"Anthony Piers - Sos the Rope" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anthony Piers)

Late in the afternoon, it rained. Sos dug one of the cups out of the ground, knocked out the caked dirt and held it up to trap the water. He was thirsty, and the snow was farther away than he had expected. Stupid sat hunched on his shoulder, hating the drenching; Sos finally propped up a flap of the pack to shield the little bird.
But in the evening there were more insects abroad, as though the soaking had forced them out, and that was good. He applied repellant against the mosquitoes while Stupid zoomed vigorously, making up for lean times.
Sos had kept his mind on his task, but now that the mountain had lost its novelty his thoughts returned to the most emotional episodes of his life. He remembered the first meeting with Sol, both of them comparatively new to the circle, still exploring the world and feeling their way cautiously in protocol and battle. Evidently Sol had tried all his weapons out in sport encounters until sure of himself; then, with their evening's discussion, that first night, Sol had seen the possible mechanisms of advancement. Play had stopped for them both, that day and night, and already their feet had been treading out the destinies leading to power for the one, and for the other-the mountain.
He remembered Sola, then an innocent girl, lovely and anxious to prove herself by the bracelet. She had proven herself-but not by the bracelet she wore. That, more than anything else, had led him here.
Strange, that the three should meet like that. Had it been just the two men, the empire might even now be uniting them. Had the girl appeared before or after, he might have taken her for a night and gone on, never missing her. But it had been a triple union, and the male empire had been sown with the female seed of destruction even as it sprouted. It was not the particular girl who mattered, but the presence at the inception. Why had she come then!
He closed his eyes and saw the staff, blindingly swift, blocking him, striking him, meeting him everywhere he turned, no instrument of defense but savage offense; the length of it across his body, the end of it flying at his face, fouling his rope, outmaneuvering him, beating down his offense and his defense....
And now the mountain, the only honorable alternative. He had lost to the better man.
He slept, knowing that even victory would not have been the solution. Hehad been in the wrong not totally, but wrong on balance.
On the third day the snows began. He wrapped the last of the protective clothing around him and kept moving. Stupid clung to him, seemingly not too uncomfortable. Sos scooped up handfuls of the white powder and crammed them into his mouth for water, though the stuff numbed his cheeks and tongue and melted grudgingly down into almost nothing. By nightfall he was ploughing through drifts several inches deep and had to step carefully to avoid treacherous pitfalls that did not show in the leveled surface.
There was no shelter. He lay on his side, facing away from the wind, comfortable enough in the protective wrappings. Stupid settled down beside his face, shivering, and suddenly he realized that the bird had no way to forage anymore. Not in the snow. There would be no living insects here.
He dug a handful of bread out of the pack and held a crumb to Stupid's beak; but there was no response. "You'll starve," he said with concern, but did not know what to do about it. He saw the feathers shaking, and finally took off his left glove, cupped the bird in his bare warm palm, and held his gloved right hand to the back of the exposed one. He would have to make sure he didn't roll or move his hands while sleeping, or he would crush the fragile body.
He woke several times in the night as gusts of cold snow slapped his face and pried into his collar, but his left hand never moved. He felt the bird shivering from time to time and cupped it close' to his chest, hoping for a suitable compromise between warmth and safety. He had too much strength and Stupid was too small; better to allow some shivering than to....
Stupid seemed all right in the morning, but Sos knew this could not last. The bird was not adapted to snow; even his coloration was wrong. "Go back down," he urged. "Down. Where it is warm.- Insects." He threw the tiny body into the air, downhill, but to no avail; Stupid spread his wings and struggled valiantly with the cold, harsh air, uphill, and would not leave.
Yet, Sos asked himself as he took the bird in hand again and continued climbing, was this misplaced loyalty any more foolish than Sol's determination to retain a daughter he had not sired? A daughter? Or Sos's own adherence to a code of honor already severely violated? Men were irrational creatures; why not birds too? If separation were so difficult, they would die together.
A storm came up that fourth day. Sos drove onward, his face mImbed in the slashing wind. He had goggles, tinted to protect his eyes, and he put them on now, but the nose and mouth were still exposed. When he put his hand up he discovered a beard of ice superimposed upon his natural one. He tried to knock it off, but knew it would form again.
Stupid flew up as he stumbled and waved his hands. Sos guided the bird to his shoulder, where at least there was some stability. Another slip like that and the bird would be smashed, if he continued to carry it in his hand.
