"02 - Diamond Mask" - читать интересную книгу автора (May Julian)

After that came a great hiatus, and I feared that my infant Galactic Milieu was doomed to eventual stagnation and death. But le divin humoriste elevated the preposterous Gi race to metapsychic operancy against all odds (the Krondaku were deeply scandalized) and not long after that the Mind of the engaging little Poltroyans matured as well. The Simbiari were accepted into the Milieu next, even though they were imperfectly Unified. And suddenly there seemed almost to be an evolutionary explosion of intelligent beings, burgeoning on planet after planet—not yet ready for induction into our confederation, but nevertheless making great progress.
One of the less likely worlds in this group was Earth.
Knowing what I do, I overruled the consensus that rejected the human race as a candidate for Intervention. The result was the Metapsychic Rebellion, a towering disaster that metamorphosed into triumph. And now the Mind of this galaxy stands poised at the brink of a great expansion you cannot begin to imagine ...
"Are you going to tell me about that?" Rogi asked.
I cannot. My own role in the drama is nearly complete and my proleptic vision fails as my life approaches its end. Assisting you to write the cautionary family history will be my last bit of personal intervention. Others will oversee the destiny of this Galactic Mind henceforth and guide it to the fullness of Unity that is so very, very close.

The old man fed the fire with an armful of tree fern stalks as Atoning Unifex fell silent. The swirling smoke seemed to slide away from a certain region near the cave entrance. Out of the corner of his eye (his mental sight perceived nothing) Rogi caught occasional hints of a spectral form standing there.
"What next, mon fantфme? You gonna snatch me back to New Hampshire through the gray limbo like you did the last time, on Denali?"
Would you rather write the Diamond Mask story here on Kauai?
Rogi brightened. "You know, I think I would! She and Ti-Jean did honeymoon here, after all."
There is also the matter of the Hydra attack that took place here.
Rogi's brow tightened. "Maudit—why'd you have to remind me about them?" He fumbled with the side compartment of his backpack and took out an old leather-bound flask. Unscrewing the cap, he tossed down a healthy slug of bourbon. "To do a proper job on Dorothйe's early life, I'll have to tell all about those poor, perverted bastards. Just remembering 'em turns my stomach." He took another snort.
The Ghost said: I can alleviate your gastric distress more efficiently than whiskey can, if you'll permit the liberty.
Rogi gave a bark of nervous laughter. "And will you be able to flush my skull of Fury dreams, too?"
The Lylmik's thought-tone was wry: I've had experience with them myself, as you may recall. I'll build you a protective mental shield—
"Hey! Now wait just a damn minute!"
The Ghost was insistent: It can be done while you sleep, so you'll have no experience of invasion whatsoever. I can leave all your precious neuroses intact, but you must permit me to install the dream-filter. It would be the height of ingratitude on my part if your writing chores precipitated anxiety and a fresh bout of alcohol abuse. You will suffer no nightmares, I promise. We Lylmik are the most skilled redactors in the universe.
"Oh, yeah? Then where the hell were you when Fury and his Hydras were doing their metapsychic vampire act back in those thrilling days of yesteryear?"
Our interference would not have been appropriate at that time. The crimes of those entities, heinous as they were, were necessary to the evolution of Higher Reality, just as the Metapsychic Rebellion was.
"I," the old man declared wearily, "do not give a rat's ass for the Higher Reality. Or the Lower, for that matter." He lifted the flask again.
Rogi—
"All right! Go ahead and fix my brain so I don't go apeshit after dredging up those old horrors. But don't you dare try to do me any favors plugging in Unity programs or any other Lylmik flimflammery."
The phantom in the cave's darkened entrance now seemed to be approaching the fire, and Rogi stared in fascination at the way the smoke wafted about the invisible form. As the Lylmik mind spoke soothingly and the liquor did its work, the old man suddenly caught his breath. For an instant, he thought he'd glimpsed a man's face there in the shadows—one he remembered all too clearly. He surged to his feet, calling out a name, and tried to throw his arms about the evanescent shape; but he embraced only a cloud of smoke. His eyes began to sting, and he pulled a bandanna handkerchief from his hip pocket and blew his nose, subsiding back onto his rocky seat.
