sk.thetalisman-第22部分

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…tined　wooden　fork。
　　'Ged…OUT！'　the　chef　screeched　at　them；　and　the　voice　emerging　from　that　huge　barrel　chest　was　absurdly　flutelike…it　was　the　voice　of　a　willowy　gay　giving　a　shoe…clerk　a　piece　of　his　mind。　But　there　was　nothing　absurd　about　the　fork；　it　looked　deadly。
　　The　women　scattered　before　his　charge　like　birds。　The　bottom…most　pie　dropped　out　of　the　pie…woman's　rack　and　she　uttered　a　high；　despairing　cry　as　it　broke　apart　on　the　boards。　Strawberry　juice　splattered　and　ran；　the　red　as　fresh　and　bright　as　arterial　blood。
　　'GED…DOUT　MY　KIDCHEN；　YOU　SLUGS！　DIS　IS　NO　SHORDCUD！　DIS　IS　NO　RAZE…TRAG！　DIS　IS　MY　KID…CHEN　AND　IF　YOU　CAD'T　REMEMBER　DAT；　I'LL　BY　GOD　THE　CARBENDER　CARVE　YOUR　AZZES　FOR　YOU！'
　　He　jabbed　the　fork　at　them；　simultaneously　half…turning　his　head　and　squinching　his　eyes　mostly　shut；　as　if　in　spite　of　his　tough　talk　the　thought　of　hot　flowing　blood　was　just　too　gauche　to　be　borne。　The　Captain　removed　the　hand　that　had　been　on　the　scruff　of　Jack's　neck　and　reached　out…almost　casually；　it　seemed　to　Jack。　A　moment　later　the　chef　was　on　the　floor；　all　six　and　a　half　feet　of　him。　The　meat…fork　was　lying　in　a　puddle　of　strawberry　sauce　and　chunks　of　white　unbaked　pastry。　The　chef　rolled　back　and　forth；　clutching　his　broken　right　wrist　and　screaming　in　that　high；　flutelike　voice。　The　news　he　screamed　out　to　the　room　in　general　was　certainly　woeful　enough：　he　was　dead；　the　Captain　had　surely　murdered　him　（pronounced　mur…dirt　in　the　chef's　odd；　almost　Teutonic　accent）；　he　was　at　the　very　least　crippled；　the　cruel　and　heartless　Captain　of　the　Outer　Guards　having　destroyed　his　good　right　hand　and　thus　his　livelihood；　and　so　ensuring　a　miserable　beggar's　life　for　him　in　the　years　to　e；　the　Captain　had　inflicted　terrible　pain　on　him；　a　pain　beyond　belief；　such　as　was　not　to　be　borne…
　　Shut　up！'　the　Captain　roared；　and　the　chef　did。　Immediately。　He　lay　on　the　floor　like　a　great　baby；　his　right　hand　curled　on　his　chest；　his　red　bandanna　drunkenly　askew　so　that　one　ear　（a　small　black　pearl　was　set　in　the　center　of　the　lobe）　showed；　his　fat　cheeks　quivering。　The　kitchen　women　gasped　and　twittered　as　the　Captain　bent　over　the　dreaded　chief　ogre　of　the　steaming　cave　where　they　spent　their　days　and　nights。　Jack；　still　weeping；　caught　a　glimpse　of　a　black　boy　（brown　boy；　his　mind　amended）　standing　at　one　end　of　the　largest　brazier。　The　boy's　mouth　was　open；　his　face　as　ically　surprised　as　a　face　in　a　minstrel　show；　but　he　kept　turning　the　crank　in　his　hands；　and　the　haunch　suspended　over　the　glowing　coals　kept　revolving。
　　'Now　listen　and　I'll　give　you　some　advice　you　won't　find　in　The　Book　of　Good　Farming；'　the　Captain　said。　He　bent　over　the　chef　until　their　noses　almost　touched　（his　paralyzing　grip　on　Jack's　arm…which　was　now　going　mercifully　numb…never　loosened　the　smallest　bit）。　'Don't　you　ever　。　。　。　don't　you　ever　。　。　。　e　at　a　man　with　a　knife　。　。　。　or　a　fork　。　。　。　or　a　spear　。　。　。　or　with　so　much　as　a　God…pounding　splinter　in　your　hand　unless　you　intend　to　kill　him　with　it。　One　expects　temperament　from　chefs；　but　temperament　does　not　extend　to　assaults　upon　the　person　of　the　Captain　of　the　Outer　Guards。　Do　you　understand　me？'　
　　The　chef　moaned　out　a　teary；　defiant　something…or…other。　Jack　couldn't　make　it　all　out…the　man's　accent　seemed　to　be　growing　steadily　thicker…but　it　had　something　to　do　with　the　Captain's　mother　and　the　dump…dogs　beyond　the　pavillion。
