《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 只看该作者 20楼  发表于: 2013-10-28 0

Chapter 20
　　We lost our home and never went back. Trackers and dogs arrived first, poking about the camp, uncovering what we had left behind in our evacuation. Then men in black suits came to take photographs of the holes and our footprints left in the dirt. A helicopter hovered over the site, filming the oval perimeter and well-trod pathways into the woods. Dozens of soldiers in green uniforms collected every discarded possession and carted them off in boxes and bags. A few souls shinnied underground, crawled through the network of burrows and emerged blinking at the sky as if they had been beneath the sea. Weeks later, another crew arrived, their heavy machinery rumbling up the hill, cutting a swath through the old trees to collapse the tunnels, dig them up, and bury them again, turning the earth over and over until the top ran orange with thick wet clay. Then they doused the ring with gasoline and set the field afire. By the end of that summer, nothing remained but ashes and the blackened skeletons of a few trees.
　　Such destruction did not temper the urge to return home. I could not sleep without the familiar pattern of stars and sky framed by branches overhead. Every night-sound—a snapped twig or a woodrat scrabbling through the brush—disturbed my rest, and in the mornings my head and neck ached. I heard, too, the others moaning in their dreams or straining behind the bushes to relieve the growing pressure in their guts. Smaolach looked over his shoulder a dozen times each hour. Onions chewed her nails and braided intricate chains of grass. Each swell of restlessness was followed by a swale of listlessness. Knowing our home was gone, we kept looking for it still, as if hope alone could restore our lives. When hope faded, a morbid curiosity set in. We would go back time and again to worry over the bones.
　　Hidden in the top of tall oaks or scattered in pockets along the ridge, we'd witness and whisper among ourselves, descrying the loss and ruin. The raspberries crushed under the backhoe, the chokecherry felled by a bulldozer, the paths and lanes of our carousals and mad ecstasies erased as one might rub away a drawing or tear up a page. That campsite had existed since the arrival of the first French fur traders, who had encountered the tribes at their ancestral territory. Homesick, we drifted away, huddling in makeshift shelters, lost for good.
　　We wandered rough country into early autumn. The influx of men, dogs, and machines made moving about difficult and unsafe, so we spent hard days and nights together, bored and hungry. Whenever someone roamed too far from the group, we ran into danger. Ragno and Zanzara were spotted by a surveyor when they crossed in front of his spyglass. The man hollered and gave chase, but my friends were too fast. Dump trucks brought in loads of gravel to line the dirt road carved from the highway to our old clearing. Chavisory and Onions made a game of finding gems among the rubble; any unusual stone would do. By moonlight, they picked over each newly spread load, until the night when they were discovered by a driver sleeping in his rig. He sneaked up on them and grabbed the girls by their collars. They would have been caught if Onions hadn't snapped free and bitten him hard enough to draw blood. That driver may be the only man alive with a faery's scars lined up like beads in the web of skin between his thumb and finger.
　　On the construction site where the men dug cellars, Luchóg spotted an open pack of cigarettes resting on the front seat of an empty truck. Quiet as a mouse, he skittered over, and as he reached inside to steal the smokes, his knee hit the horn. He grabbed the Lucky Strikes as the door to a nearby outhouse burst open, and the man, tugging up his trousers, swore and cursed as he came looking about for the trespasser. He hustled over to the truck, searched about i he cab, and then ducked his head behind the dashboard. From the edge of the forest, Luchóg could not resist any longer and struck a match in the lingering darkness. After the very first drag, he had to duck when birdshot peppered the air above his head. The man fired the shotgun again, long after my friend had disappeared, laughing and coughing, into the heart of the forest.
　　After these incidents, Béka clamped down on our freedoms. We were not allowed to travel alone, nor could we be on any road during the daylight. He restricted any forays into town for supplies out of fear of detection. By day, the hum of engines, the staccato of hammers echoing from our old home to wherever we had camped. By night, a haunting stillness invaded. I longed to run away with Speck to the library and its comforting privacy. I missed my books and papers, and my materials were few: McInnes's fading composition book, a drawing of the woman in the red coat, a handful of letters. Numbed, I was not writing, either, and time passed unrecorded. In a way, it did not exist at all.
　　To gather food, Ragno, Zanzara, and I sewed together a crude net, and after much trial and error, we managed to capture a brace of grouse, which we then killed and took home for dinner. The tribe made a ceremony of plucking feathers, tying them in bundles, and wearing them in our hair like the Huron. We dressed the birds and risked our first large fire of the season, allowing us to roast our meal and providing comfort on a cool night. Assembled in a small circle, our faces glowed in the flickering light, signs of anxious weariness in our tired eyes, but the meal would prove revitalizing. As the fire burnt down and our bellies filled, a calm complacency settled upon us, like a blanket drawn around our shoulders by absent mothers.
　　Wiping his greasy mouth on his sleeve, Béka cleared his throat to summon our attention. The chitchat and marrow sucking stopped at once. "We have angered the people, and there will be no rest for a long, long time. It was wrong to lose that boy, but worse still was bringing him to camp in the first place." We had heard this speech many times before, but Onions, his favorite, played the Fool to his Lear.
　　"But they have Igel. Why are they so mad?" she asked.
　　"She's right. They have Igel. He's their Oscar," Kivi said, joining the chorus. "But we don't have ours. Why should they be mad? We are the ones who have lost."
　　"This is not about the boy. They found us, found our home, and now bury it under asphalt. They know we are here. They won't stop looking for us until they find us and drive us from these woods. A hundred years ago, there were coyotes, wolves, lions in these hills. The sky blackened with flocks of passenger pigeons every spring. Bluebirds lived among us, and the creeks and rivers were fat with fishes and toads and terrapins. Once it was not unusual to see a man with one hundred wolf pelts drying by his barn. Look around you. They come in, hunt and chop, and take it all away. Igel was right: Things will never be the same, and we are next."
　　Those who had finished their meals threw the bones in the fire, which sputtered and crackled with the new fat. We were bored by doom and gloom. While I listened to our new leader and his message, I noticed some of us did not accept his sermon. Whispers and murmurs ran along the circle. At the far end of the fire, Smaolach was not paying attention, but drawing in the dirt with a stick.
　　"You think you know better than me?" Béka yelled down to him. "You know what to do, and how to keep us alive?"
　　Smaolach kept his eyes down, pushed the point into the earth.
　　"I am the eldest," Béka continued. "By rights, I am the new leader, and I will not accept anyone challenging my authority."
　　Speck raised her voice in defense. "Nobody questions the rules... or your leadership."
　　Continuing to make his map, Smaolach spoke so softly as to almost not be heard at all. "I am merely showing my friends here our new position, as I estimate it from the time traveled and by calculating the stars in the sky. You have earned the right to be our leader, and to tell us where to go."
　　With a grunt, Béka took Onions by the hand and disappeared into the brush. Smaolach, Luchóg, Speck, Chavisory, and I huddled around the map as the others dispersed. I do not remember ever seeing a map before. Curious as to how it worked and what all of the symbols represented, I leaned forward and examined the drawing, deducing at once that the wavy lines stood for waterways—the river and the creek—but what to make of the perfectly straight line that crossed the river, the bunches of boxes arranged in a grid, and the jagged edge between one large oval and an X in the sand?
　　"The way I see it"—Smaolach pointed to the right side of the map— "there is what's known and what's unknown. To the east is the city. And I can only guess that the smell of the air means the city is heading our way. East is out. The question is: Do we cross the river to the south? If so, we cut ourselves off from the town." He pointed with the stick to the set of squares.
　　"If we go south, we would have to cross the river again and again for supplies and clothes and shoes. The river is a dangerous place."
　　"Tell that," Chavisory said, "to Oscar Love."
　　Luchóg offered an alternative. "But we don't know that another town might be somewhere over the other side. No one has ever looked. I say we scout for a place on the other side of the river."
　　"We need to be near the water," I volunteered, and put my finger on the wavy lines.
　　"But not in the water," Speck argued. "I say north and west, stick to the creek or follow the river till it bends up." She took the stick from his hand and drew where the river curved to the north.
　　"How do you know it bends?" Chavisory asked.
　　"I've been that far."
　　We looked at Speck with awe, as if she had seen the edge of the world. She stared back, defying anyone's challenge or disbelief. "Two days from here. Or we should find a place near the creek. It dries up in August and September some years, but we could build a cistern."
　　Thinking of our hideaway beneath the library, I spoke up. "I vote for the creek. We follow it from the hills into town whenever we need supplies or anything. If we go too far away—"
　　"He's right, you know," said Luchóg, patting his chest a?d the empty pouch beneath his shirt. "We need things from town. Let's tell Béka we want to stay by the creek. Agreed?"
　　He lay there snoring, slack-jawed, his arm flung over Onions at his side. She heard our approach, popped open her eyes, smiled, and put a finger to her lips to whisper hush. Had we taken her advice, perhaps we would have caught him at a better time, in a more generous mood, but Speck, for one, never had any patience. She kicked his foot and roused him from his slumber.
　　"What do you want now?" he roared through a yawn. Since his ascension to leadership, Béka attempted to appear bigger than he was. He was trying to imply a threat by rising to his feet.
　　"We are tired of this life," said Speck.
　　"Of never having two nights in one bed," said Chavisory.
　　Luchóg added, "I haven't had a smoke since that man nearly shot off my head."
　　Béka raked his face with his palm, considering our demands in the haze of half-sleep. He began to pace before us, two steps to the left, pivot, two steps to the right. When he stopped and folded his arms behind his back, he showed that he would prefer not to have this conversation, but we did not listen to such silent refusals. A breeze rattled the upper branches of the trees.
　　Smaolach stepped up to him. "First of all, nobody respects and admires your leadership more than me. You have kept us from harm and led us out of darkness, but we need a new camp, not this wandering aimlessly. Water nearby and a way back to civilization. We decided—"
　　Béka struck like a snake, choking off the rest of the sentence. Wrapping his fingers around Smaolach's throat, he squeezed until my friend dropped to his knees. "I decide. You decide to listen and follow. That's all."
　　Chavisory rushed to Smaolach's defense but was smacked away by a single backhanded slap across her face. When Béka relaxed his grip, Smaolach fell to the ground, gasping for breath. Addressing the three of us still standing, Béka pointed a finger to the sky and said, "I will find us a home. Not you." liking Onions by the hand, he strode off into the night. I looked to Speck for reassurance, but her eyes were fixed upon the violent spot, as if she were burning revenge into her memory.

    我们失去了家园，再也没有回去。先到的是追踪者和狗，他们查探营寨，发现了我们撤退时留下的东西。接着穿黑西装的人来给洞穴和我们印在泥土上的脚印拍照。直升飞机在营地上空盘旋，拍摄的树木周界和踩平了的森林小路。几十个穿绿军装的士兵收走了所有遗弃物品，分门别类地放进箱袋里。有几个人爬到了地下，在通道中匍匐前进，出来时朝天空眨巴眼睛，好像他们去了一遭海底。几周后，来了另一拨人，他们带着沉重的机器翻山越岭，从古老的森林里开出一条通道，他们弄塌了这些地道，掘出来，再埋好，一遍遍翻着土地，湿重的黏土翻了出来，和地表的赤土混在一起。他们在圆圈里倒满汽油，放了一把火。到了夏末，什么都没剩下，只有灰烬和几棵烧焦的树。
　　这样的破坏也没能阻挡我们回家的愿望。抬头望不到树枝间熟悉的星星和天空，我无法入睡。晚上一有动静——一条小树枝的断裂声或一只山鼠在矮树丛中的拨拉声——我就不得安眠，到了早晨，我头痛颈酸。我也听到其他人在睡梦中呻吟，在灌木丛后翻来覆去，减轻体内渐增的压力。斯茂拉赫每个小时都会回头张望十几次。
　　奥尼恩斯咬指甲，把草编织成细密的链条。每次风吹草动之后大家都没精打采。我们知道家园已经被毁，但还是在寻找它，仿佛仅仅怀抱希望也能重建生活。希望落空后，病态的好奇心弥漫开来。我们一次次地回去，为那些残骸忧心忡忡。
　　我们躲藏在高高的橡木树顶上，或分散在山岭里的洞穴中，一边观望，一边小声交谈，眺望我们的损失和被破坏的家园。覆盆子树被锄耕机碾碎了，野樱桃树被推土机推平了，我们享受盛宴和狂欢的小路和通道被抹去了，好像擦掉了一张图画或撕去了一页纸似的。早在第一批法国草皮商到来之际，这个营地就存在了，他们在当地人世居的地盘上碰到了土著。我们心怀故土，离乡背井，在临时搭建的棚子下挤在一起，永远地迷失了。
　　到了早秋，我们还在荒郊野岭间奔走。人类、狗还有机器的进山使得转移变得既困难又不安全，因此我们在艰难的时日中，一直待在一起，百无聊赖，饥肠辘辘。
　　只要有人远离群体，我们就会遭遇危险。
　　劳格诺和赞扎拉从某个搜寻人员的望远镜前经过时，被发现了。他大呼小叫地追他们，但我的朋友们跑得太快了。自卸车带来了砾石，铺在从高速公路通往我们旧日空地的一条土路上。卡维素芮和奥尼恩斯玩起一种在碎石头里找宝石的游戏，只要找到特别的石头就算数。她们在月光下翻找新卸下的石头堆，但有一天晚上被睡在拖拉机里的司机发现了。他偷偷摸摸地上前擒住女孩们的衣领。要不是奥尼恩斯挣脱出来把他咬出了血，她们就会被抓了。那个司机可能是惟一一个被仙灵咬过的人，那条伤疤像串珠子一样留在大拇指和食指间的皮肤上。
　　在人们打桩的建筑工地上，鲁契克发现一辆空车的前座上有盒拆了包的香烟。
　　他像老鼠一样悄悄地掠过去，正当他进去想偷香烟时，膝盖撞到了喇叭。他一把抓住“幸运牌”烟，附近厕所的门猛地开了，男人提着裤子，骂骂咧咧地出来找小偷。
　　他查了车厢，搜了驾驶室，还把头伸到挡泥板下去看。在林边，鲁契克实在忍不住了，在黑暗中擦亮了火柴。他才吸了一口，就猫下腰，一颗小号铅弹在他头顶上方爆裂。那人又开了一熗，这时我的朋友早已边笑边咳跑进林子深处去了。
　　出了这些事后，贝卡限制我们的自由，不准我们单独外出，也不准我们白天走到路上去。因为害怕被发现，他不准许我们到镇上去偷东西充实补给。白天，无论我们在哪里扎营，还是会从老家传来机器的嗡嗡声，起伏的敲打声。晚上，四周寂静得可怕。我盼望着和斯帕克一起逃去图书馆，待在舒适的密室里。我想念我的书籍和纸，我的东西不多：麦克伊内斯的陈旧的作文簿，一张红衣女人的画像，一叠信件。我浑浑噩噩的也没有再写什么，时间不经记录地溜走。在某种意义上，时间根本不存在。
　　为了弄到食物，劳格诺、赞扎拉和我一起编织了一张粗陋的网，在试了很多次、出了很多错后，我们捕到了一对松鸡，把它们杀了带回家当晚餐。大家开了个拔毛庆祝会，像印第安人一样把羽毛串起来戴在头上。我们插上鸟毛，在这个季度第一次冒险点了一大堆火，烧烤鸟肉，凉飕飕的夜晚也过得很舒服。我们围成小堆，脸庞在熊熊火光中照亮了，疲惫的眼睛透着焦虑和厌倦，但这顿饭让我们精神一振。
　　火光渐熄，肚子填饱，一种安静的满足感油然而生，就像不在场的母亲在我们肩膀上披了一条毯子。
　　贝卡用袖子擦了擦油光光的嘴巴，清了清嗓子唤起我们的注意。
　　还在聊天的、吸骨髓的都停下来，“我们已经把人惹火了，会有很长很长时间不得安宁。我们不该把孩子丢了，但更错的是刚开始就不该把他带回来。”我们都多次听过这个调调了，他最喜欢的奥尼恩斯扮起了李尔王身边的小丑。
　　“但他们有伊格尔，为什么还那么生气? ”她问道。
　　“她说得对。他们有伊格尔。他是他们的奥斯卡，”齐维也这么说，“但我们又没有奥斯卡。他们生什么气啊? 我们才是受损失的。”
　　“这和男孩没关系。他们找到我们，找到我们的窝，现在用柏油把它封起来了。
　　他们知道我们在这儿，会不停地找我们，直到找到并把我们赶出这片森林为止。一百年前，这边山里有山狗、野狼、狮子。
　　每年春天，空中都会路过黑压压的鸽群。蓝知更鸟和我们生活在一起，小溪和河流里有很多鱼、癞蛤蟆和乌龟。以前一个男人把一百条狼皮挂在谷仓上晒，也不是罕见的事。看看你们周围。他们进来，打猎，砍伐，然后把东西拿走。伊格尔说得对：一切不复从前了，我们就是下一个。”
　　吃完饭的人把骨头丢进火里，骨头和新鲜的脂肪劈啪爆响。我们因厄运而厌烦不堪，情绪低落。我在听我们的新领袖说话时，注意到有几位并不接受他的说教，圈子里交头接耳的。在篝火的另一头，斯茂拉赫并没有注意听讲，而是用一根棍子捣着泥土。
　　“你觉得你懂得比我还多? ”贝卡朝他叫道，“你知道该怎么做，怎么让我们活下去? ”
　　斯茂拉赫垂下目光，在泥土里戳了一个点。
　　“我是最大的，”贝卡又说，“按道理，我是新领袖，我不会接受任何人挑战我的权威。”
　　斯帕克提高声音顶嘴：“没有人质疑规矩……或者你的领导权。”
　　斯茂拉赫继续画他的地图，他说话的声音低得别人都听不见，“我只不过给朋友们看看我们现在所处的位置，我是根据时间和天上的星星来计算的。你有权当我们的领袖，告诉我们去哪里。”
　　贝卡咕哝了一声，牵着奥尼恩斯的手钻入了灌木丛。斯茂拉赫、鲁契克、斯帕克、卡维素芮和我一起围绕地图而睡，其他人各自散去。
　　我不记得以前见过地图。我想知道地图是怎么用的，那些符号又代表什么，于是靠过去细看那张图，顿时被吸引住了，弯弯曲曲的线条代表水道——河流和小溪——但越过河流的直线、方格里的一个个小盒子、大椭圆形和沙地里的x 之间的凹凸不平的边线又代表什么呢? “我是这样看的，”斯茂拉赫指着地图的右侧，“有知道的地方，也有不知道的地方。东边是城市。我只能靠空气里的味道来猜测，城市正在向我们靠近。不管东边了，问题是：我们要不要渡河去南边? 如果那样，我们就和镇子隔绝了。”他用棍子点着那些方块。
　　“如果我们去南边，我们弄补给、衣服、鞋子就得一次次渡河。河流是危险的地方。”
　　“把这个，”卡维素芮说，“跟奥斯卡•拉甫说。”
　　鲁契克提出一个方案，“但我们不知道另一边会不会也有一个镇子。没有人去看过。我说我们去河对岸找个地方。”
　　“我们需要待在河流附近。”我说着，把手指放在曲线上。
　　“但不是在水里，”斯帕克纠正说，“我说去北边和西边，沿着溪滴或跟着河流走，直到它拐弯。”她从他手中拿过棍子，画出了河流折向北边的地方。
　　“你怎么知道它拐弯? ”卡维素芮问。
　　“我去过那里。”
　　我们都用敬畏的目光看着斯帕克，好像她曾见识过世界的边缘。
　　她回瞪着我们，否定每个人的挑战和怀疑。“从这里走过去两天。或者我们应该在溪流附近找个地方。有些年在八月和九月它会干涸，但我们可以建个蓄水池。”
　　我想到我们图书馆下面的藏身处，开口说：“我选小溪。如果我们需要供给或别的什么，可以顺着它从山上进镇子。同意吗? ”
　　“他说得对，你们知道，”鲁契克说，拍拍胸口和衬衫下瘪瘪的革袋，“我们需要镇上的东西。我们去跟贝卡说想要待在西边，同意吗? ”
　　贝卡躺在那里打鼾，张着嘴，胳膊搂着身边的奥尼恩斯。她听丑我们走近，睁开眼睛微笑起来，手指竖在嘴唇边，低声说“小声点”。
　　如果我们听她的话，也许就能在较好的时间，当他好脾气的时候跟他说，但斯帕克从来就是个急性子，她在他脚上踢了一下，把他惊醒了。
　　“现在你想干什么? ”他打着哈欠吼道。自从贝卡登上领袖宝座．就想让自己显得更为魁梧。他站起来，跃跃欲试地想干架。
　　“我们厌倦了这样的生活。”斯帕克说。
　　“从来没有两个晚上睡在同一个床上。”卡维素芮说。
　　鲁契克补充说：“自从那个男人在我头顶开熗，我再也没有吸过烟。”
　　贝卡用手揉着脸，睡意朦咙地考虑我们的要求。他开始在我前头迈步，向左走两步，转个弯，又向右走两步。他停下来把双手背在背后，让我们知道他并不想谈这件事，但我们不接受这沉默的柞绝。一阵微风拂过树梢。
　　斯茂拉赫走到他面前：“首先，没有人比我更尊敬和赞赏你的领导。你使我们不受伤害，把我们带出了黑暗，但我们需要一个新的营寨，而不是这样漫无目的地游荡。找个靠近水边，又有路通往文明的地方。我们决定……”
　　贝卡蛇一般地出击，窒住了后面的话。他卡住斯茂拉赫的脖子用力掐他，直到我的朋友跪了下来。“我做决定。你听命和服从。就是这样。”
　　卡维素芮奔过去帮斯茂拉赫，但被一耳光扇开。贝卡松开手后，斯茂拉赫跌倒在地，大口喘息。贝卡用一根手指指着天空，对我们三个还站着的说：“给我们找一个家的是我。不是你们。”他拉起奥尼恩斯的手，大步走进黑暗。我向斯帕克看去，想求个安心，却见她盯着暴力现场，仿佛要把报复烙进记忆。
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Chapter 21
　　I am the only person who truly knows what happened in the forest. Jimmy's story explained for me the mystery of the drowned Oscar Love and his miraculous reappearance several days later. Of course, it was the changelings, and all the evidence confirmed my suspicion of a failed attempt to steal the child. The dead body was that of a changeling, an old friend of mine. I could picture the face of the next in line but had erased their names. My life there had been spent imagining the day when I would begin my life in the upper world. As the decades passed, the cast of characters had shifted as, one by one, each became a changeling, found a child, and took its place. In time, I had come to resent every one of them and to disregard each new member of our tribe. I deliberately tried to forget them all. Did I say a friend of mine had died? I had no friends.
　　While gladdened by the prospect of one less devil in the woods, I was oddly disturbed by Jimmy's account of little Oscar Love, and I dreamt that night of a lonely boy like him in an old-fashioned parlor. A pair of finches dart about an ironwork cage. A samovar glistens. On the mantelpiece sits a row of leather-bound books gilded with Gothic letters spelling out foreign tides. The parlor walls papered crimson, heavy dark curtains shutting out the sun, a curious sofa covered with a latticed needlework throw. The boy is alone in the room on a humid afternoon, yet despite the heat, he wears woolen knickers and buttoned boots, a starched blue shirt, and a huge tie that looks like a Christmas bow. His long hair cascades in waves and curls, and he hunches over the piano, entranced by the keyboard, doggedly practicing an etude. From behind him comes another child, the same hair and build, but naked and creeping on the balls of his feet. The piano player plays on, oblivious to the menace. Other goblins steal out from behind the curtains, from under the settee; out of the woodwork and wallpaper, they advance like smoke. The finches scream and crash into the iron bars. The boy stops on a note, turns his head. I have seen him before. They attack as one, working together, this one covering the boy's nose and throat, another taking out the legs, a third pinning the boy's arms behind his back. From beyond the closed door, a man's voice: "Was ist los?" A thumping knock, and the door swings open. The threshold frames a large man with outrageous whiskers. "Gustav?" The father cries out as several hobgoblins rush to restrain him while the others take his son. "Ich erkenne dich! Du willst nur meinen Sohn!"
　　I could still feel the anger in their eyes, the passion of their attack. Where is my father? A voice pierces the dream, calling "Henry, Henry," and I awaken to a damp pillowcase and twisted sheets. Stifling a yawn, I yelled downstairs that I was tired and that this had better be good. My mother shouted back through the door that there was a telephone call and that she was not my secretary. I threw on my bathrobe and headed downstairs.
　　"This is Henry Day," I grunted into the receiver.
　　She laughed. "Hi, Henry. This is Tess Wodehouse. I saw you out in the woods."
　　She could not imagine the reasons for my awkward silence.
　　"When we found the boy. The first one. I was with the ambulance."
　　"Right, the nurse. Tess, Tess, how are you?"
　　"Jimmy Cummings said to give you a call. Would you like to meet somewhere later?"
　　We arranged to meet after her shift, and she had me write down directions to her house. At the bottom of the page, I doodled the name: Gustav.
　　
　　
　　She answered the door and stepped straight out to the porch, the afternoon sunlight stippling across her face and yellow sundress. Out of the shadows, she dazzled. All at once, it seems in retrospect, she revealed what I grew to adore: the asymmetrical mottling of the colors in her irises, a blue vein snaking up her right temple that flashed like a semaphore for passion, the sudden exuberance of her crooked smile. Tess said my name and made it seem real.
　　We drove away, and the wind through the open window caught her hair and blew it across her face. When she laughed, she threw back her head, chin to the sky, and I longed to kiss her lovely neck. I drove as if we had a destination, but in our town there was no particular place to go. Tess turned down the radio, and we talked away the afternoon. She told me all about her life in public school, then on to college, where she had studied nursing. I told her all about parochial school and my aborted studies in music. A few miles outside of town, a new fried-chicken joint had opened recently, so we bought ourselves a bucketful. We stopped by Oscar's to steal a bottle of apple wine. We picnicked on a school playground, abandoned for the summer except for a pair of cardinals on the monkey bars, serenading us with their eight-note song.
　　"I used to think you were the strangest bird, Henry Day. When we were in elementary school together, you might have said two words to me. Or anyone. You were so distracted, as if you heard a song in your head that no one else could hear."
　　"I'm still that way," I told her. "Sometimes when I'm walking down the street or am quiet by myself, I play a tune, imagine my fingers on the keys, and can hear the notes as clear as day."
　　"You seem somewhere else, miles away."
　　"Not always. Not now."
　　Her face brightened and changed. "Strange, isn't it? About Oscar Love, that boy. Or should I say two little boys, alike as two pins."
　　I tried to change the subject. "My sisters are twins."
　　"How do you explain it?"
　　"It's been a long time since high school biology, but when an egg divides—"
　　She licked her fingers. "Not twins. The drowned boy and the lost boy."
　　"I had nothing to do with either one."
　　Tess swallowed a sip of wine and wiped her hands with a napkin. "You are an odd one, but that's what I liked about you, even when we were children. Since the first day I saw you in kindergarten."
　　I sincerely wished I had been there that day.
　　"And when I was a girl, I wanted to hear your song, the one that's playing in your head right now." She leaned across the blanket and kissed me.
　　I took her home at sunset, kissed her once at the door, and drove home in a mild euphoria. The house echoed like the inside of an empty shell. The twins were not home and my mother sat alone in the living room, watching the movie of the week on the television. Slippers crossed on the ottoman, her housecoat buttoned to the collar, she saluted me with a drink in her right hand. I sat down on the couch next to the easy chair and looked at her closely for the first time in years. We were getting older, no doubt, but she had aged well. She was much stouter than when we first met, but lovely still.
　　"How was your date, Henry?" She kept her eyes on the tube.
　　"Great, Mom, fine."
　　"See her again?"
　　"Tess? I hope so."
　　A commercial broke the story, and she turned to smile at me between sips.
　　"Mom, do you ever ..."
　　"What's that, Henry?"
　　"I don't know. Do you ever get lonely? Like you might go out on a date yourself?"
　　She laughed and seemed years younger. "What man would want to go out with an old thing like me?"
　　"You're not so old. And you look ten years younger than you are."
　　"Save your compliments for your nurse."
　　The program returned. "I thought—"
　　"Henry, I've given this thing an hour already. Let me see it to the end."
　　
　　
　　Tess changed my life, changed everything. After our impromptu picnic, we saw each other every day of that wonderful summer. I remember sitting side by side on a park bench, lunches on our laps, talking in the brilliant sunshine. She would turn to me, her face bathed in brightness, so that I would have to shade my eyes to look at her, and she told me stories that fed my desire for more stories, so that I might know her and not forget a single line. I loved each accidental touch, the heat of her, the way she made me feel alive and fully human.
　　On the Fourth of July, Oscar closed the bar and invited nearly half the town to a picnic along the riverbank. He had arranged the celebration in gratitude to all of the people who had helped in the search and rescue of his nephew, for the policemen and firemen, doctors and nurses, all of Little Oscar's schoolmates and teachers, the volunteers—such as myself, Jimmy, and George—the Loves and all their assorted relatives, a priest or two in mufti, and the inevitable hangers-on. A great feast was ordered. Pig in a pit. Chicken, hamburgers, hot dogs. Corn and watermelon trucked in from down south. Kegs of beer, bottles of the hard stuff, tubs of ice and sodas for the youngsters, a cake specially made in the city for the occasion—as big as a picnic table, iced in red, white, and blue with a gold THANK YOU in glittering script. The party began at four in the afternoon and lasted all night. When it became dark enough, a crew of firemen shot off a fireworks display, fading sparklers and candles popping and fizzing when they hit the river. Our town, like many places in America at the time, was divided by the war, but we put Vietnam and the marches behind us in deference to the celebration.
　　In the languorous heat. Tess looked delicious that evening, a cool smile, and bright lights in her eyes. I met all of her coworkers, the well-heeled doctors, a bevy of nurses, and far too many firemen and policemen, baked tan and swaggering. After the fireworks, she noticed her old sweetheart in the company of a new girl and insisted that we say hello. I could not shake the sensation that I had known him from my former life.
　　"Henry, you remember Brian Ungerland." We shook hands, and he introduced his new girlfriend to us both. The women slipped away to compare notes.
　　"So, Ungerland, that's an unusual name."
　　"German." He sipped his beer, stared at the women, who were laughing in an overly personal way.
　　"Your family from Germany?"
　　"Off the boat long time ago. My family's been in town for a hundred years."
　　A stray string of firecrackers went off in a rat-a-tat of pops.
　　"Came from a place called Eger, I think, but like I said, man, that was another life. Where are your people from, Henry?"
　　I told him the lie and studied him as he listened. The eyes clued me in, the set of the jaw, the aquiline nose. Put a walrus mustache on him, age Ungerland a few decades, and he would be a dead ringer for the man in my dreams. The father. Gustav's father. I shook off the notion as merely the odd conflation of my stressful nightmares and the anxiety of seeing Tess's old beau.
　　Jimmy Cummings crept from behind and nearly scared the life out of me. He laughed at my surprise and pointed to the ribbon hanging around his neck. "Hero for a day," he shouted, and I couldn't help but break into a broad grin. Little Oscar, as usual, appeared a bit dumbfounded by all the attention, but he smiled at strangers who tousled his hair and matrons who bent to kiss him on the cheek. Filled with good cheer, the warm evening passed in slow motion, the kind of day one recalls when feeling blue. Boys and girls chased fireflies in crazy circles. Sullen long-haired teens tossed a ball around with red-faced crew-cut policemen. In the middle of the night, when many had already headed for home, Lewis Love buttonholed me for the longest time. I missed half of what he said because I was watching Tess, who was engaged in animated conversation with her old boyfriend beneath a dark elm tree.
　　"I have a theory," Lewis told me. "He was scared, right, out all night, and he heard something. I don't know, like a raccoon or a fox, right? So he hides out in a hole, only it's real hot in there and he gets a fever."
　　She reached out and touched Ungerland on the arm, and they were laughing, only her hand stayed there.
　　"So he has this real weird dream—"
　　They were staring at each other, and old Oscar, oblivious to the end, marched up and joined their conversation. He was drunk and happy, but Tess and Brian were staring into each other's eyes, their expressions real serious, as if trying to communicate something without saying a word.
　　"I personally think it was just some hippies' old camping ground."
　　I wanted to tell him to shut up. Now Ungerland's hand was on her biceps, and they were all laughing. She touched her hair, nodded her head at whatever he was saying.
　　"... other kid was a runaway, but still you have to feel sorry ..."
　　She looked back my way, smiled and waved, as if nothing had been happening. I held her gaze a beat and tuned in to Lewis.
　　"... but nobody believes in fairy tales, right?"
　　"You're right, Lewis. I think your theory is dead-on. Only explanation possible."
　　Before he had the chance to thank me or say another word, I was five strides away, walking toward her. Oscar and Brian noticed my approach and wiped off the grins from their faces. They stared at the stars, finding nothing better to look at. I ignored them and whispered into her ear, and she coiled her arm around my back and under my shirt, tracing circles on my skin with her nails.
　　"What were you guys talking about? Something funny?"
　　"We were talking about you," Brian said. Oscar looked down the barrel of his bottle and grunted.
　　I walked Tess away from them, and she put her head on my shoulder without glancing back. She led me into the woods, to a spot away from the crowd, and lay down in the tall grass and ferns. Voices carried in the soft, heavy air, but their proximity only made the moment more exciting. She slipped out of her shorts and unbuckled my belt. I could hear a group of men laughing down by the river. She kissed me on the stomach, roughly pulled off my shorts. Someone was singing to her sweetheart somewhere far away, the melody on the breeze. I felt slightly drunk and very warm all of a sudden, and thought for an instant I heard someone approaching through the trees. Tess climbed on top of me, guiding us together, her long hair hanging down to frame her face, and she stared into my eyes as she rocked back and forth. The laughter and voices trailed away, car engines started, and people said good-bye, good night. I reached beneath her shirt. She did not avert her gaze.
　　"Do you know where you are, Henry Day?"
　　I closed my eyes.
　　"Do you know who you are, Henry Day?"
　　Her hair swept across my face. Someone blew a car horn and raced away. She tilted her pelvis and drove me deep inside.
　　"Tess."
　　And I said her name again. Someone threw a bottle in the river and broke the surface. She lowered herself, resting her arms, and we lay together, hot to the touch. I kissed the nape of her neck. Jimmy Cummings shouted, "So long, Henry" from the picnic area. Tess giggled, rolled off me, and slipped back into her clothes. I watched her dress and did not notice that, for the first time in ages, I was not afraid of the forest.

    惟有我真正知道林中发生了什么事。吉米的故事向我解释了奥斯卡•拉甫怎会溺死数日后再度奇迹般地出现。当然，那是换生灵，所有的证据都证明了我的猜疑：他们没有成功地偷走孩子。死者是换生灵，是我的一个老朋友。我能想起排在下一位的脸，但想不起他们的名字。我在那里的时候，整天想着总有一日我会在上面的世界中开始新生活。几十年过去了，那些人都一个接一个地走了，每个都成了换生灵，找到一个孩子，取代了对方的位置。慢慢地，我开始憎恨他们每个人，漠视队伍里的新成员。我故意忘记他们。我有没有说过我的一个朋友死了? 我没有朋友了。
　　在为森林中少了一个魔鬼而高兴的同时，我也因吉米对奥斯卡•拉甫的描述而莫名地不安起来。那天晚上，我梦见一个像他那样的孤独男孩待在一间老式的客厅里。一对小雀儿在铁笼子里蹦跳。一只俄式茶壶闪闪发亮，壁炉架上放着一排皮面装订的书，烫金的外国书名是用哥特字母拼成的。客厅贴着深红色的墙纸，厚重的深色窗帘挡住了阳光，一只造型奇特的沙发上披着格子花样的针织沙发罩。在一个潮湿的下午，男孩顶着酷热穿着羊毛灯笼裤和扣靴，浆直的蓝衬衫，还戴了一条很像圣诞节领结的大领带。他披着一头鬈曲的长发，朝钢琴倾着身子，全神贯注在琴键上，固执地弹着一首练习曲。他身后来了另一个孩子，同样的头发和身材，但全身赤裸，踮着脚悄悄走近。钢琴手无视于这等威胁，继续弹奏。其他妖精从窗帘后面，从靠背长椅下，从木制家具和墙纸边像一股轻烟似的冒出来。小雀儿尖叫着碰撞铁笼。男孩在一个音符上停下，回转头来。
　　我曾经见过他。他们同心协力发动攻击，一个按住男孩的鼻子和喉咙，另一个抓住他的腿，还有一个把男孩的双手反绑在背后。关闭的门后传来男人的声音：
　　“Was ist los?" 随着“砰砰”的敲门声，门打开了，门框里出现一个身材高大、络腮胡子的男人。“Gustav? ”几个精灵扑过去按住他，另外几个擒住他的儿子，父亲大叫道：“Ich erkenne dich!Du willst nur einen Sohn!”（这几句德文的意思分别是：”怎么了？。；“古斯塔夫? ”；“我认得你，你只能是我的儿子！”）我仍然能感受到他们眼中的愤怒，攻击的劲头。我的父亲在哪里? 一个声音刺穿梦境，叫道：“亨利，亨利。”我睁眼看到湿漉漉的枕套和乱糟糟的床单。我闷声打了个哈欠，朝楼下喊道我累了，想好好休息。母亲也在门外喊道有人打电话来，还说她可不是我秘书。我披上睡衣，冲下楼去。
　　“我是亨利•戴。”我对着话筒咕哝了一声。
　　她笑起来：“你好，亨利。我是泰思•伍德郝斯。我在树林里看到你了。”
　　她肯定无法想像我为何尴尬地沉默下来。
　　“我们找到那个孩子的时候。那第一个孩子。我在救护车边上。”
　　“对了，那个护士。泰思，泰思，你好吗? ”
　　“吉米•卡明斯说要给你打个电话。过一会儿你想在哪里见个面吗? ”
　　我们商量好她下班后见面，她让我记下她家地址。在纸页底端，我草草写上“古斯塔夫”这个名字。
　　她出来开门，走到门廊上，下午的阳光落在她脸上和黄色的背心裙上。从阴影处看去，她光芒四射。突然之间，仿佛回顾往事，她显露出我爱慕的特征：虹膜的色调斑驳不均，右侧太阳穴上蜿蜒着的青筋犹如热情洋溢的旗语在忽闪，她的嘴角一扬，笑得灿烂无比。泰思叫了我的名字，这使它像是真的。
　　我们驾车离开，从打开的车窗里吹进来的风把她的头发甩到脸上。她笑起来时，头往后仰，下颌朝天，我真想吻她可爱的脖子。我们像是有目的地开着车，但我们镇上没有特定的地方可去，泰思把收音机音量调小。下午我们就散步。她告诉我她在教会学校的生活，接着是上大学，学的是护理专业。我告诉她我在公立学校里的事，还有我中断的音乐学业。镇外几公里处有家新开张的炸鸡连锁店，我们就去买了一桶，然后在奥斯卡酒吧门口停下，进去偷了一瓶苹果酒。我们在一所学校的运动场上野餐，夏天已离我们而去，但还有一对红雀站在吊杆上，对我们唱着八音小夜曲。
　　“我以前以为你是个怪人，亨利•戴。我们一起念小学时，你大概就跟我说过两句话，或者你跟别人也是一样。你看起来失魂落魄的，好像在听着你头脑里的曲子，而别人都听不到。”
　　“我现在还是那样，”我告诉她，“有时候我在路上走，或一个人静悄悄的，就会来上一段，想像着手指落在琴键上，然后清清楚楚地听到音符。”
　　“你像是在别的地方，几公里外。”
　　“不是一直这样。不是现在。”
　　她的脸灿烂起来，表情变了。“奇怪，不是吗? 关于奥斯卡•拉甫，那个孩子。
　　或者我该说，跟两颗钉子一样像的两个小男孩。”
　　我想换个话题，“我的妹妹是双胞胎。”
　　“你怎么解释这件事? ”
　　“还是高中学的生物，很长时间了，当一个卵子分裂成……”
　　她舔了舔手指，“不是双胞胎。是淹死的男孩和失踪的男孩。”
　　“我跟这两个都没关系。”
　　泰思抿了一口酒，用餐巾擦着手。“你是个怪人，但我就是喜欢你这点．其军当转们还都是孩子时。从我第一天在幼儿园看到你开始。”
　　我真心诚意地希望那天是我在那里。
　　“我还小的时候，就想听你的歌，那首在你头脑里的歌。”她从毯子上靠过来，吻了我。
　　傍晚，我送她回家，在门口吻了她一下，然后心情愉快地开车回去了。屋子就像一个空壳似的发出回声。双胞胎不在家，母亲独自坐在起居室里，看电视里播放的每周电影。拖鞋叠在长凳上，家居服的纽扣扣到领子，她抬起右手的饮料，跟我打了个招呼。我坐在安乐椅边上的沙发里，这么多年来第一次细细打量她。我们无疑都长大变老了，但她老得厉害。她比我们初见时发福了不少，但仍然漂亮。
　　“亨利，你的约会怎么样? ”她仍然看着电视机说。
　　“挺好，妈，不错。”
　　“还会再见她吗? ”
　　“泰思? 我希望会吧。”
　　一个商业广告打断了电影，她喝着饮料，转过头朝我微笑。
　　“妈，你有没有……”
　　“什么，亨利? ”
　　“我不知道。你有没有觉得孤单呢? 比如你自己也可以去约会。”
　　她大笑起来，看上去年轻了好多岁。“哪个男人会想和我这样的老家伙出去呢?”
　　“你不是很老。而且你的样子比年龄要小十岁呢。”
　　“把恭维话留给你的护士吧。”
　　这个想法又来了，“我想……”
　　“亨利，我已经看了一个小时了。让我看到底吧。”
　　泰思改变了我的生活，改变了一切。自从野餐时毫无准备的事情发生后，那个烂漫的夏季，我们每天见面。我记得我们并肩坐在公园长凳上，腿上放着午餐，在明媚的阳光下说话。她会朝我转过身来，脸庞沐浴在亮光中，我不得不用手搭了凉棚去看她。她把她的事说给我听．我越听越想听。这样就可以了解她，一点都不忘记。我喜欢每次无意间的触碰、她身上的热量，她使我感觉自己活着并且完全活得像个人类。
　　七月四日，奥斯卡关了酒吧，请了镇上将近半数的人去河边野餐。他安排了庆祝活动，为了向所有在这次搜寻和营救侄子的行动中帮过忙的人们表示感谢。参加的人有警察和消防员，医生和护士，所有小奥斯卡的同学和老师，还有志愿者——比如我、吉米和乔治——拉甫一家和各门亲戚，一两个穿着便服的牧师，还有不可避免的来蹭饭的人。一场盛宴办起来了，土坑烤猪，鸡肉，牛肉饼，热狗，从南边运来的玉米和西瓜，小桶装的啤酒，瓶装烈性酒，给年轻人用的冰块和汽水，专为大宴群宾而去市里订制的蛋糕，它和野餐桌一样大，上面浇着红色、白色和蓝色的奶油，还写着闪光的金字“感谢您”。
　　聚会下午四点钟开始，搞了一整个晚上。天完全黑了以后，一队消防员放起了烟花，散落的火花和蜡烛碰到河面发出劈啪声和嘶嘶声。
　　当时，我们的镇子和美国其他很多地方一样，在战争这个问题上意见分歧，但我们为了庆典，将越南和进军抛之脑后。
　　在让人无精打采的大热天里，那个晚上泰思光彩照人，脸上挂着酷酷的笑容，眼里闪着明亮的光芒。我见到了她的所有同事，有钱的医生，一大帮护士，还有好多消防员和警察，都晒得黑不溜秋，走路大摇大摆。放完烟花，她看到她的前男友正和新女友在一起，她坚持说我们过去问个好。我总觉得我在前世认得他，我没法甩开这种感觉。
　　“亨利，你还记得布瑞恩•安格兰德吧。”我们握了手，他把新女友介绍给我们。两个女人溜到一边去交换意见了。
　　“哦，安格兰德，真是个少见的姓。”
　　“德国姓。”他啜着啤酒，看着那两个女人，她们非常自如地谈笑。
　　“你的家族是从德国来的? ”
　　“很久以前乘船来的。我的家族在镇上住了一百年了。”
　　一串刚才没放的鞭炮随着清脆的劈啪声爆开了。
　　“来自一个叫埃格尔的地方，我想，但要我说，伙计，那可是上辈子了。你的家族是从哪来的，亨利? ”
　　我撤了谎，他听我说话时，我打量着他。那双眼睛让我有所触动，还有这下巴的形状和鹰钩鼻子。如果在安格兰德嘴边加两绺粗长的胡须，再加上几十年的岁数，他可不就是我梦中那个男人? 那位父亲。古斯塔夫的父亲。我撇开了这个念头，只把它当做是我做噩梦的紧张情绪和看到泰思的旧情郎共同造成的幻觉。
　　吉米•卡明斯从后面悄悄挨上来，差点吓掉了我的魂。他笑我这么吃惊，指着自己脖子上悬挂的绸带。“今日英雄。”他大喝一声，我也忍俊不禁。小奥斯卡和往常一样，在众目睽睽下有点杲呆的，但每当有陌生人抚摸他的头发或主妇们弯腰吻他的脸时，他也朝他们微笑。这个暖意融融的夜晚充满欢情，慢慢地过去了，人们在情绪低落时就会想起这种日子。男孩女孩们开心地绕着圈追萤火虫，郁郁寡欢的长发少年和一队红脸膛警察在传球。到了半夜，很多人已经回家，路易斯•拉甫硬拉着我听他说话，但我有一半没听进去，因为我一直看着泰思，她正在一株阴暗的榆树下和她前男友热烈地交谈。
　　“我有个想法，”路易斯对我说，“他被吓坏了，对的，整个晚上在外面，又听到了什么声音。我不知道，比如浣熊或者狐狸，对吧? 所以他藏到了洞里，那里面太热了，他发了烧。”
　　她伸手碰了安格兰德的胳膊，他们哈哈大笑，但她的手还放在那里。
　　“所以他就做了那个稀奇古怪的梦……”
　　他们盯着对方直瞧，一直没有看到的大奥斯卡走上前来加入他们的谈话。他喝得醉醺醺的，兴高采烈，但泰思和布瑞恩凝视着对方的眼睛，表情严肃，好像在沉默中交流着什么。
　　“我个人认为那不过是以前某些嬉皮士驻扎的营地罢了。”
　　我想让他住口。现在安格兰德的手放在她胳膊上，他们都在笑。
　　她摸了摸头发，无论他说什么她都点头。
　　“……另一个孩子是离家出走，但你还是感到难过……”
　　她朝我这边看来，微笑着挥手，好像什么都没发生。我接到她的目光，心扑通一跳，回头听路易斯说话。
　　“……但没有人相信仙灵故事，对吗? ”
　　“你说得对，路易斯。我想你的想法是完全正确的。这是惟一可能的解释。”
　　他还没来得感谢我或者说些别的，我已经迈开五步远了，朝她走过去。奥斯卡和布瑞恩看到我过来，就把脸上的笑容抹去了。他们望着星星，找不到更好的东西来看。我不理睬他们，在她耳边小声说话，她把胳膊搭在我背上，伸进我衬衫底下，用指甲在我皮肤上划圆圈。
　　“你们在谈什么? 有趣的事情? ”
　　“我们在谈你。”布瑞思说。奥斯卡低头看着他酒瓶的瓶颈，咕哝了一句。
　　我带着泰思走开，她把头靠在我肩膀上，再没有回头看一眼。她带我走进树林，来到一处远离大家的地方，躺倒在茂密的青草和蕨叶上。轻柔而又沉重的空气中传来话语，但这只会让这一刻更加兴奋。
　　她脱下短裤，解下我的腰带。我听到一伙人在河那边大笑。她吻着我的肚子，粗鲁地脱下我的短裤。远处，有人对她的心上人唱着歌，悦耳的音调飘在风里。突然间，我有微醺之意，周身发热，有那么一刻，我以为听到有人从树林中走来。泰思爬到我身上，引导着我们，她的长发垂下来衬着脸庞，她前后摇摆，看着我的眼睛。笑声和话语渐渐消失，汽车发动了，人们互道再见、晚安。我伸手探入她的衬衫，她没有转开视线。
　　“你知道你在哪里吗，亨利•戴? ”
　　我闭上眼睛。
　　“你知道你是谁吗，亨利•戴? ”
　　她的头发扫过我的脸。有人按了汽车喇叭，开走了。她翘起臀部，让我更加深入。
　　“泰思。”
　　我又念了一遍她的名字。有人往河里扔了一个瓶子，水面打破了。她伏下身，放下胳膊，我们躺在一起，肌肤火烫。我吻了她的后颈。吉米•卡明斯从野餐处大叫一声：“再见，亨利。”泰思咯咯直笑，从我身上滚下来，穿起衣服。我看着她穿衣，却没有想到，这么多年我第一次没有害怕森林。
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举报 只看该作者 22楼  发表于: 2013-10-29 0

Chapter 22
　　We were afraid of what might happen next. Under Béka's direction, we roamed the woods, never camping in the same place for more than three nights in a row. Waiting for some decision from Béka brewed a disease among us. We fought over food, water, the best resting places. Ragno and Zanzara neglected the most basic grooming; their hair tangled in vinelike riots, and their skin darkened beneath a film of dirt. Chavisory, Blomma, and Kivi suffered an angry silence, sometimes not speaking for days on end. Desperate without his smokes and distractions, Luchóg snapped over the tiniest provocation and would have come to blows with Smaolach if not for his friends gentle disposition. I would often find Smaolach after their arguments, staring at the ground, pulling handfuls of grass from the earth. Speck grew more distant, withdrawn into her own imagination, and when she suggested a moment alone together, I gladly joined her away from the others.
　　In that Indian summer, the days stayed warm despite the waning of the light, and a second spring brought not only a renewed blossoming of wild roses and other flowers but another crop of berries. With such unexpected bounty, the bees and other insects extended their lives and mad pursuit of sweets. The birds put off their southern migration. Even the trees slowed down their leaving, going from dark saturated hues to paler shades of green.
　　"Aniday," she said, "listen. Here they come."
　　We were sitting at the edge of a clearing, doing nothing, soaking in the manual sunshine. Speck lifted her head skyward to gather in the shadow of wings beating through the air. When they had all landed, the blackbirds fanned out their tails as they paraded to the wild raspberries, hopping to a tangle of shoots to gorge themselves. The glen echoed with their chatter. She reached ground my back and put her hand on my far shoulder, then rested her head against me. The sunlight danced in patterns on the ground thrown by leaves blowing in the breeze.
　　"Look at that one." She spoke softly, pointing her finger at a lone blackbird, struggling to reach a plump red berry at the end of a flexing cane. It persisted, pinned the cane to the ground, impaling the stalk with its sharp hooked feet, then attacked the berry in three quick bites. After its meal, the bird began to sing, then flew away, wings flashing in the dappled light, and then the flock took off and followed into the early October afternoon.
　　"When I first came here," I confessed to her, "I was afraid of the crows that returned each night to the trees around our home."
　　"You used to cry like a baby." Her voice softened and slowed. "I wonder what it is like to hold a baby in my arms, feel like a grown-up woman instead of sticks and bones. I remember my mother, so soft in unexpected places— rounder, fuller, deeper. Stronger than you'd expect by looking."
　　"Tell me what they were like, my family. What happened to me?"
　　"When you were a boy," she began, "I watched over you. You were my charge. I knew your mother; she loved to nestle you on her lap as she read to you old Irish tales and called you her 'little man.' But you were a selfish boy, constantly wanting more and desperate over any attention shown to your little sisters."
　　"Sisters?" I asked, not remembering.
　　"Twins. Baby girls."
　　I was grateful that she could confirm there were two.
　　"You resented helping with them, angry that your time was not yours to do with what you pleased. Oh, such a brat. Your mother was taking care of the twins, worrying over your father, with no one to help her. She was worn out by it all, and that made you angrier still. An unhappy child ..." Her voice trailed off for a moment, and she laid her hand on my arm;
　　"He waited for you like a fox at the edge of a pond, and he made all sorts of mischief around the farm—a knocked-over fence, a missing hen, the drying sheets torn from the line. He wanted your life, and the one whose turn it is brooks no argument. Every eye was upon you for months, anticipating a moment of petulance. Then, you ran away from home."
　　Speck drew me closer, ran her fingers through my hair, laid my head in the crook of her nape.
　　"She asked you to wash up the babies after breakfast, so that she might have a quick bath, but you left them all alone in the house, imagine that. 'Now stay here and play with your dollies. Mom's in the tub, and I'll be right outside, I so don't make any trouble.' And out you stepped to toss a ball into the bright yellow sky and watch the grasshoppers scatter across the lawn before your racing feet. I wanted to come play with you, but someone had to watch the toddlers. I slipped inside, crouched on the kitchen countertop, hoping they wouldn't notice me or do themselves a harm. They were at the curious stage and could have been opening cupboards, toying with bleach and furniture polish, fingering rat poison, or opening cutlery drawers to juggle with knives, or getting into the liquor and drinking up all the whiskey. They were in danger, while she was wrapping herself in her robe and singing as she dried her hair.
　　"Meanwhile, you trolled the woods' edge, hoping to uncover a surprise. Something large stirred among the dried carpet of leaves and shadow of branches, snapping twigs as it ran through the half-light. A rabbit? Perhaps a dog or a small deer? Your mother descended the staircase, calmly calling, and discovered the girls dancing on the tabletop quite alone. You stood blinking into the dappled trails. From behind, a strong hand gripped your shoulder and wheeled you around. Your mother stood there, hair dripping wet, her face a mask of anger.
　　"'How could you disappear like that?' she asked, behind her, you could see the twins toddling across the lawn. In one clenched fist, she held a wooden spoon, and knowing the trouble ahead, you ran, and she gave chase, laughing all the way. At the edge of your world, she pulled you by the arm and smacked you on the bottom so hard, the spoon split in half."
　　Speck held me tighter still.
　　"But you have always been an imp. Your bottom hurt, and you'd show her. She fixed lunch, which you refused to touch. Nothing but stony silence. As she carried her babies off for their nap, she smiled and you scowled. Then you wrapped up some food in a handkerchief, stuffed it in your pocket, and slipped out of the house without a sound. I followed you the whole afternoon."
　　"Was I scared to be alone?"
　　"Curious, I'd say. A dry creek paralleled the road for a few hundred yards before meandering off into the forest, and you followed its path, listening for the occasional chatter of the birds, watching for the chipmunks skittering through the litter. I could hear Igel signal to Béka, who whistled to our leader. As you sat on the grassy bank, eating one of the biscuits and the rest of the cold eggs, they were gathering to come take you."
　　"Every time the leaves moved," I told her, "a monster was out to get me."
　　"East of the creekbed, there was an old chestnut, cracked and dying from the bottom up. An animal had scooped out a large hollow den, and you had to climb inside and see. The humidity and the darkness must have put you right to sleep. I stood outside the whole time, hidden when the searchers almost stumbled upon you. Skittering flashlights led their dark forms as they shuffled like ghosts through the heavy air. They passed by, and soon their calls receded into the distance and then into silence.
　　"Not long after the people faded away, the faeries ran in from all directions and stopped before me, the sentinel at the tree. The changeling panted. He looked so much like you that I held my breath and wanted to cry. He scrambled partway into the hole, grabbed you around your bare ankle, and pulled."
　　She hugged me and kissed me on the top of my head.
　　"If I changed back," I asked her, "would I ever see you again?"
　　
　　
　　Despite my questions, she would not tell me more than she thought I should know, and after a while, we set to picking berries. Although the days bore traits of midsummer, there's no stopping the tilt of the globe away from the sun. Night came like a sudden clap. We walked back beneath the emerging planets and stars, the pale ascending moon. Half-smiles greeted our return, and I wondered why the thin children of our temporary quarters were not themselves out watching blackbirds, and dreaming their dreams. Porridge bubbled on the fire, and the troupe ate from wooden bowls with wooden spoons, which they sucked clean. We dumped quarts of raspberries from our shirttails, ambrosia escaping from the bruised fruit, and the others scooped them into their mouths, smiling and chewing, staining their lips red as kisses.
　　The next day, Béka announced he had found our new home, "a place inaccessible to all but the most intrepid humans, a shelter where we would be safe." He led us up a steep and desolate hill, scrabbling slate and shale from its loose, decaying face, as inhospitable a heap as you'd like to find. No sign of life, no trees or plants of any kind other than a few noxious weeds poking through the rubble. No bird landed there, not even for a moment's rest, nor any flying insect of any sort, though we would soon find out about the bats. No footprints except our leader's. Scant purchase for anything larger than our weary band. As we climbed, I wondered what had possessed Béka to scout out this place, let alone proclaim it home. Anyone else would have taken one look at such devastation and passed by with a shudder. Barren as the moon, the landscape lacked all feeling, and I did not see, until we were nearly upon it, the fissure in the rock. One by one, my cohorts squeezed through the crack and were swallowed up in stone. Moving from the bright heat of Indian summer into the dankness of the entranceway felt as sudden as a dive into a cold pool. A. my pupils dilated in the dimness, I did not even realize to whom I addressed my question: "Where are we?"
　　"It's a mine," Speck said. "An old abandoned mineshaft where they dug for coal."
　　A pale glow sparked forth from a newly lit torch. His face a grimace of odd, unnatural shadows, Béka grinned and croaked to us all, "Welcome home."

