sk.thetalisman-第43部分

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t　careful　gesture　of　any　man　repocketing　his　change；　took　a　gigantic　bite　of　his　open…faced　sandwich；　and　handed　the　rest　to　his　daughter；　whose　first　chomp　was　almost　as　enthusiastic　as　her　father's。
　　Jack's　stomach　boinged　and　goinged。　He　had　seen　what　he　had　to　see　。　。　。　he　hoped。
　　'Fine　meats！　Fine　meats！　Fine…'　The　big　man　broke　off　and　looked　down　at　Jack；　his　beetling　brows　drawing　together　over　eyes　that　were　small　but　not　entirely　stupid。　'I　hear　the　song　your　stomach　is　singing；　friend。　If　you　have　money；　I'll　take　your　trade　and　bless　you　to　God　in　my　prayers　tonight。　If　you　haven't；　then　get　your　stupid　sheep's　face　out　of　here　and　go　to　the　devil。'　
　　Both　boys　laughed；　although　they　were　obviously　tired…they　laughed　as　if　they　had　no　control　over　the　sounds　they　were　making。
　　But　the　maddening　smell　of　the　slowly　cooking　meat　would　not　let　him　leave。　He　held　out　the　shorter　of　his　jointed　sticks　and　pointed　to　the　roast　which　was　second　from　the　left。　He　didn't　speak。　It　seemed　safer　not　to。　The　vendor　grunted；　produced　his　crude　knife　from　his　wide　belt　again；　and　cut　a　slice…it　was　a　smaller　slice　than　the　one　he　had　cut　the　farmer；　Jack　observed；　but　his　stomach　had　no　business　with　such　matters；　it　was　rumbling　crazily　in　anticipation。
　　The　vendor　slapped　the　meat　on　bread　and　brought　it　over　himself　instead　of　handing　it　to　either　of　the　boys。　He　took　Jack's　money…stick。　Instead　of　two　knuckles；　he　broke　off　three。
　　His　mother's　voice；　sourly　amused；　spoke　up　in　his　mind：　Congratulations；　Jack…O　。　。　。　you've　just　been　screwed。
　　The　vendor　was　looking　at　him；　grinning　around　a　mouthful　of　wretched　blackish　teeth；　daring　him　to　say　anything；　to　protest　in　any　way。　You　just　ought　to　be　grateful　I　only　took　three　knuckles　instead　of　all　fourteen　of　them。　I　could　have；　you　know。　You　might　as　well　have　a　sign　hung　around　your　neck；　boy：　I　AM　A　STRANGER　HERE；　AND　ON　MY　OWN。　So　tell　me；　Sheep'　s…Face：　do　you　want　to　make　an　issue　of　it？
　　What　he　wanted　didn't　matter…he　obviously　couldn't　make　an　issue　of　it。　But　he　felt　that　thin；　impotent　anger　again。
　　'Go　on；'　the　vendor　said；　tiring　of　him。　He　flapped　a　big　hand　in　Jack's　face。　His　fingers　were　scarred；　and　there　was　blood　under　his　nails。　'You　got　your　food。　Now　get　out　of　here。'　
　　Jack　thought；　I　could　show　you　a　flashlight　and　you'd　run　like　all　the　devils　of　hell　were　after　you。　Show　you　an　airplane　and　you'd　probably　go　crazy。　You're　maybe　not　as　tough　as　you　think；　chum。
　　He　smiled；　perhaps　there　was　something　in　his　smile　that　the　meat…vendor　didn't　like；　because　he　drew　away　from　Jack；　his　face　momentarily　uneasy。　Then　his　brows　beetled　together　again。
　　'Get　out；　I　said！'　he　roared。　'Get　out；　God　pound　you！'　And　this　time　Jack　went。
　　　
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　　The　meat　was　delicious。　Jack　gobbled　it　and　the　bread　it　sat　on；　and　then　unselfconsciously　licked　the　juice　from　his　palms　as　he　strolled　along。　The　meat　did　taste　like　pork　。　。　。　and　yet　it　didn't。　It　was　somehow　richer；　tangier　than　pork。　Whatever　it　was；　it　filled　the　hole　in　the　middle　of　him　with　authority。　Jack　thought　he　could　take　it　to　school　in　bag　lunches　for　a　thousand　years。
