sk.dreamcatcher-第48部分

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yes　the　size　of　pinheads。　Looking　at　them　made　him　feel　like　screaming。
　　　　He　turned　and　walked　jerkily　out　of　the　room　on　legs　with　no　more　feeling　in　them　than　the　legs　of　a　table。　He　felt　like　a　puppet　being　manipulated　by　someone　who　means　well　but　has　just　begun　to　learn　his　craft。　He　had　no　real　idea　where　he　was　going　until　he　reached　the　kitchen　and　bent　over　the　cabinet　under　the　sink。
　　　　'I　am　the　eggman；　I　am　the　eggman；　I　am　the　walrus！　Goo…goo…joob！'
　　　　He　didn't　sing　this　but　declaimed　it　in　a　loud；　hortatory　voice　he　hadn't　realized　was　in　his　repertoire。　It　was　the　voice　of　a　ham　actor　from　the　nineteenth　century。　That　idea　called　up　an　image　God　knew　why　…　of　Edwin　Booth　dressed　as　d'Artagnan；　plumed　hat　and　all；　quoting　from　the　lyrics　of　John　Lennon；　and　Henry　uttered　two　loud　laugh…syllables　…　Ha！　Ha！
　　　　I'm　going　insane；　he　thought　。　。　。　but　it　was　okay。　Better　d'Artagnan　reciting　'I　Am　the　Walrus'　than　the　image　of　that　thing's　blood　splattering　onto　the　wall；　or　the　mold…covered　Doc　Marten　sticking　out　of　the　bathtub；　or；　worst　of　all；　those　eggs　splitting　open　and　releasing　a　load　of　twitching　hairs　with　eyes。　All　those　eyes　looking　at　him。
　　　　He　moved　aside　the　dish　detergent　and　the　floor…bucket；　and　there　it　was；　the　yellow　can　of　Sparx　barbecue　lighter　fluid。　The　inept　puppeteer　who　had　taken　him　over　advanced　Henry's　arm　in　a　series　of　jerks；　then　clamped　his　right　hand　on　the　Sparx　can。　He　carried　it　back　across　the　living　room；　pausing　long　enough　to　take　the　box　of　wooden　matches　from　the　mantel。
　　　　'I　am　he　and　you　are　me　and　we　are　all　together！'　he　declaimed；　and　stepped　briskly　back　into　Jonesy's　bedroom　before　the　terrified　person　inside　his　head　could　seize　the　controls；　turn　him；　and　make　him　run　away。　That　person　wanted　to　make　him　run　until　he　fell　down　unconscious。　Or　dead。
　　　　The　eggs　on　the　bed　were　also　splitting　open。　Two　dozen　or　more　of　those　hairs　were　crawling　around　on　the　blood…soaked　sheet　or　squirming　on　Jonesy's　pillow。　One　raised　its　nub　of　a　head　and　chittered　at　Henry；　a　sound　almost　too　thin　and　high…pitched　to　be　heard。
　　　　Still　not　allowing　himself　any　pause；　if　he　paused　he　would　never　get　started　again　（in　any　direction　save　doorward；　that　was）；　Henry　took　two　steps　to　the　foot　of　the　bed。　One　of　the　hairs　came　sliding　across　the　floor　toward　him；　propelling　itself　with　its　tail　like　a　spermatozoon　under　a　microscope。
　　　　Henry　stepped　on　it；　thumbing　the　red　plastic　cap　off　the　spout　of　the　can　as　he　did。　He　aimed　the　spout　at　the　bed　and　squeezed；　flicking　his　wrist　back　and　forth；　making　sure　he　got　plenty　on　the　floor　as　well。　When　the　lighter　fluid　hit　the　hairlike　things；　they　made　high；　mewling　cries　like　kittens　which　had　just　been　born。
　　　　'Eggman　。　。　。　eggman　。　。　。　walrus！'
　　　　He　stepped　on　another　of　the　hairs　and　saw　that　a　third　was　clinging　to　the　leg　of　his　jeans；　holding　on　with　its　wisp　of　a　tail　and　trying　to　bite　through　the　cloth　with　its　still　soft　teeth。
　　　　'Eggman；'　Henry　muttered；　and　scraped　it　off　with　the　side　of　his　other　boot。　When　it　tried　to　squirm　away　he　stepped　on　it。　He　was　suddenly　aware　that　he　was　drenched　with　sweat；　sopping　from　head　to　toe；　if　he　went　out　into　the　cold　like　this　（and　he　would　have　to；　he　couldn't　stay　here）；　he'd　probably　catch　his　death。
　　　　'Can't　stay　here；　can't　take　no　rest！'　Henry　cried　in　his　new　hortatory　voice。
