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He pulled back sharply； yanking his leg out of the rough gray manacle the root had formed。 There was thin pain in his calf； like the pain of a rope…burn。 He raised his eyes and felt sick fear slip into his heart。 He thought he knew now why Morgan had sensed him and gone on anyway； Morgan knew that walking in this forest was like walking into a jungle stream infested with piranhas。 Why hadn't Captain Farren warned him？ All Jack could think was that the scarred Captain must not have known； must never have been this far west。
The grayish roots of those fir…fern hybrids were all moving now…rising； falling； scuttling along the mulchy ground toward him。 Ents and Entwives； Jack thought crazily。 BAD Ents and Entwives。 One particularly thick root； its last six inches dark with earth and damp； rose and wavered in front of him like a cobra piped up from a fakir's basket。 OUR boy！ YESS！
It darted toward him and Jack backed away from it； aware that the roots had now formed a living screen between him and the safety of the road。 He backed into a tree 。 。 。 and then lurched away from it； screaming； as its bark began to ripple and twitch against his back…it was like feeling a muscle which has begun to spasm wildly。 Jack looked around and saw one of those black trees with the gnarly trunks。 Now the trunk was moving； writhing。 Those twisted knots of bark formed something like a dreadful runnelled face； one eye widely； blackly open； the other drawn down in a hideous wink。 The tree split open lower down with a grinding； rending sound； and whitish…yellow sap began to drool out。 OURS！ Oh； yesssss！
Roots like fingers slipped between Jack's upper arm and ribcage； as if to tickle。
He tore away； holding on to the last of his rationality with a huge act of will； groping in his jerkin for Speedy's bottle。 He was aware…faintly…of a series of gigantic ripping sounds。 He supposed the trees were tearing themselves right out of the ground。 Tolkien had never been like this。
He got the bottle by the neck and pulled it out。 He scrabbled at the cap； and then one of those gray roots slid easily around his neck。 A moment later it pulled as bitterly tight as a hangman's noose。
Jack's breath stopped。 The bottle tumbled from his fingers as he grappled with the thing that was choking him。 He managed to work his fingers under the root。 It was not cold and stiff but warm and limber and fleshlike。 He struggled with it； aware of the choked gargling sound ing from him and the slick of spittle on his chin。
With a final convulsive effort he tore the root free。 It tried to circle his wrist then； and Jack whipped his arm away from it with a cry。 He looked down and saw the bottle twisting and bumping away； one of those gray roots coiled about its neck。
Jack leaped for it。 Roots grabbed his legs； circled them。 He fell heavily to the earth； stretching； reaching； the tips of his fingers digging at the thick black forest soil for an extra inch…
He touched the bottle's slick green side 。 。 。 and seized it。 He pulled as hard as he could； dimly aware that the roots were all over his legs now； crisscrossing like bonds； holding him firmly。 He spun the cap off the bottle。 Another root floated down； cobweb…light； and tried to snatch the bottle away from him。 Jack pushed it away and raised the bottle to his lips。 That smell of sickish fruit suddenly seemed everywhere； a living membrane。
Speedy； please let it work！
As more roots slid over his back and around his waist； turning him helplessly this way and that； Jack drank； cheap wine splattering both of his cheeks。 He swallowed； groaning； praying； and it was no good； it wasn't working； his eyes were still closed but he could feel the roots entangling his arms and legs； could feel 。 。 。
8
。 。 。 the water soaking into his jeans and his shirt； could smell
Water？
mud and damp； could hear
Jeans？ Shirt？
the steady croak of frogs and
Jack opened his eyes and saw the orange light of the setting sun reflected from a wide river。 Unbroken forest grew on the east side of this river； on the western side； the side that he was on； a long field； now partially obscured with evening ground…mist； rolled down to the water's edge。 The ground here was wet and squelchy。 Jack was lying at the edge of the water； in the boggiest area of all。 Thick weeds still grew here…the hard frosts that would kill them were still a month or more away…and Jack had gotten entangled in them； the way a man awakening from a nightmare may entangle himself in the bedclothes。
