Polearn, therefore, even in the high noon of the tourist season, is little liable to invasion, and for the[108] rest of the year I do not suppose that a couple of folk a day traverse those two miles (long ones at that) of steep and stony12 gradient. I am not forgetting the postman in this exiguous13 estimate, for the days are few when, leaving his pony14 and cart at the top of the hill, he goes as far as the village, since but a few hundred yards down the lane there stands a large white box, like a sea-trunk, by the side of the road, with a slit15 for letters and a locked door. Should he have in his wallet a registered letter or be the bearer of a parcel too large for insertion in the square lips of the sea-trunk, he must needs trudge16 down the hill and deliver the troublesome missive, leaving it in person on the owner, and receiving some small reward of coin or refreshment17 for his kindness. But such occasions are rare, and his general routine is to take out of the box such letters as may have been deposited there, and insert in their place such letters as he has brought. These will be called for, perhaps that day or perhaps the next, by an emissary from the Polearn post-office. As for the fishermen of the place, who, in their export trade, constitute the chief link of movement between Polearn and the outside world, they would not dream of taking their catch up the steep lane and so, with six miles farther of travel, to the market at Penzance. The sea route is shorter and easier, and they deliver their wares18 to the pier19-head. Thus, though the sole industry of Polearn is sea-fishing, you will get no fish there unless you have bespoken20 your requirements to one of the fishermen. Back come the trawlers as empty as a haunted house, while their spoils are in the fish-train that is speeding to London.
[109]Such isolation22 of a little community, continued, as it has been, for centuries, produces isolation in the individual as well, and nowhere will you find greater independence of character than among the people of Polearn. But they are linked together, so it has always seemed to me, by some mysterious comprehension: it is as if they had all been initiated23 into some ancient rite24, inspired and framed by forces visible and invisible. The winter storms that batter1 the coast, the vernal spell of the spring, the hot, still summers, the season of rains and autumnal decay, have made a spell which, line by line, has been communicated to them, concerning the powers, evil and good, that rule the world, and manifest themselves in ways benignant or terrible....
I came to Polearn first at the age of ten, a small boy, weak and sickly, and threatened with pulmonary trouble. My father’s business kept him in London, while for me abundance of fresh air and a mild climate were considered essential conditions if I was to grow to manhood. His sister had married the vicar of Polearn, Richard Bolitho, himself native to the place, and so it came about that I spent three years, as a paying guest, with my relations. Richard Bolitho owned a fine house in the place, which he inhabited in preference to the vicarage, which he let to a young artist, John Evans, on whom the spell of Polearn had fallen, for from year’s beginning to year’s end he never left it. There was a solid roofed shelter, open on one side to the air, built for me in the garden, and here I lived and slept, passing scarcely one hour out of the twenty-four behind walls and windows. I was out on the bay with the[110] fisher-folk, or wandering along the gorse-clad cliffs that climbed steeply to right and left of the deep combe where the village lay, or pottering about on the pier-head, or bird’s-nesting in the bushes with the boys of the village. Except on Sunday and for the few daily hours of my lessons, I might do what I pleased so long as I remained in the open air. About the lessons there was nothing formidable; my uncle conducted me through flowering bypaths among the thickets25 of arithmetic, and made pleasant excursions into the elements of Latin grammar, and above all, he made me daily give him an account, in clear and grammatical sentences, of what had been occupying my mind or my movements. Should I select to tell him about a walk along the cliffs, my speech must be orderly, not vague, slip-shod notes of what I had observed. In this way, too, he trained my observation, for he would bid me tell him what flowers were in bloom, and what birds hovered26 fishing over the sea or were building in the bushes. For that I owe him a perennial27 gratitude28, for to observe and to express my thoughts in the clear spoken word became my life’s profession.
