第三章 燔祭 Chapter 3: Burnt Offering
Agape。
她在心裡把這三個音節放了一遍。A、ga、pe。舌尖碰上齒齦，氣流從兩側溜走，嘴唇閉上，又放開，像一個輕輕的吻。
這是她的名字。現在的名字。
老神父取的。說意思是「聖愛」——天主愛世人的方式。不講條件，不求回報，不留底。
是嗎？或許……不，是，是的，是這樣。
好了。
說起來，她總覺得這名字不是給她的。
是給那段脖子的。
那段被聖水潑過、被聖體填過、被銀鏈子圈住的脖子。那段如今歸了上主的通道。那段不屬於她，但確實長在她身上的。
而她——在腦與心受限的來回間浮現的、有點模糊的那個她——總念著另一個名字。
更舊的。更土的。更完整的。更像她的。
飛妞。
Agape.
She ran those three syllables through her mind once more. Ah, gah, pay. The tip of her tongue touched her gums, air slipping out from both sides; her lips closed, then released, like a gentle kiss.
This was her name. Her name now.
Given by the old priest. He said it meant "divine love"—the way God loves humankind. Unconditional, expecting nothing in return, withholding nothing.
Was it? Perhaps... no, yes, yes it was.
Well then.
Truth be told, she always felt this name wasn't meant for her.
It was meant for that section of her neck.
That neck splashed with holy water, filled with the Holy Eucharist, encircled by a silver chain. That passage that now belonged to the Lord. That part that didn't belong to her, yet undeniably grew upon her.
And she—that somewhat hazy self emerging between the constrained back-and-forth of brain and heart—always pined for another name.
Older. Earthier. Wholer. More like her.
Fei-niu (Flying Gal).
---
那時候哪兒有什麼通道不通道的。
脖子就是脖子。頭飛起來的時候脖子跟著變長，落下來的時候縮回去，跟伸懶腰似的，尋常得跟吃飯喝水一樣。村裡的大人見慣了，頂多嘟囔一句「這丫頭又飛了」，然後繼續鋤地。
孩子們不管這些。
他們給她取了倆外號。頭叫「腦瓜子」，身子叫「地裡橫」。
腦瓜子是因為她的頭圓，圓得跟顆球似的，紮個小髻，飄在半空裡晃晃悠悠。地裡橫是因為她的身子跑起來不管三七二十一，踩莊稼、蹚水溝、撞雞窩，橫衝直撞，什麼也看不到，什麼都敢走。
飛妞總是被氣到笑，氣那幫小混蛋把她拆成兩半叫喚，氣得腦瓜子在天上直轉圈，底下的地裡橫兩手叉腰，腳跺得震天響。
「你們才腦瓜子！我身子又哪裡橫了！」
野娃兒們笑得前仰後合。
一個？兩個？那是啥意思？
反正都是她。
Back then, there was no such thing as a "passage."
A neck was just a neck. When her head took flight, her neck stretched long; when it came down, it retracted—just like stretching oneself, as ordinary as eating and drinking. The adults in the village were used to it, at most muttering, "That gal's flying off again," before going back to hoeing the soil.
The kids didn't care about any of that.
They gave her two nicknames: her head was called Nao-gua-zi (Noggin), and her body was called Di-li-heng (Field-Bully).
"Noggin," because her head was round as a ball, tied in a little hair bun, wobbling playfully as it floated in midair. "Field-Bully," because when her body ran, it threw all caution to the wind—trampling crops, wading through ditches, crashing into chicken coops, charging headlong, seeing nothing yet fearing no path.
Fei-niu was always driven to laughing exasperation, angry that those little scamps called her out as two separate halves. Infuriated, Noggin would spin in circles in the sky, while Field-Bully down below stood hands on hips, stomping her feet with thundering thuds.
"You're the ones with big melon-heads! And what's so bully-like about my body?!"
The wild village kids doubled over with laughter.
One? Two? What did that even mean?
It was all her anyway.
玩捉迷藏時，他們還分成兩幫——村西的跟著腦瓜子，村東的跟著地裡橫。
腦瓜子飄在半空，居高臨下，充當找的那方。地裡橫被另一幫孩子帶著藏——這身子貓起來的時候不含糊，埋在草垛底下，腳上的鈴鐺一聲不響。
腦瓜子急了。
明明是自己的身子，明明感覺到枯草在背上刮，明明想叫它動一動……可它偏偏跟石佛似的，一動不動。
就不想被咱找到。
「喂——妳到底躲哪堆啊！」腦瓜子衝著地面喊。
地裡橫沒法說話，但空中的她覺得好像有話要送上來要她說。那話是「自己來找」。
腦瓜子的內在翻出兩股勁兒：一股是「放馬過來」，另一股是「給我出來」。好妙——自己跟自己較上勁了。
因為各自有了同伴的緣故吧。
腦瓜子想偷偷叫地裡橫晃一下鈴鐺——那邊的腳趾在鞋裡蜷了蜷，硬是沒響。
也好。甚好。就這樣吧。
「哈哈哈哈哈——」
清脆的笑聲從天上落下來，爽朗得像無雲的青空。
可是青空無垠，卻不會一直青。
When playing hide-and-seek, they even split into two factions—the kids from the west end followed Noggin, while the kids from the east end followed Field-Bully.
Noggin floated in midair, looking down from above as the seeker. Field-Bully was led away by the other group to hide—and when that body crouched down, it meant business, buried under a hayrick, the bells on her ankle making not a single sound.
Noggin grew anxious.
It was clearly her own body; she could clearly feel the dry grass scratching her back, clearly wanted to tell it to move... yet it sat there stubbornly like a stone Buddha, motionless.
It simply didn't want to be found.
"Hey—which stack are you hiding in?!" Noggin shouted down at the ground.
Field-Bully couldn't speak, but up in the air, she felt as if words were being sent up for her to say. The words were: "Find me yourself."
Two impulses churned inside Noggin: one was "Bring it on!", the other was "Get out here!" How wondrous—competing against herself.
Perhaps because each now had companions of their own.
Noggin tried to secretly signal Field-Bully to jingle the bells—over on that side, her toes curled inside her shoes, stubbornly refusing to make a sound.
All right then. Splendid. Let it be.
"Hahahahaha—"
Crisp laughter fell from the sky, bright and clear like a cloudless blue heaven.
Yet vast as the blue sky was, it would not stay blue forever.
