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一个夏夜,七岁的男孩亨利•戴离家出走,躲进了森林里的某个树洞中。在那里,他被一群精灵抓走。其中一个精灵用他的外表重返人世,展开新的生活。而那个被抓走的男孩,经过死而复生的奇特洗礼之后重生为精灵,被改名为安尼•戴,从此告别文明世界,永远以七岁的外表游荡在森林中。时光匆匆,安尼•戴渐渐遗忘了人类的语言和自己真实的姓名,却努力想要记住自己的家人与过去。而假亨利•戴在人群中隐瞒着自己的真实身份,却无法掩藏自己那神童般的钢琴天赋,更无法阻止那些总是在梦中涌现的记忆。他费尽千辛万苦了解一个德国少年钢琴家的真实故事,最后赫然发现,那正是一百多年前的自己……两个被交换命运的孩子渐渐长大,他们的生命几度交会,却都擦肩而过。他们的灵魂该如何得到救赎?他们又该如何夺回自己的人生?
美国作家Keith Donohue花了七年时间完成的处女作The Stolen Child(《失窃的孩子》)是一个写给成人看的朴实的童话,其中无不反映了现代人存有的心病:异化、孤独、身份丢失,渴望与他人交换人生……该书的创作灵感来自于著名诗人叶芝于1889年发表的同名诗作。美国亚马逊网上书店在该书出版前就已秘密买下其电影改编权。该书出版后不仅登上各大畅销书排行榜,更入围了2006年度“图书界的奥斯卡”——鹅毛笔大奖,还荣获了美国《轨迹》杂志2006年度“最佳新人作品奖”和亚马逊网上书店文学小说榜及奇幻科幻榜双料冠军。
本文节选自该书第一章。
Don’t call me a fairy. We don’t like to be called fairies anymore. Once upon a time, fairy was a perfectly acceptable 1)catchall for a variety of creatures, but now it has taken on too many associations. If you must give me a name, call me 2)hobgoblin. Or better yet, I am a 3)changeling—a word that describes within its own name what we are bound and intended to do. We kidnap a human child and replace him or her with one of our own. The hobgoblin becomes the child, and the child becomes a hobgoblin. Not any boy or girl will do, but only those rare souls 4)baffled by their young lives or 5)attuned to the weeping troubles of this world. The changelings select carefully, for such opportunities might come along only once a decade or so. A child who becomes part of our society might have to wait a century before his turn in the cycle arrives, when he can become a changeling and reenter the human world.
Preparation is tedious, involving close surveillance of the child, and of his friends and family. This must be done unobserved, of course, and it’s best to select the child before he begins school, because it becomes more complicated by then, having to memorize and process a great deal of information beyond the intimate family, and being able to mimic his personality and history as clearly as mirroring his physique and features. Infants are the easiest, but caring for them is a problem for the changelings. Age six or seven is best. Anyone much older is bound to have a more highly developed sense of self. No matter how old or young, the object is to deceive the parents into thinking that this changeling is actually their child. More easily done than most people imagine.
No, the difficulty lies not in assuming a child’s history but in the painful physical act of the change itself. First, start with the bones and skin, stretching until one 6)shudders and nearly snaps into the right size and body shape. Then the others begin work on one’s new head and face, which requires the skills of a sculptor. There’s considerable pushing and pulling at the7)cartilage, as if the skull were a soft 8)wad of clay or 9)taffy, and then the malicious business with the teeth, the removal of the hair, and the tedious re-weaving. The entire process occurs without a gram of painkiller, although a few 10)imbibe a noxious alcohol made from the 11)fermented mash of 12)acorns. A nasty undertaking, but well worth it. In the end, one is an exact copy of a child. Thirty years ago, in 1949, I was a changeling who became a human again.
