"Esther M. Friesner - Hallowmass" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

resting place.

It was very small, that bit of rock, but it had far to fall. Some say it fell.
Some say it flew, guided by a ghostly hand, to strike its only proper target:
Margaret. Fallen or flung, it struck her hard enough, where she stood between
the bishop's men. It brought her down.

At first they thought she was dead, but that might have been because her heart
had hardened itself pulseless long ago. Then someone felt her breath against his
skin and cried out, "She lives!" There was a murmur from the crowd then, a
confused grumble of voices. They did not know whether to be disappointed that
she had not died outright or pleased that she was still theirs to hold for the
burning.

Then she opened her eyes. They were stone. Not blind, my lord -- I mean no
clever jongleur's trick of words and meaning-- but stone as hard and gray and
smooth as a carved saint's hand. Here was another miracle, but one the people
fled, even the hosts of the Fey, even my lord bishop's men, whose swords had
known the taste of blood in Christ's name.

Only Master Giles remained behind with Margaret. None know what he said to her,
or if words passed between them at all. All know that when the next day's
dawning came, she crept out of dead Agnes's house, her hand on the stonecutter's
arm. And so it was each day until he died.

She begs before the cathedral now, a clump of rags and sorrow seated beneath the
niche that holds blind Benedict's image. Bereft of Master Giles's aid she was
soon the prey of every passing rogue, every marketplace sharper, a summer sheep
swiftly shorn of all she had. No man or woman of this city ever raised a hand to
prevent this, piously pointing out that it would be wrong to interfere in
heaven's manifest judgment against the woman.

There are always too many, Master, who will harp readily to no other verse than
God's vengeance. And yet these are the same who stood before the great cathedral
and witnessed proof of His unbounded mercy! Ah, me.

Some say her punishment came as holy penitence, others whisper how it was a
shifty trick of the Faerie host, done more by way of mischief than morality. Who
knows? Give her some coins, Master, if your heart is not made of the same stuff
as her eyes, and listen to the ringing sound the coppers make when they drop
into her begging bowl. And then, as she is blind, be blind yourself and let your
charity also fall into the empty bowls of all who huddle in the shadow of God's
house for mercy's sake.

There. Do you hear it? Some say it comes from the dead child's image, that sweet
song, the soul's own, the melody that breaks open the hard shells that hold us
here, that shatters the stone that forms around our hearts, that anchors us to
earth when we yearn for heaven: The song of the soulless who truly know the
value of a soul.