The Man in the Woods

Wearily, moving his feet because he had nothing else to do, Christopher went on down the road, hating the trees that moved slowly against his progress, hating the dust beneath his feet, hating the sky, hating this road, all roads, everywhere. He had been walking since morning, and all day the day before that, and the day before that, and days before that, back into the numberless line of walking days that dissolved, seemingly years ago, into the place he had left, once, before he started walking. This morning he had been walking past fields, and now he was walking past trees that mounted heavily to the road, and leaned across, bending their great old bodies toward him; Christopher had come into the forest at a crossroads, turning onto the forest road as though he had a choice, looking back once to see the other road, the one he had not chosen, going peacefully on through fields, in and out of towns, perhaps even coming to an end somewhere beyond Christopher's sight.

The cat had joined him shortly after he entered the forest, emerging from between the trees in a quick, shadowy movement that surprised Christopher at first and then, oddly, comforted him, and the cat had stayed beside him, moving closer to Christopher as the trees pressed insistently closer to them both, trotting along in the casual acceptance of human company that cats exhibit when they are frightened. Christopher, when he stopped once to rest, sitting on a large stone at the edge of the road, had rubbed the cat's ears and pulled the cat's tail affectionately, and had said, “Where we going, fellow? Any ideas?” and the cat had closed his eyes meaningfully and opened them again.

“Haven't seen a house since we came into these trees,” Christopher remarked once, later, to the cat; squinting up at the sky, he had added, “Going to be dark before long.” He glanced apprehensively at the trees so close to him, irritated by the sound of his own voice in the silence, as though the trees were listening to him and, listening, had nodded solemnly to one another.

“Don't worry,” Christopher said to the cat. “Road's got to go somewhere.”

It was not much later—an hour before dark, probably—that Christopher and the cat paused, surprised, at a turn in the road, because a house was ahead. A neat stone fence ran down to the road, smoke came naturally from the chimneys, the doors and windows were not nailed shut, nor were the steps broken or the hinges sagging. It was a comfortable-looking, settled old house, made of stone like its fence, easily found in the pathless forest because it lay correctly, compactly, at the end of the road, which was not a road at all, of course, but merely a way to the house. Christopher thought briefly of the other way, long before, that he had not followed, and then moved forward, the cat at his heels, to the front door of the house.

The sound of a river came from among the trees. The river knew a way out of the forest, because it moved along sweetly and clearly, over clean stones and, unafraid, among the dark trees.

Christopher approached the house as he would any house, farmhouse, suburban home, or city apartment, and knocked politely and with pleasure on the warm front door.

“Come in, then,” a woman said as she opened it, and Christopher stepped inside, followed closely by the cat.

The woman stood back and looked for a minute at Christopher, her eyes searching and wide; he looked back at her and saw that she was young, not so young as he would have liked, but too young, seemingly, to be living in the heart of a forest.

“I've been here for a long time, though,” she said, as if she'd read his thoughts. Out of this dark hallway, he thought, she might look older; her hair curled a little around her face, and her eyes were far too wide for the rest of her, as if she were constantly straining to see in the gloom of the forest. She wore a long green dress that was gathered at her waist by a belt made of what he subsequently saw was grass woven into a rope; she was barefoot. While he stood uneasily just inside the door, looking at her as she looked at him, the cat went round the hall, stopping curiously at corners and before closed doors, glancing up, once, into the unlighted heights of the stairway that rose from the far end of the hall.

“He smells another cat,” she said. “We have one.”

“Phyllis,” a voice called from the back of the house, and the woman smiled quickly, nervously, at Christopher and said, “Come along, please. I shouldn't keep you waiting.”

He followed her to the door at the back of the hall, next to the stairway, and was grateful for the light that greeted them when she opened it. He was led directly into a great warm kitchen, glowing with an open fire on its hearth, and well lit, against the late-afternoon dimness of the forest, by three kerosene lamps set on table and shelves. A second woman stood by the stove, watching the pots that steamed and smelled maddeningly of onions and herbs; Christopher closed his eyes, like the cat, against the unbelievable beauty of warmth, light, and the smell of onions.

“Well,” the woman at the stove said with finality, turning to look at Christopher. She studied him carefully, as the other woman had done, and then turned her eyes to a bare whitewashed area, high on the kitchen wall, where lines and crosses indicated a rough measuring system. “Another day,” she said.

“What's your name?” the first woman asked Christopher, and he said “Christopher” without effort and then, “What's yours?”

“Phyllis,” the young woman said. “What's your cat's name?”

“I don't know,” Christopher said. He smiled a little. “It's not even my cat,” he went on, his voice gathering strength from the smell of the onions. “He just followed me here.”

“We'll have to name him something,” Phyllis said. When she spoke she looked away from Christopher, turning her overlarge eyes on him again only when she stopped speaking. “Our cat's named Grimalkin.”

“Grimalkin,” Christopher said.

“Her name,” Phyllis said, gesturing with her head toward the cook. “Her name's Aunt Cissy.”

“Circe,” the older woman said doggedly to the stove. “Circe I was born and Circe I will have for my name till I die.”

Although she seemed, from the way she stood and the way she kept her voice to a single note, to be much older than Phyllis, Christopher saw her face clearly in the light of the lamps—she was vigorous and clear-eyed, and the strength in her arms when she lifted the great iron pot easily off the stove and carried it to the stone table in the center of the kitchen surprised Christopher. The cat, who had followed Christopher and Phyllis into the kitchen, leaped noiselessly onto the bench beside the table, and then onto the table; Phyllis looked warily at Christopher for a minute before she pushed the cat gently to drive him off the table.

“We'll have to find a name for your cat,” she said apologetically as the cat leaped down without taking offense.

“Kitty,” Christopher said helplessly. “I guess I always call cats ‘Kitty’.”

Phyllis shook her head. She was about to speak when Aunt Cissy stopped her with a glance, and Phyllis moved quickly to an iron chest in the corner of the kitchen, from which she took a cloth to spread on the table, and heavy stone plates and mugs, which she set on the table in four places. Christopher sat down on the bench, with his back to the table, to indicate clearly that he had no intention of presuming that he was sitting at the table but was on the bench only because he was tired, that he would not swing around to the table until invited warmly and specifically to do so.

