"David Zindell - Requiem of Homo Sapiens 01 - The Broken God" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zindell David)

passage, died to himself or died the real death of blood and
pain, he would die in search of life, and he thought this must
be the most halla thing a man could do.
The shivering stopped, and he found himself smiling
naturally. 'Isn't terror just the left hand of fate?' he asked.
'Will you take me through my passage tomorrow, sir?'
'No, tomorrow we shall hunt shagshay. We shall hunt, then eat
and sleep to regain our strength.'
'And then?'
Soli rubbed his nose and looked at him. 'And then, if you
are strong enough and keep your courage, you will become a
man.'
Four days later, at dusk, they strapped on their skis and
made the short journey to Winter Pock, a nearby hill where the
Devaki men held their secret ceremonies. Danlo was not allowed
to speak, so he skied behind Soli in silence.
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As he planted his poles and pushed and glided through the
snow, he listened to the sounds of the forest: the loons
warbling with bellies full of yu berries; the clicking of the
sleekits halfway out of their burrows, warning each other that
danger was near; the wind keening across the hills, up through
the great yu trees heavy with snow. It was strange the way he
could hear the wind far off before he could feel it stinging
his face. He listened for Haidar's rough voice in the wind, and
the voices of his other ancestors, too. But the wind was just
the wind; it was only the cold, clean breath of the world. He
hadn't yet entered into the dreamtime, where his mother's dying
plaints and the moaning of the wind would be as one. He smelled
sea ice and pine needles in the wind; as the light failed and
the greens and reds bled away from the trees, the whole forest
was rich with the smells of the freezing night and with life.
In silence, they climbed up the gentle slopes of Winter Pock.
The hill was treeless and barren at the top, like an old man
whose hair has fallen off the crown of his head. Set into the
snow around a large circle were wooden stakes. Each stake was
topped with the skull of a different animal. There were a
hundred different skulls: the great, tusked skull of Tuwa, the
mammoth; the skulls of Nunki and long, pointed skulls of the
snow fox and wolf; there were many, many smaller skulls, those
of the birds, Ayeye, the thallow, and Gunda and Rakri, and
Ahira, the snowy owl. Danlo had never seen such a sight in all
of his life, for the boys of the tribe were not allowed to
approach Winter Pock. In the twilight, the circle of
greyish-white skulls looked ominous and terrifying. Danlo knew
that each man, after his cutting, would look up at the skulls
to find his doffel, his other-self, the one special animal he
would never again hunt. His doffel would guide him into the
dreamtime, and later, through all the days of his life. Beyond
this bit of common knowledge, Danlo knew almost nothing of what