　　　　He　opened　the　matchbox；　but　his　hands　were　shaking　so　badly　he　spilled　half　of　them　on　the　floor。　More　of　the　threadlike　worms　were　crawling　toward　him。　They　might　not　know　much；　but　they　knew　he　was　the　enemy；　all　right；　they　knew　that。
　　　　Henry　got　hold　of　a　match；　held　it　up；　put　his　thumb　against　the　tip。　A　trick　Pete　had　taught　him　in　the　way　back　when。　It　was　your　friends　who　always　taught　you　the　finer　things；　wasn't　it？　Like　how　to　give　your　old　pal　Beaver　a　Viking　funeral　and　get　n'd　of　these　noisome　little　snakelets　at　the　same　time。
　　　　'Eggman！'
　　　　He　scratched　the　tip　of　the　match　and　it　popped　fire。　The　smell　of　the　burning　sulfur　was　like　the　smell　that　had　greeted　him　when　he　stepped　into　the　cabin；　like　the　smell　of　the　burly　woman's　farts。
　　　　'Walrus！'
　　　　He　flung　the　match　at　the　foot　of　the　bed；　where　there　was　a　crumpled　duvet　now　soaked　with　lighter　fluid。　For　a　moment　the　flame　guttered　down　blue　around　the　little　stick；　and　Henry　thought　it　would　go　out。　Then　there　was　a　soft　flump　sound；　and　the　duvet　grew　a　modest　crown　of　yellow　flames。
　　　　'Goo…goo…joob！'
　　　　The　flames　crawled　up　the　sheet；　turning　the　blood　soaked　into　it　black。　It　reached　the　mass　of　jelly…coated　eggs；　tasted　them；　and　found　them　good。　There　was　a　series　of　thick　popping　sounds　as　the　eggs　began　to　burst。　More　of　those　mewling　cries　as　the　worms　burned。　Sizzling　noises　as　fluid　ran　out　of　the　burst　eggs。
　　　　Henry　backed　out　of　the　room；　squirting　lighter　fluid　as　he　went。　He　got　halfway　across　the　Navajo　rug　before　the　can　ran　empty。　He　tossed　it　aside；　scratched　another　match；　and　tossed　it。　This　time　the　flump！　was　immediate；　and　the　flames　sprang　up　orange。　The　heat　baked　against　his　sweat…shiny　face；　and　he　felt　a　sudden　urge　…　it　was　both　strong　and　joyful　…　to　cast　the　painters'　masks　aside　and　simply　stride　into　the　fire。　Hello　heat；　hello　summer；　hello　darkness；　my　old　friend。
　　　　What　stopped　him　was　as　simple　as　it　was　powerful。　If　he　pulled　the　pin　now；　he　would　have　suffered　the　unpleasant　awakening　of　all　his　quiescent　emotions　to　no　purpose。　He　would　never　be　clear　on　the　details　of　what　had　happened　here；　but　he　might　get　at　least　some　answers　from　whoever　was　flying　the　helicopters　and　shooting　the　animals。　If　they　didn't　just　shoot　him；　too；　that　was。
　　　　At　the　door；　Henry　was　struck　by　a　memory　so　clear　that　his　heart　cried　out　inside　him：　Beaver　kneeling　in　front　of　Duddits；　who　is　trying　to　put　on　his　sneaker　backwards。　Let　me　fix　that；　man；　Beaver　says；　and　Duddits；　looking　at　him　with　a　wide…eyed　perplexity　that　you　could　only　love；　replies。　Fit　neek？
　　　　Henry　was　crying　again。　'So　long；　Beav；'　he　said。　'Love　you；　man　…　and　that's　straight　from　the　heart。'
　　　　Then　he　stepped　out　into　the　cold。


6

He　walked　to　the　far　end　of　Hole　in　the　Wall；　where　the　woodpile　was。　Beside　it　was　another　tarp；　this　one　ancient；　black　fading　to　gray。　It　was　frost…frozen　to　the　ground；　and　Henry　had　to　yank　hard　with　both　hands　in　order　to　pull　it　free。　Under　it　was　a　tangle　of　snowshoes；　skates；　and　skis。　There　was　an　antediluvian　ice…auger；　as　well。
　　　　As　he　looked　at　this　unprepossessing　pile　of　long…dormant　winter　gear；　Henry　suddenly　realized　how　tired　he　was　。　。　。　except　tired　was　really　too　mild　a　word。　He　had　just　e　ten　miles　on　foot；　much　of　it　at　a　fast　trot。　He　had　also　been　in　a　car　accident　and　discovered　the　body　of　a　childhood　friend。　He　believed　both　his　other　two　childhood　friends　were　likewise　lost　to　him。