The Ghost said: Vas-y doucement, mon oncle bien-aimй! Think only of the memoirs. When you complete them, I'll be able to go in peace.
The old man mopped at his eyes. "Batиge! Who'd have thought I'd get all soppy over you? A goddam figment of my goddam booze-pickled imagination! That's what Denis and Paul always said you were. Merde alors, it makes more sense for me to believe that than the cosmic bullshit you've been dishing out."
If it makes you more comfortable, by all means believe it.
"I'll make up my own mind what to believe," the old man muttered perversely. Then he asked: "Where do you think I should settle in to do the writing? Down at the old Kendall place in Poipu?"
I have a better suggestion. How about Elaine Donovan's lodge near Pohakumano? It's at a high enough elevation to be cool, and no vacationing Remillards are likely to bother you there, as they well might down at the coast. The house is isolated and it has been kept in excellent condition by caretakers, even though Elaine has not visited it for many years. You'd find it very comfortable and much quieter than Hanover in the summertime.
"Elaine ..." Rogi's face stiffened. "I didn't know she had a vacation house on Kauai. But she was Teresa's grandmother, of course."
I can arrange to have your transcriber and any other personal items you might need brought over from New Hampshire. Even your cat, Marcel, if you like.
"I—I don't think I better stay at Elaine's place."
The thought of her still brings you pain?
"No, not anymore."
Then use her house. You know she wouldn't mind.
The old man sighed. What did it matter, after all? "All right. Whatever you say. Bring my stuff and old Fur-Face, too. And a stock of decent food and liquor." He stretched, easing his aching muscles. It had been a long day, and now it was pitch black outside and the rain was pouring down harder than ever. "I don't suppose I could spend the night here in the cave, could I?"
Do you wish to?
Rogi shrugged. "It feels real good in here. Metasafe! If I'm going to stay on the island, I guess I'll have to ask Malama Johnson to tell me more about this place. Funny thing—when you and I first brought Teresa's ashes here after the funeral Mass at St. Raphael's in the cane fields, Malama seemed to think you'd been here before."
[Laughter.] Kahunas know too much. They are an anomalous type of human metapsychic operant, as any Krondak evaluator will tell you ... And now, why don't you make yourself something to eat and then get some sleep. I have other matters to attend to and I must leave you for a time. I'll come and collect you in the morning.
"Suit yourself," said Rogi, and opened his backpack.
Even though there was no discernible physical manifestation, the old man was aware that the Family Ghost had abruptly vanished. Shaking his head, Rogi took out packets of gamma-stabilized food and a tiny microwave stove and began to prepare a Kauaian-style supper of chicken-feet appetizers, fried rice, Spam, pineapple upside-down cake, and lilikoi punch. As he ate, the small mystery of why he had been drawn to Kauai also seemed to resolve itself. The birds, of course. The island had always been a magnet for amateur ornithologists like himself.
And like Dorothea Macdonald, the subject of this next part of his memoirs.
It had been her doing that brought him here—or perhaps that of her memory abiding deep within his own unconscious. Dorothйe. Saint Illusion. The woman who always wore a mask, even in her youth, when her face was bare.
* * *
Much later, when he was snug in his sleeping bag and the fire had gone out and the continuing rain had freshened the air, Rogatien Remillard let the tranquil ambiance of Keaku Cave lull him to sleep. The air was fragrant again now that the smoke had dissipated; but oddly enough the scent seemed not to be that of mokihana berries but rather of a certain old-fashioned perfume called Bal а Versailles.
How did I know that? Rogi asked himself drowsily. More huna magic? Or are the Family Ghost and Dorothйe still playing games in my head?
A moment later he was fast asleep, dreaming not of the monster named Fury and its attendant Hydras, nor even of Diamond Mask. Instead he dreamed about a woman with silvery eyes and strawberry blonde hair who had first smiled at him on top of Mount Washington in New Hampshire, years before Earth knew that the Galactic Milieu even existed. It was a sweet dream, without remorse.
In the morning, Rogi had forgotten it completely.

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