sk.thetalisman-第49部分

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er's　doubts。　At　the　end　of　this　conversation；　which　returned　to　the　twelve…year…old　Jacky　Sawyer　in　the　dangerous　borderland　between　Oatley；　New　York；　and　a　nameless　Territories　village；　Morgan　Sloat　had　allowed　himself　to　seem　not　only　persuaded　but　positively　grateful　for　the　lessons。　When　Jack　woke　up；　the　first　thing　he　heard　was　his　father　asking；　'Hey；　did　Jack　disappear　or　something？'　and　the　second　thing　was　Uncle　Morgan　saying；　'Hell；　I　guess　you're　right；　Phil。　You　have　a　way　of　seeing　right　to　the　heart　of　things；　you're　great　the　way　you　do　that。'
　　'Where　the　hell　is　Jack？'　his　father　said；　and　Jack　stirred　behind　the　couch；　really　waking　up　now。　The　black　taxi　thudded　to　the　floor。
　　'Aha；'　Uncle　Morgan　said。　'Little　pitchers　and　big　ears；　peut…être？'
　　'You　behind　there；　kiddo？'　his　father　said。　Noises　of　chairs　pushing　back　across　the　wooden　floor；　of　men　standing　up。
　　He　said；　'Oooh；'　and　slowly　lifted　the　taxi　back　into　his　lap。　His　legs　felt　stiff　and　unfortable…when　he　stood；　they　would　tingle。
　　His　father　laughed。　Footsteps　came　toward　him。　Morgan　Sloat's　red；　puffy　face　appeared　over　the　top　of　the　couch。　Jack　yawned　and　pushed　his　knees　into　the　back　of　the　couch。　His　father's　face　appeared　beside　Sloat's。　His　father　was　smiling。　For　a　moment；　both　of　those　grown…up　adult　male　heads　seemed　to　be　floating　over　the　top　of　the　couch。　'Let's　move　on　home；　sleepyhead；'　his　father　said。　When　the　boy　looked　into　Uncle　Morgan's　face；　he　saw　calculation　sink　into　his　skin；　slide　underneath　his　jolly…fat…man's　cheeks　like　a　snake　beneath　a　rock。　He　looked　like　Richard　Sloat's　daddy　again；　like　good　old　Uncle　Morgan　who　always　gave　spectacular　Christmas　and　birthday　presents；　like　good　old　sweaty　Uncle　Morgan；　so　easy　not　to　notice。　But　what　had　he　looked　like　before？　Like　a　human　earthquake；　like　a　man　crumbling　apart　over　the　fault…line　behind　his　eyes；　like　something　all　wound　up　and　waiting　to　explode
　　'How　about　a　little　ice　cream　on　the　way　home；　Jack？'　Uncle　Morgan　said　to　him。　'That　sound　good　to　you？'
　　'Uh；'　Jack　said。
　　'Yeah；　we　can　stop　off　at　that　place　in　the　lobby；'　his　father　said。
　　'Yummy…yummy…yum；'　Uncle　Morgan　said。　'Now　we're　really　talking　about　synergy；'　and　smiled　at　Jack　once　more。
　　
　　This　happened　when　he　was　six；　and　in　the　midst　of　his　weightless　tumble　through　limbo；　it　happened　again…the　horrible　purple　taste　of　Speedy's　juice　backed　up　into　his　mouth；　into　the　passages　behind　his　nose；　and　all　of　that　languid　afternoon　of　six　years　before　replayed　itself　out　in　his　mind。　He　saw　it　just　as　if　the　magic　juice　brought　total　recall；　and　so　speedily　that　he　lived　through　that　afternoon　in　the　same　few　seconds　which　told　him　that　this　time　the　magic　juice　really　was　going　to　make　him　vomit。
　　Uncle　Morgan's　eyes　smoking；　and　inside　Jack；　a　question　smoking　too；　demanding　to　finally　e　out　。　。　。
　　Who　played
　　What　changes　what　changes　
　　Who　plays　those　changes；　daddy？　
　　Who　
　　killed　Jerry　Bledsoe？　The　magic　juice　forced　itself　into　the　boy's　mouth；　stinging　threads　of　it　nauseatingly　trickled　into　his　nose；　and　just　as　Jack　felt　loose　earth　beneath　his　hands　he　gave　up　and　vomited　rather　than　drown。　What　killed　Jerry　Bledsoe？　Foul　purple　stuff　shot　from　Jack's　mouth；　choking　him；　and　he　blindly　pushed　himself　backward…his　feet　and　legs　snagged　in　tall　stiff　weeds。　Jack　pushed　himself　up　on　his　hands　and　knees　and　waited；　patient　as　a　mule；　his　mouth　drooping　open；　for　the　second　attack。　His　stomach　clenched；　and　he　did　not　have　time　to　groan　before　more　of　the　stinking　juice　burned　up　through　his　chest　and　throat　and　spattered　out　of　his　mouth。　Ropey　pink　strings　of　saliva　hung　from　his　lips；　and　Jack　feebly　brushed　them　away。　He　wiped　his　hand　on　his　pants。　Jerry　Bledsoe；　yes。　Jerry…who'd　always　had　his　name　spelled　out　on　his　shirt；　like　a　gas…station　attendant。　Jerry；　who　had　died　when…The　boy　shook　his　head　and　wiped　his　hands　across　his　mouth　again。　He　spat　into　a　nest　of　sawtoothed　wild　grass　sprouting　like　a　giant's　corsage　out　of　the　gray…brown　earth。　Some　dim　animal　instinct　he　did　not　understand　made　him　push　loose　earth　over　the　pinkish　pool　of　vomit。　Another　reflex　made　him　brush　the　palms　of　his　hands　against　his　trousers。　Finally　he　looked　up。
