sk.thewastelands-第28部分

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　　Then；　lying　in　a　cluster　of　scrubby　burdock　plants；　Jake　saw　the　key　。　。　。　and　beyond　that；　the　rose。
　　
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　　His　LEGS　BETRAYED　HIM　and　he　fell　to　his　knees。　He　was　vaguely　aware　that　he　was　weeping；　even　more　vaguely　aware　that　he　had　wet　his　pants　a　little。　He　crawled　forward　on　his　knees　and　reached　toward　the　key　lying　in　the　snarl　of　burdocks。　Its　simple　shape　was　one　he　seemed　to　have　seen　in　his　dreams。
　　
　　He　thought：　The　little　s…shape　at　the　end…that's　the　secret。
　　As　he　closed　his　hand　around　the　key；　the　voices　rose　in　a　harmonic　shout　of　triumph。　Jake's　own　cry　was　lost　in　the　voice　of　that　choir；　lie　saw　the　key　flash　white　within　his　fingers；　and　felt　a　tremendous　jolt　of　power　run　up　his　arm。　It　was　as　if　he　had　grasped　a　live　high…tension　wire；　but　there　was　no　pain。
　　He　opened　Charlie　the　Choo…Choo　and　put　the　key　inside。　Then　his　eyes　fixed　upon　the　rose　again；　and　he　realized　that　it　was　the　real　key…the　key　to　everything。　He　crawled　toward　it；　his　face　a　flaming　corona　of　light；　his　eyes　blazing　wells　of　blue　fire。
　　The　rose　was　growing　from　a　clump　of　alien　purple　grass。
　　As　Jake　neared　this　clump　of　alien　grass；　the　rose　began　to　open　before　his　eyes。　It　disclosed　a　dark　scarlet　furnace；　petal　upon　secret　petal；　each　burning　with　its　own　secret　fury。　He　had　never　seen　anything　so　intensely　and　utterly　alive　in　his　whole　life。
　　And　now；　as　he　stretched　one　grimy　hand　out　toward　this　wonder；　the　voices　began　to　sing　his　own　name　。　。　。　and　deadly　fear　began　to　steal　in　toward　the　center　of　his　heart。　It　was　as　cold　as　ice　and　as　heavy　as　stone。
　　There　was　something　wrong。　He　could　feel　a　pulsing　discord；　like　a　deep　and　ugly　scratch　across　some　priceless　work　of　art　or　a　deadly　fever　smoldering　beneath　the　chilly　skin　of　an　invalid's　brow。
　　It　was　something　like　a　worm。　An　invading　worm。　And　a　shape。　One　which　lurks　just　beyond　the　next　turn　of　the　road。
　　Then　the　heart　of　the　rose　opened　for　him；　exposing　a　yellow　dazzle　of　light；　and　all　thought　was　swept　away　on　a　wave　of　wonder。　Jake　thought　for　a　moment　that　what　he　was　seeing　was　only　pollen　which　had　been　invested　with　the　supernatural　glow　which　lived　at　the　heart　of　every　object　in　this　deserted　clearing…he　thought　it　even　though　he　had　never　heard　of　pollen　within　a　rose。　He　leaned　closer　and　saw　that　the　concentrated　circle　of　blazing　yellow　was　not　pollen　at　all。　It　was　a　sun：　a　vast　forge　burning　at　the　center　of　this　rose　growing　in　the　purple　grass。
　　The　fear　returned；　only　now　it　had　bee　outright　terror。　It's　right；　he　thought；　everything　here　is　right；　but　it　could　go　wrong…has　started　going　wrong　already；　I　think。　I'm　being　allowed　to　feel　as　much　of　that　wrongness　as　I　can　bear　。　。　。　but　what　is　it？　And　what　can　I　do？
　　It　was　something　like　a　worm。
　　He　could　feel　it　beating　like　a　sick　and　dirty　heart；　warring　with　the　serene　beauty　of　the　rose；　screaming　harsh　profanities　against　the　choir　of　voices　which　had　so　soothed　and　lifted　him。
　　He　leaned　closer　to　the　rose　and　saw　that　its　core　was　not　just　one　sun　but　many　。　。　。　perhaps　all　suns　contained　within　a　ferocious　yet　fragile　shell。
　　But　it's　wrong。　It's　all　in　danger。
　　Knowing　it　would　almost　surely　mean　his　death　to　touch　that　glowing　microcosm　Init　helpless　to　stop　himself；　Jake　reached　forward。　There　was　no　curiosity　or　terror　in　this　gesture；　only　a　great；　inarticulate　need　to　protect　the　rose。