---
陰雨綿綿的季節，村裡來了個人。
老人。穿著黑袍子，頭髮黃得蒼白——曬褪了色的稻草那種黃。眼珠子不黑，青的，像映著天的兩片碎鏡片。
他說他名喚方濟各，來告訴大夥兒有福了。一開口就是「主啊」，話尾巴總帶句「阿悶」。
村裡人聽不懂。洪大娘嘀咕：「這老頭哪兒悶了？整天笑嘻嘻的。」
老人確實愛笑。笑起來皺紋堆在眼角，像核桃。
In a season of endless drizzling rain, someone arrived in the village.
An old man. Wearing a black cassock, his hair a pale yellow—the yellow of sun-bleached straw. His eyes weren't black, but blue-gray, like two fragments of a mirror reflecting the sky.
He said his name was Francis, come to tell everyone they were blessed. Every time he spoke, it started with "Lord," and the tail of his words always carried an "Ah-men."
The villagers didn't understand. Auntie Hong muttered, "Where's this old man stuffed up? He's grinning all day long!"
The old man indeed loved to smile. When he smiled, wrinkles bunched around the corners of his eyes like walnuts.
當他頭一回撞見飛妞時，倒是嚇了好大一跳——也是，到處飛的頭、橫衝直撞的身子，誰瞧著不驚？
他那張老臉霎時白了。嘴張了又合，合了又張，好半天才擠出一聲悶雷般的喝斥，哆哆嗦嗦地從胸前扯下一枚亮晃晃的交叉銀棒，另一手死死摳著本厚皮洋經書，嘴裡嘰哩呱啦吐出串誰也聽不懂的鳥語，像是想把飛妞給收了。
飛妞停住了。腦瓜子歪了歪，眨巴著大眼睛，一臉納悶地瞅著他。
沒有害怕。她是真的不知道這老頭在幹嘛。他看起來像是被什麼嚇著了，可是這裡什麼也沒有啊。就她一個，和底下的身子，還有響著的銅鈴聲。
兩人就這麼乾耗了半晌。
When he first ran into Fei-niu, however, it scared him out of his wits—and understandably so; a head flying all over, a body barging around, who wouldn't be startled?
His old face turned instantly pale. His mouth opened and closed, closed and opened, until after quite a while he managed to squeeze out a thunderous shout. Trembling violently, he snatched a shiny silver cross from his chest, his other hand gripping a thick leather-bound foreign scripture, his mouth babbling a stream of incomprehensible gibberish, as if trying to exorcise Fei-niu.
Fei-niu stopped. Noggin tilted sideways, blinking her large eyes, staring at him in utter, bewildered curiosity.
No fear. She truly didn't know what the old man was doing. He looked like he had been terrified by something, but there was nothing here. Just her, her body below, and the tinkling sound of the bronze bells.
The two stood locked in a stalemate for quite a while.
瞧著瞧著，老人眼裡的火氣慢慢滅了。飛妞的髮髻上沾了一片槐花瓣，陽光穿過花瓣，在她臉上投下一小片透明的影子。
老人盯著那片影子看。看著這不過是個透著傻氣、眼神乾淨的毛丫頭，臉上還沾著泥點子，懸在半空裡，像隻被線牽著的風箏，只是這風箏沒有線。
他垮下肩膀，長長地嘆了一口氣，像把渾身的力氣都從嘴裡吐了出去。他低聲念叨了幾句，把銀棒和經書塞回袍子裡，又顫巍巍地在胸前畫了個大交叉。最後，他抬起頭，對著天空嘟囔了一句什麼——飛妞後來才知道，那句話是「萬物皆是天主的受造」。
再抬起頭時，這洋老頭的眼神變得跟村口曬太陽的老爺子一樣和藹。他對著半空中的腦袋招了招手，操著那怪腔怪調問：「小姑娘，妳……叫什麼名字？」
老傳教士和飛頭蠻，就這麼認識了。
As he stared, the fierce fire in the old man's eyes slowly died down. A petal from a pagoda tree blossom clung to Fei-niu's hair bun, sunlight filtering through the petal to cast a translucent shadow on her face.
The old man stared at that shadow. He saw that she was merely a silly little girl with pure eyes, flecks of mud still on her face, suspended in midair like a kite held by a string—except this kite had no string.
His shoulders slumped, releasing a long, deep sigh, as if blowing out all the strength in his body. He muttered a few low words, stuffed the silver cross and holy book back into his cassock, and tremulously made a large sign of the cross over his chest. Finally, he raised his head and murmured something toward the sky—only later did Fei-niu learn that the phrase was "All things are creatures of the Lord."
When he looked up again, the old foreigner's eyes had softened, becoming as gentle as the old grandfathers soaking up the sun at the village entrance. He waved at the head floating in midair and asked in his strange, accented voice, "Little girl, what... what is your name?"
And so, the old missionary and the flying-head girl came to know each other.
---
從那天起，老人就纏上她了。
他隔三差五就把她喚去，對著她這顆飛來飛去的腦瓜子翻來覆去地講他的洋道理。什麼天上的父造了天地萬物、什麼一男一女在園子裡吃了不該吃的果子、什麼大洪水淹了全世界只剩一條船。講到激動處，他會站起來，雙手揮舞，袍子下擺掃得地上的灰塵都揚起來。
飛妞歪著頭聽。聽著聽著就走神。看著窗外的雨滴在泥地上砸出一個個小坑。看著簷下的燕子窩。看著老頭兒的黑袍子底下露出一截打了補丁的布鞋。
村裡有幾個人信了。不多，三四個吧，都是些日子過得不太順遂的。他們開始學著老頭的樣子，開口閉口「哈利路亞」、「以馬內利」，旁人聽了直翻白眼。
有一回，老頭兒又掏出經書——後來知道那叫「聖經」——還從胸前可取下一枚亮晃晃的銀叉——後來知道那叫「十字架」——比比劃劃地念。飛妞的腦瓜子懸在他肩膀旁邊，盯著那十字架看。
「老伯，你這小叉叉怪好看的。」
「這不是叉叉！」老人哭笑不得，「這是苦像！是天主聖子受難的……」說了一半，看著飛妞一臉懵懂，搖搖頭，嘆了口氣，「算了。」
日子這樣過著，倒也安穩。
直到那天。
From that day on, the old man took to shadowing her.
