I set out to learn everything that could be known about the other Henry Day. My life's story and its telling are bound to his, and only by understanding what had happened to him would I know all that I had missed. My friends agreed to help me, for by our nature we are spooks and secret agents. Because their skills had lain dormant1 since the botched change with Oscar Love, the faeries took special delight in spying on Henry Day. Once upon a time, he was one of them.
Luchóg, Smaolach, and Chavisory tracked him to an older neighborhood on the far side of town where he circled round the streets as if lost. He stopped and talked to two adorable young girls playing with their dollies in their front yard. After watching him drive off, Chavisory approached the girls, thinking they might be Kivi and Blomma in human form. The sisters guessed Chavisory was a faery right away, and she ran, laughing and shrieking2, to our hiding place in a crown of blackberry stalks. A short time later, our spies spotted3 Henry Day talking to a woman who seemed to have upset him. When he left her old house, Henry looked haunted, and he sat in his car for the longest time, head bent4 to the steering5 wheel, shoulders heaving as he sobbed6.
"He looked knackered, as if the woman sapped his spirit," Smaolach told us afterward7.
"I noticed as well," said Luchóg, "that he has changed of late, as if he is guilty of the past and worried of the future."
I asked them if they thought the older woman had been my mother, but they assured me she was somebody else's.
Luchóg rolled himself a smoke. "He walked in one man, came out another."
Chavisory poked8 at the campfire. "Maybe there are two of him."
Onions agreed, "Or he's only half a man."
Luchóg lit the cigarette, let it dangle9 from his lower lip. "He's a puzzle with one piece missing. He's a tockless clock."
"We'll pick the lock of his brain," Smaolach said.
"Have you been able to find out more about his past?" I asked them.
"Not much," said Luchóg. "He lived in your house with your mother and father, and your two little sisters."
"Our Chopin won lots of prizes for playing music," said Chavisory. "There's a tiny shiny piano on the mantel, or at least there was." She reached behind her back and held out the trophy10 for us to admire, its facade11 reflecting the firelight.
"I followed him to school one day," said Smaolach. "He teaches children how to play music, but if their performance is any indication, he's not very good. The winds blow harsh and the fiddlers cannot fiddle12."
We all laughed. In time, they told me many more stories of the man, but large gaps existed in the tale, and singular questions arose. Was my mother living still, or had she joined my father under the earth? I knew nothing about my sisters and wondered how they had grown. They could be mothers themselves by now, but are forever babies in my imagination.
"Did I tell you he saw us?" Luchóg asked. "We were at our old stomping13 grounds by his house, and I am sure that he looked right at Chavisory and me. He's not the handsomest thing in the world."
"Tell the truth," Chavisory added, "he's rather fearsome. Like when he lived with us."
"And old."
"And wearing out," said Smaolach. "You're better off with us. Young always."
The fire crackled and embers popped, floating up in the darkness. I pictured him snug14 in his bed with his woman, and the thought reminded me of Speck15. I trudged16 back to my burrow17, trying to find comfort in the hard ground.
In my sleep, I climbed a staircase of a thousand steps carved into the side of a mountain. The dizzy view below took my breath away, and my heart hammered against my bones. Only blue skies and a few more steps lay in front of me. I labored19 on and reached the top, and the stairs continued down the other side of the mountain, impossibly steep, even more frightening than the way up. Paralyzed, I could not go back and could not go on. From the side, from nowhere, Speck appeared, joining me on the summit. She had been transformed. Her eyes sparked with life; she grinned at me as if no time had passed.
"Shall we roll down the hill together? Like Jack20 and Jill?"
I could not say a word. If I moved, blinked, opened my mouth, she would disappear and I would fall.
"It isn't as difficult or dangerous as it appears."