“Are we almost ready, then?” Aunt Cissy said. She swept her eyes across the table, adjusted a fork, and stood back, her glance never for a minute resting on Christopher. Then she moved over to the wall beside the door, where she stood, quiet and erect, and Phyllis went to stand beside her. Christopher, turning his head to look at them, had to turn again as footsteps approached from the hall, and after a minute's interminable pause, the door opened. The two women stayed respectfully by the far wall, and Christopher stood up without knowing why, except that it was his host who was entering.

This was a man toward the end of middle age; although he held his shoulders stiffly back, they looked as if they would sag without a constant effort. His face was lined and tired, and his mouth, like his shoulders, appeared to be falling downward into resignation. He was dressed, as the women were, in a long green robe tied at the waist, and he, too, was barefoot. As he stood in the doorway, with the darkness of the hall behind him, his white head shone softly, and his eyes, bright and curious, regarded Christopher for a long minute before they turned, as the older woman's had done, to the crude measuring system on the upper wall.

“We are honored to have you here,” he said at last to Christopher; his voice was resonant, like the sound of the wind in the trees. Without speaking again, he took his seat at the head of the stone table and gestured to Christopher to take the place on his right. Phyllis came away from her post by the door and slipped into the place across from Christopher, and Aunt Cissy served them all from the iron pot before taking her own place at the foot of the table.

Christopher stared down at the plate before him, and the rich smell of the onions and meat met him, so that he closed his eyes again for a minute before starting to eat. When he lifted his head he could see, over Phyllis's head, the dark window, the trees pressed so close against it that their branches were bent against the glass, a tangled crowd of leaves and branches looking in.

“What will we call you?” the old man asked Christopher at last.

“I'm Christopher,” Christopher said, looking only at his plate or up at the window.

“And have you come far?” the old man said.

“Very far.” Christopher smiled. “I suppose it seems farther than it really is,” he explained.

“I am named Oakes,” the old man said.

Christopher gathered himself together with an effort. Ever since entering this strange house he had been bewildered, as though intoxicated from his endless journey through the trees, and uneasy at coming from darkness and the watching forest into a house where he sat down without introductions at his host's table. Swallowing, Christopher turned to look at Mr. Oakes and said, “It's very kind of you to take me in. If you hadn't, I guess I'd have been wandering around in the woods all night.”

Mr. Oakes bowed his head slightly at Christopher.

“I guess I was a little frightened,” Christopher said with a small embarrassed laugh. “All those trees.”

“Indeed yes,” Mr. Oakes said placidly. “All those trees.”

Christopher wondered if he had shown his gratitude adequately. He wanted very much to say something further, something that might lead to an explicit definition of his privileges: whether he was to stay the night, for instance, or whether he must go out again into the woods in the darkness; whether, if he did stay the night, he might have in the morning another such meal as this dinner. When Aunt Cissy filled his plate a second time, Christopher smiled up at her. “This is certainly wonderful,” he said to her. “I don't know when I've had a meal I enjoyed this much.”

Aunt Cissy bowed her head to him as Mr. Oakes had before.

“The food comes from the woods, of course,” Mr. Oakes said. “Circe gathers her onions down by the river, but naturally none of that need concern you.”

“I suppose not,” Christopher said, feeling that he was not to stay the night.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough for you to see the house,” Mr. Oakes added.

“I suppose so,” Christopher said, realizing that he was indeed to stay the night.

“Tonight,” Mr. Oakes said, his voice deliberately light. “Tonight, I should like to hear about you, and what things you have seen on your journey, and what takes place in the world you have left.”

Christopher smiled. Knowing that he could stay the night, could not in charity be dismissed before the morning, he felt relaxed. Aunt Cissy's good dinner had pleased him, and he was ready enough to talk with his host.

“I don't really know quite how I got here,” he said. “I just took the road into the woods.”

“You would have to go through the woods to get here,” his host agreed soberly.

“Before that,” Christopher went on, “I passed a lot of farmhouses and a little town—do you know the name of it? I asked a woman there for a meal and she turned me away.”

He laughed now, at the memory, with Aunt Cissy's good dinner warm inside him.

“And before that,” he said, “I was studying.”

“You are a scholar,” the old man said. “Naturally.”

“I don't know why.” Christopher turned at last to Mr. Oakes and spoke frankly. “I don't know why,” he repeated. “One day I was there, in college, like everyone else, and then the next day I just left, without any reason except that I did.” He glanced from Mr. Oakes to Phyllis to Aunt Cissy; they were all looking at him with blank expectation. He stopped, then said lamely, “And I guess that's all that happened before I came here.”

“He brought a cat with him,” Phyllis said softly, her eyes down.

“A cat?” Mr. Oakes looked politely around the kitchen, saw Christopher's cat curled up under the stove, and nodded. “One brought a dog,” he said to Aunt Cissy. “Do you remember the dog?”

Aunt Cissy nodded, her face unchanging.

There was a sound at the door, and Phyllis said, without moving, “That is our Grimalkin coming for his supper.”

Aunt Cissy rose and went over to the outer door and opened it. A cat, tiger-striped where Christopher's cat was black, but about the same size, trotted casually into the kitchen, without a glance at Aunt Cissy, went directly for the stove, then saw Christopher's cat. Christopher's cat lifted his head lazily, widened his eyes, and stared at Grimalkin.

“I think they're going to fight,” Christopher said nervously, half rising from his seat. “Perhaps I'd better—”

But he was too late. Grimalkin lifted his voice in a deadly wail, and Christopher's cat spat, without stirring from his comfortable bed under the stove; then Grimalkin moved incautiously and was caught off guard by Christopher's cat. Spitting and screaming, they clung to each other briefly, then Grimalkin ran crying out the door that Aunt Cissy opened for him.

Mr. Oakes sighed. “What is your cat's name?” he inquired.

“I'm terribly sorry,” Christopher said, with a fleeting fear that his irrational cat might have deprived them both of a bed. “Shall I go and find Grimalkin outside?”

Mr. Oakes laughed. “He was fairly beaten,” he said, “and has no right to come back.”

“Now,” Phyllis said softly, “now we can call your cat Grimalkin. Now we have a name, Grimalkin, and no cat, so we can give the name to your cat.”

Christopher slept that night in a stone room at the top of the house, a room reached by the dark staircase leading from the hall. Mr. Oakes carried a candle to the room for him, and Christopher's cat, now named Grimalkin, left the warm stove to follow. The room was small and neat, and the bed was a stone bench, which Christopher, investigating after his host had gone, discovered to his amazement was mattressed with leaves, and had for blankets heavy furs that looked like bearskins.

