The Way Station by Stephen King

Author:Stephen King [King, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

II

The sky was white, perfectly white, and the smell of rain was in the air. The smell of hedges and growing green was strong and sweet. It was deep spring.

David sat on Cuthbert’s arm, a small engine of destruction with bright golden eyes that glared outward at nothing. The rawhide leash attached to his jesses was looped carelessly about Cuthbert’s arm.

Cort stood aside from the two boys, a silent figure in patched leather trousers and a green cotton shirt that had been cinched high with his old, wide infantry belt. The green of his shirt merged with the hedges and the rolling turf of the Back Courts, where the ladies had not yet begun to play at Points.

“Get ready,” Roland whispered to Cuthbert.

“We’re ready,” Cuthbert said confidently. “Aren’t we, Davey?”

They spoke the low speech, the language of both scullions and squires; the day when they would be allowed to use their own tongue in the presence of others was still far. “It’s a beautiful day for it. Can you smell the rain? It’s —”

Cort abruptly raised the trap in his hands and let the side fall open. The dove was out and up, trying for the sky in a quick, fluttering blast of its wings.

Cuthbert pulled the leash, but he was slow; the hawk was already up and his takeoff was awkward. With a brief twitch of its wings the hawk had recovered. It struck upward, gaining altitude over the dove, moving bullet-swift.

Cort walked over to where the boys stood, casually, and swung his huge and twisted fist at Cuthbert’s ear. The boy fell over without a sound, although his lips writhed back from his gums. A trickle of blood flowed slowly from his ear and onto the rich green grass.

“You were slow,” he said.

Cuthbert was struggling to his feet. “I’m sorry, Cort. It’s just that I —Cort swung again, and Cuthbert fell over again. The blood flowed more swiftly now.

“Speak the High Speech,” he said softly. His voice was flat. with a slight, drunken rasp. “Speak your act of contrition in the speech of civilization for which better men than you will ever be have died, maggot.”

Cuthbert was getting up again. Tears stood brightly in his eyes, but his lips were pressed tightly together in a bright line of hate which did not quiver.

“I grieve,” Cuthbert said in a voice of breathless control. “I have forgotten the face of my father, whose guns I hope someday to bear.”

“That’s right, brat,” Cort said. “You’ll consider what you did wrong, and bookend your reflections with hunger. No supper. No breakfast.”

“Look!” Roland cried. He pointed up.

The hawk had climbed above the soaring dove. It glided for a moment, its stubby, muscular wings outstretched and without movement on the still, white spring air.

Then it folded its wings and dropped like a stone. The two bodies came together, and for a moment Roland fancied he could see blood in the air… but it might have been his imagination. The hawk gave a brief scream of triumph.

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