《失窃的孩子》——The Stolen Child（中英文对照）完结_派派后花园

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[Novel] 《失窃的孩子》——The Stolen Child（中英文对照）完结

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举报 只看楼主 使用道具 楼主   发表于: 2013-10-27 0


For Dorothy and Thomas, wish you were here
"We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory."
"NOSTOS" BY LOUISE GLUCK"
献给多萝西和托马斯，希望你们能在这里。
童年，我们曾向世界投以一瞥。
余下的尽是回忆。
——路易丝?格鲁克《返乡》
"The Stolen Child" is a poem by William Butler Yeats, published in 1889 in The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems.The poem was written in 1886 and is considered to be one of Yeats's more notable early poems. The poem is based on Irish legend and concerns faeries beguiling a child to come away with them. Yeats had a great interest in Irish mythology about faeries resulting in his publication of Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry in 1888 and Fairy Folk Tales of Ireland in 1892.
失窃的孩子
柏栎
　　一百多年前，诗人叶芝，写过一首小诗《失窃的孩子》。诗中，仙灵将孩子从温暖的壁炉边诱走，带到史留斯森林高地，那里有花有水，远离尘嚣，孩子和仙灵们吃着浆果和樱桃，寻找熟睡的鳟鱼，在沙砾上跳起古老的舞蹈，彻底忘记了那个充满烦恼的人类世界……一百多年后，这片高地变成美国东部的某个乡村，仙灵们依然躲藏在深山高林中，不为人所知，仙灵世界和人类社会不时地发生交集，但只有仙灵和被交换的孩子知道全部的秘密，这就是唐纳胡的《失窃的孩子》。
　　换生灵的传说在欧洲流传广泛，这通常是指一种专门偷窃人类小孩，并把自己变成小孩模样，在人类家中生活下去的恶灵。在文学作品中也并不罕见，莎士比亚在《仲夏夜之梦》中就写到过换生灵，另外还有托马斯?米德顿的剧本《换生灵》，以及约翰?盖尔特的小说《偷走的孩子》等等。传说中，这种由仙灵变身而成的孩子外形丑陋，往往是畸形或有先天疾病，会被父母轻易抛弃。据考证，神话的社会学起源是家庭无力抚养多个孩子，忍痛弃婴后的一种心理自我安慰。但在唐纳胡笔下，仙灵是真实存在的，他们按照序列，逐一和人类的孩子交换生活，仙灵生活在人类之中，人类则被交换到了仙灵的部落中去，成为他们的一员。
　　或许是不想写成一个十足的奇幻故事，虽然欧洲神话中不乏神乎其神的精灵秘法，唐纳胡却从一开始就没有赋予换生灵那些本领。他们会的魔法不多，除了能变脸，就只会一些“低级”的超能力，诸如顺风耳和千里眼。他们拥有不老的生命，永远保持小孩子的外貌，心却在时光中老去。对他们来说，生命只有等待的意义，等待轮到自己去换生的那刻。
　　在此预设下，亨利和安尼戴展开了他们交错的一生。安尼戴原是人类孩子亨利，被交换后成为仙灵，忘记了自己本来的名字，但记忆的碎片却时时侵入他的梦境。亨利原是仙灵的头领，已在森林中生活了百年有余，他变身成为人类孩子，得到了亨利的父母和几乎全部的生活，得不到的却是亨利七岁之前的记忆。在漫长的岁月中，他们彼此追逐着过去的影子。安尼戴总想回到父母和妹妹身边，而亨利也渐渐发现自己其实也曾是一个被交换的德国男孩，一个钢琴神童，他的天赋在森林中埋藏百年之后，又在作为人类的身上再次显现。
　　仙灵的世界并不是人们想象的人间天堂，他们需要在严苛的环境中为生存奋斗，还要设法打发无聊的光阴。安尼戴学会了阅读，常常和好朋友斯帕克溜进人类的图书馆中饱飨智能的盛宴。年深月久的相知，使得安尼戴爱上了斯帕克，可是斯帕克却在他告白之际，决然离开，开始了自己漫长的旅行。安尼戴终于在伙伴的帮助下，找到了家人，但却悲哀地发现，自己和他们已经隔得太远，无法回去。取代他地位的亨利，同样需要在人类社会中求生存，想方设法和父母斗智，不被揭破自己的真实身份。相较于停滞在时光中的仙灵，亨利是在不断长大，但成长的烦恼，同样使他困惑不堪。他终于发现，人类的世界也并不如他想象得那幺美好，仙灵和人类都有各自的现实要面对。
　　拯救他们生活的，是爱和希望。亨利恋爱、结婚、生子，在温暖的家庭中，终于鼓起勇气直面过去，为自己的百年岁月谱出了一曲交响乐。安尼戴在写完自己的人生故事后，告别相依为命的伙伴，追随斯帕克的足迹而去，跨越千山万水，去到这个国家的另一头寻找他的爱情。
这是一个写来简淡，读来却时常倍感温暖的故事。叶芝的诗中给人印象最深的一段便是：走吧，人间的孩子/与一个精灵手拉手/走向荒野和河流/这个世界哭声太多了，你不懂。唐纳胡小说中的孩子和仙灵，长大后都懂得了这些“哭声”，他们理解、宽宥彼此，立足自己的生活，为身边的人们付出热忱。这原本就是生命中最大的勇气。


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Chapter 1
　　Don't call me a fairy. We don't like to be called fairies anymore. Once upon a time, fairy was a perfectly acceptable catchall for a variety of creatures, but now it has taken on too many associations. Etymologically speaking, a fairy is something quite particular, related in kind to the naiads, or water nymphs, and while of the genus, we are sui generis. The word fairy is drawn from fay (Old French fee), which itself comes from the Latin Fata, the goddess of fate. The fay lived in groups called the faerie, between the heavenly and earthly realms.
　　There exist in this world a range of sublunary spirits that carminibus coelo possunt deducere lunam, and they have been divided since ancient times into six kinds: fiery, aerial, terrestrial, watery, subterranean, and the whole class of fairies and nymphs. Of the sprites of fire, water, and air, I know next to nothing. But the terrestrial and underground devils I know all too well, and of these, there is infinite variety and attendant myth about their behavior, custom, and culture. Known around the world by many different names—Lares, genii, fauns, satyrs, foliots, Robin Goodfellows, pucks, leprechauns, pukas, sidhe, trolls—the few that remain live hidden in the woods and are rarely seen or encountered by human beings. If you must give me a name, call me hobgoblin.
　　Or better yet, I am a changeling—a word that describes within its own name what we are bound and intended to do. We kidnap a human child and replace him or her with one of our own. The hobgoblin becomes the child, and the child becomes a hobgoblin. Not any boy or girl will do, but only those rare souls baffled by their young lives or attuned to the weeping troubles of this world. The changelings select carefully, for such opportunities might come along only once a decade or so. A child who becomes part of our society might have to wait a century before his turn in the cycle arrives, when he can become a changeling and reenter the human world.
　　Preparation is tedious, involving close surveillance of the child, and of his friends and family. This must be done unobserved, of course, and it's best to select the child before he begins school, because it becomes more complicated by then, having to memorize and process a great deal of information beyond the intimate family, and being able to mimic his personality and history as clearly as mirroring his physique and features. Infants are the easiest, but caring for them is a problem for the changelings. Age six or seven is best. Anyone much older is bound to have a more highly developed sense of self. No matter how old or young, the object is to deceive the parents into thinking that this changeling is actually their child. More easily done than most people imagine.
　　No, the difficulty lies not in assuming a child's history but in the painful physical act of the change itself. First, start with the bones and skin, stretching until one shudders and nearly snaps into the right size and body shape. Then the others begin work on one's new head and face, which require the skills of a sculptor. There's considerable pushing and pulling at the cartilage, as if the skull were a soft wad of clay or taffy, and then the malicious business with the teeth, the removal of the hair, and the tedious re-weaving. The entire process occurs without a gram of painkiller, although a few imbibe a noxious alcohol made from the fermented mash of acorns. A nasty undertaking, but well worth it, although I could do without the rather complicated rearrangement of the genitals. In the end, one is an exact copy of a child. Thirty years ago, in 1949, I was a changeling who became a human again.
　　I changed lives with Henry Day, a boy born on a farm outside of town.
　　On a late summer's afternoon, when he was seven, Henry ran away from home and hid in a hollow chestnut tree. Our changeling spies followed him and raised the alarm, and I transformed myself into his perfect facsimile. We grabbed him, and I slipped into the hollowed space to switch my life for his. When the search party found me that night, they were happy, relieved, and proud—not angry, as I had expected. "Henry," a red-haired man in a fireman's suit said to me as I pretended to sleep in the hiding place. I opened my eyes and gave him a bright smile. The man wrapped me in a thin blanket and carried me out of the woods to a paved road, where a fire truck stood waiting, its red light pulsing like a heartbeat. The firemen took me home to Henry's parents, to my new father and mother. As we drove along the road that night, I kept thinking that if that first test could be passed, the world would once again be mine.
　　It is a commonly held myth that, among the birds and the beasts, the mother recognizes her young as her own and will refuse a stranger thrust into the den or the nest. This is not so. In fact, the cuckoo commonly lays its eggs in other birds' nests, and despite its extraordinary size and voracious appetite, the cuckoo chick receives as much, indeed more, maternal care, often to the point of driving the other chicks from their lofty home. Sometimes the mother bird starves her own offspring because of the cuckoo's incessant demands. My first task was to create the fiction that I was the real Henry Day. Unfortunately, humans are more suspicious and less tolerant of intruders in the nest.
　　The rescuers knew only that they were looking for a young boy lost in the woods, and I could remain mute. After all, they had found someone and were therefore content. As the fire truck lurched up the driveway to the Days' home, I vomited against the bright red door, a vivid mess of acorn mash, watercress, and the exoskeletons of a number of small insects. The fireman patted me on the head and scooped me up, blanket and all, as if I were of no more consequence than a rescued kitten or an abandoned baby. Henry's father leapt from the porch to gather me in his arms, and with a strong embrace and warm kisses reeking of smoke and alcohol, he welcomed me home as his only son. The mother would be much harder to fool.
　　Her face betrayed her every emotion: blotchy skin, chapped with salty tears, her pale blue eyes rimmed in red, her hair matted and disheveled. She reached out for me with trembling hands and emitted a small sharp cry, the kind a rabbit makes when in the distress of the snare. She wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve and wrapped me in the wracking shudder of a woman in love. Then she began laughing in that deep coloratura.
　　"Henry? Henry?" She pushed me away and held on to my shoulders at arm's length. "Let me look at you. Is it really you?"
　　"I'm sorry, Mom."
　　She brushed away the bangs hiding my eyes and then pulled me against her breast. Her heart beat against the side of my face, and I felt hot and uncomfortable.
　　"You needn't worry, my little treasure. You're home and safe and sound, and that's all that matters. You've come back to me."
　　Dad cupped the back of my head with his large hand, and I thought this homecoming tableau might go on forever. I squirmed free and dug out the handkerchief from Henry's pocket, crumbs spilling to the floor.
　　"I'm sorry I stole the biscuit, Mom."
　　She laughed, and a shadow passed behind her eyes. Maybe she had been wondering up to that point if I was indeed her flesh and blood, but mentioning the biscuit did the trick. Henry had stolen one from the table when he ran away from home, and while the others took him to the river, I stole and pocketed it. The crumbs proved that I was hers.
　　
　　
　　Well after midnight, they put me to bed, and such a comfort may be the greatest invention of mankind. In any case, it tops sleeping in a hole in the cold ground, a moldy rabbit skin for your pillow, and the grunts and sighs of a dozen changelings anxious in their dreams. I stretched out like a stick between the crisp sheets and pondered my good fortune. Many tales exist of failed changelings who are uncovered by their presumptive families. One child who showed up in a Nova Scotia fishing village so frightened his poor parents that they fled their own home in the middle of a snowstorm and were later found frozen and bobbing in the frigid harbor. A changeling girl, age six, so shocked her new parents when she opened her mouth to speak that, thus frightened, they poured hot wax into each other's ears and never heard another sound. Other parents, upon learning that their child had been replaced by changelings, had their hair turn white overnight, were stunned into catatonia, heart attacks, or sudden death. Worse yet, though rare, other families drive out the creature through exorcism, banishment, abandonment, murder. Seventy years ago, I lost a good friend after he forgot to make himself look older as he aged. Convinced he was a devil, his parents tied him up like an unwanted kitten in a gunnysack and threw him down a well. Most of the time, though, the parents are confounded by the sudden change of their son or daughter, or one spouse blames the other for their queer fortune. It is a risky endeavor and not for the fainthearted.
　　That I had come this far undetected caused me no small satisfaction, but I was not completely at ease. A half hour after I had gone to bed, the door to my room swung open slowly. Framed against the hallway light, Mr. and Mrs. Day stuck their heads through the opening. I shut my eyes to mere slits and pretended to be sleeping. Softly, but persistently, she was sobbing. None could cry with such dexterity as Ruth Day. "We have to mend our ways, Billy. You have to make sure this never happens again."
　　"I know, I promise," he whispered. "Look at him sleeping, though. 'The innocent sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care.'"
　　He pulled shut the door and left me in the darkness. My fellow changelings and I had been spying on the boy for months, so I knew the contours of my new home at the edge of the forest. Henry's view of their few acres and the world beyond was magical. Outside, the stars shone through the window above a jagged row of firs. Through the open windows, a breeze blew across the top of the sheets, and moths beat their wings in retreat from their perches on the window screen. The nearly full moon reflected enough light into the space to reveal the dim pattern on the wallpaper, the crucifix above my head, pages torn from magazines and newspapers tacked along the wall. A baseball mitt and ball rested on top of the bureau, and on the washstand a pitcher and bowl glowed as white as phosphorous. A short stack of books lay propped against the bowl, and I could barely contain my excitement at the prospect of reading come morning.
　　The twins began bawling at the break of day. I padded down the hallway, past my new parents' room, following the sound. The babies hushed the moment they saw me, and I am sure that had they the gifts of reason and speech, Mary and Elizabeth would have said "You're not Henry" the moment I walked into the room. But they were mere tots, with more teeth than sentences, and could not articulate the mysteries of their young minds. With their clear wide eyes, they regarded my every move with quiet attentiveness. I tried smiling, but no smiles were returned. I tried making funny faces, tickling them under their fat chins, dancing like a puppet, and whistling like a mockingbird, but they simply watched, passive and inert as two dumb toads. Racking my brain to find a way to get through to them, I recalled other occasions when I had encountered something in the forest as helpless and dangerous as these two human children. Walking along in a lonesome glen, I had come across a bear cub separated from its mother. The frightened animal let out such a godforsaken scream that I half expected to be surrounded by every bear in the mountains. Despite my powers with animals, there was nothing to be done with a monster that could have ripped me open with a single swat. By crooning to the beast, I soothed it, and remembering this, I did so with my new-found sisters. They were enchanted by the sound of my voice and began at once to coo and clap their chubby hands while long strings of drool ran down their chins. "Twinkle, Twinkle" and "Bye, Baby Bunting" reassured or convinced them that I was close enough to be their brother, or preferable to their brother, but who knows for certain what thoughts flitted through their simple minds. They gurgled, and they gooed. In between songs, for counterpoint, I would talk to them in Henry's voice, and gradually they came to believe—or abandon their sense of disbelief.
　　Mrs. Day bustled into the babies' room, humming and tra-la-la-ing. Her general girth and amplitude amazed me; I had seen her many times before, but not quite at such close quarters. From the safety of the woods, she had seemed more or less the same as all adult humans, but in person, she assumed a singular tenderness, though she smelled faintly sour, a perfume of milk and yeast. She danced across the floor, throwing open curtains, dazzling the room with golden morning, and the girls, brightened by her presence, pulled themselves up by the slats of their cribs. I smiled at her, too. It was all I could do to keep from bursting into joyous laughter. She smiled back at me as if I were her only son.
　　"Help me with your sisters, would you, Henry?"
　　I picked up the nearest girl and announced very pointedly to my new mother, "I'll take Elizabeth." She was as heavy as a badger. It is a curious feeling to hold an infant one is not planning to steal; the very young convey a pleasant softness.
　　The girls' mother stopped and stared at me, and for a beat, she looked puzzled and uncertain. "How did you know that was Elizabeth? You've never been able to tell them apart."
　　"That's easy, Mom. Elizabeth has two dimples when she smiles and her name's longer, and Mary has just one."
　　"Aren't you the clever one?" She picked up Mary and headed off downstairs.
　　Elizabeth hid her face against my shoulder as we followed our mother. The kitchen table groaned with a huge feast—hotcakes and bacon, a jug of warm maple syrup, a gleaming pitcher of milk, and china bowls filled with sliced bananas. After a long life in the forest eating what-you-can-find, this simple fare appeared a smorgasbord of exotic delicacies, rich and ripe, the promise of fullness.
　　"Look, Henry, I made all your favorites."
　　I could have kissed her right on the spot. If she was pleased with herself for taking the trouble to fix Henry's favorite foods, she must have been extremely gratified by how I tucked in and enjoyed breakfast. After four hot-cakes, eight strips of bacon, and all but two small glassfuls of the pitcher of milk, I complained of hunger, so she made me three eggs and a half loaf of toast from home-baked bread. My metabolism had changed, it seemed. Ruth Day saw my appetite as a sign of love for her, and for the next eleven years, until I left for college, she indulged me. In time, she sublimated her own anxieties and began to eat like me. Decades as a changeling had molded my appetites and energies, but she was all too human, growing heavier with each passing season. Over the years, I've often wondered if she would have changed so much with her real firstborn or whether she filled her gnawing suspicion with food.
　　That first day she kept me inside the house, and after all that had occurred, who could blame her? I stuck closer than her own shadow, studying intently, learning better how to be her son, as she dusted and swept, washed the dishes, and changed the babies' diapers. The house felt safer than the forest, but strange and alien. Small surprises lurked. Daylight angled through the curtained windows, ran along the walls, and cast its patterns across the carpets in an entirely different geometry than beneath the canopy of leaves. Of particular interest were the small universes comprised of specks of dust that make themselves visible only through sunbeams. In contrast to the blaze of sunlight outside, the inner light had a soporific effect, especially on the twins. They tired shortly after lunch—another fete in my honor—and napped in the early afternoon.
　　My mother tiptoed from their room to find me patiently waiting in the same spot she had left me, standing like a sentinel in the hallway. I was he witched by an electrical outlet that screamed out to me to stick in my little finger. Although their door was closed, the twins' rhythmic breathing sounded like a storm rushing through the trees, for I had not yet trained myself not to listen. Mom took me by the hand, and her soft grasp filled me with an abiding empathy. The woman created a deep peace within me with her very touch. I remembered the books on Henry's washstand and asked her if she would read me a story.
　　We went to my room and clambered into bed together. For the past century, adults had been total strangers, and life among the changelings had distorted my perspective. More than twice my size, she seemed too solid and stout to be real, especially when compared to the skinny body of the boy I had assumed. My situation seemed fragile and capricious. If she rolled over, she could snap me like a bundle of twigs. Yet her sheer size created a bunker against the outer world. She would protect me against all my foes. As the twins slept, she read to me from the Brothers Grimm—"The Story of the Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was," "The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids," "Hansel and Gretel," "The Singing Bone," "The Girl Without Hands," and many others, rare or familiar. My favorites were "Cinderella" and "Little Red Riding Hood," which she read with beautiful expression in her mezzo timbre, a singsong much too cheerful for those awful fables. In the music of her voice, an echo sounded from long ago, and as I rested by her side, the decades dissolved.
　　I had heard these tales before, long ago, but in German, from my real mother (yes, I, too, had a mother, once upon a time), who introduced me to Ashenputtel and Rotk?ppchen from the Kinder- und Hausm?rchen. I wanted to forget, thought I was forgetting, but could hear quite clearly her voice in my head.
　　"Es war einmal im tiefen, tiefen Wald."
　　Although I quit the society of the changelings long ago, I have remained, in a sense, in those dark woods, hiding my true identity from those I love. Only now, after the strange events of this past year, do I have the courage to tell the story. This is my confession, too long delayed, which I have been afraid to make and only now reveal because of the passing dangers to my own son. We change. I have changed.

    别叫我仙灵。我们已经不喜欢被叫做仙灵了。曾几何时，“仙灵”大可涵盖各种形形色色的生物，但如今它已染上过多的联想色彩。从词源学上看，仙灵是一种非常特别的、与水泉女神或水仙女有关的生物，但在种属上，我们是自成体系的。
　　仙灵(fairy) 这个词来自于古法语fay(现代法语则是fee)，而fay 又起源于拉丁词Fata，即命运女神。fay 合群而居就称为faerie，它们生活在天国和人世之间。
　　世上有一群人间精灵，carminibus COCIO possunt dedu~：crc lunam(拉丁文：它们能摘下天上的月亮。出自古罗马诗人维吉尔的作品< 牧歌> 第八卷．) 。
　　它们早在远古时代就分成了六类：火精、气精、地精、水精、土精，以及全体仙灵和水仙女。我对火精、水精和气精近乎一无所知，但地精和土精我却十分熟悉。
　　它们的种类数不胜数，与之相伴的还有大量关于它们行为、习俗和文化的传说。它们在世界各地的叫法不同——罗马家庭守护神、魔仆、农牧神、森林神、妖怪、罗宾的好伙计、捣蛋鬼、矮妖、凯尔特“普卡”、爱尔兰鬼灵、北欧小矮人——还有极少数仍然隐居在树林中，人类几乎看不到也碰不到它们。如果你非得给我取名，就叫我小妖精吧。
　　更好的说法是，我是一个换生灵——顾名思义，这个词指明了我们要做的事和想做的事。我们绑架一个人类小孩，把他或她与我们其中一个交换。换生灵变成了小孩，小孩变成了换生灵。并非任何一个男童或女童都能交换，只有那些少之又少的、对他们年幼的生命感到困扰，或与世上的悲愁心有戚戚的才有可能。换生灵挑选对象很仔细，因为这种机会大概十年左右才有一次。成为我们中间一分子的那个孩子，或许要等上一个世纪才能轮到他换生，并再次进入人类世界。
　　准备工作冗长乏味。需要密切监视这个小孩，还有他的朋友和家人。当然，这都得不露痕迹。选择孩子的最佳年龄是在他上学之前，因为在那之后，一切都复杂起来。孩子会需要去记忆和处理除他亲密家人以外的大量信息，还要像在镜子里照见形体和容貌那样，一清二楚地将自己的性格和经历表现出来。婴儿是最好办的了，可对换生灵来说，照料他们是一桩难事。六七岁就恰到好处。超过这个年龄，自我意识必定会发展得更为充分。而无论他们年龄大小，我们的目标是骗过孩子的父母，让他们相信换生灵的的确确是他们的亲骨肉。这其实比大多数人想像的要容易。
　　不，困难不在于延续孩子的经历，而在交换本身，那是种痛苦的肢体行为。首先，从骨骼和皮肤开始，把自己拉伸成合适的大小和体型，拉到浑身颤抖，差点儿崩断。然后，其他人会在他新的头面上下功夫，这需要雕刻家的技艺。软组织上会有大幅度的推拉动作，好像头颅里填充的是黏土或软糖。接着是牙齿的事，还要除去头发，再慢慢地编织成新的，这些事情都极为讨厌。整个过程中，一粒止痛药都没有，虽然有几个换生灵会喝一种用橡树汁发酵而成的酒，但这种酒对身体有害。
　　这种事很难受，但很值，好在我不需要重塑生殖器，那可相当复杂。最后，换生灵就和孩子一模一样了。三十年前，我就从一个换生灵重新变成了人类。
　　我和亨利•戴交换了生活。他是个出生在镇外农场上的男孩。
　　一个仲夏的午后，七岁的亨利离家出走，藏到了一棵栗树的树洞中。
　　我们的换生灵密探跟踪他并发出召集令，我把自己变成他完美的复制品。我们抓住了他，我溜进树洞，和他交换了生活。当晚搜寻人员找到我时，他们可高兴了，松了口气，还挺骄傲，我本以为他们会生气，但没有。“亨利。”一个穿着消防员制服的红发男人对我说话，当时我在躲藏处假装睡觉。我睁开眼，冲他露出灿烂的微笑。这人用薄毯把我裹起来，抱着我走出树林，来到一条石铺路上，一辆消防车等在那里，红色车灯如心跳般搏动。消防员们把我带回家，交给亨利的父母，也就是我的新父母。那晚车子在路上行驶时，我一直想着，只要能通过第一关，这个世界就会重新归我所有。
　　在鸟类和兽类当中，母亲总能认出自己的孩子，不让陌生者闯到巢里或窝里来，大家都觉得这挺神奇，但并非一概如此。事实上，布谷鸟就常常把蛋下到别的鸟儿的巢里。尽管幼鸟体形超大，胃口奇佳，也能得到同样( 其实是更多) 的母爱，甚至它们经常会把其他幼鸟从高高的巢中挤出去。有时候，母鸟把自己的孩子活活饿死了，就因为布谷鸟不断地要吃的。我的第一个任务是虚构一个故事：我就是亨利•戴。不幸的是，人类更多疑，对闯入者也更不宽容。
　　搜救人员只知道他们要寻找一个在树林里走丢了的孩子，因此我可以保持沉默。
　　反正他们找到一个也就满足了。在开往戴家的路上，消防车颠簸起来，我呕吐在了鲜红色的车门上，那分明是一堆橡果碎片、芥菜，还有好多小昆虫的皮。消防员拍拍我的头，把我连同毯子一把铲起，好像我只是一只被救的小猫或者一个弃婴似的。
　　亨利的父亲从门廊上大步跨来，一把抱住我。有力的拥抱，带着烟酒味的温暖亲吻，他把我当成自己的儿子迎回家。但母亲就不太好糊弄了。
　　她的脸完全泄露了她的情绪：发着疹子的皮肤上纵横着一道道咸成的泪水，浅蓝色的眼睛框着红圈，头发纠结蓬乱。她朝我张开双臂，两手直抖，发出一声短促的尖叫，痛苦得好像掉入了陷阱的兔子。
　　她用衬衫袖子擦了擦眼，用满怀爱意的女人那饱受摧折的肩膀围住了我，接着用深沉的花腔高音大笑起来。
　　“亨利? 亨利? ”她手撑在我肩上，把我推在一臂远的地方，“让我者者你。
　　真是你吗? ”
　　“对不起，妈妈。”
　　她拂开遮着我眼睛的额发，把我压在胸前。她的心在我脸侧跳动，我觉得又热又不舒服。
　　“别担心，我的小宝贝。你回家了，一点事儿都没有，这点最要紧。你回到我身边了。”
　　爸爸用他的大手包住我的后脑勺，我想这个欢迎回家的生动场面还会永远继续下去。我一点点挣脱出来，从亨利的口袋里掏出条手帕，饼干屑撒在了地板上。
　　“对不起，妈妈，我偷了饼干。”
　　她笑起来，眼中的阴影消退了。也许她直到前一刻还在怀疑我是否是她的亲骨肉，提到饼干奏效了。亨利离家出走时，从桌上偷了块饼干，别的换生灵把他带到河边时，我把饼干偷过来放在口袋里。
　　饼干碎屑证明了我是她的孩子。
　　午夜后，他们让我上床睡觉，这种安慰大概是人类最伟大的发明。不管怎么说，这好过睡在洞里冷冰冰的地上，拿发霉的兔皮当枕头，还有十来个换生灵在不安的睡梦中咕哝和叹气。我在松软的被子里伸直手脚，寻思着我的好运。有很多故事说的是换生灵的失败，身份被所谓的家人揭露了。一个出现在新斯科舍①某渔村的孩子把他可怜的父母吓坏了，他们在暴风雪中弃家而逃，后来被发现浮尸在寒冷的港口上，已经冻僵了。一个换生灵女孩，六岁，一开口说话就让她的新父母不堪恐惧，把滚烫的蜡油灌进对方耳朵，从此再也听不到声音。还有一些父母，得知他们的孩子被换生灵替换，一夜白发，有的精神分裂，有的心脏病突发，还有的猝死。更惨的是，虽然很少见，但确有一些人家把这种生物赶出去，有的使用咒语，有的驱赶、丢弃或者杀害他们。七十年前，我失去了一位好朋友，因为他忘了让自己随年龄长大。他的父母当他是魔鬼，把他像一只没人要的小猫一0 加拿大省名．样捆起来装在麻袋里，丢到一口井里。大多数时候，父母为他们儿女的突变大惑不解，或一方为这种离奇的命运而责备另一方。这种危险的事情，怯弱者不宜。
　　我走到这一步而没有被揭穿，感到心满意足，但还没有完全放下心来。我上床后半小时，房间的门慢慢打开了。在走廊灯光的映照下，戴先生和戴夫人从门缝里探进头来。我把眼睛眯成一道缝，假装睡着。露丝•戴不断地低声抽泣，没人能哭得这样有技巧。“我们得改一改了，比利。你不能让这种事再发生了。”
　　“我知道，我保证，”他小声说道。“不过看看他的睡相吧。‘天真的睡眠，缝补好忧虑的乱丝。”’他关上门，把我留在黑暗中。我和我的换生灵同伴们监视了这个男孩好几个月，所以我在森林边就知道新家的轮廓。在亨利的眼里，这几英亩地还有这外面的世界是如此奇妙。屋外，星光从一排参差的冷杉树梢上透进窗子。
　　习习轻风吹进敞开的窗户，从被子上掠过。停在窗玻璃上的蛾子扑扇着翅膀飞走。
　　将圆未圆的月亮投下清辉，照亮了墙纸上暗淡的纹饰，十字架悬在我头上，从杂志上裁下的纸页和报纸用大头钉钉在墙上。桌上摆着棒球手套和棒球，盥洗架上的水罐和碗闪闪发光，如磷光般皎洁。碗上斜靠着一小摞书，一想到明天就能读这些书，我激动不已。
　　天刚亮，双胞胎就开始哭嚎。我顺着声音经过我新父母的房间，蹑手蹑脚地走过走廊。婴儿们一看到我就鸦雀无声，我肯定如果她们——玛丽和伊丽莎白——天生聪慧，又能说话的话，我一走进屋子她们就会说“你不是亨利”。可惜她们还在襁褓中，会说的句子比长出的牙齿还少，说不清她们幼小心灵中的秘密。她们瞪大清澈的眼睛，安静地注视着我的每个动作。我微笑，但她们不笑。我做鬼脸，给她们胖胖的下巴挠痒痒，学木偶跳舞，学鸟儿吹口哨，但她们只是看着，像两只哑巴蟾蜍一样无动于衷。我搜肠刮肚地想要找到亲近她们的法子，于是想起了有几次我在森林中遇见的与这两个人类小孩一般无助而又危险的东西。一次我走在幽深的峡谷中，碰到一只和母亲分开的小熊崽。受惊吓的动物发出凄楚的叫声，我差点以为山里所有的熊都要来包围我了。虽然我能制服动物，但对那种一爪就能把我撕成两半的怪物无能为力。我只好哼起歌谣，安抚了熊崽。
　　想到此处，我就对我的新妹妹们如法炮制。她们被我的嗓音迷住了，立即开始呀呀叫唤，拍着胖嘟嘟的手，口水长长地流出来，挂在下巴上。《小星星，亮晶晶》和《再见，小鸟》打消了她们的疑虑，向她们保证我和哥哥差不多，或者还是个更好的哥哥，但谁又能确定她们简单的脑瓜里转过什么念头呢。她们咯咯，咕咕。
　　我一边唱歌，一边用亨利的口气和她们说话，她们便渐渐地相信了，或者说不再怀疑了。
　　戴夫人匆匆走进婴儿室，欢快地一遍遍哼着歌句。她的腰围和身量让我吃惊，我之前见过她多次，但距离从没这么近过。从森林中安全的地方观察，她似乎和所有的成年人类一般无二，但个别地看，她有种独特的温柔，带着一股子淡淡的酸味，那是牛奶和酵母的香味。她迈着舞步走过地板，拉开窗帘，让金色的早晨炫亮了房间，而女孩们一看到她来，就满脸放光，抓着婴儿床的板条要起来。我也朝她微笑——否则我就没法忍住哈哈大笑。她也向我报以微笑，好似我是她惟一的儿子。
　　“帮我照顾你的妹妹好吗，亨利? ”
　　我抱起离我最近的女孩，非常明确地对我的新母亲说：“我来抱伊丽莎白。”
　　她像一头獾那么重。抱着一个不打算偷的婴儿是种奇怪的感觉，幼小的身躯抱起来有种舒适的柔感。
　　女孩的母亲站住脚，瞪着我，有一瞬间，她表情迷惑而动摇。“你怎么知道这是伊丽莎白? 你从来没法把她们区分开。”
　　“这容易，妈妈。伊丽莎白笑起来有两个酒窝，她的名字也更长，但玛丽只有一个酒窝。”
　　“你可真够聪明的! ”她抱起玛丽，率先走下楼梯。
　　我跟在母亲后面，伊丽莎白把脸窝在我肩上。餐桌被丰盛的宴席压得嘎嘎作响——薄煎饼，熏肉，一壶热枫糖汁，一罐冒热气的牛奶，还有盛在瓷碗里的香蕉片。
　　在森林中经历过有什么吃什么的漫长岁月后，这顿简单的早餐就像散发着异国情调的高级自助餐，丰盛而且都是熟的，允诺着我将会衣食无忧。
　　“看，亨利，我做了所有你爱吃的。”
　　我真能当场亲她一下。如果她不辞劳苦做出亨利喜欢的食物，并为此而高兴的话，那么我大快朵颐，尽情享用，她一定会欢天喜地了。吃完四个煎饼，八条熏肉，牛奶喝得只剩两小杯后，我还在嚷饿，于是她又给我做了三个蛋，并拿家里烤的面包做了半条吐司。我的新陈代谢似乎已经改变了。露丝•戴把我的好胃口当做是我爱她的表现，于是在接下来的十一年，到我去上大学之前，她一直娇惯着我。
　　不久，她升华了自己的焦虑，开始和我一样大吃大喝起来。数十年的换生灵生活塑造了我的胃口和精力，但她是个十足的人类，年年都在发福。这些年，我常想，如果她是和自己真正的长子在一起，会不会变得这么厉害，还会不会用食物来填补疑心的侵蚀呢? 第一天，她把我关在屋子里，毕竟发生了这种事，谁又能说她不是?她除尘、扫地、刷碟子、换婴儿尿布，我就紧跟着她，比影子粘得还牢，用心揣摩，学习怎样才能把这儿子当得更好。屋里的感觉比森林更安全，但有种奇怪而疏离的感觉，潜伏着小小的惊讶。日光从拉起的窗帘后斜射而入，在墙壁上蔓延，在地毯上投射下图案，那和枝叶下的图案形状完全不同。特别有意思的是由尘点组成的小空间，只有在阳光照耀下才能看清。与户外灿烂的阳光相比，室内的光线有种催眠效果，这对双胞胎尤其明显。午餐后，她们很快就疲倦了——这对我来说可是一大好事——下午一两点钟时，她们开始打盹。
　　母亲从她们房间蹑手蹑脚地走出来，看到我耐心地等在原地，像个哨兵似的站在走廊上。我被一个电插座迷住了，它朝我直叫，让我很恼火。虽然双胞胎的房门关着，她们有节奏的呼吸声听起来像风暴在树林中呼啸，因为我还没有把自己训练得听而不闻。妈妈牵起我的手，她柔软的一握使我为之久久感念。这女人用她的触摸，在我心中生出深沉的宁静。我想起亨利盥洗架上的书，就问她能否给我读个故事。
　　我们去到我的房间，一起爬上床。在过去的一个世纪中，成人是彻底的陌路人，而与换生灵共处的生活也已经扭曲了我的视角。她的体形是我两倍有余，看起来那么坚固结实，特别是跟我所假扮的这个清瘦的男孩相比，简直不像真的。我的位置似乎既脆弱又不稳定，假如她翻一个身，就能像一捆柴火一样把我压扁。但她硕大的尺寸像碉堡一样把外间世界隔开，会保护我不受所有敌人的侵害。双胞胎睡觉时，她给我读格林童话——《寻找害怕的年轻人》、《狼和七只小羊》、《汉瑟尔与葛莱特> 、《唱歌的骨头》、《无手的姑娘》，还有其他许多故事，有熟悉的，也有不熟悉的。我最喜欢的是《灰姑娘》和《小红帽》，她朗读时，音色适中，娓娓动听，对那些令人难过的童话来说，是过于欢快了。在她音乐般的嗓音中，传来许久之前的回音，我躺在她身边，数十年的时光为之消却。
　　很久之前，我听过这些故事，但是听的是德语，讲故事的是我的亲生母亲( 是的，我以前也有母亲) ，她从《儿童与家庭的童话集》①中给我读灰姑娘和小红帽。
　　我想忘记，也觉得自己正在忘记，但她的声音在我脑海中如此清晰。
　　“曾经，在一个很深、很深的树林里。”
　　虽然我许久之前就离开了换生灵的社会，但在某种意义上，仍然停留在那片黑森林中，对那些我爱的人隐瞒我真实的身份。直到此刻，在去年那些奇怪的事情过后，我才鼓起勇气来讲述这个故事。这是我姗姗来迟的告白，我一直不敢启齿，如今说出来，是因为这些过去威胁着我的儿子。我们改变着。我改变了。
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举报 只看该作者 板凳   发表于: 2013-10-27 0

Chapter 2
　　I am gone.
　　This is not a fairy tale, but the true history of my double life, left behind where it all began, in case I may be found again.
　　My own story begins when I was a boy of seven, free of my current desires. Nearly thirty years ago, on an August afternoon, I ran away from home and never made it back. Certain trivial and forgotten matters set me off, but I remember preparing for a long journey, stuffing my pockets with biscuits left over from lunch, and creeping out of the house so softly that my mother might not know I had ever left.
　　From the back door of the farmhouse to the creeping edge of the forest, our yard was bathed in light, as if a borderland to cross carefully, in fear of being exposed. Upon reaching the wilderness, I felt safe and hidden in the dark, dark wood, and as I walked on, stillness nestled in the spaces among the trees. The birds had stopped singing, and the insects were at rest. Tired of the blazing heat, a tree groaned as if shifting in its rooted position. The green roof of leaves above sighed at every rare and passing breeze. As the sun dipped below the treeline, I came across an imposing chestnut with a hollow at its base big enough for me to crawl inside to hide and wait, to listen for the seekers. And when they came close enough to beckon, I would not move. The grown-ups kept shouting "Hen-ry" in the fading afternoon, in the half-light of dusk, in the cool and starry night. I refused to answer. Beams from the flashlights bounced crazily among the trees, and the search party crashed through the undergrowth, stumbling over stumps and fallen logs, passing me by. Soon their calls receded into the distance, faded to echoes, to whispers, to silence. I was determined not to be found.
　　I burrowed deeper into my den, pressing my face against the inner ribs of the tree, inhaling its sweet rot and dankness, the grain of the wood rough against my skin. A low rustle sounded faraway and gathered to a hum. As it drew near, the murmur intensified and quickened. Twigs snapped and leaves crackled as it galloped toward the hollow tree and stopped short of my hiding place. A panting breath, a whisper, and footfall. I curled up tight as something scrambled partway into the hole and bumped into my feet. Cold fingers wrapped around my bare ankle and pulled.
　　They ripped me from the hole and pinned me to the ground. I shouted once before a small hand clamped shut my mouth and then another pair of hands inserted a gag. In the darkness their features remained obscure, but their size and shape were the same as my own. They quickly stripped me of my clothes and bound me like a mummy in a gossamer web. Little children, exceptionally strong boys and girls, had kidnapped me.
　　They held me aloft and ran. Racing through the forest at breakneck speed on my back, I was held up by several pairs of hands and bony shoulders. The stars above broke through the canopy, streaming by like a meteor shower, and the world spun away swiftly from me in darkness. The athletic creatures moved about with ease, despite their burden, navigating the invisible terrain and obstacles of trees without a hitch or stumble. Gliding like an owl through the night forest, I was exhilarated and afraid. As they carried me, they spoke to one another in a gibberish that sounded like the bark of a squirrel or the rough cough of a deer. A hoarse voice whispered something that sounded like "Come away" or "Henry Day." Most fell silent, although now and then one would start huffing like a wolf. The group, as if on signal, slowed to a canter along what I later discerned to be well-established deer trails that served the denizens of the woods.
　　Mosquitos lit upon the exposed skin on my face, hands, and feet, biting me at will and drinking their fill of my blood. I began to itch and desperately wanted to scratch. Above the noise of the crickets, cicadas, and peeping frogs, water babbled and gurgled nearby. The little devils chanted in unison until the company came to a sudden halt. I could hear the river run. And thus bound, I was thrown into the water.
　　Drowning is a terrible way to go. It wasn't the flight through the air that alarmed me, or the actual impact with the river, but the sound of my body knifing through the surface. The wrenching juxtaposition of warm air and cool water shocked me most. The gag did not come out of my mouth; my hands were not loosed. Submerged, I could no longer see, and I tried for a moment to hold my breath, but then felt the painful pressure in my chest and sinuses as my lungs quickly filled. My life did not flash before my eyes—I was only seven—and I did not call out for my mother or father or to God. My last thoughts were not of dying, but of being dead. The waters encompassed me, even to my soul, the depths closed round about, and weeds were wrapped about my head.
　　Many years later, when the story of my conversion and purification evolved into legend, it was said that when they resuscitated me, out shot a stream of water a-swim with tadpoles and tiny fishes. My first memory is of awakening in a makeshift bed, dried snot caked in my nose and mouth, under a blanket of reeds. Seated above on rocks and stumps and surrounding me were the faeries, as they called themselves, quietly talking together as if I were not even there. I counted them, and, including me, we were an even dozen. One by one, they noticed me awake and alive. I kept still, as much out of fear as embarrassment, for my body was naked under the covers. The whole scene felt like a waking dream or as if I had died and had been born again.
　　They pointed at me and spoke with excitement. At first, their language sounded out of tune, full of strangled consonants and static. But with careful concentration, I could hear a modulated English. The faeries approached cautiously so as not to startle me, the way one might approach a fallen fledgling or a fawn separated from its doe.
　　"We thought you might not make it."
　　"Are you hungry?"
　　"Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?"
　　They crept closer, and I could see them more clearly. They looked like a tribe of lost children. Six boys and five girls, lithe and thin, their skin dusky from the sun and a film of dust and ash. Nearly naked, both males and females wore ill-fitting shorts or old-fashioned knickerbockers, and three or four had donned threadbare jerseys. No one wore shoes, and the bottoms of their feet were calloused and hard, as were their palms. Their hair grew long and ragged, in whirls of curls or in knots and tangles. A few of them had a complete set of original baby teeth, while others had gaps where teeth had fallen out. Only one, who looked a few years older than the rest, showed two new adult teeth at the top of his mouth. Their faces were very fine and delicate. When they scrutinized me, faint crow's feet gathered at the corners of their dull and vacant eyes. They did not look like any children I knew, but ancients in wild children's bodies.
　　They were faeries, although not the kind from books, paintings, and the movies. Nothing like the Seven Dwarfs, Munchkins, midgets, Tom Thumbs, brownies, elves, or those nearly naked flying sprites at the beginning of Fantasia. Not little redheaded men dressed in green and leading to the rainbows end. Not Santa's helpers, nor anything like the ogres, trolls, and other monsters from the Grimm Brothers or Mother Goose. Boys and girls stuck in time, ageless, feral as a pack of wild dogs.
　　A girl, brown as a nut, squatted near me and traced patterns in the dust near my head. "My name is Speck." The faery smiled and stared at me. "You need to eat something." She beckoned her friends closer with a wave of her hand. They set three bowls before me: a salad made from dandelion leaves, watercress, and wild mushrooms; a hill of blackberries plucked from the thorns before dawn; and a collection of assorted roasted beetles. I refused the last but washed down the fruit and vegetables with clear, cold water from a hollowed gourd. In small clusters, they watched intently, whispering to one another and looking at my face from time to time, smiling when they caught my eye.
　　Three of the faeries approached to take away my empty dishes; another brought me a pair of trousers. She giggled as I struggled beneath the reed blanket, and then she burst out laughing as I tried to button my fly without revealing my nakedness. I was in no position to shake the proffered hand when the leader introduced himself and his cronies.
　　"I am Igel," he said, and swept back his blonde hair with his fingers. "This is Béka."
　　Béka was a frog-faced boy a head taller than the others.
　　"And this is Onions." Dressed in a boy's striped shirt and short pants held up by suspenders, she stepped to the front. Shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, she squinted and smiled at me, and I blushed to the breastbone. Her fingertips were green from digging up the wild onions she loved to eat. When I finished dressing, I pulled myself up on bent elbows to get a better look at the rest of them.
　　"I'm Henry Day," I croaked, my voice raw with suffering.
　　"Hello, Aniday." Onions smiled, and everyone laughed at the appellation. The faery children began to chant "Aniday, Aniday," and a cry sounded in my heart. From that time forward I was called Aniday, and in time I forgot my given name, although on occasion it would come back part of the way as Andy Day or Anyway. Thus christened, my old identity began to fade, much as a baby will not remember all that happened before it is born. To lose one's name is the beginning of forgetting.
　　As the cheering faded, Igel introduced each faery, but the jumble of names clanged against my ears. They walked away in twos and threes, disappeared into hidden holes that ringed the clearing, then reemerged with ropes and rucksacks. For a moment, I wondered whether they planned to tie me up to be baptized yet again, but most of them took scant notice of my panic. They milled about, anxious to begin, and Igel strode over to my bedside. "We're going on a scavenger hunt, Aniday. But you need to stay here and rest. You've been through quite an ordeal."
　　When I tried to stand up, I met the resistance of his hand upon my chest. He may have looked like a six-year-old, but he had the strength of a grown man.
　　"Where is my mother?" I asked.
　　"Béka and Onions will stay with you. Get some rest." He barked once, and in a flash, the pack gathered by his side. Without a sound, and before I could raise a word of protest, they disappeared, fading into the forest like ghostly wolves. Lagging behind, Speck turned her head and called out to me, "You're one of us now." Then she loped off to join the others.
　　I lay back down and fought tears by staring into the sky. Clouds passed beneath the summer sun, rolling their shadows through the trees and across the faery camp. In the past, I had ventured into these woods alone or with my father, but I had never wandered so deeply into such a quiet, lonesome place. The familiar chestnut, oak, and elm grew taller here, and the forest rimming the clearing appeared thick and impenetrable. Here and there sat well-worn stumps and logs and the remnants of a campfire. A skink sunned itself on the rock that Igel had sat upon. Nearby, a box turtle shuffled through the fallen leaves and hissed into its shell when I sat up to take a closer look.
　　Standing proved to be a mistake and left me woozy and disoriented. I wanted to be home in bed, near the comfort of my mother, listening to her sing to my baby sisters, but instead I felt the cold, cold gaze of Béka. Beside him, Onions hummed to herself, intent on the cats-cradle in her busy fingers. She hypnotized me with her designs. Exhausted, I laid my body down, shivering despite the heat and humidity. The afternoon drifted by heavily, inducing sleep. My two companions watched me watching them, but they said nothing. In and out of consciousness, I could not move my tired bones, thinking back on the events that had led me to this grove and worrying about the troubles that would face me when I returned home. In the middle of my drowse, I opened my eyes, sensing an unfamiliar stirring. Nearby, Béka and Onions wrestled beneath a blanket. He was on top of her back, pushing and grunting, and she lay on her stomach, her face turned toward mine. Her green mouth gaped, and when she saw me spying, she flashed me a toothy grin. I closed my eyes and turned away. Fascination and disgust clawed at one another in my confused mind. No sleep returned until the two fell quiet, she humming to herself while the little frog snored contentedly. My stomach seized up like a clenched fist, and nausea rolled into me like a fever. Frightened, and lonesome for home, I wanted to run away and be gone from this strange place.

    我走了。
　　这不是童话，而是我双重生活的真实写照，我把它留在故事开头的地方，这样或许我还能为人所知。
　　我的故事开始时，我是个七岁男孩，没有现在的种种欲望。将近三十年前，在一个八月的下午，我离家出走后再也没有回去。我已忘怀那些让我出走的琐事，但却记得自己是准备了一次长途旅行，往口袋里塞满了午餐剩下来的饼干，轻手轻脚地出门，母亲也许并不知道我已离去。
　　我们的院子沐浴在日光下，从农庄的后门一直铺陈到森林稀疏的边缘，好似一处边陲之地，使人小心翼翼地穿过去时，还惴惴然地怕被发现。一进入这片野地，我立刻有了安全感，躲进昏暗幽深的树林里。走在里面，沉寂在树木的空隙间筑巢，鸟儿停止了歌唱，虫儿也在休息。一棵树在炽热的温度下感到倦怠，呻吟着，仿佛根部正在晃动。偶尔一缕清风掠过，碧绿的树冠就发出声声叹息。阳光在沿途的树木间洒落，我看到一株巨大的栗树，它的底部有个大洞，我爬进去藏在里面，等着听搜寻人员的呼唤。但当他们接近到可以招呼的时候，我却一动不动。傍晚时分，在褪去的夕阳下，在凉爽的星空下，大人们不停地呼唤着“亨——利”。我拒绝回答。手电筒的光芒疯狂地在树林里跳跃，搜寻人员经过我的身旁，他们在灌木丛中跌跌撞撞，在树桩和倒下的树干间磕磕碰碰。不久，呼喊声遁入远处，渐渐变成回响、低语，最后一片寂静。我决定不让他们找到我。
　　我又往我的小窝里钻深了一些，把脸蛋贴在这棵树的筋络上，呼吸着它陈腐的芳香和黑暗的滋味，粗糙的树皮摩擦着我的肌肤。远处传来低沉的声音，汇聚成一片嘈杂。随着它的接近，低语声渐响渐快。它朝这棵空树快步而来，树枝啪啪地折断，树叶沙沙地踩碎，它停在我藏身处的附近。呼哧呼哧的喘气声，轻轻的说话声，还有脚步声。我紧紧地蜷成一团，有什么东西爬进洞里，碰到我的脚。冷冰冰的手指环住我光光的脚踝，拖动起来。
　　他们把我扯出树洞，按在地上。我才叫了一声，就有一只小手钳住我的嘴，另一双手塞了个东西进来。黑暗中，他们的轮廓模糊不清，但他们的身材和体形和我仿佛。他们飞快地扒了我的衣服，把我绑得像个蜘蛛网里的木乃伊。这些小孩子，这些异常强壮的男孩和女孩绑架了我。
　　他们扛起我就跑。我被一双双手和细瘦的肩膀举着，以极其危险的速度仰面朝天在森林里疾奔。头顶上的星星刺破天幕，如流星泻雨般飞驰，我周围的世界在黑暗中飞快地旋转开去。这群运动健将举重若轻，毫不费力地在伸手不见五指的地表和碍事的树木间穿梭，连一个趔趄、绊脚都没有。我就像一头猫头鹰滑翔在树林的黑夜中，既兴奋又害怕。他们扛着我时，彼此间叽里咕噜地说话，听上去像松鼠的叫声，又像鹿粗声大气的咳嗽。一个沙哑的声音低声说着什么“走开来”或是“亨利•戴”。大多数人都沉默不语，但时不时地会有一个像狼一样地嘘气。这群人像是收到信号似的放慢脚步，在一条小径上小跑而行，我后来发现这是一条开辟好了的鹿道，供森林里的居民们使用。
　　蚊子在我裸露的脸上、手上、脚上叮着，尽情咬我，畅饮我的鲜血。我开始觉得痒痒，非常想抓挠。在一片蟋蟀、知了、偷窥的青蛙发出的噪音中，潺潺的流水在附近汩汩流淌。这群小魔鬼整齐划一地叫嚷着，直到队伍突然停下，我听到了河流的声响，接着刷的一下子，我被抛进了水里。
　　淹死是种可怕的死法。让我受到惊吓的不是腾空而起，也不是与河水的撞击，而是我的身体划破水面的声音。温暖的空气和冰冷的河水突然合而为一，把我吓得魂飞魄散。堵嘴的东西没有掉出来，我的手也没有松绑。我沉了下去，什么都看不到，有一阵子我屏住呼吸，但肺里被急速充满了水，随即就感到胸部和头部痛苦的压力。我眼前并没有闪过历历往事——我才只有七岁——也没有呼叫爸妈和上帝。
　　我最后的念头不是正在死去，而是已经死了。水包围着我，也包围着我的灵魂，水在深处四合，水草缠绕在我的头上。
　　多少年后，我转变和净化的故事成为传奇，据说他们让我复苏时，一股子水激射出来，里面游着蝌蚪和小鱼。我最初的记忆是，我在一张临时凑合的床上醒过来，鼻孔和嘴里有干结的鼻涕，身上盖着一张芦苇毯子。坐在石头上，树桩上，围着我的是一群仙灵——他们就是这样称呼自己的——他们安静地聊着天，好像我并不在场。我数了数，连我在内刚好十二位。他们一个接一个地发现我醒了，活过来了。
　　我没有动弹，既害怕又尴尬，因为除了遮盖，我一丝不挂。整个场面感觉就像一个正在苏醒的梦，又仿佛我死后重生。
　　他们指着我，兴奋地说着话。起初，他们的语言听起来很走调，像是勒着喉咙发出来的辅音和静电干扰的噪音。但是细听起来，我能听出这是一种变了调子的英语。他们为了不吓着我，小心翼翼地走过来，就像走近一只坠落的雏鸟，或是一头和母鹿走散了的小鹿。
　　“我们觉得你可能还没好。”
　　“你饿吗? ”
　　“你渴吗? 想喝点水吗? ”
　　他们又近了些，我看得更清楚了。他们好像一伙走失的孩童。
　　六个男孩，五个女孩，柔软、纤细，皮肤因为日晒和尘灰而色泽发暗。
　　他们几乎是光着身子，无论男女都穿不合身的短裤或老式的灯笼裤，有三四个穿着破旧的运动衫。没人穿鞋，他们的脚底都长满茧子，坚硬一如他们的手掌。头发长而乱，鬈曲打结，缠成一团。少数几个有一副完整的乳牙，其他人牙齿脱落的地方露出牙缝。惟有一个较其余年长几岁的，门牙处长着两颗恒牙。他们的面孔漂亮精致。他们- 审视我时，黯淡空茫的眼睛边上积起淡淡的鱼尾纹。他们不像我认识的任何孩子，却像是裹在野孩儿身体里的古人。
　　他们是仙灵，但并非书上、画中或电影里看到的那种。一点儿也不像七个小矮人、芒奇金、侏儒、大拇指汤姆、棕仙、森林小仙或者幻想曲开头那些几乎裸身飞行的小仙灵。也不像指引彩虹的尽头、红帽绿衣的小人儿。更不像圣诞老人的帮手、食人魔、北欧小矮人，或者是格林童话、鹅妈妈故事里的其他魔鬼。男孩和女孩都困陷在时间里，拥有不老的生命，凶猛得像一群野狗。
　　一个栗色皮肤的女孩蹲在我身侧，在我头边的积尘上划着图案。
　　“我叫斯帕克。”这个仙灵微笑着看着我，“你得吃点东西。”她招了招手，唤她朋友们过来。他们把三个碗放在我面前：一碗是蒲公英叶、豆瓣、野蘑菇做成的沙拉，一碗是天亮前从荆棘中摘来的黑莓，还有一碗是各种各样的烧烤甲虫。我没有动第三碗，只就着一只葫芦里干净的凉水，把水果和蔬菜风卷残云地吃了下去。
　　他们一撮一撮地聚在一起密切观察，彼此交头接耳，不时看我的脸，和我四目相对就微笑起来。
　　三个仙灵过来端走我的空盘子，另一个给我拿来一条裤子。我在芦苇毯子下面费力地穿裤时，她咯咯直笑，我试图扣好裤子而不露出裸体时，她大笑起来。首领自我介绍，然后介绍他的队员，但这时我着实不方便去握住他伸出来的那只手。
　　“我是伊格尔，”他说，并用手指将他金黄色的头发撸到后面，“这是贝卡。”
　　贝卡是个长着青蛙脸的男孩，比其他人高出一个头。
　　“这是奥尼恩斯。”她穿着男孩子的条纹衬衫和吊带短裤，走到众人前面。她用一只手遮挡眼前的阳光，笑着瞥了我一眼，我脸红到了胸口。她的指尖发绿，这是因为常挖她最爱吃的野生洋葱的缘故。
　　我穿好衣服后，用手臂支起身来，这样能把其余人看得更清楚。
　　“我是亨利•戴。”我的声音沙哑，嗓子疼痛。
　　“你好，安尼戴。”奥尼恩斯微微一笑，每个人都为这称呼哈哈大笑。这群仙灵小孩开始大叫“安尼戴，安尼戴”，而我心中却响起一阵哭声。从此以后，我就被叫作安尼戴。渐渐地，我忘记了自己的名字，偶尔也会想起这名字的一部分，不是“安迪•戴”就是“安尼魏”。
　　就这样，我受了洗礼，以前的身份开始磨灭，所剩下的不会比一个婴儿所能记得的他出生前的事情更多。失去名字是忘却的开始。
　　欢呼声低落下去后，伊格尔介绍起每个仙灵，这一大串名字在我耳边叮当作响。
　　他们三三两两地走开，消失在环绕着空地的洞穴中，又拿着绳索和帆布背包出来。
　　有一阵，我想他们是否打算把我捆起来再做一次洗礼，但大多数人对我的痛苦视而不见。他们四处徘徊，只想快些开始，伊格尔大步走到我床前，说：“安尼戴，我们要去拣垃圾。但你得待在这里休息。你刚受过不少苦。”
　　我挣扎着想站起来，但他的手按住我胸口。他看似才六岁，但有着成年人的力气。
　　“我妈妈在哪里? ”我问。
　　“贝卡和奥尼恩斯会陪着你。休息一下。”他喝了一声，顿时这伙人聚集在他身边。我还没来得及表示反对，他们就毫无声息地消失了，像一群可怕的野狼钻入树林。斯帕克落在后面，回头叫我名字说：“现在你是我们自己人了。”接着她甩开大步，跟上了他们。
　　我仰面躺下，瞪着天空，忍住了眼泪。夏天的太阳下，云朵飘拂，云影在树林和仙灵的营寨上移动。过去我曾经独自冒险进入森林，也曾和我父亲一起进来，但我从未想过会深入到这样一个安静、孤独的地方。熟悉的栗树、橡树、榆树在这里长得更高，空地周围的树林显得茂密而不可穿越。到处都是用旧了的树桩和圆木，还有篝火的灰烬。伊格尔坐过的石头上，一只小蜥蜴在晒太阳。不远处，一只箱龟慢吞吞地在落叶间爬行，我坐起来想看个清楚，它就咝咝地缩进壳里去了。
　　站起来是个错误，使得我头晕眼花，不辨方向。我想回家躺在床上，舒服地睡在母亲身边，听着她为我的婴儿妹妹们唱歌，但我感到贝卡眼中的寒光。在他身边，奥尼恩斯哼着小调，十指翻飞，专心致志地玩挑棚子。她的花样让我着迷。我筋疲力尽地躺了下来，虽然天气又湿又热，我还是浑身发着抖。下午在沉重的睡眠中昏昏沉沉地度过。我的两个伙伴看着我盯着他们看，但他们一言不发。在半梦半醒间，我疲惫的身架无法动弹，只是回想着那些引我来到这处小树林的事情，担心我回家后会有怎样的麻烦。我睡到一半时睁开眼睛，感觉到一种陌生的悸动。旁边，贝卡和奥尼恩斯在一张毯子下较劲。他骑在她背上，推搡着，咕哝着，她俯卧在地，脸朝向我，绿色的嘴开合着，看到我在看，就朝我露齿一笑。我闭上眼，转过身。在我混乱的脑海中，惊奇和厌恶对彼此张牙舞爪。直到这两位平静下来，我才又睡过去。她自吟自唱，而小青蛙心满意足地打鼾。我的胃像捏紧的拳头一样胀了起来，恶心如发烧似的冲进了我的身躯。我又惊又怕，思念家里，感到孤单，我想逃跑，离开这个古怪的地方。
Chapter 3

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Chapter 3
　　I taught myself how to read and write again during those last two weeks of summer with my new mother, Ruth Day. She was determined to keep me inside or within earshot or in her line of vision, and I happily obliged her. Reading, of course, is merely associating symbols with sounds, memorizing the combinations, rules and effects, and, most important, the spaces between words. Writing proved more difficult, primarily because one had to have something to say before confronting the blank page. The actual drawing of the alphabet turned out to be a tiresome chore. Most afternoons, I practiced with chalk and an eraser on a slate, filling it over and over with my new name. My mother grew concerned about my compulsive behavior, so I finally quit, but not before printing, as neatly as possible, "I love my mother." She was tickled to find that later, and the gesture earned me an entire peach pie, not a slice for the others, not even my father.
　　The novelty of going to second grade quickly eroded to a dull ache. The schoolwork came easily to me, although I entered somewhat behind my class-mates in understanding that other method of symbolic logic: arithmetic. I still tussle with my numbers, not so much the basic operations—addition, subtraction, multiplication—as the more abstract configurations. Elementary science and history revealed a way of thinking about the world that differed from my experience among the changelings. For example, I had no idea that George Washington is, metaphorically speaking, the father of our country, nor did I realize that a food chain is the arrangement of organisms of an ecological community according to the order of predation in which each uses the next, usually lower, members as a food source. Such explanations of the natural order felt most unnatural at first. Matters in the forest were far more existential. Living depended on sharpening instincts, not memorizing facts. Ever since the last wolves had been killed or driven off by bounty hunters, no enemy but man remained. If we stayed hidden, we would continue to endure.
　　Our struggle was to find the right child with whom to trade places. It couldn't be a random selection. A changeling must decide on a child the same age as he was when he had been kidnapped. I was seven when they took me, and seven when I left, though I had been in the woods for nearly a century. The ordeal of that world is not only survival in the wild, but the long, unbearable wait to come back into this world.
　　When I first returned, that learned patience became a virtue. My schoolmates watched time crawl every afternoon, waiting an eternity for the three o'clock bell. We second graders sat in the same stultifying room from September to mid-June, and barring weekends and the glorious freedom of holidays, we were expected to arrive by eight o'clock and behave ourselves for the next seven hours. If the weather cooperated, we were let out into the playground twice a day for a short recess and at lunchtime. In retrospect, the actual moments spent together pale to our time apart, but some things are best measured by quality rather than quantity. My classmates made each day a torture. I expected civilization, but they were worse than the changelings. The boys in their grubby navy bow ties and blue uniforms were indistinguishably horrid—nose-pickers, thumbsuckers, snorers, ne'er-do-wells, farters, burpers, the unwashed and unclean. A bully by the name of Hayes liked to torture the rest, stealing lunches, pushing in line, pissing on shoes, fighting on the playground. One either joined his sycophants, egging him on, or would be slated as a potential prey. A few of the boys became perpetually oppressed. They reacted badly, either by withdrawing deep inside themselves or, worse, crying and screaming at every slight provocation. At an early age, they were marked for life, ending up, doubtlessly, as clerks or store managers, systems analysts or consultants. They came back from recess bearing the signs of their abuse— black eyes and bloody noses, the red welt of tears—but I neglected to come to their rescue, although perhaps I should have. If I had ever used my real strength, I could easily have dispatched the bullies with a single, well-placed blow.
　　The girls, in their own way, suffered worse indignities. They, too, displayed many of the same disappointing personal habits and lack of general hygiene. They laughed too loudly or not at all. They competed viciously among themselves and with their opposites, or they faded into the woodwork like mice. The worst of them, by the name of Hines, routinely tore apart the shyest girls with her taunts and shunning. She would humiliate her victims without mercy if, for instance, they wet their pants in class, as happened right before recess on the first day to the unprepared Tess Wodehouse. She flushed as if on fire, and for the very first time, I felt something close to sympathy for another's misfortune. The poor thing was teased about the episode until Valentine's Day. In their plaid jumpers and white blouses, the girls relied upon words rather than their bodies to win their battles. In that sense, they paled next to the female hobgoblins, who were both as cunning as crows and as fierce as bobcats.
　　These human children were altogether inferior. Sometimes at night, I wished I could be back prowling the forest, spooking sleeping birds from their roosts, stealing clothes from clotheslines, and making merry, rather than enduring page after page of homework and fretting about my peers. But for all its faults, the real world shone, and I set my mind to forgetting the past and becoming a real boy again. Intolerable as school was, my home life more than compensated. Mom would be waiting for me every afternoon, pretending to be dusting or cooking when I strode triumphantly through the front door.
　　"There's my boy," she would say, and whisk me to the kitchen for a snack of jam and bread and a cup of Ovaltine. "How was your day today, Henry?"
　　I would make up one or two pleasant lies for her benefit.
　　"Did you learn anything new?"
　　I would recite all that had been rehearsed on the way home. She seemed inordinately curious and pleased, but would leave me at last to the dreadful homework, which I usually managed to finish right before suppertime. In the few moments before my father came home from work, she would fix our meal, my company at tableside. In the background, the radio played her favorite ballads, and I learned them all upon first hearing and could sing along when the records were invariably repeated. By accident or ignorance, I mimicked the balladeers' voices perfectly and could sing tone for tone, measure for measure, phrase for phrase, exactly like Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra, Rosemary Clooney or Jo Stafford. Mom took my musical ability as a natural extension of my general wonderfulness, charm, and native intellect. She loved to hear me, often switching off the radio to beg me to sing it one more time.
　　"Be a dear boy and give us 'There's a Train Out for Dreamland' again."
　　When my father first heard my act, he didn't respond as kindly. "Where did you pick that up? One day you can't carry a tune, now you sing like a lark."
　　"I dunno. Maybe I wasn't listening before."
　　"You're kidding me? She has that racket on day and night with your Nat Cole King and all that jazz, and 'Can you take me dancin' sometime?' As if a mother of twins .. .What do you mean, you weren't listening?"
　　"Concentrating, I mean."
　　"You should be concentrating on your homework and helping your mother with the chores."
　　"If you pay attention and listen instead of merely hearing the song, you can pick up the tune in no time."
　　He shook his head and lit another Camel. "Mind your elders, if you please, Caruso."
　　I took care not to be such a perfect mimic around my dad.
　　Mary and Elizabeth, on the other hand, were too young to know any better, and they accepted without question my budding talent for impersonation. Indeed, they begged for songs all the time, especially in their cribs, where I'd trot out all the novelty tunes like "Mairzy Doats" or "Three Little Fishies." Without fail, however, they fell asleep as if knocked unconscious every time I sang "Over the Rainbow." I did a mean Judy Garland.
　　My days with the Days quickly fell into a comfortable routine, and as long as I stayed inside the house or inside the classroom, all went well. The weather suddenly grew cooler, and almost at once the leaves turned garish shades of yellow and red, so bold that the mere sight of trees hurt my eyes. I hated those bright reminders of life in the forest. October proved a riot to the senses and climaxed those giddy last weeks before Halloween. I knew that parties were involved, begging for nuts and candies, bonfires in the square, and playing tricks on the townsfolk. Believe me, we hobgoblins did our share of mischief—unhinging gates, smashing pumpkins, soaping the library windows with cartoon demons. What I had not experienced was the folderol among the children and the way that even the schools had gotten into the act. Two weeks before the big day, the nuns began planning a classroom party with entertainment and refreshments. They hung orange and black crepe paper along the tops of the chalkboards, pasted paper pumpkins and black cats on the walls. We dutifully cut out scary things from construction paper and glued together our own artistic efforts, pitiable though they were. Mothers were enlisted to bake cookies and brownies, make popcorn balls and candy apples. Costumes were allowed—indeed, expected. I remember exactly my conversation on the matter with my mother.
　　"We're having a party for Halloween at school, and teacher says we come dressed in our trick-or-treat outfits instead of our uniforms. I want to be a hobgoblin."
　　"What was that?"
　　"You know, a hobgoblin."
　　"I'm not sure what that is. Is it anything like a monster?"
　　"No."
　　"Or a ghost? Or a ghoul?"
　　"Not those."
　　"Perhaps a little vampire?"
　　"I'm no bloodsucker, Mother."
　　"Perhaps it's a fairy?"
　　I howled. For the first time in nearly two months, I lost my temper and screamed in my natural wild voice. The sound startled her.
　　"For the love of God, Henry. You scared the wits out of me, raising the dead and howling like a banshee. There'll be no Halloweenin' for you."
　　Banshee keen, I wanted to tell her, they wail and weep, but they never howl. Instead, I turned on the tears, bawling like the twins. She drew me to her and hugged me against her stomach.
　　"There now, I was only kidding." She lifted my chin and gazed into my eyes. "I just don't know what a hobgoblin is. Listen, how about going as a pirate, you'd like that now, wouldn't you?"
　　And that's how I ended up dressed in pantaloons and a shirt with puffed sleeves, a scarf tied around my skull, and wearing an earring like Errol Flynn. On Halloween day, I stood before a class of ghosts, witches, and hoboes, the only pirate in the school, probably the whole county. Teacher had tapped me to sing "The Teddy Bears' Picnic" as part of the scary entertainment for our party. My normal speaking voice was a squeak like Henry Day's, but when I sang "If you go out in the woods tonight," I sounded exactly like the sonorous bass of Frank DeVol on the record. The imitation shocked nearly everybody. In a back corner, Caroline Hines sobbed in fear through the whole song. Most of the slack-jawed kids gaped through their masks and makeup, not quite knowing what to believe. I remember that Tess Wodehouse sat and stared without blinking, as if she realized a fundamental deception but could not unravel the trick. But the nuns knew better. At the end of the song, they whispered together in a conspiracy of penguins, then nodded in unison as they crossed themselves.
　　The actual trick-or-treating left much to be desired. My father drove me into town at dusk and waited for me as I walked the row of houses along Main Street, spying here and there another child in pathetic costume. No hobgoblin appeared, although a black cat did try to cross my path. I hissed at the creature in perfect cat, and it turned tail, running away in panic to hide beneath a honeysuckle bush. An evil grin crossed my face. It was good to know I had not yet lost all my tricks.

