"C. L. Moore - Daemon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moore C. L)

Daemon

Padre, the words come slowly. It is a long time now since I have spoken in the
Portuguese tongue. For more than a year, my companions here were those who do
not speak with the tongues of men. And you must remember, padre, that in Rio,
where I was born, I was named Luiz o Bobo, which is to say, Luiz the Simple.
There was something wrong with my head, so that my hands were always clumsy
and my feet stumbled over each other. I could not remember very much. But I
could see things. Yes, padre, I could see things such as other men do not
know.
I can see things now. Do you know who stands beside you, padre, listening
while I talk? Never mind that. I am Luiz o Bobo still, though here on this
island there were great powers of healing, and I can remember now the things
that happened to me years ago. More easily than I remember what happened last
week or the week before that. The year has been like a single day, for time on
this island is not like time outside. When a man lives with them, there is no
time.
The ninfas, I mean. And the others. .
I am not lying. Why should I? I am going to die, quite soon now. You were
right to tell me that, padre. But I knew. I knew already. Your crucifix is
very pretty, padre. I like the way it shines in the sun. But that is not for
me. You see, I have always known the things that walk beside men-other men.
Not me. Perhaps they are souls, and I have no soul, being simple. Or perhaps
they are daemons such as only clever men have. Or perhaps they are both these
things. I do not know. But I know that I am dying. After the ninfas go away, I
would not care to live.
Since you ask how I came to this place, I will tell you if the time remains to
me. You will not believe. This is the one place on earth, I think, where they
lingered still-those things you do not believe.
But before I speak of them, I must go back to an earlier day, when I was young
beside the blue bay of Rio, under Sugar Loaf. I remember the docks of Rio, and
the children who mocked me. I was big and
strong, but I was o Bobo with a mind that knew no yesterday or tomorrow.
Minha avó, my grandmother, was kind to me. She was from Ceará, where the
yearly droughts kill hope, and she was half blind, with pain in her back
always. She worked so that we could eat, and she did not scold me too much. I
know that she was good. It was something I could see; I have always had that
power.
One morning my grandmother did not waken. She was cold when I touched her
hand. That did not frighten me for the-good thing- about her lingered for a
while. I closed her eyes and kissed her, and then I went away. I was hungry,
and because I was o Bobo, I thought that someone might give me food, out of
kindness. .
In the end, I foraged from the rubbish-heaps.
I did not starve. But I was lost and alone. Have you ever felt that, padre? It
is like a bitter wind from the mountains and no sheepskin cloak can shut it
out. One night I wandered into a sailors' saloon, and I remember that there
were many dark shapes with eyes that shone, hovering beside the men who drank
there. The men had red, wind-burned faces and tarry hands. They made me drink
'guardiente until the room whirled around and went dark.