第24部分(第1/7 页)

Roy　Delfines's　story　was　only　one　of　many；　I　grew　up　in　a　tradition　of　miracles　and　healings。　I　grew　up　believing　in　gris…gris；　as　well　（only；　up　in　the　hills　we　said　it　to　rhyme　with　kiss…kiss）：　stump…water　for　warts；　moss　under　your　pillow　to　ease　the　heartache　of　lost　love；　and；　of　course；　what　we　used　to　call　haints　…　but　I　did　not　believe　John　Coffey　was　a　gris…gris　man。　I　had　looked　into　his　eyes。　More　important；'　I　had　felt　his　touch。　Being　touched　by　him　was　like　being　touched　by　some　strange　and　wonderful　doctor。

I　helped　it；　didn't　I？

That　kept　chiming　in　my　head；　like　a　snatch　of　song　you　can't　get　rid　of；　or　words　you'd　speak　to　set　a　spell。

I　helped　it；　didn't　I？

Except　he　hadn't。　God　had。　John　Coffey's　use　of　〃I〃　could　be　chalked　up　to　ignorance　rather　than　pride；　but　I　knew　…　believed；　at　least　…　what　I　had　learned　about　healing　in　those　churches　of　Praise　Jesus；　The　Lord　Is　Mighty；　piney…woods　amen　corners　much　beloved　by　my　twenty…two…year…old　mother　and　my　aunts：　that　healing　is　never　about　the　healed　or　the　healer；　but　about　God's　will。　For　one　to　rejoice　at　the　sick　made　well　is　normal；　quite　the　expected　thing；　but　the　person　healed　has　an　obligation　to　then　ask　why　…　to　meditate　on　God's　will；　and　the　extraordinary　lengths　to　which　God　has　gone　to　realize　His　will。

What　did　God　want　of　me；　in　this　case？　What　did　He　want　badly　enough　to　put　healing　power　in　the　hands　of　a　child…murderer？　To　be　on　the　block；　instead　of　at　home；　sick　as　a　dog；　shivering　in　bed　with　the　stink　of　sulfa　running　out　of　my　pores？　Perhaps；　I　was　maybe　supposed　to　be　here　instead　of　home　in　case　Wild　Bill　Wharton　decided　to　kick　up　more　dickens；　or　to　make　sure　Percy　Wetmore　didn't　get　up　to　some　foolish　and　potentially　destructive　piec