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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第36章|Chapter 36

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13508]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页-
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亨利·戴。无论说过、写过多少回，这两个词仍然是一个谜。仙灵们唤我安尼戴那么久，我已经成为了这个名字。亨利·戴另有其人。最后，在我们观察了他几个月后，我不再嫉妒这个人了，只是对他稍感同情。他变得这么老，绝望弯下了他的腰，刻上了他的脸庞。

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亨利拿走了我的名字和我本该享有的生活，并让它从指尖溜走了。

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居住在这个世界的表面是如此奇怪，束缚于时间，迷失了本性。

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我回去拿我的书。图书馆外的相遇吓坏了我，为此我等了一晚上，在黎明前才从裂缝钻进老暗室里，点亮一支蜡烛来照路。我读着自己的故事，感到满意，试着哼唱起亨利曲子的音调。我把自己的手稿、自从第一次来后攒下来的纸，还有斯帕克的信捆成一束，亨利的乐谱捆成另一束。剩下的一些我打算留在房间角落里他的桌子上。

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我们的恶作剧结束了，时间已经给了我补偿。上面的玻璃发出“哗啦”一声，像是窗户打碎了撒了一地。一声令人作呕的惊呼，门“砰”

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的一响，随后脚步声朝隐藏的地板门而来。

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或许我应该在第一时间逃跑。但我从害怕变得激动起来，这种感觉很像很久以前每天在门口等父亲下班回家，等他用双臂抱住我，也像在森林中最初的那些日子，期待着斯帕克突然出现，安慰我的寂寞。我对亨利·戴没有这类幻想，这么多年后，他无疑并不会与我为友。但我不恨他。我准备好了要说的话，我会宽恕他，递上他失窃的乐谱，告诉他我的名字，然后和他道别。

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他在锯这块毯子，要找出进入这个小窝的办法，我在下面踱步，考虑是否该帮他的忙。过了很久，他找到了门，提起铰链把它打开了。灯光从上面泻下来，仿佛阳光穿透黑森林。一个正方形分割了我们两个世界。突然间，他的头探入方框，朝黑暗中张望。我冲到入口处，直直地看着他的眼睛，他的鼻子离我的鼻子不过六寸。

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他的样子使我不安，因为他脸上没有任何友善与认识的迹象，只有狠戾的憎恶，他的嘴唇扭曲着像要发出怒吼，怒火从他眼中进射出来。他像一个疯子似的从洞口爬入我们的世界——一只手里拿着火把，另一只手里拿着刀子，胸口还挂着一圈绳子——然后把我赶到角落里。“走远点，”我警告他说，“我一拳就能把你从这里打出去。”但他还在过来。亨利为他将要做的事情道歉，把灯举到我头顶上，我从他右边跑过去。他把火朝我背后扔过来。

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灯玻璃碎了，火焰像水一般泼在一堆毯子上，羊毛冒烟起火，火光直奔我的纸张而去。我们在烟雾弥漫的亮光中两两相望。火焰咆哮着烧得更亮了，他冲上前捡起所有的纸张。看到他的乐谱和我的画，他的眼睛睁大了。我伸手要拿书，只担心斯帕克的信，他把它扔到角落里，随我去拿。我转过身时，亨利·戴已经走了，他的武器——绳索、刀子和铁棒——都在地上。地板门“砰”的一下关了，但上头还开着一道长长的窄口子，火焰往上烧，把整个房间照得亮堂堂的，犹如太阳洞穿了墙壁。

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强光之下，天花板上出现了一幅画。通常在黑暗中，那上面的线条看起来不过是地基上的一些裂缝和斑点，但当火苗烧得更旺，轮廓也明亮起来，闪闪发光。这个形状让我困惑，但我看懂了一些片段后，整个也都清楚了：美国凹凸不平的东海岸，五大湖的鱼形轮廓，辽阔空荡的平原，落基山脉，一直到太平洋。在我头顶的正上方，墨笔画出的密西西比河将国土一分为二，在密苏里州的某个地方，她的轨迹跨越河流，一直向西。斯帕克标明了她的出走路线，画下了从我们山谷到西海岸的地图。她一定独自在黑暗中干了几个月甚至好几年，胳膊弯向天花板，在石头上一点一点地刻，或用粗糙的毛笔来画，她不给别人看，希望有朝一日她的秘密能被发现。在国家的轮廓线外，她还在坚硬的水泥上刻画了大量图画，这么多年来我都没有看到。她刻了好几百幅图画，画样原始，孩子气十足，图画重叠着图画，故事写在前一个故事之上。有些画看起来很古老，像是史前人类在这里用壁画形式留下了记忆：树上飞起的一群乌鸦、一对鹌鹑、溪边的鹿。她画了野花、樱草、紫罗兰和百里香。这里有她梦中的东西，长角的人带着步枪和猛狗。精灵、小魔鬼和妖精。

