pzb.lostsouls-第65部分

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words　made　him　feel　better。
　　One　December　day　Ghost　found　himself　out　on　Violin　Road　near　the　trailer　where　Christian　and　the　others　had　lived。　The　tangle　of　rosebushes　still　grew　wild　in　the　back…yard；　and　though　Missing　Mile　was　deep　in　winter；　one　rose　blossomed　in　the　heart　of　the　thicket。　When　Ghost　reached　for　it；　a　thorn　sank　like　a　tooth　into　the　ball　of　his　thumb。　Bright　drops　of　his　blood　spattered　the　frozen　ground。
　　〃Blood　for　blood；〃　he　whispered。　Again　he　remembered　how　the　knife　had　felt　going　into　Zillah's　skull。
　　
　　On　an　evening　in　early　spring　Steve　and　Ghost　walked　out　to　the　old　graveyard。　Beside　Miles　Hummingbird's　weathered　tombstone；　unmarked；　was　a　soft　spot　in　the　ground　where　Ghost　had　buried　the　foetus　still　wrapped　in　his　handkerchief。　He　wished　he　could　have　placed　Ann's　body　here　too；　but　this　was　part　of　her；　this　would　have　to　do。
　　Ghost　wondered　where　Ann　was　now。　He　wished　he　could　ask　Miles；　but　he　would　not。　What　goes　on　between　the　dead；　his　grandmother　had　told　him；　is　the　dead's　own　business。
　　Steve　rolled　a　joint；　lit　it；　passed　it　to　Ghost；　and　began　to　talk　lovingly　about　what　a　piece　of　shit　the　T…bird　was。　He　was　going　to　sell　it　to　the　junkyard；　he　said；　and　throw　a　party　to　celebrate。　Whenever　Steve　started　talking　that　way；　it　meant　he　was　thinking　about　a　road　trip。　That　might　do　them　both　good。
　　Steve　was　quiet　for　a　while。　When　the　joint　had　burned　down　to　a　ragged　end；　he　turned　to　Ghost。　〃Listen。。。〃　
　　〃What？〃
　　〃Everything　that　happened　last　fall　。　。　。　I　know　it　was　real。　I　mean；　I　was　there。　But　it's　still　hard；　Ghost。〃　Steve　spread　his　arms　wide。　〃What　does　it　do　to　you？　How　do　you　deal　with　it？　Doesn't　it　fuck　you　up；　to　know　that　we　touched　something　evil；　that　it's　still　out　there　in　the　world？〃
　　Steve　was　letting　himself　think　about　those　days　again。　For　a　long　time　he　had　refused　to。　His　world　was　visibly　torn　apart；　but　he　would　not　acknowledge　what　had　sundered　it。　Ghost　held　him　during　his　night　terrors　and　never　tried　to　make　him　talk。
　　But　a　postcard　had　e　in　the　mail　last　week；　a　brightly　colored　postcard；　its　edges　ragged；　its　message　blurred　with　the　grime　of　small…town　post　offices。　Ghost　knew　Steve　had　seen　it。　You　are　safe；　the　card　had　said。　You　will　be　safe　as　long　as　I　live：　forever；　or　nearly　so。　I　love　you。　And　the　signature　was　scrawled　large　across　the　bottom；　the　t　like　a　dagger　thrusting　down；　the　N　and　the　loop　of　the　g　swooping　like　bats'　wings：　Nothing。
　　〃I　don't　know；〃　Ghost　said　at　last。　〃Maybe　they　were　evil；　like　Miz　Catlin　says。　My　grandmother　told　me　you　shouldn't　try　to　define　evil；　that　the　minute　you　think　you've　got　it　all　pinned　down；　a　kind　of　evil　you　never　even　thought　of　will　sneak　up　behind　you　and　jump　inside　your　head。　I　don't　think　anyone　knows　what　evil　is。　I　don't　think　anyone　has　the　right　to　say。
　　〃So　maybe　they　were　just　like　us。　I　hate　what　they　did；　what　they　do。　But　they'd　hate　our　lives　too。　Maybe　they　did　what　they　had　to　do　to　live；　and　tried　to　get　a　little　love　and　have　a　little　fun　before　the　darkness　took　them。〃
