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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第6章|Chapter 6

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[19102]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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从一开始记录早年的回忆，我就和所有人一样被时间玩弄于股掌之间。我的父母早已离开了我的世界，却又活了过来。那个红衣女子，虽然只见过一次，却长留在我心中，比我昨天做过的事、早餐吃的是蓟草加蜂蜜还是博伊森莓记得还清楚。

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我的妹妹们如今已人到中年，但对我而言永远是婴孩，一对一模一样的小天使，卷卷的头发，胖乎乎的，像幼崽一样地不能自立。回忆，用期望和悔恨将我们梦醒的生活弄得狼狈不堪，当时间在不经意间脱了节，也许只有它才是我们尘世间惟一的慰藉。

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第一次夜间林中探险让我筋疲力尽。我躺在一堆外套、毯子和毛皮之下，到了次日中午，我发烧了。赞扎拉递给我一杯热茶和一碗难喝的肉汤，跟我说“喝吧，喝吧，抿下去”。但我一口都咽不下。不管他们在我身上加多少层盖被，我就是没法暖和起来。到了晚上，我不由自主地浑身打冷颤，牙齿格格直响，骨骼酸痛。

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睡眠带来奇怪而又可怕的噩梦，所有事情似乎都一下子发生了。

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我的家人闯入我的梦中。他们手挽手在一个地洞前站成半圆，沉默无言。父亲抓住我的脚踝，把我从藏身的树洞里拖出来，让我站在地上。然后他又伸手进去拉住那两个双胞胎的脚踝，把她们举到半空中，女孩们又害怕又开心，咯咯直笑。母亲劝说父亲：“别对这孩子太厉害了。你去哪儿了? 去哪儿了? ”

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接着我到了路上，一辆老福特弧形的光照下，那头鹿气若游丝地躺在公路上，我让自己的呼吸节奏与它合拍，那个有一双浅绿色眼睛的红衣女子说：“你是谁? ”

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她弯下腰来，对着我的脸，两手捧着我的脸颊吻我的唇，我又变成了一个男孩。我。

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但我记不得自己的名字。

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安尼戴。和我一样的一个野孩子，一个名叫斯帕克的女孩，凑过来吻了我的前额，她的嘴唇使我火烫的皮肤感到清凉。在她身后，橡树叶子变成上千只乌鸦，它们一起起飞，翅膀扇起一阵巨大的、盘绕歌唱的旋风。这嗡嗡的一群逃离天际之后，寂静再次降临，曙光初照。我追赶着鸟群，跑得又快又急，身体两侧的皮肤裂开口子，心脏在肋骨上敲得咚咚直响，直到一条散发着死亡气息的、奔腾的黑色河流出现在我面前。我聚精会神地望向对岸，河岸上手挽着手在一个地洞边站成半圆的，是我的父母、那个红衣女子、我的两个妹妹，还有一个男孩，但不是我。他们像石头一样站着，像树一样站着，瞪着空地。如果我鼓起勇气跳进水里，也许能到他们身边，但黑色河水会一下子将我卷走? 于是我站在岸上，喊出来的声音听不到，喊出来的话无人能懂。

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我不知道自己发烧昏迷了多久。一个晚上，一天，两天，一个星期，还是一年?或者更久?我醒过来时，头顶上是潮湿的铅色天空，我觉得暖和舒服，虽然胳膊和腿都僵硬地抽搐，体内像被刮空了一般生痛。照顾我的劳格诺和赞扎拉在打牌，把我的肚子当作桌子。他们的游戏毫无逻辑可言，因为他们从来没想过要偷一副完整的纸牌。

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他们把很多不同牌里的残张凑在一起，弄出了一副上百张的牌。他们两只手里都抓得满满的，剩余的牌则在我的肚子上横七竖八的。

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“你有5 点吗? ”劳格诺问。

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赞扎拉挠了挠头皮。

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劳格诺举起五个手指，朝他大叫：“5 点，5 点。”

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“自己找。”

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他找起来了，把一张又一张的牌翻过来，直到他找到一张配对的，接着他兴高采烈地把牌举起来，再让赞扎拉出牌。

