The Talisman by Stephen King

4

The ocean was still there, but now it was a darker, richer

blue—the truest indigo Jack had ever seen. For a moment he

stood transfixed, the sea-breeze blowing in his hair, looking at the horizon-line where that indigo ocean met a sky the color of faded denim.

That horizon-line showed a faint but unmistakable curve.

He shook his head, frowning, and turned the other way.

Sea-grass, high and wild and tangled, ran down from the

headland where the round carousel building had been only a

minute ago. The arcade pier was also gone; where it had been, a wild tumble of granite blocks ran down to the ocean. The

waves struck the lowest of these and ran into ancient cracks and channels with great hollow boomings. Foam as thick as

whipped cream jumped into the clear air and was blown away

by the wind.

Abruptly Jack seized his left cheek with his left thumb and forefinger. He pinched hard. His eyes watered, but nothing

changed.

“It’s real,” he whispered, and another wave boomed onto

the headland, raising white curds of foam.

Jack suddenly realized that Boardwalk Avenue was still here . . . after a fashion. A rutted cart-track ran from the top of the headland—where Boardwalk Avenue had ended at the

entrance to the arcade in what his mind persisted in thinking of as “the real world”—down to where he was standing and

then on to the north, just as Boardwalk Avenue ran north, becoming Arcadia Avenue after it passed under the arch at the border of Funworld. Sea-grass grew up along the center of

this track, but it had a bent and matted look that made Jack think that the track was still used, at least once in a while.

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He started north, still holding the green bottle in his right hand. It occurred to him that somewhere, in another world,

Speedy was holding the cap that went on this bottle.

Did I disappear right in front of him? I suppose I must have. Jeez!

About forty paces along the track, he came upon a tangle

of blackberry bushes. Clustered amid the thorns were the fattest, darkest, most lush-looking blackberries he had ever seen.

Jack’s stomach, apparently over the indignity of the “magic juice,” made a loud going ing sound.

Blackberries? In September?

Never mind. After all that had happened today (and it was

not yet ten o’clock), sticking at blackberries in September seemed a little bit like refusing to take an aspirin after one has swallowed a doorknob.

Jack reached in, picked a handful of berries, and tossed

them into his mouth. They were amazingly sweet, amazingly

good. Smiling (his lips had taken on a definite bluish cast), thinking it quite possible that he had lost his mind, he picked another handful of berries . . . and then a third. He had never tasted anything so fine—although, he thought later, it was not just the berries themselves; part of it was the incredible clarity of the air.

He got a couple of scratches while picking a fourth

helping—it was as if the bushes were telling him to lay off, enough was enough, already. He sucked at the deepest of the scratches, on the fleshy pad below the thumb, and then

headed north along the twin ruts again, moving slowly, trying to look everywhere at once.

He paused a little way from the blackberry tangles to look

up at the sun, which seemed somehow smaller and yet more

fiery. Did it have a faint orange cast, like in those old medieval pictures? Jack thought perhaps it did. And—

A cry, as rusty and unpleasant as an old nail being pulled

slowly out of a board, suddenly arose on his right, scattering his thoughts. Jack turned toward it, his shoulders going up, his eyes widening.

It was a gull—and its size was mind-boggling, almost un-

believable (but there it was, as solid as stone, as real as houses). It was, in fact, the size of an eagle. Its smooth white

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bullet-head cocked to one side. Its fishhook of a beak opened and closed. It fluttered great wings, rippling the sea-grass around it.

And then, seemingly without fear, it began to hop toward

Jack.

Faintly, Jack heard the clear, brazen note of many horns

blown together in a simple flourish, and for no reason at all he thought of his mother.

He glanced to the north momentarily, in the direction he

had been travelling, drawn by that sound—it filled him with a sense of unfocussed urgency. It was, he thought (when there was time to think), like being hungry for a specific something that you haven’t had in a long time—ice cream, potato chips, maybe a taco. You don’t know until you see it—and until you do, there is only a need without a name, making you restless, making you nervous.

He saw pennons and the peak of what might have been a

great tent—a pavillion—against the sky.

That’s where the Alhambra is, he thought, and then the gull shrieked at him. He turned toward it and was alarmed to see it was now less than six feet away. Its beak opened again, showing that dirty pink lining, making him think of yesterday, the gull that had dropped the clam on the rock and then fixed him with a horrid stare exactly like this one. The gull was grinning at him—he was sure of it. As it hopped closer, Jack could

smell a low and noisome stink hanging about it—dead fish

and rotted seaweed.

The gull hissed at him and flurried its wings again.

“Get out of here,” Jack said loudly. His heart was pumping

quick blood and his mouth had gone dry, but he did not want to be scared off by a seagull, even a big one. “Get out!”

The gull opened its beak again . . . and then, in a terrible, open-throated series of pulses, it spoke—or seemed to.

“Other’s iyyyin Ack . . . other’s iyyyyyyyyyyin—”

Mother’s dying, Jack. . . .

The gull took another clumsy hop toward him, scaly feet

clutching at the grassy tangles, beak opening and closing,

black eyes fixed on Jack’s. Hardly aware of what he was do-

ing, Jack raised the green bottle and drank.

Again that horrible taste made him wince his eyes shut—

and when he opened them he was looking stupidly at a yellow

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sign which showed the black silhouettes of two running kids, a little boy and a little girl. SLOW CHILDREN, this sign read. A seagull—this one of perfectly normal size—flew up from it

with a squawk, no doubt startled by Jack’s sudden appearance.

He looked around, and was walloped by disorientation. His

stomach, full of blackberries and Speedy’s pustulant “magic juice,” rolled over, groaning. The muscles in his legs began to flutter unpleasantly, and all at once he sat down on the curb at the base of the sign with a bang that travelled up his spine and made his teeth click together.

He suddenly leaned over between his splayed knees and

opened his mouth wide, sure he was just going to yark up the whole works. Instead he hiccuped twice, half-gagged, and

then felt his stomach slowly relax.

It was the berries, he thought. If it hadn’t been for the berries, I would have puked for sure.

He looked up and felt the unreality wash over him again.

He had walked no more than sixty paces down the cart-track

in the Territories world. He was sure of that. Say his stride was two feet—no, say two and a half feet, just to be on the safe side. That meant he had come a paltry hundred and fifty feet. But—

He looked behind him and saw the arch, with its big red

letters: ARCADIA FUNWORLD. Although his vision was 20/20,

the sign was now so far away he could barely read it. To his right was the rambling, many-winged Alhambra Inn, with the

formal gardens before it and the ocean beyond it.

In the Territories world he had come a hundred and fifty

feet.

Over here he had somehow come half a mile.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack Sawyer whispered, and covered his

eyes with his hands.

5

“Jack! Jack, boy! Travellin Jack!”

Speedy’s voice rose over the washing-machine roar of an

old flathead-six engine. Jack looked up—his head felt impossibly heavy, his limbs leaden with weariness—and saw a very old International Harvester truck rolling slowly toward him.

Homemade stake sides had been added to the back of the

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truck, and they rocked back and forth like loose teeth as the truck moved up the street toward him. The body was painted a hideous turquoise. Speedy was behind the wheel.

He pulled up at the curb, gunned the engine ( Whup! Whup!