I would not want to be a child again, for a child exists in uncertainty and danger. Our flesh and blood, we cannot help but fear for them, as we hope for them to make their way in this life. After the break-in, I worried about our son all of the time. Edward is not who we say he is because his father is an imposter. He is not a Day, but a changeling's child. I passed on my original genes, giving him the face and features of the Ungerlands, and who knows what other traits leapt the generations. Of my own childhood, I know little more than a name on a piece of paper: Gustav Ungerland. I was stolen long ago. And when the changelings came again, I began to believe they saw Edward as one of their own and wished to reclaim him. The mess they left in the kitchen was a subterfuge for a more sinister purpose. The disturbed photographs on the wall indicated that they were searching for someone. Wickedness hovered in the background and crept through the woods, plotting to steal our son.
　　We lost Edward one Sunday in springtime. On that gloriously warm afternoon, we happened to be in the city, for I had discovered a passable pipe organ in a church in Shadyside, and after services the music minister allowed me an hour to experiment with the machine, trying out what new sounds coursed through my imagination. Afterward, Tess and I took Edward to the zoo for his first face-to-face encounter with elephants and monkeys. A huge crowd shared our idea, and the walkways were crammed with couples pushing strollers, desultory teenagers, even a family with six redheaded children, staggered a year apart, a conspiracy of freckles and blue eyes. Too many people for my taste, but we jostled along without complaint. Edward was fascinated by the tigers and loitered in front of the iron fence, pulling at his cotton candy, roaring at the beasts to encourage them out of their drowsiness. In its black-and-orange dreams, one tiger twitched its tail, annoyed by my son's entreaties. Tess took advantage of Edward's distraction to confront me.
　　"Henry, I want to talk to you about Eddie. Does he seem all right to you? There's been a change lately, and something—I don't know—not normal."
　　I could see him over her shoulder. "He's perfectly normal."
　　"Or maybe it's you," she said. "You've been different with him lately. Overprotective, not letting him be a kid. He should be outdoors catching polliwogs and climbing trees, but it's as if you're afraid of him being out of your sight. He needs the chance to become more independent."
　　I pulled her off to the side, out of our son's hearing. "Do you remember the night someone broke into the house?"
　　"I knew it," she said. "You said not to worry, but you've been preoccupied with that, haven't you?"
　　"No, no, I just remembered, when I was looking at the photographs on the walls that night, it made me think of my own childhood dreams—years at the piano, searching for the right music to express myself. I have been looking for the answers, Tess, and they were right under my fingertips. Today in the church, the organ sounded just like the one at St. Nicholas's in Cheb. The organ is the answer to the symphony. Organ and orchestra."
　　She wrapped her arms around me and pulled herself against my chest. Her eyes were full of light and hope, and in all of my several lives, no one had shown such faith in me, in the essence of who I considered myself to be. I was so in love with her at that moment that I forgot the world and everything in it, and that's when I noticed, over her shoulder, our son was gone. Vanished from the space where he had been standing. My first thought was that he had tired of the tigers and was now underfoot or nearby, ready to beg us to let him in for a group hug. That hope evaporated and was replaced by the horrible notion that Edward had somehow squeezed through the bars and been instantly eaten by the tigers, but a quick glance at their cage revealed nothing but two indolent cats stretched out asleep in the languid sunshine. In the wilderness of my imagination, the changelings appeared. I looked back at Tess and feared that I was about to break her heart.
　　"He's gone," I told her, moving apart. "Edward."
　　She spun around and moved to the spot we had seen him last. "Eddie," she cried. "Where in the world are you?"
　　We went down the path toward the lions and bears, calling out his name, her voice rising an octave with each repetition, alarming the other parents. Tess stopped an elderly couple heading in the opposite direction. "Have you seen a little boy all alone? Three years old. Cotton candy."
　　"There's nothing but children here," the old man said, pointing a thin finger to the distance behind us. A line of children, laughing and hurrying, chased something down a shady pathway. At the front of the pack, a zoo-keeper hustled along, attempting to hold back the children while following his quarry. Ahead of the mob, Edward raced in his earnest and clumsy jog, chasing a blackfooted penguin that had escaped his pen and now waddled free and oblivious, heading back to the ocean, perhaps, or in search of fresh fish. The keeper sprinted past Edward and caught up to the bird, which brayed like a jackass. Holding its bill with one hand and cradling the bird against his chest, the keeper hurried past us as we reached our son. "Such a ruckus," he told us. "This one slips out of the exhibit and off he goes, wherever he pleases. Some things have such a will."
　　Taking Edward's hands in our own, we were determined to never let go.
　　
　　
