Jack London - Звичай бiлої людини = The White Man's Way

Мейлмют Кід працював, прислухаючись до марення Мейсона, який знов повернувся у Теннессі й виголошував довгі безладні промови, звертаючись до своїх колишніх парафіян.

Поблизу росли сосни, і це полегшило справу. Рут дивилася, як Мейлмют Кід ладнає схованку, подібну до тої, що влаштовують мисливці, аби вберегти м’ясо від росомах та собак. Він прихилив верхівки двох молодих сосон одна до одної і, нагнувши їх майже до самої землі, зв’язав ременями з оленячої шкіри. Потім приборкав собак ударами нагая, запріг їх у нарти і поклав туди все, окрім шкур, у які був закутаний Мейсон. Він обв’язав тіло помираючого ременями і прикріпив їхні кінці до верхівок сосон. Один удар ножа розрубає ремені, і тіло злетить у повітря.

Рут покірно вислухала останню волю чоловіка. Бідолашна жінка була привчена до покори. Ще дівчинкою вона, як і всі її одноплемінниці, звикла схилятися перед чоловіками – володарями усього живого – і знала, що жінці личить бути слухняною. Кід дозволив їй на мить виявити своє горе і востаннє поцілувати чоловіка – її народ не знає такого звичаю, – а потім відвів її до передніх нарт і допоміг надягти лижі. Наче сліпа, вона машинально взяла жердину й нагай і, поганяючи собак, рушила в путь. А Кід повернувся до Мейсона, що вже був без пам’яті. І після того, як Рут зникла з виду, він іще довго сидів біля вогню, вимолюючи в неба скорої смерті для свого товариша.

Тяжко лишитися наодинці з болісними думками серед Білої тиші. Мовчання темряви милосердне, воно ніби огортає людину невидимим покривом співчуття; але сяюча Біла тиша, прозора крижана пустка під сталевим небом, не знає жалю.

Минула година, дві – Мейсон не вмирав. Опівдні сонце, не визираючи з-за обрію, осяяло небо тьмяним відблиском свого вогню; та скоро він згас. Мейлмют Кід встав, повільно підійшов до товариша і озирнувся довкола. Біла тиша немовби глумилася з нього, і йому стало страшно. Різко прозвучав одинокий постріл. Мейсон злетів у свою піднебесну гробницю, а Мейлмют Кід, поганяючи собак, помчав у сніжну далечінь.

Day had broken cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth-bank, where a dim and little-traveled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o’clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few more days must pass before that cheerful orb, due south, would just peep above the sky line and dip immediately from view.

The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle undulations where the ice jams of the freeze-up had formed. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white, save for a dark hairline that curved and twisted from around the spruce-covered island to the south, and that curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared behind another spruce-covered island. This dark hairline was the trail—the main trail—that led south five hundred miles to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on to the north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael, on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and half a thousand more.

But all this—the mysterious, far-reaching hairline trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all—made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man’s frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man’s place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.

As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty below—how much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek country, while he had come the roundabout way to take a look at the possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from the islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six o’clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper would be ready. As for lunch, he pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket. It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep the biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.

He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed over, and he was glad he was without a sled, traveling light. In fact, he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he concluded, as he rubbed his numb nose and cheekbones with his mittened hand. He was a warm-whiskered man, but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheekbones and the eager nose that thrust itself aggressively into the frosty air.