sk.thetalisman-第94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！


　　'Send　him　out；　Sloat！'
　　Jack　got　up。　Dull　fury　filled　him。
　　Richard　grabbed　his　arm。　'Jack；　no！　Stay　away　from　the　window！'
　　'Fuck　that；'　Jack　almost　snarled。　'I'm　tired　of　being　talked　about　like　I　was　a　pizza。'　The　Etheridge…thing　stood　across　the　road。　It　was　on　the　sidewalk　at　the　edge　of　the　quad；　looking　up　at　them。
　　'Get　out　of　here！'　Jack　shouted　at　it。　A　sudden　inspiration　burst　in　his　head　like　a　sunflare。　He　hesitated；　then　bellowed：　'I　order　you　out　of　here！　All　of　you！　I　order　you　to　leave　in　the　name　of　my　mother；　the　Queen！'
　　The　Etheridge…thing　flinched　as　if　someone　had　used　a　whip　to　lay　a　stripe　across　its　face。
　　Then　the　look　of　pained　surprise　passed　and　the　Etheridge…thing　began　to　grin。　'She's　dead；　Sawyer！'　it　shouted　up…but　Jack's　eyes　had　grown　sharper；　somehow；　in　his　time　on　the　road；　and　he　saw　the　expression　of　twitchy　unease　under　the　manufactured　triumph。　'Queen　Laura's　dead　and　your　mother's　dead；　too　。　。　。　dead　back　in　New　Hampshire　。　。　。　dead　and　stinking。'
　　'Begone！'　Jack　bellowed；　and　he　thought　that　the　Etheridge…thing　flinched　back　in　baffled　fury　again。
　　Richard　had　joined　him　at　the　window；　pallid　and　distracted。　'What　are　you　two　yelling　about？'　he　asked。　He　looked　fixedly　at　the　grinning　travesty　below　them　and　across　the　way。　'How　does　Etheridge　know　your　mother's　in　New　Hampshire？'
　　'Sloat！'　the　Etheridge…thing　yelled　up。　'Where's　your　tie？'　
　　A　spasm　of　guilt　contracted　Richard's　face；　his　hands　jerked　toward　the　open　neck　of　his　shirt。
　　'We'll　let　it　go　this　time；　if　you　send　out　your　passenger；　Sloat！'　the　Etheridge…thing　yelled　up。　'If　you　send　him　out；　everything　can　go　back　to　the　way　it　was！　You　want　that；　don't　you？'
　　Richard　was　staring　down　at　the　Etheridge…thing；　nodding…Jack　was　sure　of　it…quite　unconsciously。　His　face　was　a　knotted　rag　of　misery；　his　eyes　bright　with　unshed　tears。　He　wanted　everything　to　go　back　to　the　way　it　had　been；　oh　yes。
　　'Don't　you　love　this　school；　Sloat？'　the　Etheridge…thing　bellowed　up　at　Albert's　window。
　　'Yes；'　Richard　muttered；　and　gulped　down　a　sob。　'Yes；　of　course　I　love　it。'
　　'You　know　what　we　do　to　little　punks　who　don't　love　this　school？　Give　him　to　us！　It'll　be　like　he　was　never　here！'　
　　Richard　turned　slowly　and　looked　at　Jack　with　dreadfully　blank　eyes。
　　'You　decide；　Richie…boy；'　Jack　said　softly。
　　'He's　carrying　drugs；　Richard！'　the　Etheridge…thing　called　up。　'Four　or　five　different　kinds！　Coke；　hash；　angel…dust！　He's　been　selling　all　of　that　stuff　to　finance　his　trip　west！　Where　do　you　think　he　got　that　nice　coat　he　was　wearing　when　he　showed　up　on　your　doorstep？'
　　'Drugs；'　Richard　said　with　great；　shuddery　relief。　'I　knew　it。'
　　'But　you　don't　believe　it；'　Jack　said。　'Drugs　didn't　change　your　school；　Richard。　And　the　dogs…'
　　'Send　him　out；　Sl　。　。　。'　the　Etheridge…thing's　voice　was　fading；　fading。
　　When　the　two　boys　looked　down　again；　it　was　gone。
　　'Where　did　your　father　go；　do　you　think？'　Jack　asked　softly。　'Where　do　you　think　he　went　when　he　didn't　e　out　of　the　closet；　Richard？'　
　　Richard　turned　slowly　to　look　at　him；　and　Richard's　face；　usually　so　calm　and　intelligent　and　serene；　now　began　to　shiver　into　pieces。　His　chest　began　to　hitch　irregularly。　Richard　suddenly　fell　into　Jack's　arms；　clutching　at　him　with　a　blind；　panicky　urgency。　'It　t…t…touched　muh…me…eeee！'　he　screamed　at　Jack。　His　body　trembled　under　Jack's　hands　like　a　winchwire　under　a　near…breaking　strain。　'It　touched　me；　it　t…touched　m…me；　something　in　there　t…t…touched　me　AND　I　DON'T　NUH…NUH…KNOW　WHAT　IT　WAS！'
