sk.thetalisman-第29节
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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 Farren had said He'll smell you like a rat； and now Jack thought dismally： I've been smelled； all right。 He knows I'm here； and what happens now？ He'll stop the whole bunch of them； I bet； and send the soldiers into the woods after me。
Another band of soldiers…these protecting Morgan's diligence from the rear…swept by。 Jack waited； his hands frozen to the bark of the pine； sure that Morgan would call a halt。 But no halt came； soon the heavy thunder of the diligence and its outriders began to fade。
His eyes。 That's what's the same。 Those dark eyes in that white face。 And…
Our boy？ YESSSS！
Something slithered over his foot 。 。 。 and up his ankle。 Jack screamed and floundered backward； thinking it must be a snake。 But when he looked down he saw that one of those gray roots had slipped up his foot 。 。 。 and now it ringed his calf。
That's impossible； he thought stupidly。 Roots don't move…
He pulled back sharply； yanking his leg out of the rough gray manacle the root had formed。 There was thin pain in his calf； like the pa
