sk.thetalisman-第46节

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rowning　insect　to　fly　out？　Jack　didn't　know　。　。　。　but　he　knew　that　he　was　out　of　Oatley；　away　from　Fair　Weather　Clubs　and　old　men　who　wept　over　their　stolen　shopping　carts；　away　from　the　smell　of　beer　and　the　smell　of　puke　。　。　。　most　important　of　all；　he　was　away　from　Smokey　Updike　and　the　Oatley　Tap。
　　He　thought　he　might　travel　in　the　Territories　for　a　while；　after　all。
　　And　so　thinking；　fell　asleep。
　　　
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　　He　had　walked　two；　perhaps　three　miles　along　the　Western　Road　the　following　morning；　enjoying　the　sunshine　and　the　good；　earthy　smell　of　fields　almost　ready　for　the　harvests　of　summer's　end；　when　a　cart　pulled　over　and　a　whiskery　farmer　in　what　looked　like　a　toga　with　rough　breeches　under　it　pulled　up　and　shouted：
　　'Are　you　for　market…town；　boy？'　
　　Jack　gaped　at　him；　half　in　a　panic；　realizing　that　the　man　was　not　speaking　English…never　mind　'prithee'　or　'Dost　thou　go　cross…gartered；　varlet；'　it　wasn't　English　at　all。
　　There　was　a　woman　in　a　voluminous　dress　sitting　beside　the　whiskery　farmer；　she　held　a　boy　of　perhaps　three　on　her　lap。　She　smiled　pleasantly　enough　at　Jack　and　rolled　her　eyes　at　her　husband。　'He's　a　simpleton；　Henry。'
　　They're　not　speaking　English　。　。　。　but　whatever　it　is　they're　speaking；　I　understand　it。　I'm　actually　thinking　in　that　language　。　。　。　and　that's　not　all…I'm　seeing　in　it；　or　with　it；　or　whatever　it　is　I　mean。
　　Jack　realized　he　had　been　doing　it　the　last　time　he　had　been　in　the　Territories；　too…only　then　he　had　been　too　confused　to　realize　it；　things　had　moved　too　fast；　and　everything　had　seemed　strange。
　　The　farmer　leaned　forward。　He　smiled；　showing　teeth　which　were　absolutely　horrid。　'Are　you　a　simpleton；　laddie？'　he　asked；　not　unkindly。
　　'No；'　he　said；　smiling　back　as　best　he　could；　aware　that　he　had　not　said　no　but　some　Territories　word　which　meant　no…when　he　had　flipped；　he　had　changed　his　speech　and　his　way　of　thinking　（his　way　of　imaging；　anyway…he　did　not　have　that　word　in　his　vocabulary；　but　understood　what　he　meant　just　the　same）；　just　as　he　had　changed　his　clothes。　'I'm　not　simple。　It's　just　that　my　mother　told　me　to　be　careful　of　people　I　might　meet　along　the　road。'　Now　the　farmer's　wife　smiled。
　　'Your　mother　was　right；'　she　said。　'Are　you　for　the　market？'
　　'Yes；'　Jack　said。　'That　is；　I'm　headed　up　the　road…west。'
　　'Climb　up　in　the　back；　then；'　Henry　the　farmer　said。　'Daylight's　wasting。　I　want　to　sell　what　I　have　if　I　can　and　be　home　again　before　sunset。　Corn's　poor　but　it's　the　last　of　the　season。　Lucky　to　have　corn　in　ninemonth　at　all。　Someone　may　buy　it。'
