sk.thetalisman-第56章

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ck　group　Blondie。　And　he　would　have　been　astounded　if　told　he　had　wept　several　times　as　he　stood　watching　those　great　ripples　chase　each　other　toward　the　horizon；　drinking　in　a　sight　that　only　a　very　few　American　children　of　his　time　had　ever　seen…huge　empty　tracts　of　land　under　a　blue　sky　of　dizzying　width　and　breadth　and；　yes；　even　depth。　It　was　a　sky　unmarked　by　either　jet　contrails　across　its　dome　or　smutty　bands　of　smog　at　any　of　its　lower　edges。
　　Jack　was　having　an　experience　of　remarkable　sensory　impact；　seeing　and　hearing　and　smelling　things　which　were　brand…new　to　him；　while　other　sensory　input　to　which　he　had　grown　utterly　accustomed　was　missing　for　the　first　time。　In　many　ways　he　was　a　remarkably　sophisticated　child…brought　up　in　a　Los　Angeles　family　where　his　father　had　been　an　agent　and　his　mother　a　movie　actress；　it　would　have　been　odder　if　he　had　been　naive…but　he　was　still　just　a　child；　sophisticated　or　not；　and　that　was　undeniably　his　gain　。　。　。　at　least　in　a　situation　such　as　this。　That　lonely　day's　journey　across　the　grasslands　would　surely　have　produced　sensory　overload；　perhaps　even　a　pervasive　sense　of　madness　and　hallucination；　in　an　adult。　An　adult　would　have　been　scrabbling　for　Speedy's　bottle…probably　with　fingers　too　shaky　to　grasp　it　very　successfully…an　hour　west　of　the　market…town；　maybe　less。
　　In　Jack's　case；　the　wallop　passed　almost　pletely　through　his　conscious　mind　and　into　his　subconscious。　So　when　he　blissed　out　entirely　and　began　to　weep；　he　was　really　unaware　of　the　tears　（except　as　a　momentary　doubling　of　vision　which　he　attributed　to　sweat）　and　thought　only：　Jeez；　I　feel　good　。　。　。　it　should　feel　spooky　out　here　with　no　one　around；　but　it　doesn't。
　　That　was　how　Jack　came　to　think　of　his　rapture　as　no　more　than　a　good；　cheerful　feeling　as　he　walked　alone　up　the　Western　Road　with　his　shadow　gradually　growing　longer　behind　him。　It　did　not　occur　to　him　that　part　of　his　emotional　radiance　might　stem　from　the　fact　that　hardly　less　than　twelve　hours　before　he　had　been　a　prisoner　of　Updike's　Oatley　Tap　（the　blood…blisters　from　the　last　keg　to　land　on　his　fingers　were　still　fresh）；　that　hardly　less　than　twelve　hours　ago　he　had　escaped…barely！…some　sort　of　murdering　beast　that　he　had　begun　to　think　of　as　a　were…goat；　that　for　the　first　time　in　his　life　he　was　on　a　wide；　open　road　that　was　utterly　deserted　except　for　him；　there　was　not　a　Coca…Cola　sign　anywhere　in　view；　or　a　Budweiser　billboard　showing　the　World…Famous　Clydesdales；　no　ubiquitous　wires　ran　beside　the　road　on　either　side　or　crisscrossed　above　it；　as　had　been　the　case　on　every　road　Jack　Sawyer　had　ever　travelled　in　his　entire　life；　there　was　not　so　much　as　even　the　distant　rolling　sound　of　an　airplane；　let　alone　the　rolling　thunder　of　the　747s　on　their　final　approaches　to　LAX；　or　the　F…111s　that　were　always　blasting　off　from　the　Portsmouth　Naval　Air　Station　and　then　cracking　the　air　over　the　Alhambra　like　Osmond's　whip　as　they　headed　out　over　the　Atlantic；　there　was　only　the　sound　of　his　feet　on　the　road　and　the　clean　ebb　and　flow　of　his　own　respiration。
　　Jeez；　I　feel　good；　Jack　thought；　wiping　absently　at　his　eyes；　and　defined　it　all　as　'cheerful。'
　　　
　　　6
　　
　　Now　there　was　this　tower　to　look　at　and　wonder　about。
　　Boy；　you'd　never　get　me　up　on　that　thing；　Jack　thought。　He　had　gnawed　the　apple　right　down　to　the　core；　and　without　thinking　about　what　he　was　doing　or　even　taking　his　eyes　off　the　tower；　he　dug　a　hole　in　the　tough；　springy　earth　with　his　fingers　and　buried　the　apple…core　in　it。
　　The　tower　seemed　made　of　barn…boards；　and　Jack　guessed　it　had　to　be　at　least　five　hundred　feet　high。　It　appeared　to　be　a　big　hollow　square；　the　boards　rising　on　all　sides　in　X　after　X。　There　was　a　platform　on　top；　and　Jack；　squinting；　could　see　a　number　of　men　strolling　around　up　there。
　　Wind　pushed　by　him　in　a　gentle　gust　as　he　sat　at　the　side　of　the　road；　his　knees　against　his　chest　and　his　arms　wrapped　around　them。　Another　of　those　grassy　ripples　ran　away　in　the　direction　of　the　tower。　Jack　imagined　the　way　that　rickety　thing　must　be　swaying　and　felt　his　stomach　turn　over。