　　〃I　love　you；　Ghost。〃
　　Ghost　felt　his　heart　expand。　〃Love　you　too。〃
　　He　accepted　the　last　of　the　joint　from　Steve；　sucked　at　it；　closed　his　eyes。　When　the　smoke　was　gone；　he　stretched　out　on　the　pine　needles；　his　head　in　Steve's　lap。　Steve　stroked　his　hair；　and　through　those　guitar…callused　fingertips　Ghost　caught　Steve's　mood：　lonely；　but　not　alone。　Bitter；　but　not　destroyed。　They　had　made　it　through　the　winter。
　　They　stayed　in　the　graveyard；　talking　sometimes；　drifting　off　to　sleep　and　waking　to　see　their　breath　plume　in　the　air；　watching　the　sky　until　it　grew　pale　with　the　first　light　of　morning。
　　
　　　EPILOGUE
　　
　　Fifty　Years　Later
　　
　　Night。
　　Black　night　in　a　club；　4：00　A。M。　relieved　only　by　the　watery　neon　pulse　that　filters　through　the　holes　in　the　ceiling。　The　club　is　in　the　basement　of　a　burned…out　building；　so　most　of　the　light　is　lost　in　the　charred　and　rusted　skeleton　of　steel　that　towers　seventeen　stories　into　the　night。　But　some　light　filters　through；　purplish　and　flat。
　　Night　in　a　club。　These　dives　have　changed　very　little。　The　walls　are　painted　black；　scorched　in　spots；　crawling　with　arcane　graffiti：　spiky　insignia；　dripping　band　emblems　sprayed　in　gold　and　red。　This　club　is　located　a　few　blocks　from　the　edge　of　the　French　Quarter；　and　Mardi　Gras　week　has　just　begun。　Less　than　a　mile　away　the　endless　party　rages　through　the　streets；　the　bright　costumes　swirl　by；　the　liquor　flows　like　milk。
　　They　will　be　there　soon　enough。
　　On　the　tiny　stage；　separated　from　the　dance　floor　by　strands　of　barbed　wire；　two　members　of　a　snuff…rock　band　are　packing　up　their　equipment：　the　cords　and　effects；　the　violin　bows　and　bone…saws；　the　ampules　of　blood　the　audience　thinks　is　fake。　They　mix　it　with　alcohol　to　keep　it　from　coagulating　too　quickly；　they　have　not　forgotten　their　old　customs。　Their　faces　are　smudged　white；　with　rows　of　tiny；　slightly　raised　black　dots　in　elaborate　patterns　of　scarification。　They　wear　their　hair　twisted　into　hundreds　of　matted；　filthy　little　braids。　Their　eyes　are　ringed　in　gray。　They　still　bleed　from　the　slashes　made　by　the　singer's　chrome…tipped　whip　upon　their　hands　and　faces　and　naked　pierced　chests；　but　they　are　healing　fast。
　　On　a　steel　bench　that　runs　along　the　wall；　a　young　man　is　curled　on　his　side；　asleep：　the　band's　singer。　His　fist　is　pressed　against　his　mouth；　and　his　lips　make　a　slight　sucking　motion。　He　looks　perhaps　twenty；　too　thin　for　his　height。　His　face　has　taken　on　a　cool　ivory　beauty：　the　high　sharp　cheekbones；　the　twin　black　arches　of　his　eyebrows　sweeping　toward　his　temples；　the　flickering　dark　pools　of　his　eyes　as　he　dreams。　His　hair　falls　across　his　forehead　in　a　straight；　smooth　sheaf；　blue…black。　The　air　in　the　club　is　colder　than　the　semitropical　night　outside；　and　in　his　sleep　the　young　man　has　pulled　his　purple…lined　coat　tightly　around　him。
　　He　has　good　reason　to　be　tired。　He　runs　a　tight　crew；　and　he　has　kept　them　alive；　well　fed；　and　sated　for　half　a　century。
