"Walter M. Miller - The Best of Walter M. Miller" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Walter M)

wooden steps. A droopy chicken huddled in the drenched grass, too sick to stir or seek a shelter.
No road led across the scrublands to the distant highway, but only a sandy footpath that was now a
gushing torrent that ran down to an overflowing creek of brackish water. A possum hurried across the
inundated footpath at the edge of the clearing, drenched and miserable, seek-ing higher ground.
The cabin was without a chimney, but a length of stovepipe projected from a side window, and bent
skyward at a clumsy angle. A thin trail of brown smoke leaked from beneath the rain-hood, and wound
away on the gusty breeze. In the cabin, there was life, and an aura of song lingered about the
rain-washed walls, song as mournful as the sodden land, low as the wail of a distant train.

Whose hands was drivin' the nails 0 Lord?
Whose hands was drivin' the nails?
Lord 0 Lord!
My hands was drivin' the nails 0 Lord!
My hands was drivin' the nails
And I did crucify my God!
 The song was low and vibrant in the cabin, and Lucey rocked to it, rolling her head as she sang over
the stove, where a smoked 'possum simmered in pot-likker with sweet-taters, while corn bread toasted
in the oven. The cabin was full of food-smells and sweat-smells, and smoky light through dusty panes.
From a rickety iron bed near the window came a sud-den choking sob, an animal sound of almost
unendur-able torment and despair. Lucey stopped singing, and turned to blink toward the cry, sudden
concern melting her pudgy face into a mountain woman cherub's face, full of compassion.
Awwwwwww . . ." The sound welled unbidden from her throat, a rich low outpouring of love and
"


sympathy for the sallow twitching youth who lay on the yellowish sheets, his eyes wild, his hands tensing
into claws.
"Awwwww, DoodieтАФyou ain't gonna have another spell?" she said.
Only a small hurt this time, my son. It can't be helped. It's like tuning a guitar. You can't do it
without sounding the strings, or pulsing the neural fibers. But only a small hurt this time... .
The youth writhed and shuddered, stiffening into a puppet strained by steel springs. His back arched,
and his muscles quivered. He flung himself suddenly into re-flexive gymnastics, sobbing in small shrieks.
Lucey murmured softly. An immense mass of love, she waddled toward the bed in bounces of
rubbery flesh. She bent over him to purr low in her throat.
"Poor Doodie . . . poor li'l Doodie. Mama's lamb."
The boy sobbed and thrashed. The paroxysm brought froth to his lips and jerked his limbs into
cramped spasms. He jerked and writhed and tumbled on the bed.
"You jus' try to lay calm, Doodie. You jus' try. You gonna be all right. It ain't gonna last long, Doodie.
It's gonna go away."
"No!" he whimpered. "No! Don't touch me, Mama! Don't!"
"Now, Doodie . . ."
She sat on the edge of the bed to gather him up in her massive arms. The spasms grew more frantic,
less reflex-ive. He fought her, shrieking terror. She lay beside him, moaning low with pity. She enveloped
him with her arms, enfolding him so that he could no longer kick. She pulled his face into the hollow of
her huge bosom and squeezed him. With his tense body pressed tightly against the bulky mass of her, she
melted again with love, and began chant-ing a rhythmic lullaby while he twitched and slavered against her,
fighting away, pretending to suffocate.
Gradually, as exhaustion overcame him, the spasm passed. He lay wheezing quietly in her arms.
The strings are tuned, my son, and it was only a small hurt. Has the hurt stopped, my son?
Yes, father, if only this monstress would let me he. Accept my knowledge, and be content. The