"Terry Dowling - The Lagan Fishers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dowling Terry)

Becoming-by day towards Jeanie, by night back towards its intended form all along.
Poor agonized thing. Here from somewhere else, now beautified by Jeanie-thought, now showing the ruin
of his own MF tiger mask, coping, copying. Poor ugly, beautiful, languishing thing. Trying all the while.
Then, like looking through doors opened and aligned, he saw the rest. Its message, its purpose. I will be
you to free you so you can have your turn. Moving on. Taking it with you.
What a clumsy, awkward method, Sam decided. What a flawed-no! What a natural and fitting way to do it,
more like a plant in a garden, some wild and willful, wayward garden, some natural, blundering, questing
thing, trying again and again to push through. Stitching it up. Linking the worlds.
What it was, never the issue. Only that it was.
He had to help. Do sittings. Leave photos of his red-demon, tiger-faced self (how the others would smile!),
try not to think of Jeanie for now, just for now.
For Kyrie. Oh, the irony. So many times he stood before the mirrors and laughed, recalling that old story
of desperate choice: the Lady or the Tiger. Well, now he played both parts-showing the Tiger but being like
Jeanie for Kyrie.
Giving of himself. Giving self. Generous. The Lady and the Tiger.

Two weeks later, at brightest, deepest midnight, he stood before the notre dame, bathed in the honey-balm
and the spindrift, letting the croisie take him, tune him, bring him in. They were all part of it-transition vectors,
carrier modes.
Kyrie was in place back in the house, maimed, shaped, pathetic and wonderful both. Sam Cadrey
enough. Would seem to have had a stroke when they found him. That would cover the slips, the gaffes and
desperate gracelessness. His friends would find, would impose, the bits of Sam Cadrey no time or training
could provide. Friendship allowing, they would find him in what was left, never knowing it was all there was.
Sam looked around at his world, at the fullness of it, the last of it, then stepped into the narrow chamber.
The cathedral did what it had to do, blindly or knowing, who could say, but naturally.
Sam felt himself changing, becoming-why, whatever it needed him to be this time, using what was in the
worlds. And as he rose, he had the words, unchanged in all that changing. Nor life I know, nor liberty. Had
his self, his memories to be enough of self around. For Love is lord of all.
Sam held Jeanie to him, as firm and clear as he could make her, and rose from the troubled seabed to the
swelling, different light of someone else's day.