sk.thetalisman-第21部分

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another　Herbert　Tarrytoon　from　the　butt　of　the　one　smouldering　in　the　ashtray。）　
　　'Boy！'　the　Captain　whispered；　and　shook　him　so　hard　that　Jack's　lolling　head　snapped　on　his　neck。　'Boy！　Dammit！　If　you　faint　on　me　。　。　。　'
　　'I'm　okay；'　Jack　said…his　voice　seemed　to　e　from　far　away；　it　sounded　like　the　voice　of　the　Dodgers　announcer　when　you　were　cruising　by　Chavez　Ravine　at　night　with　the　top　down；　echoing　and　distant；　the　play…by…play　of　baseball　in　a　sweet　dream。　'Okay；　lay　off　me；　what　do　you　say？　Give　me　a　break。'　
　　The　Captain　stopped　shaking　him　but　looked　at　him　warily。
　　'Okay；'　Jack　said　again；　and　abruptly　he　slapped　his　own　cheek　as　hard　as　he　could…Ow！　But　the　world　came　swimming　back　into　focus。
　　He　had　almost　died　in　his　crib。　In　that　apartment　they'd　had　back　then；　the　one　he　barely　remembered；　the　one　his　mother　always　called　the　Technicolor　Dream　Palace　because　of　the　spectacular　view　of　the　Hollywood　Hills　from　the　living　room。　He　had　almost　died　in　his　crib；　and　his　father　and　Mor…gan　Sloat　had　been　drinking　wine；　and　when　you　drank　a　lot　of　wine　you　had　to　pee　a　lot；　and　he　remembered　the　Technicolor　Dream　Palace　well　enough　to　know　that　you　got　from　the　living　room　to　the　nearest　bathroom　by　going　through　the　room　that　had　been　his　when　he　was　a　baby。
　　He　saw　it：　Morgan　Sloat　getting　up；　grinning　easily；　saying　something　like　Just　a　sec　while　I　make　some　room；　Phil；　his　father　hardly　looking　around　because　Haystack　Calhoun　was　getting　ready　to　put　the　Spinner　or　the　Sleeper　on　some　hapless　opponent；　Morgan　passing　from　the　TV…brightness　of　the　living　room　into　the　ashy　dimness　of　the　nursery；　where　little　Jacky　Sawyer　lay　sleeping　in　his　Pooh　pajamas　with　the　feet；　little　Jacky　Sawyer　warm　and　secure　in　a　dry　diaper。　He　saw　Uncle　Morgan　glancing　furtively　back　at　the　bright　square　of　the　door　to　the　living　room；　his　balding　brow　turning　to　ladder…rungs；　his　lips　pursing　like　the　chilly　mouth　of　a　lake　bass；　he　saw　Uncle　Morgan　take　a　throw…pillow　from　a　nearby　chair；　saw　him　put　it　gently　and　yet　firmly　over　the　sleeping　baby's　entire　head；　holding　it　there　with　one　hand　while　he　held　the　other　hand　flat　on　the　baby's　back。　And　when　all　movement　had　stopped；　he　saw　Uncle　Morgan　put　the　pillow　back　on　the　chair　where　Lily　sat　to　nurse；　and　go　into　the　bathroom　to　urinate。
　　If　his　mother　hadn't　e　in　to　check　on　him　almost　immediately　。　。　。
　　Chilly　sweat　broke　out　all　over　his　body。
　　Had　it　been　that　way？　It　could　have　been。　His　heart　told　him　it　had　been。　The　coincidence　was　too　utterly　perfect；　too　seamlessly　plete。
　　At　the　age　of　six　weeks；　the　son　of　Laura　DeLoessian；　Queen　of　the　Territories；　had　died　in　his　crib。
　　At　the　age　of　six　weeks；　the　son　of　Phil　and　Lily　Sawyer　had　almost　died　in　his　crib　。　。　。　and　Morgan　Sloat　had　been　there。
　　His　mother　always　finished　the　story　with　a　joke：　how　Phil　Sawyer　had　almost　racked　up　their　Chrysler；　roaring　to　the　hospital　after　Jacky　had　already　started　breathing　again。
　　Pretty　funny；　all　right。　Yeah。
　　　
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　　'Now　e　on；'　the　Captain　said。
　　'All　right；'　Jack　said。　He　still　felt　weak；　dazed。　'All　right；　let's　g…'
　　'Shhhh！'　The　Captain　looked　around　sharply　at　the　sound　of　approaching　voices。　The　wall　to　their　right　was　not　wood　but　heavy　canvas。　It　stopped　four　inches　short　of　the　floor；　and　Jack　saw　booted　feet　passing　by　in　the　gap。　Five　pair。　Soldiers'　boots。
