sk.thetalisman-第34部分

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were　all　over　his　legs　now；　crisscrossing　like　bonds；　holding　him　firmly。　He　spun　the　cap　off　the　bottle。　Another　root　floated　down；　cobweb…light；　and　tried　to　snatch　the　bottle　away　from　him。　Jack　pushed　it　away　and　raised　the　bottle　to　his　lips。　That　smell　of　sickish　fruit　suddenly　seemed　everywhere；　a　living　membrane。
　　Speedy；　please　let　it　work！
　　As　more　roots　slid　over　his　back　and　around　his　waist；　turning　him　helplessly　this　way　and　that；　Jack　drank；　cheap　wine　splattering　both　of　his　cheeks。　He　swallowed；　groaning；　praying；　and　it　was　no　good；　it　wasn't　working；　his　eyes　were　still　closed　but　he　could　feel　the　roots　entangling　his　arms　and　legs；　could　feel　。　。　。　
　　　
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　　　。　。　。　the　water　soaking　into　his　jeans　and　his　shirt；　could　smell　
　　Water？
　　mud　and　damp；　could　hear　
　　Jeans？　Shirt？　
　　the　steady　croak　of　frogs　and　
　　Jack　opened　his　eyes　and　saw　the　orange　light　of　the　setting　sun　reflected　from　a　wide　river。　Unbroken　forest　grew　on　the　east　side　of　this　river；　on　the　western　side；　the　side　that　he　was　on；　a　long　field；　now　partially　obscured　with　evening　ground…mist；　rolled　down　to　the　water's　edge。　The　ground　here　was　wet　and　squelchy。　Jack　was　lying　at　the　edge　of　the　water；　in　the　boggiest　area　of　all。　Thick　weeds　still　grew　here…the　hard　frosts　that　would　kill　them　were　still　a　month　or　more　away…and　Jack　had　gotten　entangled　in　them；　the　way　a　man　awakening　from　a　nightmare　may　entangle　himself　in　the　bedclothes。
　　He　scrambled　and　stumbled　to　his　feet；　wet　and　slimed　with　the　fragrant　mud；　the　straps　of　his　pack　pulling　under　his　arms。　He　pushed　the　weedy　fragments　from　his　arms　and　face　with　horror。　He　started　away　from　the　water；　then　looked　back　and　saw　Speedy's　bottle　lying　in　the　mud；　the　cap　beside　it。　Some　of　the　'magic　juice'　had　either　run　out　or　been　spilled　in　his　struggle　with　the　malignant　Territories　trees。　Now　the　bottle　was　no　more　than　a　third　full。
　　He　stood　there　a　moment；　his　caked　sneakers　planted　in　the　oozy　muck；　looking　out　at　the　river。　This　was　his　world；　this　was　the　good　old　United　States　of　America。　He　didn't　see　the　golden　arches　he　had　hoped　for；　or　a　skyscraper；　or　an　earth　satellite　blinking　overhead　in　the　darkening　sky；　but　he　knew　where　he　was　as　well　as　he　knew　his　own　name。　The　question　was；　had　he　ever　been　in　that　other　world　at　all？
　　He　looked　around　at　the　unfamiliar　river；　the　likewise　unfamiliar　countryside；　and　listened　to　the　distant　mellow　mooing　of　cows。　He　thought：　You're　somewhere　different。　This　sure　isn't　Arcadia　Beach　anymore；　Jack…O。
　　No；　it　wasn't　Arcadia　Beach；　but　he　didn't　know　the　area　surrounding　Arcadia　Beach　well　enough　to　say　for　sure　that　he　was　more　than　four　or　five　miles　away…just　enough　inland；　say；　to　no　longer　be　able　to　smell　the　Atlantic。　He　had　e　back　as　if　waking　from　a　nightmare…was　it　not　possible　that　was　all　it　had　been；　the　whole　thing；　from　the　carter　with　his　load　of　fly…crawling　meat　to　the　living　trees？　A　sort　of　waking　nightmare　in　which　sleepwalking　had　played　a　part？　It　made　sense。　His　mother　was　dying；　and　he　now　thought　he　had　known　that　for　quite　a　while…the　signs　had　been　there；　and　his　subconscious　had　drawn　the　correct　conclusion　even　while　his　conscious　mind　denied　it。　That　would　have　contributed　the　correct　atmosphere　for　an　act　of　self…hypnosis；　and　that　crazy　wino　Speedy　Parker　had　gotten　him　in　gear。　Sure。　It　all　hung　together。
　　Uncle　Morgan　would　have　loved　it。
　　Jack　shivered　and　swallowed　hard。　The　swallow　hurt。　Not　the　way　a　sore　throat　hurts；　but　the　way　an　abused　muscle　hurts。
　　He　raised　his　left　hand；　the　one　not　holding　the　bottle；　and　rubbed　his　palm　gently　against　his　throat。　For　a　moment　he　looked　absurdly　like　a　woman　checking　for　dewlaps　or　wrinkles。　He　found　a　welted　abrasion　just　above　his　adam's　apple。　It　hadn't　bled　much；　but　it　was　almost　too　painful　to　touch。　The　root　that　had　closed　about　his　throat　had　done　that。
　　'True；'　Jack　whispered；　looking　out　at　the　orange　water；　listening　to　the　twank　of　the　bullfrogs　and　the　mooing；　distant　cows。　'All　true。'
