sk.dreamcatcher-第44章

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　　　　'Eggman；'　Henry　muttered；　and　scraped　it　off　with　the　side　of　his　other　boot。　When　it　tried　to　squirm　away　he　stepped　on　it。　He　was　suddenly　aware　that　he　was　drenched　with　sweat；　sopping　from　head　to　toe；　if　he　went　out　into　the　cold　like　this　（and　he　would　have　to；　he　couldn't　stay　here）；　he'd　probably　catch　his　death。
　　　　'Can't　stay　here；　can't　take　no　rest！'　Henry　cried　in　his　new　hortatory　voice。
　　　　He　opened　the　matchbox；　but　his　hands　were　shaking　so　badly　he　spilled　half　of　them　on　the　floor。　More　of　the　threadlike　worms　were　crawling　toward　him。　They　might　not　know　much；　but　they　knew　he　was　the　enemy；　all　right；　they　knew　that。
　　　　Henry　got　hold　of　a　match；　held　it　up；　put　his　thumb　against　the　tip。　A　trick　Pete　had　taught　him　in　the　way　back　when。　It　was　your　friends　who　always　taught　you　the　finer　things；　wasn't　it？　Like　how　to　give　your　old　pal　Beaver　a　Viking　funeral　and　get　n'd　of　these　noisome　little　snakelets　at　the　same　time。
　　　　'Eggman！'
　　　　He　scratched　the　tip　of　the　match　and　it　popped　fire。　The　smell　of　the　burning　sulfur　was　like　the　smell　that　had　greeted　him　when　he　stepped　into　the　cabin；　like　the　smell　of　the　burly　woman's　farts。
　　　　'Walrus！'
　　　　He　flung　the　match　at　the　foot　of　the　bed；　where　there　was　a　crumpled　duvet　now　soaked　with　lighter　fluid。　For　a　moment　the　flame　guttered　down　blue　around　the　little　stick；　and　Henry　thought　it　would　go　out。　Then　there　was　a　soft　flump　sound；　and　the　duvet　grew　a　modest　crown　of　yellow　flames。
　　　　'Goo…goo…joob！'
　　　　The　flames　crawled　up　the　sheet；　turning　the　blood　soaked　into　it　black。　It　reached　the　mass　of　jelly…coated　eggs；　tasted　them；　and　found　them　good。　There　was　a　series　of　thick　popping　sounds　as　the　eggs　began　to　burst。　More　of　those　mewling　cries　as　the　worms　burned。　Sizzling　noises　as　fluid　ran　out　of　the　burst　eggs。
　　　　Henry　backed　out　of　the　room；　squirting　lighter　fluid　as　he　went。　He　got　halfway　across　the　Navajo　rug　before　the　can　ran　empty。　He　tossed　it　aside；　scratched　another　match；　and　tossed　it。　This　time　the　flump！　was　immediate；　and　the　flames　sprang　up　orange。　The　heat　baked　against　his　sweat…shiny　face；　and　he　felt　a　sudden　urge　…　it　was　both　strong　and　joyful　…　to　cast　the　painters'　masks　aside　and　simply　stride　into　the　fire。　Hello　heat；　hello　summer；　hello　darkness；　my　old　friend。
　　　　What　stopped　him　was　as　simple　as　it　was　powerful。　If　he　pulled　the　pin　now；　he　would　have　suffered　the　unpleasant　awakening　of　all　his　quiescent　emotions　to　no　purpose。　He　would　never　be　clear　on　the　details　of　what　had　happened　here；　but　he　might　get　at　least　some　answers　from　whoever　was　flying　the　helicopters　and　shooting　the　animals。　If　they　didn't　just　shoot　him；　too；　that　was。
　　　　At　the　door；　Henry　was　struck　by　a　memory　so　clear　that　his　heart　cried　out　inside　him：　Beaver　kneeling　in　front　of　Duddits；　who　is　trying　to　put　on　his　sneaker　backwards。　Let　me　fix　that；　man；　Beaver　says；　and　Duddits；　looking　at　him　with　a　wide…eyed　perplexity　that　you　could　only　love；　replies。　Fit　neek？
　　　　Henry　was　crying　again。　'So　long；　Beav；'　he　said。　'Love　you；　man　…　and　that's　straight　from　the　heart。'
　　　　Then　he　stepped　out　into　the　cold。