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伊卡洛斯、毗湿奴和加百利天使。还有现代卡通：依格奈及鼠朝疯狂猫扔砖头，小尼莫睡在奇境中，可可从墨水池里跳出来。一个抱着孩子的母亲。

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一群鲸鱼跃出波涛。牵牛花藤缠绕着编织的花环。图画在舞动的火焰中一一展现。温度已经热得像烤炉，但我没法从她异想天开的设计中离开。在最黑暗的角落中，她画了一只左手和一只右手，大拇指对在一起。十二种字体写着她的名字和我的名字。两个人在山上跑，一个男孩的手插在蜂窝里，一对读者背靠背坐在堆积如山的书籍上。通往外界入口的天花板上，她刻了“和我一起来玩”这几个字。

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火焰吮吸着氧气，奔腾的空气冲入我的心中，吹开了我的心。我得离开了。

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我细看斯帕克往西的路线，希望能把它记在脑子里。为什么我从来都没想过要抬头看一看呢? 一片灰烬爆裂开来，在我眼皮下像魔鬼似地飞舞。烟气和热度充满了整个房间，我收好麦克伊内斯的书和其他几张纸，跑到出口处，但我的包裹却塞不出裂缝。另一块毯子着火了，热浪将我掀倒在地。我撕开包裹，纸头散了一地。

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手边是斯帕克的信和几张散落的小孩图画，我把它们按在胸口，然后从裂缝中挤了出去，外面是清凉的夜晚。

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星星已经出来了，蟋蟀疯狂地拉着弦。我的衣服有股焦味，许多书页的边缘有焦痕，我的发尾烤焦了，裸露的皮肤到处都发痛发红，好像被晒伤似的。每走一步，疼痛就从光秃秃的脚底蹿上来，但我还知道要赶紧离开着火的建筑物，我跑向森林时，又丢了好几张纸。图书馆呻吟了一声，地穴上的地板沉陷下去，几千册故事书付之一炬。我躲藏在绿林中，听到消防车拉响警报过来救火了。我把纸张藏在衬衫底下，开始漫长的回家之路，想着亨利眼中疯狂的神色和所有丢失的东西。在一片漆黑中，萤火虫忽闪着它们表达渴望的旗语。

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我肯定斯帕克做到了。从这里去到那里，然后生活在布满礁石的海岸上，明丽的太平洋与她日日为伴，她在退潮后的水潭里寻找贻贝、蛤蜊和蟹，睡觉就在沙滩上。她会像莓果一样地黑，头发纠结成团，胳膊和大腿因为在海里游泳而如绳子般结实。她深深吸一口气，就能呼出她横越国家的经历：走过宾夕法尼亚州的松林，走过中西部的玉米地、小麦田和大豆田，走过堪萨斯州的向日葵，走过大峡谷的深沟险壑，落基山脉夏天的皑皑白雪，还有彩色荒漠，终于看到了大洋，哦，多么快乐啊! 然而，你为何姗姗来迟? 我会把我的故事讲给她听，这个故事和亨利·戴的故事，一直讲到我再次睡倒在她怀里。

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只有如此想像，我才能忍受疼痛。这个梦想支撑着我一步步艰难地朝家走去。

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次日早晨我回到营寨，仙灵们对我关怀备至。奥尼恩斯和贝卡走遍森林找来香膏涂在我起泡的脚上。卡维素芮一瘸一拐地去水池汲来一壶凉水，浇灌我焦渴的喉咙，洗去我皮肤和头发上的烟灰。我的老朋友们坐在我身边听我讲这次历险，帮我抢救我仅存的文学作品。过去的一切，只有几小片存留了下来，还能证明它曾经存在过。

