Chapter 26 Ⅴ

Sophie predicted that the dog that would greet Alice at the door was Spark, which was not surprising to Alice, but she had no idea that the old man guiding her across the river would be her cousin George. · Maus. "I never thought of you as an old man, George," she said, "not an 'old man.'" "Hey," said George, "I'm older than you, and you're not a teenager yourself, you know, little one?" "How did you get here?" she asked. "How did I get where?" he answered. Together they walked through the dark woods and talked about many things.They have walked a long way, and the spring is more abundant and the trees are thicker.Not quite sure she really needed a guide, but Alice was glad to have him for company, since the woods were foreign and scary to her, and George carried a thick stick, and he knew the way. "It's so lush," she said, flashing back to her honeymoon: Smokey pointing to the woods next to Rudy Flood's house and asking her if Edgewood was sitting on the edge of them.Think of the night they spent in that mossy cave.Think of them walking through the woods to Amy and Chris' house. "Very lush," was what Smoky had said. "Protected," she replied at the time.These and many other memories came alive in her mind, but it seemed that Alice would remember them for the last time, as if they bloomed and then withered and fell.Or should I say: as soon as she invokes a memory, the memory is no longer a memory, but somehow becomes a prophecy: no longer what has happened, but some kind of Alice Imagine what will happen someday with joyful hope.

"Okay," said George, "I'll take you here." They had come to the edge of the woods.Beyond here, the sunny glade stretches back like pools of water, and the sun shines through the towering trees.Farther away was a bright white world, but neither of them could see clearly because their eyes were used to the darkness. "Good-bye then," said Alice. "Will you come to the feast?" "Oh, of course," said George, "how could I not?" They stood in silence for a while, and then George asked Alice to bless him, looking a little embarrassed that he had never done so before.She readily agreed, and blessed his livestock, his crops, and his old body one by one.She bent over and kissed George, who was kneeling on the ground, and continued on her way.

Those pond-like glades, one after the other, stretched for a long distance.Alice thought it was the best stretch of the road so far: the violets and the damp new ferns, the stones with their gray lichens and the genial streaks of sunshine. "That's huge." A thousand creatures stopped their spring work to watch her go by, the buzzing of newborn insects. "Daddy will love this place," she thought.And while she was thinking this, she suddenly understood how he had learned (or was about to learn) to listen to the language of animals, because she understood it herself, and she had only to listen.

There's the silent rabbit and the rowdy jay, the hiccupping frog and the wisecracking squirrel - but what's in that glade in the distance... standing on one leg, one wing up first , and then raised another wing?It's a stork, right? "Do I know you?" Alice asked after entering the clearing.The stork jumped away in fright, looking guilty and bewildered. "Well, I'm not sure," said the stork.It looked first at Alice with one eye, then with both eyes over its long red beak, looking worried and critical, as if looking up and down through a pince-nez. "I'm not sure at all. Honestly, I'm not sure about most things."

"I should know you," said Alice. "Did you ever make a nest in Edgewood, right on the roof?" "It is possible," said the stork.Then it began to preen its feathers with its beak, very awkwardly, as if surprised that it had feathers. "I can tell," Alice heard it say to itself, "this is sure to be a big test." Alice helped it straighten a folded crested feather.After brushing his hair uncomfortably for a while, the stork said, "I don't know—I don't know if you mind if I go a little way with you?" "Of course," Alice said, "if you're sure you don't want to fly."

"Fly?" said the stork in amazement. "Fly?" "Well," Alice said, "I'm not really sure where I'm going. I kind of just got here." "That's all right," said the stork, "I've just arrived myself, so be it." So they walked on together, and the stork walked in the way all storks do, with long, cautious strides, as if afraid of stepping on something unpleasant. As the stork did not speak again, Alice asked, "How did you get here?" "Well..." said the stork. "If you tell me your story," said Alice, "I will tell you mine too." For the Stork seemed to open his mouth, but could not.

"That depends on whose story you want to hear," said the Stork at last. "Well, well. I'll stop being vague." After another pause, it said: "Once upon a time, I was a real stork. Or rather, I, or she, was just a real stork. I know I've described it poorly, but anyway Well, I, or we, were a young woman too: a very proud, ambitious young woman who had just learned some very difficult spells in a foreign land from some older and wiser masters than herself. She had no There was no need to cast one of these spells on an ignorant bird, not at all, but she was young and reckless, and the opportunity presented itself.

"She was successful with the trick or spell, so she was overjoyed at her newfound ability, but how the stork took it on—well, she, or I, probably didn't think much of it, Or rather, as a stork, that's all I think about. "I had consciousness, you know. But I didn't know at the time that it wasn't my own consciousness but that of another person, loaned to me temporarily, or rather, deposited or hidden for safekeeping. On me. I, being a stork, thought—well, it hurts to think about it, but I thought I wasn't a stork at all. I believed I was a human woman, only to be The guy was turned into a stork by malice, or trapped in a stork's body. I don't have any memories of being a human woman, because of course, 'she' kept that life and memories, and lives on happily ever after. I left myself to think hard about it.

"Well, I've flown far and learned a lot. I've gone where no stork has ever been. I've been self-reliant; I've raised young birds—yes, it was at Edgewood once—and I have other jobs too, er, those don't need to be mentioned, stork, you know... Anyway, one of the things I have learned or heard is this: a great king is coming back, or once again Wake up. And once he is free, my own freedom will not be far away, and then I will become a real human woman." She stopped and stood there in a daze.Not knowing whether storks cry, Alice watched her carefully, and though there were no tears in her pink eyes, Alice thought she did cry in some stork way.

"So," she said at last, "so, I am now the human woman. At last. But at the same time I will always be the same stork." She bowed her head before Alice, ready to Make a sad confession. "You do know me, Alice," she said. "I am, or have been, or we have been, or will be, your cousin Ariel Hawksquill." Alice blinked.She had promised herself not to be surprised by anything that happened here.And indeed, after staring at the stork (or Hawksquill) in amazement for a while, it occurred to her that she had indeed heard the story, or knew that it was about to happen or had happened. "But," she said, "where, I mean how, where is she..."

