sk.thetalisman-第33部分

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es…and　then　the　WILD　CHILD　van；　speeding　down　the　street　and　away　from　Uncle　Tommy's　corpse；　blood　dripping　from　the　broken　plastic　fangs　of　its　grille。　He　saw　the　hands　on　the　van's　steering　wheel　。　。　。　but　they　weren't　hands。　They　were　weird；　articulated　hooves。
　　At　the　full　gallop；　that　damned　hearse　sounds　like　thunder　rolling　along　the　earth。
　　Now；　hearing　it…the　sound　still　distant　but　perfectly　clear　in　the　pure　air…Jack　wondered　how　he　could　have　even　thought　those　other　approaching　wagons　might　be　Morgan's　diligence。　He　would　certainly　never　make　such　a　mistake　again。　The　sound　he　heard　now　was　perfectly　ominious；　thick　with　a　potential　for　evil…the　sound　of　a　hearse；　yes；　a　hearse　driven　by　a　devil。
　　He　stood　frozen　in　the　road；　almost　hypnotized；　as　a　rabbit　is　hypnotized　by　headlights。　The　sound　grew　steadily　louder…the　thunder　of　the　wheels　and　hooves；　the　creak　of　leather　rigging。　Now　he　could　hear　the　driver's　voice：　'Hee…yah！　Heee…yahhh！　HEEEEE…YAHHHH！'
　　He　stood　in　the　road；　stood　there；　his　head　drumming　with　horror。　Can't　move；　oh　dear　God　oh　dear　Christ　I　can't　move　Mom　Mom　Muhhhhhmeeeee…！
　　He　stood　in　the　road　and　the　eye　of　his　imagination　saw　a　huge　black　thing　like　a　stagecoach　tearing　up　the　road；　pulled　by　black　animals　that　looked　more　like　pumas　than　horses；　he　saw　black　curtains　flapping　in　and　out　of　the　coach's　windows；　he　saw　the　driver　standing　on　the　teeterboard；　his　hair　blown　back；　his　eyes　as　wild　and　crazed　as　those　of　a　psycho　with　a　switchblade。
　　He　saw　it　ing　toward　him；　never　slowing。　
　　He　saw　it　run　him　down。
　　That　broke　the　paralysis。　He　ran　to　the　right；　skidding　down　the　side　of　the　road；　catching　his　foot　under　one　of　those　gnarled　roots；　falling；　rolling。　His　back；　relatively　quiet　for　the　last　couple　of　hours；　flared　with　fresh　pain；　and　Jack　drew　his　lips　back　with　a　grimace。
　　He　got　to　his　feet　and　scurried　into　the　woods；　hunched　over。
　　He　slipped　first　behind　one　of　the　black　trees；　but　the　touch　of　the　gnarly　trunk…it　was　a　bit　like　the　banyans　he　had　seen　while　on　vacation　on　Hawaii　year　before　last…was　oily　and　unpleasant。　Jack　moved　to　the　left　and　behind　the　trunk　of　a　pine。
　　The　thunder　of　the　coach　and　its　outriders　grew　steadily　louder。　At　every　second　Jack　expected　the　pany　to　flash　by　toward　All…Hands'　Village。　Jack's　fingers　squeezed　and　relaxed　on　the　pine's　gummy　back。　He　bit　at　his　lips。
　　Directly　ahead　was　a　narrow　but　perfectly　clear　sightline　back　to　the　road；　a　tunnel　with　sides　of　leaf　and　fern　and　pine　needles。　And　just　when　Jack　had　begun　to　think　that　Morgan's　party　would　never　arrive；　a　dozen　or　more　mounted　soldiers　passed　heading　east；　riding　at　a　gallop。　The　one　in　the　lead　carried　a　banner；　but　Jack　could　not　make　out　its　device　。　。　。　nor　was　he　sure　he　wanted　to。　Then　the　diligence　flashed　across　Jack's　narrow　sightline。
　　The　moment　of　its　passage　was　brief…no　more　than　a　second；　perhaps　less　than　that…but　Jack's　recall　of　it　was　total。　The　diligence　was　a　gigantic　vehicle；　surely　a　dozen　feet　high。　The　trunks　and　bundles　lashed　with　stout　cord　to　the　top　added　another　three　feet。　Each　horse　in　the　team　which　pulled　it　wore　a　black　plume　on　its　head…these　plumes　were　blown　back　almost　flat　in　a　speed…generated　wind。　Jack　thought　later　that　Morgan　must　need　a　new　team　for　every　run；　because　these　looked　close　to　the　end　of　their　endurance。　Foam　and　blood　sprayed　back　from　their　working　mouths　in　curds；　their　eyes　rolled　crazily；　showing　arcs　of　white。
　　As　in　his　imagining…or　his　vision…black　crepe　curtains　flew　and　fluttered　through　glassless　windows。　Suddenly　a　white　face　appeared　in　one　of　those　black　oblongs；　a　white　face　framed　in　strange；　twisted　carving…work。　The　sudden　appearance　of　that　face　was　as　shocking　as　the　face　of　a　ghost　in　the　ruined　window　of　a　haunted　house。　It　was　not　the　face　of　Morgan　Sloat　。　。　。　but　it　was。
　　And　the　owner　of　that　face　knew　that　Jack…or　some　other　danger；　just　as　hated　and　just　as　personal…was　out　there。　Jack　saw　this　in　the　widening　of　the　eyes　and　the　sudden　vicious　downtwist　of　the　mouth。