But far more formidable than my weekday tasks was the prescribed routine for Sunday. Some dark embers compounded of Calvinism and mysticism smouldered in my uncle’s soul, and made it a day of terror. His sermon in the morning scorched29 us with a foretaste of the eternal fires reserved for unrepentant sinners, and he was hardly less terrifying at the children’s service in the afternoon. Well do I remember his exposition of the doctrine30 of guardian31 angels. A child, he said, might think[111] himself secure in such angelic care, but let him beware of committing any of those numerous offences which would cause his guardian to turn his face from him, for as sure as there were angels to protect us, there were also evil and awful presences which were ready to pounce32; and on them he dwelt with peculiar33 gusto. Well, too, do I remember in the morning sermon his commentary on the carved panels of the altar-rails to which I have already alluded34. There was the angel of the Annunciation there, and the angel of the Resurrection, but not less was there the witch of Endor, and, on the fourth panel, a scene that concerned me most of all. This fourth panel (he came down from his pulpit to trace its time-worn features) represented the lych-gate of the church-yard at Polearn itself, and indeed the resemblance when thus pointed out was remarkable35. In the entry stood the figure of a robed priest holding up a Cross, with which he faced a terrible creature like a gigantic slug, that reared itself up in front of him. That, so ran my uncle’s interpretation37, was some evil agency, such as he had spoken about to us children, of almost infinite malignity38 and power, which could alone be combated by firm faith and a pure heart. Below ran the legend “Negotium perambulans in tenebris” from the ninety-first Psalm40. We should find it translated there, “the pestilence41 that walketh in darkness,” which but feebly rendered the Latin. It was more deadly to the soul than any pestilence that can only kill the body: it was the Thing, the Creature, the Business that trafficked in the outer Darkness, a minister of God’s wrath42 on the unrighteous....
[112]I could see, as he spoke21, the looks which the congregation exchanged with each other, and knew that his words were evoking43 a surmise44, a remembrance. Nods and whispers passed between them, they understood to what he alluded, and with the inquisitiveness45 of boyhood I could not rest till I had wormed the story out of my friends among the fisher-boys, as, next morning, we sat basking47 and naked in the sun after our bathe. One knew one bit of it, one another, but it pieced together into a truly alarming legend. In bald outline it was as follows:
A church far more ancient than that in which my uncle terrified us every Sunday had once stood not three hundred yards away, on the shelf of level ground below the quarry48 from which its stones were hewn. The owner of the land had pulled this down, and erected49 for himself a house on the same site out of these materials, keeping, in a very ecstasy50 of wickedness, the altar, and on this he dined and played dice51 afterwards. But as he grew old some black melancholy52 seized him, and he would have lights burning there all night, for he had deadly fear of the darkness. On one winter evening there sprang up such a gale53 as was never before known, which broke in the windows of the room where he had supped, and extinguished the lamps. Yells of terror brought in his servants, who found him lying on the floor with the blood streaming from his throat. As they entered some huge black shadow seemed to move away from him, crawled across the floor and up the wall and out of the broken window.
“There he lay a-dying,” said the last of my informants, “and him that had been a great burly man[113] was withered54 to a bag o’ skin, for the critter had drained all the blood from him. His last breath was a scream, and he hollered out the same words as parson read off the screen.”
“Negotium perambulans in tenebris,” I suggested eagerly.
“Thereabouts. Latin anyhow.”
“And after that?” I asked.
“Nobody would go near the place, and the old house rotted and fell in ruins till three years ago, when along comes Mr. Dooliss from Penzance, and built the half of it up again. But he don’t care much about such critters, nor about Latin neither. He takes his bottle of whisky a day and gets drunk’s a lord in the evening. Eh, I’m gwine home to my dinner.”
Whatever the authenticity55 of the legend, I had certainly heard the truth about Mr. Dooliss from Penzance, who from that day became an object of keen curiosity on my part, the more so because the quarry-house adjoined my uncle’s garden. The Thing that walked in the dark failed to stir my imagination, and already I was so used to sleeping alone in my shelter that the night had no terrors for me. But it would be intensely exciting to wake at some timeless hour and hear Mr. Dooliss yelling, and conjecture56 that the Thing had got him.