    我们都担心还会再发生什么事。在贝卡的带领下，我们在森林中漂泊，从来没有在一个地方连续待过三个夜晚。为了等待贝卡的指示，贝卡还给我们带来了混乱。
　　我们争夺食物和水，还有休息的地方。劳格诺和赞扎拉不顾最起码的形象，头发像葡萄藤似的缠结，皮肤上裹着一层土，人变得黑糊糊的。卡维素芮、布鲁玛和齐维生着闷气，有时一连数日不开口。鲁契克因为缺烟和无聊变得无比焦躁，为鸡毛蒜皮的小事都能暴跳如雷，若不是斯茂拉赫脾气温和，他们早就打了起来。我经常看到斯茂拉赫在吵架过后两眼望地，一把一把地拔着青草。斯帕克更加不合群了，退居到自己的想像中去，每当她提出要和我单独待一会儿时，我就很乐意和她一道离开大伙儿。
　　秋老虎那段时日，白昼渐短，但天气仍然暖和。小阳春里，野玫瑰和别的花儿再度欣欣向荣，莓果也长出来了。在这场意外的康慨恩赐中，蜜蜂和其他昆虫延长了生命，热烈地追逐甜香。鸟群推迟了南迁。就连树木也延缓了落叶，从黯淡的色调一转变得绿意盎然。
　　“安尼戴，”她说，“听。它们来了。”
　　我们坐在一块空地边上，什么都不做，只是沐浴着不同寻常的阳光。斯帕克抬起头，倾听天空中翅膀的拍击声。鸦群降落后，张着尾巴在野覆盆子丛中迈步，跳到嫩芽堆里大快朵颐。山谷中回荡着它们的唧唧喳喳声。她的手环过我的背，放在我肩膀上，头也靠在我身上。树叶经了轻风，摇碎了一地阳光。
　　“看那只。”她指着一只落单的乌鸦，柔声说道。一条弯弯曲曲的茎的顶端长着一颗饱满的红草莓，它正费力地朝它扑过去。这只坚持不懈的鸟儿把茎扯到地上，用尖而弯的脚踏住，然后飞快地三口就啄掉了草莓。饱餐后，这只鸟儿唱起了歌，随后就飞走了，翅膀在斑驳的光线中扇动，接着鸦群也飞走了，在十月初的下午远去。
　　“我刚来时，”我对她坦白说，“我害怕这些乌鸦，它们每天晚上回到我们家周围的树上。”
　　“你以前哭得像个婴儿，”她轻声地缓缓说道，“我想知道把一个婴儿抱在怀里是什么感觉，觉得就像一个成年女人，而不是瘦得一把骨头。我记得你母亲，她在某些想不到的地方非常柔软，又圆又厚实，比看上去更加强壮。”
　　“跟我说说他们是什么样子，我的家人。我又发生了什么事? ”
　　“你还是个小孩时，”她开始说了，“我就观察着你。你是我的任务。我认得你母亲：她喜欢把你抱在膝上，给你读爱尔兰的古老故事，还把你叫做她的‘小家伙’。你可是个自私的孩子，老是想要更多，母亲对你的妹妹们稍加关心，你就急得不行。”
　　“妹妹们? ”我问道，完全记不得了。
　　“双胞胎。女婴。”
　　她确认了我原来有两个妹妹，我为此心生感激。
　　“你讨厌帮助她们，为你的时间不是用来做你想做的事生气。
　　哦，就是这样的小子。你母亲照顾着双胞胎，替你父亲担心，没有人帮她忙。
　　她都累坏了，你却因此更加生气。一个不快乐的小孩……”
　　她的话音停了一刻，手搭在我胳膊上。
　　“他就像只狐狸一样在池塘边候着你，在农场里到处捣蛋——撞坏篱笆啦，偷走母鸡啦，撕破晾晒的床单啦。他想要你的生活，而轮到哪个是毋庸置疑的。每双眼睛都盯着你好几个月，期待着你闹脾气。后来，你离家出走了。”
　　斯帕克把我拉近了些，手指抚摸着我的头发，把我的头靠在她的颈窝里。
　　“她让你早饭后去给婴儿们洗脸，这样她就能很快地洗个澡，但你把她们留在屋子里，想想看吧。‘待在这里玩你们的娃娃。妈妈在浴室里，我要出去，所以别惹麻烦。’你出门去了，在明亮的黄色天空下抛着球玩，看着草坪上在你奔跑的步伐前逃开的蚱蜢。我想和你一起玩，但是得有人去看着小娃娃。我溜进去，蹲在厨房的台案下，希望她们不会注意到我，也不会弄伤她们自己。她们正处在好奇的年龄，会去打开厨门，玩漂白粉和家具清洁剂，把手指伸进毒鼠药里，或者打开餐具抽屉玩刀子，或者拿到了酒，把威士忌喝个精光。她裹上浴袍，边唱歌边吹干头发时，她们正处于危险之中。
　　“这时候，你溜达到了森林边，想要发现一个惊喜。干燥的落叶和树枝的阴影间有什么大家伙在动，在黯淡的光线里跑过去，枝条咔嗒作响。一只兔子? 也许是只狗或小鹿吧? 你的母亲走下阶梯，平静地呼唤你，然后发现女孩们独自在桌子上跳舞。你在光影斑驳的小路上探头探脑。你身后一双有力的手抓住你的肩膀，把你扳过去。
　　你母亲站在那里，头发还在滴水，脸上带着怒气。
　　一你怎能就这样走开了? ’她问道，你看见双胞胎在草地上蹒跚而行，她一只手紧握着一把木勺，你知道大事不妙，就跑开了，她赶在后面，边追边笑。你无路可逃，她拉住你的胳膊，狠狠地打你的屁股，木勺断成两截。”
　　斯帕克把我搂得更紧。
　　“但你一直是个淘气鬼。你屁股痛，还露给她看。她做好了午饭，你连碰都不碰，一句话也不说。她把娃娃抱去睡觉时，微笑了一下，你就怒目而视。后来你用手帕包了点吃的，放在口袋里，一声不响地溜出门去。整个下午我都跟着你。”
　　“我一个人的时候害怕吗? ”
　　“要我说的话，你很好奇。马路边上有条几百米长的干涸的小溪，弯弯曲曲地伸进森林，你跟着水道走，听着一两声鸟叫，看着花栗鼠在干草上闪过。我听见伊格尔和贝卡打信号，贝卡又和我们的首领打了个唿哨。你坐在青草岸边，吃着一块饼干和剩下来的冷蛋，他们就过来捉你了。”
　　“每次树叶一动，”我对她说，“就有一只魔鬼出来捉我。”
　　“在这条小溪的东边，有一棵老栗树，树干裂开，从根部枯死了。
　　一只动物在里面挖了个大洞，你爬进去看个究竟。里面阴暗潮湿，仿马上睡着了。我一直站在外面，搜寻人员一来我就躲起来，他们差点绊到你身上。飞掠的手电筒光带领着他们黑暗的形体，他们磕磕绊绊的，就像鬼魂穿过沉重的空气似的，手电筒光扫来扫去，引着他们黑暗的身影往前走。他们过去了，不久喊声在远方渐渐消失，然后安静了。
　　“人们离开不久，仙灵从四面八方跳出来，站在我面前，我是树前的哨兵。那个换生灵喘着气。他和你长得那么像，我屏住气想叫出来。他爬到洞里，抓住你光光的脚踝，拖了出来。”
　　她抱着我，吻了我的额头。
　　“如果我换回去了，”我问她，“我还能再见到你吗? ”
　　尽管我问了很多问题，她认为我不该知道的事，就不多说了，过了一会了，我们去采莓果。虽然天气还有点仲夏的样子，但地球正毫不停息地离太阳远去。夜晚转眼间到来。夜幕中浮现着行星和恒星，苍白的月亮渐渐升起，我们在满天星月下往回走。回去时，他们朝我们淡淡一笑，我奇怪为什么这些在我们临时住所里的瘦孩子不去看乌鸦，不去做他们自己的梦。粥在火上咕咕冒泡，大家用木勺在木碗里吃，碗勺都舔得干干净净。我们把衬衫下摆兜着的覆盆子果儿倒出来，虽然这些撞伤的果子已经不再可口，他们还是纷纷往嘴里塞，边笑边嚼，嘴唇染得通红，像巧克力糖果似的。
　　第二天，贝卡宣布他找到了我们的新家。“除了最勇猛的人，别的都到不了那儿，我们在那里藏身很安全。”他带领我们走上一座陡峭、荒寂的山，板岩和页岩一碰就松动，地表风化，一个典型不适合居住的地方。没有生命的迹象，没有任何种类的树木花草，除了从碎石里探出来的几株害草。没有鸟儿降落在那里，甚至停下来歇一歇的也没有，也没有任何飞虫，不过我们后来发现了蝙蝠。除了我们首领的足迹，也没有别的脚印。极目空无一物，除了我们这帮疲惫的旅人。爬山时，我奇怪贝卡怎么会想要找到这样一块地方，更别提把它当做家了。任何其他人只要看一眼这种寸草不生的地方，都会耸耸肩膀走开。景象像月球一样的荒芜，让人毫无感觉，快走到时，我才看到岩石里的缝隙。我的伙伴们一个接一个地挤过岩缝，被石头吞没了。从秋老虎的晴热天气一下子进入黑暗的过道，感觉就像潜入了冰冷的池塘。我的瞳孔在黑暗中张大了，甚至没看清我问的是谁：“我们在哪里? ”
　　“这是个矿井，”斯帕克说，“一个早就被遗弃的矿井，他们以前在这里挖煤。”
　　前面刚点燃的火把闪耀出黯淡的光芒。贝卡做了个怪相，脸上有种古怪而不自然的阴影。他龇牙一笑，嘶哑着喉咙对我们说：“欢迎到家。”
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Chapter 23
　　I should have confessed to Tess at the start, but who knows when love begins? Two contrary impulses pulled at me. I did not want to scare her away with the changeling story, yet I longed to entrust all my secrets to her. But it was as if a demon shadowed me everywhere and clamped shut my mouth to hold in the truth. She gave me many opportunities to open my heart and tell her, and I came close once or twice, but each time I hesitated and stopped.
　　On Labor Day we were at the baseball stadium in the city, watching the home team take on Chicago. I was distracted by the enemy runner at second base.
　　"So, what's the plan for The Coverboys?"
　　"Plan? What plan?"
　　"You really should record an album. You're that good." She attacked a hot dog thick with relish. Our pitcher struck out their batter, and she let out a whoop. Tess loved the game, and I endured it for her sake.
　　"What kind of album? Covers of other people's songs? Do you really think anybody would buy a copy when they can have the original?"
　　"You're right," she said between bites. "Maybe you could do something new and different. Write your own songs."
　　"Tess, the songs we sing are not the kind of songs I would write."
　　"Okay, if you could write any music in the world, what kind would you write?"
　　I turned to her. She had a speck of relish at the corner of her mouth that I wished to nibble away. "I'd write you a symphony, if I could."
　　Out flicked her tongue to clean her lips. "What's stopping you, Henry?
　　I'd love a symphony of my own."
　　"Maybe if I had stayed serious about piano, or if I had finished music school."
　　"What's stopping you from going back to college?"
　　Nothing at all. The twins had finished high school and were working. My mother certainly did not need the few dollars I brought in, and Uncle Charlie from Philadelphia had begun to call her nearly every day, expressing an interest in retiring here. The Coverboys were going nowhere as a band. I searched for a plausible excuse. "I'm too old to go back now. I'll be twenty-six next April, and the rest of the students are a bunch of eighteen-year-olds. They're into a totally different scene."
　　"You're only as old as you feel."
　　At the moment, I felt 125 years old. She settled back into her seat and watched the rest of the ballgame without another word on the subject. On the way home that afternoon, she switched the car radio over from the rock station to classical, and as the orchestra played Mahler, she laid her head against my shoulder and closed her eyes, listening.
　　Tess and I went out to the porch and sat on the swing, quiet for a long time, sharing a bottle of peach wine. She liked to hear me sing, so I sang for her, and then we could find nothing else to say. Her breathing presence beside me, the moon and the stars, the singing crickets, the moths clinging to the porch light, the breeze cutting through the humid air—the moment had a curious pull on me, as if recalling distant dreams, not of this life, nor of the forest, but of life before the change. As if neglected destiny or desire threatened the illusion I had struggled to create. To be fully human, I had to give in to my true nature, the first impulse.
　　"Do you think I'm crazy," I asked, "to want to be a composer in this day and age? I mean, who would actually listen to your symphony?"
　　"Dreams are, Henry, and you cannot will them away, any more than you can call them into being. You have to decide whether to act upon them or let them vanish."　　　　　　　　　
　　"I suppose if I don't make it, I could come back home. Find a job. Buy a house. Live a life."
　　She held my hand in hers. "If you don't come with me, I'll miss seeing you every day."
　　"What do you mean, come with you?"
　　"I was waiting for the right time to tell you, but I've enrolled. Classes start in two weeks, and I've decided to get my master's degree. Before it's too late. I don't want to end up an old maid who never went after what she wanted."
　　I wanted to tell her age didn't matter, that I loved her then and would love her in two or twenty or two hundred years, but I did not say a word. She patted me on the knee and nestled close, and I breathed in the scent of her hair. We let the night pass. An airplane crossed the visual field between us and the moon, creating the momentary illusion that it was pasted on the lunar surface. She dozed in my arms and awoke with a start past eleven.
　　"I've got to go," Tess said. She kissed me on the forehead, and we strolled down to the car. The walk seemed to snap her out of the wine-induced stupor.
　　"Hey, when are your classes? I could drive you in sometimes if it's during the day."
　　"That's a good idea. Maybe you'll get inspired to go back yourself."
　　She blew me a kiss, then vanished behind the steering wheel and drove away. The old house stared at me, and in the yard the trees reached out to the yellow moon. I walked upstairs, wrapped up in the music in my head, and went to sleep in Henry's bed, in Henry's room.
　　
　　
　　What　 possessed　 Tess to choose infanticide were a mystery to me. There were other options: sibling rivalry, the burden of the firstborn, the oedipal son, the disappearing father, and so on. But she picked infanticide as her thesis topic for her seminar in Sociology of the Family. And, of course, since I had nothing to do most days but wait around campus or drive around the city while she was in classes, I volunteered to help with the research. After her last class, she and I went out for coffee or drinks, at first to plot out how to tackle the project on infanticide, but as the meetings went on, the conversations swung around to returning to school and my unstarted symphony.
　　"You know what your problem is?" Tess asked. "No discipline. You want to be a great composer, but you never write a song. Henry, true art is less about all the wanting-to-be bullshit, and more about practice. Just play the music, baby."
　　I fiddled with the porcelain ear of my coffee cup.
　　"It's time to get started, Chopin, or to stop kidding yourself and grow up. Get out from behind the bar and come back to school with me."
　　I attempted not to let my frustration and resentment show, but she had me culled like a lame animal from the main herd. She pounced.
　　"I know all about you. Your mother is very insightful about the real Henry Day."
　　"You talked to my mother about me?"
　　"She said you went from being a carefree little boy to a serious old man overnight. Sweetheart, you need to stop living in your head and live in the world as it is."
　　I lifted myself out of my chair and leaned across the table to kiss her. "Now, tell me your theory on why parents kill their children."
　　
　　
　　We worked for weeks on her project, meeting in the library or carrying on about the subject when we went out dancing or to the movies or dinner. More than once, we drew a startled stare from nearby strangers when we argued about killing children. Tess took care of the historical framework of the problem and delved into the available statistics. I tried to help by digging up a plausible theory. In certain societies, boys were favored over girls, to work on the farm or to pass on wealth, and as a matter of course, many females were murdered because they were unwanted. But in less patriarchal cultures, infanticide stemmed from a family's inability to care for another child in an age of large families and few resources—a brutal method of population control. For weeks, Tess and I puzzled over how parents decided which child to spare and which to abandon. Dr. Laurel, who taught the seminar, suggested that myth and folklore might provide interesting answers, and that's how I stumbled across the article.
　　Prowling the stacks late one evening, I found our library's sole copy of the Journal of Myth and Society, a fairly recent publication which had lasted a grand total of three issues. I flipped through the pages of this journal, rather casually standing there by my lonesome, when the name sprang from the page and grabbed me by the throat. Thomas McInnes. And then the title of his article was like a knife to the heart: "The Stolen Child."
　　Son of a bitch.
　　McInnes's theory was that in medieval Europe, parents who gave birth to a sickly child made a conscious decision to "reclassify" their infant as something other than human. They could claim that demons or "goblins" had come in the middle of the night and stolen their true baby and left behind one of their own sickly, misshapen, or crippled offspring, leaving the parents to abandon or raise the devil. Called "fairy children" or changelings in England, "enfants changes" in France, and "Wechselbalgen" in Germany, these devil children were fictions and rationalizations for a baby's failure to thrive, or for some other physical or mental birth defect. If one had a changeling in the home, one would not be expected to keep and raise it as one's own. Parents would have the right to be rid of the deformed creature, and they could take the child and leave it outside in the forest overnight. If the goblins refused to retrieve it, then the poor unfortunate would die from exposure or might be carried off by a wild thing.
　　The article recounted several versions of the legend, including the twelfth-century French cult of the Holy Greyhound. One day, a man comes home and finds blood on the muzzle of the hound trusted to guard his child, enraged, the man beats the dog to death, only later to find his baby unharmed, with a viper dead on the floor by the crib. Realizing his error, the man erects a shrine to the "holy greyhound" that protected his son from the poisonous snake. Around this story grew the legend that mothers could take those babies with "child sickness" to such shrines in the forest and leave them with a note to the patron saint and protector of children: "A Saint Guinefort, pour la vie ou pour la mort."
　　"This form of infanticide, the deliberate killing of a child based on its slim probability of survival," wrote McInnes,
became part of the myth and folklore that endured well into the nineteenth century in Germany, the British Isles, and other European countries, and the superstition traveled with emigrants to the New World. In the 1850s, a small mining community in western Pennsylvania reported the disappearance of one dozen children from different families into the surrounding hills. And in pockets of Appalachia, from New York to Tennessee, local legend fostered a folk belief that these children still roam the forests.
　A contemporary case that illustrates the psychological roots of the legend concerns a young man, "Andrew," who claimed under hypnosis to have been abducted by "hobgoblins." The recent unexplained discovery of an unidentified child, found drowned in a nearby river, was credited as the work of these ghouls. He reported that many of the missing children from the area were stolen by the goblins and lived unharmed in the woods nearby, while a changeling took each child's place and lived out that child's life in the community. Such delusions, like the rise of the changeling myth, are obvious social protections for the sad problem of missing or stolen children.
　　Not only had he gotten the story wrong, but he had used my own words against me. A superscript notation by "Andrew" directed the readers to the fine print of the footnote:
Andrew (not his real name) reeled off an elaborate story of a hobgoblin subculture that, he claimed, lived in a nearby wooded area, preying on the children of the town for over a century. He asserted also that he had once been a human child named Gustav Ungerland, who had arrived in the area as the son of German immigrants in the mid-nineteenth century. More incredibly, Andrew claims to have been a musical prodigy in his other life, a skill restored to him when he changed back in the late 1940s. His elaborate tale, sadly, indicates deep pathological developmental problems, possibly covering some early childhood abuse, trauma, or neglect.
　　I had to read the last sentence several times before it became clear. I wanted to howl, to track him down and cram his words into his mouth. I ripped the pages from the journal and threw the ruined magazine into the trash. "Liar, faker, thief," I muttered over and over as I paced back and forth among the stacks. Thankfully I encountered no one, for who knows how I might have vented my rage. Failure to thrive. Pathological problems. Abandoned children. He gave us changelings no credit at all and had the whole story backward. We went and snatched them from their beds. We were as real as nightmares.
　　The ping of the elevator chimes sounded like a gunshot, and through the open door appeared the librarian, a slight woman in cats-eye glasses, hair drawn back in a bun. She froze when she saw me, rather savagely disheveled, hut she tamed me when she spoke. "We're closing," she called out. "You'll have to go."
　　I ducked behind a row of books and folded McInnes's pages into eighths, stuffing the packet in my denim jacket. She began walking toward me, heels clicking on the linoleum, and I attempted to alter my appearance, but the old magic was gone. The best I could do was run my fingers through my hair, stand up, and brush the wrinkles from my clothes.
　　"Didn't you hear me?" She stood directly in front of me, an unbending reed. "You have to go." She watched me depart. I turned at the elevator to wave good-bye, and she was leaning against a column, staring as if she knew my whole story.
　　A cool rain was falling, and I was late to meet Tess. Her class had ended hours before, and we should have been on our way back home. As I rushed down the stairs, I wondered if she would be furious with me, but such anxieties were nothing compared to my anger toward McInnes. Beneath the streetlight on the corner stood Tess, huddling under an umbrella against the rain. She walked to me, gathered me under its cover, and latched on to my arm.
　　"Henry, are you all right? You're shaking, baby. Are you cold? Henry, Henry?"
　　She pulled me closer, warmed us and kept us dry. She pressed her warm hands against my face, and I knew that cold, wet night was my best chance to confess. Beneath the umbrella, I told her I loved her. That was all I could say.

    我一开始就应该对泰思坦白，但谁又知道爱从何时开始? 两股反作用力牵引着我。我不愿她被我的换生灵故事吓跑，但又渴望把我所有的秘密都告诉她。然而就像有只魔鬼到处尾随着我，钳紧我的嘴，不让我把真相说出来。她给了我很多机会打开心扉，向她倾诉，而且也有那么_ 两次我差点说出来了，但每次还是犹豫不决地住口了。
　　劳动节，我们去城里的棒球场观看家乡队对芝加哥队的比赛。
　　对方二垒的跑垒员分散了我的注意力。
　　“那么，‘封面男孩’有什么计划呢? ”
　　“计划? 什么计划? ”
　　“你们真应该出专辑。你们够那个资格。”她吃了一口涂满调料的热狗。我们的投手让他们的击球手出局了，她欢呼一声。泰思喜欢这种运动，我为了她，只好忍着。
　　“什么样的专辑? 封面上是其他人的歌? 你觉得能买到原版的人还会来买复制品吗? ”
　　“说得对，”她边吃边说，“或许你们可以弄些与众不同的新歌。
　　写你自己的歌曲。”
　　“泰思，我们唱的歌不是我会写的那种。”
　　“好吧，如果你能写这世上的曲子，你会写哪种呢? ”
　　我朝她转过身。她嘴角上沾着一点调料，我想把它啃走。“我会为你写一支交响曲，如果我办得到的话。”
　　她伸出舌头来舔嘴唇，“那为什么不写呢，亨利? 我喜欢有自己的交响曲。”
　　“假如我对钢琴认真一点就好了，假如我在学校里读完音乐就好了。”
　　“你为什么不回学校去呢? ”
　　没有为什么。双胞胎已经高中毕业参加工作。母亲当然也不需要我挣回来的几个美元，而且费城的查理叔叔几乎每天都给她打电话，说他想退休后到这里来生活。
　　“封面男孩”作为一个乐队没有前途可言。我寻找着一个说得过去的理由，“我年纪太大了，回去不合适。到四月份，我就二十六了，别的学生都才十八岁，他们看上去完全不一样。”
　　“你只是觉得自己老而已。”
　　那一刻，我觉得自己有125 岁了。她往后靠着椅背，观看剩下的球赛，再也不提这事了。那天下午回家时，她把汽车收音机的频道从摇滚乐调到古典音乐，乐队正在演奏马勒，她把头靠在我肩上，闭眼静听。
　　泰思和我走出门廊，坐在秋千上，静静地过了很长时间，一起喝着一瓶桃果酒。
　　她喜欢听我唱歌，我就唱给她听，然后我们就无话可说了。她的呼吸声咫尺相闻，有月有星，蟋蟀唧唧而鸣，飞蛾在门廊灯光下徘徊不去，微风穿过潮湿的空气二这一刻在我有种奇怪的感觉，仿佛唤起了遥远的梦，不是今生，不在林中，而是那换生前的生命。仿佛被忽视了的命运和欲望威胁着我一直想要创造的幻觉。要完全成为人类，我必须屈服于真正的本性，屈服于最初的冲动。
　　“你觉得我疯了吗? ”我问，“这种年头去当作曲家? 我是说，有谁真会来听你的交响乐呢? ”
　　“是梦想，亨利，你没法让梦想招之即来，挥之即去。你得做出选择，是要付诸实践还是使之破灭。”
　　“我想如果不成功，我可以回家。找个工作，买幢房子，过种日子。”
　　她握着我的双手：“如果你不和我一起来，我会每天想见你的。”
　　“你什么意思，和你一起来? ”
　　“我在等待合适的机会告诉你，我被录取了。两周后开学，我决定要去读硕士学位，在还不算太晚之前。我不想变成一个没有追求的老妇人。”
　　我想告诉她，年龄并不重要，我这时候爱她，两年后爱她，二十年、两百年后依旧爱她，但我什么都没说。她拍了拍我的膝盖，依偎过来，我嗅着她头发的味道。
　　我们让夜晚过去了。一架飞机在我们和月亮之间的视野中飞过，那片刻的幻觉仿佛虚贴在月球表面。她在我怀中睡着了，过了十一点，突然惊醒。
　　‘“我得走了。”泰思说。她吻了我额头，我们一起踱向汽车。散步使她从酒醉中清醒过来。
　　“嗨，你什么时候上课呢? 如果是白天，我有时候能开车送你去。”
　　“好主意。说不定你自己也会想回校的。”
　　她给了我一个飞吻，然后消失在方向盘后，车开走了。老房子瞪着我瞧，院子里的树木朝黄色的月亮舒展枝丫。我走上楼，沉浸在脑海中的音乐里，去亨利的房间，在亨利的床上睡觉。
　　泰思为何选择了杀婴行为这个课题，我百思不得其解。还有其他的选题：手足间的竞争，长子的负担，有恋母情结的儿子，失踪的父亲等等。但她就是选择了杀婴行为作为她在“家庭社会学”研讨班上的论文题目。当然了，因为我整天无所事事，她上课时，我只是在校园里转悠，或者开车在市里兜风，我就主动提出帮她找材料。她下了最后一节课，就和我出去喝咖啡喝酒，起先是为了探讨如何着手杀婴这个题目，但到了后来，话题也就转到回校和我尚未开始的交响曲上。
　　“你知道你的问题在哪里吗? ”泰思问道，“不能律己。你想当大作曲家，但又从不写曲子。亨利，真正的艺术不是多说想当什么，而是多加练习。多练练音乐吧，宝贝。”
　　我拨弄着咖啡杯的瓷耳。
　　“是开始的时候了，肖邦，别再和自己开玩笑，长大成人吧。从吧台后面出来，和我一起回校吧。”
　　我尽力不把自己的焦躁和厌恨表现出来，但她说得一针见血，就像从一群牲畜中剔除一头跛脚的。她给我来了个措手不及。
　　“你的事我都知道。你母亲对真正的亨利•戴很有眼力。”
　　“你和我母亲谈论我了? ”
　　“她说你一夜之间从一个无忧无虑的小男孩长成了一个认真的大男人。亲爱的，你不该再继续生活在你的头脑中了，要生活在这个世界上。”
　　我从椅子里站起来，俯过桌子去吻她：“好了，对我说说你的看法，为什么父母会杀自己的孩子。”
　　她的题目我们研究了几个星期，在图书馆见面，或者出去跳舞、看电影、吃饭时讨论这个话题。不止一次，我们关于杀死孩子的争论，引起周围陌生人的侧目。
　　泰思想了解这个题目的历史架构，便一头扎入现有的材料中去。我想要挖掘出一个可行的理论来帮她的忙。在某些社会中，男孩比女孩受宠，他们在农场工作或者继承财产，顺理成章的是，许多女婴因为不需要而被谋杀。但是在等级制不那么严格的文化中，家中人口多，资源少，杀婴行为是因为家庭无力多抚养一个孩子，是一种控制人口的残酷方式。好几周，泰思和我想不明白父母是如何决定哪个孩子该养，哪个孩子该丢的。指导研讨班的劳瑞博士认为神话和民间故事也许能提供有趣的答案，这样我才碰到了那篇文章。
　　一天傍晚，我在书架间查找时，发现我们图书馆惟一的一份《神话和社会》学术杂志，出版日期相当近，共有三期。我翻着杂志，漫不经心地独自站在那里，这时一个名字从页面上跃出来抓住了我的喉咙。托马斯•麦克伊内斯。接着，他那篇文章的题目像刀子一样戳进我心口：《失窃的孩子》。
　　狗娘养的。
　　麦克伊内斯的理论认为，在中世纪的欧洲，如果父母生出一个患有疾病的孩子，他们会刻意把孩子当做其他种类的生物。他们会说，魔鬼或“精灵”半夜里来偷走了他们的亲生孩子，留下一个有病、畸形或残疾的小魔鬼，父母要么丢弃它们，要么抚养长大。英国把它们叫做“仙灵孩子”或“换生灵”，法国叫做enrants chang6s，德国叫做Wech—selbalgen （这两个词分别是法语和德语，都是换生灵”的意思。）如果一个小孩没能茁壮成长，或者有某种身体或精神上的缺陷，人们就认为是这些魔鬼的孩子造成的。如果家里有了换生灵，那家人不会把它留下来当做自家的孩子养。父母有权遗弃畸形儿，他们能把孩子丢在森林里过夜，如果精灵不把它领回去，那么这个可怜不幸的东西就会冻馁而死，或被野兽叼走。
　　论文记叙了几个版本的传说，包括十二世纪法国的圣灰犬崇拜。
　　一天，男主人回家发现看护孩子的猎犬嘴上淌着血。男人暴怒之下，把狗打死了，后来却发现孩子没事，婴儿床边的地上死了一条毒蛇。
　　男主人知道自己犯了错，就为这头“圣灰犬”建了一座圣祠，以纪念它与毒蛇搏斗保护了他的儿子。和这个故事有关的还有这样的传说，母亲会把患有“小儿病”
　　的婴儿带到林中的这种圣祠里，写个条子，把他们留给主保圣人和儿科医生：“Asaint Guinefort ，pour la vie onpour’h mott．”（法文：“圣居文福，生死悉听尊命。”( 居文福就是那只狗的名字。) ）“出于孩子存活几率不大而故意将之杀害，这种形式的杀婴行为，”麦克伊内斯写道：成为神话和民间故事，一直流传到十九世纪的德国、大不列颠爱尔兰，以及其他欧洲国家，这种迷信还随着移民传播到新世界。十九世纪五十年代，宾夕法尼亚州西部的一个小矿队报告了一起失踪事件，不同家庭的十二个孩子消失在周圉的群山里。
　　在阿巴拉契亚矿穴中，从纽约到田纳西，当地的传说产生了一种民间信仰：这些孩子仍然在森林中游荡。
　　一则与一位年轻人有关的当代案例，反映了传说的心理学根源。“安德鲁”在催眠下说出自己曾被“妖怪”诱拐。最近发现的一个身份不明的弦子，其事因至今未得解释，他被发现溺死在附近的一条河中，据信是这些盗尸者所为。他说这地区许多失踪的孩子都是被精灵所偷，毫发无损地生活在附近的森林里，而换生灵取代了孩子的地位，在社区中过着孩子的生活。这类幻想，正如换生灵神话的缘起，显然都是为了孩子走失或被盗引发的伤感问题而施加的社会保护措施。
　　他不仅把事情给弄错了，还用我的话来攻击我。“安德鲁”的上标指引读者去看印制精良的脚注：安德鲁( 非真名) 揭开了妖怪亚文化模式的一个复杂故事。
　　他说，妖怪生活在附近的林区，一个多世纪来在镇上捕捉孩童。
　　他也强调说，他曾经是一个叫古斯塔夫•安格兰德的人类孩子，十九世纪中期随家人从德国移民至此。更不可思议的是，安德鲁说他在前生是个音乐神童，而当他在四十年代晚期变回人类后，又重新得到了这种音乐天赋。令人遗憾的是，他这个复杂精妙的故事揭示的是深层次的病态发展问题，或许掩盖了幼年的某些受虐、心理创伤或者被忽视的经历。
　　最后一句我读了好几遍才看清楚。我想嚎叫，想找到他把这些字塞进他的嘴里去。我把纸页从杂志上撕下来，把损毁了的杂志扔进垃圾桶。“骗子，冒牌货，小偷。”我一遍遍喃喃地说着，在书架间踱来踱去。好在我一个人也没碰到，否则谁知道我会怎么发泄怒气呢。
　　发育不健康。病态问题。被遗弃的孩子。他根本不相信有我们换生灵，而且把整个事情弄拧了。我们把他们从床上抓走。我们就像噩梦一样真实。
　　电梯“砰”的一响，像一声熗击，敞开的门口走来了图书管理员，她身材矮小，戴着一副猫眼眼镜，头发朝后梳成一个髻。她看到我蓬头散发的样子就怔了一怔，但她一开口，我就冷静了下来。“我们要关门了，”她大声说，“你该走了。”
　　我躲在一排书后，把麦克伊内斯的书页折成四折，塞进我粗斜纹棉布的夹克衫里。她朝我走过来，鞋跟敲在油毯上，我试图改变自己的面容，但古老的魔力已消失。我所能做的就是用手指在头发里耙了一通，站起来，抚平衣服上的皱褶。
　　“你没听见我说话吗? ”她站在我对面，像棵笔直的芦苇。“你得走了。”她看着我离开。我在电梯口挥手道别，她靠在一排书架上，瞪着眼睛，好似知道我所有的事。
　　天下着冷雨，我和泰思的约会迟到了。她的课几个小时前就结束了，这时候我们应该在回家路上。我奔下楼梯时，想她会不会生我的气，但这种担心远远不及我对麦克伊内斯的愤怒。街角的灯光下站着泰思，在雨里撑着伞。她走过来，把我遮到伞下，手插进我的臂弯。
　　“亨利，你没事吧? 你在发抖，宝贝。冷吗? 亨利，亨利? ”
　　她把我拉拢来，两个人互相取暖，还不会被雨淋湿。她用温暖的手抚着我的脸，我知道这个又冷又湿的夜晚是我告白的最好时机。
　　在伞下，我告诉她我爱她。我只能说这些了。
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Chapter 24
　　We lived in the dark hole, and the abandoned mine on the hillside proved to be a very bad home indeed. That first winter, I went into a deeper hibernation than ever before, waking only every few days to eat or drink a few mouthfuls, then back to bed. Most of the others dwelt in the narcoleptic state, a haze that lasted from December through March. The darkness enfolded us in its moist embrace, and for many weeks not a peep of sun reached us. Snowfalls almost sealed us in, but the porous entrance allowed the cold to penetrate. The walls wept and froze into slick crusts that shattered under pressure.
　　In the springtime we slipped into the green world, hungry and thin. In the unfamiliar territory, looking for food became a daily preoccupation. The hillside itself was all slag and shale, and even in high season, only the hardiest grasses and moss clung to a tenuous hold. No animals bothered to forage there. Béka cautioned us not to roam too far, so we made do with what we could scavenge nearby—grasshoppers and grubs, tea made out of bark, robin's breast, a roast skunk. We imagined all we missed by not visiting town.
　　"I would give my eyetooth for a taste of ice cream," Smaolach said at the conclusion to a mean supper. "Or a nice yellow banana."
　　"Raspberry jam," said Speck, "on warm, crunchy toast."
　　Onions chimed in: "Sauerkraut and pigs' feet."
　　"Spaghetti," Zanzara began, and Ragno finished, "with Parmesan."
　　"A Coke and a smoke." Luchóg patted his empty pouch.
　　"Why don't you let us go?" asked Chavisory. "It's been so long, Béka."
　　The gangly despot sat above us on a throne made from an empty dynamite crate. He had resisted granting liberties every time we had asked, but perhaps he, too, was brightening as the days were on the mend. "Onions, take Blomma and Kivi with you tonight, but be back before dawn. Stay off the roads and take no chances." He smiled at his own benevolence. "And bring me back a bottle of beer."
　　The three girls rose as one and left without delay. Béka should have read the signs and felt the coming change in his bones, but perhaps his thirst outweighed his judgment. A cold snap rolled over the western hills to meet the warm May air, and within hours a thick fog settled into the woods and clung to the darkness like the skin of a peach. We could see no farther than one giant step ahead, and the invisible cloak stretched between the trees created a general sense of unease about our absent friends.
　　After the others crawled into the darkness to sleep, Luchóg kept me company at the mine's entrance in a quiet vigil. "Don't worry, little treasure. While they cannot see, they cannot be seen. They'll find a careful hiding place till the sun cuts through this gloom."
　　We watched and became one with nothing. In the dead of it, a crashing through the trees awakened us. The noise rose in a single frantic wave. Branches snapped and broke, and an inhuman cry resounded and was swiftly extinguished. We peered into the mist, strained in the direction of the commotion. Luchóg struck a match and lit the torch kept at the mine's entrance. The twigs sputtered in the damp, caught hold, and burst into light. Emboldened by the fire, we stepped carefully toward the memory of the noise and the faint scent of blood on the ground. Ahead through the mist, two eyes mirrored <>ui torchlight, and their glowing halted our progress. A fox snapped its jaws and carried away its prey, and we walked over to the killing spot. Fanned out like glass in a kaleidoscope, black-and-white-banded feathers lay strewn on the fallen leaves. Struggling with the heavy turkey, the fox bumbled off into the distance, and above us in the trees, the surviving birds huddled together, churring a comfort to one another.
　　Onions, Kivi, and Blomma still had not returned when I showed Speck the place where the fox had caught the tom. She chose a pair of the larger feathers and knitted them into her hair. "Last of the Mohicans," she said, and ran whooping into the lightening morn as I gave chase, and so we played away the day. When Speck and I returned late that afternoon, we found Béka angry and pacing. The girls had not come home, and he was torn between sending out a search party or waiting inside the mineshaft.
　　"What do you mean, keeping us here?" Speck demanded. "You told them be back by dawn. Do you think Onions would disobey you? They should have been back hours ago. Why aren't we out looking for them?" She divided the eight of us into pairs and mapped out four different approaches to town. To keep him calm, she went with Béka on the most direct path. Smaolach and Luchóg circled around our old stomping grounds, and Ragno and Zanzara followed well-worn deerpaths.
　　Chavisory and I took an ancient artery, blazed by the Indians perhaps, that ran parallel to the river, bending, dipping, and rising as the water twisted in its course. It seemed more likely that Onions, Kivi, and Blomma had taken another trail with better cover, but we stayed vigilant for any movement or other indications they had passed this way—such as fresh footprints or broken branches. The brush sometimes choked off passage, and we stepped out onto the exposed riverbank for short stints. Anyone driving across the high bridge that linked the highway to the town could have spotted us in the half-light, and I often wondered while on this path what we must look like from so far above. Ants, probably, or little children lost. Chavisory sang and hummed to herself a wordless tune at once familiar and strange.
　　"What is that song?" I asked her when we stopped to get our bearings. Far ahead in the river, a tug pushed a chain of barges toward the city.
　　"Chopin, I think."
　　"What is Chopin?"
　　She giggled and twisted a strand of hair around two fingers. "Not what, silly. Who. Chopin wrote the music, or at least that's what he said."
　　"Who said? Chopin?"
　　She laughed loudly, then covered her mouth with her free hand. "Chopin is dead. The boy who taught me the song. He said it is Chopin's mayonnaise."
　　"What boy is that? The one before me?"
　　Her demeanor changed, and she looked off in the distance at the receding barges. Even in the dim light, I could see she was blushing.
　　"Why won't you tell me? Why doesn't anyone ever talk about him?"
　　"Aniday, we never talk about changelings once they are gone. We try to forget everything about them. No good to chase after memories."
　　A far-off cry went out, a brief alarm that signaled us to make haste and rendezvous. We dropped our conversation and followed the sound. Ragno and Zanzara found her first, alone and crying in an empty glen. She had been wandering half the day, too confused and distraught to find her way home. The other pairs arrived within minutes to hear the news, and Béka sat down beside Onions and draped his arm around her shoulders. Kivi and Blomma were gone.
　　The three girls had seen the fog roll in and sped their way into town, reaching the lonesome outer streets as the worst weather fell. The streetlamps and storefront signs cast halos through the misted dark, serving as beacons for the faeries to navigate through the neighborhoods. Blomma told the other two not to worry about being seen by people in the houses. "We're invisible in this fog," she said, and perhaps her foolhardy confidence was their ruin. From the supermarket, they stole sugar, salt, flour, and a netted sack of oranges, then stashed the loot in an alley outside of the drugstore. Sneaking in through the back, they were surprised by all of the changes since their latest visit.
　　"Everything is different," Onions told us. "The soda fountain is gone, the whole counter and all those round chairs that spin you around. And no more booths. No candy counter, and the big tubs of penny candy are gone, too. Instead, there's more everything. Soap and shampoo, shoelaces, a whole wall of comic books and magazines. And there's a whole row of things just for babies. Diapers made out of plastic that you throw away, and baby bottles and cans of milk. And hundreds of those tiny jars of food, all gooshed up, and on each one the same picture of the cutest baby in the world. Applesauce and pears and bananas. Spinach and green beans. Sweet potatoes that look like red mud. And smooshed turkey and chicken with rice. Kivi wanted to taste every one, and we were there for hours."
　　I could picture the three of them, faces smeared with blueberries, bloated and sprawled in the aisle, dozens of empty jars strewn across the floor.
　　A car pulled up outside and stopped in front of the picture windows. The flashlight shone through the glass, slowly swept its beam along the interior, and when it neared, the girls leapt to their feet, slipped on the puddles of peas and carrots, and sent the jars spinning and clattering across the linoleum. The front door opened, and two policemen stepped inside. One of the men said to the other, "This is where he said they would be." Onions shouted for them to run, but Kivi and Blomma did not move. They stood side by side in the middle of the baby food aisle, joined hands, and waited for the men to come and get them.
　　"I don't know why," Onions said. "It was the most horrible thing I have ever seen. I circled around behind the men and could see Kivi and Blomma when the lights hit them right in the face. They looked as if they were waiting for it to happen. The policeman said, 'He was right. There is someone here.' And the other said, 'Freeze.' Kivi squeezed her eyes shut, and Blomma raised one hand to her forehead, but they didn't look afraid at all. Like they were happy, almost."
　　Onions wriggled through the door and escaped, not bothering with the stolen goods. Instinct set in, and she ran through the empty streets, heedless of all traffic, never looking back. The fog disoriented her, and she ran all the way through town to the other side. Once she had found a hiding place in a yellow barn, she waited nearly all day to return home, taking a route that skirted the streets. When Ragno and Zanzara found her, she was exhausted.
　　"Why did the man say that?" Béka asked her. "What did he mean, 'This is where he said they would be'?"
　　"Somebody must have told the policemen where we were." Onions shuddered. "Somebody who knows our ways."
　　Béka took her by the hands and lifted her up from the ground. "Who else could it be?" He was looking straight at me, as if accusing me of a heinous crime.
　　"But I didn't tell—"
　　"Not you, Aniday," he spat out. "The one who took your place."
　　"Chopin," said Chavisory, and one or two laughed at the name before catching their emotions. We trudged home in silence, remembering our missing friends Kivi and Blomma. Each of us found a private way to grieve. We took their dolls out of the hole and buried them in a single grave. Smaolach and Luchóg spent two weeks building a cairn, while Chavisory and Speck divided our departed friends' possessions among the nine of us left behind. Only Ragno and Zanzara remained stoic and impassive, accepting their share of clothing and shoes but saying next to nothing. Through that summer and into the fall, our conversations revolved around finding meaning in the girls' surrender. Onions did her best to convince us that a betrayal had occurred, and Béka joined in, affirming the conspiracy, arguing that the humans were out to get us and that it was only a matter of time before Kivi and Blomma would fully confess. The men in the black suits would return, the army men, the police and their dogs, and they would hunt us down. Others among us took a more thoughtful view.
　　Luchóg said, "They wanted to leave, and it was only a matter of time. I only hope that the poor things find home in the world and weren't sent off to live in a zoo or put under the microscope by a mad scientist."
　　We never heard of them again. Vanished, as if an airy nothing.
　　More than ever, Béka insisted we live in darkness, but he did allow us nights away from the diminished clan. When the chance arose over those next few years, Speck and I would steal away to sleep in relative peace and luxury beneath the library. We threw ourselves into our books and papers. We read the Greeks in translation, Clytemnestra in her grief, Antigone's honor in a thin coating of earth. Grendel prowling the bleak Danish night. The pilgrims of Canterbury and lives on the road. Maxims of Pope, the rich clot of humanity in all of Shakespeare, Milton's angels and aurochs, Gulliver big, little, yahoo. Wild ecstasies of Keats. Shelley's Frankenstein. Rip Van Winkle sleeping it off. Speck insisted on Austen, Eliot, Emerson, Thoreau, the Brontes, Alcott, Nesbitt, Rossetti, both Brownings, and especially Alice down the rabbit hole. We worked our way right up to the present age, chewing through the books like a pair of silverfish.
　　Sometimes, Speck would read aloud to me. I would hand her a story she had never before seen, and almost without a beat, she made it hers. She frightened me from the word Once in Poe's "The Raven." She brought me to tears over Ben Jonson's drowned cat. She made the hooves thunder in "The Charge of the Light Brigade" and the waves roar in Tennyson's "Ulysses." I loved the music of her voice and watching her face as she read, season after season. In the summertime her bared skin darkened, and her dark hair brightened in the sunshine. During the cold part of the year, she disappeared beneath layers, so that sometimes all I could see was her wide forehead and dark brows. On winter nights in that candlelit space, her eyes shone out from the circles beneath her eyes. Although we had spent twenty years together, she secreted away the power to shock or surprise, to say a word and break my heart.

    我们住在乌黑的洞里，而这个山坡上的废井也确实不堪居住。
　　第一个冬天，我冬眠的时间比以往都来得长，几天才醒来稍微吃点喝点，然后又回头去睡。其他大多数人都处于嗜睡状态，从十二月到三月一直昏昏沉沉。黑暗将我们包裹在潮湿的怀抱里，一连几周我们都晒不到丁点阳光。大雪把我们封在里面，但入口的多处缝隙却挡不住寒冷。墙壁上的滴水冻结成光滑的冰壳，用力一压就碎。
　　到了春天，我们来到绿色世界，一个个又饿又瘦。在陌生的领地上，寻找食物成了每日要务。山坡上都是矿渣和页岩，即使在最适宜的季节中，也只有最坚韧的野草和苔藓才能长出细弱的根来。动物都懒得过来觅食。贝卡告诫我们不要逛太远，所以我们就只在附近将就了——蚱蜢和幼虫，树皮泡的茶，知更鸟的胸脯肉，烤臭鼬。我们想像着所有因为没有造访镇上而带来的损失。
　　“要是能吃上一口冰激凌，我宁可舍掉一颗犬齿。”斯茂拉赫在一顿简陋的晚餐后说，“或者一条美味的黄香蕉。”
　　“覆盆子果酱，”斯帕克说，“涂在烤得暖暖的、松脆的面包上。”
　　奥尼恩斯说：“德国泡菜和猪蹄子。”
　　“意大利实心粉，”赞扎拉说，劳格诺也接口道：“意大利于乳酪。”
　　“可乐和香烟。”鲁契克拍了拍他空空的革囊。
　　“你为什么不让我们去呢? ”卡维素芮说，“已经过去了那么久了，贝卡。”
　　这个身材瘦长的独裁者坐在我们前面一只用空的炸药箱做成的王座上。每次我们提议自由活动，他都不肯恩准。但随着天气转好，他的心情或许也渐渐开朗起来。
　　“奥尼恩斯，今晚带布鲁玛和齐维一起去，不过天亮前要回来。不要靠近马路，不要冒险。”他为自己的恩赐露出微笑，“给我带瓶啤酒回来。”
　　三个女孩一起站起来，立刻离开了。贝卡本该看出征兆，骨子里感觉到即将到来的变化，但或许他太想喝酒了，没能做出正确的判断。一股寒流攀上西边的山头，碰上温暖的五月空气，几小时后，一场重霜降在林中，像桃子皮似的贴在黑夜里。
　　我们的视力只及一步远，而披在树林中的看不见的大氅让我们都为外出的伙伴担忧起来。
　　大家回到黑洞里睡觉后，鲁契克陪我一起在矿洞口安静地守夜。
　　“别担心，小宝贝。她们看不见，别人也看不见她们。她们会找个安全的地方藏起来，等到太阳照亮阴霾。”
　　我们望着望着，无所事事起来。到了半夜，树林里“哗啦”一声把我们惊醒。
　　这个声音一波一波急速传来。树枝喀嚓作响，纷纷断裂，一个非人的呼喊声在四周回响，但很快消失。我们往迷雾中张望，费力地朝声音嘈杂处看。鲁契克划一根火柴，点亮了矿井入口处的火炬。潮湿的枝条劈里啪啦地响，终于点着了火，发出光来。我们借火壮胆，小心翼翼地探向刚才发声的所在，地上留有淡淡的血腥味。雾气中，前方有双眼睛在我们的火炬光芒下莹莹发亮，我们停下脚步。
　　一只狐狸张开大嘴叼走了猎物，我们来到它的狩猎处。黑白相间的羽毛就像万花筒里的玻璃似的撒在落叶上。狐狸叼着沉重的火鸡，步履蹒跚地跑向远方，在我们头顶上的树上，幸存的鸟儿挤成一团发抖，彼此定下心来。
　　奥尼恩斯、齐维和布鲁玛还没有回来，我带斯帕克去看狐狸捕猎的地方。她挑了两支长羽毛，插在头发上。“最后的莫希干人。”她说，然后一边叫嚷着一边奔入微明的晨光，我追赶着她，就这样玩了一天。等斯帕克和我傍晚回来时，发现贝卡正怒气冲冲地踱步。女孩们还没有回家，他不知是该派遣搜寻队还是等在矿井里。
　　“让我们留在这里，你是什么意思? ”斯帕克提议说，“你让她们天亮前回来，你以为奥尼恩斯会不听你的吗? 她们几个小时前就该回来了。我们为什么不去找她们? ”她把我们八个人分成四组，画出了四条去镇上的不同路线。为了安抚贝卡，她和他走一条最近的路。
　　斯茂拉赫和鲁契克从我们的老地盘上绕过去，劳格诺和赞扎拉走一条老鹿道。
　　卡维素芮和我走一条古老的要道，这也许是印第安人开辟出来的，道路顺着河走，随着水势转弯和起伏。奥尼恩斯、齐维和布鲁玛似乎更有可能走了另一条有更多掩护的路，但我们还是非常留意是否有什么动静，或者有什么迹象能说明她们走了这条路，比如新留下的脚印或折断的树枝。有时候灌木丛堵住去路，我们就走上没有遮蔽的河岸去抄近路。如果有人从连接高速公路和镇子的高架桥上驾车而过，就会在昏暗的光线下发现我们，我常想，从那么高的地方看下来，走在小路上的我们是什么样子。大概像蚂蚁，或者像迷路的小孩子。卡维素芮在自哼自唱着没有歌词的调子，听上去既熟悉又陌生。
　　“这是什么歌? ”我们停下来判别方向时，我这么问她。在远远的河上，一艘拖船拉着一列驳船驶向城市。
　　“肖邦吧，我想。”    。
　　“肖邦是什么? ”
　　她嘻嘻笑了，两根手指卷着一缕头发。“不是什么，笨蛋。是谁。
　　肖邦写了这首曲子，至少他是这么说的。”
　　“谁说的? 肖邦? ”
　　她失声大笑，然后用空着的那只手掩住了嘴。“肖邦已经死了。
　　是教我这首曲子的男孩说的。他说这是肖邦的蛋黄酱（是肖邦的降A 大调作品61号幻想波兰舞曲，因波兰舞曲与蛋黄酱的英语发音相似，故奥尼恩斯有此误。）。”
　　“那个男孩是谁? 是我前面的那个吗? ”
　　她的神情变了，望着远处渐渐消失的驳船。即使在微明的光线下，我还是看到她脸红了。
　　“你为什么不告诉我? 为什么大家都不提起他? ”
　　“安尼戴，我们从不说起已经走了的换生灵。我们要忘掉和他们有关的任何事。
　　追逐回忆没有好处。”
　　远处传来了喊声，一闪即逝的警报指示我们迅速赶去集合。我们不再交谈，追踪声音而去。劳格诺和赞扎拉率先找到了她，她一个人在空荡荡的山谷中哭泣。她已经走了半天，又慌又急找不到回家的路。其他各队在听到消息后几分钟内赶到，贝卡坐在奥尼恩斯身边，搂着她的肩膀。齐维和布鲁玛失踪了。
　　三个女孩见到浓雾升起，就飞奔进了镇子，天气最恶劣的时候，她们赶到了空无一人的外街。街灯和商店前的标志在雾气笼罩的夜晚打出光晕，像灯塔一样给仙灵们指路。布鲁玛对另两位说不必担心会被屋子里的人看到，“我们在雾气里是看不到的。”她说。或许正是她这种有勇无谋的信心造成了她们的失败。她们从超市里偷了糖、盐、面粉和一网兜的橘子，接着把战利品藏在杂货店外面的小巷子里。
　　她们从巷子后面潜入时都惊果了，这里与上次来的时候大不相同。
　　“一切都变了，”奥尼恩斯告诉我们，“汽水店没了，整个柜台和所有能让你转来转去的圆椅也没有了。售货亭没有了。糖果柜台没有了，大盒装的便士糖也没了。而多出来许多其他东西。肥皂香波、鞋带、一整面墙的漫画书和杂志。还有一整排的婴儿用品。有一次性的塑料尿布，婴儿瓶装和罐装牛奶，几百个小罐装的食品，全都已经胀起来了的，每罐上都印着同一张世界上最可爱的婴儿照片。有苹果酱、梨子和香蕉，菠菜和绿豆，看起来像红泥的甜土豆，还有香酥火鸡和油鸡饭。
　　齐维每种都想尝尝，我们在那里待了几个小时。”
　　我能想像这个场面：她们三个脸上涂着蓝莓酱，肚子鼓鼓，四肢趴开躺在过道上，几十个空罐头丢了～地。
　　一辆车开到路边，停在落地橱窗外。灯光穿过玻璃，在室内缓缓扫动．灯光照过来时，女孩们跳起来，却在豌豆和胡萝卜泥上滑了一跤跤，摔得罐头满地毯打滚。
　　前门开了，进来两个警察。一个对另一个说：“他说他们会在这里。”奥尼恩斯叫她们快跑，但齐维和布鲁玛一动不动。她们并肩站在婴儿食品过道中间，手拉着手，等着那两个人过来捉她们。
　　“我不知道为什么，”奥尼恩斯说，“这是我见过的最可怕的事。
　　我绕到那两个人身后，看到灯光正打在齐维和布鲁玛脸上。她们看起来像是等着这事发生似的。警察说：‘他说得没错。这里有人。’另一个说：‘别动。’齐维用力闭上眼睛，布鲁玛把一只手举到额上，但她们看起来一点儿也不害怕，简直好像很开心的样子。”
　　奥尼恩斯溜到门口逃走了，也顾不上偷了的东西。她凭着本能跑在空荡荡的街道上，不管来往的车辆，也不回头朝后看。大雾使她迷失了方向，她从镇子的一头跑到另一头，后来在一个黄色的大车库里找到了藏身处，等到天快黑才回家，走的是街道边上的路。劳格诺和赞扎拉找到她时，她已精疲力竭了。
　　“那个人为什么那么说? ”贝卡问她，“‘他说他们会在这里’，是什么意思?”
　　“肯定有人告诉警察我们在哪里，”奥尼思斯颤抖着说，“有人知道我们的路线。”
　　贝卡拉着她的手让她站起来。“会是别的什么人呢? ”他目不转睛地朝我看，好似指责我犯了重罪。
　　“但我没有说……”
　　“不是你，安尼戴，”他呸了一声，“是取代了你位置的家伙。”
　　“肖邦。”卡维素芮说，一两个人听到这个名字笑了起来，但心情立刻沉了下去。我们默默地回家，想着失去的朋友齐维和布鲁玛。
　　每个人都有各自悲痛的方式。我们把她们的娃娃从洞里拿出来，埋在一个坟墓里。斯茂拉赫和鲁契克用了两个星期堆了一座石堆，卡维素芮和斯帕克把我们离开的伙伴的财物分给余下的九个人。只有劳格诺和赞扎拉无动于衷，拿了自己那份衣服和鞋子，但几乎什么也没说。从夏天到秋天，我们的谈话都围绕着女孩们被捕的事。奥尼恩斯竭力想让我们相信她们会叛变，贝卡和她站在一边，认为她们会和人类合作，而人类会来提我们，齐维和布鲁玛和盘托出只是时间问题。穿黑西装的男人会再来，还有军人、警察和狗，他们会把我们逮到手。其他人则想得更多。
　　鲁契克说：“她们想离开，这只是个时间问题。我只希望那两个可怜的家伙会在世上找到家，而不是被送到动物园去，或者被一个疯子科学家放在显微镜下。”
　　我们再也没有听到她们的消息。她们仿佛凭空消失了。
　　贝卡变本加厉地要求我们待在黑暗里，但他在某些晚上也允许我们离开人数减少了的集体。此后几年，一有这种机会，斯帕克和我就溜到图书馆下面相对安静和舒适的地方睡觉。我们一头扎入书籍和文章，我们阅读翻译过来的希腊文学，克吕泰涅斯特拉的悲痛、在薄薄的土层下害怕的安提戈涅，在凄凉的丹麦夜晚徘徊的格伦德尔，坎特伯雷的朝圣者和朝圣路上的生活，蒲柏的格言诗，莎士比亚作品中丰厚的人文精神，弥尔顿的天使和欧洲野牛，格列佛的大人国、小人国和耶胡，济慈天马行空的幻想，雪莱夫人的弗兰肯斯坦，瑞普•凡•温克的一场大梦。斯帕克喜欢读奥斯汀、艾略特、爱默生、梭罗、勃朗特姐妹、奥尔珂德、莱斯比、罗塞蒂、勃朗宁夫妇，她特别喜爱兔子洞里的爱丽丝。我们一路读到当代，像两条书虫似的啃读书卷。
　　有时候，斯帕克会大声朗读给我听。我会给她一篇她没有读过的小说，她立刻会纳为己有。她用爱伦坡《渡鸦》中的“曾经”吓唬我，还使我为托马斯•格雷淹死的猫哭泣。她能发出丁尼生《尤利西斯》中怒吼的波涛声和《轻骑兵进击》中如雷的马蹄声。我爱她音乐般的嗓音，喜欢年复一年看着她阅读时的脸庞。夏天，她裸露的皮肤变黑，黑色的头发在阳光下闪烁。天冷的时候，她消失在毯子下，我有时只能看见她宽阔的前额和乌黑的眉毛。冬夜，在那个烛光荧荧的地方，她的眸子在眼睑下闪耀光泽。我们在一起共度二十年了，她暗暗隐去了令人震骇或惊喜的能力，藏起了说一句话就叫我心碎的本事。
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Chapter 25
　　I had a name, although at times Gustav Ungerland was no more real to me than Henry Day. The simple solution would have been to track down Tom McInnes and ask him for more details about what had been said under hypnosis. After finding the article in the library, I tried to locate its author but had no more to go on than the address in the magazine. Several weeks after receiving my letter, the editor of the defunct Journal of Myth and Society replied that he would be glad to forward it on to the professor, but nothing came of it. When I called his university, the chairman of the department said McInnes had vanished on a Monday morning, right in the middle of the semester, and left no forwarding address. My attempts at contacting Brian Ungerland proved equally frustrating. I couldn't very well pester Tess for information about her old boyfriend, and after asking around town, someone told me that Brian was at Fort Sill, Oklahoma, with the U.S. Army, studying how to blow things up. There were no Ungerlands in our local phone book.
　　Fortunately, other things occupied my thoughts. Tess had talked me into going back to school, and I was to begin in January. She changed when I told her my plans, became more attentive and affectionate. We celebrated registering for classes by splurging on dinner and Christmas shopping in the city. Arm in arm, we walked the sidewalks downtown. In the windows of Kaufmann's Department Store, miniature animatronic scenes played out in an endless loop. Santa and his elves hammered at the same wooden bicycle. Skaters circled atop an icy mirror for all eternity. We stopped and lingered before one display—a human family, baby in the bassinet, proud parents kissing under the mistletoe. Our own images reflected on and through the glass, superimposed over the mechanicals' domestic bliss.
　　"Isn't that adorable? Look at how lifelike they made the baby. Doesn't she make you want to have one yourself?"
　　"Sure, if they were all as quiet as that one."
　　We strolled by the park, where a ragtag bunch of children queued up to a stand selling hot chocolate. We bought two cups and sat on a cold park bench. "You do like children, don't you?"
　　"Children? I never think about them."
　　"But wouldn't you want a son to take camping or a girl to call your own?"
　　"Call my own? People don't belong to other people."
　　"You're a very literal person sometimes."
　　"I don't think—"
　　"No, you don't. Most people pick up on subtleties, but you operate in another dimension."
　　But I knew what she meant. I did not know if having a real human baby was possible. Or would it be half human, half goblin, a monster? A horrid creature with a huge head and shrunken body, or those dead eyes peering out beneath a sunbonnet. Or a misery that would turn on me and expose my secret. Yet Tess's warm presence on my arm had a curious tug on my conscience. Part of me desired to unpack the burdens of the past, to tell her all about Gustav Ungerland and my fugitive life in the forest. But so much time had passed since the change that at times I doubted that existence. All of my powers and skills learned a lifetime ago had disappeared, lost while endlessly playing the piano, faded in the comfort of warm beds and cozy living rooms, in the reality of this lovely woman beside me. Is the past as real as the present? Maybe I wish I had told everything, and that the truth had revised the course of life. I don't know. But I do remember the feeling of that night, the mixed sensation of great hope and bottomless foreboding.
　　Tess watched a group of children skating across a makeshift ice rink. She blew on her drink and sent a fog of steam into the air. "I've always wanted a baby of my own."
　　For once, I understood what another person was trying to tell me. With the music of a calliope harmonizing with the sound of children laughing under the stars, I asked her to marry me.
　　
　　
　　We waited until the end of spring semester and were married in May 1968 at the same church where Henry Day had been baptized as an infant. Standing at the altar, I felt almost human again, and in our vows existed the possibility for a happy ending. When we marched down the aisle I could see, in the smiling faces of all our friends and family, an unsuspecting joy for Mr. and Mrs. Henry Day. During the ceremony, I half expected that when the double doors opened to the daylight there would be a retinue of changelings waiting to take me away. I did my best to forget my past, to dismiss the thought that I was a fraud.
　　At the reception, my mother and Uncle Charlie were the first to greet us, and they had not only paid for the party but even made us a gift of a honeymoon in Europe. While we were away in Germany, they would elope together, but that afternoon it was passing strange to see him where Bill Day should have been. Nostalgia for my father was fleeting, for we were leaving behind the past and claiming life. So much would change over the next few years. George Knoll would leave town a few weeks after the wedding to wander across the country for a year, and he ended up in San Francisco, running a sidewalk bistro with an older woman from Spain. With no Coverboys, Oscar would buy a jukebox that fall, and the customers would still flock in for drinks and pop music. Jimmy Cummings took my old job behind the bar. Even my baby sisters were growing up.
　　Mary and Elizabeth brought their latest boyfriends, a couple of long-haired twins, to the reception, and at the center of the party, Uncle Charlie regaled the crowd with his latest scheme. "Those houses up on the ridge are only the beginning. People are not merely going to move out of the cities; they're going to be moving as far away as they can. My company is sitting on a gold mine in this county."
　　My mother sidled up to him, and he put his arm around her waist and rested his hand on her hip.
　　"When I first heard about the trouble up in the woods and sending in the National Guard, well, my first thought was that when the government was through, land would be dirt cheap."
　　She laughed so willingly at his pun that I flinched. Tess squeezed my arm to prevent me from saying what I was thinking.
　　"Country living. Moderately priced, safe and secure, perfect for young couples looking to start a family." As if on cue, he and my mother stared right at Tess's belly. Already they were full of hope.
　　Feigning innocence, Elizabeth asked, "How about you two, Uncle Charlie?"
　　Tess squeezed my bottom, and I let out a tiny whoop just as Jimmy Cummings stepped up to speak. "I wouldn't want to live up there, man."
　　"Of course not, Jimmy," Mary said. "After all you went through in those woods."
　　"There's something up there," he told the party. "Did you hear the rumor about those wild little girls they found the other night?"
　　The guests began to drift off in pairs and start new conversations. Since his rescue of young Oscar Love, Jimmy had acquired a reputation for tiresome repetitions of the story, exaggerating details until it became a tall tale. When he launched into another yarn, he was bound to be dismissed as merely another storyteller, desperate for attention. "No really," he said to the few of us remaining. "I heard the local fuzz found these two girls, 'bout six or seven, I hear, who had broken into the drugstore in the dead of night and smashed everything in sight. The cops were scared of those girls, said they were spooky as a pair of cats. Man, they could barely speak a word of English or any language known to man. Put two and two together. They were living up in the woods—remember that place I found Oscar? Maybe there are others up there. Put your mind around that. Like a whole lost tribe of wild children. It's a trip, man."
　　Elizabeth was staring at me when she asked him, "What happened to them? Where are those two girls?"
　　"Can't confirm or deny a rumor," he said, "and I didn't actually see them with my own two eyes, but I don't have to. Did you know the FBI came and took 'em away? To Washington, DC, and their secret labs, so they could study them."
　　I turned to Oscar, who stood slack-jawed, listening to Jimmy. "Are you sure you want this boy tending bar for you, Oscar? Seems like he's been hitting the bottle a bit too much."
　　Jimmy came right up to my face and said sotto voce, "Know the trouble with you, Henry? You lack imagination. But they're up there, man. You better freakin' believe it."
　　
　　
　　During the flight to Germany, dreams of changelings interrupted what sleep I could manage on the airplane. When Tess and I landed in damp and overcast Frankfurt, we had two different expectations for our honeymoon. Poor thing, she wanted adventure, excitement, and romance. Two young lovers traveling through Europe. Bistros, wine and cheese, jaunts on motorbikes. I was looking for a ghost and evidence of my past, but all I knew could be written on a cocktail napkin: Gustav Ungerland, 1859, Eger.
　　Immediately bewildered by the city, we found a small room in a pension on Mendelssohnstrasse. We were dazed by the sooty black elephant of the Hauptbahnhof, disgorging trains by the hour, and behind it the resurrected city, new steel and concrete skyscrapers rising from the ashes of the ruins. Americans were everywhere. Soldiers fortunate enough to have drawn duty guarding against Eastern Europe rather than fighting in Vietnam. Strung-out runaways in the Konstablerwache shooting up in broad daylight or begging for our spare change. Our first week together, we felt out of place between the soldiers and the junkies.
　　On Sunday we strolled over to the R?merberg, a papier-m?ché version of the medieval Alstadt that had been mostly bombed out by the Allies in the final months of the war. For the first time on our trip, the weather was bright and sunny, and we enjoyed a springtime street fair. On the carousel in the middle of the festival, Tess rode a zebra and I a griffin; then we held hands after lunch in the cafe as a strolling quartet played a song for us. As if the honeymoon had finally commenced, when we made love that night, our tiny room became a cozy paradise.
　　"This is more like it," she whispered in the dark. "How I imagined we would be together. I wish every day could be like today."
　　I sat up and lit a Camel. "I was wondering if maybe tomorrow we could go our own ways for a while. You know, have time to ourselves. Just think how much more we'll have to talk about when we're back together. There's stuff I'd like to do that might not be interesting to you, so I was thinking maybe I could get up a bit earlier and go out, and I'd be back, probably, by the time you woke up. See the National Library. You would be bored to tears."
　　"Cool out, Henry." She rolled over and faced the wall. "That sounds perfect. I'm getting a little tired of spending every minute together."
　　It took all morning to find the right train, then the right streets, and the address to the Deutsche Bibliothek, and another hour or so to find the map room. A charming young librarian with workable English helped me with the historical atlas and the seemingly thousands of alterations and border changes brought about by hundreds of years of war and peace, from the final days of the Holy Roman Empire through the Hessian principalities’ Reichstag to the divisions at the end of both world wars. She did not know Eger, could not I mil anyone in Reference that had heard of the town.
　　"Do you know," she finally asked, "if it is East Germany?"
　　I looked at my watch and discovered it was 4:35 in the afternoon. The library closed at 5:00 P.M., and a furious new wife would be waiting for me.
　　She scoured the map. "Ach, now I see. It's a river, not a town. Eger on the border." She pointed to a dot that read Cheb (Eger). "The town you are looking for isn't called Eger now, and it isn't in Germany. It's in Czechoslovakia." She licked her finger and paged back through the atlas to find another map. "Bohemia. Look here, in 1859 this was all Bohemia, from here to here. And Eger, right there. I have to say I much prefer the old name." Smiling, she rested her hand on my shoulder. "But we have found it. One place with two names. Eger is Cheb."
　　"So, how do I get to Czechoslovakia?"
　　"Unless you have the right papers, you don't." She could read my disappointment. "So, tell me, what is so important about Cheb?"
　　"I'm looking for my father," I said. "Gustav Ungerland." The radiance melted from her face. She looked at the floor between her feet. "Ungerland. Was he killed in the war? Sent to the camps?"
　　"No, no. We're Catholics. He's from Eger; I mean, Cheb. His family, that is. They emigrated to America in the last century."
　　"You might try the church records in Cheb, if you could get in." She raised one dark eyebrow. "There may be a way."
　　We had a few drinks in a cafe, and she told me how to cross the line without being detected. Making my way back to Mendelssohnstrasse late that evening, I rehearsed a story to explain my long absence. Tess was asleep when I came in after ten, and I slid into bed beside her. She woke with a start, then rolled over and faced me on the pillow.
　　"I'm sorry," I said. "Lost in the library."
　　Lit by the moon, her face looked swollen, as if she had been crying. "I'd like to get out of this gray city and see the countryside. Go hiking, sleep under the stars. Meet some real Germans."
　　"I know a place," I whispered, "filled with old castles and dark woods near the border. Let's sneak across and discover all their secrets."

