Unit 6 - The Way to Rainy Mountain
The Way to Rainy Mountain
N·Scott Momaday
A single knoll rises out of the plain in Oklahoma, north and west of the Wichita Range. For my people, the Kiowas, it is an old landmark, and they gave it the name Rainy Mountain. The hardest weather in the world is there. Winter brings blizzards, hot tornadic winds arise in the spring, and in summer the prairie is an anvil's edge. The grass turns brittle and brown, and it cracks beneath your feet. There are green belts along the rivers and creeks, linear groves of hickory and pecan, willow and witch hazel. At a distance in July or August the steaming foliage seems almost to writhe in fire. Great green-and-yellow grasshoppers are everywhere in the tall grass, popping up like corn to sting the flesh, and tortoises crawl about on the red earth, going nowhere in the plenty of time. Loneliness is an aspect of the land. All things in the plain are isolate; there is no confusion of objects in the eye, but one hill or one tree or one man. To look upon that landscape in the early morning, with the sun at your back, is to lose the sense of proportion. Your imagination comes to life, and this, you think, is where Creation was begun.
I returned to Rainy Mountain in July. My grandmother had died in the spring, and I wanted to be at her grave. She had lived to be very old and at last infirm. Her only living daughter was with her when she died, and I was told that in death her face was that of a child.
I like to think of her as a child. When she was born, the Kiowas were living that last great moment of their history.
For more than a hundred years they had controlled the open range from the Smoky Hill River to the Red, from the headwaters of the Canadian to the fork of the Arkansas and Cimarron. In alliance with the Comanches, they had ruled the whole of the southern Plains. War was their sacred business, and they were among the finest horsemen the world has ever known. But warfare for the Kiowas was preeminently a matter of disposition rather than of survival, and they never understood the grim, unrelenting advance of the U.S. Cavalry. When at last, divided and ill-provisioned, they were driven onto the Staked Plains in the cold rains of autumn, they fell into panic. In Palo Duro Canyon they abandoned their crucial stores to pillage and had nothing then but their lives. In order to save themselves, they surrendered to the soldiers at Fort Sill and were imprisoned in the old stone corral that now stands as a military museum. My grandmother was spared the humiliation of those high gray walls by eight or ten years, but she must have known from birth the affliction of defeat, the dark brooding of old warriors.
Her name was Aho, and she belonged to the last culture to evolve in North America. Her forebears came down from the high country in western Montana nearly three centuries ago. They were a mountain people, a mysterious tribe of hunters whose language has never been positively classified in any major group. In the late 17th century they began a long migration to the south and east. It was a long journey toward the dawn, and it led to a golden age. Along the way the Kiowas were befriended by the Crows, who gave them the culture and religion of the Plains.
They acquired horses, and their ancient nomadic spirit was suddenly free of the ground. They acquired Tai-me, the sacred Sun Dance doll, from that moment the object and symbol of their worship, and so shared in the divinity of the sun. Not least, they acquired the sense of destiny, therefore courage and pride. When they entered upon the southern Plains, they had been transformed. No longer were they slaves to the simple necessity of survival; they were a lordly and dangerous society of fighters and thieves, hunters and priests of the sun. According to their origin myth, they entered the world through a hollow log. From one point of view, their migration was the fruit of an old prophecy, for indeed they emerged from a sunless world.
Although my grandmother lived out her long life in the shadow of Rainy Mountain, the immense landscape of the continental interior lay like memory in her blood. She could tell of the Crows, whom she had never seen, and of the Black Hills, where she had never been. I wanted to see in reality what she had seen more perfectly in the mind's eye, and traveled fifteen hundred miles to begin my pilgrimage.
Yellowstone, it seemed to me, was the top of the world, a region of deep lakes and dark timber, canyons and waterfalls. But, beautiful as it is, one might have the sense of confinement there. The skyline in all directions is close at hand, the high wall of the woods and deep cleavages of shade. There is a perfect freedom in the mountains, but it belongs to the eagle and the elk, the badger and the bear. The Kiowas reckoned their stature by the distance they could see, and they were bent and blind in the wilderness.
