"Kate Wilhelm - Where Late the Sweet Birds Sang" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilhelm Kate)

tree saw the Indians in that valley, David, and the first settlers, and my great-grandfather when
he came along. ItтАЩs our friend, David. It knows all the family secrets.тАЭ
тАЬIs it still your property up here, Grandfather?тАЭ
тАЬUp to and including this tree, son. Other sideтАЩs national forest land, but this tree, itтАЩs
on our land. Yours too, David. One day youтАЩll come up here and put your hand on this tree and
youтАЩll know itтАЩs your friend, just like itтАЩs been my friend all my life. God help us all if anyone
ever lays an ax to it.тАЭ
They had gone on that day, down the other side of the knob, then up again, farther and
steeper this time until once more his grandfather paused for a few moments, his hand on DavidтАЩs
shoulder. тАЬThis is how this land looked a million years ago, David.тАЭ Time had shifted suddenly for
the boy; a million years, a hundred million, was all the same distant past, and he imagined the
tread of the giant reptiles. He imagined that he smelled the fetid breath of a tyrannosaur. It was
cool and misty under the tall trees, and below them the saplings grew, with their branches spread
horizontally, as if to catch any stray bit of sunlight that penetrated the high canopy. Where the
sun did find a path through, it was golden and soft, the sun of another time. In even deeper
shadows grew bushes and shrubs, and at the foot of it all were the mosses and lichens, liverworts
and ferns. The arching, heaving roots of the trees were clothed in velvet emerald plants.
David stumbled and, catching his balance, came to rest against the giant oak tree that was,
somehow, his friend. He pressed his cheek against the rough bark for a few moments, then he pushed
himself away and looked up through the luxuriant branches; he could see no sky through them. When
it rained, the tree would protect him from the full force of the storm, but he needed shelter from
the fine drops that would make their way through the leaves to fall quietly on the absorbent
ground.
Before he started to build a lean-to, he examined the farm through his binoculars. Behind
the house, there was a garden being tended by five people; impossible to tell if they were male or
female. Long-haired, jeans, barefoot, thin. It didn't matter. He noted that the garden was not
producing yet, that the plants were sparse and frail. He studied the east field, aware that it was
changed but not certain what was different. Then he realized that it was growing corn. Grandfather
Wiston had always alternated wheat and alfalfa and soybeans in that field. The lower fields were
flooded, and the north field was grown up in grasses and weeds. He swept the glasses slowly over
the buildings. He spotted seventeen people altogether. No child younger than eight or nine. No
sign of Celia, nor of any recent use of the road, which was also grown up with weeds. No doubt the
people down there were just as happy to let the road hide under weeds.
He built a lean-to against the oak, where he could lie down and observe the farm. He used
fir branches to roof the shelter, and when the storm came half an hour later he stayed dry.
Rivulets ran among the garden rows below, and the farmyard turned silver and sparkly from this
distance, although he knew that closer it would simply be muddy water inches deep. The ground was
too saturated in the valley to absorb any more water. It would have to run off into Crooked Creek,
which was inching higher and higher toward the north field and the vulnerable corn there.
By the third day the water had started to invade the cornfield, and he pitied the people who
stood and watched helplessly. The garden was still being tended, but it would be a meager harvest.
By now he had counted twenty-two people; he thought that was all of them. During the storm that
lashed the valley that afternoon, he heard Mike whinny and he crawled from the lean-to and stood
up. Mike, down the slope of the knob, wouldnтАЩt mind the rain too much, and he was protected from
the wind. Still, he whinnied again, and then again. Cautiously, holding his shotgun in one hand,
shielding his eyes from the lashing rain with the other, David edged around the tree. A figure
stumbled up the knob haltingly, head bowed, stopping often, then moving on again, not looking up,
probably blinded by the rain. Suddenly David threw the shotgun under the lean-to and ran to meet
her. тАЬCelia!тАЭ he cried. тАЬCelia!тАЭ
She stopped and raised her head. The rain ran over her cheeks and plastered her hair to her