    从夏季的最后两个星期开始，我再次学习读写，我的新妈妈露丝．戴陪着我。
　　她下定决心要把我关在家里，或者放在她耳目所及的范围内，我也很高兴听她的话。
　　阅读，当然不过就是把字形和读音联系起来，牢记搭配、语法规则和语义效果，更要紧的是，记住单词之间的停顿。更难的是写作，这主要难在面对一张白纸，总得想出话来说。而抄写字母表也是桩无趣的事。下午我一般总在用粉笔和擦子在石板上练习书写，一遍遍地写满我的新名字。母亲越来越担心我的强迫性行为，所以我后来就不写了，但之前我还用印刷体尽可能工整地写过“我爱我妈”。后来她发现了很高兴，这种表达使我得到了一整块桃肉馅饼的奖励，而别人只能得到一小块，爸爸也不例外。
　　当二年级小学生的新鲜感很快就蜕变成一种沉闷的苦痛。学校的作业对我来说不难，但我在另一种象征逻辑学——数学——方面的理解力就落后于同学。我仍然和数字们纠缠不清，它们抽象的外形比加减乘除的基础运算更为繁难。初级自然科学和历史显露的是思考这个世界的方式，这和我在换生灵中的生活经历不一样。举例来说，打个比方，乔治•华盛顿是我国之父，但我不知道他是谁，我也不知道食物链是生物圈中有机物的组织形式，它的准则就是掠夺，每一种生物都把下一种序列更低的生物作为食物来源。这种对自然法则的解释起初让我感觉很不自然。森林里的事情远远比这更实在。
　　生存依靠的是敏锐的本能，而不是对事实的记忆。自从最后的几只狼被慷慨的猎人杀死或赶走后，敌人只剩下了人类。只要我们躲藏起来，就能活下去。
　　我们努力寻找合适的孩子来交换。这不能随意选择，换生灵找到的孩子必须与他自己被绑架时的年龄一致。我被他们带走时是七岁，离开时也是七岁，虽然我在森林里已经待了将近一个世纪。那个世界的苦难不仅仅是要在野外求生存，还有那漫长而不堪忍受的等待，等待再次回到这个世界。
　　我刚回来时，之前练出的耐心成了一种美德。我的同学每天下午都盯着时间爬行，等着那等不来的三点铃响。我们二年级生坐在同一个让人变蠢的教室里，从九月到次年六月中旬，除开周末和快乐假日的自由，我们必须八点到校，在接下来的七个小时内规规矩矩。
　　如果老天作美，每天两次和午餐时间，我们被放到操场上短暂休息。
　　回想起来，在那里一起消磨的工夫和我们各自的时光相比微不足道，但有些事情是以质量而非数量来衡量的。我的同学们把过日子变成了苦差。我期待的是文明，但他们比换生灵更糟糕。戴着肮脏的海军领、穿着蓝色校服的男生无一例外地令人恐惧——挖鼻子、吮手指、打鼾、不干好事、放屁、打嗝，穿衣服不洗，邋邋遢遢。
　　一个叫贺思的男生恃强凌弱，以折磨他人为乐事，偷午餐，在队伍里推推搡搡，在鞋子上尿撒，在操场上打架。其他人要么对他拍马逢迎，怂恿他作恶，要么成为潜在的受害者。有几个男生永远都受压迫，他们很没骨气，有的畏畏缩缩，闷声不响，有的更懦弱，一受欺负就哭叫起来。小小年纪，他们就已被打上生活的烙印，以后无疑会成为职员、经营商、系统分析员或是咨询人员。他们休息回来时带着受虐的痕迹——乌青的眼睛、充血的鼻子、撕划的红痕——但我熟视无睹，不想去拯救他们，虽然也许这是我应该做的。如果我使出真正的力量，只需到位的一拳，就能把这帮坏家伙打发了。
　　女生们越发没有自尊，她们有自己的方式。她们也表现出许多令人失望的个人习惯，不讲卫生。不是笑起来太大声，就是根本不笑。
　　要么彼此恶意竞争，和男生争锋，要么像老鼠一样躲在柜子里。其中最坏的一个叫海妮丝，三天两头嘲弄、奚落最胆小的女生，让她们抬不起头。她会毫不留情地羞辱她的受害者，比方说，当她们在课堂上尿裤子时。上学第一天的休息时间前，这件事就发生在毫无准备的泰思•伍德郝斯身上，她脸红得像着了火。生平头一遭，我对他人的不幸有了点近似同情的感觉。这个可怜的人因此一直被取笑到情人节。
　　女生们穿格子花呢套衫和白裙，她们靠的是语言而不是肢体来打赢战争。这方面，她们与女妖怪相形见绌，后者狡猾似乌鸦，凶猛如山猫。
　　这些人类的孩子都是差劲的。有时候在晚上，我盼望自己能回到森林中漫游，吓唬睡在窝里的鸟儿，从晾衣绳上偷衣服，找乐子，而不是一页一页地做家庭作业，为我的同学们烦心。尽管有着种种不是，真实的世界仍然闪闪发光，我决心要忘记过去，再次成为一个真正的男孩。学校生活让我忍无可忍，但我在家中却得到了大大的补偿。妈妈每天下午都等我回家，我意气风发地跨入大门时，她会假装在除尘或烹饪。
　　“我儿子回来了，”她会这么说，并催我去厨房吃一块果酱面包，喝一杯阿华田，“今天过得怎么样，亨利? ”
　　为她着想，我会撒一两个好听的谎。
　　“你学了新东西吗? ”
　　我会把在回家路上练习过的东西背诵一遍。她看上去异常地好奇、欢喜，但最后还是会叫我去做讨厌的作业，我通常在晚饭前做完。
　　父亲下班回家前的一段时间，她会准备好我们的晚餐，把我的同伴叫到餐桌旁。
　　作为背景音乐，收录音里放着她最爱听的民歌，我听一遍就学会了，每当磁带分毫无差地重复播放时，我就能和着唱起来。不知是凑巧还是无心而成，我完美地模仿了民谣歌手的唱腔，而且唱得活灵活现，唱一段像一段，唱一句像一句，仿佛同宾•克罗斯贝、弗兰克．辛纳屈、罗丝玛莉•克鲁妮，或乔•斯塔夫再现。妈妈把我的音乐才能看作是情理中事，就好比她眼中的我是那样出色、迷人，又天生聪慧。
　　她喜欢听我唱歌，常常关掉收录机，央求我再唱一遍。
　　“给我们再唱一首《开往梦乡的火车》，就是好孩子。”
　　父亲第一次听到我的表演，评价不佳，“你从哪里学来的? 现在你唱得像百灵鸟，迟早有一天连调子都不会哼。”
　　“我不晓得。可能我以前没在听。”
　　“开玩笑吗? 她白天黑夜都开着那个吵吵嚷嚷的东西，放你的纳特•金。科尔爵士乐，还有《何时你能带我跳舞? 》，真好像你妈生了一对双胞胎……你说你没在听，是什么意思? ”
　　“专心听，我是说。”
　　“你应该专心到你的家庭作业上去，专心帮你妈妈做家务。”
　　“如果你专心听，而不是只听歌词，很快就会学会调子了。”
　　他摇摇头，点起一支骆驼香烟，“要听长辈的话，卡鲁索，如果你愿意的话。”
　　于是我留神不在爸爸身边做完美的模仿。
　　玛丽和伊丽莎白则相反，她们年纪尚小不懂事，不假思索地接受了我初露头角的模仿才能。事实上，她们一直要我唱歌，特别是还在摇篮里的时候，那时我就炫耀所有的新歌，如《麦瑞兹．多斯》和《三条小鱼》。但屡试不爽的是，每当我唱起《飞越彩虹》，她们就像被敲昏似的睡了过去。朱迪•加兰我唱不好。
　　我和戴家相处的日子很快就变得融洽安闲，只要我待在屋里或教室里，就一切顺利。天气突然转凉，转眼间，树叶变成一片绚丽的红黄色，色调如此鲜丽，以致我看到树木就觉得眼睛刺痛。我厌恨这些提醒丛林生活的明快的东西。十月使我的感官紊乱，万圣节前几周，这种晕眩达到高潮。我知道有一伙一伙的孩子讨要坚果和糖果，在广场点篝火，和镇民们玩弄恶作剧。相信我，我们妖怪也有恶作剧的份儿——把门拉开，把南瓜砸碎，用肥皂在图书馆窗玻璃上画卡通魔鬼。我没有经历过的是孩子们的胡闹，这甚至连学校也参与进去。
　　离这个大日子还有两周的时候，修女们开始筹划班级派对，到处布置、装修。
　　她们在黑板上沿挂上橙色和黑色的绉纸，在墙上贴纸裁的南瓜和黑猫。我们认真地用硬板纸裁出吓人的东西，把自己的艺术作品用胶水粘合起来，虽然它们着实不怎么样。母亲们赞助烘制饼干和坚果巧克力蛋糕，做爆米花和冰糖苹果。化装是允许的——实际上，是被期待的。我清楚地记得我和母亲谈到过这个话题。
　　“我们在学校有个万圣节派对，老师要我们穿‘捣蛋还是给糖’的装扮，不要穿校服。我想化装成换生灵。”
　　“那是什么? ”
　　“你知道的，妖怪。”
　　“我不太清楚那是什么。是和魔鬼一样的东西吗? ”
　　“不是。”
　　“是鬼怪? 还是盗尸鬼? ”
　　“都不是。”
　　“大概是个小吸血鬼? ”
　　“我不吸血，妈妈。”
　　“也许是个仙灵? ”
　　我号啕大哭。近两个月来，我第一次发脾气，用我本来的野性声音尖叫。．这个声音吓倒了她。
　　“看在上帝的分上，亨利。你把我吓疯了，把死人都叫醒了，叫得跟女妖似的。
　　不给你过万圣节了。”
　　我想告诉她，女妖天性敏感，她们会流泪哭泣，但从不嚎叫。但我没说，而是打开了泪闸，哭得像双胞胎妹妹一样。她把我拉过去，拥在怀里。
　　“好了，我只不过开个玩笑。”她抬起我的下巴，看着我的眼睛，“我只是不知道妖怪是什么。听着，去当个海盗怎么样? 你会喜欢的，是吗? ”
　　最后，我穿起了马裤和蓬袖衬衫，头上绑了条围巾，戴了一对埃尔罗．弗林似的耳环。万圣节当天，整个教室里都是鬼怪、巫婆和流浪人，我是学校里惟一的海盗，说不定在全国也是独一无二的。老师打着拍子，让我唱《= 特迪熊的野餐》，这是我们派对的恐怖游戏之一。我正常的说话声是和亨利•戴一样的尖声尖气，但当我唱起“如果你今晚进入森林”，唱腔和录音带里弗兰克•德佛尔的低音一模一样。这种模仿使每个人为之震惊。整首歌中，卡塞琳娜．海妮丝躲在黑暗的角落里惊慌地抽泣。大多数孩子张口结舌，在面具和化妆下大口喘息，不知道该相信什么才好。我记得泰思•伍德郝斯坐在那里，两眼一眨不眨，好似意识到一个大骗局，但没法揭穿谜底。但修女们知道得更清楚。一曲终了，她们像企鹅一样交头接耳，然后一致点头，当胸划十字。
　　“捣蛋还是给糖”的活动还有许多值得期待的。傍晚，父亲开车把我送到镇上，他等着我，我则顺着大街走过一排排房屋，到处寻找其他穿着难看化装服的孩子。
　　没有妖怪出现，只有一只黑猫企图横穿马路。我用十足的猫声嘶叫起来，它吓得掉转尾巴躲进一丛忍冬树里。邪恶的笑容闪过我的脸庞。我还没有失去所有的本事，这很好。
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Chapter 4
　　In the gloaming, the crows flew in to gather for the night in a stand of bare oaks. Bird by bird, they soared to the rookery, black shadows against the fading light. My kidnapping, still fresh in my mind, left me timid and battered, not trusting a soul in the woods. I missed my family, yet days and weeks passed, marked by the routine appearance of the birds. Their arrival and departure provided reassuring continuity. By the time the trees lost their leaves and their naked limbs stretched to the sky, the crows no longer frightened me. I came to look forward to their graceful arrival, silhouetted against the wintry sky, a natural part of my new life.
　　The faeries welcomed me as their own and taught me the ways of the woods, and I grew fond of them all. In addition to Speck, Igel, Béka and Onions, there were seven others. The three girls were inseparable—Kivi and Blomma, blonde and freckled, quiet and assured, and their tagalong, Chavisory, a chatterbox who looked no more than five years old. When she grinned, her baby teeth shone like a string of pearls, and when she laughed, her thin shoulders shook and twitched. If she found something truly funny or exciting, she took off like a skittering bat, dancing in circles and figure eights across the clearing.
　　Apart from the leader Igel and the loner Béka, the boys formed two pairs. Ragno and Zanzara, as I remember them, reminded me of the two sons of the Italian grocers in town. Thin and olive-skinned boys, each had a thatch of dark curls on his head and was quick to anger and quicker to forgive. The other set, Smaolach and Luchóg, behaved as brothers, though they could not be more dissimilar. Towering over everyone but Béka, Smaolach concentrated on the task at hand, as oblivious and earnest as a robin tugging up an earthworm. His good friend Luchóg, smallest of us all, was forever pushing back an untamable lock of night-black hair that curled across his forehead like the tail of a mouse. His eyes, blue as the summer sky, gave away his fierce devotion to his friends, even when he tried to feign nonchalance.
　　Igel, the eldest and leader of the band, took pains to explain the ways of the forest. He showed me how to gig for frogs and fish, how to find water collected overnight in the hollow of fallen leaves, to distinguish edible mushrooms from deadly toadstools, and dozens of other survival tricks. But even the best guide is no match for experience, and for most of my early time, I was coddled. They kept me under constant watch by at least two others, and I was forced to stay around camp, with dire warnings to hide away at any hint of other people.
　　"If they catch you, they will think you a devil," Igel told me. "And lock you away, or worse, they will test to see if they are right by throwing you in a fire."
　　"And you will burn up like kindling," said Ragno.
　　"And be nothing more than a puff of smoke," said Zanzara, and Chavisory demonstrated by dancing around the campfire, circling away to the edge of darkness.
　　When the first hard frost hit, a small party was sent away for an overnight excursion, and they came back with armloads of sweaters, jackets, and shoes. Those of us who had stayed behind were shivering beneath deerskins.
　　"Since you are the youngest," Igel told me, "you have first choice of the clothes and boots."
　　Smaolach, who stood over the pile of shoes, beckoned me. I noticed that his own feet were bare. I poked through the assortment of children's saddle shoes, square-toed brogues, canvas tennis shoes, and the odd unmated boot, choosing at last a pair of brand new black-and-white wingtips that seemed to be my size.
　　"Those'll cut your ankles off."
　　"How about these?" I asked, holding up the tennis shoes. "I might be able to squeeze into these." My feet felt damp and chilled on the cold ground.
　　Smaolach rooted around and picked out the ugliest brown shoes I had ever seen. The leather creaked when he flexed the soles, and the laces looked like coiled snakes. Each toe was tipped with a small steel plate. "Trust me, these will keep you warm and toasty all winter long, and a long time in the wearing."
　　"But they're too small."
　　"Don't you know you've been shrinking yourself?" With a sly grin, he reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a pair of thick woolen socks. "And I found these especially for you."
　　The whole crowd gasped in appreciation. They gave me a cableknit sweater and an oilskin jacket, which kept me dry on the wettest days.
　　As the nights lengthened and grew colder, we exchanged our grass mats and solitary beds for a heap of animal skins and stolen blankets. The twelve of us slept together in a tangled clump. I rather enjoyed the comfort of the situation, although most of my friends had foul breath or fetid odors about them. Part of the reason must be the change in diet, from the bounty of summer to the decay of late fall and the deprivation of winter. Several of the poor creatures had been in the woods for so long that they had given up all hope of human society. Indeed, a handful had no such desire at all, so they lived like animals, rarely taking a bath or cleaning their teeth with a twig. Even a fox will lick its hindquarters, but some of the faeries were the dirtiest beasts.
　　That first winter, I yearned to go with the hunter-gatherers on their morning forage for food and other supplies. Like the crows that convened at dusk and dawn, those thieves enjoyed freedom away from the roost. While I was left behind, I had to suffer babysitters like that toad Béka and his companion Onions, or old Zanzara and Ragno, who squabbled all day and threw nutshells and stones at the birds and squirrels poking around our hidden hoard. I was bored and cold and lonesome for adventure.
　　On a gray morning, Igel himself chose to stay behind to watch over me, and as luck would have it, my friend Smaolach kept him company. They brewed a pot of tea from dried bark and peppermint, and as we watched a cold rain fall, I pressed my case.
　　"Why won't you let me go with all the others?"
　　"My great fear is that you'll run away and try to return whence you came, but you cannot, Aniday. You are one of us now." Igel sipped his tea and stared at a point far off. After a decent interval, letting his wisdom sink into my mind, he continued. "On the other hand, you have proved yourself a valuable member of our clan. You gather the kindling, husk the acorns, and dig a new privy hole when asked. You are learning true obedience and deference. I have watched you, Aniday, and you are a good student of our ways."
　　Smaolach stared into the dying fire and said something in a secret language, all vowels and hard consonants full of phlegm. Igel pondered over that secret sentence, then chewed on his own thoughts before spitting them out. Then, as now, I was eternally puzzled over how people think, by what process they solve life's riddles. Their consultation over, Igel resumed his study of the horizon.
　　"You're to come with Luchóg and me this afternoon," Smaolach informed me with a conspiratorial wink. "We'll show you the lay of the land around these parts as soon as the rest of them get back."
　　"You better dress warmly," Igel advised. "This rain will changeover soon."
　　On cue, the first snowflakes started mixing with the raindrops, and within minutes, a heavy snow began to fall. We were still sitting in our places when the faery troop meandered back to the camp, chased home by the sudden inclemency. Winter sometimes came early to our part of the country, but usually we did not get a snowfall until after Christmas. As the squall blew in, I wondered for the first time whether Christmas had passed altogether, or perhaps at least Thanksgiving had slipped by, and most certainly Halloween was gone. I thought of my family, still looking for me every day in the woods. Perhaps they thought me dead, which made me feel sorry and wish that word could be sent concerning my welfare.
　　At home, Mom would be unpacking boxes of decorations, putting out the stable and the manger, running garland up the stair rail. The past Christmas, my father took me out to chop down a small fir tree for the house, and I wondered if he was sad now, without me to help him choose the right one. I even missed my little sisters. Were they walking and talking and dreaming of Santa Claus, wondering what had become of me?
　　"What day is it?" I asked Luchóg as he changed into warmer clothes.
　　He licked his finger and held it into the wind. "Tuesday?"
　　"No, I mean what day of the year? What day of the month?"
　　"I have no idea. Judging by the signs, could be late November, early December. But memory is a tricky thing and unreliable when it comes to time or weather."
　　Christmas had not passed after all. I resolved to watch the days from then on and to celebrate the season in an appropriate fashion, even if the rest of them did not care about holidays and such things.
　　"Do you know where I can get a paper and a pencil?"
　　He struggled into his boots. "Now, what would you want them things for?"
　　"I want to make a calendar."
　　"A calendar? Why, you would need a store of paper and any number of pencils to keep a calendar out here. I'll teach you how to watch the sun in the sky and take notice of the living things. You'll know time enough by them."
　　"But what if I want to draw a picture or write someone a note?"
　　Luchóg zipped up his jacket. "Write? To whom? Most of us have forgot-ten how to write entirely, and those that haven't, didn't learn in the first place. It is better to have your say and not be putting down in more or less a permanent way what you're thinking or feeling. That way lies danger, little treasure."
　　"But I do like to draw pictures."
　　We started across the ring, where Smaolach and Igel stood like two tall trees, conferring. Because Luchóg was the smallest of us all, he had trouble keeping up with me. Bouncing along at my side, he continued his dissertation.
　　"So, you're an artist, are ye? No pencil and paper? Do you know that the artists of old made their own paper and pens? Out of animal skin and bird feathers. And ink from soot and spit. They did, and further back still, they scratched on stones. I'll teach you how to leave your mark, and get you that paper if you want, but in due time."
　　When we reached the leader, Igel clapped me on the shoulder and said, "You've earned my trust, Aniday. Listen and heed these two."
　　Luchóg, Smaolach, and I set off into the woods, and I looked back to wave goodbye. The other faeries sat together in bunches, huddled against the cold, and let the snow coat them, mad and exposed stoics.
　　I was thrilled at being out of that camp, but my companions did their best to control my curiosity. They let me stumble about on the trails for a time before my clumsiness flushed a covey of doves from their rest. The birds exploded into the air, all pipes and feathers. Smaolach put a finger to his lips, and I took the hint. Copying their movements, I became nearly as graceful, and we walked so quietly that I could hear the snowfall over the sound of our footsteps. Silence has its own allure and grace, heightening all the senses, especially hearing. A twig would snap in the distance and instantly Smaolach and Luchóg would cock their heads in the direction of the sound and identify its cause. They showed me the hidden things silence revealed: a pheasant craning its neck to spy on us from a thicket, a crow hopping from branch to branch, a raccoon snoring in its den. Before the daylight completely faded, we tramped through the wet grounds to the mucky bank of the river. Along the water's edge ice crystals grew, and listening closely, we heard the crack of freezing. A single duck paddled further down the river, and each snowflake hissed as it hit the water's surface. The sunlight faded like a whisper and vanished.
　　"Listen"—Smaolach held his breath—"to this."
　　At once, the snow changed over to sleet, which ticked against the fallen leaves and rocks and dripping branches, a miniature symphony of the natural world. We walked away from the river and took cover in a grove of evergreens. Ice encased each of the needles in a clear jacket. Luchóg pulled out a leather pouch hanging from a cord around his neck, first producing a tiny paper and then a fat pinch of dried and brown grasslike fibers that looked like tobacco. With deft fingers and a quick lick, he rolled a thin cigarette. From another section of the pouch, he extracted several wooden matches, counted them in his palm, and returned all but one to the waterproof compartment. His thumbnail struck the match, causing it to burst into flame, which Luchóg applied to the end of the cigarette. Smaolach had dug a hole deep enough to reach a layer of dry needles and cones. Carefully taking the burning match from his friend's fingertips, he set it in the bowl, and in short order we had a fire to toast our palms and fingertips. Luchóg passed the cigarette to Smaolach, who took a deep drag and held the smoke inside his mouth for a long time. When he exhaled at last, the effect was as sudden and percussive as the punch-line to a joke.
　　"Give the boy a puff," Smaolach suggested.
　　"I don't know how to smoke."
　　"Do what I do," said Luchóg through clenched teeth. "But whatever you do, don't tell Igel about this. Don't tell anyone at all."
　　I took a drag on the glowing cigarette and began coughing and sputtering from the smoke. They giggled and kept on laughing well after the last scrap had been inhaled. The air beneath the evergreen boughs was thick with a strange perfume, which made me feel dizzy, light-headed, and slightly nauseous. Luchóg and Smaolach fell under the same spell, but they merely seemed content, simultaneously alert and peaceful. The sleet began to taper off, and silence returned like a lost friend.
　　"Did you hear that?"
　　"What is it?" I asked.
　　Luchóg shushed me. "First, listen to see if you hear it." A moment later, the sound came to me, and though familiar, its substance and origin mystified me.
　　Luchóg sprang to his feet and rousted his friend. "It's a car, little treasure. Have you ever chased an automobile?"
　　I shook my head, thinking he must have me confused with a dog. Both of my companions took hold of my hands and off we went, running faster than I had ever imagined possible. The world whirred by, patches and blurs of darkness where trees once stood. Mud and snow kicked up, mottling our trousers as we sped on at an insanely giddy pace. When the brush grew thicker, they let go of my hands and we raced down the trail one behind the other. Branches slapped me in the face, and I stumbled and fell into the muck. Scrambling to my feet, cold and wet and dirty, I realized I was alone for the first time in months. Fear took hold, and I opened my eyes and ears to the world, desperate to find my friends. Fierce pains of concentration shot across my forehead, but I bore down and heard them running through the snow in the distance. I felt a new and powerful magic in my senses, for I could see them clearly, while realizing that they should be too far ahead and out of sight. By visualizing my way, I gave chase, and the trees and branches that had confused me before now seemed no obstacle. I whipped through the woods the way a sparrow flies through the openings in a fence, without a thought, folding up its wings at the right moment, gliding through.
　　When I caught up, I found they were standing behind the rough pines short of the forest edge. Before us lay a road and on that road a car had stopped, its headlights streaking through the misty darkness, broken pieces of the metal grille glistening on the asphalt. Through the open driver's door, a small light shone in the empty cab. The anomaly of the car pulled me toward it, but the strong arms of my friends held me back. A figure emerged from the darkness and stepped into the light, a thin young woman in a bright red coat. She held one hand to her forehead, and bending slowly, she reached out with her free arm, nearly touching a dark mass lying in the road.
　　"She hit a deer," Luchóg said, a note of sadness in his voice. She agonized over its prostrate form, pulling her hair back from her face, her other hand pressed against her lips.
　　"Is it dead?" I asked.
　　"The trick," said Smaolach in a quiet voice, "is to breathe into its mouth. It's not dead at all, but in shock."
　　Luchóg whispered to me. "We'll wait until she's gone, and you can inspire it."
　　"Me?"
　　"Don't you know? You're a faery now, same as us, and can do anything we can do."
　　The notion overwhelmed me. A faery? I wanted to know right away if it was true; I wanted to test my own powers. So I broke away from my friends, approaching the deer from the shadows. The woman stood in the middle of that lonesome road, scanning in both directions for another car. She did not notice me until I was already there, crouching over the animal, my hand upon its warm flank, its pulse racing alongside my own. I cupped the deer's muzzle in my hand and breathed into its hot mouth. Almost immediately, the beast lifted its head, shouldered me out of the way, and rocked itself up into a standing position. For an instant, it stared at me; then, like a white ensign, its tail shot up a warning, and the deer bounded into the night. To say that we—the animal, the woman, myself—were surprised by this turn of events would be the most severe understatement. She looked bewildered, so I smiled at her. At that moment, my comrades started calling to me in loud whispers.
　　"Who are you?" She wrapped herself tighter in that red coat. Or at least I thought those were her words, but her voice sounded alien, as if she were speaking through water. I stared at the ground, realizing that I did not know the true answer. Her face drew close enough for me to detect the beginning of a smile on her lips and the pale bluegreen of her irises behind her glasses. Her eyes were splendid.
　　"We must go." From the darkness, a hand grasped my shoulder, and Smaolach dragged me away into the bushes, leaving me to wonder if it had all been a dream. We hid in a tangle while she searched for us, and at last she gave up, got in her car and drove off. I did not know it at the time, but she was the last human person I was to encounter for more than a dozen years. The tail-lights zigzagged over the hills and through the trees until there was no more to see.
　　We retreated back to camp in a cross silence. Halfway home, Luchóg advised, "You mustn't tell anyone about what happened tonight. Stay away from people and be content with who you are." On the journey, we created a necessary fiction to explain our long absence, invented a narrative of the waters and the wild, and once told, our story endured. But I never forgot that secret of the redcoated woman, and later, when I began to doubt the world above, the memory of that bright and lonely meeting reminded me that it was no myth.

    薄暮时分，鸦群飞向光秃秃的橡树枝条上过夜。它们连二接三地投入丛林，黑影遮住了西斜的余光。被绑架的经历在我脑海中仍然鲜活，使我畏畏缩缩，精神不振，不信任森林里的任何生物。我想念家里人，然而日以继月，只有每天出现的鸟群来做时间的标记。它们总是来来回回，使人心感慰藉。待到树叶飘零，赤裸的枝丫伸向天空，我不再害怕鸦群了，而开始盼望它们优雅的降临，它们在冬季天空中掠过的剪影，成为我新生活不可或缺的部分。
　　仙灵们将我当成自己人，教会我林子里的规矩，我渐渐地喜欢上了每一个人。
　　除了斯帕克、伊格尔、贝卡和奥尼恩斯，还有另外七个。
　　三个女孩形影不离——齐维和布鲁玛金头发，长雀斑，娴雅镇定，她们的跟屁虫卡维素芮是个看起来不到五岁的话痨子。她粲然微笑时，乳牙犹如一串珍珠闪闪发亮，哈哈大笑时，单薄的肩膀摇晃扭动。
　　一旦她发现什么非常有趣或刺激的东西，就会像只蝙蝠似的飞掠过去，跳着圆圈舞或8 字舞冲过空地。
　　除开首领伊格尔和落落寡合的贝卡，男孩们分成两组。在我记忆之中，劳格诺和赞扎拉让我想起镇上意大利货商的两个儿子。他们身材细瘦，皮肤橄榄色，头上都有乱蓬蓬的黑色发卷，脾气发作得快，但消得更快。另一对是斯茂拉赫与鲁契克，他们情同手足，但相差十万八千里。斯茂拉赫的个头仅次于贝卡，老是专心致志地干着手头的活儿，如同一只正在拽蚯蚓的知更鸟那样勤恳而又不被人注意。他的好友鲁契克是我们中间最矮小的，总是在挥开额头上一束老鼠尾巴似的、不服帖的漆黑发卷。他的眼眸蓝如夏日晴空，泄露了他对朋友们的深情厚意，尽管有时他试图装出一副冷淡的样子。
　　伊格尔是队伍的领袖，也最为年长，他不厌其烦地解说丛林法则，给我演示如何捕捉青蛙和鱼，如何从落叶的凹处采集露水，如何区分可食用的蘑菇和致命的毒菌，以及其他许多生存技巧。最好的向导也比不过经验，但在起初的大部分时间内，我都被悉心照料着。
　　他们中至少会有两个一直看守着我，我不得离开营寨周围，并且受到严厉警告，一有人迹的风吹草动，就要躲藏起来。
　　“如果他们抓住了你，会把你当成魔鬼，”伊格尔对我说，“还会把你锁起来，或者更糟，把你丢进火里，试试看他们是否认对了。”
　　“你就会像火柴一样烧起来。”劳格诺说。
　　“会变成一股烟，然后什么都没了。”赞扎拉说，卡维素芮则围着篝火跳舞演示，一圈一圈地跳向黑暗中去。
　　第一场严霜来临时，一支小分队通宵外出，回来时抱满毛衣、夹克和鞋子，留守人员则裹着鹿皮簌簌发抖。
　　“你是最小的，”伊格尔对我说，“你先来挑衣服和靴子。”
　　斯茂拉赫站在一堆鞋子后面朝我招手。我注意到他自己还赤裸着脚。我在各种儿童马靴、方头皮鞋、帆布网球鞋和不成对的靴子里翻找，最后挑了一双全新的黑白色尖头鞋，看起来尺寸合适。
　　“那双会弄伤你的脚踝。”
　　“这双怎么样? ”我问着，拿起网球鞋，“我也许能塞得进去。”我站在冰冷的地上，脚底感到又湿又冷。
　　斯茂拉赫翻了一通，挑出一双我所见到过的最难看的棕色皮鞋。
　　他弯折鞋底时，皮面吱嘎作响，鞋带像是盘曲的蛇，每个鞋尖都钉着一块小钢板。“相信我，这双能让你整个冬天都暖和舒适，而且能穿很长时间。”
　　“但它们太小了。”
　　“难道你不知道自己已经缩小了吗? ”他顽皮地一笑，伸手进裤袋里掏出双厚厚的羊毛袜，“这双是我特地为你找的。”
　　大家都赞叹地倒抽一口气。他们给了我针织衫和防水夹克，能让我在最潮湿的日子里保持干燥。
　　随着夜晚渐长渐冷，我们把草垫和单薄的床换成了厚厚的动物毛皮和偷来的毯子。我们十二个挤成一团睡觉。我非常喜欢这种舒服，虽然我大多数朋友都有难闻的口气和臭味。部分原因是食物的改变，从食物丰盛的夏季到食物渐少的秋末再到一片荒芜的冬季。
　　有几个可怜的家伙在森林里待得太久，完全放弃了对人类社会的希望。事实上，好多位都压根儿没有这方面的需求，他们和动物一样生活，难得洗个澡，用小树枝清洁一下牙齿。就连一只狐狸也会舔后腿，可是有些仙灵是最肮脏的野兽。
　　第一个冬天，我渴望着能和狩猎者们一起在早晨出去寻觅食物和其他补给。这些小偷就像晨昏聚集的乌鸦享受着离开据点的自由，而我却被留下，忍受着讨厌的贝卡和他的同伴奥尼恩斯的看护，或者是老赞扎拉和劳格诺，他们整天吵吵嚷嚷，朝刺探我们藏货的鸟儿和松鼠丢坚果壳和石块。
　　一个阴暗的早晨，伊格尔自己留下来看管我，可以说走运的是，我的朋友斯茂拉赫与他作伴。他们用干树皮和薄荷油泡了一壶茶，我们望着一场冷雨，我打开了这话题。
　　“你们为什么不让我和其他人一起去? ”
　　“我最怕你会跑走，想回到你来的地方，但你办不到，安尼戴。如今你是我们的人了。”伊格尔抿了口茶，盯着远远的某处。他悠悠地停了一下，让他的智慧沉入我的头脑，然后继续说：“另一方面，你证明了你是我们部落的好成员。你采集火柴，剥橡果，叫你挖一个单独的新洞你就挖。你正在学习真正的顺从和尊重。我观察着你，安尼戴，你把我们的生活学得很好。”
　　斯茂拉赫注视着渐渐熄灭的火焰，用秘语说了些什么，所有的元音和硬邦邦的辅音都黏糊糊的。伊格尔思索了一下这个秘密的句子，将自己的想法考虑再三后说出。直到现在，我还是不明白人们是怎么想的，他们是怎样解决生活之谜的。协商告一段落，伊格尔继续研究地平线。
　　“今天下午，你和鲁契克、我一起来。”斯茂拉赫对我说，还鬼鬼祟祟地使了个眼色，“其他人一回来，我们就带你去看周围的地形。" “你最好穿暖和些，”
　　伊格尔建议说，“雨很快就变了。”
　　话音方落，雪花开始夹杂着雨点落下，几分钟后，就降下一场大雪。仙灵队被突如其来的严酷天气赶回了家，他们缓步回营时，我们还坐在老地方。在这个国度，我们居住的这块地方冬天有时来得早，但通常第一场雪会在圣诞节后才下。暴风雪刮起来时，我第一次想到圣诞节是否已经结束，还有至少感恩节已经偷偷溜走了，而万圣节几乎肯定已过。我想着我的家人仍然每天在树林中寻找我。也许他们以为我死了，这让我感到难过，希望能报个平安。
　　在家里，妈妈会打开盛着装饰品的箱子，清理马厩和马槽，把花环挂上楼梯栏杆。上一个圣诞节，爸爸带我去砍了一棵小冷杉运回家，我想他现在会不会觉得悲伤，因为我不能帮他挑选合适的树木。
　　我还思念我年幼的妹妹们。她们是否在走路，说话，梦见圣诞老人，奇怪我到底出了什么事? “今天是什么日子? ”我问鲁契克，他在换暖和的衣服。
　　他舔了舔手指，伸进风里，“礼拜二? ”
　　“不，我是问今年的几月几号? ”
　　“我不知道。从现象来看，可能是十一月底，十二月初了吧。但是说到时间和天气，记忆会开玩笑，靠不住的。”
　　毕竟圣诞节还没过。我决定从此以后要观察日子，以合适的方式来庆祝这个节日，尽管其他人并不关心节日之类的事。
　　“你知道我从哪里可以弄到一张纸，一支铅笔? ”
　　他用力穿上靴子，“你要这些东西干吗? ”
　　“我想做个日历。”
　　“日历? 在这儿做日历，你会用掉一大堆纸，无数铅笔。我会教你怎么观察天空中的太阳，怎么留意活的东西。它们足以让你知道时间。”
　　“但如果我想画画或给某人写张便条呢? ”
　　鲁契克拉上拉链，“写字? 给谁? 我们大多数人都彻底忘记了怎么写字，那些没忘记的，本来也就没学过。你最好用说的，别把你的想法和感受写下来，这或多或少会长久留存下来。这样会造成隐患，小宝贝。”
　　“但我喜欢画画。”
　　我们穿过空地，斯茂拉赫和伊格尔站得像两棵高高的树，正在交谈。因为鲁契克是我们中间最矮的，他得费点力才能跟上我。他在我身边一蹦一跳地前进，继续他的发言。
　　“这么说，你是个艺术家哕，是吗? 没有铅笔和纸? 你不知道以前的艺术家都是自己做纸笔的吗? 用动物皮和鸟毛来做。墨水用煤灰和唾液来做。他们就是这样干的，更早的年代，他们在石头上刻画。我会教你怎么留下标记，如果你要纸，我会给你，但得过段时间。”
　　，我们跟上首领后，伊格尔拍了拍我肩膀说：“安尼戴，你赢得了信任。听这两位的话，注意他们的动作。”
　　鲁契克、斯茂拉赫和我出发进入森林，我回头挥手告别。其他仙灵扎堆而坐，互相围拢着来抵御寒冷，任凭雪花落在身上，傻气而坚忍地待在露天。
　　能从营寨里出来，我极度兴奋，但我的同伴全力控制我的好奇心。我笨拙的动作惊飞了一群窝里的鸽子，之后他们又任凭我在藤蔓上绊了一脚。鸟群猛冲上天，鸣叫响成一片，羽毛纷纷飘落。斯茂拉赫把手指竖在唇边，我领会了这暗示。我学着他们，动作变得优美起来，我们走得很轻，能听见盖过我们脚步声的落雪声。寂静自有一番魅力和雅致，所有的感官都敏锐起来，尤其是听觉。远处有一根小树枝折断的声音，斯茂拉赫和鲁契克就立刻朝声源抬起头，确定它的来因。他们指给我那些原本隐藏起来、却被寂静暴露了的东西：一头野鸡从灌木丛中伸长脖子打探我们，一只乌鸦在树枝间跳来跳去，一只浣熊在窝里打鼾。在天光完全被吞没之前，我们渡过湿地，来到河的泥岸。水边正在结冰，细听之下，有结冻的“咔咔”声。
　　一只鸭子顺水游下，每片雪花触碰水面都发出轻微的嘶嘶声。阳光如低语般渐渐喑弱，消失。
　　“听——”斯茂拉赫屏住呼吸——“听这个。”
　　转眼间，雪变成冰雨，滴滴答答地扣在落叶上，石头上，垂枝上，奏出一曲自然界的小小交响乐。我们离开河岸，到一片常绿树林中躲避。针叶上裹着冰晶，像穿着洁净的夹克衫。鲁契克拉出用绳子挂在他脖子上的革袋，先拿出一张小纸片，然后是一大撮干燥的、晒黑了的草叶样纤维，看上去像是烟叶。他手指敏捷，飞快地一舔，就卷好一支细细的香烟。他从革袋的另一处取出几支木制火柴，放在手掌里数了数，留下一支，其余全放回防水袋中。他在大拇指指甲上划燃火柴，让它烧成火苗，点上香烟的一头。斯茂拉赫已经掘了个洞，深度足以到达下层的针叶和球果。他小心地从朋友指尖上拿过燃烧的火柴，在洞里点起来。不久，我们就有了一堆火来烘烤手掌和指尖了。鲁契克把烟递给斯茂拉赫，他深深吸了一口，把烟含了好久，终于呼了出来，这效果就像笑话里的妙语那样一下子打动人心。
　　“让这孩子吸一口。”斯茂拉赫提议说。
　　“我不知道怎么吸烟。”
　　“跟我学，”鲁契克的声音从牙缝里透出来，‘‘但不管你做什么，别把这件事告诉伊格尔，也别告诉其他人。”
　　我就着发热的卷烟吸了一口，被烟呛着，咳嗽起来。他们咯咯直笑，一直笑到他们吸尽最后一片烟叶。常绿树下的空气里含着浓重的奇香，我觉得头晕目眩，有点儿恶心。鲁契克和斯茂拉赫也同样受到影响，但他们看似只觉心满意足，既警觉又平静。冰雹开始减弱，寂静像失去的朋友再度归来。
　　“你听见了吗? ”
　　“什么? ”我问。
　　鲁契克朝我嘘了一声，“你先听听看，看你能否听到。”过了一阵子，我听到了一个声音，虽然熟悉，但不知这声音是什么，从哪来的。
　　鲁契克跳起来，叫起他的朋友，“是辆小汽车，小宝贝。你追赶过汽车吗? ”
　　我摇摇头，想他肯定把我和狗混淆了。我的两个同伴牵起我的手离开，跑得比我所能想像的速度更快。世界在旋转，树木林立的地方变成一片片模糊不清的黑暗。
　　泥雪被踢飞，溅在我们的裤子上，我们达到了一种令人晕眩的疯狂速度。灌木丛渐渐茂密，他们松开我的手，一个接一个跑上小径。树枝抽打在我脸上，我脚下一绊，跌倒在泥泞里。我挣扎站起，浑身又冷又湿又脏，意识到数月来我首次孤独一人。
　　恐惧攫住了我，我对着世界张开眼睛，竖起耳朵，拼命想找到我的朋友们。集中注意力后，我的前额蹿起一阵剧痛，但我忍住疼痛，听到他们在远处踏雪奔跑。我觉得自己的感官中产生了一种新的强大的魔力，因为我能清晰地看到他们，虽然我知道他们应该是在很远的前方，远在视线之外。我把脚下的路看得一清二楚，于是奋起直追，曾经为难我的树木、枝条如今似乎已不成障碍。我在林中飞驰，仿佛一只麻雀穿越篱笆间的空隙，不假思索就能在合适的时机收拢翅膀，飞翔而过。
　　当我赶上的时候，我看到他们正站在距离森林边缘不远的粗松树底下。我们面前有条马路，路上停着辆车，前灯在薄雾笼罩的黑暗中打出一道道的亮光，碎裂的金属格栅在柏油路面上闪光。透过敞开的驾驶室的车门，空空的车厢里亮着一盏小灯。车况的异常促使我走上前去，但朋友们有力的胳膊将我拉回。一个人影从暗中出现，走到亮处，是一个穿着鲜红色大衣的年轻纤瘦的女人。她一手捂着额头，慢慢地弯下身子，伸出另一只胳膊，摸向躺在路上的一团黑色的东西。
　　“她撞到了一头鹿。”鲁契克说道，话音中有种悲哀。她为它倒伏的身影烦恼不堪，她掠开面前的头发，另一只手捂着嘴唇。
　　“它死了吗? ”我问。
　　“魔法是，”斯茂拉赫悄声说道，“把气吹进它嘴里。它没死，只是撞昏了。”
　　鲁契克轻声对我说：“我们会等到她离开，这样你就能给它吹气了。”
　　“我? ”
　　“你不知道吗? 你现在是个仙灵了，和我们一样，我们能干什么，你就能干什么。”
　　这个说法使我为之忘形。一个仙灵? 我立刻想知道这是否是真的，我想要试验我的能力。于是我挣脱朋友们，从阴影下朝鹿走去。
　　女人站在孤零零的马路中间，左顾右盼看是否有车经过。她没有注意到我，直到我出现在那里，蹲到动物面前，手放在它温暖的体侧，它的脉搏在我脉搏边上跳动。我用手环住鹿的吻部，往它温热的嘴里吹气。几乎是眨眼间，这头野兽抬起头，将我顶开，摇晃着站起来。
　　有片刻它看着我，随即把尾巴像白色军旗似的举起来以示警告，便跳进黑暗中去了。如果说我们——动物、女人和我自己——为事态转变而感到吃惊，实在远远不足形容当时的情形。她看起来给弄糊涂了，于是我朝她微笑。这时，我的同伴开始提高声音呼唤我。
　　“你是谁? ”她用红大衣把自己裹得更紧。或者至少，我以为这是她说的话，她的声音听起来很奇怪，仿佛是在水里说的。我看着地面，想到我自己并不知道真正的答案。她的脸靠近得足以让我发现她唇边绽开的微笑，还有眼镜后面浅蓝绿色的虹膜。她的眼睛光彩照人。
　　“我们要走了。”从黑暗中伸出一只手抓住我肩膀，斯茂拉赫将我拖入灌木丛，我想这是否是一场梦。我们躲在乱草丛中，她寻找我们，但终于放弃，钻进汽车开走了。当时我还不知道，在未来十几年间，她是我遇见的最后一个人类。尾灯在山上、树木间蜿蜒而行，最后再也看不见了。
　　在郁闷的沉默中，我们打道回府。半路上，鲁契克提出建议：“你不能把今晚发生的事告诉任何人。离人类远远的，要满足于你的身份。”我们在途中编造了必要的故事来解释我们为何离开这么长时间，对水流和野景做了一番描述。我们的故事讲述之后流传开来，但我从未忘记那个红衣女人的秘密。后来，当我开始怀疑地面上的世界，记忆中这次鲜明而又惟一的邂逅就提醒我，这不是一个神话。
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Chapter 5
　　Life with the Day family acquired a reassuring pattern. My father would leave for work before any of us stirred from our sleep, and that golden waking hour between his departure and my march to school was a comfort. My mother at the stove, stirring oatmeal or frying breakfast in a pan; the twins exploring the kitchen on unsteady feet. The picture windows framed and kept away the outside world. The Days' home had long ago been a working farm, and though agriculture had been abandoned, vestiges remained. An old barn, red paint souring to a dark mauve, now served as a garage. The split-rail fence that fronted the property was falling apart stick by stick. The field, an acre or so that had flushed green with corn, lay fallow, a tangle of brambles that Dad only bothered to mow once each October. The Days were the first to abandon farming in the area, and their distant neighbors joined them over the years, selling off homesteads and acreage to developers. But when I was a child, it was still a quiet, lonesome place.
　　The trick of growing up is to remember to grow. The mental part of becoming Henry Day demanded full attention to every detail of his life, but no amount of preparation for the changing can account for the swath of the subject's family history—memories of bygone birthday parties and other intimacies—that one must pretend to remember. History is easy enough to fake; stick around anyone long enough and one can catch up to any plot. But other accidents and flaws expose the risks of assuming another's identity. Fortunately we seldom had company, for the old house was isolated on a small bit of farmland out in the country.
　　Near my first Christmas, while my mother attended to the crying twins upstairs and I idled by the fireplace, a knock came at the front door. On the porch stood a man with his fedora in hand, the smell of a recent cigar mixing with the faintly medicinal aroma of hair oil. He grinned as if he recognized me at once, although I had not seen him before.
　　"Henry Day," he said. "As I live and breathe."
　　I stood fixed to the threshold, searching my memory for an errant clue as to who this man might be. He clicked his heels together and bowed slightly at the waist, then strode past me into the foyer, glancing furtively up the stairs. "Is your mother in? Is she decent?"
　　Hardly anyone came to visit in the middle of the day, except occasionally the farmers' wives nearby or mothers of my schoolmates, driving out from town with a fresh cake and new gossip. When we had spied on Henry, there was no man other than his father or the milkman who came to the house.
　　He tossed his hat on the sideboard and turned to face me again. "How long's it been, Henry? Your mama's birthday, maybe? You don't look like you've grown a whisker. Your daddy not feeding you?"
　　I stared at the stranger and did not know what to say.
　　"Run up the stairs and tell your mama I'm here for a visit. Go on now, son."
　　"Who shall I say is calling?"
　　"Why, your Uncle Charlie, a-course."
　　"But I don't have any uncles."
　　The man laughed; then his brow furrowed and his mouth became a severe line. "Are you okay, Henry boy?" He bent down to look me in the eye. "Now, I'm not actually your uncle, son, but your mama's oldest friend. A friend of the family, you might say."
　　My mother saved me by coming down the stairway unbidden, and the moment she saw the stranger, she threw her arms into the air and rushed to embrace him. I took advantage of their reunion to slip away.
　　A close call, but not as bad as the scare a few weeks later. In those first few years, I still had all my changeling powers and could hear like a fox. Prom any room in the house, I could eavesdrop on my parents during their unguarded conversations, and overheard Dad's suspicions during one such pillow talk.
　　"Have you noticed anything odd about the boy lately?"
　　She slips into bed beside him. "Odd?"
　　"There's the singing around the house."
　　"He's a lovely voice."
　　"And those fingers."
　　I looked at my hands, and in comparison with other children's, my fingers were exceedingly long and out of proportion.
　　"I think he'll be a pianist. Billy, we ought to have him at lessons."
　　"And toes."
　　I curled up my toes in my bed upstairs.
　　"And he seems to have grown not an inch or put on not a pound all winter long."
　　"He needs some sun is all."
　　The old man rolls over toward her. "He's a queer lad, is all I know."
　　"Billy ... stop."
　　I resolved that night to become a true boy and begin paying closer attention to how I might be considered normal. Once such a mistake had been made, nothing could be done. I couldn't very well shorten my fingers and toes and invite further skepticism, but I could stretch the rest of me a bit each night and keep up with all the other children. I also made it a point to avoid Dad as much as possible.
　　The idea of the piano intrigued me as a way to ingratiate myself with my mother. When she wasn't listening to crooners on the radio, she might dial in the classics, particularly on a Sunday. Bach sent my head spinning with buried reveries, conjuring an echo from the distant past. But I had to figure away to mention my interest without Mom realizing that her private conversations could be heard no matter how quiet or intimate. Fortunately, the twins supplied the answer. At Christmas, my distant grandparents sent them a toy piano. No bigger than a bread basket, it produced but a tinny octave of notes, and from New Year's Day the keys gathered a dusty coat. I rescued the toy and sat in the nursery, playing nearly recognizable tunes from distant memory. My sisters, as usual, were enchanted, and they sat like two entranced yogis as I tested my memory on the piano's limited range. Dust rag in hand, my mother wandered by and stood in the doorway, listening intently. From the corner of my eye, I watched her watching me, and when I ended with a flourish, her applause was not completely unexpected.
　　In the fleeting time between homework and dinner, I picked out a tune of sorts, and gradually revealed my native talent, but she needed more encouragement than that. My scheme was casual and simple. I let drop the fact that a half-dozen of the kids in school took music lessons, when, in truth, there may have been one or two. On car trips, I pretended that the panel below my window was a keyboard and fingered measures until my father ordered me to cut that out. I made a point of whistling the first few bars of something familiar, like Beethoven's Ninth, when helping Mom dry the dishes. I did not beg, but bided my time, until she came to believe the idea as her own. My gambit played out when, on the Saturday before Henry's eighth birthday, my parents drove me into the city to see a man about piano lessons.
　　We left the twin toddlers with the neighbors, and the three of us sat up front in my father's coupe, embarking early that spring morning in our Sunday clothes. We drove past the town where I went to school, where we shopped and went to Mass, and onto the highway into the city. Shiny cars zipped along the asphalt as we picked up speed, joining a ribbon of pure energy flowing in both directions. We went faster than I'd ever gone in my life, and I had not been to the city in nearly one hundred years. Billy drove the '49 De Soto like an old friend, one hand on the wheel, his free arm thrown across the seat behind my mother and me. The old conquistador stared at us from the steering wheel's hub, and as Dad made a turn, the explorer's eyes seemed to follow us.
　　On our approach to the city, the factories on the outskirts appeared first, great smokestacks exhaling streams of dark clouds, furnaces within glowing with hearts of fire. A bend in the road—then all at once, a view of buildings stretched to heaven. The downtown's sheer size left me breathless, and the closer we came, the greater it loomed, until suddenly we were in the car-choked streets. The shadows deepened and darkened. At a cross street, a trolley scraped along, its pole shooting sparks to the wires above. Its doors opened like a bellows, and out poured a crowd of people in their spring coats and hats; they stood on a concrete island in the street, waiting for the light to change. In the department store windows, reflections of shoppers and traffic cops mingled with displays of new goods: women's dresses and men's suits on mannequins, which fooled me initially, appearing alive and posing perfectly still.
　　"I don't know why you feel the need to come all the way downtown for this. You know I don't like coming into the city. I'll never find parking."
　　Mom's right arm shot out. "There's a space, aren't we lucky?"
　　Riding up in the elevator, my father reached inside his coat pocket for a Camel, and as the doors opened on the fifth floor, he lit up. We were a few minutes early, and while they debated over whether or not to go in, I walked to the door and entered. Mr. Martin may not have been a fairy, but he was very fey. Tall and thin, his white hair long in a shaggy boy's cut, he wore a worn plum-colored suit. Christopher Robin all grown up and gone to genteel seed. Behind him stood the most beautiful machine I had ever seen. Lacquered to a high black finish, the grand piano drew all of the vitality of the room toward its propped-open lid. Those keys held in their serenity the possibility of every beautiful sound. I was too dumbstruck to answer his inquiry the first time.
　　"May I help you, young man?"
　　"I'm Henry Day, and I'm here to learn everything you know."
　　"My dear young man," he replied, sighing, "I'm afraid that's impossible."
　　I walked to the piano and sat at the bench. The sight of the keys unlocked a distant memory of a stern German instructor ordering me to increase the tempo. I stretched my fingers as far apart as possible, testing my span, and laid them upon the ivory without eliciting an accidental tone. Mr. Martin glided behind me, overlooking my shoulder, studying my hands. "Have you played before?"
　　"Once upon a time ..."
　　"Find me middle C, Mr. Day."
　　And without thinking, I did, pressing the single key with the side of my left thumb.
　　My mother and father entered the room, announcing themselves with a polite ahem. Mr. Martin wheeled around and strode over to greet them. As they shook hands and made introductions, I played scales from the middle outward. Tones from the piano triggered powerful synapses, resurrecting scores that I knew by heart. A voice in my head demanded heissblütig, heissblütig—more passion, more feeling.
　　"You said he was a beginner."
　　"He is," my mother replied. "I don't think he's ever even seen a real piano."
　　"This boy is a natural."
　　For fun, I plinked out "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," the way I would play it for my sisters. I was careful to use only one finger, as if the grand were but a toy.
　　"He taught himself that," Mom said. "On a tiny piano that you might find in a fairy orchestra. And he can sing, too, sing like a bird."
　　Dad shot me a quick sideways glance. Too busy sizing up my mother, Mr. Martin did not notice the wordless exchange. My mother rattled on about all of my talents, but nobody listened. In measures too slow and far apart, I practiced my Chopin, so disguised that even old Martin did not discover the melody.
　　"Mr. Day, Mrs. Day, I agree to take on your son. My minimum requirement, however, is for eight weeks of lessons at a time, Wednesday afternoons and Saturdays. I can teach this boy." Then he mentioned, in a voice barely above a whisper, his fee. My father lit another Camel and walked toward the window.
　　"But for your son"—he addressed my mother now—"for Henry, a born musician if I ever heard one, for him, I will require only half the tuition, but you must commit to sixteen weeks. Four months. We will know how far we can go."
　　I picked out a rudimentary "Happy Birthday." My father finished his smoke and tapped me on the shoulder, indicating we were to leave. He walked over to Mom and grabbed her lightly by the fleshy part of her arm above the elbow.
　　"I'll call you Monday," he said, "at three-thirty. We'll think it over."
　　Mr. Martin bowed slightly and looked me straight in the eye. "You have a gift, young man."
　　As we drove home, I watched the city recede in the mirror and disappear. Mom chattered incessantly, dreaming the future, planning our lives. Billy, hands locked on the wheel, concentrated on the road and said nothing.
　　"I'll buy some laying hens, that's what I'll do. Remember when you used to say you wanted to turn our place back into a real farm? I'll start a brood of chickens, and we'll sell the eggs, and that will pay the bill, surely. And imagine, we'll have fresh eggs ourselves every morning, too. And Henry can take the school bus to the streetcar, and the streetcar into town. You could drive him to the streetcar Saturdays?"
　　"I could do chores to earn the fare."
　　"You see, Billy, how much he wants to learn? He has a gift, that Mr. Martin said. And he's so refined. Did you ever see such a thing in your life as that piano? He must shine it every day."
　　My father rolled down his window about an inch to let in a roar of fresh air.
　　"Did you hear him play 'Happy Birthday to You,' like he's been at it forever? It's what he wants; it's what I want. Sweetheart."
　　"When would he practice, Ruth? Even I know you have to play every day, and I might be able to afford piano lessons, but I certainly can't afford a piano in the house."
　　"There's a piano at school," I said. "Nobody uses it. I'm sure if I asked, they'd let me stay after...."
　　"What about your homework and those chores you said you would do? I don't want to see your grades slipping."
　　"Nine times nine is eighty-one. Separate is spelled S-E-P-A-R-A-T-E. Oppenheimer gave us the bomb, which took care of the Japs. The Holy Trinity is the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, and it is a holy mystery that no one can figure out."
　　"All right, Einstein. You can try it, but for eight weeks. Just to be sure. And your mother will have to raise the egg money, and you have to help care for the chickens. They teach you that in that school of yours?"
　　Ruth studied his face, a rare look of love and wonder in her gaze. Both grinned a private, sheepish half-smile, the meaning of which eluded me. Sitting between them, I basked in the warmth of the moment, lacking any guilt over the fact that I was not their child. We drove on, the happiest of happy little families.
　　As we crossed a high bridge over the river not far from our house, a commotion flashed along the riverbank far below. To my horror, I saw a line of changelings walking through a clearing in single file, blending in with the budding trees and bushes, then vanishing in a blink. Those strange children moved like deer. My parents were oblivious, but at the thought of those creatures down there, I flushed and broke into a sweat, which as quickly turned to a chill. That they still existed alarmed me, for I had nearly forgotten them. That they could expose my past made me ill, and I was about to beg my father to pull off the road. But he lit up another cigarette and opened his window wider, and the fresh air alleviated my nausea, if not my fear.
　　Mom broke the spell. "Didn't Mr. Martin ask us to commit to four months?"
　　"I'll call him Monday and work out a deal. Let's try two months, actually, at first. See if the boy likes it."
　　For the next eight years, I took piano lessons, and it was the happiest time of all my lives. If I came in early to school, the nuns were glad to let me practice at the upright in the lunchroom. Later on, they let me into the church to learn the organ, and I was the youngest substitute organist the parish ever had. Life became orderly, and the discipline a joy. Each morning, my hand went under the warm bellies of the chickens, collecting eggs, and each afternoon, my fingers upon the keyboard, perfecting my technique. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, the trip into the city proved a tonic, away from farm and family and into civilization. No longer something wild, but a creature of culture, on my way to becoming a virtuoso once again.