"Dead," said the stork, "dead, rotten, ruined. Killed. I really, she really has nowhere else to go." She opened her red beak and snapped again. A close, a sigh of some sort. "Well, never mind, it's just going to take a while to get used to, the disappointment, I mean the stork's disappointment, to my new — body." She raised one wing and looked at it. "Fly," she said, "well, maybe." "Sure," Alice put her hand on the soft shoulder of the stork, "I also believe that you can share, I mean share with Ariel, I mean share with the stork. You can tolerate each other." She Smile, it's like mediating between two quarreling children. The stork walked some distance without saying a word.Alice's hand on her shoulder seemed to have a soothing effect, as she was less frizzy. "Maybe," she finally said, "it's just—well, forever." Her voice cracked a little, and Alice saw a twitch in her long Adam's apple. "It seems really difficult." "I understand." Alice said. "Things never turn out the way you think they do. It's not even the way you think they say they say they are, although they probably mean it. You just get used to it," she said. "That's it." "I regret it now," said Ariel Hawksquill. "Of course it is too late, but I regret not accepting your invitation to go with you that evening. I should have." "Well..." Alice said. "I thought I had nothing to do with this fate. But I was in the 'story' the whole time, right? Like everyone else." "Probably so," Alice said. "I suppose so, otherwise you wouldn't be here now. But tell me," she added, "what happened to that deck of cards?" "Oh, crap," Hawksquill turned her red beak away in shame, "I do have a lot to make up for, don't I?" "It's all right," Alice said.They had come to the end of the glade, and behind them was a different landscape.Alice stopped walking. "You can. I mean make amends. Make amends that you didn't come." She turned to look out at the land ahead.So big, so big. "I think you can be of great help to me, I hope." "I'm sure I can," said Hawksquill firmly, "no problem." "Because I'm going to need help," Alice said.Behind the bushes, the young prairie sea shone silver in the sun like green waves.Alice remembered (or foresaw) that the knoll was supposed to be somewhere behind that, with an oak tree and a thornbush growing on it, tightly intertwined.And if you know the way, you can find the hut down there, and the round door with a brass knocker.But you don't have to knock because the door will be open and the room will be empty anyway.Then there would be knitting, and a whole lot of work, and a whole lot of heavy new responsibilities... "I'm going to need help," she said again, "I'm sure I will." "I will help," said my cousin, "I can help." Somewhere out there, behind these blue hills, but how far?An open door, a hut big enough to hold the spinning earth.A rocking chair that pushes the years, and an old winter broom in the corner. "Come on," said the stork, "we'll get used to it, and it'll be all right." "That's right," Alice said.There would be help, there would be, because she couldn't have done it all by herself.nothing will happen.But she still didn't take the first step from the edge of the woods.She stood there for a long time, feeling the breeze on her face, remembering or forgetting many things. In the warm glow of many electric lamps Smoky Barnaby sat down in his study and opened again the last edition of The Architecture of Country Houses.All the windows were open, so that while he was reading, the cool, crisp May night air could flow unimpeded through the house.The last vestige of winter has vanished, as if swept away with a brand new broom. In the far attic the stargazer turned as silently as the stars it represented, transmitting its small but irresistible movements to the inertia of the twenty-four arms through numerous oiled brass fittings. Wheels, bringing power to it.The fly wheel was put back in its black box, but this time it was able to transmit its energy to the generator which in turn provided light and electricity to the house and could go on till all the jeweled bearings , all top-of-the-line nylon straps and straps, all strong steel contact points until they wear out: should last many, many years, Smoky guesses.The house, his house, revived as if on a tonic, renewed and stronger.The basement was dry and the attic was ventilated; the dust that filled it was sucked up by an ancient powerful vacuum cleaner.Smobbie knew vaguely that there was a built-in vacuum cleaner in the walls of the house that would vacuum the whole house, but everyone thought it was useless.Even the