"Baker,.Scott.-.Ashlu.2.-.1987.-.Drink.the.fire.from.the.flames" - читать интересную книгу автора (Baker Scott)

"'-that I may die to childhood-'" the voice intoned.
Die? But- Falteringly: "-that I may die to childhood-
"-and be reborn-
"-a child of the clay."
"Good. Raise the stone over your head and call on Sartor for strength."
"Sartor," Moth whispered.
"Louder!"
"Sartor!" Moth cried.
"Take the stone and smash your toy. Destroy it utterly, that you may destroy your childhood. "
Moth hit the toy cart. He groped for the fragments, hit them again and again and again, until his arm ached and the cart had been broken into pieces smaller than the fingernail on the little finger of his left hand.
At last the voice said, "Enough!" and the stone was taken from his hand.
"Repeat after me: 'I die to childhood. '"
"I die to childhood. "
A hand grasped his left shoulder. He could smell hot breath on the back of his neck. Something sharp was pressed against his throat. He gasped.
"Do not move. "
Moth struggled vainly to still his trembling.
"Do you feel death at your throat?" the voice not his father's demanded.
"Yes, " he whispered.
"Know that this is a krisse, a knife-of-the-earth, and that it will drink your blood whether you be reborn or not. If you are truly dead to childhood, the knife will cut the dead child from your throat and free you of it; but if you are in truth still a child, the knife will cut you into little pieces, for it is a knife that hates childhood.
"Close your eyes!"
Moth's eyes were already closed but he tried to squeeze them more tightly shut. The hand released its hold on his shoulder, lifted the blindfold from his face, grasped his chin and pulled his head back.
"Open your eyes and stare into the Sun!" Moth opened his eyes and stared, trying not to flinch as the knife sawed back and forth across his throat. The Sun seared his soul, burning out his childhood; he could feel the child within him choking as it struggled to escape his throat, and then the knife cut into him and his childhood bubbled out of him, and he wept with relief.
"The child is dead. You are Sartor-ban-i-Tresh and you are reborn a child of the clay." The voice was still not that of the father he had known, but it was no longer menacing.
"My truename is Sartor-ban-i-Tresh and I am a child of the clay." He was gasping for breath.
"Now bend forward, Sartor-ban-i-Tresh, that your face may rest against the Earth Mother, so She may drink of your throat's blood, for this is not only your birthday but your betrothal, man to earth, potter to clay, and your bride must drink of your life. Take your hand, knead the blood-damp earth with your fingers. Now take a single pinch of the earth you have watered and swallow it, saying, 'I, Sartor-ban-i-Tresh, accept the Earth Mother as my bride.'"
"I, Sartor-ban-i-Tresh, accept the Earth Mother as my bride." The earth tasted warm, salty, gritty.
"Close your eyes. Stand. Now walk forward."
Moth hesitantly pushed first his right, then his left foot forward, paused, took another step-
"Stop." The voice was behind him now. "Open your eyes, looking neither right nor left."
He, opened his eyes, blinked. He was facing the outer wall. There was a niche in the wall level with his waist, and in this recess seven bowls rested, each containing a different wet, glistening substance. A large openmouthed water jug rested on the ground just right of the niche.
"These are the seven clays. Remember them: the white, the tan, the gray, the red, the brown, the yellow, and the brownblack. Repeat after me: 'O Sartor, I ask Your permission that I may touch these Your clays.'"
"O Sartor, I ask Your permission that I may touch these Your clays," Moth repeated.
"Now, take up the brownblack, holding its wet, cool body in your hands. Knead it, squeeze it, stroke it, mold it-but gently, very gently: you are introducing yourself to the brownblack and you must take care not to frighten it. Yet you are also the betrothed of the Earth Mother and the clays must learn to obey you as children obey their fathers.
"Replace the brownblack and wash your hands, for certain of these clays do not like each other's touch. Now, take up the yellow-the False Emperor, as it is called, for its color does not endure the flames. . . ."
When Moth had familiarized himself with each clay in turn, he was again blindfolded. The voice -and by now it had become the voice of his father, joyous only, no longer menacing or awesome -said, "Remember, Sartor-ban-i-Tresh, that your truename is your ultimate secret, to be revealed only to others of our Sil and not to be spoken at all unless you are in a potting compound or in search of clay. At all other times and to all other people -to your mother, your cousin, even your wife when you take one-you must remain Moth. Do you understand?"
"Yes."

Moth was led forward and shoved through the doorslit. His mother removed the blindfold and wept for joy. He had not seen the compound-only the niche and the blazing sun-and he had not yet set eyes upon the figure who must have been, yet had been somehow more than, his father.
He did not tell his mother that the child for whose return she rejoiced was dead.
He fell asleep early, only to be awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of his mother whispering to his father, "Tal, they found a dead lion today. "
"They found it, Kuan?"
"Yes. There were three arrows sticking out of it. Tal, those were not King Asp's arrows. "
"You're sure?"
"I've seen the arrows my father makes for him. They have reed shafts and are fletched with yellow feathers. The arrows in the lion were blackwood fletched with black. "
"Whose, then? Some warrior's?"
"No warrior of Chal or the Empire. They were Nomad arrows. "
"You're sure?"
"Yes. Turshi, perhaps. I helped Father fletch some arrows for a Turshi once, and they were almost exactly the same. "
There was a long silence. Then she was lying to me, Moth thought. It was the first time he knew of that his mother had ever lied to him.
"Do you think there will be a war?" Ri Tal asked.