But by degrees the whole story faded from my mind, overscored by the more vivid interests of the day, and, for the last two years of my out-door life in the vicarage garden, I seldom thought about Mr. Dooliss and the possible fate that might await him for his temerity57 in living in the place where that[114] Thing of darkness had done business. Occasionally I saw him over the garden fence, a great yellow lump of a man, with slow and staggering gait, but never did I set eyes on him outside his gate, either in the village street or down on the beach. He interfered58 with none, and no one interfered with him. If he wanted to run the risk of being the prey59 of the legendary60 nocturnal monster, or quietly drink himself to death, it was his affair. My uncle, so I gathered, had made several attempts to see him when first he came to live at Polearn, but Mr. Dooliss appeared to have no use for parsons, but said he was not at home and never returned the call.
After three years of sun, wind, and rain, I had completely outgrown61 my early symptoms and had become a tough, strapping62 youngster of thirteen. I was sent to Eton and Cambridge, and in due course ate my dinners and became a barrister. In twenty years from that time I was earning a yearly income of five figures, and had already laid by in sound securities a sum that brought me dividends63 which would, for one of my simple tastes and frugal64 habits, supply me with all the material comforts I needed on this side of the grave. The great prizes of my profession were already within my reach, but I had no ambition beckoning65 me on, nor did I want a wife and children, being, I must suppose, a natural celibate66. In fact there was only one ambition which through these busy years had held the lure7 of blue and far-off hills to me, and that was to get back to Polearn, and live once more isolated67 from the world with the sea and the gorse-clad hills for play-fellows,[115] and the secrets that lurked68 there for exploration. The spell of it had been woven about my heart, and I can truly say that there had hardly passed a day in all those years in which the thought of it and the desire for it had been wholly absent from my mind. Though I had been in frequent communication with my uncle there during his lifetime, and, after his death, with his widow who still lived there, I had never been back to it since I embarked69 on my profession, for I knew that if I went there, it would be a wrench70 beyond my power to tear myself away again. But I had made up my mind that when once I had provided for my own independence, I would go back there not to leave it again. And yet I did leave it again, and now nothing in the world would induce me to turn down the lane from the road that leads from Penzance to the Land’s End, and see the sides of the combe rise steep above the roofs of the village and hear the gulls71 chiding72 as they fish in the bay. One of the things invisible, of the dark powers, leaped into light, and I saw it with my eyes.
The house where I had spent those three years of boyhood had been left for life to my aunt, and when I made known to her my intention of coming back to Polearn, she suggested that, till I found a suitable house or found her proposal unsuitable, I should come to live with her.
“The house is too big for a lone39 old woman,” she wrote, “and I have often thought of quitting and taking a little cottage sufficient for me and my requirements. But come and share it, my dear, and if you find me troublesome, you or I can go.[116] You may want solitude—most people in Polearn do—and will leave me. Or else I will leave you: one of the main reasons of my stopping here all these years was a feeling that I must not let the old house starve. Houses starve, you know, if they are not lived in. They die a lingering death; the spirit in them grows weaker and weaker, and at last fades out of them. Isn’t this nonsense to your London notions?...”
Naturally I accepted with warmth this tentative arrangement, and on an evening in June found myself at the head of the lane leading down to Polearn, and once more I descended73 into the steep valley between the hills. Time had stood still apparently74 for the combe, the dilapidated signpost (or its successor) pointed a rickety finger down the lane, and a few hundred yards farther on was the white box for the exchange of letters. Point after remembered point met my eye, and what I saw was not shrunk, as is often the case with the revisited scenes of childhood, into a smaller scale. There stood the post-office, and there the church and close beside it the vicarage, and beyond, the tall shrubberies which separated the house for which I was bound from the road, and beyond that again the grey roofs of the quarry-house damp and shining with the moist evening wind from the sea. All was exactly as I remembered it, and, above all, that sense of seclusion75 and isolation. Somewhere above the tree-tops climbed the lane which joined the main road to Penzance, but all that had become immeasurably distant. The years that had passed since last I turned in at the well-known gate faded like a frosty[117] breath, and vanished in this warm, soft air. There were law-courts somewhere in memory’s dull book which, if I cared to turn the pages, would tell me that I had made a name and a great income there. But the dull book was closed now, for I was back in Polearn, and the spell was woven around me again.
