advance of the U.S. Cavalry. When at last, divided and illprovisioned, they were driven onto the Staked Plains in the cold rains of autumn, they fell into panic. In Palo Duro Canyon they abandoned their crucial stores to pillage and had nothing then but their lives. In order to save themselves, they surrendered to the soldiers at Fort Sill and were imprisoned in the old stone corral that now stands as a military museum. My grandmother was spared the humiliation of those high gray walls by eight or ten years, but she must have known from birth the affliction of defeat, the dark brooding of old warriors.
Her name was Aho, and she belonged to the last culture to evolve in North America. Her forebears came down from the high country in western Montana nearly three centuries ago. They were a mountain people, a mysterious tribe of hunters whose language has never been positively classified in any major group. In the late seventeenth century they began a long migration to the south and east. It was a journey toward the dawn, and it led to a golden age. Along the way the Kiowas were befriended by the Crows, who gave them the culture and religion of the Plains. They acquired horses, and their ancient nomadic spirit was suddenly free of the ground. They acquired Tai-me, the sacred Sun Dance doll, from that moment the object and symbol of their worship, and so shared in the divinity of the sun. Not least, they acquired the sense of destiny, therefore courage and pride. When they entered upon the southern Plains they had been transformed. No longer were they slaves to the simple necessity of survival; they were a lordly and dangerous society of fighters and thieves, hunters and priests of the sun. According to their origin myth, they entered the world through a hollow log. From one point of view, their migration was the fruit of an old prophecy, for indeed they emerged from a sunless world.
Although my grandmother lived out her long life in the shadow of Rainy Mountain, the immense landscape of the continental interior lay like memory in her blood. She could tell of the Crows, whom she had never seen, and of the Black Hills, where she had never been. I wanted to see in reality what she had seen more perfectly in the mind's eye, and traveled fifteen hundred miles to begin my pilgrimage.
Yellowstone, it seemed to me, was the top of the world, a region of deep lakes and dark timber, canyons and waterfalls. But, beautiful as it is, one might have the sense of confinement there. The skyline in all directions is close at hand, the high wall of the woods and deep cleavages of shade. There is a perfect freedom in the mountains, but it belongs to the eagle and the elk, the badger and the bear. The Kiowas reckoned their stature by the distance they could see, and they were bent and blind in the wilderness.
Descending eastward, the highland meadows are a stairway to the plain. In July the inland slope of the Rockies is luxuriant with flax and buckwheat, stonecrop and larkspur. The earth unfolds and the limit of the land recedes. Clusters of trees, and animals grazing far in the distance, cause the vision to reach away and wonder to build upon the mind. The sun follows a longer course in the day, and the sky is immense beyond all comparison. The great billowing clouds that sail upon it are shadows that move upon the grain like water, dividing light. Farther down, in the land of the Crows and Blackfeet, the plain is yellow. Sweet clover takes hold of the hills and bends upon itself to cover and seal the soil. There the Kiowas paused on their way; they had come to the place where they must change their lives. The sun is at home on the plains. Precisely there does it have the certain character of a god. When the Kiowas came to the land of the Crows, they could see the darklees of the hills at dawn across the Bighorn River, the profusion of light on the grain shelves, the oldest deity ranging after the solstices. Not yet would they veer southward to the caldron of the land that lay below; they must wean their blood from the northern winter and hold the mountains a while longer in their view. They bore Tai-me in procession to the east.
A dark mist lay over the Black Hills, and the land was like iron. At the top of a ridge I caught sight of Devil's Tower upthrust against the gray sky as if in the birth of time the core of the earth had broken through its crust and the motion of the world was begun. There are things in nature that engender an awful quiet in the heart of man; Devil's Tower is one of them. Two centuries ago, because they could not do otherwise, the Kiowas made a legend at the base of the rock. My grandmother said: Eight children were there at play, seven sisters and their brother. Suddenly the boy was struck dumb; he trembled and began to run upon his hands and feet. His fingers became claws, and his body was covered with fur. Directly there was a bear where the boy had been. The sisters were terrified; they ran, and the bear after them. They came to the stump of a great tree, and the tree spoke to them. It bade them climb upon it, and as they did so it began to rise into the air. The bear came to kill them, but
they were just beyond its reach. It reared against the tree and scored the bark all around with its claws. The seven sisters were borne into the sky, and they became the stars of the Big Dipper.
