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  <title>In Otherworlds</title>
  
  <subtitle>Collections of my writing</subtitle>
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  <updated>2024-12-25T20:03:46.447Z</updated>
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  <author>
    <name>Hanwenheng Liu</name>
    
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  <entry>
    <title>2024 Winter Solstice Story - To Build a PC</title>
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    <id>http://example.com/2024/12/21/2024%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20To%20Build%20a%20PC/</id>
    <published>2024-12-22T04:00:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2024-12-25T20:03:46.447Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><img src="/2024/12/21/2024%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20To%20Build%20a%20PC/Heh%20heh.jpg" class="" title="呵呵"><span id="more"></span><p>"Ma Likai you <em>mensao</em> dawg, you've been collecting parts for a build behind my back?" I spin the heavy box by their corners between my fingers. Under the vinyl wrap is a picture of a triple-slot, triple-fan Mvimia 4470 Ti Max in front of an artist's rendition of a black hole. The company is just short of making the words "36GB GDDR12X" the entire box art---It's even bigger than their brand name. I guess they really are trying to sell the concept of "bigger VRAM, better performance". <em>Bah. GPUs used to be for displaying things and games only.</em> My dude grins with his eyes wide and round. It's his way of saying, "Gotcha!" He dragged me over to his room after breakfast just for this. My eyes gleam. "What else have you got?"</p><p>"Yo Liuy, is that a <em>graphics card</em>?" Zhan Nima pokes his head in through the open door, his thin, small eyes home in on the box in my hands. Zhan Zhiquan is his real name that no one uses. People call him "Zhan Ye" Master Zhan for his IT skills. I call him "Zhan Nima" because whenever he goes "Heh heh" I think of llamas. "4470 Ti Max. Heh heh. Dope, man, dope. I use that, too. Liuy snagged a 4480 Max."</p><p>"Yeah, I snagged a <em>4480 Max</em>, cuz what happened to <em>‘let’s not buy 70 Ti Max and laugh at Mvimia’,</em> eh? Eh, traitor?"</p><p>"Heh heh." Nima gives a shifty laugh. "So, uh... Bro Kai’s building?" He comes in, eyes gleaming. "What else have you got?"</p><p>"Uh... I got a CPU---"</p><p>"<em>Duh.</em> But <em>what else</em> have you <em>got?</em>" We exclaim in unison.</p><p>Likai lumbers to his closet and opens the door. His round face impassive, like it always is before exams and checkups. I snort. That's a lot of fans: a 120mm case fan, a 240mm twin fan module, and a 360mm triple fan module. <em>Is he trying to use this as an AC? How many does he need for that chassis?</em> I glance at the unassuming black tower case. Three in the front, two at the bottom, one in the back, but the top could still fit three more. And then I see the box. "Liquid cooling? Whoa, for your first build?"</p><p>"Wanna join that novelty bandwagon." Likai answers as though to an interrogation.</p><p>"9770x for CPU... why not 9880x3D? Both are eight cores but 80 is faster per core, and the vertical layered cache for wider bandwidth." Nima crouches down and takes out the boxes one by one. "32GB x 2 for RAM at 7,000mHz... MSB B650M motherboard... not bad... Heh heh, KaiWarrior 4TB!" He chortles at the solid-state drive.</p><p>"X3D is outta stock." The play on Likai's name glances off his thick skin.</p><p>"Good stuff, all of these. Budget brand for some but not too shabby---Ayo..." Nima holds up the final box.</p><p>"What's that?" I frown. We know it's a power source unit. It distributes power to the components. But we've never seen the brand before. The box says "KimPlatRiver 850W, 80 PULS Platinum-rated, for 4990 Ti Super Pro Max". The obscure brand, the misspelled "PLUS", the ridiculous "Ti Super Pro Max" suffix, and the claims of 850W supporting a 750W quasi-professional GPU that is usually paired with 120W CPUs leave Nima and I dumbfounded. I look up "KimPlatRiver" on my phone. The first page shows nothing but what a literal bomb the brand's PSU is.</p><p>"You gotta return that. How much did you pay for this?" Nima says.</p><p>"That's the only thing you don't cheap out." I say.</p><p>"Nah. It's too much of a hassle to return. Between this go boom-boom and the liquid cooler go drip-drip, I'll take my chances."</p><p>"Hold a moment here---"</p><p>"How much did you pay for the <em>cooler</em> now---"</p><p>"Bruh, listen to yourself---"</p><p>"It's <em>electricity</em> we're talking about here---"</p><p>"That thing fails and it can fry your entire computer---"</p><p>"What are you and Zhan Ye squawking in there?" Lily pokes her head through the window, bringing in a gush of wintry air. "Oh? PC parts? Likai are you building? Hold up---" She scurries away, shutting the window with a <em>bang</em>. Seconds later, she frisks in through the door, cheeks red from the cold and running. "WHOA! I've never seen this stuff in person! Liuy built his while I was away Are we building now? Can we build it now?"</p><p>"There's an issue---" Nima starts.</p><p>"What are you doing here?" I raise my eyebrow at Lily.</p><p>"Mom asked me to look after you." Lily draws herself up, smug.</p><p>"Which one? Iris, Lindsay, or my mom, who shouldn't even be here?"</p><p>"Mine! Both of them! So, are we building it? Are we?"</p><p>"Well, there's---" Nima tries again.</p><p>"Yeah, let's do it. Let's do it!" Likai waves us off and pushes the boxes out into the open.</p><center>---</center><p>The floor is cleared. The boxes are opened. The metal chassis for the PC stands in the middle of us, surrounded by screwdrivers and different bits. We washed our hands and now each of us touches the case in turn to drain away static electricity. Likai has a humidifier bubbling and puffing a meter behind him just in case. Zhan Nima puts away his phone, tutting, "Winter break..."</p><p>"Hmm?" Lily asks. Nima bats a hand. Lily shrugs. "Okay! Where do we---"</p><p>"Whoa!" Voices come from the door.</p><p>I look over. I thought the school’s empty in winter. Billy, Rubik, Robbie, Lindsay, Iris, Tina, and Sally all look in. Rubik points out the pile of parts excitedly to Billy, whose same face wears the usual small cold scowl when it’s at rest, and Robbie, who whistles. Tina is tapping at Sally and looking around at Lindsay and Iris. I palm my face as they all walk in and take a seat by the door.</p><p>"Motherboard." Nima decides to ignore them and prods me. I hand it over. "Manual." Lily spreads it open before us and clasps her hands. "Okay, let's read."</p><p>"Oh." Rubik stands up to leave. "I thought you guys are going to build it."</p><p>"You need to know the layout before starting." Robbie tugs him. "It's a manual for how to build the computer."</p><p>"Oh." Rubik sits back down.</p><p>"No pressure. We put in the CPU first." I say. "'Align the arrows on the CPU and the socket.'" I point to the gold triangle on the chip. Likai unbuckles the lever and opens the hatch. Then he realizes he forgot to touch the case. He makes a hasty reach for it, stealing a guilty glance at us. It should be fine. He plucks the 9770x out of its tray and poises the chip over the socket, "as flat as possible," as the manual instructed. He lowers it slowly. The gang by the door watches with bated breath. "Uh, you don’t need to be too careful, ya know? Just put it down."</p><p>So he does. Then he chugs down a bottle of water and lets Lily close the hatch. Lily pushes the lever back in place and the black cover pops off. Likai almost chokes. The gang lets out an "ooooh!" I thought I even heard Billy's voice. Sally is arranging Billy's face into a worried frown. "Poker face!" She whispers.</p><p>"Is it supposed to do that?" Likai asks. I point at the line that says "Make sure the black cover plate is always in place until it <strong>pops off</strong> when closing the socket lever."</p><p>"'Read the fucking manual.'" Nima chuckles. "It used to be much more unnerving, back when they had pins on the CPU. Bend one and you'll be straightening it all day."</p><p>"Great!" Lily high-fives Likai's sweaty palm. "Cooler next?"</p><p>"Let's do RAM next." Nima flips through the pages. "We have a water cooler, and its tubes would get in the way. We'll do that after the board is in the case. Okay, RAM. Short term memory for the system. It's like this floor where we're keeping the screwdrivers as we work, versus the storage disk, which is the closet we store them in when we don't use it. We have four slots but two sticks. So we---"</p><p>"Whoa!" Lily's friends, Mae, Julia, Landon, and Max, come in. Ye Xin and Lyka pass by behind them, and then backtrack to look in.</p><p>"Eh? Why aren't you home for the break?" I blink.</p><p>"Lily isn't." Landon beams.</p><p>"Can we watch?" Mae smiles from behind Max. Ye Xin and Lyka nod expectantly, too. Likai looks at the six people already there and sighs. Whatever. Can't refuse Mae.</p><p>"Hey, at least they asked." Lily wiggles, beckoning Mae and Julia over.</p><p>"I didn't know my dorm can hold so many people." Likai muses. "All by the door, no less." The room doesn't have much to begin with, other than the standard-issues for Willowcreek Academy: two wooden chairs, a desk, a bed, two stands, and a wardrobe, all painted white. Then there's a blue fabric couch and a black metal bookcase, on which stand many Lego cityscapes. Likai added a TV stand and a TV. Winter morning sunlight pours in through the two windows, one by his bed and one above the couch (through which Lily just looked in). It spreads across the Baldur's Gate poster above the desk and the calligraphy piece above the TV, lending them a layer of vibrancy.</p><p>"Big hearts make for big rooms." Max says.</p><p>"Uh-huh." Nima sticks the RAM in Likai’s hands. Likai studies the manual for the correct slots, and lines up the notch of the stick to one of them. He sets it in, glances at us, and pushes. It didn't go in. He pushes again. It stays sitting there, askew.</p><p>"Don't be coy. Put all your 180 pounds to it!" I exclaim. <em>Chek-chek-chek-chek.</em> We all look at the source of that sound. Sally and Tina are shaking two maracas each. "... where did you get those from?"</p><p>"Go Likai go!" They call, giggling. The slot goes CLACK as the levers catch. A bead of sweat rolls down Likai's temple. He takes a long swig and motions for Lily. Lily slaps the other one in before Tina and Sally even started rattling. She slaps Likai’s outstretched hand for another five,</p><p>"Teamwork!"</p><p>"Hmm that's my girl." Iris laughs.</p><p>"And mine." Lindsay laughs identically.</p><p>"The SSD's next, right?" Julia wags her chin at it. "I remember Landon showed me when he built his. That's like the only thing left besides the graphics card."</p><p>"The solid-state drive. Yep. Much faster than the old spinning disk drive, and much smaller, too." I pop it out of the container.</p><p>"Look how cute it is!" Lily exclaims to Mae and Julia. "It's tiny."</p><p>"It is." I grin. "No DRAM, though. That's RAM on the drive for its own use. Supposedly makes it faster in some intense work like the 3D modeling Likai does in architecture class, or video editing. But the disk should be fast enough on its own that you won't notice a difference."</p><p>"Yeah, should be fine. I don't see any improvement on my computer." Nima says. "Too bad we have only one, though. This board can take three."</p><p>"No money." Likai grunts. He screws it down, and then lays a thermal pad on top. With Lily's help, he secures the heatsink. Lily high-fives him again.</p><p>"Into the case this goes." Nima says. "Then the cooler and the GPU."</p><p>We flip the chassis sideways. Lily clears the cables and wires inside while Mae and Julia sort through the bag of screws it comes with. We put in the standoffs and check whether the motherboard is oriented the right way.</p><p>"Whoa!" Rowana gasps from the door.</p><p>"We should just shut that." I say, exasperated. "It's like we're a circus or something."</p><p>"Oh don't mind us. We'll be quiet as a mouse." Rowana tiptoes in with Sparcal, Aura, Ela, and even Old Nar'fiius. The headmaster makes himself comfortable beside Billy and chuckles.</p><p>"What were we doing again?" Likai wipes his forehead. With all the people (and elves), the room is getting warm. "Please don't tell me you got more of your characters coming over."</p><p>"It's after breakfast! We're in a dorm! What did you expect?" Lily throws out her arms. "Come on! Let's mount it---oops!" In her enthusiasm to help him, she accidentally slid his finger on the edge of the motherboard I/O shield. But Likai is steadfast. He persists to snap in the shield to the case, slide in the board, and twist in the screws before checking the cut. "Sorry! I'm sorry!" Lily busies herself with dabbing way the blood on the case, the shield, and the screwdriver, then Likai’s finger. "I'm so sorry!"</p><p>"Anyone got bandages?" I ask. Aura is already walking over, and Landon, too. He leers at the bloody tissue and Likai's finger, and wags his left pinky at Julia,</p><p>"Yeah, I've paid that blood sacrifice, too. Remember this?"</p><p>"Uh-huh. We both did." Julia raises her right ring finger.</p><p>"So have I." Nima shows his right index finger, a faint scar upon. "Look at that. Pretty deep, too."</p><p>"Oh I feel all left out." I pat Likai's thick shoulder. Aura closed his cut well. It's barely visible once the blood is cleaned. "Welcome to PC building. You've be hazed---Ow!"</p><p>He prods me in the side. Guess he isn't nervous anymore. I push the cooler toward him. This is the only part that I've never laid my hands on. Unlike traditional air coolers, this has not a heatsink but a cylindrical water block that goes onto the CPU.</p><p>"Where's the liquid?" Lily asks.</p><p>"It's already in there." Nima traces a finger along the tubes dangling from the water block. "There's a small pump inside that cycles the coolant through these. The heat from the CPU would be absorbed by the coolant and carried to the metal radiator, and dissipated through those fins by the fans. If you want to go fancy, you can add a custom reservoir and replace tubes with pipes."</p><p>"No money." Likai grunts. "Maybe some time in the future, as an upgrade."</p><p>The first step is to stuff a rubber seal to a bracket under the water block. It really shouldn't be a step if the manufacturer didn't decide to design two separate mounting brackets for different brands of CPUs and make the user assemble the one they need. <em>But it’s a budget brand,</em> we tell ourselves, <em>deal with it.</em> Lily, Mae, and Julia team up, one holding the bracket, one holding the water block, and one fitting the seal. The bracket bends as if to break, but the seal remains immutable. It slips and slides and refuses to sit still. When one side is pressed down, a different side flips up. The crowd by the door are a little too quiet. I half expected them to start the maracas, so I look over.</p><p>Oh they'll start the maracas alright---and more than that. Ela is handing out poms and Rubik is blowing up cheer sticks for Iris to pass around. Old Nar' procures a pair and chuckles, "Oh my, I do hope this does not speak to how little entertainment my school has to offer."</p><p>"It's Winter Break, grandpa." Iris holds up her poms. "This <em>is</em> entertainment. Ready?"</p><p>The cooler changes hands. Likai rolls up his sleeve and wrangles the seal with Zhan Nima. The crowd chants, "Zhan Ye! Bro Kai! Zhan Ye! Bro Kai!" Lily and Julia follow up with "Stuff it! Go! Stuff it! Go!" I rest my chin on my folded hands, thinking that were we alone, curses would be flying already. I’d prefer that, than Lily wringing my arm up, yelling,</p><p>"Don't just sit there, Liuy! Even Billy's cheering!"</p><p>The guy with a resting scowl on my face stretches his lips as his way of a grin. Sally and Robbie are wringing one of his arms each as well. His eyes have that defeated look, which says, "I'm here 'cause my friends kidnapped me here," "If you can't defeat 'em, join 'em," and "Haha serve you right for creating Lily that way."</p><p>I did <em>not</em>.</p><p>In the rhythmic rattles, dancing glitters of poms, and the bubbling of the humidifier, I escape Lily’s clutches and pin down the bracket with Nima while Likai fights against the silicone seal. The struggle drags on and the distant bell strikes ten times. The tower bell was cracked earlier in the year and we had to use elven arts to get it out and put the new one in by shrinking and then restoring them. Hey---What if we just have the elves enlarge this slippery bastard and then shrink it with their elven arts? But they are too busy hooking up a stereo to Rowana's phone. She taps it and the stereo goes, "Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick."</p><p>"...If you guys are <em>really</em> bored, help us, maybe?" I say. The four younger elves shake their heads and laugh their silvery laugh.</p><p>"Nah."</p><p>The seal jostles and jumps and jolts around. Damn this thing. Time for some drastic measures. We hold down the bracket and notch a finger from each hand to the fucking seal. At Likai's mark, we stretch the mafa and pin down the bracket with both hands. The bracket creaks and groans. Our fingers, the seal, or the bracket: one of them is breaking today. Rowana slides a finger up on her phone. The timer ticks louder and louder, until by a miracle, the seal snaps into the groove around the bracket.</p><p>"Phew. Thanks for the... <em>support</em>?" Likai wipes his forehead and bows his head to the crowd, left palm over right fist. In the rowdy cheer, Nima and Lily install all the fans to have the air come in from the front and below, and out through the top and back. I put in the radiator. Likai peels off the plastic on the water block, makes sure the thermal paste is there, and mounts it to the CPU. He reaches for the GPU.</p><p>"Oof, this is heavy!" Mae gingerly passes it over. They overbuilt the heatsink in this generation. The cards are big for no reason, and sell for an obscene price. Once that's in, Nima holds up the power source.</p><p>"You sure about this?"</p><p>"Too late to change." Likai shrugs.</p><p>So into the case it goes. We connect the cables, routing and arranging them along the way. First are the USB-C header cables and the power button wires for the front panel. Then come the case fan and the cooler fan cables. Finally are the power cables: 24 pin ATX for the motherboard, 8 pin 12V for the CPU, and the 12V HPWR to the GPU. Thank god we don't have peripherals like 3.5-inch or 2.5-inch storage drives. It'd make organizing the cables much harder. The end result looks delightful: all the individual cables bend neatly to the back of the motherboard, where Nima used Velcro to tape them down flat. Not a single stray cable goes across the motherboard, only the tubes of the cooler. Likai breathes out a satisfied sigh. The gang by the door hoots in cheer.</p><p>"Where's your monitor? Let's light it up." Nima says.</p><p>"It hasn't arrived yet. I meant to build this on Saturday, when it gets here."</p><p>"..."</p><p>"Whoops." Lily says.</p><p>"TV should work, too, right?" Tina points.</p><p>Yeah. We move over. Likai pulls out a Display Port cable and plugs it in. I plug in the power. Nima flips the switch on the power source. Lily looks the whole thing over and asks which port the DP cable is supposed to go in again. We quickly switch it from the motherboard port to the GPU one.</p><p>"Good catch." Nima laughs. "Light her up, Bro Kai!"</p><p><em>Click</em> goes the power button. A spark flies out of the power source. The crowd gasps. We all look to the PSU. Wisps of smoke snake out of the grill.</p><p>"Oooh!" The gang goggles.</p><p>Zhan Nima wrenches off the power cord. Likai collapses into the couch. His long sigh trails around and around the room. Silence falls over the gang. They look at each other, wistful, sorry, disappointed, or upset. A gust of wind whistles against the window. It brings in eleven chimes from the bell tower. I heave a sigh and collapse into the couch, too. The dead, stuffy air is punctured only by the bubbling and puffing from the humidifier.</p><p>Old Nar’ finally speaks,</p><p>"Likai, would you like a technician to look at it?"</p><p>Likai raises an arm and waves.</p><p>"Nah. Liuy and Zhan Ye warned me about this. It’s karma." He stands up, a hand on his stomach. "Thanks for coming. I’m hungry. Lunch. Let’s go for lunch. C’mon, Liuy. Zhan Ye---Zhan Ye? C’mon, drop your phone already."</p><p>Zhan Nima holds up a finger, muttering, "Hold a sec." He slips his phone into his pocket and starts dismantling the power cables. "Liuy, come help." A smug smirk crawls onto his face. I look at him in askance. He only replies, "Heh heh."</p><p>I take off the dodgy power source. Its metal casing is warm, and it smells like burnt plastic. Nima points at one of its sockets. Melted. I pass that around. Together we examine for damage on the motherboard. Without an ampere meter or a technician, we can't tell much. At least all the power sockets on the board and the GPU look fine. Nima throws aside the cables and lie down on his back, tapping away the seconds.</p><p>"Uh… what are we waiting for?" Rubik pipes up after a while.</p><p>"For Bro Kai to get back from the toilet. Also, I had someone look for a store that’s open before we started building." Nima says to the ceiling. "Just in case."</p><p>There’s a knock on the door frame. A long-haired girl leans in. She holds a plastic bag that says "MacroMarket". I don’t think I’ve seen her in the school before, even though she looks our age. <em>Part-timer at this time of the year?</em> I think. <em>What a hard worker.</em></p><p>"Sorry, is Zhan Zhiquan here? Um… I have something for him…" She hesitates and looks around the room. Nima shoots up, beaming.</p><p>"You came!" He exclaims. "Thanks---thanks!" He runs to her. The girl hops a little on the balls of her feet and pouts,</p><p>"You really had me running around! MacroMarket wasn’t open ‘til 10:30, so I had to go the long way around and visit other stores first. But none of them carries this---" She thrusts the bag forward. Likai comes out of his bathroom and mouths to me, "Who is she?"</p><p>I look at Lily, and she looks equally puzzled back at me. Old Nar’, the only other one who’s omniscient in this world, tilts his head at me, and then looks at Nima and the girl with his usual peaceful smile.</p><p>"Oh right. Everyone, this is my girlfriend." Nima leads her into the room.</p><p>"I like her." Lily smacks her hands together. "She’s the only one in the past two hours who didn’t go ‘Whoa!’, but knocked." And that’s how you crack apart the heavy atmosphere in the room. The girls reach for Nima’s girlfriend and takes over her coat. They make room for her, welcoming and commending her effort.</p><p>"I’m used to it. Zhiquan drags me around town every other week to find one part or another. You know, engineer specialty student and all."</p><p>"Heh heh. And <em>that</em> might have just saved Bro Kai's PC." Nima struts over, grinning. He takes out the new top-of-the-line Privateer JK850x Platinum and holds in the sunlight. The elves in the room missed an opportunity to sing those angelic "ahhh"s for the effects. After another check, Nima presses the power button.</p><p>Nothing. No lights, no screen display, and no fans spinning. Not even a click.</p><p>"Aww..." The gang groans.</p><p>"The motherboard's fried, I guess." Nima sighs.</p><p>"Then why didn't the PSU fan spin up?" I ask.“It should still be powered.”</p><p>"Privateer's units have a 'zero-spin' mode for noise control."</p><p>"It should still spin up on boot, shouldn't it?"</p><p>"Hmm... I guess?"</p><p>"Lunch!" Likai stands up again and makes for the door. He looks serious---for lunch, at least.</p><p>"Hold on!" Lily flips the switch on the PSU. She checks the DP cable again and makes sure the power button wire is secure. She extends a hand to the PC. "Do the honors, Likai!"</p><p>"Nah. It's probably---"</p><p>Lily takes out a pen and poises it over her palm.</p><p>"Whoa, whoa, whoa. You can't use that authority after scolding me for it last year." I snatch at her writing hand. Nima's girlfriend looks puzzled and alarmed. Others in the gang pick up the maracas, cheer sticks, and poms, smiling their encouragement and anticipation. Nima leans over and reaches for the button, but Lily stops him with a glare. Likai shrugs and stomps over. In the renewed "<em>Chek-chek-chek-chek</em>" and "<em>Bung-bung, bung-bung</em>" over the bubbling and puffing of the humidifier and the whistling wind, he jabs the button. <em>Click</em>. All sounds cease. Fans whirl up and then die down to a soft hum, giving way to the low pump of the liquid cooler. The TV lights up with the logo of MSB. The circle spins until everything is replaced by the BIOS, the settings screen for the motherboard.</p><p>The humidifier bubbles and puffs. Then it splutters its last bit of water and shuts off.</p><p>Landon is the first to clap. Rubik yodels and drums a lively beat with his cheer sticks against Billy's. The gang explodes. "Likai! Likai! Likai! Likai!" They shout. Lily leaps over and high-fives Likai again, and then to Nima and me. I slap Likai's thick back, and nudge his arms for good measure.</p><p>"We just hit every mistake we could make today." I laugh at Nima.</p><p>"Heh heh." He replies. "Oh didn't we."</p><p>"All's well that ends well!" Lily pipes up. "Fun!"</p><p>"Why aren't you laughing?" I hear Sally and Tina ask Billy.</p><p>"He <em>is</em> laughing." Lindsay says.</p><p>"I <em>am</em> laughing." Billy says.</p><p>"Thank you. Thank you." Likai regal-waves a hand at the gang. "Thanks for the support. Thanks for swinging by. Thanks for saving the day. Than--- <em>Oi</em>!"</p><p>The guys rush him and to my amazement, lift him overhead. The girls join in, too. Together, the elves and humans, fictional and real, carry him out through the door and probably to lunch, or maybe Willow Creek for a victory dunk. "<em>HE BUILT A PC! HE BUILT A PC!</em>" They storm down the hallway. Lily follows Nima out of the room to chase after them. I take a last look at the blinding bling of an RGB by the TV, and shut the room door.</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;img src=&quot;/2024/12/21/2024%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20To%20Build%20a%20PC/Heh%20heh.jpg&quot; class=&quot;&quot; title=&quot;呵呵&quot;&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    <category term="Willowcreek Academy" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Willowcreek-Academy/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>Vignette - Thanks Giving</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2024/03/10/Vignette%20-%20Thanks%20Giving/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2024/03/10/Vignette%20-%20Thanks%20Giving/</id>
    <published>2024-03-11T01:50:30.000Z</published>
    <updated>2024-07-31T05:04:46.115Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>Billy stares out of the glass wall in the cafeteria, chewing on a single grain of rice. Inside, in the soft glow from the high ceiling, the chatter natter grows as people wander in after their day. Outside, beyond the trees and gardens and crop fields, the sun retreats behind Oron Winecaima, “Mt. Cradle”, dyeing the sea and the sky blood red. In between the two is his face, looking 120 instead of 12 from exhaustion. His eyes look even smaller than usual.</p><p>Tina collapses into the opposite seat and drops her plate. Billy can barely raise a brow at bits of dirt and grass still in her fraying hair. Flakes of blood and smudges of mud are gone from her cheeks, though. Tina glowers.</p><span id="more"></span><p>“What? If I showered I’d fall asleep in the bathtub!”</p><p>Classic Tina. Billy returns to watching the volcano sending wisps of faint, shadowy vapor into the dusk. <em>Lindsay probably</em> did <em>fall asleep in the tub.</em> The four of them were gone for only two solar weeks, but the view that he has known for two solar years looks so foreign now. Black smoke, smell of sulfur, explosions and whistles of bullets, tasteless bricks of rations—He misses the misty vapors of Oron Winecaima. He misses the salty breeze of the Isle. He misses (unbelievably) the drone of the crowds. He misses rice. He picks up another grain. A pocket of sweetness.</p><p>“Four calendar months.” Tina groans. “Finally over.”</p><p>“Won’t be our last.”</p><p>“I miss recon missions.”</p><p>“Join Batu, then.”</p><p>“And miss the face you make when you shattered your ring?”</p><p>“Get your own rice, Tina.” Billy waves her hand away from his bowl with his chopsticks, just to annoy her.</p><p>“Trade ya with a meatball.” She reaches over again.</p><p>Billy sighs and struggles up.</p><p>“Where are you going?”</p><p>“Getting you your <em>own rice</em>.”</p><p>Birds glide past the glass, skimming the sun-gilt treetops, the rippling sea, and disappear behind Oron Winecaima. Its vapor grows denser as it raises, and becomes clouds. It’ll get noisy soon. Tina frowns. It’s the scheduled Pressure Release day.</p><p>Someone jumps into Billy’s chair. She smells the perfume-soaked bandana around his wrist before she sees Batu’s gelled-up spiky hair and round flat face. Tina wrenches Billy’s plates and bowls to her side of the table.</p><p>“Damn, Christina! You’re not letting me eat? After my two-week-long mission?”</p><p>“Go away.”</p><p>Batu reaches for the rice bowl. Tina slaps his hand away.</p><p>“Ow, Tina, that hurts!” Batu clasps his heart. “Right here! I’ve been living off MREs, you know? It wasn’t easy!”</p><p>“Don’t call me Tina.”</p><p>“But of course you won’t know. They don’t need cute dolls like you on a battlefield!”</p><p>Tina has stopped wondering long ago why he thinks what he says is flirting. She leans her head against her wrist and keeps her eyes on the volcano. The white vapor darkens and casts a long, ominous shadow across the Isle and over her. For a second, the laughters, hollers, chatters of silverware, and Batu’s “We were at the defense line sending troops out, Tina. Man! I wish I could go with them!” dim. She was back in the trench, wondering where Robbie is, or Lindsay, or even Billy. Men in cloth tunics, full plates, and then army fatigues fell down beside her. They were training robots and holographs of soldiers, of course; yet it was hard not to feel something, especially after her ring shattered. It’s still hard even now.</p><p>“The mortars—<em>damn!</em> So cool—<em>BOOM!</em> Bunch of people fell. We had to retreat because they were blasting into our defense! You’re lucky to see me again, ya know?”</p><p>Tina can’t take her eyes off the smoke. She knows what it’s like to fire a shell and to turn people into pieces. It wasn’t cool. It was nauseating. But she had to fire. She had to, or they’d come closer and closer until she and her friends were gone. She had to pull the rope and—</p><p>The explosives inside Oron Winecaima sends a torrent of smoke into the air and a chunk of the lip into the sea. Lava overflows and sets trees ablaze as it rolls down towards the beach, guided by an invisible barrier. Somewhere in Tina’s head, a cackle grows louder. Flames jump into existence, snaking out of broken windows and licking the sky. Black smoke chokes the air.</p><p>“WHOA!” Batu’s shrill voice sounds muffled. “That’s <em>just like war!</em>“</p><p>He bangs the table and the clanking of utensils and plates become falling timbers and clashes of weapons. Tina gasps through her teeth and stuffs her ears. A sliver of her mind tells her to snap out of it. That is soon engulfed by fire and smoke. Another flares into life and reflects she’d rather fall asleep in the tub and miss dinner than relive these horrors. It is drowned in hopelessness and the night. She flits between Tinas from six solar years ago and six calendar days ago, watching her home burn down in her attempt to cook alone for the first time out of hunger and soldiers tumble into her trench, their blood falling right through her.</p><center> # </center><p>The cafeteria resumes its cacophony after a brief pause. Billy wades through the din back to his table. He didn’t expect to run into first Robbie (who went on awhile about a misstep he realized they had made at their retreat) and then Lindsay (who whined, rather coquettish, at him that she fell asleep in the bathtub). But they know where to find him now.</p><p>He gives a start first at Batu in his chair, his wide, bragging mouth ripping a canyon at the lower third of his flat face, and then at a paralyzed Tina staring in horror at the smoke, the lava, and the fire outside. <em>Didn’t she get better after those therapies?</em> He drops the bowl and rocks her shoulders. Tina grabs the bowl.</p><p>“Tina? Can you hear me?”</p><p>“—I wanted to fight but they said I’m still a kid. Can you belie—What? Where did you come from? Traitor! Piss off! Scram!”</p><p>Tina winces at Batu’s scream and clasps her hands back around her ears.</p><p>“What’s going on?” Robbie comes over.</p><p>“We should move.” Billy looks up.</p><p>“Yeah! Leave Christina and me alone and cry elsewhere! WAHHHHHH!”</p><p>Robbie sets down his plates much harder than he meant to. The cafeteria pauses again. Lindsay hurries over, too.</p><p>“What’s going on—oh not <em>you</em>…”</p><p>“Hey Lindsay! Wanna hear about my last mission?” Batu hollers. The last bit of whispers in the room dies down. Humans and elves, old and young, all turn to them.</p><p>“Nobody does. Leave us.” Robbie says.</p><p>“I’m not talking to you, Know-it-all! <em>You</em> should leave, like Billy said!”</p><p>“Look after her for us.” Lindsay whispers to Billy crouching by the shivering Tina. Batu notices her condition at last.</p><p>“Tina! Hey, Christina! What’s wrong—“</p><p>“Shut up, will you?” Billy snaps.</p><p>“<em>You</em> shut up! She was fine earlier! <em>You</em> made her like that! She was enjoying my story of my mission! <em>You</em> had to mess her up ‘cuz <em>you’re</em> jealous ‘cuz <em>you’ve</em> never been to a <em>war zone</em>—“</p><p>“Will you just shut up and leave?” Lindsay snarls. “No one gives a damn—“</p><p>Robbie sighs. The retreat he had with Tina, Billy, and Lindsay in the past four calendar months drained his mind. He has no more brains left for tact. They relived four battles across history back-to-back, living on tasteless rations and taking turns shutting their eyes only when they could. They feared for their lives despite knowing they were all just simulations, and the twelve Nanwen elf replica scattered across the field didn’t help. He doesn’t know how they managed to defeat the last one, with both Billy and Tina unable to use elven arts—It took all his willpower to not lose his temper the day prior, when Tina’s ring shattered after Billy’s, and having a temper in the first place was uncharacteristic for him enough. Time in the world for their retreat runs eight times as fast as their homeworld. It’s a temporal ratio none of them had experience with before, and it only adds more physical and mental strain on top of their exhaustion from the simulations. The smell of spaghetti waft over from his plate. His stomach growls and he almost drools. They need food, they need rest, and they need them fast. Screw diplomacy. This is one time Robbie allows himself for wanton violence. <em>Besides… I’ve never paid Batu back for exacerbating Guoben’s abuses for Billy.</em></p><p>“Sorry, everyone.” He declares and strides up to Batu. With one fluid swing, he sends Batu flying behind him. Batu rolls and jumps up to retaliate. Robbie is already securing his ring to his finger. Lindsay steps in.</p><p>“Outta my way! I deserve better after my two weeks of mission in a <em>war zone</em>—“</p><p>“Two what weeks of what mission, exactly?” Lindsay snaps.</p><p>“Calendar!” Calls a voice from the crowd.</p><p>“recon!” Calls another. A few people stifle their snorts.</p><p>“You’re just jealous!” Batu yells back.</p><p>“Jealous?” Billy scowls. “Of what? Doing nothing but recon at your stage?”</p><p>“Get a replacement mentor already.” Robbie says. “I’d be ashamed if I were you, leeching off novice teams just to fulfill the minimum workload.”</p><p>Batu roars and lunges for him. Lindsay repels him with elven art. He springs back and flattens his flat face against her barrier, knocking himself out cold.</p><p>The cafeteria bursts into laughter.</p><center> # </center><p>Tina’s breaths finally ease and her trembles cease. Her hands fall. Lindsay’s and Billy’s anxious faces come into focus.</p><p>“What took you so long.” She manages to scoff at last.</p><p>“What took <em>you</em> so long.” Billy points. “Robbie and Lindsay are here. Look… We’re all here. It’s alright now.”</p><p>Tina peers around. Robbie is walking back wearing a scowl. People are patting him on the back. Batu’s nowhere to be found.</p><p>“Aura took him.” Robbie sits back down beside Tina and catches her. The chatter in the cafeteria fades away. Lindsay has concealed their table. “It’s okay, Tina. It’s alright now…”</p><p>Outside, the smoke has dispersed. The fires have died. Only the glowing lava still trudges towards the sea. Blinds slide down, keeping the night at bay.</p><p>Tina watches Billy and Lindsay sit down to eat, and reaches for her fork. It hangs in midair, quivers, and hits the table. Tina is on her feet, holding onto the table for support.</p><p>“I’m so—so glad I made friends with y-you.”</p><p>The other three looks at each other.</p><p>“I r-really am! I never thought—I thought I had it under control—“</p><p>“You’re exhausted, that’s all.” Lindsay lays a hand over Tina’s.</p><p>“There were too many cues. It was just unfortunate.” Robbie dabs her eyes with a napkin. He holds her shoulders and lets her down. “Don’t worry. We’ll always be here for you.”</p><p>“Thanks…thanks for helping me. Thanks for standing up for me. Thanks for bringing me back. Thanks for being my friend… Especially you two.” She glances at Robbie and Billy. “We didn’t start off too well, but—well…”</p><p>“I wouldn’t be here without your music player.” Billy mumbles, blushing.</p><p>“It’s all past.” Robbie squeezes her shoulders. “Come on. You must be hungry.”</p><p>“Never thought I’d see Tina cry.” Billy mutters.</p><p>“You. You forget about what just happened.” Tina juts her chin.</p><p>“Me? What, just me? Why—Fine. Whatever.” Billy rolls his eyes at Robbie and offers Lindsay a meatball. Lindsay giggles and has him bite first. Tina tilts her head.</p><p>“You know, those two <em>do</em> look pretty cute toget—Hey wait a minute! That’s mine!”</p><p>“You traded for my rice!”</p><p>“I thanked you just now, didn’t I?”</p><p>“Don’t remember.” Billy smirks into his bowl.</p><p>“Why you—“</p><p>Lindsay shakes her head at the chuckling Robbie, “Back to bickering again, these two. Yep, she’s definitely alright now.”</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;Billy stares out of the glass wall in the cafeteria, chewing on a single grain of rice. Inside, in the soft glow from the high ceiling, the chatter natter grows as people wander in after their day. Outside, beyond the trees and gardens and crop fields, the sun retreats behind Oron Winecaima, “Mt. Cradle”, dyeing the sea and the sky blood red. In between the two is his face, looking 120 instead of 12 from exhaustion. His eyes look even smaller than usual.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Tina collapses into the opposite seat and drops her plate. Billy can barely raise a brow at bits of dirt and grass still in her fraying hair. Flakes of blood and smudges of mud are gone from her cheeks, though. Tina glowers.&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Short Stories" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Short-Stories/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Vignette" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Vignette/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>Ghosts who Came Back</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2024/01/01/Ghosts%20who%20Came%20Back/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2024/01/01/Ghosts%20who%20Came%20Back/</id>
    <published>2024-01-02T04:40:30.000Z</published>
    <updated>2024-08-14T03:38:37.462Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>Grandma started attracting ghosts.</p><p>I knew she was on the balcony that evening, taking care of her spider plants, Christmas cacti, clivia, and aloes, but I found her in my room, too, rifling through a drawer I had left open. I asked her when she'd come inside, but she kept on rifling, and looked at me like a stranger. The room was dark. The only light came from the sliver that passed into the hallway from the living room, where my grandma had just returned. I looked back and forth, and ran out. Grandma sat down in her usual sofa. Mom was in the other one. I cried that there was an intruder, that someone looking like grandma was stealing our stuff. Mom jumped up and strode past me. She came out annoyed. She gave me a slap on the back and told me that was <em>her</em> grandmother, my great-grandmother. Grandma had dozed off. Mom glanced at her and muttered, <em>So, it started.</em></p><span id="more"></span><p>Great-grandmother appeared again the next evening. She lingered in the dim hallway, watching grandma doze in the sofa. I curled up in my chair, arms around my knees, and face in my arms, peeking out at her. She had the same stooping, plump figure, and triangular eyes. Her hair was cut to shoulder-length, gleaming white. Our eyes met. The blankness in her eyes sent a shiver down to my stomach. I tried to yell, to tell her go away, but I couldn't manage any more than a hoarse whisper. Mom heard my rasps and came in from the kitchen. I pointed and whimpered, <em>Make her go away.</em> Mom slapped my hand down, and scolded me. It was rude to point, she snapped in a low voice, couldn't I see grandma was sleeping. I kept screeching, hoarse, about the ghost of my great-grandmother. Mom scowled and finally turned to the hallway. She banished my great-grandmother with her hand.</p><p>- Go, go. She's napping. Come back later.</p><p>The little spark of recognition in great-grandmother's eyes fizzled into disappointment.</p><p>She didn't show up again. At least, not in front of me. Time passed, and others started to come. Men, women, old, young, some looked familiar, some I'd never seen before. They lurked in the shadows after dusk, unsmiling, wordless, watching with their stoic eyes. On occasion there could come a quiver of recognition, a hint of longing, a drop of warmth, a flicker of sorrow. All eyes were on grandma. They didn't look at mom or me unless we tried to get their attention.</p><p>Winter nights fell early. One evening, I came home from school before mom did. The living room was dim, lit only by the TV blaring near full-volume at a snoozing grandma. I covered my ears and struggled to wade through the din for the remote control. A hand grabbed it from the dark. It took a few tries before succeeding in muting the TV.</p><p>It was great-grandmother. She shuffled her way to grandma's sofa. I watched, spell-bound, as she stroked grandma's hands folded over her stomach, and also her face, as though trying to pat down the flyaway hair. I trembled hard with fright, but I managed to move over and gave great-grandmother a shove. My hands passed through her, cold, icy, freezing. I climbed back to my feet and wrung my bag. It glided through her, almost hitting grandma. I couldn't touch her; she couldn't touch me. But the remote: I grabbed that. It had been close to the TV, and had picked up its heat. I jabbed it at her. She finally budged, and retreated beyond the flickering TV light, resigned.</p><p>Grandma gurgled and woke up. She looked at me waving the remote into the shadows. She looked at the silent TV. She turned on the lamp next to the phone on the side stand. She asked me what I was doing. I stammered, <em>there were ghosts.</em> She folded her ear and said, <em>Huh?</em></p><p>- There are ghosts! --- I yelled loud enough for her to hear.</p><p>- They're here for me! --- She laughed in her usual yelling tone. --- What are you scared about?</p><p>She beckoned me into a hug, and banished the ghosts the way my mom did.</p><p>- This is my grandson! See? Later, later you lot. --- She turned to me, pointing out each one. --- That's my mother. That's your granduncle. That's your aunt. See? You're named after her. You two looked alike when little. Oi! Later, you lot! They're kids I took care of during the war. --- She chuckled and searched among the shadows filing into the dark hallway beyond. She sighed after great-grandmother left last. --- What are you scared of? They're our family, coming to visit me. What time is it? Oh, you must be hungry.</p><p>They must be here to take grandma away. I found an old electric mosquito racket. I remembered being burnt by it when I was much younger. For evenings and nights, I stood guard by the hallway, brandishing it at the dead relatives, warning them to leave my grandma alone. Some retreated. Some dispersed under the hot racket. Mom told me off but grandma just chuckled. In her usual loud voice, she told mom to leave me be; there are other ways in anyways. She meant the balcony. For days, I racked my brains for a way to block it.</p><p>Mom caught me dragging my heater out of my room one night. It had glowing tubes in front of a curved tin foil. It was hot, and bright, and blasted heat everywhere. It ran on its own. It was the perfect barrier. Mom had been quite patient with this until now. She demanded to know what I was doing. Was I crazy? Did I want to catch a fever? Ghosts come for everyone in the end. Didn't I know? They'd come for mom. <em>Grandma</em> would come back for mom. Would I beat grandma off, too?</p><p>I tumbled down to the cold floor bawling my eyes out. Mom took away the mosquito racket and returned the heater to my room. She came back saying it was late; quiet down or I'd wake grandma. I didn't stop. I didn't care, not about grandma's sleep, not about mom's shaking, not about my bum freezing on the floor, nothing --- except that the ghosts were given pass, and passed us like cold drafts from outside. They were going to take grandma away. Mom at last carried me in her arms and sat down in grandma's sofa. I sobbed into her.</p><p><em>Look,</em> she took a deep breath and said to me, <em>there's still time.</em> She swayed her arms and rocked me down to sniffs. She said I should be happy for grandma to have so many to walk the way with her. Not many people had so many who held them dear. Her other grandmother had only two. Mom patted me and said it was good to see everyone again. She wished they could talk, so they could tell me how proud they were of me and my good grades, for they had always kept an eye on me. She said they couldn't smile, but she knew they'd really want to --- unless I kept trying to beat them back. Grandma must be less scared because of them accompanying her. And way, way in the future, she and mom would come for me, too, so I'd be less scared --- Her hand stopped, and I heard a soft gasp. I followed her eyes and saw an old man in suit and tie emerge from the hallway. His grey hair was swept back, and he had thick brows. He was thin. At grandma's door, he paused and looked back at us. Mom sniffed and waved my hand for me. After a moment, she said,</p><p>- Pa, look how much he's grown.</p><p>The old man nodded slowly at the edge of the glow from our lamp, the tips of his lips curved as far up as they could. To compensate for that tiny distance, he squinted his eyes. He raised a firm hand in greeting, and knocked without a sound. He turned the knob, and passed through the door.</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;Grandma started attracting ghosts.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;I knew she was on the balcony that evening, taking care of her spider plants, Christmas cacti, clivia, and aloes, but I found her in my room, too, rifling through a drawer I had left open. I asked her when she&#39;d come inside, but she kept on rifling, and looked at me like a stranger. The room was dark. The only light came from the sliver that passed into the hallway from the living room, where my grandma had just returned. I looked back and forth, and ran out. Grandma sat down in her usual sofa. Mom was in the other one. I cried that there was an intruder, that someone looking like grandma was stealing our stuff. Mom jumped up and strode past me. She came out annoyed. She gave me a slap on the back and told me that was &lt;em&gt;her&lt;/em&gt; grandmother, my great-grandmother. Grandma had dozed off. Mom glanced at her and muttered, &lt;em&gt;So, it started.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Forbidden Dreams" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Forbidden-Dreams/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Other" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Other/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>2017冬至故事——铁丝巢</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2023/08/25/2017%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%E2%80%94%E2%80%94%E9%93%81%E4%B8%9D%E5%B7%A2/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2023/08/25/2017%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%E2%80%94%E2%80%94%E9%93%81%E4%B8%9D%E5%B7%A2/</id>
    <published>2023-08-25T09:37:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2023-08-27T19:10:25.195Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>老王醒来时，蒙蒙清晨躲在窗帘外，晨光溜进窗帘的缝隙，爬上了他布满皱纹的脸。他先转向他那只用了几十年的闹钟，然后转向窗帘，最后转向床脚的暖气片。他不用十分钟就穿好了衣服——在他的妻子两年前去世之后，他一直把衣服放在床空出来的那侧，而不是暖气片上，勉强代替那个他失去的人，尽管这意味着冬天里他每天起床都会很冷。</p><p>过去两个星期，老王打破了他平时早上“窗帘、厕所、洗漱、早饭”的习惯，他径直走到床脚，俯身抚摸他的中华田园犬，可可。可可灰黄色的毛摸起来很硬，她的身子还微微有一点温度。她侧身睡在层层叠叠的窝里，呼吸轻得让老王担忧。这两个星期里可可没怎么动过，老王感觉可能她的大限早晚要来了。他往她的一只碗里倒好牛奶，另一只碗里倒满粮。</p><span id="more"></span><p>“再多陪我一会儿，可可。”他低声说，摸着她的头，“再多陪我一会儿。”</p><p>老王走进厕所的十五秒钟之前，马桶上的传感器就指示座圈加热到38摄氏度，紧接着十秒后，厕所灯自己亮了。和往常一样，他转身去冲马桶的时候，老王发现自己对着一块屏幕皱起眉头，屏幕上显示着关于他的排泄物的分析报告，而马桶盖已经自动盖好、马桶自己冲起了水。他的镜子企图告诉老王今天的气温，还有湿度、气压、紫外线指数、空气质量。“妈逼滚。”老王嘟哝道。要不是他发了火，他的儿子小王还得给镜子装上个新闻模块：“你以为我还想在厕所里浪费多少时间？！”</p><p>老王盯着镜子出神，那里面的脸是一张他认识但不完全认同的脸：皱纹、消瘦、白发、高发际线，随年纪而萎缩的面孔让黯淡的双眼显得过大；脸上有几处黑斑，但万幸没有长了毛的痣。他不敢相信自己七十三了，七十三了——在他年轻的时候，他从未担心过老年生活。他以前是个程序员，大部分时间都泡在电脑和键盘边上。四十岁之前，老王决定他这辈子就花在写代码上好了，他的后代就是他写的程序。他以自己的缩行Java代码和各种程序的第一句“Hello World”为荣，只有他的程序里不出bug时自己才真正算老。然而——老王点燃灶台时想（厨房某处的AI同时打开了油烟机）——还没等他反应过来，他便结婚了。</p><p>“估计是天气搞的。”老王嘟哝道，摇头甩掉那些压抑的念头，他咽下一勺稀饭。他从来不是一个多愁善感、婆婆妈妈的人，但今天他有点身不由己。“估计是年纪大了。”他又咽下一勺后，说。</p><p>清晨现在仿佛在抵抗窗帘。在熹微的光里，老王吃完早饭，走去蹲在他的狗身旁。</p><p>“可可、可可。”他唤着。</p><p>狗一动不动。</p><p><em>哦，天啊。</em>他想。他又摸了摸她，她身上的温度在慢慢蒸发。</p><p>“醒醒，老姑娘。”他没曾想他还会发出如此绝望且无用的声音。“可可？”他想起他的妻子的死有多明确：心电图变成一条笔直的线，她无力的手从他的手里滑落。“可可？”</p><p>自动窗帘在这时开动，厚重的棕色帘布无声地沿着电磁轨道左右滑到一边，晨光争先恐后地挤进屋子里的每一角落。这片辉煌洒向可可的身子，淹没了老王。</p><p>老头不再是蹲着了，他倚着墙瘫在这一池光里，一只手仍然搭在他的狗的头上。</p><center>**</center><p>“爸？”电话那头小王的声音让老王稍稍平静了一些。小王在一家国企科技公司上班，他大多数时候不是在敲代码就是在折腾什么前沿科技。老王一开始还听得懂他讲的虚拟现实和混合现实，后来的人工智能训练、生物记忆数字转录、甚至是新的编程语言研发对他来说都成了天书。一直以来都是他的妻子给儿子打电话，而老王更喜欢面对面聊天。她去世后，他也养成了打电话的习惯，但频率没那么高而已。有时他问候一下小王的生活，其他时候他只是想聊天。“爸？啥事儿？”</p><p>“啊，没啥事儿，只是想问问你怎么样。”老王答道。</p><p>“我还不错——我们部门发明了个新编程语言，现在在部署最后的一点语法。还记得不，爸，我们管它叫‘拜伦’的那个？我们现在把它的多用性做到了原来的四倍……”</p><p>老王任凭他讲，尽管听不懂多少。<em>听那小子满嘴的术语也比想可可好，</em>他想。他在合适的地方“哦”、“啊”、“嗯”地应着。</p><p>“……猜猜我们给测试程序起了啥名？哎呀，老爸你猜猜嘛！”</p><p>“咋，不叫‘Hello World’了？”</p><p>“比那个好多了：‘早啊，神经病世界’！哈哈！”那头的小王好像因为兴奋掉了话筒。“我好希望你能看见它，爸——我和你说过ARt程序吧？”——老王想起来上个月他儿子难得拜访了一次，当时他给他看了一个能把双方联络人所处的环境全息投影到对方的程序——“咱俩现在试试看吧？这样你就能看见那个测试程序了！”</p><p>“不用了，你下次过来的时候再给我看。”老王考虑着是不是该告诉小王可可的事了。</p><p>“哦……行啊！”</p><p>“那个，可可死了。”老王过了半晌才开口。“今早死的，也可能是昨天晚上。”</p><p>“啊？！死了？我——老爸，我——”</p><p>“今天下班能过来趟吗？或者周末？”</p><p>“啊，我真想，但我真的不行……那个，我刚刚说的那个项目正在收尾，而且现在年底了，我们进度赶得挺顺利，我还恰好是项目总管，所以，那个……”他的儿子的口气充满真切的歉意，但在老王看来还是蹩脚。“爸，我真的对不起。”</p><p>“得。”</p><p>“哎，让我弥补一下，好不好，老爸？我们这儿的人工智能部门有个突破。你听吭，他们用程序复制了一条狗的思维。”</p><p>“我要是想再要一条狗，我不会直接买条新的？”老王嘟哝道。“你这是想拉我当beta测试员？”</p><p>“什么啊，你将是第一个<em>用户</em>！<em>我</em>是beta测试员之一。没问题的——他们甚至找来机械制造部门把载体做得看起来、动起来都和真狗一模一样，可牛逼了。我可以跟他们说做成可可的样子，然后给你寄过去。很快的，毕竟咱俩都在市内。”</p><p>“行。”</p><p>“真对不起啊，我回不去，老爸。呃……你就假装那条狗是我好了。”</p><p>“我可不想那么想，你知道不？我有个狗儿子？”</p><p>“还有春节嘛！我春节<em>总是</em>回家。”</p><p>“是。”<em>可能是除了我过生日以外唯一你肯定能回来的时候。</em>老王想。“行，干你活儿去。不打扰你了。”</p><p>老王不喜欢拿自己的往事给晚辈当例子，但他难免不回想起他年轻的时候，他总是会抽空去看望他的父母，即便是十一月十一号前后几天，全网抢购“双十一”、轮番轰炸他负责的服务器的那几个晚上。但他没当过项目主管，到底有多忙他也不好说。</p><p>沙发和电话对面是电视，电视上方的墙上挂着老王和他的妻子三十年前的结婚照，老王的目光停在了这里。玻璃后面的照片依旧色彩鲜艳，那上面年轻许多的老王身穿一身黑色西装，梳着利索的发型，一脸腼腆的笑。阳光勾勒出他的鹰钩鼻和棱角分明的下颚。他看上去根本不像四十岁。他的额头靠在她的上面，她的头发按照当时的习俗高高盘起，两捋长长的卷发沿着她那瘦瘦而温柔的脸庞垂落到尖尖的下巴。她的大眼睛在照片里笑眯眯的，她的婚纱和身后的海鸥交相呼应。那是晚春的一天。</p><p>老王在照片里多沉浸了一会儿，然后给他的朋友老陈打电话借铲子。</p><center>**</center><p>眼前的坟毫不起眼，老王选这个地方仅仅是因为他能从他的阳台看见这儿。山坡是座公园的一部分，老王为了挖坟离开铺好的路走了好远。</p><p>“不是，你能从这儿看到你的阳台，但你从你的阳台那儿根本看不到这儿，你只能看见这棵树。”老陈说。他是老王的前同事，住在旁边的楼上。“我还以为你能有个好点儿的理由，哪怕是‘风水好’都行。”</p><p>“咱埋的是<em>我的</em>狗，下次埋你的的时候你爱埋哪儿埋哪儿。”</p><p>现在已经是埋葬的第三天了，坟头的土依旧有点黑、有点潮。天气倒是不错，对于十二月来说还算暖和，天空晴朗。一小团老太太在爬远处的大阶梯，但隔着树丛还是能听见她们大声唱Lady Gaga的声音。忽然，歌声被她们当中的一人惊呼打断了：</p><p>“喂，看！那是个无人机快递吧？”</p><p>“唉哟，还真是哩！”另一个大喊。</p><p>“五十年了哎，他们可舍得商用了？”又是一个咂着舌头。</p><p>“收快递的可有福了。”第一个说。</p><p>“有福个屁，”老陈戳了下老王。“有快递的刚死了狗。老王，那玩意儿在朝你家飞！”</p><p>果然，老王看见一个无人机载着一个长盒子径直飞向他的阳台。一般脑袋正常点的不会用无人机送快递，除非他们又有钱又好科技。他知道里面是什么。</p><center>**</center><p>倒不是机器狗不像真的可可，让老王不舒服的是它是条<em>机器狗</em>——它脑袋里装着尖端科技，是他儿子几乎强行塞进他的生活里的那个快速变化的世界的又一代表，而他的儿子自己却置身于他的生活之外。</p><p>机器狗来的第二天，老陈又跑了过来。</p><p>“你这狗可真他娘的，简直是完美复刻。”</p><p>“也就外表看起来完美。”老王说，看着老陈逗它玩。确实，机器狗和原版一样皮毛灰黄，黑亮的眼睛，鼻子长长，它甚至在下巴上还有同样的一撮白毛。</p><p>老陈给它翻了个身，揉着它的肚子。它眯起眼睛伸出舌头摇来摇去。老陈啧啧惊奇。</p><p>“我去，老王，瞧这做工，瞧瞧他们做的这副牙。你真的没骗我说可可死了？”</p><p>“满嘴跑火车，你。”老王语气生硬。他弓着身子坐在沙发里，胳膊肘搭在大腿上，眉头叠到了一起。</p><p>“咋了你？你儿子出息了，你当爹的在沾他的光。要是我那俩往家里带的高科技东西能有你儿子的一半，我得翻了翻儿的乐，哪怕是那些东西里的代码他们一行都没写。”</p><p>“镜子、马桶、灶台、窗帘，随时随便你拿回家。”老王低声吼道。机器狗从老陈的手下滚了出来，然后蹦蹦跳跳地走过来，把鼻子伸进老王的手里。这是可可的标志行为。老王没反应，心里下意识思考一个人工智能是如何在如此短的时间里学习那么多的：是他的儿子一直在为这一天做准备、为这一天训练它吗？那么他的儿子是怎么记录他所有的习惯的？老王警觉地环顾四周。</p><p>“哎哎哎——？老王，你在干什么？”老陈站起身，然后因为突如其来的晕眩一屁股坐进沙发里。等眼前的黑团退去，他看见他的老友在拆结婚照的相框。紧接着他看着老王拆了墙上的表、左右敲着暖气片和管道、抬起沙发垫子，机器狗兴奋地跟在他身后蹦跶。老王试图爬上宽窗台时，老陈决定是时候制止他的拆家行动了。“我靠，王老头，你在干什么？”</p><p>“过来帮我摘窗帘！我要看下窗帘杆子！”</p><p>“你找啥？”</p><p>“摄像头！”</p><p>“不是，你怎么了这是？”</p><p>“你不觉得一个AI四天不到就学会了可可的行为有点太快了？阿尔法狗打败世界冠军都花了好几个<em>月</em>！”</p><p>两个老头大眼瞪小眼。</p><p>“那都四十年前了。”老陈一脸茫然。</p><p>他们又互相瞪了一会儿。</p><p>“给我下来！”老陈吆喝。老王慢慢服从了。“你为啥会觉得你自己的儿子还需要监视你？”</p><p>“那这个AI是怎么学得那么快的？从哪儿学的？”</p><p>“你儿子的记忆？你前几个月不还在抱怨他在搞什么记忆读取器来着？”老陈看着老王一边对着地板绷着脸，一边挠着机器狗的头。“你管它叫啥？”他用下巴指了指机器狗。老王的手“啪”地抽了回来。</p><p>“没名字。”他嘟哝。</p><p>“就叫‘可可’呗。”</p><p>“不想。”</p><p>他们默不作声地坐了半天，直到老陈受不了了。</p><p>“唉——唉——得了得了！你的棋盘呢？咱下棋！下棋！”他摆着手，满是烦躁。</p><center>**</center><p>尽管二比四输了，老王送走老陈的时候心情还是好了许多。他决定带着狗（<em>——机器狗——</em>）出门散步。他的镜子提醒他在这种天气里戴好口罩。他给机器狗拴上了狗绳，老王好几年没栓原版可可了，但他觉得对这只机器狗而言，拴上还是有必要的。</p><p>灰蒙蒙的雾霾并不算太差，但天刮着西北风，老王知道不久雾霾还会更严重些。他拉着狗走过高耸的住宅楼，尽管有环卫工和环卫机器人，人行道上还是随处可见污渍。</p><p>“话说，”他低头乜视机器狗，机器狗和可可那样抬起头看他，“十年前他们搞来些机器人来代替环卫工，好家伙，那些个个是真的大铁块儿，和你、还有那边的完全不一样。”他朝那些浮在半空、装有两条胳膊的白盒子比划了一下。“他们想省劳工费，结果省下的钱全拿去当机器维护费了——喂！住手！”机器狗在四处闻树干和电线杆，现在正蹲着准备撒尿。“我以为只有公狗会圈地。你的AI坏了？”</p><p>路过的行人向他报以同情的目光，老王没理他们，扯了扯绳子。</p><p>“我刚才在说，政府在机器维护和环卫工再就业上花了好几百万，后来又花了一大堆，因为总有人偷机器环卫工。狗子，你敢信，有人会偷机器环卫工？拆了铁壳和里面的模块拿去卖钱？”</p><p>机器狗看着他，吐着舌头，好像在笑。老王转头去看周围的楼。这些高层住宅和他住的那栋一模一样，灰色外墙正中央是一道从顶到底的浅黄条纹，每一扇窗户上都围着不锈钢防盗笼。</p><p>”狗子，你瞧瞧那些玩意儿。那些架子都装了五十多年了，所有人都开始无视它们了——视觉疲劳。知道为什么咱家窗户上没有不，狗子？“老王弯下腰，压低嗓门，说：“因为<em>咱</em>的防盗设配能电人！”他直起身。“他们也没有个儿子，除了自己以外什么高科技的玩意儿都往家里带。”</p><p>公园里冷冷清清，一条红横幅在风中晃晃悠悠，上面写着：“加强体育运动，增强人民体质”。有几个人围在石桌石凳四周下棋、打牌。他们招呼着老王。</p><p>“你家狗今天精神头挺好啊，老王。”一个人说。</p><p>“嗯，嗯，怕是回光返照。”</p><p>“你前两天是不是埋了个啥？”另一个人问。</p><p>“那别人家的。”</p><p>“你儿子咋样？还在努力干活儿？”又有一个插了句。</p><p>“还在，还在。”</p><p>“过来下一盘！”第一个人又说。</p><p>“下次一定。”</p><p>他们招招手，随老王去了。</p><center>**</center><p>老王的智能灶台上，他唯一喜欢并且愿意用的功能是无扇叶吸排油烟机，它能根据环境眨眼间调整吸排量。老王和他的妻子特别讨厌厨房里乌烟瘴气的，更何况他们的厨房本身就比较狭长。</p><p>老王站在一边切肉，他想起当他的妻子还在世的日子。他们总是一起做饭，厨房里有两个人就已经很拥挤了，有时他们的儿子再加上后来的可可还会闻着香味闯进来。他们做饭时不怎么说话，但老王感觉有切剁声和他们两人心有灵犀的合作就够了。这一切让厨房倍感温馨。</p><p>机器可可摇着尾巴走进厨房，把两只爪子搭在柜台上。</p><p>“下去。我待会儿喂你。”老王朝它摆摆手。</p><p>现在的厨房太空旷了，他不知道如果小王还和他住一起的话会不会好点。毕竟小年轻还没有对象。再说了，小王还在上大学的时候他们一起做饭也挺开心的。他们现在仍然聊天，只不过老王多半听不懂他在说什么……</p><p>“离微波炉远点，那玩意儿对你的身体不好——不是，对你的电路不好。”老王对机器狗叫道。“过来，狗子——不对——”你到底该叫它什么？他捧起机器狗的脸百思不得其解。它和真狗一样又暖又软。老王往它嘴里塞了块肉，把它赶了出去，它的内部系统会自己消化掉肉来汲取能量的。他一点也不想给它起名字，机器狗对于他来说一直都是“叫”的时候鼻子会发光的白色多边体。他的这个太逼真了，而他忽视不掉它的机器狗本质。</p><center>**</center><p>老王不愿意承认的是，他习惯了机器狗可可，仅仅一个星期以后他就回到了他早上“窗帘、厕所、洗漱、早饭”的习惯。</p><p>老王会不假思索地承认但不愿意夸奖的是，机器可可的的确确非常智能。他从来没有系统性地训练过可可，她的礼貌和带来的帮助全是常年的累积学习和上千次的“不行”和“不准”的结果。老王不知道他儿子用了什么样的记忆来训练这条机器狗，但他确定它刚来的那几天，他在深夜专心试图读懂最新的科技报告时，机器狗并不知道、也没有跑过来用鼻子拱他、提醒他该睡觉了；他不知道把眼镜放哪儿时，它也不知道他在找什么。老王知道人工智能可以学习和进步，但它不会先“遗忘”再“想起来”；让一个预先学习过的功能潜伏、忽略掉一切刺激、而后在合适的时机苏醒是不可能的。也就是说，机器狗是在随时随地学习习惯和行为，而它仅用两周，所学的就超过了原版，这让老王万分诧异。</p><p>老王感到很不舒服的是，机器狗表现得几乎像个人。</p><p>他们出去散步时，老王会常常路过可可的坟。那儿的土不再是黑的，也不像是新翻的了，各种残叶和植物碎屑开始慢慢覆盖其上。头几次路过，老王只是站在那儿，在杉树底下发呆，而他的机器狗随便徘徊。后几次，当他回过神来时，他发现机器狗有时会在走动途中停下来盯着他看，直到他动了它才接着走动，仿佛是在确认老王还活着。直到有一天，老王发现它坐在自己脚边，抬头看着他，像是在问个问题。</p><p>“你的前辈，可可，躺在这儿。”他没多说。</p><p>机器狗惆怅地看了看那片土，然后看了看老王。在这北风呼啸、寒冬霜降的十二月中旬，老王受不了刺骨的风。他提了提围巾，转身要走，但机器狗走到坟上趴了下来。老王觉得他可能发现了程序里的一个bug：真狗就算有厚厚的毛保护腹部也不会在大冷天这么做。但它为什么会这样？它这是听懂了“前辈”、“可可”、“躺”，并明白这几个词连一起的意思吗？它是明白了这里是个很重要的坟墓吗？机器狗突然叫了一声，老王警觉地转头张望，但四下里什么都没有。它又狂吠几声，然后是一声长啸，他才反应过来它那是在悼念。机器狗从来没有叫过，就连别的真狗欺负它时也没有。它的第一声吠叫居然是悼念。老王又想起来又一次去探望他妈妈的墓时，他的儿子也同样安静地跪在那里。整整五分钟后，小王大喊道，“妈！妈！”然后嚎啕大哭。</p><p>老王不知道该怎么想。</p><center>**</center><p>“可以说是个记忆溢出。”小王在电话那头说。“我们教它‘悼念’和‘死亡’的概念时，我们收集了公司里好多志愿者的记忆，我自己的潜意识记忆可能在这个过程中溢出了。这种记忆最难屏蔽掉，尤其是那种时间比较近而且又强烈的。所以，嗯，我估计那里面掺了一点儿我。我得跟研发部说一声。不管怎么说，听说它学会通过叫声来表达感情挺让我高兴的。”</p><p>“你们从来没想到要教一个狗的AI狗叫？”老王哈哈大笑。</p><p>“他们是想过，但我没让他们给你的装上，因为我直到你喜欢安静的狗。它是跟别的狗学的？”</p><p>“对，它们一看就知道机器可可不是真狗。”</p><p>“它也没冲它们叫回去？”</p><p>“没，它一直很安静，现在也没啥动静。”</p><p>“有意思……喂，爸？”</p><p>“嗯？”</p><p>“我能从机器可可那提取用户信息研究研究吗？我对它的规则学习行为挺感兴趣的，我相信Anitek——那个AI系统——的研发部门能从里面学到点什么。”</p><p>"不是说我不是beta公测员的？"</p><p>“哎呀，老爸，就连操作系统都会为了改进产品质量在稳定版本里收集用户信息嘛！”</p><p>“这个机器狗天天在我身旁盯着我的私人生活，打死我也不给！那里面还放了啥？顺着光就能传输数据的可见光通讯模块？”</p><p>“爸，你知道那里面没有什么无线模块。我们提取数据时用的是物理探针，就跟去看兽医一样。再说了，你的镜子、马桶和灶台都能看见你的隐私。”</p><p>“我又不是每时每刻都站在它们前面，更何况东西一到手我就把他们的无线芯片给黑了，它们只能上传我预设的包。所以你还是算了吧，我不想再谈什么用户数据了，我不会给你的。”</p><p>“你真是我亲爹。”小王听上去哭笑不得。“至少我挺高兴的，你跟狗合得来，它还能让你想起我和可可。感觉就跟我们俩都在你身边，是不？”</p><p>“我宁可两个都是原版。”老王哼了一声。</p><p>“高兴点儿，老爸。明儿是冬至，我提前下班，我过去一趟。”</p><p>“真的？”老王直起腰。“你陈叔、李姨和每年一样会送饺子过来，你真能来？”</p><p>“嗯，应该可以。”</p><p>“那好啊，儿子。我等你回来。”</p><center>**</center><p>第二天早上，老王的电话又响了。</p><p>“爸，”话筒里传来小王低落又烦躁的声音。“对不起，我今天来不了了。测试组在我们的‘早啊，神经病世界’程序里发现了一个重大漏洞，跟我们的拜伦语言有关，在程序里开了个后门……”</p><p>“哟，隐私问题，啊？”</p><p>“是挺讽刺的。计划泡汤了，真对不起啊，爸……”</p><p>“得。”</p><p>他刚挂了电话，门铃就响了。所有住家户里唯一普及的智能电器是智能门铃，除了在响起时能投影外部环境，门铃还能识别来者是谁，但老王不用这些也知道是老陈和他的媳妇老李来了。</p><p>“冬至饺子快递！”老陈一如既往地兴高采烈。“给你带了八十来个，四十个猪肉白菜馅儿的，四十个虾仁的。个个都大，够你吃一阵子了——”但他的媳妇注意到了老王一脸闷闷不乐。</p><p>“怎么了，老王？”她问。他回答说没什么，但她是个明眼人。“你儿子今天回不来吗？”</p><p>“回不来，他刚打的电话。他那个程序里有个bug。”老王犹豫了半晌才回答。</p><p>“那来我们家呗。”老陈说，“跟去年一样。我们那俩也不回来。”</p><p>“不用，我没事儿。你这些饺子我谢谢了。”</p><p>他们聊了一会儿后走了，老王转向机器可可。</p><p>“听到了？”他说，“‘跟去年一样’？小王不常回来，你知道不？”他不经意看到了墙上的结婚照，照片里面的阳光明媚和窗外的乌云密布的对比甚是强烈。“话说，你想散步不？”</p><p>老王直到吃完午饭才出门。为了能快一点，他有史以来第一次用了洗碗机，但即便如此，他也等到确定那个玩意儿不会弄碎他的盘子以后才动身。</p><p>“走，我们走远点儿。”他站在灰云下对狗说，然后拴住了狗的嘴。他们在车站里等着，车站的遮檐下是个显示公交时间表的电子屏。</p><p>天很冷，街上没有几个人。画着蓝条纹的白色公交车平稳地滑进了车站。十年前，整个公共交通系统升级成了自动驾驶，驾驶、检票和安保都由整合的AI负责。一开始的反对呼声很高，大家都担心AI的危险检测能力和黑客行为。后来，另一方里有几个人坐不住了，激烈地反驳说自动驾驶在消费市场里都有三十年历史了，但我国这方面在公共交通领域明显落后于国际水准，这才平息反对派。部署初期，每辆公交车上还配备了一名保安，但后来，他们也逐渐被裁掉了。老王经常惊叹技术发展的速度，但同时他也想不明白其中的一些道理：为什么公共交通的改革进行得那么顺利，但环卫工的就没有？为什么各种水平的人工智能在公共服务领域更普及，但在普通百姓家里倒没有？对于前者，他完全没有头绪。对于后者，他认为是因为太多的人和他一样，更喜欢传统的生活方式。</p><p>老王踏进公交，一手是遛狗绳，另一手是一塑料袋，里面是一碗煮好的饺子。检票系统扫描完他的指纹，滴了一声： “六十五岁以上老年人免费乘车，请照看好您的狗。祝您的旅途安全、愉快。”</p><p>电动的公交车悄无声息地从居民区驶向城郊，更大、更矮、设计更靓眼的建筑取代了高层住宅，老王很快就拎着他的两个东西站在了一片高新科技园的大门外。不锈钢伸缩门左边躺着一块大理石，上面刻着：“国家科技研究开发工业园，绿川分部”，右边是一个保安亭，里面看门的很不乐意打内线电话。</p><p>“研发六部？有人找王建！”他按下通讯面板上的一个按钮，叫道。</p><p>屏幕上出现了一个年轻姑娘的面孔：“六号部门前台。王工程师现在不方便，您愿意稍等片刻吗？”然后她看到了老王的脸。“哦，您是家属吗？那您进来等吧。”</p><p><em>遗传真厉害。</em>老王边想边进了大门。</p><p>空荡荡的工业园里，除了几棵杉树和松树以外，大部分树都秃了。如果是夏天，这里应该会是鸟语花香。老王看见不远处有个环卫机器人飘过，它的胳膊飘在身旁，而不是连接在机身上。几步开外，有一小团人抱着平板电脑观察它。园区里有一栋白楼上挂着一条横幅，几个黄色的大字——“科技是第一生产力”——在红布上黯然失色。科技园里除了北风以外，一片寂静。机器狗听话地跟从遛狗绳的带领，它摇着的尾巴时不时拍在老王腿上。另一边，那一袋子饺子也同样摇摇晃晃打着老王。</p><p>研发六部的前台姑娘给他倒了一杯茶，笑着寒暄着：“真对不起，王工在您来前没几分钟就去下面实验室了。”</p><p>“我在这等一会儿就行。给他带了饺子。”老王环顾了一下宽阔明亮的接待大厅，尽量让自己坐得舒服些。</p><p>说实话，老王自己也不知道他为什么要过来，他明明可以直接去老陈家吃晚饭的。也许他是想儿子了；也许对于这种事，主动比被动好——如果小王没时间去看他，那他可以找时间来见小王。</p><p>他不知道他们见面之后会发生什么，可能他递过去饺子后就走了。小王会因为他爸闯进了他的单位而生气吗？老王回想到昨天的那通关于机器可可的用户信息的电话，可能小王那个工作狂会以为他改变想法了、最后还是决定交出来，并彻底忽略那袋饺子。<em>要是真那样的话我就让他选，</em>老王想，<em>工作还是家，狗还是饺子。</em></p><p>墙上的电子钟一秒一秒地刷新。</p><p>老王感到倔，像个“倔老头”。他确定是他的妻子去世后他才变成这样的。他变得越来越倔、越来越神经质，尤其是对科技。他不再是那个包容的、以自己的java代码为荣的程序员了。智能镜子、智能马桶、智能灶台、智能窗帘？谁需要啊？以前没它们的时候过得不也挺好？</p><p>老王知道他没变的是他对人际关系的需求与重视。他以前每周都去看望他的父母，后来又去看望他的妻子的。他依然与他的朋友联系——至少那些还没去世的——老陈是他儿子的干爸。结婚三十年里，他不敢说他们之间没吵过架，但他第二天总会努力弥补回来。时间久了，他们吵架次数也越来越少。“科技使人相连”，当年有个品牌口号如是说。老王一直都不以为意。远程通信是提前计划好的，因此，在他看来，是人为的、不自然的。面对面互动是自发的，因此是自然的。他出国留过学，有时，因为时差，他的父母和朋友好几个小时以后才能回复。等他收到时，促使最初发消息的情感和想法早没影了。他回想起发展成了更小形态的智能手机。这个倒是没变：大部分人，无论老少，走到哪里，手机就看到哪里，直到他们双眼开始报废。只有那时候科技才使人相连，但老王觉得为时已太晚。</p><p>老王感到孤独，像一只老鸟守在他曾经给自己搭建的、他的儿子而后又修缮的、冰冷的铁丝巢里。他把他大半辈子献给了科技，然而最终——老王对着地板苦笑——他感觉自己被科技抛弃了、踢出了家门，于是他开始鄙夷科技。</p><p>墙上的钟显示他在这里坐了半个钟头，然而他的儿子连根毛都没看到。他起身离开。</p><p>工业园外，乌云开始放晴，老王看见天边徘徊的一抹浓厚的黄。在一年里最短的一天吃饺子是传统，但一个人吃算什么？</p><p>老王和他的狗各自嘴边萦绕着一团白雾，饺子已在风中冻了个透。</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;老王醒来时，蒙蒙清晨躲在窗帘外，晨光溜进窗帘的缝隙，爬上了他布满皱纹的脸。他先转向他那只用了几十年的闹钟，然后转向窗帘，最后转向床脚的暖气片。他不用十分钟就穿好了衣服——在他的妻子两年前去世之后，他一直把衣服放在床空出来的那侧，而不是暖气片上，勉强代替那个他失去的人，尽管这意味着冬天里他每天起床都会很冷。&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;过去两个星期，老王打破了他平时早上“窗帘、厕所、洗漱、早饭”的习惯，他径直走到床脚，俯身抚摸他的中华田园犬，可可。可可灰黄色的毛摸起来很硬，她的身子还微微有一点温度。她侧身睡在层层叠叠的窝里，呼吸轻得让老王担忧。这两个星期里可可没怎么动过，老王感觉可能她的大限早晚要来了。他往她的一只碗里倒好牛奶，另一只碗里倒满粮。&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    <category term="翻译/Translation" scheme="http://example.com/tags/%E7%BF%BB%E8%AF%91-Translation/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>Vignette - Portable Music Player</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2023/06/01/Vignette%20-%20Portable%20Music%20Player/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2023/06/01/Vignette%20-%20Portable%20Music%20Player/</id>
    <published>2023-06-01T06:00:01.000Z</published>
    <updated>2023-06-06T02:30:03.798Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>Lindsay wasn’t a stranger to audio players. She remembered on one of her visits to her grandparents’, her grandpa had pulled the blanket off of their new gramophone. How fascinating–almost magical!–to hear slightly muffled melodies flow out of that giant trumpet. Lindsay had wished she could have more time with it, but her little sister, Ann, was enticed. Whenever they visited, Ann’d be glued to the chair next to the giant thing. It wasn’t long before she had discovered how to record her own voice. thankfully, their grandma decided that either Ann was being too noisy or her breaking three vinyls and five needles was too much, and locked the behemoth up in a cabinet. Ann would definitely love the portable music player. Tiny, no brittle vinyl discs or delicate needles, eye-catching design and colors—how could anyone not find it appealing?—If it wasn’t for the 700 credits price tag.</p><p>The apprentices’ monthly stipend for Lindsay was exactly that much. In the six months she had been at the Academy, she did manage to save, but that was for something practical, like a fur cloak for the upcoming winter.</p><p>Every time she passed the Depot, Lindsay would pop by the display case holding the music players, and she would tell herself, “next goal, then,” and leave.</p><span id="more"></span><center> # </center><p>Three months after telling Lindsay about the portable music player, and thus starting Lindsay’s weekly Depot visits, Tina saved enough to get one. Instead of relief from her constant pining for that “metal lipstick”, Lindsay found herself being bombarded by Tina’s radiant excitement about some new function she had figured out.</p><p>“It can connect directly to my mind!” Tina exclaimed one dinner. “It generates what’s akin to programmed auditory hallucination, and thus gives the best audio quality and user experience.”</p><p>“That’s awesome. Hey, Tina, have you told Robbie about this?” Lindsay smiled rather weakly.</p><p>“Of course. You think I can come up with words like ‘programmed auditory hallucination’ and ‘thus’ and ‘user experience’?”</p><p>“‘Portable music player’ sounds like a mouthful <em>and</em> an earful. Let’s just name it.” Lindsay stabbed her fork into her spaghetti over and over. “How ‘bout ‘Billy’? So every time we talk about this thing, he’ll show that stupid face he makes.”</p><p>Tina blinked.</p><p>“What face? He’s got a poker face.” Tina fidgeted the knob on the music player. Lindsay shrugged. “Hey, check this out. Billy is a crybaby.” Tina held out the device to Lindsay, and it repeated in her voice,</p><p>“Billy is a crybaby.”</p><p>Lindsay shot up in her seat, not sure due to shock, amazement, or annoyance.</p><p>“What do you— I mean, how did you speak through that? Did Aura teach you that?”</p><p>“No, no, no, young Lin.” Tina gloated with a satisfied grin. “<em>That</em>, is a recording.”</p><p>Lindsay gaped at  the device, then at Tina. A shiver of excitement slid down her back. <em>Recording…? Of course! It’s like a gramophone! That means I—</em></p><p>“Cool, right? I know.” Tina nodded fondly at it. “I was lying in my bed and I thought…”</p><p>Lindsay heard none of it. Recording—if she could record a training session, then she would have everything she needed to prove her suspicion about Guoben, Billy’s mentor. <em>But heck! 700 credits!</em> Lindsay nodded at the animated blur that was Tina with feigned interest. <em>hmm.</em> The blur came back into sharp focus.</p><p>“It’s brilliant. Hey, you know what’d be fun?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Wanna see how clumsy stupid Billy is during his training sessions?” Lindsay motioned at the music player with her chin.</p><p>“What, you want to record it? This only records <em>sounds</em>. Crybaby hardly <em>talks</em>.”</p><p>“But he might cry.” Lindsay shrugged her brows. “Bullying him into crying would be too low for us, but if he cries when he fall—“</p><p>“Oooh…” Tina grinned, eyes narrowing. “You think he’ll do that, huh…” She nodded, slow. “But—“</p><p>Lindsay kept smiling with an effort.</p><p>“—I’m going off-world with Aura tomorrow.” Tina looked away.</p><p>“Oh right.” Lindsay sighed. She kept forgetting Tina had already started field missions. That was how she could buy the portable music player so fast—skipping meals also helped, though. Lindsay forked some spaghetti. She needed evidence to prove her suspicion, and the longer she pushed this off, the more bruises Billy had to suffer. <em>Well, maybe I can split the payment or ask for a refund or something… Oh forget about the cloak.</em></p><p>“Know what, take the MP. I wanna hear it when I get back on Monday.” Tina beamed. “Make it good.”</p><p>“MP?” Lindsay swallowed a forkful of spaghetti, along with her musings, anxiety, relief, and the slight peeve at Tina’s gleeful expression.</p><p>“For ‘music player’. You wanted me to name it, didn’t you? ‘MP’, then.”</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;Lindsay wasn’t a stranger to audio players. She remembered on one of her visits to her grandparents’, her grandpa had pulled the blanket off of their new gramophone. How fascinating–almost magical!–to hear slightly muffled melodies flow out of that giant trumpet. Lindsay had wished she could have more time with it, but her little sister, Ann, was enticed. Whenever they visited, Ann’d be glued to the chair next to the giant thing. It wasn’t long before she had discovered how to record her own voice. thankfully, their grandma decided that either Ann was being too noisy or her breaking three vinyls and five needles was too much, and locked the behemoth up in a cabinet. Ann would definitely love the portable music player. Tiny, no brittle vinyl discs or delicate needles, eye-catching design and colors—how could anyone not find it appealing?—If it wasn’t for the 700 credits price tag.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;The apprentices’ monthly stipend for Lindsay was exactly that much. In the six months she had been at the Academy, she did manage to save, but that was for something practical, like a fur cloak for the upcoming winter.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Every time she passed the Depot, Lindsay would pop by the display case holding the music players, and she would tell herself, “next goal, then,” and leave.&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Short Stories" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Short-Stories/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Vignette" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Vignette/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>Slice of Life - Portable Music Player</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2023/06/01/Slices%20of%20Life%20-%20Portable%20Music%20Player/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2023/06/01/Slices%20of%20Life%20-%20Portable%20Music%20Player/</id>
    <published>2023-06-01T06:00:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2024-03-01T04:23:08.047Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>“Well hello there. What’s this?” Christina taps at a display case. It houses a few small, rectangular devices, about the size of a lipstick. White, red, blue, gold, silver, and black, all metal-built and boast a small knob wheel barely poking out at the top. On one side, there are three buttons, and on its opposite, there is a sliding switch. The side facing up has a glass-covered slit. This, Christina recognizes, is a hologram projector.</p><p>This is her first time stepping into the technology section of the depot in the Ereldar Academy. She wouldn’t be here had Robert not took an interest in one of those “computers”. Clothing and accessories—those are her only interests. All the wires and switches and plugs and screens and thingamajigs are boys’ things, not for her. She was perfectly content to linger at the entrance and wait for Robbie like a bored girl. Perfectly content—until these “lipsticks” caught her eyes.</p><span id="more"></span><p>“Should have worked harder in the Quenya class, hmm, Tina?”</p><p>Christina jumps at her mentor’s voice, whose golden braid swings into view. Her eyes follow the strands up and meets the light chiding grin.</p><p>Tina tuts and stomps.</p><p>“Stop reading my mind, Aura!”</p><p>“More efforts in Telepathy Art training could have helped, too, hmm?”</p><p>Tina looks away, rolling her eyes.</p><p>“Read the label. ‘Portable music player’.” Aura points at each word.</p><p>“Like a tiny gramophone?” Christina glances at Robert poring over a table booklet. Of course he has no trouble reading those elven letters. He’s smart.</p><p>“Like a tiny gramophone.” Aura nods and turning Tina’s face toward her. “Remember to face your interlocutor, Tina.” She sounds a little stern and exasperated, then goes back to an easy tone. “This is the latest design; I heard that the R&amp;D upgraded the processing unit. These can transcode more formats now, and handle larger libraries—“</p><p>“Whoa whoa whoa, master.” Tina holds up her hands. “I just turned eleven and we don’t have this outside!”</p><p>“Here’s the older version.” Aura sighs and pulls out a thin slab of metal from her pocket. One entire side of it is a glass screen.</p><p>“How’d you not lose this? It’s even smaller than my palm!”</p><p>“When I go on missions, Tina,” Aura crouches down and taps the screen. It lights up, showing an image of three buttons and a slider, “I like to browse the music stores, if they have one. I sample some of their music, and buy the ones I like.”</p><p>“Is that where you disappeared off to that one time I had to pack everything up myself?”</p><p>“Tina, focus.” Aura lays a hand on Tina’s shoulder. <em>You were packing your own equipment for most part, too.</em> “When I get back, I turn the music into a language this player can understand, so it can play them back to me. That process is called ‘transcoding’.” Tina nods. Aura knows there’s a question coming up on how transcoding works. She stops her with one upheld finger and continues, “If the world does not have a music store, I can also record songs with this, and play it back later.” Aura places her palm under Tina’s and activates the holographic projection. She scrolls the list. “These are called ‘shelves’, and inside them are the songs and music I have collected. We call all of these a ‘library’, similar to a real library. The size of the library is limited by the processing unit, you see. That is the brain of this player.”</p><p>“How?” Tina flips the device over and over, holding it up to light.</p><p>“The more songs I have, the slower it takes to recall and display them.”</p><p>“Oh I know how that feels.” Tina hands back the device. “I can’t recall the first Quenya words I learned, the more I learn.” She taps the display case again. “So these can catalog more songs? Is that why they are bigger? Why do they have, like, <em>button</em> buttons, not like your <em>screen</em> buttons? What’s that wheel for? How do you play music? How do you put songs in them? What does it sound like—“ Tina stifles her mouth and stops herself from bouncing in excitement. <em>Her</em>? Interested in this “portable music player” thing? Really? Tina blushes.</p><p>“Oh? You find this device… what is that word you always use again—“</p><p>“<em>Cool</em>!” Tina can’t stop herself. “I don’t know why— but it is! How much—?” She studies the label, brows furrowed. her wide eyes shoots around for Robbie, then back at the label. Her lips moves silently for a moment, making out the letters. “That’s my monthly credit stipend!” She gasps.</p><p>“It was fifty years ago when mine came out. All those research and updates translate into the price.” Aura shrugs. She stands up and takes a box from the shelf above the display cases. “Well, this is what I came for. Say, if you pass all your classes this term with 90%, I will—“</p><p>“I’ll save up credits for this my<em>self</em>.” Tina’s blue eyes narrow at the display case. Then her head snaps to Aura, blushing. Her eyes flick to the box and back at Aura.</p><p>“Um… Can you—I wanna—I mean—“</p><p>“Let us go check up on Robbie, Tina.” Aura holds onto Tina’s shoulder, a thin smile hovering at her lips. “Then, yes, we can listen together for a spell. I am sure you will recognize a few of the songs.” She shakes her head as a beaming Christina drags her to a waving Robert, a flat box tucked under his arm. Her students’ joy and excitement, as aura often finds, are infectious. “Please stay silent when listening to the player, okay, Tina?”</p><p>“DEAL!”</p><p><em>Oh but of course she will not.</em></p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;“Well hello there. What’s this?” Christina taps at a display case. It houses a few small, rectangular devices, about the size of a lipstick. White, red, blue, gold, silver, and black, all metal-built and boast a small knob wheel barely poking out at the top. On one side, there are three buttons, and on its opposite, there is a sliding switch. The side facing up has a glass-covered slit. This, Christina recognizes, is a hologram projector.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;This is her first time stepping into the technology section of the depot in the Ereldar Academy. She wouldn’t be here had Robert not took an interest in one of those “computers”. Clothing and accessories—those are her only interests. All the wires and switches and plugs and screens and thingamajigs are boys’ things, not for her. She was perfectly content to linger at the entrance and wait for Robbie like a bored girl. Perfectly content—until these “lipsticks” caught her eyes.&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Short Stories" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Short-Stories/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Slices of Life" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Slices-of-Life/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>2022冬至故事——北方故事集——消融</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2023/05/01/2022%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%E2%80%94%E2%80%94%E5%8C%97%E6%96%B9%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%E9%9B%86%E2%80%94%E2%80%94%E6%B6%88%E8%9E%8D/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2023/05/01/2022%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%E2%80%94%E2%80%94%E5%8C%97%E6%96%B9%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%E9%9B%86%E2%80%94%E2%80%94%E6%B6%88%E8%9E%8D/</id>
    <published>2023-05-01T06:00:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2023-04-30T19:54:27.587Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><center> -- 比利 -- </center><p>当东方那片森林后的天空泛起数月里第一道微光时，老纳尔嘱咐我们到村子里去。他说他特别馋鹿肉粥，让我们去买点蔬菜和佐料。然后那个精灵老头裹着暖暖和和的毳袍和鹿靴，背着他的弓和塞得满满的箭袋，转身大步流星地走向黑压压的森林。</p><p>艾瑞丝和我知道纳伦之星里——那座老纳尔看守的、我们现在所居住的灯塔里——不缺蔬菜。我们的贮藏室建在灯塔厚厚的墙壁里，刺骨的斯堪地纳维亚海风通过通风口来去自如，所以没有一片叶子腐烂。过去五个月里，这种事已经发生好几回了——守塔人纳菲亚斯只是在找借口让我们两个人合作。</p><span id="more"></span><p>我看着他的背影随他轻快的脚步消失在树间，然后往下拉了拉我戴的绒边兜帽。艾瑞丝在冰霜覆盖的后海滩上已经数步开外，我垂下头，呼出的白雾在身后拖得越来越长。</p><p>仰望天空，大海那头的氤氲墨迹渐渐化为树梢枝头的剔透苍蓝。星光之下，在我们左侧的那片广袤的沼泽依旧沉睡着，在我们前方远处的积雪皑皑的山头也冰冷如故。我们的靴子研磨着雪沙，唯有海浪应和着其咯啦、咯啦的声音。</p><p>咯啦、咯啦、哗哗——咯啦——这是我们两人都已太熟悉的紧张和沉默的声音。</p><p>咯啦、哗啦——咯啦、咯啦。</p><p>“把包给我。”我哼了一声。</p><p>“等着。”她的声音如刀割。</p><p>咯啦、咯啦地我们踏上穿过沼泽的土路。这场景我们演绎过数次，未来还会有更多的机会。也许我们都只想保持这样子：一种勉强地共事关系，直到政治局势允许我们分道扬镳。</p><p>洛恩娜以为一份长期的实地考察任务能减轻林赛的死带给我的创伤。纳文艾达的完结带给我们艾罗达难得的平静、时间和精力来重建和重整。千年精灵内战结束了，纳文被全员歼灭，我们终于能集中精力重新发现那些早已忘却的精灵历史。当我到研究院时，我是想逃离我居住了几乎十年、一砖一瓦都映射着林赛的地方，而洛恩娜却说服我接下了一个考察工作。她管它叫“朝觐”：前往几个可能和精灵相关的地点——它们要不被遗弃、要不早已被整合进了我们人类社会——去考察并核实它们的现状。纳伦之星本应是最后一站，我并没有想久留。</p><p>而我在离开的前一天接到了洛恩娜的消息：“原地待命。”水晶球里，她往常的一脸轻浮荡然无存。</p><p>“考洛利的努力真是没白费。”她对老纳尔和我说。考洛里是纳文的一员，纳文坚信世界应属于精灵，而不是人类。人类如果不屈首于精灵统治，那就应被斩尽杀绝。“法国国王在美国遇刺，两国已经建立了领空限飞区，而且一小时内三十个国家加入了联邦或者欧联。我们正在想办法将共振效应降到最低。”</p><p>当两个世界最基本物理原理极其相似，或者说，“当两个世界一模一样”时，它们会发生纠缠，并相互共振。这时，其中一个世界里某些发生的事件会在另一个世界里引发相似的事件——这就是“共振效应”。考洛里是众多派往候选世界去传播混乱和动荡、以求我们的世界能因此共振的一员。削减人类人口、借此篡夺世界控制权的最简单的方法就是让人类对自己发动战争，因为这样纳文根本不用自己动手。四年前，我们在艾瑞丝的世界里打倒了考洛里。四年后，在我们两个世界的基础结构中的泛泛浪花终于堆积成了惊涛骇浪,一场世界大战一触即发。</p><p>“不需要我吗？”我茫然地问道。</p><p>“除非万不得已的时候。委员会命令所有特种人员原地待命，就连我现在也不能离开研究所。”洛恩娜面露愠色。“在纳菲亚斯师傅那里乖乖待好，好吗？照顾好桑德兰多。”她对着至今跟随着我的老鹰嫣然一笑。</p><p>“哦。”</p><p>“不知道艾瑞丝有没有也受影响……”她咬着嘴唇。“虽然我知道这极其不可能，但你一路上有没有遇到过她？”</p><p>“没。”我的心一阵绞痛。“那个——我——”</p><p>“你没想过去找她。”</p><p>这句话更多是在陈述事实，而不是在询问或责难。我垂下头。</p><p>两天之后，一架小型商业航班在艾瑞丝和我正前往的科莱奥斯村南部遇难。老纳尔和我过去帮忙，我一眼就在燃烧的残骸和焦黑的尸体之间发现了伤痕累累的艾瑞丝。我立刻回到了当时林赛那支离破碎的身体旁——直到燃料箱爆炸，终结了我复发的精神创伤——还有我。</p><center> -- 艾瑞丝 -- </center><p>纳菲亚斯师傅挥完手转向森林后，我沿着后滩走向沼泽地边缘栅栏间的开口。穿过开口，就是通往科莱奥斯村的山路了，它朝东南方向延伸，步行大约需要三十分钟。这片区域位于极圈之内，我已经好几个月没有见过太阳了。冰冷、黑暗、压抑，圣诞节和新年来去匆匆，没有一丝节日气氛（也倒不是纳菲亚斯师傅没有做出些努力）。我恨这个地方。</p><p><em>恨，嗯？</em>我能感受到他在我身后拖沓的步子，他在尽力保持距离。在以前，因为我和他的搭档的关系，他能清晰地能感知我每时每刻的想法：在我的世界里，我等同于林赛，而他和林赛的意识相联，因此我也受到了波及——直到我们开始屏蔽各自的思想。在艾罗达那里我学会了许多——如何使用意念术、如何保护自己、如何伤害、如何去恨……我对这一切都感到十分抵触。由于两个世界之间基础结构的不同，我被这个世界视为精灵，所以我不能单纯地“死掉”。是他在我的世界里没让我死成，是他把我带了过来，是他造成了我所有的痛苦。奥马恩卡？换个名字（更别说还是个精灵名字！）并改变不了他的身份。比利就是比利。</p><p>“把包给我。”他粗鲁地低吼。永远都在发号施令，第一次是在那个胡同里命令我放松我断了的胳膊，还是在我跑了一路躲闪轰炸、险些丧命之后、满脑子都以为我最亲爱的人刚刚被炸得灰飞烟灭时。没有一句安慰、连一句“你还好吧？”之类的话都没有。一句冷漠的事实，一句无理的反驳，然后就是一道命令。就算他是在帮我又怎么样？呼尔而与之，行道之人弗受；蹴尔而与之，乞人不屑也。</p><p>“等着。”我也会甩脸色给他看了，熟能生巧。</p><p>我从法国飞往美国的航班在闯入一片交战区之后被迫更改航线，随后发动机中弹报废。更倒霉的是，这架飞机偏偏坠毁在这儿。精灵并没那么容易死，只要他们所受的伤害不超过全身的百分之七十，他们的灵魂——也就是构成意识的量子还是什么乱七八糟的玩意儿——会经历一个叫做“旅途”的过程。在他们的身体修复、愈合的同时，他们的灵魂在另一个截然不同的世界游荡，毫无记忆，漫无目的。这一切其实都是设计好的：他们会抵达一个叫做“谷地”的地方，在那儿，长老妮尔瓦亚会恢复他们的记忆，然后把灵魂送回身体里。林赛几乎被撕扯成碎片，所以她无法踏上旅途……他们告诉我她也不会去瓦林纳，那个所有精灵死后灵魂归去的圣地。我呢？我宁可和她互换命运。死掉，并在任何世界中都不复存在，就像鲁比克一样，是真正的恩赐。</p><p>正如我是我的世界的林赛一样，比利是这个世界的鲁比克。和我们不同的是，他们两个长得一模一样。他来到了我的世界，导致鲁比克成为了纳文精灵考洛利的目标，而考洛利为了杀死鲁比克——他的“比利”——不择手段。他轰炸了半座城市，轰炸了我们的孤儿院，轰炸了我们本应乘坐的轮船。哦，比利的确试图弥补过，但他能弥补60条人命吗——尤其是其中41条还是孩子的？是他让我失去了所有人和所有的一切，可他最后居然还是拒绝结束我的性命。</p><p>长老说我们大吵大闹简直是个耻辱，在谷地史无前例。我还能怎么样？整整两年啊，我在各国之间辗转、寻找一个家。在我最后工作的孤儿院里，一个园丁对我产生了些特殊兴趣。我逃跑的那天，我不得不抓起一把菜刀迫使他和我保持距离。两年啊，比利连试图联系我都没有，然而他恢复记忆后对我说的第一件话是我为什么没有联系任何人？谁能不发脾气啊？尤其是在得知他一直在<em>追踪几千年都没人过问的精灵遗迹——</em></p><p>我在一片冰上滑了一跤。春天才刚开始不到一个小时，还没有任何东西融化掉。大意了啊，我。</p><p>“放手。”我试图把他推开，但我的手只接触到了空气。</p><p>“我压根就没碰你。”他嘟哝道，大步从我身旁走过。</p><p>是，没肢体接触，但用魔法——精灵技艺——也算触碰好不好？我挣扎着站起身。</p><p>然后他在另一片冰上也倒了。我下意识伸手抓住他的衣领，衣领发出<em>撕拉——</em>一声。他蜷缩着跪在地上，然后身体慢慢打开一般，笔直地站了起来。我把那块布料扔回他怀里，没吱声。和鲁比克一样，他在窘迫的时候会笨手笨脚的，然后因为自己的笨拙而更窘迫，所以我小心饶过他，省得他丢脸。</p><p>太阳一直没有爬高，只是在树梢徘徊。不知道纳菲亚斯师傅是不是已经猎到什么了。那片森林隶属灯塔范围，所以归守塔人所有。即便在冬季，林子里也不缺猎物。纳菲亚斯师傅通过给村民、有时还会给游客颁发打猎许可来获利。打到猎物并不需要花多少时间，但他喜欢在林子里逛好几个钟头。</p><p>他真是个奇怪的精灵。他看上去年迈干枯，满头长长的银发，额头、眼角、还有手背皱纹密布，但他紫色的双眼明亮，身板笔挺，全身弥漫着年轻活力。他告诉我他一直独自一人，所以他很高兴纳伦之星里开始有生活气息了。这句话肯定是单纯的礼貌而已，我永远都不会把我们两人不断的争吵和冲突称为“生活气息”。哪怕是最不起眼的东西都可能把我们中任何一个给点炸。在地下室、在书房、在灯火室；在壁炉前、在餐桌上、在厨房水池边；在海滩上、在森林中、在村子里……如果没有空间限制，我们的口角会发展成肢体冲突、刀剑对魔法。纳菲亚斯师傅只是在一旁看着，一言不发，一脸平静，目光不停地在我们之间来回。一旦有一丝喘气的空当，他便开口，声音和往常一样缓和、温暖，特别像高先生的声音：</p><p>“我……在想……你能否帮我……”然后带走我们中的一人。他并不会提起刚刚发生了什么，有一次我感觉我必须要道歉，因为我们的争吵最后是以几张破碎的碟子收尾的。“你们二人是在梳理你们的感情罢了，不必多虑。”仅此而已。</p><p>这样的小经历让我有点惭愧我一开始对他的戒备。我见过也听说过太多了，我清楚男性会做出什么事来，不管是男人还是男精灵，但我真的难以不去信任一个每天不打扰我、只在我们三个人都在一起时才关心我是否有特殊需求的人，一个未经允许不会触碰我、哪怕多不小心多轻微的擦碰都会道歉的人，一个教我如何提高精灵技艺、不论是日常还是格斗用途的人。仅仅两个月，纳菲亚斯师傅教我的比艾罗达三年里教会我的还多。如果他不总是让我和比利搭档干活就好了。</p><center> -- 比利 -- </center><p>野兔抖动着它们厚厚的长毛，在匍匐的下层植被里东跳西蹿，弄得整个沼泽地窸窣作响。脚下的路混杂着污雪和泥泞，远处只露出一条边的太阳拉长了森林的影子，覆盖住了一切。再掺一瓢血红，这儿就和林赛死的地方一模一样了。</p><p>艾瑞丝是想帮助我们才加入了小林和我的最后一次行动。所有派出的特种队必须配备医务人员，于是艾瑞丝接替了晓桐的职务。我们的任务是追踪并消灭最后一队纳文精灵首领和她的两名精灵部下，但我们并不知道队里还有一名人类随从。在林赛对付那名首领、我在对付另两名精灵时，这个人类叛徒把艾瑞丝推到了空地中央准备处决。林赛抛出她的剑削掉了他的脑袋，而那名首领……她知道林赛和我因为一场意外而被转录了精灵基因，知道如果处理不当的话我们会踏上旅途，也知道我们因为情况特殊会被拒之瓦林纳门外，所以她下手时尽量残忍。</p><p>林赛是为了救艾瑞丝才死的。任何医务员——包括晓桐——在那种情况下都能保护好自己。我自己也陷入过艾瑞丝的处境。当时，小林和我还没有变得像后来那么强，距离我们获得精灵基因也有好久，但小林那一次活了下来。她每一次都活了下来……</p><p>我紧紧攥着被扯下的毛茸茸的领子。过去两年，尽管被当作靠垫、床垫、袋子、吊床和雪橇用，甚至有一两回在取火时还被用作引燃物，我的厚斗篷依然完好无损。</p><p>偏偏是<em>她</em>扯坏了它。</p><center> # </center><p>沼泽逐渐消失在树林中，我们脚下的土路开始转为上坡，那一抹阳光也在我们走进山谷里时便慢慢褪却。十分钟后，我们两人走出这片阴影时都舒了口气。</p><p>眼前，土路延伸到科莱奥斯村的中央大道上。在那左边，稍稍靠里一些，科莱奥斯的木条教堂的那顶暗灰色、层次分明的尖塔在一大片雪白的房顶中鹤立鸡群。笔直向前，在村子边界，村子的维京长屋匍匐在砖屋瓦房之外，像极了这里的面包师傅尤其喜欢烤的Sunnmørsbrød面包。中央大道在不远处右转，把村广场藏在更多雪白的屋檐后。山的这一边就没有什么树林和山了，只有一马平川的苔原。紧贴着地平线的太阳把它的金黄随性泼洒，浸染了烟囱中升起的炊烟——就算那里面爬出个圣诞老人我也不会奇怪。我们驻足片刻，尽享着这穿越了的黄金时刻。</p><p>艾瑞丝抿着嘴，鼻子里呼出一阵长长的叹息，走向大道。</p><p>街上空空荡荡。时间尚早，大部分村民还在酒馆里。我们淌过静谧的阳光，艾瑞丝冷不丁转身钻进裁缝店里。</p><p>在艾罗达众多标配装备中，大家都偏爱首饰，因为它们便携、便于藏匿，并且可以通过直接的皮肤接触来非侵入式地整合到神经系统中。配发的首饰大部分是用来让人类成员能够使用精灵技艺的，而有的——比如艾瑞丝总是佩戴的挂坠——可以使佩戴者用任何有记录的语言进行交流。我走进裁缝店里时，恰好听到她用挪威语说：</p><p>“——缝纫机吗？再拿一捆黑线吧，麻烦您了。”</p><p>“我们塔里有棉线。”我皱起眉。</p><p>“斗篷。”她沉下脸，用她那牛津口音对我说。</p><p>我把斗篷扔给她，她瞪着我的手。我把领子也抛了过去，顺手扯过她手里的包。她跑进店的里屋。壁炉噼啪作响，我走到裁缝那里付款。</p><p>“她已经付钱了，小哥。”胖大妈抬头说，我哼了一声作为应答。“我说啊，两口子吵架很正常，我和我老头——”</p><p>“我们不是一对。”我低声说。</p><p>去年秋天她在坠机现场。我敢肯定，任何看到我挖出艾瑞丝那番模样的人都会和裁缝现在那样一脸嫌弃地斜眼瞟我。</p><p>“我自己能补。”回到外面，我的手指一遍又一遍地捋过那条丝毫没有缝隙的领子。</p><p>“把包给我。”艾瑞丝喝令。</p><p>“走你的路。”</p><center> -- 艾瑞丝 -- </center><p>雪、雪、雪，屋顶上、路灯上、大街上，被我们踩在脚下，冻成冰块、冻裂、融化后又重新冻了起来。深褐色的砖头探出了沿街的那堆污白。乏味。我真的是恨死了这个地方。我原以为我十分想念太阳，但现在，阳光简直是让人烦——直愣愣地刺进我的眼，任凭我转头也躲不开。我心里庆幸中央大道往西面拐了一个弯——但仅仅是那么一点点而已。阳光依然钻刺着我的眼角。</p><p>有的美只可远观，比如这座阳光灿烂的圣诞村子。</p><p>木条教堂的钟敲了十一下。在我们面前的村广场上，各个商贩已经在他们的摊铺后面就位了。他们围挤在中央，背对着熊熊篝火，有的把他们厚重的毳衣挂在摊位旁。他们真不冷吗？有几个赶早集的人在商品之间溜溜达达。我闻到了风干的咸鱼，它们垂在我们左边的摊位的粗线上。旁边盛满冰和雪的木桶里露出了几条新鲜捕捞的鱼的尾巴。再往后隔着几个摊位是肉铺：风干的、陈熟的、新鲜的、还没屠宰的，全部猎自树林里，如果我们买这些肉的话会有折扣。我们走过这些摊铺，边走边对摊主们点头示意、强挤着笑容。</p><p>鲁比克和我一起值日买菜的日子仿佛还是昨天，或是上周。孤儿院里的值日任务一般由较年长的孩子们轮流承担，但不知道为什么，鲁比克和我总是会被分配到一起。妈妈和卡姆怎么会知道？还是我们太明显了？现在我怎么又摊上了这位？</p><p>“胡萝卜，谢谢。”他探过摊铺，挑拣着粗的。“这些新鲜不？”</p><p>我们现在是<em>冬末</em>，傻逼。你觉得呢？！</p><p>我一声不耐烦的叹息让摊主和比利两人同时转头。</p><p>“你自己种种看看就知道了。”我绷着脸。摊主紧紧的眉头舒展开，扑哧一声笑了。</p><p>可真是似曾相识啊，有一个冬天，鲁比克因为问了同一个蠢问题被骂了个狗血喷头，我们最后不得不跑到另一家摊位买菜。我后来意识到，要想让摊主尽快消气，我自己先说他一顿就行——但我为什么在帮这货？他脸上的表情告诉我这种数落对他来说是家常便饭，而且并不只是过去几个月里我这么对他。</p><p>“土豆？”他冲着我手里叫道。“老纳尔——”</p><p>“<em>炖肉</em>好不好？要不然你往<em>炖肉</em>里放什么？”我用我戴的挂坠把我说的变成汉语。</p><p>“我们橱柜里有。”他也用汉语反驳道。</p><p>“那又怎么了？冬天都快过去了，如果他们不快点在新货来之前卖掉的话，这些不都得坏了？”</p><p>“我们的不也一样？”</p><p>“那还不赶紧学着吃？”我转过身，不再理他。</p><p>他气得几乎要喷火，我勉强控制住我轻蔑的笑。我很少能占上风，就算是有，也是因为他的反应和鲁比克一模一样。</p><p>……但他不是他啊。</p><p>“你们俩终于在一起了？”摊主的小儿子从一堆箱子后面探出头。比利的脸绷得更紧了。</p><p>“没有。”</p><p>“爹！抬价宰死他！”</p><p>“你消停会儿吧，你个二百五！”我对比利责骂道。摊主哈哈大笑。</p><p>“姑娘你说话注意点儿！”比利喝道，对着小孩儿示意。</p><p>我转向一边。不，我们永远不可能交往。他不是鲁比克，我不是林赛。他是鲁比克不在的原因，而我是林赛不在的原因。我——</p><p>唉，我还是算了吧：凭良心讲，比利在来到我的世界里时并不知道鲁比克的存在。如果他知道的话，他是不可能过来的。我呢？我可是主动要求加入他和林赛的最后一次任务、给他们当医护员的。</p><p>林赛做什么事都会叫上我，她和晓桐两个人都是，而比利也尽力而为。有那么一小段时间，我也对他们放开了些，我几乎感觉我又有了一个归属的地方。林赛特别喜欢讲消灭纳文精灵之后她想做的事：比如她想去的地方，不仅仅是这个世界里的，还有别的她去执行过任务的世界里的；比如她想尝试的食物，不论是好闻还是难闻的；比如她想培养的爱好，真正的栽培园艺那种，而不是照看田地那种义务值日劳动。他们从小到大都是童兵，在训练、战争和不同世界膨胀的时间里成长、磨炼。我们并没有多么不同——我们都被剥夺了童年。</p><p>我想帮助他们，但是我反而因为自己能力太差被发现了，迫使林赛出手救我，而不是保护她自己。我剥夺了她所有的梦想，然后我从比利那剥夺了她。</p><center> -- 比利 -- </center><p>鲁比克活泼、好动、嗓门大。我们两人虽然外貌一模一样，但性格截然相反。认识他的短短几天里，他给我的印象是鲁猛、夸张、彻头彻尾的烦人。</p><p>……好吧，我承认我只是看不顺眼他成天对林赛调情。</p><p>仅此而已。但是当他看向艾瑞丝时、当他对着主厨的门撒气时、当他和那个老人和小孩子们一起坐在服务区里时、还有当他对着青岛那繁华的都市风光痴迷不已时，我不禁对他感到钦佩、甚至羡慕。鲁比克富有表达力、勇敢，是一个自力更生的人。他敢爱敢恨，因为他的生活迫使他如此。他知道，要想保护他爱的那些人，他必须有所行动。我呢？若没有林赛和斯巴克、没有我的任何朋友或者导师，我都不可能成为我。如何去爱、如何去保护、如何勇敢起来、如何为自己而挺身而出，我都需要别人教。</p><p>那天，我和他在酒店住同一间时，他破天荒闭上了嘴。他问起我自己，然后支起耳朵听着。临近入睡，他说：“哥们儿，别死，你听到没？”也不知道是不是在那个时候他就下定了在后来出手的决心。鲁比克不傻，要想不动声色地制止骚扰那个女孩子的人，他有更好的办法。但是暴露他自己能更容易地勾引出考洛利，于是他选择艾瑞丝还在林赛身边时出了手。鲁比克为了拯救两个世界而牺牲了自己。</p><p>我和他披着同一张脸、他因此成为了靶子，这并不是我的错；但是我压根就没把他放在心上，这的确是我的不对。</p><p>我内疚极了，所以我在整个考察期间一直没敢打听过艾瑞丝的下落，也没有过问她这两年来的流荡。艾瑞丝没有我会过得更好。</p><p>也许并不会——要是没人拦着她成天在菜市场交同情税，她没几天就破产了！真服了——那些土豆蔬菜早晚也得烂在我们自己的橱柜里，好不好？为什么不直接让村民留着做肥料啊？！</p><p>我们绕着广场路过更多蔬菜摊、首饰、布料、家具杂货，然后我闻到一阵面包味。面包师傅从店里面搬出来了一些材料，现在正用他的摊位边那个篝火加热的陶土炉子烧着糕点。他那瘦不拉几的助手从炉子里搬出来铁盘子，然后胖乎乎的师傅伏身在摊位上，一铲子又一铲子，从铁盘上往纸袋子里装满“fattigmann”。这些修长的菱形饼干外裹了层糖，又硬又尖，像飞镖一样。科莱奥斯的特款，夏天用蜂蜜，冬天用焦糖，外酥里嫩。</p><p>艾瑞丝深深吸了一口气，我跟在她身后一段距离，玩弄着我的领子，等她翻出自己的钱包。我们买菜的钱用的是老纳尔给的，但如果买私用的东西的话，艾瑞丝和我（罕见地）达成共识，我们自掏腰包。</p><p>她嘟起嘴，对着面包师傅略带遗憾地浅浅一笑，继续赶路了。没钱了？<em>她</em>？我幸灾乐祸，手指捋了一下领子。</p><p><em>哦</em>。</p><p>我买了两袋子，然后掏出一块饼干。</p><p><em>咔嚓</em>。随着酥脆的外壳破裂，一股醇厚温暖的香甜席卷了我整个舌尖，我感觉仿佛被蘸进温暖的蜜罐里一样。亲天娘嘞，怪不得艾瑞丝那么喜欢这玩意儿。我一点也不在乎过往的小孩子投来的憎恶和嫉妒的眼色，我只关心我有没有烦到艾瑞丝。因为酒馆里陆陆续续出来的人越来越多，直到我们走出广场好几分钟后，艾瑞丝才察觉到。她浑身发抖，转过身：</p><p>“麻烦你控制一下你那个动静，混d——哦。”</p><p>我嘴里叼着我的那一袋，把另一袋塞她脸上。</p><p>“拿去堵住你的嘴。”</p><p>她狠狠瞪着我，我啧了下舌。又是什么行道之人弗受乞人不屑之类的，是吧。</p><p>“那啥。呃，谢谢。帮我补领子。”</p><p>她皱着眉、眯着眼，一把抓过袋子。</p><center> # </center><p>我有很多艾瑞丝的坏话（其中大部分都是口舌之快），但我贬低不了她的美貌。林赛像星星一样闪耀，艾瑞丝虽然发光，但更多的像一股和煦的微风。星星本来就是遥不可及的，但哪里没有一些总是追风捕影的人呢。</p><p>奥拉夫·埃里克森是村长的儿子，科莱奥斯捕风队的头头。典型的北欧人，比我和艾瑞丝高出一头半，磐石般魁梧。我记得在坠机现场，他同时抛出两块一头牛一样大的残骸。</p><p>大多数村民新的一天在酒馆里开始，然后再去干活，但也有一小部分人一整天都在酒馆那逗留。果然，我们刚转过中央大道的弯就看到奥拉夫和他那帮混混在酒馆门前等着。我听到身后艾瑞丝啧了一声，然后是一阵慌乱的纸袋卷起的窸窣。我感到她加快脚步，用我挡住奥拉夫。</p><p>真抱歉，我想娱乐一下。我也卷起我的饼干袋子，然后放慢脚步，伸起懒腰。捕风队蜂拥而至，我看见艾瑞丝咬紧牙。</p><p>“早安啊，我的艾瑞丝夫人。”奥拉夫口音浓重，他们周围的五个跟班互相笑笑，艾瑞丝埋着头。嗯……平时都是只有两个跟着奥拉夫过来。我加快脚步，又放松下来，掏出块饼干。他们骚扰的可是艾瑞丝，那个能赤手空拳施法抵挡我的进攻的那个艾瑞丝，而且我还同时挥舞着我的和林赛的两把剑！“今天天气可真是好啊，这个——呃——春色晨光真像您。”他们又互相嬉笑。</p><p>……<em>鲁比克</em>跟林赛说的情话都比这个强。我不小心咬到了自己的手指。</p><p>“我每天都是想着你入睡——”</p><p>有时我俩打完架我也这样，心里和那个白眼狼小屁孩窝火。但是亲天娘嘞，<em>你</em>又是个什么理由？</p><p>“您愿意与我们共饮吗？咱今天有蜜酒，非常非常烈的那种哟。”他伸出一只胳膊搂住她的腰，我不由得一颤，但克制住了自己。艾瑞丝一巴掌扇走了他的胳膊，双肩耸在一起，紧紧搂着纸袋子。“来啊，我的艾瑞丝夫人。”他又试了一次。</p><p>我的饼干飞向他那根树干粗的胳膊。</p><p>那七个人一同转头看向我。我快步走过去，抓住了艾瑞丝的肩。才走出两步，奥拉夫拔出饼干，扔向了我。我挥指弹开了它。要是扔它的是个纳文精灵，那个面饼镖现在早就嵌在他的脑门里了。</p><p>“喂，你想找事儿？”奥拉夫的一个跟班大喝。我侧踏一步，躲过了他的巴掌。我感觉我的脾气开始沿着后背向上爬。</p><p>“喂，小中国佬！”奥拉夫跟了上来。“我见过你对她啥样，你现在装啥君子？”他想推我一把，但没推中。“我在跟你说话，听见没？”</p><p>他在我左边，有两个混混在我们前面，三个在后面；艾瑞丝那侧是空的。</p><p>“喂，你聋了？还是哑了？耷拉着马脸干啥？”</p><p>在他又一次推搡时，我猛然转身，左手把包按进艾瑞丝怀里、把她推了出去，右手顺势向前，抓住了奥拉夫的小臂，把他甩向他身后的大胡子跟班。</p><center> -- 艾瑞丝 -- </center><p>我吓坏了。</p><p>我和比利交手时从来没有这样过，甚至纳菲亚斯师傅不在场的时候也没有，他同时用两把剑的时候也没有。奥拉夫不一样，他和在我的孤儿院里的那个主厨一样，或者在法国的那个园丁。主厨总是给人一种很扭曲的感觉，我们私底下还有传言说他骚扰年长一些的女孩子。至于那个园丁，他总是想办法找到和我独处的机会，而且一旦被他抓到了，他总会有一些很让人不舒服的行为，有些过分地亲密。我当时能抓起菜刀纯属偶然，而这一次，我甚至什么可以用的东西都没有。奥拉夫向我伸手时，我吓坏了，把精灵技艺忘得一干二净。</p><p>如果我没忘的话，眼前的这场斗殴可能就不会发生。</p><p><em>赶紧回家去。</em></p><p>今天奥拉夫身边好像真的是多了几个人，而且他们嘴里说着什么很烈的蜜酒……他们是有备而来。</p><p><em>赶紧回家去啊，傻逼！</em></p><p>刚刚是他吗？用的还是意念术？他是怎么进入我的意识屏障里的？是我放下防备了吗？回家？什么家？我看着比利躲开一个人的拳头并狠狠地在他的膝盖后面踢了一脚。他抓住跌倒的那个人的脖子，然后把他甩向正冲过去的奥拉夫。他接着顺势起跳，在空中旋转一圈，用脚踝锁住另一个人的脖子，把他狠狠地砸在地上，转身又格挡住另一个小混混的袭击。瘦小而精悍的体型被一团黑斗篷包裹，对付着六个八尺大汉。</p><p>一块扔向他的石头偏了，径直飞向我。我睁开眼睛时，看见它停在我的脸毫米之外，而他站在那里，伸着胳膊。那块石子反向蹿进他的手里。</p><p>“谁扔的？”他的声音低沉、冰冷、夹杂着一丝金属的质感。他的双眼如炽，如同他发动精灵视觉时那样，但散发的是红光，而不是白色的。他紧抿着的嘴唇露出紧咬的牙关，危险的气息在空气中震荡，他现在的样子和他在林赛去世那一天的样子如出一辙。他指间的石子崩裂成碎块，那些流氓呆住了，面色惶恐。“是谁？”</p><p>刹那间，石子碎块射穿了一个混混的肩膀。我的手飞快地捂住了我的嘴。那个人不知是出于突如其来的疼痛还是惊吓晕了过去，但比利并没有停下来看，而是把另一个人一脚踢进了墙里，眼里溢出一种暴怒般的疯狂。那个流氓被从屋顶下落的积雪填埋，一同下落的还有一根粗大的冰凌。比利凭空抓住，用它敲晕了第三个恶霸。冰凌在第四个人的头上被砸得粉碎，那人也直挺挺地倒下了。此时，比利停了下来。</p><p>冰的碎片应该是消退了些他的狂怒，他看着路边倒下的那四个人，松开了手里剩下的冰。这短暂的停歇让他在后背重重地挨了一拳。他灵敏地跳了几步，得以防止自己跌倒，凭借毫厘之差躲开了第二拳。他横扫一腿，踢倒了那个混混。奥拉夫抓住比利的脖子，把他按在一堵墙上，两个人谁也没有在乎落下的雪和冰。奥拉夫对着比利尖锐地辱骂，一遍又一遍地猛击他的腹部。</p><p>这一切激起了我万众记忆中一个渺小的记忆：一个瘦弱的男孩双手叉腰，从头到脚都是灰土；一个蓬头垢面、枯容憔悴的流浪汉扇了他一巴掌，声音在四下里久久回荡；一个颤抖的我轻轻拉了几下男孩褴褛的衣襟，呜咽道：</p><p>“让他拿去吧，鲁比克。真的，我们还是让他拿去吧……”</p><p>我们各自就这么持续着各自的行为，直到我手里又干又略微发霉的面包瓦解成渣屑。鲁比克红肿的脸流着血，流浪汉啐了一口，骂骂咧咧地继续踉跄流浪。</p><p>激起的万众记忆中的一个。</p><p>我为什么还在这里呆呆地站着，仿佛这一切都和我无关？他一开始保护的是谁？</p><p>走近了看，奥拉夫比我以为的还要高。他对我说话时总是弯着腰，故意露出他恶心的胸毛。在他脚下是一团呕吐物，我咬紧牙，做好心理和意识的准备。</p><p>“放开他，奥拉夫。”</p><p>“哦艾瑞丝我最亲爱的，”奥拉夫回头对我笑道，然后加了句，“夫人。”他屈臂展示着肌肉：“您的骑士正在惩罚这个轻慢了您的贱民呢。”</p><p>“我说过了，”我笔直盯着他的眼睛，通过意念术紧紧掐住他的意识。“奥拉夫·埃里克森，放、开、他。”我咬牙切齿的声音在他的脑海里咆哮、回荡，他的眼睛里重新燃起了恐惧。比利扬起一根眉毛，歪头瞟我。他可真够抗打的。我更用力地掐住奥拉夫的意识。</p><p>比利落回地上。</p><p>“你离我们两个远点。”我咬牙切齿地说，用念力把奥拉夫扔到一边。</p><p><em>……我们两个？</em>我在脑海里听到。比利边咳嗽边干呕。</p><p>我一直没有意识到周围还有旁观者。糟了，这下该怎么办？</p><p>在我们左边的门“咯吱”一声开了，一对老夫妇摆手让我们进去。</p><center> -- 比利 -- </center><p>那对老夫妇在将我打理干净、又出门驱散了旁观人群之后才送我们走。穿过山丘的路从来没有更阴暗、更漫长、更安静过。我们彼此间的距离比以往更远，我们两人既没有向前看，也没有看对方。</p><p>我们曾有过一次这样的沉默，林赛和我。在艾罗达，导师是随机分配的，而我的第一位导师并不情愿收我。他唾弃我不堪一击的体格和性格。虚弱、软弱、胆小、窝囊，我是他最喜欢的欺负对象。讽刺的是当时林赛也欺负我，并在一次欺负我的过程中发现了我身上的瘀伤。一周之内，她不仅侦查出我的导师对我的虐待，还说服她的师傅收下了我。在我的前导师被开除的那个傍晚，她陪我走出听证堂，抱着自己的两臂、肩膀高耸，躲着大家走。我从来没有见过她这么不安。艾瑞丝现在和当时的林赛的样子相差无几。</p><p>在沼泽地边界、栅栏开始的地方，我们两人突然同时吸一口气，然后奋力咽下嘴边的话。</p><p>“你个傻逼。”她脱口而出，又有点语无伦次。我惊了一下。“你就不能坚持打到最后啊？”</p><p>“你个白眼狼，你以为你要是乖乖听话滚回家的话我不会啊？”我继续走路。</p><p>“站住。”她轻轻揪了一下我的领子，然后立刻收回了手。我听从了。她和我一样眉头紧锁，但既不是因为责备，也不是因为反感。她的目光飞快地向下又闪了回来，笔直刺进我的眼。“你恨鲁比克吗？”</p><p>我倾侧了脑袋，一脸疑惑，摇了一下头。</p><p>艾瑞丝咬紧牙关，就连她那瀑布般的头发也在颤抖、四下那冷寂的空气也随她颤抖。她的嘴唇分分合合，我意识到就连我也在颤抖。</p><p>在学院的最初的日子里，我很早便发现了一个隐匿于悬崖峭壁里的洞穴，在那里可以眺望大半部分我们学院所处的岛屿。我忍受一整天的欺凌之后会来这里哭，没有人会知道。那个听证会的傍晚，我没阻止林赛跟我来这儿。知情权是她应得的。我坐在一旁，瑟瑟发抖，她则垂着双腿，坐在悬崖边的洞口那里。</p><p>“你——你恨我吗？”</p><p><em>我——？</em></p><p>“说实话。”艾瑞丝死死盯着我，目光焦灼。</p><p>实话？实话是尽管我反复告诉自己是艾瑞丝的错，我从来没有真的说服自己因为林赛的死去指责艾瑞丝。纳文精灵一直都有人类随从和手下，但林赛和我在当时那个阶段早已否定了他们依旧存在的可能，于是就没有再检测人类随从的迹象。更何况如果林赛当时没有出手，我会出手。和艾瑞丝之间的矛盾、吼叫、争吵、指责、故意做出混蛋行为——一切只是因为我是个胆小鬼罢了，太懦弱，不敢正经地道歉，害怕不会被原谅。毕竟，我没有救鲁比克，我剥夺了她的一切。</p><p>“没有。”我哽咽着，“我不应该。我不恨你。我做不到。”</p><p>艾瑞丝表情复杂，狠狠把我推倒在满是融雪和泥浆的地上。她从包里抽出一袋胡萝卜，又扔掉换成装着牛至叶的系好的袋子。她跪在我身上，用尽她不动用精灵技艺而所能使出的最大力气，双手举起把袋子狠狠地砸在我的脸上，一遍又一遍。</p><p>唉，她肯定是恨我的了。</p><p>袋子破了，芳香的叶子四处飞散。她把它扔到一旁，然后用自己的双拳锤砸我的胸。我只能躺着，任她处置。艾瑞丝喘着粗气，一头扎进我的肩，嚎啕大哭起来。</p><p>“那你怎么不早说啊？”</p><p>在那绚丽的深蓝宝石色的北半边天空下，我条件反射地轻轻拍着她的头和后背，不知所措。鲁比克死后，她在学院的两年里，没有任何人——林赛、晓桐、斯巴克、洛恩娜、罗伯特、我——没有任何人看到她哭过。她抓得我更紧了，哭声更大。</p><p>林赛流泪时无声无息，比如她在悬崖的那次。她回头看我时梨花带雨，她说她真的十分内疚，她说她欺负我是为了不让克里斯蒂娜知道她对我的真实想法（蒂娜当时有喜欢打听别人闲事然后取笑别人的烦人习惯），她说她如果一开始知道的话她绝对不可能这么做的。然后她挪了过来。抱着艾瑞丝让我心如刀割，这一切都太熟悉了。</p><p>“关于林赛——我真的——对不起。”过了好久，艾瑞丝抽泣道。</p><p>“那天不是她就是我。”半晌，我又加道：“关于所有人我也很难过，鲁比克、卡米拉、于夫人、那些孤儿……还有你。”她吸了一下鼻子表示接受。“我们能重新开始吗？”她闻起来一直都这么温暖吗？“我们这么些年来一直都没有好好做过介绍。”她又哼了一声。我清了清嗓子。“胳膊骨折。”她啧了一声，拳头捣着我的肩。我轻笑着。“我是比利，很高兴认识你。”她抬起那绒毛帽子下被长长黑发围绕的、羞红的脸，唇边的雾气在她的抽噎之间飘散。她长长睫毛上的每一颗泪珠我都看得清清楚楚。</p><p>“我是艾瑞丝，认识你是我的荣幸。”她的声音如鹅绒，丝滑朦胧。“真是对不起啊，我把你的斗篷弄得全是鼻涕……”</p><p>“没关系的。”我的胳膊围住她，这种感觉像是我又重新得到了好久以前失去的什么。“我习惯了。”</p><center> -- 艾瑞丝 -- </center><p>“买菜还好吧？”灯塔前的庭院里，纳菲亚斯师傅在屠宰台旁抬起了头。“你们两个去了好久——艾瑞丝？”他看到我的脸，然后对比利脸一沉，我从没见过他如此严厉。“奥马恩卡，你这真的太过分了。”他大步流星踏回灯塔里。看来一个精灵用你的精灵名字称呼你说明事态是很严重的。比利全身僵直，和我对视了一下。灯塔里，纳菲亚斯师傅刚擦干他的手，然后拿着一块手帕快步走过来。“艾瑞丝，我可以吗？”他一下一下按拭我的脸，转向比利时，他脸上的每一道深深的皱纹都写满严厉：“我从未想过你还能忍心逼哭一个女孩子，这简直是彻头彻尾的暴行和耻辱——”</p><p>我摇摇头。</p><p>“不是吗？”纳菲亚斯师傅眯眼看我。</p><p>“不是的，纳尔爷爷，不是你想的那样。”我抓住比利的胳膊，把他扯到身后。</p><p><em>爷爷？</em>他自己往前踏了一步回来，看着脚下，然后张开了嘴。</p><p>纳尔爷爷举起一根手指让他别说话，他瞪圆了的紫色眼睛在我们两人惊恐的脸之间徘徊。</p><p>“<em>啊</em>。”他舒了一口气，轻声笑道：“抱歉。给，比利，你来擦干净艾瑞丝吧。”</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;center&gt; -- 比利 -- &lt;/center&gt;

