Lyra and Will each awoke with a heavy dread1: it was like being a condemned2 prisoner on the morning fixed3 for the execution. Tialys and Salmakia were attending to their dragonflies, bringing them moths4 lassoed near the anbaric lamp over the oil drum outside, flies cut from spiderwebs, and water in a tin plate. When she saw the expression on Lyra's face and the way that Pantalaimon, mouse-formed, was pressing himself close to her breast, the Lady Salmakia left what she was doing to come and speak with her. Will, meanwhile, left the hut to walk about outside.
"You can still decide differently," said Salmakia.
"No, we can't. We decided6 already," said Lyra, stubborn and fearful at once.
"And if we don't come back?"
"You don't have to come," Lyra pointed7 out.
"We're not going to abandon you."
"Then what if you don't come back?"
"We shall have died doing something important."
Lyra was silent. She hadn't really looked at the Lady before; but she could see her very clearly now, in the smoky light of the naphtha lamp, standing8 on the table just an arm's length away. Her face was calm and kindly9, not beautiful, not pretty, but the very sort of face you would be glad to see if you were ill or unhappy or frightened. Her voice was low and expressive10, with a current of laughter and happiness under the clear surface. In all the life she could remember, Lyra had never been read to in bed; no one had told her stories or sung nursery rhymes with her before kissing her and putting out the light. But she suddenly thought now that if ever there was a voice that would lap you in safety and warm you with love, it would be a voice like the Lady Salmakia's, and she felt a wish in her heart to have a child of her own, to lull11 and soothe12 and sing to, one day, in a voice like that.
"Well," Lyra said, and found her throat choked, so she swallowed and shrugged13.
"We'll see," said the Lady, and turned back.
Once they had eaten their thin, dry bread and drunk their bitter tea, which was all the people had to offer them, they thanked their hosts, took their rucksacks, and set off through the shanty14 town for the lakeshore. Lyra looked around for her death, and sure enough, there he was, walking politely a little way ahead; but he didn't want to come closer, though he kept looking back to see if they were following.
The day was overhung with a gloomy mist. It was more like dusk than daylight, and wraiths15 and streamers of the fog rose dismally16 from puddles18 in the road, or clung like forlorn lovers to the anbaric cables overhead. They saw no people, and few deaths, but the dragonflies skimmed through the damp air, as if they were sewing it all together with invisible threads, and it was a delight to the eyes to watch their bright colors flashing back and forth19.
Before long they had reached the edge of the settlement and made their way beside a sluggish20 stream through bare-twigged scrubby bushes. Occasionally they would hear a harsh croak21 or a splash as some amphibian22 was disturbed, but the only creature they saw was a toad23 as big as Will's foot, which could only flop24 in a pain-filled sideways heave as if it were horribly injured. It lay across the path, trying to move out of the way and looking at them as if it knew they meant to hurt it.
"It would be merciful to kill it," said Tialys. "How do you know?" said Lyra. "It might still like being alive, in spite of everything."
"If we killed it, we'd be taking it with us," said Will. "It wants to stay here. I've killed enough living things. Even a filthy25 stagnant26 pool might be better than being dead."
"But if it's in pain?" said Tialys.
"If it could tell us, we'd know. But since it can't, I'm not going to kill it. That would be considering our feelings rather than the toad's."
They moved on. Before long the changing sound their footsteps made told them that there was an openness nearby, although the mist was even thicker. Pantalaimon was a lemur, with the biggest eyes he could manage, clinging to Lyra's shoulder, pressing himself into her fog-pearled hair, peering all around and seeing no more than she did. And still he was trembling and trembling.
Suddenly they all heard a little wave breaking. It was quiet, but it was very close by. The dragonflies returned with their riders to the children, and Pantalaimon crept into Lyra's breast as she and Will moved closer together, treading carefully along the slimy path.
And then they were at the shore. The oily, scummy water lay still in front of them, an occasional ripple28 breaking languidly on the pebbles29.
