"Lester Del Rey - The Pipes of Pan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Del Rey Lester)

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LLSTER DEL RET

The Pipes of Pan



"Beyond the woods on either side were kept fields and fertile farm land, but here the undergrowth ran
down to the dirt road and hid the small plot of tilled ground, already overrun with weeds. Behind that,
concealed by thicker scrub timber lay a rude log house. Only the trees around, that had sheltered it from
the heavy winds, had kept it from crumbling long before.

Pan recognized the lazy retreat to nature that had replaced his strong worship of old. He moved carefully
through the tangled growth that made way for him, his cloven hoofs clicking sharply on the stones. It
was a thin and saddened god that approached the house and gazed in through a hole that served as a
window.

Inside, Frank Emmet lay on a rude pallet on the floor, a bag of his possessions beside him. Across from
him was a stone fireplace, and between the two, nothing. A weak hand moved listlessly, brushing aside
the vermin that knew his sickness; perhaps they sensed that the man was dying, and their time was short.
He gave up and reached for a broken crock that contained water, but the effort was too great.

"Pan!" The man's voice reached out, and the god stepped away from the window and through the warped
doorway. He moved to the pallet and leaned over his follower. The man looked up.

"Pan!" Emmet's words were startled, but there was a reverent note in his labored voice, though another
might have mistaken the god for a devil. The tangled locks of Pan's head were separated by two goat
horns and the thin sharp face ended in a ragged beard that seemed the worse for the weather. Then the
neck led down to a bronzed torso that might have graced Hercules, only to end in the hips and legs of a
goat, covered with shaggy hair. Horror and comedy mingled grotesquely, except for the eyes, which
were deep and old, filled now with pity.

Pan nodded. "You've been calling me, Frank Emmet, and it's a poor god that wouldn't answer the appeal
of his last worshiper. All the others of your kind have deserted me for newer gods, and only you are left,
now."

It was true enough. Over the years, Pan had seen his followers fall off and dwindle until his great body
grew lean and his lordly capering among the hills became a slow march toward extinction. Now even
this man was dying. He lifted the tired head and held the crock of water to Emmet's mouth.

"Thanks!" The man mulled it over slowly. "So when I'm gone, there's no others. If I'd 'a' known, Pan, I
might have raised up kids to honor your name, but I thought there were others. Am I—"


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