Speck loved to be by moving water. My strongest memory is of her animated by the currents, empathetic to the flow. I saw her once, years ago, stripped to the skin, sitting with her legs tucked beneath her, as the water rolled around her waist and the sunshine caressed her shoulders. Under normal circumstances, I would have jumped and splashed in the creek with her, but struck by the grace of her neck and limbs, the contours of her face, I could not move. On another occasion, when the townsfolk shot off fireworks in the night, we watched the explosions upriver, and she seemed more enchanted by the waterflow than by the loud flowering in the sky. While the people looked up, she watched the light reflecting on the ripples and the sparks as they hissed on the surface. From the beginning, I had guessed where she had gone and why, but I did not act upon that intuition because of a fundamental lack of courage. The same fears that had prevented me from crossing at the riverbend also made me break off the search and come back to camp. I should have followed the waters.
The path to the library never seemed as long and foreboding as on the night of my first return. The way had changed since we had parted. The forest thinned around its edge, and rusty cans, bottles, and other refuse littered the brush. None of us had visited in the years since she left. Books lay where we had left them, though mice had nibbled the margins of my papers, left their scat in our old candleholders and coffee mugs. Her Shakespeare was lousy with silverfish. Stevens had swollen with dampness. By dim candlelight, I spent the night restoring order, pulling down cobwebs, shooing crickets, lingering over what she had once held in her hands. I fell asleep wrapped in I he musty blanket that had long ago lost her scent.
Vibrations above announced the arrival of morning. The librarians started their day, joists creaking under their weight and the patterns of their routines. I could picture their goings-on: checking in, saying hello, settling at their stations. An hour or so passed before the doors opened and the humans shuffled in. When the rhythm felt normal, I began to work. A thin film of dust covered my papers, and I spent most of that first day reading the bits and pieces in order, tying the loose pages with entries in McInnes's journal. So much had been left behind, lost, forgotten, and buried after we had been driven away the first time. Reduced to a short pile, the words documented time's passage with deep gaps and yawning silences. Very little existed, for instance, from the early days of my arrival—only a few crude drawings and pathetic notes. Years had gone by without mention. After reviewing all the files, I understood the long chore ahead.
When the librarians left for the evening, I popped open the trapdoor underneath the children's section. Unlike on other forays, I had no desire to pick out a new book, but, rather, to steal new writing supplies. Behind the head librarian's desk lay the treasure: five long yellow pads and enough pens to last the rest of my life. To introduce a minor intrigue, I also reshelved the Wallace Stevens that had been missing.
Words spilled from the pen and I wrote until my hand cramped and pained me. The end, the night that Speck left, became the beginning. From there, the story moved backward to the point where I realized that I had fallen in love with her. A whole swath of the original manuscript, which is thankfully gone, was given over to the physical tensions of being a grown man in a young boy's body. Right in the middle of a sentence on desire, I stopped. What if she wanted me to go with her? I would have pleaded for her to stay, said that I lacked the courage to run away. Yet a contrary idea pulled at my conscience. Perhaps she never intended for me to find out. She had run away because of me and knew all along that I loved her. I put down my pen and wished Speck were there to talk with me, to answer all the unknowables.
These obsessions curled like parasites through my brain, and I tossed and turned on the hard floor. I woke up in the night and started writing on a clean pad, determined to rid my mind of its darkest thoughts. The hours passed and days drifted one into the other. For the next six months, I divided myself between the camp and the library, trying to piece together the story of my life to give to Speck. Our winter hibernation slowed my progress. I grew tired in December and slept until March. Before I could go back to the book, the book came back to me.
Solemn-eyed Luchóg and Smaolach approached one morning as I crunched a farl of oats and drained the dregs from a cup of tea. With great deliberation, they sat on either side of me, cross-legged, settling in for a long talk. Luchóg fiddled with a new shoot of rye poking through the old leaves, and Smaolach looked off, pretending to study the play of light through the branches.
"Good morning, lads. What’s on your minds?"
"We've been to the library," said Smaolach.
"Haven't gone there in ages," said Luchóg.
"We know what you've been up to"
"Read the story of your life."
Smaolach turned his gaze toward mine. "A hundred thousand apologies, but we had to know."
"Who gave you the right?" I asked.
They turned their faces away from me, and I did not know where to look.
