Lady Amherst’s Pheasant

Hannah Stevens’s short story, Lady Amherst’s Pheasant takes as its starting point the chapter on “wind and bone” (feng gu 風骨) in Liu Xie’s book. In this chapter, Liu writes that writing that lacks “bone” (structure) and “wind” (inner force) resembles nothing more than a flock of colourful pheasants “jumping about in a garden of letters.”

In Hannah’s story — which has both wind and bone in abundance, as well as plenty of colour — Liu’s pheasant has become something sinister and lurking, something only half-glimpsed from the corner of the eye.

The original story was written in English. Translation into Chinese by Ningli Deng.

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Lady Amherst’s Pheasant

She opened the heavy door of the cottage and let the tentative morning light flood in. Outside the sun shone weakly, though the mist hung heavily on the treetops. She inhaled the damp air.

The overgrown clearing stretched out in front of her, a dense forest on all sides. She’d been here for months now: settled to the rhythm of peaceful days, of being alone. But yesterday had been different. Working by the last light, clearing brambles there had been the feeling of being watched.

She’d knelt on the earth as she’d pulled up the deep-rooted briar when a creeping cold had settled over her. The hair on her arms raised, but there was no breeze. She shivered and got to her feet. Her jumper was close by, but she didn’t reach for it. There was nobody else here, nobody for miles and yet, somehow she wasn’t alone.

Quickly, she scanned the garden.

‘There’s nobody here,’ she said out loud. ‘Just me. Just the earth, just the birds.’ The sound of her voice gave her courage. But it was late, time to head indoors. She turned towards the cottage. And as she did, something shimmering flashed through the trees and disappeared. It’s just a bird, she thought. The scaled green throat was iridescent even in the faltering evening light.

‘Beautiful,’ she whispered to herself, in spite of the odd, crawling dread. She headed indoors and left her jumper where it lay.

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By 11am, the mist had cleared, and so she set about hacking the weeds that choked the fruit bushes. Previous occupants had planted them years ago. She paused for a second, wondered why someone would want to leave such a beautiful place. The sky was clear blue now. Two blackbirds attended to her at a distance, occasionally darting closer to devour worms she’d just unearthed.

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The sun was high above and she wiped sweat from her forehead. Her bottle of water was somewhere: yellow metal with a loop handle. It shouldn’t be hard to spot. She thought she’d left it on the garden chair but when she’d turned it wasn’t there. She took a few steps, scanned the ground. There, in the long grass. The bottle lay on its side as if abandoned.

She swallowed, her throat drier than a second before. It couldn’t have rolled by itself. The ground was flat, the long grass an obstacle. She stepped towards it. But before she could reach out, something moved. She saw the colours first. White and black bars that changed to red streaks at the base. A long, feathered tail disappeared slowly into the undergrowth: deliberately provocative, almost snake-like.

In spite of the heat, she shivered and picked up the bottle.

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She finished the gardening early. It had been a heavy few days of turning soil, pulling brambles from the hard ground. Her arms were scratched and stung.

Inside, she poured a whisky and sat in the wicker chair that faced the window. There was a curtain but she didn’t draw it. Instead, she stared into the dusky light of the garden. The trees seemed denser and closer in the evenings. She sipped the whisky. It was peaty and warm.

Outside, the light deepened to night. Close by, a tree shifted. She scanned the forest further away. It was still. She leant forward. There must be something in the branches, heavy enough to shake them.

Slowly, through the darkness, she began to see: a set of yellow eyes stared back at her. Her stomach dropped like a stone. The eyes fixed her coolly, unblinking. She swallowed the last of the whisky and stood to head to bed.

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Thick grey clouds hung in the sky. This morning, she hadn’t opened the cottage door, hadn’t stepped outside. Last night, she didn’t sleep well: her dreams crowded with darkness and eyes.

She boiled the kettle.

