授神
“我们当下所做的一切努力，都是为了人类能够迎接更加美好的明天。”
夜深了，士兵独自坐在教堂露台的栏杆上，俯视不远处那栋老楼暗红的屋顶。他没有穿鞋子，苍白的赤脚悬在半空。如水的良夜里，月亮是唯一的光明。
等待持续了几个小时，直到琥珀色的天光逐渐暗灭。士兵的右手一下子抓紧了什么，把那东西挪到眼前的过程却漫长地像过去了一个世纪：温热的象牙安静地睡在掌心，他的目光追随着鎏金花纹向上延伸，细小的黄铜零件在黯淡的月色下闪烁——这是他的挚友专门为他定制的M1911。作为一把曾无数次染血的凶器，它此刻却在夜风的呜咽中显露出一副温柔到悲壮的样子。
这片无人的空城对于死亡来说，会不会太宽广了？
1911冰冷的唇吻在太阳穴上，士兵屏住呼吸，试图体会无数个生命被它献祭给神明时的心情。被这么美的手枪夺去生命，那究竟是一种什么样的“走了”……
在这里结束的话，又会被谁带走呢？不，不可能是勾魂的厉鬼，更不是索命的无常。一定是伊西塔布，中美洲神话里，玛雅九联神的最末一位。颈上挂着绞索，双目紧闭，胸膛饱满，庇护自杀者的上吊女神。
听那个从前线救下来的流浪作家说，玛雅人将自杀视为敢于承担一切的行为，他们会将赢得一场比赛的胜利者献祭给伊西塔布。他会在鲜花和喝彩中将脖子伸进绞索，直接被女神带到天上去。近现代的人们畏惧她，因为人祭将玛雅辉煌的文明视为野蛮荒诞，以至于几个世纪以来只有撒哈拉的三毛能欣赏她的美。
“最应该被崇敬的一位女神就这样被滚滚红尘埋没了。”作家说出这句话的时候，脸上挂着一副过于认真的表情，“比起那些被人们利用于宣扬杀戮、扩张与排外的神明，把人从集体里解放出来的神明不是更应该被铭记的吗？你即为你，神允许你根据自己的意愿决定自己的生死，这才是伊西塔布的魅力啊……”
“作为军人，我大概比普通人目睹的死亡要多一些。”士兵从外面割了好些藜草，在教堂中央生起一个小小的火堆，“亲手为我制作配枪的兄弟，当着我的面被霰弹枪的子弹掀飞了半个脑袋；田野里四散奔逃的孩子，每一个都被地雷炸成了好几块；我蹲在战壕里，枪架在七零八落的尸体上……”他停下了，因为发现自己在被作家定定地注视着。废弃的教堂里此刻只有他和她，月色从破碎的彩窗里漏下来，滴落在龟裂的瓷砖地上，扭曲成色彩斑斓的一团。
女孩飞快地低下头，在她异常宽大的裤兜里掏了掏，递过来一只水壶，“继续说。”
“活着实在是太难了，好些这辈子都见不到阳光的人，为了活下去拼命地挣扎，到底还是难逃一死。我理解现代选择自杀的人所背负的，巨大的痛苦和无助，他们很可怜。但是在古时候那么发达繁荣的村落里，风华正茂的年纪，竞赛的胜利者放弃自己的生命，这种事我实在不想关心。”
“如此，你为何还要杀戮？”
“双手沾满鲜血，罪孽深重的我，当初又为什么要救你？”是啊，从废墟里把那个奄奄一息的女孩拉出来的时候，根本什么都没有想：不是为了正义，不是因为这是应该做的事情，而是如同服从命令一样，是烙印在本能中的反应。
士兵的注视似乎让作家紧张起来，她板起面孔，夜空般的眼睛里充盈了无法被理解的深沉情绪，“你杀戮，他们自杀，因为你们是集合体的一部分；你救我，因为帮助同胞是你作为一个人类个体的本能。”
“所以，你是在劝我当逃兵吗？”
“我们都被骗了，不是吗？”作家的神情不知是怒是惊，还是悲伤，“你真觉得多年后的自己能以‘服从命令’为理由，自我合理化地原谅自己吗？别傻了……想想看，操纵整个机械的人会轻易让自己身处险境吗？的确，英雄改变历史，追随者创造历史，但历史究竟因谁而变却无人能给出答案。幕后主使不过是打着正义的旗号秘密地实现自己的抱负。不要说你，连神明都是他们的工具。世间千千万万的神明，只有伊西塔布是不会为任何人所用的自由身……”
“但革命是有必要的啊，革命让我们将前朝的衰败化为滋养新世界的肥料，取其精华去其糟粕，一切从头来过，这样不好吗？人类的进步是没有顶点的，无论是沉迷于过去的辉煌或现实中的安逸都同样可怕，放弃战斗，只能成为自然界优胜劣汰的失败者。我们在暗夜里浴血奋战，只为人类能够迎来新世界的曙光。我们当下所作的一切努力，都是为了人类能够迎接更加美好的明天。”
“可是现在已经是后天了啊。”作家摇摇头，此刻她已泪流满面，泪滴明晃晃地照着窗外的月轮、焦土、浓黑的火光，“你想成为英雄，其实就是想风光地死去，不想面对恐惧、绝望、战后满目疮痍的世界。而放弃成为英雄，才真正是生活中的强者。输赢本该是人生的常态，输不起便是活不起……”
“这种事情只有中年人能想明白吧。”士兵叹了口气，“孩子，在战争中死去的从来都是孩子，就像此刻的你我。”
“……你今年多大？”
“十九岁，今年七月份就要二十岁了；你呢？”
“如果我能活到九月份，就成年了。对了，忘了问，你叫什么名字？”
“我叫安遥。安逸的安，遥远的遥。”
“安遥……安遥……”作家像是在努力记忆一样，嘴里很慢很慢地重复着他的名字，眼睛望向茫茫的夜空，“安遥，好名字啊……很适合你。”
“你呢，你叫什么？”
对了，那个流浪作家，她叫什么来的？士兵脑海中一片空白，竟完全记不起她的脸了。
她现在应该就躺在教堂的长椅上，像他离开她去露台上守夜那时一样，安静地睡着……
几乎是瞬间地，士兵就要推门回去找她，忽然又像是感觉到了什么，战栗着回过头，纯净的绿眼睛瞪得老大，惊恐地望着黎明晨曦中，那诗意的远方。
地平线上，温柔而炙热阳光滚滚而来，紫外线像杀灭病菌一样，杀死了所有的战争、饥荒、贫穷、落魄与颓然。所有的结束，都如同刚刚开始一般盛大、辉煌而美丽。
“我们当下所作的一切努力，都是为了人类能够迎接更加美好的明天。”
“可是现在已经是后天了啊。”
持枪的天使啊，他的身影消融在好亮、好亮的白昼里。
2020.4.25
The Sacrifice
“All our efforts at the moment are for the sake of a better tomorrow for mankind.”
It was already late at night. The soldier sat alone on the balustrade of the church terrace, overlooking the scarlet roofs of old buildings not too far away. He had no shoes on, his pale bare feet just dangling midair. Yet night reigned this place, the moon is the only light.
