The Talisman by Stephen King

Young Paddlers class. He had been pulled from the pool as

blue and dead as Rushton . . . but the lifeguard had applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and Richard Sloat had responded.

God pounds His nails, Orris thought, and then a deep, blurry snore snapped his head around.

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Anders, the depot-keeper, lay on a pallet in the corner with his kilt rudely pulled up to his breeks. An earthen jug of wine lay overturned nearby. Much of the wine had flowed into his hair.

He snored again, then moaned, as if with bad dreams.

No dream you might have could be as bad as your future

now is, Orris thought grimly. He took a step closer, his cloak flapping around him. He looked down on Anders with no pity.

Sloat was able to plan murder, but it had been Orris, time

and time again, who had Migrated to carry out the act itself. It had been Orris in Sloat’s body who had attempted to smother the infant Jack Sawyer with a pillow while a wrestling announcer droned on and on in the background. Orris who had

overseen the assassination of Phil Sawyer in Utah ( just as he had overseen the assassination of Phil Sawyer’s counterpart, the commoner Prince Philip Sawtelle, in the Territories).

Sloat had a taste for blood, but ultimately he was as allergic to it as Orris was to American food and American air. It was Morgan of Orris, once derided as Morgan Thudfoot, who

had always done the deeds Sloat had planned.

My son died; his still lives. Sawtelle’s son died. Sawyer’s still lives. But these things can be remedied. Will be remedied. No Talisman for you, my sweet little friends. You are bound for a radioactive version of Oatley, and you each owe the balance-scales a death. God pounds His nails.

“And if God doesn’t, you may be sure I will,” he said

aloud.

The man on the floor moaned again, as if he had heard. Or-

ris took another step toward him, perhaps meaning to kick

him awake, and then cocked his head. In the distance he heard hoofbeats, the faint creak and jingle of harness, the hoarse cries of drovers.

That would be Osmond, then. Good. Let Osmond take care

of business here—he himself had little interest in questioning a man with a hangover when he knew well enough what the

man would have to say.

Orris clumped across to the door, opened it, and looked

out on a gorgeous peach-colored Territories sunrise. It was from this direction—the direction of the sunrise—that the

sounds of approaching riders came. He allowed himself to

drink in that lovely glow for a moment and then turned toward

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the west again, where the sky was still the color of a fresh bruise. The land was dark . . . except for where the first sunlight bounced off a pair of bright parallel lines.

Boys, you have gone to your deaths, Orris thought with satisfaction . . . and then a thought occurred which brought even more satisfaction: their deaths might already have happened.

“Good,” Orris said, and closed his eyes.

A moment later Morgan Sloat was gripping the handle of

the door of Thayer School’s little theater, opening his own eyes, and planning his trip back to the west coast.

It might be time to take a little trip down memory lane, he thought. To a town in California called Point Venuti. A trip back east first, perhaps—a visit to the Queen—and then . . .

“The sea air,” he said to the bust of Pallas, “will do me

good.”

He ducked back inside, had another jolt from the small

vial in his pocket (hardly noticing the smells of canvas and makeup now), and, thus refreshed, he started back downhill

toward his car.

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Anders

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Jack suddenly realized that, although he was still running, he was running on thin air, like a cartoon character who has time for one surprised double-take before plunging two thousand

feet straight down. But it wasn’t two thousand feet. He had time—just—to realize that the ground wasn’t there anymore,

and then he dropped four or five feet, still running. He wobbled and might have remained upright, but then Richard came piling into him and they both went tumbling.

“Look out, Jack!” Richard was screaming—he was apparently not interested in taking his own advice, because his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. “Look out for the wolf! Look out for Mr. Dufrey! Look out—”

“Stop it, Richard!” These breathless screams frightened

him more than anything else had done. Richard sounded mad,

absolutely mad. “Stop it, we’re all right! They’re gone!”

“Look out for Etheridge! Look out for the bugs! Look out, Jack!”

“Richard, they’re gone! Look around you, for Jason’s sake!” Jack hadn’t had a chance to do this himself, but he knew they had made it—the air was still and sweet, the night perfectly silent except for a slim breeze that was blessedly warm.

“Look out, Jack! Look out, Jack! Look out, look out—”

Like a bad echo inside his head, he heard a memory of the

dog-boys outside Nelson House chorusing Way-gup, way-

gup, way-gup! Pleeze, pleeze, pleeze!

“Look out, Jack!” Richard wailed. His face was slammed into the earth and he looked like an overenthusiastic Moslem determined to get in good with Allah. “LOOK OUT! THE

WOLF! PREFECTS! THE HEADMASTER! LOOK O—”

Panicked by the idea that Richard actually had gone crazy,

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Jack yanked his friend’s head up by the back of his collar and slapped his face.

Richard’s words were cut cleanly off. He gaped at Jack,

and Jack saw the shape of his own hand rising on Richard’s

pale cheek, a dim red tattoo. His shame was replaced by an

urgent curiosity to know just where they were. There was

light; otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to see that mark.

A partial answer to the question came from inside him—it

was certain and unquestionable . . . at least, as far as it went.

The Outposts, Jack-O. You’re in the Outposts now.

But before he could spend any time mulling that over, he

had to try to get Richard shipshape.

“Are you all right, Richie?”

He was looking at Jack with numb, hurt surprise. “You hit

me, Jack.”

“I slapped you. That’s what you’re supposed to do with

hysterical people.”

“I wasn’t hysterical! I’ve never been hysterical in my l—”

Richard broke off and jumped to his feet, looking around

wildly. “The wolf! We have to look out for the wolf, Jack! If we can get over the fence he won’t be able to get us!”

He would have gone sprinting off into the darkness right

then, making for a cyclone fence which was now in another

world, if Jack hadn’t grabbed him and held him back.

“The wolf is gone, Richard.”

“Huh?”

“We made it.”

“What are you talking about—”

“The Territories, Richard! We’re in the Territories! We

flipped over!” And you almost pulled my damn arm out of its socket, you unbeliever, Jack thought, rubbing his throbbing shoulder. The next time I try to haul someone across, I’m going to find myself a real little kid, one who still believes in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.

“That’s ridiculous,” Richard said slowly. “There’s no such

thing as the Territories, Jack.”

“If there isn’t,” Jack said grimly, “then how come that

great big white wolf isn’t biting your ass? Or your own damn headmaster?”

Richard looked at Jack, opened his mouth to say some-

thing, then closed it again. He looked around, this time with a

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bit more attention (at least Jack hoped so). Jack did the same, enjoying the warmth and the clarity of the air as he did so.

Morgan and his crowd of snake-pit crazies might come burst-

ing through at any second, but for now it was impossible not to luxuriate in the pure animal joy of being back here again.

They were in a field. High, yellowish grass with bearded

heads—not wheat, but something like wheat; some edible

grain, anyway—stretched off into the night in every direction.

The warm breeze rippled it in mysterious but rather lovely

waves. To the right was a wooden building standing on a

slight knoll, a lamp mounted on a pole in front of it. A yellow flame almost too bright to look at burned clearly inside the lamp’s glass globe. Jack saw that the building was octagonal.

The two boys had come into the Territories on the outermost edge of the circle of light that lamp threw—and there was

something on the far side of the circle, something metallic that threw back the lamplight in broken glimmers. Jack

squinted at the faint, silvery glow . . . and then understood.

What he felt was not so much wonder as a sense of fulfilled expection. It was as if two very large jigsaw-puzzle pieces, one in the American Territories and one over here, had just come neatly together.