"Walter M. Miller - The Lost Masters - Volume 01" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Walter M)

room, if he could have displayed the box and all its contents, and the mark the pilgrim had made on the
rock. But the priest was carrying the Eucharist, and could not have been induced to climb down into a
rock-filled basement on his hands and knees, or to paw though the contents of the old box and enter into
archaeological discussions; Francis had known better than to ask. CherokiтАЩs visit was necessarily solemn,
as long as the locket he was wearing contained a single Host; although, alter it was empty, he might be
amenable to some informal listening. The novice could not blame Father Cheroki for leaping to the
conclusion that he had gone out of his mind. He was a little groggy from the sun, and he had stammered
quite a bit. More than one novice had turned up with addled wits after a vocational vigil.
There was nothing to do but obey the command to return.
He walked to the shelter and glanced into it once again, to reassure himself that it was really there;
then he went to get the box. By the time he had it repacked and was ready to leave, the dust plume had
appeared in the southeast, heralding the arrival of the supply carrier with water and corn from the abbey.
Brother Francis decided to wait for his supplies before starting the long trek home.
Three donkeys and one monk ambled into view at the head of the dust streamer. The lead donkey
plodded under the weight of Brother Fingo. In spite of the hood, Francis recognized the cookтАЩs helper
from his hunched shoulders and from the long hairy shins that dangled on either side of the donkey so that
Brother FingoтАЩs sandals nearly dragged the ground. The animals that followed came loaded with small
bags of corn and skins of water.
тАЬSooooee pig-pig-pig! Sooee pig!тАЭ Fingo called, cupping his hands to his mouth and broadcasting
the hog-call across the ruins as if he had not seen Francis waiting for him beside the trail. тАЬPig pig
pig!тАУOh, there you are, Francisco! I mistook you for a bone pile. Well, weтАЩll have to fatten you up for
the wolves. There you are, help yourself to the Sunday slops. How goes the hermit trade? Think youтАЩll
make it a career? Just one waterskin, mind you, and one sack of corn. And watch MaliciaтАЩs hind feet;
sheтАЩs in rut and feels frolickyтАУkicked Alfred back there, crunch! right in the kneecap. Careful with it!тАЭ
Brother Fingo brushed back his hood and chortled while the novice and Malicia fenced for position.
Fingo was undoubtedly the ugliest man alive, and when he laughed, the vast display of pink gums and
huge teeth of assorted colors added little in his charm; he was a sport, but the sport could scarcely be
called monstrous; it was a rather common hereditary pattern in the Minnesota country from whence he
came; it produced baldness and a very uneven distribution of melanin, so that the gangling monkтАЩs hide
was a patchwork of beef-liver and chocolate splashes on an albino background. However, his perpetual
good humor so compensated for his appearance that one ceased to notice it after a few minutes; and
after long acquaintance, Brother FingoтАЩs markings seemed as normal as those of a painted pony. What
might have seemed hideous if he were a sulking fellow, managed almost to become as decorative as
clownтАЩs make-up when accompanied by exuberant good cheer. FingoтАЩs assignment to the kitchen was
punitive and probably temporary. He was a woodcarver by trade, and normally worked in the
carpenterтАЩs shop. But some incident of self-assertion, in connection with a figure of the Blessed Leibowitz
which he had been permitted to carve, had caused the abbot to order him transferred to the kitchen until
he showed some signs of practicing humility. Meanwhile, the figure of the Beatus waited in the carpentry
shop, half-carved.
FingoтАЩs grin began to fade as he studied FrancisтАЩ countenance while the novice unloaded his grain
and water from the frisky she-ass. тАЬYou look like a sick sheep, boy,тАЭ he said to the penitent. тАЬWhatтАЩs the
trouble? Is Father Cheroki in one of his slow rages again?тАЭ
Brother Francis shook his head. тАЬNot that I could tell.тАЭ
тАЬThen whatтАЩs wrong? Are you really sick?тАЭ
тАЬHe ordered me back to the abbey.тАЭ
тАЬWha-a-at?тАЭ Fingo swung a hairy shin over the jackass and dropped a few inches to the ground.
He towered over Brother Francis, clapped a meaty hand on his shoulder, and peered down into his face.
тАЬWhat is it; the jaundice?тАЭ
тАЬNo. He thinks IтАЩmтАУтАЭ Francis tapped his temple and shrugged.
Fingo laughed. тАЬWell, thatтАЩs true, but we all knew that. Why is he sending you back?тАЭ