Gardner Dozois - The Peacemaker

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2024-11-24 0 0 76.54KB 10 页 5.9玖币

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THE PEACEMAKER

byGardner Dozois

Royhad dreamed of the sea, as he often did. When he woke up that morning, the wind was sighing

through the trees out-side with a sound like the restless murmuring of surf, and for a moment he thought

that he was home, back in the tidy brick house by the beach, with everything that had happened undone,

and hope opened hotly inside him, like a wound.

“Mom?” he said. He sat up, straightening his legs, expecting his feet to touch the warm mass that was his

dog, Toby. Toby always slept curled at the foot of his bed, but already everything was breaking up and

changing, slipping away, and he blinked through sleep-gummed eyes at the thin blue light coming in

through the attic window, felt the hardness of the old Army cot under him, and realized that he wasn’t

home, that there was no home anymore, that for him there could never be a home again.

He pushed the blankets aside and stood up. It was bitterly cold in the big attic room-winter was dying

hard, the most terrible winter he could remember-and the rough wood planking burned his feet like ice,

but he couldn’t stay in bed anymore, not now.

None of the other kids were awake yet; he threaded his way through the other cots-accidently bumping

against one of them so that its occupant tossed and moaned and began to snore in a higher register-and

groped through cavernous shadows to the single high window. He was just tall enough to reach it, if he

stood on tiptoe. He forced the window open, the old wood of its frame groaning in protest, plaster dust

puffing, and shivered as the cold dawn wind poured inward, hitting him in the face, tugging with ghostly

fingers at his hair, sweeping past him to rush through the rest of the stuffy attic like a restless child set free

to play.

The wind smelled of pine resin and wet earth, not of salt flats and tides, and the bird-sound that rode in

on that wind was the burbling of wrens and the squawking of bluejays, not the raucous shrieking of

seagulls . . . but even so, as he braced his elbows against the window frame and strained up to look out,

his mind still full of the broken fragments of dreams, he half-expected to see the ocean below, stretched

out to the horizon, sending patient wavelets to lap against the side of the house. Instead he saw the

nearby trees holding silhouetted arms up against the graying sky, the barn and the farmyard, all still lost in

shadow, the surrounding fields, the weathered macadam line of the road, the forested hills rolling away

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