cb.imajica1-第7部分

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a　door　and　drawing　the　blinds。　They　were　like　beacons　to　those　that　preyed　on　them。
　Men　had　it　so　much　easier。　The　creatures　that　had　made　meat　of　them　in　earlier　ages　were　zoo　specimens　now；　brooding　behind　bars　for　the　entertainment　of　the　victorious　ape。　They　had　no　grasp；　those　apes；　of　how　close　they　lay　to　a　state　where　the　devouring　beasts　of　Earth's　infancy　would　be　little　more　than　fleas。　That　state　was　called　the　In　Ovo；　and　on　the　other　side　of　it　lay　four　worlds；　the　so…called　Reconciled　Dominions。　They　teemed　with　wonders：　individuals　blessed　with　attributes　that　would　have　made　them；　in　this；　the　Fifth　Dominion；　fit　for　sainthood　or　burning；　or　both；　cults　possessed　of　secrets　that　would　overturn　in　a　moment　the　dogmas　of　faith　and　physics　alike；　beauty　that　might　blind　the　sun　or　set　the　moon　dreaming　of　fertility。　All　this；　separated　from　Earth…the　unreconciled　Fifth…by　the　abyss　of　the　In　Ovo。
　It　was　not；　of　course；　an　impossible　journey　to　make。　But　the　power　to　do　so；　which　was　usually…and　contemptuously…referred　to　as　magic；　had　been　waning　in　the　Fifth　since　Chant　had　first　arrived。　He'd　seen　the　walls　of　reason　built　against　it；　brick　by　brick。　He'd　seen　its　practitioners　hounded　and　mocked；　seen　its　theories　decay　into　decadence　and　parody；　seen　its　purpose　steadily　forgotten。　The　Fifth　was　choking　in　its　own　certainties；　and　though　he　took　no　pleasure　in　the　thought　of　losing　his　life；　he　would　not　mourn　his　removal　from　this　hard　and　unpoetic　Dominion。
　He　went　to　his　window　and　looked　down　the　five　stories　into　the　courtyard。　It　was　empty。　He　had　a　few　minutes　yet；　to　pose　his　missive　to　Estabrook。　Returning　to　his　table；　he　began　it　again；　for　the　ninth　or　tenth　time。　There　was　so　much　he　wanted　to　municate；　but　he　knew　that　Estabrook　was　utterly　ignorant　of　the　involvement　of　his　family；　whose　name　he'd　abandoned；　with　the　fate　of　the　Dominions。　It　was　too　late　now　to　educate　him。　A　warning　would　have　to　suffice。　But　how　to　word　it　so　it　didn't　sound　like　the　rambling　of　a　wild　man？　He　set　to　again；　putting　the　facts　as　plainly　as　he　could；　though　doubting　that　these　words　would　save　Estabrook's　life。　If　the　powers　that　prowled　this　world　tonight　wanted　him　dispatched；　nothing　short　of　intervention　from　the　Unbeheld　Himself；　Hapexa…mendios；　the　all…powerful　occupant　of　the　First　Dominion；　would　save　him。
　With　the　note　finished；　Chant　pocketed　it　and　headed　out　into　the　darkness。　Not　a　moment　too　soon。　In　the　frosty　quiet　he　heard　the　sound　of　an　engine　too　suave　to　belong　to　a　resident　and　peered　over　the　parapet　to　see　the　men　getting　out　the　car　below。　He　didn't　doubt　that　these　were　his　visitors。　The　only　vehicles　he'd　seen　here　so　polished　were　hearses。　He　cursed　himself。　Fatigue　had　made　him　slothful；　and　now　he'd　let　his　enemies　get　dangerously　close。　He　ducked　down　the　back　stairs…glad；　for　once；　that　there　were　so　few　lights　working　along　the　landings…as　his　visitors　strode　towards　the　front。　From　the　flats　he　passed；　the　sound　of　lives：　Christmas　pops　on　the　radio；　argument；　a　baby　laughing；　which　became　tears；　as　though　it　sensed　there　was　danger　near。　Chant　knew　none　of　his　neighbors；　except　as　furtive　faces　glimpsed　at　windows；　and　now…　though　it　was　too　late　to　change　that…he　regretted　it。