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我把我所能记得的斯帕克画在天花板上的地图和她留下的艺术品都告诉他们，希望能把它存在大伙儿的集体意识中。

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“你是要记住的。”鲁契克说。

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“要靠脑子，它是你头颅里一架精密的机器，”斯茂拉赫说，“我仍然能准确地想起来我第一眼看到你的感觉。”

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“记忆丢失了什么，想像会再次创造出来。”卡维素芮和我的老朋友待在一起太久了。

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“有时候我不知道生活中的奇怪变故是当真发生过呢，还是我想出来的，也不知道我记得的事情是真实的呢，还是梦中的。”

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“头脑常常会创造自己的世界，”鲁契克说，“为了帮忙消磨时光。”

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“我需要纸。你还记得第一次给我弄来纸头吗，鲁契克? 我永远不会忘记你的好意。”

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我把斯帕克天花板上的地图从记忆中画到她信的背面，此后几周，我让斯茂拉赫给我找国家的详细地图，还有任何他能找到的关于加州和太平洋的书。她可能在北海岸的任何地方。我无法确定我能在如此广阔的土地上找到她，但可能性使我一开始就坚持了下去。

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我每天都静静地坐在营寨的户外写作，我的脚伤痊愈了，炎热的八月也渐渐过渡到了凉爽的早秋。

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当枫叶燃烧成红黄色，橡树叶也变成松脆的棕色，一种奇怪的声音不时地从镇子飘过山岭，传到我们营寨。寂静的夜里，音乐从教堂发出，响响停停，不时被其他声音打断——高速公路上的交通声，周五晚上橄榄球赛观众的狂呼声，还有侵入现代生活的絮絮叨叨的杂音。音乐犹如一条长河，在森林中分流而来，从山岭上漫溢下来，一直淌到我们的峡谷中。听到这突如其来的声音，我们都愕住了，驻足倾听，好奇得不能自已。鲁契克和斯茂拉赫出发去寻找声源，十月末的一个晚上，他们上气不接下气地带着消息回来了。

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“再呆上一阵，小宝贝，快要准备好了。”

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我正在火光下用皮带捆扎我的旅行包。“什么快要准备好了，朋友? ”

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他清了清嗓子，发现还是没有引起我的注意，又响亮地咳嗽了一声。我抬起头看到他满脸堆笑，鲁契克则举着一张平铺的海报，那几乎和他一样大。除了手脚，他的整个身子都遮没在海报后面。

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“你拿反了，鲁奇。”

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“反正你怎么都能看。”他抱怨一声，把海报倒过来。教堂音乐会定于两天后举行，吸引我注意的不仅是这个标题，还有标题下面的木版画，画中两个人在打斗追逐。

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“哪个是仙灵，哪个是孩子? ”

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斯茂拉赫想了想这幅艺术品，“无论你怎么想，你都有可能既对且错。不过你会留到去听交响乐吧? 是亨利作的曲，他还要表演管风琴呢。”

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“你不能错过这个，”鲁契克说服我说，“再等一两天而已，旅途长着呢。”

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我们最后一次一起淘气，走进了黑森林，挨得很近但没被人发现，心里充满勇气和欢欣。音乐会当晚，我们躲藏在墓地里，人们排队进入教堂，交响曲的开场音符从窗口翱翔出来，在墓石间回荡。序曲宣告了他的宏伟主题，最后是长长的一段管风琴独奏。我承认，他弹得很美，我们走过去，一个接一个从墓石后面站起，来到教堂窗边。

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贝卡搂着奥尼恩斯，在她耳边低语。她被他的笑话逗得大笑，他把手掌捂在她嘴上，直到她拼命喘气，安静下来。卡维素芮模仿着指挥者，双手在空中挥舞出弧线和波线。我的亲密老友，鲁契克和斯茂拉赫，靠在教堂墙上抽烟，望着满天繁星。

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我紧握着肩上的包裹背带——我现在到哪里都带着我的书——绕到一扇后窗，壮胆朝里看。亨利背对着观众，摇晃着身子弹奏管风琴，脸上是聚精会神的表情。