“This is quite a forest,” Christopher said to the cat, rubbing a corner of the bearskin between his hands. “And quite a family.”

Against the window of Christopher's room, as against all the windows in the house, was the wall of trees, crushing themselves hard against the glass. “I wonder if that's why they made this house out of stone?” Christopher asked the cat. “So the trees wouldn't push it down?”

All night long the sound of the trees came into Christopher's dreams, and he turned gratefully in his sleep to the cat purring beside him in the great fur coverings.

In the morning, Christopher came down into the kitchen, where Phyllis and Aunt Cissy, in their green robes, were moving about the stove. His cat, who had followed him down the stairs, moved immediately ahead of him in the kitchen to sit under the stove and watch Aunt Cissy expectantly. When Phyllis had set the stone table and Aunt Cissy had laid out the food, they both moved over to the doorway as they had the night before, waiting for Mr. Oakes to come in.

When he came, he nodded to Christopher and they sat, as before, Aunt Cissy serving them all. Mr. Oakes did not speak this morning, and when the meal was over he rose, gesturing to Christopher to follow him. They went out into the hall, with its silent closed doors, and Mr. Oakes paused.

“You have seen only part of the house, of course,” he said. “Our handmaidens keep to the kitchen unless called to this hall.”

“Where do they sleep?” Christopher asked. “In the kitchen?” He was immediately embarrassed by his own question, and smiled awkwardly at Mr. Oakes to say that he did not deserve an answer, but Mr. Oakes shook his head in amusement and put his hand on Christopher's shoulder.

“On the kitchen floor,” he said. And then he turned his head away, but Christopher could see that he was laughing. “Circe,” he said, “sleeps nearer to the door from the hall.”

Christopher felt his face growing red and, glad for the darkness of the hall, said quickly, “It's a very old house, isn't it?”

“Very old,” Mr. Oakes said, as though surprised by the question. “A house was found to be vital, of course.”

“Of course,” Christopher said, agreeably.

“In here,” Mr. Oakes said, opening one of the two great doors on either side of the entrance. “In here are the records kept.”

Christopher followed him in, and Mr. Oakes went to a candle that stood in its own wax on a stone table and lit it with the flint that lay beside it. He then raised the candle high, and Christopher saw that the walls were covered with stones, piled up to make loose, irregular shelves. On some of the shelves great, leather-covered books stood, and on other shelves lay stone tablets, and rolls of parchment.

“They are of great value,” Mr. Oakes said sadly. “I have never known how to use them, of course.” He walked slowly over and touched one huge volume, then turned to show Christopher his fingers covered with dust. “It is my sorrow,” he said, “that I cannot use these things of great value.”

Christopher, frightened by the books, drew back into the doorway. “At one time,” Mr. Oakes said, shaking his head, “there were many more. Many, many more. I have heard that at one time this room was made large enough to hold the records. I have never known how they came to be destroyed.”

Still carrying the candle, he led Christopher out of the room and shut the big door behind them. Across the hall another door faced them. As Mr. Oakes led the way in with the candle, Christopher saw that it was another bedroom, larger than the one in which he had slept.

“This, of course,” Mr. Oakes said, “is where I have been sleeping, to guard the records.”

He held the candle high again and Christopher saw a stone bench like his own, with heavy furs lying on it, and above the bed a long and glittering knife resting upon two pegs driven between the stones of the wall.

“The keeper of the records,” Mr. Oakes said, and sighed briefly before he smiled at Christopher in the candlelight. “We are like two friends,” he added. “One showing the other his house.”

“But—” Christopher began, and Mr. Oakes laughed.

“Let me show you my roses,” he said.

Christopher followed him helplessly back into the hall, where Mr. Oakes blew out the candle and left it on a shelf by the door, and then out the front door to the tiny cleared patch before the house, which was surrounded by the stone wall that ran to the road. Although for a small distance before them the world was clear of trees, it was not very much lighter or more pleasant, with the forest only barely held back by the stone wall, edging as close to it as possible, pushing, as Christopher had felt since the day before, crowding up and embracing the little stone house in horrid possession.

“Here are my roses,” Mr. Oakes said, his voice warm. He looked calculatingly beyond at the forest as he spoke, his eyes measuring the distance between the trees and his roses. “I planted them myself,” he said. “I was the first one to clear away even this much of the forest. Because I wished to plant roses in the midst of this wilderness. Even so,” he added, “I had to send Circe for roses from the midst of this beast around us, to set them here in my little clear spot.” He leaned affectionately over the roses, which grew gloriously against the stone of the house, on a vine that rose triumphantly almost to the height of the door. Over him, over the roses, over the house, the trees leaned eagerly.

“They need to be tied up against stakes every spring,” Mr. Oakes said. He stepped back a pace and measured with his hand above his head. “A stake—a small tree stripped of its branches will do, and Circe will get it and sharpen it—and the rose vine tied to it as it leans against the house.”

Christopher nodded. “Someday the roses will cover the house, I imagine,” he said.

“Do you think so?” Mr. Oakes turned eagerly to him. “My roses?”

“It looks like it,” Christopher said awkwardly, his fingers touching the first stake, bright against the stones of the house.

Mr. Oakes shook his head, smiling. “Remember who planted them,” he said.

They went inside again and through the hall into the kitchen, where Aunt Cissy and Phyllis stood against the wall as they entered. Again they sat at the stone table and Aunt Cissy served them, and again Mr. Oakes said nothing while they ate and Phyllis and Aunt Cissy looked down at their plates.

After the meal was over, Mr. Oakes bowed to Christopher before leaving the room, and while Phyllis and Aunt Cissy cleared the table of plates and cloth Christopher sat on the bench with his cat on his knee. The women seemed to be unusually occupied. Aunt Cissy, at the stove, set down iron pots enough for a dozen meals, and Phyllis, sent to fetch a special utensil from an alcove in the corner of the kitchen, came back to report that it had been mislaid “since the last time” and could not be found, so that Aunt Cissy had to put down her cooking spoon and go herself to search.

Phyllis set a great pastry shell on the stone table, and she and Aunt Cissy filled it slowly and lovingly with spoonfuls from one or another pot on the stove, stopping to taste and estimate, questioning each other with their eyes.

“What are you making?” Christopher asked finally.

“A feast,” Phyllis said, glancing at him quickly and then away.

