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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第24章|Chapter 24

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13469]
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我们住在乌黑的洞里，而这个山坡上的废井也确实不堪居住。

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第一个冬天，我冬眠的时间比以往都来得长，几天才醒来稍微吃点喝点，然后又回头去睡。其他大多数人都处于嗜睡状态，从十二月到三月一直昏昏沉沉。黑暗将我们包裹在潮湿的怀抱里，一连几周我们都晒不到丁点阳光。大雪把我们封在里面，但入口的多处缝隙却挡不住寒冷。墙壁上的滴水冻结成光滑的冰壳，用力一压就碎。

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到了春天，我们来到绿色世界，一个个又饿又瘦。在陌生的领地上，寻找食物成了每日要务。山坡上都是矿渣和页岩，即使在最适宜的季节中，也只有最坚韧的野草和苔藓才能长出细弱的根来。动物都懒得过来觅食。贝卡告诫我们不要逛太远，所以我们就只在附近将就了——蚱蜢和幼虫，树皮泡的茶，知更鸟的胸脯肉，烤臭鼬。我们想像着所有因为没有造访镇上而带来的损失。

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“要是能吃上一口冰激凌，我宁可舍掉一颗犬齿。”斯茂拉赫在一顿简陋的晚餐后说，“或者一条美味的黄香蕉。”

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“覆盆子果酱，”斯帕克说，“涂在烤得暖暖的、松脆的面包上。”

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奥尼恩斯说：“德国泡菜和猪蹄子。”

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“意大利实心粉，”赞扎拉说，劳格诺也接口道：“意大利于乳酪。”

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“可乐和香烟。”鲁契克拍了拍他空空的革囊。

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“你为什么不让我们去呢? ”卡维素芮说，“已经过去了那么久了，贝卡。”

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这个身材瘦长的独裁者坐在我们前面一只用空的炸药箱做成的王座上。每次我们提议自由活动，他都不肯恩准。但随着天气转好，他的心情或许也渐渐开朗起来。

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“奥尼恩斯，今晚带布鲁玛和齐维一起去，不过天亮前要回来。不要靠近马路，不要冒险。”他为自己的恩赐露出微笑，“给我带瓶啤酒回来。”

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三个女孩一起站起来，立刻离开了。贝卡本该看出征兆，骨子里感觉到即将到来的变化，但或许他太想喝酒了，没能做出正确的判断。一股寒流攀上西边的山头，碰上温暖的五月空气，几小时后，一场重霜降在林中，像桃子皮似的贴在黑夜里。

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我们的视力只及一步远，而披在树林中的看不见的大氅让我们都为外出的伙伴担忧起来。

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大家回到黑洞里睡觉后，鲁契克陪我一起在矿洞口安静地守夜。

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“别担心，小宝贝。她们看不见，别人也看不见她们。她们会找个安全的地方藏起来，等到太阳照亮阴霾。”

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我们望着望着，无所事事起来。到了半夜，树林里“哗啦”一声把我们惊醒。

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这个声音一波一波急速传来。树枝喀嚓作响，纷纷断裂，一个非人的呼喊声在四周回响，但很快消失。我们往迷雾中张望，费力地朝声音嘈杂处看。鲁契克划一根火柴，点亮了矿井入口处的火炬。潮湿的枝条劈里啪啦地响，终于点着了火，发出光来。我们借火壮胆，小心翼翼地探向刚才发声的所在，地上留有淡淡的血腥味。雾气中，前方有双眼睛在我们的火炬光芒下莹莹发亮，我们停下脚步。

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一只狐狸张开大嘴叼走了猎物，我们来到它的狩猎处。黑白相间的羽毛就像万花筒里的玻璃似的撒在落叶上。狐狸叼着沉重的火鸡，步履蹒跚地跑向远方，在我们头顶上的树上，幸存的鸟儿挤成一团发抖，彼此定下心来。