I changed lives with Henry Day, a boy born on a farm outside of town. On a late summer’s afternoon, when he was seven, Henry ran away from home and hid in a 13)hollow 14)chestnut tree. Our changeling spies followed him and raised the alarm, and I transformed myself into his perfect15)facsimile. We grabbed him, and I slipped into the hollowed space to switch my life for his. When the search party found me that night, they were happy, relieved, and proud—not angry, as I had expected. “Henry,” a red-haired man in a fireman’s suit said to me as I pretended to sleep in the hiding place. I opened my eyes and gave him a bright smile. The man wrapped me in a thin blanket and carried me out of the woods to a paved road, where a fire truck stood waiting, its red light pulsing like a heartbeat. The firemen took me home to Henry’s parents, to my new father and mother. As we drove along the road that night, I kept thinking that if that first test could be passed, the world would once again be mine.
As the fire truck 16)lurched up the driveway to the Days’ home, I 17)vomited against the bright red door, a vivid mess of acorn mash, 18)watercress, and the 19)exoskeletons of a number of small insects. The fireman patted me on the head and 20)scooped me up, blanket and all, as if I were of no more consequence than a rescued kitten or an abandoned baby. Henry’s father leapt from the porch to gather me in his arms, and with a strong embrace and warm kisses 21)reeking of smoke and alcohol, he welcomed me home as his only son. The mother would be much harder to fool. Her face betrayed her every emotion: 22)blotchy skin, 23)chapped with salty tears, her pale blue eyes rimmed in red, her hair 24)matted and 25)disheveled. She reached out for me with trembling hands and emitted a small sharp cry, the kind a rabbit makes when in the distress of the 26)snare. She wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve and wrapped me in the wracking shudder of a woman in love. Then she began laughing in that deep 27)coloratura.
“Henry? Henry?” She pushed me away and held on to my shoulders at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. Is it really you?”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
She brushed away the 28)bangs hiding my eyes and then pulled me against her breast. Her heart beat against the side of my face, and I felt hot and uncomfortable. “You needn’t worry, my little treasure. You’re home and safe and sound, and that’s all that matters. You’ve come back to me.”
Dad cupped the back of my head with his large hand, and I thought this homecoming 29)tableau might go on forever. I squirmed free and dug out the handkerchief from Henry’s pocket, crumbs spilling to the floor.
“I’m sorry I stole the biscuit, Mom.”
She laughed, and a shadow passed behind her eyes. Maybe she had been wondering up to that point if I was indeed her 30)flesh and blood, but mentioning the biscuit 31)did the trick. Henry had stolen one from the table when he ran away from home, and while the others took him to the river, I stole and pocketed it. The crumbs proved that I was hers.
Well after midnight, they put me to bed, and such a comfort may be the greatest invention of mankind. In any case, it 32)tops sleeping in a hole in the cold ground, a moldy rabbit skin for your pillow, and the grunts and sighs of a dozen changelings anxious in their dreams. I stretched out like a stick between the 33)crisp sheets and pondered my good fortune. Many tales exist of failed changelings who are uncovered by their presumptive families. One child who showed up in a 34)Nova Scotia fishing village so frightened his poor parents that they fled their own home in the middle of a snowstorm and were later found frozen and 35)bobbing in the frigid harbor. A changeling girl, age six, so shocked her new parents when she opened her mouth to speak that, thus frightened, they poured hot wax into each other’s ears and never heard another sound. Other parents, upon learning that their child had been replaced by changelings, had their hair turn white overnight, were stunned into 36)catatonia, heart attacks, or sudden death. Worse yet, though rare, other families drive out the creature through 37)exorcism, banishment, abandonment, murder. Seventy years ago, I lost a good friend after he forgot to make himself look older as he aged. Convinced he was a devil, his parents tied him up like an unwanted kitten in a 38)gunnysack and threw him down a well. Most of the time, though, the parents are confounded by the sudden change of their son or daughter, or one spouse blames the other for their queer fortune. It is a risky 39)endeavor and not for the fainthearted. That I had come this far undetected caused me no small satisfaction, but I was not completely at ease.