Christopher's cat watched, purring, until Aunt Cissy disappeared into the kitchen alcove again and came back carrying the trussed carcass of what seemed to Christopher to be a wild pig. She and Phyllis set this on the spit before the great fireplace, and Phyllis sat beside it to turn the spit. Then Christopher's cat leaped down and ran over to the fireplace to sit beside Phyllis and taste the drops of fat that fell on the great hearth as the spit was turned.

“Who is coming to your feast?” Christopher asked, amused.

Phyllis looked around at him, and Aunt Cissy half turned from the stove. There was a silence in the kitchen, a silence of no movement and almost no breath, and then, before anyone could speak, the door opened and Mr. Oakes came in. He was carrying the knife from his bedroom, and with a shrug of resignation he held it out for Christopher to see. When Mr. Oakes had seated himself at the table, Aunt Cissy disappeared again into the alcove and brought back a grindstone, which she set before Mr. Oakes. Deliberately, with the slow caution of a pleasant action lovingly done, Mr. Oakes set about sharpening the knife. He held the bright blade against the moving stone, turning the edge little by little with infinite delicacy.

“You say you've come far?” he said over the sound of the knife, and for a minute his eyes left the grindstone to rest on Christopher.

“Quite a ways,” Christopher said, watching the grindstone. “I don't know how far, exactly.”

“And you were a scholar?”

“Yes,” Christopher said. “A student.”

Mr. Oakes looked up from the knife again, to the estimate marked on the wall.

“Christopher,” he said softly, as though estimating the name.

When the knife was razor sharp, Mr. Oakes held it up to the light from the fire, studying the blade. Then he looked at Christopher and shook his head humorously. “As sharp as any weapon can be,” he said.

Aunt Cissy spoke, unsolicited, for the first time. “Sun's down,” she said.

Mr. Oakes nodded. He looked at Phyllis for a minute, and at Aunt Cissy. Then, with his sharpened knife in his hand, he walked over and put his free arm around Christopher's shoulder. “Will you remember about the roses?” he asked. “They must be tied up in the spring if they mean to grow at all.”

For a minute his arm stayed warmly around Christopher's shoulders, and then, carrying his knife, he went over to the back door and waited while Aunt Cissy came to open it for him. As the door was opened, the trees showed for a minute, dark and greedy. Then Aunt Cissy closed the door behind Mr. Oakes. For a minute she leaned her back against it, watching Christopher, then, standing away from it, she opened it again. Christopher, staring, walked slowly over to the open door, as Aunt Cissy seemed to expect he would, and heard behind him Phyllis's voice from the hearth.

“He'll be down by the river,” she said softly. “Go far around and come up behind him.”

The door shut solidly behind Christopher and he leaned against it, looking with frightened eyes at the trees that reached for him on either side. Then, as he pressed his back in terror against the door, he heard the voice calling from the direction of the river, so clear and ringing through the trees that he hardly knew it as Mr. Oakes's: “Who is he dares enter these my woods?”

林中的男人

克里斯多弗疲惫地挪动着他的双腿，因为他也没有别的事情可做，只有沿着这条路继续走下去。他恨这些树木，由于移动缓慢影响了他前进的步伐；他恨脚下的泥土，恨天空，恨这条路、所有的路、各处的路。他从早上开始就一直在走，走了一整天，还有昨天、前天，以及以前所有的那些天，他都在走。回溯无数消逝的行走的日子，他在开始行走之前，走进那个他开启这趟旅程的地方，貌似是多年以前的事情了。今天上午他走过了很多田野，而现在他正走在树林中，道路两旁的树木繁茂，有的倾斜在路的上方，有的弯着巨大而古老的树干与他不期而遇。克里斯多弗早些时候在一个交叉路口进入了森林，拐向通往森林的路之前还有另一条路可选。他曾经回头看了看那条他没有选择的路，这本来是条稳妥的路，通过它可以穿过田野，进出城镇，也许可以到达一个终点，某个克里斯多弗目光所不能企及的地方。

猫儿是在他进入森林不久之后跟他在一起的。它影影绰绰、动作迅速，在树木间时隐时现，起初吓了克里斯多弗一跳，可后来，很奇妙，反而让他感到安慰。猫儿总跟在他身边，克里斯多弗行走时，它紧贴着他，就像树木持续逼近，紧贴着他们俩一样。猫儿在害怕的时候，往往容易接受人类的陪伴，所以，这只猫儿在克里斯多弗旁边一路小跑，很随意。克里斯多弗停下来休息的时候，有一次坐在路旁的一块大石头上，用手挠着猫儿的耳朵，充满爱怜地捋着猫儿的尾巴，嘴里念念有词，“小家伙，我们去哪儿？有什么想法吗？”而猫儿先是意味深长地闭上眼睛，然后又睁开了。

“自从我们进到这片树林，至今也没看到一座房屋。”克里斯多弗后来有一次对着猫儿说道，他抬眼斜视着天空，又补充道，“天就快黑了。”他又担心地瞥了一眼身边的树木，在寂静中他被自己的声音弄得心烦意乱，好像树木们正在听他的自言自语，而且边听边肃穆地彼此点头。

“别担心，”克里斯多弗冲着猫儿说道，“这条路一定是通向某个地方的。”

天还不是太晚——也许离天黑还有一个小时——克里斯多弗和猫儿在路拐弯的地方停了下来。因为他们吃惊地发现，一座房屋赫然立在前方。整整齐齐的石头围墙一直延伸到了路上，炊烟很自然地从烟囱里冒出来。门和窗户没有被钉子钉死封上，台阶也没有破损，门上铰链也没有下垂。房屋看上去很温馨，一座敦敦实实的老房子，就像路边的石头围墙一样，也是用石头建成的，即使在没有小路的森林中也很容易被发现。因为它不偏不倚，紧凑地位于路的尽头，当然那也根本称不上路，仅仅是一条通向房屋的小径。克里斯多弗脑海里闪过了很久以前，他没选择的那另一条路。他走向了那座房屋的前门，而猫儿就在他的脚旁。

一条河流的水流声从树林中传来。河流显然知道流出森林的途径，因为它清澈而甘甜，可以看到水底清晰可见的石头，河水毫不畏惧地流过，在黑暗的森林中一往无前。

克里斯多弗走近了屋子，如同他在旅途中走近过的所有房屋——农庄、郊区的房子，或者城市的公寓楼——一样，他怀着一种喜悦的心情在透着温暖的门前礼貌地敲门。

“请进。”一个女人打开了门并招呼道。克里斯多弗迈进了屋子，猫儿紧跟在后面。

女人往后退了退，盯着克里斯多弗看了一会儿，她的眼睛很大，目光充满探寻的意味。他也看着她，能看出她挺年轻，但不是他喜欢的那种真正的年轻，对于生活在森林深处的女人来说，这个岁数显得太年轻了。

