"Kim Stanley Robinson - The Years Of Rice And Salt" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Kim Stanley)

around the fire a dozen times, pretendeating grass and sticks, howling like a wolf, cowering under his log,
walking some more, even rowing again. Over and over he said the same things, 'Dea, dea, dea, dea,'
shouting it at the branchcrossed stars quaking over them.
Bold nodded. He knew the story. The man was moaning, with a low growl like an animal, cutting at the
ground with a stick. His eyes were as red as any wolf's in the light. Bold ate more of the rabbit, then
offered the stick to the man, who snatched it and ate hungrily. They sat there and looked at the fire. Bold
felt both companionable and alone. He eyed the other man, who had eaten both his fish, and was now
nodding off. The man jerked up, muttered something, lay down, curled around the fire, fell asleep.
Uneasily Bold stoked the fire, took the other side of it, and tried to do the same. When he woke the fire
had died and the man was gone. It was a cold dawn, dewdrenched, and the trail of the man led down the
meadow to a big bend in a stream, where it disappeared. There was no sign of where the man had gone
from there.

Days passed, and Bold continued south. Many watches went by in which he didn't think a thing, only
scanning the land for food and the sky for weather, humming a word or two over and over. Awake to
emptiness. One day he came on a village surrounding a spring,

Old temples scattered throughout,

Broken round columns pointing at the sky. All in the midst of a vast silence. What made these gods so
angry

With their people? What might they make Of a solitary soul wandering by After the world has ended?
White marble drums fallen this way and that: One bird cheeps in the empty air.

He did not care to test anything by trespassing, and so circled the temples, chanting 'Orn mane padme
hum, om mane padme hummmm', aware suddenly that he often spoke aloud to himself now, or hummed,
without ever noticing it, as if ignoring an old companion who always said the same things.

He continued south and east, though he had forgotten why. He scrounged roadside buildings for dried
food. He walked on the empty roads. It was an old land. Gnarled olive trees, black and heavy with their
inedible fruit, mocked him. No person ate entirely by his own efforts, no one. He got hungrier, and food
became his only focus, every day. He passed more marble ruins, foraged in the farmhouses he passed.
Once he came on a big clay jar of olive oil, and stayed there four days to drink it all down. Then game
became more abundant. He saw the vixen more than once. Good shots with his ridiculous bow kept him
away from hunger. He made his fires larger every night, and once or twice wondered what had become
of the man he had met. Had meeting Bold made him realize he would be alone no matter what happened
or whom he found, so that he had killed himself to rejoin his jati? Or perhaps just slipped while drinking?
Or walked in the stream to keep Bold from tracking him? There was no way of telling, but the encounter
kept coming back to Bold, especially the clarity with which he had been able to understand the man.

The valleys ran south and east. He felt the shape of his travels in his mind, and found he could not
remember enough of the last few weeks to be sure of his location, relative to the Moravian Gate, or the
khanate of the Golden Horde. From the Black Sea they had ridden west about ten days' ride, hadn't
they? It was like trying to remember things from a previous life.

It seemed possible, however, that he was nearing the Byzantine empire, coming towards Constantinople
from the north and west. Sitting slumped before his nightly bonfire, he wondered if Constantinople would
be dead too. He wondered if Mongolia was dead, if perhaps everyone in the world was dead. The wind
soughed through the shrubs like ghosts' voices, and he fell into an uneasy sleep, waking through the