sk.everythingseventual-第11部分

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ff。
　　
　　Or　maybe　slept。　I　don't　know　for　sure。　All　I　know　is　that　a　tug　on　my　line　so　strong　it　almost　pulled　the　bamboo　pole　out　of　my　hand　was　what　brought　me　back　into　the　afternoon。　I　sat　up；　clutched　the　pole；　and　suddenly　became　aware　that　something　was　sitting　on　the　tip　of　my　nose。　I　crossed　my　eyes　and　saw　a　bee。　My　heart　seemed　to　fall　dead　in　my　chest；　and　for　a　horrible　second　I　was　sure　I　was　going　to　wet　my　pants。
　　The　tug　on　my　line　came　again；　stronger　this　time；　but　although　I　maintained　my　grip　on　the　end　of　the　pole　so　it　wouldn't　be　pulled　into　the　stream　and　perhaps　carried　away　（I　think　I　even　had　the　presence　of　mind　to　snub　the　line　with　my　forefinger）；　I　made　no　effort　to　pull　in　my　catch。　All　of　my　horrified　attention　was　fixed　on　the　fat　black…and…yellow　thing　that　was　using　my　nose　as　a　rest…stop。
　　I　slowly　poked　out　my　lower　lip　and　blew　upward。　The　bee　ruffled　a　little　but　kept　its　place。　I　blew　again　and　it　ruffled　again　。　。　。　but　this　time　it　also　seemed　to　shift　impatiently；　and　I　didn't　dare　blow　anymore；　for　fear　it　would　lose　its　temper　pletely　and　give　me　a　shot。　It　was　too　close　for　me　to　focus　on　what　it　was　doing；　but　it　was　easy　to　imagine　it　ramming　its　stinger　into　one　of　my　nostrils　and　shooting　its　poison　up　toward　my　eyes。　And　my　brain。
　　A　terrible　idea　came　to　me：　that　this　was　the　very　bee　which　had　killed　my　brother。　I　knew　it　wasn't　true；　and　not　only　because　honeybees　probably　didn't　live　longer　than　a　single　year　（except　maybe　for　the　queens；　about　them　I　was　not　so　sure）。　It　couldn't　be　true　because　bees　died　when　they　stung；　and　even　at　nine　I　knew　it。　Their　stingers　were　barbed；　and　when　they　tried　to　fly　away　after　doing　the　deed；　they　tore　themselves　apart。　Still；　the　idea　stayed。　This　was　a　special　bee；　a　devil…bee；　and　it　had　e　back　to　finish　the　other　of　Albion　and　Loretta's　two　boys。
　　And　here　is　something　else：　I　had　been　stung　by　bees　before；　and　although　the　stings　had　swelled　more　than　is　perhaps　usual　（I　can't　really　say　for　sure）；　I　had　never　died　of　them。　That　was　only　for　my　brother；　a　terrible　trap　which　had　been　laid　for　him　in　his　very　making；　a　trap　which　I　had　somehow　escaped。　But　as　I　crossed　my　eyes　until　they　hurt　in　an　effort　to　focus　on　the　bee；　logic　did　not　exist。　It　was　the　bee　that　existed；　only　that；　the　bee　that　had　killed　my　brother；　killed　him　so　bad　that　my　father　had　slipped　down　the　straps　of　his　overalls　so　he　could　take　off　his　shirt　and　cover　Dan's　swelled；　engorged　face。　Even　in　the　depths　of　his　grief　he　had　done　that；　because　he　didn't　want　his　wife　to　see　what　had　bee　of　her　first…born。　Now　the　bee　had　returned；　and　now　it　would　kill　me。　It　would　kill　me　and　I　would　die　in　convulsions　on　the　bank；　flopping　just　as　a　brookie　flops　after　you　take　the　hook　out　of　its　mouth。
　　As　I　sat　there　trembling　on　the　edge　of　panic…of　simply　bolting　to　my　feet　and　then　bolting　anywhere…there　came　a　report　from　behind　me。　It　was　as　sharp　and　peremptory　as　a　pistol…shot；　but　I　knew　it　wasn't　a　pistol…shot；　it　was　someone　clapping　his　hands。　One　single　clap。　At　the　moment　it　came；　the　bee　tumbled　off　my　nose　and　fell　into　my　lap。　It　lay　there　on　my　pants　with　its　legs　sticking　up　and　its　stinger　a　threatless　black　thread　against　the　old　scuffed　brown　of　the　corduroy。　It　was　dead　as　a　doornail；　I　saw　that　at　once。　At　the　same　moment；　the　pole　gave　another　tug…the　hardest　yet…and　I　almost　lost　it　again。
　　I　grabbed　it　with　both　hands　and　gave　it　a　big　stupid　yank　that　would　have　made　my　father　clutch　his　head　with　both　hands；　if　he　had　been　there　to　see　it。　A　rainbow　trout；　a　good　bit　larger　than　the　one　I　had　already　caught；　rose　out　of　the　water　in　a　wet；　writhing　flash；　spraying　fine　drops　of　water　from　its　filament　of　tail…it　looked　like　one　of　those　romanticized　fishing　pictures　they　used　to　put　on　the　covers　of　men's　magazines　like　True　and　Man's　Adventure　back　in　the　forties　and　fifties。　At　that　moment　hauling　in　a　big　one　was　about　the　last　thing　on　my　mind；　however；　and　when　the　line　snapped　and　the　fish　fell　back　into　the　stream；　I　barely　noticed。　