sk.thetalisman-第25部分

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able　to　accept　what　his　eyes　had　seen：　the　horse　had　two　heads。
　　'Hey！'　he　said。　'Can　I　look　back　in　that　stall？　That…'
　　'No　time。'
　　'But　that　horse　had…'
　　'No　time；　I　said。'　He　raised　his　voice　and　shouted：　'And　if　I　ever　catch　you　laying　about　again　when　there's　work　to　be　done；　you'll　get　twice　this！'
　　'You　won't！'　Jack　screamed　（in　truth　he　felt　as　if　this　scene　were　getting　a　bit　old）。　'I　swear　you　won't！　I　told　you　I'd　be　good！'
　　Just　ahead　of　them；　tall　wooden　gates　loomed　in　a　wall　made　of　wooden　posts　with　the　bark　still　on　them…it　was　like　a　stockade　wall　in　an　old　Western　（his　mother　had　made　a　few　of　those；　too）。　Heavy　brackets　were　screwed　into　the　gates；　but　the　bar　the　brackets　were　meant　to　hold　was　not　in　place。　It　leaned　against　the　woodpile　to　the　left；　thick　as　a　railroad　crosstie。　The　gates　stood　open　almost　six　inches。　Some　muddled　sense　of　direction　in　Jack's　head　suggested　that　they　had　worked　their　way　pletely　around　the　pavillion　to　its　far　side。
　　'Thank　God；'　the　Captain　said　in　a　more　normal　voice。　'Now…'
　　'Captain；'　a　voice　called　from　behind　them。　The　voice　was　low　but　carrying；　deceptively　casual。　The　Captain　stopped　in　his　tracks。　It　had　called　just　as　Jack's　scarred　panion　had　been　in　the　act　of　reaching　for　the　left　gate　to　push　it　open；　it　was　as　if　the　voice's　owner　had　watched　and　waited　for　just　that　second。
　　'Perhaps　you　would　be　good　enough　to　introduce　me　to　your　。　。　。　ah　。　。　。　son。'　
　　The　Captain　turned；　turning　Jack　with　him。　Standing；　halfway　across　the　paddock　area；　looking　unsettling　out　of　place　there；　was　the　skeletal　courtier　the　Captain　had　been　afraid　of…Osmond。　He　looked　at　them　from　dark　gray　melancholy　eyes。　Jack　saw　something　stirring　in　those　eyes；　something　deep　down。　His　fear　was　suddenly　sharper；　something　with　a　point；　jabbing　into　him。　He's　crazy…this　was　the　intuition　which　leaped　spontaneously　into　his　mind。　Nuttier　than　a　damned　fruitcake。
　　Osmond　took　two　neat　steps　toward　them。　In　his　left　hand　he　held　the　rawhide…wrapped　haft　of　a　bullwhip。　The　handle　narrowed　only　slightly　into　a　dark；　limber　tendon　coiled　thrice　around　his　shoulder…the　whip's　central　stalk　was　as　thick　as　a　timber　rattlesnake。　Near　its　tip；　this　central　stalk　gave　birth　to　perhaps　a　dozen　smaller　offshoots；　each　of　woven　rawhide；　each　tipped　with　a　crudely　made　but　bright　metal　spur。
　　Osmond　tugged　the　whip's　handle　and　the　coils　slithered　from　his　shoulder　with　a　dry　hiss。　He　wiggled　the　handle；　and　the　metal…tipped　strands　of　rawhide　writhed　slowly　in　the　straw…littered　mud。
　　'Your　son？'　Osmond　repeated；　and　took　another　step　toward　them。　And　Jack　suddenly　understood　why　this　man　had　looked　familiar　before。　The　day　he　had　almost　been　kidnapped…hadn't　this　man　been　White　Suit？
　　Jack　thought　that　perhaps　he　had　been。
　　　
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　　The　Captain　made　a　fist；　brought　it　to　his　forehead；　and　bent　forward。　After　only　a　moment's　hesitation；　Jack　did　the　same。
