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【分类】世界名著
-[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡]
阅读：[20176]
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别叫我仙灵。我们已经不喜欢被叫做仙灵了。曾几何时，“仙灵”大可涵盖各种形形色色的生物，但如今它已染上过多的联想色彩。从词源学上看，仙灵是一种非常特别的、与水泉女神或水仙女有关的生物，但在种属上，我们是自成体系的。
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仙灵(fairy) 这个词来自于古法语fay(现代法语则是fee)，而fay 又起源于拉丁词Fata，即命运女神。fay 合群而居就称为faerie，它们生活在天国和人世之间。
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世上有一群人间精灵，carminibus COCIO possunt dedu~：crc lunam(拉丁文：它们能摘下天上的月亮。出自古罗马诗人维吉尔的作品< 牧歌> 第八卷．) 。
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它们早在远古时代就分成了六类：火精、气精、地精、水精、土精，以及全体仙灵和水仙女。我对火精、水精和气精近乎一无所知，但地精和土精我却十分熟悉。
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它们的种类数不胜数，与之相伴的还有大量关于它们行为、习俗和文化的传说。它们在世界各地的叫法不同——罗马家庭守护神、魔仆、农牧神、森林神、妖怪、罗宾的好伙计、捣蛋鬼、矮妖、凯尔特“普卡”、爱尔兰鬼灵、北欧小矮人——还有极少数仍然隐居在树林中，人类几乎看不到也碰不到它们。如果你非得给我取名，就叫我小妖精吧。
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更好的说法是，我是一个换生灵——顾名思义，这个词指明了我们要做的事和想做的事。我们绑架一个人类小孩，把他或她与我们其中一个交换。换生灵变成了小孩，小孩变成了换生灵。并非任何一个男童或女童都能交换，只有那些少之又少的、对他们年幼的生命感到困扰，或与世上的悲愁心有戚戚的才有可能。换生灵挑选对象很仔细，因为这种机会大概十年左右才有一次。成为我们中间一分子的那个孩子，或许要等上一个世纪才能轮到他换生，并再次进入人类世界。
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准备工作冗长乏味。需要密切监视这个小孩，还有他的朋友和家人。当然，这都得不露痕迹。选择孩子的最佳年龄是在他上学之前，因为在那之后，一切都复杂起来。孩子会需要去记忆和处理除他亲密家人以外的大量信息，还要像在镜子里照见形体和容貌那样，一清二楚地将自己的性格和经历表现出来。婴儿是最好办的了，可对换生灵来说，照料他们是一桩难事。六七岁就恰到好处。超过这个年龄，自我意识必定会发展得更为充分。而无论他们年龄大小，我们的目标是骗过孩子的父母，让他们相信换生灵的的确确是他们的亲骨肉。这其实比大多数人想像的要容易。
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不，困难不在于延续孩子的经历，而在交换本身，那是种痛苦的肢体行为。首先，从骨骼和皮肤开始，把自己拉伸成合适的大小和体型，拉到浑身颤抖，差点儿崩断。然后，其他人会在他新的头面上下功夫，这需要雕刻家的技艺。软组织上会有大幅度的推拉动作，好像头颅里填充的是黏土或软糖。接着是牙齿的事，还要除去头发，再慢慢地编织成新的，这些事情都极为讨厌。整个过程中，一粒止痛药都没有，虽然有几个换生灵会喝一种用橡树汁发酵而成的酒，但这种酒对身体有害。
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这种事很难受，但很值，好在我不需要重塑生殖器，那可相当复杂。最后，换生灵就和孩子一模一样了。三十年前，我就从一个换生灵重新变成了人类。
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我和亨利·戴交换了生活。他是个出生在镇外农场上的男孩。
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一个仲夏的午后，七岁的亨利离家出走，藏到了一棵栗树的树洞中。
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我们的换生灵密探跟踪他并发出召集令，我把自己变成他完美的复制品。我们抓住了他，我溜进树洞，和他交换了生活。当晚搜寻人员找到我时，他们可高兴了，松了口气，还挺骄傲，我本以为他们会生气，但没有。“亨利。”一个穿着消防员制服的红发男人对我说话，当时我在躲藏处假装睡觉。我睁开眼，冲他露出灿烂的微笑。这人用薄毯把我裹起来，抱着我走出树林，来到一条石铺路上，一辆消防车等在那里，红色车灯如心跳般搏动。消防员们把我带回家，交给亨利的父母，也就是我的新父母。那晚车子在路上行驶时，我一直想着，只要能通过第一关，这个世界就会重新归我所有。
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在鸟类和兽类当中，母亲总能认出自己的孩子，不让陌生者闯到巢里或窝里来，大家都觉得这挺神奇，但并非一概如此。事实上，布谷鸟就常常把蛋下到别的鸟儿的巢里。尽管幼鸟体形超大，胃口奇佳，也能得到同样( 其实是更多) 的母爱，甚至它们经常会把其他幼鸟从高高的巢中挤出去。有时候，母鸟把自己的孩子活活饿死了，就因为布谷鸟不断地要吃的。我的第一个任务是虚构一个故事：我就是亨利·戴。不幸的是，人类更多疑，对闯入者也更不宽容。
