"Coldheart Canyon (preview edition)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Barker Clive - Coldheart Canyon)

damage might they not do, out there in the world, he said; what hurt to innocent
souls?
Sandru was unmoved by all this. There were no innocent souls in Hollywood,
he had learned; nor was there any sin or excess painted in the tiles that the people
of that city were not intimately familiar with. He spoke with an authority which he
didn't in truth possess, but it sufficiently impressed the brothersуor at least a
greater number of themуso that the nay-sayers were finally silenced.
There was much debate about what should happen to the money. One faction,
led by the older men, believed it had been acquired by dubious means, and the only
uncorrupted way to dispose of it was to distribute it amongst the poor.
Surprisingly, very few voices supported this solution; some part of the money might
be given to the needy in the village, the priests agreed, but there were other
causes that should be attended to. There was some lobbying for a complete removal of
the Order to some other place than the Fortress; a more comfortable place, where
they could find their way to God without the Devil's shadow falling across their
path. It was Sandru who was the most eloquent advocate of their staying in the
Fortress. His tongue well lubricated with wine, he explained that he felt no sense
of regret that he'd sold the tiles; it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and he
was glad he'd taken it. Now, he said, they should use the money to rejuvenate the
place. Get the hospital up and running, as had always been the plan; see what they
could do about refertilizing the land, so that the vineyard would prosper as they
had in the old days.
"Our path is perfectly dear!" he said to the brothers. "Whether our faith in
the Lord is secure or not, we can heal here, and we can grow the grape, and pass our
lives with purpose."
He smiled as he spoke. That wordуpurposeуhad not been on his lips for many
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Barker, Clive - Coldheart Canyon
years, and it gave him pleasure to speak it. But even as he spoke the smile started
to die away, and the color shrank from his ruddy face.
"I beg you to excuse me," he said, putting his hand to his belly, "I am
sickened by too much brandy."
With that he pulled out of his robes the bottle from which he had been
drinking since early morning, and set it clumsily down on the table in front of him.
Then he turned and stumbled out to get a breath of fresh air. Nobody went after him;
he had no friends left in the Fortress. His old allies were too embarrassed by his
excesses to publicly share his opinions; fearful that his behavior might reflect
poorly on them, and keep them from advancement. So he was alone as he wandered
giddily through the ruins of the dead vines. It was evening, and now that the summer
was past, the air was beginning to get chilly. But the sky overhead was a perfect
blue, and there was a new moon, its pallid crescent just clearing the mountains.
Sandru tried to let the sight of the sky and moon calm him; have them
placate the pain of his heart, give life back to his numbed fingers. But the trick
was beyond them. He realized suddenly that this was not a spasm brought on by too
much brandy. He was dying.
The Brothers had medicines for weakness of the heart, he knew; it would not
be the end of him if he got back to them quickly enough. He turned on his heel,
attempting to voice a shout of alarm. But his panicked chest would provide no breath
for him to cry for help. His legs began to fail him, and down he went, face first,
into the dirt. He tasted the soil in his mouth, bitter and unappetizing. He spat it