　　'My　son；　Lewis；'　the　Captain　said　stiffly。　He　was　still　bent　over；　Jack　saw；　cutting　his　eyes　to　the　left。　So　he　remained　bent　over　himself；　his　heart　racing。
　　'Thank　you；　Captain。　Thank　you；　Lewis。　Queen's　blessings　upon　you。'　When　he　touched　him　with　the　haft　of　the　bullwhip；　Jack　almost　cried　out。　He　stood　straight　again；　biting　the　cry　in。
　　Osmond　was　only　two　paces　away　now；　regarding　Jack　with　that　mad；　melancholy　gaze。　He　wore　a　leather　jacket　and　what　might　have　been　diamond　studs。　His　shirt　was　extravagantly　ruffled。　A　bracelet　of　links　clanked　ostentatiously　upon　his　right　wrist　（from　the　way　he　handled　the　bullwhip；　Jack　guessed　that　his　left　was　his　working　hand）。　His　hair　was　drawn　back　and　tied　with　a　wide　ribbon　that　might　have　been　white　satin。　There　were　two　odors　about　him。　The　top　was　what　his　mother　called　'all　those　men's　perfumes；'　meaning　after…shave；　cologne；　whatever。　The　smell　about　Osmond　was　thick　and　powdery。　It　made　Jack　think　of　those　old　black…and…white　British　films　where　some　poor　guy　was　on　trial　in　the　Old　Bailey。　The　judges　and　lawyers　in　those　films　always　wore　wigs；　and　Jack　thought　the　boxes　those　wigs　came　out　of　would　smell　like　Osmond…dry　and　crumbly…sweet；　like　the　world's　oldest　powdered　doughnut。　Beneath　it；　however；　was　a　more　vital；　even　less　pleasant　smell：　it　seemed　to　pulse　out　at　him。　It　was　the　smell　of　sweat　in　layers　and　dirt　in　layers；　the　smell　of　a　man　who　bathed　seldom；　if　ever。
　　Yes。　This　was　one　of　the　creatures　that　had　tried　to　steal　him　that　day。
　　His　stomach　knotted　and　roiled。
　　'I　did　not　know　you　had　a　son；　Captain　Farren；'　Osmond　said。　Although　he　spoke　to　the　Captain；　his　eyes　remained　on　Jack。　Lewis；　he　thought；　I'm　Lewis；　don't　forget…
　　'Would　that　I　did　not；'　the　Captain　replied；　looking　at　Jack　with　anger　and　contempt。　'I　honor　him　by　bringing　him　to　the　great　pavillion　and　then　he　slinks　away　like　a　dog。　I　caught　him　playing　at　d…'
　　'Yes；　yes；'　Osmond　said；　smiling　remotely。　He　doesn't　believe　a　word；　Jack　thought　wildly；　and　felt　his　mind　take　another　clumsy　step　toward　panic。　Not　a　single　word！　'Boys　are　bad。　All　boys　are　bad。　It's　axiomatic。'　
　　He　tapped　Jack　lightly　on　the　wrist　with　the　haft　of　the　bullwhip。　Jack；　his　nerves　screwed　up　to　an　unbearable　pitch；　screamed　。　。　。　and　immediately　flushed　with　hot　shame。
　　Osmond　giggled。　'Bad；　oh　yes；　it's　axiomatic；　all　boys　are　bad。　I　was　bad；　and　I'll　wager　you　were　bad；　Captain　Farren。　Eh？　Eh？　Were　you　bad？'
　　'Yes；　Osmond；'　the　Captain　said。
　　'Very　bad？'　Osmond　asked。　Incredibly；　he　had　begun　to　prance　in　the　mud。　Yet　there　was　nothing　swishy　about　this：　Osmond　was　willowy　and　almost　delicate；　but　Jack　got　no　feeling　of　true　homosexuality　from　the　man；　if　there　was　that　innuendo　in　his　words；　then　Jack　sensed　intuitively　that　it　was　hollow。　No；　what　came　through　most　clearly　here　was　a　sense　of　malignity　。　。　。　and　madness。　'Very　bad？　Most　awfully　bad？'
　　'Yes；　Osmond；'　Captain　Farren　said　woodenly。　His　scar　glowed　in　the　afternoon　light；　more　red　than　pink　now。
　　Osmond　ceased　his　impromptu　little　dance　as　abruptly　as　he　had　begun　it。　He　looked　coldly　at　the　Captain。
