sk.thetalisman-第46部分

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　loft　that　day　had　just　been　practice。　Practice　for　a　show　that　only　a　few　people　would　probably　care　to　attend　and　which　would　probably　close　quickly。
　　Joy；　he　thought　again；　standing　now；　his　face　turned　up　to　look　at　the　flying　men　in　the　distance；　the　wind　spilling　his　hair　across　his　forehead。　His　time　of　innocence　was　fast　approaching　its　end　（and；　if　pressed；　even　Jack　would　have　reluctantly　agreed　that　he　felt　such　an　end　approaching…a　boy　couldn't　go　on　the　road　for　long；　couldn't　go　through　many　experiences　such　as　the　one　he　had　gone　through　in　Oatley；　and　expect　to　remain　an　innocent）；　but　in　those　moments　as　he　stood　looking　into　the　sky；　innocence　seemed　to　surrounded　him；　like　the　young　fisherman　during　his　brief　moment　of　epiphany　in　the　Elizabeth　Bishop　poem；　everything　was　rainbow；　rainbow；　rainbow。
　　Joy…damn；　but　that's　a　cheerful　little　word。
　　Feeling　better　than　he　had　since　all　of　this　began…and　only　God　knew　just　how　long　ago　that　had　been…Jack　set　off　along　the　Western　Road　again；　his　step　light；　his　face　wreathed　in　that　same　silly；　splendid　grin。　Every　now　and　then　he　looked　back　over　his　shoulder；　and　he　was　able　to　see　the　fliers　for　a　very　long　time。　The　Territories　air　was　so　clear　it　almost　seemed　to　magnify。　And　even　after　he　could　no　longer　see　them；　that　feeling　of　joy　remained；　like　a　rainbow　inside　his　head。
　　　
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　　When　the　sun　began　to　go　down；　Jack　realized　he　was　putting　off　his　return　to　the　other　world…to　the　American　Territories…and　not　just　because　of　how　terrible　the　magic　juice　tasted；　either。　He　was　putting　it　off　because　he　didn't　want　to　leave　here。
　　A　streamlet　had　flowed　out　of　the　grasslands　（where　small　groves　of　trees　had　again　begun　to　appear…billowy　trees　with　oddly　flat　tops；　like　eucalyptus　trees）　and　had　hooked　a　right　so　that　it　flowed　along　beside　the　road。　Farther　off；　to　the　right　and　ahead；　was　a　huge　body　of　water。　It　was　so　huge；　in　fact；　that　until　the　last　hour　or　so　Jack　had　thought　it　was　a　patch　of　sky　that　somehow　had　a　slightly　bluer　color　than　the　rest。　But　it　wasn't　sky；　it　was　a　lake。　A　great　lake；　he　thought；　smiling　at　the　pun。　He　guessed　that　in　the　other　world　that　would　be　Lake　Ontario。
　　He　felt　good。　He　was　headed　in　the　right　direction…maybe　a　little　too　far　north；　but　he　had　no　doubt　that　the　Western　Road　would　bend　away　from　that　direction　soon　enough。　That　feeling　of　almost　manic　joy…what　he　had　defined　as　cheerfulness…had　mellowed　to　a　lovely　sort　of　calm　serenity；　a　feeling　that　seemed　as　clear　as　the　Territories　air。　Only　one　thing　marred　his　good　feeling；　and　that　was　the　memory
　　（six；　is　six；　Jack　was　six）　
　　of　Jerry　Bledsoe。　Why　had　his　mind　given　him　such　a　hard　time　about　coughing　that　memory　up？
　　No…not　the　memory　。　。　。　the　two　memories。　First　me　and　Richard　hearing　Mrs。　Feeny　telling　her　sister　that　the　electricity　came　out　and　cooked　him；　that　it　melted　his　glasses　all　over　his　nose；　that　she　heard　Mr。　Sloat　talking　on　the　phone　and　he　said　so　。　。　。　and　then　being　behind　the　couch；　not　really　meaning　to　snoop　or　eavesdrop；　and　hearing　my　dad　say　'Everything　has　consequences；　and　some　of　those　consequences　might　be　on　the　unfortable　side。'　And　something　surely　made　Jerry　Bledsoe　unfortable；　didn't　it？　When　your　glasses　end　up　melted　all　over　your　nose；　I'd　say　you'd　been　through　something　mildly　unfortable；　yes
