31、第三十一章 Death of a Witch Haunter ...
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学校美国哥特的作业可以选择写一篇一千字以内小说+评价，于是正好用作业补全即将到来的第三十二章前置背景故事。Haunter是新造词，有意为之。具体原因已包含在评价板块。（评价板块英文版脚注格式不好搞就不放了）
中文正文
露天的火刑架耸立在广场上，裹着沉重披肩的女人们合十祈祷着，以一种近乎期待的眼神迎接火焰对异端的净化。男人们如枯树般颤栗的躯体里渗透出的腐朽气息，将他们内心的病态兴奋裹挟着火刑架上女人的尖叫声送向城市的其他角落。
那个女人，半边脸被烧焦的女人，大声咒骂着那些无人在意的被权贵违背的承诺。
最后，咒骂声渐渐弱化成若有若无的哽咽与抽泣。微不可闻的荜拨声中，她的嘴咧出个诡异的弧度。沙哑到无从辨识的声音呼唤着一个名字：“安德烈。”
一个骑士，面无表情地伫立在边沿的屋檐下，头盔夹在臂间。似乎加在他身上的重担早已夺去了他多余的色彩，忧郁的阴影笼罩在他一头白色长发上。
“那个被诅咒的异类，” 一个声音喃喃自语，尖锐而轻蔑：“真不知道国王大人为何容许他玷污我们的圣土。”
然而骑士，他的眼睛疲惫而迷茫，只看到鼠群匍匐着——肮脏与疫病的使者——在地表，在地底。而他背负的诅咒，敦促着他向前，驱逐地面下的异类以维护地表巨鼠的丰硕。
“暂且容忍那个魔鬼存在吧，” 另一个声音开口，低沉而节制，“只有魔鬼看得清它的同族。”
“摩洛维尔。”衣着轻甲的骑士悄无声息地出现在两人身后。一阵颤抖掠过他们纸张一样单薄的身形，似乎那把安然待在剑鞘里的剑，下一秒就会穿透他们的胸膛，让他们隐在内心黑暗处的女巫被烈火灼尽。“市民，你们应当叫我摩洛维尔骑士。”
两人惊惧着避开他尖锐的眼神，深深弯下腰行了个礼：“摩洛维尔……骑士。”
他不能在这群老鼠身上浪费太多时间。破坏秩序的下水道中的异类就将在今天浮出水面。
他与被光亮吸引的鼠群背向而行，穿过余晖照亮的街道，循着剧毒与死亡的气息，沿着渡鸦的落羽走向常年被黑夜笼罩的，混乱的国度。
“我是个女巫。”本与一位女士有约的瓦诺西那等来了一把冰冷的剑。
“那么你亲口宣判了自己的死期。谁是你的同谋？解药在哪？”
沉默。
“说出来，你还有机会活下去。”
“扎丽娜，你们对她也是这么说的？”
“是。”
“她的孩子，安德烈，死在坎伯利公爵的马车车轮下。一个平民的命而已，怎比得过贵族被惊吓的马呢？可惜，她刚毒死那懦弱而恶毒的丈夫，还没来得及毒死罪恶的元凶。”
“是她供述了你的藏身所，你同情她？”
瓦诺西那没说什么，用红酒填满了酒杯：“喝一杯再走吧。”
“里面有什么？”
“一个选择。”她微微一笑。“律法把女人变成女巫。你也曾被律法诅咒，但你还活着，靠汲取她们生命活着。”
骑士无应。
瓦诺西那冷笑一声，朝摩洛维尔抬手：“敬你为了追逐生命，权力，欲望而虚度的一生。”
她倒下去了，像严冬将尽时乌鸦褪去的绒羽。轻飘飘的。
“我诅咒帝国崩塌，诅咒律法消弭，诅咒太阳不再升起，诅咒你，继续懦弱固执地活在权贵的阴影里。”
第二天，太阳依旧升起。淅淅沥沥的雨点打湿了报童售卖着的当日的报纸。
标题很醒目：“坎伯利公爵在家中离奇身亡”。
再没人见过摩洛维尔，也再没人见过瓦诺西那。只有恐怖传说依旧在坊间流传着：得罪女巫的人都会受到女巫的诅咒，怪异地惨死家中。
而混杂在喧嚣而抓眼的花边标题中，埋着一行不起眼的小字： “被女巫杀死的女巫猎人。”
英文正文（与中文意思一样，但其实加了点渲染氛围的小东西，大概也没人会认真对着看了）
An open-air pyre rose ominously in the grim and shadowed square， a blackened archway to the infernal depths. Women， shrouded in heavy shawls， their faces obscured by the gloom， clasped their hands in prayer， murmuring low as if in anticipation of the purging flames that would cleanse the heretic's sins. Their eyes gleamed with near-manic yearning as though the fire dance might dispel the dread that festered in their hearts. The men， trembling like withered trees， stood rigid， their bodies exuding a miasma of decay that mingled with the piercing screams of the woman upon the pyre. This unholy union of sound and stench swept through the city like a plague， carrying on a bitter wind's wings.