　　Edward was a kite on a string, always threatening to break free. Before he started schooling, Eddie was safe at home. Tess took good care of him in the mornings, and I was home to watch him on weekday afternoons. When he turned four, Eddie went in with me on the way to work. I'd drop him off at the nursery school and then swing by from Twain when my music classes were through. In our few private hours I taught him scales, but when he bored of the piano he toddled off to his blocks and dinosaurs, inventing imaginary games and companions to while away lonesome hours. Every once in a while, he'd bring over a playmate for the afternoon, but those children never seemed to come back. That was fine by me, as I never fully trusted his playmates. Any one of them could have been a changeling in disguise.
　　Strangely, my music flourished in the splendid isolation we had carved out for ourselves. While he entertained himself with his toys and books, I composed. Tess encouraged me to find my own sound. Every week or so, she would bring home another album featuring organ music found in some dusty used record store. She cadged tickets to Heinz Hall performances, dug up sheet music and books on orchestration and instrumentation, and insisted that I go into the city to work out the music in my head at friendly churches and the college music school. She was re-creating, in essence, the repertoire in the treasure chest from Cheb. I wrote dozens of works, though scant success or attention resulted from my efforts—a coerced performance of a new arrangement by a local choir, or one night on electric organ with a wind ensemble from upstate. I tried everything to get my music heard, sent tapes and scores around the country to publishers and performers, but usually received a form rejection, if anything. Every great composer serves an apprenticeship of sorts, even middle-school teachers, but in my heart, I knew the compositions had not yet fulfilled my intentions.
　　One phone call changed everything. I had just come in the door with Edward after picking him up from nursery school. The voice on the other end was from another world. An up-and-coming chamber quartet in California, who specialized in experimental sound, expressed interest in actually recording one of my compositions, an atonal mood piece I had written shortly after the break-in. George Knoll, my old friend from The Coverboys, had passed along my score. When I called him to say thanks, he invited us to visit and stay at his place so I could be on hand at the recording session. Tess, Edward, and I flew out to the Knolls in San Francisco that summer of '76 and had a great few days with George and his family. His modest cafe in North Beach was the only genuine Andalusian restaurant among a hive of Italian joints, and his stunning wife and head chef did not hurt business, either. It was great to see them, and the few days away from home eased my anxieties. Nothing weird prowling around California.
　　The pastor of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco allowed us an afternoon to record, and the pipe organ there rivaled in tone and balance the ancient instrument I had played in Cheb. The same feeling of homecoming entered me when I pressed the pedals, and from the beginning notes, I was already nostalgic for the keyboard. The quartet changed a few measures, bent a few notes, and after we played my fugue for organ and strings for the seventh time, everyone seemed satisfied with the sound. My brush with fame was over in ninety minutes. As we said our good-byes, everyone seemed sanguine about our limited prospects. Perhaps a mere thousand people might actually buy the record and hear my piece, but the thrill of finally making an album outweighed any projected anxiety about the size of its audience.
　　The cellist in the group told us not to miss Big Sur, so on our last day before flying home, we rented a car and drove south on the Pacific Coast Highway. For most of the morning, the sun came in and out between clouds, but the rocky seascape was spectacular. Tess had always wanted to see the ocean, so we decided to pull off and relax for a bit at a cove in the Ventana Wilderness. As we hiked to the sand, a light mist rolled in, obscuring the Pacific. Rather than turn back, we decided to picnic on a small crescent beach beside McWay Falls, an eighty-foot straight drop of water that plunges from the granite cliff to the sea. We saw no other cars on the way in and thought the place ours alone. After lunch, Tess and I stretched out on a blanket, and Eddie, all of five years old and full of energy, had the run of the sand. A few seagulls laughed at us from rocks, and in our seclusion, I felt at peace for the first time in ages.
　　Maybe the rhythm of the tides or the fresh sea air did us in after lunch. Tess and I dozed on the blanket. I had a strange dream, one that had not visited me in a long, long time. I was back among the hobgoblins as we stalked the boy like a pride of lions. I reached into a hollow tree and pulled at his leg until he squirmed out like a breached baby. Terror filled his eyes when he beheld his living reflection. The rest of our wild tribe stood around, watching, chanting an evil song. I was about to take his life and leave him with mine. The boy screamed.
　　Riding the thermals above us, a gliding gull cried, then flew out over the waves. Tess lay sleeping, gorgeous in repose beside me, and a thread of lust wormed through me. I buried my head at her nape and nuzzled her awake, and she threw her arms around my back almost to protect herself. Wrapping the blanket around us, I lay on top of her, removing her layers. We began laughing and rocking each other through our chuckles. She stopped suddenly and whispered to me, "Henry, do you know where you are?"
　　"I'm with you."
　　"Henry, Henry, stop. Henry, where’s Eddie?"
　　I rolled off her and situated myself. The fog thickened a bit, blurring the contours of a small rocky peninsula that jutted out into the sea. A hardy patch of conifers clung to its granite skull. Behind us, the waterfall ran down to the sand at low tide. No other noise but the surf against shore.
　　"Eddie?" She was already standing up. "Eddie!"