"You've got a few stories wrong," Luchóg said. "May I ask why you wrote this book? To whom is it addressed?"
"What did I get wrong?"
"My understanding is that an author doesn't write a book without having one or more readers in mind," Luchóg said. "One doesn't go through the time and effort to be the only reader of your own book. Even the diarist expects the lock to be picked."
Smaolach pulled at his chin, as if deep in thought. "It would be a big mistake, I think, to write a book that no one would ever read."
"You are quite right, old friend. I have at times wondered why the artist dares to bring something new into a world where everything has been done and where all the answers are quite well known."
I stood and broke the plane of their inquisition. "Would you please tell me," I hollered, "what is wrong with the book?"
"I'm afraid it's your father," said Luchóg.
"My father, what about him? Has something happened to him?"
"He's not who you think he is."
"What my friend means to say is that the man you think of as your father is not your father at all. That man is another man."
"Come with us," said Luchóg.
As we wound along the path, I tried to untangle the many implications of their invasion into my book. First, they had always known I was Henry Day, and now they knew I knew. They had read of my feelings for Speck and surely guessed I was writing to her. They knew how I felt about them, as well. Fortunately, they came across as generally sympathetic characters, a bit eccentric, true, but steadfast allies in my adventures. Their line of questioning posed an intriguing concern, however, as I had not thought ahead to how I might actually get a book to Speck, or, more to the point, about the reasons behind my desire to write it all down. Smaolach and Luchóg, ahead on the trail, had lived in these woods for decades and sailed through eternity without the same cares or the need to write down and make sense of it all. They wrote no books, painted nothing on the walls, danced no new dance, yet they lived in peace and harmony with the natural world. Why wasn't I like the others?
At sunset, we stepped out of cover and walked down past the church to a scattering of graves in a green space adjacent to the cemetery enclosed by a stone wall. I had been there once before, many years ago, thinking it a shortcut back to safety, or perhaps merely a good hiding place. We slipped between the iron bars into a tranquil, overgrown garden. Many of the inscriptions on the stones were weathered and faded, as the tenants had lain beneath their vanishing names for many years. My friends took me on a winding path between the graves, and we stopped short among the memorials and weeds. Smaolach walked me to a plot and showed me the stone: WILLIAM DAY, 1917-1962. I knelt down on the grass, ran my finger along the grooves of letters, considered the numbers. "What happened?"
Luchóg spoke softly. "We have no idea, Henry Day."
"I haven't heard that name in a while."
Smaolach laid his hand upon my shoulder. "I still prefer Aniday. You are one of us."
"How long have you known?"
"We thought you should know for the truth of your book. You didn't see your father that night we left the old camp."
"And you understand," Luchóg said, "that the man in the new house with the baby cannot be your father."
I sat down and leaned against the marker to save myself from fainting. They were right, of course. By my calendar, fourteen years had passed since the end date on that gravestone. If he had died that long ago, William Day could not be who I thought he was, and that man was not William Day but his double. I wondered to myself how such a thing could be possible. Luchóg opened his pouch, rolled a cigarette, and calmly smoked it amid the headstones. The stars came out to define the sky—how far away, how long ago? My friends seemed on the verge of revealing additional secrets, but they said nothing, so that I might figure it out for myself.
"Let us away then, lads," Smaolach said, "and think on this tomorrow."
We leapt the gate at the corner and trekked home, our conversation turning to smaller mistakes in my own story. Most of their suggestions escaped scrutiny because my mind wandered down long-neglected lanes. Speck had told me what she remembered, but much remained mysterious. My mother faded in and out of view, though I could now see quite clearly the facet of twin baby sisters. My father was a nearly total void. Life existed before this life, and I had not sufficiently dragged the river of my subconscious. Late that night, while the others slept, I sat awake in my burrow. The image of Oscar Love crystallized before me. We had spent months investigating that boy, finding out in excruciating detail the nature and shape of his life, his family history, his habits of mind—all to assist Igel in the change. If we knew Oscar so well, then the others must have known my history, infinitely better than I knew it myself. Now that I knew my true name, there was no longer any reason for them to hide the truth. They had conspired to help me forget, and now they could help me remember. I crawled out of my hole and walked over to Luchóg's spot, only to find it vacant. In the adjacent burrow, he was wrapped in Chavisory's arms, and for a moment I hesitated to disturb their peace.
