sk.everythingseventual-第15部分

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d　floated　out　of　my　mind　in　a　week's　time）；　but　the　little　red　Testament　didn't　seem　like　enough　when　you　were　maybe　going　to　face　the　Devil　himself；　not　even　when　the　words　of　Jesus　were　marked　out　in　red　ink。
　　My　father　looked　at　the　old　Bible；　swelled　with　family　documents　and　pictures；　and　I　thought　he'd　tell　me　to　put　it　back；　but　he　didn't。　A　look　of　mixed　grief　and　sympathy　crossed　his　face；　and　he　nodded。　'All　right；'　he　said。　'Does　your　mother　know　you　took　that？'
　　'No；　sir。'
　　He　nodded　again。　'Then　we'll　hope　she　doesn't　spot　it　gone　before　we　get　back。　e　on。　And　don't　drop　it。'
　　
　　Half　an　hour　or　so　later；　the　two　of　us　stood　on　the　bank　looking　down　at　the　place　where　Castle　Stream　forked；　and　at　the　flat　place　where　I'd　had　my　encounter　with　the　man　with　the　red…orange　eyes。　I　had　my　bamboo　rod　in　my　hand…I'd　picked　it　up　below　the　bridge…and　my　creel　lay　down　below；　on　the　flat　place。　Its　wicker　top　was　flipped　back。　We　stood　looking　down；　my　father　and　I；　for　a　long　time；　and　neither　of　us　said　anything。
　　Opal！　Diamond！　Sapphire！　Jade！　I　smell　Gary's　lemonade！　That　had　been　his　unpleasant　little　poem；　and　once　he　had　recited　it；　he　had　thrown　himself　on　his　back；　laughing　like　a　child　who　has　just　discovered　he　has　enough　courage　to　say　bathroom　words　like　shit　or　piss。　The　flat　place　down　there　was　as　green　and　lush　as　any　place　in　Maine　that　the　sun　can　get　to　in　early　July　。　。　。　except　where　the　stranger　had　lain。　There　the　grass　was　dead　and　yellow　in　the　shape　of　a　man。
　　I　looked　down　and　saw　I　was　holding　our　lumpy　old　family　Bible　straight　out　in　front　of　me　with　both　thumbs　pressing　so　hard　on　the　cover　that　they　were　white。　It　was　the　way　Mama　Sweet's　husband　Norville　held　a　willow…fork　when　he　was　trying　to　dowse　somebody　a　well。
　　'Stay　here；'　my　father　said　at　last；　and　skidded　sideways　down　the　bank；　digging　his　shoes　into　the　rich　soft　soil　and　holding　his　arms　out　for　balance。　I　stood　where　I　was；　holding　the　Bible　stiffly　out　at　the　ends　of　my　arms　like　a　willow…fork；　my　heart　thumping　wildly。　I　don't　know　if　I　had　a　sense　of　being　watched　that　time　or　not；　I　was　too　scared　to　have　a　sense　of　anything；　except　for　a　sense　of　wanting　to　be　far　away　from　that　place　and　those　woods。
　　My　Dad　bent　down；　sniffed　at　where　the　grass　was　dead；　and　grimaced。　I　knew　what　he　was　smelling：　something　like　burnt　matches。　Then　he　grabbed　my　creel　and　came　on　back　up　the　bank；　hurrying。　He　snagged　one　fast　look　over　his　shoulder　to　make　sure　nothing　was　ing　along　behind。　Nothing　was。　When　he　handed　me　the　creel；　the　lid　was　still　hanging　back　on　its　cunning　little　leather　hinges。　I　looked　inside　and　saw　nothing　but　two　handfuls　of　grass。
　　'Thought　you　said　you　caught　a　rainbow；'　my　father　said；　'but　maybe　you　dreamed　that；　too。'
　　Something　in　his　voice　stung　me。　'No；　sir；'　I　said。　'I　caught　one。'
　　'Well；　it　sure　as　hell　didn't　flop　out；　not　if　it　was　gutted　and　cleaned。　And　you　wouldn't　put　a　catch　into　your　fisherbox　without　doing　that；　would　you；　Gary？　I　taught　you　better　than　that。'
　　'Yes；　sir；　you　did；　but…'
　　'So　if　you　didn't　dream　catching　it　and　if　it　was　dead　in　the　box；　something　must　have　e　along　and　eaten　it；'　my　father　said；　and　then　he　grabbed　another　quick　glance　over　his　shoulder；　eyes　wide；　as　if　he　had　heard　something　move　in　the　woods。　I　wasn't　exactly　surprised　to　see　drops　of　sweat　standing　out　on　his　forehead　like　big　clear　jewels。　'e　on；'　he　said。　'Let's　get　the　hell　out　of　here。'
　　I　was　for　that；　and　we　went　back　along　the　bank　to　the　bridge；　walking　quick　without　speaking。　When　we　got　there；　my　Dad　dropped　to　one　knee　and　examined　the　place　where　we'd　found　my　rod。　There　was　another　patch　of　dead　grass　there；　and　the　lady's　slipper　was　all　brown　and　curled　in　on　itself；　as　if　a　blast　of　heat　had　charred　it。　While　my　father　did　this；　I　looked　in　my　empty　creel。
　　'He　must　have　gone　back　and　eaten　my　other　fish；　too；'　I　said。
　　My　father　looked　up　at　me。　'Other　fish！'
