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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第12章|Chapter 12

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13492]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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我们去教堂偷蜡烛。即使在深夜，这幢石板镶玻璃的建筑仍然在大街上如此醒目。教堂外面围了铁栅，整体布局呈十字架形，无论从哪个方位走过去，都不会看不到这些标志。十二级的台阶顶端是深褐色的大门，脏污的玻璃窗上的圣经主题镶嵌画反射着月光。屋顶附近，低墙后，躲藏着天使。当我们逼近时，整座大厦像艘船一样地浮现出来，仿佛要将我们一网打尽。斯茂拉赫、斯帕克和我从教堂东首的墓园潜入，溜进牧师没有锁上的侧门。成排的靠背长凳和拱顶形成的空间在黑暗中压在我们身上，空寂也有其重量和实感。不过，我们的视觉一旦适应过来，教堂就显得不那么让人喘不过气了。

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具有威胁意味的形状消失了，高墙和穹顶仿佛伸手拥抱我们。我们分头行动，斯茂拉赫和斯帕克去右侧的圣器收藏室寻找大蜡烛，我则去另一头祭坛的壁龛里找小一些的香烛。沿着祭坛栏杆走时，好像有什么动作敏捷的东西跟着我，恐惧从我心底油然而生。在一座精致的铁架上，几十支蜡烛像成排的战士一样站在玻璃杯中。

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我用指甲轻轻敲击投币罐的金属皮，里面的便士就发出声响，划过的火柴散落在空地上。我就着粗糙的石板划亮一根新火柴，一小团火焰燃起来了，好似一只护指套。

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我立刻后悔点了这火，因为我一抬头就看到一张女人的脸俯视着我。我摇灭亮光，缩到栏杆下面，希望不会被看到。

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惊慌和恐惧来得快，去得也快，现在我吃惊的是，在短短的瞬间，心中竟能闪过如此众多的念头。当我看到她的眼睛俯视我时，我想起那个红衣女子，想起我的同学，想起镇上的人、教堂里的人、圣诞节、复活节、万圣节、绑架、溺水、祈祷者、圣母玛利亚，还有我的妹妹们、父亲、母亲。我差点就解开我的身份之谜了。

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然而，我一开口说“宽恕我”，他们就消失了，而我真实的故事也随之消失。雕像的双眼仿佛在火柴的光芒中闪烁。我望向圣母玛利亚高深莫测的脸庞，她出自一位无名雕塑家之手，是无数崇拜、奉献、想像、祈愿的对象。我把蜡烛装满口袋，感到一阵罪恶感。

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在我身后，中央入口处巨大的木门嘎吱嘎吱地开了，进来的是一位忏悔者或是牧师。我们从边门绕出，从墓碑间逃走。虽然墓地里埋着尸体，但其实还没有教堂的一半可怕。我在一块墓碑前停下脚步，手指抚摸着凹下去的文字，突然有种冲动想要点亮火柴查看墓主姓名。但其他人已经翻过铁栅了，我也只好快步赶上，追着他们一路穿过镇子，直到大家都安全地来到图书馆下面。每次遇险都让我们心有余悸，我们坐在毯子上，像群小孩一样咯咯傻笑。我们点起足够的蜡烛，把避难所照得亮堂堂的。斯茂拉赫爬到一个阴暗的角落里，像头狐狸一样蜷起身子，鼻子埋在披着斗篷的胳膊下面。斯帕克和我来到亮处，拿起上次看过的书，并肩而坐，时间在书页翻动声中流逝。

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自从她把我带去图书馆，我就爱上这个秘密地方了。起初，我寻找那些童年时代读过的书，那些古老的故事——《格林童话》和《鹅妈妈的故事》，还有绘图本《爱尔兰人麦克》、《给小鸭子让路》、《霍默。