   我在戴家过上了安稳的日子。我们都还在梦乡中时，父亲已经出门上班，在他离开之后到我上学之前的那段金色晨光，真令人舒服。母亲在炉边煮燕麦粥，或者用平底锅煎早餐。双胞胎迈着蹒跚的脚步在厨房里东寻西找。落地窗隔开了外面的世界，将景色框成一幅幅画。戴氏家园长久以来就是个耕作的农场，虽然现在已经放弃了农作，遗迹仍然保留着。一个旧谷仓现在被用作车库，上面的红漆已经酸化成了深紫色。挡在设施前的围栅一条接一条地倒下。大约有一英亩左右的农田正泛出玉米的绿芽，但是无人耕种，只有父亲每年十月才会除一下荆棘。戴家是本地第一家放弃农作的，此后几年里，他们的远邻们也纷纷学样，将宅第和地皮卖给开发商。但当我还是个孩子时，那里仍然是一方安静、寂寞的土地。
　　长大的诀窍就是记住要长大。化身为亨利•戴，在心理上需要去关注他生活的点点滴滴，但为变身所作的准备并不包括弄清对象的家庭历史——对以前生日聚会的记忆，以及其他私事——那些人们必须假装记住的事情。历史能轻而易举地伪造，只要跟一个人粘在一起足够久，就能了解任何事情。但总还有突发事件和百密一疏的时候，这说明了假扮他人身份是多么危险。好在我家几乎不和别人往来，因为老屋茕茕孑立在乡村深处的一块小农地上。
　　快过第一个圣诞节时，某天，母亲正在楼上照顾哭闹的姐妹，我在壁炉旁无所事事，这时大门上响起了敲门声。门廊处站着一个男人，软呢帽拿在手里，发油里淡淡的药物清香混合着一股刚刚吸过的雪茄烟味。他咧开嘴笑了，好像一下子认出了我，但我从未见过他。
　　“亨利•戴，”他说，“我可不会忘了你。”
　　我怔在门口，在记忆中搜寻这人身份的一切线索。他鞋后跟“咔嚓”一声，微一弯腰，从我身边跨过，走进大厅，鬼鬼祟祟地朝楼上瞟了一眼，“你母亲在吗?
　　她好吗? ”
　　中午的这个时候几乎没有人会来拜访，除了偶尔有住在附近的农妇或是我同学的母亲们会来，驾车从镇上送来新鲜的蛋糕和新鲜的闲话。我们对亨利展开侦察时，除了他父亲和送奶工，没有其他男人来过这屋子。
　　那男人把帽子扔在餐具柜上，又转过身对着我：“亨利，有多久没见了? 可能上次还是你妈妈的生日吧? 你看上去连胡子都没长。你爸爸没喂好你吗? ”
　　我盯着这个陌生人，不知该说什么。
　　“快上楼告诉你妈妈我来了。去吧，孩子。”
　　“我该说谁来了? ”
　　“啊，当然是你查理叔叔了。”
　　“但我没有叔叔。”
　　这人哈哈大笑，接着皱起眉头，嘴唇紧紧抿成一条线。“你没事吧，亨利宝贝?”他弯下腰看着我的眼睛，“嗯，我不是你的亲叔叔，孩子，而是你妈妈的最老的老朋友。可以这么说，我是你们家的朋友。”
　　我母亲不请自来地从楼梯上下来，这可把我救了。她一看到这个陌生人，就张开双臂奔过去拥抱他。趁他们团聚之时，我溜走了。
　　这次亲密访问和几周后的惊吓相比，还不算怎么糟。在最初几年，我还有换生灵的所有本领，听觉和狐狸一般灵敏。无论在屋子里的哪个房间，我都能窃听到父母毫不设防的对话。一天晚上，我听到爸爸在枕边说着他的怀疑。
　　“最近你有没有注意到这个孩子有点古怪? ”
　　她钻进被子，躺在他身边，“古怪? ”
　　“他在家里到处唱歌。”
　　“他有副好嗓子。”
　　“还有那些手指。”
　　我看了看我的双手，与其他孩子相比，我的手指长得出奇，不成比例。
　　“我觉得他能成为一个钢琴家。比利，我们应该让他去上课。”
　　“还有脚趾。”
　　我在楼上的床上蜷起脚趾。
　　“还有，整个冬天他好像一点也没长高，也没长胖。”
　　“他要多晒晒太阳。”
　　老家伙翻过身来对她说：“我就是觉得，他是个奇怪的孩子。”
　　“比利……别说了。”
　　那晚，我决定要变成一个真正的男孩，并开始非常留心怎样才能让人觉得我正常。错误一旦铸成，就无可挽救。我不能大幅度缩短我的手指脚趾来招致更多的怀疑，但我能在每天晚上将我身体的其他部分拉伸一点儿，变得和其他孩子一样。我还得出结论，要尽量避着爸爸。
　　弹钢琴这个主意提醒了我，可以这样来讨好母亲。特别是在星期天，她不听收音机里的歌曲时，会放古典音乐的唱片。巴赫使我的头脑随着沉埋的往事旋转，从遥远的过去荡起一个回声。但我得想个办法来提起我的兴趣，又不能让妈妈发觉她的私房话无论多么小声多么私密都会被听到。幸运的是，双胞胎提供了解决方案。
　　圣诞节时，远方的祖父母送给她们一台玩具钢琴。它和面包篮差不多大，只能弹出一个八度音阶。从大年初一开始，琴键上就蒙了一层灰。
　　我把这个玩具抢救了出来，坐在幼儿室里，弹奏那遥远的记忆中隐隐约约的曲调。妹妹们和往常一样被迷住了，我在钢琴有限的音域上测试记忆时，她们像是练瑜伽似的端坐在地上。母亲手里拿着抹布经过，站在门口静听。我用眼角余光看到她正看着我，我用潇洒的一挥结束曲子时．她的掌声不出意料地响起。
　　从做完功课到吃晚饭的短暂时间里，我弹了各种各样的调子，慢慢地展露出我的天分，但她还需要更多的鼓励。我的计谋在不经意间展开，方法简单。我透露说学校里的孩子有半数都在上音乐课，但其实只有一两个。开车出去时，我把车窗下面的侧板当作琴键，手指不停地打节拍，直到父亲命我停下。帮母亲擦碟子时，我哼着一些熟悉曲子的开头几节，比如贝多芬《第九交响曲》。我没有恳求，只是等待时机，等她相信这个主意是她自己的想法。亨利八岁生日前的那个星期六，父母开车带我进城去见一个教钢琴的人，这时，我的策略告一段落。
　　我们把双胞胎交给邻居照管，三个人坐进父亲车子的前排，穿着我们最好的衣服，在那个春天的早晨出发了。车子驶过我上学的镇子，我们停下来望弥撒，然后开上通往城里的高速公路。闪着光泽的小汽车在柏油马路上迤逦前行，我们加速并入这条两端不断延长的能量带。我们的速度比我一生中任何一次都快，而我已将近有一百年没有去过城里了。比利像老朋友似的驾驶着德苏鲁，一手掌着方向盘，另一条空着的胳膊横在母亲和我背后的座位上。老西班牙征服者①从方向盘中央盯着我们，爸爸转弯时，这个探险家的眼睛似乎也跟着我们。
　　随着我们开近城市，最先出现的是郊区的工厂，巨大的烟囱喷吐黑云，里面的炉子燃烧着火的心脏。马路转了个弯——猛然间，建筑物铺向天际。城区的庞大规模让我敛声屏气，我们越是接近，它就越加壮阔，然后我们突然就进入了车水马龙的街道。阴影加深、变暗。
　　十字路口，一辆电车嘎嘎开过，它的天线在上面的电线上爆出火花。
　　车门像风箱似的拉开，一群穿着春衣、戴着帽子的人涌出来，他们站在街上的水泥安全岛上，等待红绿灯转变。百货商店的橱窗上映着购物者和交警的身影，和最新陈列的商品融合在一起，女士套裙和男士西装穿在模特儿身上。起初那些模特儿把我弄迷糊了，它们看起来栩栩如生，但摆出的姿态纹丝不动。
　　“我不知道你为什么觉得有必要大老远为了这事来城里。你知道我不喜欢进城。
　　从来都找不到停车位。”
　　妈妈伸出右臂。“那边有个位置，我们运气好吧? ”
　　在上升的电梯里，父亲伸手进外套口袋里摸出一支骆驼香烟，电梯门在第五层上打开，他点燃了烟。我们早到了几分钟，他们还在争辩是否应当进去，我已走到门口跨了进去。马丁先生也许不是一个仙灵，但看上去却很有仙灵风范。他又高又瘦，长长的白发剪成乱蓬蓬的童花头，穿一件紫红色旧西装。克里斯托夫•罗宾长大成人，变得彬彬有礼。他身后立着一架我所见过的最美丽的机器。这架大钢琴披着亮黑色的漆料，将房间中所有的活力都吸聚到它撑起的琴盖上。这些琴键在宁静中把持着发出任何一个美丽音符的可能。我万分震撼，连他第一次发问都没回答。
　　“有何贵干，小伙子? ”
　　“我叫亨利•戴，我到这儿来学习你会的所有东西。”
　　“亲爱的小伙子，”他叹道，“恐怕这是不可能的。”
　　我走到钢琴前，坐在琴凳上。琴键打开我悠远的记忆，那是一位严厉的德国指导老师命令我加快节奏。我尽可能舒张手指，看看自己的跨度，然后把它们放在白键上，没有发出一点额外的声音。马丁先生悄悄移步到我身后，从我肩后审视着我的手指，“你以前弹过吗? ”
　　“很久以前……”
　　“给我弹一个中央c ，戴先生。”
　　我不假思索地用右手拇指侧面按下了一个键。
　　我的父母走进房间，礼貌地清了清嗓子以示到来。马丁先生转过身，大步过去与他们见礼。他们握手和介绍时，我从音阶的中间往两边弹。钢琴的音调抖擞起强有力的神经，唤醒我记忆中的曲谱。
　　我头脑中有一个声音要求我heissblintig，heiblintig更富激情，更有感觉。
　　“你们说他是个初学者。”
　　“他是，”我母亲回答说，“我想他以前连真正的钢琴都没见过。”
　　“这孩子是天才。”
　　为了好玩，我用给妹妹们演奏的方法弹起《小星星，亮晶晶》。我谨慎地只用了一根手指，好似这架大钢琴只是个玩具。
　　“他自学的，”妈妈说，“在一架小钢琴上弹，就是您在玩具管弦乐器店看到的那种。他还会唱歌，唱得跟鸟儿似的。”
　　爸爸飞快地瞥了我一眼。马丁先生忙于评价我母亲，没有注意到这无言的交流。
　　母亲滔滔不绝地历数我的才能，但没人在听。我缓慢地、断断续续地练习我的肖邦，伪装得如此巧妙，甚至老资格的马丁都没有听出这个曲调来。
　　“戴先生，戴夫人，我同意收下你们的儿子。但我最低的要求是，_ 次要学八周，每周是周三下午和周六，我来教这个孩子。”接着他用比耳语高不了多少的声音提出了费用。父亲又点了一支骆驼烟，走到窗前。
　　“但是对于您的儿子——”现在他跟我妈妈说话了——“亨利是我闻所未闻的天才音乐家，对于他，我只收一半学费，但必须来上十六周的课。四个月。我们会知道他能学到什么程度。”
　　我弹起基础性的< 生日快乐》。父亲吸完烟，拍了拍我肩膀，示意我们要走了。
　　他走到妈妈身边，轻轻握住她的膀子。
　　“星期一我会给您打电话，”他说，“三点半。我们会考虑考虑。”
　　马丁先生微微鞠躬，看定我的眼睛，“小伙子，你有天赋。”
　　回家路上，我看着城市在后视镜中倒退、消失。妈妈喋喋不休地梦想着未来，计划着我们的生活。比利两只手锁定在方向盘上，注意力集中在路上，什么话也没说。
　　“我要买一些下蛋的母鸡，我要干这个。还记得你说过，你想把①德文：热血澎湃．热血澎湃．我们的地方变回真正的农场? 我要从一窝小鸡开始，我们卖掉鸡蛋，然后当然能付这笔款子。想想吧，我们自己每天早晨能吃到新鲜鸡蛋。亨利能坐学校巴士去换乘电车，再坐电车进城。星期六你能送他去电车站吗? ”
　　“我要做杂活赚钱。”
　　“你看，比利，他多想学啊? 他是个天才，马丁先生说的。他是个多么有教养的人。你这辈子见过这样的钢琴吗? 他一定每天都擦它。”
　　父亲把车窗摇下一寸，一股新鲜空气呼啸而入。
　　“你没听见他弹《生日快乐》就像他一直在弹似的? 这是他想要的，这是我想要的。甜心。”
　　“他什么时候练习呢，露丝? 就连我也知道他得每天弹，我也许付得起钢琴课的学费，但我肯定买不起一架钢琴放在家里。”
　　“学校里有钢琴，”我说，“没人用它。我肯定我开口的话，他们会让我放学后……”
　　“那你的家庭作业和你说过你来做的家务怎么办? 我不想看到你成绩下滑。”
　　“9 乘9 等于81。separate拼作S －E －P-A_R-A-T-E 。奥本海默发明了原子弹，它照顾了日本人。圣三位一体是圣父、圣子和圣灵，这个神圣之谜无人能解。”
　　“好吧，爱因斯坦。你去学学看，但只能八周。去求个心安。你母亲来卖鸡蛋赚钱，你帮忙养小鸡。他们在你学校里教过你那个吗? ”
　　露丝注视着他的面容，目光中有种难得的爱意和惊讶。两人都露出一种会意的、羞涩的淡淡笑容，我不解其中之意。我坐在他们中间，沐浴在此刻的温暖中，丝毫不为我不是他们的孩子而感到内疚。
　　我们开车向前，这是一个快乐小家庭最为幸福的一刻。
　　当我们穿过一条离家不远的高架桥时，下方的河岸闪过一丝悸动。我恐惧地看到一队换生灵排队走过一块空地，走进发芽的树木和灌木丛，转眼间就消失了。这些奇怪的孩子行动像鹿一样敏捷。
　　我的父母没有看见，但我一想到下面的那些生物，就脸上发烧，冷汗直冒，很快打起寒战来。他们还在，我惊慌失措，因为我已经几乎忘记了他们。他们会揭发我的过去，我一阵恶心，差点要央求父亲在路边停车。但他又点了一支烟，把车窗开大了些，新鲜空气减轻了我的晕眩，但没有减轻我的恐惧。
　　妈妈打破了沉默，“马丁先生不是让我们学四个月吗? ”
　　“我星期一会给他打电话，达成协议。让我们先试两个月，其实，就是开个头。
　　看看这孩子是否喜欢。”
　　此后八年，我都学钢琴，这是我生命中所有最快乐的时光。如果我上学得早，修女们就会高兴地让我在餐厅的竖式钢琴上练习。后来，他们让我去教堂学管风琴，我成了教区有史以来最年轻的管风琴候补手。生活循序渐进，训练乐在其中。早晨，我把手探入母鸡温暖的肚子底下收集鸡蛋，下午，我把手指放在琴键上琢磨我的技艺。每周三和周六的进城让我美滋滋地离开农场和家，进入文明世界。我不再是野性的东西，而是一种有文化的生物，正再次走在成为演奏家的路上。
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Chapter 6
　　In setting down these recollections of my early years so far removed from their unfolding, I am fooled, as all are, by time itself. My parents, long gone from my world, live again. The redcoated woman, met only once, abides more persistently in mind than what I did yesterday or whether I had thistles and honey or elderberries for breakfast. My sisters, now grown into their middle years, are ever infants to me, two matching cherubs, ringlets of curls, chubby and helpless as cubs. Memory, which so confounds our waking life with anticipation and regret, may well be our one true earthly consolation when time slips out of joint.
　　My first nighttime foray into the woods left me exhausted. I burrowed beneath a heap of coats and blankets and furs, and by next midday, a fever burned. Zanzara brought me a cup of hot tea and a bowl of nasty broth, ordering me to "drink, drink, sip it." But I could not stomach a single swallow. No matter how many layers they heaped upon me, I could not get warm. By nightfall, I shook uncontrollably with chills. My teeth rattled and my bones ached.
　　Sleep brought strange, horrible nightmares where everything seemed to happen at once. My family invaded my dreams. Hands joined, they stand in a half circle around a hole in the ground, silent as stones. My father grabs me around the ankle and pulls me from the hollow tree where I lie hidden and sets me on the ground. Then he reaches in again and yanks each twin by the ankles and holds them aloft, the girls giggling in fear and pleasure. And my mother admonishes him: "Don't be so hard on the boy. Where have you been, where have you been?"
　　Then I am on the road, in the arclight streaming from an old Ford, the deer supine on the pavement, its breathing shallow, and I synchronize my respiration with its rhythms and the redcoated woman with the pale green eyes says: "Who are you?" And she bends to my face, taking my chin in her hands, to kiss me on the lips, and I am a boy again. Me. But I cannot remember my name.
　　Aniday. A wild child like myself, a girl named Speck, leans over to kiss my forehead, and her lips cool my hot skin. Behind her, the oak leaves turn into a thousand crows that take off in unison, flying away in a great twisting, singing tornado of wings. Silence returns after the drumming flock escapes to the horizon and morning breaks through. I give chase to the birds, running so fast and so hard that my skin splits a seam on both sides and my heart drums against my ribs until halted by the deathly appearance of a roiling black river. Concentrating with my entire mind, I see to the other side, and there on the bank, holding hands around a hole in the ground, are my father and mother, the woman in the red coat, my two sisters, and the boy who is not me. They stand like stones, like trees, staring into the clearing. If I summon courage to jump into the water, I may reach them. Blackwater once carried me away, so I stand on the bank, calling out in a voice that cannot be heard, with words no one can understand.
　　
　　
　　I don't know how long I was delirious with fever. Overnight, a day or two, a week, a year? Or longer? When I awakened under a damp steely sky, I felt snug and safe, although my arms and legs throbbed with stiffness and my insides felt scraped raw and hollow. Attending me, Ragno and Zanzara played cards, using my belly as a table. Their game defied logic, for they had not managed to swipe a full deck. Mixing remnants from many different packs, they ended up with nearly a hundred cards. Each of them held a fistful, and the remainder sat in a jumble on my stomach.
　　"Do you have any cinque?" Ragno asked.
　　Zanzara scratched his head.
　　Holding up five fingers, Ragno shouted at him, "Cinque, cinque."
　　"Go fish."
　　And fish he would, turning over card after card until he found a match, which he would then hold up triumphantly before ceding his turn to Zanzara.
　　"You are a cheater, Ragno."
　　"And you are a bloodsucker."
　　I coughed, making my consciousness known.
　　"Hey look, kid, he's awake."
　　Zanzara put his clammy hand against my forehead. "Let me get you something to eat. A cup of tea, maybe?"
　　"You been asleeping a long time, kid. That's what you get for going out with those boys. Those Irish boys, they're no good."
　　I looked around the camp for my friends, but as usual at midday, everyone else was gone.
　　"What day is it?" I asked.
　　Zanzara flicked out his tongue, tasting the air. "I'd say Tuesday."
　　"No, I mean what day of the month."
　　"Kid, I'm not even sure what month it is."
　　Ragno interrupted. "Must be getting toward spring. The days are growing longer, inch by inch."
　　"Did I miss Christmas?" I felt homesick for the first time in ages.
　　The boys shrugged their shoulders.
　　"Did I miss Santa Claus?"
　　"Who he?"
　　"How do I get out of here?"
　　Ragno pointed to a path obscured by two evergreens.
　　"How do I go home?"
　　Their eyes glazed over, and, holding hands, they turned around and skipped away. I felt like crying, but the tears would not come. A fierce gale blew in from the west, pushing dark clouds across the sky. Huddled under my blankets, I observed the changing day, alone with my troubles, until the others came skittering home on the wind. They took no more notice of me than any other lump on the ground one passes every day. Igel started a small fire by striking a flint until a spark caught the kindling. Two of the girls, Kivi and Blomma, uncovered the nearly depleted pantry and dug out our meager fare, neatly skinning a partially frozen squirrel with a few deft strokes of a very sharp knife. Speck crumbled dried herbs into our old teapot and filled it with water drawn from a cistern. Chavisory toasted pine nuts on a flat griddle. The boys who were not engaged in cooking took off their wet shoes and boots, exchanging them for yesterday's gear, now dry and hard. All of this domestic routine proceeded without fuss and with scant conversation; they had made a science of preparing for the night. As the squirrel cooked on a spit, Smaolach came over to check on me, and was surprised to discover me awake and alert.
　　"Aniday, you've come back from the dead."
　　He reached for my hand, pulling me to my feet. We embraced, but he squeezed me so hard that my sides ached. Arm around my shoulder, he led me to the fire, where some of the faeries greeted me with expressions of wonder and relief. Béka gave me an apathetic sneer, and Igel shrugged at my hello and continued waiting to be served, arms crossed at his chest. We set to the squirrel and nuts, the meal barely curbing the growling appetite of all assembled. After the first stringy bites, I pushed away my tin plate. The firelight made everyone's face glow, and the grease on their lips made their smiles shine.
　　After supper, Luchóg motioned for me to come closer, and he whispered in my ear that he had stashed away a surprise for me. We walked away from camp, the last rays of pink sunlight illuminating the way. Clamped between two large stones were four small envelopes.
　　"Take them," he grunted, the top stone heavy in his arms, and I whisked out the letters before he dropped the cap with a thud. Reaching inside his shirt to his private pouch, Luchóg extracted but the nub of a sharp pencil, which he presented with becoming modesty. "Merry Christmas, little treasure. Something to get you started."
　　"So it is Christmas today?"
　　Luchóg looked around to see if anyone was listening. "You did not miss it."
　　"Merry Christmas," I said. And I tore open my gifts, ruining the precious envelopes. Over the years, I have lost two of the four letters, but they were not so valuable in and of themselves. One was a mortgage stub with payment enclosed, and at his entreaty, Luchóg received the check to use as rolling paper for his cigarettes. The other lost piece of correspondence was a rabid letter to the editor of the local newspaper, denouncing Harry Truman. Covered both front and back with crabbed handwriting that scuttled from margin to margin, that paper proved useless. The other two had much more white space, and with one, the lines were so far apart, I was able to write between them.
　　
　　Feb. 2, 1950
Dearest,
The other night ment so much to me that I can't understand why you have not phoned or written since that night. I am confused. You told me that you loved me and I love you too, but still you have not answered my last three letters and nobody answers the telephone at your home or even your work. I am not in the habit of doing what we did in the car, but because you told me that you loved me and you were in such pain and agony as you kept saying. I wanted to let you know that I am not that kind of girl.
　I am that kind of girl who loves you and that kind of girl who also expects a Gentleman to behave like a Gentleman.
　Please write back to me or better yet call me on the phone. I am not angry so much as just confused, but I will be mad if I do not here from you.
　I love you, do you know that?
Love,
Martha
　　
　　At the time, I considered this letter to be the truest expression of real love that I had ever known. It was difficult to read, for Martha wrote in cursive, but thankfully in big letters that resembled printing. The second letter baffled me more than the first, but it, too, used only three-quarters of the front side of the page.
　　2/3/50
Dear Mother and Father,
Words cannot begin to express the sorrow and sympathy I send to you at the loss of dear Nana. She was a good woman, and a kind one, and she is now in a better place. I am sorry that I cannot come home, but I've not enough money for the trip. So, all my heartfelt grief must be shared by this most insufficient letter.
　Winter draws to a cold and unhappy close. Life is not fair, since you have lost Nana, and I, near everything.
Your Son
　　
　　When they learned of the two messages, the girls in camp insisted they be shared aloud. They were curious not only about their substance but about my professed literacy, for almost no one in camp bothered to read or write any longer. Some had not learned, and others had chosen to forget. We sat in a ring around the fire, and I read them as best I could, not fully comprehending all of the words or understanding their meanings. "What do you think of Dearest?" Speck asked the group after I had finished.
　　"He is a cad; he is a rotter," Onions said.
　　Kivi pushed back her blonde curls and sighed, her face bright in the firelight. "I do not understand why Dearest will not write back to Martha, but that is nothing compared to the problems of Your Son."
　　"Yes," Chavisory jumped in, "perhaps Your Son and Martha should get married, and then they will both live happily ever after."
　　"Well, I hope Mother and Father find Nana," added Blomma.
　　Into the night the bewildering conversation flowed. They fabricated poetical fictions about the other world. The mysteries of their sympathies, concerns, and sorrows perplexed me, yet the girls had a wellspring of empathy for matters outside our knowing. I was anxious, however, to have them go away, so that I might practice my writing. But the girls lingered until the fire collapsed into embers; then they nestled under the covers together, where they continued their discussion, pondering the fate of the writers, their subjects, and their intended readers. I would have to wait to use the pages. The night became bitterly cold, and soon all twelve of us were huddled together in a tangle of limbs. When the last of us wiggled under the mat, I suddenly remembered the day. "Merry Christmas!" I said, but my greetings brought only derision: "Shuddup!" and "Go to sleep." During the long hours before dawn, a foot hit me on the chin, an elbow knacked me in the groin, and a knee banged against my sore ribs. In a dark corner of the pack, a girl groaned when Béka climbed upon her. Enduring their fitfulness, I waited for morning, the letters pinned against my chest.
　　The rising sun reflected against a blanket of high cirrus clouds, coloring them in a spectrum that began in brightness on the eastern edge and fanned out in soft pastels. Branches of the trees broke the sky into fragments, like a kaleidoscope. When the red sun rose, the pattern shifted hues until it all dissipated into blue and white. Up and out of bed, I savored the light growing strong enough for drawing and writing. I took out my papers and pencil, put a cold flat stone in my lap, and folded the mortgage statement into quarters. I drew a cross along the folds and made panels for four drawings. The pencil was at once odd and familiar in my grasp. In the first panel, I created from memory my mother and father, my two baby sisters, and myself, full-body portraits lined up in a straight row. When I considered my work, they looked crude and uneven, and I was disappointed in myself. In the next panel, I drew the road through the forest with the deer, the woman, the car, Smaolach and Luchóg in the same perspective. Light, for example, was indicated by two straight lines emanating from a circle on the car and extending outward to opposite corners of the frame. The deer looked more like a dog, and I dearly wished for an eraser on the yellow pencil. In the third panel: a flattened Christmas tree, lavishly decorated, a pile of gifts spread out on the floor. In the final panel, I drew a picture of a boy drowning. Bound in spirals, he sinks be-low the wavy line.
　　When I showed my paper to Smaolach later that afternoon, he took me by the hand and made me run with him to hide behind a wild riot of holly. He looked around in all directions to make sure we were alone; then he carefully folded the paper into quarters and handed it back to me.
　　"You must be more careful with what you draw in them pictures."
　　"What's the matter?"
　　"If Igel finds out, then you'll know what's the matter. You have to realize, Aniday, that he doesn't accept any contact with the other side, and that woman ..."
　　"The one in the red coat?"
　　"He's a-scared of being found out." Smaolach grabbed the paper and tucked it into my coat pocket. "Some things are better kept to yourself," he said, then winked at me and walked away, whistling.
　　Writing proved more painful than drawing. Certain letters—B, G, R, W—caused my hand to cramp. In those early writings, sometimes my K bent backward, S went astray, an F accidentally became an E, and other errors that are amusing to me now as I look back on my early years, but at the time, my handwriting caused me much shame and embarrassment. Worse than the alphabet, however, were the words themselves. I could not spell for beans and lacked all punctuation. My vocabulary annoyed me, not to mention style, diction, sentence structure, variety, adjectives and adverbs, and other such matters. The physical act of writing took forever. Sentences had to be assembled nail by nail, and once complete, they stood no better than a crude approximation of what I felt or wanted to say, a woebegone fence across a white field. Yet I persisted through that morning, writing down all I could remember in whatever words I had at my command. By midday, both blank sides of the paper contained the story of my abduction and the adventures as well as the vaguest memories of life before this place. I had already forgotten more than I remembered—my own name and the names of my sisters, my dear bed, my school, my books, any notion of what I wanted to be when I grew up. All that would be given back to me in due course, but without Luchóg's letters, I would have been lost forever. When I had squeezed the final word in the last available space, I went to look for him. Out of paper, my mission was to find more.

    从一开始记录早年的回忆，我就和所有人一样被时间玩弄于股掌之间。我的父母早已离开了我的世界，却又活了过来。那个红衣女子，虽然只见过一次，却长留在我心中，比我昨天做过的事、早餐吃的是蓟草加蜂蜜还是博伊森莓记得还清楚。
　　我的妹妹们如今已人到中年，但对我而言永远是婴孩，一对一模一样的小天使，卷卷的头发，胖乎乎的，像幼崽一样地不能自立。回忆，用期望和悔恨将我们梦醒的生活弄得狼狈不堪，当时间在不经意间脱了节，也许只有它才是我们尘世间惟一的慰藉。
　　第一次夜间林中探险让我筋疲力尽。我躺在一堆外套、毯子和毛皮之下，到了次日中午，我发烧了。赞扎拉递给我一杯热茶和一碗难喝的肉汤，跟我说“喝吧，喝吧，抿下去”。但我一口都咽不下。不管他们在我身上加多少层盖被，我就是没法暖和起来。到了晚上，我不由自主地浑身打冷颤，牙齿格格直响，骨骼酸痛。
　　睡眠带来奇怪而又可怕的噩梦，所有事情似乎都一下子发生了。
　　我的家人闯入我的梦中。他们手挽手在一个地洞前站成半圆，沉默无言。父亲抓住我的脚踝，把我从藏身的树洞里拖出来，让我站在地上。然后他又伸手进去拉住那两个双胞胎的脚踝，把她们举到半空中，女孩们又害怕又开心，咯咯直笑。母亲劝说父亲：“别对这孩子太厉害了。你去哪儿了? 去哪儿了? ”
　　接着我到了路上，一辆老福特弧形的光照下，那头鹿气若游丝地躺在公路上，我让自己的呼吸节奏与它合拍，那个有一双浅绿色眼睛的红衣女子说：“你是谁? ”
　　她弯下腰来，对着我的脸，两手捧着我的脸颊吻我的唇，我又变成了一个男孩。我。
　　但我记不得自己的名字。
　　安尼戴。和我一样的一个野孩子，一个名叫斯帕克的女孩，凑过来吻了我的前额，她的嘴唇使我火烫的皮肤感到清凉。在她身后，橡树叶子变成上千只乌鸦，它们一起起飞，翅膀扇起一阵巨大的、盘绕歌唱的旋风。这嗡嗡的一群逃离天际之后，寂静再次降临，曙光初照。我追赶着鸟群，跑得又快又急，身体两侧的皮肤裂开口子，心脏在肋骨上敲得咚咚直响，直到一条散发着死亡气息的、奔腾的黑色河流出现在我面前。我聚精会神地望向对岸，河岸上手挽着手在一个地洞边站成半圆的，是我的父母、那个红衣女子、我的两个妹妹，还有一个男孩，但不是我。他们像石头一样站着，像树一样站着，瞪着空地。如果我鼓起勇气跳进水里，也许能到他们身边，但黑色河水会一下子将我卷走? 于是我站在岸上，喊出来的声音听不到，喊出来的话无人能懂。
　　我不知道自己发烧昏迷了多久。一个晚上，一天，两天，一个星期，还是一年?或者更久?我醒过来时，头顶上是潮湿的铅色天空，我觉得暖和舒服，虽然胳膊和腿都僵硬地抽搐，体内像被刮空了一般生痛。照顾我的劳格诺和赞扎拉在打牌，把我的肚子当作桌子。他们的游戏毫无逻辑可言，因为他们从来没想过要偷一副完整的纸牌。
　　他们把很多不同牌里的残张凑在一起，弄出了一副上百张的牌。他们两只手里都抓得满满的，剩余的牌则在我的肚子上横七竖八的。
　　“你有5 点吗? ”劳格诺问。
　　赞扎拉挠了挠头皮。
　　劳格诺举起五个手指，朝他大叫：“5 点，5 点。”
　　“自己找。”
　　他找起来了，把一张又一张的牌翻过来，直到他找到一张配对的，接着他兴高采烈地把牌举起来，再让赞扎拉出牌。
　　“你是个骗子，劳格诺。”
　　“你是个吸血鬼。”
　　我咳嗽一声，让他们知道我醒了。
　　“嘿，看啊，小家伙，他醒了。”
　　赞扎拉把他又湿又冷的手放在我额头，“我给你拿点吃的吧。来杯茶吧? ”
　　“你睡了很长时间，小家伙。这就是你跟那些小子出去的代价。
　　那些爱尔兰小子没一个好的。”
　　我环视营寨找我的朋友们，但其他人中午总是不在。
　　“今天是什么日子? ”我问。
　　赞扎拉伸出舌头尝了尝空气，“我说是星期二。”
　　“不，我是说今天是这个月的几号。”
　　“小家伙，我连这个月是哪个月都不确定呢。”
　　劳格诺插话说：“肯定快到春天了。白天在一寸一寸地变长。”
　　“我错过圣诞节了吗? ”这么多年来，我第一次想家。
　　男孩们耸了耸肩膀。
　　“我错过圣诞老人了吗? ”
　　“他是谁? ”
　　“我怎么才能从这儿出去? ”
　　劳格诺指着一条被两株常绿树遮挡着的小径。
　　“我怎么才能回家? ”
　　他们眼珠往上一翻，牵着手转身就溜走了。我想哭，但没有眼泪。一阵狂风从西边刮来，把黑云推过天际。我缩在毯子下，观察着瞬息万变的天色，独自咀嚼着自己的麻烦，直到其他人乘风归来。他们对我也不多看一眼，好像我不过是每天经过的路上的一块泥巴而已。伊格尔敲打一块燧石，撞出一团小小的火焰，点着了蜡烛。齐维和布鲁玛这两个女孩打开我们快要耗尽的食品柜，翻出所剩无几的食物。
　　她们用一把非常锋利的刀，三下五除二就把一只冻得半僵的松鼠剥了皮。斯帕克把干草药弄碎，放进我们的旧茶壶里，然后注入蓄水池里汲来的水。卡维素芮用平底锅烤松果。不下厨的男孩们脱下湿透的鞋子和靴子，换上他们昨天的装束，现在是又干又硬了。他们做这些日常家务活井然有序，没有片言只语，他们已经发展出一套为过夜做准备的科学方法。松鼠叉在火上烤时，斯茂拉赫过来查看我，发现我清醒着，不由大喜。
　　“安尼戴，你又活过来了。”
　　他拉住我的手，把我扯起来。我们抱在一起，但他将我抱得太紧，弄得我的腰都痛了。他环着我的肩膀把我带到火边，几个仙灵和我打招呼，表示惊奇和放心。
　　贝卡无动于衷地冷笑一声，伊格尔听见我的问好，耸了耸肩继续抱着胳膊等待上菜。
　　我们吃的是松鼠和坚果，大家都狼吞虎咽地吃，停不下来。我咬了一口带筋的肉，就把锡盘推到了一旁。火光映着每个人的脸，他们嘴唇上的油腻给笑容镀上了光彩。
　　晚餐后，鲁契克示意我靠近，他在我耳边低声说，他藏了一件东西，要给我个惊喜。我们朝营寨外走去，落日最后几缕粉色的光照亮小径。夹在两块大石头中间的是四个小小的信封。
　　“拿去吧。”他搬起上面的重石，哼唧着说，在他“砰”地砸下这块石头之前，我飞快地抽出信封。鲁契克把手伸进衬衫里拿他的私藏革袋，从里面取出一小截削尖的铅笔，递给我，神态变得谨慎起来，“圣诞节快乐，小宝贝。让你大吃一惊的东西。”
　　“这么说今天是圣诞节? ”
　　鲁契克环视周围，看是否有人在听，“你没错过圣诞节。”
　　“圣诞节快乐。”我说。我撕开礼物，弄坏了这些珍贵的信封。后来，我丢失了其中两封信，但它们无论是内容还是信纸本身都无甚价值。一封装的是注有支付款额的抵押存根，在鲁契克的要求下，我把支票给他去用作卷烟纸了。另外丢失的一封是写给地方报纸编辑的信，公开指责哈利•杜鲁门，措辞激烈。这张报纸正反面的空白处都涂满了潦草的字迹，已经没用了。另两封有较多空白处，其中一封的行距特别宽，可以让我写东西。
　　最亲爱的：那晚对我来说意义重大，我不明白为何从那晚起，你就不打电话也不写信了。我很不解。你告诉我你爱我，我也爱你，但你仍然没有回复我最近的三封信，你家里和你办公室的电话也无人应答。我不常做我们在汽车里做的那种事，只因为你对我说你爱我，你不停地说，而且说得那么痛苦难受。我想让你知道，我不是那种女孩。
　　我是那种爱你的女孩，是那种希望一个绅士能有绅士举止的女孩。
　　请给我回信，或者最好给我打电话。我不怎么生气，但是很困惑，如果我得不到你的回音，我会发疯的。
　　我爱你，你知道吗?
　　爱你的玛莎1950年2 月2 日当时，我认为这封信是我所知道的对于真爱最为真切的表达。它不好读，因为玛莎字迹潦草，不过好在字体很大，像印刷体。第二封信比第一封更让我摸不着头脑，它也只占用了一页纸正面的四分之三。
　　亲爱的妈妈和爸爸：    ’言辞不足以表达我对失去亲爱的娜娜所感到的悲伤和同情。她是个好女人，心地善良，如今她去了一个更好的所在。我很抱歉没能回家，因为路费不够。因此，只能借这封信言不尽意地传达我真诚的哀思。
　　冬天快过去了，这是一个寒冷而悲伤的结局。生活是不公平的，你们失去了娜娜，而我，几乎失去了一切。
　　你们的儿子1950年2 月3 日当营寨里的女孩们知道有这两封信时，坚持要我读给众人听。
　　她们好奇的不仅仅是信的内容，还有我自称能识文断字，因为营寨里没有人耐烦多读多写。有些是没有学过，其他人则选择忘记。我们围着篝火坐成一圈，虽然有些词我不认识，或不能完全领会其中之意，我还是尽我所能读给他们听。
　　“你们对‘最亲爱的’怎么想? ”我读完后，斯帕克这样问大家。
　　“他是流氓，是无赖。”奥尼恩斯说。
　　齐维捋开她金色的鬈发，叹了口气，脸蛋在火光中映亮，“我不明白为什么‘最亲爱的’不给玛莎写回信，但和‘你们的儿子’的问题相比，这不算什么。”
　　“是啊，”卡维素芮插嘴说，“说不定‘你们的儿子’和玛莎应该结婚，然后他们都能幸福地生活了。”
　　“嗯，我希望‘妈妈和爸爸’找到娜娜。”布鲁玛补充说。
　　这场混乱的谈话一直持续到晚上。她们对另一个世界虚构着充满诗意的故事。
　　我不明白她们何以会同情、关怀和悲伤。她们对认知范围之外的东西感同身受，而且这种情感取之不竭。然而我却急着想要她们快些离开，那样我就可以练习写字了。
　　但女孩们逗留到篝火烧成灰烬，然后又一起依偎在盖毯下继续讨论，探讨着写信人的命运，他们的话题，还有他们的读者。我想用纸就得等。夜晚冷得刺骨，很快我们十二个都拥挤在了一块。当最后有人在毯子下一动，我突然想起今天是什么日子。
　　“圣诞节快乐! ”我说，但我的祝福只换来嘲笑：“闭嘴! ”“睡觉。”黎明前的漫漫长夜里，一只脚踢了我下巴，一条肘子撞了我肚子，还有一个膝盖敲到了我酸痛的肋骨。在黑暗的角落里，贝卡趴在一个女孩身上，女孩呻吟着。我忍受着他们一阵阵的骚扰，等待天明，那些信贴在我的胸口。
　　曙光照亮了一层高空卷云，它们被染成五颜六色，从东方的天际开始发亮，然后像柔和的蜡笔画一般飘拂开去。树木的枝丫将天空分割成万花筒。红日升起来时，图案不停地变化着颜色，最后一切消散成蓝白色。我起身下床，尽情享受天光，天色已经亮到能够画画和写字了。我拿出纸笔，在腿上放一块冷冰冰的石板，把抵押存根对折成四格，沿着折痕划了个十字，分出四块画区。手中握着铅笔，感觉既奇怪又熟悉。在第一个格子里，我按照记忆画出了母亲和父亲、两个襁褓中的妹妹和我自己，都是全身像，站成笔直的一排。我看着自己的作品，觉得他们又粗糙又不均匀，对自己失望不已。下一个格子里，我画了穿过森林的马路、路上的鹿、女人、汽车、同一视角的斯茂拉赫和鲁契克。例如光线就在汽车上画个圆圈，从圆圈上拉出两条直线，一直画到框线的另一角。鹿画得更像狗，我真想要一支带橡皮头的黄铅笔。第三个格子里是一棵伐倒的圣诞树，上面挂满了装饰物，地上铺着一堆礼物。
　　最后的格子里，我画了一个正在溺水的男孩。他五花大绑，沉到了水波之下。
　　那天下午傍晚时分，我把这张纸拿给斯茂拉赫看，他一把抓住我的手，带我跑到一丛茂密的冬青树后藏起来。他查看四周，确定除我俩外别无他人，接着他小心翼翼地把纸折了两折交还给我。
　　“你把这些东西画下来，要更加小心。”
　　“怎么啦? ”
　　“如果被伊格尔发现，你就会知道怎么啦。你要知道，安尼戴，他不接受和另一边的任何联系，而那个女人……”
　　“穿红衣服的那个? ”
　　“他害怕被发现。”斯茂拉赫抓起画纸塞进我外套口袋，“有些东西最好只有你自己知道。”他说罢，朝我眨眨眼，吹起口哨走开了。
　　写字比画画更痛苦。有些字母——B 、G 、R 、w ——让我的手抽筋。刚开始写的那阵子，有时我的K 倒着弯，s 划溜了，F 一不小心写成了E ，还有一些别的错误。如今当我回顾早年岁月时，就觉得好笑，但在当时，我的书法让我惭愧、尴尬不已。比字母更麻烦的是单词。我拼不出“豆子”，标点一个都没有。词汇就够我烦的，更别提文风、措辞、句子结构、多样性、形容词副词，以及其他诸如此类的东西。
　　我不停地写着。句子得一点一点地挤出来，一旦写完，它们就像是我的感觉或我想说的话的次品，就像横在白色田野里的愁眉苦脸的栅栏。但那天早晨我坚持不懈地用我掌握的所有字眼，写下所有我还记得的事。到了中午，这张纸正反两面的空白处都写满了我被诱拐和探险的经历，还有我来到此地前的模糊记忆。我忘掉的比记得的更多，我忘了自己的名字、妹妹们的名字、我亲爱的床、我的学校、我的书本、我长大后想干什么。总有一天，这些全都会还给我，但如果没有鲁契克的信，我就完全迷失了。我在最后的空白处挤出最后一个词后，就去找鲁契克。纸用完了，我要再找些来。
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Chapter 7
　　At age ten, I began to perform in front of ordinary people. In appreciation of the nuns who allowed me use of the school piano, I agreed to play as prelude to the annual Christmas show. My music would usher the parents to their seats while their children shed coats and scarves for their elf and wise-man costumes. My teacher, Mr. Martin, and I put together a program of Bach, Strauss, and Beethoven, ending with part of "Six Little Piano Pieces" in honor of Arnold Schoenberg, who had passed away the year before. We felt this last "modern" piece, while not overly familiar to our audience, displayed my range without being overly ostentatious. The day before the Christmas show, I went through the thirty-minute program for the nuns after school, and the choices brought nothing but frowns and scowls from beneath their wimples.
　　"That's wonderful, Henry, truly extraordinary," the principal said. She was the Mother Superior of the gang of crows that ran the joint. "But that last song."
　　"Schoenberg's?"
　　"Yes, very interesting." She stood up in front of the sisters and paced to and fro, searching the air for tact. "Do you know anything else?"
　　"Else, Mother?"
　　"Something more seasonal perhaps?"
　　"Seasonal, Mother?"
　　"Something people might know?"
　　"I'm not sure I understand."
　　She turned and addressed me directly. "Do you know any Christmas songs? A hymn? 'Silent Night' perhaps? Or 'Hark! The Herald Angels'—I think that's Mendelssohn. If you can play Beethoven, you can play Mendelssohn."
　　"You want carols?"
　　"Not only hymns." She walked on, hitching down her habit. "You could do 'Jingle Bells' or 'White Christmas.' "
　　"That's from Holiday Inn," one of the other nuns volunteered. "Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire and Marjorie Reynolds. Oh, but you're too young."
　　"Did you see Bells of St. Mary's?" the third-grade teacher asked her fellow sisters. "Wasn't he good in that?"
　　"I really liked that Boys Town—you know, the one with Mickey Rooney."
　　Rattling the beads on her rosary, Mother Superior cut them off. "Surely you know a few Christmas songs?"
　　Crestfallen, I went home that night and learned the fluff, practicing on a paper-cutout keyboard fashioned by my father. At the show the next evening, I trimmed half my original program and added a few carols at the end. I kept the Schoenberg, which, needless to say, bombed. I played the Christmas stuff brilliantly and to a thunderous ovation. "Cretins," I said under my breath as I accepted their adulation. During my repeated bows, loathing swelled over their loud clapping and whistling. But then, looking out at the sea of faces, I began to recognize my parents and neighbors, all happy and cheerful, sending me their sincere appreciation for the holiday warmth generated by the vaguely predictable strains of their old favorites. No gift as welcome as the expected gift. And I grew light-headed and dizzy the longer the applause went on. My father rose to his feet, a real smile plastered on his mug. I nearly fainted. I wanted more.
　　The glory of the experience rested in the simple fact that my musical talent was a human one. There were no pianos in the woods. And as my magic slowly diminished, my artistry increased. I felt more and more removed from those who had taken me for a hundred years, and my sole hope and prayer was that they would leave me alone. From the night of the first performance, it was as if I were split in two: half of me continuing on with Mr. Martin and his emphasis on the canon of classics, pounding out the old composers until I could hammer like Thor or make the keys whisper under the gentlest pressure. The other half expanded my repertoire, thinking about what audiences might like to hear, like the ballads crooned on the radio adored by my mother. I loved both the fugues from The Well-Tempered Clavier and "Heart and Soul," and they flowed seamlessly, but being adept at popular song allowed me to accept odd jobs when offered, playing at school dances and birthday parties. Mr. Martin objected at first to the bastardization of my talent, but I gave him a sob story about needing money for lessons. He cut his fee by a quarter on the spot. With the money we saved, the cash I earned, and my mother's increasingly lucrative egg and chicken business, we were able to buy a used upright piano for the house in time for my twelfth birthday.
　　"What's this?" my father asked when he came home the day the piano arrived, its beautiful machinery housed in a rosewood case.
　　"It's a piano," my mother replied.
　　"I can see that. How did it get here?"
　　"Piano movers."
　　He slid a cigarette from the packet and lit it in one swift move. "Ruthie, I know someone brought it here. How come it is here?"
　　"For Henry. So he can practice."
　　"We can't afford a piano."
　　"We bought it. Me and Henry."
　　"With the money from my playing," I added.
　　"And the chickens and eggs."
　　"You bought it?"
　　"On Mr. Martin's advice. For Henry's birthday."
　　"Well, then. Happy birthday," he said on his way out of the room.
　　I played every chance I could get. Over the next few years, I spent hours each day at the keys, enthralled by the mathematics of the notes. The music seized me like a river current pushing my conscious self deeper into my core, as if there were no other sound in the world but one. I grew my legs an inch longer than necessary that first summer in order to better reach the pedals on the upright. Around the house, school, and town, I practiced spreading my fingers as far apart as they would go. The pads of my fingertips became smooth and feather-sensitive. My shoulders bowed down and forward. I dreamt in wave after wave of scales. The more adept my skill and understanding grew, the more I realized the power of musical phrasing in everyday life. The trick involves getting people to listen to the weak beats and seemingly insignificant silences between notes, the absence of tones between tones. By phrasing the matter with a ruthlessly precise logic, one can play—or say—anything. Music taught me great self-control.
　　My father could not stand to hear me practice, perhaps because he realized the mastery I had attained. He would leave the room, retreat into the farthest corners of the house, or find any excuse to go outside. A few weeks after Mom and I bought the piano, he came home with our first television set, and a week later a man came out and installed an antenna on the roof. In the evenings, my father would watch You Bet Your Life or The Jackie Gleason Show, ordering me to keep it down. More and more, however, he simply left altogether.
　　"I'm going for a drive." He already had his hat on.
　　"You're not going drinking, I hope."
　　"I may stop in for one with the boys."
　　"Don't be too late."
　　Well after midnight, he'd stagger in, singing or muttering to himself, swearing when he stepped on one of the girls' toys or barked his shin on the piano bench as he passed. Weather permitting, he worked outdoors every weekend, replacing shutters, painting the house, rewiring the chicken coop. He was absent from the hearth, unwilling to listen. With Mary and Elizabeth, he played the doting father, still dandling them on his knees, fussing over their curls and dresses, fawning at the latest primitive drawing or Popsicle-stick hut, sitting down at the table for tea parties and the like. But he regarded me coldly, and while I cannot read minds, I suspect he felt at odds with my passion for music. Maybe he felt art corrupted me, made me less a boy. When we spoke, he would chastise me for a neglected chore or chide me for a less than perfect grade on a test or essay.
　　As he drove me home from the trolley station one Saturday, he made an effort to engage and understand. On the radio, a football game between the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame and Navy unfolded. One of the teams scored a touchdown in a spectacular fashion.
　　"How about that? Did you hear that?"
　　I looked out the window, tapping out with my right hand a melody on the armrest.
　　"Do you even like football?" he asked.
　　"I dunno. It's okay."
　　"Do you like any sport at all? Baseball? Basketball? Would you like to go hunting someday?"
　　I said nothing. The very thought of being alone with Billy Day and a shotgun frightened me. There are devils out in the woods. We let a few silent miles pass beneath us.
　　"How's come it's nothing but the piano night and day?"
　　"I like music. And I'm good."
　　"You are that, but honestly, did you ever stop to think you could try something else for a change? Don't you know there's more to life than music?"
　　If he had been my true father, I would have been eternally disappointed in him. The man had no vision, no passion for life, and I was grateful that we were not actually related. The car passed through the shadows of trees, and the glass in the window darkened. I saw in my own reflection the mirrored image of Henry's father, but I only appeared to be his offspring. Once upon a time, I had a real father. I could hear his voice: "Ich erkenne dich! Du willst nur meinen Sohn!" His eyes danced wildly behind his owlish spectacles, and then the phantom memory disappeared. I sensed Billy Day was watching me from the corner of his eye, wondering what on earth happened? How did I get this for a son?
　　"I'm thinking that I'm starting to like girls," I volunteered. He smiled and tousled my hair. He lit another Camel, a sure sign he was content with my answer. The subject of my masculinity never came up again.
　　A basic truth had escaped by accident. Girls hovered on the surface of every situation. I noticed them in school, ogled them in church, played to them at every concert performance. As if they jumped from the shadows, girls arrived, and nothing was ever the same. I fell in love ten times a day: an older woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties in a gray coat on a gray street corner; the raven-haired librarian who came every Tuesday morning to buy a dozen eggs. Ponytailed girls jumping rope. Girls with charming accents. Girls in bobby socks and poodle skirts. In the sixth grade, Tess Wodehouse trying to hide her braces behind her smiles. Blondie in the funny pages; Cyd Charisse; Paulette Goddard; Marilyn Monroe. Anyone curved. Allure goes beyond appearances to the way they grace the world. Some women propel themselves by means of an internal gyroscope. Others glide through life as if on ice skates. Some women convey their tortured lives through their eyes; others encircle you in the music of their laughter. The way they become their clothes. Redheads, blondes, brunettes. I loved them all. Women who flirt with you: where'd you get such long eyelashes? From the milkman. Girls too shy to say a word.
　　The best girls, however, were those who liked music. At virtually every performance, I could pick out from the crowd those who were listening, as opposed to the terminally bored or merely disinterested. The girls who stared back unnerved me, but at least they were listening, as were the ones with their eyes closed, chins cocked, intent on my playing. Others in the audience would be cleaning their teeth with their nails, digging in their ears with their pinkies, cracking their knuckles, yawning without covering their mouths, checking out the other girls (or boys), or checking their watches. After the performances, many in the audience invariably came up to have a few words, shake my hand, or stand near me. These post-performance encounters were most rewarding and I was delighted to receive compliments and answer questions for as long as I could while unmasking the enthusiasms of the women and girls.
　　Unfortunately, the concerts and recitals were few and far between, and the public demand for my performances of classical music at parties and shows diminished as I neared puberty. Many aficionados had been interested in a ten-year-old prodigy, but the novelty died when I was all elbows and acne as a teenager. And to be honest, I was sick of the Hanon and Czerny exercises and the same insipid Chopin etude that my teacher fussed over year after year. Changing yet again, I found my old powers ebbed as my hormones raged. As if overnight, I had gone from wanting to be just a boy to wanting to be a grown man. Midway through my freshman year in high school, following months of soul-searching and sullen fighting with my mother, it hit me that there was a way to combine my passion for music and my interest in girls: I would form my own band.

     十岁那年，我开始当众表演。为了感谢修女们让我使用学校的钢琴，我答应在每年的圣诞节汇演上弹奏开幕音乐。我的音乐促使父母们就座，孩子们则脱下大衣和围巾，露出里面或淘气或正经的装扮。我的老师马丁先生和我同演一个节目，其中包括巴赫、施特劳斯和贝多芬的曲子，压轴曲是向阿诺德•勋伯格（奥地利作曲家）致敬的《六首钢琴小品》，他去年过世了。我们觉得最后一支“现代”曲虽然对我们的听众而言并不耳熟，但却不怎么卖弄地展示了我的演奏曲目之广。圣诞节汇演的前一天，放学后，我为修女们表演完这三十分钟的节目，但这个曲目只换来她们头巾底下的横眉竖目。
　　“很精彩，亨利，真的非常出色，”院长说。她是由一群乱纷纷的乌鸦组成的修道院的院长，“除了最后一首。”
　　“勋伯格的? ”
　　“是的，很有意思。”她站起来走到姐妹们前面，来回踱步，在空气中寻找措辞，“你会别的什么吗? ”
　　“别的，院长? ”
　　“一些更加应时的，也许? ”
　　“应时，院长? ”
　　“一些大家可能知道的? ”
　　“我不确定我是否明白您的意思。”
　　她转身直接对我说：“你会什么圣诞节歌曲吗? 赞美诗? 《平安夜》或许会吧?或者《听啊，天使唱高声》——我想这是门德尔松的。
　　如果你会弹贝多芬，你就会弹门德尔松。”
　　“您要圣诞颂歌? ”
　　“不止是赞美诗，”她继续迈步，往下拉了拉修道服，“你可以弹《铃儿响叮当》或《白色圣诞节》。”
　　“那是《假日酒店》里的曲子，”另一个修女插话说，“宾•克罗斯比，弗雷德•阿斯泰尔，还有马乔里•雷诺兹。哦，但你太小了。”
　　“你们有没有看过《圣母玛利亚的钟声》”这位三年级教师问她的姐妹，“他弹那个不是很好吗? ”
　　“我真喜欢《孤儿乐园》——你们知道，是米基•鲁尼演的那个。”
　　院长捻着念珠，打断了她们，“你当然会几首圣诞歌吧? ”
　　那晚我垂头丧气地回家，在父亲发明的纸制键盘上练习这些无足轻重的东西。
　　第二天傍晚的表演，我修改了原定节目的一半，在末尾补上了几首颂歌。我保留了勋伯格，不用说，它当然是一败涂地。
　　我把圣诞音乐演奏得异常出色，下面掌声雷动。我听着他们的捧场，暗道：
　　“白痴。”我一次次地鞠躬，心中的厌恶感在他们响亮的掌声和口哨声中膨胀开来。
　　后来我在人海中张望，认出了我的父母和邻居，他们都兴高采烈，向我致以真诚的赞赏之情，因为他们多少预料到会听到喜爱的老歌，节日的暖意油然而生。没有一种礼物能比想要的礼物更受欢迎。掌声持续不断，我开始头晕。我的父亲站起来了，脸上挂着真正的微笑。我快要晕倒了。我想要更多。
　　这次的辉煌经历建立在一个简单的事实上：我的音乐天赋是人类的天赋，森林里没有钢琴。随着魔力慢慢减弱，我的艺术才能却在增长。我对那些将我掠走百年的人日渐隔膜，而我惟一的盼望和祈祷是要他们离开我。自从首场演出那晚开始，我好似被一分为二：半个我继续跟马丁先生学艺——他注重古典中的经典，要么狂弹古代作曲家的曲子，直到我能像雷神一样锤打，要么用最轻柔的按触让琴键低吟细语；另半个我扩展了我的保留节目，考虑听众们大概喜欢听什么，比如我母亲就欣赏收录机里的民谣。我喜欢《十二平均律曲集》中的赋格曲和《全心全意》，它们天衣无缝，但我搞起流行音乐后，就开始接到奇怪的活儿，去学校舞会和生日宴会上弹琴。马丁先生起初反对我把天分用在副业上，但我哭着告诉他我要赚钱付学费，他当场就将自己的课酬缩减了四分之一。有了存下来的钱、我赚到的外快、母亲日渐发达的鸡蛋和小鸡生意，在我十二岁生日时，我们终于把一架二手的竖式钢琴买回了家。
　　‘‘这是什么? ”父亲回家后问道，那天钢琴到家了，它漂亮的机械装在一个红木箱里。
　　“是钢琴。”母亲回答说。
　　“这我知道。它怎么会在这儿? ”
　　“搬钢琴的人。”
　　他从烟盒里抽出一支香烟，一晃点着，“露丝，我知道有人把它搬来。但它到底是怎么来的? ”
　　“为亨利买的。这样他可以练琴。”
　　“我们买不起钢琴。”
　　“我们买了。我和亨利。”
　　“有我弹琴赚来的钱。”我补充说。
　　“还有卖鸡和鸡蛋的钱。”
　　“你们买的? ”
　　“马丁先生的建议。亨利的生日礼物。”
　　“好吧，那么，生日快乐。”他边说边走出屋子。
　　一有机会我就弹琴。在此后的数年中，我每天都在琴键上花几个小时，被音符俘虏了。音乐将我擒住，犹如滚滚波涛把我的自我意识推向内心深处，仿佛除了这一个，世上再无其他声音。第一个夏天，我让双腿额外多长了一寸，为的是能够踏实地踩在钢琴的踏板上。在家里、学校和镇上，我到处练琴，尽我所能地舒展手指。
　　指尖的指肉变得光滑，如羽毛般敏感。我的双肩佝偻着，我的梦中尽是一波又一波的音阶。随着我技术的熟练和理解力的增长，我越加认识到音乐的力量处处显现在日常生活之中。关键是要让人们听到弱拍和音符之间看似无足轻重的休止，还有曲调之间的空白。若用这种一丝不苟的逻辑学来表情达意，人就能弹奏一切，或者诉说一切。音乐教给我很强的自控能力。
　　父亲受不了我练琴，也许这正是因为他意识到我已经达到了什么水平。他会离开屋子，退缩到房子里最远的角落，或者随便找个借口出门。在妈妈和我买来钢琴的几周后，他也把我们的第一台电视机带回了家，又过了一周，来了个人在屋顶上装天线。晚上，父亲会看《理所当然》或《杰奎•格里森表演》，命我降低音量。
　　但是他越来越多的做法是直接离开。
　　“我出去开个车。”他已经戴上了帽子。
　　“你不是出去喝酒吧，我希望。”
　　“我可能会和朋友们去喝一点。”
　　“别弄太晚了。”
　　半夜过后，他才摇摇晃晃地进来，唱着歌或自言自语，踩到女孩们的玩具或走过钢琴时小腿撞上琴凳，就骂骂咧咧的。只要天气允许，每个周末他都在户外劳作，更换百叶窗、粉刷房子、重修鸡舍。他不待在壁炉边了，因为不想听音乐。对于玛丽和伊丽莎白，他是个尽心的父亲，仍然把她们抱在膝上逗弄，为她们的鬈发和裙子瞎操心，对刚画出来的粗糙作品或用棒棒积木搭起来的小屋大加赞美，还会坐到桌边玩过家家什么的。但他对我很是冷漠，在我没法理解他心思时，我疑心他对我的音乐热情觉得别扭，也许他觉得艺术腐蚀了我，把我弄得不像个男孩。我们谈话的时候，他会因为我忘做家务而责备我，要么就是斥骂我考试和写作的成绩不够优秀。
　　某个周六他开车到电车站接我回家，他作了番努力来和我交流、来理解我。收音机中，爱尔兰圣母队和海军队对决的橄榄球赛拉开了序幕，其中一个队非常精彩地触地得分。
　　“这个怎么样? 你听到了吗? ”
　　我望着窗外，右手在靠手上轻扣着一个曲子。
　　“你喜欢橄榄球吗? ”他问。
　　“不晓得。它还行吧。”
　　“你到底喜欢什么运动? 棒球? 篮球? 哪天想出去打猎吗? ”
　　我什么都没说。想到要和比利•戴还有一杆猎熗在一起，我就觉得害怕。森林中有魔鬼出没。车子开了几公里，我们沉默着。
　　“你怎么会从早到晚除了弹钢琴别的什么也不干? ”
　　“我喜欢音乐。我弹得棒。”
　　“这倒没错，但老实说，你有没有停下来想过，你能试点别的什么换换口味?
　　你知不知道生活中除了音乐还有很多别的? ”
　　假如他是我的亲生父亲，我会对他无比失望。这人没有眼力，没有生活激情，而我庆幸我们实际上并无关系。汽车从树阴下驶过，窗玻璃暗下来，我在自己的影像中看到了亨利父亲映在玻璃上的形象，而我看起来就是他的后代。曾几何时，我有真正的父亲。我能听见他的声音：“lch erkenne dich!Du willst nur meinenSohn! ”（德文：我认得你} 你只能是我的儿子）她的目光在猫头鹰似的眼镜后面狂野地跳动，记忆的幻像随即消失了。我感觉比利•戴用眼角余光打量着我，寻思到底发生了什么? 我怎么会有这样一个儿子? “我正在想，我开始喜欢女孩子了。”
　　我主动说。他笑了，抓了抓我的头发，又点了一支骆驼香烟，这是个确定的信号，他对我的回答感到满意。关于我男子气概的话题再也没有提起。
　　一个基本事实就这样擦肩而过。到处都有姑娘兜来兜去。我在学校里对她们上心，在教堂里和她们挤眉弄眼，每次音乐表演都给她们弹曲子。姑娘们仿佛从虚空中一跃而出，她们来了，一切都不复从前。我一天十次坠入爱河：一个大约二十五、六的年长女子，穿着灰大衣出现在灰色街角，乌黑头发的图书管理员每周二早晨来买一打鸡蛋，还有扎着马尾辫的跳绳女孩，有嗓音甜美的女孩和穿短袜和喇叭裙的女孩。到了六年级，泰思•伍德郝斯试图用微笑掩藏她的胸罩吊带。趣味书页上的金发姑娘，赛德•查里斯，保利特•戈达德，玛丽莲梦露。每个曲线玲珑的人。诱惑不仅在于外表，她们还让世界熠熠生辉。有些女人用内心的陀螺仪来督促自己，还有些好比穿着冰鞋在生活表面滑过。有些女人透过双眼表达她们的苦难生活，还有些用音乐般的笑声围绕着你。她们着衣的风格。红发，金发，黑肤。我喜欢她们每一个人。女人们和你调情：你从哪里得来这么长的眼睫毛? 从送奶工那里。女孩则脉脉含羞，一个字也不说。
　　然而最好的姑娘是喜欢音乐的。每次演出，我都能从一群时不时地感到厌倦或压根不感兴趣的听众中寻出听音乐的她们来。这些女孩的回视让我不安，但至少她们在听，还有就是那些闭着双眼、抬着下巴、专注于我演奏的人。其他听众就会用指甲抠牙齿，用小指挖耳朵，指节扳得咯咯响，不掩住嘴就大呼小叫，张望其他女孩( 或男孩) ，或者看他们的表。表演结束后，总有许多听众会上前来说几句话，和我握手，或站在我身边。这种演出后的会面最有价值，我很高兴听到赞誉，回答问题，只要与此同时，我能揭下这些女人和女孩的热情面具。
　　不幸的是，这些音乐会和独奏会次数极少，而且间隔很长，当我快进入青春期时，邀请我去聚会和展览上表演古典音乐的人就少了。
　　许多追捧者都对一个十龄神童感兴趣，但当我长到十几岁，四肢长大，粉刺点点时，新奇感就丧失了。而且说实话，我厌倦了哈农和车尔尼的练习曲①，还有我老师年复一年小题大做的肖邦练习曲也总是淡而无味。我又在变化了，我发现我古老的力量正随着荷尔蒙的增长而起伏。我本想只当一个男孩，但似乎一夜之间，我变得想长大成人了。在我高中一年级的期中，在经过几个月的寻思和与母亲沉闷的对抗后，我灵机一动，有个办法可以将我对音乐的热情和对女孩的兴趣合而为一：
　　我要组建自己的乐队。
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Chapter 8
　　"I have something for you." The last bitter days of winter imprisoned the whole band. A snowstorm and freezing temperatures made travel outside of camp impossible. Most of us spent night and day under cover in a drowse caused by the combination of cold and hunger. Speck stood above me, smiling, a surprise hidden behind her back. A breeze blew her long black hair across her face, and with an impatient hand, she brushed it aside like a curtain.
　　"Wake up, sleepyhead, and see what I found."
　　Keeping the deerskin wrapped tight against the cold, I stood. She thrust out a single envelope, its whiteness in relief against her chapped hands. I took it from her and opened the envelope, sliding out a greeting card with a picture of a big red heart on its front. Absentmindedly, I let the envelope slip to the ground, and she quickly bent to pick it up.
　　"Look, Aniday," she said, her stiff fingers working along the seams to carefully tear the seal. "If you would think to open it up, you could have two sides of paper—nothing but a stamp and address on the front, and on the back, you have a blank sheet." She took the card from me. "See, you can draw on the front and back of this, and inside, too, go around this writing here." Speck bounced on her toes in the snow, perhaps as much out of joy as to ward off the chill. I was speechless. She was usually hard as a stone, as if unable to bear interaction with the rest of us.
　　"You're welcome. You could be more grateful. I trudged through the snow to bring that back while you and all these lummoxes were nice and cozy, sleeping the winter away."
　　"How can I thank you?"
　　"Warm me up." She came to my side, and I opened the deerskin rug for her to snuggle in, and she wrapped herself around me, waking me alert with her icy hands and limbs. We slid in near the slumber party under the heap of blankets and fell into a deep sleep. I awoke the next morning with my head pressed against her chest. Speck had one arm around me, and in her other hand she clutched the card. When she woke up, she blinked open her emerald eyes to welcome morning. Her first request was that I read the message inside the card:
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored and sorrows end.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　Shakespeare, Sonnet 30
There was no other signature, no addressee, and whatever names had been inked on the envelope had been smudged into oblivion by the wet snow.
　　"What do you think it means?"
　　"I don't know," I told her. "Who is Shakespeare?" The name seemed vaguely familiar.
　　"His friend makes all his troubles end, if he but thinks about him ... or her."
　　The sun rose above the treetops, warming our peaceful camp. The aural signs of melting began: snow sloughing off firs, ice crystals breaking apart, the thaw and drip of icicles. I wanted to be alone with the card, and my pencil burned like an ember in my pocket.
　　"What are you going to write?"
　　"I want to make a calendar, but I do not know how. Do you know what day is today?"
　　"One day is like another."
　　"Aren't you curious about what day it is today?"
　　Speck wriggled into her coat, bidding me to do the same. She led me through the clearing to the highest point near the camp, a ridge that ran along the northwestern edge, a difficult passage over a steep slope of loose shale. My legs ached when we reached the summit, and I was out of breath. She, on the other hand, tapped her foot and told me to be quiet and listen. We were still and waited. Other than the thawing mountains, it was silent.
　　"What am I supposed to hear?"
　　"Concentrate," she said.
　　I tried, but save for the occasional laugh of a nuthatch and the creak of twigs and branches, nothing reached my ear. I shrugged my shoulders.
　　"Try harder."
　　I listened so intently that a fierce headache knocked inside my skull: her even, relaxed breathing, the beating of her heart, and a far-off rhythmic vibration that at first sounded like the rasp of a file but soon took on a more fixed character. A hum of alternating speeds, a low splash, the occasional horn, tires on pavement, and I realized we were listening to distant traffic.
　　"Neat," I told her. "Cars."
　　"Pay attention. What do you hear?"
　　My head was splitting, but I focused. "Lots of cars?" I guessed.
　　"Right." She grinned. "Lots and lots of cars. Traffic in the morning."
　　I still didn't get it.
　　"People going to work. In the city. Schoolbuses and kids. Lots of cars in the morning. That means it's a workday, not a Sunday. Sundays are quiet and not so many cars speeding by."
　　She held her bare finger to the air and then tasted it in her mouth for an instant. "I think it's a Monday," she said.
　　"I've seen that trick before. How can you tell?"
　　"All those cars make smoke, and the factories make smoke. But there aren't so many cars on the road and the factories are closed on Sundays. You hardly taste any smoke at all. Monday, a bit more. By Friday night, the air tastes like a mouthful of coal." She licked her finger again. "Definitely a Monday. Now, let me see your letter."
　　I handed over the valentine and envelope, which she inspected, pointing to the postmark over the stamp. "Do you remember what day is Valentine's Day?"
　　"February fourteenth." I felt proud, as if I had given the correct answer in math class. An image flashed of a woman, dressed in black and white, writing numbers on a chalkboard.
　　"That's right, and you see this?" She pointed to the date on the postmark, which ran in a semicircle: MON FEB 13 '50 AM. "That's when your Shakespeare put it in the mailbox. On a Mon. That means Monday morning is when they stamped it."
　　"So, today is Valentine's Day? Happy Valentine's Day."
　　"No, Aniday. You have to learn to read the signs and figure it out. Deduction. How could today be Valentine's Day if today is a Monday? How can we find a letter the day before it is lost? If I found the letter yesterday, and today is Monday, how could today be Valentine's Day?"
　　I was confused and tired. My head ached.
　　"February thirteenth was last Monday. If this card had been out for more than a week, it would be ruined by now. I found it yesterday and brought it to you. Yesterday was a quiet day—not many cars—a Sunday. Today must be the next Monday."
　　She made me question my ability to reason at all.
　　"It's simple. Today is Monday, February 20, 1950. You do need a calendar." She held out her hand for my pencil, which I gladly ceded her. On the back of the card, she drew seven boxes in a row and labeled S-M-T-W-T-F-S for the days of the week. Then she printed all the months of the year in a column on the side, and then on the opposite side, the numerals from 1 to 31. As she drew them, she quizzed me on the proper number of days in each month, singing a familiar song to help me remember, but we forgot about leap years, which would throw me off in time. From her pocket, she took three round metal circles to demonstrate that if I wanted to keep track of time, all I would have to do would be to move the disks to the next space on the calendar each morning, remembering to start over at the end of the week and month.
　　Speck would often show me what proved to be the obvious answer, for which nobody else had the clarity of imagination and creativity. At such moments of insight, her eyes fixed on me, the tremor in her voice disappeared. A single hair escaped now, bisecting her face. She gathered her mane with her two rough red hands and pushed it behind her ears, smiling all the while at my stare. "If you ever forget, Aniday, come find me." She walked away, moving through the forest, across the ridge and away from camp, leaving me alone with my calendar. I spied her figure progressing among the trees until she blended into the natural world. When she vanished, all I could think of was the date: February 20, 1950. I had lost so much time.
　　Far below, the others in camp slumbered beneath a mat of stinking blankets and furs. By listening to the traffic and following the noise to its source, I could be back among the people, and one of those cars was bound to stop and take me home. The driver would see a boy standing by the side of the road and pull off on the berm ahead of me. I would wait for her, the woman in the red coat, to come save me. I would not run away, but wait there and try not to frighten her as before. She would lower herself to eye level, sweeping her hair back from her face. "Who are you?" I would summon up the faces of my parents and my little sister, tell the woman with the pale green eyes where I lived, how to get home. She would bid me climb into her car. Sitting beside her, I'd tell her my tale, and she would put her hand around the back of my head, saying everything would be all right. I'd jump from that car as we stopped before my house, my mother hanging laundry on the clothesline, my sister waddling toward me in her yellow dress, her arms aflutter. "I've found your boy," the woman would say, and my father would pull up in a red fire engine. "We've been looking all over for you for a long time." Later, after fried chicken and biscuits, we'd come back to the woods and rescue my friends Smaolach, Luchóg, and Speck, who could live with us and go to school and come home warm, safe, and sound. All I had to do was to concentrate and follow the sounds of civilization. I looked to the horizon as far as possible, but saw no sign. I listened, but heard nothing. I tried to remember, but could not recall my name.
　　Pocketing my three tokens, I turned over the calendar and read the Shakespeare aloud to myself: "But if the while I think on thee, dear friend ..." The people sleeping down below in the hollow were my friends. I took out my pencil and began to write all I could remember. Many a year has passed between then and now, and I have written this story more than once, but that was the beginning, alone atop the ridge. My fingers stiffened in the cold. As I walked down to the camp, the bedcovers called out to me with the promise of warm dreams.
　　
　　
　　Not long after Speck's valentine, another gift landed in my lap. Luchóg brought it back from one of his pirating expeditions, unpacking his sack like Santa at the Christmas tree. "And this, little treasure, is for you. The sum-all and be-all of your earthly desires. Enough space here for your every dream. Miracle of miracles, and dry, too. Paper."
　　He handed me a bound black notebook, the kind schoolchildren use for their lessons, the pages lined to ensure the proper placement of words and sentences. On the front was the name of the school and the title RULED COMPOSITION BOOK. On the back was a small box with this printed warning: In the event of atomic attack: close the shades, lie down under your desk. Do not panic. Inside, the author of the book, Thomas McInnes, had written his name on the flyleaf.
　　The weathered pages were filled with his virtually indecipherable penmanship, the ink a rusty brown. As far as I could tell, it was a story, or part of a story, because on the last page, the writing ends mid-sentence with the rather cryptic See Other Book written on the inside back cover. Over the years, I tried to read it, but the point of the story eluded me. The beauty of the composition book for me stemmed from McInnes's self-indulgence. He had written on only one side of the eighty-eight sheets of paper. I turned the book upside-down and wrote my contrary story in the opposite direction. While that journal is in ashes now with so much else, I can attest to its basic contents: a naturalist's journal recording my observations of life in the forest, complete with drawings of found objects—a diary of the best years of my life.
　　My chronicle and calendar helped me track the passing time, which fell into an easy rhythm. I kept up hope for years, but no one ever came for me. Heartbreak ran like an undercurrent of time, but despair would come and go like the shadow of clouds. Those years were mixed with the happiness brought by my friends and companions, and as I aged inside, a casual nothing drowned the boy.
　　The snows stopped by mid-March most years, and a few weeks later the ice would melt, green life would bud, insects hatch, birds return, fish and frogs ready for the catching. Spring instantly restored our energies, the lengthening light corresponding to our interest in exploration. We would throw off our hides and ruined blankets, shed our jackets and shoes. The first warm day in May, nine of us would go down to the river and bathe our stinking bodies, drown the vermin living in our hair, scrape off the caked dirt and scum. Once, Blomma had stolen a bar of soap from a gas station, and we scrubbed it away to a splinter in a single renewing bath. Pale bodies on a pebbly shore, rubbed pink and clean.
　　The dandelions blossomed from nowhere, and the spring onions sprouted in the meadows, and our Onions would gorge herself, eating the bulbs and grass, staining her teeth and mouth green, reeking, indolent, until her skin itself smelled pungent and bittersweet. Luchóg and Smaolach distilled the dandelions into a potent brew. My calendar helped track the parade of berries strawberries in June, followed by wild blueberries, gooseberries, elderberries, and more. In a patch of forest over the ridge, Speck and I found a red army of raspberries invading a hillside, and we spent many a July day gathering sweetness among the thorns. Blackberries ripened last, and I am sad every time to see the first potful at our evening repasts, for those black jewels are a harbinger of summer's end.
　　The insect-eaters among us rejoiced at the abundance of the warm season, although bugs are a decidedly acquired taste. Each of the faeries had their own peculiar pleasures and preferred capturing techniques. Ragno ate only flies, which he plucked from spiderwebs. Béka was a gourmand, taking anything that crawled, flew, slithered, or wriggled his way. He would search out a colony of termites in a rotting log, a party of slugs in the mire, or a maggoty carcass, and dig in and eat those disgusting creatures raw. Sitting patiently by a small fire, he snatched moths out of the air with his tongue when they flew too close to his face. Chavisory was another notorious bug-eater, but at least she cooked them. I could tolerate the grubs and queens she baked on a heated rock until they popped, as brown and crispy as bacon. Cricket legs tend to stick in your teeth, and ants, if not roasted first, will bite your tongue and throat on the way down.
　　I had never killed a living thing before coming to the woods, but we were hunter-gatherers, and without an occasional bit of protein in the diet, all of us would suffer. We took squirrels, moles, mice, fish, and birds, although the eggs themselves were too great a hassle to steal from the nest. Anything bigger—such as a dead deer—we'd scavenge. I do not care for things that have been dead a long time. In late summer and early fall, in particular, the tribe would dine together on an unfortunate creature roasted on a spit. Nothing beats a rabbit under a starry night. But, as Speck would say, every idyll succumbs to desire.
　　Such a moment in my fourth year in the woods stands above all the rest. Speck and I had strayed from camp, and she showed me the way to the grove where honeybees had hidden their hive. We stopped at an old gray dogwood.
　　"Climb up there, Aniday, and reach inside, and you'll find the sweetest nectar."
　　As commanded, I shinnied up the trunk, despite the buzzing of the bees, and inched toward the hollow. From my purchase in the branches, I could see her upturned face, eyes aglow with expectation.
　　"Go on," she hollered from below. "Be careful. Don't make them mad."
　　The first sting startled me like a pinprick, the second and third caused pain, but I was determined. I could smell the honey before I felt it and could feel it before I saw it. Hands and wrists swollen with venom, my face and bare skin welted red, I fell from the limb to the forest floor with handfuls of honeycombs. She looked down at me with dismay and gratitude. We ran from the angry swarm and lost them on a hillside slanted toward the sun. Lying in the long new grass, we sucked every drop of honey and ate the waxy combs until our lips and chins and hands gummed up. Drunk on the stuff, the nectar heavy in our stomachs, we luxuriated in the sweet ache. When we had licked clean the honey, she began to pull the remaining stingers from my face and hands, smiling at my every wince. When she removed the last dagger from my hand, Speck turned it over and kissed my palm.
　　"You are such an idiot, Aniday." But her eyes betrayed her words, and her smile flashed as briefly as lightning rending the summer sky.

