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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第10章|Chapter 10

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[19098]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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满月在伊格尔的脑袋后面饰起一圈光晕，这让我模模糊糊地想起教堂里的圣人和偶像。他身边站着鲁契克。两人都穿着外出的夹克和鞋子抵御严寒。

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“安尼戴，起来穿好衣服。今天早晨你和我们一起去。”

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“早晨? ”我揉着惺忪的睡眼，“现在是半夜啊。”

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“太阳很快就升起来了。你最好赶快。”鲁契克建议说。

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我们沿着树林深处的小径潜行，像兔子一样蹦跳自如，爬过荆棘丛，驰过土地，毫不停留。云朵飘过月下，地貌或隐或现。小径横过空荡荡的马路，我们的足音响起在人行道上。我们箭一般穿过空地，穿过农田中成排的庄稼，玉米秆子沙沙低吟，又经过一个在夜色中显得尤其巨大的谷仓，还有一幢被变幻不定的月光染成黄色的农舍。

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我们飞奔过去时，一头母牛在牛棚里哞了一声，一条狗吠了一下。过了农场，又是另一片树林，另一条马路，接着我们从一座高得令人目眩的桥上越过溪流。到了对岸，伊格尔带领我们钻入一条和马路平行的沟渠，我们蹲在沟盖底下。天色亮起来，变成深紫色。有台机器啉哧Ⅱ扑哧地响起来，不久一辆送奶车从上面的路面上经过。

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“我们出来得太晚了，”伊格尔说，“他现在更加小心了。安尼戴，今天早上我们要考考你在多大程度上已经成了我们自己人了。”

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我朝马路上望去，只见那辆送奶车停在镇外一栋沉寂的平房前，旁边是一家小百货商店，门前有台汽油泵。穿得一身白的送奶工从驾驶座上下来，提着篮子走向边门，然后轻快地回来，手里两只空瓶和铁丝网撞得叮当响。我被这幅场景吸引住了，差点忘了要跟上跑在前头的同伴。在一个距离加油站不到十米的涵洞中，我追上他们，他们正在窃窃私语，指指点点，策划着可怕的阴谋。在逐渐聚起的光线下，我们要的东西开始显出轮廓。汽油泵顶上，一只咖啡杯像白色灯塔一般闪闪发亮。

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“去拿那个杯子，”伊格尔下令说，“别被人看见。”

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朝阳赶跑了浓浓的夜色，我再迟疑下去就有可能会被发现。这是个简单的任务，只需跃过草地和人行道，抓住杯子，然后跑回我们的藏身处即可。但恐惧让我动弹不得。

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“脱掉鞋子，”伊格尔建议说，“他们听不到你。”

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我脱下低帮鞋，向汽油泵跑去，它红色翅膀的马达拱向天空。我一把抓住杯子，正要往回跑，没想到却听见一种声音，我僵立当场。

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玻璃彼此碰撞的声音。我想像着加油站主人去牛奶箱取奶瓶，却发现汽油泵那边有异样的动静，大声叫我站住。但此事没有发生。一扇纱门“吱吱”打开，又“砰”地关上。我咽了口唾沫，跑回同伴身边，如获大胜地举起杯子。

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“你干得很好，小宝贝。”

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“你在空地上耽误时间时，”——伊格尔垂下目光——“我去拿牛奶了。”

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瓶口已经打开。伊格尔没有把半寸厚的奶皮摇晃下去，他先给我倒了一些，然后我们三个像酒鬼一样把半加仑的牛奶灌进喉咙，在晨光下干杯。冷牛奶沉入我的胃中，胀起我的肚皮，使得我整个上午都和小偷同伙们在沟渠里酣然大睡：中午我们睡醒后，小心翼翼地朝镇上走去，在阴影中躲躲藏藏，一看到人就停下脚步。我们只在看起来无人的地方和屋子里停留，到处探查、偷窃、搜寻。我们三个翻过一堵矮石墙，从一棵梨树上偷了大把的水果。每咬一口都是甜蜜的罪恶，摘了太多吃不完，我绝不想扔掉梨子，但我们还是把大部分丢过墙头，扔回果园，让它们在太阳下腐烂。在干洗店的晾衣绳上，我们每个人取了一件干净清洁的衬衫，我为斯帕克偷了件白色套衫。鲁契克从一双袜子里拿了一只放进口袋。“传统。”他咧嘴嘻笑，“每个洗衣日都会丢袜子的秘密。”

