sk.thetalisman-第80部分

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　　Wolf's　feet　slid　back　under　the　door；　and　Jack　thought　he　had　a　glimpse　of　them　being　more　concentrated；　slimmer；　narrower。
　　Wolf　grunted；　panted；　grunted　again。　He　had　moved　well　back　from　the　door。　He　uttered　a　noise　very　like　'Aaah。'
　　'Wolf？'　Jack　said。
　　An　earsplitting　howl　lifted　up　from　above　Jack：　Wolf　had　moved　to　the　top　of　the　gully。
　　'Be　careful；'　Jack　said；　knowing　that　Wolf　would　not　hear　him；　and　fearing　that　he　would　not　understand　him　even　if　he　were　close　enough　to　hear。
　　A　series　of　howls　followed　soon　after…the　sound　of　a　creature　set　free；　or　the　despairing　sound　of　one　who　wakes　to　find　himself　still　confined；　Jack　could　not　tell　which。　Mournful　and　feral　and　oddly　beautiful；　the　cries　of　poor　Wolf　flew　up　into　the　moonlit　air　like　scarves　flung　into　the　night。　Jack　did　not　know　he　was　trembling　until　he　wrapped　his　arms　around　himself　and　felt　his　arms　vibrating　against　his　chest；　which　seemed　to　vibrate；　too。
　　The　howls　diminished；　retreating。　Wolf　was　running　with　the　moon。
　　　
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　　For　three　days　and　three　nights；　Wolf　was　engaged　in　a　nearly　ceaseless　search　for　food。　He　slept　from　each　dawn　until　just　past　noon；　in　a　hollow　he　had　discovered　beneath　the　fallen　trunk　of　an　oak。　Certainly　Wolf　did　not　feel　himself　imprisoned；　despite　Jack's　forebodings。　The　woods　on　the　other　side　of　the　field　were　extensive；　and　full　of　a　wolf's　natural　diet。　Mice；　rabbits；　cats；　dogs；　squirrels…all　these　he　found　easily。　He　could　have　contained　himself　in　the　woods　and　eaten　more　than　enough　to　carry　him　through　to　his　next　Change。
　　But　Wolf　was　riding　with　the　moon；　and　he　could　no　more　confine　himself　to　the　woods　than　he　could　have　halted　his　transformation　in　the　first　place。　He　roamed；　led　by　the　moon；　through　barnyards　and　pastures；　past　isolated　suburban　houses　and　down　unfinished　roads　where　bulldozers　and　giant　asymmetrical　rollers　sat　like　sleeping　dinosaurs　on　the　banks。　Half　of　his　intelligence　was　in　his　sense　of　smell；　and　it　is　not　exaggerating　to　suggest　that　Wolf's　nose；　always　acute；　had　attained　a　condition　of　genius。　He　could　not　only　smell　a　coop　full　of　chickens　five　miles　away　and　distinguish　their　odors　from　those　of　the　cows　and　pigs　and　horses　on　the　same　farm…that　was　elementary…he　could　smell　when　the　chickens　moved。　He　could　smell　that　one　of　the　sleeping　pigs　had　an　injured　foot；　and　one　of　the　cows　in　the　barn　an　ulcerated　udder。
　　And　this　world…for　was　it　not　this　world's　moon　which　led　him？…no　longer　stank　of　chemicals　and　death。　An　older；　more　primitive　order　of　being　met　him　on　his　travels。　He　inhaled　whatever　remained　of　the　earth's　original　sweetness　and　power；　whatever　was　left　of　qualities　we　might　once　have　shared　with　the　Territories。　Even　when　he　approached　some　human　dwelling；　even　while　he　snapped　the　backbone　of　the　family　mutt　and　tore　the　dog　into　gristly　rags　he　swallowed　whole；　Wolf　was　aware　of　pure　cool　streams　moving　far　beneath　the　ground；　of　bright　snow　on　a　mountain　somewhere　a　long　way　west。　This　seemed　a　perfect　place　for　a　transmogrified　Wolf；　and　if　he　had　killed　any　human　being　he　would　have　been　damned。
　　He　killed　no　people。
　　He　saw　none；　and　perhaps　that　is　why。　During　the　three　days　of　his　Change；　Wolf　did　kill　and　devour　representatives　of　most　other　forms　of　life　to　be　found　in　eastern　Indiana；　including　one　skunk　and　an　entire　family　of　bobcats　living　in　limestone　caves　on　a　hillside　two　valleys　away。　On　his　first　night　in　the　woods　he　caught　a　low…flying　bat　in　his　jaws；　bit　off　its　head；　and　swallowed　the　rest　while　it　was　still　jerking。　Whole　squadrons　of　domestic　cats　went　down　his　throat；　platoons　of　dogs。　With　a　wild；　concentrated　glee　he　one　night　slaughtered　every　pig　in　a　pen　the　size　of　a　city　block。