   “我有东西要给你。”
　　最后的严寒冬日困住了大家。一场暴风雪和冰冻三尺的气温使得营寨外面寸步难行。我们大多数人都饥寒交迫，日夜缩在毯子下打盹。斯帕克站在我跟前，面带微笑，背后藏着一个惊喜。微风把她长长的黑发吹到脸上，她不耐烦地像拉窗帘一样，把它撩到一边。
　　“醒醒，瞌睡虫，看我找到了什么。”
　　我站起来，身上还紧紧裹着鹿皮抵御寒冷。她掏出一个信封，雪白的信封在她皮肤皲裂的手上轮廓鲜明。我拿过来打开，抽出一张问候卡，正面画着颗大大的红心。我不小心失手让信封滑落到地上，她飞快地弯腰捡起。
　　“看，安尼戴，”她说，她用冻僵的手指沿着折线仔细地撕开信封，“如果你想到把它展开，你就有一张两面的纸，正面只有邮票和地址，反面是张白纸。”她把卡片拿过去，“瞧，你能在这张的正反面画画，还能在里面沿着这些字的外围画。”
　　斯帕克在雪地里踮着足尖一蹦一跳，大约既是因为开心，也是为了驱走严寒，而通常她冷漠得像块石头，好像没法和其他人交流似的。
　　“别客气。你还会更感激我呢。我踏着雪去把这个弄回来时，你和所有这些笨蛋们可都还舒舒服服地正把冬天睡过去呢。”
　　“我该怎么谢你? ”
　　“给我取暖。”她来到我身边，我打开鹿皮毯让她钻进来，她抱着我，冰冷的手和四肢让我睡意全消。大家都睡着了，我们缩入边上的一堆毯子底下，呼呼大睡。
　　次日早晨我醒来，头靠在她胸口上。斯帕克一条胳膊围着我，另一只手里捏着那张卡片。她醒来时，眨巴着翠绿色的眼睛迎接早晨。她的第一个请求是让我读卡片里的字句：只要一想起你，亲爱的朋友，所有的失落和悲伤烟消云散。
　　莎士比亚，《十四行诗集》第30首没有落款，没有地址，用墨水写在信封上的名字都已经被湿雪融掉了。
　　“你觉得这是什么意思? ”
　　“我不知道，”我对她说，“谁是莎士比亚? ”这名字似乎有点耳熟。
　　“他的朋友解决了他所有的麻烦，只要他想到他……或是她。”
　　太阳升上树梢，温暖了我们安静的营寨。开始听到融化的声音：积雪从杉树枝上脱落，冰块开裂，冰柱融化、滴水。我想独自和卡片待在一起，我的铅笔像火焰余烬般在口袋里燃烧。
　　“你要写什么? ”
　　“我要做一个日历，但我不知道该怎么做。你知道今天是什么日子吗? ”
　　“每天都一样。”
　　“你难道不想知道今天是什么日子吗? ”
　　斯帕克扭动身子穿好外套，让我也穿起来。她带我走过空地，来到营寨附近的最高处，这是西北侧的一列山岭，是个难以翻越的地带，下面是由质地疏散的页岩形成的陡峭山坡。我们爬到顶峰时，我两腿酸痛，喘不过气来。她则跺着脚让我静下来倾听。我们一动不动地等着。除了正在融化的群山，一片寂静。
　　“要我听什么呢? ”
　　“集中注意力。”她说。
　　我集中注意力，但除了偶尔一两声五子雀的笑声、枝条和树干的嘎吱声外，我什么都没有听见。我耸了耸肩膀。
　　“再集中一点。”
　　我听得太专心了，脑壳内发出一阵剧烈的头痛：我甚至能听到她放松的呼吸声，她的心跳声，还有遥远处有节奏的振动声，那起先听起来像是一群物体发出的粗重的声音，但很快就集中到了某一个体上。变速的嗡嗡声，低沉的飞溅声，偶尔的喇叭声，轮胎在马路上的滚动声，我意识到我们在听远处的交通。
　　“棒极了，”我告诉她，“是汽车。”
　　“注意听。你听到了什么? ”
　　我的头快裂了，但我还是集中精神。“很多汽车? ”我猜测说。
　　“对了。”她露齿一笑，“很多很多汽车。早晨的交通。”
　　我还是没明白。
　　“人们去上班。在城里。学校班车和孩子们。早晨有很多汽车。
　　这表示今天是工作日，不是星期天。星期天静悄悄的，没有那么多汽车经过。”
　　她把裸露的手指举到空中，又放进嘴里尝了尝，“我想今天是星期一。”她说。
　　“我见过这个做法。你是怎么知道的呢? ”
　　“那些汽车都排放烟气，工厂也排放烟气。星期天，路上没有那么多汽车，工厂也关门了。你几乎尝不到一点烟味。星期一就多一点。到了星期五晚上，空气尝起来就像嘴里塞满了煤。”她又舔了舔手指，“肯定是星期一。现在让我看看你的信吧。”
　　我递给她情人卡和信封，她查看起来，指着邮票上的邮戳说：“你还记得是情人节是哪天吗? ”
　　“二月十四日。”我骄傲地说道，仿佛在数学课上正确地回答了问题。眼前闪过一个女人的形象，穿着黑白相间的衣服，在黑板上写着数字。
　　“对的，你看到这个了吗? ”她指着邮戳，上面的日期排成半圆：周一，1950年2 月13日，上午。“那是你的莎士比亚把它投进邮筒的时间。在星期一。这表示他们在星期一上午盖了邮戳。”
　　“这么说，今天是情人节? 情人节快乐。”
　　“不，安尼戴。你得学会读这些标记，看懂它们的意思。推论一下。如果今天是星期一，那怎么可能是情人节呢? 我们怎能在一封信丢失之前找到它呢? 如果我是昨天找到的这封信，而今天是星期一，今天又怎么可能是情人节呢? ”
　　我被弄糊涂了，觉得很累，头痛起来。
　　“二月十三号是上一个星期一。如果这张卡片已经寄出了一个多礼拜，它就已被弄坏了。我昨天找到它，把它带给你。昨天是个安静的日子，没有很多汽车，是个星期天。今天必定是下个星期一。”
　　她使我彻底怀疑起自己的推理能力来。
　　“很简单。今天是星期一，1950年2 月20日。你确实需要一个日历。”她伸手问我要铅笔，我高兴地递给她。她在卡片反面画了一排七个格子，分别写上一、二、三、四、五、六、日代表一周的天数。接着她在边上的竖格中写下了一年的所有月份，在另一侧，写下了从1 到31的数字。她写的时候，问我每个月的天数，还唱了一首熟悉的歌帮我记忆，但我们都忘了闰年，这迟早会让我犯错。她从口袋中拿出三个小金属圆片，声明说如果我想跟上时间，我只能每天早上把圆片移到日历的下一格上，并记得要在每周末和月末的时候从头开始。
　　斯帕克常常告诉我一些显而易见的答案，其他人都没有这样一清二楚的想像力和创造力。她施展洞察力的时候，注视着我，声音中的颤动消失了。一缕头发逃脱了出来，将她的脸蛋分成两半。她用两只粗糙的、红通通的手拢起头发，别到耳后，我盯着她看时，她就朝我微笑。“安尼戴，如果你忘了，就来找我。”她走了，穿过树林，越过山岭，离开了营寨，把我和我的日历单独留下。我凝视着她的背影在林木间移动，融入到大自然中去。她消失后，我所能想到的只是这个日子：1950年2月20 日。我丢失了太多的时间。
　　远远的山脚下，其他人正在臭烘烘的毯子和毛皮下酣然而眠。
　　只要我倾听交通声，跟着声音找到源头，就能回到人群中间，那些汽车中有一辆停在我面前，带我回家。司机会看见一个男孩站在路边，会停在我前头。我会等她，等那个红衣女子来救我。我没有逃跑，而是等在原地，不像上次那样吓着她。
　　她俯下身与我对视，把她的头发甩到脸后。“你是谁? ”我想起父母和小妹妹的面容，告诉这有着一双浅绿眼眸的女人我住在何处，如何回家。她让我爬进她的汽车。
　　我坐在她身边，告诉她我的故事，而她把手放在我后脑勺上，说着一切都会好的。
　　车子停在我家门口，我跳下车，我母亲正在晾衣绳上晒衣服，妹妹穿着她的黄裙子，挥动双臂朝我蹒跚走来。“我找到了您的儿子。”女人这么说。我父亲从一辆红色的消防车上下来，“我们到处找你找了很久。”之后，吃了炸鸡和饼干，我们回到林中拯救我的朋友斯茂拉赫、鲁契克和斯帕克，他们和我们一起生活、上学、回家，暖和、平安又健康。我所要做的就是集中注意力，跟随文明的声音。我竭力向天际眺望，但毫无所见。我侧耳倾听，但毫无所闻。我试图回忆，但却想不起自己的名字。
　　我把三个硬币放进口袋，翻过日历，大声把莎士比亚念给自己听：“只要一想起你，亲爱的朋友……”睡在山下洞中的那些人是我的朋友。我掏出铅笔，开始写下我所能记得的东西。自那以后，已经过去了很多年，我不止一次写下这个故事，但开头就是我独自站在山岭上。我的手指冻僵了，下山回营时，毯子呼唤着我，答应我会有温暖的梦乡。
　　斯帕克的情人节礼物之后不久，另一件礼物也送到了我手中。
　　鲁契克从一次远征劫掠中把它带回来，像圣诞老人在圣诞树下解开他的口袋。
　　“这个，小宝贝，是给你的。这是你在这世上的所有梦想。
　　足够装下你的每个梦。奇迹中的奇迹，也是干的。纸。”
　　他给我一本硬面抄，是学生做作业用的那种，纸页上划着横线，以规范字句的位置。扉页上是校名和题目“作文练习簿”。封底是一个小方框，里面印有一则警告：如遇原子弹袭击，拉上窗帘，躺在课桌下，不要惊慌。练习簿里有作者的姓名：托马斯•麦克伊内斯，他把大名写在衬页上。这些已变了色的纸张上写满了他难以辨认的字迹，墨水是锈褐色的。据我所知，这是一篇小说，或是小说的一部分，因为在最后一页上，文章结束在半句话上，而封底的内面写着神秘兮兮的“见他本”。
　　这多年来，我试图阅读这篇小说，但这个故事的意图使我不解。在我看来，作文簿的美丽之处在于麦克伊内斯由着自己的性子来。八十八页的纸，他只写了每一页的单面。我把本子倒过来，从另一头写我的故事。如今这本日记已经和其他很多东西一起化为灰烬，但我能说出它的基本内容：一本自然主义者的日记，记录的是我在森林中的生活观察，最后还画了找到的各种东西——一本记录我生命中最美好岁月的日记。
　　我的编年史和日历帮我跟上流逝的时光，它节奏轻快。好多年我都怀抱希望，但没有人来找我。悲哀就像时间的暗流，而失望如同云影般来去。那些年里也有我的朋友和同伴带来的欢乐，我在内心长大时，一件不经意的小事把男孩赶走了。
　　大多数年份，三月中旬停雪，几周后冰开始融化，绿色的生命萌芽，昆虫孵化出来，鸟儿飞回来了，鱼和青蛙准备捕食。春天立刻就让我们恢复了元气，随着白天的加长，我们的探索兴趣也在增长。我们会扔掉皮毛，弄坏毯子，脱下外套和鞋子。五月的第一个暖日，我们有九个人会去河里清洁我们发臭的身体，淹死头发里的寄生虫，刮掉结成块的脏土和污垢。布鲁玛曾在一家加油站里偷来一条肥皂，我们在这次焕然一新的洗澡中把它擦到变成小碎片。卵石滩上白白的身体，擦得通体粉红、干净。
　　蒲公英花不知从何处开出，姜葱在草地上冒芽，我们的奥尼恩斯大快朵颐，吃着洋葱头和青草，把牙齿和嘴唇都染成绿色，散发臭气，味觉迟钝，到了最后，她的皮肤也散发出一股辛辣的、又苦又甜的气味。鲁契克和斯茂拉赫把蒲公英汁挤出来做成味道醇厚的酿制品。
　　我的日历帮忙追踪莓果的游行队伍：六月有草莓，之后是野蓝莓、醋栗、接骨木果，还有其他许多。在山岭上的一片树林中，斯帕克和我找到了侵略山坡的悬钩子红色军队。七月里我们有很多日子都在荆棘丛中采集甜果。黑莓是最后成熟的，每次见到我们夜宴的第一罐黑莓时，我就心中难过，因为这些黑宝石预告着夏季的结束。
　　我们中间好吃昆虫的人对暖和季节的丰盛食物欢欣鼓舞，虽然吃臭虫必然是一种需要日渐培养起来的品味。每个仙灵都有各自的特殊喜好，但都喜欢搞捕捉。劳格诺只吃他从蜘蛛网里提来的苍蝇。
　　贝卡是个美食家，吃任何他看到的虫子，蠕动的、飞翔的、滑行的、扭动的。
　　他会从一截腐朽的木头里寻到一窝白蚁，在泥潭里找到一群鼻涕虫，或者长满蛆的动物残骸，他挖下去，生吃这些恶心的生物。
　　他耐心地坐在一小堆篝火边，当蛾子飞近他的脸，就用舌头凭空抓住它们。卡维素芮是另一位出了名的爱吃臭虫的，但至少她还会煮一煮。她在加热的石块上烤幼虫和母虫，把它们烤得爆裂开来，像烤肉一般褐色松脆，这个我还能接受。蚱蜢腿会卡在你牙缝里，还有蚂蚁，如果不事先烘烤一下，会沿着你的舌头、喉咙一路咬下去。
　　来到森林之前，我从未杀生，但我们都是狩猎兼采集者，假如不偶尔在餐中加点蛋白质，身体都会受损。我们吃松鼠、鼹鼠、田鼠、鱼和鸟儿，虽然把它们的蛋从窝里偷出来要费一番打斗。我们也吃大家伙，如一头死鹿。我不喜欢死了很久的东西。特别是在夏末秋初，整个部落会一起聚餐，在烤扦上烧烤一头不幸的动物。
　　没有谁会在满天星空下打死一头野兔，但正如斯帕克所言，只要是田园情怀都会屈服于欲望。
　　我在森林中的第四个年头里，有那么一会儿让我的记忆无比深刻。斯帕克与我溜出营寨，她带我去果林，蜜蜂把巢穴藏在那里。我们停在一棵灰色的老山茱萸下。
　　“安尼戴，爬到那上面去，伸手进去，你就会找到最甜美的花蜜了。”
　　在她的要求下，虽然蜜蜂嗡嗡叫着，我还是攀上了树干，慢慢接近树洞。我牢牢抓紧树枝，看到她仰望的脸蛋，眼中闪动着期待。
　　“上去，”她在下面喊道，“小心点。别把它们惹急了。”
　　第一下叮咬像针刺一样让我悚然一惊，第二三下就疼痛起来，但我决心已定。
　　我还没有看到蜂蜜，就已经摸到了，还没有摸到，就闻到了。手掌和手腕因毒液而肿胀起来，脸和裸露的皮肤也红肿了，我从树权上掉下来，摔到地上，手里抓满蜂巢。她低头看我，又是惊愕又是感激。我们在愤怒的蜂群追赶下逃命，在一个向阳的山坡上逃过了它们。躺在长长的新草上，我们吮吸着每一滴蜂蜜，吃着蜡一样的蜂巢，最后嘴唇、下巴和手都粘在一起。我们喝着蜂皇浆，胃里沉甸甸地装着花蜜，奢侈地享受着甜蜜的痛苦。舔干净蜂蜜后，斯帕克开始拔我脸上和手上剩余的蜂针，我一缩，她就笑。她除去我手上最后一把匕首后，翻过我的手，吻了我的掌心。
　　“你真是个笨蛋，安尼戴。”但她的眼神背叛了她的话，她的微笑仿佛撕裂夏空的闪电，一闪即逝。
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Chapter 9
　　"Listen to this." My friend Oscar put a record on the turntable and set down the needle with care. The 45 popped and hissed; then the melody line rose, followed by the four-part doo-wop, "Earth Angel" by The Penguins or "Gee" by The Crows, and he'd sit back on the edge of the bed, close his eyes, and pull apart those different harmonies, first singing tenor and so on through the bass. Or he'd put on a new jazz riff by Miles or maybe Dave Brubeck and pick out the counterpoint, cocking his ear to the nearly inaudible piano underneath the horns. All through high school we'd spend hours in his room, idly listening to his vast eclectic record collection, analyzing and arguing over the more subtle points of the compositions. Oscar Love's passion for music put my ambitions to shame. In high school, he was nicknamed "The White Negro," as he was so alien from the rest of the crowd, so cool, so in his head all the time. Oscar was such an outsider, he made me feel normal by comparison. And even though he was a year ahead of me, he welcomed me into his life. My father thought Oscar wilder than Brando, but my mother saw beneath the facade and loved him like a son. He was the first person I approached about forming a band.
　　Oscar stuck with me from its beginning as The Henry Day Five through every version: The Henry Day Four, The Four Horsemen, Henry and the Daylights, The Daydreamers, and lastly, simply Henry Day. Unfortunately, we could not keep the same group together for more than a few months at a time: Our first drummer dropped out of high school and enlisted in the MarineCorps; our best guitarist moved away when his father was transferred to Davenport, Iowa. Most of the guys quit because they couldn't cut it as musicians. Only Oscar and his clarinet persisted. We stayed together for two reasons: one, he could play a mean lick on any horn, particularly his beloved stick; two, he was old enough to drive and had his own car—a pristine '54 red and white Bel Air. We played everything from high school dances to weddings and the occasional night at a club. Discriminating by ear and not by any preconceived notion of cool, we could play any kind of music for any crowd.
　　After a jazz performance where we particularly killed the crowd, Oscar drove us home, radio blaring, the boys in a great mood. He dropped off the others, and late that summer night we parked in front of my parents' house. Moths danced crazily in the headlights, and the rhythmic cricket song underscored the silence. The stars and a half-moon dotted the languid sky. We got out and sat on the hood of the Bel Air, looking out into the darkness, not wanting the night to end.
　　"Man, we were gas," he said. "We slayed them. Did you see that guy when we did 'Hey Now,' like he never heard a sound like that before?"
　　"I'm 'bout worn-out, man."
　　"Oh, you were so cool, so cool."
　　"You're not bad yourself." I hitched myself farther up on the car to stop skidding off the hood. My feet did not quite reach the ground, so I swung them in time to a tune in my head. Oscar removed the cigarette he had stashed behind his ear, and with a snap from his lighter he lit it, and into the night sky he blew smoke rings, each one breaking its predecessor.
　　"Where'd you learn to play, Day? I mean, you're still a kid. Only fifteen, right?"
　　"Practice, man, practice."
　　He quit looking at the stars and turned to face me. "You can practice all you want. Practice don't give you soul."
　　"I've been taking lessons for the past few years. In the city. With a guy named Martin who used to play with the Phil. The classics and all. It makes it easier to understand the music beneath it all."
　　"I can dig that." He handed me the cigarette, and I took a deep drag, knowing he had laced it with marijuana.
　　"But sometimes I feel like I'm being torn in two. My mom and dad want me to keep going to lessons with Mr. Martin. You know, the symphony or a soloist."
　　"Like Liberace." Oscar giggled.
　　"Shut up."
　　"Fairy."
　　"Shut up." I punched him on the shoulder.
　　"Easy, man." He rubbed his arm. "You could do it, though, whatever you want. I'm good, but you're out of this world. Like you've been at it all your life or you were born that way."
　　Maybe the dope made me say it, or maybe it was the combination of the summer night, the post-performance high, or the fact that Oscar was my first true friend. Or maybe I was dying to tell someone, anyone.
　　"I've got a confession, Oscar. I'm not Henry Day at all, but a hobgoblin that lived in the woods for a long, long time."
　　He giggled so hard, a stream of smoke poured out of his nostrils.
　　"Seriously, man, we stole the real Henry Day, kidnapped him, and I changed into him. We switched places, but nobody knows. I'm living his life, and I guess he's living mine. And once upon a time, I was somebody else, before I became a changeling. I was a boy in Germany or somewhere where they spoke German. I don't remember, but it comes back to me in bits and pieces. And I played piano there a long time ago, until the changelings came and stole me. And now I'm back among the humans, and I hardly remember anything about the past, but it's like I'm part Henry Day and part who I used to be. And I must have been one cool musician way back when, because that's the only explanation."
　　"That's pretty good, man. So where's the real Henry?"
　　"Out in the woods somewhere. Or dead maybe. He could be dead; it happens sometimes. But probably hiding out in the woods."
　　"Like he could be watchin' us right now?" He jumped off the car and whispered into the darkness. "Henry? Is that you?"
　　"Shut up, man. It's possible. But they're afraid of people, that much I know."
　　"The whosits?"
　　"The changelings. That's why you never see them."
　　"Why they so afraid of us? Seems like we should be afraid of them."
　　"Used to be that way, man, but people stopped believing in myths and fairy tales."
　　"But what if Henry's out there, watching us right now, wanting to get his body back, and he's creeping up, man, to get you?" And he reached out quickly and snatched my ankle.
　　I screamed, embarrassed to be fooled by such a simple joke. Oscar sprawled on the hood of the car, laughing at me. "You've been watching too many horror movies, man."
　　"No, the truth is ..." I socked him on the arm.
　　"And there's pods in your cellar, right?"
　　I wanted to punch him again, but then I realized how ridiculous my story sounded, and I started laughing, too. If he remembered that night at all, Oscar never again brought up the matter, and maybe he thought I was hallucinating. He drove off, cackling to himself, and I felt empty after the truth had been told. My impersonation of Henry Day had succeeded so well that no one suspected the real story. Even my father, a natural skeptic, believed in me, or at least kept his doubts hidden deep in his soul.
　　The ground floor of our house was as dark and silent as a cave. Upstairs everyone slept soundly. I turned on the kitchen light and poured a drink of water. Attracted to the brightness, moths crashed and flapped up against the window screen. They scritched up and down, a sound menacing and foreboding. I turned off the lights, and they flew away. In the new darkness, I searched for a moving shadow, listened for footsteps among the trees, but nothing stirred. I crept upstairs to check on my sisters.
　　When the girls were young children, I often feared that Mary and Elizabeth would be snatched away by the hobgoblins and two changelings would be left in their place. I knew their ways, their tricks and deceptions, and also knew they could strike the same family twice, or, indeed, three times. Not far from here, the story goes, back in the 1770s, the Church family had seven children stolen and replaced by changelings, one by one, each at age seven, until there were no Churches at all, only simulacra, and pity those poor parents with an alien brood. My sisters were as susceptible, and I watched for the telltale changes in behavior or appearance—a sudden winsomeness, a certain detachment from life—that would reveal a possible switch.
　　I warned the twins to stay out of the woods or any shadowy places. "Dangerous snakes and bears and wildcats wait near our patch of land. Do not talk to strangers. Why go out to play," I'd ask, "when there is something perfectly good and interesting on television?"
　　"But I like exploring," Elizabeth said.
　　"How will we ever find our way back home if we never leave home?" Mary added.
　　"Did you ever see a timber rattler? Well, I have, and copperheads and water moccasins. One bite and you're paralyzed, your limbs go black, then you're dead. Do you think you can outrun or outclimb a bear? They climb trees better than cats, and they would grab your leg and gobble you up. Have you ever seen a raccoon foaming at the mouth?"
　　"I never get to see anything," Elizabeth cried.
　　"How can we ever avoid danger if we don't know what danger is?" Mary asked.
　　"It's out there. You could trip and fall over an old log and break your leg and nobody would ever find you. Or you could be caught in a blizzard with the wind blowing every which way until you can't find your own front door, and then they'd find you the next morning, frozen like a Popsicle, not ten feet from home."
　　"Enough!" They shouted in unison and went off to watch Howdy Doody or Romper Room. I knew, however, that while I was at school or rehearsing with the band, they would ignore my cautions. They'd come home with grass stains on their knees and bottoms, ticks on their bare skin, twigs in their curls, frogs in their overalls, and the smell of danger on their breath.
　　But that night they were sleeping lambs, and two doors down my parents snored. My father called out my name in his sleep, but I dared not answer at such a late hour. The house grew preternaturally still. I had told my darkest secret with no consequences, so I went to bed, safe as ever.
　　
　　
　　They say that one never forgets one's first love, but I am chagrined to admit that I do not remember her name or much else about her—other than the fact that she was the first girl I saw naked. For the sake of the story, I'll call her Sally. Maybe that actually was her name. After the summer of my confession to Oscar, I resumed my lessons with Mr. Martin, and there she was. She had departed at the end of the school year and returned a different creature— someone to be desired, a fetish, an obsession. I am as guilty of anonymous lust as anyone, but it was she who chose me. Her affections I gratefully accepted without pause. I had been noticing her curves for months, before she gathered the courage to speak to me at the winter recital. We stood together backstage in our formal wear, enduring the wait for our individual turns at the piano. The youngest kids went first, for agony is best served as an appetizer.
　　"Where did you learn to play?" Sally whispered over an achingly slow minuet.
　　"Right here. I mean with Mr. Martin."
　　"You play out of this world." She smiled, and, buoyed by her remarks, I gave my most inspired recital. In the weeks and months that followed, we slowly got to know each other. She would hang around the studio listening to me play the same piece over and over, Mr. Martin whispering gruffly, "Adagio, adagio." We arranged to have lunch together on Saturdays. Over sandwiches spread out on waxed paper, we'd chat about that day's lessons. I usually had a few dollars in my pocket from performances, so we could go to a show or stop for an ice cream or a soda. Our conversations centered around the kinds of subjects fifteen-year-olds talk about: school, friends, unbelievable parents, and, in our case, the piano. Or rather, I talked about music: composers, Mr. Martin, records, the affinities of jazz with the classics, and all sorts of nattering theories of mine. It was not a conversation, more like a monologue. I did not know how to listen, how to draw her out, or how to be quiet and enjoy her company. She may well have been a lovely person.
　　When the sun began to heat up the spring air, we took a stroll to the park, a place I normally avoided because of its resemblance to the forest. But the daffodils were in flower, and it seemed perfectly romantic. The city had turned on the fountain, another sign of spring, and we sat by the water's edge, watching the cascade for a long time. I did not know how to do what I wanted to do, how to ask, what to say, in what manner even to broach the subject. Sally saved me.
　　"Henry?" she asked, her voice rising an octave. "Henry, we've been taking walks and having lunch together and going to the movies for over three months, and in all that time, I've wondered: Do you like me?"
　　"Of course I do."
　　"If you like me, like you say, how come you never try to hold my hand?"
　　I took her hand in mine, surprised by the heat in her fingers, the perspiration in her palm.
　　"And how come you've never tried to kiss me?"
　　For the first time, I stared her straight in the eyes. She looked as if she were trying to express some metaphysical question. Not knowing how to kiss, I did so in haste, and regret now not having lingered awhile, if only to remember the sensation. She ran her fingers through my brilliantined hair, which produced an unexpected reaction, and I copied her, but a riddle percolated through my mind. I had no idea what to do next. Without her sudden discovery of a need to catch a streetcar, we might still be sitting there, stupidly staring into each other's faces. On the way back to meet my father, I took apart my emotions. While I "loved" my family by this point in my human life, I had never "loved" a stranger. It's voluntary and a tremendous risk. The emotion is further confused by the matter of lust. I counted the hours between Saturdays, anxious to see her.
　　Thank goodness she took the initiative. While we were necking in the dark balcony of the Penn Theater, she grabbed my hand and placed it on her breast, and her whole body fluttered at my touch. She was the one who suggested everything, who thought to nibble ears, who rubbed the first thigh. We rarely spoke when we were together anymore, and I did not know what Sally was scheming or, for that matter, if she was thinking at all. No wonder I loved the girl, whatever her name was, and when she suggested that I feign an illness to get out of Mr. Martin's class, I gladly complied.
　　We rode the streetcar to her parents' home on the South Side. Climbing the hill to her house in the bright sunshine, I started to sweat, but Sally, who was used to the hike, skipped up the sidewalk, teasing that I could not keep up. Her home was a tiny perch, clinging to the side of a rock. Her parents were gone, she assured me, for the whole day on a drive out to the country.
　　"We have the place to ourselves. Would you like a lemonade?"
　　She might as well have been wearing an apron, and I smoking a pipe. She brought the drinks and sat on the couch. I drank mine in a single swig and sat on her father's easy chair. We sat; we waited. I heard a crash of cymbals in my mind's ear.
　　"Why don't you come sit beside me, Henry?"
　　Obedient pup, I trotted over with a wagging tail and lolling tongue. Our fingers interlocked. I smiled. She smiled. A long kiss—how long can you kiss? My hand on her bare stomach beneath her blouse triggered a pent-up primal urge. I circled my way north. She grabbed my wrist.
　　"Henry, Henry. This is all too much." Sally panted and fanned herself with her fluttering hands. I rolled away, pursed my lips, and blew. How could I have misinterpreted her signals?
　　Sally undressed so quickly that I almost failed to notice the transition. As if pushing a button, off came her blouse and bra, her skirt, slip, socks, and underwear. Through the whole act, she brazenly faced me, smiling beatifically. I did love her. Of course, I had seen pictures in the museum, Bettie Page pinups and French postcards, but images lack breadth and depth, and art isn't life. Part of me pulled forward, desperate to lay my hands upon her skin, but the mere possibility held me back. I took a step in her direction.
　　"No, no, no. I've showed you mine; now you have to show me yours."
　　Not since a young boy at the swimming hole had I taken off my clothes in front of anyone else, much less a stranger, and I was embarrassed at the prospect. But it is hard to refuse when a naked girl makes the request. So I stripped, the whole time watching her watching me. I had progressed as far as my boxers when I noticed that she had a small triangle of hair at the notch of her, and I was completely bare. Hoping that this condition was peculiar to the female species, I pulled down my shorts, and a look of horror and dismay crossed her face. She gasped and put her hand in front of her mouth. I looked down and then looked back up at her, deeply perplexed.
　　"Oh my God, Henry," she said, "you look like a little boy."
　　I covered up.
　　"That's the smallest one I've ever seen."
　　I angrily retrieved my clothes from the floor.
　　"I'm sorry but you look like my eight-year-old cousin." Sally began to pick up her clothes off the floor. "Henry, don't be mad."
　　But I was mad, not so much at her as at myself. I knew from the moment she spoke what I had forgotten. In most respects, I appeared all of fifteen, but I had neglected one of the more important parts. As I dressed, humiliated, I thought of all the pain and suffering of the past few years. The baby teeth I wrenched out of my mouth, the stretching and pulling and pushing of bones and muscle and skin to grow into adolescence. But I had forgotten about puberty. She pleaded with me to stay, apologized for laughing at me, even saying at one point that size didn't matter, that it was actually kind of cute, but nothing she could have said or done would have relieved my shame. I never spoke to her again, except for the most basic greetings. She disappeared from my life, as if stolen away, and I wonder now if she ever forgave me or forgot that afternoon.
　　Stretching remedied my situation, but the exercise pained me and caused unexpected consequences. The first was the curious sensation that typically ended in the same messy way, but, more interestingly, I found that by imagining Sally or any other alluring thing, the results were a foregone conclusion. But thinking on unpleasant things—the forest, baseball, arpeggios—I could postpone, or avoid altogether, the denouement. The second outcome is somewhat more disconcerting to report. Maybe because the squeaking bedsprings were beginning to annoy him, my father burst into my room and caught me one night, red-handed so to speak, although I was completely under cover. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
　　"Henry, what are you doing?"
　　I stopped. There was an innocent explanation, which I could not reveal.
　　"Don't think I don't know."
　　Know what? I wanted to ask.
　　"You will go blind if you keep at it."
　　I blinked my eyes.
　　He left the room and I rolled over, pressing my face against the cool pillow. My powers were diminishing over time. Farsightedness, distance hearing, speed of foot—all had virtually disappeared, and my ability to manipulate my appearance had deteriorated. More and more, I was becoming the human I had wanted to be, but instead of rejoicing in the situation, I sagged into the mattress, hid beneath the sheets. I punched my pillow and tortured the coven in a vain effort to get comfortable. Any hopes for pleasure subsided along with my erection. In pleasure's place, a ragged loneliness ebbed. I felt stuck in a never-ending childhood, doomed to living under their control, a dozen suspicious scowls each day from my false parents. In the forest, I had to mark time and take my turn as a changeling, but the years had seemed like days. In the anxiety of adolescence, the days were like years. And nights could be endless.
　　Several hours later, I woke in a sweat and threw off the covers. Going to the window to let in the fresh air, I spotted out on the lawn, in the dead of night, the red ash of a cigarette, and picked out the dark figure of my father, staring into the dark wood, as if waiting for something to spring out from the shadows between trees. When he turned to come back inside, Dad looked up at my room and saw me framed in the windowpanes, watching him, but he never said a word about it.

   “听听这个。”我的朋友奥斯卡把一张唱片放在转盘上，小心地放下指针。45转的唱片发出“砰砰”和“嘶嘶”的声音，接着主旋律开始了。是四段式的嘟哇音乐，有企鹅乐队的《大地天使》和乌鸦乐队的《唧》，他坐到床沿上，闭上眼，把这些有难度的和声区分开来，先唱高音，然后唱低音。或者他会放一曲迈尔斯的新爵士乐连复段，也可能是戴夫•布鲁克的，找出其中的对位旋律，竖起耳朵听喇叭下几不可闻的钢琴声。整个高中时代，我们常常如此在他房间里花上几个小时，懒洋洋地听着他大量收藏的那些古怪唱片，分析、争论曲子的微妙之处。奥斯卡•拉甫对音乐的热情让我惭愧自己的志向。他在高中时的外号是“白色的黑鬼”，因为他非常地不合群，冷若冰霜，整天若有所思。奥斯卡就是这样一个局外人，与他相比，我倒自觉正常。
　　他比我高一级，但他欢迎我进入他的生活。我父亲认为奥斯卡比布兰多还粗野，但我母亲透过现象看本质，把他当儿子一样疼爱。我在组建乐队时，第一个找的就是他。
　　自从“亨利•戴五人组”成立，奥斯卡就和我共进退，后来还经历了几个版本：“亨利•戴四人组”、“四马夫”、“亨利和白日光”、“幻想乐队”，最后干脆变成“亨利•戴”。不幸的是，我们没能一起将这个乐队维持几个月：我们的第一个击鼓手退了学，参加了海军陆战队，我们最好的吉他手也搬走了，因为他父亲调去了爱荷华州的达文波特。大多数人都退出了，因为他们没法像音乐师那样来对待乐队。
　　只有奥斯卡和他的单簧管坚持下来。我们在一起有两个原因：其一是他能把任何一支喇叭都吹得很棒，尤其是他喜欢的那支；其二是他已经到了能开车的年龄，也有自己的汽车——一辆朴实的红白色贝尔艾尔54。我们什么都演奏，从高中舞会到婚礼到偶尔夜总会的晚间演出。我们的优点是带来听觉享受，而非任何预想之中的酷劲，我们能给任何听众演奏任何音乐。
　　在一场迷死听众的爵士表演之后，奥斯卡开车载我们回家，收音机开得震天响，小伙子们兴致高昂。那个夏日的深夜，他把其他人放下车后，我们停在了我父母家门口。飞蛾在前灯的照明中疯狂跳舞，蟋蟀富有节奏的歌声使周围越发寂静。星星和弦月点缀在无精打采的天空中。我们下车坐在贝尔艾尔的车篷上，望着黑暗，不愿这夜晚结束。
　　“伙计，我们是毒气，”他说，“我们毙了他们。我们演奏《现在嗨》的时候，你有没有看到那个家伙? 好像他从来没有听过这种声音。”
　　“老兄，我快累死了。”
　　“哦，你太酷，太酷了。”
　　“你自己也不差。”我往车上挪了挪，以免从车篷上滑下来。我的脚还没有够到地面，于是我在心里哼着调子甩起腿来。奥斯卡取下夹在耳后的香烟，用打火机“噗”的一下点燃，把烟圈向夜空中吹去，后一个烟圈打破了前一个。
　　“你是从哪里学的钢琴，戴? 我是说，你还是个孩子呢。只有十五岁，对吗? ”
　　“练习，老兄，练习。”
　　他不再眺望星星，转过脸来看我：“你能够演奏出任何你想要的东西。练习不会给你灵魂。”
　　“这几年我都在上课。在城里。跟一个叫马丁的家伙，他曾和爱乐乐团同台演奏过。清一色的古典音乐。学了古典音乐，理解低档次的音乐就更容易了。”
　　“这我明白。”他递给我一支香烟，我深深吸了一口，知道他在里面加了大麻。
　　“但有时候我觉得自己被撕成了两半。我爸妈想要我继续跟马丁先生上课。你知道，学交响乐或独奏曲。”
　　“就像列勃拉斯。”奥斯卡嘻嘻笑道。
　　“住嘴。”
　　“搞同性恋。”
　　“住嘴。”我在他肩上捶了一拳。
　　“别急，伙计，”他抚摸着胳膊，“你能办到的，想要怎样就能怎样。
　　我水平很好，但你却好得简直没治了。好像你一辈子都在搞音乐似的，要么天生是个音乐家。”
　　也许是麻醉品让我吐露真言，也许是夏夜的感觉、演出后的兴奋，或是因为奥斯卡是我第一位真正的朋友，更或许是我渴望告诉某个人，任何一个。
　　“奥斯卡，我承认，我根本不是亨利•戴，而是一个在森林生活了很久很久的妖怪。”
　　他猛笑起来，一缕烟气从他鼻孔中冒出来。
　　“我是说真的，伙计，我们偷了真正的亨利•戴，绑架了他，我变成了他。我们交换了身份，但没人知道。我过着他的生活，我猜想他也过着我的生活。在变成换生灵之前，我是另外一个人，是一个德国男孩，或在别的什么讲德语的地方。我都不记得了，不过能点点滴滴地回想起来，我在那里弹了很久的钢琴，后来换生灵偷走了我，现在我回到了人类中间，几乎不记得过去了，但好像我一部分是亨利•戴，一部分又是曾经的我。当时我肯定是个很酷的音乐家，因为这是惟一的解释。”
　　“这可太妙了，伙计。那么真正的亨利在哪里? ”
　　“在森林里的某个地方。也可能死了。他可能会死，这种事时有发生，但更可能的是藏在森林里。”
　　“比方说他现在正在看着我们? ”他跳下车，对着黑暗轻声说道：“亨利? 那是你吗? ”
　　“闭嘴，老兄。有这可能的。但他们害怕人类，这我知道。”
　　“他们是谁? ”
　　“换生灵。这就是为什么你看不到他们。”
　　“他们为什么怕我们? 好像我们应该怕他们才是。”
　　“曾经是那样，老兄，但大家已经不再相信神话和仙灵传说了。”
　　“但如果亨利在那里，正在看着我们，想把他的身体要回来，而他现在爬了过来，伙计，爬过来抓住了你? ”他飞快地伸出手，抓住我的脚踝。
　　我尖叫起来，被这种简单的玩笑捉弄了，觉得不好意思。奥斯卡趴在车篷上，冲我大笑，“伙计，你是恐怖电影看多了。”
　　“不，事实是……”我在他胳膊上打了一下。
　　“你的地窖里有豆荚，对吗? ”
　　我还想再打他，但很快意识到我的故事听起来有多么荒谬，于是我也开始大笑。
　　无论奥斯卡是否还记得那个晚上，他再也没有提起此事，他可能觉得我是在幻想。
　　他开车走了，咯咯笑个不停，而我说出真相后，觉得心里空荡荡的。我将亨利•戴扮演得如此成功，乃至无人怀疑这个真实的故事。甚至我的父亲，那个天生疑神疑鬼的人，也相信了我，或至少他把疑虑藏到了灵魂深处。
　　我家的底楼像洞穴一般又黑又静。楼上，每个人都睡熟了。我打开厨房的灯，倒了一杯水。被亮光引来的蛾子飞来撞去，在窗子上拍打着翅膀。它们上下扑腾，发出一种带有威胁和预兆的声音。我关了灯，它们飞走了。在再度降临的黑暗中，我搜寻着移动的身影，倾听树木间的脚步声，但什么动静都没有。我轻轻上楼去看我的小妹妹们。
　　当玛丽和伊丽莎白还小时，我常常担心她们会被妖怪抓走，再换两个换生灵回来。我知道他们的伎俩、本事和骗术，也知道他们会两次，甚至三次，光顾同一个家庭。距此不远流传着这样一个故事，早在18世纪70年代，丘齐家中有七个孩子被偷换成了换生灵，一个接一个，每个都在七岁那年，后来再也没有丘齐的骨肉了，只有假货，可怜那对父母和一群异族生活在一起。我的妹妹很可能被相中，我观察着她们行为和外貌上能说明问题的变化——突然变得迷人了，或者某种脱离生活的表现——那就表明可能被替换了。
　　我告诫双胞胎要离树林和任何阴影处远远的。“危险的蛇啊，熊啊，野猫啊会等在我们这里附近。不要跟陌生人说话。为什么要出去玩呢? ”我问道，“电视里有绝对好看有趣的东西。”
　　“但我喜欢探险。”伊丽莎白说。
　　“如果我们从不离家，我们怎么能找到回家的路呢? ”玛丽补充说。
　　“你们见过响尾蛇吗? 嗯，我可见过，还有铜头蛇和水蝮蛇。被咬一口，你们就麻痹了，肢体发黑，接着就死了。你们觉得你们能比一头熊跑得更快或爬得更快吗? 它们爬树比猫还厉害，它们会抓住你们的腿，把你们一口吞下去。你们有没有看到过一头嘴边吐白沫的浣熊? ”
　　“我什么都不要看了。”伊丽莎白哭着说。
　　“如果我们不知道什么是危险，又怎能避开危险呢? ”玛丽问道。
　　“危险就在那里。你们走在外面，在一根老木头上绊一跤，摔伤了腿，没人会找到你们。你们还会被困在暴风雪中，到处都刮着风，你们连自家大门都找不到，第二天早晨他们会发现你们冻得像根冰棍似的，就在离家门十步不到的地方。”
　　“够了。”她们齐声叫起来，走开去看《好迪嘟迪》或《连衫裤房间》了。但我知道，我在学校或和乐队排练的时候，她们会无视我的警告。她们回家的时候，膝盖和屁股上沾着草汁，裸露的皮肤上有扁虱，鬈发上有小树枝，连衫裤里有青蛙，呼吸里有股危险的味道。
　　但那一晚，她们是沉睡的羊羔，我父母房间边上的两扇门在打鼾。父亲在睡梦中唤了我的名字，但时间太晚了，我没敢应声。屋子变得异常沉寂。我说出了自己最黑暗的秘密，但没有结果，于是我去睡觉了，睡得和往常一样安稳。
　　他们说，一个人永不忘怀他的初恋，但我懊悔地承认，我不记得她的名字，也不记得她的其他什么——除了记得她是我第一个看到的裸身女孩。因为要讲故事，我就把她叫做莎莉吧，也许这本来就是她的名字。向奥斯卡坦白的那个夏天过后，我继续随马丁先生上课，她也在那里。学年末期她走了，再回来时，已经脱胎换骨，成为一个令人艳羡、崇拜和迷恋的对象。我也和其他人一样怀有无名的欲火，但却是她选择了我。她的感情，我感激地照单全收。冬季独奏会上，她鼓起勇气和我说话，而之前我留意她的曲线已有数月之久。我们穿着正装一起站在后台，忍受着我们个人钢琴表演前的等待。最小的孩子最先出场，因为痛苦的折磨最好当作开胃品呈上。
　　“你是在哪里学的钢琴? ”她低声问道，当时正演奏着一支烦人而缓慢的小步舞曲。
　　“就在这里。我是说跟马丁先生学的。”
　　“你棒得不像话。”她笑了。在她评价的鼓舞下，我弹出了我最激动人心的独奏曲。此后几个月，我们慢慢认识了。她会待在乐室里，听我将同一支曲子弹了一遍又一遍，听马丁先生暴躁地低声说：“柔板，柔板。”周六，我们会共进午餐，在蜡纸上铺上三明治，聊当天的课程。通常我口袋里总有演奏得来的几个美元，因此我们能去看场演出，或买个冰激凌或汽水。我们的交谈集中在十五岁孩子的话题上：学校、朋友、让人受不了的父母，还有就我们自己的情况——钢琴。我谈论得更多的是音乐：作曲家、马丁先生、唱片、爵士乐和古典乐的密切关系，以及我自己那一派瞎扯的学说。这不是对话，倒更像是独自。我不知道该如何倾听，如何把她摒除在外，又如何安静地享受她的陪伴。她或许本是个可爱的人。
　　但太阳开始蒸热春天的空气，我们到公园中散步，通常我会避免去那儿，因为它很像森林。但黄水仙开花了，看起来浪漫无边。城市里的喷泉打开了，这是春天的另一个象征，我们坐在水边，久久地看着瀑布。我不知道该怎么去做我想做的事，怎么问，怎么说，甚至不知道该怎么提起这个话题。莎莉救了我。
　　“亨利? ”她问道，声音提高了八度，“亨利，我们已经在一块散步、吃饭、看电影有三个多月了。这段时间里，我在想：你是否喜欢我? ”
　　“我当然喜欢。”
　　“如果你像你说的那样喜欢我，为什么从不来牵我的手? ”
　　我握住她的手，惊讶她手指的热度，掌心的汗水。
　　“你为什么从来不吻我? ”
　　第一次，我直直地瞪着她的眼睛。她看起来好像正在表达一个哲学问题。我不知道该怎么接吻，就匆匆忙忙地做了，如今后悔没有多吻一会儿，即便只是为了记住这种感觉。她的手指插入我涂了发油的头发，这引起了意料之外的反应，我学了她的动作，但一个谜在我心中蔓延开来。我不知道下一步该做什么。如果不是她突然发现应该去赶电车，我们可能还是坐在那里，傻平乎地看着彼此的脸。在去和我父亲碰头的路上，我谴责了自己的感情。在我这一回人类的生活中，我正“爱”着我的家人，但我从未“爱”过一个外人。我情不自禁，但这太危险。感情因为欲望而更加迷惑。我数着时间等待下一个周六，迫不及待地想见她。
　　好在是她采取了主动。当我们在佩恩剧院黑黢黢的包厢里搂脖子亲嘴时，她抓住我的手放在她胸口，在我的触碰下她浑身颤动。她提示一切，她想到要啃耳朵，她第一个摸大腿。我们后来在一起时都不怎么说话了，而我也不知道莎莉究竟计划着什么，或者就那种事情而言，她到底有没有想过。难怪我喜欢这个女孩，不管她叫什么名字，当她提出要我假装生病逃马丁先生的课时，我欣然答应。
　　我们搭电车去南边她父母家。在明媚的阳光下爬山上她家，我汗流浃背，但莎莉习惯了走远路，在人行道上两步并一步跳着，还取笑我跟不上。她家坐落在高处，占地不大，紧挨着岩石一侧。她向我保证说，她父母不在家，他们一整天都开车去了乡下。
　　“我们有自己的地盘了。你想来杯柠檬汁吗? ”
　　倒不如她穿条围裙，而我抽一个烟斗。她端来饮料，坐在长沙发上。我一口喝完饮料，坐在她父亲的安乐椅上。我们坐着，我们等着。我听到自己心里传来铙钹的铿锵声。
　　“亨利，你为什么不过来和我坐在一块? ”
　　我就像一只顺从的巴儿狗，摇着尾巴，拖着舌头奔过去。我们的十指交握。我笑了。她笑了。一个长吻——你能吻多久? 我的手摸到她衬衫底下的肚子，这激发了被压抑的原始冲动。我翻过身压在她身上。她抓住我的腰。
　　“亨利，亨利，这太过分了。”莎莉喘着气，摇着手给自己打扇。我滚开去，撅起嘴嘘气。我怎会误解了她的表示? 莎莉飞快地脱衣，我几乎没有看清这变化。
　　像是按了一下按钮，她的衬衫、胸罩、裙子、衬裙、袜子、内裤都纷纷脱落。她一边脱，一边厚颜看着我，笑得很美。我真爱她。当然，我在博物馆里见过图画，贝蒂．佩吉的写真画和法国明信片，但图像缺少广度和深度，且艺术并非生活。我身体的一半被拉上前去，竭力想去抚摸她的肌肤，但微乎其微的可能性让我停下来。
　　我朝她跨出一步。
　　“别，别，别。我已经让你看了我的，现在你要让我看你的。”
　　自从小时候在游泳池中当着他人面脱衣之后，我再也没有做过这种事，这回可不是个陌生人，想到这光景，我就觉得尴尬。但很难就此拒绝一个裸体女孩的请求。
　　于是我脱衣服了，整个过程中都看见她看着我。我脱到内裤时，注意到她的峡谷中有一小片三角形的毛，而我那里寸毛不生。我希望这种状况是女性独有的，我脱下内裤，她脸上闪过惊骇和沮丧的神情。她倒抽口气，手按在嘴上。我低头看了看，又抬头看她，感到十分困惑。
　　“我的天呐，亨利，”她说，“你看起来像个小男孩。”
　　我遮住自己。
　　“这是我见到过的最小的家伙。”
　　我恼怒地从地上拿起衣服。
　　“对不起，但你看起来和我八岁的表弟一样。”莎莉开始从地上捡起她的衣服，“亨利，别生气。”
　　但我气坏了，不是气她，而是气我自己。从她开口说话那刻起，我意识到自己忘了什么。在所有方面，我都是十五岁的模样，但我忽视了最重要的部位之一。我穿衣服时脸面尽丧，想起过去几年中自己所受的痛苦和折磨。我从嘴里拔掉乳牙，舒展、拉伸骨骼、肌肉和皮肤，长成一个少年，但却忘了青春期发育。她恳求我留下来，道歉说不该取笑我，甚至还说了大小不成问题，这其实是那种可爱型的，但无论她说什么做什么，都不能减轻我的羞耻。我再也没有和她说话，除了最基本的打招呼。她从我生活中消失了，好似被偷走了一样，我现在想，她是否原谅了我，是否忘记了那个下午。
　　拉伸挽救了我的情形，但这种运动给我造成痛苦，也造成意料之外的后果。首先是那种好奇的感觉，以典型的方式弄得一塌糊涂，但更为有趣的是，我发现只要想像着莎莉或其他尤物，结果就会在意料之中。但如果想着讨厌的东西——森林，棒球，琶音——我就能推迟或者避免那种结果。第二个后果说起来更不安，也许是因为弹簧床面吱呀作响惹恼了父亲，一天晚上他闯进我房间，抓了个现行，虽然我身上盖着被子。他抬眼看天花板。
　　“亨利，你在干什么? ”
　　我停下手。有个表示清白的解释，但我不能说。
　　“别以为我不知道。”
　　知道什么? 我想问。
　　“如果你再做，眼睛会瞎掉的。”
　　我眨着眼。
　　他走出房间。我翻过身，把脸压在冷冰冰的枕头上。我的本领一直在减退。千里眼，顺风耳，飞毛腿——都没有了，而我操纵自己外表的能力也在退化。我越来越像我一直想成为的人类，但我并没有为此高兴。我陷在床垫里，缩在被子下面，捶打枕头，扭着被子，徒劳无功地想舒服一下。一切寻欢的盼望都随着我的勃起渐渐平息，代之而起的是一阵阵的粗粝的孤独感。我觉得陷在了永无尽头的童年里，命中注定在他们掌控下生活，假父母一天十几次皱着怀疑的眉头。在森林里，我得数着时间等待自己换生，多年如一日地过着。在青春期的焦虑中，我度日如年。夜晚漫无止境。
　　几个小时后我冒着汗醒来，扔开被子，走到窗边，开窗放入新鲜空气，却发现在草地上，深夜中，有一点红色的烟头，接着我辨认出父亲黑色的身影。他望着幽黑的树林，好似在等待什么从树木间的阴影里跳出来。爸爸回身进来时，抬头朝我房间看了一眼，看到我在窗框里望着他，但他什么也没说。
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Chapter 10
　　The full moon created a halo behind Igel's head and evoked the memory of saints and icons in the church I could barely remember. By his side stood Luchóg. Both were dressed for travel in jackets and shoes to ward off the frost.
　　"Aniday, get up and get dressed. You're coming with us this morning."
　　"Morning?" I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "It's the middle of the night."
　　"The sun'll be up in no time. You'd best be quick," Luchóg advised.
　　We stole along the hidden trails through the forest, leaping like rabbits, scrambling through brambles, covering ground with great speed and no pause. Clouds passed beneath the moon, first hiding and then revealing the landscape. The trail led across empty roads, our feet sounding on the pavement. We darted through open spaces, through a field of cornstalks that rustled and hummed as we rolled between rows, past a barn big against the dark sky and a farmhouse yellow in the skittish moonlight. In her stall, a cow lowed at our fleeting presence. A dog barked once. Past the farm, another patch of trees, another road, and then we were crossing a stream from the dizzying height of a bridge. On the far side, Igel led us into a ditch that paralleled the road, and we crouched low in its cover. The sky began to lighten to a deep violet. An engine coughed and soon a milk truck passed by on the road above.
　　"We started too late," Igel said. "He'll have to be more careful now. Aniday, this morning we will test how far you've come to being one of us."
　　Looking down the road, I spied the milk truck stopping at a dreary bungalow on the outskirts of town. Next door stood a small general store with a single gasoline pump out front. The milkman, all in white, descended from his perch and carried his basket to the side door, returning briskly with two glass empties that clinked against the wire. Caught up in the scene, I nearly forgot to follow my comrades as they slithered ahead. I reached them in a culvert not ten yards from the gas station, and they were whispering and pointing in dire conspiracy. The object of desire began to take shape in the gathering light. Atop the pump, a coffee mug shone like a white beacon.
　　"Go get that cup," Igel ordered. "Don't be seen."
　　The rising sun pushed away the deeper hues of the night, and any hesitation on my part risked discovery. It was a simple task to sprint across the grass and pavement, grab the cup, and dash back to our hiding place. Fear held me back.
　　"Take off your shoes," Igel advised. "They'll never hear you."
　　I slipped off my brogans and ran to the pump, its red-winged horse vaulting toward the heavens, and I grasped the mug and turned to go, when an unexpected noise froze me to the spot. Glass on glass. I imagined the station owner reaching into the milk box, detecting a peculiar motion at the gas pump, and hollering to stop me. But no such thing happened. A screen door whined and closed with a bang. I swallowed and trotted back to my comrades, holding up the mug in triumph.
　　"You done well, little treasure."
　　"While you dallied in the open"—Igel stared down—"I went ahead for the milk."
　　The bottle was already open. Without shaking down the half-inch of cream, Igel poured me some first, and we washed down the half-gallon like three drunkards, toasting the dawn. Cold milk settled into my stomach, swelling my belly, causing me to swoon and drowse away the morning with my fellow thieves in a ditch.
　　At midday, we woke from our slumber and moved closer to town in measured steps, hiding among the shadows, halting at the hint of any people. Stopping only at places that appeared to be empty, homes with nobody inside, we pried, snooped, and hunted. The three of us clambered over a low stone wall and stole armloads of fruit from a pear tree. Each bite was a sweet sin, and we took far more than we could eat. I hated to abandon the pears, but we tossed most of them back over the wall and into the orchard, leaving them to rot in the sun. From a clothesline of drying laundry, we each took a clean, fresh shirt, and I swiped a white sweater for Speck. Luchóg pocketed one sock from a hanging pair. "Tradition." He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "The mystery of the missing sock from every washing day."
　　As daylight began its slow fade, the children appeared with their books and satchels, and an hour or two later came the fathers in their big automobiles. We waited for sundown, and after that, lights on and lights out. Good-nights begot goodnights, and houses popped into darkness like bubbles in a chain. Here and there a lamp burned, betraying perhaps some lonesome soul reading past midnight or a wandering insomniac or forgetful bachelor. Like a battlefield general, Igel studied these signs of time before we moved out into the streets.
　　Years had passed since I'd last looked through the storefront window of the toy shop or felt the rough surface of brick corners. The town felt other-worldly, yet I could not pass by a single place without experiencing a flood of associations and memories. At the gates of the Catholic church, I heard Latin raised by a phantom chorus. The motionless candy cane in front of the barbershop brought back smells of witch hazel and the clip of scissors. Mailboxes on the corner reminded me of valentines and birthday cards. My school conjured a picture of children streaming out by the dozens from its doubledoors, screaming for summer. For all their familiarity, however, the streets unsettled me with their neat corners and straight lines, the dead weight of walls, the clear boundaries of windows. The repetitive architecture bore down like a walled maze.　The signs and words and admonitions—STOP, EAT HERE, SAME DAY DRY CLEANING; YOU DESERVE A COLOR TV—did not illuminate any mystery, but only left me indifferent to reading their constant messages. At last, we came to our target.
　　Luchóg climbed up to a window and slipped through a space that seemed much too small and narrow. He collapsed like a mouse going under the door. Standing in the alleyway, Igel and I kept lookout until he heard the soft click of the front lock; he guided us up the stairs to the market. As he opened the door, Luchóg gave us a wan grin, and Igel tousled his hair. Silently, we proceeded down the row of goods, past the Ovaltine and Bosco, cereal in bright boxes, cans of vegetables, fruit, fish, and meat. Every new food tempted me, but Igel would not allow any delay, and he ordered me in a whisper to "come here right now." They crouched by bags on the bottom row, and Igel ripped one open with a slice of his sharp thumbnail. He licked his fingertip, dipped it in the powder, then tasted it.
　　"Bah ... flour."
　　He moved a few paces and repeated the procedure.
　　"Worse ... sugar."
　　"That stuff will kill you," Luchóg said.
　　"Excuse me," I interrupted, "but I can read. What are you looking for?"
　　Luchóg looked at me as if the question was the most preposterous thing he'd ever heard. "Salt, man, salt."
　　I pointed to the bottom shelf, observing that even without the gift of language, one might recognize the picture of the old-fashioned girl under her umbrella, leaving behind a trail of salt. "When It Rains, It Pours," I said, but they seemed unable to take my meaning. We loaded our rucksacks with as much as could be carried and left the store by the front door, a deflating departure, considering the smorgasbord inside. Our cargo made the journey home longer and more arduous, and we did not reach camp until daybreak. The salt, as I would later discover, was used to preserve meat and fish for the lean months, but at the time, I felt as if we had searched the wide seas for treasure and sailed into port with a chest filled with sand.
　　When she was handed the new sweater, Speck's eyes widened with surprise and delight. She peeled off the tattered jersey she had worn for months and lifted the sweater over her head, sliding her arms inside like two eels. The brief sight of her bare skin unsettled me, and I looked away. She sat on a blanket, curled up her legs beneath her bottom, and bade me sit beside her.
　　"Tell me, O Great Hunter, about your visit to the old world. Recount your mishaps and brave deeds. Give us a story."
　　"There's not much to say. We went to the store for salt. But I saw a school and a church, and we swiped a bottle of milk." I reached into my pocket and brought out a soft, overripe pear. "I brought this back, too."
　　She set the pear on the ground. "Tell me more. What else did you see? How did the world make you feel?"
　　"Like I was remembering and forgetting at the same time. When I stepped into lamplight, my shadow appeared, sometimes several shadows, but once outside the circle, they all disappeared."
　　"You've seen shadows before. Brighter lights throw harder shadows."
　　"It is a strange light, and the world is full of straight lines and edges. The corners of their walls looked as sharp as a knife. It is unreal and a bit scary."
　　"That's just a trick of your imagination. Write your impressions in your book." Speck fingered the hem of her sweater. "Speaking of books, did you see the library?"
　　"Library?"
　　"Where they keep the books, Aniday. You didn't see the library?"
　　"I had forgotten all about it." But as we talked, I could recall the stacks of well-worn books, the hushing librarian, quiet men and intent women bowing forward, reading. My mother had taken me there. My mother. "I used to go there, Speck. They let me take home books and bring them back when I was finished. I got a paper card and signed my name on a slip at the back of the book."
　　"You remember."
　　"But I don't remember what I wrote. I didn't write 'Aniday.'"
　　She picked up the pear and inspected it for soft spots. "Get me a knife, Aniday, and I'll cut this in half. And if you're good, I'll take you to the library to see the books."
　　Rather than leaving in the middle of the night as before, we walked out of camp at noon on a crisp October day without so much as a fare-thee-well. Luchóg, Speck, and I followed the same trail into town, but we took our time, as if strolling through the park, not wanting to reach the streets until dusk. A broad highway severed the woods, and we had to wait for a long break in the traffic. I scanned the cars on the chance that the lady in the red coat might drive by, but our vantage point was too far from the road to make out any of the drivers.
　　At the gas station on the edge of town, two boys circled the pump on their bicycles, tracing lazy arcs, enjoying their last fun in the remnant sunlight. Their mother called them for dinner, but before I could see her face, she vanished behind a closing door. Luchóg leading, we moved across the road in single file. Halfway across the asphalt, he froze and pricked his ears to the west. I heard nothing, but in my bones sensed the electric approach of danger moving quickly as a summer storm. A moment's indecision, and we lost our advantage. Springing from the darkness, the dogs were nearly upon us before Speck grabbed my hand and shouted, "Run!"
　　Teeth snapping, the pair split to chase us in a melee of barks and growls. The bigger dog, a muscular shepherd, went after Luchóg as he sprinted toward town. Speck and I raced back to the woods, a hound yelping in pursuit. When we reached the trees, she yanked me forward and up, so that I was six feet off the ground before realizing I was climbing a sycamore. Speck turned and faced the dog, which leapt for her, but she stepped to the side, grabbed the beast by the scruff of the neck, and flung it into the bushes. The dog cried in the air, snapped branches when it landed, and scrambled to its feet in great pain and confusion. Looking back over its shoulder at this girl, he tucked his tail between his legs and slunk away.
　　Coming down the road from the other direction, the German shepherd trotted alongside Luchóg as if he were a longtime pet. They stopped as one in front of us, and the dog wagged its tail and licked Luchóg's fingers. "Do you remember the last changeling, Speck? The German boy?"
　　"You're not supposed to mention—"
　　"He came in handy with this bloody canine. I was running for my life when I suddenly remembered that old lullaby our man used to sing."
　　"'Guten Abend'?"
　　He sang, "Guten Abend, gut' Nacht, mit Rosen bedacht," and the dog whimpered. Luchóg stroked the shepherd between the ears. "Turns out music doth soothe the savage beast."
　　"Breast," she said. "The quote is: 'Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.'"
　　"Don't tell him," Luchóg burst out. "Auf Wiedersehen, Schatzi. Go on home." The dog trotted off.
　　"That was scary," I said.
　　Feigning nonchalance, Luchóg rolled a cigarette. "Could have been worse. Could have been people."
　　"If we meet somebody, play dumb," Speck instructed. "They'll think we're a bunch of kids and tell us to go on home. Nod your head when I talk and don't say a word." I looked around the empty streets, half hoping for an encounter, but all the people seemed to be inside, at dinner, bathing the children, getting ready for bed. In many homes, an unearthly blue glow emanated from within.
　　The library squatted stately in the middle of a tree-lined block. Speck moved as if she had passed this way many times before, and the problem of locked doors was easily circumvented. Luchóg led us around the back to a staircase and pointed out a gap where the concrete had separated from the main wall.
　　"I don't think I can fit through that. My head's too big, and I'm not that skinny."
　　"Luchóg is a mouse," Speck said. "Watch and learn."
　　He told me the secret of softening one's bones. The gist is to think like a mouse or a bat, simply realizing one's own flexibility. "It will hurt the first time, lad, like every good thing, but there's no trick to it. A matter of faith. And practice."
　　He disappeared into the crack, and Speck followed him, exhaling a single drawn-out sigh. Pushing through that narrow space hurt more than I can say. The abrasions on my temples took weeks to heal. After softening myself, I had to remember to keep my muscles tense for a while or risk an arm or a leg going limp. But Luchóg was right—with practice, squeezing became second nature.
　　Underneath the library, the crawlspace was dark and foreboding, so when Speck struck a match, the flame glowed with hope. She touched the flame to a candlewick, and with the candle lit a hurricane lamp that smelled of must and kerosene. Each successive illumination brought the dimensions and features of the room into sharper focus. The back of the building had been built on a slight slope, so that the floor inclined from our entranceway, where one could stand quite comfortably, rising to the opposite wall, where one could rest only by sitting. I can't tell you how many times I bumped my head on the ceiling by that far wall. The chamber had been made accidentally, a sort of hollow beneath a new addition to the old library building. Since it did not rest on the same foundation, the room was hotter than outside during the summer and bone-cold in the winter. By lamplight I could see that someone had added a few homey touches—a brace of rugs, a few drinking vessels, and, in the northwest corner, a sort of easy chair fashioned from salvaged blankets. Luchóg began fiddling with his cigarette pouch, and Speck ordered him out, if he must smoke. Grumbling, he scooted through the crack.
　　"So what do you think, Aniday? A bit rustic, but still ... civilization."
　　"It's grand."
　　"You haven't seen the best part. The whole reason I brought you here." Speck motioned me to follow, and we scuttled up the incline to the back wall. She reached up, turned out a knob, and a panel dropped from the ceiling. In a flash, she hoisted herself up through the hole and was gone. I knelt on the spot, waiting for her return, looking up through the empty space. All at once, her face appeared in the frame.
　　"Are you coming or not?" she whispered.
　　I followed her into the library. The pale light from our chamber below dissipated in the room, but I could still make out—my heart leapt at the sight—row after row, shelf above shelf, floor to ceiling, a city of books. Speck turned to me and asked, "Now, what shall we read first?"

