Chapter 61

The next morning I was not too wet and I was feeling strong. I thought this was remarkable considering the strain I was under and how little I had eaten in the last several days.

It was a fine day. I decided to try my hand at fishing, for the first time in my life. After a breakfast of three biscuits and one can of water, I read what the survival manual had to say on the subject. The first problem arose: bait. I thought about it. There were the dead animals, but stealing food from under a tiger's nose was a proposition I was not up to. He would not realize that it was an investment that would bring him an excellent return. I decided to use my leather shoe. I had only one left. The other I had lost when the ship sank.

I crept up to the lifeboat and I gathered from the locker one of the fishing kits, the knife and a bucket for my catch. Richard Parker was lying on his side. His tail jumped to life when I was at the bow but his head did not lift. I let the raft out.

I attached a hook to a wire leader, which I tied to a line. I added some lead weights. I picked three that had an intriguing torpedo shape. I removed my shoe and cut it into pieces. It was hard work; the leather was tough. I carefully worked the hook into a flat piece of hide, not through it but into it, so that the point of the hook was hidden. I let the line down deep. There had been so many fish the previous evening that I expected easy success.

I had none. The whole shoe disappeared bit by bit, slight tug on the line by slight tug on the line, happy freeloading fish by happy freeloading fish, bare hook by bare hook, until I was left with only the rubber sole and the shoelace. When the shoelace proved an unconvincing earthworm, out of sheer exasperation I tried the sole, all of it. It was not a good idea. I felt a slight, promising tug and then the line was unexpectedly light. All I pulled in was line. I had lost the whole tackle.

This loss did not strike me as a terrible blow. There were other hooks, leader wires and weights in the kit, besides a whole other kit. And I wasn't even fishing for myself. I had plenty of food in store.

Still, a part of my mind - the one that says what we don't want to hear-rebuked me. "Stupidity has a price. You should show more care and wisdom next time."

Later that morning a second turtle appeared. It came right up to the raft. It could have reached up and bit my bottom if it had wanted to. When it turned I reached for its hind flipper, but as soon as I touched it I recoiled in horror. The turtle swam away.

The same part of my mind that had rebuked me over my fishing fiasco scolded me again. "What exactly do you intend to feed that tiger of yours? How much longer do you think he'll last on three dead animals? Do I need to remind you that tigers are not carrion eaters? Granted, when he's on his last legs he probably won't lift his nose at much. But don't you think that before he submits to eating puffy, putrefied zebra he'll try the fresh, juicy Indian boy just a short dip away? And how are we doing with the water situation? You know how tigers get impatient with thirst. Have you smelled his breath recently? It's pretty awful. That's a bad sign. Perhaps you're hoping that he'll lap up the Pacific and in quenching his thirst allow you to walk to America? Quite amazing, this limited capacity to excrete salt that Sundarbans tigers have developed. Comes from living in a tidal mangrove forest, I suppose. But it is a limited capacity. Don't they say that drinking too much saline water makes a man-eater of a tiger? Oh, look. Speak of the devil. There he is. He's yawning. My, my, what an enormous pink cave. Look at those long yellow stalactites and stalagmites. Maybe today you'll get a chance to visit."

Richard Parker's tongue, the size and colour of a rubber hot-water bottle, retreated and his mouth closed. He swallowed.

I spent the rest of the day worrying myself sick. I stayed away from the lifeboat. Despite my own dire predictions, Richard Parker passed the time calmly enough. He still had water from the rainfall and he didn't seem too concerned with hunger. But he did make various tiger noises - growls and moans and the like - that did nothing to put me at ease. The riddle seemed irresolvable: to fish I needed bait, but I would have bait only once I had fish. What was I supposed to do? Use one of my toes? Cut off one of my ears?

A solution appeared in the late afternoon in a most unexpected way. I had pulled myself up to the lifeboat. More than that: I had climbed aboard and was rummaging through the locker, feverishly looking for an idea that would save my life. I had tied the raft so that it was about six feet from the boat. I fancied that with a jump and a pull at a loose knot I could save myself from Richard Parker. Desperation had pushed me to take such a risk.

