The Talisman

by Stephen King

  He stopped at a stall where a man was selling carpets with the Queen's portrait woven into them. Jack suddenly thought of Hank Scoffler's mom and smiled. Hank was one of the kids Jack and Richard Sloat had hung around with in L.A. Mrs. Scoffler had a thing for the most garish decorations Jack had ever seen. And God, wouldn't she have loved these rugs, with the image of Laura DeLoessian, her hair done up in a high, regal coronet of braids, woven into them! Better than her velvet paintings of Alaskan stags or the ceramic diorama of the Last Supper behind the bar in the Scoffler living room. . . .

  Then the face woven into the rugs seemed to change even as he looked at it. The face of the Queen was gone and it was his mother's face he saw, repeated over and over and over, her eyes too dark, her skin much too white.

  Homesickness surprised Jack again. It rushed through his mind in a wave and he called out for her in his heart--Mom! Hey Mom! Jesus, what am I doing here? Mom!!--wondering with a lover's longing intensity what she was doing now, right this minute. Sitting at the window, smoking, looking out at the ocean, a book open beside her? Watching TV? At a movie? Sleeping? Dying?

  Dead? an evil voice added before he could stop it. Dead, Jack? Already dead?

  Stop it.

  He felt the burning sting of tears.

  "Why so sad, my little lad?"

  He looked up, startled, and saw the rug salesman looking at him. He was as big as the meat-vendor, and his arms were also tattooed, but his smile was open and sunny. There was no meanness in it. That was a big difference.

  "It's nothing," Jack said.

  "If it's nothing makes you look like that, you ought to be thinking of something, my son, my son."

  "I looked that bad, did I?" Jack asked, smiling a little. He had also grown unselfconscious about his speech--at least for the moment--and perhaps that was why the rug salesman heard nothing odd or off-rhythm in it.

  "Laddie, you looked as if you only had one friend left on this side o' the moon and you just saw the Wild White Wolf come out o' the north an' gobble him down with a silver spoon."

  Jack smiled a little. The rug salesman turned away and took something from a smaller display to the right of the largest rug--it was oval and had a short handle. As he turned it over the sun flashed across it--it was a mirror. To Jack it looked small and cheap, the sort of thing you might get for knocking over all three wooden milk-bottles in a carnival game.

  "Here, laddie," the rug salesman said. "Take a look and see if I'm not right."

  Jack looked into the mirror and gaped, for a moment so stunned he thought his heart must have forgotten to beat. It was him, but he looked like something from Pleasure Island in the Disney version of Pinocchio, where too much pool-shooting and cigar-smoking had turned boys into donkeys. His eyes, normally as blue and round as an Anglo-Saxon heritage could make them, had gone brown and almond-shaped. His hair, coarsely matted and falling across the middle of his forehead, had a definite manelike look. He raised one hand to brush it away, and touched only bare skin--in the mirror, his fingers seemed to fade right through the hair. He heard the vendor laugh, pleased. Most amazing of all, long jackass-ears dangled down to below his jawline. As he stared, one of them twitched.

  He thought suddenly: I HAD one of these!

  And on the heels of that: In the Daydreams I had one of these. Back in the regular world it was . . . was . . .

  He could have been no more than four. In the regular world (he had stopped thinking of it as the real world without even noticing) it had been a great big glass marble with a rosy center. One day while he was playing with it, it had rolled down the cement path in front of their house and before he could catch it, it had fallen down a sewer grate. It had been gone--forever, he had thought then, sitting on the curb with his face propped on his dirty hands and weeping. But it wasn't; here was that old toy rediscovered, just as wonderful now as it had been when he was three or four. He grinned, delighted. The image changed and Jack the Jackass became Jack the Cat, his face wise and secret with amusement. His eyes went from donkey-brown to tomcat-green. Now pert little gray-furred ears cocked alertly where the droopy donkey-ears had dangled.

