然后，牙齿 THEN, TEETH

作者： Matt Dunn

玛奇耶四肢摊开，躺在朽烂的木板上。海浪拍打着下方的礁石。她的心跳渐渐变慢，泵出的鲜血流进了海里。她瞪着眼睛，一眨不眨，望着高处的棚屋，和遥远的星辰。

Mazier is sprawled on the rotten planks, waves lapping at stone underneath. Her slowing heartbeat pumps blood into the seawater. She stares, unblinking, at the shanty-dwellings above, and the stars beyond.

派克再次端详起她的脸。玛奇耶无神的双眼洞穿了他的脑海。

Pyke studies her face once more. Mazier’s dead eyes stab at his mind.

一艘捕兽船。风帆褴褛的四桅船。海浪如山耸立。

A jaulling vessel. Four-master with tattered sails. Waves the size of mountains.远海狂风中的长发。甲板上十来个人。看着。蓝眼睛。玛奇耶的蓝眼睛，不可置信地瞪大。Long hair in high-sea wind. Dozens of faces on deck. Watching. Blue eyes. Mazier’s blue eyes, wide in disbelief.然后，牙齿。Then, teeth.不是玛奇耶珍珠似的白牙。黏腻的，剑刃大小的牙齿。交错着划过船身。光芒渐弱。灭散。巨兽的嘴里。救生索松了。断了。Not Mazier’s pearly whites. Gunky, sword-sized teeth. Criss-crossed the boat. Losing light. Closing. In the jaull’s mouth. Lifeline slack. Cut.舌头太滑。汗水蛰着眼睛。手指抓不到东西。要回到海里。游啊，游啊……The tongue was too slick. Eyes stung with sweat. Fingers finding no purchase. Get to open water. Swim, swim...巨兽的牙齿卡紧了。然后是疼痛。然后黑暗。The jaull’s teeth clamped shut. Then pain. Then darkness.船走了。眼睛也是。Ship was gone. So were the eyes.玛奇耶的眼睛。Mazier’s eyes.一个船工。对啊。她就在场。她砍断了我的绳索。

An able-bodied sailor. Aye. She was there. She cut my line.

派克用脚踢动了尸体，眼睛一直凝视着脚下。他把她一路踢到码头边缘。再一脚，玛奇耶便落进了水里。鲨鱼群立刻就赶来了。盘旋着，撕咬着。海洋从不浪费时间。

Pyke nudges the body with his boot, gazing downward all the while. He nudges her until she reaches the edge of the dock. One more kick, and Mazier is floating. The sharks are quick to feast. Circling. Snapping. The ocean never wastes time.

海风带来了鸥鸟高亢的欢叫。派克在单子上找到了玛奇耶——船工。鲜红的墨迹从羊皮纸上划掉了她的名字。

Gulls shriek, their warbled cries caught on the wind, as Pyke finds Mazier, abled-bodied sailor, on the list. Red ink strikes her name from the parchment.

也是惊惧号的最后一个船员。

The last name on the Terror’s crew manifest.

成了。单子上一个名字都没有了，只剩下一堆红叉。这些墨水我都是从哪里弄来的……

That’s it. No more names, just a lot of red crosses. Where did I get all that ink...?

派克心头涌上一股狂躁、冲动、不满。腹中翻搅着恶意。他不能停手。甲板上还有很多很多人。他可能拿错了名单。也可能根本无所谓。

A feeling gnaws at Pyke. Restless, unsettled, unsatisfied. The churning lurch of bile in his belly. He can’t be done. There were too many of them there, on the decks. Maybe he got the wrong manifest. Maybe it doesn’t even matter.

他们就让我死了。那么多人手。那么多时间。

They let me die. So many hands. So many times.

又一个声音。不是鸟叫。不是海浪。不是牙齿的啃噬。不是他脑海里一遍一遍尖叫着的 “你不能停！” 不是他很多年前在漂游城里听到的音乐。

Another sound. Not gulls. Not waves. Not teeth closing. Not the voice in the back of his mind screaming out “You’re not done!” over and over and over. Not the music he remembers from the swimming city, all those years ago.

一种新的声音。真的声音。此时此地。

It’s a new sound. A real sound. A here-and-now sound.

派克转了转眼珠，看到木头阶梯被沉重的靴子踩弯了。一个壮硕的男人走下码头，走向泊在港口里起伏的航船。

Pyke looks with his living eye, and sees wooden stairs sagging under heavy bootfalls. A thickset man, walking down toward the moored, bobbing vessels.

他看到了血。他停下脚步，伸手从外套里掏出了一把火枪。枪管端在自己胸前，随时准备瞄准开火。该死的蠢人。

He stops when he sees all the blood. His hand disappears into his jacket, pulling a flintlock, keeping the barrel of the gun close to his chest. Ready to aim and fire. Like a bloody idiot.

派克踏进了月光下。男人脸上活像是见了鬼的表情。他嘴巴绷得死紧，比码头上放债人的钱包还紧。双眼大睁，震动不停，像一对水母，像起风的水面。

Pyke steps into the moonlight. The man looks like he’s seen a ghost. The skin around his mouth clams up tighter than a dock banker’s coin-purse. His eyes go wide and quivery, like jellyfish, like calm water catching a breeze.

“什么人？”他大叫。

“Who’s that?” he yells.

自己看吧。

Come find out.

火枪指住派克的头。闪光，一声爆响。打中了，却是木头。派克已经不在原地了。

The flintlock is aimed at Pyke’s head. Then comes the flash and the bang. The shot is true, but it splinters wood because Pyke is no longer where he was.

他在雾里。

He’s in the mist.