　　'No　one　knew　you　had　a　son；　Captain。'
　　'He's　a　bastard；'　the　Captain　said。　'And　simple。　Lazy　as　well；　it　now　turns　out。'　He　pivoted　suddenly　and　struck　Jack　on　the　side　of　the　face。　There　was　not　much　force　behind　the　blow；　but　Captain　Farren's　hand　was　as　hard　as　a　brick。　Jack　howled　and　fell　into　the　mud；　clutching　his　ear。
　　'Very　bad；　most　awfully　bad；'　Osmond　said；　but　now　his　face　was　a　dreadful　blank；　thin　and　secretive。　'Get　up；　you　bad　boy。　Bad　boys　who　disobey　their　fathers　must　be　punished。　And　bad　boys　must　be　questioned。'　He　flicked　the　whip　to　one　side。　It　made　a　dry　pop。　Jack's　tottery　mind　made　another　strange　connection…reaching；　he　supposed　later；　for　home　in　every　way　it　knew　how。　The　sound　of　Osmond's　whip　was　like　the　pop　of　the　Daisy　air　rifle　he'd　had　when　he　was　eight。　He　and　Richard　Sloat　had　both　had　rifles　like　that。
　　Osmond　reached　out　and　grasped　Jack's　muddy　arm　with　one　white；　spiderlike　hand。　He　drew　Jack　toward　him；　into　those　smells…old　sweet　powder　and　old　rancid　filth。　His　weird　gray　eyes　peered　solemnly　into　Jack's　blue　ones。　Jack　felt　his　bladder　grow　heavy；　and　he　struggled　to　keep　from　wetting　his　pants。
　　'Who　are　you？'　Osmond　asked。
　　　
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　　The　words　hung　in　the　air　over　the　three　of　them。
　　Jack　was　aware　of　the　Captain　looking　at　him　with　a　stern　expression　that　could　not　quite　hide　his　despair。　He　could　hear　hens　clucking；　a　dog　barking；　somewhere　the　rumble　of　a　large　approaching　cart。
　　Tell　me　the　truth；　I　will　know　a　lie；　those　eyes　said。　You　look　like　a　certain　bad　boy　I　first　met　in　California…are　you　that　boy？
　　And　for　a　moment；　everything　trembled　on　his　lips：
　　Jack；　I'm　Jack　Sawyer；　yeah；　I'm　the　kid　from　California；　the　Queen　of　this　world　was　my　mother；　only　I　died；　and　I　know　your　boss；　I　know　Morgan…Uncle　Morgan…and　I'll　tell　you　anything　you　want　to　know　if　only　you'll　stop　looking　at　me　with　those　freaked…out　eyes　of　yours；　sure；　because　I'm　only　a　kid；　and　that's　what　kids　do；　they　tell；　they　tell　everything…
　　Then　he　heard　his　mother's　voice；　tough；　on　the　edge　of　a　jeer：
　　You　gonna　spill　your　guts　to　this　guy；　Jack…O？　THIS　guy？　He　smells　like　a　distress　sale　at　the　men's　cologne　counter　and　he　looks　like　a　medieval　version　of　Charles　Manson　。　。　。　but　you　suit　yourself。　You　can　fool　him　if　you　want…no　sweat…but　you　suit　yourself。
　　'Who　are　you？'　Osmond　asked　again；　drawing　even　closer；　and　on　his　face　Jack　now　saw　total　confidence…he　was　used　to　getting　the　answers　he　wanted　from　people　。　。　。　and　not　just　from　twelve…year…old　kids；　either。
　　Jack　took　a　deep；　trembling　breath　（When　you　want　max　volume…when　you　want　to　get　it　all　the　way　up　to　the　back　row　of　the　balcony…you　gotta　bring　it　from　your　diaphragm；　Jacky。　It　just　kind　of　gets　passed　through　the　old　vox…box　on　the　way　up）　and　screamed：
　　'I　WAS　GOING　TO　GO　RIGHT　BACK！　HONEST　TO　GOD！'
　　Osmond；　who　had　been　leaning　even　farther　forward　in　anticipation　of　a　broken　and　strengthless　whisper；　recoiled　as　if　Jack　had　suddenly　reached　out　and　slapped　him。　He　stepped　on　the