sk.thetalisman-第41部分

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　　Jack　and　Richard　Sloat　needed　two　months　to　really　put　the　story　together　out　of　the　conversations　they　overheard。　Jack's　mother　and　Richard's　housekeeper　supplied　other　details…the　housekeeper；　the　goriest。
　　Jerry　Bledsoe　had　e　in　on　a　Saturday　to　try　to　iron　out　some　of　the　kinks　in　the　building's　security　system。　If　he　tampered　with　the　delicate　system　on　a　weekday；　he　was　sure　to　confuse　or　irritate　the　tenants　with　the　Klaxon　alarm　whenever　he　accidentally　set　it　off。　The　security　system　was　wired　into　the　building's　main　electrical　board；　set　behind　two　large　removable　walnut　panels　on　the　ground　floor。　Jerry　had　set　down　his　tools　and　lifted　off　the　panels；　having　already　seen　that　the　lot　was　empty　and　nobody　would　jump　out　of　his　skin　when　the　alarm　went　off。　Then　he　went　downstairs　to　the　telephone　in　his　basement　cubicle　and　told　the　local　precinct　house　to　ignore　any　signals　from　the　Sawyer　&　Sloat　address　until　his　next　telephone　call。　When　he　went　back　upstairs　to　tackle　the　mare's　nest　of　wires　ing　into　the　board　from　all　the　contact　points；　a　twenty…three…year…old　woman　named　Lorette　Chang　was　just　riding　her　bicycle　into　the　building's　lot…she　was　distributing　a　leaflet　advertising　a　restaurant　which　was　due　to　open　down　the　street　in　fifteen　days。
　　Miss　Chang　later　told　the　police　that　she　looked　through　the　glass　front　door　and　saw　a　workman　enter　the　hall　from　the　basement。　Just　before　the　workman　picked　up　his　screwdriver　and　touched　the　wiring　panel；　she　felt　the　parking　lot　wobble　beneath　her　feet。　It　was；　she　assumed；　a　mini…earthquake：　a　lifelong　resident　of　Los　Angeles；　Lorette　Chang　was　untroubled　by　any　seismic　event　that　did　not　actually　knock　anything　down。　She　saw　Jerry　Bledsoe　set　his　feet　（so　he　felt　it；　too；　though　no　one　else　did）；　shake　his　head；　then　gently　insert　the　tip　of　the　screwdriver　into　a　hive　of　wires。
　　And　then　the　entry　and　downstairs　corridor　of　the　Sawyer　&　Sloat　building　turned　into　a　holocaust。
　　The　entire　wiring　panel　turned　instantly　to　a　solid　rectangular　body　of　flame；　bluish…yellow　arcs　of　what　looked　like　lightning　shot　out　and　encased　the　workman。　Electronic　horns　bawled　and　bawled：　KA…WHAAAAM！　KA…WHAAAM！　A　ball　of　fire　six　feet　high　fell　right　out　of　the　wall；　slammed　the　already　dead　Jerry　Bledsoe　aside；　and　rolled　down　the　corridor　toward　the　lobby。　The　transparent　front　door　blew　into　flying　glass　and　smoking；　twisted　pieces　of　frame。　Lorette　Chang　dropped　her　bike　and　sprinted　toward　the　pay　telephone　across　the　street。　As　she　told　the　fire　department　the　building's　address　and　noticed　that　her　bicycle　had　been　twisted　neatly　in　half　by　whatever　force　had　burst　through　the　door；　Jerry　Bled…soe's　roasted　corpse　still　swayed　upright　back　and　forth　before　the　devastated　panel。　Thousands　of　volts　poured　through　his　body；　twitching　it　with　regular　surges；　snapping　it　back　and　forth　in　a　steady　pulse。　All　the　handyman's　body　hair　and　most　of　his　clothes　had　fried　off；　and　his　skin　had　bee　a　cooked　blotchy　gray。　His　eyeglasses；　a　solidifying　lump　of　brown　plastic；　covered　his　nose　like　a　poultice。
　　
　　Jerry　Bledsoe。　Who　plays　those　changes；　daddy？　Jack　made　his　feet　move　until　he　had　gone　half　an　hour　without　seeing　another　of　the　little　thatched　cottages。　Unfamiliar　stars　in　unfamiliar　patterns　lay　all　over　the　sky　above　him…messages　in　a　language　he　could　not　read。