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奥尼恩斯、齐维和布鲁玛还没有回来，我带斯帕克去看狐狸捕猎的地方。她挑了两支长羽毛，插在头发上。“最后的莫希干人。”她说，然后一边叫嚷着一边奔入微明的晨光，我追赶着她，就这样玩了一天。等斯帕克和我傍晚回来时，发现贝卡正怒气冲冲地踱步。女孩们还没有回家，他不知是该派遣搜寻队还是等在矿井里。

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“让我们留在这里，你是什么意思? ”斯帕克提议说，“你让她们天亮前回来，你以为奥尼恩斯会不听你的吗? 她们几个小时前就该回来了。我们为什么不去找她们? ”她把我们八个人分成四组，画出了四条去镇上的不同路线。为了安抚贝卡，她和他走一条最近的路。

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斯茂拉赫和鲁契克从我们的老地盘上绕过去，劳格诺和赞扎拉走一条老鹿道。

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卡维素芮和我走一条古老的要道，这也许是印第安人开辟出来的，道路顺着河走，随着水势转弯和起伏。奥尼恩斯、齐维和布鲁玛似乎更有可能走了另一条有更多掩护的路，但我们还是非常留意是否有什么动静，或者有什么迹象能说明她们走了这条路，比如新留下的脚印或折断的树枝。有时候灌木丛堵住去路，我们就走上没有遮蔽的河岸去抄近路。如果有人从连接高速公路和镇子的高架桥上驾车而过，就会在昏暗的光线下发现我们，我常想，从那么高的地方看下来，走在小路上的我们是什么样子。大概像蚂蚁，或者像迷路的小孩子。卡维素芮在自哼自唱着没有歌词的调子，听上去既熟悉又陌生。

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“这是什么歌? ”我们停下来判别方向时，我这么问她。在远远的河上，一艘拖船拉着一列驳船驶向城市。

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“肖邦吧，我想。”    。

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“肖邦是什么? ”

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她嘻嘻笑了，两根手指卷着一缕头发。“不是什么，笨蛋。是谁。

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肖邦写了这首曲子，至少他是这么说的。”

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“谁说的? 肖邦? ”

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她失声大笑，然后用空着的那只手掩住了嘴。“肖邦已经死了。

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是教我这首曲子的男孩说的。他说这是肖邦的蛋黄酱（是肖邦的降A 大调作品61号幻想波兰舞曲，因波兰舞曲与蛋黄酱的英语发音相似，故奥尼恩斯有此误。）。”

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“那个男孩是谁? 是我前面的那个吗? ”

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她的神情变了，望着远处渐渐消失的驳船。即使在微明的光线下，我还是看到她脸红了。

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“你为什么不告诉我? 为什么大家都不提起他? ”

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“安尼戴，我们从不说起已经走了的换生灵。我们要忘掉和他们有关的任何事。

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追逐回忆没有好处。”

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远处传来了喊声，一闪即逝的警报指示我们迅速赶去集合。我们不再交谈，追踪声音而去。劳格诺和赞扎拉率先找到了她，她一个人在空荡荡的山谷中哭泣。她已经走了半天，又慌又急找不到回家的路。其他各队在听到消息后几分钟内赶到，贝卡坐在奥尼恩斯身边，搂着她的肩膀。齐维和布鲁玛失踪了。

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三个女孩见到浓雾升起，就飞奔进了镇子，天气最恶劣的时候，她们赶到了空无一人的外街。街灯和商店前的标志在雾气笼罩的夜晚打出光晕，像灯塔一样给仙灵们指路。布鲁玛对另两位说不必担心会被屋子里的人看到，“我们在雾气里是看不到的。”她说。或许正是她这种有勇无谋的信心造成了她们的失败。她们从超市里偷了糖、盐、面粉和一网兜的橘子，接着把战利品藏在杂货店外面的小巷子里。

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她们从巷子后面潜入时都惊果了，这里与上次来的时候大不相同。