　He　reached　ground　level　unharmed；　and　discounting　the　thought　of　trying　to　retrieve　his　car　from　the　courtyard　he　headed　off　towards　the　street　most　heavily　trafficked　at　this　time　of　night；　which　was　Kennington　Park　Road。　If　he　was　lucky　he'd　find　a　cab　there；　though　at　this　time　of　night　they　weren't　frequent。　Fares　were　harder　to　pick　up　in　this　area　than　in　Covent　Garden　or　Oxford　Street；　and　more　likely　to　prove　unruly。　He　allowed　himself　one　backward　glance；　then　turned　his　heels　to　the　task　of　flight。
　Though　classically　it　was　the　light　of　day　which　showed　a　painter　the　deepest　flaws　in　his　handiwork；　Gentle　worked　best　at　night：　the　instincts　of　a　lover　brought　to　a　simpler　art。　In　the　week　or　so　since　he'd　returned　to　his　studio　it　had　once　again　bee　a　place　of　work：　the　air　pungent　with　the　smell　of　paint　and　turpentine；　the　burned…down　butts　of　cigarettes　left　on　every　available　shelf　and　plate。　Though　he'd　spoken　with　Klein　daily　there　was　no　sign　of　a　mission　yet；　so　he　had　spent　the　time　reeducating　himself。　As　Klein　had　so　cruelly　observed；　he　was　a　technician　without　a　vision；　and　that　made　these　days　of　meandering　difficult。　Until　he　had　a　style　to　forge；　he　felt　listless；　like　some　latter　day　Adam；　born　with　the　power　to　impersonate　but　bereft　of　subjects。　So　he　set　himself　an　exercise。　He　would　paint　a　canvas　in　four　radically　different　styles：　a　cubist　North；　an　impressionist　South；　an　East　after　Van　Gogh；　a　West　after　Dali。　As　his　subject　he　took　Cara…vaggio's　Supper　at　Emmaus。　The　challenge　drove　him　to　a　healthy　distraction；　and　he　was　still　occupied　with　it　at　three…thirty　in　the　morning；　when　the　telephone　rang。　The　line　was　watery；　and　the　voice　at　the　other　end　pained　and　raw；　but　it　was　unmistakably　Judith。
　〃Is　that　you；　Gentle？〃
　〃It's　me。〃　He　was　glad　the　line　was　so　bad。　The　sound　of　her　voice　had　shaken　him；　and　he　didn't　want　her　to　know。　〃Where　are　you　calling　from？〃
　〃New　York。　I'm　just　visiting　for　a　few　days。〃
　〃It's　good　to　hear　from　you。〃
　〃I'm　not　sure　why　I'm　calling。　It's　just　that　today's　been　strange　and　I　thought　maybe；　oh…〃　She　stopped。　Laughed　at　herself；　perhaps　a　little　drunkenly。　〃I　don't　know　what　I　thought；〃　she　went　on。　〃It's　stupid。　I'm　sorry。〃
　〃When　are　you　ing　back？〃
　〃I　don't　know　that　either。〃
　〃Maybe　we　could　get　together？〃
　〃I　don't　think　so；　Gentle。〃
　〃Just　to　talk。〃
　〃This　line's　getting　worse。　I'm　sorry　I　woke　you。〃
　〃You　didn't…〃
　〃Keep　warm；　huh？〃
　〃Judith…〃
　〃Sorry；　Gentle。〃
　The　line　went　dead。　But　the　water　she'd　spoken　through　gurgled　on；　like　the　noise　in　a　seashell。　Not　the　ocean　at　all；　of　course；　just　illusion。　He　put　the　receiver　down　and…　knowing　he'd　never　sleep　now…squeezed　out　some　fresh　bright　worms　of　paint　to　work　with；　and　set　to。