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天光渐渐淡去，拿着书背着包的孩子们出现了，再过一两个小时，父亲们开着大汽车来了。我们等待太阳落山，之后灯光明灭，人们互道晚安，房屋没入黑暗，犹如一个个泡沫漂入排水沟。有些灯亮着，大概是某个孤独的人夤夜读书，或是失眠的人在四处徘徊，或是健忘的单身汉。伊格尔就像战场上的将军，研究这些时间的标志，然后我们开进街道。

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我已有多年未曾透过橱窗玻璃朝玩具店里张望了，也有多年未曾感受到砖角的粗糙表面。镇子仿佛另一个世界，但我每走过一个地方，都有如潮的联想和回忆。

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在天主教教堂门前，我听到幻想中的唱诗班在唱拉丁文。理发店前纹丝不动的旋转灯让我想起金缕梅花水的味道和剪刀的“咔嚓”声。街角的信箱让我想起情人卡和生日卡。我的学校勾勒出一幅画面：数十成百的孩子们从敞开的大门中涌出来，为暑假而欢呼。虽然如此熟悉，街道却让我心生不安，整洁的角落、笔直的线条、沉重而死寂的围墙，还有窗户清晰的界限。重复的建筑像耸立的迷宫一样逼来。各种标志、词语、警告——“停车”，“此处用餐”，“当日干洗”，“你应该买一台彩电”——没有造就任何神话，只让我无动于衷地去读它们不变的信息。最后，我们到达目的地。

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鲁契克爬上一扇窗子，从一个看起来过小过窄的地方滑了进去。

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他像老鼠过门缝一样把自己缩扁。伊格尔和我站在小巷子里保持警惕，他听到前门的锁轻轻一响，就带我上楼梯去店里，他打开门，鲁契克朝我们淡淡一笑，伊格尔摸了摸他头发。我们悄悄地走进成排货物，经过阿华田和宝科，装在亮色箱子里的谷类，罐头蔬菜、水果、鱼、肉。每种新食品都诱惑着我，但伊格尔不允许任何拖延，他轻声命我“马上来这儿”。他们蹲在底层货架的袋子边，伊格尔用他锋利的拇指指甲一划，就撕开了一个。他舔了舔指尖，蘸了点粉末尝了尝。

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“呸……面粉。”

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他移了几步，又干了一回。

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“更糟……是糖。”

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“店员会杀了你。”鲁契克说。

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“打扰一下，”我插嘴说，“我识字的。你在找什么? ”

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鲁契克看着我，仿佛这是他听过的最荒谬的问题。“盐，伙计，盐。”

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我指着底层货架，发现即使不懂语言，也可以凭借画面来识别：一个衣着老式的姑娘站在伞下，后面撒着一路盐。“天雨盐撒。”我说，但他们好像不明白我的意思。我们尽量地把帆布背包装满，从前门离开商店，说到这顿瑞典式自助餐，我们可是把东西干掉了不少。

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我们的重荷使得回家的旅程更为漫长辛苦，直到天亮才到营寨。我后来发现，这些盐是用来保存鱼肉，以备缺货的时节使用，但在当时，我只觉我们搜遍了整个海洋寻宝，却带着一箱沙子回港。

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斯帕克拿到新套衫时，瞪大双眼，又惊又喜。她脱掉穿了数月的破烂运动衫，把套衫举到头顶，两条胳膊像鳗鱼一般滑了进去。她一丝不挂的肌肤昙花一现，我心头一跳，调转视线。她坐在毯子上，两条腿蜷在臀下，让我也坐在她身边。

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“哦，伟大的猎人，把你拜访旧世界的经历告诉我。说说你的遭遇和英勇行为。

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给我讲个故事。”

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“没什么好多说的。我们去商店弄盐。我看到了学校和教堂，我们还喝了一瓶牛奶。”我从口袋里拿出一只软软的、过熟的梨子，“我还把这个带回来了。”

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她把梨放在地上，“再告诉我一些。你还看到了什么? 那个世界给你什么感觉?”