And if Polearn was unchanged, so too was Aunt Hester, who met me at the door. Dainty and china-white she had always been, and the years had not aged76 but only refined her. As we sat and talked after dinner she spoke of all that had happened in Polearn in that score of years, and yet somehow the changes of which she spoke seemed but to confirm the immutability77 of it all. As the recollection of names came back to me, I asked her about the quarry-house and Mr. Dooliss, and her face gloomed a little as with the shadow of a cloud on a spring day.
“Yes, Mr. Dooliss,” she said, “poor Mr. Dooliss, how well I remember him, though it must be ten years and more since he died. I never wrote to you about it, for it was all very dreadful, my dear, and I did not want to darken your memories of Polearn. Your uncle always thought that something of the sort might happen if he went on in his wicked, drunken ways, and worse than that, and though nobody knew exactly what took place, it was the sort of thing that might have been anticipated.”
“But what more or less happened, Aunt Hester?” I asked.
“Well, of course I can’t tell you everything, for no one knew it. But he was a very sinful man, and the scandal about him at Newlyn was shocking. And then he lived, too, in the quarry-house.... I[118] wonder if by any chance you remember a sermon of your uncle’s when he got out of the pulpit and explained that panel in the altar-rails, the one, I mean, with the horrible creature rearing itself up outside the lych-gate?”
“Yes, I remember perfectly,” said I.
“Ah. It made an impression on you, I suppose, and so it did on all who heard him, and that impression got stamped and branded on us all when the catastrophe78 occurred. Somehow Mr. Dooliss got to hear about your uncle’s sermon, and in some drunken fit he broke into the church and smashed the panel to atoms. He seems to have thought that there was some magic in it, and that if he destroyed that he would get rid of the terrible fate that was threatening him. For I must tell you that before he committed that dreadful sacrilege he had been a haunted man: he hated and feared darkness, for he thought that the creature on the panel was on his track, but that as long as he kept lights burning it could not touch him. But the panel, to his disordered mind, was the root of his terror, and so, as I said, he broke into the church and attempted—you will see why I said ‘attempted’—to destroy it. It certainly was found in splinters next morning, when your uncle went into church for matins, and knowing Mr. Dooliss’s fear of the panel, he went across to the quarry-house afterwards and taxed him with its destruction. The man never denied it; he boasted of what he had done. There he sat, though it was early morning, drinking his whisky.
“‘I’ve settled your Thing for you,’ he said, ‘and your sermon too. A fig36 for such superstitions79.’
[119]“Your uncle left him without answering his blasphemy80, meaning to go straight into Penzance and give information to the police about this outrage81 to the church, but on his way back from the quarry-house he went into the church again, in order to be able to give details about the damage, and there in the screen was the panel, untouched and uninjured. And yet he had himself seen it smashed, and Mr. Dooliss had confessed that the destruction of it was his work. But there it was, and whether the power of God had mended it or some other power, who knows?”
This was Polearn indeed, and it was the spirit of Polearn that made me accept all Aunt Hester was telling me as attested82 fact. It had happened like that. She went on in her quiet voice.
“Your uncle recognised that some power beyond police was at work, and he did not go to Penzance or give information about the outrage, for the evidence of it had vanished.”
“There must have been some mistake,” I said. “It hadn’t been broken....”
She smiled.
“Yes, my dear, but you have been in London so long,” she said. “Let me, anyhow, tell you the rest of my story. That night, for some reason, I could not sleep. It was very hot and airless; I dare say you will think that the sultry conditions accounted for my wakefulness. Once and again, as I went to the window to see if I could not admit more air, I could see from it the quarry-house, and I noticed the first time that I left my bed that it[120] was blazing with lights. But the second time I saw that it was all in darkness, and as I wondered at that, I heard a terrible scream, and the moment afterwards the steps of someone coming at full speed down the road outside the gate. He yelled as he ran; ‘Light, light!’ he called out. ‘Give me light, or it will catch me!’ It was very terrible to hear that, and I went to rouse my husband, who was sleeping in the dressing-room across the passage. He wasted no time, but by now the whole village was aroused by the screams, and when he got down to the pier he found that all was over. The tide was low, and on the rocks at its foot was lying the body of Mr. Dooliss. He must have cut some artery84 when he fell on those sharp edges of stone, for he had bled to death, they thought, and though he was a big burly man, his corpse85 was but skin and bones. Yet there was no pool of blood round him, such as you would have expected. Just skin and bones as if every drop of blood in his body had been sucked out of him!”
