Chapter 25 25. Harold and the Dog

It was a relief for Harold to be on the road alone.He can walk with the puppy at his own pace, with no debates or fights.From Newcastle to Hexham, stop when you are tired, and hit the road when you are rested.He began to be able to walk in the evening again, and sometimes he didn't have to stop at night when he was in the mood, and he had new hope in his heart.This was what made Harold the happiest. He watched the windows of every house light up with dim lights. The people inside were busy and didn't know that there were strangers staring at him, but their movements were still gentle.He could open up again to the memories and thoughts replaying in his head, Maureen, Queenie, David, they were all his traveling companions.He felt whole again.

He thought of Maureen's body against his in the early years of their marriage, and the beauty of the privacy between her legs.Think of David staring intently out of the window, as if the outside world had snatched something from him.Thinking of driving next to Queenie, singing one new song in reverse while she chews mints. Harold and the puppy were so close to Berwick that they could only keep walking.After the other Pilgrims, he was careful to avoid the public spotlight, for fear that by speaking or listening to other strangers he might inadvertently inspire their desire to join, which he simply hadn't had.If they encountered a big town that they had to pass through, they would sleep in the nearby woods and go on the road until early in the morning or early in the morning.He ate whatever he found in bushes or dumpsters, foraged only from wild ground or trees, stopped to drink from springs, and never bothered anyone.Still one or two people offered to take a picture of him, which he obliged, but barely looked into the camera.Occasionally a passer-by would recognize him and offer food, and someone who might have been a reporter asked him if he was Harold Frye.But because he's been careful to keep a low profile and try to go to places that are inconspicuous or wild, most people let him go his own way.He even wanted to avoid his own reflection.

"Hope you're feeling better now," said an elegant lady walking a greyhound. "It's a pity I didn't go with you. My husband and I were crying." Harold didn't understand, but thanked her On to the road.The terrain ahead undulates, forming the outline of a dark mountain. The strong westerly wind was blowing with rain, and it was too cold to sleep.He lay stiff in his sleeping bag, trying to stay warm as he watched the scaly rain clouds sweep past the moon across the night sky.The puppy, too, was sleeping next to him in the sleeping bag, its large chest reminding him of the day David had been swept away at Bantham, his son looking especially vulnerable in the bronzed arms of the Sea Patrolman.Thinking of the razor cut David had made on his head, and how he dragged David upstairs before he passed out again.David took all the risks with his body, as if to rebel against his father's ordinaryness.

Harold began to tremble.At first, there was a slight rattling sound from the teeth, which gradually spread to the fingers and toes, and finally the arms and legs began to tremble, causing severe pain.He looked outside, hoping to find a little distraction, but found no comfort as he had before.The moonlight is cold and the wind and rain are howling, no one cares about his coldness.Not only is this place cruel, but it's even more terrifying because it won't see him at all.Harold was alone, without Maureen, Queenie, or David, shivering in his sleeping bag in a neglected position.He tried to grit his teeth and clenched his fists, but it felt even colder.In the distance a pack of foxes appeared to be rounding up their prey, and lawless screams pierced the night sky.The wet clothes clung to his skin, sucking the heat away from him.Harold was so cold that his heart was numb, and the only thing that could stop his shaking now was the freezing of his insides.He couldn't even find the thought of resistance.

Harold thought it would be better to get back on his feet, but he was wrong.In the process of struggling to find warmth, he suddenly realized that some things were inevitable.With him or without him, the moonlight will not change, and the cold wind will not stop.The land under the feet will still stretch out until it touches the sea.Life still ends.Whether he walks, trembles, or stays at home, nothing will change at all. This thought, which he tried to suppress as soon as it appeared, grew into a powerful indictment in just a few hours.The more he thought about how insignificant he was, the more he couldn't help believing it.Who was Queenie who needed him to see her?So what if Rich Lyon took his place?Every time he stopped to pant or knead his calf to keep the blood from freezing in his veins, the puppy would sit obediently at his feet, watch him with concern, and stop running around, and never bring stones in his mouth. Rhodes threw it to play.