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“就像我同时记住又忘记了那样。我走到灯光下时就有了影子，有时候是好多个影子，但一走到圆圈外面，影子就消失了。”

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“你以前见过影子。灯光越明亮，影子就越明显。”

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“那是一种奇怪的光线，而且那个世界里充满了笔直的线条和边角。他们围墙的角落看起来和刀子一般锋利。那不真实，有点吓人。”

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“那只是你想像的蒙蔽。把你的印象写到你的书里吧。”斯帕克抚摸着套衫的褶边，“说到书，你看到图书馆了吗? ”

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“图书馆? ”

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“他们放书的地方，安尼戴。你没有看见图书馆? ”

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“我已经全忘了。”但我们说着说着，我就能想起一摞摞陈旧的书，发出“嘘嘘”声的图书管理员，俯着身子阅读的安静的男人和专心的女人。我母亲带我去过那里。我母亲。“斯帕克，我曾经去过那里。他们让我把书带回家，看完再带回去。

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我有一张纸卡，把我的名字写在书背后的小纸片上。”

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“你记得。”

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“但我不记得我写了什么。我没写‘安尼戴’。”

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她拿起梨子，查看软下去的地方，“给我拿把刀来，安尼戴，我把它切成两半。

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如果你是好样的，我就带你去图书馆看那些书。”

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我们不像以往那样半夜出发，而是在一个秋高气爽的十月中午走出营寨，没有和他们道别。鲁契克、斯帕克和我走那条去镇上的老路，但我们优哉游哉的，像逛公园，只想在黄昏后到达街道就行。一条宽阔的高速公路将树林隔断，我们得等一段较长的无车时间。我借机巡视一辆辆的汽车，看那个红衣女子会不会开车经过，但我们的视点距离公路太远，没法看清司机。

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镇外的加油站上，两个男孩骑着自行车围着汽油泵转圈，绕着懒洋洋的弧线，在余晖下享受最后的乐趣。他们的母亲叫他们吃晚饭，我还没有看清她的脸，她就在关起的门后消失了。鲁契克打头，我们排成一列穿过公路。正走到柏油马路中间，他顿住脚朝西面竖起耳朵。我什么都没听到，但骨子里却感觉到危险正如夏季的暴风雨飞速接近。我们迟疑了一刻，就丢了先机。狗从黑暗中跳出来，差点就要扑到我们身上了，斯帕克抓住我的手叫道：“跑! ”

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两条狗分别追赶我们，龇着牙，吠声和咆哮声响成一片。较大的那条是肌肉发达的牧羊犬，它追着鲁契克，鲁契克朝镇子方向飞奔。

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斯帕克和我跑回树林：一头猎犬汪汪叫着追我们。我们跑到树丛中，她一把将我拉了上去，我离地有两米时才意识到自己在爬一棵小无花果树。斯帕克回身对着狗，狗朝她扑去，但她一个侧步，抓住它后颈，把它丢进了灌木丛。那条狗在半空中大叫，落地时砸断了树枝，极其痛苦而困惑地挣扎站起。它回头看了看这个女孩，尾巴夹在腿间溜走了。

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德国牧羊犬从公路的另一个方向奔来，在鲁契克身边亦步亦趋，好似一只养了很长时间的宠物。他们在我们面前齐步停下，那条狗摇着尾巴，舔起鲁契克的手指。

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“你还记得上一位换生灵吗，斯帕克? 那个德国男孩。”

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“你不应该提到……”

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“血淋淋的狗牙他能派得上用处。我逃命的时候突然想到，我们那个伙计曾经唱过一首古老的催眠曲。”

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“晚安? ’他唱道：“晚安，晚安，玫瑰带给你。”那条狗低鸣起来。鲁契克在它头顶打了一下，“音乐能使野兽安静下来。”

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“是心灵，”她说，“那句话是这样的：‘音乐有抚慰粗野心灵的魅力。”

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“别告诉他，”鲁契克突然喊道，“再见，宝贝。回家去吧。”狗跑开了。

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“这太可怕了。”我说。

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鲁契克装出一副毫不在意的样子，卷起一支烟，“还有更可怕的。

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人类更可怕。”

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“假如我们碰到人，就装哑巴，”斯帕克教导说，“他们会把我们当成一帮孩子，叫我们回家。我说话时你就点头，但什么都别说。”我环顾空荡荡的马路，有点盼望能遇见一个人，但似乎所有的人都在家里，吃晚饭，给孩子洗澡，准备睡觉了。在许多家中，有种怪异的蓝色光芒从里面透出来。

