Chapter 25 IV
While Delly Alice was busy thinking, Sophie was sleeping while waiting, and Ariel Hawksquill was rushing down a foggy country road to some northern station to catch a train, O Beron and George Mouse stood by the little fire, unable to guess where Fred Savage had taken them, and unable to recall clearly how they had come.
They feel that they set out some time ago.At first they were busy preparing, rummaging through George's old suitcases and cabinets, but because they didn't know what dangers and difficulties they were about to face, the preparations were a bit casual.George threw over the sweater, limp knapsack, beanie, and rain boots he had found.
"Well," said Fred, tucking his disheveled hair into a hat, "I haven't worn anything like this in ages!"
"What's the use of these?" Auberon stood aside with his hands in his pockets.
"Listen," said George, "it's all about what happens. It's worth a lot of money to be prepared."
"To use this thing," Fred said, holding up a huge cloak, "you really need six arms."
"It's pretty darn stupid," said Auberon, "I mean..."
"Well, well," said George exasperatedly, brandishing a big pistol he had just found in a box, "it's up to you, you know-it-all. Don't blame me for not warning you ’” He pocketed the pistol, then changed his mind and dropped it back in the box. "Hey, what do you guys think of this?" He grabbed a twenty-bladed utility knife. "Jesus, I haven't seen one in years."
"Wonderful," said Fred, turning the corkscrew off the knife with his yellow nails. "Wonderful. Works great!"
Auberon watched with his hands in his pockets, but he made no further objections.After a while, he didn't even look at it.Ever since Lilac appeared on the Old Order Farm, it was difficult for him to stay in the world for a long time without losing his mind.He just seems to be moving through disjointed, disconnected scenes, like in a house whose blueprint he can't figure out (or he doesn't even want to figure out).Sometimes he thought he was going crazy, but while the idea was plausible and a possible explanation, he was completely unmoved.There was no doubt that everything had suddenly changed a lot, but he couldn't say exactly what was different: or rather, anything he could point to (a street, an apple, a thought, a memory) Nothing seems to be different, it always seems to be the same, but the difference is still there. "Unchanging difference." That's how George used to describe two things that were more or less the same.But for Auberon, it's describing how he feels about something that somehow has changed, and that change is likely to be permanent.
unchanging difference.
The change probably didn't happen suddenly, he just noticed and realized it all of a sudden (he didn't know if it was true, but it seemed very likely).It dawned on him, that's it; he understood it suddenly, like the sun breaking through the clouds.With a slight shudder, he predicted that one day he would not even see the difference, could not remember that things had ever been different, or hadn't been.Then different storms will hit indiscriminately one after another, and then he will see nothing.
He found himself beginning to forget the fact that his memory of Sylvie seemed to be clouded by something like an imprisoning front.He thought these memories were as solid and unchanging as all his possessions, but now when he touched them, they turned like fairy gold into autumn leaves, into damp dirt, into antlers , snail shells, and satyr hooves.
"What?" he said.
"Bring this on." George gave him a sheathed knife.The scabbard was printed in dull golden letters: "The Grand Canyon of Adinsburg", meaningless in Auberon's eyes, but he hung it on his belt anyway, because he couldn't think of a reason to refuse at the moment.
He seems to be drifting in and out of a novel that is missing a lot of pages, and this helps him with the difficult task before him: writing an ending (which he thought would never happen) necessary).To write an ending to a story that is guaranteed to never end--how hard!But as long as he sat in front of the typewriter that was almost shot to death (this typewriter has really experienced many vicissitudes), the last few chapters began to unfold in an uncanny way, clearly and skillfully, like a magician constantly conjured up from the empty palm. One after another colorful silk scarves.How should a story destined to never end end?Like a change settling in a world that hasn't changed in every way; like a complex vase pattern that, stared long enough, turns into two faces facing each other in profile.
He has made a promise that the story will not end: this is the end.that's it.
How on earth did he do it, and what kind of script did he type out with the twenty-six letters and other symbols on the typewriter?What lines?Which deaths?Which ones are born?He couldn't remember afterward either.They are the dreams of a man who dreams that he is dreaming, fantasies within fantasies, nothingness happening in a world of nothingness.Will producers accept these scripts?What kind of impact will it have on the audience?What spells are formed or broken?He couldn't imagine it at all.He just sent Fred the few pages of the script that had been difficult to come up with, and then smiled and remembered the trick he used in school.Every school kid has used this phrase to end his own wild, wild, wild, wild fantasy: "And then he woke up."
Then he woke up.
The fugue lines between him and the world are intertwined.He, George, and Fred stood at the entrance of a subway, all three in their boots: it was a cold spring day, like an untidy bed in which the world was still asleep.
"North? South?" George asked.
Auberon had suggested trying other entrances, or what he thought might be entrances: a gazebo in a locked park (he had the key), a building in the north of town (that's Sylvia Vee's last errand as an express courier), and a vaulted basement beneath the terminal where four corridors meet.But the leader of this journey is Fred.
"The ferry," he said, "if we take the ferry, we mean we're crossing the river. So if the Bronx and Harlem don't count, neither do the landfills and Seaports like Spencerville. , and if you don't take into account the sawmills in the north, Easter, and the bridged Hudson, there's still a whole bunch of messy rivers, you know? The only problem is that they're all invisible now subterranean rivers covered with streets, houses, and commercial buildings. They flow through the sewers, become trickles, then accumulate, pour into rock formations, and become seepage water and what you call groundwater. But they are still there , Get it? Get it? So our first step is to find the river to cross, and the next step is to cross the river. And if most of them are underground, we have to go underground."