　　'That　may　well　be；'　the　Captain　said。　'I　never　knew　the　lady。　But　it　certainly　doesn't　answer　my　question。'　He　prodded　the　chef　with　one　dusty；　scuffed　boot。　It　was　a　gentle　enough　prod；　but　the　chef　screeched　as　if　the　Captain　had　drawn　his　foot　back　and　kicked　him　as　hard　as　he　could。　The　women　twittered　again。
　　'Do　we　or　do　we　not　have　an　understanding　on　the　subject　of　chefs　and　weapons　and　Captains？　Because　if　we　don't；　a　little　more　instruction　might　be　in　order。'
　　'We　do！'　the　chef　gasped。　'We　do！　We　do！　We…'
　　'Good。　Because　I've　had　to　give　far　too　much　instruction　already　today。'　He　shook　Jack　by　the　scruff　of　the　neck。　'Haven't　I；　boy？'　He　shook　him　again；　and　Jack　uttered　a　wail　that　was　pletely　unfeigned。　'Well　。　。　。　I　suppose　that's　all　he　can　say。　The　boy's　a　simpleton。　Like　his　mother。'　
　　The　Captain　threw　his　dark；　gleaming　glance　around　the　kitchen。
　　'Good　day；　ladies。　Queen's　blessings　upon　you。'
　　'And　you；　good　sir；'　the　eldest　among　them　managed；　and　dropped　an　awkward；　ungraceful　curtsey。　The　others　followed　suit。
　　The　Captain　dragged　Jack　across　the　kitchen。　Jack's　hip　bumped　the　edge　of　the　washing　trough　with　excruciating　force　and　he　cried　out　again。　Hot　water　flew。　Smoking　droplets　hit　the　boards　and　ran；　hissing；　between　them。　Those　women　had　their　hands　in　that；　Jack　thought。　How　do　they　stand　it？　Then　the　Captain；　who　was　almost　carrying　him　by　now；　shoved　Jack　through　another　burlap　curtain　and　into　the　hallway　beyond。
　　'Phew！'　the　Captain　said　in　a　low　voice。　'I　don't　like　this；　not　any　of　it；　it　all　smells　bad。'　
　　Left；　right；　then　right　again。　Jack　began　to　sense　that　they　were　approaching　the　outer　walls　of　the　pavillion；　and　he　had　time　to　wonder　how　the　place　could　seem　so　much　bigger　on　the　inside　than　it　looked　from　the　outside。　Then　the　Captain　was　pushing　him　through　a　flap　and　they　were　in　daylight　again…mid…afternoon　daylight　so　bright　after　the　shifting　dimness　of　the　pavillion　that　Jack　had　to　wince　his　eyes　shut　against　a　burst　of　pain。
　　The　Captain　never　hesitated。　Mud　squelched　and　smooched　underfoot。　There　was　the　smell　of　hay　and　horses　and　shit。　Jack　opened　his　eyes　again　and　saw　they　were　crossing　what　might　have　been　a　paddock　or　a　corral　or　maybe　just　a　barnyard。　He　saw　an　open　canvas…sided　hallway　and　heard　chickens　clucking　somewhere　beyond　it。　A　scrawny　man；　naked　except　for　a　dirty　kilt　and　thong　sandals；　was　tossing　hay　into　an　open　stall；　using　a　pitchfork　with　wooden　tines　to　do　the　job。　Inside　the　stall；　a　horse　not　much　bigger　than　a　Shetland　pony　looked　moodily　out　at　them。　They　had　already　passed　the　stall　when　Jack's　mind　was　finally　able　to　accept　what　his　eyes　had　seen：　the　horse　had　two　heads。
　　'Hey！'　he　said。　'Can　I　look　back　in　that　stall？　That…'
　　'No　time。'
　　'But　that　horse　had…'
　　'No　time；　I　said。'　He　raised　his　voice　and　shouted：　'And　if　I　ever　catch　you　laying　about　again　when　there's　work　to　be　done；　you'll　get　twice　this！'
　　'You　won't！'　Jack　screamed　（in　truth　he　felt　as　if　this　scene　were　getting　a　bit　old）。　'I　swear　you　won't！　I　told　you　I'd　be　good！'
　　Just　ahead　of　them；　tall　wooden　gates　loomed　in　a　wall　made　of　wooden　posts　with　the　bark　still　on　them…it　was　like　a　stockade　wall　in　an　old　Western　（his　mother　had　made　a　few　of　those；　too）。　Heavy　brackets　were　screwed　into　the　gates；　but　the　bar　the　brackets　were　meant　to　hold　was　not　in　place。　It　leaned　against　the　woodpile　to　the　left；　thick　as　a　railroad　crosstie。　The　gates　stood　open　almost　six　inches。　Some　muddled　sense　of　direction　in　Jack's　head　suggested　that　they　had　worked　their　way　pletely　around　the　pavillion　to　its　far　side。
