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失窃的孩子|The Stolen Child

第4章|Chapter 4

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 凯斯-唐纳胡] 阅读：[13493]
《 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 字+字- 行+行- 页+页- 》
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薄暮时分，鸦群飞向光秃秃的橡树枝条上过夜。它们连二接三地投入丛林，黑影遮住了西斜的余光。被绑架的经历在我脑海中仍然鲜活，使我畏畏缩缩，精神不振，不信任森林里的任何生物。我想念家里人，然而日以继月，只有每天出现的鸟群来做时间的标记。它们总是来来回回，使人心感慰藉。待到树叶飘零，赤裸的枝丫伸向天空，我不再害怕鸦群了，而开始盼望它们优雅的降临，它们在冬季天空中掠过的剪影，成为我新生活不可或缺的部分。

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仙灵们将我当成自己人，教会我林子里的规矩，我渐渐地喜欢上了每一个人。

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除了斯帕克、伊格尔、贝卡和奥尼恩斯，还有另外七个。

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三个女孩形影不离——齐维和布鲁玛金头发，长雀斑，娴雅镇定，她们的跟屁虫卡维素芮是个看起来不到五岁的话痨子。她粲然微笑时，乳牙犹如一串珍珠闪闪发亮，哈哈大笑时，单薄的肩膀摇晃扭动。

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一旦她发现什么非常有趣或刺激的东西，就会像只蝙蝠似的飞掠过去，跳着圆圈舞或8 字舞冲过空地。

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除开首领伊格尔和落落寡合的贝卡，男孩们分成两组。在我记忆之中，劳格诺和赞扎拉让我想起镇上意大利货商的两个儿子。他们身材细瘦，皮肤橄榄色，头上都有乱蓬蓬的黑色发卷，脾气发作得快，但消得更快。另一对是斯茂拉赫与鲁契克，他们情同手足，但相差十万八千里。斯茂拉赫的个头仅次于贝卡，老是专心致志地干着手头的活儿，如同一只正在拽蚯蚓的知更鸟那样勤恳而又不被人注意。他的好友鲁契克是我们中间最矮小的，总是在挥开额头上一束老鼠尾巴似的、不服帖的漆黑发卷。他的眼眸蓝如夏日晴空，泄露了他对朋友们的深情厚意，尽管有时他试图装出一副冷淡的样子。

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伊格尔是队伍的领袖，也最为年长，他不厌其烦地解说丛林法则，给我演示如何捕捉青蛙和鱼，如何从落叶的凹处采集露水，如何区分可食用的蘑菇和致命的毒菌，以及其他许多生存技巧。最好的向导也比不过经验，但在起初的大部分时间内，我都被悉心照料着。

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他们中至少会有两个一直看守着我，我不得离开营寨周围，并且受到严厉警告，一有人迹的风吹草动，就要躲藏起来。

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“如果他们抓住了你，会把你当成魔鬼，”伊格尔对我说，“还会把你锁起来，或者更糟，把你丢进火里，试试看他们是否认对了。”

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“你就会像火柴一样烧起来。”劳格诺说。

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“会变成一股烟，然后什么都没了。”赞扎拉说，卡维素芮则围着篝火跳舞演示，一圈一圈地跳向黑暗中去。

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第一场严霜来临时，一支小分队通宵外出，回来时抱满毛衣、夹克和鞋子，留守人员则裹着鹿皮簌簌发抖。

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“你是最小的，”伊格尔对我说，“你先来挑衣服和靴子。”

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斯茂拉赫站在一堆鞋子后面朝我招手。我注意到他自己还赤裸着脚。我在各种儿童马靴、方头皮鞋、帆布网球鞋和不成对的靴子里翻找，最后挑了一双全新的黑白色尖头鞋，看起来尺寸合适。

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“那双会弄伤你的脚踝。”

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“这双怎么样? ”我问着，拿起网球鞋，“我也许能塞得进去。”我站在冰冷的地上，脚底感到又湿又冷。

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斯茂拉赫翻了一通，挑出一双我所见到过的最难看的棕色皮鞋。

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他弯折鞋底时，皮面吱嘎作响，鞋带像是盘曲的蛇，每个鞋尖都钉着一块小钢板。“相信我，这双能让你整个冬天都暖和舒适，而且能穿很长时间。”

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“但它们太小了。”