I　looked　over　my　shoulder　to　see　who　had　clapped。　A　man　was　standing　above　me；　at　the　edge　of　the　trees。　His　face　was　very　long　and　pale。　His　black　hair　was　bed　tight　against　his　skull　and　parted　with　rigorous　care　on　the　left　side　of　his　narrow　head。　He　was　very　tall。　He　was　wearing　a　black　three…piece　suit；　and　I　knew　right　away　that　he　was　not　a　human　being；　because　his　eyes　were　the　orangey…red　of　flames　in　a　woodstove。　I　don't　just　mean　the　irises；　because　he　had　no　irises；　and　no　pupils；　and　certainly　no　whites。　His　eyes　were　pletely　orange…an　orange　that　shifted　and　flickered。　And　it's　really　too　late　not　to　say　exactly　what　I　mean；　isn't　it？　He　was　on　fire　inside；　and　his　eyes　were　like　the　little　isinglass　portholes　you　sometimes　see　in　stove　doors。
　　My　bladder　let　go；　and　the　scuffed　brown　the　dead　bee　was　lying　on　went　a　darker　brown。　I　was　hardly　aware　of　what　had　happened；　and　I　couldn't　take　my　eyes　off　the　man　standing　on　top　of　the　bank　and　looking　down　at　me；　the　man　who　had　walked　out　of　thirty　miles　of　trackless　western　Maine　woods　in　a　fine　black　suit　and　narrow　shoes　of　gleaming　leather。　I　could　see　the　watch…chain　looped　across　his　vest　glittering　in　the　summer　sunshine。　There　was　not　so　much　as　a　single　pine…needle　on　him。　And　he　was　smiling　at　me。
　　'Why；　it's　a　fisherboy！'　he　cried　in　a　mellow；　pleasing　voice。　'Imagine　that！　Are　we　well…met；　fisherboy？'
　　'Hello；　sir；'　I　said。　The　voice　that　came　out　of　me　did　not　tremble；　but　it　didn't　sound　like　my　voice；　either。　It　sounded　older。　Like　Dan's　voice；　maybe。　Or　my　father's；　even。　And　all　I　could　think　was　that　maybe　he　would　let　me　go　if　I　pretended　not　to　see　what　he　was。　If　I　pretended　I　didn't　see　there　were　flames　glowing　and　dancing　where　his　eyes　should　have　been。
　　'I've　saved　you　a　nasty　sting；　perhaps；'　he　said；　and　then；　to　my　horror；　he　came　down　the　bank　to　where　I　sat　with　a　dead　bee　in　my　wet　lap　and　a　bamboo　fishing　pole　in　my　nerveless　hands。　His　slick…soled　city　shoes　should　have　slipped　on　the　low；　grassy　weeds　which　dressed　the　steep　bank；　but　they　didn't；　nor　did　they　leave　tracks　behind；　I　saw。　Where　his　feet　had　touched…or　seemed　to　touch…there　was　not　a　single　broken　twig；　crushed　leaf；　or　trampled　shoe…shape。
　　Even　before　he　reached　me；　I　recognized　the　aroma　baking　up　from　the　skin　under　the　suit…the　smell　of　burned　matches。　The　smell　of　sulfur。　The　man　in　the　black　suit　was　the　Devil。　He　had　walked　out　of　the　deep　woods　between　Motton　and　Kashwakamak；　and　now　he　was　standing　here　beside　me。　From　the　corner　of　one　eye　I　could　see　a　hand　as　pale　as　the　hand　of　a　store　window　dummy。　The　fingers　were　hideously　long。
　　He　hunkered　beside　me　on　his　hams；　his　knees　popping　just　as　the　knees　of　any　normal　man　might；　but　when　he　moved　his　hands　so　they　dangled　between　his　knees；　I　saw　that　each　of　those　long　fingers　ended　in　what　was　not　a　fingernail　but　a　long　yellow　claw。
　　'You　didn't　answer　my　question；　fisherboy；'　he　said　in　his　mellow　voice。　It　was；　now　that　I　think　of　it；　like　the　voice　of　one　of　those　radio　announcers　on　the　big…band　shows　years　later；　the　ones　that　would　sell　Geritol　and　Serutan　and　Ovaltine　and　Dr。　Grabow　pipes。　'Are　we　well…met？'
　　'Please　don't　hurt　me；'　I　whispered；　in　a　voice　so　low　I　could　barely　hear　it。　I　was　more　afraid　than　I　could　ever　write　down；　more　afraid　than　I　want　to　remember　。　。　。　but　I　do。　I　do。　It　never　even　crossed　my　mind　to　hope　I　was　having　a　dream；　although　I　might　have；　I　suppose；　if　I　had　been　older。　But　I　wasn't　older；　I　was　nine；　and　I　knew　the　truth　when　it　squatted　down　on　its　hunkers　beside　me。　I　knew　a　hawk　from　a　handsaw；　as　my　father　would　have　said。　The　man　who　had　e　out　of　the　woods　on　that　Saturday　afternoon　in　midsummer　was　the　Devil；　and　inside　the　empty　holes　of　his　eyes；　his　brains　were　burning。
　　'Oh；　do　I　smell　something？'　he　asked；　as　if　he　hadn't　heard　me　。　。　。　although　I　knew　he　had。　'Do　I　smell　something　。　。　。　wet？'
　　He　leaned　forward　toward　me　with　his　nose　stuck　out；　like　someone　who　means　to　smell　a　flower。　And　I　noticed　an　awful　thing；　as　the　shadow　of　his　head　travelled　over