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图书馆庄严地坐落在一个绿树成荫的街区中间。斯帕克的动作就像是她以前多次走过这条路，上锁的门轻而易举地被攻下了。

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鲁契克带我们绕到后面的楼梯，指着主墙体上水泥裂开形成的一道缝。

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“我觉得我没法钻进去。我的头太大了，身体也没那么瘦。”

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“鲁契克是只老鼠，”斯帕克说，“看着他，跟他学。”

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他告诉我让骨骼变软的秘密。窍门是要像老鼠或蝙蝠那样思考，只是想着自己能变得多软。“第一次会痛的，伙计，好事情开头都这样，但除此之外别无他法。

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这是信念的问题，还有练习。，，他从缝隙中消失了，斯帕克跟他进去，长长地呼了口气。从那个狭小的地方挤进去让我痛得无言以表，额角上的擦伤过了几周才痊愈。把自己变软后，我得记着让自己的肌肉绷紧一段时间，否则胳膊或腿就有变形的危险。但鲁契克毫发无损，他练出来的，这样挤压已经习以为常了。

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图书馆下面爬行的通道黑黢黢的，有种不祥之感，斯帕克擦亮一根火柴，火焰燃烧起希望。她把火苗碰了碰烛芯，蜡烛又点亮了防风灯，闻起来有股霉味和煤油味。每点亮一次，房间的进深和样子就更为清晰。建筑物的后室建筑在一个缓坡上，因此地面从我们的入口往上倾斜，入口可以相当舒服地站着，但在对面墙下，要休息只能坐着。我没法告诉你，我在对墙的天花板上撞了多少次脑袋。这个房间是偶然造起来的，是在老图书馆大楼下增加设备时形成的一个空间。因为不是造在同一个地基上，这个房间夏季比外边热，而冬季寒冷砭骨。在灯光下，我看到有人已经添设了一些温馨的东西——一个垫子做成的吊床，几个饮料容器，西北角上，还有一个用废弃的毯子做成的安乐椅似的东西。鲁契克开始拨弄他的烟囊，斯帕克说如果他定要吸烟，就得出去。他喃喃抱怨着从缝隙中溜出去了。

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“安尼戴，你觉得怎么样? 有点土气，但还是……文明。”

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“这太棒了。”

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“你还没有看到最好的地方。那是我带你来的全部理由。”斯帕克示意我跟上，我们快速从斜坡走到后墙。她探手上去转动一个旋钮，天花板上掉下一块板。她顷刻间就从洞I=I 翻了上去，离开了。我跪在原地，等她回来，抬眼看着空荡荡的地方。突然间，她的脸出现在方框里。

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“你来吗? ”她低声说。

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我跟她进了图书馆。下面房间暗淡的光线在室内消散了，但我仍然能够看清楚，我的心朝这个景象飞扑而去——一排接着一排，一个书架叠着一个书架，从地板到天花板，整整一个书城。斯帕克转过身问我：“现在，我们应该先读什么呢? ”

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The full moon created a halo behind Igel’s head and evoked the memory of saints and icons in the church I could barely remember. By his side stood Luchóg. Both were dressed for travel in jackets and shoes to ward off the frost.

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读书笔记

是否公开

我的读书笔记

仅对会员开放

网友的读书笔记

仅对会员开放
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"Aniday, get up and get dressed. You’re coming with us this morning."

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读书笔记

是否公开

我的读书笔记

仅对会员开放

网友的读书笔记

仅对会员开放
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"Morning?" I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "It’s the middle of the night."

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"The sun’ll be up in no time. You’d best be quick," Luchóg advised.

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We stole along the hidden trails through the forest, leaping like rabbits, scrambling through brambles, covering ground with great speed and no pause. Clouds passed beneath the moon, first hiding and then revealing the landscape. The trail led across empty roads, our feet sounding on the pavement. We darted through open spaces, through a field of cornstalks that rustled and hummed as we rolled between rows, past a barn big against the dark sky and a farmhouse yellow in the skittish moonlight. In her stall, a cow lowed at our fleeting presence. A dog barked once. Past the farm, another patch of trees, another road, and then we were crossing a stream from the dizzying height of a bridge. On the far side, Igel led us into a ditch that paralleled the road, and we crouched low in its cover. The sky began to lighten to a deep violet. An engine coughed and soon a milk truck passed by on the road above.