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“难道你不知道自己已经缩小了吗? ”他顽皮地一笑，伸手进裤袋里掏出双厚厚的羊毛袜，“这双是我特地为你找的。”

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大家都赞叹地倒抽一口气。他们给了我针织衫和防水夹克，能让我在最潮湿的日子里保持干燥。

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随着夜晚渐长渐冷，我们把草垫和单薄的床换成了厚厚的动物毛皮和偷来的毯子。我们十二个挤成一团睡觉。我非常喜欢这种舒服，虽然我大多数朋友都有难闻的口气和臭味。部分原因是食物的改变，从食物丰盛的夏季到食物渐少的秋末再到一片荒芜的冬季。

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有几个可怜的家伙在森林里待得太久，完全放弃了对人类社会的希望。事实上，好多位都压根儿没有这方面的需求，他们和动物一样生活，难得洗个澡，用小树枝清洁一下牙齿。就连一只狐狸也会舔后腿，可是有些仙灵是最肮脏的野兽。

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第一个冬天，我渴望着能和狩猎者们一起在早晨出去寻觅食物和其他补给。这些小偷就像晨昏聚集的乌鸦享受着离开据点的自由，而我却被留下，忍受着讨厌的贝卡和他的同伴奥尼恩斯的看护，或者是老赞扎拉和劳格诺，他们整天吵吵嚷嚷，朝刺探我们藏货的鸟儿和松鼠丢坚果壳和石块。

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一个阴暗的早晨，伊格尔自己留下来看管我，可以说走运的是，我的朋友斯茂拉赫与他作伴。他们用干树皮和薄荷油泡了一壶茶，我们望着一场冷雨，我打开了这话题。

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“你们为什么不让我和其他人一起去? ”

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“我最怕你会跑走，想回到你来的地方，但你办不到，安尼戴。如今你是我们的人了。”伊格尔抿了口茶，盯着远远的某处。他悠悠地停了一下，让他的智慧沉入我的头脑，然后继续说：“另一方面，你证明了你是我们部落的好成员。你采集火柴，剥橡果，叫你挖一个单独的新洞你就挖。你正在学习真正的顺从和尊重。我观察着你，安尼戴，你把我们的生活学得很好。”

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斯茂拉赫注视着渐渐熄灭的火焰，用秘语说了些什么，所有的元音和硬邦邦的辅音都黏糊糊的。伊格尔思索了一下这个秘密的句子，将自己的想法考虑再三后说出。直到现在，我还是不明白人们是怎么想的，他们是怎样解决生活之谜的。协商告一段落，伊格尔继续研究地平线。

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“今天下午，你和鲁契克、我一起来。”斯茂拉赫对我说，还鬼鬼祟祟地使了个眼色，“其他人一回来，我们就带你去看周围的地形。" “你最好穿暖和些，”

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伊格尔建议说，“雨很快就变了。”

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话音方落，雪花开始夹杂着雨点落下，几分钟后，就降下一场大雪。仙灵队被突如其来的严酷天气赶回了家，他们缓步回营时，我们还坐在老地方。在这个国度，我们居住的这块地方冬天有时来得早，但通常第一场雪会在圣诞节后才下。暴风雪刮起来时，我第一次想到圣诞节是否已经结束，还有至少感恩节已经偷偷溜走了，而万圣节几乎肯定已过。我想着我的家人仍然每天在树林中寻找我。也许他们以为我死了，这让我感到难过，希望能报个平安。

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在家里，妈妈会打开盛着装饰品的箱子，清理马厩和马槽，把花环挂上楼梯栏杆。上一个圣诞节，爸爸带我去砍了一棵小冷杉运回家，我想他现在会不会觉得悲伤，因为我不能帮他挑选合适的树木。

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我还思念我年幼的妹妹们。她们是否在走路，说话，梦见圣诞老人，奇怪我到底出了什么事? “今天是什么日子? ”我问鲁契克，他在换暖和的衣服。

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他舔了舔手指，伸进风里，“礼拜二? ”

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“不，我是问今年的几月几号? ”

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“我不知道。从现象来看，可能是十一月底，十二月初了吧。但是说到时间和天气，记忆会开玩笑，靠不住的。”

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毕竟圣诞节还没过。我决定从此以后要观察日子，以合适的方式来庆祝这个节日，尽管其他人并不关心节日之类的事。