The path turned to the left, and a little way along, more like a thickening of the mist than a solid object, a wooden jetty stood crazily out over the water. The piles were decayed and the planks30 were green with slime, and there was nothing else; nothing beyond it; the path ended where the jetty began, and where the jetty ended, the mist began. Lyra's death, having guided them there, bowed to her and stepped into the fog, vanishing before she could ask him what to do next.
"Listen," said Will.
There was a slow, repetitive sound out on the invisible water: a creak of wood and a quiet, regular splash. Will put his hand on the knife at his belt and moved forward carefully onto the rotting planks. Lyra followed close behind. The dragonflies perched on the two weed-covered mooring31 posts, looking like heraldic guardians32, and the children stood at the end of the jetty, pressing their open eyes against the mist, and having to brush their lashes33 free of the drops that settled on them. The only sound was that slow creak and splash that was getting closer and closer.
"Don't let's go!" Pantalaimon whispered.
"Got to," Lyra whispered back.
She looked at Will. His face was set hard and grim and eager: he wouldn't turn aside. And the Gallivespians, Tialys on Will's shoulder, Salmakia on Lyra's, were calm and watchful34. The dragonflies' wings were pearled with mist, like cobwebs, and from time to time they'd beat them quickly to clear them, because the drops must make them heavy, Lyra thought. She hoped there would be food for them in the land of the dead.
Then suddenly there was the boat.
It was an ancient rowboat, battered35, patched, rotting; and the figure rowing it was aged36 beyond age, huddled37 in a robe of sacking bound with string, crippled and bent38, his bony hands crooked39 permanently40 around the oar41 handles, and his moist, pale eyes sunk deep among folds and wrinkles of gray skin.
He let go of an oar and reached his crooked hand up to the iron ring set in the post at the corner of the jetty. With the other hand he moved the oar to bring the boat right up against the planks.
There was no need to speak. Will got in first, and then Lyra came forward to step down, too.
But the boatman held up his hand.
"Not him," he said in a harsh whisper.
"Not who?"
"Not him."
He extended a yellow-gray ringer, pointing directly at Pantalaimon, whose red-brown stoat form immediately became ermine white.
"But he is me!" Lyra said.
"If you come, he must stay."
"But we can't! We'd die!"
"Isn't that what you want?"
And then for the first time Lyra truly realized what she was doing. This was the real consequence. She stood aghast, trembling, and clutched her dear daemon so tightly that he whimpered in pain.
"They..." said Lyra helplessly, then stopped: it wasn't fair to point out that the other three didn't have to give anything up.
Will was watching her anxiously. She looked all around, at the lake, at the jetty, at the rough path, the stagnant puddles, the dead and sodden43 bushes... Her Pan, alone here: how could he live without her? He was shaking inside her shirt, against her bare flesh, his fur needing her warmth. Impossible! Never!
"He must stay here if you are to come," the boatman said again.
The Lady Salmakia flicked44 the rein45, and her dragonfly skimmed away from Lyra's shoulder to land on the gunwale of the boat, where Tialys joined her. They said something to the boatman. Lyra watched as a condemned prisoner watches the stir at the back of the courtroom that might be a messenger with a pardon.
The boatman bent to listen and then shook his head.
"No," he said. "If she comes, he has to stay."
Will said, "That's not right. We don't have to leave part of ourselves behind. Why should Lyra?"
"Oh, but you do," said the boatman. "It's her misfortune that she can see and talk to the part she must leave. You will not know until you are on the water, and then it will be too late. But you all have to leave that part of yourselves here. There is no passage to the land of the dead for such as him."
No, Lyra thought, and Pantalaimon thought with her: We didn't go through Bolvangar for this, no; how will we ever find each other again?