     满月在伊格尔的脑袋后面饰起一圈光晕，这让我模模糊糊地想起教堂里的圣人和偶像。他身边站着鲁契克。两人都穿着外出的夹克和鞋子抵御严寒。
　　“安尼戴，起来穿好衣服。今天早晨你和我们一起去。”
　　“早晨? ”我揉着惺忪的睡眼，“现在是半夜啊。”
　　“太阳很快就升起来了。你最好赶快。”鲁契克建议说。
　　我们沿着树林深处的小径潜行，像兔子一样蹦跳自如，爬过荆棘丛，驰过土地，毫不停留。云朵飘过月下，地貌或隐或现。小径横过空荡荡的马路，我们的足音响起在人行道上。我们箭一般穿过空地，穿过农田中成排的庄稼，玉米秆子沙沙低吟，又经过一个在夜色中显得尤其巨大的谷仓，还有一幢被变幻不定的月光染成黄色的农舍。
　　我们飞奔过去时，一头母牛在牛棚里哞了一声，一条狗吠了一下。过了农场，又是另一片树林，另一条马路，接着我们从一座高得令人目眩的桥上越过溪流。到了对岸，伊格尔带领我们钻入一条和马路平行的沟渠，我们蹲在沟盖底下。天色亮起来，变成深紫色。有台机器啉哧Ⅱ扑哧地响起来，不久一辆送奶车从上面的路面上经过。
　　“我们出来得太晚了，”伊格尔说，“他现在更加小心了。安尼戴，今天早上我们要考考你在多大程度上已经成了我们自己人了。”
　　我朝马路上望去，只见那辆送奶车停在镇外一栋沉寂的平房前，旁边是一家小百货商店，门前有台汽油泵。穿得一身白的送奶工从驾驶座上下来，提着篮子走向边门，然后轻快地回来，手里两只空瓶和铁丝网撞得叮当响。我被这幅场景吸引住了，差点忘了要跟上跑在前头的同伴。在一个距离加油站不到十米的涵洞中，我追上他们，他们正在窃窃私语，指指点点，策划着可怕的阴谋。在逐渐聚起的光线下，我们要的东西开始显出轮廓。汽油泵顶上，一只咖啡杯像白色灯塔一般闪闪发亮。
　　“去拿那个杯子，”伊格尔下令说，“别被人看见。”
　　朝阳赶跑了浓浓的夜色，我再迟疑下去就有可能会被发现。这是个简单的任务，只需跃过草地和人行道，抓住杯子，然后跑回我们的藏身处即可。但恐惧让我动弹不得。
　　“脱掉鞋子，”伊格尔建议说，“他们听不到你。”
　　我脱下低帮鞋，向汽油泵跑去，它红色翅膀的马达拱向天空。我一把抓住杯子，正要往回跑，没想到却听见一种声音，我僵立当场。
　　玻璃彼此碰撞的声音。我想像着加油站主人去牛奶箱取奶瓶，却发现汽油泵那边有异样的动静，大声叫我站住。但此事没有发生。一扇纱门“吱吱”打开，又“砰”地关上。我咽了口唾沫，跑回同伴身边，如获大胜地举起杯子。
　　“你干得很好，小宝贝。”
　　“你在空地上耽误时间时，”——伊格尔垂下目光——“我去拿牛奶了。”
　　瓶口已经打开。伊格尔没有把半寸厚的奶皮摇晃下去，他先给我倒了一些，然后我们三个像酒鬼一样把半加仑的牛奶灌进喉咙，在晨光下干杯。冷牛奶沉入我的胃中，胀起我的肚皮，使得我整个上午都和小偷同伙们在沟渠里酣然大睡：中午我们睡醒后，小心翼翼地朝镇上走去，在阴影中躲躲藏藏，一看到人就停下脚步。我们只在看起来无人的地方和屋子里停留，到处探查、偷窃、搜寻。我们三个翻过一堵矮石墙，从一棵梨树上偷了大把的水果。每咬一口都是甜蜜的罪恶，摘了太多吃不完，我绝不想扔掉梨子，但我们还是把大部分丢过墙头，扔回果园，让它们在太阳下腐烂。在干洗店的晾衣绳上，我们每个人取了一件干净清洁的衬衫，我为斯帕克偷了件白色套衫。鲁契克从一双袜子里拿了一只放进口袋。“传统。”他咧嘴嘻笑，“每个洗衣日都会丢袜子的秘密。”
　　天光渐渐淡去，拿着书背着包的孩子们出现了，再过一两个小时，父亲们开着大汽车来了。我们等待太阳落山，之后灯光明灭，人们互道晚安，房屋没入黑暗，犹如一个个泡沫漂入排水沟。有些灯亮着，大概是某个孤独的人夤夜读书，或是失眠的人在四处徘徊，或是健忘的单身汉。伊格尔就像战场上的将军，研究这些时间的标志，然后我们开进街道。
　　我已有多年未曾透过橱窗玻璃朝玩具店里张望了，也有多年未曾感受到砖角的粗糙表面。镇子仿佛另一个世界，但我每走过一个地方，都有如潮的联想和回忆。
　　在天主教教堂门前，我听到幻想中的唱诗班在唱拉丁文。理发店前纹丝不动的旋转灯让我想起金缕梅花水的味道和剪刀的“咔嚓”声。街角的信箱让我想起情人卡和生日卡。我的学校勾勒出一幅画面：数十成百的孩子们从敞开的大门中涌出来，为暑假而欢呼。虽然如此熟悉，街道却让我心生不安，整洁的角落、笔直的线条、沉重而死寂的围墙，还有窗户清晰的界限。重复的建筑像耸立的迷宫一样逼来。各种标志、词语、警告——“停车”，“此处用餐”，“当日干洗”，“你应该买一台彩电”——没有造就任何神话，只让我无动于衷地去读它们不变的信息。最后，我们到达目的地。
　　鲁契克爬上一扇窗子，从一个看起来过小过窄的地方滑了进去。
　　他像老鼠过门缝一样把自己缩扁。伊格尔和我站在小巷子里保持警惕，他听到前门的锁轻轻一响，就带我上楼梯去店里，他打开门，鲁契克朝我们淡淡一笑，伊格尔摸了摸他头发。我们悄悄地走进成排货物，经过阿华田和宝科，装在亮色箱子里的谷类，罐头蔬菜、水果、鱼、肉。每种新食品都诱惑着我，但伊格尔不允许任何拖延，他轻声命我“马上来这儿”。他们蹲在底层货架的袋子边，伊格尔用他锋利的拇指指甲一划，就撕开了一个。他舔了舔指尖，蘸了点粉末尝了尝。
　　“呸……面粉。”
　　他移了几步，又干了一回。
　　“更糟……是糖。”
　　“店员会杀了你。”鲁契克说。
　　“打扰一下，”我插嘴说，“我识字的。你在找什么? ”
　　鲁契克看着我，仿佛这是他听过的最荒谬的问题。“盐，伙计，盐。”
　　我指着底层货架，发现即使不懂语言，也可以凭借画面来识别：一个衣着老式的姑娘站在伞下，后面撒着一路盐。“天雨盐撒。”我说，但他们好像不明白我的意思。我们尽量地把帆布背包装满，从前门离开商店，说到这顿瑞典式自助餐，我们可是把东西干掉了不少。
　　我们的重荷使得回家的旅程更为漫长辛苦，直到天亮才到营寨。我后来发现，这些盐是用来保存鱼肉，以备缺货的时节使用，但在当时，我只觉我们搜遍了整个海洋寻宝，却带着一箱沙子回港。
　　斯帕克拿到新套衫时，瞪大双眼，又惊又喜。她脱掉穿了数月的破烂运动衫，把套衫举到头顶，两条胳膊像鳗鱼一般滑了进去。她一丝不挂的肌肤昙花一现，我心头一跳，调转视线。她坐在毯子上，两条腿蜷在臀下，让我也坐在她身边。
　　“哦，伟大的猎人，把你拜访旧世界的经历告诉我。说说你的遭遇和英勇行为。
　　给我讲个故事。”
　　“没什么好多说的。我们去商店弄盐。我看到了学校和教堂，我们还喝了一瓶牛奶。”我从口袋里拿出一只软软的、过熟的梨子，“我还把这个带回来了。”
　　她把梨放在地上，“再告诉我一些。你还看到了什么? 那个世界给你什么感觉?”
　　“就像我同时记住又忘记了那样。我走到灯光下时就有了影子，有时候是好多个影子，但一走到圆圈外面，影子就消失了。”
　　“你以前见过影子。灯光越明亮，影子就越明显。”
　　“那是一种奇怪的光线，而且那个世界里充满了笔直的线条和边角。他们围墙的角落看起来和刀子一般锋利。那不真实，有点吓人。”
　　“那只是你想像的蒙蔽。把你的印象写到你的书里吧。”斯帕克抚摸着套衫的褶边，“说到书，你看到图书馆了吗? ”
　　“图书馆? ”
　　“他们放书的地方，安尼戴。你没有看见图书馆? ”
　　“我已经全忘了。”但我们说着说着，我就能想起一摞摞陈旧的书，发出“嘘嘘”声的图书管理员，俯着身子阅读的安静的男人和专心的女人。我母亲带我去过那里。我母亲。“斯帕克，我曾经去过那里。他们让我把书带回家，看完再带回去。
　　我有一张纸卡，把我的名字写在书背后的小纸片上。”
　　“你记得。”
　　“但我不记得我写了什么。我没写‘安尼戴’。”
　　她拿起梨子，查看软下去的地方，“给我拿把刀来，安尼戴，我把它切成两半。
　　如果你是好样的，我就带你去图书馆看那些书。”
　　我们不像以往那样半夜出发，而是在一个秋高气爽的十月中午走出营寨，没有和他们道别。鲁契克、斯帕克和我走那条去镇上的老路，但我们优哉游哉的，像逛公园，只想在黄昏后到达街道就行。一条宽阔的高速公路将树林隔断，我们得等一段较长的无车时间。我借机巡视一辆辆的汽车，看那个红衣女子会不会开车经过，但我们的视点距离公路太远，没法看清司机。
　　镇外的加油站上，两个男孩骑着自行车围着汽油泵转圈，绕着懒洋洋的弧线，在余晖下享受最后的乐趣。他们的母亲叫他们吃晚饭，我还没有看清她的脸，她就在关起的门后消失了。鲁契克打头，我们排成一列穿过公路。正走到柏油马路中间，他顿住脚朝西面竖起耳朵。我什么都没听到，但骨子里却感觉到危险正如夏季的暴风雨飞速接近。我们迟疑了一刻，就丢了先机。狗从黑暗中跳出来，差点就要扑到我们身上了，斯帕克抓住我的手叫道：“跑! ”
　　两条狗分别追赶我们，龇着牙，吠声和咆哮声响成一片。较大的那条是肌肉发达的牧羊犬，它追着鲁契克，鲁契克朝镇子方向飞奔。
　　斯帕克和我跑回树林：一头猎犬汪汪叫着追我们。我们跑到树丛中，她一把将我拉了上去，我离地有两米时才意识到自己在爬一棵小无花果树。斯帕克回身对着狗，狗朝她扑去，但她一个侧步，抓住它后颈，把它丢进了灌木丛。那条狗在半空中大叫，落地时砸断了树枝，极其痛苦而困惑地挣扎站起。它回头看了看这个女孩，尾巴夹在腿间溜走了。
　　德国牧羊犬从公路的另一个方向奔来，在鲁契克身边亦步亦趋，好似一只养了很长时间的宠物。他们在我们面前齐步停下，那条狗摇着尾巴，舔起鲁契克的手指。
　　“你还记得上一位换生灵吗，斯帕克? 那个德国男孩。”
　　“你不应该提到……”
　　“血淋淋的狗牙他能派得上用处。我逃命的时候突然想到，我们那个伙计曾经唱过一首古老的催眠曲。”
　　“晚安? ’他唱道：“晚安，晚安，玫瑰带给你。”那条狗低鸣起来。鲁契克在它头顶打了一下，“音乐能使野兽安静下来。”
　　“是心灵，”她说，“那句话是这样的：‘音乐有抚慰粗野心灵的魅力。”
　　“别告诉他，”鲁契克突然喊道，“再见，宝贝。回家去吧。”狗跑开了。
　　“这太可怕了。”我说。
　　鲁契克装出一副毫不在意的样子，卷起一支烟，“还有更可怕的。
　　人类更可怕。”
　　“假如我们碰到人，就装哑巴，”斯帕克教导说，“他们会把我们当成一帮孩子，叫我们回家。我说话时你就点头，但什么都别说。”我环顾空荡荡的马路，有点盼望能遇见一个人，但似乎所有的人都在家里，吃晚饭，给孩子洗澡，准备睡觉了。在许多家中，有种怪异的蓝色光芒从里面透出来。
　　图书馆庄严地坐落在一个绿树成荫的街区中间。斯帕克的动作就像是她以前多次走过这条路，上锁的门轻而易举地被攻下了。
　　鲁契克带我们绕到后面的楼梯，指着主墙体上水泥裂开形成的一道缝。
　　“我觉得我没法钻进去。我的头太大了，身体也没那么瘦。”
　　“鲁契克是只老鼠，”斯帕克说，“看着他，跟他学。”
　　他告诉我让骨骼变软的秘密。窍门是要像老鼠或蝙蝠那样思考，只是想着自己能变得多软。“第一次会痛的，伙计，好事情开头都这样，但除此之外别无他法。
　　这是信念的问题，还有练习。，，他从缝隙中消失了，斯帕克跟他进去，长长地呼了口气。从那个狭小的地方挤进去让我痛得无言以表，额角上的擦伤过了几周才痊愈。把自己变软后，我得记着让自己的肌肉绷紧一段时间，否则胳膊或腿就有变形的危险。但鲁契克毫发无损，他练出来的，这样挤压已经习以为常了。
　　图书馆下面爬行的通道黑黢黢的，有种不祥之感，斯帕克擦亮一根火柴，火焰燃烧起希望。她把火苗碰了碰烛芯，蜡烛又点亮了防风灯，闻起来有股霉味和煤油味。每点亮一次，房间的进深和样子就更为清晰。建筑物的后室建筑在一个缓坡上，因此地面从我们的入口往上倾斜，入口可以相当舒服地站着，但在对面墙下，要休息只能坐着。我没法告诉你，我在对墙的天花板上撞了多少次脑袋。这个房间是偶然造起来的，是在老图书馆大楼下增加设备时形成的一个空间。因为不是造在同一个地基上，这个房间夏季比外边热，而冬季寒冷砭骨。在灯光下，我看到有人已经添设了一些温馨的东西——一个垫子做成的吊床，几个饮料容器，西北角上，还有一个用废弃的毯子做成的安乐椅似的东西。鲁契克开始拨弄他的烟囊，斯帕克说如果他定要吸烟，就得出去。他喃喃抱怨着从缝隙中溜出去了。
　　“安尼戴，你觉得怎么样? 有点土气，但还是……文明。”
　　“这太棒了。”
　　“你还没有看到最好的地方。那是我带你来的全部理由。”斯帕克示意我跟上，我们快速从斜坡走到后墙。她探手上去转动一个旋钮，天花板上掉下一块板。她顷刻间就从洞I=I 翻了上去，离开了。我跪在原地，等她回来，抬眼看着空荡荡的地方。突然间，她的脸出现在方框里。
　　“你来吗? ”她低声说。
　　我跟她进了图书馆。下面房间暗淡的光线在室内消散了，但我仍然能够看清楚，我的心朝这个景象飞扑而去——一排接着一排，一个书架叠着一个书架，从地板到天花板，整整一个书城。斯帕克转过身问我：“现在，我们应该先读什么呢? ”
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Chapter 11
　　The end, when it arrived, proved both timely and apt. Not only had I learned everything Mr. Martin had to offer, but I was sick of it all—the practice, the repertoire, the discipline, and the ennui of eighty-eight keys. By the time I turned sixteen, I began looking for an excuse to quit, a way out that would not break my mother's heart. The truth is that while I am a very good pianist, great even, I was never sublime. Yes, by far the best in our remote hamlet, no doubt our corner of the state, maybe the best from border to border, but beyond that, no. I lacked the passion, the consuming fire, to be a world-class pianist. Looking forward, the alternative was dreadful. To end up like old Mr. Martin himself, teaching others after a second-rate career? I would rather play in a bordello.
　　Over breakfast one morning, I opened with this gambit: "Mom, I don't think I'm going to get any better."
　　"Better than what?" she asked, whipping eggs.
　　"At the piano, at music. I think it's as far as I can go."
　　She poured the mess into a skillet, the eggs sizzling as they hit butter and hot iron, and said nothing while she stirred. She served me a plate of eggs and toast, and I ate them in silence. Coffee cup in hand, she sat across the table from me. "Henry," she said softly, wanting my attention. "Do you remember the day when you were a little boy and ran away from home?"
　　I did not, but I nodded in the affirmative between bites.
　　"It was a bright day and hot, hotter than Hades. I wanted a bath to cool off. The heat's one thing I can't get used to. And I asked you to mind Mary and Elizabeth, and you disappeared into the forest. Do you remember that?"
　　There was no way I could remember, but I nodded my head as I swallowed the last slug of orange juice.
　　"I put the girls to bed and came back down, but you were gone." Her eyes welled up as she recounted the experience. "We looked over hill and yon but couldn't find you. As the day wore on, I called your father to come home, and then we telephoned the police and the firemen, and we were all looking for you for hours, calling out your name into the night." She looked past me, as if reliving the experience in her mind's eye.
　　"Any more eggs, Mom?"
　　She waved her spoon toward the stove, and I helped myself. "When it grew dark, I grew afraid for you. Who knows what lives out in that forest? I knew a woman once in Donegal whose baby was stolen from her. She'd gone out to pick blackberries and left her child sleeping on a blanket on a bright summer day, and when she came back, the baby was gone, and they never did find it, poor thing, not a trace. All that remained was an impression left on the grass."
　　I peppered my eggs and dug in.
　　"I thought of you lost and wanting your mother, and I couldn't get to you, and I prayed to God that you'd come home. When they found you, it was like a second chance. Quitting would be throwing away your second chance, your God-given gift. It's a blessing and you should use your talent."
　　"Late for school." I mopped the plate clean with a heel of bread, kissed the top of her head, and exited. Before I made it down the front steps, I regretted not being more forceful. Most of my life has been ruled by indecision, and I am grateful when fate intercedes, relieving me from choice and responsibility for my actions.
　　By the time of the winter recital that year, just the sight and sound of the piano made my stomach churn. I could not disappoint my parents by quitting Mr. Martin altogether, so I pretended that all was well. We arrived early, at the concert hall, and I left my family at the door to find their seats while I moped about backstage. The folderol surrounding the recitals remained unchanged. In the wings of the theater, students milled about, mentally preparing for their turns, practicing their fingering on any flat surface. Mr. Martin paced among us, counting heads, reassuring the stage-frightened, the incompetent, and the reluctant. "You are my prize pupil," he said. "The best I've ever taught. The only real piano player in the whole bunch. Make them cry, Henry." And with that, he pinned a carnation on my lapel. He swirled and parted the curtains to the brightness of the footlights to welcome the assemblage. My performance was the grand finale, so I had time to duck out the back and smoke a Camel pinched from my fathers pack. A winter's night had fallen, clear and cold. A rat, startled by my presence in the alley, stopped and stared at me. I showed the vermin my teeth, hissed and glowered, but I could not scare it. Once upon a time, such creatures were terrified of me.
　　That frozen night, I felt entirely human and heartened at the thought of the warm theater. If this was to be my farewell performance, I resolved to give them something to remember me by. I moved like a whip, cracking the keys, thundering, floating, the right pressure on all the partial notes. Members of the audience began rising from their seats to lead the applause before the strings stopped humming. Enchanted, they showered their huzzahs, so much so that I almost forgot how much I hated the whole business. Backstage, Mr. Martin greeted me first, tears of joy in his eyes, squealing "Bravo," and then the other students, half of them barely masking their resentment, the other half consumed with jealousy, acknowledging with grudging graciousness that I had outshone their performances. In came the parents, siblings, friends, neighbors, and assorted music lovers. They clumped around the players, but I drew the largest crowd, and I did not notice the woman in the red coat until most of the well-wishers had vanished.
　　My mother was wiping lipstick from my cheek with a wet handkerchief when the woman meandered into my peripheral vision. She appeared normal and pleasant, about forty years old. Her deep brown hair framed an intelligent face, but I was perplexed at the way her pale green eyes had fixed upon me. She stared, scrutinized, studied, and pondered, as if dredging up an inner mystery. She was an utter stranger to me.
　　"Excuse me," she said. "But you're Andrew Day?"
　　"Henry Day," I corrected her.
　　"Right, Henry. You play wonderfully."
　　"Thank you." I turned back to my parents, who intimated that they were ready to go.
　　Maybe she saw my profile, or perhaps the simple act of turning away set off something in her brain, but she gasped and drew her fingers to her mouth. "You're him," she said. "You're the little boy."
　　I squinted at her and smiled.
　　"You are the one I saw in the woods that night. On the road? With the deer?" She started to raise her voice. "Don't you remember? I saw you on the road with those other boys. It must have been eight or nine years ago by now. You're all grown up and everything, but you're that little boy, no doubt. I was worried about you."
　　"I don't know what you are talking about, ma'am." I turned to go, but she grabbed my arm.
　　"It is you. I cracked my head on the dashboard when I hit the deer, and I thought you were a dream at first. You came out of the forest—"
　　I yelped a sound that hushed the room, a pure raw cry that startled everyone, myself included. I did not realize my capacity for such an inhuman noise still existed. My mother intervened.
　　"Let go of my son," she told her. "You're hurting his arm."
　　"Look, lady," I said, "I don't know you."
　　My father stepped into the middle of the triangle. "What is this all about?"
　　The woman's eyes flashed in anger. "I saw your boy. One night I was driving home from the country, and this deer jumped right onto the road in front of my car. I swerved to miss her, but I clipped her with my bumper. I didn't know what to do, so I got out of the car to see if I could help."
　　She shifted her attention from my father and began addressing me. "From the woods comes this boy, about seven or eight years old. Your son. And he startled me more than the deer did. Out of nowhere, walks right up to the deer like the most natural thing in the world; then he bent down to its mouth or nose or whatever you call it. Hard to believe, but he cupped his hand over her muzzle, and breathed. It was magic. The deer rolled off her side, unfolded her legs, stood, and sprang off. The most incredible thing that's ever happened to me."
　　I realized then that she had experienced an encounter. But I knew I had not seen her before, and while some changelings are willing to inspire wild animals, I never engaged in such foolishness.
　　"I got a real good look at the boy in my headlights," she said, "although not so good at his friends in the forest. It was you. Who are you really?"
　　"I don't know her."
　　My mother, riveted by her story, came up with an alibi. "It can't be Henry. Listen, he ran away from home when he was seven years old, and I didn't let him out of my sight for the next few years. He was never out by himself at night."
　　The intensity melted from the woman's voice, and her eyes searched for a sign of faith. "He looked at me, and when I asked him his name, he ran away. Since that night I've wondered ..."
　　My father spoke in a gentle tone he seldom used. "I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. Everybody has a double in the world. Maybe you saw someone who looked a bit like my son. I'm sorry for your troubles." She looked into his eyes, searching for affirmation, but he offered only the solace of his calm demeanor. He took the red coat from her arm and held it open for her. She slipped inside it, then left the room without a word, without looking back. In her wake trailed the remnants of anger and anxiety.
　　"Did you ever?" my mother asked. "What a story. And to think that she'd actually have the nerve to say it."
　　From the corner of my eye, I could see my father watching me, and the sensation unnerved me. "Can we go now? Can we get out of here?"
　　When we were all in the car and out of the city, I announced my decision. "I'm not going back there. No more recitals, no more lessons, no more strangers coming up to me with their wild stories. I quit."
　　For a moment, I thought my father would drive off the road. He lit a cigarette and let Mom take over the conversation.
　　"Henry, you know how I feel about quitting...."
　　"Did you hear what that lady said?" Mary chimed in. "She thought you lived in the woods."
　　"You don't even like to stand next to a tree." Elizabeth laughed.
　　"This isn't about your feelings, Mom, but mine."
　　My father stared at the white line in the middle of the road.
　　"You are a sensitive boy," my mother continued. "But you can't let one woman with one story ruin your life. You don't mean to tell me you're going to quit eight years of work on the basis of a fairy tale."
　　"It isn't the woman in the red coat. I've had enough. Gone as far as I can go."
　　"Bill, why don't you say something?"
　　"Dad, I'm tired of it. Sick of practice, practice, practice. Tired of wasting my Saturdays. I think I should have a say over my own life."
　　He drew a deep breath and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The rest of the Days understood the signal. Quiet all the way home. That night I could hear them talking, make out the ebb and flow of a loud and emotional confrontation, but I had lost all ability to eavesdrop from a distance. Once in a while I'd hear a "goddam" or "bloody" explode from him, and she may have cried—I suppose she did—but that's it. Near midnight, he stormed out of the house, and the sound of the car pulling away left a desolation. I went downstairs to see if Mom had survived the ordeal and found her calmly sitting in the kitchen, a shoebox open on the table before her.
　　"Henry, it's late." She tied a ribbon around a bundle of letters and set it in the box. "Your father used to write once a week while he was over in North Africa." I knew the story by heart, but she unwound it again. Pregnant, with a husband overseas at war, all of nineteen at the time, she lived with his parents. She was still alone at the time of Henry's birth, and I was now almost as old as she had been through the whole ordeal. Counting my life as a hobgoblin, I was old enough to be her grandfather. Untamed age had crept into her heart.
　　"You think life's easy when you're young, and can take almost anything because your emotions run so strong. When you're up, you're in the stars, and when you're down, you're at the bottom of the well. But although I've grown old—"
　　She was thirty-five by my calculations.
　　"That doesn't mean I've forgotten what it's like to be young. Of course, it's your life to do with what you choose. I had high hopes for you as a pianist, Henry, but you can be whatever you wish. If it's not in your heart, I understand."
　　"Would you like a cup of tea, Mom?"
　　"That would be grand."
　　
　　
　　Two weeks later, during the afternoon before Christmas, Oscar Love and I drove into the city to celebrate my newly won independence. Ever since that episode with Sally, I'd had a question or two about my capability to have intercourse, so the trip was not without apprehension. When I lived in the forest, only one of those monsters could do the trick. He had been captured too late in his childhood, at the cusp of puberty, and he gave the poor females nothing but trouble. The rest of us were not ready physically to perform the act.
　　But I was ready to experience sex that night. Oscar and I tipped back a bottle of cheap wine. Thus fortified, we approached the house at dusk as the girls were opening up shop. I would like to report that losing my virginity was both exotic and erotic, but the truth is that it was mainly dark, rough, and over much more quickly than I had expected. She was fair-skinned and past her glory, the crown of platinum hair a come-on and a ruse, and among her several rules for the duration, no kissing. When I displayed a tentative uncertainty as to where and how to go about the act, she grabbed me with her hand and pushed me into position. A short time later, all that remained was to get dressed, pay the bill, and wish her merry Christmas.
　　When morning came with gifts around the tree and the family lounging in pajamas and robes, I felt on my way to a brand-new life. Mom and the twins were oblivious to any change as they went about their cheerful tasks, offering genuine affection and consideration of one another. My father, on the other hand, may have suspected my debauch of the night before. Earlier that morning, when I came home around two o'clock, the living room smelled of Camels, as if he had been waiting up for me and only gone to bed when Oscar's car pulled into the driveway. Throughout that drowsy holiday, my father moved about the house the way a bear moves through its territory when it smells the presence of another male. Nothing said, but wayward glances, brusqueness, a snarl or two. For the rest of our time together, we did not get along. A year and a half remained in my high school career before I could get away to college, so we circled one another, barely exchanging a sentence on our rare encounters. He treated me like a stranger half of the time.
　　I recall two occasions when he stepped out of his inner world, and both times were unsettling. A few months after the scene at the winter recital, he brought up the matter of the woman in red and her strange story. We were tearing down my mother's henhouse, having sold the birds and gotten out of the egg and chicken business after turning a handsome profit. His questions arrived in the intervals between the prying crowbar, squealing nails, and tearing lumber.
　　"So, you remember that lady and her story about the boy and the deer?" He ripped another plank from the frame." What do you make of that? Do you think such a thing could happen?"
　　"Sounded incredible to me, but I suppose it might have happened. She seemed pretty sure of herself."
　　Grunting with effort, he tugged away at a rusty nail. "So it might be true? How do you explain her thinking it was you?"
　　"I didn't say it was true. She seemed convinced it happened, but it isn't likely, is it? And anyway, suppose something like that did happen to her, she is wrong about me. I wasn't there."
　　"Maybe it was someone who looked like you?" He threw his weight into it, and the rest of the wall crashed down, leaving only the skeleton stark against the sky.
　　"That's a possibility," I said. "I reminded her of someone she saw once upon a time. Didn't you tell her that everyone has a double in the world?
　　Maybe she saw my evil twin?"
　　He eyeballed the frame. "This'll tumble down with a few good kicks." He knocked down the frame, loaded it up in the back of a truck, and drove away.
　　The second occasion occurred about a year later. His voice woke me at first light, and I followed the sound from my bedroom and through the back doorway. A feathery mist rose from the lawn and he stood, his back to me, in the middle of the wet grass, calling out my name as he faced a stand of firs. A dark trail of footsteps led into the woods ten feet in front of him. He was stuck to the spot, as if he had startled a wild animal that fled away in fear. But I saw no creature. By the time I drew near, the diminuendo of a few raspy calls of "Henry" lingered in the air. Then he fell to his knees, bent his head to the ground, and quietly wept. I crept back into the house, and pretended to be reading the sports page when he came in. My father stared at me hunched over the newspaper, my long fingers wrapped around a coffee cup. The wet belt of his robe dragged along the floor like a chain. Soaked, disheveled, and unshaven, he seemed much older, but maybe I had not noticed before how he was aging. His hands trembled as if palsied, and he took a Camel from his pocket. The cigarette was too wet to light despite his repeated attempts, so he crumpled the whole pack and tossed it in the trash can. I set a cup of coffee in front of him, and he stared at the steam as if I had handed him poison.
　　"Dad, are you all right? You look a mess."
　　"You." He pointed his finger at me like a gun, but that's all he said. The word hung in the air all morning, and I do not think I ever heard him call me "Henry" again.

    结局来得正是时候。我不仅学会了马丁先生所教的一切，还学厌了——练习、节目、规矩、让人生烦的八十八个琴键。十六岁后，我开始找借口旷课，而且还不能伤母亲的心。事实就是这样，我是个很棒的，甚至可以说是杰出的钢琴师，但我并不伟大。是的，至今是我们这个偏僻的村庄中最好的，毫无疑问在本卅的这个角落里也是最好的，或许在周围几个地区也首屈一指，但是放眼更广阔的天地，就不是了。我缺少世界一流的钢琴家所具备的激情和内心燃烧的火焰。想到未来，选择令人恐惧。难道要像马丁先生一样，在完成二流事业之后以教习学生度日? 我宁可到妓院里弹琴。
　　一天早晨用餐时，我打开了这个话题：“妈，我想我没法再提高了。”
　　“提高什么? ”她边打鸡蛋边问。
　　“弹琴，音乐。我想我只能到此为止。”
　　她把鸡蛋糊倒进平底锅。一碰到黄油和烧热的铁锅，蛋糊就爆溅起来，咝咝作响，她～言不发地搅拌着。她递给我一碟炒蛋和吐司，我沉默地吃起来。她坐在对面用餐，和我隔开一张桌子，手里拿着咖啡杯。“亨利，”她柔声说，唤起我的注意，‘‘你还记不记得你小时候，有一天离家出走? ”
　　我不记得，但我在咀嚼之间点了点头，以示记得。
　　“那天天气很好，也很热，热得要命。我想洗个澡凉快些。我最受不了天热了。
　　我叫你看着玛丽和伊丽莎白，你却跑到树林子里不见了。你还记得吗? ”
　　我不可能记得，但我还是点头，咽下最后一口橙汁。
　　“我把女孩们抱上床再回来时，你已经没了踪影。”她说着往事，眼眶渐渐湿了。“我们到山上去找你，但找不到。天快黑了，我打电话叫你父亲回来，我们又打给警察局和消防队，一起找你找了几个小时，在夜里叫着你的名字。”她的目光从我身上掠过，仿佛要从心灵上把往事消去。
　　“还有鸡蛋吗，妈? ”
　　她用勺子朝炉子挥了一下，我自己过去拿了。“天暗下来的时候，我很为你害怕。谁知道树林里有什么东西呢? 我曾经在多尼戈尔①认识过一个女人，她的孩子就是被偷走的。那是一个晴朗的夏日，她出去采草莓，孩子留在毯子上睡觉。回来时，孩子没了，再也没有找到过。真可怜，一点踪迹都没有，只有草地上的一块压痕。”
　　我在蛋上撒了胡椒粉，又开动了。
　　“我想你是迷路了，想要妈妈，但我到不了你身边，我恳求上帝让你回家。他们总算找到了你，这就像你得了第二条命。一旦放弃，就等于扔掉了你的第二条命，那是你的上帝给的。那是上天的赐福，你应该发挥你的天赋。”
　　“上学要迟到了。”我用剩下的面包把碟子擦干净，吻了下她的额头，就出去了。在走下前阶时，我后悔没能表现得更强硬些。我大部分的生活都被优柔寡断所左右，我感谢命运替我做出仲裁，把我从抉择和为行为负责中解脱出来。
　　那年冬季独奏会时，仅是看到钢琴，听到琴声，就够我反胃了。
　　我不能把马丁先生彻底撇开，让我父母伤心，所以只好假装一切正常。我们早早到达音乐厅，我把父母留在门口找座位，自己到后台溜达。舞台周围乱七八糟的东西还是没变。音乐厅两翼到处都是学生，他们的手指在平面物上练习，为登场做心理准备。马丁先生在众人之间踱步，点数人头，安慰那些怯场的、不耐烦的、不乐意的学生。
　　“你是我的得意门生，”他说，“我教过的最好的学生。这群人中惟有你是真正的钢琴家。让他们哭吧，亨利。”说着，他将一朵康乃馨别在我的翻领上。他把帷幕卷起、拉开，让脚灯照亮舞台，以便举行集会。
　　我的出场是压台戏，因此有的是时间躲在后台，抽起一支从父亲烟盒里顺手牵来的骆驼香烟。冬夜已经降临，空气清爽而寒冽。一只老鼠被我站在过道里的身影吓着，停下来瞪着我。我露出牙齿，发出“嘶嘶”声，朝它怒目而视，但吓不倒它。
　　曾几何时，这种动物还是怕我的。
　　在那个寒夜里，我觉得自己完全是个人类，想到温暖的音乐厅而精神振奋。如果这将是我的告别演出，我决意要给他们一些能记住我的东西。我仿佛用鞭子抽打着琴键，时而雷霆万钧，时而行云流水，所有泛音的力道都恰到好处。琴弦还没有停止鸣唱，许多观众就从座位上站起来抢先鼓掌。他们心醉神迷，朝我大声欢呼，热烈的欢呼声使我几乎忘怀自己对这整件事有多么痛恨。马丁先生在后台第一个迎接我，眼中含着喜悦的泪花，高嚷“绝妙啊”。接着来了其他学生，一半毫不掩饰他们的敌意，另一半嫉妒不已，勉强拿出高风亮节向我致意，认为我的演出让他们相形见绌。然后是父母、妹妹、朋友、邻居、各方音乐爱好者。他们围着演奏者，我身边聚集的人最多，直到大多数祝福者退去，我才看见那个红衣女子。
　　我母亲用湿手帕擦拭我脸颊上的口红，这时这个女子进入我的视野。她的出现毫无异状，给人良好印象。她大约四十岁，深褐色的头发下是一张聪明面孔，但我不明白她那双浅绿色的眸子为何那般注视着我。她凝视、审查、研究、思索，像是在挖掘一个深藏的秘密。
　　我根本不认识她。
　　“打扰了，”她说，“请问你是安德鲁•戴吗? ”
　　“是亨利•戴。”我纠正她。
　　“对，是亨利。你的演奏太棒了。”
　　“谢谢。”我朝父母转过身，他们表示要走了。
　　也许看到了我的侧面，也许是我转身这个简单动作让她联想到了什么，她倒抽口气，猛地捂住嘴。“你是他，”她说，“你是那个小男孩。”
　　我向她侧目微笑。
　　“你是那天晚上我在树林里看见的人。在路上? 和那头鹿在一块? ”她开始拔高音调。“不记得了吗? 我看见你和其他男孩子在路上。肯定是八九年前的事了。
　　你们都长大了，一切都变了，但你是那个男孩没错。我为你担心过。”
　　“夫人，我不知道您在说些什么。”我转身要走，但她抓住我胳膊。
　　“那是你。我撞上那头鹿时，头在仪表盘上磕伤了，起先我以为自己在做梦，你从林子里出来……”
　　我发出一声叫喊，整个房间为之一静。这一声野性十足的叫喊惊骇了每个人，包括我自己。我没想到我还保留着这种发出非人声音的能力。我母亲插手了。
　　“放开我儿子，”她对她说，“你弄疼他胳膊了。”
　　“看，夫人，”我说，“我不认识你。”
　　我父亲走到我们三个中间。“这是怎么回事? ”
　　女子的眼中怒火闪动。“我见过你家孩子。一天晚上我从乡下开车回家，那头鹿跳到路上，正好冲到我车前。我扭转方向盘想避开它，但我车子的缓冲器擦到了它。我不知道该怎么办，只好下车看看能做什么。”
　　她把注意力从我父亲那里移开，开始对我说话。“这孩子从树林里出来，大约七、八岁的样子。你的儿子。他让我吃惊的程度比那鹿还厉害。不知从哪里冒出来，直接走到鹿跟前，好像这是世上最正常不过的事。接着他俯身到它的嘴巴上或者鼻子上或者那随便你怎么叫的地方。简直无法置信，他把手笼在它鼻口上，吹了几口气。就像施法。那鹿身体滚了一下，弯腿就站起来了，跑开了。这是我经历过的最不可思议的事。”
　　这时我意识到她遇见的是换生灵，但我知道自己从未见过她。
　　有些换生灵乐意给野生动物灵气，但我从不做这等傻事。
　　“我在车灯下把那孩子看得很清楚，”她说，“虽然没怎么看清他林子里的伙伴。那是你。你到底是谁? ”
　　“我不认识她。”
　　我母亲听呆了，辩解说：“那不可能是亨利。听着，他七岁时从家里跑丢过一次，但后来这些年我再也没有让他离开我的视线。他晚上从不独自出去。”
　　女子的口气软了下来，目光搜寻着信心的迹象。“他看着我，我问他叫什么名字，他跑走了。从那晚起，我想……’’我父亲用他罕见的温和语调插话说：“很抱歉，但您一定搞错了。
　　每个人在这世上都有另一个与他长得一模一样的人。可能您看到的那个和我儿子长得有点像。很抱歉造成您的困扰。’’她直钩钩地盯着他的眼睛，从中找寻确定的成分，但他提供的只有处变不惊的安慰。
　　他从她胳膊上取过红外套，为她展开。她穿上衣服，一言不发地离开房间，不再回头，步伐中还残留着愤怒和焦虑。
　　“你见过这种人? ”我母亲问道，“真会讲故事。想想看她居然有这胆量来讲。”
　　．我用眼角余光看到父亲正看着我，这种感觉让我不安。‘t 我们能走了吗? 我们能离开这儿吗? ”
　　我们坐进汽车，驶出城外，我宣布了我的决定：“我再也不会去那里了。不再参加独奏会，不再上课，不会再有陌生人到我面前胡说八道。我放弃了。”
　　有一阵子，我以为父亲会把车开到路边停下。他点了支烟，让我母亲接过话头。
　　“亨利，你知道我对放弃是什么感受……”
　　“你没有听见那位女士说什么吗? ”玛丽插话说，“她以为你生活在林子里。”
　　“你连站到一棵树边上都不喜欢的。”伊丽莎白笑道。
　　“妈，这不关你的感受，是我的感受。”
　　父亲盯着马路中间的白线。
　　“你是个敏感的孩子，”母亲继续说，“但你不能让一个讲故事的女人毁了你的生活。你总不会打算告诉我，你要为了一个童话故事而放弃八年的修业。”
　　“不是因为这个穿红衣服的女人。我已经受够了。只能到此为止了。”
　　“比尔，你为什么不说话? ”
　　“爸，我厌倦了。厌倦了练习、练习、练习。厌倦了浪费我的星期六。我想我该对自己的生活有所主张。”
　　他长长地吸了口气，在方向盘上敲着手指。戴家的其他人明白这个信号。回家路上，大家都默不作声。当晚我听到他们在讨论，情绪化的争吵起起落落，声音很响，但我已经丧失远距离窃听的能力。
　　偶尔听到一两句“该死的”或“天杀的”从他嘴里宣泄出来，她可能哭了——我想她是哭了——但也就这样。快午夜时，他冲出屋子，留下一地狼藉驾车呼啸而去。我下楼去看母亲是否已经从痛苦中恢复过来，却发现她平静地坐在厨房里，面前桌上放着一只打开的鞋盒。
　　“亨利，晚了。”她用绸带把一叠信扎好，放进盒子，“你父亲在北非时，曾经每周写一封信回来。”我很清楚这件事，但她再次旧事重提。怀孕，丈夫在海外打仗，当时两人都十九岁，她和父母住在一起。
　　亨利出生时，她还是独自一人，而我如今几乎已经到了她受苦的年龄。但如果当我是个换生灵来算，我的年纪足够做她祖父。不曾停留的年龄蹑手蹑脚地进入她的心房。
　　“年轻时你觉得生活容易，什么都过得去，因为你的心智坚强。长大后，你是在星星上，一跌下来，就跌到井底。虽然我已经老了……”
　　根据我的计算，她现年三十五岁。
　　“这不等于我忘了年轻是种什么感觉。当然，你的生活要你自己选。我非常希望你能成为钢琴家，亨利，但你能做你想做的事。如果你对此没兴趣，我也理解。”
　　“妈，想来杯茶吗? ”
　　“好的。”
　　两周后，圣诞节前的下午，奥斯卡•拉甫和我开车进城，庆祝我新近赢得的独立。自从和莎莉那事过后，我对自己的性能力产生了一些疑问，所以对这趟行程我不是没有过担心。我还在树林里生活时，这群怪物中只有一位能玩这个把戏。他被捉来时为时已晚，童年快过了，即将进入青春期，他给可怜的女性们带来的只有烦恼。我们其他人在身体发育上还不足以干这事。
　　但那晚，我准备体验性。奥斯卡和我灌下一瓶廉价酒，借酒壮胆。
　　黄昏时去了窑子，姑娘们三句话不离本行。我想说的是，失去童贞的过程既新奇又过瘾，但其实基本上是在黑暗中马虎过去的，而且比我想像的快得多。她皮肤白皙，盛年已过，头顶上银灰色的头发显得风情万种，又诡计多端。她的几条干事规矩之一，就是不能接吻。当我表现出迟疑，不知该从何下手又如何下手时，她一把抓住我那里，插进那个位置。过了一小会儿，剩下的事就是穿衣、付账、祝她圣诞快乐。
　　当清晨携着缀满礼物的圣诞树来临，穿着睡衣睡袍的家人懒洋洋地出现，我觉得自己正走向全新的生活。妈妈和双胞胎对任何变化都毫无所察，她们做着快乐的事，对彼此送上真诚的爱意和关怀。
　　父亲正相反，他或许已经怀疑我前一晚的放荡。凌晨两点左右我回家时，起居室里充满骆驼香烟的味道，好像他一直在等我，直到奥斯卡的车子开进车道才进去睡觉。那个昏昏欲睡的节日里，父亲在家走动的架势，就像一头公熊在它的领地里闻到另一头雄性的气味。
　　他什么都没说，只是直愣愣地盯着我看，态度粗鲁，还有一两回怒叱。
　　此后我们的相处一直都不融洽。还有一年半，我就高中毕业，离家去上大学了，所以我们彼此躲着对方，偶然碰面也几乎不说话。有一半时间，他将我当陌生人看待。
　　我记得有两次他走出自己的内心世界，这两次都让我不安。冬季独奏会上那件事发生之后，过了几个月，他又提起那个红衣女人和她的奇怪故事。当时我们正在拆毁母亲的鸡舍，因为已经卖掉了母鸡、鸡蛋和小鸡，大赚了一笔。他问那个问题时，到处是铁锹、发出刺耳声的钉子、拆下来的废料。
　　“嗯，你还记得那个女人和她讲的男孩和鹿的事吗? ”他又从框架上剥下一块木板，“你是怎么想的? 你觉得真有其事? ”
　　“对我来说没法相信，不过我想可能会有这种事吧。她看起来对自己坚信不疑。”
　　他正在和一颗生锈的钉子较劲，嘴里发出用力的哼哼声。“就是说也可能是真的? 那你怎么解释她认为那个人是你? ”
　　“我没说那是真的。她看起来相信那回事，但这不大可能，不是吗? 而且不管怎么说，就算她碰到过这种事，她也认错了人。我不在那里。”
　　“说不定那人和你很像? ”他全力以赴拔那颗钉子，仅存的墙壁“哗啦”倒下，只剩下光秃秃的框架暴露在外。
　　“有这可能。”我说，“我使她想起曾经见到过的人。你不是告诉过她，每个人在这世上都有另一个和他一模一样的人? 或许她见到了我的魔鬼兄弟? ”
　　他打量了一下框架，“用力踢几脚就能倒了。”他放倒框架，装到卡车上开走了。
　　第二次发生在一年后。天蒙蒙亮，他的声音吵醒了我，我跟着声音走出卧室，穿过漆黑的门廊。羽毛般轻柔的晨雾笼在草地上，他背对着我，站在濡湿的草地中央，面朝一排冷杉呼唤着我的名字。在他前面三米的地方，有一溜深色的足迹通向树林。他木然站在原地，好像惊动了一头野兽，令它在惊惶失措中逃走了。但我没看到任何动物。我走近时，几下焦躁的呼唤“亨利”的声音逐渐低弱，回荡在空中。
　　接着，他跪倒下来，头弯到地上，静静地哭泣。我轻轻走回屋里，当他进来时，我假装在读体育版。父亲盯着我耸起在报纸后面的身影，我修长的手指环着一杯咖啡。
　　他睡袍的腰带湿透了，像铁链一样拖过地板。他身上湿漉漉的，头发蓬乱，胡子没刮，看起来老很多，但或许却是我一直没留意他在变老。他的双手像中风一样颤抖，从口袋里掏出一支骆驼香烟来。烟受了潮，他试了几次还是点不燃，就把整包香烟捏扁了扔进垃圾桶。我把一杯咖啡放到他面前，他瞪着白汽，好似我递给他的是毒药。
　　“爸，你没事吧? 你看上去很糟糕。”
　　“你。”他的手指像把熗似的指着我，但他再没说什么。整个上午，这个字悬在半空中，我想此后我再也没有听见他叫我“亨利”。
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Chapter 12
　　We entered the church to steal candles. Even in the dead of night, the slate and glass building asserted its prominence on Main Street. Bound by an iron fence, the church had been laid out in the shape of a cross, and no matter how one approached it, the symbols were inescapable. Huge chestnut doors at the top of a dozen steps, mosaics from the Bible in the stained-glass windows reflecting moonlight, parapets hiding angels lurking near the roof—the whole edifice loomed like a ship that threatened to swamp us as we drew near. Smaolach, Speck, and I crept through the graveyard adjacent to the eastern arm of the church and popped in through a side door that the priests left unlocked. The long rows of pews and the vaulted ceiling created a space that, in the darkness, pressed down on us; its emptiness had weight and substance. Once our eyes adjusted, however, the church did not seem as smothering. The threatening size diminished, and the high walls and arched ceilings reached out as if to embrace us. We split up, Smaolach and Speck in search of the larger candles in the sacristy to the right, I to find the smaller votive candles in an alcove on the other side of the altar. A fleeting presence seemed to follow me along the altar rail, and a real dread rose inside me. In a wrought iron stand, dozens of candles stood like lines of soldiers in glass cups. A coinbox rattled with pennies when I tapped my nails against its metal face, and spent matches littered the empty spaces. I struck a new match against the rough plate, and a small flame erupted like a fingersnap. At once, I regretted the fire, for I looked up and saw a woman's face staring down at me. I shook out the light and crouched beneath the rail, hoping to be invisible.
　　Panic and fear left as quickly as they had come, and what amazes me now is how much flows through the mind in such a short space of time. When I saw her eyes looking down on me, I remembered: the woman in red, my schoolmates, the people in town, the people in church, Christmas, Easter, Halloween, the kidnapping, drowning, prayers, the Virgin Mary, and my sisters, father, mother. I nearly had solved the riddle of my identity. Yet as quickly as it takes to say "Pardon me," they vanished, and with them, my real story. It seemed as if the eyes of the statue flickered in the match light. I looked upon the enigmatic face of the Virgin Mary, idealized by an anonymous sculptor, the object of untold adoration, devotion, imagination, supplication. As I stuffed my pockets with candles, I felt a pang of guilt.
　　Behind me, the great wooden doors at the center entrance groaned open as a penitent or a priest entered. We zipped out through the side door and zigzagged among the gravestones. Despite the fact that bodies lay buried there, the cemetery was not half as frightening as the church. I paused at a gravestone, ran my fingers over the incised letters, and was tempted to light a match to read the name. The others leapt over the iron fence, so I scurried to catch up, chasing them across town, until we were all safely beneath the library. Every close call thrilled us, and we sat on our blankets giggling like children. We lit enough candles to make our sanctuary shine. Smaolach crawled off to a dark corner and curled up like a fox, his nose buried under a cloaking arm. Speck and I sought out the brightness, and with our latest books, we sat side by side, the scrape of turning pages marking time.
　　Ever since she had introduced me to this secret place, I loved going to the library. Initially, I went for the books first encountered in my childhood. Those old stories—Grimm's Fairy Tales and Mother Goose, picture books like Mike Mulligan, Make Way for Ducklings, and Homer Price—promised another clue to my fading identity. Rather than help me recapture the past, the stories only alienated me further from it. By looking at the pictures and reading Aloud the text, I had hoped to hear my mother's voice again, but she was gone. After my first few visits to the library, I shelved such childish things and never again looked at them. Instead, I embarked upon a journey mapped by Speck, who chose, or helped me choose, stories to hold my adolescent interest: books like The Call of the Wild and White Fang, tales of adventure and derring-do. She helped me sound out words I could not decipher and explained characters, symbols, and plots that ran too wild or deep for my imagination. Her confidence, as she moved through the stacks and countless novels, inspired me to believe in my own ability to read and imagine. If not for her, I would be the same as Smaolach, filching comic books like Speed Carter or the Adventures of Mighty Mouse from the drugstore. Or worse, not reading at all.
　　Cozy in our den, she held on her lap a fat volume of Shakespeare, the type set in a minuscule font, and I was midway through The Last of the Mohicans. The flickering candlelight conspired with the silence, and we only interrupted each other's reading to share a casual delight.
　　"Speck, listen to this: 'These children of the woods stood together for several moments pointing at the crumbling edifice, and conversing in the unintelligible language of their tribe.'"
　　"Sounds like us. Who are these people?"
　　I held up the book to show her its cover, the title in gilt letters on a green cloth. We receded back into our stories, and an hour or so passed before she spoke again.
　　"Listen to this, Aniday. I'm reading Hamlet here and these two fellows come in. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Hamlet greets them: 'Good lads, how do ye both?' And Rosencrantz says, 'As the indifferent children of the earth.' And Guildenstern says, 'Happy in that we are not over-happy. On Fortune's cap we are not the very button.' "
　　"Does he mean they were unlucky?"
　　She laughed. "Not that, not that. Don't go chasing after a better fortune."
　　I did not understand the half of what she said, but I laughed along with her, and then tried to find my place again with Hawkeye and Uncas. As morning threatened and we packed our things to go, I told her how much I had enjoyed what she had read to me about Fortune.
　　"Write it down, boy. If you come across a passage in your reading that you'd like to remember, write it down in your little book; then you can read it again, memorize it, and have it whenever you wish."
　　I took out my pencil and a card from the stack I had filched from the card catalog. "What did they say?"
　　"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: the indifferent children of the earth."
　　"The last of the Mohicans."
　　"That's us." She flashed her smile before going to the corner to wake our slumbering friend Smaolach.
　　
　　
　　We would snitch a few books to take home with us for the satisfaction of lying abed on a chilled winter's morning under weak sunshine and slipping out a slim volume to read at leisure. Between the covers, a book can be a sin. I have spent many hours in such a waking dream, and once having learned how to read, I could not imagine my life otherwise. The indifferent children around me did not share my enthusiasm for the written word. Some might sit for a good story well told, but if a book had no pictures, they showed scant interest.
　　When a raiding party went to town, they often came back with a collection of magazines—Time or Life or Look—and then we would huddle together under the shade of an old oak to look at the photographs. I remember summer days, a mass of knees and feet, elbows and shoulders, jockeying for a choice viewing position, their bare skin damp against mine. We stuck together like the slick pages clumped and wrinkled in the humidity. News and celebrity did not appeal to them. Castro or Khrushchev, Monroe or Mantle, none meant anything more than a passing fancy, an interesting face; but they were profoundly intrigued by images of children, particularly in fanciful or humorous situations, and any photographs of the natural world, particularly exotic animals from a zoo or circus or in the wild reaches of a faraway land. A boy on top of an elephant caused a sensation, but a boy with a baby elephant was talked about for days. Most beloved of all were shots of parents and children together.
　　"Aniday," Onions would plead, "tell us the story about the daddy and his baby."
　　A bright-eyed baby girl peeps up from a bassinet to stare at her delighted, grinning father. I read the caption to them. "'Little bundle of joy: Senator Kennedy admires his new baby daughter, Caroline, in their Georgetown home.'"
　　When I tried to turn the page, Blomma stuck her palm on the photograph. "Wait. I want to see the baby again."
　　Chavisory chimed in: "I want to see the man."
　　They were intensely curious about the other world, especially at the distance photography allows, the place where people grew up, fell in love, had children, became old, and the cycle continued, unlike our relentless timelessness. Their ever-changing lives fascinated us. Despite our many chores, a persistent boredom hung around the camp. For long stretches, we did nothing but allow time to pass.
　　Kivi and Blomma could spend a day braiding each other's hair, unraveling the plaits and starting all over again. Or they played with the dolls they had stolen or made from sticks and scraps of cloth. Kivi, in particular, became a little mother, holding a rag doll to her breast, tucking her toy baby in a cradle fashioned from a forgotten picnic basket. One baby was composed of the lost or broken limbs of four other dolls. As Kivi and Blomma bathed their dolls at the creeks edge one humid morning, I joined them on the bank and helped to rinse the nylon hair till it lay plastered against the dolls' plastic scalps.
　　"Why do you like playing with your babies so much?"
　　Kivi did not look up from her task, but I could sense that she was crying.
　　"We are practicing," said Blomma, "for when our turn comes along to be changelings. We are practicing to be mothers someday."
　　"Why are you sad, Kivi?"
　　She looked at me, the brightness now drained from her eyes. "Because it takes so long."
　　Indeed it did. For while we all grew older, we did not change physically. We did not grow up. Those who had been in the forest for decades suffered most. The truly mischievous fought the monotony by creating trouble, solving imaginary problems, or by pursuing an enterprise that, on the surface, appeared worthless. Igel had spent the past decade in camp digging an elaborate system of tunnels and underground warrens for our protection. Béka, the next in line, was on a constant prowl to catch any unsuspecting female and drag her into the bushes.
　　Ragno and Zanzara attempted to cultivate grapes nearly every spring in hope of replacing our fermented mash with a homegrown wine. Of course, the soil resisted every enrichment, the days lacked sufficient sun, mites and spiders and insects invaded, and my friends had no luck. A vine or two would sprout, twist and meander along the trellis Ragno had built, but never a grape in all those years. Come September, they cursed their luck and tore down the remnants, only to begin again when March teased such dreams. The seventh time I saw them breaking the hard ground, I asked Zanzara why they persisted in the face of continued failures. He stopped digging and leaned against the cracked and ancient spade.
　　"When we were boys, every night we had a glass of wine at supper. I'd like to taste it again."
　　"But surely you could steal a bottle or two from town."
　　"My papa grew grapes and his before him and back and back and back." He wiped his brow with an earth-caked hand. "One day we'll get the grapes. You learn to be patient here."
　　I passed much time with Luchóg and Smaolach, who taught me how to fell A tree and not be crushed, the geometry and physics behind a deadfall trap, the proper angle of chase to catch a hare on foot. But my favorite days were spent with Speck. And the best of all were my birthdays.
　　I still kept my calendar and had chosen April 23—Shakespeare's birthday—as my own. In my tenth spring in the woods, the date fell on a Saturday, and Speck invited me to go to the library to spend the night quietly reading together. When we arrived, the chamber had been transformed. Dozens of small candles suffused the room with an amber glow reminiscent of the light from a campfire under the stars. Near the crack at the entranceway, she had chalked a birthday greeting in a scrolled design of her own devising. The general shabbiness—the cobwebs, dirty blankets, and threadbare rugs—had been cleared away, making the place clean and cozy. She had laid in a small feast of bread and cheese, locked away against the mice, and soon the kettle boiled cheerfully, with real tea in our cups.
　　"This is incredible, Speck."
　　"Thank goodness we decided today is your birthday, or I would have gone to all this fuss for nothing."
　　At odd times that evening, I would look up from my text to watch her reading nearby. Light and shadow flickered across her face, and like clockwork she brushed a stray lock from in front of her eyes. Her presence disturbed me; I did not get through many pages of my book and had to read many sentences more than once. Late that night, I awoke in her embrace. Instead of the usual kicking or shouldering away when I woke up with someone all over me, I nestled into her, wanting the moment to last. Most of the shorter candles had burned down, and sadly I realized that our time was nearly over.
　　"Speck, wake up."
　　She murmured in her sleep and pulled me closer. I pried away her arm and rolled out.
　　"We have to go. Don't you feel the air on your skin changing? The dawn's about to begin."
　　"Come back to sleep."
　　I gathered my things together. "We won't be able to leave unless we go right now."
　　She lifted herself up by the elbows. "We can stay. It's Sunday and the library's closed. We can stay all day and read. Nobody will be here. We can go back when it's dark again."
　　For a fleeting second, I considered her idea, but the very thought of staying in town during daylight hours, chancing discovery with people up and about, filled me with a holy terror.
　　"It's too risky," I whispered. "Suppose someone happens by. A policeman. A watchman."
　　She dropped back down to the blanket. "Trust me."
　　"Are you coming?" I asked at the door.
　　"Go. Sometimes you are such a child."
　　Squeezing through the exit, I wondered if it was a mistake. I did not like arguing with Speck or leaving her there by herself, but she had spent many days on her own away from camp. My thoughts bounced back and forth between the two choices, and perhaps my worries over Speck affected my sense of direction, for I found myself quite lost soon after abandoning her. Each new turn brought unfamiliar streets and strange houses, and in my haste to escape, I became more hopelessly disoriented. At an edge of town, a grove of trees invited me into its warm cloak, and there I picked a trail from three options, following its twists and turns. In hindsight, I should have stayed put until the sun had fully risen, so that it could serve as compass, but at the time, my thoughts were clouded by questions. What had she been thinking, planning, doing for my birthday? How was I to grow older, be a man, stuck eternally in this small, useless body? The waning sliver moon dipped and disappeared.
　　A small creek, not more than a trickle, bisected the path. I decided to follow the water. Tracing a creek at dawn can be a peaceful experience, and those woods had appeared so often in my dreams as to be as familiar to me as my own name. The creek itself ran beneath a stony road, and the road led me to a solitary farmhouse. From the culvert, I saw the roof and circled round to the back as the first sunrays bathed the porch in gold.
　　Some trick of light gave the house an unfinished appearance, as if caught in a dream between night and day. I half expected my mother to come through the door, calling me home for dinner. As the light brought it into focus, the house took on a more welcoming character, its windows losing their menacing stare, its door less and less like a hungry mouth. I stepped out of the forest and onto the lawn, leaving a dark wake behind me on the wet grass. The door swung open suddenly, petrifying me on the spot. A man came down the stairs, pausing on the next-to-bottom step to light a cigarette. Wrapped in a blue robe, the figure took one step forward, then lifted his foot, startled by the moisture. He laughed and cursed softly.
　　The specter still did not notice me, though we faced each other—he at the edge of the house, and I at the edge of the forest. I wanted to turn around and see what he was looking for, but I stood frozen as a hare as the daybreak lifted around us. From the lawn, a chill rose in wisps of fog. He drew closer, and I held my breath. Not a dozen steps between us, he stopped. The cigarette fell from his fingers. He took one more step toward me. His brow creased with worry. His thin hair blew in the breeze. An eternity passed as his eyes danced in their sockets. His lips trembled when he opened his mouth to speak.
　　"And we? Envy?"
　　The words coming to me did not make sense.
　　"Is a chew? Atchoo? Can a bee, Houston?"
　　The sounds he made hurt my ears. At that moment, I wished to be sleeping in Speck's arms again. He knelt on the damp grass and spread out his arms as if he expected me to run to him. But I was confused and did not know if he meant me harm, so I turned and sprinted, as fast as I could go. The monstrous gargle from his throat followed me deep into the forest until, as suddenly, the strange words stopped, yet I kept running all the way home.