‘It’s just a bird,’ she said out loud, ‘Lady Amherst’s Pheasant to be precise.’ Her voice was quiet and thin. In the early hours, she’d pulled the Encyclopaedia of Birds from the shelf. It was silly to be so unsettled by a bird. But she’d needed to know what it was. She took a sip of tea, cupped the mug in her hands. The encyclopaedia lay open on the table. She should head outside to the garden now. But instead, she lingered over the page: The male is unmistakable with its long tail of white-black bars and red streaks. The throat is scaled green, the back is dark. It has yellow eyes and a horn-coloured bill.

She shuddered at the description: the mishmash of colours somehow monstrous and grotesque.

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It was heavy work digging the earth close to the house. The soil, hard in spite of the wet winter, was heavy to lift and turn. The top of the clearing was far from finished, but today she wanted to stay by the cottage. She couldn’t shake off that feeling of being watched. Earlier, she’d walked quickly up the path to fetch the garden fork. She’d picked it up and half ran: the sensation of something following close behind her, of something on her heels.

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She pressed the fork back in to the soil and dug. The blackbirds from the day before had disappeared. She thought of their tiny, delicate bodies. And how they all ate meat: worms, grubs. She turned the soil again and paused. She thought of them digging with sharp, bone-like claws, imagined the soft flesh of writhing worms as they were swallowed whole.

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The day passed quickly and for the final time she drove the fork in to the ground.

She stretched and turned, and then, she saw it. The bird was truly grotesque: the goulash of colours, its horn-coloured bill, the sharp bone-like legs. The pheasant didn’t blink. For a second, she froze. And then she ran.

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Outside, darkness fell: the garden quiet but not entirely still. She swallowed the whisky, the curtain drawn tightly across the window.

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阿默斯特夫人的野鸡

译者：邓宁立

她打开小屋沉重的门，清晨的光线映入屋内。尽管浓雾笼罩着树梢，今天依然能够看到微弱的阳光。她吸入一口潮湿的空气。

一片杂草丛生的空地映入了她的眼帘。这片空地四周环绕着茂密的森林。她已经住在这里有好几个月了。她渐渐适应了这附近平静的生活，适应了一个人独处。但昨天给她的感觉不太一样。她在白日最后的光线下清除荆棘时，产生了一种被监视的感觉。

她跪在地上，拔起那些植根很深的石楠，一股寒意悄然袭来。即便当时并没有风，她手臂上的汗毛仍然因此而竖了起来。她打着寒颤站起身。毛衣就在身边，但她没有伸手去拿。这里没有其他人，方圆几英里都无人居住。但不知道为什么，她感到自己并非独自一人。

她快速地扫视了一遍花园。

“这里没有别人，“ 她大声说了出来，“只有我。只有大地，只有鸟儿。” 她自己的声音给了她勇气。天色已晚，该进屋了。她转身朝小屋走去。就在她转身的时候，一个闪闪发光的东西穿过树林，随即消失了。不过是一只鸟，她想。即便是在傍晚微弱的光线下，那只鸟喉咙上的绿色羽毛仍闪耀着彩虹般的光泽。

“美极了，“她低声自语，尽管，那只鸟让她产生了一种奇怪的，挥之不去的恐惧。她朝屋内走去，把那件毛衣留在原处。

到了上午 11 点，雾散了。她开始清除果树丛中的杂草。这些杂草是前任住户在许多年以前种下的。她停下来一会儿，开始好奇为什么有人要离开这么美丽的地方。此时的天空湛蓝而清澈。两只乌鸫在远处关注着她，它们偶尔飞到近旁，啄食她挖出的虫子。

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太阳高悬在头顶，她擦了擦额头上的汗水。她那只用来装水的瓶子——黄色的金属质地，带有一个环形的把手——此时不知被放到哪里去了。应该不难找到。她以为自己把水落在花园的椅子上了，但转身一看，它却不在那儿。她走了几步，审视着地面。瓶子就在那里，在长长的杂草中。它侧躺着，仿佛被谁遗弃了。