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“你知道我从哪里可以弄到一张纸，一支铅笔? ”

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他用力穿上靴子，“你要这些东西干吗? ”

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“我想做个日历。”

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“日历? 在这儿做日历，你会用掉一大堆纸，无数铅笔。我会教你怎么观察天空中的太阳，怎么留意活的东西。它们足以让你知道时间。”

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“但如果我想画画或给某人写张便条呢? ”

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鲁契克拉上拉链，“写字? 给谁? 我们大多数人都彻底忘记了怎么写字，那些没忘记的，本来也就没学过。你最好用说的，别把你的想法和感受写下来，这或多或少会长久留存下来。这样会造成隐患，小宝贝。”

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“但我喜欢画画。”

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我们穿过空地，斯茂拉赫和伊格尔站得像两棵高高的树，正在交谈。因为鲁契克是我们中间最矮的，他得费点力才能跟上我。他在我身边一蹦一跳地前进，继续他的发言。

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“这么说，你是个艺术家哕，是吗? 没有铅笔和纸? 你不知道以前的艺术家都是自己做纸笔的吗? 用动物皮和鸟毛来做。墨水用煤灰和唾液来做。他们就是这样干的，更早的年代，他们在石头上刻画。我会教你怎么留下标记，如果你要纸，我会给你，但得过段时间。”

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，我们跟上首领后，伊格尔拍了拍我肩膀说：“安尼戴，你赢得了信任。听这两位的话，注意他们的动作。”

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鲁契克、斯茂拉赫和我出发进入森林，我回头挥手告别。其他仙灵扎堆而坐，互相围拢着来抵御寒冷，任凭雪花落在身上，傻气而坚忍地待在露天。

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能从营寨里出来，我极度兴奋，但我的同伴全力控制我的好奇心。我笨拙的动作惊飞了一群窝里的鸽子，之后他们又任凭我在藤蔓上绊了一脚。鸟群猛冲上天，鸣叫响成一片，羽毛纷纷飘落。斯茂拉赫把手指竖在唇边，我领会了这暗示。我学着他们，动作变得优美起来，我们走得很轻，能听见盖过我们脚步声的落雪声。寂静自有一番魅力和雅致，所有的感官都敏锐起来，尤其是听觉。远处有一根小树枝折断的声音，斯茂拉赫和鲁契克就立刻朝声源抬起头，确定它的来因。他们指给我那些原本隐藏起来、却被寂静暴露了的东西：一头野鸡从灌木丛中伸长脖子打探我们，一只乌鸦在树枝间跳来跳去，一只浣熊在窝里打鼾。在天光完全被吞没之前，我们渡过湿地，来到河的泥岸。水边正在结冰，细听之下，有结冻的“咔咔”声。

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一只鸭子顺水游下，每片雪花触碰水面都发出轻微的嘶嘶声。阳光如低语般渐渐喑弱，消失。

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“听——”斯茂拉赫屏住呼吸——“听这个。”

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转眼间，雪变成冰雨，滴滴答答地扣在落叶上，石头上，垂枝上，奏出一曲自然界的小小交响乐。我们离开河岸，到一片常绿树林中躲避。针叶上裹着冰晶，像穿着洁净的夹克衫。鲁契克拉出用绳子挂在他脖子上的革袋，先拿出一张小纸片，然后是一大撮干燥的、晒黑了的草叶样纤维，看上去像是烟叶。他手指敏捷，飞快地一舔，就卷好一支细细的香烟。他从革袋的另一处取出几支木制火柴，放在手掌里数了数，留下一支，其余全放回防水袋中。他在大拇指指甲上划燃火柴，让它烧成火苗，点上香烟的一头。斯茂拉赫已经掘了个洞，深度足以到达下层的针叶和球果。他小心地从朋友指尖上拿过燃烧的火柴，在洞里点起来。不久，我们就有了一堆火来烘烤手掌和指尖了。鲁契克把烟递给斯茂拉赫，他深深吸了一口，把烟含了好久，终于呼了出来，这效果就像笑话里的妙语那样一下子打动人心。

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“让这孩子吸一口。”斯茂拉赫提议说。

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“我不知道怎么吸烟。”

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“跟我学，”鲁契克的声音从牙缝里透出来，‘‘但不管你做什么，别把这件事告诉伊格尔，也别告诉其他人。”