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“一切都变了，”奥尼恩斯告诉我们，“汽水店没了，整个柜台和所有能让你转来转去的圆椅也没有了。售货亭没有了。糖果柜台没有了，大盒装的便士糖也没了。而多出来许多其他东西。肥皂香波、鞋带、一整面墙的漫画书和杂志。还有一整排的婴儿用品。有一次性的塑料尿布，婴儿瓶装和罐装牛奶，几百个小罐装的食品，全都已经胀起来了的，每罐上都印着同一张世界上最可爱的婴儿照片。有苹果酱、梨子和香蕉，菠菜和绿豆，看起来像红泥的甜土豆，还有香酥火鸡和油鸡饭。

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齐维每种都想尝尝，我们在那里待了几个小时。”

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我能想像这个场面：她们三个脸上涂着蓝莓酱，肚子鼓鼓，四肢趴开躺在过道上，几十个空罐头丢了～地。

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一辆车开到路边，停在落地橱窗外。灯光穿过玻璃，在室内缓缓扫动．灯光照过来时，女孩们跳起来，却在豌豆和胡萝卜泥上滑了一跤跤，摔得罐头满地毯打滚。

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前门开了，进来两个警察。一个对另一个说：“他说他们会在这里。”奥尼恩斯叫她们快跑，但齐维和布鲁玛一动不动。她们并肩站在婴儿食品过道中间，手拉着手，等着那两个人过来捉她们。

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“我不知道为什么，”奥尼恩斯说，“这是我见过的最可怕的事。

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我绕到那两个人身后，看到灯光正打在齐维和布鲁玛脸上。她们看起来像是等着这事发生似的。警察说：‘他说得没错。这里有人。’另一个说：‘别动。’齐维用力闭上眼睛，布鲁玛把一只手举到额上，但她们看起来一点儿也不害怕，简直好像很开心的样子。”

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奥尼恩斯溜到门口逃走了，也顾不上偷了的东西。她凭着本能跑在空荡荡的街道上，不管来往的车辆，也不回头朝后看。大雾使她迷失了方向，她从镇子的一头跑到另一头，后来在一个黄色的大车库里找到了藏身处，等到天快黑才回家，走的是街道边上的路。劳格诺和赞扎拉找到她时，她已精疲力竭了。

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“那个人为什么那么说? ”贝卡问她，“‘他说他们会在这里’，是什么意思?”

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“肯定有人告诉警察我们在哪里，”奥尼思斯颤抖着说，“有人知道我们的路线。”

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贝卡拉着她的手让她站起来。“会是别的什么人呢? ”他目不转睛地朝我看，好似指责我犯了重罪。

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“但我没有说……”

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“不是你，安尼戴，”他呸了一声，“是取代了你位置的家伙。”

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“肖邦。”卡维素芮说，一两个人听到这个名字笑了起来，但心情立刻沉了下去。我们默默地回家，想着失去的朋友齐维和布鲁玛。

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每个人都有各自悲痛的方式。我们把她们的娃娃从洞里拿出来，埋在一个坟墓里。斯茂拉赫和鲁契克用了两个星期堆了一座石堆，卡维素芮和斯帕克把我们离开的伙伴的财物分给余下的九个人。只有劳格诺和赞扎拉无动于衷，拿了自己那份衣服和鞋子，但几乎什么也没说。从夏天到秋天，我们的谈话都围绕着女孩们被捕的事。奥尼恩斯竭力想让我们相信她们会叛变，贝卡和她站在一边，认为她们会和人类合作，而人类会来提我们，齐维和布鲁玛和盘托出只是时间问题。穿黑西装的男人会再来，还有军人、警察和狗，他们会把我们逮到手。其他人则想得更多。

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鲁契克说：“她们想离开，这只是个时间问题。我只希望那两个可怜的家伙会在世上找到家，而不是被送到动物园去，或者被一个疯子科学家放在显微镜下。”

