sk.thetalisman-第47节

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into　a　bunch　of　wires　and　Mrs。　Feeny；　she　works　over　at　Richard　Sloat's　house；　she　heard　Uncle　Morgan　talking　on　the　phone　and　he　said　the　electricity　came　out；　all　of　the　electricity；　and　it　cooked　him；　it　cooked　him　so　bad　that　his　glasses　melted　all　over　his　nose；　only　you　don't　know　about　glasses　because　you　don't　have　them　here。　No　glasses　。　。　。　no　electricity　。　。　。　no　Midnight　Blue　。　。　。　no　airplanes。　Don't　end　up　like　Mrs。　Jerry；　Mrs。　Henry。　Don't…
　　'Never　mind　was　he　ill；'　the　whiskered　farmer　said。　'Was　he　political？'　
　　Jack　looked　at　him。　His　mouth　was　working　but　no　sounds　came　out。　He　didn't　know　what　to　say。　There　were　too　many　trapdoors。
　　Henry　nodded；　as　if　he　had　answered。　'Jump　down；　laddie。　Market's　just　over　the　next　rise。　I　reckon　you　can　ankle　it　from　here；　can't　you？'
　　'Yes；'　Jack　said。　'I　reckon　I　can。'　
　　Mrs。　Henry　looked　confused　。　。　。　but　she　was　now　holding　Jason　away　from　Jack；　as　if　he　might　have　some　contagious　disease。
　　The　farmer；　still　looking　back　over　his　shoulder；　smiled　a　bit　ruefully。　'I'm　sorry。　You　seem　a　nice　enough　lad；　but　we're　simple　people　here…whatever's　going　on　back　yonder　by　the　sea　is　something　for　great　lords　to　settle。　Either　the　Queen　will　die　or　she　won't　。　。　。　and　of　course；　someday　she　must。　God　pounds　all　His　nails　sooner　or　later。　And　what　happens　to　little　people　when　they　meddle　into　the　affairs　of　the　great　is　that　they　get　hurt。'
　　'My　father…'
　　'I　don't　want　to　know　about　your　father！'　Henry　said　sharply。　His　wife　scrambled　away　from　Jack；　still　holding　Jason　to　her　bosom。　'Good　man　or　bad；　I　don't　know　and　I　don't　want　to　know…all　I　know　is　that　he's　a　dead　man；　I　don't　think　you　lied　about　that；　and　that　his　son　has　been　sleeping　rough　and　has　all　the　smell　of　being　on　the　dodge。　The　son　doesn't　talk　as　if　he　es　from　any　of　these　parts。　So　climb　down。　I've　a　son　of　my　own；　as　you　see。'　
　　Jack　got　down；　sorry　for　the　fear　in　the　young　woman's　face…fear　he　had　put　there。　The　farmer　was　right…little　people　had　no　business　meddling　in　the　affairs　of　the　great。　Not　if　they　were　smart。
　　
　　　CHAPTER　13
　　　The　Men　in　the　Sky
　　　
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　　It　was　a　shock　to　discover　that　the　money　he　had　worked　so　hard　to　get　literally　had　turned　into　sticks…they　looked　like　toy　snakes　made　by　an　inept　craftsman。　The　shock　lasted　only　for　a　moment；　however；　and　he　laughed　ruefully　at　himself。　The　sticks　were　money；　of　course。　When　he　came　over　here；　everything　changed。　Silver　dollar　to　gryphon…coin；　shirt　to　jerkin；　English　to　Territories　speech；　and　good　old　American　money　to…well；　to　jointed　sticks。　He　had　flipped　over　with　about　twenty…two　dollars　in　all；　and　he　guessed　that　he　had　exactly　the　same　amount　in　Territories　money；　although　he　had　counted　fourteen　joints　on　one　of　the　money…sticks　and　better　than　twenty　on　the　other。
