sk.dreamcatcher-第7章

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　something　new　in　his　existence　that　he　hadn't　even　suspected　until　they　had　actually　gotten　up　here　on　November　eleventh　and　he　had　uncased　the　Garand。　He　wasn't　revolted　by　the　idea　of　hunting；　not　at　all　…　he　just　had　no　real　urge　to　do　it。　Death　had　brushed　by　him　on　a　sunny　day　in　March；　and　Jonesy　had　no　desire　to　call　it　back；　even　if　he　were　dealing　rather　than　receiving。


3
　　　　
What　surprised　him　was　that　he　still　liked　being　at　camp　…　in　some　ways；　better　than　ever。　Talking　at　night　…　books；　politics；　the　shit　they'd　gotten　up　to　as　kids；　their　plans　for　the　future。　They　were　in　their　thirties；　still　young　enough　to　have　plans；　plenty　of　them；　and　the　old　bond　was　still　strong。
　　　　And　the　days　were　good；　too　…　the　hours　in　the　tree…stand；　when　he　was　alone。　He　took　a　sleeping　bag　and　slid　into　it　up　to　his　hips　when　he　got　cold；　and　a　book；　and　a　Walkman。　After　the　first　day；　he　stopped　listening　to　the　Walkman；　discovering　that　he　liked　the　music　of　the　woods　better　…　the　silk　of　the　wind　in　the　pines；　the　rust　of　the　crows。　He　would　read　a　little；　drink　coffee；　read　a　little　more；　sometimes　work　his　way　out　of　the　sleeping　bag　（it　was　as　red　as　a　stoplight）　and　piss　off　the　edge　of　the　platform。　He　was　a　man　with　a　big　family　and　a　large　circle　of　colleagues。　A　gregarious　man　who　enjoyed　all　the　various　relationships　the　family　and　the　colleagues　entailed　（and　the　students；　of　course；　the　endless　stream　of　students）　and　balanced　them　well。　It　was　only　out　here；　up　here；　that　he　realized　the　attractions　of　silence　were　still　real；　still　strong。　It　was　like　meeting　an　old　friend　after　a　long　absence。
　　　　'You　sure　you　want　to　be　up　there；　man？'　Henry　had　asked　him　yesterday　morning。　'I　mean；　you're　wele　to　e　out　with　me。　We　won't　overuse　that　leg　of　yours；　I　promise。'
　　　　'Leave　him　alone；'　Pete　said。　'He　likes　it　up　there。　Don't　you；　Jones…boy？'
　　　　'Sort　of；'　he　said；　unwilling　to　say　much　more　…　how　much　he　actually　did　like　it；　for　instance。　Some　things　you　didn't　feel　safe　telling　even　your　closest　friends。　And　sometimes　your　closest　friends　knew；　anyway。
　　　　'Tell　you　something；'　the　Beav　said。　He　picked　up　a　pencil　and　began　to　gnaw　lightly　at　it　…　his　oldest；　dearest　trick；　going　all　the　way　back　to　first　grade。　'I　like　ing　back　and　seeing　you　there　…　like　a　lookout　in　the　crow's　nest　in　one　of　those　fuckin　Hornblower　books。　Keepin　an　eye　out；　you　know。'
　　　　'Sail；　ho；'　Jonesy　had　said；　and　they　all　laughed；　but　Jonesy　knew　what　the　Beav　meant。　He　felt　it。　Keeping　an　eye　out。　Just　thinking　his　thoughts　and　keeping　an　eye　out　for　ships　or　sharks　or　who　knew　what。　His　hip　hurt　ing　back　down；　the　pack　with　his　shit　in　it　was　heavy　on　his　back；　and　he　felt　slow　and　clumsy　on　the　wooden　rungs　nailed　to　the　trunk　of　the　maple；　but　that　was　okay。　Good；　in　fact。　Things　changed；　but　only　a　fool　believed　they　only　changed　for　the　worse。
　　　　That　was　what　he　thought　then。


4

When　he　heard　the　whicker　of　moving　brush　and　the　soft　snap　of　a　twig　…　sounds　he　never　questioned　were　those　of　an　approaching　deer　…　Jonesy　thought　of　something　his　father　said：　You　can't　make　yourself　be　lucky。　Lindsay　Jones　was　one　of　life's　losers　and　had　said　few　things　worth　mitting　to　memory；　but　that　was　one；　and　here　was　the　proof　of　it　again：　days　after　deciding　he　had　finished　with　deer　hunting；　here　came　one；　and　a　big　one　by　the　sound　a　buck；　almost　surely；　maybe　one　as　big　as　a　man。
　　　　That　it　was　a　man　never　so　much　as　crossed　Jonesy's　mind。　This　was　an　unincorporated　township　fifty　miles　north　of　Rangely；　and　the　nearest　hunters　were　two　hours'　walk　away。　The　nearest　paved　road；　the　one　which　eventually　took　you　to　Gosselin's　Market　（BEER　BAIT　OUT　OF　STATE　LICS　LOTTERY　TIX）；　was　at　least　sixteen　miles　away。