"Okay," said George.
"All right," said Auberon.
"Watch your step," said Fred.
They walked down cautiously, as if they were in a strange land.But they're familiar with it, just the train and its tunnels and platforms, with its crazy signage contradicting itself (doesn't help anyone who gets lost), the seeping sewage and those belly-rumbling rumbles in the distance Voice.
Auberon stopped halfway down the stairs.
"Wait a minute," he said, "wait a minute."
"What's the matter?" George quickly looked around.
"This is crazy," said Auberon. "It can't be." Fred had rounded the corner ahead and was waving for them to catch up.George stood between them, looking from Fred to Auberon.
"Come on, go on," said George.
It's going to be hard, very hard, Auberon thought, reluctantly following them.It was much harder to give in to it than it was to allow myself to slip into unconsciousness when I was drunk.But the skills he learned during those long drinking years are all he has now, the only equipment he's ever brought with him on this expedition—knowing how to let go of self-control, how to ignore shame, how to draw attention At the same time, how not to question the situation around you, or at least not be surprised when you don't find the answer.But even with these abilities, he still doubts whether he can make it to the end.And without them, he would never even be able to start, he thought.
"Okay, wait for me." He followed them deeper, "Wait a minute."
What if he had gone through that terrible period, that basic training, to get him, snowblind and sunstroked, through today's storm of difference and through this dark forest?
No.It was Sylvie, or should I say Sylvie's departure, that set him on this path.
Sylvie's departure.But what if this is the case: what if Sylvie goes away, what if she was in his life in the first place, God... what if her love and beauty were designed from the beginning? ?Maybe it's all just to make him a drunk, to teach him these tricks, to train him to find his way, to let him unconsciously hide in the old order farm for years waiting for news, waiting for Lilac to show up, waiting for her to use promises or lies Let the ashes rekindle inside him, and all for some purpose of their own, nothing to do with him or Sylvie.
Well: assuming there was such a council, assuming it wasn't a lie, assuming he would actually meet them face to face, then he would have some questions to ask and see what good answers they could come up with.If he really came to this point, as long as he was asked to find Sylvie, he would definitely ask her what role she played in all this.He's got a bunch of goddamn tough questions to ask her, just let him find her.Just, just let him find her.
As he pondered these things, he saw below a blond girl in a blue dress jumping from the last step of the curved escalator, bright in the brown darkness.
She glanced back, and then (knowing they had seen her) walked around a post that read: "HOLD HAT".
"I think it's right to go here." George exclaimed.They ran down together when a train whizzed past.The wind from the train nearly blew their hats off, but their hands were a step faster. "Right?" George shouted over the sound of the train, pressing his hat.
"That's right." Fred also grabbed his hat, "I was just about to say it."
They go down.Auberon followed them.Whether it's a promise or a lie, he has no choice, and they must know that, after all, that's what they cursed him in the first place, didn't they?He clearly felt that all the scenes in his life were connected one after another, without exception, including the dirty subway and the descending stairs at this moment.They all joined together, revealed the truth, grabbed him by the neck and shook, shook, shook until it woke him up.
Fred Savage returned from the woods with a load of wood to add to the fire.
"There's the hell of everything in there," he said with satisfaction, sticking the log into the dying fire, "of the hell of everything."
"Really?" George panicked, "Is it a beast?"
"It's possible," said Fred, his white teeth gleaming.Wearing a woolen cap and a cloak, he looked very old, and his figure was irregular, like a wise old toad.Georges and Auberon moved closer to the faint fire, ears pricked up, and looked around the enigmatic darkness.
They got off the ferry and went into the forest by the river, but it was getting dark before they got very far, so Fred Savage decided to stop.As the old grey, groaning ferry sailed down the ropes, they watched the red sun set behind the still bare trees, and be cut by the undergrowth into fine fragments of dark red, and finally completely disappear.Everything looked scary and weird, but George said, "I seem to have been here before."
"Really?" said Auberon.They stood together on the bow of the boat.Fred sat with his feet crossed in the stern and chatted with the aging ferryman, but he didn't respond.
"Well, not really here," said George, "but it's kind of like that." Who the hell had this dangerous encounter in that boat, in that wood, and how did he know?God, his memory has been getting worse lately, like a dry sponge. "I don't know," he said, and then looked at Auberon curiously, "I don't know. It's just..." He looked back at the place where he had just set sail, and then at the other side ahead, tight in the river wind. Hold your hat tight. "It just seems like—are we going in the wrong direction?"
"Impossible," said Auberon.
"No," said George, "it can't be..." But the feeling was still there, always feeling that they were returning instead of sailing.Sometimes when he leaves the subway station and enters a strange neighborhood, he also feels lost, and reverses the direction of the south and north of the city. Trapped in a mirror.He thinks that's how he feels at the moment. "Okay." He shrugged.
But he did bring back Auberon's memory.Auberon knew the ferry, too: or at least had heard of it.They were about to land, so the ferryman lowered his pole and went to the bow to tie the rope.Auberon looked at his bald head and gray beard, but the Ferryman did not look up. "Did you," said Auberon, "did you ever..." How could he say it? "Did you hire a girl a while ago, a dark girl?"