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搜救人员只知道他们要寻找一个在树林里走丢了的孩子，因此我可以保持沉默。
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反正他们找到一个也就满足了。在开往戴家的路上，消防车颠簸起来，我呕吐在了鲜红色的车门上，那分明是一堆橡果碎片、芥菜，还有好多小昆虫的皮。消防员拍拍我的头，把我连同毯子一把铲起，好像我只是一只被救的小猫或者一个弃婴似的。
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亨利的父亲从门廊上大步跨来，一把抱住我。有力的拥抱，带着烟酒味的温暖亲吻，他把我当成自己的儿子迎回家。但母亲就不太好糊弄了。
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她的脸完全泄露了她的情绪：发着疹子的皮肤上纵横着一道道咸成的泪水，浅蓝色的眼睛框着红圈，头发纠结蓬乱。她朝我张开双臂，两手直抖，发出一声短促的尖叫，痛苦得好像掉入了陷阱的兔子。
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她用衬衫袖子擦了擦眼，用满怀爱意的女人那饱受摧折的肩膀围住了我，接着用深沉的花腔高音大笑起来。
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“亨利? 亨利? ”她手撑在我肩上，把我推在一臂远的地方，“让我者者你。
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真是你吗? ”
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“对不起，妈妈。”
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她拂开遮着我眼睛的额发，把我压在胸前。她的心在我脸侧跳动，我觉得又热又不舒服。
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“别担心，我的小宝贝。你回家了，一点事儿都没有，这点最要紧。你回到我身边了。”
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爸爸用他的大手包住我的后脑勺，我想这个欢迎回家的生动场面还会永远继续下去。我一点点挣脱出来，从亨利的口袋里掏出条手帕，饼干屑撒在了地板上。
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“对不起，妈妈，我偷了饼干。”
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她笑起来，眼中的阴影消退了。也许她直到前一刻还在怀疑我是否是她的亲骨肉，提到饼干奏效了。亨利离家出走时，从桌上偷了块饼干，别的换生灵把他带到河边时，我把饼干偷过来放在口袋里。
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饼干碎屑证明了我是她的孩子。
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午夜后，他们让我上床睡觉，这种安慰大概是人类最伟大的发明。不管怎么说，这好过睡在洞里冷冰冰的地上，拿发霉的兔皮当枕头，还有十来个换生灵在不安的睡梦中咕哝和叹气。我在松软的被子里伸直手脚，寻思着我的好运。有很多故事说的是换生灵的失败，身份被所谓的家人揭露了。一个出现在新斯科舍①某渔村的孩子把他可怜的父母吓坏了，他们在暴风雪中弃家而逃，后来被发现浮尸在寒冷的港口上，已经冻僵了。一个换生灵女孩，六岁，一开口说话就让她的新父母不堪恐惧，把滚烫的蜡油灌进对方耳朵，从此再也听不到声音。还有一些父母，得知他们的孩子被换生灵替换，一夜白发，有的精神分裂，有的心脏病突发，还有的猝死。更惨的是，虽然很少见，但确有一些人家把这种生物赶出去，有的使用咒语，有的驱赶、丢弃或者杀害他们。七十年前，我失去了一位好朋友，因为他忘了让自己随年龄长大。他的父母当他是魔鬼，把他像一只没人要的小猫一0 加拿大省名．样捆起来装在麻袋里，丢到一口井里。大多数时候，父母为他们儿女的突变大惑不解，或一方为这种离奇的命运而责备另一方。这种危险的事情，怯弱者不宜。
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我走到这一步而没有被揭穿，感到心满意足，但还没有完全放下心来。我上床后半小时，房间的门慢慢打开了。在走廊灯光的映照下，戴先生和戴夫人从门缝里探进头来。我把眼睛眯成一道缝，假装睡着。露丝·戴不断地低声抽泣，没人能哭得这样有技巧。“我们得改一改了，比利。你不能让这种事再发生了。”
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“我知道，我保证，”他小声说道。“不过看看他的睡相吧。‘天真的睡眠，缝补好忧虑的乱丝。”’他关上门，把我留在黑暗中。我和我的换生灵同伴们监视了这个男孩好几个月，所以我在森林边就知道新家的轮廓。在亨利的眼里，这几英亩地还有这外面的世界是如此奇妙。屋外，星光从一排参差的冷杉树梢上透进窗子。
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习习轻风吹进敞开的窗户，从被子上掠过。停在窗玻璃上的蛾子扑扇着翅膀飞走。
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将圆未圆的月亮投下清辉，照亮了墙纸上暗淡的纹饰，十字架悬在我头上，从杂志上裁下的纸页和报纸用大头钉钉在墙上。桌上摆着棒球手套和棒球，盥洗架上的水罐和碗闪闪发光，如磷光般皎洁。碗上斜靠着一小摞书，一想到明天就能读这些书，我激动不已。