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普莱斯》－－为我模糊的身份提供了另一条线索。但与其说这些故事帮我重回过去，不如说它们让我更加远离过去。看着这些图画，大声朗读文字，我就会希望再度听到母亲的声音，但她走了。我去了几次图书馆后，就把这些童书都放到书架上，再也不看了。反之，我开始走上一条斯帕克探索出来的旅程，她来选择，或者说是替我选择了那些装载了我青春兴趣的故事，像《野性的呼唤》、《白芳》，冒险故事和勇敢者的故事。她帮我理解那些我看不懂的字，还替我分析人物和象征意义，以及那些我想像不到的、过分离奇和艰深的情节。她进出书架和无数小说之间的自信鼓舞了我，使我相信自己也有能力去阅读和想像。若不是她，我就会和斯茂拉赫一样，去杂货店偷几本《飞速马车》和《强鼠历险记》这样的漫画书，或者更糟，压根就不读书了。

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我们的窝里温暖舒适，她的腿上搁着一卷厚厚的莎士比亚，字体非常小，我的《最后的莫希干人》正读到一半。烛光摇曳，四周寂静，我们只有突然想要分享彼此的喜悦时，才会打扰对方的阅读。

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“斯帕克，听这段：‘这些林子里的孩子站在一起，对崩溃的大厦指指点点，用他们部落听不懂的话交谈。”’“听上去像是说我们。这些人是谁? ”

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我抬起书，让她看封面，镀金的书名印在绿布上。我们回到各自的故事，过了一个小时左右，她再次开口。

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“听这段，安尼戴。我读的是《哈姆雷特》，来了这两个家伙。罗森格兰兹和吉尔登斯吞。哈姆雷特和他们打招呼：‘好伙计，你们可好? ’罗森格兰兹说：‘和芸芸众生一个样。’吉尔登斯吞说：‘只要不开心过头便是福；我们可不是命运女神帽子上的金纽扣。’”

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“他是说他们不走运? ”

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她大笑，“不是的，不是的。是说不要一再追求好运。”

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她的话我一点没懂，但我和她一起大笑，然后去找我上次看到的鹰眼和恩卡斯在哪里。曙光初照，我们收拾东西离去，我告诉她我有多么喜欢她读给我听的关于命运的那段。

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“把它写下来，朋友。如果你在阅读中看到一段想要记住的，就把它记在你的小书里，这样你就能再次读到它，记在心上，随时都能想起来。”

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我从书架上拿出我的铅笔和一张卡片，这是我从目录卡片里偷来的。“他们怎么说? ”

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“罗森格兰兹和吉尔登斯吞说：和芸芸众生一个样。”

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“最后的莫希干人。”

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“就是我们。”她嫣然一笑，去角落里唤醒我们蒙头大睡的朋友斯茂拉赫。

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我们会偷上几本书带回家。寒冷的冬季早晨，躺在床上晒着微弱的阳光，摸出一本薄薄的书，悠闲地读起来，别提有多自在。一本书封面下的内容能是一种罪恶。

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很多时间，我就在这种幻想中度过，而且一旦学会了如何阅读，我就没法想像我的生活会是别种模样。

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我身边的芸芸众生并不像我一般热衷于文字。有些人或许会坐下来读一个精彩的故事，但只要一本书里没有图片，他们就兴趣寥寥了。

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突击队去镇上，常会带回来一些杂志——《时代》、《生活》或《观察》——我们就会挤在一株老橡树的树阴下看图片。我记得在夏天，一堆膝盖和脚，胳膊肘和肩膀，见缝插针地争夺看图的时机，他们赤裸的皮肤湿漉漉的，和我擦来擦去。

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我们粘在一起，就像光滑的纸页在潮气里起凸、起皱。新闻和庆典对他们没有吸引力。无论是卡斯特罗、赫鲁晓夫，还是梦露、曼透，无非只是过时的爱好、有趣的面孔。他们非常喜欢看孩子的照片，特别是奇特、幽默的场景，还有自然界的照片，尤其是动物园、马戏团里或远方野外的异域动物。大象背上的男孩能引起轰动，不过和幼象在一起的男孩就能被一连说上几天。最受喜爱的是父母和孩子在一起的照片。

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“安尼戴，”奥尼恩斯恳求说，“跟我们讲讲这个爸爸和孩子的故事。”