The ferryman pulls the ropes of the ferry with his long, muscular arms.He looked up at Auberon with blue eyes as opaque as the sky.
"A girl named Sylvie?" asked Auberon.
"Sylvie?" said the ferryman.
The ferry chugs up to the pier and stops.The ferryman held out his hand, and George put the shiny coin he had brought into his palm.
"Sylvie," said George, as they sat by the campfire.He put his arms around his knees. "Did you ever feel," he went on, "I mean I used to feel like it was some kind of family affair. Didn't you?"
"Family business?"
"I mean all of this," said George vaguely. "I used to think maybe only the family was involved in it. You know, because of Violet."
"I did think so," said Auberon, "but then there's Sylvie."
"Yeah," said George, "that's what I mean."
"But," said Auberon, "I still think it's possible that everything about Sylvie is a lie. They can say anything. Anything."
George stared at the campfire for a moment, then said, "Hmm. Well, I'm afraid I have a confession to make."
"What's the meaning?"
"Sylvie," said George, "maybe it's really a family affair.
"I mean," he went on, "she might actually be family. I'm not sure, but... well, a long time ago, twenty-five years ago, oh, probably more, I met a woman. It was Puerto Rican. It was insane. Totally crazy, but beautiful." He laughed. "A fire-breathing girl, that's the only adjective. She rented a house with me, before there were farms, and she rented a small apartment. Well, to be honest, she rented a folding bedroom. "
"Oh, oh," said Auberon.
"God, she's not easy. I came upstairs one time and she was doing the dishes and she was wearing high heels. She was doing the dishes in red high heels. And then I didn't know it, and we saw each other."
"Hmm," said Auberon.
"And then, well," George sighed, "she's got a couple of kids elsewhere. I always thought she'd go crazy whenever she got pregnant. In a very quiet way, you know. So there you go." , hey, I'm careful. But."
"Jesus, George."
"And she did get hysterical. I don't know why, but she never told me. She just went away, went back to Puerto Rico. I never saw her again."
"So..." said Auberon.
"So." George cleared his throat, "Sylvie did look like her. And she did find my farm. I mean she just showed up and never told me how she found it Here."
"My God," said Auberon, beginning to realize what it all meant. "My God, are you serious?"
George threw up his hands earnestly.
"But did she..."
"No. She didn't say anything. The last name was different, but then again, it couldn't have been the same. And her mother ran away, and she said this: 'Where did I go, I never saw her.' "
"But you definitely have... haven't you..."
"To tell you the truth, my boy," said George, "I've never asked much about it."
Auberon was silent for a moment in amazement.If their lives were arranged and she was one of them, then her appearance was really planned.He said, "Don't know about her... I mean, don't know what she thinks."
"Yeah," George nodded. "Yeah, uh, that's a good question, isn't it. A damn good question."
"She used to say you were like..." Auberon said.
"I know exactly what she used to say."
"God, George, how can you..."
"I'm not sure. How can I be sure? Women of their type look alike."
"God, you're really poisoned, aren't you?" Auberon said in amazement, "You're really..."
"Aren't you finished," said George, "and I'm not sure. I thought: Who cares, maybe not."
"Okay." The two stared at the campfire. "But that explains everything," said Auberon. "It explains this. If it's a family thing."
"That's what I thought," said George.
"Yes," said Auberon.
"Really?" said Fred Savage.They looked up at him in amazement. "Then what the hell am I doing here?"
He looked at the two of them in turn, grinning with pleasure in his dull, vivid eyes. "Got it?" he said.
"Er," said George.
"Well," said Auberon.
"Got it?" Fred said again. "What the hell am I doing here?" His yellow eyes closed and opened, and so did the yellow eyes in the woods behind him.He shook his head as if puzzled, but he wasn't really puzzled. "What am I doing here?" He never asked the question seriously, he would ask it just to see people ponder it uncomfortably.To him, restlessness, as well as thinking itself, were a spectacle, since he had long ago ceased to distinguish between the world in his head and the world in front of him; it was hard to confuse him.As for the place they were going to now, Fred Savage was not too perplexed, because he believed that he had never left it.
"Just kidding," he whispered kindly to his two friends, "just kidding."
He kept watch for a while, or slept, or both, or neither.The night passed.He saw a path.When the blue dawn came, when the birds woke up and the campfires burned out, he saw the same path in the woods again, but it might have been another one.He woke up Georges and Auberon, who were sleeping close together, and pointed out the way to them with his swarthy forefinger with thick knuckles and mud.
George Mouse looked around with a sudden wave of uneasiness and wonder.Ever since he had set foot on the trail Fred had found, none of it had seemed strange enough, or foreign enough, to him.And although this place is no different from other places, with the same dense bushes and the same towering giant trees above, his feeling is stronger.He has been to this place before, in fact, he has never been far away.
"Wait," he said to Fred and Auberon.They were stumbling forward, looking for where the path would lead. "Wait a moment."
They stopped and looked back at him.
George looked up and down and left and right.On the right side is a clearing in the forest. Rather than seeing it, it might be better to say that he sensed it.Behind the guarding ring of trees the air was more golden and blue than the gray forest.
The circle of guardian trees...
"You know what?" he said, "I don't think we've gotten very far."
But the other two couldn't hear what he said. "Come on, George," cried Auberon.
