sk.thetalisman-第42部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　'Jason　bad！'　his　mother　called　back　in　that　same　indulgent；　but…isn't…he…cute　voice　。　。　。　and　Jason；　who　knew　who　ruled　the　roost；　grinned　his　dopey；　sweetly　charming　grin。
　　Jack　realized　that　Jason　was　wet。　Very；　extremely；　indubitably　wet。
　　Wele　back　to　the　Territories；　Jack…O。
　　And　sitting　there　with　the　child　in　his　arms　and　warm　wetness　slowly　soaking　through　his　clothes；　Jack　began　to　laugh；　his　face　turned　up　to　the　blue；　blue　sky。
　　　
　　　3
　　
　　A　few　minutes　later　Henry's　wife　worked　her　way　to　where　Jack　was　sitting　with　the　child　on　his　lap　and　took　Jason　back。
　　'Oooh；　wet；　bad　baby；'　she　said　in　her　indulgent　voice。　Doesn't　my　Jason　wet　big！　Jack　thought；　and　laughed　again。　That　made　Jason　laugh；　and　Mrs。　Henry　laughed　with　them。
　　As　she　changed　Jason；　she　asked　Jack　a　number　of　questions…ones　he　had　heard　often　enough　in　his　own　world。　But　here　he　would　have　to　be　careful。　He　was　a　stranger；　and　there　might　be　hidden　trapdoors。　He　heard　his　father　telling　Morgan；　。　。　。　a　real　Stranger；　if　you　see　what　I　mean。
　　Jack　sensed　that　the　woman's　husband　was　listening　closely。　He　answered　her　questions　with　a　careful　variation　of　the　Story…not　the　one　he　told　when　he　was　applying　for　a　job　but　the　one　he　told　when　someone　who　had　picked　him　up　thumbing　got　curious。
　　He　said　he　had　e　from　the　village　of　All…Hands'…Jason's　mother　had　a　vague　recollection　of　hearing　of　the　place；　but　that　was　all。　Had　he　really　e　so　far？　she　wanted　to　know。　Jack　told　her　that　he　had。　And　where　was　he　going？　He　told　her　（and　the　silently　listening　Henry）　that　he　was　bound　for　the　village　of　California。　That　one　she　had　not　heard　of；　even　vaguely；　in　such　stories　as　the　occasional　peddler　told。　Jack　was　not　exactly　very　surprised　。　。　。　but　he　was　grateful　that　neither　of　them　exclaimed　'California？　Whoever　heard　of　a　village　named　California？　Who　are　you　trying　to　shuck　and　jive；　boy？'　In　the　Territories　there　had　to　be　lots　of　places…whole　areas　as　well　as　villages…of　which　people　who　lived　in　their　own　little　areas　had　never　heard。　No　power　poles。　No　electricity。　No　movies。　No　cable　TV　to　tell　them　how　wonderful　things　were　in　Malibu　or　Sarasota。　No　Territories　version　of　Ma　Bell；　advertising　that　a　three…minute　call　to　the　Outposts　after　five　p。m。　cost　only　5。83；　plus　tax；　rates　may　be　higher　on　God…Pounders'　Eve　and　some　other　holidays。　They　live　in　a　mystery；　he　thought。　When　you　live　in　a　mystery；　you　don't　question　a　village　simply　because　you　never　heard　of　it。　California　doesn't　sound　any　wilder　than　a　place　named　All…Hands'。
　　Nor　did　they　question。　He　told　them　that　his　father　had　died　the　year　before；　and　that　his　mother　was　quite　ill　（he　thought　of　adding　that　the　Queen's　repossession　men　had　e　in　the　middle　of　the　night　and　taken　away　their　donkey；　grinned；　and　decided　that　maybe　he　ought　to　leave　that　part　out）。　His　mother　had　given　him　what　money　she　could　（except　the　word　that　came　out　in　the　strange　language　wasn't　really　money…it　was　something　like　sticks）　and　had　sent　him　off　to　the　village　of　California；　to　stay　with　his　Aunt　Helen。
　　'These　are　hard　times；'　Mrs。　Henry　said；　holding　Jason；　now　changed；　more　closely　to　her。
　　'All…Hands'　is　near　the　summer　palace；　isn't　it；　boy？'　It　was　the　first　time　Henry　had　spoken　since　inviting　Jack　aboard。
　　'Yes；'　Jack　said。　'That　is；　fairly　near。　I　mean…'
