sk.thetalisman-第26部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　　'What's　it　for？'　he　asked　Farren。
　　'You'll　know　when　the　time　es；'　the　Captain　replied。　'Or　perhaps　you　won't。　Either　way；　I've　done　my　duty　by　you。　Tell　Parkus　so；　when　you　see　him。'　
　　Jack　felt　wild　unreality　wash　over　him　again。
　　'Go；　son；'　Farren　said。　His　voice　was　lower；　but　not　necessarily　more　gentle。　'Do　your　job　。　。　。　or　as　much　of　it　as　you　can。'　
　　In　the　end；　it　was　that　feeling　of　unreality…the　pervasive　sense　that　he　was　no　more　than　a　figment　of　someone　else's　hallucination…that　got　him　moving。　Left　foot；　right　foot；　hay　foot；　straw　foot。　He　kicked　aside　a　splinter　of　ale…soaked　wood。　Stepped　over　the　shattered　remnants　of　a　wheel。　Detoured　around　the　end　of　the　wagon；　not　impressed　by　the　blood　drying　there　or　the　buzzing　flies。　What　was　blood　or　buzzing　flies　in　a　dream？
　　He　reached　the　end　of　the　muddy；　wood…　and　barrel…littered　stretch　of　road；　and　looked　back　。　。　。　but　Captain　Farren　had　turned　the　other　way；　perhaps　to　look　for　his　men；　perhaps　so　he　would　not　have　to　look　at　Jack。　Either　way；　Jack　reckoned；　it　came　to　the　same　thing。　A　back　was　a　back。　Nothing　to　look　at。
　　He　reached　inside　his　jerkin；　tentatively　touched　the　coin　Farren　had　given　him；　and　then　gripped　it　firmly。　It　seemed　to　make　him　feel　a　little　better。　Holding　it　as　a　child　might　hold　a　quarter　given　him　to　buy　a　treat　at　the　candy　store；　Jack　went　on。
　　　
　　　7
　　
　　It　might　have　been　as　little　as　two　hours　later　when　Jack　heard　the　sound　Captain　Farren　had　described　as　'thunder　rolling　along　the　earth'…or　it　might　have　been　as　long　as　four。　Once　the　sun　passed　below　the　western　rim　of　the　forest　（and　it　did　that　not　long　after　Jack　had　entered　it）；　it　became　difficult　to　judge　the　time。
　　On　a　number　of　occasions　vehicles　came　out　of　the　west；　presumably　bound　for　the　Queen's　pavillion。　Hearing　each　one　e　（and　vehicles　could　be　heard　a　long　way　away　here；　the　clarity　with　which　sound　carried　made　Jack　think　of　what　Speedy　had　said　about　one　man　pulling　a　radish　out　of　the　ground　and　another　smelling　it　half　a　mile　away）　made　him　think　of　Morgan；　and　each　time　he　hurried　first　down　into　the　ditch　and　then　up　the　other　side；　and　so　into　the　woods。　He　didn't　like　being　in　these　dark　woods…not　even　a　little　way　in；　where　he　could　still　peer　around　the　trunk　of　a　tree　and　see　the　road；　it　was　no　rest…cure　for　the　nerves；　but　he　liked　the　idea　of　Uncle　Morgan　（for　so　he　still　believed　Osmond's　superior　to　be；　in　spite　of　what　Captain　Farren　had　said）　catching　him　out　on　the　road　even　less。
　　So　each　time　he　heard　a　wagon　or　carriage　approaching　he　got　out　of　sight；　and　each　time　the　vehicle　passed　he　went　back　to　the　road。　Once；　while　he　was　crossing　the　damp　and　weedy　right…hand　ditch；　something　ran…or　slithered…over　his　foot；　and　Jack　cried　out。
　　The　traffic　was　a　pain　in　the　tail；　and　it　wasn't　exactly　helping　him　to　make　better　time；　but　there　was　also　something　forting　about　the　irregular　passage　of　wagons…they　served　notice　that　he　wasn't　alone；　at　least。
　　He　wanted　to　get　the　hell　out　of　the　Territories　altogether。
