THE ANCIENT STEPS wound up the side of the mountain through the tall pines, patience trodden deep into them by the feet of twenty centuries. Some soul of silence, ancient and patient as the steps, brooded over them. They were wide, twenty men could have marched abreast1 upon them; lichens2 brown and orange traced strange symbols on their grey stones, and emerald mosses3 cushioned them. At times the steps climbed steep as stairs, and at times they swept leisurely4 around bastions of the mountain, but always on each side the tall pines stood close, green shoulder to shoulder, vigilant5.
At the feet of the pines crouched6 laurels7 and dwarfed8 rhododendrons of a singular regularity9 of shape and of one height, that of a kneeling man. Their stiff and glossy10 leaves were like links on coats-of-mail . . . like the jade11-lacquered scale-armor of the Green Archers12 of Kwanyin who guard the goddess when she goes forth13 in the Spring to awaken14 the trees. The pines were like watchful15 sentinels, and oddly like crouching16 archers were the laurels and the dwarfed rhododendrons, and they said as plainly as though with tongues: Up these steps you may go, and down them — but never try to pass through us!
A woman came round one of the bastions. She walked stubbornly, head down, as one who fights against a strong wind — or as one whose will rides, lashing17 the reluctant body on. One white shoulder and breast were bare, and on the shoulder was a bruise18 and blood, four scarlet19 streaks20 above the purpled patch as though a long-nailed hand had struck viciously, clawing. And as she walked she wept.
The steps began to lift. The woman raised her head and saw how steeply here they climbed. She stopped, her hands making little fluttering helpless motions.
She turned, listening. She seemed to listen not with ears alone but with every tensed muscle, her entire body one rapt chord of listening through which swept swift arpeggios of terror. The brittle21 twilight22 of the Yunnan highlands, like clearest crystal made impalpable, fell upon brown hair shot with gleams of dull copper23, upon a face lovely even in its dazed horror. Her grey eyes stared down the steps, and it was as though they, too, were listening rather than seeing . . . .
She was heavy with child . . . .
She heard voices beyond the bend of the bastion, voices guttural and sing-song, angry and arguing, protesting and urging. She heard the shuffle24 of many feet, hesitating, halting, but coming inexorably on. Voices and feet of the hung-hutzes, the outlaws25 who had slaughtered27 her husband and Kenwood and their bearers a scant28 hour ago, and who but for Kenwood would now have her. They had found her trail.
She wanted to die; desperately29 Jean Meredith wanted to die; her faith taught her that then she would rejoin that scholarly, gentle lover-husband of hers whom she had loved so dearly although his years had been twice her own. It would not matter did they kill her quickly, but she knew they would not do that. And she could not endure even the thought of what must befall her through them before death came. Nor had she weapon to kill herself. And there was that other life budding beneath her heart.
But stronger than desire for death, stronger than fear of torment30, stronger than the claim of the unborn was something deep within her that cried for vengeance31. Not vengeance against the hung-hutzes — they were only a pack of wild beasts doing what was their nature to do. This cry was for vengeance against those who had loosed them, directed them. For this she knew had been done, although how she knew it she could not yet tell. It was not accident, no chance encounter that swift slaughter26. She was sure of that.
It was like a pulse, that cry for vengeance; a pulse whose rhythm grew, deadening grief and terror, beating strength back into her. It was like a bitter spring welling up around her soul. When its dark waters had risen far enough they would touch her lips and she would drink of them .. . and then knowledge would come to her . .. she would know who had planned this evil thing, and why. But she must have time — time to drink of the waters — time to learn and avenge32. She must live . . . for vengeance . . .
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!
It was as though a voice had whispered the old text in her ear. She struck her breast with clenched33 hands; she looked with eyes grown hard and tearless up to the tranquil34 sky; she answered the voice:
“A lie! Like all the lies I have been taught of — You! I am through with — You! Vengeance! Whoever gives me vengeance shall be my God!”
The voices and the feet were nearer. Strange, how slowly, how reluctantly they advanced. It was as though they were afraid. She studied the woods beyond the pines. Impenetrable; or if not, then impossible for her. They would soon find her if she tried to hide there. She must go on — up the steps. At their end might be some hiding place . . . perhaps sanctuary35 . . . .
Yes, she was sure the hung-hutzes feared the steps . . . they came so slowly, so haltingly . . . arguing, protesting . . . .
She had seen another turn at the top of this steep. If she could reach it before they saw her, it might be that they would follow her no further. She turned to climb . . . .
