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For a thousand years the Pale King lay mantled in dark, enchantedslumber, imprisoned in his desolate dominion of Imbrifale.And then2 The derelict school bus blew into town with the last midnight gale ofOctober.Weary brakes whined in complaint as the vehicle pulled off a stretch ofColorado mountain two-lane and into an open field. Beneath a patina of.highway grime that spoke of countless days and countless miles, thebus's slapdash jacket of white paint-a shade called Pearly Gates, justfive-ninetynine a gallon at the Ace Hardware in downtown Leavenworth,Kansas-glowed like bones in the phantasmal light of the setting hornedmoon. The bus's folding door squeaked open, and two painted-over stopsigns flopped out from the vehicle's sides like stunted angel wings. Onesign admonished Repent Your Sins Now, while the other advertised Two forthe Price of One.A figure stepped from the bus. Wind hissed through dry grass around hisankles and plucked with cold fingers at his black mortician's suit. Hereached up a quick, long hand to keep his broad-brimmed pastor's hatplanted on his head, then gazed into the darkness with dark eyes."Yes, this will do fine," he whispered in his steel-rasp andSouthern-honey-pecan voice. "This will do just fine."Then the man-who had been called many names in the past, but who thesedays went by the moniker of Brother34Cy-leaned his scarecrow frame toward the bus, like a lodgepole pinebending before the storm, and called through the open door."We have arrived!"A chorus of excited voices answered him. Someone flicked on the bus'shigh beams, and two cones of light cut through the night. The rearemergency door swung open, hinges creaking, and a dozen shadowy formsleaped out. They dragged a heavy bundle into the field and unrolled itwith deft movements. More dim figures scurried from the back of the bus,wrangling poles and rope, and hurried to join the others. Brother Cystalked to the center of the field and paced a wide circle, digging theheel of his worn black boot into the turf at measured intervals. Whenthe circle was complete, he stood back and looked on in satisfaction.Here would stand his fortress.Canvas snapped like a sail."Blast and damnation, watch that pole!" Brother Cy shouted as hisworkers strained to stand a length of wood as tall and thick as a treeon end. A billowing shape rose up before him, like an elephant lumberingto its feet. Brother Cy prowled around it: the hungry lion."Stake down that wall!" he roared. "Untangle those lines. Get a ropethrough that tackle. Now pull! Pull, or you'll think the Dark One'sdomain a sweet paradise compared tothe hell I'll show you!" Brother Cy thrust his lanky arms above hishead. "Pull!"A score of dim forms strained. The mound heaved itself higher into theair, and higher yet, like a mountain being birthed. At last its pointedpeak reached the top of the high pole. Ropes were lashed around woodenposts and tied off, tray edges of canvas were skewered to the ground,lengths of cord were tucked away. Where minutes before there had beenempty moonlight there now stood a tent. It was an oldfashioned circustent, what in days gone by had been called a big top, torn and patchedin so many places it looked as if it had been sewn from the trousers ofa hundred penniless clowns.Brother Cy clapped his big hands together and laughed like thunder."Now, let the show begin!5Like wraiths in the half-light, the shadowy roustabouts bustled in andout of the tent. Parti-colored banners were unfurled. Collapsiblebleachers were pulled from the back of the bus. Fire sprang to life indozens of punched-tin lanterns, carried inside in a glowing processionuntil the tent shone gold in the night. Last of all a sign was plantedin the earth before the tent's entrance. It proclaimed in bold, Gothicletters:BROTHER CY'S APOCALYPTIC TRAVELING SALVATION SHOWAilments Cured-Faith Restored-Souls RedeemedAnd below that, scrawled in crude script like an afterthought:Come on in-we want to save you!Brother Cy stepped back, crossed his arms, and surveyed his domain."Does all go well?" a clear voice asked behind him.He whirled around, and a cadaverous grin split his gaunt face."Indeed it does, Sister Mirrim." He reached out to help a woman down thesteps of the bus. "Do you see? Our citadel stands once more."Sister Mirrim gazed at the tent. Her visage was smooth, even beautiful,but her old-fashioned garb was severe. She wore a tight-bodiced dress offunereal black, as well as highbuttoned shoes, the kind that could stillbe found to this day in the downtown five-and-dime of any number ofdusty Oklahoma towns-the kind that bespoke the unforgiving hardness ofanother century. Yet, even in the pale light of the crescent moon,Sister Mirrim's