    我有名字，尽管有时候古斯塔夫•安格兰德对我而言并不比亨利•戴更真实。
　　最简单的解决方法是找到汤姆•麦克伊内斯，问出我被催眠时还说了些什么。找到图书馆那篇文章之后，我想顺藤摸瓜找到作者，但只能给杂志写信。收到我信几周后，该死的《神话与社会》的编辑回信说，他很乐意将我的信转给那位教授，但后来就没有下文了。我给他的大学打电话，系主任说麦克伊内斯在某个星期一早晨离开了，正好在期中这段时间，连地址都没有留下。我试图联系布瑞恩•安格兰德，但同样受挫。我不能缠着泰思问她前男友的事，而我问遍了镇子，打听到布瑞恩在俄克拉荷马州希尔堡的美国陆战队里学爆破。我们当地的电话簿上也没有姓安格兰德的人。
　　好在其他事情占据了我的胸怀。泰思说服我回校，我一月份入学了。我把自己的计划告诉她后，她就变了，变得越发温柔多情。为了庆祝我上学，我们大张旗鼓地吃了一顿，又去市里购买圣诞节的东西。我们挽着胳膊走在城市的人行道上。考夫曼百货商店的橱窗里，机械偶模型在不停地翻筋斗。圣诞老人和他的小精灵们在敲打一辆木制自行车。溜冰木偶不断地绕着滑溜的镜面转圈。我们久久地在一个装置前流连，这是一个人类的家庭，婴儿躺在摇篮里，骄傲的父母在槲寄生下亲吻。
　　我们的影像映在玻璃上，又透过玻璃叠加在正在享受家庭幸福的机械装置上。
　　“这可真让人羡慕! 看看他们把孩子做得活像真的。它有没有让你觉得也想要个自己的孩子呢? ”
　　“当然哕，如果他们也像这个一样安静的话。”
　　我们在公园里散步，各种各样的孩子在一个小摊前排队买热巧克力。我们买了两杯，坐在冷冷的公园长椅上。“你喜欢孩子的，是吗? ”
　　“孩子，我从来没想过。”
　　“你难道不想有个儿子，可以带出去野营的，或者有个女孩，把她称作自己的女儿? ”
　　“称作自己的? 人可不是属于另一个人的。”
　　“有时候你真是非常刻板的人。”
　　“我不觉得……”
　　“不，你就是。很多人纠缠鸡毛蒜皮的事，而你纠缠在另一方面。”
　　我知道她的意思。但我不知道有没有可能生下个人类的孩子。
　　说不定会是一个半人半妖的魔鬼? 长着巨大的脑袋和干瘪身体的东西，或者从太阳帽下露出死气沉沉的眼睛的怪物? 或者我会遭遇什么惨事，暴露自己的秘密?
　　但泰思挽着我手臂的那份温暖奇特地牵动了我的心。我有点渴望解开过去的束缚，把古斯塔夫•安格兰德的事和我在森林中的漂泊生活全部告诉她。但换生以来，时间过去了那么久，我有时都怀疑那些事情是否存在。我上辈子学到的魔力和法术都已经消失殆尽，消失在无休止的钢琴声中，消失在舒适温暖的床铺和温馨的起居室中，消失在我身边这个可爱的女人的陪伴中。
　　过去是否和现在一般真实? 也许我希望自己已经说出了一切，也希望这一真相已经改变了生活的轨迹。我不知道。但我记得那晚的感受，强烈的希望和莫名的恶兆交织在一起的悸动。
　　泰思看着一帮小孩在一个临时建成的溜冰场上滑冰。她喝了口饮料，在空气中啥出一道白汽。“我一直想要个自己的孩子。”
　　这一次，我理解了另一个人想要告诉我的事。星光下，孩子们的笑声和汽笛风琴的乐音糅合在一起。我向她求婚。
　　我们等到春季学期结束，在1968年5 月结婚，婚礼在亨利•戴襁褓中受洗礼的那个教堂举行。站在圣坛上，我再次觉得自己几乎是人类了，我们的宣誓预示着我们可能会走向美好的结局。我们走过过道时，我看到所有朋友和家人脸上都挂着微笑，他们无疑都在为亨利•戴夫妇高兴。我在仪式上想到，会不会两扇门一开，天光下站着一队换生灵等着把我带走。我尽力忘记过去，尽力挥去我是冒牌货的想法。
　　宴会上，母亲和查理叔叔率先过来祝福我们，他们不仅出钱办了婚宴，还让我们去欧洲度蜜月，以此作为新婚礼物。我们一去德国，他们就会一起私奔了，但那天下午，看到他站在比尔•戴该站的地方，倏然间就有些奇怪。对父亲的怀念一闪即逝，因为旧日已留在身后，生活才是我们的向往。未来几年，会有很大的变化。
　　乔治•克诺尔在婚礼后又过了几周，就去周游全国了，一走就是一年，他后来在旧金山和一个西班牙的大龄女子开了一家街头小酒馆。奥斯卡没有了“封面男孩”，就在那年秋天买了一台自动唱片点唱机，顾客们仍然会来喝酒听流行乐。吉米•卡明斯干起了我在吧台上的活儿。就连我的小妹妹们也长大了。
　　玛丽和伊丽莎白带来了她们最新的男友，一对头发长长的双胞胎。婚宴开到一半，查理叔叔说了他的最新计划，把大家逗乐了，“在山上造房子只是开个头。大家不但会走出城市，还能想走多远，就走多远。我的公司坐在这个国家的金矿上。”
　　我的母亲走到他身边，他用胳膊搂着她的腰，手搭在她臀部。
　　“我一听说森林里出了事，还派来了国民警卫队，嗯，我第一个念头就是这届政府下台后，土地会非常便宜。”
　　她为他一语双关而快活地大笑起来，我吃了一惊。泰思在我手臂上掐了一把，让我别把自己的想法说出来。
　　“在农村安居乐业。物价合适，安全有保障，最适合年轻夫妇生儿育女。”他和我母亲好像受了暗示似的，都盯着泰思的肚子。他们已经满怀希望了。
　　伊丽莎白装出一副天真样，问道：“查理叔叔，你们两位怎么样呢? ”
　　泰思在我屁股上掐了一把，我低低哼了一声。这时候吉米•卡明斯走过来说：
　　“我不想在这里生活，伙计。”
　　“当然不想了，吉米，”玛丽说，“你在那片森林里都碰到那种事了。”
　　“那里有种什么东西，”他对大家说，“你们有没有听到传闻，他们有天晚上找到了两个野小女孩? ”
　　客人三三两两走开，谈起新的话题。自从吉米救了小奥斯卡•拉甫后，人人都知道他毫不厌倦地一遍遍讲这个故事，夸大各种细节，最后成了吹牛皮。他一说别的故事，别人都以为他又来夸夸其谈了，无非要引起注意罢了。“千真万确，”他对我们几个留下来的人说，“我听见坊间对这两个女孩说三道四，大概六七岁，我听说，她们半夜闯入杂货店，把所有看得到的东西都弄得一塌糊涂。警察害怕这两个女孩，说她们就像两只猫一样的怪异。伙计，她们几乎一句英语都不会讲，别的人类的语言也不懂。根据现有情况判断，她们生活在森林里——还记得我找到奥斯卡的地方吗? 说不定还有别的住在那里。你想想看吧。就像一帮走失的野孩子。有一群呢，伙计。”
　　伊丽莎白看着我，问他：“她们怎么了? 那两个女孩在哪里? ”
　　“不能肯定也不能否定传闻，”他说，“我没有亲眼看到她们，但我也不必看到。你们知道联邦调查局来人把她们带走了吗? 带去了首都华盛顿，带到他们的秘密实验室，要研究她们。”
　　我向奥斯卡转过头去，他正张口结舌地听吉米说话，“奥斯卡，你真要这家伙替你照看酒吧吗? 他好像酒喝有点过头了。”
　　吉米走到我面前，低声说道：“知道你有什么问题吗，亨利? 你缺乏想像力。
　　但她们在那里，伙计。你最好他妈的相信这事。”
　　在飞往德国的航班上，我好不容易睡着，又一再被换生灵的梦境惊醒。泰思和我降落在阴雨绵绵的法兰克福，我们对蜜月有不同的打算。可怜的东西，她想要冒险、刺激和浪漫。一对年轻的爱人周游欧洲。小咖啡馆，葡萄酒和干酪，坐摩托车短途旅行。我却寻找着我过去的鬼魂和证据，但我所知道的一切可以在一块鸡尾酒餐巾上写下来：古斯塔夫•安格兰德，1859年，埃格尔。
　　我们在门德尔松大街的一家私人小旅店里找了一间房，立刻就对这个城市感到不知所措。我们被煤烟熏黑的巨大火车站惊呆了，它每小时都吞吐着火车，后面站着复兴的城市，新的钢筋混凝土摩天大楼在废墟上造起来。到处都是美国人。士兵运气不赖，没有去越南打仗，而被拉来防范东欧。康斯塔普勒瓦赫一队队的逃亡者大白天朝天开熗，或者向我们讨要零钱。第一个星期，我们在士兵和吸毒者中间觉得很不是味道。
　　星期天，我们在罗马堡散步，在战争的最后几个月，这个不堪一击的中世纪古城几乎被联军炸平。在我们这趟行程中，天气第一次放晴了，太阳出来了，我们在春季的街道集市中游赏。节日里有一场热闹的酒会，泰思骑了匹斑马，我骑了一头怪兽。在咖啡馆吃完饭后，我们手牵着手逛街，一个巡回四重奏乐队给我们表演了一首歌曲。仿佛蜜月终于拉开序幕，当晚我俩做爱了，我们小小的房间变成了温馨的天堂。
　　“这样更像了，”她在黑暗中低声说道，“更像我想像中我们在一起的样子。
　　我希望每天都能像今天一样。”
　　我坐起来点了支骆驼香烟，“我想也许明天我们可以做点自己的事情。嗯，留点时间给自己。想想看反正回去后来日方长。我有些事情要办，可能你毫无兴趣，所以我想我或许可以起得早些，然后大概在你醒来时回来。去看看国家图书馆。你会厌烦死的。”
　　“快去吧，亨利，”她翻了个身面向墙壁，“听上去太棒了。每时每刻都在一起，我有点厌了。”
　　整个上午，我都在寻找去往德国图书馆的地铁、路线和地址，随后又花了一个小时找到地图室。一位迷人的年轻图书管理员操着一口马马虎虎的英语帮我寻找历史地图，从神圣罗马帝国末年到黑森公国的德意志帝国再到两次世界大战后的分裂，似乎有成千上万处地名和边界在数百年战与和之中变动了。她不知道埃格尔，咨询室里也没有一个人听说过那个镇子。
　　“你知不知道，”她最后问，“那个地方是在东德吗? ”
　　我看了看表，发现已是下午4 点35分。图书馆5 点关门，还有一个生气的新婚妻子在等我。
　　她飞快地查看地图，“啊，我知道了。那是一条河，不是一个镇子。埃格尔在边境线上。”她指着一个点，上面写着恰布( 埃格尔) 。
　　“你找的那个镇子现在不叫埃格尔了，也不在德国境内。它在捷克斯洛伐克。”
　　她舔了舔手指，翻动地图册找到另一张地图。“波希米亚。
　　看这儿，1859年这里都是波希米亚的地方，从这边到这边。埃格尔就在这里。
　　我得说，我更喜欢老地名。”她微笑着把手放在我肩上，“我们找到了。一个地方，两个名字。埃格尔就是恰布。”
　　“那么，我该怎么去捷克斯洛伐克? ”
　　“除非你有必需的证件，否则去不了。”她看出我的失望，“好了，告诉我，恰布有什么事那么重要? ”
　　“我在找我父亲，”我说，“古斯塔夫•安格兰德。”
　　她脸上的神采慢慢消失，看着脚下的地板：“安格兰德。他是在战争中被杀的吗? 送到了集中营? ”
　　“不是，不是。我们是天主教徒。他是从埃格尔来的，我是说，恰布。他的家人，上个世纪移民到了美国。”
　　“你可以去查一下恰布教堂的记录，如果你能进去的话。”她抬起一条黑色的眉毛，“这或许是个办法。”
　　我们在咖啡馆里喝了几杯饮料，她告诉我该怎么穿过边境线而不被发现。那天很晚我才回到门德尔松大街，我准备好了一个故事来解释我为何去了那么久。我十点后进门时，泰思已经睡着了，我悄悄地上床躺在她身边。她惊醒过来，翻过身在枕头上看着我。
　　“对不起，”我说，“在图书馆迷路了。”
　　月光下，她的脸肿着，好像哭过。“我要离开这个灰色的城市，去看乡村景色。
　　去徒步旅行吧，在星空下睡觉。去碰见一些真正的德国人。”
　　“我知道一个地方，”我轻声说，“那里都是古堡和黑森林，靠近边境线。我们偷偷过去，去发现它们的秘密。”
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Chapter 26
　　The morning is perfect in memory, a late-summer day when blue skies foretold the coming autumn crispness. Speck and I had awakened next to each other in a sea of books, then left the library in those magically empty moments between parents going off to work, or children off to school, and the hour when stores and businesses opened their doors. By my stone calendar, five long and miserable years had passed since our diminished tribe took up our new home, and we had grown weary of the dark. Time away from the mine inevitably brightened Speck's mood, and that morning, when first I saw her peaceful face, I longed to tell her how she made my heart beat. But I never did. In that sense, the day seemed like every other, but it would become a day unto its own.
　　Overhead, a jet trailed a string of smoke, white against the paleness of September. "We matched strides and talked of our books. Shadows ahead appeared briefly between the trees, a slender breeze blew, and a few leaves tumbled from the heights. To me, it looked for an instant as if ahead on the path Kivi and Blomma were playing in a patch of sun. The mirage passed too quickly, but the trick of light brought to mind the mystery behind their departure, and I told Speck of my brief vision of our missing friends. I asked her if she ever wondered whether they really wanted to be caught.
　　Speck stopped at the edge of cover before the exposed land that led to the mine's entrance. The loose shale at her feet shifted and crunched. A pale moon sat in a cloudless sky, and we were wary of the climb, watching the air for a plane that might discover us. She grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around so quickly that I feared imminent peril. Her eyes locked on mine.
　　"You don't understand, Aniday. Kivi and Blomma could not take it another moment. They were desperate for the other side. To be with those who live in the light and upper world, real family, real friends. Don't you ever want to run away, go back into the world as somebody's child? Or come away with me?"
　　Her questions poured out like sugar from a split sack. The past had eased its claims on me, and my nightmares of that world had stopped. Not until I sat down to write this book did the memories return, dusted and polished new again. But that morning, my life was there. With her. I looked into her eyes, but she seemed far away in thought, as if she could not see me before her but only a distant space and time alive in her imagination. I had fallen in love with her. And that moment, the words came falling, and confession moved to my lips. "Speck, I have something—"
　　"Wait. Listen."
　　The noise surrounded us: a low rumble from inside the hill, zigzagging along the ground to where we two stood, vibrating beneath our feet, then fanning out into the forest. In the next instant, a crack and tumble, muffled by the outer surface. The earth collapsed upon itself with a sigh. She squeezed my hand and dragged me, running at top speed, toward the entrance of the mine. A plume of dirt swirled from the fissure like a chimney gently smoking on a winter's night. Up close, acrid dust thickened and choked off breathing. We tried to fight through it but had to wait upwind until the fog dissipated. From inside, a reedy sound escaped from the crack to fade in the air. Before the soot settled, the first person emerged. A single hand gripped the rim of rock, then the other, and the head pushed through, the body shouldering into the open. In the wan light, we ran through the cloud to the prostrate body. Speck turned it over with her foot: Béka. Onions soon followed, wheezing and panting, and lay down beside him, her arm roped over his chest.
　　Speck leaned down to ask, "Is he dead?"
　　"Cave-in," Onions whispered.
　　"Are there any survivors?"
　　"I don't know." She brushed back Béka's dirty hair, away from his blinking eyes.
　　We forced ourselves into the mine's darkness. Speck felt around for the flint, struck it, and sparked the torches. The firelight reflected particles floating in the air, settling like sediment stirred in a glass. I called out to the others, and my heart beat wildly with hope when a voice replied: "Over here, over here." As if moving through a snowy nightmare, we followed the sound down the main tunnel, turning left into the chamber where most of the clan slept each night. Luchóg stood at the entranceway, fine silt clinging to his hair, skin, and clothes. His eyes shone clear and moist, and on his face tears had left wet trails in the dirt. His fingers, red and raw, shook violently as he waited for us. Ashes floated in the halo created by the torchlight. I could make out the broad back of Smaolach, who was facing a pile of rubble where our sleeping room once stood. At a frantic pace, he tossed stones to the side, trying to move the mountain bit by bit. I saw no one else. We sprang to his aid, lifting debris from the mound that ran to the ceiling.
　　"What happened?" Speck asked.
　　"They're trapped," Luchóg said. "Smaolach thinks he heard voices on the other side. The roof came down all at once. We'd be under there, too, if I hadn't the need for a smoke when I woke up this morning."
　　"Onions and Béka are already out. We saw them outside," I said.
　　"Are you there?" Speck asked the rock. "Hold on, we'll get you out."
　　We dug until there appeared an opening big enough for Smaolach to stick his arm through to the elbow. Energized, we pounced, clawing away stones until Luchóg shinnied through the space and disappeared. The three of us stopped and waited for a sound for what seemed like forever. Finally Speck shouted into the void, "Do you see anything, mouse?"
　　"Dig," he called. "I can hear breathing."
　　Without a word, Speck left abruptly, and Smaolach and I continued to enlarge the passageway. We could hear Luchóg on the other side, scrabbling through the tunnel like a small creature in the walls of a house. Every few minutes, he would murmur reassurance to someone, then exhort us to keep burrowing, and we desperately worked harder, muscles enflamed, our throats caked with dust. As suddenly as she had disappeared, Speck returned, another torch in hand to throw more light upon our work. Her face taut with anger, she reached up and tore at the stone. "Béka, that bastard," she said. "They've gone. No help to anyone but himself."
　　After much digging, we made the hole wide enough for me to crawl through the rubble. I nearly landed on my face, but Luchóg broke my fall. "Down here," he said softly, and we crouched together over the supine figure. Half buried under the ruins lay Chavisory, still and cold to the touch. Covered by ash, she looked like a ghost and her breath smelled mortally sour.
　　"She's alive." Luchóg spoke in a whisper. "But barely, and I think her legs are broken. I can't move these heavy ones by myself." He looked stricken with fear and fatigue. "You'll have to help me."
　　Stone by stone, we unburied her. Straining under the weight of the last debris, I asked him, "Have you seen Ragno and Zanzara? Did they get out okay?"
　　"Not a trace." He motioned back toward our sleeping quarters, now buried under a ton of earth. The boys must have been sleeping in when the roof collapsed, and I prayed that they had not stirred and went from sleep to death as easily as turning over in their bed. But we could not stop to think of them. The possibility of another collapse urged us on. Chavisory moaned when we removed the last rock off her left ankle, a greenstick fracture, the bones and skin raw and pulpy. Her foot flopped at a sickening angle when we lifted her, and the blood left a viscous slick on our hands. She cried out with every step and lost consciousness as we struggled up to the tunnel, half pulling, half pushing her through. When he saw her leg, bone piercing the skin, Smaolach turned and threw up into the corner. As we rested there before the final push, Speck asked, "Is anyone else alive?"
　　"I don't think so," I said.
　　She closed her eyes for a moment, then issued orders for our quick escape. The most difficult part involved the exit of the mine itself, and Chavisory awoke and screamed as she was pinched through. At that moment, I wished we had all been inside, asleep next to one another, all of us buried for good and out of our own private miseries. Exhausted, we placed her down gently on the hillside. None of us knew what to do or say or think. Inside another implosion shuddered, and the mine puffed out one last gasp like a dying dragon.
　　Spent and confused by grief, we waited for nightfall. None of us thought that the collapse might have been heard by the people in town or that it might possibly draw the humans to investigate. Luchóg spotted the dot of light first, a small fire burning down by the treeline. With no hesitation or discussion, the four of us picked up Chavisory, our arms linked in a gurney, and headed toward the light. Although worried that the fire might belong to strangers, we decided it would be better, in the end, to find help. We moved cautiously over the shale, causing more pain for poor Chavisory, yet hopeful that the fire would give us a place to stay out of the creeping cold for the night, somewhere we might tend her wounds.
　　The wind creaked through the bones of the treetops and shook the upper branches like clacking fingers. The fire had been built by Béka. He offered no apologies or explanations, just grunted like an old bear at our questions before shuffling off to be alone. Onions and Speck crafted a splint for Chavisory s broken ankle, binding it up with Luchóg’s jacket, and they covered her with fallen leaves and lay next to her all night to share the warmth from their bodies. Smaolach wandered off and returned much later with a gourd filled with water. We sat and stared at the fire, brushing the caked dirt from our hair and clothing, waiting for the sun to rise. In those quiet hours, we mourned the dead. Ragno and Zanzara were as gone as Kivi and Blomma and Igel.
　　In place of the prior morning's brilliant glow, a gentle rain crawled in and settled. Only the occasional whistle from a lonesome bird marked the passing time. Around midday, a fierce yell of pain punctuated the stillness. Chavisory awoke to her ordeal and cursed the rock, the mine, Béka, and us all. We could not silence her anguished cries until Speck took her hand and willed her through steadfastness to be quiet. The rest of us looked away from her, stealing glances at one another's faces, masks of weariness and sorrow. We were now seven. I had to count twice to believe it.

    记忆中的那个早晨很美。夏末的一天，蔚蓝的天空昭示着金风送爽的秋天即将到来。斯帕克和我在书的海洋中相继醒来，离开图书馆，那段时间犹如施了魔法一般，人去楼空——父母上班，孩子上学，店铺尚未开门。根据我的石头日历，自从我们在新家定居后，五年漫长而凄凉的岁月已经过去了，我们人数减少，对黑暗渐生倦意。
　　离开矿井后，斯帕克无疑心情舒畅，那天早晨，我第一眼看到她平静的面容，就想对她说，她使我心跳不已。但我没告诉她。这么说来，那天看似和其他日子没有区别，却自有其意义。
　　头顶上空，一架喷气飞机在九月苍白的天空下拖出一条白色的尾烟。我们迈着大步，边走边谈论着我们的书。云影在树木间飞快地掠走，微风轻拂，几片树叶从高处飘落。我突然好像看见齐维和布鲁玛在前头的阳光下玩耍。幻像瞬间就消失了，但光影造成的错觉却让我想起她们那神秘的离去，我告诉斯帕克，我一瞬间看到了我们失踪的伙伴。我问她有没有想过，她们是不是真的想被捕。
　　斯帕克停在一个遮蔽物的边上，再往前就是通往矿井入口的空地。她脚下松动的页岩摇摇晃晃，一踩就往下陷。一轮白色的月亮挂在无云的天空，我们爬山时提高了警惕，观察着飞机排出的气体，看它是否会发现我们。她抓住我肩膀，猛地把我转过来，我还以为眼下就有危险了呢。她凝视着我。
　　“你不明白，安尼戴。齐维和布鲁玛她们是求之不得。她们向往着另一边。和那些在阳光下和地面上生活的人在一起，有真正的家庭，真正的朋友。你不是也想逃走吗，回到那个世界中，当某个人的孩子? 还是要和我一起走? ”
　　她的问题犹如一把糖从撕开口子的袋子里直撒出来。我对过去的感觉已渐渐平息，对那个世界的梦魇也已停止。直到我坐下来写这本书，那些记忆才又回来，涤除积尘，焕然一新。但那天早晨，我的生活在那里，与她在一起。我看着她的眼睛，但她似乎沉浸在思索中，仿佛看不到眼前的我，只有辽阔的时空存在于她的想像中。
　　我爱上了她。那一刻，这句话降临了，告白翕动着我的嘴唇。“斯帕克，我有话要……”
　　“等一下。听。”
　　我们周围鼓荡着噪音：一个低沉的隆隆声从山中传来，从大地上迂回到我们脚下，猛地爆发出来，又在森林中四面八方地传开去。下一刻，地底下发出压抑着的断折和翻腾声。大地叹息了一声，沉陷下去。她抓紧我的手，拖着我全速奔向矿井的方向。一股尘灰从裂缝间盘旋而出，犹如烟囱在冬夜里轻轻地吐烟。我们奔到近头，呛鼻的烟尘更加浓烈，差点透不过气来。我们想冲过去，但终于不得不在上风口等待烟尘散去。缝隙里边传来一个微弱的声音，在空气中慢慢消失。尘埃尚未落定，第一个人出来了。一只手抓着岩石边缘，然后又是一个，头伸出来了，身体也挤了出来。在暗弱的光线下，我们冲过尘灰，跑到那个倒伏的身体旁边。斯帕克用脚把他翻了过来：贝卡。随后出来的是奥尼恩斯，气喘吁吁地躺在他身边，手臂抱住他胸口。
　　斯帕克弯腰问她：“他死了吗? ”
　　“塌方了。”奥尼恩斯低声说。
　　“还有人活着吗? ”
　　“我不知道。”她把贝卡脏兮兮的头发拂开，他的眼睛在眨动。
　　我们好不容易走进漆黑一片的矿井里。斯帕克摸索到了打火石，打出了火花，点亮火炬。火光照亮了空气中飘浮的尘粒，就像玻璃杯中被搅起的沉淀物似的。我呼唤着其他人，这时一个声音回答道：“在这里，在这里。”我的心有了希望，猛烈地跳动起来。我们好像在风雪漫天的噩梦中行走，跟随这个声音走下主通道，向左转走进我们大多数人每晚睡觉的房间。鲁契克站在入口处，煤粉沾满头发、皮肤和衣服。他的双眼明亮湿润，泪水在脸上的尘灰上留下湿湿的印痕。他的手指通红，都擦伤了，等我们的时候，他双手颤抖得厉害。
　　火炬光照之下，飘浮的灰尘形成光晕。我看到斯茂拉赫魁梧的背影，他正对着一堆垃圾，那本来是我们睡觉的地方。他以疯狂的速度把石头扔到一边，想一点点把山搬开。我没有看到其他人。我们冲过去帮他忙，乱石堆一直堆到坑顶。
　　“出什么事了? ”斯帕克问。
　　“他们陷在里面了，”鲁契克说，“斯茂拉赫觉得听到另一头有声音。坑顶一下子塌了下来。要不是我早晨醒来后想要吸口烟，我们也在那里面了。”
　　“奥尼恩斯和贝卡已经出去了。我们看到他们在外面。”我说。
　　“你在那里吗? ”斯帕克对石头说道，“挺住，我们会把你弄出来。”
　　我们挖的洞口大小已经足够斯茂拉赫把小臂伸进去了。我们加大力气猛挖，奋力把石头扔开，鲁契克从通道中爬过去，消失了。我们三个停下来等待那头的动静，这等待简直无休无止。斯帕克终于对着空洞喊了起来：“你看到什么了吗，老鼠? ”
　　“挖，”他喊道，“我听到呼吸声了。”
　　斯帕克一言不发地突然离开了，斯茂拉赫和我继续加宽通道。
　　我们听见鲁契克在那头扒拉通道，就像一头小动物在屋子墙壁上拨拉一样。每隔几分钟，他就喃喃地安慰某人几句，然后催促我们继续挖掘。我们拼命干活，肌肉鼓足了劲头，喉咙里呛着灰尘。斯帕克去得快，来得也快，她又拿来一支火炬，好让我们干活时光线更加充足。
　　她脸上怒气腾腾，走过来搬石头。“贝卡，那个混账，”她说，“他们走了。
　　也不帮助其他人，只管他自己。”
　　我们挖了又挖，洞穴已经够我爬进去了。进去后，我差点仰面栽倒，鲁契克及时拉了我一把。“在这里。”他轻声说道，我们～起蹲在一个仰卧的身体边上。卡维素芮半个身子埋在废墟里，一动不动，手冰冷。她浑身是灰，像鬼一样，呼吸中有股要命的酸腐味。
　　“她还活着。”鲁契克低声说，“但也只差一口气了。我想她的腿断了。这几块大石头我一个人搬不动。”他的样子是又急又累，“你得来帮我。”
　　我们把她身上的石头一块块搬开。在搬最后一块碎石时，我边使劲边问他：
　　“你看到劳格诺和赞扎拉了吗? 他们安全出去了吗? ”
　　“一点消息也没有。”他朝后指了指我们睡觉的隔间，那里现在堆着上吨的泥土。坑顶塌下来时，男孩们肯定还睡在里面，我祈祷他们没有被惊醒，只是在睡梦中轻轻松松地死去了，就像在床上翻了个身。但我们不能不想他们。可能还会塌方，我们得加快速度。
　　我们把最后一块岩石从卡维素芮左脚上搬开时，她呻吟起来，青枝骨折（医学名词。指一种骨骼折而未断的情况．常见．于儿童。），骨头和皮肤淌着血，软绵绵的。我们抬起她时，她的脚搭下来转了个骇人的角度，鲜血黏糊糊地沾在我们手上。每走一步，她就大叫一声，我们挣扎到洞口，把她半推半拉地弄出去时，她已经昏过去了。斯茂拉赫一看到她的脚，骨头冒出在外面，背转身就在角落里呕吐起来。我们在那里歇了口气，再推最后一把，斯帕克问：“还有人活着吗? ”
　　“我想没有了。”我说。
　　她闭了一会眼睛，随后命令我们迅速撤离。最难的是走出矿井的入口，卡维素芮苏醒过来了，她挤出去时尖声嚎叫。那一刻，我真希望我们都在里面，大家并排睡着，全部埋在下面算了，每个人都脱离苦海了。我们精疲力竭地把她轻轻放在山坡上。没有人知道该做什么，说什么，又该想什么。里面又震颤起另一次爆裂，矿井就像一条垂死的龙，喷出最后一口气。
　　我们在悲痛下浑然不知所以，只等待着黑夜降临。没有人想到镇上居民或许会听到塌方，或许会派人来调查。鲁契克首先发现了光亮，树林边烧着一小堆火。我们四个也不商量，毫不犹豫地把手臂连成一个担架，抬起卡维素芮向火光走去。我们虽然担心这火或许是陌生人点的，但我们肯定过去寻求帮助总比不去的好。我们小心翼翼地走过页岩地带，可怜的卡维素芮痛得死去活来，我们只盼望那堆火能让我们度过寒气渐重的夜晚，有个地方可以给她治伤。
　　风吹得树顶枝丫吱吱作响，摇动着下面的枝条，像扳手指一样发出“喀嚓喀嚓”
　　的声音。火是贝卡点的。他既不道歉也不解释，我们质问他，他只是像头老熊一般咕哝几下，然后拖着脚步走开去独自待着。奥尼恩斯和斯帕克为卡维素芮折断的脚踝做了夹板，用鲁契克的夹克衫绑起来，把落叶盖在她身上，整个晚上躺在她身边，用体温温暖着她。斯茂拉赫走开了一阵，带回来一葫芦的水。我们坐着看着火堆，把头发和衣服上的灰拍掉，等待太阳升起。在那段寂静的时间里，我们为亡者哀悼。
　　劳格诺和赞扎拉走了，齐维、布鲁玛和伊格尔也走了。
　　次日早晨并没有灿烂的阳光，只有一场小雨缓缓飘洒。只有偶尔响起的一声孤独的鸟鸣提醒着时间正在过去。中午时分，一声惨痛的大喊穿透沉寂。卡维素芮醒来后疼痛不堪，咒骂着岩石、矿井、贝卡和我们所有人。我们无法使她痛苦的喊叫停下来，后来斯帕克握着她的手，劝服她渐渐平静下来。我们其他几个都别过头不去看她，瞥一眼别人的脸色，只见个个都是满脸的疲惫和悲伤。我们现在是七个了。
　　我数了两遍才敢相信。
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Chapter 27
　　Tess didn't need to be talked into sneaking across the border, and the very idea of transgression sent an erotic jolt into our honeymoon. The closer we got to Czechoslovakia, the livelier the sex became. On the day we mapped our secret passage to the other side, she kept me in bed until mid-morning. Her desires fed my own curiosity about my hidden heritage. I needed to know where I had come from, who I had been. Every step along the way brought the sensation of returning home. The landscape looked familiar and dreamlike, as if the trees, lakes, and hills lay embedded, but long dormant, in my senses. The architecture of stone and exposed timber was exactly as I had pictured, and at inns and cafes, the people we met bore familial traces in their sturdy bodies, fine chiseled features, clear blue eyes, and sweeping blonde hair. Their faces enticed me deeper into Bohemia. We decided to cross into the forbidden land at the village of Hohenberg, which sat on the German line.
　　Since it was first dedicated in 1222, the castle at the center of town had been destroyed and rebuilt several times, most recently after World War II. On a sunny Saturday, Tess and I had the place to ourselves except for a young German family with small children who followed us from building to building. They caught up to us outside, near the uneven white walls that ran along the city's rear border, a fortress against attack from the forest and the Eger River beyond.
　　"Pardon me," the mother said to Tess in English, "you are American, right? Would you a photograph take? Of my family, on my camera?"
　　I blanched at being so easily recognizable as Americans. Tess smiled at me, took off her backpack, and laid it on the ground. The family of six arranged themselves at the base of one of the original parapets. The children looked as if they could have been my brothers and sisters, and as they posed, the notion that I once was part of such a family lingered and then receded into ether. Tess took a few steps backward to squeeze them all into the frame, and the small children cried out, "Vorsicht, der Igel! Der Igel!" The boy, no more than five, ran straight at Tess with a mad expression in his blue eyes. He stopped at her feet, reached between her ankles to a small flower bed, and carefully scooped up something in his small hands.
　　"What do you have there?" Tess bent to meet his face.
　　He held out his hands and a hedgehog crawled out from his fingers. Everybody laughed at the minor drama of Tess nearly stepping on the prickly thing, but I could barely light a smoke due to the shakes. Igel. I had not heard that name in almost twenty years. All of them had names, not quite forgotten. I reached out to touch Tess to help put them out of mind.
　　After the family left, we followed the map to hiking trails behind the castle. Along one path, we came across a miniature cave, and in front, signs of an encampment, what looked to me like an abandoned ring. I led us away quickly, heading east and downhill through the black woods. Our trail spilled out to a two-lane road devoid of traffic. Around the bend, a sign saying EGER STEG pointed to a dirt road to the right, and we came upon mild rapids across a narrow river, no more than a wide but shallow stream. On the opposite bank lay the Czechoslovakian woods, and in the hills behind, Cheb. Not another soul was in sight, and perhaps because of the river or the rocks, no barbed-wire fence protected the border. Tess held my hand and we crossed.
　　The rocks above the waterline provided safe footing, but we had to watch our step. When we reached the Czech side, a thrill, sharp as a razor, went through me. We'd made it. Home, or as close to it as possible. At that instant, I was ready to convert—or revert—and lay claim to my identity. Tess and I had disguised ourselves as best we could that morning, affecting a European indifference to our hair and clothing, but I worried that others might see through the ruse. In hindsight, I should not have worried so, for 1968 was the year of the Prague Spring, that open window when Dubcek tried to bring "socialism with a human face" to the benighted Czechs and Slovaks. The Russian tanks would not roll in until August.
　　Tess loved the danger of our trespass and skulked along the leafy floor like an escaped prisoner. I tried to keep up with her, hold her hand, and assume an air of silent cunning. After a mile or so on our hike, an intermittent sprinkle fell through the green leaves, and then a shower began in earnest. The raindrops hit the canopy above and dripped down with a steady beat, but underneath that rhythm, an irregular sound of footsteps became audible. It was too dark to make out any figures, but I heard them marching through the brush, circling around, following us. I grabbed her arm and pushed on faster.
　　"Henry, do you hear that?" Tess s eyes darted about, and she turned her head from side to side. They kept on coming, and we began to run. She took one last look over her shoulder and screamed. Catching me by the elbow, Tess stopped our progress and wheeled me around to face our tormentors. They looked forlorn in the falling rain. Three cows, two brindles and one white, stared back at us, indifferently chewing their cuds.
　　Soaked, we fled the wet forest and found the road. We must have been a pitiable sight, for a farmer's truck stopped, and the driver indicated with his meaty thumb that we could hitch a ride in the back. Tess shouted "Cheb?" to him through the rain, and when he nodded, we got in and rode atop a mountain of potatoes for a half-hour all the way to the quaint Czech village. I kept my eyes on the receding woods, the winding road, sure that we were being followed.
　　Like flowers in a spring garden, the houses and stores were painted in pale pastels, the old buildings in white and yellow, taupe and verdigris. While many parts of Cheb seemed ageless, the buildings and landmarks struck no chords in my memory. A black sedan with a red glass siren sat parked at a crazy angle before the town hall. To avoid the police, we walked in the opposite direction, hoping to find someone who could understand our fractured German. We shied away from the pink Hotel Hvezda, spooked by a severe policeman outside who stared at us for a full thirty seconds. Across the square, past the sculpture of the Savage Man, sat a ramshackle hotel near the Oh?e e River. I had hoped and expected the landmarks to trigger memories of Gustav Ungerland, but nothing was familiar. My vaulted expectations, conjured along the journey, proved too high a hope. It was as if I had never been there before, or as if childhood in Bohemia had never existed.
　　Inside a dark and smoky bar, we bribed the manager with American dollars to let us dine on sausages and boiled potatoes, and a dank half-bottle of East German wine. After our meal, we were led up a crooked staircase to a tiny room with no more than a bed and a basin. I locked the door, and Tess and I lay on our backs in our jackets and boots on the threadbare covers, too tense, tired, and excited to move. Darkness slowly stole the light, and the silence was broken only by the sounds of our breathing and wild, racing hearts.
　　"What are we doing here?" she finally asked.
　　I sat up and began undressing. In my former life, I could have seen her in the dark as clearly as break of day, but now I relied on imagination. "Isn't it a kick? This town was once part of Germany, and before that of Bohemia?"
　　She took off her boots, slipped out of her jacket. I slid under the woolen blankets and coarse sheets as she undressed. Shivering and naked, Tess moved in close, rubbing a cold foot against my leg. "I'm scared. Suppose the secret police come knocking on the door?"
　　"Don't worry, baby," I told her in my best James Bond. "I've got a license to kill." I rolled over on top of her, and we did our best to live for the danger.
　　Waking late the next morning, we hurried over to the grand old Church of St. Nicholas, arriving late for a Mass in Czech and Latin. Nearest the altar sat a few elderly women, rosaries draped in their folded hands, and sprinkled here, small families sat in clumps, dazed and wary as sheep. At the entranceway, two men in dark suits may have been watching us. I tried to sing along with the hymns, but I could only fake the words. While I did not understand the service, its rites and rituals mirrored those long-ago Masses with my mother—icons above candles, rich vestments of the priests and pristine altar boys, the rhythm of standing, kneeling, sitting, a consecration heralded by the hells. Although I knew by then it was just a romantic folly, I could picture my former self done up in Sunday clothes beside her on the pew with my reluctant, sighing father and the twins squirming in their skirts. What struck me most of all was the organ music from the loft above, cascading like a river over rocks.
　　As the parishioners exited, they stopped to share a few words among themselves and to greet the wizened priest standing in the bright sunshine beyond the door. A blonde girl turned to her nearly identical sister and pointed to us, whispered in his ear, and then they ran hand in hand from the church. Tess and I lingered, taking in the elaborate statues of Mary and St. Nicholas flanking the entrance, and we were the final pair to leave the building. When Tess held out her hand to the priest, she found herself captured in his grasp and drawn closer.
　　"Thank you for coming," he said, then turned to me, a strange look in his eyes, as if he knew my history. "And God bless you, my son."
　　Tess broke into a beatific grin. "Your English is perfect. How did you know we are Americans?"
　　He held her hand the whole time. "I was five years in New Orleans at the St. Louis Cathedral back when I was first ordained. Father Karel Hlinka. You're here for the festival?"
　　"What festival?" Tess brightened at the prospect.
　　"Pra?ké Jaro. The Prague Spring International Music Festival."
　　"Oh, no. We knew nothing about that." She leaned in and said in a low, confidential voice, "We snuck across the border."
　　Hlinka laughed, taking her remark as a joke, and she swiftly changed the subject, asking him about his American experience and the cafe life of New Orleans. As they chatted and laughed, I went outside, stood in a corner to light a cigarette, and considered the blue smoke curling to the sky. The two blonde sisters had circled back, this time leading a group of other children gathered from the streets. Like a string of birds on a telephone wire, they stood just beyond the gates, a dozen heads peeking over the low wall. I could hear them babbling in Czech, a phrase that sounded like podvr?ené dítě popping up like the leitmotif of their chattering song. With a glance at my wife, who was holding Father Hlinka in rapt attention, I started to walk over to the children, who scattered like pigeons when I came too close. They flew in again when I showed them my back, and ran off, laughing and screaming, when I turned around. When I stepped outside the gate, I found one girl cowering behind the wall. We spoke in German, and I told her not to be afraid.
　　"Why is everyone running away and laughing?"
　　"She told us there was a devil in the church."
　　"But I am not a devil .. .just an American."
　　"She said you are from the woods. A fairy."
　　Beyond the town's streets, the old forest bristled with life. "There are no such things as fairies."
　　The girl stood up and faced me, hands on her hips. "I don't believe you," she said, and turned to race off to her companions. I stood there watching her go, my mind twisted in knots, worried that I had made a mistake. But we had come too far for me to be frightened by mere children or the threat of the police. In a way, they were no different from other people. Suspicion was a second skin for me, and I felt perfectly capable of hiding the facts from everyone.
　　Tess bounded through the gates and found me on the sidewalk. "How would you like a private tour, baby?"
　　Father Hlinka was at her side. "Frau Day tells me that you are a musician, a composer. You must try out the pipe organ here. Best in Cheb."
　　In the loft high above the church, I sat at the keyboard, the empty pews stretching out before me, the gilt altar, the enormous crucifix, and played like a man possessed. To work the fool pedals and get the right tone from the massive organ, I had to rock and throw my weight against the machine, but once I figured out its complexities of stops and bellows and was in the flow of the music, it became a kind of dance. I performed a simple piece from the Berceuse by Louis Vierne, and for the first time in years felt myself again. While I was playing, I became a thing apart, not aware of anyone or anything else but the music, which infused me like hot ice and fell over me like wondrous strange snow. Father Hlinka and Tess sat in the gallery with me, watching my hands move, my head bob, and listened to the music.
　　When she tired of the violent sound, Tess kissed my cheek and wandered down the staircase to look over the rest of the church. Alone with the priest, I quickly broached the reason for my visit to Cheb. I told him of my research into family history and how the librarian back in Frankfurt had advised me to check the church records, for there was little hope of getting access to the central government archives.
　　"It's a surprise for her," I said. "I want to trace Tess’s family tree, and the missing link is her grandfather, Gustav Ungerland. If I could just find his birthday or any information about him, I will make up a family history for her."
　　"That sounds like a wonderful thing to do. Come back tomorrow. I'll dig through the archives, and you can play the music for me."
　　"But you can't tell my wife."
　　He winked, and we were co-conspirators.
　　Over dinner, I told Tess about the musical half of Father Hlinka's offer, and she was happy for me to have the chance to go back to the organ loft. On Monday afternoon, she sat below in the middle pew, listening for the first hour or so, but then went off on her own. After she left, Father Hlinka whispered, "I have something for you." He crooked his finger, beckoning me to follow him into a small alcove off the loft. I suspected that he had found some record of the Ungerlands, and my anticipation grew when the priest lifted a wooden chest to the top of a rickety desk. He blew dust off the lid and, grinning like an elf, opened the box.
　　Instead of the church documents I had expected, I saw music. Score after score of music for the organ, and not just common hymns, but symphonic masterworks that gave life and presence to the instrument—a raft of Handel, Mahler's Resurrection, Liszt's Battle of the Huns, the Fantasie Symphonique by Francois-Joseph Fétis, and a pair of organ-only solos by Guilmant. There were pieces by Gigout, Langlais, Chaynes, and Poulenc's Concerto for Organ, Strings, and Timpani. Record albums of Aaron Copland's First Symphony, Barber's Toccata Festiva, Rheinberger, Franck, and a baker's dozen of Bach. I was stunned and inspired. To simply listen to it all—not to mention trying my hand at the grand keyboard—would take months or even years, and we had but a few hours. I wanted to stuff my pockets with loot, fill my head with song.
　　"My only vice and passion," Hlinka said to me. "Enjoy. We are not so different, you and I. Strange creatures with rare loves. Only you, my friend, you can play, and I can but listen."
　　I played all day for Father Hlinka, who inspected old parish ledgers of baptisms, weddings, and funerals. I dazzled him with incandescence and extravagance, leaning into the extra octave of bass, and hammered out the mad finale from Joseph Jongen's Symphonie Concertante. A change came over me at that keyboard, and I began to hear compositions of my own in the interludes. The music stirred memories that existed beyond the town, and on that glorious afternoon I experimented with variations and was so carried away that I forgot about Father Hlinka until he returned empty-handed at five o'clock. Frustrated by his own failure to find any records of the Ungerlands, he called his peers at St. Wenceslas, and they got in touch with the archivists of the abandoned St. Bartholomew and St. Klara churches to help scour through the records.
　　I was running out of time. Despite the relative freedom, we were still in danger of being asked for our papers, and we had no visa for Czechoslovakia. Tess had complained over breakfast that the police were spying on her when she visited the Black Tower, following her at the art center on the Ru?ov? kope?ek. Schoolchildren pointed at her on the streets. I saw them, too, running in the shadows, hiding in dark corners. On Wednesday morning, she groused about spending so much of our honeymoon alone.
　　"Just one more day," I pleaded. "There's nothing quite like the sound in that church."
　　"Okay, but I'm staying in today. Wouldn't you rather go back to bed?"
　　When I arrived at the loft late that afternoon, I was surprised to find the priest waiting for me at the pipe organ. "You must let me tell your wife." He grinned. "We have found him. Or at least I think this must be her grandfather. The dates are somewhat off, but how many Gustav Ungerlands can there be?"
　　He handed me a grainy photocopy of the passenger list from the German ship Albert, departing 20 May 1851 from Bremen to Baltimore, Maryland. The names and ages were written in a fine hand:
　　212 Abram Ungerland　　　　42　　Musikant　　　　 Eger　　　　 Boheme
　　213 Clara Ungerland　　　　40　　　　　　　"　　　　　　　"
　　214 Friedrich "　　　　　　14　　　　　　　"　　　　　　　"
　　215 Josef "　　　　　　6　　　　　　　"　　　　　　　"
　　216 Gustav "　　　　　　?　　　　　　　"　　　　　　　"
　　217 Anna "　　　　　　9　　　　　　　"　　　　　　　"
　　"Won't she be delighted? What a fine wedding gift."
　　I could not begin to answer his questions. The names evoked a rush of memory. Josef, my brother—Wo in der Welt bist du? Anna, the one who died in the crossing, the absent child who broke my mother's heart. My mother, Clara. My father, Abram, the musician. Names to go along with my dreams.
　　"I know you said he was here in 1859, but sometimes the past is a mystery. But I think 1851 is right for Herr Ungerland, not 1859," said Father Hlinka. "History fades over time."
　　For a moment, the six came alive. Of course I did not remember Eger or Cheb. I was a baby, not yet one year old, when we came to America. There was a house, a parlor, a piano. I was taken from there and not from this place.
　　"No records in the churches, but I thought we should try emigration archives, no? Won't Mrs. Day be thrilled? I cannot wait to see her face."
　　I folded the paper and stuck it in my pocket. "Of course, Father, yes, you should be the one to tell her. We should celebrate ... tonight if you like."
　　The pleasure of his smile almost made me regret lying to him, and I was equally heartbroken to leave the magnificent organ behind. But I hurried from St. Nicholas's, the history in my pocket against my heart. When I found Tess, I made up a story about the police sniffing around the church for two Americans, and we slipped away, retracing our steps to the border.
　　When we reached the forest near the river crossing, I was shocked to see a young boy, perhaps as old as seven, standing by himself beside a large tree. He did not take notice of us, but remained quite still, as if hiding from someone. I could only imagine what might be in pursuit, and part of me wanted to rescue him. We were nearly upon him before he flinched, and putting a finger to his lips, the child begged us to be quiet.
　　"Do you speak German?" Tess whispered in that language.
　　"Yes, quiet please. They are after me."
　　I looked from tree to tree, anticipating a rush of changelings.
　　"Who is after you?"
　　"Versteckspiel," he hissed, and hearing him, a young girl burst from the green background to chase and tag him on the shoulder. When the other children emerged from their hideaways, I realized they were playing a simple game of hide-and-seek. But as I looked from boy to girl, from face to face, I could not help but remember how easily they could alter their appearance. Tess thought them cute and wanted to linger awhile, but I hurried her onward. At the river, I hopped from stone to stone, fording the water as quickly as I could. Tess was taking her time, frustrated and annoyed that I had not waited for her.
　　"Henry, Henry, what are you running from?"
　　"Hurry, Tess. They're after us."
　　She labored to jump to the next rock. "Who?"
　　"Them," I said, and went back to pull her from the other side.
　　
　　
　　After our honeymoon trip, life rapidly grew too complicated to continue my research on the Ungerlands or to find another pipe organ. We had one last busy semester of school, and as graduation drew near, our conversations turned to new possibilities. Tess lay in the bathtub, tendrils of steam curling up from the hot water. I leaned on the edge of the hamper, ostensibly reading a draft of a new score, but actually for the sheer pleasure of watching her soak.
　　"Henry, I've good news. The job with the county looks like it will come through."
　　"That's great," I said, and turned the page and hummed a few bars. "What is it, exactly, that you'll be doing?"
　　"Casework at first. People come in with their troubles, I take them down, and then we make all the right referrals."
　　"Well. I have an interview at that new middle school." I put down the composition and stared at her half-submerged naked form. "They're looking for a band director and music teacher for seventh and eighth grades. It's a pretty good gig and will leave me time to compose."
　　"Things are working out for us, baby."
　　She was right, and that was the moment I decided. My life was coming together. Against all odds and despite the interruption caused by my father s death, I would finish school, and a new career was about to start. A beautiful young woman lounged in my bathtub.
　　"What are you smiling about, Henry?"
　　I started unbuttoning my shirt. "Move over, Tess, I've got something to whisper in your ear."