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“你是个骗子，劳格诺。”

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“你是个吸血鬼。”

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我咳嗽一声，让他们知道我醒了。

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“嘿，看啊，小家伙，他醒了。”

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赞扎拉把他又湿又冷的手放在我额头，“我给你拿点吃的吧。来杯茶吧? ”

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“你睡了很长时间，小家伙。这就是你跟那些小子出去的代价。

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那些爱尔兰小子没一个好的。”

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我环视营寨找我的朋友们，但其他人中午总是不在。

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“今天是什么日子? ”我问。

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赞扎拉伸出舌头尝了尝空气，“我说是星期二。”

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“不，我是说今天是这个月的几号。”

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“小家伙，我连这个月是哪个月都不确定呢。”

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劳格诺插话说：“肯定快到春天了。白天在一寸一寸地变长。”

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“我错过圣诞节了吗? ”这么多年来，我第一次想家。

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男孩们耸了耸肩膀。

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“我错过圣诞老人了吗? ”

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“他是谁? ”

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“我怎么才能从这儿出去? ”

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劳格诺指着一条被两株常绿树遮挡着的小径。

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“我怎么才能回家? ”

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他们眼珠往上一翻，牵着手转身就溜走了。我想哭，但没有眼泪。一阵狂风从西边刮来，把黑云推过天际。我缩在毯子下，观察着瞬息万变的天色，独自咀嚼着自己的麻烦，直到其他人乘风归来。他们对我也不多看一眼，好像我不过是每天经过的路上的一块泥巴而已。伊格尔敲打一块燧石，撞出一团小小的火焰，点着了蜡烛。齐维和布鲁玛这两个女孩打开我们快要耗尽的食品柜，翻出所剩无几的食物。

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她们用一把非常锋利的刀，三下五除二就把一只冻得半僵的松鼠剥了皮。斯帕克把干草药弄碎，放进我们的旧茶壶里，然后注入蓄水池里汲来的水。卡维素芮用平底锅烤松果。不下厨的男孩们脱下湿透的鞋子和靴子，换上他们昨天的装束，现在是又干又硬了。他们做这些日常家务活井然有序，没有片言只语，他们已经发展出一套为过夜做准备的科学方法。松鼠叉在火上烤时，斯茂拉赫过来查看我，发现我清醒着，不由大喜。

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“安尼戴，你又活过来了。”

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他拉住我的手，把我扯起来。我们抱在一起，但他将我抱得太紧，弄得我的腰都痛了。他环着我的肩膀把我带到火边，几个仙灵和我打招呼，表示惊奇和放心。

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贝卡无动于衷地冷笑一声，伊格尔听见我的问好，耸了耸肩继续抱着胳膊等待上菜。

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我们吃的是松鼠和坚果，大家都狼吞虎咽地吃，停不下来。我咬了一口带筋的肉，就把锡盘推到了一旁。火光映着每个人的脸，他们嘴唇上的油腻给笑容镀上了光彩。

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晚餐后，鲁契克示意我靠近，他在我耳边低声说，他藏了一件东西，要给我个惊喜。我们朝营寨外走去，落日最后几缕粉色的光照亮小径。夹在两块大石头中间的是四个小小的信封。

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“拿去吧。”他搬起上面的重石，哼唧着说，在他“砰”地砸下这块石头之前，我飞快地抽出信封。鲁契克把手伸进衬衫里拿他的私藏革袋，从里面取出一小截削尖的铅笔，递给我，神态变得谨慎起来，“圣诞节快乐，小宝贝。让你大吃一惊的东西。”

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“这么说今天是圣诞节? ”

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鲁契克环视周围，看是否有人在听，“你没错过圣诞节。”

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“圣诞节快乐。”我说。我撕开礼物，弄坏了这些珍贵的信封。后来，我丢失了其中两封信，但它们无论是内容还是信纸本身都无甚价值。一封装的是注有支付款额的抵押存根，在鲁契克的要求下，我把支票给他去用作卷烟纸了。另外丢失的一封是写给地方报纸编辑的信，公开指责哈利·杜鲁门，措辞激烈。这张报纸正反面的空白处都涂满了潦草的字迹，已经没用了。另两封有较多空白处，其中一封的行距特别宽，可以让我写东西。