From that moment, and so long as the legend lives, the Kiowas have kinsmen in the night sky. Whatever they were in the mountains, they could be no more. However tenuous their well-being, however much they had suffered and would suffer again, they had found a way out of the wilderness.
My grandmother had a reverence for the sun, a holy regard that now is all but gone out of mankind. There was a wariness in her, and an ancient awe. She was a Christian in her later years, but she had come a long way about, and she never forgot her birthright. As a child she had been to the Sun Dances; she had taken part in those annual rites, and by them she had learned the restoration of her people in the presence of Tai-me. She was about seven when the last Kiowa Sun Dance was held in 1887 on the Washita River above Rainy Mountain Creek. The buffalo were gone. In order to consummate the ancient sacrifice--to impale the head of a buffalo bull upon the medicine tree--a delegation of old men journeyed into Texas, there to beg and barter for an animal from the Goodnight herd. She was ten when the Kiowas came together for the last time as a living Sun Dance culture. They could find no buffalo; they had to hang an old hide from the sacred tree. Before the dance could begin, a company of soldiers rode out from Fort Sill under orders to disperse the tribe. Forbidden without cause the essential act of their faith, having seen the wild herds slaughtered and left to rot upon the ground, the Kiowas backed away forever from the medicine tree. That was July 20, 1890, at the great bend of the Washita. My grandmother was there. Without bitterness, and for as long as she lived, she bore a vision of deicide.
Now that I can have her only in memory, I see my grandmother in the several postures that were peculiar to her: standing at the wood stove on a winter morning and turning meat in a great iron skillet; sitting at the south window, bent above her beadwork, and afterwards, when her vision failed, looking down for a long time into the fold of her hands; going out upon a cane, very slowly as she did when the weight of age came upon her; praying. I remember her most often at prayer. She made long, rambling prayers out of suffering and hope, having seen many things. I was never sure that I had the right to hear, so exclusive were they of all mere custom and company. The last time I saw her she prayed standing by the side of her bed at night, naked to the waist, the light of a kerosene lamp moving upon her dark skin. Her long, black hair, always drawn and braided in the day, lay upon her shoulders and against her breasts like a shawl. I do not speak Kiowa, and I never understood her prayers, but there was something inherently sad in the sound, some merest hesitation upon the syllables of sorrow. She began in a high and descending pitch, exhausting her breath to silence; then again and again--and always the same intensity of effort, of something that is, and is not, like urgency in the human voice. Transported so in the dancing light among the shadows of her room, she seemed beyond the reach of time. But that was illusion; I think I knew then that I should not see her again.
Houses are like sentinels in the plain, old keepers of the weather watch. There, in a very little while, wood takes on the appearance of great age. All colors wear soon away in the wind and rain, and then the wood is burned gray and the grain appears and the nails turn red with rust. The windowpanes are black and opaque; you imagine there is nothing within, and indeed there are many ghosts, bones given up to the land. They stand here and there against the sky, and you approach them for a longer time than you expect. They belong in the distance; it is their domain.
Once there was a lot of sound in my grandmother's house, a lot of coming and going, feasting and talk. The summers there were full of excitement and reunion. The Kiowas are a summer people; they abide the cold and keep to themselves, but when the season turns and the land becomes warm and vital they cannot hold still; an old love of going returns upon them. The aged visitors who came to my grandmother's house when I was a child were made of lean and leather, and they bore themselves upright. They wore great black hats and bright ample shirts that shook in the wind. They rubbed fat upon their hair and wound their braids with strips of colored cloth. Some of them painted their faces and carried the scars of old and cherished enmities. They were an old council of warlords, come to remind and be reminded of who they were. Their wives and daughters served them well. The women might indulge themselves; gossip was at once the mark and compensation of their servitude. They made loud and elaborate talk among themselves, full of jest and gesture, fright and false alarm. They went abroad in fringed
and flowered shawls, bright beadwork and German silver. They were at home in the kitchen, and they prepared meals that were banquets.
