"Carol Emshwiller - Boys" - читать интересную книгу автора (Emshwiller Carol)

entrance. Under it, NEVER FORGET. We know we mustn't forget but we suspect maybe we have.
Some of us feel that the real reasons for the battles have been lost. No doubt but that there's hate, so we
and they commit more atrocities in the name of the old ones, but how it all began is lost to us.

We've not only forgotten the reasons for the conflict, but we've also forgotten our own mothers.
Inside our barracks, the walls are covered with mother jokes and mother pictures. Mother bodies are
soft and tempting. "Pillows," we call them. "Nipples" and "pillows." And we insult each other by calling
ourselves the same.



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The valley floor is full of women's villages. One every fifteen miles or so. On each side are mountains.
The enemy's, at the far side, are called The Purples. Our mountains are called The Snows. The weather
is worse in our mountains than in theirs. We're proud of that. We sometimes call ourselves The
Hailstones or The Lightnings. We think the hailstones harden us up. The enemy doesn't have as many
caves over on their side. We always tell the boys they were lucky to be stolen by us and not those
others.



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When I was first taken, our mothers came up to the caves to get us back. That often happens. Some had
weapons. Laughable weapons. My own mother was there, in the front of course. She probably
organized the whole thing, her face, red and twisted with resolve. She came straight at me. I was afraid of
her. We boys fled to the back of the barracks and our squad leader stood in front of us. Other men
covered the doorway. It didn't take long for the mothers to retreat. None were hurt. We try never to do
them any harm. We need them for the next crop of boys.

Several days later my mother came again by herselfтАФsneaked up by moonlight. Found me by the
light of the night lamp. She leaned over my sleeping mat and breathed on my face. At first I didn't know
who it was. Then I felt breasts against my chest and I saw the glint of a hummingbird pin I recognized.
She kissed me. I was petrified. (Had I been a little older I'd have known how to choke and kick to the
throat. I might have killed her before I realized it was my mother.) What if she took me from my squad?
Took away my uniform? (By then I had a red and blue jacket with gold buttons. I had already learned to
shoot. Something I'd always wanted to do. I was the first of my group to get a sharpshooters medal.
They said I was a natural. I was trying hard to make up for my small size.)

The night my mother came she lifted me in her arms. There, against her breasts, I thought of all the
pillow jokes. I yelled. My comrades, though no older than I and only a little larger, came to my aid. They
picked up whatever weapon was handy, mostly their boots. (Thank goodness we had not received our
daggers yet.) My mother wouldn't hit out at the boys. She let them batter at her. I wanted her to hit back,
to run, to save herself. After she finally did run, I found I had bitten my lower lip. In times of stress I'm
inclined to do that. I have to watch out. When you're a colonel, it's embarrassing to be found with blood