And she looked back again at the foul46 and dismal17 shore, so bleak47 and blasted with disease and poison, and thought of her dear Pan waiting there alone, her heart's companion, watching her disappear into the mist, and she fell into a storm of weeping. Her passionate48 sobs49 didn't echo, because the mist muffled50 them, but all along the shore in innumerable ponds and shallows, in wretched broken tree stumps51, the damaged creatures that lurked52 there heard her full-hearted cry and drew themselves a little closer to the ground, afraid of such passion.
"If he could come...” cried Will, desperate to end her grief, but the boatman shook his head.
"He can come in the boat, but if he does, the boat stays here," he said.
"But how will she find him again?"
"I don't know."
"When we leave, will we come back this way?"
"Leave?"
"We're going to come back. We're going to the land of the dead and we are going to come back."
"Not this way."
"Then some other way, but we will!"
"I have taken millions, and none came back."
"Then we shall be the first. We'll find our way out. And since we're going to do that, be kind, boatman, be compassionate53, let her take her daemon!"
"No," he said, and shook his ancient head. "It's not a rule you can break. It's a law like this one..." He leaned over the side and cupped a handful of water, and then tilted55 his hand so it ran out again. "The law that makes the water fall back into the lake, it's a law like that. I can't tilt54 my hand and make the water fly upward. No more can I take her daemon to the land of the dead. Whether or not she comes, he must stay."
Lyra could see nothing: her face was buried in Pantalaimon's cat fur. But Will saw Tialys dismount from his dragonfly and prepare to spring at the boatman, and he half-agreed with the spy's intention; but the old man had seen him, and turned his ancient head to say:
"How many ages do you think I've been ferrying people to the land of the dead? D'you think if anything could hurt me, it wouldn't have happened already? D'you think the people I take come with me gladly? They struggle and cry, they try to bribe56 me, they threaten and fight; nothing works. You can't hurt me, sting as you will. Better comfort the child; she's coming; take no notice of me."
Will could hardly watch. Lyra was doing the cruelest thing she had ever done, hating herself, hating the deed, suffering for Pan and with Pan and because of Pan; trying to put him down on the cold path, disengaging his cat claws from her clothes, weeping, weeping. Will closed his ears: the sound was too unhappy to bear. Time after time she pushed her daemon away, and still he cried and tried to cling.
She could turn back.
She could say no, this is a bad idea, we mustn't do it.
She could be true to the heart-deep, life-deep bond linking her to Pantalaimon, she could put that first, she could push the rest out of her mind…
But she couldn't.
"Pan, no one's done this before," she whispered shiveringly, "but Will says we're coming back and I swear, Pan, I love you, I swear we're coming back, I will, take care, my dear, you'll be safe, we will come back, and if I have to spend every minute of my life finding you again, I will, I won't stop, I won't rest, I won't, oh, Pan, dear Pan, I've got to, I've got to..."
And she pushed him away, so that he crouched57 bitter and cold and frightened on the muddy ground.
What animal he was now, Will could hardly tell. He seemed to be so young, a cub58, a puppy, something helpless and beaten, a creature so sunk in misery59 that it was more misery than creature. His eyes never left Lyra's face, and Will could see her making herself not look away, not avoid the guilt60, and he admired her honesty and her courage at the same time as he was wrenched61 with the shock of their parting. There were so many vivid currents of feeling between them that the very air felt electric to him.
And Pantalaimon didn't ask why, because he knew; and he didn't ask whether Lyra loved Roger more than him, because he knew the true answer to that, too. And he knew that if he spoke62, she wouldn't be able to resist; so the daemon held himself quiet so as not to distress63 the human who was abandoning him, and now they were both pretending that it wouldn't hurt, it wouldn't be long before they were together again, it was all for the best. But Will knew that the little girl was tearing her heart out of her breast.
Then she stepped down into the boat. She was so light that it barely rocked at all. She sat beside Will, and her eyes never left Pantalaimon, who stood trembling at the shore end of the jetty; but as the boatman let go of the iron ring and swung his oars64 out to pull the boat away, the little dog daemon trotted65 helplessly out to the very end, his claws clicking softly on the soft planks, and stood watching, just watching, as the boat drew away and the jetty faded and vanished in the mist.