Finding nothing, no bait and no new idea, I sat up - only to discover that I was dead centre in the focus of his stare. He was at the other end of the lifeboat, where the zebra used to be, turned my way and sitting up, looking as if he'd been patiently waiting for me to notice him. How was it that I hadn't heard him stir? What delusion was I under that I thought I could outwit him? Suddenly I was hit hard across the face. I cried out and closed my eyes. With feline speed he had leapt across the lifeboat and struck me. I was to have my face clawed off - this was the gruesome way I was to die. The pain was so severe I felt nothing. Blessed be shock. Blessed be that part of us that protects us from too much pain and sorrow. At the heart of life is a ruse box. I whimpered, "Go ahead, Richard Parker, finish me off. But please, what you must do, do it quickly. A blown fuse should not be overtested."

He was taking his time. He was at my feet, making noises. No doubt he had discovered the locker and its riches. I fearfully opened an eye.

It was a fish. There was a fish in the locker. It was flopping about like a fish out of water. It was about fifteen inches long and it had wings. A flying fish. Slim and dark grey-blue, with dry, featherless wings and round, unblinking, yellowish eyes. It was this flying fish that had struck me across the face, not Richard Parker. He was still fifteen feet away, no doubt wondering what I was going on about. But he had seen the fish. I could read a keen curiosity on his face. He seemed about ready to investigate.

I bent down, picked up the fish and threw it towards him. This was the way to tame him! Where a rat had gone, a flying fish would follow. Unfortunately, the flying fish flew. In mid-air, just ahead of Richard Parker's open mouth, the fish swerved and dropped into the water. It happened with lightning speed. Richard Parker turned his head and snapped his mouth, jowls flapping, but the fish was too quick for him. He looked astonished and displeased. He turned to me again. "Where's my treat?" his face seemed to inquire. Fear and sadness gripped me. I turned with the half-hearted, half-abandoned hope that I could jump onto the raft before he could jump onto me.

At that precise instant there was a vibration in the air and we were struck by a school of flying fish. They came like a swarm of locusts. It was not only their numbers; there was also something insect-like about the clicking, whirring sound of their wings. They burst out of the water, dozens of them at a time, some of them flick-flacking over a hundred yards through the air. Many dived into the water just before the boat. A number sailed clear over it. Some crashed into its side, sounding like firecrackers going off. Several lucky ones returned to the water after a bounce on the tarpaulin. Others, less fortunate, fell directly into the boat, where they started a racket of flapping and flailing and splashing. And still others flew right into us. Standing unprotected as I was, I felt I was living the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Every fish that hit me was like an arrow entering my flesh. I clutched at a blanket to protect myself while also trying to catch some of the fish. I received cuts and bruises all over my body.

The reason for this onslaught became evident immediately: dorados were leaping out of the water in hot pursuit of them. The much larger dorados couldn't match their flying, but they were faster swimmers and their short lunges were very powerful. They could overtake flying fish if they were just behind them and lunging from the water at the same time and in the same direction. There were sharks too; they also leapt out of the water, not so cleanly but with devastating consequence for some dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn't last long, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish jumped and jaws worked hard.

Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of these fish, and far more efficient. He raised himself and went about blocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many were eaten live and whole, struggling wings beating in his mouth. It was a dazzling display of might and speed. Actually, it was not so much the speed that was impressive as the pure animal confidence, the total absorption in the moment. Such a mix of ease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would be the envy of the highest yogis.

When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body for me, was six flying fish in the locker and a much greater number in the lifeboat. I hurriedly wrapped a fish in a blanket, gathered a hatchet and made for the raft.

I proceeded with great deliberation. The loss of my tackle that morning had had a sobering effect on me. I couldn't allow myself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keeping a hand pressed down on it, fully aware that it would try to jump away to save itself. The closer the fish was to appearing, the more afraid and disgusted I became. Its head came into sight. The way I was holding it, it looked like a scoop of loathsome fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone. The thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills opening and closing slowly. I could feel it pushing with its wings against my hand.

