"Barker, Clive - Weaveworld (b)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive)

Was it waiting still? And was it still her own?

VI

MAD MOONEY

Cal was frightened as he had never been frightened in his life before. He sat in his room, the door locked, and shook.

The shaking had begun a few minute's after events at Rue Street, almost twenty-four hours ago now, and it hadn't shown much sign of stopping since. Sometimes it made his hands tremble so much he could hardly hold the glass of whisky he'd nursed through an all but sleepless night, other times it made his teeth chatter. But most of the shaking didn't go on outside, it was in. It was as if the pigeons had got into his belly somehow, and were flapping their wings against his innards.

And all because he'd seen something wonderful, and he knew in his bones that his life would never be the same again. How could it? He'd climbed the sky and looked down on the secret place that he'd been waiting since childhood to find.

He'd always been a solitary child, as much through choice as circumstance, happiest when he could unshackle his imagination and let it wander. It took little to get such journeys started. Looking back, it seemed he'd spent half his school days gazing out of the window, transported by a line of poetry whose meaning he couldn't quite unearth, or the sound of someone singing in a distant classroom, into a world more pungent and more remote than the one he knew: A world whose scents were carried to his nostrils by winds mysteriously warm in a chill December; whose creatures paid him homage on certain nights at the foot of his bed, and whose peoples he conspired with in sleep.

But despite the familiarity of this place, the comfort he felt there, its precise nature and location remained elusive, and though he'd read every book he could find that promised some rare territory, he always came away disappointed: They were too perfect, those childhood kingdoms; all honey and summer. The true Wonderland was not like that, he knew. It was as much shadow as sunlight, and its mysteries could only be unveiled when your wits were about used up and your mind dose to cracking.

That was why he trembled now, for that was how he felt. Like a man whose head was about to split.

2

He'd woken early, gone downstairs and cooked himself a fried egg and bacon sandwich, then sat with the ruins of his gluttony until he heard his father stirring above. He quickly called the firm, and told Wilcox that he was sick, and wouldn't be in work today. He told the same to Brendan - who was about his morning ablutions and, with the door located, couldn't see the ashen, anxious face his son was wearing this morning. Then, these duties done, he went back to his room and sat on his bed to examine the events at Rue Street afresh, hoping that the nature of yesterday's mysteries could eventually be made to come dear.

It did little good. Whichever way he turned events they seemed impervious to rational explanation, and he was left only with the same razor-sharp memory of the experience and the ache of longing that came with it.

Everything he'd ever wanted had been in that land; he knew it. Everything his education had taught him to disbelieve, all miracles, all mystery, all blue shadow and sweet-breathed spirits. All the pigeon knew, all the wind knew, all the human world had once grasped and now forgotten, all of it was waiting in that place. He'd seen it with his own eyes.


Which probably made him insane.

Haw else could he explain an hallucination of such precision and complexity? No, he was insane. And why not? He had lunacy in his blood. His father's father, Mad Mooney, ended his life crazy as a coot. The man had been a poet, according to Brendan, though tales of his life and times had been forbidden in Chariot Street. Hush your nonsense Eileen had always said, whenever Brendan mentioned the man, though whether this taboo was against Poetry, Delirium or the Irish Cal had never decided. Whichever, it was an edict his father had often broken when his wife's back was turned, for Brendan was fond of Mad Mooney and his verses. Cal had even learned a few, at his father's knee. And now here he was, carrying on that family tradition: seeing visions and crying into his whisky.

The question was: to tell or not to tell. To speak what he'd seen, and endure the laughter and the sly looks, or to keep it hidden. Part of him badly wanted to talk, to spill everything to somebody Brendan, even) and see what they made of it. But another part said: be quiet, be careful. Wonderland doesn't come to those who blab about it, only to those who keep their silence, and wait.

So that's what he did. He sat, and shook, and waited.

3

Wonderland didn't turn up, but Geraldine did, and she was in no mood for lunatics. Cal heard her voice in the hall below; heard Brendan telling her that Cal was ill, and didn't want to be disturbed, heard her tell Brendan that she intended to see Cal whether he was sick or not: then she was at the door.

She tried the handle, found the door locked and rapped on it. 'Cal? It's me. Wake up.Т

He feigned Wariness, aided by a tongue now well whisky-sodden.

'Who is it?Т he said.

'Why's the door locked? It's me. Geraldine.Т

'I'm not feeling too good.Т