    泰思连劝都不用劝，就愿意偷越边境线，而越境这个想法也让我们的蜜月情调倍增。我们离捷克斯洛伐克越近，床第之欢就越加浓烈。拟定好去往另一边的秘密路线那天，她把我弄得直到中午才起床。她的欲望使我对自己的潜在遗传更加好奇。
　　我需要知道我从哪里来，我是谁。这条路上的每一步都伴随着回家的澎湃心情。景色依稀相识，如同置身梦中，仿佛这些树木、湖泊、山岭都深深埋藏在我的感官之中，长久以来潜伏不动。岩石的纹理和木材的内质都和我想像的一般无二，我们在酒店和咖啡馆里遇见的人，他们粗壮的身躯上都有熟悉的痕迹，五官轮廓分明，蓝眼睛格外清澈，金黄的头发飘甩起来。他们的脸庞诱惑着我深入波希米亚。我们决定踏入霍亨博格村庄的禁区，那是在德国边境。
　　市中心的城堡最早修建于1222年，后来屡毁屡建，最近一次是在二战之后。在阳光明媚的周六，泰思和我一起畅游此地，这里除了我们，只有一对带小孩的年轻德国夫妇，他们跟着我们从一个建筑物走到另一个建筑物。城市的后沿有一溜高低不平的白色围墙，这是个堡垒，用于抵抗来自森林和埃格尔河对岸的袭击，在围墙附近，他们叫住了我们。
　　“打扰了，”那位母亲用英语对泰思说，“你是美国人，对吗? 你能帮忙拍张照片吗? 用我的相机，给我全家人拍? ”
　　这么轻易就被认出来是美国人，我吓得脸都白了。泰思朝我微微一笑，把背包脱下来放在地上。这一家六口在一座最古老的胸墙墙根下排好队。这些孩子看起来像是可以当我的兄弟姐妹，他们摆姿势的时候，我转念间想到我曾是这样一个家庭的一分子，但这个念头很快抛到九霄云外去了。泰思后退了几步，想把他们全照入镜头。
　　这些小孩叫了起来：“Vorsicht，der Igel!Der Igel!”（德文：“当心，刺猬! 刺猬! ”因德文中伊格尔和刺猬是同一个词，故亨利有下文的惊骇。）那个还没有五岁大的男孩，笔直朝泰思冲过去，蓝眼睛里闪烁着激动的目光。他站在她跟前，把手伸向她两脚问的一块小花丛，小心翼翼地用他的小手捧出什么东西来。
　　“你在那里找到什么? ”泰思弯下腰看他的脸。
　　他伸出手，一只刺猬从他的手中爬出来。大家都哈哈大笑，泰思差点就踩上这只浑身长刺的家伙了，这可真有趣。但我却抖得连支香烟都差点没点着。伊格尔。
　　几乎有二十年，我没有听见这个名字了。他们都有名字，我没有忘得一干二净。我伸手碰了碰泰思，好把它们驱出脑海。
　　这一家子走后，我们按照地图走城堡后面的步行小径。在一条路上，我们看到了一个小小的洞穴，前面立着一个露营地的标志，我就觉得这像是一块废弃的空地。
　　我带着泰思飞快地走开，从东路下山，穿过一片黑森林。我们的小路通往一条没有车辆的双行道。转弯处，一个写着“埃格尔路”的标志牌指向右手边的一条土路，我们渡过一条狭窄的河流，这不过是一条浅而宽的小溪，但水流湍急。对岸是捷克斯洛伐克的森林，再翻过几座山，就是恰布了。视野中一个人也没有，也许是因为有了河流和岩石，边境上也没有安铁丝网。泰思拉着我的手，我们过去了。
　　突出在水面上的石头可以安全落脚，但我们得多加小心。到达捷克那头时，一阵战栗犹如剃刀般将我刺透。我们成功了。到家了，或者说，已经尽可能地接近了家门。那一刻，我准备转变身份( 或是恢复身份) ，要回我的身世。那天早晨，泰思和我全力伪装自己，把头发和衣服都弄得和欧洲人一样不会引起注意，但我仍然担心别人会看穿我们的把戏。事后想来，我其实无须担心，因为1968年正是“布拉格之春”，门户开放，杜布切克（捷克斯洛伐克共产党第一书记(1968 —1969) 。）正尝试让捷克人和斯洛伐克人接受“有人情味的社会主义”。而俄国人的坦克八月才开进来。
　　泰思喜欢这种偷渡国境的冒险劲头，像个越狱的逃犯似的在落叶满地的路上躲躲藏藏。我努力跟上她的步伐，牵着她的手，在沉默中装出一副狡猾的样子。我们步行约一二公里后，绿叶间淅淅沥沥地洒下雨来，一场急雨接踵而至。雨点打在交接成阴的树冠上，不停地滴落下来，隔着雨声的节拍，一阵时轻时重的脚步声渐渐清晰起来。天色太暗，辨不清人影，但我听到他们在灌木丛中行进，转着圈子跟踪我们。我一把抓住她的胳膊，快步向前走去。
　　“亨利，你听到了吗? ”泰思头转来转去地环顾四周。他们还在跟上来，我们跑起来了。她最后回头看了一眼，大叫一声，拽着我的肘子停下脚步，让我转过身去看那些折腾我们的家伙。它们在雨中显得孤苦无依。三头奶牛，两头花斑的，一头全白的。它们看了看我们，漠然地反刍。
　　我们浑身湿透，快步走出滴滴答答的森林，找到了路。我们肯定是一副凄惨的模样，因为一辆农民的货车开过时，司机举起肉鼓鼓的大拇指做了个手势，示意我们可以坐到货厢里搭他的车。泰思在雨中大声问他：“去恰布吗? ”他点点头，我们就上了车，爬到成堆的土豆上面坐着，半个小时后就到了古色古香的捷克村庄。
　　我望着倒退的树木，呼啸的林风，心中肯定我们一直都被跟踪了。
　　这些房屋和仓库用清淡柔和的色料粉刷，仿佛春天花坛中的鲜花，老房子黄白相间，或褐绿相杂。恰布的许多地方似乎与时间共存，但无论建筑还是标志性的景观都没有拨响我记忆的弦。一辆带红玻璃警报器的黑色轿车歪斜地停在镇子的礼堂前。为了避开警察，我们走了另一个方向，希望能找到一个听得懂我们磕磕巴巴的德语的人。走到粉红色的星星旅馆门口，那里站着个神情严肃的警察，他足足盯了我们半分钟，我们吓了一跳。穿过广场，走过“野人”雕像，奥赫热河畔有一家东倒西歪的旅馆。我希望着、也期待着这些标志性景观能唤起古斯塔夫•安格兰德的记忆，但一切都是陌生的。
　　我在旅程中编织起来的奢望，看来将化为泡影。我好像从未到过此地，又好像在波希米亚的童年从不存在。
　　在一家乌烟瘴气的昏暗酒吧里，我们用美元收买了店主，吃了顿腊肠和煮土豆，喝了半瓶掺水的东德酒。饭后，我们被带上一段弯弯曲曲的楼梯，走进一间小小的屋子，里面只有一张床和一个脸盆。我锁了门，外套和靴子也没脱，就和泰思躺倒在破旧的床单上，紧张、疲累、刺激，让我们动弹不得。黑暗渐渐偷走光明，打破沉寂的只有我们的呼吸声和又重又急的心跳声。
　　“我们在这里干什么? ”她终于问道。
　　我坐起身，开始脱衣服。要是在我前生，我在黑暗中看她就会像在破晓的光线下看得一样清楚，但如今我只能依靠想像。“这不刺激吗? 这个镇子以前属于德国，再早是波希米亚的，对吗? ”
　　她脱下靴子和外套。她脱衣服时，我躺到了羊毛毯和粗糙的被单下。泰思脱得精光，发着抖靠过来，冷冰冰的一只脚在我腿上摩擦。“我害怕。万一秘密警察来敲门怎么办? ”
　　“别担心，宝贝，”我对她说，拿出詹姆斯•邦德的样子，“我有杀人执照。”
　　我翻身到她身上，我们在险境中过得有滋有味。
　　次日上午我们起晚了，匆忙赶往古老的圣尼古拉大教堂，到达的时候，一场用捷克语和拉丁语举行的弥撒已经开始了。靠近圣坛的地方站着几位手握念珠、上了年纪的妇人，小家庭随处而坐，像羊群一样茫然又机警。入口处两个穿黑西装的男人可能在观察我们。我想跟着唱赞美诗，但只能滥竽充数。我并不理解这种仪式，但典礼让我想起了许久之前我和我母亲参加的弥撒——蜡烛上方的圣像，穿着繁复法衣的牧师和衣着简朴的祭坛童子，和着节律的站起、跪倒、坐下，钟声响起后的献祭仪式。我当时就明知这不过是桩浪漫的蠢事，如今我脑海中出现的画面是我穿着礼拜天的礼服，心不甘情不愿地和她坐在靠背长椅上，父亲在长吁短叹，双胞胎穿着裙子扭来扭去。使我最受震动的是那来自楼厢高处的管风琴音乐，仿佛河水从岩石上奔流而下。
　　教徒们退席时，不时停下来彼此交流几句，然后向站在门外灿烂阳光下的枯瘦的神甫致意。一个金发女孩转身对跟她长得几乎一模一样的妹妹指了指我们，小声说了些什么，然后两人手牵手跑出教堂。泰思和我欣赏着入口处两旁圣母玛利亚和圣尼古拉精美的雕像，一直流连到最后才走出建筑物。泰思向神甫伸出手去，发现自己的手被握紧了，人也被拉了过去。
　　“感谢你们的到来，”他说，然后转向我，目光有些诧异，好像知道我的过去。
　　“上帝保佑你，我的孩子。”
　　泰思粲然一笑，“您的英语棒极了。您怎么知道我们是美国人? ”
　　他始终握着她的手，“我刚做牧师时，在新奥尔良的圣路易斯大教堂待过五年。
　　我是加瑞尔•林卡神甫。你们是来这里过节的? ”
　　“什么节? ”泰思想到节日，脸色一亮。
　　“‘Pra sK Iaro co. 就是布拉格之春国际音乐节。”
　　“噢，不是的。我们一点儿也不知道。”她凑过去压低声音，信任地说道，“我们是偷渡边境来的。”
　　林卡哈哈一笑，以为她在开玩笑，她很快转过话题，问他在美国的经历和新奥尔良的咖啡馆生活。他们边聊边笑，我走出去，在角落里点了支烟，看着蓝色的烟雾盘旋在空气中。那对金发姐妹又转回来了，这次从街上带了一群孩子过来。他们站在大门外面，一打脑袋从矮墙上朝里窥探，就像一串停在电话线上的鸟儿。我听到他们在啪啦啪啦讲着捷克语，冒出一个发音是podvr en6 dite（捷克语：换生灵。）的词，像是他们叽叽喳喳的主题调子。我瞟了眼妻子，她正和林卡神甫谈得火热。
　　我朝孩子们走去，他们一看我走近，就像鸽群一样散开了。我背转身，他们又聚拢过来，我再转身，他们又笑着叫着跑开。我走到大门外，看到一个女孩畏畏缩缩地蹲在墙后。我用德语跟她说不必害怕。
　　“为什么大家都笑着跑开? ”
　　“她告诉我们教堂里有魔鬼。”
　　“我不是魔鬼……只是个美国人。”
　　“她说你是从森林里来的。是个仙灵。”
　　镇子的街道后面，耸立着生机勃勃的古老森林。“没有仙灵这科东西。”
　　女孩站起来看着我，手按在唇上。“我不信你。”她说着，转身跑去追她的同伴了。我站在那里看着她跑远，思绪纷乱，担心自己犯了错。但我们已经走得太远，无论是孩子还是警察都吓不倒我们了。
　　在某种意义上，他们和其他人也并无二致。怀疑是我的保护膜，我觉得自己完全有能力不让别人探得真相。
　　泰思从大门里跃出来，看到我在人行道上。“你想来一次私人旅游吗，宝贝? ”
　　林卡神甫帮她说话，“戴夫人告诉我，你是音乐家，作曲家。你一定要试试这里的管风琴，是恰布地区最好的。”
　　在教堂的高处，我坐在琴键旁，成排空荡荡的长椅在我面前展开，还有倾斜的圣坛，巨大的十字架，我着了魔似的弹了起来。我不得不在这台机器上摇晃身子，才能踩动踏板，从硕大的风琴上弹出准确的音调，但我一旦弄清楚它复杂的音栓和音箱，沉浸到音乐当中，这就仿佛是一种舞蹈。我弹了维耶恩《摇篮曲》中的一支曲子，这些年来，我第一次感觉到自我的存在。弹着弹着，我变得遗世独立，再也感觉不到其他人和其他事，只有音乐占据胸怀。音乐像火热的冰将我灌注，又像一场异常奇特的雪将我覆盖。林卡神甫和泰思与我一同坐在最高的楼座上，看着我手挥舞，头点动，听着音乐。
　　泰思听厌了激烈的曲调，她吻了吻我脸颊，逛下楼梯去参观教堂的其他地方。
　　只有我和神甫了，我立刻说出我来恰布的缘由。我告诉他，我在研究家族史，之前法兰克福的图书管理员建议我来查一下教堂的记录，因为要看到中央政府的档案几乎是没有希望的。
　　“是为了给她一个惊喜，”我说，“我想追溯泰思的家谱，缺失的那环是她的祖父，古斯塔夫•安格兰德。只要我能找到他的生日或其他什么信息，就能为她写一部家族史。”
　　“听起来真不错。明天再来吧。我来查档案，你弹琴给我听。”
　　“但您不能告诉我妻子。”
　　他眨了眨眼，我们成了同谋。
　　用餐时，我告诉泰思，林卡神甫约请我，但只说了音乐的事，她也很高兴我有机会再去弹楼座的风琴。周一下午，她坐在楼下的中间那排长椅上，听了一个小时左右，又自己走开了。她一走，林卡神甫就小声说：“我有东西给你。”他勾了勾指头，示意我跟他走进楼厢外面的小凹室，我巴望他已经找到了安格兰德家的资料。
　　神甫把一个木盒子放在一个摇摇晃晃的桌子上，我的期望值随之增长。他拂去盖子上的灰尘，像一个小精灵似的露齿一笑，打开了盒子。
　　里面不是我想的教堂文献，而是音乐。整卷整卷的管风琴乐谱，而且不是普通的赞美诗，而是赋予风琴生命和存在的交响乐杰作——亨德尔的大量作品，马勒的《复活》，李斯特的《匈奴之战》，费蒂斯的《交响幻想曲》，还有两首吉尔芒②的管风琴独奏曲。有基格、朗莱、查内的曲子，还有普朗的《管风琴、弦乐器和定音鼓协奏曲》。柯普兰的《第一交响乐》唱片集，巴伯的《节庆展技曲》。蓝伯格，弗兰克，还有十三首巴赫。我目瞪口呆，逸兴遄飞。仅仅是把所有的都听一遍——别提亲手在硕大的琴键上试弹——就得花费好几个月甚至好几年，但我们只有几个小时。我想把东西都抢到我口袋里去，在脑子里装满音乐。
　　“这是我惟一的恶习和嗜好。”林卡对我说，“享受一下吧。我和你并没有太多不同。都是有着稀奇爱好的古怪生物。只有你，我的朋友，你能弹奏，而我只能听。”
　　我整天都在为林卡神甫弹琴，他则在查找以前洗礼、婚礼和葬礼留在教堂的底账。我激情洋溢，收放自如，他听得心旌摇动。我又往下加了一个八度，重重击出约瑟夫•琼金《小交响协奏曲》热烈的末章。在那个琴键上，我发生了某种变化，在间奏中开始听到了自己的曲子。音乐让我想起了镇外的回忆，在那个精妙绝伦的下午，我尝试着各种变奏，沉浸在音乐之中，把林卡神甫都给忘了。五点钟他两手空空地回来，没找到安格兰德家族的记录，他有点泄气，打电话给圣温斯特礼拜堂的同仁，让他们联系已经废弃了的圣巴尔多缪和圣克拉拉教堂的卷宗保管人，相帮查找资料。
　　我浑然忘却了时间。虽然相对自由，我们还是处在随时都会被索要证件的危险之中，而我们也没有捷克斯洛伐克的护照。早餐时，泰思抱怨说她去参观“黑塔”
　　时，有警察注意她，在红粉山艺术中心跟踪她。街上的孩子对她指指点点。我也看见他们在阴影里跑来跑去，躲藏在黑暗的角落里。星期三早晨，她发牢骚说在我们的蜜月里，她独自一个的时间太长了。
　　“再过一天吧，”我恳求说，“教堂里的声音别的地方都没有。”
　　“好吧，但我今天不出门了。你不想回床上睡觉吗? ”
　　那天下午晚些时候我去了楼座，惊讶地发现神甫在管风琴旁等着我。“你得让我告诉你的妻子，”他微笑着说，“我们找到他了。至少我觉得这位一定是她的祖父。年代有点不大对头，但这里能有多少位古斯塔夫•安格兰德呢? ”
　　他递给我一张颗粒化的影印乘客表，他们搭乘德国客轮“艾伯特”号在1851年5月20 日从不来梅驶往马里兰州的巴尔的摩。姓名和年龄书写得很工整：212 艾布拉姆•安格兰德42音乐家  埃格尔  波希米亚人213 克拉拉•安格兰德  40    同同214 弗列德雷希•安格兰德  14    同    同215 约瑟夫•安格兰德6     同同216 古斯塔夫•安格兰德1 ／2     同    同217 安娜•安格兰德9     同同“她难道不会高兴吗? 多好的结婚礼物啊。”
　　我没法开口回答他的问题。这些姓名勾起了如潮的回忆。约瑟夫，我的兄长——Wo in der Welt bist du? 安娜，这个在横渡大西洋时过世的孩子，伤透了我母亲的心。我的母亲，卡拉拉。我的父亲，艾布拉姆，音乐家。在我的梦境中附影随形的那些名字啊。
　　“我知道你说他1859年在这里，但有时候过去只是一个谜。我想安格兰德先生是1851年，不是1859年。”林卡神父说，“时间一久，历史就模糊了。”
　　有一阵子，这六个人都活过来了。自然我不记得埃格尔，也不记得恰布。我们去美国时，我还是个不满周岁的婴儿。那里有房屋，客厅和钢琴。我是在那里被带走的，而不是这里。
　　“教堂里没有记录，但我觉得应该查查移民档案，不是吗? 戴夫人会不会大吃一惊啊? 我真是等不及想看看她的表情了。”
　　我把纸折好放进口袋。“当然了，神父，应该由您去告诉她。我们应该庆祝一下……如果您愿意的话，就今晚吧。”
　　他喜悦的笑容让我几乎后悔说了谎，而离开后面这架绝妙的管风琴也让我非常伤心，但我还是迅速离开了圣尼古拉大教堂，口袋里的历史压在我心上。找到泰思时，我编造说警察正在教堂附近打探两个美国人，于是我们循着来时的路溜回了边境。
　　我们走到渡口附近的森林时，我吃惊地看到一个小男孩，大概七岁大，独自一人站在一棵大树旁。他没有注意到我们，只是一动不动地像是在躲避什么人。我想像不出有什么在追赶他，但我有点想要去救他。我们快走到他身边时，他闪避了一下，在嘴唇上竖起一根手指，求我们别出声。
　　“你会说德语吗? ”泰思用德语小声说道。
　　“会的，请别出声。他们在追我。”
　　我从一棵树看到另一棵树，以为会有一群换生灵冲出来。
　　“谁在追你? ”
　　“versteckspiel 。（德文：捉迷藏。）”他用气声说道。一个小女孩听到他的声音，从绿树丛中跳出来，紧追不舍。其他孩子从躲藏处出来了，我明白过来，他们是在玩简单的捉迷藏游戏。我看了男孩又看女孩，从一张脸望向另一张脸，情不自禁地想起他们能够多么轻易地改换自己的容貌。泰思觉得他们怪伶俐的，想多留一会儿，但我催促她快走。渡河时，我在石头上跳跃前进，尽可能快地蹬水过去。
　　泰思在后面拖拖拉拉，我没有等她，她又急又气。
　　“亨利，亨利，你在跑什么啊? ”
　　“快，泰思。他们在追我们。”
　　她费力地跳到一块岩石上。“谁? ”
　　“他们。”我说着，回去把她从那边拉过来。
　　蜜月之旅后，生活迅速复杂起来，我无暇再去研究安格兰德家族，也无空再去找一架管风琴。我们最后一个学期很忙，随着毕业的临近，我们的交谈也转向未来的打算。泰思躺在浴缸里，热水上蒸汽升腾。我靠在衣物篮边上，装出一副阅读新曲草稿的样子，但实际上只是为了欣赏她泡澡。
　　“亨利，我有好消息。县里面的工作看起来能通过。”
　　“太棒了，”我说，翻了一页，哼了几行。“那你具体要做什么呢? ”
　　“先做社会工作。有问题的人过来，我负责记录，然后我们做好转诊介绍。”
　　“嗯。那家新办的中学让我去面试。”我放下曲谱，盯着她露出一半的裸体。
　　“他们需要一个乐队指挥和教七、八年级的音乐老师。这是相当好的工作，我会有很多时间来作曲。”
　　“我们真是一帆风顺啊，宝贝。”
　　她说得对，那一刻我下了决心。我期待的生活到来了。尽管困难重重，虽然父亲的过世造成了辍学，我会完成学业，新的事业即将开始。一位美丽的年轻姑娘正倚在我的浴缸里。
　　“你在笑什么呐，亨利? ”
　　我开始解衬衫扣子，“还有，泰思，我有些话要在你耳边说。”
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Chapter 28
　　The most merciless thing in the world is love. When love flees, all that remains is memory to compensate. Our friends were either going or gone, their ghosts the best our poor minds could conjure to fill love's absence. I am haunted to this day by all those who are missing. Losing Kivi, Blomma, Ragno, and Zanzara proved heartbreaking for Speck, too. She went about her tasks grim and determined, as if by staying busy she could keep phantoms at bay.
　　After the disaster in the mine, we deposed Béka with his consent, and the diminished clan elected Smaolach our new leader. We lived above ground for the first time in years, bound to one small clearing in the forest by Chavisory's immobility. The impulse to go back home ate at us all. Five years had passed since we had left our camp, and we thought it might be safe to return. The last time anyone had seen our former home, the grounds had been denuded, but surely new growth had begun—where black ash had been, saplings should be inching up amid the wildflowers and fresh grass. Just as nature reclaims its ruins, the people, too, would have forgotten about that boy lost in the river and the two faeries found in the market. They'd want life to remain as they thought it had been.
　　With it safe to travel again, Luchóg, Smaolach, and I set out, leaving the other three behind at our makeshift camp to watch over Chavisory. Although the wind blew cold that day, our spirits quickened at the prospect of seeing our old haunts again. We raced like deer along the trails, laughing as one passed the other. The old camp shimmered in our　imaginations as a promise of bright redemption.
　　Climbing the western ridge, I heard distant laughter. We slowed our puce, and as we reached the lip, the sounds below piqued our curiosity. The valley came into view through the broken veil of tree limbs and branches Rows of houses and open lawns snaked and curled along ribbons of neat roadways. On the exact spot where our camp had been, five new houses faced an open circle. Another six sat on either side of a wide road cut through the trees. Branching off from that trail, more streets and houses flowed down the sloping hill to the main road into town.
　　"Be it ever so humble," Luchóg said.
　　I looked far ahead and saw bustling activity. From the back of a station wagon, a woman unloaded packages tied up with bows. Two boys tossed a football. A yellow car, shaped like a bug, chugged up a winding road. We could hear a radio talking about the Army-Navy game, and a man muttering curses as he nailed a string of lights beneath the eaves of his roof. Mesmerized by all I saw, I failed to notice as day gave way to night. Lights went on in the homes, as if on sudden signal.
　　"Shall we see who lives on the ring?" Luchóg asked.
　　We crept down to the circle of asphalt. Two of the homes appeared empty. The other three showed signs of life: cars in the driveways, lamplit figures crossing behind the windows as if rushing off on vital tasks. Glancing in each window, we saw the same story unfolding. A woman in a kitchen stirred something in a pot. Another lifted a huge bird from the oven, while in an adjoining room a man stared at minuscule figures playing games in a glowing box, his face flushed in excitement or anger. His next-door neighbor slept in an easy chair, oblivious to the noise and flickering images.
　　"He looks familiar," I whispered.
　　Covered to his toes in blue terrycloth, a young child sat in a small cage in the corner of the room. He played distractedly with brightly colored plastic toys. For a moment, I thought the sleeping man resembled my father, but I could not understand how he could have another son. A woman walked from one room into the other, and her long blonde hair trailed behind like a tail. She scrunched up her mouth into a bow before bending down and whispering something to the man, a name perhaps, and he looked startled and slightly embarrassed to be caught sleeping. When his eyes popped open, he looked even more like my father, but she was definitely not my mother. She flashed a crooked smile and lifted her baby over the bars, and the child cooed and laughed and threw his arms around his mother's neck. I had heard that sound before. The man switched off the console, but before joining the others, he came to the window, cleared a circle with his two hands against the damp panes, and peered out into the darkness. I do not think he saw us, but I surely had seen him before.
　　We circled back into the woods and waited until the moon was high in the night sky and most of the lights popped off goodnight. The houses in the ring were dark and quiet.
　　"I don't like this," I said, my breath visible in the violet light.
　　"You worry your own life away like a kitten worries a string," Smaolach said.
　　He barked, and we followed him down to the cul-de-sac. Smaolach chose a house with no car in the driveway, where we were not likely to encounter any humans. Careful not to wake anyone, we slipped inside easily through the unlocked front door. A neat row of shoes stood off to the side of the foyer, and Luchóg immediately tried on pairs until he found a fit. Their boy would be dismayed in the morning. The kitchen lay in sight of the foyer, through a smallish dining room. Each of us loaded a rucksack with canned fruits and vegetables, flour, salt, and sugar. Luchóg jammed fistfuls of tea bags into his trouser pockets and on the way out copped a package of cigarettes and a box of matches from the sideboard. In and out in minutes, disturbing no one.
　　The second house—where the baby in blue lived—proved stubborn. All of the doors and downstairs windows were locked, so we had to shimmy under the crawlspace and into a closetlike room that sheltered a maze of plumbing. By following the pipes, we eventually made our way into the interior of the house, ending up in the cellar. To make ourselves quieter, we look off our shoes and tied them around our necks before sneaking up the steps and slowly opening the door to the kitchen. The room smelled of remembered bread.
　　While Smaolach and Luchóg raided the pantry, I tiptoed through the rooms to locate the front door and an easy exit. On the walls of the living room hung a gallery of photographic portraits that read mainly as uninteresting shadows, but as I passed by one, illuminated by a white shaft of moonlight, I froze. Two figures, a young mother and her infant child, lifted to her shoulder to face the camera. The baby looked like every other baby, round and smooth as a button. The mother did not stare directly into the lens but watched her son from the corners of her eyes. Her hairstyle and clothing suggested another era, and she, with her beguiling smile and hopeful gaze, appeared hardly more than a child with a child. She lifted her chin, as if preparing to burst out laughing with joy at the babe in arms. The photograph triggered a rush of chemicals to my brain. Dizzy and disoriented, I knew, but could not place, their faces. There were other photographs—a long white dress standing next to a shadow, a man in a peaked cap—but I kept coming back to the mother and child, put my fingers on the glass, traced the contours of those figures. I wanted to remember. Foolishly, I went to the wall and turned on the lamp.
　　Someone gasped in the kitchen just as the pictures on the wall jumped into clarity. Two older people with severe eyeglasses. A fat baby. But I could see clearly the photograph that had so entranced me, and beside it another which disturbed me more. There was a boy, eyes skyward, looking up in expectation of something unseen. He could not have been more than seven at the time the picture was taken, and had the snapshot not been in black) and white, I would have sooner recognized his face. For it was mine, and me, in a jacket and cap, eyes awaiting—what? a snowfall, a tossed football, a V of geese, hands from above? What a strange thing to happen to a little boy, to end up on the wall of this unfamiliar house. The man and woman in the wedding picture offered no clues. It was my father with a different bride.
　　"Aniday, what are you doing?" Luchóg hissed. "Hush those lights."
　　A mattress creaked overhead as someone got out of bed. I snapped off the lights and scrammed. The floorboards moaned. A woman's voice muttered in a high, impatient tone.
　　"All right," the man replied. "I'll go check, but I didn't hear a thing." He headed for the upper stairway, took the steps slowly one by one. We tried the back door out of the kitchen but could not figure out the lock.
　　"The damned thing won't budge," Smaolach said.
　　The approaching figure reached the bottom landing, switched on the light. He went into the living room, which I had departed seconds earlier. Luchóg fussed with a rotating bar and unlocked the deadbolt with a soft click. We froze at the sound.
　　"Hey, who's there?" the man said from the other room. He padded our way in his bare feet.
　　"Fuck all," said Smaolach, and he turned the knob and pushed. The door opened six inches but hung fast by a small metal chain above our heads. "Let's go," he said, and we changed to squeeze through the gap one by one, scattering sugar and flour behind us. I am sure he saw the last of us, for the man called out "Hey" again, but we were gone, racing across the frosty lawn. The floodlight popped on like a flashbulb, but we had passed its circle of illumination. From the top of the ridge, we watched all his rooms light up in sequence, till the windows glowed like rows of jack-o'-lanterns. A dog began to yowl madly in the middle of the village, and we took that as a sign to retreat home. The ground chilled our bare feet, but, exhilarated as imps, we escaped our treasures, laughing under the cold stars.
　　At the top of the ridgeline, Luchóg stopped to smoke one of his purloined cigarettes, and I looked back one last time at the ordered village where our home used to be. This is the place where it had all happened—a reach for wild honey high in a tree, a stretch of roadway where the car struck a deer, a clearing where I first opened my eyes and saw eleven dark children. But someone had erased all that, like a word or a line, and in that space wrote another sentence. The neighborhood of houses appeared to have existed in this space for ages. It made one doubt one's own story.
　　"That man back there," I said, "the sleeping one. He reminded me of someone."
　　"They all look alike to me," Luchóg said. "Someone I know. Or knew."
　　"Could it be your long-lost brother?"
　　"I haven't one."
　　"Perhaps a man who wrote a book you read in the library?"
　　"I do not know what they look like."
　　"Perhaps the man who wrote that book you carry from place to place?"
　　"No, not McInnes. I do not know McInnes."
　　"A man from a magazine? A photograph in the newspaper?"
　　"Someone I knew."
　　"Could it be the fireman? The man you saw at the creek?" He puffed on his cigarette and blew smoke like an old steam engine.
　　"I thought it might be my father, but that can't be right. There was that strange woman and her child in the blue suit."
　　"What year is it, little treasure?" Luchóg asked.
　　It could have been 1972, although in truth, I was no longer sure.
　　"By now, you must be a young man near the end of thirty years. And how old was the man in the picture window?"
　　"I'd guess about the same."
　　"And how old would his father be?"
　　"Twice that," I said, and smiled like an idiot.
　　"Your father would be an old man by now, almost as old as I am."
　　I sat down on the cold ground. So much time had passed since I had last seen my parents; their real age was a revealed mystery.
　　Luchóg sat down beside me. "After awhile, everyone forgets. I cannot paint you a picture of my dear youth. The old memories are not real—just figures in a fairytale. My mammy could walk right up to me this very minute and say, 'Sonny-boy,' and I would have to say, 'Sorry, I don't know you, lady.' My father may as well be a myth. So, you see, in a way, you have no father or mother, or if you did, you wouldn't know them any longer, nor they you, mores the pity."
　　"But the fellow falling asleep in the armchair? If I try hard, I can recall my father's face."
　　"Might as well be anyone. Or no one at all."
　　"And the baby?"
　　"They're all one to me. A bother with no teeth but all the time hungry. Can't walk, can't talk, can't share a smoke. You can have them. Some say a changeling's best bet is a baby—there's less to learn—but that's moving backward across time. You should be going forward. And heaven help us if we ever had a baby to look after for a whole century."
　　"I do not want to steal any child. I just wonder whose baby that is. What happened to my father? Where is my mother?"
　　
　　
　　To make it through the cold season, we nicked ten blankets and a half-dozen children's coats from the Salvation Army store, and we ate small meals, subsisting mainly on weak teas brewed from bark and twigs. In the dull light of January and February, we often did not stir at all, but sat alone or in clumps of two or three, dripping wet or stone cold, waiting for the sun and the resumption of our lives. Chavisory grew stronger by and by, and when the wild onions and first daffodils appeared, she could take a few steps with bracing assistance. Each day, Speck pushed her one painful pace forward. When she was well enough for us to move, we fled that miserable dungheap of memories. Despite the risks, we found a more suitable hidden home near water, a mile or so north of the new houses. On windy nights, the noises from the families carried as far as our new camp, and while not as secluded, it afforded us adequate protection. As we dug in that first day, restlessness swept over me. Smaolach sat down beside me and draped an arm across my shoulders. The sun was falling from the sky.
　　"Ní mar a síltear a bítear," he said.
　　"Smaolach, if I live to be a thousand years, I'll never understand your old language. Speak English to me."
　　"Are you thinking of our friends, late and lamented? They're better off where they are and not suffering this eternal waiting. Or is there something else on your mind, little treasure?"
　　"Have you ever been in love, Smaolach?"
　　"Once and only once, thank goodness. We were close, like every mother and son."
　　"Luchóg said my mother and father are gone."
　　"I don't remember much of her. The smell of wool, maybe, and a harsh soap. Mint on the breath. A huge bosom upon which I laid my ... No, that's not right. She was a rake of a woman, all skin and bones. I don't recall."
　　"Every place we leave, part of me disappears."
　　"Now ... my father, there was a strapping fellow with a big black moustache curled up at the ends, or maybe it was my grandfather, come to think of it. Was a long time ago, and I'm not really sure where it was or when."
　　The darkness was complete.
　　"That's the way of life. All things go out and give way to one another. Tisn't wise to be too attached to any world or its people."
　　Mystified by Smaolach's philosophy, I tottered off to my new bed, turned over the facts, and looked at what crawled beneath. I tried to picture my mother and father, and could not recall their faces or their voices. Remembered life seemed as false to me as my name. These shadows are visible: the sleeping man, the beautiful woman, and the crying, laughing child. But just as much of real life, not merely read about in books, remains unknown to me. A mother croons a lullaby to a sleepy child. A man shuffles a deck of cards and deals a hand of solitaire. A pair of lovers unbutton one another and tumble into bed. Unreal as a dream.
　　I did not confess to Smaolach the reason for my agitation. Speck had all but abandoned our friendship, withdrawing into some hard and lonesome core. Even after we made the move, she devoted herself to making our new camp feel like home, and she spent the sunlit hours teaching Chavisory to walk again. Exhausted by her efforts, Speck fell into a deep sleep early each night. She stayed in her burrow on cold and wet March days, tracing out an intricate design on a rolled parchment, and when I asked her about her drawing, she stayed quiet and aloof. Early mornings, I'd see her at the western edge of camp, clad in her warmest coat, sturdy shoes on her feet, pondering the horizon. I remember approaching her from behind and placing my hand on her shoulder. For the first time ever, she flinched at my touch, and when she turned to face me, she trembled as if shaking off the urge to cry.
　　"What's the matter, Speck? Are you okay?"
　　"I've been working too hard. There's one last snow on the way." She smiled and took my hand. "We'll steal off at the first flurries."
　　When the snow finally came days later, I had fallen asleep under a pile of blankets. She woke me, white flakes gathering in her dark hair. "It's time," she whispered as quietly as the delicate susurrus through the pines. Speck and I meandered along familiar trails, taking care to be hidden, and waited at the edge of the forest nearest the library for dusk to arrive. The snowfall obscured the sun’s descent, and the headlights of the few cars on the road tricked us into going too soon. We squeezed into our space only to hear footfall overhead as the librarians began to close for the night. To stay warm and quiet, we huddled beneath a blanket, and she quickly fell asleep against me. The rhythm of her beating heart and respiration, and the heat from her skin, quickly lulled me to sleep, too, and we woke together in pitch black. She lit the lamps, and we went to our books.
　　Speck had been reading Flannery O'Connor, and I was wading in deep Water with Wallace Stevens. But I could not concentrate on his abstractions, and instead stared at her between the lines. I had to tell her, but the words were inadequate, incomplete, and perhaps incomprehensible—and yet nothing else would do. She was my closest friend in the world, yet a greater desire for more had accompanied me around for years. I could not rationalize or explain it away for another moment. Speck was engrossed in The Violent Bear It Away. A bent arm propped up her head, and she was lying across the floor, her hair obscuring her face.
　　"Speck, I have something to tell you."
　　"Just a moment. One more sentence."
　　"Speck, if you could put down that book for a second."
　　"Almost there." She stuck her finger between the pages and closed the novel.
　　She looked at me, and in one second my mood swung from elation to fear. "I have been thinking for a long, long time, Speck, about you. I want to tell you how I feel."
　　Her smile collapsed. Her eyes searched my relentless gaze. "Aniday, " she insisted.
　　"I have to tell you how—"
　　"Don't."
　　"Tell you, Speck, how much I—"
　　"Please, don't, Henry."
　　I stopped, opened my mouth to form the words, and stopped again. "What did you say?"
　　"I don't know that I can hear that right now."
　　"What did you call me?"
　　She covered her mouth, as if to recapture the escaped name.
　　"You called me Henry." The whole story unraveled in an instant. "That's me, I'm Henry. That's what you said, isn't it?"
　　"I'm so sorry, Aniday."
　　"Henry. Not Aniday. Henry Day."
　　"Henry Day. You weren't supposed to know."
　　The shock of the name made me forget what I had planned to tell her. Myriad thoughts and emotions competed in my mind. Images, solutions to assorted puzzles and riddles, and unanswered questions. She put down her book, crossed the room, and wound me in her embrace. For the longest time, she held on to me, rocking and soothing my fevered imagination with the lightest touch, caressing away the chaos.
　　And then she told me my story. The story told in these pages was all she could remember. She told me what she knew, and my recollections of dreams, visions, and encounters filled in the rest. She told me why they kept it all secret for so long. How it is better not to know who you really are. To forget the past. Erase the name. All this revealed in a patient and heavenly voice, until everything that could be answered was answered, no desire left unsatisfied. The candles burned out, we had talked so long, and into darkness the conversation lasted, and the last thing I remember is falling asleep in her arms.
　　I had a dream that we ran away that night, found a place to grow up together, became the woman and the man we were supposed to be. In the dream, she kissed my mouth, and her bare skin slid beneath my fingertips. A blackbird sang. But in the morning, she was not where I expected her to be. In our long friendship, she had never written a single word to me, but by my side, where she should have been, lay a note in her handwriting. Every letter is etched in mind, and though I will not give it all away, at the end she wrote, "Goodbye, Henry Day."
　　It was time for her to go. Speck is gone.

    世上最无情的就是爱。当爱逃离，剩下的惟有回忆来补偿。我们的朋友有的走了，有的正在走，我们可怜的心灵只能幻想他们的灵魂来填补爱的空缺。至今，那些离开的人仍然萦绕在我心头。失去了齐维、布鲁玛、劳格诺和赞扎拉也让斯帕克伤心欲绝。她干起活来神态严峻，满腔决意，好像只要忙个不停，就能远离憧憧幻影。
　　矿井中的灾难过后，我们让贝卡下台，他也同意了。人数缩减的团体选举了斯茂拉赫作为我们的新首领。这些年来，我们第一次到地面上生活了，由于卡维素芮行动不便，我们只能困守在林中的一小片空地上。回家的想法啃噬着每个人的心。
　　我们离开营寨已有五年，这时候回去大概无妨了。最后一次看到老家时，那里被掘地三尺，但新的植被必然也长出来了，黑色的灰烬覆盖的地方，小树苗应该在寸寸拔高，野花和嫩草郁郁葱葱。大自然复苏了损毁之处，而人类也应当已忘怀丢失在河中的男孩和超市里找到的那两个仙灵。他们希望生活能保持他们心目中的本来模样。
　　如今能够安全出行，鲁契克、斯茂拉赫和我就出发了，另两位留在临时的营寨里照顾卡维素芮。虽然那天寒风飕飕，但我们一想到能回老家看看，一个个都精神百倍的。我们像小鹿一样在路上蹦蹦跳跳，你追我赶，嘻嘻哈哈。老营寨在我们的记忆中莹莹闪光．许下一切恢复如初的美妙诺言。
　　爬上西边的山岭时，我听到远处的笑声。快到山崖边，我们放慢脚步，下面传来的声音逗起了我们的好奇心。透过枝叶间的空隙，山谷一览无余。成排的房屋和敞开的绿地周围蜿蜒缠绕着一条条整洁的马路。我们老营寨的原址上如今建起了五幢新房子，围成一个圈子。另有六幢房子建在宽阔马路的对面，掩映在树木之中。
　　这条马路不断分岔，各条支路沿着山坡汇成一条通往镇上的大道，路边的房屋更多。
　　“它从前是那么简陋。”鲁契克说。
　　我把目光投向远处，看到热火朝天的活动。一个女人从一辆客货两用轿车后面卸下蝴蝶结扎好的包裹。两个男孩在扔橄榄球。一辆外形像甲虫的黄色轿车轧轧地驶上弯曲的道路。我们听见收音机播放着陆军对海军队的比赛，还有一个男人低声咒骂着把一串灯钉到他的屋檐下。我被眼前的景象迷住了，没有发觉天色已晚。屋子里的灯亮了，好似突然点起的信号。
　　“我们要去看看是谁住在那块空地上吗? ”鲁契克问道。
　　我们偷偷接近那个铺着柏油的圈子。两幢屋子看来没人。另三幢显示出生活的迹象：汽车停在车道上，窗口闪过灯光映照下的人影，好像正匆忙赶去做要紧的事情。我们朝每扇窗子里张望，看到的是同一件事。一个女人在厨房里搅着锅里的东西，另一个从烤箱里端出一只大鸟，隔壁房间里，一个男人盯着一只发光盒子上运动着的微小人形，脸色时而兴奋，时而愤怒。他的隔壁邻居睡在一张安乐椅上，无论对声音还是闪动的画面都一无所觉。
　　“他看起来面熟。”我小声说。
　　房间的角落里，一个小孩坐在小笼子里，蓝色的厚绒布衣服一直穿到脚上，正心无旁鹜地玩着色彩鲜艳的塑料玩具。我一时觉得那个睡着的男人像我父亲，但我不明白他怎么还会有一个儿子。一个女人从一间屋子走到另一间，她的金色长发像尾巴一样垂在后面。
　　她撅起嘴，弯腰和那个男人轻声说了什么，大概是个名字，他一怔，因为自己打盹时被发现而稍觉不好意思。他睁开眼睛时，就更像我父亲了，但她肯定不是我母亲。她扬起嘴角，从围栏里抱起孩子，孩子呢喃着，笑着，抱住母亲的脖子。我以前听过那种声音。男人关了遥控器，走到窗前，用两只手在窗玻璃的水汽上抹出一个圆圈，看了看黑暗的室外，就回到妻儿身边去了。我觉得他没有看到我们，但我肯定曾经见过他。
　　我们绕回森林，等到明月高悬，家家户户的灯都亮了。圈子里的房屋又暗又静。
　　“我不喜欢这样。”我说，呼气在深紫色的暗夜中清晰可见。
　　“你老是为自己的生活犯愁，就像小猫为一根绳子犯愁一样。”斯茂拉赫说。
　　他招呼一声，我们就跟随他走上车道。斯茂拉赫选了一幢车道上没有停车的房子，这样我们就不大可能会碰到人。我们轻而易举地从没有上锁的前门溜了进去，没有惊醒任何人。大厅的一侧，一排鞋子摆得整整齐齐，斯茂拉赫立刻试了起来，直到他找到合脚的。到了早上，这家的男孩就会慌里慌张了。从大厅能看到厨房，中间夹着一个小小的餐厅。我们每个人都装了一袋子的罐头水果和蔬菜、面粉、盐、糖。鲁契克抓了满把的袋装茶叶塞进裤子口袋，出去时，又从餐具柜里抄了一包香烟和一盒火柴。我们倏忽来去，没有惊扰任何人。
　　第二家——就是蓝衣小孩住的那家——就难以对付了。所有的房门和底楼的窗子都锁了，我们只能从管道口挤进去，进入一间布满铅管的壁橱似的房间。我们跟着管道走，终于到了屋子里面，找到了地窖。为了不发出声音，我们都脱下了鞋子，绑起来挂在脖子上，然后蹑手蹑脚地上楼梯，打开厨房门。房间里有股熟悉的面包香味。
　　斯茂拉赫和鲁契克抢劫食品间，我就踮着脚在各个房间里寻找前门在哪，想找个方便的出口。起居室的墙壁上挂着很多相片，看起来大多是毫无意义的影子，但当我走过一幅被月光照亮的相片时，我愣住了。两个人，年轻的母亲把婴儿举到肩上面对镜头。这个孩子和其他孩子也没什么两样，又圆又滑，像颗纽扣似的。母亲没有直视镜头，而是用眼角的余光看着她的儿子。她的发型和衣着都是另一个年代的，而她边哄边笑，顾盼间流露出希望的样子，看起来也无非是一个带着小孩的孩子罢了。她抬起下颌，仿佛因为怀抱婴儿而开心得快要大笑起来。这张照片让我头脑中的化学物质竞相奔流，我头晕目眩，不知所措，虽然心里明白，但却辨不清他们的面目。还有别的照片——女人一袭白色长裙站在树阴旁，男人戴着高顶礼帽——但我不时走回去看那张母与子的照片，手指在玻璃框上摸索着这两个人的轮廓。
　　我想要记住。我犯了傻，走到墙边开了灯。
　　某人在厨房里喘了口气，这时墙上的照片突然清晰起来。两个戴着古板眼镜的上年纪的人。一个胖胖的婴孩。我把那张迷住我的照片看得一清二楚，在它旁边还有一张使我更受震动。那是一个两眼望天的男孩，抬头想要看到什么东西。拍照时他不会超过七岁，要不是照片是黑白的，我早就认出他的脸了。因为这是我的脸，这就是我，穿着夹克衫，戴着帽子，目光若有所待——等待什么? 落下来的雪花?
　　扔过来的橄榄球?V字行的雁队? 还是上面的一双手? 多么奇怪啊，一个小男孩就这么停止在了这幢陌生房子的墙壁上。那张男人和女人的结婚照片上没有任何线索。
　　那是我父亲和另一个新娘结了婚。
　　“安尼戴，你在干吗? ”鲁契克用气声说道，“把灯关了。”
　　头顶上的床垫“吱呀”一响，有人起床了。我熄了灯，赶紧离开。
　　地板“咯吱咯吱”的，一个响亮的女人声音模糊传来，口气透着不耐烦。
　　“好吧，”男人回答说，“我去看看，但我什么都没听到。”他走向楼梯，一步一步小心地下楼。我们想从厨房后门出去，但弄不开锁。
　　“这该死的东西打不开。”斯茂拉赫说。
　　那个人已经走到了楼梯底，打开了灯。他走进起居室，我刚刚从那里出来。鲁契克手忙脚乱地转动铁条，随着“咔哒”一声轻响，他撬开了门锁。我们听到声音，都为之一惊。
　　“喂，谁在那里? ”男人在另一间屋子里说。他光着脚“啪嗒啪嗒”
　　地冲我们这里跑来。
　　“他妈的。”斯茂拉赫说着转开把手推开门。门只开了六寸就被上面的一根小铁链拉住了。“我们走。”他说，我们一个接一个变形挤出那道缝隙，糖和面粉撒了一地。我肯定他看到了一眼，因为他又“喂”了一声，但我们已经跑走了，飞奔过结霜的草坪。泛光灯像闪光泡似的煌煌照着，不过我们已经跑出了照明区。我们站在山岭顶上，看着他的房间接二连三地亮起来，窗户映得像一排灯笼。村子中央，一条狗狂吠起来，我们视之为撤退回家的信号。光脚踩在地上很冷，但我们带着宝贝逃走了。我们就像小顽童一样欢呼雀跃，在寒星下哈哈大笑。
　　走在山岭上时，鲁契克停下来摸出一支偷来的香烟，我最后一次回头看了看俨整的村落，那本是我们的家。所有的事都发生在那儿——爬到高高的树上去采野蜂蜜，汽车在公路上撞了一头鹿，我在空地上第一次睁开眼睛，看到十一个黑不溜秋的孩子。但有人把这些都擦去了，就像擦去一个单词或一行字，随后在原处写上了另一句句子。这些鳞次栉比的房屋看起来就像长久以来都矗立在那里似的，让人不禁怀疑起自己的过去是否实在。
　　“那里的那个人，”我说，“睡觉的那个。让我想起一个人来。”
　　“对我来说，他们都差不多。”鲁契克说。
　　“是我认识的某人，或者说，是以前认识的人。”
　　“会不会是你很久以前失散的兄弟? ”
　　“我没有兄弟。”
　　“说不定是你在图书馆里看到的某本书的作者? ”
　　“我不知道他们长什么样。”
　　“难道是那本你带来带去的本子的作者? ”
　　“不，不是麦克伊内斯。我不认识麦克伊内斯。”
　　“杂志上的人? 报纸上的照片? ”
　　“是我认识的某个人。”
　　“会是消防队员吗? 还是你在溪边看到的那个人? ”他吸了口烟，像一台老蒸汽机似的吞云吐雾。
　　“我想那大概是我父亲，但也不对头。那里还有一个奇怪的女人，带着穿蓝衣服的小孩。”
　　“今年是几几年了，小宝贝? ”鲁契克问。
　　应当是1972年吧，虽然其实我也不能肯定。
　　“要是现在，你已经是个快四十岁的男青年了，而落地窗里的那个男人有多大?”
　　“我猜想也差不多。”
　　“那么他的父亲会有多大? ”
　　“两倍年纪。”我说着，傻乎乎地笑起来。
　　“现在你父亲可是个老人了，差不多和我一样老。”
　　我们坐在冷冰冰的地上。自从我最后一次见到父母，已经过去了那么久，他们的真实年龄就像一个浮起的谜团。
　　鲁契克坐到我身边，“过了一段时间，大家都忘记了。我没法画给你看我小时候的样子。以前的记忆是不真实的——只不过是童话中的人物。我的妈妈这会儿走到我身边说：‘乖宝贝。’我会说：‘抱歉，我不认识您，夫人。’我父亲也是个谜。所以，你看，在某种程度上，你无父无母，就算你有，你也不认识他们了，他们也不认识你，这样更凄惨。”
　　“但那个睡在安乐椅里的家伙是谁呢? 如果我用力想，是能想起我父亲的样子的。”
　　“可能是其他人，或者谁都不是。”
　　“那个婴儿呢? ”
　　“他们对我来说都一样。没有牙齿却一直觉得饿的麻烦东西，不能走路，不能说话，不能一起吸烟。你能去弄一个来。有人说换生灵的最佳选择是婴儿——用不着学很多东西——但那就是活倒回去了。你不应该倒着活。再说，如果我们弄来个婴儿，要照顾他一个世纪，那只能靠老天帮忙了。”
　　“我不想偷任何一个孩子。我只是想知道那是谁的孩子。我父亲怎么样了? 我母亲又在哪里? ”
　　为了熬过严寒的季节，我们从救世军节俭商店（一个慈善组织办的特价商店，常卖二手货。）里偷了十条毯子和六件儿童外套。我们还减少食量，主要靠喝树皮和树枝酿制的茶来过活。一月和二月天光惨淡的时候，我们常常毫不动弹，或者独自坐着，或者三两成堆，身上滴着露水，冷得要命，只能等待太阳出来，好让我们重焕生机。卡维素芮身体渐渐强壮起来，当野洋葱长出来，水仙花刚刚露脸时，她已经能够在搀扶下走几步了。斯帕克每天都让她多走一步，虽然那够痛苦。后来她好得足以让我们行动了，我们立马逃离了那个装满悲惨回忆的废墟。我们冒着危险在水边找了个更合适的藏身之处，大约向南一公里外就是那些新建的房屋。刮风的夜晚，家家户户的声音传到我们的新营寨来。虽然没有以前隐蔽了，它却把我们保护得更周全。我们第一天挖洞的时候，我浑身充满了干劲。斯茂拉赫坐到我身边，一条胳膊环着我的肩膀。太阳正从天空落下。
　　“事物并不总是如其表面所示。”他说。
　　“斯茂拉赫，除非我活了一千年，才能听懂你的古语。跟我讲英语。”
　　“你在想我们过世了的朋友吗? 他们待的地方可好了，而且不用忍受没有尽头的等待。还是你在想别的呢，小宝贝? ”
　　“你爱过吗，斯茂拉赫? ”
　　“有一次，谢天谢地还好只有一次。我们很亲密，就跟任何一对母子一样。”
　　“鲁契克说我的父母已经没了。”
　　“我记不大得她了。羊毛的味道，也许吧，还有刺鼻的肥皂味，口气里的薄荷味。胸脯很大，我在上面放我的……不，这不对。她是个瘦女人，皮包骨头。我想不起来了。”
　　“我们每离开一个地方，我就消失一部分。”
　　“嗯……说到我的父亲，是个身材魁梧的家伙，有一大把末梢鬈曲的黑胡子，但说不定那是我祖父，要这么想的话。那是很久以前了，我说不准时间和地点。”
　　天完全黑了。
　　“这就是生活。所有的东西都会离开，把位置让给新的东西。聪明的就别对任何环境和任何人用情太深。”
　　我被斯茂拉赫的哲理搞迷糊了，摇摇晃晃地回到我的新床上躺下，把事实翻过来，看看是什么在下面蠕动着。我想要勾勒出父母的样子，却又想不起他们的脸庞和声音。要知道，生活对我而言，就和我的姓名一样虚假。这些影子依稀可见：睡觉的男人，美丽的女人，哭着笑着的孩子。但是很多真实生活并不只是书本上写的那样，我仍然不知其为何物。母亲哼唱着摇篮曲哄孩子入睡。男人洗着一盒牌，玩着单人跳棋。一对情侣互相解开扣子，滚倒在床上。如同梦境般不真实。
　　我没有告诉斯茂拉赫我心烦意乱的缘故。斯帕克丢下了我们的友情，退缩进坚硬而孤独的壳里。在我们搬离之后，她将全副精力投注在装扮我们的新营寨上，使它更像一个家，出太阳的时候，她就教卡维素芮走路。精疲力竭的斯帕克每晚都早早地沉入梦乡。湿寒的三月天里，她待在自己的洞里，摹画着一张羊皮纸上的精细的图案，我问她画的是什么，她默然回避。许多个清晨，我看到她站在营寨的西头，裹着她最暖和的外套，穿着结实的鞋子，眺望着地平线。我记得有一次我走到她身后，把手放到她肩上。她头一次在我的触碰下闪躲了，她回过头来看到是我，就颤抖了一下，好似强忍着大叫出声的冲动。
　　“怎么了，斯帕克? 你还好吧? ”
　　“我干得太累了。最后一场雪就快下了。”她微笑着牵起我的手，“风雪一来，我们就溜出去。”
　　几天后，终于下雪了。我躺在一堆毯子下睡着了，她叫醒我，白色的雪花落在她黑色的头发上。“是时候了。”她低声说，犹如松林间的喃喃细语。斯帕克和我穿过熟悉的小径，不时小心地躲起来，然后在图书馆附近的森林边缘等待黄昏来临。
　　下雪的缘故，落日也看不清楚，路上的车灯很少，引诱着我们早些进去。我们刚刚挤进那地方，就听见头顶上图书管理员去关门的脚步声。我们在毯子下拥在一起，又暖和又安静，她很快靠着我睡着了。她心跳和呼吸的节奏，还有皮肤的温度，弄得我也很快就睡着了，我们在一片漆黑中同时醒过来。她点亮灯，我们各自拿书。
　　斯帕克一直在读弗兰纳里•奥康那，我则和华莱士•史蒂文斯起跋涉在深水中。
　　但我没法专心到故事上，而是读几句就看看她。我要告诉她，但语言却不能尽意，不够完整，或许还不能达意——而且毫无其他办法。她是我这世上最亲密的伙伴，但这些年来，仅仅如此渐渐无法满足我的想望。我无法保持理智，也不能拖到日后再讲。斯帕克聚精会神地读着《暴力将它带走》。她曲起一条手臂撑着头，躺在地上，头发遮住了脸。
　　“斯帕克，我有话跟你说。”
　　“过一会。让我再看一句。”
　　“斯帕克，你能不能把书放一放? ”
　　“就到这里吧。”她把手指夹在书页里，合上了书。
　　她看着我，一瞬间，兴奋的我害怕起来。“我已经想了很长很长时间，斯帕克，关于你。我想告诉你我的感觉。”
　　她的微笑分崩离析，目光探索着我毫不动摇的凝视，“安尼戴，”
　　她用力说道。
　　“我得告诉你我多么……”
　　“别说。”
　　“告诉你，斯帕克，我多么……”
　　“求你了，别说，亨利。”
　　我一下子住了口，张开嘴发出这个词，又顿了一下，“你说什么? ”
　　“我不知道我现在能否听到那个。”
　　“你叫我什么? ”
　　她掩着嘴，好似要再次抓住逃离的名字。
　　“你叫我亨利。”整个故事倏然展现，“那是我，我是亨利。这是你说的，不是吗? ”
　　“对不起，安尼戴。”
　　“亨利。不是安尼戴。亨利•戴。”
　　“亨利•戴。你不该知道的。”
　　听到名字的震惊使我忘记了本要告诉她的话。无数的念头和情绪在我头脑中交战。各种印象、难题和谜语的答案，没有结论的问题。她放下书，走过房间，抱住了我。她从未这么长久地抱着我，用最轻柔的抚摸摇晃，安抚我疯狂的思绪，把混乱平息下来。
　　随后她把我的故事说给我听。这些纸上写的都是她所能记住的事。她把知道的都告诉了我，而我的梦境、幻觉和遭遇则填补了空缺。她告诉我，他们为何要将秘密保守如此之久。为何不知道自己是谁要比知道好得多。忘记过去，擦去姓名。所有的一切都显现在一个耐心而神圣的声音里，直到所有能解答的问题都被解答，所有的想往都被满足。蜡烛燃尽了，我们说了太久，谈话在黑暗中继续，我记得的最后一件事是在她怀抱中睡着了。
　　我做了个梦，梦见我们当晚逃走了，找到了一个一块成长的地方，变成我们应该成为的女人和男人。在梦中，她吻了我的唇，她的肌肤在我的指尖下滑动。一只画眉唱起歌来。但到了早晨，她却不在我以为她会在的地方。我们做朋友那么久，她从未给我写过只言片语，但在我身边，她应该躺着的地方，却有一张她手写的留言。每个词都烙在我心上，虽然我绝不会把它丢掉，最后她写道：“再见，亨利•戴。”
　　这是她离开的时候了。斯帕克走了。
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Chapter 29
　　The first time I saw him, I was too frightened to say anything and too awestruck to touch him. He was not a freak or a devil, but perfect in every way, a beautiful boy. After the long wait to meet him, I found myself overcome by the sudden change, not so much his physical presence, his arrival after being hidden away, but the change in me to something more sublimely human. Tess smiled at my confusion and the look in my eyes as I beheld him.
　　"You won't break him," she said.
　　My son. Our child. Ten fingers, ten toes. Good color, great lungs, a natural at the breast. I held him in my arms and remembered the twins in their matching yellow jumpers, my mother singing to me as she scrubbed my back in the bathtub, my father holding my hand when we climbed the bleachers at an autumn football game. Then I remembered Clara, my first mother, how I loved to crawl under the billows of her skirts, and the scent of witch hazel on my father Abram's cheek, his feathery moustache as he pressed his lips against my skin. I kissed our boy and considered the ordinary miracle of birth, the wonder of my wife, and was grateful for the human child.
　　We named him Edward, and he thrived. Born two weeks before Christmas 1970, he became our darling boy, and over those first few months, the three of us settled into the house that Mom and Charlie had bought for us in the new development up in the woods. At first, I could not bear the thought of living there, but they surprised us on our second anniversary, and with Tess pregnant and the bills mounting, I could not say no. The house was larger than we needed, especially before the baby came, and I built a small studio, moving in the old piano. I taught music to seventh graders and ran the student orchestra at Mark Twain Middle School, and in the evenings and on weekends, when I didn't have to mind the baby, I worked on my music, dreaming of a composition that evoked the flow of one life into another.
　　For inspiration, I would sometimes unfold the photocopy of the passenger list and study the names. Abram and Clara, their sons Friedrich, Josef, and Gustav. The legendary Anna. Their ghosts appeared in fragments. A doctor listens to my heartbeat while Mother frets over his shoulder. Faces bend to me, speaking carefully in a language I cannot understand. Her dark green skirt as she waltzes. Tang of apple wine, sauerbraten in the oven. Through a frosted window, I could see my brothers approach the house on a winter's day, their breath exploding in clouds as they share a private joke. In the parlor stands the piano, which I touch again.
　　Playing music is the one vivid memory from the other life. Not only do I recall the yellowing keys, the elaborate twisting vines of the scrollwork music stand, the smoothness of the rosewood finish, but I can hear those tunes again, and feel the sensations he felt while playing—strike these keys, hear these notes resound from the depths of the machine. The combination of notes makes up the melody. Translate the symbols from the score to the corresponding keys, and keep the right time, to make this song. My one true link to my first childhood is that sensation of bringing the dream of notes to life. The song echoing in my head becomes the song resounding in the air. As a child, this was my way of unlocking my thoughts, and now, a century or more later, I attempted to create the same seamless expression through my composition, but it was as if I had found the key and lost the keyhole. I was as helpless as Edward in his preverbal life, learning to communicate my desires all over again.
　　Being around our tiny speechless boy reminded me of that lost life and made me cherish the memories Edward created every passing day. He crawled, stood, grew teeth, grew hair, fell in love with us. He walked, he talked, he grew up in a moment behind our backs. We were, for a time, the perfect happy family.
　　My sisters marred that ideal picture. Mary, who had a baby girl, and Elizabeth, who was expecting her first, were the initial ones to point out the curiosity. The extended family had gathered at my mother's house for dinner. Edward was about eighteen months old, for I remember watching him carefully as he waddled up and down the porch steps over and over again. Charlie and the twins' husbands watched the last few minutes of the game before dinner, and my mother and Tess guarded the hot skillets, so I was alone with the girls for the first time in ages, when one or the other led off with her unsolicited opinion.
　　"You know, he looks nothing like you."
　　"And hardly a thing like her."
　　I looked at Edward as he pulled up leaves of grass and tossed them into the still air.
　　"Look at his chin," Liz observed. "Neither one of you has that cleft."
　　"And his eyes aren't either of your two colors," said Mary. "Green as a cat's. He didn't get those eyelashes from our side of the family. You have such adorable long eyelashes, yes, you do. Too bad he's not a girl."
　　"Well, they're not Wodehouse eyelashes either. Take a good look at Tess."
　　"All mascara."
　　"And the nose. No so much now, but later, you'll see. That's a beak on him, poor little man. Hope my child doesn't get that nose."
　　"No Day ever had a nose like that."
　　"What are you two saying?" My voice was so loud, I startled my son.
　　"Nothing."
　　"Kinda odd, don't you think, that he doesn't look like his parents?"
　　At sunset my mother, Charlie, and I sat on the porch watching the moths dance, and the matter of Edward's appearance arose again.
　　"Don't listen to those two," my mother said. "He's the spit and image of you, with maybe a little Tess around the eyes."
　　Uncle Charlie sucked on a pop bottle, burped softly. "The boy looks exactly like me. All my grandchildren do." Eddie tottered across the floorboards and threw himself at Charlie's legs, and finding his balance, he roared like a tiger.
　　
　　
　　As he grew older, Edward looked more like an Ungerland than a Day, but I did my best to hide the truth. Maybe I should have explained all to Tess, and perhaps that would have been the end of my torment. But she bore the snide remarks about her son with grace. Days after his second birthday, we had Oscar Love and Jimmy Cummings over for dinner. After the meal, we fooled around with an arrangement that I had written hoping to interest a chamber-music quartet in the city. Of course, we were one player short, with George long gone in California. But playing with them again after a few years was easy and comfortable. Tess excused herself to go to the kitchen to check on a lemon meringue pie. When Edward noticed she was gone, he wailed from his playpen, banging his fists against the slats.
　　"Don't you think he's getting a bit too big for that?" Oscar asked.
　　"He can be a bit of trouble after dinner. Besides, he likes it there. Makes him feel safe."
　　Oscar shook his head and fished Edward from behind the bars, bounced him on his knees, and let him finger the keys of the clarinet. Seeing my single friends react to my son, I couldn't help but feel that they were weighing their freedom against the allure of family. They loved the boy but were slightly frightened of him and all he represented.
　　"Drawn to the stick," Oscar said. "That's one cool kid. You'll want to stay away from the piano. Too heavy to carry around."
　　"Sure he's yours?" Cummings asked. "He looks nothing like you, or Tess, for that matter."
　　Oscar joined the fun. "Now that you mention it... look at that split chin and those big eyes."
　　"C'mon guys, cut it out."
　　"Chill out," Oscar whispered. "Here comes the old lady."
　　Tess delivered the dessert, oblivious to the turns of our conversation. I should have brought up my festering doubt, made a joke of it, said something in front of her, but I didn't.
　　"So, Tess," Jimmy said, balancing his pie plate on his knee, "who do you think Eddie takes after?"
　　"You have a speck of meringue at the corner of your mouth." She picked up our son and held him in her lap, stroked his hair, and pressed his head against her breast. "How's my little man?"
　　Edward stuck his hand straight into the pie, pulled up a clump of yellow goo, and crammed it in his mouth.
　　She laughed. "Just like his daddy."
　　Thank you, my love. She returned my smile.
　　After the boys said good night and Edward lay sleeping in his crib, Tess and I washed the dishes together, staring out the kitchen window. The stars shone like pinpricks in the cold black sky, and the hot water in the sink, along with the roaring furnace, gave the room a steamy languor. I put down the tea towel and, from behind, wrapped my arms around her, kissed her damp warm nape, and she shivered.
　　"I hope you didn't get too mad about Jimmy going on about how Eddie doesn't look so much like either one of us."
　　"I know," she said. "It's creepy."
　　For a split second, I thought she suspected something was awry, but she spun herself around to face me and grabbed my face with her rubber gloves. "You worry about the strangest things." She kissed me, and the conversation went elsewhere.
　　A few nights later, Tess and I were asleep in bed, Edward down the hall in his room. She woke me by shaking my shoulder and speaking harshly in a sort of shouted whisper. "Henry, Henry, wake up. I heard noises downstairs."
　　"What is it?"
　　"Would you listen? Someone's down there." I grumbled that it was nothing.
　　"And I'm telling you, someone is in the house. Would you go check?"
　　I rolled out of bed and stood there for a moment, trying to rouse my senses, then headed past Edward's closed door to the top of the stairs. I did not see, but had the sensation, that a light had gone out downstairs and that something moved in a blur from one room to the next. Anxious, I took the steps one by one in a sort of hypnotic trance, sorting through my drifting emotions as it became darker and darker. At the bottom, I turned into the living room and switched on the lights. The room appeared unchanged except for a few photographs on the walls that were slightly askew. We had hung a kind of family gallery, pictures of our parents, images of Tess and me as children, a wedding photo, and a parade of portraits featuring Edward. I nudged the frames back in line and in the same moment heard the deadbolt turn at the kitchen door.
　　"Hey, who's there?" I yelled, and sped out in the nick of time to see the backside of an imp squeezing through the opening between the door and the jamb. Outside in the cold, dark night, three figures sped across the frosty lawn, and flicking on the floodlights, I called for them to stop, but they had vanished. The kitchen was a mess, and the pantry had been raided of canned goods, cereal and sugar, and a small copper saucepan, but not much else. A bag of flour had burst when they squeezed through the door, leaving a dusty trail dotted with footprints. The oddest sort of break-in by a bunch of hungry thieves. Tess came downstairs and was shaken by the disturbance, but she shoved me out of the kitchen to put it back in order. Back in the living room, I rechecked our belongings, but they were all there—the TV, stereo, nothing of value gone.
　　I examined the photographs more closely. Tess looked almost exactly the same as she had on our wedding day. Sergeant William Day stared out, frozen in the past in his military dress. From the corners of her eyes, Ruth Day watched her son, hardly more than a child with a child, yet full of love and pride. In the next frame, there I was, a boy again, looking up and full of hope. But, of course, that wasn't me. The boy was too young. And in that instant, I realized who had come and why.
　　Tess came in and laid her hand on my back. "Shall we call the police? Is there anything missing?"
　　I could not answer, for my heart was pounding wildly and an overwhelming dread fixed me to the spot. We had not checked on our son. I sprinted up the stairs to his room. He lay asleep, knees drawn up to his chest, dreaming as if nothing had ever happened. Watching his innocent face, I knew at once that he was blood of my blood. He almost looked like the boy I still see in my nightmares. The boy at the piano.