George pulled himself away from the spot and continued to follow them.But he had only taken a few steps when he felt a force trying to pull him back.
Damn.He stopped.
It's hard to believe that a big mess of vegetation could do this, but it's true: a forest is like a series of rooms, and you keep going through doorways, from one space to another very different one.He only took five steps before he felt that he was out of the familiar place just now.He wants to go back, he wants to go back very, very much.
"Okay, just wait a second," he shouted to his traveling companions, but they didn't look back because they were already elsewhere.The birdsong seemed louder than George's own shouts.Torn between two steps, he took two steps in the direction they were heading, then, attracted by a curiosity that overwhelmed his fear, he ran back to the spot where he could glimpse the glade.
It doesn't look far.It even seemed like there was a trail leading there.
He went down the path, but almost immediately the ring of guardian trees and the sunbeam he had glimpsed were gone.Soon even the trail disappeared.Then it wasn't long before George had no recollection of how he'd gotten here.
He went a little further, his boots sinking into the soft mud, and the rough swamp brush scraping at his coat.Where?for what?He stood motionless, but began to sink into the dirt, so he forced himself to keep going.The surrounding forest was filled with singing, which made it impossible for him to think.George forgot who he was.
He stopped again.It was dark and bright all around, and the trees seemed to sprout pale green shoots in an instant, and spring was here.Why is he here?How can you be here with fear?When is this and where is this place?What happened to him?Who is he?He started rummaging through his pockets, not knowing what he would find, but at least hoping to find some clue as to who he was and what he was doing here.
He drew a blackened pipe from one of his pockets.He looked and looked and played with it again and again, but it still meant nothing to him.He took an old pocket watch from another pocket.
Pocket watch, that's right.On the surface there was a bearded face grinning at him in an embarrassing way, and he couldn't tell what time it was, but it must have been a clue.He has a watch in his hand.now it's right.
He had probably swallowed a pill (he almost remembered it), a new drug he was experimenting with, which had surprising effects never seen before.It had been a while ago, yes, by the looks of it, and the pill had taken away his memory, he didn't even remember swallowing it himself.Then he ran to this place of pure fantasy, and God, the drug was so powerful that it could create a whole forest in his head for him to wander, everything from lingonberries to birdsong.But there is something real running through the woods of fantasy: he holds the pocket watch in his hand, which was originally prepared to time the onset of new drugs.This pocket watch has always been in his hand, and it is only now that the effects of the medicine wear off, and he begins to fantasize about taking it out of his pocket to see the time-this fantasy is because as the effect of the medicine wears off, he has already slowed down. Slowly regaining consciousness, the real pocket watch appeared in the imaginary forest.Just a moment longer, and this frightful forest of leaves would disappear, and he would see the real rooms around him, pocket watch in his hand: in his study on the third floor of his city mansion, he sat recliner.That's right!He had been sitting there motionless for an indeterminate amount of time, and the pill made him feel as if he was in another world.And his friends were all around, waiting for his answer, waiting for him to describe the whole process.At any moment now their faces might emerge from reality like the pocket watch: Franz, Smoky, and Alice, all assembled in the dusty old study where they used to sit and talk, Nervous, delighted and expectant: How is it, George?what does it feel likeBut for a long time, he just shook his head and made a bunch of inarticulate round sounds, unable to describe it at all until he fully returned to reality.
"Yes, yes," said George, moved almost to tears at the thought of it, "I remember, I remember." But he put the watch back in his pocket as he spoke, and turned to the An ever-greener landscape. "I remember..." He pulled one foot out of the mud, then the other, and then he couldn't remember.
A row of guardian trees, a sunny glade, a hint of plowing.go ahead.Onward: only now he was staggering down over mossy, slippery black stones, stumbling into a ravine through which a cold stream ran.He inhaled the damp breath.There was a crude bridge there, mostly in ruins, with floating branches stuck to its piers, and a white stream swirled around it.It looks dangerous, and the opposite slope is difficult to climb.When he stepped on the bridge cautiously, fearfully and out of breath, he forgot what he was working so hard for.When he took another step (the rock was loose, so he steadied himself), he forgot who he was and why he was working so hard.And when he took the third step and came to the middle of the bridge, he realized that he had forgotten everything.
Why is he standing here staring at the stream?What is going on in all this?He reached into his pocket, hoping to find a clue.He took out an old pocket watch that meant nothing to him, and a small blackened pipe.
He was playing with the pipe.A pipe: that's right. "I remember." He said vaguely.Pipe, pipe.That's right.his basement.What an amazing, overjoyed surprise he found an old storage cabinet in the basement of his building.Great stuff!He had smoked some herb on this pipe, and it must have been so: in that blackened pipe-bowl.He could also see a little charred residue, which he had inhaled now, and this—this! - is the effect.Never before had he experienced such a complete, such ecstasy of medicine!He was out of his body, and he was no longer standing at the place where he lit the pipe.He was on a bridge, yes, a stone bridge in a park, and he was sharing a joint with Sylvie there.But now he ran into a strange forest, so real that he could even smell the smell, and he was so ecstatic that he seemed to have walked in this forest for hours or even longer, but he actually just put down his pipe at this moment (he remembered it for a long time) clear)—it was still lying in his hand, right in front of his eyes.Yes: that was the first thing that came to mind, the first sign of his awakening from this undoubtedly brief but utterly ecstatic vision, and the next thing that must have come was Sylvie's face, wearing wearing a black hat.He's going to turn to her (the phantom woods disappear, the brown winter park full of garbage emerges) and say, "Uh huh, ha, strong, watch out, very strong." And she's going to look at his disembodied expression Laughed, and took the pipe from him, making a Sylvie-esque remark.