“我在这儿已经有很长时间了。”她说道，好像读出了他心头的疑问。当她走出黑暗的过道，他心想，她看起来又可能有点儿老。她的头发有一点儿拳曲，耷拉在脸上。相对于五官的其他部分，她的眼睛有点儿太大了，好像是她老得去看森林的幽暗造成的。她穿着一件绿色长裙，在腰间系了一条带子，后来他看出来带子是用草编的绳子做成的。她光着脚。当他不安地站在屋里时，两个人面面相觑，猫儿在厅里转圈跑着，有时好奇地在角落中或者在紧闭的门前停下来。他抬眼看了看，发现门厅远远的一端有一个梯子，通向没有一丝光线的高处。

“它在闻另外一只猫的味道，”她说道，“我们也养了一只。”

“菲丽丝，”一个声音从屋子后面传来，另外一名女子紧张地看着克里斯多弗，然后很快又对他微笑着说，“请进来，我真不应该让您久等。”

他跟着她来到大厅后面的一个门前，门紧挨着那个楼梯，谢天谢地，她打开门时，屋里透出的光线好像在迎接他们。这个房间直接通向一个特别温暖的厨房，炉膛中的火苗烧得正旺。而桌子上和架子上的三盏煤油灯，更是一扫迟暮森林的黑暗，把屋里照得很亮。第二个女人站在炉子边，观察着正炖着东西的大锅，洋葱和香草的味道让人发狂。克里斯多弗闭上了双眼，就像猫儿一样，享受着令人难以置信的温暖、光亮，以及洋葱的味道。

“嗯，”炉边的女人扭过头看着克里斯多弗，最后说。她仔细地研究着他，就像第一个女人那样，然后又把目光落在了厨房墙壁上方，一处石灰水涂过的区域，那儿横竖交叉的线条表明这是一个简陋的计数系统，她下结论似的说道：“又过了一天。”

“你叫什么名字？”第一个女人向克里斯多弗问道。他随口回答道：“克里斯多弗，”然后又反问她，“你呢？”

“菲丽丝，”年轻的女人说道，“你的猫叫什么名字？”

“我不知道。”克里斯多弗说道。他笑了笑，“它不是我的猫。”他又继续说道，声音仿佛从洋葱的气味中汲取了力量，“它只是跟我到这儿的。”

“那我们给它取个名字吧。”菲丽丝说道。当她开口时，她会看着别处，而不看克里斯多弗，只有在她不说话时，才会用大眼睛再次看他。“我家的猫叫格瑞麦尔金。”(1)

“格瑞麦尔金。”克里斯多弗说道。

“它的名字，”菲丽丝说道，然后用她的头指向厨师道，“她的名字是西茜(2)婶婶。”

“是瑟茜(3)。”岁数大一些的女人固执地说，可脸还冲着炉子。“我出生时就叫瑟茜，直到我死我还叫瑟茜。”

从她站的姿势，以及一字一顿的说话方式上来看，她的岁数似乎要比菲丽丝大得多。克里斯多弗借着灯光看清了她的脸，她精力充沛、目光清澈，而且手臂很有劲儿。当她把大铁锅轻松地从炉子上端下来，然后又把它放到厨房中央的石桌上时，克里斯多弗很是吃惊。猫儿跟着克里斯多弗和菲丽丝进了厨房，悄无声息地跳到了桌子边的长凳上，然后又跳到了桌子上。菲丽丝谨慎地看了克里斯多弗一会儿，轻轻地推了推猫儿，把它赶下了桌。

“我们得给你的猫起个名字。”当猫儿毫无抗拒地跳下地的时候，她抱歉地说道。

“就叫凯蒂(4)吧，”克里斯多弗无助地说道，“我总是把猫随口叫作凯蒂。”

菲丽丝摇了摇头，正要开口说话，西茜婶婶用目光阻止了她。菲丽丝快步走到厨房角落的一个铁柜子旁，从里面拿出了一块布，铺在了桌子上，还把沉重的石盘子和石杯子放在了桌子的四个边上。克里斯多弗坐在长凳上，背冲着桌子，是为了清楚地表明他没有理所当然地上桌吃饭的打算，坐在长凳上只是因为他累了，他不会转过身面向桌子，除非受到主人热情的邀请和明确的表示。

“我们差不多都准备好了吧?”西茜婶婶说道，她扫视了一下桌子，调整了一只叉子的位置，又退回来站着。她的目光没有落在克里斯多弗身上片刻。然后，她又走到了大门旁的墙边，就在那儿安静和笔直地站着，而菲丽丝也走过去站在了她身边。克里斯多弗转过头去看着她们，接着，他又不得不转了回来，因为他听见有脚步声从门厅处传了过来。过了一会儿，但他觉得是很漫长的等待，门开了。两个女人恭恭敬敬地站在远处的墙边，不知道为什么，克里斯多弗也站了起来，可能是因为男主人要进来了。

这是个即将步入老年的男人，虽然他向后僵硬地端着肩，但它们依然看上去好像不这样努力端着，就要垂下去一样。他的脸满是皱纹和倦容，而他的嘴，如同他的肩，好像马上要塌陷下去一样。他的穿着跟那两个女人一样，是一件绿色的长袍，在腰间用带子系了一下，他也一样光着双脚。当他站在门口时，身后是门厅里的黑暗。他的白发发出柔和的光，明亮的眼睛好奇地打量了克里斯多弗很长时间。然后，就像那个年纪大一些的妇女一样，他把目光落到了墙上部的那个简陋的计数系统上。

“您的光临让寒舍蓬荜生辉。”他最后对克里斯多弗说道，声音洪亮，如同林中的风声。他没有再说话，坐到了石桌顶头的座位，然后示意克里斯多弗坐在他的右手边。菲丽丝从门边站立的位置走过来，悄悄地坐到了克里斯多弗的对面，而西茜婶婶先是把铁锅里吃的东西都给他们端了上来，然后才坐到了石桌尾部的座位上。