cracks in the ceiling of the piano room seemed to be healing gradually, though Smoky never knew why.The old hoard of light bulbs had been taken out, so that for miles around only Smoky's house was lit at all times, like a lighthouse or the entrance to a dance hall.Although proud of his arrangement, Smoky didn't do it out of pride, not really.He does this because he finds it easier to use up this inexhaustible supply of energy than to store it up or shut down the machine. (Why store it anyway?) And if the lights were on, it might be easier to find the house: it would be easier for someone who got lost or left to find it in the dark when returning from a moonless night. He turned a heavy page. Here a hateful seance has come up with a hideous theory.Of course, there is no hell after death, only a process that leads you to higher and higher "levels."There is no eternal torment, but there can be a difficult (or at least long) "re-education" for the stubborn or stupid soul.Generosity, but that didn't seem to be enough to convince the skeptics, so they came up with another theory: People who refuse enlightenment in this life will also refuse enlightenment or be unable to enlighten in the next life, so they will be forever alone The earth staggered on in the cold darkness, believing it was all there was to see, and all around them were saints chattering joyously, fountains and flowers and whirling skies and spirits of dead greats. alone. Apparently he could not go where they were called unless his desire was as strong as his faith.But besides the world in front of him, how could he want other worlds?He pored over the descriptions in "The Architecture of a Country House" time and time again, but couldn't find anything to convince himself that he could find "there" a world as rich and full of oddities as the world before him, but equally familiar world. There will always be spring: but he wants winter too, gray days and rain.He wants them all, and nothing less.He wanted his stove, and his long memory, and those things that called it up in the depths of his soul; he wanted his little comforts, and even his troubles.He's been thinking about death a lot these days, and that's what he wants, he wants to be buried next to his ancestors. He looked up.The lights in the study are reflected in the glass, and the moon rises between them.Just a white crescent, looking fragile.By the time of the full moon, which is the summer solstice, they will be gone. Heaven.A world that lies elsewhere. He didn't really mind having a long "story" going on, and he didn't even resist being used by it anymore.He just wants it to go on, not to end, to have the mastermind behind the story continue to murmur endlessly, to let him fall asleep listening to those vague anecdotes, even if he is buried in the ground. do not stop.He didn't want it to seize him in this way, to frighten him with high, sad, painful conclusions, because he couldn't resist.He didn't want it to take his wife away from him. Nor did he want to be forced into another world he couldn't imagine, a small world that couldn't possibly be as big as this one. "But it's the same size," said the breeze blowing in his ear. There cannot be complete seasons, all joys and sorrows.It is impossible to contain everything that his five senses have experienced. "But it really does," Breeze said. It can't have all of this, and all of this is his world, not just his world. "Oh, more than that," said Breeze, "more than that, and more." Smoky looked up.The curtain by the window fluttered. "Alice?" he said. He got up and pushed the heavy book to the ground.He went to the window and looked out.The walled garden was like a dark porch, with moonlit turf and misty twilight beyond the open door in the wall. "She is far away, she is there," said a little breeze. "Alice?" "She's near, she's here," said another breeze.But whatever was coming towards him across the dark and windy garden, he didn't recognize it.He stood there staring into the darkness for a long time, as if looking at a face, as if it would speak to him, explain many things to him: he thought it could, but the only thing he heard was a name. The moon rose over the roof and disappeared from sight.Smoky climbed slowly upstairs to sleep.About the same time as the moon was setting, Smoky woke up feeling as if he had never been asleep, like an insomniac.There was also a pale dawn in the east at this time, pointing out where the lazy sun was about to rise.Smoky put on an old nightgown that was frayed and had piping at the cuffs and pocket edges, and climbed up to the attic, turning on