"Thomas M. Disch - The Genocides" - читать интересную книгу автора (Disch Thomas M)

stretched out a hand, kinder than his words, to help Buddy up.
When he thanked his father, there was a just-perceptible quaver in his
voice.
"You all right?"
"I guess so." He felt his coccyx, which had struck against a knob of the
stump, and winced.
"Then go down to the stream and wash that crap off. We're about ready to
go and eat anyhow."
Buddy nodded. Grabbing the buckets (it was amazing how automatic the
work had become, even for him), he set off down a forest path that led to the
stream (once, farther inland, it had been Gooseberry River) from which the
village drew its water. Seven years ago, this whole area--fields, forest and
village--had been under ten to fifteen feet of water. But the Plants had
siphoned off the water. They were still at it, and every day the North Shore
of Lake Superior moved a few inches farther south, though the rate of its
retreat seemed to be lessening, as all but the newest of the Plants reached
the limits of their growth.
He stripped and lay down full length in the stream. The tepid water
moved languidly over his bare limbs, washing away sap and dirt and the dead
flies that had caught on him as on flypaper. He held his breath and lowered
his head slowly into the flowing water until he was totally submerged.
With the water in his ears, he could hear slight sounds more distinctly:
his back scratching against the pebbles in the bed of the stream, and, more
distantly, another sound, a low rumbling that grew, too quickly, to a
pounding. He knew the sound, and knew he shouldn't be hearing it now, here.
He lifted his head out of the water in time to see the cow running
full-tilt toward him--and in time for her to see him. Gracie jumped, and her
hind hooves came down within inches of his thigh. Then she ran on into the
forest.
More followed. Buddy counted them as they splashed across the stream:
eight . . . eleven . . . twelve. Seven Herefords and five Guernseys. All of
them.
The yearning bellow of a bull sounded in the air, and Studs came into
view--the village's great, brown Hereford, with his flaring white topknot. He
stared at Buddy with casual defiance, but there was more urgent business than
the settling of old scores. He hurried on after the cows.
That Studs had gotten out of his pen was bad news, for the cows were all
of them half-gone with calves, and it would do them no good to be mounted by
an eager bull. The news would be even worse for Neil, who was responsible for
Studs. It could mean a whipping. This was not a thought to sadden Buddy
deeply, but still he was concerned for the cattle. He hurried into his
overalls, which were still sticky with sap.
Before he'd gotten the straps over his shoulders, Jimmie Lee, the
younger of Buddy's two half-brothers, came running out of the forest on the
bull's trail. His face was flushed with the excitement of the chase, and even
as he announced the calamity--"Studs broke out!"--a smile touched his lips.
All children--and Jimmie was no exception--feel a demonic sympathy with
those things that cause disorder in the grown-up world. The young thrive on
earthquakes, tornadoes and escaped bulls.
It would not do, Buddy realized, to let their father see that smile. For