sk.thetalisman-第3部分

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　Arcadia　Beach　on　Labor　Day。　The　silence　was　gray　as　the　air。
　　He　looked　down　at　his　sneakers　and　saw　that　there　was　some　sort　of　tarry　goo　on　them。　Beach　crud；　he　thought。　Some　kind　of　pollution。　He　had　no　idea　where　he　had　picked　it　up　and　he　stepped　back　from　the　edge　of　the　water；　uneasy。
　　The　gulls　in　the　air；　swooping　and　crying。　One　of　them　screamed　overhead　and　he　heard　a　flat　cracking　that　was　almost　metallic。　He　turned　in　time　to　see　it　e　in　for　a　fluttering；　awkward　landing　on　a　hump　of　rock。　The　gull　turned　its　head　in　rapid；　almost　robotic　movements；　as　if　to　verify　it　was　alone；　and　then　it　hopped　down　to　where　the　clam　it　had　dropped　lay　on　the　smooth；　hard…packed　sand。　The　clam　had　cracked　open　like　an　egg　and　Jack　saw　raw　meat　inside；　still　twitching　。　。　。　or　perhaps　that　was　his　imagination。
　　Don't　want　to　see　this。
　　But　before　he　could　turn　away；　the　gull's　yellow；　hooked　beak　was　pulling　at　the　meat；　stretching　it　like　a　rubber　band；　and　he　felt　his　stomach　knot　into　a　slick　fist。　In　his　mind　he　could　hear　that　stretched　tissue　screaming…nothing　coherent；　only　stupid　flesh　crying　out　in　pain。
　　He　tried　to　look　away　from　the　seagull　again　and　he　couldn't。　The　gull's　beak　opened；　giving　him　a　brief　glimpse　of　dirty　pink　gullet。　The　clam　snapped　back　into　its　cracked　shell　and　for　a　moment　the　gull　was　looking　at　him；　its　eyes　a　deadly　black；　confirming　every　horrible　truth：　fathers　die；　mothers　die；　uncles　die　even　if　they　went　to　Yale　and　look　as　solid　as　bank　walls　in　their　three…piece　Savile　Row　suits。　Kids　die　too；　maybe　。　。　。　and　at　the　end　all　there　may　be　is　the　stupid；　unthinking　scream　of　living　tissue。
　　'Hey；'　Jack　said　aloud；　not　aware　he　was　doing　anything　but　thinking　inside　his　own　head。　'Hey；　give　me　a　break。'　
　　The　gull　sat　over　its　catch；　regarding　him　with　its　beady　black　eyes。　Then　it　began　to　dig　at　the　meat　again。　Want　some；　Jack？　It's　still　twitching！　By　God；　it's　so　fresh　it　hardly　knows　it's　dead！
　　The　strong　yellow　beak　hooked　into　the　meat　again　and　pulled。　Strettttchhhhhh…
　　It　snapped。　The　gull's　head　went　up　toward　the　gray　September　sky　and　its　throat　worked。　And　again　it　seemed　to　be　looking　at　him；　the　way　the　eyes　in　some　pictures　seemed　always　to　look　at　you　no　matter　where　you　went　in　the　room。　And　the　eyes　。　。　。　he　knew　those　eyes。
　　Suddenly　he　wanted　his　mother…her　dark　blue　eyes。　He　could　not　remember　wanting　her　with　such　desperation　since　he　had　been　very；　very　small。　La…la；　he　heard　her　sing　inside　his　head；　and　her　voice　was　the　wind's　voice；　here　for　now；　somewhere　else　all　too　soon。　La…la；　sleep　now；　Jacky；　baby…bunting；　daddy's　gone　a…hunting。　And　all　that　jazz。　Memories　of　being　rocked；　his　mother　smoking　one　Herbert　Tareyton　after　another；　maybe　looking　at　a　script…blue　pages；　she　called　them；　he　remembered　that：　blue　pages。　La…la；　Jacky；　all　is　cool。　I　love　you；　Jacky。　Shhh　。　。　。　sleep。　La…la。
　　The　gull　was　looking　at　him。
　　With　sudden　horror　that　engorged　his　throat　like　hot　salt　water　he　saw　it　really　was　looking　at　him。　Those　black　eyes　（whose？）　were　seeing　him。　And　he　knew　that　look。
　　A　raw　strand　of　flesh　still　dangled　from　the　gull's　beak。　As　he　looked；　the　gull　sucked　it　in。　Its　beak　opened　in　a　weird　but　unmistakable　grin。
