ib.thewaspfactory-第29部分

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　　My　feet　were　sore　and　my　legs　ached　slightly　as　I　walked　along　the　line　of　hard　sand　on　the　beach。　A　slight　wind　had　e　up　off　the　sea；　and　I　was　glad　of　it；　because　the　clouds　had　all　gone　and　the　sun；　though　sinking　gradually；　was　still　powerful。　I　came　to　a　river　I　had　already　crossed　once　in　the　hills；　and　crossed　it　again　near　the　sea；　going　up　into　the　dunes　a　way　to　where　I　knew　there　was　a　wire　bridge。　Sheep　scattered　in　front　of　me；　some　shorn；　some　still　shaggy；　bouncing　away　with　their　fractured…sounding　baas；　then　stopping　once　they　thought　they　were　safe　and　dipping　their　heads　or　kneeling　to　resume　cropping　the　flower…scattered　grass。
　　
　　I　remember　I　used　to　despise　sheep　for　being　so　profoundly　stupid。　I'd　seen　them　eat　and　eat　and　eat；　I'd　watched　dogs　outsmart　whole　flocks　of　them；　I'd　chased　them　and　laughed　at　the　way　they　ran；　watched　them　get　themselves　into　all　sorts　of　stupid；　tangled　situations；　and　I'd　thought　they　quite　deserved　to　end　up　as　mutton；　and　that　being　used　as　wool…making　machines　was　too　good　for　them。　It　was　years；　and　a　long　slow　process；　before　I　eventually　realised　just　what　sheep　really　represented：　not　their　own　stupidity；　but　our　power；　our　avarice　and　egotism。

　　
　　After　I'd　e　to　understand　evolution　and　know　a　little　about　history　and　farming；　I　saw　that　the　thick　white　animals　I　laughed　at　for　following　each　other　around　and　getting　caught　in　bushes　were　the　product　of　generations　of　farmers　as　much　as　generations　of　sheep；　we　made　them；　we　moulded　them　from　the　wild；　smart　survivors　that　were　their　ancestors　so　that　they　would　bee　docile；　frightened；　stupid；　tasty　woolproducers。　We　didn't　want　them　to　be　smart；　and　to　some　extent　their　aggression　and　their　intelligence　went　together。　Of　course；　the　rams　are　brighter；　but　even　they　are　demeaned　by　the　idiotic　females　they　have　to　associate　with　and　inseminate。
　　
　　The　same　principle　applies　to　chickens　and　cows　and　almost　anything　we've　been　able　to　get　our　greedy；　hungry　hands　on　for　long　enough。　It　occasionally　occurs　to　me　that　something　the　same　might　have　happened　to　women　but；　attractive　though　the　theory　might　be；　I　suspect　I'm　wrong。
　　
　　
　　
　　Home　in　time　for　dinner；　I　wolfed　down　my　eggs；　steak；　chips　and　beans；　and　spent　the　rest　of　the　evening　watching　television　and　picking　bits　of　dead　cow　out　of　my　mouth　with　a　match。
　　
　　
　　　10：　Running　Dog
　　
　　
　　IT　ALWAYS　annoyed　me　that　Eric　went　crazy。　Although　it　wasn't　an　on…off　thing；　sane　one　minute；　mad　the　next；　I　don't　think　there　is　much　doubt　that　the　incident　with　the　smiling　child　triggered　something　in　Eric　that　led；　almost　inevitably；　to　his　fall。　Something　in　him　could　not　accept　what　had　happened；　could　not　fit　in　what　he　had　seen　with　the　way　he　thought　things　ought　to　be。　Maybe　some　deep　part　of　him；　buried　under　layers　of　time　and　growth　like　the　Roman　remains　of　a　modem　city；　still　believed　in　God；　and　could　not　suffer　the　realisation　that；　if　such　an　unlikely　being　did　exist；　it　could　suffer　that　to　happen　to　any　of　the　creatures　it　had　supposedly　fashioned　in　its　own　image。
　　
