Pet Sematary - Stephen King [15]
There she is, Rachel said and pointed toward the blowdown. Ellie was climbing as if the blowdown was a bastard cousin to the monkeybars at school. -
Oh, honey, you want to come dawn off there! Jud called over, alarmed. You stick your foot in the wrong hole and those old trees shift, youll break your ankle.
Ellie jumped down. Ow! she cried and came toward them, rubbing her hip. The skin wasnt broken, but a stiff dead branch had torn her slacks.
You see what I mean, Jud said, ruffling her hair. Old blowdown like this, even someone wise about the woods wont try to climb over it if he can go around. Trees that all fall down in a pile get mean. Theyll bite you if they can.
Really? Ellie asked. Really. Theyre piled up like straws, you see. And if you was to step on the right one, they might all come down in an avalanche.
Ellie looked at Louis. Is that true, Daddy? -
I think so, hon.
Yuck! She looked back at the blowdown and yelled:
You tore my pants, you cruddy trees!
All three of the grown-ups laughed. The blowdown did not. It merely sat whitening in the sun as it had done for decades. To Louis it looked like the skeletal remains of some long-dead monster, something slain by a parfait good and gentil knight, perchance. A dragons bones, left here in a giant cairn.
It occurred to him even then that there was something too Convenient about that blowdown and the way it stood between the pet cemetery and the depths of woods beyond, woods which Jud Crandall later sometimes referred to absently as the Indian woods. Its very randomness seemed too artful, too perfect for a work of nature. It- Then Gage grabbed one of his ears and twisted it, crowing
happily, and Louis forgot all about the blowdown in the. woods beyond the pet cemetery. It was time to go home.
9
Ellie came to him the next day, looking troubled. Louis was working on a model in his study. This one was a 1917 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost-680 pieces, over 50 moving parts. It was nearly done, and be could almost imagine the liveried chauffeur, direct descendant of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century English coachmen, sitting imperially behind the wheel.
He had been model-crazy since his tenth year. He had begun with a World War I Sped that his Uncle Carl had bought him, had worked his way through most of the Revell airplanes, and had moved on to bigger and better things in his teens and twenties. There had been a boats-in-bottles phase and a war-machines phase and even a phase in which he had built guns so realistic it was hard to believe they wouldnt fire when you pulled the trigger-Colts and Winchesters and Lugers, even a Buntline Special. Over the last five years or so, it had been the big cruise ships. A model of the Lusitania and one of the Titanic sat on his shelves at his university office, and the Andrea Doria, completed just before they left Chicago, was currently cruising the mantel-piece in their living room. Now he had moved on to classic cars, and if previous patterns held true, he supposed it would be four or five years before the urge to do something new struck him. Rachel looked on this, his only real hobby, with a wifely indulgence that held, he supposed, some elements of contempt; even after ten years of marriage she probably thought he would grow out of it. Perhaps some of this attitude came from her father, who believed just as much now as at the time Louis and Rachel had married that he had gotten an asshole for a son-in-law.
Maybe, he thought, Rachel is right. Maybe Ill just wake up one morning at the age of thirty-seven, put all these models up in the attic, and take up hang gliding.
Meanwhile Ellie looked serious.
Far away, drifting in the clear air, he could hear that
perfect Sunday morning sound of churchbells calling worshippers.
Hi, Dad, she said.
Hello, pumpkin. Wass happenin?
Oh, nothing, she said, but her face said differently; her face said that plenty was up, and-none of it was so hot, thank you very much. Her hair was fleshly washed and fell loose to her shoulders. In this light it was still more blond