Bird Nation
（鸟国）
Chapter 1: The Ear（第一章：耳朵）
I heard it again—that sound, as if it seeped out from within the tree trunks, sliding onto the moonlit grass like a thick, damp tongue licking the ground. Everything in the room seemed to tilt slightly, as though making space for it. And yet, no matter how I listened, I could not locate its origin. For seven nights in a row, it had chosen to come at the precise moment when my nerves, already strained, were preparing for the fragile transition into sleep.
Sleep had begun to crumble. Like autumn leaves, dry and golden, my drowsiness fell gently apart. And by the time the last of it touched the soft bedding, I had already surrendered to the idea that I would not sleep at all.
I began “hallucinating” a week ago. I use quotation marks because I still cannot decide whether what I experienced was simply a symptom of prolonged insomnia or something that truly occurred. To hear odd sounds at night is not especially strange—some birds or other creatures may remain more energized than humans, their bodies resistant to the slow erasure brought by darkness. Their songs, untouched by sleep, continue pulsing through the night. But this sound was not like those.
Each time I was close to seeing my lover—someone I had not seen for many nights—the sound would surface and wake me, as if knowing the precise moment to intrude. It would appear just before I could touch her hair, which was always soft, flowing. The only place we met was in dreams, and that detail, while strange, was not the disturbing part. It was the sound. It never failed to emerge from the narrow crack between sleep and consciousness. And to my ears, it was no normal birdsong. It was heavy. Nasal. Muffled, like the congested moan of a sick patient.
Curiously, I had even searched online during the vacant hours of the day, wondering if some bird species might vocalize through their nasal cavities. Apparently not. It reminded me more of a person than an animal. Yet somewhere in its pitch—crisp, metallic, almost like the sound of a paperclip dropped on tile—there lingered a faint birdlike sharpness. It was this ambiguity that tormented me. I would waste hours turning the question over in my head: what was it?
This is not something someone in my condition should be doing. Fixating on a meaningless detail in the dark, when what I need most is rest. But my body’s desire for sleep no longer seemed to align with my mind’s. My thoughts stood upright inside me, like an unwanted erection—stubborn and useless. No matter what I did, I couldn’t push them back down.
And then I heard it again.
“Yue. Come here.”
The scattered rhythms I’d been hearing for days had suddenly cohered into something whole. A phrase. And not just that—it was calling me. The voice returned once more, shifting subtly from a higher register to a middle tone, and repeated itself.
“Yue. Come here.”
I drew in a breath and held it. I tried to make sense of it.
Had I been someone with a structured life, with responsibilities in the morning and a clean shirt prepared on the chair—perhaps I would not have lingered on this. Curious thoughts belong to the young. At my age, preserving one’s basic well-being is already hard enough. To get out of bed just to confirm a voice? It’s absurd. But I am not well. I am a thirty-year-old man who drifts in and out of sleepless nights, half-living. A creature equipped with all the cold, hard faculties the world bestows upon the quietly deteriorating.
Insomnia. Loneliness. Thirty.
Each word is a kind of sadness—both physiological and existential.
For people like me, curiosity is not insight. It is survival.
I hesitated, then dragged myself upright. My body protested. My skull ached with a dull pressure that blurred vision and thought. I suffer from mild night blindness, and so my short journey from the bed to the balcony dragged on at a numbing 0.75x speed. I regretted, not for the first time, never having installed a light switch beside the bed. Back then I didn’t expect to move around at night. My days were predictable, sleep was undisturbed. All of that was before I fell ill.
Guided by the texture of the wallpaper beneath my fingers, I felt my way to the balcony door, careful not to bump into anything.
Outside, the moonlight was piercing. On a cloudless night like this, it was as sharp as any sun—perhaps sharper. I rubbed my eyes. The brightness was disorienting. I blinked several times to stabilize my vision. And in that half-light shimmer, I saw something.
A small gray bird stood across from me, perched on the opposite railing.
“Yue. You’ve come.” It seemed to be speaking—not with any recognizable mechanics of human speech, but through a rhythm I could understand. The emotion was calm. Not threatening. I had no strength to confront absurdity, yet I was already too deep inside it.
“I’ve been waiting,” it said.