She wrapped me in her arms and, next thing, we were safe at the bottom. The dreamscape shifts when she closes her eyes, and I fall deep into a well. I sit alone waiting for something to happen above my head. A door opens, light floods the space. I look up to find Henry Day looking down at me. At first he appears as my father, and then becomes himself. He shouts at me and shakes his fist. The door slams shut, erasing21 the light. From beneath my feet, the well begins to fill with water flowing in like a river. I kick in panic and realize a strong gossamer22 rope binds23 my limbs. Rising to my chest, to my chin, the waters wash over me, and I am under. Unable to hold my breath any longer, I open my mouth and fill my lungs.
I woke gasping24 for breath. A few seconds passed before the stars came into view, the reaching branches, the lips of my burrow an inch or two above my face. Throwing off the blanket, I rose and stepped out of that space onto the surface. Everyone else was asleep in their dens26. Where the fire had been, I faint orange glow was visible beneath the black kindling27. The starlit woods were so quiet that I could hear the steady breathing of the few faeries left in this place. The chilly28 air robbed me of my bed-warmth, and a film perspiration29 dried and evaporated off my skin. How long I stood still, I do not know, but I half expected someone to materialize from the darkness either to take me or to embrace me.
I went back to work on my book, stuck mid30 sentence at the point where Igel is about to switch with little Oscar Love. During my first visit beneath the library, I re-read the pages in light of what we had discovered about Henry Day, and all that had been revealed to me through the other clan31 members about my former life and circumstances. Needless to say, my first story reeked32 of false impressions. I gathered my papers and the error-riddled manuscript and thought through the problem. In my original version, I had assumed that my parents lived still and that they had spent their lives missing their only son. Of the few chance encounters with my natural father, only one could possibly be true. And, of course, the first story had been written with no real knowledge of the fraud and imposter who had taken my place.
We started watching him again and found a troubled man. He carried on conversations with himself, his lips mouthing a violent argument. Ages ago, he'd had a number of other friends as well, but as his strangeness increased, they vanished from the story. Henry spent most of his time locked away in a room, reading books or playing a booming organ, scrawling33 notes on lined paper. His wife lived in the margins34, working on her home, every day driving away and returning hours later. Onions thought that a telltale unhappiness weighed heavily on the woman's mind, for when she was alone, she often stared into the distance, as if to extract from the air the answer to her unuttered questions. The boy, Edward, was ideal for the change, alone and distanced from the rise and fall of life, caught up in his own thoughts, and wandering through his parents' house as if looking for a friend.
Waking in the middle of a full-moon night, I overheard Béka and Onions whispering about the boy. Cozy35 in their den25, they expected a degree of privacy, but their conspiracy36 hummed along the ground like the faraway sound of an approaching train.
"Do you think we'd be able to, ourselves alone?" Onions asked.
"If we can catch him at the right moment. Perhaps when the father is distracted or drowning out every known sound on that infernal organ."
"But if you change with Edward Day, what will happen to me?" Onions said, never more plaintive37. I coughed to alert them to my presence and walked over to where they huddled38, feigning39 sleep, innocent as two newborn kits40. They might be brazen41 enough to try, and I resolved to keep closer watch and crack any plots before one might hatch.
In the past, the faeries refused to spy on one who had quit the tribe. The changeling was left alone, forgotten, and given a chance to live out his human life. The danger of being exposed by such a person is great, for after they make the change, they grow to resent their time among us and fear that other humans will discover their dark secret. But such concerns, once great, became less important to us. We were disappearing. Our number had diminished from a dozen to a mere18 six. We decided42 to make our own rules.