Descending eastward, the highland meadows are a stairway to the plain. In July the inland slope of the Rockies is luxuriant with flax and buckwheat, stonecrop and larkspur. The earth unfolds and the limit of the land recedes. Clusters of trees and animals grazing far in the distance cause the vision to reach away and wonder to build upon the mind. The sun follows a longer course in the day, and the sky is immense beyond all comparison. The great billowing clouds that sail upon it are shadows that move upon the grain like water, dividing light. Farther down, in the land of the Crows and Blackfeet, the plain is yellow. Sweet clover takes hold of the hills and bends upon itself to cover and seal the soil. There the Kiowas paused on their way; they had come to the place where they must change their lives. The sun is at home on the plains. Precisely there does it have the certain character of a god. When the Kiowas came to the land of the Crows, they could see the dark lees of the hills at dawn across the Bighorn River, the profusion of light on the grain shelves, the oldest deity ranging after the solstices. Not yet would they veer southward to the caldron of the land that lay below; they must wean their blood from the northern winter and hold the mountains a while longer in their view. They bore Tai-me in procession to the east.
A dark mist lay over the Black Hills, and the land was like iron. At the top of a ridge I caught sight of Devirs Tower upthrust against the gray sky as if in the birth of time the core of the earth had broken through its crust and the motion of the world was begun.
There are things in nature that engender an awful quiet in the heart of man; Devirs Tower is one of them. Two centuries ago, because they could not do otherwise, the Kiowas made a legend at the base of the rock. My grandmother said:
"Eight children were there at play, seven sisters and their brother. Suddenly the boy was struck dumb; he trembled and began to run upon his hands and feet. His fingers became claws, and his body was covered with fur. Directly there was a bear where the boy had been. The sisters were terrified; they ran, and the bear after them. They came to the stump of a great tree, and the tree spoke to them. It bade them climb upon it, and as they did so, it began to rise into the air. The bear came to kill them, but they were just beyond its reach. It reared against the tree and scored the bark all around with its claws. The seven sisters were borne into the sky, and they became the stars of the Big Dipper."
From that moment, and so long as the legend lives, the Kiowas have kinsmen in the night sky. Whatever they were in the mountains, they could be no more. However tenuous their well-being, however much they had suffered and would suffer again, they had found a way out of the wilderness.
My grandmother had a reverence for the sun, a holy regard that now is all but gone out of mankind. There was a wariness in her, and an ancient awe. She was a Christian in her later years, but she had come a long way about, and she never forgot her birthright.
As a child she had been to the Sun Dances; she had taken part in those annual rites, and by them she had learned the restoration of her people in the presence of Tai-me. She was about seven when the last Kiowa Sun Dance was held in 1887 on the Washita River above Rainy Mountain Creek. The buffalo were gone. In order to consummate the ancient sacrifice—to impale the head of a buffalo bull upon the medicine tree—a delegation of old men journeyed into Texas, there to beg and barter for an animal from the Goodnight herd. She was ten when the Kiowas came together for the last time as a living Sun Dance culture. They could find no buffalo; they had to hang an old hide from the sacred tree. Before the dance could begin, a company of soldiers rode out from Fort Sill under orders to disperse the tribe. Forbidden without cause the essential act of their faith, having seen the wild herds slaughtered and left to rot upon the ground, the Kiowas backed away forever from the medicine tree. That was July 20, 1890, at the great bend of the Washita. My grandmother was there. Without bitterness, and for as long as she lived, she bore a vision of deicide.
