sk.thetalisman-第39部分

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　　'Like　war。'
　　'That's　nuts；　Phil。　We've　never　seen　anything　。　。　。　unless　you　mean　Bledsoe　。　。　。　'
　　'I　do　mean　Bledsoe。　Was　that　a　coincidence？'　
　　Bledsoe？　Jack　wondered。　He　had　heard　the　name　before；　but　it　was　vague。
　　'Well；　that's　a　long　way　from　war；　to　put　it　mildly；　and　I　don't　concede　the　connection　anyhow。'
　　'All　right。　Do　you　remember　hearing　about　how　a　Stranger　assassinated　the　old　King　over　there…a　long　time　ago？　You　ever　hear　about　that？'
　　'Yeah；　I　suppose；'　Uncle　Morgan　said；　and　Jack　heard　again　the　falseness　in　his　voice。
　　His　father's　chair　squeaked…he　was　taking　his　feet　off　his　desk；　leaning　forward。　'The　assassination　touched　off　a　minor　war　over　there。　The　followers　of　the　old　King　had　to　put　down　a　rebellion　led　by　a　couple　of　disgruntled　nobles。　These　guys　saw　their　chance　to　take　over　and　run　things…seize　lands；　impound　property；　throw　their　enemies　in　jail；　make　themselves　rich。'
　　'Hey；　be　fair；'　Morgan　broke　in。　'I　heard　about　this　stuff；　too。　They　also　wanted　to　bring　some　kind　of　political　order　to　a　crazy　inefficient　system…sometimes　you　have　to　be　tough；　starting　out。　I　can　see　that。'
　　'And　it's　not　for　us　to　make　judgments　about　their　politics；　I　agree。　But　here's　my　point。　That　little　war　over　there　lasted　about　three　weeks。　When　it　was　over；　maybe　a　hundred　people　had　been　killed。　Fewer；　probably。　Did　anyone　ever　tell　you　when　that　war　began？　What　year　it　was？　What　day？'
　　'No；'　Uncle　Morgan　muttered　in　a　sulky　voice。
　　'It　was　the　first　of　September；　1939。　Over　here；　it　was　the　day　Germany　invaded　Poland。'　His　father　stopped　talking；　and　Jacky；　clutching　his　black　toy　taxi　behind　the　couch；　yawned　silently　but　hugely。
　　'That's　screwball；'　Uncle　Morgan　finally　said。　'Their　war　started　ours？　Do　you　really　believe　that？'
　　'I　do　believe　that；'　Jack's　father　said。　'I　believe　a　three…week　squabble　over　there　in　some　way　sparked　off　a　war　here　that　lasted　six　years　and　killed　millions　of　people。　Yes。'
　　'Well　。　。　。　'　Uncle　Morgan　said；　and　Jack　could　see　him　beginning　to　huff　and　blow。
　　'There's　more。　I've　talked　to　lots　of　people　over　there　about　this；　and　the　feeling　I　get　is　that　the　stranger　who　assassinated　the　King　was　a　real　Stranger；　if　you　see　what　I　mean。　Those　who　saw　him　got　the　feeling　that　he　was　unfortable　with　Territories　clothes。　He　acted　like　he　was　unsure　of　local　customs…he　didn't　understand　the　money　right　away。'
　　'Ah。'
　　'Yes。　If　they　hadn't　torn　him　to　pieces　right　after　he　stuck　a　knife　into　the　King；　we　could　be　sure　about　this；　but　I'm　sure　anyhow　that　he　was…'
　　'Like　us。'
　　'Like　us。　That's　right。　A　visitor。　Morgan；　I　don't　think　we　can　mess　around　too　much　over　there。　Because　we　simply　don't　know　what　the　effects　will　be。　To　tell　you　the　truth；　I　think　we're　affected　all　the　time　by　things　that　go　on　in　the　Territories。　And　should　I　tell　you　another　crazy　thing？'
　　'Why　not？'　Sloat　answered。
　　'That's　not　the　only　other　world　out　there。'
　　　
　　　3
　　
　　'Bullshit；'　Sloat　said。
　　'I　mean　it。　I've　had　the　feeling；　once　or　twice　when　I　was　there；　that　I　was　near　to　somewhere　else…the　Territories'　Territories。'
　　Yes；　Jack　thought；　that's　right；　it　has　to　be；　the　Daydreams'　Daydreams；　someplace　even　more　beautiful；　and　on　the　other　side　of　that　is　the　Daydreams'　Daydreams'　Daydreams；　and　on　the　other　side　of　that　is　another　place；　another　world　nicer　still　He　realized　for　the　first　time　that　he　had　bee　very　sleepy。
