Our story today is called "The Law of Life." It was written by Jack London. Here is Shep O'Neal with the story.
STORYTELLER:
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?
ANNOUNCER:
You have just heard the American story "The Law of Life." It was
written by Jack London. Your storyteller was Shep O'Neal. Listen again
next week for another American story in V.O.A. Special English. I'm
Faith Lapidus.
sumber : http://www.manythings.org/voa/stories/The_Law_of_Life_-_By_Jack_London.html