I asked them to find my mother and sisters, and at Christmas they were discovered at last. While the rest of us dozed43, Chavisory and Luchóg stole away to town, which glowed with blinking lights as carolers sang in the streets. As a gift to me, they decided to explore my boyhood home, hoping to find missing clues that might give my past more meaning. The old house stood in the clearing, not as solitary44 as it had once been. Nearby farms had been sold off one by one, and the skeletons of new houses rose in all directions. A handful of cars parked in the drive led them to believe that a celebration was taking place at my former house, so they crept to the windows to see the assembled crowd. Henry Day, his wife, and their son were there. And Mary and Elizabeth. At the center of the festivities, a gray-haired woman sat in an easy chair by a sparkling fir tree. Her mannerisms reminded Luchóg of my mother, upon whom he had spied many years ago. He climbed a nearby oak and leapt from its outstretched limbs to the rooftop, scrambling45 over to the chimney, its bricks I still warm to the touch. The fire below had gone out, making it easier for him to eavesdrop46. My mother, he said, was singing to the children in the old style, without instrumentation. How I would have loved to hear her again.
"Give us a song, Henry," she said when they were through, "like you used to do."
"Christmas is a busman's holiday if you play the piano," he said." What’ll it be, Mom? 'Christmas in Killarney' or some other blather?"
"Henry, you shouldn't make fun," said one of the daughters.
"'Angels We Have Heard on High,'" said an unfamiliar47, older man who rested his hand on her shoulder.
Henry played the song, began another. When Luchóg had heard enough, he jumped back to the oak and climbed down to rejoin Chavisory. They stole one last look at the party, studied the characters and scene for me, then returned home. When they told the story the next day, I was deeply pleased to hear about my mother, as puzzling as the details might be. Who was this old man? Who were all these other children? Even the tiniest scrap48 of news brought back that past. I hid in a hollow tree. She was angry with me, and I would run away and never come back. Where are your sisters? Where are my babies? I remembered that I had sat in the V made by her legs, listening to the story of the wanderings of Oisín in Tír na n?g. It is not fair to have to miss someone for so many years.
But this is a double life. I sat down to work on the true story of my world and the world of Henry Day. The words flowed slowly, painfully, sometimes letter by letter. Whole mornings escaped without a single sentence worth saving. I crumpled49 and threw away so many pages that I was forever popping up into the library to steal more paper, and the pile of trash in the corner threatened to consume the whole room. In assembling my tale, I found myself tiring easily, early in the day, so that if I could string together five hundred words, writing had triumphed over uncertainty50 and procrastination51.
At times I questioned my reasons for written proof of my own existence. When I was a boy, stories were as real as any other part of life. I'd hear Jack climb the beanstalk, and later wonder how to climb the tall poplars outside my window. Hansel and Gretel were brave heroes, and I shuddered52 at the thought of the witch in her oven. In my daydreams54, I fought dragons and rescued the girl trapped in her tower. When I could not sleep for the wild doings and extravagant55 deeds of my own imagination, I'd wake my father, who would invariably say, "It's only a story." As if such words made it less real. But I did not believe him even then, for stories were written down, and the words on the page were proof enough. Fixed56 and permanent in time, the words, if anything, made the people and places more real than the ever-changing world. My life with the faeries is more real to me than my life as Henry Day. And I wrote it down to show that we are more than a myth, a tale for children, a nightmare or daydream53. Just as we need their stories to exist, so do the humans need us to give shape to their lives. I wrote it to create meaning for my change, for what happened with Speck. By saying this instead of that, I could control what mattered. And show the truth that lies below the surface life.
I finally decided to meet the man face-to-face. I had seen Henry Day years before, but I now knew that he had once been a changeling who had kidnapped me when I was a boy of seven. We had uncovered him, followed him everywhere, and learned the outlines of his daily routine. The faeries had been to his house, taken a random57 score of music he wrote, and left him with a sign of their mischief58. But I wanted to confront him, if only to say goodbye, through him, to my mother and sisters.
I was on my way to the library to finish my story. A man stepped out of a car and marched through the front door of the building. He looked old and tired, worn by care. Nothing like me, or how I imagined I would be. Ht walked with his head down, eyes on the ground, a slight stoop to his shoulders, as if the simplest things gravely distracted him. He dropped an armful of papers and, bending down to gather them, muttered a stream of curses I considered pouncing59 out of the woods, but he looked too fragile to spook that night, so instead I squeezed through the crevice60 to go about my craft.
