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

“It was scared of me,” he said. “Perhaps it was scared by the demon.”

“Wow!” said Pilu.

“Remind me when we get back that I owe a fish to Nawi.” Then he looked along the little deck to Ataba, who was lying in a heap. “How is he?”

“He’s been banged about on the coral, but he’ll live,” said Milo. He gave Mau a questioning look, as if to say “If that’s all right with you?” He went on, “Er… who’s Nawi? A new god?”

“No. Better than a god. A good man.”

Mau felt cold now. It had seemed so warm in the blue bubble. He wanted to shiver, but he didn’t dare let them see. He wanted to lie down, but there was no time for that. He needed to get back, he needed to find ou —

“Grandfathers?” he said under his breath. “Tell me what to do! I do not know the chants, I do not know the songs, but just once, help me! I need a chart for the world, I need a map!”

There was no reply. Perhaps they were just tired, but they couldn’t be more tired than he was. How tiring was it, being dead? At least you could lie down.

“Mau?” Milo rumbled, behind him. “What is happening here? Why did the priest try to smash the holy stones?”

This was not the time to say “I don’t know.” The brothers had begging, hungry looks, like dogs waiting to be fed. They wanted an answer. It would be nice if it was the right answer, but if it couldn’t be, then any answer would do, because then we would stop being worried… and then his mind caught alight.

That’s what the gods are! An answer that will do! Because there’s food to be caught and babies to be born and life to be lived and so there is no time for big, complicated, and worrying answers! Please give us a simple answer, so that we don’t have to think, because if we think, we might find answers that don’t fit the way we want the world to be.

So what can I say now?

“I think he thinks they aren’t really holy,” Mau managed.

“It’s because of the calipers carving, yes?” said Pilu. “That’s what he was trying to smash! He thinks you’re right. They were made by the trousermen!”

“They were inside coral,” said Milo. “Reefs are old. Trousermen are new.”

Mau saw Ataba stir. He went and sat down next to the priest as the brothers maneuvered the canoe around and fought it back through the gap. People had gathered on the beach, trying to see what was happening.

When the brothers were busy, Mau leaned down. “Who made the god anchors, Ataba?” he whispered. “I know you can hear me.”

The priest opened one eye. “It’s not your place to question me, demon boy!”

“I saved your life.”

“It’s a ragged old life and not worth saving,” said Ataba, sitting up. “I don’t thank you!”

“It’s very ragged indeed and smells of beer, but you must pay me back, otherwise it belongs to me. You can buy it back but I set the price!”

Ataba looked furious. He struggled as if he was being boiled in anger and resentment, but he knew the rule as well as anyone.

“All right!” he snapped. “What do you want, demon boy?”

“The truth,” said Mau.

The priest pointed a finger at him. “No you don’t! You want a special truth. You want the truth to be a truth that you like. You want it to be a pretty little truth that fits what you already believe! But I will tell you a truth you will not like. People want their gods, demon boy. They want to make holy places, whatever you say.”

Mau wondered if the priest had been reading his mind. He would have needed good eyesight, because rosy clouds of exhaustion floated across Mau’s thoughts, as if he was dreaming. Sleep always wanted paying; if you put off sleeping for days on end, then Sleep would sooner or later turn up with its hand out.

“Did the gods carve the white stone?” His tongue slurred the words.

“Yes!”

“That was a lie,” Mau managed. “The stones have trouserman tool marks on them. Surely gods don’t need tools.”

“Men are their tools, boy. They put the idea of carving into the minds of our ancestors!”

“And the other stones?”

“Not only gods can get into a mind, boy, as you should know!”

“You think they are demons?” said Mau. “Demon stones?”

“Where you find gods, you find demons.”

“That might be true,” said Mau. Behind him, he heard Milo snort.

“It is my position to know the truth of things!” Ataba shouted.

“Stop that, old man,” said Mau as gently as he could. “I’ll ask you one more time, and if I think you are lying, then I will let the gods blow your soul over the edge of the world.”

“Ha! But you don’t believe in the gods, demon boy! Or do you? Don’t you listen to yourself, boy? I do. You shout and stamp and yell that there are no gods, and then you shake your fist at the sky and revile them for not existing! You need them to exist so that the flames of your denial will warm you in your self-righteousness! That’s not thinking, that’s just a hurt child screaming in pain!”

Mau’s expression did not change, but he felt the words clang back and forth in his head. What do I believe? he thought. What do I really believe? The world exists, so perhaps Imo exists. But He is far away and does not care Locaha exists — that is certain. The wind blows, fire burns, and water flows for good and bad, right and wrong. Why do they want gods? We need people. That is what I believe. Without other people, we are nothing. And I believe I am more tired than I can remember.

“Tell me who you think carved the stones, Ataba,” he said, keeping his voice calm. “Who brought them here and carved them, so long ago they lie under the coral? Tell me this, because I think you are screaming, too.”

All sorts of thoughts twisted their way across the priest’s face, but there was no escape. “You will be sorry,” he moaned. “You will wish you didn’t know. You will be sorry that you did this to me.”

Mau raised his finger as a warning. It was all he could manage. The pink hogs of tiredness trampled through his thoughts. In a minute he would fall over. When Ataba spoke next, in a whispered hiss, it echoed as if Mau was hearing it inside a cave. The darkness was made of too many thoughts, too much hunger, too much pain.

“Who brings rocks here and leaves them, boy? Think on that. How many people will you hurt even more with your wonderful truth?”

But Mau was already sleeping.

Mr. Black hammered on the door of the Cutty Wren’s wheelhouse for the second time.

“Let me in, Captain! In the name of the Crown!”

A hatch in the door slid back. “Where is she?” said a voice full of suspicion.

“She’s below!” the Gentleman shouted above the roar of the wind.

“Are you certain? She has a habit of jumping out!”

“She’s below, I assure you! Open the door! It’s freezing!”

“Are you positive?”

“For the last time, man, let us in!”

“Who’s ‘us,’ exactly?” said the voice, not to be fooled easily.

“For heaven’s sake! Mr. Red is with me!”

“Is he alone?”

“Open in the name of the Crown, Captain!”

The door opened. A hand dragged both men inside. Behind them, bolts snapped into place with a noise like gunshots.

At least it was warmer in there, and the wind was held at bay. Mr. Black felt as though some giant had stopped punching him.

“Is it always like this?” he said, shaking the water off his oilskins.

“This? This is a fine day in the Roaring Forties, Mr. Black! I was about to go and have a sunbathe! You’ve come about the signal, I dare say.”

“There was something about a tidal wave?”

“A big one. Got this from a navy ship out of Port Mercia an hour ago. Flooding throughout the Western Pelagic. Great loss of life and damage to shipping. Port Mercia safe, it says here. Source of the wave estimated as seventy miles south of the Mothering Sundays.”

“That’s still well to the north of us.”

“And this happened weeks ago!” said Mr. Red, who had been scrutinizing the penciled message.