There were frequent prayer meetings, and great nocturnal feasts. When I was a child I played with my cousins outside, where the lamplight fell upon the ground and the singing of the old people rose up around us and carried away into the darkness. There were a lot of good things to eat, a lot of laughter and surprise. And afterwards, when the quiet returned, I lay down with my grandmother and could hear the frogs away by the river and feel the motion of the air.
Now there is a funeral silence in the rooms, the endless wake of some final word. The walls have closed in upon my
grandmother's house. When I returned to it in mourning, I saw for the first time in my life how small it was. It was late at night, and there was a white moon, nearly full. I sat for a long time on the stone steps by the kitchen door. From there I could see out across the land; I could see the long row of trees by the creek, the low light upon the rolling plains, and the stars of the Big Dipper. Once I looked at the moon and caught sight of a strange thing. A cricket had perched upon the handrail, only a few inches away from me. My line of vision was such that the creature filled the moon like a fossil. It had gone there, I thought, to live and die, for there, of all places, was its small definition made whole and eternal. A warm wind rose up and purled like the longing within me.
The next morning I awoke at dawn and went out on the dirt road to Rainy Mountain. It was already hot, and the grasshoppers began to fill the air. Still, it was early in the morning, and the birds sang out of the shadows. The long yellow grass on the mountain shone in the bright light, and a scissortail hied above the land. There, where it ought to be, at the end of a long and legendary way, was my grandmother's grave. Here and there on the dark stones were ancestral names. Looking back once, I saw the mountain and came away.
第9课通往雨山的路 N?斯科特?莫米蒂