　　'Yes；　sir。　I　didn't　tell　you；　but　I　caught　a　brookie；　too。　A　big　one。　He　was　awful　hungry；　that　fella。'　I　wanted　to　say　more；　and　the　words　trembled　just　behind　my　lips；　but　in　the　end　I　didn't。
　　We　climbed　up　to　the　bridge　and　helped　one　another　over　the　railing。　My　father　took　my　creel；　looked　into　it；　then　went　to　the　railing　and　threw　it　over。　I　came　up　beside　him　in　time　to　see　it　splash　down　and　float　away　like　a　boat；　riding　lower　and　lower　in　the　stream　as　the　water　poured　in　between　the　wicker　weavings。
　　'It　smelled　bad；'　my　father　said；　but　he　didn't　look　at　me　when　he　said　it；　and　his　voice　sounded　oddly　defensive。　It　was　the　only　time　I　ever　heard　him　speak　just　that　way。
　　'Yes；　sir。'
　　'We'll　tell　your　mother　we　couldn't　find　it。　If　she　asks。　If　she　doesn't　ask；　we　won't　tell　her　anything。'
　　'No；　sir；　we　won't。'
　　And　she　didn't　and　we　didn't　and　that's　the　way　it　was。
　　
　　That　day　in　the　woods　is　eighty…one　years　gone；　and　for　many　of　the　years　in　between　I　have　never　even　thought　of　it　。　。　。　not　awake；　at　least。　Like　any　other　man　or　woman　who　ever　lived；　I　can't　say　about　my　dreams；　not　for　sure。　But　now　I'm　old；　and　I　dream　awake；　it　seems。　My　infirmities　have　crept　up　like　waves　which　will　soon　take　a　child's　abandoned　sand　castle；　and　my　memories　have　also　crept　up；　making　me　think　of　some　old　rhyme　that　went；　in　part；　'Just　leave　them　alone/And　they'll　e　home/Wagging　their　tails　behind　them。'　I　remember　meals　I　ate；　games　I　played；　girls　I　kissed　in　the　school　cloakroom　when　we　played　Post　Office；　boys　I　chummed　with；　the　first　drink　I　ever　took；　the　first　cigarette　I　ever　smoked　（cornshuck　behind　Dicky　Hammer's　pig…shed；　and　I　threw　up）。　Yet　of　all　the　memories；　the　one　of　the　man　in　the　black　suit　is　the　strongest；　and　glows　with　its　own　spectral；　haunted　light。　He　was　real；　he　was　the　Devil；　and　that　day　I　was　either　his　errand　or　his　luck。　I　feel　more　and　more　strongly　that　escaping　him　was　my　luck…just　luck；　and　not　the　intercession　of　the　God　I　have　worshipped　and　sung　hymns　to　all　my　life。
　　As　I　lie　here　in　my　nursing…home　room；　and　in　the　ruined　sand　castle　that　is　my　body；　I　tell　myself　that　I　need　not　fear　the　Devil…that　I　have　lived　a　good；　kindly　life；　and　I　need　not　fear　the　Devil。　Sometimes　I　remind　myself　that　it　was　I；　not　my　father；　who　finally　coaxed　my　mother　back　to　church　later　on　that　summer。　In　the　dark；　however；　these　thoughts　have　no　power　to　ease　or　fort。　In　the　dark　es　a　voice　which　whispers　that　the　nine…year…old　boy　I　was　had　done　nothing　for　which　he　might　legitimately　fear　the　devil　either　。　。　。　and　yet　the　Devil　came。　And　in　the　dark　I　sometimes　hear　that　voice　drop　even　lower；　into　ranges　which　are　inhuman。　Big　fish！　it　whispers　in　tones　of　hushed　greed；　and　all　the　truths　of　the　moral　world　fall　to　ruin　before　its　hunger。　Biiig　fiiish！
　　The　Devil　came　to　me　once；　long　ago；　suppose　he　were　to　e　again　now？　I　am　too　old　to　run　now；　I　can't　even　get　to　the　bathroom　and　back　without　my　walker。　I　have　no　fine　large　brook　trout　with　which　to　propitiate　him；　either；　even　for　a　moment　or　two；　I　am　old　and　my　creel　is　empty。　Suppose　he　were　to　e　back　and　find　me　so？
　　And　suppose　he　is　still　hungry？
　　
　　
　　My　favorite　Nathaniel　Hawthorne　story　is　'Young　Goodman　Brown。'　I　think　it's　one　of　the　ten　best　stories　ever　written　by　an　American。　'The　Man　in　the　Black　Suit'　is　my　hommage　to　it。　As　for　the　particulars；　I　was　talking　with　a　friend　of　mine　one　day；　and　he　happened　to　mention　that　his　Grandpa　believed…truly　believed…that　he　had　seen　the　Devil　in　the　woods；　back　around　the　turn　of　the　twentieth　century。　Grandpa　said　the　Devil　came　walking　out　of　the　woods　and　started　talking　to　him　just　like　a　natural　man。　While　Grandpa　was　chinning　with　him；　he　realized　that　the　man　from　the　woods　had　burning　red　eyes　and　smelled　like　sulfur。　My　friend's　Grandpa　became　convinced　that　the　Devil　would　kill　him　if　he　realized　Grandpa　had　caught　on；　so　he　did　his　best　to　make　normal　conversation　until　he　could　eventually　get　away。　My　story　grew　from　my　friend's　story。　Writing　it　was　no　fun；　but　I　went　on　with　it；　anyway。　Sometimes　stories　cry　out　to　be　told　in　such　loud　voices　that　you　write