绿里奇迹(英文版)-第18章

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　had　once　again　succeeded　in　destroying　what　we　could　not　create。　Some　of　the　folks　in　the　audience　had　begun　talking　in　those　low　voices　again；　most　sat　with　their　heads　down；　looking　at　the　floor；　as　if　stunned。　Or　ashamed。　
Harry　and　Dean　came　up　with　the　stretcher。　It　was　actually　Percy's　job　to　take　one　end；　but　he　didn't　know　and　no　one　had　bothered　to　tell　him。　The　Chief；　still　wearing　the　black　silk　hood；　was　loaded　onto　it　by　Brutal　and　me；　and　we　whisked　him　through　the　door　which　led　to　the　tunnel　as　fast　as　we　could　manage　it　without　actually　running。　Smoke　…　too　much　of　it　…　was　rising　from　the　hole　in　the　top　of　the　mask；　and　there　was　a　horrible　stench。　
〃Aw；　man！〃　Percy　cried；　his　voice　wavering。　'What's　that　smell？〃　
〃Just　get　out　of　my　way　and　stay　out　of　it；〃　Brutal　said；　shoving　past　him　to　get　to　the　wall　where　there　was　a　mounted　fire　extinguisher。　It　was　one　of　the　old　chemical　kind　that　you　had　to　pump。　Dean；　meanwhile；　had　stripped　off　the　hood。　It　wasn't　as　bad　as　it　could　have　been；　Bitterbuck's　left　braid　was　smouldering　like　a　pile　of　wet　leaves。　
〃Never　mind　that　thing；〃　I　told　Brutal。　I　didn't　want　to　have　to　clean　a　load　of　chemical　slime　off　the　dead　man's　face　before　putting　him　in　the　back　of　the　meatwagon。　I　slapped　at　The　Chief's　head　（Percy　staring　at　me；　wide…eyed；　the　whole　time）　until　the　smoke　quit　rising。　Then　we　carried　the　body　down　the　twelve　wooden　steps　to　the　tunnel。　Here　it　was　as　chilly　and　dank　as　a　dungeon；　with　the　hollow　plink…plink　sound　of　dripping　water。　Hanging　lights　with　crude　tin　shades　…　they　were　made　in　the　prison　machine…shop　…　showed　a　brick　tube　that　ran　thirty　feet　under　the　highway。　The　top　was　curved　and　wet。　It　made　me　feel　like　a　character　in　an　Edgar　Allan　Poe　story　every　time　I　used　it。　
There　was　a　gurney　waiting。　We　loaded　Bitterbuck's　body　onto　it；　and　I　made　a　final　check　to　make　sure　his　hair　was　out。　That　one　braid　was　pretty　well　charred；　and　I　was　sorry　to　see　that　the　cunning　little　bow　on　that　side　of　his　head　was　now　nothing　but　a　blackened　lump。　
Percy　slapped　the　dead　man's　cheek。　The　flat　smacking　sound　of　his　hand　made　us　all　jump。　Percy　looked　around　at　us　with　a　cocky　smile　on　his　mouth；　eyes　glittering。　Then　he　looked　back　at　Bitterbuck　again。　〃Adios；　Chief；〃　he　said。　〃Hope　hell's　hot　enough　for　you。〃　
〃Don't　do　that；〃　Brutal　said；　his　voice　hollow　and　declamatory　in　the　dripping　tunnel。　〃He's　paid　what　he　owed。　He's　square　with　the　house　again。　You　keep　your　hands　off　him。〃　
〃Aw；　blow　it　out；〃　Percy　said；　but　he　stepped　back　uneasily　when　Brutal　moved　toward　him；　shadow　rising　behind　him　like　the　shadow　of　that　ape　in　the　story　about　the　Rue　Morgue。　But　instead　of　grabbing　at　Percy；　Brutal　grabbed　hold　of　the　gurney　and　began　pushing　Arlen　Bitterbuck　slowly　toward　the　far　end　of　the　tunnel；　where　his　last　ride　was　waiting；　parked　on　the　soft　shoulder　of　the　highway。　The　gurney's　hard　rubber　wheels　moaned　on　the　boards；　its　shadow　rode　the　bulging　brick　wall；　waxing　and　waning；　Dean　and　Harry　grasped　the　sheet　at　the　foot　and　pulled　it　up　over　The　Chief's　face；　which　had　already　begun　to　take　on　the　waxy；　characterless　cast　of　all　dead　faces；　the　innocent　as　well　as　the　guilty。　