他散成了盐粒和水滴——从一个人变成了一团雾。他听说他们叫他是幽灵。算是对了一半。

He falls apart, into salt and drops of water—a fine man to a fine mist. He heard they call him a phantasm. They’re half right.

壮汉重新上了膛。满是皱纹的额头上汗水如豆。

The heavyset man reloads. Sweat beads his wrinkled brow.

就这宝贵的几秒钟内，派克已经无处不在。在空气的暗面，在水声的末端，派克盯着壮汉。恐惧的眼睛，屎黄色瞳孔。花白的蓬乱胡须。脸颊松弛，鼻梁歪斜，嘴唇皲裂，耳廓因为数不清的酒馆斗殴被打成了花椰菜的形状。

In those precious few seconds, Pyke is all around him, in the in between, somewhere behind the air itself, studying him. Those fearful eyes, crap-brown. His beard wild and white. Sagging jowls, crooked nose, cracked lips, the way his earlobes are cauliflowered from countless dirty tavern fights.

看起来像个船长。

Looks like a captain.

这个男人正散发出甜美刺激的恐惧味道。让人脚跟颤抖的恐惧。

The man reeks of sweet, prickly fear. Good old boot-quaking terror.

闻起来像个船长。

Smells like a captain.

派克得确认一下。他化成了实体——派克原本的块头就不小，加上海洋赐予他的一双发光的邪眼，看起来就更高大了。告诉我你叫什么，他低声说。

Pyke needs to be sure. He takes form—he was always a big man, now with the baleful, glowing eye that the sea gifted him, he feels larger still. Tell me your name, he rumbles.

男人没预料到自己身后会突然有人。谁能预料得到呢。也许只有在幻想中、噩梦里、或者是在酒馆里吹牛的时候吧。但实际情况时，每个人都会吓尿了裤子，然后跌个狗吃屎。这位船长也没能幸免。他被自己的靴子一绊，像一麻袋罐头似的滚下了楼梯。

The man didn’t expect anyone to appear behind him. Nobody expects that. Maybe they do in fantasies or nightmares or the stories they tell in bars. But in reality, everyone just craps their pants and falls flat on their face, and this heavyset captain is no rule-breaker on that count. He trips on his own stupid boots, and rolls down the stairs like a sack of tinned victuals.

派克一步一步慢慢走下来。一艘诺克萨斯的大船泊在码头。货船——还是祸船？有区别吗？他觉得没有。

Pyke takes each step slowly. A Noxian galleon is moored at the dock. Trader ship, or traitor ship? Is there a difference? He guesses not.

等我走完这些台阶，你就给我全说清楚。

You got ‘til I get to the bottom of these steps to tell me what I want to know.

男人急促地喘息着。今天的风向不在他这边。喘气。像一条陆地上的鱼。肥胖的双手伸向空中。

The man wheezes, his wind knocked clear into someone else’s sails. Gasping. A fish on land. Chubby hands reaching out.

我记得你……

I remember you...

一步。

Step.

发白的指节握住甲板的边缘……

White-knuckle grip on the deck rail...

一步。

Step.

你看着。

The man tries to stand, but his knee bends the wrong way.

一步。一只码头硕鼠窜到近处。晚餐快到了。

Step.

笑着。

You were watching.

唾沫喷溅。涕泪横流。“拜……拜托……我不知道你在讲什么……”

Step. A wharf-rat scurries close. Dinner time soon.

一步。

You were smiling.

名字。说。

Sputter. Tears coming now. “P-please… I don’t know what you’re talking about...”

“贝克！贝克·尼德！”

Step.

派克停住了，离地面还剩最后一级台阶。他检查了名单。全是红色记号。全是被叉掉的名字。

Name. Now.

在这儿。贝克·尼德。候补船员。

“Beke! Beke Nidd!”

没有红叉。晴空一般干干净净。肯定是之前把纸叠歪了。

Pyke pauses to consult the manifest, one step from the bottom. All the red marks. All the crossed out names.

贝克·尼德。对，我记得你。你那时也在场。

There. Beke Nidd. Midshipman.

“我从来没见过你！我今天才到的比尔吉——”

Uncrossed. Clear as day. Must have had the paper folded wrong.

脸上穿了一根剃钩的人是没办法撒谎的。他们也没法哀求，没法出卖自己并不知道的情报。

Beke Nidd. Yeah, I remember you. You were there.

剃钩，好东西。打磨过的鲨鱼骨。比精钢更锋利。连皮带骨，一下就能捅进去。人越挣扎，钩得就越深。贝克已经发现了。他的眼神真的害怕极了。

“I’ve never seen you before! It’s my first night in Bilge—”

这双眼睛洞穿了派克的脑海。

People can’t lie with a hookman’s barber lodged in their cheek. They can’t beg or trade facts they don’t have.

回忆的浪潮袭来，他任由潮水冲进心底，盖过了贝克咕咕噜噜的恳求。

Fine tool, the barber-blade. Made of tempered sharkbone. Keener than steel. Sticks in real good, snagging on bone and flesh. Struggling only hooks it deeper, as Beke is learning. His eyes are really afraid now.

一艘捕兽船。风帆褴褛的四桅船。海浪如山耸立。

Those eyes stab at Pyke’s mind.远海狂风中的蓬乱胡须。甲板上十来个人。看着。屎黄色的眼睛。贝克·尼德的黄眼睛，不可置信地瞪大。The memory rises like a tide, and he opens up to let the waters come crashing through, drowning out Beke’s gurgled pleas.

然后，牙齿。

A jaulling vessel. Four-master with tattered sails. Waves the size of mountains.

Ragged beard in high-sea wind. Dozens of faces on deck. Watching. Crap-brown eyes. Beke Nidd’s crap-brown eyes, wide in disbelief.

Then, teeth.