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有着一双明目的女婴从摇篮边上偷偷地看着她快乐地微笑的父亲。我把标题读给他们听，“《襁褓中的快乐：在乔治敦的家中，议员肯尼迪爱怜他刚出生的女儿卡罗琳》。”

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我正要翻页，布鲁玛一把按住照片，“等等。我还要再看看这孩子。”

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卡维素芮也插话：“我要看这男人。”

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他们对另一个世界无比好奇，尤其是这些照片展示的远方，在那个地方，人们成长、恋爱、生育、衰老，周而复始，不像我们拥有无情的永恒。他们不断变化的生活让我们着迷。我们虽然有很多家务杂事，但队伍里总是弥漫着一股百无聊赖的气息。长远来看，我们除了任由时间走过，也没有别的事情好做。

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齐维和布鲁玛能花一天的时间来编织彼此的头发，把辫子解开，再从头编起。

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或者把玩她们偷来的或用棍子和布片做成的玩具娃娃。特别是齐维，她成了一个小妈妈，胸口抱着个破娃娃，把玩具孩子藏在一只用丢弃的野餐篮改成的摇篮里。还有一个娃娃是用另外四个娃娃丢失或断掉的四肢拼凑起来的。一个潮湿的早晨，齐维和布鲁玛在小溪边给她们的娃娃洗澡，我也去岸边和她们一起洗，帮忙清洗尼龙头发，头发柔顺地贴在娃娃的塑料头皮上。

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“你们为什么这么喜欢玩你们的娃娃? ”

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齐维继续干活，没有抬头，但我感觉到她在哭。

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“我们在练习，”布鲁玛说，“准备将来轮到我们去换生。我们在练习今后怎么当母亲。”

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“齐维，你为什么难过? ”

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她看了看我，眼中亮晶晶的东西流了下来，“因为等的时间太长了。”

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确实如此。我们都在变老，但身体不会变化。我们不会长大。

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那几个在树林里待了几十年的受苦最多。最淘气的就制造事端，解决想像出来的问题，或者从事看来毫无意义的事业，以此来和无聊抗衡。伊格尔为了保护我们，在过去十年里一直在挖掘一个精密的隧道和地下防护系统。排名第二的贝卡则一直四处晃悠，只要发现没有防备的女性，就抓来拖进灌木丛。

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几乎每年春天，劳格诺和赞扎拉都会种植葡萄，希望能用自酿葡萄酒来替换我们的发酵品。当然了，土地怎么施肥也无济于事，白天缺乏足够的光照，还有蛀虫、蜘蛛、昆虫的侵犯，而我的朋友们也不走运。一两株葡萄苗也会发芽，在劳格诺搭好的格子架上盘绕蜿蜒，但这些年从未长出过葡萄。到了九月，他们诅咒着霉运，拔掉剩余的葡萄藤，但等到三月来嘲笑这个梦想时，他们又会从头开始。当我第七次看到他们开垦坚硬的土地，我就问赞扎拉他们为什么要屡败屡战。

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他停下翻土，倚在豁了口的老铁锹上。

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“我们还是人类的小孩时，每天晚餐都有一杯葡萄酒喝。我想再品尝品尝。”

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“但你们当然可以去镇上偷一两瓶来。”

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“我爸爸种葡萄的，他的爸爸也种，还有他的爸爸的爸爸的爸爸。”他用泥巴手抹了把额头，“总有一天，我们会种出葡萄的。这地方你就要学会耐心。”

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我大部分时间都与鲁契克还有斯茂拉赫在一起，他们教我怎么伐倒一棵树而不被它压到，教我陷阱的几何学和物理学原理，教我徒步追兔子时如何从正确的角度来抓住它。但我最喜欢和斯帕克一起度过的日子。其中最开心的是我的生日。

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我仍然记录日历，并选择四月二十三日——莎士比亚的生日——作为我的生日。