&lt;p&gt;当东方那片森林后的天空泛起数月里第一道微光时，老纳尔嘱咐我们到村子里去。他说他特别馋鹿肉粥，让我们去买点蔬菜和佐料。然后那个精灵老头裹着暖暖和和的毳袍和鹿靴，背着他的弓和塞得满满的箭袋，转身大步流星地走向黑压压的森林。&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;艾瑞丝和我知道纳伦之星里——那座老纳尔看守的、我们现在所居住的灯塔里——不缺蔬菜。我们的贮藏室建在灯塔厚厚的墙壁里，刺骨的斯堪地纳维亚海风通过通风口来去自如，所以没有一片叶子腐烂。过去五个月里，这种事已经发生好几回了——守塔人纳菲亚斯只是在找借口让我们两个人合作。&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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  <entry>
    <title>2022 Winter Solstice Story - Tales from the North - The Thaw</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2022/12/21/2022%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Tales%20from%20the%20North%20-%20The%20Thaw/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2022/12/21/2022%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Tales%20from%20the%20North%20-%20The%20Thaw/</id>
    <published>2022-12-21T07:00:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2023-04-30T05:52:24.960Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><center> -- Billy -- </center><p>When the sky behind the forest to the east glowed for the first time in months, Old Nar’ bade us off to town. He said he craved for venison stew, and we should purchase some vegetables and seasoning. The old elf then strode off to the shadowy forest with a bow and loaded quiver on his back, wrapped warm in his fur cloak and moccasin.</p><p>Iris and I know there are still vegetables in the Naren Star, the lighthouse Old Nar’ looks after, and where we now reside. Our larder is built into its thick walls, and has vents to bring in the frigid Scandinavian sea air. Nothing was spoiled. Like too many times in the past five months, Nar’fiius the Towerkeeper is making an excuse for us to work together.</p><span id="more"></span><p>I watch his back shrink into the trees at a brisk pace, and pull my fur-lined hood lower. Iris is already steps ahead down the sleet-covered backshore. I bow my head and let my misty breath trail long behind me.</p><p>The sky overhead is a gradient of inky black from the sea to a paling blue at the trees. In the waning luster of the stars above, the marshland stretching not far to our left sleeps on. The snow-capped hills far ahead remain stony-dead. Only waves of the sea join in the “crunch crunch” of our boots grinding away the snow and sand.</p><p><em>Crunch crunch whoosh crunch</em>. The sound of tension and silence we both are all too familiar with.</p><p><em>Crunch whoosh crunch crunch</em>.</p><p>“Give me the bag.” I grunt.</p><p>“Later.” Her voice slices the air.</p><p><em>Crunch crunch</em> we make our way to the road through the marsh. We rehearsed this scene many times, and will many times more. Perhaps we just wish to stay this way: a forced coworkership until the political environment permits us to go our separate ways.</p><p>Rowana thought that a years-long fieldwork duty would relieve me of my trauma from Lindsay’s death. The end of Nanweneldar had finally brought us Ereldar peace, time, and energy to rebuild and restructure. The millennia-long Elven Civil War is over. The Nanweneldar are eliminated. We Ereldar at last can focus on rediscovering the long-forgotten elven history. When I showed up at the Institute, hoping to escape the place where I had lived for almost a decade, where everything is associated with Lin, Rowana convinced me to take up the expedition job. “Pilgrimage”, she called it. A trip to a few tentative elven sites, either abandoned or integrated into our human society, to survey and to assess their current states. The Naren Star was the last stop, and I have never planned to dwindle.</p><p>I received words from Rowana to stay where I was the day before my departure. Her face in the crystal orb lacked all of her usual frivolity.</p><p>“Colaurë’s efforts have finally paid off.” She said to Old Nar’ and I. Colaurë was a Nanwenelda. Nanwens believed the world belonged to the elves, not humans. To take it back, humans need to be either kept under elven control, or eliminated. “The King of France was assassinated in America. Air restriction zones are established, and some thirty countries pledged to either the Union of the Euro-Alliance under an hour. We are trying to find a way to minimize the Resonance Effect.”</p><p>When two worlds share similar fundamental physics, or in other words, “when two worlds are alike”, they become entangled, and may resonate with each other. Events of one world may cause a similar event happen in the other, and this is the Resonance Effect. Colaurë is among one of many who are sent to candidate worlds to sow chaos and discord, in hopes that our world may resonate. The easiest way to cut down human population and to usurp control is to have humans warring among themselves. Nanwens won’t even need to lift their own fingers. Four years ago, we took Colaurë down in Iris’ world. Four years later, the ripples in the fabric of our worlds finally built up to a tsunami. A world war is set ablaze.</p><p>“Am I not needed?” I ask, blank.</p><p>“Only as a last resort. The Council ordered all Special Ops personnel to be on standby. Even I can’t leave the Institute right now.” Rowana scowled. “Stay with Master Nar’fiius, okay? Take care of Thunderandor.” She beamed at the eagle that has accompanied me thus far.</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“I wonder if Iris is affected…” She bit her lip. “Did you come across her, by the slimmest chance?”</p><p>“No.” My heart squeezed. “It—I—“</p><p>“You’ve never thought about finding her.”</p><p>That was more of a statement than a question or a reprimand. I bowed my head.</p><p>Two days later, a small commercial flight crashed south of Kryoth, the nearby village Iris and I are now trudging towards. Old Nar’ and I went to help. Among the burning debris and blackened bodies, I spotted the broken Iris at once. My relapsed trauma of Lindsay’s disfigured body ended in an explosion from the fuel tanks, along with me.</p><center> -- Iris -- </center><p>After Mr. Nar’fiius waves and turns toward the forest, I make my way down the backshore, to the opening between the fences that outline the boundaries of the marsh. There begins the well-worn path to the town of Kryoth, some thirty minutes of walk southeastward. This region is within the arctic circle and I haven’t seen sunlight for months. Frigid, dark, depressing. Christmas and New Year came and went with little festivities (not that Mr. Nar’fiius didn’t try). I hate it here.</p><p><em>Hate, huh.</em> I feel him move his feet behind me, keeping his distance. He used to know exactly what I was thinking, because of my relationship to his partner. I was Lindsay’s equivalent in my own world; he and Lindsay shared a telepathic bond, and thus, that bond extended to me, too—until when he shielded his mind, and I mine. My time with the Ereldar taught me much: how to use telepathy, how to protect myself, how to hurt, how to hate… I learnt all with reluctance. I exist with reluctance. Because of differences in the fundamental fabrics of the worlds, I’m regarded as an elf by this world, and I cannot just die. He was the one who refused my death in my world. He played a part in bringing me over. He is the reason of all my pains and turmoil. Ómaenca? Going by a new name (an elven one, at that!) doesn’t change who he is. Billy is still Billy.</p><p>“Give me the bag.” He growls. Always the imperative. The very first one was to relax my broken arm. In that alleyway, after running through the streets in amidst a bombardment, narrowly escaping death, and thinking my own beloved had been blasted apart—no consolations, no question on my well-being from him. Just a clinical remark, a rude retort, then an order. So what if he was trying to help? A passing tramp would refuse food given in disdain.</p><p>“Later.” I’m getting the hang of snapping at him. I had too much practice.</p><p>The plane I took from France to America was forced to reroute after been caught in a crossfire. The engines were shot and failed. As luck would have it, the plane just had to crash here. Elves cannot be killed easily. As long as their bodies are 30% intact, their souls—quantum make-up of the mind or whatever that really is—goes through a process called “the Journey”. While their physical bodies heal and regenerate, their souls wander in a different world, devoid of memories or purposes. When they reach the Vale as by design of the process, Elderess Nirvanya restores their memories and sends the soul back to the body. Lindsay was almost torn into pieces, so she couldn’t make it… I was told that she wasn’t going to Valinor, the Blessed Land where elven souls finally end up upon death in this world, either. I? I would rather swap fate with her. To die and be lost to the worlds, like Rubik, is the real blessing.</p><p>Billy is Rubik’s equivalent in this world, and they look exactly the same, unlike Lindsay and I. His arrival in my world caused Rubik to be wrongly targeted by the Nanwen elf Colaurë, and Colaurë cared about no casualties to have Rubik—his “Billy”—dead. The elf bombed half the city; bombed our orphanage; bombed the ship we were to sail on. Sure, Billy tried to make amends. But can he amend the lost lives of 60 people—41 of whom were children? He’s the reason I lost everyone and everything, but he still refused to kill me in the end.</p><p>The Elderess called our outburst a disgrace, the first of the like that had happened in the Vale. There wasn’t much I could do: for two years I moved from country to country, looking for a home. The last place was an orphanage, where a gardener took a special interest in me. I had to pick up a kitchen knife to keep him at bay the day I fled out of there. Two years. Billy never even tried to contact me, and the first thing he said upon regaining his memories was why I never contacted anyone? How can anyone keep her temper, especially after knowing he had been <em>tracking down elven ruins unvisited for millennia—</em></p><p>I slip on ice. Spring had just begun less than an hour ago, and nothing had thawed, yet. Careless, I was.</p><p>“Let go.” I try to push him away and my hand meets thin air.</p><p>“I’m not even touching you.” He mutters, striding past.</p><p>Sure, not physically, but using magic—elven art—counts as touching, too. I struggle up.</p><p>And down he goes, too, slipping on a different spot. I grab his collar by instinct. <em>Riiiiip</em> it goes. He hunches kneeling on the ground, and unfolds upright. I toss the fabric back at him, wordless. Like Rubik, he gets clumsy when embarrassed, and gets embarrassed by clumsiness. So I tread past him to save his grace and face.</p><p>The sun never climbed higher. It just hovers at the treetops. I wonder if Mr. Nar’fiius has caught anything already. The forest is a part of the lighthouse grounds, and thus belongs to its keeper. Games are abundant even in winter, and Mr. Nar’fiius earns revenues by allowing the villagers, and sometimes travelers, to hunt. It doesn’t take long to catch anything, but he likes to wander for hours on end.</p><p>What a strange elf. He looks old and wizened, long hair all silver, wrinkles all around his forehead and violet eyes and the back of his hands. But his eyes are bright, his frame upright, and he carries an air of youthful gusto. He lived alone, as he had told me, and he is happy that the Star is becoming lively. That has to be sheer politeness. I’d never describe our constant retorts, outbursts, and clashes as “lively”. The smallest thing would set either of us off. In the basement, the library, on the beacon; at the fireplace, the dinner table, by the sink; on the beach, in the forest, through Kryoth… If not confined by space, it’d become physical, blade to magic. Mr. Nar’fiius just watches on; not a word, just a neutral face, eyes darting to whoever’s yelling. At the first pause, he’d speak in his slow and warm voice that reminds me so much of Mr. Gao,</p><p>“I… am wondering… if you can help me with…” and take one of us with him. He doesn’t talk about what just transpired. Once I felt compelled to apologize. Our fight ended in a couple smashed plates. “You two are resolving your emotions, Iris. Do not dwell on it.” That was all.</p><p>Times like that make me regret my initial caution towards him. I’ve seen and heard too many to know what men may do, humans or elves. But I can’t help trusting someone who leaves me be during the day, checking on my needs only when all three of us are together; who doesn’t touch me without permission, apologizing for the slightest accidental brush; who gives me pointers on using my elven arts better, both for daily life and for combat. In two months, Mr. Nar’fiius has taught me more than the Ereldar had in three years. If only he didn’t pair Billy and I up for chores all the time.</p><center> -- Billy -- </center><p>The marsh rustled here and there as hare fluff from their thick coats skid between the undergrowth. The ground is a mixture of dirty snow and mud. The rim of the sun draws long shadows of the forest over everything. Add a splash of red, and we’d get the spot where Lindsay had died.</p><p>Iris had wanted to help, and that was why she joined Lin and I for our last mission. Any special operation dispatch needs medical personnel, and Iris substituted for Sally. We were to chase down and eliminate the last group of Nanweneldar: one grandmaster and her two aides. We never knew there was a fourth—a human. While Lindsay dueled the grandmaster and I her two aids, the traitor shoved Iris into the clearing for execution. Lindsay’s thrown sword severed his head. The grandmaster… She knew of the incident that transcribed elven genes into Lindsay and me. She knew we’d initiate our Journey if not properly disposed. She also knew that our condition would deny our entries to Valinor. So, she did her cruelest.</p><p>Lindsay died to save Iris. Sally or any other medic would’ve held their own. I had been in Iris’ place myself, long before Lin or I was as proficient as we have become, before we obtained elven genes. Lin made it through that time. She made it through every time…</p><p>I squeeze the ripped furry collar. In the past two years, this heavy cloak had been unscathed, despite being used and even abused as a cushion, a bedding, a bag, a hammock, a sled, and twice as a fire starter.</p><p><em>She</em> had to be the one to rip it.</p><center> # </center><p>The marsh fades into the trees, and the path tilts upwards. The sliver of sunlight falters as we cut into the hills. We are both glad to emerge from the dark shades again ten minutes later.</p><p>The road leads down to the Main Street of Kryoth. To the left, a little way in, the dark gray layered steeple of Kryoth’s stave church climbs out of the mass of snow-laden roofs. Straight ahead, near the edge of the village, the wooden longhouse squats apart from the rest of the thick-walled brick houses like a loaf of Sunnmørsbrød that the baker so loves to make. The Main Street swerves right and hides the village square behind more white roofs. There are no more forests or hill on this side, only flat tundra. The sun hugging the horizon casts its golden hue over it all, and catches wisps of smoke from chimneys. I won’t be surprised to see Santa Claus climbing out from one. We pause for a second, absorbing this anachronistic golden hour.</p><p>Iris sighs through her nose, and leads on.</p><p>The streets are empty. It is still considered early. Most townsfolk are in the tavern. We wade through the quiet sunlight, and Iris makes an abrupt turn into the tailor shop.</p><p>Of all standard-issue equipment in Ereldar, jewelries are favored the most since they are portable, inconspicuous, and come in direct contact with skin for non-intrusive neural integration. These for most part give human members access to elven arts. Some, such as the one Iris always wears, allow users to speak and understand any documented language. I enter the tailor’s just in time to hear her say in Norwegian,</p><p>“—sewing machine? And black threads, too, please.”</p><p>“We got threads at the Tower.” I frown.</p><p>“Cloak.” She scowls at me in her Oxford English.</p><p>I throw it to her. She glares at my hand. I toss the collar over, too, and wrench the bag out of her hand. She retreats to the back of the shop. In the crackle of the fireplace, I go up to the tailor lady to pay.</p><p>“She’s paid, hon.” The plump lady looks up. I snort in acknowledgment. “Look, couples fight all the time. My man and I—“</p><p>“We aren’t couples.” I mumble.</p><p>She was at the crash site last autumn. I’m sure anyone who saw how I dug Iris out might give me the askew glance on the tailor’s face right now.</p><p>“I can fix it myself.” Back outside, I run a finger through the seamless collar, over and over.</p><p>“Give me the bag.” Iris demands.</p><p>“Keep walking.”</p><center> -- Iris -- </center><p>Snow, snow, snow. On the roofs, on the lamp posts, on the street, and under our feet. Frozen, cracking, melted, and refroze. Dark brown bricks poke out of dirty white along the street. Drab. How I hate this place. I thought I had missed the sun. Now, its horizontal rays are irritating: straight in my eyes, no matter which way I turn my head. I’m grateful for the Main Street to curve west. Only a bit grateful. The sun is still drilling at the corner of my left eye.</p><p>Some beauties are best viewed from a distance, like this sunshine Christmas village.</p><p>The bell in the stave church tolls eleven times. Before us, in the village plaza, vendors are already behind their stalls. They crowd around the middle, backs toward the roaring bonfire. Some hung their heavy coats beside their stalls. Are they really not cold? A few early shoppers straggle among the merchandise. I smell aged fish. These dangled from a thick line over the stall on our left. Out of a barrel full of snow and ice stick tails of fresh caught ones. A few stalls down are the meats. Dried, aged, fresh, uncut, all hunted from the forest. We get discounts if we ever buy from them. We walk past these, nodding and squeezing smiles at the people as we go.</p><p>It was almost yesterday or last week when Rubik and I went on a grocery duty. Our orphanage had the older children rotate on chores. Somehow Rubik and I always end up together. How did mum and Cam know? Or was it that obvious? And why am I stuck with this one now?</p><p>“Carrots, please.” He leans over the stall, picking out the stouter ones. “Are these fresh?”</p><p>We are at the <em>end of winter</em>, dolt. What do you think?!</p><p>Both the merchant and Billy look over at my exasperated sigh.</p><p>“Grow your own and you’ll see.” I frown. The merchant’s knitted brows level and he snorts.</p><p><em>Déjà vu</em>, indeed. Rubik was roasted crisp for asking the same stupid question one winter. We had to turn to a different stall instead. I learnt that scolding him myself first ameliorated the vendors the quickest, but why am I helping this bloke out? He wears a look suggesting he gets that a lot, and not just from me in the past few months.</p><p>“Potatoes?” He growls at my hand. “Old Nar’—“</p><p>“<em>Stew</em>. What else do you put in <em>stews</em>?” I let my amulet turn my speech into Chinese.</p><p>“We have them in our larder.” He protests in Chinese.</p><p>“So? It’s the end of winter and if they don’t sell these before new stocks arrive, it’ll all rot.”</p><p>“So will ours.”</p><p>“Better learn to eat them, then.” I turn my back on him.</p><p>He’s almost seething and I hold back a smirk. Rarely do I get an upper hand, and when I do, it’s because he reacts exactly like Rubik.</p><p>…But he isn’t him.</p><p>“Are you two finally dating?” The merchant’s son’s head pokes out from behind the crates. Billy scowls harder.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Papa! Charge him more!”</p><p>“Stop it, you arse!” I snap at Billy. The merchant laughs.</p><p>“Language, young lady!” Billy barks back, motioning at the boy.</p><p>I turn away. No, we are never dating. He’s not Rubik. I’m not Lindsay. He’s the reason Rubik is gone. I’m the reason Lindsay is gone. I—</p><p>Oh, I concede: if I’m truly frank with myself, Billy didn’t know about Rubik when he entered my world. Had he known, he wouldn’t have come. I? I did volunteer to join Lindsay and him for their last mission as a medic.</p><p>Lindsay grabbed me for everything. Both she and Sally. Billy tried his best, and for a while I was warming up toward them. I almost felt a place to belong to again. Lindsay loved to talk about things she’d do after taking down the Nanweneldar: places she wanted to visit, not just in this world but also others where she had been for missions; food to try, both that smelled good and horrible; hobbies to pick up, like actual gardening for flowers, not just looking after a vegetable patch as duties. They grew up as child soldiers, matured and hardened by training, war, and dilated time in different worlds. We aren’t different: all stripped of normal childhoods.</p><p>I wanted to help. Because of my own inability, I was found, and forced Lindsay to save me and not herself. I stripped her of all her dreams, and I stripped Billy of her.</p><center> -- Billy -- </center><p>Rubik was a loud and hearty guy. We are replicas in looks, but utter opposites in personality. In the little time I knew him, I find him tactless, hyperbolic, and downright annoying. </p><p>…I admit I just didn’t like how he flirts with Lindsay.</p><p>That was all. When he looked at Iris, when he took out his anger at the head chef’s door, when he sat with the old man and the kids at the service area, and when he drooled at the busy Qingdao cityscape, I couldn’t help admire and even envy him. Rubik is expressive, bold, a self-made person. He wasn’t afraid to love or hate, and he became so because life had pushed him to be. He knew he had to act to protect those he loved. Me? I wouldn’t be me without Lindsay or Sparcal or any of my friends or mentors. I had to be taught to love, to protect, to be brave, to stand up for myself.</p><p>When we stayed at the hotel in the same room, for the first time, he shut up. He asked about me and listened. As we turned in, he said, “Don’t die, mate. You hear that?” I wonder if he had made up his mind then to interfere later. Rubik wasn’t stupid. He knew better ways to stop people from harassing that girl while remaining hidden, but it was easier to fish Colaurë out by exposing himself, and he chose the moment when Iris was still protected by Lindsay to do so. Rubik sacrificed himself in hopes to save two worlds.</p><p>It wasn’t my fault that I share his face and put a target on his back, but it was my fault that I didn’t even bother with him.</p><p>I’m ashamed. So I never dared looking for Iris during my pilgrimage, or ask about her wanderings these past two years. Iris is better off without me. </p><p>Or perhaps not. She’d be bankrupt fast without anyone stopping her buying stuff out of sympathy. Seriously—those potatoes and greens will rot in our own larder anyways. Why not just let the villagers keep them for their compost?</p><p>Around the square we go, past more vegetable stalls, jewelry, fabrics, household clutters, and I catch a whiff of pastry. The baker brought some ingredients out of his shop and is now baking by his stall in a clay oven, heated by the bonfire. The wide man stoops over the stall and bags fattigmann one scoop at a time from a large tin tray that his scrawny assistant shoves out of the fire. The oblong diamond cookies are glazed, hard and pointy as darts. A Kryothian twist. Honey in summer and caramel in winter. Crunchy outside and soft inside.</p><p>Iris breathes in deep. I play with my collar and wait a little way behind for her to finish fumbling for her purse. We buy groceries with Old Nar’s money, but for personal purchases, Iris and I agreed (a rare occurrence at that) to pay out of our own pockets.</p><p>She pouts. She smiles at the baker, a little sad, and walks on. Out of money? <em>Her</em>? I run a finger through my collar, amused.</p><p><em>Oh.</em></p><p>I pay for two bags and pull a cookie out.</p><p><em>Crack</em>. The crisp shell breaks to release a tender and warm sweetness all over my tongue. It’s as though someone dipped me in a warm honey pot. Great Mother, no wonder Iris loves this stuff. I don’t at all care about the dirty and envious looks from the passing kids. I only care about annoying Iris. Thanks to the increasing pedestrians coming out of the tavern, Iris doesn’t notice until we are minutes out of the square. She trembles and turns.</p><p>“Will you keep that down, you assh—oh.”</p><p>I hold my bag between my teeth and shove the other in her face.</p><p>“Stuff yourself and shut up.”</p><p>She glares at me. I tut. Something something about despise tramps, I guess.</p><p>“I mean, thanks. For fix the collar.”</p><p>She squints and snatches the bag.</p><center> # </center><p>I have a lot of bad things to say about Iris, and most of them are said out of spite. One thing I cannot deny, however, is her beauty. Lindsay dazzles like a star, Iris glows but also is like a warm breeze. Stars are untouchable by nature, but there are always people catching winds.</p><p>Olav Erikssen is the son of the village elder, and the ringleader of Kryoth Breezecatchers. Typical Nordic, a head and a half over Iris and I, sturdy like a boulder. I remember at the crash site he hauled two chunks of debris the size of an ox at once.</p><p>Most in Kryoth start their morning in the tavern, and off to work later. A few, though, spend their day loitering there. Sure enough, as we come around the bend on Main Street, there await Olav and his cronies in front of the tavern. I hear Iris tut behind me. There’s a flurry of bunching up the paper bag, and I sense her move to place me between Olav and her.</p><p>Sorry, I can use some entertainment. I bunch up my fattigmann bag, too, and slow down, stretching. The breezecatchers swarms over. I see Iris clenches her teeth.</p><p>“Good morning, Iris my lady.” Olav says through his thick accent. The five cronies around them grin at each other. Iris keeps her head down. Hmm… Usually only two join Olav. I speed up. Then I relax again, taking out a pastry. This is Iris they’re harassing, the very same who can hold her own wielding magic barehanded against me swinging both Lindsay’s and my swords. “It’s such a nice day. This—uh—spring morning is like you.” They snicker at each other again.</p><p>…<em>Rubik</em> had flirted better with Lin. I bite into my finger by accident.</p><p>“I fell asleep thinking of you every day—“</p><p>So do I on some days after we fight, smothering over my anger toward that ungrateful brat. But Great Mother God, do <em>you</em> have a good reason?</p><p>“Care to join us for a drink? They have mead, really really strong ones.” He wraps an arm around her waist. I give a start but stop myself. Iris slaps it away, shoulders huddled together, clutching the paper bag close. “Come on, Iris my lady.” He tries again.</p><p>My fattigmann streaks at his tree branch of an arm.</p><p>All seven of them turn to me. I stride over and grasp Iris’ shoulder. It’s only  two steps away before Olav plucks the pastry out and hurl it at me. I flick it out of the air. If that was a Nanwen elf, that bread dart would be lodged in his forehead by now.</p><p>“Oi, you want trouble?” One of Olav’s cronies bellows. I sidestep and avoid his palm. My temper is creeping up my neck.</p><p>“Oi, little Chinese man,” Olav catches up. “I’ve seen how you treat her. Whachoo acting like a gent right now?” He shoves me and misses. “I’m talking to you. You hear?”</p><p>He’s on my left. Two of his gang are before us; three right behind us. There’s an opening on Iris’ side.</p><p>“Oi, you deaf? Or mute? What’s with that long face?”</p><p>On his next shove, I twist around, pressing the grocery bag into Iris and sending her out of the way with my left hand. The momentum carries my right forward and I grab Olav’s forearm, swinging him into the bearded guy behind.</p><center> -- Iris -- </center><p>I panicked.</p><p>I never did when I traded blows with Billy, even when Mr. Nar’fiius wasn’t present, even when he charged in with two swords. Olav is different. He’s like the head chef back in my orphanage, or the gardener in France. The head chef always carried a twisted vibe; there were rumors about him harassing older girls. The gardener always looked for chances to catch me alone, and when he  did, there would always be unwanted advances, some way too intimate. Picking up the kitchen knife was one happenstance in a million, and this time there isn’t even anything to use. When Olav reached for me, I panicked, and forgot about elven arts altogether.</p><p>Had I not, there might not be a brawl.</p><p><em>Go on home.</em></p><p>There does seem to be more people around Olav today, and the talk of strong mead… They were prepared.</p><p><em>Go on home, idiot!</em></p><p>Was that him? Telepathy, too? How did he get through my mind shield? Did I drop it? Go home? What home? I watch Billy dodge under one bloke’s fist and kick hard in the nook of his knee. Then he grabs the falling person’s neck and hurls him at the oncoming Olav. In one fluid motion he jumps, twisting in the air, locking another’s neck between his ankles, and dashes the man onto the ground, before turning and parrying yet another rascal. A small but lean frame in a swirl of black cloak on six six-foot giants.</p><p>A thrown rock misses him and heads straight at me. I open my eyes and see it stops millimetres away from my face. There he stands with an outstretched arm. The rock reverses and shoots into his hand.</p><p>“Who threw that?” His voice is low, cold, and a touch metallic. His eyes flare up, glowing like when he uses elven sight, but red instead of white. His pursed lips curl into a snarl. The air ripples with danger. He looks like he did that day Lindsay died. The rock crumbles between his fingers. The rascals froze, horror-struck. “Who was it?”</p><p>In a flash, the rock bits lacerate through a crony’s shoulder. My hands fly to my mouth. The bloke faints from either pain or shock. Billy doesn’t stop to look. Eyes brimming with a raging craze, he kicks another into the wall, leaving him buried under the falling snow. A thick icicle also falls from impact. He whips it out of its falling course and cracks it on the head of a third rascal, knocking him out, cold. The icicle shatters on the head of the fourth one, who falls down. Here, Billy pauses.</p><p>The ice shards must have chilled his fury. He looks at the four lying at the side of the street, and drops the remaining ice. The pause earns him a solid fist in the back. He dances away from taking a fall and avoids another punch by a hair’s width. A swiping kick brings the lackey down. Olav grabs Billy’s neck and pins him to a wall. Neither registers the falling snow and ice. Olav is screaming abuses in Billy’s face and hitting his stomach over and over again.</p><p>A small memory stirs, one among many. A scrawny boy stood arms akimbo, covered in soot and dust. A haggard tramp slapped him, its impact reverberated in the air. A trembling me tugged at the boy’s rags and whimpered,</p><p>“We’ll let him have this. Come on, Rubik. We’ll just let him have it…”</p><p>None of us stopped what we did. The dry and slightly moldy bread crumbled in my grip. Rubik’s face was swollen and bled. The tramp spat and tramped away swearing.</p><p>One among many memories that stirs.</p><p>Why am I still standing here, numb, as if none of this pertains to me? Who was he defending in the first place?</p><p>Up close, Olav is taller that I thought. He always hunched when talking to me, exposing on purpose his disgusting chest hair. At his feet is a puddle of vomit. I grit my teeth and prime my mind.</p><p>“Release him, Olav.”</p><p>“Oh Iris my dearest.” Olav grins back at me, then adds, “Lady.” He flexes his arm. “Your knight is punishing this peasant who slighted you.”</p><p>“I said,” I glare at him right in the eye and clutch his mind with telepathy. “Olav Erikssen. Let. Him. Go.” My snarl booms and echoes in his head. His eyes bear renewed fear. Billy peers at me, one eyebrow raised. He sure can take a beating. I clench Olav’s mind harder.</p><p>Billy drops.</p><p>“You stay away from us.” I hiss and fling Olav aside with telekinesis.</p><p><em>…Us?</em> I hear in my head. Billy coughs and retches.</p><p>I never realized there were onlookers. Oh no. What to do now?</p><p>The door to our left creaks open. An old couple beckon us in.</p><center> -- Billy -- </center><p>The old couple cleaned me up and dispersed the crowd before seeing us off. The path through the hill has never been dimmer or longer or more silent. We walk further apart than usual. Neither of us are looking ahead or at each other.</p><p>We had a silence like this before, Lindsay and I. Mentor assignment in Ereldar was random, and my first mentor was reluctant. He hated my frailty. Weak, soft, wuss, a wimp, I was his favorite target to pick on. It’s ironic that Lindsay bullied me, too, and during one of these instances, she discovered my bruises. Within a week, not only did she sleuth out the abuse, but also convinced her mentor to take me in. The evening my ex-mentor was expelled, she walked with me from the hearing chamber. I had never seen her so uneasy, hugging her elbows and shrank from everything. The Iris now is a good likeness of the Lindsay then.</p><p>By the edge of the marsh, where the fences begin, we both suck in an abrupt breath, and struggle to swallow our words.</p><p>“You arse.” She sputters. I give a start. “Can’t you fight until the end?”</p><p>“You ungrateful git, you think I wouldn’t had you just listened and moseyed home?” I keep walking.</p><p>“Stop.” She tugs my collar, and recoils. I obey. My frown is mirrored on her face, not in disapproval or distaste. Her eyes flick down then back up, piercing my eyes. “Do you hate Rubik?”</p><p>I tilt my head, bemused, and shake once.</p><p>Iris grits her teeth. Even her waterfall of hair is trembling. The quiet, cold air reverberates with her. Her lips part and seal, and part again. I realize I’m shaking, too.</p><p>In my early days at the Academy, I had found a hidden cave at the side of a cliff, overlooking half of the isle the Academy is on. It was my crying spot after enduring a day of bullying. Nobody would know. That evening after the hearing, I let Lindsay follow me there. She earned the right to know. I sat there shaking while she dangled her legs over the cliff.</p><p>“Do you—d-do you hate me?”</p><p><em>Do I…?</em></p><p>“Be honest.” Iris’ gaze drills into my eyes.</p><p>Honest? The honest answer is that despite I kept telling myself it was Iris’ fault, I never really convinced myself to blame Iris for Lindsay’s death. While there had always been human Nanweneldar followers, Lindsay and I rejected that possibility at that stage. We never looked for the signature of one. Besides, had Lindsay not reacted, I would. Fighting with Iris, yelling, arguing, blaming her, being an asshole on purpose—I was a coward, too afraid to properly apologize, scared of not being forgiven. After all, I didn’t save Rubik. I deprived her of everything.</p><p>“No.” I choke out. “I shouldn’t. I don’t. I can’t.”</p><p>Iris grimaces and flings me backwards onto the slush and mud. From the grocery bag, she wrings out the bag of carrots, then ditches it for a tied bag of oregano. She kneels over me and slams it down on my face with both hands, over and over, with all the strength she can muster without using elven arts.</p><p>Well, she hates me, that’s for sure.</p><p>The bag rips. The pungent leaves fly out. She chucks it away and brings her fists down onto my chest. I simply lie there and take it. Iris heaves, buries her head in my shoulder, and bawls.</p><p>“Why didn’t you say so sooner, then?”</p><p>Under the dark fire sapphire of the northern half of the sky, I pat her head and back in reflex, bewildered and flummoxed. Not after Rubik died, or any time during the two years at the Academy, did any of us—Lindsay, Sally, Sparcal, Rowana, Robert, or me—see her cry. She clings to me tighter and cries louder.</p><p>Lindsay weeps, and she weeps without a sound, like she did on that cliff. She looked back at me and wept, saying that she was sorry, that she bullied me to hide her feelings from Christina (who had an annoying habit of prying and teasing back then), that had she known in the first place she would never have done that. And she came over. It hurts to hold Iris. It’s all too familiar.</p><p>“I’m sorry about Lindsay.” Iris sniffles after a long while.</p><p>“It was either her or me that day.” After a while, I add, “I’m sorry again about everyone. Rubik, Camilla, Madam Yu, the orphans… You.” She sniffs an acknowledgment. “Can we start over?” Does she always smell so warm? “We’ve never properly introduced all these years.” She grunts again. I clear my throat. “Broken arm.” She tuts and hammers my shoulder. I chuckle. “I’m Billy. Nice to meet you.” She raises her blushing face, framed by her long black hair under her fur hat. Her misty breath floating away between sniffs. I can see tear drops on her long lashes. </p><p>“I’m Iris. The pleasure is mine.” Her voice is a thick velvet. “And I’m sorry about all the snot on your cloak…”</p><p>“It’s fine.” I fold my arms over her back. It feels like having back something I lost long ago. “I’m used to it.”</p><center> -- Iris -- </center><p>“How went the shopping?” Mr. Nar’fiius looks up from the butcher’s bench in the courtyard of the lighthouse. “You two took a while—Iris?” He catches my face and frowns at Billy, sternest I’ve ever seen. “This is going too far, Ómaenca.” He heads back into the lighthouse with swift strides. I suspect it’s quite serious when an elf addresses you by your elven name. Billy stiffens and exchanges a glance with me. Inside, Mr. Nar’fiius has just dried his hands and hurries over with a handkerchief. “Iris, may I?” He dabs my face, turning to Billy, every line and wrinkle on his face hard and deep, “I have never pegged you as one to make lasses cry. This is an utter atrocity and a disgrace—”</p><p>I shake my head.</p><p>“No?” Mr. Nar’fiius peers at me.</p><p>“No, Grandpa Nar’. It’s not like that.” I grab Billy’s arm and shove him back. </p><p><em>Grandpa?</em> He steps back up, eyes downward, and opens his mouth.</p><p>​Grandpa Nar’ stops him with an upheld finger. His wide violet eyes dart back and forth between our startled faces.</p><p>“*Ah.*” He breaks into a sigh of relief, and chuckles. “My apologies. Here, Billy. You clean Iris up now.”</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;center&gt; -- Billy -- &lt;/center&gt;

&lt;p&gt;When the sky behind the forest to the east glowed for the first time in months, Old Nar’ bade us off to town. He said he craved for venison stew, and we should purchase some vegetables and seasoning. The old elf then strode off to the shadowy forest with a bow and loaded quiver on his back, wrapped warm in his fur cloak and moccasin.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Iris and I know there are still vegetables in the Naren Star, the lighthouse Old Nar’ looks after, and where we now reside. Our larder is built into its thick walls, and has vents to bring in the frigid Scandinavian sea air. Nothing was spoiled. Like too many times in the past five months, Nar’fiius the Towerkeeper is making an excuse for us to work together.&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    <category term="Naren" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Naren/"/>
    
