The Burning Shore - Smith Wilbur - Страница 36
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The yellow SESa dropped behind them, the beat of her engine faltering. Get her up, Michael! Pull her up! Damn it! They were shouting to him, and Centaine added her own entreaty.
Please, Michael, fly over the trees. Come to me, my darling. The Viper engine roared again at full power, and they saw the machine rocket up like a great yellow pheasant rising from cover. He's going to make it. The nose was too high, they all saw it, she seemed to hover above the stark, leafless branches, and they reached up like the claws of a monster, then the yellow nose dropped.
He's over! one of the pilots exulted, but one of the landing-wheels caught on a heavy curved branch, and the SE5a somersaulted in midair, then fell out of the sky.
It hit the soft earth at the edge of the lawn, landing on its nose, the spinning propeller exploding in a blur of white splinters, and then with the wooden frames of the fuselage crackling, the entire machine collapsed, crushed like a butterfly, its bright yellow wings folding around the crumpled body, and Centaine saw Michael.
He was daubed with his own blood, it had streaked his face, his head was thrown back, and he was hanging halfway out of the open cockpit, dangling in his straps like a man on the gallows.
Michael's brother officers were streaming down the lawn. She saw the general throw his glass aside and hurl himself over the terrace wall. He ran with a desperate, uneven gait, the limp throwing him off balance, but he was gaining on the younger men.
The first of them had almost reached the wrecked aircraft when the flames engulfed it with miraculous suddenness. They shot upwards with a drumming, roaring sound, very pale-coloured but plumed with black smoke at their crests, and the running men stopped and hesitated and then drew back, holding up their hands to protect their faces from the heat.
Sean Courtney charged through them, going straight into the flames, oblivious of the seaTin& dancing waves of heat, but four of the young officers leaped forward and seized his arms and his shoulders, and pulled him back.
Sean was struggling in their grip, so wildly that three others had to run up and help to restrain him. Sean was roaring, a deep, throaty, incoherent sound, like a bull buffalo in a trap, trying to reach out through the flames to the man trapped in the crumpled body of the yellow aircraft.
Then quite suddenly the sound ceased and he sagged.
If the men had not been holding him, he would have fallen to his knees. His hands dropped to his sides, but he went on staring into the wall of flame. had Years before, on a visit to England, Centaine watched with horrid fascination as the children of her host had burnt the effigy of an English assassin called Guy Fawkes on a pyre that they had built themselves in the garden. The effigy had been cleverly fashioned, and as the flames rose up over it, it had blackened and begun to twist and writhe in a most lifelike fashion. Centaine had woken in the sweat of nightmare for weeks afterwards. Now, as she watched from the upper window of the chateau, she heard somebody near her begin to scream. She thought that it might be Anna. They were cries of the utmost anguish, and she found herself shaking to them the way a sapling shakes to the high wind.
It was the same nightmare as before. She could not look away as the effigy turned black and began to shrivel, its limbs spasming and jack-knifing slowly in the heat, and the screams filled her head and deafened her. Only then did she realize that it was not Anna, but that the screams were her own. As these gusts o agonized sound came up from the depths of her chest, they seemed to be of some abrasive substance, like particles of crushed glass, that ripped at the lining of her throat.
She felt Anna's strong arms around her lifting her off her feet, carrying her away from the window. She fought with all her strength, but Anna was too powerful for her.
She laid Centaine on the bed and held her face to her vast soft bosom, stifling those wild screams. When at last she was quiet, she stroked her hair and began to rock her gently, humming to her as she used to do when Centaine was an infant.
They buried Michael Courtney in the churchyard of Mort Homme, in the section reserved for the de Thiry family.
They buried him that night by lantern light. His brother officers dug his grave, and the padre who should have married them said the office for the burial of the dead over him.
I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord Centaine was on the arm of her father, with black lace covering her face. Anna took her other arm, holding her protectively.
Centaine did not weep. after those screams had silenced, there had been no tears. It was as though her soul had been scorched by the flames into a Saharan dryness. O remember not the sins and offences of my youth -The words were remote, as though spoken from the far side of a barrier.
Michel had no sin, she thought. He was without offence, but, yes, he was too young, oh Lord, too young.
Why did he have to die? Sean Courtney stood opposite her across the hastily prepared grave, and a pace behind him was his Zulu driver and servant, Sangane. Centaine had never seen a black man weep before. His tears shone on his velvety skin like drops of dew running down the petals of a dark flower.
Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery Centaine looked down into the deep muddy trench, at the pathetic box of raw deal, so swiftly knocked together in the squadron workshop, and she thought, That is not Michel. This is not real. It is still some awful nightmare.
Soon I will wake and Michel will come flying back, and I will be waiting with Nuage on the hilltop to welcome him. A harsh, unpleasant sound roused her. The general had stepped forward, and one of the junior officers had handed him a spade. The clods rattled and thumped on the lid of the coffin and Centaine looked upwards, not wanting to watch.
Not down there, Michel she whispered behind the dark veil. You don't belong down there. For me, you will always be a creature of the sky. For me, you will be always up there in the blue- And then, Au revoir, Michel, till we meet again, my darling. Each time I look to the sky I will think of you.
. . .
Centaine sat by the window. When she placed the lace wedding veil over her shoulders Anna started to object, and then stopped herself.
Anna sat on the bed near her, and neither of them spoke.
They could hear the men in the salon below. Someone had been playing the piano a short while before, playing it very badly, but Centaine had been able to recognize Chopin's Funeral March, and the others had been humming along and beating time to it.
Centaine had instinctively understood what was happening, that it was their special farewell to one of their own, but she had remained untouched by it. Then later she had heard their voices take on that rough raw quality.
They were becoming very drunk, and she knew that this too was part of the ritual. Then there was laughter drunken laughter but with a sorrowful underlying timbre to it, and then more singing, raucous and untuneful, and she had felt nothing. She had sat dry-eyed in the candlelight and watched the shell-fire flickering on the horizon and listened to the singing and the sounds of war.
You must go to bed, child, Anna had said once, gentle as a mother, but Centaine had shaken her head and Anna had not insisted. Instead, she had trimmed the wick, spread a quilt over Centaine's knees and gone down to fetch a plate of ham and cold pie and a glass of wine from the salon. The food and wine lay untouched on the table at Centaine's elbow now.
You must eat, child, Anna whispered, reluctant to intrude, and Centaine turned her head slowly to her.
No, Anna, she said. I am not a child any longer. That part of me died today, with Michel. You should never call me that again. I promise you I will not, and Centaine turned slowly back to the window.
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