    我一眼看到他，害怕得说不出话，敬畏交集，连碰都不敢碰他。
　　他不是畸形儿，也不是魔鬼，而是从头到脚都完美无瑕的漂亮男孩。
　　在为他等待这么长时间之后，我心中生出一番突如其来的变化，这变化不是因为他的样子，也不是因为他的姗姗来迟，而是因为我变得更为高贵，更富人性。我抱着他的时候，目光困惑，泰思看着我笑了。
　　“你不会弄断他的。”她说。
　　我的儿子。我们的孩子。十个手指，十个脚趾。肤色健康，肺活量大，吃起奶来相当自如。我把他抱在怀里，想起了穿着相同的黄色套衫的双胞胎，想起我母亲边唱着歌边在浴缸里给我擦背，想起父亲牵着我的手，登上露天看台去观看秋季橄榄球赛。接着我又想到了我的第一个母亲克拉拉，我多么喜欢钻到她裙子的滚边下啊，还有我父亲艾布拉姆的脸颊上有股金缕梅刮胡水的味道，他亲我时，胡子像羽毛般柔软。我吻着我们的孩子，想到出生真是个普通的奇迹，是我生命中的意外之喜，我对这个人类的孩子充满感激之情。
　　我们为他取名爱德华，他茁壮成长着。他出生于1970年圣诞节前两周，成为我们挚爱的孩儿，才过了几个月，我们一家三口就搬入了森林中的新发展区，那里的房子是妈妈和查理买给我们的。起初，我压根没有打算要住到那里，但在我们结婚两周年时，他们给了我们这样一个惊喜，而且因为泰思怀孕，开支激增，我也没法再说不了。
　　房子比我们需要的更大，尤其在孩子降生之前，于是我辟出了一个小乐室，把老钢琴搬了进去。我给七年级的学生上音乐课，还在马克．吐温中学指导学生管弦乐队，傍晚和周末，我无需为孩子操心，就搞我自己的音乐，梦想着创作一支交响曲，唤起一个生命流向另一个生命的故事。
　　为了寻找灵感，我有时会打开乘客表的影印件，研究那些名字。
　　艾布拉姆和克拉拉，他们的儿子弗列德雷希、约瑟夫和古斯塔夫，带有传奇色彩的安娜。他们的灵魂支离破碎地出现了。一个医生听诊我的心跳，母亲靠在他肩上发愁。面孔都朝向我，小心翼翼地说着一种我听不懂的话。她穿着墨绿色的裙子跳起华尔兹。浓浓的苹果酒味，烤炉里有糖醋烤牛肉。在一个冬日里，透过结霜的窗户，我看到哥哥们走近家门，他们正私底下说着笑话，呼出来的气白乎乎的，像云一样。客厅里放着钢琴，我又开始弹了。
　　弹琴是来自前生的鲜明回忆。我不仅想起了黄色的琴键、蔓叶花饰的乐谱架上精致的卷藤、红木家具上光滑的涂漆，我还能再次听到那些旋律，感受他弹琴时的起伏心潮——敲击着琴键，倾听从机器深处回响的音符。音符聚集成乐调，曲调在相应的琴键上化为意象，脚下和着拍子，曲子应节而起。将梦想中的音符携入生活，这种激情就是我和我的第一度童年的一处真实的联系。在我心中回响的歌谣在空气中震荡。孩提时代，这是我任由思维驰骋的方式，而在一个多世纪之后，我尝试着通过作曲来做出同样天衣无缝的表达，但我似乎找到了钥匙，却丢失了锁孔。我就像爱德华牙牙学语时一般无助，学习如何将我的想望再次传达出来。
　　和我们那还不会说话的小小孩儿在一起，我就想起失去的生活，因而倍加珍惜爱德华日日夜夜留下来的记忆。他爬行、站立、长牙齿、长头发、爱上我们。他走路、说话，偷偷摸摸地呼啦一下长高。那时候，我们是无比幸福的一家子。
　　我的妹妹们破坏了这个理想的画面。生了一个女儿的玛丽和怀上头胎的伊丽莎白最初注意到异样。有一次，我们这个大家庭在母亲的家中共进晚餐。爱德华已经十八个月了，我记得自己一直留神看着他摇摇晃晃地上下门廊阶梯。吃饭前，查理和双胞胎的两个丈夫在看最后几分钟的比赛，母亲和泰思守在煮锅旁边，我和姑娘们在一起，多少年来，这还是第一次。这时不知是哪位不请自言。
　　“喂，他跟你一点都不像。”
　　“和她也不像。”
　　我看了看爱德华，他正抓起一把草叶，扬到沉闷的空气中。
　　“看他的下巴，”莉兹（莉兹是伊丽莎白的昵称。）评价说，“你们两个都没有这样的裂沟。”
　　“他的眸色也不是你们的那两种颜色，”玛丽说，“和猫眼一样绿。
　　他的眼睫毛不是从我们家族这边遗传来的。你有这样叫人羡慕的长睫毛，是啊，就是这样。真可惜他不是个女孩。”
　　“嗯，也不是伍德郝斯家的那种睫毛。好好看看泰思吧。”
　　“像是涂了睫毛膏。”
　　“还有鼻子。现在还看不大出来，不过以后你会发现的，他的鼻子有点鹰钩，可怜的小家伙，希望我的孩子不会有这样的鼻子。”
　　“戴家人从来没有过这样的鼻子。”
　　“你们两个在说什么? ”我把话说得太响了，我儿子一愣。
　　“没什么。”
　　“有点儿奇怪，你不觉得他不像他的爸妈吗? ”
　　傍晚，母亲、查理和我坐在门廊上看着蛾子飞舞，爱德华的相貌问题又被提了起来。
　　“别听那两个说的话，”母亲说，“他和你一模一样，眼睛周围可能和泰思有点像。”
　　查理叔叔吮着一瓶汽水，轻声打嗝，“这孩子和我很像。我的孙辈都和我很像。”
　　艾迪蹒跚着脚步走过地板，扑到查理的大腿上站稳了身子，像一头老虎似的吼叫起来。
　　爱德华日渐长大，越来越像安格兰德家的人而不像戴家的人，我竭尽全力隐瞒真相。或许我应该对泰思坦白一切，那大概就会结束我的痛苦。然而她却大度地忍受着冲着她儿子的挖苦话。他过了两周岁生日后，我们邀请奥斯卡•拉甫和吉米•卡明斯过来吃饭。饭后，我们胡闹了一支改编曲，那本来是我写了想要吸引市内的四重奏室内乐队的注意。当然，我们还少了一个乐手，乔治很早就去了加州。但数年之后再次与他们同奏一曲，让我感到轻松愉快。泰思去厨房弄柠檬酥皮馅饼，爱德华发觉她走开了，就在婴儿围栏里扭动身子，拳头砸得板条“砰砰”响。
　　“你不觉得他在那里太挤了吗? ”奥斯卡问。
　　“他吃好饭后就有点烦人。而且他喜欢待在那里，觉得安全。”
　　奥斯卡摇摇头，在围栏外逗引爱德华，跪在地上朝他跳过去，还让他按单簧管上的键。看到我的单身汉朋友对我儿子如此这般，我不禁想到他们是在个人自由和成家的诱惑之间权衡利弊。他们喜欢这个孩子，但对他和他的种种表现也有点害怕。
　　“去拿球棍哕，”奥斯卡说，“真是个酷小孩。你想离钢琴远远的啊。太重了，拖不动。”
　　“你肯定他是你的吗? ”卡明斯问，“他和你半点都不像，也不像泰思，从长相来看。”
　　奥斯卡也开起玩笑来，“既然你这么说了……瞧瞧那分岔的下巴和大眼睛。”
　　“好了伙计们，别说了。”
　　“噤声，”奥斯卡小声说，“老夫人来啦。”
　　泰思端来甜点，显然注意到了我们话题的转换。我应该提起让我心烦的疑虑，开个玩笑，当她面说些什么，但我什么都没说。
　　“啊，泰思，”吉米说着，把他的馅饼碟子在膝盖上放稳，“你觉得艾迪像谁呢? ”
　　“你的嘴边挂着一小片酥皮。”她把我们的儿子抱到大腿上，抚弄着他的头发，把他的头按在胸前，“我的小家伙怎么样? ”
　　爱德华朝馅饼伸过手去，捏了一块黄黄的馅饼，塞进嘴里。
　　她笑了，“就和他爸爸一样。”
　　谢谢你，亲爱的。她向我报之一笑。
　　伙计们道了晚安，爱德华在婴儿床里睡着了，泰思和我一起洗餐碟，看着厨房窗外。星星在冷冷的黑色夜空上发出针尖般的光芒，水槽里的热水和炉子里的轰隆声使得屋子有种蒸汽腾腾的慵懒感。我放下茶巾，从后面抱住了她，吻着她温湿的后颈，她颤抖了一下。
　　“吉米说艾迪不像我们，我希望你不要太生气。”
　　“我知道，”她说，“这是很奇怪的。”
　　一瞬间，我觉得她怀疑什么地方出了错，但她转过身来，用戴着橡胶手套的手捧着我的脸。“你老想着稀奇古怪的事。”她吻了我，话题转开了。
　　几天之后，泰思和我躺在床上，爱德华睡在另一头的房间里。她摇着我的肩膀把我叫醒，压低声音急促说道：“亨利，亨利，醒醒，我听见楼下有声音。”
　　“什么声音? ”
　　“你没听见吗? 下面有人。”
　　我咕哝着说什么声音都没有。
　　“我跟你说，有人在我们家里。你不去看看吗? ”
　　我翻身下床，站了片刻让自己清醒一下，然后经过关着房门的爱德华房间，走到楼梯口。我没看见，但感觉到楼下有盏灯灭了，有什么东西隐隐约约地从一个房间走到另一个房间。我焦急起来，恍恍惚惚地一步步走下楼梯，环境越来越暗，我整理着自己游移不定的情绪。到了楼下，我走进起居室，打开电灯。屋内看来一切正常，但墙上有几幅照片有点歪斜。我们挂了一系列的家庭照，我们父母的照片、泰思和我小时候的照片、结婚照，还有一排爱德华的照片。我把镜框推回原位，同时听到了厨房门的铰链发出的声响。
　　“喂，谁在那里? ”我吆喝一声冲过去，刚好看见一个小鬼的背影正在从门和门框之间的缝隙里挤出去。外面寒冷漆黑的夜里，三个身影飞快地奔过结霜的草坪，在泛光灯下飘然而去。我叫他们站住，但他们已经跑得无影无踪。厨房里一团糟，食品柜里丢了罐头、谷类和糖，还有一口小铜炖锅，但别的都没少。他们挤出门的时候，一袋面粉弄破了，留下了一条肮脏的痕迹，上面还有脚印。真是古怪，一伙饥饿的小偷入室抢劫。泰思也下来了，被这情形吓了一跳，但她把我赶出厨房，自己把它打扫干净。我回到起居室，又检查了一下我f 『：的东西，什么都没少——电视机，立体声音响，值钱的都在。
　　我又仔细查看了照片。泰思几乎还是我们结婚那天的模样。威廉•戴军±瞪着眼睛，穿着军装停留在过去。露丝•戴用眼角的余光打量着她的儿子，简直就像一个带着小孩的孩子，但却满怀爱意j}[ 骄傲。第二张照片是我，还是一个小男孩，两眼望天，流露期盼。然而，这当然不是我。这孩子还太小。猛然间，我意识到是谁来过了，为何而来。
　　泰思进来，把手贴在我背上。“我们要叫警察吗? 少了什么东西吗? ”
　　我无言以对，心脏急剧跳动，压倒性的恐惧使我无法动弹。我们还没有去看我们的儿子。我飞快地奔上楼梯跑进他的房间。他睡着，膝盖蜷到胸口，好像什么事情都没发生似的做着梦。看着他无邪的睡颜，我顿时领悟到他是我的骨肉。他几乎就像我依然会在噩梦中见到的那个男孩，那个弹钢琴的男孩。
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Chapter 30
　　I tucked her letter into my book and went to look for Speck. Panic overwhelmed logic, and I ran out onto the library lawn, hoping that she had left only moments before. The QOW had changed over to a cold rain, obliterating any tracks she might have made. Not a single soul could be seen. No one answered when I called her name, and the streets were curiously empty, as church bells began to ring out another Sunday. I was a fool to venture out into town in the middle of the morning. Following the labyrinth of sidewalks, I had no idea which way to go. A car eased around a corner and slowed as the driver spotted me walking in the rain. She braked, rolled down the window, and called out, "Do you need a ride? You'll catch your death of cold."
　　I remembered to make my voice understandable—a single stroke of fortune on that miserable day. "No, thank you, ma'am. I'm going home."
　　"Don't call me 'ma'am,'" she said. She had a blonde ponytail like the woman who lived in the house we had robbed months before, and she wore a crooked smile. "It's a nasty morning to be out, and you have no hat or gloves."
　　"I live around the corner, thank you."
　　"Do I know you?"
　　I shook my head, and she started to roll up her window.
　　"You haven't seen a little girl out here, have you?" I called out.
　　"In this rain?"
　　"My twin sister," I lied. "I'm out looking for her. She's about my size."
　　"No. I haven't seen a soul." She eyed me closely. "Where do you live? What is your name?"
　　I hesitated and thought it best to end the matter. "My name is Billy Speck."
　　"You'd better go home, son. She'll turn up."
　　The car turned the corner and motored off. Frustrated, I walked toward the river, away from all the confusing streets and the chance of another human encounter. The rain fell in a steady drizzle, not quite cold enough to change over again, and I was soaked and chilled. The clouds obliterated the sun, making it difficult to orient myself, so I used the river as my compass, following its course throughout the pale day and into the slowly emerging darkness. Frantic to find her, I did not stop until late that night. Under a stand of evergreens crowded with winter sparrows and jays, I rested, waiting for a break in the weather.
　　Away from the town, all I could hear was the river lapping against the stony shores. As soon as I stopped searching, the questions I had kept at bay began to assault my mind. Unanswerable doubts that would torment me in quiet moments for the next few years. Why had she left us? Why would Speck leave me? She would not have taken the risk that Kivi and Blomma had. She had chosen to be alone. Though Speck had told me my real name, I had no idea of hers. How could I ever find her? Should I have kept quiet, or told all and given her a reason to stay? A sharp pain swelled behind my eyes, pinching my throbbing skull. If only to stop obsessing, I rose and continued to stumble through the wet darkness, finding nothing.
　　Cold, tired, and hungry, I reached the bend in the river in two days' walk. Speck had been the only other person from the clan who had come this far, and she had somehow forded the water to the other side. Sapphire blue, the water ran quickly, breaking over hidden rocks and snags, whitecaps flashing. If she was on the other side, Speck had crossed by dint of courage. On the distant shore, a vision appeared from my deep mad memories—a man, woman, and child, the fleet escape of a white deer, a woman in a red coat. "Speck," I railed across the waters, but she was nowhere. Past this point of land, the whole world unfolded, too large and unknowable. All hope and courage left me. I dared not cross, so I sat on the bank and waited. On the third day, I walked home without her.
　　I staggered into the camp, exhausted and depressed, hoping not to talk at all. The others had not worried for the first few days, but by the end of the week, they'd grown anxious and unsettled. After they built a fire and fed me nettle soup from a copper pot, the whole story poured forth—except for the revelation of my name, except for what I had not said to her. "As soon as I realized she was gone, I went to look for her and traveled as far as the river-bend. She may be gone for good."
　　"Little treasure, go to sleep," Smaolach said. "We'll come up with a plan. Another day brings a different promise."
　　There was no new plan or promise the next morning or any other. Days came and went. I read every tense moment, every crack and creak, every whisper, every morning light as her return. The others respected my grief and gave me wide berth, trying to draw me back and then letting me drift away. They missed her, too, but I felt any other sorrow a paltry thing, and I resented their shadowy reminiscences and their failure to remember properly. I hated the five of them for not stopping her, for taking me into this life, for the wild hell of my imagination. I kept thinking that I saw her. Mistaking each of the others for her, my heart leapt and fell when they turned out to be merely themselves. Or seeing the darkness of her hair in a raven's wing. On the bank of the creek, watching the water play over stone, I came upon her familiar form, feet tucked beneath her. The image turned out to be a fawn pausing for a rest in a window of sunshine. She was everywhere, eternally. And never here.
　　
　　
　　Her absence leaves a hole in the skin stretched over my story. I spent an eternity trying to forget her, and another trying to remember. There is no balm for such desire. The others knew not to talk about her around me, but I surprised them after an afternoon of fishing, bumbling into the middle of a conversation not intended for my ears.
　　"Now, not our Speck," Smaolach told the others. "If she's alive, she won't be coming back for us."
　　The faeries stole furtive glances at me, not knowing how much I had heard. I put down my string of fish and began to shave the scales, pretending that their discussion had no effect on me. But hearing Smaolach gave me pause. It was possible that she had not survived, but I preferred to think that she had either gone into the upper world or reached her beloved sea. The image of the ocean brought to mind the intense colors of her eyes, and a brief smile crossed my face.
　　"She's gone," I said to the silent group. "I know."
　　The following day we spent turning over stones in the creek bed, gathering the hiding newts and salamanders, to cook together in a stew. The day was hot, and the labor took its toll. Famished, we enjoyed a rich, gooey mess, full of tiny bones that crunched as we chewed. When the stars emerged, we all went to bed, our stomachs full, our muscles taxed by the long day. I awoke quite late the next morning and drowsily realized that she had not once crossed my mind when we were foraging the previous day. I took a deep breath. I was forgetting.
　　Speck's presence was replaced by dullness. I would sit and stare at the sky or watch ants march, and practice driving her out of my mind. Anything that triggered a memory could be stripped of its personal, embedded meanings. A raspberry is a raspberry. The blackbird is a metaphor for nothing. Words signify what you will. I tried to forget Henry Day as well, and accept my place as the last of my kind.
　　All of us were waiting for nothing. Smaolach never said so, but I knew he was not looking to make the change. And he hatched no plans to steal another child. Perhaps he thought our number too few for the complex preparations, or perhaps he sensed the world itself was changing. In I gel's day, the subject came up all the time with a certain relentless energy, but less so under Béka, and never under Smaolach. No reconnaissance missions into town, no searching out the lonesome, neglected, or forgotten. No face-pulling, no contortions, no reports. As if resigned, we went about our eternal business, sanguine that another disaster or abandonment awaited.
　　I did not care. A certain fearlessness filled me, and I would not hesitate to run into town alone, if only to swipe a carton of cigarettes for Luchóg or a bag of sweets for Chavisory. I stole unnecessary things: a flashlight and batteries, a drawing pad and charcoals, a baseball and six fishing hooks, and once, at Christmas, a delicious cake in the shape of a firelog. In the confines of the forest, I fiddled with idle tasks—whittling a fierce bat atop a hickory CUM laying a stone ring around the circumference of our camp, searching for old turtle shells and crafting the shards into a necklace. I went up alone to the slag hillside and the abandoned mine, which lay undisturbed, as we had left it, and placed the tortoiseshell necklace where Ragno and Zanzara lay buried. My dreams did not wake me up in the middle of the night, but only because life had become a somnambulant nightmare. A handful of seasons had passed when a chance encounter finally made me realize that Speck was beyond forgetting.
　　We were tending to delicate seedlings planted on a sun-drenched slope a few hundred yards from camp. Onions had stolen new seeds, and within weeks up came the first tender shoots—snap peas, carrots, scallions, a watermelon vine, and a row of beans. Chavisory, Onions, Luchóg, and I were weeding in the garden on that spring morning, when the sound of approaching feet caused us to rise like whitetail, to sniff the wind, ready to flee or hide. The intruders were lost hikers, off the trail and headed in our direction. Since the housing development had risen, we had a rare traveler pass our way, but our cultivated patch might look a bit peculiar to these strangers out in the middle of nowhere. We disguised the garden under pine brush and hid ourselves beneath a skirt of trees.
　　Two young men and a young woman, caps upon their heads, huge backpacks strapped at the shoulders, walked on, cheerful and oblivious. They strolled past the rows of plants and us. The first man had his eye on the world ahead. The second person—the girl—had her eye on him, and the third man had his eye on her backside. Though lost, he seemed intent on the one thing. We followed safely behind, and they eventually settled down a hill away to drink their bottled water, unwrap their candy bars, and lighten their loads. The first man took out a book and read something from it to the girl, while the third hiker went off behind the trees to relieve himself. He was gone a long time, for the man with the book had the chance not only to finish his poem but to kiss the girl, as well. When their small interlude ended, the threesome strapped on their gear and marched away. We waited a decent spell before running to the spot they had vacated.
　　Two empty water bottles littered the ground, and Luchóg snatched them up and found the caps nearby. They had discarded the cellophane wrappers from their snacks, and the boy had left his slim volume of poems lying on the grass. Chavisory gave it to me. The Blue Estuaries by Louise Bogan. I leafed through a few pages and stopped at the phrase That more things move/Than blood in the heart.
　　"Speck," I said to myself. I had not said her name aloud in ages, in centuries.
　　"What is it, Aniday?" Chavisory asked.
　　"I am trying to remember."
　　The four of us walked back to the garden. I turned to see if my comrades were following the same path, only to discover Luchóg and Chavisory, walking step by ginger step, holding hands. My thoughts flooded with Speck. I felt an urgency to find her again, if only to understand why she had gone. To tell her how the private conversations of my mind were still with her. I should have asked her not to go, found the right words to convince her, confessed all that moved in my heart. And ever hopeful that it was not too late, I resolved to begin again.

    我把斯帕克的信夹进我的书里，出去找她，焦灼万分，什么也顾不上就跑到图书馆的草坪上，盼她还没走远。雪已变成了冷雨，湮没了她可能留下的足迹。视野中空无一人。我呼唤她的名字，无人应答，街道空荡得出奇，教堂里的钟声开始敲响又一个礼拜天。我居然傻到在早上八九点钟冒险跑到镇上。人行道密如蛛网，我不知该何去何从。一辆汽车悠然转过街角，司机发现我走在雨中，放慢了车速。她停下车，摇落车窗冲我喊道：“要搭车吗? 你这样会得重感冒的。”
　　我还记得要让别人听懂我的声音——在那个悲惨的日子里，这真是不幸中的大幸。“不用，谢谢您，夫人。我正在回家。”
　　“别叫我‘夫人’，”她说。她梳着金色的马尾辫，像是我们几个月前洗劫过的那家住的女人，她笑起来嘴角弯弯。“今天上午真不适合出门，你连帽子和手套都没戴。”
　　“我就住在街角，谢谢您。”
　　“我认识你吗? ”
　　我摇摇头，她开始把车窗摇起来。
　　“您有没有在这里看到过一个小女孩? ”我叫道。
　　“我的双胞胎妹妹，”我撒谎说，“我是出来找她的，她和我差不多大。”
　　“没有。我一个人都没看见。”她仔细打量着我，“你住在哪里? 叫什么名字?”
　　我迟疑了一下，觉得最好还是速战速决，“我叫比利•斯帕克。”
　　“你最好回家，孩子。她会回来的。”
　　汽车转过街角，开走了。我心灰意冷地朝河边走去，离开这些让人摸不着头脑的街道，也避免再遇见别的人。细雨连绵，天还不够冷，一时不会有变化，我又湿又寒。阴云遮蔽了太阳，我难以确定方向，只好把河流当做指南针，随着它一路从白日渐渐走入黑暗。我疯狂地寻找着她，一直寻到深夜。一排冬青树下团团挤着冬雀和松鸦，我停下脚步，等待天气转好。
　　离开镇子之后，我只听见河水拍打着石砌河岸。我一停下寻找，原本回避的问题就开始侵袭我的脑际。在此后几年中，无法解答的疑问常在我平静时来折磨我。
　　斯帕克为何离开了我们? 又为何要离开我? 她不会像齐维和布鲁玛那样去冒险。她要独自一人。虽然斯帕克告诉了我我真正的名字，我还是不知道她的名字。我怎样才能找到她? 我是否应当缄口不言，还是应当和盘托出，给她一个留下来的理由?
　　剧痛在我眼后膨胀，钳紧了我悸动的头颅。只是为了不再凝思，我站起身来，继续深一脚浅一脚地穿过潮湿的黑暗，一无所获。
　　寒冷，疲惫，饥饿，我走了整整两天，走到了河弯处。斯帕克是大伙中另一个走得这么远的人，而且她还涉水去了对岸。河流蓝得璀璨，水流湍急，漫过水底的岩石和断木，激起雪白的水花。如果斯帕克去了另一头的话，她渡河的时候可真需要点儿胆量。在远远的对岸，一个情景从我疯狂的记忆深处浮现——一个男人，一个女人，还有一个孩子，一头飞快逃走的白鹿，一个穿红衣的女子。“斯帕克。”
　　我朝河那边呼喊，但她哪儿都不在。越过这片土地，整个辽阔而未知的世界就呈现眼前。但一切的希望和勇气都弃我而去。我不敢渡河，只好坐在河边等待。到了第三天，我徒步回家，身边没有她。
　　我跌跌撞撞地回到营寨，精疲力竭，垂头丧气，什么话都不想说。
　　其他人最初几天还不觉得怎样，但到了周末，他们也着急起来。他们给我点了篝火，从铜壶里给我舀了荨麻汤喝l ，于是整件事被我像竹筒．倒豆子似的说了出来，只隐去我得知姓名的一节，还有我未曾对她说出的话。“我一发觉她走了，就出去找她，一直找到河湾那里。她也许一去不复返了。”
　　“小宝贝，去睡觉吧，”斯茂拉赫说，“我们会想个办法出来。到了明天一切都会有希望的。”
　　但无论是第二天早晨，还是在后来，都没有新的办法和希望。日子一天天过去。
　　一有风吹草动，一闻吱呀声响，轻声细语，一到晨光降临，我都会以为她回来了。
　　其他人都体谅我的悲伤，给我腾出宽敞的卧铺，想要把我的神志拉回来，让我渐渐放宽心胸。他们也思念着她，但我觉得其余的悲伤都毫不足取，而且我讨厌他们模糊不清的琐碎记忆，讨厌他们没法把事情记清楚。我恨这五个人没有阻止她，恨他们将我带入这种生活，也恨我自己想像中的怪诞地狱。我老是觉得自己看到了她，又老是把其他人看作是她，当看清他们不过是他们时，我的心就一起一落。我还会在乌鸦的翅膀上看到她头发的那种黑色，在溪边见到水流和石头嬉戏，我就会看到她蜷腿而坐的熟悉身影。这种形象如同一头小鹿在洒满阳光的窗口片刻驻足。她无处不在，无时不有，但又从不在此地。
　　她的离去在我故事的外皮上留下一个空洞。我一直想要把她忘记，又竭力想把她记住。无论哪种都是徒劳无功。其他人都知道不要当我面提起她，但有一天下午钓鱼结束后，我出乎意料地闯入了一段本不打算让我听到的交谈。
　　“好了，不是我们的斯帕克，”斯茂拉赫对其他人说，“如果她还活着，她是不会回来找我们的。”
　　仙灵们偷偷地向我瞟来，不知道我听到了多少。我放下我那串鱼，开始刮鳞片，假装他们的交谈对我毫无影响。但听到斯茂拉赫的话，我为之一怔。确有可能她没有活下来，但我宁可去想她或是已经去到了上面的世界，或是去了她所爱的大海。
　　一想到大海，我就想到她眼眸的深沉色调，脸上现出一抹淡淡的微笑。
　　“她走了，”我对沉默的大伙儿说，“我知道。”
　　第二天，我们去溪底翻石头找藏在底下的蝾螈和蜥蜴，把它们放在锅里炖。天气很热，干这活儿付出不少代价，不过饿得前心贴后背的我们享用了一顿丰盛的大杂烩，嘴里“嘎扎嘎扎”地嚼满细碎骨头。星星出来时，我们上床睡觉，肚子饱饱的，浑身肌肉在一天的劳作下疲惫不堪。次日早晨我起得很晚，睡眼惺忪地意识到，昨天我们在找食物时，她一次也没有闯入我心中。我做了下深呼吸。我在忘却了。
　　取代斯帕克身影的是索然无味的日子。我坐在地上两眼望天，要么就看蚂蚁列队前进，练习怎么才能将她驱出我的脑海。任何触动记忆的事物都能被剥去其惟我独有的、深藏的意义。一株覆盆子就是一株覆盆子，一头乌鸦也不喻示着什么。话语意味着心中所思，我也试着忘掉亨利•戴，认同自己如今的身份。
　　我们全都无所期盼。虽然斯茂拉赫从未这样说过，但我知道他并不打算换生，也没有计划再去偷一个孩子。或许他觉得我们人数太少，不足以应付这种复杂的准备工作，再或许他觉得这个世界本身就在不断变化。在伊格尔当头领的日子里，这件事情总是兴致勃勃地被提起，在贝卡的领导下，就很少谈到了，到了斯茂拉赫，大家绝口不提。没有去镇上的侦查任务，没有要寻找孤独的、被忽视或忘怀的孩子，不再换脸，不再变形，也没有了报告。我们仿佛听天由命似的，着手我们永恒的事务，乐观地等待灾难或遗弃再次降临。
　　我不在乎了。我无所畏惧，能毫不犹豫地单独冲进镇上，只是为了给鲁契克偷一盒香烟，或为卡维素芮弄一包糖果。我偷一些没用的东西：手电筒和电池，素描簿和炭笔，棒球和六枚鱼钩。还有一次在圣诞节，我干了些无聊事，在一根山核桃木拐杖顶端凿出一只凶猛的蝙蝠，在我们营寨外用石头围了一个圈，还找了些老乌龟壳，敲碎了做成项链。我独自去到矿渣山上，那个废弃的矿井自从我们离开后仍然保持原样，我把乌龟壳项链放在劳格诺和赞扎拉埋身之处。我不再在半夜睡梦中惊醒，因为生活已经成了一场梦游者的噩梦。好多年过去了，终于有一件事情让我明白，我是忘不了斯帕克的。
　　我们在距离营寨几百米处阳光充足的斜坡上种植幼苗。奥尼恩斯偷了些新种子来，几周后就长出了第一批嫩芽——脆豌豆、胡萝卜、韭菜、西瓜秧，还有一排豆荚。那个春天的早晨，卡维素芮、奥尼恩斯、鲁契克和我在菜园里除草，突然听到一阵脚步声，我们像白尾鹿似的猛抬起头，嗅着空气里的味道，准备逃跑或躲藏起来。闯入者是迷路的徒步旅行者，他们偏离了山路，朝我们这边走来。自从开始建造房屋，就偶尔会有人路过这里，而外人看到一片荒地中间冒出我们这块自留地，不免会觉得奇怪。我们把松针铺到菜园里伪装起来，自己躲进树林下。
　　两个男青年和一个少女走了过来，他们头戴鸭舌帽，肩背大背囊，兴致高昂，对周围熟视无睹。他们从成排的种植物和我们身边经过。领头的男人眼睛望着天空，第二个女孩看着他，第三个男人则盯着她的后背。虽然走迷了路，他似乎一心一意地就这样盯着。我们安全地尾随其后，他们终于走到山边坐下，喝着瓶装水，拆开甜点包装，减轻了负担。第一个男人拿出一本书，从上面读了一些给那个女孩听，第三个旅行者走到树后去解手。他离开了很长时间，第一个男人不但读完了他的诗，还吻了那个女孩。短短的插曲结束后，三人组重新背上装备，继续前进。我们等了很长一段时间，才跑到他们刚刚坐过的地方。
　　两个空水瓶扔在地上，鲁契克一把抓起，又在附近找到了瓶盖。
　　他们丢掉了点心的透明包装纸，那个男孩还把他那一小册诗集扔在草地上。卡维素芮把它给我。是路易斯•伯根写的《蓝色河口》。我翻了几页，在一行诗句上停下来：“心中流动的，不仅仅是血。”
　　“斯帕克。”我自言自语道。已经有好多年、好几个世纪我没有大声说出她的名字。
　　“这是什么，安尼戴? ”卡维素芮问。
　　“我要记住。”
　　我们四个走回菜园。我回头看看同伴们有没有跟上来，却发现鲁契克和卡维素芮手牵着手，步伐充满活力。我心里装满了斯帕克，急切地再次想要找到她，即使只为了知道她为何离去。我要告诉她，我的心仍然在与她亲密地交谈，我应该请她别走，应该找到适当的话说服她，把我心中流动的东西全部告诉她。我决定从头开始，希望为时不晚。
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Chapter 31
　　I would not want to be a child again, for a child exists in uncertainty and danger. Our flesh and blood, we cannot help but fear for them, as we hope for them to make their way in this life. After the break-in, I worried about our son all of the time. Edward is not who we say he is because his father is an imposter. He is not a Day, but a changeling's child. I passed on my original genes, giving him the face and features of the Ungerlands, and who knows what other traits leapt the generations. Of my own childhood, I know little more than a name on a piece of paper: Gustav Ungerland. I was stolen long ago. And when the changelings came again, I began to believe they saw Edward as one of their own and wished to reclaim him. The mess they left in the kitchen was a subterfuge for a more sinister purpose. The disturbed photographs on the wall indicated that they were searching for someone. Wickedness hovered in the background and crept through the woods, plotting to steal our son.
　　We lost Edward one Sunday in springtime. On that gloriously warm afternoon, we happened to be in the city, for I had discovered a passable pipe organ in a church in Shadyside, and after services the music minister allowed me an hour to experiment with the machine, trying out what new sounds coursed through my imagination. Afterward, Tess and I took Edward to the zoo for his first face-to-face encounter with elephants and monkeys. A huge crowd shared our idea, and the walkways were crammed with couples pushing strollers, desultory teenagers, even a family with six redheaded children, staggered a year apart, a conspiracy of freckles and blue eyes. Too many people for my taste, but we jostled along without complaint. Edward was fascinated by the tigers and loitered in front of the iron fence, pulling at his cotton candy, roaring at the beasts to encourage them out of their drowsiness. In its black-and-orange dreams, one tiger twitched its tail, annoyed by my son's entreaties. Tess took advantage of Edward's distraction to confront me.
　　"Henry, I want to talk to you about Eddie. Does he seem all right to you? There's been a change lately, and something—I don't know—not normal."
　　I could see him over her shoulder. "He's perfectly normal."
　　"Or maybe it's you," she said. "You've been different with him lately. Overprotective, not letting him be a kid. He should be outdoors catching polliwogs and climbing trees, but it's as if you're afraid of him being out of your sight. He needs the chance to become more independent."
　　I pulled her off to the side, out of our son's hearing. "Do you remember the night someone broke into the house?"
　　"I knew it," she said. "You said not to worry, but you've been preoccupied with that, haven't you?"
　　"No, no, I just remembered, when I was looking at the photographs on the walls that night, it made me think of my own childhood dreams—years at the piano, searching for the right music to express myself. I have been looking for the answers, Tess, and they were right under my fingertips. Today in the church, the organ sounded just like the one at St. Nicholas's in Cheb. The organ is the answer to the symphony. Organ and orchestra."
　　She wrapped her arms around me and pulled herself against my chest. Her eyes were full of light and hope, and in all of my several lives, no one had shown such faith in me, in the essence of who I considered myself to be. I was so in love with her at that moment that I forgot the world and everything in it, and that's when I noticed, over her shoulder, our son was gone. Vanished from the space where he had been standing. My first thought was that he had tired of the tigers and was now underfoot or nearby, ready to beg us to let him in for a group hug. That hope evaporated and was replaced by the horrible notion that Edward had somehow squeezed through the bars and been instantly eaten by the tigers, but a quick glance at their cage revealed nothing but two indolent cats stretched out asleep in the languid sunshine. In the wilderness of my imagination, the changelings appeared. I looked back at Tess and feared that I was about to break her heart.
　　"He's gone," I told her, moving apart. "Edward."
　　She spun around and moved to the spot we had seen him last. "Eddie," she cried. "Where in the world are you?"
　　We went down the path toward the lions and bears, calling out his name, her voice rising an octave with each repetition, alarming the other parents. Tess stopped an elderly couple heading in the opposite direction. "Have you seen a little boy all alone? Three years old. Cotton candy."
　　"There's nothing but children here," the old man said, pointing a thin finger to the distance behind us. A line of children, laughing and hurrying, chased something down a shady pathway. At the front of the pack, a zoo-keeper hustled along, attempting to hold back the children while following his quarry. Ahead of the mob, Edward raced in his earnest and clumsy jog, chasing a blackfooted penguin that had escaped his pen and now waddled free and oblivious, heading back to the ocean, perhaps, or in search of fresh fish. The keeper sprinted past Edward and caught up to the bird, which brayed like a jackass. Holding its bill with one hand and cradling the bird against his chest, the keeper hurried past us as we reached our son. "Such a ruckus," he told us. "This one slips out of the exhibit and off he goes, wherever he pleases. Some things have such a will."
　　Taking Edward's hands in our own, we were determined to never let go.
　　
　　
　　Edward was a kite on a string, always threatening to break free. Before he started schooling, Eddie was safe at home. Tess took good care of him in the mornings, and I was home to watch him on weekday afternoons. When he turned four, Eddie went in with me on the way to work. I'd drop him off at the nursery school and then swing by from Twain when my music classes were through. In our few private hours I taught him scales, but when he bored of the piano he toddled off to his blocks and dinosaurs, inventing imaginary games and companions to while away lonesome hours. Every once in a while, he'd bring over a playmate for the afternoon, but those children never seemed to come back. That was fine by me, as I never fully trusted his playmates. Any one of them could have been a changeling in disguise.
　　Strangely, my music flourished in the splendid isolation we had carved out for ourselves. While he entertained himself with his toys and books, I composed. Tess encouraged me to find my own sound. Every week or so, she would bring home another album featuring organ music found in some dusty used record store. She cadged tickets to Heinz Hall performances, dug up sheet music and books on orchestration and instrumentation, and insisted that I go into the city to work out the music in my head at friendly churches and the college music school. She was re-creating, in essence, the repertoire in the treasure chest from Cheb. I wrote dozens of works, though scant success or attention resulted from my efforts—a coerced performance of a new arrangement by a local choir, or one night on electric organ with a wind ensemble from upstate. I tried everything to get my music heard, sent tapes and scores around the country to publishers and performers, but usually received a form rejection, if anything. Every great composer serves an apprenticeship of sorts, even middle-school teachers, but in my heart, I knew the compositions had not yet fulfilled my intentions.
　　One phone call changed everything. I had just come in the door with Edward after picking him up from nursery school. The voice on the other end was from another world. An up-and-coming chamber quartet in California, who specialized in experimental sound, expressed interest in actually recording one of my compositions, an atonal mood piece I had written shortly after the break-in. George Knoll, my old friend from The Coverboys, had passed along my score. When I called him to say thanks, he invited us to visit and stay at his place so I could be on hand at the recording session. Tess, Edward, and I flew out to the Knolls in San Francisco that summer of '76 and had a great few days with George and his family. His modest cafe in North Beach was the only genuine Andalusian restaurant among a hive of Italian joints, and his stunning wife and head chef did not hurt business, either. It was great to see them, and the few days away from home eased my anxieties. Nothing weird prowling around California.
　　The pastor of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco allowed us an afternoon to record, and the pipe organ there rivaled in tone and balance the ancient instrument I had played in Cheb. The same feeling of homecoming entered me when I pressed the pedals, and from the beginning notes, I was already nostalgic for the keyboard. The quartet changed a few measures, bent a few notes, and after we played my fugue for organ and strings for the seventh time, everyone seemed satisfied with the sound. My brush with fame was over in ninety minutes. As we said our good-byes, everyone seemed sanguine about our limited prospects. Perhaps a mere thousand people might actually buy the record and hear my piece, but the thrill of finally making an album outweighed any projected anxiety about the size of its audience.
　　The cellist in the group told us not to miss Big Sur, so on our last day before flying home, we rented a car and drove south on the Pacific Coast Highway. For most of the morning, the sun came in and out between clouds, but the rocky seascape was spectacular. Tess had always wanted to see the ocean, so we decided to pull off and relax for a bit at a cove in the Ventana Wilderness. As we hiked to the sand, a light mist rolled in, obscuring the Pacific. Rather than turn back, we decided to picnic on a small crescent beach beside McWay Falls, an eighty-foot straight drop of water that plunges from the granite cliff to the sea. We saw no other cars on the way in and thought the place ours alone. After lunch, Tess and I stretched out on a blanket, and Eddie, all of five years old and full of energy, had the run of the sand. A few seagulls laughed at us from rocks, and in our seclusion, I felt at peace for the first time in ages.
　　Maybe the rhythm of the tides or the fresh sea air did us in after lunch. Tess and I dozed on the blanket. I had a strange dream, one that had not visited me in a long, long time. I was back among the hobgoblins as we stalked the boy like a pride of lions. I reached into a hollow tree and pulled at his leg until he squirmed out like a breached baby. Terror filled his eyes when he beheld his living reflection. The rest of our wild tribe stood around, watching, chanting an evil song. I was about to take his life and leave him with mine. The boy screamed.
　　Riding the thermals above us, a gliding gull cried, then flew out over the waves. Tess lay sleeping, gorgeous in repose beside me, and a thread of lust wormed through me. I buried my head at her nape and nuzzled her awake, and she threw her arms around my back almost to protect herself. Wrapping the blanket around us, I lay on top of her, removing her layers. We began laughing and rocking each other through our chuckles. She stopped suddenly and whispered to me, "Henry, do you know where you are?"
　　"I'm with you."
　　"Henry, Henry, stop. Henry, where’s Eddie?"
　　I rolled off her and situated myself. The fog thickened a bit, blurring the contours of a small rocky peninsula that jutted out into the sea. A hardy patch of conifers clung to its granite skull. Behind us, the waterfall ran down to the sand at low tide. No other noise but the surf against shore.
　　"Eddie?" She was already standing up. "Eddie!"
　　I stood beside her. "Edward, where are you? Come here."
　　A thin shout from the trees, then an intolerable wait. I was already mourning him when he came clambering down and raced across the sand to us, his clothes and hair wet with salt spray.
　　"Where have you been?" Tess asked.
　　"I went out on that island as far as you can go."
　　"Don't you know how dangerous that is?"
　　"I wanted to see how far you could see. A girl is out there."
　　"On that rock?"
　　"She was sitting and staring at the ocean."
　　"All by herself? Where are her parents?"
　　"For real, Mom. She came a long, long way to get here. Like we did."
　　"Edward, you shouldn't make up stories like that. There's not a person around for miles."
　　"For real, Dad. Come see."
　　"I'm not going out to those rocks. It's cold and wet and slippery."
　　"Henry"—Tess pointed out to the fir trees—"look at that."
　　Dark hair flying behind her, a young girl emerged from the firs, ran like a goat down the sloping face, as thin and lissome as the breeze. From that distance she looked unreal, as if woven from the mist. She stopped when she saw us standing there, and though she did not come close, she was no stranger. We peered at each other across the water, and the moment lasted as briefly as the snapping of a photograph. There and gone at the same time. She turned toward the waterfall and ran, vanishing beyond in a haze of rock and evergreen.
　　"Wait," Tess cried. "Don't go." She raced toward the girl.
　　"Leave her," I hollered, and chased down my wife. "She's gone. It looks like she knows her way around this place."
　　"That's a helluva thing, Henry. You let her go, out here in the middle of nowhere."
　　Eddie shivered in his damp clothes. I swathed him in the blanket and sat him on the sand. We asked him to tell us all about her, and the words tumbled out as he warmed up.
　　"I was on an adventure and came to the big rock at the edge. And there she was sitting there. Right behind those trees, looking out at the waves. I said hi, and she said hi. And then she said, 'Would you like to sit with me?' "
　　"What is her name?" Tess asked.
　　"Ever heard of a girl called Speck? She likes to come here in winter to watch the whales."
　　"Eddie, did she say where her parents were? Or how she got all the way out here by herself?"
　　"She walked, and it took more than a year. Then she asked where was I from, and I told her. Then she asked me my name, and I said Edward Day." He suddenly looked away from us and gazed at the rock and the falling tides, as if remembering a hidden sensation.
　　"Did she say anything else?"
　　"No." He gathered the blanket around his shoulders.
　　"Nothing at all?"
　　"She said, 'How is life in the big, big world?' and I thought that was funny."
　　"Did she do anything ... peculiar?" I asked.
　　"She can laugh like a seagull. Then I heard you started calling me. And she said, 'Good-bye Edward Day,' like that. And I told her to wait right here so I could get my mommy and dad."
　　Tess embraced our son and rubbed his bare arms through the blanket. She looked again at the space the girl had run through. "She just slipped away. Like a ghost."
　　From that moment to the instant our plane touched down at home, all I could think about was that lost girl, and what bothered me about her was not so much her mysterious appearance and disappearance, but her familiarity.
　　When we settled in at home, I began to see the changelings everywhere.
　　In town on a Saturday morning for a haircut with Edward, I grew flustered by a towheaded boy who sat waiting his turn, quietly sucking a lollipop as he stared, unblinking, at my son. When school resumed in the fall, a pair of twins in the sixth grade spooked me with their uncanny resemblance to each other and their ability to finish each other's sentences. Driving home from a band performance on a dark night, I saw three children in the cemetery and wondered, for a moment, what they might be plotting at such a late hour. At parties or the odd evening out with other couples, I tried to work in veiled references to the legend of the two feral girls and the baby-food jars, hoping to find someone else who believed it or could confirm the rumors, but everyone scoffed when I mentioned the story. All children, except my own boy, became slightly suspect. They can be devious creatures. Behind every child's bright eyes exists a hidden universe.
　　
　　
　　The quartet's album, Tales of Wonder, arrived by Christmas, and we nearly wore out the groove playing it over and over for our friends and family. Edward loved to hear the dissonance of violins against the steady cello line and the crashing arrival of the organ. Even anticipating its arrival, the movement was a shock no matter how many times one listened to the album. On New Year's Eve, well after midnight, the house quiet as a prayer, a sudden blast of my song startled me awake. Expecting the worst, I came downstairs in my pajamas, wielding a baseball bat, only to find my son bug-eyed in front of the speakers, hypnotized by the music. When I turned down the volume, he began to blink rapidly and shake his head as if awakened from a dream.
　　"Hey, pardner," I said in a low voice. "Do you know how late it is?"
　　"Is it 1977 yet?"
　　"Hours ago. Party's over, fella. What made you put on this song?"
　　"I had a bad dream."
　　I pulled him onto my lap. "Do you want to tell me about it?" He did not answer but burrowed closer, so I held him tighter. The last drawn-out note resounded as the song lapsed into silence, so I reached over and shut off the stereo.
　　"Daddy, do you know why I put on your song? Because it reminds me."
　　"Reminds you of what, Edward? Our trip out to California?"
　　He turned to face me until we looked eye-to-eye. "No. Of Speck," he said. "The fairy girl."
　　With a quiet moan, I drew him closer to me, where I could feel in the warmth of his chest the quickening of his heart.