　　Captain　Farren　had　said　He'll　smell　you　like　a　rat；　and　now　Jack　thought　dismally：　I've　been　smelled；　all　right。　He　knows　I'm　here；　and　what　happens　now？　He'll　stop　the　whole　bunch　of　them；　I　bet；　and　send　the　soldiers　into　the　woods　after　me。
　　Another　band　of　soldiers…these　protecting　Morgan's　diligence　from　the　rear…swept　by。　Jack　waited；　his　hands　frozen　to　the　bark　of　the　pine；　sure　that　Morgan　would　call　a　halt。　But　no　halt　came；　soon　the　heavy　thunder　of　the　diligence　and　its　outriders　began　to　fade。
　　His　eyes。　That's　what's　the　same。　Those　dark　eyes　in　that　white　face。　And…
　　Our　boy？　YESSSS！
　　Something　slithered　over　his　foot　。　。　。　and　up　his　ankle。　Jack　screamed　and　floundered　backward；　thinking　it　must　be　a　snake。　But　when　he　looked　down　he　saw　that　one　of　those　gray　roots　had　slipped　up　his　foot　。　。　。　and　now　it　ringed　his　calf。
　　That's　impossible；　he　thought　stupidly。　Roots　don't　move…
　　He　pulled　back　sharply；　yanking　his　leg　out　of　the　rough　gray　manacle　the　root　had　formed。　There　was　thin　pain　in　his　calf；　like　the　pain　of　a　rope…burn。　He　raised　his　eyes　and　felt　sick　fear　slip　into　his　heart。　He　thought　he　knew　now　why　Morgan　had　sensed　him　and　gone　on　anyway；　Morgan　knew　that　walking　in　this　forest　was　like　walking　into　a　jungle　stream　infested　with　piranhas。　Why　hadn't　Captain　Farren　warned　him？　All　Jack　could　think　was　that　the　scarred　Captain　must　not　have　known；　must　never　have　been　this　far　west。
　　The　grayish　roots　of　those　fir…fern　hybrids　were　all　moving　now…rising；　falling；　scuttling　along　the　mulchy　ground　toward　him。　Ents　and　Entwives；　Jack　thought　crazily。　BAD　Ents　and　Entwives。　One　particularly　thick　root；　its　last　six　inches　dark　with　earth　and　damp；　rose　and　wavered　in　front　of　him　like　a　cobra　piped　up　from　a　fakir's　basket。　OUR　boy！　YESS！
　　It　darted　toward　him　and　Jack　backed　away　from　it；　aware　that　the　roots　had　now　formed　a　living　screen　between　him　and　the　safety　of　the　road。　He　backed　into　a　tree　。　。　。　and　then　lurched　away　from　it；　screaming；　as　its　bark　began　to　ripple　and　twitch　against　his　back…it　was　like　feeling　a　muscle　which　has　begun　to　spasm　wildly。　Jack　looked　around　and　saw　one　of　those　black　trees　with　the　gnarly　trunks。　Now　the　trunk　was　moving；　writhing。　Those　twisted　knots　of　bark　formed　something　like　a　dreadful　runnelled　face；　one　eye　widely；　blackly　open；　the　other　drawn　down　in　a　hideous　wink。　The　tree　split　open　lower　down　with　a　grinding；　rending　sound；　and　whitish…yellow　sap　began　to　drool　out。　OURS！　Oh；　yesssss！
　　Roots　like　fingers　slipped　between　Jack's　upper　arm　and　ribcage；　as　if　to　tickle。
　　He　tore　away；　holding　on　to　the　last　of　his　rationality　with　a　huge　act　of　will；　groping　in　his　jerkin　for　Speedy's　bottle。　He　was　aware…faintly…of　a　series　of　gigantic　ripping　sounds。　He　supposed　the　trees　were　tearing　themselves　right　out　of　the　ground。　Tolkien　had　never　been　like　this。
　　He　got　the　bottle　by　the　neck　and　pulled　it　out。　He　scrabbled　at　the　cap；　and　then　one　of　those　gray　roots　slid　easily　around　his　neck。　A　moment　later　it　pulled　as　bitterly　tight　as　a　hangman's　noose。
　　Jack's　breath　stopped。　The　bottle　tumbled　from　his　fingers　as　he　grappled　with　the　thing　that　was　choking　him。　He　managed　to　work　his　fingers　under　the　root。　It　was　not　cold　and　stiff　but　warm　and　limber　and　fleshlike。　He　struggled　with　it；　aware　of　the　choked　gargling　sound　ing　from　him　and　the　slick　of　spittle　on　his　chin。
　　With　a　final　convulsive　effort　he　tore　the　root　free。　It　tried　to　circle　his　wrist　then；　and　Jack　whipped　his　arm　away　from　it　with　a　cry。　He　looked　down　and　saw　the　bottle　twisting　and　bumping　away；　one　of　those　gray　roots　coiled　about　its　neck。
　　Jack　leaped　for　it。　Roots　grabbed　his　legs；　circled　them。　He　fell　heavily　to　the　earth；　stretching；　reaching；　the　tips　of　his　fingers　digging　at　the　thick　black　forest　soil　for　an　extra　inch…
　　He　touched　the　bottle's　slick　green　side　。　。　。　and　seized　it。　He　pulled　as　hard　as　he　could；　dimly　aware　that　the　roots　were　all　over　his　legs　now；　crisscrossing　like　bonds；　holding　him　firmly。　He　spun　the　cap　off　the　bo