    <category term="Tales from the North" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Tales-from-the-North/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>2021冬至故事——夏夜毕业演出</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2022/05/14/2021%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%E2%80%94%E2%80%94%E5%A4%8F%E5%A4%9C%E6%AF%95%E4%B8%9A%E6%BC%94%E5%87%BA/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2022/05/14/2021%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%E2%80%94%E2%80%94%E5%A4%8F%E5%A4%9C%E6%AF%95%E4%B8%9A%E6%BC%94%E5%87%BA/</id>
    <published>2022-05-14T22:10:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2024-12-21T00:48:13.018Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>礼拜堂并不算是个做礼拜的场所——实际上，它压根就不是。在外围的古希腊立柱的环绕下，礼堂的四个入口分别坐落在建筑物的东西南北四个方向。穿过入口，便来到了宽阔的圆形大厅，环顾四周，走廊环绕了大厅的一半，通往大礼堂的六扇大门一齐敞开着。在拥挤和喧闹的人山人海里，马历恺和我向引导员亮了一下我们的校园卡，走进了礼拜堂。在这些拥挤的人群中，其中有一小部分是学生，他们要么即将毕业，要么期末考试后没有提前离校；更多的则是校外人员，包括毕业班的学生家长和镇上的居民。票价是五美元，一点也不贵（说实话，我们赠送出去的比卖出去的还多）。尽管如此，无论老少，许多人仍然穿上了他们最好的礼服，有的人系着领结，有的人还戴着宝石胸针。当然，这并不是出于对台上某些精灵族学生的敬畏，而是出于对这所学校的热爱——社区拓展、回馈社会、走出象牙塔云云，你懂的——柳溪学院已成为了小镇不可分割的一部分。</p><span id="more"></span><p>马历恺向着大开的正门走去，我一把抓住他粗壮的胳膊，转头向楼梯示意。</p><p>“把这一层留给拿着票的人吧！！！！”我在嘈杂声中扯着嗓门喊道。</p><p>“啥？？？”他也扯着嗓门冲我喊着。</p><p>我扛起马历恺的胳膊拽他向着铺地毯的楼梯走去，同时尽我所能地保持低调。我们在楼梯间拥挤的人群中一路而上，两旁是一个个漂浮在藤蔓形状的黄铜灯架里的、明亮的灯球，脚下是红色的天鹅绒地毯，两边的墙壁上挂满了著名校友和教职员工的镶着金边的肖像，旁边摆着著名音乐家的石膏像，诸如此类，没完没了。一直到了四楼走廊，人才开始减少。我溜进那扇关着的门，打了个趔趄。——我了个去，我可没想到顶层坐台居然会这么高、这么陡。这层观众席向下倾斜了70度左右，前排的座位靠背只能遮住后排观众的脚踝。我跌跌撞撞下到了第一排，马历恺气喘吁吁从楼梯上下来，一屁股跌落在我旁边的座位上。四周一片安静，人群的喧闹声被隔绝在了刚才那扇紧闭的大门外面。</p><p>“你大爷的——为啥要跑这来？”马历恺喘着粗气。</p><p>“视野好。”我咧嘴一笑，抬了抬眉头。我小心翼翼地越过栏杆向下望去，把眼镜紧紧扶在鼻梁上，手心和胃里一阵麻，“我靠，这简直就是贵宾席啊。”</p><p>倒也算不上，因为我们就坐在贵宾席的上面。下面的第三层和第二层已经坐满了一半，我不时能从人群中看到熟悉的身影、姿态和马尾辫。每一秒都有更多人涌入这些环绕舞台和池座的高层座位。相比之下，我们这里除了我们俩，就是一旁卡斯博他们了。在这个狭窄而陡峭的“贵宾席”里，一共只有四排座位，每排11个。卡斯博他们在这里唯一的灯球底下挤在一起看玛莎的书。《尼格尔的叶子》，托尔金的短篇小说集，来自图书馆三楼的小说区。主人公尼格尔是一个绝望的画家，他在一幅作品上倾注了全部的心血，最终累死，而复在那幅画作里重生。这本书就算违反校规才能借走的话，也值了。他们津津有味地读着书，看都没朝我们看一眼。</p><p>“好个屁，我们一会儿能听见底下的动静吗？”马历恺翻开了他的节目单，在昏暗的灯光下，他用手指戳了戳第三页的“钢琴”部分。“你真的逃了？”</p><p>“艾瑞丝能应付得来。”我看着她在舞台边抚平黑色连衣裙的下摆，坐在羽管键琴前。她的目光在观众席中扫过，但没有看向我这里。尽管如此，我还是弯腰缩好头，可是这里并没有什么掩护。马历恺没有表现出他的鄙夷，但也没有掩饰他的奸笑。“你笑啥。”我嘟囔了一声。</p><p>“你的——”他忽然开始结巴，看着节目单，呆住了。我的名字不见了。</p>        <div id="aplayer-hxnRlfky" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-hxnRlfky"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "The Prelude",              author: "Reiko Nomura",              url: "The Prelude.mp3",              pic: "/2022/05/14/2021冬至故事——夏夜毕业演出/cover.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>下面的舞台上，艾瑞丝开始演奏一段缓慢重复的分解和弦：do re mi sol do re mi sol do re mi sol do re mi sol do，然后原键下行，接着：la ti do mi la，同样规律，然后是下一个变调，接着又是下一个。</p><p>是《最终幻想》系列的序曲。</p><p>据说植松伸夫在游戏开发的最后一刻才匆匆完成了这首简单的曲子，谁也没想到它会成为一段如此经典的旋律。这首曲子通常在钢琴上演奏，而羽管键琴明亮通透的音色使它听上去更接近它的八位音原版。这是艾瑞丝演奏前的热身，或者说，“镇定剂”。</p><p>“瞧着没，你完全听得清舞台。”我打了个哈欠。</p><p>在下面的二楼，比利松开了他的相机。它浮在空中，停在了大厅的正中心。然后，他举起我的相机试拍。我听到旁边的马历恺吸起一口气，准备说些什么。</p><p>“算了吧。”我打断他，“我今晚不会演奏的。他们就不应该把我拉进这档子事里，我都不是交响乐团成员。”</p><p>“……我是想问这里的‘秘密惊喜大结局’是什么的。”他沙拉沙拉地晃着节目单。</p><p>“秘密。”我把自己裹在外套里，拉下兜帽。“皇家阿尔伯特音乐厅友情赞助。”</p><p>“跟个缩头乌龟似的，你。”马历恺拍着大腿。</p><p>“空调冷。”</p><p>有人把手按在我的肩膀上叹了口气。</p><p>“干。”我转过身，果然是百合。“你怎么——？”</p><p>“我是一个异类，你忘了吗？”她干巴巴地说道，甚至有点沮丧。</p><p>啊，对，这个世界的异类。在这儿，我笔下所有的角色和现实中朋友们的化身都聚集在这里，就读于柳溪学院这所初高中联合学院。百合在这种设定下变成了孤儿，因为她的父母此时比她只大了两岁。受这种因果悖论影响的人可以得到某些弥补措施，在他们的记忆和生活被改写之前，他们可以选择一切。百合这个聪明的混蛋——啊，我是说，她这个小机灵鬼——是唯一一个选择保留她过去自我意识和记忆的人，外加一些额外的东西：一些我作为故事写作者的权威能力，因为我“废了她自己的故事”。</p><p><strong><em>我！没！有！</em></strong>我只是能力不足，写不好它——至少暂时没有。但是我约摸着，这不妨能预防我做出太出格的事，所以她成为了能力阶梯上的一个异类。</p><p>“听着，我真的不能——”</p><p>“这儿挺凉，小柳。”她扯下我的外套，甩到自己的连衣裙上。“我不愿久留。”</p><p>在百合搂住我的腰，一脚踏向地板前，马历恺那张幸灾乐祸的胖脸和后面四人朝我们这里的动静抬起头是我最后看到的景象。我们飞跃栏杆，从贵宾席包间径直坠向三楼的观众席。百合在最后一刻转正身子，尽管她替我缓冲掉了大部分冲击，但我的双膝还是一软。她旁若无人，顺着斜坡拖着我一路向下。</p><p>“别、别再来了。楼梯。”我补充道：“求求了！”</p><p>“难以置信。”我们推开观众席走道尽头的门时，她低声说，“不负责、不可靠，放下我的故事不管，现在又来这出！”她的音调越来越高，“说啊，作者大爷，你有胆子从节目单里抹去自己的名字，怎么没胆子上台表演？你这么喜欢滥用你作为故事写作者的权力，你怎么不直接写你来了场大师级演奏啊？”她跺着脚走下空荡荡的楼梯。“胆小鬼！”</p><p>“对不起……”</p><p>“你又不是唯一害怕初秀的人，我们都别无选择。”</p><p>“……对不起……”</p><p>我们来到礼拜堂的后三分之一部分，也就是更衣室和幕后所在的位置。在从远处传来的瓮闷的兴奋声中，百合推着我走过了一个拐角。在储物柜边，我们跟林赛和克里斯缇娜撞了个正着。整整三秒钟后，林赛首先叹了口气：</p><p>“也许我们应该尊重你的抵触，小柳。”</p><p>“哎，准确地说，我也没有报名竞选过首席小提琴手，我也很紧张，但我还是来了！”克里斯缇娜生气地说，“如果咱俩真的都一点也不想做的话，那我们两人一开始就早跑了，而不是在最后一秒钟才临——阵——退——缩！”</p><p>克里斯缇娜喊出最后三个字时用小提琴配上了三声刺耳的音符，她咬牙切齿地转身离开，留给我一个怒气冲冲的背影。</p><p>“啊，得。”林赛耸耸肩，跟了上去。</p><p>“我把他的名字放回去了。”百合一边向林赛得背影喊着，一边拽着我穿过迷宫一样的过道来到更衣室区。我看到演奏者们正拿着乐器准备登台，也看到工作人员们正四处找演员集合。合唱团也在这里，小梅从里面跑了出来，把百合的紫藤萝花环还给了她。他们看起来整装待发。在我愈发焦虑的时候，我看到孙一帆正在把花环编进自己的头发，她瞪了回来。</p><p>“别说话！”她知道我会叫她什么（“大头”）。“等等，你没事吧？”她转头问百合，“他没事吧？”</p><p>“他没事，帆帆！”百合在我背上来了一巴掌，把我推向了一旁候场的斯巴克。“快递！一个临阵脱逃的钢琴作家。”说完，她就跑掉了。</p><p>“……我外套还在她那儿。”我嘟囔着，从斯巴克手里抓过我的礼服。</p><p>“感觉还好吗？”他透过幕布喊道，“别担心，你在舞台上并不孤单，就当是换了个视角好了。”</p><p>我平常只是舞台工作人员，推个钢琴、搬把椅子、通知演员就位之类的，有时还会替代一下音响师和灯光师。担任志愿者对于我来说就是锻炼身体，它让我顺便认识交响乐团的人，还能让我得以在一个与世隔绝的地方接触到钢琴。在所有彩排结束后的深夜，或是天气不允许我去花园里闲逛时，我会偷偷溜进来找那架施坦威。如果被人发现了的话，没关系，我早准备好了我的调琴套件，“在维护琴呢”。</p><p>这种日子一直持续着，直到罗伯特某一天发现了我的秘密。他不相信我的解释，但至少他一直耐心听我演奏完整首曲子后，才让整个乐团的人推门现身。事实上，他们已经连续偷听好几天了。62名乐团成员，外加上乐团主任高老师一起，逼迫着我在毕业音乐会上担任第二名钢琴手。</p><p>我当时就该直接写一句“我拒绝并离开，然后大家忘记了一切”。音乐及其演奏都是富有表现力和私密的艺术，每一个音符、每一个动作都是对自我的表达，因此在别人面前演奏让我感到裸露和脆弱；演奏是在主动邀请评论，我不喜欢这种一丝不挂的感觉和别人的评头论足。</p><p>我麻木的手指在衣领上摸索。啊，是领结啊。</p><p>“斯巴克，”我探出头，发出嘶哑的声音，“救命。”</p><center>#</center>        <div id="aplayer-JdMuqnlX" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-JdMuqnlX"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Prelude",              author: "Takeharo Ishimoto",              url: "Prelude.mp3",              pic: "/2022/05/14/2021冬至故事——夏夜毕业演出/cover.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>毕业音乐会是一年中时间最长的演奏会，也是毕业庆典的压轴活动。在为期五天的毕业典礼、展览、社交活动和宴会之后，毕业生们从大堂聚集到礼拜堂，参加这次由初中和高中部合唱团与交响乐团的联合演出。演出时长两个多小时，包含两次幕间休息和三幕的表演。</p><p>我的那部分演出从第二幕开始，但艾瑞丝请求我在第一幕中为她翻谱。六点五十五分，我把舞台的门推开一道缝。离我最远的是空荡荡的低音提琴声部，旁边站着一名鼓手，在《序曲》中尽可能地敲出一拍。铜管和木管乐器呼应着弦乐中的旋律，弦乐伴随着艾瑞丝的分解和弦，将简单的旋律变成了一首赋格曲。合唱团一排排在巨大的管风琴前站好，附和着音乐吟唱。最初闹着玩的随手演奏演变成了一场盛大而饱满的即兴音乐演出。人们坐在座位边缘，仿佛布道迟到时那样的庄严。我看了眼最高的观众席，只能勉强在栏杆边辨认出马历恺硕大的身影，卡斯博他们也挪到了栏杆前。我刚要迈出一步，叶欣扯着我的衣领把我拽了回来。</p><p>“莱卡下午说过让你拿好花环，小柳。”</p><p>“我不用。”我下意识地张口就来。</p><p>“别让她心碎，哥们儿，让他们陶醉！”他把花环穿引过我脑后的发髻、缠好，推了我一把。</p><p>灯光、镜头、合唱团、观众席上低沉的嗡嗡声——太多了、简直太多了。空气中的音符失去了意义，融合成一团粘稠的浆糊，滴落在我的耳朵上，扭曲着礼拜堂，腐蚀着舞台。合唱听起来空虚、沉闷，我眼冒金星。</p><p>“你来了！“艾瑞丝的声音切入我的脑海。我跟随着她的声音滑入我的座位里，她淡淡的气息把我从进退两难的虚渺中救了出来。</p><p>“谢谢。”我羞愧的小声说着，“对不起，我差点逃了。”</p><p>“你没问题的。”她微笑着，把一缕发丝捋到耳后。“活动下手指，小柳。我们待会儿可需要它们。”</p><p>大家都就位了。老纳尔穿着白色的拖地长袍，大步走向指挥台，他的头发像银金色的瀑布。他面朝乐队，沉浸在音乐中，闭着眼睛，微笑着。艾瑞丝停了下来，弦乐和木管乐器提高了音量，把演奏推向高潮。铃锣铙钹的清脆抖动与鼓点声相辅相成，合唱团的所有人都卯足了劲，放声高歌。克里斯缇娜站起身，拉响的最后一个长音mi在礼堂里久久回荡。我看见鲁比克坐在二楼观众席，下巴耷拉在栏杆上，比利站在后面咔嚓嚓地拍着照片。</p><p>老纳尔呼出一口气，张开双臂，向我们鞠下一躬。观众们不敢轻易鼓掌，这份寂静是给克里斯缇娜的。她看向我们。艾瑞丝按下第四个八度的la，克里斯缇娜的小提琴应声附和。在嘈杂嘲哳中，整个交响乐团跟着奏出同一个音符。直到克里斯缇娜坐下后，纳尔才转回身去。</p><p>“谢谢。”会场的掌声停止时，他有点慢条斯理地说道。即使通过麦克风，他的声音也并不高，但他坚定的声音吸引了所有人的注意力。大家都认真听着，一动不动。“感谢你们带来的的优美序曲，感谢你们的奉献，感谢今晚所有在场的人，来参加我们这个重大、欢乐、为期一周的庆典的闭幕演出。我恳求大家能够再坚持一下，再忍耐一下我这个老头子的喋喋不休，并希望此后你们不必再听闻。”</p><p>他低头向观众们致意，观众席上传来了阵阵笑声和掌声。</p><p>“别那么紧张。”艾瑞丝轻声说道，“很快就是你的节目了。”</p><p>“我就是因为这个才紧张。”</p><p>“……我希望在柳溪学院度过的七年时间能为你们的未来奠定良好的基础，”台上，纳尔说着，“无论你们在何处发展、过着怎样的生活。我希望将来，你们能够把这段经历化为知识或者力量，亦或仅仅是回忆这样或那样的经历时，能得到单纯的娱乐。今晚我们分别之后，一切都会变得不同，但不要因为改变而烦恼。拥抱这些变化，并记住永恒的真理：我们总会有时间休息一下，玩一下，放松一下——”</p><p>艾瑞丝看着我扎紧的头发，顽皮地扬起眉毛，然后捋了一下自己垂下的长发。我回敬了一个鬼脸。</p><p>“——总会有时间意识到，有时能不那么一本正经也是一种倍儿棒的乐趣。”他顿了顿，好让大家反应过来他说了什么。</p><p>片刻沉默后，艾瑞丝忽然扭头看着我，睁大的眼睛满是难以置信。</p><p><em>他刚才说了啥？</em>她在心里问我。</p><p><em>今天第二次了。</em>我的焦虑感减轻了许多。</p><p>“他刚才是蹦出了句流行语吗？”</p><p>礼堂里回荡着鲁比克刻意没压低的悄声细语，整个礼堂哄堂大笑，口哨声不断。老纳尔呵呵笑着，对我点了一下头。</p><p>“你是怎么做到的？”艾瑞丝跟着观众一起鼓掌，惊讶不已。交响乐团在台上跺着脚。“不是用了‘作者的权力’吧？”</p><p>“没。‘挺萌的小松鼠。’仅此而已。”我耸了耸肩。“我自己都吃了一惊。”</p><p>“再次感谢你们的到来！有朋自远方来，不亦乐乎？希望各位喜欢今晚的演出。同时，请考虑回收我们的节目单，或者留下作为收藏。邸仪和孟真是我们学生群体中杰出的画家和设计师，我十分钟爱她们的作品。事不宜迟，我们请。”</p><p>于夫人出场，登上指挥台，依次与纳尔和缇娜握手。她向台上鞠一躬，再向台下鞠一躬，举起指挥棒，抬起下巴。她的黑发髻紧扎，她的双唇细抿，她的双眼明亮，她的姿态要求着所有人的注意力和权威。</p><center>#</center><p>尽管我和她一起练习、排练了那么多次，我还是被艾瑞丝灵活的指法震惊了，她的手指在琴键上跳动着，和她弹奏的三连音一样轻盈、利落。她的节拍里每一个重音都如同语言一样自然，她的手腕的起起伏伏优雅又克制。整整三十分钟，她用她的手指歌唱着巴赫的《婚礼众赞歌》和BMV 1044《三重A小调协奏曲》。肌肉记忆足以支撑她的演奏了，为什么她还需要翻页员？</p><p>在幕后，我看了看我的手，尽管它们瘦骨嶙峋，它们看起来还是有点太过粗大。我洗了两次手，每次都烘干得一点水分也不剩，但它们依旧感觉潮湿。我已经开始忘记我今晚要演奏什么了。艾瑞丝替我翻页，也就是说我会毫无遮挡地坐在靠近观众的一侧，一身白装会异常惹眼。</p><p>“‘面如死灰’说的就是这个吧？”莱卡端详着我的脸。</p><p>“面如死灰？没错。”叶欣答道。“用不用我叫个大夫？”</p><p>“大夫可没有自信增强针给他打。”艾瑞丝摇了摇我的胳膊。“小柳？能听见我说话吗？”</p><p>“啊——呃——”</p><p>“如果他有时间热身的话说不定还会好点，”艾瑞丝说。“但现在太迟了……”</p><p>“我就算热身了也会出错。”我小声说道。“然后错得就越来越多。”</p><p>“你注意到我刚才弹1044的时候犯的五个错误了吗？”没。“我错的还不止那五个地方。你还是很熟悉谱子的人，观众并不熟悉，他们要想揪出错误的话要难得多。再说了，你很清楚你的能力有多强，这足以让你感到自信了。”</p><p>“呃——啊——”</p><p>“我不懂。你是作者，为啥不直接写你的演奏很精彩？你不是把自己名字从节目单上给抹了吗？”叶欣挑起一根眉毛。</p><p>“那招也没帮上什么忙不是？”莱卡回答。</p><p>“但是你是会弹琴的啊！来啊，写就是了！‘我的演奏很精彩，观众——’”</p><p>“洗手间。洗手。”我喃喃道。</p><center>#</center><p>如果我真那么写的话，对谁都不公平：对苦练了那么久的乐团成员、对光顾我们演出的观众、对教导我一整年的艾瑞丝、甚至对我自己，我可不会写了那么多页的铺垫后只为耍赖。我猜对读者也不公平，你们读了六千多个字，我可不能最后喂你们垃圾文，那样的话我不是个好作者。</p><p>当我向墨菲定律屈服后，回到艾瑞丝身边时，羽管键琴已经换成了钢琴，她看起来十分严肃。我们两人都垂头看着膝盖。</p><p>“话说，”她开口，缓慢、若有所思，边说边想该怎么说，“我在台上从来不看谱子，把谱子摆那只是为了能有熟人和我坐在一起，让我不那么紧张。你永远想不到先前你从门里面走出来时，我送了多大一口气。”</p><p>我小心翼翼的，尽量不看任何地方，尤其是观众席。能听到她这么直白地说话挺罕见的。</p><p>“但是对于你，”她接着说，“我觉得这还不够。我知道你能弹好，所以我觉得这不算作弊或者不公平……如果你练得那么刻苦，最后却不能展示给大家看才叫不公平……没错，这是个安全网，不算作弊。”</p><p>我的头毫无防备地转向观众席，我看见李彤侧身挪进他的座位。大堂西侧，同一排，梁源和我四目相对，友善地冲我招手微笑。我看见楼上的鲁比克，脸上挂着一个但愿永远也不会挂在我自己脸上的贼笑。晓桐坐在二层平台第一排，皱着眉研究节目单。她身后隔着一个座位坐着自信哥李俞萱，满脸天真的微笑洋溢着风骚，对我指着坐在他前面的戴着眼镜的女孩子。我剩下的室友在第三层正中央，互相指着我、挥舞着手。我从同一层大堂东侧挑出了老毕经典的弯眼酒窝笑。在第四层观众席，马历恺的身影旁多出了他的室友的，他们不是在打架就是在瞎闹，卡斯博他们好像尽量躲得远远的。看到这些，我笑了片刻，忽然反应过来是怎么回事。我转向艾瑞丝，她歪着头，耷拉着眼皮。</p><p>“我很庆幸我当时保留的是这个能力。”她用意念举起我的胳膊，活动了下我的手指。看来百合今天下午告诉她了不少啊。她读到了我的心思，笑起来。“你听啊，我不会帮你演奏，我只帮你纠错，好吗？”</p><p>我点点头。</p>        <div id="aplayer-GsqLMkrb" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-GsqLMkrb"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Choral Fantasy",              author: "Ludwig van Beethoven",              url: "Choral Fantasy I.mp3",              pic: "/2022/05/14/2021冬至故事——夏夜毕业演出/folder.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script>        <div id="aplayer-Poohbeeg" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-Poohbeeg"),           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</script><p>于夫人回到了指挥台上，台下的嗡嗡声静了下来，所有人的目光都聚焦在我身上。百合站在合唱团里，一脸漠不关心、毫无期望。罗伯特在舞台另一边点点头。我沉下双肩，僵硬地奏出头三个和弦。琴键比平时调得要轻，这下要更容易打滑弹错了。</p><p>差不多有五分钟了，我好像还没有需要艾瑞丝纠正一个错音。我逐渐躬下身，身体变为我习惯的演奏姿势，我的思绪从我的手指转向音乐。贝多芬的作品第80号，《C小调幻想曲》，也叫《合唱幻想曲》，这部作品挺有意思的。它的四部分被划分为两个乐章：慢板独立成章，剩下的合并为“终章”。慢板压根就不算什么开篇，短短五分钟左右的曲子既没什么主要的或令人印象深刻的旋律，也没有给接下来是它三倍时长的终章做任何情绪或者情感铺垫。它是来干啥的？不过我估计这样也算是忠于体裁了。幻想曲本就形式自由，贝多芬可以随便他的曲子还没发展就开始结尾、想要多长就多长，然后气死演奏它的人。</p><p>艾瑞丝纠正了我两次，她引导着我的手指弹向正确的琴键。这比我们排练时要好多了，我还没有需要用踏板掩盖错音的情况。</p><p>贝多芬的这首曲子是给他自己的募捐演出写的，当时他亲自演奏。这也蛮滑稽，瞧瞧我，在我自己的虚构世界里亲自叙述这个没有什么开头的故事（不过话说回来，至少《并没有什么冬至故事》给这个做了铺垫），而现在我们却已经到一学年结束了。结尾有时更精彩。</p><p>但是《合唱幻想曲》的终章又讲了什么？无论如何，它的确非常”贝多芬“。多变、激烈、富有表现力，学起来恶心得一逼但学会了以后弹起来非常、非常好玩，而且十分好听。整个二十分钟里，台下观众被我对谱子的扫荡紧紧钩住了神，我的钢琴在小提琴之间迂回缠绕，时而宁静，时而汹涌（非常像他的第十七奏鸣曲，《暴风雨》里有些部分一样），又时而充满希望（据说是《欢乐颂》的前身）。哎，我觉得我弹下来没问题。</p><p>终止符。掌声。<em>呼，我弹下来了。</em></p><p>艾瑞丝用意念在我的脑海里碰了碰我，我随之转头看到于夫人赞许的眼神，然后被站起的克里斯缇娜挡住了。我们即将开始贝多芬的第九小提琴奏鸣曲，第47号，慢板，《布里治陶尔》——啊，我是说，《克鲁采》。曲子的原敬献者，布里治陶尔在和贝多芬首演此曲成功后喝酒庆祝时，不理智地冒犯了贝多芬的暗恋。老贝当机立断把敬献改成了鲁道夫·克鲁采，然而克鲁采本人对这首曲子并不感冒，甚至拒绝演奏，简直要笑死人。</p>        <div id="aplayer-kYVbzsGN" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-kYVbzsGN"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Kreutzer Movement I",              author: "Ludwig van Beethoven",              url: "Kreutzer Movement I.mp3",              pic: "/2022/05/14/2021冬至故事——夏夜毕业演出/folder2.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>突兀的小提琴和弦引出了我的钢琴和弦，我们差不多花了整整两分钟用音符互相试探，在对方周围徘徊，小心翼翼的，克制着自己的——我也不知道是什么——激情？愤懑？忧伤？悔恨？痛苦？疯狂？</p><p>艾瑞丝看我练习这首曲子时经常听的入迷、走神——还是在回忆？回忆什么呢，还是什么人呢？但是当她最初教我这首曲子的时候，她有点过分警觉，反常的尖锐。“干瘪”、“毫无感情”、“木讷”，直到她实在受不了，一把把我从琴凳上推下，自己猛烈敲起琴键，彷佛我谋杀了鲁比克一样。当她握拳砸下最后一个音后，她转向我喊道：</p><p>“你要这么弹，明白吗？不是你那种机械的敲打！用点心好不好？你有没有那种你对她感觉极其矛盾的人啊？你有没有——你有吗？那就弹给她啊！别光弹对音，弹对<em>内容</em>，亲天娘啊！”</p><p>不知道她演奏或者听它的时候想起了谁，让她如此激动？克里斯缇娜猛烈划过琴弦的时候也想着谁吗？这首曲子作为一个慢板来说也太快了——</p><p>我脑海里不知什么东西像一片冰一样滑走了。我霎那间对我的手指和谱子尤为警觉，音符的黑体一下、一下搏动着，把自己从五线谱上解放出来。它们像小妖精一样跳来跳去，我使出浑身解数跟上它们的节奏。发生了什么？这一页就剩最后几个小节了，但艾瑞丝还是无动于衷。我快速瞥了她一眼。</p><p>她那双大大的鹿眼盯着眼前的琴键，双眼无神。</p><p>我们早已弹完这一页的最后一小节，而我既腾不开一只脚提醒她，也腾不出一只手翻页。幸亏后面的小节都差不多，如果我闭上眼，我的手指能自己引导自己去弹，可是这些小节结束后呢？没有谱子的话，我什么也弹不了。什么样的钢琴手不记谱子啊？我就知道我不该参加这个。</p><p><em>一个错音。</em>我数着。<em>两个……别来第三个，别来第三个——</em>我暗暗骂了一句，掏出一只手一把撕开两页谱子，第三页稍微吸在上面，翻了一半，耷拉下来。撕下的那两页飞向艾瑞丝，她一怔，醒了过来，摆好耷拉得那一页。于夫人没有任何反应，但站在她对面的百合吃了一惊。在一千五百人的注视下，我错过了三个小节。</p><p>克里斯缇娜朝我们看了一眼，我减慢速度，窘迫至极。一个小提琴奏鸣曲怎么这么依赖钢琴？又是一个错音狠狠地给我当头一棒，我咬紧牙关以防我失声惊愕尖叫。一场演出不成文的规矩是万不得已，绝不要停，但是现在已经是那万分之一的情况了，克里斯缇娜得暂时独奏一会儿。</p><p>艾瑞丝深吸一口气，她伸手扶好谱子，而我缩住身子，脸颊发烫，双腿打颤。克里斯缇娜慢慢悠悠拉足了每一个音的时值，把所有人的目光都聚集到她身上。</p><p>“《克鲁采》十分适合即兴或者脱离原节奏演奏，即便如此，它也有它的极限。”我们最后一次一对一练习时，艾瑞丝曾告诉我。“做好独奏和即兴的准备，出了事的话最好尽快接回去。”</p><p>谁能想到呢。我咬着牙，手指敲向琴键的力度比我原想的还大，而且越来越大，只有这样我才能控制住我的颤抖。我们重新提起速度，但是每三个音符里我好像都会弹一个错音。艾瑞丝没有对我重新进行意念控制，这样最好：一开始就破损的安全网和没有安全网一样。我很清楚这一点，但我还是依赖她的能力。</p><p>又是几小节小提琴拨弦伴奏的钢琴独奏，我真他妈服了，这是首小提琴奏鸣曲好不好？钢协怎么成提协了？礼拜堂又开始扭曲旋转为一团，琴谱好像在燃烧一样。我尽力遏制着我的恐惧，但慢板没完没了，有几处我以为是结尾的地方总是之后又接上了更多的音。真是烦死人，怪不得克鲁采恨这首曲子。贝多芬就是个傻逼，跟全世界唯一愿意和他一起演奏这团狗屎的人闹掰了——</p><p>结束了，我差点晕过去。谢天谢地我们不弹第二乐章。</p><p>掌声，口哨——为什么？我低着头。为什么于夫人和罗伯特在笑？喂？我们刚刚搞砸了这场演出哎？</p><p>第二幕最后一首是被改编成十分钟以内的《第九交响曲》终章，就连命运都嘲笑我。我没有感到任何欢乐，只有冰冷的羞愧。《欢乐颂》本身旨在让所有演出人员参与其中，于夫人的诠释是<em>所有</em>人员——<em>两名</em>钢琴手一起。艾瑞丝和我四手联弹，她在克拉维尔的低音声部掩盖住了我半途而废的演奏。</p><center>#</center><p>我们蜷缩在阴凉的角落里，离大家远远的，艾瑞丝和我。克里斯缇娜在鞠完躬后第一秒就跑进了厕所，艾瑞丝走进幕后门的那一刻就痛哭起来。我们两人一句话也没说，我们身边人来人往，但我把我们两人都藏了起来。</p><p>“对不起。”艾瑞丝把头蒙在膝盖间，声音模糊不清。“我注意力应该更集中些的。”</p><p>“……我太依赖你了，而不是自己搞定。”</p><p>“我明明知道你弹那首曲子时我会走神——”</p><p>“如果我更努力记谱子——”</p><p>“我还特地嘱咐自己要小心——”</p><p>“这下我直接毁了演出——”</p><p>“你们俩还好吗？”百合在我们面前坐下，抓起我们的手，我们几个看起来都快哭了。</p><p>“又是你。”我把头扭向一边。</p><p>“全是我的——”艾瑞丝抱住百合。</p><p>“就应该彻底逃掉——”</p><p>百合也把我拉了进来。</p><p>这场面本来就够糟糕了，于夫人偏偏这个时候找到了我们，全因为百合破除了我的法术。</p><p>“怎么了这是？”她的声音瞬间把我们分开了。“你们哭什么？”还不明显吗？“我本来是来说‘第二幕表现得不错’的，看来我得换套词了。”</p><p>“‘表现得不错’？”我丈二和尚摸不着头脑。</p><p>“没错，表现得不错。《合唱幻想曲》弹得非常好，而且对于初次登台的新手来说，那场失误处理得也不错。”</p><p>“《合唱幻想曲》不是我。”我告诉她艾瑞丝的安全网。</p><p>“啊，所以你们两个在过去一小时里处理了不止一件紧急事件。”于夫人拖过来一把椅子，坐下。“那这就更值得表扬了，要是所有人都这样的话，我的工作不知道得轻松多少。至于《克鲁采》，艾瑞丝，这首曲子本身就情感浓烈，但凡弹过它的人都走过一两次神，更别说听它的人了，所以我很庆幸我从来不需要指挥这首曲子。现在的事实是你，小柳，你没有直接停下，而是减慢了速度，给克里斯缇娜争取到调整和即兴发挥的时间，这一切都给你自己争夺了重新调整的时间。在那种情况下，一个合适的搭档对于一个更有经验的演奏者来说至关重要。”于夫人向克里斯缇娜和林赛摆摆手。“刚才在台上表现得不错，缇娜。比你更有经验的人都不一定能处理得比你好。贝多芬本人在首演《合唱幻想曲》的时候都停下从头开始了好几回，当时他的乐团严重练习不足，他自己也弹着弹着弹走了神。”</p><p>“谢谢！对于首席新手来说很不赖，嗯？”克里斯缇娜仰着头用鼻孔环视我们几个，撩了一下长发。“估计那首慢板也是头一回真拉得像个慢板。”</p><p>“行啦，行啦，我们懂。”林赛斜眼看着她。</p><p>“我错了一大堆音。”我嘟哝。“空过了一整行。”</p><p>“我很怀疑观众听得出来。”于夫人站起身，一手搭在靠背上，一手扶着我的头。“根据你们两人告诉我的来看，我猜艾瑞丝在她的思想完全脱离你的之前已经有很长一段时间没在监视你了。”她向我们罕见地抿嘴一笑，她按了按我的膝盖，说，“很不幸，我没理由相信你在第三幕里不会有杰出的表现。演奏得漂亮，各位。这个中场休息15分钟，找时间补充下。我等着看你们第三幕里拿出同样的表演，如果不是更好的话。别逃啊你。”她冲我挤了一下眼。我垂下头。</p><p>“<em>别</em>再补充了，晓桐还嘱咐过你别喝太多水！”于夫人走后，林赛戳了一下缇娜。</p><p>“你跑进厕所是因为<em>这个</em>？”艾瑞丝呆呆地问。</p><p>“呃……你去那儿还能干啥？”克里斯缇娜摆了个鬼脸。</p><p>“因为那场灾难哭。”我在一边小声说。</p><p>“谁他妈在屎坑里哭啊？？”缇娜扇了我肩膀一巴掌。</p><center>#</center><p>我望着艾瑞丝在管风琴那里坐好，尽管我们之间的距离并不远，但在那或镶嵌或层叠进一整墙的29套401根水晶管和1346根青铜管前，艾瑞丝看起来简直渺小。以前，管风琴是整个舞台，所有的键盘和音栓都在第一排观众面前。演奏人员抱怨了十年管风琴产生的振动和风压零件产生的机械噪音，老纳尔才决定重建一套。建成后，调音又花了十年。在礼拜堂底下，他们还新挖通了一条水渠，用于从柳溪引水来传递驱动管风琴用的空气。</p><p>第一首曲子弹完后，她就下来演奏我身后的白色钢琴。于夫人想要钢琴家和钢琴之间形成强烈对比，艾瑞丝身穿黑色，而我身着白色，我们两人并排、反向坐在黑白两架钢琴之间，便于让人联想到太极图案。</p><p>“我没事的。”我对着管风琴的风管说，艾瑞丝向我挤了一下眼睛。灯光暗下来。在一阵掌声和跺脚中，于夫人上场了。刚才，钢琴在舞台一边，现在它们在舞台前方、正中央，而我正好在聚光灯下。不过，于夫人说得对，我的确独自好好弹了很久。只要我不过分在意出的错，我不会有事的，毕竟第三幕是我最期待的一幕。“反正不会比《克鲁采》还要烂，我比贝多芬强多了。”我小声说道，等着于夫人开始。</p><p>“在柳溪学院，我们坚信音乐是生活必不可缺的一部分，”她开始说道，“维护这个观点是我们的使命和荣幸，我们因此致力于将各种形式的音乐通过社区活动、名师课堂和演出带给大家。</p><p>“新媒体形式及其传播方式的崛起使音乐界发生了翻天覆地的变化，也给我们带来了丰富的新选择。这其中有一大部分是作为商品或者商品的附加品创作的，这也导致它们对艺术性的追求退居二线，而它们的经济效益被推为首席。许多人可能会对这些所谓‘被玷污’的音乐嗤之以鼻，但我们应当记住，所有的古典大师的阳春白雪都是为了吸引贵族的喜爱和资助而创作的。这么看来，他们写的是当时有极度针对性的商品。舒伯特写的是他那时代的流行乐曲，莎士比亚是个淫秽诗人，很多中国早期诗歌都是在田间歌唱、用于消遣。它们能流传至今并不是因为它们的创作本意有多清新脱俗、晦涩难懂，而是恰恰相反。尽管它们代表它们的时代，它们连接起各个时代所有人的经历；尽管它们拥有各自独有的水平和素养，它们展现着所有人都能感同身受的最基本的情感；尽管它们需要大量的知识储备才能彻底理解、吃透，但它们并不需要高等、深奥的学历来欣赏、享受。它们有趣、娱乐，所以才会成为艺术。</p><p>“今晚，根据惯例，我们希望和大家分享一些我们这个时代的下里巴人。让我们回归市井，来逛逛经过我们改编的电子游戏和电影原声曲、还有流行歌曲。请尽情享受、聆听愉快。”</p><p>第二幕让她心情高涨，于夫人从她的发髻中抽出指挥棒，她的发髻解开散为一个马尾辫。整个礼堂爆发出欢呼和大笑。坐在第一排的老纳尔吹了一声口哨，后仰靠到椅背上，鲁道夫探过身隔着赛琳给他一个坏笑。于夫人然后也把我的发髻扯开了，发髻外包着的花环编成的笼子拆散开来，垂落过我的肩。观众叫得更厉害了，老纳尔又吹了一声口哨。我重新系好头发，把花环编进去，我手上沾染的紫藤萝香味让我稍微镇静了一些。</p><p>行，来吧。</p> 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false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Terra's Theme",              author: "Nabuo Uematsu",              url: "Terra's Theme.mp3",              pic: "/2022/05/14/2021冬至故事——夏夜毕业演出/cover2.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>大堂里的嘈杂声静了下来，管风琴那里逐渐传来一系列阴森险恶的和弦。合唱团集体深吸一口气，爆发出两声猛烈的歌唱，我跟上一连串华丽段。铜锣、合唱，管乐融入进渐强的弦乐，这是《最终幻想六》的开篇，这个游戏被认为具有着史上最优秀的配乐。阴暗、阴森、凶险，游戏里开头的那个风雪交加的夜晚，背景乐便为此。这首曲子融合了《狂魔乱舞》的序曲和《缇娜主题曲》两个旋律，这种编排使它改变起来非常容易：富有凶兆的《狂魔乱舞》部分在锣声之后再次响起，紧接着的是旋律更优美些的进行曲式的《缇娜主题曲》。演奏到一半，我的钢琴部分加入其中，把整个曲子逐渐转变为一个更宁静、更沉思的版本。弦乐在曲末重现，陪伴着我的钢琴，然后，一个接着一个，剩下的乐团部分和合唱团也重新加入，整首曲子最终以原先的进行曲式结束。</p><p>掌声并不算热烈，大多数观众不知道他们应不应当鼓掌。</p><p>“再接再厉。”艾瑞丝悄声说。我点点头，脚上还在打着《缇娜主题曲》的拍子。艾瑞丝身边的气息好温暖，有她回到身边真好。</p>        <div id="aplayer-mPmCqSLE" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-mPmCqSLE"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "my dear feather",              author: "Yuki Kajiura",              url: "my dear feather.mp3",              pic: "/2022/05/14/2021冬至故事——夏夜毕业演出/cover3.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>缇娜再次起身走到她的位置，等待着。钢琴的高音、琴弦的低吟、空灵的合唱全部慢慢溢出、缓缓在舞台表面弥漫。梶浦由记擅长利用圣歌般的清唱和小提琴的长运弓来拨动听众的心弦，我认为《我亲爱的羽毛》是她最好的几首之一：圣歌和提琴里的渴望和稍后密集紧张的鼓点形成对比，整首曲子回荡着贝多芬式的激情，但更克制。开头简洁流畅地转入主体，然后和合唱一起高潮、稍息，仿佛歌者闭上了眼睛，睁开时看到的依旧是同样的动荡，直到一切都支离破碎，像一场噩梦结束一样。</p>        <div id="aplayer-fNQfgrDq" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            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</script><p>整首歌曲演奏期间，林赛都在幕后修琴，不过她并没有错过多少。周杰伦的歌更适合听，而不适合演奏（可怜的艾瑞丝独奏这首歌）。我知道林赛娴熟地上紧琴弦，调好音，然后剩下的四分钟里一直站在门后面，边听着纪骏辉rap，手指边跟着节拍敲着指板。</p><p>啊也不对，她错过了看纪纪穿着西服背心rap的场面，这是我们在彩排时看不到的。我挺好奇这一切从观众席上看起来是什么样子，一个西装笔挺的人站在交响乐团前，抬着胳膊肘尽可能快地唱着含含糊糊的中文，就算这看起来不毁三观也肯定很搞笑。这个形象大概就是刚才于夫人那段话的缩影了吧。</p><p>当林赛回来后，孙一帆走到话筒前，她的刘海向后梳，作为我们之间的一个老笑话，我特地对着她暴露的额头低声笑了笑。“大头。”我悄声说。作为回应，她狠狠瞪了我一眼，对着口型：“大长脸！”</p><p><em>别骚扰她！</em>百合的声音在我的脑海里回荡。</p><p>大头帆又眯起眼瞥了我一下，我戏谑般同样回敬了她。这架势感觉像单挑，可惜我并不能胜她一筹，否则就抢她的戏了。再说了，我必须感谢她忍受彩排时我给她开的那么多玩笑、错了的音。要是换别人早就甩手不干了。</p>        <div id="aplayer-LgiKbUwd" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-LgiKbUwd"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Michishirube",              author: "菊田大介",              url: "Michishirube.mp3",              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ga，”她开始唱道，我用钢琴接上她的后半句，柔软鹅绒般的低音和晶莹剔透的高音瞬间模糊了世界。我太喜欢《紫罗兰永恒花园》了，难以保持清醒。《Michishirube》的优美让我们两人不必知道歌词唱的什么也能欣赏它的温柔。于夫人没有在指挥，帆帆的演唱引导我的速度。弦乐的加入如同黯淡的空气中的一滴温暖，我从恍惚中醒来时，帆帆大踏步向钢琴走来，又张开双手旋转着回去。我觉得感到心里一阵膨胀，不得不大口深呼一口气。</p><p>难道这就是缪斯的样子吗？那舒张又收回的胳膊，应景而生的轻晃，花冠和飘发上倒映的闪光，她在跟贻棣学习然后练习歌词上花了好多时间，然而这一切都是为了帆帆成为这首歌的此刻。她看起来很开心啊，而且还是在台上。在彩排时这些是看不到的，那时，这一切对我们来说都只是例行工作罢了。快乐和享受是可以即兴的吗？“乐趣”——它到底是什么意思？在乐器桥段部分，她向我隔着钢琴伸出一只手，歪着头笑着。</p><p>这是对我的鼓励，也是一场友谊对决的邀请。</p><p>于夫人松开她的胳膊，我眼前闪过一个记忆，当时艾瑞丝的脚放在我的旁边，她在教我如何踩半踏板，既将音符时值延长得恰到好处又不至于将它们模糊成一片。乐团瞬间迸发出活力的同时，我的脚踩了下去。演奏钢琴简直不能更容易了，音符如同脱笼之鸟，<em>我</em>如同脱笼之鸟。谁还需要谱子啊？帆帆彻底放开歌喉，我也让我的琴声和她的歌声一起翱翔。的确错了一个音，但有谁在乎呢。</p><p>一曲终了，我好像听到谁的一声抽泣。趁着掌声响起我对艾瑞丝开玩笑，说：</p><p>“你在哭嘛，前辈？”</p><p>“你终于在享受这场演出了嘛，毛头小子？”她抹着眼角小声还击，只有我能听到。</p><p>我擦了下额头，冲她撅起嘴。在我面前，贻棣和纪纪换下了麦克前的帆帆，于夫人举起指挥棒。</p><p>毕业演出从来没有加演项目。毕业以后再也没有回头的机会，欢呼它、唾弃它、梦起它、回放它、画它、把它写进故事里，不论你多么望眼欲穿，都结束了——趁它还在的时候，多关注、多享受它吧：这就是我们想要传达的话。当这首终曲结束时，指挥会请乐团成员依次起立，接受认可和感谢，所有人会鞠躬，然后退场。灯光会重新亮起，引导人员会打开所有的门，请夏夜的气息发出她最温暖的邀请，舞台工作人员会开始清理舞台。如果观众依旧欢呼、期许着什么的话，斯巴克他们几个的精灵引导员会用意念轻轻推他们一下，尽管这还从未发生过——没有人经得起夏夜空气的诱惑。</p>        <div id="aplayer-PKJydpYr" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-PKJydpYr"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "打上花火",              author: "米律玄师 x DAOKO",              url: "打上花火.mp3",              pic: "/2022/05/14/2021冬至故事——夏夜毕业演出/cover7.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>于是，指挥棒为这最后一首曲子一颠，琴键下沉又回弹。贻棣唱出了第一句，她的声音温润厚重，不像平时说话那样明亮清晰。双手捧住支架上的话筒，眼睛微闭，她微微摇晃，呼吸着歌词，背对着纪纪。纪纪摘下了他的话筒，倚在我的钢琴上，双手轻松地交叉在腰前，低着头听着：</p><p>“在傍晚的宁静中，唯有暮光从我身旁走过。”我记得贻棣的歌词是这个意思。</p><p>提琴声部拨着弦，我弹着吉他那部分。鼓声，然后合唱。和歌词相反，歌的旋律富有活力，甚至乐观——我觉得如果我们把上一首《Michishirube》放到最后的话，台下不会高兴的，呵呵。这一切都是为了好好送别。宾客们要回家，毕业生要告别学校，剩下的学生也要离校过暑假。“夏天是一个快乐的季节，”纳尔总是说，“夏夜尤为欢乐。”你会有你的泪水和脾气，但总要试着以一个快乐的心情结束每一个夏日，以此纪念。今天，那个心情由我们来提供。</p><p>纪纪直起腰来开始他的词。贻棣很熟悉日语，所以当时一再要求他唱对每一个发音。她从来不太关心歌词的意思，但是歌词的演唱，作为旋律的一部分，就是另一回事了。纪纪有时在排练休息时跟她假装吵架，音乐一结束，他就晃着瘦胳膊，跳着责怪贻棣要求太严：</p><p>“嗷叨开！瓦塔西做不到啦！”</p><p>她会不会喜欢上了我偶像，哪怕只有一点点？纪纪冲我一笑。</p><p>“在朵朵浪花中寻找，我会再试一遍，”他把词唱给贻棣。艾瑞丝和我整齐干脆的断奏慢慢增强，带动着节奏，积攒着力量。“让你再也不必伤心。”</p><p>话说那个惊喜——就是下午老纳尔和刚才马历恺提到的那个，皇家阿尔伯特音乐厅借鉴的那个，还记得不？你不好奇它到底是什么吗？我第一次去的时候，我的座位太高，直接吓傻了，但到最后我不后悔被吓得肝颤的每一分钟。我希望对于已经念了差不多15300个字的你们来说，这个惊喜同样值得。如果你是一个“高等音乐”爱好者，你可能已经估摸到会发生什么，甚至已经猜到这首歌的名字了。</p><p>《打上花火》。</p><p>于夫人的指挥棒向上一挑，随着第二段合唱的第一个音，焰火和火花从三楼看台底部一齐喷向礼堂中央。观众们爆发出惊叫和赞叹。我对着钢琴里的我得意地一笑。没错，人们——柳溪学院有自己的室内烟花了！！你别看礼拜堂没有皇家阿尔伯特音乐厅大，但它足够举办一场了。红色和蓝色的火星划过我们头顶，随着我们的鼓点炸裂。整整四十秒，它们肆意噼啪嘶呲，但是各个年龄的女士们先生们还有中间不男不女既男又女的人们，请收好你们的掌声，因为音乐和焰火渐息，只剩下艾瑞丝的琴声，一股缓慢而安静的余光。</p><p>观众们屏住呼吸等待着，期待着这新的一轮断奏所意味的。</p><p>正当他们以为第三段合唱的第一个音要爆发时，全场的灯球熄灭了。我们全员静止，纪纪和贻棣关掉了他们的麦克，分别按住了我和艾瑞丝的钢琴琴弦。合唱团消了音，其他乐团成员也静了他们的乐器，但他们的手还保持着先前的姿势，准备奏出下一个未响的音符。观众兴奋地倒吸的那口气噎住了。在黑暗中，他们一动也不敢动，异口同声的失落叹息把我们逗笑了。我们等着信号。</p><p>来，读者们。</p><p>换做你们的话，当你们已经来了一场他们的王牌的迷你翻版时，你们会如何比皇家阿尔伯特音乐厅更胜一筹？</p><p>有什么是那个地方做不到的？</p><p>在这么长的演出中，少了什么没有人觉得少了的东西？</p><p>小孩儿的叫唤。我们允许全年龄入场，但小一点的孩子们要付出一点代价。我毫不愧疚地说，为了保证一场无干扰演出，我们会给所有十岁以下的孩子施咒。不是什么阴暗的东西——魔咒会让他们的声音只被他们的监护人听到。魔咒会解除三次：在两次中场休息时，还有现在。</p><p>“山山哥，看呀！”一个小姑娘终于叫了出来。“屋顶！”</p><p>它在滑开。</p><p>皇家阿尔伯特音乐厅<em>打不开它们的屋顶</em>，各位！</p><p>咋，我们这儿都有精灵了，你还觉得我们翘不开个屋顶啊？轻轻的隆隆声一小块、一小块地露出墨色的天空。这里那里闪着星星，月亮无处可觅。我们听到了蟋蟀，我们听到了树叶，我们能听到脚下流淌着的柳溪的分流吗？</p><p>于夫人抬起胳膊，然后猛然劈下，我们把音符狠狠地泼在观众的脸上。贻棣和纪纪跳下舞台，跳进观众席，焰火从二楼平台窜入天空。所有人先是发出惊恐而后愉快的尖叫，这个和他们的口哨声一起加入焰火的呼啸声，他们的眼里倒映着焰火拉长的轨迹和绽放的火树银花，他们的耳朵回荡着我们的音乐。</p><p>这首曲子改编后会重复一遍最后一段合唱，给这三分钟长的火爆终章带来两分钟的合唱部分。然后，所有乐器会按照从台后到台前的顺序、一声部一声部地、依次停止演奏，只留余音萦绕的钢琴。</p><p>在那到来前，我们继续演奏，为这个难忘之夜继续提供着动力，为这个学年画上圆满的句号。纪纪和贻棣发动了他们佩戴的标配戒指，顺着观众席过道飘下，招唤着观众们，用戒指的魔力向他们头上撒下星光和气泡，唱着、跳着、拉着他们起身。孩子们原地跳起，兴奋地拉着他们的父母和祖父母。有的人和着节奏拍手，随着歌曲或唱着，或哼着。情侣互吻，朋友相拥，四处都是惊叹和欢呼。</p><p>这才是真正的《欢乐颂》，我很庆幸我是这之中的一员。</p><p>老纳尔也加入到了合唱中，平和的脸上挂着一丝满足的微笑。纪纪浮起梁源，飘给贻棣，贻棣优雅地旋转着把他送了回去，不知道他会怎么写这场演出？</p><p>二楼观众席，晓桐涌着泪抱住坐在她身后的女孩；大自信正试着往台上飞吻，那个彪子永远不会变；鲁比克试着在比利的指导下拿相机拍照，两人同样的脸上是截然相反的表情。也许比利现在会考虑搞个无人机了吧，那个相机飞不到能拍礼拜堂全景的高度（可是他从我这儿学过怎么拼接全景照片）。</p><p>三楼观众席，我的老舍友和老毕举起了他们的手大笑着、指着——那群傻逼反复喊着我的名字干啥？</p><p>四楼观众席沐浴在烟花的火光里。卡斯博他们手牵着手，摇着身子跟着一起唱。明年，他们的年龄就够面试合唱团的资格了。马历恺的舍友们是全场最淡定的一帮人，他们跟着歌词对口型。我回头扫视舞台，从林赛到缇娜到于夫人到百合到艾瑞丝到罗比，最后到我的钢琴里艾瑞丝的倒影。我们的双手互补着歌曲中对方的歌声。</p><p>马历恺在座位前，手扶栏杆，肃穆地站着。这一次，他合情合理合法合格地赢了我，不过我不知道他是不是仍然后悔被我拖上去。我确信那上面是一道淡淡的微笑。</p><p><em>烟花壮丽极了。</em></p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;礼拜堂并不算是个做礼拜的场所——实际上，它压根就不是。在外围的古希腊立柱的环绕下，礼堂的四个入口分别坐落在建筑物的东西南北四个方向。穿过入口，便来到了宽阔的圆形大厅，环顾四周，走廊环绕了大厅的一半，通往大礼堂的六扇大门一齐敞开着。在拥挤和喧闹的人山人海里，马历恺和我向引导员亮了一下我们的校园卡，走进了礼拜堂。在这些拥挤的人群中，其中有一小部分是学生，他们要么即将毕业，要么期末考试后没有提前离校；更多的则是校外人员，包括毕业班的学生家长和镇上的居民。票价是五美元，一点也不贵（说实话，我们赠送出去的比卖出去的还多）。尽管如此，无论老少，许多人仍然穿上了他们最好的礼服，有的人系着领结，有的人还戴着宝石胸针。当然，这并不是出于对台上某些精灵族学生的敬畏，而是出于对这所学校的热爱——社区拓展、回馈社会、走出象牙塔云云，你懂的——柳溪学院已成为了小镇不可分割的一部分。&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>2020冬至故事——阿尔瓦人物传：艾瑞丝第三章——离别</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2022/05/04/2020%E5%B9%B4%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%20-%20%E8%89%BE%E7%91%9E%E4%B8%9D%E7%AC%AC%E4%B8%89%E7%AB%A0%20-%20%E7%A6%BB%E5%88%AB/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2022/05/04/2020%E5%B9%B4%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%20-%20%E8%89%BE%E7%91%9E%E4%B8%9D%E7%AC%AC%E4%B8%89%E7%AB%A0%20-%20%E7%A6%BB%E5%88%AB/</id>
    <published>2022-05-05T02:09:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2023-04-25T04:44:19.858Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><center> -- 离别 -- </center><p>卡米拉没有挺过来。</p><p>她的情况一直没有好转过。她被带进来时发着高烧，医疗队通过抗生素和他们的精灵法术勉强将其控制到了39度以下。他们检测到她的心率和大脑活动都维持在极小值。术后48小时内，她的高烧退了，但她的心脏停跳了三次，而且每一次进行心脏复苏时需要的功率都比前一次大。在术后58小时，她的体温跌落到35度。医疗队迅速行动，却发现她体内的感染复发，细菌以惊人的速度适应了他们的药，其浓度已经足以让脑髓发炎、瘫痪。在第61小时，她停止了心跳，所有的医疗手段都无济于事。六十一小时半，她出现脑积水的症状。医疗队又奋斗了几乎两个半小时，直到艾瑞丝因为睡不踏实而起床着装，趟过浓浓黑暗来到医疗棚里。走廊里没有人，她等在急救室外，听着门帘那边传来的低沉的脚步声。她坐下，开始祈祷。孤儿院里没有人信教。于夫人不允许，她只相信自己。每个人嘴上挂着的“亲天娘”最终也只是口头禅，无论她在他们的民俗神话里担任了什么角色，她现在是帮不上忙了。</p><p>于是她向卡米拉祈祷，乞求她挺过来、好起来。于夫人已经不在人世，安妮不知去向，小菲也不在这里。卡米拉是唯一剩下的女孩子了——有的人是鲁比克永远替代不了的。</p><span id="more"></span><p>门帘被掀开，很轻，又有点诡异。一位人类医生走了出来，神情严肃。艾瑞丝感觉他看起来好像好几天没有睡过，他让她想起他们把卡米拉带回来那天林赛的样子。他挂着黑眼袋的双眼乞求艾瑞丝的原谅。他们无声地走进急诊室，来到边房。</p><p>晓桐站在八名医护人员之中，他们的白袍在寂静的灯光下看起来如同鬼魂一般。他们面朝玻璃舱，垂下了头。舱内，卡米拉浮在空中。她的皮肤早已重生，不再是生红色，而是偏黄的煞白。她的头和她的身子一样被包裹住，只露出了脸。在艾瑞丝看来，她的表情完全不是平静。好空洞啊……缺席的机器轰鸣声和液泵声几乎刀锋般锐利，划破了凌晨四点的静谧。显示屏上毫无生机。一切都毫无生机。</p><p>卡米拉的身体像沉入水底一样沉入舱底。</p><p>五名医护人员开始低吟，声音低沉、轻柔、朦胧，剩下的四名唱起词。这一切都来自于一个不同的文化、不同的世界。卡米拉的身体在这厚重的精灵安魂曲中沉入舱底。</p><p>艾瑞丝倚在墙上倾听。</p><center> # </center><p>他们把她的骨灰——还有所有他们能从孤儿院带回来的人的骨灰——埋在艾瑞丝在这片受魔法保护的营地中所能找到的最高的白蜡树下。当鲁比克把那个大理石盒子缓缓放进洞里、一铲一铲将它填埋时，他仿佛终于意识到这场离别的分量。自从他的姥姥去世后，这是艾瑞丝第一次看见他哭——那位坚韧的老夫人最后剩下的都没法下葬。</p><center> # </center><p>“你想再看他们最后一眼吗？”鲁比克在空地里问艾瑞丝。“我们也不知道什么时候再回来，是不？”</p><p>艾瑞丝摇摇头。他们要向海边出发了，他们的船明天启航，她一刻也不想多留。在不到一个星期的时间里，几乎她曾拥有和熟悉的一切都被夺走了。她失去了太多，艾瑞丝受够了。</p><p>“准备好了吗？”林赛走过来，问。天空晴朗，两支部队已经连续三天没有开火了。山头有一股微风徘徊在发芽的枝条间。时至三月，天色甚美——真的好美，却又好不真实。“走之前再去看一眼吗？”</p><p>艾瑞丝本没想抬头。在矗立的树干之间，城市废墟在阳光下映着湛蓝的天空，几近如画，尽管什么都没有改变过。眼前这般清晰度和对比度让整个景象看起来如此虚假，这不是她所生所长的城市。她望向北面，那里现在已经没有什么好看的了。</p><p>“来，你俩戴上这个。”比利举起两个简陋的发箍。“这是用士兵的头盔做的。我们拆掉了考洛利的控制芯片，它们现在唯一的功能就是保护你们免遭意念术。”</p><p>山脚下停了三辆吉普车。林赛拉着艾瑞丝钻进最后一辆，两位黑皮肤精灵坐在前排。爱洛温和尼克斯，艾瑞丝回想到，寺院的大师和副手。她仅仅略微点了一下头作为问候。鲁比克和比利跟着两名金发精灵坐进第二辆车，另外四名登上了第一辆。晓桐拿着一个包挥着手向山下跑来。</p><p>“给你胳膊的。”她顺着车窗把包塞进艾瑞丝怀里。“路上小心——你们照顾好自己——每天晚上睡之前吃一粒，直到石膏裂开——”</p><p>“别操心啦，<em>妈</em>。”林赛笑道。“回见！”</p><p>“安全带？”尼克斯转身探过头。林赛拍了拍她们两人的，尼克斯轻轻一笑：“走着。”</p><p>“保重！”晓桐在身后喊道。艾瑞丝咬着嘴唇，探出窗外和她挥手道别。</p><p>晓桐消失在过往的碎石堆后面。艾瑞丝坐了回来，向林赛小声说道：</p><p>“对不起，给你们添了这么多麻烦。”</p><p>林赛摇了摇头，拍了拍艾瑞丝的手。</p><p>没过多久，车队就来到了检查点。钢铁栅栏把过路的车限制成一排，通道尽头是扛枪的士兵，一辆接着一辆进行排查。</p><p>“下车检查！”艾瑞丝听到他们对着第一辆吉普喊道。四名精灵服从了，士兵走近他们。一瞬间，两名精灵一齐掀掉了其中两名士兵的头盔，并把他们向后推去。他们撞倒后面的士兵的同时，另两名精灵也卸下了剩下的士兵的头盔。他们四人同步行动，五秒之内缴械并击晕了八名士兵。</p><p>“研究院的精灵真够快的……”林赛吹了声口哨。“你们寺院来的能比得过他们吗？”</p><p>“你们呢？”爱洛温轻快地一笑，发动起车。</p><p>“五到十秒，但我又不是精灵。”</p><p>他们通过了检查点。那八名士兵木偶一般呆站着放他们走，四名精灵向他们坚定地点头敬礼。</p><center> 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</center><p>艾瑞丝不知道什么时候睡着了。好遗憾啊，她没想要错过看城外风景的机会。醒来时，她们停在一个服务区。这里除了“萧瑟”以外没有别的词可以形容它了。整个服务区内只有她们两辆吉普车。坚韧的野草占领了一切，在水泥地面上劈出道道裂痕，抹灭了地上一切画线和标志。在远处、停车场边界一棵枯萎的树下，干枯的杂草死死缠绕着一门锈迹斑斑的重炮。</p><p><em>那玩意儿是怎么跑这儿来的？</em>艾瑞丝下了车，伸了个懒腰。她花了两年才学会走路，但只用了两个小时就忘了。她活动了一下双腿和胳膊，揉了揉脖子。左边是服务区另一条边界，一人高的干草争先恐后地探过木栅栏。面前是高速公路，从东往西看不到一辆车。公路对面是又一片高高的杂草地。和艾瑞丝一样，里面的杂草又挺过了严峻的冬天。那片地里有一座孤零零的砖房，仅仅能看到它倾斜的屋顶，枯黄中的那一点烟熏绿。很久以前，这里可能是片小麦田，也可能是大麦。多亏了战争，艾瑞丝再也不会知道这里衬着远处山峦的景色曾经多么秀美如画——当初服务区正是因为这个原因才选址于此。</p><p>艾瑞丝叹了口气，又伸了个懒腰。她身后，服务站低矮的蓝色玻璃幕墙上，两个黯淡的大字写着“胶州”。他们快到了。</p><p>一个老人从高高的杂草里走了出来，蓬乱的胡子和头发灰白。他从身后的草杆里抱出一个瘦小的男孩，把他举过栅栏。小男孩跳到裂开的水泥地上，转身帮助老人扶好又一个同样羸弱的小女孩。他们在荒郊野岭里走了多久，只有他们脸上的尘土才知道。老人翻过栅栏有些不便，两个孩子小心翼翼地扶了他一把。他轻笑着指向服务站，好像是在指着一座玩具店一样。</p><p>艾瑞丝跟在他们后面进了服务站。柜台后面有两个人忙活着锅和搪瓷杯，老人在一旁耐心等待，两个孩子把脸藏埋在他的大衣里，时不时偷瞄一下明亮的大厅。</p><p>这里一小团一小团聚集着各色的难民。他们坐在布满灰尘的大衣上，有的躺下睡着了。大多数人手里捧着不锈钢或者搪瓷杯子，里面盛着汤面。有的人头发是湿的。</p><p>艾瑞丝走在他们之间，深感愧疚。她免于沦落到他们的下场完全是凭靠运气。他们也并不全是底层人民，有的戴着眼镜，有的佩戴珠宝首饰，有一两个一脸富家高傲的表情，离其他人远远的坐着。形形色色各行各业的人聚集于此，不知为何，偏偏她成了异类。</p><p>卫生间十分干净，旁边是公共澡堂。这里很早就是避难所了。她出来时看到鲁比克和那位老人一起坐着，讲笑话逗孩子们玩，挠他们痒痒，让他们扭来扭去大笑。她走过去。</p><p>“……本想走越远越好，但显然还是不够远。”老人吹了吹面条，喂给孩子们。</p><p>“我挺惊讶你们在那儿呆了那么久。”鲁比克拍了拍孩子们。</p><p>“不想搬啊。最后农民一家子也是不得以才跑。他们拿不出军队要的东西，当兵的就一脚踹倒了家门。你说那么个冬天，谁拿得出来？”</p><p>“现在怎么办？”</p><p>“歇一会儿，然后去海边看看怎么样。哎，”老人往幕墙外瞟了一眼，“我说，你们能不能——？”他探过身，把话停在一半。</p><p>“对不起啊，大爷。我们没座了。”鲁比克挠了挠头。</p><p>“啊……”老人坐了回去，然后又探起身，有点希望一般：“但你们能不能至少带上俩娃——？”</p><p>“不能。抱歉。”鲁比克斩钉截铁。</p><p>“鲁比克——”艾瑞丝看了一眼孩子们失望的表情。</p><p>“不行。我们马上要走了，对不起。”鲁比克站起身，想了想，环顾四周。没有人在意他们。他掏出一个信封放在老人脚前，转身离去。艾瑞丝心快碎了，跟着他跑了出去。</p><p>“鲁比克——”她在栅栏那里赶上了他。“我想我们至少——”鲁比克摇了摇头。“两个孩子可以坐林赛和我这儿！我们可以——”艾瑞丝抓着他，转了过来。</p><p>他睁大了眼，咬着牙，悄声说道：</p><p>“艾瑞丝，那是咱俩。”他看向服务站。老人和孩子们虽然被吉普车挡住了，但艾瑞丝知道他们正盯着信封里的支票发呆。“我宁可让他们和他们的爷爷死在一起，也不想让他们分开。懂我意思吗？”他吸了一下鼻子，又转过去稳定自己情绪。当他重新面对艾瑞丝时，他试着和往常一样嬉皮笑脸。“哎，至少现在他们比我们当时要好多了。”</p><p>艾瑞丝简直不忍心看他，她从来不需要读心术来知道鲁比克在想什么。她捧住他的脸，紧紧盯着他黯淡的双眼。</p><p>“当我们在日本安定下来后，”艾瑞丝压低声音，语气尽量缓慢、平稳，“我们也给你的姥姥搭一个神龛，就像妈-妈妈一样，好吗？我们就把它对着门放，这样她每天都能看我们出-出门回家，好吗，鲁比克？”他们看着对方。他的两个眼角抬起的角度不同，有一只还略微有点双眼皮，眼角的泪痣总是那么小。她好爱这双眼。艾瑞丝闭上自己的，身体一倾，自己的嘴唇对上了他的。</p><p>这是她第一次如此主动。心里万分希望没人会回来或者能看得到他们，她把他压在栅栏上，双颊滚烫，然后使劲往他的怀里靠进去，靠进去，靠进去，陷得越来越深，直到他们之间没有了任何距离。这和他以前给她的那些顽皮般的轻啄的感觉一点也不一样。艾瑞丝在把自己对他所有的情感都倾泻进他，确保他明白她不敢说出口的话，以及说话并不是所有事情的唯一解决方法，还有，当他难过的时候，他可以直接和她说。他肯定明白了，因为他也回应着她，一边支撑着她的身体，一边抱她进怀里，身体像墙一样结实，上上下下都被在孤儿院里干粗活锻炼出的肌肉垫着。他双臂交叉绕过她的后背，双手抱着她的肩，每一次呼吸中都是他没有信心大声说出的那些话。凭着这一个，他弥补了以前那些所有的劣质的吻。艾瑞丝能感觉到他的心跳，一下一下泵出她特别喜爱的那股薄荷气息。</p><p>他们分开了。这一切如同一击钟声，久久回荡着。她感觉像发烧一样。艾瑞丝双眼无辜，微笑的嘴唇略微撅起，盯着他。她最近哭得太多了，微笑这个表情感觉好生硬、好陌生。鲁比克有点懵。他张开嘴，闭上，又张开。</p><p>“那就给大家都供上。你爸妈、妈妈、大哥、卡姆——”</p><p>“嗯，所有人。”</p><center> 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</center><p>“呃。”比利看着远处城市的天际线哼了一声。他们两辆吉普在空空荡荡的高速路上并排前行，前方是一片层峦起伏的钢筋、混凝土和砖块的海洋：有的浮出边界直插云霄，有的则被埋没于底，难得一见、微不足道。北面是一连串山脉，南面是遮挡着大海的工业区。比利叹着气，漫不经心地把头搭在窗外，说：“好久不见啊。”</p><p>“嗯？”艾瑞丝隔着林赛看向他，林赛解释道：</p><p>“在我们世界里这里是他的老家。”</p><p>“他多久没回家看了？”</p><p>“太久了。”比利坐回车里。“洛恩娜！往海边开！不过要是这里和我老家一样的话，想在港口那边找好酒店肯定没戏。”</p><p>现在才刚刚下午。这座城市还没接触过多少炮火。随着他们沿路行进，看着两旁的杂草地变为田地、零星小屋变成一片片平房、栅栏变成行道树、沟壑变成人行道，他们看到了人。这些城里人在门口聊天，他们在等信号灯，他们走在尘土飞扬的路上，拇指揣在裤子口袋里——像存者他们穿的那样的、分给艾瑞丝和鲁比克的裤子：裤筒笔直合身、布料耐磨又有弹性的、叫做“牛仔裤”的玩意儿。小孩子在四合院里追逐嬉戏、互相闹着脾气、在路边突然出现的地摊旁逗留磨蹭。地摊上摆着泛黄的小人书和玩具枪，艾瑞丝看着后者皱起了眉头。这也许就是她的家乡以前的样子吧：一座被这座城市复活的、埋在她记忆里的城市。倒不如说他们是来到了一个新的国家呢。随着她们行进，低矮的平房逐渐增高，从土房变成砖房变成石头房又变成钢筋摩天大楼矗立在一个繁华热闹的商业区中。这座城市现代、时尚、活力四射。行人身穿的鲜艳张扬的外套让艾瑞丝看着自己普通、黯淡的单色调衣着深感羞愧。年轻的情侣举着八带烧串互相逗弄，老年人在马路对面的广场里随着音响里传出的陈年老调悠然起舞。汽车从旁边驶过，公交车停在人行道边——他们现在随着车流开得慢多了，身边全是轿车、越野车、小货车，当然，还有公交大巴。</p><p>在这里，那些地摊变成了货摊和车摊。它们的窗户大开，上面挂着摆满玲琅满目、珠光璀璨的首饰、贝壳风铃、海螺哨子或者弹壳雕塑。有的是小吃摊，艾瑞丝听到、嗅到噼啪作响的油，但也能闻到煎饼馃子、烤肠和臭豆腐。她摇起窗，不然她的口水直流。</p><p>但这也防不住她的眼睛直勾勾地盯着各种巨大橱窗。她对那些惨白的无脸模特害怕得要命，但它们身上的衣服——大胆的黄底配上红、灰、蓝色条纹——还有毛茸茸的羊毛帽子央求着她的注意力。还有那些红色旋转的、比树还高的广告牌。还有横穿马路的绳子上垂下的小旗子。还有真正能工作的、闪烁的信号灯。还有轰轰作响的摩托车。还有自行车。还有滑板上的少年。一排树后面隐隐出现一座建筑的穹顶，反射着阳光，银光闪闪。<em>是书店！</em>艾瑞丝的牙齿在打颤。那上面的红字写着“书城”。这栋建筑比孤儿院高，但只有它一半宽，形状像戴着圆帽子的四分之一个圆柱。艾瑞丝忘记了所有形象和自尊，摇下窗、探出头、扭着脖子盯着它看，直到它再次消失在行道树后。</p><p>林赛轻轻地“扑哧”一声笑了，毫无恶意。艾瑞丝猛然回到现实，十分不好意思，冲着自己膝盖满脸羞红。林赛倚过来，说：“别担心，我们有时间逛。比利当导游。”</p><p>“他真的会吗？”</p><p>“嗯！”林赛咯咯笑着。“他现在乐疯了。”艾瑞丝难以想象。林赛张开双臂把艾瑞丝的头揽进怀里。“别动，等一会儿——”艾瑞丝的心停了一拍。考洛利的人发现她了吗？他们的车转弯、加速。听起来好像路上的车少了。艾瑞丝听到了一个富有吸引力的声音：像是在家听到过的穿过树林的风声，但更慢一些、更有节奏，还穿插着尖锐的鸟叫。车停了，所有的窗户摇了下来。艾瑞丝闻到了一股凉爽、腥咸的微风。</p><p>“别闷着她了，阿林。”艾瑞丝心里奇怪鲁比克怎么这么亲昵地叫林赛，但被放开后，她看见挂在窗边的那位头上并没有发箍，白色兜帽衫下面是皮革护服。她从没见过他如此温柔的表情。他踏向一边。</p><p>大海啊。</p><p>是蓝绿色的大海，排排白浪跑向暗黄的沙滩，后浪永远追不上前浪，最终扑向布满灰白牡蛎的黑礁石。洁白的海鸥尖叫着从远处零星游泳的人的头顶低飞而过。</p><p>“他们没病吧？”鲁比克拍了拍比利。</p><p>“你等着大冬天来看他们游。这儿五十来岁的老大爷一个个抗冻得要命。下车吧，咱住这儿好了。”他朝路对面高大耀眼的大楼抬了抬下巴。</p><p>“你们去搞定房间，我们要四处转转。”尼克斯笑道。比利从后备箱拎起一只箱子，招呼道：</p><p>“斯巴克！来啊！”那位精灵拎起另一只箱子，笑他的那股兴奋劲。</p><p>“要是他们不用意念术支付房费的话，理事会得有意见了。”开鲁比克那辆车的洛恩娜笑着说。近距离观察，艾瑞丝发现她上扬的眼睛、高高的鼻梁和颧骨使她看起来十分高傲。那位精灵调戏般朝艾瑞丝眨了下眼：“哦，我们出差干活天天吃霸王餐。”</p><p><em>亲天娘啊，她还好缺德！</em>艾瑞丝目瞪口呆。</p><p>“来啊，想去看看海吗？”她拉了拉艾瑞丝的指头，另一手已经在抓着鲁比克。鲁比克招着手。她真的是精灵吗？她说话时一点也没有其他精灵的那种礼节，尽管她的口音依旧是精灵般轻快。林赛轻轻推了推她。</p><p>“去吧，洛恩娜不咬人。”</p><p>作为回应，那位精灵轻轻咬了一下林赛的脸。林赛顽皮地把她赶走了。</p><p>艾瑞丝估计精灵也会有各种各样的性格，包括怪人。他们刚踩到沙子，洛恩娜就松开了他们的手。在众目睽睽之下，她抬起胳膊，彷佛提起裙子，脚一蹬，如同溜冰一样在沙子上优雅地滑了几个大圈。她围绕着陌生人旋转，边笑边打招呼，挡住他们的路，最后留下他们在海风中独自凌乱。</p><p>艾瑞丝和鲁比克缓缓走下沙滩，越过一道海藻和海带组成的黑线。艾瑞丝捡起一条，搓着滑滑的、沾着沙子的表面。它闻起来甜得发腻，但艾瑞丝忍不住一直去闻。鲁比克跑到浪花前掬起一捧。</p><p>“哎哎哎。”洛恩娜滑到他面前，戛然而止，把泥沙和海水往身后的礁石上撒得四处都是。“禁止饮用海水！但是你可以——”她用手指蘸了一下浪花，伸进鲁比克的嘴里。鲁比克吃了一惊，一屁股倒在海滩上，他的发箍从头上滑落。洛恩娜歪着头：“挺咸的，是不？喝一杯那玩意儿足以把你体内的水分全吸出来。别问我是怎么知道的。”</p><p>一个过路的小贩朝他们抬了抬眉头，犹豫了一下，走了过来。</p><p>“恁买小网不？抓个小鱼小虾啥的？”</p><p>“小网？要那干啥？”洛恩娜蹲下身。海浪拉扯着她靴子下的泥沙，冲刷着一个个坍塌的小洞。她撸起袖子，在其中的一个上空食指和拇指一揪。如同被一根隐形的线吊着一样，一只小螃蟹从洞里升到半空。洛恩娜抬起头：“瞧。”小贩黝黑、胡子拉茬的脸上的表情像是被转头拍了一样，他转身走开了，惊愕地回头看了他们一眼。洛恩娜眯着眼看着那只还没艾瑞丝拇指尖大的螃蟹挣扎：“嗯……我拿你做什么好呢？”</p><p>“吃掉它！”鲁比克戴好发箍。</p><p>“放走它！”洛恩娜揪着螃蟹往艾瑞丝脸上一晃，她吓了一跳。咯咯笑着，洛恩娜收回了魔法，让螃蟹慌忙逃走了。</p><p>“我们是不是该更小心点？”鲁比克环顾四周的游人。</p><p>“小心啥？你以为我在那帮人身边跳来跳去仅仅是因为好玩吗？”洛恩娜伸了个懒腰。她妩媚地勾起鲁比克的下巴（鲁比克和艾瑞丝两人被这一动作弄得满脸通红），把他的脸向大海转去。在天际线和沙滩之间停靠着两艘巡航舰。“这个城市养着海军部队。还记得刚才路上那些弹壳雕塑不？考洛利知道我们在哪儿。军队是他的眼睛，作战双方都是，但普通老百姓不是。现在他的圈套已设，他不能随随便便攻击我们，那样会把我们吓跑的。那个傻逼是个战略家，但不是个随机应变的参谋，不像我们这边的一些人。</p><p>“所以我们现在好好玩，气气他就好咯。”</p><p>轻盈的海风夹杂着咸味摆弄着艾瑞丝的头发。在没有人游泳的地方，海鸥在浪花间嬉戏。阳光洒在波光粼粼的海面上。现在是退潮，艾瑞丝退到海藻海带线后面坐下，看着整个世界在她面前起起伏伏。洛恩娜在跳浪花，丝毫不关心弄湿衣服靴子。鲁比克和她一起跳，笑得像个小孩子一样。</p><p><em>没有战争的生活就是这个样子的吗？</em>艾瑞丝想。<em>多么正常的一个周末啊。</em>洛恩娜的年龄可能够当他们的妈妈了——甚至可能是曾祖母。<em>她多大啊？精灵能活多久？</em>如果这是另一个世界、另一辈子——如果世界之外还有其他的艾瑞丝和林赛，那她会选这样的生活。</p><center> 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</center><p>这座城市与比利的故乡足够相似，他为大家当起导游来毫无困难。艾瑞丝意识到这里并不全是金光闪闪，繁华和辉煌仅限于南边的海岸线。从最西边往北走，帐篷和地铺开始在路边出现。大港和小港两个港口周边尤为恶劣，甚至比他们入城路上见到的平房区还落魄、简陋。沾满污秽的墙角堆砌着垃圾，墙内围着一个青砖地上满是尘土的院子。低矮的房子上的窗户不是脏兮兮的就是破的，有的用一层薄薄的蜡纸代替缺失的玻璃。有人试图美化环境，然而结果却是一盆枯萎的花，它弯折打卷的茎叶从窗台垂下，仿佛在呼救。清新的海风到这里变成了一股比死尸的腐烂味还恶心的恶臭。这一切离那些从殖民时期遗留下来的、别致典雅、带有花园的小洋楼仅隔一条宽阔繁忙的街。艾瑞丝看到比利脸上挂着嘲讽的笑。</p><p>“这儿也是一块镶着金边的抹布，嗯？”</p><p>至少她能在商场里把腿逛断以后还有几个小时花在那个书店里。书店地上有四层，还有负一层，里面销售的书的类别应有尽有，无论是面向大人还是孩子。艾瑞丝眼花缭乱，这里的信息量比她第一次看到外面的街道时带给她的还大。人物传记、各种科目的参考、报纸合订本、杂志、旅行指南、菜谱、音乐评论、乐谱、美术、漫画——他们有整整一层楼专门存放文学，整层楼根据语言被分成一个个区域，其下又根据类别分门别类。艾瑞丝在考虑她是不是应该给小菲买本什么，紧接着又想知道小菲是不是住在小港旁边那些破败的旅馆里，毕竟那里停着邮轮。当她们明天在船上相遇时，艾瑞丝应该对他们住的地方撒谎。</p><p>无论这里内陆部分是一块多脏的抹布，城市的夜景依然光彩照人、辉煌璀璨。下面的街道是金光闪闪的丝带，摩天大楼拉近了这些人造金星和他们夜空中的亲戚之间的距离。北面的条条大路在黑暗中结成一张亮闪闪的网，东南方向的大海披戴着海军基地的灯光。海浪滚滚，潮起潮落，这个世界的一呼一吸盖过了下面往来的交通。艾瑞丝希望她能永远听到这声音——不用闻腥咸的海风就更好了。</p><p>“能看到你笑真好。”林赛把两张床拼到一起，说。现在既然她们在酒店房间里，艾瑞丝就把发箍摘了。为了方便，比利和斯巴克租下了独自占据整个顶层的皇家套房。楼层高度加上存者布下的层层防御法术让这里牢不可破。为了进一步加强安全，林赛和比利各自跟艾瑞丝和鲁比克一间。“一定要告诉我你玩儿得很开心啊。”艾瑞丝点点头，心里有点内疚。“别过意不去，这是你应得的。”林赛跪在床上，张开左臂，她的剑凭空出现在她的手里。她把它靠在床头柜上。</p><p>“你一直把它带在身上吗？”艾瑞丝问。现在她有机会近距离观察，她发现这把剑真的很不寻常。它比于夫人的兵器展览室里的剑长，一米左右。剑首是平切而成的蓝宝石，剑把上的红色裹布缠绕方式和那些日本刀上的一样。剑身未开锋的基端被向剑身倾斜的金色护手挡着，护手上是黑色的枝叶纹饰。剑颚是两层由螺丝固定的五边形钢板，它们夹着剑身，中间镶嵌着一块切割而成的红宝石。剑身近似菱形，在接近剑尖处又加宽了一点，然后再次收拢为一个厚厚的尖。几乎贯穿剑身的剑槽又宽又平，颜色暗红，艾瑞丝看到里面镌刻着的像是金色的精灵文字。整把剑又长又平，怪不得林赛能用它格挡子弹，但艾瑞丝完全想不通她怎能如此轻巧地操持它的。</p><p>“不，但我可以随时召唤出来。”</p><p>她们洗漱完，林赛用手引出了艾瑞丝的头发上的水。那团水悬浮在她们头顶，艾瑞丝戳了戳它，林赛笑着把它扔回浴缸里。她调暗灯光，开始了场无声的烟火秀。耀眼、缤纷的火花从她的手心撒向空中又落到地上，消失得无影无踪。她在空中转了一圈又一圈，把火花喷泉舞动得像丝绸一样，把星光淋在艾瑞丝头上。</p><p>“你到底是怎么做到的？”艾瑞丝问着，躲进被窝里，看得出神。床垫好软，躺在上面感觉像躺在羽毛上。</p><p>“魔法呗。”林赛也爬了进去。“<em>天——啊！</em>理事会的那帮人要嫉妒死——他们负责管理五所学校，成员是前几任大师。我们听从他们的指导。不过话说回来，就是魔法啊。但是精灵不喜欢用这个词，他们更倾向于‘技艺’。”</p><p>“为什么晓桐和你不一样？”</p><p>“你是说为什么我和比利不戴佩饰也能用精灵技艺吗？嗐。”她一把将艾瑞丝揽到面前，艾瑞丝吓了一跳。“睡前故事时间啦！</p><p>“三个字：转录仪。这台机器在研究院，是台信息处理器，它能把信息从一个介质复制到另一个里面。这里的信息不仅仅指文字内容……它能是任何东西——一件事物的任何描述。如果我们， 嗯……想把一本书里的内容转换到一本空白本子里，那么我们最后会得到两本一模一样的书，连特定某一页上的折角都会一模一样。既然那台机器是我们现在知道的仅剩的一台，我和比利几年前拜访研究院时自然就很感兴趣了。</p><p>“但它太古老了……几万年前留下来的东西，是精灵前往瓦林纳之前就造好的。尽管人们时常维护它，但它还是会出现极罕见的故障。比利当时还是个冲动的毛头小子，他没听任何警告。机器在他往脑子里转录一整本精灵词典时发生了错误。你知道他坐进去之前说了什么不？”</p><p>“呃……？”</p><p>“‘就一本词典，能有什么害？’”林赛嘲弄道。“书页之间夹杂的精灵DNA足以让转录仪拿来对比、覆盖他自己的，足以让他变得和精灵一样。我试着把他拉出来，然后我也进了光束的波及范围内。</p><p>“我们<em>依旧</em>是人类……但我们不仅仅是人类。”</p><p>“当时疼吗？”</p><p>“我们有更过疼的。有些东西比身体伤害更痛苦——啊……我是说……”</p><p>“记忆，是吧……”</p><p>“艾瑞丝……”林赛停住了，把她们的额头碰在一起。过了半晌她才再说话。“这些天我们没抹掉你们的记忆是有原因的。”</p><p>“有原因的吗？那我估计是个挺残忍的原因吧……”</p><p>“让你忘记才是残忍。”林赛一字一顿地说。“听我说啊——”</p><p>“可是<em>我</em>不想回忆起——”</p><p>“你不是个懦夫。”林赛紧紧抱着她。</p><p>“回忆起那些事才叫痛苦，尤其是知道现在那些记忆只能沦为记忆——”</p><p>“会过去的，我保证，疼痛会过去的。”林赛声音很轻。“艾瑞丝，求你了。珍惜那些记忆，放眼向前看，我们在学院里都是这么撑过来的。我们大多数都是普通人类，连最年幼的学徒，如果他们的父母——他们-他们也要这么挺过来。思想介入手段一直禁用于治疗精神创伤，因为它只能让情况恶化。你真的想忘记于夫人和卡米拉吗？还有其他人吗？忘掉他们对不起他们的死啊。”艾瑞丝没回答。她想知道林赛是不是该问她于夫人和卡米拉希不希望艾瑞丝忘记她们。如果能移除她的痛苦，那她们会希望如此。如果她死了，艾瑞丝希望鲁比克能忘掉她——如果这能使他过上更快乐的生活的话，她希望鲁比克能忘掉她的姥姥。林赛继续坚定地说：“忘却带来的悔意比一遍遍重温着那些回忆更加痛苦，转录仪帮不了，意念术帮不了。如果明天有人——有人出了什么事，那会是我的错，而我也不能——也不能就从自己脑海里抹掉它。”</p><p><em>你懂什么。</em>艾瑞丝心想。她感觉林赛的心在她的旁边加快了跳动。</p><p>“够-够了。我不该提起来。对不起……”</p><center> 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</center><p>清冷的早晨、阴郁的天空、还有即将踏上的旅程让艾瑞丝感到阵阵焦虑。然而再次见到小菲的可能性给她莫大希望和兴奋。</p><p>“一艘比我们孤儿院还大的船，我们终于能亲眼见到了。”鲁比克整理了下他的斗篷，艾瑞丝点点头。洛恩娜说过，只要穿戴者不刻意吸引他人注意，这件精灵斗篷就可以使他对外人隐身。他们的计划是让鲁比克和艾瑞丝在整个出发过程中保持隐身，比利和林赛替他们过关。</p><p>“准备好了吗？”比利走进客厅，也身着斗篷。计划里，鲁比克和艾瑞丝登船时他会全程躲好，直到邮轮离港后他再现身。他走到鲁比克面前戏谑般一笑，鲁比克笑了回去。艾瑞丝一时难以分清谁是谁。“不错啊，斗篷挺合身。那就戴好发箍，考洛利最起码会监测我们的思想。”</p><p>他们八人披着灰色斗篷下楼、走出了酒店。</p><p>“你们不退房吗？”鲁比克问。</p><p>“订了一周。”比利哼道。</p><p>“啥？！”</p><p>“为什么不呢？毕竟是免费的。”斯巴克罕见地对他露牙一笑。</p><p>爱洛温发动起车，她们跟着洛恩娜的吉普沿着小路来到宽敞的大街上。艾瑞丝在座位里往下滑了滑，试图让她的心和胃安静下来。她看着向后滑去的灰色城市慢慢醒来。商贩们慢慢踩着三轮车的油门把商铺和货车拖进摊位，拨开窗锁。商店店主们卷起店门前挂着的铁皮门帘。几位老人一边送线，一边在广场上放出手里的风筝。他们身后是一座巨大的红色雕塑，在朵朵灰云下格外显眼。那是五月之火，艾瑞丝想起历史课上高先生讲过。二百年前的五月二十四日，殖民政府内部一名爱国卧底点燃了城里殖民议会大楼楼顶的联合王国国旗，拉开了解放战争的序幕。这座雕塑同时也是一座灯塔。艾瑞丝希望他们能够在熊本市看到它的灯光。林赛胳膊抵着门把手，咬着指甲，望着窗外发呆。</p><p>“林赛？你觉得我们会见到小菲吗？”</p><p>“嗯。”</p><p>“我希望她和陆庭这几天住的地方条件还好……”</p><p>“嗯。”</p><p>“……你还在生她的气吗？”</p><p>“嗯？”林赛猛然回过头。“啥？你是说那天吗？我在主厨门上施了法，一旦有人企图破坏，魔法就提醒我。因为那天鲁比克一个劲儿地踢门，我头疼了一整天。我和小菲没什么过节。”</p><p>“哦。”艾瑞丝嘴角抽动了一下。“抱歉。”</p><p>随着他们往前移动的每一米，城市的商业区都缩小一点。艾瑞丝半蜷缩在座位里，目光涣散，试着阻止自己在心里念出过往路标上的每一个字。这座繁华城市的每一丝魅力和喧嚷都不曾受到战争的侵害，这一切就应该保持如此。虽然这里并不是所有人都看上去幸福快乐，但至少他们并不像全国其他地方的人们那样痛苦。生在海边，享有大海般深的殖民历史，沉浸在海洋般广阔的繁荣里，他们对于战争的暴虐一无所知，他们没有对自己生活戛然而止的恐惧，他们可能永远也不会刹那间失去自己的一切——至少他们当中的一大部分人不会。这座城市躲过了一场即将停止的战争，而且他们当中好多人可能几乎永远不会知道它的存在。这一切真的好不真实啊，艾瑞丝羡慕极了。他们永远也不会害怕吉普车停下。</p><p>她不知道为什么她会害怕。她只希望爱洛温能一直开下去，一直开下去、开下去，永远也不要停。就连车速最细微的改变都是现实中劈来的一道焦虑，当最后一点钢铁大楼消失后，这些焦虑无限膨胀，挤压得她透不过气来。也许是因为未知的未来吧——她不喜欢变动，然而瞧瞧现在，她正在急速赶向它，容忍着自己被带向它。她和存者在一起的日子虽然短暂，但是她很难用一个词或以一句话概述。艾瑞丝感觉她跟他们在一起的时间不止一个星期——然而他们彼此的确还只是陌生人。不过至少她很舒心，因为她知道在这世界里，有一群陌生人可以容纳她并给予她安全感。这个事实就像这辆吉普车永远处于前行的状态一样，永远不会改变。</p><p>他们在路边停下。</p><p>“对于我们来说，此刻为别。”爱洛温和尼克斯说。由于寺院的精灵主攻意念术，她们的任务是对所有人的思想实施全局操控。她们需要抑制任何人报警的念头，并在冲突开始时疏散港口内所有人员。“保重，艾瑞丝。”她们抱住她，“祝你在国外顺利。”艾瑞丝点着头，看着她们和鲁比克讲最后一次笑话，她们洁白的牙齿在深红的唇间闪闪发光。然后，在斗篷的魔力下，她们就那么消失了。</p><p>“嗬，等一切都搞定以后我还要回来。”洛恩娜大步踏过来亲了一下艾瑞丝。“到时候我来熊本找你玩，嗯？”</p><p>“我们就差一点就全员歼灭他们了。我简直等不及过上一个除了研究和考古以外没什么别的事的平淡无聊生活了。”林赛低声说道。“所以到时候，洛恩娜，你拉上我。”</p><p>“那我们到那时再见。”斯巴克和艾瑞丝握手道别。“你和鲁比克保持警惕，直到看不见港口之后再放松。保重。”他点了一下头，和洛恩娜一起也消失去巡查周边环境了。</p><p>剩下四人穿过马路，进入小港。在他们身边，有的人身着西服和大衣，用鼻孔看人；有的衣衫褴褛，蓬头垢面，躲着其他人走。后面这些人为了一张票攒了多少？他们为了走过来用了多少天？他们要去哪儿？艾瑞丝不知道。她环顾四周，不太抱有希望地寻找她可能会认出的面孔。没有。</p><p>前方是安检和检票口。透过左边的铁栅栏，艾瑞丝看到远处码头边停靠着的轮船——它们的确很大：船头高耸，遮挡着半边天空；甲板上的舱楼占了船身的三分之二的长度，从头到尾一共三四排窗户；在那上方是两三支吞吐着白雾的烟囱。艾瑞丝不知道这些客轮有多长多高，但是没错——鲁比克满怀欣喜地看了她一眼——它们比孤儿院要大得多。</p><p>它们看起来一点也不便宜。八张船票，而且还都是头等舱——于夫人到底多有钱啊？</p><p>他们在厕所那儿稍做准备。姑娘们在女厕那里排好队。艾瑞丝看到码头边白色军服的士兵，她轻轻拉了拉林赛，指给她看。林赛边点头，眼睛边开始发光。</p><p>“海军，嗯？他们的军帽里果然也装了芯片。别引人注意，保持冷静。”</p><p>“洛恩娜发现八号码头那边有一小队人。她打算原地不动，等考洛利出来。”比利出来了，低声说道。“该登船了，我跟鲁比克进去了。你们两人慢慢来。”他吻了一下林赛，祝她好运，并向艾瑞丝点了下头。他们消失在人群里。艾瑞丝和林赛尽量迅速，然后随同人流排进了安检队伍。她们只有一件行李，而且得益于斗篷，艾瑞丝顺利通过了安检口。检察官打开只装有艾瑞丝的药袋的箱子，满意地点了下头。林赛会意地看了眼艾瑞丝，敲了敲太阳穴。</p><p>“是爱洛温和尼克斯，不是我。接下来是检票口和海关，同一回事，跟好我。”</p><p>就连头等票的快速通道都很慢。<em>我们为什么不穿好斗篷直接走进去啊？</em>拐过一个弯之后，艾瑞丝得到了答案，她看见海关边防人员在往文件上盖章。<em>哦……估计他们在那边会查这个章的。那我直接在那边也径直冲过去不就是了？</em>然后她想起了洛恩娜，低头对自己做了个鬼脸。不到二十四小时就和她一样没有道德了，艾瑞丝感觉蛮羞愧。</p><p>该她们了。她拉住林赛的手，走了过去。枯瘦的老边防官对着他的记录检查船票和文件，艾瑞丝环顾四周，微微颤抖。还是没有她认识的——！有一瞬间她以为她看见了安妮，但她再回去看时，她无影无踪。</p><p>“啊，你染发了呢。”老人透过厚厚的镜片宠爱地对林赛笑道。</p><p>“嗯嗯！妈妈给我染的，是不是很漂亮呐？”林赛用一把头发蒙住脸，眨着眼睛。</p><p>“可不是呢。”老军官抬了一下帽子，用法语说道：“<em>一路平安，小姐。</em>”</p><p>“别让我再来一遍那个了。”她们走远后，林赛摆了个鬼脸。</p><p>“但是你的英音超完美的！”艾瑞丝惊叹道。</p><p>“我有个好榜样。”林赛抱住她。“就是这儿了。保护好自己。我已经能感受到考洛利了……他就像一阵窃窃私语一样从八号码头那边传来。来吧，你在七号登船。”她们不是很情愿地挪着脚步。在她们周围，人们提着行李，步伐匆匆，神色或热切、或不舍。一条狗冲着海鸥狂吠。大海风平浪静。不远处，大港的起重机来来回回运着集装箱。她们不见比利的踪影，说明鲁比克已经登上船了。</p><p>她们来到空荡荡的六号码头时，太阳出来了。停靠在七号码头的船比先前看到的那些还要大许多。艾瑞丝仰着头望着三门烟囱，努力数着船上有几排窗户。和船身相比，甲板的栏杆小得可怜。她几乎看不见船尾。这艘庞然大物由三只船锚固定，海浪下落，露出了贴附船身的藤壶。面向她们的右舷上用英文写着金光闪闪的“TS　<em>Leviathan</em>”——“海兽号”。毕竟，这艘船终点是美洲，熊本市只是第一站。<em>这船上有多少人啊？</em>艾瑞丝震惊极了，她甚至没在意烟囱里喷出来的刺鼻的味道。</p><p>“亲天娘啊……如果妈妈或者卡姆能看到这个就好了……”</p><p>林赛忽然抽出胳膊挡住了她。</p><p>“不……不，他在干吗？”</p><p>艾瑞丝顺着她警觉的目光看向甲板。她先看到了小菲，披散着头发，但整体看起来还算整洁。然后她看到了陆庭——她一周前出门办事的同伴——站在小菲面前，帮她挡着一帮看起来不好惹的人。最后她看到鲁比克披着斗篷朝他们跑去——只是艾瑞丝知道她根本就不应该能看见他。<em>他没有在主动隐藏自己。</em></p><p>“我艹那个傻逼——”林赛将要起身冲出去，但八号码头那边的部队吸引了她的目光。从他们之中快步走出了一个高个子的人，他的一头金发在阳光下轻轻摇摆，反射着耀眼的光芒，手里的长管手枪高高举起，准备瞄准。他身后的部队没有跟上他，反而转向从队列后方传来的骚动。</p><p>“<strong>考洛利！</strong>”比利凭空冲出，他愤怒地扯下的斗篷摔落在地。“<strong>我在这儿！</strong>”</p><p>甲板上的旅客探过栏杆朝他们看，而码头和港口里的人一齐转头逃散。艾瑞丝看见洛恩娜的金发在八号码头的部队中飞舞，而在海港另一端，斯巴克一头撞进三号码头的部队中。考洛利从比利看向鲁比克，又看向比利。</p><p>“<strong>我在这儿，混蛋！</strong>”鲁比克从甲板上吼道。林赛烦躁地低吼了一声，唤出了她的剑，准备扔出去。比利没有浪费任何时间，扑向考洛利。一艘军舰驶入艾瑞丝的视野内，炮塔转向港口。</p><p>“不——”她一把抓住林赛。</p><p>考洛利行云流水般用枪格挡住比利抡向他的剑，把它摆向一边，在整个动作结尾顺势开了一枪。子弹打在鲁比克所在的左舷下方船身上。军舰的炮筒里冒出了浓烟，艾瑞丝看着炮弹划过空中，飞了一半，打在一道隐形的屏障上。更多的炮弹飞来又落下，林赛伸出双臂在阻挡它们。</p><p>码头中央的格斗异常猛烈。比利一剑又一剑地劈向精灵，但他格挡躲闪，一面向鲁比克开枪，一面用另只手里的匕首砍向他的攻击者。</p><p>海兽号的船员仓促收起步桥，猛兽一般的船咆哮着发动了。船锚抬起，从它们的铁链口里排出了大股洪流。它的蒸汽螺旋桨缓慢地开始旋转，一点一点把它沉重的船身拖出了码头。军舰停火了，艾瑞丝舒出的一口气被一声低沉的轰隆声和一声呼啸噎在喉咙里。船尾炸开了，两次爆炸掀起一股巨浪砸向港口。林赛用剑为艾瑞丝挡了下来。潮水退去，映入眼帘的是此时已经毫无阻碍的迫击炮弹，它们飞进了邮轮舱楼、烟囱和前甲板。</p><p>艾瑞丝看到了爆炸，但是感受不到它们的冲击波，也听不到爆炸的声音。她看到轮船和上面的乘客被撕裂成碎片，但是听不到他们的尖叫。她看到码头上的木栈道着火燃烧，燃烧的木板和轮船部件被抛向空中，又摔落在她周围，遍地都是，但是她感受不到它们的烈焰。林赛的屏障保护她免受物理伤害，但是保护不了心理创伤。在林赛身后，她在仍然猛烈进行的、寂静的爆炸中跪倒在地，她的石膏和手捂着嘴，眼里只有惊骇和恐惧，她无法呼吸。</p><p>还剩什么可以发出的声音啊？惊愕的无用呜咽吗？他们名字的无助高叫吗？格斗传来的当啷作响尖锐刺耳，金属间的每一次敲击刺痛她的耳膜、扎穿她的大脑。他们所有人——任何人——到底做了什么才受这种报应啊？这个世界真不公平——不正直、扭曲、残忍。这从来就不是他们的错。这一切都是<em>他们</em>的错。亲天娘啊，她好恨这个世界，她好恨考洛利——她好恨所有所有相联的人。</p><p>她的精神和思想已支离破碎，艾瑞丝瘫倒在地，尖叫起来。</p><center> # </center><p>“这些是精灵的基因条码。”比利扫视鲁比克的基因序列，目瞪口呆。他换到艾瑞丝的，结果一模一样。</p><p>“不仅如此，我还查了几个基因。”晓桐指着。</p><p>“二十八个基因里，二十五个精灵基因型，两个人类的，最后一个完全新型。”林赛歪着头。“啊……这儿的人都不是人，还说这个世界和我们的最相似？”</p><p>“我估计是底层物理定律的各种相互制约和平衡产生了整体上的相似。”爱洛温说。</p><p>“可这对我们的精灵人员来说意味着什么？”档案馆的大师喜重揉着胡子问。“他们的能力会逐渐消失吗？当然我估计你们两个孩子不会有什么问题。”他冲比利和林赛点着头。“你们俩是混血不是？”</p><p>“杂合的精灵基因，对。”晓桐答道。“我们在这里已经两个月了，但医疗组暂时还没有在任何人身上发现精灵能力消退的迹象。”</p><p>“只要我们行动足够迅速，我们应该不会有事的。”大学的大师莱雅点头同意。</p><p>“也许吧。我们头一回遇见这种情况。”</p><p>“那他们死后也踏上旅途吗？”喜重前倾着身子问。</p><p>当精灵非自然死亡时——比如谋杀或者自杀——他们的意识会经历“旅途”。比利仍记得当他醒来时，他浮在河面上，顺流而下，什么也不记得。他在河边的树林里漫无目的地走了好久，直到来到一个山谷里。在这里，一位精灵女先知，涅婉娅，恢复了他的记忆，把他的意识送回了他的身体里。旅途的原理不得而知，涅婉娅除了解释旅途中会发生什么以外，拒绝透露任何其他的信息。他们唯一确定的是那个山谷不是圣地瓦林纳，还有就是不论身处哪个世界，他们都能登上旅途。</p><p>“你是说这可能是作战双方源源不断兵力的来源？”林赛扬起一只眉毛。“大哥，我可不想知道。”</p><p>“不是，我们只需要从那堆尸体里面拖回一个——”</p><p>“这个基因层面的发现会怎么改变我们在这儿的任务走向啊？”莱雅翻了个白眼，打断喜重，问道。“假设我们的精灵开始能力消退时我们还没抓到考洛利的话，我们怎么办？”</p><p>“噗。”洛恩娜双脚搭在桌子上，双手托在脑后，支楞着椅子后腿摇来摇去。她咯咯地笑出了声。斯巴克也露出一丝微笑。她做梦般对着天花板傻笑，全然不顾其他人耸起的眉毛或者疑问的眼神。“考洛利现在得气成啥样。”</p><center> # </center><p>洛恩娜隔空拎起考洛利，考洛利挣扎着，好不容易才挣脱她的控制，与比利扔出的剑偏之毫厘。他正好落在比利面前，手中的匕首当头劈去。出乎他的意料，比利的剑不知从何处突然出现挡住了他的攻击。他们攻守躲闪，洛恩娜也加入到争斗里，三人在残骸和地面上的熊熊大火间穿梭着。考洛利很快就发现自己快承受不住他们的进攻了。他勉强后空翻到一块巨大的船身残骸后面，用自己的精灵术超速驱动手里的左轮手枪，往码头上扫射一梭梭子弹阻止他们过来。他必须尽快逃脱。</p><p>比利旋转着他的宽剑把子弹挡了回去，它们深深地嵌进了船身里。洛恩娜搭好一支箭。</p><p>“死老头还剩不少技艺能力，啊？”她点着头松开弦。箭头穿过比利剑身的缝隙穿透了铁皮。扫射依旧进行着。</p><p>“哎哟，您打偏了吗？”比利挖苦道。</p><p>“我刚刚让你轻松了许多，混蛋。”洛恩娜又搭上一支箭。考洛利藏身的残骸爆炸了，有个东西当的一声打在比利的剑上，是半个左轮手枪弹夹。洛恩娜用脚戳了它一下。“呐，外加喘口气的空当。”</p><p>林赛冲出滚滚黑烟，在空中翻转着，向烟里的考洛利用火球轮番轰炸。她落地后滑停在他们面前。</p><p>“海军部队对你来说没什么困难吧？快去艾瑞丝那儿，我帮不了她。”她挥剑在时空中划出一道缝隙，洛恩娜二话没说穿了过去。林赛看向比利：“我们仍要逮捕他吗？”他点点头。“行。”</p><center> # </center><p><em>小可怜。</em>洛恩娜想。她把双手塞到艾瑞丝的双手和头皮之间防止她继续抓伤自己。艾瑞丝尖叫得满嘴白沫，浑身猛烈地抖动着。洛恩娜扔掉艾瑞丝的发箍，紧紧把她抱进怀里，把她们的额头碰在一起。</p><p>艾瑞丝的意识是一团旋转的、过度饱和的情绪和一片片破碎的、浸满迷幻色彩的记忆。它是一扇彩色的琉璃窗，在破碎后被研磨成粉，然后慢慢从一个洞里流逝。</p><p>“对不起。”洛恩娜轻轻说道。她侵入到艾瑞丝意识的最深处，然后篡夺了控制权。艾瑞丝的尖叫戛然而止，她的身体松弛了下来。洛恩娜向她的整个意识发出一阵有规律的思维波动，这种规律在存者的课程里被用于意念术训练。如果艾瑞丝的基因组真的和精灵的相似，那这个波动规律可能会让她的思维与之产生足够的共振，从而不仅平静下来，还可能自我修复，修复的程度至少能找回流走那一部分。</p><p>作为回应，艾瑞丝的身体把指甲深深地陷入了洛恩娜的后背。</p><center> # </center><p>比利集中注意力攻击考洛利时，林赛转身对付大批登陆并开火的士兵。平时用的头盔战术不到半分钟就被证明在这里毫无效率。越来越多的士兵突破海上燃烧的残骸的封锁，从远处的军舰那里蜂拥而至。林赛开始考虑这种情况是不是说明她应该破例杀生——这些人是被考洛利控制着，没错，但她和比利的性命岌岌可危。<em>要不然我可以想别的方法废掉他们。</em></p><p>她把剑在面前一扫，松了手。剑尖笔直向下，她的剑在她周围飞速旋转起来，形成一道屏障。林赛控制住自己所有的官能，让它们渗透所有身处七号码头及其周围的士兵。她试图抓住他们的芯片，但是办不到。然后她又试了下控制住他们的头盔，但也无济于事。于是林赛叹了口气，召集全身所有的力气把每一名士兵悬浮到了空中，把他们固定在那。</p><p>考洛利的气息在快速靠近，冲撞着下落的步枪。林赛刚好来得及抓住她旋转的剑转身格挡住他的匕首。她在他胸前狠狠踢了一脚，把他径直送进比利怀里。比利锁住了考洛利的脖子。</p><p>“正是我需要的空隙。”比利从考洛利的头发里掏出一个发箍。“看来在这里过了二十年让你的意念术衰退了不少。”他在精灵眼前把发箍捏得粉碎。头顶的士兵停止了挣扎。林赛让他们落下。他们在爱洛温和尼克斯的影响下逃跑了。林赛转而把考洛利悬在空中。</p><p>“上。”她奋力束缚着考洛利，对比利哼道。他一跃而起，架好剑。这时杀死这个精灵会把他送上旅途，当他回来时，他只会在他们自己世界里的监狱中醒来，可以随时审问。</p><p>考洛利身边的空气波动着。才上升到一半的比利感觉自己被吸了进去。他不耐烦地咂了下嘴。</p><p>那个精灵轰的一声挣脱了。他发出的冲击波把他身下的水泥地面炸出了一个坑，重新点燃了七号码头渐渐熄灭的大火。林赛被抛起，身子飞过两处大火，撞进海兽号的一块残骸里。比利一头扎进了大海。</p><center> # </center><p>在噩梦般的海水里下落时，他不知道他的手上占了多少人的血——不管是不是在打比方来说。一团团云雾般的血污散开又融合，血肉和碎片沉落又回升。他看到水底海兽号的船尾，上面是鱼雷命中产生的两个巨洞。</p><p>现已成灰的广告上说这艘邮轮加船员可达4000人。据艾瑞丝说，孤儿院里差不多60人左右，其中41位是孤儿。那两天的轰炸摧毁的那一带里，生活着或躲藏着将近100名依靠运气活到第二天的人。</p><p>全没了，都因为有一个人长着他的脸，而他现在全身浸染着那个人的血。如果鲁比克没有带发箍的话，他会死吗？比利看着一条胳膊漂过。他对于考洛利可能操纵他们的担心毫无根据，最终被证明是多余。那个精灵现在实施意念术完全依赖于他的芯片，而他也只能控制芯片。也许他仍可以通过芯片阅读他人的思想，那么他就会知道鲁比克不是他的目标，也就不会下令攻击轮船了……</p><p>比利转身游向水面。为了替那4200人报仇，让他手上再多沾一个人的血吧！考洛利今天就去瓦林纳。</p><center> # </center><p>林赛站起身，用魔法粗略、快速地处理了下身上的伤口。疼痛让她咬紧牙冠，嘴里嘶嘶作响。她的后背上好像有两道长伤口，右臂上有一道，左腿还有一道。至少她的主手——左手——没有事。她受够了。考洛利不会那么容易让他们逮捕，那干脆彻底消灭他好了。看起来他的意念术最先屈服于这个世界的定律，真可惜他保留的是别的精灵技艺。</p><p>真正杀死他的方法只有把他的身体摧毁到难以修复的地步。<em>又不是我第一次。</em>林赛下定决心，做好准备，然后用魔法把面前那堆邮轮残骸炸到一边。</p><p>考洛利也刚好缓过来。他是因为费了过多力气触发那种程度的技艺才踉跄的吗？那就说明他的精灵能力也削弱了一些。林赛咬牙切齿地叫着冲了过去。考洛用两只匕首挡下了。</p><p>“你们人类就这水平？你那个小男友连伤都没伤到我。”他讥笑道。</p><p>“那就我来。”林赛咬牙切齿。三刀被挡下以后，林赛蹬地，在那个精灵周围滑动起来，回旋着进攻又退去。她集中火力攻击他的胳膊，在同一处不断下刀，直到她的猛攻让那里皮开肉绽，露出了骨头。考洛利好像耗尽了气力，他用不了他的技艺了——的确，他的动作缓慢了不少，不再有先前那种强化的敏捷和灵活。</p><p>但是他在技艺上缺失的被他用五个世纪的经验所弥补。在她再一次回身进攻时，林赛被抡转到考洛利的另一侧。她感到他的两只匕首扎进她后背的两处伤口里，剧烈的疼痛让她瘫倒在地。考洛利逼近，准备解决掉她。</p><p>水花四溅，比利冲出水面，一头撞开考洛利。他翻转、起身、径直冲向精灵。考洛利的脸上是和他一样的憎恶。他们互相劈砍，一招一式都不再慎重，肆意宣泄着各自的鄙视和怒火。考洛利疯狂般转身一周，比利向后倒去，洒了一地血。他强忍着痛怒吼着跳了回去，左眼紧闭，血流不止，然后让这个精灵彻底知道一个人的狂怒到底意味着什么。</p><p>十秒以内，考洛利失去了那条已经皮开肉绽的左臂。接下来的32秒里，他意识到那个女孩起身宰割着自己的后背，为她自己报仇。一分钟之后，在他往他们的面部和身上增加更多伤口、并且在那个男孩右眼也深深切开一刀后，考洛利发现他们各自的副手护臂中弹出一只金属爪，但他并不清楚是什么时候弹出来的。进攻两分钟，考洛利发现自己身上插着箭。他看到匕首和长矛、感到战锤和子弹、经受了火焰和闪电，然后意识到他们两人用上了他们能用的一切武器。他不知道自己为什么还能站着。他控制不住自己的胳膊了。他感受不到疼痛，也感受不到四周的大火散发出来的热浪了——甚至连自己的憎恨产生的都感受不到，更别说因为耻辱而产生的、粘稠的冰冷。被两个甚至还未成年的人类杀死是他所知最大的羞辱——他本以为死在存者手下的同僚软弱，然而现在……但这个结果肯定是因为这个世界……如果他们在他的能力是鼎盛时对付他……</p><p>但那个女孩打起来如同她从未受伤，那个男孩如同他的双眼从未致盲。考洛利召集仅剩的所有力气，赌上他最后一点技艺发动最后一击。</p><p>比利往空中抛起一个青铜块，它咔哒一声打开。这个装置背后的技术衍生自转录仪，它泛着蓝光的内核开始吸收考洛利整整500年的记忆。</p><p>“你和我们杀死的最强的那个差太远了。”林赛轻声说道，目光坚定。她格挡住匕首并把它抽出考洛利的手。她很确定她又重新扯开了身上的几处伤口，但是她维持着惯性，猛推出了副手。</p><p>那个精灵转着圈，胳膊大开。他最后感受到的是两只一前一后刺穿他的身体的巨爪。空中的装置咔哒一声合上，变回了一个立方体，掉在地上。他们两个收起金属爪，跟随考洛利的身体摔下。七号码头和他们一样伤痕累累。残余的尸体、轮船和码头的残骸碎片散落在鲜血淋淋、满是坑堑、焦黑破裂的地上。</p><p>他们绕过精灵爬向对方，互相依靠着。</p><p>“你的眼睛——”</p><p>“没什么治不好的。”他低着头，躲着她伸出的手。“你别乱动，别失血过多。”</p><p>“没什么治不好的。”她叹了口气。他们坐着，气喘吁吁。</p><p>“林赛？”</p><p>“嗯，宝贝？”</p><p>“这算胜利吗？”他的双眼一阵剧痛，他倒吸一口气。她在脑海里也感受到了。“为什么我感觉我是坏人？”</p><p>“我也同样内疚。”她低声说道，亲向他。斯巴克在洛恩娜身边一起俯过艾瑞丝。爱洛温和尼克斯在从远处向这边飞来。除此之外，小港在噼啪作响的大火中空空荡荡。</p><center> 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</center><p>“艾瑞丝——”洛恩娜的烂漫不复存在。艾瑞丝没有理睬她。她希望她从来没有醒来过，这样她就不必每夜都回到那个恐怖的混沌漩涡里、重新回到孤儿院那里，回到于夫人、卡米拉、高先生、安妮、小菲、提米和缇娜——回到所有人身边，只为重新再看一次他们生命结束，然后尖叫着、一脸泪水、浑身冷汗地醒来。她希望她从来没有醒来过，这样，当晨光湮灭梦魇时，她不必和自己理论该不该指责或者恨存者——尤其是<em>他</em>。这一切不是他们的错，但归根到底……它是。</p><p>“艾瑞丝……求你了，吃饭吧。”洛恩娜的声音快断了。“我不想再控制你一次了，你吃饭，好吗？”</p><p>她和斯巴克一直在用意念术强迫艾瑞丝吃饭，只为维持她的生命，然后重新再过一遍那些苦难。艾瑞丝应该因为他们违背她的意愿做了所有人都认为是正确的事情而恨他们吗？</p><p>爱洛温和尼克斯每天都会来检查她的精神状态，她们没有抹去她的记忆。她们窥探她的脑海，筛滤并整理她的思想，试图让她说话。她们说，说话对精神创伤的康复会有帮助。艾瑞丝应该因为她们没有抹掉她最痛苦的回忆、对她说谎而恨她们吗？</p><p>唯一不在场的那两个人……艾瑞丝不在乎。他们的责任是最大的，她因为他们的缺席而恨他们。</p><p>自从她在酒店房间里那张拼在一起的床里醒来后，她没有说过一句话，也没有自主动过一下。洛恩娜和支楞着木偶一样领她去洗手间、去淋浴、去海滩散步。她不知道自己毫无意识地躺了多久，而且她早已不去数过了多少天了。她躺在床上她的那一边，像植物人一样，看着头顶天窗外的天气从三月微风化为四月春雨。她总是听见客厅传来的新闻谈及关于小港事件的持续调查（洛恩娜给她讲过整个事件的经过，但她关心的只是……什么都不关心）。海鸥的鸣叫增加了。她的石膏开始裂开了。</p><p>接下来会发生什么？她只知道在这个世界里，她一无所有了，然而她死死抓着这份信息，她拥有的唯一具体、明确、亘古不变的东西。她的噩梦加固了这个念头，使她难得开始接受它们，就像一朵漫无目的的云接受它最终会下落、化雨而逝这个事实一样。</p><p>四月下旬的一天，她睁开双眼，感到身旁有个软软的东西。是她的左胳膊和左手。石膏外壳彻底破碎了。她活动了下手指，按了按她的小臂。她掀起被子，往外面挑着暗白的石膏块。整条胳膊好难闻。艾瑞丝跳出床，踉踉跄跄地跑进洗手间，几个周以来第一次自己走路。一阵突如其来的晕眩让她一个趔趄坐到马桶上，眼冒金星。她边哭边脱下衣服，爬进浴缸，任凭热水拍打她的身体。能重新拥有自己的身子真是太好了。</p><p>洛恩娜敲了敲门，走了进来。她等着艾瑞丝洗完她这辈子洗过最长的澡——艾瑞丝把她的胳膊搓得通红，感觉它永远也不会闻起来干净了。她拉开浴帘时，洛恩娜盯着她，和自己的情绪挣扎着。艾瑞丝没听见她敲门，但她早不在乎了。每天是洛恩娜给她洗的澡。精灵也会无言以对吗，尤其是和所有人都妩媚调情的这位？艾瑞丝和他们在一起的时光颠覆了她很多认知。</p><p>“身材不错。”洛恩娜好像决定应该尽量变回原来那个轻浮烂漫的自己。艾瑞丝狠狠地扯上浴帘。整整两秒后她才听到洛恩娜跺脚：“你冲我发火前至少把衣服穿好吧！”</p><p><em>就这也叫还嘴？</em>艾瑞丝想。</p><p>艾瑞丝回到房间时，林赛和比利坐在一起等她。她依着一根木杖，他缠着眼罩。她试图站起身，他拦住她，自己站了起来。洛恩娜在床边安顿好艾瑞丝，走到他们那边。</p><p>“我们的职位并不意味着什么，”他开口说道，声音又冷又硬，就像艾瑞丝几百万年前在那个胡同里第一次遇见他时那样。“但是我们在各自的院校里还是持有领导地位。”艾瑞丝对着地毯，一脸不屑。他干什么，重申自己的权力吗？给她下达必须吃饭、说话、不要有幸存者愧疚的命令吗？这一切都是他的错（<em>就算他们长得一样不是他的错，这一切还是他的错。</em>她心想）。他咽了下口水，接着说：“爱洛温和尼克斯出门买菜去了，另两位院校大师明天才能到，但是我等——不下去了。”</p><p>出乎艾瑞丝的意料，她从眼角里看到他深深地鞠下躬。洛恩娜也跟着俯下身。</p><p>“我们——我们给你带来了难以言喻、超乎想象的苦难和创伤。我们没——没有履行我们的诺言。求你——求你允许我们两个代替全体埃洛达理事会和我们所有学院的大师向你道——道歉。”他稳住自己的呼吸。“如果你有任何愤怒和憎恨，请朝我来吧。这都是我个人的责任——”</p><p>“道歉带不回来任何人……艾瑞丝，如果你需要什么，请随便问。我们会做任何事，尽管我知道我们做的永远不会够……”</p><p>如果她让他们了结了她悲惨的生命，他们真会做吗？艾瑞丝咬紧牙，指甲深深陷进腿里。她感觉冷。她感觉病了。她受够了。杀死她吧。没有会想念她的人了。让她离开这个好人总被惩罚、恶人总被奖赏的狗屁世界吧！她想要什么？把那对华丽精致的剑刺进她。她都洗干净了，她怎么来的就怎么死。</p><p>林赛扯了一下那两个依旧鞠着躬的人，让他们坐下。这个举动不知为何让艾瑞丝呼吸轻松了许多。她身边的床垫陷了下去。林赛的胳膊，因为疼痛颤抖着，抱住了她。</p><p>“你没必要非得死才能离开啊，艾瑞丝。”艾瑞丝把头转向另一边。林赛抱得更紧了。“求你了，我不想让你死。”</p><center> # </center><p>门砰的一声被撞开了，晓桐冲了进来。她扑到艾瑞丝身上。</p><p>“你感觉怎么样啊？你还好吗？噩梦？头晕？你的胳膊怎么样了？石膏卸了，还疼吗？虽然罕见但还是得确认一下——”</p><p>就算晓桐和卡米拉在两个世界里对应——而她们两个并不是——她也不能替代她。艾瑞丝任她絮叨，看向一边，面无表情。她好久没说话了，她的嗓子感觉死了一样。晓桐捧起她的脸。</p><p>“我们在他们的墓周围施了法，这样当你——如果你回来的话，你还可以再去看一眼，好吗？”艾瑞丝闭上眼睛。她说服了自己不去要他们的骨灰。她受不了自己拥有所有事物——她失去的生活、他们的死、这个令人作呕的世界——的证明。鲁比克连能下葬的都没有。</p><p>这样也好。</p><p>“主厨——艾瑞丝，真对不起！——真的，真对不起！——我们不得不把他送到日本。艾瑞丝！听我说啊——总得有人告诉于夫人的朋友发生了什么，艾瑞丝——哦，真对不起……我们在他的脑海里放了一个指令——他一到熊本，指令就会强迫他去找到那个夫人，给她报信。但是听啊！是比利和林赛放的，所以你也不知道他们还放了什么！对于合适，或者说应得的人，他们两个还是可能会很残忍的。”艾瑞丝不知道晓桐跟她说这些有什么好处。她不想知道更多让她对那两个人心情更复杂的事情了。如果那个“还放了”的指令是“去死吧”，那么艾瑞丝不知道那算是惩罚还是仁慈；如果是让他过一个残酷的生活，那艾瑞丝不知道自己作为另一个人苦难的源头该怎么想。<em>晓桐会说我的经历“残酷”吗？</em></p><p>晓桐放开她，从包里掏出一个东西。艾瑞丝的头迅速转了过去。这怎么可能——那只毛绒兔子——它不应该跟着孤儿院一起被烧成灰了吗？——但是它就在那，她在孤儿院过第一个生日时，卡米拉送给她的那只。艾瑞丝一把抢过来，翻来覆去地看着。并不完全一样。它少了一只耳朵，身上有一部分的针脚更细。晓桐玩弄着她的眼镜。</p><p>“那个，啊——他——他说不要告诉你，但他跑回废墟那边找到了这个。他让我们医疗队‘干我们的绝活’，那个，你知道的吧，我们很会缝东西。”晓桐稍微笑了一点。艾瑞丝的表情软了下来。晓桐再次开口时，语气轻松了许多。“精灵很会修东西的，我也在能帮忙的地方搭了把手。有的部位在这里真的没办法，所以我们只能先放着。但是我保证！我们学院有所有院校里最好的裁缝！我们回去第一件事就是找他们帮忙——啊，那个……”</p><p><em>我只剩这个了。</em>艾瑞丝把脸埋在兔子里，蜷缩起来。<em>是个好东西。</em></p><p>“你是和我们一起走，对吧？”晓桐听上去几乎像是有点害怕得到的回答。</p><p>“嗯，”艾瑞丝对着毛绒兔子悄声说道，声音沙哑。“你跟我走。”</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;center&gt; -- 离别 -- &lt;/center&gt;