Every few days he would call her over, preaching his foreign doctrines again and again to her flying Noggin. How the Father in Heaven created all things, how a man and a woman in a garden ate a fruit they shouldn't have, how a great flood submerged the whole world leaving only one ark. When excited, he would leap to his feet, waving his hands wildly, the hem of his cassock sweeping up dust from the floor.
Fei-niu listened with her head tilted. As she listened, her mind would wander. Watching raindrops outside the window punch tiny pits into the muddy earth. Watching the swallows' nest under the eaves. Watching a patched cloth shoe peek out from beneath the old man's black cassock.
A few people in the village converted. Not many, three or four perhaps, all folks whose lives hadn't been going too smoothly. They began imitating the old man, "Hallelujah" and "Immanuel" spilling from their mouths at every turn, making the onlookers roll their eyes.
Once, the old man pulled out his scripture again—she later learned it was called the "Bible"—and unhooked a bright silver fork from his chest—she later learned it was called a "crucifix"—gesticulating as he recited. Fei-niu's Noggin hovered beside his shoulder, staring at the crucifix.
"Old man, that little fork of yours is mighty pretty."
"This is not a fork!" The old man didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "This is a crucifix! It is the suffering of the Son of God..." Halfway through, seeing Fei-niu's utterly clueless face, he shook his head and sighed, "Never mind."
Days passed like this, peaceful enough.
Until that day.
---
老人有個年輕的徒弟，也到了村子裡。
那修士剛進村口，腳上的泥還沒蹭乾淨，一抬頭——
一顆頭。一顆活生生的、紮著髮髻的、圓臉大眼的頭，在半空中晃蕩。底下沒頭的身子正在追一隻雞。
他愣了。
臉白了。青了。紅了。
「DEMONIO!」
一聲暴喝。誰也聽不懂的洋咒。他從懷裡掏出一個玻璃小瓶，瓶裡的水在陰天的光線裡泛著冷光。拔開軟木塞，一股辛辣的氣味衝出來——像醋，又像燒焦的草木灰。
他朝飛妞衝去。
The old man had a young disciple who arrived in the village.
The friar had just stepped into the village entrance, the mud on his shoes not even wiped off, when he looked up—
A head. A living, bun-wearing, round-faced, big-eyed head floating in midair. Below, a headless body was chasing a chicken.
He froze.
His face turned pale. Then green. Then red.
"DEMONIO!"
A violent roar. A foreign curse no one understood. He whipped out a small glass vial from his robes, the liquid inside shimmering with a cold light in the overcast sky. Popping the cork, a pungent odor burst out—like vinegar, yet also like burnt plant ash.
He charged at Fei-niu.
飛妞正在追雞。地裡橫兩手張開，腳步啪嗒啪嗒踩在泥水裡。腦瓜子在上面喊：「左邊左邊！往左……欸欸欸你幹嘛——」
修士一把揪住地裡橫的領子，把那截光禿禿的脖子往後一掰。瓶子舉起來。
腦瓜子在半空中看到了那瓶子。看到了瓶裡的水。看到了修士眼裡的東西——狠，更是怕。怕到了極點才會有的那種凶狠。
「等——」
來不及了。
Fei-niu was busy chasing the chicken. Field-Bully had her arms wide, feet splashing through the muddy water. Noggin was calling from above, "Left, left! Go left... Hey, hey, hey, what are you doing—"
The friar grabbed Field-Bully by her collar, yanked that bare stump of a neck backward, and raised the vial.
From midair, Noggin saw the vial. Saw the water inside. Saw the thing in the friar's eyes—viciousness, but above all, fear. The kind of ferocious cruelty born only from absolute terror.
"Wait—"
Too late.
澆上脖子的那一刻，飛妞感覺到的是……涼。
不講道理的涼，像有人把桶冰渣子硬塞進了她的喉嚨——不，更深。本來流得好好的暖流——那股子從頭到身子、從身子到頭，理所當然的暖流，被那涼颼颼的怪水撞了個正著。
涼得刺骨、凶狠，像無數根冰針同時扎進肉裡，接著撕扯著、絞扭著、往死裡打。那股子讓她飛的勁兒，一節一節地被凍死了。
脖子裡的通道在冒泡，在翻滾，在痙攣。天生的暖流被撕成了碎片。像一匹布被兩隻手扯住往兩邊拉，嘶啦一聲——
斷了。
頭和身子之間沒了感應，腦瓜子從半空中掉了下來。
The moment it splashed onto her neck, what Fei-niu felt was... cold.
An unreasonable cold, as if someone had shoved a bucket of crushed ice straight down her throat—no, deeper still. The warm current that had been flowing so naturally—that undeniable warmth flowing from head to body, from body to head—was struck head-on by that chilling, bizarre water.
It was bone-chilling, ruthless, like countless ice needles plunging into her flesh simultaneously, tearing, twisting, beating it to death. The force that allowed her to fly was frozen dead, segment by segment.
The passage inside her neck bubbled, churned, spasmed. The innate warm current was shredded to pieces. Like a bolt of cloth seized by two hands pulling in opposite directions, with a sharp rip—
It snapped.
The connection between head and body vanished, and Noggin plunged from midair.
像一隻被射瞎的鳥。翅膀還在撲騰，但什麼都看不見了。沒有方向，沒有支撐，沒有底下那具身體傳來的「在這裡，我在這裡」。什麼都沒了。只有風——而風裡沒有任何東西是熟悉的。
碰。
頭栽進了泥地裡。側著臉，半邊埋進了濕泥。嘴裡灌進了泥水，可她連嗆都嗆不出來。
不在了。身子不在了，喉嚨不在了，能喊出聲音來的那個地方不在了，連痛、怕和怒氣都不在了。
她只剩一顆腦袋，陷在泥裡，眼珠子還能轉，但什麼也看不見。
Like a bird shot blind. Wings still flapping frantically, yet unable to see anything. No direction, no support, no signal from the body below whispering, "Here, I'm right here." Everything was gone. Only the wind—and nothing in the wind was familiar.
Thud.
Her head plunged into the mud. Face turned sideways, half buried in the wet earth. Muddy water poured into her mouth, yet she couldn't even choke.
Gone. Her body was gone, her throat was gone, the place capable of crying out was gone, even the pain, the fear, and the anger were gone.
She was left as merely a head, trapped in the mud, her eyeballs still able to roll, yet seeing nothing.