　　Now　that　he　had　managed　to　shut　his　belly　up…for　a　little　while；　anyway…he　was　able　to　look　about　himself　with　more　interest　。　。　。　and　although　he　didn't　know　it；　he　had　finally　begun　to　blend　into　the　crowd。　Now　he　was　only　one　more　rube　from　the　country　e　to　the　market…town；　walking　slowly　between　the　stalls；　trying　to　gawk　in　every　direction　at　once。　Hucksters　recognized　him；　but　only　as　one　more　potential　mark　among　many。　They　yelled　and　beckoned　at　him；　and　as　he　passed　by　they　yelled　and　beckoned　at　whoever　happened　to　be　behind　him…man；　woman；　or　child。　Jack　gaped　frankly　at　the　wares　scattered　all　around　him；　wares　both　wonderful　and　strange；　and　amidst　all　the　others　staring　at　them　he　ceased　to　be　a　stranger　himself…perhaps　because　he　had　given　up　his　effort　to　seem　blasé　in　a　place　where　no　one　acted　blasé。　They　laughed；　they　argued；　they　haggled　。　。　。　but　no　one　seemed　bored。
　　The　market…town　reminded　him　of　the　Queen's　pavillion　without　the　air　of　strained　tension　and　too…hectic　gaiety…there　was　the　same　absurdly　rich　mingle　of　smells　（dominated　by　roasting　meat　and　animal　ordure）；　the　same　brightly　dressed　crowds　（although　even　the　most　brightly　dressed　people　Jack　saw　couldn't　hold　a　candle　to　some　of　the　dandies　he　had　seen　inside　the　pavillion）；　the　same　unsettling　but　somehow　exhilarating　juxtaposition　of　the　perfectly　normal；　cheek　by　jowl　with　the　extravagantly　strange。
　　He　stopped　at　a　stall　where　a　man　was　selling　carpets　with　the　Queen's　portrait　woven　into　them。　Jack　suddenly　thought　of　Hank　Scoffler's　mom　and　smiled。　Hank　was　one　of　the　kids　Jack　and　Richard　Sloat　had　hung　around　with　in　L。A。　Mrs。　Scoffler　had　a　thing　for　the　most　garish　decorations　Jack　had　ever　seen。　And　God；　wouldn't　she　have　loved　these　rugs；　with　the　image　of　Laura　DeLoessian；　her　hair　done　up　in　a　high；　regal　coronet　of　braids；　woven　into　them！　Better　than　her　velvet　paintings　of　Alaskan　stags　or　the　ceramic　diorama　of　the　Last　Supper　behind　the　bar　in　the　Scoffler　living　room　。　。　。　
　　Then　the　face　woven　into　the　rugs　seemed　to　change　even　as　he　looked　at　it。　The　face　of　the　Queen　was　gone　and　it　was　his　mother's　face　he　saw；　repeated　over　and　over　and　over；　her　eyes　too　dark；　her　skin　much　too　white。
　　Homesickness　surprised　Jack　again。　It　rushed　through　his　mind　in　a　wave　and　he　called　out　for　her　in　his　heart…Mom！　Hey　Mom！　Jesus；　what　am　I　doing　here？　Mom！！…wondering　with　a　lover's　longing　intensity　what　she　was　doing　now；　right　this　minute。　Sitting　at　the　window；　smoking；　looking　out　at　the　ocean；　a　book　open　beside　her？　Watching　TV？　At　a　movie？　Sleeping？　Dying？
　　Dead？　an　evil　voice　added　before　he　could　stop　it。　Dead；　Jack？　Already　dead？
　　Stop　it。
　　He　felt　the　burning　sting　of　tears。
　　'Why　so　sad；　my　little　lad？'
　　He　looked　up；　startled；　and　saw　the　rug　salesman　looking　at　him。　He　was　as　big　as　the　meat…vendor；　and　his　arms　were　also　tattooed；　but　his　smile　was　open　and　sunny。　There　was　no　meanness　in　it。　That　was　a　big　difference。
　　'It's　nothing；'　Jack　said。
　　'If　it's　nothing　makes　you　look　like　that；　you　ought　to　be　thinking　of　something；　my　son；　my　son。'
　　'I　looked　that　bad；　did　I？'　Jack　asked；　smiling　a　little。　He　had　also　grown　unselfconscious　about　his　speech…at　least　for　the　moment…and　perhaps　that　was　why　the　rug　salesman　heard　nothing　odd　or　off…rhythm　in　it。
　　'Laddie；　you　looked　as　if　you　only　had　one　friend　left　on　this　side　o'　the　moon　and　you　just　saw　the　Wild　White　Wolf　e　out　o'　the　north　an'　gobble　him　down　with　a　silver　spoon。'　