Now that I can have her only in memory; I see my grandmother in the several postures that were peculiar to her: standing at the wood stove on a winter morning and turning meat in a great iron skillet; sitting at the south window, bent above her beadwork, and afterwards, when her vision had failed, looking down for a long time into the fold of her hands; going out upon a cane, very slowly as she did when the weight of age came upon her; praying. I remember her most often at prayer. She made long, rambling prayers out of suffering and hope, having seen many things. I was never sure that I had the right to hear, so exclusive were they of all mere custom and company. The last time I saw her she prayed standing by the side of her bed at night, naked to the waist, the light of a kerosene lamp moving upon her dark skin. Her long, black hair, always drawn and braided in the day, lay upon her shoulders and against her breasts like a shawl. I do not speak Kiowa, and I never understood her prayers, but there was something inherently sad in the sound, some merest hesitation upon the syllables of sorrow. She began in a high and descending pitch, exhausting her breath to silence; then again and again—and always the same intensity of effort, of something that is, and is not, like urgency in the human voice. Transported so in the dancing light among the shadows of her room, she seemed beyond the reach of time. But that was illusion; I think I knew then that I should not see her again.
Houses are like sentinels in the plain, old keepers of the weather watch. There, in a very little while, wood takes on the appearance of great age. All colors wear soon away in the wind and rain, and then the wood is burned gray and the grain appears and the nails turn red with rust. The windowpanes are black and opaque; you imagine there is nothing within, and indeed there are many ghosts, bones given up to the land. They stand here and there against the sky, and you approach them for a longer time than you expect. They belong in the distance; it is their domain.
Once there was a lot of sound in my grandmothers house, a lot of coming and going, feasting and talk. The summers there were full of excitement and reunion. The Kiowas are a summer people; they abide the cold and keep to themselves; but when the season turns and the land becomes warm and vital, they cannot hold still; an old love of going returns upon them. The aged visitors who came to my grandmother's house when I was a child were made of lean and leather, and they bore themselves upright. They wore great black hats and bright ample shirts that shook in the wind. They rubbed fat upon their hair and wound their braids with strips of colored cloth. Some of them painted their faces and carried the scars of old and cherished enmities. They were an old council of warlords, come to remind and be reminded of who they were. Their wives and daughters served them well. The women might indulge themselves; gossip was at once the mark and compensation of their servitude. They made loud and elaborate talk among themselves, full of jest and gesture, fright and false alarm. They went abroad in fringed and flowered shawls, bright beadwork and German silver. They were at home in the kitchen, and they prepared meals that were banquets.
There were frequent prayer meetings, and great nocturnal feasts. When I was a child, I played with my cousins outside, where the lamplight fell upon the ground and the singing of the old people rose up around us and carried away into the darkness. There were a lot of good things to eat, a lot of laughter and surprise.
And afterwards, when the quiet returned, I lay down with my grandmother and could hear the frogs away by the river and feel the motion of the air.
Now there is a funeral silence in the rooms, the endless wake of some final word. The walls have closed in upon my grandmother's house. When I returned to it in mourning, I saw for the first time in my life how small it was. It was late at night, and there was a white moon, nearly full. I sat for a long time on the stone steps by the kitchen door. From there I could see out across the land; I could see the long row of trees by the creek, the low light upon the rolling plains, and the stars of the Big Dipper. Once I looked at the moon and caught sight of a strange thing. A cricket had perched upon the handrail, only a few inches away from me. My line of vision was such that the creature filled the moon like a fossil. It had gone there, I thought, to live and die, for there of all places, was its small definition made whole and eternal. A warm wind rose up and purled like the longing within me.
The next morning I awoke at dawn and went out on the dirt road to Rainy Mountain. It was already hot, and the grasshoppers began to fill the air. Still, it was early in the morning, and the birds sang out of the shadows. The long yellow grass on the mountain shone in the bright light, and a scissortail hied above the land. There, where it ought to be, at the end of a long and legendary way, was my grandmother's grave. Here and there on the dark stones were ancestral names. Looking back once, I saw the mountain and came away.
