"Flynn-ThePromiseOfGod" - читать интересную книгу автора (Flynn Michael)

MICHAEL F. FLYNN

THE PROMISE OF GOD

You shall have joy, or you shall have power, said God; youshah not have both.

It began to grow cold in the cabin after the sun went down, and Nealy thought
about building a fire. It would be a fine fire, roaring and crackling and
toasting warm. It would light the room with a delicious dancing light, and he
and Greta could beek on the outer hearth. He loved the way that firelight played
off Greta's features, making them red and soft and shiny; and he loved the way
the smoky smells of the burning wood blended with the earthy smells of Greta
herself. Yes, a fire was surely what was needed.

The wood was stacked against the back wall. He had chopped it himself, as Greta
had asked. Use the axe, she had told him before leaving to trek down the
mountainside to the village. Don't do it the Other Way.

Nealy snuggled deeper into the chair and looked over his shoulder at the cabin's
door. He couldn't see what difference it made. He flexed his hands, sore and
stiff from the chopping, and rubbed the hard palms together. Hard work.
Blister-raising work. It was easier the Other Way. Your muscles didn't ache;
your back was not sore. The faggots could march themselves into the hearth and
leap upon each other; then he could summon a salamander to ignite them. It would
be easy, and it would be fun to watch.

Nealy gazed on the wood. His fingers plucked aimlessly at the arm of the chair.
It was growing chilly in the room. He thought about building a fire.

When Nealy was seven, a wolf broke into the sheep pen. He heard the bleating all
the way from the chicken coop and he ran as fast as he could down to the meadow
gate, slipping in the mud where the run.off from the old well-pump trickled
toward the creek. As Nealy raised himself from the muck, he spied the wolf among
the flock as though through parted clouds. Sheep were milling and baa-ing,
knowing there was a danger amongst them, but at a loss for what to do. The wolf
raised its head from the carcass of a young ewe and bared bloody teeth. Far off,
in the autumn field on the far side of the pen, Papa had dropped the reins of
the plow horse and was hopping across the furrows with his musket in hand. Too
late, though; too late for Fat Emma.

Nealy staggered to his feet and the wolf backed away, not ready to attack a
human being, but neither ready to retreat, either. When it turned, Nealy could
see the badly healed scar along its flank, the stiffness with which one hind leg
moved; explanation, at least, for why it had chosen the sheep pens. Nealy
pointed a finger at the beast.

"You killed Fat Emma, you!" he shrieked, as only young boys can shriek over a
favorite animal lost; and never mind that Emma would betimes have graced his own