&lt;p&gt;卡米拉没有挺过来。&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;她的情况一直没有好转过。她被带进来时发着高烧，医疗队通过抗生素和他们的精灵法术勉强将其控制到了39度以下。他们检测到她的心率和大脑活动都维持在极小值。术后48小时内，她的高烧退了，但她的心脏停跳了三次，而且每一次进行心脏复苏时需要的功率都比前一次大。在术后58小时，她的体温跌落到35度。医疗队迅速行动，却发现她体内的感染复发，细菌以惊人的速度适应了他们的药，其浓度已经足以让脑髓发炎、瘫痪。在第61小时，她停止了心跳，所有的医疗手段都无济于事。六十一小时半，她出现脑积水的症状。医疗队又奋斗了几乎两个半小时，直到艾瑞丝因为睡不踏实而起床着装，趟过浓浓黑暗来到医疗棚里。走廊里没有人，她等在急救室外，听着门帘那边传来的低沉的脚步声。她坐下，开始祈祷。孤儿院里没有人信教。于夫人不允许，她只相信自己。每个人嘴上挂着的“亲天娘”最终也只是口头禅，无论她在他们的民俗神话里担任了什么角色，她现在是帮不上忙了。&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;于是她向卡米拉祈祷，乞求她挺过来、好起来。于夫人已经不在人世，安妮不知去向，小菲也不在这里。卡米拉是唯一剩下的女孩子了——有的人是鲁比克永远替代不了的。&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>2020冬至故事——阿尔瓦人物传：艾瑞丝第二章——动荡</title>
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    <published>2022-05-03T03:10:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2023-04-25T04:44:33.398Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><center> -- 动荡 -- </center><p>“嘿，我们能过去吗？”鲁比克走到人民大道上的自由军士兵面前，丝毫不害怕他粗犷的外表。“我妹妹和我要去趟银行。”</p><p>自由军的最后一道防线比艾瑞丝想象的还要忙碌。身着脏兮兮的衣服的士兵在挖着和街道差不多宽的战壕，战壕已经足够隐藏一个站立的成年人了。它沿着大街的两个方向延伸，一眼望去看不到尽头。一些穿得更暖和点的下等兵在路边喊着号子拖着重型炮车，机修工把半个身子伸进停靠的坦克下，工具箱半露在外面。鲁比克和艾瑞丝并不是今天唯一上街的平民，大街上满是像他们一样请求使用战壕过道的人。那名士兵仔细打量着他们两人，他的目光在鲁比克的脸上停留得有点太久，最终他还是侧踏一步让他们通过了。</p><span id="more"></span><p>在全面冲突爆发前，尽管有遭遇战，这儿依旧还有营业的商铺。一排排两层楼高的联栋房容纳的是肉店、咖啡店、糕点房、服装店、邮局、甚至电影院，但它们的前门早被钉死了，顾客需要从后门进。自从自由军转移居民和店主后，这些房子改成了兵营和军队设施。在战壕的另一侧，鲁比克和艾瑞丝看到几栋被毁的房子。他们快步绕过一个弹坑。</p><p>“那个人让我浑身不舒服。我们回来的时候换个地方过吧。”艾瑞丝说。鲁比克点点头。</p><p>“能出来活动活动倒是挺好的。”</p><p>如果不是离他们出发还有一个星期，微风轻抚的三月天可能会让他们感觉到希望。就在前一天，自由军的巡逻队伍在全城大街小巷里广播了作战双方谈判决定解放日停火一周的消息。艾瑞丝认为这荒唐得要死——他们连春节都没停火。于夫人则抓紧这个机会把他们七个人送出门处理旅途相关的事情。她交给鲁比克和艾瑞丝一枚信封，在他们耳边悄声告诉他们去银行取支付旅途费用的支票本。</p><p>“干啥这么神秘啊，妈？”鲁比克问。</p><p>“知道你们去做什么的人越少越好。我们现在最好格外小心些。”她严肃的神情让艾瑞丝好奇高先生是不是说服她接受了那套阴谋论。</p><p>他们穿过大街南边的一条街道后，周围的人少了很多，毕竟从这里往南十条街都是自由军的防守区域，而大多数炸弹都落在这儿，这一片并没有多少东西。他们在尸体间挑出一条路，找到了银行。一块被尘土覆盖的牌子指引他们到边门所在的胡同里，但房间里一个人也没有。艾瑞丝按了按柜台上的铃，屋子深处传来一阵金属摩擦的声音。过了一会儿，一个战战兢兢的柜员从地下室的楼梯那儿爬了出来。</p><p>“欢-欢迎光临。”他看了一眼信，又下去了，回来时手里拿着七枚信封。</p><p>“谢谢。”鲁比克点了点头。出门后，他把四枚递给艾瑞丝，两个人把它们小心翼翼地藏进衬衫里。“咱赶紧走吧。不想待这儿。”</p><p>艾瑞丝抓住他的手，他们往西边快步前进。涂着红黄色旗帜的飞机在雾蒙蒙的天上轰鸣着飞过，它们在前面不远处调头又飞了回来。<em>看来人民军也在努力抢占停火的好处——</em></p><p>他们被一声呼啸吓了一跳。一颗炮弹从南面飞过，消失在半垮的教堂尖塔后。艾瑞丝被爆炸震得跌倒在地，鲁比克扶她起来。</p><p>“估计是不小心走火了——”他被另一阵呼啸声打断，接着又是两声。艾瑞丝拽了拽他，他们转身跑向另一个方向。他们穿过一个十字路口时，一颗炮弹落到了他们右边的街口。他们虽然不在爆炸范围内，但与爆炸点的距离足以让他们感受到爆炸的全部威力。艾瑞丝踉跄了一下，在尘土里咳嗽着，她的耳朵里是阵阵回响。鲁比克在喊着什么，但她一句也听不到。他把她拉到一堵墙后，艾瑞丝感到身边一股热浪滚滚而去。她的惊叫声只能沿她的头骨传导到耳朵里，听上去极为怪异。他们起身继续跑，然后左转。战壕就在前方，距离他们只有两个路口。士兵在迅速回到各自的岗位上，他们身后是四处逃窜的平民百姓。艾瑞丝看到重型炮口冒出的青烟，停火已经是过去时了。跑到街口一半处时，艾瑞丝回头看到一个炮弹正朝着他们的方向飞来。她尖叫着把鲁比克狠狠扯向左手边的胡同里。他们抱着头躲在一个垃圾箱后面，炮弹尖叫着飞过。不等大地停止晃动，鲁比克就带着艾瑞丝出了胡同继续沿着马路奔跑。他们前往战壕的路在一个又一个路口被废墟或者大火阻挡。艾瑞丝上气不接下气，她的喉咙干燥上火，她的耳朵被一个持续的、单调的蜂鸣声淹没，像是来自一个永不停歇的锣。他们今天就不该出门，根本就不能信任军队……</p><p>下一个街道有路。他们能看见战壕，站在里面拿着望远镜的士兵只有头露在外面。他们中肯定有一个人看到了他们，他冲他的同伴比划着，一个四人小队扛着枪爬了出来。<em>哦，感谢亲天娘啊，他们来救我们了——</em></p><p>一道轻微的呼啸声划破铜锣的回响，士兵们分头躲到掩体后。鲁比克回头看向天空，他的面部愤怒地扭成一团，嘴里好像是在说着“我操什么玩意儿？”紧接着艾瑞丝感到自己被甩到了空中。她飞进另一条胡同，重重地摔在左胳膊上，凭着惯性滚到了一个垃圾箱后面。好像有人又敲响了那面锣，她缩成一团。大地在震动，冲击波把砂石瓦砾抛了进来。它们像子弹一样穿透垃圾箱，但是——谢天谢地——被里面的垃圾挡住了。</p><p>垃圾箱忽地一声燃烧起来。</p><p>艾瑞丝吓得惊叫一声，试图站起来跑开。扶着墙的左手传来一阵刺痛，她因此一头扎向墙那边，瘫倒在地。<em>不会断了吧！</em>她试了试右臂和双腿，它们有划伤，除此之外还好。艾瑞丝咬紧牙关退离大火，她按了按耳朵，想停止嗡嗡的声音，但是一点用都没有。天旋地转中，她心想：<em>鲁比克呢？鲁比克呢？</em></p><p>胡同口在那里，外面是马路。地震好像停止了，但世界仍在旋转。她伸出右手扶着墙，浑身颤抖，遍身血迹。她还能走路吗？不行。于是她爬到出口，抬头望向外面。她立刻失去了力气。</p><p>路中间变成了一个路一样宽的弹坑。</p><p>混凝土块。断裂的管道。连根倒地的树干。块块尸体。在她的泪水中，世界继续转啊转。</p><p>艾瑞丝的手扑向她的嘴，她的另一只手出于习惯也跟了上来，疼得她抽搐。她边哭边干呕。没有鲁比克。没有鲁比克，哪里也没有。只有部分。她的胃狠狠挤了一下，但什么都没有出来。不。不。她把自己拖进胡同深处，耳朵里的嗡嗡声安静了许多。大地又震动了一次。艾瑞丝缩成一团，泪流不止。来得太突然了，太突然了。他们就不该出门。她现在不可能自己回去，没有鲁比克她还不如死掉。<em>燃烧的垃圾箱——爬进去算了……</em></p><p>为什么天空中还有炮弹飞驰？这一切太不真实了……整个世界就应该戛然而止……她的双耳彻底安静了下来，她一点点挪向垃圾箱，胳膊刺痛。这一切都不对，全都不对……他们做了什么，得到这种报应？她身后传来杂乱的靴子跑过的声音。<em>走开。走开……你们做的破坏还不够吗？</em>一阵枪响，她倒吸了一口气，一动也不敢动。现在他们在撤退，原路回到来的地方。他们的子弹弹射在砖块上、水泥块上、还有……<em>金属上？</em>艾瑞丝缩得更紧了，尖锐的声音折磨着她的耳朵。她闭上双眼。<em>火团发出的一股股热浪挺舒服的……</em>她自言自语道。子弹每次打在金属上都发出不同的声音，仿佛他们在朝一个旋转的钢管开枪。艾瑞丝又怕又抖，咬紧牙关不让自己发出呜咽声，以防他们发现她。</p><p>最后一颗子弹从管子上弹开后，有人走进了胡同里，顿了一下，然后走向她。她从坚定的脚步中听出是个男的。艾瑞丝控制不住自己颤栗的呼吸了。</p><p>“别……”她轻声哭着。“走开……”不久前她还那么想死，为什么现在却这么难？他要对她做什么？他在等什么？</p><p>“胳膊骨折。”唐突、有一丝冰冷。他蹲下身，在口袋里翻找了一会儿，然后伸出一只手，轻轻地、小心翼翼地碰了下她的左臂。艾瑞丝抽动了一下，试图爬走。</p><p>“我是想帮你。”</p><p><em>不能相信当兵的。</em>艾瑞丝想。</p><p>“你是想截肢吗？”</p><p><em>就是不想让你截。</em></p><p>“我不会的。”</p><p>艾瑞丝彻底停住了。刚才那句是在回答她的想法吗？那人趁这个时候又把手伸了过来。</p><p>“胳膊放松。”她照办了。他把它抬高了一毫米，在下面垫上一块弯曲的塑料。隔着她湿润的睫毛，艾瑞丝看到他带着皮手套的手在胳膊上面又加了一块，然后固定住她的胳膊。壳子内部是柔软的海绵，多多少少缓和了疼痛。他接着把手悬在她的头上，一股暖流在她的大脑里弥漫着。整个世界稳定下来，各部分逐渐归回原位。</p><p>胡同入口又是一阵杂乱脚步声。那股暖流撤走了，但世界依旧稳定。他起身。</p><p>“他在那！”</p><p>“长官要抓活的——”</p><p>听起来那个人冲向了他们，士兵下意识地开枪。艾瑞丝打了个寒战。杀死她只需要一颗打偏的子弹——</p><p>和刚才一样，枪声戛然而止。艾瑞丝听到一阵扭打，哼的一声，两声沉闷的木头撞击声，最后，一个金属做的什么东西掉到了地上。</p><p>“你没在这儿看到我。”那个陌生人说。“你也没有。你也是。”他们应该是走了，因为他回来把她翻过身，系紧了塑料壳子上的绳子。艾瑞丝瞪圆双眼，倒吸一口气，很快因恐惧而皱起眉头。陌生人根本没在看她，他确认好绳结足够紧。</p><p>“你不是鲁比克。”艾瑞丝轻声说道。他有着鲁比克的脸，他有着他的头发，他甚至在左眼角有一颗同样的痣，但艾瑞丝太熟悉鲁比克了，她知道眼前的不是他。仔细想想，他的口音也不对。</p><p>“不是。”陌生人低声说道。“你能走路吗？”他伸出一只手。她握住，浑身颤抖着把自己拉起来，然后双腿一软。鲁比克的分身叹了口气。他把身上的斗篷盖在她身上，然后把她抱了起来。</p><p>艾瑞丝能做什么？就算她想，她也挣扎不了。街上满是碎石瓦块和尸体，但至少他的步伐很稳。空中已没有飞机，轰炸看起来也彻底结束了。<em>现在</em>他们想起来有停火协议是吧？陌生人嘲弄般冷笑一下。</p><p>“根本就没什么停火。”他嘟哝道。“这整个战争就是场戏。”艾瑞丝抽动了一下，为此他也跟着身子一紧，把她抱得更紧些。</p><p>那句话是对她想法的明确、直接的回答。他怎么知道她在想什么？艾瑞丝感觉十分不安。这个“鲁比克”挺过了轰炸、找到了她、缴械了三名全副武装的士兵，现在在血污、火焰和弹坑之间抱着她大步流星，仿佛仅仅是在散步而已。他是谁啊？他是人民军的吗？他的胳膊有点硌得慌，艾瑞丝感觉像是挂在两根管子间。</p><p>“抱歉。”他的脸一沉，把她放在一栋楼的废墟旁。艾瑞丝震惊地以为他又读到了她的想法，现在要抛弃她。接着，她听到子弹上膛的声音。他们开火了。</p><p>尽管知道自己不该如此，但艾瑞丝还是忍不住从废墟后面探出头偷看。四名士兵堵着前面的路，她没看清“鲁比克”是怎么边冲向他们边躲避子弹的。他爬上右边仍然矗立的房子，然后消失在从窗户里喷出的熊熊大火中。艾瑞丝张大了嘴巴。<em>这在干什么啊？自杀吗？</em>然而他不知如何却又出现了，在空中旋转着，手里握着一柄原先哪里也没有的剑，剑尖向下，摆好了进攻的架势。然后他又消失了。至此，艾瑞丝决定她已经在轰炸中死了，现在走在黄泉路上——要不然她就是正躺在那个燃烧的垃圾箱后面出现幻觉。</p><p>那她还不如好好欣赏演出呢。她再次探出头，刚好看到他一剑砍掉士兵步枪的枪管，顺带着敲掉他头上的钢盔，而地上已经躺着两个了。他把那名士兵扔向最后一名，然后优雅流畅地也踢掉了最后那名的钢盔。</p><p><em>一个人带着刀打枪战，还赢了？这真不是每天都能见到。</em>艾瑞丝做了个鬼脸。如果这就是来世，那也不赖啊。</p><p>“鲁比克”走回来接她，脸上有一丝最轻微的不爽。他的剑哪去了？她依旧不信任他，但她感到一点点安心：他不杀人的。他们走过躺在地上晕眩的士兵，他们嘴里喃喃地重复着：“他不在这儿。他不在这儿。”</p><center> 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</center><p>“林赛已经把他带到三号病房了。”一位满头金发的先生和他们说。“鲁比克”略带暖意地对他点了点头。艾瑞丝满脸通红，她不想让别人看到她这个样子。</p><p>“鲁比克”把她带到的地方在山头公园里。整个路途中她满眼是烧焦的树桩和土地，这里被一个月前的那场火烧得一片死寂。当坡度减缓时，眼前的景象立刻变了。死气沉沉的废土被生意盎然的树木所代替，湿漉漉的枝条带着嫩绿的骨朵向小路中间伸展。又走了几步后，他们来到一片林间空地，这里支着不少白色平顶帐篷，中间的那个是四个中最大的，他们进的那个在它的左边，门帘在他们面前自动摆到一边给他们放行。</p><p>帐篷的外表简直不能更具有欺骗性了。门帘后面的是一间宽敞明亮的大堂，大堂另一头是一个条长长的走廊，在尽头处拐向一边。艾瑞丝看到八九个人——白皮肤、黄皮肤、黑皮肤，他们有的是金发，有的是黑发，有一两个还是红发或栗发——走着、坐着、三三两两地站在一起。他们的衣着各异——或是白袍，或是带皮革防护的长袍，还有普通的衬衫。他们神情严肃，有一两个会抬头和“鲁比克”打招呼。</p><p>“过两分钟开会？”</p><p>“十。”他答道。</p><p>他们走进走廊深处的一间病房。</p><p>“艾瑞丝！”</p><p>那人的声音让艾瑞丝猛地抬起头，她差点从陌生人的怀里掉下来。艾瑞丝伸出手，然后想起来屋里还有两名陌生人，她快速把手缩了回来。但是鲁比克——真正的那个，<em>她的</em>鲁比克——就坐在病床上，和往常一样无忧无虑地耷拉着双腿。一个戴着眼镜、扎着马尾的黑发女孩在测量他的各项身体指标，另一个金发女孩倚着他们对面的柜子，双臂抱胸，嘴角挂着一丝微笑。她的睫毛又长又密，琥珀色的眼睛从兴奋的鲁比克转向他们。</p><p>“比利，你把她带回来了。”</p><p>“下次咱俩换换,女孩子更信任女孩子。”他把艾瑞丝放到旁边的床上，倚到那个金发女孩身边。他们两人都身着短夹克，肩膀处和两只袖子的背面全被皮革覆盖，一条皮带从左肩斜跨到右侧，然后环绕腰部一圈。他们的裤子是由结实的蓝布料做的，他们都戴着手套、脚蹬靴子。那个黑发女孩看起来像是本地人，她穿着白色毛衣和同样的蓝裤子，外加一条白大褂。她让艾瑞丝放松下来，然后解开她胳膊上的塑料罩子。</p><p>“嗯——没门儿。”金发女孩把头搭在他的肩上。“比利”——她刚才叫他“比利”。</p><p>“艾瑞丝，你没事儿吧？”鲁比克探过身。“你受伤了！但愿我没把你扔得太狠。我吓坏了，但你<em>永远</em>不会相信接下来发生了啥！”</p><p>“给她点儿空间，鲁比克。”黑发女孩说。她的声音干脆利落，艾瑞丝觉得很好听。鲁比克亲了下艾瑞丝，坐了回去。那个女孩笑道：“但你可以接着说话啊。”</p><p>“啊对！艾瑞丝，你不会信的！我刚把你扔进胡同的那一刹那，林赛——”他指了指金发女孩，她一脸新奇地打量着他们俩，“在炮弹击中前直接把我<em>撞飞了</em>！然后她把我瞬移到这儿。我跟你说，<em>她当时真的在飞</em>！”</p><p>“是吗？”比利斜眼瞄着她。林赛用胳膊肘戳了他一下，咂了一下嘴。他摇了摇头，说：“有用就行。”</p><p>“然后我就到这儿了，病房里。晓桐刚才给我处理了擦伤什么的。”鲁比克朝黑发女孩点点头。</p><p>晓桐扶起艾瑞丝，艾瑞丝身体摇晃，鲁比克立刻挪过去扶稳她。</p><p>“她有脑震荡，我尽力帮了下，但途中被打断了。”比利说道。他现在听起来自然多了，那份唐突不复存在。</p><p>“辛苦你的胳膊了啊，抱她走了那么远。”林赛打趣道。她的声音听起来有些醇厚朦胧，像鹅绒，和艾瑞丝自己的一样。晓桐递给她一杯东西让她喝掉，说这个安眠，对她的脑震荡康复有帮助。杯子里毫无味道的液体往她的脑海里灌进一片浓雾。</p><p>“没啥，”比利歪嘴一笑，“她可比你轻多了。”林赛又咂了下嘴，戳了他一下。比利咯咯地笑了，听起来和他好不相符。他又加了一句：“该开会了。晓桐，你待在这儿吧。”</p><p>艾瑞丝看到晓桐点了点头。她看到林赛从比利的肩上抬起头，她感到鲁比克那熟悉的双臂，她想知道另五个人有没有躲过轰炸回家。</p><p><em>孤儿院里的人肯定担心急了。</em></p><center> 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</center><p>艾瑞丝醒来时，一道阳光洒在浅黄色的墙上。病房里除了鲁比克睡在她床头方向的床上以外，一个人都没有。她躺在那，伸出的左胳膊上裹着一层石膏，里面的胳膊隐隐作痛，并且时不时传出一阵刺痛。她翻过身面对整个房间。太阳从柜子旁的窗帘缝隙中向屋内偷看，柜子的另一边是一张工作台，上面所有的工具和瓶瓶罐罐都整整齐齐地台灯周围，倚着墙。在她的床脚处立着各种监控她的体征的设备。好奇怪啊，她还以为她身上会连着一堆探头和线，但瞧，屏幕上的心电图的确是在随她的心跳上下起伏。</p><p>艾瑞丝摸了摸衣服下的口袋——装着支票簿的信封还在。<em>呼。我们得回到妈妈那儿。</em></p><p>门帘被轻轻地掀开了。艾瑞丝扭着脖子看见林赛推着手推车，晓桐在一旁给她扶着门帘。</p><p>“啊，你醒啦。”晓桐悄声说道。她检查了一下屏幕，又打开了几个新窗口。艾瑞丝看到她的骨骼，还有一张奇怪的图，看上去像一团云在一个洞里旋转。晓桐转向她，说：“你康复得不错，骨头再生进度和预期一样。胳膊感觉怎么样？”</p><p>“阵痛。”</p><p>“那没事儿。别忘了，毕竟我们是在把三个月的生长过程压缩到一个周里。”她扶起艾瑞丝，屏幕上的洞突然黑了。“你的头呢？还晕吗？”艾瑞丝摇了摇头，饶有兴趣地看着屏幕。上面洞里的云没再回来。</p><p>“脑震荡在我们这儿是最好治的。”林赛笑道。“顺便，这整张床就是一个大探测头。吃早饭吗？我来帮你洗漱。”</p><p>她们又回到走廊里。现在她的头脑清醒许多以后，艾瑞丝仔细打量四周。她根本看不出来她们在一顶帐篷里，墙壁完全没有纺织布的样子，面向树木的窗户是真正的玻璃，天花板上安装着灯。这里唯一的帐篷特征是每个房间入口挂着的是门帘，而不是门。这里的人早已起床开始一天的忙碌，踩着利索的步子在过道里来来回回、从房间里进进出出。林赛跟他们打着招呼，扶着艾瑞丝来到洗漱间——他们这里还有真正的洗漱台和抽水马桶，这一切简直干净得奢侈。</p><p>她刷完牙，尴尬地顿了顿。一只手洗脸肯定会很困难。林赛拖过来一把凳子，让艾瑞丝坐下。</p><p>“我来就是为了这个。”她站在艾瑞丝身后，轻轻地把艾瑞丝的头发扎成马尾，双手伸过她的肩膀到她面前。“今天我听从您的指令。懂不，‘指’令？”林赛咯咯地笑着。简直完美——艾瑞丝感觉就像是自己在洗脸。她们结束后她心怀感激地握住林赛的右手。</p><p>“等等……”艾瑞丝呆住了。她以为自己又在出幻觉，但林赛的手真的是从每一道手线到每个指尖的指纹都和下面她自己的一模一样。她抬起头，镜子里是她焦虑不安的面孔：两只大大的、眼尾向下略微倾斜的黑眼睛，一只小小的圆圆的鼻头，撅起的嘴唇，纤细的脸和一个几乎突出的下巴。旁边是林赛的：锐利的琥珀色双眼在眼角处上翘，比她的稍微大一点；鼻子比她的更长、更尖；又小又尖的下巴上方是她丰满的嘴唇，挂着顽皮的笑。她的脸也一样纤瘦，但她的两颊有一点鼓鼓的。她们除了马尾以外相貌上没有一丝相似之处。艾瑞丝又看了一遍她们的手，转向林赛：“……？”</p><p>林赛亲了一下她的脸：</p><p>“不重要。早餐！”</p><center> 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</center><p>尽管早餐极其丰盛、火腿蛋松饼好吃到差点让她哭出来，而且尽管这可能是她们在国内唯一一顿好饭了，艾瑞丝还是没有一丝留恋，她一刻也不能让于夫人多担心。天气还是不错的：和往常一样，天上有一点霾，但至少还有太阳。林里的空气清新，艾瑞丝深深地呼吸着，这里的空气比孤儿院的那片林子里的更好闻。晓桐送他们出门，并递给艾瑞丝两瓶药——一瓶负责骨骼康复，一瓶负责脑震荡，絮絮叨叨地嘱咐要睡前服用，每天都要吃，每天睡前都要吃。</p><p>“安啦，她肯定会记得。”林赛拍了拍晓桐的肩。“回见！”</p><p>这座城已支离破碎，艾瑞丝走下焦黑的山坡时，心里回荡着这句话：支离破碎，如同铁锤下的玻璃球一样。四处飘起的道道硝烟是一场场战火的遗骸，它们像鬼魂一样飘过坍塌瓦解的楼房。艾瑞丝再也找不到寺院的塔尖和教堂的高塔了。那些大厦的蓝玻璃幕墙已化为粉渣，剩下的只有扭曲断裂的钢铁框架，突兀地一头扎进红砖废墟里。现在，她能看见下面的街道，有的路面被堆积的瓦砾抬高了，零星的平民小心翼翼地在上面挑着下脚处。暗绿的坦克碾轧着其他几条路——路上巡逻的队伍好像更多了。</p><p>“比利呢？”鲁比克在一个路口问。</p><p>“他有事。”林赛探头看过街角。“等等……”一支队伍列队走过后，她领着他们继续前进。“他托我道歉，说不能送你们了。”林赛又诚恳地补充道。“毕竟不是每天都能见到和自己长得一模一样的人。哦说起这个，我别忘了——”她警觉地瞪了下眼，从口袋里掏出一个大兜帽。“把它戴上，鲁比克。你能不能别闹了——必须是你戴！”他从艾瑞丝头上摘掉，老老实实戴上了。林赛递给艾瑞丝一顶帽子，把自己的头发藏进另一顶底下，这才继续前进。</p><p>他们此后再也没停下。头顶和往常一样有飞机飞过，身边是一批批巡逻队伍，但两方军队似乎都记起来停火这回事。艾瑞丝想向林赛问清这一切，因为他们那帮人好像知道什么，但她没勇气。</p><p>这一路到目前为止平平无奇，艾瑞丝希望它保持这样。鲁比克倒是很轻松，一有机会，他就翻查路边的尸体。林赛对此一句话也没说，她好像根本就没注意到——她的身体随着每一步绷得越来越紧，肩膀躬着，仿佛随时准备在最轻微的挑衅下跳起反击。她在每一个路口上下检查道路和天空。</p><p>离战壕还有一个路口，他们停下来等着一只巡逻队通过。</p><p>“你把我们送到这儿就行了，我挺确定我们过了战壕之后就没事了。”鲁比克说。</p><p>“没门儿。”林赛冲他甜甜地一笑。“好人得做到底。”</p><p>“啊——对——”鲁比克伸进兜帽挠了挠头，整个动作把他的脸暴露在大庭广众之下。林赛双眼警惕地一闪。</p><p>“快戴好！快点！”</p><p>一名士兵扫了他们一眼，林赛瞪了回去。</p><p>“我们赶——”她的声音淹没在飞机的螺旋桨声中。她抓起他们的手，加快了脚步。艾瑞丝踉跄了一下，但还是跟住了。紧接着的声音让她从内到外彻底凉透。“该死！”林赛骂道，她分别揽住艾瑞丝和鲁比克的腰。刚走过去的巡逻队不约而同地转向他们，举枪、上膛。从他们身后几个路口远的地方传来一声迫击炮的呼啸，爆炸声紧随其后，而后又是一声，又是另一声。士兵们开火了，林赛狠狠蹬地，艾瑞丝感觉她的双脚离开了地面。鲁比克没错：<em>林赛会飞</em>。身下的地面先是模糊而后清晰，他们落到了孤儿院的那条街。艾瑞丝双腿在落地的冲击下一软。</p><p>“你们孤儿院在哪？我还能——”沉重密集的靴子声打断了林赛。“贴紧墙！”她喊道，转身面对从身后路口冲出来的士兵队伍。艾瑞丝躲进鲁比克怀里，鲁比克把他们两人藏进了一个门口。一发发子弹根本没机会碰到他们。在远处传来的阵阵迫击炮声之间，艾瑞丝听见子弹打在砖头和水泥上，然后她又听到了那个声音：金属，就像是冰雹打在他们孤儿院的屋顶上一样。她小心翼翼地探出头，大吃一惊。</p><p>比利不是唯一带刀上枪战的人。林赛手里也熟练灵活地旋转着一柄剑身宽大的剑，把所有子弹都挡了回去。她步步逼近士兵阵列，然后杀了进去，让他们手里的步枪和头上的头盔四处飞散。没有一丝血腥，她们两个真是奇怪的一对，林赛和比利。</p><p><em>跑回孤儿院去！</em>林赛的声音在他们的脑海里震耳欲聋。艾瑞丝和鲁比克诧异地互相看了一眼，他们支起耳朵又试着听了一次，但他们只能听到越来越近的爆炸声、炮火声、和子弹打在剑身上的声音，林赛深陷纷乱，不可能听得到她。<em>别光站那儿！</em>这一声呵斥还是从他们脑海里传来的，他们照着做了。胡同的入口不远，他们就要到了——就要到了——艾瑞丝努力跟住鲁比克，左臂紧紧抱在胸前——飞机从头顶轰鸣驶过，它们在投落什么。</p><p>“轰炸机！”鲁比克呆住了，艾瑞丝扯了扯他。如果他们能及时赶回孤儿院，他们就能给其他人报信，所有人都能和当时的演习时一样逃进避难所里。第二波轰炸开始，投下的炸弹落在人民大道以南两个路口的街道上。艾瑞丝上气不接下气，但他们最终跑进了胡同。第三波轰炸也到来了。他们拐过弯曲的小路，爆炸晃动着南边一整条街，而且依然在逼近。外面那条街炸开的同时，他们跌跌撞撞一头扎进一个从天而降的人的怀里。大地在晃动，那人迫使他们脸朝下紧紧趴在小路上。不知是什么削弱了炸弹巨大的爆炸声，它们没有像以前那样影响艾瑞丝的耳朵。爆炸的冲击波从他们上方扫过，紧接着他们闻到了木头燃烧的味道。<em>哦不。</em>她想，心逐渐冰凉。<em>不，不，不。</em></p><p>“待好别动。”是比利，他的剑收进了鞘。鲁比克扶起艾瑞丝，她看到他们身前身后都是爆破坑。小路上下横七竖八地躺着劈折、燃烧的树干。他们身旁的两棵树也被拦腰截断，但倒下时避开了他们的位置。不是凭着奇迹就是什么其它神秘力量，比利从轰炸中救下了他们。他已经跑进小路深处，艾瑞丝和鲁比克追在他身后，躲着火焰，跳进又跳出爆破坑，直到他们看到孤儿院。</p><p>倒不如说是它的废墟。周围的树木有的被炸倒在地，有的在熊熊燃烧，整个院子都被爆炸破坏得满目疮痍，每一寸土壤都如同被翻过一次一样。庄园已不复存在，剩下的只有院子里散落的砖瓦和大块的花岗岩、从左延伸到右的那一堆地基，和朝他们脸上吹来股股热浪的大火。庄园周围的树桩冒着浓烟，更远处的树枝也闪着火星，突然燃烧起来。在火苗的噼啪声中，第四波轰炸机怒吼着宣告他们的到来。<em>他们不会停吗？</em>艾瑞丝看着大火，心怀恐惧。<em>他们到底想怎么样啊？</em></p><p>炸弹从飞机上落下，他们死定了。比利翻动着庄园废墟里的碎块，全然不在乎死神将至。他们等待着炸弹降落。</p><p>林赛冲出胡同小径的转弯处，在他们周围如同溜冰一般滑过，用剑在土里画了一个圈，然后跑向她的搭档。炸弹落在他们身边，但他们听不到、也感觉不到它们的爆炸。炸弹掀起的石子和泥土打在隐形的墙上——林赛画的圈保护着他们。</p><p>林赛和比利走在废墟上，投向他们的炸弹在半空就爆炸了。有几架后来的轰炸机恰巧在爆炸范围内，旋转着飞向它们的葬身之地。有一名飞行员得以逃机，其他的没有。废墟上那两个怪人所到之处，周围的火焰都逐渐熄灭。艾瑞丝已经不再好奇他们两人的来历，她见得够多，足以接受他们的超能力。她甚至开始抱有一丝希望：如果他们能创造奇迹，那么在这儿再来一个奇迹也不算难吧……她看到他们跳下瓦砾消失在废墟里面，他们一定是找到了地下室和通往避难所的入口。艾瑞丝紧紧抓着鲁比克，祈祷着孤儿院里有人——任何人——还活着。</p><p>挡住他们的废墟飘开，艾瑞丝几乎欣慰地笑了——但出来的却是主厨。他拖着壮实的身子跌跌撞撞地穿过院子，鲁比克把艾瑞丝拉到一边。主厨坍倒在地，大口喘着粗气。他的头发有几处烧焦的地方，除此之外好像并没有什么别的伤。他朝鲁比克举起一只胳膊：</p><p>“你——鲁比克，小子！他——他妈的怎么了——？”</p><p>鲁比克没有理会，他们看着另两个人出来。比利抱着一个人，一个女孩。走到一半他们停了下来，林赛一只手悬在女孩的额头上，然后他们保持这个姿势接着赶来。</p><p>“卡姆！”艾瑞丝认出了女孩，喊道。她挣扎着跑向他们，但被林赛的屏障弹了回来。</p><p>卡米拉看上去情况一点也不好，艾瑞丝被她烧焦的半张脸吓得呜咽。她裸露在外的双腿鲜血淋淋，一只胳膊弯折角度十分恐怖。卡米拉痛苦地、急促地呼吸着。</p><p>“医疗队正往这赶，坚持住。”比利把卡米拉轻轻放在地上。</p><p>“告诉他们她的生命我维持不了多久。”林赛两只手扶在卡米拉面部上方，比利也伸出双手帮她。</p><p>“那么来看一下我啊！”主厨大闹道，“你至少还能救下我！”</p><p>艾瑞丝和鲁比克跪在卡米拉身旁。</p><center> 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</center><p>“艾达”，Elda，复数是Eldar，在精灵语“昆雅”里意为“精灵”，也就是在人类出现很久之前行走于大地之上的人：他们自称为造物主伊露瓦塔的长子们。他们建立了横布大洲的璀璨文明，其发达的文化和先进的科技至今都无可比拟。然而他们的一切注定会消逝：天下并不属于他们，而属于次子们——那些在他们修缮伊露瓦塔的作品时仍在沉睡的人类。当第一批人类苏醒时，大消逝便开始了。一个接着一个，精灵扬帆西航，向着圣地瓦林那出发，不再干预大地和次子们。瓦林那：他们的成就的复制品，但更完美，由众神修缮——这便是他们的奖赏。</p><p>当然，并不是所有人都顺从命运。有的对次子们的爱甚是深沉，所以他们留了下来，躲到世界尽头照看、引导他们的远亲。“艾洛达”，Ereldar：“er”，意为“留下、留候、存留”，也就是“存者”——“留下的精灵”。有的设法突破了众神的法力，回到了大地上，发誓要夺回他们辛勤耕耘、完善、最后失去的土地，消灭簒夺者——次子们。“纳文艾达”，Nanweneldar：“nanwen-”前缀，意为“归来的”，“归者”——归来的精灵。众神发现了他们的背叛，关闭了瓦林那的大门，阻挡住其他想回到大地的叛徒的路。但他们还是注视着外部，随时迎接走到生命尽头的精灵，在他们漫长游历结束时把他们的灵魂接回家。</p><p>艾瑞丝在脑海里一遍遍地回味这个故事。故事讲述的是地球，但不是她的地球。它讲述的是一个宗教，但一点也不像任何她知道的教派。如果过去两天她没有亲眼所见发生的一切，她会觉得这只是一篇非常有意思的虚构故事——尽管林赛和比利在晚饭时说这个故事就是“胡说八道”。他们坚称所有的神话传说只是为了填补已知可考的历史的空白，使其叙述连贯，而这篇故事里也确实有一点事实成分。一方面是精灵。林赛和比利虽然否认他们是精灵，但他们倒是指出了几位餐厅里在场的：一对正朝着她们两张盘子之间的图表比比划划的金发女孩、两名肤色漆黑的有说有笑的男子、一位端着水果盆的黑发厨师、两个冲他们抛媚眼的红发姑娘……他们所有人都留着长发，但发型不一。他们平时看上去和普通人无异，可一旦动起来便不一样了。他们的行为举止有一股别致的味道，头略微扬起最细微的角度、背部笔直、脚步轻盈但同时又不知为何沉稳、踏实——他们每一个动作都描述着优雅。他们中有两个人前去孤儿院帮助过他们，一组共六位精灵一齐把手悬浮在卡米拉的伤口上，止住了流血；他们仅凭一个手势就让她保持姿势凭空浮起；他们只用一首简单的歌就让主厨入眠。如果这一切不是魔法，那艾瑞丝真不知道他们做了什么。另一方面是精灵派别和他们之间矛盾。驻扎这片营地的是存者，艾洛达，和他们的人类——同僚？学生？追随者？同志？精灵过着与世隔绝的生活太久了，以至于他们自己有记载的历史都衰退为刚才的那个神话，（最最讽刺的是）那个正是由后来自称为“归者”、“纳文艾达”的人最先开始传播的神话。反叛者虽然被驱逐出了地下城米纳斯努恩，但在外面，他们召集了拥护者来实施他们的神话里说他们会做的事：夺回天下。剩下的人组建了五所学校，希望一边重新发掘精灵历史、一边培养力量抵抗日益强大的归者威胁。出于幽默他们把这五所联校命名为“存者”：位于米纳斯努恩的领导院校——研究院、坐落在海岛上的学院、隐秘的寺院、庞大且错综复杂的档案馆、更对外开放的大学。</p><p>艾瑞丝不知道到底是和她一起吃饭的人来自另一个世界还是内战的确是被操纵了这件事更让她震惊。在这一切的背后是纳文派的考洛利，这几个世纪以来他一直在众多世界中搜索和自己世界的最为相似的那个，直到三十年前才得逞。此后十年间，他分别评估了这里的每一个国家。当时机成熟时，他立刻发动了战争。这里的动荡会通过两个世界相似的基础结构传回去，从而产生共振。一旦在他的原生世界里累积到一定程度，作为回应，那里也会爆发战争。没有什么比一场人类间的世界大战让纳文的任务更轻松了，考洛利的同僚一直都在为此做准备，一边破坏贫穷国家的社会稳定，一边恶化强国间的关系。这一切以前也发生过，不过不是两个世界不够相似就是原世界里的战争不长。这一次，学院直到五个月前才探测到新的信号。经历了三个月的监控和核实之后，存者的五个分部派出了这个精英小组。</p><p>考洛利知道他们的到来，也知道他们的名字，但他知道的并不够，否则他不会把鲁比克错认成比利。或者他可能压根就懒得核实。</p><p>当比利饭后起身去查看医疗队时，艾瑞丝决定跟他一起去打听一下卡米拉的情况。反正她也没有什么胃口，尽管林赛往她的碗里夹了一大堆菜。孤儿院不在了，里面的人除了主厨和卡米拉以外也全不在了，她的五个同行的旅伴也失踪了。她刚刚听到的真相彻底消灭了她仅剩的食欲。在她回来后——她和鲁比克又一次没有其他去处——晓桐给了她一大剂镇定剂。现在，在林间的空地里从树木之间望着外面那一团只可能是城市的黑暗，艾瑞丝感到药效在逐渐消退。外面没有一丁点光，整座城死寂至极。他们盯着那团黑暗出神，无法自拔。</p><p>“作为队长和我个人，发生这一切我深感抱歉。”比利说。</p><p>这片空地的光来自一个个水晶球，每一个都被枝条形状的铁丝缠绕，里面缭绕的气体散发着温暖的光，像月亮一样，甚至是几乎浪漫，但这团柔光依旧不足以抚平比利的扑克脸上的极度疲惫。他和林赛先前做的肯定很消耗体力吧，后来的六名精灵医护人员用了整整五分钟才注入足够的魔力稳定住卡米拉的体征，得以运送回来，而在这之前他们两个人已经坚持了十多分钟。林赛在他们离开餐桌时都快睡着了。</p><p>“你们救了我们两次，我还没道谢。”</p><p>“你又开始说话了，挺好的。”他放下抱着的胳膊，转过身。“别有幸存者愧疚，好吗？”</p><p>说完，他就带头走向医疗棚。鲁比克和他，他们两个一点都不像。晚饭时艾瑞丝头一回希望鲁比克能闭上嘴。他一边狼吞虎咽一边连珠炮般问问题，其间穿插着各种笑话，好像什么都没发生一样。她知道这是他的应对方式，但面对死亡，静默是更尊重死者的哀悼方式。<em>他们是同一个人，可是他们一点都不是。</em>艾瑞丝想，<em>但话说回来，林赛和我也是这样。</em></p><p>“我们只有分别在自己的世界里时才是同一个人。”比利停住脚步，然后一巴掌扇了下额头。“啊，我又开始了，嘿嘿。”出乎艾瑞丝意料，他转过身时，脸上挂着一个尽管细微但依然十分不好意思的笑。她自己也忍不住一起笑了。这个表情留在了他逐渐发红的脸上。“我没有窥探的意思，抱歉。你的思想和林赛的特征相同，而我们两人随时保持联通。我得很小心不越到你那边，她对鲁比克也有相同的麻烦，不过这倒是证明了我的点。”然后他又闭嘴了，脸上也重新面无表情。</p><p><em>这是他对我说的最多句话了。</em>艾瑞丝惊奇极了。<em>他喜欢解释东西，啊？</em></p><p>“你们都会吗？读心术？”艾瑞丝忍不住问。</p><p>“只有精灵会。”他答道。他们路过主厨的病房，透过紧锁的门传来他的怒吼。艾瑞丝这才意识到他的病房居然有扇门，而不是其他房间那样的门帘。这些人好像也不信任他。比利朝门来了一脚，主厨安静了下来。“林赛和我出了意外，没别的。”艾瑞丝等着他继续，她没失望，因为他又加了句：“我们两人一部分基因被改成了精灵的。至少在精灵和人类是近亲这一点上，那个故事没错。”</p><p>“不懂。”</p><p>他回过头，一脸坏笑。</p><p>“你上了大学就懂了。”</p><p>艾瑞丝朝他的后背撇了下嘴，他敲了敲病房门框。一个盘着黑发髻的人探出头。</p><p>“来得正好，我们刚结束。”</p><p>急救室里面和她的病房看起来差不多，只是这里只有一张床，放在正中间，正上方的天花板里镶嵌了一盏环形灯。那个人掀起房间边墙上的门帘。</p><p>“她的情况现在足够稳定了。很不幸的是罗瑞芬不得不切掉她的半个肝。”他和比利对视了一秒，好像在交流。“我们在尽力，但恐怕我们世界的一些定理在这边不适用。她的康复进程很难预测。”</p><p>里面的房间很大。在靠着墙的玻璃仓里，卡米拉静静地悬浮着，一动不动。他们剃光了她的头发，她的头看上去非常可怕，有三分之二是瘀肿褶皱的暗粉色，但艾瑞丝不知道那到底是裸露的肌肉还是新生的皮肤。她的脖子上有一道显眼的红印，她露在外面的的四肢看上去也好不了多少，大片几近黑色的暗红和粉色交替，一条胳膊被石膏包裹。她的身体封裹在一个宽松的白色袋子里，几根粗大的管子穿过玻璃将它和外面晓桐正盯着的显示屏、还有几位医生身旁占了整座墙面的机器相连。据说发现她们时，于夫人挡在卡米拉的身上。艾瑞丝不敢想象她最后的样子。</p><p>比利跟着带他们进来的医生和晓桐出去了，艾瑞丝搬来一把椅子，蜷缩着坐在上面。没有一位医护人员阻止她，反而向她投去同情的目光。她希望他们能别管她。一个接着一个，他们处理完手中的活离开了。</p><p>机器的轰隆作响抹光了艾瑞丝的思绪。她不知道坐在这里的意义是什么；她看不懂显示器上的任何东西；她不知道卡米拉会不会好转：她什么也做不了。也许她只是想和她认识的人单独待一会儿——一个能和她一起沉默的人。她刚进孤儿院时，照顾她的是卡米拉。尽管艾瑞丝小时候并不喜欢她，可一旦出了什么事而于夫人又不在的话，卡米拉是她第一个去找的人。</p><p>“——尽管我知道你会先婆婆妈妈地关心我一顿再真正去处理问题。”艾瑞丝悄声说道。“我受伤了吗？我害怕吗？那些东西溅到我身上了吗？要不然其他的时候你会絮絮叨叨地问我冷不冷、饿不饿、助教完了以后累不累、我外出的时候有没有遇到交战受伤……好烦人啊……你说我让你想起你自己。你说我以前好小，现在又好瘦。你说得有人照顾我——可现在你看看你啊。”艾瑞丝吸了下鼻子。“大冬天你往我头上洒雪，然后又絮叨我冷不冷。可笑。”她咬紧牙。</p><p>“现在他们说你可能永远都不能对我那么做了……当炸弹落下而我们还没回来的时候，你当时害怕吗，卡姆？但你还是帮妈妈去开地道门了，是不是？他们找到你们两个人时，你们在一切都塌下来的几秒前还在试着开门。你当时害怕吗？我害怕啊。我害怕极了，我希望我死在那条胡同里——当我赶到院子里时——鲁比克和我当时就差一点——就差一点——如果林赛让我们跑的时候我们没磨蹭，我们可能就帮到你了——可现在看看你啊！为什么得是你啊？妈妈、高先生、还有其他所有人都直接死了，可是你——”她忍不住了，趴在胳膊上的石膏大哭起来，石膏抵在她的额头上，冰凉。“还有那些传言说主厨对你做的事——什么时候开始的啊？你为什么不拿起把刀什么的啊？你为什么不反抗回去啊？发生一切的时候你害怕吗？为什么得是你啊？真不公平，为什么只有主厨受了点皮伤逃了出来？为什么是鲁比克长了比利的脸，让我们都被炸上天？为什么必须是这个国家？这个世界？”艾瑞丝感觉自己疯了。她心里一小部分想知道这是不是镇定剂的副作用，或者药效完全退了；另一部分在责怪镇定剂把这些压抑了这么久。不公平——她必须要用药来维持她的精神正常——但并不，是药让她单独和卡米拉在一起时才有机会让所有的倾泻而出。她们两人上一次说话超过十分钟是什么时候？她们在这个时候这个样子说话太不公平了。艾瑞丝抬起头，有点希望出于某种奇迹，卡米拉会在玻璃另一边睁开眼睛，然后她会像一个兴奋的小孩子一样跑出去找晓桐或者任何医疗人员，管他们是不是精灵。但是什么都没有发生。这是一个战争动荡的世界，不是什么傻逼童话故事。卡米拉的心电图维持着微弱、缓慢的跳动，她的大脑活动在屏幕上全是灰色。这一大堆都是什么意思？她是在呼吸啊。那台机器往她的袋子里供给着亲天娘知道是什么东西（艾瑞丝努力不去想“裹尸布”这个词）。她会好起来吗？艾瑞丝真应该在医疗员出去前问他们。</p><p>“求你了，好起来吧，卡姆。求你了，求你好起来吧。这次我也婆婆妈妈地照顾你，求你好起来好吗——”她又失控地哭了起来。</p><p>有人掀起了外面的那道门帘。艾瑞丝啜泣着，声音呜咽：“走开。”那人掀起了这个房间的门帘。艾瑞丝呆住了，她熟悉那个粗哑的呼吸。</p><p>看来主厨发现了开锁的方法。他站在那里隔着艾瑞丝冲着玻璃容器嗤笑，自言自语道：</p><p>“这就是你拒绝我的下场。”</p><p>艾瑞丝不知道他眼里闪的那道光是什么意思，但是她感觉万分厌恶。</p><p>“出去，你这个变态！”她叫道，声音尖锐。主厨拖着腿走到玻璃前，一脚脚地踢了上去。“离她远点！你还没伤害够她吗——”</p><p>“哦。”他把那双恶心的眼睛转向她。他逐渐的秃头、稀稀拉拉的头发、闪着恶光的眼睛，巨大的招风耳、圆鼻头、脸上耷拉的皮肤，还有那张咧开的、讥笑着的嘴露出的又黄又歪的牙——艾瑞丝发现自己在发抖。“你是想让我过来伤害你是吧？”</p><p>“你出去！”艾瑞丝尖叫道。</p><p>“我记得听说你和你朋友昨天出门去取你们出国的东西，啊？”他向她走来，她退到椅子后面。“你和你的小男朋友被派出去拿什么了？”艾瑞丝抓起椅子使劲放到他们之间，尽可能的远远扶着。“是钱还是护照？我两个都可以用。”</p><p>“我丢了！”艾瑞丝后退着。“离我远点！”</p><p>“如果你和那里面那团恶心的东西一样，那你肯定把它藏在衣服内口袋里！”</p><p>艾瑞丝心停了一下。那人把膝盖顶在椅子座位上，向她抓去。她躲开了，跑向门口。主厨抓住她，把她扔倒在地。艾瑞丝的石膏撞在地上，她的胳膊一股剧痛。他试图伸手抓她，她毫无效果地试图把他踢开。她喘不上气呼救。</p><p>“我知道你藏在那儿！是什么？是什么？<em>在哪里？交出来！</em>”</p><p>门帘被人从门框里一把扯下。晓桐在两秒内穿过他们之间的距离，一跃而起，双脚夹住主厨的脖子，在半空翻转，从艾瑞丝身上扯下了他。她把他狠狠地砸在地上，落到他身旁。那人懵地躺在地上，痛苦地左右晃着，骂道：</p><p>“你他妈摔断老子背了，臭婊子！”</p><p>晓桐一只手抓着他的脖子举起了他。艾瑞丝有点惊恐地看着，眼前的这名医护员比主厨矮半个头，比艾瑞丝只稍微重一点点，但这并不妨碍她把他举过头顶卡个半死。她把他再次像个洋娃娃一样摔到地上时，看都没看他的发紫的脸一眼。</p><center> 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</center><p>主厨现在不仅仅是被一道门锁关在病房里，还有额外的魔法。如果发生他同时突破了锁和魔法这种极小概率事件，有人会被通知到。存者全员拒绝了鲁比克要不把他挂在树上、要不把他扔回城里的强烈要求。</p><p>“动动脑子，鲁比克。就算他不知道我们是谁，他也知道我们在哪！你想让我们被暴露甚至被杀吗？你到底想不想让我们停止内战了？”林赛终于炸了。</p><p>于是鲁比克转而养成了每隔一刻钟就朝主厨的门踢一脚的习惯。</p><p>他们第二天早晨给艾瑞丝实施了手术。她跌倒时造成了肘部粉碎性骨折。术后她在存者分给她和鲁比克的房间里躺了一整天，新的石膏里，胳膊又恢复了隐约的阵痛。她醒醒睡睡。</p><p>“你感觉怎么样了？”当她再次醒来时，林赛问道。她坐在床头的椅子里，两臂抱膝，双脚收在座位上，绷着脸。她还在对鲁比克的愚蠢生气。</p><p>“对不起……”</p><p>“<em>你</em>道什么歉？我把鲁比克扔出去了。我今天让比利带他。”林赛看起来烦躁不已。“不说了。有你的好消息。”她用下巴指了下床头柜，水杯旁边是一本护照和一张票。“都是你的。我盘问一个巡逻队时找到你两个朋友的下落。一个女孩和一个男孩，他们昨天试着和一个农夫出城。边防没收了他们手里的船票和身份证件。女孩叫小菲，男的叫——”</p><p>“小菲还活着？”艾瑞丝高叫道。“他们在哪？他们放他们走了还是把他们关起来了？”</p><p>“放了，但显然是为了当诱饵。我在追踪他们前甩掉了军队，然后<em>当着他们的面</em>击退了偷袭的队伍，但他们<em>还是</em>拒绝跟我走。至少他们拿回了他们的东西。”</p><p>“哦……”那个“他们”大概是“只有小菲”，她不会听话，也不善于信任别人，更别提言语周到了。艾瑞丝猜她让林赛特别难堪，给她的脾气火上浇油。她希望林赛也能有安妮的消息，但现在不是追问的时候。“对不起……”</p><p>“你能不能别一个劲儿地替别人道歉。”</p><p>“对不起……”艾瑞丝止住了自己。“那么他们要去海边了，是吗？”</p><p>“我们也是。三天后出发。比利找到考洛利的行踪了。那精灵就没来过这儿，但他会去海边。”</p><p>“为什么？”</p><p>“有人告知他这些东西了，”她瞟了一眼船票和护照。“他以为他会抓住冒名‘鲁比克’的‘比利’。比利对他来说太重要，他不能不亲自出手。我们会给他他想要的，同时把你们也送出去。一箭双雕。”</p><p>“啊……谢谢你们。”艾瑞丝试着微笑，但她疼痛的胳膊把它变成了痛苦的表情。林赛点点头。</p><p>“喂，”她犹豫了一下。“我能在你这儿待一会儿吗？”</p><p>“当然。”</p><p>林赛解开她的马尾，把头歇在交叉的胳膊上，叹了口气。</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;center&gt; -- 动荡 -- &lt;/center&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“嘿，我们能过去吗？”鲁比克走到人民大道上的自由军士兵面前，丝毫不害怕他粗犷的外表。“我妹妹和我要去趟银行。”&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;自由军的最后一道防线比艾瑞丝想象的还要忙碌。身着脏兮兮的衣服的士兵在挖着和街道差不多宽的战壕，战壕已经足够隐藏一个站立的成年人了。它沿着大街的两个方向延伸，一眼望去看不到尽头。一些穿得更暖和点的下等兵在路边喊着号子拖着重型炮车，机修工把半个身子伸进停靠的坦克下，工具箱半露在外面。鲁比克和艾瑞丝并不是今天唯一上街的平民，大街上满是像他们一样请求使用战壕过道的人。那名士兵仔细打量着他们两人，他的目光在鲁比克的脸上停留得有点太久，最终他还是侧踏一步让他们通过了。&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    <category term="翻译/Translation" scheme="http://example.com/tags/%E7%BF%BB%E8%AF%91-Translation/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>2020冬至故事——阿尔瓦人物传：艾瑞丝第一章——孤儿院</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2022/05/01/2020%E5%B9%B4%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%20-%20%E8%89%BE%E7%91%9E%E4%B8%9D%E7%AC%AC%E4%B8%80%E7%AB%A0%20-%20%E5%AD%A4%E5%84%BF%E9%99%A2/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2022/05/01/2020%E5%B9%B4%E5%86%AC%E8%87%B3%E6%95%85%E4%BA%8B%20-%20%E8%89%BE%E7%91%9E%E4%B8%9D%E7%AC%AC%E4%B8%80%E7%AB%A0%20-%20%E5%AD%A4%E5%84%BF%E9%99%A2/</id>
    <published>2022-05-02T04:00:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2024-04-23T23:45:36.451Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><center> -- 孤儿院 -- </center><p>当他们终于来到他们住的那条街道时，艾瑞丝和鲁比克早已淋成了落汤鸡。他们灰白色调的衣服沉甸甸地挂在身上，艾瑞丝踏出的每一步都让她感觉极端不适。她早把头发改扎成了辫子，因为原先为了不让头发遮挡视线而扎的发髻变得实在是太重。现在，她每跑一步，辫子就随之摇晃、拉扯，她只能把它紧紧抱在胸前。</p><p>这条街和城里其他的街道毫无差别：灰暗、坑洼遍布，里面满是泥血，尽数展示着一场遭遇战的后果——自从20年前内战打响以来，这种小规模冲突就一直折磨着这座城市，占据了艾瑞丝记事后的记忆。</p><span id="more"></span><p>“鲁比克，现在不是干这个的时候吧？”艾瑞丝叫道。 她追过去，迟疑地伸出手试图把他从路边堆砌的尸体旁拉开。每天都有志愿者把新的遇难者从路中央拖走，然后，每一周，他们再把这些遗体拉出城外埋葬。“呃！”艾瑞丝触电一样蜷缩回一栋楼里——就连瓢泼暴雨也洗不掉那股腐烂味和他们脸上恐怖的神情。</p><p>“就一会儿，宝贝儿。这具是新的——”他熟练地从头到脚摸索了一下尸体。他们在被收养前是流浪儿，而在那之前，战争毫无征兆地把他们的生活打碎了。在她六岁生日后第三天，防空警报大作，艾瑞丝的父母把她推进了地下室。后来开门呼唤她出来的是邻门的鲁比克和他的姥姥。艾瑞丝记不清她看到自己的家被夷为废墟之后的事情，但她能记得的是有多快鲁比克的手脚就变得不干净。但是话说回来，正是他的这种生存直觉在他的姥姥过世后让他们两人幸免于死。进了孤儿院以后，这一切经历所留下的只有这个从尸体上掠夺的毛病。鲁比克叹了口气：“一干二净。唉，算了。”</p><p>头顶的一道雷让艾瑞丝捂嘴发出了一声尖叫，鲁比克跳起身跑了过去。暴雨足以让他洗净双手之后再抱住艾瑞丝。</p><p>“嗬！我都把你挤出水了！”他大笑着，一手搂着艾瑞丝，一手稳稳抓牢背上装着杂货的蛇皮袋子，他沿着街道飞奔，然后瞬间转进一条胡同。雨点在头顶茂密的树叶上噼里啪啦，像行军的部队，树叶下是干燥的路。“我们到家了。”他从艾瑞丝脸上扫走一缕又湿又重的长发。又是一声雷鸣，艾瑞丝抖了一下。他迅速环顾四周，然后亲向她。</p><p>“没事儿——没事儿了。”他安慰道。“我一直想问，打雷有啥好怕的？”</p><p>“像大炮。”艾瑞丝嘟囔道。他们在城郊流浪时见过太多，但在城里，感谢亲天娘，倒是还没有过。她解开辫子，顺着头发往下挤，雨水顺势洒在她脚下，哗啦、哗啦。</p><p>“可找到你们了！”一位和他们年纪相仿的略微有点胖的女孩儿从巷子深处跑来，手里提着两把雨伞。她穿着靛蓝的裙子，齐刘海下双眼满是责备，与之相配的、紧扎着的、没有一丝乱发的发髻让她显得更加严厉了。“妈妈都开始担心了！”她抓起艾瑞丝的手：“艾瑞丝，你湿透了！”</p><p>“喂！我也是！也关心关心我好吧？”鲁比克压着他糟乱的黑发，歪头防止雨水流到脸上，但依旧有一股从他的面庞滑过。他开始长胡子了，艾瑞丝注意到。那些绒毛会长成什么样？是八字胡吗，还是小羊胡？</p><p>“我瞧见你做什么了！”那个女孩低声嘘道。“说！你还对她做了什么？”</p><p>“为啥你总是这样说我？”鲁比克做个了鬼脸：“还有，你怎么总是听起来好像很期待啥一样？”那个女孩绷紧脸举起雨伞就朝他戳。他咧嘴笑着躲开了。</p><p>“没关系的，安妮，”艾瑞丝把她的朋友拉到身边，忍不住微微一笑：“没关系啦。”</p><p>“哼。”安妮抱紧艾瑞丝的胳膊。</p><p>胡同左转右弯，豁然开朗，眼前的是一个树林环绕的院子。艾瑞丝深吸了一口气：湿润的土壤的味道让她舒缓下来。院子里各处屹立着树——大部分是银杏和垂柳，但也有普普通通的梧桐。在他们左边空地的正中央是一根根空荡荡的晾衣绳，右边空地里有一块花圃，鸢尾、百合、向日葵愉快地沐浴在雨里。再往远处是一小片菜地和一块滑梯游乐区。<em>这么大的雨也没啥清理秋千和滑梯的职务喽。</em>艾瑞丝心里想道。</p><p>身边遮蔽他们的树木继续沿着脚下的小路延伸，一直到一座宅邸的红橡木门前的台阶那儿。那栋两层高的房子横跨院子的一边，白色的石墙在灰沉沉的天空下和暗绿的树叶中几乎在发光。房子屋顶布满的太阳能板是几年前就装上的，为的是长久来看能省点钱，毕竟，能源在战争中是稀缺物。</p><p>（<em>雨这么大，林子里的水库能满上好久。</em>）</p><p>这块在城市里的人间天堂本归一户富商家族所有，而现在那个家族仅剩的是富商的遗孀和几位仆人。庄园往日的辉煌早已逝去，但至少对于艾瑞丝、安妮、鲁比克，还有四十多名像他们那样的孤儿来说，它依旧是个不错的家。</p><center> 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</center><p>“——我靠，你们这些小妞能干点什么？”主厨看到艾瑞丝——她已经换上了干燥的衣服——和另一个女孩，小菲没能抬起盛汤的大铁锅时大嚷道。“它就是一锅汤！全是水！里面什么都没有！”</p><p>“我们是不是还得谢谢你的节俭，师傅？”鲁比克从他的切菜板那里抬起头，嘲讽地笑道。“咱换换？”他洗干净手，走了过来，和他一起干活的男孩也跟了过来。</p><p>艾瑞丝和小菲拿起菜刀开始切菜。主厨是孤儿院的女孩子们痛恨台后厨房职务的唯一原因。他偏心男孩子们，而且从来不错过任何呵斥女孩子的的机会。艾瑞丝总能感觉到一股从他身上散发出来的不祥的气息，而且她每长一岁，这股气息就越强烈。他唯一尊重的人是女主人，于夫人。他必须的，因为她付他工钱。</p><p>“恶女的恶心鬼。”小菲低声骂道。</p><p>“<em>厌女</em>。”艾瑞丝悄声回应。</p><p>“管他呢。艾瑞丝，你听说了吗，他那天对卡姆说的话？”</p><p>艾瑞丝皱起眉头。卡米拉原本同样是这里的孤儿，在成年后选择留在这里做护工，而主厨总是欺负她，次数比欺负其他人还多。艾瑞丝觉得卡姆很漂亮，但太能絮叨，尤其是对她。直到她十六岁生日时，卡姆才告诉她这是因为艾瑞丝特别像小时候的自己，所以卡姆对她才格外关照。</p><p>“妈妈真该撵他走——”</p><p>“多花时间<em>剁菜</em>而不是<em>聊天</em>！”主厨从灶台旁低吼，抄起铲子砸着锅咣咣响。艾瑞丝脑海里闪过飞驰的子弹，打了个颤。她低下头，一言不发。“女娃子，”主厨接着说，“除了嘴碎没点别的，扔战场上你还以为能把敌人给叭叭<em>说死</em>。做梦！”</p><p><em>说得好像你上了战场似的。</em>艾瑞丝一脸鄙夷，切大头菜时下意识用的力气比平时大。</p><p>“亲天娘啊，我真想朝他裆下来一脚！”小菲咬牙切齿。艾瑞丝轻声哼了下鼻子。</p><p>“提起战场，”一个厨子开口说道，“肉店那人跟我说人民军大部队可能要来了。自由军最近也一个劲儿在要更多口粮，还跑了嘴说他们的支援正南下过来。他们防守也加强了。”</p><p>“也就是说他们要在咱城里打了？”另一个问。</p><p>“早该来了！”主厨又砸了一下锅。“自由军花了五年才想起来还有咱这地方，小打小闹十五年之后人民党才寻思着我们这儿好像挺重要得打下来！”</p><p>“他们的防线在哪儿？”小菲插嘴问。</p><p>“你闭上嘴——”</p><p>“南边那儿，人民大道。”她们身后一位长相粗犷的厨子打断了主厨。两个女孩惊讶地看着他，目瞪口呆。人民大道自西向东将城市一分为二，离他们只有四个路口，并不远。自由军的军营在往北三个路口的地方。“你们小姑娘出门的时候看着点儿，听见了？万一是真的，咱这儿附近可得热闹。”</p><p>“他们还拉来了坦克和迫击炮之类的。”一个年轻一些的厨子严肃地点着头。“可能明天就到，也可能下周，谁知道呢。”</p><p>“咱往后的日子就是这样了。”小菲嘟囔道。“他们怎么不直接互相把对方打死，在这儿了结了呢。”</p><p>艾瑞丝漫不经心地嗯了一声。她从来没搞懂她到底应该支持哪一边，因为没有一边好像是对的。自由军要给谁自由？人民军真的为人民的话，那一开始为什么要打摧毁人民生活的仗？她没想过要问谁，反正她又改变不了这场战争的什么。</p><p>食堂宽敞明亮，在华丽的吊灯下，三排长桌从头排到尾。墙上挂着的是棕褐色的每一位孤儿的生日照，照片底下是画着花瓣图案的布料墙纸，墙下三分之一部分镶着光滑的黑檀木板。堂前横着的长桌上摆满饭菜和热汤，艾瑞丝和她的值日同伴站在桌后等着于夫人的信号。艾瑞丝一直感觉于夫人看起来高傲、精明、严厉：锐利的目光、高颧骨、尖鼻子、还有紧抿的嘴，于夫人的确如同艾瑞丝想的那样，但同时她又不仅于此。每当艾瑞丝想到“母亲的双手”这个词时，浮现在脑海里的是于夫人现在举起的日益粗糙的双手。于夫人面带坚定的微笑，向饭桌边坐着的孩子们点头招手示意。食堂里一阵窸窣和木椅在地上滑动的声音。一个接着一个，这些身着手工缝制的棉布衣服的孩子们——从被领着、蹒跚的四岁孩子到翻转着手里盘子玩的十六岁少年少女——都在大堂前排好了队。</p><p>于夫人一手扶好他们的盘子，一手用铲子挖着米饭，招呼着每一人，问：“再多一点还是少一点？”她时不时会聊上一两句，或者在某个孩子的鼻子上疼爱地点一下，或者和年龄大一点的打趣。在这儿的每一个孩子都是她亲自从外面领回来的。她尽力给予他们战争所夺走的东西：食物、庇护、衣服、母爱——一个童年。于夫人一遍遍告诉自己，她有资源和能力。数十年前嫁入康家的于栢早在一次车祸中丧失生育能力，她做梦都没想到自己会成为40个孩子的母亲。二十年的奉献带给了她皱纹与白发，当然，还有来自孩子们深沉的“妈妈”的称呼。一切都好。</p><p>这一切都归于战争刚刚打响时那位瘫倒在她的大院里的姑娘。当时她浑身是弹片伤口，身后土里的血迹展示着她是如何一下下拖着自己的身子过来的。她身旁是一个哭着的小男孩，虽然比她干净一点，但依旧伤口遍布。他们唯一能了解到的只有她带着儿子逃自战争刚爆发的首都。虽然那个姑娘没能挺过来，但她的儿子幸免于死。他眼里的恐惧点燃了康家遗孀心里新的什么东西——一种整整42年里她从未有过的感觉，因为她从来不需要过。她不知道为什么这种感觉没有早点出现。</p><p>她有钱。她救不了所有人，但她至少能帮助孩子们。从此她就一直扫荡马路，寻找孤儿。</p><p>触发这一切的那个小男孩现在站在她身旁，左眼蒙着布，左半脸满是伤疤。他成年后留了下来帮忙，和他另一边的卡米拉一样，和很多其他的助手一样。他们是于夫人额外的双手，安慰新来的孩子、拆架、做小点的孩子做不了的家务、帮助家教老师上课和批改作业。孤儿院里的生活是他们唯一知道的生活，他们甘愿于此。</p><p>也不是没有离开的人。给厨子小道消息的那个屠户大概认识两年前离开孤儿院去学生意的宇博；有几个人离开城市去了海边、甚至逃到了国外；有一两个人参军去了自由军；有的结婚了。其中一个——于夫人当时又惊又气地告诉艾瑞丝——成了妓女、嫁给了一个将军、然后跟着他私奔到了国外。</p><p>再过一年，艾瑞丝也十八岁了，她已经决定要在孤儿院里待一辈子。在外面她一无所有，但在这里面她拥有一切：她爱着的和照顾着的人、需要干的活、一个她可以过下去的生活。在孤儿院里的生活是和她能回忆起的、已经失去的那一点点碎片最相似的东西，她受不了再失去一次了。汤里唯一的老鼠屎是主厨，但毕竟一个人总不能所有愿望都被满足。</p><p>但如果战火真的烧进城里……记忆里的炮弹炸裂了大地、震飞了一切——树干、混凝土块、水管、鲁比克的姥姥——</p><p><em>别。别去想。</em>艾瑞丝咬紧牙关，把记忆屏蔽在脑外。她躲开安妮敏锐的目光，稳住胳膊。<em>一切会好起来的，鲁比克和我会一直待在这儿，安安全全，然后结——</em></p><p>“艾瑞丝姐姐？”一个小男孩捧着盛满的碗，抬头看她。</p><p>“嗯？”艾瑞丝回过神。“再来点吗，提米？”她伸手去拿新碗。</p><p>“不是，嗯……”他满脸通红，旁边的小女孩冲着他讥笑。他举起一节兰花枝。</p><p>“哦！谢谢，小提米！”艾瑞丝躬下身让小男孩给她戴在头上。</p><p>“嗯……我长大后你能嫁给我嘛？”</p><p>艾瑞丝轻声笑了，安妮在一边扔下手里的夹子笑弯了腰。艾瑞丝拍了拍小提米的头：</p><p>“哎呀，我们到时候再说啦。”<em>会好起来的。</em>她想。</p><center> 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</center><p>太阳露出笑脸时总能让人松一口气，因为只有这时，城里仅剩的鸟儿才在周围的林子里展现出生机，有的甚至会从它们的庇护地中探出头飞到院子里。也只有这时，孤儿院楼里面会变得空空荡荡，满院子的孤儿们的喧闹声在一片湛蓝之下回荡。明媚的晴天——尤其是夏天——总是提醒着艾瑞丝生活里希望犹在、快乐依存。</p><p>她嗅着洗净的衣物上的香味，看着刚晾起的昨天湿透的裙子缓缓停止晃动。艾瑞丝转过身，在四处奔跑的孩子们中看到高先生在那棵大银杏树下放下他的包。该开始她的助教职务了。她穿过院子，在通往院外的小道上她跟鲁比克和一起出去办事的男孩道别，让他们小心，然后扶了一下一个因为跑得太快差点摔倒的小女孩。<em>好活泼啊。</em>她想。走到高先生那里时，她发现树叶上镶着一道细细的金边。</p><p>“这是不是也有点太早了？”她向高先生点着头打招呼，指着叶子问。</p><p>“今年冬天可能得很冷呢，艾瑞丝。”艾瑞丝总是很喜欢他温和的声音。他摘下草帽挂在下面的树枝上。“帮我挂好课件吧，麻烦了。”</p><p><em>啊……是历史啊。</em>艾瑞丝拉长了脸。助教职务是轮流做的，于夫人虽然和蔼，但她宁可死也不愿在孩子们的教育上松懈。早些年的时候，她亲自送他们上学。遭遇战变频繁后，她买了一辆防弹面包车让她的主仆开车接送。再后来，学校关闭了，于是她亲自面试，招进了两位教师：一位是市立中学名师高犁先生，另一位是来自一所私立小学的苏灵小姐。</p><p>“开心点儿，艾瑞丝，可不能给孩子们留下坏印象。”高先生过来帮她，拨开开始秃顶的前额上稀疏的头发。</p><p>“可它太无聊了啊。早知道就和小菲换课了，<em>她</em>才是历史大神。”艾瑞丝厚着脸皮朝高先生的笑脸嘟着嘴，她看见他眼角和嘴角的皱纹——他刚开始教她们的时候可没有这些。</p><p>“无聊？它可是和文学息息相关的啊！哪有只喜欢一个而不喜欢另一个的？你的历史成绩也挺不错的啊。”</p><p>“可能是因为一个故事并不是必须有战争才算一个故事。”艾瑞丝的脸拉得更长了。“文学更灵活，我如果不喜欢一个故事我能自己写一个结尾。但是历史的话，不管我们多后悔，发生了的事情还是发生了。”</p><p>“和这场仗一样。说的很明智，艾瑞丝。”高先生用图钉钉好课件，艾瑞丝没说话。她从来没听到过他在课上提到这场战争，更别说课外了。“别和别人说……于夫人不喜欢课堂上讲时政，但我们还没开始上课——这场仗从一开始就被操纵了。”</p><p>“啊？”艾瑞丝没忍住，问道。她总觉得阴谋论和高先生是两个最不可能沾边的东西。</p><p>“没错，被操纵了。你看，自由党和人民党在殖民时期后共存了二百年，”高先生对着课件低声说道，脸上没有一丝微笑。“战前两党之间也没有什么大过节，前一天两边还签署了关于增强包容性的自由言论的联合补充条例，然而第二天自由党就向大会提交了一份呼吁独党政府的草案动议。没有人能指认发起者是谁，一切就好像全体自由党及其主席都连夜疯了一样。第三天，人民党忽然掏出了他们到此为止完全不存在的军队——还记得吧？我们国家的军队服从大会，而大会里现在自由党占大多数。这些东西都是哪来的，还来得那么快？我们连自己都不知道我们的资源居然充足到能打20多年内战的地步。这场内战是我们至今为止最血腥、破坏性最大的战争，而他们两边在每一道前线上依旧势均力敌。这一切没有外部势力参与的话怎么可能？”</p><p>“哦，对……阴谋……”艾瑞丝刚好回过神，听到的东西足够她出于礼貌问一句：“所以妈妈不让你教我们这场内战吗？”</p><p>“唷？现在你来兴趣了？”高先生歪着头，问。“你考虑过上大学吗，艾瑞丝？”她直直地盯着他。“他们可以毫无限制地学习更与时俱进的东西，不过现在在国内上大学是挺困难的了……国内最顶尖的大学联合起来搬到边境去躲战火了。也许直接出国最好……我只是随口一说。”</p><p>“我哪也不去。”</p><p>“听着，艾瑞丝——我去年就该和你谈这个了。”高先生一手抓着她的肩，另一手举起食指，他的黑眼睛里是课上每当他想要全班记住一个知识点时才会闪动的锐利的目光。艾瑞丝感觉他的年事真的不能更明显了。“听着……你很有学术头脑，我现在还留着你写的期末论文，对比东西方文学的那篇——水平可比普通十六岁学生高太多了。你要是沦落为一位普普通通的家庭主妇的话，那我真的就心碎了——<em>心碎了</em>！听见没？<em>我就真心碎了！上大学去！改变你的人生！迫不得已，出国也得上！</em>”他抖动着手指大喊道。</p><p>“好——好。”艾瑞丝吓了一跳，后退了一步，她就该一直闭好嘴。高先生重新理好因为激动而滑下的头发。他敲了敲额头，放松下来。</p><p>“抱歉。”他拍了拍她的肩。“我们把孩子们叫来上课吧。”艾瑞丝点了点头，仍然有点余悸。高先生在她身后喊道：“但你也的确考虑一下，啊？”</p><center> 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</center><p>那个给厨子打小报告的屠户没说错。九月之后，坦克开进了城里，和行进的士兵队列一道在街坊巡逻。头顶的飞机也越来越多，一个小时里飞过两次，有时它们会飞得更高一些，但大部分情况下，他们飞得高度足以让艾瑞丝看清机身画的旗帜：中间带三颗星的红旗是自由军的，半红半黄的是人民军的。一旦有人民军的飞机出现，它们后面肯定会跟着两颗导弹，艾瑞丝很清楚这时候她应该躲好。巡逻兵边行进边拿着喇叭朝路边楼里的居民广播警告，通知他们不要出门或者赶紧撤离。很多时候，这些刺耳的噪音被淹没在迫击炮的呼啸和爆炸声里。</p><p>孤儿院里的生活情况急转直下。周围几公里传来的都是爆炸声，就算爆炸地点太遥远，孤儿们也能感觉到脚下传来的震动。死亡人数的飙升让每一趟出门杂活职务都变成一场勇气大考验。尸体堆不再是人民大道专属，艾瑞丝从来没有在她自己的街坊里见到过这么多。这一年是秋老虎，尸体散发出的恶臭连鲁比克都被熏得远远的。志愿者们的清理速度跟不上尸体的堆积速度，没多久，他们也因为自由军实行的宵禁而停止清理了——所有违反者，格杀勿论。孤儿们光顾的市场在门口又增加了两块新钢板，市场供应也严重不足：随着越来越多的部队在城里驻扎，仓库里的库存和进城的供应商都被重新分配、导向到军队自己的仓房里。</p><p>“早晚我们连门都不用出了。”小菲在晚饭时摇着头说。</p><p>“妈因为前段日子没买活鸡后悔死了。”鲁比克回应道，平时浑身的浮躁轻浮荡然无存。“她今天让我们在院子里新开了片地，我们不得不掀掉半个花圃。对不起啊，”他瞄了一眼惊恐的艾瑞丝，“现在这里只有你一朵鸢尾了。”</p><p>“原先他们打的是游击战，”一天在晚饭时，高先生罕见地露了一次面。其实所有人都在场：于夫人、苏小姐、所有厨子和佣人们、甚至两位老师的家人。大厅里的气氛十分压抑。“也就是说，人民军会派一小波人去时不时骚扰自由军，希望一点点消磨他们的力量。现在看来人民军觉得他们的努力起效了，他们的时机已到。小道消息是他们在城市南面集合了重型武器——坦克、迫击炮、大炮——现在正往城里进军。自由军也在以同样的手段回应。恐怕他们两方终于要面对面开打。”</p><p>孤儿们害怕地互相对视，大人们对着地板皱起眉头。不知道是谁不小心把他的勺子碰到了地上，“当啷”一声回荡了好久。</p><p>“接下来的几周里会有更多的自由军增援到达这里，”高先生确认了一下手里报纸上的内容，然后递给于夫人和苏小姐，“他们会继续集聚物资。两边一炮打偏了也可能断掉我们的电。”</p><p>“好了，谢谢，高犁。我们还有时间准备，我们不能再让我们的孩子们流落街头了。”于夫人瞥了眼报道，说道。</p><p>“对，我们不能。”高先生答道。“鉴于其他城市里战况恶化，我们应该考虑一下撤离。现在头顶上飞的还只是无人侦察机，再往后可能——”</p><p>“真要是有什么突发情况，我们就从地下室通道躲进林子里的避难所里。孩子们，明天我们就进行逃生演练。各位员工，七点半请到书房开会。”于夫人插了进来。“不用再让大家更害怕了。”她对高先生耳语道。艾瑞丝、小菲和安妮身后那桌里有一个小女孩已经开始呜咽，安妮转身把她抱进怀里。</p><p>“我们要死了吗？”她在安妮怀里的声音又细又轻，小一些的孩子听到了之后也开始抽泣。他们看着安妮，安妮看着怀里的小女孩。</p><p>“别怕，我们不会的。”她悄声说道，“缇娜，不会有事的。会好起来的。”</p><p>然而并没有好起来。随着十一月到来，他们的三餐也被减为每周有四天只喝粥。最初几个星期，他们的碗里至少还有几块肉，但很快这些肉块开始缩小，孤儿们在碗里翻找油水的时间比真正吃饭的时间还长，直到十二月里的一天，粥里的肉彻底消失了。在剩下三天正常三餐中的一顿里，艾瑞丝在她的盘子里找到一片薄得透光的牛肉。她转了转筷子，肉片贴到筷子上，然后就不见了。<em>至少还是片肉啊。</em>她不知道该不该笑。</p><p>孤儿院的护工们和一些年长的孩子们自愿把三餐分一些给年幼的孩子。有一些小孩不明白到底发生了什么，对着没多少的分量大哭大闹，但这些也终归停止了——没有人有多余的力气，连主厨都在厨房里闭上了嘴。</p><p>“我从来不知道安妮能这么漂亮哎。”一天早饭，鲁比克没能压低声音对艾瑞丝说。艾瑞丝撕开比她的手大不了多少的面包片，叠在一起。“可能是因为她不那么……<em>胖</em>了。”</p><p>艾瑞丝皱了下眉。满世界那么多种不同说法，他非得挑这句，然而安妮并没上钩，只是对着她的面包摇头苦笑。</p><p>“非得选这时候当恶人冒。”她嘟哝着喂缇娜。缇娜摇头不吃。“吃啊，我不饿。”</p><p>“对不起，我只是想缓解下气氛……”鲁比克说的是真心话。</p><p>所有人都指望着他和其他几个男孩活跃气氛。说来也怪，以前他们几个的笑话充其量只是让别人无语地翻一下白眼，而现在每次晚饭，于夫人都叫他们先讲一个笑话再开饭。整个食堂会集体无奈地叹口气，也算是当天的高潮了。</p><p>艾瑞丝没有值日和助教职务时会把自己关在屋子里。就算她出门，她也紧紧贴着房子和树林走。厨子和佣人接管了各种外出职务，他们每次都会带回来坏消息：发电站爆炸、自杀式袭击、建筑失火、小区被夷为平地、又一个商贩失踪……人民军依靠他们地毯式轰炸蚕食着市南区，迫击炮弹会毫无征兆地劈头盖脸地落下。自由军沿着人民大道也部署了火炮和迫击炮。艾瑞丝受够了，她受够了从那个方向传来的穿透一切的轰鸣声。就连夜晚里，战火声也不停息，阵阵枪响如同鞭炮，它们肆无忌惮地敲打着她的神经。</p><p>艾瑞丝已经忘记了晴天是什么样子。她的窗户面朝南方，她在树木和楼层后总能看到飘起的浓烟——武器产生的一缕缕灰或者大火散发的滚滚乌黑。有时坍倒在地的楼房会掀起尘土，顺便带着鬼知道多少条命，它们产生的地震让艾瑞丝不自觉从地上抬起脚。降雪多少也算蒙住了一些炮火的声音，但也带走了鸟儿的声音。空气里一片死寂，以至于艾瑞丝开始怀疑以前到底有没有过鸟。高先生告诉她出国上学的那一天和雾霾中的楼房一样朦胧。<em>迫不得已，出国也得上！</em>死亡——这雾霾就是死亡，而且每一天它都在逼近。<em>它什么时候到？我根本没准备好……</em>艾瑞丝努力不让自己去想它，但毫无用处。<em>死期将至，快逃出国。</em>她摇了摇头，肚子里传来一阵饥饿的叫声。</p><p>她倚着窗户，冰冷的玻璃贴着额头，但她毫不在乎。右边远处是滚滚黑烟。<em>他们在烧公园。</em>艾瑞丝想。那个公园……几年前于夫人会带着他们去玩。那时，一切还没变得这么糟；那时，遭遇战是唯一的战火；那时，火炮还仅限于城外。那时，午日当头，当她站在山顶放眼望着这座还未破碎的城市、望着阳光给每一栋富有历史的建筑披上一层辉煌、在天空里尽情涂抹时，她还以为这一切都会好起来。这座城市原本很美，它的山头让风景富有立体感，栋栋建筑层层叠叠，一排又一排错落有致，像一座堡垒。有着二百年历史、殖民时期建立的各种教堂与年轻他们不少的摩天大厦遥城相望，西面是红砖，东面是灰钢，它们和树木一起遮挡了脚下尸体遍布的街道和水沟。现在的景象应该很不一样了。他们好几年没有去那儿了，但鲁比克还是会在他们外出办事时带她过去。他们两个会躲在树荫下，看着山底遭遇战发出的烟雾和火光。鲁比克可能会偷吻，仅此而已。那时全世界可以只有他们……艾瑞丝回到书桌前。</p><p>那些日子可能再也不在。</p><p><em>哦不，那些日子</em>不复存在<em>。</em>她不能再骗自己了。一方面是这场战争：自从战争来到家门口之后，所有情况急转日下。孤儿院不是座要塞，它撑不了太久。谁也不知道战斗在城里要打多久——如果一场内战在城外能打20年，那它就能在城内打20年——甚至40年、70年、一个世纪。他们在战争结束前早就不在了。另一方面——<em>不在了</em>，他们要不在了，去另一座城市、另一个国家。更准确点——<em>他们</em>：艾瑞丝、鲁比克、还有其他五名孤儿，他们既没有年长到孤儿院日常运转离不开他们的地步，也不算太小以至于无法可靠地完成一项任务。</p><p>“我得把你们送走。”这句平静又坚定的话和头顶的天空一样灰沉无情。于夫人昨天带着他们散步。孤儿院周围的树林向四周延伸两三公里，他们可以在里面逛很久。他们走过栅栏，他们走过一橔橔树桩，他们走过一小片空地，又过了十分钟的闲话和漫步，他们来到了供给孤儿院的小水库。于夫人停住身边的小菲，转身说出这句话：“我得把你们送走。”</p><p>艾瑞丝不知道该如何表达心里翻滚的震惊、惊讶、犹疑、彷徨和恐惧，所以她一句话也没说。其他人，尤其是鲁比克和另一个男孩，没有这么自律。安妮快哭了。于夫人等到所有人吵完，解释说这是解决物资短缺的唯一途径。这个计划实际上是互利共赢的：他们在战争的阴霾之外开始新生活，孤儿院也能再多坚持一段时间，更何况他们七个人还有一项任务：在海外寻找适合孤儿院的新地点。于夫人而后会分批把剩下的孤儿也送出战区。</p><p>就算没有任务，艾瑞丝也不会反驳什么。她从来就不是那种会反驳的人，而且她的大脑已经说服了自己不去反驳：于夫人不会不深思熟虑就做决定，这个计划肯定已经被讨论好几个月了；她也不会做出对他们有害的决定；从军方拿到文件和通行证肯定花了她不少精力和钱；他们七个——全部在十六到十八岁之间——的确是做这个的最佳人选；每个人的路费和生活费都准备好了，而且于夫人的一个朋友会在另一边接他们，所以一切都没问题；他们仍然会在一起；他们不需要再担心战乱……</p><p>“文公——”她的主仆，“——会开车载你们到海边给你们送行。真对不起，我自己没法陪你们。”她的表情温和了下来，她张开双臂。“至少我们让最后这个月难忘一些吧。”</p><p>坐在椅子里和昨天站在黑色的枝条下没有任何不同。气氛阴沉，尽管艾瑞丝穿得很暖和，但她并不感觉如此。安妮和一个男孩听到这个消息时并不高兴，安妮甚至跪下乞求于夫人让卡米拉取代她。于夫人不为所动。那个男孩因为没有提前请求他们的意见而感到上火，但艾瑞丝能理解：孤儿院的女主人是为了不想改变主意。尽管她的内心温柔，但她骨子里还是个生意人，她比任何人都了解如何基于风险和逻辑（还有回报）做决策。有的决策是不能掺杂个人情感的，这也是她必须留下主厨的原因，尽管她听说了他对卡姆动的种种手脚。他们两个在这里都是无法替代的。身为于夫人的骄傲，卡姆继承了这种思想（可能除了过度关心艾瑞丝、对她絮絮叨叨；艾瑞丝想到这里噘了下嘴：她有什么办法），据说如果于夫人身遇不测，卡姆会替她接管孤儿院。于夫人的一切计划都是仔细预算的结果，坚定之于她的意志如同善良疼爱之于她的心。任何反抗都如同反抗这场战争一样，在还未开始前就已经输了。</p><p>小菲倒是高兴坏了：唯三人里的一个。一个没有战争的新生活是她梦寐以求的，就像她昨晚在睡觉前和艾瑞丝说的一样。<em>她是不是也跑到别的女孩子房间里夜聊啊？</em>艾瑞丝坐在那里边回忆边想，<em>或者男孩子？</em>和鲁比克一样，小菲特喜欢说话；和鲁比克不同，她的理智和心眼更多一些。艾瑞丝几乎又看到她的双眼眯成一道缝。</p><p>“我到那儿要做的第一件事就是配眼镜，我终于能看得更清楚点了。而且更漂亮点了。”小菲想了想又加了一句。她躺在艾瑞丝的被窝外面，像搂着洋娃娃一样搂着她。艾瑞丝能数出她的睫毛。“你想啊，新生活，妈妈能给我们的最好的新年礼物。”这倒是。至少于夫人等到了春节后，否则那场稀有的大餐就给毁了。</p><p>“你应该和安妮说，好让她开心点。”</p><p>“她没有什么可展望的，但是<em>你</em>有。给我想，就一个名字：<em>鲁比克</em>。”小菲翻身滚下艾瑞丝的床，一脸坏笑地走了。</p><p>想到这件事总是让艾瑞丝心里痒痒，毕竟是出国安排里的一点点希望。鲁比克和她没必要再隐藏他们两人实际上比大人们想象得还要亲近的事实了。他们可以一起住、一起找工作、结婚、组成一个家（艾瑞丝心跳加快）、开始一个新生活。他们可以不和别人一起租一个房子，到不需要多华丽，仅仅足够温馨就够了。他们可以一个当女仆一个当厨子，攒些钱（<em>必须得有那玩意儿流进账户，不能总是指望手里的资金</em>），但愿那里没有像主厨那样恶心的人。然后他们再找一个更好的家，她甚至可以去报大学——这听上去<em>的确</em>不错。她可以成为一个老师，教文学。当然，他们同时得为孤儿院找一个新家，不能忘了这个……</p><p>屋外，白雪相互踩着爬上了窗玻璃。屋内，房间的温度仅仅足够温暖。因为煤炭和煤气在城市边界被没收了，于夫人开始同意主管家砍伐林子里的树做木柴。两边的军队毁掉了所有人的生活。黑暗降临，而艾瑞丝任凭它降临。发电站早在几个星期前就被炸毁，而由于雾霾，白天日光都不足以支持太阳能板。他们需要节约电，反正艾瑞丝并不需要光。</p><p>战争毁掉了一切，艾瑞丝因此痛恨两支军队。能在一个和平的地方长大会是多么幸运。甚至在海外他们也不会不受影响——万一那个国家也爆发自己的内战怎么办？</p><p>夜幕彻底淹没了房间，让她喘不过气。她的肚子咕咕叫着，今天的饭是更多稀释如水的粥。也许开春以后他们能收一些长得快的菜……大家都饿极了，艾瑞丝害怕像提米那样的小孩子会饿死。这幅恐怖的画面拒绝从她的脑海里离开。</p><p>门口有一股橙色的光芒逐渐靠近，它挤进门缝，晃动的光照亮了整个房间。艾瑞丝吃了一惊，半天才回过神。她的房间一点点回到了她的眼中：淡黄色的墙上她画的安妮和小菲、书桌上她十六岁生日在于夫人怀里的泛黄的照片、旁边水瓶里插着的提米摘给她的已经干枯了的兰花枝、再旁边的朴素的铁丝镜子，里面倒映着身后她整洁的床铺和上面的毛绒兔子——卡米拉给她的第一个生日礼物。然后鲁比克熟悉的、瘦长的脸挡住了一切，上面满是担心。<em>哦，他头一回刮了胡子。</em>艾瑞丝想。</p><p>“艾瑞丝，晚饭了。你没事吧？”</p><p>她紧紧抓着书桌边，指甲扎进了木头。她猛然转向他，抓住他，把他拉向自己。鲁比克差点撒了他的手工油灯。他“当啷”一声把灯放到桌子上，跌进她的椅子边。</p><p>艾瑞丝明白安妮为什么不愿离开，因为她也一样。她当然明白她为什么要离开，但无法和解之间的冲突。她坐在那里，头埋在鲁比克的肩上，自从听到消息以来心里压抑的所有矛盾的情感都爆发了出来。艾瑞丝记不清她上一次哭是什么时候了，她在小孩子们面前扮演坚强太久了。哭解决不了问题，但至少能让她感觉好点。</p><p>鲁比克不用问什么也知道一切，这点她确定。他也紧紧抱着她，难得在这种亲密接触中他能严肃起来。他摸着她的头发，伸出一只脚把门踢合。</p><p>“我们还有一个月，我们还有时间道别。”他低声说道。“我们在那儿不会有事的。小菲说日本和战前的这里一个样。”艾瑞丝试图抑制住眼泪，但她唯一能做到的只有哭得厉害。“他们那边从英国解放后也没改变语言，我们没事的。</p><p>“你知道妈跟我说啥吗？我们要坐的船和这座房子一样大。你是不是超兴奋、超想看它？这么大它怎么漂的起来啊？艾瑞丝，我们一起去看，我们在那上面来回走，直到走不动为止，就跟妈头一天把我们带进来一样。艾瑞丝？哎，艾瑞丝，妈说我们整个路上都会很舒服，她给咱买了头等房间，她管那个叫‘船舱’。”</p><p>鲁比克的声音越来越大，他在试着用他最拿手的技能让她开心。<em>唉，他没治了。</em>艾瑞丝想，<em>抱紧我别说话就好。</em></p><p>“你知道她的朋友干什么的不？<em>文学教授。</em>是个评论家，但也是个教授。妈跟她说了你的一堆好话！在她逃离战乱出了国之前她们俩关系可好了，在学校是舍友呢！她估计会直接收你做学生。我学习不好，但你每天回家的时候一定要告诉我学了啥，好不好？”</p><p>那听起来确实很好，也许她应该一有机会就立刻报名。艾瑞丝哭声轻了下来，只剩啜泣。鲁比克仍然在说个不停，抚摸着她的头发。</p><p>“你觉得我们能自己住不？我们七个没必要住一起吧？我们各自有各自的钱。我猜咱俩也没必要藏着咱俩那事儿了，身边也没打人了。咱俩一开始为啥藏着来着？我记得是你的主意。”</p><p>艾瑞丝没回答。鲁比克身上总是有一股薄荷味，她在他身上蹭了蹭，想多闻一点。等会儿她再给他洗干净抹脏了的衣服。</p><p>“我想我得找个工作。你去上你的课，我来看看我能不能把咱俩的经费流进来，不能总是指望妈给的资金。也许我能去铁匠铺当徒弟，我听说他们那边做的剑都特棒。你也去过东侧那边的兵器展览室，但估计你不知道那里面一半的剑是正儿八经的‘日本制造’。然后我也许能开我自己的——”</p><p>“鲁比克。”</p><p>“嗯？”</p><p>“如果我们有了孩子——”</p><p>“肯定是个女孩，长得像你，任性像我。可能吧。”鲁比克不假思索地回答，这种对话他们说了太多遍了。“也许叫她‘百合’，或者别的。花永远都不嫌多，是不。”</p><p>“以前你没说过这个。”</p><p>“把花连根拔挺让人神经创伤的。”</p><p>“<em>精神</em>创伤。”</p><p>鲁比克噗嗤一声笑了。他亲着她的头发。</p><p>“晚饭？”</p><p>艾瑞丝想再待一会儿。她感觉仿佛回到了山顶。</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;center&gt; -- 孤儿院 -- &lt;/center&gt;

