"Baker,_Kage_-_The_Fourth_Branch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Baker Kage)

"Of course we'll make every effort. He's a highly valued operative, after all," Aegeus told me. "Now, look. You do as he told you, and keep your vow of silence, and you'll be a fortunate man. We've got to go now; but I'll see you again. Let's go, Barry."
"Right," replied the knave, and pulled Lewis from the bier and threw him over his shoulder like so much merchandise. They walked toward the door.
"But his body!" I cried. "It'll be gone! What will I tell the others?"
Aegeus stopped and turned, tapping his upper lip thoughtfully with one finger. He grinned. "Ah! You can tell them a miracle occurred. The Holy Angels came and carried him off bodily to heaven! This is an ignorant age. They ought to believe that."
I only stared at them, too shocked to reply; and he waved cheerily, and they walked out into the darkness. I think it was then that my faith died in me utterly.
Yet in the end I told his lie, for I could think of nothing else, and my brothers and sisters rejoiced, and the story spread and poor Lewis became venerated as a local saint. But I knew the lie for what it was. And as I thought over the whole story -- what the Prince had said, what Lewis had revealed of himself -- nowhere in it could I find any trace of Christ's power, or His mercy, or His love. My God was irrelevant to those pale folk hiding in their mound, and to that knave in his oil-stained clothes.
And for all that we had a celebrated saint and a miracle to call our own, the peace of our community had been broken. Though there was never any molestation after that: the night after Lewis' body was taken away there was a violent thunderstorm and brilliant lights playing about on Dun Govaun. Perhaps the Kin had fled to some new hiding-place, or perhaps Lewis' Company had avenged his injury.
But Brother Crimthann tried to hang himself one night; and though he was caught and survived, our Abbess had to watch him continually like a child, for he would weep and rage at the smallest thing.
My life was no joy to me, either. I kept faith with Lewis, I found the lead casket and buried the _Codex Druidae_ where he'd bid me, deep down under the stones of the Scriptorium floor. For all I know it's there still. Indeed, I have assurance it must be. I found his harp, too, and kept it safe, though it broke my heart to see it and remember his voice. I thought perhaps the two strangers might come back to claim it. The more I thought about this, though, the more I began to dread the idea; so one night I took the harp, and what little I owned, and breaking my vows I fled the community to lose myself in a distant place.
It was for nothing, anyway. On the third night of my exile, I woke in the heather to find Aegeus crouching beside me.
"This'll never do, you know," he told me sternly. "You're supposed to stay where we can keep an eye on you."
"I buried your book!" I sat up. "I've told your lies. Leave me in peace, can't you?"
"Can't do that, I'm afraid." He shook his head. "You're a security risk. Look, we're not so bad. You'll have to come with me, now, but you'll be all right. You'll work for us and live a long happy life."
So I went with him in the strange ship, and I learned more of the way the world is run -- no Christ there running it, either -- and I was given lands and livestock and a fine house. All I must do is open my door certain nights to certain strangers who come and depart in haste, after meals and a change of clothes and horses. Sometimes they leave packages, that other strangers come and collect later.
They seldom answer my questions, and never my inquiries about Lewis; so I fear that they failed to save him, though in most other respects they seem as powerful as gods. I have seen many things that men would think were miracles. For all this I am supplied with every comfort a man might want for his flesh. My masters seem to think it will make me happy.
But I have not been happy since: until this last Samhain night, when I lay in my too-comfortable bed with banked coals warming the room, very unlike the hard pallet on chilly stone in the place where I was blessed.
I heard my name called, there in the darkness. I sat up and saw Lewis, just as he had been, brightly lit as though he stood in sunlight. He looked puzzled.
"Am I having a dream?" he wanted to know.
"No; it must be me dreaming, because you're dead," I told him.
"Dead?" He looked appalled. His jaw hung slack a moment before the memory seemed to come back to him. "Good Lord, what am I doing here then?"
"Well, I -- I'd supposed you'd come back to offer me spiritual comfort," I ventured.
He shook his head dubiously.
"Sorry, old fellow, I haven't a clue. Unless -- perhaps they've succeeded in reactivating me!" His eyes lit up and he rubbed his hands together. "Not that that explains how I got _here_, but I'm not complaining."
"But you're not really here," I pointed out.
"Of course I am! Look!" He made a grab for a pitcher that sat on the table, but his hand passed straight through it. He overbalanced slightly and righted himself.
"Damn! How embarrassing." He frowned. "Well -- I suppose the possibility exists that I'm actually floating in a Regeneration vat at a Company repair facility, and I'm coming to you now by means of some sort of electromagnetic projection."
"What on earth does that mean?" I rubbed my eyes wearily.
"I don't know how I'd explain it to you. Actually I don't know if it's even possible." He frowned thoughtfully. "No, I think _I'm_ the one having the dream, and you're the illusion. That must be it. I'm in a nice warm vat somewhere, with all my mortal parts busily being regenerated, and my brain's come back on-line and I'm having a rather peculiar dream. Still ... you don't look well, Eogan."
"I've lost my faith."
"Gosh, I'm sorry to hear it." He looked sympathetic. He seemed to be searching in his mind for something nice to say, and then an expression of incredulous delight crossed his face. "Great Caesar's Ghost! You don't suppose that baptism business actually worked, do you? You don't suppose this is my soul talking to you now?" He took a few swaggering steps back and forth.
"Oh, Lewis, I wish I could believe that." I leaned my head in my hand.
"I suppose I don't believe it either. But how can we know for sure? Wouldn't you like to believe that your God would let me into your Christian Heaven? Assuming I died, of course?"
"More than anything, Lewis. If there is such a place, you'll be there. But I don't know. I used to know," I replied, anguished.
"Oh, who knows anything? If you're simply the result of my nutritive solution being a bit rich, then I'll wake up when they decant me and go on about my business of making money for them, forever and ever and ever. And if I'm nothing more than your dream -- maybe sent to you because your Christ wanted to cheer you up a little -- then you'll wake up in the morning and go on with your mortal life until it's over. Let's be happy, Eogan. Your life's too short, and mine's too long, to mourn. Do something that gives you joy."
"What?" I demanded. "What, in God's name, can I do?"
"Oh, I don't know." He waved his hand. "You used to enjoy writing, didn't you?"
That was when the stranger, arriving late and pounding on my door, woke me to a black room and unrelieved night.
But then I dared this thing, to write down what I'd seen, and my heart hasn't been so light in ages. Lewis was right: this is real joy to me, this dance of my goose quill across the bare page. Perhaps it would violate nobody's trust to begin it again, the copying down of knowledge? I'm not fit for the Gospels any more, but I remember so many of the hero-tales Lewis told me. The community at Malinmhor has only the one copy we made. I could set them down again.
I will, I'll uncover the harp and watch as the sunlight moves across the fine wood and glints on the strings. I'll imagine Lewis sitting there talking to me, sipping the heather-honey mead, or singing as the birds chatter in the soft air beyond the stone window sill. We'll set Finn galloping with his band of heroes, and Cuchullain will perform terrible wonders, and it will all flow out of my pen like sunlight. God have mercy on me, a miserable sinner; what other grace can I hope for?

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