Harold began to think about the people he had seen, the places he had been to, the night sky he had seen when he slept in the wild, from the time he set off until now.They became the keepsakes in his mind, the ones that kept him going through the toughest moments every time.But now thinking of those people, those lands, those skies, he could no longer see himself in them.The road he has traveled is crowded with all kinds of cars, and the people he has met will experience more chance encounters. No matter how firm his footprints are, they will still be blown away by the rain and the wind.It was like he had never been to those places, met those people.As soon as I turned around, I could no longer find the way I came here, and I couldn't see the traces of his passing.

The trees finally let go of their hands, allowing the branches and leaves to be pushed back and forth in the wind and rain like soft tentacles.He was a terrible husband and failed to be a good father and friend.He can't even play the role of son well.Not only did he fail Queenie, not only did his parents not want him, not only did he mess up his relationship with his wife and children, but he went through life like that without leaving a mark.He is nothing.Harold walked across the A696 national road towards Kangbo, and suddenly found that the puppy was gone. He panicked a little, wondering if the puppy had been hurt and he hadn't noticed.He searched all the way back, searching the side of the road and the ditch, but couldn't find any trace.He tried to recall the last time he saw it, at least a few hours since we sat on a bench eating a sandwich together.Or was it yesterday?He couldn't believe he'd messed up something so simple.Harold stopped cars one after another and asked the driver if he had seen a puppy on the way, a little fluffy one about this tall, but they all sped away as if he were a danger.One of the children shrank to the other side in fright when they saw him, and began to sob.Harold could only go all the way to Hexam to find it.

He found the puppy at a bus stop, lying at the feet of a young girl.She was wearing a school uniform, with long dark hair, almost the same color as the autumn fur, and a kind face.She bent down and patted the puppy's head, picked up something from the edge of the shoe, and stuffed it into the bag. "Don't throw stones at it," Harold almost shouted, then stopped.The bus the girl was waiting for arrived, and the puppy followed her into the bus, as if he knew where she was going.He watched the car slowly leave with the girl and the puppy.They didn't look back, and they didn't wave.

Harold told himself that it was the puppy's own choice. It chose to walk with Harold for a while, but now it decided to stop and walk with the girl for a while.this is life.But losing his last companion, Harold felt the pain of another layer of skin being torn off.He didn't know what would happen next, and there was a wave of fear in his heart.He knew he couldn't take any more. Hour after hour passed, day after day passed, and Harold felt no difference in them, and began to make mistakes: he was on the road at the first dawn, desperately heading towards the sun, and he forgot to pay attention to it. Was it Berwick's direction; he quarreled with the compass, which pointed south, and Harold thought it was broken, or worse, lying on purpose; sometimes he walked ten miles before he found himself It's just going around in circles, and it's almost back to the starting point; sometimes he walks towards a cry, a figure, and finally finds nothing; It's a dead tree trunk.He found that he was walking in disarray, and he almost tripped; the glasses frame broke again, and he was finally left behind.

More and more things are missing.He couldn't remember David's face.He could remember his dark eyes, and the way they stared at you, but every time he tried to remember his bangs, it was always Queenie's dense curls, as if to use a box of incomplete pieces Complete a puzzle.How could his mind be so cruel?Without rest and hope, Harold lost all sense of time and was no longer sure whether he had eaten or not.It's not that he really can't remember, but that he doesn't care anymore, and no scene or change can arouse his interest.Passing a tree is the same as passing something else.Sometimes all he has in his head is why go, it doesn't matter anyway crows fly overhead, black wings beating the air like ropes, bringing an inhuman fear that drives him to seek shelter in a panic .