　　
　　　CHAPTER　12
　　　Jack　Goes　to　the　Market
　　　
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　　He　slept　that　night　in　a　sweetly　fragrant　Territories　haystack；　first　burrowing　his　way　in　and　then　turning　around　so　the　fresh　air　could　reach　him　along　the　tunnel　he　had　made。　He　listened　apprehensively　for　small　scuttering　sounds…he　had　heard　or　read　somewhere　that　fieldmice　were　great　haystack　fans。　If　they　were　in　this　one；　then　a　great　big　mouse　named　Jack　Sawyer　had　scared　them　into　silence。　He　relaxed　little　by　little；　his　left　hand　tracing　the　shape　of　Speedy's　bottle…he　had　plugged　the　top　with　a　piece　of　springy　moss　from　a　small　stream　where　he　had　stopped　to　drink。　He　supposed　it　was　entirely　possible　that　some　of　the　moss　would　fall　into　the　bottle；　or　already　had。　What　a　pity；　it　would　spoil　the　piquant　flavor　and　the　delicate　bouquet。
　　As　he　lay　in　here；　warm　at　last；　heavily　sleepy；　the　feeling　he　was　most　aware　of　was　relief　。　。　。　as　if　there　had　been　a　dozen　ten…pound　weights　strapped　to　his　back　and　some　kind　soul　had　undone　the　buckles　and　allowed　them　to　fall　to　the　ground。　He　was　in　the　Territories　again；　the　place　which　such　charming　folks　as　Morgan　of　Orris；　Osmond　the　Bullwhipper；　and　Elroy　the　Amazing　Goat…Man　all　called　home；　the　Territories；　where　anything　could　happen。
　　But　the　Territories　could　be　good；　too。　He　remembered　that　from　his　earliest　childhood；　when　everyone　had　lived　in　California　and　no　one　had　lived　anyplace　else。　The　Territories　could　be　good；　and　it　seemed　he　felt　that　goodness　around　him　now；　as　calmly；　inarguably　sweet　as　the　smell　of　the　haystack；　as　clear　as　the　smell　of　the　Territories　air。
　　Does　a　fly　or　a　ladybug　feel　relief　if　an　unexpected　gust　of　wind　es　along　and　tilts　the　pitcher　plant　just　enough　to　allow　the　drowning　insect　to　fly　out？　Jack　didn't　know　。　。　。　but　he　knew　that　he　was　out　of　Oatley；　away　from　Fair　Weather　Clubs　and　old　men　who　wept　over　their　stolen　shopping　carts；　away　from　the　smell　of　beer　and　the　smell　of　puke　。　。　。　most　important　of　all；　he　was　away　from　Smokey　Updike　and　the　Oatley　Tap。
　　He　thought　he　might　travel　in　the　Territories　for　a　while；　after　all。
　　And　so　thinking；　fell　asleep。
　　　
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　　He　had　walked　two；　perhaps　three　miles　along　the　Western　Road　the　following　morning；　enjoying　the　sunshine　and　the　good；　earthy　smell　of　fields　almost　ready　for　the　harvests　of　summer's　end；　when　a　cart　pulled　over　and　a　whiskery　farmer　in　what　looked　like　a　toga　with　rough　breeches　under　it　pulled　up　and　shouted：
　　'Are　you　for　market…town；　boy？'　
　　Jack　gaped　at　him；　half　in　a　panic；　realizing　that　the　man　was　not　speaking　English…never　mind　'prithee'　or　'Dost　thou　go　cross…gartered；　varlet；'　it　wasn't　English　at　all。
　　There　was　a　woman　in　a　voluminous　dress　sitting　beside　the　whiskery　farmer；　she　held　a　boy　of　perhaps　three　on　her　lap。　She　smiled　pleasantly　enough　at　Jack　and　rolled　her　eyes　at　her　husband。　'He's　a　simpleton；　Henry。'
　　They're　not　speaking　English　。　。　。　but　whatever　it　is　they're　speaking；　I　understand　it。　I'm　actually　thinking　in　that　language　。　。　。　and　that's　not　all…I'm　seeing　in　it；　or　with　it；　or　whatever　it　is　I　mean。
　　Jack　realized　he　had　been　doing　it　the　last　time　he　had　been　in　the　Territories；　too…only　then　he　had　been　too　confused　to　realize　it；　things　had　moved　too　fast；　and　everything　had　seemed　strange。