　　I stood beside her. "Edward, where are you? Come here."
　　A thin shout from the trees, then an intolerable wait. I was already mourning him when he came clambering down and raced across the sand to us, his clothes and hair wet with salt spray.
　　"Where have you been?" Tess asked.
　　"I went out on that island as far as you can go."
　　"Don't you know how dangerous that is?"
　　"I wanted to see how far you could see. A girl is out there."
　　"On that rock?"
　　"She was sitting and staring at the ocean."
　　"All by herself? Where are her parents?"
　　"For real, Mom. She came a long, long way to get here. Like we did."
　　"Edward, you shouldn't make up stories like that. There's not a person around for miles."
　　"For real, Dad. Come see."
　　"I'm not going out to those rocks. It's cold and wet and slippery."
　　"Henry"—Tess pointed out to the fir trees—"look at that."
　　Dark hair flying behind her, a young girl emerged from the firs, ran like a goat down the sloping face, as thin and lissome as the breeze. From that distance she looked unreal, as if woven from the mist. She stopped when she saw us standing there, and though she did not come close, she was no stranger. We peered at each other across the water, and the moment lasted as briefly as the snapping of a photograph. There and gone at the same time. She turned toward the waterfall and ran, vanishing beyond in a haze of rock and evergreen.
　　"Wait," Tess cried. "Don't go." She raced toward the girl.
　　"Leave her," I hollered, and chased down my wife. "She's gone. It looks like she knows her way around this place."
　　"That's a helluva thing, Henry. You let her go, out here in the middle of nowhere."
　　Eddie shivered in his damp clothes. I swathed him in the blanket and sat him on the sand. We asked him to tell us all about her, and the words tumbled out as he warmed up.
　　"I was on an adventure and came to the big rock at the edge. And there she was sitting there. Right behind those trees, looking out at the waves. I said hi, and she said hi. And then she said, 'Would you like to sit with me?' "
　　"What is her name?" Tess asked.
　　"Ever heard of a girl called Speck? She likes to come here in winter to watch the whales."
　　"Eddie, did she say where her parents were? Or how she got all the way out here by herself?"
　　"She walked, and it took more than a year. Then she asked where was I from, and I told her. Then she asked me my name, and I said Edward Day." He suddenly looked away from us and gazed at the rock and the falling tides, as if remembering a hidden sensation.
　　"Did she say anything else?"
　　"No." He gathered the blanket around his shoulders.
　　"Nothing at all?"
　　"She said, 'How is life in the big, big world?' and I thought that was funny."
　　"Did she do anything ... peculiar?" I asked.
　　"She can laugh like a seagull. Then I heard you started calling me. And she said, 'Good-bye Edward Day,' like that. And I told her to wait right here so I could get my mommy and dad."
　　Tess embraced our son and rubbed his bare arms through the blanket. She looked again at the space the girl had run through. "She just slipped away. Like a ghost."
　　From that moment to the instant our plane touched down at home, all I could think about was that lost girl, and what bothered me about her was not so much her mysterious appearance and disappearance, but her familiarity.
　　When we settled in at home, I began to see the changelings everywhere.
　　In town on a Saturday morning for a haircut with Edward, I grew flustered by a towheaded boy who sat waiting his turn, quietly sucking a lollipop as he stared, unblinking, at my son. When school resumed in the fall, a pair of twins in the sixth grade spooked me with their uncanny resemblance to each other and their ability to finish each other's sentences. Driving home from a band performance on a dark night, I saw three children in the cemetery and wondered, for a moment, what they might be plotting at such a late hour. At parties or the odd evening out with other couples, I tried to work in veiled references to the legend of the two feral girls and the baby-food jars, hoping to find someone else who believed it or could confirm the rumors, but everyone scoffed when I mentioned the story. All children, except my own boy, became slightly suspect. They can be devious creatures. Behind every child's bright eyes exists a hidden universe.
　　
　　
　　The quartet's album, Tales of Wonder, arrived by Christmas, and we nearly wore out the groove playing it over and over for our friends and family. Edward loved to hear the dissonance of violins against the steady cello line and the crashing arrival of the organ. Even anticipating its arrival, the movement was a shock no matter how many times one listened to the album. On New Year's Eve, well after midnight, the house quiet as a prayer, a sudden blast of my song startled me awake. Expecting the worst, I came downstairs in my pajamas, wielding a baseball bat, only to find my son bug-eyed in front of the speakers, hypnotized by the music. When I turned down the volume, he began to blink rapidly and shake his head as if awakened from a dream.
　　"Hey, pardner," I said in a low voice. "Do you know how late it is?"
　　"Is it 1977 yet?"
　　"Hours ago. Party's over, fella. What made you put on this song?"
　　"I had a bad dream."
　　I pulled him onto my lap. "Do you want to tell me about it?" He did not answer but burrowed closer, so I held him tighter. The last drawn-out note resounded as the song lapsed into silence, so I reached over and shut off the stereo.
　　"Daddy, do you know why I put on your song? Because it reminds me."
　　"Reminds you of what, Edward? Our trip out to California?"
　　He turned to face me until we looked eye-to-eye. "No. Of Speck," he said. "The fairy girl."
　　With a quiet moan, I drew him closer to me, where I could feel in the warmth of his chest the quickening of his heart.

