Nation - Пратчетт Терри Дэвид Джон (читать книги бесплатно полностью TXT) 📗

He stared down into the water, not actually seeing anything other than his thoughts. He’d need more tubers, and maybe some beer, but not too much. First, though, he’d have to catch a fish —

And there one was, only a little way away from his feet, white against the white sand so that only its pale shadow gave it away. It floated there like a gift from the gods — No! It was there because he had been so still, as a hunter should be. It was completely unaware of him.

He speared the fish, cleaned it, and took it to the priest, who was sitting between the two big god anchors.

“You know how to cook fish, sir?”

“Are you here to blaspheme against the gods, demon boy?” said Ataba.

“No. It would only be blasphemy to say they didn’t exist if they were real,” said Mau, keeping his voice level. “Now, can you cook fish?”

By the look of it, Ataba was not going to argue religion when there was fresh food around.

“Since before you were born,” said the old man, eyeing the fish greedily.

“Then let the ghost girl have some, and please make a gruel for the woman.”

“She won’t eat it,” said Ataba flatly. “There was food on her raft. There is something wrong in her head.”

Mau looked at the Unknown Woman, who was still by the fire. The ghost girl had brought along more blankets from the Sweet Judy, and at least the woman was sitting up now. Daphne was beside her, holding her hand and talking to her. They are making a Women’s Place, he thought. The language doesn’t matter.

“There will be others,” said Ataba behind him. “Lots of people will end up here.”

“How do you know?”

“The smoke, boy! I saw it from miles away! They will come. We weren’t the only ones. And maybe the Raiders will come, too, from their great land. You will call upon the gods then, oh yes! You will grovel before Imo when the Raiders come.”

“After all this? What’s left for them? What have we still got that they would want?”

“Skulls. Flesh. Their pleasure in our death. The usual things. Pray to the gods, if you dare, that those cannibals do not come this far.”

“Will that help?” said Mau.

Ataba shrugged. “What else do we have?”

“Then pray to the gods to send milk for the child,” said Mau. “Surely they can do something so simple?”

“And what will you do, demon boy?”

“Something else!” Mau paused then, and thought: He’s an old man. He came many miles, and he did stop for the woman and her baby. That is important. He let his anger subside again. “I don’t mean to insult you, Ataba,” he said.

“Oh, I understand,” said the old man. “We all rage against the gods sometimes.”

“Even you?”

“Yes. First thing every morning, when my knees go click and my back aches. I curse them then, you can be certain of it. But quietly, you understand. And I say, ‘Why did you make me old?’”

“And what do they reply?”

“It doesn’t work like that. But as the day wears on and there is maybe some beer, I think I find their answer arising in my mind. I think they tell me: ‘It is because you will prefer it to the alternative.’” He looked at Mau’s puzzled expression. “Not dead, you see?”

“I don’t believe that,” said Mau. “I mean, I think you’re just hearing your own thoughts.”

“Do you wonder where your thoughts come from?”

“I don’t think they come from a demon!”

Ataba smiled. “We shall see.”

Mau stared at the old man. He had to be proud about this. This was Mau’s island. He had to act like a chief.

“There is something I am going to try,” he said stiffly. “This is for my Nation. If I don’t come back, you can stay here. If you stay, there are the huts at the Women’s Place. If I come back, I will fetch you beer, old man.”

“There is beer that happens and beer that does not happen,” said the priest. “I like the beer that happens.”

Mau smiled. “First there must be the milk that happens,” he said.

“Fetch it, demon boy,” said Ataba, “and I’ll believe anything!”

CHAPTER 5

The Milk That Happens

MAU HURRIED UP TO the Women’s Place and entered more boldly than he had done before. There was no time to waste. The sun was dropping down the sky, and the ghost of the moon was rising.

This had to work. And he’d have to concentrate, and time it right and he probably wouldn’t get another try.

First, get some beer. That wasn’t hard. The women made mother-of-beer every day, and he found some fizzing gently to itself on a shelf. It was full of dead flies, but they would be no problem. He did the beer ceremony and sang the Song of the Four Brothers as the beer required, and took down a big bunch of plantains and some whistling yams. They were old and wrinkled, just right for pigs.

The Nation had been rich enough to have four three-legged cauldrons, and two of them were up here in the Place. He got a fire going under one and dumped the plantains and the yams in. He added a bit of beer, let it all boil until the roots were soft and floury, and then it was just a matter of pounding it all together into one big beery mess with the butt of his spear.

Even so, the shadows were getting longer by the time he continued on toward the forest, with the oozing, beery mash dripping in a woven punk-wood bag under one arm and a small calabash under the other. It was the best one he could find: Someone had been very careful to scrape out as much of the orange flesh as possible and dry the rind with care so that it was light and strong, without any cracks.

He left his spear propped up outside the Women’s Place. For a lone man, a spear was no good against an angry hog — a furious boar would bite one in half, or spit itself on the shaft and keep on going, a ball of biting, slashing rage that didn’t know when it was dead. And the sows were worse when they had piglets at heel, so he was probably going to die if the beer didn’t work.

At least there was a little piece of luck. There was a fat old sow on the track, piglets all around her, and Mau saw her before she saw him, but only just. He stopped dead. She gave a snort and shifted her big wobbling body, uncertain at the moment whether to charge but ready to do so if he made a wrong move.

He took the big ball of mash out of the bag and tossed it toward her. He was running before it hit the forest floor, crashing away like a frightened creature. He stopped after a minute and listened. From some way behind him came some very satisfied grunting.

And now for the dirty bit. He moved a lot more quietly now, making a big circle to bring himself back onto the path past where the sow lay. She’d come from the big mucky wallow the pigs had made where a stream crossed the track. They loved it, and it was filthy. It stank of pig, and Mau rolled in it until he did, too.

Globs of the slimy stuff slithered off him as he crept back along the track. Well, he certainly didn’t smell human anymore. He probably never would again.

The old sow had trampled herself a nest in the undergrowth and was making happy, beery snoring noises, with her family crawling and fighting all over her.

Mau dropped to the ground and began to crawl forward. The sow’s eyes were shut. Surely she wouldn’t smell him through all the muck? Well, that was a risk he had to take. Would the piglets, already shoving one another aside to get at the teats, work out what he was? They squealed all the time in any case, but did they have a special squeal that would set the sow on him? He’d find out. Would he even be able to get the milk out? He’d never heard of anyone milking a pig before. Something else to find out. He’d have to learn a lot in a short time. But he’d fight Locaha everywhere he spread his dark wings.

“Does not happen,” he whispered, and slid forward into the brawling, squalling mass of pork.