"Nancy Etchemendy - Want's Bridge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Etchemendy Nancy)

WANT'S BRIDGE
A modern parable of a murderer's awakening.
This story first appeared in New Altars, edited by Sandra J. Hutchinson and Dawn Albright, Angelus
Press, 1997.

Permission is granted only for posting on the World Wide Web at
http://www.sff.net/people/Etchemendy/wants.html.

(C) Copyright 1997, by Sandra J. Hutchinson and Dawn Albright for Angelus Press. All rights reserved.
May not be distributed without the author's written permission.

The illustration is "Cosmic Composition," by Paul Klee.


I make my way through a darkness of scratches and willow smells, hoping I look
like I belong. The slope of the ravine is steep. I was here just last night, so I know
what's at the bottom--a trickle of water now in the heat of September. Maybe there's
still blood, too. I will head east toward the bridge, and there I'll find the homeless
people if I look like I belong. The stakes are high. I sweat, and my heart squeezes up
too close to my throat. I don't like it here. It's their ground, not mine. But that's my
life. I'm always wishing I were somewhere else.
Ahead I see the orange sparkle of a campfire. Figures sit and lie near it, warming
their hands, speaking in drowsy murmurs. One of my shoes, worn out but maybe
not worn out enough, slips into the water. Splash! And the figures disappear,
soundless as roaches. All but one. Not an auspicious beginning. I hold back a sigh.
The remaining individual, a woman wrapped in a filthy blanket, watches as I
approach.
I stop some distance away and smile submissively. I wish I were a woman. Then I
could look even less threatening. "Can I share the fire?" I ask.
"Got any food?" she says. "Because if you do, I could use some."
I search the pockets of the jacket I took from the church rummage and purposely
rubbed in the muddy earth of the garden not an hour ago. I know the gun hides in
one pocket; it's reassuring to touch it now. The other is empty. But in the hip pocket
of the faded, threadbare trousers I discover two damp peppermints wrapped in
cellophane. I hold them out to her, as I would hold sugar for a horse. It feels wrong.
Nothing about me fits the disguise I'm wearing. Nothing! The small of my back
tickles. It's sweat.
She grabs the candies speedily, darting toward me and away again almost before I
realize it. "Thanks." She unwraps one and grins, showing a single tooth. She nods
toward the fireside. "Go ahead. Make yourself comfy."
I sit down cross-legged, proud of myself for not brushing at the ground first.
"Where did the others go?" I ask.
She watches me keenly, amused. The fire does not reveal much about her. She has
wild hair of some light color, perhaps white. Her skin is wrinkled, but I cannot say
whether from age or exposure. I'm almost certain she's the one I'm looking for, the
one they call Mary.
"They're scared," she says. "Whad'ya expect?"
I laugh, but it comes out wrong--hard and sharp instead of incredulous.
We sit in silence then. I ought to ask her why they're afraid, but I fear her answer. I
hear her tooth clicking against the hard candy, and periodically, the whoosh of a car