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最亲爱的：那晚对我来说意义重大，我不明白为何从那晚起，你就不打电话也不写信了。我很不解。你告诉我你爱我，我也爱你，但你仍然没有回复我最近的三封信，你家里和你办公室的电话也无人应答。我不常做我们在汽车里做的那种事，只因为你对我说你爱我，你不停地说，而且说得那么痛苦难受。我想让你知道，我不是那种女孩。

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我是那种爱你的女孩，是那种希望一个绅士能有绅士举止的女孩。

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请给我回信，或者最好给我打电话。我不怎么生气，但是很困惑，如果我得不到你的回音，我会发疯的。

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我爱你，你知道吗?

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爱你的玛莎1950年2 月2 日当时，我认为这封信是我所知道的对于真爱最为真切的表达。它不好读，因为玛莎字迹潦草，不过好在字体很大，像印刷体。第二封信比第一封更让我摸不着头脑，它也只占用了一页纸正面的四分之三。

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亲爱的妈妈和爸爸：    ’言辞不足以表达我对失去亲爱的娜娜所感到的悲伤和同情。她是个好女人，心地善良，如今她去了一个更好的所在。我很抱歉没能回家，因为路费不够。因此，只能借这封信言不尽意地传达我真诚的哀思。

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冬天快过去了，这是一个寒冷而悲伤的结局。生活是不公平的，你们失去了娜娜，而我，几乎失去了一切。

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你们的儿子1950年2 月3 日当营寨里的女孩们知道有这两封信时，坚持要我读给众人听。

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她们好奇的不仅仅是信的内容，还有我自称能识文断字，因为营寨里没有人耐烦多读多写。有些是没有学过，其他人则选择忘记。我们围着篝火坐成一圈，虽然有些词我不认识，或不能完全领会其中之意，我还是尽我所能读给他们听。

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“你们对‘最亲爱的’怎么想? ”我读完后，斯帕克这样问大家。

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“他是流氓，是无赖。”奥尼恩斯说。

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齐维捋开她金色的鬈发，叹了口气，脸蛋在火光中映亮，“我不明白为什么‘最亲爱的’不给玛莎写回信，但和‘你们的儿子’的问题相比，这不算什么。”

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“是啊，”卡维素芮插嘴说，“说不定‘你们的儿子’和玛莎应该结婚，然后他们都能幸福地生活了。”

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“嗯，我希望‘妈妈和爸爸’找到娜娜。”布鲁玛补充说。

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这场混乱的谈话一直持续到晚上。她们对另一个世界虚构着充满诗意的故事。

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我不明白她们何以会同情、关怀和悲伤。她们对认知范围之外的东西感同身受，而且这种情感取之不竭。然而我却急着想要她们快些离开，那样我就可以练习写字了。

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但女孩们逗留到篝火烧成灰烬，然后又一起依偎在盖毯下继续讨论，探讨着写信人的命运，他们的话题，还有他们的读者。我想用纸就得等。夜晚冷得刺骨，很快我们十二个都拥挤在了一块。当最后有人在毯子下一动，我突然想起今天是什么日子。

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“圣诞节快乐! ”我说，但我的祝福只换来嘲笑：“闭嘴! ”“睡觉。”黎明前的漫漫长夜里，一只脚踢了我下巴，一条肘子撞了我肚子，还有一个膝盖敲到了我酸痛的肋骨。在黑暗的角落里，贝卡趴在一个女孩身上，女孩呻吟着。我忍受着他们一阵阵的骚扰，等待天明，那些信贴在我的胸口。