　　Whatever　it　was　that　disintegrated　in　Eric　then；　it　was　a　weakness；　a　fundamental　flaw　that　a　real　man　should　not　have　had。　Women；　I　know　from　watching　hundreds…maybe　thousands…of　films　and　television　programmes；　cannot　withstand　really　major　things　happening　to　them；　they　get　raped；　or　their　loved　one　dies；　and　they　go　to　pieces；　go　crazy　and　mit　suicide；　or　just　pine　away　until　they　die。　Of　course；　I　realise　that　not　all　of　them　will　react　that　way；　but　obviously　it's　the　rule；　and　the　ones　who　don't　obey　it　are　in　the　minority。
　　
　　There　must　be　a　few　strong　women；　women　with　more　man　in　their　character　than　most；　and　I　suspect　that　Eric　was　the　victim　of　a　self　with　just　a　little　too　much　of　the　woman　in　it。　That　sensitivity；　that　desire　not　to　hurt　people；　that　delicate；　mindful　brilliance…these　things　were　his　partly　because　he　thought　too　much　like　a　woman。　Up　until　his　nasty　experience　it　never　really　bothered　him；　but　just　at　that　moment；　in　that　extremity　of　circumstance；　it　was　enough　to　break　him。
　　
　　I　blame　my　father；　not　to　mention　whatever　stupid　bitch　it　was　threw　him　over　for　another　man。　My　father　must　take　the　blame　in　part　at　least　because　of　that　nonsense　in　Eric's　early　years；　letting　him　dress　as　he　wanted　and　giving　him　the　choice　of　dresses　and　trousers；　Harmsworth　and　Morag　Stove　were　quite　right　to　be　worried　about　the　way　their　nephew　was　being　brought　up；　and　did　the　proper　thing　in　offering　to　look　after　him。　Everything　might　have　been　different　if　my　father　hadn't　had　those　daft　ideas；　if　my　mother　hadn't　resented　Eric；　if　the　Stoves　had　taken　him　away　earlier；　but　it　happened　the　way　it　did；　and　as　such　I　hope　my　father　blames　himself　as　much　as　I　blame　him。　I　want　him　to　feel　the　weight　of　that　guilt　upon　him　all　the　time；　and　have　sleepless　nights　because　of　it；　and　bad　dreams　that　wake　him　up　in　a　sweat　on　cool　nights　once　he　does　get　to　sleep。　He　deserves　it。
　　
　　
　　Eric　didn't　ring　that　night　after　my　walk　in　the　hills。　I　went　to　bed　fairly　early；　but　I　know　I'd　have　heard　the　phone　if　it　had　gone；　and　I　slept　without　a　break；　tired　after　my　long　trek。　The　next　day　I　was　up　at　the　normal　time；　went　out　for　a　walk　along　the　sands　in　the　coolness　of　the　morning；　and　came　back　in　time　for　a　good　big　cooked　breakfast。
　　
　　I　felt　restless；　my　father　was　quieter　than　usual；　and　the　heat　built　quickly；　making　the　house　very　stuffy　even　with　the　windows　open。　I　wandered　about　the　rooms；　looking　out　through　those　opened　spaces；　leaning　on　ledges；　scouring　the　land　with　closed…up　eyes。　Eventually；　with　my　father　dozing　in　a　deckchair；　I　went　to　my　own　room；　changed　to　a　T…shirt　and　my　light　waistcoat　with　the　pockets；　filled　them　up　with　useful　things；　slung　my　day…pack　over　one　shoulder　and　set　off　to　have　a　good　look　round　the　approaches　to　the　island；　and　maybe　take　in　the　dump；　too；　if　there　weren't　too　many　flies。
　　
　　I　put　my　sunglasses　on；　and　the　brown　Polaroids　made　the　colours　more　vivid。　I　started　to　sweat　as　soon　as　I　stepped　out　of　the　door。　A　warm　breeze；　hardly　cooling　at　all；　swirled　uncertainly　from　a　few　directions；　brought　smells　of　grass　and　flowers。　I　walked　steadily；　up　the　path；　over　the　bridge；　down　the　mainland　line　of　the　creek　and　the　stream；　following　the　course　of　the　burn　and　jumping　its　small　offshoots　and　tributaries　down　to　the　dam…building　area。　I　turned　north　then；　going　up　the　line　of　the　sea…facing　dunes；　taking　them　by　their　sandy　summits　despite　the　heat　and　the　exertion　of　climbing　their　southern　faces；　so　that　I　could　gain　the　benefit　of　the　views　they　offered。
　　