　　
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　　WHEN　HE　CAME　BACK　to　himself；　he　was　at　first　only　aware　that　a　great　deal　of　time　had　passed　and　his　head　hurt　like　hell。
　　What　happened？　Was　I　mugged？
　　He　rolled　over　and　sat　up。　Another　blast　of　pain　went　through　his　head。　He　raised　a　hand　to　his　left　temple；　and　his　fingers　came　away　sticky　with　blood。　He　looked　down　and　saw　a　brick　poking　out　of　the　weeds。　Its　rounded　er　was　too　red。
　　If　it　had　been　sharp；　I'd　probably　be　dead　or　in　a　a。
　　He　looked　at　his　wrist　and　was　surprised　to　find　he　was　still　wearing　his　watch。　It　was　a　Seiko；　not　terribly　expensive；　but　in　this　city　you　didn't　snooze　in　vacant　lots　without　losing　your　stuff。　Expensive　or　not；　someone　would　be　more　than　happy　to　relieve　you　of　it。　This　time　he　had　been　lucky；　it　seemed。
　　It　was　quarter　past　four　in　the　afternoon。　He　had　been　lying　here；　dead　to　the　world；　for　at　least　five　hours。　His　father　probably　had　the　cops　out　looking　for　him　by　now；　but　that　didn't　seem　to　matter　much。　It　seemed　to　Jake　that　he　had　walked　out　of　Piper　School　about　a　thou…sand　years　ago。
　　Jake　walked　half　the　distance　to　the　fence　between　the　vacant　lot　and　the　Second　Avenue　sidewalk；　then　stopped。
　　What　exactly　had　happened　to　him？
　　Little　by　little；　the　memories　came　back。　Hopping　the　fence。　Slip…ping　and　twisting　his　ankle。　He　reached　down；　touched　it；　and　winced。　Yes…that　much　had　happened；　all　right。　Then　what？
　　Something　magical。
　　He　groped　for　that　something　like　an　old　man　groping　his　way　across　a　shadowy　room。　Everything　had　been　full　of　its　own　light。　Everything…even　the　empty　wrappers　and　discarded　beer…bottles。　There　had　been　voices…they　had　been　singing　and　telling　thousands　of　overlapping　stories。
　　〃And　faces；〃　he　muttered。　This　memory　made　him　look　around　apprehensively。　He　saw　no　faces。　The　piles　of　bricks　were　just　piles　of　bricks；　and　the　tangles　of　weeds　were　just　tangles　of　weeds。　There　were　no　faces；　but…
　　…but　they　were　here。　It　wasn't　your　imagination。
　　He　believed　that。　He　couldn't　capture　the　essence　of　the　memory；　its　quality　of　beauty　and　transcendence；　but　it　seemed　perfectly　real。　It　was　just　that　his　memory　of　those　moments　before　he　had　passed　out　seemed　like　photographs　taken　on　the　best　day　of　your　life。　You　can　remember　what　that　day　was　like…sort　of；　anyway…but　the　pictures　are　flat　and　almost　powerless。
　　Jake　looked　around　the　desolate　lot；　now　filling　up　with　the　violet　shadows　of　late　afternoon；　and　thought：　/　want　you　back。　God；　I　want　you　back　the　way　you　were。
　　Then　he　saw　the　rose；　growing　in　its　clump　of　purple　grass；　very　close　to　the　place　where　he　had　fallen。　His　heart　leaped　into　his　throat。　Jake　blundered　back　toward　it；　unmindful　of　the　beats　of　pain　each　step　sent　up　from　his　ankle。　He　dropped　to　his　knees　in　front　of　it　like　a　worshipper　at　an　altar。　He　leaned　forward；　eyes　wide。
　　It's　just　a　rose。　Just　a　rose　after　all。　And　the　grass…
　　The　grass　wasn't　purple　after　all；　he　saw。　There　were　splatters　of　purple　on　the　blades；　yes；　but　the　color　beneath　was　a　perfectly　normal　green。　He　looked　a　little　further　and　saw　splashes　of　blue　on　another　clump　of　weeds。　To　his　right；　a　straggling　burdock　bush　bore　traces　of　both　red　and　yellow。　And　beyond　the　burdocks　was　a　little　pile　of　dis…carded　paint…cans。　Glidden　Spread　Satin；　the　labels　said。