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我就着发热的卷烟吸了一口，被烟呛着，咳嗽起来。他们咯咯直笑，一直笑到他们吸尽最后一片烟叶。常绿树下的空气里含着浓重的奇香，我觉得头晕目眩，有点儿恶心。鲁契克和斯茂拉赫也同样受到影响，但他们看似只觉心满意足，既警觉又平静。冰雹开始减弱，寂静像失去的朋友再度归来。

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“你听见了吗? ”

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“什么? ”我问。

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鲁契克朝我嘘了一声，“你先听听看，看你能否听到。”过了一阵子，我听到了一个声音，虽然熟悉，但不知这声音是什么，从哪来的。

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鲁契克跳起来，叫起他的朋友，“是辆小汽车，小宝贝。你追赶过汽车吗? ”

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我摇摇头，想他肯定把我和狗混淆了。我的两个同伴牵起我的手离开，跑得比我所能想像的速度更快。世界在旋转，树木林立的地方变成一片片模糊不清的黑暗。

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泥雪被踢飞，溅在我们的裤子上，我们达到了一种令人晕眩的疯狂速度。灌木丛渐渐茂密，他们松开我的手，一个接一个跑上小径。树枝抽打在我脸上，我脚下一绊，跌倒在泥泞里。我挣扎站起，浑身又冷又湿又脏，意识到数月来我首次孤独一人。

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恐惧攫住了我，我对着世界张开眼睛，竖起耳朵，拼命想找到我的朋友们。集中注意力后，我的前额蹿起一阵剧痛，但我忍住疼痛，听到他们在远处踏雪奔跑。我觉得自己的感官中产生了一种新的强大的魔力，因为我能清晰地看到他们，虽然我知道他们应该是在很远的前方，远在视线之外。我把脚下的路看得一清二楚，于是奋起直追，曾经为难我的树木、枝条如今似乎已不成障碍。我在林中飞驰，仿佛一只麻雀穿越篱笆间的空隙，不假思索就能在合适的时机收拢翅膀，飞翔而过。

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当我赶上的时候，我看到他们正站在距离森林边缘不远的粗松树底下。我们面前有条马路，路上停着辆车，前灯在薄雾笼罩的黑暗中打出一道道的亮光，碎裂的金属格栅在柏油路面上闪光。透过敞开的驾驶室的车门，空空的车厢里亮着一盏小灯。车况的异常促使我走上前去，但朋友们有力的胳膊将我拉回。一个人影从暗中出现，走到亮处，是一个穿着鲜红色大衣的年轻纤瘦的女人。她一手捂着额头，慢慢地弯下身子，伸出另一只胳膊，摸向躺在路上的一团黑色的东西。

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“她撞到了一头鹿。”鲁契克说道，话音中有种悲哀。她为它倒伏的身影烦恼不堪，她掠开面前的头发，另一只手捂着嘴唇。

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“它死了吗? ”我问。

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“魔法是，”斯茂拉赫悄声说道，“把气吹进它嘴里。它没死，只是撞昏了。”

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鲁契克轻声对我说：“我们会等到她离开，这样你就能给它吹气了。”

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“你不知道吗? 你现在是个仙灵了，和我们一样，我们能干什么，你就能干什么。”

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这个说法使我为之忘形。一个仙灵? 我立刻想知道这是否是真的，我想要试验我的能力。于是我挣脱朋友们，从阴影下朝鹿走去。

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女人站在孤零零的马路中间，左顾右盼看是否有车经过。她没有注意到我，直到我出现在那里，蹲到动物面前，手放在它温暖的体侧，它的脉搏在我脉搏边上跳动。我用手环住鹿的吻部，往它温热的嘴里吹气。几乎是眨眼间，这头野兽抬起头，将我顶开，摇晃着站起来。

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有片刻它看着我，随即把尾巴像白色军旗似的举起来以示警告，便跳进黑暗中去了。如果说我们——动物、女人和我自己——为事态转变而感到吃惊，实在远远不足形容当时的情形。她看起来给弄糊涂了，于是我朝她微笑。这时，我的同伴开始提高声音呼唤我。