底下的身子——
頸部截面冒著白煙。那股被聖水灼燒的氣，從肉裡一絲絲地往外鑽。身子的手腳瘋狂地揮著。指頭在地上刨出一道道痕，腳跟踢著泥，泥漿四濺。
然後癱了。
手腳軟下來。身子趴在泥水裡，一動不動。
然後她聽見了哭聲。很老，很啞，像風穿過破瓦罐的縫隙，像什麼不該碎的碎了。她認出來——是方濟各老頭。
Her body down below—
White smoke billowed from the cross-section of its neck. The vapor scorched by holy water seeped out from the flesh thread by thread. The body's limbs flailed wildly, fingers gouging raw furrows into the earth, heels kicking at the mud, slinging slush everywhere.
Then it collapsed.
Limbs went limp. The body lay prone in the muddy water, utterly still.
Then she heard crying. Very old, very raspy, like wind whistling through cracks in a broken clay jar, like something that shouldn't have broken had shattered. She recognized it—it was old Francis.
老人愣住了。嘴張著，喉裡像塞了塊秤砣。雨絲落在他的黑袍子上，落在他的白髮上。他看著泥地裡飛妞的頭，看著泥水裡飛妞的身子，看著那截冒著白煙的頸。
那徒弟站在一旁，手裡還攥著空瓶子，嘴唇哆嗦著——
老人轉過身。
啪。
一巴掌扇在年輕人的臉上。啪。又一巴掌。啪。啪。啪。
老人的嘴唇在抖，眼淚撲簌簌地砸下來。他用那聽不懂的洋話罵，聲音嘶啞，罵得年輕人縮成一團不敢抬頭。
老人轉身、蹲下。一雙顫抖的手從泥裡捧起了飛妞的頭。手指冰涼，沾著泥，淚水一顆一顆砸在她臉上，熱的，滾燙的，跟泥水的涼混在一起，她分不清哪個是哪個了。
The old man stood frozen. His mouth agape, his throat choked as if stuffed with a lead weight. Threads of rain fell on his black cassock, on his white hair. He stared at Fei-niu's head in the mud, at Fei-niu's body in the slush, at that neck billowing white smoke.
The disciple stood off to the side, still clutching the empty vial, his lips trembling—
The old man turned around.
Slap. A blow landed across the young man's face. Slap. Another blow. Slap. Slap. Slap.
The old man's lips trembled, tears falling in heavy drops. He raged in that unintelligible foreign tongue, his voice hoarse, berating the young man until he cowered into a ball, not daring to look up.
The old man turned back and knelt. A pair of trembling hands scooped Fei-niu's head up from the mud. His fingers were ice-cold, smeared with dirt; his tears fell upon her face drop by drop, warm, scalding hot, mingling with the coldness of the muddy water until she could no longer tell which was which.
眼睛還睜著，瞳孔散了大半。
那個眼神。
不是怨。不是怕。
是——為什麼呀？
老人哇地一聲大哭，把那顆髒兮兮的頭顱摟進懷裡，用袍子的袖子去擦她臉上的泥。擦了一遍又一遍。
飛妞的臉貼在他黑袍子的胸口，聽見裡頭一顆心臟在暴跳，咚咚咚的像裡面在擂鼓。
「抬！抬進去！快！」她聽到老人喊著。
黑暗來了，越來越沉。她撐著，但眼皮不聽話。
最後她聽見的是：「飛妞啊……撐住……我……我來想辦法……」
老頭的聲音。抖的，啞的，像從骨頭縫裡擠出來的。
Her eyes were still open, her pupils largely dilated.
That look.
Not resentment. Not fear.
But—why?
The old man burst into a wailing sob, cradling that filthy head against his chest, using the sleeve of his cassock to wipe the mud from her face. Wiping again and again.
Fei-niu's face was pressed against the chest of his black cassock, hearing a heart hammering wildly inside, thumping like a drum beaten from within.
"Carry her! Carry her inside! Fast!" she heard the old man shout.
Darkness arrived, heavier and heavier. She held on, but her eyelids refused to obey.
The last thing she heard was: "Fei-niu... hold on... I... I'll think of something..."
The old man's voice. Trembling, hoarse, as if squeezed from the cracks between his bones.
---
十字堂。
老人先前跟村口李二郎租的兩間破土房。牆是土坯的，頂上鋪了幾片瓦，歪歪斜斜。門口掛了個木頭刻的十字架，漆剝了大半。屋裡一張長桌，幾條板凳，牆上釘了個苦像。
頭被放在桌上，底下墊了一塊乾淨的粗布。身子平放在旁邊。那段焦黑頸部，邊緣翻著肉芽，微微冒著煙。空氣裡瀰漫著燒焦的腥甜味，混著聖水殘留的辛辣。
老人的淚沒停過。
他湊近那截脖子，仔細看。手指在截面邊緣虛虛地比劃，不敢碰。他知道——他太知道了——聖水一旦侵入骨肉，頭身的感應就全斷了。那截脖子本是通道，連著頭和身子，也連著魂和心。本來是她自己的。可如今被聖水灼了，若不把它獻給天主，這通道就永遠封死了。
永遠。
老人閉上眼。吸了一口氣。再睜開的時候，淚不流，手也不抖了。
The Chapel of the Cross.
Two dilapidated earth-brick rooms the old man had rented from Li Er-lang at the village entrance. The walls were adobe, the roof laid with a few crooked tiles. A hand-carved wooden cross hung by the door, its paint mostly peeled away. Inside stood a long table, a few wooden benches, and a crucifix nailed to the wall.
Her head was placed on the table, resting atop a piece of clean coarse cloth. Her body lay flat beside it. That charred neck, its edges raw with granulating flesh, wisped with faint smoke. The air was heavy with the sweet, copper smell of scorched flesh, mingled with the lingering pungency of holy water.
The old man's tears had never stopped.
He leaned close to that neck, inspecting it carefully. His fingers hovered over the edges of the cross-section, not daring to touch. He knew—knew all too well—that once holy water seeps into bone and flesh, the connection between head and body is completely severed. That neck was originally a passage, connecting head and body, connecting soul and heart. It had belonged to her. But now, scorched by holy water, if it were not offered up to God, this passage would remain sealed forever.
Forever.
The old man closed his eyes. Drew a breath. When he opened them again, his tears had stopped, and his hands no longer shook.
