sk.thetalisman-第23部分

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d　lawyers　in　those　films　always　wore　wigs；　and　Jack　thought　the　boxes　those　wigs　came　out　of　would　smell　like　Osmond…dry　and　crumbly…sweet；　like　the　world's　oldest　powdered　doughnut。　Beneath　it；　however；　was　a　more　vital；　even　less　pleasant　smell：　it　seemed　to　pulse　out　at　him。　It　was　the　smell　of　sweat　in　layers　and　dirt　in　layers；　the　smell　of　a　man　who　bathed　seldom；　if　ever。
　　Yes。　This　was　one　of　the　creatures　that　had　tried　to　steal　him　that　day。
　　His　stomach　knotted　and　roiled。
　　'I　did　not　know　you　had　a　son；　Captain　Farren；'　Osmond　said。　Although　he　spoke　to　the　Captain；　his　eyes　remained　on　Jack。　Lewis；　he　thought；　I'm　Lewis；　don't　forget…
　　'Would　that　I　did　not；'　the　Captain　replied；　looking　at　Jack　with　anger　and　contempt。　'I　honor　him　by　bringing　him　to　the　great　pavillion　and　then　he　slinks　away　like　a　dog。　I　caught　him　playing　at　d…'
　　'Yes；　yes；'　Osmond　said；　smiling　remotely。　He　doesn't　believe　a　word；　Jack　thought　wildly；　and　felt　his　mind　take　another　clumsy　step　toward　panic。　Not　a　single　word！　'Boys　are　bad。　All　boys　are　bad。　It's　axiomatic。'　
　　He　tapped　Jack　lightly　on　the　wrist　with　the　haft　of　the　bullwhip。　Jack；　his　nerves　screwed　up　to　an　unbearable　pitch；　screamed　。　。　。　and　immediately　flushed　with　hot　shame。
　　Osmond　giggled。　'Bad；　oh　yes；　it's　axiomatic；　all　boys　are　bad。　I　was　bad；　and　I'll　wager　you　were　bad；　Captain　Farren。　Eh？　Eh？　Were　you　bad？'
　　'Yes；　Osmond；'　the　Captain　said。
　　'Very　bad？'　Osmond　asked。　Incredibly；　he　had　begun　to　prance　in　the　mud。　Yet　there　was　nothing　swishy　about　this：　Osmond　was　willowy　and　almost　delicate；　but　Jack　got　no　feeling　of　true　homosexuality　from　the　man；　if　there　was　that　innuendo　in　his　words；　then　Jack　sensed　intuitively　that　it　was　hollow。　No；　what　came　through　most　clearly　here　was　a　sense　of　malignity　。　。　。　and　madness。　'Very　bad？　Most　awfully　bad？'
　　'Yes；　Osmond；'　Captain　Farren　said　woodenly。　His　scar　glowed　in　the　afternoon　light；　more　red　than　pink　now。
　　Osmond　ceased　his　impromptu　little　dance　as　abruptly　as　he　had　begun　it。　He　looked　coldly　at　the　Captain。
　　'No　one　knew　you　had　a　son；　Captain。'
　　'He's　a　bastard；'　the　Captain　said。　'And　simple。　Lazy　as　well；　it　now　turns　out。'　He　pivoted　suddenly　and　struck　Jack　on　the　side　of　the　face。　There　was　not　much　force　behind　the　blow；　but　Captain　Farren's　hand　was　as　hard　as　a　brick。　Jack　howled　and　fell　into　the　mud；　clutching　his　ear。
　　'Very　bad；　most　awfully　bad；'　Osmond　said；　but　now　his　face　was　a　dreadful　blank；　thin　and　secretive。　'Get　up；　you　bad　boy。　Bad　boys　who　disobey　their　fathers　must　be　punished。　And　bad　boys　must　be　questioned。'　He　flicked　the　whip　to　one　side。　It　made　a　dry　pop。　Jack's　tottery　mind　made　another　strange　connection…reaching；　he　supposed　later；　for　home　in　every　way　it　knew　how。　The　sound　of　Osmond's　whip　was　like　the　pop　of　the　Daisy　air　rifle　he'd　had　when　he　was　eight。　He　and　Richard　Sloat　had　both　had　rifles　like　that。
　　Osmond　reached　out　and　grasped　Jack's　muddy　arm　with　one　white；　spiderlike　hand。　He　drew　Jack　toward　him；　into　those　smells…old　sweet　powder　and　old　rancid　filth。　His　weird　gray　eyes　peered　solemnly　into　Jack's　blue　ones。　Jack　felt　his　bladder　grow　heavy；　and　he　struggled　to　keep　from　wetting　his　pants。
　　'Who　are　you？'　Osmond　asked。
　　　
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　　The　words　hung　in　the　air　over　the　three　of　them。