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我在树林里的第十个春天来临了，那个日子是星期六，斯帕克邀请我去图书馆，晚上一起安静地阅读。我们到的时候，房间被装修过了。数十支小蜡烛点满屋子，琥珀色的光芒好比满天繁星下的篝火。门口的裂缝旁边，她早已用粉笔在自制的卷轴上写了生日贺词。那些蜘蛛网、脏地毯、旧垫子之类的破烂都被清理一空，把地方弄得既干净又舒适。她摆开面包和干酪的小小盛宴——这些东西都放在老鼠够不到的地方——不一会儿，水壶快乐地沸腾了，我们的杯子里是真正的茶。

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“真是无法置信，斯帕克。”

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“感谢上帝，我们把今天定为你的生日，否则我就什么都干不成了。”

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后来那天晚上，我从书中抬起头来，望向身边看书的她。光影她脸上闪动，她很有规律地每隔一段时间就把挡在眼前的一缕头发拂开。她的在场让我分神，我的书没有翻过几页，好些句子得读上几次。深夜，我在她怀抱中醒来。平时我醒来若发现有人趴在我身上，必会把他一脚踢开或搡开，但我依偎着她，盼望这一刻能长久。大多数短蜡烛已经燃尽，我悲哀地发现我们的时间快到头了。

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“斯帕克，醒醒。”

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她在睡梦中喃喃出声，把我拉得更紧。我撬开她的胳膊滚开去。

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“我们得走了。你不觉得皮肤上的空气在变化吗? 天快亮了。”

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“回来睡觉。”

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我收拾起我的东西，“我们再不走，就走不成了。”

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她用胳膊肘把自己支起来，“我们能待在这儿。今天是星期天，图书馆关门。

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我们可以一整天待着读书。没人会在这里。我们可以等天黑了再回去。”

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有那么一瞬间，我考虑了她的想法，但一想到白天待在镇上，有可能被来来往往的人发现，我就不寒而栗。

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“太冒险了，”我低声说，“万一有人过来呢? 警察。看守人。”

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她又倒在了毯子上，“相信我。”

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“你不来吗? ”我在门口问。

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“去吧。有时候你真是个孩子。”

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从出口挤出去时，我想我是不是做错了。我不喜欢和斯帕克争执，也不喜欢把她独自留下，但她曾经很多时候一个人离群独处。我的念头在两个选择之间蹦来跳去，也许我对斯帕克的挂虑影响了我的方向感，我发现丢下她后，自己很快就迷路了。每转一次弯，就会出现陌生的街道和陌生的房屋，而且我急着逃走，越来越觉得没有头绪，希望渺茫。在镇子边缘，一片小树林把我召唤进它温暖的掩护，我从三条岔路中选了一条，沿着它曲曲折折地往前走。此后想来，我应该待在原地，等到太阳升起，就能把它当指南针，但在当时，我的头脑里塞满了问题。她为我过生日时，究竟是怎么想的? 我怎么能用这具永远幼小无用的躯体，来长大成为一个男人? 渐渐变浅的银月亮沉下去了，消失了。

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一道涓涓细流把小径一分两半，我决定跟着水走。清晨沿着溪流走路是一种宁静的体验，这些树林曾多次出现在我梦境中，我熟悉它们就像熟悉自己的名字。溪流在一条石路下流淌，这条路把我带到一幢孤零零的农舍。从出口处我看到了屋顶，我转了一圈到屋后，这时第一束阳光把门廊染成了金色。

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由于光线的缘故，房子看起来像是没有竣工，沉浸在白天和黑夜之间的梦幻中。

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我有点希望我母亲会从门里出来，叫我回家吃饭。

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随着光线越来越亮，房子的模样也更加友善，窗户不再虎视眈眈，门也越来越不像一张饥饿的嘴。我跨出树林，走到草坪上，在濡湿的草地上留下一条深色的足迹。突然，门开了，我当场呆若木鸡。一个男人走下阶梯，站在最后第二级台阶上点起一支烟。这人裹着条蓝色的睡袍，又向前跨了一步，抬起脚，吃惊湿气这么重。

