"Roger Zelazny & Fred Saberhagen - The Black Throne" - читать интересную книгу автора (Zelazny Roger)

unknown at least to me. As I knelt to regard it more closely, I was amazed by its markings. The black
spots on its back, I suddenly realized, were so situated as to result in its likeness to a golden skull.
I pulled a large leaf from a nearby plant, brushed the gleaming insect onto it, wrapped it carefully and
put it into my pocket. Legrand, I was certain, would be extremely interested when next I visited him. If
not a disquisition, an intriguing speculation would doubtless result.
I trudged on along the sandy beach, depressed despite a pleasant afternoon, an interesting find. I studied
the dark cloud formations on the horizon while petitioning an inordinate boon of destiny, all unknowing
that it had—in a way—already been granted. Just inland, to my right, a dense, almost impenetrable
thicket of evergreen myrtle covered most of the ground. Graveyard flowers, I've heard them called,
giving full and easy coverage. It was such a strange thing—to see a dream after years of dreaming, to
realize of a sudden that it was, somehow, of a piece with life. Then, at the instant of the spirit's triumph,
to have it snatched away before any understanding might follow. Left, left and bereft then, mystery
proved but reason fled, a piece of my own life seen, as it were, for the first time, in a new light, then torn
from me with no means of recovery. What evil hap might grant one's fondest wish against all odds, then
snatch it away but moments later? I kicked at a stone, listened to a distant roll of thunder far out over the
water. It was not only that my entire view of life had been altered in a few minutes—I am not so
introspective and inclined to metaphysic as to be paralyzed by this—but that it should occur in such a
fashion as to portend a doom and me powerless to defend the beloved ghost against it.
After I'd gone perhaps another mile my path turned inland, penetrating the thickets. This way took one
across the island. The shadows were struggling to unite as I passed within, for now the sun was setting.
I halted a bit later as I emerged on the inland side of the island. Something was very wrong. I rubbed my
eyes and shook my head, but the vision did not change.
They stood inland, beyond the tidal creek and a mile or so of marsh—tall in the reddish dusk, a pair of
wooded bluffs, where I would take my oath none had stood before. Something was wrong, very wrong,
and I'd no idea what it might be. I doubted my staring would alter the vista, however, and I turned again
upon my westward path. Shortly thereafter, I was able to see the lights of distant Charleston twinkling
across the harbor, some already masked in part by the rapidly accumulating fog. The fog seemed to

file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/Nieuwe%20map/Zelazny,%20Ro...20Fred%20-%20The%20Black%20Throne/0743435796___1.htm (7 of 10)6-1-2007 13:29:31
 - Chapter 1

approach with an uncommon swiftness, and I halted for some while to regard its performance.
The disposition of the city seemed slightly different than the last time I had studied it from this vantage,
though my mind was troubled and the fog moved too quickly for me to be certain of anything. For with
fog I could see her again with the eyes of memory, Annie, dream child, dream girl, dream lady, Annie,
she whose existence I had counted over the years as some recurrent fantasy, a child's imaginary
playmate who had, somehow, grown up along with him, who, somehow, summoned me, or I her, to
realms of hysterical vision, usually upon a seashore, Annie, my dear hallucination, my lady of the
fog. . . .
And that was all. For what more could she be—my secret aberration, dream companion, somehow friend
or even more . . . ?
Annie. Not real. Of course not. All those times we had met, no more substantial than the fog I now
considered. Or so I'd thought. Until the day before yesterday when my world was broken.
I had been walking in the town, prompting digestion following dinner. Then as now a bit of fog had
drifted on the sea breeze through lengthening shadows. Autumn matched the sea with a dampness of its
own. Storefronts mixed darkness with reflections. A patient spaniel awaited his master before a public
house. Dust glistened on the roadway. Several dark birds passed seaward, uttering raucous notes. At this,
I was overtaken by a great feeling of uneasiness. Moments later, I heard the cry.
That seems the best way to put it, though upon reflection it does not seem I actually could have heard
her just then. For the coach was not yet even in sight. It was more that there was a cry and I