---
他從袍子裡摸出鑰匙，打開角落裡一隻落了灰的木箱。一樣一樣取出。
沉甸甸的銀十字架。比他胸前掛的那個大兩倍，柄上刻著拉丁文，頂端嵌了一小顆紅石頭，在燭光裡倒也好看。
皮面的經書。翻得起了毛邊，書脊用麻線重新綑過。翻開來，裡頭密密麻麻的蠅頭小字，旁邊有他寫的批注。
念珠。木頭的，磨得發亮。墜著個小小的十字架，還有個金屬牌子，上頭壓了五個印。
一束乾了的玫瑰花。花瓣脆得碰一下就碎。
白蠟燭。他一根根點上，插在鐵燭台裡。火苗在穿堂風裡晃了晃，穩住了。
他把這些在桌上擺好。銀十字架立在頭的上方，經書打開攤在一旁，念珠掛在燭台的柄上。玫瑰花瓣碎了幾片，落在粗布上。
然後繞著桌子踱步。
He fished a key from his robes and unlocked a dust-covered wooden chest in the corner. Taking out items one by one.
A heavy silver crucifix. Twice the size of the one hanging from his neck, its shaft carved with Latin script, a tiny red stone embedded at its top, looking quite lovely in the candlelight.
A leather-bound missal. Its edges frayed from constant flipping, its spine rebound with hemp twine. Opened, its pages were dense with tiny text, flanked by his handwritten annotations.
A rosary. Made of wood, polished smooth. Hanging from it was a small crucifix and a metal medal stamped with five wounds.
A bouquet of dried roses. The petals so brittle they would shatter at a touch.
White candles. He lit them one by one, placing them into iron candlesticks. The flames fluttered in the draft, then stabilized.
He arranged these upon the table. The silver crucifix stood above her head, the missal opened flat beside it, the rosary draped over the neck of a candlestick. A few dried rose petals flaked off, falling onto the coarse cloth.
Then he began pacing around the table.
一步。一句。一步。一句。
拉丁文的禱詞從他嘴裡滾出來，嗡嗡地在土牆之間撞來撞去。念得不快，但每一個音節都結實。穿堂風灌進來，燭火往一邊歪，他的聲音沒有歪。
頭置在桌上，眼睛閉著，嘴唇微微動著。
身子平躺著。手指偶爾抽動一下，像夢裡被什麼驚到了。
燭油一滴一滴往桌面上落，凝成小小的白珠子。
老人念完了第一段。停下來，閉眼。吸了一口氣。
走到木箱邊，從最底層端出了一個小小的銀盒。
打開。裡面是兩樣東西。
一塊白麵餅。薄薄的，比銅錢大一圈，表面壓了十字的紋路。
一小瓶深紅的液體。酒。瓶口用蠟封了。
聖體。寶血。
One step. One phrase. One step. One phrase.
Latin prayers rolled from his mouth, reverberating against the mud-brick walls. Not recited quickly, but every syllable was solid. The draft blew in, tilting the candlelight, but his voice did not tilt.
The head lay on the table, eyes closed, lips moving faintly.
The body lay flat beside it. Fingers occasionally twitched, as if startled by something in a dream.
Candle wax fell drop by drop onto the table, congealing into tiny white beads.
The old man finished the first passage. Stopped, eyes closed. Drew a breath.
He walked to the wooden chest and lifted a small silver box from the very bottom.
Opened it. Inside were two things.
A white communion host. Thin, slightly larger than a copper coin, its surface stamped with a cross.
A small bottle of deep red liquid. Wine. The stopper sealed with wax.
Host. Precious Blood.
他說這是天主親兒子的肉和血。村裡人分過——掰一小塊餅、抿一口酒。飛妞以前也嚐過，覺得餅沒什麼味道，酒辣辣的，嗆。
老人把麵餅掰開。餅很乾，掰的時候碎了一些，落在銀盒蓋上。他把碎屑撿起來放在掌心，用指腹慢慢地碾，碾成極細的粉末。
瓶塞拔開。酒的氣味散出來——酸的、澀的，帶點果子的甜。他倒了些在掌心，和麵粉攪在一起。攪到成糊，淡粉色的糊。
走到桌邊。
低頭看那截脖子。老人的嘴唇在抖。
他伸出右手食指，蘸了那團粉紅色的糊。
然後——把它抹進了身子那截冒著煙的焦黑裡。
He said this was the flesh and blood of God's own Son. The villagers had partaken before—breaking a tiny piece of host, taking a sip of wine. Fei-niu had tried it in the past; she thought the host tasted bland, and the wine was spicy and harsh.
The old man broke the wafer. It was dry, crumbling slightly as he broke it, pieces landing on the lid of the silver box. He picked up the crumbs, placed them in his palm, and ground them slowly with his thumb into an ultra-fine powder.
He pulled the stopper. The aroma of wine wafted out—tart, astringent, with a hint of fruity sweetness. He poured a little into his palm and mixed it with the flour. Stirring it into a paste, a pale pink paste.
He walked to the bedside.
Looked down at that neck. The old man's lips trembled.
He extended his right index finger, dipping it into the pink paste.
Then—he smeared it into the smoking, charred flesh of her body's neck.
飛妞的頭——不，是飛妞，模模糊糊的，但就是又有了——感覺到了不一樣的東西。
溫的。軟的。一粒一粒的，被小心翼翼地塞進她脖子斷口的肉裡。香氣混著醇味，還有一股說不上來的什麼——像別人的一塊出現在那裡。在她的中間，在她的裡面。
怪，但那一塊「別人」，像雙大手，把她那截斷了氣的血肉重新兜住，仔細地揣在掌心。
腦瓜子和地裡橫，在那掌心終於見著了面，隔著那一塊「別人」牽起了手，牽出了飛妞。
雖然不太像舊的那一個。
頭在桌上動了一下。嘴唇抿了抿。眉心皺起。
身子的手指抽搐了幾下。腳趾在鞋裡蜷緊。
Fei-niu's head—no, Fei-niu, hazy, yet existing once again—felt something different.
Warm. Soft. Grain by grain, carefully stuffed into the raw flesh of her severed neck. A fragrance mixed with rich aroma, and an indefinable something—like a piece belonging to someone else appearing there. In her middle, inside her.
Strange, yet that "piece of another" was like a pair of giant hands, cradling her dead, breath-drained flesh once more, holding it meticulously in their palms.
Noggin and Field-Bully finally met within those palms, holding hands across that "piece of another," pulling forth Fei-niu.
Though not quite like the old one.
Her head moved slightly on the table. Lips pressed together. Brow furrowing.
