"Robert F. Young - The First Sweet Sleep of Night" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

Dr. Hanley finished his coffee and stood up. "I don't want to keep you away from your notes," he
said. "Don't split any infinitives now." He walked out into the wind, his shoulders held straight.
She sat there furious for some time. Then she started back to her tent. The wind was a sweet river of
air flowing in over the sea. It rushed round her warm and cool, tugging at her bobbed hair, trying vainly to
send it swirling about her face and neck. She paused before the mess tent, breathing deeply. There was
another scent blended with the salt-scent of the seaтАФthe musky perfume of the Flower Islands. Millicent
had breathed it only once before, but she had never forgotten it.
It seemed to pervade her entire body, and for a moment she felt vertiginous. The wind flattened her
slacks against her thighs, flapped her jacket wildly. Below, on the shore of the cove, she could see the
lights of the village, and she heard the new sound of surf on sand.
She walked slowly toward her tent. Dr. Hanley's tent was in darkness and he was nowhere to be
seen. She guessed that he was probably visiting the village again, for in his own way he was as concerned
with the culture problem as she was.
She switched on her tent light and tied the flaps. Undaunted, the wind slipped beneath the canvas
walls and filled the interior with its heady scent. She got her journal out of the locker, sat down at the
table, and riffled through the pages. An entry caught her eye:

In typical matrilineal societies, once the male is forced into marriage he is under the dual
obligation of both his bride's susu and his mother's susu. He must provide for both households but
he is not permitted to live in either, that of his mother having cast him out because be deserted it
for another, and that of his bride having cast him out because the bride's mother is so fiercely
possessive that she cannot endure giving him even enough floor space upon which to sleep. There
are incidents, in societies of this sort, of males committing suicide because of their rejection by
their communities ...

Was it possible, Millicent wondered, for the males of a pure susu to be driven to commit mass
suicide? She shook her head. No, it wasn't likely. Not without some other influencing factorтАФsome
circumstance of environment, of climate or topography.
The rushing sound of the wind was mesmerizing. She sat there listening to it, the entry blurring before
her eyes. Presently she heard the distant murmur of voices, of voices raised in lilting song. She untied the
flap and peered out. The hills were awash with pale starlight. The native village seemed to be spreading;
flickering lights were everywhere, expanding in a widening semi-circle into the hills.
The flap slipped from her fingers and whipped wildly beside her. The fragrance of the Flower Islands
was all around her. She swayed. Everything was unreal, and yet real in a way that transcended reality,
that made ordinary reality a mockery, a progression of cold, loveless days.
I mustn't let myself go, she whispered to the wind. I mustn't!
The desperate fingers of her mind seized upon her notes and she ran back to the table, riffled her
journal to the last entry, and began to write. She wrote without thinking, and the lines emerged from her
subconscious, materializing on the page.

I arise from dreams of Thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright
 She stared at the words in horror, fighting back the hated memory that had gained a foothold in her
mind. Abruptly she got up and ran out into the night.
All around her in the hills women were carrying flaming torches. Their faces were exotic in the
reddish radiance, their lips moved in soft beckoning song. The wind sent their dark hair drifting about
their naked shoulders, made swirling mist out of their garments. Some of them wandered through the
camp, but though they looked right at her they did not see her.