"Jo Walton - The Rebirth of Pan" - читать интересную книгу автора (Walton Jo)

Yanni raised his glass. "Great Pan!" he said, and drank. Pappa Andros hesitated again, looking
round. Then his eyes caught on a pair of figures lounging in the doorway. One was a slim young man. He
leaned one hand casually on the doorframe. His beautiful face fell half in the taverna's light and half in the
shadow of the night—or, no, Pappa Andros realised with a start that he had a halo. His eyes met Pappa
Andros', and slowly and deliberately he smiled. Behind him and entirely in shadow stood another figure,
older, bearded, but equally ringed with a faint light of God around the head. He slowly raised a hand in
salute to Pappa Andros. Equally slowly, Pappa Andros raised his glass to the holy saints, and sipped.

The red wine was smooth and warming as it went down. As he swallowed all the colours seemed
brighter, the scents of the roast pork and the stewed mushrooms reached him clearly and his mouth
watered. He stood, and he saw that everyone else was standing too, and raising their glasses. "Great
Pan!" they chorused, and all drank together. The holy saint in the doorway drank too, and then stepped
back out to join his companion in the shadows. Stellio and his children served the food, and all ate and
drank well. Gaiety reigned for the rest of the evening, until all the important people and shoemakers
staggered home delightfully drunk, to suffer no hangover. All the conversation was on how best to make
the shoes and whatever else might be needed. Dispute grew quite heated about where to store them.
Once the glasses were drained, nobody, not even Pappa Andros, questioned the necessity.




3. MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT


(Marie)


Beware the worm, beware the truth it speaks
Beware the craven's lie, the serpent's tooth
and all that makes your heart a frozen stone
you bury far away and can't forget.


Lord, in thy mercy, hear my prayer. Through the grimy window of the tube train as it hurtles along in
unaccustomed daylight, I can see endless backs of endless grimy streets and factories, sprawling out in all
directions into the distance, ugly as despair. Everything is grey, the sky, the streets, the tube line, and my
heart. I cannot pray for her. I swore to you that I would never ask another thing if you would forgive me,
and I keep my word. I keep my word. That's the only thing I have left.

That fierceness, that's pride, I will confess that to Father Michael tomorrow. He will give me
penance. I almost always have to confess pride, Lord, it is my one remaining besetting sin. But such
penance is little enough, compared to the one I will be doing all my life. I stare out of the window at the
grey backs of houses, a huge black glass factory making audio tapes and designed to look like a cassette
box used to ten years ago. How modern it must have looked when it was new, how ridiculous now.
Without meaning to I find I am twisting my cross in my fingers, the little gold cross my godmother gave
me, the one I always wear around my neck. I am desolate, utterly desolate, and I cannot even pray for
her. Have mercy upon us.

As the brakes on the train squeal, coming into Kilburn I find that once again I am blinking back
tears. I will not think of him, or that will be another sin on my soul. Lord God of Hosts, you are very