"Jack Vance - The Last Castle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vance Jack)

blow or two obeyed. Xanten climbed into the seat, started the
power-wagon, directed it to the north. The Birds would be
unable to carry both himself and the Mekor in any event
they would cry and complain so raucously that they might as
well be believed at first. They might or might not wait until
the specified hour of tomorrow's sunset. As likely as not they
would sleep the night in a tree, awake in a surly mood and
return at once to Castle Hagedorn.
All through the night the power-wagon trundled, with
Xanten on the seat and his captive huddled in the rear.

v
The gentlefolk of the castles, for all their assurance, dis-
liked to wander the countryside by night, by reason of what
some derided as superstitious fear. Others cited travelers
benighted beside mouldering ruins and their subsequent vi-
sions: the eldritch music they had heard, or the whimper of
moon-mirkins, or the far horns of spectral huntsmen. Others
had seen pale lavender and green lights, and wraiths which
ran with long strides through the forest; and Hode Abbey,
now a dank tumble, was notorious for the White Hag and the
alarming toll she exacted.
A hundred such cases were known. While the hard-headed
scoffed, none needlessly traveled the countryside by night.
Indeed, if truly ghosts haunt the scenes of tragedy and
heartbreak, then the landscape of Old Earth must be home to
ghosts and specters beyond all numbering; especially that
region across which Xanten rolled to the power-wagon, where
every rock, every meadow, eyery vale and swale was crusted
thick with human experience.
The moon rose high. The wagon trundled north along an
ancient road, the cracked concrete slabs shining pale in the
moonlight. Twice Xanten saw flickering orange lights off to
the side, and once, standing in the shade of a cypress tree, he
thought to see a tall quiet shape, silently watching him pass.
The captive Mek sat plotting mischief, Xanten well knew.
Without its quills it must feel depersonified, bewildered, but
Xanten told himself that it would not do to doze.
The road led through a town, certain structures of which
yet stood. Not even the Nomads took refuge in these old
towns, fearing either miasma or perhaps the redolence of
grief.
The moon reached the zenith. The landscape spread away
in a hundred tones of silver, black and gray. Looking about,
Xanten thought that for all the notable pleasures of civilized
life, there was yet something to be said for the spaciousness
and simplicity of Nomadland. . . The Mek made a stealthy
movement. Xanten did not so much as turn his head. He
cracked his whip in the air. The Mek became quiet.
All through the night the power-wagon rolled along the old