　　'You　never　said　what　your　father　died　of。'
　　Now　he　had　turned　his　head。　His　gaze　was　narrow　and　assessing；　the　former　kindness　gone；　it　had　been　blown　out　of　his　eyes　like　candle…flames　in　a　wind。　Yes；　there　were　trap…doors　here。
　　'Was　he　ill？'　Mrs。　Henry　asked。　'So　much　illness　these　days…pox；　plague…hard　times　。　。　。　'　
　　For　a　wild　moment　Jack　thought　of　saying；　No；　he　wasn't　ill；　Mrs。　Henry。　He　took　a　lot　of　volts；　my　dad。　You　see　he　went　off　one　Saturday　to　do　some　work；　and　he　left　Mrs。　Jerry　and　all　the　little　Jerrys…including　me…back　at　home。　This　was　when　we　all　lived　in　a　hole　in　the　baseboard　and　nobody　lived　anywhere　else；　you　see。　And　do　you　know　what？　He　stuck　his　screwdriver　into　a　bunch　of　wires　and　Mrs。　Feeny；　she　works　over　at　Richard　Sloat's　house；　she　heard　Uncle　Morgan　talking　on　the　phone　and　he　said　the　electricity　came　out；　all　of　the　electricity；　and　it　cooked　him；　it　cooked　him　so　bad　that　his　glasses　melted　all　over　his　nose；　only　you　don't　know　about　glasses　because　you　don't　have　them　here。　No　glasses　。　。　。　no　electricity　。　。　。　no　Midnight　Blue　。　。　。　no　airplanes。　Don't　end　up　like　Mrs。　Jerry；　Mrs。　Henry。　Don't…
　　'Never　mind　was　he　ill；'　the　whiskered　farmer　said。　'Was　he　political？'　
　　Jack　looked　at　him。　His　mouth　was　working　but　no　sounds　came　out。　He　didn't　know　what　to　say。　There　were　too　many　trapdoors。
　　Henry　nodded；　as　if　he　had　answered。　'Jump　down；　laddie。　Market's　just　over　the　next　rise。　I　reckon　you　can　ankle　it　from　here；　can't　you？'
　　'Yes；'　Jack　said。　'I　reckon　I　can。'　
　　Mrs。　Henry　looked　confused　。　。　。　but　she　was　now　holding　Jason　away　from　Jack；　as　if　he　might　have　some　contagious　disease。
　　The　farmer；　still　looking　back　over　his　shoulder；　smiled　a　bit　ruefully。　'I'm　sorry。　You　seem　a　nice　enough　lad；　but　we're　simple　people　here…whatever's　going　on　back　yonder　by　the　sea　is　something　for　great　lords　to　settle。　Either　the　Queen　will　die　or　she　won't　。　。　。　and　of　course；　someday　she　must。　God　pounds　all　His　nails　sooner　or　later。　And　what　happens　to　little　people　when　they　meddle　into　the　affairs　of　the　great　is　that　they　get　hurt。'
　　'My　father…'
　　'I　don't　want　to　know　about　your　father！'　Henry　said　sharply。　His　wife　scrambled　away　from　Jack；　still　holding　Jason　to　her　bosom。　'Good　man　or　bad；　I　don't　know　and　I　don't　want　to　know…all　I　know　is　that　he's　a　dead　man；　I　don't　think　you　lied　about　that；　and　that　his　son　has　been　sleeping　rough　and　has　all　the　smell　of　being　on　the　dodge。　The　son　doesn't　talk　as　if　he　es　from　any　of　these　parts。　So　climb　down。　I've　a　son　of　my　own；　as　you　see。'　
　　Jack　got　down；　sorry　for　the　fear　in　the　young　woman's　face…fear　he　had　put　there。　The　farmer　was　right…little　people　had　no　business　meddling　in　the　affairs　of　the　great。　Not　if　they　were　smart。
　　
　　　CHAPTER　13
　　　The　Men　in　the　Sky
　　　
　　　1
　　
　　It　was　a　shock　to　discover　that　the　money　he　had　worked　so　hard　to　get　literally　had　turned　into　sticks…they　looked　like　toy　snakes　made　by　an　inept　craftsman。　The　shock　lasted　only　for　a　moment；　however；　and　he　laughed　ruefully　at　himself。　The　sticks　were　money；　of　course。　When　he　came　over　here；　everything　changed。　Silver　dollar　to　gryphon…coin；　shirt　to　jerkin；　English　to　Territories　speech；　and　good　old　American　money　to…well；　to　jointed　sticks。　He　had　flipped　over　with　about　twenty…two　dollars　in　all；　and　he　guessed　that　he　had　exactly　the　same　amount　in　Territories　money；　although　he　had　counted　fourteen　joints　on　one　of　the　money…sticks　and　better　than　twenty　on　the　other。