6

He　walked　to　the　far　end　of　Hole　in　the　Wall；　where　the　woodpile　was。　Beside　it　was　another　tarp；　this　one　ancient；　black　fading　to　gray。　It　was　frost…frozen　to　the　ground；　and　Henry　had　to　yank　hard　with　both　hands　in　order　to　pull　it　free。　Under　it　was　a　tangle　of　snowshoes；　skates；　and　skis。　There　was　an　antediluvian　ice…auger；　as　well。
　　　　As　he　looked　at　this　unprepossessing　pile　of　long…dormant　winter　gear；　Henry　suddenly　realized　how　tired　he　was　。　。　。　except　tired　was　really　too　mild　a　word。　He　had　just　e　ten　miles　on　foot；　much　of　it　at　a　fast　trot。　He　had　also　been　in　a　car　accident　and　discovered　the　body　of　a　childhood　friend。　He　believed　both　his　other　two　childhood　friends　were　likewise　lost　to　him。
　　　　If　I　hadn't　been　suicidal　to　begin　with；　I'd　be　stark…raving　crazy　by　now；　he　thought；　and　then　laughed。　It　felt　good　to　laugh；　but　it　didn't　make　him　feel　any　less　tired。　Still；　he　had　to　get　out　of　here。　Had　to　find　someone　in　authority　and　tell　them　what　had　happened。　They　might　already　know　…　based　on　the　sounds；　they　sure　as　shit　knew　something；　although　their　methods　of　dealing　with　it　made　Henry　feel　uneasy　…　but　they　might　not　know　about　the　weasels。　And　the　eggs。　He；　Henry　Devlin；　would　tell　them　…　who　better？　He　was　the　eggman；　after　all。
　　　　The　rawhide　lacings　of　the　snowshoes　had　been　chewed　by　so　many　mice　that　the　shoes　were　little　more　than　empty　frames。　After　some　sorting；　however；　he　found　a　stubby　pair　of　cross…country　skis　that　looked　as　if　they　might　have　been　state…of…the…art　around　1954　or　so。　The　clamps　were　rusty；　but　when　he　pushed　them　with　both　thumbs；　he　was　able　to　move　them　enough　to　take　a　reluctant　grip　on　his　boots。
　　　　There　was　a　steady　crackling　sound　ing　from　inside　the　cabin　now。　Henry　laid　one　hand　on　the　wood　and　felt　the　heat。　There　was　a　clutch　of　assorted　ski…poles　leaning　under　the　eave；　their　handgrips　buried　in　a　dirty　cobweb　caul。　Henry　didn't　like　to　touch　that　stuff　…　the　memory　of　the　eggs　and　the　weasel…thing's　wriggling　spawn　was　still　too　fresh　…　but　at　least　he　had　his　gloves　on。　He　brushed　the　cobwebs　aside　and　sorted　through　the　poles；　moving　quickly。　He　could　now　see　sparks　dancing　inside　the　window　beside　his　head。
　　　　He　found　a　pair　of　poles　that　were　only　a　little　short　for　his　lanky　height　and　skied　clumsily　to　the　er　of　the　building。　He　felt　like　a　Nazi　snow…trooper　in　an　Alistair　MacLean　film；　with　the　old　skis　on　his　feet　and　Jonesy's　rifle　slung　over　his　shoulder。　As　he　turned　around；　the　window　beside　which　he　had　been　standing　blew　out　with　a　surprisingly　loud　report　…　as　if　someone　had　dropped　a　large　glass　bowl　from　a　second…story　window。　Henry　hunched　his　shoulders　and　felt　pieces　of　glass　spatter　against　his　coat。　A　few　landed　in　his　hair。　It　occurred　to　him　that　if　he　had　spent　another　twenty　or　thirty　seconds　sorting　through　the　skis　and　poles；　that　exploding　glass　would　have　erased　most　of　his　face。
　　　　He　looked　up　at　the　sky；　spread　his　hands　palms…out　beside　his　cheeks　like　Al　Jolson；　and　said；　'Somebody　up　there　likes　me！　Hotcha！'
　　　　Flames　were　shooting　through　the　window　now；　licking　up　under　the　eaves；　and　he　could　hear　more　stuff　breaking　inside　as　the　heat…gradient　zoomed。　Lamar　Clarendon's　father's　camp；　originally　built　just　after　World　War　Two；　now　burning　merry　hell。　It　was　a　dream；　surely。
　　　　Henry　skied　around　the　house；　giving　it　a　wide　berth；　watching　as　gouts　of　sparks　rose　from　the　chimney　and　swirled　toward　the　low…bellied　clouds。　There　was　still　a　steady　crackle　of　gunfire　off　to　the　east。　Someone　was　bagging　their　limit；　all　right。　Their　limit　and　more。　Then　there　was　that　explosion　in　the　west　…　what　in　God's　name　had　that　been？　No　way　of　telling。　If　he　got　back　to　other　people　in　one　piece；　perhaps　they　would　tell　him。
　　　　'If　they　don't　just　decide　to　bag　me；　too；'　he　said。　His　voice　came　out　in　a　dry　croak；　and　he　realized　he　was　all　but　dying　of　thirst。　He　bent　down　carefully　（he　hadn't　been　on　skis　of　any　type　in　ten　years　or　more）；　scooped　up　a　double　handful　of　snow；　and　took　a　big　mouthful。　He　let　it　melt　and　trickle　down　his　throat。　The　feeling　was　heavenly。　Henry　Devlin；　psychiatrist　and　onetime　author　of　a　paper　about　the　Hemingway　Solution；　a　man　who　had　once　been　a　virgin　boy　and　who　was　now　a　tall　and　geeky　fellow　whose　glasses　always　slid　down　to　the　tip　of　his　nose；　whose　hair　was　going　gray；　whose　friends　were　either　dead；　fled；　or　changed；　this　man　stood　in　the　open　gate　of　a　place　to　which　he　would　never　e　again；　stood　on　skis；　stood　eating　snow　like　a　kid　eating　a　Sno…Cone　at　the　Shrine　Circus；　stood　and　watched　the　last　really　good　place　in　his　life　bum。　The　flames　came　through　the　cedar　shingles。　Melting　snow　turned　to　steaming　water　and　ran　hissing　down　the　rusting　gutters。　Arms　of　fire　popped　in　and　out　of　the　open　door　like　enthusiastic　hosts　encouraging　the　newly　arrived　guests　to　hurry　up；　hurry　up；　dammit；　get　your　asses　in　here　before　the　whole　place　bums　down。　The　mat　of　red…gold　fuzz　growing　on　the　granite　slab　had　crisped；　lost　its　color；　turned　gray。　'Good；'　Henry　muttered　under　his　breath。　He　was　clenching　his　fists　rhythmically　on　the　grips　of　his　ski…poles　without　being　aware　of　it。　'Good；　that's　good。'
　　　　He　stood　that　way　for　another　fifteen　minutes；　and　when　he　could　bear　it　no　more；　he　set　his　back　to　the　flames　and　started　back　the　way　he　had　e。