The body's fingers twitched a few times. Toes curling tight inside her shoes.
---
老人沒有停。掌心裡最後一點糊抹完了。又倒了些酒在手心，把殘餘的麵粉沖下來，繼續抹。一遍。又一遍。直到那截焦黑的截面上每一寸肉芽都浸過了那粉紅色的糊。
退了一步。噗通。
膝蓋砸在泥地上。
他對著牆上的苦像——那個釘在十字架上的人像——「全能的天主啊！」
不是唱也不是吟。是嚎。喉嚨撕開了，聲音從胸腔裡連滾帶爬地衝出來。
The old man did not stop. The last bit of paste in his palm was finished. He poured a little more wine onto his hand, washing down the remaining flour, continuing to smear it. Once. Again. Until every inch of raw flesh on that charred cross-section was drenched in pale pink paste.
He took a step back. Thud.
His knees slammed onto the dirt floor.
Facing the crucifix on the wall—the image of the man nailed to the cross—he cried out, "Almighty God!"
Not singing, not chanting. It was a wail. His throat ripped open, the sound tumbling frantically from his chest.
「此女本受祢所造——雖具異象，亦是祢之旨意！」
額頭碰著泥地。淚水在泥地上砸出小坑。
「今以聖水侵其關口——僕人方濟各，願將此女受難之頸肉，權作燔祭——全然奉獻於主！」
聲音破了。
「求主赦免此女一身之奇詭，莫視其為妖孽——而視其為天主迷途之羔羊！」
又磕了一個頭。袍子的前襟浸在泥水和淚水裡。
「求祢以聖體寶血重開此關——將這方寸肉軀納入基督之領土——保守此女一命！」
停了一拍。聲音幾乎聽不見了。
「求天主憐憫。」
「阿們。」
"This maiden was created by You—though bearing an anomaly, it too is Your divine will!"
His forehead struck the dirt floor. Tears gouged tiny pits into the soil.
"Now that holy water has invaded her threshold—I, Your servant Francis, offer the suffering flesh of her neck as a burnt offering—wholly consecrated to the Lord!"
His voice cracked.
"I beseech the Lord to forgive the grotesqueness of her form, to view her not as a demon—but as a lost lamb of God!"
He kowtowed once more. The lapels of his cassock soaked in mud and tears.
"I pray You re-open this gateway with the Body and Blood—claim this square inch of mortal flesh as Christ's domain—and spare this maiden's life!"
A beat of pause. His voice became nearly inaudible.
"Lord, have mercy."
"Amen."
---
某種東西從飛妞的脖子裡炸開了。
是火，瞧不著的那種。滾燙滾燙的，從脖頸最深的中央往外蔓延。像濕柴在灶膛裡燒著，悶悶的，劈裡啪啦的，有時猛，有時不那麼順。脖子裡的什麼東西——黑的、稠的、沾著泥腥味的東西——被那火舔過之後，一縷一縷地飄走。
她說不上來那是什麼，但知道那些東西原本是她的。是她能飛的原因，是她能跟身子相通的原因。
現在它們正在被燒掉，新的東西——那些被聖水絞斷的東西，在重新長。但不一樣了，不再是亂的、活的、野的。是整整齊齊的，像有人拿著尺子一條一條量過了才放下去。
而她連驚悚、連慌張、連在心裡說「打住！」，都沒有。就這麼受著，癡癡受著。
Something exploded within Fei-niu's neck.
It was fire, the unseeable kind. Scalding hot, spreading outward from the deepest center of her neck. Like wet wood burning in a stove hearth, muffled, crackling, sometimes fierce, sometimes sputtering. Whatever was inside her neck—black, thick, tainted with the stench of mud—was licked by that fire, wafting away thread by thread.
She couldn't say what it was, but she knew those things had originally been hers. The reason she could fly, the reason she was connected to her body.
Now they were being burned away, while new things—the things severed by the holy water—were growing anew. But it was different now, no longer wild, living, untamed. It was pristine and orderly, as if someone had measured each thread with a ruler before laying it down.
Yet she felt no horror, no panic, didn't even say "Stop!" in her mind. She simply endured it, blankly enduring.
「咳咳咳——！」
她的腦瓜子猛地咳了起來。劇烈地咳，像要把肺咳出來——儘管她的肺不在這裡。咳的時候她感覺到了胸口，遠遠的，從那個她碰不到的地方傳來的抽動。她的身子也在動！腰扭了，腿蹬了，兩隻手在虛空中胡亂抓著。
白焰沿著截面的邊緣走了一圈。所經之處，焦肉脫落，長出的新肉如萬蟲般蠕動——有飛妞原有的血肉，也有聖體、寶血借來的。一條條竄出、延伸，然後交纏，絞成粗的，再絞成更粗的，再也分不開。
通道——那條被聖水撕碎的通道——在白焰中重組。不是恢復，是重建。壁是新的。方向是新的。歸屬是新的。
火停了。脖子裡的白光慢慢暗下來，像灶膛裡最後一根柴燃盡。她以為結束了。可是安靜了幾個呼吸之後，老人又走近。
火候到了。他從懷裡掏出最後一樣東西。
"Cough, cough, cough—!"
Her Noggin suddenly burst into coughing. Violent, racking coughs, as if trying to cough up her lungs—even though her lungs weren't here. As she coughed, she felt her chest, far off, twitching from that place she couldn't reach. Her body was moving too! Waist twisting, legs kicking, both hands flailing wildly in empty space.
A white flame traced a circle around the edge of the cross-section. Wherever it passed, charred flesh sloughed off, and new flesh wriggled forth like ten thousand worms—containing Fei-niu's original flesh and blood, as well as that borrowed from the Body and Blood. Strands shot out, extended, then intertwined, twisting into thicker strands, then thicker still, inextricably bound forever.
The passage—the passage torn apart by holy water—reconstructed itself in the white flame. Not a restoration, but a re-creation. The walls were new. The direction was new. The belonging was new.
The fire stopped. The white light in her neck slowly dimmed, like the last log burning out in a hearth. She thought it was over. But after a few breaths of quiet, the old man approached again.
The time was ripe. He drew the final item from his robes.