　　But　twice　Wolf　found　that　he　was　mysteriously　forbidden　from　killing　his　prey；　and　this　too　made　him　feel　at　home　in　the　world　through　which　he　prowled。　It　was　a　question　of　place；　not　of　any　abstract　moral　concern…and　on　the　surface；　the　places　were　merely　ordinary。　One　was　a　clearing　in　the　woods　into　which　he　had　chased　a　rabbit；　the　other　the　scruffy　back　yard　of　a　farmhouse　where　a　whimpering　dog　lay　chained　to　a　stake。　The　instant　he　set　a　paw　down　in　these　places；　his　hackles　rose　and　an　electric　tingling　traversed　the　entire　distance　of　his　spine。　These　were　sacred　places；　and　in　a　sacred　place　a　Wolf　could　not　kill。　That　was　all。　Like　all　hallowed　sites；　they　had　been　set　apart　a　long　time　ago；　so　long　ago　that　the　word　ancient　could　have　been　used　to　describe　them…ancient　is　probably　as　close　as　we　can　e　to　representing　the　vast　well　of　time　Wolf　sensed　about　him　in　the　farmer's　back　yard　and　the　little　clearing；　a　dense　envelope　of　years　packed　together　in　a　small；　highly　charged　location。　Wolf　simply　backed　off　the　sacred　ground　and　took　himself　elsewhere。　Like　the　wing…men　Jack　had　seen；　Wolf　lived　in　a　mystery　and　so　was　fortable　with　all　such　things。
　　And　he　did　not　forget　his　obligations　to　Jack　Sawyer。
　　　
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　　In　the　locked　shed；　Jack　found　himself　thrown　upon　the　properties　of　his　own　mind　and　character　more　starkly　than　at　any　other　time　in　his　life。
　　The　only　furniture　in　the　shed　was　the　little　wooden　bench；　the　only　distraction　the　nearly　decade…old　magazines。　And　these　he　could　not　actually　read。　Since　there　were　no　windows；　except　in　very　early　morning　when　light　came　streaming　under　the　door　he　had　trouble　just　working　out　the　pictures　on　the　pages。　The　words　were　streams　of　gray　worms；　indecipherable。　He　could　not　imagine　how　he　would　get　through　the　next　three　days。　Jack　went　toward　the　bench；　struck　it　painfully　with　his　knee；　and　sat　down　to　think。
　　One　of　the　first　things　he　realized　was　that　shed…time　was　different　from　time　on　the　outside。　Beyond　the　shed；　seconds　marched　quickly　past；　melted　into　minutes　which　melted　into　hours。　Whole　days　ticked　along　like　metronomes；　whole　weeks。　In　shed…time；　the　seconds　obstinately　refused　to　move…they　stretched　into　grotesque　monster…seconds；　Plasticman…seconds。　Outside；　an　hour　might　go　by　while　four　or　five　seconds　swelled　and　bloated　inside　the　shed。
　　The　second　thing　Jack　realized　was　that　thinking　about　the　slowness　of　time　made　it　worse。　Once　you　started　concentrating　on　the　passing　of　seconds；　they　more　or　less　refused　to　move　at　all。　So　he　tried　to　pace　off　the　dimensions　of　his　cell　just　to　take　his　mind　off　the　eternity　of　seconds　it　took　to　make　up　three　days。　Putting　one　foot　in　front　of　another　and　counting　his　steps；　he　worked　out　that　the　shed　was　approximately　seven　feet　by　nine　feet。　At　least　there　would　be　enough　room　for　him　to　stretch　out　at　night。
　　If　he　walked　all　the　way　around　the　inside　of　the　shed；　he'd　walk　about　thirty…two　feet。
　　If　he　walked　around　the　inside　of　the　shed　a　hundred　and　sixty…five　times；　he'd　cover　a　mile。
　　He　might　not　be　able　to　eat；　but　he　sure　could　walk。　Jack　took　off　his　watch　and　put　it　in　his　pocket；　promising　himself　that　he　would　look　at　it　only　when　he　absolutely　had　to。
　　He　was　about　one…fourth　of　the　way　through　his　first　mile　when　he　remembered　that　there　was　no　water　in　the　shed。　No　food　and　no　water。　He　supposed　that　it　took　longer　than　three　or　four　days　to　die　of　thirst。　As　long　as　Wolf　came　back　for　him；　he'd　be　all　right…well；　maybe　not　all　right；　but　at　least　alive。　And　if　Wolf　didn't　e　back？　He　would　have　to　break　the　door　down。
　　In　that　case；　he　thought；　he'd　better　try　it　now；　while　he　still　had　some　strength。
　　Jack　went　to　the　door　and　pushed　it　with　both　hands。　He　pushed　it　harder；　and　the　hinges　squeaked。　Experimentally；　Jack　threw　his　shoulder　at　the　edge　of　the　door；　opposite　the　hinges。　He　hurt　his　shoulder；　but　he　didn't　think　he　had　done　anything　to　the　door。　He　banged　his　shoulder　against　the　door　more　forcefully。　The　hinges　squealed　but　did　not　move　a　millimeter。　Wolf　could　have　torn　the　door　off　with　one　hand；　but　Jack　did　not　think　that　he　could　move　it　if　he　turned　his　shoulders　into　hamburger　by　running　into　it。　He　would　just　have　to　wait　for　Wolf。
　　
　　By　the　middle　of　the　night；　Jack　had　walked　seven　or　eight　miles…he'd　lost　count　of　the　number　of　times　he　had　reached　one　hundred