pzb.lostsouls-第10节
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ond salvation； might have died right there on that garage floor； along with the snips of wire； the scraps of metal； the broken drill bit that his dad whaled him for。
He might never have believed in magic again。 But a few weeks later…right around this time of year； he realized； twelve years ago to the month…he met Ghost； and everything changed forever。
It was near the end of his eleventh summer； when the season was about to turn； when Steve was poised at the last reach of childhood。 The passions and excitements of children no longer seemed so heady to him。 He felt faintly silly for having tried to build a hyperspace machine； or indeed for doing anything that was not dictated by the realm of the practical。 He cringed now to think how different he might have been。 He might never have picked up a guitar； might have graduated from N。C。 State with a bachelor's degree in advertising or some such deathsome thing。 If he hadn't met Ghost。
The locusts were still singing in the trees and in the long weeds by the side of the road； but their song grew sad； the harbinger of another summer's end。 School was in session。 The days would be relentlessly hot and sticky for another month at least； but some new coolness in the night air signalled the golden mantle of fall。 As at the beginning of every school year； there Was a new kid。 This year the new kid was a pale； frail…looking boy whose hair was a little too long to meet the current standards； who came to school wearing shirts that were clean but always seemed to hang from him too loosely。 Steve sat behind him in class and saw that his shoulder blades were as distinct and articulated as the joints of birds' wings。
By rote the new kid was ignored at first； though there was some discussion of his funny name and his hillbilly origins。 Then； by virtue of his appearance； his quietness； and his disinclination to join in the sixth…grade touch…football games at recess； he was judged a fag and thereafter jeered at。 Everyone knew he must be smart because he'd e up a grade and was a year younger than the rest of the class。 Most of the kids in Missing Mile had something weird about them： their fathers had died in the big fire at the old cotton mill； or their mothers worked as strippers in Raleigh； or they lived out on Violin Road and were so poor； the rumor went； that they had to eat roadkill。
These children were happy to have someone to look down upon。 The new kid didn't seem to care； or even really notice； even when the sixth…grade boys zinged him with pinecones and chunks of gravel； he looked around bewilderedly as if he thought they might have fallen out of the sky。 He checked out grown…up hooks about space from the school library and spent his recesses in the fringe of woods at the edge of the yard。
Steve was curious。 He'd heard the new kid and his grandmother had moved here from the mountains； and he wanted to hear about the mountains。 He and his parents had driven through them once； and to Steve they had seemed a place of dark mystery； of lushness； of a foreboding beauty that verged on the sinister。 In the mountains you wouldn't need a hyperspace machine； in the mountains they kept giant possums for yard dogs。
So one day Steve forsook the touch…football game…it was kind of a stupid affair anyway； less concerned with the actual rules of football than with knocking down as many kids as possible and grinding their faces into the dirt…and took his own walk in the woods。 He walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets； feeling awkward； half…hoping he wouldn't meet the new kid； who probably only wanted to be left alone； who surely thought he was just a roughneck jerkoff like the others。 The woods were sun…dappled and quiet； but Steve kept walking into old strands of spiderweb that stuck to his face and made him think tickly legs were racing down his back。 He was about to give it up and go play football after all when he heard a quiet 〃hey〃 from above his head。
Steve looked up into the calmest blue eyes he'd ever seen。 No wonder this kid didn't mind insults or pinecones。 Set in a face that was far too delicate； framed by wisps of rain…pale hair； those eyes were nevertheless at peace。 Steve wondered what it felt like to have eyes like that。
The kid was perched fortably in a tree； his legs stretched out along a low branch； his back snuggled against the trunk。 He raised an arm and pointed to a spot along the path just past Steve。