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天刚亮，双胞胎就开始哭嚎。我顺着声音经过我新父母的房间，蹑手蹑脚地走过走廊。婴儿们一看到我就鸦雀无声，我肯定如果她们——玛丽和伊丽莎白——天生聪慧，又能说话的话，我一走进屋子她们就会说“你不是亨利”。可惜她们还在襁褓中，会说的句子比长出的牙齿还少，说不清她们幼小心灵中的秘密。她们瞪大清澈的眼睛，安静地注视着我的每个动作。我微笑，但她们不笑。我做鬼脸，给她们胖胖的下巴挠痒痒，学木偶跳舞，学鸟儿吹口哨，但她们只是看着，像两只哑巴蟾蜍一样无动于衷。我搜肠刮肚地想要找到亲近她们的法子，于是想起了有几次我在森林中遇见的与这两个人类小孩一般无助而又危险的东西。一次我走在幽深的峡谷中，碰到一只和母亲分开的小熊崽。受惊吓的动物发出凄楚的叫声，我差点以为山里所有的熊都要来包围我了。虽然我能制服动物，但对那种一爪就能把我撕成两半的怪物无能为力。我只好哼起歌谣，安抚了熊崽。
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想到此处，我就对我的新妹妹们如法炮制。她们被我的嗓音迷住了，立即开始呀呀叫唤，拍着胖嘟嘟的手，口水长长地流出来，挂在下巴上。《小星星，亮晶晶》和《再见，小鸟》打消了她们的疑虑，向她们保证我和哥哥差不多，或者还是个更好的哥哥，但谁又能确定她们简单的脑瓜里转过什么念头呢。她们咯咯，咕咕。
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我一边唱歌，一边用亨利的口气和她们说话，她们便渐渐地相信了，或者说不再怀疑了。
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戴夫人匆匆走进婴儿室，欢快地一遍遍哼着歌句。她的腰围和身量让我吃惊，我之前见过她多次，但距离从没这么近过。从森林中安全的地方观察，她似乎和所有的成年人类一般无二，但个别地看，她有种独特的温柔，带着一股子淡淡的酸味，那是牛奶和酵母的香味。她迈着舞步走过地板，拉开窗帘，让金色的早晨炫亮了房间，而女孩们一看到她来，就满脸放光，抓着婴儿床的板条要起来。我也朝她微笑——否则我就没法忍住哈哈大笑。她也向我报以微笑，好似我是她惟一的儿子。
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“帮我照顾你的妹妹好吗，亨利? ”
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我抱起离我最近的女孩，非常明确地对我的新母亲说：“我来抱伊丽莎白。”
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她像一头獾那么重。抱着一个不打算偷的婴儿是种奇怪的感觉，幼小的身躯抱起来有种舒适的柔感。
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女孩的母亲站住脚，瞪着我，有一瞬间，她表情迷惑而动摇。“你怎么知道这是伊丽莎白? 你从来没法把她们区分开。”
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“这容易，妈妈。伊丽莎白笑起来有两个酒窝，她的名字也更长，但玛丽只有一个酒窝。”
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“你可真够聪明的! ”她抱起玛丽，率先走下楼梯。
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我跟在母亲后面，伊丽莎白把脸窝在我肩上。餐桌被丰盛的宴席压得嘎嘎作响——薄煎饼，熏肉，一壶热枫糖汁，一罐冒热气的牛奶，还有盛在瓷碗里的香蕉片。
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在森林中经历过有什么吃什么的漫长岁月后，这顿简单的早餐就像散发着异国情调的高级自助餐，丰盛而且都是熟的，允诺着我将会衣食无忧。
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“看，亨利，我做了所有你爱吃的。”
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我真能当场亲她一下。如果她不辞劳苦做出亨利喜欢的食物，并为此而高兴的话，那么我大快朵颐，尽情享用，她一定会欢天喜地了。吃完四个煎饼，八条熏肉，牛奶喝得只剩两小杯后，我还在嚷饿，于是她又给我做了三个蛋，并拿家里烤的面包做了半条吐司。我的新陈代谢似乎已经改变了。露丝·戴把我的好胃口当做是我爱她的表现，于是在接下来的十一年，到我去上大学之前，她一直娇惯着我。
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不久，她升华了自己的焦虑，开始和我一样大吃大喝起来。数十年的换生灵生活塑造了我的胃口和精力，但她是个十足的人类，年年都在发福。这些年，我常想，如果她是和自己真正的长子在一起，会不会变得这么厉害，还会不会用食物来填补疑心的侵蚀呢? 第一天，她把我关在屋子里，毕竟发生了这种事，谁又能说她不是?她除尘、扫地、刷碟子、换婴儿尿布，我就紧跟着她，比影子粘得还牢，用心揣摩，学习怎样才能把这儿子当得更好。屋里的感觉比森林更安全，但有种奇怪而疏离的感觉，潜伏着小小的惊讶。日光从拉起的窗帘后斜射而入，在墙壁上蔓延，在地毯上投射下图案，那和枝叶下的图案形状完全不同。特别有意思的是由尘点组成的小空间，只有在阳光照耀下才能看清。与户外灿烂的阳光相比，室内的光线有种催眠效果，这对双胞胎尤其明显。午餐后，她们很快就疲倦了——这对我来说可是一大好事——下午一两点钟时，她们开始打盹。