　　'Thank　you；'　Jack　said；　climbing　into　the　back　of　the　low　wagon。　Here；　dozens　of　corn　ears　were　bound　with　rough　hanks　of　rope　and　stacked　like　cordwood。　If　the　corn　was　poor；　then　Jack　could　not　imagine　what　would　constitute　good　corn　over　here…they　were　the　biggest　ears　he　had　ever　seen　in　his　life。　There　were　also　small　stacks　of　squashes　and　gourds　and　things　that　looked　like　pumpkins…but　they　were　reddish　instead　of　orange。　Jack　didn't　know　what　they　were；　but　he　suspected　they　would　taste　wonderful。　His　stomach　rumbled　busily。　Since　going　on　the　road；　he　had　discovered　what　hunger　was…not　as　a　passing　acquaintance；　something　you　felt　dimly　after　school　and　which　could　be　assuaged　with　a　few　cookies　and　a　glass　of　milk　souped　up　with　Nestlé's　Quik；　but　as　an　intimate　friend；　one　that　sometimes　moved　away　to　a　distance　but　who　rarely　left　entirely。
　　He　was　sitting　with　his　back　to　the　front　of　the　wagon；　his　sandal…clad　feet　dangling　down；　almost　touching　the　hard…packed　dirt　of　the　Western　Road。　There　was　a　lot　of　traffic　this　morning；　most　of　it　bound　for　the　market；　Jack　assumed。　Every　now　and　then　Henry　bawled　a　greeting　to　someone　he　knew。
　　Jack　was　still　wondering　how　those　apple…colored　pumpkins　might　taste…and　just　where　his　next　meal　was　going　to　e　from；　anyway…when　small　hands　twined　in　his　hair　and　gave　a　brisk　tug…brisk　enough　to　make　his　eyes　water。
　　He　turned　and　saw　the　three…year…old　standing　there　in　his　bare　feet；　a　big　grin　on　his　face　and　a　few　strands　of　Jack's　hair　in　each　of　his　hands。
　　'Jason！'　his　mother　cried…but　it　was；　in　its　way；　an　indulgent　cry　（Did　you　see　the　way　he　pulled　that　hair？　My；　isn't　he　strong！）…'Jason；　that's　not　nice！'
　　Jason　grinned；　unabashed。　It　was　a　big；　dopey；　sunshiney　grin；　as　sweet　in　its　way　as　the　smell　of　the　haystack　in　which　Jack　had　spent　the　night。　He　couldn't　help　returning　it　。　。　。　and　while　there　had　been　no　politics　of　calculation　in　his　returning　grin；　he　saw　he　had　made　a　friend　of　Henry's　wife。
　　'Sit；'　Jason　said；　swaying　back　and　forth　with　the　unconscious　movement　of　a　veteran　sailor。　He　was　still　grinning　at　Jack。
　　'Huh？'
　　'Yap。'
　　'I'm　not　getting　you；　Jason。'
　　'Sit…yap。'
　　'I'm　not…'
　　And　then　Jason；　who　was　husky　for　a　three…year…old；　plopped　into　Jack's　lap；　still　grinning。
　　Sit…yap；　oh　yeah；　I　get　it；　Jack　thought；　feeling　the　dull　ache　from　his　testicles　spreading　up　into　the　pit　of　his　stomach。
　　'Jason　bad！'　his　mother　called　back　in　that　same　indulgent；　but…isn't…he…cute　voice　。　。　。　and　Jason；　who　knew　who　ruled　the　roost；　grinned　his　dopey；　sweetly　charming　grin。
　　Jack　realized　that　Jason　was　wet。　Very；　extremely；　indubitably　wet。
　　Wele　back　to　the　Territories；　Jack…O。
　　And　sitting　there　with　the　child　in　his　arms　and　warm　wetness　slowly　soaking　through　his　clothes；　Jack　began　to　laugh；　his　face　turned　up　to　the　blue；　blue　sky。
　　　
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　　A　few　minutes　later　Henry's　wife　worked　her　way　to　where　Jack　was　sitting　with　the　child　on　his　lap　and　took　Jason　back。
　　'Oooh；　wet；　bad　baby；'　she　said　in　her　indulgent　voice。　Doesn't　my　Jason　wet　big！　Jack　thought；　and　laughed　again。　That　made　Jason　laugh；　and　Mrs。　Henry　laughed　with　them。
　　As　she　changed　Jason；　she　asked　Jack　a　number　of　questions…ones　he　had　heard　often　enough　in　his　own　world。　But　here　he　would　have　to　be　careful。　He　was　a　stranger；　and　there　might　be　hidden　trapdoors。　He　heard　his　father　telling　Morgan；　。　。　。　a　real　Stranger；　if　you　see　what　I　mean。
