"K. D. Wentworth - Tall One" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wentworth K D)

The others surged forward then and enclosed him in a warm press of lithe bodies,
staring expectantly up at his face. He shifted his weight uncomfortably.

"Tall one comes back," a khe whistled softly, "from under rocks." He flinched.
They were confusing him with Father Gareth, who had often come out in the night
like this. "No," he answered, then squatted down, even though the touch of their
satiny hides made him want to run. The breath shuddered in and out of his lungs
as he set the cold-lantern on the ground. "But once many suns ago in this one's
place--" He hesitated, trying to frame the familiar old story in the khe's
restrictive present tense grammar. "Once one dies and comes back after three
suns."

A khe gripped his leg, lightly, almost like a caress. "Tall one?"

"A tall one." He tried to meet the bottomless green eyes without looking away.
"One comes and speaks of--" This was the point at which he always failed. He
knew the kheish word for physical joining for the purpose of procreation, but
had never found any word to express love or reverence. "Speaks of liking for
parent, for sibling, for offspring." He hesitated, watching their attentive
ebony faces. "One has a sound for this liking?"

The khe were statues focused on the light.

"One has this same liking for these, for all tall ones." He touched his chest,
feeling the pounding of his heart within. Was he finally going to make them
understand? "The one who comes back has this liking for all khe too."

"Where is this one?" The khe, still holding his leg, cocked its head. Johannes's
chest ached. "Outside."

"Where?" The khe's digits tightened until its claws pierced the coarse fabric of
his cassock.

"Outside sky, mountains, outside -- everything," he faltered.

The khe released him. Its eyes narrowed, baffled, unbelieving. Johannes sighed
and picked up the lantern. They surged around him, snuffling, whining in the
backs of their throats, plucking at the lantern with anxious digits.

"Light!" they whistled softly, then louder, more boldly. "Light-thatmoves!"

His skin crawling, Johannes shoved past them, tripping over their legs, bouncing
off smooth sides, and fled back to the rectory, slamming the door behind him and
throwing the bolt.
Late into the night, as he hunched on his cot in the dark and stared at the
invisible ceiling, he heard the whisper of bodies against the door, the skritch
of claws on the roof.

They were still there when he emerged the next morning, twenty or more, arrayed