'It's more than Twinners, because there are more than two worlds. There are triplets . . . quadruplets . . . who knows? Morgan Sloat here; Morgan of Orris over there; maybe Mor-gan, Duke of Azreel, somewhere else. But he never went inside the hotel!'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' Richard said in a resigned voice. But I'm sure you'll go right on, anyway, that resigned tone said, progressing from nonsense to outright insanity. All aboard for Seabrook Island!
'He can't go inside. That is, Morgan of California can't - and do you know why? Because Morgan of Orris can't. And Morgan of Orris can't because Morgan of California can't. If one of them can't go into his version of the black hotel, then none of them can. Do you see?'
'No.'
Jack, feverish with discovery, didn't hear what Richard said at all.
'Two Morgans, or dozens. It doesn't matter. Two Lilys, or dozens - dozens of Queens in dozens of worlds, Richard, think of that! How does that mess your mind? Dozens of black hotels - only in some worlds it might be a black amusement park . . . or a black trailer court . . . or I don't know what. But Richard - '
He stopped, turned Richard by the shoulders, and stared at him, his eyes blazing. Richard tried to draw away from him for a moment, and then stopped, entranced by the fiery beauty on Jack's face. Suddenly, briefly, Richard believed that all things might be possible. Suddenly, briefly, he felt healed.
'What?' he whispered.
'Some things are not excluded. Some people are not excluded. They are . . . well . . . single-natured. That's the only way I can think of to say it. They are like it - the Talisman. Single-natured. Me. I'm single-natured. I had a Twinner, but he died. Not just in the Territories world, but in all worlds but this one. I know that - I feel that. My dad knew it, too. I think that's why he called me Travelling Jack. When I'm here, I'm not there. When I'm there, I'm not here. And Richard, neither are you!'
Richard stared at him, speechless.
'You don't remember; you were mostly in Freakout City while I was talking to Anders. But he said Morgan of Orris had a boy-child. Rushton. Do you know what he was?'
'Yes,' Richard whispered. He was still unable to pull his eyes away from Jack's. 'He was my Twinner.'
'That's right. The little boy died, Anders said. The Talisman is single-natured. We're single-natured. Your father isn't. I've seen Morgan of Orris in that other world, and he's like your father, but he's not your father. He couldn't go into the black hotel, Richard. He can't now. But he knew you were single-natured, just as he knows I am. He'd like me dead. He needs you on his side.
'Because then, if he decided he did want the Talisman, he could always send you in to get it, couldn't he?'
Richard began to tremble.
'Never mind,' Jack said grimly. 'He won't have to worry about it. We're going to bring it out, but he's not going to have it.'
'Jack, I don't think I can go into that place,' Richard said, but he spoke in a low, strengthless whisper, and Jack, who was already walking on, didn't hear him.
Richard trotted to catch up.
12
Conversation lapsed. Noon came and went. The woods had become very silent, and twice Jack had seen trees with strange, gnarly trunks and tangled roots growing quite close to the tracks. He did not much like the looks of these trees. They looked familiar.
Richard, staring at the ties as they disappeared beneath his feet, at last stumbled and fell over, hitting his head. After that, Jack piggybacked him again.
'There, Jack!' Richard called, after what seemed an eternity.
Up ahead, the tracks disappeared into an old car-barn. The doors hung open on a shadowy darkness that looked dull and moth-eaten. Beyond the car-barn (which might once have been as pleasant as Richard had said, but which only looked spooky to Jack now) was a highway - 101, Jack guessed.
Beyond that, the ocean - he could hear the pounding waves.
'I guess we're here,' he said in a dry voice.
'Almost,' Richard said. 'Point Venuti's a mile or so down the road. God, I wish we didn't have to go there, Jack . . . Jack? Where are you going?'
But Jack didn't look around. He stepped off the tracks, detoured around one of those strange-looking trees (this one not even shrub-high), and headed for the road. High grasses and weeds brushed his road-battered jeans. Something inside the trolley-barn - Morgan Sloat's private train-station of yore - moved with a nasty slithering bump, but Jack didn't even look toward it.
He reached the road, crossed it, and walked to the edge.
13
Near the middle of December in the year 1981, a boy named Jack Sawyer stood where the water and the land came together, hands in the pockets of his jeans, looking out at the steady Pacific. He was twelve years old and extraordinarily beautiful for his age. His brown hair was long - probably too long - but the sea-breeze swept it back from a fine, clear brow. He stood thinking of his mother, who was dying, and of friends, both absent and present, and worlds within worlds, turning in their courses.
I've come the distance, he thought, and shivered. Coast to coast with Travelling Jack Sawyer. His eyes abruptly filled with tears. He breathed deeply of the salt. Here he was - and the Talisman was close by.