Cook Glen / Кук Глен - Собрание сочинений (75 произведений) [1971-2018, fb2/epub ENG]

The Heirs of Babylon 1972, epub The Swordbearer / Меченосец 2009, epub, ISBN: 978-1-59780-150-8, Night Shade Books A Matter of Time 1985, epub, ISBN: 0-441-52213-0, Ace The Dragon Never Sleeps / Дракон не спит никогда 1988, fb2; 2008, epub, ISBN: 978-1-59780-099-0, Night Shade Books The Tower of Fear / Башня Страха 2012, epub, ISBN: 9781466831155, Tor Sung in Blood / Песнь крови 1990, epub, ISBN: 0-915368-44-7, NESFA Press

Song from a Forgotten Hill / Песня с забытого холма 1971, fb2 And Dragons in the Sky 1972, fb2 In the Wind 1975, fb2 The Recruiter 1977, fb2 The Seventh Fool / Седьмой дурак 1978, fb2 Winter's Dreams 1997, fb2 The Good Magician 2009, fb2

Glen Cook Song from a Forgotten Hill We were trapped in a world where tomorrow was yesterday. The fire had come three times and gone, and now we were back where our fathers had been a hundred years ago. There were some—"Toms," I've heard them called— who went into slavery as if it were their birthright, but there were also those who fought and died rather than hoe in some redneck's field. Most of those who fought did die. But free. "Go tell it on the mountain,

Over the hill and everywhere;

Go tell it on the mountain,

To let my people go...." The fire came the first time when the good soldier-men in Washington and Moscow decided on mutual suicide. The Russians thought of victory in terms of population destruction. They shot at cities. Our people suffered more than Mr. Charley. We lived in the cities that were the targets. But so did the white liberals who were helping bring change. The fire came a second time when militants burned the remnants of Whitey's cities. Mr. Charley was too busy with his war to be bothered then, but the fire came a third time when he finished and turned his attention inward. There was civil war between whites and blacks. Might may not make right, but it makes victory. White's Mate. A Fool's Mate. Black loses, and now tomorrow is yesterday. The war killed most all the good folks. They lived where the bombs fell. The rednecks and the militants seem to be the only survivors. And now the rednecks, who waited so long for their chance, are "puttin' 'em back in their place." There are very few of us out here in the hills. We're hunted, and running, but free. My son Al came to me this morning, while I was at the spring getting water for breakfast coffee. He asked when we could go home. Said he's getting tired of camping in a smelly cave. He misses Jamey, the son of the white couple who lived next door in St. Louis. At five he's too young to understand a child killed in war. Nor would he understand if I told him Jamey's father was one of the vigilantes who drove us south into these hills. He wouldn't understand, and I'm afraid to try an explanation. Because I don't understand either. Met a man while I was hunting his morning. Gave me a rabbit he had extra, for which I was thankful. Said his name was Duncan X and he was trying to round up men for a freedom raid into the Bootheel. A lot of our people working down there, he said. Have to free them. I told him I'd like to help, but I have a family. Four kids, the oldest fifteen, and no wife. He looked at me like I was a monster and traitor, then wandered off through the woods, carrying his rifle with the safety off. He was wearing old Army camouflage fatigues. I soon lost sight of him, but I heard him singing for a long time. "Who's that yonder dressed in black?

Let my people go,

Must be a hypocrite turning back,

Let my people go...." What could I do? I hate the way things are as much as he, but there are the children to be cared for. I'm sick of the shooting and burning and dying. We're all Americans. Aren't we? Why do we have to hate so much? We've got a nation to rebuild. After the wanderer left, I went up to my secret place to pray. It's a lonely, windy place atop a hill burned bald by an old fire. I usually feel close to God there, but not today. Lines from a joke I once heard one white man telling another ran through my mind. A Negro was hanging from a cliff, unable to save himself. He called for God's help and was told to have faith, to let go, and he would be saved. As he fell, a voice from the sky said, "Ah hates Nigras." I can't help thinking, sometimes, that he hates one of the races. He keeps us fighting on and on. Forever, it seems. ...

