"Christopher Priest - The Discharge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Priest Christopher)

I had by this time travelled so far that I was off the edge of the map I had purchased, so I had only my
memory of the names to guide me. I waited eagerly for each island to appear.
Paneron at first repelled me: much of its landscape was formed from volcanic rock, black and jagged and
unwelcoming, but on the western side there was an enormous area of fertile land choked with rainforest
that spread back from the shore as far as I could see. The coast was fringed with palms. I decided to rest
in Paneron Town for a while.

Ahead lay the Swirl, beyond that vast chain of reefs and skerries were the Aubracs, beyond even those
was the island I still yearned to find: Muriseay, home of my most vivid imaginings, birthplace of Rascar
Acizzone.

The place, the artistтАФthese were the only realities I knew, the only experience I thought I could call my
own.



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Another year of travel. I was confounded by the thirty-five islands of the Aubrac Group: work and
accommodation were difficult to find in these underpopulated islets and I lacked the funds simply to sail
past or around them. I had to make my way slowly through the group, island by island, working for
subsistence, sweltering under the tropical sun. Now that I was travelling again my interest in drawing
returned. In some of the busier Aubrac ports I would again set up my easel, draw for hire, for centimes
and sous.

On AntiAubracia, close to the heart of the group of islands, I bought some pigments, oils and brushes.
The Aubracs were a place largely devoid of color: the flat, uninteresting islands lay under bleaching
sunlight, the sand and pale gravel of the inland plains drifted into the towns on the constant winds, the
pallid eggshell blue of the shallow lagoons could be glimpsed with every turn of the head. The absence of
bright hues was a challenge to see and paint in color.

I saw no more troopships, although I was always on my guard for their passing or arrival. I was still
following their route because when I asked the island people about the ships they knew at once what I
meant and therefore what my background must be. But reliable information about the army was hard to
glean. Sometimes I was told that the troopships had stopped travelling south; sometimes that they had
switched to a different route; sometimes I was told they only passed in the night.

My fear of the black-caps kept me on the move.

Finally, I made a last sea-crossing and arrived one night on a coal-carrier in Muriseay Town. From the
upper deck, as we moved slowly through the wide bay that led to the harbor mouth, I viewed the place
with a feeling of anticipation. I could make a fresh start hereтАФwhat had happened during the long-ago
shore leave was insignificant. I leaned on the rail, watching the reflections of colored lights from the town
darting on the dark water. I could hear the roar of engines, the hubbub of voices, the traces of distorted
music. Heat rolled around me, as once before it had rolled from the town.

There were delays in docking the ship and by the time I was ashore it was after midnight. Finding
somewhere to sleep for the night was a priority. Because of recent hardships I was unable to pay to stay