Chapter 17

　　My long-forgotten history peeked out from behind the curtains. The questions McInnes posed during hypnosis had dredged up memories that had been repressed for more than a century, and fragments of those subconscious recollections began intruding into my life. We would be performing our second-rate imitation of Simon and Garfunkel when an unexpected Germanism would leap out of my mouth. The boys in the band thought I was tripping, and we'd have to start over after a brief apology to the audience. Or I'd be seducing a young woman and find that her face had morphed into the visage of a changeling. A baby would cry and I'd wonder if it was human or a bundle of holy terror that had been left on the doorstep. A photograph of six-year-old Henry Day's first day of school would remind me of all I was not. I'd see myself superimposed over the image, my face reflected in the glass, layered over his face, and wonder what had become of him, what had become of me. No longer a monster, but not Henry Day either. I suffered trying to remember my own name, but that German boy stole away every time I drew near.
　　The only remedy for this obsession was to substitute another. Whenever my mind dwelled on the distant past, I would force myself to think of music, running alternative fingerings and the cycle of fifths in my mind, humming to myself, pushing dark thoughts away with a song. I flirted with the notion of becoming a composer again even as college aspirations faded while another two years slipped by. In the seemingly random sounds of everyday life, I began to abstract patterns, which grew to measures, which became movements. Often I would go back to Oscar's after a few hours' sleep, put on a pot of coffee, and scribble the notations resonating in my head. With solely a piano available, I had to imagine an orchestra in that empty barroom, and those early scores echo my chaotic confusion over who I am. The unfinished compositions were tentative steps back to the past, to my true nature. I spent ages looking for the sound, reshaping it, and tossing it away, for composition was as elusive at the time as my own name.
　　The bar was my studio most mornings. Oscar arrived around lunchtime, and George and Jimmy usually showed up midafternoon for rehearsal and a few beers—barely enough time for me to cover up my work. Halfheartedly, I plunked away at the piano before our practice was to begin on an early summer afternoon in '67. George, Jimmy, and Oscar experimented with a few chord changes and rhythms, but they were mostly smoking and drinking. The area kids had been out of school for two weeks and were already bored, riding their bicycles up and down Main Street. Their heads and shoulders slid across the view through the windowpanes. Lewis Love's green pickup truck pulled up outside, and a moment later the bar door swung open, sending in a crush of humid air. His shoulders slumped with exhaustion, Lewis stopped in the threshold, numb and dumb. Setting down his horn, Oscar walked over to talk with his brother. Their conversation was too soft to be overheard, but the body gives away its sorrows. Lewis hung his head and brought his hand to the bridge of his nose as if to hold back tears, and George and Jimmy and I watched from our chairs, not knowing quite what to say or do. Oscar led his brother to the bar and poured him a tall shot, which Lewis downed in a single swig. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and bent over like a question mark, his forehead resting on the rail, so we crowded around our friends.
　　"His son is missing," Oscar said. "Since last night. The police and fire and rescue are out looking for him, but they haven't found him. He's only eight years old, man."
　　"What does he look like?" George asked. "What's his name? How long has he been gone? Where did you last see him?"
　　Lewis straightened his shoulders. "His name is Oscar, after my brother here. About the averagest-looking kid you could find. Brown hair, brown eyes, about so high." He held out his hand and dropped it roughly four feet above the ground.
　　"When did he disappear?" I asked.
　　"He was wearing a baseball shirt and short pants, dark blue—his mother thinks. And high-top Chuck Taylors. He was out back of the house, playing after dinner last night. It was still light out. And then he vanished." He turned to his brother. "I tried calling you all over the place."
　　Oscar pursed his lips and shook his head. "I'm so sorry, man. I was out getting high."
　　George began walking to the door. "No time for recriminations. We've got a missing kid to find."