"I see, I remember," he said, as if it were a spell.But he had a terrible feeling that this was not the first time he had thought of it.Not really: he had had an experience before, but he remembered it differently.only once?Oh no, probably several times, oh no, oh no: he froze in place, remembering a possibly endless series of memories, each different, but all about a moment in the woods: a series of endless Repeated "Oh, I remembered, I remembered."Each begins with a very brief moment in this incredible wood (just the time to turn your head or take a step) and then stretches back indefinitely.Seeing this, George felt as if he had been cast into hell suddenly—or not suddenly, but for a very long time.
"Help me," he gasped, "help, oh, help."
He walked across the crumbling bridge under which the rushing forest stream flowed.On the wall of his kitchen hung a picture without glass, framed in an old gilt frame (but George had now forgotten it existed).There is a bridge in the painting, which is as dangerous as the bridge in front of you. Two innocent children walk across the bridge holding hands, brave or not aware of the danger they are in.It's a blond girl and a brave dark boy, with an angel watching from above, ready to help if a rock breaks loose or they step in the wrong place: a white angel with a golden headband and a Tulle robes, expressionless, but strong enough to protect the two children.Although he didn't dare to look back, George felt that there was a force like this behind him, so he took Lilac's hand, or Sylvie's hand, and stepped bravely over those creaking cross-rails , reached the other side.
What followed was a long, seemingly endless period of time, of which George had no recollection.But at last he climbed to the top of the ravine, his knees were raw and his hands were weary.He passed between two boulders shaped like knees, and found himself (rightly so!) in a small flowery glade with a row of guardian trees not far ahead.It was clear now: behind the row of trees was an acacia hedge, a building or two, and smoke. "Oh, that's right," panted George, "oh, that's right." A little sheep stood not far from him.The sound he heard was not his frantic heartbeat, but the cry of the lamb.It got tangled in some annoying thorn and hurt itself when it tried to free its leg.
"All right, all right," said George, "it's all right, all right."
"Baa, baa," said the lamb.
Brambles clung to its frail black legs, so George untied it.The lamb staggered forward, still bleating non-stop—it was just born, how could it be separated from its mother?George walked up to it, grabbed it by the legs, hung it around his neck, and held its gently struggling leg (he had seen it done but couldn't remember where).He came to the acacia fence behind the ring of trees, and the lamb turned its silly, sad face and tried to come face to face with him.The door is open.
"Oh, that's right," said George, standing at the door. "Oh, yes, I get it. I get it."