&lt;p&gt;当他们终于来到他们住的那条街道时，艾瑞丝和鲁比克早已淋成了落汤鸡。他们灰白色调的衣服沉甸甸地挂在身上，艾瑞丝踏出的每一步都让她感觉极端不适。她早把头发改扎成了辫子，因为原先为了不让头发遮挡视线而扎的发髻变得实在是太重。现在，她每跑一步，辫子就随之摇晃、拉扯，她只能把它紧紧抱在胸前。&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;这条街和城里其他的街道毫无差别：灰暗、坑洼遍布，里面满是泥血，尽数展示着一场遭遇战的后果——自从20年前内战打响以来，这种小规模冲突就一直折磨着这座城市，占据了艾瑞丝记事后的记忆。&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
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  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>2021 Winter Solstice Story - Year-end Summer Night Concert</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/</id>
    <published>2022-02-11T06:00:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2024-12-21T00:48:32.138Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>The Chapel is not much of a venue for religious practices---in fact, it's not one at all. Behind the stereotypical Greek hypostyle facade of an entrance is a much wider rotunda. Three more entrances are annexed to the east, west, and north of this building. Inside, the corridor runs around half of the circumference, opening six doors in total to the great hall. In the busy and noisy crowd, Likai and I flash our IDs to the usherers, and make our way in. Some of these people are students, either graduating seniors or those who didn't leave early after the finals. Most are outsiders---parents of the graduating class and residents from the town. Five dollars aren't remotely expensive for a ticket (and to be frank, we gave away more than we sold). Yet many still choose to grace us in their best suits and dresses, old and young alike, a bow tie here and a jeweled brooch there. Not because of the elven students in the performance, it's the school. Community outreach, giving back, moving out of the bubble, you get the idea. Willowcreek Academy is an integral part of the town.</p><span id="more"></span><p>Likai makes way for the yawning main door. I grab his thick arm and notion at the staircase.</p><p>"Let's leave the floor to the ticket holders!!!" I yell in the din.</p><p>"What???" He yells back.</p><p>So I hoist his arm over my shoulder and march up the carpeted steps, keeping a low profile when I can. We squeeze our way past the same bright orb lamps floating in their brackets of twisted brass vines, red velvet carpets, gilded portraits of notable alumni and staff members, chalk statues of musicians, yada yada. The crowd didn't thin until the fourth-floor gallery. Through the single, closed door I slip in and stumble. ---Holy hell, I haven't expected the top-level balcony to be this high up and steep. The floor slopes 70 or so degrees downward, and if I sit down, the seat in front could cover up only to my ankles. I tumble down to the first row. Likai, puffing from all the stairs, crashes into the next seat. The door shuts the din out.</p><p>"What the---heck, man.---Why here?"</p><p>"Great view." I grin, bouncing my brows. My palms and my stomach tingle as I peer over the railing, holding my glasses secure to my nose bridge. "Damn, this is like the VIP seats."</p><p>Not really. We're sitting right <em>atop</em> them. The third and second tier below are half-full already. Here and there I recognize familiar gaits and gestures and ponytails. More are filling in those wide balconies surrounding the stage and floor seats by the second. In contrast, ours is almost empty except for Caspar and his gang. The four of them are sitting under the only orb lamp in this narrow, steep hell that's only 11 seats across and four rows in total, huddled together over Martha's book. <em>Leaf by Niggle</em>, short story collection by J.R.R. Tolkien, from fiction section T on library third floor. The titular Niggle, the despairing artist who pours his soul into his artwork, dies and revives in the very painting. The book's worth breaking rules for. They didn't bat an eye at us.</p><p>"Great my ass. Can we even hear anything here?" Likai looks back to his program. In the dim light, he jabs a finger to the third page, under the "Keyboard" section. "Are you really ditching this?"</p><p>"Iris can handle it." I watch as she smooths the hem of her black dress at the side stage and sits down at the harpsichord. She scans the audience but doesn't look to here. I slouch down nevertheless. Nothing provided much cover. Likai doesn't show his contempt but doesn't hide his smirk, either. I mutter, "What are you pointing at, anyways."</p><p>"Your---" He splutters, gaping at the program. My name on there is gone.</p>        <div id="aplayer-oWOUtmJO" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-oWOUtmJO"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "The Prelude",              author: "Reiko Nomura",              url: "The Prelude.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/cover.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>Down below, Iris starts a slow, repetitive arpeggio: <em>do re mi sol do re mi sol do re mi sol do re mi sol do</em> and back down, then, <em>la ti do mi la</em> in the same pattern, and another variation, and another. <em>The Prelude</em> from Final Fantasy series. They say Nabuo Uematsu whipped up this simple tune last-minute during the game development, never imagining it to become a melodic icon. Usually played on a piano, the brightness and the clarity of the harpsichord makes it sound closer to its 8-bit original. This is her version of a warm-up, or rather, a <em>calm-down</em>.</p><p>"See, you can hear the stage fine." I yawn.</p><p>Down on the second tier, Billy lets go of his camera. It hovers into the air and positions itself in the center of the hall. He then raises mine for test-shots. I hear Likai suck in a breath to speak.</p><p>"Just give up." I cut across him, curt. "I can't play tonight. They shouldn't have dragged me in. I'm not even part of the orchestra."</p><p>"...I was about to ask the 'secret surprise ending' on here." He rustles the program.</p><p>"Secret." I wrap myself in my jacket and pull down the hood. "From Royal Albert Hall."</p><p>"Like ostrich, you are." Likai raps his thigh.</p><p>"AC's cold."</p><p>A hand clutches my shoulder and sighs.</p><p>"Shit." I turn, not surprised to find Lily. "How---?"</p><p>"I'm the outlier, remember?" She says, dry, even downcast.</p><p>Yes, the outlier of this world, where all of my characters and my friends' personas gather and attend the Willowcreek Academy, a joint middle and high school. Lily becomes an orphan in this setting, since her original parents became two mere years older. People affected by such paradoxes are compensated. They can choose anything before having their memories and lives rewritten. Lily being the smartass---I mean, the smart <em>lass</em>---she is, was the only one to choose to retain her old self, and something more: some of <em>my</em> authoritative power, since I "trashed her own story".</p><p><strong><em>I did not</em></strong>. I'm just not skilled enough to finish it, yet. But I wagered then that it was one way to keep me in check, so she became the outlier on the power tier.</p><p>"Look, I really can't---"</p><p>"It's chilly up here, Liuy." She rips off my jacket and swings it over her dress. "I'd rather not linger."</p><p>The last sight I see is the schadenfreude on Likai's chubby face and the four at the back looking up at our commotion. Lily wraps her arms around my midriff and kicks the floor. Over the railing we go, sailing down the VIP boxes headfirst to the third-tier balcony. Lily flips over at the last second. My knees buckle even though she absorbs most of the impact. She drags me down the slope, ignoring all the turning heads.</p><p>"No, not again. The stairs." Then I add, "<em>Please!</em>"</p><p>"Unbelievable." She mutters once we push through the door at the end of the balcony walkway. "Irresponsible. Unreliable. Laying off my story and now <em>this</em>!" Her voice raises by each word. "Well, Mr. Author? You've got the guts to wipe your own name off the program but you chicken out on the performance? Why not just write you performed like a pro, then, if you're so keen to abuse your authority?" She stomps down the empty stairs. "Coward!"</p><p>"Sorry..."</p><p>"You aren't the only one scared for his debut, and none of us had a choice."</p><p>"...Sorry..."</p><p>We emerge to the latter third of the Chapel, where the dressing rooms and the backstage are. In the dampened excitement drifting over from beyond, Lily steers me around a corner, and we come face-to-face with Lindsay and Christina by the lockers. Three full seconds later, Lindsay sighs,</p><p>"Maybe we should've respected your reluctance, Liuy."</p><p>"Technically I didn't sign up for concertmaster, either, and I'm nervous, too, yet here I am!" Christina snaps. "If either of us didn't want to do it the slightest, we wouldn't have stuck around for so long, instead of bailing out <em>at---the---last---second</em>!" She emphasizes her last words with three shrill notes from her violin. Seething, she whips around and away.</p><p>"Ah well." Lindsay shrugs and follows.</p><p>"I put his name back." Lily calls after her and wrings me around through the labyrinth to the dressing room. There are people heading on stage with their instruments; there are stagehands rounding people up. There's the choir group, from which Mae runs out to give Lily her wisteria garland back. They look awfully ready. In my mounting anxiety my eyes pick out Yifan weaving her garland into her hair, and she glares back.</p><p>"Don't say it!" She knows what I always say ("big head"). "Wait. Are you alright? Is he alright?" She asks Lily.</p><p>"He's fine, Fanfan!" Lily slaps my back and shoves me into a waiting Sparcal. "One absconded pianist author." She runs off.</p><p>"...She still has my jacket." I grumble, grabbing my dress shirt from Sparcal.</p><p>"Feeling well?" He calls through the curtain. I grunt. "Do not worry. You are not alone up there. Consider it a change of scenery."</p><p>I usually am a stagehand moving pianos, helping with chairs, notifying upcoming performers, and sometimes taking over the lights and sounds. The volunteer job offers me physical exercise; it gets me to know the orchestra people; it grants me access to the piano in an isolated place. In the late evenings, after all rehearsals are over, and when the weather disallowed visits to the garden, I'd sneak in for the grand Steinway. If anyone finds me, I have my tuning kit ready, "for maintenance".</p><p>That was until Robert found out. He didn't buy my excuse. At least he was kind enough to wait until I finish before asking the entire orchestra to reveal themselves. They had been listening for days. The 62 people plus the director Mr. Gao coerced me to take up the second pianist role for the Graduation Concert.</p><p>I should've just written "I refused and left, and everyone forgot what had happened". Music and its performance are expressive and intimate. Every note and gesture is an exposition, and playing before others makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. It's an invitation to critique. I don't like that naked sensation or the patronizations involved.</p><p>My cold and numb fingers fumble around my collar. Oh. A bowtie.</p><p>"Sparcal," I poke my head out, hoarse, "help."</p><center>#</center>        <div id="aplayer-MkmDxVwI" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-MkmDxVwI"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Prelude",              author: "Takeharo Ishimoto",              url: "Prelude.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/cover.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>The Graduation Concert is the longest performance of the year, and the last event of the Graduation Celebration. After five days of commencement, exhibits, social events, and the Banquet, the graduated class gathers from the Great Hall to the Chapel for this joint performance between the choirs from both middle and high school departments and the symphony orchestra. Over two hours long, two intermissions, three acts.</p><p>My part starts in the second act, but Iris asked me to be her page-turner during the first. Five minutes to seven, I push open the door to the stage a sliver. Furthest from me are the double bass, empty. The percussion stands by, striking a beat where he can in the <em>Prelude</em>. The brass and the woodwinds are echoing phrases from the strings, who are accompanying Iris' arpeggio in full swing, turning the simple melody into a fugue. The choir is filing in before the giant organ, chanting according to the music. What started as a game became a full-blown off-script performance. People edge into their seats as solemn as they do when late for sermons. I check the highest balcony and can just make out Likai's big silhouette. Caspar's gang has moved down to the railing, too. I lift my foot, and Ye Xin yanks me back by the collar.</p><p>"Lyka told you to keep your garland in the afternoon, Liuy."</p><p>"I don't need one." I say, automatic.</p><p>"Don't break her heart, dude. Break a leg." He runs the garland through my bun and gives a me a push.</p><p>Lights, camera, choir, low drone from the audience---too much, way too much. Notes stop making sense and merge into a thick blur, dripping over and off my ears, distorting the Chapel, eroding the stage. The chorus sounds hollow and muffled. I see stars.</p><p>"You made it!" Iris cuts into my head. I follow the voice and slide into my seat. Her faint fragrance fishes me out of limbo.</p><p>"Thanks." I mutter, ashamed. "Sorry. I tried to bail."</p><p>"You've got this." She beams, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. "Warm up your fingers, Liuy. We need them later."</p><p>Everyone's in place. Old Nar' in his white sweeping robes strides to the conductor's podium, his hair a silvery-golden waterfall. He faces the orchestra, basking in the music, eyes closed, smiling. Iris stops. The strings and the woodwinds raise the volume for the climax. Chimes and cymbals start jittering with the drum. All sections of the choir open up their lungs in full. Christina stands up. The last, drawn-out <em>mi</em> hits and reverberates across the hall. I see Rubik sit with his jaw dropped to the railing on the second-floor balcony, and Billy stands in the back snapping away.</p><p>Old Nar' lets out a breath, opens his arms wide, and bows to us. The audience dares not applaud. The silence is for Christina. She looks to us. Iris lays a finger on the key A4 and Christina draws it out on her violin. The rest of the orchestra follow in a sea of cacophony. Nar' doesn't turn around until Tina sits down.</p><p>"Thank you." He says, a little drawling, as the applause ceases. He's not loud even through the microphone, but his firm voice holds everyone's attention. Nobody stirs. "Thank you for the beautiful prelude. Thank you for your dedication, and thank you all for joining us tonight, for our finale to this momentous, joyous, and week-long celebration. I do pray you bear with me and my voice for a while longer, with the hopes that you do not have to listen to me again." He dips his head to the laughter and applause.</p><p>"Try and relax." Iris whispers. "It's your show later."</p><p>"That's exactly what makes me nervous."</p><p>"...I hope the seven years Willowcreek has to offer serve you well in your future endeavors," Nar' is saying, "wherever and whatever it may be. Use it as knowledge, or strength, or mere enjoyment as you call upon the memories, good or ill. Everything will be different the moment we part ways tonight, but fret not on the changing. Embrace them, and keep in mind the eternal: there is always time to take a break, to have fun, to let your hair down---" Iris raises a jesting brow at my bun and glides a finger down her own. I pull a face. "---to know that sometimes, it's a delight to indulge in informalities." He lets the words sink in.</p><p>A brief silence and Iris whisks her head to me, eyes wide in disbelief.</p><p><em>What did he just say?</em> She asks me in her mind.</p><p><em>Second time today.</em> Some of my anxiety ebbs.</p><p>"Did he just use a contraction?"</p><p>Rubik's carrying whisper is the first to ring out. The entire hall explodes into laughter and whistles. Old Nar' chuckles and nods in my direction.</p><p>"How did you do it?" Iris claps with the crowd, amazed. The orchestra stomps their feet. "Not the authoritative power, is it?"</p><p>"No. 'It's a squirrel.' That's all." I shrug. "I was surprised, myself."</p><p>"Thank you again for joining us! It has been a delight. I hope you enjoy the performance tonight, and please, consider recycling our programs, or keep it as part of your collection. D.E. and Zea are spectacular artists and designers among our student body, and I highly value their art. Without further ado, please."</p><p>Madam Yu enters and takes the podium. She shakes hands with Nar' and then Tina. One bow to the orchestra, and one bow to the audience. She lifts the baton and her chin. Her black bun is tight. Her lips are thin. Her eyes are bright. Her entire posture demands attention and authority.</p><center>#</center><p>After so many times practicing and rehearsing with her, I'm still awed by how Iris' fingers dance across the keys, light and brisk as the triplet notes themselves. Each emphasis in the rhythm is intuitive like speech. The lifts and falls of the wrists are graceful and controlled. For thirty minutes straight, she sang Bach's <em>Wedding Chorales</em> and BWV 1044 <em>Triple Concerto in A minor</em> with her fingers. Muscle memory alone is enough for her performance. Why does she even need a page-turner?</p><p>I look at my hands. They seem too broad and stubby for a bony hand right now backstage. I washed and dried them twice, and they are still wet. I'm already forgetting what I'm playing tonight. Iris will be page-turning, meaning that I will be exposed to the audience, sticking out like a sore thumb in my white attire.</p><p>"Is this what <em>mian ru si hui</em>'s about?" Lyka peers at my face.</p><p>"'A face like chalk'? Yes." Ye Xin replies. "Shall I call the medics?"</p><p>"Medics don't give confidence boosts." Iris shakes my arm. "Liuy? Can you hear me?"</p><p>"Ah---uh---"</p><p>"It might help if he had time to warm up." Iris says. "Too late now..."</p><p>"I'll make mistakes even with warm-ups." I mumble. "And then I'll make more after the first."</p><p>"Did you notice the five mistakes earlier in 1044?" No, I didn't. "Those aren't really the only ones, and you know sheet well. The audience don't. They have a harder time recognizing a mistake. Besides, you know your stuff, and that's enough for you to feel confident for."</p><p>"Eh---um..."</p><p>"I don't get it. You're the author. Why not just write you have an awesome performance? Didn't you wipe your name off the program?" Xin raises an eyebrow.</p><p>"That didn't get him anywhere, did it?" Lyka replies.</p><p>"But you <em>can</em> play! Go on. Just use it! 'I performed brilliantly. The crowd---"</p><p>"Bathroom. Wash my hands." I mumble.</p><center>#</center><p>It'd be unfair to everyone had I wrote that: to the orchestra members who rehearsed so hard, to the audience who graced us with their presence, to Iris who tutored me the entire year, and even to myself. I didn't set up these pages just to cheat my way out. I guess to the readers, too. I can't feed you all trash after the 3000 words you read. It's poor authorship.</p><p>When I bow down to Murphy's Law and rejoin Iris, where the piano has replaced the harpsichord, she looks quite serious. We both look at our knees.</p><p>"You know," she starts, slow and thoughtful, choosing her words along the way, "I never look at the score when I'm on stage. It's there so I can have someone I know sit with me. It calms my nerves. You have no idea how relieved I was when you walked through the door earlier."</p><p>I take care not to look at anywhere, especially the audience. It's rare to hear her so forthcoming.</p><p>"But for you," she goes on, "I don't think it's enough. I know you can play well, so I don't think this is cheating or unfair... it'd be unfair for you to practice so hard and not being able to show it off... Yes. It's a safety net, not cheating."</p><p>Without a warning, my head whisks to the audience. There's Li Tong edging into his seat. Same row in the west wing, Jerry Liang catches my eye and waves with a good-natured smile. I see Rubik up above, wearing a smirk that I hope never shows up on my own face. Sally's sitting in the first row of the second floor, frowning at the program. Two seats behind her is Sirius the Confident Bro, smiling at me like an innocent babe but reeks of coquetry, pointing to the bespectacled girl in front of him. The rest of my dorm mates are on the third floor, right in the middle, pointing me out and waving. Mike O'Bi's iconic curve-eyed dimpled smile flashes from the east wing. Fourth floor balcony, Likai's silhouette is joined by his dorm mates, and they're either fighting or horsing around. Caspar and his friend seem to give them a wide berth. I smile for a brief second before I realize what's going on. I turn to Iris. She tilts her head, listless.</p><p>"I'm glad I kept this as compensation." She raises my arms and flexes my fingers through her telepathy. Lily told her a lot this afternoon, didn't she. She reads that and smiles. "Look, I won't be playing for you. I'm just going to catch your mistakes, okay?" I nod.</p>        <div id="aplayer-YFMncrRL" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-YFMncrRL"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Choral Fantasy",              author: "Ludwig van Beethoven",              url: "Choral Fantasy I.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/folder.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script>        <div id="aplayer-grYnWDVK" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-grYnWDVK"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Choral Fantasy",              author: "Ludwig van Beethoven",              url: "Choral Fantasy II.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/folder.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>Madam Yu is back at the podium. The hum dies down. All eyes are on me. Lily looks nonchalant and non-expectant from her spot in the choir. Robert nods across the stage. I lower my shoulders and hit the first three chords, stiff. The keys are weighted a little lighter than usual. It's going to be easier to slip and mis-press.</p><p>Some five minutes in, I don't think Iris needed to catch a single error yet. I start to bend into my usual posture, and my mind turns from my fingers to the music. Beethoven's Opus 80, Fantasia in C minor, or the Choral Fantasy, is a curious piece. Its four parts fall into two movements: <em>adagio</em> by itself, and the rest as the “Finale”. The <em>adagio</em> hardly suffices as a beginning. In the five minutes or so it presents little, if any, main or memorable motifs, nor does it set a tone or a mood for the Finale that's three times longer. What is it there for? It stays true to the genre, I guess. Fantasies are free-form, and Beethoven can have his ending before the piece even begins, have it as long as he likes, and have it piss off the performer.</p><p>Iris catches me twice, redirecting my fingers to the correct keys. This is better than our rehearsals. I haven't found the need to use the pedal to cover my mistakes.</p><p>Beethoven wrote this for his own fundraiser concert and played it himself. How rather ironic. I'm narrating in my own fictional world as myself, a story that did not have much of a beginning (but hey, at least <em>The Lack Thereof</em> sets a stage), and here we are at the end of the school year already. The end sometimes is a better story to tell.</p><p>But what does the Finale of the Choral Fantasy tell? For what it's worth, it is very Beethoven. Capricious, intense, expressive, a pain in the ass to learn but very, very fun to play once mastered, and very enjoyable to listen to. For twenty minutes the audience is held by my trampling through the score, weaving in and out of the violins, and swinging from the serene to the stormy (very much like parts of his Sonata No. 17, <em>Tempest</em>) to the hopeful (the alleged precursor for <em>Ode to Joy</em>). You know, I think I can do this.</p><p>Last note. Applause. <em>Phew, I did it</em>.</p><p>Iris nudges my head with telepathy. I meet the approving eyes of Madam Yu before Christina stands up and blocks her from view. We are moving on to Beethoven's Violin Sonata No. 9, Op. 47, <em>adagio</em>, the "Bridgetower"---I mean, the "Kreutzer". The original dedicatee, Bridgetower, managed to insult Beethoven's crush after the premiere of the piece over a beer, and Old B responded by changing the dedication to Rodolphe Kreutzer instead, who, as funny as it could get, refused to even play it.</p>        <div id="aplayer-uWySYvww" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-uWySYvww"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Kreutzer Movement I",              author: "Ludwig van Beethoven",              url: "Kreutzer Movement I.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/folder2.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>The abrupt violin chords draw out my piano one. For nearly two full minutes we test the notes, tiptoeing around each other, cautious, holding back the torrent of---I don't know---passion? Fury? Melancholy? Remorse? Pain? Insanity?</p><p>Iris usually drifts off when watching me practice this piece, mesmerized---or reminiscing? About what, or maybe whom? When she first mentored me over this piece, though, she was way too alert and uncharacteristically scathing. "Bland", "tasteless", "nonchalant", it got to the point where she was upset enough to push me off the bench and hammer on the keys with a fury as though I had killed Rubik. When she banged her fist on the last note she yelled,</p><p>"That's how you play it! Do you get it? Not that robotic tapping! Pour some <em>heart</em> into it! Don't you have anyone you hold extremely conflicted feelings towards? Don't you---you do? Play for them, then! Don't just get the <em>notes</em> right! Get the <em>message</em> right, Great Mother God!"</p><p>I wonder who she thinks of when she plays it, or listens to it, to agitate her so? Does Christina think of someone as she tears at the strings with gusto? The piece is pretty fast for an <em>adagio</em>---</p><p>Something slips out of my mind like a sliver of ice. I become too aware of my fingers and the score sheet. The black bodies of the notes pulse and break loose, jumping off the lines like imps. I'm doing all I can to keep up. What just happened? Last few bars on the page and Iris hasn't budged. I take a quick glance at her.</p><p>Her big, downturned eyes glare unfocused at the keys before her.</p><p>We're way past the end of the page, and I can't spare a foot to wake her or a hand to flip the score. It's fortunate that the following bars are similar. If I close my eyes, my fingers can guide themselves, but what happens after that? I'm useless without the sheets here. What sort of a pianist doesn't memorize all his sheets? I shouldn't have been a part of this at all.</p><p><em>That's one mistake.</em> I count. <em>Two... Not a third. Not a third---</em> Cursing, I snatch out a hand and rip two pages away at once. The third sticks to them a bit, and is left hanging, half-turned. The tattered papers fly at Iris, who jolts awake and straightens the dangling sheet. Madam Yu doesn't react, but Lily standing across her looks startled. Under the eyes of 1,500-something people I miss three entire bars.</p><p>Christina looks over. I slow down, mortified. Why is a violin sonata leaning so heavily on the piano? Another wrong note hits me like a saucepan. I grit my teeth to stop my scream of dismay. The rule of thumb during a performance is never stop unless there's an emergency; this is exactly that. Christina has to go solo for now.</p><p>Iris takes a deep breath. She raises an arm to the sheet and I shrink, face burning and legs trembling. Christina draws out each note to the fullest, forcing everyone's eyes onto her.</p><p>"The Krutzer is a really good piece for improvisation and going off-tempo, but it has its limits." Those were Iris' words during our last one-on-one practice. "Be prepared to go solo and improvise, or get back to it fast when things arise."</p><p>Who would've thought. I grit my teeth and hit the keys harder than I intended, and harder still. It's the only way to suppress my trembles. We're regaining tempo, but with every three notes there seems to be a wrong one. Iris hasn't re-established her control. It's for the best: a broken safety net from the start is as good as none. I knew it, and yet still relied on her.</p><p>Another few bars of piano solo with violin plucking. This is a violin sonata, not a concerto, for fuck's sake! Why is the string an accompany to the keyboard now? The Chapel is swirling into a glob again, and the sheet is on fire. I try my best to curb the bubbling panic. The <em>adagio</em> refuses to stop; there are always notes coming after the expected endings. It's annoying. No wonder Kreutzer hates it. Beethoven was a jerk to fall out with the only guy who cares about the shit enough to accompany him---</p><p>And it's over. I almost black out. Thank god we aren't doing the second movement.</p><p>Applause, whistles. Why? I keep my head down. Why are Madam Yu and Robert smiling? Hello? We just butchered the performance?</p><p>The last bit of act II is a rendition of the Finale of Symphony No. 9 to fit under 10 minutes. Even Fate sneers at me. I feel no joy, only icy shame. The Ode is meant to involve all member in the performance; Madam Yu takes it to mean <em>all</em> members---<em>both</em> pianists. Iris plays a four-hand with me. She covers up my half-assed attempt from the bass half of the <em>clavier</em>.</p><center>#</center><p>We crouch in a chilly corner, away from the others, Iris and I. Christina ran to the bathroom the first second after the bow and Iris broke down the moment she went through the stage door. Neither of us say a thing. People walk past us but I hid us both.</p><p>"I'm sorry." Iris' voice is muffled in her knees. "I should've paid more attention."</p><p>"...I relied on you too much, instead of myself."</p><p>"I knew I drift off when you play that---"</p><p>"Had I memorized the sheet better---"</p><p>"I actually told myself to be careful---"</p><p>"Now I went ahead and ruined the show---"</p><p>"Are you two alright?" Lily drops down before us and grabs our hands. We all look like we're about to cry.</p><p>"You again." I turn away.</p><p>"It's all my---" Iris hugs Lily.</p><p>"Should've bailed completely---"</p><p>Lily pulls me in, too.</p><p>It's bad enough as it is, and Madam Yu has to choose this moment to find us, all thanks to Lily breaking my spells.</p><p>"What's going on here?" Her brisk voice slices us apart. "Why are you crying?" Isn't it obvious? "I came for 'good job on act II'. I might need a different spiel."</p><p>"'Good job'?" I blink.</p><p>"Yes, good job out there. Great Choral Fantasy, and very good handling of the emergency for a first-timer."</p><p>"Choral Fantasy wasn't me." I tell her about Iris' safety net.</p><p>"Ah. So you two solved more than one emergency in the past hour." Madam Yu pulls over a chair and sits down. "Even more commendable. My job would be much easier if everyone is like this. As for the Kreutzer, Iris, it's a loaded piece. Everyone get carried away playing it once in a while, let alone listening to it. I'm glad I don't ever have to conduct it because of that. The fact is that you, Liuy, slowed down instead of outright stopping, buying Christina time to adjust and improvise, which in turn gained you time to reset. A suitable partner is crucial for more seasoned performers in that situation." Madam Yu gives Christina and Lindsay a single beckon. "Good job out there, Tina. More experienced performers had worse solutions to that. Beethoven himself had to restart during his own premiere of the Choral Fantasy. His group was undertrained and he got carried away himself."</p><p>"Thanks! Not bad for a first-time concertmaster, eh?" Christina looks around at us through her nostrils and flicks her long hair. "Probably first time that <em>adagio</em> is actually sounded like <em>adagio</em>."</p><p>"Yes, yes we get it." Lindsay glances askew at her.</p><p>"I made too many mistakes." I mumble. "Missed an entire row."</p><p>"I doubt the audience knew." Madam Yu stands up, a hand on the back of the chair and the other on my head. "From what you two told me, I believe Iris had stopped monitoring you for quite some time before her mind detached fully from yours." She gives us a rare, thin-lipped smile. She presses my knee. "Unfortunately that means I cannot believe any reason for you to not give us a splendid performance in act III. Good job, all of you. This intermission is 15 minutes. Take time to refresh yourselves. I expect an equally good, if not better, effort in act III. Don't bail." She winks at me. I hang my head.</p><p>"<em>Don't</em> refresh yourself further. Sally even told you not to drink so much!" Lindsay nudges Tina after Madam Yu leaves.</p><p>"<em>That's</em> why you dashed to the toilet?" Iris asks, blank.</p><p>"Uh... what else do you do in there?" Christina pulls a face.</p><p>"Crying at the disaster." I mutter aside.</p><p>"Who the hell cries in a shithole??" Tina slaps my shoulder.</p><center>#</center><p>I watch Iris take her place by the organ. Even at a close distance, she looks tiny compared to the 29 ranks of 401 crystalline and 1346 bronze pipes that are embedded into or layered over the entire wall. The organ used to be the stage itself, with its manuals and stops located right in front of the first row of the audience. It took a decade of performers' complaints on the vibration and the mechanical noise of the pneumatic before Old Nar' decided to rebuild it. It took another decade to tune it. A canal was constructed under the Chapel to direct water from Willow Creek over for the air required.</p><p>She'll be back down after the first piece to take the white piano behind me. Madam Yu wants a stark contrast between the players and their instruments. Iris in black and I in white evoke the Taichi by sitting side-by-side, facing opposite directions between the black and white pianos.</p><p>"I'll be alright." I say to the organ pipes. Iris gives me a wink. The lights dim. In the round of applause and stomps, Madam Yu enters. Earlier the piano was at the side. Now in the dead center and the forefront of the stage, I'm right in the spotlight. But Madam Yu was right: I did play well alone for an extended amount of time. As long as I don't mind any mistakes I make, I'll be fine. After all, act III is the one I look most forward to. "Can't worse than the Kreutzer; I did better than Beethoven." I mutter, and wait for Madam Yu.</p><p>"Willowcreek Academy believe music is an indispensable aspect of life," she begins, "and it's our mission and pleasure to uphold that idea. That's why we aim to bring music in its all forms to you through community events, masterclasses, and concerts.</p><p>"The rise of new media formats and methods of its transmission have revolutionized the realm of music, providing us a plethora of new choices. A majority of these are created as merchandises or their accompanying materials, of which artistic beauty takes the backseat and financial success is put to the forefront. Many may scoff at these so-called 'tainted' music, but we should remember that all of our classical masters created their <em>opus magnum</em> to garner favor and patronage from the aristocrats. In a sense, they wrote highly targeted commercials of their time. Schubert wrote the pop songs of his era; Shakespeare is a really bawdy bard; many early Chinese poetry are sung for entertainment in the fields. They survive not because they are meant to be unattainable or incomprehensible, but the exact opposite. While they represent their era, they connect human experiences across ages. While they each boasts their own skills of trade, they express simple beauties recognizable by all. While they require intensive knowledge to be parsed out in full, they do not require sophisticated education to be appreciated. They are fun and enjoyable. It's these that make them art.</p><p>"Tonight, as our tradition, we wish to share some of such pieces from our own era. Let's get down to earth, and take a gander at our own renditions of soundtracks from video games and movies, as well as pop songs. Enjoy. Have fun."</p><p>Act II put her in a really good mood. Madam Yu pulls her conductor's baton out of her bun and it falls into a long ponytail. The entire hall explodes into cheers and laughter. Old Nar' in the front row whistles and leans back. Roldolf leans across Syereen to smirk at him. Madam Yu then pulls my bun apart, too. The garland cage unravels and flows past my shoulder. The audience cheers louder and Old Nar' whistles again. I retie my hair, blending the garland in. The wisteria scent on my hands after calms me somewhat.</p><p>Right. Bring it on.</p>        <div id="aplayer-osrjKete" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-osrjKete"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Opening Theme",              author: "Nabuo Uematsu",              url: "Opening Theme.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/cover.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script>        <div id="aplayer-uKWaSCaD" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-uKWaSCaD"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Terra's Theme",              author: "Nabuo Uematsu",              url: "Terra's Theme.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/cover2.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>The noise ceases. A menacing set of chord progress from the organ. The choir inhales and bursts forth two forceful notes. I follow with a lengthy cadenza. The gong, the choir, the string crescendo joined by woodwinds and brass. The opening sequence of <em>Final Fantasy VI</em>, a game that's considered to host one of the best game soundtracks. Dark, brooding, ominous, the game opens on a snowstorm night with this in the background. The piece is a joint melody of the beginning of <em>Dancing Mad</em> and <em>Terra's Theme</em>. This composition makes it easy for rearrangements: the foreboding <em>Dancing Mad</em> section repeats again after the gong and is followed by the more melodious <em>Terra's Theme</em> in the form of a march. I join in halfway into that, gradually bringing it to a quieter and more ponderous version. Strings resurface to accompany my keyboard around the end, and one by one, the rest of the orchestra and the choir comes back to finish in the original march style.</p><p>There's a modest applause; most of the audience doesn't know if they should or not.</p><p>"Keep it up." Iris whispers. I nod, my foot is still tapping to <em>Terra's Theme</em>'s beat. The air about her is quite warm. It's good to have her back.</p>        <div id="aplayer-MzLvOzJf" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-MzLvOzJf"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "my dear feather",              author: "Yuki Kajiura",              url: "my dear feather.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/cover3.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>Tina takes her position again and waits. The high pitch of the piano, the low hum of the strings, the airy chorus, all ooze out and spread across the floor. Yuki Kajiura has the power to pluck the listener's heartstrings with the hymn-like <em>a cappella</em> and the long draws of the violin. I consider <em>My Dear Feather</em> one of her best: the longing from the hymn and the strings contrast with the tension of the later percussion, and the entire piece reverberates with Beethoven's passion in a much more well-restrained manner. The opening simply glides into the main body, rising with the chorus into the climax, a breather, as though the singer closes her eyes, and opens to the same turmoil, until everything breaks like the end of a nightmare.</p>        <div id="aplayer-jtVDVeLN" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-jtVDVeLN"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Kokuyo no kimi",              author: "Yuki Kajiura",              url: "Kokuyo no kimi ~amai yuwaku.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/cover4.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>The low double bass rolls on. I insert the lonely prancing notes from <em>Kokuyo no Kimi</em>, running the submerged tension for Tina to slide her cold notes down a long, slow spiral. Both of these pieces contain excellent-placed percussion, leading one section into another. The audience heaves a collective sigh when Christina's fingers slide up and down the strings. It's the cry of longing, bursting forth after the beats that had being kept in careful check. This feels like the Kreutzer, the catharsis of the suppression. There has been too much uncertainty in the ebb and flow of the piano and the violin. Should we trust each other? Should we open up? Does the other side care? Perhaps we should, and we do care. Our real feelings are unleashed in torrents overwhelming all self-imposed barriers. In a long sentence Tina rises up, higher and higher---</p><p>The string snaps.</p><p>Tina pulls a face at the gasp from the audience. Iris and I exchange a knowing yet relieved side glance. It's fortunate it happens now, instead of earlier: the last few bars don't involve violins. Tina flashes a grin at us, thinking along the same lines. She swaps her violin with an amused Lindsay, so she can continue on with <em>The Seventh Chapter of the Night</em> next.</p>        <div id="aplayer-ZMrlCySQ" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-ZMrlCySQ"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "夜的第七章",              author: "周杰伦",              url: "夜的第七章.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/cover5.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>For the entire piece Lindsay went backstage to repair the damage. She doesn't miss much, anyways. Jay Chou's songs are more suitable listening to than playing (poor Iris has this solo). I know she hooks up the new string with deftness, re-tunes it, and then spends the rest of the four minutes behind the door tapping a finger at the violin to JayJay Ji's rapping.</p><p>Oh right. Maybe she misses JayJay rapping in his tuxedo. We don't get to see that in the rehearsals. I wonder what this all looks like from the audience. A guy in formals with his elbow raised slurring Chinese as fast as he can in front of an orchestra is sure to be humorous, if not iconoclastic. The image is probably the epitome of Madam Yu's speech earlier.</p><p>When Lindsay returns, Yifan steps down to the microphone. Her bangs are swept back, and I make a point to chuckle at her exposed forehead as our running joke. "Big head." I hiss. She responds with a glare, and mouths, "horse face".</p><p><em>Stop harassing her!</em> Lily's voice echoes in my mind.</p><p>Yifan throws me a narrow-eyed glance. I return in jest. It feels like a face-off. Too bad I can't really one-up her and steal the show. Besides, I have to thank her for tolerating all the jest and wrong notes during the rehearsals. Others would probably quit already.</p>        <div id="aplayer-pSEnqPod" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-pSEnqPod"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Michishirube",              author: "菊田大介",              url: "Michishirube.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/cover6.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>"Anata no koe ga," She starts. I finish the rest of the lyric for her. The velvet bass and the crystalline treble blurs the world. I like <em>Violet Evergarden</em> too much to stay lucid. <em>Michishirube</em>'s beautiful, and neither of us need to understand the lyrics to appreciate the tenderness. Madam Yu isn't conducting. Yifan's vocals guide my tempo. The strings join, a drop of warmth in the bleak air. I wake up to Yifan striding to the piano, and twirling back with her arms wide. I feel my heart expand. I have to take a deep breath.</p><p>Is this what inspiration looks like? The extending and retracting arm, the improvised sways, the reflected glimmer from the garland and the flyaway hair. She spent much time learning and practicing the lyrics from Yidi. It all comes down to right now, when Yifan becomes the song. She looks like she's having fun, on the stage, no less. I don't get to see a lot of this during the rehearsal. Back there it was all a chore. Is enjoyment improvised? "Fun", what does it mean exactly, anyways? In the bridging instrumentals she reaches an arm to me across the piano, head tilted and smiling.</p><p>It's an encouragement, and an invitation to a friendly competition.</p><p>Madam Yu frees her arms, and I have a fleeting memory of Iris' foot next to mine, teaching me how to half-pedal to extend the notes just enough but not slur them together. The orchestra splashes into life, and down goes my foot. The piano has never been easier to play. The notes escape like caged birds. <em>I</em> am escaping like a cage bird. Who needs score sheets, anyways? Yifan's lungs open up in full, and I let my notes soar along her. There's one slip, but who cares.</p><p>When the final note ends, I think I heard a sniff. In the applause I tease Iris,</p><p>"Are you sobbing, <em>senpai</em>?"</p><p>"Are you finally enjoying this, grasshopper?" She scoffs just enough for me to hear, rubbing at her eye corner.</p><p>I wipe my forehead, pouting at her. Before me, Yidi and JayJay switch Yifan out from the mic. Madam Yu readies her baton.</p><p>The Graduation Concert never had encores. There's no turning back once you graduate. Cheer it, boo it, dream it, reenact it, draw it, write it in your stories; however much you wish for it, it's over---pay attention and enjoy while it's there: that's the message. When this final song ends, the conductor will recognize the orchestral members. Everyone will take their bow, and exit. The lights will be back on and the usherers will open all doors, letting the summer night air extend its warmest invitation. Stagehands will start clearing the stage. If the audience still cheered, expectant, elven usherers like Sparcal will send them a telepathic nudge, though this has never happened before. Nobody resists the summer air.</p>        <div id="aplayer-vEuzHteY" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-vEuzHteY"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "打上花火",              author: "米律玄师 x DAOKO",              url: "打上花火.mp3",              pic: "/2022/02/11/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Year-end%20Summer%20Night%20Concert/cover7.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>So the baton dips for the last piece. The keys fall and rebound. Yidi sings the first verse, her voice warm and thick, unlike the usual bright and clear tone she has when speaking. Both hands cupping the mic on the stand, eyes half-closed, she sways a little, sighing the lyric, turning her back on JayJay, who has unclipped his mic and leaning against my piano, head bowed and arms crossed, casual, before his waist, listening,</p><p>"In the evening calm, twilight alone passes me by." That's what Yidi's lyric means, I think.</p><p>The strings pluck, and I fill in for the guitar. Percussion, choir. The melody is vigorous and upbeat in contrast to the lyrics---I don't think people would like it had we put <em>Michishirube</em> at the end, heh. It's all about a great send-off. The guests are going home, the graduates are leaving the school, the students are departing for summer. "Summer is a happy season," Nar' always says, "and summer nights in particular." You get your share of tears and tantrums, but always try to end summer days on a high note to remember by---and today we are providing that.</p><p>Jayjay straightens up to go about his verse. Yidi, who knows Japanese well, has pushed him hard to get all the pronunciations correct. She never cared much for the lyrics' meanings, but vocal, as part of the melody, is a different matter. JayJay would engage in mock fights with her sometimes during rehearsal breaks, bouncing right after the music ended and blaming Yidi for being too strict, lean arms wringing,</p><p>"<em>Ou dao kai! Watashi</em> can't do it!"</p><p>Does she fall for my idol, even a little? JayJay throws me a grin.</p><p>"Searching between the waves, I'll try again," he directs the words to Yidi. Iris and my clear-cut staccato gains traction and culminates energy. "So you'll never have to be sad again."</p><p>The surprise---the one mentioned by both Old Nar' in the afternoon and Likai some time earlier, borrowed from Royal Albert Hall, remember that? Aren't you curious what it is? I was scared witless from the height of my seat during my visit there, but in the end I didn't regret any minute I spent trembling. I hope the surprise is equally worth it for you after the 7820 words you've read. If you're a "high class music" aficionado, then you might have an inkling of what's to come, and perhaps even the name of this song.</p><p><em>Uchiage Hanabi</em>, "Fireworks".</p><p>At the upward flick of Madam Yu's baton and the first note of the second chorus, flame and sparks dart out from around the bottom of the third-floor balcony into the center of the Chapel. The audience explodes into cries of surprise and wonder. I smirk at my reflection in the piano. Yes, people---Willowcreek Academy has its own indoor fireworks now!! The Chapel may not be as spacious as Royal Albert Hall, but it's enough to host one. Red and blue sparks trail over our heads and explodes to our drumbeats. For forty full seconds they cackle and sizzle, but madams and sirs and anyone in between, across age groups, please, hold your applause, for the music and the fireworks cease, leaving only Iris' piano, a slow and quiet afterglow.</p><p>The crowd waits with bated breath, anticipating what this round of staccato means.</p><p>Just when they expect the first note of the third chorus to burst forth, the orbs flare out. We all freeze. JayJay and Yidi switch off their mics and each dampens strings in Iris' and my piano. The choir stifles. Other orchestra members mute their own instruments as well, but their hands maintained their last positions, poised to strike the next unsung note. The audience's excited inhales are cut short. In the darkness, they dare not stir. We smile at their collected groan of disappointment, waiting for the cue.</p><p>Well, reader.</p><p>How would you one-up the Royal Albert Hall, when you already had a miniature replica of its ace?</p><p>What's the one thing that place cannot do?</p><p>What's missing so far in this concert that no one really misses during a concert?</p><p>A child's cry. We admit all ages, but younger ones enter at a small price. I'm not sorry at all to say we place charms on children under 10 to ensure a disturbance-free performance. Nothing sinister---the charm makes only their guardians can hear them. It lifts three times: during the two intermissions, and now.</p><p>"Big brother Shanshan, look!" One little girl finally cries out. "The ceiling!"</p><p>It's sliding open.</p><p>Royal Albert Hall cannot <em>open its ceiling</em>, people!</p><p>What, we have elves here, and you think we can't crack open a ceiling? The quiet hum reveals the inky sky sliver by sliver. Here and there are stars. The moon is nowhere in sight. We hear crickets. We hear leaves. Can we hear the branching Willow Creek that runs under our feet?</p><p>Madam Yu swings her arm up and slashes it down. We slam the notes into the audience's faces. Yidi and JayJay leap down the stage, into the audience. Fireworks rocket from the second-floor balcony up into the air. People scream in shock, then delight. That and their whistles join those of the fireworks; their eyes reflect the trailing light and showers; their ears echo with our music.</p><p>The piece is modified to repeat the last chorus once more, providing two minutes of chorus for the three-minute fiery finale. After that, the instruments fade away from back to front, section by section, leaving only the lingering piano.</p><p>Until then, we keep playing, fueling the memorable night and closing the school year. JayJay and Yidi activate the standard-issue rings on their fingers to glide down the aisles, beckoning at people, using its magic to throw sparks and bubbles over their head, singing, dancing, bringing them to their feet. Children bounce, tugging, excited, at their parents and grandparents. Some people clap to the rhythm, singing or humming along. Couples kiss. Friends hug. Everywhere is wonder and cheers.</p><p>This is the real Ode to Joy. I'm glad I part of this.</p><p>Old Nar' adds his voice to the chorus, a smile of fulfillment on his serene face. JayJay levitates Jerry over to Yidi, who passes him back in a graceful twirl; I wonder how he would write about this show?</p><p>Second balcony, Sally weeps, hugging with the girl behind her. Confident Bro is trying to blow a kiss to the stage. That idiot never changes. Rubik is trying a shot with the camera under Billy's instructions, same faces with opposite expressions. Maybe Billy will consider getting a drone now. That camera can't fly high enough to capture the open-air Chapel in full (but he knows how to stitch panoramas from me).</p><p>Third balcony, my old dorm and O'Bi hold up their arms, laughing, pointing---why are those idiots chanting my name?</p><p>Fourth balcony, the fireworks bathe it in light. Caspar's gang are swaying and singing along, hands linked. They'll be old enough to audit for the choir next year. Likai's dorm mates are the most stoic lot, lip-syncing to the chorus. I turn my eyes back and sweep the stage, from Lindsay and Christina to Madam Yu to Lily and Iris to Robbie, and the reflection of Iris in my piano. Our hands complement each other's voices in the music.</p><p>Likai stands in his seat, hands on the railing, solemn. He has his triumph over me this time, and rightfully so. I don't know if he still regrets being hoisted up there by me, though. I'm sure that's a small smile up there.</p><p><em>The fireworks are spectacular.</em></p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;The Chapel is not much of a venue for religious practices---in fact, it&#39;s not one at all. Behind the stereotypical Greek hypostyle facade of an entrance is a much wider rotunda. Three more entrances are annexed to the east, west, and north of this building. Inside, the corridor runs around half of the circumference, opening six doors in total to the great hall. In the busy and noisy crowd, Likai and I flash our IDs to the usherers, and make our way in. Some of these people are students, either graduating seniors or those who didn&#39;t leave early after the finals. Most are outsiders---parents of the graduating class and residents from the town. Five dollars aren&#39;t remotely expensive for a ticket (and to be frank, we gave away more than we sold). Yet many still choose to grace us in their best suits and dresses, old and young alike, a bow tie here and a jeweled brooch there. Not because of the elven students in the performance, it&#39;s the school. Community outreach, giving back, moving out of the bubble, you get the idea. Willowcreek Academy is an integral part of the town.&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    <category term="Willowcreek Academy" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Willowcreek-Academy/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>2021 Winter Solstice Story - Or the Lack Thereof, Willowcreek Academy</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2021/12/25/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Or%20the%20Lack%20Thereof,%20Willowcreek%20Academy/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2021/12/25/2021%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Or%20the%20Lack%20Thereof,%20Willowcreek%20Academy/</id>
    <published>2021-12-25T19:04:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2024-12-21T00:48:42.888Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>"<em>The Count of Mount Cristo</em>, <em>The Moonstone</em>, and... <em>The Remains of the Days</em>? That last one---you're in for a treat, Devon. Ishiguro demonstrated a beautiful example of an unreliable narrator." Catherine Murray gives Devon a meek smile. Devon scratches his head. The librarian knows about every book here in the library at Willowcreek Academy; he loves chatting with her. Catherine sees a question in his eyes. "The narrator isn't always reliable, and the reader shouldn't always trust the narrative, either, especially a first person one. Not that the narration has to be false or a lie---truths can be hidden. You might need to read the book twice to get everything out of it."</p><span id="more"></span><p>"Crikey, that's the most I heard Cate speak in one go." Caspar leans from behind Devon. "Say something to me, too, Cate!"</p><p>Jenny slaps his shoulder from behind.</p><p>"Quit being an arse!" She hisses.</p><p>"Anything besides reading planned for summer?" Cate wraps the five volumes, tilting her head.</p><p>"We all volunteered as rangers for the forest back at Sherwood," Martha checks her books, red hair flaming in the sunlight pouring down from the tall skylight, "like last year. We mostly just wait in Minas Taurënúr for the lost people. There's time aplenty to read---oi crikey, I missed a book---wait for me!"</p><p>She streaks off. The vast library is near-empty, and Martha isn't surprised. She doesn't want to hole up inside on a bright June afternoon, either. Under the high marble arches she runs, down the wide entrance hall and left into the main corridor, where study tables and study rooms line up on both sides. The carpet mutes her footsteps for Raja, who watches Nadim concentrating over his calligraphy in one room piled with papyrus scrolls. They are always in here together. Their brown garbs and skin sometimes render them invisible against the dark red walls and bookcases behind them. They can sit for hours on end, as though the passage of time is lost to them. Martha wishes she could read what Nadim is writing. It must mean a lot to him if he traces the same strokes over and over. Sometimes she sees Raja write, as well.</p><p>"Oh---he's looking up---" Martha's eyes widen at the smiles exchanged between the two. Raja is clapping, big eyes brimming with excitement. "Ah---" The corridor is getting hot, and Martha doesn't ever remember herself stopping. She picks up her speed and, blushing furiously, mutters, "Humph. Upperclassmen."</p><p>The main corridor opens up to the round Atrium, where more corridors spread left and right to different archives and auditoriums. Up above are three more floors of books for regular checkouts. Lights spills from the crystal dome above, divided by the six ribs of the high arch, as well as from the stained glass depicting an eagle flying over the sea towards a lighthouse. That's the Naren Star, Martha knows. The academy organizes field trips to sophomores in both middle and high school departments there. The window takes up the entire wall above the ground staircase. Martha eyes it and clenches her fists. The ring on her finger glows, and she leaps lightly atop the first flight, and up the window she goes. At the lighthouse beacon she backflips and lands on the second-floor balcony. Down section T she runs for her book.</p><p>"Oof." She headfirst into a soft white something. "Uh... <em>Welp</em>! Hi, Christina."</p><p>"Whoa whoa whoa, easy on ring powers in here, Martha. Can't have you leaving pawprints all over the stained glass, or on my boobs." Christina ruffles Martha's hair. Martha grins with all her teeth, face redder than her hair.</p><p>"I didn't climb the---Nice blouse---I mean---" Martha stomps her feet. "So? We're all girls here."</p><p>"She meant, 'Be careful.'" Lindsay laughs from across them. She reaches over the book-laden table to pet down Martha's hair. Sally, nose buried in a book, scribbled beside her under a floating crystal orb lamp. "Off you go, sweet."</p><p>"Humph, upperclassmen." Christina hears her grumble, storming away. She turns back to Sally. "Sal. Seriously. The finals are over last week. <em>Why are you still studying?</em>"</p><p>"I need to prepare for the---"</p><p>"Medical exam, yeah," Lindsay sighs, "but you have the entire next school year, and the exam itself is in senior year, isn't it?"</p><p>"You have the entire summer, too---not that you should waste the two months studying." Christina slaps down the page Sally just flipped over, bending close so her golden hair covers the book in full. Sally jerks back in alarm and Lindsay holds onto Sally's shoulders. "C'mon, Xiaotong, join us for the afternoon!"</p><p>"You completely butchered the pronunciation, Tina." Sally shudders.</p><p>"We'll keep butchering it until you ditch the books." Lindsay smiles.</p><p>"Fiiiiine... let me pack---"</p><p>Lindsay frogmarch her out of her seat, her black ponytail swinging in distraught.</p><p>"Nobody's here to take them, Sal." Christina says, brisk.</p><p>Lindsay lets go of Sally once they are at the stairs. "Why always the corner table?"</p><p>"The sun doesn't get to it. Orb lamps are better for eyes." Sally frowns at her friends' faces through her glasses. "What? It's all relative." They roll their eyes. "Where are we going?"</p><p>"The mall has new summer arrivals---"</p><p>"Summer group discounts at Sundae Parlor---"</p><p>"Last day of music fes at the Butte Garden---"</p><p>"Oh yeah, they have a meet-and-greet there---"</p><p>"You can't do all that! You have your own orchestra tonight!" Sally jumps.</p><p>"That," Christina squeezes her in a hug, "is exactly why we like to pull your leg, Sal. There's no music festival."</p><p>"It's an outdoor gallery at the Butte, plus an art market. Ghibli Studio exhibition starts today, but since we won't be staying over the summer, we thought we'd go with you before we leave."</p><p>Sally smacks her forehead and tuts. How can she forget after being so hyped about it a month ago? The multi-entry advance ticket is still hanging off her neck in case she ever loses it! She drags her friends across the Atrium, past the now empty circulation desk, and out into the sun.</p><p>The mild heat is welcoming. The library likes to maintain a lower temperature for the books. Sally sighs in relief. Everyone is out here, stretching and chatting, scattered across the yard. In the center, where all paths converge is the big black round basin of the fountain. Argons and Xenia watch Paul sail his clockwork boat through the bombarding torrent. Close-by on the lawn, Lily, Julia, and Landon play with Charlie the golden retriever, the school's mascot. Robert is the dogsitter today. Underclassmen from the middle school department chased each other around---at least most of them. Some deem themselves too mature and withdraw themselves to the shades of the woods at the yard borders, idle, contemptuous, rebellious. In the further distance, past the short bridge over Willow Creek, is the town. A few groups of people are heading out, some, Sally is sure, she'll meet at the Butte.</p><p>"Don't eat or drink too much later." Sally pulls herself back to her friends. "You know, for the two-hour concert tonight."</p><p>"Oh, I won't. Not sure about Ms. Concertmaster." Lindsay winks.</p><p>"Don't fuss, for the love of---<em>do I ever</em>?" Christina demands.</p><p>"You did your exercises, right? Reviewed the sheet? Tuned your vio---Hold on. Tina's concertmaster? Aren't you always---?"</p><p>"It was decided back in September. It's no fair she never gets the role. Tina's as good as I am." Lindsay waves the question away. "Of course, she wasn't going to accept pity points, so we had a violin duel."</p><p>"It's the graduation concert, after all, so everything was internal. Sorry we kept it a secret..." Christina beams. "But I get to be the lead for next year, starting today!"</p><p>"Congratulations!" Sally squeals, clasping Christina's hands. Then, to Lindsay, "But you---"</p><p>"No, I didn't go easy on her." Lindsay pinches Christina. "I knew she could beat me."</p><p>She notices Iris talking to Billy with her back to them. She sneaks over.</p><p>"...I still need practice." She hears Billy say as she gets closer. "Thanks for the tutoring." Two steps away Lindsay stops behind Iris, poised to strike. Billy's eyes light up upon seeing her. "Anyways. Break a leg tonight---or a finger, both of you."</p><p>"Both...?"</p><p>Lindsay doesn't give Iris time to look back and snatches her into her arms. Sally and Christina catch up and follow suit.</p><p>"Oh!" Iris giggled.</p><p>"Join us for the Butte?" Lindsay asks.</p><p>"The Ghibli Exhibit? Yes!"</p><p>"I'm guessing you'll need to check equipment for the shooting tonight?" Lindsay gives Billy a sad small frown.</p><p>"Yeah, sorry... That sounds so wrong though, shooting."</p><p>"Pun intended. I'll get you something."</p><p>"No, no need." He lets her rearrange his collar.</p><p>"Mr. Poker Face is in a good mood." Sally jibes. "Are you staying on campus over the summer, too, Iris? Great! Let's share a dorm and hangout---wait... So is Rubik, huh... But we can... still share a room..."</p><p>"Don't worry. He'll be gone for sports meet mid-July for a month." Iris replies. "What about you guys?"</p><p>"Robbie and I are going straight home. Lindsay and Billy are going to Billy's mother's before joining us." Christina looks to Billy.</p><p>"We stayed with mom last summer, so it's to Lindsay's this year."</p><p>There's a scurry of footsteps.</p><p>"Moooom---!"</p><p>"Oh no." Billy clutches to Lindsay. "Not her---"</p><p>Lily pelts into a giggling Iris out of nowhere.</p><p>"Mua!" She smacks Iris' cheek on tiptoe, the rounds upon a startled Billy still holding onto Lindsay like a drowning man onto a lifesaver. "Daaaaad!"</p><p>"Wrong person." He shifts Lindsay in front of him. "I'm Rubik."</p><p>"Nope!" Lily makes a grab for him. Lindsay dodges out of her way, laughing, and pushes Billy forward. "Oh daaaad, how are you?"</p><p>"Great Mother God---argh!" Billy wipes saliva off his face. "Look, if you want to play house then take Rubik, or take Lindsay not Iris."</p><p>"Yes!" Lily grabs both Lindsay's and Iris' hands. "I'll have both! Rubik...nah." She pouts at Lindsay. "Be my mom, Lin."</p><p>"Sure, sweet."</p><p>"Then I need to come up with a story for two moms..." She looks to and fro, serious, waist-length hair whipping the air.</p><p>"I should go check---" Billy starts. Lily sits down on his foot. <em>Great Mother God.</em> He thinks. Out of the corner of his eyes he sees the lean frame of Robert bade goodbye to Julia and Landon. He calls out to his friend through telepathy. Robert chortles at his situation like an idiot. The dude wanders over, taking his damn time, Charlie paddling along.</p><p>"I know!" Lily's eyes light up, pointing from Billy to Iris to Lindsay. "You two are nominally divorced because <em>you</em> thought <em>she</em> was dead from a plane crash, and married you, who saved <em>you</em> from that depression!"</p><p>"...What?" The girls explode in a fit of laughter. Billy rubs his face with both hands, exasperated.</p><p>"Afternoon, ladies."</p><p><em>At last.</em> Billy growls at him through telepathy. Robert kneels down to Lily.</p><p>"Mind if I borrow <em>dad</em>?"---Billy glares at him---"Madam Yu needs some help for the concert preparation."</p><p>"Anything for her." Lily rubs Charlie's head and hops up.</p><p>"Can you take my violin to your room, Robbie?" Christina asks. "We're heading out for a bit."</p><p>"You know what. I'll just keep it with my cello in my backstage locker. You, Lindsay?"</p><p>"Please and thank you." She waves after them. "Billy has the keys."</p><p>"Phew. Thanks." Billy sighs when out of earshot. "I guess."</p><p>"Anytime." Robert lets go of him. "That wasn't an excuse, though. Can you help Madam Yu with me?"</p><p>"Yeah. I'm going to the Chapel anyways."</p><p>They take the path down the small slope past the training field, where Rubik thuds down the track. Richard Murray glances at his stopwatch and claps, reaching out to give the passing Rubik a five,</p><p>"Keep it up, Rubik. It's your record speed yet!" He roars in delight.</p><p>"You know," Robert looks down at his friend's now quiet face, "you were a tad more animated than usual back there, even before Lindsay went over."</p><p>"Hm?" Billy glances sideways at him, then back at Rubik running. Robert waits with patience for a reply. It always comes. A red tinge creeps up his friend's face, and there goes the downward slant in his eyes. "Iris." He looks to the side. "I feel safe around her." He then adds after a bit, "like around Lindsay."</p><p>"I'm guessing Lily helps, too? She's practically a smaller Iris swinging back and forth between Iris' and Lindsay's personality."</p><p>"Odd little girl. Her moods are contagious. Wonder what has she against Rubik?"</p><p>"Perhaps it is because he flirts with any girl who he can strike up a conversation. Good afternoon, lads."</p><p>They look around.</p><p>"Professor Nar'fiius! Liuy. Good afternoon." Robert says.</p><p>"Whaddup." I wave. "Don't be ashamed, Billy. It's good to have more people you can open up to. They like you, as well." Billy shakes his head but his face softens.</p><p>"That's what I'm looking for." Robert pats his shoulder. "We should be off. Madam Yu needs help in the Chapel."</p><p>"Do not let us tarry you. I will see you on stage." Nar' nods.</p><p>"Oh yeah... Liuy, can I borrow your camera?" Billy tugs me. "I want to do the dual setup again."</p><p>"Just get a drone at this point. Here's my room key. Same closet. Black bag. Grab an extra battery."</p><p>"Levitation and telekinesis are quieter. Thanks a lot."</p><p>"Shall we?" Old Nar' asks.</p><p>"Let's."</p><p>We walk under a sky that couldn't look higher or bluer. Cloudless, the sun holds us in a warm embrace. Last day of school: finals were over last week. This is the peaceful Wednesday long overdue. It just <em>has</em> to be so beautiful at the end.</p><p>Or should this be the beginning? I tip my toes and start gliding around the old elf, spinning with my arms out, catching what breeze I can, the white sweatshirt tied on my waist fluttering like wings. Nar' watches me go in wide arcs, violet eyes shining, recreating wrinkles long gone from his face. I skid to a halt, arms crossed, surveying him up and down.</p><p>"Wooden sandals I can understand, but Hawaiian shirt and white linen pants? I've never thought <em>you'd</em> wear them so well, Nar'."</p><p>"Neither have I. We both stand corrected." He spreads his arms wide, admiring his attire.</p><p>"How does it feel to be among children all day?"</p><p>"Splendid. Much appreciated, too, for shaving five centuries off of my age."</p><p>"Syereen requested it, since Roldolph is here and she can't be with you." I tilt my head. "I created too many paradoxes gathering every character I care about here. Those involved must be compensated."</p><p>"Is that why I am the headmaster, not you?"</p><p>"No. You and Lily got omniscience. You know that."</p><p>"I jest." Old Nar' chuckles.</p><p>Much of the academy's buildings are constructed from white marble. Some, like the dorm buildings, have red bricks along the edges. A few, like the Art Tower and the Conservatory, sport grayish green tiles. The Chapel has a steeple tiled with blue porcelain, and the only building boasting more steeples than that is the library, which now dominates our field of view. Four wings expanding from the central rotunda body, the library has not only arches inside its halls but also outside the walls at corresponding positions, in addition to flying buttresses, to support the heavy crystal skylight. Between the exterior pillars stands statues of past human and elven headmasters and mistresses, life-like under the finest elven craftsmanship. Statuettes of owls sit where gargoyles would be on the buttress. In addition to three floors' worth of books (Martha, being English, ran into Christina on the actual third, British second, floor earlier), three more underground levels act as the Archive and vaults for rare texts. In this monolith's shadows Nar' and I walk, greeting passersby every now and then.</p><p>"Everyone looks forward to tonight." Nar' says. We stop by the fountain. Paul's clockwork boat sails over and follows my finger in the water. "Graduation Ceremony followed by the Symphony Orchestra."</p><p>"And a little surprise borrowed from Royal Albert Hall. I think one of my friends will love it."</p><p>We cross the yard and walk into the woods. A clearing is to our immediate right. In here we go, where the garden and the greenhouse are.</p><p>The faint fragrance thickens with our every step. Shrubs of gardenias and peonies greet and usher us into the sea of flowers. Magnolia takes the spotlight with their big pedals open wide and loud scent spread high, and roses attempt to fend off the coquettish bleeding hearts. Orchids and irises seem to share a mutual contempt, both purposefully giving each other a wide berth. Watery purple wisterias try to reconcile them, stroking their heads with soft arms.</p><p>"Hello, Coco." Nar' pets the Labrador, who pokes her nose out of tall sunflower stalks. Old Wang, her owner, waters the clematis with his son on the other side. I see Nix and Kijuu pruning fuchsia in the shade. Rowana is blowing a handful of dandelions towards Sparcal in the lavender patch, who gives her a look more doting than dismayed. Volunteers like them keep the garden alive and blooming year-round.</p><p>I prefer late-night visits here, to be honest, away from the disturbance of bees and butterflies, or couples in the evening sticking out like sore thumbs and pinkies. I date the stars. Their perfume, extracted from the night-blooming morning glories, ripples and resonates with that of their kin, which were also distilled from nocturnal morning glories growing on a different stretch of wall, at a different time, in a different world. They bring me back to summer nights of my childhood. Right now is fine, too, I guess. All the work they do here... it shows people care about the garden.</p><p>Nar' and I pass Ye Xin and Lyka outside the greenhouse, a bundle of wisteria on the table before them, and neat towers of garlands in a chair. Lyka puts one on Xin's head.</p><p>"How's our progress?" Xin asks, rather clumsy with the branches in his hands.</p><p>"Almost there." Lyka counts the towers by eye, deft fingers weaving all the while. "Xin." She fawns in a soft voice. "Say 'garland' in Chinese again."</p><p><em>Same old Lyka.</em> I think. We sit down among the mint bushes.</p><p>"Would it not be too much that you're here?" Old Nar' peers at me. "Breaking the fourth wall, presence of the author, identity of the narrator, and meta-narrative---that is a lot of jargon for a story with no plot. Are you not afraid of being labeled 'pretentious' and 'amateur'?"</p><p>"Who says this is a story?" I nip off a leaf from a bush, careless, and chew on it. The coolness gushes around my mouth and up my nose, then down, down, down into my lungs. "Nar', I just want to gather everyone and see what happens. It's not a literary experiment. I <em>am</em> pulling off a stunt. I've almost forgot why I wrote, Nar', why I started Winter Solstice Stories in the first place." I watch Rowana take a garland from Lyka and drop it on Sparcal's head. I breathe, "I want to have fun."</p><p>"Oh?" Nar' is also chewing on a mint leaf.</p><p>"I love every character I've ever created... Sometimes I feel I'm being too hard on them, with all my plots---I'm being too hard on myself. We all need a rest. High school is still the best time in my life, so here we all are..."</p><p>Rowana comes over and kneels down. She crowns us with Lyka's garlands.</p><p>"Save some for Lyka, Rowana." I sit up straight.</p><p>"It means you're not getting one tonight." She taps my nose, and salutes Nar' with a mischievous wink. She clears her throat, "<em>Iluvatar manyalyë, Nar'fiius</em>!"</p><p>"<em>Eru almë</em>." Nar' chuckles in return. "The Creator blesses us indeed, since he sits right here."</p><p>"I'm no god." I twirl my garland around a finger. "My presence here is all heavy-handed, of course. I impart a bit of myself to everyone; as the author I'm already omnipresent. For god's sake, there's someone with my name here! Yet the presence of the author is still overlooked by many readers. 'So and so wrote this, but it's so and so <em>speaking</em>'; 'In A's novel we follow the protagonist B'. Here's me taking a more literal approach, like a photographer who photo-bombs a shooting in the end. The <em>studium</em>, the <em>punctum</em>, the <em>noeme</em>: the intention of the artist, the element that pricks the audience, the proof of existence of the subject---hopefully all me---the author---my presence here."</p><p>"A bit of you in me, huh." Rowana bounds off. "Well, I don't mind."</p><p>"That's all it takes to get you develop on your own." I murmur at her back. "Look at how you all interacted with each other here, characters from different stories and timelines, and even different worlds. I'm just a recorder. Sometimes, though, I do like to take over the narrative baton."</p><p>"And how reliable are you?" Nar'fiius stands up.</p><p>"Always harbor doubt for first person narratives." I follow suit. "I'm being honest, but take what you will."</p><p>Birds chirp our way out of the clearing and down the path. The wood isn't dense, but enough to cut some heat off. Sunlight pours in through gaps here and there, and we wade our way through. The path will eventually turn and emerge near the Chapel, and we have ample time to get there.</p><p>"Hey Old Timer." I'm struck by a sudden idea. "Say 'it's'."</p><p>"It is." He goes.</p><p>"No." I point. "No. 'It's a squirrel.' 'It's'."</p><p>"... 'It's a squirrel.'"</p><p>We raise eyebrows at each other.</p><p>"Pfft." We both chuckle.</p><p>I flick the protruding, bushy tail of that squirrel sitting on a low branch. Startled, it recoils and scurries off deeper into the woods. There, at the foot of a tree it hops across, the red bun of Mary Ann Murray stirs as she stirs.</p><p>Mae rubs her eyes, and looks at the sleeping Max leaning against her shoulder, the book they were reading firm in his grasp. She lets out a tender snort. After all this time, he still sleeps with his lips slightly parted. With care, she kisses them. He sleeps on. The sky peeks down from between the leaves. Mae reaches for it, standing up from the bench and stretching on tiptoes. Oh, the scent of soil, wood, leaves, and the sun.</p><p>She sighs in relief.</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;&quot;&lt;em&gt;The Count of Mount Cristo&lt;/em&gt;, &lt;em&gt;The Moonstone&lt;/em&gt;, and... &lt;em&gt;The Remains of the Days&lt;/em&gt;? That last one---you&#39;re in for a treat, Devon. Ishiguro demonstrated a beautiful example of an unreliable narrator.&quot; Catherine Murray gives Devon a meek smile. Devon scratches his head. The librarian knows about every book here in the library at Willowcreek Academy; he loves chatting with her. Catherine sees a question in his eyes. &quot;The narrator isn&#39;t always reliable, and the reader shouldn&#39;t always trust the narrative, either, especially a first person one. Not that the narration has to be false or a lie---truths can be hidden. You might need to read the book twice to get everything out of it.&quot;&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    <category term="Willowcreek Academy" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Willowcreek-Academy/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>拜谒之旅 - 穆萨纳德 - 永生</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2021/03/18/%E6%8B%9C%E8%B0%92%E4%B9%8B%E6%97%85%20-%20%E7%A9%86%E8%90%A8%E7%BA%B3%E5%BE%B7%20-%20%E6%B0%B8%E7%94%9F/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2021/03/18/%E6%8B%9C%E8%B0%92%E4%B9%8B%E6%97%85%20-%20%E7%A9%86%E8%90%A8%E7%BA%B3%E5%BE%B7%20-%20%E6%B0%B8%E7%94%9F/</id>
    <published>2021-03-19T04:13:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2022-10-07T20:46:01.063Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>随着一声鹰唳，他尾随冬日而来。我静静地挪动了一下平躺的身子，听着……</p><p>从环绕着我们穆萨纳德村的山顶，一阵冷冽的风呼啸而下。那位陌生人紧随其后，经过一片片被荒弃的田地，向着村边破旧不堪的驿站前进。混着尘土的雪花一点点销蚀着灰泥装饰上已经被风侵雨蚀的花朵图饰，把繁丽磨得简约。寒风推着陌生人穿过垂在入口的门帘的残骸，在他面前横冲直撞。它在倒塌的内墙石堆上扬着沙土，拉扯着满目疮痍的挂毯。在表现树下狮子猎鹿的花纹镶嵌图的头顶，它猛地撞向那些死活都不肯从拱门上落下的丰满侍女像。</p><span id="more"></span><p>如果寒风在为陌生人扮演着一个高傲的导游，那他貌似一点也不佩服这表现。他缓步走过驿站内，仔细欣赏着里面一切磨损但未磨灭的美。很久很久以前，当他刚走出的驿站还是一个<em>穆萨纳德</em>——一个供应点、一个支柱时，柔软的坐垫、温热的澡水、丰盛的食物、温暖的床榻，还有来自我们村民和其他旅客的笑容是招待他这种客人的标准。他沿着山坡走进遍布砂岩和陶泥的村子，北面的山脚下是一座坍塌了的清真寺。</p><p>我在莱嘉旁躺着。我们两个和所有其他村民一样一动不动。我们不再关注陌生的来宾了，也不关注吃喝了，性爱如此，活动筋骨亦如此。我们大部分的感官很久之前便停止运作，听觉是我们唯一无法主动关闭的——我们的思考无法淹没来自自然的声音。我们被迫听着世界逝去，年复一年，我们的听觉逐渐变得异常敏锐。我们听着寒风绕过那位陌生人瘦小的身躯，听着伴随着他每一步的金属碰撞发出的格拉叮当。我们听着粒粒阳光弹过他的黑发，赋予其难以捕捉的一抹暗红。他边走过通往穆萨纳德的路边环顾四周，连墙上最细微的裂缝他都饶有兴趣。我们听到强壮的振翼声——刚刚唳鸣的雄鹰落在了他的右肩上。他瘦长的脸转过去招呼它，任性的寒风看到了，醋意大发。它尖叫着索取着整个村子拒绝了它几个世纪的关注，但那位陌生人的回应仅仅是伸手戴好他的——</p><p>“纳迪姆……”莱嘉叫着我，几百年的沉默沙哑了她的声音。我睁开了眼，转头与她对视。她看起来依旧22岁，年年如此，但她的褐色的大眼睛里是几千年的时光凿砌出的空洞。“纳迪姆……他戴着<em>兜帽</em>。”</p><center> † </center><p>陌生人继续探索着穆萨纳德的街坊（孩童在街上追逐打闹仿佛是几千万年前的事了），然后走向清真寺。在这一座座高山里，我们的清真寺据说是继麦加之后距离天堂第二近的。我们的祖先建起的多柱式花岗岩礼拜堂能容纳近千人，西南边是基卜拉祷告墙。墙上的米哈拉布壁龛异常深，能容纳一个成年人，壁龛前挂着的是备用祷告毯。礼拜堂石柱上雕刻的花瓣金光闪闪，墙上贴着的是稀有的青花瓷，壁龛里曾有数位匠人为它的银树洒尽汗水——这寺庙就是我们为真主给予我们这块藏在众山之巅的沃土的报答。但是随着时间飞逝，那些花岗岩柱依次倒塌，基卜拉祷告墙也变为一摊碎石，祷告毯早已化为尘土，各种砂石瓦砾隐匿了壁龛的身影。金银璀璨的最终归宿还是黯然失色、瑕疵斑驳，只有清真寺入口遗迹的宣礼塔还完好无损。陌生人缓步围绕着它，嘴里默念着塔壁上写的经文——那清爽蓝色背景之上的无比饱满的金色库飞字体写了一圈又一圈。他和好久以前的宣礼员一样踩着墙上一个个支撑爬上塔顶。从远处望去，在清真寺遗址投影正中间，那座小小的大理石塔看上去像是对着村子和万里之外的麦加竖起的中指。</p><p>“又——又是一位杜·盖塔？”</p><p>“我不知道。”我说。</p><p>我们的村子处于众多贸易路线的路口，颇有后来西面的伊斯坦布尔的先驱的意味。太多的路线汇聚成穿过这个山群的唯一路线，并带给我们各色各样的来宾：阿拉伯人、宋人、藏僧……他们在这里融为一片语言的海洋。有一次还来了两位身着锁子甲、盾牌上划着巨大十字的黄发白人。他们说他们和自己军队走散了，想在这里休息一下再赶路。那天晚上，他们絮絮叨叨地说着什么“耶和华”和要占领耶路撒冷，但不用几杯酒就说服他们在这里卸甲定居，一切“圣战”什么的都抛在脑后了。</p><center> † </center><p>他敲了敲我们的石头门框，莱嘉浑身颤抖。我转过身，撕扯着浑身几百年没有活动的僵硬肌肉，与他犀利的目光对视。</p><p>我的耳朵还算是准确，陌生的来访者右肩擎着一只鹰站在那儿。那只鹰真是好不漂亮！瞧瞧它那尖耸的羽冠啊，还有那散发着庄严和权力气息的棕色身躯！和它相比，陌生人远谦逊多了。他厚重的斗篷和兜帽布料粗糙，灰白色镶着天蓝色的边。他的布袋斜跨他的左肩，搭在右臂下。他摆弄着脖子上挂着的护身符，那个玩意儿打着胸前的黑金属搭扣叮当作响。</p><p>“我可以进来吗？只有你们有反应。”他的声音很轻，带着一丝冷漠的金属质感，但还是很好听，很斯文。他毫无口音地说出了我们用的古老的方言，尽管他那双礼貌的宋人眼睛表明了他不是阿拉伯人。</p><p>我有些迷茫地爬起身。许久，我们两个人没有一个人说话。他皱起眉头，又摆弄了一下护身符，说：“我能进来吗？”他的声音没变，但是说出的话变成了波斯语。那个护身符改变了他的语言吗？我呆呆地盯着他。</p><p>“杜·盖塔？”莱嘉犹豫地问道。他又摆弄了一下护身符。</p><p>“杜·盖塔……我的兜帽？怎么了？”他拉下了兜帽并用阿拉伯语回道。我试图从他的脸上找到些熟悉的特征，但是一点都没有。他的五官精致，可惜被青春痘和疤痕毁了。他的表情里有一丝阴郁，仿佛他在悼念。他的旅途让他看起来疲惫不堪——说被这个季节山里冷峻的风弄得遍体鳞伤也不为过，但他还是稳稳地站在门口，甚至有一点高傲。</p><p>“请进……请进。”我终于说道，每一个词都感觉如此陌生。他颔首示意，进了门找到了一个地方坐下。他环顾着屋子，看着繁复的砖瓦、墙角的蜘蛛网、我们的褪色了的席子、毯子、垫子。莱嘉也坐起身，席子上露出了两个明显的人影。陌生人看了呵呵地笑了。他的鹰啧了一声，他顺着它点头的方向看去。里屋摆满卷轴的书架让他瞪大了眼睛。</p><p>“你就是书法家马提亚·西克马吗？”他问我。</p><p>“父亲在东边数第三座房子。我是他的儿子，纳迪姆，但我也是个书法家。”我答道。他点点头。“这是莱嘉，我的妻子。”他又点点头。“您是……？”</p><p>“奥马恩卡。”他又颔首。我想不出这个词是我知道的哪个语言里的。“来朝觐的。”</p><p>“你要是冲着我们的清真寺来的，那恐怕你来晚好几个世纪了。”我喃喃地说道。他笑着摇摇头。他问我们要不要面包，我们拒绝了。他放嘴里嚼着，撕下来的面包屑撒给了老鹰。</p><p>“所以……我的兜帽……”他说。</p><p>“真抱歉，奥马恩卡。我把你认成别人了。”莱嘉答道。“他和你差不多，但是……并不一样……”</p><p>“也就是只有兜帽一样了？”他来回看向我们的脸。“能详细和我讲讲他吗？或许……也讲一下这个村子？”</p><p>我点点头。</p><p>“这个村子处于众多贸易路线的路口，颇有后来西面的伊斯坦布尔的先驱的意味。太多的路线汇聚成穿过这个山群的唯一路线，并带给我们各色各样的来宾……”</p><center> † </center><p><em>杜·盖塔</em>，阿拉伯语里意为“兜帽”，是我们的客人中比较奇怪的一位。在一个冬日，他和几个顺路的商人一起结伴来到了这里。我们见过许多戴着兜帽的客人，但他们没有一个有着如此面容的。他长长的金发如同丝绸，他的皮肤如同晴空漂浮的云彩。他的每一个五官都像是被精雕细琢：那双祖母绿的眼睛倒映着一片遥远的春季里的森林，笔直的大理石般的鼻子是紧紧抿着的薄唇和微尖的下巴。整张脸看上去修长但不消瘦，耐看可亲却又散发阵阵凄凉。父亲说他是数学之子，每一肢体和器官都符合黄金比例。我觉得他是真主的天使。他帮助他的同伴卸货的动作优雅细致，说话声音轻言细语，但笑的不多。一个接着一个，人们停下手中的活看着他。年轻的女孩子垂着头偷瞄，但年轻的男孩儿和更年长的妇人公然盯着。成年男人们跑过去帮忙，不停地上下打量着他。</p><p>他总是参加我们的集体祈祷，戴着他的兜帽坐在戴着包头巾和头纱的人群里。他是一个浪人，祷告和早饭以后的第一件事总是进山散步，日落晚饭时才回来。</p><p>他会帮助农耕，也会在山里或村里像梦游者一般飘荡，仿佛不食人间烟火、放浪形骸之外；然而一旦有人对他表现出一丁点兴趣，他会露出温暖又亲切的笑容。他经常询问起神话传说，作为报答，他会教授我们更先进的艺术技巧。村里许多现存的装饰都是用这些技巧创作的。即将成人的女孩子四处跟着他，其中有一个不小心说漏了我们给他起的外号，“杜·盖塔”。他欣然接受了，说：“如果给我起这个名字并没有恶意，为什么不呢？”</p><p>他在这里住了一年后的一天，他来拜访我们了。他一敲门，母亲手一滑，手里还没做完的陶碗跌到了地上，而父亲不小心滴了滴墨，洇花了整张库飞书字帖。</p><p>“西克马师傅，我可以进来吗？”他的声音如同玻璃上的丝绸，没有一丝口音。我们一起盘腿坐在我们布满书架的书房里，讨论着我们的大书法家族，祖祖辈辈都是传承的库飞体书法大师。我们祖上有人从希腊学者那里学习了数学，尔后又有人从汉人（宋人远古的祖先）那里学到了天文，由此我们才发展出一套对我们的每一个字都极其严格的书法风格：每一笔的粗细、每一字尾的长短、每一字母的比例——这些文字是真主说过的话，他们代表着世界——代表着真理。我们对真理模仿得越像，我们就越接近真主阿拉。掌握这套风格需要好多年。我们家里有一帖字要求每一位子女都要完美复制出父母的字迹，不能容得一丁点区别——</p><p>“我能求一份吗？”他问道。“您能为我写一帖吗？我乐意花大钱。”</p><p>“当然了！你都——”</p><p>“我可以写！”我插嘴说。“我从能握笔的时候就开始练了，都十三年了！”父亲看了我好久。</p><p>“毕竟你十五岁了，就当做一次试炼吧。杜·盖塔师傅，您说呢？”</p><p>“我悉听尊便，一切由你。”</p><p>一个星期以后当我把自己的作品献给杜·盖塔时，父亲的骄傲溢于言表。杜·盖塔和往常一样微微一笑。</p><p>“少爷，您看什么价格合适？”</p><p>我不知道从哪里冒出了个念头。</p><p>“您的一缕头发。”</p><center> † </center><p>奥马恩卡歪着头扬起一根眉毛，问道：</p><p>“是吗？”</p><p>我几乎忘了他在这儿，吓了一跳。</p><p>“抱歉。我能看一眼吗？”</p><p>“父亲当时气极了，说我要破坏真主的天使的毛发这个要求太高。”我指着莱嘉和我的脖子上挂着的绳子说。</p><p>“索取和给予的都毫无恶意。”奥马恩卡点头笑了。“我现在知道我们两人‘像但又不像’什么意思了。谢谢。”</p><center> † </center><p>杜·盖塔两天后消失了。我当时看到他围绕着宣礼塔走了一圈，在面向壁龛的那一侧，他穿过墙走了进去。宣礼塔上写着的是《古兰经》文，我走过去，有生以来第一次仔细端详着上面的字。他消失的地方写着“真主阿拉”，和其余的字一样，它们的字体我再熟悉不过了：每一笔完美的粗细比例、描着银边的金字、这种字只有可能是我的祖先亲手写的。大理石片在我的手下一如既往地坚硬。他是怎么进去的？他去了哪儿？我看着宣礼塔尖，宣礼塔尖看着我。</p><p>其他人都以为他在夜里悄悄离开了。</p><p>在那两个月后我十六岁，喜欢上了比我小两天的莱嘉。有几个姑娘一直对杜·盖塔念念不忘，莱嘉就是其中之一。为了看到她笑，我天天堵着她给她讲我看到了什么。她求我带她去看杜·盖塔消失的地方，到了那儿以后又求我讲了一遍，日复一日。</p><center> † </center><p>“他搭讪也是绝了——”莱嘉咯咯笑了：“‘喂，想再听一遍杜·盖塔吗？’”</p><p>奥马恩卡噗嗤一声，我也忍不住咧开嘴。重新笑起来的感觉真好。很奇怪，但真好，让我想起来我到底为什么喜欢莱嘉。</p><p>“哦当然，我也为我的欲望付出了代价。”我亲了下她。“她的奶奶是个老巫婆，见谁骂谁，还捎带上真主阿拉。有一次她在街上破口大骂，骂出了心梗，直接躺下了。我等到她看起来只剩一天的时候向莱嘉求婚，然而……”</p><center> † </center><p>……她维持在了这种状态，在她的病榻上不省人事，情况没有改善，也没有恶化。</p><p>那整整一年都没有人去世，也没有婴儿出生。远道而来的客人的问候变成了反反复复的“你保养的真好啊”和“你一点都没变啊”。的确，没有人发生了任何变化。莱嘉的奶奶一直没有去世。</p><p>我们花了五年才真正反应过来事情不对劲。那两个远方人——那些铸剑为犁的士兵——其中一位开始脱发，但他们的孩子却和我们的一样没有发育。我们不再变老的传言瑟瑟生起，当我们终于承认这个事实的时候，整个村子都高兴疯了。想象一下：从埃及法老到中华皇帝，又是绑木乃伊又是炼丹的，他们所追求的东西就这么被我们毫不费力地得到了！我们在祈祷时留下了喜悦的泪水，然后举办了场盛大节日。长生不老！也许这就是真主阿拉对我们的虔诚和好客的奖赏！想想我们整整一辈子都可以用来干什么啊！我们日夜寻欢作乐——我们压根就不可能累。在狂欢中我们舍弃了全部规矩。在第七天，一个姑娘扯下头巾任凭她的长发飞舞，男孩子们紧紧在后面追着她跑。在第十二天，许多人脱光了衣服，“在阿拉眼下以真实的自我”跳舞，“就像他们来到这个世界上时一样”。一个月后，我们彻底抛弃了禁欲令，年轻人们在街上疯狂缠绵，野兽般的笑声和喊声在山间回荡。一开始，旅客也和我们一起欢乐，但时间一长，随着我们忽视了我们的工作、驿站不再有人维护，过路的旅客开始躲着我们了。朝圣者拒绝我们的水，商人带着货飞速驶过我们的驿站，那些过夜的客人也天刚刚亮就赶紧离开。</p><p>这场疯狂终于结束时，一切再也回不到原样了。消息传开了，我们在外人眼里成了怪物——毕竟我们不吃不喝连续两个月失控般地享乐。没几个旅者停步于此，他们经过时不住地摇头，有的还背诵着《古兰经》。和索多玛人对待鲁德·一本·哈兰一样，我们对他们不以为然。我们才不在乎真主的怒火呢。<em>他</em>让我们永生，这是<em>他</em>给我们的礼物。</p><p>那两位远方人在一次山贼袭击中死了。这些袭击很罕见，一旦发生了，全体年轻力壮的成年人都会出动。但这次，连小孩子都扛着耙子去抵抗，反正他们也死不了。那两位远方人没有丝毫犹豫，但他们的体能已经不在巅峰，白发和铁锈占领了他们的头发和铠甲。他们的剑刃在战斗中缺了口，然后他们倒下了，倒下前每人各杀敌七人。我们替他们报了仇。我们被砍倒，但我们还是誓死将山贼斩尽杀绝，血洗了整个村子。我们烧了所有尸体，除了我们的两位朋友。他们被埋在最高的山顶。</p><center> † </center><p>“所以山贼是死了的。”奥马恩卡说。</p><p>“对。”</p><p>他皱了皱眉。</p><p>“他们生在这片山里吗？”</p><p>“不是。”莱嘉摇了摇头。</p><p>“谢谢。请继续。”</p><center> † </center><p>几年后，伊玛目站在敏拜台上和往常一样带领集体祈祷。</p><p>“这些就是背叛了我们的真主的人，他们的脖颈将被枷锁束缚，他们——”他顿了顿，“这些就是不相信我们的真主的人，脖颈上被枷锁束缚。他们——”他深吸了口气，“他们——”</p><p>宣拜人在大堂的另一头试着帮他：“这些——阿拉……的叛徒束缚了他们的脖子，他们将——将——”但他也祈祷不下去了。</p><p>没人记得下一句是什么。伊玛目对天请求了千万个宽恕，勇敢地决定跳到下一章。</p><p>几个星期以后这种事又发生了好几次，直到没有人——包括伊玛目——想得起《古兰经》里的一句话。我们翻着手里的经书，翻烂了也记不住。很长一段时间，我们祈祷时都对着书念，每一页最终都褪色、残缺。父亲和我尽量跟上用旧的速度，天天写新的《古兰经》，但由于我们的书写需要时间，而且没人愿意打破字体传统，我们跟不上需求量。几年后，每天的祈祷变成了壁龛、祈祷毯和宣礼塔上的同一句经文：“赞美阿拉，世界之主……”</p><p>同样的事情在开斋节也发生了。我们打扫好房子，但记不起为什么在门外放毯子了。我们好像是应该干什么，但是应该干什么来着？大家和往常一样聚集在一起，念完了祈祷毯上的经文，然后开始跳舞——倒不如说是试着跳舞。我们晃着胳膊跺着脚，但是动作既无节奏，也不优美。歌唱到一半就没词了，只剩下毫无声息的音乐有一拍没一拍地奏着。我们忘了如何欣赏它们，忘了为何要欣赏它们。</p><p>很快，娱乐就从村子里消失了。生活变成了无限循环的祈祷、干活、睡觉，然后渐渐只剩下干活、睡觉。我们甚至想不起来为什么要干活了，因为再也没有人光顾过驿站。我试着通过练习新的书法体来打破我的循环：库飞体、纳斯克体、特鲁斯体，甚至是最疯狂的穆哈卡克体，我全掌握了。很快，太快，它们失去了原本的魅力。</p><p>我们当中有的人转成商人出去经商。我们的匠人试着用杜·盖塔教他们的技巧雕刻人像和灰泥雕，但他们充其量也就做出些凋零的花朵和无生机的鸟像。很久以后，当他们的作品变得简直令人作呕时，它们在西方的人气却忽然高了起来。我们没搞明白到底为什么，但我们用这些换来了叫做“枪支”的新鲜玩意儿。据说这个是我们问题的一个解决办法，所以我们在羊身上试了试，然后亲历而为。子弹飞进来又飞出去，留下的洞不用几天就愈合了。这几杆枪现在在井底生锈。</p><p>倦怠让我们中有人发了疯。当跳崖和在井里溺水没什么用之后，我们又尝试断头。为了争取第一个断头权，村里爆发了群殴。混乱中一颗脑袋滚了出来。我们热烈庆祝了这场死亡，把头和身子重新摆好，架在柴堆里，放了把火。</p><center> † </center><p>我感觉有点渴，跑到里屋舀起罐子里的几百年老酒。一罐尝起来是酸的，另一罐什么味道都没有。</p><p>“所以……那人现在死了？”我回来坐好后，奥马恩卡问。</p><p>“他的头在火里一个劲儿地喊，”我说。奥马恩卡看起来好像觉得这事很新鲜。“几天后他从灰里面爬出来了，脖子上一大道疤。”</p><center> † </center><p>我们永无止境地向生命宣战，西西弗的苦难和我们的相比什么都不是。生命变成了我们不断坠落的无底洞。我们坠落、坠落，躺在我们的席子上坠落，死人一般，一动不动。从西面来的穿着奇装异服的旅者肆意破坏我们的驿站，他们毁掉了我们的清真寺，并用砂石瓦砾底下年年腐烂的两三具尸体作为补偿。没死的找到了我们的少女和妇女。她们任凭自己被侵犯，什么尊严都荡然无存。</p><p>我们还会做梦。我梦见的是仿佛万年以前的日子：芦苇笔、宣礼塔、那两位远方人、莱嘉求我讲故事，讲杜·盖塔的故事。这一切都从他走进那堵墙开始，他肯定是这发生一切的原因，但我生不起他的气。不仅仅是因为我早已失去了所有情感，而且我到底还能怎么办？他早就死了。</p><p>时间慢慢消磨掉了一切，除了宣礼塔，还有我们。我们活在梦里，也死在梦里，然后我们醒来，面对的是一场关于无尽白昼的噩梦。如果我们能流泪就好了。</p><center> † </center><p>奥马恩卡在盯着地板发呆，久久没说话。他抬起头时脸上的表情难以捉摸。怜悯？同情？不齿？</p><p>“看来你们为‘生活’这堂课受了不少苦啊。”他轻轻一笑。我叹了口气。</p><p>“拥有死亡才拥有生命。”莱嘉低声说道。</p><p>“我想问你们一件事。”过了一会儿，他说。“我——我来的目的就是这个。”我们等着他继续。“你能——能给我写一副你写给杜·盖塔的字帖吗？”</p><p>我的本能反应是“不能”，那副字帖给我们带来太多麻烦了，但仔细一想，他也许可以解决问题……</p><p>“你也要进去吗？”我的声音在颤抖。他点点头。“也带我们进去。”</p><p>“我可以试试。”他神情严肃。“我知道你想要什么，但我无法向你保证。可如果你不帮我的话，我连试着帮你的机会都没有。”</p><center> † </center><p>出门时我们首先感受到的是晕眩，而不是阳光。我花了整整四个星期准备字帖。大多数字卷要不成了碎屑，要不早已褪色，而我也自从躺下后就再也没有摸过芦苇笔，我只能将一切寄托给我的手。我们出门前，奥马恩卡对着他的鹰说了几句我从未听过的语言，又快又轻。鹰飞走了，莱嘉抓住我，我抓住奥马恩卡。我们一起随着他缓慢坚定的步子出发。</p><p>“那个……你的名字，它是什么语言？”</p><p>“哈。昆雅。”然后他就不说话了。</p><p>我们来到了宣礼塔。奥马恩卡打开卷轴，手指描着笔迹，数着每一笔画里有几个点宽。我松开他，他开始绕塔而行，先是顺时针，然后逆时针，尔后又摇着头转为顺时针。他在面朝壁龛的那一面停下了，伸出了手。</p><p>他呆住了，盯着在“真主”两字那里伸进去一半的手，眼睛里倒映着阳光、大理石和风。他抬起了脚，我在他走进墙的前一秒又抓住了他。</p><p>墙壁绽放，空气颤动，我们从一片混沌中走出，眼前一长段楼梯。头顶的阳光透过宣礼塔的塔顶和墙壁洒下，身后的墙壁一如既往的坚硬。</p><p>“啊对，你们有他的头发，还有我，”奥马恩卡笑道，“所以你们能进来。”</p><p>我们走下的楼梯沿着墙壁向下转了一圈又一圈，纵向覆盖了大片深度但又不让人感觉晕眩。走到最后几步时，前方出现了一团柔和的光，整个空间变成了一个宽阔的走廊，豁然开朗。墙上的小壁龛里飘浮着像迷你太阳似的水晶球，走廊的墙壁和天花板是雪白的大理石，地面是玻璃一样的黑曜石，一条和楼梯一样宽的白色大理石通道铺在正中央。</p><p>“这里保存得还不错啊。”奥马恩卡轻声说。</p><p>黑曜石地面在一个圆形殿堂前结束了。整个殿堂都沉浸在从头顶洒下的柔和空灵、水一般波动的白光中。殿堂中间，四尊形似杜·盖塔的雪白雕像环绕着一口白石棺，石棺上的雕像和周围的四座同样美，但更生动，以至于我有点害怕他会醒来。环绕四周，靠墙摆放的是空荡荡的书架，它们有的被壁龛间隔，壁龛里面放着石椅。在我们面前不远处的地上躺着一本破破烂烂的古书，我小心翼翼地捡了起来，试图读懂里面行云流水的字迹。</p><p>“<em>那</em>就是昆雅语中的一种文体。”奥马恩卡隔着我的肩看着古书，低声说。“几近失传，能读懂的人寥寥。”</p><p>“比如谁？”莱嘉瞄着那些符号，问。</p><p>奥马恩卡指了指。</p><p>“杜·盖塔。”</p><p>我们转过身。那口石棺并不是什么棺材，而是一座祭坛。上面躺着的雕像不是石头，而是肉躯，裹着的袍子正是他当时穿着的那件。他像是在睡觉，在水一般的光中满是平静与安详。他的双手握着胸前插入的一柄匕首，周围没有一丝血迹。</p><p>“书是他的，他人是个精灵。”奥马恩卡说。“一个寿命是我们七倍的种族。”</p><p>“精灵？”莱嘉和我异口同声。</p><p>“精灵。他们死后，”奥马恩卡环绕祭坛，“灵魂会去所谓的圣地。在那儿，他们再次生活、死亡、重生，在生死轮回里一遍又一遍，反反复复。对于他们来说，他们是永生的。死亡只是新生。</p><p>“有古老传说记录了一位真死寻者，他厌倦生命，希望死后不会有什么圣地。他找到了一个和这座祭坛有关的死亡祭礼，然后——像我一样——不辞辛劳地踏遍世界寻找它。他在出发后200年就没了消息，现在我们知道原因了。精灵文明早已消失数千甚至上万年，能在一千年前找到这地方……啧啧，他也算是消息灵通、足智多谋。”</p><p>“‘像你一样’？”我重复了一遍。“你是说……你也在寻死？”</p><p>奥马恩卡从我手里拿过那本古书，翻来翻去。</p><p>“消散精灵的灵魂很费劲。可怜的老白痴……他的匕首是实打实地在把你们的灵魂衰变过程吸进他的灵魂里。”他蹲下身打量着杜·盖塔的脸，满眼鄙夷。“他是找到让自己真正死亡的方法了，可付出的代价是让你们受尽折磨。史上最臭名昭著的精灵，连‘南文’归者都不齿……”他嘟哝道。</p><p>“我不怪他。”莱嘉说。奥马恩卡瞥了她一眼。</p><p>“如果我告诉你他很清楚后果是什么呢？”他倚着祭坛坐下，摇了摇那本书。“这可是他的日记啊。”</p><p>我怪他吗？几个世纪的倦怠、乏味和无所事事让我十分理解死亡的魅力，然而他知道后果……美貌竟能隐藏如此的残忍！可我们又能做什么呢？什么也做不了。</p><p>“谢谢你，奥马恩卡。”我坐了下来，脸埋进双手。莱嘉倚着我的肩。“能知道为什么死不了是我们最大的慰藉了。”</p><p>“解决方法很简单啊。”我们猛地抬头。“匕首拔了就是了。那玩意儿是吸收你们衰变的媒介。”他看向别处，“但我可不想碰它。如果你们愿意效劳的话……”他站起身退到一边，伸手示意。“请。”</p><p>莱嘉和我换了个眼神，她的大眼睛满是泪水。她又看了我一眼，然后走过殿堂，吻了一下杜·盖塔的额头。她紧紧抓住匕首的把柄，把它拔了出来。杜·盖塔毫无反应。随后莱嘉呆住了，双眼盯着匕首锋利的刀刃。奥马恩卡平静沉着地望着她。</p><p>“放他身边就行了。”</p><p>但莱嘉一动不动地看着刀刃，满眼渴望。我知道她在想什么，因为我也有同样的想法：如果那把匕首可以真正杀死杜·盖塔的话，无论它是怎么做到的，那也可以真正杀死我们。</p><p>“求你，不要。”奥马恩卡说。</p><p>莱嘉开始颤抖。</p><p>“我保证你的那一刻会来的。”他的声音很轻。</p><p>眼泪划过莱嘉的脸颊。</p><p>“莱嘉，”他说，目光悲伤，“你不想错过完整的一辈子。”</p><p>她闭起眼，像是被匕首蛰了一样，把它扔到一边。</p><p>“谢谢。”奥马恩卡低下头，头也不回地走向殿堂的另一边。“以自然死亡结束的一生是一件美好的东西，这和重生无关。”</p><p>我拉起莱嘉的手，跟在他的身后。走过那把匕首时，我努力克制着自己去捡起来的冲动。</p><p>另一边的走廊黑漆漆的，是个上坡。在它的尽头，奥马恩卡抬起头顶的一片瓦，我们从破落的清真寺的壁龛里爬了出来。</p><p>到家时，他的鹰长啸着落回了他肩上。</p><p>“吃的，”奥马恩卡指着出门前不存在的麻袋，说。“还有种子。后面还会再来。我们现在可以重新开始生活了。”</p><p>第二天，村民们开始起身。他们过来拜访我们，搞不明白为什么会感到许久没有过的饥渴。第三天，春天忽然到来了。我们在第四天开始耕种山边和谷底的农田，奥马恩卡也参与其中。第五天，我们开始播种。第六天，我们迎来了五位客人，每一位都天使一般。他们热情地问候奥马恩卡，然后一个接着一个，他们走进了宣礼塔。</p><p>第七天，在天刚蒙蒙亮时，莱嘉的奶奶去世了。</p><p>“我想留着杜·盖塔的书。”奥马恩卡在火葬后说。莱嘉和我点点头。</p><p>“奥马恩卡，”我说，“能告诉我们你是怎么知道这一切的吗？为什么你会来找杜·盖塔？”</p><p>“我的那帮朋友是精灵。”他朝那些天使努了下嘴。“我在帮他们个忙。”</p><p>“那你……？”莱嘉探过身子。</p><p>“我不是。”</p><p>那五位精灵在这里住了一年，但奥马恩卡第十天就离开了，此后我们再也没有见过面。他们在我的一生中转瞬即逝，如同一阵微风拂过，自此便无踪无迹。我多希望我之于这世界也和他们之于我一生一样昙花一现，但至少，我现在终于可以享受我这一辈子了。你只在拥有死亡时才拥有生命——我的那一刻会来的。</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;随着一声鹰唳，他尾随冬日而来。我静静地挪动了一下平躺的身子，听着……&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;从环绕着我们穆萨纳德村的山顶，一阵冷冽的风呼啸而下。那位陌生人紧随其后，经过一片片被荒弃的田地，向着村边破旧不堪的驿站前进。混着尘土的雪花一点点销蚀着灰泥装饰上已经被风侵雨蚀的花朵图饰，把繁丽磨得简约。寒风推着陌生人穿过垂在入口的门帘的残骸，在他面前横冲直撞。它在倒塌的内墙石堆上扬着沙土，拉扯着满目疮痍的挂毯。在表现树下狮子猎鹿的花纹镶嵌图的头顶，它猛地撞向那些死活都不肯从拱门上落下的丰满侍女像。&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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    <category term="翻译/Translation" scheme="http://example.com/tags/%E7%BF%BB%E8%AF%91-Translation/"/>
    