He had begun frequenting the library that summer, showing up several days in a row, humming snatches of the symphony we had stolen from him. On hot and humid afternoons, when sensible people were swimming or lying in bed with the shades drawn61, Henry was often reading alone at a sun-splashed table. I could sense his presence above, separated only by the thin ceiling, and when the library closed for the night, I climbed through the trapdoor and investigated. He had been working in a quiet spot in the back corner. Upon I desk, a stack of books lay undisturbed, with neat slips of paper sticking out like tongues between the leaves. I sat where he had sat and looked at the mishmash of titles on everything from imps62 and demons63 to a thick book on "idiots savants." Nothing connected these titles, but he had scribbled64 diminutive65 notes to himself on bookmarks:
Not fairy but hobgoblin.
Gustav—savant?
Ruined my life.
Find Henry Day.
The phrases were discarded pieces to different puzzles, and I pocketed the notes. In the morning, the sounds of his dismay penetrated66 the floor. Henry muttered about the missing bookmarks, and I felt a guilty pleasure at having nipped them. He ranted67 at the librarians, but eventually he collected himself and went about his work. I welcomed the peace, which gave me the time to finish writing my book in the quiet hours. Soon I would be free of Henry Day. That evening, I packed the sheets in a cardboard box, placing a few old drawings on top of the manuscript, and then folded Speck's letter carefully and tucked the pages in my pocket. After a quick trip home, I planned on returning one last time to collect my belongings68 and say my final goodbyes to the dear old space. In my haste, I neglected to think of the time. The last hour of daylight held sway when I pushed out into the open. Considering the risk, I should not have chanced it, but I stepped away from the back staircase and began to walk home.
Henry Day stood not a dozen feet ahead, looking directly at me and the crack beneath the library. Like a cornered hare, I reacted instinctively69, running straight at him and then veering70 off sharply into the street. He moved not a single step. His dulled reflexes failed him. I ran through town with complete disregard for any people, crossed lawns with sprinklers spritzing the dry grass, leapt chainlink fences, tore in front of a moving car or two. I did not stop until deep in the woods, then collapsed71 on the ground, panting, laughing until tears fell. The look of surprise, anger, and fear on his face. He had no idea who I was. All I had to do was go back later for the book, and that would be the end of the story.
