sk.thewastelands-第43部分

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　　JAKE　WOKE　IN　THE　first　milky　light　of　dawn；　looking　up　at　the　ceiling　of　his　room。　He　was　thinking　of　the　guy　in　The　Manhattan　Restaurant　of　the　Mind…Aaron　Deepneau；　who'd　been　hanging　around　on　Bleecker　Street　back　when　Bob　Dylan　only　knew　how　to　blow　open　G　on　his　Hohner。　Aaron　Deepneau　had　given　Jake　a　riddle。
　　What　can　run　but　never　walks；
　　Has　a　mouth　but　never　talks；
　　Has　a　bed　but　never　sleeps；
　　Has　a　head　but　never　weeps？
　　Now　he　knew　the　answer。　A　river　ran；　a　river　had　a　mouth；　a　river　had　a　bed；　a　river　had　a　head。　The　boy　had　told　him　the　answer。　The　boy　in　the　dream。
　　And　suddenly　he　thought　of　something　else　Deepneau　had　said：　That's　only　half　the　answer。　Samson's　riddle　is　a　double；　my　friend。
　　Jake　glanced　at　his　bedside　clock　and　saw　it　was　twenty　past　six。　It　was　time　to　get　moving　if　he　wanted　to　be　out　of　here　before　his　parents　woke　up。　There　would　be　no　school　for　him　today；　Jake　thought　that　maybe；　as　far　as　he　was　concerned；　school　had　been　cancelled　forever。
　　He　threw　back　the　bedclothes；　swung　his　feet　out　onto　the　floor；　and　saw　that　there　were　scrapes　on　both　knees。　Fresh　scrapes。　He　had　bruised　his　left　side　yesterday　when　he　slipped　on　the　bricks　and　fell；　and　he　had　banged　his　head　when　he　fainted　near　the　rose；　but　nothing　had　happened　to　his　knees。
　　〃That　happened　in　the　dream；〃　Jake　whispered；　and　found　he　wasn't　surprised　at　all。　He　began　to　dress　swiftly。
　　　
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　　IN　THE　BACK　OF　his　closet；　under　a　jumble　of　old　laceless　sneakers　and　a　heap　of　Spiderman　ic　books；　he　found　the　packsack　he　had　worn　to　grammar　school。　No　one　would　be　caught　dead　with　a　packsack　at　Piper…how　too；　too　mon；　my　death…and　as　Jake　grabbed　it；　he　felt　a　wave　of　powerful　nostalgia　for　those　old　days　when　life　had　seemed　so　simple。
　　He　stuffed　a　clean　shirt；　a　clean　pair　of　jeans；　some　underwear　and　socks　into　it；　then　added　Riddle…De…Dum！　and　Charlie　the　Choo…Choo。　He　had　put　the　key　on　his　desk　before　foraging　in　the　closet　for　his　old　pack；　and　the　voices　came　back　at　once；　but　they　were　distant　and　muted。　Besides；　he　felt　sure　he　could　make　them　go　away　pletely　by　holding　the　key　again；　and　that　eased　his　mind。
　　Okay；　he　thought；　looking　into　the　pack。　Even　with　the　books　added；　there　was　plenty　of　room　left。　What　else？
　　For　a　moment　he　thought　there　was　nothing　else　。　。　。　and　then　he　knew。
　　　
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　　His　FATHER'S　STUDY　SMELLED　of　cigarettes　and　ambition。
　　It　was　dominated　by　a　huge　teakwood　desk。　Across　the　room；　set　into　a　wall　otherwise　lined　with　books；　were　three　Mitsubishi　television　monitors。　Each　was　tuned　to　one　of　the　rival　networks；　and　at　night；　when　his　father　was　in　here；　each　played　out　its　progression　of　prime…time　images　with　the　sound　off。
　　The　curtains　were　drawn；　and　Jake　had　to　turn　on　the　desk　lamp　in　order　to　see。　He　felt　nervous　just　being　in　here；　even　wearing　sneakers。　If　his　father　should　wake　up　and　e　in　（and　it　was　possible；　no　matter　how　late　he　went　to　bed　or　how　much　he　drank；　Elmer　Chambers　was　a　light　sleeper　and　an　early　riser）；　he　would　be　angry。　At　the　very　least　it　would　make　a　clean　getaway　much　tougher。　The　sooner　he　was　out　of　here；　the　better　Jake　would　feel。
　　The　desk　was　locked；　but　his　father　had　never　made　any　secret　of　where　he　kept　the　key。　Jake　slid　his　fingers　under　the　blotter　and　hooked　it　out。　He　opened　the　third　drawer；　reached　past　the　hanging　files；　and　touched　cold　metal。
　　A　board　creaked　in　the　hall　and　he　froze。　Several　seconds　passed。　When　the　creak　didn't　e　again；　Jake　pulled　out　the　weapon　his　father　kept　for　〃home　defense〃…a　。44　Ruger　automatic。　His　father　had　shown　this　weapon　to　Jake　with　great　pride　on　the　day　he　had　bought　it…two　years　ago；　that　had　been。　He　had　been　totally　deaf　to　his　wife's　nervous　demands　that　he　put　it　away　before　someone　got　hurt。