    我不想再做孩子了，因为孩子总是活在变化和危险之中。对于我们的骨肉，我们总是情不自禁地替他们忧心，总希望他们生活得好。自从家中被盗之后，我就一直担心我们的儿子。爱德华并不是我们所说的那个他，因为他父亲是个冒牌货。他不是戴家人，而是一个换生灵的孩子。我传递了自己原来的基因，给了他安格兰德家的脸型和五官，而谁又知道还有哪些特征是代代相传的呢? 关于我的童年，我只知道一张纸上的名字：古斯塔夫·安格兰德。很久以前我被偷走。换生灵们卷土重来，我就开始以为他们将爱德华视为他们自己人，想要把他夺走。他们把厨房弄得一塌糊涂，不过是个花招罢了，背后还有更为险恶的用心。墙上被动过的照片说明他们在寻找目标。邪恶在森林里盘旋，从树丛中蹑足而出，谋划着偷走我们的儿子。

　　春天的一个星期日，我们一度把爱德华弄丢了。那个暖意融融的下午我们正巧在城里，因为我发现萨地赛德的教堂有架还不错的管风琴，仪式之后，音乐牧师给我一个小时使用这台机器，我弹奏着穿梭在我想像中的每一个新的声音。之后，泰思和我带爱德华去动物园，这是他第一次和大象、猴子亲密接触。很多人和我们想法一致，走道上挤满匆匆忙忙的夫妇、东张西望的少年，甚至还有一个带着六个红发小孩的家庭，他们每个都相差一岁，都长着雀斑和蓝眼睛。我嫌人太多了，不过我们还是毫无怨言地推推挤挤地往前走。