I turned the bucket over and brought its head against the bottom. I took hold of the hatchet. I raised it in the air.

Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but I couldn't complete the action. Such sentimentalism may seem ridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days, but those were the deeds of others, of predatory animals. I suppose I was partly responsible for the rat's death, but I'd only thrown it; it was Richard Parker who had killed it. A lifetime of peaceful vegetarianism stood between me and the willful beheading of a fish.

I covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned the hatchet around. Again my hand wavered in the air. The idea of beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply too much.

I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sight unseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish tightly in the blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, the more the fish struggled. I imagined what it would feel like if I were wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to break my neck. I was appalled. I gave up a number of times. Yet I knew it had to be done, and the longer I waited, the longer the fish's suffering would go on.

Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until I heard a cracking sound and I no longer felt any life fighting in my hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flying fish was dead. It was split open and bloody on one side of its head, at the level of the gills.

I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a killer. I was now as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy, bookish and religious, and now I had blood on my hands. It's a terrible burden to carry. All sentient life is sacred. I never forget to include this fish in my prayers.

After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fish looked like fish I had seen in the markets of Pondicherry. It was something else, something outside the essential scheme of creation. I chopped it up into pieces with the hatchet and put it in the bucket.

In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first I had no better luck than I'd had in the morning. But success seemed less elusive. The fish nibbled at the hook with fervour. Their interest was evident. I realized that these were small fish, too small for the hook. So I cast my line further out and let it sink deeper, beyond the reach of the small fish that concentrated around the raft and lifeboat.

It was when I used the flying fish's head as bait, and with only one sinker, casting my line out and pulling it in quickly, making the head skim over the surface of the water, that I finally had my first strike. A dorado surged forth and lunged for the fish head. I let out a little slack, to make sure it had properly swallowed the bait, before giving the line a good yank. The dorado exploded out of the water, tugging on the line so hard I thought it was going to pull me off the raft. I braced myself. The line became very taut. It was good line; it would not break. I started bringing the dorado in. It struggled with all its might, jumping and diving and splashing. The line cut into my hands. I wrapped my hands in the blanket. My heart was pounding. The fish was as strong as an ox. I was not sure I would be able to pull it in.

I noticed all the other fish had vanished from around the raft and boat. No doubt they had sensed the dorado's distress. I hurried. Its struggling would attract sharks. But it fought like a devil. My arms were aching. Every time I got it close to the raft, it beat about with such frenzy that I was cowed into letting out some line.

At last I managed to haul it aboard. It was over three feet long. The bucket was useless. It would fit the dorado like a hat. I held the fish down by kneeling on it and using my hands. It was a writhing mass of pure muscle, so big its tail stuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the raft. It was giving me a ride like I imagine a bucking bronco would give a cowboy. I was in a wild and triumphant mood. A dorado is a magnificent-looking fish, large, fleshy and sleek, with a bulging forehead that speaks of a forceful personality, a very long dorsal fin as proud as a cock's comb, and a coat of scales that is smooth and bright. I felt I was dealing fate a serious blow by engaging such a handsome adversary. With this fish I was retaliating against the sea, against the wind, against the sinking of ships, against all circumstances that were working against me. "Thank you, Lord Vishnu, thank you!" I shouted. "Once you saved the world by taking the form of a fish. Now you have saved me by taking the form of a fish. Thank you, thank you!"

Killing it was no problem. I would have spared myself the trouble - after all, it was for Richard Parker and he would have dispatched it with expert ease - but for the hook that was embedded in its mouth. I exulted at having a dorado at the end of my line - I would be less keen if it were a tiger. I went about the job in a direct way. I took the hatchet in both my hands and vigorously beat the fish on the head with the hammerhead (I still didn't have the stomach to use the sharp edge). The dorado did a most extraordinary thing as it died: it began to flash all kinds of colours in rapid succesion. Blue, green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-like on its surface as it struggled. I felt I was beating a rainbow to death. (I found out later that the dorado is famed for its death-knell iridescence.) At last it lay still and dull-coloured, and I could remove the hook. I even managed to retrieve a part of my bait.