参考译文——雨山行
雨山行
N·斯科特·莫马迪
一座孤零零的小山丘在俄克拉荷马的平原上拔地而起，西面和北面蜿蜒绵亘着维奇塔山脉，在我们克尔瓦人看来，这是个古老的地标，被命名为雨山，那里有世界上最恶劣的天气。冬季有暴风雪狂哮，春季又会刮起热的旋风，夏季的草原如同铁砧一块，草变得脆弱枯黄，在人的脚下劈啪作响，河流和小溪的沿岸有几条绿带，那是由山核桃树、柳树和金缕梅组成的狭长的树丛，七八月份从远处看着冒着蒸汽的树叶就像在火中痛苦地扭动。大个儿的黄绿色的蚱艋蔓延在高高的草丛中的各个地方，像爆米花一样冷不防地蹦起叮人，乌龟在红土地上爬行，大部分时间哪儿都不去，孤独是这片土地的一部分。平原上的一切都是疏离开来的，所见之物不会混杂在一起，而是清晰可辨，一目了然。淸晨你再观看这片大地的景致，此时太阳在你的背后冉冉升起，你会失去事物的比例感。想象力开始活跃起来，你会认为这就是上帝开始创世纪的地方。
我在七月里回到了雨山。我祖母在春季去世，我想去她的墓地看看。她很长寿，最后因年迈体弱而去世。她去世的时候她唯一健在的女儿陪伴在她的身边。我听说在去世的时候她的脸就如同一张孩子的脸。
我喜欢把她想象成一个孩子。她出生时，克尔瓦人正处于他们历史上鼎盛时代的末期。
他们控制着从斯莫克山河到红河，从加拿大河上游到阿肯色河和西马隆河支流之间的那片开阔的山脉长达一百多年。通过与科曼斯人的联盟，他们统治了整个南部平原。发动战争是他们神圣的事业，他们位居世人皆知的最优秀的骑手之列。但是对于克尔瓦人来说斗争主要是由他们的习惯决定的，而并非是为了生存。他们永远都无法理解美国骑兵那种残酷无情的进攻。当他们最终四分五裂、弹尽粮绝，在秋季的凄风冷雨中被驱赶到斯代克特平原的时候，他们陷入了恐慌。在帕罗多罗大峡谷，他们在遭遇的洗劫中丢弃了赖以生存的补给，除了自己的生命一无所有。为了自救，他们向驻扎在福特西尔的士兵投降，被关押在一个废旧的石头牲畜棚里。如今这里已经是一个军事博物馆了。我的祖母由于是在那儿以后八到十年才出生的，因此免遭那高高的灰墙里的羞辱。但自出生起，她一定就已经懂得那种失败所带来的磨难，这是那些老战士们的噩梦。
她的名字叫阿荷，是北美大地上繁衍的最后的文明。大约三个世纪前，她的祖先从蒙大拿西部海拔很髙的家乡来到这里。他们是一支山地民族，一个神秘的连语言也从未被明确地划归任何一个语系的猎人部落。17世纪末期，他们开始了向南和向东方向的漫长迁移。这是个通向黎明的漫长旅程，给他们带来了全盛时期。在途中克罗人把克尔瓦人待之如友，并教给他们平原上的文化和宗教。
他们得到了马，使得他们那古老的游牧民族的精神突然悬空而起。他们得到了太米，即神圣的太阳舞木偶。自那时起太米就成了他们的崇拜物和象征物，并且在太阳的神力下共有。同样重要的是，他们也拥有了天命感，由此产生了勇气和自豪。当他们进人南部平原时，他们实际上已经被改变了。他们不再是为了简单的生活必需品而奋斗的奴隶，而是一个由专横危险的斗士和小偷、猎人和太阳的牧师所组成的团体。根据有关他们祖先来源的神话，他们是通过一根空心木头来到这世界的。从某种程度上说，他们的迁移是一个古老预言的结果，因为他们确实是从一个没有太阳的世界出现的。
虽然我的祖母是在雨山的阴影下度过了漫长的余生，但那大陆内部的广袤景色却驻扎在她的记忆中。她能谈论关于克罗人的事情，尽管她从未见过；她还可以谈论黑山，尽管她从未去过。实际上我很想见见她想象中的完美的世界，于是我步行了一千五百英里，开始了我的参拜之行。