I stared at it. “Are you… talking to me?”
“Yes. I’m sorry to disturb your dreams. But if they had been a little more interesting, I might have waited longer.”
“I’m just a regular person,” I replied flatly. “My dreams are ordinary. There’s no harm in that.”
“In dreams, you hold hands, kiss, sleep beside the woman you love. Yet in waking life, you don’t even have the courage to ask her out. Not once.”
A wave of heat rushed to my face, as if I’d been exposed to direct sunlight. That sudden sense of being seen, of having one’s interior cracked open, sobered me. I finally took a closer look at the bird. It had gray feathers on its back and wings, a snow-white belly, and two clawed feet, yellow with a touch of red, clinging tightly to the blackened railing. Its beak, short and blunt, moved steadily as it spoke—like a pair of bronze scissors cutting words out of silence. Its eyes were glossy black, unblinking.
“You seem surprised,” it said again, perhaps noting my fixed gaze. Then it emitted a soft noise—not a chirp, but something else. I couldn’t interpret it, though I suspected it was meant as a laugh. “Forgive me. I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Gu.”
Of course I was surprised. Who wouldn’t be? But I didn’t say that. I took a moment to gather myself. Then I asked:
“Why are you calling me at this hour?”
“Yue-kun,” it said with a strangely formal inflection, “I come to ask something of you. After much deliberation, it became clear that only you could help. I’ve traveled a long way. The timing didn’t work in my favor, and I arrived late. My deepest apologies for disrupting your rest.”
“For the past week, I’ve been hearing voices outside my window—birds whispering in the dark. That wasn’t you?”
“No. I’m afraid not. That must have been the Si-zhu, the Keeper assigned to this territory. It came before me, hoping to explain what I’m about to tell you. But its grasp of human language is… rudimentary. What you heard, in your ears, was likely just a chaotic chorus of birdsong.”
“Keeper?”
“I forgot to explain. Our legal and administrative structure is complex. It’s not something I can detail all at once. But I came to entrust you with a task—one that affects the survival of our entire nation. Make no mistake, Yue: you are our only hope.”
“That’s… difficult to follow.”
“I’ll be brief. Please go to Central Park this Friday evening, at exactly 8:30 p.m. There, you’ll learn everything. I’ve already lingered too long. If I’m discovered by a Shooter, it will place both of us in danger. For my safety, and yours, I must leave now.”
It paused. Then added, as if remembering something: “As a gesture of gratitude, I’ve done what I can to bring you closer to your desire. The woman you dream of—Yuan—will visit Island Bookstore tomorrow afternoon for a reading event. If she sees you there, reading the same book—The Remains of the Day—there’s a chance your dreams may become real. Good luck.”
Before I could respond, the bird—small, articulate, and completely beyond comprehension—turned and hopped away. I watched it disappear into the untamed shrubbery near the house. Only then did I notice what truly set it apart: a long, elegant tail, shaped like a frond from a spore-bearing plant.
What a strange event.
My mind, fumbling for a framework, failed to pin it down. Curiosity, like a child finished with its meal, prepared to slip away unnoticed. And the event I had just witnessed—the strange conversation, the impossible bird—already began to blur. Consciousness distorts memory. I had learned that in school, hadn’t I? I looked out into the darkness, saying nothing. The air smelled of wet wood.
I could no longer say with certainty what had just occurred.
The next day, I woke up close to noon. My stomach, empty for hours, let out a groan of protest. The sound resembled the rumble of an airplane during takeoff. I moved slowly—rose from bed, made my way to the bathroom, washed my face. In front of the mirror, I applied shaving cream and ran a sharp blade across the frothy surface, clearing away the scattered, stubborn stubble.
From the toaster I retrieved two slices of bread and placed them on a plate, preparing to eat them with bacon and fried eggs. The bacon, bought yesterday at the grocery store, emerged from the fridge with a tight crust of frost on its plastic surface. I pan-fried it until both sides turned golden, then poured the leftover oil into a dish with egg, letting the heat expand the whites into soft, curling foam. It wasn’t a complicated technique, but I still liked to think of it as cooking. Afterward, I took out the vegetables—mostly green, lettuce and cabbage—and rinsed them in cold water before tossing them into a glass bowl with a generous spoonful of salad dressing.