The wind stabbed into his clothing. Earlier he had been sweating, finding the wrappings cumbersome; now the moisture seemed to be caking into ice against his body. That had been a mistake; he should have governed his dress and pace so that he never perspired. There was nowhere for the moisture to go, so of course it eventually froze. He had learned this lesson too late.
This, then, was the death of the mountain. Freezing in the blizzardly upper regions or falling into some concealed crevasse. . . he had been watching the lay of the land, but already he had slipped and fallen several times, and only luck had made his errors harmless. The cold crept in through his garments, draining his visibility, and the eventual result was clear. No person had ever returned from the mountain, if the stories were true, and no bodies had ever been discovered or recovered. No wonder!
Yet this was not the kind of mountain he had heard about elsewhere. After the metal jumble near the base- how many days ago?-there had been no extreme irregularities, no jagged edges, sheer cliffs or preposterous ice bridges. He had seen no alternate ranges or major passes when the sky was clear. The side of this mountain tilted up fairly steadily, fairly safely, like that of an inverted bowl. Only the cold presented a genuine hazard.
Surely there was no impediment to those who elected to descend again. Not all, or even most, but some must have given it up and returned to the foot, either choosing a less strenuous way to die or deciding to live after all. He could still turn about himself.
He picked the quiet bird from his shoulder, disengaging the claws with difficulty. "How about it, Stupid? Have had enough?"
There was no response. The little body was stiff.
He brought it close to his face, not wanting to believe. He spread one wing gently with his fingers, but it was rigid. Stupid had died rather than desert his companion and Sos had not even known the moment of his passing
True friendship....
He laid the feathered corpse upon the snow and covered it over, a lump in his throat. "I'm sorry, little friend," he said. "I guess a man takes more dying than a bird." Nothing utterable came to mind beyond that, inadequate as was.
He faced up the mountain and tramped ahead.
The world was a bleak place now. He had taken the bird pretty much for granted, but the sudden, silent loss was staggering. Now there was nothing he could do, but through with it. He had killed a faithful friend, and there was a raw place, in his breast that would not ease.
Yet it was not the first time his folly had damaged another. All Sol had asked was friendship and, rather than grant him that, Sos had forced him into the circle. What had been so damned urgent about his own definition honor? Why had he resisted Sol's ultimate offer with such determination? Was it because he had used a limited concept of honor to promote his own selfish objectives ruthlessly, no matter who else was sacrificed? And, failing these, bringing further pain by wiping out whatever else might have been salvaged?
He thought again of Stupid, so recently dead upon his shoulder, and had his answer.
The mountain steepened. The storm intensified. Let it come! he thought; it was what he had come for. He cou no longer tell whether it was day or night. Ice rimmed his goggles, if they were still on. He wasn't sure and didn't care. Everywhere was whirling whiteness. He was panting his lungs were burning and he wasn't getting enough air the steep snowseape before him went on and on; there was no end to it.
He did not realize that he had fallen until he choked on the snow. He tried to stand up, but his limbs did not respond properly. "Come on!" he heard Sola calling him, and he listened though he knew it for illusion. He did go on, but more securely: on hands and knees.
Then he was crawling on his belly, numb everywhere except for the heartache.
At last the pleasant lassitude obliterated even that.


CHAPTER FIFTEEN


"Up muscles. It's better if you walk around, get the system functioning again and all that."
Sos recovered unwillingly. He tried to open his eyes, but the darkness remained.
"Uh-uh! Leave that bandage alone. Even if you aren't snowblind, you're frostbit. Here, take my hand." A firm man's hand thrust itself against his arm.
"Did I die?" Sos asked, bracing against the proffered palm as he stood.
"Yes. In a manner of speaking. You will never be seen on the surface again."
"And-Stupid?"
"What?"
"My bird, Stupid. Did he come here too?"
The man paused. "Either there's a misunderstanding, you are insolent as hell."
Sos constricted his fingers on the man's arm, bringing a exclamation of pain. He caught at the bandage on his head with his free hand and ripped it off. There was brigit pain as packed gauze came away from his eyeballs, but he could see again.
He was in a hostel room, standing before a standar bunk surrounded by unstandard equipment. He wore his pantaloons but nothing else. A thin man in an effeminat white smock winced with the continuing pressure of his grip. Sos released him, looking for the exit.
Not a hostel room, for this room was square. The standard furnishings had given him the impression. He had never seen a cabin this-shape, however.