　　Off we went to the woods. Oscar and Lewis rode together in the cab of the pickup, and George, Jimmy, and I sat in the bed, where there was the residual odor of manure baking in the heat. The truck bumped and rattled along a firebreak cut through the timberline, and we ground to a stop in a cloud of dust. The search and rescue team had parked in a glen about a mile due west from my house, about as far into the forest as they could manage to drive the township's sole fire engine. The captain of the fire department leaned against the big rig. He pulled on a bottle of cola in enormous gulps, his face like an alarm against his starched white shirt. Our party got out of the pickup, and I was overwhelmed by the sweet smell of honeysuckle nearby. Bees patrolled among the flowers, and as we walked toward the captain, they lazily inspected us. Grasshoppers, panicked by our footfall, whirred ahead in the tall grass. Along the edge of the clearing, a tangle of wild raspberries and poison ivy reminded me of the double-edged nature of the forest. I followed the boys down a makeshift path, looking over my shoulder at the captain and his red truck until they vanished from sight.
　　A bloodhound bayed in the distance, taking up a scent. We trudged along single file for several hundred yards, and the dark shade cast by the canopy gave the appearance of dusk in the shank of the afternoon. Every few moments, someone would call out for the boy, and his name hung in the air before dissipating in the warm half-light. We were chasing shadows where no shadows could be seen. The group halted when we reached the top of a small rise.
　　"This is getting us nowhere," Oscar said. "Why don't we spread out?"
　　Though I loathed the idea of being alone in the forest, I could not counter his logic without seeming a coward.
　　"Let's meet back here at nine." With an air of determined sobriety, Oscar studied the face of his watch, following the sweep of the second hand, counting off moments to himself. We waited and watched our own time go by.
　　"Four thirty," he said at last.
　　"I've got four thirty-five," said George.
　　And almost simultaneously, I said, "Twenty after."
　　"Twenty-five of five," said Jimmy.
　　Lewis shook his wrist, removed his watch, and held the timepiece to his ear. "That's funny—my watch has stopped." He stared at its face. "Seven thirty. That's right around when I saw him last."
　　Each of us looked at the others for the way out of this temporal confusion. Oscar resumed his clock watching.
　　"Okay, okay, on my signal, set your watches. It is now four thirty-five."
　　We fiddled with the stems and dials. I wondered if the time was such an issue after all.
　　"Here's the plan. Lewis and I will go this way. Henry, you go in the opposite direction. George and Jimmy, you head off opposite to each other." He indicated by means of hand signals the four points of the compass. "Mark your trail to find your way back. Every couple hundred feet, break a branch on the name side of your path, and let's meet back here at nine. It'll be getting dark by then. Of course, if you find him before that, go back to the fire truck."
　　We went our separate ways, and the sound of my friends tramping through the brush receded. I had not dared enter the woods since changing lives with Henry Day. The tall trees hemmed in the pathway, and the humid air felt like a blanket that smelled of rot and decay. With each step I took, cracking twigs and crunching leaves, my sound reinforced my solitude. When I stopped, the noise ceased. I'd call for the boy, but halfheartedly, not expecting a reply. The stillness brought back a forgotten sensation, the memory of my wildness, and with it the ache of being trapped, timeless, in this perilous world. Twenty minutes into my search, I sat down on the fallen trunk of a scrub pine. My shirt, damp with perspiration, clung to my skin, and I took out a handkerchief to mop my brow. Far away, a woodpecker hammered on a tree, and nuthatches scrabbled down tree trunks, pipping their staccato signals. Along one limb of the dead pine, a file of ants raced back and forth, carrying a mysterious cargo in one direction as others headed back to the food source. Amid the litter of fallen leaves, small red flowers poked their pin-size heads from clusters of silvery moss. I lifted a log, and a rotting wetness lay beneath it, pill bugs curled into balls and long-legged spiders maddened at the sudden disruption of their lives. Fat, glistening worms burrowed into holes on the bottom of the log, and I tried to imagine what hidden chambers existed in the decay, what life was going on unbeknownst to me. I lost track of the time. A glance at my watch startled me, for nearly two hours had wasted away. I stood up, called out the boy's name once, and, hearing no reply, resumed my hunt. Moving deeper into the darkness, I was entranced by the random arrangement of trunks and limbs, green leaves as plentiful as raindrops. My every step was new yet familiar, and I expected to be startled by something sudden, but it was as quiet as a deep sleep. There was nothing in the woods, no sign of my past, scant life beyond the growing trees and plants, the occasional stir of the inscrutable tiny animals hidden in the rot and decay. I stumbled upon a small creek gurgling over stones, meandering nowhere. Suddenly very thirsty, I dipped my hands into the water and drank.