Then Lyra gave a cry so passionate that even in that muffled, mist-hung world it raised an echo, but of course it wasn't an echo, it was the other part of her crying in turn from the land of the living as Lyra moved away into the land of the dead.
"My heart, Will..." she groaned66, and clung to him, her wet face contorted with pain.
And thus the prophecy that the Master of Jordan College had made to the Librarian, that Lyra would make a great betrayal and it would hurt her terribly, was fulfilled.
But Will, too, found an agony building inside him, and through the pain he saw that the two Gallivespians, clinging together just as he and Lyra were doing, were moved by the same anguish67.
Part of it was physical. It felt as if an iron hand had gripped his heart and was pulling it out between his ribs68, so that he pressed his hands to the place and vainly tried to hold it in. It was far deeper and far worse than the pain of losing his fingers. But it was mental, too: something secret and private was being dragged into the open, where it had no wish to be, and Will was nearly overcome by a mixture of pain and shame and fear and self-reproach, because he himself had caused it.
And it was worse than that. It was as if he'd said, "No, don't kill me, I'm frightened; kill my mother instead; she doesn't matter, I don't love her," and as if she'd heard him say it, and pretended she hadn't so as to spare his feelings, and offered herself in his place anyway because of her love for him. He felt as bad as that. There was nothing worse to feel.
So Will knew that all those things were part of having a daemon, and that whatever his daemon was, she, too, was left behind, with Pantalaimon, on that poisoned and desolate69 shore. The thought came to Will and Lyra at the same moment, and they exchanged a tear-filled glance. And for the second time in their lives, hut not the last, each of them saw their own expression on the other's face.
Only the boatman and the dragonflies seemed indifferent to the journey they were making. The great insects were fully27 alive and bright with beauty even in the clinging mist, shaking their filmy wings to dislodge the moisture; and the old man in his sacking robe leaned forward and back, forward and back, bracing70 his bare feet against the slime-puddled floor.
The journey lasted longer than Lyra wanted to measure. Though part of her was raw with anguish, imagining Pantalaimon abandoned on the shore, another part was adjusting to the pain, measuring her own strength, curious to see what would happen and where they would land.
Will's arm was strong around her, but he, too, was looking ahead, trying to peer through the wet gray gloom and to hear anything other than the dank splash of the oars. And presently something did change: a cliff or an island lay ahead of them. They heard the enclosing of the sound before they saw the mist darken.
The boatman pulled on one oar to turn the boat a little to the left.
"Where are we?" said the voice of the Chevalier Tialys, small but strong as ever, though there was a harsh edge to it, as if he, too, had been suffering pain.
"Near the island," said the boatman. "Another five minutes, we'll be at the landing stage."
"What island?" said Will. He found his own voice strained, too, so tight it hardly seemed his.
"The gate to the land of the dead is on this island," said the boatman. "Everyone comes here, kings, queens, murderers, poets, children; everyone comes this way, and none come back."
"We shall come back," whispered Lyra fiercely.
He said nothing, but his ancient eyes were full of pity.
As they moved closer, they could see branches of cypress72 and yew73 hanging down low over the water, dark green, dense74, and gloomy. The land rose steeply, and the trees grew so thickly that hardly a ferret could slip between them, and at that thought Lyra gave a little half-hiccup-half-sob, for Pan would have shown her how well he could do it; but not now, maybe not ever again.
"Are we dead now?" Will said to the boatman.
