JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 42 из 425At quarter past nine the power went out, cameback on for thirty sec-or so, then went out and stayed out. I took this as a suggestion to stop about Harold’s useless contract and how Jo would have chortled the idea of nine million dollars. I got up, unplugged the blacked-out TV it wouldn’t come blaring on at two in the morning (I needn’t have wor-the power was off in Derry for nearly two days), and went upstairs; my clothes at the foot of the bed, crawled in without even both-to brush my teeth, and was asleep in less than five minutes. I don’t how long after that it was that the nightmare came.
It was the last dream I had in what I now think of as my “Manderley the culminating dream. It was made even worse, I suppose, by unrelievable blackness to which I awoke. It started like the others. I’m walking up the lane, listening to the crick-the loons, looking mostly at the darkening slot of sky overhead. the driveway, and here something has changed; someone has put the LAUGHS sign. I lean closer and see it’s a radio sta- WBLM, it says. 102.9, PORTLAND’s ROCK AND ROLL BLIMP. sticker I look back up into the sky, and there is Venus. I wish her as I always do, I wish for Johanna with the dank and vaguely smell of the lake in my nose… g lumbers in the woods, rattling old leaves and breaking a It sounds big. there, a voice in my head tells me. Something has taken out you, Michael. A three-book contract, and that’s the worst kind. I can never move, I can only standhere. I’ve got walker’s block. that’s just talk. I can walk. This time I can walk. I am delighted.
I have had a major breakthrough. In the dream I think This changes everything/This changes everything! Down the driveway I walk, deeper and deeper into the clean but sour smell of pine, stepping over some of the fallen branches, kicking others out of the way. I raise my hand to brush the damp hair off my forehead and see the little scratch running across the back of it. I stop to look at it, curious. No time r that, the dream-voice says. Get down there. You’ve got a book to write. I can’t write, I reply. Thatpart’s over. I’m on the backjrty now. No, the voice says. There is something relentless about it that scares me. Writer’s walk, not writer’s block, and as you can see, it’s gone. Now hurry up and get down there. I’m ajaid, I tell the voice. Afraid of what? Well… what if Mrs. Danvers is down there? The voice doesn’t answer. It knows I’m not afraid of Rebecca de Winter’s housekeeper, she’s just a character in an old book, nothing but a bag of bones. So I begin walking again.
It was the last dream I had in what I now think of as my “Manderley the culminating dream. It was made even worse, I suppose, by unrelievable blackness to which I awoke. It started like the others. I’m walking up the lane, listening to the crick-the loons, looking mostly at the darkening slot of sky overhead. the driveway, and here something has changed; someone has put the LAUGHS sign. I lean closer and see it’s a radio sta- WBLM, it says. 102.9, PORTLAND’s ROCK AND ROLL BLIMP. sticker I look back up into the sky, and there is Venus. I wish her as I always do, I wish for Johanna with the dank and vaguely smell of the lake in my nose… g lumbers in the woods, rattling old leaves and breaking a It sounds big. there, a voice in my head tells me. Something has taken out you, Michael. A three-book contract, and that’s the worst kind. I can never move, I can only standhere. I’ve got walker’s block. that’s just talk. I can walk. This time I can walk. I am delighted.
I have had a major breakthrough. In the dream I think This changes everything/This changes everything! Down the driveway I walk, deeper and deeper into the clean but sour smell of pine, stepping over some of the fallen branches, kicking others out of the way. I raise my hand to brush the damp hair off my forehead and see the little scratch running across the back of it. I stop to look at it, curious. No time r that, the dream-voice says. Get down there. You’ve got a book to write. I can’t write, I reply. Thatpart’s over. I’m on the backjrty now. No, the voice says. There is something relentless about it that scares me. Writer’s walk, not writer’s block, and as you can see, it’s gone. Now hurry up and get down there. I’m ajaid, I tell the voice. Afraid of what? Well… what if Mrs. Danvers is down there? The voice doesn’t answer. It knows I’m not afraid of Rebecca de Winter’s housekeeper, she’s just a character in an old book, nothing but a bag of bones. So I begin walking again.