sk.thetalisman-第168章
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It had been 'Happy Days Are Here Again。'
8
Although she had believed herself far too old to catch pregnant； no blood had e to the mother of Jack Sawyer's Wolf at the time of the Change some twelve months ago。 Three months ago she had given birth to triplets…two litter…sisters and one litter…brother。 Her labor had been hard； and the foreknowledge that one of her older children was about to die had been upon her。 That child； she knew； had gone into the Other Place to protect the herd； and he would die in that Other Place； and she would never see him anymore。 This was very hard； and she had wept in more than the pain of her delivery。
Yet now； as she slept with her new young beneath a full moon； all of them safely away from the herd for the time being； she rolled over with a smile on her face and pulled the newest litter…brother to her and began to lick him。 Still sleeping himself； the Wolfling put his arms around his mother's shaggy neck and pressed his cheek against her downy breast； and now they both smiled； in her alien sleep a human thought arose： God pounds his nails well and true。 And the moonlight of that lovely world where all smells were good shone down on the two of them as they slept in each other's arms with the litter…sisters nearby。
9
In the town of Goslin； Ohio （not far from Amanda； and some thirty miles south of Columbus）； a man named Buddy Parkins was shovelling chickenshit in a henhouse at dusk。 A cheesecloth mask was tied over his mouth and nose to keep the choking white cloud of powdered guano he was raising from getting up his nose and into his mouth。 The air reeked of ammonia。 The stink had given him a headache。 He also had a backache； because he was tall and the henhouse wasn't。 All things considered； he would have to say that this was one bitch…kitty of a job。 He had three sons； and every damned one of them seemed to be unavailable when the henhouse needed to be swamped out。 Only thing to be said about it was that he was almost done； and…
The kid！ Jesus Christ！ That kid！
He suddenly remembered the boy who had called himself Lewis Farren with total clarity and a stunned kind of love。 The boy who had claimed to be going to his aunt； Helen Vaughan； in the town of Buckeye Lake； the boy who had turned to Buddy when Buddy had asked him if he was running away and had in that turning； revealed a face filled with honest goodness and an unexpected； amazing beauty…a beauty that had made Buddy think of rainbows glimpsed at the end of storms； and sunsets at the end of days that have groaned and sweated with work that has been well done and not scamped。
He straightened up with a gasp and bonked his head on the henhouse beams hard enough to make his eyes water 。 。 。 but he was grinning crazily all the same。 Oh my God； that boy is THERE； he's THERE； Buddy Parkins thought； and although he had no idea of where 'there' was； he was suddenly overtaken by a sweet； violent feeling of absolute adventure； never； since reading Treasure Island at the age of twelve and cupping a girl's breast in his hand for the first time at fourteen； had he felt so staggered； so excited； so full of warm joy。 He began to laugh。 He dropped his shovel； and while the hens stared at him with stupid amazement； Buddy Parkins danced a shuffling jig in the chickenshit； laughing behind his mask and snapping his fingers。
'He's there！' Buddy Parkins yelled to the chickens； laughing。 'By diddly…damn； he's there； he made it after all； he's there and he's got it！'
Later； he almost thought…almost； but never quite…that he must have somehow gotten high on the stench of the chicken…dust。 That wasn't all； dammit； that wasn't。 He had had some kind of revelation； but he could no longer remember what it had been 。 。 。 he supposed it was like that British poet some high…school English teacher had told them about： the guy had taken a big dose of opium and had started to write some poems about a make…believe Chink whorehouse while he was stoned 。 。 。 except when he came down to earth again he couldn't finish it。
Like that； he thought； but somehow he knew it wasn't； and although he couldn't remember exactly what had caused the joy； he； like Donny Keegan； never forgot the way the joy had e； all deliciously unbidden…he never forgot that sweet； violent feeling of having touched some great adventure； of having looked for a moment at some beautiful white light that was； in fact； every color of the rainbow。
10
There's an old Bobby Darin song which goes： 'And the ground coughs up some roots/wearing denim shirts and boots；/haul em away 。 。 。 haul em away。' This was a song the children in the area of Cayuga； Indiana； could have related to enthusiastically； if it hadn't been popular quite a bit before their time。 The Sunlight Home had been empty for only a little more than a week； and already it had gotten a reputation with the local kids as a haunted house。 Considering the grisly remains the payloaders had found near the rock wall at the back of Far Field； this was not surprising。 The local Realtor's FOR SALE sign looked as if it had been standing on the lawn for a year instead of just nine days； and the Realtor had already dropped the price once and was thinking about doing it again。
As it happened； he would not have to。 As the first snow began to spit down from the leaden skies over Cayuga （and as Jack Sawyer was touching the Talisman some two thousand miles away）； the LP tanks behind the kitchen exploded。 A workman from Eastern Indiana Gas and Electric had e the week before and had sucked all the gas back into his truck； and he would have sworn you could have crawled right inside one of those tanks and lit up a cigarette； but they exploded anyway…they exploded at the exact moment the windows of the Oatley Tap were exploding out into the street （along with a number of patrons wearing denim shirts and boots 。 。 。 and Elmira rescue units hauled em away）。
The Sunlight Home burned to the ground in almost no time at all。
Can you gimme hallelujah？
11
In all worlds； something shifted and settled into a slightly new position like a great beast 。 。 。 but in Point Venuti the beast was in the earth； it had been awakened and was roaring。 It did not go to sleep for the next seventy…nine seconds； according to the Institute of Seismology at CalTech。
The earthquake had begun。
CHAPTER 44
The Earthquake
1
It was some time before Jack became aware that the Agincourt was shaking itself to pieces around him； and this was not surprising。 He was transported with wonder。 In one sense he was not in the Agincourt at all； not in Point Venuti； not in Mendocino County； not in California； not in the American Territories； not in those other Territories； but he was in them； and in an infinite number of other worlds as well； and all at the same time。 Nor was he simply in one place in all those worlds； he was in them everywhere because he was those worlds。 The Talisman； it seemed； was much more than even his father had believed。 It was not just the axle of all possible worlds； but the worlds themselves…the worlds； and the spaces between those worlds。
Here was enough transcendentalism to drive even a cave…dwelling Tibetan holy man insane。 Jack Sawyer was everywhere； Jack Sawyer was everything。 A blade of grass on a world fifty thousand worlds down the chain from earth died of thirst on an inconsequential plain somewhere in the center of a continent which roughly corresponded in position to Africa； Jack died with that blade of grass。 In another world； dragons were copulating in the center of a cloud high above the planet； and the fiery breath of their ecstasy mixed with the cold air and precipitated rain and floods on the ground below。 Jack was the he…dragon； Jack was the she…dragon； Jack was the sperm； Jack was the egg。 Far out in the ether a million universes away； three specks of dust floated near one another in interstellar space。 Jack was the dust； and Jack was the space between。 Galaxies unreeled around his head like long spools of paper； and fate punched each in random patterns； turning them into macrocosmic player…piano tapes which would play