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“你是谁? ”她用红大衣把自己裹得更紧。或者至少，我以为这是她说的话，她的声音听起来很奇怪，仿佛是在水里说的。我看着地面，想到我自己并不知道真正的答案。她的脸靠近得足以让我发现她唇边绽开的微笑，还有眼镜后面浅蓝绿色的虹膜。她的眼睛光彩照人。

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“我们要走了。”从黑暗中伸出一只手抓住我肩膀，斯茂拉赫将我拖入灌木丛，我想这是否是一场梦。我们躲在乱草丛中，她寻找我们，但终于放弃，钻进汽车开走了。当时我还不知道，在未来十几年间，她是我遇见的最后一个人类。尾灯在山上、树木间蜿蜒而行，最后再也看不见了。

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在郁闷的沉默中，我们打道回府。半路上，鲁契克提出建议：“你不能把今晚发生的事告诉任何人。离人类远远的，要满足于你的身份。”我们在途中编造了必要的故事来解释我们为何离开这么长时间，对水流和野景做了一番描述。我们的故事讲述之后流传开来，但我从未忘记那个红衣女人的秘密。后来，当我开始怀疑地面上的世界，记忆中这次鲜明而又惟一的邂逅就提醒我，这不是一个神话。

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In the gloaming, the crows flew in to gather for the night in a stand of bare oaks. Bird by bird, they soared to the rookery, black shadows against the fading light. My kidnapping, still fresh in my mind, left me timid and battered, not trusting a soul in the woods. I missed my family, yet days and weeks passed, marked by the routine appearance of the birds. Their arrival and departure provided reassuring continuity. By the time the trees lost their leaves and their naked limbs stretched to the sky, the crows no longer frightened me. I came to look forward to their graceful arrival, silhouetted against the wintry sky, a natural part of my new life.

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The faeries welcomed me as their own and taught me the ways of the woods, and I grew fond of them all. In addition to Speck, Igel, Béka and Onions, there were seven others. The three girls were inseparable—Kivi and Blomma, blonde and freckled, quiet and assured, and their tagalong, Chavisory, a chatterbox who looked no more than five years old. When she grinned, her baby teeth shone like a string of pearls, and when she laughed, her thin shoulders shook and twitched. If she found something truly funny or exciting, she took off like a skittering bat, dancing in circles and figure eights across the clearing.

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Apart from the leader Igel and the loner Béka, the boys formed two pairs. Ragno and Zanzara, as I remember them, reminded me of the two sons of the Italian grocers in town. Thin and olive-skinned boys, each had a thatch of dark curls on his head and was quick to anger and quicker to forgive. The other set, Smaolach and Luchóg, behaved as brothers, though they could not be more dissimilar. Towering over everyone but Béka, Smaolach concentrated on the task at hand, as oblivious and earnest as a robin tugging up an earthworm. His good friend Luchóg, smallest of us all, was forever pushing back an untamable lock of night-black hair that curled across his forehead like the tail of a mouse. His eyes, blue as the summer sky, gave away his fierce devotion to his friends, even when he tried to feign nonchalance.

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Igel, the eldest and leader of the band, took pains to explain the ways of the forest. He showed me how to gig for frogs and fish, how to find water collected overnight in the hollow of fallen leaves, to distinguish edible mushrooms from deadly toadstools, and dozens of other survival tricks. But even the best guide is no match for experience, and for most of my early time, I was coddled. They kept me under constant watch by at least two others, and I was forced to stay around camp, with dire warnings to hide away at any hint of other people.

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"If they catch you, they will think you a devil," Igel told me. "And lock you away, or worse, they will test to see if they are right by throwing you in a fire."

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"And you will burn up like kindling," said Ragno.

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"And be nothing more than a puff of smoke," said Zanzara, and Chavisory demonstrated by dancing around the campfire, circling away to the edge of darkness.

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When the first hard frost hit, a small party was sent away for an overnight excursion, and they came back with armloads of sweaters, jackets, and shoes. Those of us who had stayed behind were shivering beneath deerskins.

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"Since you are the youngest," Igel told me, "you have first choice of the clothes and boots."

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Smaolach, who stood over the pile of shoes, beckoned me. I noticed that his own feet were bare. I poked through the assortment of children’s saddle shoes, square-toed brogues, canvas tennis shoes, and the odd unmated boot, choosing at last a pair of brand new black-and-white wingtips that seemed to be my size.

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"Those’ll cut your ankles off."