　　The　band　have　finished　packing　up。　At　the　sound　of　their　footsteps　approaching　the　young　man　es　awake；　blinking　up　at　them。　At　first　his　vision　makes　them　hazy；　and　he　thinks　there　are　three　of　them　three　clumps　of　hair；　three　faces　defined　in　blots　of　dark　makeup…but　slowly　they　e　clear；　and　there　are　only　two。
　　The　memory　of　singing　tonight　returns　to　him。　He　gives　strange　performances；　alternately　whispering　his　words　and　shrieking　them；　his　hands　clenched　at　his　sides；　then　flung　out　gesturing　at　the　crowd　as　if　he　would　conjure　them　all　into　hell。　He　swirls　his　whip　through　the　smoky　air　and　watches　the　audience　bleed。　And　sometimes　as　he　sings；　he　remembers　another　night　at　a　different　club；　a　night　when　a　pale…eyed　wraith　clung　to　a　microphone　as　if　the　crowd　would　drown　him。　He　remembers　a　hoarse　golden　voice。
　　But　the　show　is　over。　He　smiles　up　at　them　and　asks；　〃What　did　you　bring　me？〃
　　Molochai　pulls　his　hand　out　of　his　pocket　and　opens　his　fingers。　Lying　on　his　grubby　palm　is　a　hypodermic　needle　full　of　blood。　Nothing　opens　his　mouth。　Molochai　places　the　sharp　tip　of　the　needle…carefully；　ever　so　carefully…on　Nothing's　tongue　and　pushes　the　plunger。　The　blood　trickles　down　Nothing's　throat；　rich　and　sweet。
　　〃We　saved　the　last　for　you；〃　Twig　tells　him。
　　〃We　can　get　more；〃　says　Nothing。　The　others　nod　in　agreement。
　　〃We　can　always　get　more；〃　says　Nothing。
　　A　smile　of　happy　anticipation　spreads　across　Molochai's　scarified　face；　and　he　jabs　Twig　in　the　ribs。　Twig　returns　the　jab　with　a　tug　on　one　of　Molochai's　tiny　braids。
　　〃Because　we　have　time；〃　Nothing　tells　them。　〃Forever　and　ever。〃　For　the　first　time　in　years　he　thinks　of　Christian；　his　smooth　impassive　face；　his　coldly　tragic　eyes。　He　believes　Christian　would　be　proud　of　him　now。
　　〃Or　nearly　so；〃　he　whispers　a　beat　later。　But　the　others　have　already　turned　away。
　　The　stage　lights　have　been　turned　off；　and　the　neon　of　the　buzz…vendors　flickers　only　fitfully。　Nothing　leads　his　family　out　of　the　club　in　darkness。　They　are　headed　for　Bourbon　Street。　Nothing　knows　how　to　get　there；　and　where　they　can　pick　up　a　bottle　of　Chartreuse　along　the　way。
　　Molochai　is　playing　with　a　heavy　silver　doubloon　of　the　same　shape　and　size　as　those　thrown　from　Mardi　Gras　parade　floats　along　with　all　the　other　colored　trinkets。　But　this　coin　is　older　than　any　Mardi　Gras　doubloon。　Molochai　keeps　tossing　it　into　the　air　and　catching　it。
　　Nothing　snatches　the　coin　in　midair　and　looks　at　it。　Over　the　years　Molochai's　sticky　fingerprints　have　worn　away　some　of　the　carving：　the　man's　lips　no　longer　appear　so　full；　and　his　sharp　teeth　are　barely　visible。
　　〃Let　me　see　that；　kiddo；〃　says　Twig；　making　a　grab　for　the　coin。
　　They　bandy　it　about　for　a　few　moments；　tossing　it　back　and　forth；　trying　to　spin　it　on　the　ends　of　their　fingers。　As　they　climb　the　stairs　to　street　level；　the　sound　of　their　boots　on　the　cement　echoes　back　along　the　graffiti…swarming　corridor；　up　through　the　spiderwebs　and　the　maze　of　burned…out　girders；　out　into　the　night。
　　Night。　And　they　are　gone。　
　　The　footsteps；　still　echoing。　
　　Then　silent。　
　　Then　black。