  "Better," the vendor said. "Better, my son. I like to see a happy boy. A happy boy is a healthy boy, and a healthy boy finds his way in the world. Book of Good Farming says that, and if it doesn't, it should. I may just scratch it in my copy, if I ever scratch up enough scratch from my pumpkin-patch to buy a copy someday. Want the glass?"

  "Yes!" Jack cried. "Yeah, great!" He groped for his sticks. Frugality was forgotten. "How much?"

  The vendor frowned and looked around swiftly to see if they were being watched. "Put it away, my son. Tuck it down deep, that's the way. You show your scratch, you're apt to lose the batch. Dips abound on market-ground."

  "What?"

  "Never mind. No charge. Take it. Half of em get broken in the back of my wagon when I drag em back to my store come tenmonth. Mothers bring their little 'uns over and they try it but they don't buy it."

  "Well, at least you don't deny it," Jack said.

  The vendor looked at him with some surprise and then they both burst out laughing.

  "A happy boy with a snappy mouth," the vendor said. "Come see me when you're older and bolder, my son. We'll take your mouth and head south and treble what we peddle."

  Jack giggled. This guy was better than a rap record by the Sugarhill Gang.

  "Thanks," he said (a large, improbable grin had appeared on the chops of the cat in the mirror). "Thanks very much!"

  "Thank me to God," the vendor said . . . then, as an after-thought: "And watch your wad!"

  Jack moved on, tucking the mirror-toy carefully into his jerkin, next to Speedy's bottle.

  And every few minutes he checked to make sure his sticks were still there.

  He guessed he knew what dips were, after all.

  3

  Two stalls down from the booth of the rhyming rug-vendor, a depraved-looking man with a patch askew over one eye and the smell of strong drink about him was trying to sell a farmer a large rooster. He was telling the farmer that if he bought this rooster and put it in with his hens, the farmer would have nothing but double-yolkers for the next twelve-month.

  Jack, however, had neither eyes for the rooster nor ears for the salesman's pitch. He joined a crowd of children who were staring at the one-eyed man's star attraction. This was a parrot in a large wicker cage. It was almost as tall as the youngest children in the group, and it was as smoothly, darkly green as a Heineken beer-bottle. Its eyes were a brilliant gold . . . its four eyes. Like the pony he had seen in the pavillion stables, the parrot had two heads. It gripped its perch with its big yellow feet and looked placidly in two directions at once, its two tufted crowns almost touching.

  The parrot was talking to itself, to the amusement of the children--but even in his amazement Jack noted that, while they were paying close attention to the parrot, they seemed neither stunned nor even very wondering. They weren't like kids seeing their first movie, sitting stupefied in their seats and all eyes; they were more like kids getting their regular Saturday-morning cartoon-fix. This was a wonder, yes, but not a wholly new one. And to whom do wonders pall more rapidly than the very young?

  "Bawwwrk! How high is up?" East-Head enquired.

  "As low as low," West-Head responded, and the children giggled.

  "Graaak! What's the great truth of noblemen?" East-Head now asked.

  "That a king will be a king all his life, but once a knight's enough for any man!" West-Head replied pertly. Jack smiled and several of the older children laughed, but the younger ones only looked puzzled.

  "And what's in Mrs. Spratt's cupboard?" East-Head now posed.

  "A sight no man shall see!" West-Head rejoined, and although Jack was mystified, the children went into gales of laughter.

  The parrot solemnly shifted its talons on its perch and made droppings into the straw below it.

  "And what frightened Alan Destry to death in the night?"r />
  "He saw his wife--growwwwk!--getting out of the bath!"

  The farmer was now walking away and the one-eyed salesman still had charge of the rooster. He rounded furiously on the children. "Get out of here! Get out of here before I kick your asses square!"

  The children scattered. Jack went with them, sparing a last bemused look over his shoulder at the wonderful parrot.

  4

  At another stall he gave up two knuckles of wood for an apple and a dipper of milk--the sweetest, richest milk he had ever tasted. Jack thought that if they had milk like that back at home, Nestle's and Hershey's would go bankrupt in a week.