　　The current rolled over a bed dotted with stones and rocks. On the surface, the stones were dry, dull, and impenetrable, but at the waterline and below, the water changed the stone, revealing facets and extraordinarily rich colors and infinite variety. Millennia of interplay had worn and polished the rocks, made them beautiful, and the stones had changed the water as well, altered its flow and pace, made turbulent its stilled predisposition. Symbiosis made the creek what it was. One without the other would change everything. I had come out of this forest, had been there for a long, long time, but I also lived in the world as a very real person. My life as a human and my life among the changelings made me what I was. Like the water and the rock, I was this and that. Henry Day. As the world knows him, there is no other, and this revelation filled me with warmth and pleasure. The rocks along the bottom of the creek suddenly appeared to me as if a line of notes, and I could hear the pattern in my head. Searching my pockets for a pencil to copy it down before the notes disappeared, I heard a stirring among the trees behind me, footsteps racing through the brush.
　　"Who's there?" I asked, and whatever it was stopped moving. I tried to make myself short and inconspicuous by crouching in the culvert cut by the creek, but hiding made it impossible to see the source of danger. In the tension of anticipation, sounds that had gone unnoticed became amplified. Crickets sang under rocks. A cicada cried and then went silent. I was at odds whether to run away or stay and capture the notes in the water. A breeze through the leaves, or something breathing? Slowly at first, the footsteps resumed, then the creature bolted, crashing through the leaves, running away from me, the air whispering and falling quiet. When it had departed, I convinced myself that a deer had been startled by my presence, or perhaps a hound that had picked up my scent by mistake. The disturbance unnerved me, so I quickly traced my way back to the clearing. I was the first one there, fifteen minutes ahead of our planned rendezvous.
　　George arrived next, face flushed with exertion, his voice less than a rasp from calling for the boy. He collapsed in exhaustion, his jeans emitting puffs of dust.
　　"No luck?" I asked.
　　"Do you think? I am dragging and didn't see a damn thing. You don't have a square on you?"
　　I produced two cigarettes and lit his, then mine. He closed his eyes and smoked. Oscar and Lewis showed up next, similarly defeated. They had run out of ways to say so, but the worry slackened their pace, bowed their heads, clouded their eyes. We waited for another fifteen minutes for Jimmy Cummings, and when he failed to appear, I began to wonder if another search party was in order.
　　At 9:30, George asked, "Where is Cummings?"
　　The residual twilight gave way to a starry night. I wished we had thought to bring flashlights. "Maybe we should go back to where the police are."
　　Oscar refused. "No, someone should wait here for Jimmy. You go, Henry. It's a straight shot, dead on."
　　"C'mon, George, go with me."
　　He raised himself to the standing position. "Lead on, Macduff."
　　Up the trail, we could see red and blue lights flashing against the treetops and bouncing into the night sky. Despite his aching feet, George hurried us along, and when we were nearly there, we could hear the static shout over the walkie-talkies, sense something wrong in the air. We jogged into a surreal scene, the clearing bathed in lights, fire engines idling, dozens of people milling about. A man in a red baseball cap loaded a pair of bloodhounds into the back of his pickup. I was startled to see Tess Wodehouse, her white nurse's uniform glowing in the gloom, embracing another young woman and stroking her hair. Two men lifted a dripping canoe to the roof of a car and strapped it down. Patterns emerged as if time stood still, and all could be seen at once. Firemen and policemen, their backs to us, formed a half ring around the back of the ambulance.
　　The chief pivoted slowly, as if averting his gaze from the somber paramedics invalidated reality, and told us carefully, "Well ... we have found a body."