A fox stood upon the steps a dozen feet above her, watching her, barring her way. It was a female fox, a vixen. Its coat was all silken russet-red. It had a curiously36 broad head and slanted37 green eyes. On its head was a mark, silver white and shaped like the flame of a candle wavering in the wind.
The fox was lithe38 and graceful39, Jean Meredith thought, as a dainty woman. A mad idea came, born of her despair and her denial of that God whom she had been taught from childhood to worship as all-good, all-wise, all-powerful. She thrust her hands out to the fox. She cried to it:
“Sister — you are a woman! Lead me to safety that I may have vengeance — sister!”
Remember, she had just seen her husband die under the knives of the hung-hutzes and she was with child . . . and who can know upon what fantastic paths of unreality a mind so beset40 may stray.
As though it had understood the fox paced slowly down the steps. And again she thought how like a graceful woman it was. It paused a little beyond reach of her hand, studying her with those slanted green eyes — eyes clear and brilliant as jewels, sea-green, and like no eyes she had ever seen in any animal. There seemed faint mockery in their gaze, a delicate malice41, but as they rested upon her bruised42 shoulder and dropped to her swollen43 girdle, she could have sworn that there was human comprehension in them, and pity. She whispered:
“Sister — help me!”
There was a sudden outburst of the guttural singsong. They were close now, her pursuers, close to the bend of the steps round which she had come. Soon they must turn it and see her. She stood staring at the fox expectantly . . . hoping she knew not what.
The fox slipped by her, seemed to melt in the crouching bushes. It vanished.
Black despair, the despair of a child who finds itself abandoned to wild beasts by one it has trusted, closed in on Jean Meredith. What she had hoped for, what she had expected of help, was vague, unformulated. A miracle by alien gods, now she had renounced44 her own? Or had her appeal to the vixen deeper impulse? Atavistic awakenings, anthropomorphic, going back to that immemorial past when men first thought of animals and birds as creatures with souls like theirs, but closer to Nature's spirit; given by that spirit a wisdom greater than human, and more than human powers — servants and messengers of potent45 deities46 and little less than gods themselves.
Nor has it been so long ago that St. Francis of Assisi spoke47 to the beasts and birds as he did to men and women, naming them Brother Wolf and Brother Eagle. And did not St. Conan baptize the seals of the Orkneys as he did the pagan men? The past and all that men have thought in the past is born anew within us all. And sometimes strange doors open within our minds — and out of them or into them strange spirits come or go. And whether real or unreal, who can say?
The fox seemed to understand — had seemed to promise — something. And it had abandoned her, fled away! Sobbing48, she turned to climb the steps.
Too late! The hung-hutzes had rounded the bend.
There was a howling chorus. With obscene gestures, yapping threats, they ran toward her. Ahead of the pack was the pock-faced, half-breed Tibetan leader whose knife had been the first to cut her husband down. She watched them come, helpless to move, unable even to close her eyes. The pock-face saw and understood, gave quick command, and the pack slowed to a walk, gloating upon her agony, prolonging it.
They halted! Something like a flicker49 of russet flame had shot across the steps between her and them. It was the fox. It stood there, quietly regarding them. And hope flashed up through Jean Meredith, melting the cold terror that had frozen her. Power of motion returned. But she did not try to run. She did not want to run. The cry for vengeance was welling up again. She felt that cry reach out to the fox.
As though it had heard her, the fox turned its head and looked at her. She saw its green eyes sparkle, its white teeth bared as though it smiled.
Its eyes withdrawn50, the spell upon the hung-hutzes broke. The leader drew pistol, fired upon the fox.
Jean Meredith saw, or thought she saw, the incredible.
Where fox had been, stood now a woman! She was tall, and lithe as a young willow52. Jean Meredith could not see her face, but she could see hair of russet-red coifed upon a small and shapely head. A silken gown of russet-red, sleeveless, dropped to the woman's feet. She raised an arm and pointed53 at the pock-faced leader. Behind him his men were silent, motionless, even as Jean Meredith had been — and it came to her that it was the same ice of terror that held them. Their eyes were fixed54 upon the woman.
The woman's hand dropped — slowly. And as it dropped, the pock-faced Tibetan dropped with it. He sank to his knees and then upon his hands. He stared into her face, lips drawn51 back from his teeth like a snarling55 dog, and there was foam56 upon his lips. Then he hurled57 himself upon his men, like a wolf. He sprang upon them howling; he leaped up at their throats, tearing at them with teeth and talons58. They milled, squalling rage and bewildered terror. They tried to beat him off — they could not.