　　Jack　was　aware　of　the　Captain　looking　at　him　with　a　stern　expression　that　could　not　quite　hide　his　despair。　He　could　hear　hens　clucking；　a　dog　barking；　somewhere　the　rumble　of　a　large　approaching　cart。
　　Tell　me　the　truth；　I　will　know　a　lie；　those　eyes　said。　You　look　like　a　certain　bad　boy　I　first　met　in　California…are　you　that　boy？
　　And　for　a　moment；　everything　trembled　on　his　lips：
　　Jack；　I'm　Jack　Sawyer；　yeah；　I'm　the　kid　from　California；　the　Queen　of　this　world　was　my　mother；　only　I　died；　and　I　know　your　boss；　I　know　Morgan…Uncle　Morgan…and　I'll　tell　you　anything　you　want　to　know　if　only　you'll　stop　looking　at　me　with　those　freaked…out　eyes　of　yours；　sure；　because　I'm　only　a　kid；　and　that's　what　kids　do；　they　tell；　they　tell　everything…
　　Then　he　heard　his　mother's　voice；　tough；　on　the　edge　of　a　jeer：
　　You　gonna　spill　your　guts　to　this　guy；　Jack…O？　THIS　guy？　He　smells　like　a　distress　sale　at　the　men's　cologne　counter　and　he　looks　like　a　medieval　version　of　Charles　Manson　。　。　。　but　you　suit　yourself。　You　can　fool　him　if　you　want…no　sweat…but　you　suit　yourself。
　　'Who　are　you？'　Osmond　asked　again；　drawing　even　closer；　and　on　his　face　Jack　now　saw　total　confidence…he　was　used　to　getting　the　answers　he　wanted　from　people　。　。　。　and　not　just　from　twelve…year…old　kids；　either。
　　Jack　took　a　deep；　trembling　breath　（When　you　want　max　volume…when　you　want　to　get　it　all　the　way　up　to　the　back　row　of　the　balcony…you　gotta　bring　it　from　your　diaphragm；　Jacky。　It　just　kind　of　gets　passed　through　the　old　vox…box　on　the　way　up）　and　screamed：
　　'I　WAS　GOING　TO　GO　RIGHT　BACK！　HONEST　TO　GOD！'
　　Osmond；　who　had　been　leaning　even　farther　forward　in　anticipation　of　a　broken　and　strengthless　whisper；　recoiled　as　if　Jack　had　suddenly　reached　out　and　slapped　him。　He　stepped　on　the　trailing　rawhide　tails　of　his　whip　with　one　booted　foot　and　came　close　to　tripping　over　them。
　　'You　damned　God…pounding　little…'
　　'I　WAS　GOING　TO！　PLEASE　DON'T　WHIP　ME　OS…MOND　I　WAS　GOING　TO　GO　BACK！　I　NEVER　WANTED　TO　E　HERE　I　NEVER　I　NEVER　I　NEVER…'
　　Captain　Farren　lunged　forward　and　struck　him　in　the　back。　Jack　sprawled　full…length　in　the　mud；　still　screaming。
　　'He's　simple…minded；　as　I　told　you；'　he　heard　the　Captain　saying。　'I　apologize；　Osmond。　You　can　be　sure　he'll　be　beaten　within　an　inch　of　his　life。　He…'
　　'What's　he　doing　here　in　the　first　place？'　Osmond　shrieked。　His　voice　was　now　as　high　and　shrewish　as　any　fish…wife's。　'What's　your　snot…nosed　puling　brat…bastard　doing　here　at　all？　Don't　offer　to　show　me　his　pass！　I　know　he　has　no　pass！　You　sneaked　him　in　to　feed　at　the　Queen's　table　。　。　。　to　steal　the　Queen's　silver；　for　all　I　know　。　。　。　he's　bad　。　。　。　one　look's　enough　to　tell　anyone　that　he's　very；　intolerably；　most　indubitably　bad！'
　　The　whip　came　down　again；　not　the　mild　cough　of　a　Daisy　air　rifle　this　time　but　the　loud　clean　report　of　a　。22；　and　Jack　had　time　to　think　I　know　where　that's　going；　and　then　a　large　fiery　hand　clawed　into　his　back。　The　pain　seemed　to　sink　into　his　flesh；　not　diminishing　but　actually　intensifying。　It　was　hot　and　maddening。　He　screamed　and　writhed　in　the　mud。
　　'Bad！　Most　awfully　bad！　Indubitably　bad！'
　　Each　'bad'　was　punctuated　by　another　crack　of　Osmond's　whip；　another　fiery　handprint；　another　scream　from　Jack。　His　back　was　burning。　He　had　no　idea　how　long　it　might　have　gone　on…Osmond　seemed　to　be　working　himself　into　a　hotter　frenzy　with　each　blow…but　then　a　new　voice　shouted：　'Osmond！　Osmond！　There　you　are！　Thank　God！'　