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我们再也没有听到她们的消息。她们仿佛凭空消失了。

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贝卡变本加厉地要求我们待在黑暗里，但他在某些晚上也允许我们离开人数减少了的集体。此后几年，一有这种机会，斯帕克和我就溜到图书馆下面相对安静和舒适的地方睡觉。我们一头扎入书籍和文章，我们阅读翻译过来的希腊文学，克吕泰涅斯特拉的悲痛、在薄薄的土层下害怕的安提戈涅，在凄凉的丹麦夜晚徘徊的格伦德尔，坎特伯雷的朝圣者和朝圣路上的生活，蒲柏的格言诗，莎士比亚作品中丰厚的人文精神，弥尔顿的天使和欧洲野牛，格列佛的大人国、小人国和耶胡，济慈天马行空的幻想，雪莱夫人的弗兰肯斯坦，瑞普·凡·温克的一场大梦。斯帕克喜欢读奥斯汀、艾略特、爱默生、梭罗、勃朗特姐妹、奥尔珂德、莱斯比、罗塞蒂、勃朗宁夫妇，她特别喜爱兔子洞里的爱丽丝。我们一路读到当代，像两条书虫似的啃读书卷。

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有时候，斯帕克会大声朗读给我听。我会给她一篇她没有读过的小说，她立刻会纳为己有。她用爱伦坡《渡鸦》中的“曾经”吓唬我，还使我为托马斯·格雷淹死的猫哭泣。她能发出丁尼生《尤利西斯》中怒吼的波涛声和《轻骑兵进击》中如雷的马蹄声。我爱她音乐般的嗓音，喜欢年复一年看着她阅读时的脸庞。夏天，她裸露的皮肤变黑，黑色的头发在阳光下闪烁。天冷的时候，她消失在毯子下，我有时只能看见她宽阔的前额和乌黑的眉毛。冬夜，在那个烛光荧荧的地方，她的眸子在眼睑下闪耀光泽。我们在一起共度二十年了，她暗暗隐去了令人震骇或惊喜的能力，藏起了说一句话就叫我心碎的本事。

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We lived in the dark hole, and the abandoned mine on the hillside proved to be a very bad home indeed. That first winter, I went into a deeper hibernation than ever before, waking only every few days to eat or drink a few mouthfuls, then back to bed. Most of the others dwelt in the narcoleptic state, a haze that lasted from December through March. The darkness enfolded us in its moist embrace, and for many weeks not a peep of sun reached us. Snowfalls almost sealed us in, but the porous entrance allowed the cold to penetrate. The walls wept and froze into slick crusts that shattered under pressure.

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In the springtime we slipped into the green world, hungry and thin. In the unfamiliar territory, looking for food became a daily preoccupation. The hillside itself was all slag and shale, and even in high season, only the hardiest grasses and moss clung to a tenuous hold. No animals bothered to forage there. Béka cautioned us not to roam too far, so we made do with what we could scavenge nearby—grasshoppers and grubs, tea made out of bark, robin’s breast, a roast skunk. We imagined all we missed by not visiting town.

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"I would give my eyetooth for a taste of ice cream," Smaolach said at the conclusion to a mean supper. "Or a nice yellow banana."

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"Raspberry jam," said Speck, "on warm, crunchy toast."

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Onions chimed in: "Sauerkraut and pigs’ feet."

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"Spaghetti," Zanzara began, and Ragno finished, "with Parmesan."

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"A Coke and a smoke." Luchóg patted his empty pouch.

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"Why don’t you let us go?" asked Chavisory. "It’s been so long, Béka."

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The gangly despot sat above us on a throne made from an empty dynamite crate. He had resisted granting liberties every time we had asked, but perhaps he, too, was brightening as the days were on the mend. "Onions, take Blomma and Kivi with you tonight, but be back before dawn. Stay off the roads and take no chances." He smiled at his own benevolence. "And bring me back a bottle of beer."

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The three girls rose as one and left without delay. Béka should have read the signs and felt the coming change in his bones, but perhaps his thirst outweighed his judgment. A cold snap rolled over the western hills to meet the warm May air, and within hours a thick fog settled into the woods and clung to the darkness like the skin of a peach. We could see no farther than one giant step ahead, and the invisible cloak stretched between the trees created a general sense of unease about our absent friends.