    我久已忘怀的往事从窗帘后向外窥视。麦克伊内斯在催眠中提出的问题将压抑了一个多世纪的记忆打捞起来，潜伏的记忆碎片开始侵入我的生活。有时候我们在演奏西蒙与加芬克尔①的曲子，搞二流模仿时，我嘴里会突然冒出一句德国话来。

　　乐队里的男孩以为我唱溜了嘴，我们向观众稍稍道歉后，再从头开始。有时候我在勾引一个年轻女人时，发现她的脸变成了换生灵的模样。小孩一哭，我就想他是人类还是被丢在门口的捣蛋鬼。一张六岁亨利第一天上学的照片，提醒我自己什么都不是。我看到自己的影像叠加在上面，我的脸映在玻璃镜框上，覆盖着他的脸，我就想他发生了什么事，我又发生了什么事。我不再是魔鬼了，但也不是亨利- 戴。

　　我费尽力气要想起自己的名字，但每次一靠近，那个德国男孩就溜走了。

　　摆脱这种困扰的惟一办法是让自己想点别的。只要一想到遥远的过去，我就强迫自己把心思放到音乐上去，在心里变换指法和五度循环，低声哼曲子，用歌声将黑暗的想法推开。我又漫不经心地考虑起当作曲家的事来，虽然我大学时代的热情已经淡了，而时间也不知不觉地过去了两年。我从日常生活中看似随意的各种声音中提炼出节奏，写成乐句，再变成乐章。我常常睡几个小时后就回奥斯卡酒吧，煮一壶咖啡，把我头脑中的音符写下来。我只有一架钢琴，因此就得在空荡荡的酒吧里把整个交响乐队想像出来，刚开始写的曲子里都是我对自己身份胡乱无际的想法。

　　没有完成的曲子尝试着回到过去，回归我真正的本然。有那么几年，我寻找这个声音，把它塑造成形，又丢在一边，因为当时作曲这件事就和我的名字一样不可捉摸。

　　大多数上午，酒吧都是我的乐室。奥斯卡中午才过来，乔治和吉米通常下午三点左右过来排练，喝几杯啤酒——我有充分的时间来藏好自己的作品。1967年的一个夏日午后，大约一两点钟，我们还没开始练习，我三心二意地弹着钢琴，乔治、吉米和奥斯卡在尝试几种和弦变奏和节奏，但他们主要是在吸烟喝酒。这地区的孩子已经放假两周，厌倦了起来，骑着单车在大街上来来回回。他们的头和肩膀在窗玻璃前一闪而过。路易斯·拉甫的绿色小货车开到了外面，过了一会儿，酒吧门推开，送进一蓬湿漉漉的头发。路易斯无力地垂着双肩，木然无语地站在门口。奥斯卡搁下喇叭，走过去和他哥哥说话。他们的声音太低听不到，但身体却泄露了悲伤的心情。路易斯低着头，手放在鼻梁上，像是忍着眼泪，乔治、吉米和我坐在椅子上看，不知道该说什么或做什么。奥斯卡把他哥哥带到吧台，给他倒了一大杯酒，路易斯一饮而尽。他用袖子擦了擦嘴，像一个问号似的弯下腰，前额靠在栏杆上，我们都围了过去。

　　“他的儿子失踪了，”奥斯卡说，“从昨晚开始。警察、消防队和营救队都出动寻找，但还没有找到。他只有八岁，伙计。”

　　“他长得什么样? ”乔治问，“叫什么名字? 走失了多久? 你最后一次在哪里看到他? ”

　　路易斯挺直了肩膀，“他叫奥斯卡，跟我这个弟弟的名。就是你平时看到的那种最普通的孩子。棕色头发，棕色眼睛，大概这么高。”

　　他伸出手，在离地面约一米半处比划了一下。

　　“他什么时候走失的? ”我问。

　　“他上面穿着一件棒球衫，下面穿短裤，深蓝色——他母亲觉得是这样。脚上是高帮的查克·泰勒鞋。昨天晚上，吃完饭他去屋后玩。天还亮着。他就这么消失了。”他对他弟弟说，“我到处叫你。”

　　奥斯卡撅起嘴摇摇头，“对不起，伙计，我出去找乐子了。”

　　乔治开始朝门口走出，“没时间忏悔了。我们要去找失踪的孩子。”

　　我们去了森林。奥斯卡和路易斯乘在货车驾驶室里，乔治、吉米和我坐在后车厢里，热浪掀起车厢里残留的肥料气味。货车沿着从树林中开出来的防火通道颠簸前进，停下来时扬起一片灰尘。搜寻队停在一个峡谷中，大约是我家往西一公里的地方，这是他们把镇上惟一一台灭火器排进森林的极限长度。消防队队长靠在这台大型的设备上，大口灌着一瓶可乐，他的脸和弄脏了的白衬衫一比，就像个警报器。