    我们去教堂偷蜡烛。即使在深夜，这幢石板镶玻璃的建筑仍然在大街上如此醒目。教堂外面围了铁栅，整体布局呈十字架形，无论从哪个方位走过去，都不会看不到这些标志。十二级的台阶顶端是深褐色的大门，脏污的玻璃窗上的圣经主题镶嵌画反射着月光。屋顶附近，低墙后，躲藏着天使。当我们逼近时，整座大厦像艘船一样地浮现出来，仿佛要将我们一网打尽。斯茂拉赫、斯帕克和我从教堂东首的墓园潜入，溜进牧师没有锁上的侧门。成排的靠背长凳和拱顶形成的空间在黑暗中压在我们身上，空寂也有其重量和实感。不过，我们的视觉一旦适应过来，教堂就显得不那么让人喘不过气了。
　　具有威胁意味的形状消失了，高墙和穹顶仿佛伸手拥抱我们。我们分头行动，斯茂拉赫和斯帕克去右侧的圣器收藏室寻找大蜡烛，我则去另一头祭坛的壁龛里找小一些的香烛。沿着祭坛栏杆走时，好像有什么动作敏捷的东西跟着我，恐惧从我心底油然而生。在一座精致的铁架上，几十支蜡烛像成排的战士一样站在玻璃杯中。
　　我用指甲轻轻敲击投币罐的金属皮，里面的便士就发出声响，划过的火柴散落在空地上。我就着粗糙的石板划亮一根新火柴，一小团火焰燃起来了，好似一只护指套。
　　我立刻后悔点了这火，因为我一抬头就看到一张女人的脸俯视着我。我摇灭亮光，缩到栏杆下面，希望不会被看到。
　　惊慌和恐惧来得快，去得也快，现在我吃惊的是，在短短的瞬间，心中竟能闪过如此众多的念头。当我看到她的眼睛俯视我时，我想起那个红衣女子，想起我的同学，想起镇上的人、教堂里的人、圣诞节、复活节、万圣节、绑架、溺水、祈祷者、圣母玛利亚，还有我的妹妹们、父亲、母亲。我差点就解开我的身份之谜了。
　　然而，我一开口说“宽恕我”，他们就消失了，而我真实的故事也随之消失。雕像的双眼仿佛在火柴的光芒中闪烁。我望向圣母玛利亚高深莫测的脸庞，她出自一位无名雕塑家之手，是无数崇拜、奉献、想像、祈愿的对象。我把蜡烛装满口袋，感到一阵罪恶感。
　　在我身后，中央入口处巨大的木门嘎吱嘎吱地开了，进来的是一位忏悔者或是牧师。我们从边门绕出，从墓碑间逃走。虽然墓地里埋着尸体，但其实还没有教堂的一半可怕。我在一块墓碑前停下脚步，手指抚摸着凹下去的文字，突然有种冲动想要点亮火柴查看墓主姓名。但其他人已经翻过铁栅了，我也只好快步赶上，追着他们一路穿过镇子，直到大家都安全地来到图书馆下面。每次遇险都让我们心有余悸，我们坐在毯子上，像群小孩一样咯咯傻笑。我们点起足够的蜡烛，把避难所照得亮堂堂的。斯茂拉赫爬到一个阴暗的角落里，像头狐狸一样蜷起身子，鼻子埋在披着斗篷的胳膊下面。斯帕克和我来到亮处，拿起上次看过的书，并肩而坐，时间在书页翻动声中流逝。
　　自从她把我带去图书馆，我就爱上这个秘密地方了。起初，我寻找那些童年时代读过的书，那些古老的故事——《格林童话》和《鹅妈妈的故事》，还有绘图本《爱尔兰人麦克》、《给小鸭子让路》、《霍默。
　　普莱斯》－－为我模糊的身份提供了另一条线索。但与其说这些故事帮我重回过去，不如说它们让我更加远离过去。看着这些图画，大声朗读文字，我就会希望再度听到母亲的声音，但她走了。我去了几次图书馆后，就把这些童书都放到书架上，再也不看了。反之，我开始走上一条斯帕克探索出来的旅程，她来选择，或者说是替我选择了那些装载了我青春兴趣的故事，像《野性的呼唤》、《白芳》，冒险故事和勇敢者的故事。她帮我理解那些我看不懂的字，还替我分析人物和象征意义，以及那些我想像不到的、过分离奇和艰深的情节。她进出书架和无数小说之间的自信鼓舞了我，使我相信自己也有能力去阅读和想像。若不是她，我就会和斯茂拉赫一样，去杂货店偷几本《飞速马车》和《强鼠历险记》这样的漫画书，或者更糟，压根就不读书了。
　　我们的窝里温暖舒适，她的腿上搁着一卷厚厚的莎士比亚，字体非常小，我的《最后的莫希干人》正读到一半。烛光摇曳，四周寂静，我们只有突然想要分享彼此的喜悦时，才会打扰对方的阅读。
　　“斯帕克，听这段：‘这些林子里的孩子站在一起，对崩溃的大厦指指点点，用他们部落听不懂的话交谈。”’“听上去像是说我们。这些人是谁? ”
　　我抬起书，让她看封面，镀金的书名印在绿布上。我们回到各自的故事，过了一个小时左右，她再次开口。
　　“听这段，安尼戴。我读的是《哈姆雷特》，来了这两个家伙。罗森格兰兹和吉尔登斯吞。哈姆雷特和他们打招呼：‘好伙计，你们可好? ’罗森格兰兹说：‘和芸芸众生一个样。’吉尔登斯吞说：‘只要不开心过头便是福；我们可不是命运女神帽子上的金纽扣。’”
　　“他是说他们不走运? ”
　　她大笑，“不是的，不是的。是说不要一再追求好运。”
　　她的话我一点没懂，但我和她一起大笑，然后去找我上次看到的鹰眼和恩卡斯在哪里。曙光初照，我们收拾东西离去，我告诉她我有多么喜欢她读给我听的关于命运的那段。
　　“把它写下来，朋友。如果你在阅读中看到一段想要记住的，就把它记在你的小书里，这样你就能再次读到它，记在心上，随时都能想起来。”
　　我从书架上拿出我的铅笔和一张卡片，这是我从目录卡片里偷来的。“他们怎么说? ”
　　“罗森格兰兹和吉尔登斯吞说：和芸芸众生一个样。”
　　“最后的莫希干人。”
　　“就是我们。”她嫣然一笑，去角落里唤醒我们蒙头大睡的朋友斯茂拉赫。
　　我们会偷上几本书带回家。寒冷的冬季早晨，躺在床上晒着微弱的阳光，摸出一本薄薄的书，悠闲地读起来，别提有多自在。一本书封面下的内容能是一种罪恶。
　　很多时间，我就在这种幻想中度过，而且一旦学会了如何阅读，我就没法想像我的生活会是别种模样。
　　我身边的芸芸众生并不像我一般热衷于文字。有些人或许会坐下来读一个精彩的故事，但只要一本书里没有图片，他们就兴趣寥寥了。
　　突击队去镇上，常会带回来一些杂志——《时代》、《生活》或《观察》——我们就会挤在一株老橡树的树阴下看图片。我记得在夏天，一堆膝盖和脚，胳膊肘和肩膀，见缝插针地争夺看图的时机，他们赤裸的皮肤湿漉漉的，和我擦来擦去。
　　我们粘在一起，就像光滑的纸页在潮气里起凸、起皱。新闻和庆典对他们没有吸引力。无论是卡斯特罗、赫鲁晓夫，还是梦露、曼透，无非只是过时的爱好、有趣的面孔。他们非常喜欢看孩子的照片，特别是奇特、幽默的场景，还有自然界的照片，尤其是动物园、马戏团里或远方野外的异域动物。大象背上的男孩能引起轰动，不过和幼象在一起的男孩就能被一连说上几天。最受喜爱的是父母和孩子在一起的照片。
　　“安尼戴，”奥尼恩斯恳求说，“跟我们讲讲这个爸爸和孩子的故事。”
　　有着一双明目的女婴从摇篮边上偷偷地看着她快乐地微笑的父亲。我把标题读给他们听，“《襁褓中的快乐：在乔治敦的家中，议员肯尼迪爱怜他刚出生的女儿卡罗琳》。”
　　我正要翻页，布鲁玛一把按住照片，“等等。我还要再看看这孩子。”
　　卡维素芮也插话：“我要看这男人。”
　　他们对另一个世界无比好奇，尤其是这些照片展示的远方，在那个地方，人们成长、恋爱、生育、衰老，周而复始，不像我们拥有无情的永恒。他们不断变化的生活让我们着迷。我们虽然有很多家务杂事，但队伍里总是弥漫着一股百无聊赖的气息。长远来看，我们除了任由时间走过，也没有别的事情好做。
　　齐维和布鲁玛能花一天的时间来编织彼此的头发，把辫子解开，再从头编起。
　　或者把玩她们偷来的或用棍子和布片做成的玩具娃娃。特别是齐维，她成了一个小妈妈，胸口抱着个破娃娃，把玩具孩子藏在一只用丢弃的野餐篮改成的摇篮里。还有一个娃娃是用另外四个娃娃丢失或断掉的四肢拼凑起来的。一个潮湿的早晨，齐维和布鲁玛在小溪边给她们的娃娃洗澡，我也去岸边和她们一起洗，帮忙清洗尼龙头发，头发柔顺地贴在娃娃的塑料头皮上。
　　“你们为什么这么喜欢玩你们的娃娃? ”
　　齐维继续干活，没有抬头，但我感觉到她在哭。
　　“我们在练习，”布鲁玛说，“准备将来轮到我们去换生。我们在练习今后怎么当母亲。”
　　“齐维，你为什么难过? ”
　　她看了看我，眼中亮晶晶的东西流了下来，“因为等的时间太长了。”
　　确实如此。我们都在变老，但身体不会变化。我们不会长大。
　　那几个在树林里待了几十年的受苦最多。最淘气的就制造事端，解决想像出来的问题，或者从事看来毫无意义的事业，以此来和无聊抗衡。伊格尔为了保护我们，在过去十年里一直在挖掘一个精密的隧道和地下防护系统。排名第二的贝卡则一直四处晃悠，只要发现没有防备的女性，就抓来拖进灌木丛。
　　几乎每年春天，劳格诺和赞扎拉都会种植葡萄，希望能用自酿葡萄酒来替换我们的发酵品。当然了，土地怎么施肥也无济于事，白天缺乏足够的光照，还有蛀虫、蜘蛛、昆虫的侵犯，而我的朋友们也不走运。一两株葡萄苗也会发芽，在劳格诺搭好的格子架上盘绕蜿蜒，但这些年从未长出过葡萄。到了九月，他们诅咒着霉运，拔掉剩余的葡萄藤，但等到三月来嘲笑这个梦想时，他们又会从头开始。当我第七次看到他们开垦坚硬的土地，我就问赞扎拉他们为什么要屡败屡战。
　　他停下翻土，倚在豁了口的老铁锹上。
　　“我们还是人类的小孩时，每天晚餐都有一杯葡萄酒喝。我想再品尝品尝。”
　　“但你们当然可以去镇上偷一两瓶来。”
　　“我爸爸种葡萄的，他的爸爸也种，还有他的爸爸的爸爸的爸爸。”他用泥巴手抹了把额头，“总有一天，我们会种出葡萄的。这地方你就要学会耐心。”
　　我大部分时间都与鲁契克还有斯茂拉赫在一起，他们教我怎么伐倒一棵树而不被它压到，教我陷阱的几何学和物理学原理，教我徒步追兔子时如何从正确的角度来抓住它。但我最喜欢和斯帕克一起度过的日子。其中最开心的是我的生日。
　　我仍然记录日历，并选择四月二十三日——莎士比亚的生日——作为我的生日。
　　我在树林里的第十个春天来临了，那个日子是星期六，斯帕克邀请我去图书馆，晚上一起安静地阅读。我们到的时候，房间被装修过了。数十支小蜡烛点满屋子，琥珀色的光芒好比满天繁星下的篝火。门口的裂缝旁边，她早已用粉笔在自制的卷轴上写了生日贺词。那些蜘蛛网、脏地毯、旧垫子之类的破烂都被清理一空，把地方弄得既干净又舒适。她摆开面包和干酪的小小盛宴——这些东西都放在老鼠够不到的地方——不一会儿，水壶快乐地沸腾了，我们的杯子里是真正的茶。
　　“真是无法置信，斯帕克。”
　　“感谢上帝，我们把今天定为你的生日，否则我就什么都干不成了。”
　　后来那天晚上，我从书中抬起头来，望向身边看书的她。光影她脸上闪动，她很有规律地每隔一段时间就把挡在眼前的一缕头发拂开。她的在场让我分神，我的书没有翻过几页，好些句子得读上几次。深夜，我在她怀抱中醒来。平时我醒来若发现有人趴在我身上，必会把他一脚踢开或搡开，但我依偎着她，盼望这一刻能长久。大多数短蜡烛已经燃尽，我悲哀地发现我们的时间快到头了。
　　“斯帕克，醒醒。”
　　她在睡梦中喃喃出声，把我拉得更紧。我撬开她的胳膊滚开去。
　　“我们得走了。你不觉得皮肤上的空气在变化吗? 天快亮了。”
　　“回来睡觉。”
　　我收拾起我的东西，“我们再不走，就走不成了。”
　　她用胳膊肘把自己支起来，“我们能待在这儿。今天是星期天，图书馆关门。
　　我们可以一整天待着读书。没人会在这里。我们可以等天黑了再回去。”
　　有那么一瞬间，我考虑了她的想法，但一想到白天待在镇上，有可能被来来往往的人发现，我就不寒而栗。
　　“太冒险了，”我低声说，“万一有人过来呢? 警察。看守人。”
　　她又倒在了毯子上，“相信我。”
　　“你不来吗? ”我在门口问。
　　“去吧。有时候你真是个孩子。”
　　从出口挤出去时，我想我是不是做错了。我不喜欢和斯帕克争执，也不喜欢把她独自留下，但她曾经很多时候一个人离群独处。我的念头在两个选择之间蹦来跳去，也许我对斯帕克的挂虑影响了我的方向感，我发现丢下她后，自己很快就迷路了。每转一次弯，就会出现陌生的街道和陌生的房屋，而且我急着逃走，越来越觉得没有头绪，希望渺茫。在镇子边缘，一片小树林把我召唤进它温暖的掩护，我从三条岔路中选了一条，沿着它曲曲折折地往前走。此后想来，我应该待在原地，等到太阳升起，就能把它当指南针，但在当时，我的头脑里塞满了问题。她为我过生日时，究竟是怎么想的? 我怎么能用这具永远幼小无用的躯体，来长大成为一个男人? 渐渐变浅的银月亮沉下去了，消失了。
　　一道涓涓细流把小径一分两半，我决定跟着水走。清晨沿着溪流走路是一种宁静的体验，这些树林曾多次出现在我梦境中，我熟悉它们就像熟悉自己的名字。溪流在一条石路下流淌，这条路把我带到一幢孤零零的农舍。从出口处我看到了屋顶，我转了一圈到屋后，这时第一束阳光把门廊染成了金色。
　　由于光线的缘故，房子看起来像是没有竣工，沉浸在白天和黑夜之间的梦幻中。
　　我有点希望我母亲会从门里出来，叫我回家吃饭。
　　随着光线越来越亮，房子的模样也更加友善，窗户不再虎视眈眈，门也越来越不像一张饥饿的嘴。我跨出树林，走到草坪上，在濡湿的草地上留下一条深色的足迹。突然，门开了，我当场呆若木鸡。一个男人走下阶梯，站在最后第二级台阶上点起一支烟。这人裹着条蓝色的睡袍，又向前跨了一步，抬起脚，吃惊湿气这么重。
　　他边笑边喃喃咒骂着。
　　虽然我们已经面对面了，这怪物还是没有注意到我。他站在房子边上，我站在树林边上。我想回转身看看他在找什么，但拂晓在我们周围揭开帷幕，我像只野兔一样在越来越亮的晨光中愣住了。缕缕晨雾带着寒气从草坪上升起。他走近，我屏住呼吸。我们之间不足二十步之遥，他站住了。香烟从他指尖坠落。他又朝我跨了一步。
　　眉头担忧地皱了起来，稀疏的头发被风吹动，眼珠在眼窝里跳舞，这样过了漫长的时间，他颤抖着嘴唇开口说话。
　　“我们? 羡慕? ”
　　这些词对我毫无意义可言。
　　“咀嚼? 阿嚏? 蜜蜂，休斯顿? ”
　　他发出的声音刺痛了我的耳朵。那一刻，我希望自己睡在斯帕克的怀抱里。他跪倒在湿草上，张开双臂；像是盼望我奔向他。但我糊涂了，不知道他是否想伤害我，所以我转身用我最快的速度跑走。
　　他喉咙里喷出来的可怕而莫名的声音一直跟我到树林深处，突然，奇怪的词语中断了，但我仍然一路跑回了家。
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举报 只看该作者 13楼  发表于: 2013-10-28 0

Chapter 13
　　The ringing phone began to sound like a mad song before someone mercifully answered. Far down the hall, I was in my dorm room that night with a coed, trying to stay focused on her bare skin. Moments later, a rap on my door, a curious pause, and then the knock intensified to a thundering, which scared the poor girl so that she nearly fell off of me.
　　"What is it? I'm busy. Can't you see the necktie on the doorknob?"
　　"Henry Day?" On the other side of the door, a voice cracked and trembled. "It's your mother on the telephone."
　　"Tell her I'm out."
　　The voice lowered an octave. "I'm really sorry, Henry, but you need to take this call."
　　I pulled on pants and a sweater, opened the door, and brushed past the boy, who was staring at the floor. "Someone better've died."
　　It was my father. My mother mentioned the car, so naturally, in my shock, I assumed there had been an accident. Upon returning home, I learned the real story through a word here, raised eyebrows, and innuendo. He had shot himself in the head, sitting in the car at a stoplight not four blocks away from the college. There was no note, nothing explained. Only my name and dorm room number on the back of a business card tucked in a cigarette pack with one remaining Camel.
　　I spent the days before the funeral trying to make sense of the suicide. Since that awful morning when he saw something in the yard, he drank more heavily, though alcoholics, in my experience, prefer the long and slow pour rather than the quick and irreversible bang. It wasn't the drink that killed him, but something else. While he may have had suspicions, he could not have figured out the truth about me. My deceptions were too careful and clever, yet in my infrequent encounters with the man since leaving for college, he had acted cold, distant, and unyielding. Some private demons plagued him, but I felt no compassion. With one bullet, he had abandoned my mother and sisters, and I could never forgive him. Those few days leading up to the funeral, and the service itself, hardened my opinion that his selfishness had rotted our family to the roots.
　　With good grace, my mother, more confused than distraught, bore the brunt of making arrangements. She convinced the local priest, no doubt abetted by her weekly contributions over many years, to allow my father to be buried in the church's graveyard despite the suicide. There could be no Mass, of course, and for this she bore some resentment, but her anger shielded her from other emotions. The twins, now fourteen, were more prone to tears, and at the funeral home they keened like two banshees over the closed coffin. I would not cry for him. He was not my father, after all, and coming as it did in the spring semester of my sophomore year, his death was supremely ill-timed. I cursed the fair weather of the day we buried him, and a throng of people who came from miles around to pay their respects astonished me.
　　As was the custom in our town, we walked from the mortuary to the church along the length of Main Street. A bright new hearse crawled ahead of us, and a cortege of more than a hundred people trailed behind. My mother and sisters and I led the grim parade.
　　"Who are all these people?" I whispered to my mother.
　　She looked straight ahead and spoke in a loud, clear voice. "Your father had many friends. From the army, from his job, people he helped along the way. You only knew part of the story. There's more to a salmon than the fin."
　　In the shade of new leaves, we put him in the ground and covered him with dirt. Robins and thrushes sang in the bushes. Behind her black veil, my mother did not weep, but stood in the sunshine, stoic as a soldier. Seeing her there, I could not help but hate him for doing this to her, to the girls, to our friends and family, and to me. We did not speak of him as I drove my mother and sisters back to the house to receive condolences.
　　Women from church welcomed us in hushed tones. The house felt more cool and quiet than it did in the dead of night. On the dining room table lay tokens of community spirit—the noodle casseroles, pigs in blankets, cold fried chicken, egg salad, potato salad, Jell-O salad with shaved carrots, and a half-dozen pies. On the sideboard, new mixers and bottles of soda stood next to gin and scotch and rum and a tub of ice. Flowers from the funeral home perfumed the air, and the percolator bubbled madly. My mother chatted with her neighbors, asking about each dish and making gracious compliments to the particular cooks. Mary sat at one end of the sofa, picking at the lint on her skirt, and Elizabeth perched on the opposite end, watching the front door for visitors. An hour after we arrived, the first guests showed up—men who had worked with my father, stiff and formal in their good suits. One by one, they pressed envelopes filled with money into my mother's palm and gave her awkward hugs. My mother's friend Charlie flew in from Philadelphia, but he had missed the interment. He looked askance at me when I took his hat, as if I were a stranger. A couple of old soldiers dropped by, specters from a past that no one else knew. They huddled in the corner, lamenting good ole Billy.
　　I soon tired of them all, for the reception reminded me of those post-recital gatherings, only more somber and pointless. Out on the porch, I took off my black jacket, loosened my necktie, and nursed a rum and Coke. The greened trees rustled in the intermittent breeze, and the sunshine gently warmed the meandering afternoon. From the house, the guests produced a murmur that rose and fell consistent as the ocean, and every so often, a quick peal of laughter rose to remind us that no one is irreplaceable. I lit a Camel and stared at the new grass.
　　She appeared at my side, redolent of jasmine, her scent betraying her stealth. A quick sideways glance and an even briefer smile, then we both resumed our inspection of the lawn and the dark woods beyond. Her black dress was trimmed at the collar and cutis in white, for she followed the smart fashion, twice removed from the haute couture of Mrs. Kennedy. But Tess Wodehouse managed to copy the style without looking foolish. Perhaps it was her quiet poise as we stood at the rail. Any other girl my age would have felt the necessity to speak, but she left it to me to decide the moment for conversation.
　　"It was nice of you to come. I haven't seen you since when? Grade school?"
　　"I'm so sorry, Henry."
　　I flicked my cigarette into the yard and took a sip from my drink.
　　"I heard you once at a recital downtown," she said, "four or five years ago. There was a big to-do afterward with a ranting lady in a red coat. Remember how gently your father treated her? As if she weren't crazy at all, but a person whose memory had come undone. I think my daddy would have told her to buzz off, and my mother probably'd have punched her on the nose. I admired your father that night."
　　While I remembered the woman in red, I had not remembered Tess from that night, had not seen or thought of her in ages. In my mind, she was still a little tomboy. I set down my glass and invited her, with a sweeping gesture, to a nearby chair. With a demure and becoming grace, she took the seat next to me, our knees nearly touching, and I stared at her as if in a trance. She was the girl who had wet her pants in second grade, the girl who had beaten me at the fifty-yard dash in sixth grade. When I went off to the public high school in town, she took the bus to the Catholic girls' school in the other direction. Vanished. Those intervening years had shaped her into a beautiful young woman.
　　"Do you still play piano?" she asked. "I hear you're up in the city at college. Are you studying music?"
　　"Composition," I told her. "For orchestra and chamber music. I gave up performing the piano. Couldn't ever get comfortable in front of people. You?"
　　"I'm nearly finished for my LPN—licensed practical nurse. But I'd like to get a master's in social work, too. All depends."
　　"Depends on what?"
　　She looked away, toward the door. "On whether I get married or not. Depends on my boyfriend, I guess."
　　"You don't sound too enthusiastic."
　　She leaned to me, her face inches from mine, and mouthed the words: I'm not.
　　"Why is that?" I whispered back.
　　As if a light clicked on behind her eyes, she brightened. "There's so much I want to do. Help those in need. See the world. Fall in love."
　　The boyfriend came looking for her, the screen door slapping the frame behind him. Grinning at having found her, he had an uncanny effect upon me, as if I had met him somewhere long ago, but I could not place his face. I could not shake the feeling that we knew each other, but he was from the opposite side of town. His appearance spooked me, as if I were seeing a ghost or a stranger drawn from another century. Tess scrambled to her feet and nestled into his side. He stuck out a paw and waited a beat for my handshake.
　　"Brian Ungerland," he said. "Sorry for your loss."
　　I muttered my thanks and resumed my observation of the unchanging lawn. Only Tess's voice brought me back to the world. "Good luck with your compositions, Henry," she said. "I'll look in the record store for you." She steered Brian toward the door. "Sorry we had to renew our friendship under these circumstances."
　　As they left, I called out, "I hope you get what you want, Tess, and don't get what you don't." She smiled at me over her shoulder.
　　After all the visitors had departed, my mother joined me on the porch. In the kitchen, Mary and Elizabeth fussed over the covered dishes and the empty glasses in the sink. The final moments of the funeral day, we watched crows gather in the treetops before evening fell. They flew in from miles away, strutted like cassocked priests on the lawn before leaping into the branches to become invisible.
　　"I don't know how I'll manage, Henry." She sat in the rocker, not looking at me.
　　I sipped another rum and Coke. A dirge played in the background of my imagination.
　　She sighed when I did not reply. "We've enough to get by. The house is nearly ours, and your father's savings will last awhile. I'll have to find work, though the Lord knows how."
　　"The twins could help."
　　"The girls? If I had to count on those two to help with so much as a glass of water, I would be dead of thirst. They are nothing but trouble now, Henry." As if the notion had just occurred to her, she quickened her rocking. "It will be enough to keep them out of ruining their reputations. Those two."
　　I drained the glass and fished a wrinkled cigarette from my pocket.
　　She looked away. "You might have to stay home for a while. Just until I can get on my feet. Do you think you could stay?"
　　"I guess I could miss another week."
　　She walked over to me and grabbed my arms. "Henry, I need you here. Stay for a few months, and we'll save up the money. Then you can go back and finish up. You're young. It will seem long, but it won't be."
　　"Mom, it's the middle of the semester."
　　"I know, I know. But you'll stay with your mother?" She stared till I nodded. "That's a good boy."
　　
　　
　　I ended up staying much longer than a few months. My return home lasted for a few years, and the interruption of my studies changed my life. My father hadn't left enough money for me to finish college, and my mother floundered with the girls, who were still in high school. So I got a job. My friend Oscar Love, back from a tour of duty with the navy, bought an abandoned store off Linnean Street with his savings and a loan from the Farmers & Merchants. With help from his father and brother, he converted the place into a bar with a stage barely big enough for a four-piece combo, and we moved the piano from my mother's house. A couple of guys from the area were good enough to round out a band. Jimmy Cummings played the drums, with George Knoll on bass or guitar. We called ourselves The Coverboys, because that's all we played, and when I wasn't pretending to be Gene Pitney or Frankie Valli, I would tend bar a few other nights of the week. The gig at Oscar's Bar got me out of the house; plus, the few extra dollars enabled me to help out the family. My old friends would drop in, applaud my return to playing piano, but I loathed performing. That first year back. Tess showed up with Brian or a girl-friend a couple of times. Seeing her there reminded me of the dreams I had deferred.
　　"You were a mystery man," Tess told me one night between sets. "Or mystery boy, I should say, back in grade school. As if you were somewhere totally different from the rest of us."
　　I shrugged my shoulders and played the first measures from "Strangers in the Night." She laughed and rolled her eyes. "Seriously, though, Henry, you were a stranger. Aloof. Above it all."
　　"Is that right? I certainly should have been nicer to you."
　　"Oh, go on." She was tipsy and grinning. "You were always in another world."
　　Her boyfriend beckoned, and she was gone. I missed her. She was about the only good thing that happened as the result of my forced homecoming, my reluctant return to the piano. Late that night, I went home thinking about her, wondering how serious her relationship was and how to steal her away from the guy with the deja vu face.
　　Tending bar and playing piano kept me out late at night. My mother and sisters were long asleep, and I ate a cold dinner alone at three in the morning. That night, something stirred in the yard outside the kitchen window. A flash through the glass, visible for an instant, that looked sort of like a head of hair. I took my plate into the living room and turned on the television to The Third Man on the late, late movie. After the scene where Holly Martins first spies Harry Lime in the doorway, I fell asleep in my father's chair, only to wake up in the depths before dawn, sweating and cold, petrified that I was back in the forest again amid those devils.

    电话铃声大作，像是唱着激动的歌，终于有人大发慈悲去接了。
　　门厅靠里是我的寝室，那晚我和一个女大学生在一起，我正要全心全意地关注她一丝不挂的身子。过了一会儿，敲门声响起，奇怪地顿了顿，接着猛擂起来，可怜的女孩吓得差点从我身上摔下去。
　　“什么事? 我正忙着。没看到门把手上挂的领带吗? ”
　　“是亨利•戴吗? ”门的另一侧，一个沙哑的声音颤抖着，“你母亲的电话。”
　　“告诉她我出去了。”
　　声音降低了八度，“非常抱歉，亨利，但你一定要接这个电话。”
　　我穿上短裤和套衫，打开门，从这男孩身边冲过去，他垂目看着地板，“你有亲人死了。”
　　死的是我父亲。母亲提到了汽车，理所当然地，我在万分震惊中猜测是发生了事故。回家后，我从东一言西一语、别人耸起的眉毛，还有含沙射影中得知事情真相。他坐在汽车里，在自己的脑袋上开了一熗，地点是距离大学不到四个街区的停车标志下。没有遗言，没有任何解释。只有一张名片背后写着我的名字和寝室房间号，塞在只剩下一支骆驼香烟的烟盒里。
　　葬礼前的日子，我都在试图弄清他自杀的原因。自从那个可怕的早晨他看到院子里的什么东西后，他就变本加厉地酗起酒来，虽然他一向是个酒鬼，但在我印象中，他喜欢浅斟慢酌，而不是大口猛灌。
　　他的死因不在喝酒，而在其他。他可能对我产生了疑心，但又找不出真相。我的骗术既谨慎又精明，但在我读大学之后和这个男人少有的几次接触中，他表现冷淡，保持距离，而且态度强硬。他内心有鬼怪折磨着他，但我毫不同情。用一颗子弹，他就抛下了我的母亲和妹妹们，我永远没法原谅他。葬礼前的那几天以及葬礼仪式让我更加坚定信念，是他的自私彻底毁了我们的家。
　　我母亲倒不怎么伤心，只是困惑不已，她以很好的风度，顶住压力操办各种安排。虽然父亲是自杀的，她还是说服牧师允许把他埋葬在教堂的墓地里，牧师显然是看在她多年如一、每周捐献的分上。
　　当然，不能做弥撒了，为此她有所怨愤，但是怒意也使她感受不到其他情绪了。
　　那对双胞胎已经十四岁了，她们动辄下泪，在殡仪馆里像两只女妖精一样跪趴在封盖的棺材上。我没为他哭。毕竟他不是我父亲，而且那时正是我两年级的春季学期，他死得太不是时候了。我咒骂着他下葬那天的好天气，而且我吃惊的是，居然有一大帮人从几公里外赶来致敬。
　　根据镇上的习俗，我们要走过整条大街，从太平间一直走到教堂。一辆光鲜的灵车缓缓开在前头，后面跟着上百号人。母亲、妹妹和我走在送葬队伍的最前面。
　　“这些人都是谁? ”我小声问母亲。
　　她两眼直视前方，声音响亮清晰，“你父亲有很多朋友。军队里的，工作上的，他帮过忙的。你只知道一部分。大马哈鱼可不止只有鱼翅。”
　　在新叶的树阴下，我们把他放到地下，盖上土。知更鸟和画眉在灌木丛中歌唱。
　　黑色的面纱后，母亲没有流泪，只是站在太阳下，坚强得像个士兵。看到她这样，我没法不恨他，恨他对她、对女孩们、对我们的朋友和家人，也对我做出这种事来。
　　我开车载着母亲和妹妹回家接受吊唁，一路上我们谁也没有提起他。
　　教堂里的女人们用平静的语调迎接我们。屋子里比深夜更显得幽凉、宁静。餐厅的桌子上放着象征团体精神的东西——砂锅面条、大块猪肉、冷炸鸡肉、鸡蛋沙拉、土豆沙拉、掺胡萝卜屑的吉露果子冻沙拉，还有六块馅饼。餐具柜里有新的搅拌器和几瓶汽水，边上是杜松子酒、苏格兰酒、朗姆酒，还有一盆冰。殡仪馆里的鲜花散发着香味，过滤器在疯狂地吐泡沫。母亲在和邻居聊天，问着每道菜分别是谁做的，对每个做菜的人表示谢意和赞扬。玛丽坐在沙发一头，指尖拉拨着裙子上的链子，伊丽莎白坐在另一头，望着前门等客人来。我们到家后一个小时，第一批客人来了——和我父亲一起工作过的人，穿着笔挺、正式的礼服。他们一个接一个，把装着钱的信封递到母亲手上，并笨拙地拥抱她。母亲的朋友查理从费城飞来，但他错过了葬礼。当我取走他的帽子时，他斜觑着我，仿佛我是个陌生人。几个老兵来了，没有人认识这些旧日的恶兆。他们挤在角落里，悼念好伙计比利。
　　我很快就厌烦他们了，因为这个招待会让我想起独奏会后的那帮人，只不过气氛更阴沉、更无意义罢了。我走到门廊上，脱下黑夹克，拉松领带，调了杯朗姆酒加可乐。葱郁的树在不时吹来的微风中沙沙地响，柔和的阳光温暖着散漫的下午。
　　从屋子里传来客人们的喃喃低语，如波涛一般不停地起伏，不时发出的响亮短促的笑声，则提醒我们没有人是不可被取代的。我点了支骆驼香烟，凝视着鲜嫩的草坪。
　　她出现在我身边，茉莉花香水味让她无所遁形。我们飞快地彼此瞟了一眼，微微露出一个笑容，就继续审视草地和远处深色的树林。她的黑裙在领口和袖口镶了道白边，这是最新流行的样式，已经和肯尼迪夫人的时装大不相同。但泰思•伍德郝斯袭用了这种款式却又不显得愚蠢，或许是因为我们凭栏而立时，她的姿态如此娴静。
　　在我这个年龄的任何一个别的姑娘都会觉得有说话的必要，但她把何时开始交谈的决定权让给我。
　　“谢谢你能来。上次见到你是什么时候? 小学? ”  ，“我很难过，亨利。”
　　我把烟灰弹到院子里，抿了一口饮料。
　　“有一次我在城里听过你的独奏会，”她说，“四五年前了。后来因为一个穿红衣服的泼妇发生了很多事。还记得你父亲对她是多么的温和? 好像她一点也没有发疯，只是记忆出了毛病。我想换了我爸，就会叫她快滚，我妈大概会打她鼻子了。
　　那晚我可崇拜你父亲了。”
　　我想起了那个红衣女子，但没想起那晚的泰思，我已经多年没有看到她或想到她了。在我的心目中，她仍然还是一个矮小的顽皮姑娘。我放下自己的玻璃杯，做了个大幅度的手势邀请她去旁边的椅子上坐坐。她端庄优雅地坐到我身边，我们的膝盖几乎碰在一起，我恍恍惚惚地盯着她看。她就是那个小学二年级尿湿裤子的女孩，六年级以五十码的冲刺来追打我的女孩。我去上镇上的国立高中时，她坐着巴士去了另一个方向的天主教女校，其间的岁月将她塑造成了一个美丽的年轻女子。
　　“你还弹钢琴吗? ”她问，“我听说你在市里读大学。你学的是音乐吗? ”
　　“作曲，”我告诉她，“学管弦乐和室内乐。我放弃弹钢琴了。在众人面前我总是不自在。你呢? ”
　　“我快读完LPN 了，就是注册临床护士。但我想拿一个公益事业的硕士学位。
　　看情况吧。”
　　“看什么情况? ”
　　她把视线转向门口。“看我是不是结婚，看我的男朋友怎么样，我想。”
　　“听起来你的兴致不是很高。”
　　她朝我凑过来，脸蛋和我只有一拳之隔，吐出这句话：“是的。”
　　“为什么呢? ”我也悄声问。
　　仿佛眼睛后面点起一盏灯，她满脸放光，“我有太多的事情想做。
　　帮助那些需要的人。环游世界。谈恋爱。”
　　男朋友来找她了，纱门在他身后刷的一声碰在门框上。看到她，他露齿一笑。
　　他让我产生一种古怪的感觉，仿佛很久以前我曾在何处见过他，但我想不起在哪见过。我没法甩开我们彼此认识的感觉，但他住在镇子的另一头。他的出现让我像白日撞鬼，好似见到了来自另一个世纪的鬼魂或陌生人。泰思匆忙站起，依偎到他身边。他伸出一只手等我来握。
　　“我是布瑞恩•安格兰德，”他说，“很遗憾你失去了亲人。”
　　我咕哝了一句谢谢，继续观察那不变的草坪。泰思的声音让我回过神来。“亨利，祝你作曲走运。”她说，“我会去唱片店找你的作品的。”她带着布瑞恩朝门口走，“真不好意思，我们在这种场合下重叙友谊。”
　　他们出去时，我叫道：“泰思，我希望你得到你想要的，不会得到你不要的。”
　　她回头朝我一笑。
　　所有的访客都走后，母亲也来到门廊上。厨房里，玛丽和伊丽莎自在为罩子里的餐碟和水池里的空杯吵闹不休。葬礼那天的最后时光，我和母亲望着夜幕降临前聚集在树顶上的乌鸦。它们从几公里外飞来，像穿着法衣的牧师一样在草地上昂首阔步，然后飞入树枝间消失了。
　　“我不知道该怎么过下去，亨利。”她坐在摇椅上，没有看我。
　　我又抿了口朗姆可乐酒。我想像的背景中放着一曲挽歌。
　　我没回答，她叹了口气，“要混也混得过去。房子基本上是我们的，你父亲的存款也能维持一段时间。我得去找份工作，但只有上帝知道该怎么找。”
　　“双胞胎能帮忙。”
　　“姑娘们? 要是我能指望着那两位帮我倒杯水，我就要渴死了。
　　亨利，她们现在除了麻烦什么都不是。”她像是才有这个念头，加快了摇椅说：“只要她们不败坏名声，那就够了。那两位。”
　　我喝完饮料，从口袋里摸出一支皱巴巴的香烟。
　　她的目光移开了，“你可能要在家待上一阵，到我能自力更生为止。你觉得你能留下吗? ”
　　“我想我能再请一周的假。”
　　她走到我身边，抓住我的胳膊。“亨利，我需要你在这里。待上几个月，我们把钱存起来。接着你能回去把书念完。你还年轻。这段时间看起来长，过起来快。”
　　“妈，现在是期中。”
　　“我知道，我知道。但你会留下来陪你妈吗? ”她注视着我，直到我点头，“好孩子。”
　　结果我远不止待了几个月。我一回家就是几年，学业的中断改变了我的生活。
　　父亲没有留下足够的钱让我完成学业，母亲和姑娘们一起挣扎度日，她们还在念高中。因此我找了个工作。我的朋友奥斯卡•拉甫服完海军兵役归来，用他的积蓄和农商银行的贷款盘下了利尼街上的一家关门的店。在他父兄的帮助下，他把店面改成了酒吧，里面的舞台足够一支四人爵士乐队演出。我们把钢琴从我母亲家里搬了过去。本地有两个家伙的水平能够组建乐队。吉米‘卡明斯击鼓，乔治•克诺尔弹低音提琴或吉他。我们把自己叫做“封面男孩”，因为我们表演的就是这个。每周有几个晚上，当我不做吉尼•皮特尼或佛兰凯•瓦利时，我会去泡吧。奥斯卡酒吧里的特约演奏让我走出家门，而且额外的几个美元也能让我帮助家里。我的老朋友会过来坐坐，赞同我重弹钢琴，但我只是勉为其难。第一年年末，泰思来了几次，有时候带着布瑞恩，有时候带着女友。看到她，我就想起我延迟了的梦想。
　　“你是个神秘的男人，”一晚，乐曲间隙，泰思对我说道，“或者说，在小学里是个神秘的男孩。好像你是从一个与我们完全不同的地方来的。”    ，我耸了耸肩，弹起《夜中陌生人》的开头几段。她笑起来，眼波流转。“说正经的，亨利，你以前就是个陌生人，孤僻，离群。”
　　“是吗? 那时候我应该对你更好些。”
　　“哦，算了吧。”她喝醉了，粲然微笑，“你总是活在另一个世界早。”
　　她的男友向她招手，她离开了。我想着她。在我被迫返家、勉强又回来弹琴的所有结果中，她是惟一一处好的。那天深夜，我回家想着她，想知道她的恋爱关系有多认真，考虑该怎么把她从那个面目似曾相识的家伙手里偷过来。
　　我因泡吧和弹琴回家很晚。母亲和妹妹们早已睡下，我独自在凌晨三点吃冷冰冰的晚饭。那晚，厨房窗户外面的院子里有些动静。
　　玻璃窗上有亮光一闪而逝，看起来像是头发。我端着碟子去起居室，打开电视机看凌晨档的《第三人》。放到霍莉•马汀斯第一次在门口盯梢哈瑞‘赖思时，我在父亲的椅子上睡着了，后在黎明前醒来，流着汗，浑身发冷、僵硬，仿佛又回到了树林里，和那些魔鬼在一起。
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Chapter 14
　　Looking far ahead on the path, I spied her returning to camp, which set my mind at ease. She appeared between　 the trees, moving like a deer along the ridgeline. The incident at the library had left me eager to apologize, so I took a shortcut through the forest that would allow me to cut her off along her route. My mind buzzed with the story of the man in the yard. I hoped to tell her before the important parts vanished in the confusion. Speck would be mad, rightfully so, but her compassion would mollify any anger. As I drew near, she must have spotted me, for she took off in a sprint. Had I not hesitated before giving chase, perhaps I would have caught her, but the rough terrain defeated speed. In my haste, I snagged my toe on a fallen branch and landed facedown in the dirt. Spitting leaves and twigs, I looked up to see Speck had already made it into camp and was talking with Béka.
　　"She doesn't want to speak with you," the old toad said upon my arrival, and clamped his hand on my shoulder. A few of the elders—Igel, Ragno, Zanzara, and Blomma—had sidled next to him, forming a wall.
　　"But I need to talk to her."
　　Luchóg and Kivi joined the others. Smaolach walked toward the group from my right, his hands clenched and shaking. Onions approached from my left, a menacing toothsome smile on her face. Nine of them encircled me. Igel stepped inside the ring and jabbed a finger at my chest.
　　"You have violated our trust."
　　"What are you talking about?"
　　"She followed you, Aniday. She saw you with the man. You were to avoid any contact with them, yet there you were, trying to communicate with one of them." Igel pushed me to the ground, kicking up a cloud of rotten leaves. Humiliated, I quickly sprang back to my feet. My fear grew as the others hollered invectives.
　　"Do you know how dangerous that was?"
　　"Teach him a lesson."
　　"Do you understand we cannot be discovered?"
　　"So he won't forget again."
　　"They could come and capture us, and then we will never be free."
　　"Punish him."
　　Igel did not strike the first blow. From behind, a fist or a club smashed into my kidneys, and I arched my back. With my body thus exposed, Igel punched me squarely in the solar plexus, and I hunched forward. A line of drool spilled from my open mouth. They were all upon me at once like a pack of wild dogs bringing down wounded prey. The blows came from all directions, and initial shock gave way to pain. They scraped my face with their nails, ripped hunks of hair from my scalp, sank their teeth into my shoulder, drawing blood. A ropy arm choked my neck, shutting off the flow of air. I gagged and felt my gorge rise. Amid the fury, their eyes blazed with frenzy, and sheer hatred twisted their features. One by one, they peeled off, sated, and the pressure lessened, but those who remained kicked at my ribs, taunting me to get up, snarling and growling at me to fight back. I could not muster the strength. Before walking away, Béka stomped on my fingers, and Igel delivered a kick with each word of his final admonition: "Do not talk to people again."
　　I closed my eyes and stayed still. The sun shone down through the branches of the trees, warming my body. My joints ached from the fall, and my fingers swelled and throbbed. One eye was painted black and blue, and blood oozed from cuts and pooled beneath plum bruises. My mouth tasted of vomit and dirt, and I passed out in a rumpled heap.
　　Cool water on my cuts and bruises startled me awake, and my first vision was of Speck bent over me, wiping the blood from my face. Directly behind her stood Smaolach and Luchóg, their faces pinched with concern. Drops of my blood left a red patch on Speck's white sweater. When I tried to speak, she pressed the wet cloth to my lips.
　　"Aniday, I am so sorry. I did not want this to happen."
　　"We're sorry, too," Smaolach said. "But the law has a ruthless logic."
　　Chavisory poked out her head from behind Speck's shoulder. "I took no part in it."
　　"You should not have left me, Aniday. You should have trusted me."
　　I sat up slowly and faced my tormentors. "Why did you let them?"
　　"I took no part," Chavisory said.
　　Luchóg knelt beside Speck and spoke for all. "We had to do it, so that you will not ever forget. You spoke to the human, and if he caught you, you would be gone forever."
　　"Suppose I want to go back."
　　No one looked me in the eye. Chavisory hummed to herself while the others kept silent.
　　"I think that might have been my real father, Speck. From the other world. Or maybe it was a monster and a dream. But it wanted me to come into the house. I have been there before."
　　"Doesn't matter who he was," said Smaolach. "Father, mother, sister, brother, your Aunt Fanny's uncle. None of that matters. We're your family."
　　I spat out a mouthful of dirt and blood. "A family doesn't beat up one of its own, even if they have a good reason."
　　Chavisory shouted in my ear, "I didn't even touch you!" She danced spirals around the others.
　　"We were following rules," said Speck.
　　"I don't want to stay here. I want to go back to my real family."
　　"Aniday, you can't," Speck said. "They think you are gone these past ten years. You may look like you're eight, but you are almost eighteen. We are stuck in time."
　　Luchóg added, "You'd be a ghost to them."
　　"I want to go home."
　　Speck confronted me. "Listen, there are only three possible choices, and going home is not one of them."
　　"Right," Smaolach said. He sat down on a rotting tree stump and counted off the possibilities on his fingers. "One is that while you do not get old here, nor get deathly ill, you can die by accident. I remember one fellow who went a-walking a wintry day. He made a foolish calculation in his leap from the top of the bridge to the edge of the riverbank, and his jump was not jumpy enough. He fell into the river, went right through the ice, and drowned, frozen to death."
　　"Accidents happen," Luchóg added. "Long ago, you could find yourself eaten. Wolves and mountain lions prowled these parts. Did you ever hear of the one from up north who wintered out inside a cave and woke up springtime next to a very hungry grizzly? A man can die by any chance imaginable."
　　"Two, you could be rid of us," Smaolach said, "by simply leaving. Just up and saunter off and go live apart and alone. We discourage that sort of attitude, mind you, for we need you here to help us find the next child. 'Tis harder than you think to pretend to be someone else."
　　"Besides, it is a lonesome life," said Chavisory.
　　"True," Speck agreed. "But you can be lonely with a dozen friends beside you."
　　"If you go that way, you're more likely to meet with a singular fate," Luchóg said. "Suppose you fell in a ditch and couldn't get up? Then where would you be?"
　　Said Smaolach, "Them fellows usually succumb, don't they, to some twist in the road? You lose your way in a blizzard. A black widow nips your thumb as you sleep. And no one to find the anecdote, the cowslip or the boiled frogs' eggs."
　　"Besides, where would you go that's any better than this?" Luchóg asked.
　　"I would go crazy being just by myself all the time," Chavisory added.
　　"Then," Luchóg told her, "you would have to make the change."
　　Speck looked beyond me, toward the treeline. "That's the third way. You find the right child on the other side, and you take her place."
　　"Now you're confusing the boy," said Smaolach. "First, you have to find a child, learn all about him. All of us watch and study him. From a distance, mind."
　　"It has to be somebody who isn't happy," Chavisory said.
　　Smaolach scowled at her. "Never mind that. We observe the child in teams. While certain people take down his habits, others study his voice."
　　"Start with the name," said Speck. "Gather all the facts: age, birthday brothers and sisters."
　　Chavisory interrupted her. "I'd stay away from boys with dogs. Dogs are born suspicious."
　　"You have to know enough," Speck said, "so you can make people believe you are one of them. A child of their own."
　　Carefully rolling a cigarette, Luchóg said, "I've betimes thought that I'd look for a large family, with lots of kids and so on, and then pick the one in the middle that nobody'll miss or notice they're gone for a bit. Or if I forget some detail or am slightly off in my imitation, nobody is the wiser. Maybe number six of thirteen, or four of seven. Not as easy as it once was, now that mums and dads aren't having so many babies."
　　"I'd like to be a baby again," said Chavisory.
　　"Once you have made the choice," said Smaolach, "we go in and grab the child. He or she's got to be alone, or you'll be found out. Have you ever heard the tale of them ones in Russia or thereabouts, where they caught the lot of them stealing a tiny Cossack lad with pointy teeth, and them Cossacks took all our boys of the woods and burnt them up to a crisp?"
　　"Fire is a devil of a way to go," said Luchóg. "Did I ever tell you of the faery changeling caught snooping around the room of a girl she wished to replace? She hears the parents come in, and leaps in the closet, making the change right there in the room. At first, the parents thought nothing of it, when they opened the door and there she was, playing in the dark. Later that day, the real girl comes home, and what do you think? There's the two of them side by side, and our friend would have made it, but she hadn't yet learned how to speak like the little girl. So the mother says, 'Now which one of you is Lucy?' and the real Lucy says, 'I am,' and the other Lucy lets out a squawk to raise the dead. She had to jump out the second-floor window and start all over again."
　　Smaolach looked perplexed during his friend's story, scratching his head as if trying to recall an important detail. "Ah, there's a bit of magic, of course. We bind up the child in a web and lead him to the water."
　　Spinning on her heels, Chavisory shouted, "And there's the incantation. You mustn't forget that."
　　"In he goes like a baptism," Smaolach continued. "Out he comes, one of us. Never to leave except by one of three ways, and I would not give you my shoes for the first two."
　　Chavisory drew a circle in the dust with her bare toe. "Remember the German boy who played the piano? The one before Aniday."
　　With a short hiss, Speck grabbed Chavisory by the hair and pulled the poor creature to her. She sat on her chest and threw her hands upon her face, massaging and kneading Chavisory's skin like so much dough. The girl screamed and cried like a fox in a steel trap. When she had finished, Speck revealed a reasonable copy of her own sweet face on the visage of Chavisory. They looked like twins.
　　"You put me back," Chavisory complained.
　　"You put me back." Speck imitated her perfectly.
　　I could not believe what I was seeing.
　　"There's your future, little treasure. Behold the changeling," laid Smaolach. "Going back to the past as yourself is not an option. But when you return as a changed person to their world, you get to stay there, grow up as one of them, live as one of them, more or less, grow old as time allows, and you'll do that yet, when your turn comes."
　　"My turn? I want to go home right now. How do I do it?"
　　"You don't," Luchóg said. "You have to wait until the rest of us have gone. There's a natural order to our world that mustn't be disturbed. One child for one changeling. When your time comes, you will find another child from a different family than what you left behind. You cannot go back whence you came."
　　"I'm afraid, Aniday, you're last in the line. You'll have to be patient."
　　Luchóg and Smaolach took Chavisory behind the honeysuckle and began to manipulate her face. The three of them laughed and carried on through the whole process. "Just make me pretty again," and "Let's get one of them magazines with the women's pictures," and "Hey, she looks like Audrey Hepburn." Eventually, they fixed her face, and she flew from their clutches like a bat.
　　Speck was unusually kind to me for the rest of that day, perhaps out of misplaced guilt for my beating. Her gentleness reminded me of my mother's touch, or what I thought I remembered. My own mother might as well have been the phantom, or any other fiction to be conjured. I was forgetting again, the distinction between memory and imagination blurring. The man I saw, could he be my father? I wondered. He appeared to have recognized me, but I was not his son, only a shadow from the woods. In the dead of night, I wrote down the story of the three ways in McInnes's notebook, hoping to under-stand it all in the future. Speck kept me company while the others slept. In the starlight, her cares had vanished from her face; even her eyes, usually so tired, radiated compassion.
　　"I am sorry they hurt you."
　　"It doesn't hurt," I whispered, stiff and sore.
　　"Life here has its compensations. Listen."
　　Low in a flyway, an owl swept between the trees, unrolling its wings on the hunt. Speck tensed, the fine hairs on her arms bristling.
　　"You will never get old," she said. "You won't have to worry about getting married or having babies or finding a job. No gray hair and wrinkles, no teeth falling out. You won't need a cane or a crutch."
　　We heard the owl descend and strike. The mouse screamed once; then life left it.
　　"Like children who never grow up," I said.
　　"'The indifferent children of the earth.'" She let her sentence linger in the air. I fixed my eye upon a single star, hoping to sense the earth or see the heavens move. This trick of staring and drifting with the sky has cured my insomnia many times over the years, but not that night. Those stars were fixed and this globe creaked as if stuck in its rotation. Eyes lifted, chin pointing to the moon, Speck considered the night, though I had no idea what she was thinking.
　　"Was he my father, Speck?"
　　"I cannot tell you. Let go of the past, Aniday. It's like holding dandelions to the wind. Wait for the right moment, and the seeds will scatter away." She looked at me. "You should rest."
　　"I can't. My mind is filled with noises."
　　She pressed her fingers to my lips. "Listen."
　　Nothing stirred. Her presence, my own. "I can't hear a thing."
　　But she could hear a distant sound, and her gaze turned inward, as if transported to its source.

    我远远地望见她正走在回营的路上，便放下了心。她出现在林木之间，像鹿一样在山岭上腾跃。我急于为图书馆的事道歉，于是抄了林中近路，想在她回家的路上截住她。我脑中嗡嗡响着那个院子里男人的事。我希望能在重要环节变成一片混乱之前，把这事告诉她。斯帕克会很生气，这是理所当然的，但她的同情心会平息任何愤怒。我接近她时，她发现了我，飞快地奔跑起来。如果我没有稍加犹豫再行追赶，可能已经赶上了她，但灌木丛生的地形让我跑不快。我匆忙中在一条倒伏的树枝上戳破了脚趾，仆倒在泥地里。我分开枝叶抬起头来，只见斯帕克已经进入营寨，正和贝卡说话。
　　“她不想和你说话。”我一到，这只老蛤蟆就这么说，还捏了一下我的肩膀。
　　几个年龄稍大的——伊格尔、劳格诺、赞扎拉、布鲁玛挨到他身边，形成一堵培。
　　“但我需要和她谈一谈。”
　　鲁契克和齐维加入另一派。斯茂拉赫走到我右边的队伍，摇晃着攥紧的拳头。
　　奥尼思斯走到我左边，露出一个龇牙咧嘴、带着威胁意味的笑容。九个人围着我。
　　伊格尔走进圈子，一根手指戳着我的胸膛。
　　“你背叛了我们的信任。”
　　“你在说什么? ”
　　“她跟踪了你，安尼戴。她看到你和那男人在一起。你应该避免和他们发生任何接触，但你却在那里想和他们中的一个交流。”伊格尔把我推倒在地，扬起一地腐烂的树叶。我受了羞辱，飞快地挺身站起。其他人开始恶语相向，这让我越加害怕。
　　“你知道那有多危险吗? ”
　　“给他一个教训。”
　　“你明不明白我们不能被发现? ”
　　“那样他就不会忘记了。”
　　“他们会来抓我们，我们就不得自由了。”
　　“惩罚他。”
　　伊格尔不是第一个动手的。背后，有个拳头还是棍子在我腰里捅了一下，我往后一仰，身体空门大开，伊格尔一拳正打在我肚子上，我又朝前拱，口水从我张开的嘴里溅出。他们一下子都扑到我身上，就像一群野狗扑倒一只受伤的猎物。拳头从四面八方而来，刚开始的震惊让位给了疼痛。他们用指甲抓我脸，从我头上抓下大把头发，把我的肩膀咬出了血。一条强壮的胳膊卡住了我的脖子，堵住了气流。
　　我大口喘息，恶心难受。他们在暴怒中闪动疯狂的目光，愤恨扭曲了他们的面容。
　　他们一个接一个心满意足地走开了，压力有所减轻，但还有几个在踢我的肋骨，嘲笑我，要我站起来，又吼又叫地要我还击。我一点气力都聚不起来。贝卡走开之前还踩了我的手指，伊格尔丢下一句警告，每说一个字就踢我一脚：“别再跟人说话。”
　　我闭上眼一动不动地躺着。阳光从枝叶间洒下来，温暖了我的身体。我的关节脱落疼痛，手指肿胀抽痛，一只眼睛被打得乌青，鲜血从伤口里淌出来，凝聚在淤伤之下，嘴里有呕吐物和泥土，我在一片混乱中昏了过去。
　　冷水浇在我的伤口和淤肿上，我醒了过来，第一眼看到斯帕克凑在我身前，擦拭我脸上的血。她身后站着斯茂拉赫和鲁契克，都是满脸关怀。我的血在斯帕克的白套衫上染红了一块。我正要开口，她用湿布按住了我的嘴唇。
　　“安尼戴，我非常抱歉。我没想要发生这种事。”
　　“我们也很抱歉，”斯茂拉赫说，“但纪律的道理是无情的。”
　　卡维素芮从斯帕克肩后探出头来，“我可没动手。”
　　“你不该离开我，安尼戴。你应该相信我。”
　　“我没动手。”卡维素芮说道。
　　鲁契克跪在斯帕克身边，为大家说话：“我们得这么做，那样你就忘不了。你跟人类说话，如果他抓住你，你就永远回不来了。”
　　“但如果我想回去呢? ”
　　没人看着我的眼睛。卡维素芮哼着小调，其他人沉默着。
　　“我想那或许是我的亲生父亲，斯帕克。在另一个世界的。也可能他是个魔鬼，是个梦。但他想要我到屋子里去。我以前去过那里。”
　　“别管他是谁，”斯茂拉赫说，“父亲、母亲、姐妹、兄弟、你范妮姨妈的舅舅。这些都无关紧要。我们才是你的家人。”
　　我吐出一口夹着泥的鲜血，“家人不会打自家人，即便是有充分理由。”
　　卡维素芮在我耳边大叫：“我连碰都没碰你! ”她绕着大家盘旋跳舞。
　　“我们是按照纪律办事。”斯帕克说。
　　“我不想待在这里。我要回我真正的家。”
　　“安尼戴，你不能，”斯帕克说，“他们以为你走了十年了。你看起来像是才八岁，但你已经快十八了。我们都陷在时间里面。”
　　鲁契克补充说：“你对他们来说是一个鬼。”
　　“我想回家。”
　　斯帕克对我直言不讳，“听着，只有三个可能的选择，回家不是其中之一。”
　　“对。”斯茂拉赫说。他坐到一个腐朽的树桩上，扳着手指数这些可能性，“第一是你在这里不会变老，不会病死，要死只能是意外。我记得有一个伙伴冬天出去散步，他错误地估计了从桥的顶端到河对岸的距离，而他的一跳也不够远。他掉进河里，沉到冰下淹死了，是冻死的。”
　　“会发生意外的，”鲁契克也说，“很久以前，你会发现自己被吃掉。狼、美洲狮都在这些地方。你有没有听说过，有一个从北方来的家伙在洞里过冬，春天醒来时身边有一只饿极了的灰熊? 一个人能死在各种想像得到的情况下。”
　　“第二是你摆脱我们，”斯茂拉赫说，“只要离开就行了。你站起来，走开去，独自离群索居。告诉你，我们不鼓励这种态度，我们还需要你在这里帮我们寻找下一个孩子。这可比你想像中假扮成另一个人困难多了。”
　　“再说，那是种孤独的生活。”卡维素芮说。
　　“的确，”斯帕克赞同说，“但即使有十几个朋友在身边，也还是会觉得孤独的。”
　　“如果你那么做，你更有可能遭遇厄运，”鲁契克说，“想想看你掉入沟里爬不出来? 你能到哪里去呢? ”
　　斯茂拉赫说：“那些伙计不是常常迷路吗? 你迷失在暴风雪中。
　　你睡觉时一只黑寡妇咬了你的拇指。没有人带来奇闻轶事，没有樱草和煮青蛙腿。”
　　“还有，你能去到比这儿更好的地方吗? ”鲁契克问。
　　“一直一个人，我会发疯的。”卡维素芮又说。
　　“那么，”鲁契克对她说，“你就得换生了。”
　　斯帕克望着我身后成排的树木，“第三条路是，你在那一边找到了合适的孩子，你取代她的地位。”
　　“这下你把这孩子搞糨涂了，”斯茂拉赫说，“首先你要找到一个孩子，学会他的一切。我们都会观察他，研究他。注意，是远远地观察研究。”
　　“必须是某个不快乐的孩子。”卡维素芮说。
　　斯茂拉赫冲她板起脸，“那个无关紧要。我们分组观察那孩子。
　　一些人记录他的习惯，一些人学习他的声音。”
　　“从姓名开始，”斯帕克说，“收集所有信息：年龄、生日、兄弟姐妹。”
　　卡维素芮打断了她，“我会离带狗的男孩远远的。狗天性多疑。”
　　“你得知道足够多的事，”斯帕克说，“才能让人类相信你是他们自己人，是他们的孩子。”
　　鲁契克小心翼翼地卷着烟说：“我想过我要找一个大家庭，有很多孩子等等，然后挑一个排行中间的，那样他们即使走失一小会儿，也不会有人挂念或注意到。
　　即使我忘了一些细节或模仿中露了马脚，其他人也不见得更聪明。或许挑上十三个孩子中的老六，或者七个孩子中的老四。现在不比从前容易了，妈妈爸爸们都不生那么多孩子。”
　　“我想再当一次婴儿。”卡维素芮说。
　　“一旦你做出选择，”斯茂拉赫说，“我们就去抓住那个孩子。他或者她必须是独自一个，否则你会被发现。你听过俄国还是周边地区发生的故事吗? 他们发现许多换生灵正在偷一个尖牙齿的哥萨克孩子，那些哥萨克人抓住所有的森林孩子，把他们烧成了脆皮。”
　　“火是杀死魔鬼的办法，”鲁契克说，“我有没有告诉过你，一个换生灵在调查她打算交换的女孩的房间时被抓了? 她听到父母进来的声音，就跳进柜子里，在那里变身。父母打开柜门，看到她在黑暗里玩耍，起初他们什么也没想。但到了晚上，真正的女孩回来了，你想会怎么样? 两个孩子肩并肩站着，我们的朋友本来可以解决这种事情，但她还没有学会小女孩的说话方式。那个母亲说：‘你们谁是露西? ’真露西就说：‘我是。’另一个露西发出一个能把死人叫醒的声音。她只得从二楼窗口跳出去，一切从头开始。”
　　当朋友讲故事时，斯茂拉赫显得不知所措，抓着头皮似乎想要记起一个重要的细节，“啊，要用到一点魔法的，当然哕。我们把孩子绑在网里，带他下水。”
　　卡维素芮转着脚跟嚷道：“那是咒语。你不能忘了那个。”
　　“如果他受了洗礼，”斯茂拉赫继续说，“他就会浮起来，成为我们的一员。
　　能不回来的只有这三条路，如果是前两条路，我不会把我的鞋千给你。”
　　卡维素芮用她光光的脚趾在尘土中画了个圈，“还记得那个弹钢琴的德国男孩吗? 安尼戴前面的那个? ”
　　斯帕克发出一声短促的嘶叫，抓住卡维素芮的头发拖过来。她坐在她胸口上，把双手放在她脸上，按摩、扭捏她的皮肤，就像摆弄一大团生面粉。那女孩尖叫哭喊，好比一只钢圈套索里的狐狸。斯帕克干完后，卡维素芮脸上呈现出她自己的漂亮面容，一个精准的复制品。她们看起来就像一对双胞胎。
　　“你把我弄回去。”卡维素芮抱怨说。
　　“你把我弄回去。”斯帕克一模一样说着她的话。
　　我没法相信眼前的一幕。
　　“这就是你的未来，小宝贝。看，换生灵。”斯茂拉赫说，“回到你的过去不是一条路。但当你作为交换者回到他们的世界时，你会留在那里，在他们中间长大，和他们一起生活，随着时间或多或少地变老。等轮到你时，你就会那么做。”
　　“轮到我? 我现在就想回家。我该怎么做? ”
　　“不行，”鲁契克说，“你必须等到我们其他人都走了为止。这是我们世界的自然法则，你不能打破。一个孩子换一个换生灵。当轮到你时，你会从另一个家庭找到一个孩子，不是你离开的那个家。你没法回到你的来处。”
　　“安尼戴，恐怕你是排在最后。你要有耐心。”
　　鲁契克和斯茂拉赫带着卡维素芮到忍冬丛后面去帮她整容。他们三个从头到尾都在大笑。“只要把我变得漂亮就行了。～我们去弄一些有女人照片的杂志。”
　　“嗨，她像奥黛丽•赫本。”最后，他们整好了她的脸，她像只蝙蝠一样从他们的掌握中飞走了。
　　那天后来，斯帕克对我出奇的好，也许是因为我被打而感到内疚，虽然这是不必要的。她的温柔让我想起母亲的抚摸，或是我自以为记得的母亲的抚摸。我的亲生母亲也可能不过是幻影，或者其他想像出来的东西。我再度忘却，记忆和想像之间的区别模糊了。我看到的那个男人，会是我的父亲吗? 我寻思着。他的样子像是认出了我，但我不是他儿子，只是森林里的一个影子。深夜，我把这三条出路写在麦克伊内斯的练习簿上，希望日后能完全理解。其他人睡觉时，斯帕克陪伴着我。
　　星光下，忧虑从她脸上消去，甚至她平日里如此疲惫的眼睛，也闪烁着同情。
　　“真抱歉，他们伤害了你。”
　　“不痛的。”我悄声说，但身体僵硬疼痛。
　　“在这里生活是有补偿的。听。”
　　一头猫头鹰在林中低飞而过，展开翅膀扑向猎物。斯帕克紧张起来，胳膊上寒毛直竖。
　　“你永远不会变老，”她说，“你不必担心结婚、生子、找工作。没有白发和皱纹，牙齿不会脱落。你不会需要一根藤条或拐杖。”
　　我们听到那只猫头鹰飞降出击。老鼠尖叫一声，送命了。
　　“就像永不长大的孩子。”我说。
　　“和芸芸众生一个样。”她这句话停留在空气中。我注视着一颗星星，希望能感觉到大地，看到天空移动。这些年来，望着天空随之飘荡的办法多次治愈了我的失眠，但今晚不行了。星星一动不动，地球吱吱作响，好似在转动中被卡住了。斯帕克抬起目光，朝月亮仰起下巴，思考着这个夜晚，虽然我不知道她在想什么。
　　“斯帕克，他是我父亲吗? ”
　　“我不能告诉你。放开过去吧，安尼戴。就像把蒲公英举到风中。等待合适的时机，种子会四散而去。”她看着我，“你应该睡觉了。”
　　“我睡不着。我的头脑里都是噪音。”
　　她把手指放在我唇上，“听。”
　　什么动静都没有。只有她的存在，我的存在。“我什么都听不到。”
　　但她能听到遥远的声响，她朝自己的心中望去，仿佛被带到了声音那单。
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Chapter 15
　　Moving back home from college brought a kind of stupor to my daily life, and my nights became a waking dread. If I wasn't pounding out yet another imitation on the piano, I was behind the bar, tending to the usual crowd with demons of their own. I had fallen into a routine at Oscar's when the strangest of them all arrived and ordered a shot of whiskey. He slid the glass against the rail and stared at it. I went on to the next customer, poured a beer, sliced a lemon, and came back to the guy, and the drink was sitting undisturbed. He was a pixy fellow, clean, sober, in a cheap suit and tie, and as far as I could tell, he hadn't lifted his hands from his lap.
　　"What's the matter, mister? You haven't touched your drink."
　　"Would you give it to me on the house if I can make that glass move without touching it?"
　　"What do you mean, 'move'? How far?"
　　"How far would it have to move for you to believe?"
　　"Not far." I was hooked. "Move it at all, and you have a deal."
　　He reached out his right hand to shake on it, and beneath him, the glass started sliding slowly down the bar until it came to a halt about five inches to his left. "A magician never reveals the secret to the trick. Tom McInnes."
　　"Henry Day," I said. "A lot of guys come in here with all sorts of tricks but that's the best I ever saw."
　　"I'll pay for this," McInnes said, putting a dollar on the bar. "But you owe me another. In a fresh glass, if you please, Mr. Day."
　　He gulped the second shot and pulled the original glass back in front of him. Over the next several hours, he suckered four people with that same trick. Yet he never touched the first glass of whiskey. He drank for free all night. Around eleven, McInnes stood up to go home, leaving the shot on the bar.
　　"Hey, Mac, your drink," I called after him.
　　"Never touch the stuff," he said, slipping into a raincoat. "And I highly advise you not to drink it, either."
　　I lifted the glass to my nose for a smell.
　　"Leaded." He held up a small magnet he had concealed in his left hand. "But you knew that, right?"
　　Swirling the glass in my hand, I could now see the iron filings at the bottom.
　　"Part of my study of mankind," he said, "and our willingness to believe in what cannot be seen."
　　McInnes became a regular at Oscar's, coming in four or five times a week over the next few years, curiously intent on fooling the patrons with new tricks or puzzles. Sometimes a riddle or complicated math game involving picking a number, doubling it, adding seven, subtracting one's age and so forth, until the victim was right back where he'd started. Or a game involving matches, a deck of cards, a sleight of hand. The drinks he won were of small consequence, for his pleasure resulted from the gullibility of his neighbors. And he was mysterious in other ways. On those nights The Coverboys performed, McInnes sat close to the door. Sometimes between sets he'd come up to chat with the boys, and he hit it off with Jimmy Cummings, of all people, a fine example of the artless thinker. But if we played the wrong song, McInnes could be guaranteed to vanish. When we started covering The Beatles in '63 or '64, he would walk out each time at the opening bars of "Do You Want to Know a Secret?" Like a lot of drunks, McInnes became more himself after he'd had a few. He never acted soused. Not more loquacious or morose, merely more relaxed in his skin, and sharper around the edges. And he could consume mass quantities of alcohol at a sitting, more than anyone I have ever known. Oscar asked him one night about his strange capacity for drink.
　　"It's a matter of mind over matter. A cheap trick hinged upon a small secret."
　　"And what might that be?"
　　"I don't honestly know. It's a gift, really, and at the same time a curse. But I'll tell you, in order to drink so much, there has to be something behind the thirst."
　　"So what makes you thirsty, you old camel?" Cummings laughed.
　　"The insufferable impudence of today's youth. I would have tenure now were it not for callow freshmen and the slippery matter of publication."
　　"You were a professor?" I asked.
　　"Anthropology. My specialization was the use of mythology and theology as cultural rituals."
　　Cummings interrupted: "Slow down, Mac. I never went to college."
　　"How people use myth and superstition to explain the human condition. I was particularly interested in the pre-psychology of parenting and once started a book about rural practices in the British Isles, Scandinavia, and Ger-many."
　　"So you drink because of some old flame, then?" Oscar asked, turning the conversation back to its origins.
　　"I wish to God it was a woman." He spied the one or two females in the bar and lowered his voice. "No, women have been very good to me. It's the mind, boys. The relentless thinking machine. The incessant demands of tomorrow and the yesterdays piled up like a heap of corpses. It's this life and all those before it."
　　Oscar chewed on a reed. "Life before life?"
　　"Like reincarnation?" Cummings asked.
　　"I don't know about that, but I do know that a few special people re-member events from the past, events from too long ago. Put them under a spell, and you'd be amazed at the stories that come out from deep within. What happened a century ago, they talk about as if it were just yesterday. Or today."
　　"'Under a spell'?" I asked.
　　"Hypnosis, the curse of Mesmer, the waking sleep. The transcendent trance."
　　Oscar looked suspicious. "Hypnosis. Another one of your party tricks."
　　"I've been known to put a few people under," said McInnes. "They've told tales from their own dreaming minds too incredible to believe, but with such feeling and authority that one is convinced that they were telling the truth. People do and see strange things when they're under."
　　Cummings jumped in. "I'd like to be hypnotized."
　　"Stay behind after the bar is closed, and I'll do it."
　　At two in the morning after the crowd left, McInnes ordered Oscar to dim the lights and asked George and me to stay absolutely quiet. He sat next to Jimmy and told him to close his eyes; then McInnes started speaking to him in a low, modulated voice, describing restful places and peaceful circumstances in such vivid detail that I'm surprised we all didn't fall asleep. McInnes ran a few tests, checking on whether Jimmy was under.
　　"Raise your right arm straight out in front of you. It's made of the world's strongest steel, and no matter how hard you try, you cannot bend it."
　　Cummings stuck out his right arm and could not flex it; nor, for that matter, could Oscar or George or I when we tried, for it felt like a real iron bar. McInnes ran through a few more tests, then he started asking questions to which Cummings replied in a dead monotone. "Who's your favorite musician, Jimmy?"
　　"Louis Armstrong."
　　We laughed at the secret admission. In his waking life, he would have claimed some rock drummer like Charlie Watts of the Stones, but never Satchmo.
　　"Good. When I touch your eyes, you'll open them, and for the next few minutes you'll be Louis Armstrong."
　　Jimmy was a skinny white boy, but when he popped open those baby blues, the transformation came instantaneously. His mouth twisted into Armstrong's famous wide smile, which he wiped from time to time with an imaginary handkerchief, and he spoke in a gravelly skat voice. Even though Jimmy never sang on any of our numbers, he did a passing fair rendition of some old thing called "I'll Be Glad When You're Dead, You Rascal You," and then, using his thumb as a mouthpiece and his fingers as the horn, blatted out a jazz bridge. Normally Cummings hid behind his drums, but he jumped up on a table and would be entertaining the room still, had he not slipped on a slick of beer and fallen to the floor.
　　McInnes raced to him. "When I count to three and snap my fingers," he said to the slouching body, "you'll wake up, feeling refreshed as if you have slept soundly each night this week. I want you to remember, Jimmy, that when you hear someone say Satchmo, you'll have the uncontrollable urge to sing out a few bars as Louis Armstrong. Can you remember that?"
　　"Uh-huh," Cummings said from his trance.
　　"Good, but you won't remember anything else except this dream. Now, I'm going to snap my fingers, and you'll wake up, happy and refreshed."
　　A goofy grin smeared on his face, he woke and blinked at each one of us, as if he could not imagine why we were all staring at him. Upon serial questioning, he recalled nothing about the past half-hour.
　　"And you don't remember," Oscar asked, "Satchmo?"
　　Cummings began singing "Hello, Dolly!" and suddenly stopped himself.
　　"Mr. Jimmy Cummings, the hippest man alive," George laughed.
　　We all gassed Cummings over the next few days, working in "Satchmo" now and again until the magic words wore off. But the events of that night played over in my imagination. For weeks afterward, I pestered McInnes for more information on how hypnosis worked, but all he could say was that "the subconscious rises to the surface and allows repressed inclinations and memories free play." Dissatisfied with his answers, I drove over to the library in town on my days off and submerged myself in research. From the sleep temples of ancient Egypt through Mesmer and on to Freud, hypnosis has been around in one form or another for millennia, with philosophers and scientists arguing over its validity. A piece from The International Journal of Clinical and Experimental Hypnosis settled the debate for me: "It is the patient, not the therapist, who is in control of the depth to which the imagination reaches the subconscious." I tore the quote from the page and tucked it into my wallet, reading the words now and again as if repeating a mantra.
　　
　　
　　Convinced that I could manage my own imagination and subconscious, I finally asked McInnes to hypnotize me. As if he knew the way back to a forgotten land, McInnes could tap into my repressed life and tell me who I was, where I came from. And if it was merely truthful and revealed my German roots, the story would be derided by anyone who heard it as a fantastical delusion. We had all heard it before: In a former life, I was Cleopatra, Shakespeare, the Genghis Khan.
　　What would be harder to laugh off or explain was my life as a hobgoblin in the forest—especially that awful August night when I became a changeling and stole the boy away. Ever since my time with the Days, I had been carefully erasing every vestige of the changeling life. It could be dangerous if, under hypnosis, I would not be able to recall anything about Henry Day's childhood prior to age seven. My mothers tales of Henry's childhood had been so often repeated that I not only believed she was talking about me, but at times thought I remembered that life. Such created memories are made of glass.
　　McInnes knew my halt-story, what he had gathered from hanging around the bar. He had heard me talk about my mother and sisters, my aborted college career. I even confessed to him my crush on Tess Wodehouse one night when she came round with her boyfriend. But he had no clue about the other side of my tale. Anything I accidentally divulged would have to be rationalized away. My desire for the truth about the German boy trumped my fear of being unmasked as a changeling.
　　The last drunk staggered away for the night, and Oscar closed the cash register and hung up his apron. On his way out, he threw me the keys to lock the doors while McInnes turned off all the lights except for a lamp at the end of the bar. The boys said their good-byes, and McInnes and I were alone in the room. Panic and apprehension clawed at me. Suppose I said something about the real Henry Day and gave myself away? What if he tried to blackmail me or threatened to expose me to the authorities? The thought crossed my mind: I could kill him, and nobody would even know he was gone. For the first time in years, I felt myself reverting to something wild, an animal, all instinct. But the moment he began, panic subsided.
　　In the dark and empty bar, we sat across from each other at a small table and listening as McInnes droned on, I felt made of stone. His voice came from a distance above and beyond me, and he controlled my actions and feelings with his words, which shaped my very existence. Giving in to the voice was a bit like falling in love. Submit, let go. My limbs were pulled by tremendous gravity, as if being sucked out of space and time. Light disappeared, re-placed by the sudden snap of a projected beam. A movie had begun on the white wall of my mind. The film itself, however, lacked both a narrative and any distinct visual style that would allow one to draw conclusions or make inferences. No story, no plot, just character and sensation. A face appears, speaks, and I am scared. A cold hand wraps around my ankle. A shout is followed by discordant notes from the piano. My cheek pressed against a chest, a hand hugging my head close to the breast. At some conscious level, I glimpsed a boy, who quickly turned his face from me. Whatever happened next resulted from the clash of inertia and chaos. The major chords were altogether ignored.
　　The first thing I did when McInnes snapped me out of the trance was to look at the clock—four in the morning. As Cummings had described the sensation, I, too, felt curiously refreshed, as if I had slept for eight hours, yet my sticky shirt and the matted hair at my temples belied that possibility. McInnes seemed totally worn and wrung-out. He pulled himself a draft and drank it down like a man home from the desert. In the dim light of the empty bar, he eyed me with incredulity and fascination. I offered him a Camel, and we sat smoking in the dead of morning.
　　"Did I say anything revealing?" I asked at last.
　　"Do you know any German?"
　　"A smattering," I replied. "Two years in high school."
　　"You were speaking German like the Brothers Grimm."
　　"What did I say? What did you make of it?"
　　"I'm not sure. What's a Wechselbalg?"
　　"I never heard of the word."
　　"You cried out as if something terrible was happening to you. Something about der Teufel. The devil, right?"
　　"I never met the man."
　　"And the Feen. Is that a fiend?"
　　"Maybe."
　　"Der Kobolden? You shrieked when you saw them, whatever they are. Any ideas?"
　　"None."
　　"Entführend?"
　　"Sorry."
　　"I could not tell what you were trying to say. It was a mash of languages. You were with your parents, I think, or calling out for your parents, and it was all in German, something about mit, mit—that's 'with,' right? You wanted to go with them?"
　　"But my parents aren't German."
　　"The ones you were remembering are. Someone came along, the fiends or the devils or der Kobolden, and they wanted to take you away."
　　I swallowed. The scene was coming back to me.
　　"Whoever or whatever it was grabbed you, and you were crying out for Mama and Papa and das Klavier."
　　"The piano."
　　"I never heard anything like it, and you said you were stolen away. And I asked, 'When?' and you said something in German I could not understand, so I asked you again, and you said, 'Fifty-nine,' and I said, 'That can't be. That's only six years ago. 'And you said, clear as a bell, 'No ... 1859.' "
　　McInnes blinked his eyes and looked closely at me. I was shaking, so I lit another cigarette. We stared at the smoke, not saying a word. He finished first and ground out the butt so hard that he nearly broke the ashtray.
　　"I don't know what to say."
　　"Know what I think?" McInnes asked. "I think you were remembering a past life. I think you may have once upon a time been a German boy."
　　"I find that hard to believe."
　　"Have you ever heard of the changeling myth?"
　　"I don't believe in fairy tales."
　　"Well ... when I asked you about your father, all you said was, 'He knows.'" McInnes yawned. Morning was quite nearly upon us. "What do you think he knew, Henry? Do you think he knew about the past?"
　　I knew, but I did not say. There was coffee at the bar and eggs in a miniature refrigerator. Using the hot plate in the back, I made us breakfast, settling my wayward thoughts by concentrating on simple tasks. A kind of hazy, dirty light seeped in through the windows at dawn. I stood behind the counter; he sat in front on his usual stool, and we ate our scrambled eggs and drank our coffee black. At that hour the room looked worn and pitiful, and McInnes's eyes tired and vacant, the way my father had appeared the last time we met.
　　He put on his hat and shrugged into his coat. An awkward pause between us let me know that he would not be coming back. The night had been too raw and strange for the old professor. "Good-bye, and good luck."
　　As his hand turned the knob, I called out for him to wait. "What was my name," I asked, "in this so-called former life of mine?"
　　He did not bother to turn around. "You know, I never thought to ask."