    我不想再做孩子了，因为孩子总是活在变化和危险之中。对于我们的骨肉，我们总是情不自禁地替他们忧心，总希望他们生活得好。自从家中被盗之后，我就一直担心我们的儿子。爱德华并不是我们所说的那个他，因为他父亲是个冒牌货。他不是戴家人，而是一个换生灵的孩子。我传递了自己原来的基因，给了他安格兰德家的脸型和五官，而谁又知道还有哪些特征是代代相传的呢? 关于我的童年，我只知道一张纸上的名字：古斯塔夫•安格兰德。很久以前我被偷走。换生灵们卷土重来，我就开始以为他们将爱德华视为他们自己人，想要把他夺走。他们把厨房弄得一塌糊涂，不过是个花招罢了，背后还有更为险恶的用心。墙上被动过的照片说明他们在寻找目标。邪恶在森林里盘旋，从树丛中蹑足而出，谋划着偷走我们的儿子。
　　春天的一个星期日，我们一度把爱德华弄丢了。那个暖意融融的下午我们正巧在城里，因为我发现萨地赛德的教堂有架还不错的管风琴，仪式之后，音乐牧师给我一个小时使用这台机器，我弹奏着穿梭在我想像中的每一个新的声音。之后，泰思和我带爱德华去动物园，这是他第一次和大象、猴子亲密接触。很多人和我们想法一致，走道上挤满匆匆忙忙的夫妇、东张西望的少年，甚至还有一个带着六个红发小孩的家庭，他们每个都相差一岁，都长着雀斑和蓝眼睛。我嫌人太多了，不过我们还是毫无怨言地推推挤挤地往前走。
　　爱德华被老虎吸引住了，逛到铁笼子前，伸出他的棉花糖，朝昏昏欲睡的野兽叫嚷着，想让它们精神起来。一头老虎被我儿子的逗引惹恼了，在斑皮色的梦中抖了抖尾巴。泰思趁爱德华走开的当口，跟我说起了话。
　　“亨利，我想跟你谈谈艾迪。你觉得他一切正常吗? 最近他有点变了，有点——我不晓得——有点不正常。”
　　越过她的肩头，我能看到他。“他完全正常。”
　　“可能是因为你，”她说，“你最近待他很不一样。过度保护，不让他像小孩子一样玩耍。他应该到外面去抓蝌蚪、爬树，但你好像很担心他走出你的视线。他需要机会来变得更加独立。”
　　我把她拉到一边，不让我们儿子听到。“你还记得那天晚上有人闯进家里吗? ”
　　“我知道，”她说，“你说不用担心，但你一直因此心事重重，不是吗? ”
　　“不，不，我只是记得，那晚我看墙上的照片时，想起了自己童年的梦想——弹钢琴的那些岁月，寻找合适的音乐来表达自我。我一直在寻找答案，泰思，而答案就在我指尖下。今天在教堂里，那架管风琴的音色就像恰布的圣尼古拉大教堂里的那架。管风琴就是交响乐的答案。管风琴和管弦乐队。”
　　她用双臂搂住我，紧靠在我胸前，眼中光彩莹莹，满怀希望，在我的几次生涯中，从没有人对我心目中自我的本质表示过如此的信心。
　　那一刻我爱极了她，爱得忘了世界，也忘了世间万事，这时候我却越过她肩头看到，我们的儿子不见了，从他站立的地方消失了。我第一个念头是他看厌了老虎，不是蹲在脚底下，就是在附近，打算求我们让他进去和它们一起抱一抱。这一希望破灭了，代之而起的是一种恐惧：爱德华已经不知怎么挤进铁笼，立刻被老虎吃掉了。我迅速扫了一眼笼子，发现只有两头懒洋洋的猫科动物在无精打采的太阳下舒展四肢睡觉。
　　我胡思乱想，是不是换生灵来了。我回头看了看泰思，生怕自己要伤了她的心。
　　“他不见了，”我对她说，把身体挪开，“爱德华。”
　　她回过身，走到我们最后看到他的地方。“艾迪，”她叫道，“你在哪里? ”
　　我们沿着通道走到狮子和熊那儿，叫着他的名字，每叫一次，她的声音就提高一个八度，其他家长纷纷侧目。泰思拦住一对上了年纪的夫妇，他们正从另一个方向走来。“你们有没有看到一个独个儿的小男孩? 三岁。拿着棉花糖。”
　　“这里到处是小孩。”老男人说道，伸出一根细瘦的手指点了点我们身后的远处。一队孩子笑着跑着，在一条树阴通道上追赶什么东西。领头的动物园管理员一路小跑，一边想拦住孩子们，一边追着他的猎物，而在这帮吵吵嚷嚷的孩子里头，爱德华跑在最前面，急切而笨拙地一蹦一跳，追赶一只黑脚企鹅。那只企鹅刚从笼子里逃出来，正在众目睽睽下大摇大摆地随意走动，想回到海洋里去，或者可能是在找新鲜的鱼。管理员越过爱德华，一把抓住这只鸟，它像头驴子似的叫唤起来。
　　他一手握住它的嘴，把它抱在怀里，我们走向儿子那边时，他匆匆从我们身边经过。
　　“真是够乱的，”他对我们说，“这只从展览区逃出来跑了，想去哪就去哪。有些东西就有这种愿望。”
　　我们牵着爱德华的手，决心再也不放开了。
　　爱德华是一只带线的风筝，随时都有挣脱开去的危险。艾迪还没有去上学时，在家里总是万无一失。上午有泰思对他关怀备至，下午有我在家里看着他。等艾迪到了四岁，我带着他出门，在上班路上把他送进托儿所，等我的音乐课上完，从特威回来时再接他回去。我俩难得单独相处时，我会教他音阶，但他厌烦了钢琴就会跑开去玩积木和恐龙，鼓捣出假想的游戏和虚构的伙伴来打发孤独的时光。他时常会带一个玩伴过来，但那些孩子好像再也没有来过第二次。这对我来说是好事，因我从不完全信任他的玩伴。他们中的任何一个都有可能是伪装的换生灵。
　　奇怪的是，在我们为自己开创出来的离群索居的美妙环境中，我的音乐有了长足的进步。当他玩玩具和看书时，我就作曲。泰思鼓励我寻找自己的声音。差不多每周她都会从满是灰尘的旧唱片店里带一张管风琴乐曲集回来。她要来海兹音乐厅的演出票，找来管弦乐编曲和配器法方面的乐谱和书，还一定要我去市里熟识的教堂和大学音乐学院弹奏我脑海里的音乐。她其实是在做恰布的那只百宝箱。我写了几十首曲子，让当地唱诗班勉为其难地演奏过一支新改编曲，某晚和州北的一支管乐合奏团同台演奏过电子管风琴，但我的努力不见成效，也没有引来注意。我百般努力想让别人听到我的曲子，把录音带和唱片寄给全国各地的出版商和演奏家，但收到的，总是只有千篇一律的回绝信。每个伟大的作曲家都会经历某种形式的实习期，甚至还会当中学老师，但在我内心深处，我知道这些作品并没有完全表达我的心愿。
　　一个电话改变了一切。我从托儿所把爱德华接回来，刚进家门，那一头的声音好似从另一个世界传来。一个加帅I 的室内乐四重奏新锐乐队，擅长实验音乐，对我的一首曲子的录音表示兴趣，那是我在家里被窃后不久写的一首无调性情绪的曲子。“封面男孩”的老友乔治•克诺尔现在和那些音乐家们住得很近，是他把我的录音送了过去。我给他打电话表示感谢，他邀请我们去玩，住在他家，这样我过去录音就很方便。泰思、爱德华和我在76年夏天飞去旧金山的克诺尔家，与乔治及其家人过了几天愉快的日子。他那坐落在北滩区的小餐馆在一大堆意大利连锁店中是惟一一家正宗的安达卢亚饭店，他那令人惊艳的妻子兼头厨也不妨碍生意。见到他们真好，离家的那几天将我的焦虑感荡涤一空，没有什么怪异之物潜伏在加州。
　　旧金山格雷斯大教堂的牧师让我们录了一个下午的音，那里的管风琴在音色上足可媲美我在恰布弹过的那架。我踩动踏板时，心中涌起同一种回家的感觉，音乐一响起，我就对琴键无比怀恋。四重奏乐队换了几个节拍，调整了几个音符，当我们第七次演奏我的管弦赋格曲时，大家好像都对效果感到满意了。我初露头角的这次机会就在一个半小时内结束了。告别时，大家似乎都对我们不太宽广的前途信心百倍。或许来买唱片、听我曲子的人只有一千个，但我为终于有了唱片而激动不已，也就顾不得听众会有多少了。
　　乐队里的大提琴手告诉我们，别错过大索尔海岸，于是我们返程前的最后一天，租了辆车在太平洋海岸公路上一路往南开。大半个上午，太阳都在云层间时隐时现，布满礁石的海景壮丽多姿。泰思一直想要看看大海，我们就决定在河谷荒原的小峡谷中停车休息片刻。
　　在沙滩上散步时，一阵雾气卷了上来，遮住了太平洋。我们没有往回走，就在麦克伟瀑布旁边一小块新月形的沙滩上野餐。瀑布高达二三十米，从峻岩直泻水中。
　　我们在路上没看到有别的车，以为这里就我们几个。午餐后，泰思和我躺在毯子上，五岁的艾迪精力旺盛，在沙滩上跑来跑去，几只海鸥在礁石上朝我们发出笑一般的声音。在这个与世隔绝的地方，很多年来我第一次感到内心宁静。
　　也许是潮水的节奏和新鲜的海洋空气起了作用，午餐后泰思和我在毯子上打起了瞌睡。我做了个奇怪的梦，这个梦我已经很久很久没有做过了。我又回到了那群妖怪之间，我们像一群狮子一样追踪着那个男孩。我来到一棵空空的大树下，抓住了他的腿，他像一个胎位不正的婴儿似的蠕动出来。当他看到自己活生生的影像，眼中充满了恐惧。我们这个野人部落的其他成员站在周围旁观，唱着一首邪恶的歌谣。我正要取走他的生活，把自己的生活留给他，他又叫了起来。
　　一头海鸥乘着我们头顶的雾气，叫着，贴着波涛飞开去了。泰思睡着了，静静地躺在我身边，样子十分妩媚，一线欲望在我心里爬动着。我把头埋在她后颈上，用鼻子把她拱醒过来，她抱住我的背，想要保护自己。我用毯子把我们遮好，爬到她身上，脱掉她的衣服。我们笑着，摇晃着，不时哧哧地笑。她突然停了下来，轻声对我说：“亨利，你知道我们在哪吗? ”
　　“和你在一起。”
　　“亨利，亨利，停一下。亨利，艾迪在哪? ”
　　我从她身上滚下来，坐稳身子。雾气又浓了一些，突出在海中的小礁石岛的轮廓也模糊不清，坚强的针叶林牢牢抓住岩石的外壳。
　　在我们背后，瀑布冲到沙滩上来，这时候正是落潮。除了潮水冲刷沙滩，没有别的声音。
　　“艾迪? ”她站了起来，“艾迪! ”
　　我站在她身边，“爱德华，你在哪? 到这里来。”
　　树林中发出一声细微的叫声，接着是让人忍无可忍的等待。他爬下来，奔过沙滩朝我们跑来，衣服和头发都被浪花弄湿了，我都为他感到心疼。
　　“你去哪里了? ”泰思问。
　　“我去了那个最远的小岛。”
　　“难道你不知道那有多危险吗? ”
　　“我要看看自己能看多远。那里有个女孩。”
　　“在那礁石上? ”
　　“她坐在那里，看着大海。”
　　“她一个人? 她的父母呢? ”
　　“是真的，妈妈。她走了很长很长的路才来到这里，和我们一样。”
　　“爱德华，你不该这么编造故事。周围几公里都没有人。”
　　“是真的，爸爸。过去看看吧。”
　　“我不去那些礁石。那里又冷又湿还滑脚。”
　　“亨利——”泰思指着那片冷杉林——“看那个。”
　　一个小女孩从树林间出来，乌黑的头发飘荡在身后，像山羊般在斜坡上奔跑，细瘦、敏捷，犹如一缕清风。远远望去，她不像是真人，倒像是雾气织成的。她看到我们站在那里，就停下来，虽然她没有走近，但她并不陌生。我们隔着海水彼此相望，这一刻就像按了一下照相机的快门，转瞬即逝。她转身朝瀑布跑了过去，在迷蒙的岩石和常绿林间消失无踪。
　　“等等，”泰思喊道，“别走。”她去追那个女孩。
　　“让她去，”我叫道，赶上了我的妻子，“她已经走了。好像她很熟悉这里的环境。”
　　“这太糟了，亨利，你让她跑了，跑到不知道什么地方去了。”
　　艾迪穿着湿透的衣服发抖，我用毯子包住他，让他坐在沙滩上。
　　我们叫他把她的事情都说出来，他渐渐暖和过来，慢慢地说了起来。
　　“我在探险的时候走到了那块大礁石的边上，她就坐在那里，背对着树林，望着波浪。我说了声你好，她也说了声你好。接着她说：‘你过来和我坐在一起好吗?…“她叫什么名字? ”泰思问。
　　“听过有叫斯帕克的女孩吗? 她喜欢每年冬天到这里来看鲸鱼。”
　　“艾迪，她有没有说她父母在哪? 她是怎么一个人过来的? ”
　　“她是走路来的，走了一年多。接着她问我是从哪里来的，我就告诉了她。她又问我的名字，我说是爱德华•戴。”他突然转过目光，望着礁石和落潮，仿佛想起了一种内心的感受。
　　“她还说了别的什么吗? ”
　　“没有。”他拉了拉肩头的毯子。
　　“什么都没有吗? ”
　　“她说：‘在这个很大、很大的世界里，生活是怎么样的? ’我觉得这很好笑。”
　　“她有没有做什么……奇怪的事? ”我问。
　　“她能发出海鸥那样的笑声。后来我就听见你们叫我了，她说了‘再见，爱德华•戴’之类的话。我让她待在那里，我去叫我爸妈来。”
　　泰思抱着我们的儿子，隔着毯子摩擦他的手臂。她又看了看那个女孩跑过的地方，“她就这么溜走了，像个鬼似的。”
　　从那刻开始，直到我们的飞机在家乡着陆，我满心想的都是那个跑走了的女孩，我烦恼的不是她倏忽来去的神秘感，而是她让我感到似曾相识。
　　到家后，我到处都能看到换生灵。
　　周六上午，我和爱德华去镇上剃头，有个淡黄色头发的男孩坐着排队，他两眼一眨不眨地看着我的儿子，安静地吮着～根棒棒糖，我心里慌张起来。秋季学期开学后，一对六年级的双胞胎把我吓得不轻，他们长得完全一样，而且有那么一种能接着对方的话头往下讲的本事。一天夜里，我参加完乐队演出后开车回家，看到墓地里有三个孩子，我想他们那么晚了还在那里搞什么鬼。去聚会或与其他夫妇参加各种晚上活动时，我老想不动声色地提到那两个野女孩和婴儿食品的传说，希望有人会相信或者证实这种传言，但我一说起这个故事，别人就嗤之以鼻。除了我的儿子之外，别的小孩都有嫌疑。他们都有可能心怀鬼胎。每个孩子明亮的眼睛后面都隐藏着一个世界。
　　四重奏乐队的唱片《奇谈》圣诞节时来了，我们一遍又一遍地把它放给朋友和家人听，差点就把唱片给放坏了。爱德华喜欢听平稳的大提琴音线上突然加入管风琴的撞击感，再加上小提琴的不协音调。无论听了多少回，即使心有准备，这段还是同样地扣人心弦。大年夜半夜过后，屋子像一位祈祷者似的安静，一阵音乐把我吵醒，那是我的曲子。我做了最坏的打算，穿着睡衣下楼，绕开一个棒球手套，只见我儿子瞪着大眼待在喇叭前，浑然不觉地听音乐。我调低音量后，他开始飞快地眨眼睛，摇晃着脑袋，好像刚刚从梦中醒来。
　　“嗨，朋友，”我低声说，“你知道现在多晚了吗? ”
　　“已经1977年了吗? ”
　　“几个小时前就是了。聚会结束了，小伙子。你干吗放这首曲子? ”
　　“我做了个噩梦。”
　　我把他抱到大腿上坐，“想跟我说说吗? ”他没说话，只是往里坐了坐，我把他抱得更紧。曲子告终后，尾声袅袅不绝，我伸手关了音响。
　　“爸爸，你知道我为什么要放你的歌吗? 因为它让我想起来了。”
　　“让你想起什么了，爱德华? 想起我们去加州的旅游? ”
　　他回过头来看着我，我们四目相对。“不是，是想起了斯帕克，”
　　他说，“那个仙灵女孩。”
　　我暗暗地呻吟一声，又把他抱紧了一些，感觉到他温暖的胸口加速的心跳。
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Chapter 32
　　Speck loved to be by moving water. My strongest memory is of her animated by the currents, empathetic to the flow. I saw her once, years ago, stripped to the skin, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her, as the water rolled around her waist and the sunshine caressed her shoulders. Under normal circumstances, I would have jumped and splashed in the creek with her, but struck by the grace of her neck and limbs, the contours of her face, I could not move. On another occasion, when the townsfolk shot off fireworks in the night, we watched the explosions upriver, and she seemed more enchanted by the waterflow than by the loud flowering in the sky. While the people looked up, she watched the light reflecting on the ripples and the sparks as they hissed on the surface. From the beginning, I had guessed where she had gone and why, but I did not act upon that intuition because of a fundamental lack of courage. The same fears that had prevented me from crossing at the riverbend also made me break off the search and come back to camp. I should have followed the waters.
　　The path to the library never seemed as long and foreboding as on the night of my first return. The way had changed since we had parted. The forest thinned around its edge, and rusty cans, bottles, and other refuse littered the brush. None of us had visited in the years since she left. Books lay where we had left them, though mice had nibbled the margins of my papers, left their scat in our old candleholders and coffee mugs. Her Shakespeare was lousy with silverfish. Stevens had swollen with dampness. By dim candlelight, I spent the night restoring order, pulling down cobwebs, shooing crickets, lingering over what she had once held in her hands. I fell asleep wrapped in I he musty blanket that had long ago lost her scent.
　　Vibrations above announced the arrival of morning. The librarians started their day, joists creaking under their weight and the patterns of their routines. I could picture their goings-on: checking in, saying hello, settling at their stations. An hour or so passed before the doors opened and the humans shuffled in. When the rhythm felt normal, I began to work. A thin film of dust covered my papers, and I spent most of that first day reading the bits and pieces in order, tying the loose pages with entries in McInnes's journal. So much had been left behind, lost, forgotten, and buried after we had been driven away the first time. Reduced to a short pile, the words documented time's passage with deep gaps and yawning silences. Very little existed, for instance, from the early days of my arrival—only a few crude drawings and pathetic notes. Years had gone by without mention. After reviewing all the files, I understood the long chore ahead.
　　When the librarians left for the evening, I popped open the trapdoor underneath the children's section. Unlike on other forays, I had no desire to pick out a new book, but, rather, to steal new writing supplies. Behind the head librarian's desk lay the treasure: five long yellow pads and enough pens to last the rest of my life. To introduce a minor intrigue, I also reshelved the Wallace Stevens that had been missing.
　　Words spilled from the pen and I wrote until my hand cramped and pained me. The end, the night that Speck left, became the beginning. From there, the story moved backward to the point where I realized that I had fallen in love with her. A whole swath of the original manuscript, which is thankfully gone, was given over to the physical tensions of being a grown man in a young boy's body. Right in the middle of a sentence on desire, I stopped. What if she wanted me to go with her? I would have pleaded for her to stay, said that I lacked the courage to run away. Yet a contrary idea pulled at my conscience. Perhaps she never intended for me to find out. She had run away because of me and knew all along that I loved her. I put down my pen and wished Speck were there to talk with me, to answer all the unknowables.
　　These obsessions curled like parasites through my brain, and I tossed and turned on the hard floor. I woke up in the night and started writing on a clean pad, determined to rid my mind of its darkest thoughts. The hours passed and days drifted one into the other. For the next six months, I divided myself between the camp and the library, trying to piece together the story of my life to give to Speck. Our winter hibernation slowed my progress. I grew tired in December and slept until March. Before I could go back to the book, the book came back to me.
　　Solemn-eyed Luchóg and Smaolach approached one morning as I crunched a farl of oats and drained the dregs from a cup of tea. With great deliberation, they sat on either side of me, cross-legged, settling in for a long talk. Luchóg fiddled with a new shoot of rye poking through the old leaves, and Smaolach looked off, pretending to study the play of light through the branches.
　　"Good morning, lads. What’s on your minds?"
　　"We've been to the library," said Smaolach.
　　"Haven't gone there in ages," said Luchóg.
　　"We know what you've been up to"
　　"Read the story of your life."
　　Smaolach turned his gaze toward mine. "A hundred thousand apologies, but we had to know."
　　"Who gave you the right?" I asked.
　　They turned their faces away from me, and I did not know where to look.
　　"You've got a few stories wrong," Luchóg said. "May I ask why you wrote this book? To whom is it addressed?"
　　"What did I get wrong?"
　　"My understanding is that an author doesn't write a book without having one or more readers in mind," Luchóg said. "One doesn't go through the time and effort to be the only reader of your own book. Even the diarist expects the lock to be picked."
　　Smaolach pulled at his chin, as if deep in thought. "It would be a big mistake, I think, to write a book that no one would ever read."
　　"You are quite right, old friend. I have at times wondered why the artist dares to bring something new into a world where everything has been done and where all the answers are quite well known."
　　I stood and broke the plane of their inquisition. "Would you please tell me," I hollered, "what is wrong with the book?"
　　"I'm afraid it's your father," said Luchóg.
　　"My father, what about him? Has something happened to him?"
　　"He's not who you think he is."
　　"What my friend means to say is that the man you think of as your father is not your father at all. That man is another man."
　　"Come with us," said Luchóg.
　　As we wound along the path, I tried to untangle the many implications of their invasion into my book. First, they had always known I was Henry Day, and now they knew I knew. They had read of my feelings for Speck and surely guessed I was writing to her. They knew how I felt about them, as well. Fortunately, they came across as generally sympathetic characters, a bit eccentric, true, but steadfast allies in my adventures. Their line of questioning posed an intriguing concern, however, as I had not thought ahead to how I might actually get a book to Speck, or, more to the point, about the reasons behind my desire to write it all down. Smaolach and Luchóg, ahead on the trail, had lived in these woods for decades and sailed through eternity without the same cares or the need to write down and make sense of it all. They wrote no books, painted nothing on the walls, danced no new dance, yet they lived in peace and harmony with the natural world. Why wasn't I like the others?
　　At sunset, we stepped out of cover and walked down past the church to a scattering of graves in a green space adjacent to the cemetery enclosed by a stone wall. I had been there once before, many years ago, thinking it a shortcut back to safety, or perhaps merely a good hiding place. We slipped between the iron bars into a tranquil, overgrown garden. Many of the inscriptions on the stones were weathered and faded, as the tenants had lain beneath their vanishing names for many years. My friends took me on a winding path between the graves, and we stopped short among the memorials and weeds. Smaolach walked me to a plot and showed me the stone: WILLIAM DAY, 1917-1962. I knelt down on the grass, ran my finger along the grooves of letters, considered the numbers. "What happened?"
　　Luchóg spoke softly. "We have no idea, Henry Day."
　　"I haven't heard that name in a while."
　　Smaolach laid his hand upon my shoulder. "I still prefer Aniday. You are one of us."
　　"How long have you known?"
　　"We thought you should know for the truth of your book. You didn't see your father that night we left the old camp."
　　"And you understand," Luchóg said, "that the man in the new house with the baby cannot be your father."
　　I sat down and leaned against the marker to save myself from fainting. They were right, of course. By my calendar, fourteen years had passed since the end date on that gravestone. If he had died that long ago, William Day could not be who I thought he was, and that man was not William Day but his double. I wondered to myself how such a thing could be possible. Luchóg opened his pouch, rolled a cigarette, and calmly smoked it amid the headstones. The stars came out to define the sky—how far away, how long ago? My friends seemed on the verge of revealing additional secrets, but they said nothing, so that I might figure it out for myself.
　　"Let us away then, lads," Smaolach said, "and think on this tomorrow."
　　We leapt the gate at the corner and trekked home, our conversation turning to smaller mistakes in my own story. Most of their suggestions escaped scrutiny because my mind wandered down long-neglected lanes. Speck had told me what she remembered, but much remained mysterious. My mother faded in and out of view, though I could now see quite clearly the facet of twin baby sisters. My father was a nearly total void. Life existed before this life, and I had not sufficiently dragged the river of my subconscious. Late that night, while the others slept, I sat awake in my burrow. The image of Oscar Love crystallized before me. We had spent months investigating that boy, finding out in excruciating detail the nature and shape of his life, his family history, his habits of mind—all to assist Igel in the change. If we knew Oscar so well, then the others must have known my history, infinitely better than I knew it myself. Now that I knew my true name, there was no longer any reason for them to hide the truth. They had conspired to help me forget, and now they could help me remember. I crawled out of my hole and walked over to Luchóg's spot, only to find it vacant. In the adjacent burrow, he was wrapped in Chavisory's arms, and for a moment I hesitated to disturb their peace.
　　"Luch," I whispered. He blinked. "Wake up, and tell me a story."
　　"Aniday, for the love of—can't you see I'm sleeping?"
　　"I need to know."
　　By this time, she was stirring as well. I waited until they disentangled themselves, and he rose to eye level. "What is it?" he demanded.
　　"You have to tell me everything you remember about Henry Day."
　　He yawned and looked at Chavisory curled into the fetal posit ion "Right now, I'm going back to bed. Ask me again in the morning, and I'll help with your book-writing. But now, to my pillow and to my dreams."
　　I woke Smaolach and Béka and Onions with the same request and was put off by each in much the same way. Despite my excitement, I drew nothing but tired glares at breakfast the next morning, and only after the whole clan had their fill did I dare ask again.
　　"I am writing a book," I announced, "about Henry Day I know the broad story that Speck gave me before she left, and now I need you to fill in the details. Pretend I'm about to make the change, and give me the report on Henry Day."
　　"Oh, I remember you," Onions began. "You were a baby foundling in the woods. Your mother wrapped you in swaddling clothes and laid you at the greyhound's shrine."
　　"No, no, no," said Béka. "You are mistaken. The original Henry Day was not a Henry at all, but one of two identical twin girls, Elspeth and Maribel."
　　"You are both wrong," said Chavisory. "He was a boy, a cute, smart boy who lived in a house at the tip of the forest with his mother and father and two baby twin sisters."
　　"That's right," said Luchóg. "Mary and Elizabeth. Two little curly-tops, fat as lambchops."
　　"You couldn't have been more than eight or nine," said Chavisory.
　　"Seven," said Smaolach. "He was seven when we nabbed him."
　　"Are you sure?" asked Onions. "Coulda swore he was just a baby."
　　The conversation continued in this fashion for the rest of the day, in contested bites of information, and the truth at the end of the discussion was the distant cousin of the truth at the beginning. All through the summer and into the fall, I peppered them separately and together with my queries. Sometimes an answer, when combined with my prodigal memory or the visual cue of a drawing or a piece of writing, cemented a fact in my brain. Slowly, over time, a pattern emerged, and my childhood returned to me. But one thing remained a mystery.
　　Before the long sleep of winter, I went off, intent upon climbing the highest peak in the hills surrounding the valley. The trees had shed their leaves and raised naked arms to the gray sky. To the east, the city looked like toy building blocks. Off to the south lay the compact village cut in two by the river. In the west, the riverbend and the big country beyond. To the north, ragged forest, a farm or two hacked out from the trees and stone. I sat on the mountaintop and read, dreamt at night of two Specks, two Days, what we are, what we would be. Save for a flask of water, I fasted and reflected upon the puzzle of existence. On the third day, my mind cleared and let in the answer. If the man who appeared as my father was not my father, who was he? Whom did I meet in the mist? Who was the man by the creek on the night we lost both Igel and Oscar Love? The one who chased us through the kitchen door? He looked like my father. A deer, startled by the snap of my head, bolted through the fallen leaves. A bird cried once; the note lingered, then disappeared. The clouds rolled on and revealed the pale sun. Who had taken my place when they stole me away?
　　I knew. That man had what had been intended for me. The robber of my name, stealer of my story, thief of my life: Henry Day.

    斯帕克喜欢待在流水之中。我印象最深的足她在浪中逸兴遗飞，与水被亲密无间的样子。很多年前，有一次我看到她脱光衣服，蜷腿而坐．水流卷到她的腰间，阳光亲抚她的肩膀。一般这种情况下，我会跳入溪中和她一起玩水，但当时我愕然惊觉她脖颈和四肢是多么优雅，脸部的线条是多么美日日，竟然动弹不得。还有一次，镇上居民夜晚放烟火，我们在河的上游观赏烟花，她似乎更加着迷r 水流，而不是夜空中响亮盛开的花。大家都抬头望时，她却看着涟漪上倒映的光影和嘶嘶落在水面上的火花。从一开始，我就在猜想她去了哪里，又为何而去，但我没有凭直觉行动，因为我没有这份胆量。
　　同样的恐惧也使得我没有横渡河湾，而是中断搜寻，打道回府。我本应当顺着河流去找的。
　　我第一次在晚上回图书馆，这条路从未显得如此漫长而难走。
　　自从我们分手之后，这条路也变了。森林的边缘更加稀疏，垃圾罐头、瓶子和其他废品乱扔在灌木丛里。她走后，我们这些年里再没有来过这里。书本还是放在上次的地方。但老鼠已经啃了我那些纸头的页边，还把痕迹留在我们的老烛台和咖啡杯上。她的莎士比亚长了蠹虫，斯蒂文森受潮胀起。借着昏暗的烛光，我花了一个晚上整理东西，扯掉蜘蛛网，赶走蟋蟀，在每样她曾经拿过的东西上流连不止。
　　我盖着肮脏的毯子睡着了．那上面早已没有了她的气息。
　　头顶上的响动昭示着天色已亮。图书管理员开始了他们新的一天，地板接缝随着他们的日常走动吱吱作响。我能想像出他们在干什么：进门、打招呼，然后各就各位。过了一个小时左右，大门开了．人们慢吞吞地进来。当这些节奏转为正常后，我开始工作r 。我的纸头上蒙了一层薄薄的灰尘，第一天我主要就是按顺序细细读了一遍，把松脱的纸页按日期贴进麦克伊内斯的日记本中。自从我们第一次被赶走之后，有太多的东西被藩下、丢失、遗忘和埋葬了。我把日记整理成一小册，这些文字记录了流逝的时光，露出深深的缺口和沉默的罅隙。留存下来的微乎其微，说起来，趴我刚来那阵子起．只有少量粗劣的图画和惨不忍睹的记录。很多年一字不提地过去了。
　　看完所有的文件后。我知道未来还有多少事情要做。
　　傍晚图书管理员走后，我打开儿童图书区下面的活板门。到其他地方都是为了挑选新书，但在这儿我并不想找什么新书．而是要偷新的写字材料。图书馆馆长的办公桌后面就有宝贝：五本长条形的黄色拍纸簿，外加足够我用一辈子的钢笔。为了玩一个小小的诡计，我还把丢失了的华菜士•斯蒂文森重新上架。
　　文字从笔端流泻而出，我一直写到手抽筋疼痛为止。我从最后斯帕克离开的那个夜晚开始写起，倒叙到我开始意识到自己爱上她的那刻。一长条的手写稿，都写满了一个外形是小男孩、但内心是成年男子的生理焦灼，幸亏这些东西都已经丢失了。一句关于欲望的句子写到一半，我停下笔。假如她要我和她一起走呢? 我会恳求她留下，说我没胆子跑走。但另一个相反的想法拉扯着我的心。或许她根本不想让我找到她。她逃跑是心为我，她直知道我爱她。
　　我搁下钢笔，希望斯帕克在这里和我说话，解答所有未知的疑问。
　　这些想法像寄生虫似的蜷伏在我脑海中，我在硬邦邦的地板上辗转反侧。我夜晚醒来，开始在一本空白的拍纸簿卜写字，决心要把心里所有最黑暗的念头都驱除出去。时间过去了，日复一日，此后几个月，我就在营寨和图书馆之间两点一线，试图拼凑起我的生平经历井送给斯帕克。我们的冬眠使我放慢了速度，到了十二月，我觉得疲累，然后一直睡到了三月。我还没有去找那本书，那本书就先找上我了。
　　一天早晨，我正在吃燕麦薄饼，喝剩下的一点儿咖啡，表情严肃的鲁契克和斯茂拉赫过来了。他们故意一边一个坐在我两侧，盘起腿，准备长谈。鲁契克不停地拨弄着一颗从老叶子里长出来的黑麦新芽，斯茂拉赫目光旁顾，假装在观察树枝间的光影变幻。
　　“早上好，伙计们。你们在想什么呢? ”
　　“我们去了图书馆。”斯茂拉赫说。
　　“很多年没去那儿了。”鲁契克说。
　　“我们知道你去那儿千什么。”
　　“读了你的生平经历。”
　　斯茂拉赫转过头来看着我的眼睛，“千万个对不住，但我们得知道啊。”
　　“谁准许你们的? ”我问。
　　他们把脸转开，我不知道该看哪边。
　　“有几件事你写错了，”鲁契克说，“我能问你为什么写这本书吗? 写给谁看呢? ”
　　“我写错什么了? ”
　　“我的理解是，一个作者如果头脑里没有那么几个读者，是不会平白无故写书的，”鲁契克说，“一个人不会花这么多时间、精力去做他自己的书的惟一读者。
　　就算是写日记，也希望日记本上的锁会被撬开。”
　　斯茂拉赫捏着下巴，仿佛陷入了沉思：“我觉得，写一本没人会看的书是个大错误。”
　　“你说得很对，老朋友。我有时候奇怪为什么艺术家敢于把一些新的东西带到这个世上来，这个世界里一切都已经做好了，所有的问题都弄得很清楚了。”
　　我站起来，打断他们的一来一往的刨根究底。“你们能不能告诉我，”我叫喊道，“这本书哪里错了? ”
　　“我想是你父亲。”鲁契克说。
　　“我父亲，他怎么了? 他出了什么事吗? ”
　　“他不是你想的那个人。”
　　“我朋友的意思是说，你觉得是你父亲的那个男人，根本不是你父亲。那是另外一个人。”
　　“跟我们来。”鲁契克说。
　　我们走在蜿蜒的小径上，我想弄明白他们偷看我的书意味着什么。首先，他们一直知道我是亨利•戴，如今也知道我知道了。他们读了我对斯帕克的感情，必定猜想我是写给她的。他们也知道我对他们的感觉。幸运的是，他们总是富有同情心的家伙，虽然确实有点儿古怪，但在我的不幸遭遇中总是坚定地站在我一边。他们的一系列提问引起了值得思索的问题，那就是我先前还没有想过怎样才能把书送给斯帕克，或者更一针见血的是，我想把这些全部写下来的理由何在? 走在前头的斯茂拉赫和鲁契克已经在森林里生活了几十年，他们和我驶向同一个终点，却没有同样的挂虑，也没有要写下来的需要和探究这些意义的必要。他们不写书，不在墙上画画，也不跳新的舞蹈，然而却和大自然和平融洽地生活在一起。我又为何不能跟其他人一样呢? 太阳落山时，我们走出掩护，走过教堂，来到一块散落着墓碑的绿地上，旁边就是石墙包围着的墓园。很多年前，我去过那里一次，以为能从那里抄近路回到安全地带，或者以为那只是个很好的藏身之处。我们穿过铁栏，进入这个静悄悄的、野草疯长的园地。许多石头上的碑文已经磨蚀漫漶，而租地人也已经在他们消失的名字下躺了多年。朋友们带着我走在墓碑间弯弯曲曲的小路上，在墓碑和野草之间停下脚步。斯茂拉赫带我走到一个地方，指给我看一块墓石：威廉•戴，1917—1962。我跪在草上，抚摸着凹下去的文字，想了想这些数字。“发生了什么事? ”
　　斯茂拉赫柔声说：“我们不知道，亨利•戴。”
　　“我有段时间没听到这个名字了。”
　　斯茂拉赫把手放在我肩上，“我还是喜欢安尼戴。你是我们的人．”
　　“你什么时候知道的? ”
　　“我们觉得为了把书写对，你应该知道这个。我们离开老营寨那晚，你看到的那个人不是你父亲。”
　　“你也该明白，”鲁契克说，“那个在新房子里带着婴儿的男人也不是你父亲。”
　　我坐倒在地，靠着墓石，免得自己晕过去。当然，他们说得对。
　　根据我的日历，墓石上后面那个年份至今已有十四年了，如果威廉戴那么早就死了，他就不可能是我以为的那个人，那个人不是威廉•戴，而是一个和他一模一样的人。我想这种事情怎么可能呢。鲁契克打开革囊，卷了支烟，站在墓石间安静地抽了起来。星星出来了，映着夜空——有多远，又有多久? 我的朋友们似乎想要透露更多的秘密，但终于什么都没说，我只能自己去探究。
　　“那么我们走吧，伙计们，”斯茂拉赫说，“这个明天再想。”
　　我们从角落的门上跳了出去，一路跋涉回家，话题转到我的故事中那些小错误上。他们的大多数建议我都没有细想，因为我的思路徜徉在久未涉足的小径上。斯帕克告诉过我她所记得的事情，但更多的仍是谜。我母亲在印象中隐现，但我看不真切双胞胎妹妹的脸庞。我父亲几乎是一片空白。此生之前还有他生，我还没能在潜意识的河流中打捞出足够的东西。那天深夜，大家都睡了，我坐在自己的窝里，醒着。眼前出现了奥斯卡•拉甫的形象，为了帮助伊格尔换生，我们花费几个月侦查这个孩子，得知他生活、家庭历史和思考习惯的种种详情。如果对奥斯卡了解得这么清楚，那么其他人也必定了解我的历史，而且远比我自己了解得更多。既然我已经知道了自己的真名，他们也没必要再隐瞒别的事了，他们曾经同心协力地帮助我忘记，如今也能够帮助我想起来。我从窝里爬出来，走到鲁契克的地盘上，发现洞里空空如也。在旁边的窝里，他睡在卡维素芮的怀抱中，我迟疑着是否要打搅他们。
　　“鲁奇，”我悄声说。他眨巴了一下眼睛。“醒醒，给我说件事。”
　　“安尼戴，看在……的分上，你没看到我在睡觉吗? ”
　　“我得知道啊。”
　　这时候她也醒了，我等着他俩分开来，他站起身。“什么事? ”他问道。
　　“你得把你记得的亨利•戴的所有事情都告诉我。”
　　他打了个哈欠，看着卡维素芮蜷成婴儿似的睡姿。“现在，我得回去睡觉。明早再来问我，我来帮你写书。但现在，我要回枕头上去做梦了。”
　　我叫醒了斯茂拉赫、贝卡和奥尼恩斯，问同样的问题，但也差不多同样被推托过去。到了第二天早晨用早餐时，尽管我很兴奋，但得到的只有他们的怒目相对，我只敢等大家都吃饱喝足后再问。
　　“我在写本书，”我宣布说，“写亨利•戴。斯帕克离开之前，给我讲过一个大概，现在我需要你们来填充细节。就好比我要换生，你们给我报告亨利•戴吧。”
　　“哦，我记得你，”奥尼恩斯发言说，“你是被丢在树林里的婴儿。
　　你母亲把你包在襁褓中，放在灰犬神祠里。”
　　“不不不，”贝卡说，“你搞错了。原来的亨利•戴不是亨利，是对一模一样的双胞胎姐妹，是艾尔贝丝和玛丽贝尔。”
　　“你俩都错了，”卡维素芮说，“他是个男孩，一个聪明漂亮的男孩，和他爸妈还有两个双胞胎婴儿妹妹住在森林边的房子里。”
　　“对了，”鲁契克说，“玛丽和伊丽莎白。两个小卷毛头，和羊肉一样肥嘟嘟的。”
　　“你不会超过八岁或九岁。”卡维素芮说。
　　“七岁，”斯茂拉赫说，“我们捉住他时，他七岁。”
　　“你肯定吗? ”奥尼恩斯问，“我敢发誓他不过才两三岁。”
　　后来一整天，谈话都这么进行着，在鸡毛蒜皮的事情上争执不休，讨论到了最后，“真相”成了原来那个事实的远亲。从夏到秋，我一直缠着他们问问题，有时分别问他们，有时一起问。有时候一个答案，和我那天马行空的记忆或者一幅画、一页字的书面线索联系起来，就在我头脑中立下了一个事实。慢慢地，随着时间的推移，故事的基调出现了，我的童年回来了。然而，有件事仍然不明。
　　冬眠之前，我出了一趟门，想要爬上山谷周围最高的山峰。树木脱尽了叶子，光秃秃的臂膀伸向灰色的天空。往东看，城市就像玩具积木。南边是合围的村庄，一条河流从中穿过。西边是河湾和辽阔的乡土。北边有参差不齐的森林，一两块农田掩映在树木和岩石之间。我坐在山巅，读着书，晚上做梦梦见两个斯帕克，两个戴，梦到我们是什么，将来又会变成怎样。除了喝一瓶水，我一直全神贯注地思考着存在的谜题。到了第三天，我的头脑清明了，答案出来了。如果那个看起来像我父亲的男人不是我父亲，那他又是谁呢? 我在雾里遇见的是谁? 我们失去伊格尔和奥斯卡•拉甫那晚，我在溪边碰到的是谁? 把我们赶出厨房门的是谁? 他酷肖我的父亲。我转了下头，惊动了一头鹿，它踏着落叶跑走了。一只鸟鸣叫了一声，叫声余韵不绝，渐渐消去。黯淡的阳光下，云卷云舒。他们偷走我时，是谁取代了我的地位? 我明白了。那个人拥有我本该有的一切。他偷走了我的名字，窃走了我的经历，抢走了我的生活——亨利。戴。
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Chapter 33
　　I had been one of them. My son had met one face-to-face on the other side of the country, and there was no telling to what lengths they would go to follow us. The changelings had come for Edward that night years before, and by going downstairs I had scared them off. But they would be back. They were watching us, waiting for my son. He would not be safe as long as they prowled near our home. Edward would not be safe with them in the world. Once they fixed on a child for the change, he was as good as gone. I could not let Edward from my sight, and took to locking our doors and latching our windows every evening. They circled around my imagination, infected my rest. The piano offered my sole relief. By composing, I hoped to steady my sanity. False start followed false start. I struggled to keep those two worlds separate.
　　Fortunately, I had Tess and Edward to keep me grounded. A delivery truck pulled into our cul-de-sac on my birthday, and Edward, at the window, shouted, "It's here, it's here!" They insisted that I remain in the bedroom with the shades drawn until my gift could be brought into the house, and I dutifully complied, mad with love at my son's jumpy exuberance and Tess's sexy, knowing smile. On the bed in darkness, I closed my eyes, wondering if I deserved such love in return, worrying that it might be stolen should the truth ever be revealed.
　　Edward bounded up the stairs and hammered on the closed door. Grabbing my arm with his two small hands, he pulled me to the studio. A great green bow stretched across the door, and with a curtsey, Tess presented me with the scissors.
　　"As mayor of this city," I intoned, "I'd like my distinguished son to join me in the honors." We cut the ribbon together and swung open the door.
　　The small organ was not new or elaborate, but it was beautiful from the love given. And it would prove enough for me to approximate the sounds I was after. Edward fiddled with the stops, and I took Tess aside and asked how she could afford such a luxury.
　　"Ever since San Francisco," she said, "or maybe since Czechoslovakia, I've been wanting to do this for you. A penny here, a dollar there, and a woman who drives a hard bargain. Eddie and I found it for sale at an old church up in Coudersport. Your mom and Charlie put us over the top, you should know, but we all wanted you to have it. I know it's not perfect, but—"
　　"It's the best gift—"
　　"Don't worry about the cost. Just play the music, baby."
　　"I gived my allowances," Edward said.
　　I embraced them both and held tight, overcome by fortune, and then I sat down and played from Bach's The Art of the Fugue, lost again to time.
　　Still enamored with the new machine days later, I returned with Edward from kindergarten to an empty and quiet house. I gave him a snack, turned on Sesame Street, and went to my studio to work. On the organ keyboard sat a single sheet of folded paper with a yellow sticky note affixed to the surface. "Let's discuss!" she had scribbled. She had found the passenger list with the names of all the Ungerlands, which I had hidden and locked up aim papers; I could only imagine how it wound up in Tess's hands.
　　The front door swung open with a screech and banged shut, and for a dark moment the thought danced through my mind that they had come for Edward. I dashed to the front door just as Tess inched her way into the dining room, arms laden with groceries. I took a few bags to lighten her load, and we carried them into the kitchen and danced around each other in a pas de deux, putting food away. She did not seem particularly concerned about anything other than the canned peas and carrots.
　　When we were done, she brushed imaginary dust from her palms. "Did you get my note?"
　　"About the Ungerlands? Where did you get the list?"
　　She blew her bangs out of her eyes. "What do you mean, where did I get it? You left it on the sideboard by the phone. The question is: Where did you get it?"
　　"In Cheb. Remember Father Hlinka?"
　　"Cheb? That was nine years ago. Is that what you were doing? What possessed you to investigate the Ungerlands?"
　　Total silence gave me away.
　　"Were you that jealous of Brian? Because honestly, that's a little crazy, don't you think?"
　　"Not jealous, Tess. We happened to be there, and I was simply trying to help him trace his family tree. Find his grandfather."
　　She picked up the passenger list and her eyes scanned it to the end. "That's incredible. When did you ever talk to Brian Ungerland?"
　　"This is all ancient history, Tess. I ran into him at Oscar's when we were engaged. I told him we were going to Germany, and he asked me if I had the time could I stop by the National Archives and look up his family. When I didn't find them there, I thought maybe his people were from someplace else, so I asked Father Hlinka when we were in Cheb. He found them. No big deal."
　　"Henry, I don't believe a word you're saying."
　　I stepped toward her, wanting to enfold her in my arms, desperate to end the conversation. "Tess, I've always told you the truth."
　　"But why didn't Brian just go ask his mother?"
　　"His mother? I didn't know he had a mother."
　　"Everyone has a mother. She lives right here in town. Still does, I think. You can tell her how jealous you were."
　　"But I looked her up in the phone book."
　　"You're kidding." She crossed her arms and shook her head. "She remarried years ago when Brian was in high school. Let me think. Her name is Blake, Eileen Blake. And she'd remember the grandfather. He lived till he was a hundred, and she used to talk about that crazy old man all the time." Giving up, she headed for the staircase.
　　"Gustav?" I shouted after her.
　　She looked over her shoulder, scrunched up her face, found the name in her memory. "No, no ...Joe. Crazy Joe Ungerland is Brian's grandfather. Of course, they're all crazy in that family, even the mother."
　　"Are you sure we're not talking about Gustav Ungerland?"
　　"I'm going to start calling you Crazy Henry Day... You could have asked me all about this. Look, if you're so interested, why don't you go tall Brian's mother? Eileen Blake." At the top of the stairs, she leaned over the railing, her long blonde hair falling like Rapunzel's. "It's sweet you were so jealous, but you have nothing to worry about." She flashed her crooked smile .ml set free my worries. "Tell the old girl I said hello."
　　
　　
　　Buried to her neck in fallen leaves, she stared straight ahead without blinking, and the third time I passed her I realized she was a doll. Another had been lashed with a red jump rope to a tree trunk nearby, and dismembered arms and legs poked up at odd angles from the long, unmowed grass. At the end of a string tied to a chokecherry limb, a head hung and rotated in the breeze, and the headless body was stuffed into the mailbox, anticipating Saturday's postman. The masterminds behind this mayhem giggled from the porch when I stopped the car in front of their house, but they looked almost catatonic as I walked up the sidewalk.
　　"Can you girls help me? I seem to be lost," I said from the bottom step. The older girl draped a protective arm across her sister's shoulder.
　　"Is your mommy or daddy home? I'm looking for someone who lives around here. Do you know the Blakes' house?"
　　"It's haunted," said the younger sister. She lacked two front teeth and spoke with a lisp.
　　"She's a witch, mister." The older sister may have been around ten, stick-thin and raven-haired, with dark circles around her eyes. If anyone would know about witches, it was this one. "Why do you want to go see a witch, mister?"
　　I put one foot on the next step. "Because I'm a goblin."
　　They both grinned from ear to ear. The older sister directed me to look for a turn before the next street corner, a hidden alleyway that was really a lane. "It's called Asterisk Way," she said, "because it's too small to have a real name."
　　"Are you going to gobble her up?" the smaller one asked.
　　"I'm going to gobble her up and spit out the bones. You can come by on Halloween night and make yourself a skeleton." They turned and looked at each other, smiling gleefully.
　　An invasion of sumac and overgrown boxwood obscured Asterisk Way. When the car began to scrape hedges on both sides, I got out and walked. Half-hidden houses were scattered along the route, and last on the left was a weathered foursquare with BLAKE on the mailbox. Obscured by the shrubs, a pair of bare legs flashed in front of me, racing across the yard, and then a second someone rustled through the bushes. I thought the horrid little sisters had followed me, but then a third movement in the brush unsettled me. I reached for my car keys and nearly deserted that dark place, but having come so far, I knocked on the front door.
　　An elegant woman with a thick mane of white hair swung open the door. Dressed simply in crisp linen, she stood tall and erect in the doorway, her eyes bright and searching, and welcomed me into her home. "Henry Day, any trouble finding the place?" New England echoed faintly in her voice. "Come in, come in."
　　Mrs. Blake had an ageless charm, a physical presence and manner that put others right at ease. To gain this interview, I had lied to her, told her that I had gone to high school with her son Brian and that our class was organizing a reunion, tracking down classmates who had moved away. At her insistence, we chatted over a lunch she had prepared, and she gave me the full update on Brian, his wife and two children, all that he had accomplished over the years. Our egg-salad sandwiches lasted longer than her report, and I attempted to steer the conversation around to my ulterior motive.
　　"So, Mrs. Ungerland ..."
　　"Call me Eileen. I haven't been Mrs. Ungerland for years. Not since my first husband passed away. And then the unfortunate Mr. Blake met with his strange accident with the pitchfork. They call me 'the black widow' behind my back, those awful children."
　　"A witch, actually ... I'm so sorry, Eileen. About both your husbands, I mean."
　　"Well, you shouldn't be. I married Mr. Blake for his money, God rest his soul. And as for Mr. Ungerland, he was much, much older than I, and he was ..." She pointed to her temple with a long, thin finger.
　　"I went to Catholic elementary school and only met Brian in ninth grade. What was he like growing up?"
　　Her face brightened, and she stood up so quickly that I thought she would topple over. "Would you like to see pictures?"
　　At every stage of his life—from the day he was born through grade school—Brian Ungerland looked as if he could be my son. His resemblance to Edward was uncanny, the same features, posture, even the way they ate corn on the cob or threw a ball. As we paged through the album, my conviction increased with each image.
　　"Brian used to tell me pretty wild family stories," I said. "About the Ungerlands, I mean, the German ones."
　　"Did he tell you about Opa Josef? His grandpa Joe? Of course, Brian was still a baby when he passed away, but I remember him. He was a crazy loon. They all were."
　　"They came over from Germany, right?"
　　She sat back in her chair, sorting through her memories. "It is a sad, sad story, that family."
　　"Sad? In what way?"
　　"There was Crazy Joe, my father-in-law. He lived with us when we were first married, ages ago. We kept him in a room off the attic. Oh, he must have been ninety, maybe one hundred years old, and he would rant and rave about things that weren't there. Spooks, things like that, as if something were coming to get him, poor dear. And muttering about his younger brother, Gustav, claiming that he wasn't really his brother at all and that the real Gustav had been stolen away by der Wechselbalgen. Changelings. My husband said it was because of the sister. If I remember, the sister died on the passage over from Germany, and that plunged the whole family into grief. And they never recovered. Even Josef, still imagining spirits after all those years."
　　The room began to feel unusually warm, and my stomach churned. My head hurt.
　　"Let me think, yes, there was the mama, and the papa, another poor man. Abram was his name. And the brothers. I don't know anything about the older one; he died in the Civil War at Gettysburg. But there was Josef who was a bachelor until he was pushing fifty, and then there's the idiot brother, the youngest one. Such a sad family."
　　"Idiot? What do you mean, idiot?"
　　"That's not what they call it nowadays, but back then, that's what they said. They went on and on about how wonderfully he could play the piano, but it was all a trick of the mind. He was what they would call an idiot savant. Gustav was his name, poor child. Could play like Chopin, Josef claimed, but was otherwise quiet and extremely introverted. Maybe he was autistic, if they had such a thing back then."
　　The blood rushed to my head and I began to feel faint.
　　"Or maybe highly strung. But after the incident with the so-called changelings, he even stopped playing the piano and completely withdrew, never said another word for the rest of his life, and he lived to be an old nun too. They say the father went mad when Gustav stopped playing the music and started to let the world just drift right by. I went out to see him once or twice at the institution, poor dear. You could tell he was thinking something, but Lord only knows. As if he went off to live in his own little world. He died when I was still a young newlywed. That was about 1934, I think, but he looked older than Moses."
　　She bent over the photo album and flipped through to the front of the book. She pointed to a middle-aged man in a gray fedora. "There's my husband, Harry—that's crazy Joe's son. He was so old when we married and I was just a girl." Then she pointed to a wizened figure who looked as if he was the oldest man in the world. "Gustav." For a brief moment, I thought that would be me, but then I realized the old man in the photograph was no relation at all. Beneath him there was a scratched image of an elderly woman in a high collar. "La belle dame sans merci. Gone well before my time, but were it not for his mother holding things together, that would have been the end of the Ungerlands. And then we wouldn't be sitting here today, would we?"
　　"But," I stammered, "but how did they manage to go on after so much misfortune?"
　　"The same way that all of us do. The same way that I went on after losing two husbands and Lord knows all that's happened. At some point, you have to let go of the past, son. Be open to life to come. Back in the sixties, when everybody was lost, Brian used to talk about going off to find himself. He used to say, 'Will I ever know the real me? Will I ever know who I am supposed to be?' Such foolish questions beg straight answers, don't you think, Henry Day?"
　　I felt faint, paralyzed, destroyed. I crawled off the sofa, out the front door, all the way home and into bed. If we made our good-byes, they evaporated quickly in the residual shock of her story.
　　To rouse me from deep slumber the next morning, Tess fixed a pot of hot coffee and a late breakfast of eggs and biscuits, which I devoured like a famished child. I was sapped of all strength and will, confounded by the news of Gustav as an idiot savant. Too many ghosts in the attic. We sat on the veranda in the cool morning, swapping sections of the Sunday newspaper. I pretended to read, but my mind was elsewhere, desperately trying to sort through the possibilities, when a ruckus arose in the neighborhood. Dogs started howling one by one as something passed in front of their homes, a chain reaction of maddening intensity.
　　Tess stood and peered down the street both ways but saw nothing. "I can't stand it," she said. "I'm going inside until they knock it off. Can I freshen your coffee?"
　　"Always." I smiled and handed her my cup. The second she vanished, I saw what had driven the animals mad. There on the street, in the broad light of Sunday morning, two of the devils zigzagged across the neighborhood lawns. One of them limped along as she ran, and the other, a mouselike monster, beckoned her to hurry. The pair stopped when they saw me on the porch, two houses away, and stared directly at me for an instant. Wretched creatures with hideous holes for eyes, bulbous heads on their ruined bodies. Caked with dirt and sweat. From downwind, I could smell the feral odor of decay and musk. The one with the limp pointed a bony finger right at me, and the other quickly led her away through the gap between houses. Tess returned with the coffee too late to see them go, and once the creatures disappeared, the dogs quieted, settled back in their kennels, and relaxed their chains.
　　"Did you figure out what all the commotion was about?"
　　"Two things running through the neighborhood,"
　　"Things?"
　　"I don't know." I took a sip. "Little monsters."
　　"Monsters?"
　　"Can't you smell their awful odor?　Like someone just ran over a skunk."
　　"Henry, what are you talking about? I don't smell a thing."
　　"I don't know what set those dogs off. Mass hysteria, a figment of their doggy brains? A mouse and a bat? A couple of kids."
　　She put her cool hand on my forehead. "Are you feeling okay, Henry? You don't seem yourself today."
　　"I'm not," I said. "Maybe I should go back to bed."
　　As I drifted off to sleep, the changelings haunted my dreams. A dozen crept out of the woods, stepping out from behind each tree. They kept on coming, a band of hollow children, surrounding my home, advancing toward the doors and windows. Trapped inside, I raced from floor to floor and looked out through peepholes and from behind curtains as they silently marched and assembled in a ring. I ran down the hall to Eddie's room, and he was a baby again, curled up in a ball in his crib. I shook him to wake him up and run with me, but when the child rolled over, he had the face of a grown man. I screamed and locked myself in the bathroom. From the tiny window I could see the monsters begin to climb up the porch rails, scale the walls like spiders, their evil faces turned to me, menace and hatred in their glowing eyes. Windows were shattered in other rooms; the glass exploding and hitting the floor in an oddly gentle crescendo. I looked into the mirror, saw my reflection morph into my father, my son, Gustav. Behind me in the mirror, one of the creatures rose and reached out its claws to wrap around my neck.
　　Tess sat on the edge of the bed, shaking my shoulder. I was drenched with sweat, and though I felt hotter than hell, she said I was clammy and cold. "You've had a bad dream. It's okay, it's okay." I buried my face on her breast and she stroked my hair and rocked me until I gained my full senses. For a moment, I did not know where I was, did not know who I was now or ever.
　　"Where's Edward?"
　　She looked perplexed by my question. "At my mother's, don't you remember? He's spending the weekend. What's wrong with you?"
　　I shivered in her embrace.
　　"Was it that mean old Mrs. Ungerland? You need to concentrate on what's important and stop chasing after what's past. Don't you know, it's you I love. And always have."
　　
　　
　　Everyone has an unnameable secret too dire to confess to friend or lover, priest or psychiatrist, too entwined at the core to excise without harm. Some people choose to ignore it; others bury it deep and lug it unspoken to the grave. We mask it so well that even the body sometimes forgets the secret exists. I do not want to lose our child, and I do not want to lose Tess. My fear of being found out as a changeling and rejected by Tess has made a secret of the rest of my life.
　　After hearing the true story of Gustav, it is no wonder that I remembered so little from those days. I had been locked inside my own mind with music as my only means of self-expression. Had I not been stolen, I would never have lived among the changelings, never had the chance to become Henry Day. And had I not changed places with the boy, I would never have known Tess, never had a child of my own, and never found my way back to this world. In a way, the changelings gave me a second chance, and their reappearance—the break-in at our home, the encounter in California with Edward, the pair dashing across the lawn—was both a threat and a reminder of all that was at stake.
　　When I had first started seeing the changelings again, I attributed it to the stress of discovering my past. They seemed hallucinations, nightmares, or no more than a figment of my imagination, but then the real creatures showed up and left their signs behind. They were taunting me: an orange peel on the middle of the dining room table; an open bottle of beer on top of the television; cigarette butts burning in the garden. Or things went missing. My chrome-plated piano trophy from the statewide competition. Photographs, letters, books. I once heard the fridge door slam shut at two in the morning when we were all asleep, went downstairs and found a baked ham half-eaten on the countertop. Furniture that hadn't been moved in ages suddenly appeared next to open windows. On Christmas Eve, at my mother's house, the younger children thought they heard reindeer tramping on the roof, and they went outside to investigate. Twenty minutes later, the breathless kids came back in, swearing they had seen two elves hopping away into the woods. Another time, one of them crawled through a gap no bigger than a rabbit hole under a gate in our backyard. When I went outside to catch it, the creature was gone. They were becoming brazen and relentless, and I wanted only for them to go away and leave me at peace.
　　Something had to be done about my old friends.