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  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>Tales from the Pilgrimage - Musannad - Immortality</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2021/03/17/Tales%20from%20the%20Pilgrimage%20-%20Musannad%20-%20Immotality/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2021/03/17/Tales%20from%20the%20Pilgrimage%20-%20Musannad%20-%20Immotality/</id>
    <published>2021-03-17T20:16:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2021-11-28T07:02:13.371Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><p>With a cry from an eagle, he came at the tail of winter. I shifted silently on my back, listening…</p><p>A cold, rigid gale descended from the peaks that cradled our town Musannad. The stranger followed it, past the abandoned crop fields, towards the battered trading post at the edge of the town. Snowflakes mingled with dirt chipped away its already eroded floral patterns on the stuccos, grinding the intricate down to simplistic. The wind pushed the stranger through what was left of the door curtains that draped down the entrance. It rampaged, kicked dust over the debris of the collapsed inner walls, tugged at the moth-eaten textiles, and slammed into the stubborn statues of voluptuous maids that refused to fall from their archways, over the tessellation of lions hunting deer under a tree.</p><span id="more"></span><p>If the wind was acting as an aloof guide for the stranger, then he didn’t seem to be impressed by its displays. He inched through the interior, taking in all of its faded but not yet diminished beauty. Ages ago, when the trading post he just walked out of still functioned like a <em>musannad</em>—“support”—a cushion, hot bath, filling food, warm bed, and smiling faces from both our townspeople and other travelers were a must for visitors like him. He descended towards the town: a mass outcropping of yellow sandstones and clay throughout, with a tumbled-down mosque at the north end, the foot of the peaks.</p><p>I lay next to Raja, both of us immobile like the rest of the town. We no longer care for strangers, or eating, drinking, making love, even moving. We had shut our eyes and most of our other senses long ago. Hearing was the only thing we could not turn off: our thoughts could not drown the sounds of nature. We listened involuntarily of the passing world, ears sharper with every passing decade. We heard the wind weave its course around the stranger’s thin and somewhat short frame, and some metal clinked and clanged with every step. We heard grains of sunlight bouncing off his black hair, an elusive tinge of red blended within. He turned his head in every direction as he trod the only path into Musannad, and traced even the tiniest crack in the wall with interest. We heard the flutters of wings, powerful ones, and the eagle that had shrieked landed on his right shoulder. He turned his long, thin face to greet it, and the capricious wind became envious. It screamed for attention that the town had denied it for centuries, but the stranger merely responded by reaching back and pulling on his—</p><p>“Nadim…” Raja called me, a hoarse rasp after centuries of silence. My eyes opened and rolled into her wide, brown ones brimming with fear. She looked still 22, the same every year, but her eyes bore holes drilled by thousands of years. “Nadim… he wore a <em>hood</em>.”</p><center> † </center><p>The stranger continued his exploration down Musannad’s street, where children raced eons ago, and moved towards the mosque. Our mosque, in these high mountains, was said to be the closest to heaven after Mecca’s. Our forefathers raised granite pillars for the hypostyle hall that could house a thousand people, and erected the qibla wall at the southwest. Hang before the unusually deep mihrab that could fit a fully-grown person inside was an additional prayer rug. The carved pedals on the pillars were plated with gold. Rare blue porcelain tiled the wall. Many an artisan contributed their skills to the intricate silver tree embedded in the mihrab. Such was the mosque we built in gratitude of Allah for this fertile land, tucked away among the titanic peaks. But as time trampled on, the pillars crashed down like dominoes, the qibla wall crumbled into a heap; the prayer rug joined the dust, and the mihrab hidden instead by rubble and debris; tarnish was the ultimate fate of gold and silver. Only the minaret at the remnant of the mosque entrance survived. The stranger circled it slowly, lips forming the Kufic scripts around and around the wall, the richest gold against the background of the most refreshing blue. He climbed up the footholds in the wall, like the Muezzin did long ago. The small marble tower standing among the mosque ruins looked, at a distance, much like a rude middle finger towards the town and Mecca far away.</p><p>“An-another Dhu Gaita?” Raja asked.</p><p>“I don’t know.” I said.</p><p>Our town was at a crossroad of many trading routes, not unlike the later-built Istanbul to the west. Many a trail joined the only road through these mountains, and brought to us a wide assortment of people. Arabs, Song people, Tibetan monks, all stopped here in a sea of languages. Once came two yellow-haired white men in ring mails and shields embossed with huge crosses. They claimed to be separated from their army, and wished to rest before they continued their way. In the evening they ranted about “Yahweh” and capturing Jerusalem. But a few cups of wine persuaded them to shed their armors and stay for good, all “Holy Wars” forgotten.</p><center> † </center><p>When he knocked on the stone door frames, Raja was shaking. I turned around, muscle tearing from years of immobility, and met his piercing gaze.</p><p>My ears didn’t fail me much. There the stranger stood, with an eagle on his left shoulder. What a magnificent creature it was, with spiky downs crowning its head! Its tawny body glowed with a solemn and majestic aura. The stranger was much more humble than the eagle. His heavy cloak and hood were made from a coarse fabric, whitish-gray and trimmed azure. His sack was wrapped around from his left shoulder down to under his right arm. He fiddled with an amulet around his neck, which had clanged against the black metal clasps down his chest.</p><p>“May I enter? You were the only people who stirred.” His voice was soft and quiet, and was underlined with a twang like a metallic chord being plucked lightly, a tad cool, but pleasant and civil. He spoke without accent the archaic tongue we spoke, though his amber black eyes, rippling with politeness of the Song people from the East, told me he was no Arab.</p><p>I pushed myself up as though hypnotized. For a long moment neither of us spoke. He frowned and fiddled with the amulet again and asked, “May I enter?” The voice didn’t change, but the words were Persian now. Did the amulet change his speech? I stared on.</p><p>“Dhu Gaita?” Raja spoke hesitantly. He fiddled the amulet again.</p><p>“Dhu Gaita… What about my hood?” He returned to Arabic and removed his hood. I searched his face for familiarity, but failed. His features were delicate, but marred by the scars and pimples. There was an air of quiet sadness, as though he was in mourning. He looked much worn from the journey, battered, even, by the harsh mountain winds of the season. Yet, he stood, steady and with a hint of pride outside the doorway.</p><p>“Please… Come in.” I said at last, each word felt stranger than the last. He bowed his head, and entered to find a spot to sit inside. He looked about the room, from the lofty patterned tiles to the spider-webbed corners, then to our mats and rugs and cushions, all faded in color. Raja sat up, too, and the mat we laid on showed two vivid human shapes. The stranger chuckled at this. The eagle clicked his beak, and he looked to the direction it nodded. His eyes widened at the shelves of scrolls next room.</p><p>“You are Matir Hikmat then, the scribe?” He asked me.</p><p>“Father is three houses east. I am his son, Nadim. But a scribe nonetheless.” I replied. He nodded. “This is Raja, my wife.” He nodded again. “You are…?”</p><p>“Ómaenca.” He bowed his head. I couldn’t think of such a word in any language I knew. “A pilgrim.”</p><p>“If you’re here for our mosque, I’m afraid you’re a few centuries too late.” I murmured. He shook his head, smiling. He offered us a piece of bread. We refused. He started munching, feeding bits to the eagle.</p><p>“So… about my hood—“ He started.</p><p>“I apologize, Ómaenca. I mistook you for someone else.” Raja replied. “He was like you, but… different…”</p><p>“As far as the hood goes?” His eyes flickered from her face to mine and back. “Will you tell me more about him? Perhaps… also what happened to the town?”</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>“The town is a crossroad of many trading routes, not unlike the later-built Istanbul to the west. Many a trail joined the only road through these mountains, and brought to us a wide assortment of people…”</p><center> † </center><p><em>Dhu Gaita</em>, “the Hood” in Arabic, was one of our much stranger travelers. He came with a few merchants met along the way one wintry day. We had seen many with hoods, but never with such a stature. His long golden hair hung down in sheets of silk, his skin white like the clouds floating above in a clear day. Every single feature of his face seemed to be sculpted with uttermost care and precision: those emerald eyes reflected a faraway forest in spring, and the straight, marble nose pointed to the thin lips pursed tight above a slightly sharp chin. The face was thin, but not famished. It looked pleasant, yet it emitted melancholy in ripples. Father said he was a man conceived through Math, that every limb and organ was in the golden ratio. I thought him an angel from Allah. As he helped his companions unload, graceful and delicate, he chatted lightly but smiled not so much. One by one, people paused to watch. Young girls glanced at him secretly from their bent down heads, but young boys and older women gawked openly. Men went over to help, and sized him up and down.</p><p>He always joined our early communal prayer, sitting in his hood while everyone else sat in their turbans and hijabs. He was a wanderer, always off to the mountains first thing after prayer and breakfast, not reappearing until sundown dinnertime.</p><p>He helped the farm hands or walked in the mountains or the town. He glided like a dream walker, cool and detached. But if anyone showed any interest in him or his hood, he would smile, warm and kind. He often asked about old legends and stories, and taught us more skillful arts in return. Many of the decorations that still remained today are wrought through his techniques. Girls on their edge of their childhood followed him everywhere. One let slip his nickname “Dhu Gaita”. He adopted this with gratitude: “Why not, if it is a name given to me without spite?”</p><p>A year after his arrival, Dhu Gaita came to visit us. Mother dropped her half-finished pottery bowl and father blotched his Kufic characters when they turned at his knock at the entrance.</p><p>“Master Hikmat, may I come in?” He asked in a voice like silk on glass, without a hint of accent. Together we sat cross-legged in our shelf-lined study, and talked about our long line of scribes in the family, masters of Kufic style. One of us learnt Math from one of the Athenian scholars generations ago, and later, astronomy from the Han people (long ancestors of the Songs). It was because of this that we had developed a technique extremely strict with our characters: the thickness of our strokes, the length of the tails, the ratio between the height and the width of words—the words are Allah’s words, and they represent the world—the Truth. The better we imitate the Truth, the closer we are to Allah. It took years to master them. There was a piece that every son or daughter must copy from their father or mother without any variation—</p><p>“May I have a copy?” He asked. “Will you write it for me? I will pay generously.”</p><p>“Of course! Why—“</p><p>“I can do it!” I piped up. “I’ve been practicing it for thirteen years, ever since I was old enough to hold a reed pen.” Father looked at me for a long time.</p><p>“You are fifteen, after all. It would be quite a trial. Master Dhu Gaita, what say you?”</p><p>“I am delighted.” Dhu Gaita bowed his head.</p><p>Father couldn’t hide his pride when, a week later, I handed my work to Dhu Gaita, who smiled his faint smile.</p><p>“What is a sufficient payment, young master?”</p><p>A thought came out of nowhere.</p><p>“A strand of your hair.”</p><center> † </center><p>Ómaenca raised one eyebrow and tilted his head. He asked,</p><p>“Did you?”</p><p>I jumped, having almost forgotten about him.</p><p>“I’m sorry. Can I see it?”</p><p>“Father was rather furious. He said I had asked for too much, to mar the hairs of Allah’s angel.” I indicated the strings that hang around Raja’s and my necks. Their colors never faded.</p><p>“It was taken and given without spite.” Ómaenca nodded and grinned. “Now I understand what you meant by he was ‘like me but different’. Thank you.”</p><center> † </center><p>Dhu Gaita disappeared two days later. I saw him at the minaret, and around it he walked once. At a spot that faced the mihrab he passed right through. The tower was decorated with words from the Quran. I walked up to it and studied the characters closely for the first time. Where he had gone in was the word “Allah”. Like the rest of them, it was written in a form I knew by heart: the perfect ratio and thickness of the strokes, gold and outlined in silver, penned possible only by the hand or hands of my forefathers. The marble tiles had been solid as they should be, and solid they were under my fingers. How did he go in? Where did he go? I looked at the tip of the minaret. The tip looked back.</p><p>Everyone else thought he had left in the dark.</p><p>I reached 16 two months after that, and fell for Raja, who was two days younger. She was one of those girls who never forgot about Dhu Gaita. To make her smile, I cornered her one day and told her what I had seen. She begged me to take her to the spot to see and to tell her the story again, and every day after that.</p><center> † </center><p>“Talk about great pick-up lines—“ Raja giggled. “‘Hey, want to hear about Dhu Gaita again?’”</p><p>Ómaenca chuckled and I couldn’t help but crack a smile. It felt good to laugh again. Strange, but good. It reminded me of why I liked Raja.</p><p>“I paid for my lust, of course.” I kissed Raja. “She had an old hag of a grandmother who barked at everyone, cursing them in the name of Allah. A stroke amidst one of those outbursts brought her to her back in the street. I had waited until she looked like she had only a day left before proposing to Raja. But…”</p><center> † </center><p>…she just stayed that way, unconscious in her death-cushions, getting no better or worse.</p><p>No one died at all that year, nor were any babies born. Greetings from afar became the same “You kept well”s and “You did not change at all”s. Indeed, no one changed. No one seemed to have aged. Raja’s grandmother never died.</p><p>It took us five years to finally realize that something was not normal. One of those two outsiders—the ones who had exchanged their swords for ploughs—started to bald. Their children, however, didn’t grow, just like ours. Whispers spread that we were not aging anymore, and when finally we acknowledged it as a fact, the whole town ran wild. Imagine: from Egyptian pharaohs to Chinese emperors, with their mummies and philosopher’s stones and alchemy pills, what they had sought, we received without effort! Tears were wept in joy during prayers, and a festival was held. Immortality! Perhaps this was what Allah rewarded us for our devotion and hospitality! What can we do with a <em>lifetime</em>! We joyed day and night—we refused to tire. In ecstasy we dropped all rules. On the seventh day of the festival a girl ripped off her hijab and let her hair fly; boys chased after her. On the twelfth day many stepped out of their robes to dance “in [their] true selves under Allah’s eyes, like how they came to be.” A month later, we forsook all laws of abstinence and wild young couples thrashed about in the streets. Laughter and cries reverberated around the peaks like beasts’. Travelers joined the festivities in the beginning, but as time passed, as we became negligent to our duties, as the trading post was no longer cared after, they started to avoid us. Pilgrims declined our water. Merchants would speed past our trading post. Those who stayed overnight hurried away at the faintest dawn crack. </p><p>When the craze finally subsided, things were never the same again. Words flew, and we became monsters in the outsiders’ eyes—it was two months straight of unchecked hedonism without food or water, after all. Few stopped here. They shook their heads as they passed our roads, and some recited Quran. We disregarded them like Sodomites with Lut ibn Haran. We cared no wrath from Allah; <em>he</em> made us immortal. It was <em>his</em> gift.</p><p>Those two outsiders died in the last bandit raid. Raids were rare, and when they happened, every able body took up arms. This time, even children of ten were geared up with rakes. They wouldn’t die, anyways. The two outsiders didn’t hesitate to defend the town. But they were not in their prime anymore: white had claimed their hairs like rust had conquered their armors. Their sword dented with every clash and they fell, though not before taking out seven bandits each. We avenged them. We were hacked down, but with teeth and claws we demolished the bandits all, leaving the town a field of blood. Bodies were burnt, but those of our friends’ were buried on top of the highest peak.</p><center> † </center><p>“So the bandit died.” Ómaenca said.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>He frowned.</p><p>“Are they born here, in the mountains?”</p><p>“No.” Raja shook her head.</p><p>“Thank you. Please, continue.”</p><center> † </center><p>Years after that, the Imam stood on his minbar to lead the communal prayer as usual.</p><p>“Such are they who defied our Lord, who will have shackles on their necks, who—“ He paused. “Such are the unbelievers of our Lord, with shackles on their necks; they—“ He took a breath, “they—“</p><p>The Muezzin, the prayer-caller, on the other side of the hall tried to help him, “these defiers of… Allah… shackled by their necks, they shall be the… the—“ but he couldn’t go on, either.</p><p>Nobody could remember what came next. The Imam then bravely decided to jump to the next sura, asking pardons a thousand times.</p><p>Such an incident happened again weeks later, and again after that. It repeated until no one, along with the Imam could remember a single verse of the Quran. We flipped through our own copies until the pages were torn, but we just could not remember. For a long time, we prayed with our verses before us, and the pages eventually faded and disintegrated. My father and I tried our best to keep up, writing new Qurans every day, but with our technique, it took time, and nobody wanted to break the tradition. It took a few years, but eventually, prayers every day became the same verses on the mihrab niche and the prayer rug and the minaret behind us: “Praise to Allah, Lord of the Worlds…”</p><p>The same thing happened during Eid al-Fitr. We dusted our house, but we couldn’t remember why we put out rugs at the doors. Something should be done, but what? We gathered as usual, reading sura off the prayer rug. Then we danced, or, tried to. Our arms swung and feet tapped, but they had neither rhythm nor grace. Songs trailed off halfway through, leaving only music playing, lifeless and halfhearted. We couldn’t enjoy them anymore. We forgot how or why to enjoy them.</p><p>It wasn’t long before entertainments disappeared from our town. Life became repetitive cycles of praying and working and sleeping, and gradually to only working and sleeping. We couldn’t remember why we worked, even, with nobody ever stopped at our trading post. I tried to break my cycle with new calligraphy styles: Kufic, Naskh, Thuluth, and even the wildest style of Muhaqqaq, I mastered them all, and too soon, they lost their appeal.</p><p>Some of us became merchants and went out to trade. Our craftsmen tried to carve figurines and stuccos like Dhu Gaita had taught them, but they could only manage wilted flowers and lifeless birds. Much later, when the pieces became downright distasteful, their popularity suddenly grew in the West. We couldn’t understand why, but these were exchanged for new things called “firearms”. It was said to be a solution to our problem. We tried the firearms on our sheep, and then eagerly on ourselves. The bullet came and went, leaving behind a hole grown back in days. These firearms now rust in the bottom of our well.</p><p>Ennui drove a few of us mad. When leaping down the peaks and drowning in the well failed us, we turned to beheading. A fight broke out to decide who was to be the lucky one. In the confusion a head came rolling. We celebrated this death, and placed the head back to the body, and lit a pyre fire for good measure.</p><center> † </center><p>I felt thirsty. I went into the back room and scooped century-old wine from jars. One tasted sour, another had no tastes at all.</p><p>“So… is that man dead, now?” Ómaenca asked when I sat down.</p><p>“His head cried out in the fire.” I said. Ómaenca look rather amused. “Days later he climbed down from the char, a seam on his neck.”</p><center> † </center><p>We waged war against Life ceaselessly; Sisyphus’ turmoil was nothing compared to ours. Life became an abyss to fall through, and down we fell, on our backs in our mat, as still as the dead. Travelers came from the West route in bizarre clothes and hacked away at our trading post. They felled our mosque and left one or two of their bodies rotting under the stone. Those remained found our girls and women, who allowed themselves to be defiled, all dignities lost.</p><p>We dreamt. I dreamt of days eons ago, of the reed pen, the minaret, the two outsiders, and of Raja begging for stories, stories of Dhu Gaita. It all started after he walked into that wall. He must be the cause. But I couldn’t be angry at him. Not only had I lost all emotions, but what can I do about it, at all? He’s dead already.</p><p>Everything was chiseled away by Time, except that minaret and us. We lived in dreams, died in there, too. Then we woke up to a nightmare of eternal day. If only we could weep.</p><center> † </center><p>Ómaenca was staring at the floor, silent for a long time. When he looked up his face wore an unfathomable expression. Pity? Sympathy? Disdain?</p><p>“Looks like you learnt the truth about life the hard way.” He smiled a little. I sighed.</p><p>“You cannot live without death.” Raja whispered.</p><p>“I have to ask you something.” He continued after a while, “I-It’s what I came for.” We waited. “Can you… Can you write for me what you wrote for Dhu Gaita?”</p><p>My first instinct was to say no. It has caused us much last time. But on a second thought, he might fix it…</p><p>“Are you going inside, too?” I found my voice quivering. He nodded. “Take us with you.”</p><p>“I can try.” He looked grim. “I know what you want, though I can’t guarantee you that. But if you don’t help me, I cannot even try to help you.”</p><center> † </center><p>Dizziness was the first thing that hit us, not the sun. It took me four weeks to prepare. Most of the older scrolls had crumbled or faded, and I hadn’t touched a reed pen since I had laid down. I could only trust my hand. Before we left, Ómaenca muttered to his eagle in a tongue I’d never heard before, swift and soft; the eagle then took off as Raja grabbed hold of me, and I to Ómaenca. Together we fell to his pace, slow and firm.</p><p>“So… your name. What language is it?”</p><p>“Heh. Quenya.” He said no more.</p><p>We stopped at the minaret. Ómaenca unrolled the scroll and fingered the letters, counting the lengths in dots. I let go of him and he started walking. First clockwise, then counterclockwise, and clockwise again, shaking his head. He stopped at the side facing the mihrab, and reached out.</p><p>He froze, staring at his hand halfway into the word “Allah”, eyes reflecting the sunlight, the marble, and the wind. He lifted his foot, and I grabbed him again just as he stepped through the wall.</p><p>The wall bloomed and the air rippled. We emerged from the confusion to a flight of stairs. Sunlight poured in from above and through the white minaret walls. The wall behind us was solid as ever.</p><p>“Ah, yes, you have his hairs, and me.” Ómaenca chuckled. “That’s why you can enter. Come.”</p><p>We felt our way down. The stairs winded in a huge spiral, covering large depth but not making one dizzy. Soft glow came before us at the last few steps, the stairs widened into a corridor. Crystal orbs floated in niches on the walls like miniature suns. White marble with sandstone ran down the hall on both sides and the ceiling. The floor was of a glassy obsidian, but a marble path, as wide as the stairs, went down the middle.</p><p>“This is well-kept.” Ómaenca whispered.</p><p>The obsidian floor ended in a circular chamber, submerged in a soft, ethereal, white light that wavered like liquid from the high ceiling above. In the middle was a white sarcophagus surrounded by four snow-pure statues of beings like Dhu Gaita. The bust in a robe lying atop of it was of equal beauty, but more realistic; I feared it would wake up. Around the walls were empty shelves. There were niches between them, where stone thrones were perched within. A few steps before us was a battered tome on the floor. I picked it up with ginger fingers, trying to read the flowing script within.</p><p>“<em>That</em> is one of the scripts for Quenya written there.” Ómaenca murmured, looking over my shoulder. “Lost to ages, known now only by a selected few.”</p><p>“Like whom?” Raja asked, peering at the symbols.</p><p>Ómaenca pointed.</p><p>“Dhu Gaita.”</p><p>We turned. The sarcophagus was no tomb, but an altar; the bust was made not of stone but flesh. It was the same, real robe he had worn that day that was wrapped around him now. He seemed to be sleeping, full of peace and bliss in that liquid light. His hands were folded over the grip of a dagger produced from the middle of his chest. There was no blood.</p><p>“The book was his. He’s an elf, him.” Ómaenca started. “A race with a lifespan seven times ours.”</p><p>“An elf?” Raja and I asked.</p><p>“An elf. When they die,” Ómaenca circled the altar, “their souls go to their Blessed Land, where they would live, die, and reborn, forever locked in this cycle. To them, they are immortal. Death is a mere new life.</p><p>“Old story tells of a true-death seeker, who had grown tired of living and wished for no Blessed Land at all. He had come upon a ritual for death that involved this shrine, and he, like I have, traveled far and wide in search for it. He disappeared about 200 years after he first started the journey. Now we know why. Elf civilization has ceased to flourish for thousands of years, and to be able to locate this place almost 1000 years ago… He was really resourceful.”</p><p>“‘Like you have’?” I repeated. “Are you… looking for death, too?”</p><p>Ómaenca took the tome from me and rifled through it for a moment.</p><p>“It takes much to disintegrate an elf’s soul. Poor old fool… His dagger is literally sucking the degradation process of your souls into his own.” He knelt before the altar and examined Dhu Gaita’s face, his eyes full of disdain. “He found his true death, alright, but at the cost of your suffering. The most notorious elf in history, shunned by even the Nanwens…” He muttered.</p><p>“I can’t blame him.” Raja said. Ómaenca glanced at her.</p><p>“What if I tell you that he was fully aware of the consequences?” He sat down beside the altar and shook the tome. “This is his journal.”</p><p>Did I blame him? After centuries of ennui, I understand the appeal. Yet, he knew… Such cruelty hidden beneath such beauty! But what could we do about it? Nothing.</p><p>“Thank you, Ómaenca.” I sat down on the floor and buried my face in my hands. Raja leaned on my shoulder. “Knowing why we cannot die is the best comfort we can have.”</p><p>“There is an easy fix.” We looked up. “Just remove the dagger. It’s the conduit that’s taking away your degradation.” He looked away. “But I don’t want to touch it. If you will do the favors.” He backed away and spread an arm to the altar.</p><p>Raja and I exchanged a look. Her big eyes were teary. With another glance at me, she crossed the chamber and pressed her lips to the Hood’s forehead. Clasping her fingers around the dagger, she pulled. Dhu Gaita didn’t budge. Raja froze, dagger lifted high, her eyes on its sharp edge. Ómaenca gazed at her, calm and steady.</p><p>“Just lay it beside him.”</p><p>But Raja kept still, eyeing the blade longingly. I knew what was on her mind, for I, too, had the same thoughts. If that dagger could truly kill Dhu Gaita, however it did it, then it could do the same for us.</p><p>“Please don’t.” Ómaenca said.</p><p>Raja started to tremble.</p><p>“Your time will come. I promise.” His voice was quiet.</p><p>Tears ran down Raja’s cheeks.</p><p>“Raja.” He said, his eyes sad. “You don’t want to miss out on living in full.”</p><p>She shut her eyes and cast the dagger aside, as though stung by it.</p><p>“Thank you.” Ómaenca bowed his head and walked onward, not looking back. “Life with natural death at the end is a beautiful thing, and rebirth has nothing to do with it.”</p><p>I took Raja’s hand and followed, suppressing an impulse of snatching the dagger off the floor as I passed it.</p><p>Another corridor was at the other side, dark and sloped upwards. At its end Ómaenca lifted a tile, and we climbed out from the mihrab niche of the ruined mosque.</p><p>The eagle landed on his shoulder with a screech as we reached our house.</p><p>“Food.” Ómaenca pointed to sacks that weren’t there before. “Also seeds. More will come. We can start life anew now.”</p><p>The next day, people stirred and got up. They came and visited us, baffled about this long-absent hunger and thirst they felt. Spring arrived abruptly on the third day. We started plowing the fields on the side of the mountains and along the valleys on the fourth, and Ómaenca joined in, too. Seeds were planted on the fifth, and five people, each one an angel, arrived on the sixth. They greeted Ómaenca with warmth, and one by one, the six of them walked through the minaret.</p><p>On the seventh day, at the crack of dawn, Raja’s grandmother died.</p><p>“I would like to keep Dhu Gaita’s tome.” Ómaenca said after the pyre. Raja and I nodded.</p><p>“Tell me, Ómaenca,” I said, “how do you know all this? Why did you come after Dhu Gaita?”</p><p>“My friends there are elves.” He motioned towards the angels. “I’m doing them a favor.”</p><p>“And you…?” Raja leaned forward.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>The five elves stayed for a year, but Ómaenca left on the tenth day. We never met again. They appeared in my life so briefly, like a breeze, and went without a trace. I wish I were ephemeral to this world as they were to me. But I, at least, can finally enjoy my life now. You live only when you can die, and my time will come.</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;p&gt;With a cry from an eagle, he came at the tail of winter. I shifted silently on my back, listening…&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;A cold, rigid gale descended from the peaks that cradled our town Musannad. The stranger followed it, past the abandoned crop fields, towards the battered trading post at the edge of the town. Snowflakes mingled with dirt chipped away its already eroded floral patterns on the stuccos, grinding the intricate down to simplistic. The wind pushed the stranger through what was left of the door curtains that draped down the entrance. It rampaged, kicked dust over the debris of the collapsed inner walls, tugged at the moth-eaten textiles, and slammed into the stubborn statues of voluptuous maids that refused to fall from their archways, over the tessellation of lions hunting deer under a tree.&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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  <entry>
    <title>拜谒之旅 - 米纳斯·陶里诺 - 幽灵林</title>
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    <published>2021-03-14T17:41:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2025-01-07T04:35:37.841Z</updated>
    