Only after my late breakfast—an exercise in routine and hunger management—did I finally sit at the table and consider what “Island Bookstore” could mean. After everything that had happened the night before, it was difficult to place anything within the grid of logical explanation. But the phrase “Island Bookstore” stood out with unusual precision. My rational mind couldn’t ignore it.
Perhaps this was an opportunity. Honestly, people with nowhere left to turn don’t ignore opportunities. I wasn’t there yet, but I wasn’t far off either. If there were a cliff ahead, I was already just a few dozen steps from its edge.
More than anything, my basic human needs remained unmet. Without those, everything else collapses. I prided myself on being a simple person—an average human unit. Yuan was the key to the door of my life. I couldn’t miss her.
At that thought, the emotions I’d tried to suppress began to rise again, pulsing in waves that matched the beat of my heart. Every time I thought of Yuan—whether in memory or imagination—I felt myself growing younger, more alive. My limbs, heavy with sleeplessness only minutes earlier, now felt light.
I checked the time. Today had promised to be an empty one. But humans, after all, are creative creatures. We invent reasons. We add weight where there was none. I tore off today’s page from the calendar, crumpled it into a tight paper ball, and stuffed it into my pocket.
I had somewhere to go.
我又一次听到那声音，从树干中渗出来的一样，流淌到月色下的草地上，像一条黏湿的舌头舔舐着地面。房间里静止的一切都在为它让座，而我却始终不理解它是从哪儿来的，为什么已经连续一个星期都在夜晚挑战我脆弱的神经。我的睡意如同秋天干枯的树叶一样缓缓凋零，当它落入柔软的被子的那一刻，我彻底放弃了入睡这一行动。
我是在一个星期前开始“幻听”的。至于为什么为这一词打上引号，是因为我也很难辨别这到底是失眠带来的综合反应，还是真的确有此事发生。其实，在这一时间段听见这种声音并不为奇。无非是某些鸟类动物还尚未像疲倦的人类一般难以抵挡夜晚的溶蚀，它们仍在活力四射，精力充沛，像是不眠不休（但只是我不知道它们会在什么时间睡觉）地歌颂着整个世界。但我却因为这种声音，内心浮现出奇怪的感觉，每每将要见到我那数日未见的亲密爱人之时，它就将我唤醒，让我甚至来不及触摸她柔顺的秀发。