　　Jack　stopped。　Stopped　dead。
　　What　are　you　trying　to　say？
　　You　know　what　I'm　trying　to　say；　Jack。　Your　father　was　gone　that　day…he　and　Morgan　both。　They　were　over　here。　Where；　over　here？　I　think　they　were　at　the　same　spot　over　here　where　their　building　is　in　California；　over　in　the　American　Territories。　And　they　did　something；　or　one　of　them　did。　Maybe　something　big；　maybe　no　more　than　tossing　a　rock　。　。　。or　burying　an　apple　core　in　the　dirt。　And　it　somehow　。　。　。　it　echoed　over　there。　It　echoed　over　there　and　it　killed　Jerry　Bledsoe。
　　Jack　shivered。　Oh　yes；　he　supposed　he　knew　why　it　had　taken　his　mind　so　long　to　cough　up　the　memory…the　toy　taxi；　the　murmur　of　the　men's　voices；　Dexter　Gordon　blowing　his　horn。　It　hadn't　wanted　to　cough　it　up。　Because
　　（who　plays　those　changes　daddy）　
　　it　suggested　that　just　by　being　over　here　he　could　be　doing　something　terrible　in　the　other　world。　Starting　World　War　III？　No；　probably　not。　He　hadn't　assassinated　any　kings　lately；　young　or　old。　But　how　much　had　it　taken　to　set　up　the　echo　which　had　fried　Jerry　Bledsoe？　Had　Uncle　Morgan　shot　Jerry's　Twinner　（if　Jerry　had　had　one）？　Tried　to　sell　some　Territories　bigwig　on　the　concept　of　electricity？　Or　had　it　been　just　some　little　thing　。　。　。　something　no　more　earth…shattering　than　buying　a　chunk　of　meat　in　a　rural　market…town？　Who　played　those　changes？　What　played　those　changes？
　　A　nice　flood；　a　sweet　fire。
　　Suddenly　Jack's　mouth　was　as　dry　as　salt。
　　He　crossed　to　the　little　stream　by　the　side　of　the　road；　dropped　to　his　knees；　and　put　a　hand　down　to　scoop　up　water。　His　hand　froze　suddenly。　The　smooth…running　stream　had　taken　on　the　colors　of　the　ing　sunset　。　。　。　but　these　colors　suddenly　suffused　with　red；　so　that　it　seemed　to　be　a　stream　of　blood　rather　than　water　running　beside　the　road。　Then　it　went　black。　A　moment　later　it　had　bee　transparent　and　Jack　saw…
　　A　little　mewling　sound　escaped　him　as　he　saw　Morgan's　diligence　roaring　along　the　Western　Road；　pulled　by　its　foaming　baker's　dozen　of　black…plumed　horses。　Jack　saw　with　almost　swooning　terror　that　the　driver　sitting　up　high　in　the　peak…seat；　his　booted　feet　on　the　splashboard　and　a　ceaselessly　cracking　whip　in　one　hand；　was　Elroy。　But　it　was　not　a　hand　at　all　that　held　that　whip。　It　was　some　sort　of　hoof。　Elroy　was　driving　that　nightmare　coach；　Elroy　grinning　with　a　mouth　that　was　filled　with　dead　fangs；　Elroy　who　just　couldn't　wait　to　find　Jack　Sawyer　again　and　split　open　Jack　Sawyer's　belly　and　pull　out　Jack　Sawyer's　intestines。
　　Jack　knelt　before　the　stream；　eyes　bulging；　mouth　quivering　with　dismay　and　horror。　He　had　seen　one　final　thing　in　this　vision；　not　a　large　thing；　no；　but　by　implication　it　was　the　most　frightful　thing　of　all：　the　eyes　of　the　horses　seemed　to　glow。　They　seemed　to　glow　because　they　were　full　of　light…full　of　the　sunset。
　　The　diligence　was　travelling　west　along　this　same　road　。　。　。　and　it　was　after　him。
　　Crawling；　not　sure　he　could　stand　even　if　he　had　to；　Jack　retreated　from　the　stream　and　lurched　clumsily　out　into　the　road。　He　fell　flat　in　the　dust；　Speedy's　bottle　and　the　mirror　the　rug　salesman　had　given　him　digging　into　his　guts。　He　turned　his　head　sideways　so　that　his　right　cheek　and　ear　were　pressed　tightly　against　the　surface　of　the　Western　Road。
　　He　could　feel　the　steady　rumble　in　the　hard；　dry　earth。　It　was　distant　。　。　。　but　ing　closer。
　　Elroy　up　on　top　。　。　。　Morgan　inside。　Morgan　Sloat？　Morgan　of　Orris？　Didn't　matter。　Both　were　one。
