"Vonda N. McIntyre - Dreamsnake" - читать интересную книгу автора (McIntyre Vonda N)

lantern gave no reassurance.
The child watched with eyes so dark the pupils were not visible, so dull that Snake
herself feared for his life. She stroked his hair. It was long, and very pale, dry and
irregular for several inches near the scalp, a striking color against his dark skin. Had
Snake been with these people months ago, she would have known the child was
growing ill.
“Bring my case, please,” Snake said.
The child’s parents started at her soft voice. Perhaps they had expected the
screech of a bright jay, or the hissing of a shining serpent. This was the first time
Snake had spoken in their presence. She had only watched, when the three of them
had come to observe her from a distance and whisper about her occupation and her
youth; she had only listened, and then nodded, when finally they came to ask her help.
Perhaps they had thought she was mute.
The fair-haired younger man lifted her leather case. He held the satchel away from
his body, leaning to hand it to her, breathing shallowly with nostrils flared against the
faint smell of musk in the dry desert air. Snake had almost accustomed herself to the
kind of uneasiness he showed; she had already seen it often.
When Snake reached out, the young man jerked back and dropped the case.
Snake lunged and barely caught it, gently set it on the felt floor, and glanced at him
with reproach. His partners came forward and touched him to ease his fear. “He was
bitten once,” the dark and handsome woman said. “He almost died.” Her tone was not
of apology, but of justification.
“I’m sorry,” the younger man said. “It’s—” He gestured toward her; he was
trembling, but trying visibly to control himself. Snake glanced to her shoulder, where
she had been unconsciously aware of the slight weight and movement. A tiny serpent,
thin as the finger of a baby, slid himself around her neck to show his narrow head
below her short black curls. He probed the air with his trident tongue, in a leisurely
manner, out, up and down, in, to savor the taste of the smells. “It’s only Grass,” Snake
said. “He can’t hurt you.” If he were bigger, he might be frightening: his color was pale
green, but the scales around his mouth were red, as if he had just feasted as a
mammal eats, by tearing. He was, in fact, much neater.
The child whimpered. He cut off the sound of pain; perhaps he had been told that
Snake, too, would be offended by crying. She only felt sorry that his people refused
themselves such a simple way of easing fear. She turned from the adults, regretting
their terror of her but unwilling to spend the time it would take to persuade them to trust
her. “It’s all right,” she said to the little boy. “Grass is smooth, and dry, and soft, and if
I left him to guard you, even death could not reach your bedside.” Grass poured
himself into her narrow, dirty hand, and she extended him toward the child. “Gently.”
He reached out and touched the sleek scales with one fingertip. Snake could sense the
effort of even such a simple motion, yet the boy almost smiled.
“What are you called?”
He looked quickly toward his parents, and finally they nodded.
“Stavin,” he whispered. He had no breath or strength for speaking.
“I am Snake, Stavin, and in a little while, in the morning, I must hurt you. You may
feel a quick pain, and your body will ache for several days, but you’ll be better
afterward.”
He stared at her solemnly. Snake saw that though he understood and feared what
she might do, He was less afraid than if she had lied to him. The pain must have
increased greatly as his illness became more apparent, but it seemed that others had
only reassured him, and hoped the disease would disappear or kill him quickly.