Wonders of a Godless World. Andrew McGahan

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СКАЧАТЬ the latest burst of rain had just passed, and steam was rising from the ground. Blue sky showed through broken clouds. The wheelchair splashed in puddles. They came to an open area next to the laundry, right up against the back fence of the compound, where the jungle reached down from the mountainside, and where a few old wooden benches and chairs were arranged about a concrete slab. It was here that patients were normally taken on fine days, to sit quietly in the sun.

      The absurdity of the whole exercise hit the orphan again. The crematorium patients would never sit quietly. And yet to her great surprise the duke and the witch and the archangel and the virgin all suffered themselves to be led to the benches and chairs. The nurse fussed about them for a few moments, and then—after announcing that she would be back in an hour—she made off again to the wards.

      The orphan pushed the wheelchair to one end of the slab and set it there so that the foreigner was facing all the others. A hot silence enfolded them. Even the laundry had fallen quiet. This was becoming more and more weird. The orphan could feel the vibrations so intensely through the cement that she had to keep shifting her weight from one foot to the other, like a child who needed to go to the toilet. Why were they there? What were they meant to do? Whose idea had this been?

      And then she realised that the four inmates were watching her. No, they weren’t watching her, they were watching the foreigner, sitting in his chair in front of her. They were doing so shyly, secretly, the witch glancing from under her brows, the duke pretending to study the sky. The archangel wasn’t looking in any direction at all, but for once his book lay unopened and unheeded on his lap, his attention elsewhere. And although the virgin’s gaze was as blind and indifferent as ever, her body leant forward, as if trying to gauge the foreigner by sound.

      It occurred to the orphan that none of the four had seen their new wardmate out in the open until now. He had always been alone in his cell, behind a shut door. Naturally they would be curious about him. But this wasn’t natural. She had seen the way inmates behaved when they were curious, especially ones like the witch and the duke. They investigated, they intruded, they intimidated, they poked and prodded and picked fights. They didn’t simply watch in this silent, timid manner.

      Was there a low throb in the air? An unheard thunder?

      And then, at last, she saw it. Off to the side of the concrete was a muddy puddle, and the surface of the water was juddering in a series of tiny waves.

      The vibrations—they were real!

      But there was no time for wonder, because a rumbling was suddenly audible, like a hundred trucks driving past the hospital. The ground shook and the orphan, startled, looked up, over the foreigner’s head, to the mountain. She saw that a giant fist of grey smoke had appeared from nowhere and was rising into the sky, and that it came, amazingly, from a high cleft near the mountain’s peak.

      Boom! A great, grinding detonation came rolling down.

      Linkages flared in the orphan’s mind, one after the other. The mountain, that was the answer! That’s where the vibrations had come from all along. They had been a warning of this event. But what was happening? What process? What violence within the mountain was driving it? And with that thought—using her new awareness, sharp and alive, and without even knowing how—she reached out and felt at the earth.

      Sensations filled her head. Pressure. She could detect an awesome pressure, way down below, far beneath the jungle and dirt, deep under layers of rock, at the buried roots of the mountain. Pressure, and heat, and a squeezing, tortured dome of glowing material, boiling and churning slowly. She could picture it down there almost as if the earth was transparent. And above the molten mass were rents and tunnels and cracks in the rock, leading up into the mountain’s heart, filled now with surging steam that roared and rumbled and set the ground trembling, far above.

      A volcano. The word was there inside her suddenly, from where she could not say—a memory, perhaps—but she knew it was the right word for what she saw. Such a terrible thing, and she held it all in her mind, livid and ferocious. Even as she watched, another explosion of steam ripped up through the mountain and blasted, in another boom of thunder, out from the cleft.

      The orphan laughed her croak of a laugh. She could hear frightened shouts behind her, and sensed a confusion of people milling out of the hospital, but she didn’t take her eyes from the volcano. She wasn’t scared. She was exhilarated. All the tension of the last few days was being burnt away. She watched the pillar of smoke rise and rise into the sky. So much energy! So much power! Cracking sounds rang out, and on the edges of the cloud the orphan could see black shapes spinning upwards. Boulders. Chunks of rock. Flying. And people were screaming now.

      Why were they afraid? She studied the boulders as they sailed outwards. She read the weight of each stone, the curve of each arc, and knew exactly where each and every one of the rocks would land. None of them would hit the hospital. They would all fall short. There was nothing to fear. Although one of them…

      The orphan ran forward to the jungle’s edge, and watched as a boulder the size of a table came tumbling down from the darkness above. It seemed it must hit her, but instead it smashed into the trees just outside the fence, exploding a wet slap of wind and leaves and mud across her, plastering her face and clothes.

      Ha! It was wonderful!

      But, ah…too soon, she could see, it was going to end. The pillar of smoke had already lost its upward thrust. The high levels were growing vague, dispersing in the wind, and the lower levels were collapsing upon themselves. Her acute gaze bore into the earth and saw that the rush of gas was spent. The molten dome remained trapped, far down. There was more energy there, yes, but for the moment the mass had merely let off a burst of steam to relieve itself. She laughed again, sadly now.

      The mountain had burped, that was all. It had farted.

      She felt the pleasure drain from her body. Smoke was tumbling in a slow, billowing avalanche down the mountainside. The orphan heard more screams, and wondered why people were so dimwitted. Surely they could see, as she could, how fast the energy of the cloud was dissipating, how it was cooling and slowing, how it would barely reach the hospital. There was no danger.

      Calm, she watched the grey wall come. The jungle was engulfed before her, and then a cloud of ash and warm pungent air settled over the compound. The last rumbles from the mountain died away. Rain began to fall.

      The orphan turned back. The hospital buildings were barely visible through the haze. She could see no one moving there, nor hear anyone. Sounds were muted, by the rain, by the ash. The benches still waited around the concrete slab, and she saw that the duke and the archangel must have both run away. But the witch remained. She was on her knees, staring up towards the invisible mountain, her lips moving soundlessly. The virgin was there too, dazed, crawling on the wet concrete. And the foreigner sat upright in his wheelchair, where she had left him.

      His eyes stared placidly.

      Something stirred in her. She realised that, inexplicably, it was fear. Now, when it was all over, she was afraid. Not of the volcano, but of him. She felt herself drawn reluctantly forward. He had not caused the vibrations, he had nothing to do with the mountain at all. She was certain of that now. And yet…

      Why did she feel that he had known it was going to happen? Why did she feel that he was the one who had arranged it so they would all be outside, ready and waiting for the eruption to begin? It was impossible—he couldn’t even speak, let alone manipulate the staff into doing what he wanted. And yet…

      She stood before him, dripping wet, streaked with ash. He sat immobile in his chair, as wet as her, but unable even СКАЧАТЬ