　　Jack　sensed　that　the　woman's　husband　was　listening　closely。　He　answered　her　questions　with　a　careful　variation　of　the　Story…not　the　one　he　told　when　he　was　applying　for　a　job　but　the　one　he　told　when　someone　who　had　picked　him　up　thumbing　got　curious。
　　He　said　he　had　e　from　the　village　of　All…Hands'…Jason's　mother　had　a　vague　recollection　of　hearing　of　the　place；　but　that　was　all。　Had　he　really　e　so　far？　she　wanted　to　know。　Jack　told　her　that　he　had。　And　where　was　he　going？　He　told　her　（and　the　silently　listening　Henry）　that　he　was　bound　for　the　village　of　California。　That　one　she　had　not　heard　of；　even　vaguely；　in　such　stories　as　the　occasional　peddler　told。　Jack　was　not　exactly　very　surprised　。　。　。　but　he　was　grateful　that　neither　of　them　exclaimed　'California？　Whoever　heard　of　a　village　named　California？　Who　are　you　trying　to　shuck　and　jive；　boy？'　In　the　Territories　there　had　to　be　lots　of　places…whole　areas　as　well　as　villages…of　which　people　who　lived　in　their　own　little　areas　had　never　heard。　No　power　poles。　No　electricity。　No　movies。　No　cable　TV　to　tell　them　how　wonderful　things　were　in　Malibu　or　Sarasota。　No　Territories　version　of　Ma　Bell；　advertising　that　a　three…minute　call　to　the　Outposts　after　five　p。m。　cost　only　5。83；　plus　tax；　rates　may　be　higher　on　God…Pounders'　Eve　and　some　other　holidays。　They　live　in　a　mystery；　he　thought。　When　you　live　in　a　mystery；　you　don't　question　a　village　simply　because　you　never　heard　of　it。　California　doesn't　sound　any　wilder　than　a　place　named　All…Hands'。
　　Nor　did　they　question。　He　told　them　that　his　father　had　died　the　year　before；　and　that　his　mother　was　quite　ill　（he　thought　of　adding　that　the　Queen's　repossession　men　had　e　in　the　middle　of　the　night　and　taken　away　their　donkey；　grinned；　and　decided　that　maybe　he　ought　to　leave　that　part　out）。　His　mother　had　given　him　what　money　she　could　（except　the　word　that　came　out　in　the　strange　language　wasn't　really　money…it　was　something　like　sticks）　and　had　sent　him　off　to　the　village　of　California；　to　stay　with　his　Aunt　Helen。
　　'These　are　hard　times；'　Mrs。　Henry　said；　holding　Jason；　now　changed；　more　closely　to　her。
　　'All…Hands'　is　near　the　summer　palace；　isn't　it；　boy？'　It　was　the　first　time　Henry　had　spoken　since　inviting　Jack　aboard。
　　'Yes；'　Jack　said。　'That　is；　fairly　near。　I　mean…'
　　'You　never　said　what　your　father　died　of。'
　　Now　he　had　turned　his　head。　His　gaze　was　narrow　and　assessing；　the　former　kindness　gone；　it　had　been　blown　out　of　his　eyes　like　candle…flames　in　a　wind。　Yes；　there　were　trap…doors　here。
　　'Was　he　ill？'　Mrs。　Henry　asked。　'So　much　illness　these　days…pox；　plague…hard　times　。　。　。　'　
　　For　a　wild　moment　Jack　thought　of　saying；　No；　he　wasn't　ill；　Mrs。　Henry。　He　took　a　lot　of　volts；　my　dad。　You　see　he　went　off　one　Saturday　to　do　some　work；　and　he　left　Mrs。　Jerry　and　all　the　little　Jerrys…including　me…back　at　home。　This　was　when　we　all　lived　in　a　hole　in　the　baseboard　and　nobody　lived　anywhere　else；　you　see。　And　do　you　know　what？　He　stuck　his　screwdriver　into　a　bunch　of　wires　and　Mrs。　Feeny；　she　works　over　at　Richard　Sloat's　house；　she　heard　Uncle　Morga