sk.thetalisman-第146节

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　evil　that　now　impended　on　the　tightwire　drawn　between　California　and　the　Territories　had　already　happened。　In　one　of　them　the　sea　which　roared　and　snarled　at　the　shore　was　a　dead；　sickly　green；　the　sky　had　a　similar　gangrenous　look。　In　another　he　saw　a　flying　creature　as　big　as　a　Conestoga　wagon　fold　its　wings　and　plummet　earthward　like　a　hawk。　It　grabbed　a　creature　like　a　sheep　and　swooped　up　again；　holding　the　bloody　hindquarters　in　its　beak。
　　Flip　。　。　。　flip　。　。　。　flip。　Worlds　passed　by　his　eyes　like　cards　shuffled　by　a　riverboat　gambler。
　　Here　was　the　hotel　again；　and　there　were　half　a　dozen　different　versions　of　the　black　knight　above　him；　but　the　intent　in　each　was　the　same；　and　the　differences　were　as　unimportant　as　the　stylings　of　rival　automobiles。　Here　was　a　black　tent　filled　with　the　thick　dry　smell　of　rotting　canvas…it　was　torn　in　many　places　so　that　the　sun　shone　through　in　dusty；　conflicting　rays。　In　this　world　Jack/Jason　was　on　some　sort　of　rope　rigging；　and　the　black　knight　stood　inside　a　wooden　basket　like　a　crow's　nest；　and　as　he　climbed　he　flipped　again　。　。　。　and　again　。　。　。　and　again。
　　Here　the　entire　ocean　was　on　fire；　here　the　hotel　was　much　as　it　was　in　Point　Venuti；　except　it　had　been　half…sunk　into　the　ocean。　For　a　moment　he　seemed　to　be　in　an　elevator　car；　the　knight　standing　on　top　of　it　and　peering　down　at　him　through　the　trapdoor。　Then　he　was　on　a　rampway；　the　top　of　which　was　guarded　by　a　huge　snake；　its　long；　muscular　body　armored　with　gleaming　black　scales。
　　And　when　do　I　get　to　the　end　of　everything？　When　do　I　stop　crashing　through　floors　and　just　smash　my　way　into　the　blackness？
　　JACK！　JASON！　the　Talisman　called；　and　it　called　in　all　the　worlds。　TO　ME！
　　And　Jack　came　to　it；　and　it　was　like　ing　home。
　　　
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　　He　was　right；　he　saw；　he　had　e　up　only　a　single　stair。　But　reality　had　solidified　again。　The　black　knight…his　black　knight；　Jack　Sawyer's　black　knight…stood　blocking　the　stair…landing。　It　raised　its　mace。
　　Jack　was　afraid；　but　he　kept　climbing；　Speedy's　pick　held　out　in　front　of　him。
　　'I'm　not　going　to　mess　with　you；'　Jack　said。　'You　better　get　out　of　my…'
　　The　black　figure　swung　the　mace。　It　came　down　with　incredible　force。　Jack　dodged　aside。　The　mace　crashed　into　the　stair　where　he　had　been　standing　and　splintered　the　entire　riser　down　into　hollow　blackness。
　　The　figure　wrenched　the　mace　free。　Jack　lunged　up　two　more　stairs；　Speedy's　pick　still　held　between　his　thumb　and　forefinger　。　。　。　and　suddenly　it　simply　disintegrated；　falling　in　a　little　eggshell　rain　of　yellowed　ivory　fragments。　Most　of　these　sprinkled　the　tops　of　Jack's　sneakers。　He　stared　stupidly　at　them。
　　The　sound　of　dead　laughter。
　　The　mace；　tiny　splinters　of　wood　and　chews　of　old　dank　stair…runner　still　clinging　to　it；　was　upraised　in　the　knight's　two　armored　gloves。　The　specter's　hot　glare　fell　through　the　slit　in　its　helmet。　It　seemed　to　slice　blood　from　Jack's　upturned　face　in　a　horizontal　line　across　the　bridge　of　his　nose。