There was a flashing of knives. The pock-face lay writhing59 on the steps, like a dog dying. Still squalling, never looking behind them, his men poured down the steps and away.
Jean Meredith's hands went up, covering her eyes. She dropped them — a fox, all silken russet-red, stood where the woman had been. It was watching her. She saw its green eyes sparkle, its white teeth bared as though it smiled — it began to walk daintily up the steps toward her.
Weakness swept over her; she bent60 her head, crumpled61 to her knees, covered again her eyes with shaking hands. She was aware of an unfamiliar62 fragrance63 — disturbing, evocative of strange, fleeting64 images. She heard low, sweet laughter. She heard a Soft voice whisper:
“Sister!”
She looked up. A woman's face was bending over her. An exquisite65 face . . . with sea-green, slanted eyes under a broad white brow . . . with hair of russet-red that came to a small peak in the center of that brow . . . a lock of silvery white shaped like the flame of a candle wavering in the wind . . . a nose long but delicate, the nostrils66 slightly flaring67, daintily . . . a mouth small and red as the royal coral, heart-shaped, lips full, archaic68.
Over that exquisite face, like a veil, was faint mockery, a delicate malice that had in them little of the human. Her hands were white and long and slender.
They touched Jean Meredith's heart . . . soothing69 her, strengthening her, drowning fear and sorrow.
She heard again the sweet voice, lilting, faintly amused — with the alien, half-malicious amusement of one who understands human emotion yet has never felt it, but knows how little it matters:
“You shall have your vengeance — Sister!” The white hands touched her eyes . . . she forgot . . . and forgot . . . and now there was nothing to remember . . . not even herself . . . .
It seemed to Jean Meredith that she lay cushioned within soft, blind darkness — illimitable, impenetrable. She had no memories; all that she knew was that she was. She thought: I am I. The darkness that cradled her was gentle, kindly70. She thought: I am a spirit still unborn in the womb of night. But what was night . . . and what was spirit? She thought: I am content — I do not want to be born again. Again? That meant that she had been born before . . . a word came to her — Jean. She thought: I am Jean . . . but who was Jean?
She heard two voices speaking. One a woman's, soft and sweet with throbbing71 undertones like plucked harp72 strings73. She had heard that voice before . . . before, when she had been Jean. The man's voice was low, filled with tranquillity74, human . . . that was it, the voice held within it a humanness the sweet voice of the woman lacked. She thought: I, Jean, am human . . . .
The man said: “Soon she must awaken. The tide of sleep is high on the shore of life. It must not cover it.”
The woman answered: “I command that tide. And it has begun to ebb75. Soon she will awaken.”
He asked: “Will she remember?”
The woman said: “She will remember. But she will not suffer. It will be as though what she remembers had happened to another self of hers. She will pity that self, but it will be to her as though it died when died her husband. As indeed it did. That self bears the sorrow, the pain, the agony. It leaves no legacy76 of them to her — save memory.”
And now it seemed to her that for a time there was a silence . . . although she knew that time could not exist within the blackness that cradled her . . . and what was — time?
The man's voice broke that silence, musingly77: “With memory there can be no happiness for her, long as she lives.”
The woman laughed, a tingling78-sweet mocking chime: “Happiness? I thought you wiser than to cling to that illusion, priest. I give her serenity79, which is far better than happiness. Nor did she ask for happiness. She asked for vengeance. And vengeance she shall have.”
The man said: “But she does not know who — ”
The woman interrupted: “She does know. And I know. And so shall you when you have told her what was wrung80 from the Tibetan before he died. And if you still do not believe, you will believe when he who is guilty comes here, as come he will — to kill the child.”
The man whispered: “To kill the child!”
The woman's voice became cold, losing none of its sweetness but edged with menace: “You must not let him have it, priest. Not then. Later, when the word is given you. . . . ”
Again the voice grew mocking . . . “I contemplate81 a journey . . . I would see other lands, who so long have dwelt among these hills . . . and I would not have my plans spoiled by precipitancy . . . .” Once more Jean Meredith heard the tingling laughter. “Have no fear, priest. They will help you — my sisters.”
He said, steadily82: “I have no fear.”