　　　
　　　2
　　
　　With　his　burning　forehead　pressed　against　Jack's　shoulder；　Richard　coughed　out　the　story　he　had　held　inside　him　all　these　years。　It　came　in　hard　little　chunks；　like　deformed　bullets。　As　he　listened；　Jack　found　himself　remembering　the　time　his　own　father　had　gone　into　the　garage　。　。　。　and　had　e　back　two　hours　later；　from　around　the　block。　That　had　been　bad；　but　what　had　happened　to　Richard　had　been　a　lot　worse。　It　explained　Richard's　iron；　no…promise　insistence　on　reality；　the　whole　reality；　and　nothing　but　the　reality。　It　explained　his　rejection　of　any　sort　of　fantasy；　even　science　fiction　。　。　。　and；　Jack　knew　from　his　own　school　experience；　techies　like　Richard　usually　ate　and　drank　sf　。　。　。　as　long　as　it　was　the　hard　stuff；　that　was；　your　basic　Heinlein；　Asimov；　Arthur　C。　Clarke；　Larry　Niven…spare　us　the　metaphysical　bullshit　of　the　Robert　Silverbergs　and　Barry　Malzbergs；　please；　but　we'll　read　the　stuff　where　they　get　all　the　stellar　quadrants　and　logarithms　right　until　it's　running　out　of　our　ears。　Not　Richard；　though。　Richard's　dislike　of　fantasy　ran　so　deep　that　he　would　not　pick　up　any　novel　unless　it　was　an　assignment…as　a　kid；　he　had　let　Jack　pick　out　the　books　he　read　for　free…choice　book　reports；　not　caring　what　they　were；　chewing　them　up　as　if　they　were　cereal。　It　became　a　challenge　to　Jack　to　find　a　story…any　story…which　would　please　Richard；　divert　Richard；　carry　Richard　away　as　good　novels　and　stories　sometimes　carried　Jack　away　。　。　。　the　good　ones；　he　thought；　were　almost　as　good　as　the　Daydreams；　and　each　mapped　out　its　own　version　of　the　Territories。　But　he　was　never　able　to　produce　any　frisson；　any　spark；　any　reaction　at　all。　Whether　it　was　The　Red　Pony；　Dragstrip　Demon；　The　Catcher　in　the　Rye；　or　I　Am　Legend；　the　reaction　was　always　the　same…frowning；　dull…eyed　concentration；　followed　by　a　frowning；　dull…eyed　book　report　that　would　earn　either　a　hook　or；　if　his　English　teacher　was　feeling　particularly　generous　that　day；　a　B…。　Richard's　Cs　in　English　were　what　kept　him　off　the　honor　roll　during　the　few　marking　periods　when　he　missed　it。
　　Jack　had　finished　William　Golding's　Lord　of　the　Flies；　feeling　hot　and　cold　and　trembly　all　over…both　exalted　and　frightened；　most　of　all　wishing　what　he　always　wished　when　the　story　was　most　particularly　good…that　it　didn't　have　to　stop；　that　it　could　just　roll　on　and　on；　the　way　that　life　did　（only　life　was　always　so　much　more　boring　and　so　much　more　pointless　than　stories）。　He　knew　Richard　had　a　book　report　due　and　so　he　had　given　him　the　lap…eared　paperback；　thinking　that　this　must　surely　do　it；　this　would　turn　the　trick；　Richard　must　react　to　the　story　of　these　lost　boys　and　their　descent　into　savagery。　But　Richard　had　plodded　through　Lord　of　the　Flies　as　he　had　plodded　through　all　the　other　novels　before　it；　and　wrote　another　book　report　which　contained　all　the　zeal　and　fire　of　a　hungover　pathologist's　post…mortem　on　a　traffic　accident　victim。　What　is　it　with　you？　Jack　had　burst　out；　exasperated。　What　in　God's　name　have　you　got　against　a　good　story；　Richard？　And　Richard　had　looked　at　him；　flabbergasted；　apparently　really　not　understanding　Jack's　anger。　Well；　there's　really　no　such　thing　as　a　good　made…up　story；　is　there？　Richard　had　responded。