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当他合上眼，与起伏的音符一起运动时，他沉迷其中。下面几节只有弦乐器演奏，他从窗口看到了我，但平静的表情并没有离开他的脸。亨利变了，比以前年轻了，更像一个人，而不是魔鬼。我不会再想他，也快要走了，至于他是否知道我打算离开，我就不得而知了。

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教堂靠背长椅上的听众都被这小型音乐会迷住了，但我非常肯定如果有人发现我在窗外观看，他们一定会冲过圣坛，跑到墓地里来的。因此我只有极少的机会远远地瞧他们几眼，我一下子认出了坐在第一排的亨利的妻子和儿子爱德华，谢天谢地我说服了贝卡和奥尼恩斯放过这孩子。其他大多数人我都不认识，我很希望能看到妹妹们，但当然啦，她们在我记忆中仍然是长不大的孩子。一位年长的妇人听音乐时用手指按着嘴，似乎有一两次朝我这边看来，这个动作使我想起了母亲，这是我最后一次见她了。我几乎想爬进窗口，向她奔去，把脸放在她手中，让她抱住我，认出我，但我的位置并不在他们之中。再见，亲爱的，我悄悄对她说，明知她听不到，还是希望她能懂。

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亨利微笑着弹琴，音乐犹如一本书，述说着一个似乎是作为礼物的故事——仿佛他用我们共同的语言传达了他的心声。有点悲哀，也许，有点悔恨。对我而言足够了。音乐将我们送往两个方向，好像一个在上，一个在下，在间奏曲中，在音符的空隙中，我觉得他也想说再见，作别双重生活。管风琴呼吸着，送出一个个声音，然后归于沉寂。“安尼戴。”鲁契克低声说，我从窗口下到地面。停了一两秒，人们欢声雷动。我们这些仙灵一个接一个站起来，消失在降临的黑暗中，飘过墓石，回返森林，好似从未处身于人类之中。

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我已经和亨利·戴两不相欠了，打算明天就走。这个版本的故事写的时间没有再创作那么长。我不想把所有的事情都写下来，也不想详细解释我所了解的法术，更不想细说隐居在地下的人们。我们这一族人数寥寥，已无足挂齿。现代世界中，孩子们的麻烦多得多，一想到真正潜伏着的危险，我就不寒而栗。如同众多的神话故事，我们的故事终有一日不会再被讲述，也不会再有人相信。到了最后，我哀悼所有失去的人，怀念所有留下来的亲爱朋友。奥尼恩斯、贝卡、卡维素芮，还有我的老伙计斯茂拉赫和鲁契克也满足于原来的生活方式。他们是这世上的芸芸众生。

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没有我，他们也会过得很好。

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有朝一日我们都会离去。

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如果你们有机会碰到我母亲，告诉她我珍守着她所有的爱心，永远想念着她。

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对我的小妹妹们问个好，为我吻一吻她们胖乎乎的脸蛋。要知道我早晨离开时，是带你们同行的。一直往西，到水边去寻找她。心脏里搏动的不止是血液。名字、爱、希望。我把这个留给你，斯帕克，万一你回来，我们或许会彼此思念。如果是这样，这本书送给你。

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我走了，不会再回来，但我记得一切。

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Henry Day. No matter how many times uttered or written, those two words remain an enigma. The faeries had called me Aniday for so long that I had become the name. Henry Day is someone else. In the end, after our months of watching him, I felt no envy for the man, only a sort of restrained pity. He had become so old, and desperation bowed his shoulders and marked his face. Henry had taken my name and the life I could have lived, and let it run through his fingers. How passing strange to settle on the surface of the world, bound to time and lost to one’s true nature.

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I went back for my book. Our encounter outside the library spooked me, so I waited overnight, and before dawn, through the cranny, I slid into the old darkened room and lit a single candle to show the way. I read my story and was satisfied. Tried to sing the notes of Henry’s song. Into one bundle went my manuscript, papers from when I first arrived, and the letter from Speck; and into another, Henry’s score. The last of these I planned to leave at his corner table. Our mischief over, the time had come to make amends. Above me, glass crashed, as if a window broke and shattered. An obscene exclamation, a thud to the floor, then the sound of footsteps approaching the hidden trapdoor.