　　One　voice　cut　through　the　babble：　'　。　。　。　didn't　know　he　had　a　son。'
　　'Well；'　a　second　answered；　'bastards　sire　bastards…a　fact　you　should　well　know；　Simon。'
　　There　was　a　roar　of　brutal；　empty　laughter　at　this…the　sort　of　laughter　Jack　heard　from　some　of　the　bigger　boys　at　school；　the　ones　who　busted　joints　behind　the　woodshop　and　called　the　younger　boys　mysterious　but　somehow　terrifying　names：　queerboy　and　humpa…jumpa　and　morphadite。　Each　of　these　somehow　slimy　terms　was　followed　by　a　coarse　ribband　of　laughter　exactly　like　this。
　　'Cork　it！　Cork　it　up！'…a　third　voice。　'If　he　hears　you；　you'll　be　walking　Outpost　Line　before　thirty　suns　have　set！'　Mutters。
　　A　muffled　burst　of　laughter。
　　Another　jibe；　this　one　unintelligible。　More　laughter　as　they　passed　on。
　　Jack　looked　at　the　Captain；　who　was　staring　at　the　short　canvas　wall　with　his　lips　drawn　back　from　his　teeth　all　the　way　to　the　gumlines。　No　question　who　they　were　talking　about。　And　if　they　were　talking；　there　might　be　someone　listening　。　。　。　the　wrong　somebody。　Somebody　who　might　be　wondering　just　who　this　suddenly　revealed　bastard　might　really　be。　Even　a　kid　like　him　knew　that。
　　'You　heard　enough？'　the　Captain　said。　'We've　got　to　move。'　He　looked　as　if　he　would　like　to　shake　Jack　。　。　。　but　did　not　quite　dare。
　　Your　directions；　your　orders；　whatever；　are　to　。　。　。　ah；　go　west；　is　that　correct？
　　He　changed；　Jack　thought。　He　changed　twice。
　　Once　when　Jack　showed　him　the　shark's　tooth　that　had　been　a　filigreed　guitar…pick　in　the　world　where　delivery　trucks　instead　of　horse…drawn　carts　ran　the　roads。　And　he　had　changed　again　when　Jack　confirmed　that　he　was　going　west。　He　had　gone　from　threat　to　a　willingness　to　help　to　。　。　。　what？
　　I　can't　say　。　。　。　I　can't　tell　you　what　to　do。
　　To　something　like　religious　awe　。　。　。　or　religious　terror。
　　He　wants　to　get　out　of　here　because　he's　afraid　we'll　be　caught；　Jack　thought。　But　there's　more；　isn't　there？　He's　afraid　of　me。　Afraid　of…
　　'e　on；'　the　Captain　said。　'e　on；　for　Jason's　sake。'
　　'Whose　sake？'　Jack　asked　stupidly；　but　the　Captain　was　already　propelling　him　out。　He　pulled　Jack　hard　left　and　half…led；　half…dragged　him　down　a　corridor　that　was　wood　on　one　side　and　stiff；　mouldy…smelling　canvas　on　the　other。
　　'This　isn't　the　way　we　came；'　Jack　whispered。
　　'Don't　want　to　go　past　those　fellows　we　saw　ing　in；'　the　Captain　whispered　back。　'Morgan's　men。　Did　you　see　the　tall　one？　Almost　skinny　enough　to　look　through？'
　　'Yes。'　Jack　remembered　the　thin　smile；　and　the　eyes　which　did　not　smile。　The　others　had　looked　soft。　The　thin　man　had　looked　hard。　He　had　looked　crazy。　And　one　thing　more：　he　had　looked　dimly　familiar。
　　'Osmond；'　the　Captain　said；　now　pulling　Jack　to　the　right。　
　　The　smell　of　roasting　meat　had　been　growing　gradually　stronger；　and　now　the　air　was　redolent　of　it。　Jack　had　never　smelled　meat　he　wanted　so　badly　to　taste　in　his　whole　life。　He　was　scared；　he　was　mentally　and　emotionally　on　the　ropes；　perhaps　rocking　on　the　edge　of　madness　。　。　。　but　his　mouth　was　watering　crazily。
　　'Osmond　is　Morgan's　right…hand　man；'　the　Captain　grunted。　'He　sees　too　much；　and　I'd　just　as　soon　he　didn't　see　you　twice；　boy。'
　　'What　do　you　mean？'