　　He　turned　then　and　ran；　head　down；　eyes　shut　against　the　hot　salt　tears；　sneakers　digging　against　the　sand；　and　if　there　was　a　way　to　go　up；　go　up　and　up；　up　to　some　gull's…eye　view；　one　would　have　seen　only　him；　only　his　tracks；　in　all　that　gray　day；　Jack　Sawyer；　twelve　and　alone；　running　back　toward　the　inn；　Speedy　Parker　forgotten；　his　voice　nearly　lost　in　tears　and　wind；　crying　the　negative　over　and　over　again：　no　and　no　and　no。
　　　
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　　He　paused　at　the　top　of　the　beach；　out　of　breath。　A　hot　stitch　ran　up　his　left　side　from　the　middle　of　his　ribs　to　the　deepest　part　of　his　armpit。　He　sat　down　on　one　of　the　benches　the　town　put　out　for　old　people　and　pushed　his　hair　out　of　his　eyes。
　　Got　to　get　control　of　yourself。　If　Sergeant　Fury　goes　Section　Eight；　who's　gonna　lead　the　Howling　mandos？
　　He　smiled　and　actually　did　feel　a　little　better。　From　up　here；　fifty　feet　from　the　water；　things　looked　a　little　better。　Maybe　it　was　the　change　in　barometric　pressure；　or　something。　What　had　happened　to　Uncle　Tommy　was　horrible；　but　he　supposed　he　would　get　over　it；　learn　to　accept。　That　was　what　his　mother　said；　anyway。　Uncle　Morgan　had　been　unusually　pesty　just　lately；　but　then；　Uncle　Morgan　had　always　been　sort　of　a　pest。
　　As　for　his　mother　。　。　。　well；　that　was　the　big　one；　wasn't　it？　
　　Actually；　he　thought；　sitting　on　the　bench　and　digging　at　the　verge　of　the　sand　beyond　the　boardwalk　with　one　toe；　actually　his　mother　might　still　be　all　right。　She　could　be　all　right；　it　was　certainly　possible。　After　all；　no　one　had　e　right　out　and　said　it　was　the　big　C；　had　they？　No。　If　she　had　cancer；　she　wouldn't　have　brought　him　here；　would　she？　More　likely　they'd　be　in　Switzerland；　with　his　mother　taking　cold　mineral　baths　and　scoffing　goat…glands；　or　something。　And　she　would　do　it；　too。
　　So　maybe…
　　A　low；　dry　whispering　sound　intruded　on　his　consciousness。　He　looked　down　and　his　eyes　widened。　The　sand　had　begun　to　move　by　the　instep　of　his　left　sneaker。　The　fine　white　grains　were　sliding　around　in　a　small　circle　perhaps　a　finger's　length　in　diameter。　The　sand　in　the　middle　of　this　circle　suddenly　collapsed；　so　that　now　there　was　a　dimple　in　the　sand。　It　was　maybe　two　inches　deep。　The　sides　of　this　dimple　were　also　in　motion：　around　and　around；　moving　in　rapid　counterclockwise　circuits。
　　Not　real；　he　told　himself　immediately；　but　his　heart　began　to　speed　up　again。　His　breathing　also　began　to　e　faster。　Not　real；　it's　one　of　the　Daydreams；　that's　all；　or　maybe　it's　a　crab　or　something　。　。　。
　　But　it　wasn't　a　crab　and　it　wasn't　one　of　the　Daydreams…this　was　not　the　other　place；　the　one　he　dreamed　about　when　things　were　boring　or　maybe　a　little　scary；　and　it　sure　as　hell　wasn't　any　crab。
　　The　sand　spun　faster；　the　sound　arid　and　dry；　making　him　think　of　static　electricity；　of　an　experiment　they　had　done　in　science　last　year　with　a　Leyden　jar。　But　more　than　either　of　these；　the　minute　sound　was　like　a　long　lunatic　gasp；　the　final　breath　of　a　dying　man。
　　More　sand　collapsed　inward　and　began　to　spin。　Now　it　was　not　a　dimple；　it　was　a　funnel　in　the　sand；　a　kind　of　reverse　dust…devil。　The　bright　yellow　of　a　gum　wrapper　was　revealed；　covered；　revealed；　covered；　revealed　again…each　time　it　showed　up　again。　Jack　could　read　more　of　it　as　the　funnel　grew：　JU；　then　JUI；　then　JUICY　F。　The　funnel　grew　and　the　sand　was　jerked　away　from　the　gum　wrapper　again。　It　was　as　quick　and　rude　as　an　unfriendly　hand　jerking　down　the　covers　on　a　made　bed。　JUICY　FRUIT；　he　read；　and　then　the　wrapper　flapped　upward。
