The Talisman

said, and put Jack down. He reached out one hand and touched the Talisman with the tip of one finger. His face was full of awed reverence. When he touched it, one bright spark appeared and shot deep into the globe’s dull depths like a tumbling comet.
    He drew in a breath, looked at Jack, and grinned. Jack grinned back.
    Richard now arrived, staring at both of them with wonder and caution.
    ‘There are good Wolfs as well as bad in the Territories—’ Jack began.
    ‘Lots of good Wolfs,’ Wolf interjected.
    He stuck out his hand to Richard. Richard pulled back for a second and then shook it. The set of his mouth as his hand was swallowed made Jack believe Richard expected the sort of treatment Wolf had accorded Heck Bast a long time ago.
    ‘This is my Wolf’s litter-brother,’ Jack said proudly. He cleared his throat, not knowing exactly how to express his feelings for this being’s brother. Did Wolfs understand condolence? Was it a part of their ritual?
    ‘I loved your brother,’ he said. ‘He saved my life. Except for Richard here, he was just about the best friend I ever had, I guess. I’m sorry he died.’
    ‘He’s in the moon now,’ Wolf’s brother said. ‘He’ll be back. Everything goes away, Jack Sawyer, like the moon. Everything comes back, like the moon. Come on. Want to get away from this stinking place.’
    Richard looked puzzled, but Jack understood and more than sympathized – the Mobil station seemed surrounded with a hot, oily aroma of fried hydrocarbons. It was like a brown shroud you could see through.
    The Wolf went to the Cadillac and opened the rear door like a chauffeur – which was, Jack supposed, exactly what he was.
    ‘Jack?’ Richard looked frightened.
    ‘It’s okay,’ Jack said.
    ‘But where—’
    ‘To my mother, I think,’ Jack said. ‘All the way across the country to Arcadia Beach, New Hampshire. Going first class. Come on, Richie.’
    They walked to the car. Shoved over to one side of the wide back seat was a scruffy old guitar case. Jack felt his heart leap up again.
    ‘Speedy!’ He turned to Wolf’s litter-brother. ‘Is Speedy coming with us?’
    ‘Don’t know anyone speedy,’ the Wolf said. ‘Had an uncle who was sort of speedy, then he pulled up lame – Wolf! – and couldn’t even keep up with the herd anymore.’
    Jack pointed at the guitar case.
    ‘Where did that come from?’
    Wolf grinned, showing many big teeth. ‘Parkus,’ he said. ‘Left this for you, too. Almost forgot.’
    From his back pocket he took a very old postcard. On the front was a carousel filled with a great many familiar horses – Ella Speed and Silver Lady among them – but the ladies in the foreground were wearing bustles, the boys knickers, many of the men derby hats and Rollie Fingers moustaches. The card felt silky with age.
    He turned it over, first reading the print up the middle: ARCADIA BEACH CAROUSEL , JULY 4th, 1894.
    It was Speedy – not Parkus – who had scratched two sentences in the message space. His hand was sprawling, not very literate; he had written with a soft, blunt pencil.
    You done great wonders, Jack. Use what you need of what’s in the case – keep the rest or throw it away.
    Jack put the postcard in his hip pocket and got into the back of the Cadillac, sliding across the plush seat. One of the catches on the old guitar case was broken. He unsnapped the other three.
    Richard had gotten in after Jack. ‘Holy crow!’ he whispered.
    The guitar case was stuffed with twenty-dollar bills.
    8
    Wolf took them home, and although Jack grew hazy about many of that autumn’s events in a very short time, each moment of that trip was emblazoned on his mind for the rest of his life. He and Richard sat in the back of the El Dorado and Wolf drove them east and east and east. Wolf knew the roads and Wolf drove them. He sometimes played Creedence Clearwater Revival tapes – ‘Run Through the Jungle’ seemed to be his favorite – at a volume just short of ear-shattering. Then he would spend long periods of time listening to the tonal variations in the wind as he worked the button that controlled his wing window. This seemed to fascinate him completely.
    East, east, east – into the sunrise each morning, into the mysterious deepening blue dusk of each coming night, listening first to John Fogerty and then to the wind, John Fogerty again and then the wind again.
    They ate at Stuckeys’. They ate at Burger Kings. They stopped at Kentucky Fried