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

were transformed into something soft-edged and oddly beautiful. I was amazed at how simple it was for
nature to cloak corruption in the garb of purity and make it peaceful.

But it would not be peaceful for long, and Sam said so. "There are troops behind me as we speak.
Word came by wire from New York not to let Julian escape. We can't linger here more than a moment."

"Where will we go?" Julian asked.

"It's impossible to ride much farther east. There's no forage for the animals and precious little water.
Sooner or later we'll have to turn south and make a connection with the railroad or the turnpike. It's going
to be short rations and hard riding for a while, I'm afraid, and if we do make good our escape we'll have
to assume new identities. We'll be little better than draft dodgers or labor refugees, and I expect we'll
have to pass some time among that hard crew, at least until we reach New York City. We can find
friends in New York."

It was a plan, but it was a large and lonesome one, and my heart sank at the prospect.

"We have a prisoner," Julian told his mentor, and he took Sam back into the excavated ruins to
explain how we had spent the night.

The Reservist was there, hands tied behind his back, a little groggy from the punishment I had inflicted
on him but well enough to open his eyes and scowl. Julian and Sam spent a little time debating how to
deal with this encumbrance. We could not, of course, take him with us; the question was how to return
him to his superiors without endangering ourselves unnecessarily.

It was a debate to which I could contribute nothing, so I took a little slip of paper from my
back-satchel, and a pencil, and wrote a letter.

It was addressed to my mother, since my father was without the art of literacy.

You will no doubt have noticed my absence, I wrote. It saddens me to be away from home,
especially at this time (I write on Christmas Day). But I hope you will be consoled with the
knowledge that I am all right, and not in any immediate danger.
(This was a lie, depending on how you define "immediate," but a kindly one, I reasoned.)

In any case I would not have been able to remain in Williams Ford, since I could not have
escaped the draft for long even if I postponed my military service for some few more months. The
conscription drive is in earnest; the War in Labrador must be going badly. It was inevitable that
we should be separated, as much as I mourn for my home and all its comforts.

(And it was all I could do not to decorate the page with a vagrant tear.)

Please accept my best wishes and my gratitude for everything you and Father have done for
me. I will write again as soon as it is practicable, which may not be immediately. Trust in the
knowledge that I will pursue my destiny faithfully and with every Christian virtue you have taught
me. God bless you in the coming and every year.

That was not enough to say, but there wasn't time for more. Julian and Sam were calling for me. I
signed my name, and added, as a postscript: