The Talisman

past dry December meadows.
    . . . that the most important person in any movie is usually the cameraman . . .
    His body needed more sleep. His mind needed a vacation.
    . . . that vermouth is the ruination of a good martini . . .
    Richard followed silently along, brooding. He was so much slower that Jack had to stop still on the side of the road and wait for Richard to catch up with him. A little town that must have been Storeyville was visible a half-mile or so ahead. A few low white buildings sat on either side of the road. ANTIQUES , read the sign atop one of them. Past the buildings a blinking stoplight hung over an empty intersection. Jack could see the corner of the MOBIL sign outside the gas station. Richard trudged along, his head so far down his chin nearly rested on his chest. When Richard drew nearer, Jack finally saw that his friend was weeping.
    Jack put his arm around Richard’s shoulders. ‘I want you to know something,’ he said.
    ‘What?’ Richard’s small face was tear-streaked but defiant.
    ‘I love you,’ Jack said.
    Richard’s eyes snapped back to the surface of the road. Jack kept his arm over his friend’s shoulders. In a moment Richard looked up – looked straight at Jack – and nodded. And that was like something Lily Cavanaugh Sawyer once or twice really had said to her son: Jack-O, there are times you don’t have to spill your guts out of your mouth .
    ‘We’re on our way, Richie,’ Jack said. He waited for Richard to wipe his eyes. ‘I guess somebody’s supposed to meet us up there at the Mobil station.’
    ‘Hitler, maybe?’ Richard pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. In a moment he was ready again, and the two boys walked into Storeyville together.
    7
    It was a Cadillac, parked on the shady side of the Mobil station – an El Dorado with a boomerang TV antenna on the back. It looked as big as a house-trailer and as dark as death.
    ‘Oh Jack, baaaad shit,’ Richard moaned, and grabbed at Jack’s shoulder. His eyes were wide, his mouth trembling.
    Jack felt adrenaline whippet into his system again. It didn’t pump him up any longer. It only made him feel tired. There had been too much, too much, too much.
    Clasping the dark junk-shop crystal ball that the Talisman had become, Jack started down the hill toward the Mobil station.
    ‘ Jack! ’ Richard screamed weakly from behind him. ‘ What the hell are you doing? It’s one of THEM ! Same cars as at Thayer! Same cars as in Point Venuti!’
    ‘Parkus told us to come here,’ Jack said.
    ‘You’re crazy, chum,’ Richard whispered.
    ‘I know it. But this’ll be all right. You’ll see. And don’t call me chum.’
    The Caddy’s door swung open and a heavily muscled leg clad in faded blue denim swung out. Unease became active terror when he saw that the toe of the driver’s black engineer boot had been cut off so long, hairy toes could stick out.
    Richard squeaked beside him like a fieldmouse.
    It was a Wolf, all right – Jack knew that even before the guy turned around. He stood almost seven feet tall. His hair was long, shaggy, and not very clean. It hung in tangles to his collar. There were a couple of burdocks in it. Then the big figure turned, Jack saw a flash of orange eyes – and suddenly terror became joy.
    Jack sprinted toward the big figure down there, heedless of the gas station attendant who had come out to stare at him, and the idlers in front of the general store. His hair flew back from his forehead; his battered sneakers thumped and flapped; his face was split by a dizzy grin; his eyes shone like the Talisman itself.
    Bib overalls: Oshkosh, by gosh. Round rimless spectacles: John Lennon glasses. And a wide, welcoming grin.
    ‘Wolf!’ Jack Sawyer screamed. ‘Wolf, you’re alive! Wolf, you’re alive!’
    He was still five feet from Wolf when he leaped. And Wolf caught him with neat, casual ease, grinning delightedly.
    ‘Jack Sawyer! Wolf! Look at this! Just like Parkus said! I’m here at this God-pounding place that smells like shit in a swamp, and you’re here, too! Jack and his friend! Wolf! Good! Great! Wolf!’
    It was the Wolf’s smell that told Jack this wasn’t his Wolf, just as it was the smell that told him this Wolf was some sort of relation . . . surely a very close one.
    ‘I knew your litter-brother,’ Jack said, still in the Wolf’s shaggy, strong arms. Now, looking at this face, he could see it was older and wiser. But still kind.
    ‘My brother Wolf,’ Wolf