克里斯多弗盯着面前的盘子，洋葱和炖肉浓烈的香味扑面而来，他在开始吃之前又闭上眼睛使劲闻了闻。当他抬起头睁开眼睛时，越过菲丽丝的头，看见了一扇漆黑的窗户，树木紧紧贴着它，树枝弯曲，压着玻璃，纠缠在一起的树叶和树枝好像在往里面窥视。

“我们怎么称呼你?”上了岁数的男人终于又开口问克里斯多弗。

“我叫克里斯多弗。”克里斯多弗回答道，眼睛要么看着盘子，要么看着窗户。

“你是从远方来的吗?”老人又问道。

“很远，”克里斯多弗微笑着，“我的意思是说，它似乎比实际的更远。”他解释道。

“我叫奥克斯。”老人说道。

克里斯多弗努力地定了定神。自从进了这座奇怪的房屋，他就有些不知所措，好像喝醉了酒，刚刚穿过无边无际的树林，又好像心神不安地从黑暗和迷幻的森林中来到了这座屋子，没有经过寒暄和介绍就坐到了主人的桌子旁。他一边狼吞虎咽地吃着，一边扭过头看着奥克斯先生说道：“您真是太好了，请我进屋。如果不是这样的话，我想我一定会在树林中摸索一整晚上的。”

奥克斯先生微微向克里斯多弗点头致意。

“我觉得我有点儿吓坏了，”克里斯多弗说道，伴随着些许尴尬的笑声，“到处都是树。”

“的确是这样，”奥克斯先生平静地说道，“到处都是树。”

克里斯多弗心里在盘算着，他是否已经充分地表达出了他的感激之情。他很想进一步说些什么，这兴许可以让他清楚地知道他是否还能得到更多的帮助：比如说，他是否可以在这儿住一个晚上。否则的话，他就不得不再次回到黑暗的树林当中去了。如果他晚上可以住在这儿，第二天早上是否还能得到和这顿晚餐一样的款待。当西茜婶婶又一次往他的盘子里盛满食物时，克里斯多弗抬头微笑着，“饭菜太可口了，”他对她说道，“我从没像今天这样，一顿吃这么多。”

西茜婶婶向他点了点头，就像奥克斯先生那样。

“当然，这些食物都来自树林，”奥克斯先生说道，“西茜在河边挖洋葱，但是，这些事自然不劳你费神。”

“我想我是不用操心，”克里斯多弗说道，觉得自己今天晚上不能待在这儿了。

“明天很快就到了，但你有足够的时间参观一下这座屋子。”奥克斯先生补充道。

“我想我会好好看看的。”克里斯多弗说道，意识到他晚上确实可以留宿了。

“今晚，”奥克斯先生说道，他故意显得声音轻快，“今晚，我想听听你的故事，你旅途中的见闻，还有你离开的世界发生了什么。”

克里斯多弗微笑着，心里明白他能在晚上留下来了，在明天早上之前，由于主人的好意，他不会被打发走，他立马觉得很放松。西茜婶婶准备的丰盛晚饭也让他很是满意，他做好了充分准备，打算和主人好好聊聊天。

“我真的不知道我怎么到的这儿的，”他说道，“我仅仅是选了条进林子的路。”

“你是得穿过树林才能到这儿。”主人严肃地赞同这种说法。

“在此之前，”克里斯多弗继续说道，“我路过了很多农舍，还有一个小城镇——您知道它的名字吗?我向那儿的一位妇女求一顿饭吃，结果她把我打发走了。”

在吃完西茜婶婶丰盛的晚饭之后，再回忆起这件事，他现在哈哈大笑了起来。

“再之前，”他说道，“我在学校学习。”

“你是个读书人，”老人说道，“看得出来。”

“我不知道为什么，”克里斯多弗最后扭头看着奥克斯先生，坦诚地说道，“我不知道为什么，”他重复道，“有一天我在那儿，在大学里，就像其他人一样。可接下来，第二天我就离开了，没有任何原因，我就那么做了。”他把目光从奥克斯先生身上转向了菲丽丝和西茜婶婶身上，她们都在茫然地看着他，期待他说清楚。他停了下来，然后，有头没尾地说道：“我想这就是我来这儿之前发生的所有事情。”

“他还带来了一只猫。”菲丽丝轻声说道，眼睛看着地面。

“一只猫?”奥克斯先生礼节性地用眼睛环顾了厨房，看见克里斯多弗的猫正蜷缩在炉子下面，然后点点头，“有人还带过一条狗，”他对西茜婶婶说道，“你还记得那条狗吗?”

西茜婶婶不动声色地点了点头。

这时，从门那儿传来了一阵声音，菲丽丝看也没看就说道：“那是我们的格瑞麦尔金回来吃晚饭了。”

西茜婶婶站起身，走到外边的门前，把门打开了。一只猫很悠闲地一溜小跑进了厨房。这只猫长着虎皮一样的条纹，不像克里斯多弗的猫是黑色的，但是两只猫的个头差不多大。这只猫一眼也没看西茜婶婶，径直来到了炉子旁，然后看到了克里斯多弗的猫。克里斯多弗的猫懒洋洋地抬起了头，睁开了眼睛，盯着格瑞麦尔金。

“我觉得它们快要打架了，”克里斯多弗紧张地说，他还没完全从座位上站起来，“也许，我最好……”

然而，他还是迟了一步。格瑞麦尔金发出一声声嘶力竭的嚎叫，而克里斯多弗的猫则吐着口水，在炉子下舒服的“猫床”上一动不动。格瑞麦尔金鲁莽地走上前，被克里斯多弗的猫抓了个措手不及，呜呜声和尖叫声不绝于耳，它们短兵相接。接着，格瑞麦尔金哀号着跑出了西茜婶婶刚才为它打开的门。

奥克斯先生叹了口气，“你的猫叫什么名字?”他问道。

“我太抱歉了，”克里斯多弗说道，心中涌起一丝担心，这只失去理性的猫可能会把他们俩能有张床过夜的机会弄没了，“我能去外面把格瑞麦尔金找回来吗?”