You may be astonished that in such a short period of time I could go from weeping over the muffled killing of a flying fish to gleefully bludgeoning to death a dorado. I could explain it by arguing that profiting from a pitiful flying fish's navigational mistake made me shy and sorrowful, while the excitement of actively capturing a great dorado made me sanguinary and self-assured. But in point of fact the explanation lies elsewhere. It is simple and brutal: a person can get used to anything, even to killing.

It was with a hunter's pride that I pulled the raft up to the lifeboat. I brought it along the side, keeping very low. I swung my arm and dropped the dorado into the boat. It landed with a heavy thud and provoked a gruff expression of surprise from Richard Parker. After a sniff or two, I heard the wet mashing sound of a mouth at work. I pushed myself off, not forgetting to blow the whistle hard several times, to remind Richard Parker of who had so graciously provided him with fresh food. I stopped to pick up some biscuits and a can of water. The five remaining flying fish in the locker were dead. I pulled their wings off, throwing them away, and wrapped the fish in the now-consecrated fish blanket.

By the time I had rinsed myself of blood, cleaned up my fishing gear, put things away and had my supper, night had come on. A thin layer of clouds masked the stars and the moon, and it was very dark. I was tired, but still excited by the events of the last hours. The feeling of busyness was profoundly satisfying; I hadn't thought at all about my plight or myself. Fishing was surely a better way of passing the time than yarn-spinning or playing I Spy. I determined to start again the next day as soon as there was light.

I fell asleep, my mind lit up by the chameleon-like flickering of the dying dorado.

第六十一章

    第二天早上，我身上不那么湿了，也感觉自己强壮了些。考虑到我有多么紧张，过去几天里我吃得多么少，我想这是一件非常了不起的事。

    这是个晴天。我决定试试钓鱼，这是我平生第一次。早饭吃了3块饼干，喝了一罐水之后，我读了求生指南中关于这件事的是怎么说的。第一个问题出现了：鱼饵。我想了想。

    船上有死动物，但是从老虎鼻子底下偷食物，这可不是我能做到的事。他不会认识到这是一种投资，会给他带来高额的回报。我决定用自己的皮鞋。我还有一只鞋。另一只在船沉的时候弄丢了。

    我爬到救生艇上，从锁柜里拿了一套钓鱼工具和刀，还拿了一只桶，用来装钓到的鱼。理查德·帕克侧身躺着。我到船头时，他的尾巴突然竖了起来，但他没有抬头。我把小筏子放了出去。

    ’   我把鱼钩系在金属丝导缆器上，再把导缆器系在鱼线上，然后加上铅坠。我挑了三只有着迷惑方的水雷形状的坠子。我把鞋脱下来，切成片。这很困难，因为皮很 硬。我小心翼翼地把鱼钩穿进一块平展的皮里，不是穿过去，而穿进去，这样钩尖就藏在了皮里面。我把鱼线放进深深的水里。前一天晚上鱼太多了，所以我以为很 容易就能钓到。

    我一条都没有钓到。整只鞋一点又一点地消失了，鱼线一次又一次地被轻轻拉动，来了一条又一条快乐的吃白食的鱼，鱼钩上一块又 一块的饵被吃光了，最后我只剩下了橡胶鞋底和鞋带。当结果证明鞋带不能让鱼相信那是蚯蚓之后，完全出于绝望，我试了鞋底，整只鞋底都用上了。这是个好主 意。我感到鱼线被很有希望地轻轻拉了一下，接着变得出乎意料地轻。我拉上来的只有鱼线。整套钓具都丢了。

    这次损失并没有给我带来沉重的打击。那套钓鱼工具里还有其他的鱼钩、导缆金属丝和坠子，另外还有一整套钓鱼工具。而且我甚至不是在为自己钓鱼。我的食物储备还有很多。

    虽然如此，我大脑的一个部分——说逆耳之言的那部分——却责备了我。“愚蠢是有代价的。下次你应该更小心些，更聪明些。"