别叫我精灵。我们已经不再喜欢被称作“精灵”了。曾几何时,“精灵”是对多种生物相当不错的一个统称,但如今它已染上过多的联想色彩。如果你非得给我取名,就叫我小妖吧。或者,更好的说法是,我是一个换生灵——顾名思义,这个词指明了我们要做和想做的事。我们诱拐一个人类小孩,把他或她与我们的一个小妖交换。小妖变成了那个小孩,而那个小孩变成了一个小妖。并非随便哪个男孩女孩都行,只有那些少之又少的、对他们年幼的生命感到困扰,或对世上的悲愁心有戚戚焉的人才能用来交换。换生灵们挑选对象很小心,因为这种机会大概十年左右才有一次。成为我们这个族群一分子的那个孩子,或许要等上一个世纪才能轮到他换生,那时他将成为一个换生灵,重返人类世界。
准备工作繁重而乏味,其中包括密切监视那小孩,还有他的朋友和家人。当然,这都得做得不露痕迹。最好选择在那孩子上学之前换生,因为孩子上学以后,一切都会变得更复杂。除了与那孩子关系亲密的家属的信息外,换生灵还要记住和处理其他大量信息,另外还得像镜子映照形体容貌那般,一清二楚地模仿出那孩子的性格和经历。婴儿是最好办的了,可对换生灵来说,照料他们是一桩难事。六到七岁的孩子就最好不过了。超过这个年龄,孩子就开始更有自我意识了。而不管他们年龄大小,我们的目标是骗过孩子的父母,让他们相信这个换生灵的的确确就是他们的亲骨肉。这其实比大多数人想像的要容易。
不,困难不在于装出拥有那孩子的经历,而在于那痛苦的变形本身。首先,从骨骼和皮肤开始,把自己拉伸成合适的大小和体型,拉到浑身颤抖,骨头差点儿断裂。然后,其他换生灵会在他新的头脸上下功夫,这需要雕刻家的技艺。软骨被左扯右捏,整个头颅就像是块黏土或太妃糖等软物。接下来是针对牙齿的“歹毒工序”,还要拔头发,然后再慢慢编织新的头发。整个过程中,一粒止痛药都没有,虽然有些换生灵会喝一种对身体有害的用橡子汁发酵而成的酒。这变身工程很痛苦,但很值。最后,换生灵就和某个用来换生的孩子一模一样了。三十年前,就是1949年,我从一个换生灵重新变成了一个人。
我和亨利•戴这个男孩交换了生活,他出生在镇外的一个农场里。一个夏末的午后,七岁的亨利离家出走,藏到了一棵栗树的树洞中。我们的换生灵密探跟踪他并发出信号,我于是变身成为了他完美的复制品。我们抓住他,然后我溜进树洞,和他交换了生活。当晚搜寻孩子的那队人马找到我时,他们可高兴了,松了口气,还挺自豪的——没有一丝恼怒,正如我所料。“亨利。”一个穿着消防员制服的红发男人朝我喊道,当时我在躲藏处假装睡觉。我睁开眼,冲他露出灿烂的微笑。这人用薄毯把我裹起来,抱着我走出树林,来到公路上,一辆消防车停在那里,车上那红灯如心跳那般搏动闪烁。消防员们把我带回家,交给亨利的父母,也就是我的新父母。那晚车子在路上行驶时,我一直在想,只要能通过第一关,这个世界就会重新归我所有。
在开往戴家的路上,消防车颠簸起来,我吐在了鲜红色的车门上,能看出来那肮脏的呕吐物里有橡果泥、水田芥,还有很多小昆虫的外骨骼。消防员拍拍我的头,把我连同毯子一把抱起,好像我不过是只被救的小猫或者一个弃婴似的。亨利的父亲大步跨过门廊,一把抱住我。他以紧紧的拥抱和带着烟酒味温暖的亲吻,把我当成自己唯一的儿子迎回家。但亨利的母亲就不太好糊弄了。她的脸完全泄露了她的情绪:长满斑点的脸上挂着一道道咸咸的泪水,暗淡无神的蓝眼睛四周红了,头发蓬乱,纠结成一团。她朝我张开双臂,两手直抖,发出一声短促的尖叫,那叫声听起来好像是掉入陷阱的兔子发出的一般。她用衬衫的袖子擦了擦眼,她满怀爱意地在颤抖中把我搂住,接着笑了起来,声音深沉急促。
“亨利?亨利?”她把手放在我肩上,把我推至一臂远的地方,说道:“让我看看你。真的是你吗?”