She leaned forward.
“You and I, my dear, know what happened,” she said, “or at least can guess. God has His instruments of vengeance86 on those who bring wickedness into places that have been holy. Dark and mysterious are His ways.”
Now what I should have thought of such a story if it had been told me in London I can easily imagine. There was such an obvious explanation: the man in question had been a drunkard, what wonder if the demons87 of delirium88 pursued him? But here in Polearn it was different.
[121]“And who is in the quarry-house now?” I asked. “Years ago the fisher-boys told me the story of the man who first built it and of his horrible end. And now again it has happened. Surely no one has ventured to inhabit it once more?”
I saw in her face, even before I asked that question, that somebody had done so.
“Yes, it is lived in again,” said she, “for there is no end to the blindness.... I don’t know if you remember him. He was tenant89 of the vicarage many years ago.”
“John Evans,” said I.
“Yes. Such a nice fellow he was too. Your uncle was pleased to get so good a tenant. And now——”
She rose.
“Aunt Hester, you shouldn’t leave your sentences unfinished,” I said.
She shook her head.
“My dear, that sentence will finish itself,” she said. “But what a time of night! I must go to bed, and you too, or they will think we have to keep lights burning here through the dark hours.”
Before getting into bed I drew my curtains wide and opened all the windows to the warm tide of the sea air that flowed softly in. Looking out into the garden I could see in the moonlight the roof of the shelter, in which for three years I had lived, gleaming with dew. That, as much as anything, brought back the old days to which I had now returned, and they seemed of one piece with the present, as if no gap of more than twenty years sundered90 them. The[122] two flowed into one like globules of mercury uniting into a softly shining globe, of mysterious lights and reflections. Then, raising my eyes a little, I saw against the black hill-side the windows of the quarry-house still alight.
Morning, as is so often the case, brought no shattering of my illusion. As I began to regain91 consciousness, I fancied that I was a boy again waking up in the shelter in the garden, and though, as I grew more widely awake, I smiled at the impression, that on which it was based I found to be indeed true. It was sufficient now as then to be here, to wander again on the cliffs, and hear the popping of the ripened92 seed-pods on the gorse-bushes; to stray along the shore to the bathing-cove, to float and drift and swim in the warm tide, and bask46 on the sand, and watch the gulls fishing, to lounge on the pier-head with the fisher-folk, to see in their eyes and hear in their quiet speech the evidence of secret things not so much known to them as part of their instincts and their very being. There were powers and presences about me; the white poplars that stood by the stream that babbled93 down the valley knew of them, and showed a glimpse of their knowledge sometimes, like the gleam of their white underleaves; the very cobbles that paved the street were soaked in it.... All that I wanted was to lie there and grow soaked in it too; unconsciously, as a boy, I had done that, but now the process must be conscious. I must know what stir of forces, fruitful and mysterious, seethed94 along the hill-side at noon, and sparkled at night on the sea. They could be known, they could even be controlled by those who were[123] masters of the spell, but never could they be spoken of, for they were dwellers95 in the innermost, grafted96 into the eternal life of the world. There were dark secrets as well as these clear, kindly97 powers, and to these no doubt belonged the negotium perambulans in tenebris which, though of deadly malignity, might be regarded not only as evil, but as the avenger98 of sacrilegious and impious deeds.... All this was part of the spell of Polearn, of which the seeds had long lain dormant99 in me. But now they were sprouting100, and who knew what strange flower would unfold on their stems?
It was not long before I came across John Evans. One morning, as I lay on the beach, there came shambling across the sand a man stout101 and middle-aged102 with the face of Silenus. He paused as he drew near and regarded me from narrow eyes.
“Why, you’re the little chap that used to live in the parson’s garden,” he said. “Don’t you recognise me?”
