"Lavie Tidhar - The Gunslinger of Chelem" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tidhar Lavie)

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The Gunslinger of Chelem
By Lavie Tidhar
Lavie Tidhar (www.lavietidhar.co.uk) was the winner of the 2003 Clarke-Bradbury
Prize, the editor of Michael Marshall Smith: The Annotated Bibliography (PS
Publishing, 2004) and the anthology A Dick & Jane Primer for Adults (The British
Fantasy Society, 2006), and is the author of the novella An Occupation of Angels
(Pendragon Press, 2005). His stories have appeared in Sci Fiction, Chizine,
Postscripts, Nemonymous, Infinity Plus, Aeon, The Book of Dark Wisdom, Fortean
Bureau, Clarkesworld Magazine and many others, and in translation in seven
languages.
Lavie’s story “Letters From Weirdside” appeared in the Apex Publications’ Stoker
Award nominated anthology Aegri Somnia in 2006.
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The dream called him to it, sucked him into a maelstrom of swirling colours,
hand-drawn clouds, feet stamping, hands clapping, the sound of a siren, the smell of
hot mustard, egg yolks, dust devils, the hint of a kiss, a high, yellow sun, sands
spreading in the distance, houses made of wood.
High noon. The sun erased all shadows. He stood in the heart of a town, of
the kind that appeared in old Westerns. A clock-tower, the hands standing at a
minute to twelve. One-storey houses. One long main street: a bank, a bar, a church, a
horse trader, a gun shop. In the corner, the prosperous front of the coffin-builder.
 Quiet. The town was deserted, a ghost town. Or maybe, he thought, maybe
they’re all hiding.
He discovered a pair of guns on his hips. He tried them, one after the other.
They were like additional fingers in his hands. He was fast.
Of course.
He remembered now. He practised drawing them and smiled.
He was the best of the best.
And then he saw him.
The gunslinger stood with his back to the clock-tower. A wide-brimmed hat
shaded his face. The hands of the clock moved towards the hour, touched it
together—
They both drew their guns but there was only one shot.
The dream spat him out, wiped him out, threw him out to a maelstrom of
swirling darkness, chalk-marks, clapping hands, a whistle, the taste of blood; at last,
the taste of nothing.
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Chelem.”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“Near Yokne’am.”
“Was.”
“What?”
“Was. Where Yokne’am was.”
“For your information, the Society for Bringing Back Yokne’am employs
several people with the capacity for Deep Dre—”
“Who?”
“Aharoni.”
“Aharoni? The city won’t last five minutes and it would be populated by