the wall lamps in the corridor that had been turned off by some fool. Under the light and twilight of the planet, the sleepless system seemed to be motionless, just as the morning star outside the round window seemed motionless: yet it was in motion.Smoky looked at it, and remembered that night: he read the degrees, minutes, and seconds of the star's rise from the ephemeris by means of an oil lamp, and when he had set the last moon of Jupiter, He could feel the slight tremor when it started.Then the first steel ball was heard automatically falling into the groove of that whimsical unbalanced spinning wheel.saved.He remembers how it felt. He put his hand on the black box of the spinning wheel and felt it ticking, ticking, far more steady than his own heartbeat, more diligent, more reliable overall.He pushed open the round window and looked over the tiled roofs, letting in the joyous singing of the birds.Another beautiful day.How rare.He found that from this height, he could see a long way to the south. He could see the steeple of the church in Tianxi Town and the roof of Baitian.The leafy woods between the towns were covered with mist, and outside the towns the woods grew denser, forming the great Black Forest, on the edge of which Edgewood sat.It keeps growing to the south, getting deeper and denser, and spreading all the way to places where the eyes can't see. They came to the center of the forest, but it was a deserted country.They were no closer to the Council, nor to the one Auberon was looking for, and he had even forgotten her name. "How far into the woods?" asked Fred. Auberon knew the answer. "You can only go halfway," he said, "if you go any further, you will come out." "That's not the case with this wood," said Fred.He had slowed his pace, and each step pulled a mound of moss and a handful of worm-infested dirt from the ground.He stopped. "Which way?" asked Auberon.But from here, every road is the same road. He had seen her, more than once: seen her in the distance, a bright figure that seemed at ease moving among the dangers of the forest.Once stood melancholy alone in the shade of a striped tree (he was sure, he was almost sure it was her), and another time he walked away quickly, with a group of small creatures at his feet.She never turned to look at him, though one of the creatures she was walking with glanced at him.The creature had pointy ears, yellow eyes, and an animal-like deadpan smile.She always looked like she was going somewhere else, with a palpable sense of purpose, but when he followed, she wasn't there. If he couldn't remember her name, he would definitely call her.He sorted through all twenty-six letters, trying to jog his memory, but her name turned into damp leaves, antlers, snail shells and satyrs' hooves.These all seemed to represent her, but no name emerged.Then she slipped away, not noticing him, and he just ran further into the forest. Now he's at the center point, but she's not here, call her what she's called. brown breasts?something brown.A laurel wreath, or a spider's web, or something like that.A thorny bush, or a bee or something, or an ocean or something. "Well," said Fred, "that's the only way I can go." His cloak was stiff and tattered, his trousers were frayed, and his toes were sticking out of his grinning wellies.He tried to lift one foot off the ground, but couldn't.His toes clung to the dirt. "Wait," said Auberon. "I can't help it," said Fred. "I've got a robin's nest in my hair. That's great. All right." "But please," said Auberon, "I can't go on without you." "Oh, I'll still follow," said Fred, starting to sprout shoots, "I'll still follow, I'll still lead you, I just won't walk." His giant toe turned into a tree root A group of brown mushrooms popped up between them.Auberon looked up at him.His knuckles doubled, tripled, hundreds of them. "Hey, man," he said, "I've been looking at God all day, you know. Gotta get some sun, sorry." And then his face fell back and disappeared into the tree trunk, while his Thousands of green fingers stretched toward the treetops.Auberon clung tightly to the trunk. "No," he said, "damn it, don't." He sat helplessly at Fred's feet.Now he was really lost.What stupid, crazy desire had brought him here?To this place without her, this uninhabited principality where she has never been.He couldn't think of anything about her here at all, only his desire for her.He put his head in his hands and began to feel hopeless. "Hey," said the tree in a woody voice, "hey, what's the matter with you. I have some advice. Listen." Auberon looked up. "Only the brave," said