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"How about these?" I asked, holding up the tennis shoes. "I might be able to squeeze into these." My feet felt damp and chilled on the cold ground.

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Smaolach rooted around and picked out the ugliest brown shoes I had ever seen. The leather creaked when he flexed the soles, and the laces looked like coiled snakes. Each toe was tipped with a small steel plate. "Trust me, these will keep you warm and toasty all winter long, and a long time in the wearing."

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"But they’re too small."

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"Don’t you know you’ve been shrinking yourself?" With a sly grin, he reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a pair of thick woolen socks. "And I found these especially for you."

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The whole crowd gasped in appreciation. They gave me a cableknit sweater and an oilskin jacket, which kept me dry on the wettest days.

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As the nights lengthened and grew colder, we exchanged our grass mats and solitary beds for a heap of animal skins and stolen blankets. The twelve of us slept together in a tangled clump. I rather enjoyed the comfort of the situation, although most of my friends had foul breath or fetid odors about them. Part of the reason must be the change in diet, from the bounty of summer to the decay of late fall and the deprivation of winter. Several of the poor creatures had been in the woods for so long that they had given up all hope of human society. Indeed, a handful had no such desire at all, so they lived like animals, rarely taking a bath or cleaning their teeth with a twig. Even a fox will lick its hindquarters, but some of the faeries were the dirtiest beasts.

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That first winter, I yearned to go with the hunter-gatherers on their morning forage for food and other supplies. Like the crows that convened at dusk and dawn, those thieves enjoyed freedom away from the roost. While I was left behind, I had to suffer babysitters like that toad Béka and his companion Onions, or old Zanzara and Ragno, who squabbled all day and threw nutshells and stones at the birds and squirrels poking around our hidden hoard. I was bored and cold and lonesome for adventure.

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On a gray morning, Igel himself chose to stay behind to watch over me, and as luck would have it, my friend Smaolach kept him company. They brewed a pot of tea from dried bark and peppermint, and as we watched a cold rain fall, I pressed my case.

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"Why won’t you let me go with all the others?"

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"My great fear is that you’ll run away and try to return whence you came, but you cannot, Aniday. You are one of us now." Igel sipped his tea and stared at a point far off. After a decent interval, letting his wisdom sink into my mind, he continued. "On the other hand, you have proved yourself a valuable member of our clan. You gather the kindling, husk the acorns, and dig a new privy hole when asked. You are learning true obedience and deference. I have watched you, Aniday, and you are a good student of our ways."

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Smaolach stared into the dying fire and said something in a secret language, all vowels and hard consonants full of phlegm. Igel pondered over that secret sentence, then chewed on his own thoughts before spitting them out. Then, as now, I was eternally puzzled over how people think, by what process they solve life’s riddles. Their consultation over, Igel resumed his study of the horizon.

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"You’re to come with Luchóg and me this afternoon," Smaolach informed me with a conspiratorial wink. "We’ll show you the lay of the land around these parts as soon as the rest of them get back."

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"You better dress warmly," Igel advised. "This rain will changeover soon."

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On cue, the first snowflakes started mixing with the raindrops, and within minutes, a heavy snow began to fall. We were still sitting in our places when the faery troop meandered back to the camp, chased home by the sudden inclemency. Winter sometimes came early to our part of the country, but usually we did not get a snowfall until after Christmas. As the squall blew in, I wondered for the first time whether Christmas had passed altogether, or perhaps at least Thanksgiving had slipped by, and most certainly Halloween was gone. I thought of my family, still looking for me every day in the woods. Perhaps they thought me dead, which made me feel sorry and wish that word could be sent concerning my welfare.

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At home, Mom would be unpacking boxes of decorations, putting out the stable and the manger, running garland up the stair rail. The past Christmas, my father took me out to chop down a small fir tree for the house, and I wondered if he was sad now, without me to help him choose the right one. I even missed my little sisters. Were they walking and talking and dreaming of Santa Claus, wondering what had become of me?

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"What day is it?" I asked Luchóg as he changed into warmer clothes.

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He licked his finger and held it into the wind. "Tuesday?"

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"No, I mean what day of the year? What day of the month?"

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"I have no idea. Judging by the signs, could be late November, early December. But memory is a tricky thing and unreliable when it comes to time or weather."

