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

All Ben Kreel's lectures on patriotism and fidelity came back to me in one great flood of guilt and shame.
Had I been a party to treason as well as atheism?

But I felt I owed this last favor to Julian, who would surely have wanted me to deliver his intelligence
whether Sam was a Jew or a Mohammedan: "There are soldiers on all the roads out of town," I said
sullenly. "Julian went for Lundsford last night. He says he'll meet you there. Now get off of me!"

Sam did so, sitting back on his heels, deep anxiety inscribed upon his face. "Has it begun so soon? I
thought they would wait for the New Year."

"I don't know what has begun. I don't think I know anything at all!" And, so saying, I leapt to my feet
and ran out of the lifeless garden, back to Rapture, who was still tied to the tree where I had left him,
nosing unproductively in the undisturbed snow.

***

I had ridden perhaps an eighth of a mile back toward Williams Ford when another rider came up on
my right flank from behind. It was Ben Kreel himself, and he touched his cap and smiled and said, "Do
you mind if I ride along with you a ways, Adam Hazzard?"

I could hardly say no.

Ben Kreel was not a pastorтАФwe had plenty of those in Williams Ford, each catering to his own
denominationтАФbut he was the head of the local Council of the Dominion of Jesus Christ on Earth, almost
as powerful in his way as the men who owned the Estate. And if he was not a pastor, he was at least a
sort of shepherd to the townspeople. He had been born right here in Williams Ford, son of a saddler; had
been educated, at the Estate's expense, at one of the Dominion Colleges in Colorado Springs; and for the
last twenty years he had taught elementary school five days a week and General Christianity on Sundays.
I had marked my first letters on a slate board under Ben Kreel's tutelage. Every Independence Day he
addressed the townsfolk and reminded them of the symbolism and significance of the Thirteen Stripes
and the Sixty Stars; every Christmas, he led the Ecumenical Services at the Dominion Hall.

He was stout and graying at the temples, clean-shaven. He wore a woolen jacket, tall deer hide
boots, and a pakool hat not much grander than my own. But he carried himself with an immense dignity,
as much in the saddle as on foot. The expression on his face was kindly. It was always kindly. "You're
out early, Adam Hazzard," he said. "What are you doing abroad at this hour?"

"Nothing," I said, and blushed. Is there any other word that so spectacularly represents everything it
wants to deny? Under the circumstances, "nothing" amounted to a confession of bad intent. "Couldn't
sleep," I added hastily. "Thought I might shoot a squirrel or so." That would explain the rifle strapped to
my saddle, and it was at least remotely plausible; the squirrels were still active, doing the last of their
scrounging before settling in for the cold months.

"On Christmas Eve?" Ben Kreel asked. "And in the copse on the grounds of the Estate? I hope the
Duncans and Crowleys don't hear about it. They're jealous of their trees. And I'm sure gunfire would
disturb them at this hour. Wealthy men and Easterners prefer to sleep past dawn, as a rule."

"I didn't fire," I muttered. "I thought better of it."

"Well, good. Wisdom prevails. You're headed back to town, I gather?"