　　'Hsssst！'　He　clamped　Jack's　aching　arm　even　tighter。　They　were　approaching　a　wide　cloth　drape　that　hung　in　a　doorway。　To　Jack　it　looked　like　a　shower…curtain…except　the　cloth　was　burlap　of　a　weave　so　coarse　and　wide　that　it　was　almost　net…like；　and　the　rings　it　hung　from　were　bone　rather　than　chrome。　'Now　cry；'　the　Captain　breathed　warmly　in　Jack's　ear。
　　He　swept　the　curtain　back　and　pulled　Jack　into　a　huge　kitchen　which　fumed　with　rich　aromas　（the　meat　still　predominating）　and　billows　of　steamy　heat。　Jack　caught　a　confused　glimpse　of　braziers；　of　a　great　stonework　chimney；　of　women's　faces　under　billowy　white　kerchiefs　that　reminded　him　of　nuns'　wimples。　Some　of　them　were　lined　up　at　a　long　iron　trough　which　stood　on　trestles；　their　faces　red　and　beaded　with　sweat　as　they　washed　pots　and　cooking　utensils。　Others　stood　at　a　counter　which　ran　the　width　of　the　room；　slicing　and　dicing　and　coring　and　paring。　Another　was　carrying　a　wire　rack　filled　with　uncooked　pies。　They　all　stared　at　Jack　and　the　Captain　as　they　pushed　through　into　the　kitchen。
　　'Never　again！'　the　Captain　bellowed　at　Jack；　shaking　him　as　a　terrier　shakes　a　rat　。　。　。　and　all　the　while　he　continued　to　move　them　both　swiftly　across　the　room；　toward　the　double…hung　doors　at　the　far　side。　'Never　again；　do　you　hear　me？　The　next　time　you　shirk　your　duty；　I'll　split　your　skin　down　the　back　and　peel　you　like　a　baked　potato！'　
　　And　under　his　breath；　the　Captain　hissed；　'They'll　all　remember　and　they'll　all　talk；　so　cry；　dammit！'　
　　And　now；　as　the　Captain　with　the　scarred　face　dragged　him　across　the　steaming　kitchen　by　the　scruff　of　his　neck　and　one　throbbing　arm；　Jack　deliberately　called　up　the　dreadful　image　of　his　mother　lying　in　a　funeral　parlor。　He　saw　her　in　billowing　folds　of　white　organdy…she　was　lying　in　her　coffin　and　wearing　the　wedding　dress　she　had　worn　in　Drag　Strip　Rumble　（RKO；　1953）。　Her　face　came　clearer　and　clearer　in　Jack's　mind；　a　perfect　wax　effigy；　and　he　saw　she　was　wearing　her　tiny　gold…cross　earrings；　the　ones　Jack　had　given　her　for　Christmas　two　years　ago。　Then　the　face　changed。　The　chin　became　rounder；　the　nose　straighter　and　more　patrician。　The　hair　went　a　shade　lighter　and　became　somehow　coarser。　Now　it　was　Laura　DeLoessian　he　saw　in　that　coffin…and　the　coffin　itself　was　no　longer　a　smoothly　anonymous　funeral　parlor　special；　but　something　that　looked　as　if　it　had　been　hacked　with　rude　fury　from　an　old　log…a　Viking's　coffin；　if　there　had　ever　been　such　a　thing；　it　was　easier　to　imagine　this　coffin　being　torched　alight　on　a　bier　of　oiled　logs　than　it　was　to　imagine　it　being　lowered　into　the　unprotesting　earth。　It　was　Laura　DeLoessian；　Queen　of　the　Territories；　but　in　this　imagining　which　had　bee　as　clear　as　a　vision；　the　Queen　was　wearing　his　mother's　wedding　dress　from　Drag　Strip　Rumble　and　the　gold…cross　earrings　Uncle　Tommy　had　helped　him　pick　out　in　Sharp's　of　Beverly　Hills。　Suddenly　his　tears　came　in　a　hot　and　burning　flood…not　sham　tears　but　real　ones；　not　just　for　his　mother　but　for　both　of　these　lost　women；　dying　universes　apart；　bound　by　some　unseen　cord　which　might　rot　but　would　never　break…at　least；　not　until　they　were　both　dead。
　　Through　the　tears　he　saw　a　giant　of　a　man　in　billowing　whites　rush　across　the　room　toward　them。　He　wore　a　red　bandanna　instead　of　a　puffy　chef's　hat　on　his　head；　but　Jack　thought　its　purpose　was　the　same…to　identify　the　wearer　as　the　boss　of　the　kitchen。　He　was　also　brandishing　a　wicked…looking　three…tined　wooden　fork。
　　'Ged…OUT！'　the　chef　screeched　at　them；　and　the　voice　emerging　from　that　hug