1．一座孤零零的小山在俄克拉荷马的草原上拔地而起，它的西面和北面是维奇塔山脉。对于我们克尔瓦人来说，它是个古老的界标，我们给它取名叫雨山。这里有世界上最恶劣的天气。冬季有大暴风雪，春季就刮起了飓风，到了夏季，草原热得就像铁砧一样。草变得又脆又黄。沿着河流和小溪，是长长的绿带，有一排排的山核桃树、柳树和金缕梅。从远望去，七八月里的树叶热得冒烟，犹如在火中挣扎。高高的草地上到处都是大个儿的黄绿色的蚱蜢．像玉米花一样爆裂开，刺得人痛。乌龟在红土地上爬行，不知要去何处。寂寞荒凉是这里的一大特点。草原上的一切都是疏离开来的，所见之物不会混杂在一起让人看不清楚。要么只是一山，要么只是一树、一人。清晨，太阳在你的背后冉冉升起，此时观看大地，你会失去平时的比例感。你会张开想像的翅膀，并认定这就是上帝造设宇宙的起始点。
2．我七月回到了雨山。我祖母于春季去世，我是想去她的墓地。她活得很老，最后因虚弱而死。她死的时候，是她现在惟一活着的女儿陪伴着她。听说她死时的脸像张孩子的脸。
3．我喜欢把她看作孩子。她出生时，俄克拉荷马人正生活在其所史上鼎盛时期的最后阶段。一个多世纪以来，他们掌控着从斯莫克山河到红河那片空旷的山脉，掌控着从加拿大河流的源头到阿肯色河和西马隆河交汇处的地域。他们与科曼斯人一道，统治着整个南部平原。发动战争是他们神圣的职责．他们是世人所知的最优秀的骑手。然而，对于克尔瓦人来说，作战更多是因为这是他们的习惯，而非为了生存。他们从来都不理解美国骑兵残酷的进攻。当最后四分五裂、弹尽粮绝时，他们便冒着冰凉的秋雨来到斯代克特平原，陷入了恐慌。在帕罗多罗坎，他们的弹粮被抢劫一空，只剩下了性命。为了拯救自己，他们在福特西尔投降，被监禁在一个石头堆砌的牛马棚。现在，这里已经是个军事博物馆了。我的祖母得以豁免那高高的灰墙里的羞辱，因为她是在此事件8年或10年后出生的。但自出生起，她就已经懂得失败给人带来的苦难．这使那些老战士们百思不得其解。 4．她的名字叫阿荷，属_丁北美最后的文化。差不多一个世纪前，她的祖先从蒙大拿两部来到这里。他们是一群山民，一个神秘的猎手部落．其语言从未分明地划归任何一个主要语种。17世纪晚期，他们开始了漫长的向南和向东移民。这个通向黎明的漫长的旅行，使他们达到其黄金时期。一路上，克尔瓦人被克罗人当作朋友，并给了他们平原上的文化和宗教。他们有了马，于是他们那古老的游牧精神使他们重新脱离了地面。他们拥有了太米，那神圣的太阳舞木偶，自那时起太米就成了他们的崇拜物和象征物。太米也是所有崇拜太阳的部落的崇拜物。同样重要的是，他们有着命运感，也有着勇气和荣誉感。当他们开始享受南部大平原时，他们已经被改变了。他们不再是为了简单的生活必需品的奴隶，而是一群傲慢危险的斗士和小偷、猎人和虔诚的太阳舞宗教徒。有关他们起源的神话告诉我们，他们是通过一根空心圆木来到了世上。从某种程度上说，他们的迁移是一个古老预言的结果，因为他们的确来自于一个没有太阳的世界。
5．虽然我的祖母在漫长的生活中从未离开过雨山，但大平原那广袤的景色却留在她的记忆中，仿佛她本人曾经在那里生活过。她能谈一些关于克罗人的事情，尽管她从未见过他们；她还知道黑山，虽然她从未去过那里。我想见识她想像当中的完美世界，于是走了1500英里，开始了我的朝圣。
6．对于我来说，黄石是世界上最好的地方。一个有许多深湖、黑木材、深峡谷和瀑布的地区。虽然黄石地区很美．但人们可能有受束缚、被禁锢的感觉。放眼望去，四周天际线近在咫尺，伸手可及。这天际线是一道树的高墙和一条条幽深的裂缝。山里有完全的自由，但这只属于老鹰、美洲赤鹿、獾和熊。克尔瓦人根据他们所能看清的距离来判断他们的位置；在荒野中他们时常弯着腰或者双眼迷茫。
7．由于位居落基山脉的坡上，向东看上去高高的草地就像通往平原的台阶。七月，落基山脉面向平原的内坡上长满了亚麻、荞麦、景天和翠雀等各种植物。当大地在我们面前展开时，陆地的边缘渐渐退去。远处的树木和吃着草的动物开阔了我们的视野，使人张开想像的翅膀。白天日照时间很长，天空宽阔无比。宛如波浪的大片云彩在天空中游动，就像一片片船帆。在庄稼地里投下了影子。再往下，在科洛任何黑足印第安人的领地，平原是黄色的。苜蓿长满了山丘，她低垂的叶子盖到地上，密密地封住土壤。克罗人在这里停下了脚步，他们来到了必须改变他们生活的地方。在大平原，太阳感到很舒坦。毫无疑问．这里有上帝的灵性。克尔瓦人来到克罗人的土地上，他们在黎明时，隔着比格好恩河可以看到山的背阴处，明媚的阳光照在层层的庄稼地上。然而，他们并不情愿改变方向，向南到脚下这块大锅似的土地。因为他们必须给身体充分的时间适应大平原。他们也不愿这么快就看不见雨山。他们把太米也带到了东方。