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母亲从她们房间蹑手蹑脚地走出来，看到我耐心地等在原地，像个哨兵似的站在走廊上。我被一个电插座迷住了，它朝我直叫，让我很恼火。虽然双胞胎的房门关着，她们有节奏的呼吸声听起来像风暴在树林中呼啸，因为我还没有把自己训练得听而不闻。妈妈牵起我的手，她柔软的一握使我为之久久感念。这女人用她的触摸，在我心中生出深沉的宁静。我想起亨利盥洗架上的书，就问她能否给我读个故事。
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我们去到我的房间，一起爬上床。在过去的一个世纪中，成人是彻底的陌路人，而与换生灵共处的生活也已经扭曲了我的视角。她的体形是我两倍有余，看起来那么坚固结实，特别是跟我所假扮的这个清瘦的男孩相比，简直不像真的。我的位置似乎既脆弱又不稳定，假如她翻一个身，就能像一捆柴火一样把我压扁。但她硕大的尺寸像碉堡一样把外间世界隔开，会保护我不受所有敌人的侵害。双胞胎睡觉时，她给我读格林童话——《寻找害怕的年轻人》、《狼和七只小羊》、《汉瑟尔与葛莱特> 、《唱歌的骨头》、《无手的姑娘》，还有其他许多故事，有熟悉的，也有不熟悉的。我最喜欢的是《灰姑娘》和《小红帽》，她朗读时，音色适中，娓娓动听，对那些令人难过的童话来说，是过于欢快了。在她音乐般的嗓音中，传来许久之前的回音，我躺在她身边，数十年的时光为之消却。
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很久之前，我听过这些故事，但是听的是德语，讲故事的是我的亲生母亲( 是的，我以前也有母亲) ，她从《儿童与家庭的童话集》①中给我读灰姑娘和小红帽。
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我想忘记，也觉得自己正在忘记，但她的声音在我脑海中如此清晰。
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“曾经，在一个很深、很深的树林里。”
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虽然我许久之前就离开了换生灵的社会，但在某种意义上，仍然停留在那片黑森林中，对那些我爱的人隐瞒我真实的身份。直到此刻，在去年那些奇怪的事情过后，我才鼓起勇气来讲述这个故事。这是我姗姗来迟的告白，我一直不敢启齿，如今说出来，是因为这些过去威胁着我的儿子。我们改变着。我改变了。
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Don’t call me a fairy. We don’t like to be called fairies anymore. Once upon a time, fairy was a perfectly acceptable catchall for a variety of creatures, but now it has taken on too many associations. Etymologically speaking, a fairy is something quite particular, related in kind to the naiads, or water nymphs, and while of the genus, we are sui generis. The word fairy is drawn from fay (Old French fee), which itself comes from the Latin Fata, the goddess of fate. The fay lived in groups called the faerie, between the heavenly and earthly realms.
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There exist in this world a range of sublunary spirits that carminibus coelo possunt deducere lunam, and they have been divided since ancient times into six kinds: fiery, aerial, terrestrial, watery, subterranean, and the whole class of fairies and nymphs. Of the sprites of fire, water, and air, I know next to nothing. But the terrestrial and underground devils I know all too well, and of these, there is infinite variety and attendant myth about their behavior, custom, and culture. Known around the world by many different names—Lares, genii, fauns, satyrs, foliots, Robin Goodfellows, pucks, leprechauns, pukas, sidhe, trolls—the few that remain live hidden in the woods and are rarely seen or encountered by human beings. If you must give me a name, call me hobgoblin.