The wait lasted for several hours until the amber sky dimes. The soldier's right hand suddenly grasped something, and the process of moving it to his eyes was like a century ago: the warm ivory slept quietly in his palm, his eyes followed the gilded pattern extending upward, and saw the small brass parts flashing under the dim moonlight - this M1911 was specifically for him by a special someone. As a lethal weapon that had not been stained with blood for a while,it now showed a gentle and even tragically remarkable look in the whimper of the night wind.
Would this no man's land be too broad for death?
The cold lips of the gun kissed on his temple. The soldier held his breath, trying to feel the chill that countless lives had experienced when sacrificed to gods. What kind of “gone” was it to be, with one’s life taken by such a beautiful pistol?
Who would take me if my life ends here? No, it couldn't be one of the Gods, let alone the ghosts. It must be Ixtab, the Moon Goddess of Suicide in Central American mythology. [1] Eyes closed, her neck in a noose. Black spot on her chest represented lividity on corps. She was known to protect the suicides and send them to heaven.
Heard from that wandering writer he saved from the front line, the Maya viewed suicide as an act of daring to take on everything, and they would sacrifice the winner of a competition to Ixtab. He would stretch his neck into the noose in flowers and cheers and be carried directly to the sky by the goddess. In modern times, people seemed to be afraid of Ixtab because the sacrifice regards the splendid civilization of Maya as barbaric and absurd, so that for centuries, only Sanmao [2] of Sahara can appreciate Ixtab’s beauty.
“The most revered goddess is buried in the world of mortals.” The writer had a serious expression on her face as she tells the story, “Shouldn't the gods who liberate people from the collective be remembered more than those who are used to preach killing, expansion and exclusion? God allows you to move on or leave as you pleased, that’s the charm of Ixtab...”
“As a soldier, I've probably seen more deaths than average person.” The soldier cut a dozen of quinoa grass from the outside and built a small fire in the middle of the church, “The boy who made me my pistol, my brother and my commander, half of his head torn off by slugs of a shotgun right in front of me; the screaming children running in the field, each blown into several pieces by mines; I squatted in the trenches, with my sniper gun racked on scattered corpses...” He stopped, as he found the writer fixed her eyes on him. He and she were the only ones in this abandoned church at the moment. The moonlight leaked from the broken colored glasses, dropped on the cracked tile floor, and twisted into a colorful mass.
The young girl quickly lowered her head, pulled her hand out of her unusually wide trouser pocket, then handed over a kettle, “Go ahead.”