1. Antieux: The Stress of Peace

Brother Candle settled at the breakfast table, still sleep-groggy. “Look at him being smug. All fruit and berries, there.” A dozen people shared the table, Count Raymone Garete’s intimates. His spouse, the Countess Socia, had made the disparaging remark. Count Raymone’s cousin Bernardin said, “Don’t mind her, Master. She’s looking for a fight again. Or still. Calm down, girl. Peace has broken out. Enjoy it.” Brother Candle nodded. He agreed. * * * Socia knew it could not last. The world would pull itself together and get back to the horrors soon. Following a bite of melon, the old man observed, “The world has rolled over complete when Bernardin Amberchelle is the voice of reason.” To the Countess, so like a daughter after all they had suffered, he said, “Control your emotions. For the sake of the child.” Socia was gravid in the extreme. That exacerbated her naturally abrasive character. The baby was overdue. It would be her first. She was plagued by all the first-time terrors. She refused to follow the custom of her station and go into seclusion. Socia Garete was no ornament to her husband. She was a working partner, even a managing partner. She did not want to miss anything. The Count, the Maysalean Perfect Brother Candle, and everyone else for whom she cared, and who cared for her, had abandoned hope of getting her to behave as a proper noblewoman. Hell, she spent half her time with an equally injudicious commoner refugee heretic from Khaurene, Kedle Richeut. She idolized Kedle. Kedle Richeut had made a difference. Kedle had killed a king. Brother Candle had known Socia since she was a bloody-minded teen living with three brothers in a small stronghold on the Connec’s northeast frontier. Never had she shown the least inclination to be a good girl, focused on embroidery and producing children. As always, Count Raymone showed only amused indulgence. He loved Socia with the passion and depth sung by the Connec’s jongleurs, unusual in a time of negotiated marriages. But Raymone Garete had come into his patrimony young. Those who would have strapped him into a loveless political alliance had passed on before he could be fitted to harness. Count Raymone had chosen Socia on brief exposure because he had recognized her instantly as a soul perfectly complementary to himself. Count Raymone said, “At this point, my love, you should listen attentively when the Master speaks.” Startled, Socia shut her mouth. Raymone continued, “I understand. I have my own problems adjusting to an absence of enemies. The fact is, we aren’t likely to have any till Anselin gets home or Serenity makes a startling comeback.” Bernardin said, “Anselin shouldn’t be a problem. He won’t let his mother bully him. I’ll bet a shilling now that he stuffs her into a convent.” Socia made snarling noises to remind everyone that she was in a foul humor. Still. Raymone ignored her. “I can’t even fritter time chasing Society brothers. The survivors are hidden so deep they’ve forgotten which way to swim to find the light.” Brother Candle grumbled, “If they cared about the Light they wouldn’t be in the Society for the Suppression of Sacrilege and Heresy in the first place.” Bernardin chuckled through a mouthful of salt pork. He professed the Maysalean creed but refused to observe its dietary whims. “Been a few weeks since I’ve nabbed one. But the rest aren’t buried as deep as they hope. The new bishop isn’t as clever as he thinks.” “LaVelle?” Brother Candle asked. “The very one. The latest. Dumber than a keg of rocks but the first honest one since way back before Serifs. I’m going to make sure he survives.” For a decade Episcopal Chaldarean bishops had shown a remarkable inability to stay healthy in a bishopric the Church was determined to scourge and flense for tolerating heresy. “Honest?” Brother Candle asked. Bernardin offered a wobbling hand gesture. “Comparatively. He did bring along a clutch of deadbeat relatives. But he’s no holy bandit like Meryl Ponte or Mathe Richenau.” Count Raymone interjected, “Darling, when was your last visit to Mistress Alecsinac?” Alecsinac was her senior attendant midwife. Clever, in Brother Candle’s thinking. Stopping Bernardin from admitting he had an agent close to the new bishop, in case LaVelle or the Society had an agent close to the Count. There was a point to Raymone’s question beyond that. ...

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