"Makes no difference," he said. "There's some that came here never believing they were dead. They insisted all the way that they were alive, it was a mistake, someone would have to pay; made no difference. There's others who longed to be dead when they were alive, poor souls; lives full of pain or misery; killed themselves for a chance of a blessed rest, and found that nothing had changed except for the worse, and this time there was no escape; you can't make yourself alive again. And there's been others so frail75 and sickly, little infants, sometimes, that they're scarcely born into the living before they come down to the dead. I've rowed this boat with a little crying baby on my lap many, many times, that never knew the difference between up there and down here. And old folk, too, the rich ones are the worst, snarling76 and savage77 and cursing me, railing and screaming: what did I think I was? Hadn't they gathered and saved all the gold they could garner78? Wouldn't I take some now, to put them back ashore79? They'd have the law on me, they had powerful friends, they knew the Pope and the king of this and the duke of that, they were in a position to see I was punished and chastised80... But they knew what the truth was in the end: the only position they were in was in my boat going to the land of the dead, and as for those kings and Popes, they'd be in here, too, in their turn, sooner than they wanted.
I let 'em cry and rave81; they can't hurt me; they fall silent in the end.
"So if you don't know whether you're dead or not, and the little girl swears blind she'll come out again to the living, I say nothing to contradict you. What you are, you'll know soon enough."
All the time he had been steadily82 rowing along the shore, and now he shipped the oars, slipping the handles down inside the boat and reaching out to his right for the first wooden post that rose out of the lake.
He pulled the boat alongside the narrow wharf83 and held it still for them. Lyra didn't want to get out: as long as she was near the boat, then Pantalaimon would be able to think of her properly, because that was how he last saw her, but when she moved away from it, he wouldn't know how to picture her anymore. So she hesitated, but the dragonflies flew up, and Will got out, pale and clutching his chest; so she had to as well.
"Thank you," she said to the boatman. "When you go back, if you see my daemon, tell him I love him the best of everything in the land of the living or the dead, and I swear I'll come back to him, even if no one's ever done it before, I swear I will."
"Yes, I'll tell him that," said the old boatman.
He pushed off, and the sound of his slow oar strokes faded away in the mist.
The Gallivespians flew back, having gone a little way, and perched on the children's shoulders as before, she on Lyra, he on Will. So they stood, the travelers, at the edge of the land of the dead. Ahead of them there was nothing but mist, though they could see from the darkening of it that a great wall rose in front of them.
Lyra shivered. She felt as if her skin had turned into lace and the damp and hitter air could flow in and out of her ribs, scaldingly cold on the raw wound where Pantalaimon had been. Still, she thought, Roger must have felt like that as he plunged84 down the mountainside, trying to cling to her desperate fingers.
They stood still and listened. The only sound was an endless drip-drip-drip of water from the leaves, and as they looked up, they felt one or two drops splash coldly on their cheeks.
"Can't stay here," said Lyra.
They moved off the wharf, keeping close together, and made their way to the wall. Gigantic stone blocks, green with ancient slime, rose higher into the mist than they could see. And now that they were closer, they could hear the sound of cries behind it, though whether they were human voices crying was impossible to tell: high, mournful shrieks85 and wails86 that hung in the air like the drifting filaments87 of a jellyfish, causing pain wherever they touched.
"There's a door," said Will in a hoarse88, strained voice.
It was a battered wooden postern under a slab89 of stone. Before Will could lift his hand and open it, one of those high, harsh cries sounded very close by, jarring their ears and frightening them horribly.
Immediately the Gallivespians darted90 into the air, the dragonflies like little warhorses eager for battle. But the thing that flew down swept them aside with a brutal91 blow from her wing, and then settled heavily on a ledge92 just above the children's heads. Tialys and Salmakia gathered themselves and soothed93 their shaken mounts.
The thing was a great bird the size of a vulture, with the face and breasts of a woman. Will had seen pictures of creatures like her, and the word harpy came to mind as soon as he saw her clearly. Her face was smooth and unwrinkled, but aged beyond even the age of the witches: she had seen thousands of years pass, and the cruelty and misery of all of them had formed the hateful expression on her features. But as the travelers saw her more clearly, she became even more repulsive94. Her eye sockets95 were clotted96 with filthy slime, and the redness of her lips was caked and crusted as if she had vomited97 ancient blood again and again. Her matted, filthy black hair hung down to her shoulders; her jagged claws gripped the stone fiercely; her powerful dark wings were folded along her back; and a drift of putrescent stink98 wafted99 from her every time she moved.