I saw who it was when he spoke: his voice, I think, instructed me, and recognising it, I could see the features of the strong, alert young man in this gross caricature.
“Yes, you’re John Evans,” I said. “You used to be very kind to me: you used to draw pictures for me.”
“So I did, and I’ll draw you some more. Been bathing? That’s a risky103 performance. You never know what lives in the sea, nor what lives on the land for that matter. Not that I heed104 them. I stick to work and whisky. God! I’ve learned to paint since I saw you, and drink too for that matter. I[124] live in the quarry-house, you know, and it’s a powerful thirsty place. Come and have a look at my things if you’re passing. Staying with your aunt, are you? I could do a wonderful portrait of her. Interesting face; she knows a lot. People who live at Polearn get to know a lot, though I don’t take much stock in that sort of knowledge myself.”
I do not know when I have been at once so repelled105 and interested. Behind the mere106 grossness of his face there lurked something which, while it appalled107, yet fascinated me. His thick lisping speech had the same quality. And his paintings, what would they be like?...
“I was just going home,” I said. “I’ll gladly come in, if you’ll allow me.”
He took me through the untended and overgrown garden into the house which I had never yet entered. A great grey cat was sunning itself in the window, and an old woman was laying lunch in a corner of the cool hall into which the door opened. It was built of stone, and the carved mouldings let into the walls, the fragments of gargoyles108 and sculptured images, bore testimony109 to the truth of its having been built out of the demolished110 church. In one corner was an oblong and carved wooden table littered with a painter’s apparatus111 and stacks of canvases leaned against the walls.
“Quite a sanctified air,” he said, “so we tone it down for the purposes of ordinary life by a different sort of art. Have a drink? No? Well, turn over some of my pictures while I put myself to rights.”
[125]He was justified113 in his own estimate of his skill: he could paint (and apparently he could paint anything), but never have I seen pictures so inexplicably114 hellish. There were exquisite115 studies of trees, and you knew that something lurked in the flickering116 shadows. There was a drawing of his cat sunning itself in the window, even as I had just now seen it, and yet it was no cat but some beast of awful malignity. There was a boy stretched naked on the sands, not human, but some evil thing which had come out of the sea. Above all there were pictures of his garden overgrown and jungle-like, and you knew that in the bushes were presences ready to spring out on you....
“Well, do you like my style?” he said as he came up, glass in hand. (The tumbler of spirits that he held had not been diluted117.) “I try to paint the essence of what I see, not the mere husk and skin of it, but its nature, where it comes from and what gave it birth. There’s much in common between a cat and a fuchsia-bush if you look at them closely enough. Everything came out of the slime of the pit, and it’s all going back there. I should like to do a picture of you some day. I’d hold the mirror up to Nature, as that old lunatic said.”
After this first meeting I saw him occasionally throughout the months of that wonderful summer. Often he kept to his house and to his painting for days together, and then perhaps some evening I would find him lounging on the pier, always alone, and every time we met thus the repulsion and interest grew, for every time he seemed to have gone farther along a path of secret knowledge towards some[126] evil shrine118 where complete initiation119 awaited him.... And then suddenly the end came.
I had met him thus one evening on the cliffs while the October sunset still burned in the sky, but over it with amazing rapidity there spread from the west a great blackness of cloud such as I have never seen for denseness120. The light was sucked from the sky, the dusk fell in ever thicker layers. He suddenly became conscious of this.
“I must get back as quick as I can,” he said. “It will be dark in a few minutes, and my servant is out. The lamps will not be lit.”
He stepped out with extraordinary briskness121 for one who shambled and could scarcely lift his feet, and soon broke out into a stumbling run. In the gathering122 darkness I could see that his face was moist with the dew of some unspoken terror.
“You must come with me,” he panted, “for so we shall get the lights burning the sooner. I cannot do without light.”
I had to exert myself to the full to keep up with him, for terror winged him, and even so I fell behind, so that when I came to the garden gate, he was already half-way up the path to the house. I saw him enter, leaving the door wide, and found him fumbling123 with matches. But his hand so trembled that he could not transfer the light to the wick of the lamp.
“But what’s the hurry about?” I asked.
