where　he　would　not　have　to　dig　his　way　out　if　he　survived　the　night。　Thinking　about　this；　Simon　felt　a　painful　smile　form　on　his　cracked　lips。　With　the　dreadful　luck　he　had　been　having；　the　high　place　he　chose　would　probably　be　struck　by　lightning。
　　He　laughed　hoarsely　and　was　momentarily　heartened　by　the　sound　of　his　own　mirth；　but　the　wind　snatched　it　away　before　he　could　savor　it。　
　　The　spot　he　chose　was　a　stand　of　hemlocks　clustered　atop　a　low　hill　like　white…caped　sentries。　He　would　have　preferred　the　shelter　of　several　large　stones…or　better　still；　a　cave…but　his　luck　was　not　so　generous。　He　ignored　the　gurglings　of　his　empty　stomach　as　he　briefly　surveyed　the　little　copse；　then　set　to　work　pressing　snow　into　hard　lumps。　These　he　piled　between　the　trees　on　the　windward　side；　pressing　and　smoothing　them　together　until　he　had　a　serviceable　wall　that　reached　to　a　little　above　his　knees。
　　As　the　last　light　started　to　bleed　from　the　sky；　Simon　began　pulling　branches　from　the　surrounding　hemlocks。　He　pilled　them　near　the　base　of　his　snow…bulwark　until　he　had　made　a　bed　of　springy　needles　nearly　as　high　as　the　wall。　Not　yet　content；　he　continued　his　way　around　the　clearing；　using　his　Qanuc　knife　to　cut　branches　by　the　handful　until　a　pile　of　equal　size　lay　beside　the　first。　He　stopped　for　a　moment；　breathing　heavily；　and　felt　the　chill　air　suck　the　warmth　away　from　his　exposed　face　as　abruptly　as　if　he　had　been　fitted　with　a　mask　of　sleet。
　　Suddenly　aware　of　the　enormity　of　trying　to　stay　warm　during　the　wintery　night　to　e…and　of　the　fact　that　if　he　decided　wrong；　he　might　not　wake　up　the　following　morning…he　was　spurred　to　a　feverish　renewal　of　his　efforts。　He　shored　up　the　snow　wall；　making　it　a　little　taller　and　much　thicker；　then　built　a　lower　wall　supported　by　tree　trunks　on　the　other　side　of　the　first　pile　of　branches。　He　raced　around　the　copse　cutting　more　branches…his　gloves　were　now　so　resinous　that　he　could　not　sepa…　rate　the　fingers；　and　could　only　remove　his　hand　from　his　knife　by　stepping　on　the　blade　first…until　the　height　of　both　piles　equaled　that　of　his　windward　wall。　By　now　it　was　almost　too　dark　to　see　even　the　great　trees　were　rapidly　blurring　into　murky　smudges　against　the　near…luminous　snow。
　　He　lay　down　on　his　bed　of　branches；　bending　his　knees　and　pulling　his　long　legs　up　against　his　body　so　that　they　would　benefit　as　much　as　possible　from　being　wrapped　m　his　cloak；　then　began　to　pull　the　remaining　branches　over　himself。　He　tried　his　best；　with　clumsy；　sticky　fingers；　to　weave　them　together　so　that　there　were　no　large　exposed　areas；　and　ended　by　reaching　awkwardly　up　through　the　hemlock　blanket　to　drag　the　last　few　branches　over　his　head。　He　then　turned　his　face　sideways　so　that　it　was　mostly　hidden　in　his　hood。　The　position　was　miserably　unfortable　and　unnatural　in　the　extreme；　but　he　could　feel　his　own　warm　breath　whispering　in　the　pocket　of　the　hood；　for　this　little　while　at　least；　he　stopped　shivering。
　　He　had　been　so　exhausted　when　he　lay　down　that　Simon　expected　to　be　asleep　in　a　matter　of　moments；　despite　the　tickling　branches　and　his　cramped　legs。　Instead；　he　found　himself　growing　gradually　more　wakeful　as　the　first　hour　of　night　wore　on。　The　cold；　while　not　as　sharply　biting　as　when　he　had　earlier　walked　through　the　forest　into　the　teeth　of　the　wind；　nevertheless　sneaked　through　his　meager　shelter　and　seeped　down　into　his　bones　and　flesh。　It　was　a　dull　and　relentless　sort　of　cold；　patient　as　stone。
　　The　chill　was　bad　enough；　but　though　the　thunder　of　his　breathing　and　the　drumbeat　of　his　heart　were　loud　in　his　ears；　he　could　hear　other；　stranger　noises　as　well。　He　had　forgotten　how　differently　the　night　forest　sounded　when　no　friend　slept　nearby。　The　wind　moaned　achingly　through　the　trees；　other　sounds　seemed　ominously　stealthy；　yet　were　loud　enough　to　be　heard　even　above　the　lamenting　wind。　After　all　the　horrors　he　had　seen；　he　harbored　no　idle　hopes　that　the　night　was　innocent　of　dangers…　surely　he　was　hearing　damned　souls　crying　in　the　storm；　and　lumbering　Hunen　prowling　the　forest　in　search　of　warm　blood！