Fred, "only the brave can win a beautiful woman." Auberon stood up, tears streaming down his grimy cheeks. "Okay," he said.He flicked his hair and pulled out a bunch of dead leaves.He, too, had become unkempt, as if he had lived in the woods for years, with musty cuffs, wild berry juice in his beard, and caterpillars in his pockets.an outcast. He has to start all over again, that's all.He's not brave, but he has some artistry.After all, he didn't learn nothing, did he?He had to master it all, control it all.If this is really a deserted principality, then he can call himself king.As long as he can think of a way, he will no longer be lost.How to do? Can only rely on reason.He has to "think".He had to create order where there was no order.He had to get his bearings and make a list, numbering everything and putting it all in a hierarchical order.First of all, he must establish a coordinate in the center of the forest, let him know where he is, what is what, then he may remember who he is, who is sitting in this central position, and then think about what he should do here what.He has to go back and start over. He looked around, trying to figure out which way would bring him back to where he started. All can be, or none can be.He carefully observed the avenues with lush flowers and leaves.The more it looks like a road leading to the outside, the more likely it is to subtly bring him back here, and he knows this.There was silence in the woods, an atmosphere of anticipation and irony, and the birds chirped a few short times. He sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree, and built, among the weeds and violets in the middle of the glade before him, a small stone house or arbor, with four walls facing east, west, north, and west.He has set a season on each wall: spring, summer, autumn, winter.Those complex paths with nine bends and eighteen turns radiate out from here.He fashioned them into gravel paths, edged with white-painted stones, and sent them back and forth between statues, obelisks, birdhouses, a small arched bridge, and fields of tulips and daylilies.Then he framed it all with four wrought-iron walls, forming a huge square, with arrow-shaped bars, and four locked gates for entry and exit. All right.Cars can be heard, although far away.He shifted his gaze cautiously: there was a classical court building outside the fence, with a row of statues of legislators standing on it.There seemed to be a little pungent exhaust fumes rushing into his nostrils with the spring air.Now he only had to walk around the imaginary place, visiting each section in strict order, and extracting every memory of Sylvie he had previously stored there. About who? The imaginary park shakes a bit, but he makes it back.Don't scratch, don't rush too much.First to the first place, then to the second place.If he didn't do it right, he'd never find out the outcome of the story: whether he found her, brought her back (where?) or lost her forever, or what.He started again: first to the first, then to the second. No, it's hopeless at all.How could he think he could keep her in this place like a princess in a tower?She escaped, and she has her own skills.Besides, what was the value of his tattered memories?her?impossible.Over time, they have become looser, darker, and more broken than they were.Useless.He stood up from the park bench and fumbled for the key in his pocket to open the door.The girls playing games on the path looked up at him warily as he considered which door to exit. Lock.That's what this damn city is all about, he thought, putting the key in the lock.One lock after another.Rows and clusters of locks hung round all the doors, and in the pockets were keys, heavy as sin, with which to open and lock them again.He pushed open the heavy door, swinging it aside like a prison door.A plaque on the rustic red sandstone doorpost reads: Maus, Drinkwater, Stone, 1900.The street stretches from this gate, with connected houses on both sides, and then the brown-colored northern part of the city in the distance, where the fortresses that have been in power for a long time stand looming, shrouded in smoke and noise. He starts to walk.People hurried past him.Everyone has a purpose, but he doesn't, so he walks more slowly.At this moment, Sylvie turned from an alley in front of him onto the avenue and walked northward toward the city, with a package under his arm and booted feet moving swiftly. She looks petite and lonely in this chaotic street, but she is very confident, after all, this is her territory.It is also his territory.Her back is getting further and further