    那天上午，第二只海龟出现了。它径直游到了小筏子旁边。要是它愿意，它把头伸上来就可以咬我的屁股。它转过身去时，我伸手去抓它的后鳝，但刚一碰到，我就害怕地把手缩了回来，海龟游走了。

    责 备我钓鱼失败的那部分大脑又批评我了。“你究竟想用什么去喂你那只老虎？你以为他靠吃三只死动物能活多久？我是否需要提醒你，老虎不是腐食动物？就算是， 当他濒临死亡的时候，也许他不会桃挑拣拣。但是难道你不认为他在甘愿吃肿胀腐烂的死斑马之前会先尝尝只要游几下就能到口的鲜美多汁的印度小伙子吗？还有， 我们怎么解决水的问题呢？你知道老虎渴的时候是多么不耐烦地要喝水。最近你闻了他的口气了吗？相当糟糕。这是个不好的信号。也许你是在希望他会把太平洋的 水都舔光，既解了他的渴，又能让你走到美洲去？松达班的老虎有了这种从身体里排出盐分的有限能力，真让人惊奇。我估计这种能力来自它们生活的潮汐林。但它 毕竟是有限的。难道他们没有说过喝了太多的海水会让老虎吃人吗？噢，看哪。说到他，他就来了。他在打哈欠。天啊，天啊，一个多么巨大的粉红色岩洞啊。看看 那些长长的黄色的钟乳石和石笋。也许今天你就有机会进去参

    观了。”

    理查德·帕克那条大小颜色都和橡胶热水瓶一样的舌头缩了回去，他的嘴合上了。他吞咽了一下。

    那 天接下来的时间里，我担心得要死。我一直远离救生艇。虽然我自己的预测十分悲惨，但是理查德·帕克却过得相当平静。他还有下雨的时候积的水，而且他似乎并 不特别担心饥饿。但是他却发出了老虎会发出的各种声音——咆哮、呜咽以及诸如此类的声音——让我不能安心。这个谜题似乎无法解开：要钓鱼我就需要鱼饵，但 是我只有有了鱼才能有鱼饵。我该怎么办呢？用我的一个脚趾？割下我的一只耳朵？

    下午，一个解决办法以最出人意料的方式出现了。我扒上了救生 艇。不仅如此：我爬到了船上，在锁柜里仔细翻找，发疯般的寻找着能够救命的主意。我把小筏子系在船上，让它离船有六英尺。我设想，只需一跳，或松开一个绳 结，我就能把自己从理查德·帕克的口中救出来。绝望驱使我冒了这介险。

    我什么也没找到，没有鱼饵也没有新的主意，于是我坐了起来——却发现 他正目不转睛地凝视着我。他在救生艇的另一头，斑马原来待的地方，转身对着我，坐在那儿，看上去好像他一直在耐心地等着我注意到他。我怎么会没有听见他动 呢？我以自己比他聪明，这是什么样的错觉啊？突然，我脸上被重重打了一下。我大叫一声，闭上了眼睛。他用猫科动物的速度在救生艇上跃过，袭击了我。我的脸 会被抓掉的——我会以这样令人厌恶的方式死去。痛得太厉害了，我什么都感觉不到了。感谢震惊。感谢保护我们、让我们免受太多痛苦悲伤的那个部分。生命的中 心是一只保险丝盒。我抽泣着说：¨来吧，理查德·帕克，杀死我吧。但是我求你，无论你必须做什么，都请快一些。一根烧坏的保险丝不该被考验太多次。"

    他不慌不忙。他就在我脚边，发出叫声。毫无疑问，他发现了锁柜和里面的宝物。我害怕地睁开一只眼睛。

    是 一条鱼。锁柜里有一条鱼。它像所有离开水的鱼一样拍打着身体。它大约有十五英寸长，长着翅膀一样的胸鳍。一条飞鱼。它的身体细长，颜色是深灰蓝色，没长羽 毛的翅膀是干的，一双圆圆的发黄的眼睛一眨不眨。打在我脸上的是这条飞鱼，不是理查德·帕克。他离我还有十五英尺，肯定正在想我在干什么呢。但是他看见了 那条鱼。我能在他脸上看见极度的好奇。他似乎要准备开始调查了。

