早就想把去年这个时候写那篇 《春雪无痕》短篇修改一下，自认为题材结构和内容都不错 只是粗燥了点，也想到了用英语，八月份的时候没有了网络后尝试了一下开头 不满意便搁了下来 但心里始终放不下。今年过元旦那天 突然来了精神再试，感觉很顺手 是我自己想要的风格。一路写下来添加了不少细节和故事，但保留了原文的故事构架和风格。说真的对我来说写英语小说是不知天高地厚，但得到了先生的鼓励，兴致还蛮高的，上万维三年被自己有意打破的完美主义倾向又在写这篇文章时复活了。中文原文是六千多字，这个英文版的第一部分就将近6千单词了，完成后大概会是一个中篇吧。就好像我的中文博文里也是语法用法错误百出一样，英文也同样如此。只是我们对待它们的态度不一样，对于中文里的错误我们往往听之任之，而对英文里错误则是战战兢兢小心翼翼。
"Clang--, clang-- .…"
"Alas! Damn clock, don't frighten my daddy away." Staring at the pitch-black emptiness, Yiner sighted and cursed in a faint mumble, tears were tracing paths down on her pale cheeks. It was midnight. She had just awakened to the chimes of the wall clock from the family hall penetrating through the wooden-panel wall to her room and echoing.
She lay on her side in bed beneath a quilt of blue coarse-cloth patterned with white lotus, old and thick. The rice-straw mattress under her had worn out, no longer soft and flurry after many years of use. She hugged her bare knees tight against her chest trying to hold her own heat; and this way she curled up seemed to give a bit warmth against the early spring chill. In the region of mid-south of China, beyond the south shore of the Yangtze River it was wet-cold in winter and early spring, the Siberian winter storms from far north swept down south across the vast land of Mongolia and northern China, still strong and furious. Many of young girls in this region had hard time for sleep at long night; their feet were freezing like snakes that never could be warmed up. So was Yiner who also had chilblains that would cause itch and sore at the instant they met heat; so she scarcely slept well enough and was always awakened by cold a few times.
Yet this time it was neither the cold nor the wall clock that roused her. It was a dream.
Yiner had dreamed of her mother almost every night from the day her mother left home to somewhere she did not know when she was little, no more than 7. 8 years drew on, Yiner had been pining for her fiercely all the same, as if there were a rank sprawling ivy in her heart. Although mother's face had thinly gone a blur in her memory after so long time, yet Yiner could still remember her scent of distinctive wild-rose once made her deeply drunk with; her sweet breath gently stroked on her face as soft as a summer breeze; her arms warm, smiles delightful, she laid her down in the cradle, and swayed it singing a lullaby to her quick sleep...
Of course Yiner would not mention of her mother in front of anyone, not when Big Mom was around, lest she be angry. She asked her father about where her mother was and when she would come to see her. He frowned and sighed stroking on her hair and answered that your mother had gone to a remote place and wound not come back anytime soon. That made Yiner wonder if she was dead already; but she knew she was not, just would not come back home and abandoned her. So sometimes the more she thought about her mother the more hated she became.
She called her mother when she was alone washing clothes in river or collecting firewoods on hills or in woods. Yearned to see her so eagerly, Yiner often stood on the river shore peering at the dock on the other side of the river to see if mother would appear suddenly and take boat to her; or in a gathering dusk she sat in her own room gazing out of the window, daydreaming of her mother dressed in a white silk robe flying toward her from the golden mountain peak lit by the setting sun, a seven-coloured cloud under her feet, flowers on head, sleeves flapping wide and long in wind like wings, as beautiful as a celestial woman in those ancient myths... Yet it only went to disappoint her the worse after woke up. At the end she would begin sobbing, for it could never be real.
She had indeed seen her mother. By night, in dreams though. Her mother was being washed away in flooding water, or flamed in fire. She screamed aloud, but the sounds were caught in throat. Screaming and screaming she went with all strength, then awakened up with cold sweat trickling down on back, throat tight and mouth as dry as a bone. Even so frightened, after a while she still could slowly fall asleep again and slid into next dream; good or bad, she knew they were only dreams anyway.
Yet tonight was different. She had dreamed of her father instead when she was half asleep. He appeared before her bed in darkness. Yet she still could see him clearly as if there were a finger of dim light from above enveloping him. His gaunt pale face was bleeding, and blue-grey long robe bloodstained. He looked at her mournfully, lips moving as if to speak to her yet made no sounds. She reached out for him, a thunder hammered and he had thinly melted away into the black. She wept to awaken with a feeling of heartbreak and heard the wall clock stroking twelve o'clock. It seemed to her that every stroke went louder than the one before and its tickings rapidly more than ever, even the flat reeded-pillow beneath her neck following vibrated slightly. She wondered if it did on purposes, particularly to frighten father away.
She had to have believed that what she saw in the dream bod ill: something her father was going to speak of; his sorrowful eyes had apparently indicated of something bad soon come upon them. Yet what would that be? She dared not imagine but a scene had sprung to her mind: a little boat was sailing atop the waves in a perilous ocean; the winds were howling, massive lead-grey clouds gathering, lightning striking in the sky and thunder drumming with fury. Soon her little boat would have been buried in the stormy sea.
"Where are you, father?" She cried out in a desperate voice, sobbing. There was no echoing, the whole world just listening and silent. Yiner found herself shivering in the early spring night like an autumn leaf trembling in frost wind, lonely and helplessly ...
Somewhere in a far distance a dog began barking, a moment later more joining in.