He scrambled and stumbled to his feet； wet and slimed with the fragrant mud； the straps of his pack pulling under his arms。 He pushed the weedy fragments from his arms and face with horror。 He started away from the water； then looked back and saw Speedy's bottle lying in the mud； the cap beside it。 Some of the 'magic juice' had either run out or been spilled in his struggle with the malignant Territories trees。 Now the bottle was no more than a third full。
He stood there a moment； his caked sneakers planted in the oozy muck； looking out at the river。 This was his world； this was the good old United States of America。 He didn't see the golden arches he had hoped for； or a skyscraper； or an earth satellite blinking overhead in the darkening sky； but he knew where he was as well as he knew his own name。 The question was； had he ever been in that other world at all？
He looked around at the unfamiliar river； the likewise unfamiliar countryside； and listened to the distant mellow mooing of cows。 He thought： You're somewhere different。 This sure isn't Arcadia Beach anymore； Jack…O。
No； it wasn't Arcadia Beach； but he didn't know the area surrounding Arcadia Beach well enough to say for sure that he was more than four or five miles away…just enough inland； say； to no longer be able to smell the Atlantic。 He had e back as if waking from a nightmare…was it not possible that was all it had been； the whole thing； from the carter with his load of fly…crawling meat to the living trees？ A sort of waking nightmare in which sleepwalking had played a part？ It made sense。 His mother was dying； and he now thought he had known that for quite a while…the signs had been there； and his subconscious had drawn the correct conclusion even while his conscious mind denied it。 That would have contributed the correct atmosphere for an act of self…hypnosis； and that crazy wino Speedy Parker had gotten him in gear。 Sure。 It all hung together。
Uncle Morgan would have loved it。
Jack shivered and swallowed hard。 The swallow hurt。 Not the way a sore throat hurts； but the way an abused muscle hurts。
He raised his left hand； the one not holding the bottle； and rubbed his palm gently against his throat。 For a moment he looked absurdly like a woman checking for dewlaps or wrinkles。 He found a welted abrasion just above his adam's apple。 It hadn't bled much； but it was almost too painful to touch。 The root that had closed about his throat had done that。
'True；' Jack whispered； looking out at the orange water； listening to the twank of the bullfrogs and the mooing； distant cows。 'All true。'
9
Jack began walking up the slope of the field； setting the river…and the east…at his back。 After he had gone half a mile； the steady rub and shift of the pack against his throbbing back （the strokes Osmond had laid on were still there； too； the shifting pack reminded him） triggered a memory。 He had refused Speedy's enormous sandwich； but hadn't Speedy slipped the remains into his pack anyway； while Jack was examining the guitar…pick？
His stomach pounced on the idea。
Jack unshipped the pack then and there； standing in a curdle of ground…mist beneath the evening star。 He unbuckled one of the flaps； and there was the sandwich； not just a piece or a half； but the whole thing； wrapped up in a sheet of newspaper。 Jack's eyes filled with a warmth of tears and he wished that Speedy were here so he could hug him。
Ten minutes ago you were calling him a crazy old wino。
His face flamed at that； but his shame didn't stop him from gobbling the sandwich in half a dozen big bites。 He rebuckled his pack and reshouldered it。 He went on； feeling better…with that whistling hole in his gut stopped up for the time being； Jack felt himself again。
Not long after； lights twinkled up out of the growing darkness。 A farmhouse。 A dog began to bark…the heavy bark of a really big fellow…and Jack froze for a moment。
Inside； he thought。 Or chained up。 I hope。
He bore to the right； and after a while the dog stopped barking。 Keeping the lights of the farmhouse as a guide； Jack soon came out on a narrow blacktop road。 He stood looking from right to left； having no idea which way to go。
Well； folks； here's Jack Sawyer； halfway between hoot and holler； wet through to the skin and sneakers packed with mud。 Way to go； Jack！
The loneliness and homesickness rose in him again。 Jack fought them off。 He put a drop of spit on his left index finger； then spanked the drop sharply。 The larger of the two halves flew off to the right…or so it seemed to Jack…and so he turned that way and began to walk。 Forty minutes later； d