"Luch," I whispered. He blinked. "Wake up, and tell me a story."
"Aniday, for the love of—can't you see I'm sleeping?"
"I need to know."
By this time, she was stirring as well. I waited until they disentangled themselves, and he rose to eye level. "What is it?" he demanded.
"You have to tell me everything you remember about Henry Day."
He yawned and looked at Chavisory curled into the fetal posit ion "Right now, I'm going back to bed. Ask me again in the morning, and I'll help with your book-writing. But now, to my pillow and to my dreams."
I woke Smaolach and Béka and Onions with the same request and was put off by each in much the same way. Despite my excitement, I drew nothing but tired glares at breakfast the next morning, and only after the whole clan had their fill did I dare ask again.
"I am writing a book," I announced, "about Henry Day I know the broad story that Speck gave me before she left, and now I need you to fill in the details. Pretend I'm about to make the change, and give me the report on Henry Day."
"Oh, I remember you," Onions began. "You were a baby foundling in the woods. Your mother wrapped you in swaddling clothes and laid you at the greyhound's shrine."
"No, no, no," said Béka. "You are mistaken. The original Henry Day was not a Henry at all, but one of two identical twin girls, Elspeth and Maribel."
"You are both wrong," said Chavisory. "He was a boy, a cute, smart boy who lived in a house at the tip of the forest with his mother and father and two baby twin sisters."
"That's right," said Luchóg. "Mary and Elizabeth. Two little curly-tops, fat as lambchops."
"You couldn't have been more than eight or nine," said Chavisory.
"Seven," said Smaolach. "He was seven when we nabbed him."
"Are you sure?" asked Onions. "Coulda swore he was just a baby."
The conversation continued in this fashion for the rest of the day, in contested bites of information, and the truth at the end of the discussion was the distant cousin of the truth at the beginning. All through the summer and into the fall, I peppered them separately and together with my queries. Sometimes an answer, when combined with my prodigal memory or the visual cue of a drawing or a piece of writing, cemented a fact in my brain. Slowly, over time, a pattern emerged, and my childhood returned to me. But one thing remained a mystery.
Before the long sleep of winter, I went off, intent upon climbing the highest peak in the hills surrounding the valley. The trees had shed their leaves and raised naked arms to the gray sky. To the east, the city looked like toy building blocks. Off to the south lay the compact village cut in two by the river. In the west, the riverbend and the big country beyond. To the north, ragged forest, a farm or two hacked out from the trees and stone. I sat on the mountaintop and read, dreamt at night of two Specks, two Days, what we are, what we would be. Save for a flask of water, I fasted and reflected upon the puzzle of existence. On the third day, my mind cleared and let in the answer. If the man who appeared as my father was not my father, who was he? Whom did I meet in the mist? Who was the man by the creek on the night we lost both Igel and Oscar Love? The one who chased us through the kitchen door? He looked like my father. A deer, startled by the snap of my head, bolted through the fallen leaves. A bird cried once; the note lingered, then disappeared. The clouds rolled on and revealed the pale sun. Who had taken my place when they stole me away?
I knew. That man had what had been intended for me. The robber of my name, stealer of my story, thief of my life: Henry Day.