　　'Thank　God；'　the　Captain　said　in　a　more　normal　voice。　'Now…'
　　'Captain；'　a　voice　called　from　behind　them。　The　voice　was　low　but　carrying；　deceptively　casual。　The　Captain　stopped　in　his　tracks。　It　had　called　just　as　Jack's　scarred　panion　had　been　in　the　act　of　reaching　for　the　left　gate　to　push　it　open；　it　was　as　if　the　voice's　owner　had　watched　and　waited　for　just　that　second。
　　'Perhaps　you　would　be　good　enough　to　introduce　me　to　your　。　。　。　ah　。　。　。　son。'　
　　The　Captain　turned；　turning　Jack　with　him。　Standing；　halfway　across　the　paddock　area；　looking　unsettling　out　of　place　there；　was　the　skeletal　courtier　the　Captain　had　been　afraid　of…Osmond。　He　looked　at　them　from　dark　gray　melancholy　eyes。　Jack　saw　something　stirring　in　those　eyes；　something　deep　down。　His　fear　was　suddenly　sharper；　something　with　a　point；　jabbing　into　him。　He's　crazy…this　was　the　intuition　which　leaped　spontaneously　into　his　mind。　Nuttier　than　a　damned　fruitcake。
　　Osmond　took　two　neat　steps　toward　them。　In　his　left　hand　he　held　the　rawhide…wrapped　haft　of　a　bullwhip。　The　handle　narrowed　only　slightly　into　a　dark；　limber　tendon　coiled　thrice　around　his　shoulder…the　whip's　central　stalk　was　as　thick　as　a　timber　rattlesnake。　Near　its　tip；　this　central　stalk　gave　birth　to　perhaps　a　dozen　smaller　offshoots；　each　of　woven　rawhide；　each　tipped　with　a　crudely　made　but　bright　metal　spur。
　　Osmond　tugged　the　whip's　handle　and　the　coils　slithered　from　his　shoulder　with　a　dry　hiss。　He　wiggled　the　handle；　and　the　metal…tipped　strands　of　rawhide　writhed　slowly　in　the　straw…littered　mud。
　　'Your　son？'　Osmond　repeated；　and　took　another　step　toward　them。　And　Jack　suddenly　understood　why　this　man　had　looked　familiar　before。　The　day　he　had　almost　been　kidnapped…hadn't　this　man　been　White　Suit？
　　Jack　thought　that　perhaps　he　had　been。
　　　
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　　The　Captain　made　a　fist；　brought　it　to　his　forehead；　and　bent　forward。　After　only　a　moment's　hesitation；　Jack　did　the　same。
　　'My　son；　Lewis；'　the　Captain　said　stiffly。　He　was　still　bent　over；　Jack　saw；　cutting　his　eyes　to　the　left。　So　he　remained　bent　over　himself；　his　heart　racing。
　　'Thank　you；　Captain。　Thank　you；　Lewis。　Queen's　blessings　upon　you。'　When　he　touched　him　with　the　haft　of　the　bullwhip；　Jack　almost　cried　out。　He　stood　straight　again；　biting　the　cry　in。
　　Osmond　was　only　two　paces　away　now；　regarding　Jack　with　that　mad；　melancholy　gaze。　He　wore　a　leather　jacket　and　what　might　have　been　diamond　studs。　His　shirt　was　extravagantly　ruffled。　A　bracelet　of　links　clanked　ostentatiously　upon　his　right　wrist　（from　the　way　he　handled　the　bullwhip；　Jack　guessed　that　his　left　was　his　working　hand）。　His　hair　was　drawn　back　and　tied　with　a　wide　ribbon　that　might　have　been　white　satin。　There　were　two　odors　about　him。　The　top　was　what　his　mother　called　'all　those　men's　perfumes；'　meaning　after…shave；　cologne；　whatever。　The　smell　about　Osmond　was　thick　and　powdery。　It　made　Jack　think　of　those　old　black…and…white　British　films　where　some　poor　guy　was　on　trial　in　the　Old　Bailey。　The　judges　and　lawyers　in　those　films　always　wore　wigs；　and　Jack　thought　the　boxes　those　wigs　came　out　of　would　s