“对不起,妈妈。”
她拨开遮着我眼睛的刘海儿,一把将我搂进怀里。她的心在我脸侧跳动,我觉得又热又不舒服。“别担心,我的小宝贝。你回家了,安然无恙,这才是最要紧的。你回到我身边了。”
爸爸用他的大手包住我的后脑勺,我想这幕“欢迎回家”的场面可能会永远持续下去。我蠕动着身子,一点一点地挣脱出来,从亨利的口袋里掏出条手帕,饼干屑撒在了地板上。
“对不起,妈妈,我偷了饼干。”
她笑起来,眼里的阴影消失了。也许她直到前一刻还在怀疑我是否是她的亲骨肉,但我一提到饼干就奏效了。亨利离家出走时,从桌上偷了块饼干,别的换生灵把他带到河边时,我把饼干偷过来放在口袋里。饼干屑证明了我是她的孩子。
午夜后,他们让我上床睡觉,这种舒适大概是人类最伟大的发明了。不管怎么说,这总比睡在洞里冷冰冰的地上要强,拿发霉的兔皮当枕头,还有十来个换生灵在不安的睡梦中咕哝和叹气。我在松软的被子里伸直手脚,思索着我的好运。换生灵失败的故事也有不少,他们的身份被所谓的家人揭露。有个出现在加拿大新斯科舍某渔村的孩子把他可怜的父母吓坏了,他们在暴风雪中弃家而逃,后来被发现尸体冻僵了,飘浮在寒冷的港口上。一个六岁的换生灵女孩,一开口说话就让她的新父母恐惧不已,这对父母在惊吓之中,把滚烫的蜡油灌进对方耳朵里,从此再也听不到声音。还有一些父母,得知他们的孩子被换生灵替换后,一夜白发,有的被吓到得了紧张症,有的心脏病突发,还有的猝死。更惨的是,尽管很少见,但确实有一些人家通过驱魔、驱赶、抛弃等方式把换生灵赶出去,或者杀害他们。七十年前,我失去了一位好朋友,因为他忘了让自己随年月成长变大。他的父母深信他是魔鬼,把他像一只没人要的小猫一样捆起来装进麻包袋,丢到一口井里。但大多数情况是,父母对他们儿女的突变大惑不解,或为这种离奇的命运而相互责备。这种冒险的事真不是胆小鬼能干的。我对于走到这一步仍没有被揭穿感到挺得意的,但还没有完全放下心来。
美国作家Keith Donohue花了七年时间完成的处女作The Stolen Child(《失窃的孩子》)是一个写给成人看的朴实的童话,其中无不反映了现代人存有的心病:异化、孤独、身份丢失,渴望与他人交换人生……该书的创作灵感来自于著名诗人叶芝于1889年发表的同名诗作。美国亚马逊网上书店在该书出版前就已秘密买下其电影改编权。该书出版后不仅登上各大畅销书排行榜,更入围了2006年度“图书界的奥斯卡”——鹅毛笔大奖,还荣获了美国《轨迹》杂志2006年度“最佳新人作品奖”和亚马逊网上书店文学小说榜及奇幻科幻榜双料冠军。
本文节选自该书第一章。
Don’t call me a fairy. We don’t like to be called fairies anymore. Once upon a time, fairy was a perfectly acceptable 1)catchall for a variety of creatures, but now it has taken on too many associations. If you must give me a name, call me 2)hobgoblin. Or better yet, I am a 3)changeling—a word that describes within its own name what we are bound and intended to do. We kidnap a human child and replace him or her with one of our own. The hobgoblin becomes the child, and the child becomes a hobgoblin. Not any boy or girl will do, but only those rare souls 4)baffled by their young lives or 5)attuned to the weeping troubles of this world. The changelings select carefully, for such opportunities might come along only once a decade or so. A child who becomes part of our society might have to wait a century before his turn in the cycle arrives, when he can become a changeling and reenter the human world.