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Perhaps I should have run away at the first chance. My emotions drifted from dread to excitement, a sensation not unlike waiting at the door long ago for my father’s daily return from work to wrap me in his arms, or those first days in the forest when I expected Speck to show up suddenly and relieve my lonesomeness. No such illusions with Henry Day, for he would doubtless not befriend me after all these years. But I did not hate him. I planned my words, how I would forgive him, present his stolen music, give him my name, and bid him farewell.

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He sawed away at the carpeting to figure out how to get into the crawl-space, while I paced beneath, pondering whether to come to his aid. After an eternity, he found the door and swung it back on its hinges. A spotlight flooded in from above, like sunshine piercing a dark forest. A perfect square separated our two worlds. All at once, he stuck his head in the frame and peered into the blackness. I darted over to the opening and looked him straight in the eyes, his nose not six inches from my own. The sight of him disconcerted me, for no sign of kindness or recognition marked his features, no expression but raw disgust, which twisted his mouth into a snarl, and rage beat out of his eyes. Like a madman, he clambered through the hole into our world—a torch in one hand, a knife in the other, a coil of rope unspooling across his chest—and chased me into the corner. "Keep your distance," I warned. "I can send you from this world in a single blow." But he kept coming. Henry said he was sorry for what he was about to do and lifted the lantern above my head, so I ran right past him. He threw the fire at my back.

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The lantern glass broke and a blaze spilled out like water over a pile of blankets, and the wool smoldered and burned, flames racing straight for my papers. We faced each other in the smoldering light. As the fire roared and burned brighter, he rushed forward and picked up all the papers. His eyes widened at the sight of his score and my drawings. I reached for the book, anxious only for Speck’s letter, and he threw it into the corner for me to retrieve. When I turned around, Henry Day was gone, and his weapons—the rope, the knife, the iron bar—were on the floor. The trapdoor banged closed, and a long, thin crack opened overhead. The flames burst upward, brightening the room as if sun bore through the walls.

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On the ceiling a picture began to emerge in the interne light. In the ordinary darkness, the surface lines seemed nothing more than random cracks and pockmarks in the foundation, but as the fire reached more fuel, the outlines flared and flickered. The shapes puzzled me, but once I perceived the pieces, the whole became apparent: the ragged East Coast of the United States, the fishlike contours of the Great Lakes, the broad and empty plains, the Rockies, and on to the Pacific. Directly above my head, the black brushstroke of the Mississippi divided the nation, and somewhere in Missouri, her trail crossed the river and raced west. Speck had marked her escape route and drawn a map of the trail to follow from our valley to the western ocean. She must have worked alone in the dark for months or years, arms arched to the ceiling, chipping away at the stone or painting with a rough brush, not showing a soul, hoping for the day her secret would be discovered. Around the outline of the country, she had etched and painted on that rough concrete a constellation of drawings invisible these many years. Hundreds of inscriptions, primitive and childlike, images laid over other images, each story told on i??p of its ancestor. Some of the drawings looked ancient, as if a prehistoric being had been here and left memories like paintings on a cave wall: a flock of crows lighting from a tree, a brace of quail, deer at a stream. She had drawn wildflowers, oxlips, violets, and thyme. There were creatures from her dreams, horned men with rifles and fierce dogs. Sprites and imps and goblins. Icarus, Vishnu, the angel Gabriel. Others as modern as cartoons: Ignatz throws the brick at Krazy Kat, Little Nemo slumbers in Wonderland, Koko jumps out of the inkwell. A mother with a child in her arms. A pod of whales arcing through the waves. Spirals roped into knots, a garland knitted from morning glory vines. The pictures unwrapped themselves in the dancing flames. The temperature rose as in an oven, but I could not save myself from her wild designs. In the darkest corner, she had painted a left hand and a right hand, thumbs overlapping. Her name and mine in a dozen fonts. Two figures raced over a hill; a boy with his hand caught in a beehive; a pair of readers sat back to back on a mountain of books. On the ceiling above the entrance to the outer world, she had carved Come with me and play. The fire sucked in the oxygen, and the rush of air caught my heart and blew it open. I had to leave.

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I studied Speck’s passage west, hoping to commit it to memory. Why had I never before thought to look up? A cinder popped and flew like the devil up under my eyelid. Smoke and heat filled the room, so I gathered McInnes’s book and a few other papers and ran to the exit, but my bundle would not fit through the crack. Another pile of blankets ignited, sending a wave of heat that knocked me to my knees. I tore open the package, scattering papers to the floor. Close at hand were Speck’s letter and a few stray childhood drawings, which I pressed against my chest; then I squeezed through the opening and into the fresh night.

