"Robert Charles Wilson - Julian- A Christmas Story" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Robert Charles)

"That's where you're wrong," Julian said. "You must not make the mistake of thinking that because
nothing lasts, nothing matters."

"Isn't that the philosopher's point of view?"

"Not if the philosopher knows what he's talking about." Julian reined up his horse and turned to face
me, something of the imperiousness of his famous family entering into his mien. "Listen, Adam, there is
something important you can do for meтАФat some personal risk. Are you willing?"

"Yes," I said immediately.

"Then listen closely. Before long the Reserves will be watching the roads out of Williams Ford, if they
aren't already. I have to leave, and I have to leave tonight. I won't be missed until morning, and then, at
least at first, only by Sam. What I want you to do is this: go homeтАФyour parents will be worried about
the conscription, and you can try to calm them downтАФbut don't allude to any of what happened
tonightтАФand first thing in the morning, make your way as inconspicuously as possible into the Estate and
find Sam. Tell him what happened at the Church Hall, and tell him to ride out of town as soon as he can
do so without being caught. Tell him he can find me at Lundsford. That's the message."

"Lundsford? There's nothing at Lundsford."

"Precisely: nothing important enough that the Reserves would think to look for us there. You
remember what the Tipman said in the fall, about the place he found those books? A low place near the
main excavations. Sam can look for me there."

"I'll tell him," I promised, blinking against the cold wind, which irritated my eyes.

"Thank you, Adam," he said gravely. "For everything." Then he forced a smile, and for a moment was
just Julian, the friend with whom I had hunted squirrels and spun tales: "Merry Christmas," he said.
"Happy New Year!"

And wheeled his horse about, and rode away.


5
There is a Dominion cemetery in Williams Ford, and I passed it on the ride back homeтАФcarved
stones sepulchral in the moonlightтАФbut my sister Flaxie was not buried there.

As I have said, the Church of Signs was tolerated but not endorsed by the Dominion. We were not
entitled to plots in the Dominion yard. Flaxie had a place in the acreage behind our cottage, marked by a
modest wooden cross, but the cemetery put me in mind of Flaxie nonetheless, and after I returned the
horse to the barn I stopped by Flaxie's grave (despite the shivery cold) and tipped my hat to her, the way
I had always tipped my hat to her in life.

Flaxie had been a bright, impudent, mischievous small thingтАФas golden-haired as her nickname
implied. (Her given name was Dolores, but she was always Flaxie to me.) The Pox had taken her quite
suddenly and, as these things go, mercifully. I didn't remember her death; I had been down with the same
Pox, though I had survived it. What I remembered was waking up from my fever into a house gone
strangely quiet. No one had wanted to tell me about Flaxie, but I had seen my mother's tormented eyes,
and I knew the truth without having to be told. Death had played lottery with us, and Flaxie had drawn