The land is so vast.He is so small.Every time he looked back to see how far he had come, he found that nothing seemed to have changed.He lifted his feet up, and then fell back down on the spot.He looked at the mountains in the distance, the rolling fields, the huge rocks, and the gray huts scattered among them, which were so small that they were not secure at all. Harold wondered how they insisted on not falling down.We were all at stake, he realized with utter desperation. Sun and rain, day and night, Harold kept walking, no longer knowing how far he had gone.Resting under the starry night sky, he saw that his hands had turned purple, and he knew that he should raise his hands to his mouth and lick his joints, but this series of movements was too much, and he really didn't want to move.I can no longer remember which muscle governs that hand, or how to make myself feel better.Just sit there and let yourself fall into this night sky and nothingness around you.It's easier to just give up than to walk on. Late one night, Harold called Maureen from a phone booth.After dialing the number as usual, he couldn't help but said the moment he heard Maureen's voice: "I can't hold on anymore. I can't go." She said nothing.He didn't know if she was thinking about whether to miss him or if she was already asleep. "I can't go on, Maureen." She swallowed. "Harold, where are you?" He looked outside.There are cars passing by, there are lights, and there are people rushing home in a hurry.One billboard advertises a TV show, due to air in the fall, and features a giant smiling face of a policewoman.Ahead was the boundless darkness separating himself from his destination. "I don't know where I am." "Do you know where you walked from?" "No." "Don't know the name of the village?" "No. I don't think I saw anything for a while." "I see," she replied, as if seeing something.Harold swallowed hard: "No matter where it is, it should not be far from Mount Zhewei. I think I saw a sign, but I can't remember if I saw it a few days ago. I passed by Lots of hillsides and gorse, and bracken." He heard a deep breath on the other end of the phone, and another.He could imagine her expression, the way her mouth opened and closed when she thought about something.He added: "I want to go home, Maureen. You're right, I can't do it. I don't want to go on." Finally she spoke.He spoke very softly and carefully, as if he wanted to take back those words at any time. "Harold, I'll try and see if I can find out where you are. I think you'll give me half an hour, okay?" He pressed his forehead against the glass wall, recalling her voice. "Can you call me again in half an hour?" Harold nodded.He forgot she couldn't see. "Harold?" she called again, as if to remind him who she was, "Harold, are you still there?" "Yes." "Give me half an hour, half an hour is fine." Harold tried to go shopping, so that the half hour would go by faster.There was a queue outside a fish and chip shop and a man threw up into a gutter.The farther he got from the phone booth, the more frightened he was, as if the safest part of him was left there, waiting for Maureen.The outline of the hillside is deeply imprinted on the curtain of the night sky. A group of young people are wandering on the road, shouting at the passing vehicles and throwing beer cans around.Harold shrank timidly into the shadows, afraid of being seen by them.He's going home and doesn't know how to tell everyone he didn't make it, but none of that matters.This was already a crazy idea, and it was time for him to stop.Write another letter to Queenie and she will understand. He called Maureen again: "It's still me." She didn't speak, just swallowed.He had to say, "I'm Harold." "Yes." She swallowed again. "Isn't it better to call later?" "No." She paused and whispered, "Rex is here too. We looked at the map, made a few phone calls, and he checked it on the computer. We even pulled out your motorbike guidebook to Great Britain." Her voice still sounded off, very soft, as if she hadn't recovered from a long run.He had to press the microphone hard to his ear to hear clearly. "Do you want to say hello to Rex?" After saying this, she smiled, and gave a short laugh: "He also greeted you." Then there was a more strange voice, as if someone was swallowing something, and then Hiccupping under his breath: "Rex thinks you might be at Wooler." "Wooler?" "Is that how it is read?" "I don't know. These names all sound alike now." "We think you must have made a wrong turn somewhere." He originally wanted to correct the "certain" places where he should have made a wrong turn, but felt that it was too laborious. "There's a hotel called the Red Lion, which I think sounds pretty good, and so does Rex. I've got a room for you, Harold, and they'll know you're coming." "But you forget, I don't have any money. And I sure look like a mess." "I paid by phone credit card. It doesn't matter how you look." "When are you coming? Will Rex come too?" He paused after both questions, but Maureen didn't come out. Voice.He even wondered if she had hung up the phone. "Will you come?" he asked again, feeling his blood heat up with panic. She didn't hang up, and he heard her take a long breath, as if she accidentally burned her hand.Suddenly her voice burst out, so fast and loud that it almost hurt his ears.He had to gently take the microphone away. "Queenie's