away: she is still moving forward, but he is still behind.But he finally found the right direction.He opened his mouth and called out her name, which he had been wanting to say before. "Sylvie," he called. She heard it, and it seemed to be a name she recognized.She slowed down and turned slightly but not completely.It was a name, a name she had heard somewhere before.Is it the cry of a bird, calling to its companions?She looked up at the sun-dappled leaves.Or a squirrel, calling for its friends and family?She watched one of them sprint over a gnarled oak tree and stop abruptly, then turn to look at her.She walked on, small and lonely under the tall trees, but confident, her bare feet trotting among the wildflowers. She traveled far and fast, and the wings she grew were not real wings, but they carried her anyway.There was much entertainment, and many animals begged her to stay, but she never stopped playing. "Later, later," she told everyone, and then moved on, the road unfolding before her day and night. He will come, she thought, I know he will be there, he will.He may not remember me, but I will remind him and he will know.She tightly tucked the gift she had carefully selected for him under her arm. Although many people offered to do it for him, she never agreed. But what if he wasn't there? No, he will be there.For her, there would be no feast without him, and the feast was a promise, and he was definitely one of "everyone."yes!The best seats, the best food, and she'd hand feed him just to be able to look at his face.He will be amazed!Has he changed?He has changed, but she must recognize it.She was sure. The night drove her on.The fading moon rose and blinked at her: the party has begun!Where is she now?She stopped and listened to the sounds of the forest.Near, near.She's never been here, and that's a sign.She doesn't want to move forward without a certain direction and some guidance.Her invitation letter made it very clear that she didn't have to take orders from anyone, however.She climbed to the top of a big tree and looked at the moonlit country. She has come to the edge of the forest.The night wind blew across the treetops, blowing away the leaves.Far away, or near, or both, behind the town's roofs and moonlit church steeples, she saw a house: a brightly lit house, where every window Lights on.She is very close. That night Mrs. Underhill took a last look at her dark, tidy house and found that everything was in order.She went outside, closed the door, and looked up at the moon's face.She took the iron key from the back of her pocket, locked the door, and put the key under the doormat. Let it go, let it go, she thought, just step aside.Everything is theirs now.The feast was all ready and so beautiful that she almost wished she could attend.But now that the old king had arrived at last, and was about to ascend his towering throne (when, she was never quite sure), there was nothing for her to do. When the man named Russell Eigenbrick got out of the car, he asked her just one question: "Why?" "For God's sake, where's the 'why,'" said Mrs. Underhill. "Why? Why? Why does the world need three sexes, if the third doesn't work at all? Why do dreams have twenty Four and not twenty-five? Why must the total number of ladybugs in the world be even and not odd? Why must the total number of visible stars be odd and not even? Doors must be opened, cracks must be drilled, we need A wedge, and you just happen to be. There must be a winter before there can be spring, and you are winter. Why? Why is the world one way and not another? If you could answer that question, you wouldn't be here now Asked. You calm down. Have you brought your robes and crown? Is everything still to your liking, at least not too much? Reign wisely, I know you will rule long. Wait for them When Autumn comes to salute you, please help me bless them all. And no, please don't ask them difficult questions, because they have encountered too many difficult questions over the years." Is that all?She looks around.Her luggage was packed, and her incredible boxes and baskets had been sent first by the able-bodied young men.Did she put the key away?Yes, under the doormat, just put it away.She is so forgetful.就这样了吗？ 啊，她忽然想到：还有一件事。 “我们要走了。”黎明将近时，她站在树林里那座水塘边缘的大石头上说。一道瀑布注入水塘，歌唱般的流水声不绝于耳。 一道道月光在水面上粉碎。水上漂浮着新叶和花朵，随着漩涡聚集在一块儿。听到她的话，一条拥有粉红色眼睛、没有任何斑点或纹路的巨大白色鳟鱼缓缓浮上了水面。“走？”它说。 “你可以一起走也可以留下来，”昂德希尔太太说，“你已经在我们这一边生活了太久，现在可以任你选择了。” 鳟鱼错愕得一句话也说不出来。最后昂德希尔太太终于对它那双瞪得老大的悲伤眼睛感到不耐烦，于是厉声说道：“怎么样？” “我留下吧。”它赶紧说道。 “好啊。”昂德希尔太太说，其实它若不是这么回答，她反倒会非常惊讶。“不久，”她说，“不久就会有个少女到这里来（好啦，她现在已经是个老太婆了，但没关系，那是个你认识的女孩），而她会往这座池塘里看。