　　我们一行走下货车，我闻到附近金银花的香味就陶醉了。

　　蜜蜂在花朵问巡游，我们朝队长走过去时，他们用懒洋洋的目光打量我们。蚱蜢被我们的脚步声惊起，跳进了更深的草丛中。空地周围长着一大丛野生覆盆子和有毒的常青藤，这让我想起森林的两面性。

　　我跟着小伙子们走上一条临时开辟出来的小径，不停地回头看看队长和他的红色消防车，直到他们从视野中消失。

　　侦探犬在远处吠叫，嗅到了一种气味。我们鱼贯而行了几百米，枝叶投下浓密的树阴，近晚时分看起来天色已暗。每隔一会儿，就有人叫着孩子的名字，声音悬在空气里，又慢慢散失在温暖的昏暗光线中。我们一路从有树阴的地方走到没有树阴的地方，在一座小山坡顶上停下。

　　“这样不行，”奥斯卡说，“我们为什么不分头去找? ”

　　虽然我讨厌独自待在森林中，但我没法反驳他，否则难免被视为胆小鬼。

　　“我们九点钟在这里碰头。”奥斯卡冷静地下了决定，看着他的表，数着分针的走动。我们一边等着，一边看着我们自己的表。

　　“四点半。”他终于说。

　　“我是四点三十五。”乔治说。

　　我几乎在同时开口，“二十几分。”

　　“五点二十五。”吉米说。

　　路易斯甩着手腕，摘下他的手表，把表放到耳边听，“奇怪——我的表停了。”

　　他瞪着表面说，“七点半。那正是我最后一次看到他的时间。”

　　我们面面相觑，一时间都迷惑不已。奥斯卡又看了看他的表。

　　“好了，好了，听我的信号，调整你们的表。现在是四点三十五分。”

　　我们调整了指针和表盘。我想这个时间是否如此重要。

　　“计划是这样的。路易斯和我走这条路。亨利，你走对面的那条路。乔治和吉米，你们两个分别走相反的两条路。”他指着指南针上的四个方向说。“走去还要能走回来。每个人走一百米就折断一根树枝放在路的同一边，我们九点钟在这里会合。到时候天应该黑了。

　　当然，如果你们在那之前找到了他，就回到消防车那边去。”

　　我们分头离开，朋友们走在灌木丛中的脚步声渐渐消失。自从和亨利·戴换生后，我不敢再进森林。小路两旁都是高大的林木，潮湿的空气就像一块散发着腐朽气味的毯子。我每走一步，脚下的树枝和树叶就“嘎扎嘎扎”地响，发出的声音使我越加孤单。我停下脚步，声音也停止了。我呼唤着孩子，但并没有多大的劲头，也不盼望会有回音。寂静带来一种久已忘怀的感觉，那是我野外生活的记忆，还有永远陷在这个危险世界中的苦痛。我寻找了二十分钟，就在一株倒伏的矮松树干上坐下来。衬衫浸透了汗水，贴在身上，我拿出一块手帕来擦额头。远远地，一只啄木鸟在锤打一棵树。五子雀从树干上跳下来，断断续续地发出鸣音。在一棵死去的松树枝条上，一队蚂蚁正来回跑着，往一个方向运送一个秘密货物，另一队则回头跑向食物来源。在散落的树叶之间，小红花在银色的苔藓丛中探出它们针尖大小的脑袋。我抬起一根木头，下面是一片腐朽阴湿的泥土，球潮虫卷成一个球，长腿蜘蛛因生活突然被打扰而发起狂来。胖乎乎、亮晶晶的虫子钻进木头底部的小洞里，我想像着这根朽木中有着怎样的暗室，那里有我所不知道的生活。我忘了时间。看了一眼表，我陡然一惊，浪费了将近两个小时。我站起来，叫了一声男孩的名字，没有回音，我就继续找下去。在林子的更深处，树木林立，枝叶交错，绿色的叶子犹如雨珠般美丽，我陶醉在这番景致中。每一步都充满新鲜感，但又如此熟悉，我希望能被什么突然出现的东西吓一跳，但森林就像沉睡了似的一片寂静。森林里什么都没有，没有我过去的痕迹，没有在茂盛草木背后的匮乏生活，没有躲在朽木烂叶中、偶尔动弹一下的不明小动物。一条小溪在石头间潺援而行，不知流往何方，我跨过小溪时，突然觉得口很渴，就用手舀水来喝。