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他边笑边喃喃咒骂着。

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虽然我们已经面对面了，这怪物还是没有注意到我。他站在房子边上，我站在树林边上。我想回转身看看他在找什么，但拂晓在我们周围揭开帷幕，我像只野兔一样在越来越亮的晨光中愣住了。缕缕晨雾带着寒气从草坪上升起。他走近，我屏住呼吸。我们之间不足二十步之遥，他站住了。香烟从他指尖坠落。他又朝我跨了一步。

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眉头担忧地皱了起来，稀疏的头发被风吹动，眼珠在眼窝里跳舞，这样过了漫长的时间，他颤抖着嘴唇开口说话。

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“我们? 羡慕? ”

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这些词对我毫无意义可言。

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“咀嚼? 阿嚏? 蜜蜂，休斯顿? ”

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他发出的声音刺痛了我的耳朵。那一刻，我希望自己睡在斯帕克的怀抱里。他跪倒在湿草上，张开双臂；像是盼望我奔向他。但我糊涂了，不知道他是否想伤害我，所以我转身用我最快的速度跑走。

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他喉咙里喷出来的可怕而莫名的声音一直跟我到树林深处，突然，奇怪的词语中断了，但我仍然一路跑回了家。

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We entered the church to steal candles. Even in the dead of night, the slate and glass building asserted its prominence on Main Street. Bound by an iron fence, the church had been laid out in the shape of a cross, and no matter how one approached it, the symbols were inescapable. Huge chestnut doors at the top of a dozen steps, mosaics from the Bible in the stained-glass windows reflecting moonlight, parapets hiding angels lurking near the roof—the whole edifice loomed like a ship that threatened to swamp us as we drew near. Smaolach, Speck, and I crept through the graveyard adjacent to the eastern arm of the church and popped in through a side door that the priests left unlocked. The long rows of pews and the vaulted ceiling created a space that, in the darkness, pressed down on us; its emptiness had weight and substance. Once our eyes adjusted, however, the church did not seem as smothering. The threatening size diminished, and the high walls and arched ceilings reached out as if to embrace us. We split up, Smaolach and Speck in search of the larger candles in the sacristy to the right, I to find the smaller votive candles in an alcove on the other side of the altar. A fleeting presence seemed to follow me along the altar rail, and a real dread rose inside me. In a wrought iron stand, dozens of candles stood like lines of soldiers in glass cups. A coinbox rattled with pennies when I tapped my nails against its metal face, and spent matches littered the empty spaces. I struck a new match against the rough plate, and a small flame erupted like a fingersnap. At once, I regretted the fire, for I looked up and saw a woman’s face staring down at me. I shook out the light and crouched beneath the rail, hoping to be invisible.

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Panic and fear left as quickly as they had come, and what amazes me now is how much flows through the mind in such a short space of time. When I saw her eyes looking down on me, I remembered: the woman in red, my schoolmates, the people in town, the people in church, Christmas, Easter, Halloween, the kidnapping, drowning, prayers, the Virgin Mary, and my sisters, father, mother. I nearly had solved the riddle of my identity. Yet as quickly as it takes to say "Pardon me," they vanished, and with them, my real story. It seemed as if the eyes of the statue flickered in the match light. I looked upon the enigmatic face of the Virgin Mary, idealized by an anonymous sculptor, the object of untold adoration, devotion, imagination, supplication. As I stuffed my pockets with candles, I felt a pang of guilt.

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Behind me, the great wooden doors at the center entrance groaned open as a penitent or a priest entered. We zipped out through the side door and zigzagged among the gravestones. Despite the fact that bodies lay buried there, the cemetery was not half as frightening as the church. I paused at a gravestone, ran my fingers over the incised letters, and was tempted to light a match to read the name. The others leapt over the iron fence, so I scurried to catch up, chasing them across town, until we were all safely beneath the library. Every close call thrilled us, and we sat on our blankets giggling like children. We lit enough candles to make our sanctuary shine. Smaolach crawled off to a dark corner and curled up like a fox, his nose buried under a cloaking arm. Speck and I sought out the brightness, and with our latest books, we sat side by side, the scrape of turning pages marking time.