Will and Lyra, both of them sick and full of pain, tried to stand upright and face her.
"But you are alive!" the harpy said, her harsh voice mocking them.
Will found himself hating and fearing her more than any human being he had ever known.
"Who are you?" said Lyra, who was just as repelled100 as Will.
For answer the harpy screamed. She opened her mouth and directed a jet of noise right in their faces, so that their heads rang and they nearly fell backward. Will clutched at Lyra and they both clung together as the scream turned into wild, mocking peals101 of laughter, which were answered by other harpy voices in the fog along the shore. The jeering102, hate-filled sound reminded Will of the merciless cruelty of children in a playground, but there were no teachers here to regulate things, no one to appeal to, nowhere to hide.
He set his hand on the knife at his belt and looked her in the eyes, though his head was ringing and the sheer power of her scream had made him dizzy.
"If you're trying to stop us," he said, "then you'd better be ready to fight as well as scream. Because we're going through that door."
The harpy's sickening red mouth moved again, but this time it was to purse her lips into a mock kiss.
Then she said, "Your mother is alone. We shall send her nightmares. We shall scream at her in her sleep!"
Will didn't move, because out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Lady Salmakia moving delicately along the branch where the harpy was perching. Her dragonfly, wings quivering, was being held by Tialys on the ground, and then two things happened: the Lady leapt at the harpy and spun103 around to dig her spur deep into the creature's scaly104 leg, and Tialys launched the dragonfly upward. In less than a second Salmakia had spun away and leapt off the branch, directly onto the back of her electric blue steed and up into the air.
The effect on the harpy was immediate42. Another scream shattered the silence, much louder than before, and she beat her dark wings so hard that Will and Lyra both felt the wind and staggered. But she clung to the stone with her claws, and her face was suffused105 with dark red anger, and her hair stood out from her head like a crest106 of serpents.
Will tugged107 at Lyra's hand, and they both tried to run toward the door, but the harpy launched herself at them in a fury and only pulled up from the dive when Will turned, thrusting Lyra behind him and holding up the knife.
The Gallivespians were on her at once, darting108 close at her face and then darting away again, unable to get in a blow but distracting her so that she beat her wings clumsily and half-fell onto the ground.
Lyra called out, "Tialys! Salmakia! Stop, stop!"
The spies reined109 back their dragonflies and skimmed high over the children's heads. Other dark forms were clustering in the fog, and the jeering screams of a hundred more harpies sounded from farther along the shore. The first one was shaking her wings, shaking her hair, stretching each leg in turn, and flexing110 her claws. She was unhurt, and that was what Lyra had noticed.
The Gallivespians hovered111 and then dived back toward Lyra, who was holding out both hands for them to land on. Salmakia realized what Lyra had meant, and said to Tialys: "She's right. We can't hurt her, for some reason."
Lyra said, "Lady, what's your name?"
The harpy shook her wings wide, and the travelers nearly fainted from the hideous112 smells of corruption113 and decay that wafted from her.
"No-Name!" she cried.
"What do you want with us?" said Lyra.
"What can you give me?"
"We could tell you where we've been, and maybe you'd be interested, I don't know. We saw all kinds of strange things on the way here."
"Oh, and you're offering to tell me a story?"
"If you'd like."
"Maybe I would. And what then?"
"You might let us go in through that door and find the ghost we've come here to look for; I hope you would, anyway. If you'd be so kind."
"Try, then," said No-Name.
And even in her sickness and pain, Lyra felt that she'd just been dealt the ace5 of trumps114.
