"Patrick Welch - Rock of Wages" - читать интересную книгу автора (Welch Patrick)

Rock of Wages
by Patrick Welch

Mr. Welch says of himself...
I published in Riverside Quarterly and Analog while pursuing my MA at Bowling Green State University. Quit
writing short fiction to concentrate on writing advertising and articles for local publications until about a year
ago. Have had fiction accepted by Knightmares Magazine, Dazzler's Digital Domain and Virtual Press. Plus the
mandatory novel or two bouncing around publishers.

It was the noise that attracted me. A thunderous rolling sound followed by a crash. A stream
of curses and grunts. A scuffle of feet, more grunts, loose falling stone and then the
thunderous rolling sound again.
I stopped my wagon at the side of the steep hill. The last few days had been extremely
unprofitable, my recent stay in the village of Imogen a complete loss. The townsfolk had
expressed no interest in my elixirs, curiosities, mechanisms or other, even more exotic
wares. It would seem prudent to avoid the hill and whatever waited on the far side. Instead I
dutifully lowered the canopy proclaiming "Dr. Forturo's Traveling Emporium Of
Miscellaneous Marvels" and donned my work clothes: a tall silk hat, patchwork jacket and
gold-encrusted trousers. Literally tooting my own horn, I urged my team forward.

I rounded the hill as another crash erupted. The cause: a large, round boulder - at least three
times the size of my wagon - which had rolled into a strand of trees lining the main road. I
stopped playing my trumpet and watched as an equally huge man, stringing a steady stream
of curses, manhandled the boulder out of the grove and back towards the imposing hill.
Positioning the stone on a well-worn plot of grass and dirt, he bent down, leaned a great
shoulder into the boulder and began to push. He managed to advance it five or six feet up
the steep grade before his sandaled feet began to lose traction on the gravel. He continued
to struggle thus for another five minutes; then he lost his balance entirely and the boulder
bounded inexorably down the hill and into the severely abused woods below.

The man was wiping away dirt and gravel from his hands and tunic as I urged my wagon
forward. "What ho, friend?" I greeted him. "So how are we faring this most lovely and
propitious day?"
The man/mountain favored me with a glare. "None too well, me thinks," he responded in a
surprisingly soft, lilting voice.
"Why, may I ask, do you persist in your labors upon yon boulder?"

He sighed. "The curse of the gods. I must spend my days trying to roll that stone onto the
crest of this mighty hill. Only when I have completed my task will they lift the enchantment. It is
a burden I fear I shall never discharge."
"My friend, I do believe that this day shall turn out most fortuitous for you. I just might
possess, among the many wonders within my coach, an item that will make your onus less
onerous."
He frowned and studied me. "I am charged to accept no assistance. And you do not appear
to possess the strength necessary to help me."

"Not strength, my mountainous friend." I went to the back of my wagon, opened the door and
wrestled a trunk to the ground. "Knowledge is quite another matter." I opened the lid and
made a show of rummaging through its contents. "Here we are." I stood and brandished a
pair of wooden clogs. "These should assist you greatly."