　　The　Daydreams'　Daydreams
　　And　then　he　was　almost　immediately　asleep；　the　heavy　little　taxi　in　his　lap；　his　whole　body　simultaneously　weighty　with　sleep；　anchored　to　the　strip　of　wooden　floor；　and　so　blissfully　light。
　　The　conversation　must　have　continued…there　must　have　been　much　that　Jacky　missed。　He　rose　and　fell；　heavy　and　light；　through　the　second　whole　side　of　Daddy　Plays　the　Horn；　and　during　that　time　Morgan　Sloat　must　at　first　have　argued…gently；　but　with　what　squeezings　of　his　fists；　what　contortions　of　his　forehead！…for　his　plan；　then　he　must　have　allowed　himself　to　seem　persuadable；　then　finally　persuaded　by　his　partner's　doubts。　At　the　end　of　this　conversation；　which　returned　to　the　twelve…year…old　Jacky　Sawyer　in　the　dangerous　borderland　between　Oatley；　New　York；　and　a　nameless　Territories　village；　Morgan　Sloat　had　allowed　himself　to　seem　not　only　persuaded　but　positively　grateful　for　the　lessons。　When　Jack　woke　up；　the　first　thing　he　heard　was　his　father　asking；　'Hey；　did　Jack　disappear　or　something？'　and　the　second　thing　was　Uncle　Morgan　saying；　'Hell；　I　guess　you're　right；　Phil。　You　have　a　way　of　seeing　right　to　the　heart　of　things；　you're　great　the　way　you　do　that。'
　　'Where　the　hell　is　Jack？'　his　father　said；　and　Jack　stirred　behind　the　couch；　really　waking　up　now。　The　black　taxi　thudded　to　the　floor。
　　'Aha；'　Uncle　Morgan　said。　'Little　pitchers　and　big　ears；　peut…être？'
　　'You　behind　there；　kiddo？'　his　father　said。　Noises　of　chairs　pushing　back　across　the　wooden　floor；　of　men　standing　up。
　　He　said；　'Oooh；'　and　slowly　lifted　the　taxi　back　into　his　lap。　His　legs　felt　stiff　and　unfortable…when　he　stood；　they　would　tingle。
　　His　father　laughed。　Footsteps　came　toward　him。　Morgan　Sloat's　red；　puffy　face　appeared　over　the　top　of　the　couch。　Jack　yawned　and　pushed　his　knees　into　the　back　of　the　couch。　His　father's　face　appeared　beside　Sloat's。　His　father　was　smiling。　For　a　moment；　both　of　those　grown…up　adult　male　heads　seemed　to　be　floating　over　the　top　of　the　couch。　'Let's　move　on　home；　sleepyhead；'　his　father　said。　When　the　boy　looked　into　Uncle　Morgan's　face；　he　saw　calculation　sink　into　his　skin；　slide　underneath　his　jolly…fat…man's　cheeks　like　a　snake　beneath　a　rock。　He　looked　like　Richard　Sloat's　daddy　again；　like　good　old　Uncle　Morgan　who　always　gave　spectacular　Christmas　and　birthday　presents；　like　good　old　sweaty　Uncle　Morgan；　so　easy　not　to　notice。　But　what　had　he　looked　like　before？　Like　a　human　earthquake；　like　a　man　crumbling　apart　over　the　fault…line　behind　his　eyes；　like　something　all　wound　up　and　waiting　to　explode
　　'How　about　a　little　ice　cream　on　the　way　home；　Jack？'　Uncle　Morgan　said　to　him。　'That　sound　good　to　you？'
　　'Uh；'　Jack　said。
　　'Yeah；　we　can　stop　off　at　that　place　in　the　lobby；'　his　father　said。
　　'Yummy…yummy…yum；'　Uncle　Morgan　said。　'Now　we're　really　talking　about　synergy；'　and　smiled　at　Jack　once　more。
　　
　　This　happened　when　he　was　six；　and　in　the　midst　of　his　weightless　tumble　through　limbo；　it　happened　again…the　horrible　purple　taste　of　Speedy's　juice　backed　up　into　his　mouth；　into　the　passages　behind　his　nose；　and　all　of　that　languid　afternoon　of　six　years　before　replayed　itself　out　in　his　mind。　He　saw　it　just　as　if　the　magic　juice　brought　total　recall；　and　so　speedily　that　he　lived　through　that　afternoon　in　the　same　few　seconds　which　told　him　that　this　time　the　magic　juice　really　was　going　to　make　him　vomit。
