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

belly then, still unborn, still safe, was innocent. But he looked at me as if he thought it would have two
heads. I did not say that I knew she was whole and perfect, free from blemish or defect. It did not seem
wise to emphasise to Father O'Malley the extent of my powers, even as I swore to renounce them in
return for forgiveness.

"There were lots of people like me in the fourth century, Father," I said. "People who believed in
other gods or none and came into the church to be good Christians."

"You want the shield of the Church between you and your sin," he said. This was true, so I bowed
my head. "It was done in innocence, you say?" he asked. I nodded. I had been through all this with him.
"You were adopted, both of you? So how was it discovered?" I told him, and he shuddered, crossing
himself. It was then I promised my whole self, my magic, everything I was, and never to ask for another
thing in my life, if God would only forgive me. And Father O'Malley forgave me in God's name, and set
my penance.

The train jerks to a stop, almost throwing me to the ground, people push of, push on, the doors
slide together with a hiss, the train jerks off on it's way again. I am tightly pressed by people all around.
So many people, so little air. It's hot. A man behind me rubs against me. I try to move away. This often
happens. Once when it was like this, the train stopped in a tunnel, for a long time. It was very quiet. Then
after a while a woman started to scream. They took her out at the next stop. I know just how she felt.
Today I am brave in Jesus' love. Many days I stand here and tremble. These people would tear me apart
if they knew about me what in the human world only Father O'Malley knows, that I was a witch and
bore a child to my own brother.

At last, at last, the train draws in to Waterloo. There is marching music in the bright concourse. I
march to its rhythm past stalls selling doughnuts and burgers, filled baguettes and racks of brightly
coloured ties and socks, out onto the Embankment. Already it is almost dark. There is a man selling
papers. "Standard!" he calls, but it sounds like "Stannard!" He sees me then, and his eyes burn as he
takes money from the commuters. He does not look at them or at the papers he hands them. He stares at
me. Then he calls out again in a loud and passionate tone, spitting the words. Without looking I know
what he says has no echo in the headlines of the papers in his pile.

"Children lost in tragedy. The war's on again in the Middle East. There'll be no more holidays in
Greece. And one more thing. It's not going to be nice any more." People pause without paying attention,
buy his bad news. I do not.

I walk away, fast, trying not to listen. I am cold, the icy wind cuts through my thin coat. I try not to
think. I have promised to have no contact with anyone of his kind. I clutch my coat around me and walk
through the wind beside the river, through crowds moving the other way, towards the station. I make my
way towards the hospital. Soon I will see her, soon. Oh please, sweet merciful Jesus, save her life. I will
do more than believe in strict duty, I will love You, and do all I can to keep You alive, as I have these
seven years.

The hospital has its familiar smell, antiseptic laid like a film above the smell of unhealthy overcooked
food. The walls are painted beige to waist level and pale green above. There are prints pinned up at
regular intervals along them, mostly Monet and van Gogh. I have been here so often these last months I
do not have to ask, I know the way through the maze of corridors without looking at the blue and yellow
signs. I turn at the Sunflowers and come down the short hall into the Critical Children's Ward, past the
empty reception desk to the bed where she—isn't.