"Nina Kiriki Hoffman - Courting Disasters" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hoffman Nina Kiriki)

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When he woke the second time, there were flowers on the table by his bed. The flowers were
color-coordinated with the walls: bronze chrysanthemums, sprays of pale everlasting, a sprinkling of
strawflowers colored like the orange metal of cheap Far Eastern jewelry. The color reminded him of
Rachel. She often wore large sun-colored pendants with snippets of metal dangling and jingling. He felt a
momentary longing for her so intense it eclipsed everything else. Closing his eyes, he waited; eventually
the desire eased its clutch. He opened his eyes again and looked at the flowers. The splayed, fingered
chrysanthemum leaves were a green so dark it blotted light like black. The smell was strong, not flowery
at all, but wet and aggressive and slightly swampy.

He began to remember what it was like to thrust upward among other trees, sun on his upper reaches,
the light a liquor bringing life and wakefulness. His consciousness diffused between the green growing
needles on the upside and the creeping roots beneath wet black soil on the down. Half of him strained
toward the sun, the other half toward the center of the earth, with a tapestry of living tissue stretching
along the length of the strong dead fibers of the trunk between. Information climbed slowly, riding chains
of water during the day; he could think faster when the sun shone, yet moisture pleased him too. Young
fogs often gathered, thickening the air so oneтАЩs messages could cross open space and reach others,
instead of having to seep through soil, between root hairs.

Simon blinked. For a moment he frowned, wondering who this waking self was.

He glanced at the IV again. Only a single root, he thought. Closing his eyes, he could almost track the
spread of nutrients through his body. He had a growing awareness that lightning had struck him for the
second time, cleaving and disrupting parts of his form. He rode his circulatory system, finding places
where the gaps had been bridged, circumvented, or shut down. Processes of repair spun and crystallized,
struggled, failed, restarted. Submerged in his systems, he explored, learned, lost himself.

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The third time he woke, he smelled perfume. It was a delicate scent, like night-blooming jasmine at a
distance. An image of the beach house he and Rachel had rented one weekend took on hue and texture
behind his eyelids. He remembered waking in the morning to see her stand, a dark silhouette, against the
window, with the glory of a morning sky and surf beyond her. Some strange mystery had opened in his
mind then, a sense of forever, a feeling of peace and contentment.

One moment out of six months. Not enough.

A murmur of conversation came through the curtain to his left. тАЬYouтАЩre going to be all right, Chris. You
are,тАЭ said a woman in a tear-thickened voice.

тАЬDonтАЩt lie to me, Mom.тАЭ The boyтАЩs voice was very clear.

Simon looked at the ceiling. It was the color of ginger ale. He could faintly remember the explorations he,
or someone, had made earlier. Without judging or evaluating, he had memorized himself, learned exactly
which bones and organs were broken or damaged.

Today his detachment had lessened. He groaned.

тАЬSimon?тАЭ