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

"I can't. You're going to kill him." He sounds so reasonable. He must be a fanatic.

"You can't keep Christianity alive by stopping me!" He can't hold me for long, not against my will.
Or at least, I don't think so. This is the first time I've ever felt real magic in the realised world. It is
strange.

"Keeping Christianity alive is the last thing on my mind, believe me." The voice chuckles in my head.


"Then what the hell do you want?" I demand, confused. "It is so nearly dead anyway. And killing it
now, like this..."

"Will serve no ends but that of violence. Violence here, and now, like this, would set the pattern for
the new age as bad or worse than even this past age has been. You would give us an age of hate. I am
taking away your choice, for this moment, in the hope of an age of choice."

"Nothing could be worse!" I insist, though his soft ironic voice sounds in my head so very sure. And
then I am free, I can move. My finger tightens, and hesitates again. It is too late, the moment has passed,
He has lowered His head, my bullet unfired, killing him now would only be murder, not deicide. Like all
the other times. It would achieve nothing. The voice does not reply. I look around frantically. Nobody is
looking at me. They are praying to the blood of the sacrificial lamb again. It is over. Too late. I am
weeping. That doesn't look strange, plenty of people are weeping. I could still kill him. But I don't. I can't
see the wizard, whoever he is. I stand up.

The actors by the cross are wailing. I glance about for the woman with the gold cross, not that it
matters any more. I don't see her. People are crying, and praying, and some of the tourists are starting to
leave. The priest goes up to the actor on the cross. I've persuaded myself so well that I still more than
half think of Him as the Son of Man. His head hangs limp. He's very convincing. Too late. The others will
cast me out and curse me. I expect I'll die. Someone can try again in three years. All my focus is gone. I
don't know what to do. I stand up and take a few steps away. I never thought I'd leave this place alive,
not by my own will.

There is a cry behind me, and I turn. The priest is calling for the doctor. People are fussing over the
man on the cross. The body on the cross? They are cutting him down and he is hanging very limp.
Nobody could act that well. He must have fainted. I walk back, slowly, through the fine yellow dust that
sticks to my shoes. The crowd are confused, I among them. A siren in the distance, drawing closer, an
ambulance. "No pulse!" a young woman whispers loudly to a companion, in English. Then the cry goes
up: "Mortos!" "E vero! Mortos!" Dead? Dead in truth? But how? I didn't—it doesn't make sense. I walk
towards the cross, pushing through the crowd. My head pounds. How can he be dead? Did he die
anyway? Did I do it by force of will without knowing? Or was I not needed? Does this count? I want to
speak to Claude and see if he can work it out.

The ambulance arrives, screeching to a halt with a disdain for road safety I've already picked up in
two days as typically Italian. People leap out of the way. The crowd are weeping and wailing on a much
more authentic note now. The medics push through with a stretcher, and pick up the body. An arm hangs
limp over the side as they carry it back. Again I am reminded of religious pictures, pietas. The bright
afternoon sunlight is too much for oils, but just right for the illustrations to children's stories. The men
close the doors and drive away, leaving a stink of exhaust cutting across the smells of dust and sweat.
Modern medicine will not close him in the tomb if he is not dead, nor leave him with a stone that may be