　　爱德华被老虎吸引住了，逛到铁笼子前，伸出他的棉花糖，朝昏昏欲睡的野兽叫嚷着，想让它们精神起来。一头老虎被我儿子的逗引惹恼了，在斑皮色的梦中抖了抖尾巴。泰思趁爱德华走开的当口，跟我说起了话。

　　“亨利，我想跟你谈谈艾迪。你觉得他一切正常吗? 最近他有点变了，有点——我不晓得——有点不正常。”

　　越过她的肩头，我能看到他。“他完全正常。”

　　“可能是因为你，”她说，“你最近待他很不一样。过度保护，不让他像小孩子一样玩耍。他应该到外面去抓蝌蚪、爬树，但你好像很担心他走出你的视线。他需要机会来变得更加独立。”

　　我把她拉到一边，不让我们儿子听到。“你还记得那天晚上有人闯进家里吗? ”

　　“我知道，”她说，“你说不用担心，但你一直因此心事重重，不是吗? ”

　　“不，不，我只是记得，那晚我看墙上的照片时，想起了自己童年的梦想——弹钢琴的那些岁月，寻找合适的音乐来表达自我。我一直在寻找答案，泰思，而答案就在我指尖下。今天在教堂里，那架管风琴的音色就像恰布的圣尼古拉大教堂里的那架。管风琴就是交响乐的答案。管风琴和管弦乐队。”

　　她用双臂搂住我，紧靠在我胸前，眼中光彩莹莹，满怀希望，在我的几次生涯中，从没有人对我心目中自我的本质表示过如此的信心。

　　那一刻我爱极了她，爱得忘了世界，也忘了世间万事，这时候我却越过她肩头看到，我们的儿子不见了，从他站立的地方消失了。我第一个念头是他看厌了老虎，不是蹲在脚底下，就是在附近，打算求我们让他进去和它们一起抱一抱。这一希望破灭了，代之而起的是一种恐惧：爱德华已经不知怎么挤进铁笼，立刻被老虎吃掉了。我迅速扫了一眼笼子，发现只有两头懒洋洋的猫科动物在无精打采的太阳下舒展四肢睡觉。

　　我胡思乱想，是不是换生灵来了。我回头看了看泰思，生怕自己要伤了她的心。

　　“他不见了，”我对她说，把身体挪开，“爱德华。”

　　她回过身，走到我们最后看到他的地方。“艾迪，”她叫道，“你在哪里? ”

　　我们沿着通道走到狮子和熊那儿，叫着他的名字，每叫一次，她的声音就提高一个八度，其他家长纷纷侧目。泰思拦住一对上了年纪的夫妇，他们正从另一个方向走来。“你们有没有看到一个独个儿的小男孩? 三岁。拿着棉花糖。”

　　“这里到处是小孩。”老男人说道，伸出一根细瘦的手指点了点我们身后的远处。一队孩子笑着跑着，在一条树阴通道上追赶什么东西。领头的动物园管理员一路小跑，一边想拦住孩子们，一边追着他的猎物，而在这帮吵吵嚷嚷的孩子里头，爱德华跑在最前面，急切而笨拙地一蹦一跳，追赶一只黑脚企鹅。那只企鹅刚从笼子里逃出来，正在众目睽睽下大摇大摆地随意走动，想回到海洋里去，或者可能是在找新鲜的鱼。管理员越过爱德华，一把抓住这只鸟，它像头驴子似的叫唤起来。

　　他一手握住它的嘴，把它抱在怀里，我们走向儿子那边时，他匆匆从我们身边经过。

　　“真是够乱的，”他对我们说，“这只从展览区逃出来跑了，想去哪就去哪。有些东西就有这种愿望。”