斯帕克喜欢待在流水之中。我印象最深的足她在浪中逸兴遗飞，与水被亲密无间的样子。很多年前，有一次我看到她脱光衣服，蜷腿而坐．水流卷到她的腰间，阳光亲抚她的肩膀。一般这种情况下，我会跳入溪中和她一起玩水，但当时我愕然惊觉她脖颈和四肢是多么优雅，脸部的线条是多么美日日，竟然动弹不得。还有一次，镇上居民夜晚放烟火，我们在河的上游观赏烟花，她似乎更加着迷r 水流，而不是夜空中响亮盛开的花。大家都抬头望时，她却看着涟漪上倒映的光影和嘶嘶落在水面上的火花。从一开始，我就在猜想她去了哪里，又为何而去，但我没有凭直觉行动，因为我没有这份胆量。
同样的恐惧也使得我没有横渡河湾，而是中断搜寻，打道回府。我本应当顺着河流去找的。
我第一次在晚上回图书馆，这条路从未显得如此漫长而难走。
自从我们分手之后，这条路也变了。森林的边缘更加稀疏，垃圾罐头、瓶子和其他废品乱扔在灌木丛里。她走后，我们这些年里再没有来过这里。书本还是放在上次的地方。但老鼠已经啃了我那些纸头的页边，还把痕迹留在我们的老烛台和咖啡杯上。她的莎士比亚长了蠹虫，斯蒂文森受潮胀起。借着昏暗的烛光，我花了一个晚上整理东西，扯掉蜘蛛网，赶走蟋蟀，在每样她曾经拿过的东西上流连不止。
我盖着肮脏的毯子睡着了．那上面早已没有了她的气息。
头顶上的响动昭示着天色已亮。图书管理员开始了他们新的一天，地板接缝随着他们的日常走动吱吱作响。我能想像出他们在干什么：进门、打招呼，然后各就各位。过了一个小时左右，大门开了．人们慢吞吞地进来。当这些节奏转为正常后，我开始工作r 。我的纸头上蒙了一层薄薄的灰尘，第一天我主要就是按顺序细细读了一遍，把松脱的纸页按日期贴进麦克伊内斯的日记本中。自从我们第一次被赶走之后，有太多的东西被藩下、丢失、遗忘和埋葬了。我把日记整理成一小册，这些文字记录了流逝的时光，露出深深的缺口和沉默的罅隙。留存下来的微乎其微，说起来，趴我刚来那阵子起．只有少量粗劣的图画和惨不忍睹的记录。很多年一字不提地过去了。
看完所有的文件后。我知道未来还有多少事情要做。
傍晚图书管理员走后，我打开儿童图书区下面的活板门。到其他地方都是为了挑选新书，但在这儿我并不想找什么新书．而是要偷新的写字材料。图书馆馆长的办公桌后面就有宝贝：五本长条形的黄色拍纸簿，外加足够我用一辈子的钢笔。为了玩一个小小的诡计，我还把丢失了的华菜士·斯蒂文森重新上架。
文字从笔端流泻而出，我一直写到手抽筋疼痛为止。我从最后斯帕克离开的那个夜晚开始写起，倒叙到我开始意识到自己爱上她的那刻。一长条的手写稿，都写满了一个外形是小男孩、但内心是成年男子的生理焦灼，幸亏这些东西都已经丢失了。一句关于欲望的句子写到一半，我停下笔。假如她要我和她一起走呢? 我会恳求她留下，说我没胆子跑走。但另一个相反的想法拉扯着我的心。或许她根本不想让我找到她。她逃跑是心为我，她直知道我爱她。
我搁下钢笔，希望斯帕克在这里和我说话，解答所有未知的疑问。
这些想法像寄生虫似的蜷伏在我脑海中，我在硬邦邦的地板上辗转反侧。我夜晚醒来，开始在一本空白的拍纸簿卜写字，决心要把心里所有最黑暗的念头都驱除出去。时间过去了，日复一日，此后几个月，我就在营寨和图书馆之间两点一线，试图拼凑起我的生平经历井送给斯帕克。我们的冬眠使我放慢了速度，到了十二月，我觉得疲累，然后一直睡到了三月。我还没有去找那本书，那本书就先找上我了。
一天早晨，我正在吃燕麦薄饼，喝剩下的一点儿咖啡，表情严肃的鲁契克和斯茂拉赫过来了。他们故意一边一个坐在我两侧，盘起腿，准备长谈。鲁契克不停地拨弄着一颗从老叶子里长出来的黑麦新芽，斯茂拉赫目光旁顾，假装在观察树枝间的光影变幻。
“早上好，伙计们。你们在想什么呢? ”
“我们去了图书馆。”斯茂拉赫说。
“很多年没去那儿了。”鲁契克说。