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"We started too late," Igel said. "He’ll have to be more careful now. Aniday, this morning we will test how far you’ve come to being one of us."

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Looking down the road, I spied the milk truck stopping at a dreary bungalow on the outskirts of town. Next door stood a small general store with a single gasoline pump out front. The milkman, all in white, descended from his perch and carried his basket to the side door, returning briskly with two glass empties that clinked against the wire. Caught up in the scene, I nearly forgot to follow my comrades as they slithered ahead. I reached them in a culvert not ten yards from the gas station, and they were whispering and pointing in dire conspiracy. The object of desire began to take shape in the gathering light. Atop the pump, a coffee mug shone like a white beacon.

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"Go get that cup," Igel ordered. "Don’t be seen."

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The rising sun pushed away the deeper hues of the night, and any hesitation on my part risked discovery. It was a simple task to sprint across the grass and pavement, grab the cup, and dash back to our hiding place. Fear held me back.

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"Take off your shoes," Igel advised. "They’ll never hear you."

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I slipped off my brogans and ran to the pump, its red-winged horse vaulting toward the heavens, and I grasped the mug and turned to go, when an unexpected noise froze me to the spot. Glass on glass. I imagined the station owner reaching into the milk box, detecting a peculiar motion at the gas pump, and hollering to stop me. But no such thing happened. A screen door whined and closed with a bang. I swallowed and trotted back to my comrades, holding up the mug in triumph.

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"You done well, little treasure."

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"While you dallied in the open"—Igel stared down—"I went ahead for the milk."

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The bottle was already open. Without shaking down the half-inch of cream, Igel poured me some first, and we washed down the half-gallon like three drunkards, toasting the dawn. Cold milk settled into my stomach, swelling my belly, causing me to swoon and drowse away the morning with my fellow thieves in a ditch.

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At midday, we woke from our slumber and moved closer to town in measured steps, hiding among the shadows, halting at the hint of any people. Stopping only at places that appeared to be empty, homes with nobody inside, we pried, snooped, and hunted. The three of us clambered over a low stone wall and stole armloads of fruit from a pear tree. Each bite was a sweet sin, and we took far more than we could eat. I hated to abandon the pears, but we tossed most of them back over the wall and into the orchard, leaving them to rot in the sun. From a clothesline of drying laundry, we each took a clean, fresh shirt, and I swiped a white sweater for Speck. Luchóg pocketed one sock from a hanging pair. "Tradition." He grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "The mystery of the missing sock from every washing day."

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As daylight began its slow fade, the children appeared with their books and satchels, and an hour or two later came the fathers in their big automobiles. We waited for sundown, and after that, lights on and lights out. Good-nights begot goodnights, and houses popped into darkness like bubbles in a chain. Here and there a lamp burned, betraying perhaps some lonesome soul reading past midnight or a wandering insomniac or forgetful bachelor. Like a battlefield general, Igel studied these signs of time before we moved out into the streets.

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Years had passed since I’d last looked through the storefront window of the toy shop or felt the rough surface of brick corners. The town felt other-worldly, yet I could not pass by a single place without experiencing a flood of associations and memories. At the gates of the Catholic church, I heard Latin raised by a phantom chorus. The motionless candy cane in front of the barbershop brought back smells of witch hazel and the clip of scissors. Mailboxes on the corner reminded me of valentines and birthday cards. My school conjured a picture of children streaming out by the dozens from its doubledoors, screaming for summer. For all their familiarity, however, the streets unsettled me with their neat corners and straight lines, the dead weight of walls, the clear boundaries of windows. The repetitive architecture bore down like a walled maze.　The signs and words and admonitions—STOP, EAT HERE, SAME DAY DRY CLEANING; YOU DESERVE A COLOR TV—did not illuminate any mystery, but only left me indifferent to reading their constant messages. At last, we came to our target.

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Luchóg climbed up to a window and slipped through a space that seemed much too small and narrow. He collapsed like a mouse going under the door. Standing in the alleyway, Igel and I kept lookout until he heard the soft click of the front lock; he guided us up the stairs to the market. As he opened the door, Luchóg gave us a wan grin, and Igel tousled his hair. Silently, we proceeded down the row of goods, past the Ovaltine and Bosco, cereal in bright boxes, cans of vegetables, fruit, fish, and meat. Every new food tempted me, but Igel would not allow any delay, and he ordered me in a whisper to "come here right now." They crouched by bags on the bottom row, and Igel ripped one open with a slice of his sharp thumbnail. He licked his fingertip, dipped it in the powder, then tasted it.