　　NEVER　get　me　up　there；　he　thought；　not　for　a　million　bucks。
　　And　then　the　thing　he　had　been　afraid　might　happen　since　the　moment　he　had　observed　that　there　were　men　on　the　tower　now　did　happen：　one　of　them　fell。
　　Jack　came　to　his　feet。　His　face　wore　the　dismayed；　slack…jawed　expression　of　anyone　who　has　ever　been　present　at　a　circus　performance　where　some　dangerous　trick　has　gone　wrong…the　tumbler　who　falls　badly　and　lies　in　a　huddled　heap；　the　aerialist　who　misses　her　grip　and　bounces　off　the　net　with　a　thud；　the　human　pyramid　that　unexpectedly　collapses；　spilling　bodies　into　a　heap。
　　Oh　shit；　oh　cripes；　oh…
　　Jack's　eyes　suddenly　widened。　For　a　moment　his　jaw　sagged　even　farther…until　it　was　almost　lying　on　his　breastbone；　in　fact…and　then　it　came　up　and　his　mouth　spread　in　a　dazed；　unbelieving　grin。　The　man　hadn't　fallen　from　the　tower；　nor　had　he　been　blown　off　it。　There　were　tonguelike　protrusions　on　two　sides　of　the　platform…they　looked　like　diving　boards…and　the　man　had　simply　walked　out　to　the　end　of　one　of　these　and　jumped　off。　Halfway　down　something　began　to　unfurl…a　parachute；　Jack　thought；　but　it　would　never　have　time　to　open。
　　Only　it　hadn't　been　a　parachute。　
　　It　was　wings。
　　The　man's　fall　slowed　and　then　stopped　pletely　while　he　was　still　some　fifty　feet　above　the　high　fieldgrass。　Then　it　reversed　itself。　The　man　was　now　flying　upward　and　outward；　the　wings　going　up　so　high　they　almost　touched…like　the　crowns　on　the　heads　of　that　Henny　Youngman　parrot…and　then　driving　downward　again　with　immense　power；　like　the　arms　of　a　swimmer　in　a　finishing　sprint。
　　Oh　wow；　Jack　thought；　driven　back　to　the　dumbest　cliché　he　knew　by　his　total；　utter　amazement。　This　topped　everything；　this　was　an　utter　pisser。　Oh　wow；　look　at　that；　oh　wow。
　　Now　a　second　man　leaped　from　the　diving　board　at　the　top　of　the　tower；　now　a　third；　now　a　fourth。　In　less　than　five　minutes　there　must　have　been　fifty　men　in　the　air；　flying　plicated　but　discernible　patterns：　out　from　the　tower；　describe　a　figure…eight；　back　over　the　tower　and　out　to　the　other　side；　another　figure…eight；　back　to　the　tower；　alight　on　the　platform；　do　it　all　again。
　　They　spun　and　danced　and　crisscrossed　in　the　air。　Jack　began　to　laugh　with　delight。　It　was　a　little　like　watching　the　water　ballets　in　those　corny　old　Esther　Williams　movies。　Those　swimmers…Esther　Williams　herself　most　of　all；　of　course…always　made　it　look　easy；　as　if　you　yourself　could　dip　and　swirl　like　that；　or　as　if　you　and　a　few　of　your　friends　could　easily　e　off　the　opposite　sides　of　the　diving　board　in　timed　choreography；　making　a　kind　of　human　fountain。
　　But　there　was　a　difference。　The　men　flying　out　there　did　not　give　that　sense　of　effortlessness；　they　seemed　to　be　expending　prodigious　amounts　of　energy　to　stay　in　the　air；　and　Jack　felt　with　sudden　certainty　that　it　hurt；　the　way　some　of　the　calisthenics　in　phys　ed…leg…lifts；　or　halfway　sit…ups；　for　instance…hurt。　No　pain；　no　gain！　Coach　would　roar　if　someone　had　the　nerve　to　plain。
　　And　now　something　else　occurred　to　him…the　time　his　mother　had　taken　him　with　her　to　see　her　friend　Myrna；　who　was　a　real　ballet　dancer；　practicing　in　the　loft　of　a　dance　studio　on　lower　Wilshire　Boulevard。　Myrna　was　part　of　a　ballet　troupe　and　Jack　had　seen　her　and　the　other　dancers　perform…his　mother　often　made　him　go　with　her　and　it　was　mostly　boring　stuff；　like　church　or　Sunrise　Semester　on　TV。　But　he　had　never　seen　Myrna　in　practice　。　。　。　never　that　close　up。　He　had　been　impressed　and　a　little　frightened　by　the　contrast　between　seeing　ballet　on　stage；　where　everyone　seemed　to　either　glide　or　mince　effortlessly　on　the　tips　of　their　pointes；　and　seeing　it　from　less　than　five　feet　away；　with　harsh　daylight　pouring　in　the　floor…to…ceiling　windows　and　no　music…only　the　choreographer　rhythmically　clapping　his　hands　and　yelling　harsh　criticisms。　No　praise；　only　criticisms。　Their　faces　ran　with　sweat。　Their　leotards　were　wet　with　sweat。　The　room；　as　large　and　airy　as　it　was；　stank　of　sweat。　Sleek　muscles　trembled　and　fluttered　on　the　nervous　edge　o