Preparation is tedious, involving close surveillance of the child, and of his friends and family. This must be done unobserved, of course, and it’s best to select the child before he begins school, because it becomes more complicated by then, having to memorize and process a great deal of information beyond the intimate family, and being able to mimic his personality and history as clearly as mirroring his physique and features. Infants are the easiest, but caring for them is a problem for the changelings. Age six or seven is best. Anyone much older is bound to have a more highly developed sense of self. No matter how old or young, the object is to deceive the parents into thinking that this changeling is actually their child. More easily done than most people imagine.
No, the difficulty lies not in assuming a child’s history but in the painful physical act of the change itself. First, start with the bones and skin, stretching until one 6)shudders and nearly snaps into the right size and body shape. Then the others begin work on one’s new head and face, which requires the skills of a sculptor. There’s considerable pushing and pulling at the7)cartilage, as if the skull were a soft 8)wad of clay or 9)taffy, and then the malicious business with the teeth, the removal of the hair, and the tedious re-weaving. The entire process occurs without a gram of painkiller, although a few 10)imbibe a noxious alcohol made from the 11)fermented mash of 12)acorns. A nasty undertaking, but well worth it. In the end, one is an exact copy of a child. Thirty years ago, in 1949, I was a changeling who became a human again.
I changed lives with Henry Day, a boy born on a farm outside of town. On a late summer’s afternoon, when he was seven, Henry ran away from home and hid in a 13)hollow 14)chestnut tree. Our changeling spies followed him and raised the alarm, and I transformed myself into his perfect15)facsimile. We grabbed him, and I slipped into the hollowed space to switch my life for his. When the search party found me that night, they were happy, relieved, and proud—not angry, as I had expected. “Henry,” a red-haired man in a fireman’s suit said to me as I pretended to sleep in the hiding place. I opened my eyes and gave him a bright smile. The man wrapped me in a thin blanket and carried me out of the woods to a paved road, where a fire truck stood waiting, its red light pulsing like a heartbeat. The firemen took me home to Henry’s parents, to my new father and mother. As we drove along the road that night, I kept thinking that if that first test could be passed, the world would once again be mine.
As the fire truck 16)lurched up the driveway to the Days’ home, I 17)vomited against the bright red door, a vivid mess of acorn mash, 18)watercress, and the 19)exoskeletons of a number of small insects. The fireman patted me on the head and 20)scooped me up, blanket and all, as if I were of no more consequence than a rescued kitten or an abandoned baby. Henry’s father leapt from the porch to gather me in his arms, and with a strong embrace and warm kisses 21)reeking of smoke and alcohol, he welcomed me home as his only son. The mother would be much harder to fool. Her face betrayed her every emotion: 22)blotchy skin, 23)chapped with salty tears, her pale blue eyes rimmed in red, her hair 24)matted and 25)disheveled. She reached out for me with trembling hands and emitted a small sharp cry, the kind a rabbit makes when in the distress of the 26)snare. She wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve and wrapped me in the wracking shudder of a woman in love. Then she began laughing in that deep 27)coloratura.
“Henry? Henry?” She pushed me away and held on to my shoulders at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. Is it really you?”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
She brushed away the 28)bangs hiding my eyes and then pulled me against her breast. Her heart beat against the side of my face, and I felt hot and uncomfortable. “You needn’t worry, my little treasure. You’re home and safe and sound, and that’s all that matters. You’ve come back to me.”
Dad cupped the back of my head with his large hand, and I thought this homecoming 29)tableau might go on forever. I squirmed free and dug out the handkerchief from Henry’s pocket, crumbs spilling to the floor.
“I’m sorry I stole the biscuit, Mom.”
She laughed, and a shadow passed behind her eyes. Maybe she had been wondering up to that point if I was indeed her 30)flesh and blood, but mentioning the biscuit 31)did the trick. Henry had stolen one from the table when he ran away from home, and while the others took him to the river, I stole and pocketed it. The crumbs proved that I was hers.