　　　　Well；　he　thought；　it　isn't　as　if　I　took　a　vow；　or　anything。
　　　　No；　he　hadn't　taken　a　vow。　Next　November　he　might　be　up　here　with　a　Nikon　instead　of　a　Garand；　but　it　wasn't　next　year　yet；　and　the　rifle　was　at　hand。　He　had　no　intention　of　looking　a　gift　deer　in　the　mouth。
　　　　Jonesy　screwed　the　red　stopper　into　the　Thermos　of　coffee　and　put　it　aside。　Then　he　pushed　the　sleeping　bag　off　his　lower　body　like　a　big　quilted　sock　（wincing　at　the　stiffness　in　his　hip　as　he　did　it）　and　grabbed　his　gun。　There　was　no　need　to　chamber　a　round；　producing　that　loud；　deer…frightening　click；　old　habits　died　hard；　and　the　gun　was　ready　to　fire　as　soon　as　he　thumbed　off　the　safety。　This　he　did　when　he　was　solidly　on　his　feet。　The　old　wild　excitement　was　gone；　but　there　was　a　residue　…　his　pulse　was　up　and　he　weled　the　rise。　In　the　wake　of　his　accident；　he　weled　all　such　reactions　…　it　was　as　if　there　were　two　of　him　now；　the　one　before　he　had　been　knocked　flat　in　the　street　and　the　warier；　older　fellow　who　had　awakened　in　Mass　General　。　。　。　if　you　could　call　that　slow；　drugged　awareness　being　awake。　Sometimes　he　still　heard　a　voice　…　whose　he　didn't　know；　but　not　his　…　calling　out　Please　stop；　I　can't　stand　it；　give　me　a　shot；　where's　Marcy；　I　want　Marcy。　He　thought　of　it　as　death's　voice　…　death　had　passed　him　in　the　street　and　had　then　e　to　the　hospital　to　finish　the　job；　death　masquerading　as　a　man　（or　perhaps　it　had　been　a　woman；　it　was　hard　to　tell）　in　pain；　someone　who　said　Marcy　but　meant　Jonesy。
　　　　The　idea　passed　…　all　of　the　funny　ideas　he'd　had　in　the　hospital　eventually　passed　…　but　it　left　a　residue。　Caution　was　the　residue。　He　had　no　memory　of　Henry　calling　and　telling　him　to　watch　himself　for　the　next　little　while　（and　Henry　hadn't　reminded　him）；　but　since　then　Jonesy　had　watched　himself。　He　was　careful。　Because　maybe　death　was　out　there；　and　maybe　sometimes　it　called　your　name。
　　　　But　the　past　was　the　past。　He　had　survived　his　brush　with　death；　and　nothing　was　dying　here　this　morning　but　a　deer　（a　buck；　he　hoped）　who　had　strolled　in　the　wrong　direction。
　　　　The　sound　of　the　rustling　brush　and　snapping　twigs　was　conu'ng　toward　him　from　the　southwest；　which　meant　he　wouldn't　have　to　shoot　around　the　trunk　of　the　maple　…　good　…　and　put　him　upwind。　Even　better。　Most　of　the　maple's　leaves　had　fallen；　and　he　had　a　good；　if　not　perfect；　sightline　through　the　interlacing　branches。　Jonesy　raised　the　Garand；　settled　the　buttplate　into　the　hollow　of　his　shoulder；　and　prepared　to　shoot　himself　a　conversation…piece。
　　　　What　saved　McCarthy　…　at　least　temporarily　…　was　Jonesy's　disenchantment　with　hunting。　What　almost　got　McCarthy　killed　was　a　phenomenon　George　Kilroy；　a　friend　of　his　father's；　had　called　'eye…fever'。　Eye…fever；　Kilroy　claimed；　was　a　form　of　buck　fever；　and　was　probably　the　second　most　mon　cause　of　hunting　accidents。　'First　is　drink；'　said　George　Kilroy　。　。　。　and　like　Jonesy's　father；　Kilroy　knew　a　bit　on　that　subject；　as　well。　'First　is　always　drink。'
　　　　Kilroy　said　that　victims　of　eye…fever　were　uniformly　astounded　to　discover　they　had　shot　a　fencepost；　or　a　passing　car；　or　the　broad　side　of　a　barn；　or　their　own　hunting　partner　（in　many　cases　the　partner　was　a　spouse；　a　sib；　or　a　child）。　'But　I　saw　it；'　they　would　protest；　and　most　of　them　according　to　Kilroy；　could　pass　a　lie…detector　test　on　the　subject。　They　had　seen　the　deer　or　the　bear　or　the　wolf；　or　just　the　grouse　flip…flapping　through　the　high　autumn　grass。　They　had　seen　it。
