ib.thewaspfactory-第27节

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f　steel　mesh　which　had　been　sold　as　a　tea…strainer　but　now　hung　over　a　bowl　of　petrol。　I　smiled　ruefully。　The　chamber　was　well　ventilated　with　many　small　holes　in　the　metal　top　and　bottom　of　the　glass　tube；　so　that　the　wasp　would　not　choke　on　the　petrol　fumes；　a　slight　odour　of　petrol　could　usually　be　sensed　when　the　Factory　was　primed；　if　you　put　your　mind　to　it。　I　could　smell　that　petrol　as　I　watched　the　wasp；　and　perhaps　there　was　just　a　trace　of　drying　paint　in　the　atmosphere；　too；　though　I　couldn't　be　sure。　I　shrugged　to　myself　and　pushed　down　on　the　chamber　button；　so　that　a　length　of　dowling　slid　down　its　guide　of　aluminium　tent…pole　and　came　into　contact　with　the　wheel　and　gas…release　mechanism　on　top　of　the　disposable　lighter　poised　over　the　pool　of　petrol。
　　
　　It　didn't　even　need　a　few　tries　to　catch；　it　went　first　time；　and　the　thin　flames；　still　quite　bright　in　the　early　gloom　of　the　morning…lit　loft；　curled　and　licked　about　the　open　mesh　of　the　strainer。　The　flames　did　not　go　through；　but　the　heat　did；　and　the　wasp　flew　up；　buzzing　angrily　above　the　silent　flames；　bumping　against　the　glass；　falling　back；　hitting　the　side　of　the　strainer；　going　over　the　edge；　starting　to　fall　into　the　flames；　then　flying　back　up　again；　knocking　off　the　steel　tube　of　the　funnel　a　few　times；　then　falling　back　into　the　steel…mesh　trap。　It　leaped　up　a　final　time；　flew　hopelessly　for　a　few　seconds；　but　its　wings　must　have　been　singed；　because　it　was　crazily　erratic　in　its　flight　and　soon　fell　into　the　gauze　bowl　and　died　there；　struggling；　then　curling；　then　staying　still；　smoking　slightly。
　　
　　I　sat　and　watched　the　blackened　insect　bake　and　crisp；　sat　and　watched　the　calm　flames　rise　to　the　mesh　and　fan　round　it　like　a　hand；　sat　and　watched　the　reflection　of　the　little　quivering　flames　on　the　far　side　of　the　glass　tube；　then　at　last　reached　over；　unclipped　the　base　of　the　cylinder；　slid　the　petrol…dish　toward　me　under　a　metal　cover　and　snuffed　the　fire。　I　undid　the　top　of　the　chamber　and　reached　in　with　a　pair　of　tweezers　to　remove　the　body。　I　placed　it　in　a　matchbox　and　put　that　on　the　altar。
　　
　　The　Factory　does　not　always　give　up　its　dead；　the　acid　and　the　ants　leave　nothing；　and　the　Venus　fly…trap　and　the　spider　give　back　only　a　husk；　if　anything。　Again；　though；　I　had　a　burned　body；　again　I　would　have　to　do　some　disposing。　I　put　my　head　in　my　hands；　rocking　forward　on　the　small　stool。　The　Factory　surrounded　me；　the　altar　was　at　my　back。　I　gazed　round　the　Factory's　paraphernalia　of　places；　its　many　ways　to　death；　its　crawlways　and　corridors　and　chambers；　its　lights　at　the　ends　of　tunnels；　its　tanks　and　containers　and　hoppers；　its　triggers；　its　batteries　and　threads；　supports　and　stands；　tubes　and　wires。　I　clicked　a　few　switches；　and　tiny　propellers　whirred　down　branch…corridors；　sending　air　sucked　down　vents　over　thimblefuls　of　jam　and　down　towards　the　face。　I　listened　to　them　for　a　while；　until　I　could　smell　jam　myself；　but　that　was　to　tempt　slow　wasps　to　their　ends；　and　not　for　me。　I　turned　the　motors　off。