　　He　broke　the　hypnotic　effect　of　that　rumbling　in　the　earth　with　an　effort　and　got　up　again。　He　took　Speedy's　bottle…the　same　over　here　in　the　Territories　as　in　the　U。S。A。…out　of　his　jerkin　and　pulled　as　much　of　the　moss…plug　out　of　the　neck　as　he　could；　never　minding　the　shower　of　particles　into　the　little　bit　of　liquid　remaining…no　more　than　a　couple　of　inches　now。　He　looked　nervously　to　his　left；　as　if　expecting　to　see　the　black　diligence　appear　at　the　horizon；　the　sunset…filled　eyes　of　the　horses　glowing　like　weird　lanterns。　Of　course　he　saw　nothing。　Horizons　were　closer　over　here　in　the　Territories；　as　he　had　already　noticed；　and　sounds　travelled　farther。　Morgan's　diligence　had　to　be　ten　miles　to　the　east；　maybe　as　much　as　twenty。
　　Still　right　on　top　of　me；　Jack　thought；　and　raised　the　bottle　to　his　lips。　A　bare　second　before　he　drank　from　it；　his　mind　shouted；　Hey；　wait　a　minute！　Wait　a　minute；　dummy；　you　want　to　get　killed？　He　would　look　cute；　wouldn't　he；　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　Western　Road　and　then　flipping　back　into　the　other　world　in　the　middle　of　some　road　over　there；　maybe　getting　run　down　by　a　highballing　semi　or　a　UPS　truck。
　　Jack　shambled　over　to　the　side　of　the　road　。　。　。　and　then　walked　ten　or　twenty　paces　into　the　thigh…high　grass　for　good　measure。　He　took　one　final　deep　breath；　inhaling　the　sweet　smell　of　this　place；　groping　for　that　feeling　of　serenity　。　。　。　that　feeling　of　rainbow。
　　Got　to　try　and　remember　how　that　felt；　he　thought。　I　may　need　it　。　。　。　and　I　may　not　get　back　here　for　a　long　time。
　　He　looked　out　at　the　grasslands；　darkening　now　as　night　stole　over　them　from　the　east。　The　wind　gusted；　chilly　now　but　still　fragrant；　tossing　his　hair…it　was　getting　shaggy　now…as　it　tossed　the　grass。
　　You　ready；　Jack…O？
　　Jack　closed　his　eyes　and　steeled　himself　against　the　awful　taste　and　the　vomiting　that　was　apt　to　follow。
　　'Banzai；'　he　whispered；　and　drank。
　　
　　　CHAPTER　14
　　　Buddy　Parkins
　　　
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　　He　vomited　up　a　thin　purple　drool；　his　face　only　inches　from　the　grass　covering　the　long　slope　down　to　a　four…lane　highway；　shook　his　head　and　rocked　backward　onto　his　knees；　so　that　only　his　back　was　exposed　to　the　heavy　gray　sky。　The　world；　this　world；　stank。　Jack　pushed　himself　backward；　away　from　the　threads　of　puke　settling　over　the　blades　of　grass；　and　the　stench　altered　but　did　not　diminish。　Gasoline；　other　nameless　poisons　floated　in　the　air；　and　the　air　itself　stank　of　exhaustion；　fatigue…even　the　noises　roaring　up　from　the　highway　punished　this　dying　air。　The　back　end　of　a　roadsign　reared　like　a　gigantic　television　screen　over　his　head。　Jack　wobbled　to　his　feet。　Far　down　the　other　side　of　the　highway　glinted　an　endless　body　of　water　only　slightly　less　gray　than　the　sky。　A　sort　of　malignant　luminescence　darted　across　the　surface。　From　here；　too；　rose　an　odor　of　metal　filings　and　tired　breath。　Lake　Ontario：　and　the　snug　little　city　down　there　might　be　Olcott　or　Kendall。　He'd　gone　miles　out　of　his　way…lost　a　hundred　miles　or　more　and　just　about　four　and　a　half　days。　Jack　stepped　under　the　sign；　hoping　it　was　no　worse　than　that。　He　looked　up　at　the　black　letters。　Wiped　his　mouth。　ANGOLA。　Angola？　Where　was　that？　He　peered　down　at　the　smoky　little　city　through　the　already　nearly　tolerable　air。
　　
　　And　Rand　McNally；　that　invaluable　panion；　told　him　that