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Zločin v Črnem močvirju
188 The Crime of Black Swamp
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land · Charles M. SkinnerO besedilu
Zločin v Črnem močvirju
- Vir
- Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
- Avtor
- Charles M. Skinner
- Jezik branja
- Slovenščina
- Jezik izvirnika
- English
- Čas branja
- 3 min branja
- Obseg
- 2 strani
- Naslov izvirnika
- 188 The Crime of Black Swamp
O izvirniku
Myths and Legends of Our Own Land
Obsežna zgodovinska zbirka ameriških legend, ki jih je Skinner zbral in avtorsko rekonstruiral. Bralni jezik je Slovenščina, izvirnik pa prihaja iz vira Myths and Legends of Our Own Land v jeziku English.
Besedilo
Zločin v Črnem močvirju
Dve milji južno od Mungerja v Ohiu, v osrčju pokrajine, ki so ji nekoč pravili Črno močvirje, je stala hiša Woodbury, prostorna graščina, ki je že dolgo propadala. John Cleves, njen zadnji stanovalec, je bil mož, ki so ga hudodelstva spravila v kaznilnico, vendar ga ljudje nikoli niso povezovali z nenavadnimi prikaznimi in zvoki v spodnjih sobanah, pa tudi ne z dejstvom, da moža po imenu Syms, ki je leta 1842 prišel v to hišo, nihče ni videl oditi iz nje. Deset let po Symsovem izginotju sta major Ward in njegov prijatelj John Stow po naključju morala v njej poiskati zavetje za čez noč — tedaj je bila že zapuščena — in ko sta zakurila v kaminu v salonu, sta si prižgala pipi ter se pogovarjala pozno v noč. Stow bi bil raje govoril o čem prijetnejšem, toda major, ki se ni bal ne človeka ne hudiča, je pogovor nenehno obračal k zloveščemu slovesu hiše.
Med njunim pomenkovanjem so se vrata škripaje odprla in pred njima se je prikazalo človeško okostje. »Kaj hočeš? Govori!« je zavpil Ward. A ne da bi počakal na odgovor, je potegnil pištoli in dvakrat ustrelil v srhljivo prikazen. Zaslišalo se je rožljanje, vendar se okostje ni ne razletelo ne vznemirilo. Počasi se je približalo z dvignjeno roko in s hripavim glasom reklo: »Jaz, ki sem mrtev, vendarle živim na način, ki ga smrtniki ne poznajo. V zemeljskem življenju sem bil James Syms, ki ga je John Cleves tukaj med spanjem oropal in ubil.« S koščenim prstom je pokazalo na raztrgano odprtino v levem sencu. »Cleves mi je odsekal glavo in jo zakopal pod ognjišče. Telo pa je vrgel v svoj vodnjak.« Ob teh besedah je glava izginila in izpod tal se je zaslišal glas: »Izkopljita mojo lobanjo.« Moža sta ubogala in po komaj minuti kopanja pod ognjiščem se je pokazala glava brez mesa z rano na levem sencu. Ward jo je vzel v roke, a v hipu mu je izginila iz njih in se znova pojavila na ramenih okostja.
»Že dolgo sem si želel povedati, kakšna usoda me je doletela,« je nadaljevalo, »a tega nisem mogel storiti, dokler se ni našel kdo, ki je bil dovolj pogumen, da me je ogovoril. Mnogim sem se prikazal, toda ti si prvi, ki mi je ukazal prekiniti dolgi molk. Dostojno pokopljita moje kosti. Pišita mojemu sorodniku Gilmoru Symsu v Columbus v Georgii in mu povejta, kar sem vama razkril. Našel sem mir.« S hvaležno kretnjo je podalo roko Wardu; ko jo je ta prijel, se je stresel kakor v mrzlici, njegovo zapestje pa je ostalo ujeto v koščenem prijemu. Ko ga je izpustilo, je slovesno dvignilo roko. Med vrati je za hip zažarela modrikasta svetloba. Moža sta ostala sama.
Izvirnik
188 The Crime of Black Swamp
Naslednje strani prikazujejo izvirno besedilo za primerjavo.
Two miles south of Munger, Ohio, in the heart of what used to be called the Black Swamp, stood the Woodbury House, a roomy mansion long gone to decay. John Cleves, the last to live in it, was a man whose evil practices got him into the penitentiary, but people had never associated him with the queer sights and sounds in the lower chambers, nor with the fact that a man named Syms, who had gone to that house in 1842, had never been known to leave it. Ten years after Syms's disappearance it happened that Major Ward and his friend John Stow had occasion to take shelter there for the night--it being then deserted,--and, starting a blaze in the parlor fireplace, they lit their pipes and talked till late. Stow would have preferred a happier topic, but the major, who feared neither man nor devil, constantly turned the talk on the evil reputation of the house.
While they chatted a door opened with a creak and a human skeleton appeared before them.
“What do you want? Speak!” cried Ward. But waiting for no answer he drew his pistols and fired two shots at the grisly object. There was a rattling sound, but the skeleton was neither dislocated nor disconcerted. Advancing deliberately, with upraised arm, it said, in a husky voice, “I, that am dead, yet live in a sense that mortals do not know. In my earthly life I was James Syms, who was robbed and killed here in my sleep by John Cleves.” With bony finger it pointed to a rugged gap in its left temple. “Cleves cut off my head and buried it under the hearth. My body he cast into his well.” At these words the head disappeared and the voice was heard beneath the floor, “Take up my skull.” The watchers obeyed the call, and after digging a minute beneath the hearth a fleshless head with a wound on the left temple came to view. Ward took it into his hands, but in a twinkling it left them and reappeared on the shoulders of the skeleton.
“I have long wanted to tell my fate,” it resumed, “but could not until one should be found brave enough to speak to me. I have appeared to many, but you are the first who has commanded me to break my long silence. Give my bones a decent burial. Write to my relative, Gilmore Syms, of Columbus, Georgia, and tell him what I have revealed. I have found peace.” With a grateful gesture it extended its hand to Ward, who, as he took it, shook like one with an ague, his wrist locked in its bony clasp. As it released him it raised its hand impressively. A bluish light burned at the doorway for an instant. The two men found themselves alone.
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