一條細銀鏈。亮晃晃的，鏈節細密得幾乎看不見縫。底下墜著一個指頭大小的十字架，背面刻行拉丁小字。
走到桌邊。手在抖。鏈子在他指間晃來晃去，發出極細的金屬聲。
他把鏈子繞上了飛妞新生的頸。
一圈。緊貼皮膚。銀鏈碰到成形中的白肉，嘶了一聲——極輕的，像金屬和肉在互相試探。扣到頸後的時候，兩頭接上了——不是他扣的。是鏈子自己接上的，像找到了它該在的位置。
十字架落在頸窩正中，往肉裡一沉，像一把鎖扣上了。
小小的十字架，嵌在頸窩的皮肉裡，表面和皮膚齊平。摸上去是凸的，但看起來——像一直都在那裡。
她的頸窩，被掛上名牌，從此是別人的窩。
A delicate silver chain. Gleaming bright, its links so fine the gaps were nearly invisible. Suspended beneath was a finger-sized crucifix, its reverse side carved with a line of tiny Latin text.
He walked to the table. His hands trembled. The chain swayed between his fingers, emitting a tiny metallic clink.
He wrapped the chain around Fei-niu's newly formed neck.
One loop. Pressing tight against the skin. As the silver chain touched the developing pale flesh, it gave a soft hiss—extremely faint, like metal and flesh testing each other. When brought behind her neck, the two ends connected—not by his hands, but connecting on its own, as if finding where it ought to be.
The crucifix settled dead center in the hollow of her neck, sinking into the flesh like a lock snapping shut.
The tiny crucifix, embedded in the skin and flesh of her throat, sat flush with her skin. Raised to the touch, yet looking as if... it had been there all along.
Her throat's hollow, hung with a nameplate, was henceforth someone else's sanctuary.
她模糊地聽見老頭在哭著叫她。他在她耳邊念了很多話，斷斷續續的，夾著鼻涕和眼淚。她聽不太清，但有一句留了下來：
「從今以後……妳就是天主的了。」
她想回答。她想說，我怎麼變成祂的了？可是她不知為何，又覺得自己就是他的，得是祂的。
身子那裡好像不太高興，可是……應該高興？嗯，應該高興，高興天主願意收留她，於是就高興了。
不太對……不該不對……不，不是……
算了。累了。睏了。
She vaguely heard the old man crying, calling her name. He murmured many words by her ear, broken, mixed with snot and tears. She couldn't hear clearly, but one phrase remained:
"From this day forth... you belong to God."
She wanted to answer. She wanted to say, How did I become His? Yet for some reason, she felt she was His, that she ought to be His.
Over on the body's side, it seemed unhappy, but... shouldn't it be happy? Mmh, it should be happy, happy that God was willing to take her in, so it became happy.
Not quite right... shouldn't be wrong... no, it's not...
Never mind. Tired. Sleepy.
---
她醒的時候，不知道過了多久。
天花板。灰泥的，一道裂縫，從角落延伸到中間。
脖子——
她想動一下。但那個動，傳到頭顱的下緣，跟著弧線一起斷了。脖子成了兩段，另一段——不認識了。
身子——她感覺到——還在。坐在桌旁的椅子上。只是，她找身子，像去別人家，得敲門，等應門。
身子的那段脖子，有一圈什麼貼在上面。硬的。頸窩正中有個東西，壓著。
她的手摸到了鏈子——她讓身子知道有，身子自己摸的。
手指沿著鏈節一格一格地摸。摸到頸窩，摸到了十字架。小小的，嵌在肉裡。
她沒有哭，沒有叫，只是摸著。
然後——
When she woke, she didn't know how much time had passed.
The ceiling. Plastered, with a single crack stretching from the corner to the center.
Her neck—
She tried to move it. But that movement, reaching the lower rim of her skull, broke along with the curve. The neck had become two segments, the other segment... unrecognizable now.
Her body—she could feel it—was still there. Sitting on a chair beside the table. Only, seeking her body was now like visiting someone else's house: she had to knock on the door and wait for an answer.
The body's section of the neck had something wrapped around it. Hard. Right in the hollow of the throat, something was pressing down.
Her hand touched the chain—she let her body know it was there, and the body touched it on its own.
Her fingers traced along the links link by link. Reaching the hollow of her throat, touching the crucifix. Tiny, embedded in her flesh.
She didn't cry, didn't scream, just touched it.
Then—
她想起她能飛。她想飛。
脖子使下勁，頭往上提——從小就會的動作，跟抬胳膊一樣自然。
提不動。
又試了一下。脖子裡的通道——新長好的通道——被什麼攔住了。氣往上走到一半，就不給過了。
不能飛了。
她躺著。盯著天花板的裂縫。
She remembered she could fly. She wanted to fly.
Her neck exerted force, lifting her head upward—a motion learned in childhood, as natural as raising an arm.
It wouldn't budge.
She tried again. The passage in her neck—the newly grown passage—was blocked by something. Halfway up, the breath was refused passage.
She couldn't fly anymore.
She lay there. Staring at the crack in the ceiling.
老人坐在角落的板凳上，看著她，開口。
「孩子。」
她眼珠子慢慢地飄向那音聲。身體那的脖子也跟著轉——可能是想轉頭——從裡面發出了極細的嘎吱聲，像新安上的門軸在磨合。
老人的眼圈紅了。
「從今往後，妳有了一個新名字。」
他頓了頓。
「Agape（她聽著是阿嘉佩）。聖愛。天主愛世人的方式。」
她看著他。沒有說話。
The old man sat on a wooden bench in the corner, watching her, opening his mouth.
"Child."
Her eyes slowly drifted toward the sound. The neck on her body turned along—perhaps trying to turn its head—emitting a microscopic creak from within, like new door hinges breaking in.
The old man's eyes reddened.
"From this day forth, you have a new name."
He paused.
"Agape." (To her ears, it sounded like Ah-gah-pay.) "Divine love. The way God loves humankind."
She stared at him. Saying nothing.
「妳的——妳的脖子，歸了主了。那條路——妳以前飛的那條路——走不通了。」
他說不下去了。嘴唇抖了半天，才又擠出幾個字。
「主會護著妳。這條新的路——祂會替妳走。」
她還是沒有說話。
老人取起她的頭，放到她的手上。她眼神下飄，看了看自己的手。
"Your—your neck belongs to the Lord now. That path—the path you used to fly—is no longer open."
He couldn't go on. His lips trembled for a long time before squeezing out a few more words.
"The Lord will protect you. This new path—He will walk it for you."
She still said nothing.
The old man picked up her head and placed it into her hands. Her gaze drifted downward, looking at her own hands.