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Ever since she had introduced me to this secret place, I loved going to the library. Initially, I went for the books first encountered in my childhood. Those old stories—Grimm’s Fairy Tales and Mother Goose, picture books like Mike Mulligan, Make Way for Ducklings, and Homer Price—promised another clue to my fading identity. Rather than help me recapture the past, the stories only alienated me further from it. By looking at the pictures and reading Aloud the text, I had hoped to hear my mother’s voice again, but she was gone. After my first few visits to the library, I shelved such childish things and never again looked at them. Instead, I embarked upon a journey mapped by Speck, who chose, or helped me choose, stories to hold my adolescent interest: books like The Call of the Wild and White Fang, tales of adventure and derring-do. She helped me sound out words I could not decipher and explained characters, symbols, and plots that ran too wild or deep for my imagination. Her confidence, as she moved through the stacks and countless novels, inspired me to believe in my own ability to read and imagine. If not for her, I would be the same as Smaolach, filching comic books like Speed Carter or the Adventures of Mighty Mouse from the drugstore. Or worse, not reading at all.

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Cozy in our den, she held on her lap a fat volume of Shakespeare, the type set in a minuscule font, and I was midway through The Last of the Mohicans. The flickering candlelight conspired with the silence, and we only interrupted each other’s reading to share a casual delight.

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"Speck, listen to this: ’These children of the woods stood together for several moments pointing at the crumbling edifice, and conversing in the unintelligible language of their tribe.’"

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"Sounds like us. Who are these people?"

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I held up the book to show her its cover, the title in gilt letters on a green cloth. We receded back into our stories, and an hour or so passed before she spoke again.

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"Listen to this, Aniday. I’m reading Hamlet here and these two fellows come in. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Hamlet greets them: ’Good lads, how do ye both?’ And Rosencrantz says, ’As the indifferent children of the earth.’ And Guildenstern says, ’Happy in that we are not over-happy. On Fortune’s cap we are not the very button.’ "

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"Does he mean they were unlucky?"

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She laughed. "Not that, not that. Don’t go chasing after a better fortune."

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I did not understand the half of what she said, but I laughed along with her, and then tried to find my place again with Hawkeye and Uncas. As morning threatened and we packed our things to go, I told her how much I had enjoyed what she had read to me about Fortune.

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"Write it down, boy. If you come across a passage in your reading that you’d like to remember, write it down in your little book; then you can read it again, memorize it, and have it whenever you wish."

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I took out my pencil and a card from the stack I had filched from the card catalog. "What did they say?"

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"Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: the indifferent children of the earth."

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"The last of the Mohicans."

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"That’s us." She flashed her smile before going to the corner to wake our slumbering friend Smaolach.

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We would snitch a few books to take home with us for the satisfaction of lying abed on a chilled winter’s morning under weak sunshine and slipping out a slim volume to read at leisure. Between the covers, a book can be a sin. I have spent many hours in such a waking dream, and once having learned how to read, I could not imagine my life otherwise. The indifferent children around me did not share my enthusiasm for the written word. Some might sit for a good story well told, but if a book had no pictures, they showed scant interest.

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When a raiding party went to town, they often came back with a collection of magazines—Time or Life or Look—and then we would huddle together under the shade of an old oak to look at the photographs. I remember summer days, a mass of knees and feet, elbows and shoulders, jockeying for a choice viewing position, their bare skin damp against mine. We stuck together like the slick pages clumped and wrinkled in the humidity. News and celebrity did not appeal to them. Castro or Khrushchev, Monroe or Mantle, none meant anything more than a passing fancy, an interesting face; but they were profoundly intrigued by images of children, particularly in fanciful or humorous situations, and any photographs of the natural world, particularly exotic animals from a zoo or circus or in the wild reaches of a faraway land. A boy on top of an elephant caused a sensation, but a boy with a baby elephant was talked about for days. Most beloved of all were shots of parents and children together.

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"Aniday," Onions would plead, "tell us the story about the daddy and his baby."