　　The　sand　turned　faster　and　faster；　in　a　hissing　fury。　Hhhhh…haaaaahhhhhhhh　was　the　sound　the　sand　made。　Jack　stared　at　it；　fascinated　at　first；　and　then　horrified。　The　sand　was　opening　like　a　large　dark　eye：　it　was　the　eye　of　the　gull　that　had　dropped　the　clam　on　the　rock　and　then　pulled　the　living　meat　out　of　it　like　a　rubber　band。
　　Hhhhhhaaaahhhhh；　the　sand…spout　mocked　in　its　dead；　dry　voice。　That　was　not　a　mind…voice。　No　matter　how　much　Jack　wished　it　were　only　in　his　head；　that　voice　was　real。　His　false　teeth　flew；　Jack；　when　the　old　WILD　CHILD　hit　him；　out　they　went；　rattledy…bang！　Yale　or　no　Yale；　when　the　old　WILD　CHILD　van　es　and　knocks　your　false　teeth　out；　Jacky；　you　got　to　go。　And　your　mother…
　　Then　he　was　running　again；　blindly；　not　looking　back；　his　hair　blown　off　his　forehead；　his　eyes　wide　and　terrified。
　　　
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　　Jack　walked　as　quickly　as　he　could　through　the　dim　lobby　of　the　hotel。　All　the　atmosphere　of　the　place　forbade　running：　it　was　as　quiet　as　a　library；　and　the　gray　light　which　fell　through　the　tall　mullioned　windows　softened　and　blurred　the　already　faded　carpets。　Jack　broke　into　a　trot　as　he　passed　the　desk；　and　the　stooped　ashen…skinned　day…clerk　chose　that　second　to　emerge　through　an　arched　wooden　passage。　The　clerk　said　nothing；　but　his　permanent　scowl　dragged　the　corners　of　his　mouth　another　centimeter　downward。　It　was　like　being　caught　running　in　church。　Jack　wiped　his　sleeve　across　his　forehead；　made　himself　walk　the　rest　of　the　way　to　the　elevators。　He　punched　the　button；　feeling　the　desk　clerk's　frown　burning　between　his　shoulder　blades。　The　only　time　this　week　that　Jack　had　seen　the　desk　clerk　smile　had　been　when　the　man　had　recognized　his　mother。　The　smile　had　met　only　the　minimum　standards　for　graciousness。
　　'I　suppose　that's　how　old　you　have　to　be　to　remember　Lily　Cavanaugh；'　she　had　said　to　Jack　as　soon　as　they　were　alone　in　their　rooms。　There　had　been　a　time；　and　not　so　long　ago；　when　being　identified；　recognized　from　any　one　of　the　fifty　movies　she　had　made　during　the　fifties　and　sixties　（'Queen　of　the　Bs；'　they　called　her；　her　own　ment：　'Darling　of　the　Drive…ins'）…whether　by　a　cabdriver；　waiter；　or　the　lady　selling　blouses　at　the　Wilshire　Boulevard　Saks…perked　her　mood　for　hours。　Now　even　that　simple　pleasure　had　gone　dry　for　her。
　　Jack　jigged　before　the　unmoving　elevator　doors；　hearing　an　impossible　and　familiar　voice　lifting　to　him　from　a　whirling　funnel　of　sand。　For　a　second　he　saw　Thomas　Woodbine；　solid　fortable　Uncle　Tommy　Woodbine；　who　was　supposed　to　have　been　one　of　his　guardians…a　strong　wall　against　trouble　and　confusion…crumpled　and　dead　on　La　Cienega　Boulevard；　his　teeth　like　popcorn　twenty　feet　away　in　the　gutter。　He　stabbed　the　button　again。
　　Hurry　up！
　　Then　he　saw　something　worse…his　mother　hauled　into　a　waiting　car　by　two　impassive　men。　Suddenly　Jack　had　to　urinate。　He　flattened　his　palm　against　the　button；　and　the　bent　gray　man　behind　the　desk　uttered　a　phlegmy　sound　of　disapproval。　Jack　pressed　the　edge　of　his　other　hand　into　that　magic　place　just　beneath　his　stomach　which　lessened　the　pressure　on　his　bladder。　Now　he　could　hear　the　slow　whir　of　the　descending　elevator。　He　closed　his　eyes；　squeezed　his　legs　together。　His　mother　looked　uncertain；　lost　and　confused；　and　the　men　forced　her　into　the　car　as　easily　as　they　would　a　weary　collie　dog。　But　that　was　not　really　happening；　he　knew；　it