"Marta Randall - Journey" - читать интересную книгу автора (Randall Marta)

had into the far emptiness of the barn, and Mish knew that her daughter would
follow a maze of ropes and balconies, finding solace in the quiet darkness.
Mish ladled stew until the caldron was empty, then raised her head. A gaunt,
determined man stood before her and thrust a bowl at her face.
"I want some more," he said. "That crap you gave me wasn't enough."
"There'll be more food tomorrow. The stew's gone."
"I want more now. I'm still hungry."
A hand appeared on the man's shoulder. "We're all still hungry, Gren,
but we'll last. Calm down."
Mish looked at the speaker: a gray-eyed young man with a flute tucked
under his belt, pale yellow hair matted and dirty around his face, torn
clothing, bare feet. As alien as possible, yet he smiled at her and took Gren
by the arm, and Mish felt a tide of amity and of relief.
"Come on, kiter," the young man said. "You've had a bowl."
"He's had two," a child said. "I saw him. He's already had two."
Gren jerked away, flung his bowl on the ground, and stalked into the
crowd. The man picked up the bowl.
"I'm sorry Gren was nasty. He lost his family on NewHome, and it's made
him worse than usual."
"It's all right." She took the bowl and held it, then dropped it into
the empty caldron. "I'm Mish Kennerin," she said, not knowing what else to
say.
"I know. I'm Tabor Grif." He smiled at her until she smiled back and
her shoulders relaxed.
"I guess we're all a bit tense. We weren't expecting quite so many of
you."
Tabor shrugged and frowned and touched his flute. "Your husband's a
remarkable man. We were going to die there, in the camps. Many of us already
had." He gestured at the barn, the people, the caldron, at Mish. "It's hard to
believe we're here. That we're alive. That we've eaten. That they won't come
after us again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that."
Mish touched his arm. "It was very bad?"
"Ask Jason." He smiled again. "But here we are. Can I collect the empty
bowls and put them in the pot? Would that help?"
"Yes." Mish realized that her hand was still on his arm. She stepped
back quickly, smiled, watched him turn and begin searching through the crowd.
She moved away from the caldron. Fewer people were about and the noise abated
as the refugees crept into the piles of hay, settled themselves and their
belongings, and slept. Mish walked slowly, looking for Jason.
She found him directing the placement of more hay in the sleeping
areas, and she stood silent, watching the shift of his muscles under his light
suit. Save for the brief embrace at the landing field, they had barely seen or
spoken to each other during the long evening. He reached forward to grab a
bale from the pile, turned with it, put it down, raised an arm, called
something; the barn blurred until he moved in her vision against a backdrop of
running darks and lights, and when he glanced at her she gave him a look of
such intensity that he turned from the work and walked to the barn door.
Together and in silence they crossed the fields, until the sounds from the
barn were muted with distance. Mish lay in the unmown grasses, suddenly
urgent, and pulled him to her.