奥克斯先生笑了起来，“它是在公平的较量中落败的，”他说道，“没有资格回来了。”

“现在，”菲丽丝柔声说道，“现在我们可以把你的猫叫作格瑞麦尔金了。现在我们有这个名字，格瑞麦尔金，既然我们没有猫了，我们就能用这个名字叫你的猫了。”

当天晚上，克里斯多弗睡在屋子顶层的一间石屋中，通过一段黑暗的楼梯可以到达这里，楼梯也通向门厅。奥克斯先生来到房间给了他一支蜡烛，而克里斯多弗的猫儿——现在叫作格瑞麦尔金了——离开温暖的炉子跟着克里斯多弗也来到了房间。房间不大，但很整洁。克里斯多弗在主人走了之后，开始仔细地观察这个房间。床是用一条石凳做成的，更让他吃惊的是床垫里塞满了树叶，而毯子是沉沉的皮毛，看上去像熊的皮毛。

“这真是一座森林，”克里斯多弗一边跟猫儿说着，一边用双手摩挲着熊皮的一角，“还有不寻常的一家。”

克里斯多弗房间的窗户，跟屋子里所有的窗户一样，都正对着树木围成的墙，树木正奋不顾身地把自己压向玻璃。“我奇怪为什么他们只用石头修建这座房屋?”克里斯多弗向猫儿发问，“是因为只有这样这些树木才不会把房子挤压垮吗?”

整个晚上，树木的声音一直充斥着克里斯多弗的梦境，在梦里唯一能感到安慰的是，猫儿也盖着厚厚的皮毛被，在他的旁边呼呼大睡。

清晨，克里斯多弗下楼来到厨房，菲丽丝和西茜婶婶穿着绿色长袍，正在炉子边来来往往。他的猫儿一直跟着他，下了楼梯后，马上跑到了他的前面进了厨房，坐到了炉子底下，眼巴巴地望着西茜婶婶。当菲丽丝收拾好石桌后，西茜婶婶把食物都放到了上面。她们俩走到了门口，像昨晚做的那样，等待着奥克斯先生进来。

他进来后，向克里斯多弗点了点头，像昨晚一样，他们坐到了自己的座位上。西茜婶婶给他们所有人的盘子里都盛上了早餐。奥克斯先生今天早上没有说话，吃完饭后，他站起身，示意克里斯多弗跟着他。他们走了出来，进了门厅，寂静的四周有好几扇紧闭的门，奥克斯先生停顿了一下。

“当然，你只看见了这座房屋的一部分，”他说道，“女仆们只能待在厨房里，除非召唤她们，她们才可以到门厅来。”

“她们在哪儿睡觉?”克里斯多弗问道，“在厨房里吗?”话刚出口，他马上对自己的问题感到窘迫，尴尬地对奥克斯先生笑笑说，不必回答这么傻的问题，但是奥克斯先生觉得很好玩似的摇了摇头，把手放到了克里斯多弗的肩上。

“在厨房的地板上。”他说道。但当他扭过头去的时候，克里斯多弗能看见他正在笑。“瑟茜，”他说，“睡在更靠近门厅的那扇门后面。”

克里斯多弗觉得自己的脸变红了，幸亏门厅里比较黑，他很快地又说道：“房子很古老了，对吗?”

“非常古老，”奥克斯先生回答道，好像对这个问题很吃惊，“当然，房子是至关重要的东西。”

“当然。”克里斯多弗非常认可这种说法，说道。

“这儿，”奥克斯先生边说，边打开了入口处两扇大门中的一扇，“这儿保存着很多典籍。”

克里斯多弗跟着他走了进去，奥克斯先生走近一个石桌，桌上放着一支用自己流下的蜡粘住的蜡烛，他用蜡烛旁边的打火石点燃了它，然后把蜡烛高高举起。克里斯多弗看到四面墙都被石头覆盖着，这些石头摞起来，搭成了松散、不规则的架子。一些架子上立着很大的、羊皮封面的书籍，另一些架子上放着些石碑，还有一卷卷的羊皮文稿。

“它们都价值连城，”奥克斯先生难过地说道，“当然，我不知道怎么利用它们。”他在架子前慢慢地走过，摸着一本很大的书卷，然后转过身，给克里斯多弗看他沾满灰尘的双手。“这是我心里的痛，”他说道，“我无法利用这些有着巨大价值的东西。”

面对卷帙浩繁的典籍，克里斯多弗大吃了一惊，退到了门口。“曾经有一段时光，”奥克斯先生摇着头说道，“这儿的藏书比现在还要多，还要多得多。我听说曾经有一度，这间屋子被建得足够大来装这些典籍，我不知道后来它们怎么被毁掉了。”

他手上还拿着蜡烛，他领着克里斯多弗出了房间，把身后的大门关上了。穿过门厅，他们来到了另一扇门前。当奥克斯先生举着蜡烛带路时，克里斯多弗看出这是另一间卧室，比他睡觉的那间要大得多。

“这间，当然，”奥克斯先生说道，“是我一直睡觉的地方，我要护卫典籍。”

他把蜡烛再次举高，克里斯多弗看见了一张石床，和他昨晚睡的那张石床一模一样，上面铺着厚厚的皮毛，在床头上方墙面的石缝之间，镶嵌着两个木桩，木桩上横放着一把闪闪发光的长刀。

“典籍的看护者。”奥克斯先生叹了口短气说道。然后在烛光里对着克里斯多弗笑了笑。“我们两个就像朋友，”他补充道，“一个人让另一个人参观他的房屋。”

“但是……”克里斯多弗刚想张嘴说话，奥克斯先生便笑了。

“让我领你看看我的玫瑰。”他说道。

克里斯多弗无奈地跟着他回到了门厅，奥克斯先生吹灭了蜡烛，把它放到了门旁的架子上，然后走出前门，来到房前一小块被开垦出来的土地上。土地四周是一些石头围墙，一直延伸到那条进来的路上。虽然这儿和森林只相距一小段距离，但这个世界好像摆脱了树木的困扰，但这里也不是光线很足或者赏心悦目;因为森林仅仅勉强被石头围墙阻挡了一下，森林的边缘离这里非常近，树木迎面压过来，就像克里斯多弗昨天所感受到的那样，用一种可怕的控制，把小石屋密不透风地包围起来。

“这儿就是我的玫瑰。”奥克斯先生说道，声音中带着一丝温暖。他说话的时候，目测着这里与森林之间的距离，目测着树木和他的玫瑰之间的距离。“是我自己种的，”他说道，“我是第一个在大片的森林中开垦出这一小块土地的人。因为我想在荒野的中间种植玫瑰。即使这样，”他又说，“我不得不派西茜去从野兽出没的森林中寻找玫瑰，把它们种在这儿，种在我亲手开垦的这一小块土地上。”他充满深情地俯身看着玫瑰，玫瑰迎着石屋盛开着，玫瑰在藤蔓上耀武扬威般地几乎长到了门的顶部。然而，越过他，越过玫瑰，越过屋顶，树木急切地斜倚过来。

“每年春天都需要把玫瑰绑在木桩上。”奥克斯先生说道。他后退了一步，用手比画着头顶的高度，“一个木桩——把一棵小树削掉枝叶就行，西茜会去找合适的树，削成木桩——把玫瑰的藤蔓绑在木桩上，而木桩要斜靠在屋子上。”

克里斯多弗点了点头，“我能想象，总有那么一天，玫瑰会覆盖整个屋子。”他说道。

“你这么认为吗?”奥克斯先生转身热切地看着他，“我的玫瑰?”

