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en feet high。 The trunks and bundles lashed with stout cord to the top added another three feet。 Each horse in the team which pulled it wore a black plume on its head…these plumes were blown back almost flat in a speed…generated wind。 Jack thought later that Morgan must need a new team for every run； because these looked close to the end of their endurance。 Foam and blood sprayed back from their working mouths in curds； their eyes rolled crazily； showing arcs of white。
As in his imagining…or his vision…black crepe curtains flew and fluttered through glassless windows。 Suddenly a white face appeared in one of those black oblongs； a white face framed in strange； twisted carving…work。 The sudden appearance of that face was as shocking as the face of a ghost in the ruined window of a haunted house。 It was not the face of Morgan Sloat 。 。 。 but it was。
And the owner of that face knew that Jack…or some other danger； just as hated and just as personal…was out there。 Jack saw this in the widening of the eyes and the sudden vicious downtwist of the mouth。
Captain Farren had said He'll smell you like a rat； and now Jack thought dismally： I've been smelled； all right。 He knows I'm here； and what happens now？ He'll stop the whole bunch of them； I bet； and send the soldiers into the woods after me。
Another band of soldiers…these protecting Morgan's diligence from the rear…swept by。 Jack waited； his hands frozen to the bark of the pine； sure that Morgan would call a halt。 But no halt came； soon the heavy thunder of the diligence and its outriders began to fade。
His eyes。 That's what's the same。 Those dark eyes in that white face。 And…
Our boy？ YESSSS！
Something slithered over his foot 。 。 。 and up his ankle。 Jack screamed and floundered backward； thinking it must be a snake。 But when he looked down he saw that one of those gray roots had slipped up his foot 。 。 。 and now it ringed his calf。
That's impossible； he thought stupidly。 Roots don't move…
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