"Jay Lake - A Mythic Fear of the Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lake Jay)

тАЬTake of him and be comforted,тАЭ Daddy said around a mouthful of meat.

So I touched it to my lips, this stringy relic of Granddaddy, and gnawed a tiny
shred. It tasted salty, like the sea was said to taste, but sweet, too, like springwater
drunk in the shade of summer. Then I found sour, and the thick taste of meat, and
the dance of chocolate.

Granddaddy tasted like the world.

Slowly I ate of him, until my strip of meat was gone and my belly was full.
The milk in my gut settled and I felt better.

Then we climbed the winding path of the ear. Hairs like great swords rose up
to block our path, and boulders of brown wax, but Daddy marched on. There was a
new spring in his step, as if the old manтАЩs grace had made of my father something
new.

After a while I realized I was bouncing after him.

The upper rim of the ear was a narrow path that shook beneath our weight. To
my right was an overhanging curl that dropped down into a sort of fleshy spiral
which in turn descended to a dark, hairy vortex.

To my left was ... the sea.

IтАЩd always though Douglas firs were large. Great trees that speared the sky,
they grew throughout our little valley. IтАЩd always thought Granddaddy was large, his
bulk like a mountain protecting us all the way around.
 But the sea went on forever. It passed into a distance that made my stomach
lurch all over again, sparkling silver and blue and gray, and it moved. It was a live
thing, bigger than the world, and everywhere around me.

Granddaddy didnтАЩt just lie on each side of our little town. He lay around it,
like a cat curled on a hearth, and his back and legs kept the sea from swallowing us
whole. Like a beaver damming a creek, Granddaddy dammed the world out.

DaddyтАЩs hand took my shoulder. тАЬHere is the old manтАЩs secret.тАЭ

тАЬThat he keeps the sea out,тАЭ I whispered. Terror of the distant, salty water
was turning my knees to butter.

тАЬNo.тАЭ DaddyтАЩs fingers tightened. тАЬThat the sea keeps him in. Listen, son. He
is not our protector, he is our terror. If he were ever to waken, his feet would crush
our town to dust. His voice is the whirlwind, Little Ozzie. So we climb here to pray
to him to remain asleep for ever, and to thank the sea for wrapping him so tight in
salty comfort.тАЭ

Daddy was wrong, I knew he was wrong, but the sight of that endless sea
around me, rising to meet the sky, heaving like a mad, live thing, had struck away
what was left of my voice.