sk.thetalisman-第58部分

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t　was　the　most　frightful　thing　of　all：　the　eyes　of　the　horses　seemed　to　glow。　They　seemed　to　glow　because　they　were　full　of　light…full　of　the　sunset。
　　The　diligence　was　travelling　west　along　this　same　road　。　。　。　and　it　was　after　him。
　　Crawling；　not　sure　he　could　stand　even　if　he　had　to；　Jack　retreated　from　the　stream　and　lurched　clumsily　out　into　the　road。　He　fell　flat　in　the　dust；　Speedy's　bottle　and　the　mirror　the　rug　salesman　had　given　him　digging　into　his　guts。　He　turned　his　head　sideways　so　that　his　right　cheek　and　ear　were　pressed　tightly　against　the　surface　of　the　Western　Road。
　　He　could　feel　the　steady　rumble　in　the　hard；　dry　earth。　It　was　distant　。　。　。　but　ing　closer。
　　Elroy　up　on　top　。　。　。　Morgan　inside。　Morgan　Sloat？　Morgan　of　Orris？　Didn't　matter。　Both　were　one。
　　He　broke　the　hypnotic　effect　of　that　rumbling　in　the　earth　with　an　effort　and　got　up　again。　He　took　Speedy's　bottle…the　same　over　here　in　the　Territories　as　in　the　U。S。A。…out　of　his　jerkin　and　pulled　as　much　of　the　moss…plug　out　of　the　neck　as　he　could；　never　minding　the　shower　of　particles　into　the　little　bit　of　liquid　remaining…no　more　than　a　couple　of　inches　now。　He　looked　nervously　to　his　left；　as　if　expecting　to　see　the　black　diligence　appear　at　the　horizon；　the　sunset…filled　eyes　of　the　horses　glowing　like　weird　lanterns。　Of　course　he　saw　nothing。　Horizons　were　closer　over　here　in　the　Territories；　as　he　had　already　noticed；　and　sounds　travelled　farther。　Morgan's　diligence　had　to　be　ten　miles　to　the　east；　maybe　as　much　as　twenty。
　　Still　right　on　top　of　me；　Jack　thought；　and　raised　the　bottle　to　his　lips。　A　bare　second　before　he　drank　from　it；　his　mind　shouted；　Hey；　wait　a　minute！　Wait　a　minute；　dummy；　you　want　to　get　killed？　He　would　look　cute；　wouldn't　he；　standing　in　the　middle　of　the　Western　Road　and　then　flipping　back　into　the　other　world　in　the　middle　of　some　road　over　there；　maybe　getting　run　down　by　a　highballing　semi　or　a　UPS　truck。
　　Jack　shambled　over　to　the　side　of　the　road　。　。　。　and　then　walked　ten　or　twenty　paces　into　the　thigh…high　grass　for　good　measure。　He　took　one　final　deep　breath；　inhaling　the　sweet　smell　of　this　place；　groping　for　that　feeling　of　serenity　。　。　。　that　feeling　of　rainbow。
　　Got　to　try　and　remember　how　that　felt；　he　thought。　I　may　need　it　。　。　。　and　I　may　not　get　back　here　for　a　long　time。
　　He　looked　out　at　the　grasslands；　darkening　now　as　night　stole　over　them　from　the　east。　The　wind　gusted；　chilly　now　but　still　fragrant；　tossing　his　hair…it　was　getting　shaggy　now…as　it　tossed　the　grass。
　　You　ready；　Jack…O？
　　Jack　closed　his　eyes　and　steeled　himself　against　the　awful　taste　and　the　vomiting　that　was　apt　to　follow。
　　'Banzai；'　he　whispered；　and　drank。
　　
　　　CHAPTER　14
　　　Buddy　Parkins
　　　
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　　He　vomited　up　a　thin　purple　drool；　his　face　only　inches　from　the　grass　covering　the　long　slope　down　to　a　four…lane　highway；　shook　his　head　and　rocked　backward　onto　his　knees；　so　that　only　his　back　was　exposed　to　the　heavy　gray　sky。　The　world；　this　world；　stank。　Jack　pushed　himself　backward；　away　from　the　threads　of　puke　settling　over　the　blades　of　grass；　and　the　stench　altered　but　did　not　diminish。　Gasoline；　other　nameless　poisons　floated　in　the　air；　and　the　air　itself　stank　of　exhaustion；　fatigue…even　the　noises　roaring　up　from　the　highway　punished　this　dying　air。　The　back　end　of　a　roadsign　reared　like　a　gigantic　television　screen　over　his　head。　Jack　wobbled　to　his　feet。　Far　down　the　other　side　of　the　highway　glinted　an　endless　body　of　water　only　slightly　less　gray　than　the　sky。　A　sort　of　malignant　luminescence　darted　across　the　surface。　From　here；　too；　rose　an　odor　of　metal　filings　and　tired　breath。　Lake　Ontario：　and　the　snug　little　city　down　there　might　be　Olcott　or　Kendall。　He'd　gone　miles　out　of　his　way…lost　a　hundred　miles　or　more　and　just　about　four　and　a　half　days。　Jack　stepped　under　the　sign；　hoping　it　was　no　worse　than　that。　He　looked　up　at　the　black　letters。　Wiped　his　mouth。　ANGOLA。　Angola？　Where　was　that？　He　peered　down　at　the　smoky　little　city　through　the　already　nearly　tolerable　air。
