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- Джек Лондон
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You
,
my
reader
,
will
remember
,
far
back
at
the
beginning
of
this
narrative
,
how
,
when
a
little
lad
on
the
Minnesota
farm
,
I
looked
at
the
photographs
of
the
Holy
Land
and
recognized
places
and
pointed
out
changes
in
places
.
Also
you
will
remember
,
as
I
described
the
scene
I
had
witnessed
of
the
healing
of
the
lepers
,
I
told
the
missionary
that
I
was
a
big
man
with
a
big
sword
,
astride
a
horse
and
looking
on
.
That
childhood
incident
was
merely
a
trailing
cloud
of
glory
,
as
Wordsworth
puts
it
.
Not
in
entire
forgetfulness
had
I
,
little
Darrell
Standing
,
come
into
the
world
.
But
those
memories
of
other
times
and
places
that
glimmered
up
to
the
surface
of
my
child
consciousness
soon
failed
and
faded
.
In
truth
,
as
is
the
way
with
all
children
,
the
shades
of
the
prison-house
closed
about
me
,
and
I
remembered
my
mighty
past
no
more
.
Every
man
born
of
woman
has
a
past
mighty
as
mine
.
Very
few
men
born
of
women
have
been
fortunate
enough
to
suffer
years
of
solitary
and
strait-jacketing
.
That
was
my
good
fortune
.
I
was
enabled
to
remember
once
again
,
and
to
remember
,
among
other
things
,
the
time
when
I
sat
astride
a
horse
and
beheld
the
lepers
healed
.
My
name
was
Ragnar
Lodbrog
.
I
was
in
truth
a
large
man
.
I
stood
half
a
head
above
the
Romans
of
my
legion
.
But
that
was
later
,
after
the
time
of
my
journey
from
Alexandria
to
Jerusalem
,
that
I
came
to
command
a
legion
.
It
was
a
crowded
life
,
that
.
Books
and
books
,
and
years
of
writing
could
not
record
it
all
.
So
I
shall
briefen
and
no
more
than
hint
at
the
beginnings
of
it
.
Now
all
is
clear
and
sharp
save
the
very
beginning
.
I
never
knew
my
mother
.
I
was
told
that
I
was
tempest-born
,
on
a
beaked
ship
in
the
Northern
Sea
,
of
a
captured
woman
,
after
a
sea
fight
and
a
sack
of
a
coastal
stronghold
.
I
never
heard
the
name
of
my
mother
.
She
died
at
the
height
of
the
tempest
.
She
was
of
the
North
Danes
,
so
old
Lingaard
told
me
.
He
told
me
much
that
I
was
too
young
to
remember
,
yet
little
could
he
tell
.
A
sea
fight
and
a
sack
,
battle
and
plunder
and
torch
,
a
flight
seaward
in
the
long
ships
to
escape
destruction
upon
the
rocks
,
and
a
killing
strain
and
struggle
against
the
frosty
,
foundering
seas
--
who
,
then
,
should
know
aught
or
mark
a
stranger
woman
in
her
hour
with
her
feet
fast
set
on
the
way
of
death
?
Many
died
.
Men
marked
the
living
women
,
not
the
dead
.
Sharp-bitten
into
my
child
imagination
are
the
incidents
immediately
after
my
birth
,
as
told
me
by
old
Lingaard
.
Lingaard
,
too
old
to
labour
at
the
sweeps
,
had
been
surgeon
,
undertaker
,
and
midwife
of
the
huddled
captives
in
the
open
midships
.
So
I
was
delivered
in
storm
,
with
the
spume
of
the
cresting
seas
salt
upon
me
.
Not
many
hours
old
was
I
when
Tostig
Lodbrog
first
laid
eyes
on
me
.
His
was
the
lean
ship
,
and
his
the
seven
other
lean
ships
that
had
made
the
foray
,
fled
the
rapine
,
and
won
through
the
storm
.
Tostig
Lodbrog
was
also
called
Muspell
,
meaning
"
The
Burning
"
;
for
he
was
ever
aflame
with
wrath
.
Brave
he
was
,
and
cruel
he
was
,
with
no
heart
of
mercy
in
that
great
chest
of
his
.
Ere
the
sweat
of
battle
had
dried
on
him
,
leaning
on
his
axe
,
he
ate
the
heart
of
Ngrun
after
the
fight
at
Hasfarth
.
Because
of
mad
anger
he
sold
his
son
,
Garulf
,
into
slavery
to
the
Juts
.
I
remember
,
under
the
smoky
rafters
of
Brunanbuhr
,
how
he
used
to
call
for
the
skull
of
Guthlaf
for
a
drinking
beaker
.
Spiced
wine
he
would
have
from
no
other
cup
than
the
skull
of
Guthlaf
.
And
to
him
,
on
the
reeling
deck
after
the
storm
was
past
,
old
Lingaard
brought
me
.
I
was
only
hours
old
,
wrapped
naked
in
a
salt-crusted
wolfskin
.
Now
it
happens
,
being
prematurely
born
,
that
I
was
very
small
.
"
Ho
!
ho
!
--
a
dwarf
!
"
cried
Tostig
,
lowering
a
pot
of
mead
half-drained
from
his
lips
to
stare
at
me
.
