第184期：《怪屋女孩》——时光圈里旅行的勇敢少年

想成为我们的主播，欢迎加微信 xdfbook 投稿。 一段美文，一首英文歌，或是一点生活感想，全由你做主。 《怪屋女孩》——时光圈里旅行的勇敢少年 Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Child By the time I reached the children’s home, what had begun as a drizzle was a full-on downpour ). I stood wringing ) water from my shirt and shaking out my hair, and when I was as dry as I was going to get—which was not very—I began to search. For what, I wasn’t sure. A box of letters? My grandfather’s name scribbled ) on a wall? It all seemed so unlikely. I roved ) around peeling up mats of old newspaper and looking under chairs and tables. I imagined uncovering some horrible scene, but all I found were rooms that had become more outside than inside, character stripped away by moisture and wind and layers of dirt. The ground floor was hopeless. I went back to the upstairs. The steps protested my weight with a symphony of shudders ) and creaks, but they held, and what I discovered upstairs was like a time capsule ). Arranged along a hallway striped with peeling wallpaper, the rooms were in surprisingly good shape. Though one or two had been invaded by mold ) where a broken window had let in the rain, the rest were packed with things that seemed only a layer or two of dust away from new: a shirt tossed casually over the back of a chair, loose change skimming ) a nightstand ). It was easy to believe that everything was just as the children had left it, as if time had stopped the night they died. I went from room to room, examining their contents like an archaeologist. There were wooden toys moldering ) in a box; crayons ) on a windowsill, their colors dulled by the light of ten thousand afternoons. In a modest ) library, the creep of moisture had bowed the shelves into crooked smiles. I ran my finger along the balding spines ), as if considering pulling one out to read. There were classics like Peter Pan and The Secret Garden, histories written by authors forgotten by history, textbooks of Latin and Greek. In the corner were corralled ) a few old desks. This had been their classroom, I realized, and Miss Peregrine, their teacher. I tried to open a pair of heavy doors, twisting the handle, but they were swelled shut—so I took a running start and rammed ) them with my shoulder. They flew open with a rasping ) shriek and I fell face-first into the next room. As I picked myself up and looked around, I realized that it could only have belonged to Miss Peregrine. It was like a room in Sleeping Beauty’s castle. I pictured the last time she’d been here, scrambling ) out from under the sheets in the middle of the night to the whine ) of an air-raid ) siren ), rounding up ) the children, all groggy ) and grasping for coats on their way downstairs. Were you scared? I wondered. Did you hear the planes coming? I began to feel unusual. I imagined I was being watched; that the children were still here, inside the walls. I could feel them peering at me through cracks and knotholes ). I drifted into the next room. Weak light shone through a window. Petals of wallpaper drooped ) toward a couple of small beds, still clad ) in dusty sheets. I knew, somehow, that this had been my grandfather’s room. Why did you send me here? What was it you needed me to see? Then I noticed something beneath