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Or better yet, I am a changeling—a word that describes within its own name what we are bound and intended to do. We kidnap a human child and replace him or her with one of our own. The hobgoblin becomes the child, and the child becomes a hobgoblin. Not any boy or girl will do, but only those rare souls baffled by their young lives or attuned to the weeping troubles of this world. The changelings select carefully, for such opportunities might come along only once a decade or so. A child who becomes part of our society might have to wait a century before his turn in the cycle arrives, when he can become a changeling and reenter the human world.
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Preparation is tedious, involving close surveillance of the child, and of his friends and family. This must be done unobserved, of course, and it’s best to select the child before he begins school, because it becomes more complicated by then, having to memorize and process a great deal of information beyond the intimate family, and being able to mimic his personality and history as clearly as mirroring his physique and features. Infants are the easiest, but caring for them is a problem for the changelings. Age six or seven is best. Anyone much older is bound to have a more highly developed sense of self. No matter how old or young, the object is to deceive the parents into thinking that this changeling is actually their child. More easily done than most people imagine.
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No, the difficulty lies not in assuming a child’s history but in the painful physical act of the change itself. First, start with the bones and skin, stretching until one shudders and nearly snaps into the right size and body shape. Then the others begin work on one’s new head and face, which require the skills of a sculptor. There’s considerable pushing and pulling at the cartilage, as if the skull were a soft wad of clay or taffy, and then the malicious business with the teeth, the removal of the hair, and the tedious re-weaving. The entire process occurs without a gram of painkiller, although a few imbibe a noxious alcohol made from the fermented mash of acorns. A nasty undertaking, but well worth it, although I could do without the rather complicated rearrangement of the genitals. In the end, one is an exact copy of a child. Thirty years ago, in 1949, I was a changeling who became a human again.
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I changed lives with Henry Day, a boy born on a farm outside of town.