Because it's clear enough.It was the ramshackle cottage with the corner windows, the cowshed on one side, the sheepfold on the other.Over there was the vegetable garden where the vegetables had just been planted. Someone was digging the ground in it. It was a short, dark-skinned man who left his tools and grumbled as soon as he saw George and left in a hurry.The manhole shed and storage cellar were there, and the woodpile was there, with the axes still sticking straight out of the blocks.Hungry sheep huddled behind the fence, their heads raised, waiting to be eaten.And around this small open space is the tall and straight black forest, which is cold and dark.
He doesn't know how he got here, doesn't know where he started from, but it's clear where he is now: he's home.
He put the lamb in the flock, and let it hop over to receive his mother's instruction.George wished he could remember something, but God damn it, he'd been living under one spell or another, or a spell within a spell.But he was too old for the switch of spells to matter to him.This is real enough.
“天杀的，”他说，“天杀的，不过是种生活方式。”他转身关上大门、锁紧门闩，熟练地把黑森林和居住其中的生物阻挡在外。接着他搓了搓手，朝自己家门口走去。
一个天堂，爱丽尔·霍克斯奎尔心想。在内心深处，有个不比拇指大的天堂。是神仙的岛屿花园，在那里人人都是永远的王。随着火车规律的哒哒声，这思绪也在她内心的轨道上不断绕圈子。
霍克斯奎尔向来不觉得行驶中的火车令人平静。反之，它折磨侵扰着她，而尽管车窗外那单调的景致似乎即将迎接一场下着雨的昏暗黎明，她却未曾合眼。她上车时确实说过她打算睡觉，但那只是为了让总统暂时不要找上门而已。当那个和善的老服务员进来为她铺床时，她先是遣走了他，接着又把他叫回来，请他帮她送来一瓶白兰地，并要求大家不要打扰她。
“确定不必帮您铺床吗，女士？”
“嗯，就这样。”总统的手下是怎么找到这些温和驼背的黑人的？就算是在她自己年轻的时候，这种人就已经又老又迟钝又稀少了。说到这个，他又是怎么找到这些豪华旧车厢的？还有相配的铁轨？
她为自己倒了白兰地，咬着牙忍受这种令人紧张的疲倦，觉得连自己最牢靠的记忆之屋都快被这火车的频率给震垮了。但她却从来没有像现在这么需要保持思路清晰完整，而不是一直绕圈子。装有那副纸牌的鳄鱼皮包就放在对面高处的行李架上。
一个内心深处的天堂，神仙们的岛屿花园。是的：若真如此，倘若那真的是个天堂之类的地方，那么唯一能够肯定的一件事就是不管还有什么令人欣喜的特征，那里一定比我们抛下的这个平凡世界更加辽阔。
更加辽阔：天空更宽广，山巅更遥远，海洋更深沉、更加难以测量。
但在那里，神仙们自己一定也会做梦、会思考、会进行心灵的运动，在那个天堂里寻觅一个更小的天堂。而倘若真有一个更小的天堂存在，那么它必定又比前一个更辽阔、更宽广、更高、更宽、更深。以此类推……“而最大的那个点，那个中心点，那片无穷之地——就是仙境，巨人般的英雄在那儿骑马横越无涯的土地、航向一片又一片的海洋，可能性无穷无尽——但那个圆却小到一扇门也没有。”
是的，老布兰波也许是对的，只是他想得太简单了——或者太复杂了，扯到他那些漏斗状的异世界还有门什么的。不，没有两个世界，她用就可以杀死那个理论了。世界只有一个，只是有不同的模式而已。况且“世界”又是什么东西？她在电视上看的那个“他方世界”是可以融入这个世界的，根本不必增加无谓的实体。它微小无比，但五脏俱全：它只是另一种模式而已，它是虚构的。
而她表亲说她受邀前往（不，是说她必须前往！）的那个地方就存在于某种类似虚构、类似假想的模式里。是的，前往，因为倘若那是一片土地，那么抵达那里的唯一方法就是旅行。
这一切都够清楚了，只是毫无帮助。
因为中国天堂跟假想世界有个共通点：不论用何种方式抵达，都是出自你自己的选择，其实要踏上这种旅程几乎都必须先经过冗长的准备，还必须拥有钢铁般的意志或梦想。但那跟眼前这种模式有什么关联？它不顾这个世界，至少是完全没有征求它的同意，就这样一点一滴地侵入，掳获一个建筑师的想象力、攻占五座城镇、侵入一栋贫民窟大楼，连终点站的天花板和首都本身都难逃它的指爪。它袭击了平凡世界的人、将他们卷走，或至少是不管三七二十一地将他们吸入了它自己的浪潮里。她本以为它是神圣罗马帝国，但她错了。红胡子腓特烈皇帝只是推动时间之流的这波巨浪里的漂流物，他的睡梦遭到入侵，就像洪水冲进墓穴、把死者的尸骨冲出来。他的目的地不在这里。
除非她有办法让他调头。她不打算流落到一个不知由谁统治的世界，毕竟他们可能会非常无法谅解她的反叛。必须让他变节，就像收买敌方的间谍。她偷那副纸牌就是为了这件事。有了这副牌，她也许就能掌控他，或至少让他讲道理。
但那个计划里却有一个极大的瑕疵。
真是个困境。她瞥了行李架上的皮包一眼。她觉得自己为了对抗这场风暴所采取的权宜之计根本毫无希望，就像被某种满不在乎、迎面冲来的庞然大物给撞上，任何行动都是可悲而无望的。艾根布里克的每一场演讲都提到了这点，而他是对的，盲目的人是她。迎接它就跟反抗它一样毫无意义，因为它若要朝你攻来，它就势必得手。霍克斯奎尔很后悔自己当初那么自以为是，但她还是要逃走。她非逃走不可。
脚步声：她听出有人沿着走廊朝她门口走来，跟车轮规律的咔啦声不一样。
已经没时间把纸牌藏起来了，况且最显眼的地方就是最安全的地方。这一切都发生得太快，且她毕竟只是一个老太婆，这种事她不在行，一点也不在行。
千万不要，她告诫自己，千万不要瞥向那个鳄鱼皮包。
The door was flung open.罗素·艾根布里克站在她面前，两手紧紧攀着门框，在晃动的火车上稳住自己。他肃穆的领带被拉得歪向一边，额头上有闪闪发光的汗珠。他狠狠瞪着霍克斯奎尔。
“我闻得到它们的味道。”他说。
这就是她计划中的瑕疵。某个下雪的夜里，她就已经在总统办公室里怀疑到这点。现在她很肯定了。这皇帝是个疯子：跟任何神经病一样疯。
“闻到什么，先生？”她平静地问。
“我闻得到它们的味道。”他又说了一次。
“你起得还真早，”她说，“来杯这个不会太早吧？”她举起那瓶白兰地。
“它们在哪？”他踉踉跄跄地进入她的小房间，“它们现在在你手上，就藏在这里的某处。”
万万不可瞥向那个鳄鱼皮包。 "they?"