    我弯下腰，把鱼捡起来，朝他扔过去。这就是驯服他的方法！老鼠去的地方，飞 鱼可以跟着去。不幸的是，飞鱼会飞。就在理查德·帕克张开的嘴面前，飞鱼在半空中突然转弯，掉进了水里。这一切就像闪电一样迅速发生了。理查德·帕克转过 头，猛地咬过去，颈部垂肉晃荡着，怛是鱼的速度太快了，他根本咬不到。他看上去很吃惊，很不高兴。他又转向我。“你请我吃的东西呢？”他脸上的表情似乎在 问。恐惧和悲伤紧紧攫住了我。我半心半意地转过身去，心里半是希望在他跳起来扑向我之前我能跳到小筏子上去。

    就在那一刻，空气一阵震动，我 们遭到了一大群飞鱼的袭击。它们就像一群蝗虫一样涌来。说它们像蝗虫，不仅因为它们数量很多；而且因为它们的胸鳍发出像昆虫一样喀嚓喀嚷、嗡嗡嗡嗡的声 音。它们猛地从水里冲出来，每次有几十条，其中有儿条嗖嗖地迅速在空中飞出一百多码远。许多鱼就在船面前潜迸了水里。不少鱼从船上飞了过去。有些鱼撞上了 船舷，发出像燃放鞭炮一样的声音。有几条幸运的在油布上弹了一下，又回到了水里。另一些不那么幸运的直接落在了船上，开始拍打着舞动着身体，扑通扑通地蹦 跳着，喧嚷不已。还有一些鱼就直接撞到了我们身上。我站在那儿，没有任何保护，感到自己像圣塞巴斯蒂安一样在乱棍下殉难。每一条鱼撞上我，都像一枝箭射进 我的身体。我一边抓起一条毯子保护自己，一边试图抓住一条鱼。我浑身都是伤口和青肿。

    这场猛攻的原因很快就清楚了：很多鲼鳅正跃出水面，追 赶它们。体型大得多的鲼鳅飞起来无法和它们相比，但却比它们游得快得多，而且近距离猛扑的动作十分有力。如果鲼鳅紧跟在飞鱼后面，与飞鱼同时从水里冲出 来，朝同一方向冲过去，就能追上飞鱼。还有鲨鱼；它们也从水里跳出来，虽然跳得不高，但却给一些鲅鳅带来了灾难性的后果。水上的这种极端混乱的状态没有持 续多长时间；但是在这期间，海水冒着泡泡翻滚着，鱼在跳，嘴在用力地咬。

    理查德·帕克在这群鱼面前比我强硬得多，效率也高得多。他站立起 来，开始阻挡、猛击、狠咬所有他能够到的鱼。许多鱼被活生生地整条吃了下去，胸鳍还在他嘴里挣扎着拍打着。这是力量和速度的表现，令人惊叹不已。实际上， 给人深刻印象的不是速度，而是纯粹的动物所具有信心，是那一刻的全神贯注。这种既轻松自在，又专心致志的状态，这种禅定（禅定，瑜伽三个内助阶段之一，指 不间断地默想着自己沉思的对象，超越任何自我的回忆。）的状态，就连最高超的瑜伽大师也要羡慕。

    混乱结束之后，战果除了我痛得厉害的身体，还有锁柜里的六条鱼和救生艇上比这多得多的鱼。我急急忙忙用毯子裹起一条鱼，拿起一把斧子，朝小筏子走去。

    我 非常小心翼翼地开始做这件事情。那天早晨丢了钓具的事让我清醒了。我不能允许自己再犯错误。我小心地打开毯子，同时一直用一只手按着鱼，心里非常清楚，它 会试图跳走，救自己一命。鱼越是快要出现了，我越是感到害怕和恶心。我看见它的头了。我那样抓着它，让它看上去像从羊毛毯货筒里伸出来的一勺讨厌的鱼冰淇 淋。那个东西正喘息着要喝水，嘴和腮慢慢地一张一合。我能感到它的胸鳍在推我的手。我把桶倒过来，把鱼头压在桶下面。我拿起斧子。我把斧子举了起来。