　　As　the　night　marched　on；　Simon　felt　black　dread　rising　once　more。　He　was　all　alone！　He　was　a　lost；　doomed　fool　of　a　mooncalf　who　should　never　have　dabbled　in　the　affairs　of　his　betters！　Even　if　he　survived　the　night；　even　if　he　was　spared　the　clutches　of　some　gibbering；　faceless　nightwalker；　it　would　only　be　to　starve　m　the　daylight！　Certainly　he　could　last　a　few　days；　perhaps　weeks　if　he　was　lucky；　but　from　what　Binabik　had　told　him　it　was　many　leagues　to　the　Stone　of　Farewell…and　that　was　assuming　that　he　knew　how　to　get　there　at　all；　and　could　find　his　way　through　Aldheorte's　unsympathetic　depths　to　do　so。　Simon　knew　he　did　not　possess　the　woodcraft　to　survive　a　long　exile　in　the　wild：　he　was　no　Jack　Mundwode；　not　even　close。　Similarly；　there　was　almost　no　chance　that　anyone　who　could　help　would　pass　through　this　remote　part　of　the　northeastern　forest；　especially　in　such　hellish　weather。
　　Worst　of　all；　his　friends　were　long　gone。　In　the　middle　of　the　afternoon　he　had　suddenly　found　himself　m　a　fit　of　panicky　shouting；　repeating　their　names　over　and　over　again　until　his　throat　felt　rough　as　a　butcher's　block。　At　the　last；　just　before　his　voice　gave　out；　he　thought　he　had　been　screaming　the　names　of　the　dead。　That　was　the　most　frightening　thought　of　all；　a　path　that　ran　very　close　to　the　abyss：　shout　for　the　dead　today；　speak　to　them　tomorrow；　join　them　soon　after…in　a　living　death　of　irredeemeable　madness　if　nothing　else；　and　that　might　be　worse　than　actually　dying。
　　He　lay　beneath　the　branches　and　shivered；　but　no　longer　from　only　the　chill。　Darkness　rose　within　him　and　Simon　struggled　against　it。　He　didn't　want　to　die　yet；　that　he　knew…but　did　it　matter？　There　seemed　to　be　nothing　he　could　do　about　it　one　way　or　the　other。
　　But　I　will　not　die　here；　he　decided　at　last；　pretending　for　a　moment　he　had　been　offered　some　choice。　He　felt　for　his　own　desperation　and　began　to　smooth　it　down　and　push　it　back；　quieting　it　like　a　frightened　horse。　I've　touched　dragon　blood。　I　won　a　Sithi　White　Arrow。　It　all　means　something；　doesn't　it？
　　He　didn't　know　if　it　did　all　mean　something；　but　he　suddenly　wanted　very　much　to　live。
　　I　won't　die　yet。　I　want　to　see　Binabik　again；　and　Josua　。　。　。　and　Miriamele。　And　I　want　to　see　Pryrates　and　Elias　suffer　for　what　they　did。　I　want　a　home　agaw；　a　warm　bed…oh；　merciful　Usires；　if　you　really　are　real；　let　me　have　a　home　again！　Don't　let　me　die　in　the　cold！　Let　me　find　a　home　。　。　。　a　home　。　。　。　let　me　find　a　home。　。　。　！
　　Sleep　was　conquering　him　at　last。　He　seemed　to　hear　his　own　voice　echoing　down　an　old　stone　well。　At　last　he　slid　away　from　cold　and　painful　thoughts　into　a　warmer　place。
　　He　survived　that　night　and　six　more　nights　after　it；　each　followed　by　a　morning　of　terrible；　frigid　stiffness；　of　solitude　and　increasing　hunger。　
　　The　unseasonal　cold　had　killed　many　of　Spring's　children　in　the　womb；　but　some　plants　had　managed　to　bud　and　flower　in　the　brief；　false　season　of　warmth　before　the　deadly　winter　returned　to　stay。　Binabik　and　the　Sithi　had　both　given　him　flowers　to　eat；　but　Simon　had　no　idea　if　there　were　right　or　wrong　kinds　of　flowers。　He　ate　what　few　he　could　find。　They　did　not　fill　him　up；　but　neither　did　they　kill　him。　Patches　of　bitter　yellow　grass…　very　bitter…had　survived　beneath　some　of　the　snow　hummocks　as　well；　and　he　made　full　use　of　all　he　could　find。　Once；　in　a　moment　of　starved　unreason；　he　even　tried　to　eat　a　handful　of　fir　needles。　They　tasted　astoundmgly　dreadful；　and　the　sap　and　his　own　froth　made　a　sticky；　half…frozen　mess　of　his　downy　beard。
　　One　day；　when　his　longing　for　something　solid　to　eat　had　bee　a　maddening　obsession；　a　chill…baffled　beetle　wandered　across　his　path。　Rachel　the　Dragon　had　held　a　very　firm　line　on　the　almost　incalculable　filthiness　of　such　vermin；　but　Simon's　stomach　had　bee　a　far　more　powerful　force　than　even　Rachel's　training。　He　could　not　let　this　opportu…　nity　pass。
　　Despite　his　hollow　gut；　the　first　one　proved　very　difficult。　When　he　felt　the　tiny　legs　moving　within　his　mouth；　he　gagged　and　spit　the　beetle　into　the　snow。　Its　aimless　kicking　made　him　want　to　be　sick；　but　a　moment　later　he　snatched　it　up　again；　then　chewed　and　swallowed　it　as　quickly　as　he　could。　The　beetle's　texture　was　that　of　a　delicate；　slightly　flexible　nutshell；　the　taste　little　more　than　a　musty　ta