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On a late summer’s afternoon, when he was seven, Henry ran away from home and hid in a hollow chestnut tree. Our changeling spies followed him and raised the alarm, and I transformed myself into his perfect facsimile. We grabbed him, and I slipped into the hollowed space to switch my life for his. When the search party found me that night, they were happy, relieved, and proud—not angry, as I had expected. "Henry," a red-haired man in a fireman’s suit said to me as I pretended to sleep in the hiding place. I opened my eyes and gave him a bright smile. The man wrapped me in a thin blanket and carried me out of the woods to a paved road, where a fire truck stood waiting, its red light pulsing like a heartbeat. The firemen took me home to Henry’s parents, to my new father and mother. As we drove along the road that night, I kept thinking that if that first test could be passed, the world would once again be mine.
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It is a commonly held myth that, among the birds and the beasts, the mother recognizes her young as her own and will refuse a stranger thrust into the den or the nest. This is not so. In fact, the cuckoo commonly lays its eggs in other birds’ nests, and despite its extraordinary size and voracious appetite, the cuckoo chick receives as much, indeed more, maternal care, often to the point of driving the other chicks from their lofty home. Sometimes the mother bird starves her own offspring because of the cuckoo’s incessant demands. My first task was to create the fiction that I was the real Henry Day. Unfortunately, humans are more suspicious and less tolerant of intruders in the nest.
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The rescuers knew only that they were looking for a young boy lost in the woods, and I could remain mute. After all, they had found someone and were therefore content. As the fire truck lurched up the driveway to the Days’ home, I vomited against the bright red door, a vivid mess of acorn mash, watercress, and the exoskeletons of a number of small insects. The fireman patted me on the head and scooped me up, blanket and all, as if I were of no more consequence than a rescued kitten or an abandoned baby. Henry’s father leapt from the porch to gather me in his arms, and with a strong embrace and warm kisses reeking of smoke and alcohol, he welcomed me home as his only son. The mother would be much harder to fool.
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Her face betrayed her every emotion: blotchy skin, chapped with salty tears, her pale blue eyes rimmed in red, her hair matted and disheveled. She reached out for me with trembling hands and emitted a small sharp cry, the kind a rabbit makes when in the distress of the snare. She wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve and wrapped me in the wracking shudder of a woman in love. Then she began laughing in that deep coloratura.
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"Henry? Henry?" She pushed me away and held on to my shoulders at arm’s length. "Let me look at you. Is it really you?"
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"I’m sorry, Mom."
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She brushed away the bangs hiding my eyes and then pulled me against her breast. Her heart beat against the side of my face, and I felt hot and uncomfortable.
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"You needn’t worry, my little treasure. You’re home and safe and sound, and that’s all that matters. You’ve come back to me."
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Dad cupped the back of my head with his large hand, and I thought this homecoming tableau might go on forever. I squirmed free and dug out the handkerchief from Henry’s pocket, crumbs spilling to the floor.
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"I’m sorry I stole the biscuit, Mom."
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She laughed, and a shadow passed behind her eyes. Maybe she had been wondering up to that point if I was indeed her flesh and blood, but mentioning the biscuit did the trick. Henry had stolen one from the table when he ran away from home, and while the others took him to the river, I stole and pocketed it. The crumbs proved that I was hers.
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Well after midnight, they put me to bed, and such a comfort may be the greatest invention of mankind. In any case, it tops sleeping in a hole in the cold ground, a moldy rabbit skin for your pillow, and the grunts and sighs of a dozen changelings anxious in their dreams. I stretched out like a stick between the crisp sheets and pondered my good fortune. Many tales exist of failed changelings who are uncovered by their presumptive families. One child who showed up in a Nova Scotia fishing village so frightened his poor parents that they fled their own home in the middle of a snowstorm and were later found frozen and bobbing in the frigid harbor. A changeling girl, age six, so shocked her new parents when she opened her mouth to speak that, thus frightened, they poured hot wax into each other’s ears and never heard another sound. Other parents, upon learning that their child had been replaced by changelings, had their hair turn white overnight, were stunned into catatonia, heart attacks, or sudden death. Worse yet, though rare, other families drive out the creature through exorcism, banishment, abandonment, murder. Seventy years ago, I lost a good friend after he forgot to make himself look older as he aged. Convinced he was a devil, his parents tied him up like an unwanted kitten in a gunnysack and threw him down a well. Most of the time, though, the parents are confounded by the sudden change of their son or daughter, or one spouse blames the other for their queer fortune. It is a risky endeavor and not for the fainthearted.
