sk.thetalisman-第27部分

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　　And　under　his　breath；　the　Captain　hissed；　'They'll　all　remember　and　they'll　all　talk；　so　cry；　dammit！'　
　　And　now；　as　the　Captain　with　the　scarred　face　dragged　him　across　the　steaming　kitchen　by　the　scruff　of　his　neck　and　one　throbbing　arm；　Jack　deliberately　called　up　the　dreadful　image　of　his　mother　lying　in　a　funeral　parlor。　He　saw　her　in　billowing　folds　of　white　organdy…she　was　lying　in　her　coffin　and　wearing　the　wedding　dress　she　had　worn　in　Drag　Strip　Rumble　（RKO；　1953）。　Her　face　came　clearer　and　clearer　in　Jack's　mind；　a　perfect　wax　effigy；　and　he　saw　she　was　wearing　her　tiny　gold…cross　earrings；　the　ones　Jack　had　given　her　for　Christmas　two　years　ago。　Then　the　face　changed。　The　chin　became　rounder；　the　nose　straighter　and　more　patrician。　The　hair　went　a　shade　lighter　and　became　somehow　coarser。　Now　it　was　Laura　DeLoessian　he　saw　in　that　coffin…and　the　coffin　itself　was　no　longer　a　smoothly　anonymous　funeral　parlor　special；　but　something　that　looked　as　if　it　had　been　hacked　with　rude　fury　from　an　old　log…a　Viking's　coffin；　if　there　had　ever　been　such　a　thing；　it　was　easier　to　imagine　this　coffin　being　torched　alight　on　a　bier　of　oiled　logs　than　it　was　to　imagine　it　being　lowered　into　the　unprotesting　earth。　It　was　Laura　DeLoessian；　Queen　of　the　Territories；　but　in　this　imagining　which　had　bee　as　clear　as　a　vision；　the　Queen　was　wearing　his　mother's　wedding　dress　from　Drag　Strip　Rumble　and　the　gold…cross　earrings　Uncle　Tommy　had　helped　him　pick　out　in　Sharp's　of　Beverly　Hills。　Suddenly　his　tears　came　in　a　hot　and　burning　flood…not　sham　tears　but　real　ones；　not　just　for　his　mother　but　for　both　of　these　lost　women；　dying　universes　apart；　bound　by　some　unseen　cord　which　might　rot　but　would　never　break…at　least；　not　until　they　were　both　dead。
　　Through　the　tears　he　saw　a　giant　of　a　man　in　billowing　whites　rush　across　the　room　toward　them。　He　wore　a　red　bandanna　instead　of　a　puffy　chef's　hat　on　his　head；　but　Jack　thought　its　purpose　was　the　same…to　identify　the　wearer　as　the　boss　of　the　kitchen。　He　was　also　brandishing　a　wicked…looking　three…tined　wooden　fork。
　　'Ged…OUT！'　the　chef　screeched　at　them；　and　the　voice　emerging　from　that　huge　barrel　chest　was　absurdly　flutelike…it　was　the　voice　of　a　willowy　gay　giving　a　shoe…clerk　a　piece　of　his　mind。　But　there　was　nothing　absurd　about　the　fork；　it　looked　deadly。
　　The　women　scattered　before　his　charge　like　birds。　The　bottom…most　pie　dropped　out　of　the　pie…woman's　rack　and　she　uttered　a　high；　despairing　cry　as　it　broke　apart　on　the　boards。　Strawberry　juice　splattered　and　ran；　the　red　as　fresh　and　bright　as　arterial　blood。
　　'GED…DOUT　MY　KIDCHEN；　YOU　SLUGS！　DIS　IS　NO　SHORDCUD！　DIS　IS　NO　RAZE…TRAG！　DIS　IS　MY　KID…CHEN　AND　IF　YOU　CAD'T　REMEMBER　DAT；　I'LL　BY　GOD　THE　CARBENDER　CARVE　YOUR　AZZES　FOR　YOU！'
　　He　jabbed　the　fork　at　them；　simultaneously　half…turning　his　head　and　squinching　his　eyes　mostly　shut；　as　if　in　spite　of　his　tough　talk　the　thought　of　hot　flowing　blood　was　just　too　gauche　to　be　borne。　The　Captain　removed　the　hand　that　had　been　on　the　scruff　of　Jack's　neck　and　reached　out…almost　casually；　it　seemed　to　Jack。　A　moment　later　the　chef　was　on　the　floor；　all　six　and　a　half　feet　of　him。　The　meat…fork　was　lying　in　a　puddle　of　strawberry　sauce　and　chunks　of　white　unbaked　pastry。　The　chef　rolled　back　and　forth；　clutching　his　broken　right　wrist　and　screaming　in　that　high；　flutelike　voice。　The　news　he　screamed　out　to　the　room　in　general　was　certainly　woeful　enough：　he　was　dead；　the　Captain　had　surely　murdered　him　（pronounced　mur…dirt　in　the　chef's　odd；　almost　Teutonic　accent）；　he　was　at　the　very　least　crippled；　the　cruel　and　heartless　Captain　of　the　Outer　Guards　having　destroyed　his　good　right　hand　and　thus　his　livelihood；　and　so　ensuring　a　miserable　beggar's　life　for　him　in　the　years　to　e；　the　Captain　had　inflicted　terrible　pain　on　him；　a　pain　beyond　belief；　such　as　was　not　to　be　borne…
