And so the night has already set in... Today it seems cold in the street. Haven't you yet noticed it? Look out of the window... Don't be afraid, come up to it and pull aside the curtain. Do you see the fog? No? Take a closer look. There it is, clothing in its milky-white sheet the streets and lanes, houses and lamp posts. Neatly, almost imperceptibly it devours everything that happens to cross its path. I would not recommend you to go outside at this dangerous time if you care for your life. Better sink deeper in your comfortable armchair and listen to my story about the far-away Canada. It happened many years back, in a village bearing the mysterious name of Anjikuni... I have quite forgotten... look at the calendar: today is January 19, 1930...
Рассказ в 2003 году номинируется на Международном конкурсе молодых фантастов имени Рэя Брэдбери и Артура Кларка. Конкурс проводится под эгидой Европейского космического агентства. Место проведения -- Ноордвик (Нидерланды). Я рискнул. Отборочный тур пройден! Это хорошо, так сказать. Одержу ли победу? Будем надеяться, что фортуна не подведет...
Адрес конкурса:
"The Clarke-Bradbury International Science Fiction Competition Team.".
http://www.itsf.org
Кроме этого, рад сообщить, что эта рукопись через ГОД (!), наконец-то, продвинулась в ознакомлении с ней самого... гм-м... (не падайте!)... Люка Бессона. Да, того самого, который снял блокбастер "Пятый элемент". Обождем немного... Авось прорвемся! Текст письма, полученного мной несколько дней назад из офиса Люка Бессона (на французском, естественно!):
"BP 947 - 75829 Paris cedex 17. Monsieur, Nous avons bien reзu votre e.mail et nous vous en remercions vivement. Nous sommes dйsolйs de vous rйpondre avec autant de retard mais nous recevonsйnormйment de courriers. Actuellement, Luc Besson ne peut vous rйpondre personnellement. Toutefois, toutes les lettres adressйes а son attention sont mises de cфtй. Amicalement. Bureau de Luc Besson".
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Shamans of Anjikuni
from the "Dark stories" cycle by Paul Gross - 8 pages 4400 words.
And so the night has already set in ...
Today it seems cold in the street. Haven't you yet noticed it? Look out of the window ... Don't be afraid, come up to it and pull aside the curtain. Do you see the fog? No? Take a closer look. There it is, clothing in its milky-white sheet the streets and lanes, houses and lamp posts. Neatly, almost imperceptibly it devours everything that happens to cross its path. I would not recommend you to go outside at this dangerous time if you care for your life. Better sink deeper in your comfortable armchair and listen to my story about the far-away Canada. It happened many years back, in a village bearing the mysterious name of Anjikuni ... I have quite forgotten ... look at the calendar: today is January 19, 1930 ...
'So they are again trying to test my power?!' shouted an old man with a gray beard.
Kneeling down, a young European-looking man, long-haired and with a newly-grown beard, tossed an armful of recently gathered brushwood closer to the fire.
'When I was collecting brushwood, I listened to what people were saying. I can't say I understood everything exactly... But it seemed to me the people in the village are against you. They say that White Shaman is more powerful. He says he has more rights to be a shaman. And the village cannot afford to keep two shamans. The elders say one of you will have to leave...'
As if confirming his words, the wind threw aside the curtain shielding the entrance to the hut, bringing to those inside the nearby singing and monotone sounds of drums.
'Pfff, these people are so stupid! They would blame anyone for their misfortunes. Were it somebody else in my place, they would throw stones at him, too. That damned Andjunda the White Shaman - he is the one who is to blame. He tries to harm me in everything I do! He kills those whom I cure, brings to an icy desert those to whom I send hunting luck, drills holes in the kayaks I bless... That is why people have begun to think that I've become too weak and feeble ? how can you be a shaman if you are unable to cure a sore tooth? If only I could ... I would throw his body to the wolves ... Sometimes I see it so clearly... He is bound to an old pole. His eye-sockets are empty, pecked out by the hungry vultures...'
'Perhaps we could move deeper into the white man's territory, just you and me?' Joe Labelle, his disciple, crouching in front of him, suggested. 'Surely nobody will be able to find us there. And even better ? let's go to my native land, a town called Toronto. There you will live among the people of my tribe...'
'Do you suggest running away?' the old man answered without hesitation. 'No, that's not for me. And what will happen to the village? Try to understand, I may be old, but I am not so angry, even
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