jefflong.yearzero-第32节

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　He　wandered　about　the　ruins；　putting　off　the　cold　and　the　pain　of　his　wounds　for　as　long　as　possible。　It　was　going　to　be　a　long；　brutal　night。　He　had　no　blanket　and　no　way　to　make　fire。　There　were　no　branches　to　cover　himself。　Once　he　lay　down；　his　lacerations　and　the　frozen　earth　would　wrack　him。　His　limbs　would　stiffen。　For　all　he　knew；　strange　animals　might　rise　up　in　the　darkness。　By　dawn；　his　captors　might　have　found　him。　No；　while　there　was　still　light；　he　forced　himself　to　stay　on　his　feet。
　In　that　way；　he　came　upon　the　petroglyphs。
　The　wind　and　vandals　had　abraded　them　from　exposed　places；　and　snow　had　covered　others。　But　at　the　rear　of　the　caves；　in　more　hidden　spaces；　cut　into　the　walls　and　boulders　or　scratched　into　black　soot　smoked　onto　the　stone；　primitive　hands　had　drawn　animals　and　geometric　shapes　and　stick　figures。　In　them；　the　village　came　to　life。
　Many　of　the　particulars　were　strange　to　him；　the　horned　beasts　that　were　neither　sheep　nor　goats；　the　crops　that　were　not　wheat；　the　lions　that　were　not　quite　lions。　Yet　the　drawings　spoke　to　him　directly。　In　the　snakes　and　birds；　he　saw　their　reverence　for　the　earth　and　sky。　The　spirals　led　inward　to　the　center。。。not　outward　to　anarchy。　Here　was　lightning；　and　that　was　the　alphabet　of　God。
　He　had　seen　glyphs　like　these　in　the　caves　of　his　own　land。　Sticklike　figures　of　men　danced　and　hunted。　Mystical　symbols　sprang　out　at　him。　He　recognized　an　insect…like　character　with　an　enormous　jutting　phallus　and　a　flute。　That　was　the　peddler；　the　wanderer；　the　seducer。。。the　fertile　heart。　For　the　unwary；　he　was　the　one　who　could　be　the　devil。　But　in　the　proper　circumstances；　if　you　were　fortunate；　his　could　be　the　prophet's　song；　the　very　essence　of　inspiration。
　At　last　the　pain　and　exhaustion　were　too　much。　The　fugitive　staggered　in　place。　The　snow　around　his　feet　turned　red。　Daylight　was　failing。　He　chose　the　remains　of　a　house　built　inside　a　cave；　and　crawled　into　its　deepest　recess。　There　was　no　snow　in　here。　With　the　last　of　his　strength；　he　stacked　rocks　in　the　doorway　and　lay　down　with　his　back　against　the　wall。
　The　wind　sang　through　the　cracks。　There　was　no　food。　He　had　no　idea　which　way　lay　east。　Yet　he　felt　the　torment　in　his　soul。。。lift。
　The　ruins　provided　more　than　just　a　shelter。　For　the　first　time　since　being　born　into　this　bleak　underworld；　he　felt　a　sense　of　place　and　time。
　He　dreamed　of　his　mother　and　father；　except　they　were　not　dreams　because　his　sleep　was　not　sleep。　Bleeding　out；　sapped　by　the　cold；　he　slowly　floated　into　delirium。　It　was　as　if　he　were　freezing　into　stone。
　　
　IN　THE　MORNING；　their　soldiers　found　him。　He　heard　their　voices。　Daylight　pierced　the　cracks　in　the　wall。　Unable　to　move；　he　could　only　watch　as　they　clawed　the　rocks　from　his　doorway；　and　they　were　like　animals　ing　into　his　tomb。
　
　12
　The　Orphan
　
　LOSALAMOS
　MARCH
　Miranda　watched　the　orphan　from　the　dimmed　observation　booth。　The　girl　sat　facing　the　opposite　wall；　legs　folded。Crisscross；　apple…sauce。　She　was　very　still　this　morning。　They　had　dressed　her…forcibly…in　pink　Oshkosh　b'Gosh　overalls。　Broken　toys　surrounded　her。　A　sippy　cup　with　orange　juice　sat　by　one　knee。