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曙光照亮了一层高空卷云，它们被染成五颜六色，从东方的天际开始发亮，然后像柔和的蜡笔画一般飘拂开去。树木的枝丫将天空分割成万花筒。红日升起来时，图案不停地变化着颜色，最后一切消散成蓝白色。我起身下床，尽情享受天光，天色已经亮到能够画画和写字了。我拿出纸笔，在腿上放一块冷冰冰的石板，把抵押存根对折成四格，沿着折痕划了个十字，分出四块画区。手中握着铅笔，感觉既奇怪又熟悉。在第一个格子里，我按照记忆画出了母亲和父亲、两个襁褓中的妹妹和我自己，都是全身像，站成笔直的一排。我看着自己的作品，觉得他们又粗糙又不均匀，对自己失望不已。下一个格子里，我画了穿过森林的马路、路上的鹿、女人、汽车、同一视角的斯茂拉赫和鲁契克。例如光线就在汽车上画个圆圈，从圆圈上拉出两条直线，一直画到框线的另一角。鹿画得更像狗，我真想要一支带橡皮头的黄铅笔。第三个格子里是一棵伐倒的圣诞树，上面挂满了装饰物，地上铺着一堆礼物。

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最后的格子里，我画了一个正在溺水的男孩。他五花大绑，沉到了水波之下。

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那天下午傍晚时分，我把这张纸拿给斯茂拉赫看，他一把抓住我的手，带我跑到一丛茂密的冬青树后藏起来。他查看四周，确定除我俩外别无他人，接着他小心翼翼地把纸折了两折交还给我。

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“你把这些东西画下来，要更加小心。”

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“怎么啦? ”

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“如果被伊格尔发现，你就会知道怎么啦。你要知道，安尼戴，他不接受和另一边的任何联系，而那个女人……”

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“穿红衣服的那个? ”

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“他害怕被发现。”斯茂拉赫抓起画纸塞进我外套口袋，“有些东西最好只有你自己知道。”他说罢，朝我眨眨眼，吹起口哨走开了。

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写字比画画更痛苦。有些字母——B 、G 、R 、w ——让我的手抽筋。刚开始写的那阵子，有时我的K 倒着弯，s 划溜了，F 一不小心写成了E ，还有一些别的错误。如今当我回顾早年岁月时，就觉得好笑，但在当时，我的书法让我惭愧、尴尬不已。比字母更麻烦的是单词。我拼不出“豆子”，标点一个都没有。词汇就够我烦的，更别提文风、措辞、句子结构、多样性、形容词副词，以及其他诸如此类的东西。

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我不停地写着。句子得一点一点地挤出来，一旦写完，它们就像是我的感觉或我想说的话的次品，就像横在白色田野里的愁眉苦脸的栅栏。但那天早晨我坚持不懈地用我掌握的所有字眼，写下所有我还记得的事。到了中午，这张纸正反两面的空白处都写满了我被诱拐和探险的经历，还有我来到此地前的模糊记忆。我忘掉的比记得的更多，我忘了自己的名字、妹妹们的名字、我亲爱的床、我的学校、我的书本、我长大后想干什么。总有一天，这些全都会还给我，但如果没有鲁契克的信，我就完全迷失了。我在最后的空白处挤出最后一个词后，就去找鲁契克。纸用完了，我要再找些来。

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In setting down these recollections of my early years so far removed from their unfolding, I am fooled, as all are, by time itself. My parents, long gone from my world, live again. The redcoated woman, met only once, abides more persistently in mind than what I did yesterday or whether I had thistles and honey or elderberries for breakfast. My sisters, now grown into their middle years, are ever infants to me, two matching cherubs, ringlets of curls, chubby and helpless as cubs. Memory, which so confounds our waking life with anticipation and regret, may well be our one true earthly consolation when time slips out of joint.

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My first nighttime foray into the woods left me exhausted. I burrowed beneath a heap of coats and blankets and furs, and by next midday, a fever burned. Zanzara brought me a cup of hot tea and a bowl of nasty broth, ordering me to "drink, drink, sip it." But I could not stomach a single swallow. No matter how many layers they heaped upon me, I could not get warm. By nightfall, I shook uncontrollably with chills. My teeth rattled and my bones ached.

