The Brief History of the Dead - Brockmeier Kevin (первая книга txt) 📗
And that was three days.
The birds were dinosaurs.
He had read about it in a book once – how in the time of the great dying the largest of the dinosaurs had been killed off by disease and starvation, but the smallest had survived, and over the centuries they had changed, and finally they had become the birds. So the birds were dinosaurs, and the dinosaurs were reptiles, and the reptiles, as everybody knew, were demons. It took a diligent eye to see through all the disguises that were in place.
He peeled the bandage from his chin to investigate the scrape he had gotten in the fall. Though the injury was shallow, it had not yet sealed over, and he carefully probed at the edges with his fingers to see whether a crust had formed there, and, if so, whether it had begun to curl away from his skin. Did people heal from the outside in or from the inside out? He wasn't sure. But he himself did not seem to be healing at all. He cleaned the scrape and replaced the bandage and got his sign from the balcony, and later that day, when he was eating lunch with Joseph, he said to him, "I'm no better today than I was yesterday," and Joseph said, "Well, I can't say that I find that very surprising."
"Why not?"
"I don't know that any of us ever gets any better. I have a hard time believing that people change at all."
Coleman disagreed. "We are all changed by the hand of the Lord. God gave Saul a new heart, the Bible says. Both Sauls, in fact – King Saul and that Saul who became the Apostle Paul. But I wasn't talking about my heart. I was talking about my chin."
"Oh. Well, I can't say I'm surprised by that either."
"Why not?"
"If I leave you to yourself, you eat nothing but starches all the time. You don't get an ounce of protein. Whatever happened to 'Your body is your temple' is what I want to know."
Four birds circled overhead, and Coleman realized that they were watching him again. He hushed Joseph and pointed into the air, and for the rest of the lunch hour, as they finished their hamburgers, he would not let him speak.
It had been only a few weeks since he had asked the Lord to reveal to him the names of the demons, whereupon he had felt a hand directing him into Bristow's restaurant. He had overheard two men talking about the birds. "So it all comes down to the
Laura bird," the first man had said, and the second man had nodded and answered, "Yes, the Laura bird, that's what it looks like," and ever since then Coleman had heard people talking about them everywhere.
The Laura birds. The Laura birds. The Laura birds.
It seemed that nobody could escape from them.
He followed the sidewalk past a vintage clothing store and an empty dance studio and then past the gaping mouth and long distended throat of a subway entrance. When he rounded the corner, the wind threatened to tug his sign away from him. He had to turn it sideways in order to keep his grip on it. The sun was showing on the windshields and silver trim of the cars parked along the street, a pearl-strung line of small white balls with thin spikes of light coming out of them. They were almost too bright to look at. A teenager with a halo of frizzy red hair skateboarded past him and said, "The Truth and the Life. All right, man!" and it took Coleman a moment to remember the message that was printed on his sign. He turned and shouted to the boy's disappearing figure, "You forgot the Way. Don't forget the Way," and the boy raised his hand to Coleman in a salute.
He spent the rest of the afternoon, into the early evening, circling the poorly distinguished boundary line of the district, that meandering belt of fenced-in lots and vacant buildings where the streets began to fade into the empty city. He was looking for people who not yet heard His message. By the time he reached his home, the moon was shining like a Wiffle ball in the highest portion of the evening sky. And that made the fourth day.
The rest of the night passed slowly, and in the morning he opened his eyes, and though the sun had risen and the hours had gone by, he could not say whether or not he had slept. He felt as though he remembered dreaming, but as soon as he tried to summon the dream to the front of his mind, it slipped away from him, vanishing into the shadows. The only thing he was certain he remembered was lying as still as he could for hours on end, waiting for that strange feeling of segmentation in his limbs that meant he was finally drifting off to sleep. But as to whether or not he had, at last, slept, he could not be certain.
It was yet another thing that God knew and he did not, though perhaps one day it would be revealed to him.
The Laura birds had landed on his balcony again, and he frightened them away, opening and closing the two glass doors with a sudden loud bang that sent them flying down to the street. Then he put his shoes on and selected his sign and carried it out into the city. There was a little grocery store at the corner of the block, and he stopped there and picked up a bag of peeled baby carrots for the vitamins and a small styrofoam tray of dried sausage fingers for the protein. Joseph was right – his body was, after all, his temple. He put the carrots in one pocket and the sausage fingers in the other, and he found that he could feel the packages on his thighs as he walked, swinging back and forth, their weight almost perfectly balanced. It was a good weight, like the weight of God's attention, which held all things to the earth and prevented them from vanishing into atoms.
The morning was cool and sunlit and peaceful, and hundreds of people were already out roaming the city streets. He raised his voice as he drifted between them, calling out, "Brothers and sisters! My many friends! Hearken to the Word of God, for His Word is true and His Word is just!" And he held the sign he was carrying high above his head, steadying it with both his hands so that everyone who approached him could see it without obstruction. It read GOD IS LOVE in bold black letters, though on the other side he had also written GOD IS HOPE, just in case.
Several hours had gone by and the sun was hidden behind the crown of a building when he passed the clockmaker's shop on the west side of Park Street. He knew it was noon by the chime of the clocks in the window. There were dozens of them, carefully synchronized. He stood there watching their mechanisms turn for a while before he moved on – their second hands sweeping across their faces, their minute hands ticking forward by tiny, almost imperceptible degrees. He left when they touched 12:05. He followed the shadows of the clouds through the gathering place. He stopped to preach to the line of people that had formed outside one of the coffee shops, and when the manager ran out waving his broom at him, he tucked his sign under his arm and fled, and shortly thereafter, he came to the churchyard where he had buried his tooth.
The bread sticks he had joined together in the shape of the cross were missing. Though he examined the ground carefully, he could not find the patch of soil they had marked.
There were birds all around him, though, pecking at the grass, and it took him a moment to realize what they were doing: they were searching for his tooth so that they could swallow it. They had already eaten the bread sticks, concealing the place where the tooth lay buried, and now they had decided to eat the tooth as well, to pry it from consecrated ground and take it into the dark furnaces of their stomachs so that it would never be returned to him.
They had not yet uncovered it, though, and with the guidance of the Lord, they never would.
Coleman found a rake leaning against the wall of the church, and he took it up and left his sign in its place. He shouted, "Get out of here! Go!" as he pursued the birds through the churchyard, swinging the rake from side to side and then across his feet and then down from over his head like a mallet. The tines rang and clattered as they hit the ground. Only once did he actually make contact with one of the birds, clipping its tail so that a little spray of feathers burst into the air and drifted lightly to the grass. The creature squawked and went flapping away, landing on the neck of a lamppost across the street. He kept chasing the others, following them from one hopping point to the next until finally, after much screaming and beating of the grass, the last one flew away. The churchyard was empty. His tooth was safe for now.