    我是他们中的一员。我的儿子曾经在国家的另一头和其中一个撞见过，说不好他们会把我们跟踪到什么地步。几年前那个晚上，换生灵们来找过爱德华，我下楼把他们吓走了。但他们还会再来。他们盯着我们，等着我的儿子。只要他们潜伏在我们家附近，爱德华就不安全。只要他们还在世上，他就不安全。一旦他们看上了一个孩子要交换，他就和丢了没两样。我不让爱德华离开我的视线，每天傍晚都锁好房门，插好窗户。他们在我的想像中转悠，让我不得安宁。
　　钢琴是我惟一的慰藉。我希望通过作曲把自己清醒的一面稳定下来。开头一错，再开头还是错。我挣扎着要把这两个世界分开。
　　好在我有泰思和爱德华让我立足现实。我生日那天，一辆货车开进我家的车道，爱德华站在窗口大叫：“来了，来了! ”他们一定要我待在卧室里，拉好窗帘，直到礼物运进屋子，我乖乖地听话了，儿子蹦蹦跳跳，活力四射，泰思的笑容性感又知心，我心里充满了爱意。黑暗中，我躺在床上，合上双眼，想我是否值得如此爱的回报，也担心一旦真相泄露，这些或许都会被偷走。
　　爱德华跳上楼梯，“砰砰”地敲门。他用两只小手拉住我的胳膊，将我拖到乐室。房门上挂着一个巨大的绿色蝴蝶结，泰思行了个屈膝礼，递给我一把剪刀。
　　“作为本市的市长，”我装腔作势地说道，“我希望我尊敬的儿子和我共享这份荣耀。”我们一起剪断绸带，打开房门。
　　这架小管风琴既不是新的，也不够精美，但它来自爱的给予，如此美丽。而且它足以让我弹出我想要的最好的声音。爱德华玩弄着风琴的音栓，我把泰思拉到一边，问她怎么买得起这么奢侈的东西。
　　“自打从旧金山回来，”她说，“也可能从捷克斯洛伐克就开始了，我一直想要给你买这个。这里攒一个便士，那里省一个美元，再加上一个女人一番辛苦的讨价还价。艾迪和我发现它在古德伯特的教堂里出售。你妈和查理让我们过得很好了，你该知道，但我们都希望你能拥有它。我知道它不算好，但……”
　　“它是最好的礼物……”
　　“别担心花的钱，只要好好弹就行了，宝贝。”
　　“我贴进了我的零花钱。”爱德华说。
　　我拥抱着他们俩，抱得紧紧的，幸福得晕头转向，之后我坐下来，弹了一支巴赫的《赋格的艺术》，再次忘掉了时间。
　　几天之后，我仍然沉迷在新乐器中，那天我从幼儿园接爱德华回家，家里空空荡荡，很安静。我给了他一块点心，打开了《芝麻大街》，然后去乐室干活。管风琴的琴键上有一张折叠的纸，上面贴着一张黄色的粘纸贴。“我们得谈谈! ”她草草写着。她找到了记有所有安格兰德家人名字的乘客表，我本是把它藏在我的文件中的，还上了锁。我只能想像它是怎么到泰思手上的。
　　前门“吱呀”一声打开，又“砰”的一下关上，我头脑里跳过一个黑暗的念头，他们是来找爱德华的。我冲到前门，泰思正慢慢朝起居室走来，两手都拎着沉重的食品袋。我拿过几个袋子，减轻她的负担。
　　我们一起把东西搬进厨房，像跳双人芭蕾一样绕着圈子，把东西都放好。她看起来像是一门心思关注着手头的罐装豌豆和胡萝卜，没在考虑其他事情。
　　东西放好后，她拍了拍手上并没有的灰尘，“你看到我的留言条吗? ”
　　“关于安格兰德家的? 你从哪里拿到乘客表的? ”
　　她撩开眼前的刘海，“你什么意思，我从哪里拿到的? 你把它放在电话机边上的餐具柜上。问题是：你又是从哪里拿到的? ”
　　“在恰布。还记得林卡神甫吗? ”
　　“恰布? 那是九年前了。你就在那里干这个吗? 你为什么要去调查安格兰德家?”
　　沉默泄露了我的内心。
　　“你那么吃布瑞恩的醋? 老实说吧，这确实有点发疯了，你自己觉得呢? ”
　　“不是吃醋，泰思。我们碰巧去了那里，我只是想帮他追溯家谱而已。找到他的祖父。”
　　她拿起乘客表，目光扫到最后一行，“真是难以置信。你什么时候和布瑞恩•安格兰德说过话了? ”
　　“说来话长，泰思。我们订婚的时候，我在奥斯卡酒吧碰到过他。
　　我告诉他我们要去德国，他就说如果我有空的话，能否去一下国家档案局，查一下他的家谱。我在那里没有找到，就想也许他的家人是从另一个地方来的，所以在恰布的时候，我问了林卡神甫。他找到了。
　　不是什么麻烦事。”
　　“亨利，你说的话我一个字也不相信。”
　　我走过去，伸出手臂想抱住她，一心只想结束这场对话。“泰思，我一直对你说真话。”
　　“但布瑞恩为什么不去问他母亲? ”
　　“他母亲? 我不知道他还有母亲。”
　　“人人都有母亲。她就住在这镇上，现在还住着，我想。你能告诉她，你有多吃醋。”
　　“但我曾在电话簿上查过她。”
　　“你开玩笑。”她环抱双臂，摇起了头，“很多年前，布瑞恩还在读高中时，她就再嫁了。让我想想，她叫布雷克，艾琳•布雷克。她一定记得祖父。他一直活到一百岁，她以前老在讲这个疯老头子。”她不想再谈了，开始朝楼梯走去。
　　“是古斯塔夫吗? ”我在她背后叫道。
　　她回头看了我一眼，皱起眉头，在记忆里找到了这个名字。“不，不……乔。
　　疯子乔•安格兰德是布瑞恩的祖父。当然啦，他们一家子都是疯子，包括他母亲。”
　　“你肯定我们说的不是古斯塔夫•安格兰德吗? ”
　　“我要开始叫你疯子亨利•戴了……你就会问我这些事情。好吧，如果你这么有兴趣，你为什么不去跟布瑞恩的母亲谈谈? 艾琳•布雷克。”她站在楼梯顶端，靠着扶手，长长的金发垂落下来，像长发姑娘似的。“你这么吃醋是好事，但你什么都不用担心。”她嘴角一扬，闪过一个微笑，我的担忧化为乌有。“替我向那个老姑娘问个好。”
　　她脖子以下全埋在落叶中，两眼一眨不眨地看着上方，我第三次走过她身边，才发现这是个洋娃娃。附近还有一个，被红色跳绳捆绑在树干上，从无人修剪的长草上东一只，西一只地伸出肢解了的胳膊和大腿。那条绳子的一头绑在稠李树枝上，上面挂着一个头颅，在风里晃悠，无头的身体塞在信箱里，等着星期六的邮递员来。
　　我把车停在屋前时，这起故意伤害罪的策划者在门廊上咯咯地笑，但我一走上过道，她们就像紧张症患者一样不安起来。
　　“姑娘们能帮我个忙吗? 我好像迷路了。”我站在最下面的台阶上说。稍大的女孩用胳膊环住妹妹的肩膀，做了一个保护的姿态。
　　“你们的爸妈在家吗? 我在找一个住在附近的人。你们认识布雷克家吗? ”
　　“那里闹鬼。”妹妹说。她少了两颗门牙，说起话来口齿不清。
　　“她是个巫婆，先生。”姐姐大概十岁，骨瘦如柴，头发漆黑，有黑眼圈。要是有人认识巫婆的话，就是这个人了。“您为什么要去见一个巫婆呢，先生? ”
　　我抬脚跨了一个台阶，“因为我是魔鬼。”
　　她们都咧开嘴笑了。姐姐指给我看下一个街角前的拐弯处，那里有一条隐蔽的巷子，还真是条路。“它叫星号路，”她说，“它太小了，连个真名都没有。”
　　“你要把她吞下去吗? ”小的那个问。
　　“我要把她吞下去，把骨头拆掉。万圣节晚上你们可以过去给自己做一副骷髅。”
　　她们面面相觑，开心地笑起来。
　　野生漆树和茂盛的黄杨木挡住了星号路。汽车擦刮着两旁的树篱，我只好下车步行。这条路上零落散布着半隐半现的房屋，左侧最后一幢是一座破旧的方形房屋，邮箱上写着“布雷克”。灌木丛中，一双赤裸的腿从我眼前一闪而过，横穿院子而去，接着第二个人在树丛里刷刷地穿过去。我以为那对可怕的小姐妹跟着我来了，但随后灌木丛里响起第三个动静，我心慌起来，拿出车钥匙，简直就想立刻离开这个黑暗的地方。但既然已经走到这里，我叩响了大门。
　　一位满头白发的优雅妇人来开门。她穿着简朴的亚麻薄衫，身材高大，笔直地站在门口，探询的目光炯炯有神，她把我让进家门。
　　“亨利•戴。找到这地方不容易吧? ”她的口音中有淡淡的新英格兰腔，“请进，请进。”
　　布雷克夫人有一股青春常驻的魅力，再加上她的外貌和态度，让人一下子就感到宾至如归。为了采访，我向她撒了谎，说我和她儿子布瑞恩上的同一个高中，现在我们班级正在组织一次聚会，在联系已经搬走的同学。在她的坚持下，我们一边聊天，一边吃她准备好的午餐，她把布瑞恩最近的事情一股脑儿全告诉我，他的妻子和两个孩子啦，他这些年取得的成就啦。她说完之后，我们的鸡蛋沙拉三明治还没吃完，我试图将话题转到我不为人知的目的上去。
　　“那么，安格兰德夫人……”
　　“叫我艾琳。我都很多年不当安格兰德夫人了，自从我前夫过世之后就不是了。
　　后来倒霉的布雷克先生在干草叉上出了奇怪的事故。他们在背后叫我‘黑寡妇’，那些顽劣的小孩。”
　　“事实上他们说的是，巫婆……我很难过，艾琳。我是说，关于您的两位丈夫。”
　　“嗯，你不用难过。我和布雷克先生结婚是为了他的钱，上帝保佑他的灵魂安息。至于安格兰德先生，他比我大很多很多，他是……”她用细长的手指点了点自己的额角。
　　“我上天主教小学时，是在九年级认识布瑞恩的。他长大后什么样? ”
　　她脸色一亮，忽地站起来，我都以为她要摔倒了。“你要看看照片吗? ”
　　从出生到小学，在生命的每一个阶段，布瑞恩•安格兰德看起来都像我的儿子。
　　他和爱德华惊人地相似，同样的五官，同样的姿态，甚至连啃玉米棒子和扔球的动作也一样。我们翻着相册，看的照片越多，我越觉得他们相像。
　　“布瑞恩曾经跟我讲过家里人的一些有趣好玩的故事，”我说，“关于安格兰德家的，我是说，德国的家人。”
　　“他有没有跟你说过约瑟夫爷爷? 他的祖父乔? 当然，他过世时布瑞恩还是个婴儿，但我记得他。他是个疯子。他们都是。”
　　“他们从德国来的，是吗? ”
　　她往后靠着椅背，整理着记忆，“这是段非常悲惨的经历，那个家庭。”
　　“悲惨? 怎么说? ”
　　“我的公公疯子乔，很多年前我们刚刚结婚时他和我们住在一起。我们把他关在阁楼里。哦，他一定有九十岁了，说不定有一百岁，他会朝着不存在的东西大发雷霆，像幽灵鬼怪这类的，好像有什么东西要来带走他似的，可怜的人啊。他还会喃喃念叨他的小弟古斯塔夫，说什么他根本不是他的亲弟弟，真正的古斯塔夫已经被wechselbalgen 偷走了，也就是换生灵。我丈夫说那是因为妹妹的缘故。如果我没记错，那个妹妹在从德国过来的旅途中死了，整个家庭都伤心之极。他们一直都没有缓过来。就连约瑟夫在后来那些年里也一直会想出些精灵来。”
　　房间里开始变得异常暖和，我胃里搅动着，头也痛了起来。
　　“让我想想，是的，有妈妈，爸爸，那是另一个可怜人。他叫艾布拉姆。还有兄弟们。最大的那个我一点儿也不了解，他在内战中死在了盖茨堡。约瑟夫快五十岁时才结婚，另外就是那个白痴弟弟，最小的一个。就是这样一个悲惨的家庭。”
　　“白痴? 您说白痴是什么意思? ”
　　“不是今天大家说的这个意思，但在那时候，他们就是这样说的。
　　他们一直说他弹钢琴弹得多么棒，但那只是因为他脑子有病。他就是人说的白痴专家。他叫古斯塔夫，可怜的孩子。约瑟夫说，他能弹得跟肖邦一样，但除此之外就很安静，非常内向。他可能是个孤独症患者，如果他们那时候也有这种病的话。”
　　血冲到我头顶，我开始觉得晕眩。
　　“也可能是误传，但在那所谓的换生灵事件之后，他连钢琴也不弹了，彻底地封闭起来，后来再也没有说过一句话，他后来也老了。他们说，自从古斯塔夫不再弹钢琴，开始对外界没反应，父亲就疯了。我到医院里去看过他一两次，可怜的人。
　　你能感觉到他在想些什么，但只有上帝知道那是什么。他好像生活在自己的小世界里。我刚结婚不久，他就死了。那大约是1934年，我想，但他看起来比摩西还老。”
　　她朝相册俯下身，翻到前面，指着一个戴灰色软呢帽的中年男子，“这是我的丈夫，哈利——疯子乔的儿子。我们结婚时他已经这么老了，我还是个小姑娘。”
　　随后她指着一个干瘪的人，他看起来就像是这世上最老的老头，“古斯塔夫。”一瞬间，我觉得这个人是我，但我立刻就意识到照片里面这个老人跟我毫无关系。在他下面是一个穿高领衣的老妇人，她的影像已经被刮伤了。“一位漂亮慈祥的夫人。
　　我认识她之前她就过世了，但若不是他母亲主持家务，安格兰德家早就走到尽头了，那么今天我们也不会坐在这里，不是吗? ”
　　“但是，”我结结巴巴地说，“经历了这么多不幸，他们是怎么撑过去的? ”
　　“和我们所有人一样。和我失去了两个丈夫而只有上帝才知道是怎么回事一样。
　　有些时候，你得放开过去，孩子。对未来的生活敞开胸怀。在六十年代，大家都迷失彷徨的时候，布瑞恩曾经说过要离开去找寻自己。他说过：‘我是否会认识真正的自我? 我是否会知道我要做什么样的人? ’对这种蠢问题的回答直截了当，你觉得呢，亨利•戴? ”
　　我头晕目眩，浑身麻痹，魂飞魄散。我爬下沙发，爬出大门，一路爬回家爬上床。如果我们还道过别的话，这份记忆也在她的讲述所残留的震骇中被蒸发了。
　　次日上午，为了把我从昏睡中叫醒，泰思弄了一壶热咖啡和鸡蛋饼干，早餐已经过时了，我像个饿坏了的孩子一样狼吞虎咽。古斯塔夫是一个白痴专家，我被这消息吓呆了，所有的力气和意志都丧失殆尽。阁楼里的鬼怪太多。凉爽的上午，我们坐在阳台上，交换着看周日报纸的版面。我装着读报，但心思在别的地方，只想把各种可能性都梳理出来。这时附近起了一阵骚乱，狗开始一只接一只地叫起来，有什么东西从它们家门口过去了，引起一连串的激烈反应。
　　泰思站起来，朝街道的两头张望，但什么也没看到。“我不明白怎么回事，”
　　她说，“我等它们静下来再出来。我给你加点咖啡好吗? ”
　　“当然好。”我笑着递给她杯子。她一走开，我就看到了让动物们发狂的是什么。大街上，星期天上午，光天化日之下，两个魔鬼迂回穿过邻居的草坪。其中一个瘸着腿，另一个长得像老鼠，招呼她快跑。这两个看到两幢屋子开外、站在阳台上的我，都站住了，他们目不转睛地瞪了我片刻。这两个倒霉的家伙，眼珠子装在难看的眼窝里，圆滚滚的头颅扛在破破烂烂的身体上，结着泥巴淌着汗。我站在下风处，能闻到他们身上腐败的气味和麝香混合一处的野兽味道。
　　瘸腿的那个伸出一根皮包骨的手指指着我，另一个飞快地带着她从房屋之间的缺口逃走了。泰思端着咖啡出来，来不及看到他们离开，这两个家伙一离开，狗儿们也冷静下来，回到狗窝里，松下了链条。
　　“你有没有搞清楚究竟在闹什么? ”
　　“两个东西从附近跑过。”
　　“东西? ”
　　“我不知道，”我抿了口咖啡，“小魔鬼。”
　　“魔鬼? ”
　　“你没闻到他们讨厌的气味吗? 就像刚刚碰到一头臭鼬似的。”
　　“亨利，你在说什么? 我什么也没闻到。”
　　“我不知道那些狗干吗上蹿下跳。集体歇斯底里，它们狗脑子里出了幻觉? 看到老鼠、蝙蝠? 还是看到一对小山羊? ”
　　她把凉丝丝的手放在我额头上，“你觉得还好吧，亨利? 今天你好像不大对劲。”
　　“我没事，”我说，“我大概应该回去睡觉。”
　　我慢慢沉入梦乡后，换生灵们又来到我的梦中。十二个换生灵从森林中偷偷摸摸地出来，从每棵树后面走出来。他们不停地过来，这帮冒牌货小孩包围了我的家，朝我的房门和窗户走来。我陷在里面，在楼层间冲上冲下，从猫眼里和窗帘后朝外张望，他们悄无声息地挨近了，围成一个圆圈。我跑到楼下艾迪的房间里，他又变成了婴儿，在摇篮里团成一个球。我把他摇醒，带他一起逃跑：但孩子转过身来时，他的脸却是成年人的脸。我尖叫一声，把自己反锁在浴室里。透过小窗户，我能看见这群魔鬼开始攀爬门廊的栏杆，像蜘蛛似的爬上墙壁，他们邪恶的面孔朝我看来，目光闪动着威胁和仇恨。其他房间的窗户都被砸碎了，玻璃爆裂开来，掉在地板上，发出一种奇怪而低柔的声音，且渐渐变响。我看到镜子里自己的影像变形成了我父亲，变成我儿子，又变成古斯塔夫。镜子中，一个魔鬼从我身后站起来，伸出爪子来卡我的脖子。
　　泰思坐在床边，晃动我的肩膀。我浑身汗湿，热得要命，她却说我又湿又冷。
　　“你做噩梦了。没事的，没事的。”我把脸埋在她胸口，她抚摸我的头发，摇晃着我，直到我完全清醒过来。有一会儿，我不知道我在哪里，不知道我现在是谁，以前又是谁。
　　“爱德华在哪? ”
　　她似乎被我的问题弄糊涂了，“在我母亲那里，你不记得了吗? 他去那里过周末。你怎么啦? ”
　　我在她怀抱中发抖。
　　“是因为老安格兰德夫人吗? 你应该把心思放在要紧的事情上，别再追逐过去了。难道你不知道，我爱的是你。一直都是。”
　　人人都有一个无法言喻的可怕秘密，不能透露给朋友、爱人、牧师、精神病医生。它的内里太复杂纠葛，一旦激发，必然带来危害。
　　有些人忽视它，有些人将它深深地埋藏起来，带进坟墓。我把它掩饰得这么好，就连身体有时候也忘却了这个秘密。我不想失去我们的孩子，也不想失去泰思。我害怕被人发现是一个换生灵，然后受到泰思的排斥，这就成为了我余生的秘密。
　　在听说古斯塔夫真实的生平经历之后，我知道自那以后我只记得一点儿事情是毫不奇怪的。我被封锁在内心中，音乐成为我惟一的自我表达。假如我没有被偷走，我就不会和那些换生灵一起生活，不会有机会成为亨利•戴。假如我没有和那个男孩交换，我就不会认识泰思，也不会有我自己的孩子，更不会找到回返这个世界的路。
　　在某种意义上，换生灵给了我第二次机会，而他们的再度出现——破门闯入我家，在加州遇见爱德华，那穿过草坪的一对儿——既是威胁，也是在提醒我一切都处于危险之中。
　　我第一次看到换生灵，还以为是因为发现自己的过去而造成的情绪紧张。他们似乎是幻觉、噩梦，或无非只是我的臆想，但接着真家伙就出现了，还把他们的标记留了下来。餐桌中间的一块橘子皮，电视机上一瓶打开的啤酒，院子里烧着的烟头都在嘲笑我。东西还会不翼而飞，我从州际比赛中赢回来的铬合金钢琴模型奖品、照片、信件、书籍。有一次在凌晨两点钟，我们都在睡觉，我听到冰箱门“砰”的关上，就下楼去看，结果发现案台上放着块被咬掉一半的熏火腿。好多年都没有移动过的家具突然出现在敞开的窗户旁边。圣诞夜在我母亲家中时，小孩子们觉得听到了驯鹿在屋顶上走过，纷纷跑出去看。二十分钟后，孩子们气喘吁吁地回来了，发誓说他们看到了两个精灵蹿进森林里去了。还有一次，他们其中一个从我们后院门下一个比兔子洞大不了多少的空隙里爬出去。当我出去抓他时，那家伙已经逃走了。他们越来越厚颜无耻，没完没了，我只想要他们走开，还我一个清静。
　　得对我的老朋友们采取措施了。
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Chapter 34
　　I set out to learn everything that could be known about the other Henry Day. My life's story and its telling are bound to his, and only by understanding what had happened to him would I know all that I had missed. My friends agreed to help me, for by our nature we are spooks and secret agents. Because their skills had lain dormant since the botched change with Oscar Love, the faeries took special delight in spying on Henry Day. Once upon a time, he was one of them.
　　Luchóg, Smaolach, and Chavisory tracked him to an older neighborhood on the far side of town where he circled round the streets as if lost. He stopped and talked to two adorable young girls playing with their dollies in their front yard. After watching him drive off, Chavisory approached the girls, thinking they might be Kivi and Blomma in human form. The sisters guessed Chavisory was a faery right away, and she ran, laughing and shrieking, to our hiding place in a crown of blackberry stalks. A short time later, our spies spotted Henry Day talking to a woman who seemed to have upset him. When he left her old house, Henry looked haunted, and he sat in his car for the longest time, head bent to the steering wheel, shoulders heaving as he sobbed.
　　"He looked knackered, as if the woman sapped his spirit," Smaolach told us afterward.
　　"I noticed as well," said Luchóg, "that he has changed of late, as if he is guilty of the past and worried of the future."
　　I asked them if they thought the older woman had been my mother, but they assured me she was somebody else's.
　　Luchóg rolled himself a smoke. "He walked in one man, came out another."
　　Chavisory poked at the campfire. "Maybe there are two of him."
　　Onions agreed, "Or he's only half a man."
　　Luchóg lit the cigarette, let it dangle from his lower lip. "He's a puzzle with one piece missing. He's a tockless clock."
　　"We'll pick the lock of his brain," Smaolach said.
　　"Have you been able to find out more about his past?" I asked them.
　　"Not much," said Luchóg. "He lived in your house with your mother and father, and your two little sisters."
　　"Our Chopin won lots of prizes for playing music," said Chavisory. "There's a tiny shiny piano on the mantel, or at least there was." She reached behind her back and held out the trophy for us to admire, its facade reflecting the firelight.
　　"I followed him to school one day," said Smaolach. "He teaches children how to play music, but if their performance is any indication, he's not very good. The winds blow harsh and the fiddlers cannot fiddle."
　　We all laughed. In time, they told me many more stories of the man, but large gaps existed in the tale, and singular questions arose. Was my mother living still, or had she joined my father under the earth? I knew nothing about my sisters and wondered how they had grown. They could be mothers themselves by now, but are forever babies in my imagination.
　　"Did I tell you he saw us?" Luchóg asked. "We were at our old stomping grounds by his house, and I am sure that he looked right at Chavisory and me. He's not the handsomest thing in the world."
　　"Tell the truth," Chavisory added, "he's rather fearsome. Like when he lived with us."
　　"And old."
　　"And wearing out," said Smaolach. "You're better off with us. Young always."
　　The fire crackled and embers popped, floating up in the darkness. I pictured him snug in his bed with his woman, and the thought reminded me of Speck. I trudged back to my burrow, trying to find comfort in the hard ground.
　　In my sleep, I climbed a staircase of a thousand steps carved into the side of a mountain. The dizzy view below took my breath away, and my heart hammered against my bones. Only blue skies and a few more steps lay in front of me. I labored on and reached the top, and the stairs continued down the other side of the mountain, impossibly steep, even more frightening than the way up. Paralyzed, I could not go back and could not go on. From the side, from nowhere, Speck appeared, joining me on the summit. She had been transformed. Her eyes sparked with life; she grinned at me as if no time had passed.
　　"Shall we roll down the hill together? Like Jack and Jill?"
　　I could not say a word. If I moved, blinked, opened my mouth, she would disappear and I would fall.
　　"It isn't as difficult or dangerous as it appears."
　　She wrapped me in her arms and, next thing, we were safe at the bottom. The dreamscape shifts when she closes her eyes, and I fall deep into a well. I sit alone waiting for something to happen above my head. A door opens, light floods the space. I look up to find Henry Day looking down at me. At first he appears as my father, and then becomes himself. He shouts at me and shakes his fist. The door slams shut, erasing the light. From beneath my feet, the well begins to fill with water flowing in like a river. I kick in panic and realize a strong gossamer rope binds my limbs. Rising to my chest, to my chin, the waters wash over me, and I am under. Unable to hold my breath any longer, I open my mouth and fill my lungs.
　　I woke gasping for breath. A few seconds passed before the stars came into view, the reaching branches, the lips of my burrow an inch or two above my face. Throwing off the blanket, I rose and stepped out of that space onto the surface. Everyone else was asleep in their dens. Where the fire had been, I faint orange glow was visible beneath the black kindling. The starlit woods were so quiet that I could hear the steady breathing of the few faeries left in this place. The chilly air robbed me of my bed-warmth, and a film perspiration dried and evaporated off my skin. How long I stood still, I do not know, but I half expected someone to materialize from the darkness either to take me or to embrace me.
　　
　　
　　I went back to work on my book, stuck mid sentence at the point where Igel is about to switch with little Oscar Love. During my first visit beneath the library, I re-read the pages in light of what we had discovered about Henry Day, and all that had been revealed to me through the other clan members about my former life and circumstances. Needless to say, my first story reeked of false impressions. I gathered my papers and the error-riddled manuscript and thought through the problem. In my original version, I had assumed that my parents lived still and that they had spent their lives missing their only son. Of the few chance encounters with my natural father, only one could possibly be true. And, of course, the first story had been written with no real knowledge of the fraud and imposter who had taken my place.
　　We started watching him again and found a troubled man. He carried on conversations with himself, his lips mouthing a violent argument. Ages ago, he'd had a number of other friends as well, but as his strangeness increased, they vanished from the story. Henry spent most of his time locked away in a room, reading books or playing a booming organ, scrawling notes on lined paper. His wife lived in the margins, working on her home, every day driving away and returning hours later. Onions thought that a telltale unhappiness weighed heavily on the woman's mind, for when she was alone, she often stared into the distance, as if to extract from the air the answer to her unuttered questions. The boy, Edward, was ideal for the change, alone and distanced from the rise and fall of life, caught up in his own thoughts, and wandering through his parents' house as if looking for a friend.
　　Waking in the middle of a full-moon night, I overheard Béka and Onions whispering about the boy. Cozy in their den, they expected a degree of privacy, but their conspiracy hummed along the ground like the faraway sound of an approaching train.
　　"Do you think we'd be able to, ourselves alone?" Onions asked.
　　"If we can catch him at the right moment. Perhaps when the father is distracted or drowning out every known sound on that infernal organ."
　　"But if you change with Edward Day, what will happen to me?" Onions said, never more plaintive. I coughed to alert them to my presence and walked over to where they huddled, feigning sleep, innocent as two newborn kits. They might be brazen enough to try, and I resolved to keep closer watch and crack any plots before one might hatch.
　　In the past, the faeries refused to spy on one who had quit the tribe. The changeling was left alone, forgotten, and given a chance to live out his human life. The danger of being exposed by such a person is great, for after they make the change, they grow to resent their time among us and fear that other humans will discover their dark secret. But such concerns, once great, became less important to us. We were disappearing. Our number had diminished from a dozen to a mere six. We decided to make our own rules.
　　I asked them to find my mother and sisters, and at Christmas they were discovered at last. While the rest of us dozed, Chavisory and Luchóg stole away to town, which glowed with blinking lights as carolers sang in the streets. As a gift to me, they decided to explore my boyhood home, hoping to find missing clues that might give my past more meaning. The old house stood in the clearing, not as solitary as it had once been. Nearby farms had been sold off one by one, and the skeletons of new houses rose in all directions. A handful of cars parked in the drive led them to believe that a celebration was taking place at my former house, so they crept to the windows to see the assembled crowd. Henry Day, his wife, and their son were there. And Mary and Elizabeth. At the center of the festivities, a gray-haired woman sat in an easy chair by a sparkling fir tree. Her mannerisms reminded Luchóg of my mother, upon whom he had spied many years ago. He climbed a nearby oak and leapt from its outstretched limbs to the rooftop, scrambling over to the chimney, its bricks I still warm to the touch. The fire below had gone out, making it easier for him to eavesdrop. My mother, he said, was singing to the children in the old style, without instrumentation. How I would have loved to hear her again.
　　"Give us a song, Henry," she said when they were through, "like you used to do."
　　"Christmas is a busman's holiday if you play the piano," he said." What’ll it be, Mom? 'Christmas in Killarney' or some other blather?"
　　"Henry, you shouldn't make fun," said one of the daughters.
　　"'Angels We Have Heard on High,'" said an unfamiliar, older man who rested his hand on her shoulder.
　　Henry played the song, began another. When Luchóg had heard enough, he jumped back to the oak and climbed down to rejoin Chavisory. They stole one last look at the party, studied the characters and scene for me, then returned home. When they told the story the next day, I was deeply pleased to hear about my mother, as puzzling as the details might be. Who was this old man? Who were all these other children? Even the tiniest scrap of news brought back that past. I hid in a hollow tree. She was angry with me, and I would run away and never come back. Where are your sisters? Where are my babies? I remembered that I had sat in the V made by her legs, listening to the story of the wanderings of Oisín in Tír na n?g. It is not fair to have to miss someone for so many years.
　　But this is a double life. I sat down to work on the true story of my world and the world of Henry Day. The words flowed slowly, painfully, sometimes letter by letter. Whole mornings escaped without a single sentence worth saving. I crumpled and threw away so many pages that I was forever popping up into the library to steal more paper, and the pile of trash in the corner threatened to consume the whole room. In assembling my tale, I found myself tiring easily, early in the day, so that if I could string together five hundred words, writing had triumphed over uncertainty and procrastination.
　　At times I questioned my reasons for written proof of my own existence. When I was a boy, stories were as real as any other part of life. I'd hear Jack climb the beanstalk, and later wonder how to climb the tall poplars outside my window. Hansel and Gretel were brave heroes, and I shuddered at the thought of the witch in her oven. In my daydreams, I fought dragons and rescued the girl trapped in her tower. When I could not sleep for the wild doings and extravagant deeds of my own imagination, I'd wake my father, who would invariably say, "It's only a story." As if such words made it less real. But I did not believe him even then, for stories were written down, and the words on the page were proof enough. Fixed and permanent in time, the words, if anything, made the people and places more real than the ever-changing world. My life with the faeries is more real to me than my life as Henry Day. And I wrote it down to show that we are more than a myth, a tale for children, a nightmare or daydream. Just as we need their stories to exist, so do the humans need us to give shape to their lives. I wrote it to create meaning for my change, for what happened with Speck. By saying this instead of that, I could control what mattered. And show the truth that lies below the surface life.
　　
　　
　　I finally decided to meet the man face-to-face. I had seen Henry Day years before, but I now knew that he had once been a changeling who had kidnapped me when I was a boy of seven. We had uncovered him, followed him everywhere, and learned the outlines of his daily routine. The faeries had been to his house, taken a random score of music he wrote, and left him with a sign of their mischief. But I wanted to confront him, if only to say goodbye, through him, to my mother and sisters.
　　I was on my way to the library to finish my story. A man stepped out of a car and marched through the front door of the building. He looked old and tired, worn by care. Nothing like me, or how I imagined I would be. Ht walked with his head down, eyes on the ground, a slight stoop to his shoulders, as if the simplest things gravely distracted him. He dropped an armful of papers and, bending down to gather them, muttered a stream of curses I considered pouncing out of the woods, but he looked too fragile to spook that night, so instead I squeezed through the crevice to go about my craft.
　　He had begun frequenting the library that summer, showing up several days in a row, humming snatches of the symphony we had stolen from him. On hot and humid afternoons, when sensible people were swimming or lying in bed with the shades drawn, Henry was often reading alone at a sun-splashed table. I could sense his presence above, separated only by the thin ceiling, and when the library closed for the night, I climbed through the trapdoor and investigated. He had been working in a quiet spot in the back corner. Upon I desk, a stack of books lay undisturbed, with neat slips of paper sticking out like tongues between the leaves. I sat where he had sat and looked at the mishmash of titles on everything from imps and demons to a thick book on "idiots savants." Nothing connected these titles, but he had scribbled diminutive notes to himself on bookmarks:
　　Not fairy but hobgoblin.
　　Gustav—savant?
　　Ruined my life.
　　Find Henry Day.
　　The phrases were discarded pieces to different puzzles, and I pocketed the notes. In the morning, the sounds of his dismay penetrated the floor. Henry muttered about the missing bookmarks, and I felt a guilty pleasure at having nipped them. He ranted at the librarians, but eventually he collected himself and went about his work. I welcomed the peace, which gave me the time to finish writing my book in the quiet hours. Soon I would be free of Henry Day. That evening, I packed the sheets in a cardboard box, placing a few old drawings on top of the manuscript, and then folded Speck's letter carefully and tucked the pages in my pocket. After a quick trip home, I planned on returning one last time to collect my belongings and say my final goodbyes to the dear old space. In my haste, I neglected to think of the time. The last hour of daylight held sway when I pushed out into the open. Considering the risk, I should not have chanced it, but I stepped away from the back staircase and began to walk home.
　　Henry Day stood not a dozen feet ahead, looking directly at me and the crack beneath the library. Like a cornered hare, I reacted instinctively, running straight at him and then veering off sharply into the street. He moved not a single step. His dulled reflexes failed him. I ran through town with complete disregard for any people, crossed lawns with sprinklers spritzing the dry grass, leapt chainlink fences, tore in front of a moving car or two. I did not stop until deep in the woods, then collapsed on the ground, panting, laughing until tears fell. The look of surprise, anger, and fear on his face. He had no idea who I was. All I had to do was go back later for the book, and that would be the end of the story.

    我开始去了解一切所能了解的关于另一个亨利•戴的事情。我的生平经历，以及这份经历的故事都和他息息相关，惟有知道他的事情，才能知道我失去了什么。
　　我的朋友们答应帮助我，因为我们本质上就是鬼怪和密探。自从奥斯卡•拉甫换生那事搞砸之后，仙灵们都没了用武之地，去侦查亨利•戴，他们个个都兴奋不已。
　　曾几何时，他是他们中的一员。
　　鲁契克、斯茂拉赫和卡维素芮跟踪他到了镇上另一头的一个较老的居民区，他在街上绕来绕去，好像迷路了似的。他停下车和两个在前院里玩娃娃的可爱小女孩搭讪。看着他离开后，卡维素芮向女孩们走去，觉得她们可能是化身人形的齐维和布鲁玛。小姐妹一下子就猜出了卡维素芮是仙灵，她边笑边叫地跑回我们在黑莓丛里的藏身处。过了一小会儿，我们的侦察员发现亨利•戴在和一个老妇人谈话，好像受了打击。他离开她家后，看上去像是鬼缠身似的，从未在车子里坐过这么长时间，头靠在方向盘上，耸着肩膀抽泣。
　　“他筋疲力尽，好像那个女人抽干了他的灵魂似的。”斯茂拉赫后来告诉我们。
　　“我也注意到了，”鲁契克说，“他最近变了，好像对过去感到悔’恨，又对未来满怀忧惧。”
　　我问他们是否觉得那个老妇人是我母亲，但他们肯定地说是另有其人。
　　鲁契克卷了一支烟，“他走进去时是一个人，走出来变成了另一个人。”
　　卡维素芮捅了捅篝火，“也许有两个他呢。”
　　奥尼恩斯表示同意，“或者他只是半个人。”
　　鲁契克点燃烟头，烟就叼在下唇上，“他是掉了一块的拼图，是只无声钟。”
　　“我们要打开他头脑里的锁。”斯茂拉赫说。
　　“你们有没有找到他过去更多的事? ”我问他们。
　　“不是很多，”鲁契克说，“他住在你家，和你父母还有两个小妹妹住在一起。”
　　“我们的肖邦拿过很多演奏奖，”卡维素芮说，“壁炉架上有一架闪闪发光的小钢琴，至少以前还在那儿。”她从后面的背包里拿出这个奖品来给我们欣赏，钢琴的正面映着火光。
　　“有一天我跟他去学校了，”斯茂拉赫说，“他教孩子们弹钢琴，但若是他们的演奏能说明什么问题的话，只能说明他不怎么样。管乐器声音刺耳，小提琴手不会拉弦。”
　　我们都大笑起来。后来他们又告诉我这个人的很多事情，但这些故事之间有很多缺口，而一个个问题也浮出水面。我的母亲是仍然在世，还是已经随我父亲入土?我对妹妹们一无所知，想知道她们是怎样长大的。现在她们应该已当上母亲了，但在我的印象中，她们永远是婴儿。
　　“我有没有告诉过你，他看到我们了? ”鲁契克问，“我们在他家附近那块我们的老地盘上，我肯定他看到了我和卡维素芮。他可不是这世上最漂亮的家伙。”
　　“说实话，”卡维素芮补充说，“他真可怕。就像和我们在一起那时一样。”
　　“还显老。”
　　“而且精神不振，”斯茂拉赫说，“你还是和我们在一起的好。永远年轻。”
　　篝火噼啪作响，灰烬“砰”地爆裂开来，升腾在黑夜中。我想像着他和他的女人舒适地躺在床上，而这幅画面让我想起斯帕克。我拖着脚步回到自己的窝，尽量在坚硬的地上睡得舒服一点。
　　睡梦中，我在攀爬凿刻在山边的上千级台阶。往下一看，景象让我一阵晕眩，气也喘不过来，心脏怦怦地捶打肋骨。前面只有蓝天和几级剩余的台阶。我奋力登上山顶，山的另一侧还有下山的台阶，无比陡峭，简直比上山的路还可怕。我四肢发麻，进退两难。斯帕克不知从哪里出现在我身边，和我一同站在顶峰上。她已经变了样，眼中闪烁着活力，朝我粲然一笑，仿佛时间并未走过。
　　“我们一起滚下山怎么样? 就像杰克和吉尔? ”
　　我一句话也说不出来。如果我一动，一眨眼，一开口，她就会消失，我就会倒下。
　　“其实并不像看起来这么困难危险。”
　　她张开双臂抱住我，接下来我们就已经安全地在山脚了。她闭上眼睛，梦幻般的景象变了，我掉进了一El深井中。我独自坐着，等待上面发生什么事情。一扇门打开，光线溢满了空间。我抬头只见亨利．戴正俯视着我。起先他的样子是我父亲，接着又变成了他自己。他朝我大喊大叫，挥动拳头。门“砰”地关上，光线全收走了。在我脚下，井里开始进水，像河流一般泛起波涛。我痛苦地伸手踢足，却发现一只厉害的蜘蛛网捆住了我的手脚。水升到我的胸口、下巴，盖过头顶，我没到了水下。我再也屏不住气，张开嘴，水灌满我的肺。
　　我喘息着醒来。过了一会儿，星星出来了，树木舒展着枝丫，小窝的洞口离我的脸只有一两寸。我掀开毯子，起身走出这地方，来到地面上。大家都睡在各自的窝里。之前烧着篝火的地方，乌黑的柴火下还隐约可见微弱的橘红色亮光。满天星空下的森林如此静谧，我能听到留在此地的几个仙灵平稳的呼吸声。凛冽的寒风夺走了被但后来发展成轻松活泼的儿歌，大意是杰克上山去提水，和吉尔一起滚下了山。
　　褥间的暖意，由于紧张而出的一层薄汗从我皮肤上蒸干了。我不知道自己伫立了多久，但我隐隐地盼望黑暗中会有人出来，把我带走，或将我拥抱。
　　我回去继续写我的书，写到伊格尔即将和小奥斯卡•拉甫换生时，我滞住了。
　　我第一次回图书馆底下时，参照我们所发现的亨利•戴的事情，以及同伴们所说的我的前生和生活环境，我又读了一遍手稿。无须说，我的第一个故事里满纸都是错误的印象。我整理好纸页和差错连篇的手稿，思忖这个问题。在原初的版本中，我假定我的父母仍然在世，他们一辈子都在思念他们惟一的儿子。我和我的亲生父亲碰过几次面，但只有一次碰到的那个才是真父亲。而且，当然了，第一个故事里的那个骗子、那个取代了我地位的冒名顶替者也没有写对。
　　我们再度开始观察他，发现他麻烦缠身。他老是自言自语，嘴里冒出激烈的争辩。几年前，他有许多朋友，但随着他越变越怪，都从他的生活中消失了。亨利大部分时间都把自己锁在房间里，或者读书，或者弹那架呜呜响的管风琴，在五线谱上涂写音符。他的妻子生活在边缘地带，在家中忙里忙外，每天开车出去，几个小时后再回来。
　　奥尼恩斯认为这女人的心头显然重重压着一种不快，因为每当她独自一人时，她常常目视远方，好似她没有说出的疑问能在空气里得到答案。那男孩爱德华是换生的理想对象，他形单影只，无视于生活的起伏，只一门心思想着自己的事，在他父母的屋子里晃来晃去，好像在找一个朋友。
　　我在一个满月的半夜醒来，听到贝卡和奥尼恩斯在悄声谈论那个男孩。他们以为呆在舒适的窝里就能享有某种程度的私密性，但他们的密谋嗡嗡地从地面传来，好像远处火车开过的声音。
　　“你觉得光靠我们两个能行吗? ”奥尼恩斯问。
　　“只要我们能找准时机抓住他。也许当他父亲分神的时候，或在那架恶魔管风琴上弹奏熟悉的曲调的时候。”
　　“但如果你和爱德华•戴换生，我怎么办呢? ”奥尼思斯说道，语调前所未有地悲伤。我咳嗽一声，提醒他们我的存在，然后走过去，看到他们相拥而眠，装出熟睡的样子，像两头刚出生的小羊一般纯真。他们或许会无耻地干出这种事来，我下定决心要密切关注，未雨绸缪地击破任何阴谋。
　　在过去，仙灵们拒绝侦察已经离开部落的同伴，换生灵会独自一个，会被遗忘，同时也得到了作为人类生活的机会。被这种人发现是非常危险的，因为他们换生之后，会渐渐憎恨和我们共度的生活，也害怕其他人类会发现他们黑暗的秘密。我们曾经有很大的顾虑，但如今也无所谓了。我们正在消失。数量已经从十二个减到了六个。
　　我们决定要制定自己的规则。
　　我让他们寻找我母亲和妹妹，圣诞节时他们终于找到了。其他人睡觉的时候，卡维素芮和鲁契克悄悄去了镇上，那里张灯结彩，大街小巷里有人唱着颂歌。他们决定要一探我的童年故居，希望能找到一些丢失的线索，让我的过去更有意义，并以此作为我的圣诞节礼物。老家坐落在空地之中，已经不像以前那么茕茕孑立了。
　　附近的农庄一个接一个地卖走，到处都在兴建新房。车道上停着好几辆车，他们确信我的老家中正在举办一场庆祝活动，于是他们轻手轻脚地来到窗口，观察来聚会的人。亨利•戴，他的妻子和儿子都在那里。
　　还有玛丽和伊丽莎白。宴会的中心是一位头发花白的妇人，她坐在安乐椅中，旁边是闪闪发光的杉树。她的习惯动作让鲁契克想起了我的母亲，他很多年前侦察过她。他爬上了左近的一棵橡树，从伸出的枝丫上跳到了屋顶上，然后攀上了烟囱，那上面的砖块摸着仍然温暖。下面的火已经灭了，方便了他的窃听。他说，我母亲用老方式给孩子们唱着歌，没有伴奏。我多么想再听她唱一回啊。
　　“给我们弹个曲子，亨利，”她唱完歌后说，“就像你以前弹的那样。”
　　“如果弹钢琴，圣诞节就成了公共汽车司机的节日，”他说，“弹什么呢，妈?<基拉尼的圣诞节》呢还是别的垃圾? ”
　　“亨利，你不该开玩笑。”一个女儿说。
　　“《天使唱高歌》吧。”一个上了年纪、有些面生的男子说，他的手搭在她肩上。
　　亨利弹完这首曲子，又弹了另一首。鲁契克听够了，就跳回橡树上，爬下来回到卡维素芮身边。他们最后朝聚会瞟了一眼，为我细看了一下那些人物和场景，然后就回家了。第二天他们告诉我这事时，我欣喜万分地得知我母亲的消息，但对一些细节非常不解。那个老男人是谁? 那些孩子又是谁? 浮光掠影的消息都让旧日重现。我藏在树洞中。她生我的气，我离家出走，再也没有回去。我的妹妹们在哪里?我的婴儿呢?我记得自己坐在她两腿之间，听她讲奥辛在提尔那诺国的漫游记。原可不必思念一个人这么多年。
　　然而这是一种双重生活。我坐下来书写我的世界和亨利的世界的真实故事。写得很慢，很痛苦，有时候是一个字一个字地挤出来。
　　时常整个上午都写不出一句值得保留的句子。我捏皱扔掉了很多纸头，又老是要跑到图书馆里去偷更多的纸，堆在角落里的垃圾简直要把整个屋子都塞满了。为了拼凑我的故事，我变得易于疲倦，每天早早地就困顿不堪，所以只要能写出五百个字来，就算克服了犹豫和拖沓了。
　　有时候，我自问为何要用写作来证明自己的存在。小时候，故事就像生活的其他部分一样地真实。我听到杰克爬上豌豆茎，就想该怎么去爬我窗外高高的柱子。
　　汉瑟尔与葛莱特是勇敢的英雄，但我一想到炉子里的巫婆就不寒而栗。在我的白日梦中，我大战恶龙，救出了囚禁在塔里的姑娘。每当我因为自己想像中离奇而怪诞的事迹而无法入眠，就会叫醒父亲，但他总是说“这只是个故事而已”。仿佛这么一说，它就变得不那么真实了。但我那时候不信他的话，因为故事是写下来的，白纸黑字就足够证明了。如果说有什么东西能让人物和地点变得比这个时刻变化的世界更真实的话，那就是永远凝陷在时光中的文字。对我而言，我和换生灵在一起的生活比我作为亨利•戴的生活更加真实。我把它写下来，是想告诉大家，我们不只是讲给孩子们听的神话故事，也不只是噩梦和幻想。正如我们需要人类的故事来继续生存，人类也需要我们来映照他们的生活。我写下来，是为了给我的换生，还有我和斯帕克的交往创造意义。我这样写，而不是那样写，就可以掌握要紧的东西，展露隐藏在生活背后的真实。
　　我终于决定要和那个人会面。几年前我见过亨利•戴，如今我知道他曾经是换生灵，绑架了七岁的我。我们把他揭发出来了，到处跟踪他，得知了他日常生活的大略。换生灵去了他家，拿走了他胡乱写的乐谱，还给他留下了他们恶作剧的标志。
　　但我想要会一会他，即使只为了通过他，向我母亲和妹妹们道个别。
　　我正要去图书馆写完小说，一个男人从汽车里出来，朝楼房的前门走去，看起来又老又累，忧心忡忡。他和我一点都不像，或者说不是我想像中自己长大的样子。
　　他走路的时候耷拉着脑袋，两眼望地，双肩下垂，仿佛最简单的事情也能让他心事重重。他手里拿的纸丢了，就弯腰捡起来，咒骂了几句。我想从树林里跳出去，可他那晚的样子如此脆弱，经不起再受惊吓了，于是我挤进裂缝，干我的活儿去了。
　　那个夏天，他频频造访图书馆，一连几天都露面，嘴里哼着我们从他那里偷走的交响曲的片段。在天气湿热的下午，明智的人都去游泳，要么把百叶窗放下来，躺在床上，但亨利却常常独自在照得到太阳的桌子上读书。我能感觉到他在上面，我和他之间只隔一层薄薄的天花板，图书馆傍晚关门后，我就从地板门里爬出来查探。他在后面角落的一个安静的地方工作。一张桌子上，一摞书一动不动地躺着，里面插着的整洁的纸条，像舌头一样伸出来。我坐在他的位置上，查看各式各样的书名，从小魔鬼到守护神都有，还有一本厚厚的关于“天才专家”的书。这些题目之间毫无关系，但他在书签上用很小的字为自己做了笔记：没有仙灵只有妖怪。
　　古斯塔夫——专家? 毁了我的生活。
　　找到亨利•戴。
　　这些句子是从各种难题里丢出来的部分，我把笔记收进了口袋。
　　到了早上，他丢东西的沮丧的声音隔着地板被我听到了。亨利说着他丢了的书签，我半是歉疚，半是开心，因为是我偷的。他朝图书管理员发火，但最终冷静下来，又去工作了。一切平静下来了，我又有了时间来静悄悄地写完我的书。不久我就会摆脱亨利•戴了。那天傍晚，我把纸张放进一个硬纸盒里，先放手稿，再放上几张旧图画，最后把斯帕克的信小心翼翼地折好，塞进口袋里。我想赶快回家后，再回去一次，收走我的东西，并和亲爱的老地方最后道个别。我匆忙间忘了考虑到时间，从出口挤出去时，还有一线天光。我原不该冒这个险，可我却从后楼梯下走了出来，准备回家。
　　亨利•戴就在前面五米开外，盯着我和图书馆下面的裂缝看。
　　我就像被困的兔子，本能的反应就是直接朝他冲过去，接着猛地一个转弯蹿进街道。他一步都没动，迟钝得没有反应过来。我如入无人之境，穿过镇子，奔过洒着水的草坪，跃过成串的篱笆，避过一两辆车子，一口气奔到森林深处，倒在地上，喘着气哈哈大笑，笑得眼泪直流。他脸上惊讶、愤怒、恐惧并现。他不知道我是谁。
　　我所要做的就是过一会儿再回去拿书，然后一切都结束了。
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Chapter 35
　　"The monster never breathes," the composer Berlioz supposedly laid about the organ, but I found the opposite to be true. When I played I felt alive and at one with the machine, as if exhaling the music. Tess and Edward visited the studio to hear the lengthening shape of my composition and at the end of the performance my son said, "You were moving the same as I was breathing." Over the course of a year, I worked on the symphony during what hours I could steal, regenerating it constantly from the desire to confess, seeking to craft a texture that would allow me to explain. I felt that if she could but hear my story in the music, Tess would surely understand and forgive. In my studio, I could take refuge at the keyboard. Lock the door and draw the curtains to feel safe and whole again. Lose myself, find myself, in the music.
　　By the springtime, I had secured a small orchestra—a wind ensemble from Duquesne, timpani from Carnegie-Mellon, a few local musicians—to perform the piece when it was completed. After Edward had finished first grade in June, Tess took him for a two-week visit to her cousin Penny's to give me time alone in the house to finish my symphony—a work about a child trapped in his silence, how the sounds could never get out of his own imagination, living in two worlds, the internal life locked to all communication with outside reality.
　　After struggling for years to find the music for that stolen child, I finally finished. The score lay spread out across the organ, the scrawled notes on the staves a marvel of mathematical beauty and precision. Two stories told at the same time—the inner life and the outer world in counterpoint. My method was not to juxtapose each chord with its double, for that is not reality. Sometimes our thoughts and dreams are more real than the rest of our experience, and at other moments that which happens to us overshadows anything we might imagine. I had not been able to write fast enough to capture the sounds in my head, notes that flowed from deep within, as if half of me had been composing, and the other half acting as amanuensis. I had yet to fully transcribe the musical shorthand and to assign all of the instrumentation—tasks that might take months of rehearsal to perfect—but the initial process of setting down the bones of the symphony had made me giddy and exhausted, as if in a waking dream. Its relentless logic, strange to the ordinary rules of language, seemed to me what I had been hoping to write all along.
　　At five o'clock that afternoon, hot and wrung-out, I went to the kitchen for a bottle of beer, and drank it on the way upstairs. My plan was a shower, another beer with dinner, and then back to work. In the bedroom closet, the empty spaces where her clothes had been reminded me of Tess, and I wished she had been there to share the sudden burst of creativity and accomplishment. Moments after stepping into the hot shower, I heard a loud crash downstairs. Without turning off the water, I stepped out, wrapped a towel around my waist, and hurried to investigate. One of the windows in the living room had been broken, and glass lay all over the rug. A breeze flapped the curtains. Half naked and dripping wet, I stood there puzzled, until a sudden discordant hammering of the piano keys frightened me, as if a cat had walked across it, but the studio was empty and silent. I took a long look around.
　　The score was gone—not on the table where I had left it, not fallen to the floor, not anywhere. The window gaped open, and I ran to look at the lawn. A solitary page fluttered across the grass, pushed along by a thin breeze, but there was nothing else to see. Howling with anger and pacing the room, I stubbed my toe on the piano leg and began hopping up and down across the rug, nearly impaling my foot on a piece of glass, when another crash sounded upstairs. Foot throbbing, I climbed the steps to the landing, afraid of what might be in my house, worried about my manuscript. My bedroom was empty. In our son's room another window had been broken, but no glass littered the floor. Shards on the roof meant the window had been shattered from the inside out. To clear my head, I sat for a moment on the edge of his bed. His room looked the same as the day he'd left for the vacation, and thoughts of Edward and Tess filled me with sudden sorrow. How would I explain the missing symphony? Without it, how could I confess my true nature? I pulled at my wet hair till my scalp ached. In my mind, my wife, my son, and my music were wound together in a braided chain that now threatened to unravel.
　　In the bathroom, the shower ran and ran. A cloud of steam billowed out into the hallway, and I stumbled through the fog to shut off the water. On the cabinet mirror, someone had fingered words on the fogged surface: We No Your Secret. Copied above, note for note, was the first measure of my score.
　　"You little fuckers," I said to myself as the message vanished from the mirror.
　　
　　
　　After a restless and lonesome night, I drove to my mother's house as a new day began. When she did not immediately answer my knock, I thought she might still be asleep, and went over to the window to look in. From the kitchen, she saw me standing there, smiled, and waved me to her.
　　"Door's never locked," she said. "What brings you here in the middle of the week?"
　　"Good morning. Can't a guy come and see his best girl?"
　　"Oh, you're such an awful liar. Would you like a cup of coffee? How about I fry you a couple of eggs?" She busied herself at the stove, and I sat at the kitchen table, its surface pocked with marks left from dropped pots and pans, nicked by knives, and lined with faint impressions of letters written there. The morning light stirred memories of our first breakfast together.
　　"Sorry I was so long in answering the door," she said above the sizzle. "I was on the phone with Charlie. He's off in Philadelphia, tying up loose ends. Is everything all right with you?"
　　I was tempted to tell her everything, beginning with the night we took away her son, going back further to a little German boy snatched away by changelings, and ending with the tale of the stolen score. But she looked too careworn for such confessions. Tess might be able to handle it, but the story would break my mother's heart. Nonetheless, I needed to tell someone, at least provisionally, of my past errors and the sins I was about to commit.
　　"I've been under a lot of pressure lately. Seeing things, not truly myself. Like I'm being followed by a bad dream."
　　"Followed by troubles is the sign of a guilty conscience."
　　"Haunted. And I've got to sort it out."
　　"When you were a baby, you were the answer to my prayers. And when you were a little boy, remember, I used to sing you to sleep every night. You were the sweetest thing, trying to sing along with me, but you could never carry a tune. That certainly changed. And so did you. As if something happened to you that night you ran away."
　　"It is like the devils are watching me."
　　"Don't believe in fairy tales. The trouble is inside, Henry, with you. Living in your own head." She patted my hand. "A mother knows her own son."
　　"Have I been a good son, Mom?"
　　"Henry." She rested her palm against my cheek, a gesture from my childhood days, and the grief over losing my score abated. "You are who you are, for good or ill, and no use torturing yourself with your own creations. Little devils." She smiled as if a fresh thought had entered her mind. "Have you ever thought whether you're real to them? Put those nightmares out of your head."
　　I stood to go, then bent and kissed her good-bye. She had treated me kindly over the years, as if I had been her own son.
　　"I've known all along, Henry," she said.
　　I left the house without asking.
　　
　　
　　I resolved to confront them and find out why they were tormenting me. To flush out those monsters, I would go back into the woods. The Forest Service provided topographical maps of the region, the areas in green indicating woodland, the roads drawn in meticulous detail, and I laid a grid over the likely areas, dividing the wilderness into manageable plats. For two days, despite my loathing for the forest and my aversion to nature, I explored a few of those squares, looking for their lair. The woods were emptier than when I lived there—the occasional hammering of a woodpecker, skinks sunning themselves on rocks, the raised white flag of one deer running away, and the lonesome hum of greenbottle flies. Not much life, but plenty of junk—a swollen copy of Playboy; a four-of-hearts playing card; a tattered white sweater; a small mound of empty cigarette packages; a canteen; a tortoiseshell necklace on a pile of stones; a stopped watch; and a book stamped Property Of County Library.
　　Aside from the dirt on its cover and the slight musty odor to its pages, the book was intact. Through the mildewed pages, the story revolved around a religious fanatic named Tarwater or Tearwater. I gave up reading novels in childhood, for their artificial worlds mask rather than reveal the truth. Novelists construct elaborate lies to throw off readers from discovering the meaning behind the words and symbols, as if it could be known. But the book I found might be just the thing for a fourteen-year-old hellion or some religious misfit, so I took it back to the library. Virtually nobody was there on that midsummer day, except for a cute girl behind the counter.
　　"I found this in the woods. It belongs to you."
　　She looked at the novel as if it were a lost treasure, brushed off the grime, and opened the back cover. "Just a minute." She leafed through a stack of stamped cards. "Thank you, but this has not been checked out at all. Did you forget?"
　　"No," I explained. "I found it, and wanted to return it to the rightful owners. I was looking for something else."
　　"Maybe I can help you?" Her smile reminded me of so many other librarians, and a small twinge of guilt poked me in the ribs.
　　I leaned close and smiled at her. "Do you have any books on hobgoblins?"
　　She skipped a beat. "Hobgoblins?"
　　"Or fairies. Imps, trolls, sprites, changelings, that sort of thing?"
　　The girl looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. "You shouldn't lean on the desk like that. There's a card catalog right over there. Alphabetical by subject, title, or author."
　　Rather than providing shortcuts to useful information, one search begat another, and the curiouser and curiouser I got, the more rabbit holes popped open. My search for fairies resulted in forty-two titles, of which a dozen or so might be useful, but that search branched off into goblins and hobgoblins, which in turn branched off to abnormal psychology, child prodigies, and autism. Lunchtime had come and gone, and I felt lightheaded and in need of some air. At a nearby convenience store I bought a sandwich and a bottle of pop, and I sat on a bench by the empty playground, contemplating the task before me. There was so much to know, so much already forgotten. In the relentless sunshine I fell asleep, waking up three hours later with a nasty sunburn on one arm and the left side of my face. From the library's bathroom mirror stared a person divided in two, half of my face pale, the other half crimson. Exiting past the young librarian, I tried to keep my profile two-dimensional.
　　My dream returned in full detail that night. Tess and I spoke quietly on the deck of a local pool. A few other people milled about in the background, sunning themselves or diving into the cool water. As wallflowers: Jimmy Cummings, Oscar Love, Uncle Charlie, Brian Ungerland. All the librarians in bikinis.
　　"How have you been, my love?" she teased. "Still chased by monsters?"
　　"Tess, it's not funny."
　　"I'm sorry, but no one else can see them, sweetheart. Only you."
　　"But they're as real as you and me. What if they come for Edward?"
　　"They don't want Eddie. They want you." She stood up, tugged at the bottom of her suit, and jumped in the pool. I plunged in after her, shocked by how cold the water felt, and frog-kicked my way to the middle. Tess swam to me, her body becoming more streamlined and graceful, and when the top of her head broke the surface, her hair was plastered against her scalp. As she stopped and stood, the film of water ran off her face, parting like a curtain to reveal not her face at all, but a hobgoblin's face, horrid and frightening. I blanched and hollered involuntarily; then she changed right back again to her familiar self. "What's the matter, love? Don't you know I know who you are? Tell me."
　　I went back to the library, hunted for a few of my titles, and sat down at a corner table. The research, especially on hobgoblins, was wrong in virtually every particular and no better than myth or fiction. Nobody wrote accurately about their habits and customs, how they lived in darkness, spying on human children, looking for the right person with whom to make the change. There was not one single word about how to get rid of unwanted visitors. Or how to protect your child from every chance and danger. Lost in these fairy tales, I became hypersensitive to the stillness of my surroundings, jarred by the sounds I that penetrated the silence. At first the noises appeared to be the random shufflings of another patron languidly turning pages, or one of the librarians, bored out of her mind, pacing the corridors or sneaking outside for a smoke. Soon every minute sound intensified in the mind-numbing quiet.
　　Someone breathed deeply and regularly, as if asleep, the noise emanating from an indeterminate direction. Later I heard a rasping in the walls, and when I asked the cute librarian, she said it was only mice, but the scrabbling was scratchier, like a fountain pen racing across a pad of paper. That evening, someone began singing tunelessly to himself from the lower depths. I followed the melody to a spot in the children's section. Not a soul around, I lay down, pressed my ear to the floor, and ran my fingers along the ancient carpet, catching my thumb on a hard bump, like a hinge or a bent nail. Carefully cut and nearly indiscernible, a carpet square had been glued to the spot, covering a panel or hatch below, and I would have pried it open, but the passing librarian startled me by clearing her throat. With a sheepish grin, I stood up, mumbled an apology, and went back to my corner. Convinced that something lived beneath the building, I brooded over how to catch him and make him talk.
　　Next morning, my books were in disarray, titles scrambled out of alphabetical order and all my bookmarks missing. They had been spying on me again. For the rest of the day I pretended to read, while actually listening for any noises from below, and once I wandered back to the children's section. The carpet square had been slightly raised above the surface. On my hands and knees, I tapped on the panel and realized that a hollow space existed beneath the floorboards. Maybe one or more of the fiends toiled below, hatching plots and tricks to further savage my life. A slight red-haired boy whistled behind my back, and I quickly stood, stamped down on the lid, and went away without a word.
　　That boy made me anxious, so I went out and stayed on the playground until the library closed. The young librarian noticed me on the swing set, but she turned away and pretended not to care. Alone again, I searched the grounds for evidence. If they had followed me to the library, they must have dug a hole or found a secret entranceway into the building. On my third trip around the building, in the shadows of the sun, I saw him. Behind the back stairs, he squeezed out through a crack in the foundation like a baby being born and stood there for a moment, blinking in the fading light. Afraid that he might attack me, I looked left and right for an escape route. He ran directly at me, as if to seize my throat in his jaws, and then darted away as quickly as a bird in flight, too fast for me to see him clearly, but there is no doubt who it was. A hobgoblin. When the danger passed, I could not keep from laughing.
　　Nervous for hours, I drove around and found myself at my mother’s place near midnight. While she slept upstairs, I crept through the house gathering supplies: a carpet knife, an iron crowbar, and a coil of strong rope. From the old barn, I stole my father's ancient kerosene camping lamp, its wire handle dusty and cold to the touch. The wick sputtered when I tried to light the lamp, but it came to life and suffused the long-neglected corner with an unearthly glow.
　　Insomnia gripped me those last few hours, my mind and body p fusing rest until the deed was done. In the predawn gloom, I went back and memorized the layout of the building, figuring out step by step what I was going to do. Patience nearly deserted me. The goblin might have been spooked, so I went about my business as if nothing had ever happened. I spent the day reading a book about remarkable children, gifted savants whose minds were damaged in such a way that they could see the world only through a sole window of sound or mathematics or another abstract system. I would press the hobgoblin for the story of what had really happened to Gustav Ungerland and to me.
　　But more than any explanation, I simply and desperately wanted my symphony back, for I could not write a note knowing it was gone. Nothing would stop me from making him return the score. I would reason if I could beg if I must, or steal it back if need be. By now, I was no longer something wild and dangerous, but I was committed to restoring my life.
　　Unmistakable noises stirred beneath the floor all day. He was back. As the library emptied, I napped in the front seat of my car. Sultry August heat poured in through the windows, and I dozed off longer than intended. The stars had risen, and that short nap had energized me. I slung the rope around me like a bandolier, took out the tools, and skulked over to the side window. There was no telling how far below lay their underworld. Wrapping my fist in a towel, I punched through the glass, unlocked the window, and crawled through the opening. The stacks loomed like a maze of tunnels, the books watching my every movement through the darkness as I crept to the children's section. Anxious, I spent three wooden matches attempting to light the kerosene lantern. The oily wick smoked and at last caught flame. My shirt clung to my sweaty back, and the heavy air made breathing difficult. With the knife, I cut away the carpet square and saw that it had been glued atop a small trapdoor, easily pried open with the crowbar. A perfect square separated our two worlds.
　　Light filtered up from below and revealed a cramped room strewn with blankets and books, bottles and dishes. I bent down for a closer look and stuck my head through the hatchway. As quick as a striking snake, his face appeared in front of mine, not inches from my nose. I recognized him at once, for he looked exactly as I had as a young boy. My reflection in an old mirror. His eyes unmasked him, all soul but no substance, and he did not move but stared back silently without blinking, his breath mingling with mine. He expressed no emotion, as if he, too, had been waiting for this moment and for it all to be over.
　　This child and I were bound together. As boys dream of growing into men, and men dream of the boys they once were, we each took measure of the other half. He reminded me of that nightmare long ago when I was taken, and all at once my long-held fears and anger broke through the surface. The lantern ring bit into my fingers, and my left eye twitched with tension. The boy read my face and flinched. He was afraid of me, and for the first time I regretted what I had taken from him and realized that, in feeling sorry for him, I grieved for my own stolen life. For Gustav. For the real Henry Day. His unknowable life. For all I could have with Tess and with Edward. My dream of music. And who was I in this equation but the product of my own division? What a terrible thing to have happened to such a boy.
　　"I'm sorry," I said, and he vanished. Years of anger dissipated as I stared at the space where he used to be. He was gone, but in that brief moment we’d faced one another, my past had unspooled deep inside my mind, and I now let it go. A kind of euphoria raced through my blood, and I took a deep breath and felt myself again.
　　"Wait," I called out to him, and without thinking I turned and slid feet first through the opening, and landed in the dust. The space below the library was smaller than anticipated, and I bumped my head on the ceiling when I stood. Their grotto was but a murky shadow, so I reached up for the lantern to better see. Hunched over, I searched with the firelight for the boy, hoping he might answer a few questions. I wanted nothing more than to talk to him, to forgive and be forgiven. "I'm not going to hurt you," I cried out in the darkness. Wrestling free of the rope, I laid it and the carpet knife on the ground. The rusty lantern creaked in my hand as the light swept the room.
　　He crouched in the corner, yapping at me like a trapped fox. His face was my own fear. He trembled as I approached, eyes darting, searching for an escape. Candlelight illuminated the walls, and all around him on the ground lay stacks of paper and books. At his feet, tied in a strand of twine, a thick sheaf of handwritten pages sat next to my purloined score. My music had survived.
　　"Can't you understand me?" I held out my hand to him. "I want to talk to you."
　　The boy kept eyeing the opposite corner as if someone or something were waiting there, and when I turned to look, he rushed past me, knocking into the lamp as he ran. The rusted wire snapped, sending the lamp flying, shattering the glass on the stone wall. The blankets and papers ignited at once, and I snatched my music from the flames, beating it against my leg to extinguish the wisps of fire along the margins. I backed my way to the overhead entrance. As if fixed to the spot, he stood gazing up in amazement, and just before climbing out of the hole, I called for him a final time: "Henry—"
　　His eyes went wide, searching the ceiling as if discovering a new world. He turned to me and smiled, then said something that could not be understood. By the time I got upstairs, a fog of smoke rose through the hole below. It followed me through the broken window just as the flames began to lick the stacks of books.
　　
　　
　　After the fire, Tess saved me. Distraught over the damage I had done, I moped about the house for days. The destruction of the children's section was not my fault, although I deeply regretted the loss of all the books. The children will need new stories and fairy tales to see them through their nightmares and daydreams, to transfigure their sorrows and fears at not being able to remain children forever.
　　Tess and Edward arrived home from her cousin's just as the police were leaving. It seems I was regarded as a person of suspicion, for the librarians had reported my spate of frequent visits and "erratic behavior." The firemen had discovered the lantern in the ashes, but there was no way to link back to me what had once been my father's. Tess accepted my feeble explanations, and when the police came around again, she told them a little white lie, saying that we had spoken over the phone on the night of the fire and she remembered quite clearly having woken me from a deep sleep. Without any proof, the matter faded. The arson investigation, as far as I know, proved inconclusive, and the blaze passed into local lore, as if the books themselves had suddenly burst into flames.
　　Having Tess and Edward back home those few weeks before school started was both reassuring and unnerving. Their mere presence in the house calmed my fragile psyche after the fire, but there were times when I could barely look Tess in the eye. Burdened with guilt over her complicity, I searched for some way to tell her the truth, and perhaps she guessed the reasons for my growing anxiety.
　　"I feel responsible, in part," Tess told me over dinner. "And helpless. As if we should do something about rebuilding." Over our lamb chops, she outlined a plan to raise money for the library. The details arrived in such waves that I knew Tess had been contemplating the matter since the day of her return. "We'll start a book drive, too, and you can make your concert a benefit for the children."
　　Stunned and relieved, I could raise no objection, and over the next weeks, the bursts of activity overwhelmed my sense of decorum and privacy. People boxed up their fairy tales and nursery rhymes, and swarmed through the house at all hours with cartons of books, stacking them in the studio and garage. What had been my hermitage became a beehive for the well-intentioned. The phone rang constantly with offers to help. On top of the hubbub over the books, planning for the concert interrupted our peace. An artist came by to show poster designs for the concert. Advance tickets were sold from our living room. On a Saturday morning, Lewis Love and his teenaged son, Oscar, showed up with a pickup truck, and we loaded the organ in the back to install it in the church. Rehearsals were scheduled for three nights a week, and the students and the musicians constructed it measure by measure. The giddy pace and hum of life left me too exhausted to consider my conflicted emotions. Swept up in the motion Tess had created, I could only truly function by concentrating on the music as the date for the performance drew near.
　　
　　
　　From the wings, I watched the crowd file into the church for the benefit premiere of The Stolen Child on that night in late October. Since I was performing on the organ, I had passed the conductor's baton to Oscar Love, and our old Coverboys drummer Jimmy Cummings was on timpani. Oscar had rented a tuxedo for the occasion and Jimmy had cut his hair, and we seemed much too respectable versions of our former selves. A few of my fellow teachers from Twain sat together in the back rows, and even one of the last remaining nuns from our grade school days attended. Ebullient as ever, my sisters showed up in formal wear, pearls at their collars, and they flanked my mother and Charlie, who winked at me as if to impart a dose of his abundant confidence. I was most surprised to see Eileen Blake escorted by her son Brian, who was in town for a visit. He gave me a momentary fright when they arrived, but the more I studied him, the less he could be compared rationally with Edward. My son after all, and thank goodness, he takes after his mother in every respect but appearance. With his hair tamed, and dressed up in his first suit and tie, Edward looked like another boy altogether, and seeing the foreshadowing of the man my son will become one day, I felt both pride and regret over the brevity of childhood. Tess could not stop grinning that crooked smile of hers, and rightfully so, for the symphony I had promised to write long ago was nearly hers.
　　To let in some fresh air on the crisp autumn night, the priests had cracked the windows, and a light breeze crossed the altar and the nave. The organ had been positioned at the apse because of the acoustics, and my back was to the audience and the rest of the small orchestra as we took our positions; from the corner of my eye, I could see only Oscar as he tapped and tensed the baton.
　　From the very first notes, I was determined to tell the story of how the child is stolen and replaced by someone else, and yet both the child and the changeling persist. In place of the usual distance and separation from the audience came a sense of connection through performance. They were stilled, hushed, expectant, and I could feel two hundred pairs of eyes watching. I concentrated to the point where I could let go and play for them rather than satisfy myself. The overture teased out the symphony's four movements: awareness, pursuit, lamentation, and redemption, and at the moment when I lifted my hands from the keys and the strings took up the pizzicato to indicate the arrival of the changelings, I felt his presence nearby. The boy I could not save. And as Oscar waved me in for the organs interplay, I saw the child through an open window. He watched me play for him, listened to our music. As the tempo slowed in the second movement, I took more chances to watch him watching us.
　　He was solemn-eyed, listening intently to the music. During the dance of the third movement, I saw the pouch slung over his shoulder, as if he were preparing for a journey. The only language available to us was the music, so I played for him alone, forgot myself in its flow. All through the movement, I wondered if anyone else in the church had seen that strange face in the window, but when I looked for him again, there was nothing but black night. At the cadenza, I realized he had left me alone in the world and would not return.
　　The audience rose as one when the last notes of the organ expired and they clapped and stomped for us. When I turned from the window to the thundering of friends and family, I scanned the faces in the crowd. I was almost one of them. Tess had lifted Edward to her side to join in joyful bravos, and caught off guard by their exuberance, I knew what must be done.
　　By writing this confession, Tess, I ask for your forgiveness so that I might make it all the way back to you. Music took me part of the way, but the final step is the truth. I beg you to understand and accept that no matter what name, I am what I am. I should have told you long ago and only hope it’s not too late. My years of struggle to become human again hinge upon your belief in me and my story. Facing the boy has freed me to face myself. As I let go the past, the past let go of me.
　　They stole me away, and I lived for a long, long time in the forest among the changelings. When my time to return came at last, I accepted the natural order. We found the boy Day and made the change. I did my best to ask his forgiveness, but perhaps the child and I are too far gone to reach each other anymore. I am no longer the boy I was once upon a time, and he has become someone else, someone new. He is gone, and now I am Henry Day.

