"Philip Jose Farmer - Flesh" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

Philip Jose Farmer тАУ Flesh




PRELUDE



The crowd in front of the White House talked, shouted, and laughed. Women shrilled; men boomed.
The high-pitched cut of childrenтАЩs voices was missing. They were home and being cared for by their
older but pre-pubescent brothers and sisters or cousins. It was not fitting that children should see what
would happen tonight. They would not understand the rites, one of the most holy in honor of the Great
White Mother.

It also would not be safe for the children to be present. Centuries before the present date (2860 Old
Style), when the rites were first held, children had been allowed to attend. Many had been killed, literally
ripped apart, during the frenzies.

Tonight was dangerous enough for the adults. Always, a number of women were badly mauled or
killed. Always, a number of men were overpowered by long-nailed, sharp-toothed women who ripped
off by the roots that which made men men and who ran screaming down the streets with the trophies held
high in the air or clenched between their teeth before placing them on the altar of the Great White Mother
in theTempleofDark Earth.

The following week, on Friday Sabbath, the white-robed Speakers for the Mother, priests and
priestesses, would reprimand the survivors for carrying their zeal just a little too far. However, harsh
words were the worst that those preached to could expect, and not always these were hurled at them. A
man or woman truly possessed by the Goddess, and who was not then, could not be blamed. Besides,
what else did the Speakers expect? Did not this happen every night a Sunhero or Stag-king was born?
Oh, well, the Speakers felt that it was necessary to quiet the worshipers down so that they could resume
a normal life. Listen, pray, and forget. And look forward to the next ceremony.

Besides, the victims had nothing to complain about. They would be buried in a shrine, prayers said
over them, and deer sacrificed over them. The ghosts of the slain would drink the blood and be
thrice-glorified and sustained.

The bloody sun slid down past the horizon; night rushed in with cool dark whispering wings. The
crowd became quieter while the representatives of the great frats lined up onPennyslvania Avenue. There
was a violent argument between the chief of the Moose frat and the chief of the Elks. Each claimed that
his frat should lead the parade. Were they not both antlered men? Was not the Sunhero antler-bearing
this year?

John Barleycorn, green from head to foot in his ritual costume, scarlet in face, staggering, tried to
settle the dispute. As usual, he was too far gone by nightfall to speak clearly or to care much whether or
not he spoke at all. His few discernible words only succeeded in making both chiefs angry. They were
likely to be easily angered since both were more than a little drunk. They even went so far as to grip their
knife handles, though it would have taken far greater provocation for them to unsheathe the knives at this
time.