"Chris Roberson - Wishes" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberson Chris)

Wishes
by Chris Roberson

A man wandered into town, back in the dust days (because thatтАЩs how people remembered them, those
who lived long enough into the next century of interstate highways and high flying aeroplanes; in those
times, back before there had always seemed to be dust everywhere, along the beaten dirt tracks, in the
open fields, down under the first bones of the county courthouse, everywhere dust). The town was called
Eden, then, though everyone knew that wouldnтАЩt last; there was another Eden, theyтАЩd been told, with a
post office of its own, and the State of Texas could not abide two Edens.

The man came into town from the west, down out of the hills, on foot, alone and without horse or wagon.
It was not unheard of to travel thus, even in those days, though to be honest it was common only among
madmen and would-be prophets. The plains to the west, beyond the hills, were vast, and barren, and a
man afoot could travel weeks, months, without once seeing another soul, even in those days. So the
people of the town, of Eden, took him for a madman, or a prophet, and were eager to see the back of
him.

The man, though, showed no immediate signs of lunacy, nor did he speak of divine inspiration. He asked
only for a bit to eat, and perhaps a place to sleep out of the rain. The people of the town looked at him,
threadbare and ragged, and asked what he could have to give them in return. He had only the clothes on
his back, a battered old hat, a small satchel he wore slung over his shoulder, and a staff for walking. He
didnтАЩt look the type to keep riches secreted on his person, and food and shelter from the rain did not
come cheap, even in those days.

When the people asked him what he had to give, he replied simply: I have wishes to share. Now the
people, who already suspected him a lunatic or a visionary, took this as an ill sign. So, they asked him,
you are a fairy, or some good witch that you can grant wishes? The man shook his head, and smiled. No,
he told them, I have only wishes, no miracles.

Now the people of the town were divided, one half against the other, on just what sort of undesirable the
man was. And no one offered him food, or shelter. The man seemed not to mind and sat himself on the
dusty ground at the townтАЩs center where he took from his satchel a bone flute that he began to play,
quietly, as though to himself. The people stepped around him then, acting as though he didnтАЩt exist, and
hoped in soft whispers that the sheriff would return from his errand out of town and drive the man away.

The morning passed to afternoon, and still the man sat, and still he played. The afternoon was aging
towards evening when the blacksmith, with his young wife, returned from a visit to her cousins in the
north of the county. The blacksmith had been born a Slav (and while his family claimed to Gypsy blood,
there was no proof of it), and was a good man, and would have been a better blacksmith had he the
strength in his arms. As it was, he was a fair smith, and that was as much as the town needed (and the
town needed a smith, as all towns did, even in those days).

Passing through the townтАЩs center with his wife, he heard the man playing his bone flute, and stopped to
ask a neighbor who the man was. A lunatic, the neighbor answered, come out of the west. No, another
replied, walking by, a prophet full of snake venom and nonsense from over the hills.

What does he want, the blacksmith asked. Food, the others answered, and a place to bed. Now, the
blacksmith remembered his first night in his new country, poor and bone weary from his deck passage
across the wide water. And he remembered the family that had given him bread, and a few coins for a
place to stay. So he left his wife in the wagon, and walked to where the man sat and played.