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to come and shake it out。〃
At the end of January came his disaster。 Some powerful animal that
he decided was a bob…cat； managing to get caught in one of his smaller
traps； dragged it away。 A heavy snow…fall put a stop midway to his
pursuit； losing the trail for him and losing himself。 There were but several
hours of daylight each day between the twenty hours of intervening
darkness； and his efforts in the grey light and continually falling snow
succeeded only in losing him more thoroughly。 Fortunately； when winter
snow falls in the Northland the thermometer invariably rises； so； instead of
the customary forty and fifty and even sixty degrees below zero； the
temperature remained fifteen below。 Also； he was warmly clad and had a
full matchbox。 Further to mitigate his predicament； on the fifth day he
killed a wounded moose that weighed over half a ton。 Making his camp
beside it on a spruce…bottom； he was prepared to last out the winter； unless
a searching party found him or his scurvy grew worse。
But at the end of two weeks there had been no sign of search； while his
scurvy had undeniably grown worse。 Against his fire； banked from outer
cold by a shelter…wall of spruce…boughs； he crouched long hours in sleep
and long hours in waking。 But the waking hours grew less； becoming
semi…waking or half…dreaming hours as the process of hibernation worked
their way with him。 Slowly the sparkle point of consciousness and
identity that was John Tarwater sank； deeper and deeper； into the
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THE RED ONE
profounds of his being that had been compounded ere man was man； and
while he was becoming man； when he； first of all animals； regarded
himself with an introspective eye and laid the beginnings of morality in
foundations of nightmare peopled by the monsters of his own ethic…
thwarted desires。
Like a man in fever； waking to intervals of consciousness； so Old
Tarwater awoke； cooked his moose…meat； and fed the fire； but more and
more time he spent in his torpor； unaware of what was day…dream and
what was sleep…dream in the content of his unconsciousness。 And here； in
the unforgetable crypts of man's unwritten history； unthinkable and
unrealizable； like passages of nightmare or impossible adventures of
lunacy； he encountered the monsters created of man's first morality that
ever since have vexed him into the spinning of fantasies to elude them or
do battle with them。
In short； weighted by his seventy years； in the vast and silent
loneliness of the North； Old Tarwater； as in the delirium of drug or
anaesthetic； recovered within himself； the infantile mind of the child…man
of the early world。 It was in the dusk of Death's fluttery wings that
Tarwater thus crouched； and； like his remote forebear； the child…man； went
to myth…making； and sun…heroizing； himself hero…maker and the hero in
quest of the immemorable treasure difficult of attainment。
Either must he attain the treasure … for so ran the inexorable logic of
the shadow…land of the unconscious … or else sink into the all…devouring
sea； the blackness eater of the light that swallowed to extinction the sun
each night 。 。 。 the sun that arose ever in rebirth next morning in the east；
and that had become to man man's first symbol of immortality through
rebirth。 All this； in the deeps of his unconsciousness （the shadowy
western land of descending light）； was the near dusk of Death down into
which he slowly ebbed。
But how to escape this monster of the dark that from within him
slowly swallowed him？ Too deep…sunk was he to dream of escape or feel
the prod of desire to escape。 For him reality had ceased。 Nor from within
the darkened chamber of himself could reality recrudesce。 His years
were too heavy upon him； the debility of disease and the lethargy and
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THE RED ONE
torpor of the silence and the cold were too profound。 Only from without
could reality impact upon him and reawake within him an awareness of
reality。 Otherwise he would ooze down through the shadow…realm of the
unconscious into the all… darkness of extinction。
But it came； the smash of reality from without； crashing upon his ear
drums in a loud； explosive snort。 For twenty days； in a temperature that
had never risen above fifty below； no breath of wind had blown movement；
no slightest sound had broken the silence。 Like the smoker on the opium
couch refocusing his eyes from the spacious walls of dream to the narrow
confines of the mean little room； so Old Tarwater stared vague…eyed
before him across his dying fire； at a huge moose that stared at him in
startlement； dragging a wounded leg； manifesting all signs of extreme
exhaustion； it； too； had been straying blindly in the shadow…land； and had
wakened to reality only just ere it stepped into Tarwater's fire。
He feebly slipped the large fur mitten lined with thickness of wool
from his right hand。 Upon trial he found the trigger finger too numb for
movement。 Carefully； slowly； through long minutes； he worked the bare
hand inside his blankets； up under his fur PARKA； through the chest
openings of his shirts； and into the slightly warm hollow of his left arm…pit。
Long minutes passed ere the finger could move； when； with equal
slowness of caution； he gathered his rifle to his shoulder and drew bead
upon the great animal across the fire。
At the shot； of the two shadow…wanderers； the one reeled downward to
the dark and the other reeled upward to the light； swaying drunkenly on
his scurvy…ravaged legs； shivering with nervousness and cold； rubbing
swimming eyes with shaking fingers； and staring at the real world all
about him that had returned to him with such sickening suddenness。 He
shook himself together； and realized that for lon