"Jay Lake - A Mythic Fear of the Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lake Jay)

A Mythic Fear of the Sea by Jay Lake

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THE MORNING OF THE DAY I turned twelve years old, Daddy brought out the
crampons and the skin-spikes.

“Little Ozzie,” he said in that rough-burred voice I’d always loved, “it’s time.”

I had no need to ask, time for what? Even at twelve, I knew we had all the
time in the world and none. My grandfather loomed over our little town, his long
shadow creeping across our fields and orchards with every day’s setting of the sun.
He guarded us all around, kept the water away, fed us when times were lean, kept
our souls safe within our bodies.

It was time to meet Granddaddy.

We went out to the kitchen, fetched some guavas in their canning jars and a
rope-slung pot of sour milk—which would keep through the day’s heat, as it was
already half-bad, though the stuff never sat well in my tummy. I reached for the
twists of beaver jerky, but Daddy shook his head. “We’ll dine on the old man’s
grace,” he rumbled with a smile which was for him small and secret.

So I followed him out through the yard, limping between the pumpkin and
squash vines, and into the sole street our town still claimed. I was surprised to see
everyone in the world there, smiling, laughing, sipping hot chickory from china cups
and toasting me with all the good will of a happy funeral.

“Good day, Ozzie!” shouted Miss Kermand, our teacher.

Old Doc Liang grinned, showing his silver teeth, then bowed, never spilling a
drop.

The Boordma twins, trapped forever in a lumpish childhood I never had quite
trusted, grinned and hooted.

And so it went through the town, until every one of our fifty-seven people had
sent me off. Mom was last.

She knelt before me, so that I could see the top of her head where the hair was
thin as wheat in a winter field. “Ozzie,” Mom whispered, then hugged me. “We all
love you. Even ... him.”

And that was it. It remained only for Daddy and me to pass through a desert
of empty pavement, streets like angular arteries leading between blackberry brambles
and into fern breaks. In some places the pavement had aged faster that others,
Douglas firs already spearing the sky from broken beds of stone, while others
looked as if they had just yesterday seen their last wagon. In those places even the
tiny, round-shouldered spirit guides seemed fresh-painted, their little chain beards
scraping in the wind of my farewell.