在我看来，黄石可算是世界上最好的地方，一个遍布着深水湖、深色树木、峡谷和瀑布的地区。虽然那里十分美丽，但人们可能有受束缚、被禁锢的感觉。放眼望去，四周天际线近在咫尺，触手可及。这天际线是一道道树的高墙和一条条树荫形成的幽深裂缝。而在山里却是完全自由的，可是这自由只属于老鹰、美洲赤鹿、獾和熊。克尔瓦人根据他们所能看到的距离来推断他们的领地；但是在荒野中的密林中他们只能弯着腰，看不到很远。
高原的草地向东面铺下，如同通向平原的阶梯。七月，落基山脉面向平原的内坡上长满了亚麻、荞麦、景天和翠雀等各种植物。此时，大地在我们的面前无限伸展，土地的界限渐渐隐去。远处的树丛和吃着草的动物开阔了我们的视野，使人萌发了畅想的渴望。白天日照时间很长，天空无可比拟的广袤无垠。在天空中飘浮着的如波涛般翻滚的大片云彩，在谷地里投下的影子如同水波一样流动，将光线分割开来。再往下，在克罗人和黑足印第安人的土地上，平原是黄色的。草木樨长满了山丘，它低垂的枝叶盖到地上，密密地封住土壤。克尔瓦人在这里暂时停下了旅程，他们到了必须改变生活的地方，在平原上，太阳如同回到了家里。的确是在那里太阳蕴涵了某种上帝的灵性。当克尔瓦人来到克罗人的土地时，他们可以隔着比格霍恩河看到黎明中的山脉的背风处，照在层层谷地上的充足的光线和在夏至后出现的最古老的神像。但是他们并不愿意改变方向，向南到下面这块大锅似的土地；他们必须放弃已经适应了北方冬季的血液，他们也想使雨山在他们的视野中留存得更长久。他们把太米也带到了东方。
一层阴暗的薄雾笼罩了黑山，土地看起来就像钢铁一般。在一座山脊顶上，我看到魔鬼塔高高插入灰蒙蒙的天空，似乎在时间诞生之时，地核打开，地壳破裂，宇宙的运动从此开始。
自然界中有许多让人们叹为观止的事情。魔鬼塔就是其中之一。两个世纪以前，由于克尔瓦人无法用其他方式来解释，他们只能在岩石底编造了一个传说故事。我祖母说：
“有七个姐姐和一个弟弟，一共八个孩子在玩耍。男孩突然变成了哑巴。他颤抖着，手脚并用地跑动。他的手指变成了爪子，身体也被毛覆盖。在男孩子那个地方立刻出现了一只熊。姐姐们吓坏了，她们跑，熊也追着她们跑。她们来到了一棵大树桩下，树开口跟她们说话，它允许她们爬到树上。她们就爬上去了，这时树开始上升直入云霄。熊过来要杀掉她们，但是它够不到。于是熊就靠着树直立起来，用它的爪子四处胡乱抓挠着树皮。七个姐姐被送上了天，变成了大熊座内的北斗七星。”
从那时起，只要这一传说还存在，克尔瓦人在夜空中就有了亲属。在山里他们只是山民而已。无论他们多么福薄，无论他们已经受了多少苦，将来还要受多少苦，他们已经找到了走出荒原的生存之路。
我的祖母对太阳怀着敬畏的心情，那是一种几乎已经从现代人类身上流失的神圣崇拜。在她身上有一神谨慎和古老的敬畏。她晚年成为一个基督徒，但她为此经历了很多，她从未忘记自己生来就有的权利。
童年时她跳过太阳舞，也参加过那些一年一度的祭典，从中她体会到了她的民族在太米出现后的复苏。克尔瓦人1887年在雨山溪流上的维吉塔河边最后一次跳太阳舞时她大约七岁。水牛已经没有了。为了圆满完成这次古老的祭祀——需要把公水牛的头刺穿在驱魔架上———一队老人代表长途跋涉去德克萨斯，到那里去乞讨，然后用乞讨的东西从古德奈特牧民那里换取水牛。当克尔瓦人最后一次保留着太阳舞的文化聚在一起那年她十岁。他们找不到水牛；于是不得不在驱魔架上挂上一张旧兽皮。在舞会开始以前，一队战士从福特希尔突袭而来奉命驱散这个部落。毫无理由地被禁止了信仰的基本活动，亲眼看到野生畜群被屠杀，然后放任尸体在土地上腐烂，克尔瓦人永远地从驱魔架前退去了。那发生在1890年7月20日，在维吉塔河拐弯处。当时我祖母就在那里。没有太多痛苦，因为只要她活着，她就能忍受亲眼看见神灵被杀害。
