"Colin Wilson - The Glass Cage" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Colin)

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 For
Jonathan and Sue Guinness

and to the memory of
John Cowper Powys




PART I

It had been bright and clear as he left Keswick; but as he crossed the Styhead Pass two hours
later, the air smelled of rain. Five miles away, the cold expanse of Wastwater looked like a sheet of
metal. The rain clouds had covered the top of Scafell, but the snowline still showed below them. He sat
down on a granite boulder, allowing the paratroop rucksack to rest against the slope of the hill behind it.
The skin of his back exhaled warm moisture. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned, feeling
the pleasant ripple of energy along the shoulder muscles. If it had not been for the threat of rain, he would
have removed the rucksack and slept for half an hour, lulled by the sound of the wind and the cries of
sheep on the side of Green Gable. In this place, looking north toward Skiddaw and south to the lowlands
and the Irish sea, he always experienced an active sense of the benevolence of nature, a desire to
become a rock pushing its shoulders into the hills.
The first drops of rain blew against his face. He stood up reluctantly and readjusted the pack. It
contained groceries and a heavy volume called A Treatise on Cosmic Fire, bought in Keswick for one
and sixpence.
A mile above Wasdale Head, he struck off the footpath over the slopes of Lingmell, his head
now bowed into the fine rain. He crossed a stream, removing his shoes and socks and walking with care
on the sharp stones. The water was icy; although it was only six inches deep in the middle, he felt the pain
biting into the calves of his legs, making him swear aloud. Sitting on the opposite bank and pulling on his
shoes, he became aware of someone watching him from a few feet away. A youth with a dark gypsy's
face was grinning at him; the smile was as mirthless as the baring of a dog's fangs.
"Morning, Jeff."
The youth said, "Cold?"
"Frozen. I must put the stones back sometime."
There had been stepping stones across the stream, but it became a torrent every winter and
carried them away.
He stood up, asking, "How's the wife?"
"She's dead. Last night."
"Oh? I'm sorry."
The youth shrugged. He evidently felt that no further explanation was necessary. Pointing to the
stream, he said, "Give me a call. I'll help you."
"Thank you."
As he walked on across the hill, the youth called, "Someone after you."
He turned. "Where?"
"In the post office an hour ago."