　　Shut　up！'　the　Captain　roared；　and　the　chef　did。　Immediately。　He　lay　on　the　floor　like　a　great　baby；　his　right　hand　curled　on　his　chest；　his　red　bandanna　drunkenly　askew　so　that　one　ear　（a　small　black　pearl　was　set　in　the　center　of　the　lobe）　showed；　his　fat　cheeks　quivering。　The　kitchen　women　gasped　and　twittered　as　the　Captain　bent　over　the　dreaded　chief　ogre　of　the　steaming　cave　where　they　spent　their　days　and　nights。　Jack；　still　weeping；　caught　a　glimpse　of　a　black　boy　（brown　boy；　his　mind　amended）　standing　at　one　end　of　the　largest　brazier。　The　boy's　mouth　was　open；　his　face　as　ically　surprised　as　a　face　in　a　minstrel　show；　but　he　kept　turning　the　crank　in　his　hands；　and　the　haunch　suspended　over　the　glowing　coals　kept　revolving。
　　'Now　listen　and　I'll　give　you　some　advice　you　won't　find　in　The　Book　of　Good　Farming；'　the　Captain　said。　He　bent　over　the　chef　until　their　noses　almost　touched　（his　paralyzing　grip　on　Jack's　arm…which　was　now　going　mercifully　numb…never　loosened　the　smallest　bit）。　'Don't　you　ever　。　。　。　don't　you　ever　。　。　。　e　at　a　man　with　a　knife　。　。　。　or　a　fork　。　。　。　or　a　spear　。　。　。　or　with　so　much　as　a　God…pounding　splinter　in　your　hand　unless　you　intend　to　kill　him　with　it。　One　expects　temperament　from　chefs；　but　temperament　does　not　extend　to　assaults　upon　the　person　of　the　Captain　of　the　Outer　Guards。　Do　you　understand　me？'　
　　The　chef　moaned　out　a　teary；　defiant　something…or…other。　Jack　couldn't　make　it　all　out…the　man's　accent　seemed　to　be　growing　steadily　thicker…but　it　had　something　to　do　with　the　Captain's　mother　and　the　dump…dogs　beyond　the　pavillion。
　　'That　may　well　be；'　the　Captain　said。　'I　never　knew　the　lady。　But　it　certainly　doesn't　answer　my　question。'　He　prodded　the　chef　with　one　dusty；　scuffed　boot。　It　was　a　gentle　enough　prod；　but　the　chef　screeched　as　if　the　Captain　had　drawn　his　foot　back　and　kicked　him　as　hard　as　he　could。　The　women　twittered　again。
　　'Do　we　or　do　we　not　have　an　understanding　on　the　subject　of　chefs　and　weapons　and　Captains？　Because　if　we　don't；　a　little　more　instruction　might　be　in　order。'
　　'We　do！'　the　chef　gasped。　'We　do！　We　do！　We…'
　　'Good。　Because　I've　had　to　give　far　too　much　instruction　already　today。'　He　shook　Jack　by　the　scruff　of　the　neck。　'Haven't　I；　boy？'　He　shook　him　again；　and　Jack　uttered　a　wail　that　was　pletely　unfeigned。　'Well　。　。　。　I　suppose　that's　all　he　can　say。　The　boy's　a　simpleton。　Like　his　mother。'　
　　The　Captain　threw　his　dark；　gleaming　glance　around　the　kitchen。
　　'Good　day；　ladies。　Queen's　blessings　upon　you。'
　　'And　you；　good　sir；'　the　eldest　among　them　managed；　and　dropped　an　awkward；　ungraceful　curtsey。　The　others　followed　suit。
　　The　Captain　dragged　Jack　across　the　kitchen。　Jack's　hip　bumped　the　edge　of　the　washing　trough　with　excruciating　force　and　he　cried　out　again。　Hot　water　flew。　Smoking　droplets　hit　the　boards　and　ran；　hissing；　between　them。　Those　women　had　their　hands　in　that；　Jack　thought。　How　do　they　stand　it？　Then　the　Captain；　who　was　almost　carrying　him　by　now；　shoved　Jack　through　another　burlap　curtain　and　into　the　hallway　beyond。
　　'Phew！'　the　Captain　said　in　a　low　voice。　'I　don't　like　this；　not　any　of　it；　it　all　smells　bad。'　
　　Left；　right；　then　right　again。　Jack　began　to　sense　that　they　were　approaching　the　outer　walls　of　the　pavillion；　and　he　had　time　to　wonder　how　the　place　could　seem　so　much　bigger　on　the　inside　than　it　looked　from　the　outside。　Then　the　Captain　was　pushing　him　through　a　flap　and　they　were　in　daylight　again…mid…afternoon　daylight　so　bright　after　the　shifting　dimness　of　the　pavillion　that　Jack　had　to　wince　his　eyes　shut　against　a　burst　of　pain。
　　The　Captain　never　hesitated。　Mud　squelched　and　smooched　underfoot。　There　was　the　smell　of　hay　and　horses　and　shit。　Jack　opened　his　eyes　again　and　saw　they　were　crossing　what　might　have　been　a　paddock　or　a　corral　or　maybe　just　a　barnyard。　He　saw　an　open　canvas…sided　hallway　and　heard　chickens　clucking　somewhere　beyond　it。　A　scrawny　man；　naked　except　for　a　dirty　kilt　and　thong　sandals；　was　tossing　hay　into　an　open　stall；　using　a　pitchfork　with　wooden　tines　to　do　the　job。　Inside　the　stall；　a　horse　not　much　bigger　than　a　Shetland　pony　looked　moodily　out　at　them。　They　had　already　passed　the　stall　when　Jack's　mind　was　finally　able　to　accept　what　his　eyes　had　seen：　the　horse　had　two　head