　　Jack　smiled　a　little。　The　rug　salesman　turned　away　and　took　something　from　a　smaller　display　to　the　right　of　the　largest　rug…it　was　oval　and　had　a　short　handle。　As　he　turned　it　over　the　sun　flashed　across　it…it　was　a　mirror。　To　Jack　it　looked　small　and　cheap；　the　sort　of　thing　you　might　get　for　knocking　over　all　three　wooden　milk…bottles　in　a　carnival　game。
　　'Here；　laddie；'　the　rug　salesman　said。　'Take　a　look　and　see　if　I'm　not　right。'　
　　Jack　looked　into　the　mirror　and　gaped；　for　a　moment　so　stunned　he　thought　his　heart　must　have　forgotten　to　beat。　It　was　him；　but　he　looked　like　something　from　Pleasure　Island　in　the　Disney　version　of　Pinocchio；　where　too　much　pool…shooting　and　cigar…smoking　had　turned　boys　into　donkeys。　His　eyes；　normally　as　blue　and　round　as　an　Anglo…Saxon　heritage　could　make　them；　had　gone　brown　and　almond…shaped。　His　hair；　coarsely　matted　and　falling　across　the　middle　of　his　forehead；　had　a　definite　manelike　look。　He　raised　one　hand　to　brush　it　away；　and　touched　only　bare　skin…in　the　mirror；　his　fingers　seemed　to　fade　right　through　the　hair。　He　heard　the　vendor　laugh；　pleased。　Most　amazing　of　all；　long　jackass…ears　dangled　down　to　below　his　jawline。　As　he　stared；　one　of　them　twitched。
　　He　thought　suddenly：　I　HAD　one　of　these！
　　And　on　the　heels　of　that：　In　the　Daydreams　I　had　one　of　these。　Back　in　the　regular　world　it　was　。　。　。　was　。　。　。
　　He　could　have　been　no　more　than　four。　In　the　regular　world　（he　had　stopped　thinking　of　it　as　the　real　world　without　even　noticing）　it　had　been　a　great　big　glass　marble　with　a　rosy　center。　One　day　while　he　was　playing　with　it；　it　had　rolled　down　the　cement　path　in　front　of　their　house　and　before　he　could　catch　it；　it　had　fallen　down　a　sewer　grate。　It　had　been　gone…forever；　he　had　thought　then；　sitting　on　the　curb　with　his　face　propped　on　his　dirty　hands　and　weeping。　But　it　wasn't；　here　was　that　old　toy　rediscovered；　just　as　wonderful　now　as　it　had　been　when　he　was　three　or　four。　He　grinned；　delighted。　The　image　changed　and　Jack　the　Jackass　became　Jack　the　Cat；　his　face　wise　and　secret　with　amusement。　His　eyes　went　from　donkey…brown　to　tomcat…green。　Now　pert　little　gray…furred　ears　cocked　alertly　where　the　droopy　donkey…ears　had　dangled。
　　'Better；'　the　vendor　said。　'Better；　my　son。　I　like　to　see　a　happy　boy。　A　happy　boy　is　a　healthy　boy；　and　a　healthy　boy　finds　his　way　in　the　world。　Book　of　Good　Farming　says　that；　and　if　it　doesn't；　it　should。　I　may　just　scratch　it　in　my　copy；　if　I　ever　scratch　up　enough　scratch　from　my　pumpkin…patch　to　buy　a　copy　someday。　Want　the　glass？'
　　'Yes！'　Jack　cried。　'Yeah；　great！'　He　groped　for　his　sticks。　Frugality　was　forgotten。　'How　much？'
　　The　vendor　frowned　and　looked　around　swiftly　to　see　if　they　were　being　watched。　'Put　it　away；　my　son。　Tuck　it　down　deep；　that's　the　way。　You　show　your　scratch；　you're　apt　to　lose　the　batch。　Dips　abound　on　market…ground。'
　　'What？'
　　'Never　mind。　No　charge。　Take　it。　Half　of　em　get　broken　in　the　back　of　my　wagon　when　I　drag　em　back　to　my　store　e　tenmonth。　Mothers　bring　their　little　'uns　over　and　they　try　it　but　they　don't　buy　it。'
　　'Well；　at　least　you　don't　deny　it；'　Jack　said。
　　The　vendor　looked　at　him　with　some　surprise　and　then　they　both　burst　out　laughing。
　　'A　happy　boy　with　a　snappy　mouth；'　the　vendor　said。　'e　see　me　when　you're　older　and　bolder；　my　son。　We'll　take　your　mouth　and　head　south　and　treble　what　we　peddle。'
　　Jack　giggled。　This　guy　was　better　than　a　rap　record　by　the　Sugarhill　Gang。
　　'Thanks；'　he　sai