　　A　motion　of　running　footsteps。
　　Osmond's　voice；　furious　and　slightly　out　of　breath：　'Well？　Well？　What　is　it？'　
　　A　hand　grasped　Jack's　elbow　and　helped　him　to　his　feet。　When　he　staggered；　the　arm　attached　to　the　hand　slipped　around　his　waist　and　supported　him。　It　was　difficult　to　believe　that　the　Captain　who　had　been　so　hard　and　sure　during　their　bewildering　tour　of　the　pavillion　could　now　be　so　gentle。
　　Jack　staggered　again。　The　world　kept　wanting　to　swim　out　of　focus。　Trickles　of　warm　blood　ran　down　his　back。　He　looked　at　Osmond　with　swift…awakening　hatred；　and　it　was　good　to　feel　that　hatred。　It　was　a　wele　antidote　to　the　fear　and　the　confusion。
　　You　did　that…you　hurt　me；　you　cut　me。　And　listen　to　me；　Jiggs；　if　I　get　a　chance　to　pay　you　back…
　　'Are　you　all　right？'　the　Captain　whispered。
　　'Yes。'
　　'What？'　Osmond　screamed　at　the　two　men　who　had　interrupted　Jack's　whipping。
　　The　first　was　one　of　the　dandies　Jack　and　the　Captain　had　passed　going　to　the　secret　room。　The　other　looked　a　bit　like　the　carter　Jack　had　seen　almost　immediately　upon　his　return　to　the　Territories。　This　fellow　looked　badly　frightened；　and　hurt　as　well…blood　was　welling　from　a　gash　on　the　left　side　of　his　head　and　had　covered　most　of　the　left　side　of　his　face。　His　left　arm　was　scraped　and　his　jerkin　was　torn。　'What　are　you　saying；　you　jackass？'
　　'My　wagon　overturned　ing　around　the　bend　on　the　far　side　of　All…Hands'　Village；'　the　carter　said。　He　spoke　with　the　slow；　dazed　patience　of　one　in　deep　shock。　'My　son's　kilt；　my　Lord。　Crushed　to　death　under　the　barrels。　He　was　just　sixteen　last　May…Farm　Day。　His　mother…'
　　'What？'　Osmond　screamed　again。　'Barrels？　Ale？　Not　the　Kingsland？　You　don't　mean　to　tell　me　you've　overturned　a　full　wagonload　of　Kingsland　Ale；　you　stupid　goat's　penis？　You　don't　mean　to　tell　me　that；　do　yoooooouuuuuuu？'　
　　Osmond's　voice　rose　on　the　last　word　like　the　voice　of　a　man　making　savage　mockery　of　an　operatic　diva。　It　wavered　and　warbled。　At　the　same　time　he　began　to　dance　again　。　。　。　but　in　rage　this　time。　The　bination　was　so　weird　that　Jack　had　to　raise　both　hands　to　stifle　an　involuntary　giggle。　The　movement　caused　his　shirt　to　scrape　across　his　welted　back；　and　that　sobered　him　even　before　the　Captain　muttered　a　warning　word。
　　Patiently；　as　if　Osmond　had　missed　the　only　important　fact　（and　so　it　must　have　seemed　to　him）；　the　carter　began　again：　'He　was　just　sixteen　last　May…Farm　Day。　His　mother　didn't　want　him　to　e　with　me。　I　can't　think　what…'　
　　Osmond　raised　his　whip　and　brought　it　whickering　down　with　blinding　and　unexpected　speed。　At　one　moment　the　handle　was　grasped　loosely　in　his　left　hand；　the　whip　itself　with　its　rawhide　tails　trailing　in　the　mud；　at　the　next　there　was　a　whipcrack　not　like　the　sound　of　a　。22　but　more　like　that　of　a　toy　rifle。　The　carter　staggered　back；　shrieking；　his　hands　clapped　to　his　face。　Fresh　blood　ran　loosely　through　his　dirty　fingers。　He　fell　over；　screaming；　'My　Lord！　My　Lord！　My　Lord！'　in　a　muffled；　gargling　voice。
　　Jack　moaned：　'Let's　get　out　of　here。　Quick！'
　　'Wait；'　the　Captain　said。　The　grim　set　of　his　face　seemed　to　have　loosened　the　smallest　bit。　There　might　have　been　hope　in　his　eyes。
　　Osmond　whirled　to　the　dandy；　who　took　a　step　back；　his　thick　red　mouth　working。
　　'Was　it　the　Kingsland？'　Osmond　panted。
　　'Osmond；　you　shou