　　Jake　found　the　button　on　the　side　that　released　the　clip。　It　fell　out　into　his　hand　with　a　metallic　snak！　sound　that　seemed　very　loud　in　the　quiet　apartment。　He　glanced　nervously　toward　the　door　again；　then　turned　his　attention　to　the　clip。　It　was　fully　loaded。　He　started　to　slide　it　back　into　the　gun；　and　then　took　it　out　again。　Keeping　a　loaded　gun　in　a　locked　desk　drawer　was　one　thing；　carrying　one　around　New　York　City　was　quite　another。
　　He　stuffed　the　automatic　down　to　the　bottom　of　his　pack；　then　felt　behind　the　hanging　files　again。　This　time　he　brought　out　a　box　of　shells；　about　half…full。　He　remembered　his　father　had　done　some　target　shooting　at　the　police　range　on　First　Avenue　before　losing　interest。
　　The　board　creaked　again。　Jake　wanted　to　get　out　of　here。
　　He　removed　one　of　the　shirts　he'd　packed；　laid　it　on　his　father's　desk；　and　rolled　up　the　clip　and　the　box　of　。44　slugs　in　it。　Then　he　replaced　it　in　the　pack　and　used　the　buckles　to　snug　down　the　flap。　He　was　about　to　leave　when　his　eye　fixed　on　the　little　pile　of　stationery　sitting　beside　his　father's　In/Out　tray。　The　reflectorized　Ray…Ban　sunglasses　his　father　liked　to　wear　were　folded　on　top　of　the　stationery。　He　took　a　sheet　of　paper；　and；　after　a　moment's　thought；　the　sunglasses　as　well。　He　slipped　the　shades　into　his　breast　pocket。　Then　he　removed　the　slim　gold　pen　from　its　stand；　and　wrote　Dear　Dad　and　Mom　beneath　the　letterhead。
　　He　stopped；　frowning　at　the　salutation。　What　went　below　it？　What；　exactly；　did　he　have　to　say？　That　he　loved　them？　It　was　true；　but　it　wasn't　enough…there　were　all　sorts　of　other　unpleasant　truths　stuck　through　that　central　one；　like　steel　needles　jabbed　into　a　ball　of　yarn。
　　That　he　would　miss　them？　He　didn't　know　if　that　was　true　or　not；　which　was　sort　of　horrible。　That　he　hoped　they　would　miss　him？
　　He　suddenly　realized　what　the　problem　was。　If　he　were　planning　to　be　gone　just　today；　he　would　be　able　to　write　something。　But　he　felt　a　near…certainty　that　it　wasn't　just　today；　or　this　week；　or　this　month；　or　this　summer。　He　had　an　idea　that　when　he　walked　out　of　the　apartment　this　time；　it　would　be　for　good。
　　He　almost　crumpled　the　sheet　of　paper；　then　changed　his　mind。　He　wrote：　Please　take　care　of　yourselves。　Love；　J。　That　was　pretty　limp；　but　at　least　it　was　something。
　　Fine。　Now　will　you　stop　pressing　your　luck　and　get　out　of　here？
　　He　did。
　　The　apartment　was　almost　dead　still。　He　tiptoed　across　the　living　room；　hearing　only　the　sounds　of　his　parents'　breathing：　his　mother's　soft　little　snores；　his　father's　more　nasal　respiration；　where　every　indrawn　breath　ended　in　a　slim　high　whistle。　The　refrigerator　kicked　on　as　he　reached　the　entryway　and　he　froze　for　a　moment；　his　heart　thumping　hard　in　his　chest。　Then　he　was　at　the　door。　He　unlocked　it　as　quietly　as　he　could；　then　stepped　out　and　pulled　it　gently　shut　behind　him。
　　A　stone　seemed　to　roll　off　his　heart　as　the　latch　snicked；　and　a　strong　sense　of　anticipation　seized　him。　He　didn't　know　what　lay　ahead；　and　he　had　reason　to　believe　it　would　be　dangerous；　but　he　was　eleven　years　old…too　young　to　deny　the　exotic　delight　which　suddenly　filled　him。　There　was　a　highway　ahead…a　hidden　highway　leading　deep　into　some　unknown　land。　There　were　secrets　which　might　disclose　themselves　to　him　if　he　was　clever　。　。　。　and　if　he　was　lucky。　He　had　left　his　home　in　the　long　light　of　dawn；　and　what　lay　ahead　was　some　great　adventure。
　　If　I　stand；　if　I　can　be　true；　I'll　see　the　rose；　he　thought　as　he　pushed　the　button　for　the　elevator。　I　know　it　。　。　。　and　I'll　see　him；　too。
　　This　thought　filled　him　with　an　eagerness　so　great　it　was　almost　ecstasy。
　　Three　minutes　later　he　stepped　out　from　beneath　the　awning　which　shaded　the　entrance　to　the　building　where　he　had　lived　all　his　life。　He　paused　for　a　moment；　then　turned　left。　This　decision　did　not　feel　random；　and　it　wasn't。　He　was　moving　southeast；　along　the　path　of　the　Beam；　resuming　his　own　interrupted　quest　for　the　Dark　Tower。
　　　
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　　TWO　DAYS　AFTER　EDDIE　had　given　Roland　his　unfinished　key；　the　three　travellers…hot；　sweaty；　tired；　and　out　of　sorts…pushed　through　a　particu…larly　tenacious　tangle　of　bushes　and　second…growth　trees　and　discovered　what　first　appeared　to　be　two　faint　paths；　running　in　tandem　beneath　the　interlacing　branches　of　the　old　trees　crowding　close　on　either　sid