　　The　farmer　leaned　forward。　He　smiled；　showing　teeth　which　were　absolutely　horrid。　'Are　you　a　simpleton；　laddie？'　he　asked；　not　unkindly。
　　'No；'　he　said；　smiling　back　as　best　he　could；　aware　that　he　had　not　said　no　but　some　Territories　word　which　meant　no…when　he　had　flipped；　he　had　changed　his　speech　and　his　way　of　thinking　（his　way　of　imaging；　anyway…he　did　not　have　that　word　in　his　vocabulary；　but　understood　what　he　meant　just　the　same）；　just　as　he　had　changed　his　clothes。　'I'm　not　simple。　It's　just　that　my　mother　told　me　to　be　careful　of　people　I　might　meet　along　the　road。'　Now　the　farmer's　wife　smiled。
　　'Your　mother　was　right；'　she　said。　'Are　you　for　the　market？'
　　'Yes；'　Jack　said。　'That　is；　I'm　headed　up　the　road…west。'
　　'Climb　up　in　the　back；　then；'　Henry　the　farmer　said。　'Daylight's　wasting。　I　want　to　sell　what　I　have　if　I　can　and　be　home　again　before　sunset。　Corn's　poor　but　it's　the　last　of　the　season。　Lucky　to　have　corn　in　ninemonth　at　all。　Someone　may　buy　it。'
　　'Thank　you；'　Jack　said；　climbing　into　the　back　of　the　low　wagon。　Here；　dozens　of　corn　ears　were　bound　with　rough　hanks　of　rope　and　stacked　like　cordwood。　If　the　corn　was　poor；　then　Jack　could　not　imagine　what　would　constitute　good　corn　over　here…they　were　the　biggest　ears　he　had　ever　seen　in　his　life。　There　were　also　small　stacks　of　squashes　and　gourds　and　things　that　looked　like　pumpkins…but　they　were　reddish　instead　of　orange。　Jack　didn't　know　what　they　were；　but　he　suspected　they　would　taste　wonderful。　His　stomach　rumbled　busily。　Since　going　on　the　road；　he　had　discovered　what　hunger　was…not　as　a　passing　acquaintance；　something　you　felt　dimly　after　school　and　which　could　be　assuaged　with　a　few　cookies　and　a　glass　of　milk　souped　up　with　Nestlé's　Quik；　but　as　an　intimate　friend；　one　that　sometimes　moved　away　to　a　distance　but　who　rarely　left　entirely。
　　He　was　sitting　with　his　back　to　the　front　of　the　wagon；　his　sandal…clad　feet　dangling　down；　almost　touching　the　hard…packed　dirt　of　the　Western　Road。　There　was　a　lot　of　traffic　this　morning；　most　of　it　bound　for　the　market；　Jack　assumed。　Every　now　and　then　Henry　bawled　a　greeting　to　someone　he　knew。
　　Jack　was　still　wondering　how　those　apple…colored　pumpkins　might　taste…and　just　where　his　next　meal　was　going　to　e　from；　anyway…when　small　hands　twined　in　his　hair　and　gave　a　brisk　tug…brisk　enough　to　make　his　eyes　water。
　　He　turned　and　saw　the　three…year…old　standing　there　in　his　bare　feet；　a　big　grin　on　his　face　and　a　few　strands　of　Jack's　hair　in　each　of　his　hands。
　　'Jason！'　his　mother　cried…but　it　was；　in　its　way；　an　indulgent　cry　（Did　you　see　the　way　he　pulled　that　hair？　My；　isn't　he　strong！）…'Jason；　that's　not　nice！'
　　Jason　grinned；　unabashed。　It　was　a　big；　dopey；　sunshiney　grin；　as　sweet　in　its　way　as　the　smell　of　the　haystack　in　which　Jack　had　spent　the　night。　He　couldn't　help　returning　it　。　。　。　and　while　there　had　been　no　politics　of　calculation　in　his　returning　grin；　he　saw　he　had　made　a　friend　of　Henry's　wife。
　　'Sit；'　Jason　said；　swaying　back　and　forth　with　the　unconscious　movement　of　a　veteran　sailor。　He　was　still　grinning　at　Jack。
　　'Huh？'
　　'Yap。'
　　'I'm　not　getting　you；　Jason。'
　　'Sit…yap。'
　　'I'm　not…'
　　And　then　Jason；　who　was　husky　for　a　three…year…old；　plopped　into　Jack's　lap；　still　grinning。
　　Sit…yap；　oh　yeah；　I　get　it；　Jack　thought；　feeling　the　dull　ache　from　his　testicles　spreading　up　into　the　pit　of　his　stomach。
　　'Jason　bad！'　his　mother　called　back　in　that　same　indu