　　Everything　shimmered　in　that　heat；　became　uncertain　and　shifting。　The　sand　was　hot　when　I　touched　it；　and　insects　of　all　sorts　and　sizes　buzzed　and　whirred　about　me。　I　waved　them　away。
　　
　　Now　and　again　I　used　the　binoculars；　wiping　the　sweat　from　my　brows　and　lifting　the　glasses　to　my　eyes；　inspecting　the　distance　through　the　heat…thick　quivering　air。　My　scalp　crawled　with　perspiration；　and　my　crotch　itched。　I　checked　the　things　I　had　brought　with　me　more　often　than　I　usually　did；　absently　weighing　the　small　cloth　bag　of　steelies；　touching　the　Bowie　knife　and　catapult　on　my　belt；　making　sure　I　still　had　my　lighter；　wallet；　b；　mirror；　pen　and　paper。　I　drank　from　the　small　flask　of　water　that　I　had；　though　it　was　warm　and　tasted　stale　already。
　　
　　I　could　see　some　interesting…looking　pieces　of　flotsam　and　jetsam　when　I　looked　over　the　sands　and　the　lapping　sea；　but　I　stayed　on　the　dunes；　taking　the　higher　ones　when　I　had　to；　going　far　north；　over　streams　and　through　small　marshes；　past　the　Bomb　Circle　and　the　place　I　had　never　really　named；　where　Esmerelda　took　off。
　　
　　I　only　thought　of　them　after　I　had　passed　them。
　　
　　After　an　hour　or　so　I　turned　inland；　then　south；　along　the　last　of　the　mainland　dunes；　looking　out　over　the　scrubby　pasture　where　the　sheep　moved　slow；　like　maggots；　over　the　land；　eating。　Once　I　stood　a　while　and　watched　a　great　bird；　high　up　against　the　unbroken　blue；　wheeling　and　spiralling　on　the　thermals；　turning　this　way　and　that。　Below　it　a　few　gulls　shifted；　their　wings　outstretched　and　their　white　necks　pointing　about　as　they　searched　for　something。　I　found　a　dead　frog　high　on　a　dune；　dried　and　bloody　on　its　back　and　stuck　with　sand；　and　wondered　how　it　had　got　up　there。　Probably　dropped　by　a　bird　。
　　
　　I　put　on　my　little　green　cap　eventually；　shielding　my　eyes　from　the　glare。　I　swung　down　over　the　path；　level　with　the　island　and　the　house。　I　kept　going；　still　stopping　now　and　again　to　use　the　binoculars。　Cars　and　trucks　glinted　through　the　trees；　a　mile　or　so　away　on　the　road。　A　helicopter　flew　over　once；　most　likely　heading　for　one　of　the　rig　yards　or　a　pipeline。
　　
　　I　reached　the　dump　just　after　noon；　ing　through　some　small　trees　to　it。　I　sat　down　in　the　shade　of　one　tree　and　inspected　the　place　with　the　glasses。　Some　gulls　were　there；　but　no　people。　A　little　smoke　drifted　up　from　a　fire　near　its　centre；　and　spread　around　it　was　all　the　debris　from　the　town　and　its　area：　cardboard　and　black　plastic　bags　and　the　gleaming；　battered　whiteness　of　old　washing　machines；　cookers　and　fridges。　Papers　picked　themselves　up　and　went　round　in　a　circle　for　a　minute　or　so　as　a　tiny　whirlwind　started；　then　dropped　again。
　　
　　I　picked　my　way　through　the　dump；　savouring　its　rotten；　slightly　sweet　smell。　I　kicked　at　some　of　the　rubbish；　turned　a　few　interesting　things　over　with　one　booted　foot；　but　could　see　nothing　worthwhile。　One　of　the　things　I　had　e　to　like　about　the　dump　over　the　years　was　the　way　that　it　never　stayed　the　same；　it　moved　like　something　huge　and　alive；　spreading　like　an　immense　amoeba　as　it　absorbed　the　healthy　land　and　the　collective　waste。　But　this　day　it　looked　tired　and　boring。　I　felt　impatient　with　it；　almost　angry。　I　threw　a　couple　of　aerosol　cans　into　the　weak　fire　bumming　in　the　middle；　but　even　they　provided　little　diversion；　popping　effetely　inside　the　pale　flames。　I　left　the　dump　and　headed　south　again。
　　
　　
　　Near　a　small　stream　about　a　kilometre　from　the　du