"B. Dune - House Harkonnen" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert Brian & Frank)

His home had a brighter touch than the others. Old, rusted cookpots held dirt in which colorful flowers grew: maroon, blue, and yellow pansies, a shock of daisies, even sophisticated-looking calla lilies. Most houses had small vegetable gardens where the people grew plants, herbs, vegetables -- though any produce that looked too appetizing might be confiscated and eaten by roving Harkonnen patrols.

The day was warm and the air smoky, but the windows of his home were open. Gurney could hear Bheth's sweet voice in a lilting melody. In his mind's eye he saw her long, straw-colored hair; he thought of it as "flaxen" -- a word from Old Terran poems he had memorized -- though he had never seen homespun flax. Only seventeen, Bheth had fine features and a sweet personality that had not yet been crushed by a lifetime of work.

Gurney used the outside faucet to splash the gray, caked dirt from his face, arms, and hands. He held his head under the cold water, soaking his snarled blond hair, then used blunt fingers to maul it into some semblance of order. He shook his head and strode inside, kissing Bheth on the cheek while dripping cold water on her. She squealed and backed away, then returned to her cooking chores.

Their father had already collapsed in a chair. Their mother bent over huge wooden bins outside the back door, preparing krall tubers for market; when she noticed Gurney was home, she dried her hands and came inside to help Bheth serve. Standing at the table, his mother read several verses from a tattered old O. C. Bible in a deeply reverent voice (her goal was to read the entire mammoth tome to her children before she died), and then they sat down to eat. He and his sister talked while sipping a soup of stringy vegetables, seasoned only with salt and a few sprigs of dried herbs. During the meal, Gurney's parents spoke little, usually in monosyllables.

Finishing, he carried his dishes to the basin, where he scrubbed them and left them to drip dry for the next day. With wet hands he clapped his father on the shoulder. "Are you going to join me at the tavern? It's fellowship night."

The older man shook his head. "I'd rather sleep. Sometimes your songs just make me feel too tired."

Gurney shrugged. "Get your rest then." In his small room, he opened the rickety wardrobe and took out his most prized possession: an old baliset, designed as a nine-stringed instrument, though Gurney had learned to play with only seven, since two strings were broken and he had no replacements.

He had found the discarded instrument, damaged and useless, but after working on it patiently for six months . . . sanding, lacquering, shaping parts . . . the baliset made the sweetest music he'd ever heard, albeit without a full tonal range. Gurney spent hours in the night strumming the strings, spinning the counterbalance wheel. He taught himself to play tunes he had heard, or composed new ones.

As darkness enclosed the village, his mother sagged into a chair. She placed the precious Bible in her lap, comforted more by its weight than its words. "Don't be late," she said in a dry, empty voice.

"I won't." Gurney wondered if she would notice if he stayed out all night. "I'll need my strength to tackle those trenches tomorrow." He raised a well-muscled arm, feigning enthusiasm for the tasks all of them knew would never end. He made his way across the packed-dirt streets down to the tavern.

In the wake of a deadly fever several years ago, four of the prefab structures had been left empty. The villagers had moved the buildings together, knocked down the connecting walls, and fashioned themselves a large community house. Although this wasn't exactly against the numerous Harkonnen restrictions, the local enforcers had frowned at such a display of initiative. But the tavern remained.

Gurney joined the small crowd of men who had already gathered for the fellowship down at the tavern. Some brought their wives. One man already lay slumped across the table, more exhausted than drunk, his flagon of watery beer only half-consumed. Gurney crept up behind him, held out his baliset, and strummed a jangling chord that startled the man to full wakefulness.

"Here's a new one, friends. Not exactly a hymn that your mothers remember, but I'll teach it to you." He gave them a wry grin. "Then you'll all sing along with me, and probably ruin the tune." None of them were very good singers, but the songs were entertaining, and it brought a measure of brightness to their lives.

With full energy, he tacked sardonic words onto a familiar melody:


O Giedi Prime!
Thy shades of black are beyond compare,
From obsidian plains to oily seas,
To the darkest nights in the Emperor's Eye.

Come ye from far and wide
To see what we hide in our hearts and minds,
To share our bounty
And lift a pickax or two . . .
Making it all lovelier than before.

O Giedi Prime!
Thy shades of black are beyond compare,
From obsidian plains to oily seas,
To the darkest nights in the Emperor's Eye.


When Gurney finished the song, he wore a grin on his plain, blocky face and bowed to imagined applause. One of the men called out hoarsely, "Watch yourself, Gurney Halleck. If the Harkonnens hear your sweet voice, they'll haul you off to Harko for sure -- so you can sing for the Baron himself."

Gurney made a rude noise. "The Baron has no ear for music, especially not lovely songs like mine." This brought a round of laughter. He picked up a mug of the sour beer and chugged it down.