"Sheri S. Tepper - Gate to Women's Country" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tepper Sherri)

GATE TO WOMEN'S COUNTRY
by Sheri S. Tepper

[24 aug 01 - scanned for #bookz]
[07 oct 01 - proofed for #bookz, by Bookleech тАУ v1.0]

STAVIA SAW HERSELF as in a picture, from the outside, a darkly cloaked figure moving along a
cobbled street, the stones shinned with a soft, early spring rain. On either side the gutters ran with an
infant chuckle and gurgle, baby streams being amused with themselves. The corniced buildings smiled
candlelit windows across at one another, their shoulders huddled protectively inward though not enough
to keep the rain from streaking the windows and making the candlelight seem the least bit weepy, a
luxurious weepiness, as after a two-hanky drama of love lost or unrequited.
As usually happened on occasions like this one, Stavia felt herself become an actor in an unfamiliar
play, uncertain of the lines or the plot, apprehensive of the ending. If there was to be an ending at all. In
the face of the surprising and unforeseen, her accustomed daily self was often thrown all at a loss and
could do nothing but stand aside upon its stage, one hand slightly extended toward the wings to cue the
entry of some other character, a Stavia more capable, more endowed with the extemporaneous force or
grace these events required. When the appropriate character entered, her daily self was left to watch from
behind the scenes, bemused by the unfamiliar intricacy of the dialogue and settings which this other, this
actor Stavia, seemed able somehow to negotiate. So, when this evening the unexpected summons had
arrived from Dawid, the daily Stavia had bowed her way backstage to leave the boards to this other
persona, this dimly cloaked figure making its way with sure and unhesitating tread past the lighted
apartments and through the fish and fruiterers markets toward Battle Gate.
Stavia the observer noted particularly the quality of the light. Dusk. Gray of cloud and shadowed
green of leaf. It was apt, this light, well done for the mood of the piece. Nostalgic. Melancholy without
being utterly depressing. A few crepuscular rays broke through the western cloud cover in long,
mysterious beams, as though they were searchlights from a celestial realm, seeking a lost angel, perhaps,
or some escaped soul from Hades trying desperately to find the road to heaven. Or perhaps they were
casting about to find a fishing boat, out there on the darkling sea, though she could not immediately think
of a reason that the heavenly ones should need a fishing boat.
Near the Well of Surcease, its carved coping gleaming with liquid runnels and its music subsumed
into the general drip and gurgle, the street began its downhill slope from the Temple of the Lady to the
ceremonial plaza and the northern city wall. At street level on the right a long row of craftswomenтАЩs shops
stared blindly at the cobbles through darkened windows: candle makers, soap makers, quilters, knitters.
On the left the park opened toward the northwest in extended vistas of green and dark, down past the
scooped bowl of the summer theater where Stavia would play the part of Iphigenia this summer. Not play,
she thought. Do the part. As someone had to do it. In the summer theater. In the park.
A skipping sea-wind brought scents of early spring flowers and pine and she stopped for a moment,
wondering what the set designer had in mind. Was this to remind her of something? All the cosiness of
candle flame and gurgling gutters leading toward this sweet sadness of green light and softly scented
mist? Too early to know, really. Perhaps it was only misdirection, though it might be intended as a
leitmotif.
The street leveled at the bottom of the hill where it entered the Warrior's Plaza, unrelenting pavement
surrounded on three sides by stories of stolid and vacant colonnades. The arched stone porches were old,
preconvulsion structures. Nothing like that was built today. Nothing so dignified, so imposing, so
unnecessary. The ceremonial space seemed far emptier than the streets behind her. The arches wept for
spectators; the polished stones of the plaza cried for marching feet, the rat-a-bam of drums, the toss of
 Plumes, and the crash of lances snapped down in the salute, ker-bam. The plaza sniffled in
abandonment, like a deserted lover.
Oh yes, the journey had been meant as a leitmotif, she could tell. The plaza made it clear.