　　
　　I　started　switching　everything　off；　disconnecting；　emptying　and　feeding。　The　morning　was　growing　stronger　in　the　space　beyond　the　skylights；　and　I　could　hear　a　couple　of　early　birds　calling　in　the　new　fresh　air。　When　the　ritual　standing…down　of　the　Factory　was　pleted　I　went　back　to　the　altar；　looking　round　it　at　all　its　parts；　the　assortment　of　miniature　plinths　and　small　jars；　the　souvenirs　of　my　life；　the　previous　things　I've　found　and　kept。　Photographs　of　all　my　dead　relations；　the　ones　I've　killed　and　the　ones　that　just　died。　Photographs　of　the　living：　Eric；　my　father；　my　mother。　Photographs　of　things；　a　BSA　500　（not　the　bike；　unfortunately；　I　think　my　father　destroyed　all　the　photographs　of　it）；　the　house　when　it　was　still　bright　with　swirling　paint；　even　a　photograph　of　the　altar　itself。
　　
　　I　passed　the　matchbox　containing　the　dead　wasp　over　the　altar；　waved　it　around　in　front　of　it；　before　the　jar　of　sand　from　the　beach　outside；　the　bottles　of　my　precious　fluids；　a　few　shavings　from　my　father's　stick；　another　matchbox　with　a　couple　of　Eric's　first　teeth　set　in　cotton　wool；　a　phial　with　some　of　my　father's　hair；　another　with　some　rust　and　paint　scraped　from　the　bridge　to　the　mainland。　I　lit　wasp　candles；　closed　my　eyes；　held　the　matchbox　coffin　in　front　of　my　forehead　so　that　I　could　feel　the　wasp　in　there　from　inside　my　head；　an　itching；　tickling　sensation　just　inside　my　skull。　After　that　I　blew　the　candles　out；　covered　the　altar；　stood　up；　dusted　down　my　cords；　took　up　the　photograph　of　Eric　I'd　placed　on　the　glass　of　the　Factory　and　wrapped　the　coffin　in　it；　secured　it　with　a　rubber　band　and　put　the　package　in　my　jacket　pocket。

　　
　　I　walked　slowly　along　the　beach　towards　the　Bunker；　my　hands　in　my　pockets；　my　head　down；　watching　the　sand　and　my　feet　but　not　really　watching　them。　Everywhere　I　turned　there　was　fire。　The　Factory　had　said　it　twice；　I　had　turned　to　it　instinctively　when　attacked　by　the　rogue　buck；　and　it　was　squeezed　into　every　spare　corner　of　my　memory。　Eric　brought　it　closer　all　the　time；　too。
　　
　　I　brought　my　face　up　to　the　sharp　air　and　the　pastel　blues　and　pink　of　the　new　sky；　feeling　the　damp　breeze；　hearing　the　hiss　of　the　distant；　outgoing　tide。　Somewhere　a　sheep　bleated。
　　
　　I　had　to　try　Old　Saul；　I　had　to　make　the　attempt　to　contact　my　mad；　crazy　brother　before　these　many　fires　conjoined　and　swept　Eric　away；　or　swept　my　life　on　the　island　away。　I　tried　to　pretend　to　myself　that　it　might　not　really　be　that　serious；　but　I　knew　in　my　bones　it　was；　the　Factory　does　not　lie；　and　for　once　it　had　been　paratively　specific。　I　was　worried。
　　
　　In　the　Bunker；　with　the　wasp's　coffin　resting　in　front　of　Old　Saul's　skull　and　the　light　ing　out　through　the　sockets　of　his　long…dried　eyes；　I　knelt　in　the　pungent　darkness　before　the　altar；　head　bowed。　I　thought　of　Eric；　I　remembered　him　as　he　was　before　he　had　his　unpleasant　experience；　when；　although　he　had　been　away　from　the　island；　he　was　still　really　part　of　it。　I　remembered　him　as　the　clever；　kind；　excitable　boy　he　had　been；　and　I　thought　of　what　he　was　now：　a　force　of　fire　and　disruption　approaching　the　sands　of　the　island　like　a　mad　angel；　head　swarming　with　echoing　screams　of　madness　and　delusion。
