"James Herbert - Soul Catcher" - читать интересную книгу автора (Herbert James)

had descended upon the insulated quiet of the house, breathless, laughing, tanned, and
romantic, arms loaded with exotic gifts.

But the chest-shaking joy of being with such people had always ended, leaving him with a
sense of frustration amidst the smells of dusty perfumes and tea and the black feeling
that he had been abandoned.

Mrs. Parma checked the clothing laid out for him on the dresser. Knowing he wanted her to
leave, she delayed. Her body conveyed a stately swaying within the sari. Her fingernails
were bright pink.

She had shown him a map once with a town marked on it, the place where she had been born.
She had a brown photograph: mud-walled houses and leafless trees, a man all in white
standing beside a bicycle, a violin case under his arm. Her father.

Mrs. Parma turned, looked at David with her startling eyes. She said: "Your father asked
me to remind you when you awoke that the car will depart precisely on time. You have one
hour."

She lowered her gaze, went to the door. The sari betrayed only a faint suggestion of
moving legs. The red lines in the fabric danced like sparks from a fire.

David wondered what she thought. Her slow, calm way revealed nothing he could decipher.
Was she laughing at him? Did she think going to camp was a foolishness? Did she even
have a geographical understanding of where he would go, the Olympic Mountains?

He had a last glimpse of the bright fingernails as she went out, closed the door.

David bounced from bed, began dressing. When he came to the belt, he slipped the sheathed
knife onto it, cinched the buckle. The blade remained a heavy presence at his hip while
he brushed his teeth and combed his blond hair straight back. When he leaned close to the
mirror, he could see the knife's dark handle with the initials burned into it: DMM, David
Morgenstern Marshall.

Presently, he went down to breakfast.

***
Statement of Dr. Tilman Barth, University of Washington Anthropology Department:

The word katsuk is very explicit in Hobuhet's native tongue. It means "the center" or the
core from which all perception radiates. It's the center of the world or of the universe.
It's where an aware individual stands. There has never been any doubt in my mind that
Charles is aware. I can understand his assuming this pseudonym.

You've seen those papers he wrote. That one where he compares the Raven myth of his
people to the Genesis myth of Western civilization is very disturbing. He has perceived
the link between dream and reality -- how we seek to win a place in destiny through
rebellion, the evil forces we built up only to destroy, the Great Conquests and Great
Causes to which we cling long after they've been exposed as empty glitter. Here . . .
notice his simile for such lost perceptions: