Explore Chapter 2 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.
Draw my pistol, or wait? A swarm of thoughts whirled around these two choices; the more I sought composure in that minute, the more turmoil rose within. In the end, I lowered the weapon. A wry smile touched my lips. I had come to Mars willingly, a risk of my own choosing. To be killed by these cat-faced beings-a mere speculation, for who knew if they were not the most benevolent?-would be my own doing; why should I be the first to draw a gun! The faintest hope can make a man brave; I felt no fear at all. Fortune or disaster, let it come as it may; in any case, I would not be the one to strike first.
My eyes had not even opened-in truth, they were closed for only the briefest moment-before my hands were seized. I had not imagined the cat-faced beings could move so swiftly; and with such lightness, I heard not a single footfall.
It was a mistake not to have drawn my pistol. No! My conscience did not reproach me so. Peril was the constant companion of a life of adventure. My mind grew still calmer, and I had no desire even to open my eyes. This calm arose from within; it was no stratagem of retreat. Their grip on my arms tightened, relentless, offering no slack for my lack of resistance. Suspicious creatures, I thought; a sense of spiritual superiority made me prouder still, more unwilling to match strength with them. Four or five hands gripped each of my arms, soft yet unyielding, with a strange elasticity-not so much holding as constricting, like leather thongs that bit deep into my flesh. Struggle was futile. I understood: if I tried to wrench free, those hands would only dig deeper. They were the sort who seize a man by underhand means, then, regardless of his response, subject him to the cruelest physical torment. If physical agony could dim the spirit’s light, then-shamefully-I did feel a pang of regret. Against such beings, if my guess was right, the policy of "striking first" was the only one; a single shot would surely send them all scattering. But matters had gone too far; regret would not change my circumstances. To stand on principle had been a trap of my own making; let me die, then, by the light I myself had chosen! I opened my eyes. They were all behind me, as if by design, so that even with open eyes I could not see them. This furtiveness stirred in me a wave of disgust. I was not afraid to die. "I am already in your hands," I said inwardly. "If you mean to kill me, why this skulking?" I spoke aloud without meaning to: "Why all this..." I did not finish; they would never understand my words. My arms were gripped tighter still-the effect of that half-uttered sentence! What use would it be, I thought, even if they did understand? I did not turn my head, but let them do as they wished. I only hoped they would bind me with ropes. My spirit, like my flesh, could bear no more of this soft, tight, hot, hateful clasp!
More birds filled the air now, wings spread flat, heads hooked downward, poised to swoop at the first chance and feast upon my friend, the companion of my childhood and school-days...
What devilry were these creatures behind me playing? I could endure no more of this slow sawing with a blunt blade! Yet still I looked up at the birds, those cruel birds that could pick my friend clean in minutes. Ah! To devour a man in mere minutes? Then perhaps the birds were not so cruel after all. I envied my departed friend. Friend! Your death was swift, your end was clean. Compared to this drawn-out torment of mine, yours was a supreme happiness!
"Get on with it!" I nearly cried out several times, but each time swallowed the words. Though I knew nothing of the cat-faced beings’ nature or habits, in these few minutes of contact I seemed intuitively to grasp that they were the cruelest creatures in the universe; the cruel know nothing of "mercy." To saw slowly with a serrated edge was their particular delight. What good would speaking do? I braced myself for the feel of needles beneath my fingernails, the rush of kerosene flooding my nostrils-assuming Mars possessed such things as needles and kerosene. Tears came, not from fear, but from thoughts of my homeland. My radiant China, my great China, where cruelty was unknown, where torture did not exist, where no eagles fed on corpses. I feared I would never see that luminous land again, never again know a rational human life. Even if I preserved my life on Mars, would not the very notion of "enjoyment" become a form of agony?
Hands came upon my legs as well. They made no sound, but their hot breath blew against my back and thighs; a loathing rose in me, like the sensation of a serpent coiling about my body.
A clang-like a single sound shattering years of silence-rang with unnatural clarity. To this day I sometimes hear it. Irons were clamped about my ankles! I had expected this. My ankles instantly went numb, gripped with a vicious tightness.
What crime had I committed? What was their intent? I could not guess, nor was there any need. In the society of cat-faced beings, reason was useless, human feeling inconceivable. Why bother to think?
My wrists were manacled too. But, to my surprise, their hands remained upon my arms and legs. Excessive caution-breeding exceptional cruelty-was a necessity in the life of shadows. My hope that they would lock me up and remove those hot hands had been too extravagant.
Two hot hands came to rest upon my neck. A sign that I was not to turn my head-as if I had any inclination to look at them! Even the worst of men retain some shred of self-respect; I had thought too little of them. Or perhaps this, too, was excessive caution. Who could say? Perhaps gleaming knives were poised behind my neck.
Was it not time to move? I had barely formed the thought when, as if to flaunt their occasional capacity for speed, a kick landed on my leg-the command to walk. My ankles were already numb from the irons; the kick sent me lurching forward, but their hands hooked into my ribs like pliant yet unyielding talons. I heard behind me several puffing sounds, like a cat’s hiss of warning-the laughter of the cat-faced beings, no doubt. They were evidently well pleased with this torment. Cold sweat drenched me.
For the sake of speed, they could easily have carried me; this, too, was merely my own fancy. I truly could not walk; that, of course, was precisely why they insisted I must-if such reasoning did not disgrace the word "reason" altogether.
Sweat blinded me; my hands were locked behind my back. I could not even shake my head to clear the beads of sweat, for their hands still gripped my neck! I moved stiffly onward-no, it was not walking. No single word existed for that lurching, stumbling, hobbling, twisted progression.
We had gone only a few paces when I heard-fortunately they had not yet stopped my ears-the birds all cry out in a single, sharp "Zha!" much like the battle-charge "Kill!" They were surely all swooping down to feast... I hated myself. Had I acted sooner, I might have buried my childhood friend and schoolmate. Why had I stood there, dumbly watching? Friend! Even if I do not die, even if I could return here, not a fragment of your bones would remain! The sum of all my life’s sweet memories could not outweigh this grief and shame. Whenever I recall it, I feel myself the most worthless of men.
It was like a nightmare: though the body suffers, the mind can wander to other things. My thoughts fixed entirely on my dead friend. With eyes closed, I saw the eagles in my mind, pecking at his flesh, pecking at my heart. Where were we? Even if I could open my eyes, I would not care to look. Did I still hope to memorize the route for a future escape? Was I walking, hopping, or rolling? The cat-faced beings knew. My mind was not on it; my body seemed no longer my own. I was only aware of the sweat pouring from my brow, as one feels a vague, distant awareness after a mortal wound, scarcely knowing where the body lies, only that moisture wells from certain places. Life seemed to have slipped from my grasp, yet I felt no pain.
Darkness swallowed my sight completely; after an interval of blackness, I opened my eyes as one does upon sobering from a drunken stupor. I became aware of a piercing pain in my ankles, pain that struck to the core. Instinctively I tried to touch them, but my wrists were still bound. Only now did my eyes truly begin to see, though they seemed to have been open for some time. I was in a small boat; when I had boarded, or how, I had no idea. It must have been a while ago, for the feeling had returned to my ankles, bringing the pain with it. I tried to turn my head-the two hot hands on my neck were gone. I looked back and saw nothing. Above stretched the silvery-gray sky; below flowed a river, warm, viscous, and deep gray, utterly silent yet rolling swiftly on. Between them were my little boat, adrift on the current, and I.