　　The　problem　wasn't　so　much　money　as　cost…he　had　very　little　idea　of　what　was　cheap　and　what　was　dear；　and　as　he　walked　through　the　market；　Jack　felt　like　a　contestant　on　The　New　Price　Is　Right…only；　if　he　flubbed　it　here；　there　wouldn't　be　any　consolation　prize　and　a　clap　on　the　back　from　Bob　Barker；　if　he　flubbed　it　here；　they　might　。　。　。　well；　he　didn't　know　for　sure　what　they　might　do。　Run　him　out　for　sure。　Hurt　him；　rough　him　up？　Maybe。　Kill　him？　Probably　not；　but　it　was　impossible　to　be　absolutely　certain。　They　were　little　people。　They　were　not　political。　And　he　was　a　stranger。
　　Jack　walked　slowly　from　one　end　of　the　loud　and　busy　market…day　throng　to　the　other；　wrestling　with　the　problem。　It　now　centered　mostly　in　his　stomach…he　was　dreadfully　hungry。　Once　he　saw　Henry；　dickering　with　a　man　who　had　goats　to　sell。　Mrs。　Henry　stood　near　him；　but　a　bit　behind；　giving　the　men　room　to　trade。　Her　back　was　to　Jack；　but　she　had　the　baby　hoisted　in　her　arms…Jason；　one　of　the　little　Henrys；　Jack　thought…but　Jason　saw　him。　The　baby　waved　one　chubby　hand　at　Jack　and　Jack　turned　away　quickly；　putting　as　much　crowd　as　he　could　between　himself　and　the　Henrys。
　　Everywhere　was　the　smell　of　roasting　meat；　it　seemed。　He　saw　vendors　slowly　turning　joints　of　beef　over　charcoal　fires　both　small　and　ambitious；　he　saw　'prentices　laying　thick　slices　of　what　looked　like　pork　on　slabs　of　homemade　bread　and　taking　them　to　the　buyers。　They　looked　like　runners　at　an　auction。　Most　of　the　buyers　were　farmers　like　Henry；　and　it　appeared　that　they　also　called　for　food　the　way　people　entered　a　bid　at　an　auction…they　simply　raised　one　of　their　hands　imperiously；　the　fingers　splayed　out。　Jack　watched　several　of　these　transactions　closely；　and　in　every　case　the　medium　of　exchange　was　the　jointed　sticks　。　。　。　but　how　many　knuckles　would　be　enough？　he　wondered。　Not　that　it　mattered。　He　had　to　eat；　whether　the　transaction　marked　him　as　a　stranger　or　not。
　　He　passed　a　mime…show；　barely　giving　it　a　glance　although　the　large　audience　that　had　gathered…women　and　children；　most　of　them…roared　with　appreciative　laughter　and　applauded。　He　moved　toward　a　stall　with　canvas　sides　where　a　big　man　with　tattoos　on　his　slabbed　biceps　stood　on　one　side　of　a　trench　of　smouldering　charcoal　in　the　earth。　An　iron　spit　about　seven　feet　long　ran　over　the　charcoal。　A　sweating；　dirty　boy　stood　at　each　end。　Five　large　roasts　were　impaled　along　the　length　of　the　spit；　and　the　boys　were　turning　them　in　unison。
　　'Fine　meats！'　the　big　man　was　droning。　'Fine　meats！　Fii…ine　meats！　Buy　my　fine　meats！　Fine　meats　here！　Fine　meats　right　here！'　In　an　aside　to　the　boy　closest　to　him：　'Put　your　back　into　it；　God　pound　you。'　Then　back　to　his　droning；　huckstering　cry。
　　A　farmer　passing　with　his　adolescent　daughter　raised　his　hand；　and　then　pointed　at　the　joint　of　meat　second　from　the　left。　The　boys　stopped　turning　the　spit　long　enough　for　their　boss　to　hack　a　slab　from　the　roast　and　put　in　on　a　chunk　of　bread。　One　of　them　ran　with　it　to　the　farmer；　who　produced　one　of　the　jointed　sticks。　Watching　closely；　Jack　saw　him　break　off　two　knuckles　of　wood　and　hand　them　to　the　boy。　As　the　boy　ran　back　to　the　stall　the　customer　pocketed　his　money…stick　with　the　absent　but　careful　gesture　of　any　man　repocketing　his　change；　took　a　gigantic　bite　of　his　open…faced　sandwich；　and　handed　the　rest　to　his　daughter；　whose　first　chomp　was　almost　as　enthusiastic　as　her　father's。
