"Philip Jose Farmer - WOT 3 - A Private Cosmos" - читать интересную книгу автора (Farmer Phillip Jose)

Antony. 'Tis so. And the tears of it are wet.
(Act II, Scene VII.)
Indeed, Sir, they are. It is the skill that goes with the talent that makes them so. Each of its
products are different, complete, unique, and this one is no exception. I rejoice that such a man
as Philip Jose Farmer walks among us, writes there, too. There aren't many like him. None, I'd
say.
But read his story and see what I mean.
Now it is a cold, gray day in February and its Baltimore. But it doesn't matter. Philip Jose
Farmer, out there somewhere West of the Sun, if by your writing you ever intended to give joy to
another human being, know by this that you have succeeded and brightened many a cold, gray day in
the seasons of my world, as well as having enhanced the lighter ones with something I'll just call
splendor and let go at that.
The colors of this one are its own and the tears of it are wet. Philip Jose Farmer wrote it. There
is nothing more to say.
ROGER ZELAZNY
Baltimore, Md.
UNDER A GREEN SKY and a yeliow sun, on a black stallion with a crimson-dyed mane and blue-dyed
tail, Kickaha rode for his life.
One hundred days ago, a thousand miles ago, he had left the village of the Hrowakas, the Bear
People. Weary of hunting and of the simple life, Kickaha suddenly longed for a tasteтАФmore than a
tasteтАФof civilization. Moreover, his intellectual knife needed sharpening, and there was much
about the Tishquetmoac, the only civilized people on this level, that he did'not know.
So he put saddles and equipment on two horses, said goodbye to the chiefs and warriors, and kissed
his two wives farewell. He gave them permission to take new husbands if he didn't return in six
months. They said they would wait forever, at which Kickaha smiled, because they had said the same
thing to their former husbands before these rode out on the warpath and never came back.
Some of the warriors wanted to escort him through the mountains to the Great Plains. He said no
and rode out alone. He took five days to get out of the mountains. One day was lost because two
young warriors of the Wakangishush tribe stalked him. They may have been waiting for months in the


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Black Weasel Pass, knowing that some day Kickaha would ride through it. Of all the greatly
2 A PRIVATE COSMOS
desired scalps of the hundred great warriors of the fifty Nations of the Great Plains and
bordering mountain ranges, the scalp of Kickaha was the most valued. At least two hundred braves
had made individual efforts to waylay him, and none - had returned alive. Many war parties had
come up into the mountains to attack the Hrowakas' stockaded fort on the high hill, hoping to
catch the Bear People unawares and lift Kickaha's scalpтАФor headтАФduring the fighting. Of these,
only the great raid of the Oshangstawa tribe of the Half-Horses had come near to succeeding. The
story of the raid and of the destruction of the terrible Half-Horses spread through the 129 Plains
tribes and was sung in their council halls and chiefs' tepees during the Blood Festivals.
The two Wakangishush kept a respectable distance behind their quarry. They were waiting for
Kickaha to camp when night came. They may have succeeded where so many others had failed, so
careful and quiet were they, but a red raven, eagle-sized, flew down over Kickaha at dusk and
cawed loudly twice.
Then it flew above one hidden brave, circled twice, flew above the tree behind which the other
crouched, and circled twice. Kickaha, glad that he had taken the trouble to train the intelligent