The Talisman by Stephen King

they would tingle.

His father laughed. Footsteps came toward him. Morgan

Sloat’s red, puffy face appeared over the top of the couch.

Jack yawned and pushed his knees into the back of the couch.

His father’s face appeared beside Sloat’s. His father was smiling. For a moment, both of those grown-up adult male heads

seemed to be floating over the top of the couch. “Let’s move

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on home, sleepyhead,” his father said. When the boy looked

into Uncle Morgan’s face, he saw calculation sink into his

skin, slide underneath his jolly-fat-man’s cheeks like a snake beneath a rock. He looked like Richard Sloat’s daddy again, like good old Uncle Morgan who always gave spectacular

Christmas and birthday presents, like good old sweaty Uncle Morgan, so easy not to notice. But what had he looked like

before? Like a human earthquake, like a man crumbling

apart over the fault-line behind his eyes, like something all wound up and waiting to explode. . . .

“How about a little ice cream on the way home, Jack?”

Uncle Morgan said to him. “That sound good to you?”

“Uh,” Jack said.

“Yeah, we can stop off at that place in the lobby,” his father said.

“Yummy-yummy-yum,” Uncle Morgan said. “Now we’re

really talking about synergy,” and smiled at Jack once more.

This happened when he was six, and in the midst of his

weightless tumble through limbo, it happened again—the

horrible purple taste of Speedy’s juice backed up into his

mouth, into the passages behind his nose, and all of that languid afternoon of six years before replayed itself out in his mind. He saw it just as if the magic juice brought total recall, and so speedily that he lived through that afternoon in the same few seconds which told him that this time the magic

juice really was going to make him vomit.

Uncle Morgan’s eyes smoking, and inside Jack, a question

smoking too, demanding to finally come out . . .

Who played

What changes what changes

Who plays those changes, daddy?

Who

killed Jerry Bledsoe? The magic juice forced itself into the boy’s mouth, stinging threads of it nauseatingly trickled into his nose, and just as Jack felt loose earth beneath his hands he gave up and vomited rather than drown. What killed Jerry Bledsoe? Foul purple stuff shot from Jack’s mouth, choking

him, and he blindly pushed himself backward—his feet and

legs snagged in tall stiff weeds. Jack pushed himself up on his

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hands and knees and waited, patient as a mule, his mouth

drooping open, for the second attack. His stomach clenched, and he did not have time to groan before more of the stinking juice burned up through his chest and throat and spattered out of his mouth. Ropey pink strings of saliva hung from his lips, and Jack feebly brushed them away. He wiped his hand on his pants. Jerry Bledsoe, yes. Jerry—who’d always had his name spelled out on his shirt, like a gas-station attendant. Jerry, who had died when— The boy shook his head and wiped his

hands across his mouth again. He spat into a nest of saw-

toothed wild grass sprouting like a giant’s corsage out of the gray-brown earth. Some dim animal instinct he did not understand made him push loose earth over the pinkish pool of

vomit. Another reflex made him brush the palms of his hands against his trousers. Finally he looked up.

He was kneeling, in the last of the evening light, on the

edge of a dirt lane. No horrible Elroy-thing pursued him—he had known that immediately. Dogs penned in a wooden, cage-like enclosure barked and snarled at him, thrusting their

snouts through the cracks of their jail. On the other side of the fenced-in dogs was a rambling wooden structure and from

here too doggy noises rose up into the immense sky. These

were unmistakably similar to the noises Jack had just been

hearing from the other side of a wall in the Oatley Tap: the sounds of drunken men bellowing at each other. A bar—here

it would be an inn or a public house, Jack imagined. Now that he was no longer sickened by Speedy’s juice, he could smell the pervasive, yeasty odors of malt and hops. He could not let the men from the inn discover him.

For a moment he imagined himself running from all those

dogs yipping and growling through the cracks in their enclosure, and then he stood up. The sky seemed to tilt over his head, to darken. And back home, in his world, what was happening? A nice little disaster in the middle of Oatley? Maybe a nice little flood, a sweet little fire? Jack slipped quietly backward away from the inn, then began to move sideways

through the tall grass. Perhaps sixty yards away, thick candles burned in the windows of the only other building he could

see. From somewhere not far off to his right drifted the odor of pigs. When Jack had gone half the distance between the inn and the house, the dogs ceased growling and snapping, and he

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slowly began walking forward toward the Western Road. The

night was dark and moonless.

Jerry Bledsoe.

4

There were other houses, though Jack did not see them until he was nearly before them. Except for the noisy drinkers behind him at the inn, here in the country Territories people went to bed when the sun did. No candles burned in these

small square windows. Themselves squarish and dark, the

houses on either side of the Western Road sat in a puzzling isolation—something was wrong, as in a visual game from a

child’s magazine, but Jack could not identify it. Nothing hung upside-down, nothing burned, nothing seemed extravagantly

out of place. Most of the houses had thick fuzzy roofs which resembled haystacks with crewcuts, but Jack assumed that

these were thatch—he had heard of it, but never seen it be-

fore. Morgan, he thought with a sudden thrill of panic, Morgan of Orris, and saw the two of them, the man with long hair and a built-up boot and his father’s sweaty workaholic partner, for a moment jumbled up together—Morgan Sloat with

pirate’s hair and a hitch in his walk. But Morgan—this world’s Morgan—was not what was Wrong with This Picture.

Jack was just now passing a short squat one-story building

like an inflated rabbit hutch, crazily half-timbered with wide black wooden X’s. A fuzzy crewcut thatch capped this building too. If he were walking out of Oatley—or even running

out of Oatley, to be closer to the truth—what would he expect to see in the single dark window of this hutch for giant rabbits? He knew: the dancing glimmer of a television screen.

But of course Territories houses did not have television sets inside them, and the absence of that colorful glimmer was not what had puzzled him. It was something else, something so

much an aspect of any grouping of houses along a road that

its absence left a hole in the landscape. You noticed the hole even if you could not quite identify what was absent.

Television, television sets . . . Jack continued past the half-timbered little building and saw ahead of him, its front door set only inches back from the verge of the road, another

gnomishly small dwelling. This one seemed to have a sod, not

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a thatched, roof, and Jack smiled to himself—this tiny village had reminded him of Hobbiton. Would a Hobbit cable-stringer pull up here and say to the lady of the . . . shack?

doghouse? . . . anyhow, would he say, “Ma’am, we’re in-

stalling cable in your area, and for a small monthly fee—hitch you up right now—you get fifteen new channels, you get Midnight Blue, you get the all-sports and all-weather channels, you get . . .”?

And that, he suddenly realized, was it. In front of these

houses were no poles. No wiring! No TV antennas compli-

cated the sky, no tall wooden poles marched the length of the Western Road, because in the Territories there was no electricity. Which was why he had not permitted himself to identify the absent element. Jerry Bledsoe had been, at least part of the time, Sawyer & Sloat’s electrician and handyman.

5

When his father and Morgan Sloat used that name, Bledsoe, he thought he had never heard it before—though, having remembered it, he must have heard the handyman’s last name

once or twice. But Jerry Bledsoe was almost always just

Jerry, as it said above the pocket on his workshirt. “Can’t Jerry do something about the air-conditioning?” “Get Jerry to oil the hinges on that door, will you? The squeaks are driving me batshit.” And Jerry would appear, his work-clothes clean and pressed, his thinning rust-red hair combed flat, his glasses round and earnest, and quietly fix whatever was wrong. There was a Mrs. Jerry, who kept the creases sharp and clean in the tan workpants, and several small Jerrys, whom Sawyer &