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"Bah ... flour."

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He moved a few paces and repeated the procedure.

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"Worse ... sugar."

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"That stuff will kill you," Luchóg said.

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"Excuse me," I interrupted, "but I can read. What are you looking for?"

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Luchóg looked at me as if the question was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard. "Salt, man, salt."

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I pointed to the bottom shelf, observing that even without the gift of language, one might recognize the picture of the old-fashioned girl under her umbrella, leaving behind a trail of salt. "When It Rains, It Pours," I said, but they seemed unable to take my meaning. We loaded our rucksacks with as much as could be carried and left the store by the front door, a deflating departure, considering the smorgasbord inside. Our cargo made the journey home longer and more arduous, and we did not reach camp until daybreak. The salt, as I would later discover, was used to preserve meat and fish for the lean months, but at the time, I felt as if we had searched the wide seas for treasure and sailed into port with a chest filled with sand.

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When she was handed the new sweater, Speck’s eyes widened with surprise and delight. She peeled off the tattered jersey she had worn for months and lifted the sweater over her head, sliding her arms inside like two eels. The brief sight of her bare skin unsettled me, and I looked away. She sat on a blanket, curled up her legs beneath her bottom, and bade me sit beside her.

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"Tell me, O Great Hunter, about your visit to the old world. Recount your mishaps and brave deeds. Give us a story."

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"There’s not much to say. We went to the store for salt. But I saw a school and a church, and we swiped a bottle of milk." I reached into my pocket and brought out a soft, overripe pear. "I brought this back, too."

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She set the pear on the ground. "Tell me more. What else did you see? How did the world make you feel?"

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"Like I was remembering and forgetting at the same time. When I stepped into lamplight, my shadow appeared, sometimes several shadows, but once outside the circle, they all disappeared."

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"You’ve seen shadows before. Brighter lights throw harder shadows."

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"It is a strange light, and the world is full of straight lines and edges. The corners of their walls looked as sharp as a knife. It is unreal and a bit scary."

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"That’s just a trick of your imagination. Write your impressions in your book." Speck fingered the hem of her sweater. "Speaking of books, did you see the library?"

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"Library?"

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"Where they keep the books, Aniday. You didn’t see the library?"

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"I had forgotten all about it." But as we talked, I could recall the stacks of well-worn books, the hushing librarian, quiet men and intent women bowing forward, reading. My mother had taken me there. My mother. "I used to go there, Speck. They let me take home books and bring them back when I was finished. I got a paper card and signed my name on a slip at the back of the book."

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"You remember."

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"But I don’t remember what I wrote. I didn’t write ’Aniday.’"

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She picked up the pear and inspected it for soft spots. "Get me a knife, Aniday, and I’ll cut this in half. And if you’re good, I’ll take you to the library to see the books."

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Rather than leaving in the middle of the night as before, we walked out of camp at noon on a crisp October day without so much as a fare-thee-well. Luchóg, Speck, and I followed the same trail into town, but we took our time, as if strolling through the park, not wanting to reach the streets until dusk. A broad highway severed the woods, and we had to wait for a long break in the traffic. I scanned the cars on the chance that the lady in the red coat might drive by, but our vantage point was too far from the road to make out any of the drivers.

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At the gas station on the edge of town, two boys circled the pump on their bicycles, tracing lazy arcs, enjoying their last fun in the remnant sunlight. Their mother called them for dinner, but before I could see her face, she vanished behind a closing door. Luchóg leading, we moved across the road in single file. Halfway across the asphalt, he froze and pricked his ears to the west. I heard nothing, but in my bones sensed the electric approach of danger moving quickly as a summer storm. A moment’s indecision, and we lost our advantage. Springing from the darkness, the dogs were nearly upon us before Speck grabbed my hand and shouted, "Run!"