　　Speedy's　magic　juice　was　the　worst　medicine　he'd　ever　had　in　his　life；　but　he　would　gladly　have　taken　a　belly…choking　swig　of　it　if　someone…Speedy　himself；　for　example…had　just　happened　to　appear　in　front　of　him　and　assure　him　that；　when　he　opened　his　eyes　again；　the　first　thing　he　would　see　would　be　a　set　of　McDonald's　golden　arches…what　his　mother　called　The　Great　Tits　of　America。　A　sense　of　oppressive　danger　was　growing　in　him…a　feeling　that　the　forest　was　indeed　dangerous；　that　there　were　things　in　it　aware　of　his　passage；　that　perhaps　the　forest　itself　was　aware　of　his　passage。　The　trees　had　gotten　closer　to　the　road；　hadn't　they？　Yes。　Before；　they　had　stopped　at　the　ditches。　Now　they　infested　those　as　well。　Before；　the　forest　had　seemed　posed　solely　of　pines　and　spruces。　Now　other　sorts　of　trees　had　crept　in；　some　with　black　boles　that　twisted　together　like　gnarls　of　rotted　strings；　some　that　looked　like　weird　hybrids　of　firs　and　ferns…these　latter　had　nasty…looking　gray　roots　that　gripped　at　the　ground　like　pasty　fingers。　Our　boy？　these　nasty　things　seemed　to　whisper　inside　of　Jack's　head。　OUR　boy？
　　All　in　your　mind；　Jack…O。　You're　just　freaking　out　a　little。
　　Thing　was；　he　didn't　really　believe　that。
　　The　trees　were　changing。　That　sense　of　thick　oppression　in　the　air…that　sense　of　being　watched…was　all　too　real。　And　he　had　begun　to　think　that　his　mind's　obsessive　return　to　monstrous　thoughts　was　almost　something　he　was　picking　up　from　the　forest　。　。　。　as　if　the　trees　themselves　were　sending　to　him　on　some　horrible　shortwave。
　　But　Speedy's　bottle　of　magic　juice　was　only　half…full。　Somehow　that　had　to　last　him　all　the　way　across　the　United　States。　It　wouldn't　last　until　he　was　out　of　New　England　if　he　sipped　a　little　every　time　he　got　the　willies。
　　His　mind　also　kept　returning　to　the　amazing　distance　he　had　travelled　in　his　world　when　he　had　flipped　back　from　the　Territories。　A　hundred　and　fifty　feet　over　here　had　equalled　half　a　mile　over　there。　At　that　rate…unless　the　ratio　of　distance　travelled　were　somehow　variable；　and　Jack　recognized　that　it　might　be…he　could　walk　ten　miles　over　here　and　be　damn　near　out　of　New　Hampshire　over　there。　It　was　like　wearing　seven…league　boots。
　　Still；　the　trees　。　。　。　those　gray；　pasty　roots　。　。　。
　　When　it　starts　to　get　really　dark…when　the　sky　goes　from　blue　to　purple…I'm　flipping　back。　That's　it；　that's　all　she　wrote。　I'm　not　walking　through　these　woods　after　dark。　And　if　I　run　out　of　magic　juice　in　Indiana　or　something；　ole　Speedy　can　just　send　me　another　bottle　by　UPS；　or　something。
　　Still　thinking　these　thoughts…and　thinking　how　much　better　it　made　him　feel　to　have　a　plan　（even　if　the　plan　only　enpassed　the　next　two　hours　or　so）…Jack　suddenly　realized　he　could　hear　another　vehicle　and　a　great　many　horses。
　　Cocking　his　head；　he　stopped　in　the　middle　of　the　road。　His　eyes　widened；　and　two　pictures　suddenly　unspooled　behind　his　eyes　with　shutterlike　speed：　the　big　car　the　two　men　had　been　in…the　car　that　had　not　been　a　Mercedes…and　then　the　WILD　CHILD　van；　speeding　down　the　street　and　away　from　Uncle　Tommy's　corpse；　blood　dripping　from　the　broken　plastic　fangs　of　its　grille。　He　saw　the　hands　on　the　van's　steering　wheel　。　。　。　but　they　weren't　hands。　They　were　weird；　articulated　hooves。
　　At　the　full　gallop；　that　damned　hearse　sounds　like　thunder　rolling　along　the　earth。
　　Now；　hearing　it…the　sound　still　distant　but　perfectly　clear　in　the　pure　air…Jack　wondered　how　he　could　have　even　thought　those　other　approaching　wagons　might　be　Morgan's　diligence。　He　would　certainly　never　make　such　a　mistake　again。　The　sound　he　heard　now　was　perfectly　ominious；　thick　with　a　potential　for　evil…the　sound　of　a　hearse；　yes；　a　hearse　driven　by　a　devil。
