Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town by Cory Doctorow (e reader manga .TXT) 📖
- Author: Cory Doctorow
Book online «Someone Comes to Town, Someone Leaves Town by Cory Doctorow (e reader manga .TXT) 📖». Author Cory Doctorow
“It’s okay,” he said. His chest was heaving from his tantrum, but the presence of the golem calmed him. You could say or do anything to a golem, and it couldn’t strike back, couldn’t answer back. The sons of the mountain that sheltered—and birthed?—the golems owed nothing to them.
He walked over to it and folded his arms.
“What is it?” he said.
The golem bent its head slightly and looked him in the eye. It was man-shaped, but baggier, muscles like frozen mud. An overhang of belly covered its smooth crotch like a kilt. Its chisel-shaped teeth clacked together as it limbered up its jaw.
“Your father is sad,” it said. Its voice was slow and grinding, like an avalanche. “Our side grows cold.”
“I don’t care,” Alan said. “Fuck my father,” he said. Behind him, perched atop their mother, Davey whittered a mean little laugh.
“You shouldn’t—”
Alan shoved the golem. It was like shoving a boulder. It didn’t give at all.
“You don’t tell me what to do,” he said. “You can’t tell me what to do. I want to know what I am, how we’re possible, and if you can’t help, then you can leave now.”
The winds blew colder, smelling now of the golem’s side of the mountain, of clay and the dry bones of their kills, which they arrayed on the walls of their cavern.
The golem stood stock still.
“Does it… understand?” Marci asked. Davey snickered again.
“It’s not stupid,” Alan said, calming a little. “It’s… slow. It thinks slowly and acts slowly. But it’s not stupid.” He paused for a moment. “It taught me to speak,” he said.
That did it. He began to cry, biting his lip to keep from making a sound, but the tears rolled down his cheeks and his shoulders shook. The flashlight’s beam pinned him, and he wanted to run to his mother and hide behind her, wanted to escape the light.
“Go,” he said softly to the golem, touching its elbow. “It’ll be all right.”
Slowly, gratingly, the golem turned and lumbered out of the cave, clumsy and ponderous.
Marci put her arm around him and he buried his face in her skinny neck, the hot tears coursing down her collarbones.
Davey came to him that night and pinned him in the light of the flashlight. He woke staring up into the bright bulb, shielding his eyes. He groped out for the light, but Darryl danced back out of reach, keeping the beam in his eyes. The air crackled with the angry grinding of its hand-dynamo.
He climbed out of bed naked and felt around on the floor. He had a geode there, he’d broken it and polished it by hand, and it was the size of a softball, the top smooth as glass, the underside rough as a coconut’s hide.
Wordless and swift, he wound up and threw the geode as hard as he could at where he judged Davey’s head to be.
There was a thud and a cry, and the light clattered to the ground, growing more dim as its dynamo whirred to a stop. Green blobs chased themselves across his vision, and he could only see Darren rolling on the ground by turning his head to one side and looking out of the corner of his eye.
He groped toward Davey and smelled the blood. Kneeling down, he found Davey’s hand and followed it up to his shoulder, his neck. Slick with blood. Higher, to Davey’s face, his forehead, the dent there sanded ragged by the rough side of the geode. The blood flowed freely and beneath his other hand Danny’s chest heaved as he breathed, shallowly, rapidly, almost panting.
His vision was coming back now. He took off his T-shirt and wadded it up, pressed it to Davey’s forehead. They’d done first aid in class. You weren’t supposed to move someone with a head injury. He pressed down with the T-shirt, trying to stanch the blood.
Then, quick as a whip, Davey’s head twisted around and he bit down, hard, on Alan’s thumbtip. Albert reeled back, but it was too late: Davey had bitten off the tip of his right thumb. Alan howled, waking up Ed-Fred-Geoff, who began to cry. Davey rolled away, scampering back into the cave’s depths.
Alan danced around the cave, hand clamped between his thighs, mewling. He fell to the floor and squeezed his legs together, then slowly brought his hand up before his face. The ragged stump of his thumb was softly spurting blood in time with his heartbeat. He struggled to remember his first aid. He wrapped his T-shirt around the wound and then pulled his parka on over his bare chest and jammed his bare feet into his boots, then made his way to the cave mouth and scooped up snow under the moon’s glow, awkwardly packing a snowball around his hand. He shivered as he made his way back into the winter cave and propped himself up against his mother, holding his hurt hand over his head.
The winter cave grew cold as the ice packed around his hand. Bobby, woken by his clairvoyant instincts, crept forward with a sheet and draped it over Alan. He’d foreseen this, of course—had foreseen all of it. But Bobby followed his own code, and he kept his own counsel, cleaning up after the disasters he was powerless to prevent.
Deep in the mountains, they heard the echoes of Davey’s tittering laughter.
“It was wrong to bring her here, Adam,” Billy said to him in the morning, as he fed Alan the crusts of bread and dried apples he’d brought him, packing his hand with fresh snow.
“I didn’t bring her here, she followed me,” Adam said. His arm ached from holding it aloft, and his back and tailbone were numb with the ache of a night spent sitting up against their mother’s side. “And besides, why should it be wrong? Whose rules? What rules? What are the fucking rules?”