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</script><p>绿林的早春总是特别冷。天上拖拖沓沓逗留的灰云丝毫不关心“冬天已经过去”这种想法，只偶尔掀开一角让太阳瞄一眼我们白雪皑皑的小村子。然后就是立春了。积雪从硬邦邦的厚壳变成一层软绵绵的雪浆，慢慢从我们的屋顶退下，露出黄不拉几的茅草和各种破洞，然而天气还是冻得要死。爹娘总爱说冬天有点儿太喜欢我们村子了。</p><p>在灰云终于消散时，除了白天的一丝丝温暖，我们还迎来了一位客人。他不是这儿的人，他的黑头发和他的又小又黑的眼睛和他的圆鼻头和他的扁平脸和他的浅黄色的皮肤，一看就不是。他穿了件厚重的斗篷，厚得连他是胖是瘦、里面穿了什么、戴了什么都看不出来。他看起来年纪不大，并不比那些刚下地干活的人大多少。我靠，他可被风雨折腾得够呛。他的头发因为长时间在厚兜帽底下而糟乱，他的眼睛被风吹得红肿，他的双颊被冻得乌紫，他的上唇和下巴全是胡子茬。我们一群小孩儿看着别人给他指去酒馆的路，他深一脚浅一脚地挪过去，完全无视一路上的目光和碎语。</p><span id="more"></span><p>那天晚上，在村子里所有人和往常一样在酒馆里吨酒胡侃时，我们没在那里看到他。我们试过溜上楼——我们也管不住自己，毕竟，除了收税的那伙计以外，绿林几乎就没有其他来宾了。老吉姆把我们赶了下来，叫我们礼貌点。</p><p>他在第四天出来加入了修屋顶的队伍，那一脸疲惫荡然无存。他也把他那件斗篷给脱了，里面穿的是一件褪了色的毛衣和一条发白的蓝裤子。他又瘦又小，连娘都比他高一个额头。但他却能扛着那一堆干草三步爬上梯子，连包括爹在内的大人都放下手里的活转头去瞅。</p><p>“瞅老外”成了我们接下来两周的娱乐项目。他补屋顶，他在酒馆里打下手，他站在田垄上望村子周边的森林，他和村长散步。到了该下田的时候，他也下地拉起了犁，是真拉，而不是跟在牛屁股后面扶着。我好像没听过他张嘴说过话。</p><p>我们看着他在田垄上休息时摆手推开村长递过去的烟草叶。珍妮说他看起来是个蛮无聊的一个人，戴文说才不是呢，他那是“克制禁欲”，玛莎叫戴文闭嘴少装逼，我好奇他是不是个哑巴。所有人转过头怂恿我去问，我骂了他们一句“蛋子”，然后去了，尽可能待在他目光之外，不让他注意到。这基本没啥用，因为其他的人在我身后两步开外不停地讥笑着“怂包”。他转身看着我们走完剩下的路。被人瞅着感觉真不好，我的脸和玛莎的头发一样红。他歪着头，眉毛和嘴角微微上扬，等着我们。</p><p>我靠，我老紧张了。他的黑发贴在额头上，被太阳染了层红色。他的眼睛犀利明亮，眼角上翘，左眼角下面有颗痣。他的瘦长的脸剃得光溜溜的，双颊扁平，几乎凹陷。他一身轻松等着我们。</p><p>“卡斯博，赶紧的！”身后的那帮人小声催促道。</p><p>“你-你叫啥？”我鼓起勇气问道，然后又赶紧加了句，“师傅？”这一下子让后面的人都捂着嘴嬉笑。我感觉丢人，浑身不自在，抖来抖去。那伙计的脸直接化了，亲切又有点被逗乐了，双眼成了两道缝。那双眼睛从前往后、从上到下扫过我们。</p><p>“奥马恩卡。”他的声音有点冷，但又那么轻，让我们说不清他到底喜不喜欢我们问他问题。</p><p>“什么怪名字。”玛莎悄悄说道。</p><p>“名字意思是‘没有声音的人'。嗯，不是英语。”他现在全身转向我们。他的口音真怪，不是说他的音都发错了，而是大部分音他都说的挺夸张，感觉不一样。“你叫卡斯博，对不？”他看着我，我点了点头。“那你们呢？”那帮人报上了名字。</p><p>“‘没有声音的人’？”珍妮随后张嘴问道，“可你在说话啊。”</p><p>“但不够响，是不是？”他呵呵笑道。</p><p>“你是哪里来的？”戴文问道。</p><p>“哦，我来的地方离这儿可远了，在大海另一边的大陆的另一边。”</p><p>“美洲吗？”</p><p>“戴文你快别装逼了！”玛莎推了他一把。</p><p>“行啊，美国，也罢。”奥马恩卡点了点头。</p><p>“你来这儿干啥？”我问道。</p><p>“看风景呗。”他又呵呵笑了笑。我们几个互相看了看。</p><p>“这没啥好看的啊。”珍妮说。奥马恩卡朝远处田边的森林张开一条细胳膊。我们几个又互相看了看，什么也没说。</p><p>“你叫什么来着？”戴文打破了寂静。“奥、美、嘉？”</p><p>“奥马、恩卡。”我们跟着念，他摇了摇头，指着他的嘴。我们倚了过去。“仔细看这儿。”</p><center>**</center><p>从某些方面来说，奥马恩卡很对得起他的名字。大人们都只管他叫“小哥”。如果他们在地里有事让他干，他们就喊一声：“喂！小哥！”然后一指。他总是知道他们在说什么，尽管我们几个小孩儿根本搞不懂。“猜指令”成了我们“瞅老外”时的游戏。我们还玩“犁地计时赛”。我们坐在田垄上，奥马恩卡拖着犁在我们面前调头时，我们开始数数，等他在田地另一边转头时，我们再重新开始。如果他的这一圈比上一圈快，那我们就欢呼；要是他更慢的话，我们就大声嘲笑他。没什么比看到他扬眉毛更好玩的了，我们也跟着他学。</p><p>奥马恩卡就像是一滴落入我们绿林这个湖泊的雨，他在我们的生活里掀起了一阵涟漪，然后就和我们融为一体了。他在我们的地里拖犁翻土，他在教堂礼拜时倚在后排的长椅靠背上，他几乎每天都去拜访村长，他让我们几个终于有理由喜欢晚上去酒馆。以前，我们在爹娘饮酒作乐时什么能干的都没有。现在，我们会在一片金发红发里找他的黑发。他总是坐在吧台和墙之间的角落里，身边放着一杯热水，杯底是几片叶子。他管这个叫“茶”。我靠，那玩意儿啥味都没有。大人们不怎么管他，因为他也不喝酒，尽管有时我们还是能看到他和一两个人说话——更像是“听他们说话”。</p><p>只有他一人时，我们就跑他身边胡闹。为了让我们闭嘴安静，他会给我们讲故事——讲他去过的地方，他见到的人，还有那些我们从来没听说过但显然在外面很常见的机器。玛莎直截了当地说这不可能全是真的。一个铁皮做的鸟，还能飞，那不得是魔法？戴文说，才不是呢，他爷爷——也就是村长——在出村到附近那个骑马要走两天的镇子卖菜时见过。玛莎推了他一把，叫他闭嘴，装逼犯子。珍妮叫他们俩都闭嘴，让奥马恩卡讲完。</p><p>“啊，消费级航班还没那么多，不过我觉得以后他们会放开的。说不定以后你们就能在天上看到了。”奥马恩卡轻声笑道。</p><p>“那他们到底是不是靠魔法飞的？”我很认真。</p><p>“魔法……魔法不就是无法理解的技术和现象吗？”奥马恩卡耸了耸肩。“如果你不知道工作原理的话，几个小时就能织一件衣服的机器就是魔法。如果你不知道水能结冰的话，冬天下雪都是魔法。”</p><p>“怎么可能有人不知道？”玛莎叫道。</p><p>“他们没见过结冰呗。”</p><p>“可是怎么会有那种人啊？”珍妮插了一句。</p><p>“地球是个圆的……”他便耐心开始讲。</p><p>我们和他在一起的时光让我们想出去看看。他说他是在学校学到的这些东西：读书、写字、算数、思考、甚至关于整个世界的事情。我们以为“学校”只是学读《圣经》的地方。他说不不不哦<em>不是</em>，有的学校的确教这个，但并不<em>只</em>教这个。于是我们回家问我们爹娘。戴文说他爹他娘他奶奶他爷爷都说奥马恩卡说的没错，但我们没必要知道。珍妮的爹娘不信她说的，然后笑了笑。玛莎的爹娘说奥马恩卡在放屁。我爹娘说我在亵渎，然后揍了我一顿。</p><p>“哎呀，真对不起。”奥马恩卡摸了摸我们的头。他一碰我的头，我的屁股就不疼了。“玛莎的父母和我说少教你们一些关于外面的乱七八糟的东西，还问我是不是伊甸园里的蛇，哈哈哈哈哈。”</p><p>玛莎道了歉。她惭愧的样子我们还是头一回见到。</p><p>“那这样，<em>你们</em>教<em>我</em>好了。”</p><p>“比如什么？”戴文坐直身子，两眼放光。</p><p>“神话传说、绿林的故事。”</p><p>“呃……”我们几个互相看了看。“没有啥故事。”</p><p>“啊？没有吗？”他很惊讶。“连罗宾汉都没有吗？”我们一脸茫然地看着他。“那个森林呢？”</p><p>大人们边喝酒边制造着和往常一样的欢乐嘈杂。在我们叫做“奥马恩卡角”的角落里，我们坐得笔直，任凭那嘈杂弥漫。奥马恩卡静静等着。我们又互相看了看，然后异口同声叫道，</p><p>“<em>永远都别进去！</em>”</p><p>“那里面有鬼——”</p><p>“——有幽灵——”</p><p>“——它们会引诱你进去——”</p><p>“——然后你就再也出不来了——”</p><p>“哟？”他喝了口茶。</p><p>“是真的。”我说。“我爹的弟弟就这么没了的——”</p><p>“还有我的姨妈——他们两个在我们出生前就跑进去了——”珍妮插嘴道。</p><p>“爷爷也跟进去了，他能出来只因为他带了团毛线——”戴文说。</p><p>“有人亲眼见过幽灵吗？”奥马恩卡扬起了眉毛。</p><p>“我！”玛莎蹬着腿，一脸通红。“我——我进去过一次。”我们全转向她，我们还真不知道这事。“我就想进去一丁点看看，然后有个人——有个人在树中间站着，跟我说她能带我进去转。”</p><p>“然后你就跟她走了？”戴文问道，一脸不相信。</p><p>“切！当然没有了！我说不，我爹娘不让，然后就跑出来了。我跟你说，奥马恩卡，林子里有骗走人的幽灵！”</p><p>“她长什么样？”奥马恩卡问。</p><p>“一个小姑娘！我当时七岁，她也差不多！红头发、雀斑，和我一样！”</p><p>“胡说！我说你在胡说！”戴文炸了，连奥马恩卡都吓了一跳。“你是村里唯一一个红头发长雀斑的小嫚儿，爷爷说了，周围几公里压根就没有第二个村子——”</p><p>“要不然我知道她是个幽灵啊，你个傻逼！”</p><p>“她要真是幽灵，你早就不在这儿了！”</p><p>“停停停，你们俩够了。”奥马恩卡把他们两个拉开。“我知道了、知道了。林子里有鬼。”</p><center>**</center><p>接下来的整个一周我们都没有看到奥马恩卡。他白天待在村长家里，戴文说他在翻阅他爷爷所有的、从来不让任何人碰的旧书和记录。他晚上待在自己房间里，我们徒劳地在奥马恩卡角里发着呆，等着他下来，和其他的小屁孩一样无聊至极。他的缺席过在我们的生活里掏了一个洞，我们几乎忘了在他来之前我们玩儿的什么。当我们想起来时，我们发现好像没那么好玩了。</p><p>收税的伙计在四月底一天坐着他的车来了，所以我们就在他身边转悠。每次来的都不是同一人，你永远不知道来的会是个什么样的。这次是个臭脾气的小年轻，他那张脸好像在说他是受处分被罚到这里收税的似的。他的那辆傻逼车不用马，自己就能跑，而且跑起来的时候边“突突突突”乱叫边放臭屁，吓得我们的牛和母鸡要命。有意思的是，我们自己却不能让它那么跑。我们跳出来时，珍妮说这是魔法，玛莎说她现在明白奥马恩卡什么意思了。戴文笑道他爷爷知道这个叫“汽车”的玩意儿，但不喜欢什么“污染”，所以他从没打算把它引进绿林。我说那老头就个老蛋子才这么想，要不我们可有得玩儿了。戴文的脸一红——他每次生气的时候都这样。他给了我一拳，我还了他一拳，很快我们就干了起来。</p><p>一分钟后，干架也没啥意思了。我们四个坐在田垄上无聊地发着呆。太阳底下，大人们在播种。他们把种子倒进播种器上的漏斗里，让牛顺着犁好的地拖着走，然后每走四五步就把漏斗底戳进土里并转一圈摇柄。一个洞里三四粒种子，也就是“一撮”。</p><p>三年后，当我们十三岁时，我们也要开始下地干那个了，而且一干就是一辈子。无无无无无无聊聊聊聊聊聊死死死死死死啊啊啊啊啊啊啊，但至少也算是有事做。</p><p>珍妮抬手指向那片从南到西到北围绕绿林的林子，隔着田地我们都能看见它茂密漆黑的树干。在我的叔叔和珍妮的姨妈消失前，那片林子就被木头篱笆给隔开了。那里面到底有啥啊？如果魔法真是奥马恩卡所说的那样，那这森林肯定也应该有个解释，是不是？它藏着好多我们不知道的东西，和村子外面一样……不管有没有幽灵，我都想进去看看。我怎么以前没想到过这个？那片森林的魔法长啥样？那个收税的开的车算是个挺牛的魔法，是不？那些能飞的铁皮鸟算是魔法，是不？就连珍妮实际上在指向的老鹰也算是魔法——它是怎么飞的？它为什么会飞？</p><p>我们坐在田垄上看得出神。那只老鹰在森林上空飞了一圈一圈又一圈。</p><center>**</center><p>第二天一大早，奥马恩卡就进了森林，整个教堂都在谈论这件事。大人们摇着头，看起来很惋惜，说什么“他完了”、“真可惜，那么个小伙子能帮我们老多忙”、“幸亏他礼拜天进去的，大活都干完了”、“他一个周都没干活了，我们没损失，嗯？”没人说我们应该去找他、救他出来。</p><p>至少没有大人这么说的。</p><p>我们四个——戴文、玛莎、珍妮和我——在牧师开始叨叨前，以戴文每数十下挠一次脑袋为暗号，一个接着一个谎称要上茅房，溜了出来。一出木头教堂，我们就头也不回地往南边跑，祈祷没有大人跟在后面。我们钻过篱笆，径直跑进森林。我靠，爹娘要是逮着我的话可揍不死我，但如果有奥马恩卡，可能挨一顿揍也不会那么疼。</p><p>森林里的古老、高大的树木和浓厚的雾气遮挡了阳光，空气凉凉的，很快就浸透了我们的衣服。我们系好了所有的纽扣，紧紧捏着领子。</p><p>林子里面其实挺美的。仅剩的阳光在树干间交织相错，像村长家里挂着的丝绸一样。它们之间的雾气随着鸟儿刹那间的出现和消失缭绕消散。在高耸入云的古橡树上的啄木鸟、在几乎没过我们膝盖的矮树丛植被里的山雀、在不知何处的树洞里的猫头鹰，这些鸟在我们周围四处鸣唱。松鼠在头顶和脚下乱窜，一头鹿受了我们的惊吓，叫着逃跑。我们听到一阵窸窣，转头望去，只是一只野兔。低垂的枝头上是正在舒展的叶苞，地上开始出现没名字的小花，矮木丛的叶子上沾着露珠。珍妮说这一切真梦幻。戴文说森林本来就这样，等着一会儿就蹦出只熊来。玛莎叫他蠢驴，闭嘴。我开始大喊奥马恩卡的名字。</p><p>他们也跟着开始喊，而回复我们的只有回音和小动物的逃窜声，有一两只还在我们面前横穿小路。这里面能有条路也是蛮奇怪的，既然谁都不让进来，那要这条路干啥？矮木丛的枝叶伸到了土路上，路面时不时也有翘起的石板。我们有时候几乎看不见路在哪里，所以我们紧挨在一起，慢慢前行。</p><p>前面的路一分为二，现在怎么办？戴文说我们应该兵分两路，玛莎说这主意简直蠢透了。珍妮看了看两条分路后指向一条，我顺着她的手指看去，土里是脚印，只能是奥马恩卡的，于是我们走向左边那条路。我天，这有点让人兴奋啊。村子东边不远处还有一个小树林，村民都去那里打猎。爹从来不带我去，但我估计打猎时追猎物就和我们现在一样。</p><p>在每个路口，珍妮都会指出一条线索。我们跟着她的指挥，一直到她什么也看不到了为止。我们在周围搜搜寻寻，我以为我在中间的路上看到了点很浅的印迹，于是我们就凑合着去了。</p><p>“知道我们在哪儿吗？”没一会儿，玛莎问道。我们停下脚步。真是个好问题。我们原地转身观望，目之所及全是树、树、树，各种树——橡树桦树杉树，有的躯干扭曲，有的高大粗壮，重复着一遍又一遍，往外延伸，延绵不断，它们的枝条——有骨朵的或者有嫩叶的——消弱了一切声音。我已经看不出来我们是从哪个方向来的了，我们在布满石子的路面上什么都没留下。</p><p>“真棒。”戴文看了看我们。“我们应该带团毛线进来的，就跟当年爷爷一样。”</p><p>“你怎么不早说啊，装逼犯子？”玛莎恶狠狠地说。</p><p>“至少现在没那么冷了。”我说。</p><p>“那又有个屁用。”珍妮没好气地说。“我们连幽灵都不用就迷路了。”她一屁股坐在地上。她仿佛在我们头上倒了盆冰水，戴文和玛莎不吵了，脸上浮现出和我一样的恐惧。</p><p>“我们怎么办啊？”我颤颤巍巍地问道。</p><p>没人知道。我们都坐到地上，紧紧挨在一起。谁知道一个幽灵什么时候会突然出现在背后盯着我们看呢！土路面凉飕飕的，里面的石块硌得我的屁股疼。空气变得压抑起来。我以为树间有影子在动，树底植被里的每一丝骚动都像是脚步声，那些鸟的叫声听起来像笑声。我们听到了树枝被踩断的声音，转头看去时只是一只路过的鹿。就在一切终于静下来的时候，一只猫头鹰忽然喊了一嗓子，差点把我们的魂儿给吓出来。为什么明明没有风，树叶也能沙沙作响？我的后背紧紧贴着戴文的，女孩子们的胳膊也挤压着我的。我们不仅仅是因为寒冷才发抖。</p><p>爹和娘现在肯定正坐在教堂里担心。老天啊，即使他们会揍我，我也想再见到他们……我竭力按捺住鼻梁里的颤抖，但冷气慢慢回到了空气中，钻进我的鼻孔，然后慢慢下沉、下沉、下沉，直到我的肚子里。珍妮吸了一下鼻子。玛莎吸了一下鼻子。戴文清了清嗓子。</p><p>“我们还是继续走吧，总比死在这儿强。”</p><p>于是我们起身随便选了一个方向慢慢前进，边走边因为啜泣和恐惧吸着鼻子，眼睛紧盯路面，希望奥马恩卡就在前面。他不会走太远吧，毕竟他应该也不认路。他真的光靠在森林里面<em>散步</em>就能解开森林的幽灵之谜吗？唉，我真希望我能当面问他，我还想问他借点水喝。</p><p>珍妮吃惊地吸了口气，指向一边。就在那儿，在我们左边，是一个人的背影。我们目瞪口呆。那个人走开了。</p><p>“那是奥马恩卡，那个走路姿势！”戴文悄声说道。“奥马恩卡！”他大喊，跟着跑了过去。“<em>奥马恩卡</em>，大哥，你等等！”</p><p>我们都跟着跑了过去，在低矮的植被里跌跌撞撞，惊散了躲在里面的各种鸟和动物，又被石头和树根磕磕绊绊。他怎么也不回头看一眼？他光顾着前进，脚步飞快，僵硬地弓着后背，两臂蜷在他那厚重的斗篷里，仿佛随时都准备反抗什么。</p><p>他在几棵粗壮的树枝间消失了。我们气喘吁吁地绕了过去，然后愣住了。</p><p>面前的是一片小废墟，头顶的树稀疏开来，使阳光照亮了整个地方。坍塌的和破损的白色石块比我们身高还长、还宽、还高，它们四处都是。藤蔓附着在这一切之上，粗大、没有叶子。附近树木的树根也把这些石头牢牢地压在地上。有几个石头依旧矗立，破旧并且藤蔓密布，但废墟正中间的那三个除外。它们和我们身后的树一样高，将一切藏在了他们的阴影里。我靠——这是什么地方？</p><p>“奥马恩卡！”珍妮大喊。</p><p>“奥马恩卡！”我大喊。</p><p>我们翻过石头、越过藤蔓，爬到了废墟中央。在那里的一个祭台上盘着腿、双目紧闭地坐着的是奥马恩卡。阳光洒在他的身上，他的呼吸平缓。他在故意不理我们，于是我扯了扯他的衣服。</p><p>“奥马恩卡？”</p><p>他突然瞪开眼，满眼惊讶，吓得我跳了一步。我们几个和他互相对视，他的目光深深钻进了我们的眼睛，尖锐、冰冷、可怕。我们害怕地后退了几步。</p><p>“别，等等。”他的脸舒缓开来。“你们在这儿干什么？”</p><p>“找你。”戴文答道。</p><p>“我们听说你进来了，我们想把你带回去。”玛莎附和道。</p><p>“幸亏我们跟着你来了——”珍妮说着。奥马恩卡放下双腿，从祭台上耷拉下来，双臂接住跑了过去抽抽搭搭的珍妮。</p><p>“好啦好啦，珍妮。”他摸了摸她的头。“刚才真对不起，我以为你们的喊声是森林搞的……你说你们刚刚是跟着我过来的？”我们点点头。“可我至少在这儿坐了一个小时了。”我们目瞪口呆。“你们确定是我？”我们眨着眼，脸色煞白。“哎呀。”他想了一会儿。“至少你们找到我了。”</p><p>“呃……你有水吗？”我沙哑地问道。他呵呵笑着，拍了拍祭台。我们在他身边坐好，他传给我们他的两个水壶。里面的茶只需一口就把我的口渴和恐惧一扫而光。</p><p>“这简直是魔法！”我抬头看他。</p><p>“卡斯博，关于魔法我怎么说的？”他叹了口气。“算了，我们回绿林吧。”</p><p>“我们能……不回去，跟你多待一会儿吗？你在这里面找魔法，是不是？”我问道。</p><p>“当然不能。”奥马恩卡扬起一条眉毛，好像我彪了一样看着我。“你不是想把<em>我</em>带回去吗？你们失踪了，你们的父母就够担心的了。”</p><p>“那他们就再多担心一会儿呗！我们想再多看看这片森林！”玛莎叫道。</p><p>“求你了，奥马恩卡，我们都来这么远了。”珍妮说。</p><p>“这里其实并没多深。”他干巴巴地说。</p><p>“我们也想看一眼魔法到底是怎么回事，求你了。”我说。</p><p>“哦，如果我找到了我保证给你看。你瞧，我这里有一个叫做‘相机’的玩意儿——”</p><p>“奥马恩卡！”戴文跺了跺脚。“尽管有幽灵，我们还是跑进来找你了，你不觉得我们应该好人有好报、跟你一起去找魔法吗？”</p><p>奥马恩卡呆住了，一脸滑稽的笑。也就戴文能说出这话了。</p><p>“爷爷教你讨价还价了，啊？不可能。”他站起身。</p><p>“奥马恩卡！”我们四个从石头上跳下，抓住了他的斗篷，满眼乞求地看着他。</p><p>他扫视我们的脸，又看了看他被扯得紧紧的斗篷，叹了口气。</p><p>“行，行，行……亲娘，行。”</p><center>**</center><p>奥马恩卡让我们拉好手跟紧他，玛莎拉着我，我拉着戴文，戴文拉着珍妮，珍妮拉着奥马恩卡。我们走出了废墟，跋涉在低矮的植被里。</p><p>在被树枝和正在舒展的嫩叶过滤的、微弱的阳光的照射下，森林里的空气逐渐升温。随着雾气消散，林子里也明亮了许多。奥马恩卡指给我们看各种多彩漂亮的鸟和花，出于好玩儿，他还指出了些虫子吓唬女孩子们。我们又笑又跳又唱。</p><p>我们好像并没有一个确切的目标。奥马恩卡把我们带回小路上，一直走到下一个路口，然后他会望天上看一眼，紧接着又看似随便地选一个方向。走到某一处时，他又会冷不丁地拐个弯，拖着我们离开小路又回到矮树丛里，来到一眼泉，或者另一条隐藏的小路，或者有一座废墟遗址。</p><p>“你怎么知道废墟在这儿的？”珍妮和我们一起看着他绕着一堵附满藤蔓的破墙徘徊，问道。</p><p>“我有我自己的导游。”他指了指头顶，天上绕着我们飞的是昨天我们看到的那只老鹰。“桑德兰多一直在领着我。”</p><p>“他是你的宠物吗？”</p><p>“天啊，珍妮，这话可别让他听见，我可不想被他带进沟里啥的。”</p><p>我们哈哈大笑。那只老鹰飞了下来，落到了他瘦瘦的胳膊上。</p><p>戴文悄声说了句“真壮观”。也就他能说出这词来，但他说的没错，老鹰茶色的羽毛在一道道阳光里锃亮。看看他那双大翅膀！还有那个又弯又尖的、由黄变紫的喙！还有脑袋和脖子后面尖尖的羽冠！他歪着头瞪着奥马恩卡，然后又挨个瞪了瞪我们。这就是村长故事里的那个百鸟之王啊，壮观，确实真壮观。</p><p>“他可不是什么‘宠物’，我整个旅途里可都是他带着我走。”奥马恩卡挠了挠老鹰的背。“我相信他能带我找到这里面我想找到的东西。”</p><p>“魔法吗？”我问。</p><p>“一座塔。”</p><center>**</center><p>除了森林里有幽灵以外，我们对它一无所知。我们爹娘知道的也多不到哪儿去。如果有人以前告诉我们林子里有废墟、有人很早以前住林子在里面，我们压根不可能相信他。森林里面有幽灵拐人走，仅此而已。可现在就不一样了。</p><p>所以当奥马恩卡提到了一座塔时，我们完全相信他。那座塔可能也塌了，就像一路上我们看到的一座座废墟遗址里的墙、柱子和拱门一样。这些都是谁建的？为啥要住在个森林里面？这些东西都有多久远了？村长肯定知道些什么吧，全村就他的书多，但他只跟我们讲幽灵拐走进林子的人的故事。他那堆书里面到底都写了啥？</p><p>“村子里的人、绿林里的事、各种秋收、饥荒、村民的出生、死亡……还有这座森林。”奥马恩卡边说边往他生的火上挂好一条条鹿肉。现在已是中午，阳光笔直照进我们所在的废墟空地上。奥马恩卡有把剑，深蓝色带金，奇形怪状，中间还写了奇怪的金色的字。马上就要成为我们的午饭的鹿肉就是他拿这把剑捕到的。他没带我们打猎让我有点失望。“说是‘这座森林’，实际上还是在讲人：进来的人、没出来的人、还有出来的人——没错，有人走出过这片林子，虽然没几个，但还是有的。”</p><p>他把烤好的肉串在他用那把剑削好的树枝上分给我们，然后把他的两个水壶拿出来摆好：“没盐，凑合凑合好了。</p><p>“那些走出来了的人讲的故事也都很奇怪。他们都说自己遇到了人，有的是遇见了还活着的熟人，有的是已经死了的熟人，还有一些他们并不认识。这些幽灵都答应带他们去找他们渴望的东西：钱啊、种子啊、药啊什么的，但更多的时候，这个‘渴望的东西’正是这些幽灵假扮的人。反正走着走着，他们就想回家了。”奥马恩卡嚼了几下肉，咽了下去，看了看树棍，又转向我们：“他们想离开森林，<em>回到绿林村</em>。有一个幽灵说：‘这儿就是我们的家啊，’然后那个村民说：‘不是，我是在说绿林。’”</p><p>“然后呢？”玛莎倚过身子问。</p><p>“然后幽灵就领她出去了呗。”奥马恩卡耸了耸肩。“我觉得不是什么幽灵把人<em>骗走、迷路</em>，而是幽灵带人<em>找到了他们渴望的东西</em>。假如你们真遇到了幽灵，最安全的做法可能是使劲想绿林。”啊？我们说我们不信。“看来老爷子对这个秘密守口如瓶啊。要不然我说我挺佩服你们的嘛，明知道永远出不去了，还跑进来找我。”</p><p>毕竟我们一开始就没考虑过这个，我们只想到了“救奥马恩卡”，仅此而已。</p><p>“所以为什么？为什么进来找我？”</p><p>“我们不想丢了你。”我咬着没什么味道的肉，说。</p><p>“你看起来像是个好人。”玛莎剔着牙。</p><p>“你挺好玩。”珍妮嚼着一点软骨。</p><p>“我们喜欢你。”戴文真诚地看着他。</p><p>他眨了眨眼，然后低头对着他的脚下笑了，笑得很浅，但很开心，双眼又挤成了两道缝。我从来没想到他还会害羞。鸟叫和微风中树枝的吱呀作响附和着我们的篝火的噼啪声，一道暗淡的阳光把他的头发——还有他的脸——染得微红。我靠，他还真挺好看。</p><p>“谢谢你们。”他抬起头，轻轻说道。“我下次做饭会做顿好的。”</p><p>“给我们讲个故事吧。”珍妮伸了个懒腰。</p><p>“我不是刚讲的吗？”</p><p>“再讲一个嘛。”玛莎央求道。奥马恩卡呵呵笑了。他的老鹰落到他脚边，啄着他的肉串，他们互相看了一眼。他缓缓点了点头。</p><p>“你们对精灵了解多少？”</p><p>“他们像天使。”戴文说。</p><p>“他们很美。”玛莎说。</p><p>“他们生活在很久以前，经常抱走小孩儿。”珍妮说。</p><p>“他们会魔法。”我说。</p><p>“可以啊，”奥马恩卡朝他的老鹰扔了一块肉。“但也不是很确切。他们很美，而且很优雅，但我们当中如果有一个精灵的话，你根本分不出来。他们长得可以像你，也可以像我，也可以像一些你没见过的人。他们生活在很久以前，像我们人类一样建起了村镇、城市和王国。然后有一天，他们消失了。他们去了哪儿？为什么？反正废墟是什么也告诉不了我们。”</p><p>“什么废墟？”戴文问道。</p><p>“这些破损的大理石啊。”奥马恩卡喃喃自语。（<em>大理石啊，</em>我心想，<em>原来这些白石头叫这个。</em>）“传说他们注定会离开。他们帮助众神为我们塑造这个世界、教授我们这个世界的原理，并帮助我们繁荣。作为奖赏，他们被带去到一个更好的地方，一片圣地。他们在那里和众神一起生活，继续繁荣。”</p><p>“《圣经》立刻不是这么说的！”戴文喊道。</p><p>“闭嘴吧，你这个蠢驴装逼犯子！”玛莎冲戴文骂道。</p><p>“是你们要听故事的。”奥马恩卡耸了耸肩。</p><center>**</center><p>玛莎失踪了。</p><p>也许我们应该再多休息一会儿，也许我们不应该喝那么多水，也许我不应该告诉她尊重点废墟。自从玛莎到废墟外面小便后，她就再也没回来。</p><p>奥马恩卡让他的老鹰飞上天去找她，但一无所获。他对着老鹰皱了皱眉头。</p><p>“看来有个更强大的东西在干扰我们。”比如说，幽灵吗？我们互相紧紧挨着，望着奥马恩卡的眼睛在大理石墙的阴影里开始发光，又新奇又可怕。他向我们伸出一只手，说：“现在不是害怕的时候。来。”</p><p>在废墟外的一棵树旁，我们找到了玛莎的脚印，旁边还有一排更大的随着她的一起。奥马恩卡顿了顿，然后在那排脚印旁踩了一脚。两个脚印一样大。</p><p>“凉鞋啊，瞧，里面没有花纹——”奥马恩卡停住了。</p><p>珍妮倒吸一口气，伸手指着逐渐消失的大脚印。那一定是幽灵的！奥马恩卡一把抓住我们，飞快地穿过矮树丛，沿着小路飞奔。他一路上停了几次，好像迷路了一样左顾右盼。起初，珍妮还能指出地上隐隐约约的脚印，但我们跟得越远，我们越难以在土路上找到什么。可这一点都没有耽误奥马恩卡的前进，我才反应过来他在停下的时候是在找玛莎的影子。</p><p>我们经过了更多废墟，他们越来越大、越来越破损，但奥马恩卡早已不感兴趣。他走着、走着、停下、又继续走啊走啊走，直到他终于停了不止一两秒。戴文、珍妮和我站在他身边，双手扶膝、气喘吁吁。奥马恩卡叹了口气。</p><p>“丢了。”他嘟哝道。“难以置信，完全感觉不到她。”他转向我们，说：“刚才一阵跑真不好意思……我们现在回绿林还来得及。等把你们送回去——”</p><p>“不行。”戴文喘着气说。奥马恩卡扬着眉毛。“不行，我们——不能放弃——玛莎。”奥马恩卡等着他说完，他深吸一口气。“她爹她娘会担心的。”</p><p>“你们的现在也在担心啊，戴文。”</p><p>那只鹰轮次落到了我们的肩上。当轮到我的时候，我感觉我的呼吸渐渐恢复了。戴文站直身子，盯着奥马恩卡发着光的眼睛。</p><p>“至少他们能一起担心。但是如果我们不带着玛莎回去的话，那就只有她爹娘两个人独自担心了。”</p><p>“珍妮？卡斯博？”</p><p>“我想去找她，”我咬了咬嘴唇，“但这根本就没什么踪迹了。”</p><p>“我想回家，”珍妮小声说，她看起来真的很矛盾。“但玛莎现在肯定也很害怕。”</p><p>奥马恩卡的眼睛暗了下来。</p><p>“那我们先休息一下好了。我再想想办法。”</p><p>我们来到一棵杉树下没有任何植被的圆地里，奥马恩卡左右递着两个几乎都快空了的水壶，把他的鹰交给珍妮，然后盘腿坐了下来，双眼紧闭，他厚重的斗篷松松垮垮地垂下，藏起了他的长剑、水壶和背包。珍妮一屁股瘫在树下，倚靠在树干上，抚摸着金鹰以求安慰。戴文坐下后不停地抓耳挠腮，然后又站了起来、坐下、又站起。我僵直地坐着，看着他跌跌撞撞地走来走去。无论奥马恩卡的眼睛刚才到底是怎么回事，现在它是帮不了我们找到玛莎了。但他肯定会想出一个办法的——他都领着我们走这么远了。</p><p><em>他都领着我们走这么远了……</em></p><p>一阵忽如其来的寒颤和气温一点关系都没有。奥马恩卡在我们最想见到他的时候出现了，他一直带着我们四处探访废墟遗址，现在他又带着我们去找玛莎。万一<em>他</em>是幽灵呢？毕竟他在这座森林里做了许多不可思议的事情——像魔法一样的事情……但魔法除了未知的技术以外还能是什么？他让我知道我对这个世界一无所知。</p><p>真是个奇怪的小哥啊。他从外面过来，他所做的一切都是魔法。<em>哪怕你真的是幽灵，那也再多施点魔法吧，奥马恩卡。</em>我心想，<em>只要能找到玛莎就行。然后，求你了，带我们回绿林。</em></p><p>“幽灵……”他低声说道，眉头紧锁，双眼依旧紧闭。“如果他们真的会带我们去找我们想要的东西……”</p><p>“奥马恩卡——”戴文倒吸了一口气。奥马恩卡的眼睛飞快地睁开，然后吃惊地瞪大了。他差点起身飞出去，但还是控制住了自己，倒在胳膊上。一个年轻的小姐姐在我们眼前的树间走了出来。</p><p>“艾瑞——？”</p><p>戴文随着她的前进步步后退，珍妮紧紧抱着那只鹰，我则飞快地躲到了奥马恩卡身后，探出头看着她。比起我们，她看起来更像奥马恩卡。她长长的黑发垂在她瘦瘦的白皙的脸旁。她的眼角微微下倾，又大又腼腆，看着自己脚下。她的小鼻子下面是一个可爱的、撅着嘴的笑和一个尖尖的、微微突起的下巴。她的白裙在树荫下看起来鬼魅一般，但我一直盯着她看，不能自已。奥马恩卡伸着一只胳膊护着我们。</p><p>“她是谁？”珍妮细声问道。</p><p>“幽灵。”奥马恩卡答道。</p><p>“找我吗？”小姐姐顽皮般地问道。她的口音听起来像收税的那伙计的，爹管那个叫“浮夸做作”，但她的声音更好听，有点朦胧。她站在空地边缘。</p><p>“在找一个小姑娘，玛莎。”</p><p>“跟我来。”她拉起他的双手，但他吃了一惊，迅速甩开了。</p><p>珍妮和我瑟瑟发抖，但戴文大步跟在了她身后。奥马恩卡一把把他抓了回来，然后一只手抓紧他，另一只手扶着珍妮和我的后背，跟在小姐姐后面。</p><p>我们在寂静中前行。小姐姐时不时回头观望，她的大眼睛仿佛在问奥马恩卡什么。奥马恩卡对她好像有点悲伤的样子。我们路过一眼泉，奥马恩卡停下来灌满水壶，递给我们，然后又重新灌满。太阳现在斜着穿过我们走的路，雾气又开始聚集了。幽灵姐姐耐心地等着，尽管穿着裙子和凉鞋也一点都不被逐渐变凉的温度所扰。奥马恩卡把我们裹在他的厚斗篷里，我们一团人别扭地前进。</p><p>“是你把玛莎拐走的吗？”戴文问她，她只是对他笑着。</p><p>“还有多远？”奥马恩卡看也没看她一眼，哼道。</p><p>“你真的就想对我说这个？”</p><p>奥马恩卡一脸愁容地看着脚下。她笑着，笑声就像泉眼里汩汩而出的泉水。她捋了捋他的双鬓。</p><p>“不远啦。”</p><p>小路逐渐变宽了，嵌在路面的碎石也开始变成宽大平坦的石瓦。瓦片间，野草探出了头，突起的树根把石瓦劈成两半或三块。珍妮抖得更厉害了，指着前方。那里有两座几乎和树一样高大的雕像在路的两旁，同样的白色大理石，同样的藤蔓遍布。我仰头伸着脖子看着它们。它们两个长发披肩、面孔光滑又英俊。在藤蔓下，他们身穿斗篷和长袍。戴文小声叹息：“真壮观。”我们的眼睛沿着他们的胳膊向上，一直到手里握着的、在头顶交叉的长矛。我们走过它们时，我不由得蜷缩起来。</p><p>“雕像不会把你怎么样。”奥马恩卡说，紧接着他扑哧一下笑出声：“除非砸你身上。”这句话把我们给逗乐了。幽灵姐姐向他嫣然一笑，看起来更加漂亮。然后，她就消失了。</p><p>我们在她消失的地方止步。周围的树为天空让出了空间，而在苍天之下是我这辈子都可能不再会见到比它更大、更宏伟、更壮观的废墟。这简直就是一座森林——一座由白色大理石构成的森林，长满了大树一般的破碎大理石雕像和大理石柱和大理石墙，还有低矮植被般、已倒塌的大理石块和宽阔的大理石街道。它和到处都是的藤蔓一起向左向右向前延伸，有的房子里甚至窜出了真实的树木——可能这也是它们最初倒塌的原因。那一棵棵橡树凭借着它们的树根争夺着周围的土地，冲破石块和路面，山崩石裂一般，互相缠绕着侵入对方的领土。</p><p>奥马恩卡带着我们前行，饶有兴趣但丝毫不惊讶地打量着这一切。珍妮吃了一惊，指向几座房子开外的墙。我真希望我没看到她指的什么：两具人骨，绝对是两具人骨。奥马恩卡边赶着我们继续走边挡着戴文的眼睛——戴文很幸运地晚一秒转头。</p><p>在另一座雕像前，奥马恩卡停住了脚步，弯腰端详着底座。雕像的下半身散落在周围，被压在树根下。剩下的上半身被比我的腿还粗的藤蔓围绕着支撑在空中。雕像穿的袍子——我靠——好逼真啊，看那一道道褶皱和折痕！如果不是突如其来的断裂，我根本想不起来这只是石头。</p><p>珍妮伸手去够，奥马恩卡把她抱起，但她摸的是头发——瀑布一般散落过肩，一丝一毫都清晰可见。石头姐姐坚定的目光落在马路前方一个貌似是广场中心的、奥马恩卡的鹰停落在的粗壮古树上。</p><p>“她是谁啊？”戴文问道。</p><p>“一位精灵公主，但我看不清名字。”奥马恩卡回答说，双眼又开始发光了。“她应该握着一杆矛——是位武公主。”</p><p>“<em>精灵</em>？你确定？奥马恩卡，你怎么知道的？”我好奇极了。</p><p>“底座上的字还依稀可认。”</p><p>胡说八道，那上面啥都没有。</p><p>几只鹿在我们绕过巨树以后飞速跳开。远处是半座塔，虽然只是一半，但它残缺破碎的墙顶依然足以钻入云霄。奥马恩卡不是在找一座塔吗？珍妮一边指着一边跑了过去。在塔底我看到了一点红色——</p><p>“玛莎！”我们喊道。她吓了一跳，看到了我们，然后快速地倒退着爬上了台阶。她撞到了横躺在高塔入口的粗厚的树根上，然后紧紧地靠着它。她在哭。“玛莎！是我们！”</p><p>“不要！”她哭道，“别过来！滚开！”</p><p>“是我们啊，玛莎——”我们伸手去拉她，她缩成一团尖叫起来。我们吓得退了回来，不知所措。</p><p>“玛莎，”奥马恩卡伸出一只手，“怎么了？”</p><p>“<em>你</em>把我带到这儿的！<em>你</em>应该知道！”她一巴掌把他的手扇到一边。</p><p>“他一直都和<em>我们</em>在一块儿！”戴文喊道，满脸通红。</p><p>“放屁！就连当幽灵你也是个混蛋装逼犯！”玛莎一拳砸在大理石台阶上。啊呀，那看起来好痛啊。奥马恩卡一言不发地捧起她的手，握在自己的双手里。玛莎脏兮兮、满是泪的脸皱起了眉。“我不信任你！你满足愿望！你把我带到这儿，然后你又过来找我，现在你又让我的手不疼了！”</p><p>“我发誓，带你过来的人绝对不是我，玛莎。”</p><p>“就是你！我都要回去了，然后你过来跟我说你可以带我看更多的废墟，然后你带着我转，然后就把我扔这儿了！”</p><p>“那你一开始就不应该跟着！”珍妮狠狠剁了下脚。</p><p>“你消失了，把我一个人留在这儿！我都不知道我是怎么到这儿的！那些雕像吓死人了！这里还有死人骨头！我还看到了蛇！现在你又来了，就因为我以-以为我-我再也见-见不到你们了——”</p><p>奥马恩卡坐在她身边，玛莎把头埋在他的斗篷上大哭，我们蹲在她周围。可怜的玛莎，我们从来没见过她这样。</p><p>“我当时穿了什么啊，玛莎？”</p><p>“白裙子、系着腰带、穿着凉鞋。”</p><p>奥马恩卡哈哈大笑。</p><p>“跟那堆雕像一样，嗯？可是我穿<em>裙子</em>干啥？”他摸了摸她的头。“回想一下我在午饭的时候说了什么，关于幽灵的。想一下，你现在最想要的是什么？”奥马恩卡和她互相看着对方，他的嘴角浮现出淡淡的一笑。玛莎抽泣着，思考着奥马恩卡什么意思。他取出一块手帕擦着她的眼睛和鼻子。过了好久，她长吸了一下鼻子，对我们说，</p><p>“谢谢。”</p><p>“我向你保证我们是真的，”奥马恩卡说。“除了戴文。他想找到你急得团团转，一点都不正常，尤其是你们俩总是吵来吵去——<em>啊</em>！！”玛莎撅着嘴狠狠掐了下他的腿。</p><p>“奥马恩卡，你少来！”</p><p>“她怎么说也是个<em>朋友</em>！”戴文的脸又开始变得通红。</p><p>“我逗你玩儿呢！”奥马恩卡笑道。戴文支支吾吾，我们全被他逗笑了。这下，这里的阴森的魔法——这整个森林的阴森的魔法——一下被打破了。我靠，我觉得现在什么问题都不会再有了。珍妮抱住玛莎，那只鹰落到她们之间，叫了一声。我在臭戴文喜欢玛莎，然后我们两人又打了起来。奥马恩卡把我们拉开，对着塌了一半的塔皱起了眉。</p><p>“是你吗？”他敲了敲从塔里面把入口堵得严严实实的石块，然后把我们领下台阶、带到一边。他走到树根前，伸手去扯。有他的小腿一半高的粗大的树根被他拉得咯吱作响，奥马恩卡后仰着，咬着牙使劲。树根<em>咔嚓</em>一声断裂了。</p><p>“我靠！”我们惊叫道，他掰干净树根后仔细打量着塔里的石头。我们屏住呼吸。果然，他没有让我们失望。他把双手搭在上面，石头不知怎么就猛然被炸飞进了塔里。</p><p>“神了！”我们大喊道，跟着他摆着的手跑了过去。他看起来就像两年前逮到那只巨鹿的爹一样——原来这伙计也会骄傲。</p><p>被藤蔓、树根和树干固定住的歪歪扭扭的塔墙挡住了慢慢下山的太阳，从高高的塌了的塔顶进来的光只够让我们看见塔内中心快被碎石瓦砾埋没的祭台。祭台看起来是一块光滑闪亮的黑石头，四面都带着金色的枝条、花朵、树叶的装饰。奥马恩卡缓步围绕一圈，一根手指滑过它光滑、冰冷的台面。他退了一步，呼出一口气。祭台周围的碎石开始震动，然后慢慢浮到了空中。奥马恩卡走过去，双手扶住祭台。他的双眼发着光。</p><p>我们也走了过去，戳着空中飘浮的石头。无论他看到了什么，我们都看不见。</p><p>终于，他叹了口气走了出去。头顶是一片深深、纯净的蓝。他抱着刚才掰断的树根回来了。我们看着他清理出一小块空地，生起火。他坐下来，伸了个懒腰。</p><p>“我们别摸黑回去了，森林里有的动物可比幽灵危险多了。我们就在这儿过夜吧。”</p><p>“那么那些死人怎么办？”戴文问道。“还有蛇呢？”</p><p>“死人没什么好怕的。至于蛇，你有桑德兰多和我呢。”他看了我一眼，又看了看其他人，举起一只手。“谁想和我一起打猎晚饭？”</p><center>**</center><p>我当然是兴奋极了。我抓到了我的第一只兔子。</p><p>我们在废墟外一点的地方找到了一条小溪，溪流旁生长着水薄荷和羊角芹。现在正是它们刚开始发芽生长的季节，四处漫爬的藤蔓上的叶子是真真切切的“又小又嫩”，于是我们摘了一大把。在一座雕像底下，奥马恩卡找到了一些荨麻，他抽出一副手套来掐了一些，说他早就想尝尝这个了。</p><p>我们坐在篝火旁，用石头当作桌椅。奥马恩卡清理出一张鹿皮，四边用石头压好形成一个大碗，在里面加水、鹿肉，还有野菜，然后放进去几块烧得贼热的石头，做了一锅汤。他又拿出三个木碗和两把匕首，然后叫我们怎么处理打来的兔子。我靠，这顿饭真爽！谁还需要盐啊？就连村子里每年的圣诞宴都比不了这个。我们狼吞虎咽。戴文说这座塔就是我们的城堡，我们就是林子里的国王和女王。玛莎说快闭嘴吧，不过女王就女王。珍妮把手伸让奥马恩卡的鹰落在她的肩上，然后沿着她的胳膊跳了下来去啄她的兔子腿，她大叫着说他好沉。我环视他们几个，然后目光停在了奥马恩卡身上。</p><p>“有什么疑问吗，卡斯博？”</p><p>我点了点头。</p><p>“关于什么的？”</p><p>“所有的：森林、幽灵、那个小姐姐，还有你。”</p><p>所有人都安静了下来。</p><p>“啊，你们也确实是争取到了答案的。”他放下手里的兔子。“精灵。”他说，“精灵。是他们几千年前建造的这座城市，他们制造了幽灵。没错，卡斯博，他们的魔法——他们的技术，就在那座祭台里。那座祭台说白了就是台电脑之类的东西，用于帮助这里的居民的。”</p><p>我们一知半解地点了点头。电脑是啥？</p><p>“这就是他们的安保系统。你看，这整个森林是一个迷宫，能很有效地隐藏、保护这座城市，但如果有人在里面迷路或者受伤了，那就麻烦了，而解决办法就是这些幽灵。它们在需要时出现，带着迷路的人回家——回到这儿——或者叫巡逻队过去。如果我在祭台那里没读错的话，这些幽灵在必要时还能对简单的伤口进行处理。它们就是为了效率而设计的——所以我们刚才一直追不上玛莎。这些幽灵真的就是为了满足人们的‘愿望’。”</p><p>“可是这样不就谁都能找到这个城市了吗？”珍妮问。</p><p>“那玩意儿要是没坏就不会。”奥马恩卡瞟了一眼那座黑祭台。“它本来只应该帮助它认为安全的人，比如这里的市民，也许还有身上带着某种信物的人，但它坏了。没人维护，它也就……‘忘记’应该帮谁了，所以现在只要林子里面有人，它就帮忙。</p><p>“正是因为它坏了才有人走丢的。这里很多死人只想‘回家’，但幽灵只知道一个‘家’——这儿，米纳斯·陶里诺，而不是绿林。”</p><p>“好可怜啊。”玛莎小声说道。“你能停止魔法吗？”</p><p>“不行啊，我试过了。”</p><p>“你不能砸烂它吗？”珍妮指了指他的剑。奥马恩卡捡起它，然后消失了。在我们篝火的火光的边际，我们看到一束细微的光从祭台上弹起。塔里回荡起五下“叮”的声音，奥马恩卡在下一秒出现在了黑石头的另一侧，缓缓放下他的剑，剑面上发光的字逐渐变暗、熄灭。我们跑了过去。他从篝火里招来一小团火，照亮了祭台。祭台上一丝痕迹都没有，然而他给我们看的剑刃缺了一个小口。奥马恩卡摆了个鬼脸，把我们带回火旁。他从包里掏出一块磨刀石，开始磨他的剑。</p><p>“我们只能等它的能量耗尽，要等也可能得等上好几千年。”他慢慢说道，手里的磨刀石一下、一下、又一下。“活着的人里面没有一个能关掉它的，连精灵里都没有。”他看了眼我们惊讶的表情。“他们并没有都消失啊……但留下来的也不多。他们躲了起来，建立起一座新城市。在五千年里，他们忘记了他们以前是什么样的文明、他们从哪里来、他们的族人去了哪儿。两千年前，他们为了找回自己丢掉的东西，建立了好几所学校，我的就是其中之一，然后录取了像我这样的学生。我的这场拜谒可以说是我的——就叫它‘课题’吧。”</p><p>“所以你就是在那里学的魔法吗？人人都能像你那样旅行吗？我能进吗？”我跳了起来。“我也想学——”</p><p>“但你不想进<em>那些</em>学校，卡斯博。”戴文插嘴道。“爷爷说如果你犯错误他们会拿鞭子抽你，其他小孩儿还会欺负像你这种农村小孩儿。”</p><p>“戴文，”奥马恩卡轻轻地说了句，停下手里的磨刀石，“这塔里失灵的魔法说明了就连精灵也不是万无一失、完全靠谱的，更别说你爷爷了。你很聪明，你不能总是被你爷爷牵着鼻子走。不说别的，如果他给孩子们上课时讲的不只有《圣经》的话，那可能会有更多人能走出这片森林。</p><p>“艾洛达一直在纳新，卡斯博，等我看看我能怎么帮忙。”</p><p>“真的吗？你帮我们进去吗？”我在坐着的石块上蹦着。</p><p>“不是啊，我会试着叫人过来，具体决定是他们的。”</p><p>“那个小姐姐会来吗，就是你那个幽灵？”珍妮问。</p><p>奥马恩卡把他的剑和磨刀石放到一边，啃起兔子、又端起那碗汤咕嘟咕嘟喝了起来。我们等了一会儿，也和他一样继续吃饭了。那只鹰则用一只锐利的眼睛盯着他。篝火噼啪，烧热了塔里的空气，当然，我确定奥马恩卡的魔法也阻挡了塔外的凉意。塔外黑夜浓厚，我希望爹娘没有进来找我们。但如果他们——或者是任何人——真进来找了，那他们可能还真会找到我们。</p><p>是吧？</p><p>“是，我想和她道歉。”奥马恩卡突然说了一句，我们吓了一跳。原来他是在和老鹰讲。“但她并不是我真想见的——至少没有……”他看了眼他的剑，有些迷茫。“那个幽灵，”他悄声说道，“说明了什么？”</p><center>**</center><p>当我醒时，奥马恩卡厚重的斗篷压在我们身上。透过坍塌的塔顶，我看见浓雾中几道阳光。鸟鸣声和我家门口的风铃一样清脆，透过墙弥漫进幽黑的塔里，和我的朋友们深深的呼吸声交织在一起。我从我们躺着的叶草堆里爬了出来。</p><p>离我们脚边不远处是正在燃烧的火堆。奥马恩卡用作吊床的那几根藤蔓里是空的。我紧张了几秒，直到我看见石桌旁他那现在已经没有缺口的剑才放心。他在外面为早餐准备着几只兔子。作为“早安”，他点了点头，耸了耸眉毛。这个怪小哥昨晚上给我们讲了一大堆难以置信的神奇玩意儿，嗯？</p><p>“艾达洛？”我冲他说道我第一个能想起的词。</p><p>“嗯？是‘艾洛达’。咋了？”他把肉串到树枝上，问道。我松了口气，昨天晚上那些事不是梦。我觉得他知道我在想什么。他“扑哧”一声笑了。“卡斯博，其他人醒了吗？我们的小历险该结束了。”</p><center>**</center><p>浓雾、密树、幽暗的森林，但没什么可怕的。奥马恩卡依旧让我们拉起手、拉好他。我们在想我们能不能再让那个幽灵姐姐出现，他问我们怎么对她那么“迷恋”。我们说因为她漂亮啊，他翻了个白眼。今天走的路和昨天的不一样，他的老鹰领着我们路过尽可能多的废墟。</p><p>“我好想把它们都看个遍。”玛莎说。</p><p>“你知道怎么找到它们了。”奥马恩卡说。</p><p>当戴文看见一根矮树枝上系着的白毛线时，太阳光几乎是直着照下来了。奥马恩卡转向我们。</p><p>“有个请求。”我们听着。“别跟别人说昨天晚上我给你们讲的东西。”</p><p>我们点了点头，这是我们的秘密。</p><p>我们跟着村长的毛线走了好久，终于从我们进的地方出来了。我们坐着，等着眼睛适应林子外明媚刺眼的阳光。我听到一声大喊和一阵急促的脚步，然后脸上被结结实实地扇了一巴掌。</p><p>“卡斯博！你想干啥，小逼养崽子，溜进森林里——”是娘。</p><p>“住手。”奥马恩卡说。“所有责任我承担，要打打我。”我的眼睛终于适应了。眼前是他的腿，后面是娘，在她后面的是整整半个村子的人。爹扇了他一巴掌。</p><p>“爹！别！”我大喊。</p><p>“住手！”戴文跑过去一把推开我爹。“是我们自己进去找他的！”</p><p>村长走了过来，奥马恩卡把戴文拉到身后。</p><p>“咋样？”老头悄声问道，“问题解决了？”</p><p>“没。”奥马恩卡低声答道。“做不到。”村长斜眼看着他。“我只说试试，没说我能。”老头继续斜眼看他。“我要是你，我不会靠这么近。”奥马恩卡把手伸进了斗篷里。</p><p>“绿林不是哈姆林，我们这儿不需要花衣魔笛手。”村长退了一步，高喊道。“出去，我们不想再和你有任何关系。”</p><p>“什么？”戴文叫道。</p><p>“你连谢都不谢他？”玛莎尖叫道。</p><p>“他都帮了我们那么多忙！”珍妮直剁着脚。</p><p>“没有他我们根本出不来！”我大喊。</p><p>我们在奥马恩卡的两条胳膊后面又挤又闹。</p><p>“你们这帮小崽子闭上嘴！他那是在打工谋生！还有你！滚！马上！”</p><p>奥马恩卡瞄了我们一眼，然后回头蔑视着对着他冷笑。他走向酒馆时所有人都蜷缩着让开了道。</p><center>**</center><p>我记得那天晚上我们是待在奥马恩卡的屋子里的，老吉姆没那个胆拦我们，反而偷偷叫我们给他捎上了两碗菜。我们坐在奥马恩卡的床上，看着他打扫房间。打扫个屁啊，老吉姆又不会再给他钱！过了好一会儿，珍妮打破了沉默，问他还会不会回来，他说：“不会。”玛莎问我们还会不会在别的地方再见到他，他笑道：“但愿如此。”戴文问他是不是——他压低了声音——是不是精灵，他大笑：“我的天，幸亏不是。”我问他会不会找到那个漂亮的幽灵姐姐，他嘟囔道：“也许吧。”</p><p>“你的名字是精灵语。”这次是戴文打破了沉默。“奥马恩卡，你普通的朋友都叫你啥？”</p><p>“猜出来了？可以啊。”我记得他一脸得意。“比利。”</p><p>我娘在我肩上拍了一巴掌，一下子把我从白日梦里拉了回来。我赶紧扎好装土豆的麻袋。在他离开后的六个月里，什么大事都没有发生。戴文、玛莎、珍妮和我会时不时溜进森林里玩儿，但每次都不能玩儿太久，否则就被大人们抓到了。林子里的幽灵知道在我们回来的路上该什么时候消失，奥马恩卡的那个漂亮小姐姐每次都会和我们道别，然后叫我们再回来玩儿。今年的巨大丰收倒是蛮好的——连我六岁的弟弟都被叫到田里帮忙了。可惜他并不认为这一切都是因为奥马恩卡在这里耕过地。当我跟他这么说的时候，他只是和爹娘一样冲着我尖叫：“别朝我放屁！”小傻逼玩意儿。</p><p>我们在田垄上吃着午饭，珍妮惊叫了一声，她的勺子应声滑落。她站起身，两眼睁得巨大，一只颤抖的手指向出村的路。从远处走来的是三个穿着白斗篷的人，他们身后更远的地方停着一辆放屁车。收税的还有半年才来。有些大人瞪大了眼睛，仿佛害怕一样地望着他们走来，但我们几个互相看了看，兴奋得浑身发抖。我们放下我们的餐盒，跑了过去。</p><p>奥马恩卡说话算话。</p>]]></content>
 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&lt;p&gt;绿林的早春总是特别冷。天上拖拖沓沓逗留的灰云丝毫不关心“冬天已经过去”这种想法，只偶尔掀开一角让太阳瞄一眼我们白雪皑皑的小村子。然后就是立春了。积雪从硬邦邦的厚壳变成一层软绵绵的雪浆，慢慢从我们的屋顶退下，露出黄不拉几的茅草和各种破洞，然而天气还是冻得要死。爹娘总爱说冬天有点儿太喜欢我们村子了。&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;在灰云终于消散时，除了白天的一丝丝温暖，我们还迎来了一位客人。他不是这儿的人，他的黑头发和他的又小又黑的眼睛和他的圆鼻头和他的扁平脸和他的浅黄色的皮肤，一看就不是。他穿了件厚重的斗篷，厚得连他是胖是瘦、里面穿了什么、戴了什么都看不出来。他看起来年纪不大，并不比那些刚下地干活的人大多少。我靠，他可被风雨折腾得够呛。他的头发因为长时间在厚兜帽底下而糟乱，他的眼睛被风吹得红肿，他的双颊被冻得乌紫，他的上唇和下巴全是胡子茬。我们一群小孩儿看着别人给他指去酒馆的路，他深一脚浅一脚地挪过去，完全无视一路上的目光和碎语。&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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  <entry>
    <title>Tales from the Pilgrimage - Minas Taurënúr - The Phantom Woods</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2021/03/07/Tales%20from%20the%20Pilgrimage%20-%20Minas%20Taur%C3%ABn%C3%BAr%20The%20Phantom%20Woods/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2021/03/07/Tales%20from%20the%20Pilgrimage%20-%20Minas%20Taur%C3%ABn%C3%BAr%20The%20Phantom%20Woods/</id>
    <published>2021-03-08T03:44:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2025-01-07T04:38:22.454Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script>        <div id="aplayer-uqMMVWSJ" class="aplayer aplayer-tag-marker" style="margin-bottom: 20px;">            <pre class="aplayer-lrc-content"></pre>        </div>        <script>          var ap = new APlayer({            element: document.getElementById("aplayer-uqMMVWSJ"),            narrow: false,            autoplay: true,            showlrc: false,            music: {              title: "Disquiet",              author: "下村陽子",              url: "Disquiet.mp3",              pic: "/2021/03/07/Tales%20from%20the%20Pilgrimage%20-%20Minas%20Taurënúr%20The%20Phantom%20Woods/coverart.jpg",              lrc: ""            }          });          window.aplayers || (window.aplayers = []);          window.aplayers.push(ap);        </script><p>Early spring in Sherwood was always cold. The dense clouds lingered in the sky, caring little for the idea that winter had already passed, and cracking only on occasions to let the sun a peek of our small, snow-laden village. Then came the thaw. Snow went from a hard crust to a mushy slurry, and backed off from our roofs, revealing the yellowed thatches and what holes that had developed. Yet, the days couldn't be colder. Winter, pa and ma had always said, loved our village a tad too much.</p><p>When the clouds finally broke and parted, it brought us a visitor along with the wink of warmth in the day. He wasn't from this land, not with his black hair and small, dark-brown eyes and his round nose and his flat, long face and his pale, yellow skin. He wore a heavy cloak, so heavy that we couldn't knew whether he was fat or thin, or what was underneath. He looked young, not much older than those who first go into the crop fields. Crikey, wasn't he weatherworn. His hairs were unkempt from being under the thick hood; his eyes were swollen from the wind; his cheeks were purple from the cold; his upper lip and chin were weeded with whiskers. We brats watched as he was directed to the tavern, steps uneven, ignoring the stares and whispers along the way.</p><span id="more"></span><p>We didn't see him that evening in there, when everyone in the village gathered for drinks. We tried sneaking upstairs---we couldn't help it: Sherwood rarely, if ever, received any visitors other than the tax bloke. Old Jim shooed us away, saying it was disrespectful.</p><p>He came out and joined the roof repairs on the fourth day, all weariness gone. He had taken off his cloak, too, now wearing what looked like an off-color sweater and a pair of washed-out blue pants. He was thin and short. Even ma was a forehead over. Yet he could scale the tall ladder in three hops with those bundles of hay on his shoulders that even pa and other grownups stopped their work to gawk.</p><p>Stranger-gawking became our past time for the next two weeks. He patched up roofs. He helped around the tavern. He stood by the fields and looked out to the surrounding forest. He walked with the village elder. When time came, he pulled the ploughshare, instead of holding onto it after the ox. I didn't think I had heard him speak.</p><p>We watched him rest by the ridges of the field and refuse chewing tobacco from the village elder. Jenny said he looked no fun. Devon said nuh-uh, he was abs-tin-nent. Martha told Devon to shut up and quit acting smart. I wondered if he was a dummy. Everyone turned on me and dared me go ask. I called them arse and went over, trying to stay out of his sight and be unnoticeable. It didn't help with the others giggling and whispering "wee coward" two steps after me. He turned and watched us cover the rest of our way. It wasn't a good feeling to be gawked at. My face was as red as Martha's hair. He tilted his head, his eyebrow and the corner of his lips slightly raised, and waited.</p><p>Crikey, wasn't I nervous. The sun gave a red sheen to his black hair, which stuck to his forehead. His eyes were sharp and bright, tilted upwards and had a mole under the left. His thin face was shaven clean, its cheeks flat, almost hollow. He waited, casual.</p><p>"Hurry up, Caspar!" The lot behind me hissed.</p><p>"What-what's your name?" I mustered up the courage, then added, quick, "sir?" That brought about some stifled snorts from behind. I quivered with indignity. The bloke's face melted, kind and amused, thinning his eyes. Those eyes swept us front to back, up and down.</p><p>"Ómaenca." His voice was a tad cool, but so soft that it was impossible to say if he didn't welcome our questions.</p><p>"What a weird name." Martha whispered.</p><p>"It means 'Voiceless', and no, it isn't English." He turned to us in full. His accent was weird. It wasn't that he said them wrong---he exaggerated most of the sounds and said them differently. "You're Caspar?" He looked at me. I nodded. "And who are you people?" The lot introduced themselves.</p><p>"'Voiceless'?" Jenny then piped up. "You're talking right now."</p><p>"Not so loud, though, am I?" He chuckled.</p><p>"Where are you from?" Devon asked.</p><p>"Too far away. The other side of the land across the sea."</p><p>"The Americas?"</p><p>"Quit acting smart, Devon!" Martha shoved him.</p><p>"Sure, America. Why not." Ómaenca nodded.</p><p>"What are you doing here?" I asked.</p><p>"Sightseeing." He chuckled a bit more. We looked among ourselves.</p><p>"There's no sight to see here." Jenny said. Ómaenca spread a thin arm at the forest beyond the crop fields. We all exchanged looks again, but said nothing.</p><p>"What's your name again?" Devon broke the silence. "Oh-man-ka?"</p><p>"Óma-en-ca." We followed; he shook his head and pointed his dry lips. We leaned. "Look here and focus..."</p><center>**</center><p>Ómaenca was true to his name, in a sense. The grownups only called him "the Lad". If they had orders for him in the field, they'd just holler, "Oi! Lad!" and point. He always knew what they meant, though we brats could never. "Guess the order" became the game during our "Ómaenca-gawking". Another we play was "Time the Plough". We'd sit by the ridge and start counting as Ómaenca turned before us. When he reached the other end we'd start counting again. If he was faster in one lap than the last one, we'd cheer; if he was slower, we'd jeer. There was nothing more fun than seeing his raised eyebrow, and we'd imitate.</p><p>Ómaenca was the drop of rain in our pond of Sherwood. He made some ripples in our lives, and then dissolved into us. He dragged the ploughshare in our crop fields. He leant against the back-row benches at our church services. He paid respects to the village elder almost every day. He gave us a reason to enjoy the evenings in the tavern, which, before, we had little to do as our mas and pas drank and nattered. Now, we'd look for his black hair in the sea of blond and red. He was always at the corner where the bar counter met the wall, a mug of water steaming beside him, some leaves at the bottom. He called it "tea", and crikey, it tasted like nothing. Grownups let him be, since he didn't drink, though sometimes we'd still find him talking with one or two people---<em>listening</em>, more like.</p><p>When he wasn't, we horsed about him, and he'd tell us stories to make us be quiet---places he'd seen, people he'd met, and the newfangled machines we'd never heard of but were apparently pretty common out there. Martha said up front they couldn't be all true, that a flying bird made out of <em>metal</em> must be something like magic. Devon said nuh-uh, his grandpops---that was the village elder---had seen one on his trips outside, to the nearest town two days' ride away to sell our harvests. Martha shoved him and said shut up, know-it-all. Jenny told them both to shut it and let Ómaenca finish his story.</p><p>"Oh, commercial flights aren't common, yet, but I think they'll open up more. Maybe you'll see one passing overhead in the future." Ómaenca said in his quiet voice, smiling.</p><p>"So <em>are they powered by magic</em>?" I was quite serious.</p><p>"What's magic but unknown technologies and phenomena?" Ómaenca shrugged. "Machines that can churn out a shirt in a few hours are magic if you don't know how they worked. Snow can be magic if you didn't know water can freeze."</p><p>"How can anyone not know that?" Martha blurted out.</p><p>"If they've never seen it."</p><p>"Yeah, but how?" Jenny cut in.</p><p>"The Earth is round..." He would start, patient.</p><p>Our time with him made us wanted to go out and see. He said he went to schools where they taught him all these stuffs, about counting, about writing, about thinking, about the world. We thought schools were only for learning how to read the Bible. He said no no no oh <em>no</em>; there were schools that did but not <em>only</em> the Bible. So we went home and asked our mas and pas. Devon said his ma and pa and granny and grandpops all said Ómaenca was right, but we didn't need to know. Jenny's ma and pa didn't believe her and laughed. Martha's ma and pa called it all bull crap. My ma and pa gave me a beating for blasphemy.</p><p>"I'm sorry." Ómaenca patted our heads when he heard. The pain on my arse stopped as soon as he touched my head. "Martha's parents told me off for teaching you all about the outside. Asked if I was the snake in Eden. Heh."</p><p>Martha apologized, looking ashamed for the first time we'd known her.</p><p>"Well, then let's have <em>you</em> teach <em>me</em>."</p><p>"Like what?" Devon's eyes lit up, and sat up straighter.</p><p>"Legends, myths, tales of Sherwood."</p><p>"Um..." We looked at each other. "Don't know any."</p><p>"Nothing?" He looked surprised. "Not even Robin Hood?" We looked at him, faces blank. "What about the forest?"</p><p>The grownups drank, creating their usual drone of chatter and merriment. In the Ómaenca corner, as we had called it, we sat still, and let that drone sink in. Ómaenca waited. We looked among ourselves again, and blurted out in unison,</p><p>"<em>Don't ever go in.</em>"</p><p>"It's haunted---"</p><p>"---by phantoms---"</p><p>"---they lure you in---"</p><p>"---and you'll never get out again---"</p><p>"Oh?" He sipped his mug.</p><p>"It's true." I said. "My pa lost his brother in there---"</p><p>"And my auntie---they went in together before we were born---" Jenny cut in.</p><p>"Grandpops went in after them and only came out because he had a ball of yarn---" Devon said.</p><p>"Had anyone alive actually <em>seen</em> a phantom?" Ómaenca raised an eyebrow.</p><p>"Yes!" Martha kicked her legs, face red. "I-I tried to go in once." We whisked on her. We didn't know that. "I just wanted to go in a wee way and see. Someone---someone stood between the trees and said she could show me the way."</p><p>"And you followed?" Devon asked, skeptical.</p><p>"Duh! Of course not! I said no, ma and pa wouldn't let me, and ran out. I'm telling you, Ómaenca, there are phantoms in there that lure people!"</p><p>"What did she look like?" Ómaenca asked.</p><p>"A girl! I was 7 and she was about that old! Red hair, freckles like me!"</p><p>"Bull crap! Bull crap, I say!" Devon exploded. Even Ómaenca jumped. "You're the only lass with red hair and freckles around here, and grandpops says there isn't another village for miles around---"</p><p>"That's why I know she was a phantom, you prat!"</p><p>"If she was, you wouldn't be here!"</p><p>"Cut it out, you two." Ómaenca pulled them apart. "I get it. It's haunted."</p><center>**</center><p>We didn't see Ómaenca the entire following week. He spent the daytime in the village elder's house. Devon said he was going through all the old books and records that his grandpops had never let anyone touch. He spent his evenings in his room, and we waited at the Ómaenca corner in vain, staring, bored like the other brats. His absence gouged a hole in our lives. We almost forgot what we used to do before he had showed up. When we remembered, we couldn't find the fun we used to have.</p><p>The tax bloke came in his carriage one April day, and we followed him around instead. Each time the bloke was different, and you'd never know what sort you'd get. This time it was a young one with a short tempter and a face that said he was made to come here as a punishment. His stupid carriage pulled itself with a loud <em>tut-tut-tut-tut</em> and farted foul smoke when it ran, scaring the oxen and the hens. For some reason we couldn't make it do that ourselves. Jenny said, as we hopped out of it, it was magic, and Martha said now she understood what Ómaenca had meant. Devon laughed and said his grandpops knew about this "car" thing but didn't like the po-lu-shun, so he never got it into Sherwood. I called the old man an arse for deciding that, because we'd have more fun, then. Devon's face went red as it always did when he got angry. He hit me. I hit him back. Soon we were trying to show each other the old one-two.</p><p>Fighting lost its fun a minute later. We sat on the ridge and stared ahead, bored. Under the sun the grownups sowed seeds, pouring them in the bin on top of the sower and let the ox pull along the till tracks, jutting the narrow bottom of the sower into the soil every four steps or so and turn the crank. Three or four seeds---a "pinch"---in a hole.</p><p>Three years later, when we turn thirteen, we'd be doing that, too, and for the rest of our lives. Boooorrrring, but at least it was something to do.</p><p>Jenny pointed to the forest. It surrounded Sherwood from south to west and then north. We could see its dark, dense trees far across the field. The border of the forest was marked by wooden fences set up even before my uncle and Jenny's auntie had disappeared. What was in there, really? If magic was what Ómaenca had said, then there should be an explanation for the forest, right? It held something we didn't know---like the outside world... Phantom or not, I wanted to go inside and see. What hadn't I thought of that before? What did the forest's magic look like? That tax bloke's car was a fair piece of magic, eh? Those flying metal birds were magics, eh? Even the eagle that Jenny was actually pointing at was magic---how did it fly? How come it could fly?</p><p>We sat on the ridge of the field, lost in thought. The eagle circled above the forest, round and round and round.</p><center>**</center><p>Ómaenca entered the forest early next morning. The church buzzed low with this piece of news. The grownups shook their head, looking regretful. They said things like, "He's a goner." "What a shame, we could use a good lad like him." "Good that he went in on Sunday, with the hard work done already." "He hasn't worked for a week. No loss, eh?" Nobody said we should find him, get him out, save him.</p><p>Not the grownups, anyways.</p><p>The four of us snuck out, Devon, Martha, Jenny, and I, before the pastor had started blabbering. One by one, we said we needed to pee as Devon scratched his head, counted to ten in between. Once out of the wooden church, we made for the woods south, not looking back, hoping no grownups were following. We ducked under the fence and ran headlong into the woods. Crikey, ma and pa would give a sound whipping once they get their hands on me. But with Ómaenca, it might not hurt so much.</p><p>The forest dimmed the sunlight with its old, towering trees and thick mist. There was a damp nip in the air. It ate through our clothes fast. We buttoned up full and held our collars tight.</p><p>It was actually quite beautiful. What sunlight was left weaved between the tree trunks like those silk pieces that hung in the village elder's home. The mist swirled about them, stirred by the passing birds gone as abrupt as they had come. They sang out from all around us: woodpeckers up in ancient oaks that disappeared in the sky, tits down in the undergrowth that almost reached our knees, owls hooting from holes out of sight. Squirrels rustled around and above. Deer, startled by us, whined and ran away. We heard a scuffle, but it was only a rabbit. The lower branches carried still opening buds. Small flowers started to show up on the ground. Dewdrops rolled down the undergrowth. Jenny said it was magical. Devon said it was just how forests were, and wait until a bear jump out. Martha told him to shut up and called him a donkey. I sang out for Ómaenca.</p><p>The others sang out, too. Our calls were responded with only echos and the scurrying of critters. One or two of them crossed the path in front of us. It was a wonder to have a path at all. Why have it if nobody's allowed in here? The undergrowth spilled onto the dirt, and slabs of rocks jutted out of it. We couldn't see where the path was at times, so we kept a slow pace, and kept together.</p><p>We came to a fork. Now what? Devon said we should split up. Martha said that was stupid. Jenny looked at the two forks and pointed. I followed her finger and saw the footprints. It had to be Ómaenca's. So we went left. Crikey, this was pretty exciting. There was another small woods out east where people from the village hunted. Pa never took me along, but I reckon this was what hunting was like.</p><p>At each fork Jenny would point some clue out. We followed her until she finally couldn't find nothing anymore. We searched about. I thought I saw some faint prints in the middle branch, so we went with it.</p><p>"Where are we, you know?" Martha asked a few moments later. We stopped. What a good question. We turned around and around, and trees, trees, trees were the only things to see, trees: oaks and birch and fir, some gnarled, some stout, repeating and extending over and over, further and further away, their branches, some with buds and some with leaves, dampened all sounds. I couldn't tell the way we came from now. We had left nothing on the pebbly path.</p><p>"Grand." Devon looked at us. "We should've brought yarn, like grandpops."</p><p>"Why didn't you say earlier, know-it-all?" Martha spat.</p><p>"At least it wasn't that cold now." I said.</p><p>"Fat good that does." Jenny snapped. "We got lost even without phantoms." She thumped down onto the ground. It was like she dumped ice on us. Devon and Martha stopped bickering, my panic mirrored on their faces.</p><p>"What do we do?" I asked, shaky.</p><p>Nobody knew. We all sat down and huddled together, back-to-back. You'd never know when a phantom might just show up and watch from behind. The ground was cold. The pebbles were sharp against my arse. The air pressed in. In the dimmed light I thought I saw shadows moving about the trees. Every rustle in the undergrowth sounded like footsteps. Those bird calls sounded like laughter. We thought we heard cracking of twigs but that was a passing doe. Just as things quieted down, a sudden hoot from an owl jumped us out of our skins. Why were the leaves rustling when there was no wind? I pressed my spine against Devon's and felt the arms of the girls squeeze against mine. We shivered from more than the chill.</p><p>Ma and pa might be worrying right now, in the church. Lord, even though they beat me, I still want to see them again... I held back the quiver in the bridge of my nose. The chill snuck back in the air and up my nostrils, and then sank down, down, down into my stomach. Jenny sniffed. Martha sniffed. Devon cleared his throat.</p><p>"Let's keep going. Better that than die here."</p><p>So we did, sniffing from sobs and fear, in a random direction, slow and eyes on the path, hoping that Ómaenca was just ahead. He couldn't go that far; he didn't know his way, either. Could he find out why the forest had phantoms just by <em>walking</em> in it? Crikey, how I wish I could ask him in person. I could use some water off of him, too.</p><p>Jenny gasped and pointed. There, between the trees to our left, was someone's back. We froze, staring. The figure walked away.</p><p>"That's Ómaenca, that gait!" Devon whispered. "Ómaenca!" He yelled, running after him. "<em>Ómaenca</em>, mate, wait!"</p><p>We all followed, crashing through the undergrowth, scattering and tripping over the hidden birds and critters and rocks and roots. Why didn't he look back? He just moved on, steps fast, back hunched and arms held his heavy cloak in his stiff way, as though always ready to spring back at something.</p><p>He disappeared between some thick trunks. Panting, we rounded them and stopped dead.</p><p>It was a small ruin. Trees thinned overhead, and the sun lit the place up. Tumbled slabs and broken chunks of white stone, longer and thicker than our height, piled everywhere. Ivies crawled all over these, leafless and thick. Roots from nearby trees, too, held those stones down. A few were left standing, but still broken and ivy-clad, save for the three in the middle of it all. Tall as trees behind us, they cast shadows over every other. Holy---what was this place?</p><p>"Ómaenca!" Jenny called.</p><p>"Ómaenca!" I called.</p><p>Over the stone piles and thick vines we went and reached the stones in the middle. There was Ómaenca sitting atop of an altar, legs folded and eyes closed. The sun shone down on him. His breath was even. He was ignoring us. So I tugged him.</p><p>"Ómaenca?"</p><p>His eyes snapped open in surprise. I jumped back, and we stared at each other. His eyes bore into each of ours in turn, sharp, cold, scowling. Scared, we backed away.</p><p>"No, wait." His face softened, "What are you doing here?"</p><p>"Looking for you." Devon replied.</p><p>"We heard you came in, and we want to get you back." Martha added.</p><p>"It's good we followed you here---" Jenny said. Ómaenca unfolded and dangled his legs from the altar. He received a sniffing Jenny into his arms.</p><p>"Come on now, Jenny." He patted her head. "Sorry about earlier. I thought the calls were just the forest... You said you guys followed me here just now?" We nodded. "But I've been here for an hour, at least." We stared. "You sure it was me?" We blinked, faces white. "<em>Ah</em>." He thought for a second. "At least you found me."</p><p>"Um... do you have water?" I asked, hoarse. He chuckled and patted the altar. We sat beside him and he passed around his two canteens. The tea inside swept away my thirst and fear in one gulp.</p><p>"This is magic!" I looked up.</p><p>"Caspar, what did I say about magic?" He sighed. "Anyways. Let's go back to Sherwood."</p><p>"Can we...not go back? And come with you? You're looking for the magic in here, aren't you?" I asked.</p><p>"Of course not." Ómaenca lifted one eyebrow as though I lost my marbles. "I thought you wanted to bring <em>me</em> back? Your parents are worried enough already with you lot missing."</p><p>"They can worry a bit longer! We want to see the forest some more!" Martha yelled.</p><p>"Come on, Ómaenca, we already came in this far." Jenny said.</p><p>"This place isn't that far in, actually." He said in a dry voice.</p><p>"We want to see the magic source, too. Please?" I said.</p><p>"Oh if I found it, I'll be sure to show you. See, I have here a thing called a camera---"</p><p>"Ómaenca," Devon stomped his feet, "we came in to find you despite the phantoms, don't you think our good deed should be rewarded by coming with you?"</p><p>Ómaenca froze, and grinned. Trust Devon to come up with that.</p><p>"Grandpops taught you how to bargain, eh? No." He stood up.</p><p>"Ómaenca!" We hopped down from the stone and grabbed his cloak, pleading him with our eyes.</p><p>He looked around at our faces, then at his cloak, stretched taut. He sighed.</p><p>"Fine. Fine... Great gods, fine."</p><center>**</center><p>Ómaenca had us hold hands and stick to him. Martha held onto me, and I onto Devon, and Devon onto Jenny, and Jenny onto Ómaenca. We walked out of the ruins and trudged through the undergrowth.</p><p>The forest air warmed up in the weak sun that was sieved through the branches and unfurling leaves. It was also brighter, with the mist gone. Ómaenca pointed out colorful birds and small flowers. He also pointed out a few bugs just to shiver up the girls. We laughed. We skipped. We sang.</p><p>We didn't seem to have a specific direction. Ómaenca took us back to the path and followed it until it forked, and he would glance up, and seem to pick one at random. At some point he would make an abrupt turn, dragging us off the path and into the undergrowth again. We would come to a spring, or another hidden path, or yet another ruin.</p><p>"How do you know the ruin was here?" Jenny asked as we watched him pacing around before a broken, vine-clad wall.</p><p>"I have my own guide." He pointed up. There was the eagle we saw yesterday circling in the sky. "Thunderandor led me all this time."</p><p>"Is he your pet?"</p><p>"Good gods, Jenny, don't let him hear that. I don't want him to lead us into a pit or something."</p><p>We laughed. The eagle flew down and landed on his thin arm.</p><p>Devon whispered, "mag-niffy-sent". Count on him to say a word like that. He was right, though. The eagle's sleek, tawny feather gleamed in the rays of the sun. Such large wings! And the hooked beak, changing from yellow at its base to deep purple at its tip! The spiky crown, too, at the back of his head and neck! He cocked his head and glared at Ómaenca, then at us in turn. King of all birds, as the village elder had told in his stories. Mag-niffy-sent, indeed.</p><p>"He's no pet. He guided me throughout my travels." Ómaenca scratched the bird's back. "I trust he can help me find what I needed in here."</p><p>"The magic?" I asked.</p><p>"A tower."</p><center>**</center><p>We had never known anything about the forest except it was haunted. Our mas and pas knew no better. If anyone had told us that there were ruins in here before, that there used to be people living in here, we wouldn't have believed him. There were phantoms in the forest luring people astray, that was all we had known. Until now.</p><p>So when Ómaenca mentioned a tower, we believed him. It probably had tumbled, too, just like the walls and pillars and archways we had seen already in all these ruins scattered along our way. Who built them? Why live in a forest? How old were these? The village elder must knew something. He was the one with all the books, but the stories of people getting lured away by the phantoms were the only ones he had ever told us. What was in those books, really?</p><p>"People of the village, going-ons of Sherwood, the harvests, the famines, the births, the deaths... and this forest." Ómaenca hung strips of deer meat over the fire he had started. It was noon. The sun shone straight down into the clearing in the small ruin we sat. Ómaenca had a sword, deep blue and gold, a weird shape, with strange gold letters in the middle. With this he hunted a deer that became our lunch. I was a bit let down that he wouldn't let us hunt with him. "By the forest I mean it's only the people: those who entered, who never returned, and those who did---yes, people have come out before. Not too many, but still."</p><p>He passed around the meat skewered on sticks he had shaved with his sword, and set out the two canteens. "No salt, by the way. We'll have to make do.</p><p>"Those who got out told strange tales. See, they met people, some they knew and were still alive, some they knew but had died, and some they had never met. The phantoms all promised to lead them to something they wanted---money, seeds, medicine, but most of the times, it was the people that the phantoms resembled. At some point, as they walked, they wanted to go home," Ómaenca chewed and swallowed, eyes on the stick, and then at us, "to get out of the forest, and <em>back to Sherwood</em>. One of the phantoms had actually said, 'Here is our home,' to which the villager had replied, 'No, I mean Sherwood.'"</p><p>"And then?" Martha leant forward.</p><p>"The phantom led her out." Ómaenca shrugged. "I don't think those phantoms lured people <em>astray</em>. They took people to <em>what they desire</em>. If you ever meet one, thinking about Sherwood is perhaps the safest thing to do." Huh. We said we didn't believe it. "I see the old man guards this secret pretty well. Which is why I deem you all impressive, coming after me knowing you'll never come out."</p><p>We didn't even think of the phantoms in the first place, after all. "Save Ómaenca," that was all.</p><p>"Why? Why come after me?"</p><p>"We don't want you to be lost." I chewed the bland meat.</p><p>"You seemed like a good bloke." Martha picked her teeth.</p><p>"You're fun." Jenny crunched on some softer bones.</p><p>"We like you." Devon looked at him, honest.</p><p>He blinked, and smiled at his feet, a small, happy one, eyes half-squeezed into thin lines. I'd never figured him as someone who'd get embarrassed. The chirps of birds and the creaks of branches in the breeze joined the slow cackles from our fire. A beam of dim sunlight tinted his hair---and his face---red. Crikey, he was actually pretty to look at.</p><p>"Thank you, people." He said in his quiet voice, and looked up. "I'll make a better meal next time."</p><p>"Tell us a story." Jenny stretched.</p><p>"I just told you one."</p><p>"Then tell another." Martha begged. Ómaenca chuckled. The eagle landed beside his feet, picking at his stick of meat. They looked at each other. Slowly he nodded.</p><p>"What do you know of elves?"</p><p>"They're like angels." Devon said.</p><p>"They're beautiful." Martha said.</p><p>"They lived long ago and snatched brats away." Jenny said.</p><p>"They knew magic." I said.</p><p>"Not bad," Ómaenca threw a chunk of meat to his eagle, "and not quite, either. Beautiful, and yes, graceful, but if we had an elf here, you wouldn't be able to tell. They can look like you, or me, or other people you've never met. They lived long ago, and built towns and cities and kingdoms, like we have. One day, they disappeared. Where to? Why? The ruins won't tell us."</p><p>"What ruins?" Devon asked.</p><p>"These broken marbles." Ómaenca murmured. (<em>Marble,</em> I thought, <em>so that's what the white stones are called.</em>) "Their myths say they are meant to leave. They helped the gods to shape our world for us, to teach us the way of the world, to help us prosper, and as a reward, they left, and were taken to a better place. A blessed land, where they lived with the gods, and prospered."</p><p>"That's not what the Bible said!" Devon yelled.</p><p>"Shut up, you donkey know-it-all!" Martha snapped at Devon.</p><p>"You asked for a story, so here it is." Ómaenca shrugged.</p><center>**</center><p>Martha went missing.</p><p>Perhaps we should have rested for a bit longer. Perhaps we shouldn't have drank so much water. Perhaps I shouldn't have told her to have some respect for the ruins. When Martha went out of a ruin to pee, she just never came back.</p><p>Ómaenca sent his eagle up to look for her, but it couldn't see her anywhere. He frowned at the bird.</p><p>"Something bigger is at work." Like a phantom? We held onto each other, and watched Ómaenca's eyes glow under the shadow of the marble wall, half amazed and half scared. He held out a hand to us. "This isn't the time to be scared. Come."</p><p>Outside the ruin, by a tree, we found Martha's footprints. Another set, bigger than hers, led hers away. Ómaenca paused and stepped next to it. The prints were same in size.</p><p>"Sandals. No patterns inside. See---" Ómaenca stopped.</p><p>Jenny gasped and pointed. The larger print faded away. It must be a phantom's. Ómaenca grabbed us and hurried forward, through the dense undergrowth and down the forest paths. He stopped a few times, as though lost, eyes bright and looking left and right. At first, Jenny would point out the fading footprints but as we went on, we couldn't find anything in the dirt anymore. It didn't slow Ómaenca down, though. I realized that he might be looking for Martha during those stops.</p><p>We passed more ruins, each one bigger and less tumbled than the last, but Ómaenca was no longer interested. He walked, walked, paused, and walked on and on and on, until he finally stopped for more than a few seconds. Devon, Jenny, and I panted around him, hands on our knees. Ómaenca sighed.</p><p>"Lost it." He murmured. "Unbelievable. Can't sense her completely." He turned to us. "Sorry for all that... We can still go back to Sherwood if we move now. I'll find her after---"</p><p>"No." Devon panted. Ómaenca raised his eyebrow. "No. We can't---leave without Martha." Ómaenca waited for him to go on. He took a big breath. "Her ma and pa'll be worried."</p><p>"So are yours right now, Devon."</p><p>The eagle fluttered down on our shoulders in turn. When he touched mine, I felt my breath coming back. Devon straightened up and looked into Ómaenca's glowing eyes.</p><p>"At least they worry together. But if we got back without Martha, it'll be only her ma and pa alone."</p><p>"Jenny? Caspar?"</p><p>"I want to find her," I bit my lips. "But there aren't any tracks."</p><p>"I want to go home." Jenny whispered. She looked just as torn. "But Martha's probably scared right now, too."</p><p>Ómaenca's eyes faded.</p><p>"Let's rest a bit, then. I'll think of a way."</p><p>We came under a fir, where a circle of earth was free of the undergrowth. Ómaenca passed around his canteens, both almost empty. He gave Jenny the eagle and sat down, legs folded and eyes closed, his heavy cloak falling loose around him and hiding his sword and canteens and knapsack. Jenny slumped down against the tree and stroke the golden eagle for comfort. Devon sat down, fidgeted on the spot, stood up and sat down and stood up again. I sat upright, watching him stumbling around. Whatever was going on with Ómaenca's eyes, it couldn't help us find Martha, now. But he must could come up with a way---he had led us this far.</p><p><em>He had led us this far...</em></p><p>The air had nothing to do with my sudden shivers. Ómaenca showed up when we wanted to see him the most. He had been leading us to all the ruins and now after Martha. What if <em>he</em> was a phantom? He had done some rather unbelievable things in this forest, after all, things that had to be magic... But what was magic but unknown technologies? He had made me known that I knew almost nothing about this world.</p><p>What a strange bloke. He had come in from the outside, and everything he did was magic. <em>Do some more magic, Ómaenca, even if you are a phantom.</em> I thought. <em>As long as we find Martha. And then, if you were right, please just get us back to Sherwood.</em></p><p>"Phantoms..." He murmured, frowning, eyes still closed. "If they really lead us to what we desire..."</p><p>"Ómaenca---" Devon gasped. Ómaenca's eyes flew open, and widened in surprise. He almost lurched forward, and fell on all fours. There, before us, a young lady paced out of the trees.</p><p>"Iri---?"</p><p>Devon backed down with each of her light steps. Jenny hugged the eagle tight. I scrambled behind Ómaenca and gawked around him at her. She looked more like Ómaenca than us. Her long, black hair fell around her thin, ivory face. Her eyes were slightly angled down, big and shy, looking down in front of her feet. Below her small nose was a lovely, pouting smile and a small, slightly jutting chin. Her white dress seemed ghostly in the shades of the forest but I couldn't stop myself from looking. Ómaenca shielded us with one arm.</p><p>"Who is she?" Jenny squealed.</p><p>"A phantom." Ómaenca replied.</p><p>"Looking for something?" The lady said, playful. Her accent sounded like the tax bloke's, which pa had called "pretentious", but her voice was much more pleasant, a bit husky. She stood at the edge of the empty soil.</p><p>"A girl. Martha."</p><p>"Come." The lady took his hands. Surprised, he shook them off.</p><p>Jenny and I shivered but Devon marched after her. Ómaenca grabbed him back and, one arm holding onto him and the other behind Jenny's and my backs, he followed the lady.</p><p>We walked in silence. The lady looked back from time to time, her big eyes as though asking Ómaenca something. Ómaenca looked rather sad toward her. We came across a spring, and he stopped to fill his canteens. He gave us one to drink, and then refilled it again. The sun was now shooting its rays of light across our paths. The mist was rising again. The phantom lady waited with patience, not bothered at all by the growing chill in only her dress and sandals. Ómaenca wrapped us in his heavy cloak and we walked in an awkward lump.</p><p>"Did you lure Martha away?" Devon asked her. She only smiled at him.</p><p>"How much further?" Ómaenca grunted without looking at her.</p><p>"Is that really what you want to say to me?"</p><p>Ómaenca frowned at her feet. She laughed, like how the water bubbled out of the spring. She tugged at his sideburns.</p><p>"Not far."</p><p>The path widened, and the jutting stone pieces became wide flat slabs. Weeds poked from between them, and roots lifted and shattered some in halves and thirds. Jenny shivered more, pointing ahead. Two statues, almost as tall as the trees and made from the same white stones, covered with twisted vines, stood on either side of the path. I craned my neck to look at them. They had long hair and smooth, handsome faces. They wore long cloaks and robes under the vines. Devon whispered, "Grand." Our eyes followed their arms, up to their lances crossed overhead. I shrank as we walked under them.</p><p>"Statues won't hurt you." Ómaenca said. Then he snorted. "Unless they fall on you." That helped us relax. The phantom lady threw him a pout. She looked even prettier. And, she was gone.</p><p>We stopped at where she once stood. Around us, the trees gave way to an open sky, and under that was the grandest ruin I might ever see in my life. It was a forest itself, a forest of those marble stones, with trees of broken marble statues and marble pillars and marble walls, and an undergrowth of tumbled marble chunks and wide marble streets. It expanded left and right and onward, like the vines everywhere. Some houses had real trees shooting out of them; maybe this was how they had tumbled in the first place. Those oaks claimed the land around them with their roots, cracking stones and bursting the pavement, twisting and spreading into each other's territories, fighting for soil.</p><p>Ómaenca led us forward, surveying the ruin with interest but not surprise. Jenny gasped and pointed at a wall a few buildings away. I wish I hadn't seen what she was pointing. Two skeletons. I was sure of it. Ómaenca hurried us away, covering Devon's eyes, who had the luck to be a second too late to turn his head.</p><p>At another statue Ómaenca stopped and bent to study the base. The legs of it scattered around, pinned down by tree roots. What was left of the upper body was held upright in the air by vines thicker than my legs. It wore a robe. Crikey, how real it looked, the folds and creases and all. Only the abrupt break reminded me that it was all stone.</p><p>Jenny reached for it. Ómaenca lifted her up. She touched the hair, though---long sheets that fell past the shoulders like a waterfall, every strand visible. The stone lady's determined gaze fell on a thick tree in middle of what looked like a square down the path, onto which Ómaenca's eagle landed.</p><p>"Who's she?" Devon asked.</p><p>"An elf princess. Can't read the name, though." Ómaenca replied, eyes glowing again. "She should be holding a spear---a warrior-princess."</p><p>"<em>Elf</em>? You reckon? How do you know, Ómaenca?" I was fascinated.</p><p>"The texts were still traceable on the pedestal."</p><p>Bull crap. There was nothing there.</p><p>A couple deer bounded away once we rounded that huge tree. Half a tower stood in the distance. Its jagged, tumbled crown was still tall enough to stab the sky. Wasn't Ómaenca looking for a tower? Jenny pointed and ran ahead. I saw a speck of red by the foot of it---</p><p>"Martha!" We called. She jumped, saw us, and crawled backwards up the stairs. She hit the thick root lying across the entrance and pressed against it. She was crying. "Martha! It's us!"</p><p>"No," she whimpered. "Leave me alone! Go away!"</p><p>"It's us, Martha---" We reached for her. She curled up and screamed. We flinched back, not sure what to do.</p><p>"Martha," Ómaenca reached out a hand. "What happened?"</p><p>"<em>You</em> lured me here! <em>You</em> should know!" She slapped his hand away.</p><p>"He was with <em>us</em> all this time!" Devon yelled, face red.</p><p>"No! Even when you're a phantom you're an arsehole know-it-all!" Martha punched the marble stairs. Ow, that must hurt. Ómaenca took that hand over without a word and hugged it in his. Martha's dirty, tear-streaked face frowned. "I don't trust you! You grant wishes! You brought me here, and then you came over to find me, and now you stopped my hand from hurting!"</p><p>"I swear it wasn't me who took you here, Martha."</p><p>"Yes, it was! I was about to go back and you came over and said you could show me more of the ruins, and you took me around, and left me here!"</p><p>"You never should've followed, then!" Jenny stomped her foot.</p><p>"You disappeared and left me walking alone! I didn't even know how I got here! The statues were scary! There were dead people's bones! I saw a snake! And now you come because I was-was t-thinking I'd never see y-you all again---"</p><p>Ómaenca sat down beside her. Martha howled into his cloak. We knelt down around her. Poor Martha. We had never seen her like this.</p><p>"What was I wearing, Martha?"</p><p>"A white dress, a belt, and sandals."</p><p>Ómaenca laughed.</p><p>"Like some of those statues, eh? But why on Earth would <em>I</em> wear a dress?" He patted her head. "Recall what I've said at lunch, about the phantoms. Think, what do you want right now?" Ómaenca and her looked at each other, a faint smile playing about his lips. Martha sniveled, thinking over what Ómaenca meant. He took out a hankie and wiped her eyes and nose. At last, she took a long sniff and said to us,</p><p>"Thanks."</p><p>"I assure you we're real." Ómaenca said. "Not Devon, though---he was rather uncharacteristically anxious to find you, seeing how you two always bicker---<em>OW!</em>" Martha pinched his leg with a pout.</p><p>"Not from you, Ómaenca!"</p><p>"She's still a <em>friend</em>!" Devon's face grew red again.</p><p>"I'm just teasing!" Ómaenca laughed. Devon sputtered, and we all started laughing. It broke the chilly magic in this place---this whole forest. Crikey, I reckoned things would be alright now. Jenny hugged Martha, and the eagle fluttered down between them and chirped. I jibed Devon that he fancied Martha, and he and I started hitting each other again. Ómaenca pulled us apart and frowned up at the broken tower.</p><p>"Are you it?" He tapped the fallen boulders that blocked the entrance from inside, and ushered us down the stairs and aside. He went up to the root and pulled. The thick root halfway up to his shins groaned and creaked. Ómaenca put his back to it. <em>Crack</em> it went apart.</p><p>"Crikey!" We gasped. He snapped the root clean and we held our breaths as he examined the boulders. We weren't disappointed. He put both hands to them and sent them flying into the tower.</p><p>"Magic!" We shouted, running after his beckoning hand. He looked like pa did when he caught that giant buck two years back. Bloke could get cocky, too.</p><p>The crooked walls of the tower, held up by tree roots and branches and ivy vines, blocked the sinking sun. The caved-in ceiling so high above let in only enough light for us to see an altar in the middle, almost buried by the rubble, that black, shiny stone of an altar, decorated with golden branch and flower and leaf patterns all around. Ómaenca circled it, slow, sliding a finger across its smooth, cold surface. He stood back, and let out a breath. The rubble around the altar quaked and lifted themselves into the air. Ómaenca went over and put his two hands to the altar. His eyes glowed.</p><p>We went over, prodding the boulders floating in the air. Whatever he was seeing was invisible to us.</p><p>At last, he sighed and walked outside. The sky overhead was a pure, deep blue. He came back in with those broken roots. We watched him clear a small space and start a campfire. He sat down and stretched.</p><p>"Let's not go back in the dark. The forest has animals more dangerous than phantoms. Let's stay here for the night."</p><p>"But the dead bodies?" Devon asked. "And snakes?"</p><p>"There's nothing to fear from dead bodies. As for snakes, you've got Thunderandor and me." He looked at me and then around, raising a hand. "Who wants to hunt for our dinner?"</p><center>**</center><p>Of course I was excited. I snared my first rabbit.</p><p>We found a stream a little way outside the ruins, and around that grew water mint and ground elder. Their season had just begun. The leaves on the crawling stems were literally "mean and green". These, we gathered. At the foot of a statue, Ómaenca found nettle. He fetched out a glove and pinched some. He said he had always wanted to try these.</p><p>We sat around our fire, using stones as seats and table. Ómaenca made stew by putting water, the deer meat, the wild vegetables, and some smoldering stones in a piece of cleaned-up deer hide that was lifted at the corners with stones to form a pot. He took out three wooden bowls and two daggers and taught us how to dress the rabbits. Crikey, what a meal! Who needed salt? Even the village Christmas feast couldn't beat this. We dug in. Devon said the tower was our castle and we were kings and queens of the forest. Martha told him to quit it, but sure, she'd be the queen. Jenny reached for Ómaenca's eagle and he landed on her shoulder, hopped down her arm and picked at her rabbit leg; she yelled that he was heavy. I looked at them all and stopped on Ómaenca.</p><p>"Question, Caspar?"</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>"About what?"</p><p>"Everything---the forest, the phantoms, that lady, you."</p><p>Everyone quieted down.</p><p>"Heh. I guess you guys have earned it." He set down his rabbit. "The elves." He said. "The elves. The elves built this place thousands of years ago. They made the phantoms. Yes, Caspar, their magic---their technology, right in that altar. A computer of some sort, to help those who had lived here."</p><p>We nodded but not really sure if we understood. What was a computer?</p><p>"It's their security system. See, the forest is a maze, very efficient at hiding and protecting the city. But if a citizen gets lost or if someone gets hurt in it, it would be a problem. The solution was the phantoms. They would appear to the needed, to guide people home---to here---or call over the patrols. I believe, if I read it correctly from the altar, the phantoms can treat minor wounds if needed. They are created to be efficient---that's why we couldn't catch up with Martha. The phantoms really are to fulfill people's 'desires'."</p><p>"But wouldn't anyone can find the city, then?" Jenny asked.</p><p>"Not if that worked fine." Ómaenca glanced at the black altar. "It should only help those who it deemed safe, like the citizens of the city, or perhaps even bearers of some token. But it's broken. With no one to take care of it, let's just say it 'forgot' who to help. So it helps anyone in here.</p><p>"It being broken is also why people went missing. A lot of those dead people were thinking only about 'home'. The phantoms only know one 'home'---here, Minas Taurënúr, not Sherwood."</p><p>"That's awful." Martha murmured. "Can you stop the magic?"</p><p>"No. I tried."</p><p>"Can't you smash it, or something?" Jenny pointed at his sword. Ómaenca picked it up, and disappeared. At the edge of our firelight, we saw a thin streak of light bounce off the altar. Five "DING"s echoed in the tower, and the next second was Ómaenca on the other side of the black stone, lowering his sword. The golden letters on there dimmed and went out. We ran to him. He summoned a ball of fire over and shone onto the altar. There was not even a scratch on there. He showed us his sword. A small dent on the edge. Ómaenca pulled a face and walked us back. He pulled out a whetstone from his knapsack and started grinding away the dent.</p><p>"We can only wait for its power to fade away, perhaps thousands of years later." He said between each stroke, slowly, "No one alive can turn it off, not even the elves." He glanced at our surprised faces. "They didn't all disappear... Only a handful remained, though. They hid, and built a new city. In 5000 years, they forgot who they had been, where they had come from, and how their kinsmen had gone. Two thousand years ago, they opened schools like mine to recover what they had lost. They took in students like me. This pilgrimage is my... let's call it 'project'."</p><p>"Is that where you learned magic? Can anyone travel, like you? Can I join?" I jumped up. "I want to learn---"</p><p>"But you don't want to attend <em>those</em> schools, Caspar." Devon cut in. "Grandpops says they whip you if you make mistakes and other brats bully you for coming from a village like ours."</p><p>"Devon." Ómaenca said quietly. The whetstone paused. "The malfunctioned magic here tells us that even the elves aren't always reliable, much less your grandfather. You're smart. You should look beyond what he tells you. For one, more people might've survived the forest had he taught kids more than the Bible.</p><p>"Ereldar are always recruiting. I'll see what I can do, Caspar."</p><p>"Serious? You'll get us in?" I bounced on my slab of stone.</p><p>"No. I'll try to get people over. They'll be the judge."</p><p>"Will there be that lady? Your phantom?" Jenny asked.</p><p>Ómaenca set aside his sword and whetstone, and hid his face behind his rabbit and bowl of stew. We did the same after some waiting. The eagle stared at him with one sharp eye. The fire cackled, filling the tower with warmth. Ómaenca's magic, I was sure, also kept the chill away. The darkness outside was thick. I hope ma and pa didn't come in to look for us. But if they did, or anyone, they <em>would</em> actually find us.</p><p>Right?</p><p>"Yes, I want to apologize to her." Ómaenca's abrupt word made us jump. He was talking to the eagle. "But she wasn't someone I really want to see---not as bad as..." He looked at his sword. He looked lost. "What," he whispered, "does that phantom say about me?"</p><center>**</center><p>Ómaenca's heavy cloak fell on us when I awoke. Through the broken ceiling I saw shafts of sunlight through the mist. Chirps of birds, brisk and clear like the chimes of bells on my home's door, seeped through the wall, and mingled with the deep breathing of my friends in the dark tower. I climbed out of the nest of leaves and grass.</p><p>The fire was burning not too far away from our feet. The nook of vines that Ómaenca had used as a hammock was empty. I panicked for a second until I saw his sword, now dent-free, by the table. He was outside, dressing more rabbits for breakfast. He nodded and lifted his eyebrows as a way of "good morning". This strange bloke had told us some incredible things last night, eh?</p><p>"Ere-Ereldars?" I said the first word that came into my head.</p><p>"Hm? No 's', just 'Ereldar'. What about them?" He skewered the meat onto branches. I felt relief. It hadn't been a dream. I think he knew what I was thinking. He snorted. "Are the others up yet, Caspar? Our little adventure should come to a close."</p><center>**</center><p>Thick mist, dense trees, dark forest, but nothing scary. Ómaenca still made us hold hands and hold onto him. We wondered if we could get the phantom lady to show up again. He asked us why we were so "in-fatoo-ated" with her. We said she was pretty. He rolled his eyes. He took us through a different route than yesterday, though, passing as many ruins along the way as possible, guided by his eagle.</p><p>"I wish I could see them all." Martha said.</p><p>"You know how to find them now." Ómaenca said.</p><p>When Devon found a piece of white yarn tied to a low branch, the shafts of sunlight was almost straight down. Ómaenca turned to us.</p><p>"A favor, please." We listened. "Don't tell others what I've told you last night."</p><p>We nodded. It was our secret.</p><p>We followed the village elder's yarn for a long while, and came out from where we had entered. The sun was blinding. We sat, adjusting. I heard a cry and quick footsteps, and got a sound wallop to my face.</p><p>"Caspar! What do you think you're doing, you buffoon brat, sneaking into the woods---" It was ma.</p><p>"Please stop." Ómaenca said. "I take full responsibility. Slap me if you really need to." My eyes came to. There were his legs. There was ma. There, behind her, was half the village. Pa slapped him.</p><p>"Pa! No!" I yelled.</p><p>"Stop it!" Devon ran up and shoved pa away. "We went in to find him ourselves!"</p><p>The village elder came up. Ómaenca ushered Devon back behind him.</p><p>"Well?" The old bloke whispered. "Fixed the problem?"</p><p>"No." Ómaenca murmured. "Can't." The village elder leered at him. "Said I'd try, never promised I can." The old bloke leered on. "I'd step back if I were you." Ómaenca reached into his cloak.</p><p>"Sherwood isn't Hamelin. We don't need a pied piper here." The elder backed away and announced. "Get out. We want nothing to do with you anymore."</p><p>"What?" Devon cried.</p><p>"You're not going to thank him?" Martha shrieked.</p><p>"After all his help?" Jenny stomped her feet.</p><p>"We couldn't have gotten out without him!" I yelled.</p><p>We squeezed and bawled from behind Ómaenca's arms.</p><p>"You brats be quiet! He did the work for a living! And you! Get out! Now!"</p><p>Ómaenca glanced back at us, and sneered at him in contempt. The crowd shrank aside as he made his way to the tavern.</p><center>**</center><p>I remember we spent that evening in Ómaenca's room. Old Jim hadn't the thing to stop us. Instead, he made us bring up two bowls of dinner. We sat on Ómaenca's bed and watched him tidy the room. Why even bother? It wasn't like Old Jim was going to pay him again. After quite a while, Jenny broke the silence and asked if he'd come back again. He said, "No." Martha asked if we'd see him again, elsewhere. He smiled, "Hopefully." Devon asked if---he lowered his voice---if he was an elf. He laughed, "Thank gods, no." I asked if he'd find that pretty phantom lady. He murmured, "Perhaps."</p><p>"Your name's in Elven." Devon broke the silence this time. "What do your normal friends call you, Ómaenca?"</p><p>"Figured it out? Smart." I remember his triumphant smile. "Billy."</p><p>A slap from my ma on my shoulder wakes me up from my daydream, and I hurry to tie up the sacks of potatoes. Little has happened in the six months since he left. Devon, Martha, Jenny, and I snuck into the woods from time to time, but never for too long, or the grownups would notice. The phantoms know when to disappear on our way back. Ómaenca's pretty lady always says goodbye and come again. It's nice that we have a huge harvest this year, though---so huge that even my six-year-old brother is called to the fields to help. Too bad he doesn't believe that all this was because Ómaenca had worked here. He just screams, "Don't give me that crap!" to me when I mention this, just like ma and pa. Stupid little arse.</p><p>We have our lunch on the ridges of the fields. Jenny gasps and drops her spoon. She stands up, eyes wide, and points a shaky finger down the road that leads out of Sherwood. There, walking towards our village, are three tall people in white cloaks. Much further away is one of those farting cars. The tax bloke won't come for another half a year. Some grownups stare, as though scared, but we look at one and another, shivering all over with excitement. We put down our plates and run over.</p><p>Ómaenca kept his words.</p>]]></content>
    