　　He　stood　frozen　in　the　road；　almost　hypnotized；　as　a　rabbit　is　hypnotized　by　headlights。　The　sound　grew　steadily　louder…the　thunder　of　the　wheels　and　hooves；　the　creak　of　leather　rigging。　Now　he　could　hear　the　driver's　voice：　'Hee…yah！　Heee…yahhh！　HEEEEE…YAHHHH！'
　　He　stood　in　the　road；　stood　there；　his　head　drumming　with　horror。　Can't　move；　oh　dear　God　oh　dear　Christ　I　can't　move　Mom　Mom　Muhhhhhmeeeee…！
　　He　stood　in　the　road　and　the　eye　of　his　imagination　saw　a　huge　black　thing　like　a　stagecoach　tearing　up　the　road；　pulled　by　black　animals　that　looked　more　like　pumas　than　horses；　he　saw　black　curtains　flapping　in　and　out　of　the　coach's　windows；　he　saw　the　driver　standing　on　the　teeterboard；　his　hair　blown　back；　his　eyes　as　wild　and　crazed　as　those　of　a　psycho　with　a　switchblade。
　　He　saw　it　ing　toward　him；　never　slowing。　
　　He　saw　it　run　him　down。
　　That　broke　the　paralysis。　He　ran　to　the　right；　skidding　down　the　side　of　the　road；　catching　his　foot　under　one　of　those　gnarled　roots；　falling；　rolling。　His　back；　relatively　quiet　for　the　last　couple　of　hours；　flared　with　fresh　pain；　and　Jack　drew　his　lips　back　with　a　grimace。
　　He　got　to　his　feet　and　scurried　into　the　woods；　hunched　over。
　　He　slipped　first　behind　one　of　the　black　trees；　but　the　touch　of　the　gnarly　trunk…it　was　a　bit　like　the　banyans　he　had　seen　while　on　vacation　on　Hawaii　year　before　last…was　oily　and　unpleasant。　Jack　moved　to　the　left　and　behind　the　trunk　of　a　pine。
　　The　thunder　of　the　coach　and　its　outriders　grew　steadily　louder。　At　every　second　Jack　expected　the　pany　to　flash　by　toward　All…Hands'　Village。　Jack's　fingers　squeezed　and　relaxed　on　the　pine's　gummy　back。　He　bit　at　his　lips。
　　Directly　ahead　was　a　narrow　but　perfectly　clear　sightline　back　to　the　road；　a　tunnel　with　sides　of　leaf　and　fern　and　pine　needles。　And　just　when　Jack　had　begun　to　think　that　Morgan's　party　would　never　arrive；　a　dozen　or　more　mounted　soldiers　passed　heading　east；　riding　at　a　gallop。　The　one　in　the　lead　carried　a　banner；　but　Jack　could　not　make　out　its　device　。　。　。　nor　was　he　sure　he　wanted　to。　Then　the　diligence　flashed　across　Jack's　narrow　sightline。
　　The　moment　of　its　passage　was　brief…no　more　than　a　second；　perhaps　less　than　that…but　Jack's　recall　of　it　was　total。　The　diligence　was　a　gigantic　vehicle；　surely　a　dozen　feet　high。　The　trunks　and　bundles　lashed　with　stout　cord　to　the　top　added　another　three　feet。　Each　horse　in　the　team　which　pulled　it　wore　a　black　plume　on　its　head…these　plumes　were　blown　back　almost　flat　in　a　speed…generated　wind。　Jack　thought　later　that　Morgan　must　need　a　new　team　for　every　run；　because　these　looked　close　to　the　end　of　their　endurance。　Foam　and　blood　sprayed　back　from　their　working　mouths　in　curds；　their　eyes　rolled　crazily；　showing　arcs　of　white。
　　As　in　his　imagining…or　his　vision…black　crepe　curtains　flew　and　fluttered　through　glassless　windows。　Suddenly　a　white　face　appeared　in　one　of　those　black　oblongs；　a　white　face　framed　in　strange；　twisted　carving…work。　The　sudden　appearance　of　that　face　was　as　shocking　as　the　face　of　a　ghost　in　the　ruined　window　of　a　haunted　house。　It　was　not　the　face　of　Morgan　Sloat　。　。　。　but　it　was。
　　And　the　owner　of　that　face　knew　that　Jack…or　some　other　danger；　just　as　hated　and　just　as　personal…was　out　there。　Jack　saw　this　in　the　widening　of　the　eyes　and　the　sudden　vicious　downtwist　of　the　mouth。
　　Captain　Farre