　　The　problem　wasn't　so　much　money　as　cost…he　had　very　little　idea　of　what　was　cheap　and　what　was　dear；　and　as　he　walked　through　the　market；　Jack　felt　like　a　contestant　on　The　New　Price　Is　Right…only；　if　he　flubbed　it　here；　there　wouldn't　be　any　consolation　prize　and　a　clap　on　the　back　from　Bob　Barker；　if　he　flubbed　it　here；　they　might　。　。　。　well；　he　didn't　know　for　sure　what　they　might　do。　Run　him　out　for　sure。　Hurt　him；　rough　him　up？　Maybe。　Kill　him？　Probably　not；　but　it　was　impossible　to　be　absolutely　certain。　They　were　little　people。　They　were　not　political。　And　he　was　a　stranger。
　　Jack　walked　slowly　from　one　end　of　the　loud　and　busy　market…day　throng　to　the　other；　wrestling　with　the　problem。　It　now　centered　mostly　in　his　stomach…he　was　dreadfully　hungry。　Once　he　saw　Henry；　dickering　with　a　man　who　had　goats　to　sell。　Mrs。　Henry　stood　near　him；　but　a　bit　behind；　giving　the　men　room　to　trade。　Her　back　was　to　Jack；　but　she　had　the　baby　hoisted　in　her　arms…Jason；　one　of　the　little　Henrys；　Jack　thought…but　Jason　saw　him。　The　baby　waved　one　chubby　hand　at　Jack　and　Jack　turned　away　quickly；　putting　as　much　crowd　as　he　could　between　himself　and　the　Henrys。
　　Everywhere　was　the　smell　of　roasting　meat；　it　seemed。　He　saw　vendors　slowly　turning　joints　of　beef　over　charcoal　fires　both　small　and　ambitious；　he　saw　'prentices　laying　thick　slices　of　what　looked　like　pork　on　slabs　of　homemade　bread　and　taking　them　to　the　buyers。　They　looked　like　runners　at　an　auction。　Most　of　the　buyers　were　farmers　like　Henry；　and　it　appeared　that　they　also　called　for　food　the　way　people　entered　a　bid　at　an　auction…they　simply　raised　one　of　their　hands　imperiously；　the　fingers　splayed　out。　Jack　watched　several　of　these　transactions　closely；　and　in　every　case　the　medium　of　exchange　was　the　jointed　sticks　。　。　。　but　how　many　knuckles　would　be　enough？　he　wondered。　Not　that　it　mattered。　He　had　to　eat；　whether　the　transaction　marked　him　as　a　stranger　or　not。
　　He　passed　a　mime…show；　barely　giving　it　a　glance　although　the　large　audience　that　had　gathered…women　and　children；　most　of　them…roared　with　appreciative　laughter　and　applauded。　He　moved　toward　a　stall　with　canvas　sides　where　a　big　man　with　tattoos　on　his　slabbed　biceps　stood　on　one　side　of　a　trench　of　smouldering　charcoal　in　the　earth。　An　iron　spit　about　seven　feet　long　ran　over　the　charcoal。　A　sweating；　dirty　boy　stood　at　each　end。　Five　large　roasts　were　impaled　along　the　length　of　the　spit；　and　the　boys　were　turning　them　in　unison。
　　'Fine　meats！'　the　big　man　was　droning。　'Fine　meats！　Fii…ine　meats！　Buy　my　fine　meats！　Fine　meats　here！　Fine　meats　right　here！'　In　an　aside　to　the　boy　closest　to　him：　'Put　your　back　into　it；　God　pound　you。'　Then　back　to　his　droning；　huckstering　cry。
　　A　farmer　passing　with　his　adolescent　daughter　raised　his　hand；　and　then　pointed　at　the　joint　of　meat　second　from　the　left。　The　boys　stopped　turning　the　spit　long　enough　for　their　boss　to　hack　a　slab　from　the　roast　and　put　in　on　a　chunk　of　bread。　One　of　them　ran　with　it　to　the　farmer；　who　produced　one　of　the　jointed　sticks。　Watching　closely；　Jack　saw　him　break　off　two　knuckles　of　wood　and　hand　them　to　the　boy。　As　the　boy　ran　back　to　the　stall　the　customer　pocketed　his　money…stick　with　the　absent　but　careful　gesture　of　any　man　repocketing　his　change；　took　a　gigantic