　　　　If　I　hadn't　been　suicidal　to　begin　with；　I'd　be　stark…raving　crazy　by　now；　he　thought；　and　then　laughed。　It　felt　good　to　laugh；　but　it　didn't　make　him　feel　any　less　tired。　Still；　he　had　to　get　out　of　here。　Had　to　find　someone　in　authority　and　tell　them　what　had　happened。　They　might　already　know　…　based　on　the　sounds；　they　sure　as　shit　knew　something；　although　their　methods　of　dealing　with　it　made　Henry　feel　uneasy　…　but　they　might　not　know　about　the　weasels。　And　the　eggs。　He；　Henry　Devlin；　would　tell　them　…　who　better？　He　was　the　eggman；　after　all。
　　　　The　rawhide　lacings　of　the　snowshoes　had　been　chewed　by　so　many　mice　that　the　shoes　were　little　more　than　empty　frames。　After　some　sorting；　however；　he　found　a　stubby　pair　of　cross…country　skis　that　looked　as　if　they　might　have　been　state…of…the…art　around　1954　or　so。　The　clamps　were　rusty；　but　when　he　pushed　them　with　both　thumbs；　he　was　able　to　move　them　enough　to　take　a　reluctant　grip　on　his　boots。
　　　　There　was　a　steady　crackling　sound　ing　from　inside　the　cabin　now。　Henry　laid　one　hand　on　the　wood　and　felt　the　heat。　There　was　a　clutch　of　assorted　ski…poles　leaning　under　the　eave；　their　handgrips　buried　in　a　dirty　cobweb　caul。　Henry　didn't　like　to　touch　that　stuff　…　the　memory　of　the　eggs　and　the　weasel…thing's　wriggling　spawn　was　still　too　fresh　…　but　at　least　he　had　his　gloves　on。　He　brushed　the　cobwebs　aside　and　sorted　through　the　poles；　moving　quickly。　He　could　now　see　sparks　dancing　inside　the　window　beside　his　head。
　　　　He　found　a　pair　of　poles　that　were　only　a　little　short　for　his　lanky　height　and　skied　clumsily　to　the　er　of　the　building。　He　felt　like　a　Nazi　snow…trooper　in　an　Alistair　MacLean　film；　with　the　old　skis　on　his　feet　and　Jonesy's　rifle　slung　over　his　shoulder。　As　he　turned　around；　the　window　beside　which　he　had　been　standing　blew　out　with　a　surprisingly　loud　report　…　as　if　someone　had　dropped　a　large　glass　bowl　from　a　second…story　window。　Henry　hunched　his　shoulders　and　felt　pieces　of　glass　spatter　against　his　coat。　A　few　landed　in　his　hair。　It　occurred　to　him　that　if　he　had　spent　another　twenty　or　thirty　seconds　sorting　through　the　skis　and　poles；　that　exploding　glass　would　have　erased　most　of　his　face。
　　　　He　looked　up　at　the　sky；　spread　his　hands　palms…out　beside　his　cheeks　like　Al　Jolson；　and　said；　'Somebody　up　there　likes　me！　Hotcha！'
　　　　Flames　were　shooting　through　the　window　now；　licking　up　under　the　eaves；　and　he　could　hear　more　stuff　breaking　inside　as　the　heat…gradient　zoomed。　Lamar　Clarendon's　father's　camp；　originally　built　just　after　World　War　Two；　now　burning　merry　hell。　It　was　a　dream；　surely。
　　　　Henry　skied　around　the　house；　giving　it　a　wide　berth；　watching　as　gouts　of　sparks　rose　from　the　chimney　and　swirled　toward　the　low…bellied　clouds。　There　was　still　a　steady　crackle　of　gunfire　off　to　the　east。　Someone　was　bagging　their　limit；　all　right。　Their　limit　and　more。　Then　there　was　that　explosion　in　the　west　…　what　in　God's　name　had　that　been？　No　way　of　telling。　If　he　got　back　to　other　people　in　one　piece；　perhaps　they　would　tell　him。
　　　　'If　they　don't　just　decide　to　bag　me；　too；'　he　said。　His　voice　came　out　in　a　dry　croak；　and　he　realized　he　was　all　but　dying　of　thirst。　He　bent　down　carefully　（he　hadn't　been　on　skis　of　any　type　in　ten　years　or　more）；　scooped　up　a　double　handful　of　snow；　and　took　a　big　mouthful。　He　let　it　melt　and　tric