　Ever　since　Elise's　death；　Miranda　had　made　herself　an　unseen　presence　in　the　little　girl's　world。　Twice　a　day；　every　day；　no　matter　how　heavy　her　lab　schedule；　she　had　e　to　watch　the　four…year…old。　It　gave　her　fort。　It　reminded　her　of　things。　Elise　had　hovered　over　her　in　just　such　a　way　after　Miranda's　mother　died；　getting　as　close　as　she　dared。　In　a　sense；　Miranda　felt　she　was　returning　the　favor。　She　wondered　if　she　had　been　as　mysterious　to　Elise　as　this　nameless　child　was　to　her。
　Miranda　never　went　into　the　room　itself。　For　one　thing；　the　child　had　bee　too　dangerous　to　herself　and　to　others。　For　another；　Miranda　didn't　want　to　spoil　her　fantasy　of　a　special　connection　with　the　orphan。
　It　was　a　cheery　room；　still　bright　with　several　gallons　of　Martha　Stewart　paints　confiscated　by　the　National　Guard　after　the　Albuquerque　riots　back　in　October。　Volunteers　had　painted　happy　yellow　sunflowers　on　the　sky　blue　wall。　A　big　rainbow　arched　over　the　steel　doorway。　Much　of　the　paint　had　faded　from　the　water　hose　and　disinfectants。　But　you　still　got　the　idea：　a　little　girl's　sanctuary。
　Her　window…bulletproof　so　that　she　could　not　break　it…looked　east　upon　the　snowy　Jemez　Mountains。　She　had　a　red　and　blue　plastic　bed　with　a　treasured　Pooh　blankie。　In　the　corner　sat　her　potty。　A　mobile　made　of　pink　scallop　shells　hung　from　the　ceiling。　Scientists　and　soldiers　with　families　had　donated　toys。　There　was　no　denying　that　people　had　tried　to　love　the　unlovable　child。
　For　a　time；　the　orphan　had　bee　something　of　a　celebrity；　a　distraction　from　the　plague。　Like　Miranda；　strangers　would　swing　by　during　their　lunch　hour　to　sit　in　the　booth　and　eat　their　sandwiches　while　she　played；　blissfully　unaware　of　her　spectators。　This　past　Christmas；　second　graders　had　gathered　outside　her　window　to　sing　carols。　The　kids　had　held　a　name　contest；　and　hundreds　of　suggestions　poured　in；　from　Britney　and　Madonna　to　Ice。　Nothing　quite　fit。Sin　Nombre；　they　ended　up　calling　her。No　Name。
　She　was　quirky；　but　ungodly　gifted　for　a　four…year…old。　They　marveled　at　her　right…brain　prowess。　At　an　age　when　children　were　barely　imitating　lines；　she　was　drawing　the　aspen　tree　outside　her　window　with　ten　different　colored　crayons。　It　was　the　same　tree　each　day；　but　always　different。　She　changed　her　palette；　her　theme；　the　size　of　the　tree；　the　emotions。　Some　pictures　had　leaves；　some　bare　branches。　Some　used　tiny　suns　or　tongues　of　flame　or　birds　for　leaves。　No　one　knew　where　she　had　seen　fire。　Then　they　remembered　the　candle　flames　of　second…grade　carolers。
　Lately　a　figure　had　crept　into　her　drawings；　usually　seated　under　the　tree。　It　was　a　stick　figure　to　begin　with；　remarkable　in　itself　for　her　age。　With　astonishing　speed；　a　matter　of　a　week　or　so；　the　figure　had　acquired　fingers　and　a　face　with　disproportionate　details。　It　was　Miranda　who　finally　figured　out　the　distortions。　Lacking　a　mirror；　the　girl　had　felt　her　own　face　and　transferred　them　to　the　paper。　The　child　was　drawing　self…portraits。　Her　self…awareness　staggered　them。　They　pared　her　to　Picasso。　Lately　that　had　changed。