  He was just finishing the milk when he saw the Henry family moving slowly in his direction. He handed the dipper back to the woman in the stall, who poured the lees thriftily back into the large wooden cask beside her. Jack hurried on, wiping a milk moustache from his upper lip and hoping uneasily that no one who had drunk from the dipper before him had had leprosy or herpes or anything like that. But he somehow didn't think such awful things even existed over here.

  He walked up the market-town's main thoroughfare, past the mimers, past two fat women selling pots and pans (Territories Tupperware, Jack thought, and grinned), past that wonderful two-headed parrot (its one-eyed owner was now drinking quite openly from a clay bottle, reeling wildly from one end of his booth to the other, holding the dazed-looking rooster by the neck and yelling truculently at passersby--Jack saw the man's scrawny right arm was caked with yellowish-white guano, and grimaced), past an open area where farmers were gathered. He paused there for a moment, curious. Many of the farmers were smoking clay pipes, and Jack saw several clay bottles, much the same as the one the bird-salesman had been brandishing, go from hand to hand. In a long, grassy field, men were hitching stones behind large shaggy horses with lowered heads and mild, stupid eyes.

  Jack passed the rug-stall. The vendor saw him and raised a hand. Jack raised one in turn and thought of calling Use it, my man, but don't abuse it! He decided he better not. He was suddenly aware that he felt blue. That feeling of strangeness, of being an outsider, had fallen over him again.

  He reached the crossroads. The way going north and south was little more than a country lane. The Western Road was much wider.

  Old Travelling Jack, he thought, and tried to smile. He straightened his shoulders and heard Speedy's bottle clink lightly against the mirror. Here goes old Travelling Jack along the Territories version of Interstate 90. Feets don't fail me now!

  He set off again, and soon that great dreaming land swallowed him.

  5

  About four hours later, in the middle of the afternoon, Jack sat down in the tall grass by the side of the road and watched as a number of men--from this distance they looked little bigger than bugs--climbed a tall, rickety-looking tower. He had chosen this place to rest and eat his apple because it was here that the Western Road seemed to make its closest approach to that tower. It was still at least three miles away (and perhaps much more than that--the almost supernatural clarity of the air made distances extremely hard to judge), but it had been in Jack's view for an hour or more.

  Jack ate his apple, rested his tired feet, and wondered what that tower could be, standing out there all by itself in a field of rolling grass. And, of course, he wondered why those men should be climbing it. The wind had blown quite steadily ever since he had left the market-town, and the tower was downwind of Jack, but whenever it died away for a minute, Jack could hear them calling to each other . . . and laughing. There was a lot of laughing going on.

  Some five miles west of the market, Jack had walked through a village--if your definition of a village stretched to cover five tiny houses and one store that had obviously been closed for a long time. Those had been the last human habitations he had seen between then and now. Just before glimpsing the tower, he had been wondering if he had already come to the Outposts without even knowing it. He remembered well enough what Captain Farren had said: Beyond the Outposts the Western Road goes into nowhere . . . or into hell. I've heard it said that God Himself never ventures beyond the Outposts. . . .

  Jack shivered a little.

  But he didn't really believe he had come so far. Certainly there was none of the steadily deepening unease he had been feeling before he floundered into the living trees in his effort to get away from Morgan's diligence . . . the living trees which now seemed like a hideous prologue to all the time he had spent in Oatley.

  Indeed, the good emotions he had felt from the time he woke up warm and rested inside the haystack until the time Henry the farmer had invited him to jump down from his wagon had now resurfaced: that feeling that the Territories, in spite of whatever evil they might harbor, were fundamentally good, and that he could be a part of this place anytime he wanted . . . that he was really no Stranger at all.

  He had come to realize that he was part of the Territories for long periods of time. A strange thought had come to him as he swung easily along the Western Road, a thought which came half in English and half in whatever the Territories language was: When I'm having a dream, the only time I really KNOW it's a dream is when I'm starting to wake up. If I'm dreaming and just wake up all at once--if the alarm clock goes off, or something--then I'm the most surprised guy alive. At first it's the waking that seems like a dream. And I'm no stranger over here when the dream gets deep--is that what I mean? No, but it's getting close. I bet my dad dreamed deep a lot. And I'll bet Uncle Morgan almost never does.