The woman， her face half-consumed by the flames， her flesh charred and cracked to reveal the ghastly bone beneath， cried out in a voice both hoarse and piercing. She cursed the broken promises of the powerful vows that had fallen on deaf ears， ignored and unheeded. Her words were sharp as daggers， yet they could not pierce the veil of silence and indifference that enveloped her.
Gradually， her curses faded into broken sobs as though the fire was devouring her very soul. As her life teetered on the edge of oblivion， her lips twisted into a grotesque and haunting smile. A rasping， almost unrecognizable whisper emerged from her throat， a name uttered with a final， desperate breath:“Andre.”
A knight with a helm resting beneath his arm stood. Melancholy shadow draped itself over the cascade of his white hair as though the very weight of his duty had bleached it of color.
“That cursed，” muttered a voice， sharp with disdain，“The aberration defiled our sacred soil.”
Yet the knight， his eyes weary and clouded with a nameless sorrow， beheld only the scuttling of rats.
Bound by an unrelenting curse， he had to purge the aberrations that lurked in the depths below， all to preserve the abundance and dominion of the great rats upon the surface.
“Let the devil linger for now，” spoke another， his voice low and measured.“Only a devil can see where its kin may hide.”
“Morauville”. The name cut through the air like a blade， and the two men turned to find the lightly armored knight standing behind them. A shiver， cold and serpentine， coursed through their paper-thin frames as though the blade， still sheathed， might rend their fragile chests asunder at any moment. Their breath caught in their throats， and their eyes were wide with a mingling of dread and reverence.
“Citizen，” spoke the knight，“thou shalt call me Knight of Morauville.”
“Knight of... Morauville”， they stammered， their voices trembling as they bent low in a gesture of submission.
But the knight had no time to waste on such things. The aberrations that lurked in the sewers， the disruptors of order， would soon emerge from their fetid depths.
He moved against the tide of rats drawn to the faint glimmer of light. Through the streets bathed in the dying embers of twilight， he walked. The air grew heavy with the stench of poison and decay， a miasma that clung to the cobblestones and seeped into the very bones of the city.
Above him， the black wings of ravens cut through the dim sky， their feathers falling like omens， marking the way to a land where darkness reigned， an eternal realm of chaos， untouched by the sun's grace. Each step carried him further from the world of men， closer to the line between life and death blurred into obscurity.
“I am a witch”， declared Vanocina， who had awaited a lady's company but instead found herself greeted by the cold steel of a blade.
“Then you have pronounced your death sentence”， the knight replied.“Who are your accomplices? Where is the antidote”?
Silence.
“Speak， and you may yet live”.
“Zarina，“ Vanocina said， her voice steady.“Did you make her the same promise?“
“Yes”.