　　　
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　　Jack　began　walking　up　the　slope　of　the　field；　setting　the　river…and　the　east…at　his　back。　After　he　had　gone　half　a　mile；　the　steady　rub　and　shift　of　the　pack　against　his　throbbing　back　（the　strokes　Osmond　had　laid　on　were　still　there；　too；　the　shifting　pack　reminded　him）　triggered　a　memory。　He　had　refused　Speedy's　enormous　sandwich；　but　hadn't　Speedy　slipped　the　remains　into　his　pack　anyway；　while　Jack　was　examining　the　guitar…pick？
　　His　stomach　pounced　on　the　idea。
　　Jack　unshipped　the　pack　then　and　there；　standing　in　a　curdle　of　ground…mist　beneath　the　evening　star。　He　unbuckled　one　of　the　flaps；　and　there　was　the　sandwich；　not　just　a　piece　or　a　half；　but　the　whole　thing；　wrapped　up　in　a　sheet　of　newspaper。　Jack's　eyes　filled　with　a　warmth　of　tears　and　he　wished　that　Speedy　were　here　so　he　could　hug　him。
　　Ten　minutes　ago　you　were　calling　him　a　crazy　old　wino。
　　His　face　flamed　at　that；　but　his　shame　didn't　stop　him　from　gobbling　the　sandwich　in　half　a　dozen　big　bites。　He　rebuckled　his　pack　and　reshouldered　it。　He　went　on；　feeling　better…with　that　whistling　hole　in　his　gut　stopped　up　for　the　time　being；　Jack　felt　himself　again。
　　Not　long　after；　lights　twinkled　up　out　of　the　growing　darkness。　A　farmhouse。　A　dog　began　to　bark…the　heavy　bark　of　a　really　big　fellow…and　Jack　froze　for　a　moment。
　　Inside；　he　thought。　Or　chained　up。　I　hope。
　　He　bore　to　the　right；　and　after　a　while　the　dog　stopped　barking。　Keeping　the　lights　of　the　farmhouse　as　a　guide；　Jack　soon　came　out　on　a　narrow　blacktop　road。　He　stood　looking　from　right　to　left；　having　no　idea　which　way　to　go。
　　Well；　folks；　here's　Jack　Sawyer；　halfway　between　hoot　and　holler；　wet　through　to　the　skin　and　sneakers　packed　with　mud。　Way　to　go；　Jack！
　　The　loneliness　and　homesickness　rose　in　him　again。　Jack　fought　them　off。　He　put　a　drop　of　spit　on　his　left　index　finger；　then　spanked　the　drop　sharply。　The　larger　of　the　two　halves　flew　off　to　the　right…or　so　it　seemed　to　Jack…and　so　he　turned　that　way　and　began　to　walk。　Forty　minutes　later；　drooping　with　weariness　（and　hungry　again；　which　was　somehow　worse）；　he　saw　a　gravel…pit　with　a　shed　of　some　sort　standing　beyond　a　chained…off　access　road。
　　Jack　ducked　under　the　chain　and　went　to　the　shed。　The　door　was　padlocked　shut；　but　he　saw　that　the　earth　had　eroded　under　one　side　of　the　small　outbuilding。　It　was　the　work　of　a　minute　to　remove　his　pack；　wriggle　under　the　shed's　side；　and　then　pull　the　pack　in　after　him。　The　lock　on　the　door　actually　made　him　feel　safer。
　　He　looked　around　and　saw　that　he　was　in　with　some　very　old　tools…this　place　hadn't　been　used　in　a　long　time；　apparently；　and　that　suited　Jack　just　fine。　He　stripped　to　the　skin；　not　liking　the　feel　of　his　clammy；　muddy　clothes。　He　felt　the　coin　Captain　Farren　had　given　him　in　one　of　his　pants　pockets；　resting　there　like　a　giant　amid　his　little　bit　of　more　ordinary　change。　Jack　took　it　out　and　saw　that　Farren's　coin；　with　the　Queen's　head　on　one　side　and　the　winged　lion　on　the　other…had　bee　a　1921　silver　dollar。　He　looked　fixedly　at　the　profile　of　Lady　Liberty　on　the　cartwheel　for　some　time；　and　then　slipped　it　back　into　the　pocket　of　his　jeans。
　　He　rooted　out　fresh　clothes；　thinking　he　would　put　the　dirty　ones　in　his　pack　in　the　morning…they　would　be　dry　then…and　perhaps　clean　them　along　the　way；　maybe　in　a　Laundromat；　maybe　just　in　a　handy　stream。
　　While　searching　for　socks；　his　hand　encountered　something　slim　and　hard。　Jack　pulled　it　out　and　saw　it　was　his　toothbrush。　At　once；　images　of　home　and　safety　and　rationality…all　the　things　a　toothbrush　could　represent…rose　up　and　overwhelmed　him。　There　was　no　way　that　he　could　beat　these　emotions　down　or　turn　them　aside　this　time。　A　toothbrush　was　a　thing　meant　to　be　seen　in　a　well…lighted　bathroom；　a　thing　to　be　used　with　cotton　pajamas　on　the　body　and　warm　slippers　on　the　feet。　It　was　nothing　to　e　upon　in　the　bottom　of　your　knapsack　in　a　cold；　dark　toolshed　on　the　edge　of　a　gravel…pit　in　a　deserted　rural　town　whose　name　you　did　not　even　know。
　　Loneliness　raged　through　him；　his　realization　of　his　outcast　status　w