"Mike O'Driscoll - A Soldier's Things" - читать интересную книгу автора (O'driscoll Mike)

"Tired and broken and much too far from home."
"Well, my worthy," the old man said. "I see your friends dreaming over
there, and I see that they do not ask so much. Take these gifts and use
them as you will." He placed a small beatbox, a blue cowl and a kilo bag
of pure cocaine on the ground. "The first has the power to enchant, the
second to grant wishes, and the third is endless."
Spigweed looked at the old man, realising that he spoke in some ancient
language he had never heard before. As he tried to figure out how he had
understood the words, the old man stepped back into the dripping
undergrowth and vanished from his sight. Spigweed stared at the gifts for
a long time, convinced that, like his friends, he was dreaming. Perhaps
for a while, he slept.
But in the morning the gifts were still there. He woke the others and
together they examined them. Spigweed sliced open the top of the bag and
sniffed the white powder, feeling the rush hit him like an express train.
He invited his comrades to join him, and when Prewitt felt the blood
boiling in his veins, he switched on the beatbox. A driving rhythm pounded
out of the speakers, and it was soon overlaid with what seemed an ancient
yet familiar voice that carried a haunting melody. They understood no
words and yet were entranced. A profound stillness settled on the jungle
as birds and insects fell silent, enchanted by the music. Hours, maybe
even days, passed as if in a few, fleeting moments, during which time all
memories of war were erased. As the sun climbed or fell - they knew not
which - Nately pressed the cowl against his wound. In his heart he wished
that he was healed, and that he could be with his comrades in a new home,
here amidst the quiet and peace.
And so it was: before their eyes a beautiful bungalow of white timber,
with a wide verandah sprang up out of the jungle. The trees fell back from
its walls, yielding to their dreams.
Spigweed, his head reeling but filled now with true belief, lifted Nately
in his arms and carried him inside. "Jesus," he said. "He wasn't lying."
And there in the air-conditioned house he told Nately and Prewitt about
the old man and what he had said about the three gifts.
And perhaps things would have remained happy in the bungalow, had not the
music drawn the natives of Azul to their home. They woke one morning to
find the bungalow surrounded by one hundred or more, mahogany skinned,
near-naked tribesmen. Spigweed and the others stepped out onto the
verandah.
A tall indian at the head of the tribe bowed low and said, "You called to
us with the old songs. We have come to acknowledge you as our brothers."
Spigweed guessed this was their chief. He surveyed the faces arrayed
behind him, and noticed the beautiful young woman standing at his
shoulder, her head raised in proud defiance. "I appreciate that," Spigweed
said. "Why don't you sit and eat with us."
At this, the chief raised his arms and his people sat on the ground, all
except the woman. "My daughter," the chief said. "She was our guide to
your kingdom; it was she who first heard and recognised the old songs."
The woman's gaze pierced Spigweed's flesh and found his soul. He felt
suddenly powerless, in thrall to her will. In the meantime, Nately wished
up a banquet fit for kings and everyone ate their fill. Afterwards, the