　　我们牵着爱德华的手，决心再也不放开了。

　　爱德华是一只带线的风筝，随时都有挣脱开去的危险。艾迪还没有去上学时，在家里总是万无一失。上午有泰思对他关怀备至，下午有我在家里看着他。等艾迪到了四岁，我带着他出门，在上班路上把他送进托儿所，等我的音乐课上完，从特威回来时再接他回去。我俩难得单独相处时，我会教他音阶，但他厌烦了钢琴就会跑开去玩积木和恐龙，鼓捣出假想的游戏和虚构的伙伴来打发孤独的时光。他时常会带一个玩伴过来，但那些孩子好像再也没有来过第二次。这对我来说是好事，因我从不完全信任他的玩伴。他们中的任何一个都有可能是伪装的换生灵。

　　奇怪的是，在我们为自己开创出来的离群索居的美妙环境中，我的音乐有了长足的进步。当他玩玩具和看书时，我就作曲。泰思鼓励我寻找自己的声音。差不多每周她都会从满是灰尘的旧唱片店里带一张管风琴乐曲集回来。她要来海兹音乐厅的演出票，找来管弦乐编曲和配器法方面的乐谱和书，还一定要我去市里熟识的教堂和大学音乐学院弹奏我脑海里的音乐。她其实是在做恰布的那只百宝箱。我写了几十首曲子，让当地唱诗班勉为其难地演奏过一支新改编曲，某晚和州北的一支管乐合奏团同台演奏过电子管风琴，但我的努力不见成效，也没有引来注意。我百般努力想让别人听到我的曲子，把录音带和唱片寄给全国各地的出版商和演奏家，但收到的，总是只有千篇一律的回绝信。每个伟大的作曲家都会经历某种形式的实习期，甚至还会当中学老师，但在我内心深处，我知道这些作品并没有完全表达我的心愿。

　　一个电话改变了一切。我从托儿所把爱德华接回来，刚进家门，那一头的声音好似从另一个世界传来。一个加帅I 的室内乐四重奏新锐乐队，擅长实验音乐，对我的一首曲子的录音表示兴趣，那是我在家里被窃后不久写的一首无调性情绪的曲子。“封面男孩”的老友乔治·克诺尔现在和那些音乐家们住得很近，是他把我的录音送了过去。我给他打电话表示感谢，他邀请我们去玩，住在他家，这样我过去录音就很方便。泰思、爱德华和我在76年夏天飞去旧金山的克诺尔家，与乔治及其家人过了几天愉快的日子。他那坐落在北滩区的小餐馆在一大堆意大利连锁店中是惟一一家正宗的安达卢亚饭店，他那令人惊艳的妻子兼头厨也不妨碍生意。见到他们真好，离家的那几天将我的焦虑感荡涤一空，没有什么怪异之物潜伏在加州。

　　旧金山格雷斯大教堂的牧师让我们录了一个下午的音，那里的管风琴在音色上足可媲美我在恰布弹过的那架。我踩动踏板时，心中涌起同一种回家的感觉，音乐一响起，我就对琴键无比怀恋。四重奏乐队换了几个节拍，调整了几个音符，当我们第七次演奏我的管弦赋格曲时，大家好像都对效果感到满意了。我初露头角的这次机会就在一个半小时内结束了。告别时，大家似乎都对我们不太宽广的前途信心百倍。或许来买唱片、听我曲子的人只有一千个，但我为终于有了唱片而激动不已，也就顾不得听众会有多少了。

　　乐队里的大提琴手告诉我们，别错过大索尔海岸，于是我们返程前的最后一天，租了辆车在太平洋海岸公路上一路往南开。大半个上午，太阳都在云层间时隐时现，布满礁石的海景壮丽多姿。泰思一直想要看看大海，我们就决定在河谷荒原的小峡谷中停车休息片刻。