至于我为何必须在睡梦中才能与我的爱人相见，这一点也不影响在这里提到的这种声音。它真的见缝插针一般从清醒和沉睡间隔的缝隙里渗入到我的房间中，而且在我看来，这声音与一般的鸟鸣还存在着细微的差别，也正是这种差别才能让我这个极度渴望睡眠的人做这么无聊的事情——花费大把大把的时间思考和我毫不相关的事。它不像是从鸟的喉咙中跳跃而出的，它更像是夹杂有感冒的鼻音，从鼻腔里发出沉闷的哼鸣。而众所周知的是，鸟类的鼻腔不过是一个简单的摆设，很少有鸟类会将其动用到自己的日常性的活动中。这也是我在白天百无聊赖，用搜索引擎做的调查结果。这一声音总让我想起重感冒的病人，而清脆如反光的回形针一样的音调又在提醒我这确实是属于鸟的声韵。这样一来二去，我也很难对其有个清晰的定义，况且实话说，我这样的人最不应该在深夜反复思考一件无足轻重的小事，这对于病情的康复毫无裨益，甚至会加重我对睡眠的抗拒程度。尽管我的身体呼唤着、渴求着能尽快得到休息，但我的精神好像晨勃一般，坚硬地挺立在我的脑中，任由我如何想要强压下去那股兴奋都无济于事。
“跃，到这儿来。”
零零散散的节奏编织成一句有着饱满内核的话，我在意识恍惚之间突然将那不对劲的地方听清楚。这让我更加疑惑、迟钝且不知所措。尔后，那声音在高音区转至中音区的狭间，又发出了那个音调。我于是做了一次彻底的深呼吸，在屏息凝神中又听了一遍。
“跃，到这儿来。”
如果我意识敏捷，头脑清醒，是个风光体面的人物，在第二天的一早有着必须要干的事情，那么我也不会对“声音”有过多的在意。充满好奇是小孩子具备的本领，像我这个年纪，保持身体所需的基本健康就已经不是什么容易的事情，更不用说我还要从床上挪动到室外，只为好像听到了这一句模糊不清的话。但我是个病人，一个总是在失眠中反复徘徊的孤独的三十岁的男人。作为这样的物种，我具备的是浓缩世界上所有冰冷和生硬的本领。失眠，孤独，三十岁的男人。每一个词语都透露着生理和心理的两种意义上的悲伤。像我这样的人，好奇也无非是排遣寂寞的惯用手段。
我思忖片刻，费力地从床上爬起身。沉重的躯体向我再度声明抗议，连同昏沉的有些涩痛的头。我患有轻度的夜盲症，这使得我在从卧室向阳台移动的时间被拉长至零点七五的倍速。我已经千万次产生过后悔的念头，自己在装修房子的时候没有在床头安上控制照明的开关。但毕竟，我很少在床以外的地方徘徊，也没有半夜去卫生间的习惯。这对于当时的我而言也无伤大雅。如果不是我后来患上失眠症，以前的我的做法也没什么不妥。我扶着贴有白色的带有粗糙纹路的墙纸的墙，小心翼翼地走至阳台，以免磕磕碰碰或打翻什么东西。
窗外的月光有些刺眼，在晴朗的夜晚，月亮的光芒丝毫不比万里晴空中的太阳逊色，甚至要更加锐利。我揉了揉不适应强光的眼睛，尽管于事无补。我又用力地眨了几下，感受上下眼睑关合开闭的感觉。在我所能看到的模糊光影里，一只通体灰色的鸟类动物站在我的窗户对面，两只爪子紧紧地抓着玻璃外面的围栏。
“…跃，你来了，”它好像在说话，但不是人类的发声习惯，那种声音很难被语言描述，但好在那里面的情绪是平静的。我并不想在深夜处理复杂的情况，即便这情况已经十分棘手，超越了我以往经历过的所有。“我一直在等你。”
“你是在和我讲话？”
“不错。跃，很抱歉打扰了你的美梦。不过，如果你的梦能再有意思一些，我或许还能再等等。”
“我也不过是个普通人，做些普通人应该做的梦，也没什么大碍吧。”
“比如在梦里牵手、接吻，和心爱的女人睡觉，在现实里却不敢约她出来，哪怕一次？”
我的脸开始如被太阳晒着一样发烫。这种突如其来被猜中心思的羞怯感使我的意识开始回归到它本应处于的清醒状态。我终于有能力去打量眼前的娇小身影，并开动脑筋回想我是如何开始与其展开一场对话的。
眼前站着的，是一只通体灰色的鸟，有着不长不短的喙。我的判断到此出现了一些失误，因为它只有背上和翅膀的羽毛是灰色。它的肚皮雪白，两只黄里泛红的爪子正停靠在黑褐色的栏杆上。它有一双乌黑的豆般的眼睛，正灼灼地朝着我的方向，随着人类语言文字一个一个蹦出，它的喙上下摆动着，像一把铜质的剪刀在把意义的卡纸裁成两半。