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The stars had come out and the crickets were fiddling madly. My clothing smelled of soot, and many of the pages had been scorched at the edges. The ends of my hair had been singed off, and every inch of bare skin throbbed, red, as if sunburned. Pain shot through the soles of my bare feet with each step, but I knew enough to get away from a burning building, dropping a few more pages at the door as I ran toward the woods. The library groaned once, and then the floor collapsed upon the grotto and thousands of stories went up in flames. From a green hideaway I heard the sirens of the fire engines coming to fight the bonfire. Tucking the papers into my shirt, I started the long trip home, remembering the mad look in Henry’s eyes and all that had been lost. In the complete darkness, fireflies flashed their semaphores of longing.

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Speck made it, I am sure, from here to there, and lived on a rocky shore, the bright Pacific her daily companion as she gathered mussels and clams and crabs from tidal pools, slept on the sand. She would be brown as a berry, her hair a tangle of knots, her arms and legs strong as ropes from swimming in the sea. In one long breath, she would exhale the story of her journey across the country, the pines of Pennsylvania, the cornfields and wheatfields and soybeans of the Midwest, sunflowers of Kansas, up the steep pitch of the Divide, summer snow in the Rockies, Painted Desert beyond, and finally ocean in view, oh joy! And then: What took you so long? And I would give her my story, this story and Henry Day’s, until in her arms again I slept. Only through imagining could I bear the pain. Such a dream drew me homeward step by tortured step.

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The other faeries took kind care of me upon my return to camp next morning. Onions and Béka scoured the woods for balm to soothe my blistered feet. Chavisory limped off to the cistern and drew a jug of cool water to quench my thirst and wash the ash from my skin and hair. My old friends sat beside me to hear the adventure and to help me salvage my literary remains. Only a few scraps from the past survived to prove that it had once existed. I told them all I could remember about Speck’s map on the ceiling and the art she had left behind, hoping to store it in the collective consciousness of the tribe.

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"You’ll simply have to remember," said Luchóg.

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"Rely upon the mind, for it is a complicated machine inside your skull." Smaolach said. "I can still recall exactly how I felt when I first saw you

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"What the memory loses, imagination re-creates." Chavisory had been spending far too much time with my old friend.

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"Sometimes I don’t know whether life’s strange turns happened or I dreamed them, or if my memory remembers what is real or the dream."

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"A mind often makes its own world," said Luchóg, "to help pass the time."

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"I’ll need paper. Do you remember when you first got me some paper, Luchóg? That kindness I’ll never forget."

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From memory, I transferred Speck’s map on the ceiling to the back of her letter, and in the weeks that followed, I asked Smaolach to find me a detailed map of the country and any book he could about California and the Pacific Ocean. She might be anyplace along the northern coast. There was no certainty that I would find her in the large, wide land, but the possibility sustained me as I began again. My feet healed as I sat quietly in our camp, writing every day outdoors while the heat of August gave way to the cool weeks of early autumn.

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As the maples flamed to yellow and red, and the oaks to crispy brown, a strange sound drifted now and again from the town and over the hills to our camp. Emanating from the church on still nights, the music arrived in starts and fits, broken now and again by other sounds—traffic on the highway, crowds roaring at Friday night football games, and the chatter of noise that intrudes upon modern life. Running like a river, the music forked through the forest and spilled down from the ridge into our glen. Entranced by the sudden sound, we would stop to listen, and mad with curiosity, Luchóg and Smaolach set out to find its source. They came back breathless with news one late October night.

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"Stay just a short while, a stoirín, and it will be ready."

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By the light of the fire, I was lashing a leather strap to my travel pouch. "And what will be ready, my friend?"

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He cleared his throat, and when he still did not get my attention, he coughed again, but louder. I looked up to see him grinning and Luchóg holding an unrolled poster almost as big as himself. All but his hands and feet had disappeared behind the broadside.

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"You have it upside down, Luch."