手掌貼了上來，緊緊地捧住臉。心怦怦地跳。
這跳法，應該是要哭了——可是淚兒一滴都沒落。
腳伸了出來，鈴鐺在腳踝上響著。
叮叮噹的，清脆；可是怎麼有點像哭聲？
怪怪的，為什麼這麼想？
窗外，雨不知道什麼時候停了。
Palms pressed close, tightly cupping her face. Her heart beat thump-thump.
A rhythm like that meant she should be crying—yet not a single tear fell.
Her feet extended out, the bells jingling around her ankle.
Clinking crisp and clear; yet why did it sound a bit like weeping?
Strange. Why did she think that?
Outside the window, the rain had stopped without her noticing.
---
後來的事，老人一句一句教她。
怎麼跟這條新脖子相處。怎麼在腦和心之間走那條新設立的路。怎麼把那些被「歸正」過的念頭當成自己的。至少假裝當成自己的。
他教她念天主經。一遍一遍。
「我們在天上的父，願人都尊祢的名為聖——」
她跟著念。念著念著就走神。看著窗外的落葉飄。
——然後她眼神又轉回來，認為自己想要好好看著經書。
心是這樣覺得的，透過那邊的脖子說。
老人苦笑，嘆口氣，再念一遍。
The things that came after, the old man taught her sentence by sentence.
How to coexist with this new neck. How to navigate that newly established path between brain and heart. How to treat those "rectified" thoughts as her own. Or at least pretend they were her own.
He taught her to recite the Lord's Prayer. Over and over.
"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name—"
She recited along. As she recited, her mind drifted. Watching the falling leaves float outside the window.
—Then her gaze snapped back, believing she wanted to pay proper attention to the prayer book.
That was how her heart felt, speaking through the neck over there.
The old man smiled bitterly, sighed, and recited it again.
又教她做飯、洗衣、掃地。教她怎麼圍圍巾——「圍高一點，風冷。」
她知道他的意思。圍巾不只暖著脖子，還蓋住了那些——
那些，就那些。
日子過去。
老人頭髮白得不再有半點黃，背也駝了，走路要拄拐杖。
他帶她坐上了大洋船，到了他的故鄉——後來她在地圖上看到，那地方長得像隻皮靴。
He taught her how to cook, wash clothes, sweep the floor. Taught her how to wrap her scarf—"Wrap it higher, the wind is cold."
She knew what he meant. The scarf didn't just warm her neck; it covered up those...
Those things, just those things.
Days passed.
The old man's hair turned so white not a trace of yellow remained, his back hunched, walking with a cane.
He brought her aboard an ocean steamer to his homeland—later she saw on a map that the place was shaped like a leather boot.
船很大，底艙裡擠滿了人，空氣悶得透不過來。她暈船，吐了好幾回。有時頭放進藤編的籃子，身子套個大帽子，被老人扶到甲板上吹風。
一邊熱一邊涼的，好像比較能忘記要暈。
晚上，老人把自己的黑袍子脫下來，蓋上她身子，自己縮在角落裡打哆嗦。
下船了。老人帶她穿過石板路、穿過窄巷、穿過掛滿了洗曬衣物的街道，最後停在一座古聖堂前面。
石頭砌的，尖頂。門口有棵老橄欖樹。
The ship was immense, the steerage crowded with people, the air suffocatingly muggy. She got seasick and vomited several times. Sometimes her head was placed in a woven rattan basket and her body dressed in a large hat, as the old man helped her onto the deck to catch the breeze.
One side warm and the other side cool, it seemed easier to forget the dizziness.
At night, the old man took off his black cassock to cover her body, while he curled up shivering in the corner.
They disembarked. The old man led her across cobblestone paths, through narrow alleys, past streets draped in hanging laundry, finally stopping before an ancient sanctuary.
Built of stone, with a pointed spire. An old olive tree stood at the entrance.
「往後，妳就住這裡。」他說，「安安靜靜的。沒人來打擾。」
她點了點頭。
老人在聖堂裡又活了幾年。最後一個冬天，他躺在床上，眼睛看著天花板——那天花板很高，有壁畫，畫著藍天白雲和一群長翅膀的人。
他臨走的時候握著她的手。
「孩子——」他說，「對不住。」
她搖搖手中的頭。
他的手鬆了。
"From now on, you will live here," he said. "Quiet and peaceful. No one will come to disturb you."
She nodded.
The old man lived a few more years in the sanctuary. In his final winter, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling—it was very high, adorned with frescoes of blue sky, white clouds, and a host of winged figures.
When he was leaving, he held her hand.
"Child—" he said, "I am sorry."
She shook the head held in her hands.
His hand slipped limp.
---
Agape。
氣流從喉嚨上升，經過通道，然後從嘴躍出。舌尖碰上齒齦，氣流從兩側溜走。嘴唇閉上，又放開。
她又唸了一遍，比當年準多了，不再是「阿嘉佩」。
想起腦瓜子和地裡橫。真奇怪，明明在這，又遠得像故人。
遠得像老人。
Agape.
Air surged up from her throat, passed through the channel, and leaped from her mouth. The tip of her tongue touched her gums, air slipping out from both sides. Lips closed, then released.
She recited it once more, far more accurately than back then, no longer sounding like "Ah-gah-pay."
She thought of Nao-gua-zi (Noggin) and Di-li-heng (Field-Bully). How strange; clearly right here, yet as distant as old friends from a bygone era.
As distant as the old man.
聖堂很安靜。晨光從高窗篩進來，灰藍褪成了薄白。
她坐在桌前。桌上是麵包、湯、茶，和一瓣橙子。
手拾起那瓣橙子，往嘴送。酸，澀，接著是甜。
她起身。腳上沒響起鈴鐺聲。
就像皮鞋的鞋頭，也沒繡著花。
窗外，遠處傳來風吹過樹梢的聲音。沙沙的。
很遠的地方，有隻鳥叫了一聲。
她沒有抬頭看。
The sanctuary was very quiet. Morning light sifted in through the high windows, the grayish-blue fading into a pale white.
She sat before the table. On the table lay bread, soup, tea, and a segment of an orange.
Her hand picked up the orange slice and brought it to her mouth. Tart, astringent, followed by sweetness.
She stood up. No bells jingled on her ankles.
Just as the toes of her leather shoes bore no embroidered flowers.
Outside the window, the distant rustling of wind through treetops carried over. Soft and whispering.
Somewhere far away, a bird chirped once.
She did not look up.