"Oh, be careful," whispered Salmakia, but Lyra's mind was already racing71 ahead through the story she'd told the night before, shaping and cutting and improving and adding: parents dead; family treasure; shipwreck115; escape ...
"Well," she said, settling into her storytelling frame of mind, "it began when I was a baby, really. My father and mother were the Duke and Duchess of Abingdon, you see, and they were as rich as anything. My father was one of the king's advisers116, and the king himself used to come and stay, oh, all the time. They'd go hunting in our forest. The house there, where I was born, it was the biggest house in the whole south of England. It was called…"
Without even a cry of warning, the harpy launched herself at Lyra, claws outstretched. Lyra just had time to duck, but still one of the claws caught her scalp and tore out a clump117 of hair.
"Liar118! Liar!" the harpy was screaming. "Liar!"
She flew around again, aiming directly for Lyra's face; but Will took out the knife and threw himself in the way. No-Name swerved119 out of reach just in time, and Will hustled120 Lyra over toward the door, because she was numb121 with shock and half-blinded by the blood running down her face. Where the Gallivespians were, Will had no idea, but the harpy was flying at them again and screaming and screaming in rage and hatred122:
"Liar! Liar! Liar!"
And it sounded as if her voice were coming from everywhere, and the word echoed back from the great wall in the fog, muffled and changed, so that she seemed to be screaming Lyra's name, so that Lyra and liar were one and the same thing.
Will had the girl pressed against his chest, with his shoulder curved over to protect her, and he felt her shaking and sobbing123 against him; but then he thrust the knife into the rotten wood of the door and cut out the lock with a quick slash124 of the blade.
Then he and Lyra, with the spies beside them on their darting dragonflies, tumbled through into the realm of the ghosts as the harpy's cry was doubled and redoubled by others on the foggy shore behind them.
收听单词发音 |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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ace
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| n.A牌；发球得分；佼佼者；adj.杰出的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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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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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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13
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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14
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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15
wraiths
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| n.幽灵( wraith的名词复数 )；（传说中人在将死或死后不久的）显形阴魂 | |
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16
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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19
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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20
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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21
croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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22
amphibian
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| n.两栖动物；水陆两用飞机和车辆 | |
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23
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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24
flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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25
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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26
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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27
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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28
ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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29
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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30
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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31
mooring
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| n.停泊处；系泊用具，系船具；下锚v.停泊，系泊（船只）(moor的现在分词) | |
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32
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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33
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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34
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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35
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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36
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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37
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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38
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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39
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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40
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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41
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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42
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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43
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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44
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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45
rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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46
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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47
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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48
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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49
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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50
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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51
stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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52
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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53
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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54
tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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55
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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56
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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57
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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59
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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60
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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61
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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62
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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63
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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64
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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65
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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66
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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67
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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68
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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69
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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70
bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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71
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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72
cypress
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| n.柏树 | |
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73
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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74
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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75
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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76
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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77
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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78
garner
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| v.收藏；取得 | |
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79
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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80
chastised
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的过去式 ) | |
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81
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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82
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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83
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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84
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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85
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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87
filaments
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| n.（电灯泡的）灯丝( filament的名词复数 )；丝极；细丝；丝状物 | |
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88
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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89
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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90
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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91
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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92
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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93
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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94
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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95
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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96
clotted
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| adj.凝结的v.凝固( clot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
vomited
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98
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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99
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
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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101
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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102
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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103
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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104
scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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105
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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107
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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109
reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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110
flexing
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| n.挠曲，可挠性v.屈曲( flex的现在分词 )；弯曲；（为准备大干而）显示实力；摩拳擦掌 | |
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111
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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112
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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113
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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114
trumps
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| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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115
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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116
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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117
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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118
liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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119
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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121
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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122
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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123
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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124
slash
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| vi.大幅度削减；vt.猛砍，尖锐抨击，大幅减少；n.猛砍，斜线，长切口，衣衩 | |
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