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Sleep brought strange, horrible nightmares where everything seemed to happen at once. My family invaded my dreams. Hands joined, they stand in a half circle around a hole in the ground, silent as stones. My father grabs me around the ankle and pulls me from the hollow tree where I lie hidden and sets me on the ground. Then he reaches in again and yanks each twin by the ankles and holds them aloft, the girls giggling in fear and pleasure. And my mother admonishes him: "Don’t be so hard on the boy. Where have you been, where have you been?"

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Then I am on the road, in the arclight streaming from an old Ford, the deer supine on the pavement, its breathing shallow, and I synchronize my respiration with its rhythms and the redcoated woman with the pale green eyes says: "Who are you?" And she bends to my face, taking my chin in her hands, to kiss me on the lips, and I am a boy again. Me. But I cannot remember my name.

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Aniday. A wild child like myself, a girl named Speck, leans over to kiss my forehead, and her lips cool my hot skin. Behind her, the oak leaves turn into a thousand crows that take off in unison, flying away in a great twisting, singing tornado of wings. Silence returns after the drumming flock escapes to the horizon and morning breaks through. I give chase to the birds, running so fast and so hard that my skin splits a seam on both sides and my heart drums against my ribs until halted by the deathly appearance of a roiling black river. Concentrating with my entire mind, I see to the other side, and there on the bank, holding hands around a hole in the ground, are my father and mother, the woman in the red coat, my two sisters, and the boy who is not me. They stand like stones, like trees, staring into the clearing. If I summon courage to jump into the water, I may reach them. Blackwater once carried me away, so I stand on the bank, calling out in a voice that cannot be heard, with words no one can understand.

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I don’t know how long I was delirious with fever. Overnight, a day or two, a week, a year? Or longer? When I awakened under a damp steely sky, I felt snug and safe, although my arms and legs throbbed with stiffness and my insides felt scraped raw and hollow. Attending me, Ragno and Zanzara played cards, using my belly as a table. Their game defied logic, for they had not managed to swipe a full deck. Mixing remnants from many different packs, they ended up with nearly a hundred cards. Each of them held a fistful, and the remainder sat in a jumble on my stomach.

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"Do you have any cinque?" Ragno asked.

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Zanzara scratched his head.

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Holding up five fingers, Ragno shouted at him, "cinque, cinque."

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"Go fish."

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And fish he would, turning over card after card until he found a match, which he would then hold up triumphantly before ceding his turn to Zanzara.

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"You are a cheater, Ragno."

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"And you are a bloodsucker."

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I coughed, making my consciousness known.

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"Hey look, kid, he’s awake."

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Zanzara put his clammy hand against my forehead. "Let me get you something to eat. A cup of tea, maybe?"

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"You been asleeping a long time, kid. That’s what you get for going out with those boys. Those Irish boys, they’re no good."

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I looked around the camp for my friends, but as usual at midday, everyone else was gone.

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"What day is it?" I asked.

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Zanzara flicked out his tongue, tasting the air. "I’d say Tuesday."

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"No, I mean what day of the month."

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"Kid, I’m not even sure what month it is."

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Ragno interrupted. "Must be getting toward spring. The days are growing longer, inch by inch."

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"Did I miss Christmas?" I felt homesick for the first time in ages.

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The boys shrugged their shoulders.

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"Did I miss Santa Claus?"

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"Who he?"

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"How do I get out of here?"

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Ragno pointed to a path obscured by two evergreens.

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"How do I go home?"

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Their eyes glazed over, and, holding hands, they turned around and skipped away. I felt like crying, but the tears would not come. A fierce gale blew in from the west, pushing dark clouds across the sky. Huddled under my blankets, I observed the changing day, alone with my troubles, until the others came skittering home on the wind. They took no more notice of me than any other lump on the ground one passes every day. Igel started a small fire by striking a flint until a spark caught the kindling. Two of the girls, Kivi and Blomma, uncovered the nearly depleted pantry and dug out our meager fare, neatly skinning a partially frozen squirrel with a few deft strokes of a very sharp knife. Speck crumbled dried herbs into our old teapot and filled it with water drawn from a cistern. Chavisory toasted pine nuts on a flat griddle. The boys who were not engaged in cooking took off their wet shoes and boots, exchanging them for yesterday’s gear, now dry and hard. All of this domestic routine proceeded without fuss and with scant conversation; they had made a science of preparing for the night. As the squirrel cooked on a spit, Smaolach came over to check on me, and was surprised to discover me awake and alert.