她就是你等待已久的那个人，而她不会被你的外形骗倒。她会望进这座池塘，而她说出来的话将会释放你。” “真的吗？”鳟鱼爷爷说。 "yes." "why?" “为了爱情，你这老笨蛋。”昂德希尔太太说。她用拐杖敲了石头一下，力道大得在上面敲出了一道裂痕。一片花岗岩碎屑飘到了波光粼粼的水面上。“因为故事已经结束了。” “噢，”鳟鱼爷爷说，“结束了？” "Yes, it's over." “我可不可以，”鳟鱼爷爷说，“可不可以维持原状？” 她弯下腰，端详着它在池子里黯淡的银色身影。“维持现在这样子？”她说。 “呃，”鱼说，“我已经习惯这个样子了。我完全不记得这女孩。” “不，”思考了一会儿之后，昂德希尔太太说，“不，你恐怕不能维持原状。我无法想象。”她站直身子。“交易就是交易，”她说着转过身去，“跟我无关。” 鳟鱼爷爷心怀恐惧地退回池塘里那些长满水草的藏身处。许多回忆正不由自主地迅速袭上心头。她，但究竟是哪个她？而她来时它又能如何躲藏？她将不会命令、不会追问，只会说出那唯一能够打动它冰冷的心的一句话（倘若它有眼皮，它一定会紧紧闭上眼睛不去面对）。但它不能离去，因为夏天已经到了，随之而来的是百万只虫子。而且春汛都已过去，它的池塘已再次成为它那熟悉的豪宅。它不会走的。它焦躁地清了清自己的鳍，薄薄的皮肤上产生某种它好几十年都没有过的感觉。它往洞里钻得更深，希望这个洞藏得住它，但又怀疑这点。 “好了。”昂德希尔太太说，曙光在她周围升起，“好了。” “好了。”她听见她的孩子们说，有些在近处、有些在远处，大家的声音都不一样。附近那些在她裙摆周围聚集起来。她用手遮住眼睛，看见已经踏上旅程的那些，长长的队伍沿着山谷朝日出的方向走去，直到消失在视线外。伍兹先生挽起她的手。 “很长的路，”他说，“一段很长很长的路。” 是的，会很漫长，比跟随她来到这里的那些人必须走的路还漫长，但倒没那么困难，因为她至少知道路。而且那里会有泉水为他们大家解渴，还有她朝思暮想的辽阔土地。 他们费了好一番功夫才让老王子爬上他那匹气喘吁吁的坐骑，但他一坐稳就举起了一只虚弱的手，因此大家纷纷欢呼喝彩。战争结束了，而且还不只是结束而已：已经被遗忘了，而他们赢了。昂德希尔太太拄着拐杖拉起马匹的缰绳，一行人于是上路。 索菲知道那是一年当中最长的一日，但为什么夏天才刚开始，就把它叫作“夏至”？也许只是因为在那一天，夏天才开始显得没有尽头，似乎不论往前还是往后推都是没完没了的夏天，其他季节都被抛诸脑后、难以想象。就连纱门的弹簧被咿呀撑开的声音、她进门后咔啦关上的声音还有前厅内的夏日气息都好像不再新鲜，仿佛它们一直都是这个样子。 但这个夏天原本也有可能是不会来的。索菲很肯定这是黛莉·艾丽斯的功劳，她凭着勇气拯救了这个夏天，先到了那个地方去，确保这个日子真的会来。因此它应该是一副脆弱又不实在的样子，但事实却非如此。它就跟索菲记忆中的任何夏日一样货真价实，甚至可能是她告别童年以来所经历过的唯一一个真正的夏日。它让她变得有活力，而且勇气十足。有一阵子她完全丧失了勇气，但她现在已经可以勇敢了，因为艾丽斯无所不在。而且她非勇敢不可，因为他们将在今天出发。 他们将在今天出发。她内心一阵雀跃，把她的编织袋抓得更紧，那是她唯一能想到要携带的行李。自从在艾基伍德召开了那场会议后，她的大部分日子都在计划、思考、希望、害怕，反而极少去感觉自己即将进行的这件事。也可以说她完全忘了去感受它。但她现在感受到了。 “史墨基？”她喊道。空荡荡的房子里，这名字在高挑的前厅内回荡着。大家都聚集在外头了，不是在有围墙的花园里就是在前廊上或公园内。人们一早就开始陆续抵达，每个人都带了自己认为该带的东西，也都认为自己已经准备就绪，不论他们各自把这趟旅程想象成什么样子。而现在已经过了中午，他们向索菲寻求某种命令或指示，因此她进屋去找史墨基。凡是这种时候，他都铁定是动作最慢的那一个，不论哪种野餐、哪种郊游都一样。 不论哪种都一样。倘若她能继续把这想成一场野餐或一场郊游，一场婚礼、一场葬礼、一个假日或任何一场她懂得如何掌握的普通外出，然后就这样继续进行该做的事、仿佛她很清楚什么是什么，那么——好吧，那么她确实能做的都做了，其余的只能留给别人去做。“史墨基？”她又喊了一次。 她在书房里找到了他，尽管一开始往里头瞄时并没有看见他。所有的窗帘都拉上了，他一动不动地坐在一把大椅子上，交握着双手，还有一本摊开的大书面朝下躺在他脚边。 “史墨基？”她不安地走进来。“大家都准备好了，史墨基，”她说，“你还好吗？” He looks up at her. “我不去。”他说。 她困惑地杵在那儿。接着她放下编织袋朝他走来。袋里装着一本旧相簿、一个有裂痕的陶瓷小雕像（是一只鹳鸟，背上载着一个老太太和一个赤裸的小孩），此外还有一两样东西。本来应该也有那副纸牌的，但是并没有。“什么？别这样，”她说，“别这样。” “我不去了，索菲。”他说，态度十分平和，仿佛他就只是单纯不想去。接着他低头看着自己紧紧交握的手。 索菲对他伸出手，张开嘴巴准备劝告，但终究把话吞了回去。她在他身旁蹲下，轻声说道：“怎么了？” “噢，呃，”史墨基没看她，“总要有人留下来的，不是吗？总得有人待在这里，打理一切之类的。我的意思是以防万一……万一你们想回来、万一你们真的回来了还是怎样的。 “毕竟，”他又说了，“这是我的房子。” “史墨基，”索菲抓住他交握的双手，“史墨基，你得来，你非来不可！” “别这样，索菲。” “你要来！你不能不来，那是不行的，没有你我们要怎么办哪！” 他看着她，很疑惑她为何如此激动。对史墨基而言，“没有你我们要怎么办”这句话套在他身上真是太不搭调了，因此他不知该如何回答。“总之，”他说，“我不能去。” "why?" He sighed faintly. “就只是，呃，”他用手抹了抹额头，“我不知道——就只是……” 索菲等他讲完这些开场白。这令她想起许久以前的类似状况：在说出一件难以启齿的事之前，总要先挤出一些无关紧要的字眼。她咬咬嘴唇，什么也没说。 “好吧，已经够糟糕了，”史墨基说，“光是让艾丽斯走就已经够糟糕了……你看，”他在椅子上动了动，“你明白吗？索菲，我从来都不真的是这当中的一分子，你知道吧？我没办法……我是说我真的太幸运了，真的。我以前从来没想过，在我小时候、在我刚到大城的时候，我真的从来没想过自己能得到这么多幸福。我天生不是那种料。但你们——艾丽斯——你——你们收留了我。那就像……就像发现自己继承了上百万元。这点我并非一直都懂——或者应该说，是的我懂，我懂，也许有时还把它视为理所当然，但我内心深处其实是明白的。我很感激。我甚至没办法形容我有多感激。” 他捏了捏她的手。“好啦，好啦。但现在呢——艾丽斯不在了。好吧，我也许一直都知道她有那样的任务，我一直都知道，但我从来都不期待它。你知道吗？而且索菲，我不适合那种事，我不是那种料。我很想尝试，我真的想。但我满脑子只有一个想法：'失去艾丽斯就已经够惨了。'而现在我连其余一切都要失去。所以我办不到，索菲，我就是办不到。” 索菲发现他眼中泛起了泪水，从他苍老的粉红色眼眶里流下来。她不记得自己看过他哭，不，她从没看过，因此她想掏心掏肺地对他说：不，他什么也不会失去，他这一走其实什么也没抛下，反而是迎向一切，特别是艾丽斯。但她却不敢说出口，因为不论这对她自己而言有多么真实，她却无法把它告诉史墨基，因为倘若这对他而言并不真实（而她也没把握这对他会是真实的），那么这番话就会是最残忍的可怕谎言。但她已经答应艾丽斯无论如何都要把他带来，她根本无法想象自己抛下他离去。然而她还是什么也说不出口。 “总之呢，”他用手擦了擦脸，“就这样。” 索菲彷徨地站起来，房中的黑暗压迫着她，令她无法思考。“可是，”她无助地说，“今天天气这么好，天气真是太好了……”她来到遮蔽天光的厚重窗帘前，将它们一把扯开。阳光刺得她的眼帘一片花白。她看见很多人在有围墙的花园里，聚集在山毛榉树下的石桌旁，有些人抬起头往上看。有个孩子从外面敲了敲窗户，要求进屋来。 索菲打开窗户。史墨基抬起头。莱拉克跨过窗台，两手叉腰看着史墨基，说：“现在是怎么回事？” “噢，感谢老天，”索菲说，因为松了一口气而瘫软无力，“噢，感谢老天。” “那是谁？”史墨基站起来。 索菲迟疑了一下，但只有一下而已。谎言，然后是更多谎言。“是你女儿，”她说，“你女儿莱拉克。” “好吧，”史墨基说，像个被逮捕的人一样举双手投降，“好吧，好吧。” “噢，太好了，”索菲说，“噢，史墨基。” “会很好玩的，”莱拉克说，“你去了就知道。你一定会很惊奇。” 他连最后一场拒绝都失败了，但他应该也早料到会如此。他真的争不过他们，毕竟他们有本事把走失已久的女儿带回他面前，要他想起古老的承诺。他不相信莱拉克需要他这个爸爸，他认为她八成什么东西、什么人都不需要，但他却无法否认自己曾经承诺扛起父亲的责任。“好啦。”他又说了一次，不去看索菲那喜滋滋的脸。他在书房里绕了一圈，把灯全部打开。 “但你快点呀，”索菲说，“趁天还亮着。” “快点。”莱拉克拉着他的手臂。 “等等嘛，”史墨基说，“我得拿几样东西。” “哎，史墨基！”索菲跺了跺脚。 “等一下就好，”史墨基说，“先别急。” 他来到走廊上，扭亮所有的台灯与壁灯，然后爬上楼梯，索菲则紧跟在后。来到楼上后，他到每个房间都走了一圈，把电灯全部打开、环顾四周，弄得索菲很不耐烦。他朝窗外看了一眼，看到下方聚集了很多人，午后时光正在消逝。莱拉克抬起头朝他挥了挥手。 “好啦，好啦，”他咕哝道，“好吧。” 他来到他和艾丽斯的房间里，点亮了所有的灯，在那儿站了一会儿，愤怒地喘着大气。踏上这种旅程，天杀的是要带什么？ “史墨基……”索菲站在门边说。 “好啦，天杀的，索菲。”他说着拉开抽屉。总之带件干净的衬衫吧，还有一套内衣裤。一件斗篷，以防下雨。火柴和一把刀。一本小小的奥维德作品，从床头桌上拿来的，是。Ok. 现在要拿什么来装？他忽然想起自己已经太多年没离开过这栋房子了，所以他什么行囊也没有。他初到艾基伍德时背的那个背包一定躺在某处，就在某个阁楼或某个地下室里，但究竟是哪里他却毫无头绪。他打开衣柜的门，这房间里有五六个衬着杉木板的巨大衣柜，他和艾丽斯所有的衣服都塞不满。他拉了拉电灯绳，绳子末梢像萤火虫一样发着磷光。他瞥见他那套发黄的白色结婚西装，杜鲁门的西装。下方的角落里——好吧，这个也许能用，真奇怪，旧东西怎么都会堆在衣柜角落里，他一直不知道它在这儿：他把它拉出来。 是一个毡制旅行袋。一个老旧的、被老鼠咬得乱七八糟的毡制旅行袋，有一个交叉扣环。 史墨基将它打开，带着一份古怪的不祥预感或后见之明望进它黑暗的内部。里头是空的。一股气味从中散发，是一股霉味，很像发了霉的叶子，或野胡萝卜，再不然就是被翻开的石头底下的泥土。“这个可以，”他轻声说道，“这个应该可以。” 他把那少少的几样东西装进去。它们似乎消失在里头偌大的空间内。 还要带什么？ 他把袋子开在那儿思考着：一根爬藤或一条项链，一顶像皇冠一样重的帽子；粉笔，还有一支笔；一把猎枪、一瓶朗姆茶、一朵雪花。一本关于房屋的书、一本关于星星的书，一枚戒指。他突然鲜明无比地回忆起田溪和高地之间的那条路，还有黛莉·艾丽斯那天的模样，鲜明得令他痛到了心坎里。