“看上去会这样。”克里斯多弗尴尬地说。他的手指摸着第一根木桩，它正倚在房子的石墙上。

奥克斯先生摇着头，微微一笑，“别忘了是谁种的它们。”他说道。

他们又进了屋，穿过门厅进了厨房。他们进去的时候，西茜婶婶和菲丽丝正靠墙站着。他们再一次坐到了石桌旁，西茜婶婶给他们盛好了食物。奥克斯先生在饭桌上又没吭声，而菲丽丝和西茜婶婶只低着头吃着盘中的食物。

饭后，奥克斯先生在离开房间之前，向克里斯多弗倾了倾身子。菲丽丝和西茜婶婶清理着桌上的盘子和桌布，克里斯多弗坐在凳子上，猫儿趴在他的膝盖上。女人们似乎异乎寻常地忙碌，西茜婶婶在炉子旁放上了好几个铁锅，都够做十二顿饭的了，而菲丽丝被派去从厨房角落的壁龛里取一个特殊的器皿，但过了一会儿她空手回来了，说道：“上次用过以后，它不知被放到哪儿去了，没找到。”西茜婶婶不得不放下她的炊勺，亲自去找了。

菲丽丝在桌子上放了一个很大的馅饼皮，她和西茜婶婶正在用勺子慢慢而又充满爱意地往里填馅。馅是放在炉子上的瓦罐里的，她们一会儿从这个里边舀一点儿，一会儿又从另一个里边舀一点儿。有时停下来尝尝，感觉着咸淡，用眼神彼此交换着意见。

“你们在做什么?”克里斯多弗忍不住问道。

“一场宴席。”菲丽丝说道，飞快地瞟了他一眼，然后走了。

克里斯多弗的猫儿看着，发出了满足的呼哧声，直到西茜婶婶也不见了，又去厨房的壁龛里找东西去了。她回来时，拿着一块在克里斯多弗看来像是野猪肉的东西。她和菲丽丝把这块肉放到烤肉叉上用炉火炙烤，菲丽丝坐在炉子旁转动着烤肉叉。这时，克里斯多弗的猫儿跳到了地上，跑向了壁炉，坐在菲丽丝的身边。当烤肉叉转动时，肥油滴在了巨大的炉膛上，猫儿垂涎欲滴。

“谁来参加宴席?”克里斯多弗逗乐子似的问道。

菲丽丝朝他周围看了看，西茜婶婶从炉子那儿转过半个身子。厨房中出现了一阵沉默，每个人都纹丝不动，几乎听不到呼吸声。在有人开口说话前，门打开了，奥克斯先生进来了。他从卧室里拿出了那把长刀，他把刀递给克里斯多弗看，还无可奈何地耸了耸肩。当奥克斯在桌前坐下后，西茜婶婶又消失了，从壁龛里拿回来一块磨刀石，把它放到了奥克斯先生的面前。奥克斯先生故意用一种小心翼翼的讨人喜欢的动作，开始磨刀了。他把明亮的刀刃挨着磨刀石一下一下地磨着，让刀刃一点儿一点儿地变得无比锋利。

“你说你是从远处来的?”他在磨刀声中突然问道，有好一阵子，他的眼睛离开了磨刀石落到了克里斯多弗的身上。

“很远的路，”克里斯多弗盯着磨刀石说道，“准确地说，我不知道有多远。”

“你是一个读书人吗?”

“是的，”克里斯多弗说道，“我是个学生。”

奥克斯先生的目光从刀上再次抬了起来，在估算着墙上的标记。

“克里斯多弗，”他轻声叫道，好像在估量这名字的分量。

刀已经磨得很锋利了，他把它举到了火光处，仔细观察着刀锋。然后，他看着克里斯多弗，幽默地摇摇头，“像任何武器一样锋利。”他说。

西茜婶婶第一次主动开口说话，“太阳落山了。”她说。

奥克斯先生点点头，他看了菲丽丝一会儿，又看看西茜婶婶。然后，他手里拿着锋利的刀，走了过去，用另一只空着的手搂着克里斯多弗的肩膀。“你还记得那些玫瑰吗?”他问道，“如果它们真的打算成长，就必须在春天给它们绑上。”

有好一会儿，他的胳膊亲切地搂着克里斯多弗的肩膀。然后，他拿着刀，走到后门边等在那儿。西茜婶婶过来为他打开了门。当门打开的时候，树木立马映入了他们的眼帘，它们黑暗而贪婪。西茜婶婶在奥克斯先生走出去之后关上了门，她后背靠着门站了有一分钟的时间，看着克里斯多弗，随后闪到一边，又把门打开了。克里斯多弗瞪大了眼睛，慢慢地向开着的门走去，就像西茜婶婶似乎希望他那样做一样，听见菲丽丝从他身后炉膛那儿传过来的声音。

“他会沿着河边走的，”她轻声说道，“绕着圈走远一点儿，跟在他的后面。”

门在克里斯多弗身后紧紧地关上了，他倚在门上，惊恐地看着树木从四面八方向他扑来。当他恐惧万分地把后背贴在门上的时候，他听见了一个从河那边传来的声音，非常清晰，穿过树木盘旋而至，他几乎听不出那是奥克斯先生的声音：“谁敢闯进我的林子?”

* * *

(1) 格瑞麦尔金(Grimalkin)有“猫，老母猫，恶毒的老妇”之意。

(2) 西茜(Cissy)有“娘娘腔的，柔弱胆小的”之意。

(3) 瑟茜(Circe)在希腊神话中，有“女妖，女巫”之意。

(4) 凯蒂(Kitty)有“小猫，猫咪”之意。