Well after midnight, they put me to bed, and such a comfort may be the greatest invention of mankind. In any case, it 32)tops sleeping in a hole in the cold ground, a moldy rabbit skin for your pillow, and the grunts and sighs of a dozen changelings anxious in their dreams. I stretched out like a stick between the 33)crisp sheets and pondered my good fortune. Many tales exist of failed changelings who are uncovered by their presumptive families. One child who showed up in a 34)Nova Scotia fishing village so frightened his poor parents that they fled their own home in the middle of a snowstorm and were later found frozen and 35)bobbing in the frigid harbor. A changeling girl, age six, so shocked her new parents when she opened her mouth to speak that, thus frightened, they poured hot wax into each other’s ears and never heard another sound. Other parents, upon learning that their child had been replaced by changelings, had their hair turn white overnight, were stunned into 36)catatonia, heart attacks, or sudden death. Worse yet, though rare, other families drive out the creature through 37)exorcism, banishment, abandonment, murder. Seventy years ago, I lost a good friend after he forgot to make himself look older as he aged. Convinced he was a devil, his parents tied him up like an unwanted kitten in a 38)gunnysack and threw him down a well. Most of the time, though, the parents are confounded by the sudden change of their son or daughter, or one spouse blames the other for their queer fortune. It is a risky 39)endeavor and not for the fainthearted. That I had come this far undetected caused me no small satisfaction, but I was not completely at ease.
别叫我精灵。我们已经不再喜欢被称作“精灵”了。曾几何时,“精灵”是对多种生物相当不错的一个统称,但如今它已染上过多的联想色彩。如果你非得给我取名,就叫我小妖吧。或者,更好的说法是,我是一个换生灵——顾名思义,这个词指明了我们要做和想做的事。我们诱拐一个人类小孩,把他或她与我们的一个小妖交换。小妖变成了那个小孩,而那个小孩变成了一个小妖。并非随便哪个男孩女孩都行,只有那些少之又少的、对他们年幼的生命感到困扰,或对世上的悲愁心有戚戚焉的人才能用来交换。换生灵们挑选对象很小心,因为这种机会大概十年左右才有一次。成为我们这个族群一分子的那个孩子,或许要等上一个世纪才能轮到他换生,那时他将成为一个换生灵,重返人类世界。