8．一层暗淡的雾霭笼罩着黑山，这里的土地贫瘠得像铁。在一座山脊顶上，我看到魔鬼塔高高插入灰蒙蒙的天空，似乎在时间诞生之时，地核开裂，地壳破裂，宇宙的运动从此开始。实际上有一些事情能使人们叹为观止。魔鬼塔就是其中之一。两个世纪以前，由于克尔瓦人无法用科学解释魔鬼塔的形式，冈此他们惟一能做的就是根据岩石，通过自己的想像编造故事。我祖母说，“八个孩子在玩耍，七个姐姐和一个弟弟。突然间男孩子变得哑巴了。他颤抖着，并用手脚爬行。他的手脚趾变成了爪子，身体也长上了毛。他一下子就变成了一只熊。姐姐们非常害怕，于是她们就跑，熊就跟着她们跑。她们来到了一棵大树桩下，树开始跟她们说话，命令她们爬上树。当她们爬上树时，树便开始上升。熊赶过来要吃她们．但够不着。于是熊站了起来，用它那尖锐的爪子胡乱抓着树皮。七个姐姐被运上了天，变成了大熊座内的北斗七星。”从那时起，只要这一传说还存在，克尔瓦人就跟夜空有一种亲缘关系。在山里，除了山民以外，他们不会再是别的什么了。无论他们的福分有多浅，无论他们的生活有多艰难，他们已经从荒原上找到了生存之路。
9．我的祖母对太阳怀有崇敬之情。然而，现在人们的这种感情已经没有了。在她身上有一种细致和古老的敬畏。她晚年时开始信基督教，但在成为基督教徒之前她改变了许多，她从未忘记自己与生俱来的权利。孩提时，她跳过太阳舞，也参加过那些一年一度的仪式，从中她懂得了她的同胞在太米面前的复原。1887年,当最后一次克尔瓦太阳舞会召开时。她大约七岁。水牛都没有了。为了完成那古老的祭祀----把公水牛的头穿在驱魔架上----一个老人代表团旅行到了德克萨斯，去乞讨并从古德奈特牧民那里换取水牛。作为太阳舞文化，克尔瓦人最后一次聚会那年她十岁。他们没有找到水牛；于是他们就不得不挂上一张旧兽皮。在舞会开始以前，福特希尔有人命令一群战士前来驱散这群部落。毫无理由地，关于他们信仰的基本行为被禁止了。看到野蛮人杀戮他们的同胞，然后把他们的尸体扔在地上慢慢腐烂，克尔瓦人从此永远地远离了驱麾架。这事发生在1890年7月20日，维吉塔河拐弯处。我祖母在那。没有感到痛苦，因为只要她活着，她就能忍受目睹上帝惨遭杀害。
10．虽然我只能把祖母留在我的记忆中．我却能够看到她一些特有的姿势：冬季的清晨站在木炉边翻烤着铁锅里的肉片；坐在南面窗前，手里捻着念珠，随后，当她看不见的时候，她就低下头，久久地注视着自己合在一起的双手；拄着拐杖出门，随着年事增高，走得越来越慢；她时常祈祷。我记忆最深刻的当数她的祈祷了。出于痛苦、希望，再加上经历了许多事情，她总是做长时间的祷告。我从来都不能肯定我有权利听她的祷告，她的祈祷并不遵循任何祷告形式的习俗。最后一次见到她时，是在夜间她站在床边祷告，身体裸到腰部，煤油灯光在她黑黑的皮肤上移动。她那白天里总是打成辫子的又长又黑的头发，散落在肩膀上，垂在胸前，宛如披肩。我不会说克尔瓦语，而且从来都听不懂她的祈祷，那声音里充满了悲伤，她起调很高，用尽全身力气，直到再也喊不出声音来；然后反复这样----总是用同样的气力，而有时像，有时又不像人类的声音。她对房屋里的影子间跳跃的光很着迷，这让人觉得她会永远活在世上。然而，这都是幻觉。那时我已经知道，不久我就不会再见到她了。 11．平原上的房屋就像哨兵。它们是古老的天气守卫者。在那里，用不了多久，树木就会看起来很老。所有的颜色都会在风吹雨打中褪去，然后树木变灰，长出纹理，钉子生锈变红。窗户玻璃黑且透明，你可以想像里面什么都没有，然而确实有许多鬼魂和尸骨。他们站在不同的地方挡住天空，你会觉得走近他们所花费的时间比想像的还长。它们属于远方，那是它们的领地。
12.在我祖母的房间里，曾经有过许多声音，许多人来来往往，举行盛会，谈笑风生。夏日里充满了兴奋与团聚。克尔瓦人夏季很活跃，他们忍受冬日的寒冷，不与外人接触；但当季节变幻，大地变暖，充满生机时，他们就会按捺不住；对活动的那种古老的热爱又回到了他们身边。我小的时候，来我祖母家的那些年长者都精瘦，但腰板硬朗。他们头戴大黑帽子，肥大的衬衫不断被风吹起。他们头抹头油，辫子上系着彩带。一些人把脸涂上色，身上带着旧时征战时落下的伤疤。他们是一群旧军阀，来这里是为了让自己和别人都记住他们是谁。他们的妻子和女儿把他们伺候得很好。而在这种场合，那些通常在家里伺候男人的女人们，则可以做她们想做的，或者做她们通常不能做的，比如，闲聊、大声喊叫、开玩笑、讲鬼故事等等。走出家门时，她们披着印花披肩，带着鲜亮的珍珠或者镍黄铜首饰。而在家里，她们却忙着下厨房，准备着丰盛的宴席。
13.经常有祷告性的集会和大型晚餐。小时候，我经常和表兄妹们在户外玩耍，灯总是放在地上，老人们的歌声在我们的周围响起，并传到黑暗处。不但有许多好吃的东西，也有许多笑声和惊喜。后来，当寂静重新回到我们身边时，我和祖母一起躺下，听着远处河边的蛙鸣，感受着空气的流动。
14．现在，房间里有一种葬礼般的寂静，那是对克尔瓦文化永远的守灵。祖母家的墙封了。当回去奔丧时，我一生中第一次感到这房子很小。那已是深夜，皎洁的月亮，几乎是满月。我在厨房门边的石阶上坐了很久。从那儿我能看到对面的大地；我能看到溪边那长长的树排，那起伏的草原上低低的光，还有那北斗七星。我曾望着月亮，看到一个怪物。一只蟋蟀歇在栏杆上，近在咫尺。我当时的视线正好能看到那只蟋蟀像块化石镶在满月之中。我猜想，那蟋蟀到那里去生活和死亡，是因为只有在那里它小小的价值才能变得完整和永恒。一阵暖风吹起，仿佛一种渴望在我的心中涌动。