我开始去了解一切所能了解的关于另一个亨利·戴的事情。我的生平经历，以及这份经历的故事都和他息息相关，惟有知道他的事情，才能知道我失去了什么。
我的朋友们答应帮助我，因为我们本质上就是鬼怪和密探。自从奥斯卡·拉甫换生那事搞砸之后，仙灵们都没了用武之地，去侦查亨利·戴，他们个个都兴奋不已。
曾几何时，他是他们中的一员。
鲁契克、斯茂拉赫和卡维素芮跟踪他到了镇上另一头的一个较老的居民区，他在街上绕来绕去，好像迷路了似的。他停下车和两个在前院里玩娃娃的可爱小女孩搭讪。看着他离开后，卡维素芮向女孩们走去，觉得她们可能是化身人形的齐维和布鲁玛。小姐妹一下子就猜出了卡维素芮是仙灵，她边笑边叫地跑回我们在黑莓丛里的藏身处。过了一小会儿，我们的侦察员发现亨利·戴在和一个老妇人谈话，好像受了打击。他离开她家后，看上去像是鬼缠身似的，从未在车子里坐过这么长时间，头靠在方向盘上，耸着肩膀抽泣。
“他筋疲力尽，好像那个女人抽干了他的灵魂似的。”斯茂拉赫后来告诉我们。
“我也注意到了，”鲁契克说，“他最近变了，好像对过去感到悔’恨，又对未来满怀忧惧。”
我问他们是否觉得那个老妇人是我母亲，但他们肯定地说是另有其人。
鲁契克卷了一支烟，“他走进去时是一个人，走出来变成了另一个人。”
卡维素芮捅了捅篝火，“也许有两个他呢。”
奥尼恩斯表示同意，“或者他只是半个人。”
鲁契克点燃烟头，烟就叼在下唇上，“他是掉了一块的拼图，是只无声钟。”
“我们要打开他头脑里的锁。”斯茂拉赫说。
“你们有没有找到他过去更多的事? ”我问他们。
“不是很多，”鲁契克说，“他住在你家，和你父母还有两个小妹妹住在一起。”
“我们的肖邦拿过很多演奏奖，”卡维素芮说，“壁炉架上有一架闪闪发光的小钢琴，至少以前还在那儿。”她从后面的背包里拿出这个奖品来给我们欣赏，钢琴的正面映着火光。
“有一天我跟他去学校了，”斯茂拉赫说，“他教孩子们弹钢琴，但若是他们的演奏能说明什么问题的话，只能说明他不怎么样。管乐器声音刺耳，小提琴手不会拉弦。”
我们都大笑起来。后来他们又告诉我这个人的很多事情，但这些故事之间有很多缺口，而一个个问题也浮出水面。我的母亲是仍然在世，还是已经随我父亲入土?我对妹妹们一无所知，想知道她们是怎样长大的。现在她们应该已当上母亲了，但在我的印象中，她们永远是婴儿。
“我有没有告诉过你，他看到我们了? ”鲁契克问，“我们在他家附近那块我们的老地盘上，我肯定他看到了我和卡维素芮。他可不是这世上最漂亮的家伙。”
“说实话，”卡维素芮补充说，“他真可怕。就像和我们在一起那时一样。”
“还显老。”
“而且精神不振，”斯茂拉赫说，“你还是和我们在一起的好。永远年轻。”
篝火噼啪作响，灰烬“砰”地爆裂开来，升腾在黑夜中。我想像着他和他的女人舒适地躺在床上，而这幅画面让我想起斯帕克。我拖着脚步回到自己的窝，尽量在坚硬的地上睡得舒服一点。
睡梦中，我在攀爬凿刻在山边的上千级台阶。往下一看，景象让我一阵晕眩，气也喘不过来，心脏怦怦地捶打肋骨。前面只有蓝天和几级剩余的台阶。我奋力登上山顶，山的另一侧还有下山的台阶，无比陡峭，简直比上山的路还可怕。我四肢发麻，进退两难。斯帕克不知从哪里出现在我身边，和我一同站在顶峰上。她已经变了样，眼中闪烁着活力，朝我粲然一笑，仿佛时间并未走过。
“我们一起滚下山怎么样? 就像杰克和吉尔? ”
我一句话也说不出来。如果我一动，一眨眼，一开口，她就会消失，我就会倒下。
“其实并不像看起来这么困难危险。”
她张开双臂抱住我，接下来我们就已经安全地在山脚了。她闭上眼睛，梦幻般的景象变了，我掉进了一El深井中。我独自坐着，等待上面发生什么事情。一扇门打开，光线溢满了空间。我抬头只见亨利．戴正俯视着我。起先他的样子是我父亲，接着又变成了他自己。他朝我大喊大叫，挥动拳头。门“砰”地关上，光线全收走了。在我脚下，井里开始进水，像河流一般泛起波涛。我痛苦地伸手踢足，却发现一只厉害的蜘蛛网捆住了我的手脚。水升到我的胸口、下巴，盖过头顶，我没到了水下。我再也屏不住气，张开嘴，水灌满我的肺。
我喘息着醒来。过了一会儿，星星出来了，树木舒展着枝丫，小窝的洞口离我的脸只有一两寸。我掀开毯子，起身走出这地方，来到地面上。大家都睡在各自的窝里。之前烧着篝火的地方，乌黑的柴火下还隐约可见微弱的橘红色亮光。满天星空下的森林如此静谧，我能听到留在此地的几个仙灵平稳的呼吸声。凛冽的寒风夺走了被但后来发展成轻松活泼的儿歌，大意是杰克上山去提水，和吉尔一起滚下了山。
褥间的暖意，由于紧张而出的一层薄汗从我皮肤上蒸干了。我不知道自己伫立了多久，但我隐隐地盼望黑暗中会有人出来，把我带走，或将我拥抱。
我回去继续写我的书，写到伊格尔即将和小奥斯卡·拉甫换生时，我滞住了。
我第一次回图书馆底下时，参照我们所发现的亨利·戴的事情，以及同伴们所说的我的前生和生活环境，我又读了一遍手稿。无须说，我的第一个故事里满纸都是错误的印象。我整理好纸页和差错连篇的手稿，思忖这个问题。在原初的版本中，我假定我的父母仍然在世，他们一辈子都在思念他们惟一的儿子。我和我的亲生父亲碰过几次面，但只有一次碰到的那个才是真父亲。而且，当然了，第一个故事里的那个骗子、那个取代了我地位的冒名顶替者也没有写对。