　　That's　all　it　was。　Just　splatters　of　paint。　Only　with　your　head　all　messed　up　the　way　it　was；　you　thought　you　were　seeing…
　　That　was　bullshit。
　　He　knew　what　he　had　seen　then；　and　what　he　was　seeing　now。　〃Camouflage；〃　he　whispered。　〃It　was　all　right　here。　Everything　was。　And　。。。　it　still　is。〃
　　Now　that　his　head　was　clearing；　he　could　again　feel　the　steady；　harmonic　power　that　this　place　held。　The　choir　was　still　here；　its　voice　just　as　musical；　although　now　dim　and　distant。　He　looked　at　a　pile　of　bricks　and　old　broken　chunks　of　plaster　and　saw　a　barely　discernible　face　hiding　within　it。　It　was　the　face　of　a　woman　with　a　scar　on　her　forehead。
　　〃Allie？〃　Jake　murmured。　〃Isn't　your　name　Allie？〃
　　There　was　no　answer。　The　face　was　gone。　He　was　only　looking　at　an　unlovely　pile　of　bricks　and　plaster　again。
　　He　looked　back　at　the　rose。　It　was；　he　saw；　not　the　dark　red　that　lives　at　the　heart　of　a　blazing　furnace；　but　a　dusty；　mottled　pink。　It　was　very　beautiful；　but　not　perfect。　Some　of　the　petals　had　curled　back；　the　outer　edges　of　these　were　brown　and　dead。　It　wasn't　the　sort　of　cultivated　flower　he　had　seen　in　florists'　shops；　he　supposed　it　was　a　wild　rose。
　　〃You're　very　beautiful；〃　he　said；　and　once　more　stretched　his　hand　out　to　touch　it。
　　Although　there　was　no　breeze；　the　rose　nodded　toward　him。　For　just　a　moment　the　pads　of　his　fingers　touched　its　surface；　smooth　and　velvety　and　marvellously　alive；　and　all　around　him　the　voice　of　the　choir　seemed　to　swell。
　　〃Are　you　sick；　rose？〃
　　There　was　no　answer；　of　course。　When　his　fingers　left　the　faded　pink　bowl　of　the　flower；　it　nodded　back　to　its　original　position；　growing　out　of　the　paint…splattered　weeds　in　its　quiet；　forgotten　splendor。
　　Do　roses　bloom　at　this　time　of　year？　Jake　wondered。　Wild　ones？　Why　would　a　wild　rose　grow　in　a　vacant　lot；　anyway？　And　if　there's　one；　how　e　there　aren't　more？
　　He　remained　on　his　hands　and　knees　a　little　longer；　then　realized　he　could　stay　here　looking　at　the　rose　for　the　rest　of　the　afternoon　（or　maybe　the　rest　of　his　life）　and　not　e　any　closer　to　solving　its　mystery。　He　had　seen　it　plain　for　a　moment；　as　he　had　seen　everything　else　in　this　forgotten；　trash…littered　corner　of　the　city；　he　had　seen　it　with　its　mask　off　and　its　camouflage　tossed　aside。　He　wanted　to　see　that　again；　but　wanting　would　not　make　it　so。
　　It　was　time　to　go　home。
　　He　saw　the　two　books　he'd　bought　at　The　Manhattan　Restaurant　of　the　Mind　lying　nearby。　As　he　picked　them　up；　a　bright　silver　object　slipped　from　the　pages　of　Charlie　the　Choo…Choo　and　fell　into　a　scruffy　patch　of　weeds。　Jake　bent；　favoring　his　hurt　ankle；　and　picked　it　up。　As　he　did　so；　the　choir　seemed　to　sigh　and　swell；　then　fell　back　to　its　almost　inaudible　hum。
　　〃So　that　part　was　real；　too；〃　he　murmured。　He　ran　the　ball　of　his　thumb　over　the　blunt　protruding　points　of　the　key　and　into　those　primi…tive　V…shaped　notches。　He　sent　it　skating　over　the　mild　s…curves　at　the　end　of　the　third　notch。　Then　he　tucked　it　deep　into　the　right　front　pocket　of　his　pants　and　began　to　limp　back　toward　the　fence。
　　He　had　reached　it　and　was　preparing　to　scramble　over　the　top　when　a　terrible　thought　suddenly　seized　his　mind。
　　The　rose！　What　if　somebody　es　in　here　and　picks　it？
　　A　little　moan　of　horror　escaped　him。　He　turned　back　and　after　a　moment　his　eyes　picked　it　out；　although　it　was　deep　in　the　shadow　of　a　neighboring　building　now…a　tiny