　A　month　ago；　the　breakdown　had　begun。　The　child　tore　her　clothing　to　shreds。　They　found　her　walls　plastered　with　her　own　feces　and　urine。　From　this　side　of　the　glass；　barricaded　from　the　stench；　it　was　possible　for　Miranda　to　see　the　beauty　and　mystery　contained　in　that　mess　of　handprints　and　chocolate　scrawls。　Other　people　only　saw　neurotic　behavior；　or　possibly　something　worse。
　Popular　opinion　shifted。　The　child；　it　seemed；　was　a　freak　after　all。　Over　the　next　few　weeks；　there　were　other　disgusting　incidents。　The　child　clawed　her　face　and　limbs　bloody　before　they　could　subdue　her　and　cut　her　already　short　nails。　She　ate　her　crayons。　She　attacked　a　male　nurse。　Their　little　Picasso　had　tripped　into　rage。　The　lunch　crowd　proved　to　be　fickle；　or　at　least　weak　of　stomach。　Her　descent　into　madness…if　that's　what　this　was…had　no　entertainment　value。　Soon　the　girl's　audience　dwindled　to　one。
　Miranda　liked　it　better　this　way。　She　could　sit　alone　and　think　her　thoughts　and　draw　her　own　conclusions。　The　girl's　decline　made　no　sense　to　her。　Why　had　she　gone　downhill　so　suddenly？　Had　she　seen　something　disturbing　through　her　window？　Had　one　of　the　nurses　been　rough　with　her？　All　the　while；　Miranda　hunted　for　hints　of　vestigial　memory；　anything　to　connect　the　foundling　to　her　Neandertal　past。　Maybe　the　child　had　begun　to　remember　things　from　30；000　years　ago。　And　yet　that　defied　Miranda's　theory　on　memory。　The　girl　had　been　born　as　an　infant；　not　in　adult　form　like　the　other　clones。　As　her　speech　pathways　developed；　past　memories　should　have　been　overridden　or　crowded　out。　According　to　her　theory；　the　girl　was　atabula　rasa；　or　nearly　one；　with　modern　memories　written　over　ancient　ones。
　Miranda　remained　faithful。　She　saw　herself　in　the　girl's　solitude。　There　was　no　cadging　of　toys　the　way　you　might　see　among　siblings。　This　was　an　only　child。　Though　her　playfulness　had　withered；　a　month　ago　she　had　been　arranging　her　toys　in　straight　lines　and　playing　elaborate　games　with　them。　Her　Barbies　were　kind　to　one　another；　always　speaking　in　a　gentle　whisper。　In　English。
　Linguists　had　claimed　the　child　could　never　produce　human　speech。　Based　on　their　examination　of　old　Neandertal　hyoid　and　jaw　bones；　they　predicted　she　would　lack　the　vocal　architecture　to　pronounce　vowels　likea；　i；　andu；　or　hard　consonants　likek　andg。　But　littleSin　Nombre　sailed　past　their　pronouncements。　She　chanted　her　ABC's　with　gusto。
　Everything　had　been　going　so　well。　And　then；　abruptly；　this　other；　demonized　phase。　The　toys　dismembered。　The　silence　and　retreat。
　As　the　first　clone　to　be　born；　the　child　was　considered　an　index　case。　Her　descent　was　a　topic　of　debate。　Perhaps　clones　simply　came　unraveled　with　time。　The　recent　escape　of　that　Year　Zero　clone　only　confirmed　the　impression。　It　was　relieving　for　many　people　who　were　conducting　research　on　other　clones。　It　meant　that　for　all　their　similarities　to　human　beings；　the　clones　were　different；　like　machines　wi