我们再度开始观察他，发现他麻烦缠身。他老是自言自语，嘴里冒出激烈的争辩。几年前，他有许多朋友，但随着他越变越怪，都从他的生活中消失了。亨利大部分时间都把自己锁在房间里，或者读书，或者弹那架呜呜响的管风琴，在五线谱上涂写音符。他的妻子生活在边缘地带，在家中忙里忙外，每天开车出去，几个小时后再回来。
奥尼恩斯认为这女人的心头显然重重压着一种不快，因为每当她独自一人时，她常常目视远方，好似她没有说出的疑问能在空气里得到答案。那男孩爱德华是换生的理想对象，他形单影只，无视于生活的起伏，只一门心思想着自己的事，在他父母的屋子里晃来晃去，好像在找一个朋友。
我在一个满月的半夜醒来，听到贝卡和奥尼恩斯在悄声谈论那个男孩。他们以为呆在舒适的窝里就能享有某种程度的私密性，但他们的密谋嗡嗡地从地面传来，好像远处火车开过的声音。
“你觉得光靠我们两个能行吗? ”奥尼恩斯问。
“只要我们能找准时机抓住他。也许当他父亲分神的时候，或在那架恶魔管风琴上弹奏熟悉的曲调的时候。”
“但如果你和爱德华·戴换生，我怎么办呢? ”奥尼思斯说道，语调前所未有地悲伤。我咳嗽一声，提醒他们我的存在，然后走过去，看到他们相拥而眠，装出熟睡的样子，像两头刚出生的小羊一般纯真。他们或许会无耻地干出这种事来，我下定决心要密切关注，未雨绸缪地击破任何阴谋。
在过去，仙灵们拒绝侦察已经离开部落的同伴，换生灵会独自一个，会被遗忘，同时也得到了作为人类生活的机会。被这种人发现是非常危险的，因为他们换生之后，会渐渐憎恨和我们共度的生活，也害怕其他人类会发现他们黑暗的秘密。我们曾经有很大的顾虑，但如今也无所谓了。我们正在消失。数量已经从十二个减到了六个。
我们决定要制定自己的规则。
我让他们寻找我母亲和妹妹，圣诞节时他们终于找到了。其他人睡觉的时候，卡维素芮和鲁契克悄悄去了镇上，那里张灯结彩，大街小巷里有人唱着颂歌。他们决定要一探我的童年故居，希望能找到一些丢失的线索，让我的过去更有意义，并以此作为我的圣诞节礼物。老家坐落在空地之中，已经不像以前那么茕茕孑立了。
附近的农庄一个接一个地卖走，到处都在兴建新房。车道上停着好几辆车，他们确信我的老家中正在举办一场庆祝活动，于是他们轻手轻脚地来到窗口，观察来聚会的人。亨利·戴，他的妻子和儿子都在那里。
还有玛丽和伊丽莎白。宴会的中心是一位头发花白的妇人，她坐在安乐椅中，旁边是闪闪发光的杉树。她的习惯动作让鲁契克想起了我的母亲，他很多年前侦察过她。他爬上了左近的一棵橡树，从伸出的枝丫上跳到了屋顶上，然后攀上了烟囱，那上面的砖块摸着仍然温暖。下面的火已经灭了，方便了他的窃听。他说，我母亲用老方式给孩子们唱着歌，没有伴奏。我多么想再听她唱一回啊。
“给我们弹个曲子，亨利，”她唱完歌后说，“就像你以前弹的那样。”
“如果弹钢琴，圣诞节就成了公共汽车司机的节日，”他说，“弹什么呢，妈?<基拉尼的圣诞节》呢还是别的垃圾? ”
“亨利，你不该开玩笑。”一个女儿说。
“《天使唱高歌》吧。”一个上了年纪、有些面生的男子说，他的手搭在她肩上。
亨利弹完这首曲子，又弹了另一首。鲁契克听够了，就跳回橡树上，爬下来回到卡维素芮身边。他们最后朝聚会瞟了一眼，为我细看了一下那些人物和场景，然后就回家了。第二天他们告诉我这事时，我欣喜万分地得知我母亲的消息，但对一些细节非常不解。那个老男人是谁? 那些孩子又是谁? 浮光掠影的消息都让旧日重现。我藏在树洞中。她生我的气，我离家出走，再也没有回去。我的妹妹们在哪里?我的婴儿呢?我记得自己坐在她两腿之间，听她讲奥辛在提尔那诺国的漫游记。原可不必思念一个人这么多年。
然而这是一种双重生活。我坐下来书写我的世界和亨利的世界的真实故事。写得很慢，很痛苦，有时候是一个字一个字地挤出来。
时常整个上午都写不出一句值得保留的句子。我捏皱扔掉了很多纸头，又老是要跑到图书馆里去偷更多的纸，堆在角落里的垃圾简直要把整个屋子都塞满了。为了拼凑我的故事，我变得易于疲倦，每天早早地就困顿不堪，所以只要能写出五百个字来，就算克服了犹豫和拖沓了。
有时候，我自问为何要用写作来证明自己的存在。小时候，故事就像生活的其他部分一样地真实。我听到杰克爬上豌豆茎，就想该怎么去爬我窗外高高的柱子。
汉瑟尔与葛莱特是勇敢的英雄，但我一想到炉子里的巫婆就不寒而栗。在我的白日梦中，我大战恶龙，救出了囚禁在塔里的姑娘。每当我因为自己想像中离奇而怪诞的事迹而无法入眠，就会叫醒父亲，但他总是说“这只是个故事而已”。仿佛这么一说，它就变得不那么真实了。但我那时候不信他的话，因为故事是写下来的，白纸黑字就足够证明了。如果说有什么东西能让人物和地点变得比这个时刻变化的世界更真实的话，那就是永远凝陷在时光中的文字。对我而言，我和换生灵在一起的生活比我作为亨利·戴的生活更加真实。我把它写下来，是想告诉大家，我们不只是讲给孩子们听的神话故事，也不只是噩梦和幻想。正如我们需要人类的故事来继续生存，人类也需要我们来映照他们的生活。我写下来，是为了给我的换生，还有我和斯帕克的交往创造意义。我这样写，而不是那样写，就可以掌握要紧的东西，展露隐藏在生活背后的真实。
我终于决定要和那个人会面。几年前我见过亨利·戴，如今我知道他曾经是换生灵，绑架了七岁的我。我们把他揭发出来了，到处跟踪他，得知了他日常生活的大略。换生灵去了他家，拿走了他胡乱写的乐谱，还给他留下了他们恶作剧的标志。
但我想要会一会他，即使只为了通过他，向我母亲和妹妹们道个别。
我正要去图书馆写完小说，一个男人从汽车里出来，朝楼房的前门走去，看起来又老又累，忧心忡忡。他和我一点都不像，或者说不是我想像中自己长大的样子。