“Her child， Andre， was crushed beneath the wheels of Duke Camberley's carriage. What is a commoner's life worth compared to the fear of a nobleman's horse? Pity. She had just poisoned her cowardly， vile husband but had not yet reached the true architect of her misery”.
“It was she who revealed your hiding place. Do you pity her”?
Vanocina said nothing. Instead， she filled a goblet with wine.“Have a drink before you go.“
“What’s in it”?
“A choice”， she replied with a faint smile.“The law turns women into witches. You， too， have been cursed by the law， yet you live sustained by the lives you drain from them”.
The knight remained silent.
Vanocina laughed， raising her glass to Morauville:“To you， and the life you've wasted chasing survival， power， and desire”.
She fell， light as a raven's downshed at the end of winter， her body collapsing softly to the ground.
“I curse the empire’s crumble， I curse the laws vanish， I curse the sun never to rise again. And I curse you to continue your pathetic life， weak and stubborn， in the shadow of the nobility”.
The sun rose， as it always did. A light rain pattered
评价板块
本小说主要从弱势者的陌生化塑造，恐怖氛围营造与通俗文化符号方面诠释了十八世纪的美国哥特作品。
与英式哥特不同，此时期的美式哥特作品弱化了对怪异外表等视觉方面的塑造，更着重于心理上的恐怖氛围营造，对权力与病态社会的批判也是那个时期哥特作品中的常客。
在《Ligeia》中，女性角色被描绘为神秘而强大的存在，但她们的命运往往被男性叙述者所掌控，暗示了女性在父权社会中的困境。我的小说基于这种困境，将女性弱势群体从固有的诸如“妻子”的角色中抽离出来，赋予她们具有自主思考能力，敢于为自己利益与生存抗争的“人性”，并将被猎巫行动中污名化的“女巫”一词解构于她们。而正是这种对自以为熟悉的事物的陌生化表达，让人们在本如家最安全的地方开始细思枕边人都可能就是自己死亡的凶手，从而在心理上感到恐惧。
在传统叙事中，骑士这一形象本象征着正义，但在哥特叙事中反教条风潮的兴起让“正义”本身也不再是绝对真理，因而出现了诸如《The Legend of Sleepy Hollow》中无头骑士这样令人心生恐惧的“黑骑士”形象。这种形象存在的意义不只是营造心理恐怖氛围，也是一种对随着社会发展而流动的道德标准与正义的反思。所以我在文章中创建了这样一个拥有一头白发的，很容易被中世纪群众认定为“异类”从而被当作女巫审判的人作为代表教条与程序正义的基础执行单位 “骑士”，并打破二元对立的叙事模式，让背负诅咒的骑士与用毒杀上位者来反抗的女巫都有其善与恶的一面。这种道德模糊性叙事在爱伦坡的很多作品中都有体现。
我通过Morauville在秩序导向的程序正义与生命导向的自然正义之间的挣扎，以及当生命权与自己的信念产生冲突时他内心的矛盾与犹豫，展现出了一个基于猎巫行动时期畸形而狂热的历史时期中的集受害者与加害者于一体的形象。因此，我并没有为文章起名“Death of Witch Hunter”，因为Morauville不应被定义为Witch Hunter，被“witch”概念 “Haunted”的，同时本身也成为一种笼罩于人们内心的“Haunted Occasion”的复杂存在。
我通过女巫之口揭露了贵族对平民的压迫（如安德烈被公爵马车碾死），批判了法律的虚伪与不公。这种对社会不公的控诉与《The Blithedale Romance》中对乌托邦实验失败的反思相呼应，两者都揭示了社会制度对个体的压迫。
最后，在叙事结构上，本小说通过非线性叙事（如骑士的回忆与女巫的诅咒）和开放式结局（骑士与女巫的消失）制造悬念，呼应了爱伦·坡的《The Tell-Tale Heart》和《The Cask of Amontillado》中的心理悬疑与《The Legend of Sleepy Hollow》中伊卡博德的消失的模糊性结局。
作者有话说
第31章 第三十一章 Death of a Witch Haunter