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Christmas had not passed after all. I resolved to watch the days from then on and to celebrate the season in an appropriate fashion, even if the rest of them did not care about holidays and such things.

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"Do you know where I can get a paper and a pencil?"

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He struggled into his boots. "Now, what would you want them things for?"

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"I want to make a calendar."

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"A calendar? Why, you would need a store of paper and any number of pencils to keep a calendar out here. I’ll teach you how to watch the sun in the sky and take notice of the living things. You’ll know time enough by them."

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"But what if I want to draw a picture or write someone a note?"

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Luchóg zipped up his jacket. "Write? To whom? Most of us have forgot-ten how to write entirely, and those that haven’t, didn’t learn in the first place. It is better to have your say and not be putting down in more or less a permanent way what you’re thinking or feeling. That way lies danger, little treasure."

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"But I do like to draw pictures."

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We started across the ring, where Smaolach and Igel stood like two tall trees, conferring. Because Luchóg was the smallest of us all, he had trouble keeping up with me. Bouncing along at my side, he continued his dissertation.

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"So, you’re an artist, are ye? No pencil and paper? Do you know that the artists of old made their own paper and pens? Out of animal skin and bird feathers. And ink from soot and spit. They did, and further back still, they scratched on stones. I’ll teach you how to leave your mark, and get you that paper if you want, but in due time."

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When we reached the leader, Igel clapped me on the shoulder and said, "You’ve earned my trust, Aniday. Listen and heed these two."

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Luchóg, Smaolach, and I set off into the woods, and I looked back to wave goodbye. The other faeries sat together in bunches, huddled against the cold, and let the snow coat them, mad and exposed stoics.

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I was thrilled at being out of that camp, but my companions did their best to control my curiosity. They let me stumble about on the trails for a time before my clumsiness flushed a covey of doves from their rest. The birds exploded into the air, all pipes and feathers. Smaolach put a finger to his lips, and I took the hint. Copying their movements, I became nearly as graceful, and we walked so quietly that I could hear the snowfall over the sound of our footsteps. Silence has its own allure and grace, heightening all the senses, especially hearing. A twig would snap in the distance and instantly Smaolach and Luchóg would cock their heads in the direction of the sound and identify its cause. They showed me the hidden things silence revealed: a pheasant craning its neck to spy on us from a thicket, a crow hopping from branch to branch, a raccoon snoring in its den. Before the daylight completely faded, we tramped through the wet grounds to the mucky bank of the river. Along the water’s edge ice crystals grew, and listening closely, we heard the crack of freezing. A single duck paddled further down the river, and each snowflake hissed as it hit the water’s surface. The sunlight faded like a whisper and vanished.

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"Listen"—Smaolach held his breath—"to this."

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At once, the snow changed over to sleet, which ticked against the fallen leaves and rocks and dripping branches, a miniature symphony of the natural world. We walked away from the river and took cover in a grove of evergreens. Ice encased each of the needles in a clear jacket. Luchóg pulled out a leather pouch hanging from a cord around his neck, first producing a tiny paper and then a fat pinch of dried and brown grasslike fibers that looked like tobacco. With deft fingers and a quick lick, he rolled a thin cigarette. From another section of the pouch, he extracted several wooden matches, counted them in his palm, and returned all but one to the waterproof compartment. His thumbnail struck the match, causing it to burst into flame, which Luchóg applied to the end of the cigarette. Smaolach had dug a hole deep enough to reach a layer of dry needles and cones. Carefully taking the burning match from his friend’s fingertips, he set it in the bowl, and in short order we had a fire to toast our palms and fingertips. Luchóg passed the cigarette to Smaolach, who took a deep drag and held the smoke inside his mouth for a long time. When he exhaled at last, the effect was as sudden and percussive as the punch-line to a joke.

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"Give the boy a puff," Smaolach suggested.

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"I don’t know how to smoke."

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"Do what I do," said Luchóg through clenched teeth. "But whatever you do, don’t tell Igel about this. Don’t tell anyone at all."

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I took a drag on the glowing cigarette and began coughing and sputtering from the smoke. They giggled and kept on laughing well after the last scrap had been inhaled. The air beneath the evergreen boughs was thick with a strange perfume, which made me feel dizzy, light-headed, and slightly nauseous. Luchóg and Smaolach fell under the same spell, but they merely seemed content, simultaneously alert and peaceful. The sleet began to taper off, and silence returned like a lost friend.