He smiled gratefully and took a big sip from the kettle, “… Staying alive can be difficult, you know. Many who couldn’t see the sun for their whole lives struggled desperately to survive, but still they die no matter how hard they try to live. I kind of understand that modern people who choose to commit suicide must be suffering and helpless. They are pitiful for sure. But in such a prosperous village in ancient times, the handsome young winner of the competition gave up his life… I can’t see why.”
“Why do you kill, then?”
“Why did I save you in the first place, with my hands already covered in blood?” Yeah…when he pulled the dying girl out of the ruins, he didn't think of anything at all: not for justice, not because it's something need to be done, but more like an obedience to the orders, it's some reactions imprinted on his instinct.
The soldier's gaze seemed to make the writer really nervous, her tighten her expression, her eyes filled with incomprehensible deep emotions, “You kill people, they commit suicide, because you are part of the assembly, you do what they tell you to do; you save me, because it is your instinct as a human individual to help your compatriots, it’s you who makes the decision.”
“Tell me, are you trying to persuade me to be a deserter?”
“We're all deceived, aren't we?” The soldier had no idea whether the writer's expression is anger, shock or sadness, “Do you really think that many years later, you can reasonably forgive yourself because you were just ‘taking orders’? Don't be silly… Think about it, would the one who controls the whole machine put himself in danger just like that? It's true, that heroes change history, and followers shape the history; but none can give a clear answer to history changed because of whom. Behind those scenes, The One is secretly realizing his/her ambition under the banner of justice. Even gods are their tools, not to mention mortals like us. There are thousands of gods in the world, however, only Ixtab is free and wouldn’t be used by anyone...”
“But revolutions are necessary. It lets us turn the decline of the former into a fertilizer for nourishing the brave new world. We take the essence of our predecessor and discard its dregs. We correct the wrongs as we move on. There is no summit for human progress. Whether we are addicted to the past glory or the comfort of the present, it means corruption. Unless we don’t give up fighting, we’d become the losers of the survival of the fittest in nature. Soldiers like me fight in those dark nights, for everyone else can embrace the dawn of anew world. All our efforts at the moment are for the sake of a better tomorrow for mankind.
“Tomorrow is a better day, but it's already the day after tomorrow now.”The writer shook her head, tears on her chin glomming, reflecting the lonely moon, scorched earth, and thick black fire outside the window, “The meaning of being a hero is to die gracefully. You don't want to face the world full of fear, despair, and devastation after the war. The one who gives up to be a hero turns out to be the respected. We all experience both winning and losing through our lives. If you can't afford to lose, you can't afford to keep on living and walk this world alone... "
“Perhaps only middle-aged people can understand what you just said.” The soldier sighed,“Children, it's always children who die in wars, children just like you and me,maybe ever younger than us.”
“...How old are you?”
“Nineteen for now, going to be twenty in July; what about you?”
“If I could make it to September, I would be an adult. By the way, what's your name?Sorry that I didn’t brought that up earlier.”
“It would be 安遥(An Yao) in Chinese. 安(An) stands for safety and happiness; 遥(Yao) for a distance too far to reach.”
“Anyao, Anyao…” The writer murmured as she was trying to remember his name. She repeats it slowly while looking at the vast night sky from the hole on the roof, “Anyao, the far away paradise. It suits you.”
“What's your name, then?”
Yeah, that wandering writer, what's her name again? There was a blank space in the soldier's mind that he could not remember her face at all.
She should be lying on the church bench now, sleeping quietly as he left her to take the watch.
Almost instantaneously, the soldier was just about to turn back and push the door open,looking for the writer. However, he smelled something suspicious. He looked back with shudder. His pure forest-green eyes stared at the poetic city ruin in dawn light with horror.
On the horizon, the mountains had opened to disgorge a boiling stream of molten sunlight.The ultraviolet light gently killed all wars, famines, poverty, depression, and decadence, as if it was only killing germs. The Ending was just as grand,brilliant, and beautiful as The Beginning.
“All our efforts at the moment are for the sake of a better tomorrow for mankind.”
“Tomorrow is a better day, but it's already the day after tomorrow now.”
O the angel with a loaded gun, his figure melted in the bright, bright dawn.
2020.4.26
参考文献 Citations & Footnotes
[1] Saunders, Chas, and Peter J. Allen, eds."IXTAB (Maya mythology)" Godchecker. Godchecker.com, Apr 12, 2019.Web. March 8, 2020.
[2] “Sanmao was a Taiwanese writer and translator. Her works range from autobiographical writing, travel writing and reflective novels, to translations of Spanish-language comic strips. Her mostly known work is Stories of the Sahara. On January 4, 1991, at the age of 47, Sanmao died by suicide in a hospital in Taipei by hanging herself with a pair of silk stockings." (from Wikipedia: “Sanmao (Author).” Wikipedia, WikimediaFoundation, 16 Apr. 2020, en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sanmao_(author)#Death.)
