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

under close watch, but Sam could not slip away as inconspicuously as I had, and if Julian's absence had
been noted there would have been a redoubling of the guard, and perhaps an expedition sent out to hunt
us. The man who had captured Julian was evidently an outrider, assigned to patrol the roads for
runaways, and he had been diligent in his work.

He was somewhat less diligent now that he had us in his control, however, for he took a wooden pipe
from his pocket, and proceeded to fill it, as he made himself as comfortable as possible on a wooden
crate. His gestures were still nervous, and I supposed the pipe was meant to relax him; for it was not
tobacco he put into it.

The Reservist might have been a Kentuckian, for I understand the less respectable people of that
State often form the habit of smoking the silk of the female hemp plant, which is cultivated prodigiously
there. Kentucky hemp is grown for cordage and cloth and paper, and as a drug is less intoxicating than
the Indian Hemp of lore; but its mild smoke is said to be pleasant for those who indulge in it, though too
much can result in sleepiness and great thirst.

Julian evidently thought these symptoms would be welcome distractions in our captor, and he
gestured to me to remain silent, so as not to interrupt the Reservist in his vice. The Reservist packed the
pipe's bowl with dried vegetable matter from an oilcloth envelope he carried in his pocket, and soon the
substance was alight, and a slightly more fragrant smoke joined the effluvia of the camp-fire as it swirled
toward the rent in the ceiling.
Clearly the night would be a long one, and I tried to be patient in my captivity, and not think too much
of Christmas matters, or the yellow light of my parents' cottage on dark winter mornings, or the soft bed
where I might have been sleeping if I had not been rash in my deliberations.


7
I began by saying this was a story about Julian Comstock, and I fear I lied, for it has turned out mainly
to be a story about myself.

But there is a reason for this, beyond the obvious temptations of vanity and self-regard. I did not at
the time know Julian nearly as well as I thought I did.

Our friendship was essentially a boys' friendship. I could not help reviewing, as we sat in silent
captivity in the ruins of Lundsford, the things we had done together: reading books, hunting in the
wooded foothills west of Williams Ford, arguing amiably over everything from Philosophy and
Moon-Visiting to the best way to bait a hook or cinch a bridle. It had been too easy, during our time
together, to forget that Julian was an aristo with close connections to men of power, or that his father had
been famous both as a hero and as a traitor, or that his uncle Deklan Comstock, the President, might not
have Julian's best interests at heart.

All that seemed far away, and distant from the nature of Julian's true spirit, which was gentle and
inquisitiveтАФa naturalist's disposition, not a politician's or a general's. When I pictured Julian as an adult, I
imagined him contentedly pursuing some scholarly or artistic adventure: digging the bones of
pre-Noachian monsters out of the Athabaska shale, perhaps, or making an improved kind of movie. He
was not a warlike person, and the thoughts of the great men of the day seemed almost exclusively
concerned with war.

So I had let myself forget that he was also everything he had been before he came to Williams Ford.
He was the heir of a brave, determined, and ultimately betrayed father, who had conquered an army of