"Anthony, Piers & Farmer, Philip Jose- The Caterpillar's Question (UC)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anthony Piers)

"Let's settle down awhile and ... paint," he said, setting aside a situation too complex to be understood at once. He set up his easel and stood facing out onto the bowl of the world.

He glanced back to see Tappy comfortable on her large rock, the book on her lap. She was smiling slightly, her face made intriguing by the dark glasses. She was really quite fetching, framed by die backdrop of sky and cloud. He toyed with the idea of painting her portrait, but decided against this. It would be best to put her out of his mind for a time.

Jack's mind meandered as he painted. Perhaps the kiss had set his attention coursing along familiar channels, or it could simply have been the mood of the mountain vista. He thought of Donna, of the good times they had had together, and would not have again. That weekend they spent last spring at the cabin on the lake ... She was marvelous, she was everything a man could ask for. And she was gone. He was trying to forget her, but it was a slow process.

Jack applied a gray edge to a distant peak, humming a half-remembered folk song. How did it go? "Up on the mountain the other day the pretty little flowers grew; never did I know till the other day what love, oh love could do!"

He paused. What subliminal connotations had brought this song to his drifting mind? He glanced again at Tappy. She was smiling and holding a goldenrod whose image showed darkly in her glasses.

His mountains were finished, at least on canvas. But his palette remained crowded with dabs and mixtures of American Vermilion, Cadmium Yellow, Ultramarine Blue, Burnt Umber, and Ivory Black. How could he casually throw away such exotic distillates? He cast about for some suitable subject for the extra.

"How about fetching me a spectacular tropical bird?" he asked

14 Piers Anthony and Philip Jose Farmer

Tappy. She cocked her glasses at him. There was a falsetto cry of some large bird in the distance.

Jack jumped, but it was only a crow. Nevertheless, he gave up the notion of painting anything more. It was time to begin the long trek down the mountain. Whatever imperative had brought Tappy here seemed to have abated. He didn't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed; he had really gotten curious about the identity of the thing on which she had oriented. Apparently it was only that large rock.

It was late afternoon by the time they made it back to die cabins, since they found descending almost as hard as ascending. Tappy was tired, and he had his arm around her slim, book-braced midsection, almost carrying her as they traversed the last few hundred yards. The painting was taking a beating. The caretaker looked up as they went by. "Ay-uh," he said.

Then it was evening, and Tappy was sitting up in bed in a flannel nightie, brushing her hair. Why had he thought it was short? It was long enough to cany a gentle wave, now that she was giving it proper attention.

Jack no longer felt awkward with her. She never made a sound, but her attitude called him friend and he was flattered. He sat in the rickety chair and tried not to think of the Judas-mission that he feared was his. That clinic ...

He had given her a little human consideration, that was all. He had talked to her and read her a story and taken her on a hike, and now she was able to smile. Had anyone at all spared her even this much kindness in the last seven years?

The shadows played across her face as she brushed, highlighting her cheeks and hiding her eyes. Burnt umber—that was the color of her hair at the moment. She was soft, she was lovely in the half-light of the cabin. Something had animated her, something she hadn't quite found on the mountain. What could it be? An imago, a transformation?

Then Tappy was kneeling before him, blind eyes staring into his face. One hand rested on his. The other hand held The Little Prince, a corner of the book covering her mouth.

Discovering that she had his attention, she lowered the book and lifted his hand to her lips.

Jack froze. Suddenly he realized what he should have seen coming: she had a crush on him.

He had to deliver her to the clinic in a hurry. God, if this ever got out—

The Caterpillar's Question

15

'Tappy," he began.

She raised her face quickly, smiling. As quickly, she stiffened, grasping his import. Her face became expressionless.

Then he saw die tear. That always gave her away.

He had been clumsy again. He had been preoccupied with his own reaction to a suddenly awkward situation, and had forgotten hers. What could he say to her?