    “这魔鬼从不呼吸。”据说作曲家柏辽兹这样说过管风琴，但我发现事实正相反。弹琴的时候，我觉得活力充沛，人琴合一，好似呼吸着音乐一般。泰思和爱德华来乐室听我不断扩充篇幅的乐曲，演奏结束后，我儿子说：“你弹琴的节奏和我的呼吸合拍。”在过去的一年里，我把所有空闲的时间都用来写交响乐，不断地把它从一首欲望之曲改为坦白之曲，探索着怎样才能编织出一种容我解释的感觉。我觉得，只要泰思能听一听我音乐中的故事，她肯定会理解和宽恕我的。在乐室里，我在琴键上寻找慰藉。锁上房门，拉好窗帘，就又有了安全感。音乐中，我失去自我，又找到自我。
　　到了春天，我组织起了一个小型管弦乐队——来自迪尤肯的弦乐手，卡内基美隆的定音鼓手，还有几个当地乐手——等曲子完成，就可以把它演奏出来。六月，爱德华读完一年级后，泰思带他去她堂姐潘妮家过了两周，为的是可以让我独自在家完成交响乐。这件作品是关于一个困陷在沉默中的孩子，音乐无法从他的想像中逸出，他生活在两个世界中，内在生活和外在真实毫无联系。
　　在奋斗多年寻找失窃的孩子的音乐后，我终于完成了。乐谱摊放在管风琴上，五线谱上的潦草音符具有数学般的美丽和精确。两个故事同时叙述——内在的生活和外在的世界用对位法配合旋律。
　　我不是将一个和音叠加在和它对称的那个上面，因为这不是事实。
　　有时候，我们的思想和梦想比我们其他的经历都来得真实，而另些时候，我们身上发生的事情使我们所能想像的一切为之失色。我写谱的速度跟不上头脑里的声音，音符一个个从内心深处流淌出来，仿佛半个我在作曲，半个我在做记录员。我只好用速记法记录曲子，调配各种乐器——这种事情要演练上几个月才能臻于完美——但最初把交响乐的骨架写下来的过程却让我心力交瘁，好似刚从梦中醒来。
　　它那一丝不苟的逻辑大异于通常的语言规则，但对我来说似乎正是我一直想要写的东西。
　　那天下午五点，天热得让人疲惫，我到厨房拿了一瓶啤酒，边喝边上楼，打算先冲个澡，再喝一瓶啤酒，吃了晚饭，然后回头工作。卧室的壁橱里，泰思原来放衣服的地方空荡荡的，这让我想起了她，我多希望她能在这里与我一同分享突然进发的创造力和大功告成的那一刻。我刚开始洗热水澡没多久，就听见楼下“哗啦”
　　一声巨响。我水龙头也没关就出来，在腰间围了条毛巾，匆匆下去看个究竟。起居室的一扇窗户被打破了，碎玻璃在地毯上撤得到处都是，窗帘在微风下轻轻拂动。
　　我半裸着滴水的身体，莫名其妙地站在那里，突然一下不和谐的钢琴声吓了我一跳，好像有只猫从琴键上走过，但乐室空荡沉寂。我到处查看。
　　乐谱失踪了——不在我原来放它的桌子上，也没有掉到地上，哪里都没有。窗户敞开着，我跑过去查看草坪。一片孤零零的纸页被一股轻风推动，在草地上飘荡，但其他什么都没有。我怒火冲天地咆哮起来，在房间里走来走去，一脚踢到了钢琴腿上，痛得在地毯上跳来跳去，差点就踩上了一块碎玻璃，这时候又一声巨响从楼上传来。
　　我的脚疼痛难当，又上到楼梯平台，生怕家里会有什么东西，还担心我的手稿。
　　我的卧室里没有人。我儿子房间又打碎了一扇窗，但玻璃没有掉在地上。屋顶上的碎片说明窗户是从里往外打破的。为了让自己冷静下来，我在他床边坐了片刻，他的房间和他去度假那天一样。想到爱德华和泰思，我突然伤心起来，我该如何解释交响乐谱丢失了呢? 没有曲子，我又该如何坦白自己真实的本性? 我拉扯着湿漉漉的头发，直拉得头皮发痛。在我心目中，我的妻子、儿子和音乐被编成了一条链子，而这链子如今眼看就要散开了。
　　浴室里，莲蓬头洒个不停，水汽蒸腾到走廊上，我跌跌撞撞地穿过雾气，去把水关掉。厨镜上．，有人用手指在雾蒙蒙的镜面上写道：我们知道你的秘密。抄在上头的一个又一个音符是我乐谱的第一个节拍。
　　“你们这些小混账。”我自言自语道，留言从镜子上渐渐消失。
　　在度过一个不安和孤独的夜晚后，天刚亮我就开车去母亲家。
　　她没有马上来应门，我想她可能还睡着，就走到窗边朝里张望。她从厨房里看到我站在那儿，就微笑着招手让我进去。
　　“门从来不锁的，”她说，“你怎么会在一周的当中来了? ”
　　“早上好。难道一个伙计不能来看看他最好的姑娘吗? ”
　　“哦，你说起谎来真是不眨眼。要来一杯咖啡吗? 我给你煎两个蛋怎么样? ’
　　’她在炉子边忙着，我坐在厨房桌边，桌面上斑斑点点的都是锅子和水壶留下来的印痕，还有刀痕，以及一排排浅浅的写过信的字痕。晨光让我想起了我们第一次共用早餐的光景。
　　“抱歉我这么长时间没去应门，”她在咝咝响的炉子边上说，“我在和查理打电话。他去了费城，去处理一些零碎的事情。你一切都好吗? ”
　　我差点想把一切都告诉她，从那晚我们带走他儿子开始，追溯到那个德国小男孩被换生灵抓走，直到乐谱被窃走的事。但她看起来饱经忧虑，承受不起这样的招供了，泰思也许还受得了，但这件事会伤了母亲的心。但不管怎样，我需要找个人，哪怕临时拉个人来，跟他说一说我过去犯的错，还有将来会犯的罪。
　　“我最近压力很大。看到了一些东西，疑神疑鬼的，就像噩梦缠身似的。”
　　“心神不宁是良心不安的迹象。”
　　“见鬼了。我要把原因弄明白。”
　　“你还在襁褓中时，你是我祈祷的回应，你小时候，还记得吗，我每天晚上唱歌哄你入睡。你是最甜美的孩子，想和我一起唱歌，但你唱不出音调。那当然变了。
　　你也变了。好像自从那晚你离家出走后，你出了什么事。”    ．“好像魔鬼们在盯着我。”
　　“别相信童话故事。问题在心里，亨利，问题在你身上。活在你自己的头脑中。”
　　她拍了拍我的手，“母亲了解自己的儿子。”
　　“我是一个好儿子吗，妈? ”
　　“亨利。”她将手掌抚在我脸颊上，这是我自幼就熟悉的动作，于是，失去乐谱的痛苦减轻了，“你就是你，不管是好是坏，拿你自己创造的东西来折磨自己是没用的。小魔鬼们。”她微笑起来，仿佛有了一个新想法，“你有没有想过你对他们来说是不是真实的呢? 把这些噩梦从你脑子里赶走吧。”
　　我站起来俯身和她吻别。这些年她待我很好，就像我是她的亲生儿子一样。
　　“我一直都知道，亨利。”她说。
　　我离开屋子，什么都没问。
　　我决心面对他们，我要知道他们为何要折磨我。为了赶跑这些魔鬼，我要回到森林中去。林业管理局提供了本地的地形图，绿色地带是林地，马路勾勒得很仔细，我在可能的地方画上方框，把深山老林划分成一块块可以琢磨的区域。整整两天，虽然我厌恶森林，憎恨大自然，还是搜索了几块地方，寻找他们的老窝。森林比我居住的当年空荡多了——偶尔听到啄木鸟的敲打声，看到在石头上晒太阳的小蜥蜴，竖起白旗逃跑的鹿，还有发出寂寞的嗡嗡声的绿头苍蝇。生命迹象不多，垃圾却是满地——一本胀了水的《花花公子》，一张红心扑克牌，一件破烂的白色T 恤，一小堆空烟盒，一个军用水壶，一条放在一堆石头上的乌龟壳项链，一块停了的手表，还有一本敲着“县图书馆所有”的书。
　　除了封面上有点泥土，书页里有股淡淡的霉味外，这本书完好无损。它发霉的纸页讲述了一个名叫塔瓦特或逖亚瓦特的宗教狂热者的故事。我从孩提时期就不再读小说了，因为小说虚构的世界遮蔽了真实，而不是揭示真实。小说家构织精巧的谎言，让读者去发现字词和象征背后的意义，好像意义真的可以发现似的。不过我找到的这本书或许正适合一个十四岁的混混或某个不信教的人，于是我把它送回了图书馆。仲夏的那天，图书馆里一个人也没有，只有一个站在服务台后面的漂亮女孩。
　　“我在森林里找到这个。这是你们的。”
　　她看着这本小说，好像它是丢失了的珍宝，她清除书上的尘垢，翻开封底。
　　“请稍等。”她翻查着一堆敲过章的卡片，“谢谢你，不过这本书没有被借出过。
　　你忘了借出吗? ”
　　“不是的，”我解释说，“我找到了它，想把它还给失主。我在找别的东西。”
　　“我能帮忙吗? ”她的微笑让我想起其他很多图书管理员，一阵轻微的罪恶感刺痛了我的胸腔。
　　我靠过去朝她微笑，“你有没有关于妖怪的书? ”
　　她停了一拍，“妖怪? ”
　　“或者是仙灵、小魔鬼、北欧小矮人、换生灵，诸如此类? ”
　　女孩看着我，好像我说的是外国语，“你不该这样靠在桌子上。
　　那边有卡片目录，主题、书名、作者都按照字母排序。”
　　这场搜索不是事半功倍地找到了有用的信息，而是又引发了新一轮的搜索，我越来越好奇，跳出来的兔子洞也越来越多。我找仙灵一共找到了42个题目，其中12个左右也许是有用的，但查找又岔到了妖精和妖怪的路子上去，然后又岔到了变态心理学、天才儿童和孤独症。午餐时间已过，我觉得头晕，胸闷气短。我在附近的便利店里，买了一个三明治和一瓶汽水，然后坐在空运动场的长椅上，思索着摆在面前的任务。太多的事情想要知道，太多的事情已被忘掉。
　　在太阳不停的烘烤下，我睡了过去，三个小时后醒过来，手臂和左脸上有了难看的晒斑。图书馆洗手间的镜子里，一个分成两半的人瞪着眼——我的一半脸苍白，另一半脸通红。出门时，经过年轻的图书管理员的身旁，我试图只让她看到我的侧脸。
　　那天晚上，我的梦境带着历历细节回来了。我和泰思在当地一个游泳池岸上悄悄地说话，后面有几个人在转悠，不是晒太阳就是潜在冷冰冰的水里。吉米•卡明斯、奥斯卡•拉甫、查理叔叔、布瑞恩•安格兰德，他们像舞会中无人搭理的女子似的或坐或站。所有的图书管理员都穿着比基尼。
　　“你怎么样，亲爱的? ”她调笑说，“还在被魔鬼追赶吗? ”
　　“泰思，这不好笑。”
　　“对不起，但别人都没看到他们，甜心。只有你。”
　　“但他们就和你我一样真实。万一他们来捉爱德华呢? ”
　　“他们不要艾迪，他们要你。”她站起来，扯了扯臀部的泳装，跃入泳池。我也跟着她跳进去，被这么冷的水吓了一跳，然后蛙泳游到中央。泰思游到我身边，她的身体越发显出线条感，更加优雅了。她把头抬出水面时，头发贴在脑壳上。她停下来站住，一层水从她脸上滑下来，像帘幕一般分开，这不是她的脸，而是一个妖怪的脸，可怕之极。我脸刷地惨白，不由自主地大叫，她立刻又变回了熟悉的样子。
　　“怎么啦，亲爱的? 你难道不知道我知道你是谁吗? 告诉我。”
　　我回到图书馆，找了几本我要的书，坐到角落里的桌子边。这些研究，尤其关于妖怪的研究，其实错误俯拾皆是，不比神话或小说好多少。没有人准确地写过他们的习性和习俗，没写过他们生活在黑暗中，侦察人类小孩，寻找合适的人来交换，也没写该如何避免不速之客上门，又该如何保护你的孩子在任何时候都不遭受危险。
　　我沉浸在这些童话故事中，变得对周遭环境万分敏感，刺耳的声音穿透沉寂。起初这噪音像是另一个读者懒洋洋翻着书时在地上偶然拖一下脚，或是一个图书管理员百无聊赖，在走廊上徘徊或者溜出去吸口烟。但很快，声音每分钟都来一下，在昏昏沉沉的寂静中越来越响。
　　有人做着深长而均匀的呼吸，好像入眠一样。这噪音从一个无法确定的方向传来。后来我听到墙里的摩擦声，我问漂亮的图书管理员，她说只有老鼠，但是刮擦声越来越明显，像是一支钢笔在一叠纸上刷刷地写。那天傍晚，在下面的深处，有人开始给自己唱起没有调子的曲子。我跟着这曲子来到儿童区的某个地方。周围没有人，我躺下来，耳朵贴着地面，手指在旧地毯上摸索，大拇指碰到一个坚硬的突起，好像是一个铰链或是弯曲的钉子。一块正方形的地毯剪裁得很仔细，差点就看不出来，它粘在那里，遮住了下面的一块面板或是一个入口。我正要查看，但一个图书管理员走过来清了清嗓子，把我吓了一跳。我不好意思地一笑，站起来喃喃地道歉，回到自己的角落里去。我确信有什么东西生活在建筑物的下面，考虑着该如何把他抓住，让他招供。
　　次日早晨，我的书乱成一团，题目的字母顺序被打乱了，所有的书签也都丢了。
　　他们又来侦察我了。这天我都在假装看书，实际上却在倾听下面的动静，还去了一趟儿童区。方形地毯稍微有点突了出来。我趴在地上，轻轻拍打面板，发现地板底下是空的。说不定下面有一个或多个魔鬼在干活，策划阴谋诡计来折腾我的生活。
　　一个红头发的瘦男孩在我背后吹了下口哨，我飞快地站起，在翻盖上跺了一脚，一句话都不说就走开了。
　　那男孩把我弄得紧张起来，我就走出去一直待在运动场上，直到图书馆关门。
　　年轻的图书管理员注意到我来来回回好几次，但她转过身，假装无所谓。我又一个人了，我搜查地板寻找证据。如果他们跟踪我到了图书馆，就一定会打个洞，或者找一条通进图书馆的秘密通道。我第三次绕图书馆走时，在太阳的阴影下，我看到了他。在馆后的楼梯后，他像一个婴儿钻出母腹，从地基的一条裂缝里钻出来，在那里站了片刻，在昏暗的光线里眨巴眼睛。我怕他会袭击我，环顾左右想找一条路逃跑。他笔直朝我冲来，像是要用爪子擒住我的喉咙，但接着忽地转弯，如飞鸟般轻捷，快得我还没有看清楚他的样子，但他是谁已经毫无疑问。一个妖怪。危险过去后，我情不自禁地大笑起来。
　　我紧张了几个小时，开车到处转悠，接近午夜时，发现自己到了母亲家。她在楼上睡觉，我偷偷摸摸地进屋子取东西：一把地毯刀，一根铁锹，一圈结实的绳子。
　　我从旧车库里偷了父亲的老煤油露营灯，它的铁丝把手上布满灰尘，触手冰冷。我点起灯，蜡烛芯噼啪直响，不过它总算复苏了，一团怪异的光芒充满了这个长期被忽视的角落。
　　前几个小时我一直睡不着，精神和身体都拒绝休息，除非这件事做好。在黎明前的微光中，我回到了图书馆，想了想建筑物的布局，然后一步一步地规划出该怎么做。耐心差点就弃我而去。妖怪可能会打草惊蛇，所以我忙着自己的事，好像什么都没发生一样。白天我读着一本关于非凡儿童、天才专家的书，他们头脑的某个方面被损坏了，只能通过一扇窗户来看世界，这扇窗户或是声音，或是数学，或是其他抽象体系。我要逼迫这个妖精说出古斯塔夫•安格兰德和我究竟发生了什么事。
　　比得到解释更为迫切的是，我不顾一切地想要拿回我的交响曲，因为丢失了它，我一个音符也写不出来了。为了让他送回乐谱，我可以不择手段。该理论时我会理论，该恳求时我会恳求，该偷的时候我会去偷回来。现在我已经不再是野蛮危险的人了，但我有责任让我的生活一如往昔。
　　毫无疑问，一整天地下那个声音就没停过。他回来了。图书馆里的人都走了以后，我在车子的前座打了个盹。三伏天的热气从车窗里涌进来，我睡着的时间比原先打算的长。星星升起来了，短短的一个盹使我又振作了精神。我像捆弹药带一样，把绳子一圈圈围在腰里，拿出工具，偷偷摸摸地来到边窗下。无法得知他们的地下世界到底有多深。我用毛巾包住手，一拳砸碎玻璃，打开玻璃窗，爬了进去。成排的书架好似迷魂阵般隐隐浮现，一本本的书盯着我在黑暗中蹑足到儿童区的每个动作。在紧张之下，我连划三根火柴才点亮煤油灯。上了油的灯芯冒出烟来，终于蹿出火焰。衬衫贴在我汗湿的背上，沉重的空气使得呼吸困难。我用刀子削去了方形地毯，看到它原来被粘在一扇小小的地板门上，用撬棒就能轻易打开。一个正方形的框子分隔了我们两个世界。
　　亮光透了上来，下面是一个狭窄的房间，乱扔着毯子、书籍、瓶子和碟子。我弯下腰想看个清楚，把头伸进地板门，他的脸突然出现在我面前，速度迅捷犹如一条出击的蛇，离我鼻端不过几寸。我顿时认出了他，因为他就是我小时候的样子，是我从前在镜子里的影像。他的眼睛使他无所遁形，眸子里除了灵魂之外别无其他。
　　他一动不动地默默回视着我，眼睛也不眨动，他的呼吸与我的呼吸混合在一起。
　　他面无表情，仿佛也一直等待着这一刻的到来，等待着一切的结束。
　　这个孩子和我的命运息息相关。孩子们总梦想着长大成人，而大人也怀念着他们曾经有过的童年，我们都在估摸着对方。他让我回想起许久之前我被带走的噩梦，突然之间，我久久压抑的恐惧和愤恨爆发出来。煤油灯的拉环嵌入我的指肉，我的左眼肌肉抽紧变形。
　　孩子看着我的表情，颤了一下。他害怕我，生平第一次，我为自己从他那里取走的东西感到后悔，也意识到我为他难过的同时，也在为自己被偷走的生活而悲哀。
　　为古斯塔夫，为真正的亨利•戴，为他无从得知的生活，为我从泰思和爱德华那里所拥有的一切，为我音乐的梦想。而谁又站在和我对等的位置上，却是我自己的分身? 在这个孩子身上发生过多么可怕的事啊。
　　“对不起。”我说，他消失了。我望着他刚刚待过的地方，多少年的愤怒消却了。他走了，但在那电光石火的一瞬间，我们彼此面对，我的过去在我脑海深处解开了结，我撒手任它离去。我的血液中奔腾着一种欢畅之情，我深深吸了口气，感觉恢复了自我。
　　“等一下。”我冲他喊了一声，不假思索地抬起身，两脚朝下滑进了入口，落在一地灰尘上。图书馆下面的空间比我想像的要小，站起来时我在天花板上撞到了头。他们的洞室中一片昏暗，我只好把煤油灯拿过来看个清楚。我弯着腰，借助灯光寻找这个孩子，指望他能回答几个问题。我只想和他说说话，原谅他，也让他原谅我。“我不会伤害你的。”我在黑暗中大声说。我把绳索解下，连同地毯刀一起放在地上。生锈的煤油灯在我手里吱吱作响，亮光铺满了屋子。
　　他缩在角落里，像头落入陷阱的狐狸一样朝我大喊大叫。他的表情就是我自己的恐惧。我走过去时，他颤抖起来，转动目光想找地方逃跑。灯光照亮了墙壁，他周围的地上堆的都是纸张和书本。在他脚边，用麻绳捆着的是厚厚的一摞手写稿，边上就是我失窃的乐谱。我的音乐还在。
　　“你听得懂我的话吗? ”我朝他伸出手，“我想和你谈谈。”
　　孩子一直看着对面的角落，好像那里有什么人或东西，我转过头去看时，他从我身边跑过去，撞到了煤油灯。生锈的灯绳断了，灯飞了出去，玻璃撞在石头墙上。
　　毯子和纸张立刻就着了火，我从火焰中抢出乐谱，在腿上拍了几下才把页边上的火舌扑灭。我退到顶上的出口处。他却好像被钉在原地似的，满脸惊愕地抬头看着，我爬出洞口前，最后一次叫了他的名字：“亨利——”
　　他的眼睛睁大了，打量着天花板，仿佛发现了新世界。他朝我转过身，微微一笑，说了些听不明白的话。等我到了楼上，一股烟气从下面的洞里升起来，跟着我从打破的窗口出去，火焰舔上了书架上的书。
　　火灾过后，是泰思救了我。我因自己造成的损失郁闷不堪，在家闷闷不乐了几天。虽然火烧儿童区不是我的过错，但我深深地痛惜那些烧掉的书籍。孩子们需要新的小说和童话故事来伴他们度过噩梦和白日梦，来化解他们因无法再当孩子而产生的悲伤和害怕。
　　警察走后，泰思和爱德华就从她堂姐家回来了。我好像成了嫌疑犯，因为图书管理员报告说我老去那里，而且“行动古怪”。消防员发现了灰烬里的煤油灯，但那是我父亲的东西，也无法和我挂上钩。
　　泰思接受了我迁强的解释，警察第二次来时，她跟他们说了个善意的谎言，说那晚火灾时，她正跟我通电话，她清楚地记得自己把我从沉睡中惊醒的。因为没有证据，这件事就不了了之了。据我所知，这起纵火罪没能结案，而当地人传说好像是那些书自己突然着火的。
　　开学前几周，泰思和爱德华待在家里，这让我既安心又惶恐。他们的存在安抚了我火灾之后的脆弱心灵，但有时候我都不敢看泰思的眼睛。我因为她的同谋而深感负疚，就想找个办法来向她坦言事实，而她或许也猜到了我日渐焦虑的原因。
　　“我觉得有部分责任，”泰思吃饭时跟我说道，“但帮不上忙。要不我们为重建图书馆做些什么吧。”她一边吃羊肉，一边提出了一个为图书馆募集资金的方案。
　　这个方案细节备至，于是我知道泰思自从回家后就一直在考虑这件事了。“我们还要发起一次捐书动员会，你可以举办一个音乐会，为孩子们办点好事。”
　　我目瞪口呆，又感到一阵轻松，没有提出异议。此后几周，我一下子活跃起来，抛开了对矜持和私密感的要求，大家用箱子装着他们的童话书和儿歌来了，一天到晚从门口涌入的都是整盒整盒的书，堆进乐室和车库。我隐居的地方成了好心人的蜂窝。电话铃响个不停，都是来自愿提供帮助的。除了书籍惹出的喧嚣，音乐会的策划也打破了我的太平日子。一名艺术家造访我家，拿来了音乐会的海报设计。预订票从我家的客厅里售出去。星期六上午，路易斯‘拉甫和他十几岁的儿子奥斯卡坐着卡车来了，我们把管风琴放到后车厢里，运到教堂里去。排演是每周三个晚上，学生和乐师们一段一段地演练。生活快得晕眩的节奏和嘈杂的声音使得我精疲力竭，也无力再去思量心中斗争的情绪。我被卷入泰思发起的活动中，随着演出日期的临近，只能全心全意地练习音乐。
　　十月末的那个晚上，我看到观众排队从两侧进入教堂，来观看《失窃的孩子》
　　的首场公益演出。因为我要弹管风琴，就把指挥棒交给了奥斯卡．拉甫，我们曾经的“封面男孩”鼓手吉米。卡明斯来敲定音鼓。奥斯卡特地为此租了件晚礼服，吉米也剃了头，跟我们以前的形象相比，现在可是光彩多了。我在特威的几个老师同事坐在后排，甚至我小学里硕果仅存的几位修女也来了。我的妹妹们还是一副热情洋溢的样子，穿着正装，领口别着珍珠，她们的左右分别坐着母亲和查理，查理朝我挤眉弄眼，好像要传达他对我无与伦比的信心。但最让我吃惊的是，艾琳•布雷克也在她儿子布瑞恩的陪同下来了，布瑞思正好回乡探亲。他们进来时，我吓了一跳，但我越是细细地打量他，越是觉得他和爱德华并不相像。谢天谢地，毕竟除了外貌，爱德华处处都像他母亲。他打理了头发，第一次穿上西装打上领带后，看起来就全然是另外一个男孩了。想到儿子终有一日会长成男人，我既骄傲，又感慨童年的短暂。泰思不停地勾唇微笑，那是她的招牌笑容，她也应该笑，因为我很久前就许诺要写的这支交响曲现在快要成为她的了。
　　牧师打开吱吱响的窗户，放入了清爽秋夜里的新鲜空气，一阵微风穿过神坛和中殿。考虑到声效，管风琴放在半圆形的壁龛中，大家各就各位后，我背对观众和其他的乐队成员，用眼角的余光只能看到奥斯卡挥动着指挥棒。
　　音乐一开始，我就决心要讲述一个故事：孩子被偷走、替换，孩子和换生灵都坚持活下去了。不同于通常情况下和观众保持的距离和疏离感，表演中传达着一种紧密相联的感觉。他们敛声屏气地默默等待，我能感受到两百双眼睛的注视，我知道在什么时候可以任情挥洒，为他们演奏，而不是为了取悦自己。序曲表现了交响曲的四个篇章：觉醒、追求、悔恨、拯救。当我从琴键上抬起手，提琴用拨指弹奏来表现换生灵的到来时，我感觉他就在附近。那个我无法拯救的孩子。奥斯卡对我挥手，示意我弹奏管风琴的问奏曲，我从敞开的窗口看到了那个孩子。他看着我为他演奏，听着我们的音乐。第三乐章速度放慢后，我更多次地去看他望着我们的样子。
　　他目光严肃，专心地听着音乐。在第四乐章的舞曲中，我看到他肩上背着包，好像准备远行。我们之间惟一的语言就是音乐，因此我单单为他演奏，在乐曲声中忘了自己。在这一乐章中，我想教堂中是否还有其他人看到窗口这张陌生的脸，但当我再度望向他时，那里只剩下漆黑的夜色。华彩乐段响起，我意识到他已将我独自留在这个世界中，再也不会回来。
　　管风琴最后的音符消散后，观众不约而同地站起，为我们拍手跺脚。我转过身，面向欢声雷动的朋友和家人，扫视着人群中的各个面孔。我几乎是他们中的一员了。
　　泰思把爱德华抱起来一同喝彩，看到他们兴高采烈的样子，我放松了戒备。我知道该做什么了。
　　泰思，我写的这份自白是恳求你的原谅，这样我才能毫无保留地回到你的身边。
　　音乐带我走了一程，但最后一步是真实。我恳求你的理解和接受，无论我叫什么名字，我都是我。我应该很久以前就告诉你，只盼望现在为时未晚。我多年努力再次做人，靠的是你对我和我的经历的信任。面对那个孩子，也让我解脱了束缚来面对自己。
　　我放手过去，过去也放开了我。
　　他们偷走了我，我在森林中和换生灵生活了很长很长时间。当终于轮到我时，我接受了自然的安排。我们找到了男孩戴，和他交换。我已尽力寻求他的原谅，但或许那孩子和我已经走得太远，无法再接近了。我不再是曾经的那个男孩，他也已经变成了另一个人，一个全新的人。他走了，现在我是亨利•戴。
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Chapter 36
　　Henry Day. No matter how many times uttered or written, those two words remain an enigma. The faeries had called me Aniday for so long that I had become the name. Henry Day is someone else. In the end, after our months of watching him, I felt no envy for the man, only a sort of restrained pity. He had become so old, and desperation bowed his shoulders and marked his face. Henry had taken my name and the life I could have lived, and let it run through his fingers. How passing strange to settle on the surface of the world, bound to time and lost to one's true nature.
　　I went back for my book. Our encounter outside the library spooked me, so I waited overnight, and before dawn, through the cranny, I slid into the old darkened room and lit a single candle to show the way. I read my story and was satisfied. Tried to sing the notes of Henry's song. Into one bundle went my manuscript, papers from when I first arrived, and the letter from Speck; and into another, Henry's score. The last of these I planned to leave at his corner table. Our mischief over, the time had come to make amends. Above me, glass crashed, as if a window broke and shattered. An obscene exclamation, a thud to the floor, then the sound of footsteps approaching the hidden trapdoor.
　　Perhaps I should have run away at the first chance. My emotions drifted from dread to excitement, a sensation not unlike waiting at the door long ago for my father's daily return from work to wrap me in his arms, or those first days in the forest when I expected Speck to show up suddenly and relieve my lonesomeness. No such illusions with Henry Day, for he would doubtless not befriend me after all these years. But I did not hate him. I planned my words, how I would forgive him, present his stolen music, give him my name, and bid him farewell.
　　He sawed away at the carpeting to figure out how to get into the crawl-space, while I paced beneath, pondering whether to come to his aid. After an eternity, he found the door and swung it back on its hinges. A spotlight flooded in from above, like sunshine piercing a dark forest. A perfect square separated our two worlds. All at once, he stuck his head in the frame and peered into the blackness. I darted over to the opening and looked him straight in the eyes, his nose not six inches from my own. The sight of him disconcerted me, for no sign of kindness or recognition marked his features, no expression but raw disgust, which twisted his mouth into a snarl, and rage beat out of his eyes. Like a madman, he clambered through the hole into our world—a torch in one hand, a knife in the other, a coil of rope unspooling across his chest—and chased me into the corner. "Keep your distance," I warned. "I can send you from this world in a single blow." But he kept coming. Henry said he was sorry for what he was about to do and lifted the lantern above my head, so I ran right past him. He threw the fire at my back.
　　The lantern glass broke and a blaze spilled out like water over a pile of blankets, and the wool smoldered and burned, flames racing straight for my papers. We faced each other in the smoldering light. As the fire roared and burned brighter, he rushed forward and picked up all the papers. His eyes widened at the sight of his score and my drawings. I reached for the book, anxious only for Speck's letter, and he threw it into the corner for me to retrieve. When I turned around, Henry Day was gone, and his weapons—the rope, the knife, the iron bar—were on the floor. The trapdoor banged closed, and a long, thin crack opened overhead. The flames burst upward, brightening the room as if sun bore through the walls.
　　On the ceiling a picture began to emerge in the interne light. In the ordinary darkness, the surface lines seemed nothing more than random cracks and pockmarks in the foundation, but as the fire reached more fuel, the outlines flared and flickered. The shapes puzzled me, but once I perceived the pieces, the whole became apparent: the ragged East Coast of the United States, the fishlike contours of the Great Lakes, the broad and empty plains, the Rockies, and on to the Pacific. Directly above my head, the black brushstroke of the Mississippi divided the nation, and somewhere in Missouri, her trail crossed the river and raced west. Speck had marked her escape route and drawn a map of the trail to follow from our valley to the western ocean. She must have worked alone in the dark for months or years, arms arched to the ceiling, chipping away at the stone or painting with a rough brush, not showing a soul, hoping for the day her secret would be discovered. Around the outline of the country, she had etched and painted on that rough concrete a constellation of drawings invisible these many years. Hundreds of inscriptions, primitive and childlike, images laid over other images, each story told on i??p of its ancestor. Some of the drawings looked ancient, as if a prehistoric being had been here and left memories like paintings on a cave wall: a flock of crows lighting from a tree, a brace of quail, deer at a stream. She had drawn wildflowers, oxlips, violets, and thyme. There were creatures from her dreams, horned men with rifles and fierce dogs. Sprites and imps and goblins. Icarus, Vishnu, the angel Gabriel. Others as modern as cartoons: Ignatz throws the brick at Krazy Kat, Little Nemo slumbers in Wonderland, Koko jumps out of the inkwell. A mother with a child in her arms. A pod of whales arcing through the waves. Spirals roped into knots, a garland knitted from morning glory vines. The pictures unwrapped themselves in the dancing flames. The temperature rose as in an oven, but I could not save myself from her wild designs. In the darkest corner, she had painted a left hand and a right hand, thumbs overlapping. Her name and mine in a dozen fonts. Two figures raced over a hill; a boy with his hand caught in a beehive; a pair of readers sat back to back on a mountain of books. On the ceiling above the entrance to the outer world, she had carved Come with me and play. The fire sucked in the oxygen, and the rush of air caught my heart and blew it open. I had to leave.
　　I studied Speck's passage west, hoping to commit it to memory. Why had I never before thought to look up? A cinder popped and flew like the devil up under my eyelid. Smoke and heat filled the room, so I gathered McInnes's book and a few other papers and ran to the exit, but my bundle would not fit through the crack. Another pile of blankets ignited, sending a wave of heat that knocked me to my knees. I tore open the package, scattering papers to the floor. Close at hand were Speck's letter and a few stray childhood drawings, which I pressed against my chest; then I squeezed through the opening and into the fresh night.
　　The stars had come out and the crickets were fiddling madly. My clothing smelled of soot, and many of the pages had been scorched at the edges. The ends of my hair had been singed off, and every inch of bare skin throbbed, red, as if sunburned. Pain shot through the soles of my bare feet with each step, but I knew enough to get away from a burning building, dropping a few more pages at the door as I ran toward the woods. The library groaned once, and then the floor collapsed upon the grotto and thousands of stories went up in flames. From a green hideaway I heard the sirens of the fire engines coming to fight the bonfire. Tucking the papers into my shirt, I started the long trip home, remembering the mad look in Henry's eyes and all that had been lost. In the complete darkness, fireflies flashed their semaphores of longing.
　　Speck made it, I am sure, from here to there, and lived on a rocky shore, the bright Pacific her daily companion as she gathered mussels and clams and crabs from tidal pools, slept on the sand. She would be brown as a berry, her hair a tangle of knots, her arms and legs strong as ropes from swimming in the sea. In one long breath, she would exhale the story of her journey across the country, the pines of Pennsylvania, the cornfields and wheatfields and soybeans of the Midwest, sunflowers of Kansas, up the steep pitch of the Divide, summer snow in the Rockies, Painted Desert beyond, and finally ocean in view, oh joy! And then: What took you so long? And I would give her my story, this story and Henry Day's, until in her arms again I slept. Only through imagining could I bear the pain. Such a dream drew me homeward step by tortured step.
　　The other faeries took kind care of me upon my return to camp next morning. Onions and Béka scoured the woods for balm to soothe my blistered feet. Chavisory limped off to the cistern and drew a jug of cool water to quench my thirst and wash the ash from my skin and hair. My old friends sat beside me to hear the adventure and to help me salvage my literary remains. Only a few scraps from the past survived to prove that it had once existed. I told them all I could remember about Speck's map on the ceiling and the art she had left behind, hoping to store it in the collective consciousness of the tribe.
　　"You'll simply have to remember," said Luchóg.
　　"Rely upon the mind, for it is a complicated machine inside your skull." Smaolach said. "I can still recall exactly how I felt when I first saw you
　　"What the memory loses, imagination re-creates." Chavisory had been spending far too much time with my old friend.
　　"Sometimes I don't know whether life's strange turns happened or I dreamed them, or if my memory remembers what is real or the dream."
　　"A mind often makes its own world," said Luchóg, "to help pass the time."
　　"I'll need paper. Do you remember when you first got me some paper, Luchóg? That kindness I'll never forget."
　　From memory, I transferred Speck's map on the ceiling to the back of her letter, and in the weeks that followed, I asked Smaolach to find me a detailed map of the country and any book he could about California and the Pacific Ocean. She might be anyplace along the northern coast. There was no certainty that I would find her in the large, wide land, but the possibility sustained me as I began again. My feet healed as I sat quietly in our camp, writing every day outdoors while the heat of August gave way to the cool weeks of early autumn.
　　As the maples flamed to yellow and red, and the oaks to crispy brown, a strange sound drifted now and again from the town and over the hills to our camp. Emanating from the church on still nights, the music arrived in starts and fits, broken now and again by other sounds—traffic on the highway, crowds roaring at Friday night football games, and the chatter of noise that intrudes upon modern life. Running like a river, the music forked through the forest and spilled down from the ridge into our glen. Entranced by the sudden sound, we would stop to listen, and mad with curiosity, Luchóg and Smaolach set out to find its source. They came back breathless with news one late October night.
　　"Stay just a short while, a stoirín, and it will be ready."
　　By the light of the fire, I was lashing a leather strap to my travel pouch. "And what will be ready, my friend?"
　　He cleared his throat, and when he still did not get my attention, he coughed again, but louder. I looked up to see him grinning and Luchóg holding an unrolled poster almost as big as himself. All but his hands and feet had disappeared behind the broadside.
　　"You have it upside down, Luch."
　　"Surely you can read it any which way," he complained, and then he righted the poster. The concert at the church was scheduled for two days hence, and I was struck by not only the tide but, underneath it, a small woodcut engraving of two figures in flight and pursuit.
　　"Which one is the faery, and which is the child?"
　　Smaolach considered the artwork. "No matter what you think, you're just as likely to be right as wrong. But you'll stay for the symphony? Composed by Henry Day, and him playing the organ as well."
　　"You can't miss that," Luchóg argued. "Another day or two, and the journey is just as long."
　　We footed our way through the dark forest, a last bit of mischief together, taking bold delight in coming close yet not being seen. On the night of the concert we hid in the graveyard as the people filed into the church, and the opening notes of the symphony soared through the windows and echoed among the stones. The prelude announced his grand themes, ending in a long solo on the organ. He played beautifully, I'll admit, and we were drawn closer, rising one by one from behind the gravestones to stand next to the church windows. Béka wrapped his arms around Onions, and whispered in her ear. When she began to laugh at his joke, he clamped a hand against her mouth till she sputtered for breath and then kept still. Chavisory mimed the role of conductor, her hands tracing arcs and waves in the sky. My old cronies, Luchóg and Smaolach, leaned against the church wall and smoked, staring at the night stars.
　　Cinching my bag across my shoulders—I carried my book in it everywhere now—I made my way around to a rear window and dared look in. Henry had his back to the audience and rocked as he played the organ, fierce concentration written on his face. When he closed his eyes and moved in time with the rise and fall of the notes, he was lost. The strings alone took up the next measures, and he saw me through the window, but the peaceful look never left his face. Henry was transformed, younger than before, more like a man than a monster. I would think on him no longer and soon be gone, but whether or not he realized I intended to leave, I can never know.
　　The crowd in the pews was transfixed by the small orchestra, and I am quite sure that had anyone spotted me looking through the window, they would have rushed past the altar and out into the churchyard. So I had the rare chance to study their faces from afar, recognizing at once Henry's wife and son, Edward, in the front row. Thank goodness I had convinced Béka and Onions to leave that child alone. Most of the other people were strangers to me. I kept hoping to see my sisters, but, of course, they are still ageless children in my memory. An older woman, holding her fingers against her lips as she listened, seemed to glance my way once or twice, and when she did so, she reminded me of my mother, the last I shall see of her. Some part of me desired to crawl through the opening and run to her, to feel her hand against my cheek, to be held, to be known by her, but my place is not among them. Goodbye, my dear, I whispered to her, sure that she could not hear, but hoping that somehow she understood.
　　Henry kept smiling and playing, and like a book the music told a story that seemed, in part, a gift—as if, in our only common language, he was expressing what beat in his heart. Some sorrow, perhaps, some remorse. It was enough for me. The music carried us in two directions, as if above and below; and in the interludes, the spaces between the notes, I thought he, too, was trying to say goodbye, goodbye to the double life. The organ breathed and laid sound upon sound, and then exhaled into silence. "Aniday," Luchóg hissed, and I shrank from the window to the ground. A beat or two, and the crowd burst like a thunderstorm. One by one, we faeries rose and disappeared into the falling darkness, gliding past the gravestones and back into the forest, as if we had never been among the people.
　　
　　
　　Having made amends with Henry Day, I am ready to leave come tomorrow. This version of my story has not taken nearly as long to re-create. I have not been concerned with putting down all the facts, nor a detailed explanation of the magic, as far as I understand such things, of the people who lived in secret and below. Our kind are few, and no longer deemed necessary. Far greater troubles exist for children in the modern world, and I shudder to think of real and lurking dangers. Like so many myths, our stories will one day no longer be told or believed. Reaching the end, I lament all those lost souls and those dear friends left behind. Onions, Béka, Chavisory, and my old pals Smaolach and Luchóg are content to remain as they are, indifferent children of the earth. They will be fine without me. We all go away one day.
　　Should by chance any of you see my mother, tell her I cherish her every kindness and miss her still. Say hello to my baby sisters. Kill their chubby cheeks for me. And know that I will carry you all with me when I leave in the morning. Heading west as far as the waters to look for her. More beats than blood in the heart. A name, love, hope. I am leaving this behind for you, Speck, in case you return and we somehow miss each other. Should that be so, this book is for you.
　　I am gone and am not coming back, but I remember everything.

    亨利•戴。无论说过、写过多少回，这两个词仍然是一个谜。仙灵们唤我安尼戴那么久，我已经成为了这个名字。亨利•戴另有其人。最后，在我们观察了他几个月后，我不再嫉妒这个人了，只是对他稍感同情。他变得这么老，绝望弯下了他的腰，刻上了他的脸庞。
　　亨利拿走了我的名字和我本该享有的生活，并让它从指尖溜走了。
　　居住在这个世界的表面是如此奇怪，束缚于时间，迷失了本性。
　　我回去拿我的书。图书馆外的相遇吓坏了我，为此我等了一晚上，在黎明前才从裂缝钻进老暗室里，点亮一支蜡烛来照路。我读着自己的故事，感到满意，试着哼唱起亨利曲子的音调。我把自己的手稿、自从第一次来后攒下来的纸，还有斯帕克的信捆成一束，亨利的乐谱捆成另一束。剩下的一些我打算留在房间角落里他的桌子上。
　　我们的恶作剧结束了，时间已经给了我补偿。上面的玻璃发出“哗啦”一声，像是窗户打碎了撒了一地。一声令人作呕的惊呼，门“砰”
　　的一响，随后脚步声朝隐藏的地板门而来。
　　或许我应该在第一时间逃跑。但我从害怕变得激动起来，这种感觉很像很久以前每天在门口等父亲下班回家，等他用双臂抱住我，也像在森林中最初的那些日子，期待着斯帕克突然出现，安慰我的寂寞。我对亨利•戴没有这类幻想，这么多年后，他无疑并不会与我为友。但我不恨他。我准备好了要说的话，我会宽恕他，递上他失窃的乐谱，告诉他我的名字，然后和他道别。
　　他在锯这块毯子，要找出进入这个小窝的办法，我在下面踱步，考虑是否该帮他的忙。过了很久，他找到了门，提起铰链把它打开了。灯光从上面泻下来，仿佛阳光穿透黑森林。一个正方形分割了我们两个世界。突然间，他的头探入方框，朝黑暗中张望。我冲到入口处，直直地看着他的眼睛，他的鼻子离我的鼻子不过六寸。
　　他的样子使我不安，因为他脸上没有任何友善与认识的迹象，只有狠戾的憎恶，他的嘴唇扭曲着像要发出怒吼，怒火从他眼中进射出来。他像一个疯子似的从洞口爬入我们的世界——一只手里拿着火把，另一只手里拿着刀子，胸口还挂着一圈绳子——然后把我赶到角落里。“走远点，”我警告他说，“我一拳就能把你从这里打出去。”但他还在过来。亨利为他将要做的事情道歉，把灯举到我头顶上，我从他右边跑过去。他把火朝我背后扔过来。
　　灯玻璃碎了，火焰像水一般泼在一堆毯子上，羊毛冒烟起火，火光直奔我的纸张而去。我们在烟雾弥漫的亮光中两两相望。火焰咆哮着烧得更亮了，他冲上前捡起所有的纸张。看到他的乐谱和我的画，他的眼睛睁大了。我伸手要拿书，只担心斯帕克的信，他把它扔到角落里，随我去拿。我转过身时，亨利•戴已经走了，他的武器——绳索、刀子和铁棒——都在地上。地板门“砰”的一下关了，但上头还开着一道长长的窄口子，火焰往上烧，把整个房间照得亮堂堂的，犹如太阳洞穿了墙壁。
　　强光之下，天花板上出现了一幅画。通常在黑暗中，那上面的线条看起来不过是地基上的一些裂缝和斑点，但当火苗烧得更旺，轮廓也明亮起来，闪闪发光。这个形状让我困惑，但我看懂了一些片段后，整个也都清楚了：美国凹凸不平的东海岸，五大湖的鱼形轮廓，辽阔空荡的平原，落基山脉，一直到太平洋。在我头顶的正上方，墨笔画出的密西西比河将国土一分为二，在密苏里州的某个地方，她的轨迹跨越河流，一直向西。斯帕克标明了她的出走路线，画下了从我们山谷到西海岸的地图。她一定独自在黑暗中干了几个月甚至好几年，胳膊弯向天花板，在石头上一点一点地刻，或用粗糙的毛笔来画，她不给别人看，希望有朝一日她的秘密能被发现。在国家的轮廓线外，她还在坚硬的水泥上刻画了大量图画，这么多年来我都没有看到。她刻了好几百幅图画，画样原始，孩子气十足，图画重叠着图画，故事写在前一个故事之上。有些画看起来很古老，像是史前人类在这里用壁画形式留下了记忆：树上飞起的一群乌鸦、一对鹌鹑、溪边的鹿。她画了野花、樱草、紫罗兰和百里香。这里有她梦中的东西，长角的人带着步熗和猛狗。精灵、小魔鬼和妖精。
　　伊卡洛斯、毗湿奴和加百利天使。还有现代卡通：依格奈及鼠朝疯狂猫扔砖头，小尼莫睡在奇境中，可可从墨水池里跳出来。一个抱着孩子的母亲。
　　一群鲸鱼跃出波涛。牵牛花藤缠绕着编织的花环。图画在舞动的火焰中一一展现。温度已经热得像烤炉，但我没法从她异想天开的设计中离开。在最黑暗的角落中，她画了一只左手和一只右手，大拇指对在一起。十二种字体写着她的名字和我的名字。两个人在山上跑，一个男孩的手插在蜂窝里，一对读者背靠背坐在堆积如山的书籍上。通往外界入口的天花板上，她刻了“和我一起来玩”这几个字。
　　火焰吮吸着氧气，奔腾的空气冲入我的心中，吹开了我的心。我得离开了。
　　我细看斯帕克往西的路线，希望能把它记在脑子里。为什么我从来都没想过要抬头看一看呢? 一片灰烬爆裂开来，在我眼皮下像魔鬼似地飞舞。烟气和热度充满了整个房间，我收好麦克伊内斯的书和其他几张纸，跑到出口处，但我的包裹却塞不出裂缝。另一块毯子着火了，热浪将我掀倒在地。我撕开包裹，纸头散了一地。
　　手边是斯帕克的信和几张散落的小孩图画，我把它们按在胸口，然后从裂缝中挤了出去，外面是清凉的夜晚。
　　星星已经出来了，蟋蟀疯狂地拉着弦。我的衣服有股焦味，许多书页的边缘有焦痕，我的发尾烤焦了，裸露的皮肤到处都发痛发红，好像被晒伤似的。每走一步，疼痛就从光秃秃的脚底蹿上来，但我还知道要赶紧离开着火的建筑物，我跑向森林时，又丢了好几张纸。图书馆呻吟了一声，地穴上的地板沉陷下去，几千册故事书付之一炬。我躲藏在绿林中，听到消防车拉响警报过来救火了。我把纸张藏在衬衫底下，开始漫长的回家之路，想着亨利眼中疯狂的神色和所有丢失的东西。在一片漆黑中，萤火虫忽闪着它们表达渴望的旗语。
　　我肯定斯帕克做到了。从这里去到那里，然后生活在布满礁石的海岸上，明丽的太平洋与她日日为伴，她在退潮后的水潭里寻找贻贝、蛤蜊和蟹，睡觉就在沙滩上。她会像莓果一样地黑，头发纠结成团，胳膊和大腿因为在海里游泳而如绳子般结实。她深深吸一口气，就能呼出她横越国家的经历：走过宾夕法尼亚州的松林，走过中西部的玉米地、小麦田和大豆田，走过堪萨斯州的向日葵，走过大峡谷的深沟险壑，落基山脉夏天的皑皑白雪，还有彩色荒漠，终于看到了大洋，哦，多么快乐啊! 然而，你为何姗姗来迟? 我会把我的故事讲给她听，这个故事和亨利•戴的故事，一直讲到我再次睡倒在她怀里。
　　只有如此想像，我才能忍受疼痛。这个梦想支撑着我一步步艰难地朝家走去。
　　次日早晨我回到营寨，仙灵们对我关怀备至。奥尼恩斯和贝卡走遍森林找来香膏涂在我起泡的脚上。卡维素芮一瘸一拐地去水池汲来一壶凉水，浇灌我焦渴的喉咙，洗去我皮肤和头发上的烟灰。我的老朋友们坐在我身边听我讲这次历险，帮我抢救我仅存的文学作品。过去的一切，只有几小片存留了下来，还能证明它曾经存在过。
　　我把我所能记得的斯帕克画在天花板上的地图和她留下的艺术品都告诉他们，希望能把它存在大伙儿的集体意识中。
　　“你是要记住的。”鲁契克说。
　　“要靠脑子，它是你头颅里一架精密的机器，”斯茂拉赫说，“我仍然能准确地想起来我第一眼看到你的感觉。”
　　“记忆丢失了什么，想像会再次创造出来。”卡维素芮和我的老朋友待在一起太久了。
　　“有时候我不知道生活中的奇怪变故是当真发生过呢，还是我想出来的，也不知道我记得的事情是真实的呢，还是梦中的。”
　　“头脑常常会创造自己的世界，”鲁契克说，“为了帮忙消磨时光。”
　　“我需要纸。你还记得第一次给我弄来纸头吗，鲁契克? 我永远不会忘记你的好意。”
　　我把斯帕克天花板上的地图从记忆中画到她信的背面，此后几周，我让斯茂拉赫给我找国家的详细地图，还有任何他能找到的关于加州和太平洋的书。她可能在北海岸的任何地方。我无法确定我能在如此广阔的土地上找到她，但可能性使我一开始就坚持了下去。
　　我每天都静静地坐在营寨的户外写作，我的脚伤痊愈了，炎热的八月也渐渐过渡到了凉爽的早秋。
　　当枫叶燃烧成红黄色，橡树叶也变成松脆的棕色，一种奇怪的声音不时地从镇子飘过山岭，传到我们营寨。寂静的夜里，音乐从教堂发出，响响停停，不时被其他声音打断——高速公路上的交通声，周五晚上橄榄球赛观众的狂呼声，还有侵入现代生活的絮絮叨叨的杂音。音乐犹如一条长河，在森林中分流而来，从山岭上漫溢下来，一直淌到我们的峡谷中。听到这突如其来的声音，我们都愕住了，驻足倾听，好奇得不能自已。鲁契克和斯茂拉赫出发去寻找声源，十月末的一个晚上，他们上气不接下气地带着消息回来了。
　　“再呆上一阵，小宝贝，快要准备好了。”
　　我正在火光下用皮带捆扎我的旅行包。“什么快要准备好了，朋友? ”
　　他清了清嗓子，发现还是没有引起我的注意，又响亮地咳嗽了一声。我抬起头看到他满脸堆笑，鲁契克则举着一张平铺的海报，那几乎和他一样大。除了手脚，他的整个身子都遮没在海报后面。
　　“你拿反了，鲁奇。”
　　“反正你怎么都能看。”他抱怨一声，把海报倒过来。教堂音乐会定于两天后举行，吸引我注意的不仅是这个标题，还有标题下面的木版画，画中两个人在打斗追逐。
　　“哪个是仙灵，哪个是孩子? ”
　　斯茂拉赫想了想这幅艺术品，“无论你怎么想，你都有可能既对且错。不过你会留到去听交响乐吧? 是亨利作的曲，他还要表演管风琴呢。”
　　“你不能错过这个，”鲁契克说服我说，“再等一两天而已，旅途长着呢。”
　　我们最后一次一起淘气，走进了黑森林，挨得很近但没被人发现，心里充满勇气和欢欣。音乐会当晚，我们躲藏在墓地里，人们排队进入教堂，交响曲的开场音符从窗口翱翔出来，在墓石间回荡。序曲宣告了他的宏伟主题，最后是长长的一段管风琴独奏。我承认，他弹得很美，我们走过去，一个接一个从墓石后面站起，来到教堂窗边。
　　贝卡搂着奥尼恩斯，在她耳边低语。她被他的笑话逗得大笑，他把手掌捂在她嘴上，直到她拼命喘气，安静下来。卡维素芮模仿着指挥者，双手在空中挥舞出弧线和波线。我的亲密老友，鲁契克和斯茂拉赫，靠在教堂墙上抽烟，望着满天繁星。
　　我紧握着肩上的包裹背带——我现在到哪里都带着我的书——绕到一扇后窗，壮胆朝里看。亨利背对着观众，摇晃着身子弹奏管风琴，脸上是聚精会神的表情。
　　当他合上眼，与起伏的音符一起运动时，他沉迷其中。下面几节只有弦乐器演奏，他从窗口看到了我，但平静的表情并没有离开他的脸。亨利变了，比以前年轻了，更像一个人，而不是魔鬼。我不会再想他，也快要走了，至于他是否知道我打算离开，我就不得而知了。
　　教堂靠背长椅上的听众都被这小型音乐会迷住了，但我非常肯定如果有人发现我在窗外观看，他们一定会冲过圣坛，跑到墓地里来的。因此我只有极少的机会远远地瞧他们几眼，我一下子认出了坐在第一排的亨利的妻子和儿子爱德华，谢天谢地我说服了贝卡和奥尼恩斯放过这孩子。其他大多数人我都不认识，我很希望能看到妹妹们，但当然啦，她们在我记忆中仍然是长不大的孩子。一位年长的妇人听音乐时用手指按着嘴，似乎有一两次朝我这边看来，这个动作使我想起了母亲，这是我最后一次见她了。我几乎想爬进窗口，向她奔去，把脸放在她手中，让她抱住我，认出我，但我的位置并不在他们之中。再见，亲爱的，我悄悄对她说，明知她听不到，还是希望她能懂。
　　亨利微笑着弹琴，音乐犹如一本书，述说着一个似乎是作为礼物的故事——仿佛他用我们共同的语言传达了他的心声。有点悲哀，也许，有点悔恨。对我而言足够了。音乐将我们送往两个方向，好像一个在上，一个在下，在间奏曲中，在音符的空隙中，我觉得他也想说再见，作别双重生活。管风琴呼吸着，送出一个个声音，然后归于沉寂。“安尼戴。”鲁契克低声说，我从窗口下到地面。停了一两秒，人们欢声雷动。我们这些仙灵一个接一个站起来，消失在降临的黑暗中，飘过墓石，回返森林，好似从未处身于人类之中。
　　我已经和亨利•戴两不相欠了，打算明天就走。这个版本的故事写的时间没有再创作那么长。我不想把所有的事情都写下来，也不想详细解释我所了解的法术，更不想细说隐居在地下的人们。我们这一族人数寥寥，已无足挂齿。现代世界中，孩子们的麻烦多得多，一想到真正潜伏着的危险，我就不寒而栗。如同众多的神话故事，我们的故事终有一日不会再被讲述，也不会再有人相信。到了最后，我哀悼所有失去的人，怀念所有留下来的亲爱朋友。奥尼恩斯、贝卡、卡维素芮，还有我的老伙计斯茂拉赫和鲁契克也满足于原来的生活方式。他们是这世上的芸芸众生。
　　没有我，他们也会过得很好。
　　有朝一日我们都会离去。
　　如果你们有机会碰到我母亲，告诉她我珍守着她所有的爱心，永远想念着她。
　　对我的小妹妹们问个好，为我吻一吻她们胖乎乎的脸蛋。要知道我早晨离开时，是带你们同行的。一直往西，到水边去寻找她。心脏里搏动的不止是血液。名字、爱、希望。我把这个留给你，斯帕克，万一你回来，我们或许会彼此思念。如果是这样，这本书送给你。
　　我走了，不会再回来，但我记得一切。
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