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"Aniday, you’ve come back from the dead."

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He reached for my hand, pulling me to my feet. We embraced, but he squeezed me so hard that my sides ached. Arm around my shoulder, he led me to the fire, where some of the faeries greeted me with expressions of wonder and relief. Béka gave me an apathetic sneer, and Igel shrugged at my hello and continued waiting to be served, arms crossed at his chest. We set to the squirrel and nuts, the meal barely curbing the growling appetite of all assembled. After the first stringy bites, I pushed away my tin plate. The firelight made everyone’s face glow, and the grease on their lips made their smiles shine.

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After supper, Luchóg motioned for me to come closer, and he whispered in my ear that he had stashed away a surprise for me. We walked away from camp, the last rays of pink sunlight illuminating the way. Clamped between two large stones were four small envelopes.

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"Take them," he grunted, the top stone heavy in his arms, and I whisked out the letters before he dropped the cap with a thud. Reaching inside his shirt to his private pouch, Luchóg extracted but the nub of a sharp pencil, which he presented with becoming modesty. "Merry Christmas, little treasure. Something to get you started."

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"So it is Christmas today?"

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Luchóg looked around to see if anyone was listening. "You did not miss it."

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"Merry Christmas," I said. And I tore open my gifts, ruining the precious envelopes. Over the years, I have lost two of the four letters, but they were not so valuable in and of themselves. One was a mortgage stub with payment enclosed, and at his entreaty, Luchóg received the check to use as rolling paper for his cigarettes. The other lost piece of correspondence was a rabid letter to the editor of the local newspaper, denouncing Harry Truman. Covered both front and back with crabbed handwriting that scuttled from margin to margin, that paper proved useless. The other two had much more white space, and with one, the lines were so far apart, I was able to write between them.

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Feb. 2, 1950

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Dearest,

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The other night ment so much to me that I can’t understand why you have not phoned or written since that night. I am confused. You told me that you loved me and I love you too, but still you have not answered my last three letters and nobody answers the telephone at your home or even your work. I am not in the habit of doing what we did in the car, but because you told me that you loved me and you were in such pain and agony as you kept saying. I wanted to let you know that I am not that kind of girl.

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I am that kind of girl who loves you and that kind of girl who also expects a Gentleman to behave like a Gentleman.

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Please write back to me or better yet call me on the phone. I am not angry so much as just confused, but I will be mad if I do not here from you.

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I love you, do you know that?

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Love, Martha At the time, I considered this letter to be the truest expression of real love that I had ever known. It was difficult to read, for Martha wrote in cursive, but thankfully in big letters that resembled printing. The second letter baffled me more than the first, but it, too, used only three-quarters of the front side of the page.

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2/3/50

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Dear Mother and Father,

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Words cannot begin to express the sorrow and sympathy I send to you at the loss of dear Nana. She was a good woman, and a kind one, and she is now in a better place. I am sorry that I cannot come home, but I’ve not enough money for the trip. So, all my heartfelt grief must be shared by this most insufficient letter.

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Winter draws to a cold and unhappy close. Life is not fair, since you have lost Nana, and I, near everything.

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Your Son When they learned of the two messages, the girls in camp insisted they be shared aloud. They were curious not only about their substance but about my professed literacy, for almost no one in camp bothered to read or write any longer. Some had not learned, and others had chosen to forget. We sat in a ring around the fire, and I read them as best I could, not fully comprehending all of the words or understanding their meanings. "What do you think of Dearest?" Speck asked the group after I had finished.

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"He is a cad; he is a rotter," Onions said.

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Kivi pushed back her blonde curls and sighed, her face bright in the firelight. "I do not understand why Dearest will not write back to Martha, but that is nothing compared to the problems of Your Son."

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"Yes," Chavisory jumped in, "perhaps Your Son and Martha should get married, and then they will both live happily ever after."

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"Well, I hope Mother and Father find Nana," added Blomma.