　　在沙滩上散步时，一阵雾气卷了上来，遮住了太平洋。我们没有往回走，就在麦克伟瀑布旁边一小块新月形的沙滩上野餐。瀑布高达二三十米，从峻岩直泻水中。

　　我们在路上没看到有别的车，以为这里就我们几个。午餐后，泰思和我躺在毯子上，五岁的艾迪精力旺盛，在沙滩上跑来跑去，几只海鸥在礁石上朝我们发出笑一般的声音。在这个与世隔绝的地方，很多年来我第一次感到内心宁静。

　　也许是潮水的节奏和新鲜的海洋空气起了作用，午餐后泰思和我在毯子上打起了瞌睡。我做了个奇怪的梦，这个梦我已经很久很久没有做过了。我又回到了那群妖怪之间，我们像一群狮子一样追踪着那个男孩。我来到一棵空空的大树下，抓住了他的腿，他像一个胎位不正的婴儿似的蠕动出来。当他看到自己活生生的影像，眼中充满了恐惧。我们这个野人部落的其他成员站在周围旁观，唱着一首邪恶的歌谣。我正要取走他的生活，把自己的生活留给他，他又叫了起来。

　　一头海鸥乘着我们头顶的雾气，叫着，贴着波涛飞开去了。泰思睡着了，静静地躺在我身边，样子十分妩媚，一线欲望在我心里爬动着。我把头埋在她后颈上，用鼻子把她拱醒过来，她抱住我的背，想要保护自己。我用毯子把我们遮好，爬到她身上，脱掉她的衣服。我们笑着，摇晃着，不时哧哧地笑。她突然停了下来，轻声对我说：“亨利，你知道我们在哪吗? ”

　　“和你在一起。”

　　“亨利，亨利，停一下。亨利，艾迪在哪? ”

　　我从她身上滚下来，坐稳身子。雾气又浓了一些，突出在海中的小礁石岛的轮廓也模糊不清，坚强的针叶林牢牢抓住岩石的外壳。

　　在我们背后，瀑布冲到沙滩上来，这时候正是落潮。除了潮水冲刷沙滩，没有别的声音。

　　“艾迪? ”她站了起来，“艾迪! ”

　　我站在她身边，“爱德华，你在哪? 到这里来。”

　　树林中发出一声细微的叫声，接着是让人忍无可忍的等待。他爬下来，奔过沙滩朝我们跑来，衣服和头发都被浪花弄湿了，我都为他感到心疼。

　　“你去哪里了? ”泰思问。

　　“我去了那个最远的小岛。”

　　“难道你不知道那有多危险吗? ”

　　“我要看看自己能看多远。那里有个女孩。”

　　“在那礁石上? ”

　　“她坐在那里，看着大海。”

　　“她一个人? 她的父母呢? ”

　　“是真的，妈妈。她走了很长很长的路才来到这里，和我们一样。”

　　“爱德华，你不该这么编造故事。周围几公里都没有人。”

　　“是真的，爸爸。过去看看吧。”

　　“我不去那些礁石。那里又冷又湿还滑脚。”

　　“亨利——”泰思指着那片冷杉林——“看那个。”

　　一个小女孩从树林间出来，乌黑的头发飘荡在身后，像山羊般在斜坡上奔跑，细瘦、敏捷，犹如一缕清风。远远望去，她不像是真人，倒像是雾气织成的。她看到我们站在那里，就停下来，虽然她没有走近，但她并不陌生。我们隔着海水彼此相望，这一刻就像按了一下照相机的快门，转瞬即逝。她转身朝瀑布跑了过去，在迷蒙的岩石和常绿林间消失无踪。

　　“等等，”泰思喊道，“别走。”她去追那个女孩。

　　“让她去，”我叫道，赶上了我的妻子，“她已经走了。好像她很熟悉这里的环境。”

　　“这太糟了，亨利，你让她跑了，跑到不知道什么地方去了。”

　　艾迪穿着湿透的衣服发抖，我用毯子包住他，让他坐在沙滩上。

　　我们叫他把她的事情都说出来，他渐渐暖和过来，慢慢地说了起来。

　　“我在探险的时候走到了那块大礁石的边上，她就坐在那里，背对着树林，望着波浪。我说了声你好，她也说了声你好。接着她说：‘你过来和我坐在一起好吗?…“她叫什么名字? ”泰思问。