　　　　What　happened；　according　to　Kilroy；　was　that　these　hunters　were　afflicted　by　an　anxiety　to　make　the　shot；　to　get　it　over　with；　one　way　or　the　other。　This　anxiety　became　so　strong　that　the　brain　persuaded　the　eye　that　it　saw　what　was　not　yet　visible；　in　order　to　end　the　tension。　This　was　eye…fever。　And　although　Jonesy　was　aware　of　no　particular　anxiety　…　his　fingers　had　been　perfectly　steady　as　he　screwed　the　red　stopper　back　into　the　throat　of　the　Thermos　…　he　admitted　later　to　himself　that　yes；　he　might　have　fallen　prey　to　the　malady。
　　　　For　one　moment　he　saw　the　buck　clearly　at　the　end　of　the　tunnel　made　by　the　interlocking　branches　…　as　clearly　as　he　had　seen　any　of　the　previous　sixteen　deer　（six　bucks；　ten　does）　he　had　brought　down　over　the　years　at　Hole　in　the　Wall。　He　saw　its　brown　head；　one　eye　so　dark　it　was　almost　the　black　of　jeweler's　velvet；　even　part　of　its　rack。
　　　　Shoot　now！　part　of　him　cried　…　it　was　the　Jonesy　from　the　other　side　of　the　accident；　the　whole　Jonesy。　That　one　had　spoken　more　frequently　in　the　last　month　or　so；　as　he　began　to　approach　some　mythical　state　which　people　who　had　never　been　hit　by　a　car　blithely　referred　to　as　'total　recovery'；　but　he　had　never　spoken　as　loudly　as　he　did　now。　This　was　a　mand；　almost　a　shout。
　　　　And　his　finger　did　tighten　on　the　trigger。　It　never　put　on　that　last　pound　of　pressure　（or　perhaps　it　only　would　have　taken　another　half；　a　paltry　eight　ounces）；　but　it　did　tighten。　The　voice　that　stopped　him　was　that　second　Jonesy；　the　one　who　had　awakened　in　Mass　General；　doped　and　disoriented　and　in　pain；　not　sure　of　anything　anymore　except　that　someone　wanted　something　to　stop；　someone　couldn't　stand　it　…　not　without　a　shot；　anyway　…　that　someone　wanted　Marcy。
　　　　No；　not　yet　…　wait；　watch；　this　new　cautious　Jonesy　said；　and　that　was　the　voice　he　listened　to。　He　froze　in　place；　most　of　his　weight　thrown　forward　on　his　good　left　leg；　rifle　raised；　barrel　angled　down　that　interlacing　tunnel　of　light　at　a　cool　thirty…five　degrees。
　　　　The　first　flakes　of　snow　came　skating　down　out　of　the　white　sky　just　then；　and　as　they　did；　Jonesy　saw　a　bright　vertical　line　of　orange　below　the　deer's　head　…　it　was　as　if　the　snow　had　somehow　conjured　it　up。　For　a　moment　perception　simply　gave　up　and　what　he　was　seeing　over　the　barrel　of　his　gun　became　only　an　unconnected　jumble；　like　paints　swirled　all　together　on　an　artist's　palette。　There　was　no　deer　and　no　man；　not　even　any　woods；　just　a　puzzling　and　untidy　jumble　of　black；　brown；　and　orange。
　　　　Then　there　was　more　orange；　and　in　a　shape　that　made　sense：　it　was　a　hat；　the　kind　with　flaps　you　could　fold　down　to　cover　your　ears。　The　out…of…staters　bought　them　at　L。L。　Bean's　for　forty…four　dollars；　each　with　a　little　tag　inside　that　said　PROUDLY　MADE　IN　THE　USA　BY　UNION　LABOR。　Or　you　could　pick　one　up　at　Gosselin's　for　seven　bucks。　The　tag　in　a　Gosselin's　cap　just　said　MADE　IN　BANGLADESH。
　　　　The　hat　brought　everything　into　horrible　oh…God　focus：　the　brown　he　had　mistaken　for　a　buck's　head　was　the　front　of　a　man's　wool　jacket；　the　black　jeweler's　velvet　of　the　buck's　eye　was　a　button；　and　the　antlers　were　only　more　branches　…　branches　belonging　to　the　very　tree　in　which　he　was　standing。　The　man　was　unwise　（Jonesy　could　not　quite　bring　himself　to　use　the　word　crazy）　to　be　wearing　a　brown　coat　in　the　woods；　but　Jonesy　was　still　at　a　loss　to　understand　how　he　himself　could　have　made　a　mistake　of　such　potentially　horrifying　consequence。　Because　the　man　was　also　wearing　an　orange　cap；　wasn't　he？　And　a　bright　orange　flagman's　vest　as　well；　over　the　admittedly　unwise　brown　coat。　The　man　was…
　　　　…was　a　pound　of　finger…pressure　from　death。　Maybe　less。
　　　　It　came　home　to　him　in　a　visceral　way　then；　knocking　him　clean　out　of　his　own　body。　For　a　terrible；　brilliant　moment　he　never　forgot；　he　was　neither　Jonesy　Number　One；　the　confident　pre…accident　Jonesy；　or　Jonesy　Number　Two；　the　more　tentative　survivor　who　spent　so　much　of　his　time　in　a　tiresome　state　of　physical　disfort　and　mental　conf