　　
　　I　leaned　forward　and　put　my　right　hand　palm　down　on　the　top　of　the　old　dog's　cranium；　keeping　my　eyes　closed。　The　candle　was　not　long　lit；　and　the　bone　was　only　warm。　Some　unpleasant；　cynical　part　of　my　mind　told　me　that　I　looked　like　Mr　Spock　in　Star　Trek；　doing　a　mind…meld　or　whatever；　but　I　ignored　it；　that　didn't　matter　anyway。　I　breathed　deeply；　thought　more　deeply。　Eric's　face　swam　in　front　of　me；　freckles　and　sandy　hair　and　anxious　smile。　A　young　face；　thin　and　intelligent　and　young；　the　way　I　thought　of　him　when　I　tried　to　remember　him　when　he　was　happy；　during　our　summers　together　on　the　island。
　　
　　I　concentrated；　pressured　my　guts　and　held　my　breath；　as　though　I　was　trying　to　force　a　turd　out　when　constipated；　the　blood　roared　in　my　ears。　With　my　other　hand　I　used　forefinger　and　thumb　to　press　my　closed　eyes　into　my　own　skull　while　my　other　hand　grew　hot　on　Old　Saul's。　I　saw　lights；　random　patterns　like　spreading　ripples　or　huge　fingerprints；　swirling。
　　
　　I　felt　my　stomach　clench　itself　involuntarily　and　a　wave　of　what　felt　like　fiery　excitement　swept　up　from　it。　Only　acids　and　glands；　I　knew；　but　I　felt　it　transport　me；　from　one　skull　through　another　to　another。　Eric！　I　was　getting　through！　I　could　feel　him；　feel　the　aching　feet；　the　blistered　soles；　the　quivering　legs；　the　sweat…stuck　grimy　hands；　the　itching；　unwashed　scalp；　I　could　smell　him　as　myself；　see　through　those　eyes　that　hardly　closed　and　burned　in　his　skull；　raw　and　shot　with　blood；　blinking　drily。　I　could　feel　the　remains　of　some　awful　meal　lying　dead　in　my　stomach；　taste　burned　meat　and　bone　and　fur　on　my　tongue；　I　was　there！　I　was…
　　
　　A　blast　of　fire　crashed　out　at　me。　I　was　thrown　back；　slammed　away　from　the　altar　like　a　piece　of　soft　shrapnel　and　bounced　off　the　earth…covered　concrete　floor　to　e　to　rest　by　the　far　wall；　my　head　buzzing；　my　right　hand　aching。　I　fell　over　to　one　side　and　curled　up　around　myself。
　　
　　I　lay　breathing　deeply　for　a　while；　hugging　my　sides　and　rocking　very　slightly；　my　head　scraping　on　the　floor　of　the　Bunker。　My　right　hand　felt　as　though　it　was　the　size　and　colour　of　a　boxing…glove。　With　every　slowing　beat　of　my　heart　it　sent　a　pulse　of　pain　up　my　arm。　I　crooned　to　myself　and　slowly　sat　up；　rubbing　my　eyes　and　still　rocking　very　slightly；　my　knees　and　head　ing　a　little　closer；　drawing　slightly　back。　I　tried　to　nurse　my　battered　ego　back　to　health。
　　
　　Across　the　Bunker；　as　the　dim　view　swam　back　to　focus；　I　could　see　the　skull　still　glowing；　the　flame　still　burning。　I　glared　at　it　and　brought　my　right　hand　up；　started　licking　it。　I　looked　to　see　if　my　flight　across　the　floor　had　damaged　anything　but　as　far　as　I　could　see　everything　was　in　its　place；　only　I　had　been　affected。　I　gave　a　shivery　sigh　and　relaxed；　letting　my　head　rest　on　the　cool　concrete　of　the　wall　behind　me。
　　
　　I　leaned　forward　after　a　while　and　placed　the　palm　of　my　hand；　still　thr