虽然祖母只存在于我的记忆中，我却似乎能够清晰地看到她个人所特有的几种姿势：在冬季的清晨站在木制的火炉边翻着一个大铁煎锅里面的烤肉，坐在南面窗前，手里捻着念珠；后来，当她失去了视力的时候，她就低头久久凝望着自己合十的双手；拄着拐杖出门，当年事已高的时候就走得尽可能地慢；
我记忆最多的就是祈祷中的她。由于一生中见过太多事情而产生了痛苦和希望的情绪，于是她总是做长时间的、不连贯的祷吿。我从不确定我有权利听她祷告，这些祷告从不按照那些纯粹的习俗进行。我最后一次见到她是在一个晚上，她正站在床边祷告，上身赤裸，煤油灯光在她黝黑的皮肤上晃动。她那白天里总是拢起或编成辫子的长长的黑发如今像披肩一样散落在肩膀上，垂在胸前。我不会说克尔瓦语，因此从来也听不懂她的祷告，但是我能听出她的声音里固有的悲伤和悲伤的音节中流露的某种迟疑。她以一种高亢的、逐渐递减的声调开始，竭尽全身力气，直到最后减不出声音来；然后一次又一次——总是用同样强烈的力度，有时像有时又不像人类声音中急促的感觉。她对房间阴影里眺跃的灯光欣喜若狂，她看起来已经摆脱了时间的控制。但是那只是幻觉，那时我就知道我不会再见到她了。
房屋就像平原上的哨兵，是监测天气的古老的守卫者。在那里，在很短的时间里树木就会显得老态龙钟。所有的颜色不久就会在风雨的洗礼中褪掉，然后树木被烤成灰色，出现粗糙的纹理，钉子由于生锈而变红。窗户玻璃黑暗不透光；你会想象窗户里面什么都没有，但是其实有许多魔鬼和埋于地下的尸骨。他们站在各个地方挡住天空，你接近他们所用的时间比你想象的要长。他们属于远方，那是他们的领地。
在我祖母的房间里曾经有过许多声音，人来人往，举行宴会或放声谈论。夏日里充满了兴奋与重聚。克尔瓦人是一个喜爱夏季的民族，他们忍受冬季的寒冷离群索居；但当季节转换、大地复苏、生机勃勃的时候，他们就再也静不下来了；一种古老的对游牧的热爱又恢复了。我小的时候，有许多上了年纪的人到我祖母家来，他们都瘦得皮包骨头，但身板笔挺。他们头戴大黑帽子，身穿在风中摇曳的鲜亮的大肥衬衫。他们在头上抹上油，用彩色的布带把辫子缠绕起来。一些人把脸涂上颜色，身上带着旧时征战时留下的珍贵的伤疤。他们是一群旧军阀，来这里是为了提醒别人也提醒自己他们的身份。他们的妻子和女儿把他们服侍得很好。女人们或许可以放纵自己；闲聊顿时成为她们平时辛苦工作的标志和补偿。她们可以大声专注地谈论，谈话中充满了玩笑、手势、恐怖故事和假警报。她们披着带有流苏和印花的披肩，带着鲜亮的珍珠或者镍黄铜首饰出门。而在家里，她们却得在厨房忙着准备丰盛的宴席。
经常会有祷告会和大型的夜宴。我小的时候经常和表兄妹们在外面玩耍，在那里灯光总是照在地上，会有老人们的歌声在我们的周围响起，并传到黑暗处。有许多好吃的东西，许多笑声和惊喜。
后来，当一切重归平静的时候，我和祖母一起躺下，能够听到外面河里青蛙在叫，感受到空气的流动。
现在，房间里犹如葬礼一般宁静，那是对克尔瓦最后的文化无止境的守夜。围墙围住了祖母家的房子。当我回去吊丧的时候，我平生第一次觉得这房子是那样小。那时已是深夜，天上挂着一轮苍白的月亮，近乎满月。我在厨房门边的石阶上坐了许久。从那儿我能放眼穿越大地；我能看到溪边那一大排树，那翻滚的平原上低低的光线，还有那大熊座里的北斗七星。我曾望着月亮，看到一个奇怪的东西。一只蟋蟀暂栖在栏杆上，离我近在咫尺。我当时的视线正好使我看到那只蟋蟀像块化石镶在满月之中。我猜想，那蟋蟀到那里生也好死也好，因为只有在那里它的渺小价值才能变得完整和永恒。一阵暖风吹起，像一种渴望在我的身体里潺潺流动。