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After the others crawled into the darkness to sleep, Luchóg kept me company at the mine’s entrance in a quiet vigil. "Don’t worry, little treasure. While they cannot see, they cannot be seen. They’ll find a careful hiding place till the sun cuts through this gloom."

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We watched and became one with nothing. In the dead of it, a crashing through the trees awakened us. The noise rose in a single frantic wave. Branches snapped and broke, and an inhuman cry resounded and was swiftly extinguished. We peered into the mist, strained in the direction of the commotion. Luchóg struck a match and lit the torch kept at the mine’s entrance. The twigs sputtered in the damp, caught hold, and burst into light. Emboldened by the fire, we stepped carefully toward the memory of the noise and the faint scent of blood on the ground. Ahead through the mist, two eyes mirrored <>ui torchlight, and their glowing halted our progress. A fox snapped its jaws and carried away its prey, and we walked over to the killing spot. Fanned out like glass in a kaleidoscope, black-and-white-banded feathers lay strewn on the fallen leaves. Struggling with the heavy turkey, the fox bumbled off into the distance, and above us in the trees, the surviving birds huddled together, churring a comfort to one another.

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Onions, Kivi, and Blomma still had not returned when I showed Speck the place where the fox had caught the tom. She chose a pair of the larger feathers and knitted them into her hair. "Last of the Mohicans," she said, and ran whooping into the lightening morn as I gave chase, and so we played away the day. When Speck and I returned late that afternoon, we found Béka angry and pacing. The girls had not come home, and he was torn between sending out a search party or waiting inside the mineshaft.

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"What do you mean, keeping us here?" Speck demanded. "You told them be back by dawn. Do you think Onions would disobey you? They should have been back hours ago. Why aren’t we out looking for them?" She divided the eight of us into pairs and mapped out four different approaches to town. To keep him calm, she went with Béka on the most direct path. Smaolach and Luchóg circled around our old stomping grounds, and Ragno and Zanzara followed well-worn deerpaths.

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Chavisory and I took an ancient artery, blazed by the Indians perhaps, that ran parallel to the river, bending, dipping, and rising as the water twisted in its course. It seemed more likely that Onions, Kivi, and Blomma had taken another trail with better cover, but we stayed vigilant for any movement or other indications they had passed this way—such as fresh footprints or broken branches. The brush sometimes choked off passage, and we stepped out onto the exposed riverbank for short stints. Anyone driving across the high bridge that linked the highway to the town could have spotted us in the half-light, and I often wondered while on this path what we must look like from so far above. Ants, probably, or little children lost. Chavisory sang and hummed to herself a wordless tune at once familiar and strange.

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"What is that song?" I asked her when we stopped to get our bearings. Far ahead in the river, a tug pushed a chain of barges toward the city.

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"Chopin, I think."

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"What is Chopin?"

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She giggled and twisted a strand of hair around two fingers. "Not what, silly. Who. Chopin wrote the music, or at least that’s what he said."

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"Who said? Chopin?"

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She laughed loudly, then covered her mouth with her free hand. "Chopin is dead. The boy who taught me the song. He said it is Chopin’s mayonnaise."

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"What boy is that? The one before me?"

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Her demeanor changed, and she looked off in the distance at the receding barges. Even in the dim light, I could see she was blushing.

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"Why won’t you tell me? Why doesn’t anyone ever talk about him?"

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"Aniday, we never talk about changelings once they are gone. We try to forget everything about them. No good to chase after memories."

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A far-off cry went out, a brief alarm that signaled us to make haste and rendezvous. We dropped our conversation and followed the sound. Ragno and Zanzara found her first, alone and crying in an empty glen. She had been wandering half the day, too confused and distraught to find her way home. The other pairs arrived within minutes to hear the news, and Béka sat down beside Onions and draped his arm around her shoulders. Kivi and Blomma were gone.