“我们知道你去那儿千什么。”
“读了你的生平经历。”
斯茂拉赫转过头来看着我的眼睛，“千万个对不住，但我们得知道啊。”
“谁准许你们的? ”我问。
他们把脸转开，我不知道该看哪边。
“有几件事你写错了，”鲁契克说，“我能问你为什么写这本书吗? 写给谁看呢? ”
“我写错什么了? ”
“我的理解是，一个作者如果头脑里没有那么几个读者，是不会平白无故写书的，”鲁契克说，“一个人不会花这么多时间、精力去做他自己的书的惟一读者。
就算是写日记，也希望日记本上的锁会被撬开。”
斯茂拉赫捏着下巴，仿佛陷入了沉思：“我觉得，写一本没人会看的书是个大错误。”
“你说得很对，老朋友。我有时候奇怪为什么艺术家敢于把一些新的东西带到这个世上来，这个世界里一切都已经做好了，所有的问题都弄得很清楚了。”
我站起来，打断他们的一来一往的刨根究底。“你们能不能告诉我，”我叫喊道，“这本书哪里错了? ”
“我想是你父亲。”鲁契克说。
“我父亲，他怎么了? 他出了什么事吗? ”
“他不是你想的那个人。”
“我朋友的意思是说，你觉得是你父亲的那个男人，根本不是你父亲。那是另外一个人。”
“跟我们来。”鲁契克说。
我们走在蜿蜒的小径上，我想弄明白他们偷看我的书意味着什么。首先，他们一直知道我是亨利·戴，如今也知道我知道了。他们读了我对斯帕克的感情，必定猜想我是写给她的。他们也知道我对他们的感觉。幸运的是，他们总是富有同情心的家伙，虽然确实有点儿古怪，但在我的不幸遭遇中总是坚定地站在我一边。他们的一系列提问引起了值得思索的问题，那就是我先前还没有想过怎样才能把书送给斯帕克，或者更一针见血的是，我想把这些全部写下来的理由何在? 走在前头的斯茂拉赫和鲁契克已经在森林里生活了几十年，他们和我驶向同一个终点，却没有同样的挂虑，也没有要写下来的需要和探究这些意义的必要。他们不写书，不在墙上画画，也不跳新的舞蹈，然而却和大自然和平融洽地生活在一起。我又为何不能跟其他人一样呢? 太阳落山时，我们走出掩护，走过教堂，来到一块散落着墓碑的绿地上，旁边就是石墙包围着的墓园。很多年前，我去过那里一次，以为能从那里抄近路回到安全地带，或者以为那只是个很好的藏身之处。我们穿过铁栏，进入这个静悄悄的、野草疯长的园地。许多石头上的碑文已经磨蚀漫漶，而租地人也已经在他们消失的名字下躺了多年。朋友们带着我走在墓碑间弯弯曲曲的小路上，在墓碑和野草之间停下脚步。斯茂拉赫带我走到一个地方，指给我看一块墓石：威廉·戴，1917—1962。我跪在草上，抚摸着凹下去的文字，想了想这些数字。“发生了什么事? ”
斯茂拉赫柔声说：“我们不知道，亨利·戴。”
“我有段时间没听到这个名字了。”
斯茂拉赫把手放在我肩上，“我还是喜欢安尼戴。你是我们的人．”
“你什么时候知道的? ”
“我们觉得为了把书写对，你应该知道这个。我们离开老营寨那晚，你看到的那个人不是你父亲。”
“你也该明白，”鲁契克说，“那个在新房子里带着婴儿的男人也不是你父亲。”
我坐倒在地，靠着墓石，免得自己晕过去。当然，他们说得对。
根据我的日历，墓石上后面那个年份至今已有十四年了，如果威廉戴那么早就死了，他就不可能是我以为的那个人，那个人不是威廉·戴，而是一个和他一模一样的人。我想这种事情怎么可能呢。鲁契克打开革囊，卷了支烟，站在墓石间安静地抽了起来。星星出来了，映着夜空——有多远，又有多久? 我的朋友们似乎想要透露更多的秘密，但终于什么都没说，我只能自己去探究。
“那么我们走吧，伙计们，”斯茂拉赫说，“这个明天再想。”