    有 好几次，我举起了斧子要往下砍，但却无法完成这个动作。考虑到我在这之前几天所目睹的一切，这样的感情用事也许看上去很滑稽，但那些事不是我干的，是食肉 动物干的。我想我对老鼠的死应该负部分的责任，但我只是把它扔了过去；是理查德·帕克杀死了它。我一生奉行的和平的素食主义阻止了我去蓄意砍下鱼头。

    我用毯子盖住鱼头，把斧子掉转过来。我的手又一次在空中动摇了。用一把锤子去砸一个软软的活生生的头，这个想法太让人受不了了。

    我 放下了斧子。我决定要拧断它的脖子，这样就看不见那幅景象了。我把鱼紧紧地裹在毯子里，开始用两只手去拧它。我按得越重，鱼便挣扎得越厉害。，我想像如果 我自己被裹在毯子里，有人正试图拧断我的脖子，我会有什么样的感觉。我惊呆了。我放弃了很多次。然而我知道这是必须做的，而且我等的时间越长，鱼受折磨的 时间便会越长。

    泪水在我的双颊滚落，我不断地鼓励自己，直到听见喀嚓一声，我的手不再感到有任何生命在挣扎。我把裹着的毯子打开。飞鱼死了。它的身体被拧断了，头部一侧的鱼鳃处有血。

    我 为这可怜的小小的逝去的灵魂大哭一场。这是我杀死的第一条有知觉的生命。现在我成了一个杀手。现在我和该隐一样有罪。我是个16岁的无辜的小伙子，酷爱读 书，虔信宗教，而现在我的双手却沾满了鲜血。这是个可怕的重负。所有有知觉的生命都是神圣的。我祷告时从没有忘记过为这条鱼祈祷。

    在那之后事情就简单多了。既然这条飞鱼已经死了，它看上去就像我在本地治里的市场上看见过的其他鱼一样。它成了别的东西，在基本的造物计划之外的东西。我用斧子把它砍成几块，放进桶里。

    白 天快要过去时，我又试着钓了一次鱼。开始我的运气不比早上好。但是成功似乎不那么难以得到了。鱼热切地咬着鱼饵。它们显然很感兴趣。我注意到这都是些小 鱼，太小了，没法用鱼钩钓上来。于是我把鱼线抛得更远，抛进更深的水里，抛到小筏子和救生艇周围聚集的小鱼够不到的地方。

    我用飞鱼鱼头做饵，只用一只坠子，把鱼线抛出去，然后很快拉上来，让鱼头在水面上掠过，我正是用这种方法第一次让鱼上钩丁。一条鳅迅速游过来，猛地朝鱼头冲过来。

    我 稍稍放长鱼线，确保它把鱼饵全吞了下去，然后把鱼线猛地一拉。鲼鳅一下子从水里蹦了出来，它用力向下拖着鱼线，力气大得让我以为自己要被它从小筏子上拽掉 下去了。我做好了准备。鱼线开始绷得很紧。这条鱼线很牢，它不会断的。我开始把鲼鳅往上拉。它用足全身力气使劲挣扎，蹦着跳着，往水里扑，溅起了一阵阵水 花。鱼线勒进了我手里。

    我用毯子裹住手。我的心怦怦直跳。这条鱼像一头牛一样壮实。我不知道自己能不能把它拉上来。

    我注意到所有其他鱼都从小筏子和船的周围消失了。毫无疑问，它们一定感觉到了这条鲼鳅的痛苦。我加快了动作。它这样挣扎会引来鲨鱼的。但它却拼命斗争。我的胳膊已经疼了。每次我把它拉近小筏子，它都疯狂地拍打着，我吓得不得不把鱼线放长一些。