6。　
When　I　was　eighteen；　my　Uncle　Paul　…　the　man　I　was　named　for　…　died　of　a　heart　attack。　My　mother　and　dad　took　me　to　Chicago　with　them　to　attend　his　funeral　and　visit　relatives　from　my　father's　side　of　the　family；　many　of　whom　I　had　never　met。　We　were　gone　almost　a　month。　In　some　ways　that　was　a　good　trip；　a　necessary　and　exciting　trip；　but　in　another　way　it　was　horrible。　I　was　deeply　in　love；　you　see；　with　the　young　woman　who　was　to　bee　my　wife　two　weeks　after　my　nieenth　birthday。　One　night　when　my　longing　for　her　was　like　a　fire　burning　out　of　control　in　my　heart　and　my　head　（oh　yes；　all　right；　and　in　my　balls；　as　well）；　I　wrote　her　a　letter　that　just　seemed　to　go　on　and　on　…　I　poured　out　my　whole　heart　in　it；　never　looking　back　to　see　what　I'd　said　because　I　was　afraid　cowardice　would　make　me　stop。　I　didn't　stop；　and　when　a　voice　in　my　head　clamored　that　it　would　be　madness　to　mail　such　a　letter；　that　I　would　be　giving　her　my　naked　heart　to　hold　in　her　hand；　I　ignored　it　with　a　child's　breathless　disregard　of　the　consequences。　I　often　wondered　if　Janice　kept　that　letter；　but　never　quite　got　up　enough　courage　to　ask。　All　I　know　for　sure　is　that　I　did　not　find　it　when　I　went　through　her　things　after　the　funeral；　and　of　course　that　by　itself　means　nothing。　I　suppose　I　never　asked　because　I　was　afraid　of　discovering　that　burning　epistle　meant　less　to　her　than　it　did　to　me。　
It　was　four　pages　long；　I　thought　I　would　never　write　anything　longer　in　my　life；　and　now　look　at　this。　All　this；　and　the　end　still　not　in　sight。　If　I'd　known　the　story　was　going　to　go　on　this　long；　I　might　never　have　started。　What　I　didn't　realize　was　how　many　doors　the　act　of　writing　unlocks；　as　if　my　Dad's　old　fountain　pen　wasn't　really　a　pen　at　all；　but　some　strange　variety　of　skeleton　key。　The　mouse　is　probably　the　best　example　of　what　I'm　talking　about　…　Steamboat　Willy；　Mr。　Jingles；　the　mouse　on　the　Mile。　Until　I　started　to　write；　I　never　realized　how　important　he　（yes；　he）　was。　The　way　he　seemed　to　be　looking　for　Delacroix　before　Delacroix　arrived；　for　instance　…　I　don't　think　that　ever　occurred　to　me；　not　to　my　conscious　mind；　anyway；　until　I　began　to　write　and　remember。　
I　guess　what　I'm　saying　is　that　I　didn't　realize　how　far　back　I'd　have　to　go　in　order　to　tell　you　about　John　Coffey；　or　how　long　I'd　have　to　leave　him　there　in　his　cell；　a　man　so　huge　his　feet　didn't　just　stick　off　the　end　of　his　bunk　but　hung　down　all　the　way　to　the　floor。　I　don't　want　you　to　forget　him；　all　right？　I　want　you　to　see　him　there；　looking　up　at　the　ceiling　of　his　cell；　weeping　his　silent　tears；　or　putting　his　arms　over　his　face。　I　want　you　to　hear　him；　his　sighs　that　trembled　like　sobs；　his　occasional　watery　groan。　These　weren't　the　sounds　of　agony　and　regret　we　sometimes　heard　on　E　Block；　sharp　cries　with　splinters　of　remorse　in　them；　like　his　wet　eyes；　they　were　somehow　removed　from　the　pain　we　were　used　to　dealing　with。　