long hair shone flame red and flew about her on the wind.A child followed Sister Mirrim down the steps, a small girl clad in ablack dress that was the older woman's in perfect miniature. Her hair,however, was the color of the night, and she regarded Brother Cy withwise purple eyes. He lifted her into his arms. She coiled a small, coolhand around his neck and pressed her soft rosebud mouth against his cheek.6"I love you, too, Child Samanda," Brother Cy said in bemusement."But of course you do," she murmured.He set her down, and hand in hand the trio approached the tent..The windwhistled through the ropes and lines, conjuring a sorrowful hymn."Will they come, Brother Cy?" Sister Mirrim asked, her voice like thecall of a dove. "I have been looking, but I cannot see them yet."He looked past the tent, down into the valley below, to a haphazardcollection of sparks that twinkled in the highcountry night. CastleCity. There they huddled in the warm light of their little houses,unknowing of the darkness that approached. But it was so distant, thisdarkness, so strange, and so terribly far away. How could they know? Howcould they realize that their very souls hung in the balance? Yetsomehow they must. That was why the three had journeyed here."They have to come," Brother Cy said at last. "There are an manv whohave a nart to nhiv "Sister Mirrim shook her head, her question unanswered. ut will they?"It was Child Samanda who spoke this time."Oh, yes," she whispered. "They will come." She slipped her tiny dollhands from the larger grips that enclosed them and took a step nearerthe lights below. "But there are two whose tasks will be far harder thanthose of the others. We cannot know if they will have the strength tobear their burdens."Brother Cy gave a solemn nod. "Then we can pray, my little bird."A chill gust rushed down from the high peaks, and the three looked up tosee the tent shake under the blast. Shadows played crazily across thecanvas walls, cast from within by lanterns dancing on their wires, asthe roustabouts scrambled to brace the tent against the gale. Some ofthe silhouettes were squat as stumps, while others were oddly tall, withfingers as slender as twigs. Some of them bore what seemed antlers,branching like young saplings from their heads, while others looked asif they walked on crooked legs, tails swishing in agitation behind them.However, rippling7canvas could be a twister of shadows, and a player of tricks. The windblew itself into nothing, the tent grew still, the shadows slipped awayfrom the walls."Come, let us go inside," Brother Cy murmured. "To wait for them?"Sister Mirrim asked.Child Samanda nodded in conviction. "Yes, to wait." Hand in hand oncemore, they turned their backs on the night, stepped into the tent, andleft the small mountain town to sleep alone in the night below.891011Sometimes the wind blowing down from the mountains made Travis Wilderfeel like anything could happen.He could always hear it coming, long before the first telltale wisps ofsnow-clean air touched his face. It would begin as a distant roar far upthe canyon, nearly and yet not at all like the ancient voice of astormswept ocean. Before long he could see it, rushing in wave afterwave through the forest that mantled the granite-boned ranges thatencircled the valley. Lodgepole pines swayed in graceful rhythm, whilecloudlike aspen shivered green, then silver, then green again. Momentslater, in abandoned fields just outside of town, he could hear thewitchgrass rattle a final portent as it whirled around in wild pagancircles.Then the wind would strike.It would race down Elk Street-Castle City's broad main avenue-like aninvisible ghost-herd of Indian ponies. Past McKay's General Store. Pastthe Mosquito Cafe. Past the abandoned assay office, the Mine ShaftSaloon, the Blue Summit Earth Shop, and the faded Victorian opera house.Dogs would bark and snap at passing newspaper tumbleweeds. Strollingtourists would turn their backs and shut their eyes to dust devils thatglittered with gum wrappers and cigarette-pack cellophane. Dude-ranchcowboys would12hold on to black hats with turquoise-ringed hands while their dustersflew out behind them like rawhide wings.Maybe he was the only one in town crazy enough, but Travis loved thewind. He always had. He would step outside the buckshot-speckled door ofthe Mine Shaft Saloon, which he had the dubious distinction of owningthese days, and lean over the boardwalk rail to face the gale full-on.There was no way to know from where the wind had journeyed, he reasoned,or just what it might blow his way. He would breathe the quickening air,sharp with the scents of cold mountain stone a... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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