准备工作繁重而乏味,其中包括密切监视那小孩,还有他的朋友和家人。当然,这都得做得不露痕迹。最好选择在那孩子上学之前换生,因为孩子上学以后,一切都会变得更复杂。除了与那孩子关系亲密的家属的信息外,换生灵还要记住和处理其他大量信息,另外还得像镜子映照形体容貌那般,一清二楚地模仿出那孩子的性格和经历。婴儿是最好办的了,可对换生灵来说,照料他们是一桩难事。六到七岁的孩子就最好不过了。超过这个年龄,孩子就开始更有自我意识了。而不管他们年龄大小,我们的目标是骗过孩子的父母,让他们相信这个换生灵的的确确就是他们的亲骨肉。这其实比大多数人想像的要容易。
不,困难不在于装出拥有那孩子的经历,而在于那痛苦的变形本身。首先,从骨骼和皮肤开始,把自己拉伸成合适的大小和体型,拉到浑身颤抖,骨头差点儿断裂。然后,其他换生灵会在他新的头脸上下功夫,这需要雕刻家的技艺。软骨被左扯右捏,整个头颅就像是块黏土或太妃糖等软物。接下来是针对牙齿的“歹毒工序”,还要拔头发,然后再慢慢编织新的头发。整个过程中,一粒止痛药都没有,虽然有些换生灵会喝一种对身体有害的用橡子汁发酵而成的酒。这变身工程很痛苦,但很值。最后,换生灵就和某个用来换生的孩子一模一样了。三十年前,就是1949年,我从一个换生灵重新变成了一个人。
我和亨利•戴这个男孩交换了生活,他出生在镇外的一个农场里。一个夏末的午后,七岁的亨利离家出走,藏到了一棵栗树的树洞中。我们的换生灵密探跟踪他并发出信号,我于是变身成为了他完美的复制品。我们抓住他,然后我溜进树洞,和他交换了生活。当晚搜寻孩子的那队人马找到我时,他们可高兴了,松了口气,还挺自豪的——没有一丝恼怒,正如我所料。“亨利。”一个穿着消防员制服的红发男人朝我喊道,当时我在躲藏处假装睡觉。我睁开眼,冲他露出灿烂的微笑。这人用薄毯把我裹起来,抱着我走出树林,来到公路上,一辆消防车停在那里,车上那红灯如心跳那般搏动闪烁。消防员们把我带回家,交给亨利的父母,也就是我的新父母。那晚车子在路上行驶时,我一直在想,只要能通过第一关,这个世界就会重新归我所有。
在开往戴家的路上,消防车颠簸起来,我吐在了鲜红色的车门上,能看出来那肮脏的呕吐物里有橡果泥、水田芥,还有很多小昆虫的外骨骼。消防员拍拍我的头,把我连同毯子一把抱起,好像我不过是只被救的小猫或者一个弃婴似的。亨利的父亲大步跨过门廊,一把抱住我。他以紧紧的拥抱和带着烟酒味温暖的亲吻,把我当成自己唯一的儿子迎回家。但亨利的母亲就不太好糊弄了。她的脸完全泄露了她的情绪:长满斑点的脸上挂着一道道咸咸的泪水,暗淡无神的蓝眼睛四周红了,头发蓬乱,纠结成一团。她朝我张开双臂,两手直抖,发出一声短促的尖叫,那叫声听起来好像是掉入陷阱的兔子发出的一般。她用衬衫的袖子擦了擦眼,她满怀爱意地在颤抖中把我搂住,接着笑了起来,声音深沉急促。
“亨利?亨利?”她把手放在我肩上,把我推至一臂远的地方,说道:“让我看看你。真的是你吗?”
“对不起,妈妈。”
她拨开遮着我眼睛的刘海儿,一把将我搂进怀里。她的心在我脸侧跳动,我觉得又热又不舒服。“别担心,我的小宝贝。你回家了,安然无恙,这才是最要紧的。你回到我身边了。”
爸爸用他的大手包住我的后脑勺,我想这幕“欢迎回家”的场面可能会永远持续下去。我蠕动着身子,一点一点地挣脱出来,从亨利的口袋里掏出条手帕,饼干屑撒在了地板上。
“对不起,妈妈,我偷了饼干。”
她笑起来,眼里的阴影消失了。也许她直到前一刻还在怀疑我是否是她的亲骨肉,但我一提到饼干就奏效了。亨利离家出走时,从桌上偷了块饼干,别的换生灵把他带到河边时,我把饼干偷过来放在口袋里。饼干屑证明了我是她的孩子。
午夜后,他们让我上床睡觉,这种舒适大概是人类最伟大的发明了。不管怎么说,这总比睡在洞里冷冰冰的地上要强,拿发霉的兔皮当枕头,还有十来个换生灵在不安的睡梦中咕哝和叹气。我在松软的被子里伸直手脚,思索着我的好运。换生灵失败的故事也有不少,他们的身份被所谓的家人揭露。有个出现在加拿大新斯科舍某渔村的孩子把他可怜的父母吓坏了,他们在暴风雪中弃家而逃,后来被发现尸体冻僵了,飘浮在寒冷的港口上。一个六岁的换生灵女孩,一开口说话就让她的新父母恐惧不已,这对父母在惊吓之中,把滚烫的蜡油灌进对方耳朵里,从此再也听不到声音。还有一些父母,得知他们的孩子被换生灵替换后,一夜白发,有的被吓到得了紧张症,有的心脏病突发,还有的猝死。更惨的是,尽管很少见,但确实有一些人家通过驱魔、驱赶、抛弃等方式把换生灵赶出去,或者杀害他们。七十年前,我失去了一位好朋友,因为他忘了让自己随年月成长变大。他的父母深信他是魔鬼,把他像一只没人要的小猫一样捆起来装进麻包袋,丢到一口井里。但大多数情况是,父母对他们儿女的突变大惑不解,或为这种离奇的命运而相互责备。这种冒险的事真不是胆小鬼能干的。我对于走到这一步仍没有被揭穿感到挺得意的,但还没有完全放下心来。