就是他们结婚旅行那天，他在树林里迷路那天。那天他听见她说“受到了保护”。 他合上袋子。 “好了。”他说，把它从皮革把手处拎起来。很沉重，但似乎有一份安适感随着那份重量进驻他体内，仿佛他一直都背负着这个东西，若没有这份重量他就会失去平衡、无法行走。 “好了吗？”索菲在门边问道。 “好了，”他说，“应该吧。” 他们一起下楼。史墨基在大厅内逗留了一会儿，按下象牙制的电灯按钮，把前厅、前廊和地下室的灯全部点亮。接着他们就出去了。 啊……聚集在那儿的每个人说。 莱拉克已经把所有的人从公园、有围墙的花园、各个门廊和花坛周围全拉了过来，在房子的这一面集合。这儿有个木造前廊，面对一条长满杂草的车道，通往一对石头门柱，柱子顶端有两颗圆球，像两个石橘子。 “嗨，嗨。”史墨基说。 女儿们微笑着朝他走来，泰西、莉莉和露西，她们的孩子则跟在身后。每个人都站了起来，大家都望着彼此。只有玛吉·朱尼珀依然坐在门前的阶梯上，除非确定有路要走，否则她不愿起身，因为她知道自己能踩的脚步已经不多了。索菲问莱拉克： “你会带我们走吗？” “走一段路。”莱拉克说。她站在这群人中央，开心但也有点敬畏。她自己也不确定这些人当中哪些能撑到最后，而她的十根手指也不够算。“走一段。” “是往那里去吗？”索菲指向那对石头门柱。大家全转头往那儿看。蟋蟀开始鸣叫，艾基伍德的雨燕从一片逐渐变成绿色的蓝天里飞过。转凉的泥土吐出阵阵雾气，让门柱后方的道路模糊一片。 是不是就在那一刻，史墨基揣测，是不是打从他第一次穿过那对门柱踏进艾基伍德的那一刻开始，他就中了魔咒、从此不曾脱身？他提着毡制旅行袋的那条手臂和手掌中传来一阵警讯般的刺痛，但史墨基没发现。 “有多远、有多远？”巴德和布洛瑟姆手牵着手问道。 就是那天：就是他第一次踏进艾基伍德然后就某种角度而言从此不曾再出来的那一天。 也许吧：但也可能是在那之前或之后。但重点不在于找出第一个魔咒究竟是何时侵入他的生命，或者他究竟是何时不小心撞上它的，因为下一个魔咒不久就降临了，接着又是下一个。它们按照某种自己的逻辑依序出现，每个都由上一个引发、没有一个解除得了。就连试图把它们解开都只会招致更多魔咒而已，况且它们从来都不是环环相扣，而是层层相套，像一层套一层的中国盒子，愈往里面就愈大。而且至今尚未结束：他即将踏入一系列新的魔咒，呈不折不扣的漏斗状，无穷无尽。这无尽的变化令他惊恐，但他很高兴至少有些东西是不变的：主要是艾丽斯的爱情。他此行就是为了这个，毕竟这是唯一能够吸引他的东西。然而他却觉得自己把它抛下了。但其实他始终把它带在身边。 “会有只狗来跟我们会合，”索菲说着牵起他的手，“还得过一条河。” 从门廊走下来时，史墨基的心脏开始产生一种撕裂感：像是一种预感，或是一种初生的启示。 大家都已拿起各自的行囊和携带物品，低声交谈着开始沿着车道走下去。但史墨基停下脚步，意识到自己没办法走出那扇大门：没办法再从他当初进入的那扇大门走出去。已经有太多魔咒涉入了。那扇大门已经不是同一扇大门，他也已经不一样。 “很远哟，”莱拉克说，拖着母亲往前走，“要走很远很远的路。” 她俩从他左右两边走过，拿着行李、手牵着手，但他已经停下脚步：依然心甘情愿、依然在旅行，只是已经不再走路。 结婚那天，他和黛莉·艾丽斯曾去跟坐在草地上的众多宾客打招呼，其中很多人送了礼物，而每个人都说了“谢谢”。谢谢：因为史墨基心甘情愿，心甘情愿接下了这项任务，没有一丝反对，甘愿为了成全一些他甚至不相信存在的人物而活，耗尽资产来让一个他根本没参与的“故事”圆满结束。他已经这么做了，而且他依旧心甘情愿。但从来没理由感谢他。因为不论“他们”知不知情，他都知道不论自己是不是他们为她挑选的夫婿，她那天都会站在他身旁与他成婚，甚至会为了与他结婚而公然反抗他们。这点他很肯定。 他耍了他们。不管现在发生什么事、不论他有没有抵达那个目的地、不论他踏上旅程还是留在原地，他都有了自己的故事。已经在他手中。让它结束吧：让它结束吧：已经不可能把它从他手中夺走了。他无法前往那个大家都要去的地方，但已经没关系了，因为他一直都在那里。 那么他们大家究竟是要去哪里？ “哦，我懂了。”他说，但唇间却没发出任何声音。他胸中的裂口愈来愈大，吹进了阵阵晚风，还有雨燕和蜀葵间飞舞的蜜蜂。这比疼痛还要痛，而且无法闭合。索菲和他的女儿们都从这儿进来，他儿子奥伯龙也一样，还有很多已经去世的人。他知道“故事”的结局是什么，知道谁会在那里。 “面对面，”玛吉·朱尼珀从他身旁走过，“面对面。”但此时史墨基只听见启示之风在他体内呼啸，他这回是逃不过了。在那片进入他体内的蓝光里，他看见了莱拉克，她正转过头好奇地看着他，而透过她脸上的表情，他就知道自己想的没错。 “故事”已经结束，他们的目的地就是那里，只要踏一步就能抵达，而他们已经到了。 “回头啊。”他试着说，但自己却无法转回那个方向。回头啊，他试着告诉他们，回到那栋亮着灯光等待他们的房子，还有公园、门廊、有围墙的花园、通往无穷土地的那条路，以及那扇通往夏季的门。倘若他现在能转身（但他不能，这也没关系，但总之他就是不能），他就会发现自己面对着一栋夏日的房子，黛莉·艾丽斯在阳台上迎接他，从肩上褪下她那件褐色的旧袍子，在层层树影间将赤裸的身体呈现在他眼前：黛莉·艾丽斯，他的新娘，善意女神，他们身后那片土地的女神，那片名为“故事”的土地，他们就站在它的边境上。他若能抵达那对石头门柱（但他永远不会），他就会发现自己才刚从它们之间转进来，是仲夏那天，蜜蜂在蜀葵间飞舞，还有一位老太太在门廊上玩牌。 在一轮巨大饱满的明月照耀下，西尔维朝她看见的那栋房子前进，但她愈靠近，那房子就显得愈远。必须爬过一道矮石墙，还得穿过一片山毛榉林，最后终于出现一条小溪，或者应该说是一条大河，在月光下湍急地流动、冒着金色的泡沫。在河岸上思考了许久后，西尔维用树皮做了一艘小船，用一片巨大的叶子当帆，用蜘蛛丝充当绳索，还找来一个橡树子的壳当水桶。虽然差点就在河流流入地下的地方被卷进一座黑暗的湖泊里，但她还是抵达了对岸。那座坚定不移、如教堂般巨大的房子矗立在那儿俯瞰着她，黑色的紫杉木纷纷朝她指过来，有石柱的门廊看起来森严无比。奥伯龙还一直说那是一栋气氛愉快的房子！ 她觉得自己似乎永远到不了那里，而就算到了，恐怕也已变得渺小如尘埃，一定会掉在石板路的缝隙里。就在她这么想的时候，她停下脚步倾听。在阵阵甲虫和夜鹰的叫声之间，有音乐从某处传来，庄严肃穆但又不知怎的充满了喜悦，吸引着西尔维，于是她循着乐声前进。声音逐渐增长，不是愈来愈大声而是愈来愈饱满。在灌丛底下的朦胧黑暗中，她发现有支队伍提着灯笼在她周围聚集了起来，再不然就是觉得那些萤火虫和夜花很像某种队伍，而她是其中一员。她的心被那乐声填满，疑惑地朝灯光聚集的方向前进。她穿过一扇门，很多人抬起头看着她进入。她踏上一条通道，踩在沉睡的花朵间，远方是一片林间空地，有更多人聚集在那儿，也有更多人陆续抵达。在一棵开满花的树下，有一张铺着白色桌巾的桌子，座位都准备好了，中央有个位子是她的。只是这不像她原本所想的是一场盛宴，或者说不只是一场盛宴而已。这是一场守夜仪式。 她感到羞怯，也为那些哀悼者的悲伤感到悲伤（不论死者是谁），因此她站在那儿观望了良久，把为奥伯龙准备的礼物紧紧夹在腋下，倾听他们的低语呢喃。接着桌尾有个人转了过来，微微抬起戴着黑帽子的头，对她咧嘴一笑，露出一口白牙。他对她举起酒杯，挥手要她过去。看见他，她喜不自胜，于是穿过人群朝他走去，很多只眼睛落在她身上。她抱了抱他，喉咙一阵哽咽。“嘿，”她说，“嘿……” “嘿，”乔治说，“现在大家都到齐啦。” 她抱着他环视拥挤的桌子，在场的有好几十人，或哭或笑或干杯，有些戴着皇冠、有些有毛、有些长着羽毛（一只鹳鸟或一个长得像鹳鸟的人把她的喙子伸进一只高脚杯里，一边不安地瞄着身旁一只咧嘴微笑的狐狸），但总之大家都有位子。“这些人是谁？”她问。 “家人。”乔治说。 “谁死了？”西尔维低语。 “他爸爸。”乔治指出一个驼着背坐在那儿的男子，他脸上盖着一条手帕，头发里还卡了一片树叶。那男子转了过来，长长地叹了口气。跟他在一起的三个女子抬起头对西尔维微笑，仿佛认识她似的，接着她们就把那男子扭过来面对她。 “奥伯龙。”西尔维说。 大家看着他们相会。西尔维说不出话，因为奥伯龙脸上依然沾着悲伤的泪水，而奥伯龙也没有什么话能对她说，因此他们只是牵起手。“啊……”所有的宾客都这么说。音乐变了，西尔维露出微笑，众人因而欢呼喝彩。有人在她头上戴了一顶芬芳的白色花冠，奥伯龙也一样，是从宴会桌上方那棵洋槐树上采下的一束束洋槐花朵。大家纷纷举杯、大声祝酒，笑声四起。音乐震天价响。西尔维用她戴着戒指的棕色手掌擦去了她的王子脸上的泪水。 月亮持续挪移，宴会从守夜仪式转变成婚礼，变得狂放热闹。人们站起来跳舞，接着又坐下来吃喝。 “我就知道你会在这里，”西尔维说，“我就知道。” 由于已经确定了她在这里，奥伯龙先前的疑惑也就一扫而空。“我也很肯定，”他说，“肯定极了。 “可是，”他说，“为什么一阵子前——”他完全不知道那究竟是多久以前的事，几个钟头？decades? “——当我叫你的名字时，你为什么不停下来、不转头？” “是吗？”她说，“你叫我了吗？” “是啊。我看到了你。你正往前走。我叫了：'西尔维！'” “西尔维？”她既愉快又困惑地看着他。“噢！”最后她终于说了，“噢！西尔维！好吧，是这样的，我忘记了。因为实在太久了。因为这里的人从来不用那个名字叫我，他们从没用过那个名字。” “那他们怎么叫你？” “用另一个名字，”她说，“一个我小时候的小名。” “什么小名？” 她告诉了他。 “哦，”他说，“噢。” 看见他的表情，她笑出声。她为他倒了一杯冒着泡沫的饮料，把杯子递给他。他喝了。“所以听着，”她说，“我要听你所有的冒险故事。全部都要。你不想听听我的吗？” 全部都要、全部都要，他心想。那加了蜂蜜的烈酒彻底洗去了他原本的揣测，就仿佛一切都还没发生，而里面将会有他出现。一个王子和一个公主：在黑森林里。这么说来，莫非这段日子她都一直在那里，在那个王国里、在他们的王国里？And what about himself?他自己的冒险故事又是什么呢？它们就这样消失了，就在他想起它们的同时分崩溃散成无物，变得跟阴郁的未来一样模糊而不真实，同时未来则像一段辉煌的过去般在他面前展开。 “我早该知道的，”他笑着说，“我早该知道的。” “没错，”她说，“才刚开始呢。到时候你就知道了。” 不只是一个故事，不，不是一个故事与一个结局，而是上千个故事，而且离结束还远得很，几乎还没开始。这时她被一群嬉笑的舞者给卷走，于是他看着她离去。很多人争相对她伸出手，很多生物挤在她快速舞动的脚边，她对大家都露出坦率的微笑。他又喝了些酒，感觉全身燥热，两脚也蠢蠢欲动地想学习那放纵淫逸的舞步。她还是伤得了他吗？他看着她思忖着。他摸了摸她送的礼物，狂欢时她已经把它套到了他头上。是一对漂亮、厚实、有着脊状突起的角，优美地朝内弯曲，像一顶皇冠般沉重华美。他想着他们的事。爱情并不善良，并不总是善良的。爱情是种具有腐蚀性的东西，烧掉了善意也烧掉了悲伤。他俩是大权在握的孩子，但他们会成长