    
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&lt;p&gt;Early spring in Sherwood was always cold. The dense clouds lingered in the sky, caring little for the idea that winter had already passed, and cracking only on occasions to let the sun a peek of our small, snow-laden village. Then came the thaw. Snow went from a hard crust to a mushy slurry, and backed off from our roofs, revealing the yellowed thatches and what holes that had developed. Yet, the days couldn&#39;t be colder. Winter, pa and ma had always said, loved our village a tad too much.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;When the clouds finally broke and parted, it brought us a visitor along with the wink of warmth in the day. He wasn&#39;t from this land, not with his black hair and small, dark-brown eyes and his round nose and his flat, long face and his pale, yellow skin. He wore a heavy cloak, so heavy that we couldn&#39;t knew whether he was fat or thin, or what was underneath. He looked young, not much older than those who first go into the crop fields. Crikey, wasn&#39;t he weatherworn. His hairs were unkempt from being under the thick hood; his eyes were swollen from the wind; his cheeks were purple from the cold; his upper lip and chin were weeded with whiskers. We brats watched as he was directed to the tavern, steps uneven, ignoring the stares and whispers along the way.&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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    <title>2020 Winter Solstice Story - Alvariography - Iris - PART 3</title>
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    <published>2021-01-24T22:30:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2022-11-16T05:48:13.103Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><center> -- Departure -- </center><p>Camilla didn’t make it.</p><p>Her condition had never improved. When she was taken in, she had been in a high fever. The medics managed to contain it just under 39°C with antibiotics and their elven arts. They also monitored her heart rate and brain activity, both of which remained at a bare minimum. In the 48 hours after her operations, her fever lowered, her heart had failed thrice, and each time they revived it, the charge used was greater than the last. Fifty-eight hours after her operations, her body temperature tumbled below 35°C. Medics rushed into action, only to find the infection within her body had resurged. The bacteria had adapted to their drugs with unexpected speed, and was already enough to inflame and disable her medulla. Sixty-one hours after her operations, her heart stopped, and defied all medical efforts. Sixty-one-and-a-half hours, she showed symptoms of hydrocephalus. The medics struggled for almost another two and a half hours before Iris, unable to sleep well, got dressed and waded to the medics tent through the dark. No one was in the hallway. She waited outside the emergency room, and listened to the muffled shuffle through the flap. She sat praying. No one was ever religious at the orphanage. Madam Yu didn’t allow it; she only believed in herself. The “Great Mother God” everyone swore to was a mere figure of speech. Whatever role she had in their folklore, she couldn’t help now.</p><span id="more"></span><p>So she prayed to Camilla, begging her to survive and get well. Madam Yu was already gone. Anne was lost. Fay wasn’t here. Camilla was the only girl now: there were people that Rubik could never replace.</p><p>The flap swayed aside, soft and eerie. A human medic walked out, solemn. Iris thought he looked as if he hadn’t slept for days. It reminded her of Lindsay the day they brought Camilla here. His lined and blackened brown eyes pleaded for Iris’ forgiveness. Without a word the two of them entered the ER and into the side room.</p><p>Sally stood among the eight medics. Their white robes looked ghostly in the silent glow of the lamps. They bowed their heads at the glass chamber. Inside, Camilla floated in the air. Her skins had grown back, no longer a raw red, but a pale yellow. Her head was covered in the same manner as her body, with only her face exposed. Her expression, as far as Iris could tell, was not serene. So empty… The lack of hum and pumping from the machine was acute, slicing through the four o’clock drowsiness like a blade. The monitor was still. Everything was still.</p><p>Camilla’s body sank through the air as though she was in water.</p><p>Five medics hummed a tune, low, soft, fuzzy like cotton, and the other four sang the lyrics, words of another civilization, another world. Camilla’s body sank in the thick elven dirge.</p><p>Iris leaned against the wall and listened.</p><center> ** </center><p>They buried her ashes—and whoever they could retrieve from the orphanage ruins—by an ash tree, the tallest Iris could find in the charm-protected camp. The loss finally sank in for Rubik, it seemed, as he lowered the marble casks into the hole and refilled it with earth, shovel by shovel. Iris hadn’t seen him cry since his grandmother had passed—that tough old lady hadn’t had enough left to bury.</p><center> ** </center><p>“Do you want to pay one last visit to them?” Rubik asked Iris in the clearing. “When are we coming back, you know?”</p><p>Iris shook her head. They were leaving for the coast. Their ship leaves tomorrow. She didn’t wish to linger. In less than a week, almost everything she had and had known were taken away. Too much had been lost. Iris had enough.</p><p>“Ready?” Lindsay came up to them. The sky was clear. The two armies hadn’t fired for three days now. A gentle breeze was playing about around the budding boughs on the hilltop. It was a beautiful March day. So beautiful. So unreal. “One last look before we leave?”</p><p>Iris didn’t mean to look up. Through the trees, the city ruins were almost picturesque in the sun, against the azure sky, though nothing had changed. The clarity and the contrast made the view look fake and staged. This wasn’t the city she had grew up in. She gazed to the north. There was nothing to see, now.</p><p>“Right. Put these on, you two.” Billy held out two rudimentary hairbands. “These are from the soldier’s helmets. We dismantled Colaurë’s controlling chips. Now all they do is protect your mind from telepathy.”</p><p>Three jeeps parked in a row at the foot of the hill. Lindsay led Iris to the last one. Two elves with dark skin occupied the driver’s and the shotgun seats. Elowen and Nix, Iris recalled, grandmaster and deputy of the Temple. She returned their greetings with a slight dip of her head. Rubik and Billy took the second with two more elves of gold hairs. Four more boarded the first. Sally came running down the slope, waving, holding a bag.</p><p>“For your arm.” She stuffed it in Iris’ lap through the back row window. “Stay safe—look after yourselves—one pill before sleep each night until the cast cracks—“</p><p>“Don’t fret, <em>mom</em>.” Lindsay beamed. “Catch ya later!”</p><p>“Seat belts?” Nix poked her head around. Lindsay patted both of theirs. She grinned, “Off we go.”</p><p>“Take care!” Sally cried after them. Iris bit her lips. She looked out and waved her goodbye.</p><p>Sally disappeared behind some passing rubble. Iris sat back, mumbling to Lindsay,</p><p>“Sorry for all the trouble.”</p><p>Lindsay shook her head and pressed Iris’ hand.</p><p>It wasn’t long before the jeep rolled to a stop at the checkpoint. Steel fences forced the vehicles into one line. At the end were soldiers, guns ready, going through cars and their passengers.</p><p>“Out of the car for inspection!” Iris heard them yell at their first jeep. The four elves obeyed. The soldiers moved in. As one, two of them ripped the helmets off of the two soldiers and threw them backwards. The soldiers bowled over the others behind while the other two elves dis-helmeted the ones that remained standing. The four of them moved in sync, disarming and disabling all eight soldiers in less than five seconds.</p><p>“Elves from the Institute sure are fast…” Lindsay whistled. “Can you Temple people beat them?”</p><p>“Can you?” Elowen gave an airy laugh and started the car.</p><p>“Five to ten seconds, but I’m not an elf.”</p><p>They passed the checkpoint. The eight soldiers stood like puppets and let them go. The four elves saluted them with firm nods.</p><center> ** </center><p>Iris must’ve fell asleep at some point. It was a shame; she’d never wanted to miss any view outside the city. She woke to a service area. “Desolate” was the only word for it. Their jeeps were the only vehicle in sight. The cement ground was cracked by hardy wild shoots of weed that had infiltrated everywhere, wiping the faded parking lines and lanes out of existence. At the far end of the parking lot, under the dead trees that marked the border, dried up weeds strangled a rusted artillery.</p><p><em>How did that even get here?</em> Iris stepped out of the empty jeep and stretched. It took her two years to learn how to walk but only two hours to forget. She flexed her legs and arm, and massaged her neck. On her left was the other border of the service area. Grass with dried-up stalks at shoulder-height fought their way through the wooden fence. Before her was the highway. Not a car in sight east to west. Across that was another tall weed field that, like Iris, had survived the harsh winter. There was a forlorn brick shed in there, its tiled roof just visible enough, inky smoky green among the dry yellow. It might had been a wheat field ages ago, or barley. Thanks to the war, Iris would never know the idyllic view of this place against the hill beyond, a view that had prompted the construction of this service area in the first place.</p><p>Iris sighed and stretched again. Behind her, two tarnished characters atop the low blue building with a glass front said, “Jiao Zhou”. They were almost there.</p><p>From the tall weeds emerged an old man with a bushy, unkempt beard and wrangled hairs all grey and white. He reached into the stalks behinds him and lifted a thin, small boy over the fence. The boy hopped onto the cracked cement and helped the old man with another girl, equally small and famished. Only dust and grime on their faces knew the number of days they had wandered in the wild. The old man climbed over the fence with difficulty. The children steadied him with care. He chuckled and pointed at the building as though it was a toy store.</p><p>Iris entered the station after them. Two people busied behind the counter with pots and enameled mugs as the old man waited. The children hid their faces under his coats, stealing glances around the well-lit lobby.</p><p>People—refugees of all ages—huddled around in small groups. They sat on their dusty coats, some laid down and slept. Most had stainless steel or enameled mugs of noodles and soup. Some had their hairs wet.</p><p>Iris felt ashamed walking among them. It was only her luck that she avoided a fate like theirs. They weren’t all lower class, either. Some of them had glasses. Some had jeweled necklaces. A few wore a posh expression and sat apart from others. People of all walks gathered, and she somehow became different.</p><p>The bathroom was clean. There were public showers next to it. This place had been long converted to a shelter. She found Rubik sitting with the old man and his children when she came out. He was joking and tickling the children, making them squirm with shrieks of laughter. She walked over.</p><p>“…trying to go as far as possible. Not enough, apparently.” The old man blew at the noodle and fed the children.</p><p>“Surprised you guys hanged around there for so long.” Rubik patted the children.</p><p>“Don’t want to move, see. The farmer and his wife had to run in the end. Soldiers came kicking down the door because they didn’t hand over what they demanded. Who could, with a winter like that?”</p><p>“So what now?”</p><p>“Rest a bit. Then to the coast, and try our luck there. Say,” the old man glanced outside, “don’t suppose—?” He leaned over and left the words hanging. </p><p>“I’m sorry, grandpops. We don’t have seats left.” Rubik scratched his head.</p><p>“Ah…” The old man fell back, and then bounced up again, hopeful. “But you can have the kids, at least—?”</p><p>“No. Sorry.” Rubik’s voice was adamant.</p><p>“Rubik—“ Iris glanced at the children’s disappointed faces.</p><p>“No. We are leaving soon. Sorry.” Rubik got up. He stood over them, thinking, and looked around. Nobody took note of them. He pulled out an envelope and set it at the old man’s feet, and left. Iris, heart cracking, ran after him outside.</p><p>“Rubik—“ She caught up by the fence. “I think we should at least—“ Rubik shook his head. “The children can sit with Lindsay and me! We’ll have them—“ Iris grabbed him and turned him around.</p><p>Eyes wide and jaws squared, he whispered,</p><p>“Iris, that’s us.” He looked at the building. The old man and the children were blocked by the jeep, but Iris knew they were staring stunned at the checks in the envelope. “I’d rather them die with their grandpops than get separated. Know what I’m saying?” He sniffed and turned away, steadying himself. When he faced Iris again, he tried to grin as usual. “Well, at least they’re better off than we were, now.”</p><p>It was painful to watch. Iris never needed telepathy to know what he thought. She cupped his face with her hands and looked into his dimmed eyes.</p><p>“When we settle down in Japan,” Iris murmured, slow, keeping her tone even, “we’ll set up a small shrine, like m-mum did, for your grandmother, okay? We’ll put it across the door, so she’ll be seeing us o-off and welcome us back every day, okay, Rubik?” They blinked at each other. His eyes had always raised at different angles at each end. One of them had always had half a double upper lid. The mole at the corner had always been so small. She loved these eyes. Iris shut her own and brought their lips together. </p><p>It was the first time she had taken the initiative. Hoping against hope that nobody was coming back or could see them, she walked him up against the fence, blushing, leaning in, in, in, deeper and deeper into him until there was nothing in between. It was nothing like those frivolous pecks he had given her before. Iris was pouring all her feelings for him into him, to make sure he understood what she didn’t dare to say, and that talking wasn’t the only way to everything, and that when he felt sad, he could just tell her. He must have understood, for he reciprocated, supporting her weight and drawing her in at the same time, like a sturdy wall cushioned by muscles from all the chores he had done back at the orphanage. He atoned for all those lame kisses with this one, arms crossed around her back and hands on her shoulders, and breathed the only words he had never found confidence to say out loud. Iris could feel his heart, pumping out the minty scent she had loved so much.</p><p>They broke apart. It had been a strike on a bell, and the echoes reverberated long after. She felt like she was in a fever. Iris stared at him with her puppy eyes and her pouting smile. She had been crying too much. The expression felt stiff; unfamiliar. Rubik was stunned. He opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again.</p><p>“For everyone, then. Your parents, mum, Big Bro, Cam—“</p><p>“Yeah, everyone.”</p><center> ** </center><p>“Eh.” Billy grunted, looking at the skyline of the city. Their two jeeps paced side-by-side on the empty highway. Before them, a sea of bricks and concrete and steel wavered and layered: some surfaced and stabbed into the sky, and some was submerged beneath, unseen, insignificant. To the north was a slew of mountains. To the south were industrial complexes that hid the sea. Billy sighed and lolled his head outside the window. “Long time no see.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Iris looked at him across from Lindsay, who explained,</p><p>“He’s from this place back in our world.”</p><p>“How long was it since his last visit?”</p><p>“Too long.” Billy stuck his head back in. “To the seaside, Rowana! No luck looking for good hotels by the port, though, if this is anything like my home.”</p><p>It was early afternoon. The city hadn’t known much of the war, yet. As they rolled down the road, watching weedlands become farmlands, huts become hamlets, fences become trees, ditches become sidewalks, they saw people. City-dwellers chatted by their doors. They waited by traffic lights. They walked down dusty roads, thumbs in their pants pockets, pants that looked like what the Ereldar wore, and what they had given Iris and Rubik: the straight fitting, tough but stretchy things called “jeans”. Children chased and laughed after each other in enclosed yards, or threw tantrum at one another, or lingered around flea markets that had popped up on the sidewalk, selling yellowed comic books and plastic guns, which Iris frowned at. This was perhaps how her city had used to be: a city in her memory resurrected by this one. They might have entered a new country already: the low hamlets grew taller as they proceeded, from mud houses to brick houses to stone houses to tall steel skyscrapers towering over a busy, bustling commercial district. The city was modern, fashionable, alive. Pedestrians wore bright, flashy jackets that Iris felt ashamed when she looked at her own plain, dull-colored monochrome of an attire. Young couples teased each other with octopus kebabs. Old people danced on the square across the street, swinging to an outdated tune blasted from a boombox. Cars drove past and buses stopped by sidewalks—they were driving much slower now among a real traffic of sedans, SUVs, small trucks, and, of course, buses.</p><p>Those flea markets became stalls and carts here. The windows were swung open wide, furnished with racks adorned in glittering jewelries, seashell chimes or conch shell whistles, and bullet-casing sculptures. Some were food carts. Iris heard sizzling oil and smelled grease, as well as whiffs of crêpe-and-fritters, fried sausages, and stink tofu. She rolled up the window to stop her mouth from watering.</p><p>It didn’t stop her eyes from being glued to the large display windows of malls, however. Those white faceless mannequins scared her, but the clothes draped over them—bold dashes of yellow against stripes of red, gray, and blue—and the fluffy wool hats begged for her averting gaze. As well as the red, rotating advertisements signs taller than the trees. As well as the small flags hanging down from ropes that stretched across the street. As well as the functional, blinking traffic lights. As well as the roaring motorcycles. As well as the bicycles. As well as teens on skateboards. Behind the trees loomed the round silver dome of a building reflecting the sun. <em>A bookstore!</em> Iris’ teeth chattered. That was what the red characters said up there: Book City. A building taller than the orphanage though half as wide, shaped like a quarter of a cylinder with a dome for hat. Iris forgot all her dignity and cranked down the window, craning her neck to stare until it disappeared behind the street trees again.</p><p>Lindsay gave a light snort, not unfriendly. Iris jerked back to herself, sorely embarrassed, and blushed at her knees. Lindsay leaned over. “Don’t worry, we have time to look around. Billy’ll be our guide.”</p><p>“Will he?”</p><p>“Mm-hmm.” Lindsay giggled. “He’s ecstatic.” Iris found it hard to imagine. Lindsay pulled her head into her arms. “Keep still for a bit—“ Iris’ heart skipped. Did one of Colaurë’s men spot her? Their jeep turned and picked up speed. It sounded like the traffic had thinned. Iris heard a magnetic sound: the sound of wind passing through the woods back home, but slower, more rhythmic, intersected with shrill crows of birds. They stopped. All windows were rolled down and Iris smelled a cool, briny breeze.</p><p>“Stop suffocating her, Lin.” Iris thought it weird for Rubik to call Lindsay in such an intimate way, but upon her release, the one hanging by the window was without the hairband, and wore a white hooded jacket over his leathered armour. She had never seen his expression so soft. He stepped aside.</p><p>The sea.</p><p>The greenish blue sea, rows of white waves racing for the muted yellow sand, one never catching up with the one ahead, smashing themselves against the dark outcrops dotted with gray oysters. White seagulls crowed low above the few heads of people swimming far from the shore.</p><p>“Are they serious?” Rubik tapped Billy.</p><p>“You should see them swim in the middle of winter. Fifty-year-olds here are tough old coots. Come on out. Let’s stay here.” He nudged his chin at the tall shiny tower across the road.</p><p>“You take care of the rooms. We’ll look around.” Nix laughed. Billy took up one of the two suitcases from the trunk and yelled,</p><p>“Sparcal! Come on!” The elf picked up the other trunk, chuckling at his eagerness.</p><p>“The Council would be mad if they didn’t pay with telepathy.” Rowana, who drove Rubik’s jeep, laughed. Up close, Iris thought her slanted eyes, tall nose, and high cheekbones made her look haughty. The elf winked at Iris. “Oh, we dine and dash often when on errands.”</p><p><em>Great Mother, she’s also amoral!</em> Iris was flabbergasted.</p><p>“Come, wanna check out the sea?” She tugged Iris’ fingers. Her other hand had already grabbed Rubik, who beckoned. Was she really an elf? The way she spoke had little of the formalities that Iris had found in others, even though her accent had that same elven lightness. Lindsay gave her a gentle nudge.</p><p>“Go on. Rowana doesn’t bite.”</p><p>The elf responded by nibbling at Lindsay’s cheek. Lindsay shooed her away, playful.</p><p>Iris supposed that elves came in all flavours and had weirdos as well. Rowana let go of them as soon as their feet touched the sand. Under the eyes of all beach-goers she lifted her arms like lifting an invisible dress and kicked off, skating around the sand in wide, graceful arcs as though on ice. She circled around strangers, grinning and greeting, stopping them in their tracks, leaving them flustered and flummoxed.</p><p>Iris and Rubik strode down the beach and past the black line of kelp and seaweed. Iris picked one up, rubbing her fingers across the slippery rubbery surface speckled with sand. It smelled rather sickly sweet, but Iris couldn’t help sniffing for more of it. Rubik went to the tides and cupped his hands.</p><p>“Nah-uh.” Rowana skidded to a halt before him, spraying water and muddy wet sand onto the rocks behind her. “No drinking seawater, but you can—“ She dipped a finger into the waves and stuck it in Rubik’s mouth. Startled, Rubik fell on his back. His hairband slipped out of his hair. Rowana tilted her head. “Salty, huh? A cupful of that sucks all water out of you. Don’t ask how I know.”</p><p>A passing peddler raised an eyebrow at them, hesitated, and came over.</p><p>“You all want a net? For crabbies and fishies?”</p><p>“Net? Who needs that?” Rowana crouched down. The tide pulled away from under her boots, and out of a number of collapsed little holes. She rolled up her sleeves and pinched the air above one of them. As if being fished by an invisible string, a tiny crab rose out of the ruined hole into the air. Rowana looked up. “See?” The peddler’s sun-tanned, stubble-chinned face froze as though struck by a brick. He turned and walked away, looking back at them, incredulous. Rowana’s eyes narrowed at the struggling crab no bigger than the tip of Iris’ thumb. “Now… what do I do with you?”</p><p>“Eat it!” Rubik pushed the hairband back in place.</p><p>“Let it go!” Iris flinched as Rowana twitched it at her face. Chuckling, Rowana rescinded her magic and let the crab scurry away.</p><p>“Shouldn’t we be more careful, though?” Rubik looked around at the playing people.</p><p>“What for? You think I danced around those people just for fun?” Rowana stretched. She hooked a sensual and loving finger under his chin that made both Rubik and Iris blush, and turned his face out to the sea. Two military cruisers anchored halfway between the beach and the horizon. “This city hosts the navy. Remember those bullet sculptures back there? Colaurë knows where we are. The military is his eyes, both armies are, but the pedestrians are not. Now that his trap’s set, he can’t just attack and startle us away. The idiot is a strategist, not a tactician who thinks on his feet, as some of us are.</p><p>“So we just have fun and mock him for now.”</p><p>The light, salty breeze played about Iris’ hair. The seagulls rode the waves where no one swam. The sunlight spread and skipped across the rippling sea. It was low tide. Iris backed up to the kelp-seaweed line and sat down, watching the world ebb and flow before her, and Rowana hop over the passing waves, not at all concerned about getting wet. Rubik hopped with her, laughing like a child.</p><p><em>This is what life felt like without war, then.</em> Iris thought. <em>What a normal weekend would be.</em> Rowana was probably old enough to be their mother—great-grandmother, even. <em>How old is she? How old do elves live up to?</em> Had this been another world, another life—if there were other Irises and Lindsays out there, this would be the life she’d choose.</p><center> ** </center><p>The city was similar enough for Billy to be a guide, and Iris learnt that it wasn’t all glamour and shine. The dazzles were only as far as the southern coastline went. From the west-most tip north, tents and bedding showed up along the road. The area around the two ports, Port Major and Port Minor, were peculiar, even shabbier than those hamlets they had seen on their way into the city. Garbage piled by the foot of smeared walls enclosing dirt-covered, brick-tiled yards; low houses had windows either grimed or broken or replaced with thin wax paper; attempts of decoration resulted in pots of dead flower, their crumbled stems and leaves hung down the windowsill in pleas for help; the refreshing sea air became a stench more suffocating than that of rotting bodies. All of these only a wide, busy street away from the quaint dainty houses with well-cared-for gardens, relics of the colonial era. Iris saw the sneer on Billy’s face.</p><p>“A gold-rimmed rag here, too, eh?”</p><p>At least she got to spend some hours in that bookstore after they had walked their legs off in the mall. Four stories in total, in addition to a basement level, selling all kinds of books imaginable, for children and adults alike. Iris had felt a more massive information overload than she had first saw the streets outside. Biographies, references on every subject, newspaper collections, magazines, travel guides, cookbooks, music critiques, music scoresheets, art, comics—they had an entire floor for literature, cut into sections by language, and then further by genre. Iris wondered if she should get Fay anything, and then wondered if Fay was in one of those dingy hostels by the Port Minor, where the ferries were. When they meet aboard tomorrow, Iris should lie about where they stayed.</p><p>The nightscape of the city was resplendent regardless of how much of a rag it was within. The street down below was a belt of golden stars. The skyscrapers only raised more stars closer to their nocturnal brethren. Roads in the north were a shiny cobweb in the dark. The sea in the southeast was further decorated by lights from the navy base. The waves rushed in and pulled out; the breathing of their world muted the traffic down below. Iris wished she could listen to it always—without the salty taste of the sea air, though.</p><p>“Good to see a smile on your face.” Lindsay said, pushing their two beds together. Iris had taken off her hairband now that they were in their hotel rooms. For convenience, Billy and Sparcal had rented out the royal suite, the sole room on the top floor. The height of the building, combined with the protective charms laid down by the Ereldar, made the place impregnable. Lindsay and Billy each took a room with Iris and Rubik for extra security. “Tell me you had fun.” Iris nodded, a little guilty. “Don’t feel bad. You earned it.” Lindsay knelt down on the bed and held her left arm wide. Her sword materialized out of thin air in her hand. She leant it against the nightstand.</p><p>“Did you have it on you the entire time?” Iris asked. The sword was peculiar, now that she got to see it up close. It was longer than those swords in Madam Yu’s armoury, around a meter long. The pommel was a flat-cut sapphire, and the red wrapping on the grip resembled those on the Japanese swords. The ricasso was blocked by the sloping, gold crossguards decorated with black vines and leaves. The rainguard was two layers of pentagon-shaped steel screwed in, sandwiching the blade and set with a cut ruby. The blade thinned from the ricasso, and widened again by the end before tapering off to a thick tip. The wide, flat fuller from the hilt almost to the tip was in a dark red, and what Iris thought to be elven letters were inscribed inside in gold. It was a long and flat sword. No wonder Lindsay could use it to deflect bullets. How she was able to wield it so easily was beyond Iris.</p><p>“No, but I can summon it whenever.”</p><p>They washed. Lindsay dried Iris’ hair by draining out all the water with her hands. The ball of water floated in the air over their heads. Iris prodded it. Laughing, Lindsay sent the ball back into the bathtub. She dimmed the lights and started a quiet firework display. Dazzling and iridescent sparks sprayed from her hands into the air and down on the floor, leaving not a trace. She turned around and around in the air, whipping the fountain of sparks like ribbons, and showered Iris with it.</p><p>“How did you do it?” Iris asked, dodging into bed, watching. The mattress was soft. It felt like lying on feathers.</p><p>“Magic.” Lindsay climbed in, too. “<em>Holy</em>! The Council people will be so jealous—they form the entity that oversees the five schools. Past grandmasters. We answer to them. But yeah, magic. Elves don’t like that word, though. They prefer ‘arts’.”</p><p>“Why isn’t Sally like you?”</p><p>“You mean why Billy and I can use elven arts without accessories? Heh.” She pulled Iris closer. Iris gasped in surprise. “Bed story time!</p><p>“One word: Transcriptor. The machine in the Institute is an information processor. It copies information from one medium to another. By information I don’t mean just words… It’s everything—every description of matter. If we, say, transfer the information of a book to a blank notebook, the result would be two identical-looking books, down to the dog ear on a specific page. With the machine being the only surviving one we know of, naturally Billy and I were interested when we visited the Institute years ago.</p><p>“It was old… a relic of tens and thousands of years, built before the elves left for Valinor. It was maintained but still had rare malfunctions, and being the impulsive kid he was, Billy disregarded all warnings. It happened when he tried to transcribe an elven dictionary into his mind. Know what he said before going in?”</p><p>“Uh…?”</p><p>“‘Dictionaries can’t hurt, can it?’” Lindsay scoffed. “There were enough elven DNA tucked within the pages for the machine to compare and overwrite in his body, enough to make him elf-like. I tried to pull him out and I got caught in the blast, as well.</p><p>“We <em>are</em> still human…but we’re not mere humans anymore.”</p><p>“Was it painful?”</p><p>“We’ve had worse. There are more painful things than physical harm—um… I mean…”</p><p>“Memories, huh…”</p><p>“Iris…” Lindsay stopped and brought their foreheads together. It was a while before she spoke again. “There’s a reason we didn’t just wipe your memory all these days.”</p><p>“A reason? A cruel one, I suppose…”</p><p>“It would be cruel to make you forget.” Lindsay emphasized every word. “Listen—“</p><p>“But <em>I</em> don’t want to remember—“</p><p>“You’re no coward.” Lindsay’s arms were tight around her.</p><p>“It hurts to remember, to know those memories will only be memories now—“</p><p>“It’ll pass. I promise. The pain will pass.” Lindsay murmured. “Iris, please. Cherish the memories and eyes forward. That’s how we all got through in the Academy. Most of us there are humans, and even the youngest apprentice had to live through it if their parents—Telepathic intervention was always forbidden on trauma, because it only makes it worse. Do you really want to forget Madam Yu and Camilla? And all the others? Does forgetting do them any justice?” Iris didn’t reply. She wondered when Lindsay would ask her if forgetting them was what Madam Yu and Camilla wanted next. If it took away her pain, they would want that. Iris would want Rubik to forget if she had died—she wished he would forget his grandmother if it meant he would live a happier life. Lindsay pressed on, firm, “The remorse for forgetting is more painful than reliving the memories. Transcriptor won’t help. Telepathy won’t help. And if anyone—if anything happens to anyone tomorrow, it’d be on me, and I can’t just—just wipe that away from myself, either.”</p><p><em>What do you know.</em> Iris thought. She felt Lindsay’s heart pick up pace against her own.</p><p>“E-enough of that. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry…”</p><center> ** </center><p>The chilly morning, the dreary sky, and the prospect of departure sent waves of anxiety through Iris. The possibility of seeing at least Fay again, however, brought her hope and excitement. </p><p>“A ship bigger than our orphanage. We’ll finally get to see it.” Rubik tidied his cloak. Iris nodded. The elven-made cloaks, Rowana had said, were to hide the wearers from unwanted eyes, as long as they didn’t draw attention to themselves. The plan was for Rubik and Iris to stay out of sight the entire time. Billy and Lindsay would pass the check gates in their stead.</p><p>“Ready?” Billy came out to the living room, also in a cloak. He was to hide while Rubik and Iris boarded, and to reveal himself until the ship departed. He walked up to Rubik and smirked. Rubik smirked back. Iris had trouble telling who was whom for one second. “Not bad, the cloak fits. Now get that hairband on. Colaurë will be monitoring our minds if not anything.”</p><p>The eight of them in their gray cloaks marched down and out of the hotel.</p><p>“Aren’t you checking out?” Rubik asked.</p><p>“Booked it for a week.” Billy grunted.</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>“Why not? It’s free.” Sparcal gave him a rare toothy grin.</p><p>Elowen launched the car. They followed Rowana’s jeep down the road and out onto the wide street. Iris slid down in her seat, trying to quiet her heart and stomach. She watched the gray city that slid past her wake up. Vendors revved their motorized tricycles to pull the stalls and carts into position, and unlatched the windows. Storekeepers rolled up the metal sheets of blinds in front of their doors. A few old men unwound the strings from the reels and unfurled their kites on a square, where a giant red sculpture stood bright against the clouds. That was the May Fire, Iris recalled from her history classes. On the May 24th two hundred years ago, a patriot mole within the colonial government set fire to the Union Jack atop the Colonial Parliament Hall in this city, and unveiled the Liberation War. The sculpture also served as an lighthouse. Iris wished they could see it in Kumamoto. Lindsay stared out of her window, elbow on the door handle and biting her nails.</p><p>“Lindsay? Do you think we’ll see Fay?”</p><p>“Mm-hmm.”</p><p>“I hope she and Luting stayed at a good place these days…”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>“…Are you still mad at her?”</p><p>“Mmm?” Lindsay jerked around. “What? You mean that day? The ward I placed on the head chef’s door alerts me when breached and I had a day’s worth of headaches thanks to Rubik kicking at it. I’ve nothing against Fay.”</p><p>“Oh.” Iris’ lips twitched. “Sorry.”</p><p>The commercial district shrank down with every meter they advanced. Iris half-curled in her seat, eyes unfocused, trying to stop her own mind from reading out every sign that glided past. The glamours and clamours of this bustling city were safe from war. It should stay that way. Not all people here looked happy, but at least they weren’t miserable, like the rest of the country was.  Born near the sea, steeped in a sea of colonial history, indulged in a sea of prosperity, they knew nothing of the atrocities of war; they had no fear of their lives coming to an abrupt halt; they might never lose all they had in a second—well, a great portion of them, at least. It was unreal how this city was spared in the war that might finally end soon, and many of them would almost never know it had ever happened. Iris felt jealous. They would never dread the stopping of a jeep.</p><p>She didn’t know why she did. She just wished Elowen would keep driving, on and on and never stop. Even the slightest change in speed was a crack of anxiety in the reality, and as the last steel disappeared from the passing buildings, the anxiety intensified and suffocated her. Perhaps it was the unknown future. She didn’t like changes, and here she was, rushing towards it, allowing herself to be carried to it. Her days with the Ereldar was short but hard to describe in a single word or phrase. An amalgam of feelings. A modicum taste of a life that offered much more. Iris felt like she had stayed with them for much longer than a week—yet they were still pretty much strangers. At least she was comforted to know that there existed a group of strangers among whom and a place where she could feel safe. Like this jeep, unchanging in its moving state.</p><p>They parked by the road.</p><p>“This is goodbye for us.” Elowen and Nix said. They were to exert mass-telepathy to the area, since elves from the Temple focused on mental prowess training. They needed to suppress any thoughts of calling the police, and to evacuate the port if conflicts arise. “Take care, Iris.” They hugged her. “Best of luck overseas.” Iris nodded and watched them share one last joke with Rubik, their teeth radiant against their dark lips. Then, they simply faded away, under the influence of the cloaks.</p><p>“Boy, I’m coming back when things settle.” Rowana strode over and kissed Iris. “I’ll find you in Kumamoto, yeah?”</p><p>“We’re so close to finishing them off. I can’t wait for a boring, uneventful life with nothing but research and archaeology.” Lindsay muttered. “So I’ll be tagging along, too, Rowana.”</p><p>“Until then, farewell.” Sparcal shook hands with Iris. “You and Rubik stay alert. Do not relax until you lose sight of the harbor. Take care.” With a nod, he and Rowana vanished, too, to scout and secure the area.</p><p>The four of them crossed the road and entered Port Minor. A crowd moved alongside them, some dressed in suits and coats and looking at people through their nostrils, some shabby-clothed and covered in dirt and shrinking from the rest. How much did they save up for a ticket? How many days did they walk to get here? Where were they going? Iris didn’t know. She looked around, half-hopeful to see anyone she might recognize. No one.</p><p>The security and the ticket checkpoints were ahead. Through the metal fence on their left, Iris saw ships far out by the piers—they were huge, alright: the bow of the ships towered high over the scene, blocking out the sky; their superstructures were two thirds of the ships’ length, and three or four rows of windows ran from their heads to tails; above that were two to three thick chimneys exhausting white steam. Iris didn’t know how long or how tall these liners were, but yes—Rubik glanced at her with glee—they were bigger than their orphanage.</p><p>They didn’t look cheap at all. Eight tickets, all first-class no less—just how rich had Madam Yu been?</p><p>They stopped for a quick bathroom break. The girls joined the line at the ladies. By the piers, Iris saw soldiers in white. She tugged Lindsay and pointed. Lindsay nodded, her eyes glowing.</p><p>“Marines, huh. Their caps were planted, alright. Don’t draw attention. Stay calm.”</p><p>“Rowana found a small squad by pier 8. She’s staying put until Colaurë shows up.” Billy came back, muttering. “It’s boarding time. I’m heading in with Rubik. You two take your time.” He kissed Lindsay good luck and gave Iris a nod. They disappeared into the crowd. Iris and Lindsay made it quick, and merged into the security lines. They had only one trunk, and thanks to the cloak, Iris went through the security undetected. The officer opened the trunk with only Iris’ bag of medications, and closed it with a satisfied nod. Lindsay tapped her temple at Iris with a knowing eye.</p><p>“Elowen and Nix, not me. Ticket and customs ahead; same deal. Stay close.”</p><p>It was slow even in their first-class express lane. <em>Why can’t we just charge through in our cloaks?</em> Iris’ answer came as they rounded a turn, and she saw the customs officers stamp the documents. <em>Oh… they’ll be checking for that on the other side, I guess. But then can’t I charge through there, too?</em> Then she remembered Rowana, and pulled a face at herself, feeling rather ashamed to be as amoral as her in less than 24 hours.</p><p>They were next. She grabbed Lindsay’s hand and approached. The wizened old officer checked the ticket against the documents and his own records. Iris looked around, trembling. Again, no sign of anyone she knew—! For a split second she thought she had saw Anne, but when she did a double-take, no more signs of her.</p><p>“You dyed your hair, I see.” The old man beamed dotingly at Lindsay through his thick glasses.</p><p>“Mum did it for me. Isn’t it pretty?” Lindsay wrapped a fistful of hair around her face, batting her lashes.</p><p>“Indeed they are.” The officer lifted his cap. “Bon voyage, mademoiselle.”</p><p>“Don’t make me do that again.” Lindsay grimaced once out of earshot.</p><p>“But the impeccable accent!” Iris breathed.</p><p>“Had a good role model.” Lindsay hugged her. “This should be it. Stay safe. I can sense Colaurë already…like a whisper from pier 8. Come. You board at 7.” They walked, reluctant. Around them, people hurried on with their trunks, looking eager or wistful. A dog barked at the seagulls. The sea was quiet. In the near distance, cranes from Port Major loaded and unloaded cargo containers. Billy was nowhere in sight. It meant Rubik was already aboard.</p><p>The sun came out as they reached the empty pier 6. The ship at pier 7 was even bigger than those earlier ones. She craned her neck at the triple chimneys, and tried her best to count the number of the rows of windows. The fences on the deck were so small in comparison to the bow, and she could hardly see the stern of the ship. Three separate anchor chains rooted the behemoth in place. Waves lowered to reveal barnacles plastered to the bow. The shiny letters on the starboard spelt out “TS <em>Leviathan</em>“. This was a liner for the Americas, after all; Kumamoto was only its first stop. <em>How many people are going to be on this?</em> Iris was so awestruck that she didn’t even mind the sour smell of burning tar from the chimneys.</p><p>“Great Mother God… If mum or Cam could see this…”</p><p>Lindsay lashed out her arm in a sudden, blocking Iris’ way.</p><p>“No…no, what’s he doing?”</p><p>Iris followed her alarmed gaze to the deck. The first thing she saw was Fay, hair loose but overall tidy enough; then she saw Luting, her companion for her errand a week ago, standing before Fay against a gang of tough-looking men; finally she saw Rubik in his cloak, running at them. Except that Iris knew she shouldn’t be able to see him at all. <em>He was not willingly concealing himself.</em></p><p>“Fuck that idiot—“ Lindsay was about to take off when the troop at pier 8 caught her eyes. Out of their ranks strode a tall man in quick paces, his golden hair gleamed and swayed in the sun, a long-barreled gun in hand, raising to aim. The troop behind him didn’t follow, but turned to the commotion starting at its back.</p><p>“COLAURË!” Billy charged out of nowhere, his cloak ripped off in a fury and fluttered to the ground. “I’M HERE!”</p><p>The passengers on the deck leaned over the fence to look. The travelers on the pier and the harbor, however, all ran for cover. Iris saw Rowana’s golden hair flying among the troops at pier 8 while at the other end of the port, Sparcal rammed into the squad at pier 3. Colaurë looked from Billy to Rubik to Billy.</p><p>“I’M HERE, ASSHOLE!” Rubik bellowed from the deck. Lindsay growled and unsheathed her sword, poised to throw. Billy wasted no time to pounce on the elf. A warship sailed into Iris’ field of vision, its turrets turning toward the harbor.</p><p>“No—“ She grabbed Lindsay.</p><p>In a fluid motion Colaurë blocked Billy’s crushing blade with his gun and wound it out of the way, firing a bullet at the end of his swing. The bullet hit the portside hull below Rubik. Smoke puffed out of the warship’s turrets. Iris watched the rounds fly and hit an invisible wall halfway. More came and fell. Lindsay, arms stretched, was blocking them.</p><p>The duel in the middle of the harbor was in full rage. Billy hammered blow after blow at the elf, who parried and dodged, shooting at Rubik and slicing at his attacker with a dagger in the other hand.</p><p><em>Leviathan</em>‘s sailors scrambled to lift the gangplank. The beast of a ship roar to life. Anchors were raised, expelling torrents from its chain holes. Slowly its steam turbine turned and inched the hulk of its body out of the harbor. The warship stopped firing. Iris’s sigh of relief was choked back by a low boom and a whistle. The stern of the ship exploded. Two blasts sent a wave crashing into the harbor. Lindsay covered for Iris with her sword. The obscuring water gave way to the sight of the mortar shells, now unhindered, crashing into the superstructure, the chimney, and the foredeck.</p><p>Iris saw the explosions but never felt their shock waves or heard the blasts. She saw the ship and its passengers shredded into pieces but never heard their screams. She saw the wooden planked piers catch and burst into flames, and the burning pieces from that and the ship fly and smash against the ground all around her, but she didn’t feel their heat. Lindsay’s barrier protected her from all physical harm, but not psychological trauma. Behind Lindsay’s back she fell to her knees as the silent explosion raged on, her cast and hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror, her breath strangled in her chest.</p><p>What was there left to utter? Useless whimpers of disbelief? Helpless squeals of their names? The clangs from the duel sounded sharp and jarring, each metallic blow pierced her eardrums and skewered through her brain. What had they ever done to deserve this—what had anyone? The world was unfair, crooked, twisted, and cruel. It was never their fault. It was all <em>their</em> fault. Great Mother God, how she hated it. How she hated Colaurë—How she hated everyone involved.</p><p>So Iris, her mind in pieces, collapsed and screamed.</p><center> ** </center><p>“These barcodes are elven.” Billy gaped as he scrolled through the sequence taken from Rubik. He switched to Iris’, and saw the same thing.</p><p>“Not just that. I checked a few other genes, too.” Sally pointed.</p><p>“Out of 28, 25 elven versions and two human versions. The last one is completely novel.” Lindsay tilted her head. “Huh… the humans here aren’t human, and this world is supposed to resemble ours the most?”</p><p>“Checks and balances of underlying physics produce a similarity overall, I would wager.” Elowen said.</p><p>“But what does that mean for our elves?” Kijuu, the grandmaster of the Archive, massaged his beard. “Will their powers fade away? Obviously I assume you two kids will be fine.” He nodded at Billy and Lindsay. “You are half-blooded, right?”</p><p>“Heterozygous for elven genes, yes.” Sally replied. “We’ve been here for two months and the medical team haven’t noticed any degradation of elven abilities in anyone, yet.”</p><p>“So as long as we’re fast, we should be alright.” Raja, the grandmaster of the University, nodded.</p><p>“Perhaps. It’s the first time we encountered this.”</p><p>“Do they go on journeys when they die prematurely, though?” Kijuu leaned forward.</p><p>“The Journey” was what happened to the mind of the elf who died of unnatural causes, such as murder or suicide. Billy remembered how he had woken up knowing nothing, floating down a stream, and had wandered the surrounding forest until he arrived in a vale, where Nirvanya, an elf elderess, restored his memories and returned him back to his body. The principle of the Journey was unknown. Nirvanya refused to disclose anything other than to what the Journey pertained. The only thing they were certain was that the Vale wasn’t the Blessed Realm of Valinor, and that the process worked regardless of worlds.</p><p>“You mean that might be how the two armies get unlimited soldiers?” Lindsay raised an eyebrow. “I’m not going to find out, man.”</p><p>“No, we can just drag one of those bodies from the piles—“</p><p>“How’s this genetic finding going to change our mission here?” Raja rolled her eyes and cut across Kijuu. “Supposing we didn’t catch Colaurë before elves suffer degradation?”</p><p>“<em>Pfft</em>.” Rowana, her feet on the table and hands behind her head, rocked on the hind legs of her chair and giggled. Sparcal grinned, too. She stared at the ceiling with a dreamy smirk, caring about nobody’s raised eyebrows or questioning gaze. “Imagine how pissed Colaurë is right now.”</p><center> ** </center><p>Rowana lifted Colaurë through the air. Colaurë struggled and broke free with difficulty. Billy’s thrown blade missed him by a second. He landed right before Billy and slashed down with his dagger. To his surprise, it was blocked by his sword that appeared out of nowhere. They attacked and parried, dodged and sidestepped, Rowana joined the fray and the three of them weaved in and out of the flaming debris and the burning ground. Colaurë soon found himself about to be overwhelmed. He managed to backflip behind a towering piece of the ship’s hull, overdriving his revolver with his elven art and spraying down the harbor to keep them at bay. He needed to escape, fast.</p><p>Billy twirled his wide sword and parried the barrage back, embedding the bullets in the hull. Rowana nocked an arrow.</p><p>“Old damn soot has quite some power left.” She nodded to herself and released the bowstring. The arrow shot past an opening in Billy’s sword swings and pierced through the metal hunk. The barrage went on.</p><p>“Oh my, did you miss?” Billy teased.</p><p>“I just made your job easier, dammit.” Rowana nocked another arrow. The hunk of metal Colaurë hid behind exploded. Something dinged against Billy’s sword. It was half of a revolver’s cylinder. Rowana nudged it with her toe. “That, plus a breather.”</p><p>Lindsay broke out of the black smoke, flipping through the air, bombarding Colaurë inside with fire. She landed and skidded to a halt before them.</p><p>“The marines gave you no problem? Get to Iris. I can’t help her.” She ripped open a rift with her sword. Rowana went in without ado. Lindsay looked at Billy, “Are we still capturing him?” He nodded. “Sure.”</p><center> ** </center><p><em>Poor thing.</em> Rowana thought, thrusting her hands between Iris’ hands and her scalp to stop her from clawing it. Iris’ mouth foamed from her screams and her body shivered violently. Rowana threw off Iris’ hairband and clasped her tight in her arms. She touched their forehead together.</p><p>Iris’ mind was a swirl of oversaturated emotions and pieces of intense memories soaked in psychedelic colors. It was a large stained-glass window, shattered and ground into fine powders, and they were trickling away through a hole.</p><p>“I’m sorry.” Rowana whispered. She invaded Iris’ mind to its deepest core, and asserted control. Iris’ scream subsided and her body went limp. Rowana sent a thought pattern throughout Iris’ mind, a pattern that was used as a telepathy exercise in the Ereldar curriculum. If Iris indeed had an elven-like genome, then this pattern should resonate with her mind enough to not just calm it down but also patch itself, to an extent that would at least recover the bits that had trickled away.</p><p>Iris’ body responded by digging her nails into Rowana’s back.</p><center> ** </center><p>Soldiers disembarked their rafts and opened fire. Billy concentrated his attacks on Colaurë while Lindsay dealt with the advancing squad. The usual dis-helmet tactics lost its efficiency half a minute in, when more and more soldiers breached the burning debris in the sea from the warship beyond. Lindsay wondered if this warranted breaking the Ereldar rule of killing innocents—these people were under Colaurë’s influence, true, but her life, and Billy’s, were at stake. <em>Or I can just disable them some other way.</em></p><p>She swiped her sword before her and let go. The sword, tip down and upright, spun around her in a blur, forming a barrier. Lindsay gathered her senses and let it seep through every soldier around pier 7, regardless of where they were. She tried to get hold of their chips, but couldn’t; then she tried their helmets, and that failed, too. So Lindsay sighed and mustered all the power she could. She levitated every soldier into the air, and hanged them in place.</p><p>Colaurë’s presence rushed in, knocking the fallen rifles aside. Lindsay grabbed her spinning sword just in time to parry his furious daggers. She kicked him in the chest. He fell back, right into Billy’s headlock.</p><p>“Just the break I needed.” From Colaurë’s hair Billy dug out a hairband. “Twenty years of this place drained your telepathy, I see.” He crumbled the hairband in front of the elf’s eyes. The soldiers overhead stopped fighting against their restrains. Lindsay let them fall. Now under Elowen and Nix’s influence, they fled. She hanged Colaurë instead.</p><p>“Go ahead.” Containing Colaurë with effort, she grunted to Billy, who leapt up, sword poised. Killing the elf now would send him on Journey. When he finished it, he’d wake up imprisoned, back in their own world and ready for interrogation.</p><p>The air around Colaurë rippled. Halfway upwards Billy felt himself being drawn in. He clicked his tongue in annoyance.</p><p>The elf broke free in an explosion. The shock wave blasted a crater in the cement below and rekindled the dying fires around pier 7. Lindsay flew through two of these fires and crashed into a stray part of <em>Leviathan</em>. Billy plunged into the sea.</p><center> ** </center><p>He wondered how many people’s blood were on his hands, in both literal and figurative senses, as he fell through the nightmarish underwater. Clouds of blood dissipated and recoalesced. Flesh and debris submerged and re-emerged. He saw the stern of <em>Leviathan</em> at the bottom: two holes marked where the torpedoes had made contact.</p><p>The liner, as an advertisement that was now ashes had said, carried around 4000 people, including the crew. The orphanage, according to Iris, had 60 or so residents, 41 of them underaged children. The two days of bombing had destroyed an area where at least 100 people hid or lived and counted on their luck to see the next day.</p><p>All gone, because of one person who shared his face, whose blood now soaked his entirety. Would Rubik have died without the hairband? Billy watched a lacerated arm float past. His concern for manipulation from Colaurë was unfounded and disproven. The elf relied on the chips for telepathy, now, and he could only manipulate those with chips, too. Perhaps he could still read minds with his chip; then he’d know Rubik wasn’t his target, and wouldn’t have ordered to attack the ship…</p><p>Billy turned his body and kicked upwards. Let there be one more person’s blood on his hands to avenge the 4200 others. Colaurë would see Valinor today.</p><center> ** </center><p>Lindsay picked herself up, patching her wounds with quick, crude stitches by magic. She hissed from the pain. It felt like there were two long ones on her back, one on her right arm, and one across her left thigh. At least her weapon arm, her left, was intact. This was it. Colaurë couldn’t be captured that easily. Might as well eliminate him instead. It seemed that his telepathy had succumbed to this world’s law first. Pity that he retained his other elven powers.</p><p>The only way to truly kill him was to damage his body beyond repair. <em>Not the first time I have to do this.</em> Lindsay steeled herself and blasted the pile of ship parts before her aside.</p><p>Colaurë was just coming around, as well. Was he staggering from the effort of using an elven art of that degree? That would mean his elven powers were crippled somewhat, too. Lindsay snarled and charged in. Colaurë blocked with his daggers.</p><p>“Is this the best you humans can do? Your little boyfriend did not even hit me.” He sneered.</p><p>“Then I will.” Lindsay hissed. Three strikes were blocked and Lindsay kicked off, skating around the elf, engaging and disengaging him like a boomerang. She focused on his arms, cutting the same place until her flurry drew blood and exposed the bones. The elf seemed to have spent his power. He could no longer use his arts—he was certainly slower, without the enhanced speed or agility anymore.</p><p>What he lacked in magic, he made up with five centuries of experience. On her next pass, Lindsay was wound around to Colaurë’s other side. She felt his daggers dig into the two wounds on her back. The searing pain toppled her down into a heap. Colaurë closed in for the final blow.</p><p>In a splash of water Billy broke the surface and and bowled Colaurë over. He rolled onto his feet and back in he went. Colaurë’s face mirrored his own hatred. Blow by blow they exchanged, venting their disdain and scorn and rage into every strike that were no longer measured. In a wild roundhouse slash Colaurë sent Billy backwards, spraying the ground with blood. With a strained roar the boy rebounded back, left eye bloody and shut, and showed the elf just what a human’s wrath could mean.</p><p>In less than ten seconds Colaurë lost his left arm that was already flayed to the bone. In the next thirty-two seconds he realized that the girl was carving up his back in revenge. One minute later, after adding more wounds to both of their faces and bodies, and another deep gash in the boy’s right eye, Colaurë noticed that both of them had a huge metallic claw each on their off-hand arm, sprung out of their bracers, but wasn’t sure when this had happened. Two minutes mark, Colaurë found arrows sticking from his body. He saw daggers and lances, felt hammers and bullets, endured fire and lightning, and realized that they were using every weapon they have at their disposal. He wasn’t sure how he was still standing. He couldn’t control his arm. He couldn’t feel any pain or any heat from the fires nearby anymore, not even that from his own hatred, nor the slimy coldness from his shame. To be killed by humans not having even reached their adulthood was the worst mockery he knew—he had considered his colleagues died at the Ereldar’s hands weak, and now…But that was because of this world, surely… Had they met him at his full power…</p><p>But the girl fought as if she was never wounded, and the boy as though he was never blinded. Colaurë mustered all the strength he had left and gambled the last bit of his art into one final strike.</p><p>A bronze cube was flicked into the air by Billy and clicked apart. The device, built from the same technology derived from the Transcriptor, began siphoning 500 years’ worth of memories from Colaurë into its glowing blue core.</p><p>“You aren’t even close to the worst we’ve killed.” Lindsay whispered, eyes hard. She parried and flung his dagger out of his hand. She was sure she ripped open more wounds on her body, but she held on the momentum and thrust forward her off-hand.</p><p>The elf spun, arm thrown wide aside. The last thing he felt was the pain from two claws that pierced through his body, front and back. The device clicked back into a cube and hit the ground. The two of them sheathed their claws and collapsed with Colaurë’s body.</p><p>Pier 7 was as scarred as any of them. Bodies—what was left of them—and scraps of the ship and the pier scattered about the blood-splattered, crater-filled, cracked and blackened ground.</p><p>They dragged themselves around the elf, and leaned upon the other.</p><p>“Your eyes—“</p><p>“Nothing that can’t be fixed.” He kept his head down and away from her reaching hand. “You stop moving. Don’t bleed out.”</p><p>“Nothing that can’t be fixed.” She sighed. They sat, panting.</p><p>“Lindsay?”</p><p>“Yes, sweet?”</p><p>“Is this even a success?” He gasped as a surge of pain shot through his eyes. She felt it in her mind. “Why do I feel like I’m the evil one?”</p><p>“I feel just as guilty.” She murmured and kissed him. Sparcal was with Rowana, bowing over Iris. Elowen and Nix were flying over from afar. Otherwise, Port Minor was as deserted as it could be in the cackling fires.</p><center> ** </center><p>“Iris—“ Rowana had lost all her airiness. Iris ignored her. She wished she had never woken up, so she didn’t have to fall back into that horrid whirlpool of chaos every night, to revisit the orphanage, Madam Yu, Camilla, Mr. Gao, Anne, Fay, Timmy and Tina—everyone, just to watch their ends again, and to scream herself awake in tears and sweat. She wished she had never woken up, so when daylight disintegrated the nightmares, she didn’t have to reason with herself whether to blame or to hate the Ereldar—especially <em>him</em>. It wasn’t any of their fault, but stripped down to its core… it was.</p><p>“Iris… please eat.” Rowana’s voice was breaking. “I didn’t want to control you again. Can you just eat?”</p><p>She and Sparcal had been forcing food down Iris’ throat through telepathy, just to keep her alive, and to live through all the turmoil again. Should Iris hate them for doing what everyone deemed the right thing against her will and judgment?</p><p>Elowen and Nix came in daily to check on her mental state. They didn’t wipe her memories. They probed her mind, sieving and organizing her thoughts, and tried to get her talk. They said talking would help heal the mental wounds. Should Iris hate them for not wiping her most painful memories and lying in her face?</p><p>The only two who were missing…Iris didn’t care. They were the ones responsible the most. She hated them for their absence.</p><p>Since she had woken up in the hotel room, on one side of the merged bed, she hadn’t spoken a word, or moved of her own will at all. Rowana ushered her to toilets and showers and walks on the beach like a puppet. She didn’t know how long she had lain there unconscious, and she had stopped counting the days passed. She laid in her side of the bed like a patient in a vegetative state, watching through the skylight overhead the weather outside move from the March breeze to the April showers. She kept hearing the news from the living room talking about the ongoing investigations in Port Minor (Rowana had told her what had happened but all she cared was…nothing). The cries of seagulls had increased. Her cast had started to crack.</p><p>What would happen next? All she knew was that she had nothing left in this world, and she clung to the knowledge, the only concrete thing she had. Her nightmares reinforced it, and for once, she embraced them, like a wandering cloud embracing the fact that ultimately it would fall and die as raindrops.</p><p>When a day in late April, she opened her eyes, she felt something soft on her side. It was her left arm and hand. The cast had fallen apart. She flexed her fingers and pressed her forearm. She lifted her sheet to pick at the white plaster bits. The arm smelled. Iris leapt out of her bed and stumbled into the bathroom, walking on her own in weeks, and collapsed onto the toilet in an attack of vertigo, an eruption of black spots and straying stars before her eyes. Crying as she stripped, she climbed into the bathtub, and let water bombarded her body. It was so good to have her own body back.</p><p>Rowana knocked and entered. She waited until Iris had finished the longest shower she had ever taken—Iris had scrubbed her arm red, feeling it might never smell clean again. Rowana stared at her when she pulled back the curtain, struggling with herself. Iris hadn’t heard her knock, but she didn’t care anymore. Rowana was the one who washed her every day. Did elves ever become speechless, especially this one, who flirted with everybody? Iris’ time with them had subverted a lot of her beliefs.</p><p>“Nice figure.” Rowana seemed to have decided to revert back to her frivolous self the best she could. Iris ripped the curtains back shut. She heard Rowana stomp her feet two full seconds later: “At least get dressed before getting mad at me!”</p><p><em>How feeble a retort.</em> Iris thought.</p><p>Lindsay sat waiting with Billy when Iris returned to the room. She leaned on a staff and he wore a blindfold. She tried to stand up. He stopped her and stood up himself. Rowana settled Iris down by the bed and joined them.</p><p>“Our titles mean little,” he started, voice cold and hard like the first time Iris had met him in that alleyway millennia ago, “but we still hold one of the leadership positions at our respective schools.” Iris scoffed at the carpeted floor. What was he doing, reasserting his authority? To give her orders to eat, to speak, to not have survivor’s guilt? It was all his fault (<em>Even if it wasn’t his fault they look alike, it still is.</em> She thought). He swallowed and went on, “Elowen is out getting groceries with Nix and the other two grandmasters don’t arrive until tomorrow, but I—I cannot wait anymore.”</p><p>To Iris’ surprise, out of the corner of her eyes she saw him sink into a deep bow. Rowana followed suit.</p><p>“W-we have brought you pain and trauma beyond all reckoning. We f-failed our promise. Please—please allow us two to apologize for all we have caused, in place for the Council of Ereldar and the other grandmasters of our s-schools.” He steadied his breath. “If you have any anger and hatred, please, vent them on me. I’m personally responsible—“</p><p>“Apologies can’t bring back anyone… Iris, if you want anything, please, just ask. We will do anything, though I know it will never be enough…”</p><p>Would they really do it if she asked them to snuff her miserable life? Iris clenched her teeth and dug her nails into her lap. She felt cold. She felt sick. She had enough. Just kill her. There’d be nobody to miss her. Make her leave this stupid world where the kind were always punished and the evil were always rewarded. If she wanted anything? Plunge those elaborate pair of swords into her, then. She was washed clean. She’d die as she had come.</p><p>Lindsay tugged at the two still bowing and sat them down. This somehow made Iris breathe easier. The mattress sacked beside her and Lindsay’s arms, shaking with pain, wrapped around her.</p><p>“You don’t have to die to leave, Iris.” Iris turned her head away from her. Lindsay held her tighter. “Please. I don’t want you to die.”</p><p>Iris felt her shoulder got wet.</p><center> ** </center><p>The door banged open and in charged Sally. She fell onto Iris.</p><p>“How are you feeling? Are you alright? Nightmares? Dizziness? How’s your arm? The cast’s off. Does it hurt, still? It’s rare but just to make sure—“</p><p>Even if Sally and Camilla had been counterparts, which they weren’t, she still couldn’t replace her. Iris let her fret on, and looked away, expressionless. She hadn’t spoken for so long. Her throat felt dead. Sally held her face.</p><p>“We placed charms around their graves so when—if you ever come back, you can visit, okay?” Iris closed her eyes. She had convinced herself not to ask for their ashes. She couldn’t bear to have that evidence of everything: her lost life, their death, this sickening world. Rubik didn’t even have anything to bury.</p><p>Might as well.</p><p>“The head chef—I’m sorry, Iris—I’m so sorry—we had to send him to Japan. Iris! Listen—somebody had to tell Madam Yu’s friend about what happened, Iris—oh I’m so sorry… We planted a cue in his mind—once he arrives in Kumamoto, it’ll force him to find the lady and deliver the news. But listen! Billy and Lindsay planted it, so you’ll never know what else they put in there! They could be cruel to the right, or wrong, people.” Iris wondered what good Sally was doing by telling her this. She didn’t want to know more things to complicate her feelings toward those two. If that “something else” was to kill himself, then Iris didn’t know if it was punishment or mercy; if it was to have him live a cruel life, Iris didn’t know how to feel about herself being the incentive for someone else’s misery. <em>Would Sally label my experiences as “cruel”?</em></p><p>Sally let go of her and drew out something from her bag. Iris’ head whipped around. How could this be—the bunny—it should’ve burnt up with the orphanage—but here it was, the same one Camilla had given her on her first birthday at that place. Iris grabbed it and turned it over and over in her hands. Not exactly the same. One of its ears was missing and part of its limbs had much smaller stitches. Sally fiddled with her glasses.</p><p>“Well, um—he-he said not to tell, but he went back to the ruins and found this. He asked us medics to ‘do our thing’, and, you know, we’re good at stitching.” Sally let out a small smile. Iris’ expression softened. Sally sounded much more relaxed as she went on. “Elves were good at fixing things, and I helped where I could. There are places just irreparable here so we left it at that. For now. But I promise! The Academy got the best tailors in all schools! We’ll get them to help the first thing we get back—um…”</p><p><em>It’s the only thing I have left now.</em> Iris buried her face in the bunny, curling up. <em>A good one.</em></p><p>“You are coming with us, right?” Sally sounded almost afraid of the answer.</p><p>“Yes.” Iris whispered, hoarse, to the bunny. “You come with me.”</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;center&gt; -- Departure -- &lt;/center&gt;

&lt;p&gt;Camilla didn’t make it.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Her condition had never improved. When she was taken in, she had been in a high fever. The medics managed to contain it just under 39°C with antibiotics and their elven arts. They also monitored her heart rate and brain activity, both of which remained at a bare minimum. In the 48 hours after her operations, her fever lowered, her heart had failed thrice, and each time they revived it, the charge used was greater than the last. Fifty-eight hours after her operations, her body temperature tumbled below 35°C. Medics rushed into action, only to find the infection within her body had resurged. The bacteria had adapted to their drugs with unexpected speed, and was already enough to inflame and disable her medulla. Sixty-one hours after her operations, her heart stopped, and defied all medical efforts. Sixty-one-and-a-half hours, she showed symptoms of hydrocephalus. The medics struggled for almost another two and a half hours before Iris, unable to sleep well, got dressed and waded to the medics tent through the dark. No one was in the hallway. She waited outside the emergency room, and listened to the muffled shuffle through the flap. She sat praying. No one was ever religious at the orphanage. Madam Yu didn’t allow it; she only believed in herself. The “Great Mother God” everyone swore to was a mere figure of speech. Whatever role she had in their folklore, she couldn’t help now.&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/categories/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    
    <category term="Winter Solstice Story" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Winter-Solstice-Story/"/>
    
    <category term="Alvar" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Alvar/"/>
    
    <category term="Alvariography" scheme="http://example.com/tags/Alvariography/"/>
    
  </entry>
  
  <entry>
    <title>2020 Winter Solstice Story - Alvariography - Iris - PART 2</title>
    <link href="http://example.com/2021/01/02/2020%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Alvariography%20Iris%20-%20PART%202/"/>
    <id>http://example.com/2021/01/02/2020%20Winter%20Solstice%20Story%20-%20Alvariography%20Iris%20-%20PART%202/</id>
    <published>2021-01-03T01:10:00.000Z</published>
    <updated>2022-05-03T00:28:05.938Z</updated>
    
    <content type="html"><![CDATA[<link rel="stylesheet" class="aplayer-secondary-style-marker" href="\assets\css\APlayer.min.css"><script src="\assets\js\APlayer.min.js" class="aplayer-secondary-script-marker"></script><center> -- Turmoil -- </center><p>“Hey. Can we cross?” Rubik came up to a Liberation Army soldier on the People’s Boulevard, unfazed by his rough demeanor. “My sister and I need to get to the bank.”</p><p>The last line of L.A.’s defense looked busier than Iris had expected. Soldiers in dirty shirts shoveled earth out of the trench that was as wide as the boulevard and extended further than their eyes could see both ways. It was already deep enough to hide a standing man. More warmly-dressed grunts chanted work calls while hauling heavy artillery vehicles up and down the its edge. Mechanics stretched half of their bodies under the line of parked tanks, their toolboxes poking out of the machines. Rubik and Iris weren’t the only civilians outside today. Up and down the boulevard, more like them asked by the trench overpasses for access. The soldier held them both under scrutiny. His gaze lingered a bit too long on Rubik’s face. He stepped aside and let them pass.</p><span id="more"></span><p>Before the full clash had happened, even with the skirmishes, there had been shops open here. Two-storied townhouses had served as meat markets, cafés, bakeries, clothing stores, post offices, and even movie theatres. They all had their front door nailed shut, however; customers were to take the back doors in the alleyways. Now, the Liberation Army had the owners and the storekeepers relocated, and the buildings were occupied by the army as barracks and facilities. Across the trench, Rubik and Iris saw a few buildings in ruins. They circumvented a crater from a mortar blast and hurried on.</p><p>“That man gives me the creeps. Let’s cross at a different place when coming back.” Iris said. Rubik nodded.</p><p>“Nice to be out and about, though.”</p><p>The breezy March weather would’ve given them a feeling of hope had it not been a week from their departure. The day before, the L.A. patrols had marched through the city broadcasting a week-long ceasefire for the Independence Day, as negotiated by the two armies. Iris found this ridiculous. They didn’t even cease fire for the Spring Festival. Madam Yu took the opportunity to send the seven of them out for travel-related errands. She gave Iris and Rubik an envelope and whispered in their ears that they were to retrieve the checkbooks for travel expenses from the bank.</p><p>“Why so secretive, mum?” Rubik had asked.</p><p>“The fewer knows what each of you are doing, the better. It’s best for us to be extra careful now.” Her solemn expression made Iris wonder if Mr. Gao had swayed her over to the conspiracy theory.</p><p>Not too many people were around after they passed the street south of the boulevard. After all, from here on to the tenth street south was the L.A. defense zone, where most of the bombs were dropped. Nothing much was around here. They picked their way between dead bodies and found the bank. A dusty sign pointed them to the alleyway, where the side door was. No one was there. Iris rang the bell on the counter. There was a grating of metal, and a moment later, a twitchy clerk climbed out of the stairs to the basement.</p><p>“W-welcome.” He looked at the letter, and went down again. He came back holding seven envelopes.</p><p>“Thanks.” Rubik nodded. Outside, he handed four of them to Iris. They tucked them safe in the inner pockets under their shirts. “Let’s mosey. Don’t want to stay out here.”</p><p>Iris took his hand and they trotted westward. In the hazy sky, airplanes bearing the yellow-red flags rumbled past. They circled around not too far ahead and flew back. <em>Looks like the People’s Army are maximizing the benefit of the ceasefire—</em></p><p>A whistle from above made them jump. A bomb flew from the south and disappeared behind the spire of a half-fallen church. The explosion shook Iris off her feet. Rubik helped her up.</p><p>“Probably a misfire—“ He was cut off by another whistle, and two more. Iris tugged him and they turned around. One of the bombs landed in the block to their right as they crossed an intersection. They were far enough to be out of its blast zone but close enough to take the sound of the explosion full-on. Iris staggered, coughing in the dust. Her ears rang. Rubik was shouting but she couldn’t hear a thing. He pulled her down behind a wall and Iris felt a wave of heat rush past. Her scream sounded foreign coming through her skull. They ran and turned left. The trench was two blocks ahead. Soldiers were rushing to their posts and the civilians were fleeing behind them. Iris saw smoke gushed out of the artilleries. The ceasefire was no more. Halfway down the block Iris looked back and saw a shell heading in their direction. She screamed and wrenched Rubik to the left, into an alleyway. They crouched behind a skip and covered their heads. The shell flew past. Not waiting for the ground to stop shaking, Rubik led Iris out and down the street. Block after block their advance to the trench was denied by debris or fire. Iris was out of breath. Her throat felt on fire, and her ear was drowned by a perpetual monotone made by an ever-vibrating gong. They never should have come out today. The armies shouldn’t be trusted…</p><p>The next street was accessible. They could see the trench. Soldiers with binoculars stood inside with only their heads visible. One of them seemed to have seen them. He gestured to his mates. A small team of four clambered out with guns. <em>Oh thank Mother God, they’re coming to get us—</em></p><p>A faint whistle ripped through the eternal gong. The soldiers scattered and took cover. Rubik looked up and around, his face furious, and mouthed, “What the hell?” and at the next instant, Iris felt herself been swung into the air. She flew into another alley, and landed hard on her left arm. The momentum rolled her behind a skip. It was as though someone struck that gong again. She recoiled. The ground quaked. A shock wave sent dust and pebble her way. They breached through the metal skip like bullets and stopped, thankfully, by the rubbish inside.</p><p>And the skip burst into flames.</p><p>Iris gave a squeal of fright and tried to stand up. A sharp pain pierced through her left arm as she held onto the wall. She tumbled head-first into it and down to the ground. <em>It can’t be broken!</em> She felt her right arm and legs. They were scraped, but alright. Gritting her teeth, Iris backed away from the fire. She pressed her ear to stem the hum without any effect. The world was in a vertigo. <em>Where’s Rubik? Where’s Rubik?</em></p><p>There was the alley entrance, and there was the road. The shaking seemed to have stopped. The world swirled on. She held onto the wall with her right hand, bloody and shaking. Could she walk? No. So she crawled to the entrance and looked up. She collapsed.</p><p>The middle of the road had become a crater, its diameter the width of the street.</p><p>Chunks of cement. Broken pipes. Uprooted tree. Bits of body. In her tears the world swirled on and on.</p><p>Iris’ hand flew to her mouth. Her other followed out of habit and the pain made her spasm. She sobbed and retched. No Rubik. No Rubik, anywhere. Just body bits. Her stomach cramped hard but nothing came out. No. No. She dragged herself deeper into the alleyway. The gong in her ear diminished to a quiet ringing. The ground shook again. Iris curled up, sobbing. It had come too fast. Too fast. They never should’ve come out. She couldn’t get back on her own now. Without Rubik she might as well as die. <em>The skip fire. Just crawl into it…</em></p><p>Why were there still bombs flying through the air? It was so unreal… The world should just come to a halt… Her ears quieted down and she inched towards the skip. The pain in her arm was acute. This was all wrong. All wrong… What had they ever done to deserve this? There were boots thundering past behind her outside. <em>Go away. Go away… Haven’t you done enough?</em> Bursts of gunfire. She gasped and lay still. Now they were retreating, back the way they came. Their bullets ricocheted off the bricks, cement, and… <em>Metal?</em> Iris curled up tighter. The sharp sound hurt her ears. She closed her eyes. <em>The waves of heat from the fire felt nice…</em> She said to herself. The bullets made a different sound every time they hit the metal. It was as though they were shooting at a spinning pipe. Trembling and terrified, Iris clenched her teeth to not let her whimpers escape, lest they find her.</p><p>There was one last hit on the pipe. Somebody entered the alley, paused, and advanced toward her. Firm steps told her it was a man. Iris couldn’t suppress her shivering gasps anymore.</p><p>“No…” She whimpered. “Go away…” She had so wanted to die just a moment ago. Why was it so hard now? What was he going to do to her? What was he waiting for?</p><p>“Broken arm.” The was curt and a tad cold. He knelt down and rifled around his pocket. With a light and careful hand he reached over from behind her and touched her left elbow. Iris flinched and tried to crawl away.</p><p>“I’m trying to help.”</p><p><em>Can’t trust any soldiers.</em> Iris thought.</p><p>“You want that arm amputated?”</p><p><em>Not by you, anyways.</em></p><p>“I won’t.”</p><p>Iris froze. Was that a response to her thought? The stranger took this moment to reach over again.</p><p>“Relax that arm.” She did. He lifted it a millimeter, and slid a piece of curved plastic underneath. Through her wet lashes Iris saw his leather-gloved hand place another piece on top, and clasped her arm in place. The casing was lined with soft sponges on the inside. It dulled the pain somewhat. He then hovered his hand over her head. A warm flow circulated inside her brain. The world stabilized and began to click into place.</p><p>There was a flurry of boots at the entrance. The warmth withdrew, but the world stayed still. He left.</p><p>“There he is!”</p><p>“The general wants him alive—“</p><p>Sounded like the stranger charged at them. The soldiers shot in reflex. Iris shuddered. All it’d take was one stray bullet to finish her off—</p><p>The shooting came to an abrupt halt, like before. Iris heard a scuffle. A grunt. Two dull clashes between wood. Something metallic fell.</p><p>“You didn’t see me here.” The stranger said. “Neither have you. Nor you.” They must’ve left, for he came back, turned her around, and tied the cords on the plastic casing. Iris opened her eyes full, timid. She gasped. Her shock faltered quick into a frown of fear. The stranger wasn’t looking at her. He tested the knots.</p><p>“You’re not Rubik.” Iris whispered. He had Rubik’s face. He had his hair. He even had the same mole at the corner of his left eye, but Iris knew Rubik too well to know this wasn’t him. His accent was off, now that she thought about it.</p><p>“No.” The stranger grunted. “Can you walk?” He held out a hand. She took it and, trembling, hoisted herself up. Her legs gave away. Rubik’s doppelganger sighed. He threw his cloak over her and took her up in his arms.</p><p>What could Iris do? She couldn’t fight back even if she wanted to. The street was littered with debris and bodies but at least his pace was steady. The sky was free of planes now. The bombing had stopped for good, it seemed. <em>Now</em> they remembered the ceasefire. The stranger smirked.</p><p>“There’s never a ceasefire.” He muttered. “This whole war was just a show.” Iris gave a start. He flinched in response and held her in to secure her more.</p><p>That was a concrete, direct response to her thought. How did he know what she was thinking? Iris felt uneasy. This “Rubik” survived the bombing, found her, dispatched three armed soldiers, and strutted through the gore and fires and craters with her in his arms like taking a stroll. Who was he? Was he from the People’s Army? His arms were rather bony. Iris felt like hanging between pipes.</p><p>“Sorry.” He scowled and put her down by a ruined building. Iris thought, to her shock, that he read her mind again and was abandoning her. Then she heard loading of guns. They fired.</p><p>Against her better judgment, Iris peeked out from behind the ruin. Four soldiers blocked the street ahead. She couldn’t see how “Rubik” dodged the bullets while charging at them. He scaled up the yet-standing building on his right, and disappeared in the flames that licked the air through a broken window. Iris’ jaw dropped. <em>What’s this, suicide?</em> But he was somehow turning in the air, holding a sword that hadn’t been around anywhere before, poised to strike down. He disappeared again. At this point, Iris decided that she had already died during the bombing and was now in an afterlife. Either that, or she was having an illusion while laying behind that burning skip.</p><p>So she might as well as enjoy the show. She peeked out just in time to see him cut off the barrel of a soldier’s gun and knocked off his helmet in one stroke. There were already two lying on the ground. He threw the soldier into the last one and with a graceful swing, kicked his helmet off as well.</p><p><em>It’s not every day you see someone bringing a knife to a gun fight and win.</em> Iris pulled a face. If this was afterlife, it wasn’t too bad.</p><p>“Rubik” came back for her, a hint of annoyance on his face. Where did his sword go? She still didn’t trust him, but she felt a little assured. He didn’t kill people. They passed the dazed soldiers lying on the ground, who muttered, “He wasn’t here. He wasn’t here.”</p><center> ** </center><p>“Lindsay already took him to Ward Three.” A blonde man said to them. “Rubik” nodded back with a little warmth. Iris blushed. She didn’t want anyone to see her like this.</p><p>The place “Rubik” had taken her was in the hilltop park. Along the climb she saw charred tree trunks and blackened ground, as lifeless as they could be, all from the fire a month ago. When the ground leveled, the scene changed. The dead wasteland was replaced by living trees, their wet boughs reaching out with green buds. In a few more steps they emerged into a clearing pitched with a number of white, flat tents. In the middle was the biggest of the four. The one they entered was on the left. The flaps had strayed aside on their own to let them through.</p><p>The exterior couldn’t be more deceiving. Behind the flaps was a wide and well-lit lobby. Further down was a long hallway that turned off at the end. Iris saw eight or nine people—white, yellow, black, their hair either silvery-blond or dark, one or two red or chestnut—either walking by or sitting, or standing in twos or threes. There was an assortment of clothes, from white robes to leather-armoured tunics to normal shirts. They were serious and intense. One would look up to greet “Rubik”.</p><p>“Briefing in two minutes?”</p><p>“Ten.” He replied.</p><p>They entered a ward down the hall.</p><p>“Iris!”</p><p>The voice made her snap her head up. She almost fell out of the stranger’s arms. Iris reached out, and then remembered there were two more strangers around the room, and flinched her arm back. But there was Rubik—the real one, <em>her</em> Rubik—sitting on a hospital bed, dangling his feet in his careless way. A bespectacled black-haired girl and a ponytail was taking his vitals. Another blonde girl leaned against the cabinet in the opposite, arms crossed and smiling slightly. She turned her thick-lashed eyes of amber from the excited Rubik to them.</p><p>“Billy, you’ve got her.”</p><p>“Let’s switch next time. A girl trusts a girl more.” He set Iris down in the adjacent bed, and leaned next to the blonde girl. Both of them wore short jackets, the shoulders of which were padded with leather, along with the back of the sleeves. Belts slung from the left shoulders down across to the right, and then back across the waist. Their trousers were of a tough, blue fabric. They both wore gloves and boots. The black-haired girl, who looked like she was from around here, wore a white sweater, the same blue trousers, and a lab coat. She soothed Iris and undid the plastic casing on her arm.</p><p>“Nah. I don’t think so.” The blonde girl laid her head on his shoulder. “Billy”—that was what she had called him.</p><p>“Are you alright, Iris?” Rubik leaned over. “You’re hurt! I hope I didn’t throw you too hard. I panicked. But you’ll <em>never</em> believe what happened next!”</p><p>“Give her some space for now, Rubik.” The black-haired girl said. She had a crisp voice. Iris liked it. Rubik kiss Iris and sat back. The girl laughed, “You can keep talking, though.”</p><p>“Right! Iris, you won’t believe it! Just as I threw you into the alleyway, Lindsay right there—“ He pointed at the blonde girl, who watched them both with interest, “<em>slammed</em> into me before the bomb hit and whisked me here! I swear she was <em>flying</em>!”</p><p>“Did you?” Billy peered at her. Lindsay nudged him and tutted. He shook his head. “Whatever works, I guess.”</p><p>“And then I was here, in the ward. Sally was taking care of my scrapes and stuff.” Rubik nodded at the black-haired girl.</p><p>Sally helped Iris up. Iris swayed and Rubik rushed over to support her.</p><p>“She has a concussion. I did what I could but was interrupted.” Billy called. He sounded much more natural now. The curtness was gone.</p><p>“Must be hard on your arms to carry her all the way.” Lindsay teased. Iris found her voice rather thick, like velvet, just like her own. Sally handed her a glass, telling her to drink. She said it’d put her to sleep and help with the concussion. Its tasteless contents poured fog into her head.</p><p>“No biggie.” Billy smirked. “She’s lighter than you are.” Lindsay tutted and nudged him again. Billy chuckled. It sounded so out of character. He added, “Time for meeting. Sally, you stay here.”</p><p>Iris saw Sally nod. She saw Lindsay raise her head off of Billy’s shoulder. She felt Rubik’s familiar arms. She wondered if the other five people had survived the bombing and returned home.</p><p><em>People at the orphanage must be worried.</em></p><center> ** </center><p>Iris woke to the sunlight on the pale yellow wall. The ward was empty except for Rubik, who slept in the bed at the head of hers. She lay there, her left arm stretched out before her, encased in a cast. A throbbing pain smothered inside, punctured by brief sharp ones not so often. She rolled around and faced the room. The sun was peeking in through the gap of the curtains next to the cabinet. On the cabinet’s other side was a workbench, all the tools and jars were organized by the wall around a lamp. By the foot of her bed were equipment and machines that monitored her vitals. Strange, she would’ve thought there be wires and sensors attached to her body, yet there it was, on the screen, the cardiograph leapt and dipped in sync to her heartbeat.</p><p>Iris felt the pocket under her shirt: the envelopes of checkbooks were there. <em>Phew. We should get back to mum.</em></p><p>The flap to the entrance opened, soft and quiet. Iris craned her neck and saw Sally holding it up for Lindsay, who pushed a cart of breakfast in.</p><p>“Ah, you’re up.” Sally whispered. She checked the monitor and pulled up a few new screens. Iris saw bones and a weird gray image like clouds swirling inside a cave. Sally turned to her. “You’re recovering great. Bones are regenerating as expected. How does it feel?”</p><p>“Throbbing.”</p><p>“That’s good. Remember, we’re accelerating the growth of three months into a week.” She helped Iris up. The cave on the monitor became black. “How’s your head? Still dizzy?” Iris shook her head, intrigued by the monitor. The cave didn’t come back.</p><p>“Concussions are the easiest to treat here.” Lindsay grinned. “The bed is a giant sensor, by the way. Breakfast? I’ll help you wash.”</p><p>They passed through the hallway again. Now that her head was clear, Iris took a good look around. She couldn’t tell they were in a tent at all. The walls looked nothing like fabric. The windows that looked out at the trees were made of real glass. There were lights mounted in the ceiling. The only tent-like feature were the flaps at each entrance way, instead of doors. The host of people were already up and busy, walking with a brisk pace up and down the hall or in and out of the flaps. Lindsay greeted a few as she supported Iris to the bathroom: they had a real countertop sink and a toilet in here, too. They were so clean that the room looked luxurious.</p><p>She brushed her teeth and paused, embarrassed. Washing her face with one hand would be awkward. Lindsay pulled over a stool and had Iris sit.</p><p>“That’s what I’m here for.” She stood behind Iris and gently tied Iris’ hair back. Then she reached her arms over Iris’ shoulders. “I’ll be your handmaid today, miss. Heh. Get it? Hand?” It was flawless. It felt as though Iris was doing the washing herself—She took Lindsay’s right hand in gratitude after they were done.</p><p>“Wait…” Iris froze. She had thought she was delusional again, but Lindsay’s hand, from the palm lines to the finger print on each finger, looked the same as her own beneath it. She looked up. In the mirror was her disturbed face: wide black eyes sloped slightly downward around the outer corners, a small round nose, pouting lips, thin face and an almost jutting chin. Beside it was Lindsay’s: sharp amber eyes rising at the ends, a little bigger than hers; a longer, pointed nose; full lips with a usual teasing smile above the sharp small chin. Her face was thin but her cheeks were a bit puffed. They looked nothing alike except for the ponytail. Iris checked their hands again, and turned to Lindsay, “…?”</p><p>Lindsay pecked her cheek,</p><p>“Not important. Breakfast!”</p><center> ** </center><p>Though the breakfast was large and the egg Benedict almost sent her crying, and though this might be the only good meal they’d ever have in this country, Iris was not sorry to leave. She couldn’t make Madam Yu worry any longer. The sky was alright: a little hazy as usual but the sun was there. The forest air was fresh. Iris inhaled deep. The air here smelled better than in the woods back home. Sally saw them off, handing Iris two pill bottles, one for the bones and one for her head, fussing over and over to take it before sleep, every day, and before sleep every day.</p><p>“Chill. She’ll remember.” Lindsay patted Sally’s shoulder. “See ya later!”</p><p>The city was broken, Iris thought as they descended the blackened hill, broken like a glass orb under a hammer blow. Smoke rose from here and there, remnants of fires, and hovered over the fallen buildings like a ghost. Iris couldn’t find the spire of the church anymore, nor the tall towers of the cathedral. The blue glasses that paneled those tall buildings had shattered, too, leaving only the steel frames bent or snapped, protruding out of ruins of red bricks. She could see the streets now; some was raised up by the debris that had piled onto it. Dots of people picked their ways through them. Green tanks plowed down the others. There seemed to be more patrols.</p><p>“Where’s Billy?” Rubik asked at an intersection.</p><p>“Running errands.” Lindsay looked around the corner. “Hold on…” A squad marched past. She led them on. “He apologized that he couldn’t see you off.” Lindsay added in earnest. “It’s not every day you meet your doppelganger. That reminds me—“ She looked alarmed and pulled out a hood out of her pocket. “Put it on, Rubik. No, please don’t fool around—it has to be you.” He took it off Iris and obliged. Lindsay handed Iris a hat and hid her own hair in another before continuing their way.</p><p>They didn’t stop after that. Planes passed overhead as usual, as well as the patrols down the streets, but the army seemed to have remembered the ceasefire. Iris wanted to ask Lindsay about this whole matter. It seemed that her party of people knew something about it, but she couldn’t muster up the courage.</p><p>The return trip so far had been uneventful, and Iris hoped it stayed that way. Rubik was relaxed, checking out dead bodies when he could. Lindsay made no comment about that. She didn’t even seem to notice—with every step the girl became more tense. Her shoulders were hunched, as though ready to spring at the slightest provocation. She checked up and down the street at every block and across the sky.</p><p>The trench was within a block. They stopped for another squad.</p><p>“You can just leave us here. I’m sure once we passed the trench we’ll be fine.” Rubik said.</p><p>“Nope.” Lindsay threw him a sweet smile. “Have to see a good deed to the end.”</p><p>“Riiiight.” Rubik reached into his hood to scratch his head. The movement exposed his face out in the open. Lindsay’s eyes flashed in alarm.</p><p>“Pull it down! Quick!”</p><p>A soldier glanced back at them. Lindsay returned the gaze.</p><p>“Let’s hurry—“ Her voice was drowned by the rotors of planes. She grabbed their hands and picked up her pace. Iris stumbled and caught up. Then came a sound that chilled her inside-out. “Damn!” Lindsay spat. She wrapped her arms around Iris’ and Rubik’s waists. The patrol that had passed them turned around in unison. They raised their guns. The whistle of mortar ended in an explosion some blocks behind them, and another followed, and yet more. The soldiers opened fire, and Lindsay kicked the ground. Iris felt her feet leave the pavement. Rubik had been right: Lindsay could <em>fly</em>. The ground blow blurred and refocused. They landed on the street of the orphanage. Iris’ legs buckled at the impact.</p><p>“Where’s your orphanage? I can still—“ Quick, heavy steps from boots cut Lindsay off. “Stay to the wall!” She cried and turned to face the soldiers charging out of the intersection behind them. Iris withdrew into Rubik, who shrank both of them into a doorway. Bullets never reached them. Over the mortar explosions far away, Iris heard the bullets hit bricks and cement, and then it came again: metal, like hailstone on the roof of their orphanage. She leaned out of the doorway by a fraction, and gasped.</p><p>Billy wasn’t the only one who brought knives to gun fights. A sword with a rather wide blade now twirled in Lindsay’s deft hand, too, parrying the bullets back. She danced closer and closer into the soldiers until she sliced through their ranks, sending their guns and helmets flying. No bloodshed. They were a strange couple, Lindsay and Billy.</p><p><em>Run to your orphanage!</em> Lindsay’s voice shook their brains. Startled, Iris and Rubik stared at each other. They listened again. All they could hear with their ears were the advancing explosions, gunfire, and bullets bouncing off the blade. Lindsay was too deep into the fray to be heard. <em>Don’t stand there!</em> The snarl came again in their heads. They obeyed. The entrance to the side road wasn’t far. They were getting closer—closer—Iris tried her best to keep up, holding her left arm to her chest—planes rumbled from above. They were dropping something.</p><p>“Bombers!” Rubik stopped. Iris tugged him. If they could reach the orphanage in time, they could warn the others, and everyone could evacuate to the bunker, like the drill. The second run approached, and their bombs landed just two blocks south on the People’s Boulevard. Iris wheezed. They dashed into the side road. The third wave came. They rounded the curve as bombs shook the block south and came ever closer. The street outside exploded. The two of them stumbled headfirst into someone who crashed down through the canopy. The ground shook. The person forced them face-down flat onto the path. Something dampened the loud blasts of the bombs. It didn’t affect Iris’ hearing as before. The explosions blew past their heads. Then came the smell of burning wood. <em>Oh no.</em> She thought, a bitter cold draining down her heart. <em>No, no, no.</em></p><p>“Stay where you are.” It was Billy sheathing his wide sword. Rubik helped Iris up. She saw craters both ahead and behind them. Tree trunks lay crisscross on the path, sliced and burning. The two trees near them stood snapped, the fallen portion avoided their spot. By either a miracle or some strange power, Billy saved them from the bombs. He already ran deeper down the path. Iris and Rubik followed, avoiding the fires and hopping in and out of the craters until they saw the orphanage.</p><p>Or what was left of it. The trees were either fallen or on fire. The yard was overturned by the bombs. The mansion was no more. It was reduced to the timbers and bricks and tiles and chunks of granite that scattered about the yard, the pile of foundation that spanned from left to right, and the fire that blew waves and waves of heat in their faces. The stumps around the mansion smoked. The branches further away flared and began to burn as well. In the cackles of the flames, the fourth bombing run announced their approach with a roar. <em>Will they ever stop?</em> Iris watched the fire in horror. <em>What do they want?</em></p><p>The bombs fell. They were done for. Billy was flipping away chunks of rubble from the mansion, wholly unconcerned about the impending death. They waited for the bombs to drop.</p><p>Lindsay whisked out of the curve of the side road. She slid wide around them as though on ice, drawing a ring in the dirt with her sword, and off to join her partner. The bombs landed around them. They couldn’t hear them. They couldn’t even feel their blasts. The dirt and pebbles they riled up hit an invisible wall around them. The ring Lindsay drew kept them safe.</p><p>Lindsay and Billy walked atop the rubble. The bombs falling their way exploded in the midair. A few bombers that came later were caught in their blasts and spun to their fall. One of the pilots ejected. The others didn’t. The fire around the two strange people simmered and died wherever they walked. Iris had stopped wondering about them now. She had seen enough to accept their supernatural abilities. She started to have a glimmer of hope, even: if they can perform miracles, then one more miracle wouldn’t be hard to pull off here, would it… She saw them hopped and disappeared behind the ruin. They must’ve found the basement and the entrance to the bunker passage. Iris clutched Rubik, praying that someone—anyone—could be saved from the orphanage.</p><p>The pile of rubble that hid them glided apart. Iris almost smiled—it was the head chef. The stout man stumbled across the yard. Rubik moved Iris out of the way. The head chef collapsed, heaving and wheezing. His hair was singed but otherwise appeared to be unharmed. He lifted an arm at Rubik.</p><p>“You—Rubik, boy! What—what the fuck—?”</p><p>Rubik ignored him. They watched the other two emerge. Billy carried someone. A girl. Halfway through they stopped. Lindsay held a hand over the girl’s forehead, and they hurried on like that.</p><p>“Cam!” Iris cried, recognizing the girl. She rushed to join them, and bounced off Lindsay’s barrier.</p><p>Camilla didn’t look well at all. Iris whimpered as she saw that half of her face was charred. Her legs were exposed and bloody. One of her arms was in a horrifying angle. Camilla was heaving fast in pain for gasps of air.</p><p>“Medics are coming. Hold on.” Billy placed Camilla on the ground.</p><p>“Tell them I can’t keep her alive for long.” Lindsay held both of her hands over Camilla’s face. Billy joined her.</p><p>“Then take a look at me!” The head chef bawled. “You could save me, yet!”</p><p>Iris and Rubik knelt down beside Camilla.</p><center> ** </center><p><em>Elda</em>, plural, “eldar”, meaning “elf-kind” in the elven language of Quenya, the people who used to walk the Earth long before humans came to be: they called themselves the Firstborns of the Illuvatar, the Creator. They had built civilizations that flourished across continents, civilizations so sophisticated in culture and advanced in technology that it was rivaled by none. They were meant to end, however: the land was not meant for them, but for the Secondborns—humans who slumbered while they primed Illuvatar’s work. When the first humans came to be, the Fading commenced. One by one, the elves set sail westwards for the Blessed Realm of Valinor, leaving Earth and the Secondborns alone. Valinor: a mirror of what they had achieved, but better, perfected by the gods. Such was their reward.</p><p>Not all complied, of course. Some loved the Secondborns so much that they remained behind, hiding into the end of the world to watch and guide their distant kin. <em>Ereldar</em>: <em>er</em>, “to remain”, “the elves who remained”. Some found a way to break through the gods’ power and returned, to take back the land they had labored and lost, to eliminate the usurpers, the Secondborns. <em>Nanweneldar</em>: <em>nanwen-</em>, a prefix meaning “to return”, the elves who returned. The gods discovered this treachery, and shut the gates of Valinor, barring the way to the Earth for any additional rebels. They kept an eye out, however, for any elves who passed the end of their years, and retrieved their wandering souls home after their long adventure.</p><p>Iris turned this story over and over in her mind. It was about the Earth, but not their Earth. It talked about a religion, but resembled nothing she had heard of. Had she not witnessed what had happened in the past two days, she would dismiss it as a very interesting piece of fiction—Though both Lindsay and Billy called this story “bullshit” during dinner. They insisted that all legends and myths were simply there to fill in gaps to make the known truths coherent, and indeed there were some truths to the story. For one, the elves. Lindsay and Billy denied that they were, but they did point out a few around the cafeteria: a pair of blonde girls gesturing at a diagram between their plates, two black men sharing a joke, a black-haired chef carrying a fruit bowl, two red-haired girls who winked at their table… All of them kept their hairs long but in different styles. They looked rather normal until they started moving. There was a different air about them, in the way they held themselves. Head held a tad higher, straight-backed, steps light but were somehow firm and steady—their every gesture spelled out grace. Two of those people had come to their aid at the orphanage; the team of six elves had stemmed Camilla’s bleeding by holding their hands over her wounds; they had lifted her flat into the air with a mere gesture; they had put the head chef to sleep with just a short song. If it wasn’t magic, then Iris didn’t know what they had done. For another, the factions of elves, and their conflict. The camp consisted of Ereldar and their human—Allies? Students? Followers? Comrades? The elves had lived in isolation for so long that their own recorded history had dwindled to the aforementioned myth, (and as irony would have it) started by the very ones who later called themselves  the Nanweneldar. The dissents had been banished from the underground city, Minas Nún, but had rallied followers outside to carry out exactly what their own myth had said they would do: take back the Earth. The rest formed five schools to rediscover the elven history, and to train forces against the growing Nanweneldar threat. In a stroke of humor they named the collective “the Ereldar”: The Institute (the spearhead in Minas Nún), the Academy on an isle, the secretive Temple, the sprawling Archive, and the more outreaching University.</p><p>Iris didn’t know which was more shocking, that these people she was eating with were from another world, or that the civil war was indeed rigged. Colaurë was the Nanwen who caused all this. He had been searching for a world most closely resembled his own for centuries, until thirty years ago. It took him ten more years to assess each country, and when the opportunity ripened, he set off the war. The disturbances here would reverberate through the fabric of the worlds until enough was accumulated for his own world to resonate into a war of its own. Nothing would make the Nanwen’s jobs easier than a human world war, and Colaurë’s associates had been preparing for it all this time, destabilizing poorer countries and deteriorating relationships between the more powerful ones. It had happened before, but either the worlds weren’t similar enough, or the war at home didn’t last too long. The Academy hadn’t picked up the new signal until five months ago. After three months of monitor and verification, the five branches of Ereldar deployed this team of elites.</p><p>Colaurë knew of their arrival, and knew their names. He didn’t know enough, however, or his puppets wouldn’t have mistaken Rubik for Billy. Or perhaps he just didn’t care to verify. </p><p>When Billy took his leave to check in with the medical team at dinner, Iris decided to follow and learn about Camilla’s condition. She had no appetite anyways, despite the rich course Lindsay had piled on her plate. The orphanage was gone. Everyone inside was gone except the head chef and Camilla. Her five travel companions were missing. The truth she had heard had killed the last craving for nourishment. Sally had administered a dose of sedative to her upon their return—Rubik and her had nowhere to go, again. Now, in the clearing, looking out of the trees at the darkness that should be the city, she felt the drug was wearing off. There wasn’t a speck of light out there. The city was as dead as it could be. They couldn’t help staring. </p><p>“I’m sorry for all of this, as the team leader and as myself.” Billy said.</p><p>The clearing was lit by glass orbs encased in wires shaped like vines. The swirling gas inside emitted a warm glow, like moonlight. They were almost romantic. The soft light wasn’t enough to smooth the acute exhaustion on Billy’s poker face. What he and Lindsay did earlier must’ve been draining. It took five minutes for the six elf medics to channel enough magic to stabilize Camilla’s condition for transportation, and the two of them had struggled for ten to keep her alive before the medics had arrived. Lindsay was falling asleep when they had left.</p><p>“I haven’t thanked you for saving our lives twice.”</p><p>“Good to hear you talk again.” He turned around, arms unfolding. “Listen. No survivor’s guilt from you, yeah?” </p><p>He led the way to the medics’ tent without another word. They were nothing alike, Rubik and him. During dinner Iris had wished for Rubik to shut up for the first time. He stuffed himself and asked one question after another, interlaced with cheery jokes as if nothing had happened. She knew it was his coping strategy, but in the face of death, a silent vigil was the more respectful way to grieve. <em>They are the same person, and yet, they aren’t at all.</em> Iris thought. <em>Then again, it’s the same with Lindsay and me.</em></p><p>“We are the same person only in our own worlds.” Billy came to a standstill. Then he slapped his forehead. “Ah, I did it again, huh.” To Iris’ amazement, his face bore a sheepish grin when he turned around, however small that might be. She couldn’t help but grin, herself. The expression stayed on his reddening face. “I didn’t mean to pry, sorry. Your mind bears a similar signature to Lindsay’s, which I monitor at all times. I had to be really careful to not stray into yours. Lindsay’s having the same problem with Rubik, which proves my point.” And he shut up again, back to his expressionless face.</p><p><em>That was the most he’d ever said to me.</em> Iris was amazed. <em>He likes explaining stuff, huh.</em></p><p>“Can you all do it? Telepathy?” Iris couldn’t help asking.</p><p>“Only the elves can.” He replied. They passed the head chef’s ward, whose raging screams about a locked door came through. Iris realized that his ward actually had a door, instead of the usual flap. These people didn’t seem to trust him, either. Billy kicked it. He fell silent. “Lindsay and I had an accident, that’s all.” Iris waited. She wasn’t disappointed, for he added. “Some of our genetic materials were flipped to elven ones. The story was true that the elves and the humans are kin in some respect.”</p><p>“Don’t get it.”</p><p>He turned around with a mischievous grin.</p><p>“You’ll get it in college.”</p><p>Iris made a pout at his back as he knocked on the entrance frame. A man with a black bun poked his head out,</p><p>“Impeccable timing. We just finished.”</p><p>The ER wasn’t much different from her ward, except that it had only one bed in the middle. A lamp ring was embedded in the ceiling above it. The man held up a flap at the side of the room.</p><p>“She is stable enough for now. Laurëfin had to remove half of her liver, unfortunately.” He and Billy stared at each other for a second, as though communicating. “We are trying our best, though I am afraid some principles of our world do not apply here. Her recovery will be hard to predict.”</p><p>The room was quite big. In the glass chamber by the wall, Camilla floated stationary inside. They had shaved her. Her head looked scary. Two thirds of it were of a raw, blotched, and wrinkled pink, whether it was exposed flesh or germinating skin, Iris didn’t know. A red seam gleamed on her neck. Her exposed arms and legs looked no better. Dark patches of red alternated with pink, and one of the arms was in a cast. Her body was sealed in a loose white bag. Thick tubes connected to it ran through the glass to either the monitor, where Sally stood frowning at, or to a machine that encompassed half the wall from floor to ceiling, where a few medics were. Madam Yu was found covering Camilla. Iris dared not to imagine what the matron had looked like in the end.</p><p>Billy followed the medic and Sally out. Iris pulled over a chair and sat hunchbacked before the glass. None of the medics stopped her. Instead they gave her looks of sympathy. Iris wished they’d leave her alone. One by one, they finished their tasks at hand and left.</p><p>The low hum of the machine wiped Iris’ thoughts blank. She didn’t know what the point of sitting here was. She couldn’t understand anything on the monitor. She couldn’t tell if Camilla would get better or not. She could do nothing. Perhaps she simply wished to be alone with someone she knew, who would stay silent with her. Camilla had been the one to take care of her when she had first entered the orphanage, and even though Iris didn’t like her when she was little, Camilla was the first one she’d turn to if there was trouble and Madam Yu wasn’t available.</p><p>“—knowing you’d fuss over me before actually solving the problem.” Iris whispered. “Am I hurt? Am I scared? Did any of the stuff get on me? Then you’d fuss at other times asking if I’m cold, if I’m hungry, if I’m tired after tutoring duties, did any skirmishes get me while I was out… So annoying… You said I reminded you of yourself. You said I used to be so small and now so thin. You said someone should take care of me—but look at you now.” Iris sniffed. “Funny how you’d dump snow on my head in winter only to fuss then if I was cold.” She clenched her teeth.</p><p>“And now they say you might never do that to me again… Were you scared, Cam? When the bombs fell and we weren’t back? But you still went to help mum with the bunker passage, no? They found you two there trying to open the door seconds before it all collapsed. Were you scared? I was. I was terrified to death and wished I’d die in that alleyway—and when I reached the yard—Rubik and I were so close then—so close—had we not lingered when Lindsay told us to run, we might’ve helped you—look at you now! Why does it have to be you? Mum, Mr. Gao, and everyone else just snuffed it but you—“ She couldn’t hold it back. She sniffed into her cast. The plaster was cool against her forehead. “Those rumors about what the head chef did to you, too—when did it start? Why didn’t you just get a knife or something? Why didn’t you fight back? Were you scared when it all happened? Why does it have to be you? It’s so unfair. Why does it have to be the head chef to escape with only scratches? Why does it have to be Rubik to have Billy’s face and have us all blown up? Why does it have to be this country? This world?” Iris felt hysterical. One tiny part of her wondered if this was the sedative’s side effect, or if it had worn off. The rest of her blamed the sedative for suppressing it for so long. It was unfair—she had to use drugs to control her sanity—but no, it gave her the chance to spill her heart out when she was alone with Camilla. When was the last time they had talked for longer than 10 minutes? It was so unfair they had to talk like this, at this time. Iris looked up, half hoping that, by miracle, Camilla would open her eyes through the glass, and she’d go running to find Sally or any medic, be them elves or not, like an excited child, but nothing happened. This was a war-torn world, not a stupid fairy tale. Camilla’s cardiograph stayed at a weak, slow pulse. Her brain activity was all gray on the screen. What did all that even mean? She was breathing. The machine pumped Great Mother God-knew-what in and out of her bag (Iris pushed the word “shroud” out of her head). Would she get better? Iris should’ve asked those medics before they had left.</p><p>“Please get better, Cam. Please, please get better. I’ll fuss over you and take care of you for once. Please get better—“ She broke down again.</p><p>Someone lifted the flap outside. Iris sniffed, voice thick, “Go away.” The person the lifted the flap to this room. Iris froze. She knew that rough breathing.</p><p>Looked like the head chef had found out how to unlock his door. He stood sneering past Iris at the glass chamber, whispering,</p><p>“This is what you get for denying me.”</p><p>Iris didn’t know what that glint in his eyes was but hated seeing it.</p><p>“Get out, you creep!” She cried, voice shrill. The head chef lumbered over to the glass and start kicking it. “Get away from her! Haven’t you harmed her enough—“</p><p>“Oh.” He turned those disgusting eyes on her. The balding head, the patchy hair, the glinting eyes, the large ears, the round nose, the wavy skin on his face, and the gaping, sneering mouth that revealed his yellow and crooked teeth—Iris found herself shivering. “You want me to harm you instead?”</p><p>“Get out of here!” Iris shrieked.</p><p>“I remember hearing about you and your friends going out yesterday to get stuff for your trip, eh?” He advanced toward her. She backed away behind the chair. “What were you and your little boyfriend sent to get?” Iris grabbed the chair and planted it between them, holding it at arm’s length. “Money, or passport? I could use either.”</p><p>“I lost it!” Iris backed. “Leave me alone!”</p><p>“If you’re anything like that disgusting thing there, you’d be keeping it in your inner pocket!”</p><p>Iris’ heart lurched. The man brought his knee down on the seat and made a grab for her. She dodged and ran at the entrance. The man grabbed her and threw her down. Iris’ cast hit the floor and a surge of pain coursed through her arm. The man tried to claw at her and she tried to kick him away in vain. She couldn’t draw any breath to cry for help.</p><p>“I know you did! What is it? What is it? <em>Where is it? Give it to me!</em>“</p><p>The flap was torn out of its frame. In two seconds Sally covered the ground, leapt and caught the head chef’s neck between her feet, somersaulted in the air, and ripped the man off of Iris. She smashed him hard against the floor and landed beside him. The man lay dazed and rolled in agony, cursing,</p><p>“You fucking broke my back, bitch!”</p><p>Sally picked him up by the neck with one hand. Iris watched, rather horrified. The medic was half a head shorter than the head chef and only slightly heavier than Iris. Neither stopped her from raising him above her head and choked the living daylight out of him. She didn’t even look at his purple face when she dashed him onto the floor again like a doll.</p><center> ** </center><p>The head chef was locked up in his ward now not just behind a door but additional magic: people would be alerted if by any chance he breached both the lock and the magic ward. The Ereldar team had rejected Rubik’s vehement demands of either to hang him off a tree or to throw him back into the city.</p><p>“Use your head, Rubik. He knows where we are even if he didn’t know <em>who</em> we are! Do you want us to be exposed or even killed? Do you want us to stop this war or not?” Lindsay had lost her temper.</p><p>So Rubik took to kicking the head chef’s door on a quarterly basis instead.</p><p>They gave Iris surgery for her arm the next morning. The fall had shattered her elbow. She laid in the room they provided Rubik and her the entire day with a renewed dull throbbing pain in the new cast, drifting in and out of sleep.</p><p>“How are you feeling?” Lindsay asked the next time Iris awoke. She sat in a chair by the head of the bed, both feet on the seat and arms around her knees, wearing a scowl. She still looked annoyed by Rubik’s stupidity.</p><p>“I’m sorry…”</p><p>“What are <em>you</em> apologizing for? I kicked Rubik out. I’m having Billy handle him today.” Lindsay looked irascible. “Anyways, good news for you.” She pointed her chin at the nightstand. A passport and a ticket lay beside a glass of water. “Those are yours. I found traces for two of your friends while interrogating a squad of patrol. A girl and a boy. They were leaving the city with a farmer yesterday. The border checkpoint confiscated the tickets and the ID documents they carried. The girl was called Fay and the boy—“</p><p>“Fay’s alive?” Iris squealed. “Where are they? Did they let them go, or are they jailed?”</p><p>“They let them go, as baits, apparently. I was able to throw the army off the trail before tracking them down, and then dispatched an ambush <em>before their eyes</em>—they <em>still</em> refused to come with me. They had their stuff back, anyways.”</p><p>“Oh…” That “they” was probably “just Fay”, who wasn’t known for being compliant or trusting or delicate. Iris had a feeling that she gave Lindsay a really hard time, which added to her temper. She wished there was also news on Anne. It wasn’t a good time to press the issue. “Sorry…”</p><p>“<em>Stop</em> apologizing for others, will you.”</p><p>“Sorry…” Iris stopped herself. “They are heading for the coast, then?”</p><p>“So will we. Three days later. Billy found Colaurë’s tracks. The elf was never here, but he will be heading to the coast.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>“He was informed what’s on these already.” She glanced at the ticket and the passport. “He thinks he’ll be catching the ‘Billy’ who’s under the alias of ‘Rubik’. Billy is too important not to take down personally for him. We’ll give him what he wants and ship you out at the same time. Two birds with one stone.”</p><p>“Um… Thank you.” Iris tried to smile. The pain in her arm turned it into a grimace. Lindsay nodded.</p><p>“Hey,” She hesitated. “Can I stay here for a bit?”</p><p>“Please do.”</p><p>Lindsay set loose her ponytail. She laid her head on her crossed arms and sighed.</p>]]></content>
    
    
    <summary type="html">&lt;center&gt; -- Turmoil -- &lt;/center&gt;

&lt;p&gt;“Hey. Can we cross?” Rubik came up to a Liberation Army soldier on the People’s Boulevard, unfazed by his rough demeanor. “My sister and I need to get to the bank.”&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;The last line of L.A.’s defense looked busier than Iris had expected. Soldiers in dirty shirts shoveled earth out of the trench that was as wide as the boulevard and extended further than their eyes could see both ways. It was already deep enough to hide a standing man. More warmly-dressed grunts chanted work calls while hauling heavy artillery vehicles up and down the its edge. Mechanics stretched half of their bodies under the line of parked tanks, their toolboxes poking out of the machines. Rubik and Iris weren’t the only civilians outside today. Up and down the boulevard, more like them asked by the trench overpasses for access. The soldier held them both under scrutiny. His gaze lingered a bit too long on Rubik’s face. He stepped aside and let them pass.&lt;/p&gt;</summary>
    
    
    
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