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"Surely you can read it any which way," he complained, and then he righted the poster. The concert at the church was scheduled for two days hence, and I was struck by not only the tide but, underneath it, a small woodcut engraving of two figures in flight and pursuit.

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"Which one is the faery, and which is the child?"

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Smaolach considered the artwork. "No matter what you think, you’re just as likely to be right as wrong. But you’ll stay for the symphony? Composed by Henry Day, and him playing the organ as well."

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"You can’t miss that," Luchóg argued. "Another day or two, and the journey is just as long."

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We footed our way through the dark forest, a last bit of mischief together, taking bold delight in coming close yet not being seen. On the night of the concert we hid in the graveyard as the people filed into the church, and the opening notes of the symphony soared through the windows and echoed among the stones. The prelude announced his grand themes, ending in a long solo on the organ. He played beautifully, I’ll admit, and we were drawn closer, rising one by one from behind the gravestones to stand next to the church windows. Béka wrapped his arms around Onions, and whispered in her ear. When she began to laugh at his joke, he clamped a hand against her mouth till she sputtered for breath and then kept still. Chavisory mimed the role of conductor, her hands tracing arcs and waves in the sky. My old cronies, Luchóg and Smaolach, leaned against the church wall and smoked, staring at the night stars.

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Cinching my bag across my shoulders—I carried my book in it everywhere now—I made my way around to a rear window and dared look in. Henry had his back to the audience and rocked as he played the organ, fierce concentration written on his face. When he closed his eyes and moved in time with the rise and fall of the notes, he was lost. The strings alone took up the next measures, and he saw me through the window, but the peaceful look never left his face. Henry was transformed, younger than before, more like a man than a monster. I would think on him no longer and soon be gone, but whether or not he realized I intended to leave, I can never know.

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The crowd in the pews was transfixed by the small orchestra, and I am quite sure that had anyone spotted me looking through the window, they would have rushed past the altar and out into the churchyard. So I had the rare chance to study their faces from afar, recognizing at once Henry’s wife and son, Edward, in the front row. Thank goodness I had convinced Béka and Onions to leave that child alone. Most of the other people were strangers to me. I kept hoping to see my sisters, but, of course, they are still ageless children in my memory. An older woman, holding her fingers against her lips as she listened, seemed to glance my way once or twice, and when she did so, she reminded me of my mother, the last I shall see of her. Some part of me desired to crawl through the opening and run to her, to feel her hand against my cheek, to be held, to be known by her, but my place is not among them. Goodbye, my dear, I whispered to her, sure that she could not hear, but hoping that somehow she understood.

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Henry kept smiling and playing, and like a book the music told a story that seemed, in part, a gift—as if, in our only common language, he was expressing what beat in his heart. Some sorrow, perhaps, some remorse. It was enough for me. The music carried us in two directions, as if above and below; and in the interludes, the spaces between the notes, I thought he, too, was trying to say goodbye, goodbye to the double life. The organ breathed and laid sound upon sound, and then exhaled into silence. "Aniday," Luchóg hissed, and I shrank from the window to the ground. A beat or two, and the crowd burst like a thunderstorm. One by one, we faeries rose and disappeared into the falling darkness, gliding past the gravestones and back into the forest, as if we had never been among the people.

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Having made amends with Henry Day, I am ready to leave come tomorrow. This version of my story has not taken nearly as long to re-create. I have not been concerned with putting down all the facts, nor a detailed explanation of the magic, as far as I understand such things, of the people who lived in secret and below. Our kind are few, and no longer deemed necessary. Far greater troubles exist for children in the modern world, and I shudder to think of real and lurking dangers. Like so many myths, our stories will one day no longer be told or believed. Reaching the end, I lament all those lost souls and those dear friends left behind. Onions, Béka, Chavisory, and my old pals Smaolach and Luchóg are content to remain as they are, indifferent children of the earth. They will be fine without me. We all go away one day.

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Should by chance any of you see my mother, tell her I cherish her every kindness and miss her still. Say hello to my baby sisters. Kill their chubby cheeks for me. And know that I will carry you all with me when I leave in the morning. Heading west as far as the waters to look for her. More beats than blood in the heart. A name, love, hope. I am leaving this behind for you, Speck, in case you return and we somehow miss each other. Should that be so, this book is for you.

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I am gone and am not coming back, but I remember everything.

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