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A bright-eyed baby girl peeps up from a bassinet to stare at her delighted, grinning father. I read the caption to them. "’Little bundle of joy: Senator Kennedy admires his new baby daughter, Caroline, in their Georgetown home.’"

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When I tried to turn the page, Blomma stuck her palm on the photograph. "Wait. I want to see the baby again."

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Chavisory chimed in: "I want to see the man."

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They were intensely curious about the other world, especially at the distance photography allows, the place where people grew up, fell in love, had children, became old, and the cycle continued, unlike our relentless timelessness. Their ever-changing lives fascinated us. Despite our many chores, a persistent boredom hung around the camp. For long stretches, we did nothing but allow time to pass.

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Kivi and Blomma could spend a day braiding each other’s hair, unraveling the plaits and starting all over again. Or they played with the dolls they had stolen or made from sticks and scraps of cloth. Kivi, in particular, became a little mother, holding a rag doll to her breast, tucking her toy baby in a cradle fashioned from a forgotten picnic basket. One baby was composed of the lost or broken limbs of four other dolls. As Kivi and Blomma bathed their dolls at the creeks edge one humid morning, I joined them on the bank and helped to rinse the nylon hair till it lay plastered against the dolls’ plastic scalps.

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"Why do you like playing with your babies so much?"

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Kivi did not look up from her task, but I could sense that she was crying.

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"We are practicing," said Blomma, "for when our turn comes along to be changelings. We are practicing to be mothers someday."

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"Why are you sad, Kivi?"

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She looked at me, the brightness now drained from her eyes. "Because it takes so long."

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Indeed it did. For while we all grew older, we did not change physically. We did not grow up. Those who had been in the forest for decades suffered most. The truly mischievous fought the monotony by creating trouble, solving imaginary problems, or by pursuing an enterprise that, on the surface, appeared worthless. Igel had spent the past decade in camp digging an elaborate system of tunnels and underground warrens for our protection. Béka, the next in line, was on a constant prowl to catch any unsuspecting female and drag her into the bushes.

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Ragno and Zanzara attempted to cultivate grapes nearly every spring in hope of replacing our fermented mash with a homegrown wine. Of course, the soil resisted every enrichment, the days lacked sufficient sun, mites and spiders and insects invaded, and my friends had no luck. A vine or two would sprout, twist and meander along the trellis Ragno had built, but never a grape in all those years. Come September, they cursed their luck and tore down the remnants, only to begin again when March teased such dreams. The seventh time I saw them breaking the hard ground, I asked Zanzara why they persisted in the face of continued failures. He stopped digging and leaned against the cracked and ancient spade.

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"When we were boys, every night we had a glass of wine at supper. I’d like to taste it again."

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"But surely you could steal a bottle or two from town."

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"My papa grew grapes and his before him and back and back and back." He wiped his brow with an earth-caked hand. "One day we’ll get the grapes. You learn to be patient here."

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I passed much time with Luchóg and Smaolach, who taught me how to fell A tree and not be crushed, the geometry and physics behind a deadfall trap, the proper angle of chase to catch a hare on foot. But my favorite days were spent with Speck. And the best of all were my birthdays.

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I still kept my calendar and had chosen April 23—Shakespeare’s birthday—as my own. In my tenth spring in the woods, the date fell on a Saturday, and Speck invited me to go to the library to spend the night quietly reading together. When we arrived, the chamber had been transformed. Dozens of small candles suffused the room with an amber glow reminiscent of the light from a campfire under the stars. Near the crack at the entranceway, she had chalked a birthday greeting in a scrolled design of her own devising. The general shabbiness—the cobwebs, dirty blankets, and threadbare rugs—had been cleared away, making the place clean and cozy. She had laid in a small feast of bread and cheese, locked away against the mice, and soon the kettle boiled cheerfully, with real tea in our cups.

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"This is incredible, Speck."

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"Thank goodness we decided today is your birthday, or I would have gone to all this fuss for nothing."

