"Laura Resnick - A Fleeting Wisp of Glory" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Laura)

few places, but you'll soon know the story as well as I do." He's going to
finish now, saying the part that's his alone to say. "This story is our past,
and we must never forget it. My grandfather told it to me, as his
grandfather's grandfather told it before him, as I tell it to you, and as you
will tell it when I am gone. Each evening from December to December, we
remember the wonders of Camelot and its brave king, waiting for him to return
to us and make again the world that men knew then."
"He won't come back," I whisper suddenly, sure that this part, at
least, isn't true. "Everyone dies, Jonah, and no one comes back."
I'm afraid for a minute that I've made him very angry, but then I see
that the sparkle in his eyes is water, not anger. He slumps and looks older
than he ever has before. "Then we must keep him alive with our stories," he
says at last. A tear slides down his cheek, and I know my mom will beat me if
she learns I've made him cry. "We must remember that there was a better world
before this one, and believe that there will be a better one again. Otherwise,
how will we go on?"
"You said you'd be nice to him," Jackie whispers angrily.
"I'm sorry, Jonah." But I don't really know what I've done wrong.
"It's all right, Bobby. You should take Jackie back, now. It's getting
late."




Page 5
 We leave the cave, and the smell of the night is a relief. I wonder
what nighttime in Camelot smelled like? Did it smell of cooking fires and
sewage like this night does? Did the rain sting, did the wind burn, did the
air taste of dust? Was the moon fat, red, and streaked with orange? Did
Kennedy and his knights fear the Night Devils? No, of course not -- Jonah told
me that Night Devils came after the Armageddon. What devils _did_ they fear,
then?
"Do you really believe it, Jackie?" I ask as we walk away from the
cave.
"Enough of it."
"Enough for what?"
"Enough to know there was something better than this."
"But this is all we have."
"That's why we need the story," she says.
Something rustles past us in the dark, and she takes my hand. "You told
it very well," she whispers.
Her hand is still so small. She was born without all her fingers, but I
don't care.
"Will you tell it again sometime?" she asks.
I squeeze her hand and wonder why the twisting in my stomach is worse.
"Sure." I guess it can't hurt to tell the story again.

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