“那副纸牌，”他说，“你这婊子。”
“有件事我必须跟你谈谈，”她站起身，“很抱歉我昨天拖到很晚才上火车，但……”
他在房里转来转去，眼睛快速地到处瞟，鼻孔张得老大。“在哪里？”他说，“在哪里？”
“先生，”她鼓足勇气，但却有一阵无望的感觉上涌，“先生，你得听我说。”
“那副牌。”
“你选错边站了。”她冲口而出，非但没办法把话说得更高明，还很难不去瞪着行李架上他没看见的那个皮包。他在墙壁上敲来敲去，想找找看有没有什么暗柜。“你得听我说。那些对你作出承诺的人根本不打算履行承诺，他们就算想也没办法。但我……”
“你！”他猛然转向她，“你！”他捧腹大笑。“还真慷慨呀！”
“我想帮助你。”
他停下手边的动作看着她，棕色的眼睛里满是悲哀的谴责。“帮助是吧，”他说，“你，帮助，我？”
这字眼确实是选错了。从他脸上就看得出来：他很明白霍克斯奎尔从来都没打算过要帮助，而她现在也没这个打算。他也许是疯了，但他可不笨。他脸上流露的东西令她转开目光。她显然说什么都打动不了他了。现在他要的就只有那件东西，但除非有她在，否则那东西对他根本毫无用处。只是她现在连这点都不知道该如何解释。
她发现自己正盯着它们看，就在行李架上的皮包内。她几乎可以看见它们回视着她。
她慌忙移开目光，但暴君已经看见了。他把她推到一旁、往上伸出手。
“住手！”她说，往这两个字里灌注了魔力。她曾立誓只在最紧要的关头动用这种力量，且必须是为了善良的目的。皇帝停下动作。他的手还举在半空中，想用一身蛮牛似的力量反抗霍克斯奎尔的命令，但却动弹不得。霍克斯奎尔一把抓起那个鳄鱼皮包，仓皇逃出房间。
她在走廊上差点就撞上了那个弯腰驼背、动作缓慢的服务生。“准备就寝了吗，女士？”他轻声问道。
“你睡吧。”她说着从他身旁挤过去。于是他缓缓沿着墙边倒下，张着嘴巴、闭着眼睛，已经睡着了。霍克斯奎尔走进下一节车厢，听见艾根布里克发出狂暴沮丧的怒吼。她推开一道挡住去路的厚帘子，发现自己置身一节寝车内。听见艾根布里克的咆哮声，上下铺都已经有人醒来，正拉开帘子向外张望，个个睡眼惺忪、警觉而苍白。他们看见了霍克斯奎尔。她退出寝车，回到刚才的车厢。
她在墙上的一个壁龛里看见了那条她搭火车时经常研究的细绳，为了好玩或恶作剧而乱拉这条绳子是会受到巨额罚款的。她从来不曾真正相信这种细绳真的能让火车停止，但由于已经听见远处车厢里传来脚步声和喧哗声，她拉下了这条绳子，迅速来到车门边，紧紧握住门把。
几秒之内，火车就在一阵剧烈晃动中嘎吱嘎吱地停了下来。霍克斯奎尔把门扯开，对自己感到惊异。
她被雨水击中。他们置身无人之境，周围是一片下着雨的黑暗树林，还有最后几堆正在融化的残雪。空气冷冽无比。霍克斯奎尔惊呼一声跳到地面，心脏差点不胜负荷。她在裙子的羁绊下挣扎着爬上边坡，催促着自己前进，尽量不让自己意识到自己正在进行这么不可思议的事。
那是场灰色的黎明，苍白的晨光几乎要比黑夜更加不透明。她来到边坡顶上，气喘吁吁地站在树林里回头看着那停下来的火车，它呈一条黑暗的直线。车上的灯光正一盏盏亮起。有个男子从她跳车的那扇门跳了出来，对后面的人打了个手势。霍克斯奎尔踉踉跄跄穿过被雪覆盖的灌木丛，往树林更深处跑去。她听见背后传来呼喊声。追兵来了。
她躲到一棵大树后，背靠着它痛苦地吸入一口口寒冷的空气，一边侧耳倾听。有树枝被踩断的噼啪声，他们正展开地毯式搜索。她往周围扫视一圈，在左方远处看见一个模糊的人影，戴着手套的手里还握着枪械。
暗中处死，真是再聪明不过。
她用颤抖的手打开鳄鱼皮包，从散乱的纸牌之间翻出一个小小的摩洛哥皮革信封。她吐出来的气息在面前凝结成白雾，让她视线不清，而且她的手抖得很厉害。她打开信封，摸索着寻找里面的那一小块骨头，是从一只纯种黑猫身上的上千块骨头里挑选出来的那一块。那该死的东西到哪去了？她摸到了。她用两根手指把它夹起。似乎有一阵噼啪声从近处的一丛灌木传来，她吓得猛然抬起头，结果那小小的符咒就从她指尖滑落。当它沿着她的裙子滚下去时，她差点就接住它了，但由于太过仓皇，它反而被她拨走。它就这样掉在积雪和黑色的树叶之间。霍克斯奎尔绝望地叫了一声“不”，接着又不小心一脚踩上去。
追兵的呼声低沉自信，而且愈逼愈近。霍克斯奎尔从她的藏身处逃离，瞥见了艾根布里克的另一个士兵（但也可能是同一个），总之他有武器，而他也看见了她。
她从来不曾认真想过：把灵魂安全藏匿起来之后，若是有了致命的遭遇，若是被炮弹猛烈击中、若是鲜血四溅，那么自己的肉身会怎样。她是死不了的，这点她很肯定。但身体究竟会怎样？What?她转过头，看见他瞄准她。他射出一发子弹。她转身再次逃跑，分不清自己是被击中了还是只是被那声音吓傻而已。