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At odd times that evening, I would look up from my text to watch her reading nearby. Light and shadow flickered across her face, and like clockwork she brushed a stray lock from in front of her eyes. Her presence disturbed me; I did not get through many pages of my book and had to read many sentences more than once. Late that night, I awoke in her embrace. Instead of the usual kicking or shouldering away when I woke up with someone all over me, I nestled into her, wanting the moment to last. Most of the shorter candles had burned down, and sadly I realized that our time was nearly over.

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"Speck, wake up."

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She murmured in her sleep and pulled me closer. I pried away her arm and rolled out.

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"We have to go. Don’t you feel the air on your skin changing? The dawn’s about to begin."

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"Come back to sleep."

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I gathered my things together. "We won’t be able to leave unless we go right now."

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She lifted herself up by the elbows. "We can stay. It’s Sunday and the library’s closed. We can stay all day and read. Nobody will be here. We can go back when it’s dark again."

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For a fleeting second, I considered her idea, but the very thought of staying in town during daylight hours, chancing discovery with people up and about, filled me with a holy terror.

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"It’s too risky," I whispered. "Suppose someone happens by. A policeman. A watchman."

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She dropped back down to the blanket. "Trust me."

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"Are you coming?" I asked at the door.

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"Go. Sometimes you are such a child."

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Squeezing through the exit, I wondered if it was a mistake. I did not like arguing with Speck or leaving her there by herself, but she had spent many days on her own away from camp. My thoughts bounced back and forth between the two choices, and perhaps my worries over Speck affected my sense of direction, for I found myself quite lost soon after abandoning her. Each new turn brought unfamiliar streets and strange houses, and in my haste to escape, I became more hopelessly disoriented. At an edge of town, a grove of trees invited me into its warm cloak, and there I picked a trail from three options, following its twists and turns. In hindsight, I should have stayed put until the sun had fully risen, so that it could serve as compass, but at the time, my thoughts were clouded by questions. What had she been thinking, planning, doing for my birthday? How was I to grow older, be a man, stuck eternally in this small, useless body? The waning sliver moon dipped and disappeared.

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A small creek, not more than a trickle, bisected the path. I decided to follow the water. Tracing a creek at dawn can be a peaceful experience, and those woods had appeared so often in my dreams as to be as familiar to me as my own name. The creek itself ran beneath a stony road, and the road led me to a solitary farmhouse. From the culvert, I saw the roof and circled round to the back as the first sunrays bathed the porch in gold.

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Some trick of light gave the house an unfinished appearance, as if caught in a dream between night and day. I half expected my mother to come through the door, calling me home for dinner. As the light brought it into focus, the house took on a more welcoming character, its windows losing their menacing stare, its door less and less like a hungry mouth. I stepped out of the forest and onto the lawn, leaving a dark wake behind me on the wet grass. The door swung open suddenly, petrifying me on the spot. A man came down the stairs, pausing on the next-to-bottom step to light a cigarette. Wrapped in a blue robe, the figure took one step forward, then lifted his foot, startled by the moisture. He laughed and cursed softly.

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The specter still did not notice me, though we faced each other—he at the edge of the house, and I at the edge of the forest. I wanted to turn around and see what he was looking for, but I stood frozen as a hare as the daybreak lifted around us. From the lawn, a chill rose in wisps of fog. He drew closer, and I held my breath. Not a dozen steps between us, he stopped. The cigarette fell from his fingers. He took one more step toward me. His brow creased with worry. His thin hair blew in the breeze. An eternity passed as his eyes danced in their sockets. His lips trembled when he opened his mouth to speak.

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"And we? Envy?"

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The words coming to me did not make sense.

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"Is a chew? Atchoo? Can a bee, Houston?"

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The sounds he made hurt my ears. At that moment, I wished to be sleeping in Speck’s arms again. He knelt on the damp grass and spread out his arms as if he expected me to run to him. But I was confused and did not know if he meant me harm, so I turned and sprinted, as fast as I could go. The monstrous gargle from his throat followed me deep into the forest until, as suddenly, the strange words stopped, yet I kept running all the way home.

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