他走路的时候耷拉着脑袋，两眼望地，双肩下垂，仿佛最简单的事情也能让他心事重重。他手里拿的纸丢了，就弯腰捡起来，咒骂了几句。我想从树林里跳出去，可他那晚的样子如此脆弱，经不起再受惊吓了，于是我挤进裂缝，干我的活儿去了。
那个夏天，他频频造访图书馆，一连几天都露面，嘴里哼着我们从他那里偷走的交响曲的片段。在天气湿热的下午，明智的人都去游泳，要么把百叶窗放下来，躺在床上，但亨利却常常独自在照得到太阳的桌子上读书。我能感觉到他在上面，我和他之间只隔一层薄薄的天花板，图书馆傍晚关门后，我就从地板门里爬出来查探。他在后面角落的一个安静的地方工作。一张桌子上，一摞书一动不动地躺着，里面插着的整洁的纸条，像舌头一样伸出来。我坐在他的位置上，查看各式各样的书名，从小魔鬼到守护神都有，还有一本厚厚的关于“天才专家”的书。这些题目之间毫无关系，但他在书签上用很小的字为自己做了笔记：没有仙灵只有妖怪。
古斯塔夫——专家? 毁了我的生活。
找到亨利·戴。
这些句子是从各种难题里丢出来的部分，我把笔记收进了口袋。
到了早上，他丢东西的沮丧的声音隔着地板被我听到了。亨利说着他丢了的书签，我半是歉疚，半是开心，因为是我偷的。他朝图书管理员发火，但最终冷静下来，又去工作了。一切平静下来了，我又有了时间来静悄悄地写完我的书。不久我就会摆脱亨利·戴了。那天傍晚，我把纸张放进一个硬纸盒里，先放手稿，再放上几张旧图画，最后把斯帕克的信小心翼翼地折好，塞进口袋里。我想赶快回家后，再回去一次，收走我的东西，并和亲爱的老地方最后道个别。我匆忙间忘了考虑到时间，从出口挤出去时，还有一线天光。我原不该冒这个险，可我却从后楼梯下走了出来，准备回家。
亨利·戴就在前面五米开外，盯着我和图书馆下面的裂缝看。
我就像被困的兔子，本能的反应就是直接朝他冲过去，接着猛地一个转弯蹿进街道。他一步都没动，迟钝得没有反应过来。我如入无人之境，穿过镇子，奔过洒着水的草坪，跃过成串的篱笆，避过一两辆车子，一口气奔到森林深处，倒在地上，喘着气哈哈大笑，笑得眼泪直流。他脸上惊讶、愤怒、恐惧并现。他不知道我是谁。
我所要做的就是过一会儿再回去拿书，然后一切都结束了。
收听单词发音 |
1
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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stomping
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| v.跺脚，践踏，重踏( stomp的现在分词 ) | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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erasing
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| v.擦掉( erase的现在分词 )；抹去；清除 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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kits
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| 衣物和装备( kit的名词复数 )； 成套用品； 配套元件 | |
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brazen
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| adj.厚脸皮的，无耻的，坚硬的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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45
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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eavesdrop
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| v.偷听，倾听 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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48
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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49
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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51
procrastination
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| n.拖延，耽搁 | |
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52
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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53
daydream
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| v.做白日梦，幻想 | |
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54
daydreams
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| n.白日梦( daydream的名词复数 )v.想入非非，空想( daydream的第三人称单数 ) | |
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55
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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56
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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58
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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59
pouncing
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的现在分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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60
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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61
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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62
imps
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| n.（故事中的）小恶魔( imp的名词复数 )；小魔鬼；小淘气；顽童 | |
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63
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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64
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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65
diminutive
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| adj.小巧可爱的，小的 | |
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66
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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67
ranted
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的过去式和过去分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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68
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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69
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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70
veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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71
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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