　　水流淌过的河床上点缀着大小石块。露出水面的石头干燥、单调、不透明，但在水面和水下，石头被水流改变了，显得棱角丰满，色彩丰富，变化多端。干百年的互相影响已经磨蚀和抛光了这些岩石，把它们打扮得漂漂亮亮。石头也改变了水流，改变了它的流向和速度，把激流变得平静服帖。正是这种共生共荣造就了溪流，无论缺了哪个，一切都会不同。我已经走出了森林，也曾在那里待了很久很久，但我同样在这个世界中作为真正的人类存在。我的人类生活和换生灵生活造就了我。

　　像这水，像这岩石，我既是这个，也是那个。

　　亨利·戴。正如这世界所知道的那样，除我以外并无他人，这一体悟让我感到愉快而温暖。溪底的一排岩石突然让我觉得很像一列音符，我听到了头脑中的节奏。

　　我从口袋里找出一支铅笔，想在它消失之前把它记录下来，这时却听到身后的树丛中有动静，灌木丛中响起奔跑的脚步声。

　　“谁在那里? ”我问道，不知怎么它就停下不动了。我想蹲到溪谷里，猫下身子不被看到，但躲藏起来就看不见危险在哪了。在紧张的等待中，刚才没有留意的声音变得响亮起来——蟋蟀在石头下唱歌，一只知了吱了一声又不响了。我犹豫不决，不知该逃走还是留在原地捕捉水中的音符。树叶间穿过一阵轻风，或者什么东西的呼吸声? 脚步声又来了，开始慢慢的，接着那个动物逃起来了，哗哗地跑过树叶，从我身边跑开。空气低吟着沉寂下来。我以为那是一头鹿因我受了惊，或者是一头猎犬跟错了我的气味。这次意外让我忐忑不安，于是很快地从原路返回空地。

　　我是第一个到那里的，比我们约定的时间提前了十五分钟。

　　乔治第二个到，脸憋得红红的，嗓门也因为呼喊那个孩子而变得沙哑。他筋疲力尽地倒在地上，牛仔裤扑起一地灰尘。

　　“没找到? ”我问。

　　“你觉得呢? 我累得半死，什么东西都没瞧见。你带烟了吗? ”

　　我拿出两支香烟，先点他的，再点我的。他闭上眼吸着。接着回来的是奥斯卡和路易斯，虽然走了很远，同样一败涂地。他们心急如焚，反而步子走不快，垂着头，目光迷离。我们又等了一刻钟，但卡明斯没来，我开始想另一组搜寻队是否顺利。

　　九点三十分，乔治问道：“卡明斯在哪里? ”

　　最后的暮色渐渐化为满天星光。我希望我们早能想到带电简来。“我们或许应该回到警察那里去。”

　　奥斯卡不愿意，“不，得有人在这里等吉米。你去吧，亨利。笔直的一条路，走到底。”

　　“来吧，乔治，跟我走。”

　　他站起来，“带路吧，麦克德夫。”

　　在小路一头，我们能看见红色和蓝色的灯在树顶上闪光，在夜空中扫射。乔治虽然脚痛，但还是催促我们快走。我们快到那里时，听到对讲机中平稳的喊声，感觉到气氛有点儿不对劲。我们跑入了一个超现实的场景，空地沐浴着灯光，火警器闲转着，几十个人到处乱转。戴着红色棒球帽的男人将一对侦探犬带到他的货车车厢里。我惊讶地看到泰思·伍德郝斯，她白色的护士服在昏暗中发亮，她搂着另一个年轻女人，抚摸她的头发。两个人把一个滴着水的独木舟放到车顶上，捆紧。画面出现了，仿佛时间静止，所有的东西一下子映入眼帘。消防队员和警察背对着我们，在消防车后围成一个半圆。

　　警长慢慢转身，仿佛要把视线从把医护人员变得不知所措的严峻现实中转开，他谨慎地告诉我们：“那个……我们找到了一具尸体。”