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Teeth snapping, the pair split to chase us in a melee of barks and growls. The bigger dog, a muscular shepherd, went after Luchóg as he sprinted toward town. Speck and I raced back to the woods, a hound yelping in pursuit. When we reached the trees, she yanked me forward and up, so that I was six feet off the ground before realizing I was climbing a sycamore. Speck turned and faced the dog, which leapt for her, but she stepped to the side, grabbed the beast by the scruff of the neck, and flung it into the bushes. The dog cried in the air, snapped branches when it landed, and scrambled to its feet in great pain and confusion. Looking back over its shoulder at this girl, he tucked his tail between his legs and slunk away.

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Coming down the road from the other direction, the German shepherd trotted alongside Luchóg as if he were a longtime pet. They stopped as one in front of us, and the dog wagged its tail and licked Luchóg’s fingers. "Do you remember the last changeling, Speck? The German boy?"

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"You’re not supposed to mention—"

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"He came in handy with this bloody canine. I was running for my life when I suddenly remembered that old lullaby our man used to sing."

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"’Guten Abend’?"

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He sang, "Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht, mit Rosen bedacht," and the dog whimpered. Luchóg stroked the shepherd between the ears. "Turns out music doth soothe the savage beast."

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"Breast," she said. "The quote is: ’Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast.’"

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"Don’t tell him," Luchóg burst out. "Auf Wiedersehen, Schatzi. Go on home." The dog trotted off.

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"That was scary," I said.

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Feigning nonchalance, Luchóg rolled a cigarette. "Could have been worse. Could have been people."

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"If we meet somebody, play dumb," Speck instructed. "They’ll think we’re a bunch of kids and tell us to go on home. Nod your head when I talk and don’t say a word." I looked around the empty streets, half hoping for an encounter, but all the people seemed to be inside, at dinner, bathing the children, getting ready for bed. In many homes, an unearthly blue glow emanated from within.

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The library squatted stately in the middle of a tree-lined block. Speck moved as if she had passed this way many times before, and the problem of locked doors was easily circumvented. Luchóg led us around the back to a staircase and pointed out a gap where the concrete had separated from the main wall.

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"I don’t think I can fit through that. My head’s too big, and I’m not that skinny."

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"Luchóg is a mouse," Speck said. "Watch and learn."

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He told me the secret of softening one’s bones. The gist is to think like a mouse or a bat, simply realizing one’s own flexibility. "It will hurt the first time, lad, like every good thing, but there’s no trick to it. A matter of faith. And practice."

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He disappeared into the crack, and Speck followed him, exhaling a single drawn-out sigh. Pushing through that narrow space hurt more than I can say. The abrasions on my temples took weeks to heal. After softening myself, I had to remember to keep my muscles tense for a while or risk an arm or a leg going limp. But Luchóg was right—with practice, squeezing became second nature.

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Underneath the library, the crawlspace was dark and foreboding, so when Speck struck a match, the flame glowed with hope. She touched the flame to a candlewick, and with the candle lit a hurricane lamp that smelled of must and kerosene. Each successive illumination brought the dimensions and features of the room into sharper focus. The back of the building had been built on a slight slope, so that the floor inclined from our entranceway, where one could stand quite comfortably, rising to the opposite wall, where one could rest only by sitting. I can’t tell you how many times I bumped my head on the ceiling by that far wall. The chamber had been made accidentally, a sort of hollow beneath a new addition to the old library building. Since it did not rest on the same foundation, the room was hotter than outside during the summer and bone-cold in the winter. By lamplight I could see that someone had added a few homey touches—a brace of rugs, a few drinking vessels, and, in the northwest corner, a sort of easy chair fashioned from salvaged blankets. Luchóg began fiddling with his cigarette pouch, and Speck ordered him out, if he must smoke. Grumbling, he scooted through the crack.

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"So what do you think, Aniday? A bit rustic, but still ... civilization."

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"It’s grand."

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"You haven’t seen the best part. The whole reason I brought you here." Speck motioned me to follow, and we scuttled up the incline to the back wall. She reached up, turned out a knob, and a panel dropped from the ceiling. In a flash, she hoisted herself up through the hole and was gone. I knelt on the spot, waiting for her return, looking up through the empty space. All at once, her face appeared in the frame.

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"Are you coming or not?" she whispered.

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I followed her into the library. The pale light from our chamber below dissipated in the room, but I could still make out—my heart leapt at the sight—row after row, shelf above shelf, floor to ceiling, a city of books. Speck turned to me and asked, "Now, what shall we read first?"

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