"Tim Lebbon - Dusk" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lebbon Tim)

ALISHIA HAD NEVER heard a dead man sing. She had read accounts of many wonders: shades calling
from the depths of a bottomless cave in the mountains of Kang Kang; holes in the ground, swallowing

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Tim%20Lebbon%20-%20Dusk.html (14 of 337)10-8-2007 12:02:26
 Dusk

rock and soil and anyone foolish enough to venture too close; a woman stumbling into a cloud of mimics
and breathing them in, watching in terrified wonder as they fluttered from her mouth in the shape of a
golden butterfly. She had read of skull ravens feasting on living cattle, two rivers flowing in different
directions in the same valley, and a place where ancient machines had once gone to die. Indeed, for a
librarian she had imagined a very colorful life, and dreamed of much that was wrong in the land. But
Alishia had always thought that imagination was better than experience, because it was so pure.

Still, she had never heard a dead man sing.

He stood in one of the aisles far, far back in the library, a place barely frequented, rich with the dust of
ages. Some of the books there were so old that Alishia did not know of anyone who could read them.
This man had been browsing beyond her sight for hours. His song echoed mournfully in the still air. His
voice was low and weak—what more could be expected of a dead man?—but filled with emotion.
Alishia did not recognize the language, though that was not unusual in Noreela’s capital city. But she
sensed something of what the song was about nonetheless, and heard the undertones of longing, the
cadences of sorrow hidden in the folds and twists of his throaty warbles.

When he had come to the desk hours before, Alishia stepped back in shock. He was the oldest man she
had ever seen, certainly the most frail-looking, and she could not conceive how someone in such a state
could still be alive. But alive he was, a breathing fossil, his organs barely contained within skin so thin it
was almost translucent. He said a few words in a tongue Alishia had never heard before and then
wandered off, shaking his head and mumbling quietly under his breath.

Ever since then the singing, and the echoing sound of pages being turned. Alishia knew he was in the
farthest, oldest corner of the library because she had looked everywhere else for him, using the arranging
of shelves as an excuse to wander the tall aisles, brushing aside cobwebs and lifting dust that had slowly
spread to fill the air with a haze of dead skin.

What was a man so old looking for in books so ancient? These tomes were from a time before her
grandfather’s grandfather’s father was born, and they were retained now only because if they were
removed, it was likely that the building would collapse. They had almost fossilized into place, their
leaves bound together with damp, stiff covers strengthening the racks of shelves they stood upon.
Alishia had looked at some of them, but most were written in languages she had never seen. The
diagrams and pictures told stories, and sometimes these were enough. There was enough strife and
heartache contained within the books she could read. So she browsed these old tomes only occasionally,
and every time she opened one she felt as though she was intruding into histories that should never be
remembered.

Sometimes, on those rare occasions when they were written in words she did know, Alishia found truths
that she wished she had not.

She felt at home here with her books. Some days she would be all alone, all day long. There were things