她咽了咽唾沫，感到喉咙比刚才更干了。它不可能自己滚到那里去。地面相当平坦，而且长长的杂草会提供阻碍。她朝它走过去。然而，没等她把手伸向水壶，在草丛里，某样东西动了一下。她首先看到的是颜色。黑白相间的条纹到了底部变成了红色。一道长长的、缀满羽毛的尾巴缓慢地消失在灌木丛中：那姿态是蓄意的挑衅，几乎像是蛇类一样。

即便天气炎热，她还是打了个寒颤才拿起瓶子。

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今天的园艺活早早就干完了。这几天，翻动土壤，把荆棘从坚硬的泥土里拔除的任务十分繁重。她的两边胳膊都被荆棘给刮伤了。

进屋后，她给自己倒了一杯威士忌，坐在面朝窗户的那把柳条椅上。这扇窗户是有窗帘的，但她没有把它拉上。她凝视着花园里昏黄的灯光。傍晚时分，树木显得愈发地繁密茂盛。她啜了一口威士忌。酒喝进嘴里时有泥炭的味道，很温暖。

窗外，夜色渐深。在靠近屋子的什么地方，一棵树在摇晃。她望向远处的森林。一片寂静。她向前倾了倾身子。一定有什么正栖息在树枝之间，重量足以摇动树枝。

慢慢地，透过黑暗，她看见一双黄色的眼睛正盯着她。她的胃如石头般沉了下去。那双眼睛冷冷地，一眨不眨地盯着她看。她咽下最后一口威士忌，站起来，准备上床睡觉。

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天空中漂浮着灰色厚厚的云。今天早上，她没有打开小屋的门，没有到外面去。昨晚她睡得不好：梦中到处是黑夜和眼睛。

她烧了一壶水。

“这只是一只鸟，”她大声说，“确切地来说，这是阿默斯特夫人的野鸡。”她的声音平静而尖细。凌晨时分，她从书架上取下《鸟类百科全书》。被一只鸟弄得如此心神不宁实在是太傻了，但她需要知道它到底是哪种鸟。她喝了一口茶，把茶杯捧在手心里，百科全书摊开放在桌子上。她现在应该到外面的花园里去，然而，她却沉浸在书中的世界里：雄鸟的长尾巴由白黑相间的条纹和红色条纹组成。它们喉咙上的羽毛是绿色的，背部则是深色的。它的眼睛是黄的，喙是角状的。

她读着这段描述打了个寒噤：这些杂乱无章的颜色混在一起，多少有些畸形和怪异。

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翻动屋子附近的土是一项繁重的工作。尽管现在是潮湿的冬天，泥土仍然坚硬，掘起和翻动土块都是很费劲的活。空地还远远没有完工，但今天她想待在小屋旁。她无法摆脱那种被监视的感觉。早些时候，她快步走上小路，想去拿花园里的耙子。她拿起耙子后几乎跑了起来：有什么东西跟在她的身后，有什么东西紧追着她不放。

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她把耙子按回到泥土里，挖了起来。前一天的乌鸫不见了。她想起了它们小巧的身躯，以及它们捕食时的样子：蠕虫、蛴螬。她又翻了翻土，然后停下了。她想到它们用锋利如骨的爪子挖掘着，想象着蠕动的虫子被整个吞下时柔软的肉体。

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一天很快便过去了，她最后一次把耙子埋入地面。

她伸了个懒腰，转过身，然后她看见了它。这只鸟真的很怪：五颜六色的羽毛，角色的喙，锋利的骨头形状的腿。那只野鸡没有眨眼。有那么一瞬间，她愣住了。然后她逃走了。

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夜幕降临了，花园里静悄悄的，但并不是全然的静止。她咽下威士忌，窗帘紧紧地拉着。