Не геном единым. Трой Дэй

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      Half-hour down, half-hour up. He could run some of the way back if he felt it, and his shoes held. His heart thrummed in his chest, and he started walking.

      The road led him past the mansions where planters came to escape the swamps in summer. That's what his father told him: that more colored folks than white folks were out on the islands this time of year, working the farms, tending gardens, taking care of things. He passed the houses and followed the road as it led along the bluff's edge. He gazed out over the river. Bay Street was off to his left, but way ahead down the wide river he could see the faded gray shape of Port Royal. Boats were anchored right off the bluff, and a little farther out, all manner of craft moved up and down the waterway.

      The broad vista of the river dropped from view, and he walked down the narrow road, turning gently to the left as the path followed the now-hidden river. The forest around him fell silent except for squirrels dashing through the understory around him. Now and then an oxcart came, moving between town and the port, carrying people or cargo or animals or a little bit of everything. Men rode by on horses in single file, but he was the only one who traveled alone, and on foot.

      The trees narrowed the road to a one-man path. A cart came, and he had to step into the woods to avoid being run down. He walked on, and the forest mixed with skinny water oaks and low saw palmettos that formed a solid underbrush. Pine trees stood like sentinels in the earth, limbless until high in the canopy where they stretched out their needle-spiked branches. The trunks leaked sap like orange blood, and the air smelled like sweet peppermint pine. The trunks caught the slightest breeze, and they swayed and groaned. He thought of the ghost stories his gang told at the hideout. The headless horseman. The golden arm. The hand. He'd never walked the forest road, never seen these woods. It was another world, even just out from town.

      The pines thinned and became sparse, and soon he could see through the trees again. He saw a log cabin in one spot. Another overgrown clearing showed old stone ruins like blunted teeth jutting from the floor of rotting pine needles. He passed a shanty and then an old campsite visible from the road. Charred tin cans ringed an ashy fire pit. The road widened and the trees fell away to allow two flanking ditches. He walked in one of the dry ditches, off the road, looking out into the trees. He let his eyes drift to the needles at his feet, and when he looked up, he was there.

      The trees let go, and the land cleared to show more houses and shacks clustered outside the busy port. Caravans and people gathered in clearings, preparing to set off down the road. He crouched on the edge of the woods and surveyed the place he was forbidden to go. It didn't look too bad.

      The buildings went out in front of him, growing taller and thicker until they formed another town, another village on the river. The town's structures had been whitewashed once, perhaps, but now the place was gray and dusty and smeared with mud and soot. He could not see the river or any sign of water from the forest path.

      Minnow walked past a courtyard formed by three squat houses. Bare-chested men sat on the stoops, some drinking from dark brown bottles, some smoking and sending white spirals from their lips. Another man stood at the center of the courtyard by a table. He was barefoot and wore loose gray slacks. He had a cigarette in his mouth and something like a machete in his hand. He chopped up and down at a long silver fish with its mouth hung open and one clear yellow eye shining in the sun. A negro took the cut parts of the fish and separated them into baskets. The negro's hands were covered in platinum fish scales that coated his dark skin to the elbows. Minnow felt their eyes tracking him as he walked by, moving deeper into the port. He kept his eyes down and tried not to be noticeable. His stomach twisted, and he gritted his teeth.

      The salty air carried sounds of clanking rigging from somewhere past the buildings. He passed a tavern and an inn, both completely wooden and boarded up so he couldn't see anything inside. He could hear music from a tinny instrument, and he could hear the sound of boots clomping against wood. The rest was a mystery.

      An open juke joint showed its insides through a wide door and thin-slatted windows. Women danced inside with men, and someone turned an organ that spurred a little monkey into a jig. The monkey smoked a cigarette while the organ grinder laughed.

      A dog barked nearby and brought his attention out of the dance hall and back onto the path. Up ahead a long, low building sat perpendicular to his route. It was divided into sections, five in all, but had no doors on the side Minnow approached. He followed the muddy, trodden path past a rotting pile of fish guts toward the side of the building. A man screamed somewhere off to his right, many blocks away. Minnow looked over his shoulder at how far he had come from the road. His palms were sweaty. He could still turn back.

      The other side of the long building had the doors, and each had a stoop. One or two of the places seemed abandoned. Another was a burned shell. A rooster wandered inside the ruined place, pecking at debris on the floor. Three men sat in front of one house. One on the stoop, two flanking. One of them smoked a cigar butt as fat as a quarter but no longer than a fingernail. All of them had beards and leathered faces burned by the sun. The one on the right spoke.

      "What are you doing here?"

      Minnow took a few more steps before he realized who the man was talking to. He stopped and turned to face them. His cheeks felt hot.

      "I'm just here for a while."

      "I didn't ask how long you were here. I asked why."

      "I'm here to get something. I've got something to buy."

      "Something to buy?"

      The man on the right stood up. His two partners stayed still, except for the one who moved to take an occasional puff on his cigar.

      "What have you got to buy?"

      "My father is sick," Minnow said. Maybe his story would give the man pause. Minnow tapped his foot once, to test his muscles. The man stopped to bend over and adjust his shoe. Minnow glanced over his shoulder at the road. Pretty clear. Lots of places to hide, but he didn't know the port at all.

      "No doctor here."

      "I've got one to see."

      The man stopped again, this time just looking. A few steps more, and he'd be too close.

      "Who you seeing?"

      "Dr. Crow."

      All three men burst out laughing. The man with the cigar relented and put it out in the dirt next to him. The talking man slapped his leg, leaned in, and stood up with a smile across his face.

      "Dr. Crow? You going to Dr. Crow for what?"

      "Medicine."

      "Don't you know who that crazy old man is?" the cigar man asked.

      "What you going to buy? A magic spell?" the first man added.

      "I was sent here. By the man at Ander's."

      "He sent you here? How much money you give him?"

      "Fifty cents."

      "You got more?"

      "It's for the medicine."

      "Don't give that old negro any money," the cigar man said, and leaned in and whispered to his silent friend. Then he looked back at Minnow and licked his lips. "Give it to me."

      "I СКАЧАТЬ