　　“听过有叫斯帕克的女孩吗? 她喜欢每年冬天到这里来看鲸鱼。”

　　“艾迪，她有没有说她父母在哪? 她是怎么一个人过来的? ”

　　“她是走路来的，走了一年多。接着她问我是从哪里来的，我就告诉了她。她又问我的名字，我说是爱德华·戴。”他突然转过目光，望着礁石和落潮，仿佛想起了一种内心的感受。

　　“她还说了别的什么吗? ”

　　“没有。”他拉了拉肩头的毯子。

　　“什么都没有吗? ”

　　“她说：‘在这个很大、很大的世界里，生活是怎么样的? ’我觉得这很好笑。”

　　“她有没有做什么……奇怪的事? ”我问。

　　“她能发出海鸥那样的笑声。后来我就听见你们叫我了，她说了‘再见，爱德华·戴’之类的话。我让她待在那里，我去叫我爸妈来。”

　　泰思抱着我们的儿子，隔着毯子摩擦他的手臂。她又看了看那个女孩跑过的地方，“她就这么溜走了，像个鬼似的。”

　　从那刻开始，直到我们的飞机在家乡着陆，我满心想的都是那个跑走了的女孩，我烦恼的不是她倏忽来去的神秘感，而是她让我感到似曾相识。

　　到家后，我到处都能看到换生灵。

　　周六上午，我和爱德华去镇上剃头，有个淡黄色头发的男孩坐着排队，他两眼一眨不眨地看着我的儿子，安静地吮着～根棒棒糖，我心里慌张起来。秋季学期开学后，一对六年级的双胞胎把我吓得不轻，他们长得完全一样，而且有那么一种能接着对方的话头往下讲的本事。一天夜里，我参加完乐队演出后开车回家，看到墓地里有三个孩子，我想他们那么晚了还在那里搞什么鬼。去聚会或与其他夫妇参加各种晚上活动时，我老想不动声色地提到那两个野女孩和婴儿食品的传说，希望有人会相信或者证实这种传言，但我一说起这个故事，别人就嗤之以鼻。除了我的儿子之外，别的小孩都有嫌疑。他们都有可能心怀鬼胎。每个孩子明亮的眼睛后面都隐藏着一个世界。

　　四重奏乐队的唱片《奇谈》圣诞节时来了，我们一遍又一遍地把它放给朋友和家人听，差点就把唱片给放坏了。爱德华喜欢听平稳的大提琴音线上突然加入管风琴的撞击感，再加上小提琴的不协音调。无论听了多少回，即使心有准备，这段还是同样地扣人心弦。大年夜半夜过后，屋子像一位祈祷者似的安静，一阵音乐把我吵醒，那是我的曲子。我做了最坏的打算，穿着睡衣下楼，绕开一个棒球手套，只见我儿子瞪着大眼待在喇叭前，浑然不觉地听音乐。我调低音量后，他开始飞快地眨眼睛，摇晃着脑袋，好像刚刚从梦中醒来。

　　“嗨，朋友，”我低声说，“你知道现在多晚了吗? ”

　　“已经1977年了吗? ”

　　“几个小时前就是了。聚会结束了，小伙子。你干吗放这首曲子? ”

　　“我做了个噩梦。”

　　我把他抱到大腿上坐，“想跟我说说吗? ”他没说话，只是往里坐了坐，我把他抱得更紧。曲子告终后，尾声袅袅不绝，我伸手关了音响。

　　“爸爸，你知道我为什么要放你的歌吗? 因为它让我想起来了。”

　　“让你想起什么了，爱德华? 想起我们去加州的旅游? ”

　　他回过头来看着我，我们四目相对。“不是，是想起了斯帕克，”

　　他说，“那个仙灵女孩。”

　　我暗暗地呻吟一声，又把他抱紧了一些，感觉到他温暖的胸口加速的心跳。

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