　It　was　the　whistle　from　the　gloom　behind　him　that　alerted　Chant　to　the　fact　that　his　escape　had　not　gone　unnoticed。　It　was　not　a　whistle　that　could　have　e　from　human　lips；　but　a　chilling　scalpel　shriek　he　had　heard　only　once　before　in　the　Fifth　Dominion；　when；　some　two　hundred　years　past；　his　then　possessor；　the　Maestro　Sartori；　had　conjured　from　the　In　Ovo　a　familiar　which　had　made　such　a　whistle。　It　had　brought　bloody　tears　to　its　summoner's　eyes；　obliging　Sartori　to　relinquish　it　posthaste。　Later　Chant　and　the　Maestro　had　spoken　of　the　event；　and　Chant　had　identified　the　creature。　It　was　known　in　the　Reconciled　Dominions　as　a　voider；　one　of　a　brutal　species　that　haunted　the　wastes　north　of　the　Lenten　Way。　Voiders　came　in　many　shapes；　being　made；　some　said；　from　collective　desire；　which　fact　seemed　to　move　Sartori　profoundly。
　〃I　must　summon　one　again；〃　he'd　said；　〃and　speak　with　it；〃　to　which　Chant　had　replied　that　if　they　were　to　attempt　such　a　summoning　they　had　to　be　ready　next　time；　for　void…ers　were　lethal　and　could　not　be　tamed　except　by　Maestros　of　inordinate　power。
　The　proposed　conjuring　had　never　taken　place；　Sartori　had　disappeared　a　short　time　later。　In　all　the　intervening　years　Chant　had　wondered　if　he　had　attempted　a　second　summoning　alone　and　been　the　voiders'　victim。　Perhaps　the　creature　now　ing　after　Chant　had　been　responsible。　Though　Sartori　had　disappeared　two　hundred　years　ago；　the　lives　of　voiders；　like　those　of　so　many　species　from　the　other　Dominions；　were　longer　than　the　longest　human　span。
　Chant　glanced　over　his　shoulder。　The　whistler　was　in　sight。　It　looked　perfectly　human；　dressed　in　a　gray；　well…cut　suit　and　black　tie；　its　collar　turned　up　against　the　cold；　its　hands　thrust　into　its　pockets。　It　didn't　run　but　almost　idled　as　it　came；　the　whistle　confounding　Chant's　thoughts　and　making　him　stumble。　As　he　turned　away　the　second　of　his　pursuers　appeared　on　the　pavement　in　front　of　him；　drawing　a　hand　from　its　pocket。　A　gun？　No。　A　knife？　No。　Something　tiny　crawled　in　the　voider's　palm；　like　a　flea。　Chant　had　no　sooner　focused　upon　it　than　it　leapt　towards　his　face。　Repulsed；　he　raised　his　arm　to　keep　it　from　his　eyes　or　mouth；　and　the　flea　landed　upon　his　hand。　He　slapped　at　it　with　his　other　hand；　but　it　was　beneath　his　thumbnail　before　he　could　get　to　it。　He　raised　his　arm　to　see　its　motion　in　the　flesh　of　his　thumb　and　clamped　his　other　hand　around　the　base　of　the　digit；　in　the　hope　of　stopping　its　further　advance；　gasping　as　though　doused　with　icewater。　The　pain　was　out　of　all　proportion　to　the　mite's　size；　but　he　held　both　thumb　and　sobs　hard；　determined　not　to　lose　all　dignity　in　front　of　his　executioners。　Then　he　staggered　off　the　pavement　into　the　street；　throwing　a　glance　down　towards　the　brighter　lights　at　the　junction。　What　safety　they　offered　was　debatable；　but　if　worst　came　to　worst　he　would　throw　himself　beneath　a　car　and　deny　the　voiders　the　entertainment　of　his　slow　demise。　He　began　to　run　again；　still　clutching　his　hand。　This　time　he　didn't　glance　back。　He　didn't　need　to。　The　sound　of　the　whistling　faded；　and　the　purr　of　the　car　replaced　it。　He　threw　every　ounce　of　his　energy　into　the　run；　reaching　the