At first Steve didn't see anything。 Then all at once it came clear； the way an optical illusion will suddenly resolve itself： an intricate and enormous web that spanned the path； and hanging head…down at the middle of the concentric gossamer circles； a particularly large； juicy…looking brown weaver。 Another couple of steps and Steve would have walked right into it。 He tried unsuccessfully to suppress a shudder。
〃Spiders are spinning all over the woods；〃 said the kid。 'That means it'll be cold soon。〃
This went against the rationality that Steve so loved。 It sounded childish。 What could spiders have to do with the weather？ 〃How do you know？〃 he said。
〃My grandmother knows all that stuff。〃 The blue eyes did not challenge Steve to believe。 The kid had an air of quiet sureness； there was nothing cocky about him； nothing arrogant； but he seemed to know he spoke the truth。
Steve was interested despite himself。 Anyway； a kid from the mountains was surely entitled to his share of weird folklore。 〃Yeah？〃 he said。 〃What else does your grandmother know about？〃
〃Lots of stuff。〃 The kid hesitated。 〃If you want to meet her； you could e visit us sometime。 We live out on Burnt Church Road right by the dead end。〃
It should have been hard to extend that invitation； being the new kid with no real friends； not knowing whether Steve might just laugh at him and walk away。 And it should have been difficult for Steve to accept。 But already there was an easiness between them that surpassed any words they had exchanged。 Standing on the path in the sun…dappled September woods staring up at the skinny kid in the tree； the kid he had not yet known for ten minutes； Steve felt fortable； as if he could say anything。 It was not quite deja vu； it was not so unsettling； but it was somehow familiar。 When he remembered it now； Steve thought that it was not so much like meeting a friend as like recognizing one。
He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and stared ahead into the sparkling night。 Christ； but he was tense…first his bad mood and the whiskey； then the spooky shit on the hill。 His nerves were as fight as the thrumming of the wheels on the road。 Ghost mumbled something； but when Steve glanced over at him； Ghost was still sleeping； his eyes soundly shut and his hands lying limp in his lap。 He was dreaming again。 Ghost always dreamed； but only sometimes did his dreams e true；
Now they were ing into the outskirts of Missing Mile； the place called Violin Road； where dark pine branches hung over the dusty gravel road； where the land was peppered with heaps of old scrap metal and chicken Coops and family graveyards that sprouted from the tired grass like sad little crops of stone。 Whenever Steve drove out here in the daytime； he saw kids with ragged clothes and faded eyes playing on rickety jungle gyms； digging holes in the dirt of the scrubby yards； standing aimlessly； their heads swivelling to follow the T…bird as it went by。 Once he had seen a group of small kids hunkered down around a dead possum by the side of the road； poking it and turning it over with sticks； looking for maggots。 That had been a hundred…degree August day； and Steve had caught a noseful of ripe possum as he'd driven past。
But now； under the cold September moon； the trailers and rusty cars and trash heaps seemed to fade； to grow insubstantial。 Only the grass and the low…hanging trees appeared to shimmer and e alive。 Steve wondered who lived here； scratching out a place to exist； holding the kudzu and the wide empty sky at bay。 Were they farmers gone broke trying to beg crops from this dirt that had gone barren fifty years ago？ Were they field hippies； aging bohemians who thought living off the land meant a couple of scraggly tomato plants and Dannon yogurt from the 7…Eleven two miles up the road？
Steve glanced down at the gas gauge。 Nearly empty； but the change from the Pepsi machine would buy a tankful tomorrow。 The T…bird was damn thirsty these days。 Piece of shit； he thought with affection。
They were almost home now。 Steve would sleep in his once…cheerful wreck of a room； swathed in filthy sheets； trying to fend off nightmares。 In the morning Ghost would make whole…grain banana pancakes and bring him a beer。 The presence of Ghost in the next room； drunk and dreaming； would be a fort。 It had been a long night。
Chapter 5
Fifteen years later； Christian's bar was not so very different than it had been on that last night of Mardi Gras； that night of blood and altars。 That delicious night。
One of the stained…glass windows had been broken in a fight； on a rare evening when the bar was crowded and the liquor flowed too freely and tempers reached a sodden white…hot pitch。 Christian never found a replacement for the antique glass。 The