    最 后，我终于把它拉了上来。它有三英尺多长。桶是没有用了。用桶来装鲅鳅就像给它戴上一顶帽子。我跪在鱼身上，用两只手按住它。它完全就是一堆痛苦扭动的肌 肉。它太大了，尾巴从我身体下面伸了出来，重重地敲打着小筏子。我想，牛仔骑在一匹弓着背跃起的野马背上的感觉就和我骑在它身上的感觉是一样的吧。我情绪 激动，心里充满了胜利的喜悦。鲼鳅模样高贵，个大，肉多，线条优美，突出的前额说明了它坚强的个性，长长的背鳍像鸡冠一样骄傲地竖着，身上覆盖的鳞片又滑 又亮。我感到自己与这样漂亮的对手交战是给了命运沉重一击。我在用这条鱼报复大海，报复风，报复沉船事件，报复所有对我不利的事情。“谢谢你，毗湿奴，谢 谢你！”我叫道。“你曾变成鱼，拯救了世界。

    现在你变成鱼，拯救了我。谢谢你！谢谢你！”

    杀龟没有问题。我本来不必找此麻烦 ——毕竟这是给理查德·帕克的，他可以不费吹灰之力就利索地把鱼杀死——但是他取不出扎进鱼嘴里的鱼钩。我因为鱼线末端有一条鲼鳅而感到欢欣鼓舞——如果 那是一只老虎我就不会那么高兴了。我直截了当地开始干活了。我双手抓住斧子，用锤头用力砸鱼头（我还不想用锋利的刀刃）。鲼鳅死的时候做了一件特别不同寻 常的事：它开始闪烁各种各样的颜色，这些颜色一种接一种迅速变化着。伴随着它的不断挣扎，蓝色、绿色、红色、金色和紫罗兰色像霓虹灯一样在它身体表面忽隐 忽现，闪闪发光。我感到自己正在打死一道彩虹。(后来我发现鲼鳅是以其宣告死亡的彩虹色而闻名的。)最后，它一动不动地躺在那儿，身上颜色暗淡，我可以取 出鱼钩了。我甚至取回了一部分鱼饵。

    我曾经因为把飞鱼裹住杀死而哭泣，现在却高兴地用大锤头把鲼鳅打死，在这么短的时间内，我的转变如此之 快，也许你感到很惊讶。我可以用这个理由来解释，那就是，利用可怜的飞鱼的航海失误而得益，那让我感到害羞和伤心，而主动抓住一条大鲼鳅，这种兴奋却让我 变得残忍和自信。但是事实上却另有解释。这很简单也很严峻：人可以习惯任何事情，甚至习惯杀戮。

    我是带着猎人的骄傲把小筏子靠上救生艇的。 我让小筏子与救生艇并排，低低地猫着腰。我挥舞胳膊，把鲼鳅扔进船里。鱼砰地一声重重地掉在船上，让理查德·帕克惊讶得低低叫了一声。他先闻了几下，接着 我便听见咂吧嘴的声音。我把自己从救生艇旁推开，同时没有忘记用力吹几声哨子，提醒理查德·帕克是谁仁慈地给他提供了新鲜的食物。我停下来拿几块饼干和一 罐水。锁柜里剩下的五条飞鱼都死了。我把它们的胸鳍拽下来，扔掉，把鱼裹在现在已经交得神圣的裹鱼毯子里。

    我把身上的血迹冲洗干净，清理好 鱼具，把东西放好，吃过晚饭，这时夜幕已经降临了。薄薄的云层遮住了星星和月亮，周围非常地黑。我累了，但仍然在为前几个小时里发生的事而兴奋。忙碌的感 觉非常令人满足；我一点儿也没有想到我的困境或是我自己。与绕毛线或玩“我看见”游戏相比，钓鱼肯定是打发时间的更好办法。我决定第二天天一亮就再开始钓 鱼。

    我睡着了，奄奄一息的鲼鳅身上像变色蜥蜴一样变换闪烁的鳞光照亮了我的大脑。