“You can feel the rules, brother,” he said. He couldn’t look Alan in the eye, he never did. This was a major speech, coming from Bobby.
“I can’t feel any rules,” Alan said. He wondered if it was true. He’d never told anyone about the family before. Had he known all along that he shouldn’t do this?
“I can. She can’t know. No one can know. Even we can’t know. We’ll never understand it.”
“Where is Davey?”
“He’s doing a… ritual. With your thumb.”
They sat silent and strained their ears to hear the winds and the distant shuffle of the denizens of the mountain.
Alan shifted, using his good hand to prop himself up, looking for a comfortable position. He brought his injured hand down to his lap and unwrapped his blood-soaked T-shirt from his fist, gently peeling it away from the glue of dried blood that held it there.
His hand had shriveled in the night, from ice and from restricted circulation, and maybe from Davey’s ritual. Alan pondered its crusty, clawed form, thinking that it looked like it belonged to someone—something—else.
Buddy scaled the stalactite that served as the ladder up to the lofty nook where he slept and came back down holding his water bottle. “It’s clean, it’s from the pool,” he said, another major speech for him. He also had an armload of scavenged diapers, much-washed and worn soft as flannel. He wet one and began to wipe away the crust of blood on Alan’s arm and hand, working his way up from the elbow, then tackling the uninjured fingers, then, very gently, gently as a feather-touch, slow as a glacier, he worked on Alan’s thumb.
When he was done, Alan’s hand was clean and dry and cold, and the wound of his thumb was exposed and naked, a thin crust of blood weeping liquid slowly. It seemed to Alan that he could see the stump of bone protruding from the wound. He was amazed to see his bones, to get a look at a cross-section of himself. He wondered if he could count the rings and find out how old he was, as he had never been really certain on that score. He giggled ghoulishly.
He held out his good hand. “Get me up, okay?” Bobby hauled him to his feet. “Get me some warm clothes, too?”
And he did, because he was Bobby, and he was always only too glad to help, only too glad to do what service he could for you, even if he would never do you the one service that would benefit you the most: telling you of his visions, helping you avoid the disasters that loomed on your horizon.
Standing up, walking around, being clean—he began to feel like himself again. He even managed to get into his snow pants and parka and struggle out to the hillside and the bright sunshine, where he could get a good look at his hand.
What he had taken for a bone wasn’t. It was a skinny little thumbtip, growing out of the raggedy, crusty stump. He could see the whorl of a fingerprint there, and narrow, nearly invisible cuticles. He touched the tip of his tongue to it and it seemed to him that he could feel a tongue rasping over the top of his missing thumbtip.
“It’s disgusting, keep it away,” Marci said, shrinking away from his hand in mock horror. He held his proto-thumb under her nose and waggled it.
“No joking, okay? I just want to know what it means. I’m growing a new thumb.”
“Maybe you’re part salamander. They regrow their legs and tails. Or a worm—cut a worm in half and you get two worms. It’s in one of my Da’s books.”
He stared at his thumb. It had grown perceptibly, just on the journey into town to Marci’s place. They were holed up in her room, surrounded by watercolors of horses in motion that her mother had painted. She’d raided the fridge for cold pork pies and cheese and fizzy lemonade that her father had shipped from the Marks & Spencer in Toronto. It was the strangest food he’d ever eaten but he’d developed a taste for it.
“Wiggle it again,” she said.
He did, and the thumbtip bent down like a scale model of a thumbtip, cracking the scab around it.
“We should go to a doctor,” she said.
“I don’t go to doctors,” he said flatly.
“You haven’t gone to a doctor—doesn’t mean you can’t.”
“I don’t go to doctors.” X-ray machines and stethoscopes, blood tests and clever little flashlights in your ears—who knew what they’d reveal? He wanted to be the first to discover it, he didn’t want to have to try to explain it to a doctor before he understood it himself.
“Not even when you’re sick?”
“The golems take care of it,” he said.
She shook her head. “You’re a weirdo, you know that?”
“I know it,” he said.
“I thought my family was strange,” she said, stretching out on her tummy on the bed. “But they’re not a patch on you.”
“I know it.”
He finished his fizzy lemonade and lay down beside her, belching.
“We could ask my Da. He knows a lot of strange things.”
He put his face down in her duvet and smelled the cotton covers and her nighttime sweat, like a spice, like cinnamon. “I don’t want to do that. Please don’t tell anyone, all right?”
She took hold of his wrist and looked again at the teensy thumb. “Wiggle it again,” she said. He did. She giggled. “Imagine if you were like a worm. Imagine if your thumbtip was out there growing another you.”
He sat bolt upright. “Do you think that’s possible?” he said. His heart was thudding. “Do you think so?”
She rolled on her side and stared at him. “No, don’t be daft. How could your thumb grow another you?”
“Why wouldn’t it?”
She had no answer for him.
“I need to go home,” he said. “I need to know.”
“I’m coming with,” she said. He opened his mouth to tell her no, but she made a fierce face at him, her foxy features wrinkled into a mock snarl.
“Come along then,” he said. “You can help me do up
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