    从学校搬回家后，我整天都精神恍惚，夜晚成了可怕的失眠。平日里，我不是在钢琴上敲打一段别人的曲子，就是在吧台后面照应那些常客，他们个个心怀鬼胎。
　　我在奥斯卡酒吧开始按部就班地干活时，他们中间最古怪的那个就来了，叫上一杯威土忌。他把玻璃杯靠着吧台栏杆滑过去，两眼直盯。我走到下一个顾客身边，倒上一杯啤酒，切一片柠檬，再回到那个家伙那里，他的酒一点都没动。他像个精灵，干净，冷静，穿廉价西装，打领带，我发现他的手一直没有从腿上抬起来过。
　　“怎么啦，先生? 你酒都没碰。”
　　“如果我不碰这杯子就让它移动，这杯酒你会不会让我免费喝? ”
　　“你是什么意思，‘移动’? 移动多远? ”
　　“移动多远才能让你相信? ”
　　“不用远，”我上钩了，“只要它动，你就赢了。”
　　他伸出右手朝它摆动，玻璃杯就在他眼皮底下的吧台上慢慢滑动，滑到距离他左手十来公分处停下。“魔术师从不透露魔术的秘法。我叫汤姆•麦克伊内斯。”
　　“我叫亨利•戴，”我说，“很多来这里的家伙都会玩把戏，但这是我见过最好的。”
　　“这杯酒我来付账，”麦克伊内斯说着，在吧台上放下一个美元，“但你还欠我一杯。换个干净杯子吧，如果你高兴的话，戴先生。”
　　他喝掉第二杯，把原先那杯放回自己身前。此后几小时，他用同一种把戏喝了四个人的酒，但却从不碰第一杯威士忌。整个晚上他都在白喝酒。十一点左右，麦克伊内斯起身回家，那杯酒留在吧台上。
　　“嗨，麦克，你的酒。”我叫住他。
　　“我不碰这东西，”他边说边穿上雨衣，“我强烈建议你也不要喝。”
　　我把杯子举到鼻下闻了闻。
　　“沉了东西，”他拿出一块藏在左手心里的小磁铁，“但你是知道的，对吧? ”
　　我晃了晃手里的玻璃杯，才发现底部的铁屑。
　　“这是我对人类研究的一部分，”他说，“研究我们在多大程度上愿意相信看不到的东西。”
　　麦克伊内斯成了奥斯卡酒吧的常客，后来几年，他每周都来四五次，特别喜欢愚弄那些会耍新把戏和出难题的顾客。有时候他出一个谜语，或玩一个复杂的算术游戏：选一个数字，乘上2 ，加上7 ，减去自己的年龄等等，最后那个倒霉蛋发现又得到了第一个数字。还有一个游戏和火柴、纸牌、手法有关。他赢来的酒并不足道，因为他的乐趣在于看到旁人轻易地受骗上当。其他地方他也让人捉摸不透。
　　“封面男孩’’晚上表演时，麦克伊内斯就坐在门边。有时候在两曲之间，他会过来和男孩们聊天，所有人中，他和卡明斯相处得最好，卡明斯是朴实思想家的优良典范。但假如我们演奏的曲子不对头，麦克伊内斯一定会消失。我们弹63或64年“甲壳虫乐队”的曲子时，他每次听到《你想知道一个秘密吗?>的前奏，就会走人。和众多醉鬼一样，麦克伊内斯多喝几杯后就会更加自在，但他从不撒酒疯，也不会喋喋不休或举止古怪，他只是放松自己的外表，但棱角却更露锋芒。
　　他能一口气喝下很多酒，这点比我知道的任何一个人都厉害。一天晚上奥斯卡问他，怎会有如此与众不同的酒量。
　　“这关系到对事物的看法。差劲的把戏靠的是小秘密。”
　　“那大概是什么呢? ”
　　“我不是很清楚。这是一种天赋，说真的，同时也是一种诅咒。
　　不过我告诉你，要喝下这么多，必定有口渴的原因。”
　　“那么是什么让你口渴呢? 老骆驼。”卡明斯大笑。
　　“现在的年轻人脸皮厚得叫人忍无可忍。要不是那帮初出茅庐的一年级生，还有非得发表作品的麻烦事，我现在还在任教呢。”
　　“你是个教授? ”我问。
　　“搞人类学。我的专业是研究神话学和神学里的文化仪式。”
　　卡明斯插嘴说，“说慢点，麦克。我没上过大学。”
　　“研究人们怎么运用神话和迷信来解释人类的状况。我特别感兴趣的是生育之前的心理状态，曾经写过一本关于大不列颠爱尔兰、斯堪的纳维亚和德国的乡村习俗的书。”
　　“那么你喝酒是为了旧日激情? ”奥斯卡问道，又把问题兜了回去。
　　“我求上帝让我这样是为了女人。”他看了一下酒吧里的一两位女性，压低声音说，“不，女人一直对我很好。是因为头脑，孩子们。
　　这台无情的思想机器。未来和过去不断的企求就像一堆尸体摞在那里。那是今生的生命，还有所有之前的生命。”
　　奥斯卡含着簧片问：“生命前的生命? ”
　　“就像重生? ”卡明斯问。
　　“那个我不知道，但我知道有几个特别的人记得以前的事，很久以前发生的事。
　　给他们下咒，你就会惊讶地听到他们内心深处的故事。一个世纪前的事，他们说起来就像发生在昨天和今天一样。”
　　…下咒’? ”我问。
　　“催眠术，麦斯默的咒语，神志清醒的睡眠。超验的昏睡状态。”
　　奥斯卡面露怀疑，“催眠术。又是你在聚会上玩的把戏。”
　　“大家知道我催眠过几个人。”麦克伊内斯说，“他们说出自己梦见的故事，简直不可思议，但他们有那么一种感觉和权威，让听的人相信他们说的是真话。被催眠的人会做出奇怪的事来，也会看到奇怪的事。”
　　卡明斯插话说：“我想被催眠。”
　　“酒吧关门后待着别走，我来给你做。”
　　凌晨两点，众人都走后，麦克伊内斯让奥斯卡把灯光打暗，叫乔治和我保持肃静。他坐在吉米身边，让他闭上眼睛。随后麦克伊内斯开始用一种低沉、刻意的声音跟他说话，用生动的细节描述着安静的地方和幽静的环境，我奇怪的是我们居然都没有睡着。麦克伊内斯做了几道测试，检查吉米是否已被催眠。
　　“抬起你的右臂，在身前举平。这是用世界上最坚硬的钢铁制成的，无论你怎么试，都弄不弯它。”
　　卡明斯伸出右臂，没法把它弯过来，而且，无论乔治还是我来试，它都确实像一根真正的铁条。麦克伊内斯又做了几个测试，接着开始提问，卡明斯则用呆板单调的声音回答。“吉米，谁是你最喜欢的音乐家? ”
　　“路易斯•阿姆斯特朗。”
　　我们窃笑起来。在清醒的时候，他会说是某个摇滚乐鼓手，诸如滚石乐队的查理•沃兹，但绝不会说沙奇摩。
　　“好。我碰到你的眼睛时，你就睁开眼，之后几分钟之内你就是路易斯•阿姆斯特朗。”
　　吉米是个瘦削的白种男孩，但当他瞪大那双淡蓝色的眼睛时，样子顿时变了。
　　他的嘴扭曲成阿姆斯特朗著名的大嘴笑，不时地用一条想像出来的手帕去擦嘴，用沙哑的声音说话。虽然吉米从未在我们任何一个面前唱过歌，这时他却唱起一首老歌《你死了我高兴，你这坏蛋》，而且唱得还不错。接着，他把拇指当做吹口，其他手指当做喇叭，吹出一段爵士曲中的过渡乐句。平日里，卡明斯总是待在他的爵士鼓后面，但此刻他竟然跳上桌子，要为寂静的房间演奏一曲，可他在一摊啤酒上滑了一下，摔到了地上。
　　麦克伊内斯跑到他身边。“我数到三，打个响指，”他对那具懒洋洋的身体说：“你就醒过来，觉得精神倍爽，就像这一周里你每晚都睡得很好。我要你记住，吉米，当你听到某人说沙奇摩时，你就会情不自禁地想和路易斯•阿姆斯特朗一样唱上几句。能记住吗? ”
　　“唔……呼。”卡明斯精神恍惚地说。
　　“好，但除此之外，你不会记得这个梦中的其他事情。现在，我要打响指了，你要醒来了，心情愉快，精神倍爽。”
　　他脸上展开一抹傻笑，醒过来朝我们每个人眨巴眼睛，好似没法设想我们为何都眼睁睁地望着他。问了他一系列问题，他对之前半小时全无记忆。
　　“难道你也不记得了，”奥斯卡问，“沙奇摩? ”
　　卡明斯开唱道：“哈哕，多莉! ”然后突然自己住了口。
　　“吉米•卡明斯先生是这世上最伟大的嬉皮士。”乔治大笑。
　　后来几天，我们都不时用“沙奇摩”捉弄卡明斯，直到这个词的咒力慢慢消退。
　　那晚的情景一次次在我眼前重现，此后几周，我缠着麦克伊内斯打听催眠术是怎样产生作用的，但他只说“潜意识浮现后，受压抑的倾向和记忆被释放”。我对他的回答不甚满意，就在白天休息时去了镇上的图书馆，泡在那里查找。从古埃及的沉睡神殿到麦斯默到弗洛伊德，催眠术已经在不同的形式下历经千年，哲学家和科学家们对其有效性争论不休。《国际临床和实验催眠术》杂志中的一篇文章为我了结了这段公案：“控制想像进入潜意识的深度的不是临床医学家，而是患者。”我把这页上的这句话撕了下来，藏进口袋，像吟诵咒语一般，时时念叨着。
　　相信自己可以掌控自己的想像和潜意识后，我终于请麦克伊内斯来给我催眠。
　　他好像知道如何返回那片被遗忘的土地，探入我被压抑的生命，告诉我我是什么人，来自何方。假如这故事是真的，而且揭示了我的德国血统，任何一个听到的人都会嗤之以鼻，把它当作天马行空的幻想。我们都曾听人说过：前世我是克娄芭、莎土比亚、成吉思汗。
　　难以一笑了之也难以解释清楚的是我在森林里的妖怪生活——尤其是那个可怕的八月夜晚，我变成换生灵偷走了那个男孩。自从我在戴家生活后，我小心谨慎地抹去所有换生灵的痕迹。危险的是，在催眠状态下，我没法想起亨利•戴七岁之前的任何事。我母亲无数次讲起亨利•戴的童年往事，弄得我不仅相信她说的是我自己，有时还觉得自己记得那时的生活。但这种创造出来的记忆犹如玻璃制成。
　　麦克伊内斯知道我一半的经历，他是从酒吧里零零星星打听来的。他听我说起过我的母亲和妹妹，我中断了的学业。我还告诉他，某晚泰思•伍德郝斯携男友来时，我对她突如其来的钟情。无论我有怎样的心血来潮，都会被理性慢慢驱走。我害怕暴露换生灵的身份，但我更渴望知道德国男孩的真相。
　　最后一个酒鬼摇摇晃晃地回家睡觉了，奥斯卡关了收银机，收起他的围裙。他出去时，把钥匙甩给我，叫我锁门。麦克伊内斯关了所有的灯，只在酒吧一头留了一盏。男孩们告别离去，麦克伊内斯和我单独留在房间里。惊慌和忧虑抓挠着我的心。万一我说出了真亨利•戴的什么事，而把我自己暴露了可怎么办? 如果他来敲诈我，或威胁要去当局告发我可怎么办? 我一时想到，我能杀了他，无人会知道他死了。多年来我第一次觉得自己回归野性，又变回了一头动物，本能勃发。但他一开始催眠，我的恐惧就平息了。
　　在黑沉沉、空荡荡的酒吧里，我们面对面坐在一个小桌子上，我听着麦克伊内斯低沉的说话声，觉得自己好像是石头做成的。他的声音从高远处飘来，用言语控制了我的动作和感觉，把我变成各种形态。听从那个声音的感觉有点像坠入爱河。
　　屈服，放松。我的四肢仿佛被时空吸走一般，被巨大的重力拉直了。灯光消失了，代之而起的是“啪”的一下打亮的投影光束，我脑中的白墙上开始放一场电影。
　　但是这部电影却缺少叙述环节和清晰的视觉风格，没法让我承前启后地理出头绪。没有故事，没有情节，只有人物和感觉。一张脸出现了，说着话，我吓了一大跳。一只冷手抓住了我的脚踝。钢琴发出不谐和的乐音，紧跟着一声大叫。我的脸靠在一个胸口上，一只手抱着我的头靠近乳房。在某个看得清楚的环节上，我瞥见一个男孩飞快地把脸朝我转开。接下来发生的事在惯性和混乱中碰撞，主旋律完全被忽视了。
　　麦克伊内斯打响指让我从浑噩状态中醒来时，我第一件事就是看钟——凌晨四点。正如卡明斯描述的感觉那样，我也感到出奇地精神，好像已经睡足八个小时，但我脏兮兮的衬衫和额角上乱糟糟的头发否定了这个可能。麦克伊内斯仿佛筋疲力尽，他给自己倒了一杯酒，喝得像个从沙漠回来的人。在空酒吧昏暗的灯光下，他用难以置信和异常激动的眼光打量着我。我递给他一支“骆驼”，我们坐着吸烟，时间已是凌晨。
　　“我说了什么事吗? ”我终于问。
　　“你懂德语吗? ”
　　“略知一二，”我回答说，“高二时学的。”
　　“你就像格林兄弟一样讲着德语。”
　　“我说了什么? 你听出了什么? ”
　　“我不确定。Wechselbalg ①是什么? ”
　　“我从没听过这个词。”
　　“你大叫着好像发生了什么可怕的事。和Teufel有关。是魔鬼，对吗? ”
　　“我没见过那个人。”
　　“还有Feen。是一个敌人吗? ”
　　“大概吧。”
　　“Kobolden呢? 你看到它们就尖叫起来，不知道它们是什么东西。有印象吗? ”
　　“没有。”
　　“Entfihrend? ”
　　“抱歉。”
　　“我不知道你想说什么。语言混杂在一起。我想，你是和你父母在一起，或者在呼唤你的父母，而且都是用德语说的，什么mit ，mit ——那是‘和’，对吗?
　　你想和他们一起去? ”
　　“但我父母不是德国人。”
　　“你记得的父母是德国人。别的人来了，不是敌人就是魔鬼，或者是Kobolden，他们想把你带走。”
　　我吞了口唾沫，又想起了那个情景。
　　“不知道是谁或什么东西抓走了你，你大叫着妈妈爸爸，还有Klavier 。”
　　“是钢琴。”
　　“我从来没有听过这种事，你说你被偷走了。我就问，‘什么时候? ’你用德语说了什么，我没听懂，我又问了一遍，你说是59年，我说‘不可能。。那只是六年前。’你又说了，说得非常清楚，‘不……1859年。
　　麦克伊内斯眨着眼，细细打量我。我在发抖，于是又点了一支烟。我们看着烟，什么都没说。他吸完第一支，用力按灭烟头，烟灰缸差点被他弄破。
　　“我不知道说什么好。”
　　“知道我怎么想吗? ”麦克伊内斯问，“我觉得你是想起了前生。
　　我想你也许以前是个德国孩子。”
　　“我觉得不可思议。”
　　“你听说过换生灵的神话吗? ”
　　“我不相信神话故事。”
　　“嗯……我问到你父亲时，你只是说‘他知道’。”麦克伊内斯打了个哈欠，天快亮了。“你觉得他知道什么，亨利? 你觉得他知道过去吗? ”
　　我知道，但我没说。酒吧里有咖啡，小冰箱里有鸡蛋。我用里间的平底锅做早饭，把心神集中到简单的工作上，让纷乱的情绪平静下来。一缕朦胧、昏暗的晨光穿过窗子。我站在柜台后面，他坐在前面的老座位上，我们吃着炒蛋，喝着黑咖啡。
　　当时，房间看起来乱七八糟，麦克伊内斯双眼疲惫茫然，就像我和父亲最后一次碰面时他的样子。
　　他戴上帽子，穿上外套。我们尴尬地沉默了片刻，我知道，他不会再回来了。
　　这一晚对这位老资格的教授而言太惊心动魄，也太离奇古怪了。“再见，祝你好运。”
　　他转动门把时，我大声叫住他。“我的名字是什么，”我问，“在我所谓的前生? ”
　　他连头都没回，“哦，我没想过要问。”
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Chapter 16
　　When a gun goes off on a cold winter's day, the retort echoes through the forest for miles around and every living creature stops to look and listen. The first gunshot of hunting season startled and put the faeries on alert. Scouts fanned out along the ridge, searching for orange or camouflage vests or hats, listening for the trudge of men seeking out deer, pheasant, turkey, grouse, rabbit, fox, or black bear. Sometimes the hunters brought their dogs, dumb and beautiful— mottled pointers, feathery setters, blueticks, black-and-tans, retrievers. The dogs could be more dangerous than their owners. Unless we masked our scent along every path, the dogs could smell us out.
　　My great fear in setting out alone is the chance of meeting up with a stray or worse. Years later, when we were fewer in number, a pack of hunting dogs picked up our trail and surprised us at rest in a shady grove. They raced our way, a stream of flashing sharp teeth and howling menace, and we moved as one by instinct, scrambling toward the safety of a bramble thicket. With each stride we took in retreat, the dogs gained two in pursuit. They were an army with knives drawn, hollering a primal battle cry, and we escaped only by sacrificing our bare skin to the tangle of thorns. We were lucky when they stopped at the edge of the thicket, confused and whimpering.
　　But on this winter day, the dogs were far away. All we heard was the yelp, the random shot, the muttered curse, or the kill. I once saw a duck fall out of the sky, instantly changing from a stretched-forward silhouette to a pinwheel of feathers that landed with a clap on the water. Poaching had disappeared from these hills and valleys by the middle of the decade, so we had to worry only during the hunting season, which corresponded roughly with the late fall and winter holidays. The brightness of trees gave way to bareness, then to bitter cold, and we began to listen for humans in the glens and the crack of the gun. Two or three of us went out while the other faeries hunkered down, buried beneath blankets under a coat of fallen leaves, or in holes, or hid in hollow trees. We did our best to become unseeable, as if we did not exist. The early arrival of night or dripping-wet days were our only respite from the tense boredom of hiding. The odor of our constant fear mingled with the rot of November.
　　Back to back to back in a triangle, Igel, Smaolach, and I sat watch upon the ridge, the morning sun buffered by low dense clouds, the air pregnant with snow. Ordinarily, Igel wanted nothing to do with me, not since that day years before when I nearly betrayed the clan by trying to speak with the man. Two sets of footsteps approached from the south; one heavy, crashing through the brush, the other soft. The humans stepped into a meadow. An air of impatience hung about the man, and the boy, about seven or eight years old, looked anxious to please. The father carried his shotgun, ready to fire. The son's gun was broken apart and awkward to carry as he struggled out of the brush. They wore matching plaid jackets and billed caps with the earflaps down against the chill. We leaned forward to listen to their conversation in the stillness. With practice and concentration over the years, I was now able to decipher their speech.
　　"I'm cold," said the boy.
　　"It'll toughen you up. Besides, we haven't found what we came for."
　　"We haven't even seen one all day."
　　"They're out here, Osk."
　　"I've only seen them in pictures."
　　"When you see the real thing," said the man, "aim for the little bugger's heart." He motioned for the boy to follow, and they headed east into the shadows.
　　"Let's go," said Igel, and we began to trail them, keeping ourselves hidden at a distance. When they paused, we paused, and at our second such stop, I tugged on Smaolach's sleeve.
　　"What are we doing?"
　　"Igel thinks he may have found one."
　　We moved on, resting again when the quarry paused.
　　"One what?" I asked.
　　"A child."
　　They led us on a circuitous route along empty pathways. No prey appeared, they never fired their weapons, and they hadn't said more than a few words. Over lunch, they maintained an uncomfortable silence, and I could not understand how these two were of any interest at all. The sullen pair headed back to a green pickup parked on the slope beside the road, and the boy stepped into the passenger's side. As he crossed the front of the truck, the father muttered, "That was a fucking mistake." Igel scrutinized the pair with savage intensity, and as the truck pulled away, he read out the license plate numbers, committing them to memory. Smaolach and I lagged behind Igel as he marched home, intent on his private ruminations.
　　"Why did we track them all day? What do you mean, he found a child?"
　　"Them clouds are ready to burst." Smaolach studied the darkening sky.
　　"You can smell it coming."
　　"What is he going to do?" I yelled. Up ahead, Igel stopped in his tracks and waited for us to catch up.
　　"How long have you been with us, Aniday?" Igel asked. "What does your stone calendar say?"
　　Ever since that day when they turned on me, I had been wary of Igel, and had learned to be deferential. "I don't know. December? November? 1966?"
　　He rolled his eyes, bit his lip, and continued. "I've been looking and waiting since you arrived, and it's my turn now and that boy may be the one. When you and Speck are in town with your books, keep an eye out for that green truck. If you see it again, or the boy or the father, let me know. If you have the courage to follow them and find where he lives or goes to school, or where the father works, or if he has a mother, sister, brother, friend, you let me know."
　　"Of course I will, Igel. I'd be happy to spy on him at the library."
　　He bade Smaolach to walk with him, and I brought up the rear. A bitterly freezing rain began to fall, and I ran the last few moments to escape from being drenched. The warren excavated by Igel and Luchóg over the years proved an ideal shelter on such blustery nights, although most of the time claustrophobia forced me out. The cold and damp drove me into the tunnels, and with my palms I felt along in the darkness until I sensed the presence of others.
　　"Who's there?" I called out. No answer, only a furtive muffled sound.
　　I called out again.
　　"Go away, Aniday." It was Béka.
　　"You go away, you old fart. I've just come in from the rain."
　　"Go back the way you came. This hole is occupied."
　　I tried to reason with him. "Let me pass by, and I'll sleep somewhere else."
　　A girl screamed and so did he. "She bit my damn finger."
　　"Who is there with you?"
　　Speck shouted out in the darkness. "Just go, Aniday. I'll follow you out."
　　"Vermin." Béka cursed and let her go. I reached out in the darkness and she found my hand. We crawled back to the surface. Stinging rain gathered in her hair and flattened it against her skull. A thin layer of ice caked over her head like a helmet, and the drops collected on our eyelashes and streamed down our faces. We stood still, unable to say anything to each other. She looked as if she wished to explain or apologize, but her lips trembled and her teeth knocked and chattered. Grabbing my hand again, she led me to the shelter of another tunnel. We crawled in and crouched near to the surface, out of the rain, yet not in the cold earth. I could not stand the silence, so I yammered on about the father and son we had followed and Igel's instructions. Speck took it all in without speaking a word.
　　"Squeeze out that water from your hair," she said. "It will dry faster that way and stop dripping down your nose."
　　"What does he mean, he found a child?"
　　"I'm cold," she said, "and tired and sick and sore. Can't we talk about this in the morning, Aniday?"
　　"What did he mean that he's been waiting since I got here?"
　　"He's next. He's going to change places with that boy." She pulled off her coat. Even in the darkness, her white sweater threw back enough light to allow me a better sense of her presence.
　　"I don't understand why he gets to go."
　　She laughed at my naiveté. "This is a hierarchy. Oldest to youngest. Igel makes all the decisions because he has seniority, and he gets to go next."
　　"How old is he?"
　　She calculated in her mind. "I don't know. He's probably been here about one hundred years."
　　"You're kidding." The number nearly fried my brain. "How old are all the others? How old are you?"
　　"Will you please let me sleep? We can figure this out in the morning. Now, come here and warm me up."
　　In the morning, Speck and I talked at length about the history of the faeries, and I wrote it all down, but those papers, like many others, are in ashes now. The best I can do is re-create from memory what we recorded that day, which was far from truly accurate to begin with, since Speck herself did not know the full story and could merely summarize or speculate. Still, I wish I had my notes, for the conversation was years ago, and my whole life seems to be nothing more than reconstructing memories.
　　That my good friends could one day leave profoundly saddened me. The cast of characters, in fact, constantly revolves, but so slowly over time that they seemed permanent players. Igel was the oldest, followed by Béka, Blomma, Kivi, and the twins, Ragno and Zanzara, who came late in the nineteenth century. Onions arrived in the auspicious year of 1900. Smaolach and Luchóg were the sons of two families who had emigrated from the same village in Ireland in the first decades of the twentieth century, and Chavisory was a French Canadian whose parents had died in the great influenza epidemic of 1918. Besides myself, Speck was the baby, having been stolen as a four-year-old in the second year of the Great Depression.
　　"I was a lot younger than most of the others when I made the change," she said. "Except for the twins. From the beginning, there have been twins in this line, and they're impossible to take unless very young. And we never take babies. Too much trouble."
　　Vague memories stirred the sauce of my thoughts. Where had I known twins before?
　　"Luchóg named me, because I was a speck of a girl when they snatched me. Everyone else is ahead of me in line for the change, except you. You're the bottom of the totem pole."
　　"And Igel has been waiting for his turn for a whole century?"
　　"He's seen a dozen make the change and had to bide his time. Now we're all in line behind him." The mention of such a wait caused her to shut her eyes. I leaned against a tree trunk, feeling helpless for her and hopeless for myself. Escape was not a constant thought, but occasionally I allowed myself to dream of leaving the group and rejoining my family. Dejected, Speck hung her head, dark hair covering her eyes, her lips parted, drawing in air as if each breath was a chore.
　　"So what do we do now?" I asked.
　　She looked up. "Help Igel."
　　I noticed that her once-white sweater was fraying at the collar and the sleeves, and I resolved to look for a replacement as we searched for the boy.
　　
　　
　　In glowing red letters, the sign out front read OSCAR'S BAR, and alone in the lot behind the building, Béka found the hunter's green pickup. He and Onions jumped into its bed and rode, undetected by the drunken driver, to the man's house out in the country. She laughed when she read the name off the mailbox: LOVE'S. They memorized the location, sharing the good news with us later that night. With the information in hand, Igel set in motion our reconnaissance and assigned shifts of teams to watch the boy and his family to learn their movements and habits. He instructed us to pay close attention to the boy's character and demeanor.
　　"I want a detailed account of his life. Does he have any brothers or sisters? Uncles or aunts? Grammy and Gramps? Does he have any friends? What sort of games does he play? Any hobbies or spare-time activities? Find all there is to know about his relationship with his parents. How do they treat him? Is he inclined to daydream? To wander about by himself in the woods?"
　　I transcribed his words in McInnes's composition book and wondered how we might undertake such a task. Igel walked over and stood in front of me, glaring down at my scribbling.
　　"You," he said, "will be our scrivener. I want a complete record. You are to be his biographer. Everyone else can tell Aniday what they learn. Don't come pestering me with every detail. When the story is complete, you can tell it. This will be the most perfect change in our history. Find me a new life."
　　Before I saw the child again, I felt as if I knew him as well as myself. Chavisory, for instance, found out that he was named after his uncle Oscar. Smaolach could do a passing imitation of his voice, and Kivi had applied an unknown calculus to plot out his height, weight, and general body type. After years of mere self-preservation and maintenance, the faeries' industry and devotion to the task bordered on the fanatic.
　　I was assigned to watch for him at the library, but I rarely bothered to look for him there, and it is by chance that he appeared at all. His mother had dragged the poor child along and left him alone on the small playground out front. From my hiding place, direct observation was impossible, so I watched his reflection in the plate-glass windows across the street, which distorted his appearance, making him smaller and somehow transparent.
　　The dark-haired, beetle-browed boy sang quietly to himself as he climbed up and swooshed off the slide over and over again. His nose ran, and every time he mounted the stairs he'd wipe the snot with the back of his hand, then wipe his hand on his greasy corduroys. When he tired of the sliding board, he sauntered over to the swings to pump and pull himself into the clear blue sky. His blank expression never changed, and the song under his breath never faltered. I watched him for nearly an hour, and in that whole time, he expressed absolutely no emotion, content to play alone until his mother came. A thin smile creased his face when she arrived, and without a word he jumped down from the swing, grabbed her hand, and off they went. Their behavior and interaction baffled me. Parents and children take such everyday moments for granted, as if there is an endless supply.
　　Had my parents forgotten me completely? The man who cried after me that long-ago morning surely had been my father, and I resolved to go see him, my mother, and my baby sisters one day soon. Perhaps after we had abducted the poor misfortunate bastard from the playground. The swing stopped, and the early June day faded. A swallow appeared, chasing insects in the air above the iron bars, and all of my desires were tipped by the wings as the bird scissored away into the milky dusk. I felt sorry for the boy, although I knew that changing places was the natural order. His capture would mean Igel's release and one more step toward the head of the line for me.
　　The child was an easy mark; his parents would barely be aware of the change. He had few friends, caused neither excitement nor alarm as a student, and was so ordinary as to be almost invisible. Ragno and Zanzara, who had taken residence in the family's attic for months, reported that aside from peas and carrots, the boy ate anything, preferred chocolate milk with his meals, slept on rubber sheets, and spent a lot of time in the living room watching a small box that let one know when to laugh and how to schedule bedtime. Our boy was a good sleeper, too, up to twelve hours at a stretch on weekends. Kivi and Blomma reported that he liked to play outdoors in a sandbox by the house, where he had set up an elaborate tableau of small plastic dolls in blue and gray. The doleful fellow seemed satisfied to go on living life as it is. I envied him.
　　No matter how we pestered him, Igel refused to hear our report. We had been spying on Oscar for over a year, and everyone was ready for the change. I was running out of paper in McInnes's book, and one more dispatch from the field would not only be a waste of time, but a waste of precious paper as well. Haughty, distracted, and burdened by the responsibilities of leadership Igel kept to himself, as if he both yearned for and flinched at the possibility of freedom. His normally stoic disposition changed to a general peevishness. Kivi came to dinner once with a red welt under her eye.
　　"What happened to you?"
　　"That son of a bitch. Igel hit me, and all I asked him was if he was ready. He thought I meant ready to go, but all I meant was for dinner."
　　No one knew what to say to her.
　　"I can't wait till he leaves. I am sick and tired of the old crab. Maybe the new boy will be nice."
　　I stood up from the meal and stormed through the camp, looking for Igel, resolving to confront him, but he was not to be found in his usual places. I poked my head into the entranceway of one of his tunnels and called out, but no answer. Perhaps he had gone out to spy on the boy. Nobody knew where he might be found, so I spent several hours walking in circles, until chancing upon him alone down by the river, where he was staring at his reflection in the broken surface of water. He looked so alone that I forgot my anger and quietly crouched down beside him.
　　"Igel? Are you all right?" I addressed the image on the water.
　　"Do you remember," he asked, "your life before this life?"
　　"Vaguely. In my dreams, sometimes my father and mother and a sister, or maybe two. And a woman in a red coat. But no, not really."
　　"I have been gone so long. I'm not sure I know how to go back."
　　"Speck says there are three choices but only one ending for us all."
　　"Speck." He spat out her name. "She is a foolish child, almost as foolish as you, Aniday."
　　"You should read our report. It will help you make the change."
　　"I will be glad to be rid of such fools. Have her come see me in the morning. I don't want to talk to you, Aniday. Have Béka make your report."
　　He stood up, brushed dirt from the seat of his pants, and walked away. I hoped he would disappear forever.

    一个寒冷的冬日，响起一记熗声，回声在森林中传出数公里远，所有的动物纷纷驻足观望、倾听。猎季的第一熗打响了，仙灵们心头一惊，警惕起来。侦察员们沿着山岭分兵搜寻橘红色和迷彩色的背心和帽子，听着他们在林中跋涉，搜猎鹿、野鸡、火鸡、松鸡、野兔、狐狸和黑熊。有时猎人会带狗，那些狗愚蠢而漂亮——斑点指示犬、猎鸟蹲伏犬、布鲁特克犬、黑棕犬、寻猎犬。狗比它们的主人更为可怕。除非我们掩盖自己留在林中路径上的气味，否则它们就会把我们嗅出来。
　　我最害怕的是，单独出去时会遇上一只迷路狗，或者有更糟的情况发生。几年后，我们人数已减少，有一群猎犬跟踪我们的痕迹而来，当我们在果园的树阴下休息时，它们出其不意地把我们吓了一跳。它们撵着我们，尖利的牙齿闪着光，咆哮着发出恐吓的声音，我们的第一反应是一起逃命，奔向悬钩子灌木丛的安全地带。
　　我们每逃跑一步，狗就追上两步。它们是刀剑在手的军队，发出古战场上的呐喊，我们在荆棘丛中牺牲了赤裸的皮肤才逃过一劫。它们停在灌木丛外围，迷惑不解地低声叫唤，我们可够幸运的。
　　然而在那个冬日里，狗还都远在天边。我们只能听见吠声，偶尔一记熗响，嘀咕的咒骂声，或者是猎杀的动静。我有一次看到一只鸭子从天空坠落下来，前一刻还在挣扎着往前飞，后一刻就成了一把飞转的羽毛，“啪”的掉进了水里。那是一九六五或六六年的时候，偷猎已经从山谷中绝迹，因此我们需要担心的只是猎季，时间大概是在晚秋和寒假。灿烂明亮的树林落尽了树叶，接着严寒降临，我们开始在幽谷中倾听人类的声音和熗声。我们会出去两三个人，其余则留守在山洞中或树洞里，身上盖着毯子，上面再压一层落叶。我们努力不被发现，就好像我们根本不存在一样。夜晚早早来临的时候和阴雨连绵的日子，我们就可以从紧张而无聊的躲藏生活中喘口气了。我们长期害怕的气味和十一月的腐败气味混杂在一处。
　　伊格尔、斯茂拉赫和我，三人背靠背坐在山岭上观望，朝阳被低垂的层云遮挡，空气中孕育着雪意。通常伊格尔不会来理睬我，自从几年前我因为想和那个人说话而差点背叛大家之后，他就不睬我了。
　　两组脚步声从南边过来，一组沉重地从灌木丛中踏踩而过，另一组落脚轻轻的。
　　人类踏入了草地。那个男人有种不耐烦的感觉，而那个大约七、八岁的男孩，表现出急切的讨好模样。父亲扛着熗，随时准备开火。儿子的熗裂开了，他从灌木丛中钻出来时，很不得劲地扛着。他们穿相同的花呢格子夹克，戴着鸭舌帽，护耳翻下来保暖。我们往前凑了凑身子，一动不动地听他们的谈话。经过这些年来的练习和集中注意力，现在我已经能够窃听到他们的话了。
　　“我冷。”男孩说。
　　“这能让你受锻炼。再说，我们还没有找到要找的东西。”
　　“我们一整天什么也没看到。”
　　“它们就在这周围，奥斯卡。”
　　“我只在图片上见过它们。”
　　“你看到真家伙，”男人说，“就对准小东西的心脏。”他示意男孩跟上，他们朝东边的背光处去了。
　　“我们走。”伊格尔说。我们开始跟踪他们，远远地藏好自己。他们停步，我们也停步。我们第二次这样停下来时，我扯了扯斯茂拉赫的袖子。
　　“我们在干什么? ”
　　“伊格尔认为他可能会找到一个。”
　　我们继续前进，目标停下时，我们又止步。
　　“一个什么? ”我问。
　　“一个孩子。”
　　他们领着我们迂回曲折地走在空荡荡的林径上。没有猎物出现，他们没有打响武器，话也只说了几句。午饭时，他们保持着不快的沉默，我没法理解这两位怎么一点兴致都没有。这两个郁闷的人回到停在路边斜坡上的一辆绿色小货车旁，男孩跨进乘客席。他从卡车前面爬过去时，父亲咕哝了一句：“该死的错误。”伊格尔全神贯注地观察着这两个人，卡车开走时，他读出了牌照号码，并牢牢记住。
　　回家时，斯茂拉赫和我落在后面，伊格尔走在前面，一心思考自己的问题。
　　“我们为什么要整天跟着他们? 他找到一个孩子，你这是什么意思? ”
　　“云层快要撑不住了。”斯茂拉赫查看着暗下来的天空，“你能闻到雨快来了。”
　　“他要干什么? ”我叫道。伊格尔在前头停下脚步，等我们赶上去。
　　“你和我们在一起多久了，安尼戴? ”伊格尔问道，“你的石头日历怎么说? ”
　　自从那天他们对付我后，我就提防着伊格尔，而且学会了恭顺，“我不知道。
　　十二月? 十一月?1966 年? ”
　　他转着眼珠，咬了咬嘴唇，又说，“自从你来了以后，我就在寻找、等待，现在轮到我了，那个孩子可能就是目标。你和斯帕克去镇上看书时，对那辆绿色卡车留个心眼。如果你又看到它，或看到那个男孩或父亲，就告诉我。如果你有勇气跟着他们，找到他生活、读书的地方，他父亲的工作单位，他是否有母亲、姐妹、兄弟、朋友，你就告诉我。”
　　“当然我会的，伊格尔。我很高兴在图书馆侦查他。”
　　他让斯茂拉赫和他同行，我跟在后头。冰冷的寒雨落下来了，最后一刻我奔跑起来，总算没有被淋得湿透。伊格尔和鲁契克这些年来挖掘的防空洞在这样狂风呼啸的夜晚倒是一个理想的去处，虽然大多数时候，我都会因为幽闭恐惧症而待不下去。寒冷和潮湿把我赶进了地道，我两只手在黑暗中摸索着，后来我感觉到还有别人在。
　　“谁在那里? ”我喊道。没有回答，只有一个鬼鬼祟祟的模糊声音。
　　我又喊了一声。
　　“走开，安尼戴。”是贝卡。
　　“你走开，讨厌鬼。我是来躲雨的。”
　　“你哪里来的哪里去。这个洞已经有人了。”
　　我想和他理论，“让我过去，我会去别处睡觉。”
　　一个女孩尖叫起来，他也叫起来，“该死，她咬我手指。”
　　“谁和你在一起? ”
　　斯帕克在黑暗中叫道：“走，安尼戴。我会跟着你出去。”
　　“可恶。”贝卡咒骂着放她走。我在黑暗里伸出手，她摸到了我的手。我们爬到地面上。她的头发被刺骨的雨浸湿了，紧紧地贴在脑袋上。她头上结了一层薄冰，就像戴了个头盔，水珠凝聚在我们的眼睫毛上，顺着脸颊滑下。我们静静地站着，什么都说不出来。她看起来像是要解释或是道歉，但她的嘴唇颤抖着，牙齿碰得咯咯响。她握着我的手，带我去到另一处地道。我们爬进去，蜷缩在靠近地面的地方，这样既淋不到雨，又碰不到冰冷的泥土。我受不了这样的沉默，就念叨起我们跟踪的那对父子，还有伊格尔的指示。斯帕克只是听着，一言不发。
　　“把你头发里的水挤干，”她说，“这样会干得快些，水也不会顺着你的鼻子淌。”
　　“他是什么意思，他找到了一个孩子? ”
　　“我冷，”她说，“又累又难受还生气。我们能不能到早上再说这个，安尼戴?”
　　“他说我到了这里之后他一直在等，是什么意思? ”
　　“他是下一个。他要和那个男孩交换。”她脱下外套。即使在黑暗中，她白套衫上的反光也足以让我看清她在哪里。
　　“我不明白他为什么要走。”
　　她笑我天真，“这是等级制度。从年纪最大的排到年纪最小的。
　　伊格尔发号施令，是因为他是最大的，也是下一个要走的。”
　　“他多大了? ”
　　她在心里算了算，“我不知道。他大概在这里待了一百年了。”
　　“你开玩笑，”这个数字差点把我的脑子给炸了，“其他人多大? 你多大了? ”
　　“你能让我睡觉吗? 我们早上再算这个问题。好了，过来给我取暖。”
　　到了早晨，斯帕克和我终于谈到了仙灵的历史，我全部写了下来，但那些纸和其他东西一样，都化为灰烬了。我所能做的只是从记忆中把我当日记录的事重新写下来，开头部分是很不准确了，因为斯帕克自己也不知道事情的始末，只能概括或推想。但我还是希望自己能有一份笔记，因为那次谈话已经过去多年，而我整个生命似乎也不过是重建的记忆而已。
　　我的好朋友们终有一天会离开，这让我深感悲伤。这群人其实在不停地轮换，但轮换的速度如此缓慢，他们看起来就像是永恒的选手了。伊格尔是最大的，挨下来是贝卡、布鲁玛、齐维以及双胞胎劳格诺和赞扎拉，他们是十九世纪晚期才来的。
　　奥尼恩斯是在幸运的1900年来的。斯茂拉赫与鲁契克各是两家的孩子，他们的家庭在二十世纪初年时从爱尔兰的一个村庄中迁出。卡维素芮是法裔加拿大人，她的父母在1918年的大流感中丧命。除我之外，斯帕克也很小，她在大萧条的第二年被偷走时才四岁。
　　“我被交换时，比大多数人都小得多，”她说，“双胞胎除外。起初，序列中有双胞胎，他们只能在很小的时候被偷走。我们又不偷婴儿，那太麻烦了。”
　　模糊的回忆刺激了我思想的源头。我在哪里认识过双胞胎? “鲁契克给我取了名，因为他们抓住我时，我是个脸上长雀斑的女孩。大家都排在我前面换生，除了你。你是图腾柱的底端。”
　　“伊格尔等了一个世纪才等到他? ”
　　“他见识过十二位换生的过程，他得等时间。现在我们都排在他后面。”提到这样的等待，她合上了眼睛。我靠在树干上，为她觉得无助，为自己觉得无望。我并不总想着逃脱，但偶然也会让自己梦想着离开群体，回到自己家中。斯帕克沮丧地垂下脑袋，黑发遮住眼睛，嘴唇张开着，每呼吸一口空气都好像不胜其烦。
　　“那么我们现在做什么呢? ”我问。
　　她抬起眼，“帮助伊格尔。”
　　我注意到，她一度洁白的套衫现在领口和袖口都磨损了，我决心在调查那个男孩的时候，再去找一件来。
　　前门的招牌上红色闪光的字读作“奥斯卡酒吧”，贝卡发现，建筑物后面的空地上停着一辆车，正是那辆猎人的绿色小货车。他和奥尼恩斯跳进后车厢，没有被醉醺醺的司机发现，一路坐到了那个人的乡下房子。他读出信箱上的姓“拉甫”，就笑了起来。他们记住了地点，当晚回来和我们分享这个好消息。手中掌握了信息，伊格尔就启动了侦查任务，轮流派遣队伍去观察那个男孩及其家人，了解他们的活动和习惯。他指示我们要密切关注男孩的性格举止。
　　“我要知道他的详细生活。他有没有兄弟姐妹、叔叔阿姨、爷爷奶奶? 他有没有朋友? 他玩什么游戏? 有什么爱好或者业余活动? 了解这些就知道他和他父母的关系。他们对他怎么样? 他是不是喜欢做白日梦? 有没有一个人在林子里散步? ”
　　我把他的话记录在麦克伊内斯的作文簿上，寻思我们该如何开展这项任务。伊格尔走过来站在我面前，低头看我记录。
　　“你，”他说，“就是我们的记录员。我要一份完整的记录。你去当他的传记作者。其他每个人都把自己的所见所闻告诉安尼戴。不要每件小事都来烦我。事情写完后，你就讲出来。这将是我们历史上最完美的转折。给我找一个新生活。”
　　在我再次见到那个孩子之前，我觉得就像熟知自己一般熟知了他。比方说，卡维素芮发现他跟了叔叔奥斯卡的名。斯茂拉赫能短暂地模仿他的嗓音，齐维运用一种不知名的微积分学来探测他的身高、体重和大致体形。多年来，仙灵们只是混日子，如今他们勤奋起来，几近狂热地投入这项工作。
　　我被分派到图书馆观察他，但我几乎懒得费工夫去那里找他，他也难得出现一次。他母亲把可怜的孩子一起带出来，留他独自在前面的一块小运动场上。从我的藏身处直接观察是不可能的，因此我就看着他在街那头窗玻璃上的影子，他的形象被扭曲了，变得更小，有点透明。
　　这个黑头发、浓眉毛的孩子悄悄地唱着歌，爬上一架滑梯，滑下来好几次。他流着鼻涕，每次爬滑梯时就用手背擦掉鼻涕，再把手往油光光的灯芯绒裤上一擦。
　　当他厌倦了滑梯，就走到秋千那里，在明净的蓝天下一下一下地荡着自己。他一直面无表情，而比呼吸声还低的哼歌也总是不变。我观察了他将近一个小时，在那段时间里，他压根没有表达任何情绪，只是满足于自己玩耍，直到他母亲回来。她一来，他的脸上就浮起一个浅笑，一言不发地从秋千上跳下来，拉住她的手，他们就走了。他们的行为和交流把我弄糊涂了。父母和孩子都把这些日常时刻视为理所当然，好像会永无止境一样。
　　我的父母是否已经完全忘记了我? 在许久之前的清晨在我背后大声喊叫的男人必定是我的父亲，我决定要在近日去见他，见我母亲，还有我襁褓中的妹妹。或许就在我们在运动场上绑架了这个不幸的可怜虫之后。秋千停下了，六月初的白天渐渐暗了下来。一只燕子飞来，追逐着铁杆上方的飞虫。这只鸟儿剪动尾巴融入乳白色的薄暮时，我所有的希冀都因这对翅膀而蠢蠢欲动。我为男孩感到难过，但我也知道交换生活是自然法则。他被抓住就意味着伊格尔被释放，对我而言，也就朝队伍的尽头迈了一步。
　　这孩子不难办到。他的父母几乎不会注意到他的改变，而他朋友极少，因为他是个不会大惊小怪的学生，普普通通，几乎可以让人视而不见。劳格诺和赞扎拉在那家的阁楼里住了几个月，报告说除了豌豆和胡萝卜，那孩子什么都吃，吃饭时爱喝巧克力牛奶，睡在橡胶席上，他很多时间都在起居室中看一个小盒子，那个盒子叫人知道何时该笑，何时睡觉。我们的孩子也很能睡，周末一口气能睡上十二个小时。齐维和布鲁玛报告说，他喜欢在屋子附近的一个沙池里玩耍，他已经在那里用蓝色和灰色的小塑料娃娃堆起了一个生动的场面。这个寂寞的孩子看来满足于就这样子生活下去。我嫉妒他。
　　无论我们怎么缠伊格尔，他都拒绝听我们的报告。我们已经侦查了奥斯卡一年，大家都为换生做好了准备。麦克伊内斯的纸已快被我用完，再往外派遣任务，不仅浪费时间，也浪费宝贵的纸张。伊格尔目中无人，心烦意乱，又被领导的责任所累，他把自己封闭了起来，好像既渴望得到自由，又对自由畏首畏尾。他以往的坚忍克制变成了暴躁易怒。一次，齐维来吃饭时，眼睛底下红肿了一块。
　　“你怎么啦? ”
　　“那狗娘养的。伊格尔打了我，我只不过问他准备好了没有。他以为我说的是准备好要走，但我指的是准备好吃饭。”
　　没有人知道该对她说什么才好。
　　“我等不及他走了。我烦死这只老螃蟹了。或许新来的孩子会好。”
　　我从餐桌旁站起来，冲出营寨找伊格尔，决定跟他把话说清楚，但他不在他通常待的地方。我把头探入他一条地道的入口，大声呼叫，但没有回音。也许他去侦查那个男孩了。没有人知道他在哪里，我几个小时都在绕圈，后来无意问看到他独自待在河边，盯着自己在水面涟漪上的倒影。他看起来如此孤独，我忘记了愤怒，静静地蹲在他身旁。
　　“伊格尔，你还好吧? ”我对水里的倒影说。
　　“你还记得吗? ”他问，“你的前生? ”
　　“隐约记得。我有时梦见我父母和一个妹妹，有时候是两个姊妹。还有一个穿红衣服的女人。但不是，不是很真切。”
　　“我已经离开了这么长时间。我不确信自己知道该怎么回去。”
　　“斯帕克说有三个选择．但我们都只右一个结局．”
　　“斯帕克，”他啐了口她的名字，“她是个笨孩子，几乎和你一样笨，安尼戴。”
　　“你应该读我们的报告，那能帮助你换生。”
　　“我会很高兴摆脱这些蠢蛋。让她早上来见我。安尼戴，我不想和你说话。让贝卡来做你的报告。”
　　他站起来，拍拍裤子上的泥土，走开了。我希望他就此永远消失。
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Chapter 17
　　My long-forgotten history peeked out from behind the curtains. The questions McInnes posed during hypnosis had dredged up memories that had been repressed for more than a century, and fragments of those subconscious recollections began intruding into my life. We would be performing our second-rate imitation of Simon and Garfunkel when an unexpected Germanism would leap out of my mouth. The boys in the band thought I was tripping, and we'd have to start over after a brief apology to the audience. Or I'd be seducing a young woman and find that her face had morphed into the visage of a changeling. A baby would cry and I'd wonder if it was human or a bundle of holy terror that had been left on the doorstep. A photograph of six-year-old Henry Day's first day of school would remind me of all I was not. I'd see myself superimposed over the image, my face reflected in the glass, layered over his face, and wonder what had become of him, what had become of me. No longer a monster, but not Henry Day either. I suffered trying to remember my own name, but that German boy stole away every time I drew near.
　　The only remedy for this obsession was to substitute another. Whenever my mind dwelled on the distant past, I would force myself to think of music, running alternative fingerings and the cycle of fifths in my mind, humming to myself, pushing dark thoughts away with a song. I flirted with the notion of becoming a composer again even as college aspirations faded while another two years slipped by. In the seemingly random sounds of everyday life, I began to abstract patterns, which grew to measures, which became movements. Often I would go back to Oscar's after a few hours' sleep, put on a pot of coffee, and scribble the notations resonating in my head. With solely a piano available, I had to imagine an orchestra in that empty barroom, and those early scores echo my chaotic confusion over who I am. The unfinished compositions were tentative steps back to the past, to my true nature. I spent ages looking for the sound, reshaping it, and tossing it away, for composition was as elusive at the time as my own name.
　　The bar was my studio most mornings. Oscar arrived around lunchtime, and George and Jimmy usually showed up midafternoon for rehearsal and a few beers—barely enough time for me to cover up my work. Halfheartedly, I plunked away at the piano before our practice was to begin on an early summer afternoon in '67. George, Jimmy, and Oscar experimented with a few chord changes and rhythms, but they were mostly smoking and drinking. The area kids had been out of school for two weeks and were already bored, riding their bicycles up and down Main Street. Their heads and shoulders slid across the view through the windowpanes. Lewis Love's green pickup truck pulled up outside, and a moment later the bar door swung open, sending in a crush of humid air. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion, Lewis stopped in the threshold, numb and dumb. Setting down his horn, Oscar walked over to talk with his brother. Their conversation was too soft to be overheard, but the body gives away its sorrows. Lewis hung his head and brought his hand to the bridge of his nose as if to hold back tears, and George and Jimmy and I watched from our chairs, not knowing quite what to say or do. Oscar led his brother to the bar and poured him a tall shot, which Lewis downed in a single swig. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and bent over like a question mark, his forehead resting on the rail, so we crowded around our friends.
　　"His son is missing," Oscar said. "Since last night. The police and fire and rescue are out looking for him, but they haven't found him. He's only eight years old, man."
　　"What does he look like?" George asked. "What's his name? How long has he been gone? Where did you last see him?"
　　Lewis straightened his shoulders. "His name is Oscar, after my brother here. About the averagest-looking kid you could find. Brown hair, brown eyes, about so high." He held out his hand and dropped it roughly four feet above the ground.
　　"When did he disappear?" I asked.
　　"He was wearing a baseball shirt and short pants, dark blue—his mother thinks. And high-top Chuck Taylors. He was out back of the house, playing after dinner last night. It was still light out. And then he vanished." He turned to his brother. "I tried calling you all over the place."
　　Oscar pursed his lips and shook his head. "I'm so sorry, man. I was out getting high."
　　George began walking to the door. "No time for recriminations. We've got a missing kid to find."
　　Off we went to the woods. Oscar and Lewis rode together in the cab of the pickup, and George, Jimmy, and I sat in the bed, where there was the residual odor of manure baking in the heat. The truck bumped and rattled along a firebreak cut through the timberline, and we ground to a stop in a cloud of dust. The search and rescue team had parked in a glen about a mile due west from my house, about as far into the forest as they could manage to drive the township's sole fire engine. The captain of the fire department leaned against the big rig. He pulled on a bottle of cola in enormous gulps, his face like an alarm against his starched white shirt. Our party got out of the pickup, and I was overwhelmed by the sweet smell of honeysuckle nearby. Bees patrolled among the flowers, and as we walked toward the captain, they lazily inspected us. Grasshoppers, panicked by our footfall, whirred ahead in the tall grass. Along the edge of the clearing, a tangle of wild raspberries and poison ivy reminded me of the double-edged nature of the forest. I followed the boys down a makeshift path, looking over my shoulder at the captain and his red truck until they vanished from sight.
　　A bloodhound bayed in the distance, taking up a scent. We trudged along single file for several hundred yards, and the dark shade cast by the canopy gave the appearance of dusk in the shank of the afternoon. Every few moments, someone would call out for the boy, and his name hung in the air before dissipating in the warm half-light. We were chasing shadows where no shadows could be seen. The group halted when we reached the top of a small rise.
　　"This is getting us nowhere," Oscar said. "Why don't we spread out?"
　　Though I loathed the idea of being alone in the forest, I could not counter his logic without seeming a coward.
　　"Let's meet back here at nine." With an air of determined sobriety, Oscar studied the face of his watch, following the sweep of the second hand, counting off moments to himself. We waited and watched our own time go by.
　　"Four thirty," he said at last.
　　"I've got four thirty-five," said George.
　　And almost simultaneously, I said, "Twenty after."
　　"Twenty-five of five," said Jimmy.
　　Lewis shook his wrist, removed his watch, and held the timepiece to his ear. "That's funny—my watch has stopped." He stared at its face. "Seven thirty. That's right around when I saw him last."
　　Each of us looked at the others for the way out of this temporal confusion. Oscar resumed his clock watching.
　　"Okay, okay, on my signal, set your watches. It is now four thirty-five."
　　We fiddled with the stems and dials. I wondered if the time was such an issue after all.
　　"Here's the plan. Lewis and I will go this way. Henry, you go in the opposite direction. George and Jimmy, you head off opposite to each other." He indicated by means of hand signals the four points of the compass. "Mark your trail to find your way back. Every couple hundred feet, break a branch on the name side of your path, and let's meet back here at nine. It'll be getting dark by then. Of course, if you find him before that, go back to the fire truck."
　　We went our separate ways, and the sound of my friends tramping through the brush receded. I had not dared enter the woods since changing lives with Henry Day. The tall trees hemmed in the pathway, and the humid air felt like a blanket that smelled of rot and decay. With each step I took, cracking twigs and crunching leaves, my sound reinforced my solitude. When I stopped, the noise ceased. I'd call for the boy, but halfheartedly, not expecting a reply. The stillness brought back a forgotten sensation, the memory of my wildness, and with it the ache of being trapped, timeless, in this perilous world. Twenty minutes into my search, I sat down on the fallen trunk of a scrub pine. My shirt, damp with perspiration, clung to my skin, and I took out a handkerchief to mop my brow. Far away, a woodpecker hammered on a tree, and nuthatches scrabbled down tree trunks, pipping their staccato signals. Along one limb of the dead pine, a file of ants raced back and forth, carrying a mysterious cargo in one direction as others headed back to the food source. Amid the litter of fallen leaves, small red flowers poked their pin-size heads from clusters of silvery moss. I lifted a log, and a rotting wetness lay beneath it, pill bugs curled into balls and long-legged spiders maddened at the sudden disruption of their lives. Fat, glistening worms burrowed into holes on the bottom of the log, and I tried to imagine what hidden chambers existed in the decay, what life was going on unbeknownst to me. I lost track of the time. A glance at my watch startled me, for nearly two hours had wasted away. I stood up, called out the boy's name once, and, hearing no reply, resumed my hunt. Moving deeper into the darkness, I was entranced by the random arrangement of trunks and limbs, green leaves as plentiful as raindrops. My every step was new yet familiar, and I expected to be startled by something sudden, but it was as quiet as a deep sleep. There was nothing in the woods, no sign of my past, scant life beyond the growing trees and plants, the occasional stir of the inscrutable tiny animals hidden in the rot and decay. I stumbled upon a small creek gurgling over stones, meandering nowhere. Suddenly very thirsty, I dipped my hands into the water and drank.
　　The current rolled over a bed dotted with stones and rocks. On the surface, the stones were dry, dull, and impenetrable, but at the waterline and below, the water changed the stone, revealing facets and extraordinarily rich colors and infinite variety. Millennia of interplay had worn and polished the rocks, made them beautiful, and the stones had changed the water as well, altered its flow and pace, made turbulent its stilled predisposition. Symbiosis made the creek what it was. One without the other would change everything. I had come out of this forest, had been there for a long, long time, but I also lived in the world as a very real person. My life as a human and my life among the changelings made me what I was. Like the water and the rock, I was this and that. Henry Day. As the world knows him, there is no other, and this revelation filled me with warmth and pleasure. The rocks along the bottom of the creek suddenly appeared to me as if a line of notes, and I could hear the pattern in my head. Searching my pockets for a pencil to copy it down before the notes disappeared, I heard a stirring among the trees behind me, footsteps racing through the brush.
　　"Who's there?" I asked, and whatever it was stopped moving. I tried to make myself short and inconspicuous by crouching in the culvert cut by the creek, but hiding made it impossible to see the source of danger. In the tension of anticipation, sounds that had gone unnoticed became amplified. Crickets sang under rocks. A cicada cried and then went silent. I was at odds whether to run away or stay and capture the notes in the water. A breeze through the leaves, or something breathing? Slowly at first, the footsteps resumed, then the creature bolted, crashing through the leaves, running away from me, the air whispering and falling quiet. When it had departed, I convinced myself that a deer had been startled by my presence, or perhaps a hound that had picked up my scent by mistake. The disturbance unnerved me, so I quickly traced my way back to the clearing. I was the first one there, fifteen minutes ahead of our planned rendezvous.
　　George arrived next, face flushed with exertion, his voice less than a rasp from calling for the boy. He collapsed in exhaustion, his jeans emitting puffs of dust.
　　"No luck?" I asked.
　　"Do you think? I am dragging and didn't see a damn thing. You don't have a square on you?"
　　I produced two cigarettes and lit his, then mine. He closed his eyes and smoked. Oscar and Lewis showed up next, similarly defeated. They had run out of ways to say so, but the worry slackened their pace, bowed their heads, clouded their eyes. We waited for another fifteen minutes for Jimmy Cummings, and when he failed to appear, I began to wonder if another search party was in order.
　　At 9:30, George asked, "Where is Cummings?"
　　The residual twilight gave way to a starry night. I wished we had thought to bring flashlights. "Maybe we should go back to where the police are."
　　Oscar refused. "No, someone should wait here for Jimmy. You go, Henry. It's a straight shot, dead on."
　　"C'mon, George, go with me."
　　He raised himself to the standing position. "Lead on, Macduff."
　　Up the trail, we could see red and blue lights flashing against the treetops and bouncing into the night sky. Despite his aching feet, George hurried us along, and when we were nearly there, we could hear the static shout over the walkie-talkies, sense something wrong in the air. We jogged into a surreal scene, the clearing bathed in lights, fire engines idling, dozens of people milling about. A man in a red baseball cap loaded a pair of bloodhounds into the back of his pickup. I was startled to see Tess Wodehouse, her white nurse's uniform glowing in the gloom, embracing another young woman and stroking her hair. Two men lifted a dripping canoe to the roof of a car and strapped it down. Patterns emerged as if time stood still, and all could be seen at once. Firemen and policemen, their backs to us, formed a half ring around the back of the ambulance.
　　The chief pivoted slowly, as if averting his gaze from the somber paramedics invalidated reality, and told us carefully, "Well ... we have found a body."