　　He　was　kneeling；　in　the　last　of　the　evening　light；　on　the　edge　of　a　dirt　lane。　No　horrible　Elroy…thing　pursued　him…he　had　known　that　immediately。　Dogs　penned　in　a　wooden；　cage…like　enclosure　barked　and　snarled　at　him；　thrusting　their　snouts　through　the　cracks　of　their　jail。　On　the　other　side　of　the　fenced…in　dogs　was　a　rambling　wooden　structure　and　from　here　too　doggy　noises　rose　up　into　the　immense　sky。　These　were　unmistakably　similar　to　the　noises　Jack　had　just　been　hearing　from　the　other　side　of　a　wall　in　the　Oatley　Tap：　the　sounds　of　drunken　men　bellowing　at　each　other。　A　bar…here　it　would　be　an　inn　or　a　public　house；　Jack　imagined。　Now　that　he　was　no　longer　sickened　by　Speedy's　juice；　he　could　smell　the　pervasive；　yeasty　odors　of　malt　and　hops。　He　could　not　let　the　men　from　the　inn　discover　him。
　　For　a　moment　he　imagined　himself　running　from　all　those　dogs　yipping　and　growling　through　the　cracks　in　their　enclosure；　and　then　he　stood　up。　The　sky　seemed　to　tilt　over　his　head；　to　darken。　And　back　home；　in　his　world；　what　was　happening？　A　nice　little　disaster　in　the　middle　of　Oatley？　Maybe　a　nice　little　flood；　a　sweet　little　fire？　Jack　slipped　quietly　backward　away　from　the　inn；　then　began　to　move　sideways　through　the　tall　grass。　Perhaps　sixty　yards　away；　thick　candles　burned　in　the　windows　of　the　only　other　building　he　could　see。　From　somewhere　not　far　off　to　his　right　drifted　the　odor　of　pigs。　When　Jack　had　gone　half　the　distance　between　the　inn　and　the　house；　the　dogs　ceased　growling　and　snapping；　and　he　slowly　began　walking　forward　toward　the　Western　Road。　The　night　was　dark　and　moonless。
　　Jerry　Bledsoe。
　　　
　　　4
　　
　　There　were　other　houses；　though　Jack　did　not　see　them　until　he　was　nearly　before　them。　Except　for　the　noisy　drinkers　behind　him　at　the　inn；　here　in　the　country　Territories　people　went　to　bed　when　the　sun　did。　No　candles　burned　in　these　small　square　windows。　Themselves　squarish　and　dark；　the　houses　on　either　side　of　the　Western　Road　sat　in　a　puzzling　isolation…something　was　wrong；　as　in　a　visual　game　from　a　child's　magazine；　but　Jack　could　not　identify　it。　Nothing　hung　upside…down；　nothing　burned；　nothing　seemed　extravagantly　out　of　place。　Most　of　the　houses　had　thick　fuzzy　roofs　which　resembled　haystacks　with　crewcuts；　but　Jack　assumed　that　these　were　thatch…he　had　heard　of　it；　but　never　seen　it　before。　Morgan；　he　thought　with　a　sudden　thrill　of　panic；　Morgan　of　Orris；　and　saw　the　two　of　them；　the　man　with　long　hair　and　a　built…up　boot　and　his　father's　sweaty　workaholic　partner；　for　a　moment　jumbled　up　together…Morgan　Sloat　with　pirate's　hair　and　a　hitch　in　his　walk。　But　Morgan…this　world's　Morgan…was　not　what　was　Wrong　with　This　Picture。
　　Jack　was　just　now　passing　a　short　squat　one…story　building　like　an　inflated　rabbit　hutch；　crazily　half…timbered　with　wide　black　wooden　X's。　A　fuzzy　crewcut　thatch　capped　this　building　too。　If　he　were　walking　out　of　Oatley…or　even　running　out　of　Oatley；　to　be　closer　to　the　truth…what　would　he　expect　to　see　in　the　single　dark　window　of　this　hutch　for　giant　rabbits？　He　knew：　the　dancing　glimmer　of　a　television　screen。　But　of　course　Territories　houses　did　not　have　television　sets　inside　them；　and　the　absence　of　that　colorful　glimmer　was　not　what　had　puzzled　him。　It　was　something　else；　something　so　much　an　aspect　of　any　grouping　of　houses　along　a　road　that　its　absence　left　a　hole　in　the　landscape。　You　noticed　the　hole　even　if　you　could　not　quite　identify　what　was　absent。
　　Television；　television　sets　。　。　。　Jack　continued　past　the　half…timbered　little　building　and　saw　ahead　of　him；　its　front　door　set　only　inches　back　from　the　verge　of　the　road；　another　gnomishly　small　dwelling。　This　one　seemed　to　have　a　sod；　not　a　thatched；　roof；　and　Jack　smiled　to　himself…this　tiny　village　had　reminded　him　of　Hobbiton。　Would　a　Hobbit　cable…stringer　pull　up　here　and　say　to　the　lady　of　the　。　。　。　shack？　doghouse？　。　。　。　anyhow；　w