　　
　　And　Rand　McNally；　that　invaluable　panion；　told　him　that　the　acres　of　water　way　down　there　were　Lake　Erie…instead　of　losing　days　of　travel　time；　he　had　gained　them。
　　But　before　the　boy　could　decide　that　he'd　be　smarter　after　all　if　he　jumped　back　into　the　Territories　as　soon　as　he　thought　it　might　be　safe…which　is　to　say；　as　soon　as　Morgan's　diligence　had　roared　long　past　the　place　he　had　been…before　he　could　do　that；　before　he　could　even　begin　to　think　about　doing　that；　he　had　to　go　down　into　the　smokey　little　city　of　Angola　and　see　if　this　time　Jack　Sawyer；　Jack…O；　had　played　any　of　those　changes；　Daddy。　He　began　to　make　his　way　down　the　slope；　a　twelve…year…old　boy　in　jeans　and　a　plaid　shirt；　tall　for　his　age；　already　beginning　to　look　uncared…for；　with　suddenly　too　much　worry　in　his　face。
　　Halfway　down　the　long　slope；　he　realized　that　he　was　thinking　in　English　again。
　　　
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　　Many　days　later；　and　a　long　way　west：　the　man；　Buddy　Parkins　by　name；　who；　just　out　of　Cambridge；　Ohio；　on　U。S。　40；　had　picked　up　a　tall　boy　calling　himself　Lewis　Farren；　would　have　recognized　that　look　of　worry…this　kid　Lewis　looked　like　worry　was　about　to　sink　into　his　face　for　good。　Lighten　up；　son；　for　your　own　sake　if　no　one　else's；　Buddy　wanted　to　tell　the　boy。　But　the　boy　had　troubles　enough　for　ten；　according　to　his　story。　Mother　sick；　father　dead；　sent　off　to　some　schoolteacher　aunt　in　Buckeye　Lake　。　。　。　Lewis　Farren　had　plenty　to　trouble　him。　He　looked　as　though　he　had　not　seen　as　much　as　five　dollars　all　together　since　the　previous　Christmas。　Still　。　。　。　Buddy　thought　that　somewhere　along　the　line　this　Farren　kid　was　jiving　him。
　　For　one　thing；　he　smelled　like　farm；　not　town。　Buddy　Parkins　and　his　brothers　ran　three　hundred　acres　not　far　from　Amanda；　about　thirty　miles　southeast　of　Columbus；　and　Buddy　knew　that　he　could　not　be　wrong　about　this。　This　boy　smelled　like　Cambridge；　and　Cambridge　was　country。　Buddy　had　grown　up　with　the　smell　of　farmland　and　barnyard；　of　manure　and　growing　corn　and　pea　vineries；　and　the　unwashed　clothes　of　this　boy　beside　him　had　absorbed　all　these　familiar　odors。
　　And　there　were　the　clothes　themselves。　Mrs。　Farren　must　have　been　awful　sick；　Buddy　thought；　if　she　sent　her　boy　off　down　the　road　in　ripped　jeans　so　stiff　with　dirt　the　wrinkles　seemed　bronzed。　And　the　shoes！　Lewis　Farren's　sneakers　were　about　to　fall　off　his　feet；　the　laces　all　spliced　together　and　the　fabric　split　or　worn　through　in　a　couple　of　places　on　each　shoe。
　　'So　they　got　yore　daddy's　car；　did　they；　Lewis？'　Buddy　asked。
　　'Just　like　I　said；　that's　right…the　lousy　cowards　came　out　after　midnight　and　just　stole　it　right　out　of　the　garage。　I　don't　think　they　should　be　allowed　to　do　that。　Not　from　people　who　work　hard　and　really　are　going　to　start　making　their　payments　as　soon　as　they　can。　I　mean；　do　you？　You　don't；　do　you？'　
　　The　boy's　honest；　sunburned　face　was　turned　toward　him　as　if　this　were　the　most　serious　question　since　the　Nixon　Pardon　or　maybe　the　Bay　of　Pigs；　and　all　Buddy's　instincts　were　to　agree…he　would　be　inclined　to　agree　with　any　generally　good…hearted　opinion　uttered　by　a　boy　so　redolent　of　farm　work。　'I　guess　there's　two　sides　to　everything　when　you　e　down　to　it；'　Buddy　Parkins　said；　not　very　happily。　The　boy　blinked；　and　then　turned　away　to　face　forward　again。　Again　Buddy　felt　his　anxiety；　the　cloud　of　worry　that　seemed　to　hang　over　the　boy；　and　was　almost　sorry　he　had　not　given　Lewis　Farren　the　agreement　he　seemed　to　need。
　　'I　suppose　yore　aunt's　in　the　grade　school　there　in　Buckeye　Lake；'　Buddy　said；　at　least　in　part　hoping　to　lighten　the　boy's　misery。　Point　to　the　future；　not　the　past。
　　'Yes；　sir；　that's　right。　She　teaches　in　the　grade　school。　Helen　Vaughan。'　His　expression　did　not　change。
　　But　Buddy　had　heard　it　again…he　didn't　consider　himself　any　Henry　Higgins；　the　professor　guy　in　that　musical；　but　he　knew　for　certain　sure　that　young　Lewis　Farren　didn't　talk　like　anyone　who　had　been　raised　in　Ohio。　The　kid's　voice　was　all　wrong；　too　pushed…together　and　full　of　the　wrong　ups　and　downs。　It　wasn't　an　Ohio　voice　at　all。