    我久已忘怀的往事从窗帘后向外窥视。麦克伊内斯在催眠中提出的问题将压抑了一个多世纪的记忆打捞起来，潜伏的记忆碎片开始侵入我的生活。有时候我们在演奏西蒙与加芬克尔①的曲子，搞二流模仿时，我嘴里会突然冒出一句德国话来。
　　乐队里的男孩以为我唱溜了嘴，我们向观众稍稍道歉后，再从头开始。有时候我在勾引一个年轻女人时，发现她的脸变成了换生灵的模样。小孩一哭，我就想他是人类还是被丢在门口的捣蛋鬼。一张六岁亨利第一天上学的照片，提醒我自己什么都不是。我看到自己的影像叠加在上面，我的脸映在玻璃镜框上，覆盖着他的脸，我就想他发生了什么事，我又发生了什么事。我不再是魔鬼了，但也不是亨利- 戴。
　　我费尽力气要想起自己的名字，但每次一靠近，那个德国男孩就溜走了。
　　摆脱这种困扰的惟一办法是让自己想点别的。只要一想到遥远的过去，我就强迫自己把心思放到音乐上去，在心里变换指法和五度循环，低声哼曲子，用歌声将黑暗的想法推开。我又漫不经心地考虑起当作曲家的事来，虽然我大学时代的热情已经淡了，而时间也不知不觉地过去了两年。我从日常生活中看似随意的各种声音中提炼出节奏，写成乐句，再变成乐章。我常常睡几个小时后就回奥斯卡酒吧，煮一壶咖啡，把我头脑中的音符写下来。我只有一架钢琴，因此就得在空荡荡的酒吧里把整个交响乐队想像出来，刚开始写的曲子里都是我对自己身份胡乱无际的想法。
　　没有完成的曲子尝试着回到过去，回归我真正的本然。有那么几年，我寻找这个声音，把它塑造成形，又丢在一边，因为当时作曲这件事就和我的名字一样不可捉摸。
　　大多数上午，酒吧都是我的乐室。奥斯卡中午才过来，乔治和吉米通常下午三点左右过来排练，喝几杯啤酒——我有充分的时间来藏好自己的作品。1967年的一个夏日午后，大约一两点钟，我们还没开始练习，我三心二意地弹着钢琴，乔治、吉米和奥斯卡在尝试几种和弦变奏和节奏，但他们主要是在吸烟喝酒。这地区的孩子已经放假两周，厌倦了起来，骑着单车在大街上来来回回。他们的头和肩膀在窗玻璃前一闪而过。路易斯•拉甫的绿色小货车开到了外面，过了一会儿，酒吧门推开，送进一蓬湿漉漉的头发。路易斯无力地垂着双肩，木然无语地站在门口。奥斯卡搁下喇叭，走过去和他哥哥说话。他们的声音太低听不到，但身体却泄露了悲伤的心情。路易斯低着头，手放在鼻梁上，像是忍着眼泪，乔治、吉米和我坐在椅子上看，不知道该说什么或做什么。奥斯卡把他哥哥带到吧台，给他倒了一大杯酒，路易斯一饮而尽。他用袖子擦了擦嘴，像一个问号似的弯下腰，前额靠在栏杆上，我们都围了过去。
　　“他的儿子失踪了，”奥斯卡说，“从昨晚开始。警察、消防队和营救队都出动寻找，但还没有找到。他只有八岁，伙计。”
　　“他长得什么样? ”乔治问，“叫什么名字? 走失了多久? 你最后一次在哪里看到他? ”
　　路易斯挺直了肩膀，“他叫奥斯卡，跟我这个弟弟的名。就是你平时看到的那种最普通的孩子。棕色头发，棕色眼睛，大概这么高。”
　　他伸出手，在离地面约一米半处比划了一下。
　　“他什么时候走失的? ”我问。
　　“他上面穿着一件棒球衫，下面穿短裤，深蓝色——他母亲觉得是这样。脚上是高帮的查克•泰勒鞋。昨天晚上，吃完饭他去屋后玩。天还亮着。他就这么消失了。”他对他弟弟说，“我到处叫你。”
　　奥斯卡撅起嘴摇摇头，“对不起，伙计，我出去找乐子了。”
　　乔治开始朝门口走出，“没时间忏悔了。我们要去找失踪的孩子。”
　　我们去了森林。奥斯卡和路易斯乘在货车驾驶室里，乔治、吉米和我坐在后车厢里，热浪掀起车厢里残留的肥料气味。货车沿着从树林中开出来的防火通道颠簸前进，停下来时扬起一片灰尘。搜寻队停在一个峡谷中，大约是我家往西一公里的地方，这是他们把镇上惟一一台灭火器排进森林的极限长度。消防队队长靠在这台大型的设备上，大口灌着一瓶可乐，他的脸和弄脏了的白衬衫一比，就像个警报器。
　　我们一行走下货车，我闻到附近金银花的香味就陶醉了。
　　蜜蜂在花朵问巡游，我们朝队长走过去时，他们用懒洋洋的目光打量我们。蚱蜢被我们的脚步声惊起，跳进了更深的草丛中。空地周围长着一大丛野生覆盆子和有毒的常青藤，这让我想起森林的两面性。
　　我跟着小伙子们走上一条临时开辟出来的小径，不停地回头看看队长和他的红色消防车，直到他们从视野中消失。
　　侦探犬在远处吠叫，嗅到了一种气味。我们鱼贯而行了几百米，枝叶投下浓密的树阴，近晚时分看起来天色已暗。每隔一会儿，就有人叫着孩子的名字，声音悬在空气里，又慢慢散失在温暖的昏暗光线中。我们一路从有树阴的地方走到没有树阴的地方，在一座小山坡顶上停下。
　　“这样不行，”奥斯卡说，“我们为什么不分头去找? ”
　　虽然我讨厌独自待在森林中，但我没法反驳他，否则难免被视为胆小鬼。
　　“我们九点钟在这里碰头。”奥斯卡冷静地下了决定，看着他的表，数着分针的走动。我们一边等着，一边看着我们自己的表。
　　“四点半。”他终于说。
　　“我是四点三十五。”乔治说。
　　我几乎在同时开口，“二十几分。”
　　“五点二十五。”吉米说。
　　路易斯甩着手腕，摘下他的手表，把表放到耳边听，“奇怪——我的表停了。”
　　他瞪着表面说，“七点半。那正是我最后一次看到他的时间。”
　　我们面面相觑，一时间都迷惑不已。奥斯卡又看了看他的表。
　　“好了，好了，听我的信号，调整你们的表。现在是四点三十五分。”
　　我们调整了指针和表盘。我想这个时间是否如此重要。
　　“计划是这样的。路易斯和我走这条路。亨利，你走对面的那条路。乔治和吉米，你们两个分别走相反的两条路。”他指着指南针上的四个方向说。“走去还要能走回来。每个人走一百米就折断一根树枝放在路的同一边，我们九点钟在这里会合。到时候天应该黑了。
　　当然，如果你们在那之前找到了他，就回到消防车那边去。”
　　我们分头离开，朋友们走在灌木丛中的脚步声渐渐消失。自从和亨利•戴换生后，我不敢再进森林。小路两旁都是高大的林木，潮湿的空气就像一块散发着腐朽气味的毯子。我每走一步，脚下的树枝和树叶就“嘎扎嘎扎”地响，发出的声音使我越加孤单。我停下脚步，声音也停止了。我呼唤着孩子，但并没有多大的劲头，也不盼望会有回音。寂静带来一种久已忘怀的感觉，那是我野外生活的记忆，还有永远陷在这个危险世界中的苦痛。我寻找了二十分钟，就在一株倒伏的矮松树干上坐下来。衬衫浸透了汗水，贴在身上，我拿出一块手帕来擦额头。远远地，一只啄木鸟在锤打一棵树。五子雀从树干上跳下来，断断续续地发出鸣音。在一棵死去的松树枝条上，一队蚂蚁正来回跑着，往一个方向运送一个秘密货物，另一队则回头跑向食物来源。在散落的树叶之间，小红花在银色的苔藓丛中探出它们针尖大小的脑袋。我抬起一根木头，下面是一片腐朽阴湿的泥土，球潮虫卷成一个球，长腿蜘蛛因生活突然被打扰而发起狂来。胖乎乎、亮晶晶的虫子钻进木头底部的小洞里，我想像着这根朽木中有着怎样的暗室，那里有我所不知道的生活。我忘了时间。看了一眼表，我陡然一惊，浪费了将近两个小时。我站起来，叫了一声男孩的名字，没有回音，我就继续找下去。在林子的更深处，树木林立，枝叶交错，绿色的叶子犹如雨珠般美丽，我陶醉在这番景致中。每一步都充满新鲜感，但又如此熟悉，我希望能被什么突然出现的东西吓一跳，但森林就像沉睡了似的一片寂静。森林里什么都没有，没有我过去的痕迹，没有在茂盛草木背后的匮乏生活，没有躲在朽木烂叶中、偶尔动弹一下的不明小动物。一条小溪在石头间潺援而行，不知流往何方，我跨过小溪时，突然觉得口很渴，就用手舀水来喝。
　　水流淌过的河床上点缀着大小石块。露出水面的石头干燥、单调、不透明，但在水面和水下，石头被水流改变了，显得棱角丰满，色彩丰富，变化多端。干百年的互相影响已经磨蚀和抛光了这些岩石，把它们打扮得漂漂亮亮。石头也改变了水流，改变了它的流向和速度，把激流变得平静服帖。正是这种共生共荣造就了溪流，无论缺了哪个，一切都会不同。我已经走出了森林，也曾在那里待了很久很久，但我同样在这个世界中作为真正的人类存在。我的人类生活和换生灵生活造就了我。
　　像这水，像这岩石，我既是这个，也是那个。
　　亨利•戴。正如这世界所知道的那样，除我以外并无他人，这一体悟让我感到愉快而温暖。溪底的一排岩石突然让我觉得很像一列音符，我听到了头脑中的节奏。
　　我从口袋里找出一支铅笔，想在它消失之前把它记录下来，这时却听到身后的树丛中有动静，灌木丛中响起奔跑的脚步声。
　　“谁在那里? ”我问道，不知怎么它就停下不动了。我想蹲到溪谷里，猫下身子不被看到，但躲藏起来就看不见危险在哪了。在紧张的等待中，刚才没有留意的声音变得响亮起来——蟋蟀在石头下唱歌，一只知了吱了一声又不响了。我犹豫不决，不知该逃走还是留在原地捕捉水中的音符。树叶间穿过一阵轻风，或者什么东西的呼吸声? 脚步声又来了，开始慢慢的，接着那个动物逃起来了，哗哗地跑过树叶，从我身边跑开。空气低吟着沉寂下来。我以为那是一头鹿因我受了惊，或者是一头猎犬跟错了我的气味。这次意外让我忐忑不安，于是很快地从原路返回空地。
　　我是第一个到那里的，比我们约定的时间提前了十五分钟。
　　乔治第二个到，脸憋得红红的，嗓门也因为呼喊那个孩子而变得沙哑。他筋疲力尽地倒在地上，牛仔裤扑起一地灰尘。
　　“没找到? ”我问。
　　“你觉得呢? 我累得半死，什么东西都没瞧见。你带烟了吗? ”
　　我拿出两支香烟，先点他的，再点我的。他闭上眼吸着。接着回来的是奥斯卡和路易斯，虽然走了很远，同样一败涂地。他们心急如焚，反而步子走不快，垂着头，目光迷离。我们又等了一刻钟，但卡明斯没来，我开始想另一组搜寻队是否顺利。
　　九点三十分，乔治问道：“卡明斯在哪里? ”
　　最后的暮色渐渐化为满天星光。我希望我们早能想到带电简来。“我们或许应该回到警察那里去。”
　　奥斯卡不愿意，“不，得有人在这里等吉米。你去吧，亨利。笔直的一条路，走到底。”
　　“来吧，乔治，跟我走。”
　　他站起来，“带路吧，麦克德夫。”
　　在小路一头，我们能看见红色和蓝色的灯在树顶上闪光，在夜空中扫射。乔治虽然脚痛，但还是催促我们快走。我们快到那里时，听到对讲机中平稳的喊声，感觉到气氛有点儿不对劲。我们跑入了一个超现实的场景，空地沐浴着灯光，火警器闲转着，几十个人到处乱转。戴着红色棒球帽的男人将一对侦探犬带到他的货车车厢里。我惊讶地看到泰思•伍德郝斯，她白色的护士服在昏暗中发亮，她搂着另一个年轻女人，抚摸她的头发。两个人把一个滴着水的独木舟放到车顶上，捆紧。画面出现了，仿佛时间静止，所有的东西一下子映入眼帘。消防队员和警察背对着我们，在消防车后围成一个半圆。
　　警长慢慢转身，仿佛要把视线从把医护人员变得不知所措的严峻现实中转开，他谨慎地告诉我们：“那个……我们找到了一具尸体。”
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Chapter 18
　　Mistakes were made, despite our careful planning. I am troubled to this day by my part, however minor, in the series of misfortunes and errors that led to his death. I am even more sorry about the changes wrought by those two days in June, which consequences confounded us for years. That none of us intended any harm matters not at all. We are responsible for our actions, even when accidents occur, if only for the steps we omitted or neglected. In retrospect, perhaps we overplanned. They could have sneaked into the Loves' house, snatched Oscar while he slept, and innocently tucked Igel under the covers. The boy always was left alone to play for hours at a time. We could have grabbed him in broad daylight and sent in a changed Igel for dinner. Or we could have skipped the purification by water. Who still believes in that old myth? It did not have to end in such a heartbreaking way.
　　Oscar Love came out to play on a June evening, dressed in blue shorts and a shirt with writing across the chest. He wore sandals, dirt caked between his toes, and kicked a ball back and forth across the lawn. Luchóg and I had climbed a sycamore and sat in the branches for what felt like hours, watching his mindless game and trying to attract him into the woods. We broadcast a menagerie of sounds: a puppy, a mewing kitten, birds in distress, a wise old owl, a cow, a horse, a pig, a chicken, a duck. But he took scant notice of our imitations. Luchóg cried like a baby; I threw my voice, disguised as a girl's, then a boy's. Oscar was deaf to all that, hearing instead the music in his mind. We called out his name, promised him a surprise, pretended to be Santa Claus. Stumped, we descended, and Luchóg had the bright idea to sing, and the boy immediately followed the melody into the forest. As long as the song continued, he sought its source, dazed by curiosity. In my heart, I knew that this is not the way fairytales should be, bound for an unhappy ending.
　　Hidden behind trees by a creek, the gang lay in ambush, and Luchóg lured the boy deeper into the woods. Oscar stood on the bank considering the water and the stones, and when the music stopped he realized how lost he was, for he began to blink his eyelids, fighting back the urge to weep.
　　"Look at him, Aniday," Luchóg said from our hideaway. "He reminds me of the last one of us to become a changeling. Something wrong with him."
　　"What do you mean, 'wrong'?"
　　"Look in his eyes. It's as if he's not really all there."
　　I studied the boy's face, and indeed he seemed detached from his situation. He stood motionless, head bowed to the water, as if stunned by his own reflection. A whistle signaled the others, and they rushed from the bushes. Birds, alarmed by the sudden violence, cried out and took wing. Hidden among the ferns, a rabbit panicked and bounded away, cottontail flashing. But Oscar stood impassive and entranced and did not react until the faeries were nearly upon him. He brought his hand up to his mouth to cover his scream, and they pounced on him, tackling him to the ground with swift ferocity. He all but disappeared in the swirl of flailing limbs, wild eyes, and bared teeth. Had the capture not been explained beforehand, I would have thought they were killing him. Igel, in particular, relished the assault, pinning the boy to the ground with his knees and cramming a cloth in his mouth to muffle his cries. With a vine, he cinched the boy around the middle, pinning his arms to his sides. Pulling Oscar down the trail, Igel led us all back to camp.
　　Years later, Chavisory explained to me how out of the ordinary Igel's behavior had been. The changeling was supposed to model his own body and features to match the child before the kidnapping. But Igel let the boy see him as he was. Rather than making the switch immediately, he taunted the child. Zanzera tied Oscar to a tree and removed the gag from the boy's mouth. Per-haps the shock silenced him, for all Oscar could do was watch in dumb amazement the happening before him, his dark eyes moist yet fixed on his tormentors. Igel tortured his own face into a replica. I could not bear the painful grimaces, could not stomach the cracking cartilage, the wrenching bone. I vomited behind a tree and stayed away until Igel had finished molding himself into a copy of the boy.
　　"Do you understand, Oscar?" Igel taunted him, standing nose-to-nose. "I am you and will take your place, and you will stay here with them."
　　The child stared at him, as if looking in the mirror yet not recognizing his own reflection. I fought back the urge to go to Oscar, to offer kindness and reassurance. Speck sidled up to me and spat out, "This is cruel."
　　Stepping away from his victim, Igel addressed us: "Boys and girls. I have been with you for too long and now take my leave. My time in this hell is done, and you may have it. Your paradise is vanishing. Every morning, I hear the encroaching roar of cars, feel the shudder of planes overhead. There's soot in the air, dirt in the water, and all the birds fly away and never come back. The world is changing, and you must go while you can. I am not pleased to be trading places with this imbecile, but better that than to remain here." He swept his arms to the trees and the star-filled skies. "For this will soon be gone."
　　Igel walked over to Oscar and untied him and held his hand. They were identical; it was impossible to tell who was real and who was the spit and image. "I'm going down below to the tunnel now to tell a story to this poor idiot. I'll take his clothes and those disgusting shoes, then you may perform the ablution. He could do with a bath. I will crawl out on the other side. Adieu. Come away, human child."
　　As he was being led off, Oscar looked back once more, his gaze disguising all emotion. Soon after, the faeries went to the tunnel entry to pluck out Oscar's naked body. They wrapped him in a caul of spider's silk and vines. He remained placid during the process, but his eyes appeared more alert, as if he deliberately was trying to be calm. Hoisting him atop our shoulders, we ran, crashing through the undergrowth toward the river. Until we reached the edge of the water, I did not notice that Speck had stayed behind. Béka, our new leader, proclaimed the incantation as we lifted our package high into the air and threw it. In midair, the body jack-knifed and fell headfirst into the water. Half of the group split off to chase and retrieve the body, as the ceremony required. They were expected to pull it ashore, as they had done with me years before, as had been done with us all. I stood there, determined to be helpful to the boy, to be understanding and patient as he made the transition.
　　All such hopes were washed away. The retrievers waited ashore, ready to fish the body from the water, but it never floated to the surface. Despite their severe fear of drowning, Smaolach and Chavisory waded into the river. Soon all of the faeries were in waist-deep, frantically searching for our bundle. Onions dived again and again, until, exhausted and gasping for breath, she could barely climb to the riverbank. Béka charged downstream to a ford where the body would most likely be snagged in the shallows. But Oscar could not be found. We kept vigil there all night and well into the morning, examining the stones and tree limbs where his body might have been caught, looking for any sign, but the water did not yield its secrets. The boy was gone. Around midday, below in the valley, a dog yowled with excitement. Kivi and Blomma were sent to look out for the intruders. Red-faced and panting, they came back a half hour later, collecting us from our scattered posts along the riverbank.
　　"They're coming," said Blomma, "with a pair of bloodhounds."
　　"The firemen and policemen," said Kivi.
　　"They'll find our camp."
　　"Igel brought the boy's scent to our home."
　　The sound of baying dogs echoed in the hills. The rescuers drew near. In his first crisis as our new leader, Béka commanded our attention. "Quick, back to camp. Hide everything. We'll stay in the tunnels until they leave."
　　Kivi spoke sharply to the rest of us. "There's too many coming."
　　"The dogs," Blomma added. "They've gone to ground and won't be tricked by a few sticks of brush thrown over the tunnels' entrances."
　　Béka looked perplexed and began to pace, fists clenched behind his hack, a vein of anger throbbing on his forehead. "I say we hide and wait."
　　"We need to run." Smaolach spoke with quiet authority. Most of us fell in behind him. "They have never been this close in all my years."
　　Luchóg stepped up and confronted Béka. "That mob is already deeper into the woods than any human has come. You're wrong to think—"
　　Béka raised his arm to strike him, but Onions grabbed his hand. "But what about the boy?"
　　Our new leader turned from the crowd and announced, "Oscar is gone. Igel is gone. What's done is done, and we must save ourselves. Gather what you can carry and hide the rest. But be quick, for we will have to outrun them."
　　Abandoning Oscar's body to the waters, we raced home. While others stashed useful items—burying pots or knives, caching food and clothing—I gathered my papers and fashioned a sack to put them in. While a few of my possessions were safe beneath the library, I still had my journal and collection of pencil stubs, my drawing of my family and the dream lady in the red coat, and some treasures—gifts from Speck. I was ready quickly and hurried to find her.
　　"Where were you?" I asked. "Why didn't you come to the river?"
　　"What happened?"
　　"We never found it. What happened with Igel?"
　　"He crawled out and started to cry."
　　"He cried?" I began helping her pile brush over the tunnel openings.
　　"Like a baby," she said. "He crawled out dazed, and when he saw that I had stayed behind, he ran off. He may be hiding nearby still."
　　We gathered our belongings and joined the others, climbing the ridge, now a band of refugees. Below us lay a simple clearing that might fool the men, if not the dogs.
　　"We will never come back," Speck said.
　　Béka sniffed the air. "Dogs. Humans. Let's go."
　　Now eleven in number, we raced away, the mournful bays of the bloodhounds echoing through the hills, drawing nearer and nearer. We could smell them approaching and heard the excited voices of the men. As the sun set bloodred on the horizon, the searchers came close enough for us to make out two burly fellows, straining at the leashes, gasping to keep up with the dogs. Stumbling on the trail, Ragno dropped his pack and scattered his possessions in the leafy debris. I turned to watch him gathering up his garden spade and saw a red cap flash behind him, the man oblivious to our presence. Zanzara reached out and grabbed Ragno by the hand, and off we sped to the others, leaving behind those few clues.
　　We ran for hours, crossing a creek like a hunted fox to mask our scent, cloaking ourselves at last behind a tangle of nettles. The sun dipped below the treeline as the sound of the men and dogs faded. They were circling back. We bivouacked there for the night, laying down our burdens, taking up our anxieties. No sooner had I stashed my papers than Béka strode up to me, his chest puffed out, ready to command.
　　"Go back to check when it is safe to return."
　　"By myself?"
　　"Take someone with you." He surveyed his charges, then leered at me. "Take Speck."
　　We waded in the winding creek back toward our pursuers, stopping now and then to listen and look ahead for trouble. Halfway to the river, Speck hopped out midstream onto a large rock.
　　"Aniday, do you still want to leave?"
　　"Leave? Where would I go?"
　　"Just leave, right now. We could go. I don't know. West to California and stare at the deep blue sea."
　　Another noise in the water silenced us. Perhaps a person wading in the stream, or the splashing dogs as they crossed, or perhaps a deer quenching an evening's thirst.
　　"You're not going to leave, are you, Speck?"
　　"Did you hear that?" she asked.
　　We froze and listened hard. Creeping along through the brush, we carefully investigated the noise. A few hundred yards downstream, a most peculiar odor—neither human nor animal, but something in between. My stomach pained me as we moved along the banks of the water. Around a bend and in the fading light through the trees, we were nearly upon him before we saw the man.
　　"Who's there?" the figure said, then ducked down, trying to hide.
　　"Speck," I whispered. "That's my father."
　　She stood on her tiptoes and peeked at the crouching man; then she held her finger to her lips. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in deeply. Speck grabbed my hand and led us away as quietly as a fog.

    尽管我们谨慎筹划，还是铸成了大错。那一系列的噩运和错误造成了他的死亡，我在其中的作用虽然微乎其微，但我至今耿耿于怀。我更难过的是，六月的那两天中发生的改变，一连好几年，我们都因此心生彷徨。我们都不想干坏事。我们都为自己的行为负责，要不是我们遗漏或忽略了一些步骤，事故也不会发生。回想起来，也许我们的计划做过头了。他们可以潜入拉甫家中，把睡梦中的奥斯卡抓走，然后不慌不忙地把伊格尔塞到被子里。那个孩子每次总是在外面独自玩耍几个小时，我们可以在光天化日之下把他擒住，然后把伊格尔换回去吃饭。或者我们也可以跳过水中净化的步骤。谁现在还相信那个古老的神话呢? 这事不该以如此伤心的结局收场。
　　一个六月的晚上，奥斯卡•拉甫出来玩，穿着蓝色的短裤和胸口有字的衬衫。
　　他趿着拖鞋，脚趾间夹着泥块，在草地上把球踢来踢去。鲁契克和我爬到一棵无花果树上，在树枝上坐了约摸几个小时，看着他随意玩耍，想把他诱入森林。我们发出五花八门的叫声：小狗的汪汪声、小猫的喵喵声、小鸟的悲鸣、一只聪明的老猫头鹰的叫声，还有母牛、马、猪、鸡、鸭的叫声。但他对我们模仿的叫声置若罔闻。
　　鲁契克学着婴儿的啼声，我假扮女孩的声音，接着又扮男孩。奥斯卡充耳不闻，只顾听他自己脑海中的音乐。我们叫他名字，答应要给他一个惊喜，说我们是圣诞老人。我们无计可施，只好从树上下来，鲁契克突然冒出个好主意，他唱起了歌，孩子立刻跟着歌声进了森林。
　　只要歌声不停，他就寻找声源，好奇心把他迷得晕头转向。我心中知道，童话故事不该如此，这样会有不快的结局。
　　溪边的树丛后，大家埋下了伏兵，鲁契克把孩子引到林子深处。
　　奥斯卡站在河边望着水流和石头，音乐停下后，他发现自己迷路了。
　　他开始眨巴眼睛，强忍要呜咽的冲动。
　　“看看他，安尼戴，”鲁契克从藏身处对我说，“他让我想起我们最近一个成为换生灵的人。他有点问题。”
　　“你说‘问题’是什么意思? ”
　　“看他的眼睛。好像他并不真的在那里似的。”
　　我细看了一下孩子的面庞，他确实看起来和环境脱节。他一动不动地站着，低头对着水面，仿佛惊愕于自己的倒影。他们一声呼哨，从灌木丛中冲出来。鸟儿被突如其来的大动作惊起，鸣叫着展翅飞走。躲在蕨草中的野兔惊慌逃窜，棉尾兔一闪而没。但奥斯卡无动于衷地站着，神思恍惚，直到仙灵们快扑到身上时才反应过来。他捂住嘴发出一声尖叫，他们跳上前来，手脚利落地把他按倒在地。他顿时淹没在挥舞的细胳膊大腿、狂野的目光和龇出的牙齿中。若不是先前说好是要抓他，我会以为他们要把他杀了。特别是伊格尔，简直就是袭击，用膝盖把男孩顶在地上，把一块布头塞进他嘴里堵住他的哭喊，还用一条葡萄藤在孩子腰间捆了一道，把他的双手绑到背后。伊格尔拖着奥斯卡，带着我们从小路回营了。
　　多年以后，卡维素芮对我说，伊格尔的行为有多么失常。按理说，换生灵应该在绑架孩子之前就把自己变成孩子的模样，但伊格尔却让孩子看到他的样子。他没有立刻变身，而是玩弄孩子。赞扎拉把孩子绑在树上，拔掉他嘴里的布头。也许是吓得说不出话来，奥斯卡只是眼睁睁地看着发生的这一切，湿漉漉的黑眼睛盯着折磨他的人。伊格尔把自己的脸折腾得和孩子一个模样。我受不了看那脸部痛苦的扭曲，也受不了听软骨爆裂、骨头弯折的声音。我到树后去大吐特吐，再也不去多看一眼，直到伊格尔把自己塑造成男孩的翻版。
　　“你明白吗，奥斯卡? ”伊格尔和他面对面站着，戏弄他。“我是你，我就要取代你的位置了，而你要和他们待在这里。”
　　孩子直瞪着他，好像照镜子时认不得自己的影像。我忍住冲动没有过去好言好语地安慰他。斯帕克走到我身边，呸了一声：“这太残忍了。”
　　伊格尔从他的受害者身边走开，对我们发话说：“伙计们，姑娘们，我和你们相处了太长的时间，现在要走了。我在这个地狱里的日子结束了，你们还得过下去。
　　你们的天堂正在消失。每天早晨，我都听见汽车震耳欲聋的声音，感到头顶上飞机的颤动。空气里有煤灰，水里有泥土，所有的鸟雀一去不返。世界在变，你们能走就走。我不高兴和这个低能儿交换，但总比留在这里好。”他向树林和星空挥舞了一下手臂，“因为这些很快就会没有了。”
　　伊格尔走到奥斯卡身前，给他松绑，握着他的手。他们完全一样，说不出谁是真货，谁又是盗版。“现在我要到地道里去，给这个可怜的傻瓜讲个故事。我会拿走他的衣服和这双难看的鞋子，接着你们就能执行洁净仪式。他要去洗个澡。我会从另一头爬出去。再见了。来吧，人类的孩子。”
　　他在前面走了，奥斯卡回头看了一眼，目光没有透露半分情绪。
　　很快，仙灵们去地道入口把奥斯卡剥光的身体拉出来。他们把他裹在一张葡萄藤和蜘蛛丝做的网里。整个过程中他都泰然白若，但目光越发警惕，好像他故意要做出平静的样子。我们把他举到肩头就跑，踏过灌木丛跑向河边。一直跑到水边，我才发现斯帕克没有跟上来。我们的新领袖贝卡念起咒语，我们则把包裹高高地举起，投了下去。半空中，那个躯体弯了过来，头朝下栽进水中．。一半人追了过去，要取回这个身体，这也是仪式要求的。像他们多年前对我做过的那样，也正如我们都经历过的那样，得把这个躯体拉上岸。我站在那里，决定帮那个男孩一把，我会在他的过渡期给予万分理解和耐心。
　　这些希望都落空了。回收者们等在岸边，准备把躯体从水里捞上来，但它没有浮起来。虽然斯茂拉赫和卡维素芮都非常害怕水淹，但他们还是蹬进了河里。不一会儿，所有的仙灵都进了齐腰深的河水，疯狂地寻找我们的包裹。奥尼恩斯一次次潜入水中，弄得筋疲力尽，气都喘不过来，差点爬不上岸。贝卡顺着水流跑到浅水区去查看，躯体有可能搁浅在那里。但还是找不到奥斯卡。我们从晚上守到天亮，检查了每块石头、每根树枝，看看他的身体是否挂在了哪里，我们寻拔所有的迹象，但河水没有泄露丁点的秘密。孩子消失了。
　　到了中午，一条狗在山谷中狂吠。齐维和布鲁玛被派去侦察入侵者。
　　半小时后，她们脸红气急地回来了，把我们从河岸的各个地方召集回来。
　　“他们来了，”布鲁玛说，“带着两条侦探犬。”
　　“消防队员和警察。”齐维说。
　　“他们会找到我们的营寨。”
　　“伊格尔把孩子的气味带到我们家里来了。”
　　狗叫声在山岭间回响。救援队越来越近了。贝卡刚上任就赶上了第一起紧急情况，他叫我们听他说话，“快，回营寨。把所有的东西都藏好。我们待在地道里直到他们离开。”
　　齐维对我们其他人大声说道：“来的人太多了。”
　　“那些狗，”布鲁玛补充说，“它们会跟到地下去，在地道入口遮盖树叶这种小把戏骗不倒它们。”
　　贝卡面露为难之色，他开始踱步，拳头紧握在身后，前额上青筋跳动，“我说我们躲起来等着。”
　　“我们要逃跑。”斯茂拉赫平静地说道，声音里透着权威。我们大多数人都站到他那边，“我这辈子这么多年，他们从来没有这样接近过我们。”
　　鲁契克跨前一步，对贝卡说：“这群强盗已经深入树林，比以前任何一个人类都进得深。你这样想是锚误的……”
　　贝卡抬起手要打他，奥尼恩斯抓住他的手，“但那个男孩怎么办? ”
　　我们的新领袖背过身宣布说：“奥斯卡走了。伊格尔也走了。该做的已经做了，我们得自救。把你们能带的都带上，剩下的藏好。但要快，我们得比他们跑得快。”
　　我们对留在水中的奥斯卡弃之不顾，自己冲回家。别人都在藏有用的东西——埋藏罐子和刀具，罐头食品和衣服——我却收拾我的纸张，并做了个袋子把它们装起来。我有几件东西安全地留在图书馆下面，但还有日记和一堆铅笔头，画着我的家人和梦中红衣女子的画，以及一些宝贝( 斯帕克送的礼物) 。我很快准备好了，急忙去找她。
　　“你去哪里了? ”我问，“你为什么不去河边? ”
　　“发生了什么事? ”
　　“我们没找到他。伊格尔怎么样了? ”
　　“他一爬出来就哭。”
　　“他哭? ”我帮她把枝叶堆到地道入口处。
　　“像个小孩子似的，”她说，“他昏昏沉沉地爬出来，看到我留在后面，就跑走了。他可能还躲在附近。”
　　我们收拾好东西，跟大家爬上山岭，如今是一帮难民。山下的空地上一无所有，这样或许可以骗过人，但骗不了狗。
　　“我们永远不会回来了。”斯帕克说。
　　贝卡嗅了嗅空气，“狗。人。我们走。”
　　现在我们是十一个人了，我们逃跑了。侦探犬凄厉的叫声在山中回响，越来越近。我们闻到它们正在接近，听到人们激动的声音。
　　血红的太阳悬在地平线上，搜寻者已经进入我们的视线范围，两个健壮的年轻人拉着拴狗皮带，气喘吁吁地跟着狗跑。劳格诺在路上跌了一跤，包裹掉了，里面的东西在碎叶上撒了一地。我回过身看着他把自己的铁锹捡起来，这时我见到一顶红帽子在他身后一闪，那人没有看到我们。赞扎拉伸手一把拉起劳格诺，我们飞快地赶上了大家，把细微的线索留在了那里。
　　我们跑了几小时，像被追赶的狐狸一样渡过溪流，掩盖我们的气味，最后，在一丛荨麻里躲了起来。太阳落到了树梢下面，人和狗的声音渐去渐远。他们回去了。
　　我们在那里露营过夜，放下包裹，稍事放松。我刚刚藏好自己的纸，贝卡就大步走到我面前，挺着胸膛准备发号施令。
　　“回去看看，什么时候才能安全回去。”
　　“我自己去? ”
　　“叫上一个和你同去，”他扫视了一遍手下，不怀好意地看着我，“带上斯帕克。”
　　我们蹬过蜿蜒的小溪，向我们的追踪者走去，时而停步倾听，张望是否有危险。
　　走到水中央时，斯帕克猛地一跃，跳上一块大石头。
　　“安尼戴，你还想离开吗? ”
　　“离开? 去哪儿? ”
　　“就是离开，现在。我们能走。我不知道。往西走，去加利福尼亚看深蓝色的大海。”
　　水中发出一个声音，我们停下说话。可能是一个人的蹬水声，也可能是狗渡过溪流的泼刺声，或者是鹿晚上来喝水。
　　“你不会走的，是吗，斯帕克? ”
　　“你听到了吗? ”她问。
　　我们静下来凝神倾听，爬过灌木丛，小心翼翼地探查着那个声音。一百码外的下游有种非常奇特的气味——既非人类也非动物，而是一种兼而有之的东西。我俩沿着河岸移动时，我觉得胃痛了起来。转了个弯，在树叶间微弱的光线下，我们快接近他了，但还没看到这个人。
　　“谁在那里? ”那人说，接着一猫腰想要藏起来。
　　“斯帕克，”我低声说，“那是我父亲。”
　　斯帕克踮起脚尖，朝那个蹲伏的人窥视了一眼，接着把手指放在嘴唇上。她翕动着鼻翼，做了个深呼吸。她拉住我的手，像只狐狸一样带我悄悄溜走了。
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举报 只看该作者 19楼  发表于: 2013-10-28 0

Chapter 19
　　Despite being underwater for a day, the body was identified as that of young Oscar Love. The sheet pulled back, the shocking bloat of the drowned, and sure enough, it was him, although the truth is, none of us could bear to look closely. Had it not been for the strange netting around the waterlogged corpse, maybe no one would have thought it anything other than a tragic accident. He would have been laid to rest under two yards of good earth, and his parents left to their private grief. But suspicions were raised from the moment that they gaffed him from the river. The corpse was transported twelve miles to the county morgue for a proper autopsy and inquest. The coroners searched for cause but found only strange effects. To all outward appearance he was a young boy, but when they cut him open, the doctors discovered an old man. The weirdness never made the papers, but Oscar later told me about the atrophied internal organs, the necrosis of the heart, the dehydrated lungs, liver, kidneys, spleen, and brain of a death-defying centenarian.
　　The strangeness and sorrow surrounding this discovery were compounded by the vanishing act of Jimmy Cummings. With the rest of the searchers, he had gone into the woods that night but had not returned. When Jimmy did not show up at the hospital, we all assumed he had gone home early or found another exit, and not until the next evening did George begin to worry. By the third day, the rest of us were all anxious about Jimmy, desperate for any news. We planned to go back to the woods that evening if the weather held, but just as I sat down with my family for dinner, the phone rang in the kitchen. Elizabeth and Mary both sprang from their chairs, hoping a boy might be trying to reach them, but my mother ordered them to sit.
　　"I don't like your friends calling in the middle of meals." Mom picked up the receiver from its cradle on the wall, and after she said hello, her face was a palette of surprise, shock, disbelief, and amazement. She half turned to finish her discussion, leaving us to stare at the back of her head. As she hung up the phone with her left hand, she crossed herself with her right, then turned to share the news.
　　"It's a miracle. That was Oscar Love. Jimmy Cummings is okay, and he found him alive."
　　My sisters stopped mid-bite, their forks suspended in the air, and stared at her. I asked my mother to repeat the message, and in so doing, she realized the implications of her sentences.
　　"They walked out of the woods together. He's alive. He found him in a hole. Little Oscar Love."
　　Elizabeth's fork fell and clattered on the plate.
　　"You're kidding. Alive?" Mary said.
　　"Far out," said Elizabeth.
　　Distracted, Mom fretted with the bobby pins at her temples. She stood behind her chair, thinking.
　　"Isn't he dead?" I asked.
　　"Well ... there must be a mistake."
　　"That's a helluva mistake, Mom," Mary said.
　　Elizabeth asked the not-so-rhetorical question we were all wondering about. "So who's that in the morgue?"
　　Mary asked her twin, "There's another Oscar Love? That's so cool."
　　My mother sat hard in the chair. Staring at the plate of fried chicken, she seemed lost in abstraction, reconciling what she knew to be true with what she had just heard. The twins one-upped each other with hypotheses too absurd to believe. Too nervous to eat, I retired to the porch for a smoke and contemplation. On my second Camel, I heard the noise of an approaching car. A cherry red Mustang veered off the road and barreled up our drive, kicking up gravel and fishtailing to a stop. The twins rushed out to the porch, the screen door slapping shut twice, before Cummings got out of the car. Hair pulled back into a ponytail, a pair of rose-colored glasses perched on his nose, he flashed the two-finger V and broke into a broad grin. Mary and Elizabeth greeted him with their own peace signs and smiled coyly back at him. Jimmy loped across the yard, took the porch stairs in two bounds, and stood directly in front of me, expecting a hero's welcome. We shook hands.
　　"Welcome back from the dead, man."
　　"Man, you know already? Have you heard the news?" His eyes were bloodshot, and I could not tell if he was drunk or stoned or just worn-out.
　　Mom burst through the door and threw her arms around my friend, bear-hugging him until his face turned red. Not able to restrain themselves a moment longer, my sisters joined in, nearly tackling him in their enthusiasm. I watched them unpeel one by one.
　　"Tell us all about it," my mother said. "Would you like a drink? Let me get you an iced tea."
　　While she busied herself in the kitchen, we arranged ourselves on the rattan. Unable to decide upon a sister, Jimmy slumped onto the settee, and the twins bunched together on the porch swing. I kept my post at the railing, and when she returned, Mom sat beside Jimmy, beaming at him as if he were her own son.
　　"Have you ever seen anyone come back from the dead, Mrs. Day?"
　　"Oh, angels and ministers of grace defend us."
　　"That's what the Loves thought when they saw him," Jimmy said. "As if Oscar might have come from the airs of heaven, or been blasted out of hell. They couldn't believe what their own eyes were telling them. 'Cause they were all set to take the body to the funeral home, thinking Little Oscar was dread and fit to be buried, when I come in with their son, holding his hand, Lewis looked as if he was having a heart attack, man, and Libby walked up and said, 'Are you real? Can I touch you? What are you? Can you speak to me?' And the boy ran to her and wrapped his arms around her waist, and she knew he was no ghost."
　　Two identical beings, one dead, the other living—the changeling and the child.
　　"All the doctors and nurses freaked out, too. Speaking of nurses, Henry, there's a nurse there who said she saw you the other night when they brought up that other boy."
　　That was no boy.
　　"Lew starts shaking my hand, and Libby says 'Bless you' about a thousand times. And Oscar, big Oscar, came in a few minutes later, then he goes through the whole routine with his nephew, and man, is he glad to see me, too. The questions start flying, and of course I already told the whole story to the firemen and the cops. They brought us to the hospital on account of him being out there for three days. Near as they can tell, there isn't a thing wrong with the boy. A little strung out, like he'd been tripping, and we were pretty tired and dirty and thirsty."
　　A big storm darkened in the western skies. In the forest, the creatures would be scrambling for cover. The hobgoblins had created an underground warren in their ancient campsite, a maze of tunnels that sheltered them from the rough weather.
　　"But you had to know, man, so I got in my ride and drove right over here."
　　He drank his iced tea in a single gulp, and my mother refilled his glass at once. She, like the rest of us, grew anxious for the beginning, and I was wondering if his story would beat the rain. No longer able to wait, she asked, "So, how did you find little Oscar?"
　　"Hey, Henry, did I tell you that I saw that nurse, Tess Wodehouse? You should give her a call, bro. That night, I got so caught up looking for that kid that I lost track of the time. My watch stopped dead around half past seven. Which freaked me out because it must have been after nine. Not that I believe in ghosts or anything like that, just that it was dark."
　　I checked my watch and studied the approaching storm, trying to calculate its tempo. If one or two of them were away from camp when the rain hit, they would have to look for a cave or a hollow tree to wait out the worst.
　　"So I was really, really lost. And at that point, I'm concerned about finding my own way out. I come to this clearing in the woods, and it's starlit and spooky. There's these mooshed-down places in the grass and leaves, like maybe deer bed down there. Then I see these flat ovals in a ring around the edges of the clearing, and I figure this is where a herd sleeps for the night, right?"
　　On fair summer nights, we slept above ground. We read the skies each morning for any hint of foul weather. As Jimmy paused for a breath, I thought I heard the notes from the stones in the river again.
　　"There's this circle of ashes and burnt sticks from a campfire that some freakin' hunters or backpackers left, and if I have to stay the night in the woods, this might be a good place since, obviously, someone had stayed here before. I made myself a small fire, and the flames hypnotize me, for next thing I know, I'm asleep and having the strangest dreams. Hallucinations. Bad acid. A voice from far away, a little boy calling and calling 'Mama,' but I can't see him, and I'm too tired to get up. You ever have one of those dreams where you think your alarm clock is going off in your dream, but it's really going off beside your bed? Only you think it's just a dream, so you don't get up to shut if off, then you oversleep, and then you remember when you do get up that you had a dream about it ringing?"
　　"I think I have that dream every morning," said Mary.
　　"Dig it. I can't see him, but I can hear little Oscar crying out for his Mama, so I start looking for him. 'Oscar? Your mama and daddy sent me here to find you.' So he starts calling out, 'I'm under here!' Under where? I can't see him, and what he's under? 'Keep calling me' ... and I try to follow the sound of his voice. That's when I fall into the freakin' hole. Crashing right through branches and stuff that someone had laid over the opening like it's a trap. I'm struck in this hole up to my armpits in the dead dark of night with the boy crying his eyes out nearby. A bad scene, man, a bad scene."
　　The girls stopped swinging. My mother leaned forward. I forgot about the gathering storm and concentrated on the elusive melody, but it receded in the swale of talk.
　　"I was jammed inside, man. My arms are trapped up against the sides of the hole. Worse is, my feet aren't on the bottom of the pit, but dangling there, at the top of a bottomless pit. Or maybe something's down at the bottom, going to get me." He lunged out at the girls, who screamed and giggled.
　　"I stayed still, considering my situation, Mrs. Day, and I shout out to Little Oscar to be cool with the yelling 'cause he was getting on my nerves. And I says, 'I'm stuck in a hole, but I will get you as soon as I can figure out a way to get out.' And he says he thinks it's a tunnel. So I tell him to crawl around and if he sees a pair of big feet in the middle of the air, they're mine and could he help me get out?"
　　In the distance, the low rumble of thunder. I hopped off the porch and ran down to roll up the windows of his car. The hobgoblins would be huddled, all elbows and knees, worried about a sudden wrack of lightning. The song had slipped my mind again.
　　"Morning comes, so now I see where I am, which is still stuck in a hole. But give myself a skosh more room on the left, all I have to do is twist and down I go. Turns out I was only a foot or two off the bottom. But my feet are asleep, and my arms are aching, and I have to take a leak—pardon my French, Mrs. Day. I was dog-tired, but that boy—"
　　We jumped at a loud boom of thunder and a wraith of light that filled the horizon. The air smelled of electricity and the coming deluge. When tto first fat drops lashed the ground like coins, we scurried inside. Cummings sat between Mary and Elizabeth on the sofa, and Mom and I perched in the uncomfortable chairs.
　　"At the bottom of this hole," Jimmy continued over the rumbling, "tunnels in three different directions. I shouted down each one, but no reply. I was beginning to wonder whether Oscar was at the other end of any one of them or did I dream up the whole thing. You should see these tunnels, man, unbelievably cool. Lord knows who or what made them. Or why. As you crawl along, they get real skinny, like maybe kids made them. You snake on your belly until you come to the end and another chamber, sometimes big enough where even I could squat. And at each of the chambers, there were more tunnels. It just now occurs to me that I saw something like this on TV with Cronkite. Like the VC. Maybe it's a Vietnamese camp?"
　　"Do you really think," I asked, "that the Vietcong have invaded America and set up camp in the middle of nowhere?"
　　"No, man. Do you think I'm crazy? Maybe it's where they train our guys to go into the tunnels to find their guys? Like a beehive. A freakin' maze. I went back and forth, trying not to get lost, when suddenly I realized that I hadn't heard from Oscar all day. Just when I think maybe he's dead, here he crawls in like a mole and pops his head up. The thing of it is—and I didn't notice this at first because of all the dirt and grime—he was naked as a jaybird."
　　"What happened to his clothes?" Mom asked.
　　The changelings stripped him, wrapped him in a caul of spiderwebs, and threw the body in the river to make him their own. That's what they thought they were doing.
　　"Mrs. Day, I have no clue. First thing we had to do was get up out of the earth, and he showed me these holes along each of the walls where these handgrips and foot ledges had been carved. I didn't notice them before, but up he scooted, like climbing a ladder."
　　I had spent the better part of a month carving out those handholds, and I could almost picture the hobgoblin who was constantly digging in the warren.
　　"It was late when I found him, and the kid was tired and hungry, and in no condition to tramp back through the woods. And I was sure everyone was still looking for us. So we're sitting there wondering what to do next, when he asks me if I'm hungry. He marches right over to the edge of the ring and rolls back an old dirty blanket that's lying there. Underneath is a whole stash of food. Like a grocery store in the middle of the freakin' woods. Peas, pears, applesauce, baked beans, a bag of sugar, a box of salt, dried-out mushrooms, raisins, apples. Like finding a buried treasure."
　　I looked out the window. The storm had abated. Where had they gone?
　　"As I'm fixing up dinner, Oscar starts poking around the edges of this camp, exploring while I'm trying to find a way to open the cans. The kid comes back wearing these groovy old-time pants like knickerbockers and a dingy white sweater. He says he found a whole pile of things. You wouldn't believe the stuff that's out there—clothes and shoes, and gloves, hats, mittens. We go around uncovering all this junk—buttons, a pouch of primo weed—excuse me, Mrs. Day—a rock collection, and old cards and newspapers with stuff written on them, like a kid practicing his ABCs. Someone had saved a ball of string, a hair comb, a pair of rusty scissors. This freakin' mixed-up doll baby. Like a commune out there, man. When I told the cops, they said they were going to go up and investigate, because they don't want those types around our town."
　　"I should say not." My mother pursed her lips.
　　Elizabeth barked at her. "What's wrong with communing with nature?"
　　"I didn't say anything about nature."
　　"Whoever lives out there," Jimmy continued, "must have split before I got there, because they were gone, man. Over supper, Oscar tells me how he came to be naked in a hole in the ground in the middle of the forest. This group of children, pretending to be pirates, kidnapped him and tied him to a tree. Another boy put on a mask that looked exactly like him and made him jump into a hole. He took off all his clothes, and then he made Oscar take off all his clothes. I'm getting kind of freaked out, but the other kid says for Oscar to forget it all happened, and he climbs out, puts a lid on the tunnel."
　　He chose not to go through with the change. I tried to remember who that might be.
　　"All the kids ran away, except for one girl, who said she would help him home. But when she heard a dog barking, she ran away too. When nobody came for him in the morning, he was scared and all freaked out, and that's when he heard me. I don't believe a word of it, but it does explain a lot of things. Like the children's old clothes."
　　"And that boy they found in the river," Mom said.
　　"Maybe that's what he thought he saw," Elizabeth said. "Maybe that boy kinda looked like him, and that's why Oscar thought he was wearing a mask."
　　Mary put forward her own theory. "Maybe it was his double. Daddy used to say that everybody has one."
　　Mom had the last word on the subject. "Sounds like the fairies to me."
　　They all laughed, but I knew better. I pressed my forehead against the cool windowpane and searched the landscape for those I have tried to forget. The puddles in the yard were sinking slowly into the earth.

    尸体虽然在水里泡了一天，但还是被确认为小奥斯卡•拉甫。
　　遮布拉开，露出的溺水者肿胀的样子相当骇人。毫无疑问是他，虽然我们都没法凑上前去细看。若不是这具浸水的尸体上缠绕着的奇怪编网，也许大家会以为这只是一场悲惨的意外事故。他会在一块好地的两米深处安息，而他的父母会独自悲伤。但他们一把他打捞出来，就有了怀疑。尸体被运送到十二公里外的太平间去做验尸和查讯。验尸官查找死因，但结果出人意料。他外表完全是个小男孩，但解剖开来时，医生却发现是个老人。这件怪事没有见诸报端，但后来奥斯卡告诉我，体内器官都已萎缩，心脏有了坏疽，肺、肝、脾都已脱水，而大脑则是一个行将就木的百岁老翁的模样。
　　这一发现浸透了诡异和悲伤的气氛，而吉米•卡明斯也失踪了。
　　那晚他和其他搜寻人员进入森林，但没有回来。吉米没来医院时，我们还都以为他先回家了，或者另找了条路出山，但到了第二天晚上，乔治开始担心了。第三天，我们几个都为吉米焦急不安，想方设法打探消息。我们打算如果天气好的话，当天傍晚就去森林。但正当我坐下来和家人用餐时，餐厅的电话铃响了。伊丽莎白和玛丽都从座位上跳起来，希望是来找她们的男孩，但母亲命她们坐下。
　　“我不喜欢你们的朋友在吃饭时打电话来。”妈妈提起墙上电话的话筒，刚说了句“你好”，她的脸就变成了一块调色板，惊喜、震愕、怀疑诧异无不齐备。她半转过身继续说完话，我们都看着她的后脑勺。她用左手挂断电话，右手当胸划了个十字，回过身来告诉我们这个消息。
　　“真是奇迹。是奥斯卡•拉甫。吉米•卡明斯没事，他找到他还活着。”
　　妹妹们嘴里的食物吃到一半停了下来，叉子悬在半空中，两眼瞪着她。我让母亲再把话说一遍，她又说了一遍，意识到自己说的意思。
　　“他们一起走出了森林。他活着。他在洞里找到了他。小奥斯卡•拉甫。”
　　伊丽莎白的叉子落了下去，“咔嗒”一声掉在餐盘上。
　　“你在开玩笑吧。活着? ”玛丽说。
　　“太刺激了。”伊丽莎白说。
　　妈妈心不在焉地拨弄着额角上的发夹，站在椅子后面寻思。
　　“他不是死了吗? ”我问道。
　　“嗯……一定是哪里出了错。”
　　“这是个超级大错，妈。”玛丽说。
　　伊丽莎白直愣愣地问了一个我们都在想的问题，“那么太平间里的那个是谁? ”
　　玛丽问她的双胞胎姐姐，“难道还有另一个奥斯卡•拉甫? 这可太酷了。”
　　母亲重重地坐到椅子里。她盯着一盘烤鸡，浑然不觉地想着，把她所能理解的真实和刚刚听到的事情联系起来。双胞胎大搞竞猜，她们的假想都荒谬不堪。我紧张得吃不下饭，只好走到门廊处吸烟，思索起来。吸到第二支“骆驼”时，我听到一辆车开来。樱红色的福特驶上马路，开进我们的车道，在砾石地面上减速停下。
　　双胞胎冲到门廊上来，纱门“砰砰”关了两下。卡明斯从车里出来了，他把头发往后扎成一把，鼻梁上架着一副玫瑰红的眼镜，两个手指摇晃着V 字形，咧嘴笑开了。
　　玛丽和伊丽莎白娴雅地和他打过招呼，羞答答地朝他微笑。吉米大步跨过院子，两下跳上门廊阶梯，站到我面前，等着我像欢迎英雄似的欢迎他。我们握了手。
　　“祝贺你大难不死，伙计。”
　　“伙计，你已经知道了? 你听说了新闻? ”他两眼充血，我不知道他是喝多了还是累坏了。
　　妈妈从门口冲出来，朝我朋友张开双臂，大力拥抱他，把他弄了个大红脸。我的妹妹们矜持不下去了，她们也加入进来，差点用她们的激情把他给扑倒了。我站在一边，看着她们一个个从他身上剥下来。
　　“把事情全告诉我们，”母亲说，“你要喝点什么吗? 我给你倒杯冰茶。”
　　她在厨房里忙的时候，我们都各自坐在了藤椅上。吉米不知该选哪个妹妹才好，只好坐在长靠椅上，双胞胎并肩坐在门廊的秋千上。我靠在栏杆上，妈妈回来后，就坐到吉米身边，朝他微笑，好像他是她儿子一样。
　　“戴夫人，您有没有见过死而复生的人? ”
　　“哦，仁慈的天神和天使保佑我们吧。”
　　“拉甫夫妇看到他时也这么想，”吉米说，“好像奥斯卡是从天堂掉下来的，或者被地狱里的风刮了出来。他们没法相信亲眼看到的事。因为他们都已经准备把遗体送去殡仪馆了，想小奥斯卡死了，就下葬吧。我拉着他们儿子的手进去时，路易斯看起来像是得了心脏病，伙计，莉蓓走过来说：‘你是真的吗? 我能摸摸你吗?你是什么?能和我说话吗? ’那孩子冲她跑过去，搂住她的腰，她就知道他不是鬼魂。”
　　两个一模一样的人，一个死了，另一个活着——换生灵和孩子。
　　“所有的医生和护士都吓坏了。说到护士，亨利，有个护士说她那晚见过你，就是他们把另一个男孩打捞上来的那晚。”
　　没有另一个男孩。
　　“路易斯开始摇我的手，莉蓓把‘上帝保佑你’讲了至少一千遍。
　　还有奥斯卡，那个大奥斯卡，几分钟后进来了，他看到侄子后的反应也是这么一个过程，那伙计也很高兴见到我。那些问题都飞过来了，当然我已经把整件事跟消防队员和警察说了一遍。他们把我们送到医院，因为他已经在那里待了三天。他们差不多是说不出这孩子身体有什么问题。就是时间拖得有点长，好像他出去远足旅游了一样，我们都累坏了，又脏又渴。”
　　一场猛烈的暴风雨压黑了西天。森林中，动物们会纷纷寻找地方躲雨。妖怪们在他们古老的营寨下面挖了地洞，迷宫般的地道能让他们躲避恶劣天气。
　　“但你应该知道这件事，伙计，所以我开了车直接来这儿了。”
　　他一口喝下了冰茶，母亲又立刻给他倒了一杯。她和我们几个一样，急着等故事开头。我在想，他的故事会不会把暴风雨都打败呢? 她忍无可忍地问道：“那么，你是怎么找到小奥斯卡的? ”
　　“嗨，亨利，我不是告诉过你我看到那个护士泰思•伍德郝斯了吗? 兄弟，你应该给她打个电话。那天晚上，我一心寻找孩子，后来忘了时间。我的表停在了七点半。我可吓坏了，因为那时候一定已经九点多了。不是我相信鬼啊什么的，但四周黑洞洞的。”
　　我看了看表，望了望逼近的暴风雨，想要算出它的速度。如果雨打下来，他们还有一两个还在营寨外，就只能找个山洞或树洞避过风头。
　　“我迷路迷得厉害，那时只想找到自己的路回去。我走到了一块林中空地，星光下显得怪怪的。草丛和树叶里有压平的地方，有点像鹿在那里躺过似的。接着我看见沿着空地一圈，有一些平整的椭圆形，我想是有一群动物在那里过夜，对吧? ”
　　在晴朗的夏夜，我们睡在地面上。每天早晨我们都会研究天象，看看是否会变天。吉米停下来歇口气，我觉得自己又听见了河中石头的乐音。
　　“那里有一圈灰烬，还有篝火烧过的枝条，是某些他妈的猎人或背包客留下的，如果我要在森林里过夜，那里也许是个好地方，因为显然已经有人住过了。我生了一小堆火，火光让我打起瞌睡来，我知道后来我就睡着了。做怪梦，幻觉，糟糕的迷幻药。远远的有个声音，一个小男孩在叫着‘妈妈’，但我看不到他，我累得不想起来。这种梦你也做过，你会觉得闹钟在梦里响起来，但实际上是在你床边响起来对吗? 你以为那还是在梦里，就不肯起来关闹钟，然后就睡过头了，后来你醒来时就想起来你做过一个闹钟的梦，对吧? ”
　　“我想我每天早上都做这样的梦。”玛丽说。
　　“就这意思。我看不见他，但我能听见小奥斯卡哭着喊妈妈，于是我开始找他。
　　‘奥斯卡? 你妈妈和爸爸让我来找你。’他就叫起来，‘我在下面! ’在哪下面?
　　我看不见他，他在哪下面呢? ‘不停地叫我名字’……我试着去找他的声音。接着我掉到了该死的洞里。有人把枝叶和别的东西放在入口上，像个陷阱一样，我就压穿枝叶掉了下去。我肩膀以上卡在洞外，那时候是半夜三更，孩子在旁边快把眼睛都哭瞎了。情况太糟了，伙计，太糟了。”
　　女孩们停下了秋千。母亲身体往前靠。我忘了逼过来的暴风雨，满心想着捉摸不定的曲调，但连它也沉陷到了谈话的沼泽地里。
　　“我陷在里面了，伙计。我的胳膊卡在洞边。更要命的是，我的脚够不到洞底，只是晃在那里，晃在一个无底洞的上头。说不定底下有什么东西想要捉我。”他朝女孩们作势一扑，她们尖叫起来，咯咯直笑。
　　“我待在那里，思考我的处境。戴夫人，我大声叫小奥斯卡别再扯嗓子了，因为他让我心烦意乱。我说：‘我卡在洞里了。但我一有办法出去，就会立刻把你弄出来。’他说他觉得这是一个地道。我让他四处爬动一下，看看是不是会见到一双大脚悬在半空中，那是我的脚，他能否帮我出去? ”
　　远处传来隆隆的雷声。我跳下门廊，跑出去摇上他的车窗。妖怪们会胳膊大腿地抱在一起，害怕突如其来的闪电。歌声又从我头脑中溜走了。
　　“到了早晨，我看清我在什么地方了，但还是卡在洞里，我朝左侧挤了挤，扭转身子掉了下去。原来我离洞底只有半米不到。但我双脚发麻，胳膊也痛，我得撒一泡尿——戴夫人，原谅我讲粗话。我累得要命，但那孩子……”
　　一声炸雷，我们都跳将起来，接着一道闪电布满天空。空气里有股电的气味，暴雨就要来了。最初的大雨点像硬币似的，敲打着地面，我们迅速躲进屋里。卡明斯坐在沙发中间，一边一个坐着玛丽和伊丽莎白，妈妈和我坐在安乐椅上。
　　“在洞底，”吉米继续滔滔不绝，“地道有三个方向。我向每个方向都喊了话，但没有回音。我开始想奥斯卡会不会在哪条通道的另一头呢? 还是这整桩事情都是我在做梦呢? 你真该看看这些地道，伙计，不可思议地酷啊。上帝才知道是谁或者什么东西建造了它们，又是为了什么目的才造的。你爬在里面，它们可真够小的，像是小孩子造的。你贴着地面像蛇一样地爬，爬到另一头就是一个房间，有的房间稍大些，可以让我蹲起来。在每个房间里又有更多的通道。我简直觉得像是看到了电视里克劳凯特①报道的场面。就像越战营。
　　说不定就是一个越战营? ”
　　“你真的觉得，”我问，“越共会侵略美国，还会在不知道哪里的地方搭营建寨? ”
　　“不，伙计。你以为我疯了吗? 说不定那个地方是他们用来训练我们的人，去地道里寻找他们的人? 像个蜂窝一样。一个他妈的迷宫。我来来回回，不想走迷路，但突然我意识到我整天都没听到奥斯卡的声音。我正在想他会不会死了，他就像只鼹鼠一样地爬过来抬起脑袋。问题是——我起先没有注意到他是因为他满身泥土尘灰——他就像个傻瓜似的什么都没穿。”
　　“他的衣服怎么了? ”妈妈问。
　　换生灵扒光了他，把他裹入一张蜘蛛网里，再把身体扔进河里变成他们的一员。
　　这就是他们认为自己在做的事。
　　“戴夫人，我毫无头绪。我们第一件事就是到地面上去，他让我看这些洞壁上都凿着拉手和踩脚的地方。我先前倒没有注意，他就像爬楼梯一样登了上去。”
　　我花了大半个月凿这些拉手，我几乎能想起那个不停挖洞的妖怪的样子。
　　“我找到他时天已经晚了，孩子又累又饿，我们没法从森林里出来。我肯定大家都还在找我们。于是我们就坐在那里想下一步怎么办，他问我是不是饿了。他走到空地边上，卷起一块脏兮兮的毯子，下面藏满了食物。就像他妈的林子中间有个杂货铺。豌豆、梨子、苹果酱、烤豆、一袋糖、一盒盐、干蘑菇、葡萄干、苹果。
　　像是找到了一个埋藏的宝藏。”
　　我从窗外望去，暴风雨减弱了。他们去哪里了呢? “我在弄饭时，奥斯卡开始在这个营寨边上东翻西找，我在想办法把罐头打开。这孩子回来时穿着那些很帅的老式短裤，像荷兰移民来的纽约人一样，还有一条邋遢的白套衫。他说他找到了一大堆东西。你没法相信那里有些什么东西——衣服、鞋子、手套、帽子、棒球手套。
　　我们把这些垃圾翻了出来——纽扣，一革袋的可卡因大麻——不好意思，戴夫人——一张摇滚乐唱片，还有旧纸牌，上面写着字的报纸，像是有个小孩在上面学写ABc。
　　有人收藏了一卷绳子，一把梳子，一把生锈的剪刀。他妈的装拼起来的娃娃。就像那里有个妈咪一样，伙计。我告诉警察后，他们说会去调查一下，因为他们不想让我们镇子附近有这种人待着。”
　　“我也要说这样不行。”我母亲抿着嘴唇。
　　伊丽莎白朝她喊：“和大自然交流有什么不对? ”
　　“我没说到大自然什么的。”
　　“不管住在那里的是什么人，”吉米继续说，“我们去的时候已经走了，因为他们都不在，伙计。晚饭时，奥斯卡告诉我他是怎样在林子中间的地洞里，又怎样衣服扒得精光。那群孩子假扮成海盗绑架了他，把他绑在一棵树上。一个男孩戴了个面具，跟他一模一样，还叫他跳到洞里去。他脱光了衣服，又让奥斯卡也脱光。
　　我都听呆了，那个孩子让奥斯卡忘了发生的一切，他爬了出去，在地道口盖了盖子。”
　　他没有把换生进行到底。我在想他是谁。
　　“所有的孩子都逃跑了，只剩下一个女孩，她说能帮他回家。但她一听见狗叫，也逃跑了。到了早上，没有人来找他，他害怕极了，简直要发疯，那时候他听到了我的声音。我一个字也不相信，但这确实能解释很多事情。比如孩子的旧衣服。”
　　“还有他们在河里找到的男孩。”妈妈说。
　　“也许那就是他以为自己看到的那个，”伊丽莎白说，“也许那个男孩和他有几分像，所以奥斯卡以为他戴了面具。”
　　玛丽提出了自己的理论，“可能那就是和他一模一样的那个。爸爸以前说过，每个人都有这样一个。”
　　妈妈用一句话结束了话题：“我听着像仙灵。”
　　他们都笑了，但我知道是怎么回事。我把额头靠在冷冷的窗玻璃上，在景色中搜寻那些我曾经想要忘记的身影。院子里水坑中的积水正在慢慢渗到土里去。
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