　　Jack　had　gone　away　that　day　sorely　puzzled　by　Richard's　total　rejection　of　make…believe；　but　he　thought　he　understood　better　now…better　than　he　really　wanted　to；　perhaps。　Perhaps　to　Richard　each　opening　storybook　cover　had　looked　a　little　like　an　opening　closet　door；　perhaps　each　bright　paperback　cover；　illustrating　people　who　never　were　as　if　they　were　perfectly　real；　reminded　Richard　of　the　morning　when　he　had　Had　Enough；　Forever。
　　　
　　　3
　　
　　Richard　sees　his　father　go　into　the　closet　in　the　big　front　bedroom；　pulling　the　folding　door　shut　behind　him。　He　is　five；　maybe　。　。　。　or　six　。　。　。　surely　not　as　old　as　seven。　He　waits　five　minutes；　then　ten；　and　when　his　father　still　hasn't　e　out　of　the　closet　he　begins　to　be　a　little　frightened。　He　calls。　He　calls
　　（for　his　pipe　he　calls　for　his　bowl　he　calls　for　his）
　　father　and　when　his　father　doesn't　answer　he　calls　in　a　louder　and　louder　voice　and　he　goes　closer　and　closer　to　the　closet　as　he　calls　and　finally；　when　fifteen　minutes　have　gone　by　and　his　father　still　hasn't　e　out；　Richard　pulls　the　folding　door　open　and　goes　in。　He　goes　into　darkness　like　a　cave。
　　And　something　happens。
　　After　pushing　through　the　rough　tweeds　and　the　smooth　cottons　and　the　occasional　slick　silks　of　his　father's　coats　and　suits　and　sport　jackets；　the　smell　of　cloth　and　mothballs　and　closed…up　dark　closet　air　begins　to　give　way　to　another　smell…a　hot；　fiery　smell。　Richard　begins　to　blunder　forward；　screaming　his　father's　name；　he　thinking　there　must　be　a　fire　back　here　and　his　father　may　be　burning　in　it；　because　it　smells　like　a　fire　。　。　。　and　suddenly　he　realizes　that　the　boards　are　gone　under　his　feet；　and　he　is　standing　in　black　dirt。　Weird　black　insects　with　clustered　eyes　on　the　ends　of　long　stalks　are　hopping　all　around　his　fuzzy　slippers。　Daddy！　he　screams。　The　coats　and　suits　are　gone；　the　floor　is　gone；　but　it　isn't　crisp　white　snow　underfoot；　it's　stinking　black　dirt　which　is　apparently　the　birthing　ground　for　these　unpleasant　black　jumping　insects；　this　place　is　by　no　stretch　of　the　imagination　Narnia。　Other　screams　answer　Richard's　scream…screams　and　mad；　demented　laughter。　Smoke　drifts　around　him　on　a　dark　idiot　wind　and　Richard　turns；　stumbling　back　the　way　he　came；　hands　outstretched　like　the　hands　of　a　blind　man；　feeling　frantically　for　the　coats；　smelling　for　the　faint；　acrid　reek　of　mothballs…
　　And　suddenly　a　hand　slithers　around　his　wrist。
　　Daddy？　he　asks；　but　when　he　looks　down　he　sees　not　a　human　hand　but　a　scaly　green　thing　covered　with　writhing　suckers；　a　green　thing　attached　to　a　long；　rubbery　arm　which　stretches　off　into　the　darkness　and　toward　a　pair　of　yellow；　upslanted　eyes　that　stare　at　him　with　flat　hunger。
　　Screeching；　he　tears　free　and　flings　himself　blindly　into　the　black　。　。　。　and　just　as　his　groping　fingers　find　his　father's　sport　coats　and　suits　again；　as　he　hears　the　blessed；　rational　sound　of　jangling　coathangers；　that　green；　sucker…lined　hand　waltzes　dryly　across　the　back　of　his　neck　again　。　。　。　and　is　gone。
　　He　waits；　trembling；　as　pallid　as　day…old　ashes　in　a　cold　stove；　for　three　hours　outside　that　damned　closet；　afraid　to　go　back　in；　afraid　of　the　green　hand　and　the　yellow　eyes；　more　and　more　sure　that　his　father　must　be　dead。　And　when　his　father　es　back　into　the　room　near　the　end　of　the　fourth　hour；　not　from　the　closet　but　from　the　door　w