one of the beds and knelt down to look. It was an old suitcase. Was this yours? Is it what you carried onto the train the last time you saw your mother and father, as your first life was slipping away? I pulled it out. It opened easily—but except for a family of dead beetles, it was empty. I felt empty, too, and strangely heavy, like the planet was spinning too fast, heating up gravity, pulling me toward the floor. Suddenly exhausted, I sat on the bed—his bed, maybe—and for reasons I can’t quite explain, I stretched out on those sheets and stared at the ceiling. What did you think about, lying here at night? Did you have nightmares, too? I began to cry. When your parents died, did you know it? Could you feel them go? I cried harder. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t stop myself, so I thought about all the bad things. I thought about how my great-grandparents had starved to death. I thought about how the children who lived in this house had been burned up and blown apart because a pilot who didn’t care pushed a button. I thought about how my grandfather’s family had been taken from him, and how because of that my dad grew up feeling like he didn’t have a dad, and now I had nightmares and was sitting alone in a falling-down house and crying hot, stupid tears all over my shirt. All because of a seventy-year-old hurt that had somehow been passed down to me like some poisonous heirloom ), and monsters I couldn’t fight because they were all dead. At least my grandfather had been able to join the army and go fight them. What could I do? 等我到达孤儿院时，起初的毛毛细雨已经变成了瓢泼大雨。我站在那儿把衬衫的水拧干，然后抖了抖头发，等到身上快干，但还不是很干的时候，我开始搜寻。寻找什么？我不确定。一盒子的信？还是胡乱写在墙上的爷爷的名字？这一切看似都不太可能。 我四处转悠，翻翻旧报纸堆，看看桌椅下面。我想象会发现某个可怕的场景，但结果发现的全都是一个个更像屋外而不是屋里的房间，墙上的字迹已经在湿气、风和厚厚的尘土的作用下变模糊了。一楼是没有希望发现什么了，于是我又回到了楼上。 颤颤巍巍的楼梯台阶发出嘎吱嘎吱的响声，仿佛在演奏一首交响曲，向我的体重提出抗议，但它们还是撑住了，而且我发现楼上就像是一个时空穿梭机。走廊的墙上是一片片脱落的墙纸，沿着走廊有一排房间，出人意料的是，它们都保存得很好。尽管有一两个房间因为窗户碎了进了雨而长了霉，但剩下的房间则都塞满了东西(因为只落了一两层灰，所以看起来没那么旧)：一件衬衫随意地搭在椅背上，还有一些零钱散落在床头柜上。这一切很容易让人相信，所有的东西都还是孩子们留下它们时的样子，就好像时间停在了他们死去的那个夜晚。 我从一个房间走到另一个房间，像个考古学家似的检查着屋内的物品。盒子里的那些木制玩具已经腐烂；窗台上的彩色粉笔被无数个午后的阳光晒得褪了颜色。在一间不大的图书室里，湿气侵入书架，使其弯腰变形，看起来就像歪着嘴笑似的。我的手指滑过光秃秃的书脊，仿佛想要抽出一本书来读似的。书架上有《彼得·潘》《秘密花园》这类经典文学作品，有被历史遗忘的佚名作者撰写的历史故事，还有拉丁语和希腊语的课本。房间的角落堆放着几张旧书桌。我意识到，这是他们曾经的教室，而佩里格林女士曾是他们的老师。 我扭了扭门把手，试着打开那两扇厚重的门，但是门因为发胀而紧闭推不开。于是，我开始快速起跑，用肩膀去撞。门被撞开了，发出尖锐刺耳的声音，而我脸朝下则摔 进了隔壁房间。等我起身站好，环顾四周时，我才意识到，这间房只可能属于佩里格林女士。因为它就像是睡美人城堡里的一间屋子。我想象她最后一次睡在这里，半夜里听到空袭警报的呜呜声后迅速从被子里爬出来，把孩子们召集起来——一个个摇摇晃晃，边往楼下走边试图抓件衣服穿上。 你们当时害怕吗？我想知道。你们听到飞机轰鸣而来了吗？ 我开始感到不自在。我有种幻觉，觉得有人在看着我，觉得那些孩子还在这里，就在这一面面墙里。我能感觉到他们从墙缝和木孔里窥视着我。 不知不觉中我走进了下一个房间，微弱的阳光从窗户照进来。墙纸像一片片凋萎的花瓣，垂落在两张小床上。床上还铺着落满灰尘的床单。不知怎么地，我知道这个房间就是我爷爷的。 您为什么让我来这里？您希望我看到什么呢？ 这时，我注意到其中一张床下有东西，于是跪下来去看，发现是一只旧的手提箱。 这是您的手提箱吗？是您向第一段生活告别、最后一次见父母的时候带上火车的那只吗？ 我拽出手提箱。它很容易就打开了，但是除了一群甲壳虫的尸体外，箱子里空荡荡的。 我感觉心里也空荡荡的，而且沉重得不可思议，就像是这个星球旋转得太快，加剧了地心引力，把我拉向地面一样。忽然之间，我感到精疲力竭，一下子坐在床上——可能就是爷爷的床——说不上是因为什么，我就四仰八叉地躺在了那些床单上，望着天花板发呆。 您晚上躺在这里都想过些什么呢？您也做过噩梦吗？ 我哭了起来。 父母去世的时候您知道吗？您能感觉到他们的离去吗？ 我哭得更厉害了，我不想哭，可是无法自已。 我无法控制自己，于是所有不好的事情一下子涌上心头。我想起我的曾祖父是如何饿死的，我想起生活在这幢房子里的孩子们是如何在飞行员冷漠地按下按钮后被炸掉烧死的。我想起我爷爷的家人是如何与他分离的，正因为如此，我爸爸在成长过程中才会觉得缺少父爱，而我现在才会噩梦不断，独自坐在快要坍塌的房屋里痛哭流涕，任由愚蠢的泪水打湿我的衬衫。所有这一切都是因为70年前的那个伤痛(编注：指1940年9月3日孤儿院被德国飞机轰炸)——它就像是某种有毒的传家宝不知怎么就传给了我——以及那群已经死去而无法反击的恶魔。至少我爷爷当时还能够参军去反击他们。我能做什么呢？ 文章摘自：《新东方英语·中学生》杂志2017年1月号