被击中了。她知道自己温热潮湿的血液和冰冷潮湿的雨水有什么不同。疼痛的感觉在哪里？她继续往前跑，绝望地踉跄前进，似乎有一条腿不能动。她从一棵大树闪到另一棵大树，听见追兵用简短的字句互相指引。他们很近了。
是有方法可以逃走的，她可以找到别的出路，这点她很肯定。但在这关键时刻，她却一种也想不起来。
想不起来！她所有的技艺都丢失了。好吧，她罪有应得，因为她侮辱了这些艺术；她撒了谎、偷了东西，在她最志得意满的时候利用它们谋取权力；她为了个人目的动用了她曾经发誓永不动用的力量。这很公平合理。她转过身，陷入了绝境。四面八方都是追兵的黑暗身影。他们无疑是想近距离开枪，这样才不会搞得鸡飞狗跳。一两枪就解决。但她会怎么样？她本以为自己不会感到疼痛，但此时痛觉正从她体内蹿起，是种非常可怕的感受。再跑也没意义了，她眼前一黑。但她还是再次转身跑开。
有一条小径。
有一条小径，在黎明中清晰可见。而那里——好吧，她可以到那里去，对吧？到林间空地上的那栋小屋去。一枚子弹让她猛然一颤，但那栋小屋却仿佛突然被一道阳光照亮似的变得更加清晰：是一栋滑稽的房子，事实上是她看过最古怪的小屋。这小屋令她想起什么？很像姜饼屋，有很多种颜色，烟囱长得像帽子，小窗里透出愉快的火光，还有一扇圆形的绿门。这扇绿门让人有种宾至如归的亲切感，而且刚好在这时候打开。一张咧着嘴微笑的脸从门口探出来欢迎她。
事实上他们射了她好几枪，因为他们自己也很迷信。她看起来确实跟他们看过的其他死人一样没有生命，四肢呈现同一种洋娃娃似的瘫态，脸上的表情也同样空洞。她一动不动，嘴唇上方也没有空气凝结。他们终于满意了，其中一人抓起鳄鱼皮包，一行人随即返回火车上。
身为总统的罗素·艾根布里克边哭泣边发出粗嘎的狂笑，把那叠乱七八糟的旧纸牌（正反面都有）紧紧按在胸口，接着才终于拉下绳子，命令火车再次开动。他因害怕与狂喜而失去了理智，踉踉跄跄冲过一节节车厢，火车猛然启动时还差点摔了一跤。火车颠颠簸簸地从他的领土开过，承受着雨水的冲刷、吐出阵阵蒸汽。在桑达斯基和南本德之间某处，雨水不由自主地变成了雪和霙，接着又转变成雪暴。困惑的驾驶员什么也看不到。接着，一座没有灯光的隧道赫然矗立眼前，他惊呼一声，因为他知道这地方不可能有隧道，以前也从来没有过。但他还来不及采取行动（什么行动？）火车就已经隆隆冲进了那片无边的黑暗中，甚至比红胡子的胜利更嘈杂黑暗。
列车抵达下一个车站时，车上已经没有了乘客。那是一座取着印第安名字的城镇，已经好几年没有火车在这里停靠了。这时候，被霍克斯奎尔仓皇推到一边去的那个服务员醒了过来。
现在是怎么回事？
服务了四十年的他动作迟缓地爬起来，在列车上走来走去，很惊奇自己竟然会睡着，也很讶异火车怎会莫名其妙停下来，而且乘客全都不见了。
他在静悄悄的车厢里遇到了脸色惨白的驾驶员，两人商讨了一下状况，但都没说多少话。车上没有别人，也没有验票员，因为这是一班专车，车上的每个人都知道自己要去哪里。因此服务员对驾驶员说：“他们知道他们要去哪里。”
驾驶员回到驾驶舱内准备使用无线电，但却还没想好要说些什么。服务员则继续穿过一节节车厢，感觉毛骨悚然。他在餐车里发现了一叠复古风格的纸牌，被人狂暴地扔得到处都是，散落在空酒杯和捻熄的香烟之间。
“有人在玩捡五十二张牌。”他说。
他把它们捡起来，因为上面的人物（一些他从没看过的骑士、国王与皇后）似乎央求他这么做。最后一张牌卡在窗户边缘，面向窗外，仿佛正打算逃脱——可能是小丑牌，上面是个蓄着络腮胡的人，正从马背上摔到溪流里。把它们全部收在一起并且排整齐后，他抓着它们一动不动地站在车厢内，突然深深感受到整个世界的存在，还有他自己在当中的位置，就在离中心点不远的地方。这一刻，他独自站在这儿，在这无人车站里空荡荡的列车上，感觉后世将会赋予这一刻极高的价值。
因为“暴君”罗素·艾根布里克将不会被遗忘。他的子民将会面临一段漫长的艰苦时光。他离去后，那些曾经反抗他的人会转而互相讨伐；岌岌可危的共和国将会以多种不同的方式分裂然后重建。在那段漫长的战乱期里，新的一代将会忘记他们的父母在“禽兽”统治下所遭遇的考验与磨难；他们将会带着愈发强烈的怀旧之情与一种深沉痛苦的失落感回顾那些在世的人都不曾亲身经历的年代。在他们眼中，那似乎是个阳光明媚的时代。他们会说：他的大业尚未完成、他的启示尚未公告；他走了，抛下他尚未获得救赎的子民走了。
但他没死。不，他只是走了而已，消失了，在某个即将破晓的夜里人间蒸发：但他没死。不论是在烟山还是落基山脉里、在某座火口湖深处还是在首都的废墟底下，他只是睡着了而已，执行助理们都在身边，红色的胡子愈来愈长，等待哪天（有上百个迹象预示着这件事）当子民有难时，他就会再次被唤醒。
Notes:
Notes: