Explore Chapter 3 of 'Cat Country' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
I (the narrator) ignored all dangers. The very thought of danger did not even cross my mind at that moment. Heat, hunger, thirst, pain-none could overcome my exhaustion. I (the narrator) had been on a plane for over half a month! I don’t know how I managed to struggle into a reclining position, and I (the narrator) simply fell asleep. Lying flat on my back was impossible, for the shackles on my wrists prevented me from straightening my spine. Entrusting my life to the turbid, steaming river, I (the narrator) slept on. Could I possibly hope for sweet dreams under such circumstances?
When I opened my eyes again, I (the narrator) was sitting propped against a corner of what seemed like a small hut-or rather, a small cave, to be more accurate. There were no windows, no door. Four walls, if they could be called that, enclosed a patch of ground where the grass had not even been cleared, and the ceiling was a small patch of silvery-gray sky. My hands were now freedom (in the Cat-people's sense), but a thick rope was tied around my waist. One end was wound around me, though I certainly didn’t need such a belt, and the other end was out of sight, probably fastened outside the wall. I must have been lowered from above. My pistol was still in my pocket-strange!
What did it mean? A kidnapping? To demand ransom from Earth? That would be too troublesome. Capturing a monster, planning to train it for exhibition in a zoo? Or sending it to a biology institute for dissection? That seemed more plausible. I (the narrator) laughed. I (the narrator) was indeed on the verge of madness. My mouth was parched with thirst. Why hadn’t they taken my pistol? This surprise and slight comfort did not moisten my dry mouth. Looking around, I found a glimmer of hope. In the corner parallel to where I sat, there was a stone jar. What was inside? Who cared? I (the narrator) had to go and see. Instinct is wiser than reason. My ankles were still fettered, so I had to hop. Struggling to stand, I couldn’t get up. After several attempts, my legs refused to obey. I sat back down. The thirst felt like my chest would split open. Physical needs stripped away all noble spirit. I crawled! The small cave wasn’t very spacious. Lying prone, I was only inches away-reaching out, I could almost touch that beacon of hope, that precious jar. But the rope around my waist warned me before I could lie flat. It wouldn’t allow me to stretch out. If I insisted on moving forward, it would lift me up. Hopeless.
The burning in my mouth sparked another clever idea: feet first, lying on my back, moving forward like a little hard-shelled beetle that couldn’t flip over. Though the rope was tight, by struggling hard I could shift it slightly toward my ribs. Ribs are slimmer than the waist, and if I could move it to my chest, my feet might reach the jar. Even if I scraped my ribs raw, it would be better than dying of thirst. The skin on my ribs tore, but I didn’t care. I pushed forward. The pain didn’t matter. Ah, my foot touched the treasure!
My ankles were locked so tightly that my toes could just touch the jar, but I couldn’t spread them to grasp it. If I bent my legs a bit, my toes could splay, but then they couldn’t reach the jar. Hopeless.
I had no choice but to lie on my back and gaze at the sky. Involuntarily, I reached for my pistol. My thirst was intense. I looked at the sleek, lightweight little gun. Closing my eyes, I placed the smooth, round muzzle against my temple. One pull of the trigger, and I (the narrator) would never thirst again. Suddenly, a thought flashed through my mind. I sat up swiftly, turned toward the corner, aimed at the thick rope, and fired twice-bang, bang! The rope sizzled and charred. Tearing with my hands, biting with my teeth, like a madman, I finally broke the rope. Wild joy made me forget the shackles on my feet. I tried to stand up abruptly and fell to the ground. Seizing the moment, I crawled toward the stone jar. Picking it up, I saw some light inside-water! Perhaps it was water, perhaps something else… No time for hesitation. The jar was thick, hard to drink from, but with one sip, it was truly cool, better than immortal nectar. Effort always brings reward, as if I (the narrator) had glimpsed some truth about life.
I (the narrator) hugged that precious jar. Just as I began to feel a bit comfortable, fantasies arose: if I could return to Earth, I (the narrator) would definitely take it with me. Hopeless? I (the narrator) grew dazed. For how long, I stared blankly at the mouth of the jar.
A flock of birds flew overhead, chirping briefly, rousing me. Looking up, I saw a layer of pale pink clouds spreading across the sky, not completely masking the gray, but the sky seemed higher, clearer, and the top of the wall was edged with a line of faint, forceful light. Night was falling, I (the narrator) thought.
Plans that would work on Earth seemed useless here. I (the narrator) didn’t understand my adversaries at all, so how could I decide on a course of action? Robinson Crusoe didn’t face difficulties like mine. He could help himself and make decisions, but I (the narrator) had to escape from a group of felinoids. Who has ever read the history of felinoids?
The shackles must be removed-that was the first step. I hadn’t even bothered to look at what was binding my feet, probably because I always thought shackles should be made of iron. Now I (the narrator) had to examine them. They weren’t iron, for their color was lead-white. Why hadn’t they confiscated my pistol? The answer came: there was no iron on Mars. The felinoids were overly cautious, fearing that touching an unfamiliar object might harm them, so they dared not touch it. I (the narrator) touched it with my hand. It was hard, though not iron. I tried pulling with force, but it didn’t budge. What was it made of? Curiosity mingled with the urgency to escape. Tapping it with the gun muzzle produced a metallic ring, but not like iron. Silver? Lead? Something softer than iron-I (the narrator) might find a way to grind it through. For instance, if I could break that stone jar, I could use a sharp edge to grind it-forgetting my plan to take the jar to Earth. I picked up the jar, thinking to smash it against the wall, but hesitated. What if I alerted the people outside? There must be guards outside, I (the narrator) thought. But no, I had already fired shots earlier without any response. A belated fear struck me: what if a crowd had rushed in at the sound of the gun? But since they hadn’t, I grew bolder. I let the jar go, and it chipped off a small piece-small but sharp. I (the narrator) began working.
With persistence, an iron beam can be ground down to a needle, but trying to cut through a metal shackle with a stone shard in a short time was overly optimistic. Experience is often the child of "error," and I (the narrator) could only optimistically err. The experience brought from Earth held little value here. After grinding for a long time, what was the use? It hadn’t moved at all, as if trying to cut diamond with a stone shard.
I felt the tattered strips on my body, my shoes, my hair-maybe I could find something to help. I (the narrator) had almost turned into a mindless animal. Ah! In the small pocket beneath my belt, there was a box of matches, a little "iron" box. If I hadn’t searched carefully, I wouldn’t have remembered it. I (the narrator) doesn’t smoke, so I don’t usually carry matches. Why did I have it with me? I couldn’t recall. Oh, I remembered: a friend gave it to me. Hearing that I was going on an expedition, he rushed to the airport to see me off. Having nothing else to give, he stuffed this box into my small pocket. "This little box won’t add much weight to the plane, I hope!" he said. I (the narrator) remembered. It felt like something from years ago. Half a month of flying wasn’t conducive to calm, clear thinking.
I (the narrator) played with the little box, trying to recall events from half a month ago. With no hope in the present, I could only dwell on past sweetness. Life finds solace in many ways.
Darkness gathered. I felt hungry. I struck a match, as if to see if there was anything edible around. It went out, so I struck another. Absentmindedly, foolishly, I held the tiny flame to the shackle to see what would happen. Whoosh! Hiss-like writing the cursive character for "four"-that fast, and only white ash remained on my ankle. A foul odor filled my nostrils, making me want to vomit.