我们从角落的门上跳了出去，一路跋涉回家，话题转到我的故事中那些小错误上。他们的大多数建议我都没有细想，因为我的思路徜徉在久未涉足的小径上。斯帕克告诉过我她所记得的事情，但更多的仍是谜。我母亲在印象中隐现，但我看不真切双胞胎妹妹的脸庞。我父亲几乎是一片空白。此生之前还有他生，我还没能在潜意识的河流中打捞出足够的东西。那天深夜，大家都睡了，我坐在自己的窝里，醒着。眼前出现了奥斯卡·拉甫的形象，为了帮助伊格尔换生，我们花费几个月侦查这个孩子，得知他生活、家庭历史和思考习惯的种种详情。如果对奥斯卡了解得这么清楚，那么其他人也必定了解我的历史，而且远比我自己了解得更多。既然我已经知道了自己的真名，他们也没必要再隐瞒别的事了，他们曾经同心协力地帮助我忘记，如今也能够帮助我想起来。我从窝里爬出来，走到鲁契克的地盘上，发现洞里空空如也。在旁边的窝里，他睡在卡维素芮的怀抱中，我迟疑着是否要打搅他们。
“鲁奇，”我悄声说。他眨巴了一下眼睛。“醒醒，给我说件事。”
“安尼戴，看在……的分上，你没看到我在睡觉吗? ”
“我得知道啊。”
这时候她也醒了，我等着他俩分开来，他站起身。“什么事? ”他问道。
“你得把你记得的亨利·戴的所有事情都告诉我。”
他打了个哈欠，看着卡维素芮蜷成婴儿似的睡姿。“现在，我得回去睡觉。明早再来问我，我来帮你写书。但现在，我要回枕头上去做梦了。”
我叫醒了斯茂拉赫、贝卡和奥尼恩斯，问同样的问题，但也差不多同样被推托过去。到了第二天早晨用早餐时，尽管我很兴奋，但得到的只有他们的怒目相对，我只敢等大家都吃饱喝足后再问。
“我在写本书，”我宣布说，“写亨利·戴。斯帕克离开之前，给我讲过一个大概，现在我需要你们来填充细节。就好比我要换生，你们给我报告亨利·戴吧。”
“哦，我记得你，”奥尼恩斯发言说，“你是被丢在树林里的婴儿。
你母亲把你包在襁褓中，放在灰犬神祠里。”
“不不不，”贝卡说，“你搞错了。原来的亨利·戴不是亨利，是对一模一样的双胞胎姐妹，是艾尔贝丝和玛丽贝尔。”
“你俩都错了，”卡维素芮说，“他是个男孩，一个聪明漂亮的男孩，和他爸妈还有两个双胞胎婴儿妹妹住在森林边的房子里。”
“对了，”鲁契克说，“玛丽和伊丽莎白。两个小卷毛头，和羊肉一样肥嘟嘟的。”
“你不会超过八岁或九岁。”卡维素芮说。
“七岁，”斯茂拉赫说，“我们捉住他时，他七岁。”
“你肯定吗? ”奥尼恩斯问，“我敢发誓他不过才两三岁。”
后来一整天，谈话都这么进行着，在鸡毛蒜皮的事情上争执不休，讨论到了最后，“真相”成了原来那个事实的远亲。从夏到秋，我一直缠着他们问问题，有时分别问他们，有时一起问。有时候一个答案，和我那天马行空的记忆或者一幅画、一页字的书面线索联系起来，就在我头脑中立下了一个事实。慢慢地，随着时间的推移，故事的基调出现了，我的童年回来了。然而，有件事仍然不明。
冬眠之前，我出了一趟门，想要爬上山谷周围最高的山峰。树木脱尽了叶子，光秃秃的臂膀伸向灰色的天空。往东看，城市就像玩具积木。南边是合围的村庄，一条河流从中穿过。西边是河湾和辽阔的乡土。北边有参差不齐的森林，一两块农田掩映在树木和岩石之间。我坐在山巅，读着书，晚上做梦梦见两个斯帕克，两个戴，梦到我们是什么，将来又会变成怎样。除了喝一瓶水，我一直全神贯注地思考着存在的谜题。到了第三天，我的头脑清明了，答案出来了。如果那个看起来像我父亲的男人不是我父亲，那他又是谁呢? 我在雾里遇见的是谁? 我们失去伊格尔和奥斯卡·拉甫那晚，我在溪边碰到的是谁? 把我们赶出厨房门的是谁? 他酷肖我的父亲。我转了下头，惊动了一头鹿，它踏着落叶跑走了。一只鸟鸣叫了一声，叫声余韵不绝，渐渐消去。黯淡的阳光下，云卷云舒。他们偷走我时，是谁取代了我的地位? 我明白了。那个人拥有我本该有的一切。他偷走了我的名字，窃走了我的经历，抢走了我的生活——亨利。戴。
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