alive, Harold. You told her to wait for you, and she's still waiting for you. Rex and I checked the weather forecast, and there's a big sun painted all over England. You'll feel better tomorrow morning. " "Maureen?" She was his last hope. "I can't go on. I was wrong." She didn't hear it, or she heard it but ignored it.Her voice kept coming from the microphone, rising in pitch: "Keep going, don't stop. Berwick is sixteen miles away. You can do it, Harold. Remember to follow the B6525 Walk." Not knowing what else to say, he hung up the phone. Just as Maureen explained, Harold checked into the hotel.He couldn't look directly at the receptionist at the front desk and the waiter who insisted on leading him into the room and opening the door for him. The young man also helped him close the curtains, taught him how to adjust the temperature of the air conditioner, and told him where the bathroom, small wine cabinet, and newspapers were. .Harold didn't look at it, just nodded.The air was cold and stiff. "Would you like something to drink, sir?" the waiter asked.Harold didn't know how to explain alcohol to him, so he just turned away.After the waiter left, he lay down with all his clothes on, his mind full of not wanting to go any further.He slept very lightly that night, and suddenly woke up with a start.Martina's boyfriend's compass.He reached into his trouser pocket at once, pulled out the whole bag, and went to the other trouser pocket, but there was no sign of the compass.Not in bed, not on the floor, not even in the elevator.He must have left it in the phone booth. The waiter opened the door for him and promised to wait for Harold to return.Harold was running so fast that his entire chest was like a bellows, and he couldn't stop panting.He flung open the door of the phone booth, but the compass was gone. Perhaps it was because he hadn't spent the night in the room for a long time, lying on the bed with clean bedding and soft pillows, but Harold cried that night.He couldn't believe he was stupid enough to lose the compass Martina had given him.He tried to tell himself that it was something outside of him, that Martina would understand, but all he could think about was the emptiness in the bag, an emptiness too big to ignore.He was afraid that he would lose the most important and stable part of himself along with the compass.Even when he finally fell asleep in a daze, images kept flashing in his subconscious: he saw Bath, the man in a skirt with swollen eyes; the oncologist staring at Queenie's letter; Austin, the woman who spoke into the air; and the cyclist mother with scarred hands, not only did he ask himself once again how anyone could do this to him.He turned and buried himself deeper in the pillow, saw the silver-haired gentleman who was on the train to see the sneaker boy, saw Martina waiting for the boyfriend who would never come back, and the man who had never left South Where's Brent's waitress?What about Wilf?Where's Kate?All these people who are searching for happiness.He woke up crying, and cried for as long as he walked during the day. Maureen received an unpostmarked postcard with a view of Mount Zhewei, saying, "Nice weather. H." The next day received a postcard of Hadrian's Wall, but this time nothing was written. After that, there will be postcards every day, sometimes several a day.All he wrote were the shortest words: "Rain." "Not so good." "On the way." a bird.But more postcards with nothing written on them.She told the postman to be careful, she would pay for the insufficient postage.These postcards are more precious than love letters, she said. Harold never called home afterward.She waited every night, but the phone never rang.It made Maureen sick to think of her letting him go on the road when he needed help the most.She was speaking with tears in her eyes when booking hotels and making phone calls.But she and Rex had discussed it over and over again, and he would regret it for the rest of his life if he was made to give up when he was so close to his goal. It is already the end of June, and there are also storms and rains coming together.The bamboo racks in her garden bend to the ground like drunkenness, and the planted bean vines can only feel their way to the air.Harold's postcards still arrived every day, but the scene on the postcards no longer focused on changing to the north.There was a postcard of Kelso, twenty-three miles to the west of where he was supposed to be, if Maureen remembered correctly.Another Eccles, then a Cold River, drifting further and further west of Berwick.Almost every hour she couldn't resist calling the police station, the receiver in her hands, before she remembered that Harold might arrive in Berwick any day, and she really had no excuse to call the police. She didn't get a good night's sleep, fearing that if she fell into an unconscious slumber, she would lose her only connection with her husband and lose him altogether.She sat in a chair on the porch outside, looked at the evening stars, and held vigil for the man who was sleeping under the same starry sky thousands of miles away from her.Rex occasionally made her a cup of tea early in the morning, and sometimes brought a blanket from his car.Together they would watch the night lose its colour, watch the dawn break, without saying a word or moving. Of all Maureen's wishes, nothing was as important as Harold's coming home.