"Jeff Long - Angels of Light" - читать интересную книгу автора (Long Jeff)

the summit. Ninety feet long, thirty wide, but only a few inches deep, the glassy slab
glinted once in the moonlight as it drifted away. Like a fat man swan-diving, it
sucked at the sky for six, then ten heartbeats. The free-fall was downright delicate.
Then a corner touched against the girdle of rock three thousand feet lower, and the
ice exploded with a roar. Crystalline shrapnel scourged the spidery forest that crowds
El Cap's prow, decapitating Jeffrey pines and mangling the manzanita that each
spring and summer perfume rock climbers who dot the walls, indistinguishable at a
distance from the wild blackberries few tourists dare to eat. The shrapnel would have
been a killing rain, but no one and nothing was dying tonight, not yet anyway. Frogs,
rodents, and fox bats living and hibernating in the granite cracks were slotted deep
and safe; the peregrine falcons that nest on the dawn-facing wall weren't due to
arrive for another five months; and what coyote remained in the Valley were off
sampling mice in quieter coves. Except for John and Tucker, then, all was well.
Ironically, they were in danger for precisely the reason they were momentarily safe,
because the headwall upon which they dangled was so severely overhung. The
overhang meant that most of the falling ice, particularly the slabs and torso-thick
icicles, whirligigged out and away from them. Unfortunately the overhang also meant
they could not retreat.
"Fuck," breathed John, a brief anthem of relief. His fingers were blown, and he was
tiny, a slight creature willing itself up the hard space and colors that form the vertical
boundaries of Yosemite. It didn't matter that no one belongs three thousand feet
above the dark soil of California on Christmas Eve in the path of a blizzard any more
than it mattered that John did belong because he'd chosen to leave the ground in
search of dragons or in flight from the common mud or on fire with whatever else it
is that propels ascent. He had a soul, he had his reasons, and he was frightened. All
that really mattered was the Valley spread belowтАФhalf a mile wide, half a mile high,
gashed deep into the harsh earth by not-so-ancient glaciers. The Valley had its own

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Jeff Long - Angels of Light


terms.
"Watch me," he groaned. Frost poured from his mouth. Ten stories below, Tucker
couldn't quite hear the command, but he heard the groan and was already watching
as best he could, a vigilance more of touch than sight. He was reading the rope's
vibrations with his palms, listening to John's desperation. Tucker was scared and his
wide white eyes stared blindly toward the summit. It's always worse waiting for
disaster than fighting it, but he was patient. He loved John, although he was still too
young to realize you could admit that about another man. That he was here on this
wall in these circumstances was a testament of that love. John was the only friend he
had, and when "the Mosquito" for Christmas had first been mentioned, Tucker
accepted the invitation because it was John, not because it was the Mosquito Wall.
Agape has its limits, however. Tucker knew that if his partner fell, all their
protection, including the belay anchor, would probably rip, dumping them into
forever pronto. In a way that only a white suburban American boy can be, Tucker
was presently optimistic about their situation. He was optimistic for both of them.
Fervently optimistic.
John grappled his weight a body length higher. The hardware slung from his racks
tinkled musically, the sound a horse makes shaking its bridle. He stuffed his fist into