Suddenly his eyes focused themselves on the open door behind me, and he jumped from his seat beside the table which had once been the altar of God, with a gasp124 and a scream.
[127]“No, no!” he cried. “Keep it off!...”
I turned and saw what he had seen. The Thing had entered and now was swiftly sliding across the floor towards him, like some gigantic caterpillar125. A stale phosphorescent light came from it, for though the dusk had grown to blackness outside, I could see it quite distinctly in the awful light of its own presence. From it too there came an odour of corruption126 and decay, as from slime that has long lain below water. It seemed to have no head, but on the front of it was an orifice of puckered127 skin which opened and shut and slavered at the edges. It was hairless, and slug-like in shape and in texture128. As it advanced its fore-part reared itself from the ground, like a snake about to strike, and it fastened on him....
At that sight, and with the yells of his agony in my ears, the panic which had struck me relaxed into a hopeless courage, and with palsied, impotent hands I tried to lay hold of the Thing. But I could not: though something material was there, it was impossible to grasp it; my hands sunk in it as in thick mud. It was like wrestling with a nightmare.
I think that but a few seconds elapsed before all was over. The screams of the wretched man sank to moans and mutterings as the Thing fell on him: he panted once or twice and was still. For a moment longer there came gurglings and sucking noises, and then it slid out even as it had entered. I lit the lamp which he had fumbled129 with, and there on the floor he lay, no more than a rind of skin in loose folds over projecting bones.
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batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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punctured
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| v.在（某物）上穿孔( puncture的过去式和过去分词 )；刺穿（某物）；削弱（某人的傲气、信心等）；泄某人的气 | |
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12
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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exiguous
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| adj.不足的，太少的 | |
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14
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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16
trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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17
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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18
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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19
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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20
bespoken
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| v.预定( bespeak的过去分词 )；订（货）；证明；预先请求 | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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22
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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23
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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24
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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25
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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26
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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27
perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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28
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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29
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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30
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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31
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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32
pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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33
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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34
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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36
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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37
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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38
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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39
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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40
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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41
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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42
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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43
evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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44
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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45
inquisitiveness
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| 好奇，求知欲 | |
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46
bask
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| vt.取暖，晒太阳，沐浴于 | |
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47
basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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48
quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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49
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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50
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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51
dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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52
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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53
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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54
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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55
authenticity
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| n.真实性 | |
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56
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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57
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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58
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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59
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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60
legendary
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| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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61
outgrown
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| 长[发展] 得超过（某物）的范围( outgrow的过去分词 )； 长[发展]得不能再要（某物）； 长得比…快； 生长速度超过 | |
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62
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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63
dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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64
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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65
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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66
celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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67
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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68
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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69
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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70
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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71
gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72
chiding
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| v.责骂，责备( chide的现在分词 ) | |
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73
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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74
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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75
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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76
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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77
immutability
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| n.不变(性) | |
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78
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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79
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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80
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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81
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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82
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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83
spate
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| n.泛滥，洪水，突然的一阵 | |
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84
artery
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| n.干线，要道；动脉 | |
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85
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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86
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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87
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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88
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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89
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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90
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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92
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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94
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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95
dwellers
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| n.居民，居住者( dweller的名词复数 ) | |
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96
grafted
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| 移植( graft的过去式和过去分词 )； 嫁接； 使（思想、制度等）成为（…的一部份）； 植根 | |
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97
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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98
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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99
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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100
sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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102
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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103
risky
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| adj.有风险的，冒险的 | |
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104
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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105
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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106
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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107
appalled
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| v.使惊骇，使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的；丧胆的 | |
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108
gargoyles
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| n.怪兽状滴水嘴( gargoyle的名词复数 ) | |
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109
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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110
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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111
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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112
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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113
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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114
inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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115
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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116
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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117
diluted
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| 无力的，冲淡的 | |
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118
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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119
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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120
denseness
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| 稠密，密集，浓厚； 稠度 | |
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121
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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122
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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123
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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124
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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125
caterpillar
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| n.毛虫，蝴蝶的幼虫 | |
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126
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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127
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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129
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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