　　That　chuffing　sound　of　laughter　again…not　heard　with　his　ears；　because　he　knew　this　suit　of　armor　was　as　empty　as　the　rest；　nothing　but　a　steel　jacket　for　an　undead　spirit；　but　heard　inside　his　head。　You've　lost；　boy…did　you　really　think　that　puny　little　thing　could　get　you　past　me？
　　The　mace　whistled　down　again；　this　time　slicing　on　a　diagonal；　and　Jack　tore　his　eyes　away　from　that　red　gaze　just　in　time　to　duck　low…he　felt　the　head　of　the　mace　pass　through　the　upper　layer　of　his　long　hair　a　second　before　it　ripped　away　a　four…foot　section　of　bannister　and　sent　it　sailing　out　into　space。
　　A　scraping　clack　of　metal　as　the　knight　leaned　toward　him；　its　cocked　helmet　somehow　a　hideous　and　sarcastic　parody　of　solicitude…then　the　mace　drew　back　and　up　again　for　another　of　those　portentous　swings。
　　Jack；　you　didn't　need　no　magic　juice　to　git　ovah；　and　you　don't　need　no　magic　pick　to　pull　the　chain　on　this　here　coffee　can；　neither！
　　The　mace　came　blasting　through　the　air　again…wheeee…ossshhhh！　Jack　lurched　backward；　sucking　in　his　stomach；　the　web　of　muscles　in　his　shoulders　screamed　as　they　pulled　around　the　punctures　the　spiked　gloves　had　left。
　　The　mace　missed　the　skin　of　his　chest　by　less　than　an　inch　before　passing　beyond　him　and　swiping　through　a　line　of　thick　mahogany　balusters　as　if　they　had　been　toothpicks。　Jack　tottered　on　emptiness；　feeling　Buster　Keatonish　and　absurd。　He　snatched　at　the　ragged　ruins　of　the　bannister　on　his　left　and　got　splinters　under　two　of　his　fingernails　instead。　The　pain　was　so　wire…thin　excruciating　that　he　thought　for　a　moment　that　his　eyeballs　would　explode　with　it。　Then　he　got　a　good　hold　with　his　right　hand　and　was　able　to　stabilize　himself　and　move　away　from　the　drop。
　　All　the　magic's　in　YOU；　Jack！　Don't　you　know　that　by　now？
　　For　a　moment　he　only　stood　there；　panting；　and　then　he　started　up　the　stairs　again；　staring　at　the　blank　iron　face　above　him。
　　'Better　get　thee　gone；　Sir　Gawain。'
　　The　knight　cocked　its　great　helmet　again　in　that　strangely　delicate　gesture…Pardon；　my　boy　。　。　。　can　you　actually　be　speaking　to　me？　Then　it　swung　the　mace　again。
　　Perhaps　blinded　by　his　fear；　Jack　hadn't　noticed　until　now　how　slow　its　setup　for　those　swings　was；　how　clearly　it　telegraphed　the　trajectory　of　each　portentous　blow。　Maybe　its　joints　were　rusted；　he　thought。　At　any　rate；　it　was　easy　enough　for　him　to　dive　inside　the　circle　of　its　swing　now　that　his　head　was　clear　again。
　　He　stood　on　his　toes；　reached　up；　and　seized　the　black　helmet　in　both　hands。　The　metal　was　sickeningly　warm…like　hard　skin　that　carried　a　fever。
　　'Get　you　off　the　skin　of　this　world；'　he　said　in　a　voice　that　was　low　and　calm；　almost　conversational。　'In　her　name　I　mand　you。'　
　　The　red　light　in　the　helmet　puffed　out　like　the　candle　inside　a　carved　pumpkin；　and　suddenly　the　weight　of　the　helmet…fifteen　pounds　at　least…was　all　in　Jack's　hands；　because　there　was　nothing　else　supporting　it；　beneath　the　helmet；　the　suit　of　armor　had　collapsed。
　　'You　shoulda　killed　both　of　the　Ellis　brothers；'　Jack　said；　and　threw　the　empty　helmet　over　the　landing。　It　hit　the　floor　far　below　with　a　hard　bang　and　rolled　away　like　a　toy。　The　hotel　seemed　to　cringe。