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That I had come this far undetected caused me no small satisfaction, but I was not completely at ease. A half hour after I had gone to bed, the door to my room swung open slowly. Framed against the hallway light, Mr. and Mrs. Day stuck their heads through the opening. I shut my eyes to mere slits and pretended to be sleeping. Softly, but persistently, she was sobbing. None could cry with such dexterity as Ruth Day. "We have to mend our ways, Billy. You have to make sure this never happens again."
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"I know, I promise," he whispered. "Look at him sleeping, though. ’The innocent sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleeve of care.’"
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He pulled shut the door and left me in the darkness. My fellow changelings and I had been spying on the boy for months, so I knew the contours of my new home at the edge of the forest. Henry’s view of their few acres and the world beyond was magical. Outside, the stars shone through the window above a jagged row of firs. Through the open windows, a breeze blew across the top of the sheets, and moths beat their wings in retreat from their perches on the window screen. The nearly full moon reflected enough light into the space to reveal the dim pattern on the wallpaper, the crucifix above my head, pages torn from magazines and newspapers tacked along the wall. A baseball mitt and ball rested on top of the bureau, and on the washstand a pitcher and bowl glowed as white as phosphorous. A short stack of books lay propped against the bowl, and I could barely contain my excitement at the prospect of reading come morning.
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The twins began bawling at the break of day. I padded down the hallway, past my new parents’ room, following the sound. The babies hushed the moment they saw me, and I am sure that had they the gifts of reason and speech, Mary and Elizabeth would have said "You’re not Henry" the moment I walked into the room. But they were mere tots, with more teeth than sentences, and could not articulate the mysteries of their young minds. With their clear wide eyes, they regarded my every move with quiet attentiveness. I tried smiling, but no smiles were returned. I tried making funny faces, tickling them under their fat chins, dancing like a puppet, and whistling like a mockingbird, but they simply watched, passive and inert as two dumb toads. Racking my brain to find a way to get through to them, I recalled other occasions when I had encountered something in the forest as helpless and dangerous as these two human children. Walking along in a lonesome glen, I had come across a bear cub separated from its mother. The frightened animal let out such a godforsaken scream that I half expected to be surrounded by every bear in the mountains. Despite my powers with animals, there was nothing to be done with a monster that could have ripped me open with a single swat. By crooning to the beast, I soothed it, and remembering this, I did so with my new-found sisters. They were enchanted by the sound of my voice and began at once to coo and clap their chubby hands while long strings of drool ran down their chins. "Twinkle, Twinkle" and "Bye, Baby Bunting" reassured or convinced them that I was close enough to be their brother, or preferable to their brother, but who knows for certain what thoughts flitted through their simple minds. They gurgled, and they gooed. In between songs, for counterpoint, I would talk to them in Henry’s voice, and gradually they came to believe—or abandon their sense of disbelief.
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Mrs. Day bustled into the babies’ room, humming and tra-la-la-ing. Her general girth and amplitude amazed me; I had seen her many times before, but not quite at such close quarters. From the safety of the woods, she had seemed more or less the same as all adult humans, but in person, she assumed a singular tenderness, though she smelled faintly sour, a perfume of milk and yeast. She danced across the floor, throwing open curtains, dazzling the room with golden morning, and the girls, brightened by her presence, pulled themselves up by the slats of their cribs. I smiled at her, too. It was all I could do to keep from bursting into joyous laughter. She smiled back at me as if I were her only son.
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"Help me with your sisters, would you, Henry?"
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I picked up the nearest girl and announced very pointedly to my new mother, "I’ll take Elizabeth." She was as heavy as a badger. It is a curious feeling to hold an infant one is not planning to steal; the very young convey a pleasant softness.
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The girls’ mother stopped and stared at me, and for a beat, she looked puzzled and uncertain. "How did you know that was Elizabeth? You’ve never been able to tell them apart."