The woman's voice became gentle, all mockery fled< She said:
“I know that, you who have had wisdom and courage to open forbidden doors. But I am bound by a threefold cord — a promise, a vow83, and a desire. When a certain time comes, I must surrender much — must lie helpless, bound by that cord. It is then that I shall need you, priest, for this man who will come. . . . ”
The voices faded. Slowly the blackness within which she lay began to lighten. Slowly, slowly, a luminous84 greyness replaced it. She thought, desperately: I am. going to be born! I don't want to be born! Implacably, the light increased. Now within the greyness was a nimbus of watery85 emerald. The nimbus became brighter, brighter . . . .
She was lying upon a low bed, in a nest of silken cushions. Close to her was an immense and ancient bronze vessel86, like a baptismal font. The hands of thousands of years had caressed87 it, leaving behind them an ever deepening patina88 like a soft green twilight. A ray of the sun shone upon it, and where the ray rested, the patina gleamed like a tiny green sun. Upon the sides of the great bowl were strange geometric patterns, archaic, the spirals and meanders89 of the Lei-wen — the thunder patterns. It stood upon three legs, tripodal . . . why, it was the ancient ceremonial vessel, the Tang font which Martin had brought home from Yunnan years ago . . . and she was back home . . . she had dreamed that she had been in China and that Martin . . . that Martin . . . .
She sat up abruptly90 and looked through wide, opened doors into a garden. Broad steps dropped shallowly to an oval pool around whose sides were lithe willows91 trailing green tendrils in the blue water, wisterias with drooping92 ropes of blossoms, white and pale azure93, and azaleas like flower flames. Rosy94 lilies lay upon the pool's breast. And at its far end was a small pagoda95, fairy-like, built all of tiles of iridescent96 peacock blue and on each side a stately cypress97, as though they were its ministers . . . why, this was their garden, the garden of the blue pagoda which Martin had copied from that place in Yunnan where lived his friend, the wise old priest . . . .
But there was something wrong. These mountains were not like those of the ranch98. They were conical, their smooth bare slopes of rose-red stone circled with trees . . . they were like huge stone hats with green brims . . . .
She turned again and looked about the room. It was a wide room and a deep one, but how deep she could not see, because the sun streaming in from a high window struck the ancient vessel and made a curtain, veiling it beyond. She could see that there were beams across its ceiling, mellow99 with age, carved with strange symbols. She caught glimpses of ivory and of gleaming lacquer. There was a low altar of what seemed green jade, curiously carved and upon which were ceremonial objects of unfamiliar shape, a huge ewer100 of bronze whose lid was the head of a fox.. ..
A man came toward her, walking out of the shadows beyond the ancient Tang vessel. He was clothed from neck to feet in a silken robe of silvery-blue upon which were embroidered101, delicately as though by spiders, Taoist symbols and under them, ghostly in silver threads, a fox's head. He was bald, his face heavy, expressionless, skin smooth and faded yellow as some antique parchment. So far as age went he might have been sixty — or three hundred. But it was his eyes that held Jean Meredith. They were large and black and, liquid, and prodigiously102 alive. They were young eyes, belying103 the agelessness of the heavy face; and it was as though the face was but a mask from which the eyes had drawn all life into themselves. They poured into her strength and calmness and reassurance104, and from her mind vanished all vagueness, all doubts, all fears. Her mind for the first time since the ambush105 was clear, crystal clear, her thoughts her own.
She remembered — remembered everything. But it was as though all had happened to another self. She felt pity for that self, but it had left no heritage of sorrow. She was tranquil. The black, youthful eyes poured tranquillity into her.
She said: “I know you. You are Yu Ch'ien, the wise priest my husband loved. This is the Temple of the Foxes.”
收听单词发音 |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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dwarfed
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| vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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archers
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| n.弓箭手，射箭运动员( archer的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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outlaws
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| 歹徒，亡命之徒( outlaw的名词复数 )； 逃犯 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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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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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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talons
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| n.（尤指猛禽的）爪( talon的名词复数 )；（如爪般的）手指；爪状物；锁簧尖状突出部 | |
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writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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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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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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musingly
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| adv.沉思地，冥想地 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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patina
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| n.铜器上的绿锈，年久而产生的光泽 | |
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meanders
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| 曲径( meander的名词复数 )； 迂回曲折的旅程 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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pagoda
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| n.宝塔（尤指印度和远东的多层宝塔），（印度教或佛教的）塔式庙宇 | |
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iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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99
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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ewer
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| n.大口水罐 | |
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101
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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102
prodigiously
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| adv.异常地，惊人地，巨大地 | |
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103
belying
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| v.掩饰，与…不符，使…失望；掩饰( belie的现在分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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104
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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105
ambush
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| n.埋伏(地点)；伏兵；v.埋伏；伏击 | |
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