"Paul Park - Starbridge 03 - The Cult of Loving Kindness" - читать интересную книгу автора (Park Paul)

Mr. Sarnath shrugged. He gestured down the track the way he’d come. “They have a vacancy,” he said.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Mr. Sarnath looked away, and calmed himself by studying the effect
of moonlight as it pierced through the forest canopy. This night was magical and rare, for only at rare
moments in the voyage of his life had he ever sensed his forward progress. Now in everything he saw the
traces of a new significance, and it was lurking in the darkness like a delicate and subtle beast, vulnerable
and shy of controversy.

Here and there, bright beams of moonlight fell unbroken to the ground, a hundred feet or more. Insects
spiraled up them as if climbing to the stars; on a sprig of manzanita by the trail, a polyphemus fly arranged
its wings. “I’ll be going now,” said Mr. Sarnath. He rose to his feet and retrieved his bundle from the
floor.

The gatekeeper ignored him and continued to sit hunched over the lantern, staring at the flame. Mr.
Sarnath made a little gesture of farewell. Then he walked down the steps. The gate was a simple one, an
X-shaped cross of wood set in a wooden frame. Mr. Sarnath pulled it open and slipped through.

But he hadn’t gone a half a mile before he heard a cry in back of him. The old gatekeeper was hurrying
after him; he stopped and waited by the track. “Sarnath Bey!” cried the man. And then, when he got
close: “Please forgive me, Sarnath Bey. Please—I wish you well.”

He too was carrying a bundle, a cotton knapsack covered with embroidery. This he thrust into the
traveler’s hands, and then he bent down wheezing, out of breath. “Forgive me,” he repeated, as soon as
he could speak. “My eyes were blind from envy and self-pity.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“No, but there is.” He wrapped his skinny rib cage in his arms, bent his head, and then continued: “Three
thousand days I’ve lived there. More than three thousand, and I think that I’m as far as ever from
achieving understanding. How long has it been for you? Not long—you’re still a young man.”

He stood up straight and reached his hand out toward the knapsack. “Forgive me,” he repeated. “I was
jealous, I admit. Because I’ve been away from home so long. But perhaps it’s my impatience that keeps
me here. Perhaps if I can overcome that. . . .” His voice, eager and unhappy, trailed away. But then he
shook his head. “I’ve brought you gifts,” he said. He pulled the knapsack out of Sarnath’s hands, and
pulled the strings that opened it.

They were standing in a patch of moonlight. “Here’s some food,” he said. “Sourbread and wine—it’s all
I had. A flask of goat’s milk. Here, but look at this.” He opened a small purse and showed a handful of
steel dollars, each one incised with the head of the First Liberator, Colonel Aspe. “These I confiscated
from a merchant.” He shrugged. “I have no use for them.”

He drew out a cotton sweater and a quilt. This he spread out in the moonlight on the grass, and then he
squatted down. “There’s a flashlight and a pocket knife,” he said. “And look.”

He unrolled a length of fabric. “Look,” he said. He flicked on the flashlight, and in its narrow, intense
compass Sarnath could see a row of bones: the skulls and limbs and shoulder blades of various small
animals, each one covered with a mass of carving.