15.次日清晨，我在黎明时分醒来，踏上了那满是尘土的雨山之路。天气已经很热，蚱蜢已开始四处活动。依然是清晨，鸟儿在树荫下歌唱着。山上，那长长的黄草地在阳光中闪亮，一只叉尾霸翁鸫从田过。在那里，在那长长的充满传奇色彩的路上，有我祖母的坟墓。四周深颜色的石头上刻着祖先们的名字。在回首，望着雨山，(带着开始新生活的意念)我离开了。
(崔林译，李丙奎审校)
Unit 10 “9. 11”事件前后
泰?摩西
As the ruins of the World Trade Towers smoldered at the southern end of Manhattan and the breeze stirred the ashes of thousands of human beings, a new age of anxiety was born. If someone had slept through September 11 and awakened, Rip Van Winkle-like today, he would open his eyes on an astonishing new landscape.
1．世贸大厦双塔的废墟还在曼哈顿区南端闷燃，微风将几千人的身躯化成的灰烬吹起，一个新的焦虑时代由此开始。如果有人在9月11日那天像瑞普?凡?温克尔那样恰好睡去，一觉醒来，眼前的这一派景象定让他瞠日结舌。
Guardsmen toting M-16s are stationed at our airports. The president of the United States attends a World Series game and the airspace over Yankee Stadium is closed, a line of snipers positioned on the stadium rooftop. The vice-president's safekeepers whisk him from place to place, just as his arch-nemesis Osama bin Laden is presumably moved from cave to cave halfway across the world. Anthrax panic sends Congress running from its chambers.
2．机场里驻进了背着V-16自动步枪的国民警卫队员。纽约扬基体育场上空的空域因美国总统亲临美国两大职业棒球联赛的决赛而关闭，禁止飞机通过。体育场的屋顶之上还部署了一排狙击手。副总统的保卫员们忙不迭地将他不断转移，正如他那难以对付的仇敌奥萨马?本?拉丹一样，据推测他此刻也在世界另一头从一个山洞转移到另一个山洞。议员们在炭疽病的恐慌中弃岗而逃。
The events of September 11 divided our world into two radically different eras. We watch wistfully as the pre-9/11 world drifts away on its raft of memory, cast in Technicolor shades of nostalgia. We will remember that assassinated world as idyllic, secure (never mind that it was neither), we will speak of it in the reverent tones reserved for the dead.
3．“9?11”事件将我们的世界划为截然不同的两个时代。我们带着惆怅，目送“9?11”之前的世界在怀旧的暗淡色彩中随记忆的小筏渐渐漂走远去。在我们的记忆中，这个突遭袭击的世界永远如诗如面，牢不可破(虽然实际并非如此)。谈到它时，我们总是像在谈论亡灵，语气异常恭敬。
Meanwhile, the post 9/11 era looms like an unmapped wilderness. As with other unclaimed territories throughout history, a fierce battle is being waged for its psychic, political and material capital. Former president Bill Clinton has called this conflict \
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