"Oswald Bastable - 02 - The Land Leviathan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

talking to my grandfather on Rowe Island in the early years of the century. As
it turned out, I was soon to find myself in possession of, for me, the best
possible proof of my grandfather's veracity, if not of Bastable's. I spent this
past summer in Yorkshire, where we have a house overlooking the moors of the
West Riding, and, having little to do but go for long walks and enjoy the
pleasures of rock climbing, I took to looking through the rest of my
grandfather's things, coming at length upon the old steel safe jammed in a
corner under the eaves of one of our innumerable attics. The safe was hidden
behind the moulting remains of a stuffed timber wolf which had used to terrify
me as a child, and perhaps that was the reason why I had not previously found
it. As I pushed the beast aside, his dusty glass eyes seemed to glare at me with
hurt dignity and he toppled slowly sideways and fell with a muffled crash into a
heap of yellowing newspapers which another of my relatives, for reasons of his
own, had once thought worth preserving. It was as if the wolf had been guarding
the safe since the beginning of Time, and I had a slight feeling of invading
hallowed ground, much as some booty-hunting Victorian archaeologist must have
felt as he chipped his way into the tomb of a dead Egyptian king!
The safe was about eighteen inches deep and a couple of feet high, made of thick
steel. The outside had grown a little rusty and the handle would not budge when
I tried it. I hunted about the house for spare keys which might fit the lock,
finding the best part of a score of keys, but none which would open the safe. By
now my curiosity was fully whetted and I manhandled the safe downstairs and took
it into my workshop where I tried to force it. All I succeeded in doing was to
break two or three chisels and ruin the blades of my hacksaw, so eventually I
had to telephone a specialist locksmith in Leeds and ask for expert help in
opening the thing. I was pessimistically certain that the safe would contain
only some out-of-date share certificates or nothing at all, but I knew I should
not be able to rest until it was opened. The locksmith came, eventually, and it
took him only a short while to get the safe undone.
I remember the rather sardonic glance he offered me as the contents were
displayed for the first time in almost sixty years.
It was plain that he thought I had wasted my money, for there were no family
treasures here, merely a pile of closely written foolscap sheets, beginning to
show their age. The handwriting was not even my grandfather's and I experienced
a distinct sinking sensation, for obviously I had hoped to find notes which
would tell me more about Bastable and my grandfather's experiences after he had
set off for China to seek the Valley of the Morning, where he had guessed
Bastable to be.
As he left, the locksmith gave me what I guessed to be a pitying look and said
that his firm would be sending the bill along kter, I sighed, made myself a pot
of coffee, and then sat down to leaf through the sheets.
Only then did I realize that I had found something even more revealing than
anything I had hoped to discover (and, it emerged, even more mystifying!) - for
these notes were Bastable's own. Here, written in his hand, was an account of
his experiences after he had left my grandfather - there was even a brief note
addressed to him from Bastable:
Moorcock. I hope this reaches you. Make of it what you will. I'm going to try my
luck again. This time if I am not successful I doubt I shall have the courage to
continue with my life (if it is mine). Yours - Bastable.
Attached to this were some sheets in my grandfather's flowing handwriting and