　　Uncle　Morgan's　eyes　smoking；　and　inside　Jack；　a　question　smoking　too；　demanding　to　finally　e　out　。　。　。
　　Who　played
　　What　changes　what　changes　
　　Who　plays　those　changes；　daddy？　
　　Who　
　　killed　Jerry　Bledsoe？　The　magic　juice　forced　itself　into　the　boy's　mouth；　stinging　threads　of　it　nauseatingly　trickled　into　his　nose；　and　just　as　Jack　felt　loose　earth　beneath　his　hands　he　gave　up　and　vomited　rather　than　drown。　What　killed　Jerry　Bledsoe？　Foul　purple　stuff　shot　from　Jack's　mouth；　choking　him；　and　he　blindly　pushed　himself　backward…his　feet　and　legs　snagged　in　tall　stiff　weeds。　Jack　pushed　himself　up　on　his　hands　and　knees　and　waited；　patient　as　a　mule；　his　mouth　drooping　open；　for　the　second　attack。　His　stomach　clenched；　and　he　did　not　have　time　to　groan　before　more　of　the　stinking　juice　burned　up　through　his　chest　and　throat　and　spattered　out　of　his　mouth。　Ropey　pink　strings　of　saliva　hung　from　his　lips；　and　Jack　feebly　brushed　them　away。　He　wiped　his　hand　on　his　pants。　Jerry　Bledsoe；　yes。　Jerry…who'd　always　had　his　name　spelled　out　on　his　shirt；　like　a　gas…station　attendant。　Jerry；　who　had　died　when…The　boy　shook　his　head　and　wiped　his　hands　across　his　mouth　again。　He　spat　into　a　nest　of　sawtoothed　wild　grass　sprouting　like　a　giant's　corsage　out　of　the　gray…brown　earth。　Some　dim　animal　instinct　he　did　not　understand　made　him　push　loose　earth　over　the　pinkish　pool　of　vomit。　Another　reflex　made　him　brush　the　palms　of　his　hands　against　his　trousers。　Finally　he　looked　up。
　　He　was　kneeling；　in　the　last　of　the　evening　light；　on　the　edge　of　a　dirt　lane。　No　horrible　Elroy…thing　pursued　him…he　had　known　that　immediately。　Dogs　penned　in　a　wooden；　cage…like　enclosure　barked　and　snarled　at　him；　thrusting　their　snouts　through　the　cracks　of　their　jail。　On　the　other　side　of　the　fenced…in　dogs　was　a　rambling　wooden　structure　and　from　here　too　doggy　noises　rose　up　into　the　immense　sky。　These　were　unmistakably　similar　to　the　noises　Jack　had　just　been　hearing　from　the　other　side　of　a　wall　in　the　Oatley　Tap：　the　sounds　of　drunken　men　bellowing　at　each　other。　A　bar…here　it　would　be　an　inn　or　a　public　house；　Jack　imagined。　Now　that　he　was　no　longer　sickened　by　Speedy's　juice；　he　could　smell　the　pervasive；　yeasty　odors　of　malt　and　hops。　He　could　not　let　the　men　from　the　inn　discover　him。
　　For　a　moment　he　imagined　himself　running　from　all　those　dogs　yipping　and　growling　through　the　cracks　in　their　enclosure；　and　then　he　stood　up。　The　sky　seemed　to　tilt　over　his　head；　to　darken。　And　back　home；　in　his　world；　what　was　happening？　A　nice　little　disaster　in　the　middle　of　Oatley？　Maybe　a　nice　little　flood；　a　sweet　little　fire？　Jack　slipped　quietly　backward　away　from　the　inn；　then　began　to　move　sideways　through　the　tall　grass。　Perhaps　sixty　yards　away；　thick　candles　burned　in　the　windows　of　the　only　other　building　he　could　see。　From　somewhere　not　far　off　to　his　right　drifted　the　odor　of　pigs。　When　Jack　had　gone　half　the　distance　between　the　inn　and　the　house；　the　dogs　ceased　growling　and　snapping；　and　he　slowly　began　walking　forward　toward　the　Western　Road。　The　night　was　dark　and　moonless。
　　Jerry　Bledsoe。
　　　
　　　4
　　
　　There　were　other　houses；　though　Jack　did　not　see　them　until　he　was　nearly　before　them。　Except　for　the　noisy　drinkers　behind　him　at　the　inn；　here　in　the　country　Territo