“看起来你有些吃惊。”或许是感知到我的目光，它发出了一声细小的咛鸣。我不理解其中的意思，但大概能猜测它或许是想模仿人类的笑声来表达友善。“还没有自我介绍，我叫作谷。”
这种情况，饶是谁也会吃惊的吧。我内心揣度，但又不方便直接表现出来，只能又尝试着鼓起勇气，想方设法应对眼前的情形。
“阁下为何在半夜传唤我？”
“跃君，我有一事相求，思来想去也只有您能办到。于是，才不远万里来找您。但时间赶的不顺，没想到已至半夜。不免扰人清梦，实在是抱歉。”
“这一个星期以来，我总是在这个时间听到窗外有鸟儿在私语。难道不是您？”
“十分抱歉，您这一个星期过得实属不快。但确实不是在下。我想，应该是负责掌管您这片地方的司主。它已在我之前，提前想向您汇报我们的情况。但它学习人类语言的能力有限，在您耳朵里，不过是一群一群的鸟鸣声罢了。”
“司主？”
“忘记向您介绍了。但我们国家的法规体系颇为复杂，很难一时半会儿说得尽。我此次前来，是想向您托付一件事，望您务必答应，这涉及到我们国家的生死存亡。不瞒您说，您是我们唯一的希望了。”
“这恐怕是让人有点丈二和尚摸不着头脑。”
“长话短说，您请务必在这周五晚上八点半时前往中央公园。彼时，您会了解到所有您想知道的一切。而在下已在这里停留多时，若是被「枪手」发现可就危险了。为了保证我以及整个国家还有您的安全，请原谅我眼下就要离开。”
“为了报答您的恩德，我有义务帮助您实现您的想法。您的媛将会在明天下午前往岛上书店进行阅读活动。如果她发现您也在那里，且与她一同阅读同一本《长日将尽》，您将有更大的可能使得梦里的所思所想成真。祝您好运。”
没待我有反应的机会，这只样貌娇俏、不同寻常的鸟类动物在如倒豆子般一股脑地交代完我“必要”的事务后，便蹦蹦跳跳地离开了。在它藏入离房子不远处那丛修建的张牙舞爪的灌木丛中时，我才注意到了它与其他同样体型的鸟类不同的特殊的地方——它有一条很长的尾巴，像是某种孢子科植物的叶子。
到底是古怪的事啊。我在内心默默想着。好奇心像坐在餐桌上的小孩子，在填满胃口后便计划偷偷地溜出门外，仿佛其他摆在眼前的食物一瞬间在空气中蒸发掉了。而作为“食物”的——也就是方才在我眼前发生的事，在被大脑咀嚼的过程中，其具体的面貌也经由我产生了模糊的反映。意识是物质的投射，这点道理谁也在高中时候学过嘛。我又这么想着，抬起头和面前空荡的黑暗对望。空气里漂浮着潮湿木头的气味，我很难再完全地想起刚才到底发生了什么奇事。
第二天我醒来的时候已近中午，胃在承受了多个小时的饥饿后不得不发出呻吟。我在与飞机起降时一般的轰鸣声中慢吞吞地起床、去卫生间、洗漱，然后对着镜子抹剃须膏，又用锋利的刀刃将其与松散的胡须一同刮落。
我从面包机里拿出吐司，摆入盘中，准备配合培根和煎蛋一起食用。培根是昨天下午去生鲜店里采购的，从冰箱里拿出来的时候包装上凝结着一层干巴巴的水汽。将其在煎锅里煎至双面金黄后，用剩余的热油膨胀蛋液，直至其以白汪汪的浪花的基本形状定型。这不是一道很复杂的工艺，但我还是很愿意称之为烹饪。在这之后，我将同样是昨日从生鲜店采购的蔬菜们（种类并不丰富，更多是绿色的譬如卷心菜、生菜一类，我虽然没有忌口，但绝不喜欢胡萝卜）从冰箱里取出，撕开包装，用清水冲洗干净，倒入一个玻璃大碗中，并往其中搁了满满一勺沙拉酱。
在吃过早午餐，上午的例行公事结束后，我才坐在餐桌前，开始思考“岛上书店”这一名词于我的含义。尽管在昨天的事情发生后，证明其真实与否的证据很难清晰地呈现在逻辑之上，但“岛上书店”这个极为敏感的信息并没有被我的理智放过。或许这会是个不错的机会。老实说，走投无路的人不会放过任何一个可能的机会。我虽然并没有走投无路，但距离登上那座悬崖也不过只有几十步。何况，生命最基本的需求没有得到满足，一切后续的发展就很难进行下去。我自诩我是最基本的人类组成单位，也就是所谓的普通人，媛是解开我生命之门的钥匙，我不能放过她。
想到这里，我本就按捺不住的情绪如波浪状开始有规律地涌动，与我跳动的心脏配合起舞。每每面对或隔着虚拟的时空与之对望，我总能意识到时间的倒流——思念媛时的心理活动总让我觉得年轻了几岁，而愈发变得有干劲起来。我火速地查看了时间表，这一日原本是百无聊赖的一天。 但人类具有创造性，可以使其变得丰富有趣。我撕下写着今天日期和星期的日历的那一页，将其团成纸团塞进口袋。