  He had decided he would take a swig out of Speedy's bottle and flip back the first time he saw anything that might be dangerous . . . even if he saw anything scary. Otherwise he would walk all day over here before returning to New York. In fact, he might have been tempted to spend the night in the Territories, if he'd had anything to eat beyond the one apple. But he didn't, and along the wide, deserted dirt track of the Western Road there was not a 7-Eleven or a Stop-'n-Go in sight.

  The old trees which had surrounded the crossroads and the market-town had given way to open grassland on either side once Jack got past the final small settlement. He began to feel that he was walking along an endless causeway which crossed the middle of a limitless ocean. He travelled the Western Road alone that day under a sky that was bright and sunny but cool (late September now, of course it's cool, he thought, except the word which came to mind was not September but a Territories word which really did translate better as ninemonth). No pedestrians passed him, no wagons either loaded or empty. The wind blew pretty steadily, sighing through the ocean of grasses with a low sound that was both autumnal and lonely. Great ripples ran across the grasses before that wind.

  If asked "How do you feel, Jack?," the boy would have responded: "Pretty good, thanks. Cheerful." Cheerful is the word which would have come into his mind as he hiked through those empty grasslands; rapture was a word he associated most easily with the pop hit of the same name by the rock group Blondie. And he would have been astounded if told he had wept several times as he stood watching those great ripples chase each other toward the horizon, drinking in a sight that only a very few American children of his time had ever seen--huge empty tracts of land under a blue sky of dizzying width and breadth and, yes, even depth. It was a sky unmarked by either jet contrails across its dome or smutty bands of smog at any of its lower edges.

  Jack was having an experience of remarkable sensory impact, seeing and hearing and smelling things which were brand-new to him, while other sensory input to which he had grown utterly accustomed was missing for the first time. In many ways he was a remarkably sophisticated child--brought up in a Los Angeles family where his father had been an agent and his mother a movie actress, it would have been odder if he had been naive--but he was still just a child, sophisticated or not, and that was undeniably his gain . . . at least in a situation such as this. That lonely day's journey across the grasslands would surely have produced sensory overload, perhaps even a pervasive sense of madness and hallucination, in an adult. An adult would h
ave been scrabbling for Speedy's bottle--probably with fingers too shaky to grasp it very successfully--an hour west of the market-town, maybe less.

  In Jack's case, the wallop passed almost completely through his conscious mind and into his subconscious. So when he blissed out entirely and began to weep, he was really unaware of the tears (except as a momentary doubling of vision which he attributed to sweat) and thought only: Jeez, I feel good . . . it should feel spooky out here with no one around, but it doesn't.

  That was how Jack came to think of his rapture as no more than a good, cheerful feeling as he walked alone up the Western Road with his shadow gradually growing longer behind him. It did not occur to him that part of his emotional radiance might stem from the fact that hardly less than twelve hours before he had been a prisoner of Updike's Oatley Tap (the blood-blisters from the last keg to land on his fingers were still fresh); that hardly less than twelve hours ago he had escaped--barely!--some sort of murdering beast that he had begun to think of as a were-goat; that for the first time in his life he was on a wide, open road that was utterly deserted except for him; there was not a Coca-Cola sign anywhere in view, or a Budweiser billboard showing the World-Famous Clydesdales; no ubiquitous wires ran beside the road on either side or crisscrossed above it, as had been the case on every road Jack Sawyer had ever travelled in his entire life; there was not so much as even the distant rolling sound of an airplane, let alone the rolling thunder of the 747s on their final approaches to LAX, or the F-111s that were always blasting off from the Portsmouth Naval Air Station and then cracking the air over the Alhambra like Osmond's whip as they headed out over the Atlantic; there was only the sound of his feet on the road and the clean ebb and flow of his own respiration.

  Jeez, I feel good, Jack thought, wiping absently at his eyes, and defined it all as "cheerful."

  6