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The three girls had seen the fog roll in and sped their way into town, reaching the lonesome outer streets as the worst weather fell. The streetlamps and storefront signs cast halos through the misted dark, serving as beacons for the faeries to navigate through the neighborhoods. Blomma told the other two not to worry about being seen by people in the houses. "We’re invisible in this fog," she said, and perhaps her foolhardy confidence was their ruin. From the supermarket, they stole sugar, salt, flour, and a netted sack of oranges, then stashed the loot in an alley outside of the drugstore. Sneaking in through the back, they were surprised by all of the changes since their latest visit.

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"Everything is different," Onions told us. "The soda fountain is gone, the whole counter and all those round chairs that spin you around. And no more booths. No candy counter, and the big tubs of penny candy are gone, too. Instead, there’s more everything. Soap and shampoo, shoelaces, a whole wall of comic books and magazines. And there’s a whole row of things just for babies. Diapers made out of plastic that you throw away, and baby bottles and cans of milk. And hundreds of those tiny jars of food, all gooshed up, and on each one the same picture of the cutest baby in the world. Applesauce and pears and bananas. Spinach and green beans. Sweet potatoes that look like red mud. And smooshed turkey and chicken with rice. Kivi wanted to taste every one, and we were there for hours."

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I could picture the three of them, faces smeared with blueberries, bloated and sprawled in the aisle, dozens of empty jars strewn across the floor.

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A car pulled up outside and stopped in front of the picture windows. The flashlight shone through the glass, slowly swept its beam along the interior, and when it neared, the girls leapt to their feet, slipped on the puddles of peas and carrots, and sent the jars spinning and clattering across the linoleum. The front door opened, and two policemen stepped inside. One of the men said to the other, "This is where he said they would be." Onions shouted for them to run, but Kivi and Blomma did not move. They stood side by side in the middle of the baby food aisle, joined hands, and waited for the men to come and get them.

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"I don’t know why," Onions said. "It was the most horrible thing I have ever seen. I circled around behind the men and could see Kivi and Blomma when the lights hit them right in the face. They looked as if they were waiting for it to happen. The policeman said, ’He was right. There is someone here.’ And the other said, ’Freeze.’ Kivi squeezed her eyes shut, and Blomma raised one hand to her forehead, but they didn’t look afraid at all. Like they were happy, almost."

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Onions wriggled through the door and escaped, not bothering with the stolen goods. Instinct set in, and she ran through the empty streets, heedless of all traffic, never looking back. The fog disoriented her, and she ran all the way through town to the other side. Once she had found a hiding place in a yellow barn, she waited nearly all day to return home, taking a route that skirted the streets. When Ragno and Zanzara found her, she was exhausted.

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"Why did the man say that?" Béka asked her. "What did he mean, ’This is where he said they would be’?"

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"Somebody must have told the policemen where we were." Onions shuddered. "Somebody who knows our ways."

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Béka took her by the hands and lifted her up from the ground. "Who else could it be?" He was looking straight at me, as if accusing me of a heinous crime.

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"But I didn’t tell—"

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"Not you, Aniday," he spat out. "The one who took your place."

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"Chopin," said Chavisory, and one or two laughed at the name before catching their emotions. We trudged home in silence, remembering our missing friends Kivi and Blomma. Each of us found a private way to grieve. We took their dolls out of the hole and buried them in a single grave. Smaolach and Luchóg spent two weeks building a cairn, while Chavisory and Speck divided our departed friends’ possessions among the nine of us left behind. Only Ragno and Zanzara remained stoic and impassive, accepting their share of clothing and shoes but saying next to nothing. Through that summer and into the fall, our conversations revolved around finding meaning in the girls’ surrender. Onions did her best to convince us that a betrayal had occurred, and Béka joined in, affirming the conspiracy, arguing that the humans were out to get us and that it was only a matter of time before Kivi and Blomma would fully confess. The men in the black suits would return, the army men, the police and their dogs, and they would hunt us down. Others among us took a more thoughtful view.

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Luchóg said, "They wanted to leave, and it was only a matter of time. I only hope that the poor things find home in the world and weren’t sent off to live in a zoo or put under the microscope by a mad scientist."

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We never heard of them again. Vanished, as if an airy nothing.

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