次日清晨，我在拂晓中醒来，出门踏上了满是尘土的通往雨山的路。天气已经很热，蚱蜢又开始在空气中到处乱飞，依然是清晨，鸟儿们飞出树荫歌唱。山上那长长的黄草在明媚的阳光中闪耀，一只叉尾霸鹅在大地上空飞过。那里，在那长长的充满传奇色彩的道路尽头，就应该是我祖母的坟墓。深色的石头上到处都有祖先们的名字。再一次回头望望雨山，我离开了。
Key Words:
pecan [pi'kæn]
n. 美洲山核桃（树）
anvil ['ænvil]
n. 铁砧
corral [kɔ:'rɑ:l]
n. 畜栏 vt. 赶入，围住，聚集
canyon ['kænjən]
n. 峡谷
affliction [ə'flikʃən]
n. 痛苦，苦恼，苦难
sill [sil]
n. 基石(岩床，底面)
prophecy ['prɔfisi]
n. 预言，先兆，预言能力
timber ['timbə]
n. 木材，木料
seal [si:l]
n. 印章，封条
n. 海豹
mist [mist]
n. 雾，迷蒙，朦胧不清
engender [in'dʒendə]
v. 产生，引起
restoration [.restə'reiʃən]
n. 恢复，归还，复位
consummate ['kɔnsʌmeit]
vt. 成就，使达到极点，（初次洞房）成婚，圆房
braided ['breidid]
adj. 编辫子的；有饰带镶缀的
indulge [in'dʌldʒ]
vt. 纵情于，放任，迁就
row [rəu,rau]
n. 排，船游，吵闹
vt. 划船，成排
creek [kri:k]
n. 小湾，小溪 Creek n. 克里克族，克里克人
参考资料：
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第五册:U6 The Way to Rainy Mountain(1)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第五册:U6 The Way to Rainy Mountain(2)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第五册:U6 The Way to Rainy Mountain(3)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第五册:U6 The Way to Rainy Mountain(4)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第五册:U6 The Way to Rainy Mountain(5)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第五册:U6 The Way to Rainy Mountain(6)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第五册:U6 The Way to Rainy Mountain(7)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第五册:U6 The Way to Rainy Mountain(8)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
- 现代大学英语精读(第2版)第五册:U6 The Way to Rainy Mountain(9)_大学教材听力 - 可可英语
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