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Into the night the bewildering conversation flowed. They fabricated poetical fictions about the other world. The mysteries of their sympathies, concerns, and sorrows perplexed me, yet the girls had a wellspring of empathy for matters outside our knowing. I was anxious, however, to have them go away, so that I might practice my writing. But the girls lingered until the fire collapsed into embers; then they nestled under the covers together, where they continued their discussion, pondering the fate of the writers, their subjects, and their intended readers. I would have to wait to use the pages. The night became bitterly cold, and soon all twelve of us were huddled together in a tangle of limbs. When the last of us wiggled under the mat, I suddenly remembered the day. "Merry Christmas!" I said, but my greetings brought only derision: "Shuddup!" and "Go to sleep." During the long hours before dawn, a foot hit me on the chin, an elbow knacked me in the groin, and a knee banged against my sore ribs. In a dark corner of the pack, a girl groaned when Béka climbed upon her. Enduring their fitfulness, I waited for morning, the letters pinned against my chest.

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The rising sun reflected against a blanket of high cirrus clouds, coloring them in a spectrum that began in brightness on the eastern edge and fanned out in soft pastels. Branches of the trees broke the sky into fragments, like a kaleidoscope. When the red sun rose, the pattern shifted hues until it all dissipated into blue and white. Up and out of bed, I savored the light growing strong enough for drawing and writing. I took out my papers and pencil, put a cold flat stone in my lap, and folded the mortgage statement into quarters. I drew a cross along the folds and made panels for four drawings. The pencil was at once odd and familiar in my grasp. In the first panel, I created from memory my mother and father, my two baby sisters, and myself, full-body portraits lined up in a straight row. When I considered my work, they looked crude and uneven, and I was disappointed in myself. In the next panel, I drew the road through the forest with the deer, the woman, the car, Smaolach and Luchóg in the same perspective. Light, for example, was indicated by two straight lines emanating from a circle on the car and extending outward to opposite corners of the frame. The deer looked more like a dog, and I dearly wished for an eraser on the yellow pencil. In the third panel: a flattened Christmas tree, lavishly decorated, a pile of gifts spread out on the floor. In the final panel, I drew a picture of a boy drowning. Bound in spirals, he sinks be-low the wavy line.

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When I showed my paper to Smaolach later that afternoon, he took me by the hand and made me run with him to hide behind a wild riot of holly. He looked around in all directions to make sure we were alone; then he carefully folded the paper into quarters and handed it back to me.

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"You must be more careful with what you draw in them pictures."

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"What’s the matter?"

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"If Igel finds out, then you’ll know what’s the matter. You have to realize, Aniday, that he doesn’t accept any contact with the other side, and that woman ..."

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"The one in the red coat?"

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"He’s a-scared of being found out." Smaolach grabbed the paper and tucked it into my coat pocket. "Some things are better kept to yourself," he said, then winked at me and walked away, whistling.

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Writing proved more painful than drawing. Certain letters—B, G, R, W—caused my hand to cramp. In those early writings, sometimes my K bent backward, S went astray, an F accidentally became an E, and other errors that are amusing to me now as I look back on my early years, but at the time, my handwriting caused me much shame and embarrassment. Worse than the alphabet, however, were the words themselves. I could not spell for beans and lacked all punctuation. My vocabulary annoyed me, not to mention style, diction, sentence structure, variety, adjectives and adverbs, and other such matters. The physical act of writing took forever. Sentences had to be assembled nail by nail, and once complete, they stood no better than a crude approximation of what I felt or wanted to say, a woebegone fence across a white field. Yet I persisted through that morning, writing down all I could remember in whatever words I had at my command. By midday, both blank sides of the paper contained the story of my abduction and the adventures as well as the vaguest memories of life before this place. I had already forgotten more than I remembered—my own name and the names of my sisters, my dear bed, my school, my books, any notion of what I wanted to be when I grew up. All that would be given back to me in due course, but without Luchóg’s letters, I would have been lost forever. When I had squeezed the final word in the last available space, I went to look for him. Out of paper, my mission was to find more.

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