　　Jack　turned　toward　the　broad　second…floor　corridor；　and　here；　at　last；　was　light：　clean；　clear　light；　like　that　on　the　day　he　had　seen　the　flying　men　in　the　sky。　The　hallway　ended　in　another　set　of　double　doors　and　the　doors　were　closed；　but　enough　light　came　from　above　and　below　them；　as　well　as　through　the　vertical　crack　where　they　were　latched　together；　to　tell　him　that　the　light　inside　must　be　very　bright　indeed。
　　He　wanted　very　badly　to　see　that　light；　and　the　source　of　that　light；　he　had　e　far　to　see　it；　and　through　much　bitter　darkness。
　　The　doors　were　heavy　and　inlaid　with　delicate　scrollwork。　Written　above　them　in　gold　leaf　which　had　flaked　a　bit　but　which　was　still　perfectly　readable　for　a'　that　an'　a'　that；　were　the　words　TERRITORIES　BALLROOM。
　　'Hey；　Mom；'　Jack　Sawyer　said　in　a　soft；　wondering　voice　as　he　walked　into　that　glow。　Happiness　lit　his　heart…that　feeling　was　rainbow；　rainbow；　rainbow。　'Hey；　Mom；　I　think　I'm　here；　I　really　think　I'm　here。'　
　　Gently　then；　and　with　awe；　Jack　grasped　a　handle　with　each　hand；　and　pressed　them　down。　He　opened　the　doors；　and　as　he　did；　a　widening　bar　of　clean　white　light　fell　on　his　upturned；　wondering　face。
　　　
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　　Sunlight　Gardener　happened　to　be　looking　back　up　the　beach　at　the　exact　moment　Jack　dispatched　the　last　of　the　five　Guardian　Knights。　He　heard　a　dull　boom；　as　if　a　low　charge　of　dynamite　had　gone　off　somewhere　inside　the　hotel。　At　the　same　moment；　bright　light　flashed　from　all　of　the　Agincourt's　second…floor　windows；　and　all　of　the　carved　brass　symbols…moons　and　stars　and　planetoids　and　weird　crooked　arrows…came　to　a　simultaneous　stop。
　　Gardener　was　decked　out　like　some　sort　of　goony　Los　Angeles　SWAT　squad　cop。　He　had　donned　a　puffy　black　flak…vest　over　his　white　shirt　and　carried　a　radio　pack…set　on　a　canvas　strap　over　one　shoulder。　Its　thick；　stubby　antenna　wavered　back　and　forth　as　he　moved。　Over　his　other　shoulder　was　slung　a　Weatherbee　。360。　This　was　a　hunting　rifle　almost　as　big　as　an　anti…aircraft　gun；　it　would　have　made　Robert　Ruark　himself　drool　with　envy。　Gardener　had　bought　it　six　years　ago；　after　circumstances　had　dictated　that　he　must　get　rid　of　his　old　hunting　rifle。　The　Weatherbee's　genuine　zebra…skin　case　was　in　the　trunk　of　a　black　Cadillac；　along　with　his　son's　body。
　　'Morgan！'
　　Morgan　did　not　turn　around。　He　was　standing　behind　and　slightly　to　the　left　of　a　leaning　grove　of　rocks　that　jutted　out　of　the　sand　like　black　fangs。　Twenty　feet　beyond　this　rock　and　only　five　feet　above　the　high…tide　line　lay　Speedy　Parker；　aka　Parkus。　As　Parkus；　he　had　once　ordered　Morgan　of　Orris　marked…there　were　livid　scars　down　the　insides　of　that　Mor…gan's　large　white　thighs；　the　marks　by　which　a　traitor　is　known　in　the　Territories。　It　had　only　been　through　the　intercession　of　Queen　Laura　herself　that　those　scars　had　not　been　made　to　run　down　his　cheeks　instead　of　his　inner　thighs；　where　they　were　almost　always　hidden　by　his　clothes。　Morgan…this　one　as　well　a