In　a　way　…　I　know　how　crazy　this　will　sound；　of　course　I　do；　but　there　is　no　sense　in　writing　something　as　long　as　this　if　you　can't　say　what　feels　true　to　your　heart　…　in　a　way　it　was　as　if　it　was　sorrow　for　the　whole　world　he　felt；　something　too　big　ever　to　be　pletely　eased。　Sometimes　I　sat　and　talked　to　him；　as　I　did　with　all　of　them　…　talking　was　our　biggest；　most　important　job；　as　I　believe　I　have　said　…　and　I　tried　to　fort　him。　I　don't　feel　that　I　ever　did；　and　part　of　my　heart　was　glad　he　was　suffering；　you　know。　Felt　he　deserved　to　suffer。　I　even　thought　sometimes　of　calling　the　governor　（or　getting　Percy　to　do　it　…　hell；　he　was　Percy's　damn　uncle；　not　mine）　and　asking　for　a　stay　of　execution。　We　shouldn't　burn　him　yet；　I'd　say　It's　still　hurting　him　too　much；　biting　into　him　too　much；　twisting　in　his　guts　like　a　nice　sharp　stick。　Give　him　another　niy　days；　your　honor；　sir。　Let　him　go　on　doing　to　himself　what　we　can't　do　to　him。　
It's　that　John　Coffey　I'd　have　you　keep　to　one　side　of　your　mind　while　I　finish　catching　up　to　where　I　started　…　that　John　Coffey　lying　on　his　bunk；　that　John　Coffey　who　was　afraid　of　the　dark　perhaps　with　good　reason；　for　in　the　dark　might　not　two　shapes　with　blonde　curls　…　no　longer　little　girls　but　avenging　harpies　…　be　waiting　for　him？　That　John　Coffey　whose　eyes　were　always　streaming　tears；　like　blood　from　a　wound　that　can　never　heal。　
7。　
So　The　Chief　burned　and　The　President　walked　…　as　far　as　C　Block；　anyway；　which　was　home　to　most　of　Cold　Mountain's　hundred　and　fifty　lifers。　Life　for　The　Pres　turned　out　to　be　twelve　years。　He　was　drowned　in　the　prison　laundry　in　1944。　Not　the　Cold　Mountain　prison　laundry；　Cold　Mountain　closed　in　1933。　I　don't　suppose　it　mattered　much　to　the　inmates　…　wars　is　walls；　as　the　cons　say；　and　Old　Sparky　was　every　bit　as　lethal　in　his　own　little　stone　death　chamber；　I　reckon；　as　he'd　ever　been　in　the　storage　room　at　Cold　Mountain。　
As　for　The　Pres；　someone　shoved　him　face…first　into　a　vat　of　dry…cleaning　fluid　and　held　him　there。　When　the　guards　pulled　him　out　again；　his　face　was　almost　entirely　gone。　They　had　to　ID　him　by　his　fingerprints。　On　the　whole；　he　might　have　been　better　off　with　Old　Sparky　。。。　but　then　he　never　would　have　had　those　extra　twelve　years；　would　he？　I　doubt　he　thought　much　about　them；　though；　in　the　last　minute　or　so　of　his　life；　when　his　lungs　were　trying　to　learn　how　to　breathe　Hexlite　and　lye　cleanser。　
They　never　caught　whoever　did　for　him。　By　then　I　was　out　of　the　corrections　line　of　work；　but　Harry　Terwilliger　wrote　and　told　me。　〃He　got　muted　mostly　because　he　was　white；〃　Harry　wrote；　〃but　he　got　it　in　the　end；　just　the　same。　I　just　think　of　it　as　a　long　stay　of　execution　that　finally　ran　out。〃　
There　e　for　us　in　E　Block；　once　The　Pres　was　gone。　Harry　and　Dean　were　temporarily　reassigned；　and　it　was　just　me；　Brutal；　and　Percy　on　the　Green　Mile　for　a　little　bit。　Which　actually　meant　just　me　and　Brutal；　because　Percy　kept　pretty　much　to　himself。　I　tell　you；　that　young　man　was　a　genius　at　finding　things　not　to　do。　And　every　so　often　（but　only　when　Percy　wasn't　arou