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"Did you hear that?"

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"What is it?" I asked.

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Luchóg shushed me. "First, listen to see if you hear it." A moment later, the sound came to me, and though familiar, its substance and origin mystified me.

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Luchóg sprang to his feet and rousted his friend. "It’s a car, little treasure. Have you ever chased an automobile?"

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I shook my head, thinking he must have me confused with a dog. Both of my companions took hold of my hands and off we went, running faster than I had ever imagined possible. The world whirred by, patches and blurs of darkness where trees once stood. Mud and snow kicked up, mottling our trousers as we sped on at an insanely giddy pace. When the brush grew thicker, they let go of my hands and we raced down the trail one behind the other. Branches slapped me in the face, and I stumbled and fell into the muck. Scrambling to my feet, cold and wet and dirty, I realized I was alone for the first time in months. Fear took hold, and I opened my eyes and ears to the world, desperate to find my friends. Fierce pains of concentration shot across my forehead, but I bore down and heard them running through the snow in the distance. I felt a new and powerful magic in my senses, for I could see them clearly, while realizing that they should be too far ahead and out of sight. By visualizing my way, I gave chase, and the trees and branches that had confused me before now seemed no obstacle. I whipped through the woods the way a sparrow flies through the openings in a fence, without a thought, folding up its wings at the right moment, gliding through.

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When I caught up, I found they were standing behind the rough pines short of the forest edge. Before us lay a road and on that road a car had stopped, its headlights streaking through the misty darkness, broken pieces of the metal grille glistening on the asphalt. Through the open driver’s door, a small light shone in the empty cab. The anomaly of the car pulled me toward it, but the strong arms of my friends held me back. A figure emerged from the darkness and stepped into the light, a thin young woman in a bright red coat. She held one hand to her forehead, and bending slowly, she reached out with her free arm, nearly touching a dark mass lying in the road.

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"She hit a deer," Luchóg said, a note of sadness in his voice. She agonized over its prostrate form, pulling her hair back from her face, her other hand pressed against her lips.

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"Is it dead?" I asked.

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"The trick," said Smaolach in a quiet voice, "is to breathe into its mouth. It’s not dead at all, but in shock."

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Luchóg whispered to me. "We’ll wait until she’s gone, and you can inspire it."

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"Me?"

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"Don’t you know? You’re a faery now, same as us, and can do anything we can do."

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The notion overwhelmed me. A faery? I wanted to know right away if it was true; I wanted to test my own powers. So I broke away from my friends, approaching the deer from the shadows. The woman stood in the middle of that lonesome road, scanning in both directions for another car. She did not notice me until I was already there, crouching over the animal, my hand upon its warm flank, its pulse racing alongside my own. I cupped the deer’s muzzle in my hand and breathed into its hot mouth. Almost immediately, the beast lifted its head, shouldered me out of the way, and rocked itself up into a standing position. For an instant, it stared at me; then, like a white ensign, its tail shot up a warning, and the deer bounded into the night. To say that we—the animal, the woman, myself—were surprised by this turn of events would be the most severe understatement. She looked bewildered, so I smiled at her. At that moment, my comrades started calling to me in loud whispers.

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"Who are you?" She wrapped herself tighter in that red coat. Or at least I thought those were her words, but her voice sounded alien, as if she were speaking through water. I stared at the ground, realizing that I did not know the true answer. Her face drew close enough for me to detect the beginning of a smile on her lips and the pale bluegreen of her irises behind her glasses. Her eyes were splendid.

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"We must go." From the darkness, a hand grasped my shoulder, and Smaolach dragged me away into the bushes, leaving me to wonder if it had all been a dream. We hid in a tangle while she searched for us, and at last she gave up, got in her car and drove off. I did not know it at the time, but she was the last human person I was to encounter for more than a dozen years. The tail-lights zigzagged over the hills and through the trees until there was no more to see.

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We retreated back to camp in a cross silence. Halfway home, Luchóg advised, "You mustn’t tell anyone about what happened tonight. Stay away from people and be content with who you are." On the journey, we created a necessary fiction to explain our long absence, invented a narrative of the waters and the wild, and once told, our story endured. But I never forgot that secret of the redcoated woman, and later, when I began to doubt the world above, the memory of that bright and lonely meeting reminded me that it was no myth.

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