Сияние

Hallorann, Going up the Country

           Thatvoicekeptremindinghimofthejet’sshakylandingatStapleton,ofthatsinkingfeelingthatitwasgoingtocomeinnose-first,deliveringitspassengerstothegatesofhellratherthanatGate39,ConcourseB.Butreasonwouldnotstandagainstthecompulsion.Ithadtobetoday.Thesnowstormwashisownbadluck.Hewouldhavetocopewithit.Hewasafraidthatifhedidn’t,hemighthavesomethingmuchworsetocopewithinhisdreams.

           Thewindgustedagain,thistimefromthenortheast,alittleEnglishontheballifyouplease,andhewasagaincutofffromthevagueshapesofthehillsandevenfromtheembankmentsoneithersideoftheroad.Hewasdrivingthroughwhitenull.

           Andthenthehighsodiumlightsofthesnowplowloomedoutofthesoup,bearingdown,andtohishorrorhesawthatinsteadofbeingtooneside,theBuick’snosewaspointeddirectlybetweenthoseheadlamps.Theplowwasbeingnonetoochoosyaboutkeepingitsownsideoftheroad,andHallorannhadallowedtheBuicktodrift.

           Thegrindingroaroftheplow’sdieselengineintrudedoverthebellowofthewind,andthenthesoundofitsairhorn,hard,long,almostdeafening.

           Hallorann’stesticlesturnedintotwosmallwrinkledsacsfilledwithshavedice.HisgutsseemedtohavebeentransformedintoalargemassofSillyPutty.

           Colorwasmaterializingoutofthewhitenow,snow-clottedorange.

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