7

There　was　no　hustle　left　in　him。　He　had　twenty　miles　to　go　（22。2　to　be　exact；　he　told　himself）；　and　if　he　didn't　pace　himself　he'd　never　make　it。　He　stayed　in　the　packed　track　of　the　snowmobile；　and　stopped　to　rest　more　frequently　than　he　had　going　the　other　way。
　　　　Ah；　but　I　was　younger　then；　he　thought　with　only　slight　irony。
　　　　Twice　he　checked　his　watch；　forgetting　that　it　was　now　Eastern　Standard　No　Time　At　All　in　the　Jefferson　Tract。　With　the　mat　of　clouds　firmly　in　place　overhead；　all　he　knew　for　sure　was　that　it　was　daytime。　Afternoon；　of　course；　but　whether　mid　or　late　he　couldn't　tell。　On　another　afternoon　his　appetite　might　have　served　as　a　gauge；　but　not　today。　Not　after　the　thing　on　Jonesy's　bed；　and　the　eggs；　and　the　hairs　with　their　protuberant　black　eyes。　Not　after　the　foot　sticking　out　of　the　bathtub。　He　felt　that　he　would　never　eat　again　。　。　。　and　if　he　did；　he　would　never　eat　anything　with　even　a　slight　tinge　of　red。　And　mushrooms？　No　thanks。
　　　　Skiing；　at　least　on　cross…country　stubs　like　these；　was　sort　of　like　riding　a　bike；　he　discovered：　you　never　forgot　how　to　do　it。　He　fell　once　going　up　the　first　hill；　the　skis　slipping　out　from　under　him；　but　glided　giddily　down　the　other　side　with　only　a　couple　of　wobbles　and　no　spills。　He　guessed　that　the　skis　hadn't　been　waxed　since　the　peanut…farmer　was　President；　but　if　he　stayed　in　the　crimped　and　flattened　track　of　the　snowmobile；　he　should　be　all　right。　He　marvelled　at　the　stippling　of　animal　tracks　on　the　Deep　Cut　Road　he　had　never　seen　a　tenth　as　many。　A　few　critters　had　gone　walking　along　it；　but　most　of　the　tracks　only　crossed　it；　west　to　east。　The　Deep　Cut　took　a　lazy　northwest　course；　and　west　was　clearly　a　point　of　the　pass　the　local　animal　population　wanted　to　avoid。
　　　　I'm　on　a　journey；　he　told　himself。　Maybe　someday　someone　will　write　an　epic　poem　about　it：　'Henry's　journey'。
　　　　'Yeah；'　he　said。　〃'Time　slowed　and　reality　bent；　on　and　on　the　eggman　went。〃'　He　laughed　at　that；　and　in　his　dry　throat　the　laughter　turned　to　hacking　coughs。　He　skied　to　the　side　of　the　snowmobile　track；　got　another　double　handful　of　snow；　and　ate　it　down。
　　　　'Tasty　and　good　for　you！'　he　proclaimed。　'Snow！　Not　just　for　breakfast　anymore！'
　　　　He　looked　up　at　the　sky；　and　that　was　a　mistake。　For　a　moment　he　was　overwhelmed　with　dizziness　and　thought　he　might　go　right　over　on　his　back。　Then　the　vertigo　retreated。　The　clouds　overhead　looked　a　little　darker。　Snow　ing？　Night　ing？　Both　ing　at　the　same　time？　His　knees　and　ankles　hurt　from　the　steady　shuffle…shuffle　of　the　skis；　and　his　arms　hurt　even　worse　from　wielding　the　poles。　The　pads　of　muscle　on　his　chest　were　the　worst。　He　had　already　accepted　as　certainty　that　he　would