　　Jack's　stomach　boinged　and　goinged。　He　had　seen　what　he　had　to　see　。　。　。　he　hoped。
　　'Fine　meats！　Fine　meats！　Fine…'　The　big　man　broke　off　and　looked　down　at　Jack；　his　beetling　brows　drawing　together　over　eyes　that　were　small　but　not　entirely　stupid。　'I　hear　the　song　your　stomach　is　singing；　friend。　If　you　have　money；　I'll　take　your　trade　and　bless　you　to　God　in　my　prayers　tonight。　If　you　haven't；　then　get　your　stupid　sheep's　face　out　of　here　and　go　to　the　devil。'　
　　Both　boys　laughed；　although　they　were　obviously　tired…they　laughed　as　if　they　had　no　control　over　the　sounds　they　were　making。
　　But　the　maddening　smell　of　the　slowly　cooking　meat　would　not　let　him　leave。　He　held　out　the　shorter　of　his　jointed　sticks　and　pointed　to　the　roast　which　was　second　from　the　left。　He　didn't　speak。　It　seemed　safer　not　to。　The　vendor　grunted；　produced　his　crude　knife　from　his　wide　belt　again；　and　cut　a　slice…it　was　a　smaller　slice　than　the　one　he　had　cut　the　farmer；　Jack　observed；　but　his　stomach　had　no　business　with　such　matters；　it　was　rumbling　crazily　in　anticipation。
　　The　vendor　slapped　the　meat　on　bread　and　brought　it　over　himself　instead　of　handing　it　to　either　of　the　boys。　He　took　Jack's　money…stick。　Instead　of　two　knuckles；　he　broke　off　three。
　　His　mother's　voice；　sourly　amused；　spoke　up　in　his　mind：　Congratulations；　Jack…O　。　。　。　you've　just　been　screwed。
　　The　vendor　was　looking　at　him；　grinning　around　a　mouthful　of　wretched　blackish　teeth；　daring　him　to　say　anything；　to　protest　in　any　way。　You　just　ought　to　be　grateful　I　only　took　three　knuckles　instead　of　all　fourteen　of　them。　I　could　have；　you　know。　You　might　as　well　have　a　sign　hung　around　your　neck；　boy：　I　AM　A　STRANGER　HERE；　AND　ON　MY　OWN。　So　tell　me；　Sheep'　s…Face：　do　you　want　to　make　an　issue　of　it？
　　What　he　wanted　didn't　matter…he　obviously　couldn't　make　an　issue　of　it。　But　he　felt　that　thin；　impotent　anger　again。
　　'Go　on；'　the　vendor　said；　tiring　of　him。　He　flapped　a　big　hand　in　Jack's　face。　His　fingers　were　scarred；　and　there　was　blood　under　his　nails。　'You　got　your　food。　Now　get　out　of　here。'　
　　Jack　thought；　I　could　show　you　a　flashlight　and　you'd　run　like　all　the　devils　of　hell　were　after　you。　Show　you　an　airplane　and　you'd　probably　go　crazy。　You're　maybe　not　as　tough　as　you　think；　chum。
　　He　smiled；　perhaps　there　was　something　in　his　smile　that　the　meat…vendor　didn't　like；　because　he　drew　away　from　Jack；　his　face　momentarily　uneasy。　Then　his　brows　beetled　together　again。
　　'Get　out；　I　said！'　he　roared。　'Get　out；　God　pound　you！'　And　this　time　Jack　went。
　　　
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　　The　meat　was　delicious。　Jack　gobbled　it　and　the　bread　it　sat　on；　and　then　unselfconsciously　licked　the　juice　from　his　palms　as　he　strolled　along。　The　meat　did　taste　like　pork　。　。　。　and　yet　it　didn't。　It　was　somehow　richer；　tangier　than　pork。　Whatever　it　was；　it　filled　the　hole　in　the　middle　of　him　with　authority。　Jack　thought　he　could　take　it　to　s