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"That’s easy, Mom. Elizabeth has two dimples when she smiles and her name’s longer, and Mary has just one."
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"Aren’t you the clever one?" She picked up Mary and headed off downstairs.
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Elizabeth hid her face against my shoulder as we followed our mother. The kitchen table groaned with a huge feast—hotcakes and bacon, a jug of warm maple syrup, a gleaming pitcher of milk, and china bowls filled with sliced bananas. After a long life in the forest eating what-you-can-find, this simple fare appeared a smorgasbord of exotic delicacies, rich and ripe, the promise of fullness.
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"Look, Henry, I made all your favorites."
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I could have kissed her right on the spot. If she was pleased with herself for taking the trouble to fix Henry’s favorite foods, she must have been extremely gratified by how I tucked in and enjoyed breakfast. After four hot-cakes, eight strips of bacon, and all but two small glassfuls of the pitcher of milk, I complained of hunger, so she made me three eggs and a half loaf of toast from home-baked bread. My metabolism had changed, it seemed. Ruth Day saw my appetite as a sign of love for her, and for the next eleven years, until I left for college, she indulged me. In time, she sublimated her own anxieties and began to eat like me. Decades as a changeling had molded my appetites and energies, but she was all too human, growing heavier with each passing season. Over the years, I’ve often wondered if she would have changed so much with her real firstborn or whether she filled her gnawing suspicion with food.
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That first day she kept me inside the house, and after all that had occurred, who could blame her? I stuck closer than her own shadow, studying intently, learning better how to be her son, as she dusted and swept, washed the dishes, and changed the babies’ diapers. The house felt safer than the forest, but strange and alien. Small surprises lurked. Daylight angled through the curtained windows, ran along the walls, and cast its patterns across the carpets in an entirely different geometry than beneath the canopy of leaves. Of particular interest were the small universes comprised of specks of dust that make themselves visible only through sunbeams. In contrast to the blaze of sunlight outside, the inner light had a soporific effect, especially on the twins. They tired shortly after lunch—another fete in my honor—and napped in the early afternoon.
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My mother tiptoed from their room to find me patiently waiting in the same spot she had left me, standing like a sentinel in the hallway. I was he witched by an electrical outlet that screamed out to me to stick in my little finger. Although their door was closed, the twins’ rhythmic breathing sounded like a storm rushing through the trees, for I had not yet trained myself not to listen. Mom took me by the hand, and her soft grasp filled me with an abiding empathy. The woman created a deep peace within me with her very touch. I remembered the books on Henry’s washstand and asked her if she would read me a story.
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We went to my room and clambered into bed together. For the past century, adults had been total strangers, and life among the changelings had distorted my perspective. More than twice my size, she seemed too solid and stout to be real, especially when compared to the skinny body of the boy I had assumed. My situation seemed fragile and capricious. If she rolled over, she could snap me like a bundle of twigs. Yet her sheer size created a bunker against the outer world. She would protect me against all my foes. As the twins slept, she read to me from the Brothers Grimm—"The Story of the Youth Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was," "The Wolf and the Seven Young Kids," "Hansel and Gretel," "The Singing Bone," "The Girl Without Hands," and many others, rare or familiar. My favorites were "Cinderella" and "Little Red Riding Hood," which she read with beautiful expression in her mezzo timbre, a singsong much too cheerful for those awful fables. In the music of her voice, an echo sounded from long ago, and as I rested by her side, the decades dissolved.
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I had heard these tales before, long ago, but in German, from my real mother (yes, I, too, had a mother, once upon a time), who introduced me to Ashenputtel and Rotk?ppchen from the Kinder- und Hausm?rchen. I wanted to forget, thought I was forgetting, but could hear quite clearly her voice in my head.
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"Es war einmal im tiefen, tiefen Wald."
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Although I quit the society of the changelings long ago, I have remained, in a sense, in those dark woods, hiding my true identity from those I love. Only now, after the strange events of this past year, do I have the courage to tell the story. This is my confession, too long delayed, which I have been afraid to make and only now reveal because of the passing dangers to my own son. We change. I have changed.
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